I 
 
 jfc 
 
 EDWARD MARSH 
 
 CHARLES' f.b/
 
 .'
 
 

 
 < CALff LIBRARY. U>9 ANGELES
 
 SUE SAW THE STRANGER BKEAK THROUGH THE UNDERGROWTH ABOUT THE POOL. 
 
 Frontispiece. Page 24.
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 A Story of the Bluegrass and the 
 
 Mountains Founded On Charles 
 
 T. Dazey's Play 
 
 By 
 
 EDWARD MARSHALL 
 
 and 
 
 CHARLES T. DAZEY 
 
 Illustrations By 
 CLARENCE ROWE 
 
 G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
 
 CopyriffM, 1910. 
 
 BY 
 
 O. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY. 
 In Old Kentucky.
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 Page 
 
 She saw the stranger break through the undergrowth 
 
 about the pool. .... Frontispiece 24 
 A mighty leap had carried them beyond the blazing 
 
 barrier 65 
 
 "No man can cross this bridge, unless unless " . 173 
 
 "Back! back! I'm a-comin' with Queen Bess I" . . 279 
 "Look ! look ! in the stretch ! Her head is at Catalpa's 
 
 crupper!" 325 
 
 "I'm standin' face to face with my own father's murderer 
 
 Lem Lindsay." 348
 
 In Old Kentucky 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 SHE was coming, singing, down the side of 
 Nebo Mountain "Old Nebo" mounted on 
 an ox. Sun-kissed and rich her coloring; 
 her flowing hair was like spun light; her arms, 
 bare to the elbows and above, might have been the 
 models to drive a sculptor to despair, as their mus- 
 cles played like pulsing liquid beneath the tinted, 
 velvet skin of wrists and forearms; her short skirt 
 bared her shapely legs above the ankles half-way 
 to the knees; her feet, never pinched by shoes and 
 now quite bare, slender, graceful, patrician in their 
 modelling, in strong contrast to the linsey-woolsey 
 of her gown and rough surroundings, were as 
 dainty as a dancing girl's in ancient Athens. 
 
 The ox, less stolid than is common with his kind, 
 doubtless because of ease of life, swung down the 
 rocky path at a good gait, now and then swaying 
 his head from side to side to nip the tender shoots 
 of freshly leaving laurel. She sang: 
 
 "Woodpecker pecked as a woodpecker will, 
 Jim thought 'twas a knock on the door of the still, 
 He grabbed up his gun, and he went for to see, 
 The woodpecker laughed as he said : 'Jest me !' "
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 She laughed, now, not at the song, which was 
 purely automatic, but in sheer joy of living on that 
 wonderful June day in those marvellous Kentucky 
 mountains. Their loneliness did not depress her; 
 indeed, to her, they were not lonely, but peopled 
 by a host of lifelong friends who had greeted her 
 at birth, and would, she had every reason to sup- 
 pose, speed her when her end came. Their majesty 
 did not overwhelm her, although she felt it keenly, 
 and respected it and loved it with a certain dear, 
 familiar awe. And everywhere about her was the 
 Spring. Laurel blossomed at the trail's sides, fill- 
 ing the whole air with fragrance ; the tardier blue- 
 berry bushes crowding low about it had begun to 
 show the light green of their bursting buds; young 
 ferns were pushing through the coverlet of last 
 autumn's leaves which had kept them snug against 
 the winter's cold, and were beginning to uncurl 
 their delicate and wondrous spirals; maple and 
 beech were showing their new leaves. The air was 
 full of bird-notes the plaintively pleading or exul- 
 tantly triumphant cries of the mating season's joy 
 and passion. Filmy clouds, like scattered, snowy 
 ostrich plumes, floated, far, far up above her on 
 a sea of richest blue; a fainter blue of spring- 
 time haze dimmed the depths of the great valley 
 which a wide pass gave her vision of off to the 
 left and she was rather glad of this, for the haze, 
 while, certainly, it hid from her much beauty, also 
 hid the ugly scars which man was making there on 
 
 6
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 nature's face, the cuts and gashes with which the 
 builders of the new railway were marring the rich 
 pasture lands. 
 
 She turned from this to pleasanter and wilder 
 prospects, close at hand, as her path narrowed, and 
 began to sing again in sheer joyousness of spirit. 
 
 "Mr. Woodpecker laughed as a woodpecker will, 
 As Jim stood lookin' out of the door of the still, 
 'Mr. Jim,' he remarked, 'I have come for to ax 
 Ef you'd give me a worm for my revenue tax' !" 
 
 The placid ox, plodding slowly down the trail, 
 did not swerve when the bushes parted suddenly at 
 one side, as she finished this verse of her song, but 
 Madge Brierly looked about with a quick alertness. 
 The sound of the rustling leaves and crackling 
 twigs might mean a friend's approach, they might 
 mean the coming of one of the very enemies whom 
 the song had hinted at so lightly, but against whom 
 all the people of the mountains keep perpetual 
 watch, they might even mean a panther, hungry 
 after his short rations of the winter and recklessly 
 determined on a meal at any cost. 
 
 But it was Joe Lorey's face which greeted her 
 as she abruptly turned to see. His coon-skin cap, 
 his jerkin and trousers of faded blue-jeans, his 
 high, rusty boots matched perfectly with his primi- 
 tive environments. As he appeared only the oLI- 
 fashioned Winchester, which he carried cradled in 
 his crooked elbow, spoke of the Nineteenth cen- 
 tury. His face, though handsome in a crudely
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 modelled way, had been weather-beaten into a 
 rough, semi-fierceness by the storms through which 
 he had watched the mountain-passes during the long 
 winter for the raiders who were ever on his trail. 
 The slightly reddened lids of his dark, restless eyes, 
 told of long nights during which the rising fumes 
 of moonshine whisky stealthily brewing in his fur- 
 tive still, cave-hidden, had made them smart and 
 sting. Even as, smilingly, he came up to the 
 strangely mounted maid, there was on his face the 
 strong trace of that hunted look which furtive con- 
 sciousness of continual and unrelenting pursuit 
 gives to the lawbreaker even to the lawbreaker 
 who believes the laws he breaks are wrong and to 
 be violated without sin and righteously. 
 
 "That you, Joe?" said the girl. "You skeered 
 me." 
 
 "Did I?" he replied, grinning broadly. "Didn't 
 plan to." 
 
 From far below there came the crash of bursting 
 powder. Quick and lithe as a panther the man 
 whirled, ready with his rifle. The girl laughed. 
 
 "Nothin' but the railroad blastin' down there in 
 the valley," she said with amusement. "Ain't you 
 uset to that, yet?" 
 
 "No," said he, "I ain't an' never will be." 
 
 His tone was definitely bitter. Never were the 
 sounds of progress more ungraciously received than 
 there among the mountains by the folk who had, 
 hedged in by their fastnesses, become almost a race 
 
 8
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 apart, ignorant of the outside world's progressions 
 and distrustful and suspicious of them. 
 
 "Where you goin', Madge?" he asked, plodding 
 on beside the lurching ox. 
 
 "I ain't tellin'," she said briefly. "But you can 
 go part ways you can go fur as th' pasture bars." 
 
 "Why can't I go as fur as you go?" 
 
 "Because," said she, and laughed. "I reckon 
 maybe that th' water's started to warm up down in 
 the pool, ain't it?" she cried, and laughed again. 
 
 "Oh!" said he, a bit abashed, and evidently un- 
 derstanding. 
 
 They did not pursue the subject. 
 
 "What you got there?" he inquired, a few mo- 
 ments later, as they were approaching the old pas- 
 ture. He pointed to a package carefully wrapped 
 in a clean apron, which she hugged beneath her 
 arm. 
 
 "Spellin' book," said Madge, as, just before the 
 bars she slid down from her perch upon the ox. 
 "I'm learnin'." 
 
 His lip curled with the mountaineer's contempt 
 for books and all they have to teach. 
 
 "What you want to learn for?" 
 
 He had gently shouldered her aside as she had 
 stooped to raise the bars back to position, and, with 
 a certain crude gallantry, had done the task him- 
 self. 
 
 "Bleeged," she said briefly, and then, standing 
 with one brown and rounded arm upon the topmost
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 rail, paused in consideration of an answer to his 
 question. 
 
 The ox stopped, dully, close within the closed 
 gap in the rough fence. She went closer to him 
 and patted his side kindly. "Go on, old Buck," she 
 said. "I'm through with you for quite a while. 
 Go on and have some fun or rest, whichever you 
 like best. You certainly can stand a lot of rest! 
 And here is new spring grass, Buck. I should think 
 you would be crazy to git at it." 
 
 As if he understood, the old ox turned away, and, 
 slowly, with careful searching for the newest and 
 the tenderest of the forage blades which had pushed 
 up to meet the pleasant sunshine, showed he was 
 well fed at all times. 
 
 "What do I want to learn for?" the girl re- 
 peated, returning to Joe's question. "Why why 
 I don't know, exactly. There's a longin' stirrin' 
 in me. 
 
 "While you was over yon" (she waved her hand 
 in a broad sweep to indicate the mountain's other 
 side). "I had to go down into town after after 
 quite a lot of things." She looked at him some- 
 what furtively, as if she feared this statement 
 might give rise to some unwelcome questioning, but 
 it did not. "I saw what queer things they are doin' 
 th' men that work there on that railroad buildin'. 
 Wonderful things, lots of 'em, and the bed-rock of 
 'em all was learnin'. I watched a gang of 'em for 
 near plum half a day. There wasn't a thing they 
 
 10
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 did that they didn't first read from a sheet of paper 
 about. If they hadn't had them sheets and if they 
 couldn't read what had been written on 'em, why, 
 they couldn't never build no railroad. And not 
 only that they got all kinds of comfort out of it. 
 They have their books that tell 'em what other men 
 have done before 'em, they have their newspapers 
 that tell 'em everyday, Joe what other men are 
 doin', everywhere, fur as th' earth is spread. 
 
 "They know things, them men do, and they're 
 heaps happier because of it." She paused, leaning 
 on the old worn fence. 
 
 "An' their wimmen knows things," she went on. 
 "I'm goin' to, too. It's th' greatest comfort that 
 they've got. I'm goin' to have that comfort, Joe!" 
 
 She patted the new spelling book as if it were a 
 precious thing. 
 
 "I'm goin' to have that comfort," she continued. 
 "I'm goin' to know th' ins an' outs o' readin' an' ' 
 (she sighed and paused a second, as if this next 
 seemed more appalling) "an' of writin'. Dellaw ! 
 That's hard ! All sorts of curves an' twists an' ups 
 an' downs an' things, an' ev'ry one means some- 
 thin' !" 
 
 Joe looked at her, half in admiration, half in 
 apprehension. "You goin' to git too good fer 
 these here mountings?" he inquired. 
 
 She gazed about her with a little intake of the 
 breath, a little sign of ecstasy, of her appreciatidn 
 of the wondrous view. 
 
 II
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 "Too good for these here mountings?" she said 
 thoughtfully. "Learnin' couldn't make me that ! It 
 might show me how to love 'em more. Nothin' in 
 th' world, Joe, could make me love 'em less!" 
 
 He became more definite, a bit insistent. It had 
 been plain, for long, that it had required some self- 
 control for him to walk as he had walked, close by 
 her side, without some demonstration of his ad- 
 miration for her, to stand there with her at the 
 bars without some sign that in her presence he 
 found happiness much greater than he had ever 
 known, could ever know, elsewhere. 
 
 "You goin' to git too good fer me?" he asked. 
 
 She turned toward him impulsively. Great 
 friendship shone frankly in her fine eyes. On her 
 face was that expression of complete and under- 
 standing comradery which one child chum may 
 show another. Almost she said as much of him 
 as she had said of the surrounding mountains, but 
 there was that upon his face which stopped her. 
 It was too plain that friendship was not what he 
 wanted, would not satisfy him. There was a hun- 
 gry yearning in his eyes, mute, respectful, worship- 
 ful, not for comradery, but for a closer tie. She 
 had watched this grow in him within the recent 
 months, with worry and regret. It seemed to her a 
 tragedy that their old friendship should ever prove 
 inadequate. 
 
 "No," she answered gently, "I shall never get 
 too good for you, Joe for any of my friends." 
 
 12
 
 
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 He looked, almost with aversion, at the book she 
 held so closely. He distrusted books. Instinctively 
 he felt them to be enemies. 
 
 "If you get them there ideas about learnin', an' 
 all that, you will!" he gruffly said. "Leastways 
 you'll be goin' off, some day an' leavin' us me, 
 the mountings an' an' all yer friends up here." 
 
 An expression of great earnestness, of almost 
 fierce intensity grew in his face. "Madge," he said, 
 "Madge Brierly, you're makin' a mistake! You're 
 plannin' things to take you off from here; you're 
 plannin' things t make you suffer, later on. 
 You're gettin' blue-grass notions, an' blue-grass no- 
 tions never did no mounting-born no good." He 
 stepped closer to her. 
 
 The latent fires in his approaching eyes were 
 warning for her and she stepped back hastily. 
 "Joe Lorey, you behave yourself!" said she. 
 
 T 
 
 "Can't ye see I love ye, Madge?" he asked, and 
 then the fires died down, leaving in his eyes the 
 
 pleading, worried look alone. "Why, Madge, 
 j " 
 
 She tried to make a joke of it. "Joe Lorey," 
 she said, laughing, "I reckon you're plum crazy. 
 An' you ain't givin' me a chance to do what 't was 
 that I come down for." 
 
 "But " 
 
 "I ain't goin' to listen to another word, to-day," 
 said she, and waved him off.
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 He went obediently, but slowly and unhappily, 
 his rifle snuggling in the crook of his left elbow, 
 his heavy boots finding firm footing in the rough 
 and rocky trail as if by instinct of their own, with- 
 out assistance from his brain. A "revenuer," com- 
 ing up, just then, to bother him about his still and 
 its unlawful product of raw whisky, would have 
 met small mercy at his hands. He would have 
 been a bad man, then, to quarrel with. His temper 
 would have flared at slightest provocation. He 
 would not let it flare at her; but, unseeing any of 
 the beauties which so vividly appealed to her, the 
 bitter foretaste of defeat was in his heart; and 
 in his soul was fierce revolt and disappointment. 
 He had not the slightest thought, however, of ac- 
 cepting this defeat as final. 
 
 Madge watched him go with a look of keen dis- 
 tress upon her fresh and beautiful young face. She 
 must not let him say what he had almost said, for 
 she shrank from the thought of wounding him 
 with the answer she felt in her heart that she would 
 have to make. He had slouched off, half-way down 
 the trail and out of sight, before she put the 
 thoughts of the unpleasant situation from her mind 
 and turned again to the great matter which had 
 brought her there, that day. 
 
 With a last glance at the gap in the rail fence, 
 to make sure that it had been carefully replaced, so 
 that there could be no danger of finding her ox 
 gone when she returned, she started down the
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 mountain, by a path different from that which Joe 
 had taken. 
 
 She had not gone very far, when, from a clump 
 of bunch-grass just in front of her, only partly, 
 yet, renewed by the new season, a hare hopped awk- 
 wardly, endeavoring to make off. Its progress 
 was one-sided, difficult. 
 
 Instantly she saw that it was wounded and with 
 a little cry she ran toward it and caught it. In- 
 stinctively the tiny animal seemed to recognize her 
 as a friend and ceased to struggle. One of its fore 
 legs had been broken, as she quickly saw. 
 
 With a little exclamation of compassion, she sat 
 down upon a hummock, tore from her skirt a bit 
 of cloth, found, on the ground, two twigs, made 
 of these crude materials rude splints and bandages, 
 bound the wounded creature, and sent it on its pain- 
 ful way again. She sighed as, after having 
 watched it for a moment, she arose. 
 
 "Pears like us human bein's always was a-hurtin' 
 somethin'," she soliloquized, distressed. "Thar 
 some chap has left that rabbit in misery behind 
 him, and here I've sent Joe Lorey down the moun- 
 tain with a worse hurt than it's got." She sighed. 
 "It certain air a funny world!" she said. 
 
 The subject of the wounded rabbit did not leave 
 her mind until she had clambered down the rocky 
 path half-way to the small stream which she 
 sought below. She was ever ready with compas- 
 sion for the suffering, especially for dumb and help- 
 
 15
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 less suffering animals, and, besides, the episode had 
 puzzled her. Who was there in those mountains 
 who would ivound a rabbit? Joe might have shot 
 one, as might any other of the mountain dwellers 
 who chanced to take a sudden fancy for a rabbit 
 stew for supper, but Joe nor any of the other na- 
 tives would have left it wounded and in suffering 
 behind him. Too sure their markmanship, too care- 
 ful their use of ammunition, for such a happening 
 as that. Trained in the logic of the woods, the 
 presence of the little suffering animal was a proof 
 to her that strangers were about. The people of 
 the mountains regard all strangers with suspicion. 
 Half-a-dozen times she stopped to listen, half-a- 
 dozen times she started on again without having 
 heard an alien sound. Once, from the far distance, 
 she did catch a faint metallic clinking, as of the 
 striking of a hammer against rock, but it occurred 
 once only, and she finally attributed it to the 
 mysterious doings of the railroad people in the 
 valley. 
 
 Down the path she sped, now, rapidly and 
 eagerly. It was plain that something which she 
 planned to do when she reached her destination 
 filled her with anticipation of delight, for her red 
 lips parted in a smile of expectation as charming as 
 a little child's, her breath came in eager pantings 
 not due wholly to the mere exertion of the rapid 
 downward climb. When, beyond a sudden turn in 
 the rude trail, she suddenly saw spread before 
 
 16
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 her the smooth waters of a pool, formed by the 
 creek in a hill-pocket, she cried aloud with pleas- 
 ure. 
 
 "Ah," said she. "Ah! Now here we be!" 
 But it was not at this first pool she stopped. 
 Leaving the path she skirted its soft edge, in- 
 stead, and, after having passed down stream some 
 twenty yards or more, pushed her skilled way be- 
 tween the little trees of a dense thicket and into 
 a dim, shadowy woods chamber on beyond, where 
 lay another pool, velvety, en-dusked, save for the 
 flicker of the sunlight Ihrough dense foliage. 
 
 Here her delight was boundless. She ran for- 
 ward with the eagerness of a thirsty bird, and, 
 leaning on the bank, supporfed by bent arms, bent 
 down and drank with keenest relish of the cool 
 spring waters gathered in the "cove," then dabbled 
 her brown slender fingers in the shining depths, 
 watching, with a smile, concentric, widening ripples 
 as they hurried out across the glassy surface, to the 
 ferned bank beyond. A few yards away a hidden 
 cascade murmured musically. Through the sparse 
 and tender foliage of spring above her, the sun- 
 light flickered in bright, moving patches of golden 
 brilliance, falling on the breast of her rough, home- 
 spun gown, like decorations given by a fairy queen. 
 Around the water's edges budding plants and deep- 
 hued mosses made a border lovely everywhere, and 
 for long spaces deep and soft as velvet pile. A 
 thrush called softly from the forest depths behind 
 
 17
 
 her. From the other side his mate replied in a soft 
 twittering that told of love and confidence and com- 
 fort. A squirrel scampered up the trunk of a 
 young beech, near by, and sat in the first crotch to 
 look down at her, chattering. A light breeze sighed 
 among the branches, swaying them in languorous 
 rhythm, rustling them in soft and ceaseless whisper- 
 ings. 
 
 All these familiar, pleasant sights and sounds de- 
 lighted her. During the long winter she had been 
 shut away from this, her favorite spot among the 
 many lovely bits of wilderness about her, and now 
 its every detail filled her with a fresh and keen de- 
 light. She looked and listened greedily, as happy as 
 a city child, seated, for the first time in a space of 
 months, before a brightly lighted stage to watch a 
 pantomime. A dozen times she ran with little, 
 bird-like cries to bend above some opening wild- 
 flower, a space she spent in watching two intently 
 busy king-birds, already fashioning their nest. An- 
 other squirrel charmed her beyond measure by sit- 
 ting, for a moment, on a limb to gaze at her in 
 bright-eyed curiosity, and then, with a swift run 
 down the trunk, quite near to .her, as if entirely 
 satisfied that he saw in her a certain friend, scut- 
 tling to the water's edge for drink. She had never 
 seen a squirrel drink before few people have 
 and she stood, as motionless as might a maid of 
 marble, watching him, until, having had his fill, he 
 gave his tail a saucy flirt and darted back to his 
 
 18
 
 AY OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 beech fortress, to sit again upon his limb and chat- 
 ter gossip at her. 
 
 After he had gone back to his tree she looked 
 carefully about her. It now became apparent that 
 she had come there to the pool for some especial 
 purpose and that she wished to be quite sure of 
 privacy before she put it into execution, for she 
 went first to the path by which she had descended, 
 there to listen long, intently, then, with a lithe 
 spring where the brook narrowed at the pool's 
 mouth, to the other side, where, at some distance 
 in the forest, by another woods-path's edge, she 
 stood again, intent and harkening. 
 
 Apparently quite satisfied that so far as human 
 beings went her solitude was quite complete, she 
 returned, now, to the pool's edge and stood gazing 
 down upon its polished surface. Soon she dipped 
 the toe of one brown, slender foot into it, evidently 
 prepared to draw back hastily in case of too low 
 temperature, but tempted, when she found the water 
 warm, she gently thrust the whole foot in, and then, 
 gathering her skirt daintily up to her knees, actually 
 stepped into the water, wading with little shrill 
 screams of delight. 
 
 For a moment she stood poised there, both hands 
 busy with her skirt, which was pulled back tight 
 against her knees. Then, after another hasty glance 
 around, she sprang out upon the bank with a quick 
 gesture of determination, and, close by the thicket's 
 edge, disrobed entirely and came back to the water 
 
 19
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 as lovely as the dream of any ancient sculptor, 
 as alluring as the finest fancy of the greatest pain- 
 ter who has ever touched a brush. 
 
 Slim, graceful, sinuous, utterly unconscious of 
 her loveliness, but palpitating with the sensuous 
 joy of living, she might have been a wood nymph, 
 issuing vivid, vital, from the fancy of a mediaeval 
 poet. The sunlight flecked her beautiful young 
 body with fluttering patches as of palpitant gold 
 leaf. The crystal water splashed in answer to the 
 play of her lithe limbs and fell about her as in 
 showers of diamonds. Flowers and ferns upon the 
 pool's edge, caught by the little waves of overflow, 
 her sport sent shoreward, bowed to her as in a 
 merry homage to her grace, her fitness for the 
 spot and for the sport t6 which she now abandoned 
 herself utterly, plunging gaily into the deepest 
 waters of the basin. From side to side of its 
 narrow depths she sped rapidly, the blue-white of 
 the spring water showing her lithe limbs in perfect 
 grace of motion made mystically indefinite and 
 shimmering by refraction through the little rip- 
 pling waves her progress raised. She raced and 
 strained, from the pure love of effort, as if a stake 
 of magnitude depended on her speed. 
 
 Then, suddenly, this fever for fast movement left 
 her and she slowed to languorous movement, no less 
 lovely. 
 
 The trout, which had been frightened into hiding 
 by the splashing of her early progress, came tim- 
 
 20
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 idly, again, from their dim lurking places, to eye 
 this new companion of the bath with less distrust, 
 more curiosity. With sinuous stroke, so slow it 
 scarcely made a ripple, so strong it sent her steadily 
 and firmly on her zig-zag way, she swam, now, 
 back and forth, around about, from side to side and 
 end to end in the deep pool, with keen enjoyment, 
 each movement a new loveliness, each second 
 bringing to her fascinating face some new expres- 
 sion of delight and satisfaction. Behind her 
 streamed her flowing hair, unbound and free to 
 ripple, fan-like, on the water; before her dainty 
 chin a little wave progressed, unbreaking, running 
 back on either hand beside her, V-shaped. Her 
 hands rose in the water, caught it in cupped 
 palms and pushed it down and backward with the 
 splashless pulsing thrust of the truly expert swim- 
 mer. 
 
 Only the warm blood of perfect health could 
 have endured the temperature of that shaded moun- 
 tain pool so long, and soon even she felt its chill 
 gripping her young muscles, and, as unconscious 
 of her wholly revealed loveliness as any nymph of 
 old mythology, scrambled from the water to the 
 bank and stood there where a shaft of comfortable 
 sunshine found its welcome way through rifted foli- 
 age above. To this she turned first one bare shoul- 
 der, then the other, with as evident a sensuous de- 
 light as she had shown when the cool water first 
 closed over her. Then, throwing back her head, 
 
 21
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 she stood full in the brilliance, and, inhaling deeply, 
 let the sunlight fall upon the loveliness of her young 
 chest. The delight of this was far too great for 
 voiceless pleasure, and her deep, rich laughter rip- 
 pled out as liquid and as musical as the tones of the 
 tiny waterfall above the pool. She raised a knee 
 and then the other to let the vitalizing sunlight fall 
 upon them; then, with head drooped forward on 
 her breast, stood with her sturdy but delicious 
 shoulders in its shining path. Her happiness was 
 perfect and she smiled continually, even when she 
 was not giving vent to audible expressions of en- 
 joyment. 
 
 Suddenly, however, this idyllic scene was inter- 
 rupted. In the woods she heard the crashing of an 
 awkward footstep and a muttered word or two in a 
 strange voice, as might come from a lowlander 
 whose face has suffered from the sting of a back- 
 snapping branch. 
 
 For an instant she poised, frightened, on the 
 bank. The intruder's crashing progress was bring- 
 ing him, as her ears plainly told her, steadily in 
 her direction. Panic-stricken, for a moment, she 
 crouched, hugging her bare limbs in an ecstasy of 
 fear. To get her clothes and put them on before 
 he reached the pool would be impossible, a hasty 
 glance about her showed no cover thick enough to 
 flee to. 
 
 One concealment only offered perfect hiding 
 the very pool from which she had so recently 
 
 22 '
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 emerged. She poised to slip again into the water 
 noiselessly and then caught sight of her disordered 
 clothing on the bank. To leave it there would as 
 certainly reveal her presence as to remain on the 
 bank herself! Hastily she gathered it and the new 
 spelling book into her arms, and, with not ten sec- 
 onds of spare time to find the cover which she so 
 desperately needed, endeavored to slip quietly into 
 the pool again. 
 
 Her certainty of movement failed her, this time, 
 though, and one foot slipped. Into the pool she 
 went, half-falling, and with a splash which, she 
 was certain, would be audible a hundred yards 
 away. Terrified anew by this, she dived quickly 
 to the bottom of the pool and with all a trout's 
 agility and fearlessness, her clothing and beloved 
 book clasped tight against her bosom by her crooked 
 left arm, her right arm sending her with rapid 
 strokes, when she was quite submerged, the full 
 length of the pool to its far end. There a fallen 
 tree, relic of some woodland tempest of years gone 
 by, extended quite from bank to bank, moss-cov- 
 ered, half hidden by small rushes and a little group 
 of other water-plants. She dived beneath this log 
 with the last atom of endurance she possessed and 
 rose, perforce, upon the other side, stifling her 
 gasps, but drawing in the air in long, luxurious 
 breathings. With her mouth not more than half- 
 an-inch above the water and her feet upon hard 
 bottom, she crouched there, watching through the 
 
 23
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 screen of plants, her clothes and book still pressed 
 against her breast. 
 
 As she peered across the log between the rushes, 
 she saw the stranger, with a wary step, break 
 through the undergrowth about the pool cau- 
 tiously, expectantly. The water heaved a bit about 
 her chin, for her hidden chest was palpitating with 
 the short, sharp intakes of a chuckling laughter. 
 
 "Thought I were a b'ar, most likely!" she 
 thought merrily, quite certain of the safety of her 
 hiding place. "Some furriner." All strangers, in 
 the mountains, are spoken of as "foreigners" and 
 regarded with a hundred times the wonder and dis- 
 trust shown in cities to the native of far lands, re- 
 mote. 
 
 Her guess was shrewd. The stranger had plainly 
 been attracted by the sounds of her delighted splash- 
 ing and had hurried up with rifle ready for a shot 
 at some big game. Now he stood upon the granite 
 edges of the pool, disappointed even in his instinc- 
 tive search for footprints, with only the slowly 
 widening circles left upon the surface by her hur- 
 ried flight to show him that he had not wholly been 
 mistaken in his thought that something most un- 
 usual had recently occurred there in the "cove." 
 Eagerly his disappointed glance roved around the 
 circling thicket nowhere did it see a sign. When 
 it neared the place of her concealment the hidden 
 girl ducked, softly, making no undue commotion 
 in the swiftly running water at the pool's outlet, 
 
 24
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 and the searching glance passed on, quite unsus- 
 pecting, before her breath failed and her head 
 emerged again. 
 
 "Confound it!" the deeply disappointed youth ex- 
 claimed. "I was dead certain I heard something. 
 I did hear something, too." He sighed. "But it 
 is gone, now." 
 
 At length he turned away in a bad temper, and 
 presently she heard him crashing awkwardly 
 through brush and brake, departing. 
 
 Shivering from her long submersion in the gelid 
 waters of the mountain stream, she cautiously 
 emerged, struggling between light-hearted laughter 
 at the comedy of her escape and rueful worry about 
 the fact that she was not only deeply chilled but 
 had no clothes which were not wet. Her soaked 
 spelling-book, also, gave her much concern. Be- 
 fore she spread her clothing out in the sparse sun- 
 light, she took the dripping volume to the warmest 
 little patch of brilliance on any of the rocks sur- 
 rounding, and, as she opened its leaves to catch the 
 sunshine, examined it with loving solicitude to 
 find how badly it was damaged. 
 
 "Fast color," she said happily, looking at the 
 mighty letters of its coarse black print. "Ain't 
 faded none, nor run, a mite." This plainly give 
 her great relief. Deftly she turned each leaf, using 
 the extremest care to avoid tearing them, handling 
 them with loving touch. Between them she laid 
 little pine cones, so that air might circulate among 
 
 25
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 them and assist the process of their drying. Then, 
 having wrung her clothing till her strong, brown, 
 slender wrists ached, she spread that out in turn, 
 but on less favored rocks, and, as her feeling of 
 security increased, fell into an unconscious dance, 
 born of the necessity of warmth from exercise, but 
 so full of grace, abandon, joy, that a poet might 
 have fancied her a river-nymph, tripping to the 
 reed-born music of the goat-hoofed Pan. 
 
 When, later, she had slowly dressed, and was 
 kneeling at the pool's edge, using the now placid 
 surface of the water as a mirror to assist her in 
 rough- fashioning her hair into a graceful knot, she 
 heard again, from a great distance, a metallic 
 "tink, tink-tink," which had caught her ear when 
 she had first stood on the pool's edge. It came, she 
 knew, from far, however, and so did not rouse her 
 apprehension, but, mildly, it aroused her curiosity. 
 
 "Hull kentry's 'full o' furriners," she mused. 
 "That railroad buildin' business in the valley 
 brings 'em. Woods ain't private no more." Again 
 the tink, tink-tink. "Sounds like hammerin' on 
 rocks," she thought. "It's nearer than th' railroad 
 builders, too. I wonder what but then, them fur- 
 riners are wonderful for findin' out concernin' 
 ev'rythin'." 
 
 She hugged her pulpy spelling book against her 
 breast with a little shiver of determination. "I'm 
 goin' to 1'arn, too," she said with firm decision as 
 
 26
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 she scrambled up the rough and rocky mountain 
 path. 
 
 For a time, as she progressed, her thoughts re- 
 mained afield, wandering in wonder of what that 
 "furriner" might be up to with the tink-tink of his 
 hammer upon rocks. This soon passed, however, 
 and they dwelt again on the pool episode. 
 
 She had never seen a man dressed as the stranger 
 had been. A carefully made shooting- jacket had 
 covered broad and well-poised shoulders which 
 were free of that unlovely stoop which comes so 
 early to the mountaineer's. A peaked cap of sim- 
 ilar material had shaded slightly a broad brow with 
 skin as white as hers and whiter. Beneath it, eyes, 
 which, although they were engaged in anxious 
 search when she had seen them, she knew could, 
 upon occasion, twinkle merrily, had gazed, clear, 
 calm, and brown. A carefully trimmed mustache 
 had hidden the man's upper lip, but his chin, again 
 a contrast to the mountaineers' whom she had spent 
 her life among, showed blue from constant and 
 close shaving. Yet, different as he was from her 
 people of the mountains, as she recalled that face 
 she could not hate him or distrust him. 
 
 She had never in her life seen any one in knick- 
 erbockers and leggins before, and the memory of 
 his amused her somewhat, yet she admitted to her- 
 self that they had seemed quite "peart" as she 
 peered at them through the reeds. 
 
 But it was the modern up-to-date Winchester 
 
 27
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 which he had held, all poised to fly up to the ready 
 shoulder should he find the splashing animal which 
 had attracted his attention by its noise, which, next 
 to his handsome, clean-cut face, had most aroused 
 her admiration. 
 
 "Lordy! Joe 'd give his eyes to hev a gun like 
 that," she said. 
 
 And then she made a pun, unconscious of what 
 the outer world calls such things, but quite con- 
 scious of its humor. "Thought I was a b'ar," she 
 chuckled. "Well, I certainly was b'ar!" 
 
 Feeling no further fear of any one, defiant, now 
 that she was fully clothed, of "furriners," rather 
 hoping, as a matter of fact that she might some- 
 time meet this one again, she let her laugh ring out 
 unrestrained. A cat-bird answered it with a harsh 
 cry; a blue-jay answered him with a still harsher 
 note. But then a brown thrush burst into unaccus- 
 tomed post-meridian song. Even his throbbing 
 trills and thrilling, liquid quaverings, had not more 
 melody in them, however, than had her ringing 
 laughter. 

 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 Her laugh, too, roused more than vagrant birds 
 into attention. She had emerged from the abrupt 
 little valley and was entering upon a plateau 
 which had been left comparatively open by 
 the removal of great trees, sacrificed to furnish 
 ties for the new railroad building in the lowlands. 
 The place was littered with the discarded tops of 
 pines and other woodland rubbish and seemed for- 
 lorn and wrecked. She swept her eyes about with 
 the glance of a proprietor, for Madge Brierly 
 owned all of this as well as most of the land 
 through which the brook which deepened into the 
 pool of her adventure flowed. Indeed the girl was 
 counted rich among her fellows and owned, also, 
 land down in the valley on which she would not 
 live, but which she rented for an annual sum to her 
 significant, although it would not have kept a low- 
 land belle in caramels. 
 
 In the center of the disordered clearing just be- 
 fore her, was the person who, like the birds, had 
 been roused to keen attention by the maiden's ring- 
 
 29
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 ing laugh. She saw him first while he was peering 
 here and there, astonished, to learn whence the 
 sound had come, and, with the instinctive caution 
 of the mountain-bred, she quickly stepped behind 
 a clump of laurel, through which she peered at 
 him. 
 
 He was a man of sixty years, or thereabouts, 
 wiry, tough and well preserved. His hair, of griz- 
 zled grey, was longer than most men wore theirs, 
 even among the mountains, where there are few 
 conventionalities in male attire. He was dressed 
 in the ordinary garb of the Kentucky planter of 
 the better class broad soft hat, flowing necktie, 
 long frock-coat, which formed a striking contrast 
 to the coarse high-boots into the tops of which his 
 trousers had been tucked and yet he hardly 
 seemed to her to belong to the class of gentlemen 
 to which his dress apparently assigned him. His 
 face was coarse and hard, his eyes, as he peered 
 about in search of her, were "shifty," she assured 
 herself. His hands were large and crudely fash- 
 ioned. 
 
 " 'Pears like 'most ev'ry one is roamin' 'round 
 my land to-day," she thought. "I wonder what 
 this one is up to, thar?" 
 
 For fully fifteen minutes her curiosity remained 
 unsatisfied, for, startled by the ringing laugh, the 
 stranger spent at least a quarter of an hour in 
 furtive peering, here and there, about the clearing, 
 plainly searching for the laughter. At no time, 
 
 30
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 however, did he approach her hiding place near 
 enough to see her, and, finally, apparently satisfied 
 that his ears had fooled him, or that whoever it 
 had been who had disturbed him with the merry 
 peal had gone away, he went back to his work. 
 
 Just what this work could be was what she 
 waited curiously to see. She felt not the least re- 
 sentment of the trespass it involved, for the land 
 was wild, and on it, as elsewhere in the mountains, 
 any one was free to come and go who did not com- 
 mit the foolishness of neglecting camp fires, likely 
 to start forests into blaze, or the supreme treachery 
 of giving information to the revenue officials about 
 hidden stills. Her eager curiosity was aroused, 
 more by the mysterious nature of the stranger's 
 operations than by the fact that they were con- 
 ducted on her land. 
 
 Having satisfied himself that no one, now, was 
 near, and, therefore, that he was not watched, the 
 unpleasantly mysterious old man went back to the 
 work which evidently had brought him hither. 
 With utmost care he moved about the place, scru- 
 tinizing outcropping rocks, and this, as they were 
 everywhere, meant a minute examination of the 
 land. In his hand he carried a small hammer, and, 
 with this, now and then, after a careful visual ex- 
 amination of a rock, he knicked it, here and there, 
 investigating carefully and even eagerly the scars 
 he made, the bits of rock which were clipped off, 
 now and then even looking at the latter through
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 a magnifying glass, which he took for the purpose 
 from a pocket of his vest. 
 
 She had watched these operations, fascinated, 
 for, possibly, a full half hour, despite the discom- 
 fort of damp clothing, which had begun to chill 
 her, when she saw signs of violent excitement on 
 the old man's face and in his actions, after he had 
 chipped a rock, from which he first had had to 
 scrape a thin superstratum of light soil. 
 
 Like a miner who has found the gold for which, 
 for years, he has been searching, he arose, with the 
 tiny fragments in his hand, to look at them with 
 greedy eyes, in a more comfortable, upright pos- 
 ture. His face had very plainly paled and in his 
 eyes was an expression of such avaricious eagerness 
 and satisfaction as she had never seen before upon 
 a human countenance. 
 
 Before he made a sound she knew that he had 
 found that thing for which he had been seeking. 
 His grizzled countenance, intent as any alchemist's 
 of old upon his search, and, as its absorption grew, 
 continually less a pleasant face to contemplate, now 
 twisted, suddenly, into an expression of incredu- 
 lous joy. He took the fragment he had been ex- 
 amining in both his hands and held it close before 
 his eyes. Then he made a minute search of it 
 with his little magnifying glass. Then he fell upon 
 his knees, and, with his clawlike fingers, scraped 
 more earth from the rock whence he had chipped 
 it. 
 
 32
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 Satisfied by what he saw there, after he had 
 done this, he rose with a new expression on his 
 face so crafty, so exultant, and, withal, so evil, 
 that Madge involuntarily shrank back to better 
 screening in her leafy hiding place. 
 
 The old man, with sweeping movements of his 
 heavily booted feet, swept the thin earth he had 
 scraped from the rock's surface back into its place, 
 thrust the fragments deep into his pocket, and 
 started hurriedly away, plainly greatly pleased, 
 along the trail which led into the valley. She 
 watched him with a beating heart, much puzzled. 
 
 What could it be that he had found, there, on 
 her land ? Visions of gold mines and of diamonds, 
 rose within her mind, crude, unformed, childish, 
 based on the imperfect knowledge she had gained 
 of such things from the story-tellers of the moun- 
 tains. As mountain people go she was, already, a 
 rich woman, but now dreams of mightier wealth 
 swept through her brain tumultuously. Ah, she 
 would buy happiness for all her friends when she 
 had, later on, unearthed the secret treasures of her 
 backwoods clearing! Maybe she would, sometime, 
 have a real silk dress! 
 
 She hurried forward in a stooping run to make 
 examination of the place, as soon as the old man 
 had vanished down the mountain side, to see (she 
 thoroughly expected it) the glitter of bright gems 
 or yellow gold beneath the sand which he had with 
 such care spread back upon the little scar which he 
 
 33
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 had made there in the earth. With trembling rin- 
 gers she pushed back the yellow earth, and found 
 nothing but black rock, uncouth, and unattrac- 
 tive. 
 
 She sat there on the ground in her damp skirts, 
 too disappointed, for a moment, to make an ex- 
 clamation. In many ways the girl, although well 
 past her sixteenth year, was but a child. The reac- 
 tion from the mighty dreams of fortune she had 
 built almost unnerved her. 
 
 It was her native humor which now saved her. 
 Instead of weeping she burst into sudden laughter. 
 
 "Dellaw!" said she, aloud. "Ain't I a fool? The 
 man was just a crazy!" 
 
 For some time she sat there in the rocky clear- 
 ing amidst the litter of pine-tops and small under- 
 growth, contemplating her own silliness with keen 
 amusement. 
 
 "Why, he had me that stirred up," said she, "that 
 I reckoned I was rich a'ready!" 
 
 But she put the joke aside, to be told upon her- 
 self when the first chance came. Her long hiding 
 in the thicket while she watched the queer proceed- 
 ings of the stranger had chilled her through and 
 through. 
 
 Close to the black rock which had so excited 
 him and which she had uncovered after he had 
 gone, a little forked stick stood upright, and in its 
 fork, with one end slanted to the ground, a twig 
 of green witch-hazel still reposed. Beneath the 
 
 34
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 twig a tiny spiral of arizing srnoke showed that 
 here, with these primitive appliances, the treasure 
 seeker had prepared his dinner, later carefully cov- 
 ering his fire. 
 
 "No matter how queer he was dressed, or what 
 queer things he did," she told herself, "he sure 
 was mountain-born. This here's a mountain fire- 
 place, sartin sure.'' 
 
 She broke dead branches from a pine-top, not 
 far away, but still far enough so that, with reason- 
 able watching, it would not be endangered by a fire 
 built on this spot (the old man plainly had consid- 
 ered this when he made the fire, for the place was 
 almost the only one in all the clearing free enough 
 from dry pine branches to make fire building safe) 
 and laid them on the coals which he had buried, 
 but which she now had carefully uncovered. She 
 would, she had decided, dry her clothes before she 
 started on the long, cool, woods-road climb up to 
 her cabin. 
 
 Kneeling by the coals and blowing on them, 
 skillfully adjusting splinters so that they would 
 catch the draft, she soon had started a small flame. 
 Fed carefully, this grew rapidly. Within five min- 
 utes there was burning on the site of the old man's 
 little cooking-fire a cheerful blaze of size. Its rush- 
 ing warmth was very grateful to her, and she held 
 her hands out to it, then her feet, one after the 
 other, with skirts lifted daintily, so that her chilled 
 limbs might catch the warmth. 
 
 35
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 Invigorated by the pleasant heat, she once more 
 yielded to the urgings of the bounding spirit of 
 rich youth within her. Even as she had sported 
 in the water ere the interloper came to interrupt 
 her sylvan bath, now she sported there about the 
 fire in an impromptu dance, never for a second un- 
 couth, despite the fact that she was quite untrained ; 
 scarcely less graceful than her merrymaking in the 
 water, although then she had not been, as now, 
 hampered in her grace of movement by the un- 
 lovely draperies of homespun linsey-woolsey. As 
 she had been a water-nymph, so, now, she might 
 have been some Druid maid dancing by an altar 
 fire. The roughness of the ground did not annoy 
 her her feet had not known dancing upon pol- 
 ished waxen wood; the lack of spectators did not 
 deter her those whom she had learned to know 
 and love, the mountains, trees, the squirrels, and 
 birds, were there. 
 
 In the very midst of the abandon of this rustic 
 symphony of movement, the thought came to her 
 that the precious spelling-book was lying on the 
 rock, near by, quite soaked, neglected. She sped 
 to it and took it to the fire's edge, where, opening 
 its pages one by one, so that each would get the 
 warmth, she held it as close as she opined was safe. 
 Having dried it until she no longer feared the wet- 
 ting it had had would seriously harm its usefulness 
 (the lovely smoothness of its magic leaves was 
 gone, alas! beyond recall) she paused there for a 
 
 36
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 moment, herself still far from dry, with a bare 
 foot held out to the blaze, and studied curiously one 
 of the book's pages. 
 
 Thereon the letters of the alphabet, large, omi- 
 nous, suggestive to her mind of nothing in the world 
 but curlycues, loomed, mystifying. For the first 
 time it occurred to her that in securing the small 
 volume she had not, as she had thought to do, 
 solved the problem of an education. The charac- 
 ters, she saw to her dismay, meant nothing to her. 
 In the absence of a teacher she could not learn 
 from them! 
 
 Alas, alas! The matter was a tragedy to her. 
 How could she have been so stupid as to fail to 
 think of this at first ? She stood there with flushed 
 face, despairing, looking at the mystic symbols 
 with slowly sinking heart. 
 
 Suddenly, though the crackling of the fire filled 
 her ears, she was aware, by some subtle sense, that 
 she was now not wholly solitary there. Without a 
 sound to tell her, she was conscious that some other 
 person had within the moment come into the clear- 
 ing. Hastily she looked about. To her amaze- 
 ment, and, for a moment, to her great dismay, she 
 saw, standing on the clearing's edge, the young 
 man who had, not long before, unknowingly in- 
 vaded her seclusion at the pool. 
 
 Instantly her body became fiercely conscious. 
 Prickling thrills, not due to bonfire heat, shot over 
 it. Shame sent the blood in mantling blusht* to 
 
 37
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 her cheeks, although she tried to stop it. Why 
 should she blush at sight of him? True, she had 
 been there in the water, bare as any new-born 
 babe, when he had reached the pool's edge but 
 he had not seen her. To him she, quite undoubt- 
 edly, was a mere strange mountain maid, unrecog- 
 nized. Self-consciousness then was quite absurd. 
 
 And this man was a stranger and was on her 
 land. She must not forget her mountain courtesy 
 and fail to make him welcome. 
 
 "Howdy," she said briefly. 
 
 "Howdy, little girl?" said he, and looked at her 
 and smiled. 
 
 This form of address much amused her. She 
 was not far beyond sixteen, but sixteen is counted 
 womanhood, there in the mountains, and often is 
 an age for wife- and motherhood as well. "Little 
 girl," to her, seemed laughable. But then she sud- 
 denly remembered that to stop their flapping, when 
 they were all soaked, against her ankles, she had 
 pinned her skirts up and she was not tall. The 
 mistake, perhaps, was natural. 
 
 "Got a fire here?" he inquired, inanely, for the 
 fire was very much in evidence. 
 
 "Looks like it, don't it?" she said somewhat 
 saucily, but robbed the comment of offense by 
 smiling somewhat shyly at him as he stood there. 
 
 He was better looking, she reflected, now that 
 she had an unobstructed view of him, even than he 
 had appeared when she had peered at him from her 
 
 38
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 concealment behind the log and barricade of rushes. 
 Of course he was a "foreigner," and, therefore, a 
 mere weakling, not to be considered seriously as a 
 specimen of sturdy manhood (how often had she 
 heard the mountain men speak of the lowlands men 
 with scorn as weaklings?) but, none the less, he 
 interested and attracted her, even if he did not in- 
 spire her with respect. 
 
 He laughed. "It does," said he, "looks very 
 much like it. Been burning brush?" 
 
 "No," she replied, "jest warmin' up a little." 
 
 "Why, it's not cold." 
 
 "I I was wet." 
 
 "Wet?" said he, astonished. 
 
 She saw her slip, and flushed. "Fell in the 
 crik," she answered briefly, hastily and falsely. 
 
 "Why, that's too bad," said he, with ready sym- 
 pathy, unfeigned and real. 
 
 All the time the girl was eying him through 
 often-lowered lashes, and the more she looked at 
 him the more she felt that he was not, like many 
 "foreigners," to be distrusted and be held aloof. 
 His clothes did not suggest to her the "revenuer," 
 although they certainly were different from any 
 she had ever seen before on man or beast (his knee 
 breeches gave her some amusement), and he was 
 totally unarmed, having laid his rifle down and 
 left it at a distance, leaning against a stump. 
 
 His hands and face were not sunburned indeed, 
 his hands were delicately fashioned and much 
 
 39
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 whiter than any she had ever seen before on man 
 or woman. His appearance certainly did not, to 
 her, convey the thought of strength and manhood, 
 there among the mountains, is thought to find its 
 first and last expression through its muscle ; yet, for 
 some reason, although her first glance made her 
 think he was a puny creature, she neither scorned 
 nor pitied him. He was, perhaps, too smoothly 
 dressed, too carefully shaved; the gun he had laid 
 down so carelessly had too much "bright work" on 
 it but on the whole, she liked him. A city 
 maiden might have well been dazzled by the really 
 handsome chap. This simple country girl was not 
 but, on the whole, she liked him. 
 
 Her hand which held the spelling-book dropped, 
 unconsciously, so that the open pages of the vol- 
 ume were revealed, upside down, against her knee. 
 
 "Studying your lessons?" he inquired, quite cas- 
 ually, good-naturedly, coming nearer. 
 
 Again her disappointment rushed upon her. Im- 
 pulsively she told him of it. 
 
 "Oh," said she, "I don't know how! I bought 
 me this yere book down in th' settlement, an' 
 thought I'd learn things outen it. But how 'm I 
 goin' to learn? I can't make nothin' out of it to 
 get a start with." 
 
 Instantly the pathos of this situation, not its 
 humor, made appeal to him. 
 
 "Isn't there a school here?" he inquired. 
 
 "Nearest school is twenty mile acrost, over on 
 
 40
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 Turkey Creek," she said briefly. "Oncet there 
 was a nearer one, but teacher was a Hatfield, and 
 McCoys got him, of course. This was McCoy 
 kentry 'fore they all got so killed off. He ought to 
 'a' knowed better than come over here to teach." 
 
 This casual reference to a famous feud news 
 of whose infamy had spread far, far beyond the 
 mountains which had hatched it from the lips of 
 one so young and lovely (for he had long ago ad- 
 mitted to himself that as she stood there she was 
 lovelier than any being he had ever seen before) 
 appalled Frank Layson, son of level regions, grad- 
 uate of Harvard, casual sportsman, amateur moun- 
 taineer, who had come to look over his patrimony 
 and the country round about. 
 
 "Ah yes," said he, and frowned. And then: 
 "It leaves you in hard luck, though, doesn't it, if 
 you want to learn and can't," said he. 
 
 "It sartin does, for oh, I do hanker powerful 
 to learn!" 
 
 "May I stay here by the fire with you a while 
 and get warm, too," he asked. (The unaccustomed 
 exercise of tramping through the mountains had 
 kept him in a fever heat all day.) 
 
 "An' welcome," she said cordially, moving aside 
 a bit, so that he could approach without the circum- 
 navigation of a mighty stump. 
 
 He could not tell whether or not she had made 
 note of many sweat-beads on his brow and won- 
 dered at them on a chilly man. 
 
 41
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 "Perhaps," said he, "I might, in a few minutes, 
 show you a little about what you want to know. 
 I've been lucky. I have had a chance to learn." 
 
 She liked the way he said it. There was no hint 
 of superiority about it. He was not "stuck up," in 
 his claim of knowledge. He "had had a chance," 
 and took no credit to himself for it. This pleased 
 her, won her confidence if, already, that had not 
 been done by his frank face, in spite of his fancy 
 clothes and her assumption that he was a namby- 
 pamby weakling. 
 
 "Oh if you would!" she said, so eagerly that 
 it seemed to him most pitiful. 
 
 So, five minutes later, when all her clothing save 
 her heavy outer skirt, had been quite dried there 
 by the fire, and that same fire's abounding warmth 
 had sent his temperature up to high discomfort 
 mark, they sat down, side by side, upon a log, the 
 spelling-book between them, and he began the pleas- 
 ant task of teaching her her A, B, Cs. 
 
 " 'A,' " said he, "is this one at the very start." 
 
 "The peaked one," said she. 
 
 "Yes, that one. 
 
 "And 'B/ " he went on, much amused, but with 
 a perfectly grave face, "is this one with two loops 
 fastened, so, to a straight stalk." 
 
 "I know where thar is a bee-tree," she remarked, 
 irrelevantly. 
 
 "It will help recall this in your mind," said he, 
 
 42
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 maintaining perfect gravity, "imagine it with two 
 big loops of rope fastened to one side of it " 
 
 "Rope wouldn't stick out that-a-way," said she, 
 "it would just droop. They'd have to be of some- 
 thin' stiffen" 
 
 "Well " said he, and tried to think of some- 
 thing. 
 
 "You could use that railroad-iron that I saw 
 'em heat red-hot an' bend, down in the valley," she 
 suggested. 
 
 "That's it," said he. "Two loops of railroad- 
 iron fastened to a bee-tree" (he pointed) "just as 
 these loops, here, are fastened to the straight black 
 stem. That's 'B.' " 
 
 "I won't forget," said she, her beautiful young 
 brow puckered earnestly as she stored the knowl- 
 edge in her brain. 
 
 "And this is 'C,' " said he. 
 
 " 'C,' 'C,' " said she. "Jest take off one of th' 
 loops an' use it by itself." 
 
 "That's so," said he. "And here is T>.' " 
 
 "Cut off th' top th' tree," said she. "Just cut it 
 plumb off, loop an' all." 
 
 He laughed. It was clear that she would be an 
 earnest and quick-thinking pupil to whomever had 
 the task of giving her her education. 
 
 As he looked at her, now, he for the first time 
 fully realized her beauty. He had known, from 
 the first, that she was most attractive, most unusual 
 for a mountain maid ; but now, laughing, although 
 
 as
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 her head was still bent to the book, her big eyes, 
 sparkling with her merriment, raised frankly to his 
 face, were revelations to him. He had not seen 
 such eyes before, and all the old-time similes for 
 deep-brown orbs sprang instantly to mind. "Fath- 
 omless pools," "translucent amber" no simile 
 would really describe them. Late hours had never 
 dimmed them, illness had never made them heavy, 
 he was sure a lie had never made them shift from 
 their straight gaze for one short second. He had 
 not seen such eyes in cities ! 
 
 And from careful contemplation of the eyes, he 
 kept on with a careful contemplation of the other 
 beauties of his fair and unexpected pupil. Her 
 homespun gown, always ill-shaped and now un- 
 usually protuberant in spots, unusually tight in 
 others, because of its late wetting and impromptu, 
 partial drying, could not hide the sylvan grave of 
 her small-boned and lissome figure, just budding 
 into womanhood. Her feet, crossed on the ground, 
 were as patrician in their nakedness as any blue- 
 grass belle's in satin slippers. Her ankles, scratched 
 by casual thorns and already beginning to blush 
 brown from the June sun's ardent kisses, were as 
 delicate as any he had ever seen enmeshed in silken 
 hose. Her hands, long, slender, taper-fingered, ac- 
 tually dainty, although brown and roughened by 
 hard labor, were, it seemed to him, better fitted 
 for the fingering of a piano's keys than for the 
 coarse and heavy tasks to which he knew they must 
 
 44
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 be well accustomed. He gazed at her in veritable 
 wonder. How had she blossomed, thus, here in 
 this wilderness? 
 
 "Where do you live?" he asked, interrupting 
 their scholastic efforts. 
 
 "Up thar," she pointed, and, above, he could 
 just see the top of a mud-and-stick chimney rise 
 above a crag between the trees. 
 
 "Have you brothers or sisters?" 
 
 "Ain't got nobody," she answered, and to her 
 face there came a look of keen resentment rather 
 than of sorrow or of resignation. "I'm all th' 
 feud left," she said simply. She looked at Lay- 
 son quickly, wondering if he would be surprised 
 that she should not have fought and also died. 
 "Girl cain't fight alone, much," she went on, in 
 hurried explanation, or, rather, quick excuse. "I 
 might take a shot if I should git a chanst, but I 
 ain't had none, an', besides, I guess it air plum 
 wrong to kill, even if there's blood scores to be 
 settled up. I toted 'round a rifle with me till last 
 fall, but then I give it up. They won't git me 
 but maybe you don't know what feuds are in the 
 mountings, here." 
 
 He was looking at her with new interest. All 
 his life he had heard much about the dreadful 
 mountain feuds. As the bogey-man is used in 
 Eastern nurseries, so are the mountaineers used in 
 the nurseries of old Kentucky and of Tennessee to 
 frighen children with. Their family fights, not 
 
 45
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 less persistent or less deadly than the enmities be- 
 tween the warring barons of the Rhine in middle 
 ages, form a magnificent foundation for dire tales. 
 
 "Yes," said he, "I know about the feuds, of 
 course. But you " 
 
 It did not seem possible to him, even after her 
 frank statements, that this bright and joyous crea- 
 ture could in any way be joined to such a bloody 
 history as he knew the histories of some of these 
 long feuds to be. 
 
 "It's been thirty years an' better," said the girl, 
 "since the Brierlys and Lindasys had some trouble 
 about a claybank filly an' took to shootin' one an- 
 other shootin' straight an' shootin' often an' to 
 kill. For years th' fight went on. They fired on 
 sight, an* sometimes 'twas a Lindsay went an' some- 
 times 'twas a Brierly. Bimeby there was just two 
 men left my pappy an' Lem Lindsay. 
 
 "One day Lem sent word to my pappy to meet 
 him without no weepons an' shake han's an' make 
 it up." 
 
 Her face took on a look of bitterness and hate 
 which almost made her hearer shiver, so foreign 
 was it to the fresh, young brightness he had 
 watched till now. 
 
 "My daddy come, at th' ap'inted time," she went 
 on slowly, "but dad he knowed Lem Lindsay, an' 
 never for a minute trusted him. He ast a friend 
 of his, Ben Lorey, to be a hidden witness. Ben 
 
 46
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 hid behind a rock to watch. 'Twas right near here 
 just over thar." She pointed. 
 
 "Soon Lem, he come along, a-smilin' like a Ju- 
 dast, an', after some fine speakin', as daddy of- 
 fered him his hand, Lem whipped out a knife, an' 
 an' struck it into my daddy's heart." 
 
 The girl's recital had been tense, dramatic, not 
 because she had tried or thought to make it so 
 she had never learned not to be genuine but be- 
 cause of the real and tragic drama in the tale she 
 told, the matter-of-course way in which she told it. 
 
 It made Layson shudder. What sort of people 
 were these mountaineers who went armed to 
 friendly meetings and struck down the men whose 
 hands they offered to clasp? Where was the other 
 man while his friend's enemy was at this dreadful 
 work? 
 
 "But Lorey," said her fascinated listener, "the 
 man who was in hiding as a witness, made him pay 
 for his outrageous act!" 
 
 "No," said the girl, with drooping head. "He 
 stepped out from behind the rock where he was 
 hidin', an' he pulled the trigger of his rifle. But 
 luck was dead against us that day. Wet powder 
 somethin' nobody knows what. The gun did 
 not go off. Before he got it well down from his 
 shoulder so's to find out what it was that ailed it, 
 Lem Lindsay was upon him like a mountain lion 
 an' he laid him thar beside my daddy. He didn't 
 mean that there should be no witnesses." 
 
 47
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 She paused so long that Layson was about to 
 speak, feeling the silence troublesome and painful, 
 but before he had decided what to say in comment 
 on a tale so dreadful, she went on: 
 
 "He didn't mean there should be no witnesses, 
 Lem Lindsay didn't, but as it happened there was 
 two. My mother, me clasped in her arms, had 
 stole after my daddy, fearin' that somethin' wicked 
 would come out o' that there meetin' with his old- 
 time enemy. She spoke up sudden, an' surprised 
 th' murderer, standin' there by th' two poor men 
 he'd killed. At first it scared him. I can't re- 
 member every thin' about that awful day, but I can 
 see Lem Lindsay's face as she screamed at him, just 
 as plain this minute as I seed it then. I'll never 
 forget that look if I live a thousand years! 
 
 "At first he was struck dumb, but then that 
 passed. He give a yell of rage an' started toward 
 us on th' run. She jumped, with me a-hinderin' 
 her. Like a mountain deer she run, in spite of 
 that. She was lighter on her feet than he was 
 upon his, an' soon outdistanced him. He hadn't 
 stopped to pick his rifle up he only had th' knife 
 he'd done th' killin' with, so he couldn't do what 
 he'd 'a' liked to done shoot down a woman an' 
 a baby! 
 
 "We lived where I live now, alone, an' then, as 
 now, there was a little bridge that took th' foot- 
 path over th' deep gully. Them days was wicked 
 ones in these here mountains, an' daddy'd had that 
 
 48
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 foot-bridge fixed so it would raise. My mother 
 just had time to pull it up, when we had crossed, 
 before Lem Lindsay reached there. He stopped, 
 to keep from fallin' in the gully, but stood there, 
 shakin' his bare fist an' swearin' that he'd kill us 
 yet. But that he couldn't do. Folks was mightily 
 roused, and he had to leave th' mountings, then an' 
 thar, an' ain't been in 'em since, so far as anybody 
 knows." 
 
 Her brows drew down upon her eyes. Her 
 sweet mouth hardened. "He'd better never 
 come!" she added, grimly. 
 
 After a moment's pause she went on, slowly: 
 "So, now, here we be Joe Lorey, Ben's son, an' 
 me. My mother died, you see, not very many 
 years after Lindsay 'd killed my daddy. Seein' of 
 it done, that way, had been too much for her. I 
 reckon seein' it would have killed me, too, if I'd 
 been more'n a baby, but I wasn't, an' lived through 
 it. Ben's lived here, workin' his little mounting 
 farm, an' an' " 
 
 She hesitated, evidently ill at ease, strangely 
 stammering over an apparently simple and unim- 
 portant statement of the condition of her fellow 
 orphan. She changed color slightly. Layson, 
 watching her, decided that the son of the one vic- 
 tim must be the sweetheart of the daughter of the 
 other, and would have smiled had not the very 
 thought, to his surprise, annoyed him unaccount- 
 ably. Whether that was what had caused her 
 
 49
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 stammering, he could not quite decide, although he 
 gave the matter an absurd amount of thought. She 
 went on quickly: 
 
 "He's lived here, workin' of his little mounting 
 farm an' an' an' doin' jobs aroun', an' such, an' 
 I've lived here, a-workin' mine, a little, but not 
 much. After my mother died there was some 
 folks down in th' valley took keer of me for a 
 while, but then they moved away, an' I was old 
 enough to want things bad, an' what I wanted was 
 to come back here, where I could see th' place 
 where mother an' my daddy had both loved me an' 
 been happy. I've got some land down in th' val- 
 ley fifty acres o' fine pasture but I never cared 
 to live down there. Th' rent I get for that land 
 makes me rich I ain't never wanted for a single 
 thing but just th' love an' carin' that my daddy 
 an' my mother would 'a' give me if that wicked 
 man hadn't killed 'em both. For he did kill my 
 mother, just as much as he killed daddy. She died 
 o' that an' that alone." 
 
 Again she fell into a silence for a time, looking 
 out at the tremendous prospect spread before them, 
 quite unseeing. 
 
 "Oh," she went on, at length, her face again 
 darkened by a frown, her small hands clenched, 
 every muscle of her lithe young body drawn as 
 taut as a wild animal's before a spring. "I some- 
 times feel as if I'd like to do as other mountain 
 women have been known to do when killin' of that 
 
 50
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 sort has blackened all their lives I sometimes feel 
 as if I'd like to take a rifle in my elbow an' go 
 lookin' for that man go lookin' for him in th' 
 mountings, in th' lowlands, anywhere even if I 
 had to cross th' oceans that they tell about, in or- 
 der to come up with him !" 
 
 Her voice had been intensely vibrant with strong 
 passion as she said this, and her quivering form 
 told even plainer how deep-seated was the hate 
 that gave birth to her words. But soon she put 
 all this excitement from her and dropped her hands 
 in a loose gesture of hopeless relaxation. 
 
 "But I know such thoughts are foolish," she said 
 drearily. "He got away. A girl can't carry on a 
 feud alone, nohow. There's nothin' I can do." 
 
 Again, now, with a passing thought, her fea- 
 tures lighted as another maiden's, whose young life 
 had been cast by fate in gentler places might have 
 lighted at the thought of some great pleasure pend- 
 ing in the future. 
 
 "There is a chance, though," she said, with a 
 fierce joy, "that Lem Lindsay, if he is alive, '11 git 
 th' bullet that he earned that day. Joe Lorey's 
 livin' that's Ben's son an' he well, maybe, some 
 time ah, he can shoot as straight as anybody in 
 these mountings!" 
 
 The look of a young tigress was on her face. 
 
 It made the young man who was listening to her 
 shudder the look upon her face, the voice with 
 
 which she said "And he can shoot as straight as 
 
 l 
 
 51
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 anybody in these mountings!" For a second it re- 
 volted him. Then, getting a fairer point of view, 
 he smiled at her with a deep sympathy, and waited. 
 
 He had not to wait long before a gentler mood 
 held dominance. It came, indeed, almost at once. 
 
 "No," she said slowly, "a girl can't carry on a 
 feud alone, nohow. . . . And, somehow, when 
 I think of it most times, I really don't want to. 
 It's only now an' then I get stirred up, like this. 
 Most times I'd rather learn than go on fightin' 
 like we-all always have. . . . I'd rather learn, 
 somehow. . . . An' an' an' that's been 
 mighty hard is mighty hard" 
 
 "You haven't had much chance," said he, look- 
 ing at her pityingly. 
 
 She gave him a quick glance. Had she really 
 thought he pitied her she would have bitterly re- 
 sented it. 
 
 "Had th' same chance other mounting girls 
 have," she said quickly, defending, not herself, but 
 her country and her people. 
 
 She stood, now, at a distance from the fire, for 
 it was blazing merrily, but her face was flushed 
 by its radiant heat, its lurid blaze made a fine back- 
 ground for the supple, swaying beauty of her slim 
 young body. She raised her arms high, high above 
 her head, with that same genuineness of gesture, 
 graceful and appealing, which he had seen in all 
 her movements from the first and then clasped them 
 at her breast. 
 
 52
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 "But oh," said she, "somehow, I want to learn, 
 now, terrible!" 
 
 "Let me help you while I'm in the mountains," 
 he replied, impulsively. "I'll be glad to help you 
 every day." 
 
 "Would you?" she said. "I would be powerful 
 thankful!" Her bright eyes expressed the grati- 
 tude she felt. 
 
 While they had talked a strange paradox had 
 come about there by the fire without their notice. 
 The long, black out-cropping of rock against which 
 they had brought the old man's blaze to life, had, 
 instead of keeping the fire from spreading to the 
 undergrowth, strangely permitted it to pass. 
 
 It was the girl who first discovered this. She 
 sprang up from her place with a startled exclama- 
 tion. 
 
 "Oh," said she, "th' fire is spreadin'!" 
 
 He rose quickly to his feet. 
 
 '53
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 They were appalled by the predicament in which 
 they found themselves. The thing seemed quite 
 mysterious. 
 
 The rock against which the fire had been built 
 was all aglow, as if it had been heated in a fur- 
 nace till red hot strange circumstance; one that 
 would have fascinated Layton into elaborate in- 
 vestigation had he had the time to think about it 
 and, beyond it, evidently communicated through 
 it as a link, the rustling leaves of the past autumn, 
 their surface layers sun-dried, were bursting into 
 glittering little points of flame all about the narrow 
 ledge of rock on which they were standing. As 
 they gazed, before Layson could rush forward to 
 stamp out these sparkling perils, the fire had spread, 
 as the girl, wise in the direful ways of brush-fires, 
 had known at once that it would spread, to the en- 
 circling pine-tops, left in a tinder barricade about 
 the clearing by the sawyers and the axemen. 
 
 "Oh," she said, distressed, "we're ketched!" 
 
 54
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 Layson, less conscious of their peril because less 
 well informed as to the almost explosive inflam- 
 mability of dry pine-tops, took the matter less seri- 
 ously. "\Ye'll get out, all right," said he. "Don't 
 worry." 
 
 "There's times to worry," said the girl, "an' this, 
 I reckon well, it's one of 'em." 
 
 As if to prove the truth of what she said, with a 
 burst almost like that of flame's leap along a pow- 
 der-line, the fire caught one resinous pine-top after 
 another with a crackling rush which was not only 
 fearfully apparent to the eye, but also ominously au- 
 dible. Within ten seconds the pair were ringed by 
 sound like that of crackling musketry upon a battle- 
 field, and by a pyrotechnic spectacle of terrifying 
 magnitude. Layson had heard guns pop in un- 
 trained volleys at State Guard manoeuvres, and was 
 instantly impressed by the amazing similarity of 
 sound, but he had never in his life seen anything 
 to be compared to the towering ring of flame-wall 
 w T hich almost instantly encircled them. He lost, 
 perhaps, a minute, in astonished contemplation of 
 the situation. Then realization of their peril burst 
 upon him with a rush. To w r ait there, where they 
 were, too evidently meant certain death. Not only 
 would the pulsing heat from the pine-tops already 
 burning soon become unendurable, but there was 
 enough of tindrous litter strewn about the entire 
 area of the little clearing to make it horribly ap- 
 parent to him that, in a moment, it would all be- 
 
 55
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 come a bed of glittering flame. He gazed at the 
 menacing, encroaching fire, appalled. 
 
 Madge, understanding the desperation of their 
 situation even better than he did, knowing, too, that 
 a stranger could, indeed, scarce conceive the deadly 
 peril of it, was, at first, the cooler of the two. 
 Her life there in the mountains, where any man 
 she knew might meet, and her own father had met, 
 death stalking with a rifle in his bended elbow, or 
 a knife clutched in his clenched hand, had given her 
 a certain poise in time of peril, an admirable self- 
 control, quick wits, firm nerves. She felt that there 
 was small chance of escape, yet she was not visibly 
 terrified, and made no outcry. 
 
 Had she been caught, thus, with a mountaineer 
 (which scarcely could have happened) she would 
 have felt small apprehension. Learned in the perils 
 of the woods, heavy-booted, sturdy-legged, a na- 
 tive, like Joe Lorey, for example, would, she felt 
 quite certain, have been able to effect her rescue. 
 But the chances, she decided, were practically nil, 
 with this untrained "foreigner" as her companion. 
 She had been told that "blue-grass folks" were 
 lacking in strong nerves and prone to panic if real 
 danger threatened. Barefooted as she was, there 
 was little she, herself, could do. She knew that she 
 would quickly fall unconscious from intolerable 
 pain if she so much as tried to make a dash for 
 safety. That she was badly frightened she would 
 have readily admitted, that she was panic-stricken 
 
 56
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 none who looked at her could, for a moment, 
 dream. 
 
 She glanced at Layson with a curiosity which 
 was almost calm, as, for a moment quite bewil- 
 dered, he ran from side to side of their rapidly 
 narrowing space of safety, endeavoring to find a 
 weak spot in the wall of flames through which they 
 might escape, but failing everywhere. For a mo- 
 ment she thought that he had lost his head, and 
 thus proved all too true those tales which she had 
 heard of "foreigners." It was almost as one race 
 gazing at another suffering ordeal in test, that she 
 observed his every movement, each detail of his 
 facial play. While they had sat there on the log, 
 intent upon their work above her spelling-book, she 
 had wondered if the harsh, uncharitable mountain 
 judgment of the "foreigners" had not been too 
 merciless. Now she felt that she began to see its 
 justification. The man, undoubtedly, she thought, 
 showed an unmanly panic. 
 
 "No use tryin' to get out that-a-way," she said 
 calmly. "You'd better " 
 
 Even as she spoke, and before her words could 
 possibly have influenced him, she saw a change 
 come over him. The signs of fear, which had so 
 displeased her, faded from his actions and his facial 
 play. Placed in unusual, unexpected circumstances, 
 for a second he had been bewildered, but, as soon 
 as opportunity had come for gathering of wits, he 
 found composure, coolness, nerve. She did not 
 
 57
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 even finish out her sentence. Instead, her thoughts 
 turned to that acme of breeding, nerve, endurance 
 and high spirit dear to all Kentuckians, the race 
 horse. "He's found his feet!" she thought. 
 
 The man impressed her, now, even more than 
 when, with courtesy, such as she had never known, 
 tact which had maintained her comfort when she 
 might have felt humiliated, learning which to her 
 seemed marvellous, he had offered her the key to 
 learning's mysteries upon the log. She saw that he 
 had quickly won a mighty victory over self. She 
 thought of tales which she had heard by mountain 
 fireplaces about "bad men," who, when they first 
 had heard a bullet's song, had dodged and whi- 
 tened, only to recover quickly and be nerved to peril 
 evermore thereafter. Her doubt of Layson fell 
 away completely. Instead of thinking of him as of 
 one whose manhood is inferior to that of the rough 
 mountaineers she knew, perforce she saw in him 
 superiorities. There was not the least sign of 
 bragadocio, of counterfeit, about his new-found 
 calm. It was, she recognized at once, entirely gen- 
 uine. "Rattled for a minute," she thought, wisely, 
 again amending her first judgment, "but cooler, 
 now, than cucumbers." 
 
 She looked gravely at him as he moved about 
 investigating, not excitedly, alertly, full of the 
 necessary business of escape. "Looks bad, don't 
 it?" she said gravely. "Like powder, them thar 
 pine-tops." 
 
 58
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 "Oh, we'll get out all right," he answered, easily, 
 and now she felt a comfort in the fact that he was 
 intentionally minimizing danger to give confidence 
 to the supposed weakness of her sex. 
 
 "Maybe so an' maybe not," said she, discovering, 
 to her disgust, that it was hard, now that he was 
 showing strength, to keep the panic tremolo from 
 her own voice. 
 
 The fire had, by this time, encircled them com- 
 pletely, and from a hundred points was running in 
 toward them on tinder lines of dry pine-needles 
 and old leaves, flashing at them viciously along the 
 crisp, dry surface of old moss and lichens on the 
 rocks. A wind had suddenly arisen, born, no 
 doubt, of the fire's own mighty draft. Bits of 
 blazing light wood, small, burning branches, 
 myriads of flaming oak leaves and pine-cones were 
 swept up from the ring of fire about them, in the 
 chimney of the blaze, to lose their impetus only at 
 a mighty height, and then fall slowly, threaten- 
 ingly down within the burning ring. So plenti- 
 ful were these little, vicious menaces, that, within 
 another minute, they were dodging them contin- 
 ually. 
 
 He now took his place close by her side and 
 gazed upon the spectacle, calm-eyed, as if he found 
 it interesting rather more than terrifying. 
 
 "Oh, we'll get out, all right," said he, again. 
 
 And then he turned to her in frank and unex- 
 cited inquiry. To her increased disgust the sobs 
 
 59
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 of growing fear convulsed her throat. She fought 
 them back and listened to his question. 
 
 "You know more about woods-fires than I do," 
 he said evenly. "Better tell me what to do, eh?" 
 
 This confession of his ignorance strengthened 
 her growing confidence in him instead of weaken- 
 ing it. The fact that he could ask advice so calmly 
 made her think that, probably, he would be calm in 
 taking it if she could offer it. It steadied her and 
 helped her think. And then she saw him spring, 
 and, actually w r ith a smile, strike in the air above 
 her head, diverting from its downward path which 
 would have landed it upon her, a flaming fragment 
 of pine-top fully five feet long. He actually 
 laughed. 
 
 "Like handball," he said cheerily. "Don't worry. 
 I won't let anything fall on you. You just 
 think!" 
 
 Her panic, now, had vanished as by magic. In- 
 stantly she really ceased to worry. He would not 
 let fire fall on her. He would get her out of that. 
 She was certain of it. She could think calmly 
 and with care. 
 
 But she could not think of a way out at least 
 she could not think of a way out for her. Bare- 
 footed as she was, she scarcely could expect to find, 
 even in her strong young body, strength enough 
 to endure the pain of treading, as she would be 
 forced to if she made a dash, on an almost un- 
 broken bed of glowing coals and smouldering moss 
 
 60
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 ten yards in width. He, with his heavy boots, 
 might manage it. Therefore there was hope for 
 him; but for her to try it would be madness. 
 
 Had he been a sturdy mountaineer, she wofully 
 reflected having found a detail of lowland in- 
 feriority which, she was quite certain, would not 
 be dispelled as had some others he might, in such 
 a desperate case, have summoned strength to "tote" 
 her through, although she scarcely thought Joe 
 Lorey, the best man whom she knew, could really 
 do it; still there would have been the possibility. 
 But no weak-muscled "foreigner," pap-nurtured in 
 the lowlands, could, she knew, of course, accom- 
 plish such a feat. It was fine to know things, as 
 he did, but muscle was what counted now! In 
 queer, impersonal reflection, born, doubtless, of a 
 dumb hysteria, she reflected bitterly upon the 
 healthy weight of her own mountain-nourished 
 person. 
 
 "If I was only like them triflin' blue-grass gals 
 Joe tells about," she thought, "made up of nothin' 
 or a little less, it wouldn't be no trick to tote me 
 outen this; but dellaw! I'm just as much as that 
 there ox of mine feels right to carry when I got a 
 couple bags o' grist on, back an' front." 
 
 She looked around the ring of fire, dull-eyed, 
 disheartened. "Ain't no use," said she, aloud. 
 
 He seemed to almost lose his temper. "Use?" 
 said he, "of course there's use! You tell me where 
 the best chance is and we'll fight out, ail right." 
 
 61
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 She did not even answer; the situation seemed 
 to her so wholly hopeless. 
 
 He acted, then, without further question. Hastily 
 throwing the loop of his gun over his shoulder, he 
 crooked one arm beneath her much-astonished 
 knees, clasped another tight about her waist, and 
 started for the fire with a determined spring. 
 
 "No, no; not there!" she screamed, astonished, 
 terrified, and yet, withal, delighted by the unex- 
 pected hardness of the muscles in the arms which 
 held her, the unexpected spring in the apparently 
 not overburdened limbs which bore them up, the 
 unexpected nerve, determination of the man's in- 
 itiative. 
 
 This "foreigner," it seemed, was not so weak, 
 was not so namby-pamby as his class had been de- 
 scribed to be. She did not struggle in the circling 
 arms, she only made an explanation. 
 
 "That's hard wood, burnin' there," said she. 
 "Burnin' hard wood's harder to break through an' 
 hotter, too. Try some place where it's pine. . . . 
 But you can't never do it!" 
 
 "Where?" said he. "Show me! You know, I 
 don't." 
 
 "Well over thar," she said, and indicated, with 
 a pointing hand, the place in the encircling con- 
 flagration where passage seemed least hopeless. 
 
 At that moment fire blazed high there, but her 
 knowing eye told her that it was largely flaring 
 
 62
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 needles, brittle twigs, and easily dissipated cones 
 which fed it. 
 
 A few great springs, such as she now felt that 
 the quivering, eager limbs which held her, were pos- 
 sessed of the ability to make, might take them 
 through this flimsiest spot in the terrible barricade. 
 The crackling, burning branches of the dead pine- 
 tops would be likely to give way before them, not 
 to trip them up, as oak would, to thrust them, fall- 
 ing, on the bed of glowing coals fast forming on 
 the ground. 
 
 "Over thar," said she, again. "I reckon that's 
 the best place but you cain't " 
 
 With the new respect the knowledge of his 
 trained and ready muscles brought to her, arose 
 in her a towering admiration of him. When she 
 first had seen him, there beside the pool, she defi- 
 nitely had liked him; while they had delved into 
 the mysteries of the alphabet upon the log his pa- 
 tient, willing, helpful kindness had increased her 
 prepossession in his favor. It was only when, 
 after disaster had so swiftly, so unexpectedly, de- 
 scended on them and she had compared his body, 
 made apparently more slender in comparison to the 
 rude-limbed mountaineers she knew than it was 
 really by tight-fitting knickerbockers and golf- 
 stockings and its well-cut shooting-jacket, that she 
 had lost confidence in him. But now his muscles, 
 closing round her, seemed like thews of steel. She 
 had never heard of athletes, she did not dream that 
 
 63
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 muscle-building is a part of modern education 
 that alertness on the baseball, polo, football fields, 
 count quite as much, at least in college popularity, 
 as ready tongues and agile wits. The last fibres of 
 destroyed respect for him rebuilt themselves upon 
 the minute. Her confidence returned completely in 
 a sudden flash quicker than the magic leapings of 
 the fire about them. She knew that he would take 
 her through to safety. 
 
 A thought occurred to her, for, suddenly, with 
 the new respect for him the knowledge of his 
 trained and ready muscles gave her, arose a new 
 consideration for him, almost motherly. He would 
 be breasting dreadful peril in the passage of the 
 flames peril to his eyes and face and clinging, 
 tight-clasped hands especially. And round her 
 limbs there was the means of saving him, in part, 
 from it. 
 
 "You let me down for just a minute," she said 
 briefly. "Just a minute. Then I'll let you take me 
 up an' carry me. An' you can do it, too! You're 
 strong, ain't you?" 
 
 Wondering, he released his hold on her, and she 
 slid to her feet. Then, with a quick movement, 
 she unbuttoned the wafstband of her outer skirt, 
 and, letting it slip down to the ground, stepped out 
 of it. 
 
 "Ain't it lucky I got wet?" said she, and smiled. 
 "It ain't more'n half dry yet. The under one is
 
 A MIGHTY LEAP HAD CARRIED THEM BEYUNU THK BLAZING BARRIER. 
 
 Page 65.
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 wet, too, and both of 'em are wool and that don't 
 burn like cotton would. 
 
 "Now pick me up again an' I'll just fix this skirt 
 so there now that's the way. Can you see, 
 now? All right? Well, it'll keep th' fire from 
 catchin' in our hair, an' it'll save your eyes." 
 
 He laughed. "That's fine !" said he, and, almost 
 before she realized that they were under way, a 
 mighty leap had taken them close to the blazing 
 barrier, another one had landed them within its 
 very midst, another one had carried them beyond 
 its greatest menace, another had delivered them 
 from actual peril, leaving them on ground where 
 filmy grass, dead leaves, dry needles, had blazed 
 quickly, with a consuming flash, and, utterly and al- 
 most instantly destroyed, had left behind them only 
 thin, hot ash, devoid of peril, scarce to be consid- 
 ered. 
 
 But he did not let her feet touch ground again 
 until they were even beyond this. Finally, when 
 they reached a rocky "barren," where the little fire 
 had found no fuel, she felt his tautened thews 
 relax. 
 
 Instantly she slipped from his encircling arms, 
 and he began to whip the flames in grass and little 
 brush close to them with the dampened skirt. 
 Even on the little isle of safety they found it 
 necessary, still, to agilely avoid innumerable bits of 
 floating "light-wood" brands, and, for a time, to 
 beat, beat at the hungry little flames around them, 
 
 65
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 but, at last, the danger was all over, and they stood 
 there, looking at each other, with a sense of great 
 relief. He smiled, breathing hard, but not ex- 
 hausted. 
 
 "Tight work, eh?" he said cheerfully. 
 
 "Jest wonderful!" she answered, with a ready 
 tribute. 
 
 Then the memory of his embracing arm, the fact 
 that her own arms had been as tightly clasped about 
 his neck, came to her with a rush, although, while 
 they had raced across the burning strip she had not 
 thought of these things. Shyness stirred in her 
 almost as definitely as it had while she lay hidden 
 at the pool's mouth, watching him and tingling with 
 shamed thrills at thought of her amazing plight 
 there. No man had ever had his arms about her 
 in her life before. 
 
 But, even while she blushed and thrilled with this 
 embarrassment, she fought to put it from her. He, 
 evidently, had not thought of it at all, was, now, 
 not thinking of it. What had been done had been 
 a part of the day's work, a quick move, made in 
 an emergency, when nothing else would serve. His 
 attitude restored her own composure. 
 
 And gratitude welled in her. She struggled to 
 find words for it. 
 
 "I I'm much obleeged to you," were all she 
 found, and she was conscious of their most com- 
 plete inadequacy. 
 
 "No reason why you should be," he said gayly. 
 
 66
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 "We got caught in a tight place, that's all, and we 
 helped one another out of it." 
 
 She laughed derisively. "I helped you out a lot, 
 now didn't I?" she asked. 
 
 Again she made a survey of him, standing where 
 he had been when he had loosed his hold of her, 
 unwearied, smiling, and she looked with actual 
 wonder. Good clothes and careful speech were 
 not, of a necessity, the outward signs of weaklings, 
 it appeared! 
 
 Joe Lorey, in a dozen talks with her, had told 
 her that they were. She did not understand that 
 this had been a clumsy and short-sighted strategy, 
 that, finding her more difficult than other mountain 
 girls the handsome, sturdy young hill-dweller had 
 not been without his conquests among the maidens 
 of his kind; only Madge had baffled him he had 
 feared that, now when the railroad building in the 
 valley had brought so many "foreigners" into the 
 neighborhood, one of them might fascinate her, 
 and it had been to guard against this, as well 
 as he was able, that he had spoken slightingly of 
 the whole class. He had delighted in repeating 
 to her tales belittling them, deriding them, and she, 
 of course, had quite believed his stories. 
 
 But her experience with this one had not justi- 
 fied that point of view, and the matter largely oc- 
 cupied her thoughts as they walked slowly through 
 the thickets of a bit of "second-growth" beyond the 
 fire, which, stopped by the rocky "barrens," was 
 
 67
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 dying out behind them. Her companion was, to 
 her, an utterly new sort of being, not better trained 
 in mind alone, but better trained in body than any 
 mountaineer she knew ; doubtless ignorant of many 
 details of woods-life which would be known to 
 any child there in the mountains, but, on the other 
 hand, even more resourceful, daring, quick, than 
 mountain men would have been, similarly placed, 
 and, to her amazement, physically stronger, too! 
 
 The fact that he had shown himself more 
 thoughtful of and courteous to her than any other 
 man had ever been before, made its impression, but 
 a slighter one. Hers were the instincts of true 
 wisdom, and she valued these things less than 
 many of her city sisters might, although she val- 
 ued them, of course. She looked slyly, wonder- 
 ingly at him. He was a very pleasant, very ad- 
 mirable sort of creature this visitor from the un- 
 known, outside world. She quite decided that she 
 did not even think his knickerbockers foolish, 
 after all. 
 
 For a moment, even now, she thrilled unpleas- 
 antly with a mean suspicion that he might be a 
 "revenuer," after all, and have done the good 
 things he had done as a part of that infernal craft 
 which revenuers sometimes showed when search- 
 ing for the hidden stills where "moonshine" whisky 
 is illegally produced among the mountains ; but she 
 put this thought out of her heart, indignantly, al- 
 most as quickly as it came to her. Instinctively she 
 
 68
 
 7A r OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 felt quite certain that duplicity did not form any 
 portion of his nature. They had not been traitor's 
 arms which had so bravely (and so firmly) clasped 
 her for the quick and risky dash across that terri- 
 fying belt of fire! 
 
 "No," said she, determined to give him fullest 
 measure of due credit, "I didn't help you none. I 
 didn't help you none an' you did what I don't be- 
 lieve any other man I ever knew could do. 
 I'm " 
 
 Again she paused, again at loss for words, again 
 the quest failed wholly. 
 
 "I'm much obleeged," said she. 
 
 Then, suddenly, the thought came to her of that 
 other and less prepossessing "foreigner" whom, that 
 day, she had seen there in her mountains. She de- 
 scribed him carefully to Lay son, and asked if he 
 could guess who he had been and what his business 
 could have been. Descriptions are a sorry basis for 
 the recognition of a person thought to be far miles 
 away, a person unassociated in one's mind with 
 the surroundings he has suddenly appeared in ; and, 
 therefore, Layson, who really knew the man and 
 who, had he identified him with the unknown vis- 
 itor, would have been surprised, intensely curious, 
 and, possibly, suspicious, could offer her no clue to 
 his identity.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 That same "foreigner," for a "foreigner," was 
 acting strangely. Surely he was dressed in a 
 garb hitherto almost unknown in the rough 
 mountains, certainly none of the mountaineers 
 whom he had met (and he had met, with plain un- 
 willingness, a few, as he had climbed up to the 
 rocky clearing where his fire had blossomed so re- 
 markably) had recognized him. But, despite all 
 this, it was quite plain that he was traveling through 
 a country of which he found many details familiar. 
 Now and then a little vista caught his view and 
 held him for long minutes while he seemed to be 
 comparing its reality with pictures of it stored 
 wfthin his memory; again he paused when he dis- 
 covered that some whim of tramping mountaineers 
 or roaming cattle, some landslide born of winter 
 frosts; some blockade of trees storm-felled, had 
 changed the course of an old path. Always, in a 
 case like this, he investigated carefully before he 
 definitely started on the new one. 
 
 When he had first come into the neighborhood 
 
 70
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 he had made his way with caution, almost as if 
 fearing to be seen, but now, after the bits of rocks 
 which he had taken from Madge Brierly's clearing, 
 had slipped into his pocket, he used double care in 
 keeping from such routes as showed the marks of 
 many recent footsteps, in sly investigations to make 
 sure the paths he chose were clear of other way- 
 farers. His nerves evidently on keen edge, he 
 seemed to fear surprise of some unpleasant sort. 
 Each crackling twig, as he passed through the 
 thickets, each rustling of a frightened rabbit as it 
 scuttled from his path, each whir of startled grouse, 
 or sudden call of nesting king-bird, made him pause 
 cautiously until he had quite satisfied himself that 
 it meant nothing to be feared. He was ever care- 
 fully alert for danger of some sort. 
 
 But not even his continual alarms, his constant 
 watchfulness, could keep his mind away from the 
 rough bits of rock which he had chipped from the 
 outcropping in the clearing. More than once, as 
 he found convenient and safe places leafy nooks 
 in rocky clefts, glades in dense, impenetrable thick- 
 ets he took out the little specimens, turned them 
 over in his hands with loving touches, and gazed 
 at them with an expression of picturesquely avari- 
 cious joy. Had any witnessed this proceedure they 
 would have found it vastly puzzling, for the speci- 
 mens seemed merely small, black stones and value- 
 less. But once, while looking at them lovingly, he 
 burst into a harsh and hearty laugh as of great
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 triumph, quite involuntarily; but hushed it quickly, 
 looking, then, about him with an apprehensive 
 glance. Each step he made was, in the main, a 
 cautious one, each pause he made was plainly to 
 look at some familiar, if some slightly altered, vista. 
 
 It was quite clear that with the finding of the 
 little bits of rock he had achieved the errand which 
 had brought him to the mountains, and that now 
 he roamed to satisfy his memory's curiosity. Smiles 
 of recognition constantly played upon his grim and 
 grizzled face at sight of some old path, some dis- 
 tant, mist-enshrouded crag, even some mighty pine 
 or oak which had for years withstood the buffet- 
 ing of tempestuous storms; now and then a little 
 puzzled frown, added its wrinkles to the many 
 which already creased his brow, when, at some 
 spot which he had thought to find as he had left it, 
 long ago, he discovered that time's changes had 
 been notable. 
 
 Once only did the man become confused among 
 the woods-paths (where a stranger might have lost 
 himself quite hopelessly in twenty minutes) and 
 that was at a point not far from where Madge 
 Brierly and Layson had, on their way up from the 
 clearing, paused while she told her youthful escort 
 of the grim but simple tragedy of her feud-dark- 
 ened childhood. Before the old man reached this 
 spot he had been traveling with puzzled caution, 
 for a time, across a slope rough-scarred by some 
 not ancient landslide which had changed the super- 
 
 72
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 ficial contour of the mountain-side. When, sud- 
 denly, he debouched upon the rocky crag, hung, a 
 rustic, natural platform above a gorgeous pan- 
 orama of the valley, the view came to him, evi- 
 dently, as a sharp, a startling, most unpleasant 
 shock. 
 
 That the place was quite familiar to him none 
 who watched him would have doubted, but no 
 smiles of pleasant memories curved his thin, un- 
 pleasant lips as he surveyed it. He did not pause 
 there, happily, communing with his memory in 
 smiling reminiscence as he had at other points along 
 the way. Instead, as the great view burst upon his 
 gaze, he started back as if the outlook almost ter- 
 rified him. He had been traveling astoop, partly 
 because the burden of his years weighed heavy on 
 his shoulders, partly as if his muscles had uncon- 
 sciously reverted to the easy, slouching, climbing- 
 stoop of the Kentucky mountaineer. But at sight 
 of thig especial spot his attitude changed utterly, 
 the whole expression, not of his face, alone, but of 
 his body, altered. His stoop became a crouch. His 
 hands flew out before him as if, with them, he 
 strove to ward away the charming scene. His feet 
 paused in their tracks, as if struck helpless and 
 immovable by what his eyes revealed to him. 
 
 For a full moment, almost without moving, he 
 stood there, fascinated by some old association, 
 plainly, for there was nothing in the prospect 
 which, to an actual stranger, would have seemed 
 
 73
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 more notable than details of a dozen other views 
 which he had peered at through his half-dosed, 
 weather-beaten eyes within the hour. Here, clearly, 
 was the arena of some great event in his past life 
 an arena which he gladly would have never seen 
 again. His face went pale beneath its coat of tan, 
 his shoulders trembled slightly as he tried to shrug 
 them with indifference to brace his courage up. 
 Twice he started from the spot, determined, evi- 
 dently, to shut away the crowding and unpleasant 
 recollections it recalled to him, twice he returned to 
 it, to carefully, if with evident repugnance, make 
 closer study of some detail of its rugged pictur- 
 esqueness. More than once, as he lingered there 
 against his will, his hands raised upward to his 
 eyes as if to shut away from them some vivid mem- 
 ory-picture, but each time they fell, with strangely 
 hopeless gesture. The picture which they strove to 
 hide plainly was not before his eyes in the actual 
 scene, but painted in the brain behind them and not 
 to be shut out with screening, claw-curved fingers. 
 The effect of this especial spot on the old man, 
 indeed, was most remarkable. His lips, as he 
 stood gazing there, moved constantly as if with 
 words unspoken, and, once or twice, the crowding 
 sentences found actual but not articulate voice. 
 Whenever this occurred he started, to look about 
 behind him as if he feared that some one, who 
 might overhear, had crept up upon him slyly. 
 Finally, making absolutely certain that he had not 
 
 74
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 been observed by any human being, and evidently 
 yielding to an impulse almost irresistible, he went 
 over the ground carefully, examining each foot of 
 the little rocky platform with not a loving, but a 
 fascinated observation. 
 
 When he finally left the spot a striking change 
 had come upon his features. He had reached the 
 place sly, cunning, and, withal, triumphant, as if 
 he had accomplished, that day, through securing the 
 small stones, some secret thing of a great import. 
 His countenance, as, at length, he went away, was 
 not triumphant but half terrified. It was as if some 
 long- forgotten scene of horror had been brought 
 before his gaze again, to terrify and astonish him. 
 
 His footsteps had been slow and leisurely, the 
 footsteps of a contemplative, if a surreptitious 
 sightseer, but now they quickened almost into run- 
 ning, and the intensely disagreeable effect of the 
 mysterious episode had not left him wholly, when, 
 twenty minutes afterward, he had mounted the 
 rocky hill path by a precipitous climb and found 
 himself within a little, cupped inclosure in the 
 rocks, secluded enough and beautiful enough to be 
 a fairies' dancing-floor. There, again, he seemed 
 to recognize old landmarks, but with fewer of un- 
 pleasant memories connected with them. Plain cu- 
 riosity glowed, now, in his narrow, crafty eyes. 
 
 "I wonder," he exclaimed, "if it's here yet." 
 
 As he spoke his glance flashed swiftly to the far 
 side of the little glade, where, on the face of a 
 
 75
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 dense thicket, a trained eye, such as his, might 
 mark a spot where bushes had been often parted 
 with extreme care not to do them injury and thus 
 reveal the fact that through them lay a thorough- 
 fare. Noting this with a wry smile of malicious 
 satisfaction, he started slowly toward the spot. 
 
 The caution of his movements was redoubled, 
 now. While he had worked, back in the clearing, 
 cooking his simple noonday meal and chipping off 
 the little specimens of rock, he had shown that he 
 wished not to have his strange activities observed. 
 On the mountain paths he had plainly been most 
 anxious not to run across chance wayfarers who 
 might ask questions, or (the possibility was most 
 remote, but still a possibility) remember him of 
 old. He had been merely cautious, though, not 
 definitely fearful. 
 
 Now, however, actual and obsessive dread showed 
 plainly on his face and in his movements. Such 
 a fear would have induced most men to abandon 
 any enterprise which was not fraught with compell- 
 ing necessity; with him insistent curiosity seemed 
 to counterbalance it. The man's face, rough, hard, 
 cruel, was, withal, unusually expressive; its deep 
 lines were more than ordinarily mobile, and every 
 one of them, as he proceeded, soft-footed as a cat, 
 amazingly lithe and supple for his years, as com- 
 petent to find his way unseen through a woods 
 country as an Indian, showed that irresistible and
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 fiercely inquisitive impulse was offsetting in his 
 mind a deadly apprehension. 
 
 In one way only, though, in spite of the accellera- 
 tion of his eager curiosity, did he drop his guard, 
 at all, and this was quite apparently the direct re- 
 sult of high excitement. That he had dropped it 
 he was clearly quite unconscious, but when his lips 
 moved, now, they more than once let fall articulate 
 words. 
 
 "Ef th' old still's thar . . ." they said at one 
 time ; then, after a long pause devoted to worming 
 troublous way through tangled areas of windfall, 
 they muttered, in completion of the sentence: 
 "... it'll be th' son that's runnin' it." An- 
 other busy silence, and : "Thar was a girl . . . 
 th' daughter of . . ." 
 
 Either a spasmodic contraction of the throat at 
 mere thought of the name a grimace, almost of 
 pain, which suddenly convulsed the old man's evil 
 face might well have made a stranger think that 
 his muscles had rebelled or an unusually difficult 
 struggle across a fallen tree-trunk prevented fur- 
 ther speech, as, probably, it prevented for the time, 
 consecutive further thought of old-time memories. 
 His mind was tensely concentrated on the work of 
 climbing through the tangle of dead trunks and 
 branches, and, when he had accomplished the hard 
 passage, was turned wholly from the things which 
 he had been considering by a slight crackling, as 
 
 77
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 of some one stepping on a brittle twig, at a dis- 
 tance in advance of him. 
 
 Instantly he was on his guard, showing signs 
 quite unmistakable of deadly fear. He shrank 
 back into the thicket with the speed and silence of 
 a frightened animal. 
 
 The panic which had seized him soon had passed, 
 however, for, within a few short seconds it was 
 clear to him that the noise which he had heard had 
 not been made by any one suspicious of his pres- 
 ence or a-search for him. 
 
 Peering cautiously between the slender boles of 
 crooked mountain-laurel bushes, he soon found a 
 vantage point from which he could see on beyond 
 the densely woven foliage, and, to his astonishment, 
 found, before he had thought, possible that he had 
 progressed so far, that he had already reached the 
 place he sought. Memory had made the way to it 
 a longer one than it was really, and, in spite of the 
 delays caused by his advancing age and awkward 
 muscles, long unaccustomed to the work of thread- 
 ing mountain paths, he had traveled faster than he 
 thought. 
 
 Not fifty feet away from him, separated from 
 the thicket he was hiding in but by a narrow stretch 
 of mountain sward, he saw, among the mountain 
 side's disordered rocks, the carefully masked en- 
 trance to a cave. 
 
 An untrained eye would never have made note 
 of the few signs which made it clear to him, at 
 
 78
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 once, that this cave was, as it had been long years 
 before when he had known it well, a place of fre- 
 quent call for footsteps skilled in mountain cun- 
 ning. No path was worn to its rough entrance, 
 but, here and there, a broken grass-blade, in an- 
 other place a pebble recently dislodged from its 
 accustomed hollow, elsewhere a ragged bit of pa- 
 per, torn from a tobacco-package, proved to him 
 that, although hidden in the wilderness of old 
 Mount Nebo's scarred and inaccessible sides, this 
 spot was yet one often visited by many men. 
 
 A grim smile stirred the leathern folds of his 
 old cheeks. 
 
 "Thar yet," he thought, "an' doin' business yet." 
 
 Again; after he had worked about to get a better 
 view.' 
 
 "Best-hidden still in these here mountings. Rev- 
 enuers never will get run of it." 
 
 The place had a mighty fascination for him, a^ 
 if it might have played a tremendous part in long- 
 gone passages of his own life. As he stood gazing 
 at it cautiously, the mountaineer seemed definitely 
 to emerge from his low-country dress and super- 
 ficial "blue-grass" manner, fastened on him by long 
 years of usage. Old expressions of not only face 
 but muscles came clearly to the front. Now, no 
 person watching him, could ever for a moment 
 doubt that he was mountain-born and mountain- 
 bred, if they but knew the ear-marks of that peo- 
 ple almost a race apart. The sight of the old 
 
 79
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 cave-mouth plainly stirred in him a horde of mem- 
 ories not wholly pleasant. Leathern as his face 
 was, it none the less showed his emotions with re- 
 markable lucidity now that he was off his guard. 
 Now sly cunning dominated it, with, possibly, a 
 touch left of the early fear to flavor it. 
 
 "I bet a hundred revenuers in these mountains 
 have looked for that there still," he thought, "an' 
 no one ever found it, yet. Forty years it's been 
 thar through three generations o' th' Loreys 
 damn 'em! an' no one's ever squealed on 'em. I 
 . . . wonder . . ." 
 
 A look of vicious craft and malice wholly drove 
 away the searching curiosity which had possessed 
 the old man's features. For a time he plainly 
 planned some work of bitter venge fulness. Then, 
 with shaking head, he evidently abandoned the en- 
 ticing thought. 
 
 "Too resky," he concluded, and edged a little 
 nearer to the thicket's edge. "Might stir up 
 old " 
 
 He paused suddenly, alert and keenly listening. 
 From another path than that by which he had ap- 
 proached the place there came the sound of voices 
 raised in talk and laughter. He easily identified 
 them, to his great surprise, as those of some young 
 mountain-girl and some young blue-grass gentle- 
 man. Their tones and accents told this story 
 plainly. Surprised and curious, he went farther, 
 his head bent, with study of the voices, peering, 
 
 80
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 meanwhile, through the thicket's tangle to get sight 
 of them as soon as they appeared within the clear- 
 ing. Suddenly he dropped his jaw in blank 
 amazement. 
 
 "Frank Layson!" he exclaimed. 
 
 The girl's voice he did not recognize, but knew, 
 of course, from its peculiar accent, that it was some 
 mountain maiden's. 
 
 "Well!" he exclaimed beneath his breath in ab- 
 solute astonishment. "I didn't think it of Frank 
 Layson! What would Barbara " 
 
 The pair emerged, now, from a gully by-path, 
 and came into view. He tightly shut his jaws and 
 watched them with a peering, eager curiosity. 
 
 A moment later, and by her wonderful resem- 
 blance to her dead mother, he recognized the girl. 
 
 She, above all people, must not know that he 
 was there, even if she only thought him to be 
 Horace Holton, newcomer among the blue-grass 
 gentry in the valley. His plans had been laid care- 
 fully, and for her to find them out would almost 
 certainly upset them all. He was far from anx- 
 ious to meet Layson, there among the mountains, 
 for it would mean awkward questioning, but he 
 was doubly anxious to avoid a meeting with the 
 girl, first because she owned the land on which he 
 had secured the bits of rock then nestling in his 
 pocket, and, second, because she was the daughter 
 of 
 
 His thoughts were interrupted, for, for a sec- 
 Si
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 ond, he thought they must have seen him, so defi- 
 nite was their approach straight toward the thicket 
 where he hid. He crouched, frightened. It would 
 be a very awkward matter to be found there by 
 them, and, besides, he did not know who might be 
 out of sight within the hidden still. It was quite 
 possible that there might lurk a deadly enemy. He 
 must worm back through the thicket with great 
 caution, and, following the secluded ways which 
 he had traversed in his coming, get back to the 
 railroad camp, where was safety. 
 
 He stepped backward hastily, and, in so doing, 
 trod upon a rotten branch. He had not been as 
 cautious as he had intended, and this misstep un- 
 balanced him and sent him to the ground, with a 
 tremendous crashing of the brittle twigs and dead- 
 wood. 
 
 Springing to his feet while the young people, 
 startled by the great disturbance, paused where they 
 were standing, for an instant, he hurried back into 
 the hidden, thicket-bordered path, now using all his 
 recrudescent skill of silent woods-progression, and 
 made complete escape, leaving them not sure that 
 the disturbance had been caused by human blun- 
 dering and not some vagrant beast's. 
 
 Madge held back, but Layson hurried to the 
 thicket, with gun raised ready for a shot. 
 
 Just then, from the carefully concealed cave-en- 
 trance, came Joe Lorey, rifle poised for trouble, 
 
 82
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 eyes gleaming fiercely, evidently keyed to meet a 
 raid by revenuers. 
 
 It was plain enough that he believed the noise 
 which had disturbed, alarmed him, had been made 
 by this young sportsman. Indeed, as he who really 
 had caused the uproar was, now, well on a cau- 
 tious backward way along the path by which he had 
 come up, and the girl and Layson were the only 
 folk in sight, the young moonshiner's mistake was 
 natural. 
 
 Madge, almost as much disturbed as Lorey was 
 by the crashing in the thickets, was looking in the 
 direction whence the noise had come, and, at first, 
 did not see him. When she did she smiled at him, 
 and called to him, but, absorbed in study of the 
 blue-grass youth who had so suddenly appeared 
 there in his secret place among the mountains in 
 company with the girl whom he, himself, adored, 
 Joe did not answer her, at first. When he did it 
 was with nothing more than a curt nod. He was 
 astonished and alarmed to see her in such company. 
 
 After that curt nod he waited for no explana- 
 tion, but, like a shadow, slipped into a thicket, dis- 
 appearing instantly. No Indian from Cooper's tales 
 could have more instantly obliterated all trace of 
 himself, could have more quickly, noiselessly, mys- 
 teriously disappeared amongst the greenery, than 
 did this mountaineer. His movements, made with 
 the instinctive cunning of the woodsman and with 
 muscles trained not only by wild life there in the 
 
 83
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 mountains to speed, endurance and exactitude, but 
 by many an hour of stealthy stalking of the "rev- 
 enuers" sent to search out his moonshine still, raid 
 it, take him prisoner, were almost magically active, 
 cautious, furtive and effe'ctive. 
 
 For an instant Madge herself, accustomed to the 
 native's skill in woodcraft, as she was, gazed after 
 him, astonished by the magic of his disappearance, 
 and, at first, piqued not a little by his scanty cour- 
 tesy. Then realizing that the mountaineer was, 
 possibly, quite justified in feeling grave suspicions 
 of the stranger who was with her of any stranger 
 coming thus, without a herald to the mountains 
 she turned again to Layson, and, with her hand 
 lightly guiding him by touch as delicate, almost, as 
 a wind-blown leaf's upon his sleeve, led him to the 
 nearest mountain path and on, toward a point 
 whence she could clearly point out to him the way 
 to his own camp. 
 
 And, suddenly, her own heart throbbed with 
 worry. Had she not done wrong in bringing this 
 unknown and, therefore, this mysterious stranger 
 so close upon the heart of Lorey's secret? She had 
 chosen the path thoughtlessly. She realized that, 
 now, and much regretted it. The man had wholly 
 won her confidence, but had it been considerate or 
 fair to Joe, her lifelong friend, or to the other 
 people of the mountains who had things to hide 
 from strangers, to be quite so frank with him in her 
 revelation of the byways of the wilderness? 
 
 84
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 Between the mountain-dwellers and the people 
 of the lowlands never could exist real confidence or 
 friendship. From her babyhood she had been 
 taught to feel suspicion of all strangers : that was, 
 indeed, first article in the creed of all folk moun- 
 tain-born. Why had she so freely dropped her 
 mantle of reserve before this stranger? That he 
 had saved her from the bush-fire was excuse for 
 her own gratitude, but was it valid reason for ex- 
 posing her best friends to danger at his hands, if 
 they proved treacherous? The revenuers, she had 
 been informed, were men of devilish craft, unscru- 
 pulous cunning. Might not this youth with the 
 fine clothes, the splendid manner, the great learn- 
 ing, the soft voice, the quick resource and the un- 
 doubted bravery, very well be one of them? 
 
 She had once heard a mountain preacher draw a 
 picture of the devil, which made him most attrac- 
 tive and in the same way that this youth was most 
 attractive. Certain of the sympathies of his rough 
 hearers, the man had painted Beelzebub with broad, 
 rough, verbal strokes, as a blue-grass gentleman in- 
 tent on the destruction of the honor, independence, 
 liberty of mountaineers. The mountaineer has 
 never and will never understand what right the gov- 
 ernment of state or nation has to interfere with 
 whatsoe'er he does on his own land with his own 
 corn in his own still. Just why he has no right 
 to manufacture whiskey without paying taxes on 
 the product he really fails to comprehend. He 
 
 85
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 regards the "revenuer" as the representative of 
 acute and cruel injustice and oppression. When he 
 "draws a bead" on one he does it with no such 
 thoughts as common murderers must know when 
 they shoot down their enemies. He does not think 
 such killings are crude murder, any more than he 
 regards feud killings as assassinations. 
 
 With such ideas Madge had been, to some ex- 
 tent, imbued. With feud feeling she was quite in 
 sympathy had not she lost her loved ones through 
 its awful work? Could she ever have revenge on 
 those who had thus bereaved her through any 
 means save similar assassination? 
 
 And certainly the revenuers were her enemies, 
 for they were the foemen of her friends. If this 
 young man should be a revenuer she might have 
 done a harm incalculable by guiding him along the 
 secret mountain byways which they had been trav- 
 elling. 
 
 Her heart was in her throat from worry, for an 
 instant. Had she, whose very soul was fiercely 
 loyal to the mountains and their people, been the 
 one to show an enemy the way into their citadel? 
 Had she, bound especially to Joe Lorey, not only 
 by the ties of life-long friendship but by that other 
 comradeship which had grown out of mutual 
 wrongs and mutual hatred of Ben Lindsay (not 
 dimmed, a whit, by the mere fact that, terrified, he 
 had, years ago fled from the mountains), done 
 Joe the greatest wrong of all by leading this fine 
 
 86
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 stranger to the very entrance of his hidden still? 
 Was he a revenuer in disguise? 
 
 The magnitude of her possible indiscretion filled 
 her with alarm. That crashing in the bushes back 
 of them might have been made by some associate 
 of his, who had trailed them at a distance, ready 
 to give assistance, if needs be, or, in case all things 
 went right and the bolder man who had gone first 
 and fallen into the great luck of an acquaintance 
 with her had no need of help, to corroborate his 
 observations, help him to scheme the way by which 
 to make attack upon the still when the time for it 
 should come. 
 
 As she considered all these possibilities, quite 
 reasonable to her suspicious mind, she shuddered. 
 
 But then, as she went slowly down the mountain 
 path beside the stranger she looked up and caught 
 the frank calm glances of his eyes. 
 
 Surely there was nothing of cowardice such as 
 would fool a trusting girl into betrayal of her 
 friends, in them ; surely there was not the low craft 
 of a spy in them; surely their clear and unexcited 
 gaze was not that of a keen hunter, unscrupulously 
 on the trail of human game, who has just learned 
 tnrough the innocent indiscretion of a girl who 
 trusted him, the secret of its covert. 
 
 As she looked at him she was convinced of two 
 things, vastly comforting. One was that Layso 
 had no knowledge of the still; that, untrained to 
 mountain ways and unsuspicious, he had not even 
 
 87
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 guessed at the secret of the little hidden place 
 among the mountains. Another was and this 
 gave her, although she could have scarcely ex- 
 plained why, a greater comfort than the first had 
 that had he had that knowledge he would not 
 have used it meanly. 
 
 She thrilled pleasantly with the complete convic- 
 tion that the man whom she had liked so much at 
 first sight, the man who had shown such pluck in 
 saving her from fire, the man who had exhibited 
 such thought fulness and helpfulness in starting her 
 upon the rocky path toward education, was true 
 and fair and fine was, in the curt language of the 
 mountains, "decent." 
 
 When she left him at the foot of the rough path 
 which wound up to the cabin where she lived alone, 
 she had quite recovered confidence in him. She 
 eagerly assented to his suggestion that they meet 
 again, the following day, for the continuation of 
 her studies.
 
 CHAPTER V3 
 
 Their next lesson was in a new school-room. 
 The clearing where they had had their first, was, 
 now, charred and blackened, not attractive, after 
 the small fire; so, after going to it, the following 
 day to look it over with that interest with which 
 the man who has escaped from peril seeks again, 
 the scene of it in curiosity, they found another 
 glade wherein to carry on their delving after knowl- 
 edge of the A B C's. 
 
 There, beneath a canopy of arching branches 
 and the sky, between rustling walls of greenery pil- 
 lared by the mighty boles of forest trees, they had 
 the second lesson of the course which was to open 
 up to Madge the magic realm of books and of the 
 learning hidden in them. 
 
 Nor did her investigations now, confine them- 
 selves, entirely to the things the small book taught. 
 She questioned Layson about a thousand things 
 less dry and matter-of-fact than shape of printed 
 symbols and the manner of their combination in 
 the printed word. Life, life that was to her, as 
 it has ever been to all of us, the most fascinating 
 
 89
 
 thing. Here was one who had come from far, mys- 
 terious realms which she had vaguely heard about 
 in winter-evening gossip at the mountain-cabin fire- 
 sides ; realms where men were courteous to women, 
 careful in their speech ; where women did not work, 
 but sat on silken chairs with black menials ready 
 to their call to serve their slightest wish ; where 
 maidens were not clad as she was clad, and every 
 woman she had ever known was clad, in calico or 
 linsey-woolsey homespun, but richly, wondrously, 
 in silks and satins, laces, beaded gew-gaws. In her 
 imagination's picture, the maids and matrons of the 
 blue-grass were as marvellous, as fascinating, as 
 are the fairies and the sprites of Anderson and 
 Grimm to girls more fortunately placed. No tale 
 of elf born from a cleft rock, touched by magic 
 wand, ever more completely fascinated any big- 
 eyed city child, than did the tales which Layson told 
 her commonplace and ordinary to his mind : mere 
 casual account of routine life about his family and 
 friends down in the blue-grass, the enchanted re- 
 gion separated from them where they sat by a 
 hundred miles or so of rugged hills and billow- 
 ing forests. Her eager questions especially drew 
 from him with a greed insatiable account of all the 
 gayeties of that mysterious existence. 
 
 "And that aunt of yours Muss Aluth Aluth 
 j> 
 
 "Miss Alathea Layson?" he inquired, and smiled. 
 "Yes; what queer names the women have, down 
 
 90
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 there ! Is she pretty ? Does she dress in silks and 
 satins, too, like the girls that go to them big 
 dances?" 
 
 He laughed. "None of them are always dressed 
 in silks and satins," he replied. "Perhaps I've given 
 you a wrong idea. We \vork down there, as hard, 
 perhaps, as you do here, but we have more things 
 to work with. Don't get the notion, little girl, that 
 all these things which I have told you of are magic 
 things which surely will bring happiness! There 
 is no more of that, I reckon, in the blue-grass than 
 there is here in the mountains. Silks and satins 
 don't make happiness, balls and garden-fetes don't 
 make it. A girl who's sobbing in a ball gown can 
 be quite as miserable as you would be, unhappy 
 in your homespun." 
 
 She was impatient of his moralizing. "I know- 
 that," she said. "Dellaw, don't you suppose I've 
 got some sense? But it ain't quite true, neither. 
 Maybe if I was going to be unhappy I'd be just as 
 much so in a silk dress as I would in this here cot- 
 ton one that I've got on ; but I guess there's times 
 when I'd be happier in the silk than I would be in 
 this. My, I wisht I had one!" 
 
 He looked at her appraisingly. She would, he 
 thought, be wondrous beautiful if given the acces- 
 sories which girls more fortunate had at their hand. 
 Beautiful, she was, undoubtedly, without them; 
 with them she would be he almost caught his 
 breath at thought of it sensational!
 
 IX OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 Mentally he ran over all the girls he knew in a 
 swift survey of memory. Not one of them, he 
 thought, could really compare with her. Even Bar- 
 bara Holton, with her haughty, big featured, strik- 
 ingly handsome face, although she had attracted 
 him in days passed, seemed singularly unattractive 
 to him, now. 
 
 While he sat, musing thus, almost forgetful of 
 the puzzling ABC, she gazed off across the val- 
 ley dreamily, the A B C's as far from her. It was 
 a lovely prospect of bare crag and wooded slope, 
 green fields and low-hung clouds, with, at its cen- 
 ter, here and there the silver of the stream which, 
 back among the forest trees, supplied the water to 
 the hidden pool where she had watched him, fur- 
 tively, the first time she had ever seen him. But 
 it was not of the fair prospect that the girl was 
 thinking. The coming of the stranger had brought 
 into her life a hundred new emotions, ten thousand 
 puzzling guesses at the life which lay beyond and 
 could produce such men as he. Were all men in the 
 blue-grass like Frank Layson courteous, consid- 
 erate, and as strong and active as the best of moun- 
 taineers? If so what a splendid place for women! 
 She was sure that men like him were never brutal 
 to their wives and daughters, sisters, mothers, as 
 the mountaineers too often are; she was certain 
 that they did not craze themselves with whisky 
 and terrify and beat their families; she was sure 
 that when one loved a girl the courtship must be 
 
 92
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 all sweet gentleness and happiness and joy, not 
 like the quick succession of mad love-making and 
 fierce quarrels which had characterized the heart- 
 affairs that she had watched, there in the moun- 
 tains. 
 
 She, herself, had had no love-affairs. Instinc- 
 tively she had held herself aloof from the ruck of 
 the young mountain-men, neither she nor they knew 
 why, unless it was because she owned the valley 
 land and so was what the mountain folk called 
 rich. Most of them had tried to pay her court, 
 but none of them, save Joe, had in the least at- 
 tracted her, and she had let them know this 
 (strangely) without arousing too much anger. 
 
 Now she had one suitor, only, who was at all 
 persistent Joe. She had sometimes thought she 
 loved him. Now she knew, quite certainly, that 
 she did not, and, in a vague way, was sorry for 
 him, for she was quite certain of his love for her. 
 It never once occurred to her that she was rap- 
 idly falling in love with the young man by her side. 
 She had not thought of him as being socially su- 
 perior: the spirit of independence, of equality of 
 men, is nowhere stronger, even in this land of in- 
 dependence and equality, than it is among the 
 mountains of the Cumberland ; but she knew he was 
 most wise. Had not the puzzling symbols in the 
 spelling-book been, to him, as simple matters? She 
 knew that he was gentle-hearted, for the kindness 
 of his acts proved that. She knew that he was, 
 
 93
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 really, a gentleman, for his manner was so per- 
 fectly considerate, so ever kind. She did not real- 
 ize that she was thinking of him as a lover; but she 
 dreamed, there, of the girls down in the blue-grass 
 and wondered how it must seem to them to have 
 lovers such as he. She could but very vaguely 
 speculate as to their emotions or appearance, but 
 her speculations on both points, vague as they might 
 be, made her suffer strangely and cast queer, fur- 
 tive little side-glances at him. In her heart were 
 stirrings of keen jealousy of these distant maidens, 
 but this she did not realize. 
 
 She broke into his revery with: "Don't you 
 know any women, down there, but your aunt?" 
 
 "Er what?" 
 
 "Don't you know any women, down there, but 
 your aunt?" 
 
 "Why, yes," said he, and laughed. "I know a 
 lot of women, down there ; lots and lots of women, 
 certainly." 
 
 "All them that go to balls, and such ?" 
 
 "Many of them." 
 
 "Do you like to dance with them ?" 
 
 "Oh, yes; of course." 
 
 "Tell me all about the things they wear." This 
 was not quite the question she had started out to 
 ask, but an answer to it might be very interesting. 
 
 She settled comfortably back upon the boulder 
 she had chosen as a seat, her hands clasped about 
 
 94
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 one knee, her face turned toward him eagerly, her 
 eyes sparkling with keen zest. 
 
 But he looked at her, appalled. "Why," said 
 he, "why I don't believe I can. I know they al- 
 ways seem to be most charming in appearance, but 
 just how they work the magic / don't know." 
 
 "Can't you tell me nothing?" Her voice showed 
 bitter disappointment. She unclasped the hands 
 about her knee and sat dejected on the boulder. 
 She gave him not the slightest hint of it, but, sud- 
 denly, a plan had come into her mind. 
 
 He looked at her regretfully. "Perhaps you'd 
 better question me," said he. Maybe I can scare 
 up details if you'll let me know just what you wish 
 to hear about." 
 
 "How are their dresses made?" she asked. 
 
 "Oh, skirt, and waist, and so on," he airily re- 
 plied. 
 
 She made a gesture of impatience. "Well, then, 
 how is the skirt made? Tell me that. Tell me 
 everything that you remember about skirts. Are 
 they loose as mine, or tighter ?" She rose and stood 
 before him, in her scant drapery of homespun, turn- 
 ing slowly, so that he might see. 
 
 It was very clever. Instantly it brought to mind 
 the last girls he had seen down in the lowlands 
 at a lawn-party, with their wide and much be- 
 ruffled skirts. 
 
 "Oh, they're looser," he said gravely. "Much, 
 much looser. Why, they are as big around as 
 
 95
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 that !" He made a sweeping, circular gesture with 
 his arms. 
 
 "What for trimmings do they have?" 
 
 "Oh, all sorts of things ruffles, frills, embroi- 
 dery and laces." 
 
 "What's embroidery?" 
 
 He tried to tell her, but he did not make it very 
 clear, and, realizing that he had done quite his 
 best although he had not done so very well, she 
 sighed and dropped that detail of the subject. But 
 she knew what frills and ruffles were. 
 
 "And how about their waists?" said she. "Like 
 mine, are they?" 
 
 He looked, appraisingly, at the loose basque, 
 which, because of the budding beauty of her form 
 rather than because of any merit of its own, had 
 seemed to him most charming and attractive. Close 
 examination did not show this to be the case. It 
 was a crude garment, certainly, of crude material, 
 crude cut, crude make. The beauty all was in the 
 wearer's soft young curves and lissome grace. 
 
 "No," he answered, honestly, "they're not like 
 that. In the summer, and for evenings such as 
 dances and the like they are cut low at the neck. 
 And they are tighter." 
 
 "I suppose," said she, "they wear them things 
 that they call corsets, under 'em. I've heard of 
 'em I saw one, once but I ain't never had one. 
 Maybe I had better get one." 
 
 He spoke hastily. At that moment, as he gazed 
 
 96
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 at her slim grace, undulant, untrammelled and as 
 willowy as a spring sapling's, it seemed to him thi.t 
 it would be a sacrilege to confine it in the stiff 
 rigidity of such artificialities as corsets. It seemed 
 a bit indelicate, to him, to talk to her about stub 
 matters, but her guilelessness was so real and he 
 was so assured of his own innocence, that he did 
 what he could to make things clear to her. He 
 descanted with some eloquence upon the wicked- 
 ness of lacing, the ungrace fulness of artificial forms 
 and the beauty of her own wholly natural grace. 
 
 "I'm glad you think I'm pretty," she said 
 frankly, plainly greatly pleased, "but I reckon I'd be 
 prettier if I had one of them there corsets." 
 
 His protests to the contrary were not convincing, 
 in the least. 
 
 So the lessons from the book did not go so very 
 far that day. 
 
 "Furbelows have always interested females, I 
 suppose," said he, "but I didn't really think you'd 
 lose your interest in spelling-books because of 
 them." 
 
 "I ain't lost interest in spelling-books," she said. 
 "I ain't lost interest, at all. After I've studied 
 good and hard I can read all about such things in 
 the picture-papers that Mom Liza has down to the 
 store. They've got all kinds of pictures in 'em 
 all of fancy gowns and hats and things like that. 
 She showed one to me, once, but all I could make 
 out was just the pictures, and she couldn't manage 
 
 97
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 to make out much more. She can read the names 
 on all the letters comin' to the post-office, for there's 
 only three folks ever gets 'em, but she ain't what 
 you'd really call a scholar." 
 
 He laughed heartily. "So, even in the moun- 
 tains, here, they take the fashion papers, do they ?" 
 
 "No; she don't pay for 'em," she gravely an- 
 swered. "They're always marked with red ink, 
 'Sample Copy/ so she says ; but they send 'em ev'ry 
 once a while. If you're in th' post-office, you get a 
 lot o' things, like that all sorts o' picture-papers, 
 an' cards, all printed up in pretty colors, to tell what 
 medicines to take when you get sick." 
 
 "Ah, patent-medicine advertisements." 
 
 "Yes; that's what she calls 'em, an' she's read 
 me some powerful amazin' stories out of 'em them 
 as was in short words of folks that rose up almost 
 from th' dead! They're wonderful!" 
 
 "They are, indeed*!" 
 
 "But what I always liked th' best was them 
 there papers tellin' about clo'es." 
 
 "Eternal feminine!" 
 
 "I don't know what you mean by that, but they 
 are mighty peart, some o' them dresses pictured out 
 in them there papers." 
 
 "I've not the least doubt of it" 
 
 "And I suppose they are th' kind th' girls you 
 know, down in th' blue-grass, wear for ev'ry day!" 
 she sighed.
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 He looked at her in quick compassion and in 
 protest. 
 
 "Madge," he said, "please listen to me. It's not 
 dress that makes the woman, any more than it is 
 coats that make the man. You would like me just 
 as well if I were dressed in homespun, wouldn't 
 you?" 
 
 "That's different." 
 
 "It isn't ; it's not, a bit" 
 
 "Laws, yes! It's oh heaps different!" She 
 nodded her lovely head in firm conviction. "It's 
 heaps different and I'm goin' to know more about 
 such things as clo'es. I ain't plumb poverty poor, 
 like lots o' folks, here in th' mountings. I got land 
 down in th' valley I get rent from fifty dollars, 
 every year! I'm goin' to find out about such 
 things." 
 
 He looked at her, almost worried. It would be 
 a pity, he thought instantly, for this charming child 
 of nature to become sophisticated and be fashion- 
 ably gowned; but, of course, he made no protest. 
 
 "You can learn a little something about such 
 things if you stay right here," said he. "I'm going 
 to have visitors, sometime before the summer's 
 over, at my camp. My aunt, Miss Alathea, wilj be 
 here, and our old friend. Colonel Sandusky Doolit- 
 tle. He's a great horseman." 
 
 Instantly the girl showed vivid interest, not, as 
 he had thought she would, in his aunt, Miss Al- 
 
 99
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 athea, but in the Colonel from the Bluegrass, who 
 also was a horseman. 
 
 "Horseman, is he?" she exclaimed, her eyes 
 alight. 
 
 "Yes; he's famous as a judge of horses." 
 
 "At them races that they tell about ? Oh, I'd like 
 to see one of them races!" 
 
 "Yes, he goes to races, everywhere, although he 
 always means to stop immediately after the next 
 one. It has been the races which have kept him 
 poor and kept him single." 
 
 "How've they kept him poor?" 
 
 He told her about betting, while she listened, 
 wide-eyed with amazement at the mention of the 
 sums involved. 
 
 "How've they kept him single?" 
 
 "He's been in love with my Aunt Alathea for a 
 good many years, but she won't marry him until he 
 keeps his promise to avoid the race-tracks." 
 
 "What makes your aunt hate hawsses?" 
 
 "Oh, she loves good horses, but the Colonel al- 
 ways bets, and, as I have said, it keeps him poor. 
 It's the gambling that she hates, and not the horses. 
 Every year he plans to keep away from all horse- 
 racing for her sake ; every year he tries to do it, but 
 quite fails." 
 
 She laughed heartily. "An' she thinks he loves 
 th' races more than he does her?" she asked. 
 Then, more soberly : "I don't know's I blame her, 
 
 100
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 none. When's she comin'? I'll be powerful glad 
 to see her." 
 
 "I don't know just when she's coming, but she's 
 promised me to have the Colonel bring her up here. 
 I want to have her see the beauty of the moun- 
 tains." 
 
 "I'll like him, sure, whether I like her or not." 
 
 He was astonished. "But you said you would 
 be sure to love her!" 
 
 "Uh-huh ; but I'd be surer to like anyone who is 
 as fond of hawsses as you say he is. Why, when 
 I ride " 
 
 "I didn't know you ever rode a horse. I've only 
 seen you on your ox." 
 
 "Poor old Buck! It's true, I have been ridin* 
 him, when I felt lazy, lately, but my pony ah, 
 that's fun!" 
 
 "Where is he?" 
 
 They had started strolling down the trail and 
 were near the pasture bars, where she had left Joe 
 Lorey on the morning of her bath, after having 
 ridden down to them upon her ox. 
 
 She hurried to them, now, and, leaning over 
 them, puckered her red lips and sent a shrill, clear 
 whistle out across the pasture. Immediately from 
 a thicket-tangle at the far end of the half-cleared 
 lot appeared a shaggy pony, limping wofully, but 
 with ears pricked forward as a sign of welcome to 
 his mistress. 
 
 "Come on, Little Hawss!" she called. "Come 
 
 101
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 on ! It hurts, I know, for you to step, but come on, 
 just th' same. I got a turnip for you." 
 
 She turned to Layson with an explanation. 
 "He's lame, poor Little Hawss is. Don't know's 
 he'll ever get all right ag'in." 
 
 "Oh!" said Layson. "And I didn't even know 
 you had a horse." Horses are less common in the 
 mountains than are oxen, although nearly every 
 mountain farm has one, for riding. Oxen, though, 
 are the section's draught-animals. 
 
 "Didn't think I had a hawss?" she said, and 
 laughed. "I'd die without a hawss! Why, they 
 say, here in the mountains, that I'm a good rider. 
 I've raced all the boys and beat 'em on my Little 
 Hawss." 
 
 She petted the affectionate, uncouth little beast 
 and fed him slowly, lovingly. "Little Hawss, be- 
 fore he hurt his hoof, was sure-footed as a deer. 
 Didn't have to be afraid to run him anywhere, on 
 any kind of road at any time of day or night," said 
 she. "Never stumbled, never missed the way, and, 
 while he don't look much he never did he could 
 just carry me to suit me ! But well, I don't know 
 as he will ever carry me again !" 
 
 Layson, himself a great horse lover, went up 
 to the shaggy little beast and petted him. The 
 pony knew a friend instinctively and rubbed his 
 nose against the rough sleeve of his jacket while 
 he munched the turnip. 
 
 102
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 Madge stooped and lifted the poor beast's crip- 
 pled foot. 
 
 "Looks bad, don't it?" she said anxiously, ask- 
 ing Frank's opinion as an expert. 
 
 He looked the bad foot over carefully and shook 
 his head. 
 
 "Madge, I am afraid it does," said he. "But wait 
 until the Colonel conies. He'll tell you what to do. 
 No man knows horses better than the Colonel 
 does. 
 
 "I've never told you of my horse, have I?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "Why, no; you got one, too?" 
 
 He drew a long breath of enthusiasm at the 
 mere thought of his greatest treasure. "Such a 
 mare," said he, "as rarely has been seen, even in 
 Kentucky. She's famous now and going to be 
 more so. She's the very apple of my eye." 
 
 The girl looked at him wide-eyed with a fasci- 
 nated interest. "What color is she?" 
 
 "Black as night." 
 
 "And gentle?" 
 
 "Ah, gentle as a dove with friends ; but she's not 
 gentle if she happens to dislike a man or woman! 
 Why, if she hates you, keep away from her. She'll 
 side-step with a cunning that would fool the wisest 
 so's to get a chance for a left-handed kick; she'll 
 bite ; she'll strike with her forefeet the way a human 
 fighter would." 
 
 103
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 "Oh!" said the girl. "Ain't it a pity she's so 
 ugly?" 
 
 "I said she's gentle with her friends. She'd no 
 more kick at me than I would kick at her. She 
 knows it. She's intelligent beyond most horse- 
 flesh." 
 
 "Has she ever won in races?" 
 
 "She's won in small events, and great things are 
 expected of her by more folk than I when she gets 
 going on the larger tracks. I'm counting on her 
 for good work this year, after I go home again." 
 
 "Ah," sighed the girl, carried quite away by his 
 excited talk about his favorite, "how I'd love to see 
 her run!" 
 
 "It's poetry," he granted; "the true poetry of 
 motion." 
 
 "And this Gunnel Gunnel " 
 
 "Colonel Doolittle?" 
 
 "Uh-huh. Will he help me, do you s'pose, to 
 get my Little Hawss cured of his lameness?" 
 
 "You may count on that." 
 
 "Who else is comin' here to see you?" she in- 
 quired, as they left Little Hawss wistfully agaze at 
 them across the old log fence. 
 
 Layson, for no reason he could think of, felt a 
 bit uncomfortable, as he replied. He temporized 
 before he really told her of what worried him. 
 
 "Well," said he, "there'll be old Neb " 
 
 "Who's he?" 
 
 "A servant who has been in our family for years. 
 
 104
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 He is a fine old darkey and we love him everyone 
 of us." 
 
 "And will he be all?" 
 
 "No; I understand that Mr. Horace Holton, 
 also, will come with the party. Mr. Holton and his 
 daughter." 
 
 It is possible that he may have flushed a little, 
 as he spoke about this matter, or there may have 
 been some slight hint of the unusual in his voice. 
 At any rate, the notice of the girl was instantly 
 attracted. 
 
 "Daughter?" she inquired. 
 
 "Yes," said Frank, "his daughter Barbara." 
 
 "How old is she?" Madge's curiosity had been 
 aroused at once. 
 
 "About your age." 
 
 She was delighted. "And will I surely see her?" 
 
 "Yes; of course." 
 
 "Do you suppose she'll like me?" 
 
 Layson, from what he knew of Barbara Holton, 
 scarcely thought she would. He could not make 
 his fancy paint a picture of the haughty lowlands 
 beauty showing much consideration for this little 
 mountain waif; but he did not say so. He an- 
 swered hesitatingly, and she noticed it. 
 
 "You don't think she'll like me!" she exclaimed. 
 
 "I didn't say so. Certainly she'll like you. Who 
 could help it, Madge?" He smiled. It did not 
 seem to him, as his eyes studied her, that anybody 
 of sound sense could. 
 
 105
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 She sighed. "A woman could." She spoke with 
 an instinctive wisdom which her isolated life among 
 the crags and peaks had not deprived her of. "A 
 woman always can. But, my, I hope she will !" 
 
 "She will," said Frank. "She will. And my 
 dear Aunt oh, you will love her." 
 
 "Miss Aluth Aluth ?" She stopped, ques- 
 
 tioningly, still bothered by the name. 
 
 "Miss Alathea," he prompted. "She'll like you 
 and you'll love her." 
 
 The girl smiled happily. "Uh-huh. Her acquies- 
 cence was immediate. "Reckon maybe I'll love her, 
 all right, and I hope the other will come true, too." 
 Suddenly she was stricken with a fear. "But she 
 won't, though dressed the way I be!" 
 
 "What you wear would make no difference to my 
 Aunt Alathea," Frank protested, "any more than 
 it would make to Colonel Doolittle." 
 
 She did not speak again for quite a time, walk- 
 ing along the narrow mountain-path with eyes 
 fixed, but unseeing, on the trail. It was plain that 
 in her mind grave problems were being closely 
 studied. 
 
 "Maybe," she said, at length, "I won't be so 
 very awful as you think!" 
 
 They had reached the path which led first to the 
 bridge across the mountain-chasm making the rock 
 on which her cabin stood an island, and then, across 
 this draw-bridge, to the cabin itself. She waved 
 a gay and unexpected good-bye to him. 
 
 106
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 He felt strangely robbed. He had expected an- 
 other half-hour with her. It astonished him to 
 learn through this tiny disappointment how agree- 
 able the little mountain maid's society had come 
 to be. 
 
 He was wakeful that night till a later hour than 
 usual. 
 
 Somehow he was not as thoroughly delighted as 
 he felt that he should be by the prospect of his 
 guests' arrival. His journey to the mountains and 
 his sojourn there had been considered rather fool- 
 ish by his friends, but he had wished to make quite 
 sure that what was said about the wild mountain 
 lands which formed the greater portion of his 
 patrimony that they were practically valueless 
 was true, ere he gave up all hope of profiting from 
 them. 
 
 The building of the railroad through the valley 
 had imbued him with some hope that they might 
 not prove to be as useless as they had been thought 
 to be, and it had been that which had induced him, 
 at the start, to make the journey. 
 
 Once arrived he had found the mountain air de- 
 lightful, the fishing fine, the shooting all that could 
 be wished, and had enjoyed these to their full, in- 
 vestigating, meanwhile, his rough property; but as 
 he lay there in his shack of logs and puncheons he 
 acknowledged to himself that it was none of these 
 things which now made the mountains so attractive. 
 It was the nymph of the woods pool, the mountain- 
 
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 side Europa on her bull, his little pupil of the alpha- 
 bet, in plain reality, who now held him to the 
 wilderness. 
 
 He wondered just what this could mean. Could 
 it be possible that he was thinking seriously of the 
 little maid in that way? 
 
 He almost laughed at the idea, there alone in 
 the woods cabin, with the stars in their deep velvet 
 canopy twinkling through the window at him and 
 the glow of his cob pipe for company. 
 
 But his laugh was not too genuine. He found 
 himself, to his amazement, comparing Madge, the 
 mountain girl, with Barbara Holton, the elegant 
 daughter of the lowlands, and rinding many points 
 in favor of the little rustic maiden. He wondered 
 just how serious his attentions to fair Barbara had 
 been thought to be by her, her father, Horace Hol- 
 ton, and by other people. There were many things 
 about Madge Brierly, which, as he sat there, re- 
 flective, he found admirable, besides her vivid, vig- 
 orous young beauty. He could not bring himself, 
 as he sat thinking of the two girls, widely separ- 
 ated as they were in the great social plane, unevenly 
 matched as they had been in early training, to ad- 
 mit that the whole advantage was upon the side 
 of Barbara Holton. 
 
 And above him, in her lonely little cabin on 
 the towering rock, upon all sides of which the 
 mountain-torrent, making it an isle of safety for 
 her there in the wilderness, roared rythmically, the 
 
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 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 mountain maiden who so occupied his thoughts 
 was busy with her crude wardrobe. 
 
 In complete dissatisfaction she put aside, at 
 length, every garment of her own which she pos- 
 sessed as unsuitable for the great day when she 
 was to meet the blue-grass gentlefolk. 
 
 Then, remembering suddenly an old chest which 
 held her mother's wedding finery, she strained her 
 fine young muscles as she dragged it out of stor- 
 age ; and sitting on the floor beside it where the 
 great blaze of pine-knots in the big "mud-and- 
 broke-rock" fireplace lighted it and her with flick- 
 ering brilliance, she went through it with reverent 
 fingers, searching, searching for such garments 
 and such adornments as it might hold to make her 
 fit to meet the friends of the young lowlander who 
 had captured her imagination with his bravery, re- 
 source and courtesy. 
 
 There were a few things in the chest which 
 pleased her, and she smiled as she discovered them, 
 smiled as she tried them on, smiled as she saw the 
 image wearing them in the cracked mirror by the 
 side of the big fireplace. She had to make experi- 
 ments with dripping tallow dips before she got a 
 light which would enable her to get the full effect 
 of an ornate old poke-bonnet which was the chief 
 treasure from the chest, but finally she did so, and 
 exclaimed in pleasure as she managed it. 
 
 It was, indeed, a charming picture which she 
 saw there in the glass a face with rosy cheeks, 
 
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 bright eyes, red lips set off with softly waving 
 auburn hair and framed delightfully in the old 
 arch of shirred red silk and when she took it off, 
 at last, she was convinced that one, at least, of her 
 big problems had been solved. She had a bonnet, 
 certainly, which was as lovely as the finest thing 
 that any blue-grass belle could wear. There was not 
 the slightest doubt that all its shirring was of real, 
 real silk! She had run her fingers over it caress- 
 ingly, delighted by its sheen and gloss when she 
 had been a little girl; now she fondled it with 
 loving touch, high hopes. Surely no young lady 
 visitor, even from the far off and to her mysterious 
 blue-grass could have anything much finer than that 
 bonnet with its silken facings! She tied the wide 
 strings underneath her chin in a great, flaring bow, 
 and peeped forth from the cavernous depths of the 
 arched "poke" with quite unconscious coquetry, 
 flirting, with the keenest relish and most completely 
 childish pleasure with the charming creature whom 
 she saw reflected on the little mirror's cracked, im- 
 perfect surface. 
 
 It was while she stood thus, innocently coquet- 
 ting with her own delightful picture, that a great 
 plan for the plenishment of'her otherwise imperfect 
 wardrobe popped into her active, searching mind. 
 Carefully she considered this, first before the glass 
 and then, with feet crossed and clasped hands be- 
 tween her knees, before the roaring fire of resinous 
 pine-knots in the old fireplace. 
 
 no
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 Having finally decided that it was a good one, 
 she went about the cabin seeing to the fastenings 
 of doors and windows, wholly unafraid despite her 
 solitude. There was but one way of approaching 
 this, her fastness in the rocks, and the bridge, had 
 been drawn up for the night. Safe she was as any 
 Rhenish baron in his moated stronghold. 
 
 Conscious that a busy day was looming large 
 before her, she now blew out her candles and crept 
 into her little curtained bed, to dream, there, viv- 
 idly, of haughty beauties from the blue-grass 
 staring in astonishment as they first glimpsed the 
 beauty of a little mountain girl in such a gorgeous 
 outfit as they had not in all their pampered lives 
 conceived ; of lovely aunts who smiled with pleasure 
 when they saw their handsome nephews step up to 
 this splendid maiden and take her hands in theirs; 
 of wondrous youths ah, these images were never 
 absent from the scenes her fancy painted! who 
 scorned the haughty blue-grass beauties in favor of 
 the freckled little fists of those same brilliant moun- 
 tain maidens, and, lo ! by taking those same freckled 
 fists in theirs, removed the freckles and the callouses 
 of work as if by magic, making them as white and 
 fine aye, whiter, finer! than the haughty blue- 
 grass beauty's. And in her dreams, too, was a gal- 
 lant horseman, wise in equine ways, who came to 
 her with handsome chargers trailing from fair- 
 leather lead straps to present her with the thor- 
 oughbreds because her little, shaggy pony limped. 
 
 ill
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 Queer fancies of the strange life of the low- 
 lands which he had described to her, flashed, also, 
 through her ignorant but active brain in fascinat- 
 ing visions. She thought she saw the houses on 
 the tops of houses which he had described to her, in 
 efforts to assist her to imagine structures more 
 elaborate than the little, single storied cabins which 
 were all that she had ever seen. Strange concep- 
 tions of the railroad, with its monstrous engines 
 puffing smoke and fire would have been terrifying 
 had there not been, ever at her side as dreams re- 
 vealed them, a stalwart youth in corduroys to bear 
 her from their path through rings of burning thick- 
 ets. 
 
 Again she trembled in imagination at the thought 
 of meeting the fine ladies who would be dressed 
 with such elaboration and impressive elegance; but 
 each time, when her dream seemed actually to lead 
 her to them, there he was to help her through the 
 great ordeal with heartening smiles and comfort- 
 ing suggestions. 
 
 Her sleep was restless, but delightful. Once she 
 woke and left her bed to peer out of the window, 
 wondering if, by chance, she might not glimpse a 
 light in Layson's camp far down the mountain- 
 side. She was disappointed when she found she 
 could not, but went back to bed to find there further 
 compensating dreams. 
 
 There might have been still greater compensa- 
 tion for her had she known that at the very mo- 
 
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 ment when she peered out through the darkness, 
 looking for some vagrant glimmer of a light from 
 Layson's camp, he had, himself, just gone back to 
 his cabin after having stood a long time staring 
 through the darkness toward her own small cabin 
 in its fastness. 
 
 He was thinking, thinking, thinking. The little 
 mountain maid had strangely fascinated the highly 
 cultivated youth from the far blue-grass. He did 
 not know quite what to make of the queer way in 
 which her fresh and lovely, girlish face, obtruded 
 itself constantly into his thoughts. And as for the 
 haughty blue-grass belle whom poor Madge dreaded 
 so he did not think of her, at all, save, possibly, 
 with half acknowledged annoyance at the fact that 
 she was coming to spy out his wilderness and those 
 who dwelt therein. He would have been a little 
 happier if he could have remained there, undis- 
 turbed, for a time longer. 
 
 Day had not dawned when Madge awoke. The 
 sun, indeed, had just begun to poke the red edge 
 of his disc above Mount Nebo, when, having built 
 her fire and cooked her frugal breakfast, she loosed 
 the rope which held the crude, small drawbridge 
 up and lowered the rickety old platform until it 
 gave a pathway over the deep chasm and carried 
 her to the mainland, ready for the journey to the 
 distant cross-roads store. 
 
 Dew, sparkling like cut diamonds, cool as melt- 
 ing ice, was everywhere in the brilliant freshness 
 
 "3
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 of the morning; the birds were busy with their gos- 
 sip and their foraging, chattering greetings to her 
 as she passed; in her pasture her cow, Sukey, had 
 not risen yet from her comfortable night posture 
 when she reached her. The animal looked up 
 gravely at her, chewing calmly on her cud, plainly 
 not approving, quite, of such a very early call. 
 While the girl sat on the one-legged stool beside 
 her, sending white, rich, fragrant streams into the 
 resounding pail, her shaggy Little Hawss limped 
 up, nosing at her pocket for a turnip, which he 
 found, of course, abstracted cleverly and munched. 
 
 Having finished with the cow she set the milk in 
 a fence-corner to wait for her return, and, when 
 she left the lot, the pony followed her, making a 
 difficult, limping way along the inside of the rough 
 stump- fence until he came to a cross barrier. Then, 
 as he saw that she was going on and leaving him 
 behind, he nickered lonesomely, and, although she 
 planned, that day to accomplish many, many things, 
 and, in consequence, was greatly pressed for time, 
 she went back to him and petted him a moment 
 and then found another turnip for him in her 
 pocket 
 
 The journey which began, thus, with calls on 
 her four-footed friends, was solitary, afterward, 
 although in the narrow road-bed, here and there, 
 she saw impressions of preceding foot-steps, big 
 and deep. They aroused hec curiosity, and with 
 keen instinct of the woods she studied one of them 
 
 114
 
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 elaborately. Rising from her pondering above it 
 she decided that Joe Lorey had gone on before her, 
 and wondered what could possibly have sent him 
 down the trail so early in the morning. When she 
 noted that his trail turned off at the cross-roads 
 which might lead to Layson's camp (or other 
 places) her heart sank for a moment. She realized 
 how bitterly the mountaineer felt toward the blue- 
 grass youth whom he considered his successful rival 
 and she hoped that trouble would not come of it. 
 She did not love Joe Lorey as he wished to have 
 her love him, but she had a very real affection for 
 him, none the less. And and she did she did 
 she did this morning she acknowledged it! 
 love Layson. The matter worried her, somewhat. 
 Trouble between the men was more than possible, 
 she knew; but, on reflection, she decided that Joe 
 had not been bound for Layson's camp, but, by a 
 short cut, to the distant valley. This alone would 
 have explained his very early start. He was not 
 one to seek to take his enemy while sleeping, and 
 she knew and knew he knew that the lowlander slept 
 late. Lorey would not do a thing dishonorable. 
 She put the thought of trouble that day from her, 
 therefore, yielding gladly to the joyous and ab- 
 sorbing magic of the growing, splendid morning. 
 The rising sun, with its ever changing spectacle, 
 exhilerating, splendid, awe-inspiring, there among 
 the mountains, raised her spirits as she travelled, 
 and drove gloomy thoughts away as it drove off
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 the brooding mists which clung persistently, tear- 
 ing themselves to tattered ribbons ere they would 
 loose their hold upon the peaks beyond the valley 
 and behind her. 
 
 A feeling of elation grew in her elation born of 
 her abounding health, fine youth, the glory of the 
 scene, the high intoxication of first love. 
 
 She beguiled the way with mountain ballads, 
 paused, here and there, to pluck some lovely flower, 
 accumulating, presently, a nosegay so enormous as 
 to be almost unwieldy, whistled to the birds and 
 smiled as they sent back their answers, laughed at 
 the fierce scolding of a squirrel on a limb, heard the 
 doleful wailing of young foxes and crept near 
 enough their burrow to see them huddled in the 
 sand before it, waiting eagerly for their foraging 
 mother and the breakfast she would bring. 
 
 When the trail crossed a clear brook she paused 
 upon the crude, low bridge and watched the trout 
 dart to and fro beneath it; where it debouched 
 upon a hill-side of commanding view she stopped 
 there, breathing hard from sheer enjoyment of the 
 glory of the prospect spread before her in the val- 
 ley. 
 
 She was very happy, as she almost always was 
 of summer mornings. The mountain air, circulat- 
 ing in her young and sturdy lungs, was almost as 
 intoxicating as strong wine and made the blood 
 leap through her arteries, thrill through her veins. 
 
 The worries of the night before seemed, for a 
 
 116
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 time, to have been groundless. She ceased to fear 
 her meeting with the blue-grass gentlefolk and 
 looked forward to it with real confidence and pleas- 
 ure. Her confidence in Layson was abounding, and 
 she assured herself till the thought became convic- 
 tion that he never would permit her to subject her- 
 self to anything which properly could be humiliat- 
 ing. 
 
 The problem of her garb, too, began to seem 
 far less insoluble than it had seemed the night be- 
 fore. She felt certain, as she travelled with her 
 springing step, that she would find it possible to 
 meet creditably the great emergency with what she 
 had at home and could discover at the little general- 
 store which she was bound for. 
 
 When she reached the tiny, mud-chinked struc- 
 ture at the cross-roads, though, and caught her first 
 glimpse of its lightly burdened shelves, her heart 
 sank for an instant. Could it be possible that from 
 its stock she would be able to select material with 
 which she could compete with folk from the far 
 blue-grass in elegance of garb? 
 
 But after she had made investigation and had 
 interested in her project the lank mountain-woman 
 who presided at the counter, she lost fear of the 
 result. Together they made careful study of the 
 fashion-papers which the woman had preserved 
 and which the girl had, the night before, remem- 
 bered with such vividness. Through discussion and 
 reiterated reassurance from her friend, she finally 
 
 117
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 arrived at the decision that with what she had at 
 hand at home and what she could buy here, she 
 could prepare herself to meet the elegant lowlanders 
 with a fairly ample rivalry. 
 
 , There were few bolts of cloth, of whatever qual- 
 ity or character in the pitiful little general-store's 
 stock which both women did not finger specula- 
 tively that morning; there was not a piece of pinch- 
 beck jewelry in the small showcase which they did 
 not study carefully. Especially Madge dwelt on 
 combs, for Layson, once, had mentioned combs as 
 parts of the adornment of the women whom he 
 knew. There in the mountains young girls did 
 not wear them, save of the "circular" variety, de- 
 signed to hold back "shingled" tresses. But from 
 underneath a box of faded gum-drops and the 
 store's one carton of cigars, came some of imitation 
 tortoise-shell, gilt ornamented, of the sort old ladies 
 sometimes stuck into their hirsute knots for moun- 
 tain "doings" of great elegance, and the best of 
 these Madge bought. Also she bought lace great 
 quantities of it, although, even after she had made 
 the purchase, she had some doubt of just what she 
 would do with it; she also had some doubt about 
 its quality, for in the chest at home there had been 
 lace, ripped from her mother's wedding gown, of 
 far different and more convincing texture and de- 
 sign. She realized, however, that what was there 
 must be what must suffice and purchased nearly all 
 
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 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 the woman had of cheap, machine-made mesh and 
 home-worked, coarse-threaded tatting. 
 
 She could not manage gloves. The store had 
 never had gloves in its stock designed for anything 
 but warmth, and, although Layson had explained to 
 her, in answer to her curious pleadings, that the 
 girls he knew down in the blue-grass sometimes 
 wore gloves covering their bare arms to the elbows, 
 she gave up the hope of finding anything of that 
 sort without a visit to the distant valley town, and 
 this was quite impossible, now that her pony had 
 gone lame, so she sighed and gave up gloves en- 
 tirely. 
 
 But she bought ribbons by the bolt, some gay 
 silk-handkerchiefs, a little of the less obtrusive of 
 the jewelry, and needles, thread and such small 
 trifles by the score to be utilized in making altera- 
 tions in the finery from her dead mother's treasure 
 chest at home there in the mountain cabin. It was 
 with heart not quite so doubtful of her own ability 
 to shine a bit, that, after she had borrowed every 
 fashion-plate the woman owned (many of them ten 
 years old; not one of them of later date than five 
 years previous), she set out upon the long and 
 weary homeward way. 
 
 Instinctively as she progressed she searched the 
 soft mud in the shadowed places of the road, the 
 soft sand wherever it appeared, for signs that those 
 great foot-marks which she had thought she could 
 identify as Lorey's in the morning, had returned 
 
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 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 while she was at the store. Nowhere was there any 
 trace that this had happened, and again she thrilled 
 with apprehension. Almost she made a detour by 
 the road which led to Layson's camp to make quite 
 sure that all was right with the young "foreigner," 
 but this idea she abandoned as much because she 
 felt that such a visit would necessitate an explana- 
 tion which she would dislike to make, as because 
 her many burdens would have made the way a long 
 and difficult one to tread. How could she tell Lay- 
 son that Joe Lorey might resent his helping her to 
 study, might resent the other hours which they had 
 spent so pleasantly among the mountain rocks and 
 forest trees together, might, in short, be jealous of 
 him? 
 
 Her shy, maiden soul revolted at the thought 
 and perforce she gave investigation up, her 
 thoughts, finally, turning from the really remote 
 chance of a difficulty between the men to the pleas- 
 anter task of carrying on her planning for new 
 gowns and small accessories of finery. 
 
 The homeward way was longer than the journey 
 down had been, because of her new burdens and the 
 frequently steep mountain slopes which she must 
 climb, but she travelled it without much thought of 
 this. 
 
 Never in her life had come excitement equal to 
 that which possessed her as she thought about the 
 visitors, longed to make a good impression and not 
 shame her friend, wondered how the blue-grass 
 
 1 20
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 ladies would be dressed, would talk, would act, and 
 what they all would think of her. She had de- 
 cided, in advance, that she would like Miss Al- 
 athea, aunt of her woodland instructor; she knew 
 positively that she would like the doughty colonel, 
 lover of god horses, barred from racing by his love 
 for Frank's inexorable aunt. 
 
 But the other members of the party he had told 
 about the Holtons she was not so sure that she 
 would care for them. Frank, himself, when he had 
 told her of them, had spoken of the father without 
 much enthusiasm, and she felt quite sure that she 
 could never like the daughter. She had noticed, 
 she believed, that when it came to talk of her her 
 friend had hesitated with embarrassment. Could 
 it be possible that this young lady who had had the 
 chances she, herself, had been denied, for educa- 
 tion and for everything desirable, would seem to 
 him, when she appeared upon the scene, less lovely, 
 less desirable, than a simple little mountain maid 
 like poor Madge Brierly? The thought seemed 
 quite incredible and the worry of it quite absorbed 
 her for a time and drove away forebodings about 
 the possible hatred of Joe Lorey for Layson and his 
 possible expression of resentment. She even ceased 
 her wonderings about the footsteps which had gone 
 down the road, that morning, and which, so far 
 as she could see, had not come back again. 
 
 121
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 They were, indeed, the great imprints of Joe 
 Lorey's hob-nailed boots, quite as she suspected. 
 Long before the sun had risen the young moun- 
 taineer, distressed by worries which had made his 
 night an almost sleepless one, had risen and wan- 
 dered from his little cabin, lonelier in its far soli- 
 tude, even than the girl's. For a time he had 
 crouched upon a stump beneath the morning stars 
 with lowering brows, sunk deep in harsh, resentful 
 thought, forgetful of the falling dew, the chill of 
 the keen mountain air, of everything, in fact, save 
 the gnawing apprehension that the "foreigner," 
 who had invaded this far mountain solitude might, 
 with his better manners, infinitely better education 
 and divers other devilish wiles of the low country, 
 snatch from him the prize which he had grown up 
 longing to possess. 
 
 The youthful mountaineer's distress was not 
 without its pathos. He loved the girl, had loved 
 her since they had been toddling children playing in 
 the hills together. Never for an instant had his 
 firm devotion to her wandered to any other of the 
 
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 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 mountain girls; never for an instant had he had 
 any hope but that of, some day, winning her. That 
 he recognized the real superiority of Layson made 
 his worry the more tragic, for it made it the more 
 hopeless. 
 
 A dull resentment thrilled him, not only against 
 this man, but against the whole tribe of his people, 
 who were, in these uncomfortable days, invading 
 the rough country which, to that time, had been the 
 undisputed domain of the mountaineer. He 
 thought with bitterness about the growing valley 
 towns, which he had sometimes visited on court 
 days when some mountain man had been haled there 
 to trial for moonshining or for a feud "killing." 
 He did not understand those lowland people who 
 assumed the right to dictate to him and his kind 
 as to the lives which they should lead in their own 
 country, and he hated them instinctively. Vaguely 
 he felt the greater power which education and a 
 rubbing of their elbows with the progress of the 
 world had given them and definitely resented it. 
 Scotch highlander never felt a greater hatred and 
 distrust of lowland men than does the highlander 
 of the old Cumberlands feel for the people who 
 have claimed the rich and fertile bottom lands, filled 
 the towns which have sprung up there, established 
 the prosperity which has, through them, advanced 
 the state. The mountain men of Tennessee and of 
 Kentucky are almost as primitive, to-day, as were 
 their forefathers, who, early in the great transcon- 
 
 123
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 tinental migration, dropped from its path and 
 spread among the hills a century ago, rather than 
 continue with the weary march to more fertile, 
 fabled lands beyond. 
 
 It had not been, as Madge had feared, his definite 
 hatred of Frank Layson which had started him 
 upon the road so early in the morning, but, rather, 
 an unrest born of the whole problem of the "for- 
 eigners' " invasion of the mountains. His restless 
 discontent with Layson's presence had left him 
 ready for excitement over wild tales told in store 
 and cabin of what the young man's fellows were 
 doing in the valley. He had determined to go 
 thither for himself, to see with his own eyes the 
 wonder-workers, although he hated both the won- 
 ders and the men who were accomplishing them. 
 
 What did the mountain-country want of rail- 
 roads? What did it want of towns? The rail- 
 roads would but bring more interlopers and in the 
 towns they would foregather, arrogant in their firm 
 determination to force upon the men who had first 
 claimed the country their artificial rules and regula- 
 tions. Timid in their fear of those they sought to 
 furtively dislodge and of the rough love these men 
 showed of a liberty including license, they would 
 huddle in their storied buildings, crowd in their 
 trammelled streets, work and worry in their little 
 offices absurdly, harmfully to the rights of proper 
 men. Like other mountaineers Joe had small reali- 
 zation of the advantages of easy interchange of 
 
 124
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 thought and the quick commerce which come with 
 aggregation. He thought the concentration of the 
 townsfolk was a sign of an unmanly dread of those 
 first settlers whom they wished to drive away un- 
 justly, subjugate and ruin. 
 
 Throughout the mountains blazed a fierce resent- 
 ment of the railroad builders' presence andv their 
 work ; in no heart did it burn more fiercely than in 
 poor Joe Lorey's, for the fear obsessed him that a 
 member of the army of invaders had succeeded in 
 depriving him of the last chance of getting that 
 which, among all things on earth, he longed for 
 most Madge Brierly's love. He did not stop to 
 think that before the "foreigner" had come the girl 
 had more than once refused to marry him, beg- 
 ging him to remain her good, kind friend. Such 
 episodes, in those days, had not in the least dis- 
 heartened him. He had always thought that in the 
 end the girl would "have him." But now he was 
 convinced his chance was gone, his last hope van- 
 ished. The "foreigner" had fascinated Madge, 
 made him look cheap and coarse, uncouth and un- 
 desirable. 
 
 As he had walked along the roads which, later in 
 the morning, Madge had followed, he had frowned 
 blackly at the sunrise and the waking birds, kicked 
 viciously at little sticks and stones which chanced 
 along his way. Never a smile had he for chatter- 
 ing squirrel or scampering chipmunk; fierce, repel- 
 lant was the brown brow of the mountaineer, de- 
 
 125
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 spite the glory of the morning, and black the heart 
 within him with sheer hatred of Frank Layson and 
 the class he represented. 
 
 His journey was much longer than the girl's, for 
 it did not end till he had reached the rude construc- 
 tion camp of the advancing railroad builders in the 
 valley far below the little mountain-store. There 
 he gazed at what was going on with a child's won- 
 der, which, at first, almost made him lose his mem- 
 ory of what he thought his wrongs, but, later, ag- 
 gravated it by emphasizing in his mind his own 
 great ignorance. 
 
 Through a tiny temporary town of corrugated 
 iron shanties, crude log-and-brush and rough-plank 
 sheds, white canvas tents, ran the raw, heaped earth 
 of the embankment. About it swarmed a thousand 
 swarthy laborers, chattering in a tongue less easy 
 to his ears than the harsh scoldings of the squirrels 
 he had seen while on his way. Back behind them 
 stretched two lines of shining rails, which, even as 
 he watched, advanced, advanced on the embank- 
 ment, being firmly spiked upon their cross-ties so 
 as to form a highway for the cars which brought 
 more dirt, more dirt, more dirt to send the raw em- 
 bankment on ahead of them. 
 
 At first the puffing, steam-spitting, fire-spouting 
 locomotive with its deafening exhaust and strident 
 whistle, clanging bell and glowing fire-box actually 
 frightened him. As he stood close by the track and 
 it carne on threateningly, he backed away, his rifle 
 
 126
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 held in his crooked arm, ready for some great 
 emergency, he knew not what. A laborer laughed 
 at him, and his hands instinctively took firmer grip 
 upon the rifle. The laborer stopped laughing. 
 
 Some lessons of the temper of the mountaineers 
 already had been learned along the line of that new 
 railroad, and, driven from his wrath by the ap- 
 pearance of new marvels, Joe, at greater distance, 
 sat upon a stump and watched, wide-eyed, and un- 
 disturbed, unridiculed. 
 
 For a long time his resentment wholly drowned 
 itself in wonder at the puzzle of the engines, the 
 mechanism of the dump-cars, the wondrous work- 
 ing of the small steam crane which lifted rails from 
 flat-cars, and, as a strong man guided them, 
 dropped them with precision at the time and place 
 decided on beforehand. He noted how the men 
 worked in great gangs, subject to the orders of 
 one "boss," a phenomenon of organization he had 
 never seen before, with unwilling admiration. 
 
 But presently, from a point well in advance of 
 that where rails already had been laid and upon 
 which his attention had been concentrated because 
 of the machinery there, there came a mighty boom 
 of dynamite. It startled him so greatly that he 
 sprang up, bewildered, ready for whatever might 
 be coming, but wholly at a loss as to just what the 
 threatening danger might be. His fright gave rise 
 to jeering laughter from the men who had been 
 watching with a covert eye the rough, determined 
 
 127
 
 L\ OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 looking mountaineer, squatting on the stump with 
 rifle on his arm. He turned on them so fiercely that 
 they shrank back, terrified by the look they saw in 
 his grey eyes. 
 
 Then, noting that the noise had not appalled 
 them in the least and assuming that what was surely 
 safe for them was safe enough for him, he saun- 
 tered down the line, attempting to seem careless in 
 his walk, until he reached the gang which was busy 
 at destruction of a high, obstructive cropping of 
 grey granite. 
 
 For hours he sat there watching them with curi- 
 osity. He saw them pierce the rocks with ham- 
 mered drills; he saw them then put in a small, 
 round, harmless looking paper cylinder which, of 
 course, he knew held something like gunpowder ; he 
 saw them tamp it down with infinite care, leaving 
 only a protruding 'fuse ; he saw them light the fuse 
 and scamper off to a safe distance while he watched 
 the sputtering sparks run down the fuse, pause at 
 the tamping, then, having pierced it, disappear. 
 The great explosions which succeeded were, at first, 
 a little hard upon his nerves, but he saw that those 
 who compassed them did not flinch when they 
 came, and, after he had dodged ridiculously at the 
 first, received the second with a greater calm, keyed 
 himself to almost motionless reception of the third, 
 and managed to sit listening to the fourth with self- 
 possession quite as great as theirs, his face impas- 
 sive and his frame immovable. 
 
 128
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 He noted with amazement the great force of the 
 infernal power the burning fuses loosed, and knew, 
 instinctively, that the explosive was a stronger one 
 than that with which he had been thoroughly famil- 
 iar since his earliest childhood gunpowder. He 
 wondered mightily what it could be, and, finally, 
 summoned courage to inquire of one of the swart 
 laborers. 
 
 These were the first words he had spoken that 
 day, and, although the man was courteous enough in 
 answering, "Dynamite," he thought he saw a smile 
 upon his face of veiled derision, and resented it so 
 fiercely that instead of thanking him he gave him 
 a black look and sauntered off. But he had learned 
 what the explosive was; before he went away he 
 had seen it used in half-a-dozen ways and had a 
 visual demonstration of the necessity for caution in 
 its handling. One of the young and cocky en- 
 gineers, whom he so hated, dropped by dread mis- 
 chance a heavy hammer on a stick of it, and the 
 resulting turmoil left him lying torn and mangled 
 on the rocks. 
 
 Lorey felt small sympathy for the man's suffer- 
 ing, although he never had seen any human being 
 mutilated thus before. Many a man he had seen 
 lying with a clean hole through his forehead, the 
 neat work of a definitely aimed bullet; assassination 
 and the spectacles it carried with it could not worry 
 him : his childhood and young manhood had been 
 passed where "killings" were too frequent; the 
 
 129
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 man, like all the others there at work, was his 
 enemy, and he sorrowed for him not at all ; but this 
 tearing, mangling laceration of human flesh and 
 bone was horrifying to him. 
 
 Later, though, a certain comfort came to him 
 from it. The whole scene had impressed him and 
 depressed him. He remembered what Madge 
 Brierly had said about the engineers with their blue 
 paper plans and their ability to read from them and 
 work by them. He saw them at their work, and 
 the spectacle made him feel inferior, which had 
 never happened in his free, untrammeled life of 
 mountain independence before. There were a 
 dozen men about the work of the same type as 
 Layson's, and their calm cocksureness as they di- 
 rected all these mysteries amazed him, overwhelmed 
 him, made him feel a sense of littleness and unim- 
 portance which was maddening. Why should they 
 know all these things when he, Joe Lorey, who had 
 lived a decent life according to his lights, had la- 
 bored with his muscles as theirs could not labor if 
 they tried to force them to, had lived upon rough 
 fare and in rough place's while they had had such 
 "fancinesses" as he saw spread before them at their 
 mess-tent dinner (and crude fare enough it seemed 
 to them, no doubt) knew none of them? He could 
 see no justice in such matters and resented them 
 with bitter heart. If their own infernal powder had 
 killed one of them he would not mourn. He tried 
 to look back at the accident with satisfaction. 
 
 130
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 Had he gone down to that crude construction 
 camp without the jealousy of Layson in his heart, 
 he might, possibly, have merely gazed in wonder 
 at the cleverness of all this work, despite his moun- 
 taineer's resentment of the coming of the inter- 
 lopers; but, with that resentment in his heart to 
 nag and worry him, he achieved, before the day was 
 over, a real hatred of the class and of each individ- 
 ual in it. Layson had come up there to his country 
 to rob him of the girl he loved; now these men 
 were coming with their railroad to change the 
 aspect of the land he had been born to and grown 
 up in, making it a strange place, unfamiliar, unwel- 
 coming and crowded. He hated every one of them, 
 he hated the new railroad they were building, he 
 hated their new-fangled and mysterious machinery 
 which puzzled him with intricate devices and ap- 
 palled him with its power of fire and steam. 
 
 By the time the afternoon was two hours old he 
 was in a state of sullen fury, silent, morose, mis- 
 erable on the stump which he had chosen as his 
 vantage point for observation. More than once 
 an engineer looked at him with plain admiration 
 of his mammoth stature in his eyes; many a town- 
 girl, seeing him, like a statue of The Pioneer upon 
 a fitting pedestal, made furtive eyes at him, for he 
 was handsome and attractive in his rough en- 
 semble; but he paid no heed to any of them. He 
 was giving his mind over to consideration of his 
 grievance against these men who came, with steam
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 and pick and shovel, dynamite and railroad iron, in- 
 vading his domain. 
 
 He thought about his secret still, hidden in its 
 mountain fastness, and realized that this new 
 stage of settlement's inexorable march meant danger 
 to it; he thought about the game which roamed 
 the hills and realized that with the coming of the 
 crowd it would soon scatter, never to return; he 
 thought about the girl up there, his companion in 
 adversity, his fellow sufferer from mutual wrong, 
 the one thing which he had had to love, the shining 
 prize which it had been his sole ambition to possess 
 for life; he thought of her and then about the man, 
 who (product of the same advantages which made 
 these men before him clever with their blue-prints 
 and their puffling monsters) had come there search- 
 ing profit from the land which he had never loved 
 or lived on, and, seeing Madge, had, Joe thoroughly 
 believed, exerted every wile of a superior experi- 
 ence to win her from him by fair means or foul. 
 He thought of them and hated all of them! 
 
 He was a most unhappy mountaineer who sat 
 there on the stump, impassive and morose as the 
 sun progressed upon its journey toward the west- 
 ern horizon. All the organized activity in the scene 
 about him filled him with resentment and despair. 
 In the hills he ever felt his strength: they had 
 presented in his whole lifetime few problems which 
 he could not cope with, conquer; but here in that 
 construction camp he felt weak, incompetent, saw 
 
 132
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 full many a puzzling matter which he could not un- 
 derstand. He watched the scene with bitter but 
 with almost hopeless eyes. These new forces work- 
 ing here at railroad building, working in the hills 
 to rob him of the girl he loved, seemed pitilessly 
 strong and terribly mysterious. He never had felt 
 helpless in all his life, before. It made him grind 
 his teeth with rage. 
 
 But, though it angered him, the tense activity of 
 the construction camp was fascinating, too. Espe- 
 cially was his attention held spell-bound by the 
 ruthless work of the advancing blasting gangs. 
 What power lay hidden in those tiny sticks of dyna- 
 mite! How lightly one of them had tossed that 
 poor unfortunate in air and left him lying man- 
 gled, broken, helpless on the ground when it had 
 spent its fury ! What a weapon one of them would 
 make, upon occasion! 
 
 This thought grew rapidly in his depressed and 
 agitated mind. What a weapon, what a weapon! 
 Presently the blasting gangs and what they did 
 absorbed his whole attention. He no longer paid 
 the slightest heed to the puffing locomotives, busy 
 with their dump-cars, to the mysterious steam- 
 shovel, to the hand cars with their pumping, flying 
 passengers. The dynamite was greater than the 
 greatest of them. One stick of it, if properly ap- 
 plied, would blow a locomotive into junk, would 
 tear a dump-car, with its massive iron-work and 
 grinding wheels, apart and leave mere splinters ! 
 
 133
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 His thoughts roamed back to his home mountains 
 and .pondered on the probable effect of this in- 
 cursion on his personal affairs. Not satisfied with 
 tearing up the placid valley, these foreigners would, 
 presently, invade the very mountains in their turn. 
 He saw the doom of that small, hidden still which 
 had been his father's secret, years ago, was now his 
 secret from the prying eyes of law and progress. 
 That the "revenuers," soon or late, would get it, 
 now that their allies were building steel highways 
 to swarm on, was inevitable. His heart beat fast 
 with a new anger, anticipatory of their coming to 
 his fastness. 
 
 Lying not six feet from him as he sat there 
 thinking bitterly of all these things, the foreman 
 of the blasting gang had gingerly deposited a dozen 
 sticks of dynamite upon a soft cushion of grey 
 blankets. Joe looked at them as they lay there, in- 
 nocent and unimpressive. If he had some of them 
 in the hills and the revenuers came to raid his 
 
 The thought sprang into being in his mind with 
 lightning quickness and grew there with mushroom 
 growth. Never in his life had Lorey stolen any- 
 thing, although the government would have classed 
 him as a criminal because he owned that hidden 
 still. His standards, in some things, were differ- 
 ent from yours and mine, but he had never stolen 
 anything and scorned as low beyond the power of 
 words to tell a man who would. But now tempta- 
 
 134
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 tion came to him. He wanted some of that explo- 
 sive. Should he buy it, its purchase by a moun- 
 taineer would certainly attract attention and might 
 thus precipitate the very thing he wished to ward 
 away a watch of him, and, through that espion- 
 age, discovery of his secret place among the hills. 
 And were not the railroad and the men who owned 
 it robbing him by their progression into his own 
 country? They were robbing him of peace and 
 quiet, of the possibility of living on the life he had 
 been born to and had learned to love ! One of the 
 class which fostered him was robbing him, he feared 
 with a great fear, of the sweet girl whom he loved 
 better than he loved his life. Surely it would be 
 no sin, no act of real dishonesty for him to slip 
 down from his stump when none was looking and 
 secure a stick or two of the explosive! 
 
 Speciously he argued this out in his mind and 
 reached the wrong conclusion which he wished to 
 reach. 
 
 If he could but get one of those sticks of dyna- 
 mite! When progress came, as, now, he felt con- 
 vinced it would, to drive him from his mountains 
 and the still which made life possible to him, he 
 could meet it, at the start, with one of its own 
 weapons. That, even though he had a hundred 
 such, he could fight the fight successfully, could, in 
 the end, find triumph, he did not for an instant 
 think. The might of the encroaching army had 
 impressed him, and he knew that, soon or late, he 
 
 135
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 would be forced to yield to it : but he coveted those 
 sticks of dynamite. One of them would give him 
 some slight power, at least. He acknowledged to 
 himself that he would steal one if he got the chance, 
 despite his innate hatred of all pilferers. Such 
 theft would merely be the taking of an unimportant 
 tribute from the power which would, eventually, 
 claim much, indeed, from him. 
 
 From the distance came the screaming whistle of 
 a locomotive pulling in along the newly built road- 
 way to eastward. It was followed by a flurry of 
 excitement among all the men at work around about 
 him. 
 
 "There comes the mail," he heard one handsome 
 young chap shout. 
 
 He wore a suit like that which Joe had learned 
 to hate because Frank Layson wore it. 
 
 This youth started running down the track, 
 bright-eyed, expectant, and a dozen others ran to 
 follow him, leaving blue-prints, their surveyors' in- 
 struments and other tokens of their mysterious 
 might of education, lying unheeded on the ground 
 behind them. There was much excitement. Even 
 the rough laborers stopped delving at their tasks 
 for a few minutes, to straighten from their work 
 and stand, with curious eyes agaze down-track. 
 
 In the distance Joe saw smoke arise above the 
 tops of the invaded forest-trees. Then he heard 
 the growing clangor of a locomotive's bell, then 
 other whistling and the approaching rumble of steel 
 
 136
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 wheels upon steel rails, the groan of brake shoes 
 gripping, the rattle of contracted couplings, the im- 
 pact of car-bumpers. 
 
 The excitement grew among the working gangs. 
 Even the laborers left their tasks and started down 
 the rough surface of the new embankment toward 
 the place, a quarter-of-a-mile away, where the train 
 would stop at the end of the crude ballasting. 
 
 Lorey sat there on his stump, apparently impas- 
 sive, watching all this flurry with resentful, discon- 
 tented eyes. He himself was infinitely curious 
 about the coming train ; but he could not bring him- 
 self to go to see it. He had never seen a railway 
 train, but it somehow seemed to him that if he 
 hurried with the rest to meet this one it would 
 mean a certain sacrifice of dignity in the face of the 
 invading conqueror. He sat there, grimly wonder- 
 ing what it might be like, what the people whom 
 it brought were like, until, suddenly, he discovered 
 that he was alone. The last workman yielding to 
 temptation, free from supervision for the moment, 
 had run down the bank to meet the train, get mail, 
 see who had come. Lying not a dozen feet away 
 from Joe on their grey blanket were the sticks of 
 dynamite. 
 
 Lithe, quick and silent as one of the mountain 
 wild-cats he had so often trailed through his do- 
 main, he slipped down from his stump, caught up 
 a stick of the explosive, tucked it carefully into his 
 
 137
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 game-bag, took his place again upon the stump, im- 
 passive, calm, apparently quite unexcited. 
 
 When the men came trooping back, opening let- 
 ters, tearing wrappers from their newspapers, gos- 
 sipping, he still sat on the stump as they had left 
 him. Not one of them suspected that he once had 
 left it. 
 
 "Bright and lively as a cigar-store Indian," he 
 heard one care- free youth exclaim as he went by 
 him. 
 
 He did not know what the man meant; he had 
 never seen a cigar-store Indian; but he knew a jibe 
 was meant. It did not anger him, as it would have 
 done, a few moments earlier. Now he had ex- 
 acted his small tribute. They could stare at him 
 and jibe, if they were so inclined. Hidden care- 
 fully there in his game-bag was one of their own 
 weapons for their fight against the wilderness, 
 which, in course of time, might be a weapon of 
 the wilderness in fighting against some of them. 
 
 Presently he climbed down from the stump and 
 strolled back along the raw embankment toward 
 the little group still standing near the train which 
 had arrived. 
 
 138
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 The young moonshiner stiffened ins'tantly as he 
 neared the group of newly arrived travellers, for 
 the first word he heard from them was the name 
 of him whom, among all foreigners, he hated with 
 most bitterness. An old darky, plainly the servant 
 of the party, and such a darky as the mountain 
 country had never seen before, was inquiring of a 
 bystander where he could find "Marse" Frank Lay- 
 son. 
 
 The man of whom he asked the question had not 
 the least idea, nor had anyone about the railroad 
 working. Most of the men had never heard of 
 Layson, and the few who had become acquainted 
 with him through chance meetings since he had been 
 stopping in his cabin in the mountains, knew most 
 indefinitely where the place was located. Lorey 
 could have quickly given the information, but had 
 no thought of doing so. He stood, instead, staring 
 at the party with wondering but not good-natured 
 eyes, and said no word. He certainly was not the 
 one to do a favor to his rival or his rival's friends. 
 
 The group of strangers were thrown into con- 
 
 139
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 fusion by the difficulty of getting news of him 
 they sought, and, while they discussed the matter, 
 Lorey had a chance to study them. He stood upon 
 the rough plank platform, leaning on his rifle, with 
 the game-bag and its burden of purloined explosive 
 hanging slouchily beneath one arm, his coon-skin 
 cap down well upon his eyes, those eyes, half closed, 
 gazing at the newcomers with all the curiosity 
 which they would have shown at sight of savages 
 from some far foreign shore. 
 
 He was not the only one about the temporary 
 railroad station who eyed the group with curiosity 
 and interest. Two of the travellers were ladies 
 from the blue-grass and scarcely one of all the na- 
 tives lingering about the workings had ever seen 
 a lady from the blue-grass, while, to the young sur- 
 veyors and the group of civil engineers who had, 
 for months, been exiled by their work among the 
 mountains from all association with such lovely 
 creatures, it was a joy to stand apart and covertly 
 gaze at them. Many a young fellow, months away 
 from home, who had grasped the newspapers and 
 letters which had come in with the other mail with 
 eager ringers, anxious to devour their contents, had, 
 after the two ladies had descended from the train, 
 almost forgotten his anxiety to get the news from 
 home, and stood there, now, with opened letters in 
 his hands, unread. 
 
 The ladies were very worthy of attention, too. 
 Miss Alathea Layson, the elder of the two, was 
 
 140
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 slight, beautifully groomed despite the long and 
 dirty trip on rough cars over the crude road-bed of 
 a newly graded railway. A woman whose thirtieth 
 birthday had been left behind some years before, 
 she still had all the brightness and vivacity of the 
 twenties in her carriage and her manner. Her 
 voice, as it drifted to the young moonshiner, was a 
 new experience to him soft, well modulated, cul- 
 tivated, it was of a sort which he had never heard 
 before, and, while it seemed to him affected, never- 
 theless thrilled him with an unacknowledged ad- 
 miration. 
 
 It was she who showed the greatest disappoint- 
 ment about the general ignorance concerning Lay- 
 son's whereabouts, and that voice made instantane- 
 ous and irresistible appeal to the older men among 
 the party of engineers and surveyors, who, finding 
 an excuse in her discomfiture, flocked about her, 
 hats off, backs bent in humble bows, proffering as- 
 sistance, three deep in the circle. 
 
 The other lady traveller, whom Miss Alathea 
 called Miss Barbara, more especially attracted the 
 attention of the younger men, and, as they stood 
 aloof to gaze at her, held such mountain dwellers 
 as were near, paralyzed with wonder and admira- 
 tion. Nothing so brilliantly beautiful as she in 
 form, carriage, face, coloring or dress had ever 
 been seen there in the little valley. 
 
 She was a florid girl of twenty, or, perhaps, of 
 twenty-one or two. Her eyes were the obtrusive 
 
 141
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 feature of her face, and she used them with a free- 
 dom which held callow youth spell-bound. Her 
 gown was more pretentious than that of her more 
 elderly companion. This, of course, was justified 
 by the difference between their ages; but there 
 seemed to be, beyond this, a flaunting gayety about 
 it and her manner which were not, in the eyes of 
 the older and wiser men among the group who 
 watched, justified by anything. It would have been 
 a hard thing for the most critical of them to have 
 definitely mentioned just what forced this strong 
 impression on their minds, but it was forced upon 
 them very quickly. One of them, a cute uad keen 
 observer as he was, of many years experience, de- 
 cided the moot point, though, and whispered his 
 decision to a grizzled man (the engineer in charge 
 of the whole enterprise upon that section of con- 
 struction) who stood next him. 
 
 "The elder one is of the old-time Southern aris- 
 tocracy," he said. "The younger one is one of the 
 new-comers her father has made money and she 
 is breaking in by means of it." 
 
 His companion nodded, realizing that the guess 
 was shrewd and justified, even if it might, conceiv- 
 ably, be inaccurate. 
 
 "She certainly is very striking," he said, nod- 
 ding, "but the elder one is the aristocrat." 
 
 The other member of the party was a big man, 
 nearing fifty, with a broad face on which geniality 
 was written in its every line, wearing the wide- 
 
 142
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 brimmed Southern hat, typical long frock-coat with 
 flaring skirts, black trousers, somewhat pegged, and 
 boots of an immaculate brilliance. 
 
 His voice was loud, hearty and attractive, as he 
 made inquiries, here and there, about the young 
 man whom they had hoped to find in waiting for 
 them at the station, although they had arrived, ow- 
 ing to the exigencies of travel by a new road, not 
 yet officially opened to traffic, a day before they had 
 expected to. 
 
 "I suh," said this gentleman, "am Gunnel Doo- 
 little Gunnel Sandusky Doolittle, and am looking 
 for this lady's nephew, Mr. Lay son, suh. If you 
 can tell me where the youngster is likely to be run- 
 nin', now, you will put me under obligations, suh." 
 
 None, however, knew just how Layson could be 
 reached. Most of them knew him or had heard of 
 him, but they were not certain just where his camp 
 in the mountains was located. 
 
 "I regret, Miss 'Lethe," said the Colonel, turning 
 to the disappointed lady at his side, after having 
 completed his inquiries, "that there is no good hotel 
 heah. If there were a good hotel heah, I would 
 take you to it, ma'am, and make you comfortable. 
 Then, ma'am, I would search this country and I'd 
 find him in short order. He probably did not re- 
 ceive my letter saying that we would arrive to-day 
 and not to-morrow." 
 
 One of the engineers proffered to the ladies the 
 use of his own canvas quarters till some course of
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 action should have been decided on, an offer which 
 was gratefully accepted. 
 
 Soon afterward inquiries by the Colonel brought 
 out definite information as to the exact location 
 of Frank's camp. A railway teamster, also, it ap- 
 peared, was starting in that direction after ties and 
 offered to transport a messenger as far as he was 
 going, directing him, then, so that he could not lose 
 his way. Old Neb, the darky, thereupon, was 
 started on the search. 
 
 He was a different sort of negro from any which 
 the mountain folk had ever seen, and wore more 
 airs than his "white folks." Dressed in a black 
 frock-coat as ornate as the Colonel's, although its 
 bagging shoulders showed that it had been a gift 
 and not made for him, his hat was a silk tile, a bit 
 too large, and in one hand was a gold-headed cane 
 on which he leaned as his old legs limped under 
 him. Among the mountaineers about he was an 
 object of the keenest curiosity, although down in 
 the blue-grass, where old family negroes frequently 
 were let to grow into a childish dignity of manner 
 after years of faithful service and were not disturbed 
 in their ideas of their own importance, he would 
 have been regarded as merely an amusing infant of 
 great age, reaping a reward for by-gone merits in 
 the careful consideration and indulgence now ex- 
 tended to him. His inordinate vanity of his per- 
 sonal appearance and his dignity might have given 
 rise to smiles, down there; here there were those 
 
 144
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 upon the platform who laughed loudly as he walked 
 away, boasting vaingloriously, although he evi- 
 dently feared the trip with the rough teamster, that 
 he would find "young Marse Frank" in a jiffy and 
 have him there in no time. 
 
 It was while the aged negro was climbing some- 
 what difficultly to the side of the good-natured rail- 
 road teamster who had promised to give him a lift 
 upon his way and then supply directions for his 
 further progress, that Joe Lorey, who had been an 
 interested spectator of the affair, contemptuous, 
 amused by the old darky, saw, coming through the 
 crowd behind him and well beyond the range of the 
 newly arrived strangers, the roughly dressed, mys- 
 terious old man whom he had seen, once or twice, 
 up in the mountains, whom Madge had seen, tap- 
 ping with his little hammer at the rocks. Lorey 
 looked toward him with a face which scowled in- 
 stinctively. He disliked the man, as he disliked all 
 foreigners who dared invasion of his wilderness; he 
 would have feared him, too, had he known that it 
 had really been him and not young Layson and 
 Madge Brierly who had made the noise there in the 
 thicket which had disturbed him, that day, when, 
 armed to meet a raid of revenuers, he had rushed 
 out from his still to find the girl and the young 
 blue-grass gentleman in a close company which 
 worried him almost as much as the appearance of 
 the officers, in fact, could have done. 
 
 He was a "foreigner," this old man with the 
 
 145
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 manner of the mountains, and, sometimes, their 
 speech, for he wore blue-grass clothes; therefore 
 he was one to be classed with the others in his bit- 
 ter hatred. He was standing almost in his path, 
 and, by stepping to one side, could have saved him 
 a small detour round a pile of boxed supplies; but 
 he did not move an inch, stiffening, instead, de- 
 lighted at obstructing him. 
 
 The old man, as he went around, looked sharply 
 at him, arid then smiled, almost as if he recognized 
 him and could read his thoughts; almost as if he 
 realized the man's instinctive hate; almost as if he 
 felt a certainty, deep in his soul, that so great was 
 the disaster hovering above the mountaineer that 
 it would be scarcely worth his own while, now, even 
 to think resentfully of this small insult. 
 
 A moment later, though, and the expression of 
 his face had changed completely. The first glimpse 
 of the new come party standing, now, deep in dis- 
 cussion of the railway work, before the engineer's 
 white, hospitable tent, made him start back in 
 amazement. 
 
 For an instant he stood wavering, as if he were 
 considering the plan of trying to depart without 
 approaching them or being seen by them, but then 
 he shrugged his shoulders and advanced, trying to 
 show upon his face surprised good-nature. 
 
 "Wall, Colonel Doolittle !" he cried. "And you, 
 Miss Layson, and why, there's Barbara!" 
 
 146
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 "Father!" said the girl, in absolute amazement, 
 hurrying toward him. 
 
 "Ah, Mr. Holton!" said Miss 'Lethe, bowing to 
 him as the Colonel, plainly not too greatly pleased 
 by the necessity for doing so, advanced toward him 
 with extended hand. 
 
 "What brings you all up here?" asked Holton, 
 after the greetings had been said. 
 
 "We came up to see Frank and the beauties of 
 his long-forgotten land," Miss 'Lethe answered, 
 in her softly charming voice. "He has property up 
 here, you know, which has been for years a fam- 
 ily possession, but which has been considered value- 
 less, or almost so. When he learned that this new 
 railway was to pass quite close to it, he decided 
 to investigate it carefully and see just what it really 
 amounted to." 
 
 Holton smiled a little wryly as she completed her 
 explanation. "He's stayed here, studyin' it, a long 
 time, ain't he?" 
 
 "Yes," Miss Alathea answered. "When he once 
 reached here he seemed to find new beauties in the 
 country every day. He wrote us the most glowing 
 letters of it, and these letters and and other 
 things, decided me to come and see him and the 
 property he is so fond of. The Colonel was polite 
 enough to volunteer as escort, your daughter to 
 come as a companion. 
 
 Holton winked mysteriously at Colonel Doolit- 
 tle. "You come at the right time," said he. "I'll 
 
 147
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 have some things to tell you of this country and 
 just what the railroad's going to do for it if you 
 should care to listen." 
 
 The Colonel's eyes, plainly those of one who read 
 the tale of character upon the faces of the people 
 whom he met, looked at him with no great favor, 
 but he smiled. "We've already learned some things 
 which have astonished us," he said. Then, though, 
 despite the fact that his remark had greatly aroused 
 Helton's curiosity, evidently, he changed the sub- 
 ject somewhat abruptly, and turned grandiosely to 
 Miss 'Lethe. 
 
 "May I offuh you my ahm, ma'am, for a little 
 stroll about heah ?" he inquired. "The greatest dis- 
 advantage which I see about this country is the lack 
 of level places big enough to put a race-track in, 
 ma'am. So far as I can see from lookin' round me, 
 casual like, you couldn't run a quahtuh, heah, with- 
 out eitheh goin' up a hill or comin' down one." 
 
 "Isn't it rough!' said Barbara, with a gesture of 
 aversion which seemed a bit affected. 
 
 Holton looked at her with what was plainly ad- 
 miration. It was clear enough that, in a way, he 
 was fond of his showy daughter. He ran his eye 
 with satisfaction over her costume, from head to 
 foot, and nodded. 
 
 "You ain't never seen much of rough life, now 
 have you, Barbara ?" He turned, then, to Miss Al- 
 athea. "These young folks, raised the way we raise 
 'em, nowadays, get thinkin' that the whole world 
 
 148
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 has been smoothed out for their treadin' an' they 
 ain't far wrong. We do smooth out the world for 
 'em. Now, there's your nephew, Frank; he " 
 
 "Oh, he likes it, here, as I have said," she an- 
 swered. 
 
 "But it is so uncouth," said Barbara, plainly for 
 the benefit of one or two admiring youths from the 
 surveying party, who were standing near. "And 
 some of the people look so absolutely vicious 
 some of the natives, I mean, of course, you know. 
 Now look at that young fellow, over there !" 
 
 The girl had nodded toward Joe Lorey, who was 
 standing not far off, observing them with an un- 
 wavering and disapproving, almost definitely hos- 
 tile stare. 
 
 "He looks," the girl went on, "as if he hated us 
 and would be glad to do us harm. So violent !" 
 
 "He's from up the mountains," one of the young 
 engineers said, glancing toward him. "It's funny 
 how those mountain people all hate us. You see, 
 they say, the hills around about here are all full of 
 moonshiners and they believe the coming of the 
 railroad will bring with it law and order and that 
 when that comes, of course, their living will be 
 gone." 
 
 "Moonshiners?" said Barbara. "Pray, what are 
 moonshiners ?" 
 
 Her father grimly smiled again. He knew that 
 she knew quite as well what moonshiners were as 
 
 149
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 any person in the group, but her affected ignorance 
 of rough things and rough men amused him. 
 
 "Distillers of corn whisky who refuse to pay 
 their taxes to the government," the youth replied. 
 "The revenue officials have had dreadful times with 
 them, here in the Cumberland, for years. Some- 
 times they have really bloody battles with them, 
 when they try to make a raid." 
 
 "How terrible!" said Barbara, and shuddered 
 carefully. She looked again at Lorey, who, con- 
 scious that he was the subject of their conversation 
 and resentful of it, stared back boldly and defi- 
 antly. "And do you think that he that very young 
 man there can possibly have ever actually killed 
 a man?" 
 
 The engineer laughed heartily. "That he may 
 possibly have killed a man," said he, "there is no 
 doubt. I don't know that he has, however, and 
 it is most improbable. I don't even know that 
 he's a moonshiner." 
 
 Among the others who had left the train, which, 
 now, had been switched off to a crude side-track, 
 the cars left there and the locomotive started at 
 the handling of dirt-dump-cars, were two tall, sun- 
 burned strangers, whom Miss Alathea, who had 
 noted them as she did everyone, had classed as en- 
 gineers or surveyors, but who had not, when they 
 had arrived, mingled with the other men employed 
 on the construction of the railroad. While the 
 young man and Barbara were talking about moon- 
 
 150
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 shiners, one of them had drifted near and he gave 
 them a keen glance at the first mention of the 
 word. Now he turned, but turned most casually, to 
 follow with his own, their glances at Joe Lorey. 
 Then he sauntered off, and, as he passed Holton, 
 seemed to exchange meaning glances with him. 
 
 Soon afterward Lorey turned away. The day 
 was getting on toward noon. The long tramp back 
 to his lonely cabin in the mountains would consume 
 some hours. The sight of all these strangers, all 
 this work on the new railroad worried him, made 
 him unhappy, added to and multiplied the apprehen- 
 sion which for weeks had filled his heart about 
 Madge Brierly and young Layson. He battled with 
 a mixture of emotions. There was no ounce of 
 cowardice, in Joe. Never had he met a situation in 
 his life before which he had feared or which had 
 proved too strong for him. All his battles, so far, 
 and they had been many and been various, as was 
 inevitable from the nature of his secret calling, had 
 resulted in full victories for his mighty strength 
 of body or his quick foot, certain hand, keen knowl- 
 edge of the mountains and the woods resource and 
 wit that went with these ; but now things seemed to 
 baffle him. His soul was struggling against ac- 
 knowledgment of it, while his mind continually told 
 him it was true. Everything seemed, now, to be 
 against him. 
 
 He knew, but would not admit, even to himself, 
 that the march of progress must inevitably drive
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 out of existence the still hidden in his cave and 
 make the marketing of its illicit product doubly 
 hazardous, nay, quite impossible. He knew that 
 he must give it up ; he realized that real good sense 
 would send him home, that day, to bury the last 
 trace of it in some spot where it never could be 
 found again. But his stubborn soul revolted at the 
 thought of being beaten, finally, by this civiliza- 
 tion which he hated; he would not admit, even in 
 his mind, that it had bested him, or could ever best 
 him. He ground his teeth and pressed his elbow 
 down against the stock of his long rifle with a 
 force which ground the gun into his side until it 
 hurt him. He would never give up, never! Let 
 them try to get him if they could, these lowlanders! 
 He would not be afraid of them. His father had 
 not been and he would never be. 
 
 And there was a voice within him which kept 
 whispering as did the one which counselled the 
 abandonment of his illegal calling, the abandon- 
 ment of that other effort, infinitely dearer to him, 
 to win Madge Brierly's love and hand in marriage. 
 His common-sense assured him that she was not 
 made for such as he, that, while she had been born 
 there in the mountains there were delicacies, refine- 
 ments in her which would make her mating with 
 his rude and uncouth strength impossible, would 
 make it cruelly unhappy for her, even should it 
 come about. But this voice he steadfastly declined 
 to listen to, even more emphatically than he did to 
 
 152
 
 'IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 that which counselled caution in his calling. Again 
 he ground his teeth. His heels, when they came 
 down upon the rocky mountain trails up which he 
 soon was climbing, fell on the slopes so heavily 
 that, constantly, his progress was followed by the 
 rattle of small stones down the inclined path behind 
 him, constant little landslides. And, at ordinary 
 times, Joe Lorey, awkward as he looked to be, could 
 scale a sloping sand-bank without sending down a 
 sliding spoonful to betray the fact that he was mov- 
 ing on it to the wild things it might startle. 
 
 Heavily he resolved within his soul, against his 
 own best judgment, to keep up both fights and win. 
 
 The dynamite which he had stolen and which 
 nestled in his game-sack comforted him, although 
 he did not know how he would use it. Many times, 
 as he worked through the narrow trails, jumped 
 from stepping-stone to stepping-stone in crossing 
 mountain-streams, pulled himself up steep and rocky 
 slopes by clutching swaying branches, or rough- 
 angled boulders, he let his left hand slip down to 
 the side of the old game-sack, where, through the 
 soft leather, he could plainly feel the smooth, ter- 
 rific cylinder. 
 
 He swore a mighty mountain oath that none of 
 the advancing forces ever should win victory of 
 him. If the revenuers ever tried to get him, let 
 God help them, for they would need help; if Frank 
 Layson stole his girl from him, then let God help 
 him, also, for even more than would the revenuers 
 
 153
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 the young blue-grass gentleman would need assist- 
 ance from some mighty power. 
 
 But a fate was closing on Joe Lorey which all 
 his uncouth strength could not avert. As he had 
 left the railway those two men whom simple- 
 minded Miss Alathea had supposed were engineers, 
 but who had not mingled with the throng of rail- 
 way builders had looked at Horace Holton for con- 
 firmation of their guess. In a quick glance, so 
 keen that they could not mistake its meaning so in- 
 stantaneous that none else could suspect that the 
 three men were even casual acquaintances, he had 
 told them they had guessed aright. 
 
 They sauntered off and disappeared in the direc- 
 tion whence the mountaineer had gone, and, though 
 his feet were well accustomed to the trails and were 
 as expert in their climbing as any mountaineer's for 
 miles, these men proved more expert; though his 
 ear was as acute as a wild animal's, so silently they 
 moved that never once a hint that they were fol- 
 lowing, ever following behind him, reached it ; their 
 endurance was as great as his, their woods-craft 
 was as sly as his. 
 
 A fate was closing on Joe Lorey. The march of 
 civilization was, indeed, advancing toward his 
 mountain fastnesses at last. And nothing stays the 
 march of civilization.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 The afternoon was waning as Joe climbed a sud- 
 den rise and saw before him Layson's camp. 
 
 Through a cleft in the guardian range the sun's 
 rays penetrated red and fiery. Already the quick 
 chill of the coming evening had begun to permeate 
 the air. A hawk, sailing from a day of foraging 
 among the hen-yards of the distant valley, flew 
 heavily across the sky, burdened with plunder for 
 its little ones, nested at the top of a black stub on 
 the mountain-side. Squirrels were home-going after 
 a busy day among the trees. The mournful bark- 
 ing of young foxes, anxious for their dinners, 
 thrilled the air with sounds of woe. Among the 
 smaller birds the early nesters were already twit- 
 tering in minor among the trees and thickets; a 
 mountain-eagle cleft the air in the hawk's trail, so 
 high that only a keen eye could have caught sight 
 of him. Daylight insects were beginning to abate 
 their clamor, while their fellows of the night were 
 tuning for the evening concert. Mournfully, and 
 very faintly, came a locomotive's wail from the far 
 valley. 
 
 155
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 Joe Lorey paused grimly in his progress to stare 
 at the rough shack which housed the man he hated. 
 He was no coward, and he would not take advantage 
 of the loneliness and isolation of the spot to do him 
 harm surreptitiously, but vividly the thought thrilled 
 through him that someday he would assail him. 
 Smoke was curling from the mud-and-stick chimney 
 of the little structure, and he smiled contemptuously 
 as he thought of how the blue-grass youth was 
 doubtless pottering, within, getting ready to go 
 down into the valley to greet his fine friends and be 
 greeted. He had no doubt that long ere this the 
 aged negro had reached him with the news of their 
 arrival. He wondered, with a fierce leap of hope, 
 if, possibly, their coming might not be the signal 
 for the man's departure from the country where 
 he was not wanted. 
 
 This hope keenly thrilled him, for a moment, 
 but, an instant later, when, through the small win- 
 dow, he saw the youth seat himself, alone, before 
 a blazing fire of logs, stretch out his legs and lounge 
 in the comfort of the blaze, it left him. He won- 
 dered if Lay son did not intend to go down at all to 
 meet his friends. 
 
 Just then his quick ear caught the sound of stum- 
 bling, hurried footsteps, plainly not a mountaineer's, 
 down in the rough woodland, below. Instantly his 
 muscles tautened, instantly he brought his rifle to 
 position; but he soon let it fall again and smiled, 
 perhaps, for the first time that day. 
 
 156
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 "Lawsy! Lawsy!" he could hear a scared voice 
 muttering. "Lawsy, I is los', fo' suah !" 
 
 His smile broadened to a wide, malicious grin 
 of satisfaction. The black messenger who had been 
 started with the news, evidently had not fared well 
 upon the way, and was, but now, arriving. "It's 
 that nigger wanderin' around up hyar," he mused. 
 And then : "I'm goin' to have some fun with him." 
 
 Silently he slipped down the path by which he had 
 so recently ascended, and, at a good distance from 
 the cabin, but still well in advance of the unhappy 
 negro, hid behind a rock, awaiting his approach. 
 
 Old Neb, advancing, scared tremendously, was 
 talking to himself in a loud, excited voice. 
 
 "Oh, golly!" he exclaimed. "Dis am a pretty 
 fix for a blue-grass cullud gemman! Dis am a 
 pretty fix los', los' up heah, in de midst of wolves 
 an' painters!" 
 
 Joe, from behind his rock, wailed mournfully in 
 startling imitation of a panther's call. 
 
 The darkey almost fell prone in his fright. 
 "Name o' goodness!" he exclaimed. "Wha' dat? 
 Oh oh dere's a painter, now!" 
 
 Joe called again, more mournfully, more omin- 
 ously than before. 
 
 Neb's fright became a trembling panic. Hit's 
 a-comin' closer!" he exclaimed. "I feel as if de 
 debbil's gwine ter git me!" He stooped and started 
 on a crouching run directly toward the rock behind 
 which Joe was hiding. 
 
 157
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 As the old man would have passed, Joe jumped 
 out from his ambush, and, bringing his right hand 
 down heavily upon the darky's shoulder, emitted a 
 wild scream, absolutely terrifying in its savage 
 ferocity. With a howl Neb dropped upon his 
 knees, praying in an ecstasy of fear. 
 
 "Oh, good Mister Painter, good Mister Deb- 
 bil " he began. 
 
 Inasmuch as he was not devoured upon the in- 
 stant, he finally ventured to look up and Joe laughed 
 loudly. 
 
 So great was the relief of the old negro that he 
 did not think of anger. A sickly smile spread slowly 
 on his face. "De Lawd be praised!" he said. 
 "Why, hit's a man!" 
 
 "Reckon I am," said Joe. "Generally pass for 
 one." Then, although he knew quite well just why 
 the man had come, from whom, for whom, he asked 
 sternly to confuse him: "What you doin' in these 
 mountings ?" 
 
 "I's lookin' fo' my massa, young Marse Frank 
 Layson, suh," Neb answered timidly. 
 
 "You needn't to go fur to find him," Lorey an- 
 swered bitterly. "You needn't to go fur to find 
 him." 
 
 The old negro looked at him, puzzled and fright- 
 ened by his grim tone and manner. 
 
 "Why why " he began. "Is it hereabouts 
 
 he hunts fo' deer? He wrote home he was findin* 
 good spo't in the mountains, huntin' deer." 
 
 158
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 Joe's mouth twitched ominously, involuntarily. 
 The mere presence of Old Neb, there, was another 
 evidence of the great advantage, which, he began to 
 feel with hopeless rage, the man who had stolen that 
 thing from him which he prized most highly, had 
 over him. The negro was his servant. Servants 
 meant prosperity, prosperity meant power. Back- 
 woodsman as he was, Joe Lorey knew that per- 
 fectly. His face gloomed in the twilight. 
 
 "Yes," he answered bitterly, "it's here he has been 
 huntin' huntin' deer the pootiest deer these 
 mountings ever see." Of course the old negro did 
 not understand the man's allusion. He was puzzled 
 by the speech ; but Joe went on without an explana- 
 tion: "But thar is danger in sech huntin'. Your 
 young master, maybe, better keep a lookout for his- 
 self!" 
 
 His voice trembled with intensity. 
 
 In the meantime Layson was still seated thought- 
 fully before his fire of crackling "down-wood," 
 busy with a thousand speculations. Just what 
 Madge Brierly, the little mountain girl, meant to 
 him, really, he could not quite determine. He knew 
 that he had been most powerfully attracted to her, 
 but he did not fail to recognize the incongruity of 
 such a situation. He had never been a youth of 
 many love-affairs. Perhaps his regard for horses 
 and the "sport of kings" had kept him from much 
 travelling along the sentimental paths of dalliance 
 with the fair sex. Barbara Holton, back in the 
 
 159
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 bluegrass country, had been almost the only girl 
 whom he had ever thought, seriously, of marrying, 
 and he had not, actually, spoken, yet, to her about 
 it. When he had left the lowlands for the moun- 
 tains he had meant to, though, when he returned. 
 There were those, he thought, who believed them an 
 affianced couple. Now he wondered if they ever 
 would be, really, and if, without actually speaking, 
 he had not led her to believe that he would speak. 
 He was astonished at the thrill of actual fear he felt 
 as he considered the mere possibility of this. 
 
 The news which had been brought to him by mail 
 that upon the morrow he would see the girl again, 
 in company with his Aunt and Colonel Doolittle, had 
 focussed matters in his mind. Did he really love 
 the haughty, blue-grass beauty? He was far from 
 sure of it, as he sat there in the little mountain- 
 cabin, although he had been certain that he did when 
 he had left the lowlands. 
 
 It seemed almost absurd, even to his young and 
 sentimental mind, that one in his position should 
 have lost his heart to an uneducated girl like Madge, 
 but he definitely decided that, at any rate, he had 
 never loved the other girl. If it was not really 
 love he felt for the small maiden of the forest-fire 
 and spelling-book, it surely was not love he felt for 
 the brilliant, showy, bluegrass girl. 
 
 He was reflecting discontentedly that he did not 
 know exactly what he felt or what he wanted, when 
 he heard Joe Lorey's startling imitation of the 
 
 1 60
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 panther's cry, outside, and, rising, presently, when 
 careful listening revealed the fact that the less ob- 
 trusive sound of human voices followed what had 
 seemed to be the weird, uncanny call of the wild- 
 beast, he went to the door and opened it, so that he 
 could better listen. 
 
 Joe and the negro had not been in actual view of 
 Layson's cabin, up to that time. A rocky corner, ris- 
 ing at the trail's side, had concealed it. Now they 
 stepped around this and the lighted door and win- 
 dows of the little structure stood out, despite in- 
 creasing darkness, plainly in their view. 
 
 Almost instantly old Neb recognized the silhouette 
 of Layson's figure there against the firelight from 
 within. 
 
 "Marse Frank!" he cried. "Marse Frank!" 
 
 Layson, startled by the unexpected sound of the 
 familiar voice there in the wilderness, rushed from 
 the door, took Neb's trembling hand and led him 
 to the cabin. 
 
 "Neb, old Neb!" he cried. "By all that's won- 
 derful! How did you get here alone? I thought 
 you all were to come up to-morrow. Where is Aunt 
 'Lethe, and the Colonel, and and " 
 
 Neb, his troubles all forgotten as quickly as a 
 child's, stood wringing his young master's hand with 
 extravagant delight. Joe Lorey disappeared like a 
 flitting shadow of the coming night. 
 
 "Dey're all down at de railroad, suh," said Neb. 
 "Dey're all down at de railroad. Got heah a day 
 
 161
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 befo' dey t'ought dey would, suh, an' sent me on 
 ahead to let you know. I been wanderin' aroun' fo' 
 a long time a-tryin' fo' to fin' yo\ Dat teamster 
 what gib me a lif'", he tol' me dat de trail war cleah 
 from whar he dropped me to yo' cabin, but I couldn't 
 fin' it, suh, an' I got los'." 
 
 "And the others all are waiting at the railroad 
 for me? I was going down to meet them to-mor- 
 row." 
 
 "Dey don't expect you till to-morrow, now, suh. 
 Ev'rybody tol' 'em that you couldn't git dar till to- 
 morrow. I reckon dey'll be com'fable. Fo'ty men 
 was tryin' fo' to make 'em so when 7 lef." The 
 old darky laughed. "Looked like dat dem chaps 
 wat's layin' out dat railroad, dar, ain't seen a 
 woman's face fo' yeahs an' yeahs, de way dey 
 flocked aroun'. Ev'y tent in de destruction camp 
 war at deir suhvice in five minutes." 
 
 Frank was busy at the fire with frying-pan and 
 bacon. The old negro was worn out. The young 
 man disregarded his uneasy protests and made him 
 sit in comfort while he cooked a supper for him. 
 
 "So you got lost ! Who finally set you straight ? 
 I heard you talking, there, with someone." 
 
 "A young pusson, suh," said Neb, with dignity. 
 Lorey had befriended him, he knew, at last ; but he 
 had scared him into panic to begin with. "A young 
 pusson, suh," he said, "what made me think he was 
 a paintuh, suh, to staht with. Made me think he 
 
 162
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 was a paintuh, suh, or else de debbil, wia his 
 howlin'." 
 
 Layson laughed long and heartily. "Must have 
 been Joe Lorey," he surmised. "I heard that cry 
 and thought, myself, it was a panther. He's the 
 only one on earth, I guess, who can imitate the 
 beasts so well. Where is he, now ? ' 
 
 "Lawd knows! I see him dar, close by me, den 
 I seed you in de doah, an' when I looked aroun' 
 ag'in, he had plumb faded clean away!" 
 
 "They're wonderful, these mountaineers, with 
 their woodscraft." 
 
 "Debbil craf, mo' like," said Neb, a bit resent- 
 ful, still. 
 
 Frank smiled at the thought of his dear Aunt, 
 precise and elegant, compelled to spend the night 
 in a construction camp beneath white-canvas. 
 
 "What did Aunt 'Lethe think about a night in 
 tents?" he asked. 
 
 "Lawd," said Neb, plainly trying to gather 
 bravery for something which he wished to say, "I 
 didn't ax huh. Too busy with my worryin'." 
 
 "Worrying at what, Neb?" 
 
 "Oveh dat Miss Holton an' her father." 
 
 "Mr. Holton didn't come, too, did he?" 
 
 "No; he didn't come wid us, suh; but he met 
 us dar down by de railroad. Wasn't lookin' for 
 him, an' I guess he wasn't lookin', jus' exactly, to 
 see us. But he was dar an' now he's jus' a membuh 
 of ouah pahty, suh, as good as Gunnel Doolittle. 
 
 163
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 Hit don't seem right to me, suh; no suh, hit don't 
 seem right to me." 
 
 "Why, Neb!" 
 
 "An' dat Miss Barbara! .She was dead sot to 
 see you, an' Miss 'Lethe was compelled to ax her 
 fo' to come along. She didn't mean to, fust off; 
 no suh. But she had to, in de end. Den I war 
 plumb beat when I saw Mister Holton stalkin' up 
 dat platfohm like he owned it an' de railroad an' 
 de hills and de hull yearth. But he's bettuh heah 
 dan down at home, Marse Frank. He don't be- 
 long down in de blue-grass." 
 
 "I'm afraid you are impertinent, Neb. Don't 
 meddle. You always have been prejudiced against 
 Barbara and her father." 
 
 The old negro answered quickly, bitterly. "I 
 ain't likely to fuhgit," said he, "dat de only blow 
 dat evuh fell upon my back was from his han'! I 
 guess you rickollick as well as I do. He cotch me 
 coon-huntin' on his place an' strung me up. He'd 
 jes' skinned me dar alive if you-all hadn't heered 
 my hollerin' an' run in." 
 
 Layson was uneasy at the turn the talk had 
 taken. "That was years ago, Neb," he expostu- 
 lated. 
 
 "Don't seem yeahs ago to me, suh. Huh! De 
 only blow dat evuh fell upon my back! But yo' 
 snatched dat whip out of his han' an' den yo' 
 laid it, with ev'y ounce of stren'th war in yo', 
 right acrost his face!" 
 
 164
 
 L\ OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 Layson, unwilling to be harsh with the old man 
 and forbid him to say more, ostentatiously busied 
 himself, now, about the table with the frying-pan 
 and other dishes, hoping, thus, to discourage 
 further talk of this sort. 
 
 "No, suh," Neb went on with shaking head, "I 
 jus' nachelly don' like him. Don't like either of 
 'em. An' he, Marse Frank, he nevuh will fuhgit 
 dat blow, an' don't you think he will!" 
 
 "That's all over, long ago," said Frank, as he 
 put the finishing touches on the old man's supper. 
 "And what had Barbara to do with it? She can't 
 help what her father does." 
 
 Neb drew up to the table with a continuously 
 shaking head. For months he had desired to speak 
 his mind to his young master, but had never dared 
 to take so great a liberty. Now the unusual cir- 
 cumstances they were placed in, the fact that he 
 had been lost in the mountains in his service and 
 half scared to death, imbued him with new bold- 
 ness. 
 
 "She kain't he'p what he does, suh, no," said 
 he. "But listen, now, Marse Frank, to po' ol' Neb. 
 De pizen vine hit don't b'ar peaches, an' night- 
 shade berries dey ain't hulsome, eben ef dey're 
 pooty." 
 
 "Neb, stop that!" Layson commanded sharply. 
 
 The old negro half slipped from the chair in 
 which he had been sitting wearily. Once he had 
 started on the speech which he had made his mind 
 
 165
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 up, months ago, that, some day, he would screw 
 his courage up to, he would not be stopped. 
 
 "Oh, honey," he exclaimed, holding out his trem- 
 ulous old hands in a gesture of appeal, while the 
 fire-light flickered on a face on which affection and 
 real sincerity were plain, "Fs watched ovuh you 
 evuh sence yo' wuh a baby, an' when I see dat 
 han'some face o' hers was drawin' of yo' on, it 
 jus' nigh broke my oF brack heaht, it did. It did, 
 Marse Frank, fo' suah." 
 
 The young man could not reprimand the aged 
 negro. He knew that all he said came from the 
 heart, a heart as utterly unselfish and devoted in its 
 love as human heart could be. 
 
 "Oh, pshaw, Neb!" he said soothingly. Don't 
 worry. Perhaps I did go just a bit too far with 
 Barbara young folks, you know! but that's all 
 over, now." Again he wondered most uncomfort- 
 ably if this were really true, again his mind made 
 its comparisons between the bluegrass girl and 
 sweet Madge Brierly. "There's no danger that 
 Woodlawn will have any other mistress than my 
 dear Aunt 'Lethe for many a long year," he con- 
 cluded rather lamely. 
 
 The emotion of the ancient darky worried him. 
 It was proof that evidence of a love affair with 
 Barbara Holton had been plain to every eye, he 
 thought. 
 
 Neb now slid wholly from the chair and dropped 
 upon his knees close by the youth he loved, grasp- 
 
 166
 
 AY OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 ing his hand and pressing it against his faithful 
 heart. 
 
 "Oh, praise de Lawd, Marse Frank; oh, praise 
 de Lawd!" he cried. 
 
 Old Neb slept with an easier heart, that night, 
 than had throbbed in his old black bosom since 
 the probability that Barbara Holton would be a 
 member of the party which was to visit his young 
 master in the mountains, had first begun to worry 
 him. But long after he had found unconsciousness 
 on the boughs-and-blanket bed which he had fash- 
 ioned for himself under Frank's direction, Layson, 
 himself, was wandering beneath the stars, thinking 
 of the problem that beset him. 
 
 He was sorry Barbara was coming to the moun- 
 tains. Why had his Aunt 'Lethe brought her? 
 What would that dear lady think about Madge 
 Brierly, wood-nymph, rustic phenomenon? What 
 had Horace Holton been doing in the mountains, 
 secretly, to have been surprised, discomfited as Neb 
 had said he was, at sight of the Colonel, Miss 
 'Lethe and his daughter? 
 
 But before he had finished the pipe which he 
 had carried into the crisp air of the sharp mountain 
 night for company, his thought had left the Hoi- 
 tons and were seeking (as they almost always were, 
 these days and nights), his little pupil of the 
 spelling-book, his little burden of the brush-fire 
 flight. He looked across the mountain-side toward 
 where her lonely cabin hid in its secluded fastness. 
 
 167
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 There was a late light to-night ashine from its 
 small window. 
 
 "She'll like her," he murmured softly in the 
 night. "She'll love her. Aunt 'Lethe'll under- 
 stand!" 
 
 And then he wondered just exactly what it was 
 that he felt so very certain his Aunt 'Lethe would 
 be sure to understand. He did not understand, 
 himself, precisely what had happened to him, his 
 life-plans, heart-longings. 
 
 Strolling there beneath the stars he gave no 
 thought to poor Joe Lorey, until, like a night- 
 shadow, the moonshiner stalked along the trail and 
 passed him. Layson called to him good-natur- 
 edly, but the mountaineer gave him no heed. Frank 
 stood, gazing after him in the soft darkness, in 
 amazement. Then a quick, suspicious thrill shot 
 through him. The man was bound up the steep 
 trail toward Madge's cabin. Presently he heard 
 him calling. He went slowly up the trail, himself. 
 
 The girl came quickly from her cabin in answer 
 to the shouting of the mountaineer. 
 
 "What is it, Joe?" she asked. 
 
 "I want a word with you. I've come a pur- 
 pose," Lorey answered sullenly. 
 
 The girl was almost frightened by his manner. 
 She had never seen him in this mood ; he had never 
 come to her, alone, at night, before. "Well, Joe, 
 you'll have to wait," said she. "I've got some 
 
 168
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 things to do, to-night." Her sewing was not yet 
 half finished. 
 
 Standing on her little bridge, she held with one 
 hand to the worn old rope by means of which she 
 presently would pull it up. She did not take Joe 
 very seriously; in the darkness she could not see 
 the grim expression of his brow, the firm set of his 
 jaw, the clenched hands, one of which was pressed 
 against the game sack with his powerful plunder 
 hidden in it. She laughed and tried to joke, for, 
 even though she did not guess how serious he was, 
 her heart had told her that some day, ere long, 
 there must of stern necessity be a full understand- 
 ing between her and the mountaineer, and that he 
 would go from her, after it, with a sore heart. In 
 the past she had not wished to marry him, but she 
 had never definitely said, even to herself, that such 
 a 4thing was quite impossible for all time to come. 
 Now she knew that this was so, although she would 
 not acknowledge, even to herself, the actual rea- 
 son for this certainty. No ; she could never marry 
 Joe. She hoped that he would never again beg 
 her to. 
 
 "Come back some other time, when I ain't quite 
 so busy," she said trying to speak jokingly. "To- 
 morrow, or nex' week, or Crismuss." 
 
 He stood gazing at her sourly. "I'll come 
 sooner," he said slowly. "Sooner. An' hark ye, 
 Madge, if that thar foreigner comes in atween us, 
 I'm goin' to spile his han'some face forever!" 
 
 169
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 "What nonsense you do talk!" the girl ex- 
 claimed, but her heart sank with apprehension as 
 the man stalked down the path. She did not pull 
 the draw-bridge up, at once, but stood there, gazing 
 after him, disturbed. 
 
 Again he met Layson, still strolling slowly on 
 the trail, busy with confusing thoughts, puffing 
 at his pipe. The mountaineer did not call out a 
 greeting, but stepped out of the trail, for Frank to 
 pass, without a word. 
 
 "Why, Joe," said Layson, "I didn't see you. 
 How are you?" He held out his hand. 
 
 The mountaineer said nothing for an instant, 
 then he straightened to his lank full height and 
 held his own hand close against his side. "No," 
 he said, "I can't, I can't." 
 
 Layson was astonished. He peered at him. 
 "Why, Joe!" said he; and then: "See here what 
 have I ever done to you?" 
 
 Joe turned on him quickly. "Done?" he cried. 
 "Maybe nothin', maybe everythin'." He paused 
 dramatically, unconscious of the fierce intentness of 
 his gaze, the lithe aggressiveness of his posture. 
 "But I warns you, now you ain't our kind! Th' 
 mountings ain't no place for you. The sooner you 
 gits out of 'em, the better it'll be fer you." 
 
 Layson stood dumbfounded for a moment. Then 
 he would have said some further word, but the 
 mountaineer, his arm pressed tight against that old
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 game-sack, stalked down the trail. Suddenly Lay- 
 son understood. 
 
 "Jealous, by Jove!" he said. "Jealous of n<tt l e 
 Madge!" Slowly he turned about, puffing fiercely 
 at his pipe, his thoughts a compound of hot anger 
 and compassion. 
 
 Madge, filled with dread of what her disgruntled 
 mountain suitor might be led to do by his black 
 mood, had not yet re-crossed her draw-bridge, but 
 was standing by it, listening intently, when she 
 heard Layson's footsteps nearing. Her heart gave 
 a great throb of real relief. She had not exactly 
 feared that trouble really would come between the 
 men, but Lorey came of violent stock and his 
 face had been dark and threatening. 
 
 She saw Layson long before he knew that she 
 was there. 
 
 "Oh," she cried, relieved, "that you?" 
 
 He hurried to her. "I thought you mountain 
 people all went early to your beds," said he, and 
 laughed, "but I met Joe Lorey on the trail and 
 here you are, standing by your bridge, star-gaz- 
 ing." 
 
 Of course she would not tell him of her worries. 
 She took the loophole offered by his words and 
 looked gravely up at the far, spangled sky. "Yes," 
 said she, "they're mighty pretty, ain't they?" 
 
 Layson was in abnormal mood. The prospect 
 of his Aunt's arrival, the certainty that something 
 more than he had thought had come out of his 
 
 171
 
 77V OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 mountain sojourn, the fact that he was sure that 
 he regretted Barbara Holton's coming, old Neb's 
 arrival, and his raking up of ancient scores against 
 the lowland maiden's father, his meeting with Joe 
 Lorey and the latter's treatment of him, had 
 wrought him to a pitch of mild excitement. The 
 girl looked most alluring as she stood there in 
 the moonlight. 
 
 "My friends are in the valley and are coming up 
 to-morrow," he said to her. "Do you know that 
 this may be the last time I shall ever see you all 
 alone?" 
 
 She gasped. He had not hinted at a thing like 
 that before. "You ain't going back with them, 
 are you?" she asked, her voice a little tremulous 
 from the shock of the surprise. "You ain't going 
 back with them never to come hyar no more, are 
 you?" 
 
 He stepped nearer to her. "Why, little one," he 
 asked, "would you care?" 
 
 "Care?" she said with thrilling voice, and then, 
 gaining better self-control, tried to appear indiffer- 
 ent. "Why should I?" she said lightly. "I ain't 
 nothin' to you and you ain't nothin' to me." 
 
 His heart denied her words. "Don't say that!" 
 he cried. "You don't know how dear you've grown 
 to me." He stepped toward her with his arms out- 
 stretched. He almost reached her and he knew, and 
 she knew, instinctively, that if he had he would 
 have kissed her. 
 
 172
 
 " NO MAN CAN CROSS THIS BIUUUK, UNLESS UNLESS " 
 
 Page 178.
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 She shrank back like a startled fawn, when his 
 foot was almost on the bridge that spanned the 
 chasm between them and her cabin. 
 
 "Don't you dare to touch me!" she said fiercely. 
 
 She sped back upon the little bridge, and, when 
 he would have followed, held her hand up with a 
 gesture of such native dignity, offended woman- 
 hood, that he stopped where he was, abashed. 
 
 "No no, sir; you can't cross this bridge," said 
 she. "No man ever can, unless unless " 
 
 Almost sobbing, now, she left the sentence in- 
 complete; and then: "Oh, you wouldn't dared act 
 so to a blue-grass girl! But I know what's right 
 as well as them. It don't take no book-learnin' to 
 tell me as how a kiss like that you planned for me 
 would be a sign that really you care for me no more 
 than for the critters that you hunt an' kill for pas- 
 time up hyar among the mountings." 
 
 He would have given much if he had never done 
 the foolish thing. He stood there with lowered 
 eyes, bent head, abashed, discomfited. 
 
 "An' I 'lowed you were my friend !" said she. 
 
 Now he looked up at her and spoke out impul- 
 sively: "And so I am, Madge, really! I was 
 . . . wrong. Forgive me!" 
 
 She dropped her hands with a weary change of 
 manner. "Well, I reckon I will," said she. 
 "You've been too kind and good for me to bear 
 a grudge ag'in you ; but . . . but . . . Well, 
 maybe I had better say good-night" 
 
 173
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 She walked slowly back across the bridge with- 
 out another word, pulled on its rope and raised it, 
 made the rope fast and slowly disappeared within 
 her little cabin. 
 
 "Poor child !" said he, and turned away. "I was 
 a brute to wound her." 
 
 As he went down the trail, darkening, now, as 
 the moon slid behind the towering mountain back 
 of him, his heart was in a tumult. "After all," he 
 reflected, "education isn't everything. All the cul- 
 ture in the world wouldn't make her more sincere 
 and true. She has taught me a lesson I shan't soon 
 forget." 
 
 His thoughts turned, then, to the girl who would 
 come up with the party on the following day. 
 
 "I wonder! Was there ever, really, a time 
 when I loved Barbara? . . . If so, that time has 
 gone, now, never to return." 
 
 174
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 His visitors took Layson by surprise, next morn- 
 ing. They had started from the valley long before 
 he had supposed they would. 
 
 Holton saw him first and nudged his daughter, 
 who was with him. They were well ahead of Miss 
 Alathea and the Colonel, who had been unable to 
 keep up with them upon the final sharp ascent of 
 the foot- journey from the wagon-road. The old 
 man grinned unpleasantly. He had rather vulgar 
 manners, often annoying to his daughter, who had 
 had all the advantages which, in his rough, mys- 
 terious youth, he had been denied. 
 
 "Thar he is, Barb; thar he is," he said, not 
 loudly. Miss Alathea and the Colonel, following 
 close behind, were a restraint on him. 
 
 The girl's face was full of eagerness as she saw 
 the man they sought. He was busy polishing a 
 gun, but that his thoughts were occupied with some- 
 thing less mechanical and not wholly pleasant the 
 slight frown upon his face made evident. "Mr. 
 Layson! Frank!" she cried. 
 
 The young man turned, on hearing her, and hur- 
 
 175
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 ried toward her and her father with his hands out- 
 stretched in welcome. He was not overjoyed to 
 have the old man visit him, just then; he was even 
 doubtful of the welcome which his heart had for 
 the daughter; but he was a southerner and in the 
 gentle-born southerner real hospitality is quite in- 
 stinctive. 
 
 "Mr. Holton Barbara," said he. "I am de- 
 lighted. Welcome to the mountains." He grasped 
 their hands in hearty greeting. "But where are 
 Aunt Alathea and the Colonel?" 
 
 Holton tried to be as cordial as his host. That 
 he was very anxious to appear agreeable was evi- 
 dent. "Oh, them slow-pokes?" he said, laughing. 
 "We didn't wait for them. We pushed on ahead. 
 We reckoned as you would be glad to see us." 
 
 "And so I am." 
 
 "One in particular, maybe," Holton answered, 
 with a crude attempt at badinage. He glanced 
 archly from the young man to his daughter. 
 
 "Father!" she exclaimed, a bit annoyed, and yet 
 not too unwilling that the fact that she and Lay- 
 son were acknowledged sweethearts should be at 
 once established. 
 
 "Oh, I ain't been blind," said Holton, gaily, go- 
 ing much farther than she wished him to. "I've cut 
 my eye-teeth!" 
 
 Then he turned to Layson with an awkward 
 lightness. "Barbara told me what passed between 
 you two young folks afore you come up to the 
 
 176
 
 77V OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 mountings," he explained. And then, with further 
 elephantine airyness: "I say, jest excuse me 
 reckon I'm in the way." He made a move as if 
 to hurry off. 
 
 Layson was not pleased. The old man was an- 
 noying, always, and now, after the long revery of 
 the night before about Madge Brierly, this attitude 
 was doubly disconcerting. "Not at all, Mr. Hoi- 
 ton," he said, somewhat hastily. "I'm sure we'd 
 rather you'd remain. Are you sure the others are 
 all right?" 
 
 "Close behind us." 
 
 "I'll go and make sure that they do not lose 
 their way." 
 
 Holton looked at his daughter in a blank dismay 
 after the youth had started down the hill. "I say, 
 gal," said he, "there's somethin' wrong here!" 
 
 She was inclined to blame him for the deep dis- 
 comforture she felt. "Why couldn't you let us 
 alone?" she answered angrily. "You've spoiled 
 everything!" 
 
 The old man looked at her, with worry on his 
 face. "Didn't you tell me 't was as good as set- 
 tled? You said you were dead sure he meant to 
 make you his wife." 
 
 She was still petulant, blaming him for Layson's 
 unexpected lack of warmth. "Yes, but you needn't 
 have interfered!" 
 
 Holton was intensely puzzled, worried, almost 
 frightened. He was as anxious to have this young 
 
 177
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 man for a son-in-law as his daughter was to have 
 him for a husband. Her marriage into such a 
 celebrated blue-grass family as the Laysons were, 
 would firmly fix her social status, no matter how 
 precarious it might be now, and the match would 
 be of great advantage to him in a business way, as 
 well. He stood there, thinking deeply, very much 
 displeased. 
 
 "There's somethin' more nor me has come be- 
 tween you," he said finally, his face flushing with 
 a deep resentment. "I tell you, gal, what I be- 
 lieved at first, deep in my heart, air true. He was 
 only triflin' with you. Them aristocrats down in 
 the blue-grass don't hold us no better than the dust 
 beneath their feet, even if we have got money. 
 It's family that counts with them. Didn't he lay 
 his whip acrost my face, once, as if I was a nig- 
 ger ?" His wrath was rising. "And now he shows 
 that he was only triflin' with you with no real in- 
 tentions of doin' as we thought he would!" The 
 man was tremulous with wrath. "Oh, I'll be even 
 with him!" 
 
 Barbara was greatly worried by the situation. 
 All her life, despite the fact that she was beautiful, 
 despite the fact that her father was a rich man 
 richer, by a dozen times, than many of the people 
 for whose friendship she longed vainly she had 
 vaguely felt that there was an invisible gulf be- 
 tween her and the girls with whom she came in 
 contact at the exclusive schools to which she had 
 
 178
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 been sent, between her and the gentle-folk with 
 whom, in some measure, she had mixed since she 
 had left school-walls. "Father," she asked anx- 
 iously, "why do people look down on us so?" 
 
 He faced her with a worried look, as if he feared 
 that she might guess at something which he wished 
 should remain hidden. "They say I made my 
 money tradin' in niggers," he replied, at length. 
 "Well, what of it? Didn't I have the right?" 
 
 "Are you sure there's nothing else?" 
 
 He seemed definitely startled. "Girl, what makes 
 you ask?" 
 
 "Because sometimes memories come to me." 
 
 "Memories of what?" 
 
 "Of my childhood," she said slowly, "of passes 
 among mountains mountains much like these." 
 
 He regarded her uneasily. "Oh, sho, gal!" he 
 exclaimed, trying to make light of it. "Reckon 
 you've been dreamin'. You were never hyar be- 
 fore." 
 
 But she looked about her, unconvinced, and, when 
 she spoke, spoke slowly, evidently trying to recall 
 with definite clarity certain things which flitted 
 through her mind as vague impressions only. 
 "Why does everything seem so familiar, here, then, 
 as if I had just wakened in my true surroundings 
 after a long sleep in which I had had dreams?" 
 There was, suddenly, a definite accusation in her 
 eyes. "Father, you are trying to deceive me! I 
 
 179
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 was once a child, here in these very mountains!" 
 She stared about intently. 
 
 The speech had an amazing effect on the old 
 man. He stepped close to her. "Hush!" said he, 
 imperatively. "Don't you dare speak such a word 
 ag'in!" 
 
 She peered into his eyes. "There is a secret, 
 then ! We lived here, long ago !" 
 
 "Stop, I tell you!" he commanded. "Don't hint 
 at such things, for your life." He dropped his 
 voice to hoarse whisper. "Suppose I did live hyar, 
 once. I was a smooth-faced youngster, then; my 
 own mother wouldn't know me, now." 
 
 The sound of voices coming up the mountain- 
 trail interrupted the dramatic scene. 
 
 "Sh!" said he. "They're comin'!" 
 
 Frank was piloting his Aunt and Colonel Doo- 
 little. "This way, Aunt 'Lethe," they could hear 
 him say. 
 
 An instant later he appeared, leading the way up 
 the steep trail. His Aunt, Neb and the Colonel 
 followed him. 
 
 "Now, Aunt 'Lethe," he said gaily, "you can rest 
 at last. Colonel, I can welcome you in earnest. 
 This is, indeed, a pleasure." 
 
 The Colonel was puffing fiercely from the hard 
 work of the climb, but his broad face glowed with 
 pleasure. He took a long, full breath of the ex- 
 hilerating mountain air. "Pleasure? It's a derby- 
 day, sir, metaphorically speaking." As he rested 
 
 1 80
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 he eyed the youngster with approval. "Frank," 
 said he, "you've grown to be the very image of my 
 old friend, Judge Layson. Ah, five years have 
 made their changes in us all except Miss 'Lethe." 
 He bowed gallantly in her direction, and she gaily 
 answered the salute. 
 
 Barbara advanced, enthusiastically, looking at 
 the Colonel with arch envy in her eyes. "Five 
 years you've been in Europe, surrounded by the 
 nobility. Oh, Colonel, what happiness!" 
 
 He shook his head. "Happiness away from old 
 Kentucky, surrounded by a lot of numb-skulls who 
 couldn't mix a fancy drink to save their lives, who 
 know nothing of that prismatic, rainbow-hued 
 fountain of youth, a mint-julep? Ah!" 
 
 "But, Colonel," said the girl, "the masterpieces 
 of art!" 
 
 "Give me," said he, "the masterpieces of Mother 
 Nature the bright-eyed, rose-cheeked, cherry- 
 lipped girls of old Kentucky!" 
 
 There was a general laugh. The Colonel's gal- 
 lantry was ever-blooming. Frank applauded and 
 the ladies bowed. 
 
 "By the way, Frank," said the Colonel, after 
 they had been made comfortable in a merry group 
 before the cabin-door, "where is that particular 
 masterpiece of Nature which you've written us so 
 much about? Where is the Diana?" 
 
 Miss Alathea smiled at her somewhat worried 
 nephew. "The 'phenomenon,' " said she. 
 
 181
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 "According to Neb, who told us of her as we 
 worked up that steep trail," said Barbara, "the 
 "deer.' ' She laughed, not too good naturedly 
 Neb, who was standing waiting orders near, 
 grinned broadly. 
 
 "Neb, you rascal!" exclaimed Frank. 
 
 "Come, where is she, Frank; where is she?" 
 asked the Colonel. 
 
 The youth was not too much embarrassed, but 
 he gave a quick, side-glance at Barbara. "She is 
 probably getting ready to receive you," he re- 
 plied. "I told her I expected you and she's been 
 very much excited over it." 
 
 "Adding to nature's charms the mysteries of 
 art," the Colonel said, approvingly. "We shall ex- 
 pect to be overwhelmed. And, meantime, while 
 we're waiting, we might as well explain to you the 
 business which has brought us up here." 
 
 His face showed him to be the bearer of good 
 news. He rose, excitedly, and went to Frank, to 
 put his hand upon his shoulder. "Now, my boy, 
 keep cool, keep cool! I tell you, Frank, it's the 
 biggest thing out. It'll make a millionaire of you 
 as sure as Fate before the next five years have 
 passed !" 
 
 Layson was taken wholly by surprise. No one 
 had in the least prepared him for anything of this 
 sort. He had supposed the party had come up to 
 see him merely for the pleasure of the trip. "I 
 don't understand," said he. 
 
 182
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 "Keep cool, keep cool!" the Colonel urged. "It 
 is colossal, metaphorically. You see, I was over 
 there in Europe, promoting a South American 
 mine, when I happened to see in a Kentucky paper 
 that the Georgetown Midland was to be put 
 through these mountains near the land your father 
 bought. That land, my boy, is rich in coal and 
 iron !" 
 
 The young man's face shone with delight. "He 
 always said so!" he exclaimed. "I meant, some- 
 time, to investigate." 
 
 "I've saved you the trouble. I came back on the 
 next steamer, organized a syndicate in New York 
 City, sent an expert out to carefully look into 
 things, and, on his report, a company is willing to 
 put in a $200,000 plant to develop your land. All 
 you've got to do is to take $25,000 worth of stock 
 and let your coal-land stand for as much more." 
 
 The youth's face fell. "Twenty-five thousand 
 dollars !" he exclaimed. "Why, Colonel, I have not 
 one fifth of it!" 
 
 "Ah," said the Colonel, smiling, "but here, like 
 a good angel, comes in your dear Aunt 'Lethe!" 
 He smiled at her. "Isn't it so, Miss 'Lethe?" 
 
 Frank spoke up quickly. "Surely," he exclaimed 
 to her as she advanced toward him, with smiles, 
 "you know I'd never take your money!" 
 
 "You must, Frank," she insisted. "The Colonel 
 says it is the chance of a life-time."
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 "Why, Auntie, it's your whole fortune. I 
 wouldn't risk it." 
 
 "But you could pay it all back in a month." 
 
 "How?" he asked, not understanding in the 
 least. 
 
 "By selling Queen Bess." 
 
 He flinched. The thought had not occurred to 
 him. "Sell Queen Bess !" said he. "The prettiest, 
 the fastest mare in all Kentucky! Never!" 
 
 "My boy," said the Colonel, "the odds are far 
 too heavy a million against the mare. You can't 
 stand 'em." 
 
 "Oh, Frank," said his Aunt, impulsively, "if 
 you'll only take the money and give up racing!" 
 
 He laughed. Miss Alathea's strong prejudice 
 against the race-tracks was proverbial. "So that's 
 what you're after!" he exclaimed. "You dear old 
 schemer !" 
 
 "With your impulsive, generous nature, racing 
 is sure to ruin you." 
 
 The Colonel looked . first at Frank with ardent 
 sympathy aglow in his eyes; then, after a hasty 
 glance at Miss Alathea, he quickly changed the 
 meaning of his look and spoke admonishingly. 
 "The voice of wisdom!" he exclaimed. "Ah, 
 Frank, from what I hear I judge you're too much 
 of a plunger like a young fellow I once knew 
 who thought he could win a fortune on the race- 
 track." He began, now, to speak very seriously. 
 "He was in love with the prettiest and sweetest 
 
 184
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 girl in old Kentucky, but he wished to wait till he 
 could get that fortune, and he chased it here and 
 there, looking for it mostly on the race-tracks, until 
 he had more grey hairs than he had ever hoped to 
 have dollars; he chased it till his dream of happi- 
 ness had slipped by, perhaps forever. My boy, the 
 race-track is a delusion and a snare." 
 
 Miss Alathea looked at him with pleased sur- 
 prise. "Colonel, your sentiments astonish and de- 
 light me." 
 
 "How can you refuse," the Colonel said, "when 
 such a woman asks ? For one who loves you, you 
 should give those pleasures up without a pang." 
 
 In the pause that followed he reflected on the 
 history of the youth to whom he had referred, for 
 that young man was himself. He had loved Miss 
 Alathea twenty years, but the Goddess Chance had 
 kept him, all that time, too poor to ask her hand in 
 marriage. His heart beat with elation as he real- 
 ized that, possibly, the scheme which he had come 
 there to the mountains to propose to Frank, might 
 remedy the evils of the situation. 
 
 Frank had been thinking deeply. "But what 
 certainty is there," he inquired, "that I can sell 
 Queen Bess at such a price?" 
 
 Now the Colonel spoke with animation. "Abso- 
 lute. I've a written offer from the Dyer brothers 
 to take her for twenty-five thousand dollars, if she 
 is delivered, safe and sound, on the morning she's 
 
 185
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 to run in the Ashland Oaks. It's a dead sure 
 thing, my boy. You can't refuse." 
 
 The young man hesitated, still. "I'll investigate, 
 and well, I'll see." He walked away, deep in 
 thought. 
 
 The Colonel turned from him to Miss Alathea. 
 "Miss 'Lethe, congratulate yourself. The victory 
 is won." 
 
 Frank turned upon his heel and spoke to Hoi- 
 ton. "What do you think of this investment?" he 
 inquired. 
 
 "Wai," said Holton, "I think it's a blamed good 
 thing. I'd only like the chance to go into it, my- 
 self." He went closer to the youth and spoke in 
 an instinctively low tone. "By the way, this gal, 
 hyar, Madge Brierly, owns fifty acres o' land down 
 there in the valley, that's bound to be wuth money. 
 Like enough, with your help, I could buy it for a 
 song. I'll make it all right with you. What do 
 you say? Is it a bargain, Layson?" He held out 
 his hand, evidently with no thought but that the 
 questionable offer would be snapped up at once. 
 
 Layson drew back angrily. "No," he replied. 
 
 Holton, seeing that he had made a serious mis- 
 take, tried to correct it. "Oh, shucks, now! I 
 didn't mean no harm. That's only business." 
 
 Layson was intensely angered. "I won't waste 
 words on you," he said, "but think twice before 
 you make me such a proposition again." 
 
 Helton's wrath rose vividly. "Damn him!" he 
 
 166
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 muttered as he walked away. "I'll pay him back 
 for that! I'll get that gal's land in spite of him, 
 and I won't stop at that. I'll pay him back for 
 . . . everythin'! I'll teach him what it air to 
 stir the hate o' hell in a man's heart!" 
 
 Barbara, distressed anew by this unpleasant epi- 
 sode, had started to go after him, when the weird 
 cry of an owl, a long drawn, tremulous : "Hoo- 
 oo-oo!" came from somewhere in the forest, close 
 at hand. It startled her. "Heavens!" said she. 
 "What's that?" 
 
 Neb, who also had been startled at the first pene- 
 trating, weird call, bethought himself, now, and 
 answered her: "It's de deah." 
 
 "The phenomenon!" exclaimed Miss Alathea. 
 
 "The Diana !" said the Colonel, looking at Frank 
 slyly. 
 
 "Yes; she's coming," Frank said gaily, and 
 then, looking down the path, started violently. 
 "Heavens, she's coming !" 
 
 The Colonel, who also had looked down the 
 path, hurriedly approached him, feigning worry. 
 "Frank, I haven't got 'em again, have I?" 
 
 Madge approached them slowly in the quaint, 
 old-fashioned costume she had resurrected from 
 the chests of her dead mother's finery and re-made, 
 very crudely, in accordance with the fashion-plates 
 which she had found down at the cross-roads store. 
 The result of her contriving was a startling mix- 
 ture of fashions widely separated as to periods. 
 
 187
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 Her untutored taste had mixed colors dashingly. 
 Her unskilled fingers had sewed very bunchy 
 seams. 
 
 The girl was much embarrassed : it required the 
 last ounce of her bravery to advance. Before she 
 actually reached the little group, she half hid, in- 
 deed, behind a tree. It was from this shelter that 
 she called her greeting: "Howdy, folks, howdy!" 
 
 Frank went toward her with an outstretched 
 hand. "Come, Madge," said he, encouragingly. 
 
 "Reckon I'll have to," she assented, with a bash- 
 ful smile and took a step or two reluctantly. But 
 she had never seen folk dressed at all as were these 
 visitors from the famed blue-grass, and her cour- 
 age again faltered. Instantly she realized how 
 wholly her own efforts to be elegant had failed. 
 She hung back awkwardly, pathetically. 
 
 "Don't be nervous, Madge; just be yourself," 
 Frank urged her. 
 
 "Free and easy? Well, I'll try; but I'm skeered 
 enough to make me wild and reckless." 
 
 Frank led her forward, while she made a mighty 
 effort to accept the situation coolly. "These are 
 my friends, Madge. Let me introduce you." 
 
 She got some grip upon herself and smiled. 
 "Ain't no need. Know 'em all by your prescrip- 
 tion." With a mighty effort she approached the 
 Colonel. "Colonel Sandusky Doolittle, howdy !" 
 
 The Colonel was delighted. Her knowledge of 
 his name was flattering. He had forgotten her 
 
 188
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 strange costume the moment his glance had caught 
 her wonderful, deep eyes. "Howdy, howdy !" he 
 said heartily, shaking her hand vigorously. "Why, 
 this is real Kentucky style !" It won't take us long 
 to get acquainted." 
 
 "Know all about you now," she said. "Great 
 hossman. Colonel, I'll have a race with you, some- 
 time." 
 
 "What, you ride?" said the delighted Colonel. 
 
 "Ride! Dellaw!" said she, wjth, now, unembar- 
 rassed animation. The subject was that one, of 
 all, which made her most quickly forget everything 
 beside. "Why, me and my pony takes to racin' 
 like a pig to carrots. Before he lamed himself, 
 whenever th' boys heard us clatterin' down th' 
 mounting, they laid to race us back. Away we 
 went, then, clickity-clip, upj:h' hills and around th' 
 curves an' I allus won." 
 
 The Colonel realized with a great joy that he 
 had found a kindred spirit. "Shake again!" he said 
 to her, after further most congenial talk, and then 
 turned to Frank. "My boy, you're right. She is 
 a phenomenon a thoroughbred, even if she hasn't 
 any pedigree." 
 
 Up to this time the ladies had remained some- 
 what in the background, watching the young moun- 
 tain girl as the Colonel drew her out. 
 
 Madge now turned to Frank, but looked at Bar- 
 bara. "Is that the young lady from the blue- 
 grass?" The girl was hurt and really offended by 
 
 189
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 the stranger's aloof manner. "Looks like she can't 
 see common folks." 
 
 "That is Miss Barbara." He led the mountain 
 girl toward her. "Barbara, this is my friend er 
 Madge." He was, himself, a little disconcerted. 
 
 The maiden from the lowlands bowed, but said 
 no word. For an instant Madge shrank back, but 
 then she advanced with an unusual boldness. Her 
 spirit was aroused. 
 
 "Howdy, Miss Barbarous, howdy!" she ex- 
 claimed and held her hand out to the handsomely 
 dressed girl. 
 
 But Miss Barbara was annoyed by the whole hap- 
 pening. She Itelt that this uncultivated country 
 girl was getting far too much attention. The 
 child's unconscious pun upon her name infuriated 
 her. She did not answer her, but raised a lorgnette 
 and stared at her. 
 
 Madge was ready with an instant sympathy. 
 "Oh, that's why you couldn't see, poor thing! 
 Spectacles at your age!" Whether she really 
 thought this was the case, not even Frank could 
 tell by looking at her. 
 
 Miss Holton was incensed. The haughty treat- 
 ment she had planned to, give the mountain girl 
 had not had the results she had expected. "There's 
 nothing whatever the matter with my eyes!" she 
 exclaimed hastily. 
 
 "Wouldn't think you'd need a machine to help 
 you star-gaze at folks, then," said the mountain 
 
 190
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 girl. "But maybe it's the fashion in the blue- 
 grass." 
 
 Frank hurried up with Holton, planning a diver- 
 sion. "This is Mr. Holton, Madge." 
 
 "Howdy, sir," said she, and then started in 
 astonishment. "Ain't I seen your face before, sir?" 
 
 "Wai, I reckon not," said Holton most uneasily. 
 "I was never hyar in these hyar mountings afore." 
 
 She stepped closer to him, gazing straight at his 
 grey eyes. They seemed strangely to recall the 
 very distant past, she knew not how. There were 
 other things about him which seemed much more 
 immediately familiar, although his more elaborate 
 garb prevented her, for the moment, from recog- 
 nizing him as the stranger with the hammer, who 
 had, that day of the forest-fire, been tap-tapping on 
 the rocks upon her pasture-land. "Your eyes seem 
 to bring something back." She plainly paled. She 
 knew that their suggestion was a dreadful one, but 
 could not make it definite. 
 
 Miss Alathea noted her agitation instantly, and 
 hurried to her side. "Poor child, what is the mat- 
 ter?" 
 
 Madge had regained control of her features, 
 which, for an instant, had shown plain horror. 
 "Tain't nothin', ma'am. It couldn't be. It's all 
 over now." She smiled gratefully at Miss Alathea. 
 "An' you're his aunt, ain't you ? I'd know you for 
 his kin, anywhere. Why, somehow, you remind 
 me of my lost mother."
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 "Thank you, my dear. You must be very lonely, 
 up here all alone." 
 
 "I am, sometimes," said the girl, "but I have lots 
 of fun, too. The woods are full of friends. Th' 
 birds an' squirrels ain't afraid o' me. They seem 
 to think I'm a wild thing, like 'em." 
 
 "It's true," said Frank, with an admiring, cheer- 
 ing look at the little country girl. "Their con- 
 fidence in her is wonderful." 
 
 The bluegrass girl's annoyance was increasing. 
 She had come up to the mountains thinking that, 
 among such crude surroundings, her gowns and 
 the undoubted beauty they adorned, would hold 
 the center of the stage, and by contrast, hold Lay- 
 son quite enthralled; but here, instead, was a 
 brown-faced country maid in grotesque, home- 
 made costume, attracting most of his attention. 
 She was conscious that by showing her discomfiture 
 she was not strengthening her own position, but 
 she could not hide it, could not curb her tongue. 
 
 "A rider of races," said she; "a tamer of ani- 
 mals! What accomplishments! Do you actually 
 live here, all alone?" 
 
 "Come," said Madge, determined to be pleasant, 
 "and I'll show you." She led the bluegrass girl 
 to a convenient point from which her cabin was in 
 sight. 
 
 "In that little hut!" said Barbara, not impressed 
 as Madge had innocently thought she would be. 
 "Shocking!" 
 
 192
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 The girl was angered, now. "So sorry I didn't 
 have your opinion afore! But, maybe, you 
 wouldn't think it were so awful, if you knowed 
 how 'twere I come to live there." 
 
 Frank had written something of the poor girl's 
 tragic story to his aunt. She was all interest. 
 "Won't you tell us, please?" she asked. 
 
 Holton seemed to show a strange disinclination 
 to listen to the narrative. "Ain't got no time for 
 stories," he objected. "Gettin' late." 
 
 "We'll take time, then," said Frank. 
 
 "Go on, little one," urged Colonel Doolittle. 
 "We're listening." 
 
 Impressed and touched by the sympathy in the 
 horseman's tone and the interest in Miss Alathea's 
 eyes, Madge told with even greater force and more 
 effect than when she had related it to Layson the 
 story of the tragedy which had robbed her at a 
 blow of father and of mother, the black, dreadful 
 tale of merciless assassination which had left her 
 orphaned in the mountains. Her audience at- 
 tended, spell-bound, even the disgruntled and un- 
 sympathetic Barbara listening with unwilling fasci- 
 nation. Only Holton turned away, with a gesture 
 of impatience. He plainly did not wish to waste 
 time on the girl. Or was it that? He seemed to 
 be uneasy as he walked to and fro upon the rock- 
 ledge near them, whence, had he cared for it, he 
 could have had a gorgeous view of mountain scen- 
 ery. But, although he said, as plainly as he could 
 
 193
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 without actual rudeness, that the girl and her sad 
 tale of tragedy were not worth attention, he was 
 not successful in his efforts wholly to refuse to lis- 
 ten to her. 
 
 "Infamous!" said Miss Alathea, when the child 
 had finished. 
 
 "And that scoundrel has gone free!" exclaimed 
 the Colonel, in disgust. 
 
 "That's how I come to live alone, here," Madge 
 went on, addressing Barbara, particularly. The 
 girl had made her feel it necessary to offer some 
 defense. "After my mammy died I didn't have no 
 place to go, an' so I just stayed on here, an' th' 
 bridge my daddy built for his protection I have 
 kept for mine. Maybe he has told you of it." She 
 indicated Frank. They nodded. 
 
 "And nothing has been heard of the infernal 
 traitor, all these years?" the Colonel asked. 
 
 "He left the mountings when he found how folks 
 was feelin' they'd have shot him, like a dog, on 
 sight. But it don't make no differ where he goes ; 
 it don't make a bit of differ where he goes." 
 
 "What do you mean by that ?" the Colonel asked, 
 and as he spoke, Holton, suddenly intent, paused in 
 his pacing of the ledge to listen. 
 
 "I mean, no matter where he goes he'll have to 
 pay for it, come soon, come late. Th' day air sure 
 to come when Joe, Ben Lorey's son, '11 meet him 
 face to face an' make him answer for his crime!" 
 
 194
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 "God-speed to him!'' exclaimed the Colonel, fer- 
 vently. 
 
 Madge, in a gesture full of drama, although 
 quite unconscious, raised her head, looking off into 
 the vastness of the' mountains, her hands thrust 
 straight down at her sides and clenched, her shoul- 
 ders squared, her chest heaving with a mighty in- 
 take. The little mountain-girl, as she stood there, 
 thrilling with her longing for revenge, with pray- 
 ers that some day the sinner might be punished for 
 his dreadful crime, made an impressive figure. 
 
 "Come soon or late!" she sighed. "Come soon 
 or late!" 
 
 The party watched her, fascinated, till Holton 
 took his daughter's arm and urged her, uneasily, 
 out of the little group. 
 
 Later Madge asked the Colonel to go with her 
 to the pasture lot and take a look at Little Hawss. 
 Gladly he went with her, tenderly this expert in 
 Kentucky racers, the finest horses in the world, ex- 
 amined the shaggy little pony's hoof. He told 
 Madge what to do for him and promised to send 
 up a lotion with which to bathe the injured foot, 
 although he gently warned her that she must not 
 hope that Little Hawss would ever do much racing 
 up and down the mountain trails again. She 
 choked, when he said this, and the horseman's heart 
 went out to her. 
 
 "Little one," said the Colonel, as the party was 
 preparing to go down the mountain, "you're a 
 
 195
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 thoroughbred, and Colonel Sandusky Doolittle is 
 your friend from the word 'go.' ' He took her 
 hand in his and smiled down into her eyes. 
 
 Then, turning to Miss 'Lethe: "Do you know, 
 Miss 'Lethe, there's something about this little girl 
 that puts me in mind of you, when I first met you? 
 You remember?" 
 
 "Ah, Colonel, that was twenty years ago the 
 day I was eighteen." 
 
 "And I was twenty-five. Now I'm forty-five and 
 you " 
 
 "Colonel!" 
 
 "Are still eighteen.' He bowed, impressively, 
 with that charming, gallant smile which was pe- 
 culiar to him. 
 
 "Aren't you going down with us, Frank?" asked 
 Barbara, looking at the youth with plain surprise 
 when she noted that he lingered when she and her 
 father were ready for the start. 
 
 "I wish to speak to Madge, a moment. I'll over- 
 take you." 
 
 The bluegrass beauty looked at him, wrath blaz- 
 ing in her eyes, then turned away with tossing 
 head. 
 
 "Good-bye," said Madge, and held her hand out 
 to her. 
 
 Barbara paid no attention to the small, brown 
 hand, but, instead, opened her parasol almost in 
 the face of the astonished mountain-girl, who 
 
 196
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 jumped back, startled. "Oh, very well," said Bar- 
 bara to Frank. 
 
 Madge turned to him, the softness of the mood 
 engendered by her talk with the Colonel and Miss 
 'Lethe all gone, now. Her face was flushed with 
 anger. "Dellaw!" said she. "Thought she was 
 goin' to shoot!" 
 
 Now Barbara spoke haughtily. "Good after- 
 noon, Miss Madge. You have entertained us won- 
 derfully, wonderfully."
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 It was late on an afternoon several days after 
 the party from the bluegrass had gone down from 
 the mountains when Layson, with a letter of great 
 import in his pocket sought Madge Brierly. 
 
 He was very happy, as, a short time before he 
 reached her isolated cabin, he stepped out to the 
 edge of that same ledge where Horace Holton 
 had found the view too full of memories for com- 
 fort, to look off across the lovely valley spread be- 
 fore, below him. There were no memories of 
 struggle and bloodshed to arise between him and 
 that view and for a time he gloried in it with that 
 bounding, pulsating appreciation which can come 
 to us in youth alone, as his eyes swept the fair 
 prospect of wooded slope and rugged headland, 
 stream-ribbon, mountain-meadow, billowy forest. 
 Then, with a deep breath of the wondrous air of 
 the old Cumberlands, which added a physical ex- 
 hileration almost intoxicating to the pleasure of the 
 thoughts which filled his mind, he went slowly up 
 the rugged twisting path to Madge's cabin. There, 
 
 198
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 standing- by the bridge he called, and, presently, the 
 girl appeared. 
 
 He smiled at her. He did not wish to tell her, 
 too quickly, of the news the letter held. 
 
 The girl was still full of the visit and the visi- 
 tors. They had seemed to her, reared as she had 
 been in the rough seclusion of the mountains, like 
 denizens of another, wondrotisly fine world, come 
 to glimpse her in her crude one, for a few hours, 
 and then gone back to their own glorious abiding 
 place. 
 
 She did not admit it to herself, but they had left 
 behind them discontent with the life she knew, her 
 lack of education, almost everything with which, 
 in days gone by, she had been so satisfied. 
 
 Layson, watching her as she approached, was 
 tempted to enjoy her as she was, for a few min- 
 utes, before telling her the news which, young and 
 inexperienced as he was, he yet knew, instinctively, 
 would change her for all time. 
 
 "Well," he said, "how did you like them, 
 Madge?" 
 
 The girl sat upon a stump and looked off across 
 the valley. Her hands were clasped upon one knee, 
 'as she reflected, the fading sunlight touched her 
 hair with sheening brilliance, her eyes, at first, were 
 dreamy, happy. 
 
 "Oh, I loved your aunt !" said she. "She made 
 me think of my own mammy. . . . She made 
 me think of my own mammy." 
 
 199
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 "Arid she was quite as much in love with you." 
 
 "Was she? . . . And Gunnel Doolittle! 
 Ain't he splendid? And how he do know hosses! 
 Wouldn't I love to see some of them races that he 
 told about? Wouldn't I love to have a chance to 
 learn how to become a lady like your aunt? She's 
 just the sweetest thing that ever lived." 
 
 "And . . . and . . . Miss Barbara?" said 
 Layson, with a little mischief in his wrinkling eye- 
 lids. 
 
 The girl shrugged herself together haughtily 
 upon her stump. He had seen lowlands girls use 
 almost the same gesture when, in drawing-rooms, 
 some topic had come up which they did not wish 
 to talk about. 
 
 "Huh! Her!" said Madge and would have 
 changed the subject had he let her. 
 
 "Really?" he asked, wickedly. "Didn't you like 
 her?" 
 
 "I ain't sayin' much," said Madge, "because she's 
 different from me, has had more chance, is better 
 dressed, knows more from books an' so on, an' it 
 might seem like I was plumb jealous of her. 
 Maybe I am, too. But, dellaw! Her with her 
 pollysol! When she opened it that way at me I 
 thought it war a gun an' she war goin' to fire! 
 Maybe I ain't had no learnin' in politeness, but it 
 seems to me I would a been a little more so, just 
 the same, if I'd been in her place. She don't like 
 
 200
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 me, she don't, an' I why, I just hates her! Her 
 with her ombril up, an' not a cloud in sight!" 
 
 Layson looked at her and laughed. The letter 
 in his pocket made it seem probable that she would 
 not need, in future, to submit to such humiliations 
 as the blue-grass girl had put upon her, so his mer- 
 riment could not be counted cruel. 
 
 "Jealous of her?" he inquired, quizzically. 
 
 She sat in deep thought for a moment and then 
 frankly said : "I reckon so ; a leetle, teeny mite. 
 Maybe it has made me mean in thinkin' of her, ever 
 since." 
 
 "You're honest, anyway," said he, "and I shall 
 tell you something that will comfort you. She was 
 as jealous of you as you were of her." 
 
 "She was!" the girl exclaimed, incredulous, sur- 
 prised. "Of me?" You're crazy, ain't you?" 
 
 "Not a bit." 
 
 "What have / got to make her jealous?" 
 
 "A lot of things. You've beauty such as hers 
 will never be " 
 
 "Dellaw!" said Madge, incredulously. She had 
 no knowledge of her own attractiveness. "Don't 
 you start in makin' fun o' me." 
 
 "I'm not making fun of you. You're very beau- 
 tiful my aunt said so, the Colonel said so, and 
 I've known it, all along." 
 
 No one had ever said a thing like this to her, 
 before. She looked keenly at him, weighing his 
 sincerity. When she finally decided that he really 
 
 201
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 meant what he had said, she breathed a long sigh 
 of delight. 
 
 "They said that I was beautiful!" 
 
 "They did, and, little girl, you are ; and you have 
 more than beauty. You have health and strength 
 such as a bluegrass girl has never had in all the 
 history of women." 
 
 "Oh, yes," said she, "I'm strong an' well but 
 but " 
 
 "But what?" 
 
 "But what?" she quoted bitterly. "But I ain't 
 got no eddication. What does strength and what 
 does what you tell me is my beauty count, when I 
 ain't got no eddication? Why why I looked 
 plumb foolish by the side of her! You think I 
 don't know that my talk sounds rough as rocks 
 alongside hers, ripplin' from her lips as smooth as 
 water? You think I don't know that I looked 
 like a scare-crow in all them clo'es I had fixed up 
 so careful, when she come on with her gowns 
 made up for her by dressmakers? Why why I 
 never see a dressmaker in all my life! I never 
 even see one!" 
 
 "Well," said he, and looked at her with a slow 
 smile, "there probably will be no reason why you 
 may not see as many as you like, in years to come." 
 
 She was amazed. "This some sort o' joke?" 
 
 "No, Madge. How would you like to be rich ?" 
 
 "Me? . . . Rich? Oh ... oh, I'd like 
 it Then I could go down in th' bluegrass, study, 
 
 202
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 1'arn, an' I could do a heap o' good aroun' hyar, 
 too" She sighed. "But thar never was nobody 
 rich in these hyar mountings an' I reckon thar 
 never will be." 
 
 "Perhaps you may be," said the youth, and there 
 was a serious quality in his voice which made her 
 start and then lean forward on her stump to gaze 
 at him with searching, eager eyes. 
 
 "Your land down in the valley," he went on, 
 "mny contain coal and iron enough to give you a 
 fortune. Now there are bad men in this world, 
 and I want you to promise me to sell it to nobody 
 without first coming to me for advice." 
 
 "Promise?" said the girl, the wonder all ashine 
 in her big eyes. "In course I'll promise that. But 
 is there r'ally a chance of it?" 
 
 "There really is." 
 
 "Oh, if I only knovved, for shore! Seems like 
 I couldn't wait!" 
 
 "You shall know, to-night, or, maybe, sooner. I 
 have the engineers report, but I must study it out 
 carefully and make sure what boundaries he means. 
 I'm almost certain they include your land. As soon 
 as I find out I'll come back here and call to you 
 and let you know." 
 
 "I reckon you won't have to call ! I'll be watch- 
 in' for you every minute." 
 
 "Well, I'm off. But remember what I said about 
 letting anyone buy any of your land from you. 
 
 203
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 Don't sell an inch, don't give an option at whatever 
 price, to anyone without consulting me." 
 
 When he had left, the girl still sat there, dream- 
 ing on her stump after she had watched him out of 
 sight. 
 
 The news that she might become rich had stirred 
 her deeply for a moment, but, soon she wondered 
 if riches, really, would mean everything, and de- 
 cided that they would not. 
 
 "Somehow," she mused, "somehow I don't care 
 much about it, not unless unless oh, I can't think 
 of nothin' in th' world but him! An' he says he's 
 goin' to go away, never to return no more ! . . . 
 Other folks has gone away, afore, but it didn't 
 seem to hurt my heart like this. I wonder what is 
 ailin' me." 
 
 Her thought turned back to that half-bitter, half- 
 delightful moment when he had tried to kiss her 
 at the bridge. "Why, even then," she mused, "thar 
 were somethin' seemed to draw me to him in spite 
 o' myself. Never felt anythin' like it afore. It 
 war just as if I war asleep, all over, an' never 
 wanted to wake up! I wonder if I wish he warn't 
 comin' back, to-night not half so much, I reckon, 
 as I wish he warn't never goin' away !" 
 
 She left her resting place upon the stump, and, 
 torn by varying emotions, found a place upon the 
 trail where she could look off to his camp. She 
 was standing there, leaning listlessly against a tree, 
 
 204
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 when the sound of someone coming made her turn 
 her head. She saw Joe Lorey. 
 
 "Madge," said he, approaching, "I wants a word 
 with you." 
 
 She did not wish to talk with him. Her mind 
 was far too busy with its thoughts of Layson, its 
 dismay at the prospect of his departure. "No time, 
 Joe; it's too late," said she. She started to go by 
 him toward her little bridge. 
 
 But he was not inclined to be put off. The 
 mountaineer's slow mind had been at work with 
 his great problem and he had quite determined that 
 he would take some action, definite and unmistak- 
 able, without delay. He had leaned his ever-pres- 
 ent rifle up against a stump, had laid the old game- 
 sack, still burdened with the stolen dynamite, upon 
 the ground, close to it, and was prepared to talk 
 the matter out, to one end or the other. He loved 
 her with the fierce love of the primitive man; his 
 rising wrath against the circumstances amidst 
 which he seemed to be so powerless had made him 
 sullen and suspicious; mountain life, continual de- 
 fiance of the law, unceasing watchfulness for 
 "revenuers," does not teach a man to be smooth- 
 mannered, half-way in his methods. He made a 
 move as if to catch her arm; she darted by him, 
 running straight toward the old game-sack. 
 
 That burden in the game-sack had been a con- 
 stant horror to him ever since he had first stolen 
 it down at the railroad workings. The mighty 
 
 205
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 evidence of the power of the explosive which had 
 been shown to him when it had torn and mangled 
 its poor victim there, had filled him with a terror 
 of it, although it had also filled him with determi- 
 nation to make use of that great power if neces- 
 sary. But now, as he saw her running, light- 
 footed, lovely, toward the bag which held it, run- 
 ning in exactly the right way to stumble on it if a 
 mis-step chanced, his heart sprang to his throat. 
 What if the dire explosive he had planned to use 
 upon his enemies should prove to be the death of 
 the one being whom he loved ? He sprang toward 
 her with the mighty impulse of desperate muscles 
 spurred by a panic-stricken mind and caught her, 
 roughly, just before her foot would have touched 
 and spurned the game-sack. 
 
 "Stop!" he cried, in desperation. 
 
 She was amazed that he should take so great a 
 liberty. She stopped, perforce, but, after she had 
 stopped, she stood there trembling with hot anger. 
 "Joe Lorey," she exclaimed, "you dare !" 
 
 Now he was all humility as he let his hand fall 
 from her arm. "It was for your sake, Madge," 
 said he. "A stumble on that sack it mout have 
 sent us both to Kingdom Come!" 
 
 She looked at him incredulously, then down at 
 the sack. "That old game-sack ? Why, Joe, you're 
 plumb distracted!" 
 
 "I'm in my senses, yet, I tell you," he persisted. 
 "T'other day I went down where they're blastin' 
 
 206
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 for th' railroad. I see 'em usin' dynamighty, down 
 thar, an' I watched my chance an', when it come, 
 I slipped one o' th' bombs into that game-sack. Ef 
 you'd chanced to kick it " 
 
 She was impressed. "Dynamighty bombs? Del- 
 law! What's dynamighty bombs?" 
 
 "It's a giant powder, a million times stronger 
 nor mine." He reached into the sack and, with 
 cautious fingers, took out the cartridge and the 
 fuse, exhibiting them to her. "See here. I seed 
 'em take a bomb no bigger nor this one, an' light a 
 fuse like this, an' when it caught it ennymost shook 
 down a mounting! I seed a poor chap what war 
 careless with one, an' when they picked him up, 
 
 Why " 
 
 "Don't, Joe!" said the girl, looking at the car- 
 tridge with the light of horror shining in her eyes. 
 "What you doin' with such devil's stuff?" 
 
 "I got it for th' revenuers," he said frankly. 
 The mountaineers of the old Cumberland, to this 
 day, make no secret of their deadly hatred for the 
 agents of the government excise. "They're snoop- 
 in' 'round th' mountings, an' if they find my still 
 I plan to blow it into nothin', an' them with it." 
 
 She recoiled from him. "No, no, Joe; you'd 
 better gin th' still up, nor do such work as that!" 
 
 "I'll never gin it up!" said he, with a set face. 
 "It's mine; it war my father's long before me. 
 There's only one thing could ever make me gin 
 it up." 
 
 207
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 "What's that?" The girl was still spell-bound 
 by the fascination of the dynamite which she had 
 come so near to treading on. Her eyes were fixed 
 upon the cartridge in his hand with horror, won- 
 der. 
 
 He stepped closer to her. "I mout gin it up for 
 you!" 
 
 "For me?" 
 
 "You know I've loved ye sence ye were that 
 high," said he, and measured with his hand a very 
 little way up the side of the old stump. "Many 
 a time I've listened hyar to your evenin' hymn, an' 
 thought I'd rather hear you singin' in my home 
 than hear th' angels singin' in th' courts o' Heaven. 
 Say th' word, Madge say you'll be my little 
 wife!" 
 
 The girl was wofully affected. Her eyes filled 
 and her bosom heaved with feeling. It cut her 
 to the soul to have to hurt this playmate of her 
 babyhood, defender of her youth, companion of 
 her budding womanhood; their lives had been 
 linked, too, by the great tragedy which, years ago, 
 had orphaned both of them. But, of late, she had 
 felt sure that she could never marry him. She 
 would not admit, even to herself, just why this 
 was; but it was so. "No, no, Joe; it can never 
 be," she said. 
 
 He knew! "And why?" said he, his face black- 
 ening with bitter feeling, his brows contracting 
 
 208
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 fiercely. "Because that furriner from the blue?, 
 grass has come atween us!" 
 
 Madge, surprised that he should guess the secret 
 which she had scarcely admitted, even to herself, 
 was, for a second, frightened by his keenness. Had 
 she shown her feelings with such freedom? But 
 she quickly regained self-control and answered with 
 a clever counterfeit of lightness. "Him? Oh, sho! 
 He'd never think o' me that way!" 
 
 "Mebbe so," said Joe, "but I know you think 
 more o' th' books he teaches you from than o' my 
 company. From th' thickets borderin' th' clearin' 
 where you've studied, I've watched you settin' thar 
 with him, wen I'd give th' world to be thar in his 
 place. Why, I'd ennymost gin up my life for one 
 kiss, Madge!" He looked at her with pitiful love 
 and longing in his eyes ; but this soon changed to a 
 sort of mad determination. "I'll have it, too!" he 
 cried, advancing toward her. 
 
 She was amazed, not in the least dismayed. In- 
 deed the episode took from the moment some of its 
 emotional strain. That he should try to do this 
 utterly unwarrantable thing took a portion of the 
 weight of guilty feeling from her heart. It had 
 been pressing heavily there. "You shan't!" she 
 cried. "Careful, Joe Lorey!" 
 
 She eluded him with ease and ran across her 
 little bridge. He paused, a second, in astonish- 
 ment, and, as he paused, she grasped the rope and 
 pulled the little draw up after her. 
 
 209
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 "Look out, Joe; it air a hundred feet, straight 
 down !" she cried, as she saw that the baffled moun- 
 taineer was trembling on the chasm's edge, as if 
 preparing for a spring. "Good night, Joe. Take 
 my advice gin up th' still, an' all thought of 
 makin' a wife of a girl as ain't willin'." 
 
 Half laughing and half crying she ran up the 
 path which wound about among the thickets on the 
 rocky little island where her rough cabin stood, se- 
 cure, secluded. 
 
 The mountaineer stood, baffled, on the brink of 
 the ravine. Much loneliness among the mountains, 
 where there was no voice but his own to listen to, 
 had given him the habit of talking to himself in 
 moments of excitement. 
 
 "Gone! Gone!" he said. "Gone laughin' at 
 me !" He clenched his fists. "And it is him as has 
 come atween us!" He turned slowly from the 
 place, picked up his rifle, slung the game-sack, sag- 
 gin with the weight of the dynamite, across his 
 shoulder by its strap, and started from the place. 
 
 He had gone but a short distance, though, be- 
 fore he stopped, considering. Murder was in Joe 
 Lorey's heart. 
 
 "She said he war comin' back," he sullemy re- 
 flected. I'll . . . lay for him, right hyar." 
 
 He looked cautiously about. His quick ear 
 caught the sound of footsteps coming up the trail. 
 
 "Somebody's stirrin', now," he said. "Oh, if it's 
 only him!" 
 
 210
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 He slipped behind a rock to wait in ambush. 
 
 But it was not his enemy who came, now, along 
 the trail. Horace Holton, held to the mountains 
 by his mysterious business, had left the others of 
 the party to go home alone, as they had come, and 
 returned to the neighborhood which housed the 
 girl who owned the land he coveted. 
 
 Joe, suspicious of him, as the mountaineer who 
 makes his living as a moonshiner, is, of course, of 
 every stranger who appears within his mountains, 
 stepped forward, suddenly, his rifle in his hand 
 and ready to be used. He had no idea that the 
 man had been a member of the party from the blue- 
 grass. 
 
 "Halt, you!" he cried.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 Holton, full of scheming, was returning up the 
 trail after having said good-bye to Barbara, Miss 
 Alathea and the Colonel at the railway in the val- 
 ley, climbing steadily and skillfully, without much 
 thought of his surroundings. The locality, familiar 
 to him years before (although he had at great pains 
 indicated to everyone but Barbara that it was 
 wholly strange to him) showed but superficial 
 change to his searching, reminiscent eyes. His feet 
 had quickly fallen into the almost automatic climb- 
 ing-stride of the born mountaineer, and his 
 thoughts had gradually absorbed themselves in 
 memories of the past. Joe Lorey's sudden com- 
 mand to halt was somewhat startling, therefore, 
 even to his iron nerves. Instinctively and instantly 
 he heeded the gruff order. 
 
 Dusk was falling and he could not very clearly 
 see the moonshiner, at first, as he stepped from 
 behind the shelter of his rock. He moved slowly 
 on, a step or two, hands half raised to show that 
 they did not hold weapons, recovering quickly from 
 
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 the little shock of the surprise, planning an ex- 
 planation to whatever mountaineer had thought his 
 coming up the trail at that hour a suspicious cir- 
 cumstance. That he was one of Lay son's friends 
 from the low-country would, he thought, be proof 
 enough that he was not an enemy of mountain- 
 folk. Layson, he knew, was generally regarded 
 with good will by the shy dwellers in this wilder- 
 ness. 
 
 But when he clearly saw Joe Lorey's face a 
 thrill shot through him far more lasting than the 
 little tremor born, at first, of the command to halt. 
 
 He had not seen the youth before. Joe, half 
 jealous, half contemptuous, of Layson's fine friends 
 from the bluegrass, had kept out of their sight, al- 
 though he had watched them furtively from covert 
 almost constantly; and, it chanced, had not been 
 so much as mentioned by either Frank or Madge 
 while the party from the bluegrass lingered at the 
 camp, save when Madge told the tragic story of 
 her childhood while Holton stood aloof, for reasons 
 of his own, hearing but imperfectly. 
 
 Now the unexpected sight of the young man, for 
 some reasons, made the old one gasp in horror. 
 There was that about the face, the attitude, the 
 very way the lithe moonshiner held his gun, which 
 made him seem, to the astonished man whom he 
 had halted, like a grim vision from the past. "My 
 God!" he thought. "Can the dead have come to 
 life?" 
 
 213
 
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 For an instant he went weak. His blood chilled 
 and the quick beating of his heart changed the deep 
 breathing of his recent swinging stride into short, 
 sharp gasps. 
 
 It was only for an instant, though. His life had 
 not been one to teach him to falter long in the face 
 of an emergency. Quickly he regained poise and 
 reasoned calmly. 
 
 "No," he thought, "it's Joe, Ben Lorey's son. 
 Th' father's layin' where he has been, all these 
 years. I'm skeery as a girl." 
 
 Joe advanced upon him truculently. "Say," he 
 demanded, "what's yer name an' what ye want 
 here?" His ever ready rifle nested in the crook 
 of his left arm, his brow was threatening, his 
 mouth was firmly set an instant after he had 
 spoken. 
 
 Holton, recovering himself quickly, spoke 
 calmly, propitiatingly. "My name's Holton. I 
 want to see th' gal as lives up yander. Want to 
 buy her land of her." 
 
 Lorey, satisfied by this explanation that the 
 stranger was not a government agent, as he had, at 
 first suspected, relaxed his tense rigidity of mus- 
 cles. From fear of revenuers his disturbed mind 
 returned quickly to the bitterness of his resent- 
 ment of what he thought Madge Brierly's infatua- 
 tion for the young lowlander. 
 
 "It's too late," he said. "Thar's only one man 
 
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 as she'd let down that bridge for, now th' man 
 I thought ye might be Frank Layson." 
 
 Holton, quick to see the possibility of gaining 
 an advantage, realizing from the young man's tone 
 that he was certainly no friend of Layson's, guess- 
 ing, with quick cunning, at what the situation was, 
 decided that the thing for him to do was to reveal 
 the fact that, in his heart, he, also, hated Layson. 
 
 "So ye took me for a revenuer or Frank Layson, 
 eh?" said he. "I know what th' mountings think 
 o' revenuers, an' I reckon, from yer handlin' o' that 
 rifle, that you're no friend o' Layson's." 
 
 Joe, full of the fierce bitterness of his resent- 
 ment, was ready to confide in anyone his hatred 
 of the "furriner" who had come up and won the 
 girl he loved. He let the barrel of his rifle slip be- 
 tween his fingers till its stock was resting on the 
 ground. 
 
 "I hates him as I hates but one man in th' 
 world !" he said, with bitter emphasis. 
 
 "Who's that?" said Holton, thoughtlessly, al- 
 though, an instant afterward, he was sorry that he 
 had pursued the subject. 
 
 "Lem Lindsay," Lorey answered ; "him as killed 
 my father. Frank Layson's come between me an' 
 Madge Brierly, an' he's got to cl'ar my tracks!" 
 His voice thrilled with the intensity of his emotion, 
 and, suddenly, he caught his rifle up, again, into 
 his crooked elbow, where it rested ready for quick 
 usage. "If you plans to warn him " he began. 
 
 215
 
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 "Warn him!" said the older man, with a bitter- 
 ness, real or counterfeited, whichever it might be, 
 as fierce as that which rang in the young moon- 
 shiner's own voice, "I hate him as much as you. 
 I'd rather warn you." 
 
 "Warn me o' what?" Lorey had begun to lose 
 suspicion of the stranger. If, really, he hated Lay- 
 son, he might make of him a useful ally. 
 
 "Your name's Lorey," Holton answered, with 
 his keen eyes fixed intently on those of the man 
 who stood there, tensely listening to him, "an' yo' 
 keep a still." 
 
 Now Lorey again caught his rifle quickly in both 
 hands; his face showed new apprehension, and a 
 terrible determination, desperate and dreadful. If 
 this stranger knew about the still, was it not cer- 
 tain that he was a government spy and therefore 
 worthy of quick death? 
 
 "Keerful!" he said menacingly. "Hyar in th' 
 mountings that word's worth your life!" The 
 youth, with frowning brow and glittering, wolfish 
 eyes, stood facing Holton like an animal at bay, 
 with what amounted to a threat of murder on his 
 lips. 
 
 "I'm speakin' it for your own good," the old 
 man answered, throwing into his voice as much of 
 frankness as he could command. "I tell you that 
 th' revemooers have got word about your still." 
 
 "Then somebody's spied an' told 'em." 
 
 Here was Helton's chance. The vicious scheme 
 
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 came to him in a flash. Layson he hated fiercely ; 
 this youth he hated fiercely. What plan could be 
 better than to set the one to hunt the other? If 
 Lorey should kill Layson it would remove Layson 
 from his path and make his way clear to the pur- 
 chase of Madge Brierly's coal-lands at a small frac- 
 tion of their value. And, having killed him, Lorey 
 would, of course, be forced to flee the country, for 
 the hue and cry would be far-reaching. Such a 
 killing never would be passed over as an ordinary 
 mountain murder generally is by the authorities. 
 Thus, at once, he might be rid of the young blue- 
 grass gentleman he hated and the young moun- 
 taineer he feared. 
 
 "You're right," said he. "Somebody's spied an' 
 told 'em. Somebody as stumbled on yore still while 
 he was huntin'." 
 
 Lorey looked at him, wide-eyed, infuriated. In- 
 stantly he quite believed what Holton said. It 
 dove-tailed with his own grim hate of Layson that 
 Layson should hate him and try to work his ruin 
 by giving information to the revenuers. "Some- 
 body huntin'!" he exclaimed. "Frank Layson! 
 Say it, say it!" 
 
 "Promise you'll never speak my name?" said 
 Holton. He had no wish to be mixed up in the 
 tragic matter, and he knew, instinctively, that if Joe 
 Lorey gave his word, moonshiner and lawbreaker 
 as he was, it would be kept to the grim end. 
 
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 "I promise it, if it air th' truth you're tellin' 
 me," said Lorey. 
 
 "It's true, then," Holton answered. "You can 
 see for your own self that I'm a stranger hyar. 
 I couldn't a' knowed o' th' still exceptin' through 
 Frank Layson." 
 
 The simple, specious argument to Lorey was 
 convincing. "It air true," he admitted slowly. 
 "Nobody else would a' gin ye th' word." The 
 angry youth paused in black, murderous thought. 
 "He air a-comin' hyar, to-night," he went on pres- 
 ently. "I heered him tell Madge Brierly that he war 
 comin' back, this evenin'. You better maybe you 
 had better git along." He had no wish for wit- 
 nesses to what he planned, now, to accomplish, 
 when Layson should come back to Madge, as he 
 had promised, with the engineer's report upon her 
 coal lands. 
 
 Holton nodded, grimly satisfied that he had 
 planted a suspicion which might flower into his own 
 revenge. That blow which Layson had delivered 
 on his face, in the old days, had left a scar upon 
 his soul, and now that the young man seemed likely 
 to add to this unforgotten injury the new one of 
 retiring from the field as suitor for his daughter, 
 and, further, interfering with his plans to rob 
 Madge Brierly of her coal lands, his hatred of 
 him had become intense, insatiable. What better 
 fortune could he wish than to pit this mountain 
 youth, whom, also, for a reason carried over from 
 
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 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 dark days in his past life, he hated, against the 
 young man from the bluegrass whom he hated no 
 less bitterly? 
 
 "Go by that path, thar," said Lorey, suddenly, 
 and pointing, as Holton started to return by the 
 direct route he had followed as he came. "It air 
 round-about, but it'll lead you to th' valley. I'll 
 run no risk o' your warnin' him." 
 
 "Don't you be skeered," said Holton. "I'll keep 
 mum, no matter what happens." 
 
 With a grim smile he started down the path 
 which the mountaineer had pointed out. 
 
 "Laid his whip acrost my face!" he muttered as 
 he went. "Trifled with my gal! Him an' Ben 
 Lorey's son let 'em fight it out! I'm so much 
 th' better off." 
 
 And Lorey, slipping back into the shadow of a 
 rock, after he had made quite certain that the 
 stranger was following his directions, was reflect- 
 ing, bitterly: "He's come atween me an' th' gal 
 I love! He's put th' revenoo hounds upon my 
 track! Oh, if he had a dozen lives, I'd have 'em 
 all!" 
 
 For ten alert and watchful minutes, which 
 seemed to stretch to hours, he crouched there, wait- 
 ing, waiting, waiting, for the coming of the man 
 he hated. During five of these he listened to the 
 sounds of Holton's downward progress, brought to 
 his keen ear on the soft breezes of the young night. 
 There came the crackling of a twig, the thud, thud, 
 
 219
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 thud of a dislodged stone bounding- down the slope, 
 the rustle of leaves as the old man shuffled through 
 a pocket of them gathered in the lea of some pro- 
 truding rock by vagrant winds. Then all was still. 
 He did not guess that Holton had been anxious 
 that these sounds should reach him; that he had 
 stumbled down the trail with awkward feet with 
 no thought in his mind but to be certain that the 
 sounds should reach him. Such was the case, how- 
 ever, and, after he felt sure that the crouching 
 mountaineer above must be convinced that he had 
 gone on to the valley, the old man turned, cat- 
 like, re-ascended with a skill as great as Lorey's 
 own, and, with not a sound to warn the moun- 
 taineer that he had retraced any of his steps, took 
 cautious place behind a rock upon the very edge of 
 the open space where, when Layson came, he felt 
 quite sure a tragedy would be enacted. 
 
 Then Layson came blithely up the trail. He 
 had gone through the engineer's report with care. 
 The coal prospects included the girl's land. He 
 was full of rare elation at thought of the good luck 
 which had descended on the little mountain-maid, 
 full of pleasant plans for a bright future from none 
 of which she was omitted. 
 
 His dreams were rudely interrupted as Joe Lorey 
 stepped ominously from behind the rock where he 
 had waited for him. 
 
 "Hold up your hands!" the mountaineer com- 
 
 220
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 manded, with his rifle levelled at the advancing 
 youth. 
 
 "Joe Lorey!" exclaimed Layson. 
 
 "You know what air between us. Your time air 
 come. H you want to pray, do it quick, for my 
 finger air itchin' to pull th' trigger." 
 
 Layson's blood and breeding told, in this emer- 
 gency. He did not flinch a whit. "I'm ready," he 
 said calmly. "I'm not afraid to die, though it's 
 hard to meet death at the hands of a coward." 
 
 "Coward !" said the mountaineer, amazed. "You 
 call me that?" 
 
 "The man who shoots another in cold blood, 
 giving him no chance for his life, deserves no bet- 
 ter name." 
 
 This appealed to Lorey. So had his father died 
 at the hands of one who killed him in cold blood, 
 giving him no chance for his life. "You shan't 
 die callin' me that!" he cried. He leaned his rifle 
 against a nearby rock, threw his knife upon the 
 ground beside it, pulled off his coat, and thus, un- 
 armed, advanced upon his enemy. "We're ekal 
 now," he said with grim intensity, and pointed to 
 the chasm through which ran the stream which 
 made Madge Brierly's refuge an island. "That 
 gully air a hundred feet straight down," he said, 
 "an' its bottom air kivered with rocks. When 
 we're through, your body or mine'll lay there. Air 
 you ready?" 
 
 Holton, tense with excitement, was watching 
 
 221
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 every move of the two men from his hidden vant- 
 age point. Upon his face was th expression of 
 an animal of prey. 
 
 "Ready!" said Frank, quietly. 
 
 It was a terrific struggle which ensued. The 
 trained muscles of the lowland athlete were 
 matched against the lithe thews of the mountaineer 
 so evenly that, for a time, there was doubt of what 
 the outcome might be. Holton, watching, watch- 
 ing, thrilled with every second of it. Little he 
 cared which man won; the best thing which pos- 
 sibly could happen, for his own good, he reflected, 
 would be that both should crash down to the bot- 
 tom of the gully locked in one of their bear-hugs, 
 to fall together on the jagged rocks below. The 
 fierce breathing of the contestants, the shuffle of 
 their struggling feet upon the ground, the occa- 
 sional involuntary groan from one man or the 
 other as his adversary crushed him in embrace so 
 painful that an exclamation could not be sup- 
 pressed, were all music to the ears of the old man 
 behind the rock. Both youths were perils to him. 
 Let them kill each other. He would be the gainer, 
 whatever the outcome of the battle. 
 
 Suddenly Frank's foot slipped on a rolling peb- 
 ble. Instantly Lorey had taken advantage of the 
 mishap, and, with a quick wrench, thrown him 
 crashing to the earth. He lay there, scarcely 
 breathing, utterly unconscious. 
 
 The mountaineer bent over him, ready to meet 
 
 222
 
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 the first sign of revival with renewed attack, his 
 bloodshot eyes strained on the face of the young 
 man upon the ground. Then, anxious to be satis- 
 fied that his prostrate enemy was not feigning, he 
 knelt by him and peered into his face, placed his 
 hand upon his chest above his heart, felt his pulse 
 with awkward fingers. He wondered, now, if he 
 had not killed him, outright, for Frank's head had 
 struck the ground with a 'terrific impact. But 
 Layson's nostrils soon began to dilate and contract 
 with a spasmodic breathing. He still lived. 
 
 Rendered careless by the excitement of the mo- 
 ment, Joe again yielded to the habit engendered by 
 much solitude and spoke his thoughts aloud. 
 
 "It'll be long afore he'll stir," he muttered. "I'll 
 throw him down into th' gully." 
 
 He rose, and, going to the side of the ravine, 
 peered over with a fearful curiosity at the brawl- 
 ing torrent, cut into foam-ribbons by a horde of 
 knife-edged rocks. Then he went to Layson and 
 stretched out his hand to grasp his shoulder. 
 
 Occurred a psychological phenomenon. He 
 found his courage fail at thought of laying hands 
 upon the man as he was stretched there helpless. 
 
 "I I can't touch him !" he exclaimed. "It'd be 
 why, it'd be like handlin' th' dead !" 
 
 He drew back, non-plussed, ashamed of his own 
 timidity, yet unable to overcome it. He had felled 
 the man and meant to kill him, yet, now, he could 
 not bring himself to lay a hand upon him. 
 
 223
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 The thought then flashed into his mind of the 
 dreadful contents of his old game-sack. 
 
 "Th' bomb," he said. "Th' dynamighty bomb 
 that I was savin' for th' revenuers ! Let that finish 
 out th' man as set 'em onto me!" 
 
 He took the bomb from the old sack with trem- 
 bling fingers, laid it by Frank's side and, with a 
 match which flickered because the hands which 
 held it were unsteady as a palsied man's, set fire 
 to the fuse. Then he drew off to one side. 
 
 "Now, burn!" he said, with set teeth and lower- 
 ing brow. "Burn! Burn!" 
 
 For a second he stood there, watching the spark- 
 ing sputter of the powder as it slowly ate its way 
 along the little paper tube. Then, suddenly, a 
 dreadful thought occurred to him. The girl! 
 What if Madge Brierly should come to meet the 
 lowlander before the bomb exploded, should see 
 him lying there, should hurry to him, frightened, 
 and get there just in time to 
 
 He shuddered. He must protect the girl he 
 loved! She could reach the side of the endangered 
 man only by means of the small bridge. But one 
 rope held it in position above the deep, precipitous- 
 sided gully. 
 
 He raised his rifle to his shoulder. It was a hard 
 shot, one which most men would have deemed im- 
 possible, but there was a star in line. He fired. 
 The bridge crashed down, a ruin, the severed rope 
 
 224
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 now dangling limply, freed of the burden it had 
 held for many years. 
 
 "She's safe!" said he. 
 
 For another instant he stood studying the splut- 
 tering fuse. From what he had seen at the railroad 
 workings he knew it was destined to burn long 
 enough so that many workmen could get out of 
 danger before the spark reached the strong ex- 
 plosive in the cartridge. He need not hurry. 
 
 "In three minutes it'll all be ended," he reflected. 
 "He's as helpless as a baby; he can't strike back, 
 now; it's no more nor he deserves. I'm goin'." 
 
 He straightened up and would have hurried off, 
 had not, at just that moment, the sweet voice of 
 the girl he loved rung through the brooding, fra- 
 grant evening air, in song. 
 
 It brought him to himself, it filled him with a 
 horrified realization of the foulness of the deed 
 which he was contemplating. 
 
 "No no!" said he. "Why, I'd be the coward 
 that he called me!" 
 
 He hurried to the fuse and, with trembling 
 eagerness, stamped out the spark which, now, was 
 creeping close indeed to that point where it would 
 have blossomed into the terrifying flower of death. 
 
 "I'll fight him ag'in," he said; and then, address- 
 ing the now extinguished fuse, the harmless car- 
 tridge of explosive: "You lie thar and prove ter 
 him I ain't no coward!" 
 
 He hurried down the trail. 
 
 225
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 Holton, vastly disappointed, crept out from his 
 hiding place. "The fool!" he muttered. "Oh, the 
 fool! That thar little spark would a' put me even 
 an' made me safe fer life! An' it war lighted 
 it war lighted !" 
 
 His regret was keen. He raged there like a 
 madman robbed of his intended prey. Then, sud- 
 denly : 
 
 "But who'll believe him when he says he put it 
 out? I'll doit!" 
 
 He hastily took out a match, struck it, relighted 
 the dead fuse. 
 
 "It'll be his work, not mine!" he thought, ex- 
 ultantly, as he paused to see that the fuse would 
 surely burn. 
 
 As he turned to hasten from the spot he caught 
 a glimpse of something white across the gully at 
 the thresh-hold of the girl's cabin. For a second 
 this was terrifying, but he quickly regained poise. 
 The bridge was gone. She could not reach the side 
 of the endangered man to save him, she could not 
 reach the mainland to pursue him and discover his 
 identity. He fled. 
 
 The girl was worried by the long delay in Lay- 
 son's coming. For fully half an hour she had been 
 listening for his cheery hail that hail which had, 
 of late, come to mean so much to her as she 
 worked about her household tasks. The last words 
 he had said to her had hinted at such unimagined 
 possibilities of riches, of education, of delirious de- 
 
 226
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 lights to come, that her impatience was but natural ; 
 and, besides this, Joe's words had worried her. 
 She did not think the mountaineer would ever 
 really let his jealousy lead him to a foul attack upon 
 his rival, but his words had worried her. She 
 stood upon her doorstep, hand above her eyes, and 
 peered across the gorge toward where the trail de- 
 bouched into the little clearing. 
 
 Nothing was in sight there, and her gaze wan- 
 dered along the little rocky field, in aimless scru- 
 tiny. Finally it chanced upon the prostrate form 
 of the young man. 
 
 "What's that lyin' thar?" she thought, intensely 
 startled. And then, after another moment's peer- 
 ing: "Why, it's Mr. Frank!" 
 
 She was amazed and frightened. Then her eye 
 caught the little sputtering of sparks along the fuse. 
 It further startled her. 
 
 "It's Mr. Frank and somethin's burnin' close be- 
 side him!" 
 
 Suspicion flashed into her mind like lightning, 
 followed, almost instantly, by firm conviction. 
 
 "It's a fuse," she cried, "an' thar by him is th' 
 bomb! It's Joe Lorey's work! Oh, oh " 
 
 She sprang down the rough path toward the place 
 where, ever since she could remember, the little 
 bridge had swung. Now, though, it was gone. 
 
 "The bridge!" she cried. "The bridge! It's 
 gone! I can't cross! I've got to see him die!" 
 
 Her frantic eyes caught sight of the frayed 
 
 227
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 rope, dangling from the firm supports which had so 
 long held up the bridge by means of it. Instantly 
 her quick mind saw the only chance there was to 
 save the man whom, now, she knew she loved. 
 She sprang for the rope and caught it, gave herself 
 a mighty push with both her agile feet, and, hang- 
 ing above certain death if hold should fail or rope 
 break, swung across the chasm and found foothold 
 on the main-land. 
 
 In another second she was at the side of the un- 
 conscious man. Another and she had the cartridge, 
 sputtering fuse and all, in her right hand, another 
 and the deadly thing was hurtling to the bottom of 
 the deep ravine, whence an almost immediately 
 ensuing crashing boom told her that she had not 
 arrived a moment sooner than had been essential 
 to the salvation of the man she loved. 
 
 She knelt by Frank, pulled his head up to her 
 knee, chafed at his insensate hands, and called to 
 him wildly, fearing that he was dead.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 Joe Lorey was unhappy in his mountains. After 
 the visiting party had gone down from Layson's 
 camp, and, in course of time, Layson himself had 
 followed them because of the approach of the great 
 race which was to make or mar his fortunes, the 
 man breathed easier, although their coming and the 
 subsequent events had made, he knew, impressions 
 on his life which never could be wiped away. He 
 hated Layson none the less because he had departed. 
 He argued that he had not gone until he viciously 
 had stolen that thing which he, Lorey, valued most : 
 the love of beautiful Madge Brierly. He brooded 
 constantly upon this, neglecting his small moun 
 tain-farm, spending almost all his time at his illegal 
 trade of brewing untaxed whisky in his hidden still, 
 despite the girl's continual urgings to give up the 
 perilous occupation before it was too late. He had 
 told her that he would, if she would marry him; 
 now that she would not, he told her surlily that he 
 would continue to defy the law even if he knew 
 that every "revenuer" in the state was on his trail. 
 
 229
 
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 He was conscious that there was real danger; he 
 believed that Layson knew about the still and that 
 the bitter enmity resulting from the fight which had 
 so nearly proved his death might prompt him to be- 
 trayal of the secret; but with the stubbornness of 
 the mountaineer he clung doggedly to his illegal 
 apparatus in the mountain-cave, kept doggedly at 
 the illegal work he did with it. It was character- 
 istic of the man, his forbears and his breed in gen- 
 eral, that, now, when he knew that deadly danger 
 well might threaten, he sent more moonshine 
 whisky from the still than ever had gone from it 
 in like length of time, either in his father's day or 
 his. 
 
 That his actual and only dangerous enemy was 
 Holton, he did not, for an instant, guess. He 
 knew of not the slightest reason why this stranger 
 should include him in the hatred he had sworn 
 he felt for Layson that hatred which, he had as- 
 sured him, was as bitter as his own. He would 
 have been as much astonished as dismayed had he 
 known that Helton's almost instant action, upon 
 arriving at the county-seat, had been to make a visit 
 to the local chief of the Revenue-Service cau- 
 tiously, at night, for to be known as an informer 
 might have cost his life at other hands than 
 Lorey's, would have made the mountain for far 
 miles blaze vividly with wrath against him. 
 
 So, defiant of the man he thought to be his foe, 
 unconscious of the hatred of the man who really 
 
 230
 
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 was, Lorey was working in his still when a small 
 boy, sent up from a cabin far below, dashed, 
 breathless, to him with the news that revenue-men 
 were actually upon their way in his direction. He 
 had scarcely time to put his fire out, hide the lighter 
 portions of his apparatus and flee to a safe hiding- 
 place, nearby, before, clambering with lithe skill 
 and caution almost equal to his own along the 
 rocky pathways of the mountain-side, armed like 
 soldiers scouting in a hostile country, cool-eyed as 
 Indians, hard-faced as executioners, they actually 
 appeared. 
 
 For a time, as Lorey watched their progress 
 from his covert, he held his rifle levelled, held his 
 finger on its trigger, determined to kill them in 
 their tracks; and it was no thrill of mercy for the 
 men or fear of consequences to himself which saved 
 their lives. It was rather that he did not wish 
 further to risk his liberty until he had had oppor- 
 tunity to glance along the gleaming barrel of his 
 rifle as it was pointed at Frank Layson's heart. 
 
 After the men had gone he went back to his 
 still to view the ruins they had left behind them. 
 His wrath was terrible. Madge, who had, of 
 course, learned what had happened almost in- 
 stantly, for the still was scarcely out of hearing 
 of her cabin, tried vainly to console, to calm him. 
 He turned on her with a rage of which, in all her 
 life among hot-tempered mountaineers, she had 
 never seen the equal, and chokingly swore vengc- 
 
 231
 
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 ance on the man who had given the information 
 which had resulted in the raid. 
 
 "They come straight to th' still," he told her, 
 "never falterin', never wonderin' if, maybe, they 
 was on th' right path. Ev'ry inch o' th' hull way 
 had been mapped out for 'em, an' they didn't make 
 a mis-step from th' valley to th' very entrance o' 
 th' cave. I'll git th' chap that planned their course 
 out for 'em thataway! I'll git 'im, Madge! I'll 
 git 'im, sure!" 
 
 Her heart sank in her breast like lead. She 
 knew perfectly whom Lorey meant. She knew as 
 perfectly that Layson never had informed upon 
 the moonshiner, but she also knew that Heaven 
 itself could not, then, convince the man of that. 
 
 "Who do you mean you'll git, Joe?" she fal- 
 tered, hoping against hope that she was wrong in 
 her suspicions. 
 
 "You know well enough," he answered. "Who 
 would I mean but that damn' furriner, Frank Lay- 
 son? He warn't satisfied with comin' here an' 
 stealin' you away from me! He had to put th' 
 revenuers on th' track o' th' old still that was my 
 dad's afore me, an' has been th' one thing, siden 
 you, I've ever keered fer in my life." 
 
 "You're wrong, Joe," she insisted. "You're 
 shore wrong. Frank Layson'd never do a cow- 
 ard's trick like that!" 
 
 "He done it!" Lorey answered doggedly. "He 
 
 232
 
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 done it, an' as there is a God in Heaven he air 
 goin' to pay th' price fer doin' it!" 
 
 With that he stalked off down the trail, his rifle 
 held as ever in the crook of his elbow, his brows 
 as black as human brows could be. 
 
 For a time she sat there on a rock, gazing after 
 him, half -stupefied, with eyes wide, terror-stricken. 
 What could a mere girl do to avert the dreadful 
 tragedy impending? Tireless as he was, she knew 
 that he could keep upon the trail for twenty-four 
 hours without a pause, and that such travelling, 
 with the lifts which he would get from mountain 
 teamsters, would take him to the home of the man 
 whose life he had determined to snuff out at any 
 hazard. Beside herself with fright for Frank, she 
 sped back to her cabin, took what food was ready- 
 cooked and could be bundled up to carry on the 
 journey, put on her heaviest shoes and started for 
 the door. But, suddenly, the thought flashed 
 through her mind that, even as Joe Lorey was 
 bound down the trails to meet his rival, so would 
 she be bound down them to meet her own. She 
 could not bear the thought of facing Barbara Hoi- 
 ton, clad, as she was now, in rough, half-shapeless, 
 mountain-homespun. She made another bundle, 
 larger than the one which held her food, by many 
 times, and, when she finally set off, this bundle held 
 the finery which she had so laboriously prepared in 
 the mad hope of rivaling the work of the blue- 
 grass belle's accomplished city dressmakers. 
 
 233
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 Down in the bluegrass home of the ancient Lay- 
 son family all was excitement in anticipation of 
 the race which was to mean so much to the fortunes 
 of the young master of the fine old mansion which, 
 with pillared porticos and mighty chimneys, domi- 
 nated the whole section. Layson's heart was filled 
 with confidence whenever he went to the stables to 
 view the really startling beauty of the lovely ani- 
 mal on which his hope was pinned; it sunk into 
 despair, when, seated in his study in the house, 
 away from her, he counted up the cost of all 
 which he would lose if she did not run first in the 
 great race. 
 
 None but the Colonel, Miss Alathea and him- 
 self had an idea of the real magnitude of the 
 stakes dependant on Queen Bess. Upon the glossy 
 shoulders of the lovely mare rested, indeed, a great 
 burden of responsibility. If she won she would 
 not only secure the large purse for the owner, but 
 be salable for a price which would enable him 
 to take advantage, fully, of the offer which the 
 syndicate had made to develop his coal lands. If 
 she failed well, the fortunes of the house of 
 Layson would be seriously shattered. 
 
 No wonder, then, that Uncle Neb, in whom his 
 master's confidence was absolute, had strict in- 
 junctions closely to guard the mare. The faith- 
 ful negro watched her with a vigilance which was 
 scarcely less unremitting in the daytime than it 
 
 234
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 was at night when he slept upon the very straw 
 which bedded her. 
 
 Miss Alathea, intensely prejudiced against horse- 
 racing and the gambling which invariably goes with 
 it, by the Colonel's wasted life and her own ensu- 
 ing loneliness, nevertheless prayed night and day 
 that Queen Bess would be victorious, for Frank 
 had finally refused, point-blank, to let her risk 
 her fortune in the scheme for the development of 
 his coal-lands, and so, if the mare lost and the 
 eastern firm refused to purchase her at the large 
 price which would enable him to join the syndi- 
 cate, his great chance would be gone. Perhaps not 
 once in the world's history had any maiden-lady, 
 constitutionally opposed to betting and the race- 
 track, given as much thought to an impending 
 contest between horses on which great sums were 
 certain to be won and lost, as Miss Alathea did, 
 these days. 
 
 And if Miss Alathea was excited, what should 
 be said about the gallant Colonel? Every day he 
 visited the Layson place; every day he scrutinized 
 the mare with wise and anxious eyes; every day 
 he from his soul assured her owner and her own- 
 er's aunt that it was quite impossible that she 
 should lose ; every day he cautioned Neb, her 
 guardian, to let no human being, whom he did not 
 know and whom he and his master had not every 
 cause to trust implicitly, approach the splendid 
 beast. Wise in the ways of race-tracks and the un- 
 
 235
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 scrupulous men who have, unfortunately, thrown 
 the sport of kings into sad disrepute, he feared 
 some treachery continually. 
 
 Neb scarcely left the stable-yard, by day, unless 
 the mare went with him, by night he slept so that 
 he could, by reaching out a wrinkled, ebon hand, 
 actually touch her glossy hide. He fed her him- 
 self with oats and hay which he examined with the 
 utmost care before they found her manger or her 
 rack; he watered her himself with water from a 
 well within the stable and guarded by locked doors, 
 drawn in a pail which, invariably, he rinsed with 
 boiling water before he filled it up for her. No 
 drugs should reach that mare if he could help it! 
 None but himself or his "Marse Frank" was under 
 any circumstances permitted to get on her back. 
 If watchfulness could possibly preserve the mare 
 unharmed and in fine shape until the day of the 
 great race, Neb plainly meant to see that this was 
 done. Even the amateur brass-band and glee-club 
 into which he had organized the stable-boys and 
 other negro lads about the place, and of which he 
 acted as drum-major the proudest moment of his 
 life were when he donned the moth-eaten old shako 
 which was his towering badge of leadership 
 must practice nowhere save within the stable-yard, 
 where he could train them and, at the same time, 
 keep watchful eyes upon Queen Bess' quarters. 
 
 The negroes, young and old, about the place, in- 
 deed, were wild with their enthusiasm for the mare. 
 
 236
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 The day before the race a delegation of them, full 
 of eagerness, met Neb as he came out of the stable. 
 
 "Say, Unc Neb," said one of them, "we-all's 
 made a pool." 
 
 "Pool on de races?" 
 
 "Uh-huh! An' we-all wants to know jes' what 
 we ought to put ouah money on." 
 
 They well knew what he would say. 
 
 "Queen Bess, fo' suah," he answered, to their 
 vast delight. "Queen Bess ebery time. She's fit 
 to run fo' huh life." 
 
 The boys accepted the suggestion with a shout, 
 and he was about to enter into one of the long dis- 
 sertations on the strong points of his equine darling, 
 when he was informed that some stranger was ap- 
 proaching. He peered down the road with his old 
 eyes, but could not recognize the visitor. 
 
 "Who is it?" he asked one of the black lads. 
 
 "Marse Holton." 
 
 "Marse Holton!" he repeated dryly. "Run 
 along, now, honiest. Unc' Neb gwine be busy. I 
 won't hab dat ar Marse Holton pryin' round dat 
 mare. Hoodoo her fo' suah." He sidled to the 
 stable door, and, careful to see that his bent body 
 hid the operation from the coming visitor, turned 
 the key in the big lock. The key he then slipped 
 into his capacious trousers pocket. 
 
 "Hello, Neb," said Holton, affably, as he came 
 up. 
 
 "Ebenin', suh." Neb added nothing to this 
 
 237
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 greeting and went nonchalantly to a distant bench 
 to sit down on it carelessly. 
 
 "I say, Neb," said Holton, "I expect to do a lit- 
 tle betting, so I thought I'd jest drop over and take 
 a look at Layson's mare." 
 
 Neb sat immovable upon his bench. At first, 
 indeed, he did not even speak, but, fianlly, he looked 
 at Holton calmly, took the key out of his pocket, 
 tossed it in the air, caught it as it came down, put 
 it back into his pocket and dryly said : "T'ink not, 
 suh." 
 
 Holton, paying no attention to him, had gone on 
 to the stable-door and tried it. Finding it to be 
 fast locked, he turned back toward the darkey. 
 "The door's locked, Neb," he said. 
 
 "Knowed dat afore, suh," Neb replied. 
 
 Holton was nettled by his nonchalance. "Open 
 that door!" he ordered. 
 
 "Not widout Marse Holton's ohduhs, suh," Neb 
 answered calmly. 
 
 "What do you mean?" demanded Holton, an- 
 grily. 
 
 "Jus' what I say, suh." 
 
 Holton made a slightly threatening movement 
 toward him, but Neb did not even wink. 
 
 "Don't git riled, suh bad fo' de livuh, suh." 
 
 Holton, now, was very angry. "Look here," he 
 said, advancing on the aged negro angrily. "Do 
 you dare insult a friend and neighbor of Mr. 
 Layson ?" 
 
 238
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 Neb slowly rose and answered with some dig- 
 nity: "I dares obey Marse Frank's plain ohduhs, 
 sub. Dat mare represents full twenty-fi' thousan' 
 dolluhs to him" (Neb rolled the handsome figures 
 lovingly upon his tongue), "an' dere's thousan's 
 more'll be bet on huh to-morruh." He looked at 
 Holton with but thinly veiled contempt. "Plenty 
 men 'u'd risk deir wuthless lives to drug huh." 
 
 "Oh, shucks!" said Holton, trying to control his 
 temper because of his great eagerness to get in to 
 the mare. "She would be safe with me; you know 
 it." 
 
 "I knows Marse Frank hab barred ebery win- 
 dow an' sealed ebery doah but dis one, an' gib 
 me ohduhs to let no one in 'cept he is by. I Stan's 
 by dem ohduhs while dere's bref in my ol' body." 
 
 Holton was infuriated. "It's lucky for you I'm 
 not your master!" 
 
 "Dat's what I t'ink, suh." 
 
 "If you was my nigger, I'd teach you perliteness 
 with a black-snake whip! I'll see what Layson'll 
 say to such sass as you've gin me. Jest you wait 
 till you hear from him." 
 
 Neb was not impressed by the man's wrath. 
 "Huhd from him afoah, suh. Oh, I'll wait, I'll 
 wait." 
 
 He went up to the stable-door, unlocked it and 
 stood in the open portal. Holton would have fol- 
 lowed him, but Neb began to close the door. 
 
 239
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 "You'll wait, too, suh," said the negro, grinning, 
 "on de outside, suh." 
 
 He closed and locked the door on the inside. 
 
 Holton was beside himself with wrath. "Damn 
 him! Damn him!" he exclaimed. "Damn him 
 and damn his proud young puppy of a master! I'll 
 ruin him! I'll set my foot on him and smash him, 
 yet!" 
 
 Baffled, he walked down the drive. 
 
 "There's a way," he told himself. "It's bold and 
 risky, but nobody'll suspicion me. I've kept straight 
 here in the bluegrass. The mountains and all as 
 ever knowed me thar are far away !" 
 
 But all who had known him in the mountains 
 were not as far away as he supposed. Even as 
 he spoke a dusty, weary figure in worn homespun, 
 carrying a mammoth bundle, limping sadly upon 
 bruised and blistered feet, came through the shrub- 
 bery, approaching the great stables from the far 
 side of the big house-lot. Holton looked at this 
 wayfarer with amazement. 
 
 "Madge Brierly !" he cried. "Gal, what are you 
 a-doin' here?" 
 
 "Don't know's I've got any call to tell you," 
 Madge replied, almost as much astonished at the 
 sight of him as he had been at sight of her. Then 
 she smiled roguishly at him. "Maybe you'll find 
 out, though." 
 
 "I tell you this ain't no place for you," he ad- 
 monished her. "Lordy! They takes up folks that 
 
 240
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 looks like you, for vagrants. Take my advice, 
 turn back to the mountings." 
 
 She looked at him with that same smile, still 
 unimpressed. 
 
 For no reason which he could have well ex- 
 plained the man was almost panic-stricken in his 
 keen anxiety to get the girl away from the old 
 Layson homestead and the possibility of meeting 
 those who dwelt therein. 
 
 "Here, if you'll go," he added, and thrust his 
 hand into his pocket, "I'll give you money money 
 to help you on your way." 
 
 Still she smiled at him with that aggravating, 
 meaning smile; that smile which he could by no 
 means fathom and of which she scarcely knew the 
 meaning. "No," she said, "I don't want your 
 money. You couldn't hire me to leave the blue- 
 grass till I've seen Frank Layson." 
 
 Seeing that she was determined, unable to con- 
 jecture what she had come down for, realizing, 
 upon second thought, that it was most improbable 
 that she had any tale to tell of him, he reluctantly 
 gave way. "As you will, then," he said slowly. 
 "But let me warn you that you won't be welcome 
 hyar. You'll learn the difference between the 
 mounting and the blue-grass folks. You'd better 
 think it over and turn back." 
 
 "I'll not," said she. 
 
 As he walked disgustedly away she watched him 
 curiously. "I wonder why he is so sot on makin' 
 
 241
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 me go back?" she mused. "Maybe he air right 
 in sayin' that I won't be welcome; but I'll do my 
 duty, just th' same!" 
 
 Neb came out from the stable. The girl saw 
 him with delight. "Dellaw !" she said. "How tired 
 I be! Howdy, Uncle Neb; howdy!" 
 
 "Sakes alive!" he cried. "It's de frenomenom, 
 come down frum de mountains! Howdy, honey, 
 howdy!" He hurried toward her and saw that she 
 was near to tears from weariness and the strain 
 of what she had gone through and what she had 
 to tell. "Why, chil', what's de mattuh?" 
 
 "Pebble in my shoe," she answered, and busied 
 herself as if removing one. "All right in a min- 
 ute. This air a long way from th' mountings." 
 
 "Honey, you don't mean you walked!" 
 
 "Had to. Wings ain't growed, yet. Say; I've 
 come to bring a word to Mr. Frank. Is he to 
 home?" She motioned toward the stable, which 
 was the finest building she had ever seen. 
 
 "Yes; but he don't lib dar, honey." 
 
 "Don't he ? Who does, then ?" 
 
 "Queen Bess." 
 
 "Queen Bess !" The girl was thunderstruck ; her 
 worry choked her. She knew Frank owned a 
 blooded mare, but did not know her name, and she 
 had but vaguely heard of queens. "Well air she 
 to home?" 
 
 "Yes; an' Marse Frank, an' Miss 'Lethe, an' 
 Miss Barbara's comin', purty soon, to see huh." 
 
 242
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 "Miss Barbarous!" said Madge, aroused by the 
 mere mention of the girl who, from the start, she 
 had recognized, instinctively, as her real enemy. 
 It had been thought of her, alone, which had made 
 her bear the weary burden of the bundle on the 
 long journey from the mountains. "I'd like to fix 
 a little, 'fore she comes. I got some idees o' fashion 
 from her, when she was up thar, an' I been workin' 
 ev'ry minute I could spare, since then, on a new 
 dress. Ain't thar some place I can go to fashion 
 up before they come?" 
 
 The old negro was acutely sympathetic. He dis- 
 liked Miss Barbara and liked the mountain girl. 
 His old black head, thick as it was, sometimes, had 
 quickly recognized the fact that Barbara regarded 
 Madge as one to be despised, humiliated, while his 
 master treated her with much consideration and 
 thought highly of her. He did not like the daugh- 
 ter of Horace Holton any better than he liked the 
 man himself. If he could help the mountain girl 
 he would. The only place where she could possi- 
 bly find privacy, without going to the house, was in 
 the stable with the race-horse. He would have 
 trusted no one else on earth with her; to distrust 
 Madge, however, did not once occur to him. 
 
 "Missy," he said slowly, "I reckon you can go 
 right in dar wid Queen Bess." 
 
 She was a bit appalled. "Maybe she wouldn't 
 like it," she objected. 
 
 "She won't keer if you don't go too close." 
 
 243
 
 /A r OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 "I'm kinder 'feared." 
 
 "Don't gib her no chance to kick. You's all 
 right, den." 
 
 "Kick!" said the girl, amazed. Kicking did not 
 seem to her to fit the character of queens. 
 
 Neb unlocked the stable door. "Or bite," he 
 added. 
 
 "Bite! Dellaw!" the girl exclaimed, still more 
 amazed. How little she had learned of royalty up 
 in the mountains! 
 
 The aged negro threw the door wide open. "Go 
 in, honey, now; go in," he said. 
 
 "I'm skeered!" she said, and tiptoed to the 
 stable door. She peered in cautiously. Then she 
 turned and faced him with much-puzzled eyes. "I 
 don't see nothin' but a hoss," she said. 
 
 "Uh-huh; dat's Queen Bess." Old Neb stood 
 chuckling, looking at her. 
 
 "Queen Bess is Mister Frank's race-hoss!" she 
 cried, delighted by the revelation. "Well, now, I 
 feel to home." She went into the stable with her 
 bundle, half-closed the door and then peeped out 
 at Neb. "You won't let any one come in?" 
 
 He held the key up reassuringly. "Don't you 
 see I's got de key, honey?" 
 
 "I'd feel safer if I had that key myself," said 
 she, and snatched it from him. An instant later 
 and the door was closed and locked on the inside. 
 
 Neb was alarmed. He had disobeyed plain or- 
 ders in letting her go in at all. For him to let 
 
 244
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 that key out of his possession was a further viola- 
 tion which he feared to be responsible for. He 
 pounded on the door. "Open de doah, honey," 
 he implored. "I mus' hab dat key!" 
 
 "All right," said she, "soon's I am dressed." 
 
 He fell back from the door dismayed. "De 
 Lawd help me !" he groaned. "What's I gwine ter 
 do? An' I war so mighty firm 'bout dat key wid 
 Marse Holton!" He paced the space before the 
 stable door in agitation. "But I reckon she'll be 
 t'rough befo' Marse Frank comes," he comforted 
 himself. 
 
 She was not, though. While Neb still paced the 
 stable yard in acute worry, Frank, Miss Alathea, 
 Barbara and Holton came toward him in a laugh- 
 ing group. He almost fainted. 
 
 "Here we are, Neb," his master cried, "ready 
 for a look at Queen Bess." 
 
 "Yessah, yessah, pwesently!" Neb stammered, 
 and would have paled had nature made provision 
 for such exhibition of his feelings. "I jus' nach- 
 elly hab got to speak to dem ar stable boys a min- 
 ute, fust. Jus' 'scuse me fo' a minute, suh." He 
 vanished hurriedly, hoping that by this diversion 
 he could gain a little time for Madge and for him- 
 self. 
 
 Layson gazed after him with some astonishment, 
 then went and tried the stable door. "Of course 
 the door's locked," he explained, annoyed, "but he'll 
 be back here in a minute." 
 
 245
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 Miss Alathea smiled. The attitude of the young 
 master toward the aged negro often was amusing 
 to her. She liked to watch the constant evidence 
 of that rare affection which formed an insepara- 
 ble bond between them. 
 
 Suddenly she heard the crunching of a man's 
 heavy footsteps on the gravel, back of them. Turn- 
 ing, she saw that the newcomer was the Colonel, 
 and the Colonel in great haste. This was most 
 impressive, for the Colonel did not often hurry. 
 
 "Here comes the Colonel, Frank," she said, "and 
 see how he is hurrying!" 
 
 "Something's up," her nephew answered, "when 
 the Colonel hurries." Then, as the horseman came 
 up to them: "Why, Colonel, what's the matter?" 
 
 "A shock! A regular shock! As I came from 
 Lexington, just now, I saw you standing here, so I 
 sent the boy on with the buggy and cut across to 
 meet you. Just as I passed the thicket by the 
 spring I caught a glimpse of a man, who then van- 
 ished like a ghost, but I swear that man was that 
 lank mountaineer, Joe Lorey, and that he tried to 
 keep out of my sight." 
 
 "Joe Lorey!" Frank exclaimed. "What can he 
 want down here?" 
 
 "Who knows? Maybe to finish the work he 
 began in the mountains." 
 
 "More than likely," Holton ventured. "A rifle- 
 shot in the back, or a match touched to a build- 
 ing." 
 
 246
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 "I don't believe it,' Frank said stoutly. "The 
 man who laid down his weapons to give me a fair, 
 square fight, wouldn't stoop to things like that." 
 
 " Tears to me the man who fired that bomb 
 'u'd do most anythin','' said Holton. 
 
 "That was in a fit of anger. Lorey swore to 
 Madge that he thought better of his impulse to do 
 murder, stamped upon the burning fuse, and be- 
 lieved that he had put it out, and I believe him." 
 
 He saw, now, that his aunt was badly fright- 
 ened, and cautioned the other men. "Not another 
 word about him, now, at any rate, or Aunt 'Lethe 
 won't once close her eyes to-night." 
 
 "Well," said the Colonel, quite agreeing with him 
 and hastening to change the subject, "here's some- 
 thing much more interesting, anyway. A letter 
 from the Company. Looks official and important." 
 
 Frank took the letter, opened it and gazed at it 
 in some dismay. "I should think so," he ex- 
 claimed. "An assessment of $15,000 on my 
 stock." 
 
 "Fifteen thousand devils!" 
 
 "No; fifteen thousand dollars." 
 
 The Colonel took the letter from his hand and 
 looked at it with worried eyes. "And you've got 
 to meet it, Frank, or lose what you've put in." 
 
 Miss Alathea went to her nephew anxiously. 
 "You'll sell Queen Bess, now, won't you?" she im- 
 plored. "You could pay it then. Best sell her." 
 
 The young man stood there, deep in worried 
 
 247
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 thought. "If I were quite convinced of the Com- 
 pany's good faith in everything, I'd risk it all, even 
 the loss of Woodlawn, my old home," he answered. 
 
 Neb now appeared from around a corner of the 
 stable, evidently having decided that the girl had 
 had enough time for her toilet, or afraid to wait 
 another minute. His appearance created a diver- 
 sion. 
 
 "Here, Neb," said Frank, "we've had enough 
 nonsense. Let's see Queen Bess, now." 
 
 Neb looked anxiously for signs that Madge was 
 ready to see visitors, he listened at the door. He 
 saw no sign, he heard no signal. He was scared, 
 but he was faithful to his promise to the girl. He 
 planted his old back against the door. "Now de 
 trouble am commencin' !" he assured himself. 
 
 Holton looked at him with a sour smile. "I 
 hope," he said to Frank, "that you'll have better 
 luck nor me. Neb wouldn't open that door for 
 me." 
 
 "Dem was yo' ohduhs, suh," said Neb, appeal- 
 ing to his master. 
 
 "An' he was powerful sassy in the bargain," 
 Holton went on, full of malice, hoping to make 
 Neb suffer for defying him. 
 
 Layson, however, much as he was now annoyed 
 by the old darky's hesitation about opening the 
 stable door for him, himself, did not propose to 
 chide him for having kept his trust and held it 
 closed to others. "You mustn't mind Neb," he said 
 
 248
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 to Holton. "He's a privileged character around 
 here. I had told him to admit no one, and, as 
 usual, he obeyed my orders blindly." 
 
 "Yes, suh," Neb declared, delighted, "went it 
 blind, suh." 
 
 "His obedience," his master went on boastingly, 
 "is really phenomenal. He wouldn't open that 
 door for anybody. He'd guard the key with his 
 own life." He turned to Neb. "Wouldn't you, 
 now, Neb?" 
 
 Neb was disconcerted. It was true enough that 
 from most people he certainly would have guarded 
 that key with his life. But at that moment there 
 was one within the stable from whom he had not 
 guarded it. "Yes yessah!" he said hesitantly. 
 And as he said it he would have given anything 
 he had if he could have laid his hands upon that 
 self-same key. 
 
 Frank smiled at him. "But I suppose you'll let 
 me have a look at her." 
 
 "Yes yessuh in a in a minute, suh." 
 
 Layson was annoyed. "Why not at once?" He 
 was beginning to be frightened. Could something 
 Neb was trying to hide have happened to the mare ? 
 
 "Bekase bekase " Ned stammered, "well, 
 to tell de trufe, suh, bekase I is afeared she ain't 
 quite dressed." 
 
 "Not dressed! The mare not dressed! Have 
 you lost your senses? Open that door quick!' 
 
 "Marse Frank, I cain't. I nachully jus' cain't" 
 
 249
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 Holton was enjoying this. "You see," he said, 
 "he won't open it for nobody. Not even for th' 
 man as owns it an' th' mare behind it." 
 
 "Give me the key!" said Frank. 
 
 "De key de key " Neb stammered. 
 
 "I said the key!" 
 
 The old negro advanced pitifully. "Fo' de lawd, 
 Marse Frank, I hasn't got it !" 
 
 "He'd guard it with his life !" said Holton, with 
 deep sarcasm. 
 
 "Where is it ?" Frank demanded. 
 
 "In dar," said Neb, and pointed to the stable. 
 
 Layson, astonished and annoyed beyond the 
 power of words by the old negro's strange per- 
 formance, fearful of the safety of his mare, en- 
 tirely puzzled, sprang toward the stable window 
 and was about to pull himself up by the ledge so 
 that he might look in. 
 
 Neb seized him and pulled him from the aper- 
 ture with a desperate agility which strained his 
 aged limbs. "Fo' de Lawd's sake, now, Marse 
 Frank," he cried, "don't yo' dare look t'rough dat 
 stable winder!" 
 
 Frank, now, was badly frightened. "Is there 
 some one in there with Queen Bess?" he asked. 
 
 "A young pusson to see you, suh," Neb ad- 
 mitted. 
 
 "And you let that person have the key?" 
 
 "No, suh; it were taken from me." 
 
 Layson was in panic. "Heaven knows," he ex- 
 
 250
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 claimed, "what can have happened here!" He 
 rushed to the stable door and pounded on it with 
 his fists. "Open at once, or I'll break in the door," 
 he cried. 
 
 Neb, now, had gone up to the window and looked 
 through it with desperate glance. What he saw 
 was reassuring. He turned back toward his mas- 
 ter smiling. "Hoi' on, Marse Frank, de young 
 pusson am a-comin' out," he said. 
 
 "Well," said Layson, threateningly, "I'm ready 
 for him." He braced himself to spring upon some 
 malefactor. 
 
 The door opened and Madge appeared before 
 their astonished eyes, garbed in a gown which she 
 had fashioned after that which Barbara had worn 
 up in the hills. 
 
 "Madge!" cried Frank, amazed. 
 
 The Colonel, laughing, approached the girl with 
 outstretched hand ; Neb, relieved, dived through the 
 stable door; Miss Alathea, who had been under a 
 great strain while the dramatic little scene had been 
 in progress, dropped limply on Neb's bench. 
 
 Madge, with a retentive memory of the way 
 Miss "Barbarous" had greeted her back in the 
 mountains, stepped toward that much-astonished 
 maiden, opened her red parasol straight in her face, 
 and courtesied to the rest. 
 
 "Howdy, folks; howdy!" she said, happily. 
 
 251
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 The party stood, nonplussed. Frank was first 
 to show signs of recovery, and, after a moment of 
 completely dazed astonishment, advanced to Madge 
 with hand outstretched. Her appearance, astonish- 
 ing as it had been, had been as great a relief as he 
 had ever known in all his life. Neb's worry and 
 insubordination had filled him with the keenest ap- 
 prehension. But he had no doubts of Madge. 
 If she had been there with the mare, the mare was 
 certainly all right, no matter how puzzling the af- 
 fair might seem to be upon its surface. 
 
 "Why, little one, this is, indeed, a great surprise 
 and pleasure !" he exclaimed, with sincere gallantry. 
 
 Madge looked at him with doubtful eyes, from 
 which the doubt, however, was fast clearing. "Oh, 
 say; are you-uns r'ally glad to see me?" 
 
 "No one could be more welcome," he assured 
 her, and the honest pleasure in his eyes convinced 
 her that he did not speak for mere politeness' sake. 
 
 And now Miss Alathea, recovering from the 
 shock of all that had preceded the girl's unexpected 
 
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 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 appearance, went to her cordially. "We are more 
 than glad, my chilJ," she told her. 
 
 "Glad's no name for it," the gallant Colonel 
 said, advancing in his turn. 
 
 There could be no doubt of the sincerity of any 
 one who, thus far, had expressed a welcome for 
 her; but the voice which now came coldly from 
 Miss Barbara was less convincing. She did not 
 approach the mountain girl, but sat somewhat su- 
 perciliously upon a bench and spoke frigidly. "It 
 is an unexpected pleasure." 
 
 Madge, not trained to hide her feelings under 
 softened words, turned on her angrily. "Humph! 
 I wasn't askin' you," she said. Then, to the oth- 
 ers: "I didn't know but what my droppin' in, 
 permiskus like " 
 
 "A Kentuckian's friends," said Frank, "are al- 
 ways welcome." 
 
 "Friends from the word go, remember," said 
 the Colonel. 
 
 "Thankee, Colonel," said the girl. "We'll have 
 that race, some day; but I won't ride agin you if 
 you ride Queen Bess. Oh, wouldn't I like to see 
 her go!" 
 
 "So you shall," said Frank. "Neb, is she 
 ready?" 
 
 "Yessuh; all saddled, sur, an' bridled." 
 
 "Oh, let me bring her out," cried Madge. "I'd 
 love to." 
 
 "Lawsy, honey," said the negro, "you couldn't 
 
 253
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 bring her out. She's dat fretful an' dat nervous 
 dat she'd kill yo', suah." 
 
 "Get out, Neb!" Madge cried, scornfully. "I 
 ain't afeard of her. Wild things allays has made 
 friends with me. I've never seen a horse so skeery 
 that I couldn't manage him couldn't make him 
 foller me." 
 
 She pushed the hesitating Neb out of her path 
 and went into the stable. 
 
 Layson, who was for the moment, at a distance, 
 had not heard all her talk with Neb, but saw her 
 as she went into the stall where none but he, him- 
 self, and Neb, dared go, and it was stable talk 
 that, soon or late, Queen Bess would prove to be 
 a man killer! 
 
 "Neb, stop her! She'll be killed!" he cried. 
 
 Neb ran, as fast as his old legs would carry him, 
 into the stable ; Frank hurried to the stable door. 
 
 "Madge ! Madge !" he cried, and then : "Why 
 look! The mare is following her as might a kit- 
 ten!" 
 
 He stepped aside and Madge came from the 
 stable with Queen Bess behind her, ears pricked 
 forward eagerly as she kept her eyes on Madge's 
 pursed up, cooing lips, head dropped, neck stretched 
 in graceful fashion, lifting her dainty feet as 
 proudly as ever did the queen whom she was 
 named for. 
 
 "Come on, you beauty!" the girl cried. "Oh, it 
 
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 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 would be like heaven to ride you; and I could do 
 it, too!" 
 
 "Take her to the track, Neb," Layson ordered. 
 "I'll follow and give her her exercise." 
 
 Madge, unable to resist the impulse which was 
 thrilling her with longing, motioned Neb away as 
 he approached to take the mare. "Go 'way! Go 
 'way!" she said. Then, to the mare: "Come on, 
 you dear, come on." She went on slowly, while 
 the mare, in calm docility, trailed after her. The 
 spectators, who knew the beast, gazed spellbound. 
 
 Constantly the girl's pleased eyes were on the 
 beautiful creature following. Never had she seen 
 so perfect an animal; never had she known one 
 giving such plain signs of high intelligence. The 
 mare's big eyes, broad forehead, delicate muzzle, 
 arching neck, strong withers, mighty flanks, and 
 slender ankles marked her, to the veriest novice, a 
 thoroughbred of thoroughbreds; her docile and 
 obedient march showed what seemed like an almost 
 magic power in the delighted mountain maid. 
 Every drop of blood in the girl's body tingled with 
 excitement, all her muscles thrilled with mad de- 
 sire to mount the wondrous beast and be away as 
 on the wind's wings. She could imagine what the 
 mare's long strides would be, she could imagine 
 how exhilerating she would find the steady, perfect 
 motion of the mighty back. 
 
 "Oh, I can't stand it !" she exclaimed, at length. 
 "I've got to do it!" 
 
 255
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 She paused, and eagerly the mare stepped up to 
 her, nuzzleing her caressing hand. Then, with a 
 bound, the girl was on the graceful creature's back, 
 landing in her place as lightly as a wind-blown 
 thistle-down, as gracefully as a fairy horsewoman. 
 
 "Heavens!" cried Barbara. "She's on Queen 
 Bess!" 
 
 "She'll be killed!" Miss Alathea screamed, in 
 terror. 
 
 The Colonel, only, recognized her instantly as a 
 born horsewoman. His expert eye observed with 
 rare delight the ease with which she mounted, the 
 perfect poise with which she found her seat, the 
 absolute adjustment of her lithe young motions 
 to the movements of the mare beneath her from the 
 very moment she had reached her back. 
 
 "No danger; she rides like a centaur." 
 
 With the others he had stopped, with eyes for 
 nothing but the girl before them and the splendid 
 animal she rode. "Ah, what a jockey she would 
 make!" 
 
 Barbara liked this exhibition of the mountain 
 girl's abilities no better than she had liked any- 
 thing which Madge had done. Her lip curled 
 somewhat scornfully. "What a pity that her sex 
 should bar her from that vocation!" she said 
 coldly. 
 
 She turned to Frank, who was watching Madge 
 with startled eyes, worried as to the result of this 
 mad prank on both the girl and mare. 
 
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 OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 "Frank," said Barbara, "what a figure she \vill 
 make to-night at your lawn-party ! How your 
 friends will laugh at her!" 
 
 Layson cast a quick, sharp glance at her. She 
 was not advancing her own cause by trying, thus, 
 to ridicule the mountain maiden. "I'll run the 
 risk," he said. "She is my guest, you know, and, 
 as such, will surely be given every consideration 
 and courtesy by all." 
 
 "Oh, certainly," said Barbara, seeing that she 
 had gone, perhaps, too far. "If you wish it. I 
 should be glad to please you, once again." 
 
 "Nothing could please me more than to have 
 you show her what kindnesses you can. I know 
 she will feel strange and worried." 
 
 Madge, sitting Queen Bess with an ease and 
 grace which that intelligent mare had never found 
 in any other rider, and, now, far from them at the 
 other end of the great training-field, absorbed the 
 youth's delighted glances. 
 
 "Can't you forget her for an instant?" exclaimed 
 Barbara. "You haven't been at all the same since 
 you came back from the mountains! Once we 
 were always together. Now I never see you unless 
 I come over here; and no matter what I do, you 
 don't seem to care." 
 
 Layson was uneasy. He had been aware, for a 
 long time, that, sooner or later, a complete under- 
 standing of his changed feelings toward this girl, 
 must, in some way, be accomplished. Now seemed 
 
 257
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 a good time for it, yet he hesitated at the thought 
 of it. But the thing had to be gone through with. 
 "I know I used to play the tyrant, Barbara; but it 
 wasn't a pleasant role, and I was always half- 
 ashamed of it." 
 
 The girl flared into a passion. "What do you 
 mean ?" 
 
 "Barbara, I have had no right to go so far, no 
 right to ask so much of you. From the bottom of 
 my heart I beg forgiveness. Let us forget it all 
 and just be friends again." And, even as he spoke, 
 his eyes were wandering toward the girl whom 
 Queen Bess had so utterly surrendered to. The 
 mare, known since she had first been saddled, as a 
 terror to all riders, was carrying her as gently as 
 the veriest country hack had ever borne an old lady 
 from the farm to market. 
 
 Barbara saw where his attention was, and resent- 
 ment thrilled her. "Friends ? Never ! Frank Lay- 
 son, I believe I hate you!" 
 
 "Oh, very well," said he, plainly not too much 
 impressed, "if you want to be unreasonable, why, 
 of course " 
 
 The girl was frightened at the length to which 
 she had permitted her ill-temper to carry her. "Oh, 
 no, Frank," she hastily corrected, "I didn't mean 
 that. Of course I am your friend." 
 
 "Thank you, Barbara," said he, with a calmness 
 which was maddening to her. "I am sure we un- 
 derstand each other, now." And then, still further 
 
 258
 
 maddening her: "I must go now, and look after 
 Madge and dear Queen Bess. I never should for- 
 give myself if anything should happen to the girl. 
 But nothing will. See how splendidly she rides!" 
 
 The girl upon the horse, as if conscious of his 
 anxiety about her, now turned her mount back to- 
 ward the field-end where the onlookers were loosely 
 grouped and came toward them at a slow and gen- 
 tle canter a gait which none had ever seen Queen 
 Bess take before, when a stranger was upon her 
 back. She leaped from the mare by Layson's side, 
 and Neb, ever anxious for the welfare of his equine 
 darling, began work without delay at rubbing 
 Queen Bess down. 
 
 "Reckon you'll never forgive me," Madge apolo- 
 gized to Layson, "but I just couldn't help it. Never 
 even saw a mare like her, afore. My pony's no- 
 whar alongside of her. I felt like an angel sittin' 
 on a cloud an' sailin' straight to heaven!" She 
 turned and petted the black beauty. "Oh, you 
 darling!" 
 
 "Got to take her in, now," Neb said, preparing 
 to lead the mare away. He spoke apologetically as 
 if the girl had rights which, now, should be con- 
 sulted. He had never made a like concession in 
 the past to anyone except his master. 
 
 "Go 'way, go 'way," said Madge, taking the reins 
 from his black hand. "Ain't no use o' leadin' her 
 you jest watch her foller me!" 
 
 She looped the reins about the mare's arched 
 
 259
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 neck, started off, and, without so much as flicking 
 her long tail, Queen Bess fell in behind, obedient 
 to her cooing, murmurous calls. 
 
 Frank laughed. "If," he said to the whole party, 
 -'you wish to have a look at the mare's quarters, I 
 think Neb will now admit us." 
 
 All but the Colonel started toward the stable, 
 but he hesitated, looking toward Miss Alathea. 
 While the others had been spellbound by the girl 
 and horse, he, the most enthusiastic horseman of 
 them all, had been divided in attention between 
 them and the lady whose notice he attracted, now, 
 by means of sundry hems and haws. 
 
 "Miss 'Lethe, just a moment," he said softly. 
 She paused and then went up to him. He held 
 out a newspaper, suddenly at a loss for words, now 
 that there was a prospect of a moment with her 
 wholly uninterrupted. "Here," said he, a little 
 panicky, "is a full account of the revival, sermon 
 and all. Make your hair stand on end to read it." 
 
 She took the paper, undeceived by his small sub- 
 terfuge to gain attention, but interested, as she al- 
 ways was in such things, in the account of the re- 
 vival. "This really is interesting." She sat down 
 on the bench, as they reached the stable-yard again, 
 and pored above the newspaper. 
 
 In the meantime the Colonel tried to screw his 
 courage to the sticking point. "Colonel Sandusky 
 Doolittle," he adjured himself, "if you don't say 
 it now, then you forever hold your peace, that's 
 
 260
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 all!" He went to his buggy, which had been 
 brought to the stable yard, and from underneath 
 its seat took a box containing a bouquet of sweet, 
 old-fashioned flowers. Miss Alathea, absorbed in 
 the account of the revival, did not notice him at all. 
 "This will do the business," he reflected. "Now, 
 Sandusky Doolittle, keep cool, keep cool!" Nerv- 
 ously, as he gazed at her, his fingers worked among 
 the flowers, dismembering them unconsciously. "A 
 Kentucky Colonel," he was saying to himself in 
 scorn, "afraid of a woman!" His fingers tore the 
 flowers with new activity as his nervousness in- 
 creased, making sad work with the magnificent bou- 
 quet. "Of course she is an angel," he reflected, 
 and then, with a grim humor, "or will be before I 
 ask her, if I wait another twenty years! But I 
 shall ask her, I shall ask her !" He stepped toward 
 her boldly, but paused before her in a wordless 
 panic when he had approached within a yard. 
 "Heavens!" he thought. "My heart is going at a 
 one-forty gait and the jockey's lost the reins. I'll 
 be over the fence in another minute if I don't hold 
 tight! But I have got to do it, this time." He 
 dropped the stems of the flowers, still bound to- 
 gether by their lengths of wide white ribbon, into 
 the elaborate box from which, so lately, he had 
 taken them in their uninjured beauty, not noting 
 the sad wreck which his too nervous fingers had 
 produced, put on the cover and approached still 
 nearer. With the box held toward her bashfully, 
 
 261
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 he managed, then, another step or two. "Miss 
 'Lethe," he said stammering, "lawn party to-night 
 bouquet for you brought it from Lexington 
 for you for you, you know." 
 
 The Colonel never was embarrassed save when 
 he was endeavoring to propose marriage to Miss 
 Alathea and he always was embarrassed then. She 
 recognized the situation from the mere tone of his 
 voice and looked up hopefully. 
 
 "Oh, Colonel, how kind!" said she, as she held 
 delighted hands out for the box. "I know it is 
 beautiful." 
 
 "It was quite the best I could do, Miss 'Lethe," 
 said the Colonel. 
 
 "You have such splendid taste! I'm sure it's 
 lovely." She opened the box and looked, expect- 
 antly, within. "Why, Colonel," she cried, disap- 
 pointed, "where are where are the flowers?" 
 
 "Why why why," he stammered, and then 
 saw the mutilated blossoms on the ground around 
 him. "Why, I don't know don't know," said he. 
 "Don't ask me." 
 
 She was rummaging among the stems, non- 
 plussed. "Why, here's a note!" she said. 
 
 "Thank heaven!" the Colonel thought, "the 
 note's there yet!" Then, growing bold: "Miss 
 'Lethe, if you've a kindly feeling for me in your 
 heart, read that note; but don't you get excited; 
 keep cool, keep cool!" 
 
 "Why, certainly," said she. "I see no cause for 
 
 262
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 excitement." She unfolded the note and read, 
 aloud, and very slowly, for the Colonel's hand 
 was not too easy to decipher. " 'My dear, dear 
 Miss 'Lethe : Woman without her man is a sav- 
 age.' ' She looked up, naturally astonished by this 
 unusual statement. "Why, Colonel," she ex- 
 claimed, "what can you mean by saying woman is 
 a savage without her man?" 
 
 He stood appalled for just a second and then 
 realized the error into which his ardor had misled 
 him. "Great Scott !" he cried. "I forgot to put in 
 the commas ! It ought to read this way : 'Woman, 
 without her, man is a savage.' Go on, Miss 'Lethe, 
 please go on." 
 
 She read again : " 'I feel that it is time for me 
 to become civilized in other words, to come in out 
 of the wet. To me you have been, for twenty 
 years, the embodiment of woman's truth, purity 
 and goodness. But constitutional timidity and 
 chronic financial depression, due to the race-track, 
 have hitherto kept me silent.' ' Miss 'Lethe looked 
 up at him with a strange expression on her face. 
 "Colonel," she exclaimed, "what does this mean?" 
 
 "Go on, Miss 'Lethe," was the answer, "please 
 go on, go on." He made a mighty effort to secure 
 control of his unruly nerves, and, almost uncon- 
 sciously, while her head was bent above the note, 
 took a small flask from his pocket and imbibed 
 from it. It steadied him. 
 . She read again : " 'I am convinced that my in- 
 
 263
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 terest in the company will yield me a competence; 
 accordingly, behold me at your feet !' ' 
 
 Miss 'Lethe looked down somewhat mischiev- 
 ously. She did not see the Colonel where his note 
 declared he would be. She glanced again at the 
 paper in her hands and saw a word which, at first, 
 had quite escaped attention. " 'Metaphorically,' ' 
 she read, and then the signature : " 'Colonel San- 
 dusky Doolittle.'" 
 
 "Colonel!" she exclaimed. 
 
 "Miss 'Lethe," he replied, and, discovering that 
 the flask was still in plain view in his hand, slipped 
 it into his sidepocket upside down. 
 
 "Colonel, put that bottle right side up and listen 
 to me," she said calmly. "Do you really love me?" 
 
 "Do I love you? With a fervor er a pas- 
 sion er will you excuse me if I smoke?" He 
 took a black cigar from his vest pocket, in another 
 effort to control his nerves, and lighted it as might 
 an automatic smoker. 
 
 "I am going to put you to the proof," said she. 
 "Could you, for my sake, come down from ten 
 cigars a day to five?" 
 
 The Colonel was dismayed. "To five cigars a 
 day! Impossible!" He caught himself. That 
 scarcely was the way to answer the request of the 
 woman he adored so fervently. "I mean," he 
 hastily corrected, "is is that all?" He made a 
 motion as if to throw away the weed he had just 
 
 264
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 lighted, but thought better of it. "I will make 
 the descent to-morrow," he said earnestly. 
 
 "Could you restrict yourself to three mint-julips, 
 daily?" 
 
 "Three! A man couldn't live on three! He'd 
 have to have to take such poisons as as cold 
 water into his system." 
 
 "Remember, Colonel, I would mix them." 
 
 "That settles it! Three goes!" He fervently 
 reached toward her, plainly planning to embrace 
 her. 
 
 "Wait, Colonel," she exclaimed, "there is one 
 more condition. "Could you, for my sake, promise 
 never to enter another race-track?" 
 
 He started back from her in horror. "Never 
 enter another race-tack ! I, Colonel Sandusky Doo- 
 little, known everywhere, from Maine to California, 
 as a plunger, give up the absorbing passion of my 
 life!" 
 
 "Remember what you said to Frank," said she. 
 " 'It's a delusion and a snare.' But, of course, if 
 you think more of a delusion than you do of 
 me " 
 
 "No; hang it!" cried the Colonel, "I think more 
 of you. Twenty years the longest race on record 
 and a win in sight! I'll not lose by a balk at the 
 finish! I promise you, Miss 'Lethe, on the honor 
 of a Kentuckian." 
 
 "Then, Colonel, I must confess, I have loved 
 
 265
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 you, also, for every one of those long twenty 
 years." 
 
 "Twenty years!" He turned his head aside and 
 muttered: "What a damned fool I have been!" 
 Then, to her, he said, exultantly: "Aha! A neck 
 ahead!" 
 
 It is difficult to say what would have happened, 
 then, if Madge, Holton, Barbara and Frank had 
 not come from the stable, chattering about Queen 
 Bess. 
 
 266
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 Joe Lorey, mad with wrath, his heart filled with 
 the lust of killing for revenge, infuriated to the 
 point where he felt need of neither food nor sleep, 
 yet made less rapid time down the rough mountain 
 paths than had the girl. Love-lent wings are 
 swifter than an impulse born of hatred and re- 
 sentment can be. She had flown upon such wings 
 to save the man who filled her innocent thoughts 
 with longing; Joe had gone clumsily, despite his 
 cunning as a mountaineer, for leaden, murderous 
 thoughts had weighed him down, hampering the 
 quickness of his wit, delaying his fleet feet, con- 
 fusing the alertness of his watchfulness for faint- 
 limned trails, loose areas perilous of slides upon 
 steep slopes. Indeed, though hate had driven him, 
 Joe Lorey never in his life had made so very slow 
 a journey to the bluegrass as that which he had 
 started on from his wrecked still, with hatred of 
 Frank Layson, who he thought had viciously be- 
 trayed him, blazing in his heart. 
 
 Hours after the light-footed girl, spurred by 
 
 267
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 her fear for one whom she but dimly guessed that 
 she had learned to love, had arrived at the blue- 
 grass mansion and been welcomed by the owner of 
 Queen Bess, the mountaineer reached the confines 
 of the splendid farm, and lurked there, waiting for 
 night-fall to make his entrance into the house 
 grounds safe. 
 
 The rough youth's mental state was pitiable. 
 Tragedy had pursued him, almost from his life's 
 beginning, he reflected, as he furtively awaited op- 
 portunity for the revenge which he had planned. 
 The fierce feud of the mountains had robbed him 
 of his parents, and, with them, of the best years 
 of his youth; the rough life of the mountains had 
 robbed his strong young manhood of those oppor- 
 tunities which, he dimly realized, might have made 
 him different and better; when love for sweet 
 Madge Brierly had come to him, Fate had brought 
 up from the bluegrass the young stranger, who, 
 with his superior learning, polished manner and 
 smooth speech, had found the conquest of the girl 
 (Joe bitterly reflected) all too easy; and finally 
 had come the crowning, black disaster the be- 
 trayal of his still to the agents of the government, 
 its destruction and his transformation from a free 
 man of the mountains into a furtive outlaw. 
 
 He could not see that life held anything but 
 gloom for him black, impenetrable, ever thicken- 
 ing. He had but one thing left to live for a re- 
 
 268
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 venge as dark as were the wrongs which he had 
 suffered. 
 
 He knew that government agents have shrewd 
 wits, keen eyes, strong arms, and never let a moon- 
 shiner escape if, through any strategy, they may 
 bring about his capture; he knew that since the 
 discovery and destruction of his still he was a 
 marked man; so it was nearing dusk when, after 
 intensely cautious and immensely skilful manceuver- 
 ing against discovery, he actually entered the Layson 
 grounds. 
 
 The long, exciting afternoon, full of Queen 
 Bess, a certain sense of triumph over Barbara Hoi- 
 ton, the extent of which she could not guess, count- 
 less thrills of gratitude and exultation born of the 
 kindness and consideration shown her by Miss Al- 
 athea and the Colonel, had sped away before Madge 
 realized that it had been half-spent. Now, though, 
 the deepening twilight warned her of the flight of 
 time and told her that she must, perforce, perform 
 the task for which she had descended from the 
 mountains. 
 
 All the others except Frank had drifted toward 
 the house, and she had hung behind for the ex- 
 press purpose of getting private speech with him, 
 when she had the day's first opportunity. 
 
 "Mr. Frank," said she, "afore we go into th' 
 house I got a word to say to you as I don't want 
 nobody but you to hear." 
 
 A quick glance at her face showed him that what 
 
 269
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 she had to say was, really, of great importance, 
 for her lovely mouth was serious, her deep eyes 
 were full of worry, her smooth brow was nearer to 
 real frowning than he had ever seen it. 
 
 "Why, Madge, what is the matter?" 
 
 She put her hand upon his arm, turning her sweet 
 face up to him with a revelation of solicitude which, 
 had she known how plain it was, she would have 
 hidden at all hazard. "It may mean life or death 
 to you," she told him solemnly. 
 
 "Life or death to me, little girl? What are you 
 talking of?" said he, almost incredulous. 
 
 "Joe Lorey's still were raided by the revenuers 
 after you come down!" 
 
 "It can't be possible!" 
 
 "It is. It lies in ruins and in ashes an' he is 
 hidin' out among th' mountings, somewhars, in 
 danger, ev'ry minute, of arrest an', then, of 
 prison. 'Twas all he had in th' wide world." 
 
 "Poor fellow! I am sorry," said Layson, with 
 quick sympathy. "I'll see what can be done. And 
 you say he's hiding out up in the mountains ?" 
 
 She hesitated. "I said so, but I reckon it ain't 
 true, exactly. It was that that made me hurry 
 down to speak to you. Some say as how he has 
 come down into th' bluegrass to find th' man as 
 gin th' word. It is a crime as never is forgiven in 
 th' mountings." 
 
 As she spoke, unseen, behind them, a dark, 
 slouching, furtive figure slipped across an open 
 
 270
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 space and took a crouching stand behind a tree near 
 by. Had they listened without speech they might 
 have heard the heavy breathing of the very man of 
 whom they spoke, might have heard the sharp click 
 of the lock of his long rifle as he brought its ham- 
 mer to full cock. Had they turned about they 
 might have seen the blue glint of the day's last light 
 upon that rifle's barrel, which was levelled straight 
 at Layson's heart. But they saw none of these 
 things nor heard a sound. 
 
 "Who does he think betrayed him?" Layson 
 asked, with deep interest, but no trace of guilty 
 knowledge, thrilling in his voice. 
 
 Madge hesitated. Then she blurted out the 
 truth. "Who?" she repeated, "Why why you! 
 You YOU!" 
 
 The rifle barrel steadied to its mark, the finger 
 curled to press upon the trigger. 
 
 "Why, Madge," said Layson, earnestly, "I didn't 
 even know he had a still ! I swear it !" 
 
 There was an honest ring in the youth's voice 
 which could not be mistaken. 
 
 "I knowed it warn't your doin'," the girl said 
 with a great sigh of relief. 
 
 And as she spoke the rifle barrel slowly fell. 
 
 "I knowed it warn't your doin', but Joe'll never 
 believe it. Night an' day you'll have to be close 
 on your guard. There's no tellin' what minute 
 your life may be in danger." 
 
 "I don't believe it of Joe Lorey," Layson an- 
 
 271
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 swered earnestly. "We fought, and he fought 
 fair." 
 
 After they had gone, Joe crept out from his hid- 
 ing place among the shrubbery and looked after 
 them with puzzled, pain-filled eyes, like a great ani- 
 mal's. 
 
 "If they'd only knowed that I war standin' in 
 th' shadder there!" he mused. "If he hadn't spoke 
 them words I'd pulled th' trigger, but he spoke up 
 like as ef 't war true an' I jest couldn't do it." 
 
 A cautious footstep on the close-knit sward, 
 which would have been inaudible to any ear less 
 keen than his, attracted his attention, suddenly, and 
 he slipped back to his leafy hiding-place. Peering 
 from the covert he saw Holton coming. The man 
 was furtive, apprehensive in his every movement, 
 suspicion breeding. When Joe stepped out from 
 his thicket boldly, to confront him, the ex-slave- 
 dealer fell back, frightened. 
 
 "Hello, sir," was Joe's laconic greeting. 
 
 "Joe Lorey!" exclaimed Holton. 
 
 "That's me," Joe boldly granted. He peered 
 at him so closely that Holton shrank away from 
 him, involuntarily. "And you why you're the 
 man as gin th' word that Frank Layson had warned 
 th' revenooers of my still." 
 
 "I told ye for yer good," said Holton, clearly 
 recognizing that his position was unfortunate. 
 "An' recollect you promised not to tell anyone my 
 name." 
 
 272
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 Joe nodded gravely. "While I believe ye told 
 th' truth I'll keep my word," he answered. "But 
 I wants to tell you that I heered Frank Layson 
 deny it, hyar, to-night, an' it sounded like he war 
 speakin' th' plain truth. See hyar, sir, you nearly 
 egged me on to doin' murder." He reached for- 
 ward and seized Holton by the shoulder roughly, 
 with a grasp so powerful that the old man, though 
 he was of sturdy frame and mighty muscle, knew 
 that he was helpless in the grip. "Now look me 
 in th' face. Tell me as you vally your own life 
 war it truth or lies, you told me?" 
 
 "It war th' truth," said Holton, doggedly; "th' 
 truth an' nothin' else." 
 
 Joe shook his head incredulously. "I'd like bet- 
 ter proof nor your word, stranger, for, some way, 
 your voice it don't ring true, nor yer eye look hon- 
 est." 
 
 "I'll gin ye th' proof," said Holton desperately. 
 "Ye know that I war never near yer still. Layson 
 told me it war in th' wall of a ravine Hangin' 
 Rock Ravine an' a big oak stood in front of it 
 an' hid the mouth o' th' cave. Thar, do ye be- 
 lieve me, now?" 
 
 Joe nodded, slowly, thoughtfully. "No man as 
 lived up in th' mountings would have told ye." He 
 considered ponderously for a moment. "Yes, I 
 reckon that I'll have to take yer word. T was him 
 as done it." 
 
 "Of course it war," said Holton, and then, per- 
 
 273
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 haps, a bit too eagerly: "an' you'll make him pay 
 for it?" 
 
 "Yes," said Joe, "but I've another score to set- 
 tle, first, another man to find Lem Lindsay." 
 
 Holton was plainly startled, although Joe could 
 not guess just why he should be. "Lem Lindsay !" 
 he exclaimed. 
 
 "Yes ; the man as murdered my father. I've had 
 word of him, at last. I've heard as how he war 
 seen, years ago, in New Orleans he war a nig- 
 ger-trader, then an' that he's come up in th' blue- 
 grass country, since, like enough under another 
 name." He looked at Holton eagerly. "I say, 
 sir, you don't know a man like that, do you?" 
 
 Holton spoke a little hurriedly. "No, no; there 
 ain't no man like that in these parts." 
 
 "It don't make no differ whar he bides," said 
 Joe. "Soon or late our paths'll cross an' bring us 
 face to face. When he struck down my father it 
 war sealed and signed above that he war to fall by 
 my hand ; an' there's a f eelin' in my heart that that 
 hour air drawin' nigh." He nodded and then 
 turned away. "Good-night, stranger." 
 
 Holton was thoroughly alarmed. Many things 
 distressed him. He could plainly see that his 
 daughter's love-affair with Layson had gone 
 wrong, he realized that there was little chance that 
 he could buy Madge Brierly's coal lands at any- 
 thing but a fair value, and now to fall by his 
 hand! 
 
 274
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 "I'll make that false," he muttered. "Why, I've 
 got to do it!" 
 
 He moved away among the trees, but stopped in 
 frequent thought as he progressed. 
 
 "They'll lay the crime on Lorey," he reflected, 
 after he had laid his plan. "They'll hunt him down 
 and lynch him and I shall be safe. Layson'H be 
 ruined, he'll have to sell Woodlawn, and my gal'll 
 be th' missus there, in spite of him. I've got to do 
 it." 
 
 Like a shadow of the night he hurried through 
 the grounds until he reached the stable where Queen 
 Bess was thought to be secure. 
 
 "Every window barred, every door is sealed but 
 this!" he cunningly reflected as he paused at the 
 front entrance. 
 
 With frantic haste, lest he should be discovered 
 at the work, he piled brush from a near refuse pile 
 against the door and stuffed wisps of grass and hay 
 into the bottom of the heap. Into this tinder pile 
 he thrust a lighted match and disappeared, just as 
 Madge came to the bench where she had paused 
 when she first came to Woodlawn, early in the 
 afternoon. 
 
 It was plain enough, from her dejected looks and 
 listless attitude, that the dance* had given her no 
 pleasure, but, on the contrary, had filled her with 
 distress. 
 
 "I couldn't stand it thar, no longer," she was 
 thinking, bitterly. "I war jest a curiosity, like a 
 
 275
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 wild woman. Miss Barbarous poked fun at me 
 till I war plumb afraid I'd fly at her like a wild- 
 cat, so I jest slipped away. Oh, I see, now, as I 
 never seed afore, the differ that there is 'twixt Mr. 
 Frank an' me! An' I know, now, what 't is air 
 ailin' me. I loves him. Oh, I loves him better nor 
 my life! But it can't never be." She dropped her 
 head into her hands and sobbed. "Good-bye, good, 
 kind, Mr. Frank, good-bye!" She stretched her 
 arms out toward the mansion she had lately left, 
 where lights were twinkling gaily, whence sounds 
 of music now came faintly to her ears. "You'll 
 soon forget the little mounting girl. You'll never 
 know she loved you. I'm goin' back back to the 
 old mountings." 
 
 As she rose an ominous crackling caught her ear 
 anl held her at attention, then, in a horrid flash, the 
 fire blazed out among the hay and brush which Hoi- 
 ton had piled up against the stable door. 
 
 "Oh, oh!" she cried. "Th' stable is burnin'! 
 Fire! Fire! Fire! Neb, are you in there? Don't 
 you hear me, Neb? Th' stable air on fire!" 
 
 Neb's voice came from the dim interior, muffled 
 and skeptical. "What dat?" he said. "Don't want 
 no foolishness 'round heah. I's ahmed." 
 
 "It's me, Neb, me," she cried. "Th' stable 's 
 burnin', Neb!" 
 
 "Gorramighty !" she heard Neb exclaim, now 
 in a voice expressive of great fright. "Dat's so, 
 dat's so! Quick, honey, open up de doah!" 
 
 276
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 Madge was working at the biggest log which 
 Holton had thrust against the door to feed the 
 blaze. The flames and smoke surged 'round her as 
 she struggled with the unwieldy thing, her hands 
 grasped, more than once, live coals, without mak- 
 ing her release her hold. Once or twice the burst- 
 ing flames, swung hither and swung yon by the 
 light, vagrant breezes of the night and the drafts 
 born of the fire, itself, flared straight toward her 
 face, and, to save her hair, which, once igniting, 
 would, she knew, make further work impossible, 
 she had to draw back for a second; but each time, 
 as she saw another chance, she sprang again to the 
 desperate task. At last, after a dozen efforts, she 
 had thrust the blazing log so far from the already 
 burning door that Neb could push it open. He 
 stumbled out, his old hands held before him, grop- 
 ingly, half -suffocated. 
 
 "Neb, you ain't hurt," said she. 
 
 "You go ring dat bell," said he, pointing to a 
 standard bearing at its top an ornamental iron 
 crotch in which a big plantation bell was swung. 
 "Soon's I get my bref from all dat smoke I'll go 
 back an' git Queen Bess." 
 
 The girl sprang to the rope and soon the bell 
 was ringing out a wild alarm. 
 
 "Hurry, Neb!" she cried. "Oh, hurry! Th' 
 fire's a-gainin', ev'ry second! Hurry!" 
 
 Neb dashed back into the stable upon trembling 
 limbs, while, without a pause, the girl kept up the 
 
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 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 clangor of alarm. Her eyes were ever on the 
 door through which the faithful black had disap- 
 peared, watching anxiously to see him come out 
 with the mare. 
 
 But second after second seconds which seemed 
 to her like hours went by and he did not appear 
 again. Her heart began to beat with frantic fears 
 that Neb, himself, as well as the superb animal 
 which she had already learned to love, had fallen 
 victim to the fire, when, at last, he stumbled from 
 the door. 
 
 'Tain't no use," he said, as he weakly stag- 
 gered up to her. "It kain't be done. Queen Bess 
 am crazy wid de flan. She jes' won't come out ! I 
 cain't git huh to come out." He sobbed. "An* 
 she am all dat Marse Frank hab on earth !" Beside 
 himself he ran off toward the house, shouting for 
 his master wildly. 
 
 "All he has on earth!" the girl exclaimed, the 
 bell-rope falling from relaxing hands. An instant 
 she stood there in thought, horrified at the idea of 
 the catastrophe which threatened Layson. Then: 
 "I'll save her! She will follow me!" 
 
 Without a second's hesitation, with no thought 
 for her own safety, she drew her skirts about her 
 tightly, wrapped her shawl around her head to save 
 her hair and dashed through the growing flames 
 about the stable-door, into the inferno which now 
 raged within the structure, just as Neb, running 
 with a lurching step, but with a speed remarkable 
 
 278
 
 "BACK! BACK! I'M A-COMIN' WITH QUKN BBSS!" 
 
 Page 279.
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 in one so old and stiffened by rheumatic pains, 
 dashed back to the scene of the disaster, in advance 
 of Frank, the Colonel, Holton, Miss Alathea and 
 the other inmates of the house, guests, servants, all. 
 
 Without a word, as he approached, Frank pulled 
 off his coat, evidently preparing for a desperate 
 dash through the now roaring flames to rescue his 
 beloved mare. Then, bracing himself for a great 
 spring through the lurid barrier, he cried, "I'll save 
 her!" and would have leaped into the flaming 
 entrance if Neb had not caught his arm with des- 
 perate grip. 
 
 "No, honey," the old negro cried, "yo f shan't 
 go in!" 
 
 The Colonel joined the negro in restraining the 
 half-crazed owner of Queen Bess. "It's no use, 
 Frank," said he. "We'll not let you go in." 
 
 They dragged the struggling youth back from 
 the fire just as, to their amazement, an exultant 
 voice rang from the inside of the burning building. 
 "Back ! Back !" it cried. "I'm a-comin' with Queen 
 Bess!" 
 
 An instant later Madge sprang out through the 
 flames, followed by the mare, about whose head the 
 mountain girl had wrapped her shawl. 
 
 "Come, girl ! Come, girl !" said Madge, alert of 
 eye, cool-witted, soothing. 
 
 As docilely as she had followed her that after- 
 noon, the mare stepped through the blazing door 
 and out into the stable-yard. 
 
 279
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 Lexington was in a wild state of excitement on 
 the morning of the year's great race, the Ashland 
 Oaks. In a private parlor of the Phoenix Hotel 
 the two men who were, perhaps, most deeply inter- 
 ested of all in it, were weary of their speculations 
 after they had gone, for the thousandth time, over 
 every detail of possible prophecy and speculation. 
 The Colonel sat beside a table upon which stood a 
 "long" glass from which protruded, and in which 
 nestled fragrant mint-leaves. At the bottom of the 
 glass there lingered, yet, the good third of a julep. 
 
 "There's one capital thing about a mint-julep," 
 he said comfortably, and smacked appreciative lips. 
 "One always suggests another." He drained his 
 glass and rose. At the other side of the room was 
 the bell-button. His finger was extended and about 
 to touch it when he stopped to think. "No ! Great 
 heavens!" said he. "That makes my third, already, 
 and I'm as dry as the desert of Sahara." He sat 
 down again, an air of martyrdom upon his face. 
 "Ah, well, Miss 'Lethe's worth it. I say, Frank, 
 anything new in the extra?" 
 
 280
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 The youthful owner of Queen Bess, to whom it 
 seemed as if almost life itself were staked on the 
 result of the coming contest at the track, lowered, 
 with a nervous hand, for an instant only, the news- 
 paper he had been poring over. 
 
 "Only this," he said, and slowly read : " 'Queen 
 Bess is still the favorite for the Ashland Oaks. The 
 report that she was injured in the fire by which 
 her stable was burned, proves to be a canard. Her 
 owner declares her to be unhurt and in fine condi- 
 tion.' " 
 
 The Colonel nodded his approval. "That's what 
 I've telegraphed the Dyer brothers. I'm sure they 
 won't refuse to take her when they know the facts 
 in the case. It was a close shave, though. If it 
 hadn't been for that little thoroughbred from the 
 mountains " 
 
 "When she rushed into the flames, last night, 
 wasn't she magnificent!" said Frank, flushing with 
 enthusiasm. "And when she came out, leading 
 Queen Bess to safety, she looked like an angel!" 
 
 The Colonel coughed in deprecation. "The 
 simile's off, a little bit, ain't it? Angels are not 
 supposed to come out of the flames." 
 
 "At least, Colonel, you'll admit that she's the 
 best and bravest little girl you ever knew." 
 
 The Colonel smiled. "Yes; but, my boy, this 
 enthusiasm is alarming." He laughed outright. 
 "It seems to indicate another conflagration, with 
 Cupid as the incendiary." 
 
 281
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 The youth colored. "Oh, nonsense!" 
 
 "Be more careful, Frank," his friend urged, be- 
 coming serious. "She's a dear, simple little thing, 
 not used to the ways of the world. Don't let her 
 get too fond of you." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "See here, my boy. I know you young fellows 
 don't want an old fool, like me, interfering with 
 your affairs, but I've taken that little girl right to 
 my heart. I tell you, Frank, she's too brave and 
 true to be trifled with. She's not that kind." 
 
 Layson flushed hotly. The intimation, even from 
 the Colonel, was more than he could bear with pa- 
 tience. "Stop!" he cried. "You've said enough. 
 What you mean to insinuate is false !" 
 
 The Colonel rose, embarrassed. The youth's ear- 
 nestness astonished him. Could it be possible that 
 this scion of an ancient bluegrass family, this leader 
 of the younger set in one of the most exclusive 
 circles in Kentucky, could really be thinking seri- 
 ously of that untutored mountain-girl? "My boy, 
 forgive me!" he exclaimed. "I I didn't under- 
 stand. I never dreamed there could be anything 
 er serious. I thought, of course " 
 
 Frank paced the floor with nervous tread. Other 
 things than the impending contest for the Ash- 
 land Oaks had been worrying him of late. Since he 
 had left the mountains there had scarcely been a 
 moment, waking or sleeping, when the face of the 
 sweet mountain girl who had fascinated him among 
 
 282
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 her rocks and forests, and had come down to the 
 bluegrass to save not only his life but the life of 
 his beloved mare, had not been vividly before him. 
 Untutored she might be, uncouth of speech, un- 
 learned in all those things, in fact, which the 
 women he had known had ever held most valuable, 
 but her compensating virtues had begun to take 
 upon themselves their actual values values so 
 overwhelming in their magnitude that her few lack- 
 ings grew to seem continually less important in his 
 mind. 
 
 "Never mind, Colonel," he said slowly, "you 
 can't say anything to me but what I've said, over 
 and over again, to myself. I know she's ignorant 
 and uncultured. I know what it would mean if I 
 should marry her. If I were to choose for a wife 
 a fashionable girl, whose life is centered in the 
 luxury which surrounds her, the world would smile 
 approval ; but for Madge, with her true, brave heart 
 and noble thoughts, there would be only sneers and 
 insults because she happened to be born up there 
 in the mountains. That is the kind of people we 
 are down here in the bluegrass." He smiled, some- 
 what bitterly. "And I well, I'm too much like the 
 rest to need any warning too much of a coward 
 to think of making her my wife." 
 
 He sat, dejectedly, in a chair by the long table, 
 and, with face held between his hands and elbows 
 planted on the board, looked across it, through the 
 open window, out into the thronging street with 
 
 283
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 gloomy eyes. For days he had been fighting battle 
 after battle with himself. He could not make his 
 mind up as to what he ought to do. He knew he 
 loved the mountain-girl, but but 
 
 "There, there, my boy, I'm sorry," said the Colo- 
 nel, sympathetically, apologetically. "Let's drop 
 the subject. The ladies will be here, soon. Before 
 they come I'll step over to the office and get the 
 answer from the Dyer Brothers." He rose, look- 
 ing at his watch. "It's nearly time it was here. 
 They were to wire promptly. I'll bring it to you 
 as soon as it comes." He went to Frank and put 
 his hand upon his shoulder comfortingly. "Don't 
 worry, my boy. It will all come out, all right. 
 Ahem ! I mean there's nothing the matter with the 
 mare and the sale will go through." 
 
 "I hope so," said Frank, rising without much 
 show of energy. He was clearly on the edge of 
 real discouragement. "If it doesn't and that as- 
 sessment to be met ah, well! What's the use of 
 worrying? It doesn't help the matter any." He 
 walked slowly to the window and looked out. 
 "Here come Madge and Aunt 'Lethe," he an- 
 nounced, "through with their shopping at last. 
 How different Madge looks from the little moun- 
 tain-girl I first knew!" He turned and faced the 
 Colonel. "Ah, if the world knew her as I do 
 
 The Colonel left the room, bound for the tele- 
 graph-office, just before a shrill scream came from 
 the corridor, without, startling Layson greatly. 
 
 284
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 "Oh, dellaw!" the frightened voice said. "Le' 
 me out ! Le' me out !" 
 
 He recognized the voice, at once, as belonging 
 to the girl whom he had been discussing with the 
 Colonel, and it was so full of terror that he rushed 
 quickly to the door, prepared to rescue her from 
 some dire peril. 
 
 "What can be the matter?" he thought, frigh- 
 tened. 
 
 At the door he met Madge, white of face and 
 startled, coming in. 
 
 "Why, Madge! What is it?" 
 
 She leaned against the writing-table, gasping. 
 It was plain enough that she had been greatly 
 frightened. 
 
 "Wait till I git my breath," she said; and then: 
 "They got us into a little room, and, all of a sud- 
 den, we started skallyhootin' fer th' roof room an' 
 all!" 
 
 Frank fell back, relieved, and trying not to show 
 amusement. 
 
 "That was the elevator," he explained. "A ma- 
 chine to carry you upstairs and save you the work 
 of climbing." 
 
 "Dellaw!" exclaimed the girl, not yet entirely 
 calm. "As if I couldn't walk! Thought we was 
 blowed up by another dynamighty bomb!" 
 
 Miss Alathea entered hurriedly, looking about 
 the room, in evident distress. At sight of Madge 
 
 285
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 she gave a great sigh of relief. "My dear, I'm so 
 sorry you were frightened !" 
 
 The girl laughed nervously, pulling herself to- 
 gether. "I understand, now, Miss 'Lethe, and I'm 
 as cool as a cucumber." 
 
 There was a group of darkies at the door, and, 
 suddenly, they all began to grin. Miss 'Lethe knew 
 the sign. 
 
 "The Colonel's coming," she said positively. 
 "Their faces show it. Look at them?" 
 
 Her guess proved a true prophecy. The Colonel, 
 plainly busy with absorbing thoughts, was strid- 
 ing along the uneven old brick sidewalk, seeing 
 nothing, hearing nothing, when the crowd of 
 darkies, sure of his good-nature, beneficiaries from 
 past favors, many times, surrounded him, beseech- 
 ing him for tips upon the coming races. Very dif- 
 ferent were these city darkies from the respectful 
 negroes of the Kentucky plantations of the time. 
 They swarmed about him in an insistent horde. 
 
 "Who gwine win dat race, Marse Cunnel ? Who 
 gwine win dat race?" they chorussed. 
 
 He stopped and beamed at them good-naturedly. 
 
 "Who's going to win?" said he. "Queen Bess, 
 of course." 
 
 He joined the group, inside, with a bundle in one 
 hand and an open telegram in the other. "Good 
 morning, ladies. Miss 'Lethe, you're looking fresh 
 and blooming as you used to twenty years ago." 
 He tried to catch himself, but failed. "As fresh 
 
 286
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 and blooming," he corrected, "as usual, Miss 
 'Lethe." His bow was very courtly and her own 
 no less so. 
 
 "Frank, my boy," said he, turning to the youth- 
 ful owner of Queen Bess, "I've got their answer, 
 and it's all right." 
 
 Frank had been acutely worried. There had 
 been some question of the sale of the mare to the 
 Dyer Brothers before the fire ; now that this disaster 
 had occurred and stories had been started, as, of 
 course, he knew they must have been, about injuries 
 to her, there might be, he had feared, good reason 
 to expect the celebrated horsemen to withdraw their 
 proposition. The Colonel's news, therefore, was 
 very welcome. 
 
 "They take the mare?" he asked, all eagerness." 
 
 "N-o," began the Colonel, "but " 
 
 Frank's face fell, instantly, and his shoulders 
 drooped despairingly. "Then it's all wrong." 
 
 "Not yet," said the Colonel, "score again." He 
 raised the telegram and read from it: ' 'Can't take 
 mare without positive proof that she's all right. 
 Let her run in the Ashland Oaks, to-day. If she 
 wins, we take her.' ' The Colonel looked up beam- 
 ingly. "Do you hear? They take her!" 
 
 The condition which, now, the Dyer brothers 
 made, when, before this, they had made none, 
 bothered Frank. The telegram did not elate him 
 quite as much as the old horseman had supposed it 
 would. "Ah, if she wins!" said he. 
 
 287
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 Miss Alathea spoke up, eagerly. "Oh, Frank, 
 of course she'll win." 
 
 "She's got to win!" exclaimed the Colonel with 
 much emphasis. 
 
 Frank was in a pessimistic mood. "I'm not so 
 sure," said he, a little gloomily. The strain of 
 the past days had been a hard trial for the youth. 
 "If that imp of a jockey, Ike, should get in range 
 of a whiskey bottle however, he has promised not 
 to leave his room." 
 
 The Colonel laughed. "Ike leave his room?" he 
 said. "You're right he won't; but it will not be 
 his promise that Mall keep him from it. He couldn't 
 leave it if he would." 
 
 "Why not?" inquired Miss 'Lethe. 
 
 "Because," the Colonel answered, "I have got his 
 clothes !" 
 
 "His clothes!" said Frank, astonished. 
 
 "Yes a Napoleonic device. When I went to 
 see him, this morning, I found him in bed. I knew 
 how it might be if he got out, so I saw to it that 
 his meals would reach him promptly, and borrowed 
 the one suit of clothes he brought with him, under 
 pretence of needing them to help me order a new 
 jockey-suit for him to wear in the great race. I've 
 been fair about it, too I've got the new clothes 
 for him." He pointed to the bundle which he had 
 just brought in. "They're in there and they'll not 
 disgrace Queen Bess. They're the best I could 
 get." 
 
 288
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 Frank, less interested in the clothes than in the 
 fact that the jockey, now, was quite secure against 
 temptation, sighed with satisfaction. "Then he's 
 safe," said he. 
 
 The Colonel nodded, notably well satisfied with 
 his performance. Miss Alathea, shocked, as she 
 tried to be, by all this business, adjunct of gambling, 
 every bit of it, yet smiled admiringly at the big 
 horseman. Only Madge, learned, through much 
 experience with mountaineers, whose greatest curse 
 is whisky, in the ways of men addicted to its use, 
 was not convinced that all was surely well. 
 
 "I'd keep a watch on him, just the same," she 
 said. Now that she understood the vast importance 
 of this race to Layson her whole heart was wrapped 
 up in its fortunes. "When a man wants whisky 
 he gener'ly finds a way to git it." 
 
 "You're right, Madge," Frank agreed. "I think 
 I'll go and look after him, now." 
 
 He started toward the door just as a knock 
 sounded on it. When he opened it he found Horace 
 Holton standing waiting for admittance. The man 
 seemed to be excited. 
 
 "I don't want to intrude, sar," said the ex-mer- 
 chant in slaves, "but I come to tell you what you'd 
 orter know. Th' news of th' fire, last night, hev 
 set ev'rybody wild. They're lookin' to you, sar, to 
 sw'ar out a warrant for Joe Lorey an' set th' sheriff 
 on his track." 
 
 Frank came back into the room with the old 
 
 289
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 man, worried by the news which he had brought. 
 He had been thinking of this very matter and he 
 was not at all convinced that he wished to swear a 
 warrant out for Lorey. Finally, after a few sec- 
 onds of silent and deep thought, he shook his head. 
 "I want more proof, first," he declared. 
 
 Holton was astonished and ill-pleased. "What 
 more proof d' ye want?" he asked. "Ain't it as 
 plain as day that he come down irom th' mount- 
 ings to get even with you for th' raidin' of his still? 
 Who else would 'a' done it?" 
 
 Madge was listening with flushed face and frown- 
 ing brow. She did not, for a second, think Joe 
 Lorey was the culprit. Her suspicions had not 
 wholly crystalized, but she had known the moun- 
 tain-boy since she had known anyone, and she 
 could not believe that he would fire a building in 
 which was confined a dumb and helpless creature. 
 She knew him to be quite as fond of animals as she 
 was. She believed Holton, also, had some ulterior 
 reason, which she did not fathom, then, for trying 
 to fasten suspicion on the lad. In her earnestness, 
 as she considered these things, she stepped close 
 to the old man, almost truculently. "That's what 
 I mean to find out," she declared. "Who else done 
 it" 
 
 Holton was angered by her manner and her op- 
 position. He had not expected to meet any diffi- 
 culty in the execution of his plan to throw the 
 blame of the outrageous crime at Woodlawn, on 
 
 290
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 the shoulders of the mountaineer. "What have you 
 got to do with it?" he angrily demanded. 
 
 She was not impressed by his quick show of 
 temper. "Reckon I've got as much to do with it 
 as you hev," she replied. "Joe Lorey wouldn't 
 never plan to burn a helpless dumb critter. He 
 ain't no such coward." 
 
 "Who else had a call to do it?" said the old man, 
 placed, unexpectedly, on the defensive. "Who else 
 war an enemy of Mr. Layson's?" 
 
 Madge spoke slowly. She was not sure, at all, 
 whom she was accusing; her suspicions were in- 
 definite, obscure, but they were taking form within 
 her mind. "Thar's one as I knows on," she slowly 
 answered. "It's th' one as told Joe Lorey that Mr. 
 Frank had set th' revenuers onto him." Her con- 
 viction strengthened as she spoke, and, as she con- 
 tinued, she looked Holton firmly in the eye and 
 spoke with emphasis. "Show me th' man as told 
 that lie, an' I'll show you th' scoundrel as tried to 
 burn Queen Bess!" 
 
 Layson liked the spirit of her warm defense of 
 her old friend, .and, himself, knew enough about 
 the moonshiner to make it seem quite reasonable. 
 He knew that Joe was a crude creature, but be- 
 lieved, and had good reason to believe, that he had 
 his code of honor which he would abide by at all 
 cost. It was impossible for him to feel convinced 
 that this would have permitted him to set fire to 
 
 291
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 the stable. "Madge, I believe you're right," said 
 he. 
 
 Holton was nonplussed. Things were not going 
 as he had expected and had wished them to, at all. 
 "Oh, shore, it war Joe Lorey," he protested. "It 
 couldn't 'a' been nobody else. I warns you, here 
 an' now, Layson, that ef you don't set th' law after 
 him he'll be lynched before to-morrer night." 
 
 Layson was a little angered by the man's per- 
 sistence. "I'll see that that doesn't happen," he re- 
 plied, "and I'll leave no stone unturned to find the 
 scoundrel who really did the deed, and have him 
 punished. But I'm not certain that the man will 
 prove to be Joe Lorey." 
 
 Holton, angry, baffled and astonished, left the 
 room, with a maddening conviction growing in his 
 mind that things were going wrong and would con- 
 tinue to go wrong. He almost regretted, now, that 
 he had yielded to the impulse to set fire to the stable. 
 If Layson would not let him throw suspicion where 
 he had intended it should fall, then one part of his 
 plan would have failed utterly : he would not have 
 put Joe Lorey, who, at liberty, must ever be a peril 
 to him, from his path; and, furthermore, if they 
 kept on with investigation, in the end they might 
 they might but he would not let himself be- 
 lieve that, by any possibility, the real truth could 
 come out. He assured himself as he stepped out 
 into the crowded street that he was safe, whether 
 or not the crime was ever fastened on Joe Lorey. 
 
 292
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 Layson, after Holton left, looked around upon 
 the party with a worried eye. "I can't take this 
 matter up, yet," he declared. "Until the race is 
 over I can think of nothing else. Colonel, I'll look 
 after Ike, and then we'll be off to the track." 
 
 "So we will, my boy," the Colonel answered, "so 
 we will. Ah, what a race it will be!" As Frank 
 went out, the horseman rubbed his hands with keen 
 anticipations of delight. 
 
 "Oh, Colonel," exclaimed Madge, brought back 
 by this turn in the conversation to contemplation of 
 the most exciting prospect which had ever been 
 before her, "won't we have fun?" 
 
 "Won't we?" said the Colonel, very happily. 
 
 But then Miss Alathea spoke. She had listened 
 to all the talk about the fire, the incendiary, the pur- 
 suit, and its dreadful possibilities of lynching, with 
 the keenest of distress. Now the Colonel's calm 
 declaration that, presently, they would be off to the 
 race-track which he had sworn forever to taboo, 
 shifted her mind suddenly from those unpleasant 
 topics. 
 
 "Colonel!" she exclaimed, in pained astonish- 
 ment. "Do you forget your promise?" 
 
 "Er er " the old horseman began and be- 
 came speechless. 
 
 Madge was all excitement. "Mr. Frank has told 
 me all about it," she said gaily. "I kin see it, now 
 th' grand-stand filled with folks, th' jockeys ridin' 
 in their bright colors, th' horses a-champin' an' 
 
 293
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 a-pullin' at their bits an' then th' start!" The 
 girl had dreamed about such scenes before she had 
 so much as guessed that she might ever witness one, 
 and now, when she was actually about to go out to 
 the track, herself, and with her own eyes gaze upon 
 the greatest race which old Kentucky had known 
 for many a year, it seemed too good to be true. 
 Her eyes sparkled as she spoke, her feet danced as 
 if they might be in the stirrups, her hands clutched 
 on imaginary reins. "All off together, a-goin' like 
 th' lightnin'!" she exclaimed. "Queen Bess a-lyin' 
 back an' lettin' th' others do th' runnin', Ike never 
 touchin' her with whip nor spur until th' last, an' 
 then jest lif tin' her in as if she had wings !" 
 
 "Stop! Stop!" cried the Colonel. "Not another 
 word, or I'll drop dead in my tracks !" Then, cau- 
 tiously, to Madge: "I say, little one, couldn't you 
 let me have a word alone with Miss 'Lethe ?" 
 
 The girl nodded wisely. "I understand," said 
 she ; and then, with a quick glance at Miss Alathea, 
 who was not attending, and an earnest and implor- 
 ing look at the poor Colonel: "Whatever you do 
 don't you forget that we are goin' to th' races!" 
 She left the room. 
 
 Forget! The Colonel was not likely to forget 
 about those races ! He was in deep misery of mind. 
 "Miss 'Lethe ?" he said timidly. 
 
 "Yes, Colonel," said the charming lady, turning 
 toward him. 
 
 294
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 "Miss 'Lethe, have you the remotest idea of the 
 agony I'm suffering?" 
 
 "Why, Colonel, what's the matter? Aren't you 
 well?" Miss 'Lethe's keen anxiety was instantane- 
 ous. 
 
 "Yes yes I'm well that is, I am now, but I 
 shouldn't wonder if I'd be dead before night. Miss 
 'Lethe, when we made our little arrangement, yes- 
 terday, I didn't know that the sale of the mare, 
 your twenty-five thousand dollars, the assessment 
 on Frank's stock, everything was going to depend 
 upon this race. I tell you, if I don't see it, I'm 
 liable to an attack of heart-disease." 
 
 "Ah, Colonel," said she, sadly, "I see where your 
 heart really is !" 
 
 "With you, Miss 'Lethe, always with you," he 
 urgently assured her ; but there was pleading in his 
 eyes which really was pitiful. 
 
 "Remember your solemn promise." 
 
 "But one little race," he begged. That wouldn't 
 count, would it?" And then swear off forever." 
 
 "No, Colonel; no," she firmly answered, "for if 
 you yield, this time, I'll know that in the race for 
 your affections the horse is first, the woman sec- 
 ond." 
 
 The Colonel sank dejectedly into a chair, 
 can't permit you to think that," said he. "I'll 
 keep my promise." 
 
 She went to him, delighted. "Ah, I was sure 
 you would," said she. "Now I can go and finish 
 
 295
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 my shopping in peace. It's all for your good, Colo- 
 nel for your good." With a happy smile she left 
 him there, alone. 
 
 "For my good !" exclaimed the Colonel, ruefully. 
 "That's what the teacher used to say, but the hick- 
 ory smarted, just the same. Of course Miss 'Lethe 
 is first but but the horse is a strong second!" 
 
 To add to the man's agony, Madge, now, re- 
 turned, dressed and ready for the most exciting 
 moments of her life. "I'm all ready, Colonel," she 
 said eagerly. "Think we'll have good seats? I do 
 hope I'll be whar I kin see!" 
 
 He would not, yet, disappoint the child ; he would 
 not, yet, he could not admit that he, himself, 
 was to meet with such a bitter disappointment 
 "You'll see, all right," he told her, "and so will I." 
 But, after a second's thought he added : "I will if 
 I can hire a balloon!" 
 
 They heard Neb's excited voice out in the corri- 
 dor, and, an instant later, the old darkey hurried 
 in. Immediately the Colonel knew, from his ap- 
 pearance, that something had gone seriously wrong. 
 
 "What is it, Neb; what is it?" he demanded. 
 
 "Fo' de Lawd, sech news!" said Neb. "Sech 
 news !" 
 
 "Neb, Neb, what's the matter?" Madge asked, 
 frightened by his manner. 
 
 "Somebody," said the negro, "done gone smuggle 
 in a bottle o' whiskey to dat mis'able jockey, Ike, 
 an' he am crazy drunk!" 
 
 296
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 "Drunk!" cried the Colonel, shocked inexpres- 
 sibly. "And the race this afternoon!" 
 
 "Marse Frank said you was to come, suh, an' 
 help sobuh him." 
 
 Madge approached the Colonel anxiously. "Yes ; 
 sober him, if you have to turn him inside out!" 
 
 ' 'Fraid he's done on bofe sides, missy ; drunk 
 cl'ar t'rough," said Neb. 
 
 The Colonel grasped his hat. "We'll try, we'll 
 try," he said. "Oh, whisky, whisky! What a pity 
 anyone can get too much of so good a thing!" 
 
 "I neber could, suh," Neb replied, "but dat 'ar 
 jockey " 
 
 They hurried out together. 
 
 Madge was in intense distress. She knew what 
 this might mean. If Queen Bess could not run 
 and she could 'not, certainly, without a jockey the 
 Dyer Brothers would not buy her, probably; and 
 if she were not sold in time, then Layson would be 
 quite unable to meet the assessment on his stock 
 in the coal-mining company. She was by no means 
 
 297
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 certain what this was, or what the reason for it, 
 but she had heard talk of it and knew that it was 
 very serious. Almost beside herself with her anx- 
 iety, she could do nothing save sit there and wait 
 for news. The entrance, even of Barbara Holton, 
 who came in, now, was a relief to her overtaxed 
 nerves. 
 
 "Say," said she, admitting Barbara nearer to 
 good-fellowship than she had ever done before, "I 
 reckon you have heered the news Ike's drunk 
 dead drunk !" 
 
 Barbara regarded her excitement with a careful 
 calm. She, herself, had been excited by the news 
 when it had reached her, but a moment since, but 
 she would not let this girl know that. Her role 
 was to endeavor to force the mountain girl back 
 into what she thought her place, at any cost. 
 
 "Yes, I've heard," said she, "and it's too late to 
 get another jockey, so Queen Bess can't run." 
 
 She had formed a plan, deep in her mind, and 
 had sought the mountain-girl with the skilful 
 scheme. 
 
 "Then Mr. Frank is goin' to be ruined !" Madge 
 exclaimed, dejectedly. 
 
 "Not unless you wish it," Barbara replied, look- 
 ing straight into her eyes. . 
 
 "Dellaw! Me wish that? Just you tell me what 
 you mean!" 
 
 The bluegrass girl stood looking at the moun- 
 tain maiden with appraising eye for a few seconds. 
 
 298
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 Then she crossed the room and stood close by her 
 side, while she tapped upon the table nervously with 
 her carefully gloved fingers. 
 
 "If this sale fails, as it seems it must," she said, 
 slowly, "it rests with you whether my father will 
 advance the money to pay the assessment on that 
 stock of Mr. Layson's." 
 
 "Your father give him the money?" Madge said 
 in astonishment. "Well, I'd never thought o' 
 that! But what have I got to do about it?" 
 
 The situation was a hard one, even for the self- 
 possession of the lowlands girl, who had inherited 
 her father's coolness in emergency as well as some 
 other traits less desirable. Her color rose and she 
 tried, earnestly, to gather words which would ex- 
 press the thought she had in mind without including 
 a confession of the weakness of her own position. 
 This she could not, do, however. She walked over 
 to the window, gazed from it, for a moment, at 
 the passing crowds, and then returned to Madge, 
 to tell her bluntly : "I want you to go away from 
 here." 
 
 "Me go away? What for?" 
 
 It was impossible, Barbara now discovered, to 
 make her meaning wholly clear, without some meas- 
 ure of humiliation. The first thing that was, ob- 
 viously, necessary was a statement of facts as they 
 were, and this must include confession of her own 
 sore weakness. She hesitated, trying to avoid it, 
 but when she quite decided that it could not be 
 
 299
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 helped, plunged on with a perfect frankness. What 
 she wished was immediately to gain her point. If 
 she must eat a bit of humble pie in order to accom- 
 plish this, why, she would eat it, much as she dis- 
 liked the diet. 
 
 "Can't you see that it is you who stand between 
 Frank and me?" she cried. "If it hadn't been for 
 you, I should have been his promised wife! If you 
 will go away and never see him again, I can win 
 him back." 
 
 Madge was dumbfounded. The cold and utter 
 selfishness of the girl's proposal was astounding. 
 She looked at Barbara with eyes in which incredu- 
 lous amazement gave way, slowly, to an expression 
 of chill wonder. "Say, you don't seem to squander 
 many thoughts on other people ! S'posin' I happen 
 to love him a little, myself!" 
 
 Barbara laughed scornfully. Sprung from low 
 stock, herelf, but reared in luxury, she had the most 
 complete contempt for anyone whom circumstances 
 had denied advantages such as she had known. 
 "You you love him!" she exclaimed. 
 
 The words had slipped from Madge's lips with- 
 out forethought, and, instantly, she very much "re- 
 gretted them; but, now that she had uttered them 
 she did not so much as think of trying to recall them 
 or deny their truth. "Yes, and I ain't ashamed of 
 it," said she. "I do love him a thousand times bet- 
 ter nor you ever dreamed of." 
 
 "What good will it do you?" asked her rival, 
 
 300
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 coldly. "You don't suppose he'll ever think of 
 making you his wife ! Why, look at the difference 
 between you and me!" 
 
 "Yes," said Madge, sarcastically, "there is a 
 powerful sight of differ! You'd be willin' to ruin' 
 him to win him, while I'd be willin' to gin up my 
 happiness to save him!" 
 
 Barbara, more in earnest than she ever had been 
 in her life before, took a quick step toward the 
 mountain girl. "Then prove it by going away," 
 said she, "and I will see that my father advances 
 Frank Layson the money he needs." She looked 
 at her eagerly. "Do you promise?" 
 
 "No," said Madge, with firm decision. "No; I 
 won't." 
 
 "Then it is you who will ruin him." 
 
 While they had been talking an idea had sprung 
 to sudden flower in Madge's mind. It was a dar- 
 ing, an unheard of plan that had occurred to her. 
 There were details of it which filled her with shrink- 
 ing. She knew that if she put it into practice, and 
 it ever became generally known, she would be the 
 talk of Lexington and that not all that talk would 
 be complimentary. She knew that, after she had 
 carried out the plan, even the man for whom she 
 thought of doing it might look at her with scorn. 
 But it was the only plan which her alert and anxious 
 brain could find which promised anything at all. 
 And if it won, perhaps perhaps he might not 
 
 301
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 scorn her ! At any rate it was a sacrifice, and sacri- 
 fice for him was an attractive thought to her. 
 
 "Me ruin him?" she said to Barbara. "Don't 
 you be too sure! There is a shorter and a better 
 way nor yours, to save him, an' I'm goin' to try it !" 
 
 The bluegrass girl, astonished, would have ques- 
 tioned her, but Madge waited for no questioning. 
 Without another word she hurried from the room, 
 in a mad search for Colonel Doolittle. 
 
 From the country round about for miles the 
 planters had come into Lexington upon their 
 blooded mounts, their wives, daughters, sweet- 
 hearts, riding in great carriages. Now and then a 
 vehicle, coming from some far-away plantation, 
 was drawn by a gay four-in-hand, and the drivers of 
 such equipages, negroes always, showed a haughty 
 scorn of their black fellow-men who travelled hum- 
 bly on the backs of mules, or trudged the long and 
 dusty way on foot. Gorgeous were the costumes 
 of the ladies whom the carriages conveyed; ele- 
 gant the dress of the gay gentlemen who rode beside 
 the vehicles on prancing steeds, gallant escorts of 
 Kentucky's lovely womanhood, prepared, especially, 
 to watch the carriage-horses when the town was 
 reached and guard against disasters due to their 
 encounter with such disturbing and unusual things 
 as crowds, brass-bands and other marvels of a great 
 occasion. 
 
 302
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 Everywhere upon the sidewalks people swarmed 
 like ants, delighted with the calm perfection of the 
 day, the magnetism of the crowds, the blare of 
 martial music, the novelty of passing strangers, 
 and, above all, by the prospect of the great race 
 which, for weeks, had been the theme of conversa- 
 tion everywhere throughout the section. 
 
 In the spacious corridors and big bar-rooms of 
 the city's hostelries the rich men of the section vied 
 with flashily dressed strangers, in magnitude of 
 wagers, and the gambling fever spread from these 
 important centers to the very alleys of the negro 
 quarters. Poor indeed was the old darkey who could 
 not find two-bits to wager on the race; small, in- 
 deed, the piccaninny who was not wise enough in 
 the sophisticated ways of games of chance to lay 
 a copper with a comrade or to join a pool by means 
 of which he and his fellows were enabled to partici- 
 pate in more important methods of wooing fickle 
 Fortune. 
 
 Here and there and everywhere were the pic- 
 caninnies from Woodlawn, the Layson place, cry- 
 ing the virtues of the mare they worshipped and her 
 owner whom they each and everyone adored, boast- 
 ing of the wagers they had made, strutting in the 
 consciousness that ere the moment for the great race 
 came "Unc" Neb would gather them together to 
 add zest to the occasion with their brazen instru- 
 ments and singing. The "Whangdoodles" were the 
 envy of every colored lad in town who was not of 
 
 303
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 their high elect, and created, about noon, a great 
 diversion upon one of the main streets, by gather- 
 ing, when they were quite certain that their leader 
 could by no means get at them, and singing on a 
 corner for more coppers to be wagered on Queen 
 Bess. The shower of coin which soon rewarded 
 their smooth, well-trained harmonies, burned holes 
 in their pockets, too, until it was invested in the 
 only things which, on this day, the lads thought 
 worth the purchasing tickets on the race in which 
 the wondrous mare would run. 
 
 Through the gay crowd old Neb was wandering, 
 disconsolate, burdened with the melancholy news 
 of the defection of the miserable jockey, looking, 
 everywhere, for Miss Alathea Layson, but without 
 success. He stopped upon a corner, weary of the 
 search and of the woe which weighed him down. 
 
 "Marse Frank," he muttered, "say I war to tell 
 Miss 'Lethe de bad news; but he didn't tell me 
 how to find a lady out shoppin'. Needle in a hay- 
 stack ain't nawthin' ! Reckon 'bout de bes' dat I 
 kin do is stand heah on dis cohnuh an' cotch huh 
 when she comes back to de hotel." 
 
 He stood there for fully fifteen minutes, peering 
 in an utter desolation of woe, at every passing face, 
 but finding nowhere that one which he sought. 
 Then, at a distance, he saw the Colonel coming. 
 The expression on the horseman's face amazed him 
 and filled him with an instant hope that something 
 had turned up to rob the situation of the horror 
 
 304
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 which had darkened it, for him, ever since he had 
 discovered that the jockey had disgraced himself. 
 
 "Dar come Marse Gunnel," he exclaimed, in his 
 astonishment, "a-lookiri mighty happy! Dat ain't 
 right, now; dat ain't right, unduh de succum- 
 stances." 
 
 He hurried to the Colonel, who, instead of seem- 
 ing sorrowful, discouraged, wroth, beamed at him 
 with a genial eye. 
 
 "What's the matter, Neb?" he asked. "You look 
 like a funeral !" 
 
 "Dat's de way I feel, suh; wid no jockey fo' 
 Queen Bess an' Marse Frank good as ruined." 
 
 "Neb," said the Colonel, coolly, "you don't mean 
 to be a liar, but you are one." 
 
 "What ?" cried the darkey in delight. "Oh Marse 
 Cunnel, call me anyt'ing ef tain't so about de 
 mare!" 
 
 "Of course it isn't," said the Colonel happily. "I 
 have found a jockey, Neb; a jockey." 
 
 "Praise de Lawd!" cried the old negro. 
 
 "One of the best," the Colonel went on, gaily. 
 "Just come in from the from the east. I engaged 
 him at once, so you get word to Frank. In five 
 minutes we'll be on our way out to the track." 
 
 Neb's spirits had instantly revived. Six inches 
 droop was gone from his old shoulders. "It'll be 
 de grandest race eber run in ol' Kentucky ! Lawsy, 
 Cunnel, won't it tickle you to death to see Queen 
 Bess romp in a winnuh ?" 
 
 305
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 Instantly the Colonel's high elation faded. More 
 than the droop which had been in Neb's shoulders 
 now oppressed the horseman's. His face clouded. 
 "There he goes, too!" he cried. "Neb, another 
 word like that and I shall brain you ! Do you hear 
 me ? I I shan't be there !" 
 
 "Not be dar!" Neb exclaimed. "Kain't swaller 
 dat, suh. Ef you should miss dat race, why, you'd 
 drop daid." 
 
 "I believe you, Neb believe you. I say, Neb, 
 look here. I have promised on the honor of a Ken- 
 tuckian, never to enter another race-track. I must 
 keep my word ; but, for the Lord's sake, isn't there 
 a knot-hole, that you know of, somewhere in the 
 fence, which would let me see the race without 
 going inside?" 
 
 Neb knew that race-track as he knew the plot 
 of hard-trodden ground before the little cabin where 
 he had been born back of the big house out at 
 Woodlawn. Many a race had he seen surrepti- 
 tiously when he had not funds to buy admission to 
 the track. He grinned, remembering talk which 
 he had heard between the Colonel and Miss 'Lethe, 
 and understanding, now. He laughed. "Oh, I yi !" 
 he cried. "Marse Cunnel, dar ain't nobody'll git 
 ahead of you! You bet dar is a knot-hole, not 
 fur off frum de gran'-stan', neither, an' a tree, too, 
 you could climb, stan's mighty handy." 
 
 The Colonel groaned. "I climb a tree to peek 
 above a race-track fence!" said he. "No; never. 
 
 306
 
 7A r OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 They'd think I was trying to save my admission 
 fee! The knot-hole will have to do for me, Neb. 
 You've saved me. Heaven bless you! Have a 
 cigar they're good." 
 
 "T'ankee, suh," said Neb, reaching for the weed 
 the Colonel now held toward him. "Lawsy, ain't 
 dat jus' a whoppuh? Whah you-all git sech mon'- 
 sous big cigahs as dat?" 
 
 "I'm only smoking half as many, now, so I get 
 'em double size," the Colonel answered, sighing but 
 not wholly miserable. 
 
 Neb did not see the humor of this detail. He 
 was thinking of the race and of Queen Bess. 
 "Hooray fo' de Cunnel!" he exclaimed, irrelevantly, 
 to a little group of colored men who had been gath- 
 ering. "Whatever he says yo' kin gamble on. 
 Lawsy, ain't I glad I's got my money on Queen 
 Bess? Golly, won't Marse Holton jes' feel cheap 
 when he done heahs dis news? Seen him down dar 
 in de pool-room, not so long ago, a-puttin' up his 
 money plumb against Queen Bess. Coin* to lose 
 it, suah, he will." He went off, muttering, and 
 shaking his old head. "Somehow I jes' feels it in 
 mah bones dat he ain't true to Marse Frank, yes- 
 suh. If I evah fin's it out fo' suah, I'll jes' paralyse 
 him!" 
 
 He had quite forgotten that he had come out 
 to find Miss Alathea, and was not looking for her 
 when he actually stumbled into her. 
 
 307
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 "Why, Neb, what are you doing?" she said, re- 
 coiling. 
 
 "Pahdon, pahdon, please, Miss 'Lethe," said the 
 negro. "I was thinkin' of de sweet bimeby an' 
 waitin' fo' to tell de news to you fust dat Ike got 
 drunk an' Marse Frank war gwine hab to scratch de 
 mare " 
 
 "Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Then Frank why, he'll 
 lose everything!" 
 
 "Hoi' on, Miss 'Lethe; dat de fust half, only. 
 Secon' half am dat Marse Gunnel found a jockey 
 an' Queen Bess am gwine ter run." 
 
 "Bless his heart!" she cried. "I wonder if it's 
 wrong for me to pray that that jockey will win." 
 She looked, almost embarrassed at the aged negro 
 for a moment, and then, mustering up courage, 
 said: "Neb, look here. I'm ashamed to acknowl- 
 edge so much interest in a horse-race, but it seems 
 as if I can't wait to hear of the result." 
 
 "Lawsy, I don't blame you, none; feel dat way 
 mahse'f." 
 
 "I must know the result the instant the race is 
 decided." 
 
 "Send yo' wuhd right off, Miss 'Lethe." 
 
 "Oh, I can't wait for that. Neb, I never did 
 such a thing before and never will again, and, even 
 now, I won't enter a race-track; but, Neb, isn't 
 there some place outside the fence where I could 
 watch the race without actually going in?" 
 
 Neb doubled up in silent laughter. The old 
 
 308
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 negro was enjoying life, exceedingly, on this, the 
 day, which, for a time, had seemed so full of gloom. 
 The white folks were quite at his mercy. "You 
 bet dar is," said he, "a knot-hole not fur f m de 
 gran'-stan', an' a tree what you could climb, right 
 handy." 
 
 Miss Alathea was not favorable to the thought of 
 climbing trees, and said so. "No, no ; the knot-hole 
 will be far better for me." 
 
 "But, Miss 'Lethe, why, de Gunnel 
 
 She did not let him make his explanation. "Sh ! 
 Sh!" she hissed. "Not a word of this to him, or 
 anyone! Will you show me, when the time 
 comes?" 
 
 "Oh, I'll show you," Neb replied, and before he 
 had a chance to add a word she had hurried off 
 into the crowd. 
 
 "I war gwine to tell her dat de Cunnel'd be dar, 
 too, but she wouldn't wait to heah. Wai, I reckon 
 she'll jes' fin' 'im when she git dar." 
 
 Down the street his piccaninny band came strag- 
 gling, looking for him. 
 
 "Hoi' on, chillun; hoi' on," he cried, and joined 
 them. "Now yo' lissen. Yo' is not to make a 
 squawk until the end of de Ashlan' Oaks. Yo's to 
 sabe yo' bref to honuh ouah Queen Bess. If she 
 wins, yo' staht in playin' 'Dixie' as yo' nevuh played 
 afo'. If she loses yo's to play, real slow an' mo'n- 
 ful, 'Massa's in de Col', Col', Groun'.' ' 
 
 In the meantime the Colonel, in a quiet spot, had 
 
 309
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 joined the jockey who had been discovered to take 
 the place of drunken Ike. The unknown rider was 
 wrapped closely in an ulster, from beneath which 
 riding boots, unusually small, peeped, now and then, 
 as the feet within them moved somewhat nervously 
 about. 
 
 "All right, are you?" he inquired. 
 
 "I ain't afeared," the jockey answered, "but I'm 
 powerful nervous. Never had on clo'es like these 
 before, an' don't you look at me !" 
 
 Strange talk, this was, for the jockey who was 
 soon to ride Queen Bess for the capture of the 
 Ashland Oaks and the salvation of the fortune of 
 the house of Lay son! 
 
 "Don't look at you!" said the Colonel, in ex- 
 postulation, and, in the next sentence, revealed a 
 secret which he was guarding carefully from every- 
 one. "See here, little girl, you've got to face thou- 
 sands and not wince, and you can't ride in that over- 
 coat, either." 
 
 But the jockey wrapped the coat still tighter. "Oh, 
 sho ! That can't make no differ just a little coat!" 
 
 "I tell you it's impossible. It would give the 
 game away at once. Come, take it off. Practice up 
 on me." 
 
 The jockey shivered nervously. "Reckon I will 
 hev to. Say, turn your back till I am ready." 
 
 The Colonel turned his back, somewhat impa- 
 tiently. The time was getting short. "All right, 
 but hurry up." 
 
 310
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 The jockey pulled the long coat partly off, then, 
 in a panic, shrugged it on again. "Oh, now, you're 
 lookin' !" 
 
 "Not a wink," declared the Colonel. 
 
 "Wai, here goes!" This time the coat came 
 wholly off and the jockey \vho had been discovered 
 to take the place of drunken Ike stood quite re- 
 vealed. The voice which warned the Colonel of 
 this was a faint and faltering one. "Now," it said 
 timidly. 
 
 The Colonel turned. "Hurrah!" 
 
 The jockey held the coat up in a panic. 
 
 "See here, now none o' that!" the Colonel 
 warned. "Give it to me." He reached his hand 
 out for the coat, and, reluctantly, the jockey let him 
 take it. 
 
 There stood the trimmest and most graceful fig- 
 ure ever garbed in racing blouse, knickers, boots 
 and cap, with flushed face, dilating, frightened eyes 
 and hands not a little tremulous. The girl who 
 had told Barbara Holton that she would not hesi- 
 tate to make a sacrifice to save the man she loved 
 was making one a very great one the sacrifice 
 of what, her whole life long, she had considered 
 fitting woman's modesty. Queen Bess must win 
 and there was no one else to ride her. The moun- 
 tain-girl shrank from the thought of going, thus, 
 before a multitude, as shyly as would the most 
 highly educated and most socially precise girl in 
 the grand-stand, near, which, now, was filling with
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 the gallantry and beauty of Kentucky; but she did 
 not let her nervous tremors conquer her. There 
 was no other way to save the day for Layson, and, 
 somehow, the day must certainly be saved. 
 
 The Colonel, now, spoke very seriously as she 
 stood there, shrinking from his gaze. There was 
 not a smile upon his face. It was plain that he re- 
 garded the whole matter with the utmost gravity. 
 
 "Now, little one, you begin to realize what this 
 means," said he. "Or no, you don't and I've got 
 to be square with you if it spoils the prettiest horse- 
 race ever seen in old Kentucky. I tell you, my 
 dear child, we're mighty particular about our 
 women, down here in the bluegrass. We'd think 
 it an eternal shame and a disgrace forever for one 
 of them to ride a public race in a costume like the 
 one that you have on, and it would mean not less 
 than social ruin to the man that married her. If 
 anyone should find it out, what you are going to 
 do might stand between you and your happiness. 
 I'm warning you because I know I ought to. Think 
 it over and then tell me if you're willing to face 
 it willing to take all the risks." 
 
 "I don't need to think it over," Madge said 
 firmly. "I said as I'd gin up my happiness to save 
 him, an' I will. Colonel, I've got on my uniform, 
 I've enlisted for th' war, an' I am goin' to fight it 
 through !" 
 
 "A thoroughbred!" he cried. "A thoroughbred, 
 and I always said it of you. Come on, little one." 
 
 312
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 Brilliant as a garden of flowers was the grand- 
 stand where the fairest of old Kentucky's wondrous 
 women were as numerous as were her gallant men ; 
 full of handsome figures were the lawns, where 
 old Kentucky's youth and manhood strolled and 
 smoked and gossipped of the day's great race to 
 come; like an ebon sea in storm was the great 
 crowd of blacks which in certain well-defined limits 
 crowded to the rail about the track. The blare of 
 the band kept the air a-tremble almost constantly, 
 the confused, uneven murmur of a great crowd filled 
 the pauses between brazen outbursts. Everywhere 
 was life and gayety, intense excitement, as the mo- 
 ment for the starting of the famous Ashland Oaks 
 approached. The cries of the book-makers rose, 
 strident, from the betting-ring; on the tracks the 
 jockeys, exercising or trying out their mounts, were, 
 each after his own kind, preparing for the struggle 
 of their lives; stable-boys, and the hundred other 
 species of race-track hangers-on which swarm at 
 such times to the front, were everywhere in evi-
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 dence ; touts with shifty eyes slipped, here and there, 
 among the sightseers, looking for some credulous 
 one who might be willing to pay well for doubtful 
 information. Every minute amidst the throng the 
 words "Queen Bess" might be heard at any chosen 
 point, as the crowd gossipped eagerly about the 
 horse which had been looked on as the favorite, but 
 which, many positively now declared, had been so 
 injured in the fire that she would run but poorly in 
 the race which, it had been thought, would be the 
 most sensational effort of her life. 
 
 Frank, nervous and excited, stood in the paddock, 
 watch in hand, with old Neb by his side. 
 
 "Why doesn't that jockey come?" he asked, for 
 the hundredth time, almost beside himself with 
 worry as the moments slipped away. 
 
 "He'll come, Marse Frank," said Neb. "You kin 
 gamble on de Gunnel." 
 
 "If I only knew what kind of a jockey he is!" 
 Then, as Horace Holton came up, smiling greet- 
 ings: "Holton, how's the betting?" 
 
 "Can't you hear?" said Holton, as a vagrant 
 breeze brought to their ears bits of the vocal tumult 
 from the betting-ring. 
 
 "Ten to nine against Queen Bess," Frank heard 
 a voice call loudly, although the crowd's great mur- 
 mur made the words come indistinctly to his ears. 
 "Even on Catalpa," was the next penetrating cry, 
 and then: "Two to one, Evangeline!" 
 
 The young owner shuddered. Could it be pos-
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 sible that Neb was right and that the Colonel's 
 jockey would appear on time, or were the dire 
 predictions of defeat which, he knew, were being 
 made everywhere around him, true prophecies? 
 Tales of all but fatal injuries to the handsome mare 
 had been freely circulated, and, despite denials in 
 the newspapers, were still alive, and these he knew 
 to be quite false; but he knew of the other dire dis- 
 aster the defection of his jockey of which the 
 crowd was also well aware. He had not the slight- 
 est doubt that if Queen Bess should run at all she 
 would do all that her best friends expected of her 
 and more; but it seemed to him a possibility that 
 he would find it necessary, at the last minute, to 
 withdraw her from the race entirely, for sheer lack 
 of a rider. 
 
 Again the breeze brought from the betting-ring 
 the loud shouts of the book-makers. The message 
 that they told was most depressing to the worried 
 owner. 
 
 "Why, this morning she was the favorite," he 
 said, "and now the odds are all against her!" 
 
 Holton nodded. "On the strength o' this jockey 
 as nobody knows. Got any money on, yourself, 
 Layson ?" 
 
 "Not a cent. I've enough at stake, already." 
 
 Holton smiled unpleasantly, intimating that 
 Frank's lack of betting on his horse was proof 
 positive that the worst tales told were true. "That 
 
 315
 
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 settles it. The bookies are right. Th' mare's no 
 chance with a new jockey, an' you know it." 
 
 "If I were betting," said Frank angrily, "I'd back 
 her with every dollar that I have on earth." 
 
 Holton smiled at him unpleasantly. "I say she 
 can't win and you know it." He waited for some 
 answer from the anxious owner, but received none. 
 Then, taking out his check-book: "See here I'll 
 bet you five-thousand even against her!" 
 
 Frank, annoyed but helpless, shook his head. "I 
 haven't the money," he admitted. 
 
 "You ain't got the sand !" said Holton, aggravat- 
 ing^- 
 
 Frank turned from him angrily, and old Neb, who 
 had listened, stepped quickly up to him. "Marse 
 Frank," he pleaded, "don' yo' let dat white-trash 
 bluff yo'!" The old darkey's voice' was tremulous, 
 his eyes were moist with feeling for his humiliated 
 master. A great resolve thrilled through him. "See 
 heah, honey, I's be'n sabin' all mah life. Fs got a 
 pile o' money in de bank. Take it all, now, honey, 
 an' bet it on Queen Bess." 
 
 Frank shook his head, but smiled at the old 
 darkey, touched alike by his devotion to himself 
 and confidence in the mare they both loved. "No, 
 no, Neb; not your money," he replied. He stood 
 in deep thought, for a moment, tapping the ground 
 nervously with worried foot. "But I'll back the 
 mare for all I'm worth!" he finally declared. "If 
 she loses, I'm a ruined man, anyway." He turned, 
 
 316
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 now, to Holton. "Holton," he said, "I've got just 
 three thousand dollars in the bank. I'll put it all 
 on Queen Bess against your five-thousand." 
 
 It seemed, almost, as if Holton had been waiting 
 for this offer, for his smile broadened as he found 
 that he had goaded Layson into making it. "I'll 
 take it," he said quickly, and then, turning to the 
 crowd about them, among which were some of the 
 state's best citizens, he added : "Gentlemen, you're 
 witnesses. Three-thousand against five-thousand 
 on Queen Bess." 
 
 They nodded, and not one of them but looked 
 at Layson with commiseration, as at a man fore- 
 doomed to bitter disappointment. 
 
 Neb, however, grinned at Holton impishly. 
 "Yes ; you'll look mighty sick when yo' hab to pay 
 it, too." 
 
 From the judge's stand rang out the silvery notes 
 of a quavering bugle-call, and Holton smiled un- 
 pleasantly. 
 
 "The call to th' post," said he, "an' whar's your 
 jockey ?" 
 
 "He'll be here on time," said Frank, voicing a 
 confidence which it was hard for him to feel. He 
 turned, then, to the darkey. "Neb, bring out Queen 
 Bess." 
 
 The excitement, all around them, was intensify- 
 ing, every minute. Jockeys, now, were mounting 
 their horses, and riding off for the short canter to 
 the judges' stand. As each appeared in view of the 
 
 317
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 great crowd in and about the grand-stand a mighty 
 shout arose. 
 
 Holton's smile was broadening. "If that jockey 
 doesn't show up mighty quick," he sneered, "you're 
 out of the race." 
 
 Just as he spoke old Neb returned, with the 
 superb mare behind him, saddled, bridled, ready 
 for the race, fretting at her bit, impatient of the 
 crowds and noise. 
 
 "Who knows whether he's coming, at all?" said 
 Holton, a bit dashed at sight of the fine mare's 
 superb condition, but still sneering. "Nobody's 
 seen him." 
 
 Neb looked off toward the weighing-room. "Yo* 
 're wrong," he shouted, capering with amazing spry- 
 ness for one whose limbs were old and stiff, "fo' 
 heah he comes !" 
 
 Every member of the party turned, in haste, to 
 look in the direction whence Neb pointed. 
 
 They saw a slight, graceful figure, dressed in the 
 brilliant colors of the Layson stable, which, with- 
 out so much as glancing at them, ran to Queen 
 Bess and took a place upon the far side of the mare, 
 where, stooping as if to look carefully to the sad- 
 dle-girths, its face was quickly hidden. But, even 
 as the jockey stooped, one of his hands held out 
 to Frank, across the saddle, a little folded paper. 
 
 Without paying much attention to the jockey, 
 Layson took this note and hastily unfolded it. "It's 
 
 318
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 from the Colonel," he announced. "I knew he'd 
 never fail me." 
 
 Then he read, aloud, so all might hear: 
 
 "This will be handed to you by a jockey I have 
 just engaged. He comes from the east and is 
 highly recommended. I know his endorser. Re- 
 gretting that the promise of a Kentuckian prevents 
 me from being with you, I am yours regretfully, 
 on the outside, SANDUSKY DOOLITTLE." 
 
 "It's all right!" Frank shouted, gleefully, and 
 then, to the strange jockey: "Quick, on the mare 
 and off to the post !" 
 
 Without a word, without a second's pause, 
 Madge, for the unknown jockey was, of course, the 
 little mountain girl, jumped upon Queen Bess and 
 hastily rode off, to be greeted, with a mighty out- 
 burst of cheering and applause as the favorite ap- 
 peared before the waiting crowds in unmistakably 
 fine condition and mounted by a rider whose every 
 movement showed a perfect knowledge of the work 
 and complete sympathy with the beautiful animal 
 he rode. 
 
 Doomed by his promise on the honor of a gen- 
 tleman to Miss Alathea. to witnessing the race from 
 the outside, if he witnessed it at all, Colonel San- 
 dusky Doolittle, fully aware of the unusual interest 
 of the moments, some account of which has just 
 been made, was sunk in melancholy after he had 
 
 319
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 sent Madge through the magic portals, with ex- 
 plicit instructions as to exactly what to do when 
 once she was safe inside. He was breathing hard 
 from the mere exertion of preventing his unruly 
 feet from running to the gate, of keeping his un- 
 ruly hand from diving deep into his pocket for the 
 entrance fee. These preventions he accomplished, 
 though, without once really weakening, and was 
 safe at a good distance from the tempting gate 
 when the crowd within began to shout as the horses 
 were brought out. 
 
 "There, they're bringing out the horses!" he ex- 
 claimed, unhappily. He set his jaws as might one 
 who, with a great effort, abstains from food when 
 famishing. "I didn't go in!" he muttered. "I've 
 kept my word, though it has nearly finished me!" 
 
 Anxiously, if hurriedly, he searched along the 
 fence for the knot-hole Neb had told him of. 
 Twice, in his great eagerness, he passed it by, "but, 
 on the third inspection he discovered it, and placed 
 his eye to it. In a moment he backed away, de- 
 jectedly. "I can't see worth a cent!" he bitterly 
 complained. "It's not hole enough for me !" Lost, 
 in his disappointment, even to shame for the 
 wretched pun, he straightened up, surveying his 
 immediate surroundings. 
 
 Close by was the tree which Neb had also spoken 
 of. He examined it with an appraising eye, then 
 looked about to see what spectators were near. No 
 one was in sight save a pair of piccaninnies, down 
 
 320
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 the fence a hundred yards or so, with eyes glued 
 to other knot-holes or to cracks. 
 
 "To the deuce with dignity!" he cried. "I'll just 
 inspect that tree." 
 
 He was doing this with care, when, breathless 
 and eager, a lady hurried toward him. As the tree 
 intervened between them he did not see her coming, 
 nor did she note his presence. It would have been 
 quite plain to anyone who had observed her that 
 she was engaged upon a quest much like that which 
 he had pursued, for she carefully inspected each 
 plank in the high fence, as, slowly and cautiously 
 lest she should pass unheeded that which she was 
 seeking eagerly, she made her way in his direction. 
 
 "Everybody's at the races," she thought, com- 
 forting herself. "I'm perfectly safe. No one in 
 the world will see me. . . . But where is that 
 blessed knot-hole?" 
 
 Suddenly her eye chanced on it, and, an instant 
 later, was applied to it, the while the Colonel 
 paused, with his back to her, still anxiously inspect- 
 ing the tree. 
 
 "Ah !" said Miss Alathea, aloud, as she caught a 
 glimpse of something interesting inside the fence. 
 
 Instantly the Colonel turned and looked down 
 at her, startled. Then : "A woman !" he exclaimed, 
 beneath his breath. "A woman at my knot-hole!" 
 
 Firmly determined to maintain his right he sternly 
 approached her. 
 
 "Madam!" he exclaimed, as incensed by her usur- 
 
 321
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 pation of the knot-hole as he would have been, at 
 ordinary times, by theft of watch or pocket-book, 
 and tapped her lightly on the shoulder. 
 
 She shrank back from the knot-hole, startled 
 and indignant. "Sir!" she cried, and then, as he 
 recognized her, she turned and saw who had ad- 
 dressed her. 
 
 "Colonel Sandusky Doolittle!" she exclaimed, 
 amazed. 
 
 "Miss Alathea Layson !" cried the Colonel, equally 
 amazed, at first, but winding up his gesture of sur- 
 prise with a low and courtly bow. 
 
 "Colonel, what are you doing here?" 
 
 "Madame," he countered, "what are you doing 
 here?" 
 
 Miss Alathea's dignity forsook her. "Colonel," 
 she confessed, "I couldn't wait to hear the result." 
 
 "No more could I," he somewhat sheepishly ad- 
 mitted. 
 
 "But I didn't enter the race-track," she explained 
 in haste. 
 
 "I was equally firm." 
 
 "And Neb told me of this knot-hole." 
 
 "The rascal he told me of it, too." 
 
 "Colonel," she said, smiling, "we must forgive 
 each other. If you really must look, there is the 
 knot-hole." 
 
 "No, Miss 'Lethe," he said gallantly, "I resign 
 the knot-hole to you. I shall climb the tree." With- 
 out delay (for sounds from the barrier's far side 
 
 322
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 hinted to his practiced ear that matters of much 
 moment were progressing, there) he scrambled with 
 much more difficulty than dignity into the spread- 
 ing crotch. 
 
 "Oh, be careful Colonel!" Miss Alathea cried, 
 alarmed. "Don't break your neck!" But she 
 added, as an afterthought: "But be sure to get 
 where you can see." 
 
 "Ah, what a gallant sight !" he cried as he found 
 himself in a position whence he could command a 
 view of the exciting scene within the barrier. 
 "There's Catalpa . . . and Evangeline . . . 
 and . . . yes, there is Queen Bess !" 
 
 A burst of cheering rose from the crowd within. 
 
 Miss Alathea was on tip-toe with excitement. 
 "What's that?" she begged. 
 
 "A false start," he answered, scarcely even glanc- 
 ing down at her. "They'll make it this time, 
 though," he added, and she could see his knuckles 
 whiten with the strain as he gripped a rough limb 
 of the tree with vise-like fingers. 
 
 A moment later and the shouting became a very 
 tempest of sound. 
 
 "They're off!" he cried, staring through his field 
 glasses in an excitement which promised, if he did 
 not curb it, to send him tumbling from his shaky 
 foothold. "Oh, what a splendid start!" 
 
 "Who's ahead?" inquired Miss A!athea, very 
 much excited. "Colonel, who's ahead?" 
 
 323
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 "Catalpa sets the pace, the others lying well 
 back." 
 
 "Why doesn't Queen Bess come to the front?" 
 Miss Alathea cried, as if he were to blame for the 
 disquieting news he had reported to her. "Oh," 
 she exclaimed, to the Colonel's great astonishment, 
 "if I were only on that mare!" 
 
 "At the half," the Colonel shouted, beside him- 
 self with worry, "Evangeline takes the lead . . . 
 Catalpa next . . . the rest are bunched." 
 
 Miss Alathea, at the moment, was trying to see 
 satisfactorily, through the very knot-hole which the 
 Colonel had abandoned. She sprang from it hast- 
 ily, however, and to the foot of the tree which acted 
 as his pedestal, when he exclaimed : 
 
 "Oh, great heavens! There's a fall ... a 
 jam . . . and Queen Bess is left behind three 
 lengths!" He leaned so far out that he heard the 
 limb beneath him crack, and, in hastening to a 
 firmer footing, almost lost his balance. This star- 
 tled, him, and, for an instant, took his eager gaze 
 away from the struggling horses on the track 
 within, but he quickly regained poise. "She hasn't 
 the ghost of a show!" he cried, disheartened. 
 "Look! Look!" 
 
 Miss Alathea hugged the tree and looked, not at 
 the horses, for that was quite impossible, but up at 
 him with wide, imploring eyes. 
 
 "She's at it again, though, now !" he cried. "It's 
 
 324
 
 'LOOK! LOOK! IN THE STRETCH! HER HEAD is AT CATALPA'* rnrrr*! '
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 beyond anything mortal, but she's gaining . . . 
 gaining !" 
 
 Miss Alathea's excitement now was every bit as 
 great as his. She had never seen a race in all her 
 life, yet, now, she performed there at the foot of 
 the great tree, a series of evolution not unlike those 
 of many a "rooter" at the track within. She 
 jumped up and down upon her toes, clenched her 
 hands and cried : "Oh, keep it up! Keep it up!" 
 
 "At the three-quarters she's only five lengths be- 
 hind the leader and still gaining!" cried the Colo- 
 nel, in excited optimism. 
 
 Miss Alathea could no longer endure the agony 
 of waiting on the ground for his reports. Instead 
 she tried to scramble to his side, but, failing, ut- 
 terly, to accomplish this unaided, held her hands up 
 to him, crying: "Oh, pull, pull! I can't stand it! 
 I've just got to see!" 
 
 The Colonel turned upon his perch and looked 
 down at her, smiling. "Coming up, Miss 'Lethe?" 
 he inquired. "All right, don't break your neck, but 
 get where you can see." Hastily he gave her such 
 assistance as his absorbed attention to the events 
 within the fence permitted, and, with a wild scram- 
 ble, she found herself close by his side, holding half 
 to him, half to a curving branch. 
 
 "Look ! Look !" he cried, again. "In the stretch ! 
 Her head is at Catalpa's crupper . . . now at 
 her saddle-bow ... but she can't gain a: 
 inch. Still ... yes ... yes 
 
 325
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 lifts her! See! . . . See! . . . Great God! 
 She wins!" 
 
 Within the fence wild pandemonium broke loose. 
 The crowd went mad with shouting. Hats, hand- 
 kerchiefs, canes, umbrellas, flew into the air as if 
 blown upward by the mad explosion of the crowd's 
 enthusiasm. The band was playing "Dixie." 
 
 Frank and Neb rushed forward to lift from the 
 winner the victorious jockey, who by such superb 
 riding as that track had never seen before, had 
 snatched victory from defeat after the mare had 
 been delayed in the bad pocket which, from his dis- 
 tant point of survey, had alarmed the Colonel. The 
 jockey eluded them, however and, with face 
 averted, hurried with the splendid mare back to the 
 paddock, and there disappeared, disregarding the 
 crowd's wild shouts of acclamation. 
 
 Holton stood near Frank, white-faced and an- 
 gry. Old Neb, as he ran beside Queen Bess, looked 
 back at him and grinned. 
 
 326
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 Miss Alathea, on the day after the great race, 
 sat waiting for the Colonel in the handsome old 
 library of Woodlawn, worrying about her uncon- 
 ventionalities of the preceding day. When she 
 heard his voice, out in the hall, telling Neb to carry 
 certain bundles into the library and knew, of course, 
 that he would follow after them almost immedi- 
 ately, her heart throbbed fiercely in her bosom. She 
 shrank back into a window recess, too embarrassed 
 to face him without first pausing to gather up her 
 courage. 
 
 "Put 'em there, Neb," said the Colonel, pointing 
 to the table, and then, after the packages had been 
 arranged to suit him : "Here, take this, and drink 
 to the jockey that rode Queen Bess." 
 
 "T'ankee, Marse Cunnel, t'ankee," Neb replied, 
 pocketing the tip. "Oh, warn't it gran' ? An' yo' 
 climbed de tree, arter all!" 
 
 "Sh! Clear out, you rascal!" 
 
 Neb did not go at once, but, with the boldness of 
 an old and privileged retainer, stood there, chuck- 
 
 327
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 ling. "Climbed de tree!" he gurgled. "An' so did 
 Miss 'Lethe!" 
 
 With this he slapped his knee, and, laughing 
 boisterously, left the room as the embarrassed lady 
 of the house stepped out of her concealment. 
 
 "Ah, Miss 'Lethe," said the Colonel, "good morn- 
 ing." 
 
 "I expected you back from Lexington last night, 
 Colonel." She looked at him reproachfully. 
 
 "Stayed over to celebrate, my dear," the Colo- 
 nel answered. "Stayed to celebrate the victory." 
 With a beaming face he advanced upon the lady, 
 plainly planning an embrace. 
 
 But she eluded him. "Wait a moment, Colo- 
 nel. On what did you celebrate?" 
 
 The Colonel laughed. "Oh, I didn't forget. I 
 celebrated on ginger-ale and soda-pop." 
 
 Miss Alathea smiled with happy satisfaction. She 
 eluded him no longer, but, herself, went to him 
 and bestowed the kiss. 
 
 "I doubt if my stomach ever recovers from the 
 insult," said the Colonel, delighted by the kiss but 
 remembering the mildness of the beverages which 
 had marked his jubilation. "Miss 'Lethe, a julep 
 a mint-julep before I perish." 
 
 With a smile she crossed the room to where, upon 
 the side-board (a side-board is an adjunct of all 
 well-regulated libraries in old Kentucky), a snowy 
 damask cloth concealed glorious somethings. With 
 a graceful sweep she took it from them and re- 
 
 328
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 vealed three juleps in their glory of green-crowns. 
 "Look, Colonel!" 
 
 "Three! Great heavens!" the Colonel cried, de- 
 lighted. He took one and disposed of it in haste. 
 
 "I mixed them myself," Miss 'Lethe said. 
 
 The Colonel drank another, but less rapidly. 
 
 "Remember," she said, warningly, "three and 
 no more!" 
 
 "Yes, yes," he granted. "I must save the other 
 one." It was difficult to sip it, for Miss Alathea's 
 juleps were like nectar to his thirsty palate, but he 
 restrained himself and drank of this last ambrosial 
 glass with great deliberation, trying to make it last 
 as long as possible. 
 
 "What are all those bundles, Colonel?" asked 
 Miss Alathea, pointing to the packages which old 
 Neb had brought in. 
 
 "They're for Madge. She bought them yester- 
 day." He sighed. "Ah, will you ever forget yes- 
 terday?" 
 
 "Oh, don't speak of it!" 
 
 "Can't help it." The Colonel waxed enthusiastic 
 at the mere memory of the great occasion. "Whoo- 
 pee!" he cried. "What a race it was!" 
 
 "To think," said Miss Alathea, "that II 
 should enter a race-track!" 
 
 "To think that 7 should stay out of one !" 
 
 "It was all your fault, Colonel," said Miss Al- 
 athea. "In your excitement after the race you 
 grasped my hand and I was compelled to follow." 
 
 3 2 9
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 "How strange!" exclaimed the Colonel, slowly, 
 with a slight smile tickling at the corners of his 
 mouth. "At times I fancied you were in the lead, 
 I following." 
 
 "Colonel," said the lady slowly, "perhaps I might 
 as well confess. I've made a discovery. The sin 
 isn't so much in looking at the horses run it's in 
 betting on them. That's where souls are lost." 
 
 "And likewise money," said the Colonel, nod- 
 ding, gravely. 
 
 "So, Colonel, if you'll promise not to bet, I've no 
 objection to your attending the races in modera- 
 tion." 
 
 In delighted amazement the Colonel forgot that 
 that last julep could be brought to a quick end by 
 hurried management and took a hasty and a mam- 
 moth swallow. "What!" he cried. "Can I believe 
 it? Miss 'Lethe, you're an angel ! It's the last drop 
 in my cup of happiness !" 
 
 Miss Alathea shyly smiled smiled, indeed, a bit 
 shame- facedly. "There's one condition, Colonel 
 that you take me along yes, to watch over you." 
 
 "Take you with me?" said the Colonel. He 
 paused in puzzled contemplation of her for an in- 
 stant. "Oh, I catch on. You'll go with the chil- 
 dren to see the animals!" He laughed. "You 
 rather like it." He became enthusiastic. "No more 
 knot-holes or trees for us ! At last two souls with 
 but a single thought, two hearts that beat when 
 
 330
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 Queen Bess won! Here's to our future happi- 
 ness!" 
 
 He raised the glass and would have drunk from 
 it, but, now, alas! the glass was empty. It sur- 
 prised and grieved him, but, when Miss Alathea 
 held her hand out, quietly, for the vessel which 
 had held the final julep but which now held it no 
 longer, he yielded it up gracefully nor asked her 
 to refill it. 
 
 As Miss Alathea placed the empty glass upon 
 the sideboard Madge entered from the hallway. 
 She ran up to the Colonel. "I heard you'd come," 
 she said, "an' couldn't wait. Say, air it all fixed 
 about Queen Bess?" 
 
 "Fixed?" cried the gallant horseman. "Well I 
 should remark! Queen Bess is sold and paid for 
 and a draft for the assessment forwarded to the 
 Company. Inside of a year Frank will have the in- 
 come of a prince." 
 
 "All," said Miss Alathea, "owing to that mys- 
 terious jockey who disappeared immediately after 
 the race. Oh, I'd like to kiss that boy !" 
 
 "If you did, I should not be jealous," said the 
 Colonel with an air of generosity. 
 
 "Miss 'Lethe, kiss me. Won't I do as well?" 
 Madge asked, going to her. 
 
 Miss Alathea kissed her, but was still thinking 
 of the unknown jockey, who, in the nick of tune, 
 had come from nowhere, materialized from noth- 
 ing, to save the day for Frank by riding Queen 
 
 331
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 Bess to victory. "I feel as if I must know his 
 name," she said. "Madge, help me persuade the 
 Colonel to tell us." She went to him and petted 
 him. "Colonel, you will not refuse me!" 
 
 Madge looked at him apprehensively, warningly. 
 "An' I reckon you won't refuse me, Colonel." 
 Then, going close to him, she whispered : "Re- 
 member, mum's the word!" 
 
 "Away, you tempters, away!" the Colonel cried, 
 and waved them from him. "It's a professional 
 secret, and I've promised to keep it on the honor 
 of a Kentucky gentleman just as I promised you, 
 Miss 'Lethe." 
 
 "As you promised me? That's enough, Colo- 
 nel not another word!" 
 
 Madge nodded, smilingly. "That's right, Colo- 
 nel. Mustn't break your word." Just then she 
 caught sight of the bundles which the Colonel had 
 had Neb bring in. "Oh, are them my bundles, 
 Colonel?" 
 
 "Every one of them." 
 
 The girl hurried to the mysteriously fascinating 
 packages and began investigation of their contents. 
 "Thank ye, thank ye!" she exclaimed, while she 
 was busy with the wrappings. "Awful good of 
 you to bring 'em." Then, to Miss Alathea in ex- 
 planation: "Things I bought yesterday, Miss 
 'Lethe, all by myself. Jus' went wild. Reckon 
 I'll let you an' th' Colonel see 'em." She took a 
 
 332
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 large, dressed doll out of its wrappings. "Look at 
 that!" 
 
 "What a beauty!" cried the Colonel. 
 
 "Can talk, too." Madge pressed the wondrous 
 puppet's shirred silk chest. "Ma-ma," it cried. 
 "Ma-ma." 
 
 "Never had nothin' but a rag-doll, myself," the 
 girl went on, delighted by their approval of this 
 automatic wonder. " 'Tain't for me. It's for a 
 little girl as lives up in th' mountings." 
 
 From the doll she turned to an amazing jumping- 
 jack, the next treasure taken from the packages. 
 She pulled the toy's animating strings and watched 
 its antics with delight. "Mos' as lively as a Ken- 
 tucky Colonel climbin' a tree," said she, and laughed 
 roguishly at the horseman. "Oh, I heard of it; I 
 heard of it." 
 
 The Colonel tried in vain to protest, Madge's 
 laughter kept up merrily, as she took an old-fash- 
 ioned carpet-sack from quite the biggest of the bun- 
 dles and began to pack her purchases in it, until 
 the Colonel and Miss Alathea left the room, gaily 
 protesting at her ridicule. 
 
 Instantly all of the signs of high elation van- 
 ished from the girl's face. She drooped. Left 
 alone, it quickly became plain that her recent ani- 
 mation had been forced, unreal. Well I guess I'd 
 better not open up th' other bundles," she said list- 
 lessly. "I'll pack 'em as they be. It's time I 
 started too. I'm goin' back to the mountings." 
 
 333
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 Softly she hummed the air the darkies had been 
 singing when she came into the room. 
 
 "Weep no more, my lady, oh, weep no more to-day, 
 I will sing one song of my old Kentucky home, 
 Then my old Kentucky home, good-night !" 
 
 There was infinite pathos in her half -unconscious 
 rendition of the plaintive, darkey melody. To the 
 mountain girl the moment was full of sadness. She 
 had come down from her mountains to save the 
 man she loved from the assassin's bullet and had 
 saved him, not from that alone, but from a crush- 
 ing blow to hope and fortune. Her work was done. 
 All that now was left to her was to go back to her 
 little cabin, hiding the secret of her love for him 
 in her sore heart, enshrining, there, the memory of 
 every minute she had ever passed with him as holy 
 memories to comfort her in days to come. Melan- 
 choly thoughts pressed on her hard. 
 
 Frank entered. 
 
 He stopped short in the doorway, looking with 
 amazement at her work of packing for departure. 
 
 "Why, Madge !" said he. "What does this mean ? 
 Packing up! Surely you're not going away!" 
 There was a thrill of real distress in his pleasant, 
 vibrant voice which comforted her. 
 
 "Yes, I'm going back to th' mountings. I was 
 . . . goin' afore, but I couldn't miss that hoss- 
 race." 
 
 "Madge," he cried impulsively, "you must not 
 
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 and you shall not go. I cannot bear to think of 
 you wasting your life in the lonely mountains. 
 Madge, your land will make you rich, and with 
 your brightness you could study and learn. Edu- 
 cation will make you an ornament to any society." 
 
 She shook her head. "As fur as I can see," said 
 she, "society ain't what it is cracked up to be. I 
 don't seem to have no hankerin' after it. Oh, o' 
 course, I'd like to have all this softness an' pooti- 
 ness around me, always; I'd like to go out in th' 
 world an' see th' wonders as I've heard of; but I 
 don't think that 'u'd satisfy me. I'd still be hank- 
 erin' an' thirstin' arter somethin' that I couldn't 
 have. There's been a feelin' in my heart, ever 
 sence I come here, that'll take th' air o' th' mount- 
 ings to cl'ar away. Like enough, up there among 
 th' wild things that love me, amongst th' rocks an' 
 hills, I'll find th' rest an' peace I ain't had since I 
 come away." 
 
 The youth looked at her with wide, worried eyes. 
 He had not thought the situation out in any very 
 careful detail; but he had, at no time, contemplated 
 her immediate departure. Now that it seemed im- 
 minent it brought his feelings to a focus, showed 
 him, instantly, that he could not bear to have this 
 mountain maiden who had done so much for him 
 thus vanish from his life. A realization that he 
 loved her deeply, tenderly, unchangeably rushed 
 over him. That she was a child of nature, uned- 
 ucated and unaccustomed to the world he knew 
 
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 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 became a matter of but small importance to him as 
 he stood there watching her, while, sadly but de- 
 liberately, she kept on with her work of packing in 
 the carpet-bag her small possessions and the many 
 gifts which she had purchased in the city for the 
 children of her "mountings." That the world 
 which he had ever thought his world might laugh 
 at her and ridicule him if he married her he knew, 
 but, suddenly, this seemed of little consequence. 
 The errors in her education could be readily cor- 
 rected and her heart and instincts were more nearly 
 right, already, than those of any lowland girl whom 
 he had ever known. 
 
 "Madge," he cried, "I cannot give you up! I 
 love you !" 
 
 The girl's hands stopped their busy work among 
 the bundles. Her cheeks paled and her lips parted 
 to a gasping little intake of breath. It had not, 
 once, occurred to her modest, self-sacrificing mind 
 that, even as the bluegrass gentleman had found 
 her heart and taken it forever and forever to be 
 his own, no matter where she was or how great 
 might the distance be which separated them, so, 
 also, had his heart really and forever passed to 
 her, the simple, unlettered and untrained little 
 maiden of the wilderness. It seemed impossible, 
 incredible. 
 
 "You love me!" 
 
 "Yes, I love you as I never have, as I never 
 
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 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 can love any other woman. Madge, dearest, I 
 want you for my wife!" 
 
 The great desire, the certainty that if he did not 
 win her then all other triumphs would be empty, 
 meaningless, had come suddenly upon him, but it 
 had come with overwhelming force. His voice 
 was vibrant with a passion which surprised him- 
 self. 
 
 "No, no; it can never be!" she said tremulously. 
 Her heart was in a turmoil, her hands trembled 
 with excitement. Ah, it was hard for her to put 
 away from her the brilliant vista which had opened 
 there before her startled eyes! But she was sure 
 that she must do it; that if she loved this man she 
 must forswear him for his own dear sake. What 
 right had she, a mountain-girl, to come down there 
 to the bluegrass to shame him in the face of friends 
 and foes by her ignorance and awkwardness ? Her 
 heart yearned toward him with a warmth and fer- 
 vor which she had not known as possible to human 
 longings, but no, no, for his sake she must give 
 him up, as, for his sake, she had made the long, 
 desperate journey from the mountains to save him 
 from Joe Lorey's bullet, as, for his sake, shrinking 
 and dismayed, conscious that in doing it she might 
 very well be sacrificing his respect for her, she had 
 donned the blouse and breeches of a jockey, yester- 
 day, to ride his mare to victory when none other 
 had been there to save the day for him. That had 
 been a sacrifice almost beyond the power of words 
 
 337
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 to tell a sacrifice of modesty; now came an even 
 greater one, but one which, none the less, must cer- 
 tainly be made. "No, no," said she again, "it can 
 never, never be!" 
 
 "But I want you just as you are! What do I 
 care for the world, without you, or for what it 
 says, so long as you are mine?" 
 
 A flood of bitterness rushed to her heart. Ah, 
 why, why, had fate made it so necessary that, to 
 save him, she must do what, yesterday, she had 
 been forced to do! 
 
 "You're thinkin' of my ignorance, an' such," 
 she said, with sad eyes bent upon the gifts which, 
 now, although she looked at them, she did not see 
 and had forgotten. "But there's more nor that as 
 stands between us, Mr. Frank." 
 
 "You mean you don't love me?" 
 
 "No, no; oh, what air th' use o' denyin' it? I 
 love you! It's that it's that that drives me from 
 you, an' that breaks my heart!" 
 
 He went close to her and tried to take her hands 
 in his. "Madge, dear," he said softly, "I want 
 you to listen to me. I tell you I shall not let any 
 foolish pride or any fears for the future stand in 
 the way of our happiness. When I thought, a mo- 
 ment ago, that I might lose you forever, I saw 
 what my life would be without you; and, now that 
 I know you love me, nothing shall come between 
 us. Madge, dear heart, I want you to put your 
 hand in mine." 
 
 338
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 She drew away, but it was plain that she was 
 sorely tempted. "Ah, if I only dared!" said she. 
 
 "Come, Madge, darling!" he said fervently, open- 
 ing his arms to fold her to his heart. 
 
 "No, no," she said, "it wouldn't be right." The 
 Colonel's words : "We'd think it an eternal shame 
 and a disgrace for one of our women to ride a 
 race in a costume such as you have on," rang in 
 her mind and filled her with despair. "The Colo- 
 nel said " she began, weakly. 
 
 "Oh, damn the Colonel!" Frank cried angrily, 
 wondering why any one should meddle with his 
 heart-affairs. 
 
 And as he spoke the Colonel entered hurriedly, 
 evidently bearing news of import. 
 
 Startled by the young man's earnest words, he 
 stopped short in astonishment. "Why what's 
 that, sir?" he exclaimed amazed, and then, seeing 
 clearly that he had broken in upon a fervent senti- 
 mental situation and unwilling to believe that Frank 
 could really have meant him when he had been so 
 emphatic, turned his thoughts, again, to the news 
 which had brought him in such haste. 
 
 "I say," he said, excitedly, "I've been cross-ex- 
 amining that rascal, Ike, and I've found out who 
 smuggled the whiskey to him." 
 
 "Who was it?" Madge and Frank cried almost 
 in unison. 
 
 "That double-distilled, three-ply scoundrel, 
 Horace Holton," said the Colonel, angrily. 
 
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 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 "Holton!" Frank exclaimed. "I wouldn't have 
 believed it!" 
 
 "I would," Madge commented. 
 
 "I'll find him and settle with him for it!" Frank 
 angrily exclaimed. 
 
 "I'm afraid that's easier said than done," the 
 Colonel answered, "but I'm with you, and we'll 
 do our best." 
 
 Through the windows came the noise of baying 
 hounds. It instantly attracted their attention, as it 
 ever will that of Kentuckians. "What's that? A 
 fox-hunt ?" 
 
 Frank had hurried to the window and was look- 
 ing out. "No," he answered, in incredulous amaze- 
 ment, "it's Holton and his gang. They're hunting 
 Joe Lorey with dogs!" 
 
 Madge hurried to his side, distressed beyond the 
 power of words to tell. "Oh, oh!" she cried. 
 "They're coming this way, and and who's that ?" 
 
 As she spoke Joe Lorey dashed up, breathless to 
 the window. 
 
 340
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 The moonshiner stood there, pathetic in his beaten 
 strength before them. 
 
 "They're huntin' me with dogs!" he said. 
 "They're goin' to string me up without justice or 
 mercy!" 
 
 Madge hurried to his side. "Joe, they shan't do 
 it!" she exclaimed, and took his hand. 
 
 "It'll take more nor you to save me, little one," 
 he said, and smiled down at her pitifully. "There's 
 no hope for me, now. That's why I've come hyar, 
 to say to you all, afore I die, that I am innocent o' 
 firm' th' stable." He threw back his shoulders and 
 stood before them, impressive and convincing. 
 "Afore God, I am innocent!" 
 
 Frank looked at him with eyes which, as they 
 gazed, altered their expression. He had thought the 
 man quite possibly guilty of a vicious act a foul 
 attempt to burn a helpless animal in order to obtain 
 revenge upon the man who owned her. But as he 
 gazed he could not doubt that he was speaking 
 simple truth. "Joe," he said impulsively, "I be- 
 lieve you!" 
 
 341
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 Joe turned to him with gratitude plain upon his 
 face. "You believe me arter all that's passed?" 
 He looked straight into the eyes of the young man 
 he had hated, with a searching, earnest gaze. 
 "Then," he said, after a second's pause, "I believe 
 as what you said, that night, war true. It war never 
 you as ruined me." He_held his hand out to the 
 man whom, not so long ago, he had wished, with 
 all his heart, to kill. 
 
 Frank grasped it with a hearty grip, just as the 
 terrifying baying of the hounds approached the 
 house. 
 
 "Frank, they're coming here !" the Colonel cried, 
 excited. 
 
 Joe turned away from Frank, looking here and 
 there like a hunted animal. "Oh, it's hard to die 
 afore I've met Lem Lindsay!" he said hopelessly. 
 It was quite plain that he considered his fate sealed. 
 
 Even as he spoke Holton and half-a-dozen others 
 sprang to the broad gallery which fronted the whole 
 room. Holton was plainly the leader of the party, 
 for when he motioned all the others back, they 
 obeyed his signal without protest, while he, him- 
 self, peered eagerly in through a wide, open 
 window. 
 
 Frank, angered beyond measure by this bold in- 
 trusion, would have sprung toward him, to -attack 
 him, had not the Colonel waved him back. 
 
 "Frank, my boy," said he, "keep cool, keep 
 cool!" 
 
 34 2
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 As he spoke, without apology, Holton stepped 
 through the window into the room, itself. 
 
 "Layson," he said curtly, "I'm a committee o' 
 one to ask if you'll turn over that man, an' make 
 no trouble." He jerked a thumb toward Joe. 
 
 Layson was wrathful at the man's intrusion; he 
 had been impressed by what the fugitive had said. 
 "No," he answered, hotly. "Joe Lorey's in my 
 house, under my protection, and, by the eternal, you 
 shan't lay a hand on him!" 
 
 The Colonel smiled, delighted. "Kentucky 
 blood!" he cried. "I'll back you to a finish!" 
 
 He ranged himself by Frank, and Madge, as 
 belligerent as either of them, hurried, also, to his 
 side. 
 
 "I'm with you, Colonel," she exclaimed, with the 
 spirit of the mountain-bred, "and we'll win ag'in, 
 as we did once before!" 
 
 Joe saw this with distress. Layson's generosity 
 had softened him. He knew, perfectly, by this 
 time, that Madge was not for him, and her spirit 
 in joining his defenders the very men whom he 
 had thought his enemies touched him deeply. The 
 realization came to him with a quick rush that he 
 had wronged the bluegrass folk whom he had hated 
 with such bitterness. He looked first at those who 
 wished to take him prisoner and make him suffer 
 for a crime of which he was not guilty, and then 
 at his defenders, who had every reason to doubt 
 him, but still, without a question, had accepted his 
 
 343
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 own plea of innocence. He had already made these 
 people trouble. Now was his opportunity to save 
 them from an awkward situation and, perhaps, a 
 perilous one. There might be shooting if he of- 
 fered to resist or let these good friends attempt to 
 defend him. That would endanger them, and, 
 worse, endanger Madge. "I'll go. I don't want to 
 make no trouble," he said hastily. 
 
 Holton nodded with approval. He wished to 
 take the man as quickly and as simply as he could. 
 Every complication which could be avoided would 
 make less probable discovery of the fact that he, 
 himself, and not the fugitive young mountaineer, 
 was the real culprit. 
 
 "That's sensible," he said, "for them men, out 
 thar, are bound to hev you, by fair means or foul." 
 
 "Those men will listen to reason," Frank said 
 with a determination which disconcerted the ex- 
 slave dealer. "They shall hear me!" He stepped 
 toward the open window. "Colonel, come with 
 me." Without waiting for him he stepped to the 
 gallery outside. 
 
 The Colonel started to go also, but, seeing that 
 Holton, too, was about to hurry out, paused long 
 enough to go up to him threateningly. "Don't you 
 dare to follow !" he warned him. "We'll play this 
 hand alone." The man fell back and the Colonel 
 kept his eyes on him as, slowly, he joined Frank on 
 the gallery. 
 
 Helton's discomfiture lasted but a moment. As 
 
 344
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 soon as the Colonel had passed out of sight he got 
 his wits back and looked threateningly at Madge 
 and the mountaineer. "We'll see about that," he 
 declared viciously, and, making a movement of his 
 hand which indicated that he must be armed, al- 
 though he had not shown a weapon, so far, moved 
 toward another window which also opened on the 
 gallery. 
 
 But he had not counted on old Neb. The darkey 
 found in this emergency the opportunity for which 
 he had been waiting many years. Lapse of time 
 had never dulled his keen resentment of the blow 
 the man had struck him; now it was with keen de- 
 light that he stepped out of the shadow just outside 
 the window, with a carelessly held pistol in his hand, 
 which somehow appeared to cover Holton. "De 
 Gunnel said you'd please stay heah, suh," he said 
 placidly ; but the pistol gave his words an emphasis 
 which could not be mistaken. 
 
 Holton paled with rage, but did not take another 
 forward step. 
 
 As he fell back Joe Lorey spoke. The murmur 
 of the mob outside, incited, he well knew, to hun- 
 ger for his life, and the loud voices of the Colonel 
 and of Frank, raised in expostulation, made an ac- 
 companiment for what he had to say to Holton, 
 and that he still was in grave danger made his at- 
 titude more menacing, his words more impressive. 
 
 "Yes," he said to Holton, while Madge gazed, 
 
 345
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 spellbound, "you hold on. I've a word to say to 
 you." 
 
 "Say it, then, and say it quick," said Holton, 
 trying to make his tone contemptuous. 
 
 "I'll say it quick, and I'll say it plain. You 
 know as it war never me as fired that stable. You 
 war there an' saw me leave afore th' fire. It's yer 
 place to cl'ar me. Why air you a-houndin' me to 
 my death?" 
 
 Holton was uncomfortable. "Them men out thar 
 believe ye guilty. It ain't my work," he said. 
 
 The mountaineer was not deceived. He knew 
 this man to be his enemy, although he knew no rea- 
 son for his hatred. "It's you as air settin' 'em on," 
 he said, "as you set me on Frank Layson when 
 you told me that lie ag'in him in th' mountings." 
 
 Madge had listened, speechless, during this dra- 
 matic scene, but stood watching it, alert and ready 
 to lend aid to her friend, if opportunity arose. 
 Now, at Joe's words, she started forward. 
 
 "Was it him as told you?" she inquired, amazed. 
 
 Joe did not answer her, but continued to face 
 Holton and address him. "I believed you," he 
 went on, "because I thought you couldn't a-knowed 
 o' th' still except through him; but since he never 
 told you, it air proof to me that you have been in 
 these here mountings, sometime, afore." Strange 
 suspicions were glittering from his hostile eyes as 
 he faced the now thoroughly alarmed man who, a 
 moment since, had been the blustering bully. 
 
 346
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 "I tell you I were never thar!" said Holton hur- 
 riedly. 
 
 'Then how did you know of th' cave an' the 
 oak?" said Joe, accusingly. The glitter of suspi- 
 cion in his eyes was growing brighter every sec- 
 ond. "It's plain to me as how you've passed many 
 a day thar in them mountings. Thar's somethin' 
 bound up in yer past as has egged you on ag'in me. 
 I wants to know what that thing is I wants to 
 know just who an' what ye air!" 
 
 "It's easy enough to show who Horace Holton 
 is," the man said, blustering, but he was very ill at 
 ease. "What do I care what you want?" And then 
 
 he made a slip. "You can't bring no proof " he 
 
 began, but caught himself. 
 
 Madge had been watching him with new intent- 
 ness. The excitement of the moment may have 
 sharpened the girl's wits, or, possibly, its hint of 
 peril may have brought to Helton's face some de- 
 tail of expression, which, during recent weeks, had 
 not before appeared upon it. 
 
 "But I kin," she said, slowly. "I war right in 
 what I thought when I first saw you in th' moun- 
 tings. I had seen your face afore!" 
 
 "Don't you dare say that!" cried Holton, step- 
 ping toward her angrily. The man who had been 
 the accuser, was, strangely, now, quite plainly, half 
 at bay. 
 
 "That look ag'in!" the gi rl said - studying his 
 face. "That look war printed on my baby brain I" 
 
 347
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 "Silence, I say !" cried Holton, now badly fright- 
 ened. He had not counted on this recognition. 
 
 "Never!" the girl said boldly. She was certain, 
 now, as she looked at him, that the suspicion which 
 had flashed into her mind was accurate. Her 
 cheeks paled and she stepped toward him with set 
 face, clenched hands. Every fibre in her thrilled 
 with horror of him, every drop of blood in her 
 young body cried for vengeance on him. "I'll rouse 
 th' world ag'in ye!" she exclaimed, so tensely that 
 even Lorey looked at her with alarmed amazement. 
 "I'll rouse th' world ag'in ye, for I'm standin' face 
 to face with my own father's murderer Lem 
 Lindsay!" 
 
 "Lem Lindsay !" said Joe, wonderingly, and then, 
 with the expression on his face of a wild-beast 
 about to spring upon his prey : "At last !" 
 
 Holton shrank away from them in terror which 
 he could not hide. His bravado was all gone. He 
 was, no longer, the accuser, but, with the mention 
 of that name, had changed places with Joe Lorey 
 and become the fugitive, shrinking, alarmed. 
 
 " 'Sh ! Don't speak that name !" he pleaded. He 
 made no effort at denial. There was that in the 
 girl's eyes which told him that her recognition had 
 been absolute. "I've been hidin' it for years." He 
 spoke pleadingly. "Look hyar. I've got everythin' 
 that heart can wish. Joe Lorey, I'll save you from 
 them men. I'll sw'ar I saw you leave the stable 
 afore th' fire begun." He moved his eyes from one 
 
 348
 
 'I'M 8TASDIN' FACE TO FACE WITH MY OWN FATHIR'8 MrRDEREB LEM LIKDAT." 
 
 Foyt MB.
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 of the accusing faces to the other, terrified. "I'll 
 make ye both rich if you'll never speak that name 
 ag'in!" 
 
 "Your weight in gold would make no differ!" 
 Joe cried menacingly. "Lem Lindsay, it air Heav- 
 en's work that's given you into my hands!" He 
 went toward him slowly, menacingly, with his 
 strong fingers working with desire to clutch his 
 shrinking throat. "It air Heaven's will as you 
 should meet your fall through Ben Lorey's son!" 
 
 Holton, desperate, gathered courage for a last 
 effort to escape from the net which he had woven 
 to his own undoing. With a quick movement he 
 drew from his belt, where his long coat had con- 
 cealed its presence, hitherto, a gleaming knife, and, 
 with it upraised, rushed at Joe viciously. "I'm a 
 free man, yet," he cried, "an' I'm a-goin' to stay 
 free!" 
 
 Joe, alert, calm-eyed, cool-witted, waited for 
 him with a hand upraised to catch his wrist, with 
 muscles braced to meet the fierce attack. 
 
 Madge rushed to the window, calling loudly: 
 "Colonel! Mr. Frank!" 
 
 But Holton and Joe Lorey were, by that time, 
 locked in a desperate grip and struggling with the 
 energy of men battling for their lives. Twisting 
 and straining, each striving with the last ounce of 
 energy within him to get the better of the other, 
 they plunged across the room and out into the hall. 
 
 Just as Frank and the Colonel hurried in, a shot 
 
 349
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 was heard and then a heavy fall. An instant later 
 Joe came to the door. 
 
 "Heaven's will are done!" he said, quite simply. 
 
 Layson rushed toward him, but paused, aghast, 
 looking off through the open door. "Joe, you've 
 killed him!" he exclaimed. 
 
 "An' I had a right! 1 ' said Joe, now strangely 
 calm. "When he killed my father it were ordained 
 that he should fall by my hands. I ain't a feared 
 to stand my trial." 
 
 "The men outside have promised," Layson said, 
 dismayed by this new and terrible complication, 
 "that you shall have a fair trial on the other charge. 
 They've gone, now, for the sheriff. But this 
 charge," he looked toward the door which led into 
 the hall, "will be more serious !" 
 
 "I can clear him of 'em both," said Madge. "I'll 
 sw'ar th' killin' was in self-defense; I'll sw'ar that 
 Holton owned, before me, that he saw Joe leave th' 
 stable afore th' fire." 
 
 "He saw him!" exclaimed' Frank, astonished. 
 "What was Holton doing there?" 
 
 "Oh, don't you see?" said Madge. "He war 
 your enemy th' man as told Joe th' lie ag'in you 
 in th' mountings, th' man as tried to burn Oueen 
 Bess." 
 
 The Colonel had entered, quickly, from the gal- 
 lery, and stood listening, amazed and fascinated. 
 Now, after a moment's pause to think the matter 
 out, he advanced to Joe with outstretched hand. 
 
 350
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 For the man who had been guilty of that vile mis- 
 chief he felt no regret, for the man who had, in 
 a fair fight and with good reason, shot him down, 
 he felt full sympathy. "Tried to burn Queen 
 Bess!" he cried. "Joe, the jury'll clear you with- 
 out leaving their seats! Come, my boy the sher- 
 iff's here, and you will have to go with him; but 
 don't you worry. I'll see you through." 
 
 Joe stood, thinking, with bowed head and frown- 
 ing brow. Suddenly he looked up and cast his eyes 
 about upon the company. "Before I goes, I wants 
 to say a word to Madge," said he, and turned to 
 her with an impressive earnestness. "Little one, 
 don't you never fret about me, no more." He took 
 her hand and she gave it to him gladly. "I see, 
 now, as you was never made for me." He took 
 a step toward Frank and led her to him. "I see 
 whar your heart is, an' I puts your hand in his." 
 With bowed head he relinquished the brown hand 
 of the mountain-girl whom he had loved since child- 
 hood, to the outstretched hand of the young "for- 
 eigner," whom he no longer looked at with the 
 hatred which had so long thrilled his heart. "And 
 now I says goodbye. God bless you both!" 
 
 He went out, slowly, with the Colonel. 
 
 "Madge, he's right," said Frank, "this little hand 
 is mine." 
 
 He would havo clasped her in his arms, but, 
 finally, she held him off.
 
 IN OLD KENTUCKY 
 
 "No, no," said she, "not till you know my se- 
 cret. It was I who rode Queen Bess." 
 
 "You rode Queen Bess !" 
 
 The Colonel was re-entering- the room. "But the 
 world will never know it," he said gallantly, "on 
 the honor of a Kentuckian." 
 
 Frank's smile was radiant. "If it did, I should 
 say: 'Here, Madge, in my arms, is your shelter 
 from the world.' ' He drew her to him gently. 
 "Madge, my little wife!" 
 
 END.
 
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