"a stray kem ter Tobe's house. He 'lowed ter me ez he fund her
a-standin' by the fodder-stack a-pullin' off'n it. An' he 'quired round,
an' he never hearn o' no owner. I reckon he never axed outside o'
Lonesome," he added, cynically. He puffed industriously at his pipe for
a few moments; then continued: "Wa'al, he 'lowed he couldn't feed the
critter fur fun. An' he couldn't work her till she war appraised an'
sech, that bein' agin the law fur strays. So he jes ondertook ter be
ranger an' taker-up too--the bangedest consarn in the kentry! Ef the
leetle mare hed been wall-eyed, or lame, or ennything, he wouldn't hev
wanted ter be ranger an' taker-up too. But she air the peartest little
beastis--she war jes bridle-wise when she fust kem--young an' spry!"
Luke Todd was about to ask a question, but Peters, disregarding him,
persisted:
"Wa'al, Tobe tuk up the beastis, an' I reckon he reported her ter
hisself, bein' the ranger--the critter makes me laff--an' he hed that
thar old haffen-blind uncle o' his'n an' Perkins Bates, ez be never
sober, ter appraise the vally o' the mare, an' I s'pose he delivered
thar certificate ter hisself, an' I reckon he tuk oath that she kem
'thout his procure_mint_ ter his place, in the presence o' the ranger."
"I reckon thar ain't no law agin the ranger's bein' a ranger an' a
taker-up too," put in one of the bystanders. "'Tain't like a sher'ff's
buyin' at his own sale. An' he hed ter pay haffen her vally into the
treasury o' the county arter twelve months, ef the owner never proved
her away."
"Thar ain't no sign he ever paid a cent," said Peters, with a malicious
grin, pointing at the charred remains of the court-house, "an' the
treasurer air jes dead."
"Wa'al, Tobe hed ter make a report ter the jedge o' the county court
every six months."
"The papers of his office air cinders," retorted Peters.
"Wa'al, then," argued the optimist, "the stray-book will show ez she war
reported an' sech."
"The ranger took mighty partic'lar pains ter hev his stray-book in that
thar court-house when 'twar burnt."
There was a long pause while the party sat ruminating upon the
suspicions thus suggested.
Luke Todd heard them, not without a thrill of satisfaction. He found
them easy to adopt. And he, too, had a disposition to theorize.
"It takes a mighty mean man ter steal a horse," he said. "Stealin' a
horse air powerful close ter murder. Folkses' lives fairly depend on a
horse ter work thar corn an' sech, an' make a support fur em. I hev
knowed folks ter kem mighty close ter starvin' through hevin thar horse
stole. Why, even that thar leetle filly of our'n, though she hedn't been
fairly bruk ter the plough, war mightily missed. We-uns hed ter make out
with the old sorrel, ez air nigh fourteen year old, ter work the crap,
an' we war powerful disapp'inted. But we ain't never fund no trace o'
the filly sence she war tolled off one night las' fall a year ago."
The hawk floating above the valley and its winged shadow disappeared
together in the dense glooms of a deep gorge. Luke Todd watched them as
they vanished.
Suddenly he lifted his eyes. They were wide with a new speculation. An
angry flare blazed in them. "What sort'n beastis is this hyar mare ez
the ranger tuk up?" he asked.
Peters looked at him, hardly comprehending his tremor of excitement.
"Seems sorter sizable," he replied, sibilantly, sucking his pipe-stem.
Todd nodded meditatively several times, leaning his elbows on his knees,
his eyes fixed on the landscape. "Hev she got enny partic'lar marks, ez
ye knows on?" he drawled.
"Wa'al, she be ez black ez a crow, with the nigh fore-foot white. An'
she hev got a white star spang in the middle o' her forehead, an' the
left side o' her nose is white too."
Todd rose suddenly to his feet. "By gum!" he cried, with a burst of
passion, "she air _my_ filly! An' 'twar that thar durned horse-thief of
a ranger ez tolled her off!"
* * * * *
Deep among the wooded spurs Lonesome Cove nestles, sequestered from the
world. Naught emigrates thence except an importunate stream that forces
its way through a rocky gap, and so to freedom beyond. No stranger
intrudes; only the moon looks in once in a while. The roaming wind may
explore its solitudes; and it is but the vertical sunbeams that strike
to the heart of the little basin, because of the massive mountains that
wall it round and serve to isolate it. So nearly do they meet at the gap
that one great assertive crag, beetling far above, intercepts the view
of the wide landscape beyond, leaving its substituted profile jaggedly
serrating the changing sky. Above it, when the weather is fair, appear
vague blue lines, distant mountain summits, cloud strata, visions. Below
its jutting verge may be caught glimpses of the widening valley without.
But pre-eminent, gaunt, sombre, it sternly dominates "Lonesome," and is
the salient feature of the little world it limits.
Tobe Gryce's house, gray, weather-beaten, moss-grown, had in comparison
an ephemeral, modern aspect. For a hundred years its inmates had come
and gone and lived and died. They took no heed of the crag, but never a
sound was lost upon it. Their drawling iterative speech the iterative
echoes conned. The ringing blast of a horn set astir some phantom chase
in the air. When the cows came lowing home, there were lowing herds in
viewless company. Even if one of the children sat on a rotting log
crooning a vague, fragmentary ditty, some faint-voiced spirit in the
rock would sing. Lonesome Cove?--home of invisible throngs!
As the ranger trotted down the winding road, multitudinous hoof-beats,
as of a troop of cavalry, heralded his approach to the little girl who
stood on the porch of the log-cabin and watched for him.
"Hy're, Cunnel!" he cried, cordially.
But the little "Colonel" took no heed. She looked beyond him at the
vague blue mountains, against which the great grim rock was heavily
imposed, every ledge, every waving dead crisp weed, distinct.
He noticed the smoke curling briskly up in the sunshine from the clay
and stick chimney. He strode past her into the house, as Eugenia, with
all semblance of youth faded from her countenance, haggard and
hollow-eyed in the morning light, was hurrying the corn-dodgers and
venison steak on the table.
Perhaps he did not appreciate that the women were pining with curiosity,
for he vouchsafed no word of the excitements in the little town; and he
himself was ill at ease.
"What ails the Cunnel, 'Genie?" he asked, presently, glancing up sharply
from under his hat brim, and speaking with his mouth full.
"The cat 'pears ter hev got her tongue," said Eugenia, intending that
the "Colonel" should hear, and perhaps profit. "She ain't able ter talk
none this mornin'."
The little body cast so frowning a glance upon them as she stood in the
doorway that her expression was but slightly less lowering than her
father's. It was an incongruous demonstration, with her infantile
features, her little yellow head, and the slight physical force she
represented. She wore a blue cotton frock, fastened up the back with
great horn buttons; she had on shoes laced with leather strings; one of
her blue woollen stockings fell over her ankle, disclosing the pinkest
of plump calves; the other stocking was held in place by an unabashed
cotton string. She had a light in her dark eyes and a color in her
cheek, and albeit so slight a thing, she wielded a strong coercion.
"Laws-a-massy, Cunnel!" said Tobe, in a harried manner, "couldn't ye
find me nowhar? I'm powerful sorry. I couldn't git back hyar no sooner."
But not in this wise was she to be placated. She fixed her eyes upon
him, but made no sign.
He suddenly rose from his half-finished breakfast. "Look-a-hyar,
Cunnel," he cried, joyously, "don't ye want ter ride the filly?--ye knew
ye hanker ter ride the filly."
Even then she tried to frown, but the bliss of the prospect overbore
her. Her cheek and chin dimpled, and there was a gurgling display of two
rows of jagged little teeth as the doughty "Colonel" was swung to his
shoulder and he stepped out of the door.
He laughed as he stood by the glossy black mare and lifted the child to
the saddle. The animal arched her neck and turned her head and gazed
back at him curiously. "Hold on tight, Cunnel," he said as he looked up
at her, his face strangely softened almost beyond recognition. And she
gurgled and laughed and screamed with delight as he began to slowly lead
the mare along.
The "Colonel" had the gift of continuance. Some time elapsed before she
exhausted the joys of exaltation. More than once she absolutely refused
to dismount. Tobe patiently led the beast up and down, and the "Colonel"
rode in state. It was only when the sun had grown high, and occasionally
she was fain to lift her chubby hands to her eyes, imperiling her safety
on the saddle, that he ventured to seriously remonstrate, and finally
she permitted herself to be assisted to the ground. When, with the
little girl at his heels, he reached the porch, he took off his hat, and
wiped the perspiration from his brow with his great brown hand.
"I tell ye, jouncin' round arter the Cunnel air powerful hot work," he
declared.
The next moment he paused. His wife had come to the door, and there was
a strange expression of alarm among the anxious lines of her face.
"Tobe," she said, in a bated voice, "who war them men?"
He stared at her, whirled about, surveyed the vacant landscape, and once
more turned dumfounded toward her. "What men?" he asked.
"Them men ez acted so cur'ous," she said. "I couldn't see thar faces
plain, an' I dunno who they war."
"Whar war they?" And he looked over his shoulder once more.
"Yander along the ledges of the big rock. Thar war two of 'em, hidin'
ahint that thar jagged aidge. An' ef yer back war turned they'd peep out
at ye an' the Cunnel ridin'. But whenst ye would face round agin, they'd
drap down ahint the aidge o' the rock. I 'lowed wunst ez I'd holler ter
ye, but I war feared ye moughtn't keer ter know." Her voice fell in its
deprecatory cadence.
He stood in silent perplexity. "Ye air a fool, 'Genie, an' ye never seen
nuthin'. Nobody hev got enny call ter spy on me."
He stepped in-doors, took down his rifle from the rack, and went out
frowning into the sunlight.
The suggestion of mystery angered him. He had a vague sense of impending
danger. As he made his way along the slope toward the great beetling
crag all his faculties were on the alert. He saw naught unusual when he
stood upon its dark-seamed summit, and he went cautiously to the verge
and looked down at the many ledges. They jutted out at irregular
intervals, the first only six feet below, and all accessible enough to
an expert climber. A bush grew in a niche. An empty nest, riddled by the
wind, hung dishevelled from a twig. Coarse withered grass tufted the
crevices. Far below he saw the depths of the Cove--the tops of the
leafless trees, and, glimpsed through the interlacing boughs, the rush
of a mountain rill, and a white flash as a sunbeam slanted on the foam.
He was turning away, all incredulous, when with a sudden start he looked
back. On one of the ledges was a slight depression. It was filled with
sand and earth. Imprinted upon it was the shape of a man's foot. The
ranger paused and gazed fixedly at it. "Wa'al, by the Lord!" he
exclaimed, under his breath. Presently, "But they hev no call!" he
argued. Then once more, softly, "By the Lord!"
The mystery baffled him. More than once that day he went up to the crag
and stood and stared futilely at the footprint. Conjecture had license
and limitations, too. As the hours wore on he became harassed by the
sense of espionage. He was a bold man before the foes he knew, but this
idea of inimical lurking, of furtive scrutiny for unknown purposes,
preyed upon him. He brooded over it as he sat idle by the fire. Once he
went to the door and stared speculatively at the great profile of the
cliff. The sky above it was all a lustrous amber, for the early sunset
of the shortest days of the year was at hand. The mountains, seen partly
above and partly below it, wore a glamourous purple. There were clouds,
and from their rifts long divergent lines of light slanted down upon the
valley, distinct among their shadows. The sun was not visible--only in
the western heavens was a half-veiled effulgence too dazzlingly white to
be gazed upon. The ranger shaded his eyes with his hand. No motion, no
sound; for the first time in his life the unutterable loneliness of the
place impressed him.
"'Genie," he said, suddenly, looking over his shoulder within the cabin,
"be you-uns _sure_ ez they war--_folks_?"
"I dunno what you mean," she faltered, her eyes dilated. "They _looked_
like folks."
"I reckon they war," he said, reassuring himself. "The Lord knows I hope
they war."
* * * * *
That night the wind rose. The stars all seemed to have burst from their
moorings, and were wildly adrift in the sky. There was a broken tumult
of billowy clouds, and the moon tossed hopelessly amongst them, a lunar
wreck, sometimes on her beam ends, sometimes half submerged, once more
gallantly struggling to the surface, and again sunk. The bare boughs of
the trees beat together in a dirge-like monotone. Now and again a leaf
went sibilantly whistling past. The wild commotion of the heavens and
earth was visible, for the night was not dark. The ranger, standing
within the rude stable of unhewn logs, all undaubed, noted how pale were
the horizontal bars of gray light alternating with the black logs of the
wall. He was giving the mare a feed of corn, but he had not brought his
lantern, as was his custom. That mysterious espionage had in some sort
shaken his courage, and he felt the obscurity a shield. He had brought,
instead, his rifle.
The equine form was barely visible among the glooms. Now and then, as
the mare noisily munched, she lifted a hoof and struck it upon the
ground with a dull thud. How the gusts outside were swirling up the
gorge! The pines swayed and sighed. Again the boughs of the chestnut-oak
above the roof crashed together. Did a fitful blast stir the door?
He lifted his eyes mechanically. A cold thrill ran through every fibre.
For there, close by the door, somebody--something--was peering through
the space between the logs of the wall. The face was invisible, but the
shape of a man's head was distinctly defined. He realized that it was no
supernatural manifestation when a husky voice began to call the mare, in
a hoarse whisper, "Cobe! Cobe! Cobe!" With a galvanic start he was about
to spring forward to hold the door. A hand from without was laid upon
it.
He placed the muzzle of his gun between the logs, a jet of red light was
suddenly projected into the darkness, the mare was rearing and plunging
violently, the little shanty was surcharged with roar and reverberation,
and far and wide the crags and chasms echoed the report of the rifle.
There was a vague clamor outside, an oath, a cry of pain. Hasty
footfalls sounded among the dead leaves and died in the distance.
When the ranger ventured out he saw the door of his house wide open, and
the firelight flickering out among the leafless bushes. His wife met him
halfway down the hill.
"Air ye hurt, Tobe?" she cried. "Did yer gun go off suddint?"
"Mighty suddint," he replied, savagely.
"Ye didn't fire it a-purpose?" she faltered.
"Edzactly so," he declared.
"Ye never hurt nobody, did ye, Tobe?" She had turned very pale. "I
'lowed it couldn't be the wind ez I hearn a-hollerin'."
"I hopes an' prays I hurt 'em," he said, as he replaced the rifle in the
rack. He was shaking the other hand, which had been jarred in some way
by the hasty discharge of the weapon. "Some dad-burned horse-thief war
arter the mare. Jedgin' from the sound o' thar runnin', 'peared like to
me ez thar mought be two o' 'em."
The next day the mare disappeared from the stable. Yet she could not be
far off, for Tobe was about the house most of the time, and when he and
the "Colonel" came in-doors in the evening the little girl held in her
hand a half-munched ear of corn, evidently abstracted from the mare's
supper.
"Whar be the filly hid, Tobe?" Eugenia asked, curiosity overpowering
her.
"Ax me no questions an' I'll tell ye no lies," he replied, gruffly.
In the morning there was a fall of snow, and she had some doubt whether
her mother, who had gone several days before to a neighbor's on the
summit of the range, would return; but presently the creak of unoiled
axles heralded the approach of a wagon, and soon the old woman, bundled
in shawls, was sitting by the fire. She wore heavy woollen socks over
her shoes as protection against the snow. The incompatibility of the
shape of the hose with the human foot was rather marked, and as they
were somewhat inelastic as well, there was a muscular struggle to get
them off only exceeded by the effort which had been required to get them
on. She shook her head again and again, with a red face, as she bent
over the socks, but plainly more than this discomfort vexed her.
"Laws-a-massy, 'Genie! I hearn a awful tale over yander 'mongst them
Jenkins folks. Ye oughter hev married Luke Todd, an' so I tole ye an'
fairly beset ye ter do ten year ago. _He_ keered fur ye. An'
Tobe--shucks! Wa'al, laws-a-massy, child! I hearn a awful tale 'bout
Tobe up yander at Jenkinses'."
Eugenia colored.
"Folks hed better take keer how they talk 'bout Tobe," she said, with a
touch of pride. "They be powerful keerful ter do it out'n rifle range."
With one more mighty tug the sock came off, the red face was lifted, and
Mrs. Pearce shook her head ruefully.
"The Bible say 'words air foolishness.' Ye dunno what ye air talkin'
'bout, child."
With this melancholy preamble she detailed the gossip that had arisen at
the county town and pervaded the country-side. Eugenia commented,
denied, flashed into rage, then lapsed into silence. Although it did not
constrain credulity, there was something that made her afraid when her
mother said:
"Ye hed better not be talkin' 'bout rifle range so brash, 'Genie,
nohows. They 'lowed ez Luke Todd an' Sam Peters kem hyar--'twar jes
night before las'--aimin' ter take the mare away 'thout no words an' no
lawin', 'kase they didn't want ter wait. Luke hed got a chance ter view
the mare, an' knowed ez she war his'n. An' Tobe war hid in the dark
beside the mare, an' fired at 'em, an' the rifle-ball tuk Sam right
through the beam o' his arm. I reckon, though, ez that warn't true, else
ye would hev knowed it."
She looked up anxiously over her spectacles at her daughter.
"I hearn Tobe shoot," faltered Eugenia. "I seen blood on the leaves."
"Laws-a-massy!" exclaimed the old woman, irritably. "I be fairly feared
ter bide hyar; 'twouldn't s'prise me none ef they kem hyar an' hauled
Tobe out an' lynched him an' sech, an' who knows who mought git hurt in
the scrimmage?"
They both fell silent as the ranger strode in. They would need a braver
heart than either bore to reveal to him the suspicions of horse-stealing
sown broadcast over the mountain. Eugenia felt that this in itself was
coercive evidence of his innocence. Who dared so much as say a word to
his face?
The weight of the secret asserted itself, however. As she went about her
accustomed tasks, all bereft of their wonted interest, vapid and
burdensome, she carried so woe-begone a face that it caught his
attention, and he demanded, angrily, "What ails ye ter look so durned
peaked?"
This did not abide long in his memory, however, and it cost her a pang
to see him so unconscious.
She went out upon the porch late that afternoon to judge of the weather.
Snow was falling again. The distant summits had disappeared. The
mountains near at hand loomed through the myriads of serried white
flakes. A crow flew across the Cove in its midst. It heavily thatched
the cabin, and tufts dislodged by the opening of the door fell down upon
her hair. Drifts lay about the porch. Each rail of the fence was laden.
The ground, the rocks, were deeply covered. She reflected with
satisfaction that the red splotch of blood on the dead leaves was no
longer visible. Then a sudden idea struck her that took her breath away.
She came in, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright, with an excited
dubitation.
Her husband commented on the change. "Ye air a powerful cur'ous critter,
'Genie," he said: "a while ago ye looked some fower or five hundred year
old--now ye favors yerself when I fust kem a-courtin' round the
settlemint."
She hardly knew whether the dull stir in her heart were pleasure or
pain. Her eyes filled with tears, and the irradiated iris shone through
them with a liquid lustre. She could not speak.
Her mother took ephemeral advantage of his softening mood. "Ye useter be
mighty perlite and saaft-spoken in them days, Tobe," she ventured.
"I hed ter be," he admitted, frankly, "'kase thar war sech a many o'
them mealy-mouthed cusses a-waitin' on 'Genie. The kentry 'peared ter me
ter bristle with Luke Todd; he 'minded me o' brumsaidge--_everywhar_ ye
seen his yaller head, ez homely an' ez onwelcome."
"I never wunst gin Luke a thought arter ye tuk ter comin' round the
settlemint," Eugenia said, softly.
"I wisht I hed knowed that then," he replied; "else I wouldn't hev been
so all-fired oneasy an' beset. I wasted mo' time a-studyin' 'bout ye an'
Luke Todd 'n ye war both wuth, an' went 'thout my vittles an' sot up o'
nights. Ef I hed spent that time a-moanin' fur my sins an' settin' my
soul at peace, I'd be 'quirin' roun' the throne o' Grace now! Young
folks air powerful fursaken fools."
Somehow her heart was warmer for this allusion. She was more hopeful.
Her resolve grew stronger and stronger as she sat and knitted, and
looked at the fire and saw among the coals all her old life at the
settlement newly aglow. She was remembering now that Luke Todd had been
as wax in her hands. She recalled that when she was married there was a
gleeful "sayin'" going the rounds of the mountain that he had taken to
the woods with grief, and he was heard of no more for weeks. The gossips
relished his despair as the corollary of the happy bridal. He had had no
reproaches for her. He had only looked the other way when they met, and
she had not spoken to him since.
"He set store by my word in them days," she said to herself, her lips
vaguely moving. "I misdoubts ef he hev furgot."
All through the long hours of the winter night she silently canvassed
her plan. The house was still noiseless and dark when she softly opened
the door and softly closed it behind her.
It had ceased to snow, and the sky had cleared. The trees, all the limbs
whitened, were outlined distinctly upon it, and through the boughs
overhead a brilliant star, aloof and splendid, looked coldly down. Along
dark spaces Orion had drawn his glittering blade. Above the snowy
mountains a melancholy waning moon was swinging. The valley was full of
mist, white and shining where the light fell upon it, a vaporous purple
where the shadows held sway. So still it was! the only motion in all the
world the throbbing stars and her palpitating heart. So solemnly silent!
It was a relief, as she trudged on and on, to note a gradual change; to
watch the sky withdraw, seeming fainter; to see the moon grow filmy,
like some figment of the frost; to mark the gray mist steal on apace,
wrap mountain, valley, and heaven with mystic folds, shut out all vision
of things familiar. Through it only the sense of dawn could creep.
* * * * *
She recognized the locality; her breath was short; her step quickened.
She appeared, like an apparition out of the mists, close to a fence, and
peered through the snow-laden rails. A sudden pang pierced her heart.
For there, within the enclosure, milking the cow, she saw, all blooming
in the snow--herself; the azalea-like girl she had been!
She had not known how dear to her was that bright young identity she
remembered. She had not realized how far it had gone from her. She felt
a forlorn changeling looking upon her own estranged estate.
A faint cry escaped her.
The cow, with lifted head and a muttered low of surprise, moved out of
reach of the milker, who, half kneeling upon the ground, stared with
wide blue eyes at her ghost in the mist.
There was a pause. It was only a moment before Eugenia spoke; it seemed
years, so charged it was with retrospect.
"I kem over hyar ter hev a word with ye," she said.
At the sound of a human voice Luke Todd's wife struggled to her feet.
She held the piggin with one arm encircled about it, and with the other
hand she clutched the plaid shawl around her throat. Her bright hair was
tossed by the rising wind.
"I 'lowed I'd find ye hyar a-milkin' 'bout now."
The homely allusion reassured the younger woman.
"I hev ter begin toler'ble early," she said. "Spot gins 'bout a gallon a
milkin' now."