THE FROLIC AT SEMMES’ COVE
IT WAS late afternoon when David Joslin and Calvin Trasker, his
kinsman, started into the hills. They rode in silence as they followed
the winding little path which led up into the wilderness of the upper
ridges. Each was armed with a heavy revolver which swung under his
coat, and each carried in his side pockets abundance of additional
ammunition for his weapon. Neither spoke. Neither showed any agitation.
They pulled up at the imprint of horses’ hoofs on the trail coming up
from one of the little side ravines.
Trasker spoke. “Absalom, he don’t live so far off from here.”
“I wish’t he’d stay at home,” said David Joslin moodily.
“Look-a-here, Dave,” began the other testily. “What’s the matter with
ye? Is thar arything in this here talk I heerd about ye feelin’ maybe
ye was called to be a preacher, same as yore daddy?”
Joslin replied calmly. “I don’t know. I’m askin’ fer a leadin’. I
kain’t see that this here business is quite right no more.”
“Ye don’t belong in here then,” said Trasker, and half drew rein.
“I do belong in here, an’ nowhars else!” said David Joslin. “If I ever
was called—if I ever come to preach in these here hills, you-all’ll
feel I wasn’t no coward. I’m a-goin’ to prove it to you-all that I
hain’t.”
“Go ahead,” said Trasker succinctly, and again Joslin led the way up
the mountain slope.
They paused presently at the rendezvous where their kinsmen presently
would join them, granted Bullock had been successful in passing the
feudal torch. Trasker talked yet further.
“He was a great old sport, yore daddy,” said he. “I reckon he was shot
in half a dozen places in his time. Seemed like they couldn’t kill him,
nohow. An’ him an’ old Absalom had it fist an’ skull together more’n
once in their day.”
Joslin nodded. “That was afore he took up preachin’. Heathen—why, we
all been worse’n ary heathen in the world. An’ here’s ye an’ me worse’n
ary heathen right now, ridin’ out to squar what only the hand of God
kin squar.”
“Well,” rejoined Trasker, meditatively chewing his quid, “maybe with
four or five of us together we kin help the hand of God jest a leetle
bit. That’s the leadin’ I git, anyways, for this evenin’.”
“Well, here’s our fellers comin’,” he went on, turning in his saddle.
“Even a few is better’n none.”
They were joined now by three other riders, Chan Bullock and two
younger men, one scarce more than a boy, the beard not yet sprouted on
his face. They did not make even a salutation as they drew up alongside
the two horsemen who had tarried at the rendezvous.
They turned up the hillside, once more resuming the winding path along
the crooked divide which separated the two forks of the main stream
which bored deep into the Cumberlands thereabouts. They all knew well
enough the entry point for the head of Semmes’ Cove, and here in due
time they halted to hold counsel.
“Sever’l been here,” said David Joslin, pointing out the horse tracks
which led down into the thickets of the unbroken gulch before them.
Without any comment they all dismounted and advanced, leading their
horses, Joslin ahead. They walked in this way for perhaps a quarter of
an hour. Then Joslin, without a word, turned and tied his own horse to
a tree, the others following his example.
There had been an illicit stillhouse in this wild ravine how long none
might tell—in fact, many stillhouses had been there sporadically
and spasmodically conducted as the fancy of this man or that might
determine, for the region was wild and remote, and never visited by
any of the outside world. These visitors all knew well enough where
the present stillhouse was hidden—in a thicket of laurel just at the
edge of a rock escarpment which jutted out upon the farther side. They
followed on now steadily, alertly, until at length Joslin raised a hand.
Silently they pushed their way into the edge of the thicket. Sounds of
laughter, of song, greeted them. A faint, sickish odor rose above the
tops of the low laurel. The visitors, five in all in number—Joslin,
Calvin Trasker, Chan Bullock, and two other “cousins,” Nick Cummings
and Cole Sennem—all pulled up at a point whence they could view the
scene, whose main features they knew well enough without inspection.
There were a dozen men here and there, taking turns at the little
copper cups which stood upon the hewn face of a log. A couple of
barrels, a copper pipe between, made pretty much all the visible
external aspect of the still. The great bulb was hidden in one barrel,
the curled copper tube cooled in another. Here and there lay empty
sacks once carrying corn. A cup-peg or so driven into a tree trunk
showed the openness and confidence with which matters hereabout had
been conducted, and the spot showed every sign of frequent use.
One of the men, taking up one of the copper vessels from the low log
table, stooped at the pipe at the foot of one of the barrels, watching
the trickle of white liquid which came forth. He drank it clear and
strong as alcohol, undiluted. Like fire it went through all his veins.
“Whoopee!” he exclaimed, throwing up a hand. “I’m the ole blue hen’s
chicken! I kin outwrastle er outjump er outshoot ary man here er
anywhar’s else.”
“Ye wouldn’t say that if old Absalom war here,” laughed a nearby
occupant of a rude bench.
“No, nor if Old Man Joslin war, neither.”
“I would too! I hain’t a-skeered o’ nobody,” replied the warlike youth.
“I’ll show ary of ‘em.”
“_What’ll ye show us?_” demanded David Joslin. Silent as an Indian
he had left the fringe of cover, and stood now in the open, his eyes
steady, his arms folded, looking at the men before him. And now at his
side and back of him ranged his little body of clansmen.
Sudden silence fell upon all those thus surprised. They looked at him
in amazement.
“Whar’s old Absalom?” he demanded of a man whom he knew, who stood, the
half-finished cup of liquor still in his hand.
“Air ye lookin’ to start ary diffikilty?” replied his neighbor, also
with a question.
“That’s fer us to say,” said David Joslin. “My daddy’s daid. He got
hurt yesterday by old Absalom an’ his people. I come over here to-day
to see old Absalom an’ ary kin he happens to have along with him. Whar
is he?”
Silence for a long time held the group. It behooved all to be cautious.
“He’s been in here somewhar,” went on Joslin, “an’ he hain’t fur now.
Tell me, is he down at the dance house?”
“Well, ye mought go an’ see,” rejoined the first speaker, grinning. “Ye
know, Dave Joslin, I hain’t got no quarl with ye, nor has ary o’ my
people. Ye set right here now, boys,” he continued, sweeping out a long
arm toward the merrymakers, who still lingered about the liquor barrel.
“Thar’s more of them than thar is of ye,” he whispered hurriedly to
Joslin as he stepped up. “The house is full, an’ they’re dancin’. Three
or four gals from down on the Buffalo is in thar now. They’re havin’ a
right big frolic.”
Without a word Joslin turned and hurried down the path. He knew the
location of the building to which reference had been made—a long log
structure rudely floored with puncheons, sometimes employed locally as
a sort of adjunct of the still. The sounds of dancing, the music of
one or two reedy violins, the voice of a caller now and then, greeted
the party of avengers who now approached this curious building hidden
in the heart of the mountain wilderness. Whether or not all of the
occupants of the dance house were of Absalom Gannt’s party, neither
David Joslin nor any one else might tell. There might be a general
mingling here of friend and foe until some overt act should light again
the ancient fire, forever smouldering.
Joslin beckoned to his companions. “Git behind them rocks right over
thar, boys,” he whispered. “I’m a-goin’ up to the door.”
The young men with him went about their business with perfect calmness,
although the eye of each was alert and glittering. They took their
stations under the leadership of the man who they now regarded as the
chieftain of their clan, and watched him go to what seemed certain
death.
Joslin advanced steadily to the door, his thumbs in the waist band of
his trousers. With his left hand he knocked loudly on the jamb of the
door. He spoke to some one, apparently an acquaintance, who noticed him.
“Is Absalom Gannt here?” he demanded. “If he is, tell him to come out.
I’ll wait till he comes out fair.”
“Good God A’mighty, Davy,” said the other who stood within. “Air ye
atter trouble? This is jest a little frolic.”
“Tell him to come out,” repeated Joslin. “I want Absalom Gannt!” The
courage of this deed went into the sagas of the Cumberlands—the act of
a man who scorned certain death.
It must have been some friend of Absalom Gannt, some relative perhaps,
who heard this summons and saw the gray face of David Joslin staring
into the half-darkened interior. With a shout he himself sprang to the
door, gun in hand. Joslin leaped aside. As he did so he heard the roar
of a heavy revolver back of him. Chan Bullock, the long blue barrel
of his six-shooter resting on his arm at the top of the protecting
boulder, fired at the man who appeared in the door. The latter fell
forward and slouched over on his face, his head on his arms.
A half instant of silence, then came the roar of a pistol at the window
near where Joslin stood. The men at the boulders, in turn, began firing
generously at every crack and cranny of the house, regardless of who or
what might be within. The marksman at the window was deliberate. With
care he rested the barrel of his weapon against the window sash. At its
third report, Joslin heard back of him a heavy groan, but he did not
see Calvin Trasker roll over on his back, his doubled arm across his
face.
The sound of gunfire now was general on every side. None might say who
was harmed, who as yet was safe. As for Joslin, he had work to do.
Absalom Gannt was still inside the house.
He stepped forward again deliberately to the door, pushed aside the man
who stood there peering out, and broke his way into the crowd. Two or
three women, cowering, shrank into the farther corner of the room. Men
stood here and there, each with weapon in hand. The acrid taste of
gunpowder, which hung in the blue pall of smoke, was in the nostrils of
all.
“Absalom Gannt!” rose the high, clear voice of David Joslin, “I’ve come
fer ye. Come out here an’ meet me fair if ye hain’t a coward. Absalom
Gannt! Absalom Gannt——”
That was the last word the friends of David Joslin heard him speak,
and, as they told the story, it was apparent that the Joslin blood
“never flickered onct.”
What happened to David Joslin they did not know—he himself did not.
He was perhaps conscious of a heavy blow at the base of his head, then
came unconsciousness, oblivion. He fell upon the floor of the rude
revel house.
Firing ceased now. The occupants of the cabin rushed out. The defenders
of the line of boulders, three only in number now, broke and sprang up
the mountain side, pursued by a rain of bullets which touched none of
them.
The frolic at Semmes’ Cove had found its ending—not an unusual ending
for such scenes.