It was a critical moment. There was a stir other than that of the wind
among the pine needles and dry leaves that carpeted the ground.
The wary wild turkeys lifted their long necks with that peculiar cry of
half-doubting surprise so familiar to a sportsman, then all was still
for an instant. The world was steeped in the noontide sunlight, the
mountain air tasted of the fresh [v]sylvan fragrance that pervaded the
forest, the foliage blamed with the red and gold of autumn, the distant
[v]Chilhowee heights were delicately blue.
That instant's doubt sealed the doom of one of the flock. As the turkeys
stood in momentary suspense, the sunlight gilding their bronze feathers
to a brighter sheen, there was a movement in the dense undergrowth. The
flock took suddenly to wing,--a flash from among the leaves, the sharp
crack of a rifle, and one of the birds fell heavily over the bluff and
down toward the valley.
The young mountaineer's exclamation of triumph died in his throat. He
came running to the verge of the crag, and looked down ruefully into the
depths where his game had disappeared.
"Waal, sir," he broke forth pathetically, "this beats my time! If my
luck ain't enough ter make a horse laugh!"
He did not laugh, however; perhaps his luck was calculated to stir only
[v]equine risibility. The cliff was almost perpendicular; at the depth
of twenty feet a narrow ledge projected, but thence there was a sheer
descent, down, down, down, to the tops of the tall trees in the valley
far below.
As Ethan Tynes looked wistfully over the precipice, he started with a
sudden surprise. There on the narrow ledge lay the dead turkey.
The sight sharpened Ethan's regrets. He had made a good shot, and he
hated to relinquish his game. While he gazed in dismayed meditation, an
idea began to kindle in his brain. Why could he not let himself down to
the ledge by those long, strong vines that hung over the edge of the
cliff?
It was risky, Ethan knew, terribly risky. But then,--if only the vines
were strong!
He tried them again and again with all his might, selected several of
the largest, grasped them hard and fast, and then slipped lightly off
the crag.
He waited motionless for a moment. His movements had dislodged clods of
earth and fragments of rock from the verge of the cliff, and until these
had ceased to rattle about his head and shoulders he did not begin his
downward journey.
Now and then as he went he heard the snapping of twigs, and again a
branch would break, but the vines which supported him were tough and
strong to the last. Almost before he knew it, he stood upon the ledge,
and with a great sigh of relief he let the vines swing loose.
"Waal, that warn't sech a mighty job at last. But law, if it hed been
Peter Birt 'stid of me, that thar wild tur-r-key would hev laid on this
hyar ledge plumb till the Jedgmint Day!"
He walked deftly along the ledge, picked up the bird, and tied it to one
of the vines with a string which he took from his pocket, intending to
draw it up when he should be once more on the top of the crag. These
preparations complete, he began to think of going back.
He caught the vines on which he had made the descent, but before he had
fairly left the ledge, he felt that they were giving way.
He paused, let himself slip back to a secure foothold, and tried their
strength by pulling with all his force.
Presently down came the whole mass in his hands. The friction against
the sharp edges of the rock over which they had been stretched with a
strong tension had worn them through. His first emotion was one of
intense thankfulness that they had fallen while he was on the ledge
instead of midway in his [v]precarious ascent.
"Ef they hed kem down whilst I war a-goin' up, I'd hev been flung down
ter the bottom o' the valley, 'kase this ledge air too narrer ter hev
cotched me."
He glanced down at the somber depths beneath. "Thar wouldn't hev been
enough left of me ter pick up on a shovel!" he exclaimed, with a tardy
realization of his foolish recklessness.
The next moment a mortal terror seized him. What was to be his fate? To
regain the top of the cliff by his own exertions was an impossibility.
He cast his despairing eyes up the ascent, as sheer and as smooth as a
wall, without a crevice which might afford a foothold, or a shrub to
which he might cling. His strong head was whirling as he again glanced
downward to the unmeasured [v]abyss beneath. He softly let himself sink
into a sitting posture, his heels dangling over the frightful depths,
and addressed himself resolutely to the consideration of the terrible
danger in which he was placed.
Taken at its best, how long was it to last? Could he look to any human
being for deliverance? He reflected with growing dismay that the place
was far from any dwelling, and from the road that wound along the ridge.
There was no errand that could bring a man to this most unfrequented
portion of the deep woods, unless an accident should hither direct some
hunter's step. It was quite possible, nay, probable, that years might
elapse before the forest solitude would again be broken by human
presence.
His brothers would search for him when he should be missed from
home,--but such boundless stretches of forest! They might search for
weeks and never come near this spot. He would die here, he would
starve,--no, he would grow drowsy when exhausted and fall--fall--fall!
He was beginning to feel that morbid fascination that sometimes seizes
upon those who stand on great heights,--an overwhelming impulse to
plunge downward. His only salvation was to look up. He would look up to
the sky.
And what were these words he was beginning to remember faintly? Had not
the [v]circuit-rider said in his last sermon that not even a sparrow
falls to the ground unmarked of God? There was a definite strength in
this suggestion. He felt less lonely as he stared resolutely at the big
blue sky. There came into his heart a sense of encouragement, of hope.
He would keep up as long and as bravely as he could, and if the worst
should come,--was he indeed so solitary? He would hold in remembrance
the sparrow's fall of Scripture.
He had so nerved himself to meet his fate that he thought it was a fancy
when he heard a distant step. But it did not die away, it grew more and
more distinct,--a shambling step that curiously stopped at intervals and
kicked the fallen leaves.
He sought to call out, but he seemed to have lost his voice. Not a sound
issued from his thickened tongue and his dry throat. The step came
nearer. It would presently pass. With a mighty effort Ethan sent forth
a wild, hoarse cry.
The rocks [v]reverberated it, the wind carried it far, and certainly
there was an echo of its despair and terror in a shrill scream set up on
the verge of the crag. Then Ethan heard the shambling step scampering
off very fast indeed.
The truth flashed upon him. It was some child, passing on an
unimaginable errand through the deep woods, frightened by his sudden
cry.
"Stop, bubby!" he shouted; "stop a minute! It's Ethan Tynes that's
callin' of ye. Stop a minute, bubby!"
The step paused at a safe distance, and the shrill pipe of a little boy
demanded, "Whar is ye, Ethan Tynes?"
"I'm down hyar on the ledge o' the bluff. Who air ye ennyhow?"
"George Birt," promptly replied the little boy. "What air ye doin' down
thar? I thought it was Satan a-callin' of me. I never seen nobody."
"I kem down hyar on vines arter a tur-r-key I shot. The vines bruk, an'
I hev got no way ter git up agin. I want ye ter go ter yer mother's
house, an' tell yer brother Pete ter bring a rope hyar fur me ter climb
up by."
Ethan expected to hear the shambling step going away with a [v]celerity
in keeping with the importance of the errand. On the contrary, the step
was approaching the crag.
A moment of suspense, and there appeared among the jagged ends of the
broken vines a small red head, a deeply freckled face, and a pair of
sharp, eager blue eyes. George Birt had carefully laid himself down on
his stomach, only protruding his head beyond the verge of the crag, that
he might not fling away his life in his curiosity.
"Did ye git it?" he asked, with bated breath.
"Git what?" demanded poor Ethan, surprised and impatient.
"The tur-r-key--what ye hev done been talkin' 'bout," said George Birt.
Ethan had lost all interest in the turkey.
"Yes, yes; but run along, bub. I mought fall off'n this hyar place,--I'm
gittin' stiff sittin' still so long,--or the wind mought blow me off.
The wind is blowing toler'ble brisk."
"Gobbler or hen?" asked George Birt eagerly.
"It air a hen," said Ethan. "But look-a-hyar, George, I'm a-waitin' on
ye an' if I'd fall off'n this hyar place, I'd be ez dead ez a door-nail
in a minute."
"Waal, I'm goin' now," said George Birt, with gratifying alacrity. He
raised himself from his [v]recumbent position, and Ethan heard him
shambling off, kicking every now and then at the fallen leaves as he
went.
Presently, however, he turned and walked back nearly to the brink of the
cliff. Then he prostrated himself once more at full length,--for the
mountain children are very careful of precipices,--snaked along
dexterously to the verge of the crag, and protruding his red head
cautiously, began to [v]parley once more, trading on Ethan's
necessities.
"Ef I go on this errand fur ye," he said, looking very sharp indeed,
"will ye gimme one o' the whings of that thar wild tur-r-key?"
He coveted the wing-feathers, not the joint of the fowl. The "whing" of
the domestic turkey is used by the mountain women as a fan, and is
considered an elegance as well as a comfort. George Birt [v]aped the
customs of his elders, regardless of sex,--a characteristic of very
small boys.
"Oh, go 'long, bubby!" exclaimed poor Ethan, in dismay at the
[v]dilatoriness and indifference of his [v]unique deliverer. "I'll give
ye both o' the whings." He would have offered the turkey willingly, if
"bubby" had seemed to crave it.
"Waal, I'm goin' now." George Birt rose from the ground and started off
briskly, [v]exhilarated by the promise of both the "whings."
Ethan was angry indeed when he heard the boy once more shambling back.
Of course one should regard a deliverer with gratitude, especially a
deliverer from mortal peril; but it may be doubted if Ethan's gratitude
would have been great enough to insure that small red head against a
vigorous rap, if it had been within rapping distance, when it was once
more cautiously protruded over the verge of the cliff.
"I kem back hyar ter tell ye," the [v]doughty deliverer began, with an
air of great importance, and magnifying his office with an extreme
relish, "that I can't go an' tell Pete 'bout'n the rope till I hev done
kem back from the mill. I hev got old Sorrel hitched out hyar a piece,
with a bag o' corn on his back, what I hev ter git ground at the mill.
My mother air a-settin' at home now a-waitin' fur that thar corn-meal
ter bake dodgers with. An' I hev got a dime ter pay at the mill; it war
lent ter my dad las' week. An' I'm afeard ter walk about much with this
hyar dime; I mought lose it, ye know. An' I can't go home 'thout the
meal; I'll ketch it ef I do. But I'll tell Pete arter I git back from
the mill."
"The mill!" echoed Ethan, aghast. "What air ye doin' on this side o' the
mounting, ef ye air a-goin' ter the mill? This ain't the way ter the
mill."
"I kem over hyar," said the little boy, still with much importance of
manner, notwithstanding a slight suggestion of embarrassment on his
freckled face, "ter see 'bout'n a trap that I hev sot fur squir'ls. I'll
see 'bout my trap, an' then I hev ter go ter the mill, 'kase my mother
air a-settin' in our house now a-waitin' fur meal ter bake corn-dodgers.
Then I'll tell Pete whar ye air, an' what ye said 'bout'n the rope. Ye
must jes' wait fur me hyar."
Poor Ethan could do nothing else.
As the echo of the boy's shambling step died in the distance, a
redoubled sense of loneliness fell upon Ethan Tynes. But he endeavored
to [v]solace himself with the reflection that the important mission to
the squirrel-trap and the errand to the mill could not last forever, and
before a great while Peter Birt and his rope would be upon the crag.
This idea [v]buoyed him up as the hours crept slowly by. Now and then he
lifted his head and listened with painful intentness. He felt stiff in
every muscle, and yet he had a dread of making an effort to change his
[v]constrained position. He might lose control of his rigid limbs, and
fall into those dread depths beneath.
His patience at last began to give way; his heart was sinking. The
messenger had been even more [v]dilatory than he was prepared to expect.
Why did not Pete come? Was it possible that George had forgotten to tell
of his danger. The sun was going down, leaving a great glory of gold and
crimson clouds and an [v]opaline haze upon the purple mountains. The
last rays fell on the bronze feathers of the turkey still lying tied to
the broken vines on the ledge.
And now there were only frowning masses of dark clouds in the west; and
there were frowning masses of clouds overhead. The shadow of the coming
night had fallen on the autumnal foliage in the deep valley; in the
place of the opaline haze was only a gray mist.
And presently there came, sweeping along between the parallel mountain
ranges, a somber raincloud. The lad could hear the heavy drops splashing
on the tree-tops in the valley, long, long before he felt them on his
head.
The roll of thunder sounded among the crags. Then the rain came down
tumultuously, not in columns but in livid sheets. The lightnings rent
the sky, showing, as it seemed to him, glimpses of the glorious
brightness within,--too bright for human eyes.
He clung desperately to his precarious perch. Now and then a fierce rush
of wind almost tore him from it. Strange fancies beset him. The air was
full of that wild [v]symphony of nature, the wind and the rain, the
pealing thunder, and the thunderous echo among the cliffs, and yet he
thought he could hear his own name ringing again and again through all
the tumult, sometimes in Pete's voice, sometimes in George's shrill
tones.
Ethan became vaguely aware, after a time, that the rain had ceased, and
the moon was beginning to shine through rifts in the clouds. The wind
continued unabated, but, curiously enough, he could not hear it now. He
could hear nothing; he could think of nothing. His consciousness was
beginning to fail.
George Birt had indeed forgotten him,--forgotten even the promised
"whings." Not that he had discovered anything so extraordinary in his
trap, for it was empty, but when he reached the mill, he found that the
miller had killed a bear and captured a cub, and the orphan, chained to
a post, had deeply absorbed George Birt's attention.
To [v]sophisticated people, the boy might have seemed as [v]grotesque as
the cub. George wore an unbleached cotton shirt. The waistband of his
baggy jeans trousers encircled his body just beneath his armpits,
reaching to his shoulder-blades behind, and nearly to his collar-bone in
front. His red head was only partly covered by a fragment of an old
white wool hat; and he looked at the cub with a curiosity as intense as
that with which the cub looked at him. Each was taking first lessons in
natural history.
As long as there was daylight enough left to see that cub, did George
Birt stand and stare at the little beast. Then he clattered home on old
Sorrel in the closing darkness, looking like a very small pin on the top
of a large pincushion.
At home, he found the elders unreasonable,--as elders usually are
considered. Supper had been waiting an hour or so for the lack of meal
for dodgers. He "caught it" considerably, but not sufficiently to impair
his appetite for the dodgers. After all this, he was ready enough for
bed when a small boy's bedtime came. But as he was nodding before the
fire, he heard a word that roused him to a new excitement and
stimulated his memory.
"These hyar chips air so wet they won't burn," said his mother. "I'll
take my tur-r-key whing an' fan the fire."
"Law!" he exclaimed. "Thar, now! Ethan Tynes never gimme that thar wild
tur-r-key's whings like he promised."
"Whar did ye happen ter see Ethan?" asked Pete, interested in his
friend.
"Seen him in the woods, an' he promised me the tur-r-key whings."
"What fur?" inquired Pete, a little surprised by this uncalled-for
generosity.
"Waal,"--there was an expression of embarrassment on the important
freckled face, and the small red head nodded forward in an explanatory
manner,--"he fell off'n the bluffs arter the tur-r-key whings--I mean,
he went down to the ledge arter the tur-r-key, and the vines bruk an' he
couldn't git up no more. An' he tole me that ef I'd tell ye ter fotch
him a rope ter pull up by, he would gimme the whings. That happened
a--leetle--while--arter dinner-time."
"Who got him a rope ter pull up by?" demanded Pete.
There was again on the important face that indescribable shade of
embarrassment. "Waal,"--the youngster balanced this word judicially,--"I
forgot 'bout'n the tur-key whings till this minute. I reckon he's thar
yit."
"Mebbe this hyar wind an' rain hev beat him off'n the ledge!" exclaimed
Pete, appalled and rising hastily. "I tell ye now," he added, turning to
his mother, "the best use ye kin make o' that boy is ter put him on the
fire fur a back-log."
Pete made his preparations in great haste. He took the rope from the
well, asked the [v]crestfallen and browbeaten junior a question or two
relative to the place, mounted old Sorrel without a saddle, and in a few
minutes was galloping at headlong speed through the night.
The rain was over by the time he had reached the sulphur spring to which
George had directed him, but the wind was still high, and the broken
clouds were driving fast across the face of the moon.
By the time he had hitched his horse to a tree and set out on foot to
find the cliff, the moonbeams, though brilliant, were so [v]intermittent
that his progress was fitful and necessarily cautious. When the disk
shone out full and clear, he made his way rapidly enough, but when the
clouds intervened, he stood still and waited.
"I ain't goin' ter fall off'n the bluff 'thout knowin' it," he said to
himself, in one of these [v]eclipses, "ef I hev ter stand hyar all
night."
The moonlight was brilliant and steady when he reached the verge of the
crag. He identified the spot by the mass of broken vines, and more
positively by Ethan's rifle lying upon the ground just at his feet. He
called, but received no response.
"Hev Ethan fell off, sure enough?" he asked himself, in great dismay and
alarm. Then he shouted again and again. At last there came an answer, as
though the speaker had just awaked.
"Pretty nigh beat out, I'm a-thinkin'!" commented Pete. He tied one end
of the cord around the trunk of a tree, knotted it at intervals, and
flung it over the bluff.
At first Ethan was almost afraid to stir. He slowly put forth his hand
and grasped the rope. Then, his heart beating tumultuously, he rose to
his feet.
He stood still for an instant to steady himself and get his breath.
Nerving himself for a strong effort, he began the ascent, hand over
hand, up and up and up, till once more he stood upon the crest of the
crag.
And, now that all danger was over, Pete was disposed to scold. "I'm
a-thinkin'," said Pete severely, "ez thar ain't a critter on this hyar
mounting, from a b'ar ter a copperhead, that could hev got in sech a
fix, 'ceptin' ye, Ethan Tynes."
And Ethan was silent.
"What's this hyar thing at the end o' the rope?" asked Pete, as he began
to draw the cord up, and felt a weight still suspended.
"It air the tur-r-key," said Ethan meekly, "I tied her ter the e-end o'
the rope afore I kem up."
"Waal, sir!" exclaimed Pete, in indignant surprise.
And George, for duty performed, was [v]remunerated with the two
"whings," although it still remains a question in the mind of Ethan
whether or not he deserved them.