THE BOY FROM HOLLOW HUT
[Illustration: "I kin kill rabbits if I can't do nothin' else"]
The Boy From Hollow Hut
A STORY OF THE KENTUCKY MOUNTAINS
By ISLA MAY MULLINS
Illustrated
New York Chicago Toronto
Fleming H. Revell Company
London and Edinburgh
Copyright, 1911, by
FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY
New York: 158 Fifth Avenue
Chicago: 17 North Wabash Ave.
London: 21 Paternoster Square
Edinburgh: 75 Princes Street
To MRS. J. B. MARVIN
Whose unceasing devotion to the cause of education in the
mountains of Kentucky inspired this little story
CONTENTS
I. A STRANGER AND A PROMISE 11
II. A PACKAGE BY MAIL 24
III. IN THE WILDERNESS 36
IV. A HALT ON THE ROAD 44
V. A DOUBLE RESCUE 57
VI. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING 72
VII. A TRIP TO THE CITY 78
VIII. OPPORTUNITY 91
IX. A STARTLING APPEARANCE 98
X. STEVE DEVELOPS A MIND OF HIS OWN 111
XI. EXPERIENCE 129
XII. LOVE'S AWAKENING 149
XIII. OLD TIES RENEWED 160
XIV. "ALL RIGHT, SON" 180
XV. FLICKERING HOPE 190
XVI. IN THE CRUCIBLE 198
XVII. FRUITION 204
ILLUSTRATIONS
"I kin kill rabbits if I can't do nothin' else" _Frontispiece_
The Old Greely Mill 70
"Hit's Champ fer his pappy" 142
"Tilda pacing back and forth at her spinning-wheel" 174
THE BOY FROM HOLLOW HUT
I
A STRANGER AND A PROMISE
The rabbit bounded away and was lost in the underbrush. Steve stood
looking disgustedly after him, a limp figure, one shoulder dropping
until the old knit suspender fell at his side, and a sullen,
discouraged look settling in his brown eyes.
"I ain' no hunter noways. Peers lack I don't even know 'nough to ketch
a rabbit," he said with scorn. "Whar's that lazy Tige anyways?" he
added, his scorn merging into wrath.
Then jerking the old suspender in place he straightened up on his
sturdy, bare feet, and darted through the underbrush in the direction
where the rabbit had disappeared.
"I'll ketch you yit, yes I will, you same old cottontail," he muttered
through clenched teeth.
There it was again! Just a moment the round, gray back darted above
the bushes, and then plunging into deeper undergrowth, bounded on and
on. But the slim, knotty brown legs plunged on and on too, till at
last a swift, cruel stone felled the unlucky little woodlander, for
Steve was a most skillful marksman.
"Huh! thought you'd git away from me, did ye?" said the boy, picking
up the still body. "I reckons I kin do some things yit," he said, "ef
I don't know much."
The boy was in a strange, new mood. He did not understand himself.
Though a good hunter for a lad of twelve he had been heretofore a
generous friend or conqueror of the fur and feathered folk, wont to
deal gently with a fallen foe. Now he jerked up the limp body of the
rabbit savagely and struck its head spitefully against a near-by tree
trunk.
"I kin kill rabbits ef I can't do nothin' else."
Just then a big black and tan dog came into view with the dignity
befitting age. Boy and dog had been born the same month, but while one
was scarcely well entered upon life, the other's race was almost run.
The boy was usually most considerate of the infirmities of his
lifelong friend, but to-day he scolded the dog till with drooping tail
and grieved, uncomprehending eyes he slunk away out of sight.
A strange experience had come to the mountain boy the day before which
had changed his whole world. It was as though the wooded mountains
which hemmed in his little cabin home had parted for a moment and
given him a glimpse of a fascinating world beyond. He and Tige had
wandered farther from home that day than ever before, though wanderers
they had always been, the woods holding a deep interest for Steve. He
loved to hide in the densest solitudes, lie still with his dog and
dream, fantastic, unreal dreams. Now a definite, tangible vision had
come to him out of the solitude of a hazy November day in the
mountains of Kentucky. He had lain for two hours or more in the
stillness when suddenly Tige lifted his head and gave a sharp bark,
then came the sound of voices, strange voices Steve at once knew them
to be, and as he caught the tones more clearly, recognized that one at
least was of a kind which he had never heard before. Keeping Tige
quiet with a firm hand, he lifted his head and listened with ear and
soul, then into view stepped a man of medium height with a clean, fine
face, clothes of a sort unknown to the boy, and an easy, alert stride
totally foreign to the mountaineer's slouching gait. A mountain man
accompanied him, but he too was a stranger to the boy.
The man of the new, strange species smiled at the boy's gaping mouth
and wonder-wide eyes.
"Well, son," he said pleasantly, "are you a sportsman too?"
The quick, clear, cultured voice, the unfamiliar accent was so utterly
foreign to anything the boy had ever heard that he could not take in
the import of the words, and amazed silence was his only reply.
"Wal," drawled the mountain guide, "who'd er thought er seein' a chap
lack that heah? Whar'd you come from anyways?"
This was familiar vernacular, and Steve, rising slowly from the
ground, and allowing Tige to make friendly acquaintance with the
strangers, said:
"I lives at Hollow Hut and I comes over here whenever I pleases.
Whar'd you uns come from?"
The man gave a hearty but musical laugh at the ready dignity of the
reply, but the boy's mouth dropped once more in consternation, as
words came again in crisp, foreign accent.
"I came from the city, my lad, to get some of your fine quail and
deer. You are willing I should have a few, are you not? My friend here
is showing me the way."
The mountain folk had proved a most entertaining study for this
sportsman, and his interest was ready for each new specimen
encountered. Turning to the guide he said:
"Suppose we lunch here," and taking out his watch continued, "yes, it
is high time; twelve thirty to the minute."
The boy stepped forward involuntarily for a look at the queer, pretty
thing in the man's hand.
"What's that?" he asked.
"Why, that's a watch, son. Didn't you ever see one?" said the man
kindly.
The guide smiled derisively: "Wal, I reckons not," while the boy, too
interested for reply, asked again:
"What's a watch?" and the man with his genial laugh said:
"Son, we will be greatly pleased if you will take lunch with us. My
name is Polk, Samuel Polk," he said, touching his cap with the
unfailing courtesy of a true gentleman. "And after we eat I will show
you the watch and tell you all about it."
But the mountaineer does not readily eat with "furriners," so Steve
stood near by and looked on while the two men ate very strange things.
Little cans were opened and tiny fish taken out that looked
exceedingly queer. Mr. Polk, trying to persuade the boy to eat,
explained that these were sardines, some square, white things were
crackers, a thick stuff was cheese and that some big, round, yellow
things were oranges. But Steve only stared in silence till the meal
was over though Tige, with no instinctive handicap, accepted delicious
scraps with astonishment and relish.
So amazed, however, had the boy been with it all that he nearly
forgot about the watch. But when he remembered and the man let him
take it in his rusty, brown fingers, that was the most wonderful
moment of all. The tick, tick inside was a marvel, almost a thing
uncanny to the boy, and when it was explained how the hands went round
and round, telling the time of day, it surely seemed a thing beyond
mortal ken.
The guide drawled out with a superior air: "Wal, sonny, you come from
the backwoods shore ef you never heerd tell of a watch before."
The boy looked squarely at him in sullen resentment a moment, but with
such opportunity at hand he wouldn't waste time with the likes of him.
He asked, "What moves them things round?" and the man kindly opened
the watch at the back and displayed all the cunning wheels which
respond to the loosening spring, explained how it was wound each day
to keep it from running down, and in answer to the boy's eager
questions as to how such things were made told him something of watch
manufacture.
At last the wonderful hour was over and the two strange men prepared
to leave.
"Good-bye, son," said the man; "one of these days you will leave the
mountains and go out into the big world to live a life of usefulness
and honour, I hope."
The words, so simple and commonplace to the man, were to the boy like
a telescope lifted to the unknown heavens, but through which he could
not yet look. He watched the men go down the mountainside, the strange
words which he did not comprehend, but was never to forget, ringing in
his ears. A bit of heavy timber hid them at last, and the boy stood
dejected a moment, his heart swelling with an agony of strange
longing, while the dog looked up at him almost pleading to understand.
Then suddenly, with a cry of hope, Steve sprang after them, the dog
following. Breathless he came upon them, and the man turned in
surprise at the tragic voice and face. When the boy could speak he
panted out:
"I've got the bes' fox skin anywheres hereabout. I'll swap it with you
uns fer that watch thing."
The man suppressed a smile and kindly replied:
"Why, lad, I couldn't do without it for the rest of this hunting trip,
but I tell you what I will do. When I get back to the city I'll send
you one."
"Then ef yer'll come home with me I'll give ye the fox skin now," the
boy responded promptly.
"Oh, never mind about the fox skin now; I must get back to camp before
dark and we are many miles away," said the man.
"But I can't take the watch 'thout you git the skin," said the boy
sturdily.
"Well, now, I'll tell you," said the man, realizing that he had struck
the stubborn, independent pride of a mountaineer. "You give me your
name, tell me where you live and I'll send you the watch; then next
time I'm over here I'll get the skin." The address was a difficult
matter to determine, but the mountaineer helped them out.
This satisfied the boy and he saw the two strangers depart with better
spirit, since he could look forward to the coming of the watch. He did
not understand how it would ever reach him, but trusted the stranger
implicitly. When the last sound of departing feet among the underbrush
had died away, Steve turned and went home with long, rapid strides,
the dog recognizing the relief and following with wagging tail.
He found supper on the table, the savoury bacon and hoe-cake greeting
him from the door. The head of the family, lean, lank and brown, was
already transporting huge mouthfuls from the tin platter to his mouth;
the fat, slovenly daughter sat for a moment to rest and cool her face
before beginning to eat, while the mother still occupied a chimney
corner, pipe in mouth, for she "hadn't wanted nothin' to eat lately,
her stomick seemed off the hooks somehow." These, with the boy,
composed the family, a row of graves out under the trees at the back
of the hut filling the long gap between Mirandy, a young woman of
twenty-one, and Steve. The boy sat down, but before he ate that
remarkable tale of his morning experience had to be told. When he was
done the father said:
"Huh, better let city folks alone; don't have nothin' to do with none
of 'em."
The boy, feeling the rebuke, then turned to his supper, but when his
father had gone out to smoke, and Mirandy was in the lane looking for
her sweetheart, Steve stole up to his mother's side and stood digging
his toe in the sand hearth.
"Mammy," he said at last, "what makes that man diffrunt from we uns?"
The old woman smoked a moment in silence and then said:
"Wal, there's a heap over the mountains what makes him diffrunt,--things
we ain' never seen ner heern tell on." She smoked again a puff or two,
then added, "I recken schoolin's the most."
"What's schoolin'?" said the boy.
"Larnin' things," she replied.
The subject of schools had never been discussed in the boy's hearing.
His father didn't believe in them, there wasn't a book, not even a
Bible, in all the scattered little remote mountain community, and if
the boy had ever heard either books or schools mentioned before the
words had made no impression on him.
"Do they larn to make watch things thar?" he asked.
His mother said she supposed so, "she knew they larned out o' things
they called books," and then she explained as best she could to him
what schools and books were. When his father came in again Steve said
boldly:
"Pappy, I'm er goin' over the mountains an' larn how to make them
watch things."
The mountaineer stood as if paralyzed a moment, then his dull eyes
blazed.
"No, you won't nuther! Not a step will ye go! Ye shan't nuver hev
nothin' to do with no city folks, so help me God!"
The boy dropped back cowed and trembling; he had never seen his father
so stirred. He didn't dare ask a question, but when the mountaineer
had seated himself in the chimney corner opposite his wife, he
continued:
"City folks with all their larnin', fine clothes an' fine ways ain't
to be depended on. I wouldn't trus' one of 'em with a jay bird lessen
I wanted to git shed of it. Don't you let me hear no mo' o' your goin'
over the mountains arter city folks."
The prejudice of some mountaineers against the city is deep-seated.
They have little use for the "settlements," meaning the smaller towns,
but the city is their abomination. Jim Langly's prejudice was even
stronger than that of the average mountain man of this type, for it
had been a matter of contention between himself and his wife in the
early days of their married life. She had always longed to see what
was beyond the mountains and besieged him to go till the subject could
no more be mentioned between them.
Steve soon climbed to his bed in a corner of the room with a very
heavy heart. If city folks weren't to be depended on then he would
never get that watch, and all the beautiful visions of learning to do
things in a wonderful new world grew dim and uncertain. So heavy was
his heart as he fell asleep that when he waked at daylight, it was
with a terrible sense of loss and grief. The morning meal over he
wandered off with Tige, dull and dejected, till the unlucky rabbit had
crossed his path and stirred strange, resentful enmity towards his
little familiar contestants of the woods. Sending the dog angrily off
he skinned the rabbit with savage jerks and then carried it at once
back to his home, saying:
"Fry it, 'Randy, fry it dog-goned hard."
His mother caught the sullen, angry tone, and when Mirandy went out
in the kitchen to begin the dinner, she called him from where he sat
on the door-step.
"Come here, sonny."
It was a rare term of endearment, and Steve got up quickly and went to
her side.
"Don't think too much o' whut ye pappy said about city folks. He's
allus hated 'em fer some reason, I don't know whut, 'less hit was
'cause I saw one when I was a gal afore we married, nuver min' how ner
where, and arter that I allus wanted to see whut was over the
mountings. Ef ever ye git a chanct I want ye ter go thar an' larn ter
do things. I'd er done hit ef I'd er been a man. But don't say nothin'
to ye pappy."
This caution was unnecessary; and what a change the simple words made
for Steve! His spirit bounded up into the world of visions again, and
when dinner was on the table he refused to take a mouthful of the
savoury rabbit, so ashamed was he of the manner of its killing.
After this his mind was constantly on the watch which was to come. How
it was to reach him he did not think out, for the simple reason that
he knew nothing of the distance which stretched between him and the
city, nor of methods of communication. No letter or piece of mail of
any sort had ever come to his home, or that of any one else of which
he knew but things of various sorts were gotten from the crossroads
store ten miles away, skillets and pans, axes and hoes, which were
made somewhere, and he supposed some time when some one of the
community went to the store they'd find his watch there. But week
after week went by till spring came on, and nobody went to the store.
The mountain folk indeed had little need of stores. They spun and wove
the cloth for their clothes, raised their corn, pigs, and tobacco,
made their own "sweetin'," long and short, meaning sugar and molasses,
and distilled their own whiskey. So the boy's heart grew heavy again
with the long delay and he began to think bitterly that his father and
not his mother was right, when one day a stranger whom he had never
seen before drove up to the door.
II
A PACKAGE BY MAIL
"Howdye! Does airy feller named Stephen Langly live here?" said the
stranger, reining in his tired, raw-boned steed without difficulty.
Mirandy went to the cabin door, stared a minute in surprise and then
shook her head slowly. But Steve pushed past her saying:
"Yes, thar is, too. I'm Stephen Langly."
"You! Sakes erlive, I clean forgot that was yo' name!" and his sister
laughed lazily, while the stranger joined in.
"Wal, you're a powerful little chap to be a-gittin' mail. But this
here thing has yo' name on it, they tole me at the store, an' so I
brung it along as I was a-comin' this-a-way. Hit's been thar mo' than
three months they tole me."
Steve took the package, his hands trembling with eagerness and would
have darted away to the woods with his treasure where he might look
upon it first alone, but Mirandy stormed when he turned to go, and the
man said:
"'Pears to me you mought show what ye got, when I brung it all this
long ways to ye."
That did seem the fair thing to do, so when they had asked the man to
"light and hitch," Steve sat down on the door-step and removed the
wrappings from the square box; there was tissue paper first, a miracle
of daintiness which the boy had never beheld before, and at last the
watch came to view. Steve lifted it in trembling fingers, and while
Mirandy and the man expressed their admiration his first quivering
words were:
"That other one was yaller."
"Wal, now," said Mirandy, "that one was gold; you couldn't expect that
man to send you no gold."
Mirandy, having a precious gilded trinket, was better posted on the
colour and value of metals than Steve, though she made a slight error
in her next statement.
"This hern is silver; that's the next thing to gold," and the bright
nickel of the Waterbury twinkled in the spring sunshine as though
trying to measure up to its admirers' estimate.
"A silver watch," said the stranger after he had heard the story of
that autumn day with its promise of a watch which was just now
fulfilled--"wal, you air a lucky boy, shore."
Mrs. Langly called feebly from within, and Steve went and laid it on
the bed beside her. Her "stomick had never seemed to get on the
hooks," as she expressed it, all winter; her spinning-wheel and loom
had been long silent, and for a few days she had not left her bed.
Her eyes gleamed with strange, new fire as they fell upon the shining
thing which belonged to another world from theirs, and when Steve had
laboriously wound it, which he had not forgotten how to do, setting
the wonderful machinery running, she whispered to him:
"Remember you air goin' whar you kin larn to make things lack that."
Steve's shining eyes answered hers, though the boy failed to catch the
light of prophecy and final benediction which they held. Hugging his
treasure, with no hint of oncoming change he went out to feed the
stranger's horse while Mirandy prepared the dinner.
It was not until the visitor had gone and Steve was in the solitude of
the woods with Tige that he found fullest joy in his new possession.
It seemed to him he could never in all his life take his eyes from it
again. He watched the hands go round and round, the little flying
second hand, the more leisurely minute marker and the creeping hand
which told the hours as they passed. Then again and again the back
was opened and the busy little wheels held his breathless interest. He
took no notice of Tige, but the old dog knew that his mate was happy
and lay content beside him. Although for the first time in possession
of a noter of the hours, he lost all account of time and did not move
from the mossy bed where he had thrown himself until it was too late
to see either hands or wheels. Then he called Tige to come and hurried
back to his home to sit by the cabin firelight till Mirandy made him
go to bed. The family all slept in the same room, three beds occupying
corners; this main room and the lean-to kitchen constituting the whole
house.
Steve's watch never left his hand the long night through, and for the
first time in his uneventful life he slept fitfully, waking every
little while to make sure it was there.
Jim Langly was away for a few days "to a logrolling" several miles
away and did not return until dusk of the evening after Steve's watch
came. The boy sat again by the firelight, watch in hand, when Jim
walked in at the door. His eyes fell at once upon the strange, shining
thing and his face was convulsed with sudden wrath:
"Didn't I tell ye to have nothin' to do with city folks? Ye shan't
keep that thing. I'll smash it, so he'p me God!" But before he could
lift a hand a scream came from the bed, and Mrs. Langly sat up wild
and dishevelled.
"Let him hev it, Jim Langly, let him hev it," and then she dropped
back gray and still. Jim Langly had seen that gray stillness before,
and he stood looking upon it now in dumb terror. His wife had been
ailing a long time, it was true, yet no one had thought of death. But
the grim visitor was there in all his quiet majesty. The weary spirit,
which had for so many years longed for flight into new haunts of men,
had winged its way at last to a far, mysterious country of which she
had heard little, but towards which for months past she had been
reaching out with a strange prescience of which no one guessed.
It was a dreary night at the cabin. No one tried to sleep. Jim Langly
said no more to Steve about the watch, and the boy wore it in his
bosom attached to a stout string about his neck, keeping it out of
sight, and sobbing in the stillness of the woods as he wandered with
Tige, "Mammy wanted me to have it." And though his joy in it for the
time was gone, there was peculiar comfort in this thought of her
approval. The old dog looked up in the boy's face from time to time
pitifully, or stuck his nose in the lad's hand, knowing well, in a way
dogs have, what had happened.
Next day the wife and mother was laid to rest beside the row of little
graves, and life completely changed for Steve. He went to bed as usual
in his corner of the room, but he could not forget the still form
which had lain in another corner the night before, and while Mirandy
and his father slept heavily, he slipped from the bed, took a blanket
and with Tige at his heels went into the woods again. Here in the
stillness which he loved, worn out with loss of sleep and his first
encounter with grief, nestling close to old Tige slumber came and held
him until late the next day. His father and Mirandy paid little
attention to what he did, so night after night he took his blanket and
dog and slept in the woods, the two only going to the cabin for
meals.
During all these strange, restless days the words of Steve's mother
came to him over and over: "Remember you air goin' whar you kin larn
to make things lack that watch." And he thought, "How am I a-goin'
lessen I jes' go?" He knew his father would never give him permission,
it was not worth while to ask it, so gradually his plans took shape in
the solitude of the woods with no one to counsel. Had the boy known
what distance lay between him and his goal he would have grown
faint-hearted, but he had no conception of what his undertaking meant.
So he laid his plans with good courage, which plans, of course,
included the taking of his dog. For three or four days Steve took an
extra share of corn pone and bacon, Mirandy not noticing in her
shiftless manner of providing, and feeling the loss of her mother, she
was even more listless than usual. These extra rations for himself and
Tige Steve carried to the woods and laid away. Then his beloved fox
skin, the greatest treasure which he possessed beside the watch, he
must take that with him, because it was "the man's"; he had promised
it in return for the watch, and now that he was going he must take it
along to give to the man. The boy had no thought of any difficulty in
such a search. The food, the skin, the watch, and the scanty clothes
he wore constituted all his equipment for the journey. When he started
out with the skin Mirandy lazily asked what he was going to do with
it, and he replied: "Use it fer a piller in the woods."
"Ye better quit sleepin' out thar," she said; "somethin' 'll eat ye up
some night."
"I ain't a-feerd," he said, and she thought no more about it.
Three days passed with a good accumulation of food, and as Steve and
Tige lay down to sleep at night the boy said:
"Tige, we've gotter be a-goin' 'bout day arter ter-morrer," and the
dog wagged sleepy assent. But next morning when Steve wakened a
peculiar stillness smote him. Tige was usually alert at his least
move. With intuitive alarm Steve put out his hand,--and touched a
rigid body! Drawing back he sprang to his feet, a cry of anguished
appeal on his lips:
"O Tige, Tige, ye ain't dead too?"
But death makes no reply. His lifelong playmate lay straightened out
in that last unalterable, mysterious sleep.
The boy was too stunned for tears. He knelt beside his dog in silent
misery. After a long while he rose from the ground and going to a
moss-covered rock near by where laurel and forget-me-nots blossomed
and rhododendron bells hung in clusters, with a stout stick and his
sturdy hands he dug beneath the rock an opening large enough to hold
his dead dog. Then he went back to where his old playmate lay, and
lifting the stiffened body in his arms he stumbled blindly to the rock
and laid it away.
Towards evening he slowly made his lonely way home.
Mirandy, missing the dog at last, inquired: "Whar's Tige?" and Steve's
stiff lips articulated the one word, "Dead."
She replied indifferently, "Wal, he want no 'count any mo'. I reckons
hit's a good thing."
Steve had no answer and with swelling heart made his way to the woods
to sleep alone. It was long before he could sleep, and as he lay in
the unbearable loneliness, he decided that next morning he would start
on that journey to the unknown. Perhaps to that new world sorrow would
not follow! He would not need so much food now; he had enough saved
already. The death of the dog urged him on to his purpose as nothing
else could have done.
He went down to the cabin next morning for the last time. It was a
warm spring morning. Passing Mirandy sitting on the door-step, her
breakfast dishes not yet washed, he paused a minute, longing to say
something, for although the bond between them was of blood and not of
the heart, yet she was part of the life from which he was tearing
himself away, and he longed to sob out a good-bye. But he must not, so
choking down words and tears he stumbled off, never once looking back.
His father sat in the chimney corner smoking his morning pipe, but
father and son had always lacked interests in common, and the coming
of the watch had put an insurmountable barrier between them. So
Steve's only thought in passing him had been to escape suspicion. It
was to his mother that the boy had always shyly told his day-dreams in
the woods,--dreams which reached out into a wonder world lying beyond
the mountains. And she had smoked her pipe in silent sympathy,
occasionally asking: "Did ye see big houses, rows and rows of 'em on
land, and some a-ridin' the water? I've hearn tell of 'em in my day,"
so furnishing inspiration for more dreams in the future.
"O Mammy, O Tige," sobbed the boy when safe at last in the woods, and
he threw himself down in an agony of weeping beside the rock where the
old dog lay buried. When calm at last, he took up his bundle of bread
and bacon wrapped about with his fox skin, and started slowly away. He
took no thought as to direction, he was simply "goin'," as his mother
had told him. A dismal rain soon set in, but on and on he persistently
tramped all the long day, water dripping from his ragged trousers and
old hat as he went farther and farther away from all he had ever
known. He met no one, saw no habitation anywhere, only the startled
denizens of the wood scurrying here and there out of his path. Over
mountains and across ravines he went on and on. He was puzzled and
discouraged when night dropped down, and his aching feet and tired
legs said he must have travelled many miles. "Shorely I'll git thar
to-morrer," he said, as he lay down upon his fox skin, but another
weary day of tramping over unknown ways without sight of any human
being brought terror to his sturdy heart and when he lay down alone at
night he felt that he was the only human being in the universe. Oh, if
he only had Tige!
All the people he had known and those he expected to see beyond the
mountains seemed to have sunk into some great unseen abyss. He could
never find his way back to the old cabin, he knew, and he began to
feel that he could never reach forward to the wonderful city of which
he had dreamed. In the agony of loneliness and the chill of night
which settled upon him he cried again, "O Tige, O Mammy!" Did the
tender mother-arms reach down and draw her boy near to the heart of
God? At any rate he grew quiet. He remembered vaguely that he had
heard how God is everywhere, and with a new strange sense of
companionship with the great Creator, which comes to souls in
extremity, he fell asleep and did not waken until the sun, bursting
forth with new brilliance after the day of rain, had lit up the
mountain tops and set the birds to singing.
He enjoyed the breakfast of very hard corn pone and bacon, and took
out his beloved watch. The busy, little shining thing, which he never
forgot to wind, did not mean much to him as a marker of time, for he
knew little about the hours as enumerated by the watch, but it was on
this morning of new courage a fresh pledge of wonderful things
awaiting him. He started on again with steady strides, and tramped
bravely till mid afternoon without adventure.
Suddenly, without premonition, his heart thrilled at faint sounds
which seemed marvellously like those of a human voice. He stood still
a moment in an agony of uncertainty, straining eye and ear for
confirmation.
Yes, he was right! He caught the crackle of dry twigs and underbrush,
while the faint human tones grew clear and distinct. Under the
discipline of loneliness and distress the face of the untutored boy
beamed with eager welcome which held no reserve and caught no
suspicious glimmer of lurking treachery as near-by bushes parted and
steps were close upon him.
III
IN THE WILDERNESS
Two men were before him, men very similar in appearance to those Steve
had known, though with something in their faces which made him draw
back even in the moment of joy at meeting others of his kind.
"Sakes erlive, Bub, whar'd ye come from?" called the taller, harder
looking of the two.
"I come from Hollow Hut," answered the boy with his simple dignity.
"And whar you goin' to?" called the other man, while both laughed
unpleasantly.
"Ter the city," said the boy.
"Wal, now, that's a pretty nice fox skin ye got rolled up thar," said
the tall one as they came closer. "S'pose you jes' hand that over to
us."
"I can't," said the boy, holding it tighter in real alarm. "I swapped
it with a man fer a watch, an' I'm a-takin' it ter him."
"Is that so!" exclaimed the tall man. "So you've got a watch, hev ye?
Who'd a-thought it,"--and they both haw-hawed loudly. "Now, ye can
jes' han' that over too, fer we mean bizness, don't we, Bill?"
And with that they pounced upon the terrified boy, jerked the fox skin
from his clinging fingers and soon brought forth from its hiding-place
in his bosom the beautiful, beautiful watch! Steve fought like a small
tiger, but he was no match for them and stunned and bruised he soon
lay upon the ground while the two men walked off, never once looking
back at their helpless victim.
For a few minutes Steve could not think, so severe had been their
cruel blows; then indignation, such as he had never known in his life,
swept over him in a sudden flood. He sprang to his feet, ignoring pain
and keenly watching which way they went, stealthily followed after.
For two hours he kept within hearing of them, though being careful
always that they did not get a glimpse of him. He did not know what he
was going to do, but when they finally halted for the night he halted
too. The men had also taken the last of his corn pone and bacon; there
was nothing for him to eat, but he did not even think of it, so
intently was he listening. Soon they began to sing and laugh very
loudly and he knew then they had plenty of whiskey with them. Hope
rose in his heart. After a bit they would fall into heavy sleep. He
knew well the ways of drink.
Soon all was still, and after waiting a while till the sleep was deep
he crept upon them. Fortunately the moon was up in its full glory and
Steve could see plainly what he was about. He crept up close to the
two snoring men and across the feet of the tall one lay his fox skin.
"I must git that anyways," said the boy to himself, "for it belongs to
the man in the city."
Slowly, cautiously he lifted it from the big heavy feet, and there was
not a stir. Then he stood, his heart almost bursting with longing for
his watch. It was in the big man's pocket he was sure, and he stooped
close a minute, reaching out a hand,--but he didn't dare. If he waked
them, skin and watch would both be gone, and he must by all means get
the skin to give to the man in the city. He went sorrowfully away with
only the skin. He didn't dare stop near them, so he tramped half the
night in spite of frequent twinges in his left ankle which had had a
little twist as the men threw him down, and at last the boy dropped
upon the ground, utterly exhausted, to sleep until noon next day.
When he wakened, stiff and sore from the blows of the men, and tried
to get upon his feet he found that left ankle so swollen and painful
he could not put the foot to the ground. He realized for the first
time also with great consternation that he had nothing to eat.
Bruised, sore, empty, helpless he sat alone in the woods. But even
then he did not know the desolation of the night before. He felt once
more that comforting sense of companionship with the great Creator,
and he faced the situation sturdily.
He crept about on his knees hunting berries which he knew were good to
eat. It was a laborious way to get breakfast, or more properly dinner,
but he succeeded in finding enough to still somewhat the gnawing in
his empty stomach, and suddenly as he lifted his head a road lay
before him. With hope that was almost a tranquil certainty he crept to
the roadside and sat down. An hour or more passed with only the call
and song of birds to break the stillness,--when, list! There was
surely a rumble of wheels! And then the cry came distinctly, "Git up
thar!"
Tears of joy rained down the boy's face as a covered wagon drawn by
four mules came into view, though he sturdily brushed them aside as
the wagon drove up and halted.
"Hello, thar," called a lusty youthful voice, and the driver, a young
fellow of perhaps nineteen who was mounted on one of the mules, turned
round and saw at a glance the swollen, helpless foot.
"Done up, air ye, Bub? Whar do ye belong anyways?"
Steve knew at once that these people were friends, and told them his
little story.
"I want to git to the city, so's to give the skin to the man thar an'
then I'm goin' to larn to make watches an' things," he concluded.
"Wal, you air a long piece from the city, but we uns kin help ye git
to the railroad and that'll take ye to the city."
Several heads of varying sizes were sticking out of the wagon by this
time, and when Steve had been helped in among the occupants he found
it was a family moving from one little hamlet to another. The husband
and father had recently died and they were going back to their
mother's home to live among her "kin."
The kindly mother at once bound up Steve's injured foot with white of
egg and salt, which she said would "fetch it round all right," and
hearing the empty rumbles of his poor little stomach she said she
didn't believe "thar was a thing inside of it," and proceeded to give
him a good square meal.
Was there ever anything happier than to be driving along the road with
a comfortable foot, a full stomach and in the midst of friends! Steve
had never known greater joy than that moment held. They were a
"happy-go-lucky" family he had fallen in with,--and for the first time
in his life he was in the midst of the merry banter of children. The
mountain folk of remote regions lack a sense of humour, and Steve had
grown up entirely alone, the cabins of Hollow Hut being scattered, so
he sat through the afternoon in a maze of delight. There were snickers
and giggles, punching in the ribs and tickling of toes from these
children who lived on the border of civilization, for Steve had really
gone blindly towards his goal.
As they drove gaily along Steve heard a sudden rumbling which
suggested thunder, the children cried, "The train, the train," and
stopping the mules quickly the big brother who was driving jumped
down, while three of the children sprang out with a bound and all
grasped the bridles at their heads. It was done so quickly there
wasn't time to ask a question and then a monster came tearing,
puffing, hissing past them. Steve's eyes almost started from their
sockets and when it was past he sank back limp and quivering.
"Why, chile, didn't ye nuver see no railroad trains afore?" said the
good mother.
Steve managed to say, "No," and then the children told him all the
astonishing things about railroads. To his mingled joy and terror
another came along from the opposite direction when they had driven on
about a mile further, and this time it came more slowly, making a
full stop near them.
"Whut air they a-doin' that for?" asked Steve, and when it was
explained that they had stopped for fuel or water, there being no
station near, a quivering light broke over his face, and remembering
his watch as his mind tried to grasp new sources of motion, he said:
"They're jes' a-stoppin' to wind hit up, then."
Very soon after this they came to a cabin by the roadside and all the
family within poured out to see the strangers.
"Won't you light and hitch?" drawled the man of the house, but the boy
driver refused, saying they wanted "to git to their kin afore night."
He suggested to Steve, however, that if he wanted to go to the city he
had better stop there, for they were going further from any station
than he would be there. The folks of the cabin were hearty in their
invitation to the boy when they had heard his story, even the fact of
his probable helplessness for a while not marring the beauty of their
royal hospitality. So Steve was carefully lifted out and helped in
among new friends.
The little cabin was full to overflowing with boys and girls, one girl
of fifteen fondling her baby as she would a big doll, in ignorant,
unlawful, and one perhaps should say innocent motherhood. She, a waif
herself, had come along needing shelter and they had taken her in.
When Steve had had his supper pallets were spread everywhere about the
cabin floor upon which the family went to rest fully clothed, after
the fashion of mountaineers, and to the boy the night was a great
contrast from the previous one in the loneliness of the woods. He
thought of his own home as he had never done since he left it,
wondering if his father and Mirandy would like to see him, but he
never dreamed of how they had searched the woods for miles around when
he was missed the second day after leaving. His failure to return the
first day and night they thought little of, for he frequently did not
come back after morning, but the second day's absence had brought real
alarm, and when they found his blanket Mirandy said she knew something
had killed and eat him up; she had forgotten about the fox skin which
in that case should also have been there. But Jim Langly set his teeth
grimly and said the boy had gone off "along o' that watch," and he did
not cease to make inquiry as he had opportunity, trying to trace his
son, while he angrily threatened to kill that city man if ever he
"showed up agin in them parts."
IV
A HALT ON THE ROAD
Steve spent a week in the crowded but hospitable cabin of his latest
friends resting the swollen foot. It was not seriously sprained and
would have given him no trouble but for the long tramp upon it the
night before and his general fatigue.
He had an interesting time with this family on the roadside. They were
of the most shiftless type of mountain folk. Life was a long holiday
to them, every meal a picnic. There were too many to gather about the
table in the little log lean-to, so the elders only sat down at meal
times. The children came up shuffling, pushing and squirming good
naturedly to get their portions and ran away again full-handed to sit
on the door-step or flat upon the ground outside while they ate.
Sometimes one ambitious consumer would succeed in disposing of his
viands more rapidly than the others and then woe to some small
delinquent! His food would be snatched away and a lively fisticuff
probably follow during which the inevitable "yaller dog" was usually
the gainer. The disturbance at times reached a height which brought
the mother lazily to the door with a mild:
"Now ef ye alls don't quit fussin', I'll set the boogers arter ye
ter-night," which was a dire and telling threat, for, to the mountain
children, "boogers" meant ghosts, witches, hobgoblins, thieves, or any
other terrible, mysterious creature of the night.
Steve went up to the table with the rest for his portion of food, and
took his chances with the other children if a squabble began.
Association with the children was most enjoyable to Steve. They told
marvellous tales about giants and mountain feuds and the mother's
threat of "boogers" was sure to stir up all their recollections about
ghosts. Wherever there was a "killin'" as the result of a mountain
feud ghosts were sure to congregate and marvellous were the tales
which clustered about each bloody spot. Steve being a new listener
must hear all these old tragic stories.
When meals were over, the family disposed themselves to their liking.
The head of the house invariably lit his pipe and sat in the chimney
corner to smoke, a custom quite familiar to Steve. The mother washed
the skillet and few utensils used about the meal, smoking her pipe the
while. The young girl sat down outside in the sun to play with her
baby, the big boys perhaps went off hunting and the children wandered
aimlessly in and out.
The fields of corn and tobacco had been planted and now there was
little to do but watch it grow, so they thought. The hogs practically
took care of themselves. What more could any one demand, a blank look
would unconsciously have inquired, if asked why they did not work.
When the day was over and the troop of children began to grow sleepy,
one after another dropped down upon the cabin floor, perhaps upon a
pallet, perhaps not, and fell asleep. The older ones followed in the
same way, as inclination suggested, and room was cheerfully made for
Steve among the rest. For a night or two the full chorus of audible
breathing wakened him frequently, but he soon became accustomed to
it.
In the morning the voice of some child was apt to be heard first:
"Mammy, I'm hongry."
And the reply would come, "Now you shet up, 'tain't time ter be
gittin' up yit," or perhaps the satisfied parent would yawn and say:
"Wal, I reckons I might as well git up and stop ye mouth," and so the
household would gradually emerge from slumber.
This was the normal daily life, but comedy and tragedy came to them
as to the rest of the world, and Steve had a taste of both during his
stay of a week.
Unlike Hollow Hut it was a somewhat thickly settled community and one
moonlight night some young folks from neighbouring cabins came in.
Steve's friends made the visitors welcome and hailed with delight the
banjo which one of them had brought. The young folks were out for a
frolic and laugh and joke were ready.
Pretty soon the banjo began to tune up and set everybody's feet to
patting.
"Clear out things," called one of the boys, and in no time the few
articles the room held were out of the way. Then the air vibrated with
"Hook and Line," "Sourwood Mountain," and other lively tunes, while
everybody danced except Steve, who crept to the farthest corner and in
wonder looked and listened. He had never seen dancing or heard music
before.
The girl with the baby came and dropped it down upon his lap while she
joined in the fun, and it almost seemed that the cabin itself would
break from its moorings in the abandon of rollicking, swaying motion.
When everybody was tired out the banjo player, a young fellow with
deep-set black eyes and the unmistakable look of an artist in embryo,
swung into a monologue accompanied by the banjo, part talk, part
song, describing a fox hunt which was most fascinating and altogether
remarkable.
He called the hounds with "Here Tige," "Here Jack," "Here Spot," "Here
Bob-tail," interspersed with the tooting of a horn, long musical
whistles and the banjo striking soft staccato chords. He mustered the
men, he raced the horses with excited calls of "Git up thar," and gave
clever imitation of fleeing hoofs, "to-bucket, to-bucket, to-bucket,"
in a rapid, low, chanting song. Then the leading hound opened with a
plaintive bay "how!-oo-oo-oo, how!-oo-oo-oo," and one by one the
others joined in with varying notes till it swelled to a weird chorus
of baying hounds which the banjo and the musician's voice made most
realistic. Next the fox was spied and there were cries of "Hello! Ho!
Here he is!" "There he runs," with the banjo thumping like mad! Then
the medley shaded down into a wild, monotonous drumming from the
strings and the voice, which represented most thrillingly the chase at
full height. At last the fox was caught with dogs barking, men
calling, and banjo shrilling a triumphant strain in stirring climax.
Steve followed it all in breathless excitement, and the rest of the
audience received it with boisterous enthusiasm.
After this somebody started the lovely old ballad, "Barbary Allen," in
which all joined; then, "I have a True Love in the Army," and "The
Swapping Song" followed, while "Whistle up your Dogs, Boys, and
Shoulder your Guns," made lively the leave-taking and echoed back from
far down the road.
Then there was a night of tragedy during Steve's visit. The sleepers
of the cabin were suddenly aroused by blood-curdling whoops and yells,
gunshots, racing horses and running men. Everybody was instantly alert
and the family turned out of the cabin en masse. It was thrilling. All
knew well what it meant. The head of the house and older boys joined
the fleeing crowd like dogs in a chase.
"That's Bud Levit's folks and the Cuneys done broke out agin 'bout
that ole fuss, I bet," drawled the wife and mother, when the tumult
had died down to faint echoes.
"I reckon thar'll be a big killin' this time," said one of the
children with zest.
"Thar shore was a passle er folks and a pile er shootin'," said
another enthusiastically.
"Now, you-alls git back to bed an' shet up," said the mother, and her
brood gradually quieted down.
Next day when the man of the house and older boys returned about dark,
full of whiskey and full of talk, a most exciting tale was unfolded
to the eager listeners.
"Hit was the biggest killin' whut's been in these parts fur many er
day," said the man with pride. "I'll tell ye when they did git
together they fit lack beastes. When ev'ythin' was over thar was five
on 'em a-layin' in their blood. Three of the Levits an' two of the
Cuneys."
"Wal, I hope they'll keep quiet fer a spell now," commented the
woman.
Then all the ghastly details were gone over with the children
listening eagerly, drinking it in as they would a story of an exciting
hunt. When the children discussed it afterwards one little fellow said
to another: "I tell yer what, I'm er goin' ter be a fighter jes' lack
them Levits. I'll shoot 'em down ef anybody comes foolin' round me."
Steve listened soberly. The experience was not a new one to him, but
he remembered that his "Mammy" had always said she didn't like
killings and that mountain folks ought to "larn better some way." The
words came back to the boy with peculiar meaning since the voice which
uttered them was still. He said nothing, but it all made him more
anxious to move on towards that other world of which he and "Mammy"
had dreamed.
The following morning his foot seeming fully restored and clearing
weather having come after several days of rain, Steve said "he thought
he'd move on."
"Whar ye goin'?" said the man of the house who had paid little
attention to him before.