When he was come within view of Joines' mill and store on Roaring
River, Zeke halted again for a final look back toward the wild home
land, which he was now leaving for the first time. The blackness of
his mood after parting with the girl had passed, though melancholy
still made him its own. The resilience of youth was turning his
spirits again toward the hopes that had inspired this going forth from
his own familiar little wilderness into the vast and unknown
wilderness of the world beyond. As he stared out at the scattered
peaks, reared like conning towers over the sprawling medley of ridge
and valley, a throb of fondness shook his heart. It was not sprung
from esthetic appreciation of the wild and romantic landscape, though
this had been sufficient to justify the stir of feeling. His
sensibility was aroused by the dear friendliness of all the scene,
where hollows and heights had been his constant haunts through all the
days of childhood and adolescence until this hour. Of a sudden, he
realized as never before a profound tenderness for this country of
beetling crags and crystal rivers, of serene spaces and balsamic
airs. Hitherto, he had esteemed the neighborhood in some dull,
matter-of-course fashion, such as folk ordinarily give to their native
territory. But, in this instant of illumination, on the eve of
separating himself from the place, love of it surged within him. This
was his home, the dwelling of his dear ones. He felt toward it a quick
reverence as for something strangely sacred. His eyes went to the
great bulk of Stone Mountain, which jutted just before him to the
east, its league of naked rock lying like some monstrous guardian of
the place. Somehow, the dignity of the massive curving cliffs soothed
him, heartened him anew. The immutability of the huge mound of stone
was a prophecy. Through the ages, it had maintained its ward
steadfastly. So it would remain. A gush of confidence washed away the
last of the watcher's depression. He could go on his way undismayed.
These things here that were so dear to him would abide his return. The
old mother and Plutina would rest secure against his homecoming. The
time, after all, would not be long. Meantime, there was the great
adventure. Zeke whirled, and trudged blithely onward.
Opportunity had come to Zeke Higgins, and he had not hesitated to
seize it. His desire for a larger life than that of the tiny, scrabbly
mountain farm had been early excited; it had persisted; it had
increased steadily, though the possibility of its realization had
seemed remote. Stark poverty demanded that he remain to coax a scant
living from the soil for his mother. Yet, his determination was fixed.
He got some smattering of education, along with Plutina, from a kindly
Quaker who came among the "Boomers" of the Blue Ridge as a missionary
school-teacher. Thus, Zeke learned surprisingly much. His thirsty
brain took up knowledge as a sponge takes up water. So great was his
gratitude to this instructor that, when the stranger was revealed as a
revenue officer questing illicit stills, Zeke, despite inherited
prejudice, guided the hunted man by secret trails over the mountains
into Virginia, and thereby undoubtedly saved a life. Indeed, the
disappearance of the officer was so well contrived that the
mountaineers themselves for a time did not suspect the fact of the
escape. There is a great basin in the rock on the north side of Stone
Mountain. It has been hollowed out through centuries by the little
stream that comes leaping madly down the ledges. The cauldron has a
sinister repute. It is deemed the sepulchre of more than one spy, cast
down into the abyss from the mountain's brim. It was generally
believed that the false school-teacher was of the number.
Somehow, long afterward, report had it that the man was alive. Rumor
implicated Zeke as having had a share in the fellow's escape. Old
Dick Siddon, Plutina's grandfather, heard. He had hated the
"revenuers" always. Since the death of his only son at their hands,
his hatred had become a mania. He was a strong man, fierce in anger.
When he bade his grandchild dismiss her favored suitor, she feigned
obedience. She, and Zeke as well, knew the futility of fighting the
old man's prejudices. But, with the optimism of youth, the lovers
hoped for happiness. A little older, they might at least defy the
hostile guardian. In the meantime, Zeke was determined to attain
material prosperity during the period of waiting.
Then, Richard Sutton came into the mountains of the Blue Ridge. He
chanced on Zeke, made use of the lad as a guide. Soon mutual liking
and respect developed. Sutton was a manufacturer of tree-nails--the
wooden pins used in ships' timbers. Here in the ranges was an
abundance of locust timber, the best for his need. And there was much
talk of a branch railway to come. His alert business imagination saw
that a factory located at the source of supply would be advantageous.
He saw, too, the capacity for development in his young friend. Zeke's
familiarity with the region might be valuable--more valuable still his
popularity and the respect accorded him in the community. Sutton
suggested to the young man that he should come to New York presently,
there to learn the details of manufacture, with the prospect of
return, later on, to manage the business in the mountains. Naturally,
the project was splendid to Zeke's ambition. His only fear had been
lest his departure be delayed by lack of money, for pride would not
let him confess his extremity to Sutton. There must be some cash in
hand for his mother's support, until he should be able to send her
more. Then, as he fretted, opportunity favored him anew, for a
surveying party came to run a railroad branch north to Stone Mountain.
He was employed as ax-man and assistant cook. His wages solved the
difficulty, so far as his mother's need was concerned. For the rest,
he took only a small sum to his own use, since he was minded to work
his way north on shipboard from Norfolk. It was in accord with such
high hopes that this May morning found him tramping, barefooted, into
Joines' store, with the black oilcloth valise slung from his
shoulder.
The halt here was a necessary feature in Zeke's itinerary. On a
previous visit to the store, he had purchased a pair of serviceable,
if rather ungainly, shoes. Since he would have no occasion for their
use at home, he had saved himself the trouble of carrying them to and
fro.
"I reckon I'll take them-thar shoes o' mine," he said to the grizzled
proprietor, after an exchange of friendly greetings with the few
loungers present. These were well aware of his planned departure,
though ignorant of his definite aims.
"Ye hain't a-goin' to put 'em on yit, be ye?" the storekeeper
inquired, solicitously.
"Not till I git to North Wilkesboro'," Zeke answered, to the obvious
relief of the assembly, as he opened the bag. While he was busy
stowing the shoes, the onlookers commented cynically on the follies of
fashion.
"An' I've hearn tell," one concluded, "that durn-nigh everybody done
war shoes in the city, all year roun'."
Perhaps the young man felt a pleasant glow of superiority in
reflecting on the fact that such following of city fashion would soon
distinguish him. But his innocent vanity was not to be unduly
flattered.
"Ca'late to stay away till ye've made yer fortin, in course, sonny?"
one of the older men suggested. He enjoyed some local reputation as a
wag, the maintenance of which so absorbed his energies that his wife,
who had lost whatever sense of humor she might once have had, toiled
both indoors and out.
"Why, yes, o' course," Zeke replied unsuspectingly.
"Better kiss we-uns good-by, sonny," was the retort. "You-all 'll be
gone quite some time."
The sally was welcomed with titters and guffaws. Zeke was red to the
ears with mortification and anger, as he shut the valise, shouldered
it, and strode to the door. But even in the time of that passing, he
mastered his mood in a measure. He had no wish to make his farewell to
these neighbors in bitterness of spirit. So, at the door, he turned
and grinned amiably on the group.
"I want pleasant things to remember hyarabouts, all thet-thar long
time I got to be away," he said, with a quizzical drawl; "so I kain't
be a-kissin' o' ye none. My stomick hain't none so strong nohow," he
added, with the coarseness that usually flavored the humor of the
countryside.
Then, abruptly, the smile left his lips; the lines of his face
hardened; the hazel eyes brightened and widened a little. His low,
slow voice came firmly, with a note of tense earnestness. It was as if
he spoke to himself, rather than to the slouching men, who regarded
him curiously.
"I hain't leavin' all this-hyar 'cause I don't love hit," he declared.
"I do love hit, an' I aim to come back by-an-bye--I shore do!"
Forthwith, embarrassed anew by this unmeditated outburst, he hurried
off, amid an astonished silence which was broken at last by the
storekeeper.
"Thet-thar Zeke Higgins," he ventured, somewhat indistinctly through
his matting of whiskers, "I swow if he hain't got right feelin's, fer
all he's so durn peart." And his cronies nodded assent.
As he pressed onward, the adventurer quickly regained his poise. The
novelty of the situation thrilled him agreeably. His thoughts were
crowded with imaginings of the strange things to come. Ambitious
vision of himself successful among the city's throngs made his pulses
beat faster. He felt that he had within him the power to achieve
something worth while in the world. Certainly, he would not fail for
lack of striving. But no triumph elsewhere could ever wean him from
his love for the Blue Ridge--for his home country. Yes, it was as he
had said there in the store: He would come back. He would come back to
the cabin in the "cove" under the shadows of Stone Mountain--back to
the old mother, back to Plutina. A warmth of exquisite tenderness
vibrated through him, as his hope leaped to that homecoming, to the
time when once again the girl should rest clinging on his bosom. And a
great peace lay under all his joy of anticipation. His love knew no
doubt. She had given her heart to him. Through his every wandering,
whatever might betide, her love would be with him, to comfort him in
sorrow, to crown him in happiness. A bird's song recalled the lilt of
her laughter. He saw again the tremulous curving of her mouth, red
against the fine warm pallor of her face at parting. Passion welled in
him. He halted yet once again, and stood with face suffused, gazing
back. It was as if he were swayed by a sudden secret sense that
warned him of her misery in this hour of his exaltation--her misery
where she lay prone under the tangle of laurel by Garden Creek,
sobbing out that anguish which is the penalty woman must pay for
love.
Zeke's eyes fastened anew on the rounded bulk of Stone Mountain's
cliffs. The immutability of them, and the majesty, relieved the
tenseness of his mood. He resumed his way serenely.... But Plutina
wept on, unassuaged.
When he drew near to North Wilkesboro', where he proposed to make a
first essay in railway journeying, Zeke seated himself under the shade
of a grove of persimmon-trees by the wayside, there painfully to
encumber his feet with the new shoes. As he laced these, he indulged
in soliloquy, after a fashion bred of his lonely life, on a subject
born of his immediate surroundings.
"I hain't noways superstitious," he mused complacently, "but this
grove ain't no nice place, bein' as it must be a nigger cemetery.
Uncle Dick Siddon says they's always niggers buried whar they's
persimmon-trees, an' he says the niggers come first. An' Uncle Dick,
he ought to know, bein' he's eighty-odd-year old. Anyhow, it seems
reasonable, 'cause niggers do swaller the stuns when they eats
persimmons, an' so, o' course, jest nacher'ly the trees 'll spring up
where the niggers git planted. So they'd be ha'nts like's not. But I
hain't superstitious--not a mite. Mr. Sutton, he said such things as
ha'nts an' witch-doctors an' such was all plumb foolishness. Still, my
mammy has seen--"
He fell silent, recalling old wives' tales of fearsome things seen and
heard of nights. The shoes adjusted, he took from the black bag a
holster, which sheltered a formidable-appearing Colt's revolver.
Having made sure that the weapon was loaded and in perfect order, Zeke
returned it to the holster, which he put on snugly under the left
arm-pit. These final preparations complete, he got up, and hastened
into the town.
One bit more of his musings he spoke aloud, just before he entered the
main street:
"No, I hain't superstitious. But, by crickey! I'm plumb tickled I giv
Plutiny thet fairy cross. They say them stones is shore lucky."
At the railway station, Zeke asked for a ticket to Norfolk.
"Want a return-trip ticket?" the friendly station-agent suggested. He
supposed the young mountaineer was taking a pleasure excursion to the
city.
But Zeke shook his head defiantly, and spoke with utter forgetfulness
of his experience in Joines' store.
"No," he declared stoutly, "I hain't a-comin' back till I've made my
fortin."
"You'll be a long time gone from this-here State o' Wilkes," the agent
vouchsafed dryly. He would have said more, but his shrewd eyes saw in
this young man's expression something that bade him pause, less
sceptical. The handsome and wholesome face showed a strength of its
own in the resolute curving nose and the firmly-set lips and the
grave, yet kindly, eyes, with a light of purposeful intelligence
glowing within their clear deeps. The tall form, broad of shoulder,
deep of chest, narrow of hip, though not yet come to the fulness of
maturity, was of the evident strength fitted to toil hugely at the
beck of its owner's will. The agent, conscious of a puny frame that
had served him ill in life's struggle, experienced a half-resentment
against this youth's physical excellence. He wondered, if, after all,
the boast might be justified by the event.
"Train in ten minutes," he said curtly, as he pushed out the ticket.
So, presently, Zeke, found himself seated for the first time on the
red plush seat of a railway carriage. The initial stage of his journey
was ended; the second was begun.