Uncle Dick, as he was universally known in the mountains, had
celebrated his eightieth birthday before his granddaughters, Plutina
and Alvira, by leaping high in the air, and knocking his heels
together three times before returning to the ground. There was, in
fact, no evidence of decrepitude anywhere about him. The thatch of
coal-black hair was only moderately streaked with gray, and it
streamed in profuse ringlets to his shoulders. His black eyes were
still keen; the leathery face, with its imperious features, was ruddy.
He carried his six-foot-three of bone and muscle lightly.
As of the body, so of the heart. The springs of feeling in him showed
no signs of drying up. On the contrary, they threatened to gush forth
in a new flood over the Widow Brown, on whose plump prettiness, hardly
dimmed by her three-score years, he looked with appreciative and
ardent eyes. Indeed, his conduct justified the womenfolk of his
household in apprehensions, for witness to the seriousness of the
affair was afforded the morning after the raid on Dan Hodges' still.
He demanded of Alvira that she burn the grease from an old skillet
with great care.
"If they's a mite of hit, hit makes a scum, an' floats off the gold on
hit," he explained.
The sisters regarded each other in consternation, but forebore
questioning. When he had mounted his mare, and ridden away, Plutina
spoke with bitterness:
"I reckon Mis' Higgins done hit the nail on the haid 'bout Gran'pap
an' the Widder Brown."
Alvira nodded.
"Yep. Hit means business, shore, if he's a-gallavantin' over to
Pleasant Valley to pan gold. Hit means he's aimin' to marry her." She
waxed scornful, with the intolerance of her sixteen years. "Hit's
plumb ridic'lous--at his age."
"Seems like he was 'most ole enough to git sense," Plutina agreed.
"Mebby we're mistook 'bout his intentions," Alvira suggested,
hopefully. "O' course, he git's a heap of enjoyment settin' to Widder
Brown. But he hain't got to be plumb foolish, an' marry her. I guess
as how hit's fer you-all he's arter the gold kase Zeke'll be comin'
home by-'n'-bye."
Plutina shook her head dubiously. It was the custom of the lover
himself to seek, in the gold-bearing sands of the tiny mountain stream
to the west, for the grains from which to fashion a ring for his
sweetheart. Many a wife of the neighborhood wore such proudly on
forefinger or thumb. The old man was not fond enough of toil to
undertake the slow washing out of gold there unless for a selfish
sentimental reason. And her fears were confirmed that afternoon by
Zeke's mother whom she visited.
"They hain't nary chance to save him no more," the old woman averred,
lugubriously. "Hit's allus been said hyarbouts as how a feller allus
gits his gal shore, if he pans her a ring in Pleasant Valley."
"Huh--girl!" quoth Plutina.
Yet this amorous affair was of small moment just now to the
granddaughter, though she voluntarily occupied her thoughts with it.
She hoped thus to keep in the background of her mind the many fears
that threatened peace, by reason of her part in the night's work. She
knew that she could trust the secrecy of Marshal Stone, but there was
the possibility of discovery in some manner unforeseen. There was even
the chance that suspicion against her had been aroused in Ben York.
She could not bear to contemplate what must follow should her betrayal
of the still become known. It was a relief to be certain that the two
men she chiefly dreaded would be in jail, and unable personally to
wreak vengeance. It was improbable, she thought, that persons so
notorious and so detested could secure bail. But, even with them out
of the way, the case would be disastrous on account of her
grandfather's hatred of the revenue officers, and more especially, of
those among his own people guilty of the baseness of informing. Should
her deed come to his knowledge, it would mean tragedy. She dreaded the
hour when he should hear of the raid, and was glad that he had gone
away, for in all likelihood he would have the news before his return
and the first shock of it would have passed.... So it fell out.
Uncle Dick rode briskly toward the little stream that tumbles down the
mountain west of Air Bellows Gap, where long ago men washed for gold
in feverish desire of wealth. Now, none sought a fortune in the branch
grit, where a day's labor at best could yield no more than a dollar or
two in gold. Only devoted swains, like himself, hied them there to win
wherewithal for a bauble with which to speed their wooing. Uncle Dick
chose a favorable spot, and washed steadily until the blackened old
copper skillet itself shone like the flecks of gold he sought. When he
ceased he had a generous pinch of the precious dust carefully disposed
in a vial. He hid the skillet to serve another day, and set out on his
return. Before he crossed Garden Greek, a neighbor, whom he met on the
trail, told him of the raid. Eager for all particulars, Uncle Dick
turned his mount into the high road, and hurried to Joines' store.
The single-footing mare carried him quickly to this place of assembly
for neighborhood gossip, where he found more than the usual number
gathered, drawn by excitement over the raid. The company was in a
mixed mood, in which traditional enmity against the "revenuers" warred
against personal rejoicing over the fate fallen on Dan Hodges, whom
they hated and feared. From the garrulous circle of his acquaintance,
Uncle Dick speedily learned the history of the night. The account was
interrupted by the coming of a clerk to the store door. He waved his
hand toward the group on the steps to command attention.
"You, Uncle Dick!" he called. "No'th Wilkesboro' wants ye on the
telephone."
Wondering mightily at the unexpected summons, the old man hurried to
the instrument.
"Hello! Hello!" he roared, in a voice to be heard across the miles.
"Be that you-all, Uncle Dick?" the question came thinly.
"Yep. Who be you?"
"Hit's Dan Hodges. I reckon you-all done hearn 'bout last night."
"Yep. I shore have hearn a heap," Uncle Dick acquiesced, sourly. "I
tole ye to quit, the officers air gittin' so a'mightly peart. They
hain't no more chance fer a good set o' men to make a run--to say
nothin' of a wuthless gang like your'n.... What ye want o' me?"
The reply was explicit enough.
"The hearin' 's to-morrer 'fore the United States Commissioner.
Marshal Stone says the bail'll be two thousand dollars, cash or land.
They hain't nobody kin put hit up, 'cept you-all, Uncle Dick. An', if
ye don't, Ben an' me'll have to lay in jail till Fall. If ye'll he'p
me, Uncle Dick, ye know Dan Hodges won't never fail ye."
"That's what I'm afeared on," Uncle Dick retorted, glumly. "I 'most
know 'twas you-all an' yer gang kilt thet-thar heifer o' mine in cold
blood. Now, the ole man ye've treated dirt is yer las' chance. Wall,
cuss ye! I'll come down t'-morrer an' bail ye out--not kase I love ye
any, but kase I'm again the revenuers. An' listen 'ere! I'm some old,
but I'm some spry yit, ye bet! You-all stop round these parts whar I
kin keep an eye on ye till Fall Cote. If ye don't, damn ye!--wall, my
ole rifle's bright an' 'iled, an' I'll git ye! Jest remember thet, Dan
Hodges: I'll git ye!" And with this grim warning, Uncle Dick slammed
the receiver on its hook, and stalked out of the store.
On the following day, he journeyed duly to North Wilkesboro', where,
despite the protest of his lawyer, he put up his land as security for
the appearance of the two malefactors. Uncle Dick was a consistent
conservative. Had the accident of birth made him an English squire, he
would have been a stanch Tory, would have held the King's commission
on the bench of justices, and would have administered the penalties of
the law with exceeding severity against poachers. Having been born in
the Blue Ridge Mountains, he staked his property in behalf of two
scoundrels, for the sake of an inherited feud against the Federal
authority.
Nevertheless, his personal distrust of the men he had thus relieved
was made manifest when, immediately after the commitment of the two
before the Commissioner, he betook himself to a hardware store, where
he bought a forty-one caliber Colt's revolver, with a holster and a
box of cartridges. He had given up the habitual carrying of weapons on
his seventy-fifth birthday, as unseemly and unnecessary for one of his
patriarchal years. Now, he reverted to the use as a measure of
prudence.
"The damned dawg's done me dirt, an' he hain't above doin' hit ag'in,"
he muttered, as he strapped the holster beneath his left arm.
To his womankind, Uncle Dick spoke of the affair casually, concealing
his apprehensions. Neither of the granddaughters ventured
remonstrance, though Alvira's pretty face was mutinous, and Plutina
felt a sickening sense of calamity rushing upon her. It seemed to her
the irony of fate that her own relation should thus interfere to
render abortive the effect she had risked so much to secure. She
realized, with a shrinking misery, that the sufferers from her act
were now at liberty to inflict vengeance upon her, should suspicion be
born in them. For the first time in her life, Plutina experienced a
feminine cowardice, bewailing her helplessness. There was none to whom
she might turn for counsel; none, even, in whom she might confide. It
was no mere chimera of fear that beset her. She was far too sensible
and too strong for hysterical imaginings. But she knew that her peril
was real and grave. In the face of it, she felt suddenly a new longing
for the absent lover. Hitherto, her fondness had been tender and
passionate, touched with the maternal protectiveness that is
instinctive in every woman. Now, a new desire of him leaped in her.
She yearned for rest on his bosom, secure within the shelter of his
arms, there to pour forth all the story of her trouble, there to hear
his voice of consolation, there to be at peace. She touched the fairy
crystal that lay between her breasts, and she smiled, very sadly, and
very wistfully.
"Zeke will shorely come," she whispered, "if I need him--bad enough."
There was a tremor in her voice, but it was not of doubt.