Marshal Stone and Brant were to return together to North Wilkesboro'
where the latter would take the train for home. Uncle Dick had offered
them horses for the ride. The two men, somewhat in advance of the
remainder of the party after the descent of Stone Mountain, had come
near the Higgins' cabin, when the marshal spoke with a display of
embarrassment:
"I've got to go a little out of our way. It's a chore I oughtn't ever
to have put off for a minute, but I plumb forgot it."
"What is it?" Brant asked indifferently.
But his interest was aroused as the marshal hesitated before
answering, and exhibited an increasing confusion.
"I'm right ashamed to tell of it," Stone said, finally. "There's no
excuse for such carelessness. Plutina got into all this mess because
she was afraid something dreadful might happen, and it might have--on
account of my forgetfulness."
"What's it all about?" Brant demanded, now distinctly curious.
"It's bear-traps!" was the morose answer.
"Bear-traps?"
The marshal nodded.
"Those infernal traps Hodges set along Thunder Branch--that made
Plutina turn informer.... Well, I just naturally forgot all about
'em."
Brant uttered an ejaculation of dismay.
"You mean, they're still there, and set?"
Stone nodded.
"Just that. I took Hodges and York down another way. I've never
thought of the traps since, till to-day."
"Risky, of course," Brant admitted. "But nobody got caught, or they'd
have been missed," he added comfortingly. "Nobody in the
neighborhood's disappeared, has there?"
"Not that I've heard of," Stone replied. "But it's luck, not my
deserts, if no harm's been done."
"I'll go along with you," Brant offered. "We'll have that trouble off
your mind in a jiffy."
So, the two men turned, and took the trail past the Higgins' clearing
and on until they came to Thunder Branch, where Plutina had made her
discovery. They followed the course of the stream upward, the marshal
in the lead. As he came to the bend, where the rocky cliffs began,
Stone turned and called over his shoulder:
"They're just beyond." Then, he went forward, with quick, nervous
strides, and disappeared beyond the bend. A moment later, a great cry
brought Brant running.
It was, in truth, a ghastly scene that showed there, lighted
brilliantly by the noontide sun. In the midst of the little space of
dry ground bordering the stream, where the lush grass grew thick and
high, the body of a man was lying. It was contorted grotesquely,
sprawling at length on its face, in absolute stillness--the stillness
of death. Brant, himself horrified, looked pityingly at the white,
stricken face of the marshal, and turned away, helplessly. He could
find no words to lessen the hideousness of this discovery for the man
through whose fault the tragedy had come.
Then, presently, as Stone seemed paralyzed by the disaster, Brant went
closer to examine the gruesome thing.
The victim had been caught by both traps. Evidently, he had stepped
fairly into the first. Then, as the great jaws snapped shut on his
leg, he had lurched forward and fallen. His arms were outspread wide.
But his head was within the second trap. The jaws of it had clamped on
the neck. The steel fangs were sunk deep into the flesh. Blood from
the wounds was caked black on the skin.
"He didn't suffer any to speak of," Brant remarked, at last. He
observed, with some surprise, that his voice was very thin. He was
not a squeamish man, and he had seen many evil sights. But this--
With repugnance, he set himself to the task of releasing the trap that
held the dead man's head. He had the delicacy not to call on his
distressed companion for aid. The task was very difficult, and very
gruesome, for it required harsh handling of the head, which was in the
way. Finally, however, the thing was accomplished. The savage jaws
were freed from the flesh they had mangled, and were locked open.
Then, Brant turned the body over, and gazed curiously, with strong
repulsion, into the ugly, distorted dead face.
"Providence picked out somebody who could be spared," he mused
grimly.
There came another cry from Stone. In it were wonder, incredulity,
relief.
Brant regarded the marshal in amazement. The man was transformed. The
motionless figure of desolation was become one of wild, quivering
excitement. The face was suffused with blood, the eyes shining
fiercely.
"What the devil!" Brant demanded, aghast.
Stone looked toward his questioner gravely, and nodded with great
emphasis. His voice was low, tense with emotion.
"It is the devil!" he answered solemnly. He paused, clearing his
throat, and stared again at the dead man. Then, his eyes went back to
Brant, as he added:
"It's Hodges."
There was a little silence. Brant could not understand, could not
believe this startling assertion flung in his face.
"But Hodges was thrown over the precipice," he said, at last.
The marshal shook his head. There was defiance now in his
aspect--defiance, and a mighty joy.
"It doesn't make any difference about that," he announced. "This is
Hodges!"
Then, his exultation burst in words:
"Hodges caught in his own traps! His neck broken, as it should have
been broken by the rope for the murders he's done! It was my
carelessness did it, yes. But I don't care now, so long as it's Hodges
who's got caught. Hodges set those traps, and--there he is!... I read
about something like that once in a story. They called it 'poetic
justice.'"
"He don't look like a poem," Brant remarked. He turned from the gory
corpse with a shudder of disgust.
"Thank God, it was Hodges!" the marshal said, reverently. "Anybody
else would have haunted me for life. But Hodges! Why, I'm glad!"
* * * * *
The affair was easily explicable in the light of what Plutina had to
tell. Hodges, undoubtedly, had knowledge of some secret, hazardous
path down the face of the precipice past the Devil's Cauldron, and on
to the valley. He had meant to flee by it with Plutina, thus to escape
the hound. By it, he had fled alone. Perhaps, he had had a
hiding-place for money somewhere about the raided still. Or, perhaps,
he had merely chosen this route along Thunder Branch on his way to an
asylum beyond Bull Head Mountain. What was certain was that he had
blundered into his own pitiless snares. Naturally, he would have had
no suspicion that the traps remained. In his mad haste, he had rushed
heedlessly upon destruction. The remorseless engines of his own
devising had taken full toll of him. By his own act, he paid with his
life the penalty for crime. There was propriety in the marshal's
reference to poetic justice.
A certain vindictiveness showed in Plutina's comment concerning the
death of the man at whose hands she had so suffered.
[Illustration:
_Clara Kimball Young under the direction of Lewis J. Selznick._
THE COMING OF PEACE.]
"His bein' so afeared o' thet-thar thing kep' 'im from hurtin' me,"
she said, reflectively. "He was shorely sot ag'inst havin' 'is neck
bruk, an', arter all, thet's jest what he got." She smiled,
contentedly. For Plutina was a primitive woman, strong in her love,
and strong in her hate.
* * * * *
It was a day of early autumn. The timber rights had been secured to
the satisfaction of Sutton. The tree-nail factory was being built.
Zeke was become a man of importance in the region.
The lover's wedding-day was less than a month distant. To-day, Plutina
had been for a visit to the Widow Higgins, and now Zeke was walking
home with her. They paused at the place where had been their meeting
on the morning of the lad's first adventuring into the world. Memories
flooded them, as they looked across the valley to the bleak cliffs of
Stone Mountain, which rose in aged, rugged grandeur, softened in this
hour by the veils of haze, warmed with the lambent hues of sunset.
In answer to Plutina, Zeke shook his head perplexedly.
"I kain't quite stomach thet-thar yarn o' Seth Jones's," he said. "As
I remember, Dan Hodges threw me--hard!" He grinned wryly at the
recollection. "I don't see how I could have thrown him off the
Slide."
"But of course you did!" Plutina asserted, with great spirit. "Pooh!
Ye could lick Dan Hodges any day in the week. An' Seth saw ye--that
settles hit!"
"I suppose so," Zeke conceded. "But Dan Hodges was a powerful fighter.
After all, I didn't do anything much for ye, Tiny," he added, with
regret in his voice.
The girl was all indignation.
"Why, Zeke!" she cried. "The idea! Ye did hit all. Ye banged the love
o' ye into thet-thar dawg, what hung on to me an' brung up the fairy
cross fer a message." Chubbie, as if understanding, leaped to lick her
hand. "An' ye give me the cross, Zeke. Mebby, thet's what saved me,
all the time--thar on the precipice, an'--an' back thar--in the
cave--with him. An' then ye threw Dan Hodges right offen the mounting.
Seth Jones seen ye do hit!"
It seemed to Zeke that he must perforce accept the heroism thrust upon
him, though a doubt still lingered. Still, his memory of the fight was
confused. Perhaps, after all, he had--.
Zeke broke off, and drew the girl close. Their lips met gently,
tenderly, with the clinging of passion. What mattered the history of
evil days? They were past. Before them lay the future, radiant with
rosy promise. In this blessed present, they were together. Love
thrilled exquisitely on their lips; more exquisitely in their souls.
That love was, and it would remain, a noble and precious thing, great
and very beautiful, as mighty and firm as the mountain looming yonder
in immutable serenity and strength, as loyal, as enduring.... They
walked on together, infinitely content.
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STORIES OF THE KENTUCKY MOUNTAINS
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TRAIL OF THE LONESOME PINE.
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The "lonesome pine" from which the story takes its name was a tall tree
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lured a young engineer through Kentucky to catch the trail, and when he
finally climbed to its shelter he found not only the pine but the
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THE LITTLE SHEPHERD OF KINGDOM COME
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This is a story of Kentucky, in a settlement known as "Kingdom Come." It
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"Chad," the "little shepherd" did not know who he was nor whence he
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A KNIGHT OF THE CUMBERLAND.
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FRIAR TUCK, By Robert Alexander Wason.
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THE SKY PILOT, By Ralph Connor.
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There is no novel, dealing with the rough existence of cowboys, so
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THE EMIGRANT TRAIL, By Geraldine Bonner.
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THE LONESOME TRAIL
"Weary" Davidson leaves the ranch for Portland, where conventional city
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End of Project Gutenberg's Heart of the Blue Ridge, by Waldron Baily