“I didn’t take my gun, ’cause I was only goin’ along to ’comerdate
Harvey; an’ the trigger o’ mine was busted. I didn’t take Buck nuther,
fer we _might_ ’a’ run across a bear, an’ Buck’s so swell-headed, he
thinks he can wipe up anything, an’ a bear would ’a’ chawed him to a
dish-rag. I couldn’t take any resk with him, fer Tim Reeves wrote me
from Tennessee that he’d give me fifty dollars fer him when he comes
back, he’s so hot fer fox. That first day me an’ Harvey travelled like
brothers, an’ I got him a good ways along ’thout makin’ him feel the
road. I carried his gun fer him, so he could walk faster, an’ he was
likin’ me first-rate. At night I made a fine fire an’ he put his feet
toward it an’ went to sleep. Next mornin’ he got up an’ et nine slices
o’ bacon an’ a meal-pone I cooked on a rock. I pushed him to eat,
tellin’ him we had a terrible climb afore us. He laffed at me, an’ says
‘Bring on yer mountains, Sam.’ An’ I brought ’em. By night we’s in a
mile o’ the top o’ Smoky.”
“But you were going to Pitcher Mountain!”
“Aye, we _started_ there, but when we passed Jed Weaver’s, which is the
last house, I said I’d go in an’ git me a little new terbacker, ’cause
Jed raises it an’ it ’ud be neighborly to ast fer some. When I come
out, I told Harvey that Jed said the bear on Pitcher had been killed
an’ Mose Ashe had the hide. Which wuz ever’ word so. It ’uz the biggest
bear in the memory o’ man, I told him; an’ that ’uz the truth too, fer
I seen it myself. Harvey’s lip fell till I was sorry fer him, an’ I
said I was willin’ to go on to the bear-ground on Smoky, if he thought
he could hold out. I said I wouldn’t drive him, it wuz his trip anyway;
an’ he said he was feelin’ better ever’ minute, that climbin’ agreed
with him, an’ he looked like it did. I told him if he wanted to go on,
it was lucky he took me with him, fer it was give up that I knowed the
trails better’n anybody that had ever gone inter the bear-ground. Ain’t
that so, Mis’ Dolly?”
“That’s what I’ve heard, Sam.”
“I spent a year in the woods after my first wife died. I thought it
was the best chance I’d ever git, an’ I took it. So I said to Harvey:
‘Knowledge has got to be paid fer. It’s the custom.’ An’ he says: ‘Oh,
anything, Sam!’ An’ I says: ‘What about yer gun?’ ‘Oh, my gun?’ says
he, a little set back, fer it was fire-new, as you can see.”
His glance fondled the gleaming barrel of the gun which was leaning
against a tree near us.
“I told Harvey I wasn’t feelin’ very well myself, an’ it might be
better fer me to go home anyhow; but if we traded, I wouldn’t think
o’ takin’ the gun till we got back home, an’ he could carry it from
there on, ’cause we’s gittin’ inter a country where we might come on
something wuth a bullet any minute. An’ he said: ‘All right, it’s a
bargain. Move, partner.’
“So we climbed hard all day, an’ by night, as I told you, we’s well up
Smoky, an’ the coldest wind ablowin’ that ever made an i-shickle out of
a man’s gizzard. We drew up at a spring, an’ I says: ‘We’ll stay right
here, fer there ain’t no water higher up.’ He was puffin’ some, an’ he
says: ‘How fur are we from the bear-ground?’ I says: ‘It’s all around
us. We’re right in it.’ He whitened a little an’ gripped his gun, an’ I
explained o’ course we weren’t in the ackchal la’r’l thicket where the
bears denned, an’ where they tromp roads in the brush big enough fer
a horse to walk through. I told him we hadn’t got to the stair-steps
in the cliffs where they climbed in an’ out o’ their dens; but they
used the neighborhood fer roamin’ an’ fer gittin’ water. I reckoned he
wouldn’t want to go on an’ knock at their doors till mornin’, after
he’d had a good rest, an’ we’d keep a big fire all night so’s they
wouldn’t bother us.
“I said I’d cook supper if he’d make the fire; an’ he started to git up
some wood; but it was slow work ’cause he’d keep the gun in one hand
an’ pull an’ drag at the brush with the other. When I’d rested good I
went an’ he’ped, fer I was sorry fer him, an’ was pushin’ hungry. When
I’d cooked supper, an’ he’d et enough to make him feel sort o’ cocky,
an’ I’d got up a good lot o’ logs to last all night, he said he guessed
he’d turn in so’s to git a good sleep an’ be ready fer the battle in
the mornin’. An’ I said I b’lieved I would too. He got purty still at
that, an’ watched me fixin’ my bed. It was so dod-a’mighty cold I got
me a lot o’ fir-boughs an’ piled ’em high as my head. Then I began to
crawl inter the middle of ’em.
“‘Looky here, Sam,’ says Harvey, ‘I never heard of a guide crawlin’ off
to sleep when the camp needed watchin’.’--‘I ain’t no guide,’ I says;
‘I’m a friend what’s a long way from home jest to ’comerdate ye.’ An’ I
went in.
“Then I put my head out an’ says, frien’ly as could be: ‘You turn in
too. That fire’ll burn ha’f the night, the wind’ll keep it up. An’
long about one o’clock I’ll crawl out an’ throw on some more logs. Ef
you hear a noise, jest lay still, ’cause it’ll only be me astirrin’.
Bears,’ I says, ‘come up sly.’
“I reckon he’s a little stubborn by nater, ’cause he wouldn’t turn in
at all. I looked out after a bit an’ saw he’d took off his cap an’ tied
his muffler round his head, so I ast him if he wouldn’t let me have his
cap. My hat was full o’ holes an’ seemed to draw the wind. I was all
right, I said, ’cept the top o’ my head was freezin’ off. He handed me
his cap then, slow-like, an’ never said I was welcome, ner nothin’. But
I’d made up my mind I was goin’ to overlook ever’thing, jest as you
say. I had some sleep after I got the cap, an’ when I looked out ’round
midnight, he was settin’ there holdin’ his gun, an’ had a big fire that
he’ped warm the whole place. I slept like I was in my own bed. Oncet I
woke up thinkin’ I heard Krettie a-snorin’; then I remembered where I
was an’ knew it was the wind thrashin’ about.
“An’ you ought to ’a’ seen the stars a-shinin’. When they’d wink, I’d
almost jump, they seemed so close an’ knowin’. I’d been thinkin’ about
leavin’ Harvey up there, an’ tellin’ him to foller one o’ the branches
down the mountain, an’ I thought maybe I’d put him on one that ’ud
bring him out about twenty miles from home. But lookin’ at them stars,
I made up my mind to stand by him an’ bring him clean in to Mis’ Harvey.
“Next mornin’ he went to the spring, but he said it was so cold he
guessed he wouldn’t wash. Then he looked at hissef in a little glass he
took out o’ his kit. You know he’s one o’ them reddish men that have to
keep the razor goin’ ever’ day ef they keep ahead o’ ther beard, an’
we’d been out two nights. After he’d looked, he said he guessed he’d
heat some water in our tin cup an’ shave. But the wind was blowin’ so
aggervatin’ hard he got nettleish, an’ I said he might cut hissef even
if it was a safety, an’ bears had an awful scent fer blood.
“‘We’s huntin’ bears,’ I said, ‘an’ don’t want ’em huntin’ us.’ He
says, ‘You mean it well enough, Sam, but they’s nothin’ in it.’
However, it was gittin’ late, an’ he guessed he wouldn’t shave till
night. He put the razor back in its little box, an’ drapped it inter
his jacket pocket. But I’d clear forgot I’d seen him put it there when
he was rakin’ his kit fer it that night. I told him I ’lowed he’d
drapped it up by the spring that mornin’ an’ I’d climb all the way
back fer it if he wanted me to.”
“Why didn’t he look in his pockets?”
“’Cause I had the jacket then, an’ I didn’t think about it. I told him
when he handed it to me that he’d better look in the pockets, there
might be somethin’ in ’em he wanted; an’ he said they wasn’t nothin’
there, an’ if they was, I might as well take it now as later; only he
said it rougher, like men’ll talk in the woods. ‘Not a dern thing in
’em,’ he says, if you’ll excuse me, Mis’ Dolly, an’ jest as good as
told me to keep it if there wuz. I found the razor after I’d got home,
an’ by all rights it’s mine. But Harvey can have it if he’ll come an’
ast fer it, though he’s got another one mighty nigh as good.”
He interrupted his story to say that I needn’t be lookin’ at him like
that; he never forgot Harvey was a friend of mine, and he tried to do
his best by him even with “influenzy comin’ on.”
“But you didn’t have influenza, Sam.”
“You don’t know how near I come to it, though. That very mornin’ after
sleepin’ in the fir-boughs, I got up sneezin’ awful an’ my backbone
creepin’. In the night my ol’ hat had blowed clear away, an’ I said
to Harvey I reckoned he wouldn’t be usin’ the cap an’ muffler both at
oncet, an’ I’d wear whichever he didn’t want. He says: ‘That’s kind of
you, Sam.’
“He had took off the muffler when he thought he was goin’ to shave, an’
the next minute his ears looked so brickle I could ’a’ knocked ’em off
with a stick. So he had put it back on. I told him the cap didn’t have
any ear-pieces, an’ I could stand the wind better’n he could. I said
mighty few bear-hunters ever got out o’ the la’r’l and in home with
anything on their heads at all; that Jed Weaver always went into the
woods bareheaded, ’cause he said it cost too much to put hats an’ caps
on the la’r’l; an’ Harvey says: ‘Oh, jest keep it, Sam, an’ let’s go.’
I told him we’d scrummish around the mountain toward the sun, an’ maybe
I could shake off my chill. But it stuck to me, an’ after a while I
said I’d have to stop an’ build a fire.
“He got frustered then, an’ said he’d come fer bear, an’ he was goin’
to have one if he had to go on by hissef. I told him I’d go with him,
even if it meant pneumony. Then he got frien’ly an’ said it wasn’t
goin’ to be that bad. We’d git our bear an’ go down ’fore night. An’ he
was all fer goin’ inter the la’r’l.
“I went a little furder with him, an’ then I stopped all in a shiver
an’ told him he must remember I didn’t have on warm clo’s like he
had, though I had the same sort o’ skin; an’ I said if I drapped an’
died up there, fer him to hit Siler’s creek an’ foller it down to the
settlement.
“‘How ’m I goin’ ter hit Siler’s creek?’ says he. Not a bit o’ feelin’
fer me. Jest thinkin’ how he was goin’ to git down. I come near tellin’
him right then that we’s ten miles west o’ the bear-ground an’ I didn’t
aim to go there with a man ’at couldn’t shoot a buzzard off a washtub.”
“What do you mean, Sam?”
“Why, shorely yo don’t think I’d go right where the bears wuz without a
bear-dog! We’s in a bear-ground all right, like I told Harvey, only it
’us the _old_ one, the one they used years ago ’fore the people drove
’em furder back. I knowed Harvey couldn’t shoot, an’ I had to study
out how to take him bear-huntin’ without gittin’ him chawed to death.
’Course the bears do stray ’round there oncet in a while, an’ we might
’a’ come on one any time.
“Right after Harvey showed me so plain how little feelin’ he had, I
thought I heard a bear growl off in the thicket, an’ I told him to git
ready. I said as I had no gun, I’d climb a tree an’ he could shoot if
we got a sight o’ the feller. He ast me if a man could shoot a bear
from a tree, an’ I told him yes, but it was mighty hard to climb one
with a gun in yer hand. He said as I was feelin’ so bad maybe we’d
better start down an’ he’d come back next year an’ git his bear. I told
him I wasn’t goin’ to spile his trip, an’ I b’lieved I could stick it
out if I only had a warm shirt an’ jacket.
“About that time I crossed a bear’s trail, shore as you live. I’d seen
the swipe a bear makes too often not to know it. Harvey he leaned over
an’ whispered: ‘Which way’s he goin’, Sam?’ An’ I showed him how it was
goin’ down. ‘It’s below us, Harvey,’ I says, ‘an’ the track ain’t an
hour old. The wind ain’t blowed it dry.’ My heart was jumpin’ like it’d
break through, an’ I thought to myself, ain’t I the one fool fer bein’
here without a bear-dog an’ with a man ’at kain’t shoot.
“Harvey says sudden: ‘How can we git down from here, Sam?’ An’ I told
him there was another trail furder round the mountain that ’ud take
us down to Siler’s creek. It would mean a sight more walkin’, but
I thought I could make it if it wasn’t fer my chill. He says, ‘All
right! Strip!’ an’ took off his coat an’ shirt. I give him mine, an’
after that little talk about the pockets, I got inter his clo’s an’ we
started. I knew I could find the head o’ Siler’s creek an’ could make
it down by keeping in sound o’ the water. Harvey would ’a’ been a lost
man if he hadn’t been with a feller that knowed the country like I did.
But he never let on that he wuz owin’ me anything. Jed Weaver had told
me that old trail had got so thicketty a man would have to tie his
eyeballs in if he come down it an’ didn’t lose ’em. An’ that is what it
wuz. When we come out at Harney’s Bald, our fingers wuz bleedin’, an’
Harvey said he guessed if that thicket was ’tween us an’ the bear there
wasn’t any more danger, an’ he throwed down the gun. I had to carry
it from there on, which wasn’t the bargain at all. But I shot three
squirrels, an’ Harvey seemed kinder peeved ’stead o’ bein’ glad I had
something fer my trouble.
“That night it was awful cold agin, fer we come out in a northy cove
about sundown an’ wuz too tired to go on. Harvey said he wouldn’t make
a fire if he froze to death; so I got wood an’ cooked the squirrels,
an’ was jest as brotherly as I could be. After supper he fell on the
ground an’ went right to sleep. I covered him with balsam, ’cause I
wasn’t goin’ to bring a friend o’ yorn back sick. In the mornin’ he
woke up groanin’ an’ said his bones had hurt him so he hadn’t shet his
eyes all night. I got him out an’ hurried him along all day. We had
gone so fur around that bear, we had to camp out an extry night. I
found a purty good campin’-place, but my feet was rubbed sore. Harvey
was a-limpin’. He said it was a long trip to make on firecoals. I told
him to keep in good heart, that he’d be with Mis’ Harvey next day, an’
she’d pet him up nice. But I couldn’t cheer him up noway, an’ he never
said nothin’ all the time I was gittin’ wood an’ cookin’ supper.
“After we’d et, him asayin’ nothin’, I pulled off my boots, an’ he
says: ‘Lord, man, don’t you wear socks?’ I said not in the woods.
Mutton taller is better’n socks in the woods any day. An’ I took out
a little piece o’ taller I had in my pack an’ rubbed my feet with it.
Then I turned ’em to the fire an’ it eased ’em up fine. I told him I
was sorry I didn’t have enough taller to divide, but I only had enough
left to rub my feet with in the mornin’ ’fore we started, an’ as he
had socks an’ I didn’t, I needed the taller wuss’n he did. He took off
his boots an’ wrapped his feet in his muffler. A baby ought ’a’ knowed
better, but I didn’t say anything. I was wore out thinkin’ fer him at
ever’ turn. He looked so beat though, layin’ there in my ol’ clo’s, I
thinks I’ll sing a little fer him. The first day we’s a-climbin’ he
kept pesterin’ me to sing, an’ me ha’f out o’ breath, luggin’ pack an’
gun. I b’lieve in suitin’ a song to the time, an’ settin’ there, with
my feet a-warmin’, I got to thinkin’ how fine it was out in the wild
woods like that, an’ only one night from home too; an’ ’most ’fore I
knowed it I was singin’ ‘Free a Little Bird.’ It goes this a-way:
“‘I’m as free a little bird as I can be;
I’ll never build my nest on the ground;
I’ll build my nest in a chinkapin-tree,
Where the bad boys can never tear it down.
Carry me home, sweet Kitty, carry me home!
The stars they are bright,
An’ as soft as candle-light;
Sweet Kitty, carry me home!’
“The verses are all jest alike ’cept the tree is different ever’ time.
That little bird builds its nest in nineteen trees ’fore the song is
done; an’ it’s ’lowable fer you to put in more if you want to an’ can
think of ’em. I thought of a lot--the mulberry, the sourwood, the
weepin’ willer, an’ so many more I was nigh an’ hour gittin’ through.
Harvey never said a word when I stopped; he was awake though, fer I
seen him move. But I didn’t expect anything from him. The first day
we’s out it wuz ‘Thank ’e, Sam,’ all the time. But after we got inter
the deep woods where I was his rale dependance, I never heard it oncet.
“Next mornin’ his feet wuz so sore he couldn’t let his boots tech
’em. ‘Sam,’ he says, ‘what’ll ye take fer that taller?’ I told him I
wasn’t tradin’ it; if he needed it wuss’n I did, he was welcome. I
could make out ef I had a pair o’ easy socks. ‘Yer ain’t used them silk
ones yit, have ye?’ I says. He took ’em out of his kit an’ handed ’em
to me ’thout openin’ his mouth; though I told him over agin that he
was welcome to the taller. But these furriners ain’t got much manners
anyhow, if you notice ’em close.
“He said he hadn’t shet his eyes, an’ he’d nearly froze, like as if I
ought to ’a’ set up an’ kept the fire goin’. I was glad enough to git
him in home that mornin’; an’ when he wants a friend to go bear-huntin’
with him agin, he’ll have to look furder’n me. We ain’t quarrelled
though. That needn’t worry ye a bit. When I left him yisterday he says,
‘Sam, yer a ’tellergent feller,’ an’ he stuck out his hand.”
“You took it, Sam?”
“Oh, ay, I took it. But,” he added--for in those days in Unakasia every
man was his own Shakespeare--“I knew he was jest aflowerin’ me.”
V