I.

A MIDSUMMER freshet was running over old Gabe Bunch's water-wheel into

the Cumberland. Inside the mill Steve Marcum lay in one dark corner with

a slouched hat over his face. The boy Isom was emptying a sack of corn

into the hopper. Old Gabe was speaking his mind.

Always the miller had been a man of peace; and there was one time when

he thought the old Stetson-Lewallen feud was done. That was when Rome

Stetson, the last but one of his name, and Jasper Lewallen, the last

but one of his, put their guns down and fought with bare fists on a high

ledge above old Gabe's mill one morning at daybreak. The man who was

beaten was to leave the mountains; the other was to stay at home and

have peace. Steve Marcum, a Stetson, heard the sworn terms and saw the

fight. Jasper was fairly whipped; and when Rome let him up he proved

treacherous and ran for his gun. Rome ran too, but stumbled and fell.

Jasper whirled with his Winchester and was about to kill Rome where he

lay, when a bullet came from somewhere and dropped him back to the ledge

again. Both Steve Marcum and Rome Stetson said they had not fired the

shot; neither would say who had. Some thought one man was lying, some

thought the other was, and Jasper's death lay between the two. State

troops came then, under the Governor's order, from the Blue Grass, and

Rome had to drift down the river one night in old Gabe's canoe and on

Out of the mountains for good. Martha Lewallen, who, though Jasper's

sister, and the last of the name, loved and believed Rome, went with

him. Marcums and Braytons who had taken sides in the fight hid in the

bushes around Hazlan, or climbed over into Virginia. A railroad started

up the Cumberland. "Furriners came in to buy wild lands and get out

timber." Civilization began to press over the mountains and down on

Hazlan, as it had pressed in on Breathitt, the seat of another feud,

in another county. In Breathitt the feud was long past, and with good

reason old Gabe thought that it was done in Hazlan.

But that autumn a panic started over from England. It stopped the

railroad far down the Cumberland; it sent the "furriners" home, and

drove civilization back. Marcums and Braytons came in from hiding, and

drifted one by one to the old fighting-ground. In time they took up the

old quarrel, and with Steve Marcum and Steve Brayton as leaders, the

old Stetson-Lewallen feud went on, though but one soul was left in the

mountains of either name. That was Isom, a pale little fellow whom Rome

had left in old Gabe's care; and he, though a Stetson and a half-brother

to Rome, was not counted, because he was only a boy and a foundling, and

because his ways were queer.

There was no open rupture, no organized division--that might happen no

more. The mischief was individual now, and ambushing was more common.

Certain men were looking for each other, and it was a question of

"draw-in' quick 'n' shootin' quick" when the two met by accident, or of

getting the advantage "from the bresh."

In time Steve Marcum had come face to face with old Steve Brayton in

Hazlan, and the two Steves, as they were known, drew promptly. Marcum

was in the dust when the smoke cleared away; and now, after three months

in bed, he was just out again. He had come down to the mill to see Isom.

This was the miller's first chance for remonstrance, and, as usual,

he began to lay it down that every man who had taken a human life must

sooner or later pay for it with his own. It was an old story to Isom,

and, with a shake of impatience, he turned out the door of the mill, and

left old Gabe droning on under his dusty hat to Steve, who, being heavy

with "moonshine," dropped asleep.

Outside the sun was warm, the flood was calling from the dam, and the

boy's petulance was gone at once. For a moment he stood on the rude

platform watching the tide; then he let one bare foot into the water,

and, with a shiver of delight, dropped from the boards. In a moment his

clothes were on the ground behind a laurel thicket, and his slim white

body was flashing like a faun through the reeds and bushes up stream.

A hundred yards away the creek made a great loop about a wet thicket

of pine and rhododendron, and he turned across the bushy neck. Creeping

through the gnarled bodies of rhododendron, he dropped suddenly behind

the pine, and lay flat in the black earth. Ten yards through the

dusk before him was the half-bent figure of a man letting an old army

haversack slip from one shoulder; and Isom watched him hide it with

a rifle under a bush, and go noiselessly on towards the road. It was

Crump, Eli Crump, who had been a spy for the Lewallens in the old feud

and who was spying now for old Steve Brayton. It was the second time

Isom had seen him lurking about, and the boy's impulse was to hurry back

to the mill. But it was still peace, and without his gun Crump was not

dangerous; so Isom rose and ran on, and, splashing into the angry little

stream, shot away like a roll of birch bark through the tawny crest of

a big wave. He had done the feat a hundred times; he knew every rock and

eddy in flood-time, and he floated through them and slipped like an eel

into the mill-pond. Old Gabe was waiting for him.

"Whut ye mean, boy," he said, sharply, "reskin' the fever an' ager this

way? No wonder folks thinks ye air half crazy. Git inter them clothes

now 'n' come in hyeh. You'll ketch yer death o' cold swimmin' this way

atter a fresh."

The boy was shivering when he took his seat at the funnel, but he did

not mind that; some day he meant to swim over that dam. Steve still lay

motionless in the corner near him, and Isom lifted the slouched hat

and began tickling his lips with a straw. Steve was beyond the point of

tickling, and Isom dropped the hat back and turned to tell the miller

what he had seen in the thicket. The dim interior darkened just then,

and Crump stood in the door. Old Gabe stared hard at him without a word

of welcome, but Crump shuffled to a chair unasked, and sat like a toad

astride it, with his knees close up under his arms, and his wizened face

in his hands.

Meeting Isom's angry glance, he shifted his own uneasily.

"Seed the new preacher comm' 'long today?" he asked. Drawing one dirty

finger across his forehead, "Got a long scar 'cross hyeh."

The miller shook his head.

"Well, he's a-comm'. I've been waitin' fer him up the road, but I reckon

I got to git 'cross the river purty soon now."

Crump had been living over in Breathitt since the old feud. He had been

"convicted" over there by Sherd Raines, a preacher from the Jellico

Hills, and he had grown pious. Indeed, he had been trailing after Raines

from place to place, and he was following the circuit-rider now to the

scene of his own deviltry--Hazlan.

"Reckon you folks don't know I got the cirkit-rider to come over hyeh,

do ye?" he went on. "Ef he can't preach! Well, I'd tell a man! He kin

jus' draw the heart out'n a holler log! He 'convicted' me fust night,

over thar in Breathitt. He come up thar, ye know, to stop the feud, he

said; 'n' thar was laughin' from one eendo' Breathitt to t'other; but

thar was the whoppinest crowd thar I ever see when he did come. The

meetin'-house wasn't big enough to hold 'em, so he goes out on the

aidge o' town, n' climbs on to a stump. He hed a woman with him from the

settlemints--she's a-waitin' at Hazlan fer him now-'n' she had a cur'us

little box, 'n' he put her 'n' the box on a big rock, 'n' started in a

callin' 'em his bretherin' 'n' sisteren, 'n' folks seed mighty soon

thet he meant it, too. He's always mighty easylike, tell he gits to the

blood-penalty."

At the word, Crump's listeners paid sudden heed. Old Gabe's knife

stopped short in the heart of the stick he was whittling; the boy looked

sharply up from the running meal into Crump's face and sat still.

Well, he jes prayed to the Almighty as though he was a-talkin' to him

face to face, 'n' then the woman put her hands on that box, 'n' the

sweetes' sound anybody thar ever heerd come outen it. Then she got to

singin'. Hit wusn't nuthin' anybody thar'd ever heerd; but some o' the

women folks was a snifflin' 'fore she got through. He pitched right into

the feud, as he calls hit, 'n' the sin o' sheddin' human blood, I tell

ye; 'n' 'twixt him and the soldiers I reckon thar won't be no more

fightin' in Breathitt. He says, 'n' he always says it mighty loud

--Crump raised his own voice--"thet the man as kills his feller-critter

hev some day got ter give up his own blood, sartin 'n' shore."

It was old Gabe's pet theory, and he was nodding approval. The boy's

parted lips shook with a spasm of fear, and were as quickly shut tight

with suspicion. Steve raised his head as though he too had heard the

voice, and looked stupidly about him.

"I tol' him," Crump went on, "thet things was already a-gettin' kind o'

frolicsome round hyeh agin; thet the Marcums 'n' Braytons was a-takin'

up the ole war, 'n' would be a-plunkin' one 'nother every time they got

together, 'n' a-gittin' the whole country in fear 'n' tremblin'--now

thet Steve Marcum had come back."

Steve began to scowl and a vixenish smile hovered at Isom's lips.

"He knows mighty well--fer I tol' him--thet thar hain't a wuss man in all

these mountains than thet very Steve--" The name ended in a gasp, and the

wizened gossip was caught by the throat and tossed, chair and all, into

a corner of the mill.

"None o' that, Steve!" called the miller, sternly. "Not hyeh. Don't hurt

him now!"

Crump's face stiffened with such terror that Steve broke into a laugh.

"Well, ye air a skeery critter!" he said, contemptuously. "I hain't

goin' to hurt him, Uncl' Gabe, but he must be a plumb idgit, a-talkin'

'bout folks to thar face, 'n' him so puny an' spindlin'! You git!"

Crump picked himself up trembling--"Don't ye ever let me see ye on this

side o' the river agin, now "--and shuffled out, giving Marcum one look

of fear and unearthly hate.

"Convicted!" snorted Steve. "I heerd old Steve Brayton had hired him to

waylay me, 'n' I swar I believe hit's so."

"Well, he won't hev to give him more'n a chaw o' tobaccer now," said

Gabe. "He'll come purty near doin' hit hisseif, I reckon, ef he gits

the chance."

"Well, he kin git the chance ef I gits my leetle account settled with ole

Steve Brayton fust. 'Pears like that old hog ain't satisfied shootin'

me hisself." Stretching his arms with a yawn, Steve winked at Isom and

moved to the door. The boy followed him outside.

"We're goin' fer ole Brayton about the dark o' the next moon, boy," he

said. "He's sort o' s'picious now, 'n' we'll give him a leetle time to

git tame. I'll have a bran'-new Winchester fer ye, Isom. Hit ull be like

ole times agin, when Rome was hyeh. Whut's the matter, boy?" he asked,

suddenly. Isom looked unresponsive, listless.

"Air ye gittin' sick agin?"

"Well, I hain't feelin' much peert, Steve."

"Take keer o' yourself, boy. Don't git sick now. We'll have to watch Eli

Crump purty close. I don't know why I hain't killed thet spyin' skunk

long ago, 'ceptin' I never had a shore an' sartin reason fer doin 'it."

Isom started to speak then and stopped. He would learn more first; and

he let Steve go on home unwarned.

The two kept silence after Marcum had gone. Isom turned away from old

Gabe, and stretched himself out on the platform. He looked troubled. The

miller, too, was worried.

"Jus' a hole in the groun'," he said, half to himself; "that's whut we're

all comm' to! 'Pears like we mought help one 'nother to keep out'n hit,

'stid o' holpin' 'em in."

Brown shadows were interlacing out in the mill-pond, where old Gabe's

eyes were intent. A current of cool air had started down the creek to

the river. A katydid began to chant. Twilight was coming, and the miller

rose.

"Hit's a comfort to know you won't be mixed up in all this devilment,"

he said; and then, as though he had found more light in the gloom:

"Hit's a comfort to know the new rider air shorely a-preachin' the right

doctrine, 'n' I want ye to go hear him. Blood for blood-life fer a life!

Your grandad shot ole Tom Lewallen in Hazlan. Ole Jack Lewallen shot him

from the bresh. Tom Stetson killed ole Jack; ole Jass killed Tom, 'n' so

hit comes down, fer back as I can ricollect. I hev nuver knowed hit to

fail." The lad had risen on one elbow. His face was pale and uneasy, and

he averted it when the miller turned in the door.

"You'd better stay hyeh, son, 'n' finish up the grist. Hit won't take

long. Hev ye got victuals fer yer supper?"

Isom nodded, without looking around, and when old Gabe was gone he rose

nervously and dropped helplessly back to the floor.

"'Pears like old Gabe knows I killed Jass," he breathed, sullenly.

"'Pears like all of 'em knows hit, 'n' air jus' a-tormentin' me."

Nobody dreamed that the boy and his old gun had ended that fight on the

cliff; and without knowing it, old Gabe kept the lad in constant torture

with his talk of the blood-penalty. But Isom got used to it in time,

for he had shot to save his brother's life. Steve Marcum treated him

thereafter as an equal. Steve's friends, too, changed in manner towards

him because Steve had. And now, just when he had reached the point of

wondering whether, after all, there might not be one thing that old Gabe

did not know, Crump had come along with the miller's story, which he had

got from still another, a circuit-rider, who must know the truth. The

fact gave him trouble.

"Mebbe hit's goin' to happen when I goes with Steve atter ole Brayton,"

he mumbled, and he sat thinking the matter over, until a rattle and a

whir inside the mill told him that the hopper was empty. He arose to

fill it, and coming out again, he heard hoof-beats on the dirt road. A

stranger rode around the rhododendrons and shouted to him, asking the

distance to Hazlan. He took off his hat when Isom answered, to wipe the

dust and perspiration from his face, and the boy saw a white scar across

his forehead. A little awestricken, the lad walked towards him.

"Air you the new rider whut's goin' to preach up to Hazlan?" he asked.

Raines smiled at the solemnity of the little fellow. "Yes," he said,

kindly. "Won't you come up and hear me?"

"Yes, sir," he said, and his lips parted as though he wanted to say

something else, but Raines did not notice.

"I wished I had axed him," he said, watching the preacher ride away.

"Uncle Gabe knows might' nigh ever'thing, 'n' he says so. Crump said

the rider said so; but Crump might 'a' been lyin'. He 'most al'ays is. I

wished I had axed him."

Mechanically the lad walked along the millrace, which was made of hewn

boards and hollow logs. In every crevice grass hung in thick bunches to

the ground or tipped wiry blades over the running water. Tightening

a prop where some silvery jet was getting too large, he lifted the

tail-gate a trifle and lay down again on the platform near the old

wheel. Out in the mill-pond the water would break now and then into

ripples about some unwary moth, and the white belly of a fish would

flash from the surface. It was the only sharp accent on the air. The

chant of the katydids had become a chorus, and the hush of darkness

was settling over the steady flow of water and the low drone of the

millstones.

"I hain't afeerd," he kept saying to himself. "I hain't afeerd o'

nothin' nor nobody;" but he lay brooding until his head throbbed, until

darkness filled the narrow gorge, and the strip of dark blue up through

the trees was pointed with faint stars. He was troubled when he rose,

and climbed on Rome's horse and rode homeward--so troubled that he

turned finally and started back in a gallop for Hazlan.

It was almost as Crump had said. There was no church in Hazlan, and, as

in Breathitt, the people had to follow Raines outside the town, and he

preached from the roadside. The rider's Master never had a tabernacle

more simple: overhead the stars and a low moon; close about, the trees

still and heavy with summer; a pine torch over his head like a yellow

plume; two tallow dips hung to a beech on one side, and flicking to the

other the shadows of the people who sat under them. A few Marcums and

Braytons were there, one faction shadowed on Raines's right, one on

his left. Between them the rider stood straight, and prayed as though

talking with some one among the stars. Behind him the voice of the woman

at her tiny organ rose among the leaves. And then he spoke as he had

prayed; and from the first they listened like children, while in their

own homely speech he went on to tell them, just as he would have told

children, a story that some of them had never heard before. "Forgive

your enemies as He had forgiven his," that was his plea. Marcums and

Braytons began to press in from the darkness on each side, forgetting

each other as the rest of the people forgot them. And when the story

was quite done, Raines stood a full minute without a word. No one was

prepared for what followed. Abruptly his voice rose sternly--"Thou

shalt not kill"; and then Satan took shape under the torch. The man was

transformed, swaying half crouched before them. The long black hair fell

across the white scar, and picture after picture leaped from his tongue

with such vividness that a low wail started through the audience, and

women sobbed in their bonnets. It was penalty for bloodshed--not in this

world: penalty eternal in the next; and one slight figure under the dips

staggered suddenly aside into the darkness.

It was Isom; and no soul possessed of devils was ever more torn than

his, when he splashed through Troubled Fork and rode away that night.

Half a mile on he tried to keep his eyes on his horse's neck, anywhere

except on one high gray rock to which they were raised against his

will--the peak under which he had killed young Jasper. There it was

staring into the moon, but watching him as he fled through the woods,

shuddering at shadows, dodging branches that caught at him as he passed,

and on in a run, until he drew rein and slipped from his saddle at the

friendly old mill. There was no terror for him there. There every bush

was a friend; every beech trunk a sentinel on guard for him in shining

armor.

It was the old struggle that he was starting through that night--the old

fight of humanity from savage to Christian; and the lad fought it until,

with the birth of his wavering soul, the premonitions of the first dawn

came on. The patches of moonlight shifted, paling. The beech columns

mottled slowly with gray and brown. A ruddy streak was cleaving the east

like a slow sword of fire. The chill air began to pulse and the mists to

stir. Moisture had gathered on the boy's sleeve. His horse was stamping

uneasily, and the lad rose stiffly, his face gray but calm, and started

home. At old Gabe's gate he turned in his saddle to look where, under

the last sinking star, was once the home of his old enemies. Farther

down, under the crest, was old Steve Brayton, alive, and at that moment

perhaps asleep.

"Forgive your enemies;" that was the rider's plea. Forgive old Steve,

who had mocked him, and had driven Rome from the mountains; who had

threatened old Gabe's life, and had shot Steve Marcum almost to death!

The lad drew breath quickly, and standing in his stirrups, stretched out

his fist, and let it drop, slowly.