Two hours up the river we struck Buck. Buck was sitting on the fence by
the roadside, barefooted and hatless.
“How-dye-do?” I said.
“Purty well,” said Buck.
“Any fish in this river?”
“Several,” said Buck. Now in mountain speech, “several” means simply “a
good many.”
“Any minnows in these branches?”
“I seed several in the branch back o' our house.”
“How far away do you live?”
“Oh, 'bout one whoop an' a holler.” If he had spoken Greek the Blight
could not have been more puzzled. He meant he lived as far as a man's
voice would carry with one yell and a holla.
“Will you help me catch some?” Buck nodded.
“All right,” I said, turning my horse up to the fence. “Get on behind.”
The horse shied his hind quarters away, and I pulled him back.
“Now, you can get on, if you'll be quick.” Buck sat still.
“Yes,” he said imperturbably; “but I ain't quick.” The two girls laughed
aloud, and Buck looked surprised.
Around a curving cornfield we went, and through a meadow which Buck said
was a “nigh cut.” From the limb of a tree that we passed hung a piece
of wire with an iron ring swinging at its upturned end. A little farther
was another tree and another ring, and farther on another and another.
“For heaven's sake, Buck, what are these things?”
“Mart's a-gittin' ready fer a tourneyment.”
“A what?”
“That's whut Mart calls hit. He was over to the Gap last Fourth o' July,
an' he says fellers over thar fix up like Kuklux and go a-chargin' on
hosses and takin' off them rings with a ash-stick--'spear,' Mart calls
hit. He come back an' he says he's a-goin' to win that ar tourneyment
next Fourth o' July. He's got the best hoss up this river, and on
Sundays him an' Dave Branham goes a-chargin' along here a-picking off
these rings jus' a-flyin'; an' Mart can do hit, I'm tellin' ye. Dave's
mighty good hisself, but he ain't nowhar 'longside o' Mart.”
This was strange. I had told the Blight about our Fourth of July, and
how on the Virginia side the ancient custom of the tournament still
survived. It was on the last Fourth of July that she had meant to come
to the Gap. Truly civilization was spreading throughout the hills.
“Who's Mart?”
“Mart's my brother,” said little Buck.
“He was over to the Gap not long ago, an' he come back mad as hops--” He
stopped suddenly, and in such a way that I turned my head, knowing that
caution had caught Buck.
“What about?”
“Oh, nothin',” said Buck carelessly; “only he's been quar ever since.
My sisters says he's got a gal over thar, an' he's a-pickin' off these
rings more'n ever now. He's going to win or bust a belly-band.”
“Well, who's Dave Branham?”
Buck grinned. “You jes axe my sister Mollie. Thar she is.”
Before us was a white-framed house of logs in the porch of which
stood two stalwart, good-looking girls. Could we stay all night? We
could--there was no hesitation--and straight in we rode.
“Where's your father?” Both girls giggled, and one said, with frank
unembarrassment:
“Pap's tight!” That did not look promising, but we had to stay just
the same. Buck helped me to unhitch the mules, helped me also to catch
minnows, and in half an hour we started down the river to try fishing
before dark came. Buck trotted along.
“Have you got a wagon, Buck?”
“What fer?”
“To bring the fish back.” Buck was not to be caught napping.
“We got that sled thar, but hit won't be big enough,” he said gravely.
“An' our two-hoss wagon's out in the cornfield. We'll have to string the
fish, leave 'em in the river and go fer 'em in the mornin'.”
“All right, Buck.” The Blight was greatly amused at Buck.
Two hundred yards down the road stood his sisters over the figure of a
man outstretched in the road. Unashamed, they smiled at us. The man in
the road was “pap”--tight--and they were trying to get him home.
We cast into a dark pool farther down and fished most patiently; not a
bite--not a nibble.
“Are there any fish in here, Buck?”
“Dunno--used ter be.” The shadows deepened; we must go back to the
house.
“Is there a dam below here, Buck?”
“Yes, thar's a dam about a half-mile down the river.”