Birt Dicey lay awake deep into the night, pondering and planning.
But despite this unwonted vigil the old bark-mill was early astir,
and he went alertly about his work. He felt eager, strong, capable.
The spirit of progress was upon him.
The tanyard lay in the midst of a forest so dense that, except at
the verge of the clearing, it showed hardly a trace of its gradual
despoliation by the industry that nestled in its heart like a worm
in the bud. There were many stumps about the margin of the woods,
the felled trees, stripped of their bark, often lying among them
still, for the supply of timber exceeded the need. In penetrating
the wilderness you might mark, too, here and there, a vacant space,
where the chestnut-oak, prized for its tannin, had once grown on the
slope.
A little log house was in the midst of the clearing. It had,
properly speaking, only one room, but there was a shed-room
attached, for the purpose of storage, and also a large open shed at
one side. The rail fence inclosed the space of an acre, perhaps,
which was covered with spent bark. Across the pits planks were
laid, with heavy stones upon them to hold them in place. A rude
roof sheltered the bark-mill from the weather, and there was the
patient mule, with Birt and a whip to make sure that he did not fall
into reflective pauses according to his meditative wont. And there,
too, was Tennessee, perched on the lower edge of a great pile of
bark, and gravely watching Birt.
He deprecated the attention she attracted. He was sometimes ashamed
to have the persistent little sister seen following at his heels
like a midday shadow. He could not know that the men who stopped
and spoke to him and to her, and laughed at the infirmities of the
infant tongue when she replied unintelligibly, thought better of him
for his manifestation of strong fraternal affection. They said to
each other that he was a "peart boy an' powerful good ter the
t'other chill'en, an' holped the fambly along ez well ez a man--
better'n thar dad ever done;" for Birt's father had been
characterized always as "slack-twisted an' onlucky."
The shadows dwindled on the tan. The winds had furled their wings.
White clouds rose, dazzling, opaque, up to the blue zenith. The
querulous cicada complained in the laurel. Birt heard the call of a
jay from the woods. And then, as he once more urged the old mule
on, the busy bark-mill kept up such a whir that he could hear
nothing else. He was not aware of an approach till the new-comer
was close upon him; in fact, the first he knew of Nate Griggs's
proximity was the sight of him. Nate was glancing about with his
usual air of questioning disparagement, and cracking a long lash at
the spent bark on the ground.
"Hello, Nate!" Birt cried out, eagerly. "I'm powerful glad ye
happened ter kem hyar, fur I hev a word ter say ter ye."
"I dunno ez I'm minded ter bide," Nate said cavalierly. "I hates to
waste time an' burn daylight a-jowin'."
He was still cracking his lash at the ground. There was a sudden,
half-articulate remonstrance.
Birt, who had turned away to the bark-mill, whirled back in a rising
passion.
"Did ye hit Tennessee?" he asked, with a dangerous light in his
eyes.
"No--I never!" Nate protested. "I hain't seen her till this minute.
She war standin' a-hint ye."
"Waal, ye skeered her, then," said Birt, hardly appeased. "Quit
snappin' that lash. 'Pears-like ter me ez ye makes yerself powerful
free round this hyar tanyard."
"Tennie air a-growin' wonderful fast," the sly Nathan remarked
pleasantly.
Birt softened instantly. "She air a haffen inch higher 'n she war
las' March, 'cordin' ter the mark on the door," he declared,
pridefully. "She ain't pretty, I know, but she air powerful peart."
"What war the word ez ye war layin' off ter say ter me?" Nate asked,
curiosity vividly expressed in his face.
Birt leaned back against the pile of bark and hesitated. Last night
he had thought Nate the most desirable person to whom he could
confide his secret whose aid he could secure. There were many
circumstances that made this seem wise. But when the disclosure was
imminent, something in those small, bead-like eyes, unpleasantly
close together, something in the expression of the thin, pale face,
something in Nate's voice and manner repelled confidence.
"Nate," said Birt, at last, speaking with that subacute conviction,
so strong yet so ill-defined, which vividly warns the ill-judged and
yet cannot stop the tongue constrained by its own folly, "what d'ye
s'pose I fund in the woods yestiddy?"
The two small eyes, set close together, seemed merged in one, so
concentrated was their gaze. Again their expression struck Birt's
attention. He hesitated once more. "Ef I tell ye, will ye promise
never ter tell enny livin' human critter?"
"I hope I may drap stone dead ef I ever tell!" Nate exclaimed.
"I fund a strange metal in the woods yestiddy. What d'ye s'pose 't
war?"
Nate shook his head. His breath was quick and he could not control
the keen anxiety in his face. A strong flush rose to the roots of
his sandy hair, his lips quivered, and his small eyes glittered with
greedy expectation. His tongue refused to frame a word.
"GOLD!" cried Birt, triumphantly.
"Whar be it?" exclaimed Nate. He was about to start in full run for
the spot.
"I ain't agoin' ter tell ye, without we-uns kin strike a trade."
"Waal," said Nate, with difficulty repressing his impatience, "what
air you-uns aimin' ter do?"
"Ye knows ez I hev ter bide hyar with the bark-mill mos'ly, jes'
now," said Birt, beginning to expound the series of ideas which he
had carefully worked out in his midnight vigil, "'kase they hev got
ter hev a heap o' tan ter fill them thar vats ag'in. Ef I war ter
leave an' go a-gold huntin', the men on the mounting would find out
what I war arter, an' they'd come a-grabblin' thar too, an' mebbe
git it all, 'kase I dunno how much or how leetle thar be. I wants
ter make sure of enough ter buy a horse, or a mule, or su'thin', ef
I kin, 'fore I tells ennybody else. An' I 'lowed ez ye an' me would
go pardners. Ye'd take my place hyar at the tanyard one day, whilst
I dug, an' I'd bide in the tanyard nex' day. An' we would divide
fair an' even all we fund."
Nate did not reply. He was absorbed in a project that had come into
his head as his friend talked, and the two dissimilar trains of
thought combined in a mental mosaic that would have amazed Birt
Dicey.
"Ye see," Birt presently continued, "I dunno when I kin git shet o'
the tanyard this year. Old Jube Perkins 'lows ez he air mighty busy
'bout'n them hides an' sech, an' he wants me ter holp around
ginerally. He say ef I do mo' work'n I owes him, he'll make that
straight with my mother. An' he declares fur true ef I don't holp
him at this junctry, when he needs me, he won't hire his mule to my
mother nex' spring; an' ye know it won't do fur we-uns ter resk the
corn-crap an' gyarden truck with sech a pack o' chill'n ter vittle
ez we-uns hev got at our house."
Nate deduced an unexpected conclusion. "Ye oughter gin me more'n
haffen the make," he said. "'Kase ef 'twarn't fur me, ye couldn't
git none. An' ef ye don't say two thurds, I'll tell every critter
on the mounting an' they'll be grabblin' in yer gold mine d'rec'ly."
"Ye dunno whar it is," said Birt, quietly.
If a sudden jet from the cold mountain torrent, that rioted through
the wilderness down the ravine hard by, had been dashed into Nate's
thin, sharp face, he could not have cooled more abruptly. The
change almost took his breath away.
"I don't mean THAT, nuther," he gasped with politic penitence, "kase
I hev promised not ter tell. I dunno whether I kin holp nohow. I
hev got ter do my sheer o' work at home; we ain't through pullin'
fodder off'n our late corn yit."
Birt looked at him in silent surprise.
Nate was older than his friend by several years. He was of an
unruly and insubordinate temper, and did as little work as he
pleased at home. He often remarked that he would like to see who
could make him do what he had no mind to do.
"Mebbe old Jube wouldn't want me round 'bout," he suggested.
"Waal," said Birt, eager again to detail his plans, "he 'lowed when
I axed him this mornin' ez he'd be willin' ef I could trade with
another boy ter take my place wunst in a while."
Nate affected to meditate on this view of the question. "But it
will be toler'ble fur away fur me ter go prowlin' in the woods, a-
huntin' fur gold, an' our fodder jes' a-sufferin' ter be pulled. Ef
the spot air fur off, I can't come an' I won't, not fur haffen the
make."
"'T ain't fur off at all--scant haffen mile," replied unwary Birt,
anxious to convince. "It air jes' yander nigh that thar salt lick
down the ravine. I marks the spot by a bowlder--biggest bowlder I
ever see--on the slope o' the mounting."
The instant this revelation passed his lips, regret seized him.
"But ye ain't ter go thar 'thout me, ye onderstand, till we begins
our work."
"I ain't wantin' ter go," Nate protested. "I ain't sati'fied in my
mind whether I'll ondertake ter holp or no. That pullin' fodder ez
I hev got ter do sets mighty heavy on my stomach."
"Tim an' yer dad ALWAYS pulls the fodder an' sech--I knows ez that
air a true word," said Birt, bluntly. "An' I can't git away from
the tanyard at all ef ye won't holp me, 'kase old Jube 'lowed he
wouldn't let me swop with a smaller boy ter work hyar; an' all them
my size, an' bigger, air made ter work with thar dads, 'ceptin' you-
uns."
Nate heard, but he hardly looked as if he did, so busily absorbed
was he in fitting this fragment of fact into his mental mosaic. It
had begun to assume the proportions of a distinct design.
He suddenly asked a question of apparent irrelevancy.
"This hyar land down the ravine don't b'long ter yer folkses--who do
it b'long ter?"
"Don't b'long ter nobody, ye weasel!" Birt retorted, in rising
wrath. "D'ye s'pose I'd be a-stealin' of gold off'n somebody else's
land?"
Nate's sly, thin face lighted up wonderfully. He seemed in a fever
of haste to terminate the conference and get away. He agreed to his
friend's proposition and promised to be at the bark-mill bright and
early in the morning. As he trudged off, Birt Dicey stood watching
the receding figure. His eyes were perplexed, his mind full of
anxious foreboding. He hardly knew what he feared. He had only a
vague sense of mischief in the air, as slight but as unmistakable as
the harbinger of storm on a sunshiny summer day.
"I wisht I hedn't tole him nuthin'," he said, as he wended his way
home that night. "Ef my mother hed knowed bout'n it all, I wouldn't
hev been 'lowed ter tell him. She DEspises the very sight o' this
hyar Nate Griggs--an' yit she say she dunno why."
After supper he sat gloomy and taciturn in the uninclosed passage
between the two rooms, watching alternately the fire-flies, as they
instarred the dark woods with ever-shifting gold sparks, and the
broad, pale flashes of heat lightning which from time to time
illumined the horizon. There was no motion in the heavy black
foliage, but it was filled with the shrill droning of the summer
insects, and high in the branches a screech-owl pierced the air with
its keen, quavering scream.
"Tennessee!" exclaimed Birt, as the unwelcome sound fell upon his
ear--"Tennessee! run an' put the shovel in the fire!"
Whether the shovel, becoming hot among the live coals, burned the
owl that was high in the tree-top outside, according to the
countryside superstition, or whether by a singular coincidence, he
discovered that he had business elsewhere, he was soon gone, and the
night was left to the chorusing katydids and tree-toads and to the
weird, fitful illuminations of the noiseless heat lightning.
Birt Dicey rose suddenly and walked away silently into the dense,
dark woods.
"Stop, Tennessee! ye can't go too!" exclaimed Mrs. Dicey, appearing
in the doorway just in time to intercept the juvenile excursionist.
"Ketch her, Rufus! Ef she wouldn't hev followed Birt right off in
the pitch dark! She ain't afeared o' nothin' when Birt is thar.
Git that pomegranate she hed an' gin it ter her ter keep her from
hollerin', Rufe; I hed a sight ruther hear the squeech-owEL."
Tennessee, overpowered by disappointment, sobbed herself to sleep
upon the floor, and then ensued an interval of quiet. Rufe, a
towheaded boy of ten, dressed in an unbleached cotton shirt and
blue-checked homespun trousers, concluded that this moment was the
accepted time to count the balls in his brother's shot-pouch. This
he proceeded to do, with the aid of the sullen glare from the embers
within and the fluctuating gleams of the lightning without. There
was no pretense of utility in Rufe's performance; only the love of
handling lead could explain it.
"Ye hed better mind," his mother admonished him. "Birt war powerful
tried the t'other day ter think what hed gone with his bullets.
He'll nose ye out afore long."
"They hev got sech a fool way o' slippin' through the chinks in the
floor," said the boy in exasperation. "I never seen the beat! An'
thar's no gittin' them out, nuther. I snaked under the house
yestiddy an' sarched, an' sarched!--an' I never fund but two. An'
Towse, he dragged hisself under thar, too--jes' a-growlin' an' a-
snappin'. I thought fur sartin every minit he'd bite my foot off."
He resumed his self-imposed task of counting the rifle balls, and
now and then a sharp click told that another was consigned to that
limbo guarded by Towse. Mrs. Dicey stood in silence for a time,
gazing upon the unutterably gloomy forest, the distant, throbbing
stars, and the broad, wan flashes at long intervals gleaming through
the sky.
"It puts me in a mighty tucker ter hev yer brother a-settin' out
through the woods this hyar way, an' a-leavin' of we-uns hyar, all
by ourselves sech a dark night. I'm always afeared thar mought be a
bar a-prowlin' round. An' the cornfield air close ter the house,
too."
"Pete Thompson--him ez war yander ter the tanyard day 'fore yestiddy
with his dad," said the boy, "he tole it ter me ez how he seen a bar
las' Wednesday a-climbin' over the fence ter thar cornfield, with a
haffen dozen roastin'-ears under his arm an' a watermillion on his
head. But WAR it a haffen dozen? I furgits now ef Pete said it war
a haffen dozen or nine ears of corn the bar hed;" and he paused to
reflect in the midst of his important occupation.
"I'll be bound Pete never stopped ter count 'em," said Mrs. Dicey.
"Pick that chile up an' come in. I'm goin' ter bar up the door."
Birt Dicey plodded away through the deep woods and the dense
darkness down the ravine. Although he could not now distinguish one
stone from another, he had an uncontrollable impulse to visit again
the treasure he had discovered. The murmur of the gently bubbling
water warned him of the proximity of the deep salt spring almost at
the base of the mountain, and, guiding himself partly by the sound,
he made his way along the slope to the great bowlder beneath the
cliffs that served to mark the spot. As he laid his hand on the
bowlder, he experienced a wonderful exhilaration of spirit. Once
more he canvassed his scheme. This was the one great opportunity of
his restricted life. Visions of future possibilities were opening
wide their fascinating vistas. He might make enough to buy a horse,
and this expressed his idea of wealth. "But ef I live ter git a
cent out'n it," he said to himself, "I'll take the very fust money I
kin call my own an' buy Tennessee a chany cup an' sarcer, an' a
string o' blue beads an' a caliky coat--ef I die fur it."
His pleased reverie was broken by a sudden discovery. He was not
standing among stones about the great bowlder; no--his foot had sunk
deep in the sand! He stooped down in the darkness and felt about
him. The spot was not now as he had left it yesterday afternoon.
He was sure of this, even before a fleet, wan flash of the heat
lightning showed him at his feet the unmistakable signs of a recent
excavation. It was not deep, it was not broad; but it was fresh and
it betrayed a prying hand. Again the heat lightning illumined the
wide, vague sky. He saw the solemn dark forests; he saw the steely
glimmer of the lick; the distant mountains flickered against the
pallid horizon; and once more--densest gloom.