Jerry Henderson had lost his way.
Aching muscles protested the extra miles because back there at Marlin
Town he had been advised to cross Cedar Mountain on foot.
"Unless they suspicions ye, 'most any man'll contrive ter take ye in
an' enjoy ye somehow," his counselors had pointed out. "But thar's
heaps of them pore fam'lies over thar thet hain't got feed fer a ridin'
critter noways."
Now Cedar Mountain is not, as its name mendaciously implies, a single
peak but a chain that crawls, zig-zag as herringbone, for more than a
hundred miles with few crossings which wheels can follow.
It is a wall twenty-five hundred feet high, separating the world from
"back of beyond." Having scaled it since breakfast, Jerry Henderson was
tired.
He was tanned and toughened like saddle-leather. He was broad of
shoulder, narrow of thigh, and possessed of a good, resolute brow and a
straight-cut jaw. His eyes were keen with intelligence and sufficiently
cool with boldness.
Arriving at a narrow thread of clear water which came singing out at
the edge of a corn-field, his eyes lighted with satisfaction. Tilled
ground presumably denoted the proximity of a human habitation where
questions could be answered.
So he stood, searching the forested landscape for a thread of smoke or
a roof, and as he did so he perceived a movement at the edge of the
field where the stalks had grown higher than the average and merged
with the confusion of the thicket.
Jerry turned and began making his way along the edge of the patch,
respecting the corn rows by holding close to the tangle at the margin.
Then suddenly with a rustling of the shrubbery as startling as the
sound with which a covey of quail rises from nowhere, a figure stepped
into sight and the stranger halted in an astonishment which, had
Blossom Fulkerson realized it, was the purest form of flattery.
He had seen many women and girls working in the fields as he had come
along the way and most of them had been heavy of feature and slovenly
of dress. Here was one who might have been the spirit of the hills
themselves in bloom; one who suggested kinship with the free skies and
the sunlit foliage.
With frank delight in the astonishing vision, Jerry Henderson stood
there, his feet well apart, his pack still on his shoulders and his
lips parted in a smile of greeting and friendliness.
"Howdy," he said, but the girl remained motionless, vouchsafing no
response.
"I'm a stranger in these parts," he volunteered easily, using the
vernacular of the hills, "and I've strayed off my course. I was aiming
to go to Lone Stacy's dwelling-house."
Still she remained statuesque and voiceless, so the man went on: "Can
you set me right? There seems to be a sort of a path here. Does it lead
anywhere in particular?"
He took a step nearer and eased his pack to the ground among the briars
of the blackberry bushes.
Abruptly, as if to bar his threatened progress, Blossom moved a little
to the side, obstructing the path. Into her eyes leaped a flame of
Amazonian hostility and her hands clenched themselves tautly at her
sides. Her lips parted and from her throat came a long, mellow cry not
unlike the yodle of the Tyrol. It echoed through the timber and died
away--and again she stood confronting him--wordless!
"I didn't mean to startle you," he declared reassuringly, "I only
wanted information."
Again the far-carrying but musical shout was sent through the quiet of
the forest--his only answer.
"Since you won't answer my questions," said Jerry Henderson, irritated
into capriciousness, "I think I'll see for myself where this trail
leads."
Instantly, then, she planted herself before him, with a violently
heaving bosom and a wrathful quivering of her delicate nostrils, Her
challenge broke tensely from her lips with a note of unyielding
defiance.
"Ye can't pass hyar!"
"So you _can_ talk, after all," he observed coolly. "It's a help to
learn that much at all events."
He had chanced on a path, he realized, which some moonshiner preferred
keeping closed and the girl had been stationed there as a human
declaration, "no thoroughfare."
Still he stood where he was and presently he had the result of his
waiting.
A deep, masculine voice, unmistakable in the peremptoriness of its
command, sounded from the massed tangle of the hillside. It expressed
itself in the single word "Begone!" and Henderson was not fool enough
to search the underbrush for an identifying glimpse of his challenger.
"My name is Jerry Henderson and I was seeking to be shown my way," he
said quietly, keeping his eyes, as he spoke, studiously on the face of
the girl.
"Begone! I'm a-warnin' ye fa'r. Begone!"
The wayfarer shrugged his shoulders. Debate seemed impracticable, but
his annoyance was not lessened as he recognized in the clear eyes of
the young woman a half-suppressed mockery of scorn and triumph.
Henderson stooped and hefted his pack again to his shoulders, adjusting
it deliberately. If it must be retreat, he wished at least to retire
with the honors of war. The girl's expression had piqued him into
irascibility.
"I'd heard tell that folks hereabouts were civil to strangers," he
announced bluntly. "And I don't give a damn about whatever secret
you're bent on hiding from me."
Then he turned on his heel and started, not rapidly but with a
leisurely stride to the road. He seemed to feel the eyes of the girl
following him as he went, and his spirit of resentment prompted an act
of mild bravado as he halted by the rotten line of fence and
unhurriedly tightened the lace of a boot.
"Hasten!" barked the warning voice from the laurel, but Henderson did
not hasten. He acknowledged the disquieting surmise of a rifle trained
on him from the dense cover, but he neither looked back nor altered his
pace. Then he heard a gun bark from the shrubbery and a bullet zip as
it found its billet in a tree trunk above his head, but that he had
expected. It was merely a demonstration in warning--not an attempt on
his life. As long as he kept on his way, he believed hostilities would
go no further.
Without venturing to use his eyes, he let his ears do their best, and a
satirical smile came to his lips as he heard a low, half-smothered
scream of fright break from the lips of the girl whom he could no
longer see.
And, had he been able to study the golden-brown eyes just then, he
would have been even more compensated, for into them crept a slow light
of admiration and astonished interest.
"He ain't nobody's coward anyways," she murmured as the figure of the
unknown man swung out of sight around the bend, and some thought of the
same sort passed through the mind of the elderly man in the thicket,
bringing a grim but not an altogether humorless smile to his lips.
"Wa'al, I run him off," he mused, "but I didn't hardly run him no-ways
_hard_!"
Jerry Henderson had borne credentials from Uncle Israel Calvert who
kept a store on Big Ivy, and he had been everywhere told that once
Uncle Billy had vised his passports, he would need no further
safe-conduct.
In the encounter at the cornfield there had been no opportunity to show
that bill of health and it was only after an hour spent in walking the
wrong way, that its possessor met the next person to whom he could put
questions. Then he learned that "Lone Stacy dwelt in a sizeable house
over on Little Slippery,"--but that he had strayed so far from the true
course that now he must climb a mountain or take a detour and that in
either event he would have to hasten to arrive there before nightfall.
So the shadows were lengthening when he turned into the course of what
must be "Little Slippery"--and came face to face with two men of
generous stature, one elderly and the other youthful. He noted that the
older of these men carried a rifle on his shoulder and was conscious of
a piercing scrutiny from both pairs of eyes.
"I'm seeking Lone Stacy," began Henderson, and the older face darkened
into a momentary scowl of animosity, with the coming of the curt reply:
"Thet's my name."
The traveler gave a violent start of astonishment. It was a
deep-chested voice which, once heard, was not to be confused with other
voices, and Jerry Henderson had heard it not many hours before raised
in stentorian warning from the depth of the thickets. But promptly he
recovered his poise and smiled.
"I have a piece of paper here," he said, "from Uncle Israel Calvert. He
said that if he vouched for me you would be satisfied."
As Lone Stacy accepted the proffered note with his left hand he passed
his rifle to the younger man with his right, and even then he held the
sheet unopened for a space while his serious gaze swept the stranger
slowly from head to foot in challenging appraisal.
He read slowly, with the knitted brows of the unscholastic, and as he
did so the youth kept his eye on Henderson's face--and his finger on
the trigger.
Having seen the boy's face, Henderson found it hard to shift his glance
elsewhere. He had encountered many mountain faces that were sinister
and vindictive--almost malign, but it was not the unyielding challenge
which arrested him now. It was something far more individual and
impressive. There are eyes that reflect light with the quicksilver
responsiveness of mirrors. There are others, though more rare, which
shine from an inner fire.
Bear Cat Stacy's held the golden, unresting flame that one encounters
in the tawny iris of a captive lion or eagle. Such eyes in a human face
mean something and it is something which leads their possessor to the
gallows or the throne. They are heralds of a spirit untameable and
invincible; of the will to rend or rebuild.
Henderson found himself thinking of volcanoes which are latent but not
extinct. It was a first glimpse, but if he never again saw this boy,
who stood there measuring him with cool deliberation, he would always
remember him as one remembers the few instantly convincing
personalities one has brushed in walking through life.
But when Lone Stacy had finished his perusal, the nod of his head was
an assurance of dissipated doubt. There was even a grave sort of
courtesy in his manner now, as he announced:
"Thet's good enough fer me. If Uncle Israel vouches fer ye, ye're
welcome. He says hyar 'ther bearer is trustworthy'--but he don't say
who ye air. Ye said yore name war Jerry Henderson, didn't ye?"
"That _is_ my name," assented the newcomer, once more astonished. "But
I didn't realize I'd told it yet."
With an outright scorn for subterfuge the older man replied, "I reckon
thar hain't no profit in a-beatin' ther devil round ther stump. You've
heered my voice afore--an' I've seed yore face. Ye tole me yore name
back thar--in ther la'rel, didn't ye?"
Henderson bowed. "I _did_ recognize your voice, but I didn't aim to
speak of it--unless you did."
"When I says that I trusts a man," the moonshiner spoke with an
unambiguous quietness of force, "I means what I says an' takes my
chances accordin'. Ef a man betrays my confidence--" he paused just an
instant then added pointedly--"he takes _his_ chances. What did ye 'low
yore business war, hyarabouts, Mr. Henderson?"
"I mean to explain that to you in due time, Mr. Stacy, but just now it
takes fewer words to say what's _not_ my business."
"Wall then, what _hain't_ yore business?"
"Other people's business."
"Wa'al so far as hit goes thet's straight talk. I favors outright
speech myself an' ye don't seem none mealy-mouthed. Ye talks right fer
yoreself--like a mountain man."
"You see," said Henderson calmly, "I _am_ a mountain man even if I've
dwelt down below for some years."
"You--a mountain man?" echoed the bearded giant in bewilderment and the
visitor nodded.
"Ever hear of Torment Henderson?" he inquired.
"Colonel Torment Henderson! Why, hell's fiddle, man, my daddy sarved
under him in ther war over slavery! I was raised upon stories of how he
tuck thet thar name of 'Torment' in battle."
"He was my grandpap," the stranger announced, dropping easily into the
phrases of the country.
"Mr. Henderson," said the old man, drawing himself up a trifle
straighter, "we're pore folks, but we're proud ter hev ye enjoy what
little we've got. This hyar's my son, Turner Stacy."
Then Bear Cat spoke for the first time. "I reckon ye be leg-weary, Mr.
Henderson. I'll fotch yore contraptions ter ther house."
There remained to the splendidly resilient powers of Bear Cat's
physical endowment no trace of last night's debauch except that
invisible aftermath of desperate chagrin and mortification. As he
lifted the pack which Henderson had put down something like admiring
wonderment awoke in him. Here was a man born like himself in the hills,
reared in crude places, who yet bore himself with the air of one
familiar with the world, and who spoke with the fluency of education.
As the wearied traveler trudged along with his two hosts, he had
glowing before his eyes the final fires of sunset over hills that grew
awesomely somber and majestic under the radiance of gold and ash of
rose. Then they reached a gate, where a horse stood hitched, and before
them bulked the dark shape of a house whose open door was a yellow slab
of lamplight.
From the porch as they came up, rose a gray figure in the neutrality of
the dying light; a man with a patriarchal beard that fell over his
breast and an upper lip clean shaven, like a Mormon elder. Even in that
dimness a rude dignity seemed inherent to this man and as Henderson
glanced at him he heard Lone Stacy declaring, "Brother Fulkerson, ye're
welcome. This hyar is Mr. Henderson." Then turning to the guest, the
householder explained. "Brother Fulkerson air ther preacher of God's
Word hyarabouts. He's a friend ter every Christian an' a mighty
wrastler with sin."
As the stranger acknowledged this presentation he glanced up and,
standing in the light from the door, found himself face to face with
yet another figure; the figure of a girl who was silhouetted there in
profile, for the moment seemingly frozen motionless by astonishment.
Her face was flooded with the pinkness of a deep blush, and her slender
beauty was as undeniable as an axiom.
Lone Stacy turned with an amused laugh, "An' this, Mr. Henderson," he
went on, "air Brother Fulkerson's gal, Blossom. I reckon ye two hev met
afore--albeit ye didn't, in a way of speakin', make yore manners ther
fust time."
Blossom bowed, then she laughed shyly but with a delicious quality of
music in her voice.
"I reckon ye 'lowed I didn't know nothin'--I mean anything--about
manners, Mr. Henderson," she confessed and the man hastily assured her:
"I 'lowed that you were splendidly loyal--to somebody."
As he spoke he saw Bear Cat at his elbow, his eyes fixed on the girl
with a wordless appeal of contrition and devotion, and he thought he
understood.
"Howdy, Blossom," murmured Turner, and the girl's chin came up. Her
voice seemed to excommunicate him as she replied briefly: "Howdy,
Turner."
This was a lover's quarrel, surmised Henderson and discreetly he turned
again to the host, but, even so, he saw Turner step swiftly forward and
raise his hands. His lips were parted and his eyes full of
supplication, but he did not speak. He only let his arms fall and
turned away with a face of stricken misery.
Blossom knew about last night, reflected Bear Cat. He was, as he
deserved to be, in disgrace.
Then as the girl stood looking off into the gathering darkness her own
face filled wistfully with pain and the boy, dropping to a seat on the
floor of the porch, watched her covertly with sidewise glances.
"Blossom met me down ther road," observed the minister, "an' named ter
me thet she hed----" He paused, casting a dubious glance at the
stranger, and Lone Stacy interrupted: "She named ter ye thet she stood
guard at ther still an' warned Mr. Henderson off?"
Brother Fulkerson nodded gravely. "I was a little mite troubled in my
mind lest she'd put herself in jeopardy of the law. Thet's why I
lighted down an' hitched hyar: ter hev speech with ye."
"Ye needn't worrit yoreself none, Brother Fulkerson," reassured the
host. "Mr. Henderson comes vouched fer by Uncle Israel."
The preacher sat for a space silent and when he next spoke it was still
with a remnant of misgiving in his tone.
"I don't aim to go about crossin' good men and a-cavilin' with thar
opinions," he began apologetically. "Like as not heaps of 'em air
godlier men than me, but I holds it to be my duty to speak out free."
Again he paused and cast a questioning glance at his host as though in
deference to the hospitality of the roof, and the tall mountaineer,
standing beside the post of his porch, nodded assent with equal
gravity.
"Talk right fer yoreself, Brother Fulkerson. I don't never aim ter
muzzle no man's speech."
"Waal, this day I've rid some twenty miles acrost high ridges and down
inter shadowy valleys, I've done traversed some places thet war
powerful wild an' laurely. Wharsoever God's work calls me, I'm obleeged
ter go, but I raised my voice in song as I fared along amongst them
thickets, lest some man thet I couldn't see; some man a-layin' on
watch, mout suspicion I was seekin' ter discover somethin' he aimed ter
keep hid--jest as ye suspicioned Mr. Henderson, hyar."
Lone Stacy stroked his beard.
"I reckon thet war ther wisest way, Brother Fulkerson, unless every man
over thar knowed ye."
"I reckon God likes ther songs of his birds better," declared the
preacher, "then ther song of a man thet _hes_ ter sing ter protect his
own life. I reckon no country won't ever prosper mightily, whilst hit's
a land of hidin' out with rifle-guns in ther laurel."
There was no wrath in the eyes of the host as he listened to his
guest's indictment or the voice of thrilling earnestness in which it
was delivered. He only raised one hand and pointed upward where a
mighty shoulder of mountain rose hulking through the twilight. Near its
top one could just make out the thread-like whiteness of a new fence
line.
"Yonder's my corn patch," he said. "When I cl'ared hit an' grubbed hit
out my neighbors all came ter ther workin' an' amongst us we toiled
thar from sun-up twell one o'clock at night--daylight an' moonlight. On
thet patch I kin raise me two or three master crops o' corn an' atter
_thet_ hit won't hardly raise rag weeds! A bushel o' thet corn, sledded
over ter ther nighest store fotches in mebby forty cents. But thar's
two gallons of licker in hit an' _thet's_ wuth money. Who's a-goin' ter
deny me ther rightful license ter do hit?"
"Ther Law denies ye," replied the preacher gravely, but without
acerbity.
"Thar's things thet's erginst ther law," announced the old man with a
swift gathering of fierceness in his tone, "an' thar's things thet's
_above_ ther law. A criminal is a man thet's done befouled his own
self-respect. I hain't never done thet an' I hain't no criminal. What
do _you_ think, Mr. Henderson?"
Henderson had no wish to be drawn, so soon, into any conflict of local
opinion, yet he realized that a candid reply was expected.
"My opinion is that of theory only," he responded seriously. "But I
agree with Brother Fulkerson. A community with secrets to hide is a
hermit community--and one of the strangers that is frightened away--is
Prosperity."
Bear Cat Stacy, brooding silently in his place, looked suddenly up.
Hitherto he had seen only the sweet wistfulness of Blossom's eyes. Now
he remembered the words of the old miller.
"Some day a mountain man will rise up as steadfast as the hills he
sprung from--an' he'll change hit all like ther sun changes fog!"
Perhaps Turner Stacy was ripe for hero-worship.
Over the mountain top appeared the beacon of the evening star--luminous
but pale. As if saluting it the timber became wistful with the call of
whippoorwills and fireflies began to flit against the sooty curtain of
night.
Something stirred in the boy, as though the freshening breeze brought
the new message of an awakening. Here was the talk of wise men,
concurring with the voices of his dreams! But at that moment his mother
appeared in the doorway and announced
"You men kin come in an' _eat_, now."