Because Jerry Henderson viewed the life of the hills through
understanding eyes, certain paradoxes resolved themselves into the
expected. He was not surprised to find under Lone Stacy's rude exterior
an innate politeness which was a thing not of formula but of instinct.
"Would hit pleasure ye," demanded the host casually the next morning,
"ter go along with me up thar an' see that same identical still thet I
tuck sich pains yestiddy ye _shouldn't_ see?" But Henderson shook his
head, smiling.
"No, thank you. I'd rather not see any still that I can avoid. What I
don't know can't get me--or anyone else--into trouble."
Lone Stacy nodded his approval as he said: "I didn't aim ter deny ye no
mark of confi_dence_. I 'lowed I'd ought ter ask ye."
Turner Stacy stood further off from illiteracy than his father. In the
loft which the visitor had shared with him the night before he had
found a copy of the Kentucky Statutes and one of Blackstone's
Commentaries, though neither of them was so fondly thumbed as the life
of Lincoln.
By adroit questioning Jerry elicited the information that the boy had
been as far along the way of learning as the sadly deficient district
schools could conduct him; those shambling wayside institutions where,
on puncheon benches, the children memorize in that droning chorus from
which comes the local name of "blab-school."
Turner had even taken his certificate and taught for a term in one of
these pathetic places. He laughed as he confessed this: "Hit jest
proves how pore ther schools air, hyarabouts," he avowed.
"I expect you'd have liked to go to college," inquired Henderson, and
the boy's eyes blazed passionately with his thwarted lust for
opportunity--then dimmed to wretchedness.
"Like hit! Hell, Mr. Henderson, I'd lay my left hand down, without
begrudgin' hit, an' cut hit off at ther wrist fer ther chanst ter do
thet!"
Henderson sketched for him briefly the histories of schools that had
come to other sections of the hills; schools taught by inspired
teachers, with their model farms, their saw-mills and even their
hospitals: schools to which not only children but pupils whose hair had
turned white came and eagerly learned their alphabets, and as much more
as they sought.
The boy raised a hand. "Fer God's sake don't narrate them things," he
implored. "They sots me on fire. My grandsires hev been satisfied hyar
fer centuries an' all my folks sees in me, fer dreamin' erbout things
like thet, is lackin' of loyalty."
Henderson found his interest so powerfully engaged that he talked on
with an excess of enthusiasm.
"But back of those grandsires were other grandsires, Turner. They were
the strongest, the best and the most American of all America; those
earlier ancestors of yours and mine. They dared to face the wilderness,
and those that got across the mountains won the West."
"Ours didn't git acrost though," countered the boy dryly. "Ours was
them thet started out ter do big things an' failed."
Henderson smiled. "A mule that went lame, a failure to strike one of
the few possible passes, made all the difference between success and
failure in that pilgrimage, but the blood of those empire-builders is
our blood and what they are now, we shall be when we catch up. We've
been marking time while they were marching, that's all."
"Ye've done been off ter college yoreself, hain't ye, Mr. Henderson?"
"Yes. Harvard."
"Harvard? Seems ter me I've heered tell of hit. Air hit as good as
Berea?"
The visitor repressed his smile, but before he could answer Bear Cat
pressed on:
"Whilst ye're up hyar, I wonder ef hit'd be askin' too master much of
ye ef--" the boy paused, gulped down his embarrassment and continued
hastily--"ef ye could kinderly tell me a few books ter read?"
"Gladly," agreed Henderson. "It's the young men like you who have the
opportunity to make life up here worth living for the rest."
After a moment Bear Cat suggested dubiously: "But amongst my folks I
wouldn't git much thanks fer tryin'. Ther outside world stands fer
interference--an' they won't suffer hit. They believes in holdin' with
their kith an' kin."
Again Henderson nodded, and this time the smile that danced in his eyes
was irresistibly infectious. In a low voice he quoted:
"The men of my own stock
They may do ill or well,
But they tell the lies I am wonted to,
They are used to the lies I tell.
We do not need interpreters
When we go to buy and sell."
Bear Cat Stacy stood looking off over the mountain sides. He filled his
splendidly rounded chest with a deep draft of the morning air,--air as
clean and sparkling as a fine wine, and into his veins stole an ardor
like intoxication.
In his eyes kindled again that light, which had made Henderson think of
volcanoes lying quiet with immeasurable fires slumbering at their
hearts.
Last night the boy had fought out the hardest battle of his life, and
to-day he was one who had passed a definite mile-post of progress. This
morning, too, a seed had dropped and a new life influence was stirring.
It would take storm and stress and seasons to bring it to fulfilment,
perhaps. The poplar does not grow from seed to great tree in a
day--but, this morning, the seed had begun to swell and quicken.
What broke, like the fledgling of a new conception, in Bear Cat's
heart, was less palpably but none the less certainly abroad in the air,
riding the winds--with varied results.
That an outside voice was speaking: a voice which was dangerous to the
old gods of custom, was the conviction entertained, not with elation
but with somber resentment in the mind of Kinnard Towers. Upon that
realization followed a grim resolve to clip the wings of innovation
while there was yet time. It was no part of this crude dictator's
program to suffer a stranger, with a gift for "glib speech," to curtail
his enjoyment of prerogatives built upon a lifetime of stress and
proven power.
Back of Cedar Mountain, where there are few telephones, news travels on
swift, if unseen wings. Henderson had not been at Lone Stacy's house
twenty-four hours when the large excitement of his coming, gathering
mythical embellishment as it passed from mouth to mouth, was
mysteriously launched.
Wayfarers, meeting in the road and halting for talk, accosted each
other thus:
"I heer tell thar's a man over ter Lone Stacy's house thet's done been
clar ter ther other world an' back. He's met up with all character of
outlanders."
Having come back from "ther other world" did not indeed mean, as might
be casually inferred, that Henderson had risen from his grave;
relinquishing his shroud for a rehabilitated life. It signified only
that he had been "acrost the waters"--a matter almost as vague. So the
legend grew as it traveled, endowing Jerry with a "survigrous"
importance.
"Folks says," went the rumor, "thet he knows ways fer a man ter make a
livin' offen these-hyar tormentin' rocks. Hev ye seed him yit?"
Having come to the house of Lone Stacy, it was quite in accordance with
the custom of the hills that he should remain there indefinitely. His
plans for acquiring land meant first establishing himself in popular
esteem and to this end no means could have contributed more directly
than acceptance under a Stacy roof.
With the younger Stacy this approval was something more: it savored of
hero-worship and upon Henderson's store of wisdom, Bear Cat's avid
hunger for knowledge feasted itself.
Henderson saw Blossom often in these days and her initial shyness, in
his presence, remained obdurate. But through it he caught, with a
refreshing quality, the quick-flashing alertness of her mind and he
became anxious to win her confidence and friendship.
And she, for all her timidity, was profoundly impressed and fed
vicariously on his wisdom--through the enthusiastic relaying of Bear
Cat Stacy's narration.
When conversation with Jerry was unavoidable, Turner noted that she was
giving a new and unaccustomed care to her diction, catching herself up
from vernacular to an effort at more correct forms.
"Blossom," he gravely questioned her one day, "what makes ye so mindful
of yore P's and Q's when ye hes speech with Jerry Henderson?"
"I reckon hit's jest shame fer my ign'rance," she candidly replied,
forgetting to be ashamed of it now that the stranger was no longer
present.
"And yit," he reminded her, "ye've got more eddication now then
common--hyarabouts."
"_Hyarabouts_, yes," came the prompt retort, touched with irony. "So
hev _you_. Air ye satisfied with hit?"
"No," he admitted honestly. "God knows I hain't!"
* * * * *
One evening Kinnard Towers entered the saloon at the Quarterhouse and
stood unobserved at the door, as he watched the roistering crowd about
the bar. It was a squalid place, but to the foreign eye it would have
been, in a sordid sense, interesting. Its walls and the eight-foot
stockade that went around it were stoutly builded of hewn timbers as
though it had been planned with a view toward defense against siege.
A few lithographed calendars from mail-order houses afforded the sole
note of decoration to the interior. The ordinary bar-mirror was
dispensed with. It could hardly have come across the mountain intact.
Had it come it could scarcely have survived.
The less perishable fixtures of woodwork and ceiling bore testimony to
that in their pitted scars reminiscent of gun-play undertaken in rude
sport--and in deadly earnest. The shutters, heavy and solid, had on
occasion done service as stretchers and cooling boards. Vilely odorous
kerosene lamps swung against the walls, dimly abetted by tin
reflectors, and across the floor went the painted white line of the
state border. At the room's exact center were two huge letters. That
east of the line was V. and that west was K.
The air was thick with the reek of smoke and the fumes of liquor. The
boisterousness was raucously profane--the general atmosphere was that
of an unclean rookery.
As the proprietor stood at the threshold, loud guffaws of maudlin
laughter greeted his ears and, seeking the concrete cause, his gaze
encountered Ratler Webb, propped against the bar, somewhat redder of
eye and more unsteady on his legs than usual. Obviously he was the
enraged butt of ill-advised heckling.
"Ye hadn't ought ter hev crossed Bear Cat," suggested a badgering
voice. "Then ye wouldn't hev a busted nose. He's a bad man ter fool
with. Thar war witches at his bornin'."
"I reckon Bear Cat knows what's healthful fer him," snarled Webb. "When
we meets in ther highway he rides plumb round me."
The speaker broke off and, with a sweeping truculence, challenged
contradiction. "Air any of you men friends of his'n? Does airy one of
ye aim ter dispute what I says?" Silence ensued, possibly influenced by
the circumstance that Ratler's hand was on his pistol grip as he spoke,
so he continued:
"Ef I sought ter be a damn' tale-bearer, I could penitenshery him fer
blockadin' right now, but thet wouldn't satisfy me nohow. I aims ter
handle him my own self."
Again there was absence of contradiction near about the braggart,
though ripples of derisive mirth trickled in from the outskirts.
Ratler jerked out his weapon and leaned against the bar. As he waved
the muzzle about he stormed furiously: "Who laughed back thar?" And no
one volunteered response.
Webb squinted hazily up at one of the reflector-backed lamps. "Damn
thet light," he exclaimed. "Hit hurts my eyes." There followed a report
and the lamp fell crashing.
For a brief space the drunken man stood holding the smoking weapon in
his hand, then he looked up and started, but this time he let the
pistol swing inactive at his side and the truculent blackness of his
face faded to an expression of dismay.
Kinnard Towers stood facing him with an unpleasant coldness in his
eyes.
"I reckon, Ratler," suggested the proprietor, "ye'd better come along
with me. I wants ter hev peaceable speech with ye."
In a room above-stairs Kinnard motioned him to a chair much as a
teacher might command a child taken red-handed in some mad prank.
"Ratler, hit hain't a right wise thing ter talk over-much," he
volunteered at last. "Whar air thet still ye spoke erbout--Bear Cat
Stacy's still?"
Webb cringed.
"I war jest a-talkin'. I don't know nuthin' erbout no sich still."
What means of loosening unwilling tongues Kinnard Towers commanded was
his own secret. A half hour later he knew what he wished to know and
Ratler Webb left the place. Upon his Ishmaelite neck was firmly
fastened the collar of vassalage to the baron of the Quarterhouse.
On the day following that evening Towers talked with Black Tom
Carmichael.
"This man Henderson," he said musingly, "air plumb stirring up ther
country. I reckon hit'd better be seen to."
Black Tom nodded. "Thet oughtn't ter be much trouble." But Towers shook
his blond head with an air of less assured confidence.
"Ter me hit don't look like no easy matter. Lone Stacy's givin' him
countenance. Ef I war ter run him outen these parts I reckon ther
Stacys would jest about swarm inter war over hit."
"What does ye aim ter do, Kinnard?"
"So far I'm only bidin' my time, but I aims ter keep a mighty sharp eye
on him. He hain't made no move yit, but he's gainin' friends fast an' a
man's obleeged ter kinderly plan ahead. When ther time's ripe he's got
ter go." Towers paused, then added significantly, "One way or
another--but afore thet's undertook, I 'lows ter git rid of his
protectors."
"Thet's a mighty perilous thing ter try, Kinnard," demurred the
lieutenant in a voice fraught with anxiety. "Ye kain't bring hit ter
pass without ye opens up ther war afresh--an' _this_ time they'd hev
Bear Cat ter lead 'em."
But Towers smiled easily.
"I've got a plan, Tom. They won't even suspicion I knows anything about
events. I'm goin' ter foller Mr. Henderson's counsel an' do things ther
_new_ way, 'stid of ther old."