Marlin Town lies cradled in the elbow of the river and about its ragged
edges the hills stand beetling, hemming it in.
Had it been located in Switzerland, it would have been acclaimed in
guide-book and traveler's tales for the sheer beauty of its
surroundings.
Hither, when the summer had spent its heat and the hard duties of the
farmer had relaxed, flocked the men and women and the children of the
country side for that annual diversion which combined with the ardor of
religious pilgrimage a long-denied hunger for personal intercourse and
excitement. Then, in fine, came "big-meeting time."
The clans gathered from "'way over on t'other side of nowhars." They
trooped in from communities which the circuit rider visited so rarely
that it was no disgrace for a man and a maid to dwell together as man
and wife until a child had been born to them before opportunity came to
have the marriage rites solemnized. They flocked from localities so
remote that in them sometimes the dead lay buried without funeral until
an itinerant minister chanced by to hold obsequies over all delinquent
graves in common. It is even told how occasionally a widowed husband
wept over the mortal remains of his first and second wife--at a sermon
held for both.
So while the magnet which draws them out of their deep-burrowed
existence is the Camp-meeting with its hymns and discourse, the
occasion holds also the secular importance of county-fair and social
conclave.
Brother Fulkerson left his cabin before daylight one morning for the
journey to town, riding his old mare, with his daughter on a pillion
behind him. With them started Lone Stacy, Bear Cat and Henderson,
though since these three must travel with only two mules, the younger
men followed the ancient custom of "riding and tying"--alternating in
the saddle and on foot.
The air held the heady bouquet of autumn now with the flavor of cider
presses and of ripened fox-grapes for the delight of the nostril and
the dreamy softness of hazy horizons for the eye.
Oak and poplar flaunted their carnival color along the hillsides.
Maples threw out scarlet and orange banners against the sedate tone of
the pines and cedars. Among the falling acorns of the woods, mast-fed
razor-backs were fattening against the day of slaughter, when for a
little while the scantily supplied cabin-dwellers would be abundantly
provisioned with pork and cider.
Bear Cat's eyes dwelt steadfastly on Blossom, and Jerry Henderson's
turned toward her oftener than he meant them to. There was, in the air,
a pervasive holiday spirit.
Roads usually so bare of travel were full now, full with a rude
procession of wayfarers; men trudging along with trailing families at
their heels; calico-clad women riding sideways on bony steeds,
sometimes bizarre in fanciful efforts at finery; tow-headed children
with wide-staring eyes.
Then at last they were in Marlin Town, rubbing shoulders with all the
narrow mountain world. There was Kinnard Towers riding among his
rifle-armed henchmen. He sat stiff in his saddle, baronially pleased as
men pointed him out,--and Jerry thought it a safe wager that Kinnard
had not come as a convert to the mourners' bench.
Towers nodded affably and shouted his salutation in passing.
But among all the strange types foregathered here with a tone of the
medieval about them and over them, none were more fantastic than the
two preachers who were to conduct the revival. Brother Fulkerson and
his party encountered this pair as they passed the Court-house. Both
were tall, cadaverous and preternaturally solemn of visage. Both wore
rusty Prince Albert coats faded to a threadbare green. One had a collar
and no necktie; the other a necktie and no collar. Between the frayed
bottoms of shrunken trousers and the battered tops of crude brogans
each showed a dusty and unstockinged shank.
"Who are these preachers we're going to hear?" inquired Jerry
Henderson, and Brother Fulkerson shook his head dubiously.
"I heer tell thet they're some new sect," was the guarded reply. "I
don't hold with them none, myself."
"They are sensational exhorters, I take it," hazarded Jerry, and again
the preacher from across the mountain tempered his criticism with
charity:
"Folks say so. I don't aim ter jedge 'em though--leastways not till
I've sat under th'ar discourse first."
But Bear Cat was restrained by no such inhibition and his voice was
openly scornful.
"They're ther sort of preachers thet keeps folks benighted. All they
teaches is superstition an' ign'rance."
"Son," suggested Lone Stacy with a grave consideration, "I wouldn't
hardly condemn 'em unheard, ef I was you. They claims ter be preachers
of God's word, an' thar's room, a-plenty, fer all sorts an' sects."
But the younger man's eyes glowed with that tawny fire of militant
rebellion, which was awakening in him against all the shackling
influences of mental lethargy.
"They don't believe in book larnin'," went on Bear Cat contemptuously,
"because they says thar hain't no Holy Ghost in hit. They harangues so
long es thar wind holds out, an' all they keers about is how many takes
a big through at meetin'."
Jerry smiled at the characterization. He had seen men and women "take
big throughs," that hysterical--and often ephemeral declaration of
conversion which measures its over-wrought zeal by the vehemence of
outcry and bodily contortion with which the convert comes through to
the mourners' bench.
Later in the day Henderson and Bear Cat, returning from the livery
stable, were walking single-file along the narrow plank that served as
a sidewalk, when they encountered a young man, blood-shot of eye and
malevolent of expression. Either Bear Cat Stacy who was in advance or
the newcomer must step down into the mud and surrender the
right-of-way. If pedestrians so situated are friends, each will be
prompt of courtesy. If they are enemies, ethics require that the weaker
will must yield and the stronger hold to its rights.
Now Henderson perceived that the two were confronting each other
rigidly. Over Turner's shoulder he could see the bleary eyes of the
other smolder with a wrath that he knew meant blood-lust as Bear Cat
waved his hand in an imperious gesture which commanded as plainly as
words, "Give me the road!"
It was a brief and tense situation, but it was being publicly observed
and he who surrendered would be branded in street-corner gossip with
cowardice.
Passers-by, across the way, halted and held their breath. The more
timid glanced about for shelter should gun-play ensue, but after an
instant Ratler Webb turned grudgingly aside and stepped down into the
outer road. Bear Cat Stacy walked on, stiffly erect, and he did not
turn his head for a backward glance.
Ratler halted where he stood, dangerously snarling, and his hand
fumbled for a moment under his coat. He challengingly swept the faces
of all men in sight, and murmurs of laughter, which had broken out in
sheer relief at a relaxed tension, died as abruptly as they had begun.
Every pair of eyes became studiously inattentive.
* * * * *
Through the crowds that overflowed the town moved one figure who seemed
more the Ishmaelite than even the disgraced Ratler.
Men who had, in the past, plotted against each other's lives to-day
"met an' made their manners" with all outward guise of complete amity,
yet this one figure walked ungreeted or recognized only with the curt
nod which was in itself a modified ostracism. It must be said of him
that he bore the baleful insistence of public enmity with a
half-contemptuous steadiness in his own eyes, and a certain bold
dignity of bearing. Mark Tapier--mongrelized by mountain pronunciation
into Tapper--was the revenue officer and behind him, though operating
from remote distance, lay the power of Washington.
To comprehend the universal hatred of the backwoods highlander for the
"revenue" one must step back from to-day's standard of vision into the
far past and accept that prejudice which existed when as legalistic a
mind as Blackstone said: "From its original to the present time, the
very name of excise has been odious to the people of England," and when
Dr. Johnson defined the term in his dictionary as: "A hateful tax
levied upon commodities ... by wretches hired by those to whom excise
is paid."
Such a "wretch" was Mark Tapper in the local forum of public thought; a
wretch with an avocation dependent upon stealth and treachery of broken
confidences; profiting like Judas Iscariot upon blood-money.
Yet before the first day of "Big Meeting time" had progressed to noon,
Mark Tapper sat in close and secret conference with the strongest and
most typical exponent of the old order of the hills.
Into the side door of the Court-house strolled Kinnard Towers at
ten-thirty in the morning. From the jailer, who was his vassal, he
received the key which unlocked the small study giving off from the
Circuit Court-room--the judge's chamber--now vacant and cobwebbed.
In this sanctum of the law's ostensible upholding, surrounded by
battered volumes of code and precedent, the man who was above the law
received first Jud White, the town marshal.
"I reckon sich a gatherin' of folks es this hyar sort of complicates
yore job, Jud," he began blandly. "I thought I ought to tell ye thet
Ratler Webb's broguein' round town gittin' fuller of licker an'
hostility every minute thet goes by."
The town marshal scowled with a joyless foreboding.
"Mebby," he tentatively mused, "hit moutn't be a bad idee ter clap him
in ther jail-house right now--afore he gits too pizen mean ter handle."
But with judicial forbearance Kinnard Towers shook his head. "No, I
wouldn't counsel ye ter do thet. Hit wouldn't be hardly lawful. I've
done instructed Black Tom Carmichael ter kinderly keep an eye on him."
After a moment he casually added: "Thar's bad blood betwixt Ratler an'
young Bear Cat Stacy. Hit would sarve a better purpose fer ye ter keep
a heedful watch on Bear Cat."
The town marshal's face fell. He felt that to him was being assigned a
greater share than his poor deserts in the matter of safe-guarding the
peace and dignity of the Commonwealth.
Towers caught the crestfallen frown and repressed a twinkle of
amusement.
"What's ther matter, Jud? Air ye a-settin' on carpet tacks?" he
inquired with even, good humor. "Or air ye jest plain skeered at ther
idee of contraryin' Bear Cat Stacy?"
"No, I hain't skeered of Bear Cat," lied the officer, reddening. "Ef he
breaches ther peace terday I aims ter jail him fer hit ther same es
anybody else." He paused, then broke out with fervor: "But he's a
mighty good man ter leave alone, Kinnard. He's ther best man ter leave
alone I ever met up with, an' thet's God's own blessed truth."
Towers laughed. "Well, son, I aims ter be kinderly keepin' in touch
with Bear Cat Stacy myself, an' ef any ruction rises a-tween ye, I'll
be thar ter straighten hit out. So, if need be,--why, jest treat him
like anybody else--as ye says--an' don't be narvous about hit."
Ten minutes after the dejected exit of Jud White, Mark Tapper, the
Revenuer, entered the front door of the Courthouse and shouldered his
way aggressively among loungers who eyed him with hostile
vindictiveness. Passing unchallenged between several rifle-bearers in
the upper area, he entered the judge's office, where Towers sat
expectantly waiting.
Kinnard opened the interview by drawing forth his wallet and counting
sundry bank notes into Tapper's extended palm.
"Kinnard," suggested the federal sleuth irritably, "it was clearly
understood between us that you were going to limit those stills you're
interested in--not develop them into a damned syndicate."
Towers frowned a little. "Ther more thar is of 'em ther more ye gits,
don't ye?"
"Yes, and where my revenue, from your hush money, increases a picayune,
my peril increases--vastly. One tip to the government, and I'm ruined."
"Oh, pshaw, Mark," urged Towers conciliatingly, "hit's jest an exchange
of leetle favors a-tween us. There's some fellers I've got ter kinderly
protect an' thar's some information ye needs ter hev in yore
business--so 'stid of wagin' war on one another we trades tergether.
Thet's all."
For a few moments the revenue officer restlessly paced the room, then,
halting before the desk, he rapped sharply with his knuckles. "Since I
let myself in for this folly of selling you protection I'm not damned
fool enough to try to threaten you. You can hurt me worse than I can
hurt you--and have me assassinated to boot--but unless we can arrange
things more to my liking, I'll get myself transferred to another
district--and you'll have to begin all over again."
Towers did not at once answer. When he did it was with the air of one
tendering the olive branch of peace.
"Set down, Mark, an' let's be reasonable. If so be thar's
dissatisfaction I reckon we kin fix matters. Right now I've got a
bigger project in mind than _thet_--an' I needs yore aid. This here
Jerry Henderson stands mightily in my light an' I aims ter be rid of
him. He hain't got no money invested hyar. He kin go without no loss
ner trouble. He don't even hev ter put out ther fire an' call ther
dawg. He sets by Lone Stacy's fire an' he hain't got no dawg."
"If you mean a watch-dog he doesn't need one--so long as the Stacys
choose to protect him."
Towers slowly nodded. "Thet's right, but with Lone Stacy and Bear Cat
moved away fer a leetle spell, hit would be as easy as old shoes."
"And how do you aim to move them?"
"Thet's whar you comes in, Mark. Lone's runnin' a blockade still over
on Little Slippery."
The revenuer leaned forward with as unreceptive a stare as though his
companion had graciously proffered him the gift of a hornet's nest.
"Hold on," he bluntly protested, "I have no evidence of that--and
what's more, I don't want any."
"Air you like ther balance of 'em hyarabouts?" came Kinnard's satiric
inquiry. "Air ye skeered ter tackle Bear Cat Stacy?"
Mark Tapper replied with entire sincerity.
"Yes, I'm afraid to tackle him--and I'm brave enough to admit it. Once
in a century a man like that is born and he's born to be a master. I
warn you betimes, Kinnard, _leave him alone_! Play with a keg of
blasting powder and a lighted match if you like. Tickle a kicking mule
if you've a mind to, but _leave Bear Cat alone_!" The minion of the
federal law rose from his chair and spoke excitedly. "And if you're
hell-bent on starting an avalanche, do it for yourself--don't try to
make me pull it down on my own head, because I won't do it."
Kinnard Towers leaned back in the judge's swivel chair and laughed
uproariously.
"Mark, right sensibly at times, ye shows signs of human discernment. I
hain't seekin' no open rupture with this young tiger cat my own self. I
aims ter show in this matter only es his friend. _You_ hain't overly
popular with them Stacys nohow an' I've got hit all _dee_vised, ter
plumb convince 'em thet ye're only actin' in ther lawful discharge of
yore duty."
"That will be very nice--if you succeed," commented the proposed
catspaw dryly.
"I aims ter succeed," came the prompt assurance. "I aims ter
demonstrate thet thar war so much talkin' goin' round thet ye war plumb
obleeged ter act an' thet thar hain't no profit in resistin'. I'll tell
'em hit's a weak case atter all. They won't harm ye. Ye hain't a-goin'
ter arrest ther boy nohow--jest ther old man."
"And leave Bear Cat foot-loose to avenge his daddy! No thank you. Not
for me."
Again Towers smiled. "Now don't be short-sighted, Mark. Bear Cat won't
be hyar neither."
"Why won't he be here? Because you'll tell him to go?"
"I won't need ter say a word. His daddy'll counsel him ter leave fer a
spell an' hide out--so thet he kain't be tuck down ter Looeyville fer a
gover'_ment_ witness."
"When am I supposed to perform this highly spectacular stunt?" inquired
Mark Tapper.
"I aims ter hev ye do hit this afternoon."
"This afternoon--with every foot of street and sidewalk full of wild
men, ready to pull me to pieces!" The revenuer's face was hot with
amazement. "Besides I have no evidence."
"Ye kin git thet later," Towers assured him calmly. "Besides we don't
keer a heap if ye fails ter convict. We only wants 'em outen ther way
fer a while. Es fer ther crowds, I'm fixed ter safeguard ye. I've got
all my people hyar--ready--an' armed. I aims ter run things an' keep
peace in Marlin Town terday!"