The volume of the singing out there and the flare of the ruddy torches,
left no doubt as to the substantial strength of the force which had
swept aside such legal technicalities as state jurisdiction.
When Bear Cat had trusted himself so recklessly on the threshold while
the opposite door still stood open, the spectral figures with masked
faces could have streamed in, wave on wave, to smother out any
up-flaming spirit of resistance, but in doing that there would have
been hand-to-hand conflict, in which the innocent must pay as heavy and
ultimate a penalty as the guilty.
So Turner had withdrawn, and permitted the barring of the doors--though
he knew that the structure had the solid strength of square-sawed oak
and that the besieged scores were fully armed. Now from the outside he
hammered on the massive panels with a rifle butt.
"Ef ye wants ter send a man out hyar ter parley with me," he shouted
through the heavy barrier, "I gives ye my pledge that he kin go back
safe. Ef ye don't see fit ter do thet, we've got ter believe thet ye're
all one stripe, resistin' arrest, and we aims ter set this hell-house
ter ther torch."
"Let me have five minutes ter study erbout hit," Towers gave answer,
then he turned to the men inside. "Go upsta'rs, Tom," he directed
swiftly, "an' look out. Let me know how many thar seems ter be of 'em."
Carmichael, peering out of dark windows above, saw against the snow,
innumerable sable figures bulking formidably in the red flare of
blazing pine fagots. Other torches burned with a menacing assurance of
power beyond them along the road, and far up the distant slopes
glittered reinforcements of scattered tongues of flame.
The figures nearest at hand stood steady with an ominous and spectral
stillness, and their ghostliness was enhanced by the fitful torch-light
in which the whole picture leaped and subsided with a phantom
uncertainty of line and mass.
Black Tom came back and shook his head. "Hit hain't no manner of use,"
he announced. "We mout es well give up. I reckon we kin still come
cl'ar in co'te."
But the old lion, whose jaws and fangs had always proved strong enough
to crush, was of no mind to be caged now.
"Come cl'ar! Hell's blazes!" he roared with a livid face. "Don't ye see
what's done come ter pass? He'll take these damn' outlaws over thar an'
no jury won't dast ter cl'ar us. If we quits now we're done."
Towers leaped, with an astonishing agility to the counter of the bar
and raised his clenched fists high above his head.
"Men!" he thundered, "hearken ter me! Don't make no mistake in thinkin'
thet ef ye goes out thar, ye'll hev any mercy showed ye. This is ther
finish fight betwixt all ther customs of yore blood--an' this damn'
outlaw's new-fangled tyranny! He don't aim jest ter jail me an' Tom--he
aims ter wipe out every mother's son thet's ever been a friend ter me.
"We've got solid walls around us now--but any man thet goes out thar,
goes straight ter murder. Es fer me I don't aim ter be took alive--air
ye of ther same mind? Will ye fight?"
His flaming utterance found credence in their befuddled minds. They
could not conceive of merciful treatment from the man they had hounded
and sought for months to murder from ambush. Inside at least they could
die fighting, and nods of grim assent gave their answer.
"Ther stockade hain't no good now," Towers reminded them. "They're
already inside hit, but from them upsta'r winders we kin still rake 'em
severe an' plentiful whilst they're waitin' fer our answer. Let them
winders be filled with men, but don't let no man shoot till he heers my
pistol--then all tergether--an' give 'em unshirted hell."
So, answering the reprieve with deceit, the block house, which had, for
a generation, been an infamous seat of power, remained silent until a
pistol snapped out and then from every window leaped spiteful jets of
powder lightning and the solid roar of a united volley. That was the
answer and as a light clatter of sliding breech bolts followed the
crescendo, its defenders went on shooting, more raggedly now, as fast
as each man could work his repeater. A chorused bellow of defiance was
hurled outward as they fired.
Yet from out there came no response of musketry and, after all, the
deceitful effort to convert the period of parley into a paralyzing blow
had failed. Few flambeaux had been blazing in the space between the
stockade and the house itself, and the ponderous eight-foot wall of
logs built to make the place a fortress had become a protection for the
besiegers so that only a few scattered figures fell. Then, with amazing
unanimity of action, the torches were thrust down and quenched in the
snow.
But Bear Cat Stacy himself had remained flattened against the door, too
close to be seen from any window, and at his feet was a can of
kerosene.
The glow from a match-end became first a slender filament of flame
which widened to a greedy blanket as it lapped at the oil and spread
crackling up the woodwork of the door's frame. Then, gathering a swift
and mighty force, it laid a frenzied and roaring mantle of destruction
upon the integrity of the walls themselves.
From inside came a chorused howl of bitter wrath and despair, and as
Bear Cat turned and ran for it, crossing the space between door and
stockade, he went through a hail of lead--and went with the old charm
still holding him safe.
The Quarterhouse was strong enough to laugh at rifles, but to flame it
was tinder-like food. The roar and crackle of its glutting soon drowned
the howls of its imprisoned victims. Maddened with the thought that,
having refused parley, their lives were forfeit unless they could cut
their way out, they raved like dying maniacs. The glare reddened and
inflamed the skies and sent out a rain of soaring sparks that was seen
from many miles away.
The Virginia door was obliterated in a blanket of flame, but abruptly
the Kentucky door vomited a stream of desperate men, running and
shooting as they came. Then, for the first time, the cordon of rifles
that held them in its grip gave voice.
Between the house-door and the stockade, figures fell, grotesque in the
glare, and those that did not fall wheeled and rushed back within the
blazing walls. But in there was an unendurable furnace. They shouted
and raved, choking with the suffocation of foul smoke waves like the
demoralized shapes of madmen in some lurid inferno.
Then standing at the one door which still afforded a chance of exit,
Kinnard Towers for the last time raised his arms.
"Throw down yore guns, men, an' go out with yore hands up," he yelled,
seeking to be heard above the din of conflagration. "Myself, I aims ter
stay hyar!"
A few caught the words and plunged precipitately out, unarmed, with
hands high in surrender; and others, seeing that they did not fall,
followed with a sheep-like imitation--but some, already struggling with
the asphyxiation that clawed at their throats, writhed uneasily on the
floor--and then lay motionless.
Kinnard Towers, with a bitter despair in his eyes, and yet with the
leonine glare of defiance unquenched, stood watching that final
retreat. He saw that at the stockade gate, they were being passed out
and put under guard. It was in his own mind, when he had been left
quite alone to walk deliberately out, fighting until he fell.
About him the skies were red and angry. His death would come with a
full and pyrotechnic illumination, seen of all men, and it would at
least be said of him that he had never yielded.
So picking up a rifle from the floor, he deliberately examined its
magazine and efficiency. After that he stepped out, paused on the
doorstep, and fired defiantly at the open gate of the stockade.
There was a spatter of bullets against the walls at his back, but he
stood uninjured and defiantly laughing. Without haste he walked
forward. Then a tall figure, with masked face came running toward him
and he leveled the rifle at its breast. But he was close to the gate
now, and the man plunged in, in time to strike his barrel up and bear
him to the ground.
Outside the stockade stood, herded, the prisoners, and at their front,
the posse of deputies brooded over Kinnard Towers and Tom Carmichael,
both shamefully hand-cuffed.
Bear Cat Stacy looked over his captives who, taking their cue from
Towers himself, remained doggedly silent.
"You men," he said crisply, "all save these two kin go home now--but
when ther co'te needs ye ye've got ter answer--an ye've got ter speak
ther truth."
As they listened in surprised silence Turner's voice became sterner:
"Ef ye lies ter ther High co'te thar's another co'te thet ye kain't lie
ter. Now begone."
Then Bear Cat turned to the tall figure that had defeated Kinnard's
determination to die uncaptured.
"We've done seed ther manner of yore fightin'," he said in the voice of
one who would confer the accolade. "Now let's see what manner of face
ye w'ars. I reckon we don't need ter go masked no longer, anyhow."
The mountaineer ripped off his hat and the black cloth which had
covered his face--and Turner Stacy stood looking into the eyes of Lone
Stacy, his father. For an instant he leaned forward incredulously, and
his voice was strangely unsteady.
"How did ye git hyar," he demanded.
"They kept puttin' off my trial--ontil I reckon they wearied of hit,"
was the grave response. "Day before yistiddy ther jedge dismissed my
case."
"But no man hain't nuver been with us afore without he was
oath-bound--how did ye contrive hit?"
The old man smiled. "Dog Tate 'lowed I could take ther oath an' all
ther rest of ther formalities in due time. He fixed me up an' brought
me along. This hyar war a matter thet I was right interested in."
"I 'lowed," Turner's voice fell to a more confidential note, "I 'lowed
ye mout be right wrathful at all I've been doin' since ye went away. Ye
used ter berate me fer not lovin' blockadin'."
There was a momentary silence. The bearded man, somewhat thinner and
more bent than when he had gone away to prison, and the son with a face
more matured by these weeks and months, stood gazing into each other's
eyes. To the reserve of each, outspoken sentiment came hard and even
now both felt an intangible barrier of diffidence.
Then Lone Stacy answered gruffly, but there was an unsteadiness of
feeling under his laconic reply.
"I've done showed ye how wrathful I air. I'm tolable old--but I reckon
I kin still l'arn."
* * * * *
Even when Kinnard Towers sat a prisoner in the courtroom which he had
dominated, and heard Sam Carlyle, seeking to save his own neck by
turning traitor, tell the lurid story of all his iniquities, an
unbending doggedness characterized his attitude. As his eyes dwelt on
the henchman who was swearing away his life, they burned so scornfully
that the witness twisted and fidgeted and glanced sidewise with hangdog
shame.
When the jury trooped in and stood lined solemnly before the bench, he
gazed out of the window where the hills were beginning to soften their
slaty monotone with a hint of tender green. He did not need to hear
them respond to the droning inquiries of the clerk, because he had read
the verdict in their faces long before.
But when they had, for greater security, removed him to the Louisville
jail and had put him in that row of cells reserved for those whose
lives are forfeit to the law, it is doubtful whether that masklike
inexpressiveness truly mirrored an inward phlegm.
There was an electric lamp fixed against the iron bars of the death
corridor, turned inward like a spot-light of shame which was never
dimmed either day or night--and there was a warden who paced the place,
never leaving him unwatched--and Kinnard Towers had lived in places
where eagles breed and where the air is wild and bites the lungs with
its tang of freedom.
* * * * *
It was June again--June full-bosomed and tuneful with the over-spilling
melody of birds. Over the tall peaks arched a sky of such a pure and
colorful blue that it, too, seemed to sing--and the little clouds that
drifted placidly along were like the lazy sails of pleasure craft,
floating in high currents. Along the dimmest and most distant ridges
lay a violet mist that was all ash-of-dreams--but near at hand, whether
on the upper levels of high hills or down in the shadowed recesses,
where the small waters trickled, everything was color--color, bloom and
song.
The rhododendron, which the mountaineer calls laurel, was abloom. The
laurel, which is known in hill parlance as ivy, was gay with
pink-hearted blossom. The mountain magnolia flaunted its great petals
of waxen while and the wild rose nodded its frail face everywhere.
But these were details. Over the silver tinkle of happy little brooks
was the low but infinite harping of the breeze, and over the glint of
golden flecks on mossy rock, was the sweep of sunlight and shadow
across the majesty of towering peaks and the league-wide spread of
valleys.
The hills were all singing of summer and rebirth, but as Bear Cat Stacy
went riding across them his eyes were brooding with the thought of
dreams that had not come true.
Many of them had come true, he told himself, in their larger
aspects--even though he found himself miserably unsatisfied. There was
a large reward in the manner of men and women who paused in their tasks
of "drappin' an' kiverin'" along the sloping cornfields to wave their
hats or their hands at him and to shout cheery words.
Those simple folk looked upon him as one who had led them out of
bondage to a wider freedom, instilling into them a spirit of
enterprise.
One farmer halted his plow and came to the fence as Bear Cat was riding
by.
"I heers tell," he began, "thet ther whole world, pretty nigh, air at
war an' thet corn's goin' ter be wuth money enough, this crop, ter pay
fer haulin' hit."
Stacy nodded. "I reckon that's right," he said.
"An' I heers thet, deespite all contrary accounts, ther railroad aims
ter come in hyar--an' pay fa'r prices."
Turner smiled. "They had ter come round to it," he answered. "There are
more tons of coal in Marlin county than there are dollars in Jefferson
county, and Jefferson county is the richest in the state."
The farmer rested his fore-arms on the top rail of the fence and gazed
at the young man on horseback.
"I reckon us folks are right-smart beholden ter ye, Bear Cat," he
suggested diffidently. "With a chief like you, we'll see prosperity
yit."
"We don't have no chiefs here," declared the young man with a
determined setting of his jaw. "We're all free and equal. The last
chief was Kinnard Towers--and he's passed on."
"None-the-less, hit wouldn't amaze me none ter see ye git ter be the
president of this hull world," declared the other with simple
hero-worship. "Whar are ye ridin' ter?"
"I'm going over into Fletcher county to see that school there. I'm
hopin' that we can have one like it over here."
The farmer nodded. "I reckon we kin manage hit," he affirmed.
Turner had heard much of that school to which Matthew Blakey had taken
his three children--so much that all of it could hardly be true. Now he
was going to see for himself.
But his thoughts, as he rode, were beyond his control and memories of
Blossom crowded out the more impersonal things.
At last he came to a high backbone of ridge. From there he ought to be
able to catch his first glimpse of the tract which the school had
redeemed from overgrown raggedness into a model farm, but as yet the
dense leafage along the way cut off the view of the valley.
Then he came to a more open space and reined in his horse, and as he
looked out his eyes widened in astonishment.
Spreading below him, he saw such even and gracious spaces of
cultivation as were elsewhere unknown to the hills.
Down there the fences were even and the fields smooth, but what
astonished him most were the buildings. Clustered over a generous
expanse of hill and valley, of field and garden all laid out as though
some landscape gardener had made it a labor of love, were houses such
as he had dreamed of--houses with dignity of line and proportion, with
architectural beauty of design.
Everything, even at that distance, could be seen to be substantially
designed for usefulness, and yet everything combined with that prime
object of service the quality of art.
He was looking down on a tiny village, uncrowded and nestling on the
varied levels of an undulating valley, and he counted out a dozen
houses, recognizing some of them--the tiny hospital on its hill--the
model dairies at one edge--the saw-mill sending out its fragrance--the
dormitories with sleeping porches and the school-buildings themselves.
This was what he had visioned--and yet he realized how cramped had been
his dream as he urged his tired horse forward and listened to the
whistle of a bob-white in the stubble.
"Ef Blossom could know that we're goin' ter have a school like this
over there!" he breathed to himself. Then as he rode along the twisting
descent of road, between park-like forest trees and masses of
rhododendron, and dismounted before a large house he saw a broad porch
with a concrete foundation, and easy chairs and tables littered with
magazines and books. From the door came a lady, smiling to greet him.
It was Miss Pendleton, the woman who from small beginnings had built
here in the wilderness such an achievement, and as she came to the
stairs she held out her hand.
"I've been greatly interested in your letters, Mr. Stacy," she said,
"and I don't see why we can't repeat over there what we have done here.
We have grown from very small beginnings--and now I want to show you
around our premises--unless you are too tired."
With wonderment that grew, he followed her, and a swarm of happy-faced
children went with them; children keen of eye and rosy of cheek, and
when they had inspected together the buildings where the pupils were
taught from books, and the dairies and gardens where they were taught
by practice, the lady showed him into a log house as artistic and
charming as a swiss chalet and said: "This will be your abiding place
while you're here. I'll send one of the boys to see that you have
everything you need--and later on I'll introduce you to a lady who is
much interested in your plans for a school on Little Slippery and who
can discuss the details."
Left alone on the porch of his "pole-house," Bear Cat sat gazing upward
to the American flag that floated from a tall staff before his door,
and as he did so a small boy with clear and intelligent eyes came and
said: "I've done been named ter look atter ye."
In the young face was none of that somber shyness which shadows the
faces of many mountain children. Turner put his hand on the boy's head.
"Thank you, son," he said slowly. "Haven't I seen you before somewhar?"
The boy laughed. "I remembers _you_" he asserted. "I seed ye when my
paw was fotchin' me an' my brother an' sister over hyar. I'm Matthew
Blakey's boy."
"You had right-sore eyes then, didn't you?"
The child laughed. "I did then--but I hain't now." After a moment's
pause he added with a note of pride: "See thet flag? Hit's ther
American flag an' hit's my job ter put hit up every day at sun-up an'
take hit down at sun-set. I aims ter show ye right now how I does hit."
Bear Cat met young women from Eastern colleges who had come here to aid
in the work. In their presence he felt very uncouth and ignorant, but
they did not suspect that inner admission. They saw a young man who
reminded them of a bronze athlete, with clear and fearless eyes,
touched with a dreamer's zeal, and in his manner they recognized a
simple dignity and an inherent chivalry.