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THE STARBUCKS
A New Novel
by
OPIE READ
Author of
"The Jucklins," "Old Ebenezer," "My Young Master,"
"A Tennessee Judge," "A Kentucky Colonel," "Len Gansett,"
"On the Suwanee River," "Emmett Bonlore," Etc.
[Illustration: "SHE WAS THE ONLY MOTHER I KNOWED."]
Character Illustration, True to Life, Reproduced in Colors
Laird & Lee, Chicago
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1902,
by William H. Lee,
in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at
Washington, D. C.
Contents
CHAPTER PAGE
I. The People of the Hills, 9
II. Jim, the Preacher, 17
III. Getting Acquainted, 32
IV. At the Post Office, 50
V. Couldn't Quarrel in Peace, 63
VI. Hadn't Listened, 84
VII. Not So Far Out of the World, 102
VIII. The Spirit that Played with Her, 111
IX. At Dry Fork, 118
X. Tied to a Tree, 134
XI. Reading the News, 148
XII. Didn't Do Anything Heroic, 166
XIII. Might Wipe her Feet on Him, 183
XIV. An Old Man Preached, 198
XV. The Girl and the Churn, 207
XVI. The Appointment Comes, 220
XVII. Not to Tell Her a Lie, 234
XVIII. Down the Road, 252
XIX. Old Folks Left Alone, 263
XX. Met it in the Road, 271
XXI. Into the World beyond the Hills, 279
XXII. Came to Weep, 287
XXIII. A Trip Not Without Incident, 296
XXIV. Two Fruitful Witnesses, 303
XXIV. Too Proud to Beg, 312
ILLUSTRATIONS
REPRODUCED IN COLORS FROM PHOTOGRAPHS
PAGE
"She was the only mother I knowed," Frontispiece
"Them what hain't had trouble ain't had no cause to look fur
the Lord," 48
"Yes, I d-d-d-do say so, a-a-a-atter a f-f-f-fashion." 80
"Kotch 'em stealin' hosses, I reckon." 128
"Well," Margaret exclaimed, "I never was so surprised." 208
"Go on erway an' let me talk ter myse'f. You kain't talk." 240
"If you air the Jedge, I am sorter diserp'inted in you." 288
"Jedge, there ain't no better man than he is, an' for the
Lord's sake don't hang him." 304
"THE STARBUCKS."
[From the Drama of the Same Name.]
CHAPTER I.
THE PEOPLE OF THE HILLS.
In every age of the world people who live close to nature have, by the
more cultivated, been classed as peculiar. An ignorant nation is brutal,
but an uneducated community in the midst of an enlightened nation is
quaint, unconsciously softened by the cultivation and refinement of
institutions that lie far away. In such communities live poets with
lyres attuned to drollery. Moved by the grandeurs of nature, the
sunrise, the sunset, the storm among the mountains, the tiller of the
gullied hill-side field is half dumb, but with those apt "few words
which are seldom spent in vain," he charicatures his own sense of
beauty, mingling rude metaphor with the language of "manage" to a horse.
I find that I am speaking of a certain community in Tennessee. And
perhaps no deductions drawn from a general view of civilization would
apply to these people. Some of their feuds, it is said, may be traced
back to the highlands of Scotland, and it is true that many of their
expressions seem to come from old books which they surely have never
read, but they do not eat oats, nor do they stand in sour awe of Sunday.
What religion they have is a pleasure to them. In the log meeting-house
they pray and sing, sometimes with a half-open eye on a fellow to be
"thrashed" on the following day for not having voted as he agreed;
"Amen" comes fervently from a corner made warm by the ardor of the
repentant sinner; "Hallelujah!" is shouted from the mourner's bench, and
a woman in nervous ecstasy pops her streaming hair; but the average man
has come to talk horse beneath the trees, and the young fellow with
sun-burnt down on his lip is there slily to hold the hand of a maid
frightened with happiness and boastingly to whisper shy words of love.
"Do you like Sam Bracken?" he inquires.
"Not much."
"If you like him much, I bet I can whup him. Like Steve Smith?"
"Not so powerful well."
"I can whup him."
"Bet you can't."
"You wait."
And the chances are that unless she modifies her statement the Smith boy
will be compelled to answer for the crime of her compliment.
In this community, in the edge of what is known as East Tennessee, the
memory of Andrew Jackson is held in deepest reverence. To those people
he was as a god-like hero of antiquity. Single-handed he defeated the
British at New Orleans. Nicholas Biddle, a great banker somewhere away
off yonder, had gathered all the money in the land, and it was Jackson
who compelled him to disgorge, thus not only establishing himself as the
master of war, but as the crusher of men who oppress the poor.
* * * * *
Prominent in the neighborhood of Smithfield, a town of three or four
hundred inhabitants, was Jasper Starbuck. Earlier in his life he had
whipped every man who stood in need of that kind of training. Usually
of a blythesome nature, he was subject to fits of melancholy, only to be
relieved by some sort of physical entanglement with an enemy. Then, his
"spell" having passed, he would betake himself to genial affairs, help a
neighbor with his work, lend his chattels to shiftless farmers, cut wood
and haul it for widows, and gathering children about him entertain them
with stories of the great war.
And how dearly that war had cost him. East Tennessee did not tear itself
loose from the Union; Andrew Johnson and Parson Brownlow, one a
statesman and the other a fanatic, strangled the edicts of the lordly
lowlanders and sent regiment after regiment to the Federal army. Among
the first to enlist were old Jasper Starbuck and his twin boys. The boys
did not come back. In the meantime their heart-broken mother died, and
when the father returned to his desolate home, there was a grave beneath
the tree where he had heard a sweet voice in the evening.
Years passed and he married again, a poor girl in need of a home; and at
the time which serves as the threshold of this history, he was sobered
down from his former disposition to go out upon a "pilgrimage" of
revenge. His "spells" had been cured by grief, but nothing could kill
his humor. Drawling and peculiar, never boisterous, it was stronger than
his passion and more enduring than the memory of a wrong. He was not a
large man. A neighbor said that he was built after the manner of a
wild-cat. He was of iron sinew and steel nerve. His eyes were black with
a glint of their youthful devilishness. His thick hair was turning gray.
Margaret, his wife, was a tender scold. She was almost a foundling, but
a believer in heredity could trace in her the evidences of good blood.
From some old mansion, long years in ruin, a grace had escaped and come
to her. An Englishman, traveling homeward from the defunct colony of
Rugby, declared that she was an uncultivated duchess.
"This union was blessed,"--say the newspapers and story-books, speaking
of a marriage,--"with a beautiful girl," or a "manly boy." Often this
phrase is flattery, but sometimes, as in this instance, it is the truth.
Lou Starbuck was beautiful. In her earlier youth she was a delicious
little riot of joy. As she grew older, she was sometimes serious with
the thought that her father and mother had suffered. She loved the truth
and believed that bravery was not only akin to godliness, but the right
hand of godliness.
In Starbuck's household, or at least attached to his log-house
establishment, there were two other persons, an old black mammy who had
nursed Jasper, and a trifling negro named Kintchin.
* * * * *
One day in summer there came two notable visitors, Mrs. Mayfield, and
her nephew Tom Elliott, both from Nashville, sister and son of a United
States Judge. When they came to Jasper's house, they decided to go no
further.
"Tom," said the woman, "this is the place we are looking for."
Tom caught sight of Lou Starbuck, standing in the doorway, and replied:
"Auntie, I guess you are right."
The mere suggestion of taking boarders threw the household into a
flurry, but Mrs. Mayfield, tall, graceful, handsome, threw her charm
upon opposition and it faded away. Old Jasper was not over cordial to
"store clothes," at least he was not confidential, and with the keen
whip of his eye he lashed Tom Elliott, but the boy appeared to be frank
and manly.
"Of course you can stay as long as you want to," said Jasper, "but I
reckon you'll have to put on some homespun and a checked hickory shirt
or two, befo' you kin put up with our fare."
"Now, please, don't worry about that," Mrs. Mayfield spoke up. "We can
eat parched corn if necessary. We have come from the city to rest,
and--"
"Rest," Jasper broke in, looking at the young fellow. "Why, he don't
look like he ever done anythin'. Never plowed a day in your life, did
you?"
"I must confess that I haven't," Tom replied.
"Thar, I knowed it." And then speaking to Mrs. Mayfield, he added: "All
right, mam, we'll do the best we kin fur you. Got the same names here
that you had down whar you come from?"
Tom laughed. His aunt reproved him with a look. "Why, of course. What
object would we have in changing them?"
"Don't ask me, mam. I never know what object nobody has--ain't my
business. Here, Kintchin," he called to the negro, "take them trunks
outen the wagin and then you may go to sleep ag'in."
Kintchin came round a corner of the house, rubbing his eyes. "Talkin'
ter me, suh?"
"You hearn me."
"Said suthin' erbout gwine ter sleep. I jest wanter tell you dat I ain't
slep' none fur er week, an' ef you 'sinuate at me--"
"Go on there. Now mam, ef you'll jest step in we'll do the best we kin."
"Oh, thank you. How courteous you are."
"How what? I reckon you better git along without much o' that. Don't
want nobody put on a strain. Margaret, here are some folks," he
continued as his wife made her appearance. "Jest tell 'em howdy and let
'em alone."
She bowed to Tom and to Mrs. Mayfield. "And befo' you make yo'selves at
home," she said, "I hope you'll l'arn not to pay no attention to Jasper.
Lou, haven't you spoke to the folks?"
"No'm, but I can. Howdy."