paused in the midst of her egg beating to look about for Dock, her
youngest, who was prone to get into mischief if unwatched.
By ten o’clock the company had arrived. It included the Bills family, as
being next of kin, and Miss Howard who had waited to come with Mrs. Gooch
and the younger children. Martin and Abner made themselves as useful as
possible by taking the smaller members of the assembled families a short
distance along the mountain-side in search of the hickory nuts which
might have escaped their eyes at nutting time.
The company sat out of doors and visited with the host, while Talitha and
her mother, with Gincy’s aid, completed the final preparations for the
Christmas feast. The children’s table was laid beside a clump of laurel.
When the youngsters appeared, they were immediately set down before
well-filled plates while their elders gathered in the cabin. The family
table had been lengthened by Martin’s skilful contriving and placed
cornerwise across the room. Even then it took some managing to get the
guests properly seated.
Mrs. Coyle surveyed the feast with pardonable pride; it would have done
credit to more notable housewives. Not since the early days of her
marriage had she had the opportunity to show such hospitality. Two of
the largest, plumpest turkeys in her flock graced the centre of the board
in company with a fat, wild goose, potatoes, turnips, beans, squash,
dishes of pickle, a salad—Talitha had learned to make at
Bentville—besides the usual Christmas pies, and a large black cake Gincy
had trimmed with a wreath of holly. Both front and back doors were wide
open, and a gentle breeze cooled the heated room where both the new stove
and the fireplace had been doing extra duty.
Around the little cabin rose the great sheltering hills, their peaks a
misty purple in the soft haze of a belated Indian summer. Below, Goose
Creek, still little more than a rivulet, basked lazily in the sunshine.
At first the appetites were too keen to allow of much conversation, but
at last Shad Bills laid down his knife and fork and looked around with a
grin. “Has anybody heerd how the schoolmaster’s feelin’?” he suddenly
inquired. “I ’lowed a-toppin’ off the Chris’mus doin’s with thet
surprise war a leetle too much fer the old man.”
“I seen him this mornin’,” said Dan Gooch. “He war as peart as a Juny
bug. The Twilligers give him an invite to eat turkey with them. Yes,
sir,” he smiled reminiscently, “I reckon Goose Creek never see no sech
doin’s as we had last night. I don’t rightly know as we’d ought ter let
Tally slip off this-a-way without writin’ out a promise thet she’ll come
back and teach the school next year.”
Sam Coyle grinned appreciatively. Not one of the men in the company
could read or write. “I reckon her word of mouth’ll do. Tally’s boun’
ter come back all right,” her father declared.
“She can’t always be comin’ back to teach,” put in Gincy. “If you go to
Commencement next spring maybe you’ll want Tally to have a diploma, too.”
Sam Coyle wisely refrained from a reply. That he had not looked with
favour upon his daughter’s ambition to get an education was well known,
and now that he had been proved in the wrong he did not propose to lay
himself open to further criticism. However, he inwardly determined that
Talitha should keep the Goose Creek school. The money was a great help
to the family, and Dan Gooch would like nothing better than to have a
chance to secure it for Gincy, he reasoned selfishly. Miss Howard
shrewdly read the man’s thoughts, but she said nothing, although she
inwardly resolved that Talitha should have her chance with the rest.
After the dinner was over and the dishes cleared away, the young people
went to the schoolhouse. The maps and pictures were to be brought home
for safekeeping, although there was no probable danger of their being
molested. Besides, the young teacher wanted to see the place again
before leaving for Bentville.
There was a strong odour of pine as Martin flung open the door. The
despoiled tree still stood on the platform. Miss Howard had put the
tinsel trimmings carefully away for future Christmases.
“It certainly looks as though we had had a good time last night,” said
Talitha, glancing around. “Billy, I think I’ll let you and Sudie sweep
out when you have a chance. You may keep the greens up as long as you
choose; they’ll last some time. Good-bye until next summer,” she said to
herself as she reluctantly turned away.
They stopped a moment at the little heap of ashes and charred logs below
the new structure. “It’s a fitting monument for the old shack we used to
call a schoolhouse,” said Martin reflectively. “When I remember the days
we spent in it, I—”
“Don’t,” said Talitha gently. “The schoolmaster did the best he knew.
He can see his mistakes as well as anybody now.” Miss Howard was silent,
but she thought of the many such places scattered over the mountains,
some of them presided over by just such teachers as Si Quinn had been.
Early that evening Martin and Talitha slipped away to the old
schoolmaster’s cabin to say good-bye, for they would start by light the
next morning.
“I ’lowed you’d be ’long,” he said, beaming down at them. “I came home
early so’s not ter miss you.”
“Oh, we wouldn’t have gone away without coming to see you,” Talitha
assured him, drawing up a stool before the bright blaze in the fireplace.
Martin seated himself upon an old chest in the corner and looked around.
He had been curious to see how Talitha had managed to rehabilitate the
dingy place of which he had such disagreeable recollections.
“You wouldn’t know my old shack now, would you?” Si Quinn noticed the
young fellow’s survey of the room. “You kin lay the hull thing ter
Tally, I’ll be boun’—”
“Oh, no, no,” protested the girl, blushing. “I just—”
“Don’t I know your sly tricks? You started hit an’ did a heap besides.
Not that Goose Creek folks ain’t the frien’liest, best-hearted critters
in the hull mountings.”
“Just think what you’ve done for me!” cried Talitha in a low tone.
“Those books and maps—I couldn’t have replaced them this fall—and that
box was such a godsend! Billy’s going to see that all the children have
a chance to read the books this winter. They’ll be learning a lot and
the days won’t seem so long. I’ll send them a package of papers and
magazines in the spring.”
“Law me, Tally, hit war little ’nough I did. I’d hev done a heap more,
but I couldn’t. Hit’ll seem mighty lonesome with you-uns gone, but I’ll
git some comfort thinkin’ of the chanct you’re havin’.”
The call must necessarily be a brief one. Talitha was very tired and
there was a long ride before them on the morrow. But as the two rose to
go the old man caught at the girl’s sleeve. “Martin, you jest g’long and
bide fer Tally by the big tree. I’ve somethin’ special ter say ter her.”
Martin looked surprised, but he obeyed.
“I war told ter keep hit a secret, Tally,” said Si Quinn as the door
closed behind her brother. “But I couldn’t let you go ’way a-thinkin’ I
sent you thet box, fer I didn’t. I’ll trust you never ter speak of hit
long as I live if I tell you. Hit war Jake Simcox—”
“Jake—!” Talitha stopped short in amazement.
“Yes, he’s repented of his folly and is turnin’ over a new leaf. He air
a good piece from Goose Creek and he’s got a chanct ter work an’ go ter
school. What’s more, he ’lows ter make up—some time—fer all the mischief
he done. But he war sech a pore ignorunt feller—I reckon you’ve fergiven
him, Tally, hit worked out a sight o’ good fer you and fer Goose Creek.”
“Yes, yes, indeed!” cried the girl, the tears in her eyes, “and I’m so
glad he’s having a chance. I wish you’d tell him so.”
“’Tain’t likely I’ll ever see him agin, but he’s goin’ ter make a man of
himself yit, I reckon.” The schoolmaster looked down at his favourite
pupil and there was a smile on his face that softened the plain, rugged
features like sunshine from within shining outwardly. Standing in the
glow of the firelight with the Christmas holly and pine on shelf and
wall, the twinkling candles—he had lighted in honour of his guests—the
white-haired, white-bearded man seemed like the memory of an old-time
Christmas that had slipped back to its mountain home for a brief renewal
of past pleasures.
Talitha carried the picture away with her as she went thoughtfully down
the path toward the big pine where Martin waited.
XIII
THE “STILL” CAVE
BY dawn the next morning, the little party set forth for the return trip
across the mountains. The four had come the distance to Goose Creek on
horses and mules hired from the school farm. Talitha was mounted on Dan
Gooch’s sorrel he had unselfishly lent her, her father firmly refusing to
allow his one mule to be taken from the place.
“I ’low they’ll find room on the farm fer the beastie, a spell,” said
Dan, anxious to show Talitha a favour. “I’m reckonin’ on gettin’ down
ter Bentville myself, come spring, ter see what the school air like and
what you’re doin’ thar.”
“I wish you would make us a visit, Mr. Gooch,” urged Miss Howard, “and
then come back and tell the Goose Creek folks all about it and bring them
to Commencement.”
“You’d never know whar ter stow ’em all,” Dan smiled broadly.
“We’ll put up some tents on the campus,” put in Gincy. “You ought to see
what a splendid, big place it is with such lovely trees—”
“It’s time we were starting,” called Martin in front, and the little
cavalcade moved away. The sorrel was in the rear, but the faithful old
beast did his best, and Talitha resolved that on reaching Bentville he
should have a well-earned rest until his master came after him.
There was a wintry chill in the air, which was not surprising at that
early hour. If the sun came out it would be delightful travelling.
Martin watched the sky a little anxiously while the others laughed and
chatted on unheeding. At last, over the bald peak of the mountain, the
sun looked down at them through a veil of mist which gradually
disappeared. A cool wind was all that prevented the day from being as
delightful as the previous one had been. But their progress would
necessarily be slow, for the sorrel proved to have little endurance.
Talitha favoured him as much as possible by keeping behind the others and
slipping down occasionally to walk beside him with encouraging pats.
“We can easily get as far as Joe Bradshaw’s,” said Martin. “They’ll be
looking for us about sundown.”
The gorgeous colouring of autumn had gone from the mountains, but there
was still the holly with its scarlet berries, the green of the laurel,
the fir, and pine, and here and there, on hickory and oak, a patch of
colour where the leaves still clung.
At noon the party stopped for dinner in a hollow shielded from the wind.
They spread out the eatables which they had brought in their saddlebags,
on the thick, green grass. The horses and mules were tethered to graze,
after being watered at a trickling rill which filtered out of the rocks
close beside them.
After lingering longer than usual to give the sorrel a chance to rest,
the company started on. Miss Howard looked at her watch; it was
half-past one. “We’ll just about make it and that’s all,” she commented
to herself cheerfully.
For some time after leaving the hollow they followed the dry bed of a
stream. The rocky bottom was covered with loose stones, and now and then
a small boulder jutted out from the bank. They were in shadow, for
hedging them in on either side, rose the mountains thickly covered with
pine. At last they left the stream bed and turned into a trail leading
over the mountain. Rising above it was the ridge of still another which
they must cross before the Bradshaw home could be sighted.
In the effort of guiding their animals into the trail, they did not at
first notice the change in the sky until suddenly Martin, ahead, looked
up. The sun had disappeared, and a grey mist clung to the tall peaks.
The air had grown cold—a sudden drop of the temperature—which was an
unmistakable sign of the approaching storm. He did not call out to
startle those in the rear, but on reaching a small cove he turned the
mule he was riding into it, and beckoned to the others. They were coming
up Indian file, and one by one halted beside him—all but Talitha. Martin
could see her some distance below them. Something had happened to the
sorrel, for his sister had dismounted and was leading it with difficulty.
“There’s a storm coming up.” Miss Howard shivered and looked around
anxiously. “It’s growing colder every minute, I do believe; I never knew
such a sudden change.”
“It must have been coming on since noon only we were so sheltered we
didn’t notice it,” returned Martin. “Just hold Jack and I’ll go back and
help Talitha,” slipping the mule’s rein into Abner’s hand.
The sorrel clung to the trail with three feet; the fourth was evidently
disabled. The animal’s ears were laid back and there was a despairing
look in his eyes. Vainly Talitha tugged at the rein while she gently
urged him on.
“What’s the matter?” Martin inquired.
“Well, he’s all tuckered out for one thing, then he’s got something in
his foot—a sharp stone, I reckon, for he’s limped ever since he left the
creek bed. Poor thing, I might have known he couldn’t stand such a
jaunt.”
With difficulty Martin got down and examined the injured member. It did
not take him long, with the aid of his jack-knife, to extract the
offending stone, which had cut an ugly gash. “There, that feels better,
doesn’t it, old fellow? Just see if you can’t step along now.” He
stroked the animal’s nose coaxingly. “You’d better go ahead, Tally, and
we’ll follow.” The tired sorrel plucked up courage and limped after.
When they reached the cove Abner silently pointed to the peaks on the
opposite range, and Martin saw with dismay that they were nearly buried
in a storm of flying snowflakes which was gradually drawing nearer. The
boys’ faces whitened as their eyes met. If they had been alone it would
be serious enough with the prospect of a heavy snowfall to wipe out the
trail, but with Miss Howard and the girls to look after—Martin felt a
shiver, which was not from the cold wind, creep over him. It was Miss
Howard herself who finally spoke with a calm decision.
“Boys, have you plenty of matches?”
“Yes,” they both answered.
“And we have enough left from our lunch to make quite a respectable
supper. Well, it’s perfectly useless to think of going on to-night, I
can see that; the sorrel can’t endure it for one thing and the storm
would overtake us before we were halfway down the mountain. We’ve got to
camp out for the night—”
“But where?” inquired Talitha, looking around in bewilderment. How bleak
and lonely the mountains looked, how shadowy they were growing already!
“There, there, girls, we’re not going to worry,” Miss Howard said
cheerfully, noticing the troubled faces. “I’ve discovered that this is
the very place where we were caught in a heavy rain storm when I was out
on extension work with Professor and Mrs. Denny, and we found such a nice
place to spend the night. If I’m not mistaken I can go right to it—” A
snowflake struck Miss Howard’s cheek, another and another. “We haven’t
any time to spare. Come on and don’t lose sight of me for a minute.”
“Wait, please, Miss Howard,” called Martin. “Tally must ride Jack and
I’ll lead the sorrel.” He helped his sister mount, and then the teacher
turned her horse toward the farthest side of the cove, the others
following. Martin saw one rider after another disappear, for the moment,
over the edge of the slope as though they had mysteriously slipped from
sight. He went on with a shamefaced feeling that he was not the one to
find shelter for the little company—he was older than Abner. But as well
as he knew the caves and passages around Goose Creek, these were strange
to him; he had never once thought of the possibility of some time needing
shelter among them. Although there was no way to help himself he felt
very uncomfortable. He pulled his hat brim low to shade his eyes—the
snow was coming faster—and watched the last of the straggling line that
in spite of his efforts was getting farther and farther away, winding
down around huge boulders and clusters of laurel and pine. Miss Howard
had been the first to vanish, now Talitha on the submissive Jack was also
out of sight. He urged his reluctant beast forward, several times nearly
missing his footing.
Miss Howard had not been mistaken. As her friends said, her bump of
location was well developed. Just as the dusk and the storm were closing
down upon them, she led her followers into a narrow passageway between
rocky walls, and stopped at the large, black mouth of a cave.
“Here we are,” she called back. “Where are your matches? I’d like to
see if the place is already inhabited.”
“I have some.” Abner sprang to the ground, handed the mule’s rein to
Talitha, and came to the teacher’s side.
“Feel on the ground just inside the cave and find me some dry twigs or
splinters, if you can; we must be careful of the matches.”
The boy fumbled about on his knees for a moment. “Here are some and they
feel real tinder-y, too. Let me go ahead.” Abner struck a match and
applied it carefully to the pine twigs he had bunched. It made a fine
torch, revealing what at first appeared to be a small cave, but which
gradually widened as they went on to one of considerable dimensions.
Several times the boy stopped to renew his torch. Fortunately there was
plenty of material—a litter of pine, balsam, and fir boughs, as though
the place had been recently occupied. There were no signs of the
presence of wild animals as the young woman had secretly feared, but
suddenly Abner stopped in astonishment. He instantly recognized the dark
object at the farther end of the cave and shivered, remembering certain
events of his boyhood days.
“It’s only an old still that’s been there for years,” reassured Miss
Howard, failing to understand. She slipped from her horse. “Now we must
have a fire the very first thing. That’s the place,” pointing to what
seemed a natural fireplace in the rocky wall where lay a heap of ashes.
“There’s a kind of chimney above it, so we won’t be smoked out.”
“Why, there’s a fine bed of coals!” Abner presently exclaimed, uncovering
them.
“That’s fortunate; it’ll be such a saving of matches. I think we can
pick up plenty of stuff to make a good fire, then we must go out and
forage for enough to last through the night.” Miss Howard seemed as
cheerful and matter-of-fact as though she were in her own home, while in
reality she was much perplexed at the unmistakable evidences that the
place had, very recently, been inhabited. It was much too late in the
season for surveyors, or parties in search of botanical or geological
specimens. They might have been hunters lured to the mountains by the
unusually pleasant weather and the prospect of returning with a full game
bag. She tried to think of the latter possibility; at any rate the young
people’s suspicions must not be aroused.
In a few moments Abner and Gincy had a brisk fire burning. Talitha was
feeding the horses and mules some corn she found in the saddlebags.
“They’ll have a pretty slim supper, I’m afraid, and they’re so hungry—I
wonder why Martin doesn’t come,” she broke off, looking anxiously toward
the entrance. “Do you suppose he could have missed the way?”
“I think more likely the sorrel is having a hard time to get along,” said
her teacher. “But if he isn’t here soon Abner and I will go to meet
him.”
The glow of the fire lighted the cave, and the young woman glanced around
with apparent carelessness, but her eyes were keen and watchful. Behind
the old still she picked up a man’s coat. It had not lain there long,
for it was only slightly damp and no musty smell clung to it. She
quietly tucked it into a niche of the wall. Over by the fire the girls
were examining the contents of the saddlebags in an effort to eke out a
respectable supper. “I wish I hadn’t eaten so much at noon,” she heard
Gincy say. “I didn’t need it and I feel just as hungry as though I
hadn’t had a bite of breakfast or dinner, either.”
Miss Howard did not allow herself to think of the consequences should
they find themselves hemmed in by snowdrifts the next morning, but she
was again reminded that Martin had not yet appeared. Something must be
done immediately. She hurried over to the young people, and with their
help two large torches were made. One was lighted. “We may not need the
other, but we’ll keep it for an emergency,” she said. “Stay right here
and don’t worry; we’ll be back soon.” Miss Howard and Abner hurried out
of the cave.
How dark it had grown! The young woman was startled as, with torch held
aloft, she peered out at the end of the passageway. There were no signs
of Martin anywhere.
“You’d better call to him,” she said to Abner.
“Halloo! halloo!” the lad repeated again and again, and then they both
listened. The echoes died away in the hollows of the great hills, but no
answering call came back to them.
XIV
LOST ON THE MOUNTAINS
MARTIN saw the last of his party through a cloud of whirling flakes. He
followed as fast as the lame and now nearly exhausted horse would allow
him, but not a trace of them was again visible. Even the tracks of the
animals were obliterated by the fast falling snow. He did not lose
courage, however, although the trail itself grew fainter and fainter in
the deepening twilight. But finally his steps grew more halting and
doubtful; twice he barely saved himself from slipping over a rocky ledge.
At last he paused in bewilderment.
Shading his eyes with both hands he looked around. He could not see two
rods before him. Which way should he go? Where had the little company
disappeared? He hated to call and bring Miss Howard back to show him the
way—or perhaps she would send Abner. At any rate he must have help as
soon as possible, and lifting up his voice he shouted with all the
strength of his lungs, then waited in vain for some reply. The old horse
whinnied inquiringly and rubbed his cold nose against Martin’s shoulder.
It brought the young fellow’s grievance to mind afresh. If his father
had not refused to let Talitha ride Cain—a biddable young mule—although
there would be no work for the animal until spring, he would not be in
this plight; the whole party could have made much faster progress and
perhaps have reached the Bradshaw place in spite of the storm. But there
was no time for bitter reflection; he must keep moving. Evidently his
companions were already beyond the sound of his voice—call as he might.
In that partially sheltered place he could feel the air growing colder—a
wind swept through the pines above his head and sent down light clouds of
snow. Martin shivered helplessly, then in despair made a plunge forward,
the sorrel stumbled after; both slipped—it was a misstep—and went down,
down, the young fellow still clinging to the bridle with one hand while
the other caught at bush and sapling to break his fall. Every moment he
expected the horse would descend upon him. It was so close he could hear
its frightened snorts as it crashed downward.
Martin’s head grew dizzy, a weird light whirled before him; strange cries
echoed in his ears, and he felt numb in a helpless fright. Then he
suddenly stopped with a jolt and jar that opened his eyes. Still that
glow, brighter than ever, was before them.
“Lands!” shouted a voice, “be careful or that critter’ll tromp on you!”
“Why, the poor boy, he must have slipped over the bank and the horse
after him. It’s a miracle they were not killed!”
Martin tried to speak, but he was too dazed to put the words together.
“Abner, see if he’s hurt anywhere. I do hope there are no bones broken.
We shouldn’t have let him get so far behind,” Miss Howard was reproaching
herself severely.
“I reckon he’s stunned more than anything else,” decided Abner wisely,
after helping Martin to his feet and brushing off the snow. “But if the
sorrel ain’t used up it’ll be a wonder. He air too old fer such
servigrous exercise.”
Although the animal floundered about excitedly, his fright was partly due
to the flaming torch which Miss Howard held above her head. Abner soon
quieted the frantic creature. They were near the passageway leading to
the cave and shielded from the fury of the storm.
“Soon as you can, fasten your horse to that pine and help me get Martin
in by the fire; we’ll come back after it shortly.”