The young moonshiner stiffened instantly as he neared the group of newly
arrived travellers, for the first word he heard from them was the name
of him whom, among all foreigners, he hated with most bitterness. An old
darky, plainly the servant of the party, and such a darky as the
mountain country had never seen before, was inquiring of a bystander
where he could find "Marse" Frank Layson.
The man of whom he asked the question had not the least idea, nor had
anyone about the railroad working. Most of the men had never heard of
Layson, and the few who had become acquainted with him through chance
meetings since he had been stopping in his cabin in the mountains, knew
most indefinitely where the place was located. Lorey could have quickly
given the information, but had no thought of doing so. He stood,
instead, staring at the party with wondering but not good-natured eyes,
and said no word. He certainly was not the one to do a favor to his
rival or his rival's friends.
The group of strangers were thrown into confusion by the difficulty of
getting news of him they sought, and, while they discussed the matter,
Lorey had a chance to study them. He stood upon the rough plank
platform, leaning on his rifle, with the game-bag and its burden of
purloined explosive hanging slouchily beneath one arm, his coon-skin cap
down well upon his eyes, those eyes, half closed, gazing at the
newcomers with all the curiosity which they would have shown at sight of
savages from some far foreign shore.
He was not the only one about the temporary railroad station who eyed
the group with curiosity and interest. Two of the travellers were ladies
from the bluegrass and scarcely one of all the natives lingering about
the workings had ever seen a lady from the bluegrass, while, to the
young surveyors and the group of civil engineers who had, for months,
been exiled by their work among the mountains from all association with
such lovely creatures, it was a joy to stand apart and covertly gaze at
them. Many a young fellow, months away from home, who had grasped the
newspapers and letters which had come in with the other mail with eager
fingers, anxious to devour their contents, had, after the two ladies had
descended from the train, almost forgotten his anxiety to get the news
from home, and stood there, now, with opened letters in his hands,
unread.
The ladies were very worthy of attention, too. Miss Alathea Layson, the
elder of the two, was slight, beautifully groomed despite the long and
dirty trip on rough cars over the crude road-bed of a newly graded
railway. A woman whose thirtieth birthday had been left behind some
years before, she still had all the brightness and vivacity of the
twenties in her carriage and her manner. Her voice, as it drifted to the
young moonshiner, was a new experience to him--soft, well modulated,
cultivated, it was of a sort which he had never heard before, and, while
it seemed to him affected, nevertheless thrilled him with an
unacknowledged admiration.
It was she who showed the greatest disappointment about the general
ignorance concerning Layson's whereabouts, and that voice made
instantaneous and irresistible appeal to the older men among the party
of engineers and surveyors, who, finding an excuse in her discomfiture,
flocked about her, hats off, backs bent in humble bows, proffering
assistance, three deep in the circle.
The other lady traveller, whom Miss Alathea called Miss Barbara, more
especially attracted the attention of the younger men, and, as they
stood aloof to gaze at her, held such mountain dwellers as were near,
paralyzed with wonder and admiration. Nothing so brilliantly beautiful
as she in form, carriage, face, coloring or dress had ever been seen
there in the little valley.
She was a florid girl of twenty, or, perhaps, of twenty-one or two. Her
eyes were the obtrusive feature of her face, and she used them with a
freedom which held callow youth spellbound. Her gown was more
pretentious than that of her more elderly companion. This, of course,
was justified by the difference between their ages; but there seemed to
be, beyond this, a flaunting gayety about it and her manner which were
not, in the eyes of the older and wiser men among the group who watched,
justified by anything. It would have been a hard thing for the most
critical of them to have definitely mentioned just what forced this
strong impression on their minds, but it was forced upon them very
quickly. One of them, a cute and keen observer as he was, of many years
experience, decided the moot point, though, and whispered his decision
to a grizzled man (the engineer in charge of the whole enterprise upon
that section of construction) who stood next him.
"The elder one is of the old-time Southern aristocracy," he said. "The
younger one is one of the newcomers--her father has made money and she
is breaking in by means of it."
His companion nodded, realizing that the guess was shrewd and justified,
even if it might, conceivably, be inaccurate.
"She certainly is very striking," he said, nodding, "but the elder one
is the aristocrat."
The other member of the party was a big man, nearing fifty, with a broad
face on which geniality was written in its every line, wearing the
wide-brimmed Southern hat, typical long frock-coat with flaring skirts,
black trousers, somewhat pegged, and boots of an immaculate brilliance.
His voice was loud, hearty and attractive, as he made inquiries, here
and there, about the young man whom they had hoped to find in waiting
for them at the station, although they had arrived, owing to the
exigencies of travel by a new road, not yet officially opened to
traffic, a day before they had expected to.
"I suh," said this gentleman, "am Cunnel Doolittle--Cunnel Sandusky
Doolittle, and am looking for this lady's nephew, Mr. Layson, suh. If
you can tell me where the youngster is likely to be runnin', now, you
will put me under obligations, suh."
None, however, knew just how Layson could be reached. Most of them knew
him or had heard of him, but they were not certain just where his camp
in the mountains was located.
"I regret, Miss 'Lethe," said the Colonel, turning to the disappointed
lady at his side, after having completed his inquiries, "that there is
no good hotel heah. If there were a good hotel heah, I would take you to
it, ma'am, and make you comfortable. Then, ma'am, I would search this
country and I'd find him in short order. He probably did not receive my
letter saying that we would arrive to-day and not to-morrow."
One of the engineers proffered to the ladies the use of his own canvas
quarters till some course of action should have been decided on, an
offer which was gratefully accepted.
Soon afterward inquiries by the Colonel brought out definite information
as to the exact location of Frank's camp. A railway teamster, also, it
appeared, was starting in that direction after ties and offered to
transport a messenger as far as he was going, directing him, then, so
that he could not lose his way. Old Neb, the darky, thereupon, was
started on the search.
He was a different sort of negro from any which the mountain folk had
ever seen, and wore more airs than his "white folks." Dressed in a black
frock-coat as ornate as the Colonel's, although its bagging shoulders
showed that it had been a gift and not made for him, his hat was a silk
tile, a bit too large, and in one hand was a gold-headed cane on which
he leaned as his old legs limped under him. Among the mountaineers about
he was an object of the keenest curiosity, although down in the
bluegrass, where old family negroes frequently were let to grow into a
childish dignity of manner after years of faithful service and were not
disturbed in their ideas of their own importance, he would have been
regarded as merely an amusing infant of great age, reaping a reward for
by-gone merits in the careful consideration and indulgence now extended
to him. His inordinate vanity of his personal appearance and his dignity
might have given rise to smiles, down there; here there were those upon
the platform who laughed loudly as he walked away, boasting
vaingloriously, although he evidently feared the trip with the rough
teamster, that he would find "young Marse Frank" in a jiffy and have him
there in no time.
It was while the aged negro was climbing somewhat difficultly to the
side of the good-natured railroad teamster who had promised to give him
a lift upon his way and then supply directions for his further progress,
that Joe Lorey, who had been an interested spectator of the affair,
contemptuous, amused by the old darky, saw, coming through the crowd
behind him and well beyond the range of the newly arrived strangers, the
roughly dressed, mysterious old man whom he had seen, once or twice, up
in the mountains, whom Madge had seen, tapping with his little hammer at
the rocks. Lorey looked toward him with a face which scowled
instinctively. He disliked the man, as he disliked all foreigners who
dared invasion of his wilderness; he would have feared him, too, had he
known that it had really been him and not young Layson and Madge Brierly
who had made the noise there in the thicket which had disturbed him,
that day, when, armed to meet a raid of revenuers, he had rushed out
from his still to find the girl and the young bluegrass gentleman in a
close company which worried him almost as much as the appearance of the
officers, in fact, could have done.
He was a "foreigner," this old man with the manner of the mountains,
and, sometimes, their speech, for he wore bluegrass clothes; therefore
he was one to be classed with the others in his bitter hatred. He was
standing almost in his path, and, by stepping to one side, could have
saved him a small detour round a pile of boxed supplies; but he did not
move an inch, stiffening, instead, delighted at obstructing him.
The old man, as he went around, looked sharply at him, and then smiled,
almost as if he recognized him and could read his thoughts; almost as if
he realized the man's instinctive hate; almost as if he felt a
certainty, deep in his soul, that so great was the disaster hovering
above the mountaineer that it would be scarcely worth his own while,
now, even to think resentfully of this small insult.
A moment later, though, and the expression of his face had changed
completely. The first glimpse of the new come party standing, now, deep
in discussion of the railway work, before the engineer's white,
hospitable tent, made him start back in amazement.
For an instant he stood wavering, as if he were considering the plan of
trying to depart without approaching them or being seen by them, but
then he shrugged his shoulders and advanced, trying to show upon his
face surprised good-nature.
"Wall, Colonel Doolittle!" he cried. "And you, Miss Layson, and--why,
there's Barbara!"
"_Father!"_ said the girl, in absolute amazement, hurrying toward him.
"Ah, Mr. Holton!" said Miss 'Lethe, bowing to him as the Colonel,
plainly not too greatly pleased by the necessity for doing so, advanced
toward him with extended hand.
"What brings you all up here?" asked Holton, after the greetings had
been said.
"We came up to see Frank and the beauties of his long-forgotten land,"
Miss 'Lethe answered, in her softly charming voice. "He has property up
here, you know, which has been for years a family possession, but which
has been considered valueless, or almost so. When he learned that this
new railway was to pass quite close to it, he decided to investigate it
carefully and see just what it really amounted to."
Holton smiled a little wryly as she completed her explanation. "He's
stayed here, studyin' it, a long time, ain't he?"
"Yes," Miss Alathea answered. "When he once reached here he seemed to
find new beauties in the country every day. He wrote us the most glowing
letters of it, and these letters and--and--other things, decided me to
come and see him and the property he is so fond of. The Colonel was
polite enough to volunteer as escort, your daughter to come as a
companion."
Holton winked mysteriously at Colonel Doolittle. "You come at the right
time," said he. "I'll have some things to tell you of this country and
just what the railroad's going to do for it if you should care to
listen."
The Colonel's eyes, plainly those of one who read the tale of character
upon the faces of the people whom he met, looked at him with no great
favor, but he smiled. "We've already learned some things which have
astonished us," he said. Then, though, despite the fact that his remark
had greatly aroused Holton's curiosity, evidently, he changed the
subject somewhat abruptly, and turned grandiosely to Miss 'Lethe.
"May I offuh you my ahm, ma'am, for a little stroll about heah?" he
inquired. "The greatest disadvantage which I see about this country is
the lack of level places big enough to put a race-track in, ma'am. So
far as I can see from lookin' round me, casual like, you couldn't run a
quahtuh, heah, without eitheh goin' up a hill or comin' down one."
"_Isn't_ it rough!" said Barbara, with a gesture of aversion which
seemed a bit affected.
Holton looked at her with what was plainly admiration. It was clear
enough that, in a way, he was fond of his showy daughter. He ran his eye
with satisfaction over her costume, from head to foot, and nodded.
"You ain't never seen much of rough life, now have you, Barbara?" He
turned, then, to Miss Alathea. "These young folks, raised the way we
raise 'em, nowadays, get thinkin' that the whole world has been
smoothed out for their treadin'--an' they ain't far wrong. We _do_
smooth out the world for 'em. Now, there's your nephew, Frank; he--"
"Oh, he _likes_ it, here, as I have said," she answered.
"But it is so--_uncouth_" said Barbara, plainly for the benefit of one
or two admiring youths from the surveying party, who were standing near.
"And some of the people look so absolutely vicious--some of the natives,
I mean, of course, you know. Now look at that young fellow, over there!"
The girl had nodded toward Joe Lorey, who was standing not far off,
observing them with an unwavering and disapproving, almost definitely
hostile stare.
"He looks," the girl went on, "as if he hated us and would be glad to do
us harm. So violent!"
"He's from up the mountains," one of the young engineers said, glancing
toward him. "It's funny how those mountain people _all_ hate us. You
see, they say, the hills around about here are all full of moonshiners
and they believe the coming of the railroad will bring with it law and
order and that when that comes, of course, their living will be gone."
"Moonshiners?" said Barbara. "Pray, what are moonshiners?"
Her father grimly smiled again. He knew that she knew quite as well what
moonshiners were as any person in the group, but her affected ignorance
of rough things and rough men amused him.
"Distillers of corn whisky who refuse to pay their taxes to the
government," the youth replied. "The revenue officials have had dreadful
times with them, here in the Cumberland, for years. Sometimes they have
really bloody battles with them, when they try to make a raid."
"How terrible!" said Barbara, and shuddered carefully. She looked again
at Lorey, who, conscious that he was the subject of their conversation
and resentful of it, stared back boldly and defiantly. "And do you think
that he--that very young man there--can possibly have ever actually
_killed_ a man?"
The engineer laughed heartily. "That he may _possibly_ have killed a
man," said he, "there is no doubt. I don't know that he has, however,
and it is most improbable. I don't even know that he's a moonshiner."
Among the others who had left the train, which, now, had been switched
off to a crude side-track, the cars left there and the locomotive
started at the handling of dirt-dump-cars, were two tall, sunburned
strangers, whom Miss Alathea, who had noted them as she did everyone,
had classed as engineers or surveyors, but who had not, when they had
arrived, mingled with the other men employed on the construction of the
railroad. While the young man and Barbara were talking about
moonshiners, one of them had drifted near and he gave them a keen
glance at the first mention of the word. Now he turned, but turned most
casually, to follow with his own, their glances at Joe Lorey. Then he
sauntered off, and, as he passed Holton, seemed to exchange meaning
glances with him.
Soon afterward Lorey turned away. The day was getting on toward noon.
The long tramp back to his lonely cabin in the mountains would consume
some hours. The sight of all these strangers, all this work on the new
railroad worried him, made him unhappy, added to and multiplied the
apprehension which for weeks had filled his heart about Madge Brierly
and young Layson. He battled with a mixture of emotions. There was no
ounce of cowardice, in Joe. Never had he met a situation in his life
before which he had feared or which had proved too strong for him. All
his battles, so far, and they had been many and been various, as was
inevitable from the nature of his secret calling, had resulted in full
victories for his mighty strength of body or his quick foot, certain
hand, keen knowledge of the mountains and the woods resource and wit
that went with these; but now things seemed to baffle him. His soul was
struggling against acknowledgment of it, while his mind continually told
him it was true. Everything seemed, now, to be against him.
He knew, but would not admit, even to himself, that the march of
progress must inevitably drive out of existence the still hidden in his
cave and make the marketing of its illicit product doubly hazardous,
nay, quite impossible. He knew that he must give it up; he realized that
real good sense would send him home, that day, to bury the last trace of
it in some spot where it never could be found again. But his stubborn
soul revolted at the thought of being beaten, finally, by this
civilization which he hated; he would not admit, even in his mind, that
it had bested him, or could ever best him. He ground his teeth and
pressed his elbow down against the stock of his long rifle with a force
which ground the gun into his side until it hurt him. He would never
give up, never! Let them try to get him if they could, these lowlanders!
He would not be afraid of them. His father had not been--and he would
never be.
And there was a voice within him which kept whispering as did the one
which counselled the abandonment of his illegal calling, the abandonment
of that other effort, infinitely dearer to him, to win Madge Brierly's
love and hand in marriage. His common-sense assured him that she was not
made for such as he, that, while she had been born there in the
mountains there were delicacies, refinements in her which would make her
mating with his rude and uncouth strength impossible, would make it
cruelly unhappy for her, even should it come about. But this voice he
steadfastly declined to listen to, even more emphatically than he did to
that which counselled caution in his calling. Again he ground his
teeth. His heels, when they came down upon the rocky mountain trails up
which he soon was climbing, fell on the slopes so heavily that,
constantly, his progress was followed by the rattle of small stones down
the inclined path behind him, constant little landslides. And, at
ordinary times, Joe Lorey, awkward as he looked to be, could scale a
sloping sand-bank without sending down a sliding spoonful to betray the
fact that he was moving on it to the wild things it might startle.
Heavily he resolved within his soul, against his own best judgment, to
keep up both fights and win.
The dynamite which he had stolen and which nestled in his game-sack
comforted him, although he did not know how he would use it. Many times,
as he worked through the narrow trails, jumped from stepping-stone to
stepping-stone in crossing mountain-streams, pulled himself up steep and
rocky slopes by clutching swaying branches, or rough-angled boulders, he
let his left hand slip down to the side of the old game-sack, where,
through the soft leather, he could plainly feel the smooth, terrific
cylinder.
He swore a mighty mountain oath that none of the advancing forces ever
should win victory of him. If the revenuers ever tried to get him, let
God help them, for they would need help; if Frank Layson stole his girl
from him, then let God help him, also, for even more than would the
revenuers the young bluegrass gentleman would need assistance from some
mighty power.
But a fate was closing on Joe Lorey which all his uncouth strength could
not avert. As he had left the railway those two men whom simple-minded
Miss Alathea had supposed were engineers, but who had not mingled with
the throng of railway builders had looked at Horace Holton for
confirmation of their guess. In a quick glance, so keen that they could
not mistake its meaning so instantaneous that none else could suspect
that the three men were even casual acquaintances, he had told them they
had guessed aright.
They sauntered off and disappeared in the direction whence the
mountaineer had gone, and, though his feet were well accustomed to the
trails and were as expert in their climbing as any mountaineer's for
miles, these men proved more expert; though his ear was as acute as a
wild animal's, so silently they moved that never once a hint that they
were following, ever following behind him, reached it; their endurance
was as great as his, their woods-craft was as sly as his.
A fate was closing on Joe Lorey. The march of civilization was, indeed,
advancing toward his mountain fastnesses at last. And nothing stays the
march of civilization.