It was late on an afternoon several days after the party from the
bluegrass had gone down from the mountains when Layson, with a letter of
great import in his pocket sought Madge Brierly.
He was very happy, as, a short time before he reached her isolated
cabin, he stepped out to the edge of that same ledge where Horace Holton
had found the view too full of memories for comfort, to look off across
the lovely valley spread before, below him. There were no memories of
struggle and bloodshed to arise between him and that view and for a time
he gloried in it with that bounding, pulsating appreciation which can
come to us in youth alone, as his eyes swept the fair prospect of wooded
slope and rugged headland, stream-ribbon, mountain-meadow, billowy
forest. Then, with a deep breath of the wondrous air of the old
Cumberlands, which added a physical exhileration almost intoxicating to
the pleasure of the thoughts which filled his mind, he went slowly up
the rugged twisting path to Madge's cabin. There, standing by the
bridge he called, and, presently, the girl appeared.
He smiled at her. He did not wish to tell her, too quickly, of the news
the letter held.
The girl was still full of the visit and the visitors. They had seemed
to her, reared as she had been in the rough seclusion of the mountains,
like denizens of another, wondrously fine world, come to glimpse her in
her crude one, for a few hours, and then gone back to their own glorious
abiding place.
She did not admit it to herself, but they had left behind them
discontent with the life she knew, her lack of education, almost
everything with which, in days gone by, she had been so satisfied.
Layson, watching her as she approached, was tempted to enjoy her as she
was, for a few minutes, before telling her the news which, young and
inexperienced as he was, he yet knew, instinctively, would change her
for all time.
"Well," he said, "how did you like them, Madge?"
The girl sat upon a stump and looked off across the valley. Her hands
were clasped upon one knee, as she reflected, the fading sunlight
touched her hair with sheening brilliance, her eyes, at first, were
dreamy, happy.
"Oh, I loved your aunt!" said she. "She made me think of my own
mammy.... She made me think of my own mammy."
"And she was quite as much in love with you."
"Was she?... And Cunnel Doolittle! Ain't he _splendid_? And how he do
know hosses! Wouldn't I _love_ to see some of them races that he told
about? Wouldn't I love to have a chance to learn how to become a lady
like your aunt? She's just the sweetest thing that ever lived."
"And ... and ... Miss Barbara?" said Layson, with a little mischief in
his wrinkling eyelids.
The girl shrugged herself together haughtily upon her stump. He had seen
lowlands girls use almost the same gesture when, in drawing-rooms, some
topic had come up which they did not wish to talk about.
"Huh! Her!" said Madge and would have changed the subject had he let
her.
"Really?" he asked, wickedly. "Didn't you like her?"
"I ain't sayin' much," said Madge, "because she's different from me, has
had more chance, is better dressed, knows more from books an' so on, an'
it might seem like I was plumb jealous of her. Maybe I am, too. But,
dellaw! Her with her pollysol! When she opened it that way at me I
thought it war a gun an' she war goin' to fire! Maybe I ain't had no
learnin' in politeness, but it seems to me I would a been a little more
so, just the same, if I'd been in her place. She don't like me, she
don't, an' I--why, I just _hates_ her! Her with her ombril up, an' not a
cloud in sight!"
Layson looked at her and laughed. The letter in his pocket made it seem
probable that she would not need, in future, to submit to such
humiliations as the bluegrass girl had put upon her, so his merriment
could not be counted cruel.
"Jealous of her?" he inquired, quizzically.
She sat in deep thought for a moment and then frankly said: "I reckon
so; a leetle, teeny mite. Maybe it has made me mean in thinkin' of her,
ever since."
"You're honest, anyway," said he, "and I shall tell you something that
will comfort you. She was as jealous of you as you were of her."
"_She_ was!" the girl exclaimed, incredulous, surprised. "Of _me_?"
You're crazy, ain't you?"
"Not a bit."
"What have _I_ got to make _her_ jealous?"
"A lot of things. You've beauty such as hers will never be--"
"Dellaw!" said Madge, incredulously. She had no knowledge of her own
attractiveness. "Don't you start in makin' fun o' me."
"I'm not making fun of you. You're very beautiful--my aunt said so, the
Colonel said so, and _I've_ known it, all along."
No one had ever said a thing like this to her, before. She looked keenly
at him, weighing his sincerity. When she finally decided that he really
meant what he had said, she breathed a long sigh of delight.
"They said that I--was _beautiful_!"
"They did, and, little girl, you are; and you have more than beauty. You
have health and strength such as a bluegrass girl has never had in all
the history of women."
"Oh, yes," said she, "I'm strong an' well--but--but--"
"But what?"
"But what?" she quoted bitterly. "But I ain't got no eddication. What
does strength and what does what you tell me is my beauty count, when I
ain't got no eddication? Why--why--I looked plumb _foolish_ by the side
of her! You think I don't know that my talk sounds rough as rocks
alongside hers, ripplin' from her lips as smooth as water? You think I
don't know that I looked like a scare-crow in all them clo'es I had
fixed up so careful, when she come on with her gowns made up for her by
_dressmakers_? Why--why--I never _see_ a dressmaker in all my life! I
never even see one!"
"Well," said he, and looked at her with a slow smile, "there probably
will be no reason why you may not see as many as you like, in years to
come,"
She was amazed. "This some sort o' joke?"
"No, Madge. How would you like to be rich?"
"Me?... Rich? Oh ... oh, I'd like it. _Then_ I could go down in th'
bluegrass, study, l'arn, an'--I could do a heap o' good aroun' hyar,
too" She sighed. "But thar never was nobody rich in these hyar mountings
an' I reckon thar never will be."
"Perhaps you may be," said the youth, and there was a serious quality in
his voice which made her start and then lean forward on her stump to
gaze at him with searching, eager eyes.
"Your land down in the valley," he went on, "may contain coal and iron
enough to give you a fortune. Now there are bad men in this world, and I
want you to promise me to sell it to nobody without first coming to me
for advice."
"Promise?" said the girl, the wonder all ashine in her big eyes. "In
course I'll promise that. But is there r'ally a chance of it?"
"There really is."
"Oh, if I only knowed, for shore! Seems like I couldn't wait!"
"You shall know, to-night, or, maybe, sooner. I have the engineers
report, but I must study it out carefully and make sure what boundaries
he means. I'm almost certain they include your land. As soon as I find
out I'll come back here and call to you and let you know."
"I reckon you won't have to call! I'll be watchin' for you every
minute."
"Well, I'm off. But remember what I said about letting anyone buy any of
your land from you. Don't sell an inch, don't give an option at
whatever price, to anyone without consulting me."
When he had left, the girl still sat there, dreaming on her stump after
she had watched him out of sight.
The news that she might become rich had stirred her deeply for a moment,
but, soon she wondered if riches, really, would mean everything, and
decided that they would not.
"Somehow," she mused, "somehow I don't care much about it, not
unless--unless--oh, I can't think of nothin' in th' world but him! An'
he says he's goin' to go away, never to return no more!... Other folks
has gone away, afore, but it didn't seem to hurt my heart like this. I
wonder what is ailin' me."
Her thought turned back to that half-bitter, half-delightful moment when
he had tried to kiss her at the bridge. "Why, even then," she mused,
"thar were somethin' seemed to draw me to him in spite o' myself. Never
felt anythin' like it afore. It war--just as if I war asleep, all over,
an' never wanted to wake up! I wonder if I wish he warn't comin' back,
to-night--not half so much, I reckon, as I wish he warn't never goin'
away!"
She left her resting place upon the stump, and, torn by varying
emotions, found a place upon the trail where she could look off to his
camp. She was standing there, leaning listlessly against a tree, when
the sound of someone coming made her turn her head. She saw Joe Lorey.
"Madge," said he, approaching, "I wants a word with you,"
She did not wish to talk with him. Her mind was far too busy with its
thoughts of Layson, its dismay at the prospect of his departure. "No
time, Joe; it's too late," said she. She started to go by him toward her
little bridge.
But he was not inclined to be put off. The mountaineer's slow mind had
been at work with his great problem and he had quite determined that he
would take some action, definite and unmistakable, without delay. He had
leaned his ever-present rifle up against a stump, had laid the old
game-sack, still burdened with the stolen dynamite, upon the ground,
close to it, and was prepared to talk the matter out, to one end or the
other. He loved her with the fierce love of the primitive man; his
rising wrath against the circumstances amidst which he seemed to be so
powerless had made him sullen and suspicious; mountain life, continual
defiance of the law, unceasing watchfulness for "revenuers," does not
teach a man to be smooth-mannered, half-way in his methods. He made a
move as if to catch her arm; she darted by him, running straight toward
the old game-sack.
That burden in the game-sack had been a constant horror to him ever
since he had first stolen it down at the railroad workings. The mighty
evidence of the power of the explosive which had been shown to him when
it had torn and mangled its poor victim there, had filled him with a
terror of it, although it had also filled him with determination to make
use of that great power if necessary. But now, as he saw her running,
light-footed, lovely, toward the bag which held it, running in exactly
the right way to stumble on it if a mis-step chanced, his heart sprang
to his throat. What if the dire explosive he had planned to use upon his
enemies should prove to be the death of the one being whom he loved? He
sprang toward her with the mighty impulse of desperate muscles spurred
by a panic-stricken mind and caught her, roughly, just before her foot
would have touched and spurned the game-sack.
"Stop!" he cried, in desperation.
She was amazed that he should take so great a liberty. She stopped,
perforce, but, after she had stopped, she stood there trembling with hot
anger. "Joe Lorey," she exclaimed, "you dare!"
Now he was all humility as he let his hand fall from her arm. "It was
for your sake, Madge," said he. "A stumble on that sack--it mout have
sent us both to Kingdom Come!"
She looked at him incredulously, then down at the sack. "That old
game-sack? Why, Joe, you're plumb distracted!"
"I'm in my senses, yet, I tell you," he persisted. "T'other day I went
down where they're blastin' for th' railroad. I see 'em usin'
dynamighty, down thar, an' I watched my chance an', when it come, I
slipped one o' th' bombs into that game-sack. Ef you'd chanced to kick
it--"
She was impressed. "Dynamighty bombs? Dellaw! What's dynamighty bombs?"
"It's a giant powder, a million times stronger nor mine." He reached
into the sack and, with cautious fingers, took out the cartridge and the
fuse, exhibiting them to her. "See here. I seed 'em take a bomb no
bigger nor this one, an' light a fuse like this, an' when it caught it
ennymost shook down a mounting! I seed a poor chap what war careless
with one, an' when they picked him up, why--"
"Don't, Joe!" said the girl, looking at the cartridge with the light of
horror shining in her eyes. "What you doin' with such devil's stuff?"
"I got it for th' revenuers," he said frankly. The mountaineers of the
old Cumberland, to this day, make no secret of their deadly hatred for
the agents of the government excise. "They're snoopin' 'round th'
mountings, an' if they find my still I plan to blow it into nothin', an'
them with it."
She recoiled from him. "No, no, Joe; you'd better gin th' still up, nor
do such work as that!"
"I'll never gin it up!" said he, with a set face. "It's mine; it war my
father's long before me. There's only one thing could ever make me gin
it up."
"What's that?" The girl was still spellbound by the fascination of the
dynamite which she had come so near to treading on. Her eyes were fixed
upon the cartridge in his hand with horror, wonder.
He stepped closer to her. "I mout gin it up for you!"
"For me?"
"You know I've loved ye sence ye were that high," said he, and measured
with his hand a very little way up the side of the old stump. "Many a
time I've listened hyar to your evenin' hymn, an' thought I'd rather
hear you singin' in my home than hear th' angels singin' in th' courts
o' Heaven. Say th' word, Madge--say you'll be my little wife!"
The girl was woe fully affected. Her eyes filled and her bosom heaved
with feeling. It cut her to the soul to have to hurt this playmate of
her babyhood, defender of her youth, companion of her budding womanhood;
their lives had been linked, too, by the great tragedy which, years ago,
had orphaned both of them. But, of late, she had felt sure that she
could never marry him. She would not admit, even to herself, just why
this was; but it was so. "No, no, Joe; it can never be," she said.
He knew! "And why?" said he, his face blackening with bitter feeling,
his brows contracting fiercely. "Because that furriner from the blue
grass has come atween us!"
Madge, surprised that he should guess the secret which she had scarcely
admitted, even to herself, was, for a second, frightened by his
keenness. Had she shown her feelings with such freedom? But she quickly
regained self-control and answered with a clever counterfeit of
lightness. "Him? Oh, sho! He'd never think o' me that way!"
"Mebbe so," said Joe, "but I know you think more o' th' books he teaches
you from than o' my company. From th' thickets borderin' th' clearin'
where you've studied, I've watched you settin' thar with him, wen I'd
give th' world to be thar in his place. Why, I'd ennymost gin up my life
for one kiss, Madge!" He looked at her with pitiful love and longing in
his eyes; but this soon changed to a sort of mad determination. "I'll
have it, too!" he cried, advancing toward her.
She was amazed, not in the least dismayed. Indeed the episode took from
the moment some of its emotional strain. That he should try to do this
utterly unwarrantable thing took a portion of the weight of guilty
feeling from her heart. It had been pressing heavily there. "You
shan't!" she cried. "Careful, Joe Lorey!"
She eluded him with ease and ran across her little bridge. He paused, a
second, in astonishment, and, as he paused, she grasped the rope and
pulled the little draw up after her.
"Look out, Joe; it air a hundred feet, straight down!" she cried, as
she saw that the baffled mountaineer was trembling on the chasm's edge,
as if preparing for a spring. "Good night, Joe. Take my advice--gin up
th' still, an' all thought of makin' a wife of a girl as ain't willin'."
Half laughing and half crying she ran up the path which wound about
among the thickets on the rocky little island where her rough cabin
stood, secure, secluded.
The mountaineer stood, baffled, on the brink of the ravine. Much
loneliness among the mountains, where there was no voice but his own to
listen to, had given him the habit of talking to himself in moments of
excitement.
"Gone! Gone!" he said. "Gone laughin' at me!" He clenched his fists.
"And it is him as has come atween us!" He turned slowly from the place,
picked up his rifle, slung the game-sack, saggin with the weight of the
dynamite, across his shoulder by its strap, and started from the place.
He had gone but a short distance, though, before he stopped,
considering. Murder was in Joe Lorey's heart.
"She said he war comin' back," he sullenly reflected. "I'll ... lay for
him, right hyar."
He looked cautiously about. His quick ear caught the sound of footsteps
coming up the trail.
"Somebody's stirrin', now," he said. "Oh, if it's only him!"
He slipped behind a rock to wait in ambush.
But it was not his enemy who came, now, along the trail. Horace Holton,
held to the mountains by his mysterious business, had left the others of
the party to go home alone, as they had come, and returned to the
neighborhood which housed the girl who owned the land he coveted.
Joe, suspicious of him, as the mountaineer who makes his living as a
moonshiner, is, of course, of every stranger who appears within his
mountains, stepped forward, suddenly, his rifle in his hand and ready to
be used. He had no idea that the man had been a member of the party from
the bluegrass.
"Halt, you!" he cried.