awoke on the mountain I was sleepy. I r-realized not what it meant.
When I did know, I had no wees' to die at once. I was unarmed myself,
and a man in your position would shoot deter-rmined to kill."
Pressley smiled at this tribute to his quickness and resolve.
"But it is not a question of me. What I was going to say was that you
know there's a chance of your being arrested, and surely you would not
care to feel that it was through you that Bud had br-rought that shame
and disgr-race upon his wife."
"His wife?"
The ejaculation sounded to von Rittenheim like the hiss of a snake, and
he drew away from Pressley as from a reptile.
"You have no r-relatives to suffer; alone you bear the bur-rden of your
misdeeds. But if Bud goes wr-rong consider of the gr-rief of that poor
Melissa, and think of the baby gr-rowing up to know that her father is
a cr-riminal!"
"You-all think you got a mahty strong argyment there, Mr. Baron, don'
you? But let me tell you, that's the weakest one you could bring.
M'lissy Lance told me 'No' when she was a girl, an' M'lissy
Yarebrough's never spoke a decent word to me since she's been married,
'n 'f unhappiness comes on her, Ah'll be glad of hit; 'n 'f hit comes
through mah doin', hit's only what Ah'm aimin' at."
"'Aimin' at?' What mean you by that?"
"Ah mean Ah'll be gladder still 'f she's hurt through me."
"Know you not that it is a coward who takes pleasure in the pain of
women and children?"
"So be," returned Pink, cheerfully. "A coward Ah am, then, fo' that's
the way Ah feel."
"I warn you I shall speak to Bud."
"Talk yo' hatful, Ah don' care. Ah got a pull on him. Talk all you
please so long's ye don' talk to the marshal."
"An' Ah ain' afraid o' yo' doin' that," he continued to himself, as he
turned into the side road that led to his cabin. "You-all's had enough
o' them folkses; an' you ain' that kind, either."
XXII
Von Rittenheim Collects his Rent
It was in the cool of the next day's afternoon that von Rittenheim,
with 'Gene Frady, who was working for him, drove up to the field where
was piled his rent corn. Bud was awaiting him there, and after he had
chosen his heap from the three which were as nearly alike as it was
possible to make them, he sat on a fallen tree and idly watched the two
men loading the wagon. The western sky gave prophecy of a cloudless
sunset, and Friedrich wished that his own path towards oblivion were as
free and clear, and smiled faintly at the triteness of his comparison.
He owned to himself as he sat there that he was contented. He had
entered upon his business with the desire to retrieve his past, and to
make for himself a future that might be worthy for Sydney to share. Now
the latter spur to ambition was gone, but it was replaced by an urgent
desire to forget in work the bitter disappointment that had befallen
him. Pushed by that incentive his venture could not long remain a
venture. Such energy was bound to bring success. And the victory, which
was daily more evident and more substantial, combined with the feeling
that he was doing his duty as he saw it, to produce content.
But happiness? No. Never while---- Oh, what was the use of thinking
about it? He rose impatiently, and walked through the brush at the top
of the field, slapping at the leaves with a switch that he had been
stripping.
Of a sudden he stopped and sat down on a stump.
"Goin' down with me, Mr. Baron?" called 'Gene from the top of the
loaded wagon.
"No, I think not. I'll stay and talk with Bud a while. Come up here,
Yare-brough," he added, as Frady drove off, whistling.
Bud approached, wiping the perspiration from his forehead with his
shirt sleeve.
"Bud, did you know this was here?"
Von Rittenheim reached behind him and tapped something that gave forth
a sound of earthenware.
"Know what was there?"
"Come and see."
Yarebrough stepped behind the stump, upon whose top the Baron swung
around so as to keep his face in view.
"Whose jug?" asked Bud.
"I know not. I thought you might know."
Bud picked it up, disclosing a silver half-dollar upon which it had
been resting. He looked at it as if afraid, and then glanced sheepishly
at Friedrich.
"A half a gallon," remarked the German, dryly.
The mountaineer reddened and stooped for the coin.
"Wait!" commanded von Rittenheim. "Before you touch that, I want to ask
you if you would be willing that your wife should know how you ear-rned
that money?"
Yarebrough changed his weight uneasily from one foot to the other, and
then sat down suddenly, as if his legs were not equal to his support.
"Well, Ah wasn' fixin' to tell M'lissy," he acknowledged.
"Know you not that that so good little woman would r-rather be hungr-ry
than have you give her money that you gained by br-reaking the law?"
"Well, Ah wasn' fixin' to give hit to her."
"You weren't? What are you going to do with it?"
Unfortunately for the success of Friedrich's plan for Bud's moral
regeneration, Yarebrough's affection for the Baron made him reticent on
the fact of his debt to Pressley.
"For," he thought, sagely, "if Ah tell him Ah owe Pink, he'll go to
lend me the money, 'n Ah know he cain' afford hit. Would he ever 'a'
gone into sellin' blockade himself if he hadn' been as pore as a crow?"
His wit not being very ready, however, he offered no excuse, but
said,--
"Ah reckon Ah don' care to tell ye."
Friedrich laid his hand on the young man's shoulder as he sat beside
him on the ground.
"Think what it means, Bud, to do what now you do. You put yourself in
the class of wr-rongdoers instead of in the r-ranks of those who do
r-right. You will br-reak Melissa's heart if she finds it out, as
certainly she will. And think of the baby. You want her to have an
honest father, don't you?"
Bud was ground between the upper and the nether millstone. On one side
of his weak will was his affection for his wife and child, and his
desire to please the Baron. On the other was his fear of Pressley's
sneers and his habit of submission to the older man's domination. And
since his inclination towards good was not assisted by the mighty lever
of a love of good for virtue's sake, the millstones clung close
together, and the grinding still went on.
To compromise with a disagreeable present is a desire which it takes a
stronger man than Bud to shake off. His inner light showed him no
reason for making such an effort.
"Ah s'pose Ah hadn' oughter do hit," he admitted, "but hit's mahty
temptin'. Now that there's the first money Ah seen from hit yet. Hit's
all been hard work up to now, an' nothin' comin' in."
He lifted the jug and looked longingly at the coin on the ground.
"You don' know what hit is to wan' hit so bad, Mr. Baron."
"Do I not know? Good God! Bud, it was because I wanted half that sum so
much that I couldn't r-resist the temptation of it shining in a man's
hand, that I did the thing for which never shall I for-rgive myself.
You know, Bud; you r-recollect----"
He hid his face in his hands and gave a sob of tortured remembrance.
Bud's easy sympathies were strained almost to the point of tears.
"Ah know," he responded, hastily; "you hadn' oughter 'a' done hit.
Don', Mr. Baron, don'! Ah'll think about stoppin', Ah certainly will.
Sit up, Mr. Baron," he cried, agitatedly, "here's folkses comin',--Mrs.
Baron an' Miss Sydney."
Von Rittenheim raised his head, hardly believing Bud's cry to be other
than an excuse to rouse him from his emotion. But he saw in the road
below him a party of four people on horseback approaching his cabin.
Even from his elevation he could recognize Sydney's erect carriage, and
the white habit that it pleased Hilda to wear. He rose to his feet.
"Think of what I say, boy," he said to Yarebrough. "I am older than
you, and God knows I've earned my experience."
Bud watched him down the hill. When he was greeting his guests at the
door of his cabin, Yarebrough picked up the jug and the coin, and
disappeared into the woods.
Wendell was taking the baroness off her horse, and Bob was performing
the same office for Sydney, when Von Rittenheim reached them.
"We are come to beg a welcome fr-rom you for a few minutes, dear
Friedrich," said Hilda, in English.
"Which surely is yours," returned Von Rittenheim, kissing her hand. He
turned to Sydney, but she was busy doing something to her saddle, and
greeted him over her shoulder. His hand dropped to his side.
"Let me help you tie the horses, Bob," he insisted, and took Sydney's
animal from him.
"Dear Yonny," he murmured, in the unresponsive ear, as he fastened him
in the shade, and gave him a pat and a lump of sugar from his pocket.
"May we go in?" asked Hilda. "I want to see the state of your
storeroom," she added, with an air of protecting care that sat prettily
on her youthful face.
"_Natuerlich_," called Friedrich from Johnny's side. "The key of the
cupboard is in the table-drawer."
Sydney was alone on the porch when Friedrich came up the steps.
"Your view is lovely," she said. "I think I like Pisgah better from
this angle than from any other."
"Then do I, too," he replied, looking at her with his heart in his
eyes, for it was long since he had seen her, and to a lover yesterday,
when it is passed, is as a thousand years.
Sydney threw up her chin haughtily, and von Rittenheim thought ruefully
of the category in which undoubtedly she classed all his remarks of
that kind.
"Will you not enter?" he said. "Never have you honored my roof, I
think." And Sydney was glad to do so to avoid being alone with him.
They found Hilda leaning against the table opposite the cupboard, while
Bob recited the contents of the shelves, and Wendell wrote them down.
"Two packages of oatmeal."
"Oatmeal," echoed John.
"One tin of mustard."
"Mustard."
"A sack half-full of cornmeal."
"Cornmeal."
"What in the world are you doing?" cried Sydney, in amazement.
Friedrich looked annoyed. No one likes to have his house-keeping
arrangements too closely scrutinized.
"Friedrich, this list is going to help you ver-ry much to know what you
must or-rder from the--how you call him?" She appealed to John and Bob
in turn. "The grocy?"
Friedrich smiled to conceal his irritation.
"My way, Hilda, is to get more of something when I find empty the box
that holds it. I'm afr-raid I am not pr-rovident."
She returned his smile adorably.
"That I must teach you," she said, and Sydney and John turned away.
Sydney walked to the mantel-shelf, which was so high that it was on a
level with her eyes. There was an array of pipes and a tin box of
tobacco; a volume of Schiller, with some matches lying loose upon it;
and, flat on the board, a photograph. She picked it up idly, not
noticing what she was doing, conscious only of doing something, so that
her separation from the others might not be noticeable. Her discovery
proved to be half of a picture of a Neighborhood picnic, taken by an
itinerant photographer who had established his tent near the Flora
post-office. It was that side of the group in which she was standing,
and her figure was brought into relief by a frame of card-board slipped
over it like a mat. It had become a picture of herself, and of herself
alone.
Her first feeling--the instinct that comes before thought--was one of
pleasure; he had cared enough to do that. But quick upon it came the
cry of wounded pride. She found von Rittenheim at her side, and turned
upon him fiercely.
"How dare you?" she cried, in an undertone. "How dare you do such a
thing? You know I never have given any man my picture,--once I told you
so,--and you have made this a picture of me alone. You, who----"
She broke off, choking, but she had enough voice to add,--
"But it is like you, it is like you!" as she tore the card into bits
and flung it into the fireplace.
Friedrich stooped involuntarily to catch the falling fragments, but he
saw at once the foolishness of his movement, and desisted. He said
nothing, and Sydney, made ashamed of her tirade by his silence, as she
would not have been by any words, at last looked up at him. The
expression on his face was so hopeless, so unutterably sad, that she,
in her turn, stood silent.
"Could you not have left me that?" he whispered, hoarsely.
Sydney was held by the inexplicable bond of his mute pain. A sense of
comprehension went through her, and with it a thrill of happiness. It
might be that after all--yes, it _must_ be that he had not been
trifling with her, that he had cared, that he was suffering as she
herself was suffering. And if so, how rewarded was her sacrifice! Her
love had been strong enough to make her willing that he should love
another woman, if his happiness lay in so doing. Her reward came in the
knowledge that after all his love was hers--that he was sharing her
sacrifice. _Why_ this was she did not understand; she only felt sure
that she was right, and she gloried in it. Then, woman-like, she
reproached herself for the moments when she had cheapened her
renunciation by the suspicion that he had been flirting with her.
Friedrich stood beside her, his left hand clutching his heart. He felt
as if, in destroying that picture, so often gazed at through clouds of
meditative smoke, so often kissed, she had done him a physical injury.
Through his coat he pinched hard her little handkerchief, which always
rested over his heart, lest she should divine its presence, and in some
way tear that from him, too. His suffering was so great that he did not
follow her change of expression, but his fingers felt hers touch them
ever so fleetingly, and her whisper came to his ears,--
"Forgive me. I think I understand now."
Across the room came Hilda, who never could stay away from Friedrich
many minutes, in spite of Wendell's efforts to interest her; and
Wendell himself, following her reluctantly only when her progress
brought him near von Rittenheim; and Bob, never truly happy except near
Sydney. There was laughing and talking, in which Friedrich and Sydney
heard themselves taking part, and wondered how it could be.
"Also we br-rought you an invitation," said Hilda, "as well as our so
interesting selves."
"Yes," said Bob, "we're going on a 'possum-hunt to-morrow night, and we
want you and your best dog."
"You shall have me! I r-remember last year when first I came I heard
the dogs on the mountain, but then I had no kind fr-riends to make me
the invitation."
"It's a little early, but we want to be sure to have one before Mr.
Wendell goes."
"You go soon?"
Von Rittenheim's interest was only a courteous expression of concern,
but John, fretted by Hilda's alternate encouragement and coldness, was
tormented by his nerves, and not in command of his judgment. He saw in
the Baron's question a malicious pleasure in his prospective departure.
"Yes," he said, "I must go soon, I'm afraid. You're playing in luck
these days, old man. You gain what I lose--and the close season for
moonshiners is coming on, now that the corn is ripe."
Hilda, who did not understand a word he said, laughed softly, as if in
amusement at his wit. Von Rittenheim, who had not been able to follow
the colloquialisms, frowned at "moonshining," which rang out for his
ears above all else. Sydney and Bob looked with horror at the sneering
face before them.
"John," said Sydney, sternly, "you forget yourself strangely."
As they were about to start she leaned from her horse and gave her hand
to Friedrich.
"You have much to forgive me," she said.
"For much have I to thank you," he returned.
XXIII
The 'Possum-Hunt
Buzzard Mountain, wooded to the top, extends for two miles north and
south. Its long, gradual slope is like the body of a dormant animal,
rising from the sunken haunches over a long and flattened back, and
falling again to the nose dropped sleepily between the outstretched
paws.
The meet for the 'possum-hunt was at its northern end, on the outskirts
of the settlement. The run was to be along the crest towards the south,
bringing the hunters out at the end of the ridge nearest their homes.
The night was lighted by a youthful moon, not brilliant enough to dim
the lustre of the stars, shining clear through the air. It was cool
with the first touch of autumn; so cool as to invite to exercise, yet
so warm as to make it a pleasure to be in the open.
The hunters were in high spirits. The men from the hamlet about the
post-office,--'Gene Frady and Alf Lance, Mitchell Robertson, the
blacksmith, Doc Pinner, the carpenter, and a half-dozen more, with a
boy to drive back the horses, were piled into a wagon. There were much
pushing and scrambling for places, and many ejaculations of discomfort.
"Git off mah feet, 'Gene."
"Hang 'em outside, man. Ah gotter sit somewheres."
"Ouch! What fool put rye-straw in here?"
"Powerful penetratin', ain' hit?"
"Now, look here, that dog's gotter run with the rest. They ain' no room
for him in this wagon."
"Cain' you-all make them horses o' yo's git along a little mo' lively,
Alf? Mr. Baron'll 'a' cleaned the mountain o' 'possums befo' we git
there."
"How you-all think they's goin' ter hurry with so many fellers ter
haul? Some o' you boys gotter light 'n walk up this hill in a minute,
so ye better enjoy drivin' while ye can."
At a deserted cabin on the road that ran through the northern gap they
found Bob Morgan and John Wendell, who had come in a buggy, and the
Baron on his mule. A small negro was to take the vehicle, with von
Rittenheim's animal tied behind, around the base of the mountain to the
German's house, there to await the end of the hunt. The boy's brown
face was twitching with excitement, as the men began to throw their
coats into the wagon, and to light their torches, split from the heart
of the yellow pine.
"Oh, Lor', Missa Bob," he cried, rubbing one bare foot up and down the
other leg in ecstasy, "lemme go, too. Ah'll never ast ye nothin' again,
Ah swear Ah won't. _Please_, Missa Bob."
"Can't do it, Scipio," said Bob, kindly. "You're the only man we've got
to look after these creatures. Here, don't let your eyes pop out of
your head. I tell you, you drive to Mr. Baron's and tie the horse and
the mule,--tie 'em strong, mind,--and then you can come up the other
side and meet us."
Scipio's mournful eyes followed the disappearing forms with an
appreciation of their purpose rather than of the picturesqueness of
their appearance. The flaming lights grew silent as the distance became
too great for his ear to catch their sizzling. They danced hither and
yon,--now scattered, now flashing in a bunch. He followed the course of
a very bright one as it appeared and vanished, but went always on and
up.
"Ah 'low dat's Missa Bob's," said the loyal little soul. "He sho' would
have de bigges'."
On the hill-side the men opened their line to cover a wide stretch of
the mountain, and plunged upward through the scrub of pines and oaks.
There was much running about of the dogs, and desultory barking,
corrected by spicy admonitions from their masters, until the ascent's
steepness forced silence upon them by the weapon of difficult
breathing.
Once 'Gene Frady tripped on a root and fell headlong, pitching his
torch into the dry duff a man's length before him. There was a rush to
stamp out the incipient fire, the autumn terror of the forests, before
any one lent a hand to help the fallen. Robertson went half-way up his
leggings in a spring, and stood swearing fiercely, while the rest
jeered at him and ordered him to move on before he muddied up a good
drinking-place. Bob and Friedrich pushed on on adjoining courses, an
occasional cry of "_malerisch_," or "_zauberisch_," showing that von
Rittenheim was regarding the scene as well as the sport. On the other
side of Bob climbed Wendell, sullenly self-reproachful in the Baron's
presence, yet of too exuberant a nature not to be alive to the
excitement of the chase.
Of a sudden a hound gave voice,--the bay that makes hunters of us all.
The other dogs rushed to his standard, yelping, barking, galloping from
all directions across their masters' paths, until the forest seemed
suddenly alive with them. One after another found, and added his note
to the general cry that trailed off into the distance. The men who had
started to follow paused, and the rest drew together.
"Rabbit," suggested Bob, disgustedly, and the others nodded, and began
to whistle for their retainers.
Singly they returned, with swinging tongue and pendant ears, and a
disposition to sit down and contemplate the scenery. Then once more
came a cry, the steady bay of a dog at stand. His companions instantly
forgot their fatigue, pricked up their ears, pulled in their tongues,
and started towards the herald, with all the huntsmen in pursuit.
Gathered about a veteran oak, whose blasted top betrayed it the
lightning's victim, were grouped the dogs, each one shoving to better
his place in the bunch, each with tuneful throat and uplifted tail.
Occasionally one from the outskirts would rush around the crowd of his
fellows and try to push in from the other side of the ring. The ones
nearest the tree snuffed at a hole in the trunk between the roots, and
dug fiercely with their forepaws.
"Holler, ain' hit?"
"Yes. He's went in that-a-way."
"Don' look like hit's holler up fur."
"No. Reckon we c'n chop him out."
Lance pushed among the dogs, kicking and cuffing them out of his way,
and sounded the tree with the back of a hatchet.
"Ah 'low hit's gone all the way up," he cried.
"Well, chop hit 'n fin' out!" returned his friends, impatiently.
He began cutting a square and soon broke through the outer shell.
"Gimme a glove, one o' you fellers," he cried. "Ah ain' aimin' to have
a finger chewed off this time."
Some one tossed him the desired protection. He put it on and thrust his
arm into the hole, while the crowd pushed up on to the dogs, and they
yelped excitedly.
"Ah tol' ye so. Hit's holler clear up's fur's Ah c'n reach."
"All right. We'll smoke him out, then. Git out o' here, you dogs, an'
give us a chance at this fireplace."
The hole at the base of the tree was quickly enlarged enough to push in
a smudge, and the opening which Lance had made above was closed with
moss and green leaves.
"Hi, there she comes," cried some one, enthusiastically, as the thick
white smoke made its way out of the broken top. "The varmint won' stan'
that long."
Soon, indeed, amid a shower of bark and burning punk, a black and white
ball scrambled into the air and dropped from the ragged splinters that
offered no sufficient hold for its claws.
As swift as sight, 'Gene Frady dashed close to the bole and caught the
falling creature in his hands. High above the leaping dogs he held it,
while they snarled, defrauded of their prey.
"Quick, that crocus sack," he called. "Ah promised the kids to bring
one home. Give him a switch, Mitchell."
The 'possum, rousing from the semi-stupor into which the smoke and the
shock of his fall had thrown him, was beginning to struggle violently.
Robertson broke a finger-thick stick and thrust it between the snapping
jaws, that clamped upon it fiercely. The rat-like tail wound about the
other end of the rod, and the bag was drawn over him while he clung to
his fancied means of safety. Frady flung his burden high on his back to
secure it from the dogs, and the others put out the fire in the tree,
and again fell into open order to beat the woods.
The next 'possum which they discovered, more fortunate than his
brother, who had been sighted on the ground where locomotion is slow
and awkward for his kind, was aloft in the branches when the dogs spied
him. He clambered dexterously about with his hand-like extremities,
aiding his progress with his prehensile tail; but he had not calculated
upon the added heaviness which his autumn diet had given him. He
ventured upon a sapling that bent beneath him. Wendell added his weight
to bear it to the ground, and the dogs leaped at their victim and tore
him into bits.
Both men and dogs were tired now, and pushed on with less enthusiasm.
The dogs, indeed, who had covered many more miles in their wild
dashings than had their masters, were not above sitting down
occasionally and lapping a memento of the last 'possum's sharp teeth,
or passing a rueful paw over a slit and bleeding ear.
As they were approaching the southern end of the mountain, and realized
that the edge of the excitement was blunted, the men walked nearer to
each other, and talked on indifferent themes as they pushed through the
brush just below the top of the ridge. One after another fell silent,
perhaps through fatigue; possibly impressed with the beauty of the
night.