THE WAGGON-MAKER
A spring of eternal youthfulness gushing somewhere under the bed of the
mountains, was a dream of the Spanish Main, sought long and found not,
as the legends run. But it is no dream that some of us carry our
inheritance of youthfulness shoulder to shoulder with Eld into No Man's
Country. Such an one was Simon Betts the waggon-maker.
I sat by his smouldering fire of shavings and hickory splinters, and
wondered at the old man in the chimney corner. He was eighty, and yet
his back was straight, his hair was scarcely grey, and his hands,
resting on the arms of his huge wooden chair, were as unshrunken and
powerful, it seemed to me, as the hands of any man of middle life.
Eighty! It was a tremendous hark back to that summer, long and long ago,
when Simon came through the gap of the mountains into the Hills. The
land was full of wonders then. The people of the copper faces prowled
with the wolf and whooped along the Gauley. The Dwarfs lurked in the
out-of-the-way corners of the mountains, trooping down in crooked droves
to burn and kill for the very joy of doing evil. And who could say what
unearthly thing went by when the wind shouted along the ridges? The folk
then were but few in the Hills, and each busy with keeping the life in
him. The land was good, broad waters and rich hill-tops, where the
blue-grass grew though no man sowed it. A land made ready for a great
people when it should come. With Simon came others from the south
country, who felled the forest and let in the sunlight, and made wide
pastures for the bullock, and so elbowed out the wandering and the evil.
High against the chimney, on two dogwood forks, rested the long rifle
with its fishtail sight and the brass plate on the stock for the bullets
and the "patching." Below it hung the old powder-horn, its wooden plug
dangling from a string,--tools of the long ago. Closing one's eyes one
could see the tall grandsires fighting in the beech forest, a brown
patch of hide sighted over the brass knife-blade bead, and death, and to
load again with the flat neck of the bullet set in the palm of the hand
and covered with powder.
That yesterday was gone, but old Simon was doing with to-day. On two
benches was a cart wheel, with its hickory spokes radiating like fingers
from the locust hub, and on the floor were the mallet and the steel
chisel with its tough oak handle. Stacked up in the corner were bundles
of straight hickory, split from the butt of the great shell-bark log;
round cuts of dry locust, and long timbers of white and red oak, and
quarters of the tough sugars, seasoning, hard as iron. With these were
the axe, the wedge, the dogwood gluts, and the mauls made with no little
labour from the curled knots of the chestnut oak, and hooped with an
iron tire-piece.
It was said on the country side that old Simon knew lost secrets of
woodcraft taught by the early man;--in what moon to fell the shingle
timber that it might not curl on the roof; on what face of the hill the
sassafras root was red; how to know the toughest hickory by hammering on
its trunk; when twigs cut from the forest would grow, if thrust in the
earth; and that secret day of all the year when an axe, stuck into the
bark of a tree, would deaden it to the root.
Simon Betts was not a man of many words. He smoked in the corner,
stopping now and then to knock the ashes from his pipe, or to put some
brief query. Jud and Ump had come in from the old man's log stable,
throwing their saddles down by the door and spreading the bridles out on
the hearth so that the iron bits would be warm in the morning.
"How will the day be to-morrow?" I asked of the waggon-maker.
"Dry," he responded; "great rains in the mountains, but none here for a
week; then storms."
"Isn't it early for the storms?"
"Yes," he answered; "but the wild geese have gone over, and the storms
follow."
Then he asked me where we were riding, and I explained that we were
going to bring up Ward's cattle from beyond the Valley River. He said
that we would find dry roads but high rivers. The gates of the mountains
would be gushing with rains. The old man studied the fire.
Presently he said, "Mr. Ward is a good man. I have seen him buy a poor
scoundrel's heifers and wink his eye when the scoundrel salted them the
night before they were weighed, and then drove them to the scales in the
morning around by the water trough."
I laughed. This was a trick originated long ago by one Columbus, an old
grazing thief of the Rock Ford country, who went ever afterward by the
name of "Water Lum." It was a terrible breach of the cattle code.
Again the old man relapsed into silence. His eyes ran over the shoulders
of the big Jud who squatted by the fire, sewing his broken bridle reins
with a shoemaker's wax-end.
"Are you the strong man?" he said.
The giant chuckled and grinned and drew out the end of his thread.
"Well," continued the waggon-maker, "Mr. Ward spoiled a mighty good
blacksmith when he put you on a horse." Then he turned to me. "Is he the
one that throwed Woodford's club-footed nigger in the wrastle at Roy's
tavern?"
"Yes," I said, "but one time it was a dog-fall, and Lem Marks says that
Malan slipped the other time."
"But he didn't slip," put in Jud. "He tried to lift me, an' I
knee-locked him. Then I could a throwed him if he'd been as big as a
Polled-Angus heifer."
"Was you wrastling back-holts or breeches-holts?" asked old Simon,
getting up from his chair.
"Back-holts," replied Jud.
The waggon-maker nodded his head. Doubtless in the early time he had
occasion to learn the respective virtues of these two celebrated
methods.
"That's best if your back's best," he said; "but I reckon you ain't
willing to let it go with a dog-fall. You might get another chance at
him to-morrow. I saw him go up the road about noon."
Behind the old man Ump held up two fingers and made a sweeping gesture.
The waggon-maker went back to the corner of his house for some bedding.
Ump leaned over. "Two flyin'," he said. "One went east, an' one went
west, an' one went over the cuckoo's nest. If I knowed where that
cuckoo's nest was, we'd have the last one spotted."
"What do you think they're up to?" said I.
Ump laughed. "Oh ho, I think they're out lookin' for the babes in the
woods!" And the fancy pleased him so well that he rubbed his hands and
chuckled in his crooked throat until old Simon returned.
It was late, and the waggon-maker began his preparations for the night.
He gave me a home-made mattress of corn husks and a hand-made quilt,
heavy and warm as a fur robe. From a high swinging shelf he got two
heifer hides, tanned with the hair on them, soft as cloth. In these Jud
and Ump rolled themselves and, putting the saddles under their heads,
were presently sleeping like the illustrious Seven. The old man fastened
his door with a wooden bar, took off his shoes, and sat down by the
fire.
I went to sleep with the picture fading into my dream,--the smoked
rafters, the red wampus of the old waggon-maker, and the burning
splinters crumbling into a heap of rosy ash. A moment later, as things
come and go in the land of Nod, Cynthia and Hawk Rufe were also sitting
by this fire. Cynthia held the old picture with the funny curls,--the
one that stands on the mantel shelf at home,--and she was trying to rub
out the curls with her thumb, moistening it in her red mouth. But
somehow they would not rub out, and she showed the picture to Woodford,
who began to count on his outspread fingers, "Eaney, meany, miny mo."
Only the words were names somehow, although they sounded like these
words.
Then the dream changed, and I was on El Mahdi in a press of fighting
cattle, driven round and round by black Malan and Parson Peppers
bellowing like the very devil.
When I awoke the fire was blazing and the grey light of the earliest
dawn was creeping in through the chinks of the log wall. Ump and Jud had
gone to the stable and the old waggon-maker was busy with the breakfast.
On the hearth a mighty cake of corn-meal was baking itself brown;
potatoes roasted in the ashes, and on a little griddle about as big as a
man's hat a great cut of half-dried beef was broiling.
Famous chefs have spent a lifetime fitting beef for the royal table, and
a king of France slighted the business of an empire for the acquirement
of this art, and a king of England knighted a roast; but they all died
and were buried without tasting beef as it ought to go into a man's
mouth. I write it first. A Polled-Angus heifer, fed and watered and
cared for like a child, should be killed suddenly without fright, and
butchered properly; let the choice pieces hang from a rafter by green
withes and be smoked with hickory logs until the fibres begin to dry in
them, then cut down and broil.
I arose and went out of doors to wash the night off. Between the house
and the log stable, under a giant sugar tree a spring of water bubbled
out through the limestone stratum, ran laughing down a long sapling
spout, and splashed into a huge old moss-covered trough.
With such food and such water, and the air of the Hills, is it any
wonder that Simon Betts was a man at eighty? Hark ye! my masters of the
great burgs, drinking poison in your smoky holes.
I plunged my head into the water, and my arms up to the elbows, then
came out dripping and wiped it off on a homespun linen towel which the
old man had given me when I left the house. As I stood rubbing my arms
on the good linen, Ump and Jud came down from the stable and stopped to
dip a drink in the long gourd that hung by the spring. They were about
to pass on, when Ump suddenly stopped and pointed out a man's footprints
leading from the stable path over the wet sod to the road. There were
only one or two of these prints in the damp places below the spring, but
they were fresh, and made by a foot smaller far than the wide one of old
Simon Betts.
We followed Ump to the road. A horse had been hitched to the "rider" of
the rail fence, and there were his tracks stamped in the hard clay.
There was not light enough to see very clearly, so we struck matches and
got down on the bank to study the details of the tracks. I saw that the
horse had been one of medium size,--a saddle horse, shod with a "store"
shoe, remodelled by some smith. But this knowledge gave no especial
light.
Ump and Jud lay on their bellies with their noses to the earth searching
the shoe marks. "It's no use," I said, "we can't tell." And I sat up.
The two neither answered nor paid the slightest attention. No
bacteriologist plodding in his eccentric orbit ever studied the outlines
of a new-found germ with deeper or more painstaking care. Presently they
began to compare their discoveries.
"He was a Hambletonian," began Jud; "don't you see how long the shoe is
from the toe to the cork?" Ump nodded. "An' he was curbed," Jud went on;
"his feet set too close under him fer a straight-legged horse. Still,
that ain't enough."
"Put this to it," said the hunchback, "an' you've got your hand on him.
Them's store nails hammered into a store shoe, an' the corks are beat
squat. That's Stone's shoein'. Now you know him."
Then I knew him too. Lem Marks rode a curbed Hambletonian, and Stone was
Woodford's blacksmith.
Jud got up and waved his great hand towards the south country.
"They're all ridin'," he said, "every mother's son of the gang. An' they
know where we are."
"With rings on their fingers, an' bells on their toes," gabbled Ump;
"an' we know where they are."
Then I heard the voice of the old waggon-maker calling us to breakfast.