XI

THE journey to the mountains was made with a heavy heart. In his

absence everything seemed to have suffered a change. Jellico had

never seemed so small, so coarse, so wretched as when he stepped

from the dusty train and saw it lying dwarfed and shapeless in the

afternoon sunlight. The State line bisects the straggling streets of

frame-houses. On the Kentucky side an extraordinary spasm of

morality had quieted into local option. Just across the way in

Tennessee was a row of saloons. It was "pay-day" for the miners,

and the worst element of all the mines was drifting in to spend the

following Sabbath in unchecked vice. Several rough, brawny

fellows were already staggering from Tennessee into Kentucky,

and around one saloon hung a crowd of slatternly negroes, men

and women. Heartsick with disgust, Clayton hurried into the lane

that wound through the valley. Were these hovels, he asked

himself in wonder, the cabins he once thought so poetic, so

picturesque? How was it that they suggested now only a pitiable

poverty of life? From each, as he passed, came a rough, cordial shout of greeting. Why was he jarred so strangely? Even nature had changed. The mountains seemed stunted, less beautiful. The light, streaming through the western gap with all the splendor of a

mountain sunset, no longer thrilled him. The moist fragrance of

the earth at twilight, the sad pipings of birds by the wayside, the

faint, clear notes of a wood-thrush-his favorite-from the edge of

the forest, even the mid-air song of a meadow-lark above his head,

were unheeded as, with face haggard with thought and travel, he

turned doggedly from the road and up the mountain toward

Easter's home. The novelty and ethnological zeal that had blinded

him to the disagreeable phases of mountain life were gone; so was

the pedestal from which he had descended to make a closer study

of the people. For he felt now that he had gone among them with

an unconscious condescension; his interest seemed now to have

been little more than curiosity-a pastime to escape brooding over

his own change of fortune. And with Easter-ah, how painfully

clear his mental vision had grown! Was it the tragedy of wasting

possibilities that had drawn him to her-to help her-or was it his

own miserable selfishness, after all?

No one was visible when he reached the cabin. The calm of mountain and sky enthralled it as completely as the cliff that towered behind it. The day still lingered, and the sunlight rested lightly on each neighboring crest. As he stepped upon the porch there was a slight noise within the cabin, and, peering into the dark interior, he called Easter's name. There was no answer, and he sank wearily into a chair, his thoughts reverting homeward. By this time his mother and sister must know why he had come back to the mountains. He could imagine their consternation and grief. Perhaps that was only the beginning; he might be on the eve of causing them endless unhappiness. He had thought to involve them as little as possible by remaining in the mountains; but the thought of living there was now intolerable in the new relations he would sustain to the people. What should he do? where go? As he bent fQrward in perplexity, there was a noise again in the cabin-this time the stealthy tread of feet-and before he could turn, a rough voice vibrated threateningly in his ears:

Say who ye air, and what yer business is, mighty quick, er ye hain't

got a minute to live."

Clayton looked up, and to his horror saw the muzzle of a rifle

pointed straight at his head. At the other end of it, and standing in

the door, was a short, stocky figure, a head of bushy hair, and a pair of small, crafty eyes. The fierceness and suddenness of the voice, in the great silence about him, and its terrible earnestness, left him almost paralyzed.

"Come, who air ye? Say quick, and don't move, nother"

Clayton spoke his name with difficulty. The butt of the rifle

dropped to the floor, and with a harsh laugh its holder advanced to

him with hand outstretched:

So ye air Easter's feller, air ye? Well, I'm yer dad-that's to be.

Shake."

Clayton shuddered. Good heavens! this was Easter's father! More

than once or twice, his name had never been mentioned at the

cabin.

I tuk ye fer a raider," continued the old mountaineer, not noticing

Clayton's repulsion, "'n' ef ye had 'a' been, ye wouldn't be nobody

now. I reckon Easter hain't told ye much about me, 'n' I reckon she

hev a right to be a leetle ashamed of me. I had a leetle trouble

down thar in the valley-I s'pose you've heerd about it-'n' I've had to

keep kind o' quiet. I seed ye once afore, 'n' I come near shootin'

ye, thinkin' ye was a raider. Am mighty glad I didn't, fer Easter is

powerful sot on ye. Sherd thought I could resk comm' down to the

wed-din'. They hev kind o' give up the s'arch, 'n' none o' the boys

won't tell on me. We'll have an old-timer, I tell ye. Ye folks from the settle-mints air mighty high-heeled, but old Bill Hicks don't allus go bar'footed. He kin step purty high, 'n' he's a-goin' to do it at that weddin'. Hev somefin?" he asked, suddenly pulling out a flask of colorless liquid. "Ez ye air to be one o' the fambly, I don't mind tellin' ye thar's the very moonshine that caused the leetle trouble down in the valley."

For fear of giving offence, Clayton took a swallow of the liquid,

which burned him like fire. He had scarcely recovered from the

first shock, and he had listened to the man and watched him with a

sort of enthralling fascination. He was Easter's father. He could

even see a faint suggestion of Easter's face in the cast of the

features before him, coarse and degraded as they were. He had the

same nervous, impetuous quickness, and, horrified by the likeness,

Clayton watched him sink back into a chair, pipe in mouth, and

relapse into a stolidity that seemed incapable of the energy and fire

shown scarcely a moment before. His life in the mountains had

made him as shaggy as some wild animal. He was coatless, and his

trousers of jeans were upheld by a single home-made suspender.

His beard was yet scarcely touched with gray, and his black,

lustreless hair fell from under a round hat of felt with ragged tdges

and uncertain color. The mountaineer did not speak again until, with great deliberation and care, he had filled a cob pipe. Then he bent his sharp eyes upon Clayton so fixedly that the latter let his own fall.

"Mebbe ye don't know that I'm ag'in' fur-riners," he said, abruptly, "

all o' ye; 'n' ef the Lord hisself hed 'a' tol' me thet my gal would be

a-marryin' one, I wouldn't 'a' believed him. But Sherd hev told me

ye air all right, 'n' ef Sherd says ye air, why, ye air, I reckon, 'n' I

hevn't got nothin' to say; though I hev got a heap ag'in ye-all o' ye."

His voice had a hint of growing anger under the momentary sense

of his wrongs, and, not wishing to incense him further, Clayton

said nothing.

Ye air back a little sooner than ye expected, ain't ye? " he asked,

presently, with an awkward effort at good-humor. "I reckon ye air

gittin' anxious. Well, we hev been gittin' ready fer ye, 'n' you 'n'

Easter kin hitch ez soon ez ye please. Sherd Raines air gum' to do

the marryin'. He air the best friend I got. Sherd was a-courtin' the

gal, too, but he hevn't got no gredge ag'in ye, 'n' he hev promised to

tie ye. Sherd air a preacher now. He hev just got his license. He

didn't want to do it, but I told him he had to. We'll hev the biggest

weddin' ever seed in these mountains, I tell ye. Any o' yo' folks be on hand?"