IV

Even the geese in the creek seemed to know that he was a stranger and to

distrust him, for they cackled and, spreading their wings, fled cackling

up the stream. As he neared the house, the little girl ran around the

stone chimney, stopped short, shaded her eyes with one hand for a moment

and ran excitedly into the house. A moment later, the bearded giant

slouched out, stooping his head as he came through the door.

“Hitch that 'ar post to yo' hoss and come right in,” he thundered

cheerily. “I'm waitin' fer ye.”

The little girl came to the door, pushed one brown slender hand through

her tangled hair, caught one bare foot behind a deer-like ankle and

stood motionless. Behind her was the boy--his dagger still in hand.

“Come right in!” said the old man, “we are purty pore folks, but you're

welcome to what we have.”

The fisherman, too, had to stoop as he came in, for he, too, was tall.

The interior was dark, in spite of the wood fire in the big stone

fireplace. Strings of herbs and red-pepper pods and twisted tobacco hung

from the ceiling and down the wall on either side of the fire; and in

one corner, near the two beds in the room, hand-made quilts of many

colours were piled several feet high. On wooden pegs above the door

where ten years before would have been buck antlers and an old-fashioned

rifle, lay a Winchester; on either side of the door were auger holes

through the logs (he did not understand that they were port-holes) and

another Winchester stood in the corner. From the mantel the butt of a

big 44-Colt's revolver protruded ominously. On one of the beds in the

corner he could see the outlines of a figure lying under a brilliantly

figured quilt, and at the foot of it the boy with the pine dagger had

retreated for refuge. From the moment he stooped at the door something

in the room had made him vaguely uneasy, and when his eyes in swift

survey came back to the fire, they passed the blaze swiftly and met on

the edge of the light another pair of eyes burning on him.

“Howdye!” said Hale.

“Howdye!” was the low, unpropitiating answer.

The owner of the eyes was nothing but a boy, in spite of his length: so

much of a boy that a slight crack in his voice showed that it was just

past the throes of “changing,” but those black eyes burned on without

swerving--except once when they flashed at the little girl who, with her

chin in her hand and one foot on the top rung of her chair, was gazing

at the stranger with equal steadiness. She saw the boy's glance, she

shifted her knees impatiently and her little face grew sullen. Hale

smiled inwardly, for he thought he could already see the lay of the

land, and he wondered that, at such an age, such fierceness could be: so

every now and then he looked at the boy, and every time he looked, the

black eyes were on him. The mountain youth must have been almost six

feet tall, young as he was, and while he was lanky in limb he was well

knit. His jean trousers were stuffed in the top of his boots and were

tight over his knees which were well-moulded, and that is rare with a

mountaineer. A loop of black hair curved over his forehead, down almost

to his left eye. His nose was straight and almost delicate and his mouth

was small, but extraordinarily resolute. Somewhere he had seen that face

before, and he turned suddenly, but he did not startle the lad with his

abruptness, nor make him turn his gaze.

“Why, haven't I--?” he said. And then he suddenly remembered. He had

seen that boy not long since on the other side of the mountains, riding

his horse at a gallop down the county road with his reins in his teeth,

and shooting a pistol alternately at the sun and the earth with either

hand. Perhaps it was as well not to recall the incident. He turned to

the old mountaineer.

“Do you mean to tell me that a man can't go through these mountains

without telling everybody who asks him what his name is?”

The effect of his question was singular. The old man spat into the fire

and put his hand to his beard. The boy crossed his legs suddenly and

shoved his muscular fingers deep into his pockets. The figure shifted

position on the bed and the infant at the foot of it seemed to

clench his toy-dagger a little more tightly. Only the little girl

was motionless--she still looked at him, unwinking. What sort of wild

animals had he fallen among?

“No, he can't--an' keep healthy.” The giant spoke shortly.

“Why not?”

“Well, if a man hain't up to some devilment, what reason's he got fer

not tellin' his name?”

“That's his business.”

“Tain't over hyeh. Hit's mine. Ef a man don't want to tell his name over

hyeh, he's a spy or a raider or a officer looking fer somebody or,” he

added carelessly, but with a quick covert look at his visitor--“he's got

some kind o' business that he don't want nobody to know about.”

“Well, I came over here--just to--well, I hardly know why I did come.”

“Jess so,” said the old man dryly. “An' if ye ain't looking fer trouble,

you'd better tell your name in these mountains, whenever you're axed. Ef

enough people air backin' a custom anywhar hit goes, don't hit?”

His logic was good--and Hale said nothing. Presently the old man rose

with a smile on his face that looked cynical, picked up a black lump and

threw it into the fire. It caught fire, crackled, blazed, almost oozed

with oil, and Hale leaned forward and leaned back.

“Pretty good coal!”

“Hain't it, though?” The old man picked up a sliver that had flown to

the hearth and held a match to it. The piece blazed and burned in his

hand.

“I never seed no coal in these mountains like that--did you?”

“Not often--find it around here?”

“Right hyeh on this farm--about five feet thick!”

“What?”

“An' no partin'.”

“No partin'”--it was not often that he found a mountaineer who knew what

a parting in a coal bed was.

“A friend o' mine on t'other side,”--a light dawned for the engineer.

“Oh,” he said quickly. “That's how you knew my name.”

“Right you air, stranger. He tol' me you was a--expert.”

The old man laughed loudly. “An' that's why you come over hyeh.”

“No, it isn't.”

“Co'se not,”--the old fellow laughed again. Hale shifted the talk.

“Well, now that you know my name, suppose you tell me what yours is?”

“Tolliver--Judd Tolliver.” Hale started.

“Not Devil Judd!”

“That's what some evil folks calls me.” Again he spoke shortly. The

mountaineers do not like to talk about their feuds. Hale knew this--and

the subject was dropped. But he watched the huge mountaineer with

interest. There was no more famous character in all those hills than the

giant before him--yet his face was kind and was good-humoured, but the

nose and eyes were the beak and eyes of some bird of prey. The little

girl had disappeared for a moment. She came back with a blue-backed

spelling-book, a second reader and a worn copy of “Mother Goose,” and

she opened first one and then the other until the attention of the

visitor was caught--the black-haired youth watching her meanwhile with

lowering brows.

“Where did you learn to read?” Hale asked. The old man answered:

“A preacher come by our house over on the Nawth Fork 'bout three year

ago, and afore I knowed it he made me promise to send her sister Sally

to some school up thar on the edge of the settlements. And after she

come home, Sal larned that little gal to read and spell. Sal died 'bout

a year ago.”

Hale reached over and got the spelling-book, and the old man grinned

at the quick, unerring responses of the little girl, and the engineer

looked surprised. She read, too, with unusual facility, and her

pronunciation was very precise and not at all like her speech.

“You ought to send her to the same place,” he said, but the old fellow

shook his head.

“I couldn't git along without her.”

The little girl's eyes began to dance suddenly, and, without opening

“Mother Goose,” she began:

“Jack and Jill went up a hill,” and then she broke into a laugh and Hale

laughed with her.

Abruptly, the boy opposite rose to his great length.

“I reckon I better be goin'.” That was all he said as he caught up a

Winchester, which stood unseen by his side, and out he stalked. There

was not a word of good-by, not a glance at anybody. A few minutes later

Hale heard the creak of a barn door on wooden hinges, a cursing command

to a horse, and four feet going in a gallop down the path, and he knew

there went an enemy.

“That's a good-looking boy--who is he?”

The old man spat into the fire. It seemed that he was not going to

answer and the little girl broke in:

“Hit's my cousin Dave--he lives over on the Nawth Fork.”

That was the seat of the Tolliver-Falin feud. Of that feud, too, Hale

had heard, and so no more along that line of inquiry. He, too, soon rose

to go.

“Why, ain't ye goin' to have something to eat?”

“Oh, no, I've got something in my saddlebags and I must be getting back

to the Gap.”

“Well, I reckon you ain't. You're jes' goin' to take a snack right

here.” Hale hesitated, but the little girl was looking at him with such

unconscious eagerness in her dark eyes that he sat down again.

“All right, I will, thank you.” At once she ran to the kitchen and the

old man rose and pulled a bottle of white liquid from under the quilts.

“I reckon I can trust ye,” he said. The liquor burned Hale like fire,

and the old man, with a laugh at the face the stranger made, tossed off

a tumblerful.

“Gracious!” said Hale, “can you do that often?”

“Afore breakfast, dinner and supper,” said the old man--“but I don't.”

Hale felt a plucking at his sleeve. It was the boy with the dagger at

his elbow.

“Less see you laugh that-a-way agin,” said Bub with such deadly

seriousness that Hale unconsciously broke into the same peal.

“Now,” said Bub, unwinking, “I ain't afeard o' you no more.”

V

Awaiting dinner, the mountaineer and the “furriner” sat on the porch

while Bub carved away at another pine dagger on the stoop. As Hale

passed out the door, a querulous voice said “Howdye” from the bed in

the corner and he knew it was the step-mother from whom the little girl

expected some nether-world punishment for an offence of which he was

ignorant. He had heard of the feud that had been going on between the

red Falins and the black Tollivers for a quarter of a century, and this

was Devil Judd, who had earned his nickname when he was the leader of

his clan by his terrible strength, his marksmanship, his cunning and his

courage. Some years since the old man had retired from the leadership,

because he was tired of fighting or because he had quarrelled with his

brother Dave and his foster-brother, Bad Rufe--known as the terror of

the Tollivers--or from some unknown reason, and in consequence there had

been peace for a long time--the Falins fearing that Devil Judd would

be led into the feud again, the Tollivers wary of starting hostilities

without his aid. After the last trouble, Bad Rufe Tolliver had gone West

and old Judd had moved his family as far away as possible. Hale looked

around him: this, then, was the home of Devil Judd Tolliver; the little

creature inside was his daughter and her name was June. All around the

cabin the wooded mountains towered except where, straight before his

eyes, Lonesome Creek slipped through them to the river, and the old man

had certainly picked out the very heart of silence for his home. There

was no neighbour within two leagues, Judd said, except old Squire Billy

Beams, who ran a mill a mile down the river. No wonder the spot was

called Lonesome Cove.

“You must ha' seed Uncle Billy and ole Hon passin',” he said.

“I did.” Devil Judd laughed and Hale made out that “Hon” was short for

Honey.

“Uncle Billy used to drink right smart. Ole Hon broke him. She followed

him down to the grocery one day and walked in. 'Come on, boys--let's

have a drink'; and she set 'em up an' set 'em up until Uncle Billy most

went crazy. He had hard work gittin' her home, an' Uncle Billy hain't

teched a drap since.” And the old mountaineer chuckled again.

All the time Hale could hear noises from the kitchen inside. The old

step-mother was abed, he had seen no other woman about the house and he

wondered if the child could be cooking dinner. Her flushed face answered

when she opened the kitchen door and called them in. She had not only

cooked but now she served as well, and when he thanked her, as he did

every time she passed something to him, she would colour faintly. Once

or twice her hand seemed to tremble, and he never looked at her but her

questioning dark eyes were full upon him, and always she kept one hand

busy pushing her thick hair back from her forehead. He had not asked her

if it was her footprints he had seen coming down the mountain for fear

that he might betray her, but apparently she had told on herself, for

Bub, after a while, burst out suddenly:

“June, thar, thought you was a raider.” The little girl flushed and the

old man laughed.

“So'd you, pap,” she said quietly.

“That's right,” he said. “So'd anybody. I reckon you're the first man

that ever come over hyeh jus' to go a-fishin',” and he laughed again.

The stress on the last words showed that he believed no man had yet come

just for that purpose, and Hale merely laughed with him. The old fellow

gulped his food, pushed his chair back, and when Hale was through, he

wasted no more time.

“Want to see that coal?”

“Yes, I do,” said Hale.

“All right, I'll be ready in a minute.”

The little girl followed Hale out on the porch and stood with her back

against the railing.

“Did you catch it?” he asked. She nodded, unsmiling.

“I'm sorry. What were you doing up there?” She showed no surprise that

he knew that she had been up there, and while she answered his question,

he could see that she was thinking of something else.

“I'd heerd so much about what you furriners was a-doin' over thar.”

“You must have heard about a place farther over--but it's coming over

there, too, some day.” And still she looked an unspoken question.

The fish that Hale had caught was lying where he had left it on the edge

of the porch.

“That's for you, June,” he said, pointing to it, and the name as he

spoke it was sweet to his ears.

“I'm much obleeged,” she said, shyly. “I'd 'a' cooked hit fer ye if I'd

'a' knowed you wasn't goin' to take hit home.”

“That's the reason I didn't give it to you at first--I was afraid you'd

do that. I wanted you to have it.”

“Much obleeged,” she said again, still unsmiling, and then she suddenly

looked up at him--the deeps of her dark eyes troubled.

“Air ye ever comin' back agin, Jack?” Hale was not accustomed to the

familiar form of address common in the mountains, independent of sex or

age--and he would have been staggered had not her face been so serious.

And then few women had ever called him by his first name, and this time

his own name was good to his ears.

“Yes, June,” he said soberly. “Not for some time, maybe--but I'm coming

back again, sure.” She smiled then with both lips and eyes--radiantly.

“I'll be lookin' fer ye,” she said simply.