[Illustration]
The Shepherd of the Hills
by Harold Bell Wright
1907
TO FRANCES, MY WIFE
IN MEMORY OF THAT BEAUTIFUL SUMMER
IN THE OZARK HILLS, WHEN, SO OFTEN,
WE FOLLOWED THE OLD TRAIL AROUND
THE RISE OF MUTTON HOLLOW—THE TRAIL
THAT IS NOBODY KNOWS HOW OLD—AND FROM
SAMMY’S LOOKOUT WATCHED THE
DAY GO OVER THE WESTERN RIDGES.
_“That all with one consent praise new-born gawds,
Tho they are made and moulded of things past,
And give to dust that is a little gilt
More laud than gilt o’er-dusted.”_
TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. ACT 3; SC. 3.
Contents
CHAPTER I. THE STRANGER
CHAPTER II. SAMMY LANE
CHAPTER III. THE VOICE FROM OUT THE MISTS
CHAPTER IV. A CHAT WITH AUNT MOLLIE
CHAPTER V. “JEST NOBODY.”
CHAPTER VI. THE STORY
CHAPTER VII. WHAT IS LOVE?
CHAPTER VIII. “WHY AIN’T WE GOT NO FOLKS.”
CHAPTER IX. SAMMY LANE’S FOLKS
CHAPTER X. A FEAT OF STRENGTH AND A CHALLENGE
CHAPTER XI. OLLIE STEWART’S GOOD-BY
CHAPTER XII. THE SHEPHERD AND HIS FLOCK
CHAPTER XIII. SAMMY LANE’S AMBITION
CHAPTER XIV. THE COMMON YELLER KIND
CHAPTER XV. THE PARTY AT FORD’S
CHAPTER XVI. ON THE WAY HOME
CHAPTER XVII. WHAT HAPPENED AT THE RANCH
CHAPTER XVIII. LEARNING TO BE A LADY
CHAPTER XIX. THE DROUGHT
CHAPTER XX. THE SHEPHERD WRITES A LETTER
CHAPTER XXI. GOD’S GOLD
CHAPTER XXII. A LETTER FROM OLLIE STEWART
CHAPTER XXIII. OLLIE COMES HOME
CHAPTER XXIV. WHAT MAKES A MAN
CHAPTER XXV. YOUNG MATT REMEMBERS
CHAPTER XXVI. OLLIE’S DILEMMA
CHAPTER XXVII. THE CHAMPION
CHAPTER XXVIII. WHAT PETE TOLD SAMMY
CHAPTER XXIX. JIM LANE MAKES A PROMISE
CHAPTER XXX. SAMMY GRADUATES
CHAPTER XXXI. CASTLE BUILDING
CHAPTER XXXII. PREPARATION
CHAPTER XXXIII. A RIDE IN THE NIGHT
CHAPTER XXXIV. JIM LANE KEEPS HIS PROMISE
CHAPTER XXXV. “I WILL LIFT UP MINE EYES UNTO THE HILLS.”
CHAPTER XXXVI. ANOTHER STRANGER
CHAPTER XXXVII. OLD FRIENDS
CHAPTER XXXVIII. I AIN’T NOBODY NO MORE
CHAPTER XXXIX. A MATTER OF HOURS
CHAPTER XL. THE SHEPHERD’S MISSION
CHAPTER XLI. THE OTHER SIDE OF THE STORY
CHAPTER XLII. THE WAY OF THE LOWER TRAIL
CHAPTER XLIII. POOR PETE
CHAPTER XLIV. THE TRAIL ON THE SUNLIT HILLS
CHAPTER XLV. SOME YEARS LATER
CHAPTER I.
THE STRANGER.
It was corn-planting time, when the stranger followed the Old Trail
into the Mutton Hollow neighborhood.
All day a fine rain had fallen steadily, and the mists hung heavy over
the valley. The lower hills were wrapped as in a winding sheet; dank
and cold. The trees were dripping with moisture. The stranger looked
tired and wet.
By his dress, the man was from the world beyond the ridges, and his
carefully tailored clothing looked strangely out of place in the
mountain wilderness. His form stooped a little in the shoulders,
perhaps with weariness, but he carried himself with the unconscious air
of one long used to a position of conspicuous power and influence; and,
while his well-kept hair and beard were strongly touched with white,
the brown, clear lighted eyes, that looked from under their shaggy
brows, told of an intellect unclouded by the shadows of many years. It
was a face marked deeply by pride; pride of birth, of intellect, of
culture; the face of a scholar and poet; but it was more—it was the
countenance of one fairly staggering under a burden of disappointment
and grief.
As the stranger walked, he looked searchingly into the mists on every
hand, and paused frequently as if questioning the proper course.
Suddenly he stepped quickly forward. His ear had caught the sharp ring
of a horse’s shoe on a flint rock somewhere in the mists on the
mountain side above. It was Jed Holland coming down the trail with a
week’s supply of corn meal in a sack across his horse’s back.
As the figure of the traveler emerged from the mists, the native
checked his horse to greet the newcomer with the customary salutation
of the backwoods, “Howdy.”
The man returned Jed’s greeting cordially, and, resting his satchel on
a rock beside the narrow path, added, “I am very glad to meet you. I
fear that I am lost.”
The voice was marvelously pure, deep, and musical, and, like the brown
eyes, betrayed the real strength of the man, denied by his gray hair
and bent form. The tones were as different from the high keyed,
slurring speech of the backwoods, as the gentleman himself was unlike
any man Jed had ever met. The boy looked at the speaker in wide-eyed
wonder; he had a queer feeling that he was in the presence of a
superior being.
Throwing one thin leg over the old mare’s neck, and waving a long arm
up the hill and to the left, Jed drawled, “That thar’s Dewey Bal’; down
yonder’s Mutton Holler.” Then turning a little to the right and
pointing into the mist with the other hand, he continued, “Compton
Ridge is over thar. Whar was you tryin’ to git to, Mister?”
“Where am I trying to get to?” As the man repeated Jed’s question, he
drew his hand wearily across his brow; “I—I—it doesn’t much matter,
boy. I suppose I must find some place where I can stay to-night. Do you
live near here?”
“Nope,” Jed answered, “Hit’s a right smart piece to whar I live. This
here’s grindin’ day, an’ I’ve been t’ mill over on Fall Creek; the
Matthews mill hit is. Hit’ll be plumb dark ’gin I git home. I ’lowed
you was a stranger in these parts soon ’s I ketched sight of you. What
might _yer_ name be, Mister?”
The other, looking back over the way he had come, seemed not to hear
Jed’s question, and the native continued, “Mine’s Holland. Pap an’ Mam
they come from Tennessee. Pap he’s down in th’ back now, an’ ain’t
right peart, but he’ll be ’round in a little, I reckon. Preachin’ Bill
he ’lows hit’s good fer a feller t’ be down in th’ back onct in a
while; says if hit warn’t fer that we’d git to standin’ so durned proud
an’ straight we’d go plumb over backwards.”
A bitter smile crossed the face of the older man. He evidently applied
the native’s philosophy in a way unguessed by Jed. “Very true, very
true, indeed,” he mused. Then he turned to Jed, and asked, “Is there a
house near here?”
“Jim Lane lives up the trail ’bout half a quarter. Ever hear tell o’
Jim?”
“No, I have never been in these mountains before.”
“I ’lowed maybe you’d heard tell o’ Jim or Sammy. There’s them that
’lows Jim knows a heap more ’bout old man Dewey’s cave than he lets on;
his place bein’ so nigh. Reckon you know ’bout Colonel Dewey, him th’
Bal’ up thar’s named fer? Maybe you come t’ look fer the big mine they
say’s in th’ cave? I’ll hep you hunt hit, if you want me to, Mister.”
“No,” said the other, “I am not looking for mines of lead or zinc;
there is greater wealth in these hills and forests, young man.”
“Law, you don’t say! Jim Wilson allus ’lowed thar must be gold in these
here mountains, ’cause they’re so dad burned rough. Lemme hep you,
Mister. I’d like mighty well t’ git some clothes like them.”
“I do not speak of gold, my boy,” the stranger answered kindly. “But I
must not keep you longer, or darkness will overtake us. Do you think
this Mr. Lane would entertain me?”
Jed pushed a hand up under his tattered old hat, and scratched awhile
before he answered, “Don’t know ’bout th’ entertainin’, Mister, but
’most anybody would take you in.” He turned and looked thoughtfully up
the trail. “I don’t guess Jim’s to home though; ’cause I see’d Sammy a
fixin’ t’ go over t’ th’ Matthews’s when I come past. You know the
Matthews’s, I reckon?”
There was a hint of impatience now in the deep voice. “No, I told you
that I had never been in these mountains before. Will Mr. Matthews keep
me, do you think?”
Jed, who was still looking up the trail, suddenly leaned forward, and,
pointing into the timber to the left of the path, said in an exciting
whisper, “Look at that, Mister; yonder thar by that big rock.”
The stranger, looking, thought he saw a form, weird and ghost-like in
the mist, flitting from tree to tree, but, even as he looked, it
vanished among the hundreds of fantastic shapes in the gray forest.
“What is it?” he asked.
The native shook his head. “Durned if I know, Mister. You can’t tell.
There’s mighty strange things stirrin’ on this here mountain, an’ in
the Holler down yonder. Say, Mister, did you ever see a hant?”
The gentleman did not understand.
“A hant, a ghost, some calls ’em,” explained Jed. “Bud Wilson he sure
seed old Matt’s—”
The other interrupted. “Really, young man, I must go. It is already
late, and you know I have yet to find a place to stay for the night.”
“Law, that’s alright, Mister!” replied Jed. “Ain’t no call t’ worry.
Stay anywhere. Whar do you live when you’re to home?”
Again Jed’s question was ignored. “You think then that Mr. Matthews
will keep me?”
“Law, yes! They’ll take anybody in. I know they’re to home ’cause they
was a fixin’ t’ leave the mill when I left ’bout an hour ago. Was the
river up much when you come acrost?” As the native spoke he was still
peering uneasily into the woods.
“I did not cross the river. How far is it to this Matthews place, and
how do I go?”
“Jest foller this Old Trail. Hit’ll take you right thar. Good road all
th’ way. ’Bout three mile, I’d say. Did you come from Springfield or
St. Louis, maybe?”
The man lifted his satchel from the rock as he answered: “No, I do not
live in either Springfield or St. Louis. Thank you, very much, for your
assistance. I will go on, now, for I must hurry, or night will overtake
me, and I shall not be able to find the path.”
“Oh, hit’s a heap lighter when you git up on th’ hill ’bove th’ fog,”
said Jed, lowering his leg from the horse’s neck, and settling the meal
sack, preparatory to moving. “But I’d a heap rather hit was you than me
a goin’ up on Dewey t’night.” He was still looking up the trail.
“Reckon you must be from Kansas City or Chicago? I heard tell they’re
mighty big towns.”
The stranger’s only answer was a curt “Good-by,” as his form vanished
in the mist.
Jed turned and dug his heels vigorously in the old mare’s flanks, as he
ejaculated softly, “Well, I’ll be dod durned! Must be from New York,
sure!”
Slowly the old man toiled up the mountain; up from the mists of the
lower ground to the ridge above; and, as he climbed, unseen by him, a
shadowy form flitted from tree to tree in the dim, dripping forest.
As the stranger came in sight of the Lane cabin, a young woman on a
brown pony rode out of the gate and up the trail before him; and when
the man reached the open ground on the mountain above, and rounded the
shoulder of the hill, he saw the pony, far ahead, loping easily along
the little path. A moment he watched, and horse and rider passed from
sight.
The clouds were drifting far away. The western sky was clear with the
sun still above the hills. In an old tree that leaned far out over the
valley, a crow shook the wet from his plumage and dried himself in the
warm light; while far below the mists rolled, and on the surface of
that gray sea, the traveler saw a company of buzzards, wheeling and
circling above some dead thing hidden in its depth.
Wearily the man followed the Old Trail toward the Matthews place, and
always, as he went, in the edge of the gloomy forest, flitted that
shadowy form.