THE SHEPHERD AND HIS FLOCK.
All that spring and summer things went smoothly in the Mutton Hollow
neighborhood. The corn was ready to gather, and nothing had happened at
the ranch since Mr. Howitt took charge, while the man, who had appeared
so strangely in their midst, had made a large place for himself in the
hearts of the simple mountaineers.
At first they were disposed to regard him with some distrust, as one
apart; he was so unlike themselves. But when he had changed his dress
for the rough garb of the hillsman, and, meeting them kindly upon their
own ground, had entered so readily into their life, the people by
common consent dropped the distinguishing title “Mister” for the more
familiar one of the backwoods, “Dad.” Not that they lacked in respect
or courtesy; it was only their way. And the quiet shepherd accepted the
title with a pleased smile, seeming to find in the change an honor to
be received not lightly. But while showing such interest in all that
made up their world, the man never opened the door for anyone to enter
his past. They knew no more of his history than the hints he had given
Mr. Matthews the night he came out of the mists.
At the occasional religious meetings in the school house at the Forks,
Mr. Howitt was always present, an attentive listener to the sermons of
the backwoods preacher. And then, seeing his interest, they asked him
to talk to them one day when Parson Bigelow failed to make his
appointment. “He don’t holler so much as a regular parson,” said Uncle
Josh Hensley, “but he sure talks so we’uns can understand.” From that
time they always called upon him at their public gatherings.
So the scholar from the world beyond the ridges slipped quietly into
the life of the mountain folk, and took firm root in their affections.
And in his face, so “Preachin’ Bill” said, was the look of one who had
“done fought his fight to a finish, an’ war too dead beat t’ even be
glad it war all over.”
Between the giant Mr. Matthews and his shepherd, the friendship, begun
that night, grew always stronger. In spite of the difference in
education and training, they found much in common. Some bond of
fellowship, unknown to the mountaineer, at least, drew them close, and
the two men spent many evenings upon the front porch of the log house
in quiet talk, while the shadows crept over the valley below; and the
light went from the sky back of the clump of pines.
From the first Young Matt was strongly drawn to the stranger, who was
to have such influence over his life, and Pete—Pete said that “God
lived with Dad Howitt in Mutton Hollow.”
Pete somehow knew a great deal about God these days. A strange
comradeship had come to be between the thoughtful gentleman, who cared
for the sheep, and the ignorant, sorely afflicted, and nameless
backwoods boy. The two were always together, out on the hillside and in
the little glens and valleys, during the day with the sheep, or at the
ranch in the Hollow, when the flock was safely folded and the night
slipped quietly over the timbered ridges. Mr. Howitt had fixed a bunk
in his cabin for the boy, so that he could come and go at will. Often
the shepherd awoke in the morning to find that some time during the
night his strange friend had come in from his roving. Again, after
seeing the boy soundly sleeping, the shepherd would arise in the
morning to find the bunk empty.
Sammy Lane, too, had fallen under the charm of the man with the white
hair and poet’s face.
Sammy was not so often at the Matthews place after Ollie had gone to
the city. The girl could not have told why. She had a vague feeling
that it was better to stay away. But this feeling did not prevent her
climbing the Old Trail to the Lookout on the shoulder of Dewey, and she
spent hours at the big rock, looking over the valley to where the smoke
from Aunt Mollie’s kitchen curled above the trees. And sometimes,
against the sky, she could see a man and a team moving slowly to and
fro in the field back of the house. When this happened, Sammy always
turned quickly away to where the far off line of hills lay like a long,
low cloud against the sky.
Every week the girl rode her brown pony to the Postoffice at the Forks;
and when she had a letter, things were different. She always stopped
then at the Matthews home.
One day when this happened, Dad and Pete were on the ridge above the
Old Trail, just where the north slope of Dewey shades into the rim of
the Hollow. The elder man was seated on the ground in the shade of an
oak, with his back against the trunk of the tree, while the boy lay
full length on the soft grass, looking up into the green depths of
foliage where a tiny brown bird flitted from bough to bough. In his
quaint way, Pete was carrying on a conversation with his little friend
in the tree top, translating freely the while for his less gifted, but
deeply interested, companion on the ground below, when Brave, the
shepherd dog, lying near, interrupted the talk by a short bark. Looking
up, they saw Young Matt riding along the summit of the ridge.
The young man paused when he heard the dog, and caught sight of the two
under the tree; then he came to them, and seated himself on the grass
at Pete’s side. He spoke no word of greeting, and the look on his face
was not good to see.
Pete’s eyes went wide with fear at the manner of his big friend, and he
drew back as if to run, but when Young Matt, throwing himself over on
the grass, had hidden his face, a half sad, half knowing look came into
the lad’s delicate features; reaching forth a hand, as slim as a
girl’s, he stroked the shaggy, red brown head, as he murmured softly,
“Poor Matt. Poor Matt. Does it hurt? Is Matt hurt? It’ll be better
by-and-by.”
The great form on the grass stirred impatiently. The shepherd spoke no
word. Pete continued, stroking the big head, and talking in low,
soothing tones, as one would hush a child, “Pete don’t know what’s a
hurtin’ Young Matt, but it’ll be alright, some day. It’ll sure grow
over after awhile. Ain’t nothing won’t grow over after awhile; ’cause
God he says so.”
Still the older man was silent. Then the giant burst forth in curses,
and the shepherd spoke, “Don’t do that, Grant. It’s not like you, lad.
You cannot help your trouble that way.”
Young Matt turned over to face his friend; “I know it, Dad;” he growled
defiantly; “but I just got to say somethin’; I ain’t meanin’ no
disrespect to God ’lmighty, and I reckon He ought to know it; but—” he
broke forth again.
Pete drew back in alarm. “Look your trouble in the face, lad,” said the
shepherd; “don’t let it get you down like this.”
“Look it in the face!” roared the other. “Good God! that’s just it!
ain’t I a lookin’ it in the face every day? You don’t know about it,
Dad. If you did, you—you’d cuss too.” He started in again.
“I know more than you think, Grant,” said the other, when the big
fellow had stopped swearing to get his breath. While he spoke, the
shepherd was looking away along the Old Trail. “There comes your
trouble now,” he added, pointing to a girl on a brown pony, coming
slowly out of the timber near the deer lick. The young man made no
reply. Pete, at sight of the girl, started to his feet, but the big
fellow pulled him down again, and made the boy understand that he must
not betray their position.
When Sammy reached the sheep, she checked her pony, and searched the
hillside with her eyes, while her clear call went over the mountain,
“Oh—h—h—Dad!”
Young Matt shook his head savagely at his companion, and even Brave was
held silent by a low “Be still” from his master.
Again Sammy looked carefully on every side, but lying on the higher
ground, and partly hidden by the trees, the little group could not be
seen. When there was no answer to her second call, the girl drew a
letter from her pocket, and, permitting the pony to roam at will,
proceeded to read.
The big man, looking on, cursed again beneath his breath. “It’s from
Ollie,” he whispered to his companions. “She stopped at the house. He
says his uncle will give me a job in the shops, and that it’ll be fine
for me, ’cause Ollie will be my boss himself. He my boss! Why, dad burn
his sneakin’ little soul, I could crunch him with one hand. I’d see him
in hell before I’d take orders from him. I told her so, too,” he
finished savagely.
“And what did she say?” asked the shepherd quietly, his eyes on the
girl below.
“Just said, kind o’ short like, that she reckoned I could. Then I come
away.”
The girl finished her letter, and, after another long call for Dad,
moved on over the shoulder of the mountain. Pete, who had withdrawn a
little way from his companions, was busily talking in his strange
manner to his unseen friends.
Then Young Matt opened his heart to the shepherd and told him all. It
was the old, old story; and, as Mr. Howitt listened, dreams that he had
thought dead with the death of his only son, stirred again in his
heart, and his deep voice was vibrant with emotion as he sought to
comfort the lad who had come to him.
While they talked, the sun dropped until its lower edge touched the top
of the tallest pine on Wolf Ridge, and the long shadows lay over the
valley below. “I’m mighty sorry I let go and cuss, Dad,” finished, the
boy. “But I keep a holdin’ in, and a holdin’ in, ’til I’m plumb wild;
then something happens like that letter, and I go out on the range and
bust. I’ve often wished you knowed. Seems like your just knowin’ about
it will help me to hold on. I get scared at myself sometimes, Dad, I
do, honest.”
“I’m glad, too, that you have told me, Grant. It means more to me than
you can guess. I—I had a boy once, you know. He was like you. He would
have come to me this way, if he had lived.”
The sheep had begun working toward the lower ground. The shepherd rose
to his feet. “Take them home, Brave. Come on, boys, you must eat with
me at the ranch, to-night.” Then the three friends, the giant
mountaineer, the strangely afflicted youth, and the old scholar went
down the mountain side together.
As they disappeared in the timber on the lower level, the bushes, near
which they had been sitting, parted silently, and a man’s head and
shoulders appeared from behind a big rock. The man watched the strange
companions out of sight. Then the bushes swayed together, and the
mountain seemed to have swallowed him up.
The three friends had just finished their supper when Pete saw Sammy
entering the ranch clearing. Young Matt caught up his hat. At the rear
door he paused. “I’ve got to go now, Dad,” he said awkwardly. “I can’t
see her any more to-day. But if you’ll let me, I’ll come again when
things get too hot.”
The shepherd held out his hand, “I understand. Come always, my boy.”
The big fellow, with Pete, skipped away into the timber at the rear of
the cabin, a moment before Sammy appeared at the open door in front.