“I WILL LIFT UP MINE EYES UNTO THE HILLS.”
When Sammy opened her eyes, she was on the bed in her own room. In the
other room someone was moving about, and the light from a lamp shone
through the door.
At first the girl thought that she had awakened from a night’s sleep,
and that it was her father whom she heard, building the fire before
calling her, as his custom was. But no, he was not building the fire,
he was scrubbing the floor. How strange. She would call presently and
ask what he meant by getting up before daylight, and whether he thought
to keep her from scolding him by trying to clean up what he had spilled
before she should see it.
She had had a bad dream of some kind, but she could not remember just
what it was. It was very strange that something seemed to keep her from
calling to her father just then. She would call presently. She must
remember first what that dream was. She felt that she ought to get up
and dress, but she did not somehow wish to move. She was strangely
tired. It was her dream, she supposed. Then she discovered that she was
already fully dressed, and that her clothing was wet, muddy and torn.
And with this discovery every incident of the night came vividly before
her. She hid her face.
After awhile, she tried to rise to her feet, but fell back weak and
dizzy. Who was that in the other room? Could it be her father? Would he
never finish scrubbing the floor in that corner? When she could bear
the suspense no longer, she called in a voice that sounded weak and far
away; “Daddy, Oh, Daddy.”
Instantly the noise ceased; a step crossed the room; and the shepherd
appeared in the doorway. Placing the lamp on a little stand, the old
man drew a chair to the side of the bed, and laid his hand upon her
forehead, smoothing back the tangled hair. He spoke no word, but in his
touch there was a world of tenderness.
Sammy looked at him in wonder. Where had he come from? Why was he there
at all? And in her room? She glanced uneasily about the apartment, and
then back to the kind face of her old teacher. “I—don’t think I
understand.”
“Never mind, now, dear. Don’t try to understand just yet. Aunt Mollie
will be here in a few minutes. Matt has gone for her. When she comes
and you are a little stronger, we shall talk.”
The girl caught his hand; “You—you won’t leave me, Dad? You won’t leave
me alone? I’m afraid, Dad. I never was before.”
“No, no, my child; I shall not leave you. But you must have something
warm to drink. I have been preparing it.” He stepped into the other
room, soon returning with a steaming cup. When she had finished the
strengthening draught, Young Matt, with his mother and father, arrived.
While helping the girl into clean, dry clothing, Aunt Mollie spoke
soothingly to her, as one would reassure a frightened child. But Sammy
could hear only the three men, moving about in the other room, doing
something and talking always in low tones. She did not speak, but in
her brown eyes, that never left the older woman’s face, was that wide,
questioning look.
When Mrs. Matthews had done what she could for the comfort of the girl,
and the men had finished whatever they were doing in the other room,
Sammy said, “Aunt Mollie, I want to know. I must know. Won’t you tell
Dad to come, please?” Instinctively she had turned to her teacher.
When the shepherd came, she met him with the old familiar demand, “Tell
me everything, Dad; everything. I want to be told all about it.”
“You will be brave and strong, Sammy?”
Instantly, as ever, her quick mind grasped the meaning that lay back of
the words and her face grew deathly white. Then she answered, “I will
be brave and strong. But first, please open the window, Dad.” He threw
up the sash. It was morning, and the mists were over the valley, but
the mountain tops were bathed in light.
Sammy arose, and walked steadily to a chair by the open window. Looking
out upon the beautiful scene, her face caught the light that was on the
higher ground, and she said softly, “‘I will lift up mine eyes unto the
hills.’ That’s our word, now, isn’t it, Dad? I can share it with you,
now.” Then the shepherd told her. Young Matt had been at the ranch with
Mr. Howitt since early in the evening, and was taking his leave for the
night when they heard horses stopping at the corral, and a voice
calling. Upon their answering, the voice said, “There is trouble at Jim
Lane’s. Take these horses and go quick.” And then as they had run from
the house, the messenger had retreated into the shadow of the bluff,
saying, “Never mind me. If you love Sammy, hurry.” At this they mounted
and had ridden as fast as possible.
The old man did not tell the girl that he had found his saddle wet and
slippery, and that when he reached the light his hands were red.
They had found the officers ready to leave with their prisoners. All
but two of the men were captured with their booty—Wash Gibbs alone
escaping badly hurt, they thought, after killing one of the posse.
When they had asked for Sammy, one of the officers told them that she
was at Ford’s over on Jake Creek, but another declared that he had
heard a woman scream as they were making the attack. Young Matt had
found her unconscious on the ground behind the cabin.
When the shepherd finished his brief account, the girl said, “Tell me
all, Dad. I want to know all. Did—did they take Daddy away?”
The old man’s eyes were dim as he answered gently, “No, dear girl;
_they_ did not take him away.” Then Sammy knew why Dad had scrubbed the
cabin floor, and what the three men who talked so low had been doing in
the other room.
She made no outcry, only a moan, as she looked away across the silent
hills and the valley, where the mists were slowly lifting; lifting
slowly like the pale ghost of the starlight that was. “Oh, Daddy, Daddy
Jim. You _sure_ kept your promise. You sure did. I’m glad—glad they
didn’t get you, Daddy. They never _would_ have believed what I know;
never—never.”
But there were no tears, and the shepherd, seeing after a little
touched her hand. “Everything is ready, dear; would you like to go
now?”
“Not just yet, Dad. I must tell you first how I came to be at home, and
why I am glad—oh, so glad, that I was here. But call the others,
please; I want them all to know.”
When the three, who with her teacher loved her best, had come, Sammy
told her story; repeating almost word for word what she had heard her
father say to the men. When she had finished, she turned her face again
to the open window. The mists were gone. The landscape lay bright in
the sun. But Sammy could not see.
“It is much better, so much better, as it is, my child,” said the old
scholar. “You see, dear, they would have taken him away. Nothing could
have saved him. It would have been a living death behind prison walls
away from you.”
“Yes, I know, Dad. I understand. It is better as it is. Now, we will go
to him, please.” They led her into the other room. The floor in the
corner of the cabin where the shepherd had washed it was still damp.
Through it all, Sammy kept her old friend constantly by her side. “It
is easier, Dad, when you are near.” Nor would she leave the house until
it was all over, save to walk a little way with her teacher.
Young Matt and his father made the coffin of rough boards, sawed at the
mill; and from the country round about, the woods-people came to the
funeral, or, as they called it in their simple way, the “burying.” The
grave was made in a little glen not far from the house. When some of
the neighbors would have brought a minister from the settlement, Sammy
said, “No.” Dad would say all that was necessary. So the shepherd,
standing under the big trees, talked a little in his simple kindly way,
and spoke the words, “Earth to earth, dust to dust, ashes to ashes.”
“As good,” declared some, “as any preacher on earth could o’ done hit;”
though one or two held “it warn’t jest right to put a body in th’
ground ’thout a regular parson t’ preach th’ sermon.”
When the last word was spoken, and the neighbors had gone away over the
mountains and through the woods to their homes, Aunt Mollie with her
motherly arm about the girl, said, “Come, honey; you’re our girl now.
As long as you stay in the hills, you shall stay with us.” And Old Matt
added, “You’re the only daughter we’ve got, Sammy; and we want you a
heap worse than you know.”
When Sammy told them that she was not going to the city to live, they
cried in answer, “Then you shall be our girl always,” and they took her
home with them to the big log house on the ridge.
For a week after that night at the Lane cabin, Pete was not seen. When
at last, he did appear, it was to the shepherd on the hill, and his
voice and manner alarmed Dad. But the boy’s only reply to Mr. Howitt’s
question was, “Pete knows; Pete knows.” Then in his own way he told
something that sent the shepherd to Young Matt, and the two followed
the lad to a spot where the buzzards were flying low through the trees.
By the shreds of clothing and the weapons lying near, they knew that
the horrid thing, from which as they approached, carrion birds flapped
their wings in heavy flight, was all that remained of the giant, Wash
Gibbs.
Many facts were brought out at the trial of the outlaws and it was made
clear that Jim Lane had met his death at the hands of Wash Gibbs, just
at the beginning of the attack, and that Gibbs himself had been wounded
a moment later by one of the attacking posse.
Thus does justice live even in the hills.