_In the High Mountains_
Tom's second tour of guard duty ended at four o'clock in the morning,
and he woke the Doctor to succeed him. Then, without attracting the
other boys' attention, he rolled his blanket into a compact bundle and
strapped it high upon his shoulders. He next loaded his cartridge belt
with twenty buckshot cartridges on one side and twenty cartridges that
carried turkey shot on the other. He put a box of matches into one
pocket and two thick slices of bear beef into another. Finally, he took
one of the empty meal bags, carefully folded it up and thrust it into
the breast of his hunting shirt.
Thus equipped he sallied out, and bidding the Doctor good morning as he
passed the picket post, started off up the mountain. He had to pick his
way very carefully till daylight came, and by that time he had passed
well over the side of a ridge and was completely out of sight of Camp
Venture.
Selecting a suitable spot where the wind had swept a rock clear of snow,
he laid aside his gun and blanket, and set to work to build a little
fire and cook one slice of his meat for breakfast. The other he reserved
for a late dinner.
As he moved on after breakfast, he came upon a flock of quails--or
partridges, as they are more properly called in Virginia. They were
helplessly huddled under the edge of a stone and were manifestly
freezing to death. For when Tom, who was too much of a sportsman to
shoot birds in the covey, tried to flush them, meaning to shoot them on
wing, they were barely able to flutter about on the ground, and wholly
incapable of rising in flight.
"I may as well have them," said the boy, "seeing that they'll be frozen
to death in another half hour." So, after a little scrambling, he caught
the eleven birds and quickly put them out of their suffering. Drawing
some twine from a pocket, he strung the birds together and threw them
over his neck for ease of carrying.
The mountain up here was rugged and uneven, scarred and seamed with
chasms and deep hollows. Tom devoted all his energies to peering into
these as if searching for something. At one time, as he was hunting for
a place from which to get a good view of a small but deep ravine, he
flushed a flock of wild turkeys, seven or eight in number, and scarcely
more than twenty feet distant from him. Curiously enough, he let them
scamper away without so much as taking a shot at them.
That was exceedingly unlike little Tom Ridsdale, and obviously it meant
something. But what it meant did not appear. But shooting makes a noise
and attracts attention. Tom did not want to attract attention.
About two o'clock in the afternoon, Tom carefully reconnoitered a spot
where great blocks of stone had fallen from cliffs above to a ledge
below lying loosely there and making small caverns. Having satisfied
himself that neither human habitation nor any human being was within
miles of this little hiding place, Tom collected some sticks and built a
little fire in one of the crevices between the great blocks of stone.
Here, he cooked and ate his remaining piece of bear beef. Then he opened
his blanket, rolled himself in it, and disposed himself to sleep, in a
half sitting, half lying posture with his head and shoulders resting
against the rock.
"I must get a little sleep now," he said to himself, "as I didn't get
any too much last night, and, of course, can't take any at all to-night.
For if I slept without a fire in this weather, I'd freeze to death,
and it would never do to build a fire up here at night, when it could be
seen for miles away."
Healthy boy that he was, he fell almost immediately into slumber, and it
was nightfall when he woke. He took the risk of throwing two or three
small sticks on his well-hidden fire, in order to broil one of his
partridges for his supper. That done, he repacked his blanket, took up
his gun, and set out again on his search for that something for which he
had been looking all day.
All night long Tom toiled about, up and down hills, over rocks and
cliffs, through snow that was now beginning to soften as the weather was
growing milder, but the search resulted in nothing. When morning came,
the well-nigh exhausted boy sought out what seemed a safe spot for the
purpose, created a little fire, cooked three partridges and ate them,
seasoning them with a little salt which he always, on his hunting trips,
carried in a little India rubber tobacco bag. Then he stretched himself
out for a sleep, no longer fearing to freeze, as the weather had become
very much warmer than before.
It was four o'clock in the afternoon when Tom awoke. As he did so, he
felt a hand pulling at that part of his blanket in which his head was
wrapped--for all huntsmen and all soldiers, when they sleep in the
open, even in the warmest weather, find it necessary to wrap up their
heads.
[Illustration: HE FELT A HAND PULLING AT HIS BLANKET.]
"Well, law's sakes!" exclaimed the mountaineer, who, rifle in hand, was
bending over him, "Ef it ain't Little Tom! Well, I'm glad I didn't
shoot, as I was fust off about to! Why, Tom, I wouldn't have shot you
fer another of the Doctor's twenty dollar bills! No, not fer a pocket
full of 'em! You don't know what you done fer me an' fer my little gal
when you pay-rolled me"--the man always pronounced "parole" "pay-roll."
"You see, I got home jest in time to save the little gal from starvin'.
Her mother was dead in the cabin--you 'member I tole you she was
consumptive like--well, she got to bleedin' one day at the nose an'
mouth an' jist quit livin' like. So the little gal was left all alone
there, an' there wan't nothin' whatsomever in the place to eat an' of
course a little gal only six year old didn't know what to do. So fur two
days before I got there she hadn't had a mouthful. Well, I had a little
left from what you fellers had giv' me to eat when I left camp, an' I
fust off fed her on that. It made her sick like, 'cause she hadn't been
used to eatin' as you mout say, an' maybe I give her too much at oncet.
But she quick got over that, an' I had that twenty dollar bill! You jest
bet I hustled off down into the holler to a still an' brought some o'
the ground up corn an' rye an' a gallon of the 'lasses that they uses
with it to make whiskey out'n an' took it home fer the little gal to
eat."
"I am very sorry," said Tom, "to hear of your wife's death, but very
glad you got home in time to save the little girl."
"Well, as to my ole woman, of course I can't help mournin', cause any
how she was always a better wife than a no 'count feller like me
deserves to have. But you see it wan't unexpected, like. We'd both on us
seed it a comin' for a year or two, an' always comin' a little nigher,
so it didn't seem so onnateral like as it would ef she'd been strong an'
healthy an' laughin' like, as she used to be before I went away to
prison."
With that the man buried his face in his hands and sobbed. After all,
the well-to-do, the refined, the cultivated people of this world have no
monopoly of love or of tender sensibilities.
Tom took the man's hand and pressed it warmly. Then by way of turning
the conversation he said:
"I suppose you're wondering what I am doing up here in the high
mountains?"
"Well, yes--it's risky of you, like. You see, I've done all the talkin'
I could to persuade our people, like, that you fellers ain't here to
interfere with 'em, an' lately they've let you alone. But still it
ain't safe fer you, an' my earnest advice to you still is to git down
out'n these mountings. I'm agoin' to keep on a talkin' in your favor an'
a doin' all I kin fer to make it safe fer you to stay, but it won't
never be real safe. You see, there's them up here in the high mountings
what's suspicious like. They don't want to take no risks. They're always
a lookin' out fer tricks, an' they won't believe but what you fellers
mout be up to some trick. Anyhow they say 'men that ain't up in the
mountings can't tell what's a goin' on up in the mountings,' an' some of
'em says, says they, 'men that's dead don't tell nothin' to the revenue
officers.'"
"Nevertheless we're not going to be driven out, as you know," said Tom.
"So now let's get to business."
"All right, Tom. Ef there's anythin' in this world I kin do fer you
without hangin' fer it, I'll do it."
"Well," said Tom, "I came up here at risk of my life to look for you. I
thought I might find your cabin or more probably find you standing guard
over some still somewhere, and so I've been looking out for stills."
"Now, that's curious," said the man, "very curious. Fer that's edzactly
what you found me a doin'. You see, they's a still near here an' it's
about as snugly tucked away as any still ever was in all these
mountings. You'd never find it in the world, though you ain't at this
minute more'n two hundred yards away from it. Still the folks what runs
it don't feel overly safe in spite of their hidin' of the still. So
they've give me a job like to climb about over the cliffs an' look out
fer spies. That's how I come to find you, Tom."
"Well, I'm glad you did find me," said Tom, "for in all probability I
never should have found you, and I stood a good chance of getting myself
shot in trying. You said just now that you would do anything you could
for me."
"Yes, an' I will!" answered the man, with emphasis. "Jest you try me,
Tom, an' see ef I don't."
"Very well," said Tom. "I believe you. Now, what I want isn't much. We
boys down there in Camp Venture ran out of something to eat the other
day, and we nearly starved for a time. Finally, by good luck, we got a
bear, and we have more than half of it left, and of course, now that the
snow storm has passed away, I can get more game as we need it. But we
haven't had any bread for more than a week, and we're hungry. So I have
come out here to look for you, to see if you can't get me a bag of
ground-up corn or rye from one of the stills. I have money with me with
which to pay for it."
"But you can't pay fer it, Tom," said the man solemnly. "They ain't any
body around the still now, 'cause it's knocked off runnin' fer the next
week er so, but they's plenty of ground corn an' rye there, an' I'll
bring you all you kin carry of it, ef you'll wait here fer fifteen
minutes, an' not a cent to pay."
"But it doesn't belong to you?" said Tom.
"No, in course not. I don't own no still. I wish I was rich enough."
"Then of course I can't let you give me the meal. I must pay full price
for it or I'll go without it."
"But say, Tom, that stuff ain't never measured up or weighed up, an'
nobody'd ever miss a bagful or two. Why, I carry a small bagful of it to
my cabin every mornin', jest as a sort o' safeguard like fer the little
gal till blackberry time comes. I'll bring you a bagful an' I tell you
it shan't cost you a cent."
"And I tell you," said Tom, "that I won't take an ounce of it on any
such terms. That meal belongs to other people. I want some of it--just
as much as I can carry to Camp Venture with me--but I must pay for every
ounce of it or I won't take any of it. I never steal, and I don't
intend to let you steal for me."
"Oh, it ain't stealin' like," answered the man; "you see people never
care fer what they lose ef they don't know that they loses it."
"I don't suppose I can make you understand," said Tom, realizing the
utter inability of the mountaineer's mind to grasp an ethical principle,
even of the simplest kind, "but I tell you plainly that I want this
bagful of corn meal if you'll let me pay honestly for it, and otherwise
I don't want it at all, and won't take it. I would rather see every boy
in Camp Venture starve than do a dishonest thing."
"Well, you see, you people from down the mounting draw these things a
good deal finer than us folks up here in the mountings kin. I'm a member
of the church an' I tries to behave accordin'. You never heard me swear
an' you never will. You've done me the greatest favor any body ever done
me, an' like an honest man I want to repay it a little, but you won't
let me."
Tom saw that there was no use in trying to enlighten the mountaineer's
perverted ethical sense and so he gave up the effort and simply said:
"Will you let me have the meal and let me pay for it, or will you not?"
"In course I will," said the mountaineer. "How many bags is you got?"
"Only this one," said Tom. "I couldn't carry more than that. It will
hold a hundred pounds of meal."
"Yes, but I kin carry some," said the man, "and I'm a goin' to. I tell
you you done me the biggest turn any body ever done me, when you put me
on pay-roll, an' I'm bound to get even with you ef I kin. So I'm a goin'
to fill your bag an' one that I've got down there of my own, an' I'm a
goin' to tote one of 'em while you tote the other. I know easier paths
than you do about these mountings an' I'm a goin' to show 'em to you. In
some places we kin slide the meal bags down a incline fer a quarter of a
mile at a time, jest on the ice, without no totin' at all. So we'll git
two big bags o' meal to your camp betwixt this an' mornin'."
"But why not wait for daylight?" asked Tom.
"'Cause then the fellers would lynch me fer carryin' food to the enemy.
You see it won't do fer me even to go into yer camp. I'll tote my bag to
the top o' that bluff like, that rises this side o' the camp. Then I'll
git out quick an' afterwards you kin slip the bag over the bluff like
an' I'll git into no trouble."
With that the mountaineer took Tom's bag and disappeared over a sort of
cliff. Ten minutes later he returned with the bag full of a rude meal,
made by grinding corn in a big coffee mill of the kind that grocers use.
"Now you jest stay here fer ten minutes or so an' I'll be back with the
other sack. It's a good deal bigger'n this 'un, but I kin tote a good
deal more'n you kin, an' you'll need all the meal you kin git."
"Wait a minute," said Tom. "How much am I to pay for this meal? I have
only two dollars with me and perhaps it will not be enough."
"Well, you see, Tom, I done tole you you needn't pay nothin' fer it, but
you wouldn't have it that way on no account. So I reckon I'll charge you
the same price I pay when I buy that sort o' meal from the still. That's
a dollar fer them two bags."
"That's very cheap," said Tom. "Are you sure it's a proper price?"
"Sartin' sure," answered the man. "You see it's a mighty poor sort o'
meal--jest soft mounting corn ground up like in a coffee mill to make
whiskey out'n. You'll have to wet it up mouty soft like to make it stick
together fer bread, an' I'll tell you a trick about that. You jest wet
it up with boilin' hot water. That sort o' cooks it like. Make it very
wet an' don't mind even ef a little o' the water stan's on top o' the
dough in the pan. That'll cook away an' your bread'll be all the better
fer it. But a dollar is a high price fer it."
By the time the second bag of meal came it was high time for the pair to
start if they were to reach Camp Venture before daylight. But the
mountaineer knew all the short cuts, and better still, all the easy
cuts--paths that gave a minimum of up-hill work while presenting other
advantages of importance. At one point, for example, he led Tom to a
spot where there was a steep shelving rock, completely coated with hard
ice.
"Now," he said, "You an' me couldn't go down that slide without breakin'
every bone we've got. But we kin slip our meal bags down it 'thout no
hurt to nobody. Then I'll show you a way round it, so's we kin git the
meal agin."
With that he placed his meal bag in position, gave it a little push, and
instantly it disappeared down the hill in the darkness. Tom did the same
with his bag, and then, striding off to the right, the mountaineer led
the way by a difficult but practicable path around the rock to a point
quite a quarter of a mile below, where the two found their bags of meal
safely reposing in a snow bank.
This was repeated at several points on the journey, while at other
points where the bags could not be thus slidden down, because of an
insufficient incline, it was easy for the two to drag them as they
walked and this they did. As the way was almost entirely down hill,
there was very little of what the mountaineer called "toting" to be
done.
About three o'clock in the morning the two reached the brow of that
cliff under which the boys had made their first temporary encampment,
and which constituted the mountainside limit of Camp Venture. There they
parted, the mountaineer protesting his eager desire to hurry back and
"look arter the little gal."
"Wait a minute," said Tom. "I've paid you for this meal, but I haven't
paid you for carrying it down the mountain or for the risk you've taken
in doing that."
"I don't want no pay, Tom," protested the man with eagerness. "I hain't
fergot that you put me on pay-roll jest in the nick o' time."
"That's all right," said Tom. "But I took two dollars with me and I
expected to pay all of it for the meal. Now I want you to take the
remaining dollar to the 'little gal' as a present from Tom. There, don't
stop to say anything or you'll be late in getting back," added Tom, as
he pressed the dollar bill into the man's hands.
"Well, all I'll stop to say, Little Tom," said the mountaineer, "is
this: Ef you git out'n meal agin, you come to the same place I found you
in. I'll keep a look out fer you there every day. An' ef they's war made
on you it won't be long before I'm takin' a hand on your side with my
rifle, an' it don't make no difference whatsomever who it is that's a
fightin' of you."