SAFE AT HOME
That night, for the first time in many days, Florence found herself ready
to creep beneath the hand woven blankets beside her pal. Ah, it was good
to feel the touch of comfort and the air of security to be found there.
What did it matter that after all the struggle and danger she had found
her efforts crowned only by partial success? Time would reveal some other
way. New problems beckoned. Let them come. Life was full of problems, and
solving them is life itself.
The whipsawed house in which the girls lived had been built more than
sixty years before. The heavy beams of its frame and the broad thick
boards of its sheeting inside and out had been sawed by hand from massive
poplar logs.
The walls of the room in which the girls slept were as frankly free of
paint or paper as when the boards were first laid in place. But time and
sixty summers of Kentucky mountain sunshine had imparted to every massive
beam and every broad board such a coat of deep, mellow, old gold as any
millionaire might covet for his palace.
Heavy, hand-cut sandstone formed the fireplace. Before this fireplace, on
a black bearskin, in dream-robes and dressing gowns, sat the two girls
curled up for a chat before retiring.
Then it was that Marion told of the mysterious stranger who had peered in
at the window at dusk.
“That’s strange,” said Florence as a puzzled look knotted her brow. “Who
could he have meant when he said, ‘Hit’s her’? Could he have meant Mrs.
McAlpin?”
“Maybe. She’s been around doctoring people a great deal. He might have
seen her somewhere; might even have needed her services for his family
and been too timid to ask for it. You know how these mountain folks are.
But—” Marion paused.
“But you don’t believe it was Mrs. McAlpin,” prompted Florence, leaning
toward the fire. “Neither do I. I believe it was little Hallie, and I
don’t like it.”
“Neither do I,” said Marion with a sudden dab at the fire that sent the
sparks flying. “I—I suppose we ought to want her identity to be
discovered, want her returned to her people, but she’s come to mean so
much to us. She’s a dashing little bit of sunshine. This place,” her eyes
swept the bare brown walls, “this place would seem dreary without her.”
“Marion,” said Florence, “will we be able to elect our trustee?”
“I don’t know.”
“Al Finley and Moze Berkhart taught the school last year. They taught a
month or two; then when it got cold they discouraged the children all
they could, and when finally no one came they rode up and looked in every
day, then rode home again, and drew their pay just the same.”
“We wouldn’t do that.”
“No, we wouldn’t. We’d manage somehow.”
“Marion,” said Florence after they had sat in silence for some time,
their arms around each other, “this building belongs to Mrs. McAlpin,
doesn’t it?”
“Surely. She bought it.”
“And everything inside belongs to her?”
“I suppose so.”
“Old Jeff Middleton’s gold—if it’s here?”
“I suppose so.”
“Then, if we found the gold we could use it to buy repairs for the
schoolhouse, couldn’t we?”
“Yes,” laughed Marion, “and if the moon is really made of green cheese,
and we could get a slice of it, we might ripen it and have it for
to-morrow’s dinner.”
“But preacher Gibson thinks it’s hidden somewhere about here. He saw it,
over sixty years ago. When Jeff Middleton came home from the war he came
from Georgia driving a white mule hitched to a kind of sled with a box on
it, and on the sled, along with some other things, was a bag of gold. Not
real coins, Preacher Gibson said, but just like them; ‘sort of queer-like
coins,’ that’s just the way he said it. There wasn’t anything to spend
gold for back here in the mountains in those days. He built this house,
so he must have hidden the gold here. He lived here until he was killed.
The gold must still be here.”
“Sounds all right,” said Marion with a merry little laugh, “but I imagine
the schoolhouse windows will have to be patched with something other than
that gold. And besides—” she rose, yawning, “we haven’t even got the
positions yet.”
“You don’t think they’d refuse to hire us? Just think! Those boys who
tried to teach last year couldn’t even do fractions, and there wasn’t a
history nor a geography in the place!”
“You never can tell,” said Marion.
In this she was more right than she knew.
A moment later Florence crept beneath the homewoven blankets. A little
while longer Marion sat dreamily gazing at the darkening coals. Then,
drawing her dressing gown tightly about her, she stepped to the door and
slipped out. Like most mountain homes, the door of every room in the
cabin opened onto the porch.
Stepping to the edge of the porch, she stood there, bathed in moonlight.
The night was glorious. Big Black Mountain, laying away in the distance,
seemed the dark tower of some clan of the giants. Below, and nearer, she
caught the reflection of the moon in a placid pool on Laurel Branch,
while close at hand the rhododendrons wove a fancy border of shadows
along the trail that led away to the bottom lands.
As the girl stood drinking in the splendor of it all, she gave a sudden
start, then shrank back into the shadows. Had she caught the sound of
shuffled footsteps, of a pebble rolling down the steep trail? She thought
so. With a shudder she stepped through the door, closed it quickly, and
let the heavy bar fall silently into place. Then, without a word, she
crept beneath the covers. As an involuntary shudder seized her she felt
her companion’s strong arms about her. So, soothed and reassured, she
rested there for a moment. She and Florence had been pals for many long
months. Strange and thrilling were the mysteries they had solved, the
adventures they had experienced. What would the morrow bring? More
mystery, greater adventures? At any rate, they would face them together,
and with these thoughts her eyes closed in dreamless sleep.