Produced by Al Haines.
*IN BEAVER COVE*
AND ELSEWHERE
BY
MATT CRIM
New York
CHARLES L. WEBSTER & CO.
1892
Copyright, 1892,
CHARLES L. WEBSTER & CO.
(_All rights reserved._)
PRESS OF
JENKINS & McCOWAN,
NEW YORK.
TO
Father and Mother.
*CONTENTS.*
In Beaver Cove
S'phiry Ann
An "Onfortunit Creetur"
Bet Crow
Silury
'Zeki'l
Was It an Exceptional Case?
An Old-Time Love Story
How the Quarrel Ended
The Crucial Test
The Story of a Lilac Gown
*IN BEAVER COVE and ELSEWHERE.*
*IN BEAVER COVE.*
They were having a dance over in Beaver Cove, at the Woods'. All the
young people of the settlement were there, and many from adjoining
settlements. The main room of the cabin had been almost cleared of its
meager furniture, and the pine-plank floor creaked under the tread of
shuffling feet, while dust and lamp-smoke made the atmosphere thick and
close.
But little did the dancers care for that. Bill Eldridge sat by the
hearth, playing his fiddle with tireless energy, while a boy added the
thumping of two straws to the much-tried fiddle-strings. A party of shy
girls huddled in a corner of the room, and the bashful boys hung about
the door, and talked loudly.
"Hey, there! git yer partners!" Bill cried to them tauntingly from time
to time.
Armindy Hudgins and Elisha Cole were pre-eminently the leaders in the
party. They danced together again and again; they sat on the bench in
the dooryard; they walked to the spring for a fresh draught of water.
Armindy was the coquette of the settlement. In beauty, in spirit, and
in daring, no other girl in Beaver Cove could compare with her. She
could plow all day and dance half the night without losing her peachy
bloom, and it was generally admitted that she could take her choice of
the marriageable young men of the settlement. But she laughed at all of
them by turns, until her lovers dwindled down to two--Elisha Cole and
Ephraim Hurd. They were both desperately in earnest, and their rivalry
had almost broken their lifelong friendship. She favored first one and
then the other, but to-night she showed such decided preference for Cole
that Hurd felt hatred filling his heart. He did not dance at all, but
hung about the door, or walked moodily up and down the yard, savage with
jealousy. Armindy cast many mocking glances at him, but seemed to feel
no pity for his suffering.
In the middle of the evening, while they were yet fresh, she and Elisha
danced the "hoe-down." All the others crowded back against the walls,
leaving the middle of the room clear, and she and her partner took their
places. They were the best dancers in the settlement, and Beaver Cove
could boast of some as good as any in all north Georgia. The music
struck up, and the two young people began slowly to shuffle their feet,
advancing toward each other, then retreating. They moved at first
without enthusiasm, gravely and coolly. The music quickened, and their
steps with it. Now together, now separate, up and down the room, face
to face, advancing, receding, always in that sliding, shuffling step.
The girl's face flushed; her lithe figure, clothed in the most
primitively fashioned blue print gown, swayed and curved in a thousand
graceful movements; her feet, shod in clumsy brogans, moved so swiftly
one could scarcely follow them; her yellow hair slipped from its
fastenings and fell about her neck and shoulders; her bosom heaved and
palpitated. Panting and breathless, Elisha dropped into a seat, his
defeat greeted with jeering laughter by the crowd, while Armindy kept
the floor. It was a wild, half-savage dance, and my pen refuses to
describe it. Nowhere, except in the mountains of north Georgia, have I
ever witnessed such a strange performance.
Armindy would not stop until, half-blind and reeling with exhaustion,
she darted toward the door, amid the applause of the crowd. Elisha Cole
started up to follow her, but Ephraim Hurd reached her side first, and
went out into the yard with her.
"You've nearly killed yourself," he said, half-roughly, half-tenderly.
"No such a thing!" she retorted.
"You're out o' breath now."
"I want some water."
"Better sit down on this bench and rest a minute first," he said,
attempting to lead her to a seat placed under an apple-tree; but she
broke away from him, running swiftly toward the spring bubbling up from
a thicket of laurel just beyond the dooryard fence.
"I ain't no baby, Eph'um Hurd!" she cried, gathering up her hair and
winding it about her head again, the breeze fanning her flushed cheeks.
The moon was clear and full over Brandreth's Peak, and Ephraim looked up
at it, then down on the girl, softened, etherealized by its magic beams.
"What makes you act so, Armindy?"
She broke a spray of laurel bloom and thrust it through the coil of her
hair.
"I don't know what you're talkin' about, Eph'um; but I do know I'm
waitin' for you to give me that gourd o' water."
He sighed, stooped, and filled the gourd to the brim, and gave it to
her. She drank deeply, then threw the remainder out in a glittering
shower, and dropped the gourd into the spring.
"Don't go to the house yet," he pleaded, as she turned away.
"I'm tired."
"An' I--I am--you don't keer anything for 'Lishy, do you? Armindy, do
you recollect what you said the last time we went to the singin' at Rock
Creek?"
She looked at him from under her lashes, half smiled, then said:
"I don't recollect anything perticular."
"I do," he muttered softly, and stepped across the spring-run to her
side. "You said--"
"Oh, don't tell me!--I don't mean anything I say!" she hastily cried.
His face clouded with jealous anger again; he laid his hand on her
shoulder.
"You'll--make me do somethin' turrible, Armindy, if you don't mind. I
love you; don't--don't--treat me like a dog, flingin' crumbs to me one
day, an' whippin' me off the next."
She pushed away his hand, for, with all her coquetries, no man dared
take any liberties with her, and stepped beyond his reach.
"I ain't done nuthin' to you, Eph'um Hurd. I--"
"You have!" he cried, stamping his feet; "you've made me love you, tell
I don't feel as I could live without you; you let me think that you
loved--"
"Law! what's the use o' listenin' to a girl's foolishness? Maybe I love
you; an', ag'in, maybe I love 'Lishy Cole an' a dozen others. You're too
set on havin' your own way," she exclaimed with a loud laugh.
Somebody called to her from the fence.
"That's 'Lishy, now."
"An' you're goin' to him?" said Ephraim with a pale face.
"Yes, I'm goin' to him. He don't bemean me," with a pretense of being
aggrieved, but with mocking laughter in her eyes.
She ran up to the fence, and he heard her talking to Elisha about the
flowers in her hair.
The party was over. Ephraim Hurd could scarcely contain the violence of
his rage when Armindy refused his company home to accept Elisha Cole's.
And how hurt he felt, as well as angry! The slight cut to his soul. He
watched them as they went away with a party of the neighbors; he
listened to their conversation and loud laughter, until the maddening
sound of it was lost in the distance; then he mounted his mule and rode
swiftly through the Cove down toward the town on the banks of the
Cartecay River, where revenue-officers were stationed. A fierce,
irresistible temptation had assailed--had conquered him. If he could
not have love, he could have revenge. The revenue-men would be glad to
know where Elisha Cole concealed his distillery; they would be better
pleased to get Elisha himself. Just a hint, scrawled and unsigned,
would be sufficient for them, and no one need know who had furnished the
information.
It was morning, full daylight, with mists and clouds afloat in the upper
rays of the yet invisible sun, when Ephraim Hurd forded Rock Creek on
his way home. The jaded mule dipped his steaming nostrils in the cool,
fast-flowing stream, drank thirstily, then, coming out, stopped to crop
the high, tender grass growing by the roadside. Ephraim let the rein
fall loosely on the faithful creature's neck, while his dull eyes
wandered over the landscape. He looked haggard; and the chilly,
invigorating air made him shiver, instead of infusing fresh life into
him. He dismounted to tighten the girth, then leaned his arm on the
saddle, seemingly forgetting to pursue his way home. He was tall, and
held himself unusually erect for a mountaineer. He had a rather fine
face, with soft, dark beard on lip and chin, and his eyes were a deep,
serene blue. He did not look like a coward or a traitor, and yet he
secretly felt that he could be justly called so; for repentance had
followed quickly upon his rash betrayal of his friend.
The night would have seemed only like a bad dream--a nightmare, had he
not gone on that journey to Buckhorn, stealing like a thief through the
sleeping town, to slip that line of information under the door of the
court-room, where it would be found by the revenue-officers the first
thing in the morning. Viewed in the clear, cold light of the morning,
when jealousy and savage anger had spent themselves, the deed appeared
base to the last degree. He passed his hand over his face with a sense
of deepest shame. According to the mountaineer's code of honor, a man
could not do a meaner, more contemptible thing, than to betray a comrade
to the revenue-men. He would fare better as a thief or a vagabond. No
wonder Ephraim Hurd felt like hiding his face from the clear accusing
light! no wonder he groaned in anguish of soul! He had lost his own
self-respect; he had forfeited all right to the trust of his neighbors.
He raised his eyes and looked slowly around again, and, with his mental
faculties all quickened by the trouble he was in, he seemed to realize
the preciousness of freedom. A perception of the wild, primeval beauty
of the world around thrilled him. He looked up at the cloud floating
over the deep blue of the sky, tinged with the rose-light of sunrise; at
the fog-wreaths curling around the summits of the higher mountains; at
the green depths of the forests; at the winding streams, bordered by
laurel and rhododendron, rushing in sparkling cascades or lying in
clear, silent pools. All the ineffable loveliness and charm of the new
world--the new day, penetrated his soul. The deep solitude, broken only
by the murmur of the streams, and the liquid, melancholy notes of the
hermit thrush, influenced him as it never had before. Think of leaving
it all for the court-room, and the prison! Think of languishing within
four close walls through sultry days and restless nights!
Pity for the man he had betrayed melted his heart. At this moment how
slight seemed the provocation! Elisha Cole had as much right to
Armindy's favor as he could claim.
On the upper side of Rock Creek, just under the great cliff rising
boldly toward the clouds, a clump of laurel bushes in full bloom hung
over the stream, the opening buds a fine delicate pink, the wide-opened
flowers faded to dull white. Ephraim's eyes fell on them, and his face
contracted with a keen thrill of pain as he remembered Armindy standing
by the spring in the moonlight, and fastening a spray of laurel in her
hair. Flushed from the dance, radiant with triumph, she had no thought
for him--no kind words. Nevertheless, his heart softened toward her; he
writhed as he thought of the sorrow he had laid up for her. He had lost
account of time in the midst of his bitter reflections, and a sun-ray,
striking across his face, startled him. He sprang into the saddle, and
rode out of the highway into the settlement road leading through Beaver
Cove.
The Hudgins lived on that road, at the foot of Bush Mountain, in an old
log-cabin built in the "double-pen" fashion, with an open entry, and in
the rear a rude kitchen. Below the house lay a freshly cleared field,
the fence skirting the roadside, and as he drew near, Ephraim heard
Armindy singing an old baptismal hymn in a high, clear voice, making
abrupt little pauses to say "Gee!" or "Haw!" or "Get up there!" to the
ox she was driving before the plow.
Last night she danced the "hoe-down" with spirit and grace, the belle of
the party; to-day she plowed in her father's corn-field, barefooted, and
clothed in a faded homespun gown, singing for the mere joy of
existence--of conscious life. She had on a deep sunbonnet, and coarse
woolen gloves covered her hands--strong, supple hands, grasping the
plow-handles like a man's.
She reached the end of the row just as Ephraim drew near, and looked
over the fence at him with a smile and a blush.
"Good mornin', Eph'um," she cried in a conciliatory tone. "You look as
if you had been out all night."
"I have."
"Law! what for? At the 'stillery?" Her voice dropped to a softer key.
"No."
She looked attentively at his sad, haggard face, then took off her
bonnet and fanned herself.
"Are you mad at me, Eph'um?"
"No; I ain't mad now, Armindy."
"Then what makes you look so--so strange?"
"I was mad last night."
She turned the cool loam of the freshly opened furrow over her naked
feet, a faint smile lurking in the corners of her mouth. He saw it, but
did not feel angry.
"Good-by, Armindy," he said gently.
"I didn't mean anythin' last night, Eph'um," she said hastily, sobered
again by the gravity of his voice and manner.
"I know how it was."
"I don't believe you do. I--" But he rode away while the defensive
little speech remained unfinished on her lips.
She looked after him, slowly replacing the bonnet on her head.
"He is mad, or somethin's happened. I never seed him look like he does
this mornin'."
She turned the ox into another furrow, but stepped silently behind the
plow. She sang no more that morning.
Beaver Cove was really a long, narrow valley, shut in by ranges of high
mountains, the serried peaks sharply outlined against the sky on clear
days. The mountain-sides were broken into deep ravines, and here and
there, near the base, rose sheltered nooks, in which the mountaineers
dwelt, cultivating patches and eking out a primitive livelihood with
game and fish. It was in one of these retreats that Ephraim Hurd and his
mother lived, with all the length and breadth of the valley lying below
them, and the mountains overshadowing them above.
As Ephraim turned from the main settlement road into the wilder trail
leading up to his house he met met Elisha Cole driving a yoke of oxen.
He was whistling a dance-tune, and hailed Ephraim with a cheerful,
friendly air, his whole manner betraying a suppressed exultation.
Ephraim noticed it quickly, and clenched his hand on the switch he
held--that manner said so plainly, "I have won her; I can afford to be
friendly with you now."
"Just gittin' home?" he inquired with a jocular air.
"Yes."
"Oh, ho! Which one o' the Wood girls is it, 'Mandy, or Sary Ann?"
Ephraim flushed, but let the rude joke pass.
"Where are you goin'?"
"To the sawmill for a load o' lumber."
"Goin' to build?"
"Yes; in the fall."
"Thinkin' o' marryin', I s'pose?"
"You've hit it plumb on the head, Eph'um. I am thinkin' o' that very
thing," he said, with a loud, joyous laugh.
It grated on the miserable Ephraim. He was full of one thought, which
he repeated over and over to himself, "To-morrow he'll be in prison, an'
Armindy'll be cryin' her eyes out."
"You'll not be at the 'stillery to-night?" he inquired stammeringly.
"Yes, I will. Man alive, what ails you, Eph'um?"
"Nothin'--nothin'. Hadn't you better go to see Armindy?"
Elisha eyed him suspiciously.
"Me an' Armindy understand one another," he said roughly.
Ephraim rode on, his guilty conscience forbidding any more conversation.
He longed to give Elisha a hint of approaching danger--to say
carelessly, "I hear the raiders'll be out tonight;" but he knew that he
could not without betraying the whole truth.
Breakfast awaited him, and his mother sat in the doorway, smoking, when
he arrived at home--a homely woman, yellow as saffron, wrinkled as
parchment, and without a tooth in her mouth. Her face lighted up at the
sight of her son, and she knocked the ashes from her pipe. He had been a
good son, a steady boy, and his absence alarmed her.
"Law! but this is a relief!" she cried as he came in after caring for
the mule. "I didn't know you 'lowed to stay out all night."
"I didn't, neither, when I left home."
"I was pestered, thinkin' o' the raiders. Anythin' happened to you?"
"Nothin', mother."
"Are you sick?"
"No."
She watched him silently while he ate sparingly of the breakfast. His
dull eyes, his haggard face made her anxious. He had no appetite; he
plainly did not care to talk. Her suspicions fell on Armindy Hudgins as
the cause of his dejection. She began to question him about the party.
She mentioned Armindy and Elisha Cole several times, and each time he
betrayed some feeling. She felt resentful toward the girl.
"I s'pose Armindy had things her own way las' night?"
"Purty much."
"I don't, for the life o' me, see why you all should be crazy about that
girl. Now 'Mandy or Sary Ann Wood, or Betsey--"
"Ugly as crows, all of 'em."
"Well, they may n't be as purty as pictur's, but they are a sight better
than Armindy Hudgins," she retorted, indignantly.
"They certainly ain't smarter, mother."
"No; I s'pose they ain't, for work," said Mrs. Hurd, reluctantly; "but
principles count for somethin', Eph'um--you'll 'low that."
"Yes; yes," he cried, and hastily left the table. Who could show less
principle than he had?
He went out to work, hoeing and thinning the young corn in a field he
had cleared on the mountain-side, but the vigor had gone out of him with
hope and courage. The sunlight dazed him, and after a while he stopped
and leaned upon his hoe, looking down into the valley, his eyes
following the cloud-shadows sweeping silently over the fields, blotting
out the silvery gleam of Beaver Creek. It was a day of strange,
conflicting thoughts. He had never passed through such an experience in
all his simple, primitive life. The impressions of the morning lingered
in his memory through the heat of the languid noon and the soft decline
of the evening. He had brought upon himself a great question of right
and wrong--at least it seemed great to him; so great he could scarcely
grapple with it, or settle it with wisdom and justice.
After a supper, partaken almost in silence, he took down his gun and
carefully loaded it. Mrs. Hurd watched him until he picked up his hat;
then she anxiously inquired:
"Where are you goin', Eph'um?"
"Down to the 'stillery."
"It 'pears to me you'd better take some rest."
"I will, later."
"Well, do be keerful an' keep an eye out for the raiders. I've been so
oneasy an' pestered to-day that I feel mighty like somethin's goin' to
happen."
He went out, but turned on the doorstep to speak to her:
"If anythin' does happen, mother, you'll be prepared for it."
She sighed, and her wrinkled face quivered with emotion.
"I'm always prepared for the worst, an' expectin' it. To have some sort
o' dread on your mind 'pears to me to be a part o' life."
Ephraim shouldered his gun, and disappeared in the darkness. He
followed the road for a short distance, then turned out into a trail
leading over a ridge. It was not easy walking, but the sure-footedness
and agility that are a birthright of the mountaineer made it easy for
him.
Out of the deep, clear sky overhead the stars shone softly, but afar in
the northwest lay great masses of clouds. Constant flashes of lightning
shot over them, and through the profound silence came the dull
mutterings of thunder. It was a good time for the raiders to be abroad,
and the thought quickened Ephraim's steps. He felt sure they would come
before moonrise. On the other side of the ridge he traversed a wilder
region of country. Half an hour's rapid walking brought him to a small
clearing, surrounded by a low rail-fence. In the centre of the clearing
stood a cabin, a stream of ruddy light pouring from its open door. It
was where the Coles lived. Two fierce hounds greeted Ephraim's approach
with loud, hostile barking, and when he called out to them a young woman
appeared at the door with a child on her breast--Elisha Cole's
sister-in-law.
"Any o' the men folks at home, Mis' Cole?" Ephraim inquired, leaning
over the fence.
"No; John an' his pap have gone over to Fannin County, an' 'Lishy's just
started to the 'stillery."
"Oh!--just started, you say?"
"Yes; he ain't been gone five minutes. Won't you come in, Eph'um?"
"Not to-night, Mis' Cole. I 'lowed I'd see 'Lishy before he got off."
With a brief good-night he turned away, following a trail leading down
through a ravine. It was a wild, lonely way, and so dark that one could
scarcely see an inch ahead. But the pathway presently took an upward
turn, and the gray starlight penetrated the sparse underbush. He heard
the snapping of twigs ahead of him, and whistled softly. Then the sound
of stealthy footsteps fell upon his alert ears. He ran forward a few
paces, not daring to speak; then he stumbled over the prostrate body of
a man.
"'Lishy," he whispered, peering into the upturned face.
"Is it you, Eph'um?"
"Yes; what's the matter?"
"The raiders they tied me; they're lookin' for Jed Bishop."
It was the work of an instant for Ephraim to get out his knife and to
cut the thongs binding Elisha's hands and feet. But the prostrate man
had not scrambled up before the revenue-officers were down upon them
again. Ephraim snatched his gun, and leaped between Elisha and his
foes.
"Get out of the way if you can!" he cried to his friend, and fired
blindly at the officers.
Early the next morning, as Armindy sat on the entry steps engaged in
sewing some patchwork together before the out-door occupations of the
day began, a neighbor rode up and hailed her father.
"Heard about the raid last night?"
"No!" exclaimed Mr. Hudgins, hastening to the fence. "Who'd they get?"
"Nobody but Eph'um Hurd."
Armindy dropped her work, her face growing white, her lower lip caught
between her clenched teeth.
"It seems they'd caught 'Lishy Cole, an' was lookin' for Jed Bishop,
when Eph'um come up an' set 'Lishy free again. He hadn't more'n done it
when up come the raiders, an' 'Lishy says Eph'um fit like old Satan
hisself, shootin' at 'em tell 'Lishy cleared out."
"Well, well! that does beat all! He'd better 'a' looked out for
hisself."
"That's what I say, an' he with his ma to look after. He wounded one o'
the officers, an' it's bound to go hard with him. You needn't look so
skeered, Armindy"--raising his voice and looking over at the girl,
"'Lishy's safe."
"Oh, yes; 'Lishy's safe. I'm only thinkin' o' what might 'a' happened
to him." She laughed loudly, then gathered up her work and rushed into
the house.
With slow, uncertain steps a man walked along the settlement road
through Beaver Cove. His clothes hung loosely from his slightly stooping
shoulders; he leaned on a stick. All about him were the joyful
influences of spring. The mountains were clothed in palest green, and
every stream could boast its share of laurel and rhododendron abloom
along its banks. The man drew in deep breaths of the fine air; his eyes
wandered lingeringly over scenes familiar, yet long unvisited. Once he
stooped and drank from a clear, shallow stream purling along the road,
and, drawing his sleeve across his mouth, muttered softly:
"Ah, that's good. I ain't drunk nothin' like it in more'n four years."
He sat down on a fallen tree rotting on the roadside, to rest a few
minutes. A market-wagon, white-covered and drawn by a yoke of sleek
oxen, rumbled down the hill. In the driver the wayfarer recognized an
old neighbor.
"Howdy, Mr. Davis?"
Davis stared, then leaped from the wagon.
"Why--why--it's Eph'um Hurd, ain't it?"
"What's left o' him," said Ephraim, rising, and shaking hands with his
old friend.
"Well, you do look used up an' peaked."
"I've been sick."
"An' your hair is gray."
"It's the prison life done it."
"You've been through a good deal, I take it," in a tone of compassion.
"I don't want to think o' it any more if I can help it!" Ephraim
exclaimed. "They didn't treat me so bad, but--oh, I thought it would
take the soul out o' me!"
Davis shook his head sympathetically.
Ephraim's face sank on his breast for a moment. There were some
questions he longed, yet dreaded, to ask. At last he plucked up
courage.
"How--how is mother?"
"Purty well."
"'Lishy Cole is married, is he?"
"Yes; he married more 'n two years ago."
Of course he had expected that answer, but it caused his thin, worn face
to twitch and contract with pain. He hastily picked up his stick.
"I--I'd better be gittin' on."
"Your ma's moved down to the Wood place," his neighbor called after him
as he started up the road. "The Woods moved to Fannin County last year,
you know."
"Is that so?" said Ephraim, but without halting again.
Married! Yes, why should they not marry? It was for that he had saved
Elisha Cole. He had known it from the night of the dance, had clearly
foreseen it all, that morning he stopped at Rock Creek--facing the
awakening world and his own conscience. He had struggled for
resignation during his prison life, but never had he been able to think
of Armindy sitting by Elisha Cole's fireside--Elisha Cole's
wife--without the fiercest pang of jealous anguish.
He sat down again, trembling with exhaustion, and bared his throbbing
head to the cool breeze. He looked at his long, thin hands, stroked his
face, feeling the hollows in his cheeks and under his eyes. He would
never get back his youth and vigor again. It was well no woman loved
him except his mother. She would not criticise his changed appearance,
or care less for him on account of it.
It was dusk when he reached the old Wood cabin. The shutters had not
been drawn over the small, square window in the chimney-corner, and he
crept across the yard to look into the room, himself unseen. A low fire
burned on the hearth; he could smell the bread baking before it, and the
smoke of frying bacon filled the room. Then he saw his mother sitting
at the corner of the hearth knitting, while another woman stooped over
the fire. Suddenly she stood erect, and he caught his breath sharply,
for it was Armindy Hudgins, Elisha Cole's wife, flushed, handsomer than
ever. What did it mean? Had they taken his mother to live with them?
He writhed at the thought. He leaned forward, for Armindy was speaking:
"Now I'll step to the spring for a pail o' water; then we'll have
supper."
"I wish Eph'um was here to eat it with us. Do you think he'll ever come,
Armindy?" she said wistfully.
"I know he will," said Armindy, firmly; but a shadow fell upon her face,
and Ephraim could see that she looked older, more serious, than in
former days. But what a fine, elastic step she had! what supple curves
in her figure! His eyes dwelt upon her with admiration, with despair.
He loved her as deeply as ever. She stepped out of the room and went
away to the spring. He followed her, determined to find out the cause
of her presence in his mother's house.
He vividly remembered that other night when they stood at the spring
together, and raised his eyes to Brandreth's Peak, but the moon hung low
in the west, a pale crescent, Armindy knelt by the spring, dipping up
the water, when his shadow came between her and the faint moonlight.
She glanced up, then sprang to her feet, half-frightened; the next
moment she ran to him and fell weeping on his neck.
"Eph'um! Eph'um! I said you'd come! I've always said you'd come!"
He gathered her to him; then tried to push her away.
"Don't--I--where is 'Lishy?" he stammered.
"I don't know. What do you want to think o' him for, now?" she cried,
looking at him with wet eyes, drawing his face down to hers.
"Ain't you 'Lishy's wife?"
She fell back a little.
"Did you think I'd marry him? I loved you, Eph'um--you."
"Is that the reason you 're here with my mother?"
"Yes; I've been with her nearly all the time."
"It was my fault the raiders come out to get 'Lishy, that night."
"I knew it when I heard how you saved him from them. Oh, don't hate me
for makin' you suffer so! It seemed like fun then, but I've been paid
back for it all."
He felt dazed. Armindy free, Armindy faithful, and loving, and humbly
entreating him not to hate her! Life thrilled afresh through him.
"Who did 'Lishy Cole marry?" he inquired at last.
"How you keep thinkin' o' him!"
"I can afford to now."
"He married Sary Ann Wood."
They were standing by the laurel thicket. She saw that his eyes were
fixed on the flowers, and turned quickly away to take up the pail of
water.
"I ain't danced the hoe-down since that night."
He broke off a spray of the flowers and fastened it in her hair.
*S'PHIRY ANN.*
The Standneges lived in a little sheltered cove upon the mountain-side,
their house only a two-roomed cabin, with an entry separating the rooms,
and low, ungainly chimneys at each end. Below it the Cartecay River lay
like an amber ribbon in the green, fertile valley; above it towered
majestic mountain heights, shrouded in silver mists or veiled in a blue
haze. The Standneges were bred-and-born mountaineers, and had drifted
into the little cove while Indian camp-fires were still glowing like
stars in the valley of the Cartecay, and Indian wigwams dotting the
river's banks. The house had a weather-beaten look, and the noble
chestnut-oaks shading it had covered the roof with a fine green mold.
The kitchen, a heavy-looking, smoke-blackened structure with a puncheon
floor, stood just in the rear of the house, and so situated that from
the door one could look through the entry to the front gate and the
mountain road beyond.
[Illustration: POLLY.]
Mrs. Standnege sat in the kitchen door one morning with bottles and
bean-bags scattered around her, "sortin'" out seed-beans. She was a
woman not much beyond middle age, but lean and yellow, with faded eyes
and scant dun-colored hair, time and toil and diet having robbed her of
the last remnant of youth, without giving her a lovely old age. She was
a good type of the average mountain woman, illiterate but independent,
and contented with her scant homespun dress, her house, her beanbags.
[Illustration: MRS. STANDNEGE.]
A heavy old loom occupied one corner of the kitchen, and Polly, the
eldest daughter, sat on the high bench before it, industriously weaving,
while S'phiry Ann stood by the smoke-stained mantel, watching the pine
she had laid on the fire burst into vivid flame. A bundle of clothes
lay at her feet, surmounted by a round flat gourd, filled with brown
jelly-like soap.
Polly was the eldest and she the youngest of eight children, but the
others all lay safely and peacefully in the little neglected
burial-ground at the foot of the mountain. She was unlike mother and
sister. She had youth, she was supple and fair, her hair dark and
abundant, her eyes gray and clear. She had the soft, drawling voice,
but also a full share of the sturdy independence, of her race. The
circumstances of her christening, Mrs. Standnege was rather fond of
relating.
"Yes, S'phiry Ann is er oncommon name," she would say, not without a
touch of complacency, "but her pap give it tu her. She was a month old
to a day, when that travelin' preacher come through here an' held
meetin' fer brother Dan'l on Sunday. He preached mos'ly about them
liars droppin' dead at the 'postles' feet, an' Standnege came home all
but persessed about it, an' nothin' ed do but he mus' name the baby
S'phiry Ann instead er Sary Ann as we had thought. He 'lowed it sarved
them onprincipled folks right to die, an' he wanted somethin' ter remin'
him o' that sermont. Well, I ain't desputin' but it was right, but I
tole Standnege then, an' I say so yit, that ef all the liars in the
world war tuk outen it, thar wouldn't be many folks left."
S'phiry Ann had heard of the fate of the Sapphira figuring in sacred
history; it had been deeply impressed on her mind in her tenderest
years, and might possibly have left a good impression, for she grew up a
singularly truthful, upright girl. Just now, as she leaned against the
mantel and stared at the fire, her face wore an unwontedly grave
expression.
"Folks as set themselves up ter be better'n they ekals air mighty apt tu
git tuk down, S'phiry Ann," said her mother, evidently resuming a
conversation dropped a short time before.
"But I ain't a-settin' up ter be better'n my ekals, ma," said S'phiry
Ann, gently but defensively.
"It 'peared like nothin' else yiste'day when you so p'intedly walked
away from Gabe Plummer at meetin', an' it the fust time you had seed him
since comin' from yer aunt Thomas over in Boondtown settle*mint*. Thar
ain't no call ter treat Gabe so."
"But ain't we hearn he's tuk up with them distillers on the mountains?"
said the girl in a low tone, a deep flush overspreading her face.
"Yes, we hev hearn it, but what o' that? Many a gal has tuk jes' sech."
"An' glad to get 'em, too," snapped Polly sharply, stopping to tie up a
broken thread.
"Gabe Plummer is er oncommon steddy boy. He's er master hand at
en'thing he wants ter do, an'--"
But S'phiry Ann did not linger to hear the full enumeration of her
lover's virtues. Hastily balancing the bundle of clothes on her head,
she took up the blazing torch, and hurried to the spring, a
crystal-clear stream, running out of a ledge of rock, and slipping away
through a dark ravine to the river. If she imagined she had escaped all
reproaches for her reprehensible conduct the day before, it was a sad
mistake. Hardly had the fire been kindled and the rusty iron kettle
filled with water when a young man came treading heavily through the
laurel thicket above the spring, leaped down the crag, and saluted her.
"Mornin', S'phiry Ann."
"Mornin', Gabe," she said, blushing vividly and busying herself piling
unnecessary fuel on the fire.
[Illustration: MR. STANDNEGE.]
He was a fine specimen of the mountaineer, lithe, well-made, toughened
to hardy endurance, with tawny hair falling to his collar, and skin
bronzed to a deep brown. He wore no coat, and his shirt was homespun,
his nether garments of coarse brown jeans. He carried a gun, and a
shot-bag and powder-horn were slung carelessly across his shoulders.
"I knowed you had a way er washin' on Monday, so I jest thought bein' as
I was out a-huntin' I'd come roun'," he said, sitting down on the
wash-bench, and laying the gun across his lap.
"You air welcome," she said, taking a tin pail and stepping to the
spring to fill it.
"I wouldn't 'a' lowed so from yiste'day," darting a reproachful glance
at her.
She made no reply.
"What made you do it, S'phiry Ann?" he exclaimed, no longer able to
restrain himself. "I ain't desarved no sech; but if it was jes' ter
tease me, why--"
She arose with the pail of water.
"No, it wasn't that," she said in a low tone, her eyes downcast, the
color flickering uncertainly in her face.
"Then you didn't mean what was said that night a-comin' from the
Dillin'ham gatherin'," he cried, turning a little pale. "Mebby it's
somebody over in Boondtown settlement," a smoldering spark of jealousy
flaming up.
"It's the 'stillery, Gabe," she said, and suddenly put down the pail to
unburden her trembling hands. "You hadn't ought ter go inter it."
"But the crap last year made a plum' failure," he replied excusingly,
his eyes shifting slightly under the light of hers. She was standing by
the spring, against a background of dark green, a slanting sunbeam
shifting its gold down through the overhanging pine on her dark,
uncovered head, lighting up her earnest face, lending lustrous fire to
her eyes. The scant cotton skirt and ill-fitting bodice she wore could
not destroy the supple grace of her figure, molded for strength as well
as beauty.
"The crap wusn't no excuse, an' if you mus' make whiskey up thar on the
sly, I ain't no more tu say, an' I ain't no use fer ye."
"Yer mean it, S'phiry Ann?"
"I mean it, Gabe."
"Then you never keered," he cried with rising passion, "an' that
half-way promise ter marry me was jest a lie ter fool me--nothin' but a
lie, I'll make it if I please," bringing his down on the bench with a
fierce blow.
"An' hide in the caves like a wild creetur, when the raiders air out on
mountains?" she scornfully exclaimed.
[Illustration: GABE AND S'PHIRY ANN.]
His sunburned face flushed a dull red, he writhed under the cruel
question.
"They ain't apt ter git me, that's certain," he muttered.
"You don't know that," more gently. "Think o' Al Hendries an' them
Fletcher boys. They thought themselves too smart for the officers, but
they wasn't. You know how they was caught arter lyin' out for weeks,
a-takin' sleet an' rain an' all but starvin', an' tuk ter Atlanty an'
put in jail, an' thar they staid a-pinin'. I staid 'long er Al's wife
them days, for she was that skeery she hated ter see night come, an' I
ain't forgot how she walked the floor a-wringin' her hands, or settin'
bent over the fire a-dippin' snuff or a-smokin'--'twas all the comfort
she had--an' the chilluns axin' for their pap, an' she not a-knowin' if
he'd ever git back. Oh! 'twas turrible lonesome---plum' heart-breakin'
to the poor creetur. Then one day, 'long in the spring, Al crep' in,
all broke down an' no 'count. The life gave outen him, an' for a while
he sot roun' an' tried ter pick up, but the cold an' the jail had their
way, an' he died."
She poured out the brief but tragic story breathlessly, then paused,
looked down, and then up again. "Gabe, I sez ter myself then, 'None o'
that in your'n, S'phiry Ann, none o' that in your'n.'"
She raised the bucket and threw its contents into a tub.
Gabe Plummer cast fiery glances at her, the spirit and firmness she
displayed commanding his admiration, even while they filled him with
rage against her. Yes, he knew Al Hendries's story; he distinctly
remembered the fury of resentment his fate roused among his comrades,
the threats breathed against the law, but he held himself superior to
that unfortunate fellow, gifted with keener wits, a more subtile
wariness. The stand S'phiry Ann had taken against him roused bitter
resentment in his soul, but the fact that he loved her so strongly made
him loath to leave her. A happy dream of one day having her in his
home, pervading it with the sweetness of her presence, had been his
close and faithful companion for years, comforting his lonely winter
nights when the wind tore wildly over the mountains, and the rain beat
upon his cabin roof, or giving additional glory to languorous summer
noons, when the cloud-shadows seemed to lie motionless on the distant
heights, and the sluggish river fed moisture to the heated valley.
What right had she to spoil this dream before it had become a reality?
He could not trust himself to argue the matter with her then, but
abruptly rose to his feet.
"We'll not say any more this mornin', though I do think a-settin' up Al
Hendries's wife ag'in me is an onjestice. Me an' some o' the boys air
comin' down ter ole man Whitaker's this evenin,' an' bein' agreeable I
might step down to see you ag'in."
"Jest as ye please," she quietly replied; then with a tinge of color
added, "Ef you'll go back ter the clearin' I'll do jest what I promised,
Gabe."
But without saying whether he would or would not, Gabe shouldered his
gun and went away.
S'phiry Ann had been very calm and decided throughout the interview, but
the moment her lover had disappeared she sank trembling on the bench,
her face hidden in her hands.
"Ef it hadn't 'a' be'n for thinkin' o' Al Hendries's wife I never could
'a' stood up ag'in him," she sighed faintly.
A squirrel springing nimbly from a laurel to a slender chesnut-tree
paused on a swaying branch to look at her, and a bird fluttered softly
in the sweet-gum above her. The sun slipped under a cloud, and when she
rose to go about her work, the spring day had grown gray and dull. It
sent a shiver through her, as she stared dejectedly at the overshadowed
valley. She had little time, though, for idle indulgence--she must be at
her washing; and presently when the clouds had drifted away, and the
sunshine steeped the earth in its warmth again, her spirits rose, a song
burst from her lips--an ancient hymn, old almost as the everlasting
mountains around her.
The day waxed to full noon, then waned, and S'phiry Ann spread the
clothes on the garden-fence and the grass to dry. There were other
duties awaiting her. The geese must be driven up, the cows milked, and
water brought from the spring for evening use. Then she would put on
her clean cotton gown, and smooth the tangles out of her hair, before
Gabe came in. It was all accomplished as she had planned, and at dusk
she sat on the rear step of the entry taking a few minutes of
well-earned rest. The light streamed out from the kitchen, falling
across the clean, bare yard and sending shifting gleams up among the
young leaves of the trees. On the kitchen step sat Eph, an orphan boy
of twelve or thirteen the Standneges had adopted, whittling a hickory
stick for a whistle, and at his side crouched a lean, ugly hound.
S'phiry could see her father tilted back in a chair against the loom,
talking to Jim Wise, a valley farmer who had come up to salt his cattle
on the mountains, while her mother and sister passed back and forth,
preparing supper. The voices of the men were raised, and presently she
heard Wise say:
"The raiders air out ter-night, so I hearn comin' up the mountain. They
air expectin' ter ketch up with things this time, bein' as somebody has
been a-tellin',--it 'pears so, anyway."
S'phiry Ann pressed her hands together with a little gasp.
"The boys air got they years open," said Mr. Standnege with a slow
smile, his half-shut eyes twinkling.
"But this is er onexpected move, an' they mayn't be a-lookin' fer it,"
persisted the other man.
"They air always a-ready an' a-lookin'. They ain't ter be tuk nappin'."
But the girl, listening with breathless attention, shivered, not sharing
her father's easy confidence. She remembered that Gabe Plummer had said
they were coming down to old man Whitaker's, and she knew that they were
off guard. They would be caught, she thought, with a cold sensation
around her heart; Gabe would be put in jail, and locked up, probably for
months, and then come back with all the youth and strength gone from
him. Even as these thoughts were passing through her mind, a sound fell
on her ears, faint, far away, and yet to her, alert, keenly alive to the
approach of danger, terribly significant. It was the steady tramp of
iron-shod hoofs upon the road, and it approached from the valley. She
sat motionless, but with fierce-beating heart, listening and feeling
sure it was the enemy drawing near.
The revenue men had always looked upon the Standneges as peaceful,
law-abiding citizens, and though no information had ever been obtained
from them, the officers sometimes stopped with them, lounged in the
entry, or sat at their board, partakers of their humble fare. Probably
they intended stopping for supper. The girl devoutly hoped they would.
The steady tramp grew louder, the hound pricked up his long ears,
sniffed the air, then dashed around the house with a deep, hostile yelp.
The next moment a party of horsemen halted before the gate. Her fears
were realized.
The dog barked noisily, the men chaffed each other in a hilarious way,
while the horses stamped and breathed loudly, and the quiet place seemed
all at once vivified with fresh life. Standnege went out to the gate
followed by his guest; Mrs. Standnege and Polly came to the door and
peered out, and Eph hurriedly closed his knife and thrust the whistle
into his pocket preparatory to following his elders. The officers would
not dismount, though hospitably pressed to do so.
"'Light, 'light, an' come in; the wimmen folks air jest a-gettin'
supper," said Standnege cordially.
"Business is too urgent. We are bound to capture our men to-night.
Why, the whole gang are coming down out of their lair to old man
Whitaker's to-night, so we have been informed, and we must be on hand to
welcome them."
Eph crossed the yard, but when he would have stepped up to take a short
cut through the entry, his hand was caught in another hand so cold it
sent a shiver of terror over him.
"My--why, S'phiry Ann!" he sharply exclaimed.
"Hush!" she whispered, drawing him out of the light. "Will you go with
me ter ole man Whitaker's, Eph?"
"This time o' night?"
"Yes, now."
"It's more'n a mile."
"We'll take the nigh cut through the woods."
"Dark as all git-out."
"I'm not afeerd; I'll go erlone then," she said with contempt.
"What air you up ter?--Good Lord! S'phiry Ann, do you think that could
be done an' they a-ridin'?" suddenly understanding her purpose.
"Nothin' like tryin'," she replied, and glided like a shadow around the
corner of the house.
The boy stared for a moment after her.
"Well, _I_ never!" he muttered, and followed on.
They ran through the orchard, an ill-kept, weedy place full of stunted
apple-trees, across a freshly plowed field to the dense, black woods
beyond. It was a clear night, the sky thickly set with stars, and low
in the west a pale new moon hanging between two towering sentinel peaks,
but the light could not penetrate to the narrow pathway S'phiry Ann had
selected as the nearest route to Whitaker's. The awful solitude, the
intense darkness, did not daunt her. She knew the way, her footing was
sure, and she ran swiftly as a deer before the hunters, animated by one
desire--to get to Whitaker's before the officers. It was a desperate
chance. If her father detained them a few minutes longer--but if they
hastened on--she caught her breath and quickened her own steps. Eph
stumbled pantingly along behind her, divided between admiration at her
fleetness and anger that he had been called on to take part in such a
mad race.
In speaking of it afterward, he said:
"I never seed a creetur git over more ground in ez short a time sence
that hound o' Mis' Beaseley's got pizened. It's a dispensin' er
providence her neck wusn't broke, a-rushin' through them gullies an' up
them banks, an' it so dark you mought 'a' fell plum' inter the
bottomless pit an' not 'a' knowed it."
But S'phiry Ann had no consideration to spare to personal danger, as she
broke through the underbrush and climbed stony, precipitous heights.
Once an owl flew across her way, its outspread wings almost brushing her
face, and with a terrified hoot sought a new hiding-place. The wind
swept whisperingly through the forest, and a loosened stone rolled down
and fell with a dull, hollow sound into the black depths of the ravine
below them. Eph wished they had brought a torch, wished that he had not
come, then struck out in a fresh heat, as he heard a mysterious rustling
in the bushes behind him.
At last they emerged from the woods opposite Whitaker's, and S'phiry Ann
leaned for a moment against the fence, panting, breathless, but
exultant. She had won the race.
The house was only one forlorn old room, built of rough hewn logs, with
a rickety shed in the rear. A small garden spot and the meager space
inclosed with the house comprised all the open ground. Mountains rose
darkly above it, and, below, the mountain road wound and twisted in its
tortuous course, to the fair, open valley. At the back of the dwelling
the ridge shelved abruptly off into a deep ravine, dark the brightest
noonday--an abyss of blackness at night.
From the low, wide, front door ruddy light streamed generously, defying
the brooding night, playing fantastic tricks with the thickly growing
bushes on the roadside. The girl had a good view of the interior, the
men lounging around the fire, the vivid flame of pine-knots bringing out
the lines in their tanned, weather-beaten faces, flashing into their
lowering eyes, and searching out with cruel distinctness all the rough
shabbiness of their coarse homespun and jeans.
There were the Whitaker boys, hardy, middle-aged men; Jeff Ward, a
little shriveled fellow with long, tangled, gray beard and sharp,
watchful eyes; Bill Fletcher, who had bravely survived the trials which
had proved the death of his comrade, poor Al Hendries; Jeems Allen, a
smooth-faced boy, and Gabe Plummer. He sat somewhat aloof from the
others, staring gloomily into the fire, instead of giving attention to
the lively story Jeff Ward was telling. At one end of the great hearth,
laid of rough unhewn rocks, sat old man Whitaker, at the other, his
wife--a gray and withered couple; he tremulous with age, she deaf as a
stone.
Nobody seemed to be on the lookout for enemies. The wide-flung door,
the brilliant light, the careless group, gave an impression of security.
What had become of the revenue officers? No sound of hoofs struck upon
the hard road, or murmur of voices betrayed hostile approach. Eph turned
and peered down the road, then clutched excitedly at his companion's
arm.