hoarsely, stumbling over the doorstep, and then staggering into the
room.
"Bill Sanders! what on the face o' the yeth!" cried the frightened
woman, her fresh-colored face growing pale.
"They air arter me! they mean to kill me!" he panted, crouching under
the loom, quivering with exhaustion, wild-eyed with fear.
"Bet, Bet! what does it mean?" exclaimed her mother appealingly.
Bet ran to the door, and shading her eyes with her hand, looked out.
Four or five men were running along the road toward the house, searching
and cursing fiercely. She had no idea what had happened, but she knew
they were workmen from the bridge, and a desperate-looking gang they
were to her frightened eyes. For a moment her heart quailed. They
might murder her and her mother, as well as Bill Sanders. He was
incapable of offering any defense just then, and pity filled her heart.
Her eyes flashed; her lips were set in a determined line. They should
not get him if she could help it.
"Quick, ma! blow the horn for pa!" she said, then sprang up on a chair
and took down her father's shot-gun from over the door, a trusty weapon
he loved next to his wife and daughter.
"Don't you come enny nigher till you tell what you want," she said
clearly, raising the gun in her none too steady hands as they scrambled
over the fence. For a moment they were nonplussed, and stared at her
with a mixture of surprise and uncertainty.
"We want the man that's hid in there," said one lowering fellow,
fiercely.
"What for?"
"To hang to the nearest tree."
"What's he been a-doin'?"
"Killin' a friend of our'n down on the railroad."
The horror of it almost took her breath, but she maintained her
defensive attitude bravely.
"That's er turrible thing," she said, praying that every blast of the
horn would bring her father.
"See here, young woman, you'd better get outen that and let us have him.
We don't mean no harm to you, but we ain't got time to argue with you."
"I'm plum' sorry for you, but I'm bound ter do what I kin fer the law.
We air peaceable folks here, an' like ter be punished 'cordin' ter law.
If you'll git the jestice o' the peace an' have Mr. Sanders tuk ter
jail, I ain't no objections."
Their wrath was evidently cooling somewhat, and they were forced to a
reluctant admiration of her pluck.
If they had known that she was trembling like a leaf, that her arms were
feeling nerveless and weak, her eyes dim! She knew that she could not
hold out much longer in that threatening attitude. A moment of dead
silence fell while the men consulted in whispers, and Bet could hear the
deep, hurried breathing of the hidden man, and the horrified moans and
ejaculations of her mother with a distinctness absolutely painful to
her. But help had come. Her strained eyes wandered despairingly from
those dark, angry faces confronting her, and she saw her father and two
or three other men coming through the lot.
Matters were at last peaceably adjusted. Mr. Crow argued so mildly and
reasonably with the avenging party that they consented--the farmers
bearing them company--to take their prisoner and allow the law to deal
with him.
"But I'll tell you what, Sanders, you owe your life to that girl. We
would 'a' killed you, sure, if she hadn't 'a' stood up in your defense
like she did. We didn't want to hurt her," said one of the men grimly,
and Sanders groaned heavily. He gave Bet one humbly grateful glance as
they led him away.
The whole occurrence occupied but a brief space of time in the bright
summer day. The dust settled softly upon the road behind the retreating
footsteps of the self-appointed posse and their prisoner, and the
crickets shrilling in the grass seemed the only living thing left. Bet
sank down on the doorstep, and hid her face in her hands, faint and weak
from the strain upon her nerves.
"Drink this, honey, it'll do you good," said her mother, holding a
brimming gourd of water to her pale lips, and she drank a little and
declared that she felt better.
"Do you s'pose they'll hang him, Bet?" in a fearful whisper.
"I don't know, ma, if he's tuk human life--" she paused with a shudder.
A new sensation had been furnished the settlement, and a far greater one
than the mere theft of a little money. The men met to discuss the
crime, and the women spoke of it in low, awestruck tones. Then it was
discovered that the man had not been killed, but badly wounded and
stunned. A quieter spirit prevailed, and when it came out that the
stranger had struck the first blow, and that Sanders had only acted on
the defensive, the tide of public sympathy turned in his favor.
It does not belong to this story to go into all the details of the trial
held at the September term of the county court. It is enough to say the
young man was acquitted and walked out of the court-room free, but
subdued and quiet. He went direct to Farmer Crow's, and walked into the
room where Bet sat with her patchwork. She greeted him with grave
kindness, and asked him to sit down, but he declined, preferring to
stand. He twisted the flexible willow switch he carried, nervously
around in his hands, and swallowed audibly, as though something choked
him.
"They'd 'a' tuk my life shure in their first mad fit if it hadn't 'a'
been for you, Bet," he said finally, with an effort. "I don't know what
to say; I ain't much fer words, but--"
"Please don't say nothin' 'bout it, Bill," she pleaded in great
embarrassment. "Folks air a-puttin' what I done up too high. If I
helped you it wasn't nothin' more'n duty, seein' as you was plum'
tuckered out with runnin'. I'd 'a' done it fer ennybody."
"Don't I know that better'n you, Bet?" he exclaimed bitterly. "Don't I
know you can't bear the sight o' me? but I'm a-goin' to show you that I
ain't ungrateful fer what you've done fer me."
He passed his hands over his eyes. "Bet, I done somethin' for you that
for yer sake I'm now a-goin' ter undo. Next Sunday is meetin' day at
Cool Spring, an' I'm a-goin' ter make public acknowledgments o' my
temptations, an' the doin's o' Satan in my heart. I've keered for you
mighty nigh to the ruination o' my hopes fer a better world. But if God
A'mighty kin fergive me, then you kin tu, Bet. Good-evenin'."
He turned to go. She sprang up, scattering her quilt pieces right and
left.
"Bill!" she gasped, but he strode hastily out of the room, mounted his
horse, and rode away.
The last song had been sung and the congregation at Cool Spring church
were about to rise to receive the benediction when Bill Sanders stood
up, and clearing his throat, looked around on the people. As he met the
curious expectant eyes fixed upon him, he seemed to waver--to flinch
from his purpose.
"Now speak out, Brother Sanders," said the pastor encouragingly, and the
kindly voice of the old man gave him fresh strength.
"Broth'r'n an' sist'r'n, it becomes my duty ter tell you o' the
temptations I've be'n a-fallin' under this year, an' ter ax yer
forgiveness an' yer prayers. I've be'n a-wanderin' fur from the right
way. I done er turrible thing ter brother Tom Fannin--took away his
good name, an' made him a byword an' en example o' evil among you. Fer
the sake o' one who it ain't becomin' in me ter name here, an' who ain't
ter blame any more'n a innocent child, I 'lowed myself ter hate him--ter
wanter cast disfavor 'pon him."
He paused, and a pinfall might have been heard in that church, so
intensely quiet, so breathless were the excited people. He looked at
Tom Fannin leaning forward eagerly on his seat, then his eyes rested for
a moment on Bet Crow's drooping face, and he could almost feel the quick
flutter of the pulse in her round soft throat. His eyes sank to the
floor; he drew a long breath.
"Broth'r'n, this is er public acknowledgment, an' the solemn, bindin'
truth--I put that money in Tom Fannin's pocket with my own hands."
He said no more, but sat down and hid his face in his hands, and a stir
and murmur seemed to sweep over the church like a wave. The agitation,
excitement, seemed about to break dignified Christian bounds, when Mr.
Jesse Crow rose and solemnly said:
"Broth'r'n, we have all heard the public acknowledgments o' Brother
Sanders's wrong-doin'. He has tole it 'thout bein' axed, an' o' his own
free will an' inclernation. In dealin' with this errin' brother we mus'
bear in min' thar air allus extinguishin' sarcumstances surroundin'
ever' deed done by weak mortal creeturs, an' a confession o' guilt is er
long way to'ards complete repentance."
Well, that public confession was the climax of that year of events in
the Cool Spring settlement, if I except the wedding at Mr. Jesse Crow's,
later in the season, when house and yard overflowed with guests, and all
united in giving a kindly hand and a hearty word to the bridegroom.
Bill Sanders was not present. He had gone out West to seek a new home,
and let us hope that he was in time as happy as Tom Fannin and his wife,
once the belle of Cool Spring settlement--Bet Crow.
*SILURY.*
*STORY OF A MOONSHINER'S DAUGHTER.*
Silury Cole threw a fresh pine-knot on the fire and stepped to the door
to peer out into the night, listening intently for the first sound of
her father's footsteps on the hard mountain road. For two days the
revenue officers had been abroad on the mountains, and the hearts of
women and children were heavy with terror and dread.
The rich pine kindled, burnt into vivid flame, throwing its light upon
the girl from head to foot, on her smooth hair, black as the night, on
the profile of her face, denoting unusual character for a girl of
fourteen, and on her primitively fashioned gown of blue checked cotton.
The rioting flames, filling the black cavernous depths of the fireplace,
lighted up the low room also, throwing grotesque shadows behind the loom
and spinning-wheel, lingering round the flaxen heads of the three
children asleep on the low trundle bed, glancing over the basket of corn
ready to be shelled for the miller, and over the table and simple
preparations for supper.
Mrs. Cole sat in the corner at one end of the flat stone hearth, smoking
and silently brooding. She was a small, sickly looking woman with
sunken eyes and sharp, delicate features. She leaned forward with her
chin resting in one hand, staring into the fire. A stick of wood burned
apart and fell softly to the coals underneath. She started and glanced
at Silury.
"Is he comin', Silury?"
"Not yet, ma."
She refilled her pipe and laid a glowing coal on it, shaking her head
slowly.
"An' not likely to till the revenue men have gone away."
"Ah, but don't you know, ma, pa never stays away mor'n two days at a
time? Recollect the time he come a-whistlin' with his gun on his
shoulder, an' the raiders just down on the mill road," said Silury, and
laughed at the remembrance of his daring. "Pa ain't easily scared."
"That's so, an' I remember that he was mighty hungry, too," murmured her
mother, a faint smile, for a moment, lighting up her prematurely
wrinkled face.
Silury glanced over her shoulder at the oven of potatoes steaming on the
hearth, and the frying-pan filled with fresh-cut rashers of bacon ready
to place over the fire. Her preparations were all complete. When he
came it would take but a few minutes to place a smoking hot supper, such
as he loved, before him.
"Are the children covered up?" her mother inquired, glancing toward the
bed. "These October nights are gettin' cold."
Silury stepped across the room and tucked the cover around the young
sleepers. No wonder her face had such a mature look--she moved with
such a womanly air--the cares of the household nearly all fell upon her.
She was the pride of her father's heart, her mother depended on her, and
the younger children always looked to her to supply their needs. Mrs
Cole relapsed into her former attitude, for a few minutes, then suddenly
raised her head, a look of fear flashing into her dull eyes. "Silury,
it 'pears to me I hear somethin'," she whispered quickly.
The girl hurried back to the door, and leaned out again, her head
slightly bent, one hand lifted to her ear in a listening attitude. A
gust of wind swept down the black serried peaks, so high above the small
cabin, so sharply cut against the starlit sky, hurrying on its erratic
course to the valley. The cow munched dry corn husks in a corner of the
fence, and Kit, the mule, pawed restlessly at the stable door. But none
of those sounds had disturbed Mrs. Cole, roused that fear in her. Far
away Silury heard the steady beat of hoofs upon the dry, hard road, as
of a horse newly shod, and urged to his utmost speed.
"I 'low it's only somebody ridin' fer the doctor," she said soothingly,
but a line, drawn by keenest anxiety, appeared between her dark brows.
The sound came upward from the valley, not downward from the mountains.
It drew nearer each moment, bringing glad or evil tidings to some lone
dweller on the heights, for no one ever traveled over the mountains in
that way simply for the pleasure of it. How swift, how steady, fell the
iron-shod feet upon the earth! now clear and distinct, as they passed
along a ridge, now almost lost as they plunged into a ravine. The big
liver-colored hound, lying on the doorstep, stood up, sniffed the air,
and howled mournfully.
"It may be the raiders," muttered Mrs. Cole restlessly.
"Or somebody's dead, an' they er comin' fer their folks," said Silury in
awed tones.
She could hear the heavy panting of the horse, as, with slackened gait,
he came up the hollow below the house, and see an outline of the rider
as they turned the lot fence; then, as they crossed the narrow path of
light projected from the doorway beyond the low yard fence, she
recognized a valley neighbor. He scarcely halted, as he excitedly
cried:
"Silury, the raiders got yer pa--took him over in Jimson's Brake, along
with Peleg White, an' one o' the Davis boys. They'll pass Buckhorn
Springs to-night."
And then he went on his way, to carry the sad news to more remote
habitations; and great silence seemed to fall upon the mountain-side.
Silury and her mother looked speechlessly at one another, then Mrs. Cole
passed a trembling hand confusedly over her face.
"What all did he say, Silury? It 'pears to me my understandin' ain't
quite clear to-night."
"He said--" she caught her breath in a sob. "Oh, ma! the raiders have
took pa; what shall we do, what shall we do? Poor pa! it will kill him
to be put in prison!" in a burst of despairing anguish.
Mrs. Cole crouched lower in her chair.
"I knew it would come. I've been a-feelin' it here for a long time--a
long time," one thin hand groping for her heart. "Yes, he'll pine fer
his freedom an' the mountings when he's shut up in jail. Oh, I've
begged him not to be a moonshiner--not to make whiskey on the sly. They
all have to suffer fer it sooner or later." Her wandering, tearful eyes
fell on the waiting supper. "How hungry he must be!"
There were no noisy demonstrations, but a grief, pathetic as it was
deep. They were mountaineers, patient by nature, and schooled by all
the circumstances of life to endure and be strong. The law does not
punish the moonshiner alone, but it falls heavily on his wife and
children. Silury dried her eyes and touched her mother on the shoulder,
speaking in a firmer tone:
"I must go down to Buckhorn Springs to-night, ma."
"Eh?" said the dazed woman.
"I must see pa; I must help him to get away from the raiders."
"You, Silury! How'll you do it?"
"I don't know," her lips trembling again, "but I must do it--I must!"
Mrs. Cole stared at her. She had faith in Silury's courage and ability,
but now she caught the girl's hand, fresh terror seizing her.
"Don't you get into trouble, honey. Me an' the children would perish if
your pa an' you were both took off."
"Don't you fret, ma; I'll come back to you an' bring pa, too."
"How'll you get to Buckhorn Springs?"
"Ride Kit."
She was already down on her knees before the fire, kindling a torch to
take out to the lot with her. She looked up at her mother with brave,
tender eyes.
"Now, don't pester yerself any more'n you can help, ma."
Mrs. Cole shook her head with a deep sigh, and instinctively reached for
her pipe, but she could only sit and hold it in her hand, unfilled,
unlighted, while Silury went away to the lot with the flaring torch and
an old saddle thrown on her arm.
Kit was a shabby beast, thin, wiry, and with only one good eye, but he
had served the Coles faithfully. He greeted the young girl with a
gentle whinny, and she leaned her head against him with another burst of
tears. But she quickly wiped them away, and led Kit out to the road.
It did not take her long to put bridle and saddle on him, then she ran
in, took down her father's rifle from the rack over the front door, and
in a few minutes had started on her solitary ride down the mountains.
The hound would have followed her, but she ordered him back. "Go back,
Bolivar, an' take care o' them that's left behind," and he slunk
unwillingly to the doorstep again.
It was a night to live in the child's memory all her life, for with all
her fearlessness and hard training she had never before been called upon
to traverse the mountain passes alone after darkness had fallen upon
them. Solitude and gloom surrounded her. The valley seemed but a
formless gulf of darkness, the multitudinous mountains, black sentinels,
towering to the stars. Far away in some remote fastness of the
mountains a dog barked, and she could hear the prolonged blast of a
hunting horn. A star shot downward from the zenith, leaving a trail of
fire across the sky, and was lost behind the far-reaching western
ranges. A sense of isolation oppressed her. She seemed the only living
human creature in all the vast, silent world. On the saddle in front of
her she held the trusty rifle, and that gave her a sense of security
from beasts of prey. Her father had taught her how to use the gun, and
practice had given her an almost unerring aim. But my young readers will
acknowledge that it was a trying situation for even a mountain girl, to
ride alone through ravines and over declivities, often only a bridle
path to guide her. It required a brave heart and a steady nerve.
Buckhorn Springs are on the public highway leading from a market town in
North Georgia to Murphy, North Carolina, and traditions of the wonderful
medicinal qualities of the water come down, even from the remote days
when the Indian set up the poles of his wigwam near the springs, and
slaked his thirst in their cool, healing streams, flowing out from under
Buckhorn Mountain. The Indian and his wigwam are mere traditions now
themselves, and the white man and his covered market wagon have taken
their places. It has been the favorite camping-ground of the
mountaineers coming from or going to market since the first white
settlers boldly penetrated the wilderness beyond. Campers were there the
night the revenue officers were to pass with Amaziah Cole, Peleg White,
and young Davis. They were on the roadside, their white covered wagon
drawn out under the sparse timber, their sleek red oxen lying unyoked
near it. A camp-fire of brushwood and pine-knots blazed up in the open
space between the timber and the road, throwing strange eerie shadows
against the mountain-side, and in the tree-tops above.
A lean, brown-faced wagoner sat on an inverted feed-box whittling a
stick, and a woman occupied a rude camp-stool nearer the fire, the light
bringing out the stripes in her brown and yellow homespun skirts, and
the melancholy lines in her sharp-featured face. A brown woolen veil
was tied around her head, and she rubbed snuff with subdued enjoyment.
Silury did not go down to the public road. On the mountain-side, above
the springs, a ledge of gray rocks jutted out. Dismounting at a level
spot in the pathway, Silury tied Kit's bridle to an overhanging bough,
then with the gun grasped in her hands, she crept through the underbrush
to the rocks. She trembled with excitement, for a daring thought had
come to her--a scheme whereby she might deliver her father from his
captors. She crouched down behind the rocks, and waited, praying that
she might be calm, that her eye might be true, her hand steady when the
time came.
Evidently the campers had heard of the raid, and were intending to sit
up until the officers passed with the prisoners, for several times,
during that lagging hour of suspense Silury spent behind the boulders,
the man walked out into the road to listen for sounds of travel.
"I 'low they are comin' at last," he said, closing his knife with a
sharp click, and his wife put up her snuff-box and joined him on the
roadside.
Silury's heart gave a great thump, thump, against her side. She started
into a more erect position, bringing the barrel of her rifle to a level
with the rock. The tramping sound of horses' feet could be distinctly
heard on the road, and presently the cavalcade rode up, the prisoners in
the middle. The officers were feeling comparatively secure. No rescue
had ever been attempted at Buckhorn Springs. Friends of prisoners had
sometimes ambushed in the wilder country above, but this raid had been
unmolested. They had been riding hard, and so they halted for a few
minutes at the springs, and some of them dismounted for a drink.
Silury saw her father astride a powerful mule, his hands tied together,
but his lower limbs free. He looked haggard and unkempt, his long,
black hair falling to his shoulders, his beard tangled. He bore the
marks of his sojourn in Jimson's Brake, and of his resistance to arrest.
"Poor pa!"
Did he hear that trembling, pitying whisper? He threw up his head, his
black, deep-set eyes flashing an eager glance around. The officer at his
side fell back a little to speak to a comrade. It was the girl's
chance. She suddenly rose head and shoulders above the rocks, the
camp-fire shining on her white face and bare head.
"Look out, pa! look out!" she screamed in shrill, piercing tones, and
fired.
He saw her, read her purpose and, as the animal under him staggered and
fell, he leaped from its back like a panther, and disappeared in the
underbrush.
It was all so quick, so unexpected! Through the curling wreath of smoke
from the rifle, Silury's face appeared for a moment to the amazed eyes
of the officers; then they realized what had happened, and fearing a
stronger attack, put spurs to their horses and hustled their other
prisoners away, leaving the dead mule in the road.
The next morning, as the rising sun gilded the mountain tops with gold,
the revenue officers rode through the streets of the market town with
two prisoners, telling a thrilling story of the moonshiners' ambush at
Buckhorn Springs and the escape of Amaziah Cole.
It was about that same time that Silury stood again on the doorstep of
home, her face aglow, her eyes radiant, in spite of the sleepless night
spent abroad on the mountains. Bolivar crouched against her feet, or
licked her hands in his joy at her return, but she scarcely noticed him.
She was looking at the unfinished supper, cold on the hearth, the gray,
fireless ashes in the deep fireplace, and her mother asleep in her
chair.
"Wake up, ma! wake up!" she cried, joyously; "pa is here!"
Mrs. Cole started up and rubbed her eyes as she saw her husband and
daughter standing in the doorway. "Did I dream it all?" she murmured
helplessly. "I thought the raiders were takin' you to jail, Amaziah."
"So they were, an' I'd be there right now ef--" he stopped, choked with
emotion, and his hand stroked Silury's head.
"An' he's never goin' to be a moonshiner again, ma, never! Ain't we
glad!" and Silury slipped across the floor to wake the younger children.
Her father's proud eyes followed her.
"It's all owin' to you, all owin' to you, Silury."
*'ZEKI'L.*
He lived alone in a weather-beaten log-cabin built on the roadside at
the edge of a rocky, sterile field, with a few stunted peach-trees
growing around it, and a wild grape-vine half covering the one slender
oak shading the front yard. The house consisted of only one room, with
a wide, deep fireplace in the north end, and a wide window to the south.
The logs had shrunk apart, leaving airy cracks in the walls, and the
front door creaked on one hinge, the other having rusted away.