THE SHEPHERD OF NOBODY’S SHEEP
Paul Waffington was a Kentuckian. He was of that old Scotch-Irish type,
of good blood, honest and poor, who, combining tact and skill, have
always forged their way to the front. He had been bred and born in a
cabin near by the town of Hazel Green that was made famous in the story
of “Jonathan and His Continent,” by Max O’Rell.
When he was but a boy, hundreds of times he had followed in the
footsteps of his father,--gone out on the ridges and gathered his load
of fat pine-knots, that father and son alike might have a light by
which to pursue their study. Then when circumstances changed a bit, and
a half opportunity at a college course was offered him, he accepted it
with a will.
Even when in college he had been called “sissy” and “girlie” by many of
his classmates, for the simple reason that he was compelled to pay his
way with the labor of his hands. But Paul Waffington cared not a straw
for such proffered titles. Therefore, with a firm jaw and a determined
heart, he rolled up his sleeves each evening and went into the mountain
of dirty dishes before him with confidence, believing that reward was
at the end. And if, after darkness comes light and after toil comes
rest, then so it ever will be, that diligence and perseverance must
bring reward.
One day college life was over with Paul Waffington. There was much
bustle and hurry to get away, and he was leaving with the others.
Around the old hall with its ivy-covered walls they lingered as they
cheered and comforted one another and said good-bye. Amid those last
moments of parting a little, frail, old man pushed his way through
the crowd, and taking young Waffington by the hand led him away. Out
through the long hall they went together, and into the little classroom
through which the young collegian had passed a thousand times before.
It was dear old Professor Goff that had singled him out and led him
away. Such a dear old man, reader, from whom you turned away on that
other day when you yourself went away from college. The old man shut
the door and took his student’s hand in his own bony palms and held it
long. Then came the parting message and the benediction and then the
final handshake--and the aged man tried to say good-bye, but the words
were never spoken.
The real commencement of Paul Waffington’s life began when he turned
away from the old man, went out and shut the door. Everyone knew that
Waffington had not only won the college honors--a gold medal, but that
he had won and was carrying away with him the heart of the grand old
man of the college.
Since college days he had for a time pitched his tent with the “lumber
jacks” of the north--there to learn the true worth of honest toil. Then
followed a couple of years of “roughing it” among the sandhills of New
Mexico, that taught him to look the world in the face with confidence
and courage. Finally, he returns to a certain city in his own southland
and there established himself--to work in the interest of the children
of the Appalachian hills.
We see him now as he steps from his car with traveling-bag. Five feet
nine; twenty-two years, straight, and walks a little fast for most men
of his age.
Blood Camp had been but little in the mind of Paul Waffington of late.
In fact, demands upon him in other directions had taxed his mind and
body to their capacity. More than a year had elapsed since he was in
Blood Camp, but, after all, the time had not seemed long to him. But
now, as he turned in at his headquarters for a few days’ rest, Gena and
the people of Blood Camp comes sharply up before him.
During the past few months he had had conversation with two or perhaps
three commercial travelers who had passed through the village recently,
but they could give him no information of little Gena or old Jase. He
settled at his desk and began going through his mail. After dashing
off his answer to the last letter of the stack of accumulated mail,
he turned from the desk and settled back in his chair with a breath
of relief. But no sooner done, a feeling of apparent fear or dread
possessed him.
“It is a little strange, though, that Gena has never written one single
word,” he at length said, as he studied the floor. “I gave her some
postcards and merely asked her to drop a line now and then, that I
might know that she does well. Yes, I asked Jase to write, too. How
long has it been? November is twelve, and June is seventeen months and
never a word! Then I sent her a little Christmas present, too. But who
knows if she received it? Jase may have taken it from the post-office,
torn the little silk scarf to shreds and put a match to it for all I
know. Oh no, he didn’t. Jase Dillenburger is too old a man to treat a
sweet girl like Gena Filson in such a manner. His own adopted daughter?
Oh no, he took the package to her. She simply has been too busy with
the work that her tender hands find there to write,” he finishes. Then
for a full ten minutes he sat thinking it all over. “Don’t like this
protracted silence, though. Something might be wrong at Blood Camp,” he
murmured.
Walking to the door of his room he looked out into the street. Darkness
was coming on. He sees the street-lamps flash out their first rays for
the night, and watches the carbons jump and pop in the one nearest him,
as the current burnt off the new tips. Lifting his eyes a little, he
looked through the meshes of telephone and electric wires, and searches
the stars for answer to the question that he was debating in his mind.
“Perhaps I ought to go. It’s a long way removed from Knoxville, though,
is Blood Camp. A hundred and twenty by rail and forty horseback or
foot.” Taking a hasty look into his pocketbook he looked up quickly and
finished, “and afoot this time without a doubt.”
The telephone bell rang, and he went to the telephone with his question
unsettled.
“Hello.”
“How is that?”
“Yes, sir; this is Paul Waffington.”
“I didn’t understand, Doctor.”
“Well, I am very sorry, Doctor, but I will be away.”
“Why--er--Blood Camp, Doctor.”
“Good-bye, Doctor.” He hung up the receiver, turned about and shoved
both hands down deep into his trousers pockets and stared at the floor.
“Now it’s settled, I think. Doctor Gray wanted me for dinner tomorrow
and I told him that I was going away--to Blood Camp, so now it’s
settled. Well, my promise is out to Gena Filson anyway, so that
settles it.”
On the following morning the hero of this narrative stepped from his
train with an air of rest and satisfaction, with forty miles of rough
mountain road lying between him and Blood Camp. The meridian rays of
a July sun beat mercilessly down upon him, as the rocks threw him
first to one side of the road and then to the other side. But never a
faltering moment with Paul Waffington, for the inviting shadows of the
Mighty Snake was his goal.
He had learned early and well that great lesson, preparation. Hence
he began early in the afternoon to find lodging along the way. At
first he drew up before a little brown cottage near the roadside. The
little mother of the home was sick, hence our traveler must be denied.
He trudged on through the dust and called at the large white house
just at the forks of the road. Here, too, was sickness, coupled with
the fact that the master of the house was away. Again he takes up his
traveling-bag, wipes the wet dust from his brow and journeys on. It
seemed to the traveler a long way to the next house. But just before
turning into the gorge he saw a great farmhouse by the roadside. Fat,
sleek cattle grazed in the clovers; the barns were bursting with the
crops of the preceding year; the fields were waving with coming crops,
and surely, thought our pilgrim, he would lodge here with ease.
“What did you say your bizness is?” asked the woman on the front porch.
“I’m a Sunday-school worker, madam. I’m on my way to Blood Camp, and am
tired and sore. I certainly would be glad to abide the night with you;
I have change with which to pay for my lodging and----”
“I’m mighty sorry, but we’re all sick here, an’ I guess we can’t keep
ye.”
“Is not that your husband over there in the field with the horses?” he
inquired, kindly.
“Yes, sir. But you needn’t ax him, fur we’re all sick here an’ I guess
thet we can’t keep ye,” she finished, as she moved towards the door.
“Madam, have you any sons?” he ventured to ask at length.
“Oh, a boy. But he’s not here. He’s in Texas.”
“Well, may the good Lord bless him. And may he ever find a kindly
home in which to abide the night when he falls among strangers. Good
evening, madam,” and swinging his heavy hand-bag as if it were a mere
trifle, with renewed determination he trudged on.
The sun was closing his great, wonderful eye in the west and darkness
was fast filling the valleys and gorges. On either side of his way now
appeared great clumps of wild ivy and rhododendrons. Down from the
deep gorge a gentle breeze brought to his nostrils the sweet breath
of wild honeysuckles and mountain roses. He quickened his steps and
went forward, believing that he could continue to walk the whole
night through, in the breath of the sweet flowers. Here and there he
plucked a tuft of mountain moss from the trunk of a fallen tree. Now he
snatched a wild cucumber blossom from its stem that brushed his face
and carried it on with him.
He turned into the deep gorge in the twilight of evening, recalling
what he had once been told of the attacks of the wild animals that
frequent the gorge. Then, too, he had been told, that the gorge
contained at times bands of cutthroats and robbers, besides not a few
moonshine distilleries. Commercial travelers always made it a point to
pass through the gorge in the daytime. And if, perchance, they were
delayed in making the gorge in the heat of the noon-day’s sun, they
lodged the night on the North Carolina side, or vice versa, in order to
be safe from harm.
“But nobody would harm me, I believe,” Paul Waffington murmured as he
passed on into the gorge.
Just then he made out through the twilight a cabin almost hidden by a
clump of rhododendrons. He drew up before it and called out:
“Hello!”
“Oh, Lordy have mercy! Oh! You liked to scared me plumb to death,
sure,” said the voice of a large, fat woman as she came running out
from behind the clump of rhododendrons, holding on to her milk-pail
with one hand and digging the warm milk out of her eyes with the
other. She stood there working the milk out of her eyes and wiping her
face, a woman of some two hundred and fifty pounds avoirdupois and
proportionately tall.
“I didn’t hear you acomin’ at all. Milk spilt? Why, Lordy bless you, I
don’t care nothin’ fur the milk. Jist so old Blackie didn’t knock the
bottom clean outer this new milk-pail is all I care fur. An’ it’s a
thousand wonders thet she didn’t knock it clean out when she heard you
holler over there. You see, she ain’t used to hearn’ anybody holler in
this here gorge atter night. Nobody passes this gorge much at night.
Then, besides, Blackie is the skeeriest cow in this here gorge, an’
has bin ever since she wuz a calf. An’ thet’s asayin’ a right smart,
too, for this gorge is nine miles long. What did you say? A stranger
and want to stay all night!” She softened down to a kind motherly
tone and continued, “Why, Lordy bless you, child, we’re the poorest
family ’twixt here an’ Blood Camp an’ jist one room. But, child, if
you think thet you can put up with our fare, the door’s open, go in.
Here, Cicero, fetch a chair out here in the yard, I believe it’s more
pleasanter out here. Now hurry, Cicero, an’ bild’ a gnat-smoke here
in the yard fur this gentleman. Hurry now. There, stranger, take thet
chair an’ rest. The smoke maybe’ll keep the gnats off. Now jist make
yourself at home an’ rest. My old man and tother boy Cæsar have gone to
mill, but they’ll be back directly. So jist make yourself at home and
rest,” and off she went into the cabin, to bake the corn-pone on the
coals for supper.