LIFTING THE YOKE
Paul Waffington inhaled deep draughts of the crisp night air as he
ascended the mountainside, and was refreshed. He had been glad to
greet the folk of the little village after two long years of absence.
Especially glad to learn of the sticking qualities of Miss Emeline
Hobbs and the prosperity of the little Sunday-school. With all this
he had been in some degree satisfied. But there was one thing still
for which he had a longing desire to know, and that one thing was, how
went life with Gena Filson. Well, he soon would know, and with renewed
energy he mended his pace up the mountainside. Half way up, he stopped
and looked down at the little village in the dark valley. Some two
or three faint flickering lights was all that could be made out. The
laboring men of the mountains retire early and arise early. Not all
the fathers of the Blood Camp neighborhood idled away their time. Many
of them were logmen--men who felled trees the long day through, winter
and summer alike, others yoked together the oxen and “snaked in” the
logs from the mountain coves so they could be loaded on the wagons and
hauled away to the markets. But, by this hour, the oxen had been given
his fodder, each workman had sat at his humble board and partaken of
his portion, and now man and beast had gone to his bed that he might
find rest. Under the shining heaven’s blue Paul Waffington stood upon
the mountain’s side and reflected upon it all. A single light was now
burning in Blood Camp. He watched its faint glow--it flickered now and
went out--Blood Camp is at rest.
“What if old Jase should resent this visit?” he thought, as he resumed
his journey. Well, old Jase had invited him in the first place to visit
his home. It was not a late hour--7:30 o’clock. Rather a seasonable
hour for a summer night’s call, he thought. And, further, it was
perfectly proper for him to accept the invitation and pay his respects
to Jase Dillenburger and his adopted daughter.
But what could he do for Gena Filson? If Jase were willing he might
assist her to a scholarship in some college of music. She had gone
to the public schools until her thirteenth year, but that was little
indeed. Then her own mother had been a Pennsylvania school-teacher and
had taught her little daughter much at home. She had once even said
that she was fond of music. Now, if old Jase were willing, he might do
something to help her to get a musical education. But, aye, would the
old mountaineer let her go, if the college were found, board provided
and tuition--and all paid? Would he be willing to let her go at any
price? Would he ever let her go beyond the neighborhood of Blood Camp,
for any reason? Well, at all events, thought Paul Waffington, he would
do the best that he could for her. “Eat the best first” was the maxim
of Boaz Honeycutt, and Paul Waffington decided that he would “do the
best first” for Gena Filson. In fact, he meant to adopt the maxim of
Boaz Honeycutt in many things hereafter. He had resolved to have the
best first in all his work henceforth.
The parting words of old Professor Goff in the college classroom came
to him clear and plain:
“As you go out into life, remember, Paul, my boy, that every man is
a sculptor. Remember, that the stones which you are carving are the
people with whom you come in contact. Each deed and act are strokes
upon the chisel which you will hold. Some strokes upon the chisel
will deface the stone for time. Other strokes will polish, and carve
beauty and character. Hold your chisel at such an angle and apply such
strokes, my boy, as will bring polish to the stones and happiness to
the world.”
These grand words were ringing in his ears tonight, as he put out his
hand and turned the latch in the gate in front of Jase Dillenburger’s
cabin. At the first click of the latch, the great watch-dog flew down
through the yard with a vicious look. But Paul Waffington had had
experience with dogs before. Bringing his tact quickly into play, he
saluted the great mastiff with a low, gentle whistle, and they were
friends at once, without a single bark from the dog. He wished to
give old Jase and Gena a complete surprise tonight. Then, too, he was
fearful, if the dog should give warning, that old Jase might mistake
him for an officer of the law and shoot him on the spot. How he would
surprise them, he thought at last! Would not Gena be glad to see him
after more than a year of absence? Then what would he find her doing?
Perhaps reading to her foster-father from some cast-off weekly paper
that Slade Pemberton had given Jase. Maybe she was singing some hymn
that she had recently learned in the Sunday-school.
He walked lightly up to the door and put his hand out to knock----
“What’s that?” he said under his breath.
“You aint no account. Your old sorry daddy before you warn’t no
account. He warn’t nothin’ but a cold black murderer. That’s what he
wuz, an’ he died in the pen, ter boot! But you’re mine by law, an’
you’ve got to do as I say. You aint apayin’ fur the salt ’at goes in
yer bread. Sick? Sick nothin’. Git outen that bed. I’ll let you know
when ter go ter bed.”
Paul Waffington stood at the cabin door and heard it all. He swallowed
down a great lump that came up in his throat, and his heart thumped
against his breast loud and fast. He clinched his fists and shoved them
deep down into his coat pockets, and listened again. His ears caught
the begging cry and pleading of the girl as she lay upon her hard bunk.
“I’m so sick, daddy Jase. I’m so sick, daddy Jase. I can’t get up. I
can’t get up, daddy Jase. Oh, my dear mamma, if you would only come
back and take me away!” was the final cry that came so feebly from the
feverish lips.
The old mountaineer’s voice grew louder and more furious, and then Paul
Waffington heard distinctly the stroke----!!! The door flew open as if
a bolt of lightning had struck it as Paul Waffington went through.
“Hold on there, Jase Dillenburger, hold on there! Don’t you strike
her again, don’t, don’t, don’t you strike her again, I say. Yes, I
know that you can kill me. You can shoot me on the spot. But, Jase
Dillenburger, don’t you forget to calculate that if I come up missing I
have two brothers back in the Kentucky valley that will hunt you down
like the stealthy fox that you are. They will scour this continent for
your shaggy head--aye, they will drag the sea for your bones. Don’t
you strike--don’t, don’t. If I were not a gentleman and a Christian I
would say to you, begone to your place, you imp of Satan, and I would
punctuate it with this,” and he shot out his athletic fist like an iron
shaft within an inch of old Jase Dillenburger’s nose and held it there,
glaring into the beady-black eyes of his savage enemy without a tremor.
For a moment they both stood glaring at each other. Then, quick as a
flash, Paul Waffington flew to the bunk, snatched the sick girl in his
arms and cleared the door, crouching as he went, expecting to be shot
with old Jase’s deadly gun.
He evidently had judged his man aright. As he cleared the door old
Jase reached for his gun, with which to bring down his man. But as the
hammer of his gun came back, strong arms wound around him, steel bands
snapped together over his wrists, and before he could collect his mind
three men had their hands upon him, and the spokesman of the three was
no other than the old fiddler himself.
“In the name of the President and the United States, I arrest you,
Jason Dillenburger,” said the fiddler, at the same time exhibiting the
badge of a United States revenue officer.
Ten minutes after the handcuffs had snapped together around the
wrists of Jase Dillenburger Paul Waffington had placed Gena Filson
between clean, white sheets on a bed in the home of Emeline Hobbs. The
people of Blood Camp were stirred and seemed conscious of some great
change taking place in some inexplainable way, hence it was but a few
minutes until the little house of Emeline Hobbs was running over with
frightened people.
As the night wore on, some of the people returned to the others were
told the story of the flight, and were requested not to insist on
going into the sick-room, for the sake of the sick one. Men stood
about in groups and shook their heads while women spoke out boldly and
pitied Paul Waffington, for they were constrained to believe that Jase
Dillenburger would be on the trail of him within an hour, and when
found would shoot him down.
As the night wore on, some of the people returned to their homes,
others hung about the sick-room at a safe distance to see if Jase
Dillenburger would appear. By and by, word was passed out from the
sick-room that Gena Filson was burning up with a dreadful fever and
that she was then delirious. It was certain now that some grave
sickness was upon her. Paul Waffington sought out Fen Green, and asked
him if he would venture to make the twelve miles through the dark night
and the gorge for the doctor.
“Fenton, I want you to bring the doctor when you return without fail.
Gena is burning up with fever, and is delirious. Make all the speed
that you possibly can, Fenton,” was the request of Waffington.
“I’ll bring ’im. Don’t you never doubt but what I’ll bring ’im. I’ll
bring ’im, dead or alive, shore’s my name is Fen Green,” and into the
dark and dangerous gorge he turned his horse at a fast gallop.
Every living soul in Blood Camp was up before the sun on the following
morning. They wished to get a start with the sun and see what new
things the day would bring forth.
Not long after the store had opened for the day, a wagon drew up in
which were seated the old fiddler, Jase Dillenburger and two guards.
All the fathers of Blood Camp had gathered at the store to see the
going away of their neighbor Jason Dillenburger in the company of an
officer of the law.
“Boys, the next time a man comes into your neighborhood fiddling free,
be careful,” said Bull Jones, the fiddler. “I’ve not fiddled here for
more than a solid year for nothing, boys. I didn’t go out here on
the hills during the long summer days and plough and hoe corn with
no expectation of receiving a reward in the end. I’ve milked every
cow in the neighborhood, hoed most of the gardens, planted sugar-cane
and played the fiddle in the store there by the week. Remember, boys,
that somebody always has the fiddler to pay. Good-bye, boys, and good
luck,” and the officer gave the signal to start.
Old Jase had sat still and sullen throughout it all. He had been
arrested by an officer of the law for moonshining, counterfeiting and
several other violations. He knew that he would now go to prison for a
long term of years, however light the sentence might be. He knew, too,
that he was old and that he would never live to serve out his time and
return to Blood Camp. Therefore, as the wagon moved away, he turned
his great shaggy head and looked at Fen Green standing on the store
platform and called out:
“Fen, don’t fergit, thet I want ye to have Genie, Christmas, ef she
don’t die.”
The shock of the arrest and the presence of an officer in her home
was too much for the little stout wife of old Jase. Consequently, she
gathered up a few of her choicest belongings in a red tablecloth, threw
the bundle over her shoulder, and made her way back across the mighty
Snake back to her “people” on the Catawba.
“Never liked to live thar, a day of the thirty year nohow,” she said.
Many long, weary weeks went by at Blood Camp. Paul Waffington, Fen
Green and Emeline Hobbs watched over the sufferer day and night with
never a murmur. Each day, each night, the faithful Waffington had
followed the old doctor to the gate and asked him the same question:
“How is the patient, doctor?”
Each time in reply the old doctor had shook his head. Business was hard
pressing him to return to his Knoxville home, but he remained at the
bedside of the sufferer. Then, too, he had failed to make his annual
visit back to Kentucky to see the home folks. He had duly written to
his mother that she might know the reason of his delay. But tonight he
has received a letter from her that burns him:
“HAZEL GREEN, KY., July 4th, 19--.
“DEAREST PAUL:
“We are all deeply disappointed to learn that you will not come home
this summer. Your two brothers, your little sister and your father,
too, have all made mention of it and expressed disappointment. I fear
that you are unwell--and are doing too much.
“We have looked forward with delight to the time when you would come
and make us all so happy.
“Your little schoolmate, Imogene, inquires about you most every
week--and, Paul, she has grown so beautiful during the past year.
“Your dear father is not well, and your sister says to tell you to
come home soon. I miss you so much, my boy.
“Let no one, nothing, come between us, dear son, and may Heaven bless
my boy.
“Your devoted MOTHER.”
He read the letter again. Getting up he studied the ground between his
feet for an answer. Then looking up, he kissed the little note, put it
into his pocket and walked away towards the sick-room.
“Yes, I will go. But--not--now,” he said, as he went.