As Jack Wade faced about to return to his own cabin he saw a lone
horseman coming up the road toward him, riding very rapidly, which was a
custom in the country. No one ever rode slowly.
Remembering the girl's remarks of warning, he concluded it the height of
wisdom to be seen as little as possible lurking around the vicinity, as
he was in the community for an avowed purpose and he must be very
cautious in order to fulfill his mission. He therefore stepped back into
the shadow of a friendly bush and allowed the horseman to gallop by
without discovering him. He turned and watched the rider, until he
entered the gate through which the girl had driven the cow a few moments
before. A sudden impulse seized him to creep back under the shadow of
the trees and learn what he might from the conversation which he could
now hear but faintly. This being a very dangerous proceeding, his mind
was changed. He did not feel that he was thoroughly enough acquainted
with the surroundings nor the people and their customs, and would take
no chances until he should know more clearly what he was about--until he
became more accustomed to everything and everybody.
The horseman he had seen was none other than Tom Judson, brother of the
girl he had assisted in locating the cow. Tom rode into the lot, jumped
from his horse in true Western style, threw the reins of his bridle over
the saddle-horn, rapped the horse over the hips with his gloves, and
walked on behind him to the barn. Nora was now milking the old brindle
cow, and her father was inside the barn putting feed into the trough for
the stock.
"Peers ye air mighty late git'n' yer milkin' done," said Tom. "What's
ther matter of ye?"
He tapped the girl upon the head with the finger end of his glove, and
he tapped her again because she made no immediate reply.
"Reckon I hain't no later git'n' hit done than ye are a git'n' home,
seein' as how I'm most done now," she replied.
"Milkin' a cow hain't nuthin' like takin' a day fer to ride over the
country a givin' warnin's."
"What ye warnin' 'bout now, Tom?" she asked, with much interest.
"Go 'long, gal. Ye ain't been raised in this country fer nothin'! Ye
know what I've been warnin' 'bout well 'nough, 'thout axin' me. They's
a-goin' ter be hell raised in this country to-night. That's what I've
been warnin' 'bout. Now do ye know, durn ye!"
"I reckon I do. Who's a-goin' ter git it this time?"
"Aw, ye want to know too much all to once. Jest wait 'til ye see ther
blaze 'long erbout midnight, an' ye'll know all ye want to know."
"I mout be asleep then." Nora spoke feelingly. She desired to know more,
but hesitated to ask direct questions.
"Yes," said Tom, "I reckon ye will be asleep when ye think somethin's
a-goin' to be a-doin'. Them durn big black eyes of yourn'll see
everything in the whole blame valley afore mornin'. Ye kin see plum
through ther mountain when ye want to, an' they'll be a plenty fer you
ter see to-night, an' ther newcomer----!" Tom stopped suddenly and Nora
looked hastily up, inquiringly, hoping to hear him finish the sentence,
but he spoke never another word.
"What's hit about ther newcomer, Tom?" she asked after a moment's
hesitation.
"Nuthin'. What'd ye keer if hit was anything about him?"
"I don't; but ye was about ter say somethin' about him. That's why I
axed ye. I don't keer nothin' about him no mor'n anybody else." Nora did
have some anxiety about his safety, however, but she did not wish to
show this to Tom. She knew her brother's failing.
"Well," said Tom slowly, "seein' as how ye don't keer, I was a-goin' ter
say that he'd git his fill of peekin' 'round here afore he's many days
older, d'ye hear me?"
Nora did hear, and felt a pang peculiarly new to her pass over her
heart. Having now finished milking the old brindle cow, she raised up,
gave her a kick on the legs, and poured the milk into a larger pail
conveniently near. For one moment she studied the features of her
brother, then spoke to him tenderly.
"Now, Tom," she said, "what has ther newcomer done that ye've got it in
fer him?"
"Nuthin'," sullenly. "Nuthin' 'tall. Thought ye didn't keer so much
'bout him?"
"I don't."
"Then ye air mighty interested in somethin' down that away. What made ye
ax me that fer?"
"Aw, go 'long, will ye? Ef ye don't know nuthin', keep yer lips
buttoned; ef ye know somethin', tell it, an' don't be so tight with yer
knowin's."
"Ye air sassy, sis. Well, they hain't nuthin' ther matter with him, but
he acts like he mout do somethin' ef he hain't checked fust. Ef he opens
his mouth too much 'round here ye know good an' well what mout happen
ter him putty quick, don't ye?"
Tom gave Nora a slap in the face and followed on after his horse.
Old Peter Judson came out of the barn and, upon seeing Tom, asked if he
had given the warning to everybody. He had, he said, "and what's more,
everybody'd be thar."
Nora took up her milk pails and hurried into the house, where she found
her mother busily engaged in getting supper on the table. After
straining the milk and putting it away in its accustomed place, she
assisted her mother in the work.
Silence prevailed within her soul. Not a word escaped her lips as she
busied herself over the meal. Somehow she felt a strange foreboding. Her
heart was full of thought for the safety of the newcomer, in whom she
felt a peculiar interest.
He, not at all like other men she had known, had spoken kind words to
her, and they touched a tender spot in her heart. He had assisted her to
find the old brindle cow and had helped to drive her home. What was it
that attracted this wild flower of the mountain to this man? And what
was it that caused the unhappy throb when Tom remarked concerning him?
These remarks were anything but reassuring. She worked on amid her
soliloquy.
Mrs. Judson could not refrain from remarking the contrast between this
thoughtful girl and her own Nora.
"Ye air mighty quiet, Nora," she said, her face drawn up gingerly.
"What's ther matter of ye, that yer tongue hain't a-waggin' as usual?"
Nora stood for one moment thoughtfully pondering, while she deftly
dried, for the third time, the saucer which she held in her hand, then
throwing the dish towel over her shoulder, she faced her mother.
"Cain't a feller be quiet 'thout somebody a-thinkin' somethin's wrong?"
She was smiling deeply, the dimples in her cheeks showing beautifully.
"Not 'round this hyar kintry," replied Mrs. Judson. "Ye know yerself
that when everythings quiet like 'round this hill somethin's 'bout ter
happen. Now what does ail ye? What is ther matter with yer?"
"Tom says theys a-goin' ter be doin's 'round here to-night," replied
Nora, "an' I reckon he knows, ef anybody does."
Mrs. Judson now assumed an air of utter silence. She knew full well that
her daughter spoke the truth, that when Tom said that something was
likely to happen about the valley it usually did happen, and very soon
thereafter.
Tom and his father came into supper and ate quietly, while the women
served them, this being the custom in this country. The fact that they
were non-communicative now was because no doubt they had said, before
entering the room, all that was necessary concerning the plans for the
night. Nora remained in silence, ate her meal and cleared away the
dishes, still holding the silence. She gazed up at the twinkling stars
dancing in the heavens, at the great moon shining brightly, sending
darting rays through the foliage of the large trees overhanging the
cabin. A silvery mist hung over the mountain and flitted through the
valley, the while the stars smiled down on the troubled earth. Troubled?
Yes, all mankind is troubled down the valley. Over all the deep blue of
the heavens dropped a shining sheen to cover the already beautiful
landscape. From afar over the mountain the voice of the night-bird came
gliding through the mist, the "hoot" of the night owl sounded a note of
warning, the sleepless animals of darkness pealed forth their notes of
joy as they gamboled over the green mountainside, and down, far down in
the depths of the rich valley, the cow-bell tinkled as the cow nibbled
the sweet green grass. None of these had thoughts of fear, none of
these discerned the great danger to humanity, none of these felt the
deep heart throbs that beat in the breast of humanity.
It is growing late, but Nora Judson did not retire at her usual hour.
She dared not, lest she should lose the sight that had greeted her on
many similar occasions. However, she should not fail in one duty, her
evening prayer. This had been a lifelong duty, taught her early. Even in
the roughest and most rugged parts of this great universe the children
are taught that God liveth and reigneth. Somehow God gets into the most
seemingly forsaken communities in the remotest corners of the earth, and
lets it be known that He is the Almighty. He assumes power everywhere.
The child of the wildest region learns some form of prayer. Mrs. Judson
had taught Nora in her earliest days to say "Now I lay me down to
sleep," but knowing that she was not going to sleep this night Nora said
to herself, "What shall I do? what shall I do? fer I hain't a-goin' to
lay me down ter sleep this night. I hain't. O Lord, what shall I say?"
Strange as it may seem, it had never occurred to her that any form of
speech other than she had been taught would be a prayer, therefore she
was utterly lost to know how to proceed. She looked wonderingly
heavenward as if to catch inspiration. Then it was that the thought was
aroused within her, the thought that she should pray for others. Her
pure young heart had found a way to speak to God, so she bowed her head
and clasped her hands and said tenderly, "O God,"--she hesitated as if
gathering thought for expression,--"kin Ye keep a secret? Ef Ye kin,
don't tell anybody how the old brindle cow got under the wire. Don't,
fer goodness' sake, 'cause ef ye do, hit mout git _him_ into trouble. O
God, he is so nice. Them han'some eyes of his'n is a-hauntin' of me yet,
an' he was so good ter help me find old brindle an' drive her home. I
_was_ askeered to come up ther road by myself, but I didn't want to let
on to him like as ef I was, 'cause he mout a-thought I was weak, an' he
was so good an' spoke so tenderly an' kind-like.
"No man hain't never spoke to me that away afore, not even Al Thompson;
but I 'spect I don't keer nuthin' 'bout Al, an' maybe I never did; an'
_he_ said he was here for his health an' would raise ter--he said
to-bac-co. He knows, an' that must be right. O God, I hope Ye didn't let
Tom see him as he was a-goin' back ter his shanty, 'cause ef ye did, hit
mout bring on more trouble fer him, an' I know Ye don't want him to get
into trouble. Tom's a good boy an' don't mean anybody harm, but----"
Nora stopped and leaned forward, straining her ears to catch the weird
sound. From toward the mountain there came the clattering of many
horses' feet as they fell heavily upon the rocky hillside. On they came.
Nearer and nearer, louder and louder, the clattering sound grew.
Every strike of a hoof upon the rocky way was like a needle driven into
her breast over her heart. With few words she cut her prayer short.
Looking heavenward she muttered imploringly, "Save him, an' let old
brindle git out again sometime."
She stepped over to her one lonely, paneless window, pulled the latch
string, shoved the wooden panel aside and, peering out into the gloom,
listened with heavy beating heart to the clatter of the horses' feet as
they drew nearer. Heretofore this same sound had been as sweet music in
her ears. She had grown up in the midst of it, and her heart bounded
with great pleasure whenever she heard such a sound; but now it was
different, somehow she did not enjoy it. The many horsemen drew nearer,
until she could see them bounding rapidly down the mountain road.
Outside she saw two lone horsemen in saddles, standing by the gate, as
immovable as statues. Silently they sat, neither horse nor rider moving,
not a sound escaping their lips. The mighty throng of horsemen were now
passing directly in front, and the two silent watchers of the night
quickly joined the mad race. Not a word escaped any of them until they
were nearing Jack Wade's cabin. Then one fellow leaned over and
whispered, through his heavy dark head-gear, to his companion nearest
him, "Wonder if he'll fall in, too?" There was no reply. Perhaps one was
not expected.
On they flew, black demons of darkness, destructive vultures of freedom,
cutting the wind as if they had been a two-edged sword; slashing the
mist with their foaming steeds, dark steeds, as dark as the starless
night; enshrouded in caps as dark as the cloud-covered moon, speaking
never a word, but groaning destruction deep down in their revengeful
souls.
Jack Wade was awakened from a peaceful slumber by the thundrous tramp of
the horses' heavy feet as they galloped swiftly by. He rose stupidly and
went out, but as he looked, saw nothing, yet it seemed to him that the
very atmosphere of the valley was alive with fantastic dancers. The
weird spectacle grew before his sleep-ladened eyes, until the devils of
hell seemed encrouched about him. Evidently they were bent on tearing
his heart asunder, for there they were preparing to spring upon him.
"Begone, ye devils!"
The beat of the horses' feet falling upon the softer ground grew fainter
and fainter, until the sound could be heard no more. Wade sat in his
doorway pondering and wondering over the strangeness of the people among
whom he had taken up his abode. He knew that the noise which woke him
had been made by the tramping of many horses, but knew not whither they
were bound, nor what their errand. He sat for a long time looking down
through the lowlands, dreaming, pondering. Ever the great dark eyes of
the valley girl danced in the moonlight space before him. Her soft
stare, tender hands, and innocent expression haunted him. Out in the
deep distance a dog was baying. The horsemen had no doubt awakened him
as they had awakened Wade, and he was entering his protest in loud and
continuous bays. Behind him a rooster was crowing the midnight hour, his
own wall clock tolling the same hour. Overhead the moon was shining
brightly, sending her silvery rays to greet all the earth.
Suddenly there arose over the valley the shout of many voices, mingled
with the baying of as many dogs, then the midnight air was rent in twain
by the vibrations caused from the firing of pistols and rifles.
"What now?" thought the ponderer. "Ye gods! this is a fearful
condition."
Some two miles away a faint red light grew up out of the mist. Wade
strained his eyes in an effort to discern more clearly the cause. The
light grew until the watcher could clearly discern the flickering blaze
as it leaped high into the heavens, apparently bent on devouring the
very stars that gave light to the darkened earth. Still the blaze grew,
sending forth sparks like great balloons of fire. Over a little way
beyond another light sprang up to greet the straining eyes of the
watcher, and also grew in brightness, until the whole landscape for
miles over the valley was one bright sea of flame. The sight was too
much for Wade; he could not sit longer and watch it from such a great
distance. Hastily saddling his horse he rode toward the conflagration,
having two specific objects in view. One, and the lesser, to witness the
great conflagration; the other, to learn something of interest to
himself.
The road over which he was traveling was so entirely new to him that he
found it quite difficult to make any speed, therefore he resigned
himself to a jog-trot, picking his way over ravines and around low
growing shrubs, sometimes emerging out into the open and traveling
beneath the large forest trees. He often wondered how it was possible
for the horsemen who had gone on ahead of him to have kept up such a
terrible speed on such a road. They knew the earth beneath their horses'
feet, every inch of it, and feared not, he concluded. Their horses were
fully acquainted with the rough way, and hesitated not. How friendly the
light of the waning moon appeared to that lonely traveler in that silent
dark region! How beautifully shone the little friendly stars, those
small heavenly bodies, from their homes in the clear blue sky! One does
not realize the full value of the moonlight until one has real necessity
for it, then its great value is known--indeed no value can be placed
upon it then.
No light now came from the conflagration he was desiring to witness, but
there would be, as soon as he emerged once more into the open. He went
on cautiously, until he came out into the moonlight again. Yonder to the
right of him was the fire, still burning brightly, sending up a
flickering blaze. He hurried his pace as much as possible over the road,
and now saw a lone horseman speeding like the wind toward him. In
another moment he passed. His head was uncovered, but that was not
unnatural. It was all right; he knew him not. This lone horseman turned
in his saddle and glanced at Wade when he had got past him, never a
moment allowing his steed to slacken his pace. That was also all right.
They did not know each other. Wade hurried on, finally reaching the
burning building, where he found not a living thing, human nor beast,
nothing saving the dying embers of a burning home. The light from the
burning barn was brighter, and as he glanced that way he discovered a
poor horse lying by the gate in the agonies of death.
"Poor fellow," he thought, as he watched him breathe his last, "your
useful days are over; nothing can save you now."
Wade looked farther. On all sides he saw nothing but charred ruins, dark
devastation, no sign of human nor animal life--not even a sign of
vegetable life. No noise, not even the deep bay or the low whine of the
farmhouse dog greeted his ears. Again he turned back into the darkness
of the night and made his way to his cabin, none the wiser for having
taken the trip.