The cool air of the early morning, blowing down from the mountain, is
refreshing and invigorating to Jack Wade, who is standing in the door of
his cabin leaning against the facing leisurely, taking in with his eye
the broad expanse of the valley before him.
He inhales deeply of the pure fresh Kentucky morning air, while his
athletic frame quivers in the light of the rising sun. The eastern
horizon was all aglow with the brightness shining through the flitting
snow-white clouds. It was a beautiful picture, so he stood silent,
drinking in the scenery of the surrounding country with great pleasure.
Behind him, unknown to his waiting heart, stood a pure, sweet girl,
gazing out through the deep mist of the morning, as if to penetrate the
very depths to a distance where she might get one glimpse of the single
man who had unconsciously awakened within her soul a new life, a new
hope. A new being sprang up within her, her soul longed for the time
when she could see him and hear his musical voice speaking to her inner
life and vibrating to the deepest depths of her quivering young heart.
Wade thought of her often, but only as a newborn, unopened bud. He
thought of her oftener than he felt he should, but he couldn't help
that. Still, a flush of feeling came into his heart when he did think of
her. What was it? What was this dark-eyed daughter of a tobacco planter
to him that he should quit his pondering when the memory of her crossed
his mind or when her crimson face rose like a vision before his eyes?
She must be regarded as secondary. Other matters claimed his attention
first, and should receive strict and careful consideration. But he could
not resist. Temptation, ah, temptation! thou art the power which
overcomes strong man. Wade threw the saddle on his horse, strapped his
rifle on the saddle, and rode up the road toward the climbing sun,
toward the towering mountain, intending to take a few hours in hunting,
and casting over the views on the other side. When he reached Peter
Judson's cabin he hesitated. "The attraction, the hoss, hit brung him."
Old Peter was stringing some new wire along the outer fence and did not
notice Wade's approach; if he had noticed him he did not let on.
"Busy this morning, neighbor," said Wade, pulling up. Old Peter turned
abruptly, spat out a great stream of "terbacker" juice and replied:
"Ther durned old cow gits out too often. Gotter double ther wires.
'Light an' hitch, won't ye?"
Wade would, as he wished to become better acquainted with his nearest
neighbor. He had called before, he said, but had found Mr. Judson gone
out on business, and he was glad to find him at home on this beautiful
morning. While Wade talked with Old Peter Judson, he could feel the
power of those piercing dark eyes as they penetrated the window pane
behind him. The vision was again before him. The bewitching smile, the
great rows of pearly white teeth, the dimples in either cheek, he saw,
though she sat somewhere in the dark recesses of that little old cabin.
But this did not deter him. He spoke of the great prospect for another
crop, while the old man leaned against a fence post and occasionally
spit a stream of dark red tobacco juice.
Once he took deliberate aim at a young chick and missed him about a half
inch. He would have drowned him had he hit the mark.
"Ye haint got chickens down ter yer shanty?" said the old man
questioningly.
Wade had a few old hens and a rooster, he said. The hens were not
laying,--they were not the laying sort,--but he hoped to raise a few
chickens along just for his own pleasure, to get diversion from other
duties. He spoke so kindly and firmly that Peter Judson thought he was
going to like him, unless he took to different ways, unless he was
"agin" the poor man, unless he "mout do something terrible." There was a
chance that he was all right and there was a chance that he was all
wrong. The "Wolf, Night-Watch," had discovered things that did not at
all seem right, and until they were proved false or true an opinion
would not be entertained. While one talked with him, there arose a doubt
as to whether the Wolf, Night-Watch, might not be utterly mistaken. That
would be determined later. For the present he was perfectly all right.
Wade was also making discoveries of which he thought his neighbors knew
nothing. He was in the community, he told Judson, to aid and assist his
neighbors, especially those who showed an inclination to assist him and
a friendliness toward him. He had sufficient funds, he said, to enable
him to go through life easily, and therefore his sole aim was _not_ to
make money, but to regain lost health. Old Peter opened wide his eyes,
making occasional replies.
Though thoroughly uneducated, Peter Judson was no fool by any means, and
he had a mathematical way of his own to figure out problems which
confronted him in every-day life. He was plain, but staunch, was glad to
know his neighbor, and hoped he would call often. They were immediate
neighbors, he said, and should be friends: Peter even invited Wade to
come back and take dinner, and Wade accepted, pleased with the
opportunity that should lead him into the family of which he desired to
learn more. He wanted to know their home life, their inmost thoughts,
and he therefore gladly accepted the kind invitation to lunch. Wade
turned to go, but some supernatural power impelled him to hesitate, and
that hesitation brought forth her whom he of all people most desired to
see. Nora, seeing that the conversation between her father and the
newcomer was about completed, stepped out, with flushed face and
throbbing heart, to thank him for the book which she said she had read
and enjoyed.
"I have others," he said. "I shall bring another to you soon."
"Thank ye. Are ye goin' a-huntin' fer game, er what?"
"For game."
"I can show you where ye can git lots of birds."
"That she kin," said Peter. "I most forgot. Jest take mine an' Tom's
guns an' leave yer rifle here, an' that gal'll show ye how ter hunt in
this kintry. She knows ther haunts o' every bird an' every squirrel in
the mountain."
This arrangement was very agreeable to Wade, who accepted with beaming
pleasure, leaving his rifle while he took a shotgun, as suggested by
Nora Judson's father. Wade desired to saddle a horse for Nora, but she
protested stoutly, saying that she could throw a saddle on a horse
quicker than he could, which he readily agreed was true. Together and
happily they rode toward the mountain, with light hearts--they were both
young--conversing as freely as if they had been lifelong acquaintances.
Over the rugged mountain side they rode, sometimes down the little
ravines or nitches, sometimes beside the rough boulders, always side by
side, talking, laughing, joking, until they reached a spot where they
were to hitch the horses and traverse farther in on foot. The sweet wild
mountain flowers waving in the breeze nodded their little dew-dipped
golden heads in the light of the summer sun as they passed them by.
Wade dreamed of their beauty and fragrance as they peeped up from their
rocky beds with a look of entire approval and recognition. He stopped
once to pluck a flower, which he gave to Nora, and which she accepted
blushing. This one simple act carried to her heart, inexperienced as it
was in the ways of the world, greater significance than Wade had meant.
He was so thoroughly unacquainted with the customs of these mountain
people, and didn't know. She was silent for a brief spell,--she was
always very silent when thinking,--then as if impelled by the spirits of
the air she thanked him in her simple, innocent way, while her head
dropped until her chin rested on her bosom.
"I read your book through," she said, breaking the silence, "and hit--it
has done me so much good."
"Tell me about it." They had reached an open grassy spot bordered by
thick brush and tall trees. "Sit here while you tell me something from
your heart."
Wade had not failed to notice that she often corrected herself in speech
at times when she deliberated.
"And the birds?" she asked, looking toward the blue sky with a far-off
expression.
"Never mind them,"--hastily. "We shall get all the birds we shall want
to take home later. Now, let us have one good talk together out here in
the open, on the side of this lovely mountain, where none save God shall
see us or hear us, where we can open our hearts to each other."
She sat down in a manner not unbecoming anywhere, and he sat opposite
her.
"It must be mighty lonely fer ye all by yerself--yourself," she said.
"It is, quite, just now; but I shall have company soon."
She looked up sharply, inquiringly. "When and who?" painfully.
"Can't just tell when, but sometime in the near future."
She was still looking at him questioningly.
"I'm going to have a family on the Redmond farm," he continued; "am
building there now."
She felt relieved.
"Haint ye got a sweetheart back yonder in the big city?" she asked.
He looked into her eyes, but she cunningly evaded the stare.
"Won't you be my sweetheart?" he asked, smiling. He saw the crimson
creep to her face and she lowered her head.
"Ye didn't answer my question," she said softly, head still drooping.
"I have not. I have no sweetheart anywhere. Women never cared for
me"--sorrowfully.
The little brown poppies waved their heads in wild delight, while the
chirping birds sang songs of rejoicing from the treetops, as they looked
upon this peculiar mountain scene.
"What did ye come into this country for?" she asked abruptly.
He smiled.
"You don't believe me. If I should say I came here to rid the country of
the terrible band of destructive Nightriders, would you believe it?"
She started violently.
"Don't say that," she said; "don't ye do it."
"Why not? If I tell you I am here for my health, you don't believe that.
Why not say something equally as ridiculous?"
"Nobody believes ye come here for your health, an' everybody might
believe ye had an idea ye could rid the country of Nightriders. They're
ready to believe anything of a newcomer. They think he's a spy, an' they
mout think anything that they take a notion to think. My warnin' to ye
is that ye better not say that, ye better take it back as a joke right
now."
"You wouldn't tell on me, would you?"
"Ye better take it back."
"I won't take anything back," he said firmly, but smiling.
"Ye frighten me, Jack."
She spoke with all the tenderness of her heart.
"I don't mean to do that. I'm very docile, I'm just opening my life to
you because I--I think I like you and----"
"Ye needn't," she said, blushing. "I know what ye would say. Dad don't
like for the gentlemen to talk to me that away."
"Dad is far away just now, and if I say I like you, Nora, it is because
I do, and your Dad can know that much if he so desires. I do not mean to
deceive him, nor would I deceive you for all the world and this big
mountain thrown in." He peered down into those great dark eyes, which
met his gaze with unflinching, gleaming admiration. "It's so pleasant
here," he added.
"Ain't it pleasant in the big city?" she asked doubtfully.
The outer world now held a certain charm which to her had not been known
before.
"Not so pleasant as it is here on the mountain side," he replied.
"Listen, Nora. In the city you cannot hear the rippling waters as they
dance down the rocky pathway over the hill to the stream beyond. You
cannot listen to the song of the wild morning bird as he cries out in
his great freedom from his lofty perch in yonder tree top; you cannot
inhale the pure fresh air as it glides gently over the brushy way; you
cannot hear the rustling of the dry leaves as you do here, therefore, it
is not so pleasant in the big city."
"Ye gets used to that here," she said.
"You get used to the clanging bells, to the snorting whistles, and to
the dusty, smoky atmosphere in the city, too, but there is still a
difference. There you see people at all hours of the day and night
busily rushing to and fro, this way and that, rushing, pushing, jamming,
nothing more."
"I think I would like that for a while," she said.
"No, you wouldn't. Not long. It is not near so pleasant there as it is
here, and by your side." He slipped his arm around her waist. She made
no effort to disengage it. "It's so ple----"
"What's that?" she said, startled. A rifle shot, followed by a wild
yell, broke the peaceful stillness of the mountain air. She leaned her
head far over and listened. "That's Al Thompson," she cried. "Let's be
a-goin'. When he's that away I don't want to meet him. He's dangerous."
She broke from his grasp and stood erect, listening.
"I have no fear of Al Thompson, nor any other man," he said, rising.
"Where this arm falls power falls with it. I am monarch of the hill just
now."
He was dramatic, and she admired his great physique and brave words.
"Ye don't know Al," she said. "He's been drinkin', an' is not
accountable for his actions, so we'd better be a-gittin'."
"If you have no confidence in my strength," he said angrily, "we shall
go."
She felt a little hurt.
"I didn't mean to," she said slowly, "but I want you to go so's you'll
be safe."
They started off, but before they cleared the opening that hideous yell
broke the otherwise dead silence, and Al Thompson darted through the
thicket like a madman, brandishing his pistol over his head, and with a
roar of anger, cried out:
"I've got ye now, durn ye', an' ye'll never see daylight agin. Hit ther
road, gal, while I lay him out like a dog."
Al was coming nearer and nearer as he spoke. Wade did not flinch, but
stood like a man. Nora stepped in front of him to protect him from the
onslaught, but she was like a twig in the hands of that maddened giant.
He caught her by the shoulder and cast her aside as though she had been
chaff before a strong wind. However, he did not reckon on the powerful
agility of his athletic antagonist, who, before the wild man knew what
had happened, knocked the pistol from his maniacal grasp. One of Wade's
fists then shot out and struck Thompson squarely on the nose. He went
down, grunting under the smart of pain, while Wade stood over him like a
heroic victor, not deigning to strike his enemy while he was down.
Nora's admiration for Jack's daring and skill grew stronger as she saw
him standing there over the prostrate form of his victim, whom he could
have killed had he chosen to do so.
"What ye goin' ter do with me since you got me down?" asked Al
doggedly, not in the least defiantly.
"I'm going to let you get up so I can have the great pleasure of
knocking you down again," Wade replied, with flushed face and animated
voice.
Thompson saw the very streaks of fire as they shot from Jack Wade's
eyes, and he made no effort to rise. He just looked sullenly, first at
Wade, then at the girl.
"Get up, quick, you coward!" exclaimed Wade warmly.
"I'm comfortable 'nough here," replied Thompson. "If I get up ye might
keep your word an' lay me out again."
Jack Wade was not fully acquainted with the mountain laws, the laws as
regarded between man and man, or man and his sworn enemy. No other law
counted for anything with the mountaineers. If any one of those fellows
had got him in the same position, under similar circumstances, they
would not have left enough of him to rise from the earth, in fact, there
would not have been enough of him for his friends to gather up with a
shovel, so utterly thorough would have been the destruction of his
tenement of clay.
Thompson, seeing that he was safe from further attack, contented
himself by saying, "I'll git ye yet."
"Come," said Wade, taking Nora by the arm, "let us now be going. Forgive
me for such unseemly conduct in your presence."
The girl did not seem to understand. Such as she had just seen she had
been accustomed to always, ever since she first remembered anything that
was going on about her. Never before had she heard an apology when one
man knocked another down.
"Ye couldn't help it," she said. After a few moments silence she
continued, "He'll kill ye shore, ef ye don't keep away from him."
"No, he won't, Nora. He won't attempt it again. If he does, well--that's
something else. I presume he is a Rider, is he not?" She did not reply.
"Come, Nora," said Wade pleadingly; "don't be reticent. Tell me all you
can, being consistent, just as I have told you everything--all the
contents of my heart to-day."
She could not resist the appeal. Tears were gathering in her eyes; they
were the first Wade had seen in any eyes for a long time, and his own
heart was touched. She opened her innocent life before him and told him
all she knew. The women folks, however, did not know nearly so much as
they often prided themselves as knowing. She believed he ought to know,
more especially since the incident with Al Thompson, because it would be
a sort of protection to him. He would know what to look for and how to
bear himself.
"They aint a-goin' ter hurt ye, ef I can help ye," she said, sobbingly.
He understood her feelings perfectly well, and determined there on the
wild mountainside, in the presence of the rugged hills and within sound
of the running waters, to protect and aid this unopened wild flower of
the mountain so long as he had power to do so, so long as this power
lasted--so long as he had breath in his lungs.
This vow he faithfully kept. Men do things very often during life for
which they are very sorry, do things which, in more conservative
moments, bring on pangs of regret; but Jack Wade felt not the least
regret because he had knocked down Al Thompson. He did not regret that
act, but a tinge of sorrow and shame ran through his soul as he looked
upon the crimson face of his gentle companion. The advantage he had
taken in her moment of weakness would, no doubt, stand him well in
fulfilling the purpose for which he had quit a life of plenty,--a life
of sociality, and had come to the lonesome hills to live in a cabin all
alone to carry out. The burden of it all was burning his own soul and
gnawing at the very vitals of the life within him. He was a man through
and through, a man who could have gained the topmost heights of the
most elevated, elaborate society, but he had sought instead the quiet
life of the farmer, a life alone in a cabin away toward the hills of
Kentucky, far from civilization. Beside him rode in perfect silence,
broken only by the sound of the horses' feet falling upon the dirt, a
child of the wilds, whose own heart burned her bosom, that heart which
had in an unguarded moment unloaded all that was most sacred to her and
to her own people, all that had been held dear to one who had been
taught in only one way. She felt sorrowful, but that same power which
bound her when Jack Wade was away kept her silent when he was near. The
rocks of the rugged mountain ridge pointed to her as she passed, the
little yellow wild flowers bowed their sweet heads in shame when her
skirts touched them. She would not look at them, their beauty had in a
moment flown. She would not look over the wild mountain scenery; its
picturesqueness had departed. A dead shade rested over everything. She
would not even glance up at the strong man at her side for fear his
powerful gaze might pierce her heart as an arrow shot out from a strong
arm. But why all this sorrow? He knew, he understood, and was silent. He
looked toward her in silent admiration, and his heart smiled, but his
lips moved not. To assure her was his thought, was the only motive of
his heart, but he could wait until a calmer moment. The waters of life
were troubled now, there was a storm upon the quiet sea, whose ruffled,
wind-tossed waves were rolling high, and he must wait.
Behind them was the very hound of the devil, cursing and swearing
uproariously. Every curse was an avowed vengeance, every breath foretold
the death of someone. The murderous black eyes of the mountain wolf
gazed on, the steel-like paws of the forest lion tore the earth where he
lay, the savage instinct of an untamed Indian of primeval days filled
his blood. The heart of the most ferocious beast was encased within his
bosom, and vengeance, sweet vengeance, was his insistent cry. He rose
from the earth where Jack Wade had laid him with that powerful blow of
his heavy fist, snorted like a hyena, shook his fist tragically after
Wade and Nora, then crouched as a panther when about to spring upon an
unsuspecting victim or an awaiting foe, leaped high into the air, and,
yelling like a Comanche on the war-path, darted like a frightened hare
down the mountain side in the direction whence he came, spitting out
fire and brimstone as he ran.
"She's mine, mine!" he shouted, "an' ye needn't think she hain't."
Down the other side of the mountain now rode two beings who seemed
farther apart than before they knew each other, yet whose hearts beat as
one, and who were in reality closer together than any other two human
beings on the great earth.
When Al Thompson opened his lungs and sent forth that unearthly yell
which vibrated through the forest down in the valley, the girl caught
hold of Wade's arm. She quivered, he felt the emotion playing over her
being, and caught the soft hand in his own.
"Have no fear whatever," he said reassuringly. "He is drunk. When he
comes out from under the spell once more, he will think nothing of this
affair."
"Ye don't know him, Jack," she replied. "I warn ye agin', cause----" She
stopped.
"Because what, child?" he questioned, noting her hesitation. "Speak what
is in your heart."
"Because," she continued falteringly, "I don't want ye ter get hurt."
He smiled encouragingly.
"He won't hurt me, but I'll keep a close watch for your sake. If he
gives me further trouble I'll put him in jail down in the village."
"Huh! that jail won't hold him; hit ain't never held a----one of these
mountain fellers yet. That won't do; ye must hold him some other way."
"All right, I'll hold him some way, sure. I want you to feel satisfied
that I am able to do it."
As they were nearing the house they saw old Peter Judson standing at the
gate awaiting their return.
"I've enjoyed this trip with you, Jack," she whispered softly.
"No more than I have enjoyed it with you," he replied feelingly.
"And ther birds----"
"Whar's yer game?" shouted Peter as they rode up, both flushing red.
"An' fer the land sake," continued Peter, "what makes ye look so durn
funny 'bout ther eyes an' face? What in ther world's got hold of ye; air
ye sick, gal?"
She was not very ill, she said. Indeed, she had never felt better
physically, but----
The old man was fumbling through the saddle-bags in search of birds or
other game. Wade could not suppress a smile because of the comical
expression upon the face of the disappointed old man.
"This is ther durndest hunt I ever heerd 'bout in these hills," said
Peter. "A half-day out, an' no game."
"We haven't fired a gun," replied Wade, "therefore have no game." The
old man looked at Wade, then at his daughter. His disappointed
expression was at once superseded by one of anxiety. Indeed, he looked
very sorrowful. "But ye fired one good shot," he said sternly. "An ef ye
intend ter be foolin', I want ter warn ye ter be a-lookin' out. Fun
shots don't go in this hyar kintry." He appeared to be greatly agitated
now, but when he learned the real circumstances he softened, and his
eyes gave forth a tender expression. "Git down," he said, "chuck is put
nigh ready. I'll put yer hoss up'n feed him, an' we'll have a old time
talk 'bout everything, from ther days o' Goliath till ther days o'
corn-huskin',--'bout which ye know mighty little, I reckon, ef I don't
miss my guess a long way, by lookin' at ye."
Old Peter refrained from remarking just at this time anything touching
upon the actions of Al Thompson, but many strange and peculiar thoughts
were romping pell-mell through his heavy brain.