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[Illustration: HE WAS PALLID AND PANTING]
THE YOUNG MOUNTAINEERS
_SHORT STORIES_
BY
CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY MALCOLM FRASER
[Illustration]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
The Riverside Press, Cambridge
1897
Copyright, 1897,
BY MARY N. MURFREE.
_All rights reserved_.
_The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A._
Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton and Company.
CONTENTS PAGE
THE MYSTERY OF OLD DADDY'S WINDOW 1
'WAY DOWN IN POOR VALLEY 26
A MOUNTAIN STORM 63
BORROWING A HAMMER 83
THE CONSCRIPTS' HOLLOW 103
A WARNING 172
AMONG THE CLIFFS 186
IN THE "CHINKING" 208
ON A HIGHER LEVEL 230
CHRISTMAS DAY ON OLD WINDY MOUNTAIN 245
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE
HE WAS PALLID AND PANTING (see page 221) _Frontispiece._
TOGETHER THEY WENT OVER THE CLIFF 48
HOW LONG WAS IT TO LAST 190
IN THE MIDST OF THE TORRENT 242
THE MYSTERY OF OLD DADDY'S WINDOW
Picture to yourself a wild ravine, gashing a mountain spur, and with
here and there in its course abrupt descents. One of these is so deep
and sheer that it might be called a precipice.
High above it, from the steep slope on either hand, beetling crags jut
out. Their summits almost meet at one point, and thus the space below
bears a rude resemblance to a huge window. Through it you might see the
blue heights in the distance; or watch the clouds and sunshine shift
over the sombre mountain across the narrow valley; or mark, after the
day has faded, how the great Scorpio draws its shining curves along the
dark sky.
One night Jonas Creyshaw sat alone in the porch of his log cabin, hard
by on the slope of the ravine, smoking his pipe and gazing meditatively
at "Old Daddy's Window." The moon was full, and its rays fell aslant on
one of the cliffs, while the rugged face of the opposite crag was in the
shadow.
Suddenly he became aware that something was moving about the precipice,
the brink of which seems the sill of the window. Although this precipice
is sheer and insurmountable, a dark figure had risen from it, and stood
plainly defined against the cliff, which presented a comparatively
smooth surface to the brilliant moonlight.
Was it a shadow? he asked himself hastily.
His eyes swept the ravine, only thirty feet wide at that point, which
lies between the two crags whose jutting summits almost meet above it to
form Old Daddy's Window.
There was no one visible to cast a shadow.
It seemed as if the figure had unaccountably emerged from the sheer
depths below.
Only for a moment it stood motionless against the cliff. Then it flung
its arms wildly above its head, and with a nimble spring
disappeared--upward.
Jonas Creyshaw watched it, his eyes distended, his face pallid, his pipe
trembling in his shaking hand.
"Mirandy!" he quavered faintly.
His wife, a thin, ailing woman with pinched features and an uncertain
eye, came to the door.
"Thar," he faltered, pointing with his pipe-stem--"jes' a minit ago--I
seen it!--a ghost riz up over the bluff inter Old Daddy's Window!"
The woman fell instantly into a panic.
"'Twarn't a-beckonin', war it? 'Twarn't a-beckonin'? 'Kase ef it war,
ye'll hev ter die right straight! That air a sure sign."
A little of Jonas Creyshaw's pluck and common sense came back to him at
this unpleasant announcement.
"Not on _his_ say-so," he stoutly averred. "I ain't a-goin' ter do the
beck nor the bid of enny onmannerly harnt ez hev tuk up the notion ter
riz up over the bluff inter Old Daddy's Window, an' sot hisself ter
motionin' ter me."
He rose hastily, knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and followed his
wife into the house. There he paused abruptly.
The room was lighted by the fitful flicker of the fire, for the nights
were still chilly, and an old man, almost decrepit, sat dozing in his
chair by the hearth.
"Mirandy," said Jonas Creyshaw in a whisper, "'pears like ter me ez
father hed better not be let ter know 'bout'n that thar harnt. It mought
skeer him so ez he couldn't live another minit. He hev aged some
lately--an' he air weakly."
This was "Old Daddy."
Before he had reached his thirtieth year, he was thus known, far and
wide.
"He air the man ez hev got a son," the mountaineers used to say in
grinning explanation. "Ter hear him brag 'bout'n that thar boy o' his'n,
ye'd think he war the only man in Tennessee ez ever hed a son."
Throughout all these years the name given in jocose banter had clung to
him, and now, hallowed by ancient usage, it was accorded to him
seriously, and had all the sonorous effect of a title.
So they said nothing to Old Daddy, but presently, when he had hobbled
off to bed in the adjoining shed-room, they fell to discussing their
terror of the apparition, and thus it chanced that the two boys, Tad and
Si, first made, as it were, the ghost's acquaintance.
Tad, a stalwart fellow of seventeen, sat listening spellbound before the
glowing embers. Si, a wiry, active, tow-headed boy of twelve, perched
with dangling legs on a chest, and looked now at the group by the fire,
and now through the open door at the brilliant moonlight.
"Waal, sir," he muttered, "I'll hev ter gin up the notion o' gittin'
that comical young ow_el_, what I hev done set my heart onto. 'Kase ef I
war ter fool round Old Daddy's Window, _now_, whilst I war a-cotchin' o'
the ow_el_, the ghost mought--cotch--_Me!_"
A sorry ghost, to be sure, that has nothing better to do than to "cotch"
_him!_ But perhaps Si Creyshaw is not the only one of us who has an
inflated idea of his own importance.
He was greatly awed, and he found many suggestions of supernatural
presence about the familiar room. As the fire alternately flared and
faded, the warping-bars looked as if they were dancing a clumsy measure.
The handle of a portly jug resembled an arm stuck akimbo, and its cork,
tilted askew, was like a hat set on one side; Si fancied there was a
most unpleasant grimace below that hat. The churn-dasher, left upon a
shelf to dry, was sardonically staring him out of countenance with its
half-dozen eyes. The strings of red pepper-pods and gourds and herbs,
swinging from the rafters, rustled faintly; it sounded to Si like a
moan.
He wished his father and mother would talk about some wholesome subject,
like Spot's new calf, for instance, instead of whispering about the
mystery of Old Daddy's Window.
He wished Tad would not look, as he listened, so much like a ghost
himself, with his starting eyes and pale, intent face. He even wished
that the baby would wake up, and put some life into things with a good
healthy, rousing bawl.
But the baby slept peacefully on, and after so long a time Si Creyshaw
slept too.
With broad daylight his courage revived. He was no longer afraid to
think of the ghost. In fact, he experienced a pleased importance in
giving Old Daddy a minute account of the wonderful apparition, for he
_felt_ as if he had seen it.
"'Pears ter me toler'ble comical, gran'dad, ez they never tole ye a word
'bout'n it all," he said in conclusion. "Ye mought hev liked ter seen
the harnt. Ef he war 'quainted with ye when he lived in this life, he
mought hev stopped an' jowed sociable fur a spell!"
How brave this small boy was in the cheerful sunshine!
Old Daddy hardly seemed impressed with the pleasure he had missed in
losing a sociable "jow" with a ghostly crony. He sat silent, blinking
in the sunshine that fell through the gourd-vines which clambered about
the porch where Si had placed his chair.
"'Twarn't much of a sizable sperit," Si declared; he seemed courageous
enough now to measure the ghost like a tailor. "It warn't more'n four
feet high, ez nigh ez dad could jedge. Toler'ble small fur a harnt!"
Still the old man made no reply. His wrinkled hands were clasped on his
stick. His white head, shaded by his limp black hat, was bent down close
to them. There was a slow, pondering expression on his face, but an
excited gleam in his eye. Presently, he pointed backward toward a little
unhewn log shanty that served as a barn, and rising with unwonted
alacrity, he said to the boy,--
"Fotch me the old beastis!"
Silas Creyshaw stood amazed, for Old Daddy had not mounted a horse for
twenty years.
"Studyin' 'bout'n the harnt so much hev teched him in the head," the
small boy concluded. Then he made an excuse, for he knew his
grandfather was too old and feeble to safely undertake a solitary jaunt
on horse-back.
"I war tole not ter leave ye fur a minit, gran'dad. I war ter stay nigh
ye an' mind yer bid."
"That's my bid!" said the old man sternly. "Fotch the beastis."
There was no one else about the place. Jonas Creyshaw had gone fishing
shortly after daybreak. His wife had trudged off to her sister's house
down in the cove, and had taken the baby with her. Tad was ploughing in
the cornfield on the other side of the ravine. Si had no advice, and he
had been brought up to think that Old Daddy's word was law.
When the old man, mounted at last, was jogging up the road, Tad chanced
to come to the house for a bit of rope to mend the plough-gear. He saw,
far up the leafy vista, the departing cavalier. He cast a look of amazed
reproach upon Si. Then, speechless with astonishment, he silently
pointed at the distant figure.
Si was a logician.
"I never lef' _him_," he said. "He lef' _me_."
"Ye oughter rej'ice in yer whole bones while ye hev got 'em," Tad
returned, with withering sarcasm. "When dad kems home, some of 'em 'll
git bruk, sure. Warn't ye tole not ter leave him fur _nuthin'_, ye
triflin' shoat!"
"He lef' _me_!" Si stoutly maintained.
Meantime, Old Daddy journeyed on.
Except for the wonderful mountain air, the settlement, three miles
distant, had nothing about it to indicate its elevation. It was far from
the cliffs, and there was no view. It was simply a little hollow of a
clearing scooped out among the immense forests. When the mountaineers
clear land, they do it effectually. Not a tree was left to embellish the
yards of any of the four or five little log huts that constituted the
hamlet, and the glare was intense.
As six or eight loungers sat smoking about the door of the store, there
was nothing to intercept their astonished view of Old Daddy when he
suddenly appeared out of the gloomy forest, blinking in the sun and bent
half double with fatigue.
Even the rudest and coarsest of these mountaineers accord a praiseworthy
deference to the aged among them. Old Daddy was held in reverential
estimation at home, and was well accustomed to the respect shown him
now, when, for the first time in many years, he had chosen to jog
abroad. They helped him to dismount, and carried him bodily into the
store. After he had tilted his chair back against the rude counter, he
looked around with an important face upon the attentive group.
"My son," shrilly piped out Old Daddy,--"my son air the strongest man
ever seen, sence Samson!"
"I hev always hearn that sayin', Old Daddy," acquiesced an elderly
codger, who, by reason of "rheumatics," made no pretension to muscle.
A gigantic young blacksmith looked down at his corded hammer-arm, but
said nothing.
A fly--several flies--buzzed about the sorghum barrel.
"My son," shrilly piped out Old Daddy,--"my son air the bes' shot on
this hyar mounting."
"That's a true word, Old Daddy," assented the schoolmaster, who had
ceased to be a Nimrod since devoting himself to teaching the young idea
how to shoot.
The hunters smoked in solemn silence.
The shadow of a cloud drifted along the bare sandy stretch of the
clearing.
"My son," shrilly piped out Old Daddy,--"my son hev got the peartest
boys in Tennessee."
"I'll gin ye that up, Old Daddy," cheerfully agreed the miller, whose
family consisted of two small "daughters."
The fathers of other "peart boys" cleared their throats uneasily, but
finally subsided without offering contradiction.
A jay-bird alighted on a blackberry bush outside, fluttered all his
blue and white feathers, screamed harshly, bobbed his crested head, and
was off on his gay wings.
"My son," shrilly piped out Old Daddy,--"my son hev been gifted with the
sight o' what no other man on this mounting hev ever viewed."
The group sat amazed, expectant. But the old man preserved a stately
silence. Only when the storekeeper eagerly insisted, "What hev Jonas
seen? what war he gin ter view?" did Old Daddy bring the fore legs of
the chair down with a thump, lean forward, and mysteriously pipe out
like a superannuated cricket,--
"My son,--my son hev seen a harnt, what riz up over the bluff
a-purpose!"
"Whar 'bouts?" "When?" "Waal, sir!" arose in varied clamors.
So the proud old man told the story he had journeyed three laborious
miles to spread. It had no terrors for him, so completely was fear
swallowed up in admiration of his wonderful son, who had added to his
other perfections the gift of seeing ghosts.
The men discussed it eagerly. There were some jokes cracked--as it was
still broad noonday--and at one of these Old Daddy took great offense,
more perhaps because the disrespect was offered to his son rather than
to himself.
"Jes' gin Jonas the word from me," said the young blacksmith, meaning no
harm and laughing good-naturedly, "ez I kin tell him percisely what
makes him see harnts; it air drinkin' so much o' this onhealthy whiskey,
what hain't got no tax paid onto it. I looks ter see him jes'
a-staggerin' the nex' time I comes up with him."
Old Daddy rose with affronted dignity.
"My son," he declared vehemently,--"my son ain't gin over ter drinkin'
whiskey, tax or no tax. An' he ain't got no call ter stagger--_like some
folks!_"
And despite all apology and protest, he left the house in a huff.
His old bones ached with the unwonted exercise, and were rudely enough
jarred by the rough roads and the awful gaits of his ancient steed. The
sun was hot, and so was his heart, and when he reached home, infinitely
fatigued and querulous, he gave his son a sorry account of his reception
at the store. As he concluded, saying that five of the men had sent word
that they would be at Jonas Creyshaw's house at moon-rise "ter holp him
see the harnt," his son's brow darkened, and he strode heavily out of
the room.
He usually exhibited in a high degree the hospitality characteristic of
these mountaineers, but now it had given way to a still stronger
instinct.
"Si," he said, coming suddenly upon the boy, "put out right now fur
Bently's store at the settle_mint_, an' tell them sneaks ez hang round
thar ter sarch round thar own houses fur harnts, ef they hanker ter see
enny harnts. Ef they hev got the insurance ter kem hyar, they'll see
wusser sights 'n enny harnts. Tell 'em I ain't a-goin' ter 'low no man
ter cross my doorstep ez don't show Old Daddy the right medjure o'
respec'. They'd better keep out'n my way ginerally."
So with this bellicose message Si set out. But an unlucky idea occurred
to him as he went plodding along the sandy road.
"Whilst I'm a-goin' on this hyar harnt's yerrand"----The logical Si
brought up with a shiver.
"I went ter say--whilst I'm a-goin' on this hyar yerrand fur the
harnt"----This was as bad.
"Whilst," he qualified once more, "I'm a-goin' on this hyar yerrand
_'bout'n_ the harnt, I mought ez well skeet off in them deep woods a
piece ter see ef enny wild cherries air ripe on that tree by the spring.
I'll hev plenty o' time."
But even Si could not persuade himself that the cherries were ripe, and
he stood for a moment under the tree, staring disconsolately at the
distant blue ridges shimmering through the heated air. The sunlight was
motionless, languid; it seemed asleep. The drowsy drone of insects
filled the forest. As Si threw himself down to rest on the rocky brink
of the mountain, a grasshopper sprang away suddenly, high into the air,
with an agility that suggested to him the chorus of a song, which he
began to sing in a loud and self-sufficient voice:--
"The grasshopper said--'Now, don't ye see
Thar's mighty few dancers sech ez me--
Sech ez _me_!--Sech ez ME!'"
This reminded Si of his own capabilities as a dancer. He rose and began
to caper nimbly, executing a series of steps that were singularly swift,
spry, and unexpected,--a good deal on the grasshopper's method. His
tattered black hat bobbed up and down on his tow head; his brown jeans
trousers, so loose on his lean legs, flapped about hilariously; his bare
heels flew out right and left; he snapped his fingers to mark the time;
now and then he stuck his arms akimbo, and cut what he called the
"widgeon-ping." But his freckled face was as grave as ever, and all the
time that he danced he sang:--
"In the middle o' the night the rain kem down,
An' gin the corn a fraish start out'n the ground,
An' I thought nex' day ez I stood in the door,
That sassy bug mus' be drownded sure!
But thar war Goggle-eyes, peart an' gay,
Twangin' an' a-tunin' up--'Now, dance away!
Ye may sarch night an' day ez a constancy
An' ye won't find a fiddler sech ez me!
Sech ez _me_!--Sech ez ME!'"
As he sank back exhausted upon the ground, a new aspect of the scene
caught his attention.
Those blue mountains were purpling--there was an ever-deepening flush in
the west. It was close upon sunset, and while he had wasted the time,
the five men to whom his father had sent that stern message forbidding
them to come to his house were perhaps on their way thither, with every
expectation of a cordial welcome. There might be a row--even a
fight--and all because he had loitered.
How he tore out of the brambly woods! How he pounded along the sandy
road! But when he reached the settlement close upon nightfall, the
storekeeper's wife told him that the men had gone long ago.
"They war powerful special ter git off early," she added, "'kase they
wanted ter be thar 'fore Old Daddy drapped off ter sleep. Some o' them
foolish, slack-jawed boys ter the store ter-day riled the old man's
feelin's, an' they 'lowed ter patch up the peace with him, an' let him
an' Jonas know ez they never meant no harm."
This suggestion buoyed up the boy's heart to some degree as he toiled
along the "short cut" homeward through the heavy shades of the gloomy
woods and the mystic effects of the red rising moon. But he was not
altogether without anxiety until, as he drew within sight of the log
cabin on the slope of the ravine, he heard Old Daddy piping pacifically
to the guests about "my son," and Jonas Creyshaw's jolly laughter.
The moon was golden now; Si could see its brilliant shafts of light
strike aslant upon the smooth surface of the cliff that formed the
opposite side of Old Daddy's Window. He stopped short in the deep shadow
of the more rugged crag. The vines and bushes that draped its many
jagged ledges dripped with dew. The boughs of an old oak, which grew
close by, swayed gently in the breeze. Hidden by its huge hole, Si cast
an apprehensive glance toward the house where his elders sat.
Certainly no one was thinking of him now.
"This air my chance fur that young ow_el_--ef ever," he said to himself.
The owl's nest was in the hollow of the tree. The trunk was far too
bulky to admit of climbing, and the lowest branches were well out of the
boy's reach. Some thirty feet from the ground, however, one of the
boughs touched the crag. By clambering up its rugged, irregular ledges,
making a zigzag across its whole breadth to the right and then a similar
zigzag to the left, Si might gain a position which would enable him to
clutch this bough of the tree. Thence he could scramble along to the
owl's stronghold.
He hesitated. He knew his elders would disapprove of so reckless an
undertaking as climbing about Old Daddy's Window, for in venturing
toward its outer verge, a false step, a crumbling ledge, the snapping of
a vine, would fling him down the sheer precipice into the depths below.
His hankering for a pet owl had nevertheless brought him here more than
once. It was only yesterday evening--before he had heard of the ghost's
appearance, however--that he had made his last futile attempt.
He looked up doubtfully. "I ain't ez strong ez--ez some folks," he
admitted.
"But then, come ter think of it," he argued astutely, "I don't weigh
nuthin' sca'cely, an' thar ain't much of me ter hev ter haul up thar."
He flung off his hat, he laid his wiry hands upon the wild grape-vines,
he felt with his bare feet for the familiar niches and jagged edges, and
up he went, working steadily to the right, across the broad face of the
cliff.
Its heavy shadow concealed him from view. Only one ledge, at the extreme
verge of the crag, jutted out into the full moonbeams. But this, by
reason of the intervening bushes and vines, could not be seen by those
who sat in the cabin porch on the slope of the ravine, and he was glad
to have light just here, for it was the most perilous point of his
enterprise. By deft scrambling, however, he succeeded in getting on the
moonlit ledge.
"I clumb like a painter!" he declared triumphantly.
He rested there for a moment before attempting to reach the vines high
up on the left hand, which he must grasp in order to draw himself up
into the shadowy niche in the rock, and begin his zigzag course back
again across the face of the cliff to the projecting bough of the tree.
But suddenly, as he still stood motionless on the ledge in the full
radiance of the moon, the clamor of frightened voices sounded at the
house. Until now he had forgotten all about the ghost. He turned,
horror-stricken.
There was the frightful thing, plainly defined against the smooth
surface of the opposite cliff--some thirty feet distant--that formed the
other side of Old Daddy's Window.
And certainly there are mighty few dancers such as that ghost! It lunged
actively toward the precipice. It suddenly dashed wildly back--gyrating
continually with singularly nimble feet, flinging wiry arms aloft and
maintaining a sinister silence, while the frightened clamor at the house
grew ever louder and more shrill.
Several minutes elapsed before Si recognized something peculiarly
familiar in the ghost's wiry nimbleness--before he realized that the
shadow of the cliff on which he stood reached across the ravine to the
base of the opposite cliff, and that the figure which had caused so much
alarm was only his own shadow cast upon its perpendicular surface.
He stopped short in those antics which had been induced by mortal
terror; of course, his shadow, too, was still instantly. It stood upon
the brink of the precipice which seems the sill of Old Daddy's Window,
and showed distinctly on the smooth face of the cliff opposite to him.
He understood, after a moment's reflection, how it was that as he had
climbed up on the ledge in the full moonlight his shadow had seemed to
rise gradually from the vague depths below the insurmountable
precipice.
He sprang nimbly upward to seize the vines that shielded him from the
observation of the ghost-seers on the cabin porch, and as he caught them
and swung himself suddenly from the moonlit ledge into the gloomy shade,
he noticed that his shadow seemed to fling its arms wildly above its
head, and disappeared upward.
"That air jes' what dad seen las' night when I war down hyar afore,
a-figurin' ter ketch that thar leetle ow_el_," he said to himself when
he had reached the tree and sat in a crotch, panting and excited.
After a moment, regardless of the coveted owl, he swung down from branch
to branch, dropped easily from the lowest upon the ground, picked up his
hat, and prepared to skulk along the "short cut," strike the road, and
come home by that route as if he had just returned from the settlement.
"'Kase," he argued sagely, "ef them skeered-ter-death grown folks war
ter find out ez _I_ war the _harnt_--I mean ez the _harnt_ war
_me_--ennyhow," he concluded desperately, "I'd KETCH it--sure!"
So impressed was he with this idea that he discreetly held his tongue.
And from that day to this, Jonas Creyshaw and his friends have been
unable to solve the mystery of Old Daddy's Window.
'WAY DOWN IN POOR VALLEY
CHAPTER I
There was the grim Big Injun Mountain to the right, with its bare,
beetling sandstone crags. There was the long line of cherty hills to the
left, covered by a dark growth of stunted pines. Between lay that
melancholy stretch of sterility known as Poor Valley,--the poorest of
the several valleys in Tennessee thus piteously denominated, because of
the sorry contrast which they present to the rich coves and fertile
vales so usual among the mountains of the State.
How poor the soil was, Ike Hooden might bitterly testify; for ever since
he could hold a plough he had, year after year, followed the old
"bull-tongue" through the furrows of the sandy fields which lay around
the log cabin at the base of the mountain. In the intervals of
"crappin'" he worked at the forge with his stepfather, for close at
hand, in the shadow of a great jutting cliff, lurked a dark little
shanty of unhewn logs that was a blacksmith's shop.
When he first began this labor, he was, perhaps, the youngest striker
that ever wielded a sledge. Now, at eighteen, he had become expert at
the trade, and his muscles were admirably developed. He was tall and
robust, and he had never an ache nor an ill, except in his aching heart.
But his heart was sore, for in the shop he found oaths and harsh
treatment, and even at home these pursued him; while outside, desolation
was set like a seal on Poor Valley.
One drear autumnal afternoon, when the sky was dull, a dense white mist
overspread the valley. As Ike plodded up the steep mountain side, the
vapor followed him, creeping silently along the deep ravines and chasms,
till at length it overtook and enveloped him. Then only a few feet of
the familiar path remained visible.
Suddenly he stopped short and stared. A dim, distorted something was
peering at him from over the top of a big boulder. It was moving--it
nodded at him. Then he indistinctly recognized it as a tall, conical
hat. There seemed a sort of featureless face below it.
A thrill of fear crept through him. His hands grew cold and shook in his
pockets. He leaned forward, gazing intently into the thick fog.
An odd distortion crossed the vague, featureless face--like a leer,
perhaps. Once more the tall, conical hat nodded fantastically.
"Ef ye do that agin," cried Ike, in sudden anger, all his pluck coming
back with a rush, "I'll gin ye a lick ez will weld yer head an' the
boulder together!"
He lifted his clenched fist and shook it.
"Haw! haw! haw!" laughed the man in the mist.
Ike cooled off abruptly. He had been kicked and cuffed half his life,
but he had never been laughed at. Ridicule tamed him. He was ashamed,
and he remembered that he had been afraid, for he had thought the man
was some "roamin' harnt."
"I dunno," said Ike sulkily, "ez ye hev got enny call ter pounce so
suddint out'n the fog, an' go ter noddin' that cur'ous way ter folks ez
can't half see ye."
"I never knowed afore," said the man in the mist, with mock apology in
his tone and in the fantastic gyrations of his nodding hat, "ez it air
you-uns ez owns this mounting." He looked derisively at Ike from head to
foot. "Ye air the biggest man in Tennessee, ain't ye?"
"Naw!" said Ike shortly, feeling painfully awkward, as an overgrown boy
is apt to do.
"Waal, from yer height, I mought hev thunk ye war that big Injun that
the old folks tells about," and the stranger broke suddenly into a
hoarse, quavering chant:--
"'A red man lived in Tennessee,
Mighty big Injun, sure!
He growed ez high ez the tallest tree,
An' he sez, sez he, "Big Injun, me!"
Mighty big Injun, sure!'"
"Waal, waal," in a pensive voice, "so ye ain't him? I'm powerful glad ye
tole me that, sonny, 'kase I mought hev got skeered hyar in the woods by
myself with that big Injun."
He laughed boisterously, and began to sing again:--
"'Settlers blazed out a road, ye see,
Mighty big Injun, sure!
He combed thar hair with a knife. Sez he,
"It's combed fur good! Big Injun, me!"
Mighty big Injun, sure!'"
He broke out laughing afresh, and Ike, abashed and indignant, was about
to pass on, when the man gayly balanced himself on one foot, as if he
were about to dance a grotesque jig, and held out at arm's length a big
silver coin.
It was a dollar. That meant a great deal to Ike, for he earned no money
he could call his own.
"Free an' enlightened citizen o' these Nunited States," the man
addressed him with mock solemnity, "I brung this dollar hyar fur
you-uns."
"What air ye layin' off fur me ter do?" asked Ike.
The man grew abruptly grave. "Jes' stable this hyar critter fur a night
an' day."
For the first time Ike became aware of a horse's flank, dimly seen on
the other side of the boulder.
"Ter-morrer night ride him up ter my house on the mounting. Ye hev hearn
tell o' me, hain't ye, Jedge? My name's Grig Beemy. Don't kem till
night, 'kase I won't be thar till then. I hev got ter stop
yander--yander"--he looked about uncertainly, "yander ter the sawmill
till then, 'kase I promised ter holp work thar some. I'll gin ye the
dollar now," he added liberally, as an extra inducement.
"I'll be powerful glad ter do that thar job fur a dollar," said Ike,
thinking, with a glow of self-gratulation, of the corn which he had
raised in his scanty leisure on his own little patch of ground, and
which he might use to feed the animal.
"But hold yer jaw 'bout'n it, boy. Yer stepdad wouldn't let the beastis
stay thar a minute ef he knowed it, 'kase--waal--'kase me an' him hev
hed words. Slip the beastis in on the sly. Pearce Tallam don't feed an'
tend ter his critters nohow. I hev hearn ez his boys do that job, so he
ain't like ter find it out. On the sly--that's the trade."
Ike hesitated.
Once more the man teetered on one foot, and held out the coin
temptingly. But Ike's better instincts came to his aid.
"That barn b'longs ter Pearce Tallam. I puts nuthin' thar 'thout his
knowin' it. I ain't a fox, nur a mink, nur su'thin wild, ter go skulkin'
'bout on the sly."
Then he pressed hastily on out of temptation's way.
"Haw! haw! haw!" laughed the man in the mist.
There was no mirth in the tones now; his laugh was a bitter gibe. As it
followed Ike, it reminded him that the man had not yet moved from beside
the boulder, or he would have heard the thud of the horse's hoofs.
He turned and glanced back. The opaque white mist was dense about him,
and he could see nothing. As he stood still, he heard a muttered oath,
and after a time the man cleared his throat in a rasping fashion, as if
the oath had stuck in it.
Ike understood at last. The man was waiting for somebody. And this was
strange, here in the thick fog on the bleak mountainside. But Ike said
to himself that it was no concern of his, and plodded steadily on, till
he reached a dark little log house, above which towered a flaring yellow
hickory tree.
Within, ranged on benches, were homespun-clad mountain children. A
high-shouldered, elderly man sat at a table near the deep fireplace,
where a huge backlog was smouldering. Through the cobwebbed window-panes
the mists looked in.
Ike did not speak as he stood on the threshold, but his greedy glance at
the scholars' books enlightened the pedagogue. "Do you want to come to
school?" he asked.
Then the boy's long-cherished grievance burst forth. "They hev tole me
ez how it air agin the law, bein' ez I lives out'n the _dee_stric'."
The teacher elevated his grizzled eyebrows, and Ike said, "I kem hyar
ter ax ye ef that be a true word. I 'lowed ez mebbe my dad tole me that
word jes' ter hender me, an' keep me at the forge. It riles me powerful
ter hev ter be an ignorunt all my days."
To a stranger, this reflection on his "dad" seemed unbecoming. The
teacher's sympathy ebbed. He looked severely at the boy's pale, anxious
face, as he coldly said that he could teach no pupils who resided
outside his school district, except out of regular school hours, and
with a charge for tuition.
Ike Hooden had no money. He nodded suddenly in farewell, the door
closed, and when the schoolmaster, in returning compassion, opened it
after him, and peered out into the impenetrable mist, the boy was
nowhere to be seen. He had taken his despair by the hand, and together
they went down, down into the depths of Poor Valley.
He stood so sorely in need of a little kindness that he felt grateful
for the friendly aspect of his stepbrother, whom he met just before he
reached the shop.
"'Pears like ye air toler'ble late a-gittin' home, Ike," said Jube. "I
done ye the favior ter feed the critters. I 'lowed ez ye would do ez
much fur me some day. I'll feed 'em agin in the mornin', ef ye'll forge
me three lenks ter my trace-chain ter-night, arter dad hev gone home."
Now this broad-faced, sandy-haired, undersized boy, who was two or three
years younger than Ike, and not strong enough for work at the anvil, was
a great tactician. It was his habit, in doing a favor, rigorously to
exact a set-off, and that night when the blacksmith had left the shop,
Jube slouched in.
The flare of the forge-fire illumined with a fitful flicker the dark
interior, showing the rod across the corner with its jingling weight of
horseshoes, a ploughshare on the ground, the barrel of water, the low
window, and casting upon the wall a grotesque shadow of Jube's dodging
figure as he began to ply the bellows.
Presently he left off, the panting roar ceased, the hot iron was laid on
the anvil, and his dodging image on the wall was replaced by an immense
shadow of Ike's big right arm as he raised it. The blows fell fast; the
sparks showered about. All the air was ajar with the resonant clamor of
the hammer, and the anvil sang and sang, shrill and clear. When the iron
was hammered cold, Jube broke the momentary silence.
"I hev got," he droned, as if he were reciting something made familiar
by repetition, "two roosters, 'leven hens, an' three pullets."
There was a long pause, and then he chanted, "One o' the roosters air a
Dominicky."
He walked over to the anvil and struck it with a small bit of metal
which he held concealed in his hand.
"I hev got two shoats, a bag o' dried peaches, two geese, an' I'm
tradin' with mam fur a gayn-der."
He quietly slipped the small bit of shining metal in his pocket.
"I hev got," he droned, waxing very impressive, "a red heifer."
Ike paused meditatively, his hammer in his hand. A new hope was dawning
within him. He knew what was meant by Jube, who often recited the list
of his possessions, seeking to rouse enough envy to induce Ike to
exchange for the "lay out" his interest in a certain gray mare.
Now the mare really belonged to Ike, having come to him from his
paternal grandfather. This was all of value that the old man had left;
for the deserted log hut, rotting on another bleak waste farther down in
Poor Valley, was worth only a sigh for the home that it once
was,--worth, too, perhaps, the thanks of those it sheltered now, the rat
and the owl.
The mare had worked for Pearce Tallam in the plough, under the saddle,
and in the wagon all the years since. But one day, when the boy fell
into a rage,--for he, too, had a difficult temper,--and declared that
he would sell her and go forth from Poor Valley never to return, he was
met by the question, "Hain't the mare lived off'n my fields, an' hain't
I gin ye yer grub, an' clothes, an' the roof that kivers ye?"
Thus Pearce Tallam had disputed his right to sell the mare. But it had
more than once occurred to him that the blacksmith would not object to
Jube's buying her.
Hitherto Ike had not coveted Jube's variegated possessions. But now he
wanted money for schooling. It was true he could hardly turn these into
cash, for in this region farm produce of every description is received
at the country stores in exchange for powder, salt, and similar
necessities, and thus there is little need for money, and very little is
in circulation.
Still, Ike reflected that he might now and then get a small sum at the
store, or perhaps the schoolmaster might barter "l'arnin'" for the
heifer or the shoats.
His hesitation was not lost upon Jube, who offered a culminating
inducement to clinch the trade. He suddenly stood erect, teetered
fantastically on one foot, as if about to begin to dance, and held out a
glittering silver dollar.
The hammer fell from Ike's hands upon the anvil. "'Twar ye ez Grig
Beemy war a-waitin' fur thar on the mounting in the mist!" he cried out,
recognizing the man's odd gesture, which Jube had unconsciously
imitated.
Doubtless the dollar was offered to Jube afterward, exactly as it had
been offered to him. And Jube had taken it. The imitative monkey thrust
it hastily into his pocket, and came down from his fantastic toe, and
stood soberly enough on his two feet.
"Grig Beemy gin ye that thar dollar," said Ike.
Jube sullenly denied it. "He never, now!"
"His critter hev got no call ter be in dad's barn."
"His critter ain't hyar," protested Jube. "This dollar war gin me in
trade ter the settle_mint_."
Ike remembered the queer gesture. How could Jube have repeated it if he
had not seen it? He broke into a sarcastic laugh.
"That's how kem ye war so powerful 'commodatin' ez ter feed the
critters. Ye 'lowed ez I wouldn't see the strange beastis, an' then tell
dad. Foolin' me war a part o' yer trade, I reckon."
Jube made no reply.
"Ef ye war ez big ez me, or bigger, I'd thrash ye out'n yer boots fur
this trick. Ye don't want no lenks ter yer chain. Ye jes' want ter be
sure o' keepin' me out'n the barn. Waal--thar air yer lenks."
He caught up the tongs and held the links in the fire with one hand
while he worked the bellows with the other. Then he laid them red-hot
upon the anvil. His rapid blows crushed them to a shapeless mass. "And
now--thar they ain't."
Jube did not linger long. He was in terror lest Ike should tell his
father. But Ike did not think this was his duty. In fact, neither boy
imagined that the affair involved anything more serious than stabling a
horse without the knowledge of the owner of the shelter.
When Ike was alone a little later, an unaccustomed sound caused him to
glance toward the window.
Something outside was passing it. His position was such that he could
not see the object itself, but upon the perpendicular gray wall of the
crag close at hand, and distinctly defined in the yellow flare that
flickered out through the window from the fire of the forge, the
gigantic shadow of a horse's head glided by.
He understood in an instant that Jube had slipped the animal out of the
barn, and was hiding him in the misty woods, expecting that Ike would
acquaint his father with the facts. He had so managed that these facts
would seem lies, if Pearce Tallam should examine the premises and find
no horse there.
All the next day the white mist clung shroud-like to Poor Valley. The
shadows of evening were sifting through it, when Ike's mother went to
the shop, much perturbed because the cow had not come, and she could not
find Jube to send after her.
"Ike kin go, I reckon," said the blacksmith.
So Ike mounted his mare and set out through the thick white vapor. He
had divined the cause of Jube's absence, and experienced no surprise
when on the summit of the mountain he overtook him, riding the strange
horse, on his way to Beemy's house.
"I s'pose that critter air yourn, an' ye mus' hev bought him fur a pound
o' dried peaches, or sech, up thar ter the settle_mint_," sneered Ike.
Jube was about to reply, but he glanced back into the dense mist with a
changing expression.
"Hesh up!" he said softly. "What's that?"
It was the regular beat of horses' hoofs, coming at a fair pace along
the road on the summit of the mountain. The riders were talking
excitedly.
"I tell ye, ef I could git a glimpse o' the man ez stole that thar
horse, it would go powerful hard with me not to let daylight through
him. I brung this hyar shootin'-iron along o' purpose. Waal, waal,
though, seein' ez ye air the sheriff, I'll hev ter leave it be ez
you-uns say. I wouldn't know the man from Adam; but ye can't miss the
critter,--big chestnut, with a star in his forehead, an'"--
Something strange had happened. At the sound of the voice the horse
pricked up his ears, turned short round in the road, and neighed
joyfully.
The boys looked at each other with white faces. They understood at last.
Jube was mounted on a stolen horse within a hundred yards of the
pursuing owner and the officers of the law. Could explanations--words,
mere words--clear him in the teeth of this fact?
"Drap out'n the saddle, turn the critter loose in the road, an' take ter
the woods," urged Ike.
"They'll sarch an' ketch me," quavered Jube.
He was frantic at the idea of being captured on the horse's back, but if
it should come to a race, he preferred trusting to the chestnut's four
legs rather than to his own two.
Ike hesitated. Jube had brought the difficulty all on himself, and
surely it was not incumbent on Ike to share the danger. But he was
swayed by a sudden uncontrollable impulse.
"Drap off'n the critter, turn him loose, an' I'll lope down the road a
piece, an' they'll foller me, in the mist."
He might have done a wiser thing. But it was a tough problem at best,
and he had only a moment in which to decide.
In that swift, confused second he saw Jube slide from the saddle and
disappear in the mist as if he had been caught up in the clouds. He
heard the horse's hoofs striking against the stones as he trotted off,
whinnying, to meet his master. There was a momentary clamor among the
men, and then with whip and spur they pressed on to capture the supposed
malefactor.
CHAPTER II
All at once it occurred to Ike, as he galloped down the road, that when
they overtook him, they would think that he was the thief, and that he
had been leading the horse. He had been so strong in his own innocence
that the possibility that they might suspect him had not before entered
his mind.
He had intended only to divert the pursuit from Jube, who, although free
from any great wrong-doing, was exposed to the most serious
misconstruction. The knowledge of the pursuers' revolvers had made this
a hard thing to do, but otherwise he had not thought of himself, nor of
what he should say when overtaken.
They would question him; he must answer. Would they believe his story?
Could he support it? Grig Beemy of course would deny it. And Jube--had
he not known how Jube could lie? Would he not fear that the truth might
somehow involve him with the horse-thief?
Ike, with despair in his heart, urged his mare to her utmost speed,
knowing now the danger he was in as a suspected horse-thief. Suddenly,
from among his pursuers, a tiny jet of flame flared out into the dense
gray atmosphere, something whizzed through the branches of the trees
above his head, and a sharp report jarred the mists.
Perhaps the officer fired into the air, merely to intimidate the
supposed criminal and induce him to surrender. But now the boy could not
stop. He had lost control of the mare. Frightened beyond measure by the
report of the pistol, she was in full run.
On she dashed, down sharp declivities, up steep ascents, and then away
and away, with a great burst of speed, along a level sandy stretch.
The black night was falling like a pall upon the white, shrouded day.
Ike knew less where he was than the mare did; he was trusting to her
instinct to carry him to her stable. More than once the low branches of
a tree struck him, almost tearing him from the saddle, but he clung
frantically to the mane of the frightened animal, and on and on she
swept, with the horsemen thundering behind.
He could hear nothing but their heavy, continuous tramp. He could see
nothing, until suddenly a dim, pure light was shining in front of him,
on his own level, it seemed. He stared at it with starting eyeballs. It
cleft the vapors,--they were falling away on either side,--and they
reflected it with an illusive, pearly shimmer.
In another moment he knew that he was nearing the abrupt precipice, for
that was the moon, riding like a silver boat upon a sea of mist, with a
glittering wake behind it, beyond the sharply serrated summit line of
the eastern hills.
He could no longer trust to the mare's instinct. He trusted to
appearances instead. He sawed away with all his might on the bit,
striving to wheel her around in the road.
She resisted, stumbled, then fell upon her knees among a wild confusion
of rotting logs and stones that rolled beneath her, as, snorting and
angry, she struggled again to her feet. Once more Ike pulled her to the
left.
There was a great displacement of earth, a frantic scramble, and
together they went over the cliff.
The descent was not absolutely sheer. At the distance of twelve or
fourteen feet below, a great bulging shelf of rock projected. They fell
upon this. The boy had instantly loosed his hold of the reins, and
slipped away from the prostrate animal. The mare, quieted only for a
moment by the shock, sprang to her feet, the stones slipped beneath her,
and she went headlong over the precipice into the dreary depths of Poor
Valley.
The pursuers heard the heavy thud when she struck the ground far below.
They paused at the verge of the crag, and talked in eager, excited
tones. They did not see the boy, as he sat cowering close to the cliff
on the ledge below.
Ike listened in great trepidation to what they were saying; he
experienced infinite surprise when presently one of them mentioned Grig
Beemy's name.
[Illustration: TOGETHER THEY WENT OVER THE CLIFF]
So they knew who had stolen the horse! It was little consolation to Ike,
with his mare lying dead at the foot of the cliff, to reflect that if he
had had the courage to face the emergency, and rely upon his innocence,
his story would only have confirmed their knowledge of the facts.
Although the master of the horse did not know the thief "from Adam,"
Beemy had been seen with the animal and recognized by others, who,
accompanying the sheriff and the owner, had traced him for two days
through many wily doublings in the mountain fastnesses.
They now concluded to press on to Beemy's house. Ike knew they would
find him there waiting for Jube and the horse. Beemy had feared that he
would be followed, and this was the reason that he had desired to rid
himself of the animal for a day and night, until he could make sure and
feel more secure.
As the horsemen swept round the curve, Ike remembered how close was the
road to the cliff. If he had only given the mare her head, she would
have carried him safely around it. But there she lay dead, way down in
Poor Valley, and he had lost all he owned in the world.
Night had come, and in the dense darkness he did not dare to move. Only
a step away was the edge of the precipice, over which the mare had
slipped, and he could not tell how dangerous was the bluff he must climb
to regain the summit. He felt he must lie here till dawn.
He was badly jarred by his fall. Time dragged by wearily, and his
bruises pained him. He knew at length that all the world slept,--all but
himself and some distant ravening wolf, whose fierce howl ever and anon
set the mists to shivering in Poor Valley where he prowled. This
blood-curdling sound and his bitter thoughts were but sorry company.
After a long time he fell asleep. Fortunately, he did not stir. When he
regained consciousness and a sense of danger, he found still around him
that dense white vapor, through which the pale, drear day was slowly
dawning. Above his head was swinging in the mist a cluster of
fox-grapes, with the rime upon them, and higher still he saw a quivering
red leaf.
It was the leaf of a starveling tree, growing out of a cleft where there
was so little earth that it seemed to draw its sustenance from the rock.
It was a scraggy, stunted thing, but it was well for him that it had
struck root there, for its branches brushed the solid, smooth face of
the cliff, which he could not have surmounted but for them and the
grape-vine that had fallen over from the summit and entangled itself
among them.
As he climbed the tree, he felt it quake over the abysses, which the
mists still veiled. He had a sense of elation and achievement when he
gained the top, and it followed him home. There it suddenly deserted
him.
He found Pearce Tallam in a frenzy of rage at the discovery, which he
had made through Jube's confession, that a stolen horse had been stabled
on his premises. Despite his tyranny and his fierce, rude temper, he
was an honest man and of fair repute. Although he realized that neither
boy knew that the animal had been stolen, he gave Jube a lesson which he
remembered for many a long day, and Ike also came in for his share of
this muscular tuition.
For in the midst of the criminations and recriminations, the violent
blacksmith caught up a horseshoe and flung it across the shop, striking
Ike with a force that almost stunned him. He was a man in strength, and
it was hard for him not to return the blow; but he only walked out of
the shop, declaring that he would stay for no more blows.
"Cl'ar out, then!" called out Pearce Tallam after him. "I don't keer ef
ye goes fur good."
He met, at the door of the dwelling, a plaintive reproach from his
mother. "'Count o' ye not tellin' on Jube, he mought hev been tuk up fur
a horse-thief. I dunno what I'd hev done 'thout him," she added, "'long
o' raisin' the young tur-r-keys, an' goslin's, an' deedies, an' sech; he
hev been a mighty holp ter me. He air more of a son ter me than my own
boy."
She did not mean this, but she had said it once half in jest, half in
reproach, and then it became a formula of complaint whenever Ike
displeased her.
Now he was sore and sensitive. "Take him fur yer son, then!" he cried.
"I'm a-goin' out'n Pore Valley, ef I starves fur it. I shows my face
hyar no more."
As he shouldered his gun and strode out, he noted the light of the
forge-fire quivering on the mist, but he little thought it was the last
fire that Pearce Tallam would ever kindle there.
He glanced back again before the dense vapor shut the house from view.
His mother was standing in the door, with her baby in her arms, looking
after him with a frightened, beseeching face. But his heart was hardened
and he kept on,--kept on, with that deft, even tread of the mountaineer,
who seems never to hurry, almost to loiter, but gets over the ground
with surprising rapidity.
He left the mists and desolation of Poor Valley far behind, but not that
frightened, beseeching face. He thought of it more often when he lay
down under the shelter of a great rock to sleep than he did of the howl
of the wolf which he had heard the night before, not far from here.
Late the next afternoon he came upon the outskirts of a village. He
entered it doubtfully, for it seemed metropolitan to him, unaccustomed
as he was to anything more imposing than the cross-roads store. But the
first sound he heard reassured him. It was the clear, metallic resonance
of an anvil, the clanking of a sledge, and the clinking of a
hand-hammer.
Here, at the forge, he found work. It had been said in Poor Valley that
he was already as good a blacksmith even as Pearce Tallam. He had great
natural aptitude for the work, and considerable experience. But his
wages only sufficed to pay for his food and lodging. Still, there was a
prospect for more, and he was content.
In his leisure he made friends among those of his own age, who took him
about the town and enjoyed his amazement. He examined everything wrought
in metal with such eager interest, and was so outspoken about his
ambition, that they dubbed him Tubal-cain.
He was struck dumb with amazement when, for the first time in his life,
he saw a locomotive gliding along the rails, with a glaring headlight
and a cloud of flying sparks. Once, when it was motionless on the track,
they talked to the engineer, who explained "the workings of the
critter," as Ike called it.
The boy understood so readily that the engineer said, after a time,
"You're a likely feller, for such a derned ignoramus! Where have you
been hid out, all this time?"
"Way down in Pore Valley," said Ike very humbly.
"He's concluded to be a great inventor," said one of his young friends,
with a merry wink.
"He's a mighty artificer in iron," said the wit who had named him
Tubal-cain.
The engineer looked gravely at Ike. "Why, boy," he admonished him, "the
world has got a hundred years the start of you!"
"I kin ketch up," Ike declared sturdily.
"There's something in grit, I reckon," said the engineer. Then his
wonderful locomotive glided away, leaving Ike staring after it in silent
ecstasy, and his companions dying with laughter.
He started out to overtake the world at a night-school, where his mental
quickness contrasted oddly with his slow, stolid demeanor. He worked
hard at the forge all day; but everybody was kind.
Outside of Poor Valley life seemed joyous and hopeful; progress and
activity were on every hand; and the time he spent here was the happiest
he had ever known,--except for the recollection of that frightened,
beseeching face which had looked out after him through the closing
mists.
He wished he had turned back for a word. He wished his mother might know
he was well and happy. He began to feel that he could go no further
without making his peace with her. So one day he left his employer with
the promise to return the following week, "ef the Lord spares me an'
nuthin' happens," as the cautious rural formula has it, and set out for
his home.
The mists had lifted from it, but the snow had fallen deep. Poor Valley
lay white and drear--it seemed to him that he had never before known how
drear--between the grim mountain with its great black crags, its chasms,
its gaunt, naked trees, and the long line of flinty hills, whose stunted
pines bent with the weight of the snow.
There was no smoke from the chimney of the blacksmith's shop. There were
no footprints about the door. An atmosphere charged with calamity seemed
to hang over the dwelling. Somehow he knew that a dreadful thing had
happened even before he opened the door and saw his mother's mournful
white face.
She sprang up at the sight of him with a wild, sobbing cry that was half
grief, half joy. He had only a glimpse of the interior,--of Jube,
looking anxious and unnaturally grave; of the listless children, grouped
about the fire; of the big, burly blacksmith, with a strange, deep
pallor upon his face, and as he shifted his position--why, how was that?
The boy's mother had thrust him out of the door, and closed it behind
her. The jar brought down from the low eaves a few feathery flakes of
snow, which fell upon her hair as she stood there with him.
"Don't say nuthin' 'bout'n it," she implored. "He can't abide ter hear
it spoke of."
"What ails dad's hand?" he asked, bewildered.
"It's gone!" she sobbed. "He war over ter the sawmill the day ye
lef'--somehow 'nuther the saw cotched it--the doctor tuk it off."
"His right hand!" cried Ike, appalled.
The blacksmith would never lift a hammer again. And there the forge
stood, silent and smokeless.
What this portended, Ike realized as he sat with them around the fire.
Their sterile fields in Poor Valley had only served to eke out their
subsistence. This year the corn-crop had failed, and the wheat was
hardly better. The winter had found them without special provision, but
without special anxiety, for the anvil had always amply supplied their
simple needs.
Now that this misfortune had befallen them, who could say what was
before them unless Ike would remain and take his stepfather's place at
the forge? Ike knew that this contingency must have occurred to them as
well as to him. He divined it from the anxious, furtive glances which
they one and all cast upon him from time to time,--even Pearce Tallam,
whose turn it was now to feel that greatest anguish of calamity,
helplessness.
But must he relinquish his hopes, his chance of an education, that
plucky race for which he was entered to overtake the world that had a
hundred years the start of him, and be forever a nameless, futureless
clod in Poor Valley?
His mother had the son she had chosen. And surely he owed no duty to
Pearce Tallam. The hand that was gone had been a hard hand to him.
He rose at length. He put on his leather apron. "Waal--I mought ez well
g' long ter the shop, I reckon," he remarked calmly. "'Pears like thar's
time yit fur a toler'ble spot o' work afore dark."
It was a hard-won victory. Even then he experienced a sort of
satisfaction in knowing that Pearce Tallam must feel humiliated and of
small account to be thus utterly dependent for his bread upon the boy
whom he had so persistently maltreated. In his pale face Ike saw
something of the bitterness he had endured, of his broken spirit, of his
humbled pride.
The look smote upon the boy's heart. There was another inward struggle.
Then he said, as if it were a result of deep cogitation,--
"Ye'll hev ter kem over ter the shop, dad, wunst in a while, ter advise
'bout what's doin'. 'Pears ter me like mos' folks would 'low ez a boy
no older 'n me couldn't do reg'lar blacksmithin' 'thout some sperienced
body along fur sense an' showin'."
The man visibly plucked up a little. Was he, indeed, so useless? "That's
a fac', Ike," he said gently. "I reckon ye kin make out
toler'ble--cornsiderin'. But I'll be along ter holp."
After this Ike realized that he had been working with something tougher
than iron, harder than steel,--his own unsubdued nature. He traced an
analogy from the forge; and he saw that those strong forces, the fires
of conscience and the coercion of duty, had wrought the stubborn metal
of his character to a kindly use.
Gradually the relinquishment of his wild, vague ambition began to seem
less bitter to him; for it might be that these were the few things over
which he should be faithful,--his own forge-fire and his own fiery
heart. And so he labors to fulfill his trust.
The spring never comes to Poor Valley. The summer is a cloud of dust.
The autumn shrouds itself in mist. And the winter is snow. But poverty
of soil need not imply poverty of soul. And a noble manhood may nobly
exist "'Way Down in Poor Valley."
A MOUNTAIN STORM
"Ef the filly war bridle-wise"--
"The filly _air_ bridle-wise."
A sullen pause ensued, and the two brothers looked angrily at each
other.
The woods were still; the sunshine was faint and flickering; the low,
guttural notes of a rain-crow broke suddenly on the silence.
Presently Thad, mechanically examining a bridle which he held in his
hand, began again in an appealing tone: "'Pears like ter me ez the filly
air toler'ble well bruk ter the saddle, an' she would holp me powerful
ter git thar quicker ter tell dad 'bout'n that thar word ez war fotched
up the mounting. They 'lowed ez 'twar jes' las' night ez them revenue
men raided a still-house, somewhar down thar in the valley, an' busted
the tubs, an' sp'iled the coppers, an' arrested all the moonshiners ez
war thar. An' ef they war ter find out 'bout'n this hyar still-house
over yander in the gorge, they'd raid it, too. An' thar be dad," he
continued despairingly, "jes' sodden with whiskey an' ez drunk ez a
fraish b'iled ow_el_, an' he wouldn't hev the sense nor the showin' ter
make them off'cers onderstand ez he never hed nothin' ter do with the
moonshiners--'ceptin' ter go ter thar still-house, an' git drunk along
o' them. An' I dunno whether the off'cers would set much store by that
sayin' ennyhow, an' I want ter git dad away from thar afore they kem."
"I don't believe that thar word ez them men air a-raidin' round the
mountings no more 'n _that_!" and Ben kicked away a pebble
contemptuously.
Thad was in a quiver of anxiety. While Ben indulged his doubts, the
paternal "B'iled Ow_el_" might at any moment be arrested on a charge of
aiding and abetting in illicit distilling.
"Ye never b'lieve nothin' till ye see it--ye sateful dunce!" he
exclaimed excitedly.
Thus began a fraternal quarrel which neither forgot for years.
Ben turned scarlet. "Waal, then, jes' leave my filly in the barn whar
she be now; ye kin travel on Shank's mare!"
Thad started off up the steep slope. "Ef ye ain't a-hankerin' fur me ter
ride that thar filly, ez air ez bridle-wise ez ye be, jes' let's see ye
kem on, an'--hender!"
"I hopes she'll fling ye, an' ye'll git yer neck bruk," Ben called out
after him.
"I wish ennything 'ud happen, jes' so be I mought never lay eyes on ye
agin," Thad declared.
As he glanced over his shoulder, he saw that his brother was not
following, and when he reached the flimsy little barn, there was nothing
to prevent him from carrying out his resolution.
Nevertheless, he hesitated as he stood with the door in his hand. A
clay-bank filly came instantly to it, but with a sudden impulse he
closed it abruptly, and set out on foot along a narrow, brambly path
that wound down the mountain side.
He had descended almost to its base before the threatening appearance of
the sky caught his attention. A dense black cloud had climbed up from
over the opposite hills, and stretched from their jagged summits to the
zenith. There it hung in mid-air, its sombre shadow falling across the
valley, and reaching high up the craggy slope, where the boy's home was
perched. The whole landscape wore that strange, still, expectant aspect
which precedes the bursting of a storm.
Suddenly a vivid white flash quivered through the sky. The hills,
suffused with its ghastly light, started up in bold relief against the
black clouds; even the faint outlines of distant ranges that had
disappeared with the strong sunlight reasserted themselves in a pale,
illusive fashion, flickering like the unreal mountains of a dream about
the vague horizon. A ball of fire had coursed through the air, striking
with dazzling coruscations the top of a towering oak, and he heard,
amidst the thunder and its clamorous echo, the sharp crash of riving
timber.
All at once he had a sense of falling, a sudden pain shot through him,
darkness descended, and he knew no more.
When he gradually regained consciousness, it seemed that a long time had
elapsed since he was trudging down the mountain side. He could not
imagine where he was now. He put out his hand in the intense darkness
that enveloped him, and felt the damp mould beside him,--above--below.
For one horrible instant he recalled a sickening story of a man who was
negligently buried alive. He had always believed that this was only a
fireside fiction invented in the security of the chimney corner; but was
it to have a strange confirmation in his own fate? He was pierced with
pity for himself, as he heard the despair in his voice when he sent
forth a wild, hoarse cry. What a cavernous echo it had!
Again and again, after his lips were closed, that voice of anguish rang
out, and then was silent, then fitfully sounded once more on another
key. He strove to rise, but the earth on his breast resisted. With a
great effort he finally burst through it; he felt the clods tumbling
about him; he sat upright; he rose to his full height; and still all was
merged in the densest darkness, and, when he stretched up his arms as
high as he could reach, he again felt the damp mould.
The truth had begun vaguely to enter his mind even before, in shifting
his position, he caught sight of a rift in the deep gloom, some fifteen
feet above his head. Then he realized that at the moment of the flash of
lightning, unmindful of his footing, he had strayed aside from the path,
stumbled, fallen, and, as it chanced, was received into one of those
unsuspected apertures in the ground which are common in all cavernous
countries, being sometimes the entrance to extensive caves, and which
are here denominated "sink-holes."
These cavities were exceedingly frequent in the valley, on the boundary
of which Thad lived, and his familiarity with them did away for the
moment with all appreciation of the perplexity and difficulty of the
situation. He laughed aloud triumphantly.
Instantly these underground chambers broke forth with wild, elfish
voices that mimicked his merriment till it died on his lips. He
preferred utter loneliness to the vague sense of companionship given by
these weird echoes. Somehow the strangeness of all that had happened to
him had stirred his imagination, and he could not rid himself of the
idea that there were grimacing creatures here with him, whom he could
not see, who would only speak when he spoke, and scoffingly iterate his
tones.
He was faint, bruised, and exhausted. He had been badly stunned by his
fall; but for the soft, shelving earth through which he had crashed, it
might have been still worse. He could scarcely move as he began to
investigate his precarious plight. Even if he could climb the
perpendicular wall above his head, he could not thence gain the
aperture, for, as his eyes became more accustomed to the darkness, he
discovered that the shape of the roof was like the interior of a roughly
defined dome, about the centre of which was this small opening.
"An' a human can't walk on a ceilin' like a fly," he said
discontentedly.
"Can't!" cried an echo close at hand.
"Fly!" suggested a distant mocker.
Thad closed his mouth and sat down.
He had moved very cautiously, for he knew that these sink-holes are
often the entrance of extensive caverns, and that there might be a deep
abyss on any side. He could do nothing but wait and call out now and
then, and hope that somebody might soon take the short cut through the
woods, and, hearing his voice, come to his relief.
His courage gave way when he reflected that the river would rise with
the heavy rain which he could hear steadily splashing through the
sink-hole, and for a time all prudent men would go by the beaten road
and the ford. No one would care to take the short cut and save three
miles' travel at the risk of swimming his horse, for the river was
particularly deep just here and spanned only by a footbridge, except,
perhaps, some fugitive from justice, or the revenue officers on their
hurried, reckless raids. This reminded him of the still-house and of
"dad" there yet, imbibing whiskey, and sharing the danger of his chosen
cronies, the moonshiners.
Ben, at home, would not have his anxiety roused till midnight, at least,
by his brother's failure to return from the complicated feat of decoying
the drunkard from the distillery. Thad trembled to think what might
happen to himself in the interval. If the volume of water pouring down
through the sink-hole should increase to any considerable extent, he
would be drowned here like a rat. Was he to have his wish, and see his
brother never again?
And poor Ben! How his own cruel, wicked parting words would scourge him
throughout his life,--even when he should grow old!
Thad's eyes filled with tears of prescient pity for his brother's
remorse.
"Ef ennything war ter happen hyar, sure enough, I wish he mought always
know ez I don't keer nothin' now 'bout'n that thar sayin' o' his'n," he
thought wistfully.
He still heard the persistent rain splashing outside. The hollow,
unnatural murmur of a subterranean stream rose drearily. Once he sighed
heavily, and all the cavernous voices echoed his grief.
When that terrible flash of lightning came, Ben was still on the slope
of the mountain where his brother had left him. The next moment he heard
the wild whirl of the gusts as they came surging up the valley. He saw
the frantic commotion of the woods on distant spurs as the wind
advanced, preceded by swirling columns of dust which carried myriads of
leaves, twigs, and even great branches rent from the trees, as evidence
of its force.
Ben turned, and ran like a deer up the steep ascent. "It'll blow
that thar barn spang off'n the bluff, I'm thinkin'--an' the
filly--Cobe--Cobe!" he cried out to her as he neared the shanty.
He stopped short, his eyes distended. The door was open. There was no
hair nor hoof of the filly within. He could have no doubt that his
brother had actually taken his property for this errand against his
will.
"That thar boy air no better 'n a low-down horse-thief!" he declared
bitterly.
The gusts struck the little barn. It careened this way and that, and
finally the flimsy structure came down with a crash, one of the boards
narrowly missing Ben's head as it fell. He had a hard time getting to
the house in the teeth of the wind, but its violence only continued a
few minutes, and when he was safe within doors he looked out of the
window at the silent mists, beginning to steal about the coves and
ravines, and at the rain as it fell in serried columns. Long after dark
it still beat with unabated persistence on the roof of the log cabin,
and splashed and dripped with a chilly, cheerless sound from the low
eaves. Sometimes a drop fell down the wide chimney, and hissed upon the
red-hot coals, for Ben had piled on the logs and made a famous fire. He
could see that his mother now and then paused to listen in the midst of
her preparations for supper. Once as she knelt on the hearth, and
deftly inserted a knife between the edges of a baking corn-cake and the
hoe, she looked up suddenly at Ben without turning the cake. "I hearn
the beastis's huff!" she said.
Ben listened. The fire roared. The rain went moaning down the valley.
"Ye never hearn nothin'," he rejoined.
Nevertheless, she rose and opened the door. The cold air streamed in.
The firelight showed the mists, pressing close in the porch,
shivering, and seeming to jostle and nudge each other as they peered in,
curiously, upon the warm home-scene, and the smoking supper, and the
hilarious children, as if asking of one another how they would like to
be human creatures, instead of a part of inanimate nature, or at best
the elusive spirits of the mountains.
There was nothing to be seen without but the mists.
"Thad tuk the filly, ye say fur true?" she asked, recurring to the
subject when supper was over.
Ben nodded. "I hopes ter conscience she'll break his neck," he declared
cruelly.
His mother took instant alarm. She turned and looked at him with a face
expressive of the keenest anxiety. "'Pears like to me ez the only reason
Thad kin be so late a-gittin' back air jes' 'kase it air a toler'ble
aggervatin' job a-fotchin' of dad home," she said, striving to reassure
herself.
"That air a true word 'bout'n dad, ennyhow," Ben assented bitterly.
His old grandfather suddenly lifted up his voice.
"This night," said the graybeard from out the chimney corner,--"this
night, forty years ago, my brother, Ephraim Grimes, fell dead on this
cabin floor, an' no man sence kin mark the cause."
A pause ensued. The rain fell. The pallid, shuddering mists looked in at
the window.
"Ye ain't a-thinkin'," cried the woman tremulously, "ez the night air
one app'inted fur evil?"
The old man did not answer.
"This night," he croaked, leaning over the glowing fire, and kindling
his long-stemmed cob-pipe by dexterously scooping up with its bowl a
live coal,--"this night, twenty-six years ago, thar war eleven sheep o'
mine--ez war teched in the head, or somehows disabled from good
sense--an' they jumped off'n the bluff, one arter the other, an' fell
haffen way down the mounting, an' bruk thar fool necks 'mongst the
boulders. They war dead. Thar shearin's never kem ter much account
nuther. 'Twar powerful cur'ous, fust an' last."
The woman made a gesture of indifference. "I ain't a-settin' of store by
critters when humans is--is--whar they ain't hearn from."
But Ben was susceptible of a "critter" scare.
"I hope, now," he exclaimed, alarmed, "ez that thar triflin' no-'count
Thad Grimes ain't a-goin' ter let my filly lame herself, nor nothin',
a-travelin' with her this dark night, ez seems ter be a night fur things
ter happen on ennyhow. Oh, shucks! shucks!" he continued impatiently,
"I jes' feels like thar ain't no use o' my tryin' ter live along."
Three of the children who habitually slept in the shed-room had started
off to go to bed. As they opened the connecting door, there suddenly
resounded a wild commotion within. They shrieked with fright, and banged
the door against a strong force which was beginning to push from the
other side.
The old grandfather rose, pale and agitated, his pipe falling from his
nerveless clasp.
"This night," he said, with white lips and mechanical utterance,--"this
night"--
"Satan is in the shed-room!" shouted the three small boys, as they held
fast to the door with a strength far beyond their age and weight.
Nevertheless, they were hardly able to cope with the strength on the
other side of the door, and it was alternately forced slightly ajar, and
then closed with a resounding slam. Once, as the firelight flickered
into the dark shed-room, the ignorant, superstitious mountaineers had a
fleeting glimpse of an object there which convinced them: they beheld
great gleaming, blazing eyes, a burnished hoof, and--yes--a flirting
tail.
"I believe it is Satan himself!" cried Ben, with awe in his voice.
In the wild confusion and bewilderment, Ben was somehow vaguely aware
that Satan had often been in the shed-room before,--in the antechamber
of his own heart. Whenever this heart of his was full of unkindness, and
hardened against his brother, although those better fraternal instincts
which he kept repressed and dwarfed might repudiate this cruelty under
the pretext that he did not really mean it, still the great principle of
evil was there in the moral shed-room, clamoring for entrance at the
inner doors. And this, we may safely say, may apply to wiser people than
poor Ben.
In the midst of the general despair and fright, something suddenly
whinnied. At the sound the three small boys fell in a limp, exhausted
heap on the floor, and, as the door no longer offered resistance, the
unknown visitor pranced in: it was the filly, snorting and tossing her
mane, and once more whinnying shrilly for her supper.
In a moment Ben understood the whole phenomenon. Thad had left the barn
door unfastened, and, when that terrible flash of lightning came and the
wind arose, the frightened animal had instantly fled to the house for
safety. She had doubtless pushed open the back door of the shed-room
easily enough, but it had closed behind her, and she had remained there
a supperless prisoner.
The small boys picked themselves up from among the filly's hoofs, with
disconnected exclamations of "Wa-a-a-l, sir!" while Ben led the animal
out, with a growing impression that he would try to "live along" for a
while, at all events.
He had led Satan out of the moral shed-room, as well. The reappearance
of the filly without Thad had raised a great anxiety about his brother's
continued absence. All at once he began to feel as if those brutal
wishes of his were prophetic,--as if they were endowed with a malignant
power, and could actually pursue poor Thad to some violent end. He did
not understand now how he could have framed the words.
When a fellow really likes his brother,--and most fellows do,--there is
scant use or grace or common-sense in keeping up, from mere
carelessness, or through an irritable habit, a continual bickering, for
these germs of evil are possessed of a marvelous faculty for growth, and
some day their gigantic deformities will confront you in deeds of which
you once believed yourself incapable.
Ben's hands were trembling as he folded a blanket, and laid it on the
animal's back to serve instead of a saddle.
"I'm a-goin' ter the still-house ter see ef Thad ever got thar," he
said, when his mother appeared at the door.
He added, "I'm a-gittin' sorter skeered ez su'thin' mought hev happened
ter him."
His grandfather hobbled out into the little porch. "Them roads air
turrible rough fur that thar filly, ez ain't fairly broke good yit, nor
used ter travel," he suggested.
"I'd gin four hunderd fillies, ef I hed 'em, jes' ter know that thar boy
air safe an' sound," Ben declared, as he mounted.
He took the short cut, judging that, at the point where it crossed the
river, the stream was still fordable. When he heard his brother's
piteous cries for help, he quaked to think what might have happened to
Thad if he had not recognized the presence of Satan in the moral
shed-room, and summarily ejected him. The rainfall had been sufficient
to aggregate considerable water in the gullies about the sink-hole, and
these, emptying into the cavity and sending a continuous stream over the
boy, had served to chill him through and through, and he had a pretty
fair chance of being drowned, or dying from cold and exhaustion. Ben
pressed on to the still-house at the best speed he could make, and such
of the moonshiners as were half sober came out with ropes and a barrel,
which they lowered into the cavity. Thad managed to crawl into the
barrel, and, after several ineffectual attempts, he was drawn up through
the sink-hole.
There was no formal reconciliation between the two boys. It was enough
for Ben to feel Thad's reluctance to unloose his eager clutch upon his
brother's arms, even after he had been lifted out upon the firm ground.
And Thad knew that that complicated sound in Ben's throat was a sob,
although, for the sake of the men who stood by, he strove to seem to be
coughing.
"Right smart of an idjit, now, ain't ye?" demanded Ben, hustling back,
so to speak, the tears that sought to rise in his eyes.
"Waal, stranger, how's yer filly?" retorted Thad, laughing in a gaspy
fashion.
There was a tone of forgiveness in the inquiry. The answer caught the
same spirit.
"Middlin',--thanky,--jes' middlin'," said Ben.
And then they and "dad" fared home together by the light of the
moonshiners' lantern.
BORROWING A HAMMER
On a certain bold crag that juts far over a steep wooded mountain slope
a red light was seen one moonless night in June. Sometimes it glowed
intensely among the gray mists which hovered above the deep and sombre
valley; sometimes it faded. Its life was the breath of the bellows, for
a blacksmith's shop stands close beside the road that rambles along the
brink of the mountain. Generally after sunset the forge is dark and
silent. So when three small boys, approaching the log hut through the
gloomy woods, heard the clink! clank! clink! clank! of the hammers, and
the metallic echo among the cliffs, they stopped short in astonishment.
"Thar now!" exclaimed Abner Ryder desperately; "dad's at it fur true!"
"Mebbe he'll go away arter a while, Ab," suggested Jim Gryce, another
of the small boys. "Then that'll gin us our chance."
"Waal, I reckon we kin stiffen up our hearts ter wait," said Ab
resignedly.
All three sat down on a log a short distance from the shop, and
presently they became so engrossed in their talk that they did not
notice when the blacksmith, in the pauses of his work, came to the door
for a breath of air. They failed to discreetly lower their voices, and
thus they had a listener on whose attention they had not counted.
"Ye see," observed Ab in a high, shrill pipe, "dad sets a heap o' store
by his tools. But dad, ye know, air a mighty slack-twisted man. He gits
his tools lost" (reprehensively), "he wastes his nails, an' then he
'lows ez how it war _me_ ez done it."
He paused impressively in virtuous indignation. A murmur of surprise and
sympathy rose from his companions. Then he recommenced.
"Dad air the crankiest man on this hyar mounting! He won't lend me none
o' his tools nowadays,--not even that thar leetle hammer o' his'n. An'
I'm obleeged ter hev that thar leetle hammer an' some nails ter fix a
box fur them young squir'ls what we cotched. So we'll jes' hev ter go
ter his shop of a night when he is away, an'--an'--an' borry it!"
The blacksmith, a tall, powerfully built man, of an aspect far from
jocular, leaned slightly out of the door, peering in the direction where
the three tow-headed urchins waited. Then he glanced within at a leather
strap, as if he appreciated the appropriateness of an intimate relation
between these objects. But there was no time for pleasure now. He was
back in his shop in a moment.
His next respite was thus entertained:--
"What makes him work so of a night?" asked Jim Gryce.
"Waal," explained Ab in his usual high key, "he rid ter the settle_mint_
this mornin'; he hev been a-foolin' round thar all day, an' the crap air
jes' a-sufferin' fur work! So him an' Uncle Tobe air layin' thar ploughs
in the shop now, kase they air goin' ter run around the corn
ter-morrer. Workin', though, goes powerful hard with dad enny time. I
tole old Bob Peachin that, when I war ter the mill this evenin'. Him an'
the t'other men thar laffed mightily at dad. An' I laffed too!"
There was an angry gleam in Stephen Ryder's stern black eyes as he
turned within, seized the tongs, and thrust a piece of iron among the
coals, while Tobe, who had been asleep in the window at the back of the
shop, rose reluctantly and plied the bellows. The heavy panting broke
forth simultaneously with the red flare that quivered out into the dark
night. Presently it faded; the hot iron was whisked upon the anvil,
fiery sparks showered about as the rapid blows fell, and the echoing
crags kept time with rhythmic beats to the clanking of the sledge and
the clinking of the hand-hammer. The stars, high above the
far-stretching mountains, seemed to throb in unison, until suddenly the
blacksmith dealt a sharp blow on the face of the anvil as a signal to
his striker to cease, and the forge was silent.
As he leaned against the jamb of the door, mechanically adjusting his
leather apron, he heard Ab's voice again.
"Old Bob say he ain't no 'count sca'cely. He 'lowed ez he had knowed him
many a year, an' fund him a sneakin', deceivin' critter."
The blacksmith was erect in a moment, every fibre tense.
"That ain't the wust," Ab gabbled on. "Old Bob say, though't ain't known
ginerally, ez he air gin ter thievin'. Old Bob 'lowed ter them men,
hangin' round the mill, ez he air the biggest thief on the mounting!"
The strong man trembled. His blood rushed tumultuously to his head, then
seemed to ebb swiftly away. That this should be said of him to the
loafers at the mill! These constituted his little world. And he valued
his character as only an honest man can. He was amazed at the boldness
of the lie. It had been openly spoken in the presence of his son. One
might have thought the boy would come directly to him. But there he sat,
glibly retailing it to his small comrades! It seemed all so strange
that Stephen Ryder fancied there was surely some mistake. In the next
moment, however, he was convinced that they had been talking of him, and
of no one else.
"I tole old Bob ez how I thought they oughtn't ter be so hard on him, ez
he warn't thar to speak for hisself."
All three boys giggled weakly, as if this were witty.
"But old Bob 'lowed ez ennybody mought know him by his name. An' then he
told me that old sayin':--
'Stephen, Stephen, so deceivin',
That old Satan can't believe him!'"
Here Ben Gryce broke in, begging the others to go home, and come to
"borry" the hammer next night. Ab agreed to the latter proposition, but
still sat on the log and talked. "Old Bob say," he remarked cheerfully,
"that when he do git 'em, he shakes 'em--shakes the life out'n 'em!"
This was inexplicable. Stephen Ryder pondered vainly on it for an
instant. But the oft-reiterated formula, "Old Bob say," caught his
ears, and he was absorbed anew in Ab's discourse.
"Old Bob say ez my mother air one of the best women in this world. But
she air so gin ter humoring every critter a-nigh her, an' tends ter 'em
so much, an' feeds 'em so high an' hearty, ez they jes' gits good fur
nothin' in this world. That's how kem she air eat out'n house an' home
now. Old Bob say ez how he air the hongriest critter! Say he jes'
despise ter see him comin' round of meal times. Old Bob say ef he hev
got enny good lef' in him, my mother will kill it out yit with
kindness."
The blacksmith felt, as he turned back into the shop and roused the
sleepy-headed striker, that within the hour all the world had changed
for him. These coarse taunts were enough to show in what estimation he
was held. And he had fancied himself, in countrified phrase, "respected
by all," and had been proud of his standing.
So the bellows began to sigh and pant once more, and kept the red light
flaring athwart the darkness. The people down in the valley looked up at
it, glowing like a star that had slipped out of the sky and lodged
somehow on the mountain, and wondered what Stephen Ryder could be about
so late at night. When he left the shop there was no sign of the boys
who had ornamented the log earlier in the evening. He walked up the road
to his house, and found his wife sitting alone in the rickety little
porch.
"Hev that thar boy gone ter bed?" he asked.
"Waal," she slowly drawled, in a soft, placid voice, "he kem hyar
'bout'n haffen hour ago so nigh crazed ter go ter stay all night with
Jim an' Benny Gryce ez I hed ter let him. Old man Gryce rid by hyar in
his wagon on his way home from the settle_mint_. So Ab went off with the
Gryce boys an' thar gran'dad."
Thus the blacksmith concluded his tools were not liable to be "borrowed"
that night. He had a scheme to insure their safety for the future, but
in order to avoid his wife's remonstrances on Ab's behalf, he told her
nothing of it, nor of what he had overheard.
Early the next morning he set out for the mill, intending to confront
"old Bob" and demand retraction. The road down the deep, wild ravine was
rugged, and he jogged along slowly until at last he came within sight of
the crazy, weather-beaten old building tottering precariously on the
brink of the impetuous torrent which gashed the mountain side. Crags
towered above it; vines and mosses clung to its walls; it was a dank,
cool, shady place, but noisy enough with the turmoil of its primitive
machinery and the loud, hoarse voices of the loungers striving to make
themselves heard above the uproar. There were several of these idle
mountaineers aimlessly strolling among the bags of corn and wheat that
were piled about. Long, dusty cobwebs hung from the rafters. Sometimes a
rat, powdered white with flour and rendered reckless by high living,
raced boldly across the floor. The golden grain poured ceaselessly
through the hopper, and leaning against it was the miller, a tall,
stoop-shouldered man about forty years of age, with a floury smile
lurking in his beard and a twinkle in his good-humored eyes overhung by
heavy, mealy eyebrows.
"Waal, Steve," yelled the miller, shambling forward as the blacksmith
appeared in the doorway. "Come 'long in. Whar's yer grist?"
"I hev got no grist!" thundered Steve, sternly.
"Waal--ye're jes' ez welcome," said the miller, not noticing the rigid
lines of the blacksmith's face, accented here and there by cinders, nor
the fierceness of the intent dark eyes.
"I reckon I'm powerful welcome!" sneered Stephen Ryder.
The tone attracted "old Bob's" attention. "What ails ye, Steve?" he
asked, surprised.
"I'm a deceivin', sneakin' critter--hey," shouted the visitor, shaking
his big fist; he had intended to be calm, but his long-repressed fury
had found vent at last.
The miller drew back hastily, astonishment and fear mingled in a pallid
paste, as it were, with the flour on his face.
The six startled on-lookers stood as if petrified.
"Ye say I'm a thief!--a thief!--a thief!"
With the odious word Ryder made a frantic lunge at the miller, who
dodged his strong right arm at the moment when his foot struck against a
bag of corn lying on the floor and he stumbled. He recovered his
equilibrium instantly. But the six bystanders had seized him.
"Hold him hard, folkses!" cried honest Bob Peachin. "Hold hard! I'll
tell ye what ails him--though ye mustn't let on ter him--he air teched
in the head!"
He winked at them with a confidential intention as he roared this out,
forgetting in his excitement that mental infirmity does not impair the
sense of hearing. This folly on his part was a salutary thing for
Stephen Ryder. It calmed him instantly. He felt that he had need for
caution. A fearful vista of possibilities opened before him. He
remembered having seen in his childhood a man reputed to be suddenly
bereft of reason, but who he believed was entirely sane, bound hand and
foot, and every word, every groan, every effort to free himself,
accounted the demonstration of a maniac. This fate was imminent for him.
They were seven to one. He trembled as he felt their hands pressing upon
the swelling muscles of his arms. With an abrupt realization of his
great strength, he waited for a momentary relaxation of their clutch,
then with a mighty wrench he burst loose from them, flung himself upon
his mare, and dashed off at full speed.
He did no work that afternoon, although the corn was "suffering." He sat
after dinner smoking his pipe on the porch of his log cabin, while he
moodily watched the big shadow of the mountain creeping silently over
the wooded valley as the sun got on the down grade. Deep glooms began to
lurk among the ravines of the great ridge opposite. The shimmering blue
summits in the distance were purpling. A redbird, alert, crested, and
with a brilliant eye, perched idly on the vines about the porch, having
relinquished for the day the job of teaching a small, stubby imitation
of himself to fly. The shocks of wheat in the bare field close by had
turned a rich red gold in the lengthening rays before Stephen Ryder
realized that night was close at hand.
All at once he heard a discordant noise which he knew that Ab Ryder
called "singing," and presently the boy appeared in the distance, his
mouth stretched, his tattered hat stuck on the back of his tow-head, his
bare feet dusty, his homespun cotton trousers rolled up airily about his
knees, his single suspender supporting the structure. His father laughed
a little at sight of him, rather sardonically it must be confessed, and
saying to his wife that he intended to go to the shop for a while, he
rose and strolled off down the road.
When supper was over, however, Ab was immensely relieved to see that
his father had no idea of continuing his work. Consequently the usual
routine was to be expected. Generally, when summoned to the evening
meal, the blacksmith hastily plunged his head in the barrel of water
used to temper steel, thrust off his leather apron, and went up to the
house without more ado. He smoked afterward, and lounged about, enjoying
the relaxation after his heavy work. He did not go down to lock the shop
until bed-time, when he was shutting up the house, the barn, and the
corn-crib for the night. In the interval the shop stood deserted and
open, and this fact was the basis of Ab's opportunity. To-night there
seemed to be no deviation from this custom. He ascertained that his
father was smoking his pipe on the porch. Then he went down the road and
sat on the log near the shop to wait for the other boys who were to
share the risks and profits of borrowing the hammer.
All was still--so still! He fancied that he could hear the tumult of the
torrent far away as it dashed over the rocks. A dog suddenly began to
bark in the black, black valley--then ceased. He was vaguely over-awed
with the "big mountings" for company and the distant stars. He listened
eagerly for the first cracking of brush which told him that the other
boys were near at hand. Then all three crept along cautiously among the
huge boles of the trees, feeling very mysterious and important. When
they reached the rude window, Ab sat for a moment on the sill, peering
into the intense blackness within.
"It air dark thar, fur true, Ab," said Jim Gryce, growing faint-hearted.
"Let's go back."
"Naw, sir! Naw, sir!" protested Ab resolutely. "I'm on the borry!"
"How kin we find that thar leetle hammer in sech a dark place?" urged
Jim.
"Waal," explained Ab, in his high key, "dad air mightily welded ter his
cranky notions. An' he always leaves every tool in the same place
edzactly every night. Bound fur me!" he continued in shrill exultation
as he slapped his lean leg, "I know whar that thar leetle hammer air
sot ter roost!"
He jumped down from the window inside the shop, and cut a wiry caper.
"I'm a man o' bone and muscle!" he bragged. "Kin do ennything."
The other boys followed more quietly. But they had only groped a little
distance when Jim Gryce set up a sharp yelp of pain.
"Shet yer mouth--ye pop-eyed catamount!" Ab admonished him. "Dad will
hear an'--ah-h-h!" His own words ended in a shriek. "Oh, my!"
vociferated the "man of bone and muscle," who was certainly, too, a man
of extraordinary lung-power. "Oh, my! The ground is hot--hot ez iron!
They always tole me that Satan would ketch me--an' oh, my! now he hev
done it!"
He joined the "pop-eyed catamount" in a lively dance with their bare
feet on the hot iron bars which were scattered about the ground in every
direction. These were heated artistically, so that they might not really
scorch the flesh, but would touch the feelings, and perhaps the
conscience. As the third boy's scream rent the air, and told that he,
too, had encountered a torrid experience, Ab Ryder became suddenly aware
that there was some one besides themselves in the shop. He could see
nothing; he was only vaguely conscious of an unexpected presence, and he
fancied that it was in the corner by the barrel of water.
All at once a gruff voice broke forth. "I'm on the borry!" it remarked
with fierce facetiousness. "I want ter borry a boy--no! a man o' bone
an' muscle--fur 'bout a minit and a quarter!" A strong arm seized Ab by
his collar. He felt himself swept through the air, soused head foremost
into the barrel of water, then thrust into a corner, where he was
thankful to find there was no more hot iron.
"I want to borry another boy!" said the gruff voice. And the "pop-eyed
catamount" was duly ducked.
"'Twould pleasure me some ter borry another!" the voice declared with
grim humor. But Ben was the youngest and smallest, and only led into
mischief by the others. They never knew that the blacksmith relented
when his turn came, and that he got a mere sprinkle in comparison with
their total immersion.
Then Stephen Ryder set out for home, followed by a dripping procession.
"I'll l'arn ye ter 'borry' my tools 'thout leave!" he vociferated as he
went along.
When they had reached the house, he faced round sternly on Ab. "Whyn't
ye kem an' tell me ez how the miller say I war a sneakin', deceivin'
critter, an'--an'--an' a thief!"
His wife dropped the dish she was washing, and it broke unheeded upon
the hearth. Ab stretched his eyes and mouth in amazement.
"Old Bob Peachin never tole me no sech word sence I been born!" he
declared flatly.
"Then what ailed ye ter go an' tell sech a lie ter Gryce's boys las'
night jes' down thar outside o' the shop?" Stephen Ryder demanded.
Ab stared at him, evidently bewildered.
"Ye tole 'em," continued the blacksmith, striving to refresh his memory,
"ez Bob Peachin say ez how ye mought know I war deceivin' by my bein'
named Stephen--an' that I war the hongriest critter--an'"--
"'Twar the t-a-a-a-rrier!" shouted Ab, "the little rat tarrier ez we war
a-talkin' 'bout. He hev been named Steve these six year, old Bob say. He
gimme the dog yestiddy, 'kase I 'lowed ez the rats war eatin' us out'n
house an' home, an' my mother hed fed up that old cat o' our'n till he
won't look at a mice. Old Bob warned me, though, ez Steve, _the
tarrier_, air a mighty thief an' deceivin' ginerally. Old Bob say he
reckons my mother will spile the dog with feedin' him, an' kill out what
little good he hev got lef' in him with kindness. But I tuk him, an'
brung him home ennyhow. An' las' night arter we hed got through talkin'
'bout borryin' (he looked embarrassed) the leetle hammer, we tuk to
talkin' 'bout the tarrier. An' yander he is now, asleep on the
chil'ren's bed!"
A long pause ensued.
"M'ria," said the blacksmith meekly to his wife, "hev ye tuk notice how
the gyarden truck air a-thrivin'? 'Pears like ter me ez the peas air
a-fullin' up consider'ble."
And so the subject changed.
He had it on his conscience, however, to explain the matter to the
miller. For the second time old Bob Peachin, and the men at the mill,
"laffed mightily at dad." And when Ab had recovered sufficiently from
the exhaustion attendant upon borrowing a hammer, he "laffed too."
THE CONSCRIPTS' HOLLOW
CHAPTER I
"I'm a-goin' ter climb down ter that thar ledge, an' slip round ter the
hollow whar them conscripts built thar fire in the old war times."
Nicholas Gregory paused on the verge of the great cliff and cast a
sidelong glance at Barney Pratt, who was beating about among the red
sumach bushes in the woods close at hand, and now and then stooping to
search the heaps of pine needles and dead leaves where they had been
blown together on the ground.
"Conscripts!" Barney ejaculated, with a chuckle. "That's precisely what
them men war determinated _not_ ter be! They war a-hidin' in the
mountings ter git shet o' the conscription."
"Waal, I don't keer ef _ye_ names 'em 'conscripts' or no," Nicholas
retorted loftily. "That's what other folks calls 'em. I'm goin' down ter
the hollow, whar they built thar fire, ter see ef that old missin'
tur-r-key-hen o' our'n hain't hid her nest off 'mongst them dead chunks,
an' sech."
"A tur-r-key ain't sech a powerful fool ez that," said Barney, coming to
the edge of the precipice and looking over at the ledge, which ran along
the face of the cliff twenty feet below. "How'd she make out ter fotch
the little tur-r-keys up hyar, when they war hatched? They'd fall off'n
the bluff."
"A tur-r-key what hev stole her nest away from the folks air fool enough
fur ennything," Nicholas declared.
Perhaps he did not really expect to find the missing fowl in such an
out-of-the-way place as this, but being an adventurous fellow, the sight
of the crag was a temptation. He had often before clambered down to the
ledge, which led to a great niche in the solid rock, where one night
during the war some men who were hiding from the conscription had
kindled their fire and cooked their scanty food. The charred remnants of
logs were still here, but no one ever thought about them now, except the
two boys, who regarded them as a sort of curiosity.
Sometimes they came and stared at them, and speculated about them, and
declared to each other that _they_ would not consider it a hardship to
go a-soldiering.
Then Nick would tell Barney of a wonderful day when he had driven to the
county town in his uncle's wagon. There was a parade of militia there,
and how grand the drum had sounded! And as he told it he would shoulder
a smoke-blackened stick, and stride about in the Conscripts' Hollow, and
feel very brave.
He had no idea in those days how close at hand was the time when his own
courage should be tried.
"Kem on, Barney!" he urged. "Let's go down an' sarch fur the tur-r-key."
But Barney had thrown himself down upon the crag with a long-drawn sigh
of fatigue.
"Waal," he replied, in a drowsy tone, "I dunno 'bout'n that. I'm sorter
banged out, 'kase I hev had a powerful hard day's work a-bilin' sorghum
at our house. I b'lieves I'll rest my bones hyar, an' wait fur ye."
As he spoke, he rolled up one of the coats which they had both thrown
off, during their search for the nest on the summit of the cliff, and
slipped it under his head. He was far the brighter boy of the two, but
his sharp wits seemed to thrive at the expense of his body. He was small
and puny, and he was easily fatigued in comparison with big burly Nick,
who rarely knew such a sensation, and prided himself upon his toughness.
"Waal, Barney, surely ye air the porest little shoat on G'liath
Mounting!" he exclaimed scornfully, as he had often done before. But he
made no further attempt to persuade Barney, and began the descent alone.
It was not so difficult a matter for a sure-footed mountaineer like
Nick to make his way down to the ledge as one might imagine, for in a
certain place the face of the cliff presented a series of jagged edges
and projections which afforded him foothold. As he went along, too, he
kept a strong grasp upon overhanging vines and bushes that grew out
from earth-filled crevices.
He had gone down only a short distance when he paused thoughtfully.
"This hyar wind air blowin' powerful brief," he said. "I mought get
chilled an' lose my footin'."
He hardly liked to give up the expedition, but he was afraid to continue
on his way in the teeth of the mountain wind, cold and strong in the
October afternoon. If only he had his heavy jeans coat with him!
"Barney!" he called out, intending to ask his friend to throw it over to
him.
There was no answer.
"That thar Barney hev drapped off ter sleep a'ready!" he exclaimed
indignantly.
He chanced to glance upward as he was about to call again. There he saw
a coat lying on the edge of the cliff, the dangling sleeve fluttering
just within his reach. When he dragged it down and discovered that it
was Barney's instead of his own, he was slightly vexed, but it
certainly did not seem a matter of great importance.
"That boy hev got _my_ coat, an' this is his'n. But law! I'd ruther
squeeze myself small enough ter git inter his'n, than ter hev ter yell
like a catamount fur an hour an' better ter wake him up, an' make him
gimme mine."
He seated himself on a narrow projection of the crag, and began to
cautiously put on his friend's coat. He had need to be careful, for a
precarious perch like this, with an unmeasured abyss beneath, the far
blue sky above, the almost inaccessible face of a cliff on one side, and
on the other a distant stretch of mountains, is not exactly the kind of
place in which one would prefer to make a toilet. Besides the dangers of
his position, he was anxious to do no damage to the coat, which although
loose and baggy on Barney, was rather a close fit for Nick.
"I ain't used ter climbin' with a coat on, nohow, an' I mus' be mighty
keerful not ter bust Barney's, 'kase it air all the one he hev got," he
said to himself as he clambered nimbly down to the ledge.
Then he walked deftly along the narrow shelf, and as he turned abruptly
into the immense niche in the cliff called the Conscripts' Hollow, he
started back in sudden bewilderment. His heart gave a bound, and then it
seemed to stand still.
He hardly recognized the familiar place. There, to be sure, were the
walls and the dome-like roof, but upon the dusty sandstone floor were
scattered quantities of household articles, such as pots and pails and
pans and kettles. There was a great array of brogans, too, and piles of
blankets, and bolts of coarse unbleached cotton and jeans cloth.
"Waal, sir!" he exclaimed, as he gazed at them with wild,
uncomprehending eyes.
Then the truth flashed upon him. A story had reached Goliath Mountain
some weeks before, to the effect that a cross-roads store, some miles
down the valley, had been robbed. The thieves had escaped with the
stolen goods, leaving no clue by which they might be identified and
brought to justice.
Nick saw that he had made a discovery. Here it was that the robbers had
contrived to conceal their plunder, doubtless intending to wait until
suspicion lulled, when they could carry it to some distant place, where
it could safely be sold.
Suddenly a thought struck him that sent a shiver through every fibre of
his body. This store was robbed in a singular manner. No bolt was
broken,--no door burst open. There was a window, however, that lacked
one pane of glass. The aperture would not admit a man's body. It was
believed that the burglars had passed a boy through it, who had handed
out the stolen goods.
And now, Nick foolishly argued, if any one should discover that _he_
knew where the plunder was hidden, they would believe that _he_ was that
boy who had robbed the store!
He began to resolve that he would say nothing about what he had
seen,--not even to Barney. He thought his safety lay in his silence.
Still, he did not want his silence to be to the advantage of wicked men,
so he tried to persuade himself that the burglars would soon be traced
and captured without the information which he knew it was his duty to
give. "Ter be sartain, the officers will kem on this place arter a
while," he said meditatively.
Then he shook his head doubtfully. The crag was far from any house, and
except the dwellers on Goliath Mountain, few people knew of this great
niche in it. "They war sly foxes what stowed away thar plunder hyar!" he
exclaimed in despair.
Often, when Nick had before stood in the Conscripts' Hollow, he had
imagined that he would make a good soldier. But his idea of a soldier
was a fine uniform, and the ra-ta-ta of martial music. He had no
conception of that high sense of duty which nerves a man to face danger;
even now he did not know that he was a coward as he faltered and feared
in the cause of right to encounter suspicion.
Courage!--Nick thought that meant to crack away at a bear, if you were
lucky enough to have the chance; or to kill a rattlesnake, if you had a
big heavy stone close at hand; or to scramble about among crags and
precipices, if you felt certain of the steadiness of your head and the
strength of your muscles. But he did not realize that "courage" could
mean the nerve to speak one little word for duty's sake.
He would not speak the word,--he had determined on that,--for might they
not think that _he_ was the boy who had robbed the store?
He was quivering with excitement when he turned and began to walk along
the ledge toward those roughly hewn natural steps by which he had
descended. He knew that his agitation rendered his footing insecure. He
was afraid of falling into the depths beneath, and he pressed close
against the cliff.
On the narrow ledge, hardly two yards distant from the Conscripts'
Hollow, a clump of blackberry bushes was growing from a crevice in the
rock. They had never before given him trouble; but now, as he brushed
hastily past, they seemed to clutch at him with their thorny branches.
As he tore away from them roughly, he did not observe that he had left a
fragment of his brown jeans clothing hanging upon the thorns, as a
witness to his presence here close to the Conscripts' Hollow, where the
stolen goods lay hidden. There was a coarse, dark-colored horn button
attached to the bit of brown jeans, which was a three-cornered scrap of
his coat. No! of _Barney's_ coat. And was it to be a witness against
poor Barney, who had not gone near the Conscripts' Hollow, but was lying
asleep on the summit of the crag, supposing he had his own coat under
his own head?
He did not discover his mistake until some time afterward, for when Nick
had slowly and laboriously climbed up the steep face of the cliff, he
stripped off his friend's torn coat before he roused him. Barney was
awakened by having his pillow dragged rudely from under his head, and
when at last he reluctantly opened his eyes on the hazy yellow
sunlight, and saw Nick standing near on the great gray crag, he had no
idea that this moment was an important crisis in his life.
The wind was coming up the gorge fresh and free; the autumnal foliage,
swaying in it, was like the flaunting splendors of red and gold banners;
the western ranges had changed from blue to purple, for the sun was
sinking.
"It's gittin' toler'ble late, Barney," said Nick. "Let's go." He had on
his own coat now, and he was impatient to be off.
"Did ye find the tur-r-key's nest in the Conscripts' Hollow?" asked
Barney, with a lazy yawn, and still flat on his back.
"No," said Nick curtly.
Then it occurred to him that it would be safer if his friend should
think he had not been in the Hollow. "No," he reiterated, after a pause,
"I didn't go down ter the ledge arter all."
He had begun to lie,--where would it end?
"Whyn't you-uns go?" demanded Barney, surprised.
"The wind war blowin' so powerful brief," Nick replied without a qualm.
"So I jes' s'arched fur a while in the woods back thar a piece."
In a moment more, Barney rose to his feet, picked up his coat, and put
it on. He did not notice the torn place, for the garment was old and
worn, and had many ragged edges. It lacked, however, but one button, and
that missing button was attached to the triangular bit of brown jeans
that fluttered on the thorny bush close to the Conscripts' Hollow.
All unconscious of his loss, he went away in the rich autumnal sunset,
leaving it there as a witness against him.