the T'other Mounting when all the world besides was lost in slumber;
the wan, melancholy light showed dimly the solemn trees and dense
undergrowth; the precarious pitfalls about his path; the long deep
gorges; the great crags and chasms; the cascades, steely gray, and
white; the huge mass, all hung about with shadows, which he knew
was Old Rocky-Top, rising from the impenetrably dark valley below.
It seemed wonderful to him, somehow, that a new day should break at
all. If, in a revulsion of nature, that utter blackness had continued
forever and ever it would not have been strange, after what had
happened. He could have borne it better than the sight of the familiar
world gradually growing into day, all unconscious of his secret. He
had begun the descent of the T'other Mounting, and he seemed to carry
that pale dawn with him; day was breaking when he reached the foot of
Old Rocky-Top, and as he climbed up to his own deserted, empty little
shanty, it too stood plainly defined in the morning light. He dragged
himself to the door, and impelled by some morbid fascination he glanced
over his shoulder at the T'other Mounting. There it was, unchanged,
with the golden largess of a gracious season blazing upon every
autumnal leaf. He shuddered, and went into the fireless, comfortless
house. And then he made an appalling discovery. As he mechanically
divested himself of his shot-pouch and powder-horn he was stricken
by a sudden consciousness that he did not have his gun! One doubtful
moment, and he remembered that he had laid it upon the crag when he had
thrown himself down to rest. Beyond question, it was there yet. His
conscience was still now,--his remorse had fled. It was only a matter
of time when his crime would be known. He recollected his meeting with
young White while he was hunting, and then Britt cursed the gun which
he had left on the cliff. The discovery of the weapon there would be
strong evidence against him, taken in connection with all the other
circumstances. True, he could even yet go back and recover it, but he
was mastered by the fear of meeting some one on the unfrequented road,
or even in the loneliness of the T'other Mounting, and strengthening
the chain of evidence against him by the fact of being once more seen
in the fateful neighborhood. He resolved that he would wait until
night-fall, and then he would retrace his way, secure his gun, and all
might yet be well with him. As to the bowlder,--were men never before
buried under the falling rocks of the T'other Mounting?
Without food, without rest, without sleep, his limbs rigid with the
strong tension of his nerves, his eyes bloodshot, haggard, and eager,
his brain on fire, he sat through the long morning hours absently
gazing across the narrow valley at the solemn, majestic mountain
opposite, and that sinister jutting crag with the indistinctly defined
ledges of its rugged surface.
After a time, the scene began to grow dim; the sun was still shining,
but through a haze becoming momently more dense. The brilliantly
tinted foliage upon the T'other Mounting was fading; the cliffs showed
strangely distorted faces through the semi-transparent blue vapor, and
presently they seemed to recede altogether; the valley disappeared, and
all the country was filled with the smoke of distant burning woods. He
was gasping when he first became sensible of the smoke-laden haze, for
he had seen nothing of the changing aspect of the landscape. Before his
vision was the changeless picture of a night of mingled moonlight and
shadow, the ill-defined black mass where Old Rocky-Top rose into the
air, the impenetrable gloom of the valley, the ledge of the crag, and
the unconscious figure slowly coming within the power of his murderous
hand. His eyes would look on no other scene, no other face, so long as
he should live.
He had a momentary sensation of stifling, and then a great weight
was lifted. For he had begun to doubt whether the unlucky locality
would account satisfactorily for the fall of that bowlder and the
horrible object beneath it; a more reasonable conclusion might be
deduced from the fact that he had been seen in the neighborhood, and
the circumstance of the deadly feud. But what wonder would there be if
the dry leaves on the T'other Mounting should be ignited and the woods
burned! What explanations might not such a catastrophe suggest!--a
frantic flight from the flames toward the cliff and an accidental
fall. And so he waited throughout the long day, that was hardly day
at all, but an opaque twilight, through which could be discerned only
the stony path leading down the slope from his door, only the blurred
outlines of the bushes close at hand, only the great gaunt limbs of a
lightning-scathed tree, seeming entirely severed from the unseen trunk,
and swinging in the air sixty feet above the earth.
Toward night-fall the wind rose and the smoke-curtain lifted, once
more revealing to the settlers upon Old Rocky-Top the sombre T'other
Mounting, with the belated evening light still lurid upon the
trees,--only a strange, faint resemblance of the sunset radiance,
rather the ghost of a dead day. And presently this apparition was gone,
and the deep purple line of the witched mountain's summit grew darker
against the opaline skies, till it was merged in a dusky black, and the
shades of the night fell thick on the landscape.
The scenic effects of the drama, that serve to widen the mental vision
and cultivate the imagination of even the poor in cities, were denied
these primitive, simple people; but that magnificent pageant of the
four seasons, wherein was forever presented the imposing splendor of
the T'other Mounting in an ever-changing grandeur of aspect, was a
gracious recompense for the spectacular privileges of civilization. And
this evening the humble family party on Nathan White's porch beheld a
scene of unique impressiveness.
The moon had not yet risen; the winds were awhirl; the darkness
draped the earth as with a pall. Out from the impenetrable gloom of
the woods on the T'other Mounting there started, suddenly, a scarlet
globe of fire; one long moment it was motionless, but near it the
spectral outline of a hand appeared beckoning, or warning, or raised
in horror,--only a leafless tree, catching in the distance a semblance
of humanity. Then from the still ball of fire there streamed upward a
long, slender plume of golden light, waving back and forth against the
pale horizon. Across the dark slope of the mountain below, flashes of
lightning were shooting in zigzag lines, and wherever they gleamed were
seen those frantic skeleton hands raised and wrung in anguish. It was
cruel sport for the cruel winds; they maddened over gorge and cliff and
along the wooded steeps, carrying far upon their wings the sparks of
desolation. From the summit, myriads of jets of flame reached up to the
placid stars; about the base of the mountain lurked a lake of liquid
fire, with wreaths of blue smoke hovering over it; ever and anon,
athwart the slope darted the sudden lightning, widening into sheets of
flame as it conquered new ground.
The astonishment on the faces grouped about Nathan White's door
was succeeded by a startled anxiety. After the first incoherent
exclamations of surprise came the pertinent inquiry from his wife, "Ef
Old Rocky-Top war ter ketch too, whar would we-uns run ter?"
Nathan White's countenance had in its expression more of astounded
excitement than of bodily fear. "Why, bless my soul!" he said at
length, "the woods away over yander, what hev been burnin' all day,
ain't nigh enough ter the T'other Mounting ter ketch it,--nuthin' like
it."
"The T'other Mounting would burn, though, ef fire war put ter it," said
his son. The two men exchanged a glance of deep significance.
"Do ye mean ter say," exclaimed Mrs. White, her fire-lit face agitated
by a sudden superstitious terror, "that that thar T'other Mounting is
fired by witches an' sech?"
"Don't talk so loud, Matildy," said her husband. "Them knows best ez
done it."
"Thar's one thing sure," quavered the old man: "that thar fire will
never tech a leaf on Old Rocky-Top. Thar's a church on this hyar
mounting,--bless the Lord fur it!--an' we lives in the fear o' God."
There was a pause, all watching with distended eyes the progress of the
flames.
"It looks like it mought hev been kindled in torment," said the young
daughter-in-law.
"It looks down thar," said her husband, pointing to the lake of fire,
"like the pit itself."
The apathetic inhabitants of Old Rocky-Top were stirred into an
activity very incongruous with their habits and the hour. During
the conflagration they traversed long distances to reach each
other's houses and confer concerning the danger and the questions of
supernatural agency provoked by the mysterious firing of the woods.
Nathan White had few neighbors, but above the crackling of the timber
and the roar of the flames there rose the quick beat of running
footsteps; the undergrowth of the forest near at hand was in strange
commotion; and at last, the figure of a man burst forth, the light of
the fire showing the startling pallor of his face as he staggered to
the little porch and sank, exhausted, into a chair.
"Waal, Caleb Hoxie!" exclaimed Nathan White, in good-natured raillery;
"ye're skeered, fur true! What ails ye, ter think Old Rocky-Top air
a-goin' ter ketch too? 'Tain't nigh dry enough, I'm a-thinkin'."
"Fire kindled that thar way can't tech a leaf on Old Rocky-Top,"
sleepily piped out the old man, nodding in his chair, the glare of
the flames which rioted over the T'other Mounting gilding his long
white hair and peaceful, slumberous face. "Thar's a church on Old
Rocky-Top,--bless the"--The sentence drifted away with his dreams.
"Does ye believe--them--them"--Caleb Hoxie's trembling white lips could
not frame the word--"them--done it?"
"Like ez not," said Nathan White. "But that ain't a-troublin' of ye
an' me. I ain't never hearn o' them witches a-tormentin' of honest
folks what ain't done nuthin' hurtful ter nobody," he added, in cordial
reassurance.
His son was half hidden behind one of the rough cedar posts, that his
mirth at the guest's display of cowardice might not be observed. But
the women, always quick to suspect, glanced meaningly at each other
with widening eyes, as they stood together in the door-way.
"I dunno,--I dunno," Caleb Hoxie declared huskily. "I ain't never done
nuthin' ter nobody, an' what do ye s'pose them witches an' sech done
ter me las' night, on that T'other Mounting? I war a-goin' over yander
to Gideon Croft's fur ter physic him, ez he air mortal low with the
fever; an' ez I war a-comin' alongside o' that thar high bluff"--it was
very distinct, with the flames wreathing fantastically about its gray,
rigid features--"they throwed a bowlder ez big ez this hyar porch down
on ter me. It jes' grazed me, an' knocked me down, an' kivered me with
dirt. An' I run home a-hollerin'; an' it seemed ter me ter-day ez I war
a-goin' ter screech an' screech all my life, like some onsettled crazy
critter. It 'peared like 'twould take a bar'l o' hop tea ter git me
quiet. An' now look yander!" and he pointed tremulously to the blazing
mountain.
There was an expression of conviction on the women's faces. All their
lives afterward it was there whenever Caleb Hoxie's name was mentioned;
no more to be moved or changed than the stern, set faces of the crags
among the fiery woods.
"Thar's a church on this hyar mounting," said the old man feebly,
waking for a moment, and falling asleep the next.
Nathan White was perplexed and doubtful, and a superstitious awe had
checked the laughing youngster behind the cedar post.
A great cloud of flame came rolling through the sky toward them,
golden, pellucid, spangled through and through with fiery red stars;
poising itself for one moment high above the valley, then breaking into
myriads of sparks, and showering down upon the dark abysses below.
"Look-a-hyar!" said the elder woman in a frightened under-tone to
her daughter-in-law; "this hyar wicked critter air too onlucky ter
be a-sittin' 'longside of us; we'll all be burnt up afore he gits
hisself away from hyar. An' who is that a-comin' yander?" For from the
encompassing woods another dark figure had emerged, and was slowly
approaching the porch. The wary eyes near Caleb Hoxie saw that he fell
to trembling, and that he clutched at a post for support. But the hand
pointing at him was shaken as with a palsy, and the voice hardly seemed
Tony Britt's as it cried out, in an agony of terror, "What air ye
a-doin' hyar, a-sittin' 'longside o' livin' folks? Yer bones air under
a bowlder on the T'other Mounting, an' ye air a dead man!"
* * * * *
They said ever afterward that Tony Britt had lost his mind "through
goin' a-huntin' jes' one time on the T'other Mounting. His spirit
air all broke, an' he's a mighty tame critter nowadays." Through his
persistent endeavor he and Caleb Hoxie became quite friendly, and he
was even reported to "'low that he war sati'fied that Caleb never
gin his wife nuthin' ter hurt." "Though," said the gossips of Old
Rocky-Top, "them women up ter White's will hev it no other way but that
Caleb pizened her, an' they wouldn't take no yerbs from him no more 'n
he war a rattlesnake. But Caleb always 'pears sorter skittish when he
an' Tony air tergether, like he didn't know when Tony war a-goin' ter
fotch him a lick. But law! Tony air that changed that ye can't make him
mad 'thout ye mind him o' the time he called Caleb a ghost."
A dark, gloomy, deserted place was the charred T'other Mounting through
all the long winter. And when spring came, and Old Rocky-Top was green
with delicate fresh verdure, and melodious with singing birds and
chorusing breezes, and bedecked as for some great festival with violets
and azaleas and laurel-blooms, the T'other Mounting was stark and
wintry and black with its desolate, leafless trees. But after a while
the spring came for it, too: the buds swelled and burst; flowering
vines festooned the grim gray crags; and the dainty freshness of the
vernal season reigned upon its summit, while all the world below was
growing into heat and dust. The circuit-rider said it reminded him of a
tardy change in a sinner's heart: though it come at the eleventh hour,
the glorious summer is before it, and a full fruition; though it work
but an hour in the Lord's vineyard, it receives the same reward as
those who labored through all the day.
"An' it always did 'pear ter me ez thar war mighty little jestice in
that," was Mrs. White's comment.
But at the meeting when that sermon was preached Tony Britt told his
"experience." It seemed a confession, for according to the gossips he
"'lowed that he hed flung that bowlder down on Caleb Hoxie,--what the
witches flung, ye know,--'kase he believed then that Caleb hed killed
his wife with pizenous yerbs; an' he went back the nex' night an' fired
the woods, ter make folks think when they fund Caleb's bones that he
war a-runnin' from the blaze an' fell off'n the bluff." And everybody
on Old Rocky-Top said incredulously, "Pore Tony Britt! He hev los' his
mind through goin' a-huntin' jes' one time on the T'other Mounting."
THE "HARNT" THAT WALKS CHILHOWEE.
June had crossed the borders of Tennessee. Even on the summit of
Chilhowee Mountain the apples in Peter Giles's orchard were beginning
to redden, and his Indian corn, planted on so steep a declivity that
the stalks seemed to have much ado to keep their footing, was crested
with tassels and plumed with silk. Among the dense forests, seen by no
man's eye, the elder was flying its creamy banners in honor of June's
coming, and, heard by no man's ear, the pink and white bells of the
azalea rang out melodies of welcome.
"An' it air a toler'ble for'ard season. Yer wheat looks likely; an'
yer gyarden truck air thrivin' powerful. Even that cold spell we-uns
hed about the full o' the moon in May ain't done sot it back none, it
'pears like ter me. But, 'cording ter my way o' thinkin', ye hev got
chickens enough hyar ter eat off every pea-bloom ez soon ez it opens."
And Simon Burney glanced with a gardener's disapproval at the numerous
fowls, lifting their red combs and tufted top-knots here and there
among the thick clover under the apple-trees.
"Them's Clarsie's chickens,--my darter, ye know," drawled Peter Giles,
a pale, listless, and lank mountaineer. "An' she hev been gin ter
onderstand ez they hev got ter be kep' out 'n the gyarden; 'thout,"
he added indulgently,--"'thout I'm a-plowin', when I lets 'em foller
in the furrow ter pick up worms. But law! Clarsie is so spry that she
don't ax no better 'n ter be let ter run them chickens off 'n the peas."
Then the two men tilted their chairs against the posts of the little
porch in front of Peter Giles's log cabin, and puffed their pipes in
silence. The panorama spread out before them showed misty and dreamy
among the delicate spiral wreaths of smoke. But was that gossamer-like
illusion, lying upon the far horizon, the magic of nicotian, or the
vague presence of distant heights? As ridge after ridge came down
from the sky in ever-graduating shades of intenser blue, Peter Giles
might have told you that this parallel system of enchantment was only
"the mountings:" that here was Foxy, and there was Big Injun, and
still beyond was another, which he had "hearn tell ran spang up into
Virginny." The sky that bent to clasp this kindred blue was of varying
moods. Floods of sunshine submerged Chilhowee in liquid gold, and
revealed that dainty outline limned upon the northern horizon; but over
the Great Smoky mountains clouds had gathered, and a gigantic rainbow
bridged the valley.
Peter Giles's listless eyes were fixed upon a bit of red clay road,
which was visible through a gap in the foliage far below. Even a tiny
object, that ant-like crawled upon it, could be seen from the summit of
Chilhowee. "I reckon that's my brother's wagon an' team," he said, as
he watched the moving atom pass under the gorgeous triumphal arch. "He
'lowed he war goin' ter the Cross-Roads ter-day."
Simon Burney did not speak for a moment. When he did, his words seemed
widely irrelevant. "That's a likely gal o' yourn," he drawled, with an
odd constraint in his voice,--"a likely gal, that Clarsie."
There was a quick flash of surprise in Peter Giles's dull eyes. He
covertly surveyed his guest, with an astounded curiosity rampant in
his slow brains. Simon Burney had changed color; an expression of
embarrassment lurked in every line of his honest, florid, hard-featured
face. An alert imagination might have detected a deprecatory
self-consciousness in every gray hair that striped the black beard
raggedly fringing his chin.
"Yes," Peter Giles at length replied, "Clarsie air a likely enough gal.
But she air mightily sot ter hevin' her own way. An' ef 't ain't give
ter her peaceable-like, she jes' takes it, whether or no."
This statement, made by one presumably fully informed on the subject,
might have damped the ardor of many a suitor,--for the monstrous truth
was dawning on Peter Giles's mind that suitor was the position to which
this slow, elderly widower aspired. But Simon Burney, with that odd,
all-pervading constraint still prominently apparent, mildly observed,
"Waal, ez much ez I hev seen of her goin's-on, it 'pears ter me ez her
way air a mighty good way. An' it ain't comical that she likes it."
Urgent justice compelled Peter Giles to make some amends to the absent
Clarissa. "That's a fac'," he admitted. "An' Clarsie ain't no hand
ter jaw. She don't hev no words. But then," he qualified, truth and
consistency alike constraining him, "she air a toler'ble hard-headed
gal. That air a true word. Ye mought ez well try ter hender the sun
from shining ez ter make that thar Clarsie Giles do what she don't want
ter do."
To be sure, Peter Giles had a right to his opinion as to the hardness
of his own daughter's head. The expression of his views, however,
provoked Simon Burney to wrath; there was something astir within him
that in a worthier subject might have been called a chivalric thrill,
and it forbade him to hold his peace. He retorted: "Of course ye kin
say that, ef so minded; but ennybody ez hev got eyes kin see the
change ez hev been made in this hyar place sence that thar gal hev
been growed. I ain't a-purtendin' ter know that thar Clarsie ez well
ez you-uns knows her hyar at home, but I hev seen enough, an' a deal
more'n enough, of her goin's-on, ter know that what she does ain't done
fur _herself_. An' ef she will hev her way, it air fur the good of the
whole tribe of ye. It 'pears ter me ez thar ain't many gals like that
thar Clarsie. An' she air a merciful critter. She air mighty savin'
of the feelin's of everything, from the cow an' the mare down ter the
dogs, an' pigs, an' chickens; always a-feedin' of 'em jes' ter the
time, an' never draggin', an' clawin', an' beatin' of 'em. Why, that
thar Clarsie can't put her foot out'n the door, that every dumb beastis
on this hyar place ain't a-runnin' ter git nigh her. I hev seen them
pigs mos' climb the fence when she shows her face at the door. 'Pears
ter me ez that thar Clarsie could tame a b'ar, ef she looked at him a
time or two, she's so savin' o' the critter's feelin's! An' thar's that
old yaller dog o' yourn," pointing to an ancient cur that was blinking
in the sun, "he's older'n Clarsie, an' no 'count in the worl'. I hev
hearn ye say forty times that ye would kill him, 'ceptin' that Clarsie
purtected him, an' hed sot her heart on his a-livin' along. An' all the
home-folks, an' everybody that kems hyar to sot an' talk awhile, never
misses a chance ter kick that thar old dog, or poke him with a stick,
or cuss him. But Clarsie!--I hev seen that gal take the bread an' meat
off'n her plate, an' give it ter that old dog, ez 'pears ter me ter be
the worst dispositionest dog I ever see, an' no thanks lef' in him.
He hain't hed the grace ter wag his tail fur twenty year. That thar
Clarsie air surely a merciful critter, an' a mighty spry, likely young
gal, besides."
Peter Giles sat in stunned astonishment during this speech, which
was delivered in a slow, drawling monotone, with frequent meditative
pauses, but nevertheless emphatically. He made no reply, and as they
were once more silent there rose suddenly the sound of melody upon the
air. It came from beyond that tumultuous stream that raced with the
wind down the mountain's side; a great log thrown from bank to bank
served as bridge. The song grew momentarily more distinct; among the
leaves there were fugitive glimpses of blue and white, and at last
Clarsie appeared, walking lightly along the log, clad in her checked
homespun dress, and with a pail upon her head.
She was a tall, lithe girl, with that delicately transparent complexion
often seen among the women of these mountains. Her lustreless black
hair lay along her forehead without a ripple or wave; there was
something in the expression of her large eyes that suggested those of
a deer,--something free, untamable, and yet gentle. "'Tain't no wonder
ter me ez Clarsie is all tuk up with the wild things, an' critters
ginerally," her mother was wont to say. "She sorter looks like 'em, I'm
a-thinkin'."
As she came in sight there was a renewal of that odd constraint in
Simon Burney's face and manner, and he rose abruptly. "Waal," he said,
hastily, going to his horse, a raw-boned sorrel, hitched to the fence,
"it's about time I war a-startin' home, I reckons."
He nodded to his host, who silently nodded in return, and the old horse
jogged off with him down the road, as Clarsie entered the house and
placed the pail upon a shelf.
"Who d'ye think hev been hyar a-speakin' of compli_mints_ on ye,
Clarsie?" exclaimed Mrs. Giles, who had overheard through the open door
every word of the loud, drawling voice on the porch.
Clarsie's liquid eyes widened with surprise, and a faint tinge of rose
sprang into her pale face, as she looked an expectant inquiry at her
mother.
Mrs. Giles was a slovenly, indolent woman, anxious, at the age of
forty-five, to assume the prerogatives of advanced years. She had
placed all her domestic cares upon the shapely shoulders of her willing
daughter, and had betaken herself to the chimney-corner and a pipe.
"Yes, thar hev been somebody hyar a-speakin' of compli_mints_ on ye,
Clarsie," she reiterated, with chuckling amusement. "He war a mighty
peart, likely boy,--that he war!"
Clarsie's color deepened.
"Old Simon Burney!" exclaimed her mother, in great glee at the
incongruity of the idea. "_Old Simon Burney!_--jes' a-sittin' out thar,
a-wastin' the time, an' a-burnin' of daylight--jes' ez perlite an'
smilin' ez a basket of chips--a-speakin' of compli_mints_ on ye!"
There was a flash of laughter among the sylvan suggestions of Clarsie's
eyes,--a flash as of sudden sunlight upon water. But despite her mirth
she seemed to be unaccountably disappointed. The change in her manner
was not noticed by her mother, who continued banteringly,--
"Simon Burney air a mighty pore old man. Ye oughter be sorry fur
him, Clarsie. Ye mustn't think less of folks than ye does of the
dumb beastis,--that ain't religion. Ye knows ye air sorry fur mos'
everything; why not fur this comical old consarn? Ye oughter marry him
ter take keer of him. He said ye war a merciful critter; now is yer
chance ter show it! Why, air ye a-goin' ter weavin', Clarsie, jes' when
I wants ter talk ter ye 'bout'n old Simon Burney? But law! I knows ye
kerry him with ye in yer heart."
The girl summarily closed the conversation by seating herself before a
great hand-loom; presently the persistent thump, thump, of the batten
and the noisy creak of the treadle filled the room, and through all
the long, hot afternoon her deft, practiced hands lightly tossed the
shuttle to and fro.