I
THE cave had been their hiding-place as children; it was a secret refuge
now against hunger or darkness when they were hunting in the woods. The
primitive meal was finished; ashes were raked over the red coals; the
slice of bacon and the little bag of meal were hung high against
the rock wall; and the two stepped from the cavern into a thicket of
rhododendrons.
Parting the bushes toward the dim light, they stood on a massive
shoulder of the mountain, the river girding it far below, and the
afternoon shadows at their feet. Both carried guns-the tall mountaineer,
a Winchester; the boy, a squirrel rifle longer than himself. Climbing
about the rocky spur, they kept the same level over log and bowlder and
through bushy ravine to the north. In half an hour, they ran into a path
that led up home from the river, and they stopped to rest on a cliff
that sank in a solid black wall straight under them. The sharp edge of a
steep corn-field ran near, and, stripped of blade and tassel, the stalks
and hooded ears looked in the coming dusk a little like monks at prayer.
In the sunlight across the river the corn stood thin and frail. Over
there a drought was on it; and when drifting thistle-plumes marked the
noontide of the year, each yellow stalk had withered blades and an empty
sheath. Everywhere a look of vague trouble lay upon the face of the
mountains, and when the wind blew, the silver of the leaves showed
ashen. Autumn was at hand.
There was no physical sign of kinship between the two, half-brothers
though they were. The tall one was dark; the boy, a foundling, had
flaxen hair, and was stunted and slender. He was a dreamy-looking little
fellow, and one may easily find his like throughout the Cumberland-paler
than his fellows, from staying much indoors, with half-haunted face, and
eyes that are deeply pathetic when not cunning; ignorantly credited with
idiocy and uncanny powers; treated with much forbearance, some awe, and
a little contempt; and suffered to do his pleasure-nothing, or much that
is strange-without comment.
“I tell ye, Rome,” he said, taking up the thread of talk that was broken
at the cave, “when Uncle Gabe says he's afeard thar's trouble comm',
hit's a-comm'; 'n' I want you to git me a Winchester. I'm a-gittin' big
enough now. I kin shoot might' nigh as good as you, 'n' whut am I fit
fer with this hyeh old pawpaw pop-gun?”
“I don't want you fightin', boy, I've told ye. Y'u air too little 'n'
puny, 'n' I want ye to stay home 'n' take keer o' mam 'n' the cattle-ef
fightin' does come, I reckon thar won't be triuch.”
“Don't ye?” cried the boy, with sharp contempt--“with ole Jas Lewallen
a-devilin' Uncle Rufe, 'n' that blackheaded young Jas a-climbin' on
stumps over thar 'cross the river, n' crowin' n' sayin' out open in
Hazlan that ye air afeard o him? Yes; 'n' he called me a idgit.” The
boy's voice broke into a whimper of rage.
“Shet up, Isom! Don't you go gittin' mad now. You'll be sick ag'in. I'll
tend to him when the time comes.” Rome spoke with rough kindness, but
ugly lines had gathered at his mouth and forehead. The boy's tears came
and went easily. He drew his sleeve across his eyes, and looked up the
river. Beyond the bend, three huge birds rose into the sunlight and
floated toward them. Close at hand, they swerved side-wise.
“They hain't buzzards,” he said, standing up, his anger gone; “look at
them straight wings!”
Again the eagles swerved, and two shot across the river. The third
dropped with shut wings to the bare crest of a gaunt old poplar under
them.
“Hit's a young un, Romey,” said the boy, excitedly. “He's goin' to wait
thar tell the old uns come back. Gimme that gun!”
Catching up the Winchester, he slipped over the ledge; and Rome leaned
suddenly forward, looking down at the river.
A group of horsemen had ridden around the bend, and were coming at
a walk down the other shore. Every man carried something across his
saddle-bow. There was a gray horse among them--young Jasper's--and an
evil shadow came into Rome's face, and quickly passed. Near a strip of
woods the gray turned up the mountain from the party, and on its back he
saw the red glint of a woman's dress. With a half-smile he watched the
scarlet figure ride from the woods, and climb slowly up through the
sunny corn. On the spur above and full in the rich yellow light, she
halted, half turning in her saddle. He rose to his feet, to his full
height, his head bare, and thrown far back between his big shoulders,
and, still as statues, the man and the woman looked at each other across
the gulf of darkening air. A full minute the woman sat motionless, then
rode on. At the edge of the woods she stopped and turned again.
The eagle under Rome leaped one stroke in the air, and dropped like a
clod into the sea of leaves. The report of the gun and a faint cry of
triumph rose from below. It was good marksmanship, but on the cliff Rome
did not heed it. Something had fluttered in the air above the girl's
head, and he laughed aloud. She was waving her bonnet at him.