NEXT day the news of Rufe Stetson's flight went down the river on the
wind, and before nightfall the spirit of murder was loosed on both
shores of the Cumberland. The more cautious warned old Jasper. The
Stetsons were gaining strength again, they said; so were their feudsmen,
the Marcums, enemies of the Braytons, old Jasper's kinspeople. Keeping
store, Rufe had made money in the West, and money and friends right
and left through the mountains. With all his good-nature, he was a
persistent hater, and he was shrewd. He had waited the chance to put
himself on the side of the law, and now the law was with him. But old
Jasper laughed contemptuously. Rufe Stetson was gone again, he said, as
he had gone before, and this time for good. Rufe had tried to do
what nobody had done, or could do, while he was alive. Anyway, he was
reckless, and he cared little if war did come again. Still, the old man
prepared for a fight, and Steve Marcum on the other shore made ready for
Rufe's return.
It was like the breaking of peace in feudal days. The close kin of each
leader were already about him, and now the close friends of each took
sides. Each leader trading in Hazlan had debtors scattered through the
mountains, and these rallied to aid the man who had befriended them.
There was no grudge but served a pretext for partisanship in the coming
war. Political rivalry had wedged apart two strong families, the Marcums
and Braytons; a boundary line in dispute was a chain of bitterness; a
suit in a country court had sown seeds of hatred. Sometimes it was a
horse-trade, a fence left down, or a gate left open, and the trespassing
of cattle; in one instance, through spite, a neighbor had docked the
tail of a neighbor's horse--had “muled his critter,” as the owner
phrased the outrage. There was no old sore that was not opened by the
crafty leaders, no slumbering bitterness that they did not wake to life.
“Help us to revenge, and we will help you,” was the whispered promise.
So, had one man a grudge against another, he could set his foot on one
or the other shore, sure that his enemy would be fighting for the other.
Others there were, friends of neither leader, who, under stress of
poverty or hatred of work, would fight with either for food and clothes;
and others still, the ne'er-do-wells and outlaws, who fought by the day
or month for hire. Even these were secured by one or the other faction,
for Steve and old Jasper left no resource untried, knowing well that the
fight, if there was one, would be fought to a quick and decisive end.
The day for the leisurely feud, for patient planning, and the slow
picking off of men from one side or the other, was gone. The people in
the Blue Grass, who had no feuds in their own country, were trying
to stop them in the mountain. Over in Breathitt, as everybody knew,
soldiers had come from the “settlemints,” had arrested the leaders,
and had taken them to the Blue Grass for the feared and hated ordeal
of trial by a jury of “bigoted furriners.” On the heels of the soldiers
came a young preacher up from the Jellico hills, half “citizen,” half
“furriner,” with long black hair and a scar across his forehead, who was
stirring up the people, it was said, “as though Satan was atter them.”
Over there the spirit of the feud was broken, and a good effect was
already perceptible around Hazlan. In past days every pair of lips was
sealed with fear, and the non-combatants left crops and homes, and moved
down the river, when trouble began. Now only the timid considered this
way of escape. Steve and old Jasper found a few men who refused to enter
the fight. Several, indeed, talked openly against the renewal of the
feud, and somebody, it was said, had dared to hint that he would send to
the Governor for aid if it should break out again. But these were rumors
touching few people.
For once again, as time and time again before, one bank of the
Cumberland was arrayed with mortal enmity against the other, and old
Gabe sat, with shaken faith, in the door of his mill. For years he had
worked and prayed for peace, and for a little while the Almighty seemed
lending aid. Now the friendly grasp was loosening, and yet the miller
did all he could. He begged Steve Marcum to urge Rufe to seek aid from
the law when the latter came back; and Steve laughed, and asked what
justice was possible for a Stetson, with a Lewallen for a judge and
Braytons for a jury. The miller pleaded with old Jasper, and old Jasper
pointed to the successes of his own life.
“I hev triumphed ag'in' my enemies time 'n' ag'in,” he said. “The Lord
air on my side, 'n' I gits a better Christian ever' year.” The old man
spoke with the sincerity of a barbarism that has survived the dark ages,
and, holding the same faith, the miller had no answer. It was old Gabe
indeed who had threatened to send to the Governor for soldiers, and this
he would have done, perhaps, had there not been one hope left, and only
one. A week had gone, and there was no word from Rufe Stetson. Up on
Thunderstruck Knob the old Stetson mother was growing pitiably eager and
restless. Every day she slipped like a ghost through the leafless woods
and in and out the cabin, kindling hatred. At every dawn or dusk she
was on her porch peering through the dim light for Rufe Stetson. Steve
Marcum was ill at ease. Rome Stetson alone seemed unconcerned, and his
name was on every gossiping tongue.
He took little interest and no hand in getting ready for the war. He
forbade the firing of a gun till Rufe came back, else Steve should fight
his fight alone. He grew sullen and morose. His old mother's look was a
thorn in his soul, and he stayed little at home. He hung about the mill,
and when Isom became bedfast, the big mountaineer, who had never handled
anything but a horse, a plough, or a rifle, settled him-self, to the
bewilderment of the Stetsons, into the boy's duties, and nobody dared
question him. Even old Gabe jested no longer. The matter was too
serious.
Meanwhile the winter threw off the last slumbrous mood of autumn, as a
sleeper starts from a dream. A fortnight was gone, and still no message
came from the absent leader. One shore was restive, uneasy; the other
confident, mocking. Between the two, Rome Stetson waited his chance at
the mill.