“What do ye jes’ set thar a-jowin’ at me fur, Ben, like a long-tongued
woman, ’bout what I done an’ what I hain’t done, in this hyar lonesome
place whar I hev been tolled ter by you-uns? I never begged ter be
’lowed ter herd along of ye, nohow. When I kem an’ axed ye ’bout’n it,
ye ’lowed ye’d be powerful glad. An’ ye said ez so many o’ the farmers
in the flat woods hed promised ter bunch thar cattle an’ send ’em up
ter ye fur the summer season, that ye war plumb skeered ’bout thar bein’
too many fur one man ter keer fur, an’ ye didn’t see how ye’d git along
’thout a partner. An’ ye ’lowed ye’d already rented Piomingo Bald right
reasonable, an’ the owners o’ the cattle would pay from seventy-five
cents to a dollar a head; an’ ye’d gin me a sheer ef I’d kem along an’
holp ye,—an’ all sech ez that. An’ I kem up in the spring, an’ I hev been
on this hyar durned pinnacle o’ perdition ever sence. It ’minds me all
the time o’ that thar high mounting in the Bible whar the Tempter showed
off all the kingdoms o’ the yearth. What ails ye ter git arter me? I
hain’t tried no minkish tricks on you-uns.”
“Ye hev, Mink. Yes, ye hev.”
Mink looked bewildered for a moment. Then a shade of consciousness
settled on his face. He lifted one foot over his knee, and affected
to examine the sole of his boot. The light zephyr was tossing his
long, tangled locks, the sun shone through their filaments. No vanity
was expressed in wearing them thus,—only some vague preference, some
prosaic prejudice against shears. Their fineness and lustre did nothing
to commend them, and they had been contemptuously called a “sandy
bresh-heap.” His bright eyes had a fringe of the same unique tint that
softened their expression. He dropped his boot presently, and fixed
his gaze upon a flitting yellow butterfly, lured by some unexplained
fascination of fragrance to these skyey heights.
“Ye can’t make out ez I stand in _yer_ way, enny,” he said at last,
enigmatically.
Doaks’s face flushed suddenly. “Naw, I ain’t claimin’ ez I hev enny
chance. Ef I hed, an’ ye _war_ in my way,” he continued, abruptly, with
a sudden flare of spirit, “I’d choke the life out’n ye, an’ fling yer
wu’thless carcass ter the wolves. I’d crush yer skull with the heel o’ my
boot!”
He stood up for a moment; then turned suddenly, and sat down again. Mink
looked at him curiously, with narrowing lids.
Doaks’s hands were trembling. His eyes were alert, alight. The blood
was pulsing fast through his veins. So revivified was he by the bare
contemplation of the contingency that he seemed hardly recognizable as
the honest, patient, taciturn comrade of Piomingo Bald.
“Waal,” Mink said presently, “that war one reason I wanted ter herd
along o’ you-uns this year. I ’lowed I’d make right smart money through
the summer season, an’ then me an’ Lethe would git married nex’ fall,
mebbe. My folks air so pore an’ shiftless,—an’ I’d ez lief live along of
a catamount ez Lethe’s step-mother,—an’ so I ’lowed we’d try ter git a
leetle ahead an’ set up for ourselves.”
Doaks trembled with half-repressed excitement.
“Ye tole me ez ye an’ she hed quar’led,” he said. “Ye never dreampt o’
sech a thing ez savin’ fur a house an’ sech till this minit. Ye ain’t
been ter see her sence ye hev been on the Big Smoky till ye fund out ez I
went down thar wunst in a while, an’ the old folks favored me.”
“Waal,” retorted Mink, hardily, “I know she’d make it up with me enny
minit I axed her.”
Doaks said nothing for a time. Then suddenly, “Waal, then, ef ye air
layin’ off ter marry Lethe Sayles, whyn’t ye quit hangin’ round Elviry
Crosby, an’ terrifyin’ Peter Rood out’n his boots? They’d hev been
married afore now, ef ye hed lef’ ’em be.”
“Whyn’t she quit hangin’ round me, ye’d better say!” exclaimed Mink, with
the flattered laugh of the lady-killer. “Laws-a-massy, I don’t want ter
interfere with nobody. Let the gals go ’long an’ marry who they please,—
an’ leave me alone!”
His manner implied, _if they can_! And he laughed once more.
Doaks glanced at him impatiently, and then turned his eyes away upon
the landscape. Fascinations invisible to the casual gaze revealed
themselves to him day by day. He had made discoveries. In some seeming
indefiniteness of the horizon he had found the added beauty of distant
heights, as if, while he looked, the softened outline of blue peaks,
given to the sight of no other creature, were sketched into the picture.
Once a sudden elusive silver glinting, imperceptible to eyes less trained
to the minutiæ of these long distances, told him the secret source of
some stream, unexplored to its head-waters in a dark and bosky ravine.
Sometimes he distinguished a stump which he had never seen before in a
collection of dead trees, girdled long ago, and standing among the corn
upon so high and steep a slope that the slant justified the descriptive
gibe of the region, “fields hung up to dry.” The sky too was his
familiar; he noted the vague, silent shapes of the mist that came and
went their unimagined ways. He watched the Olympian games of the clouds
and the wind. He marked the lithe lengths of a meteor glance across the
August heavens, like the elastic springing of a shining sword from its
sheath. The moon looked to meet him, waiting at his tryst on the bald.
He had become peculiarly sensitive to the electric conditions of the
atmosphere, and was forewarned of the terrible storms that are wont to
break on the crest of the great mountain.
Often Mink appealed to him as he did now, imputing a certain
responsibility.
“Enny thunder in that thar cloud?” he demanded, with the surly distrust
which accompanies the query, “Does your dog bite?”
“Naw; no thunder, nor rain nuther.”
“I’m powerful glad ter hear it, ’kase I don’t ’sociate with this hyar
bald when thar’s enny lightning around.”
He had heard the many legends of “lightning balls” that are represented
as ploughing the ground on Piomingo, and he spoke his fears with the
frankness of one possessed of unimpeachable courage.
“That’s what makes me _de_spise this hyar spot,” he said, irritably.
“Things ’pear so cur’ous. I feel like I hev accidentally stepped off’n
the face o’ the yearth. An’ I hev ter go mighty nigh spang down ter the
foot o’ the mounting ’fore I feel like folks agin.”
He glanced downward toward the nearest trees that asserted the right
of growth about this strange and barren place. “Ye can’t git used ter
nothin’, nuther. Them cur’ous leetle woods air enough ter make a man ’low
he hev got the jim-jams ez a constancy. I dunno _what’s_ in ’em! My flesh
creeps whenever I go through ’em. I always feel like ef I look _right
quick_ I’ll see suthin’ awful,—witches, or harnts, or—I dunno!”
He looked down at them again, quickly; but he was sure not quickly enough.
And the woods were of a strange aspect, chiefly of oaks with gnarled
limbs, full-leaved, bulky of bole, but all uniformly stunted, not one
reaching a height greater than fifteen feet. This characteristic gave a
weird, unnatural effect to the long avenues beneath their low-spreading
boughs. The dwarfed forest encircled Piomingo Bald, and stretched along
the summit of the range, unbroken save where other domes—Silar’s Bald,
Gregory’s Bald, and Parsons’ Bald—rose bare and gaunt against the sky.
“Ez ter witches an’ harnts an’ them, I ain’t never seen none hyar on
Piomingo Bald,” said Doaks. “It ain’t never hed the name o’ sech, like
Thunderhead.”
Mink placed his elbows on his knees, and held his chin in his hand. His
roving dark eyes were meditative now; some spell of imagination lay
bright in their depths.
“Hev _he_ been viewed lately?” he asked.
“Who?” demanded Doaks, rousing himself.
“That thar Herder on Thunderhead,” said Mink, lowering his voice. The
fibrous mist, hovering about the summit of Thunderhead and stretching
its long lines almost over to Piomingo Bald, might in some mysterious
telegraphy of the air transmit the matter.
“Not ez I knows on,” said Doaks. “He ain’t been viewed lately. But Joe
Boyd, he’s a-herdin’ over thar now: I kem acrost him one day las’ week,
an’ he ’lowed ez his cattle hed been actin’ powerful strange. I ’lowed
the cattle mus’ hev viewed the harnt, an’ mebbe he war tryin’ ter ’tice
’em off.”
“Ef ye’ll b’lieve me,” said Mink ruminatively, after a pause, “I never
hearn none o’ them boys tell a word about that thar harnt of a herder on
Thunderhead.”
“Them t’other herders on Thunderhead don’t hanker ter talk ’bout him,
no-ways,” said Doaks. “It’s powerful hard ter git a word out’n ’em ’bout
it; they’re mighty apt ter laff, an’ ’low it mus’ be somebody ridin’
roun’ from ’cross the line. But it’ll make enny of ’em bleach ef ye ax
’em suddint ef all o’ Joshua Nixon’s bones war buried tergether.”
The mists had spanned the abyss of the valley in a sheer, gossamer-like
network, holding the sunbeams in a glittering entanglement. They
elusively caressed the mountain summit, and hung about the two lounging
figures of the herders,—a sort of ethereal eavesdropping of uncomfortable
suggestions,—and slipped into the dwarfed woods, where they lurked
spectrally.
“Waal, ef ye ax ’em ef Joshua Nixon’s bones war all buried tergether
they’ll bleach,” Doaks repeated. “See that thar sort’n gap yander?” he
continued, pointing at a notch on the slope of Thunderhead. “They fund
his bones thar under a tree streck by lightning. They ’lowed that war
the way he died. But the wolves an’ the buzzards hedn’t lef’ enough ter
make sure. They hed scattered his bones all up an’ down the slope. He hed
herded over thar a good many year, an’ some o’ the t’other boys keered
fur the cattle till the owners kem in the fall.”
He recounted slowly. Time was no object on Piomingo Bald.
“Waal, nobody hearn nuthin’ mo’ ’bout’n it fur a few years, till one day
when I war herdin’ thar the cattle war all fund, runned mighty nigh ter
death, an’ a-bellerin’ an’ a-cavortin’ ez ef they war ’witched. An’ one
o’ the herders, Ike Stern, kem in thar ter the cabin an’ ’lowed he hed
seen a lot o’ strange cattle ’mongst our’n, an’ a herder ridin’ ’mongst
’em. ’Twar misty, bein’ a rainy spell, an’ he lost the herder in the
fog. Waal, we jes’ ’lowed ’twar somebody from Piomingo Bald huntin’ fur
strays, or somebody from ’cross the line. So we jes’ went on fryin’ the
meat, an’ bakin’ the hoe-cake, an’ settin’ roun’ the fire; but this hyar
man kept on complainin’ he couldn’t holp seein’ that thar herder. An’
wunst in a while he’d hold his hand afore his eyes. An’ one o’ the old
herders,—Rob Carrick ’twar,—he jes’ axed him what that herder looked
like. An’ Ike jes’ sot out ter tell. An’ the coffee war a-bilin’, an’ the
meat a-sizzlin’, an’ Carrick war a-squattin’ afore the fire a-listenin’
an’ a-turnin’ the meat, till all of a suddint he lept up an’ drapped his
knife, yellin’, ‘My God! ye lyin’ buzzard, don’t ye set thar a-tellin’
me ez Josh Nixon hev kem all the way from hell ter herd on Thunderhead!
Don’t ye do it! Don’t ye do it!’ An’ Ike Stern,—he looked like he seen
Death that minit; his eyes war like coals o’ fire, an’ he trembled all
over,—he jes’ said, ‘I see I hev been visited by the devil, fur I hev
been gin ter view a dead man, apin’ the motions o’ life.’”
Doaks pulled at his pipe for a few moments, his eyes still absently fixed
on the purple peak shimmering in the gauzy white mists and the yellow
sunshine.
“I never shell furgit that night. Thar war three men thar: one hed herded
along o’ Josh on Thunderhead, but Ike Stern had never seen him in life,
an’ me not at all. Waal, sir! the rain kem down on the roof, an’ the
wind war like the tromplin’ o’ a million o’ herds o’ wild cattle. We
’lowed we hed never hearn sech a plungin’ o’ the yellemints. The night
war ez dark ez a wolf’s mouth, ’cept when it lightened, an’ then we could
see we war wropped in the clouds. An’ through all them crackin’ peals
them men talked ’bout that thar harnt o’ a Herder on Thunderhead. Waal,
nex’ mornin’ Stern jes’ gin up his job, an’ went down the mounting ter
Piomingo Cove. An’ he stayed thar, too. They ’lowed he done no work fur a
year an’ a day. His time war withered an’ his mind seemed darkened.”
“He ’pears ter hev toler’ble good sense now,” said Mink, striving against
credulity.
“Yes, he hev spryed up powerful.”
“Waal,” said Mink, constrained by the fascination of the supernatural, “I
hev hearn ez Carrick seen the Herder, too.”
“He did,” replied Doaks. “Arter a while—a week, mebbe—Rob kem up ter me
an’ axed, ‘Whar’s them cattle a-bellerin’?’ I listened, but I never
hearn nuthin’. We hed missed some steers arter Ike hed seen the Herder,
an’ Rob war sorter ’feard they’d run down inter the cove. He jumped on
a half-bruk clay-bank colt an’ rid off, thinkin’ the bellerin’ mought
be them. Waal, time passed. I hed nuthin’ in partic’lar ter do: cattle
war salted the day before. Time passed. I jes’ sot thar. I ’lowed I’d
wait till Rob kem back, then I’d go a-huntin’. Time passed. I ’lowed
I’d furgit how ter talk ef I warn’t herdin’ along o’ sech a sociable
critter ez Rob, an’ I wondered ef I war by myself up on Thunderhead ef
I’d hev ter talk ter myse’f a little. An’ ez I sot thar in the fog—’twar
September then, an’ we war clouded ez a constancy—I said, jes’ like a
fool, out loud, suddint, ’Howdy, sir!’ Waal, I never _did_ know what I
seen ez I looked up; mought hev been the mist, mought hev been the devil.
I _’lowed_ I seen a man on a horse gallopin’ off in the fog. Then I hearn
a power o’ jouncin’ hoofs, an’ hyar kem Rob’s colt arearin’ an’ a-pawin’,
skeered ter death mighty nigh, with all the hide scraped off’n his knees,
an’ his shins barked bad. I seen he hed hed a fall; so I jumped up an’
run down a leetle piece along the trail, an’ thar war Rob lyin’ on the
groun’, flunged over the colt’s head ez neat an’ nip! I run up ter him.
I ’lowed he war hurt. He never answered a word I axed him. His eyes war
stretched open bigger ’n enny eye I ever seen, an’ he said, ‘Ye hev
viewed him too, Ben, I know it, fur ye’ve got the “harnt bleach.” I know
the reason now,’ says Rob, ’ez he herds on Thunderhead,—’kase his bones
warn’t all buried tergether, though we sarched nigh an’ we sarched fur.’”
“Did the Herder tell him that?” asked Mink, with a sudden accession of
credulity.
“Naw, ye durned fool!” exclaimed Doaks, scandalized at the idea of this
breach of spectral etiquette. “The Herder jes’ passed him like the wind,
an’ the colt jes’ reared and flung Rob over his head.”
“Waal,” said Mink sturdily, “I b’lieve ’twar nuthin’ but somebody from
the Car’liny side, ridin’ roun’ an’ tollin’ off cattle.”
“Mebbe,” said Doaks, non-committally. “Ye can’t prove nuthin’ by me. All
I know is, Carrick seen his face, an’ he jes’ fell in a sorter stupor
for a year an’ a day. I hev hearn o’ sech sperits ez can’t kill ye, but
jes’ wither yer time, an’ mebbe this hyar Herder on Thunderhead be one o’
them.”
Neither spoke, for some moments. Both sat gazing fixedly at the massive
mountain in the likeness of a cloud lowering aggressively over the mean
altitudes of the range. What wrath of elements did it hold enchained?
What bolts of heaven unhurled? What strange phenomena of being might lurk
in those mystic vapors metamorphosed into the solidities of earth—this
apostate cloud that asserted itself a mountain? The sky was clear about
it now; the mists had all drifted over to Piomingo Bald, veiling the
dwarfed forests.
Suddenly there was a vague shiver among them. Into the silence was
projected the report of a rifle. The two men sprang to their feet, and
looked at each other.
“Somebody a-huntin’, I reckon,” said Mink. He was beginning to laugh, a
little shamefacedly.
“Listen!” said Doaks. “What’s that?”
The cattle were bellowing with affright in the stunted woods. The earth
shook under their hoofs. A young bull came plunging out of the mists. He
paused as he reached the bare slope, lifted his head, and looked back
over his shoulder with great dilated eyes.
“What ails the cattle?” exclaimed Doaks, running down the slope. Mink
hesitated for a moment, then followed.
The boles of the dwarfed trees stood shadowy here and there, growing
still more indistinct further, and fading into the white opaque
blankness of the vapor. So low were their summits that one could see the
topmost boughs, despite the encompassing mist.
All the cattle were in the wildest excitement, snorting and bellowing,
and, with lowered horns, and tails in the air, they were making at full
speed for the upper regions of the bald. Each, bursting out of the
densities of the fog, separated from the others, seemed to give some
individual expression of bovine rage. There might be heard, but not seen,
an infuriated animal hard by, tearing up the ground.
“Waal, I never ’sperienced the like in my life off ’n Thunderhead!”
exclaimed Doaks.
Mink said nothing; he sprang aside to avoid the headlong rush of a brute
that shot out of the mist and into it again with the swift unreality of
an apparition.
Then he spoke suddenly. “Ye never said he rid with a rifle.”
“Who?” asked Doaks, bewildered. He was in advance. He looked back over
his shoulder. “Who?” he repeated.
“That thar Herder from Thunderhead.” said Mink.
“Ye dough-faced idjit,—what d’ ye mean?”
Mink pointed silently.
A few yards distant there was a rude barricade of felled trees, laid
together after the zigzag manner of a rail fence. It was intended to
prevent the cattle from running down a precipitous ravine which it
overlooked. Close to it in the mist a cow was lying. There was no
mistaking the attitude. The animal was dead. A carefully aimed rifle-ball
had penetrated the eye, and buried itself in the brain.