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Title: In the clouds
Author: Charles Egbert Craddock
Release date: November 8, 2024 [eBook #74706]
Language: English
Original publication: Boston: Houghton, Mifflin and Company
Credits: Peter Becker and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN THE CLOUDS ***
BOOKS BY
“Charles Egbert Craddock.”
(MARY N. MURFREE.)
IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS. Short Stories. 16mo, $1.25.
DOWN THE RAVINE. A Story for Young People. Illustrated. 16mo, $1.00.
THE PROPHET OF THE GREAT SMOKY MOUNTAINS. A Novel. 16mo, $1.25.
IN THE CLOUDS. A Novel. 16mo, $1.25.
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.
BOSTON AND NEW YORK.
IN THE CLOUDS
BY
CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK,
AUTHOR OF “IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS,” “DOWN THE RAVINE,”
“THE PROPHET OF THE GREAT SMOKY MOUNTAINS,” ETC.
[Illustration]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
The Riverside Press, Cambridge
1887
Copyright, 1886,
BY MARY N. MURFREE.
_All rights reserved._
_The Riverside Press, Cambridge_:
Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Co.
IN THE CLOUDS.
I.
In the semblance of the cumulus-cloud from which it takes its name,
charged with the portent of the storm, the massive peak of Thunderhead
towers preëminent among the summits of the Great Smoky Mountains, unique,
impressive, most subtly significant.
What strange attraction of the earth laid hold on this vagrant
cloud-form? What unexplained permanence of destiny solidified it and
fixed it forever in the foundations of the range?
Kindred thunderheads of the air lift above the horizon, lure, loiter,
lean on its shoulder with similitudes and contrasts. Then with all the
buoyant liberties of cloudage they rise,—rise!
Alas! the earth clasps its knees; the mountains twine their arms about
it; hoarded ores of specious values weigh it down. It cannot soar! Only
the cumbrous image of an ethereal thing! Only the ineffective wish vainly
fashioned like the winged aspiration!
It may have said naught of this to Ben Doaks, but it exerted strenuous
fascinations on the sense alert to them. Always he turned his eyes toward
Thunderhead, as he came and went among his cattle on the neighboring
heights of Piomingo Bald, a few miles distant to the northeast. Often he
left the herder’s cabin in the woods below, and sat for hours on a rock
on the summit, smoking his pipe and idly watching the varying aspects of
the great peak. Sometimes it was purple against the azure heavens; or
gray and sharp of outline on faint green spaces of the sky; or misty,
immaterial, beset with clouds, as if the clans had gathered to claim the
changeling.
“’Pears-like ter me ez I couldn’t herd cattle along of a mo’
low-sperited, say-nuthin’ critter’n ye be, Ben,” his partner remarked
one day, sauntering up the slope and joining him on the summit. “Ye
jes’ set up hyar on the bald an’ gape at Thunderhead like ez ef
ye war bereft. Now, down in the cove ye always air toler’ble good
company,—nimble-tongued ez ennybody.”
He thrust his cob-pipe into his mouth and pulled away silently at
it, gazing at the smoke as it curled up with delicate sinuosity and
transparently blue.
Ben Doaks did not reply at once. There was no need of haste on Piomingo
Bald.
“Waal, I dunno but it air a sorter lonesome place, an’ a-body don’t feel
much like talkin’ no-ways,” he drawled at last. “But ye’ll git used ter
it, Mink,” he added, in leisurely encouragement. “Ye’ll git used ter it,
arter a while.”
Mink looked down disconsolately at the vast array of mountains below him
on every side. The nearest were all tinged with a dusky purple, except
for the occasional bare, garnet-colored stretches of the “fire-scalds,”
relics of the desolation when the woods were burned; the varying tints
were sublimated to blue in the distance; then through every charmed
gradation of ethereal azure the ranges faded into the invisible spaces
that we wot not of. There was something strangely overwhelming in the
stupendous expanse of the landscape. It abashed the widest liberties
of fancy. Somehow it disconcerted all past experience, all previous
prejudice, all credence in other conditions of life. The fact was visibly
presented to the eye that the world is made of mountains.
That finite quality of the mind, aptly expressing itself in mensuration,
might find a certain relief in taking note of the curious “bald”
itself,—seeming some three or four hundred bare acres on the summit. Wild
grass grows upon its gradual slope; clumps of huckleberry bushes appear
here and there; occasional ledges of rock crop out. A hardy flower will
turn a smiling face responsive to the measured patronage of the chilly
sunshine in this rare air. The solemnity of the silence is broken only by
the occasional tinkling of cow-bells from the herds of cattle among the
woods lower down on the mountain side.
“I never kin git used ter it,” said Mink, desperately. “I never kin git
used ter hevin’ sech dumbness about me, an’ seein’ the time go so slow.
’Pears ter me some fower or five hunderd year sence we eat brekfus’,—an’
I ain’t hongry, nuther.”
He was a tall, singularly lithe man of twenty-four or five, clad in
a suit of brown jeans. He wore his coat closely buttoned over his
blue-checked cotton shirt, for the August days are chilly on Piomingo
Bald. His broad-brimmed white wool hat was thrust back on his head,
showing his tousled auburn hair that hung down upon his collar, curling
like a cavalier’s. He had a keen, clear profile, a quickly glancing, dark
eye, and his complexion was tanned to a rich tint that comported well
with the out-door suggestions of his powder-horn and belt and shot-pouch,
which he wore, although his rifle was at the cabin. He maintained the
stolid gravity characteristic of the mountaineer, but there was a covert
alertness about him, a certain sharpness of attention almost inimical,
and slow and dawdling as he was he gave the impression of being endowed
with many an agile unclassified mental faculty.
His eyes followed the flight of a bird soaring in great circles high
above the “bald,” sometimes balanced motionless in mid-air,—a pose of
ineffable strength and buoyancy,—then majestically circling as before.
“That thar buzzard ’pears ter be a-loungin’ around in the sky, a-waitin’
fur we-uns ter die,” he said, lugubriously.
Doaks broke with an effort from his reverie, and turned his languid gaze
on the malcontent herder.
“In the name o’ heaven, Mink Lorey,” he said solemnly, “what is it ye
_do_ like ter do?”
Despite the spark of irritation in his eye, he seemed colorless,
especially as contrasted with his comrade. He had a shock of fair hair
and a light brown beard; the complexion which is the complement of this
type had freckled in its exposure to the sun instead of tanning, and
added its original pallor to the negative effect. He had good features,
but insignificant in their lack of any marked peculiarity except for the
honest, candid look in the serious gray eye. He too wore a broad white
wool hat and a suit of brown jeans.
Mink gazed at his companion with an expression of brightening interest.
He found himself and his own idiosyncrasies, even when berated, more
agreeable to contemplate than the mountains. He did not reply, perhaps
appreciating that no answer was expected.
“Ye don’t like ter herd up hyar, an’ the Lord knows I ain’t keerin’ ter
hev ye. Ye hev gin me ez much trouble ez all the cattle an’ thar owners
besides. When ye wanted ter kem so bad, an’ sorter go partners with me,
I ’lowed ye’d be lively, an’ a toler’ble good critter ter hev along. An’
ye hev been ez lonesome an’ ez onconsiderate an’ ez ill-convenient ez a
weanin’ baby,” he declared, rising to hyperbole. “What _do_ ye like ter
do?”
Once more Mink refrained from reply. He looked absently at an isolated
drift of mist, gigantic of outline, reaching from the zenith to the
depths of Piomingo Cove, and slowly passing down the valley between the
Great Smoky and the sun-flooded Chilhowee Mountain, obscuring for the
moment the red clay banks of the Scolacutta River, whose current seemed a
mere silver thread twining in and out of the landscape.
“Look a-hyar at the way ye go on,” said Doaks, warming to the subject,
for there are few exercises so entertaining as to preach with no sense of
participation in sin. “Ye went ter work at that thar silver mine in North
Car’liny, an’ thar ye stayed sorter stiddy an’ peaceful till ye seen yer
chance. An’ Pete Rood, he kem an’ stayed too, an’ he war sorter skeered
o’ the ways,—not bein’ used ter minin’. An’ then yer minkish tricks
began. Fust, when that thar feller war let down inter the shaft an’ ye
hed a-holt o’ the windlass, ye drapped a few clods o’ clay in on him, an’
then a leetle gravel, an’ then mo’ clay. Then he bellered that the shaft
war cavin’ in on him, an’ plead an’ prayed with ye ter wind him up quick.
An’ ye wouldn’t pull. An’ when the t’other fellers run thar an’ drawed
that man out he war weak enough ter drap.”
“I ’member!” cried Mink, with a burst of unregenerate laughter. “He said,
‘Lemme git out’n this spindlin’ hell o’ a well!’”
He sprang up, grotesquely imitating the gesture of exhaustion with which
the man had stepped out of the bucket to firm ground.
“Waal, it mought hev turned out a heap wus,” said Doaks, “’kase they
’lowed down yander ’bout Big Injun Mounting, whar Rood hails from, ez he
hev got some sort’n heart-disease. An’ a suddint skeer mought hev killed
him.”
“Shucks!” said Mink, incredulously. He looked disconcerted, however, and
then sat down on the rock as before. Ben Doaks went on:—
“An’ that warn’t enough fur ye. When they hed Rood thar a-pumpin’ out
water, all by himself all night, nuthin’ would do ye but ye must hide up
thar in the Lost-Time mine in the dark o’ the midnight an’ the rain, an’
explode a lot o’ gunpowder, an’ kem a-bustin’ out at him from the mouth
o’ the tunnel, wropped in a sheet an’ howlin’ like a catamount. He run
mighty nigh a mile.”
“Waal,” said Mink, in sturdy argument, “I ain’t ’sponsible ’kase Peter
Rood air toler’ble easy skeered.”
“They never hired ye ter work thar no mo’, bein’ ez that war ’bout all
the use ye put yerse’f ter in the silver mine in North Car’liny.”
Despite the reproof, Doaks was looking kindly at him, for the wayward
Mink had evidently endeared himself in some sort to the elder herder, who
was weakly conscious of not regarding his enormities with the aversion
they merited.
The young man’s countenance fell. His mischief differed from that of his
namesake in all the sequelæ of an accusing conscience. But stay! What
do we know of the mink’s midday meditations, his sober, _ex post facto_
regrets?
“An’ what do ye do then,—’kase they turned ye off? Ye go thar of a night,
when nobody’s at the windlass, an’ ye busts it down an’ flings the bucket
an’ rope an’ all down the shaft.”
Mink was embarrassed. “How d’ ye know?” he retorted, with acrid futility.
“How d’ ye know ’twar me?”
“’Kase it air fairly kin ter yer actions,—know it by the family favor,”
said Doaks. “Ax ennybody ennywhar round the Big Smoky who did sech an’
sech, an’ they’d all say, Mink. Ye know the word they hev gin ye, ‘Mink
by name an’ Mink by natur.’”
Lorey made no further feint of denial. He seemed a trifle out of
countenance. He glanced over his shoulder at the rugged horizontal
summit line of Chilhowee, rising high above the intervenient mountains,
and sharply imposed upon the mosaic of delicate tints known as the
valley of East Tennessee, which stretches so far that, despite its
sharp inequalities, it seems to have the level monotony of the sea till
Walden’s Ridge, the great outpost of the Cumberland Mountains, meets the
concave sky.
Then, as his wandering attention returned to those sterner heights close
at hand, their inexpressible gravity, their significant solemnity, which
he could not apprehend, which baffled every instinct of his limited
nature, smote upon him.
He broke out irritably:—
“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.
II.
There was blood upon the ground. An awkward attempt had been made to cut
the brute’s throat, and, this failing, the rifle had been called into
use. Doaks walked up to the animal, and turned her head to look for the
brass tag about her horns which would bear her owner’s mark. She wore no
tag, and her hide had never known the branding-iron. His eye fell on a
peculiar perforation in her ear.
“Mink,” he exclaimed, with a note of anguish, “this hyar critter’s _my
cow_!”
Mink came up, his countenance adjusted to sympathy. He had little of
the instinct of acquisition. He was almost incapable of any sentiment
of that marvelous range of emotions which vibrate with such fineness of
susceptibility to the alternations of gain and loss. He looked like an
intelligent animal as he helped make sure of the herder’s mark.
“Ye hed sech a few head o’ stock o’ yer own, ennyways,” he observed, with
a dolorous lack of tact.
“Oh, Lord A’mighty, none sca’cely,” exclaimed Doaks, feeling very poor.
“I dunno how in this worl’ this hyar cow happened ter be singled out.”
“Mebbe he hed a gredge agin ye, too, ’bout them bones, bein’ ez ye herded
on Thunderhead wunst,” suggested Mink.
“What bones?” demanded Doaks, amazed.
“Why, his’n,” said Mink, in a lowered voice.
“In the name o’ reason, Mink, what air ye a-drivin’ at?” cried Doaks,
flustered and aghast.
“Why, the Herder, o’ course. Him ez skeered the cattle on Thunderhead. I
’lowed mebbe he hed a gredge agin you-uns, too.”
“How’d he kem over hyar?” demanded Doaks, with scorn, as if the harnt of
a Herder were limited to the locality of Thunderhead. “It’s a deal mo’
likely ter be some livin’ man ez hev got a gredge agin ye fur yer minkish
ways, an’ seein’ the critter hed no tag on, an’ warn’t branded nuther,
killed her fur ye.”
Mink drew a long breath. “Waal, I hope so, the Lord knows. I’d settle
him.” An essentially mundane courage was his, but a sturdy endowment as
far as it went.
His imagination was of the pursuant order; it struck out no new trail,
but, given a lead, it could follow with many an active expression of
power. He accepted at once this suggestion, with a confidence as complete
as if he had never credited the grudge of a ghostly herder.
“An’ I’ll be bound I kin tell ye jes’ who ’twar,” he said, stoutly,
producing a corollary to the proposition he had adopted as his own.
“’Twar that thar pop-eyed fool Peter Rood. I reckon ye hev noticed, ef
one o’ them black-eyed, thick-set, big-headed men git made game of ’bout
ennything, he’ll pay ye back some mean way. Stiddier skeerin’ me fur
skeerin’ him, he kems hyar an’ shoots that cow.”
He thrust one hand in his leather belt, and turned his bold bright
glance on his partner. As he stood at his full height, vigorous, erect,
a touch of freakishness in his eyes, decision expressed in his clear-cut
features, a certain activity suggested even in his motionless pose, it
might have seemed that the revenge of shooting the cow was the more
hopeful project.
Doaks, a philosopher in some sort, and reflective, could discriminate as
to motives.
“Rood never done it fur that by itself. I don’t b’lieve he would hev done
it _jes’_ fur that. But the way ez ye hev been performin’ sence ’bout
Elviry Crosby air powerful aggervatin’. I hearn tell ez she hev turned
Rood off, an’ won’t speak ter him, though the weddin’ day hed been set! I
reckon he felt like payin’ ye back ennyhow it kem handy.”
Doaks drew a plug of tobacco from his pocket, wrenched off a fragment
with his strong teeth, and, talking indistinctly as he chewed, continued,
the anxiety of forecast blunting the actual pain of experience.
“Ef he keeps this hyar up, Mink,—ef it’s him, an’ he kems roun’ shootin’
at cattle agin,—he mought git some o’ the owners’ stock nex’ time, an’
they mought hold me ’sponsible. I dunno whether they could or no. I ’low
he war ’quainted with this cow, an’ knowed her ter be yourn, an’ never
drempt ez ye hed swopped her off ter me. I wisht ter Gawd the critter
knew ye hed no cattle on the mounting, an’ ain’t ’sponsible ter the
owners, ez ye never traded with them, but arter my contract war made ye
jes’ went shares with me.”
He seated himself on the rude fence in an awkward attitude, his long legs
dangling, and drew out a red cotton handkerchief with which he rubbed his
corrugated brow as vigorously as if he could thus smooth out the pucker
in his brain.
“Waal, waal! this mortal life!” he exclaimed, presently. “Satan won’t
leave ye in peace. Ye may go an’ set yerse’f up on the bald of a
mounting, herdin’ ’mongst the dumb ones, an’ the worl’ an’ the things o’
this life will kem a-cropin’ up on ye with a rifle, an’ ye be ’bleeged
ter turn ’roun’ an’ cornsider how ye kin keep what ye hev got an’ how ye
kin git mo’. I useter ’low ef I war a perfessin’ member, _this_ worl’
wouldn’t stick so in my craw; so I tuk cornsider’ble pains ter git
religion, an’ mighty nigh wore out the mourners’ bench settin’ on it so
constant, till I war actially feared the Lord would be pervoked ter see
me in the front row o’ them convicted o’ sin at _every_ revival, and
visit wrath on me. An’ I never got religion at last; though I feel nigher
ter it on Piomingo Bald than ennywhar else, till Rood, or somebody,
starts up like they hed a contract with Satan to be-devil me.”
Mink listened with a sort of affectionate ruefulness. Then he broke
forth, suddenly, “Mebbe I mought see Rood ef I war ter go down ter
Piomingo Cove, whar the boys be goin’ ter shoot fur beef this evenin’.
An’ I kin let him know I don’t own no cattle up hyar, an’ hain’t got no
trade with the owners, an’ ain’t ’sponsible ter nobody.”
There was a sudden expression of alarm in Doaks’s face. “Don’t ye let
Rood know we suspicioned him, ’kase he _mought_ hev hed nuthin’ ter do
with it.”
“Naw,” said Mink, with a diplomatic nod, “I’ll jes’ tell that whilst I’m
a-spreadin’ the tale ’bout the cow.”
There was a short silence. Doaks still sat, with a pondering aspect, on
the fence.
“Rood mought take his gredge out on you-uns some other way, Mink,”
he suggested presently. He felt bound in conscience to present the
contingency.
“I’m ekal ter him,” said Mink hardily.
In fact, Mink bore the most lightsome spirit down the mountain, scarcely
to be expected in a man who goes to invite a more personal direction
of the machinations of a feud. He would have dared far more to secure
a respite from the loneliness of Piomingo Bald, to say nothing of the
opportunity of mingling in the festivity of shooting for beef. He
had not even a qualm of regret for the solitary herder whom he left
standing at the fence, gazing down at him a trifle wistfully. He was
out of sight presently, but Doaks heard the mare’s hoofs long after he
had disappeared,—the more distinctly, because of the animal’s habit of
striking her hind feet together.
The mists had lifted. It was a positive happiness to Mink to watch the
forests expand, as he went down and down the rugged ways of the herders’
trail. There were taller trees on every hand; great beds of ferns,
their fronds matted together, began to appear; impenetrable jungles of
the laurel stretched all along the deep ravines. Now and then a flash
of crimson rejoiced the sight; from far gleamed the red cones of the
cucumber tree; the trumpet-flower blossomed in the darkling places; he
marked the lustre of the partridge-berry by the wayside.
The earth was moist from the recent rains, as the narrow, slippery
path, curving between a sheer declivity on one side and an almost
perpendicular ascent on the other, might testify. His mare traveled it in
a devil-may-care fashion, snatching as she went at leaves on the slope
above, regardless that a false step would precipitate both herself and
her rider into eternity. Noticing this breach of manners, Mink now and
then gave a reckless jerk at the bit.
“Dad-burn ye! ye buzzard! A greedy body would ’low ye hed never hearn
tell o’ nuthin’ ter eat afore in this worl’!”
Here it was only, above these depths, that he might see the sky,—afar
off, as was meet that it should be: he, the earthling, had no kinship
with its austere infinities. The growths of the forest were now of
incredible magnitude and magnificence. Up and up towered the massive
boles, with a canopy of leaves so dense that all the firmament was
effaced, and the sunshine trickling through had a white, tempered
glister like the moonbeams. What infinite stretches of solitudes! What
measureless mountain wilds! In these solemn spaces Silence herself walked
unshod.
Yet stay! A crystalline vibration, a tinkling tremor, a voice smiting the
air, so delicately attuned to all sylvan rhythms, with an accent so fine,
so faint,—surely, some oread a-singing!
Nay—only the mountain torrent, dashing its fantastic cascades down its
rocky channel, with a louder burst of minstrelsy and a flash of foam as
its glittering swirl of translucent water revealed itself, the laurel and
ferns crowding upon its banks and a cardinal flower reflected multiform
in a deep and shadowy pool. A mossy log spanned it as foot-bridge, and
then it slipped away into the forest, to spring out suddenly and cross
the road again and again before it reached the base of the mountain. Mink
reckoned the distance by its reappearances, in default of other means.
“Ye be a-travelin’ toler’ble smart this evenin’,” he observed to the
mare. “Ye be mighty nigh ez glad ter git off’n that thar buzzard’s roost
up yander ez I be, though I don’t crack my heels tergether ’bout it like
you-uns do yourn.”
He did not follow the road into Eskaqua Cove when he reached the level
ground. He struck off through one of the ridges that lie like a moulding
about the base of the mountains, crossed another nameless barrier, then
descended into Piomingo Cove. Sequestered, encompassed by the mountains,
rugged of surface, veined with rock, its agricultural interest is hardly
served by the conditions which enhance its picturesque aspect. The roofs
of a few log cabins at long intervals peer out from among scanty orchards
and fields. Tobacco flourishes down the sides of steep funnel-shaped
depressions worked exclusively with the hoe, and suggesting acrobatic
capacity as a co-requisite with industry to cultivate it. The woods make
heavily into the cove, screening it from familiar knowledge of its hills
and dales.
Mink, trotting along the red clay road, came suddenly upon the banks
of the Scolacutta River, riotous with the late floods, fringed with
the papaw and the ivy bush. Beyond its steely glint he could see the
sun-flooded summit of Chilhowee, a bronze green, above the intermediate
ranges: behind him was the Great Smoky, all unfamiliar viewed from an
unaccustomed standpoint, massive, solemn, of dusky hue; white and amber
clouds were slowly settling on the bald. There had been a shower among
the mountains, and a great rainbow, showing now only green and rose and
yellow, threw a splendid slant of translucent color on the purple slope.
In such environment the little rickety wooden mill—with its dilapidated
leaking race, with its motionless wheel moss-grown, with its tottering
supports throbbing in the rush of the water which rose around them, with
a loitering dozen or more mountaineers about the door—might seem a feeble
expression of humanity. To Mink the scene was the acme of excitement and
interest. His blood was quickening as he galloped up, his hair tossing
under the wide brim of his hat, his stirrup-leathers adjusted to the full
length of his leg according to the custom of the country, his rifle laid
across the pommel of his saddle.
“Enny chance lef’ fur me?” he asked, as he reined in among the loungers.
This observation was received in some sort as a salutation.
“Hy’re, Mink,” said several voices at once. Other men merely glanced up,
their eyes expressing languid interest.
“_Ye_ don’t want ter shoot, Mink,” said one, with a jocose manner. “Ye
knowed all the chances would be sold by now. Ye hev jes’ kem ’kase ye
hearn old Tobias Winkeye air out agin.”
Mink’s dark eyes seemed afire with some restless leaping light. His
infectious laughter rang out. “Never s’picioned it,—so holp me Jiminy!
_When?_”
“Ter-night. Ye keep powerful low,” with a cautionary wink.
“I reckon so,” promised Mink cordially.
A sullen remonstrance broke into these amenities.
“Waal, Jer’miah Price, I dunno ez ye hev enny call ter let all that out
ter Mink Lorey.”
Pete Rood, who delivered this reproof, was not an ill-looking fellow
naturally, but his black eyes wore a lowering, disaffected expression.
His swarthy square-jawed face indicated a temperament which might be
difficult to excite to any keen emotion, and was incapable of nice
discrimination; but which promised, when once aroused, great tenacity
of purpose. He wore a suit of gray jeans, loosely fitting, giving his
heavy figure additional breadth. He carried his hands in his pockets, and
lounged about, throwing an occasional word over his shoulder with a jerky
incidental manner.
“Why not tell Mink?” exclaimed Jerry Price, a long, lank fellow, far too
tall and slim for symmetry, and whose knees had a sort of premonitory
crook in them, as if he were about to shut up, after the manner of a
clasp-knife, into comfortable and convenient portability. His head was
frankly red. His freckles stood out plainly for all they were worth;
and, regarded as freckles, they were of striking value. A ragged red
beard hung down on his unbleached cotton shirt. Physically, he had not a
trait to commend him; but a certain subtle magnetism, that inborn fitness
as a leader of men, hung upon his gestures, vibrated in his words,
constrained acquiescence in his rude logic. “Ain’t Mink always been along
of we-uns?” he added.
Mink dismounted slowly and hitched his mare to the limb of a dogwood
tree hard by. Then, leaning upon his rifle, he drawled, “’Pears like
everybody’s gittin’ sot agin me these days. I dunno who ’twar, but this
very mornin’ somebody kem up on Piomingo Bald an’ shot a cow ez used ter
b’long ter me.”
He raised his eyes suddenly. Rood had lounged off a few steps with an
idle gait, swaying from side to side, his hands still in his pockets. But
there was tenseness in the pose of his half-turned head. He was listening.
“Hed ye done traded her off?” asked Price, interested. “Gimme a chaw o’
terbacco.”
“Ain’t got none. Pete, can’t ye gin this hyar destitute cuss a chaw o’
terbacco?”
Rood could not choose but turn his face, while he held out his plug. The
crafty Mink scanned it, as he leaned his own sun-burned cheek upon the
muzzle of the long rifle on which he lazily supported his weight.
“Naw, Jerry, ’twarn’t my cow. I can’t keep nuthin’ long enough ter lose
it; I hed traded her off to Ben Doaks.”
There was no mistaking the patent disappointment on Rood’s face. One with
far less sharp intelligence than Mink possessed might have descried that
hot look in his eyes, as if they burned,—that vacillating glance which
could fix on naught about him. The surprise of the moment deterred him
from observing Mink, whose air of unconsciousness afterward afforded no
ground for suspicion or fear.
Rood pocketed his plug, and presently slouched off toward the tree where
the marksmen were preparing for the shooting-match.
Now and then there flitted to the door of the mill the figure of a
stripling, all dusted with flour and meal, and with a torn white hat
on his head. He wore ragged jeans trousers of an indeterminate hue,
and an unbleached cotton shirt. When the men were strolling about, he
slunk into the duskiness within. But when they were all intent upon the
projected trial of skill, he crept shyly to the door, and looked out with
a singularly blank, inexpressive gaze.
“Hy’re ye, Tad!” called out Mink gayly.
The young fellow stood for an instant staring; then, with a wide, foolish
grin of recognition, disappeared among the shadows within.
“Let the idjit be, Mink,” said old Griff, the miller, querulously,—“let
him be.”
He was a man of sixty years, perhaps, and bending beneath their weight.
His white beard was like a patriarch’s, and his long hair hung down to
meet it. He had a parchment-like skin, corrugated, and seeming darker for
the contrast with his hair and beard. Beneath his bushy white eyebrows,
restless, irritable eyes peered out. He was barefooted, as was the boy,
and his poverty showed further in the patches on his brown jeans clothes.
“Naw, I won’t,” said Mink irreverently. “I want ter see what Tad does
when he skeets off an’ hides that-a-way.”
He pressed into the mill, and the old man looked after him and cursed him
in his beard. He swore with every breath he drew.
“Go on, ye dad-burned fool—go on ter damnation! Ever sence that thar
sneakin’ Mink hev been roun’ hyar,” he continued, addressing Price,
“Tad ’pears weaker ’n ever. I can’t ’bide ter keep Tad in the house.
He gits into one o’ his r-uproarious takin’s, an’ it looks like hell
couldn’t hold him,—skeers the chill’n mighty nigh ter death. Yes, sir!
my gran’chil’n. Daddy war shot by the revenuers, mammy died o’ the lung
complaint, an’ the old man’s got ’em all ter take keer of—ten o’ ’em.
An’ my nevy Tad, too, ez war born lackin’. An’ ev’y one of ’em’s got a
stommick like a rat-hole—ye can’t fill it up. Yes, sir! The Lord somehows
hev got his hand out in takin’ keer o’ me an’ mine, an’ he can’t git it
in agin.”
“Waal, they holps ye mightily, plowin’ an’ sech, don’t they,—the biggest
ones; an’ one o’ the gals kin cook, that thar spry one, ’bout fifteen
year old; I’m a-goin’ ter wait fur her,—beats all the grown ones in the
cove fur looks,” said the specious Jerry Price. “An’ they air all mighty
good chill’n, ain’t they? Oughter be. Good stock.”
“Naw, sir; naw, sir!” the old man replied, so precipitately that his
iterative mutter had the effect of interruption. “Durries’ meanes’
chill’n I ever see. Ripenin’ fur hell! Scandalous mean chill’n.”
“I reckon so,” said Rood suddenly. “Thar goes one o’ ’em now.” He pointed
to a scapegrace ten years of age, perhaps, clad in a suit of light blue
checked cotton. His trousers reached to his shoulder blades, and were
sustained by a single suspender. A ragged old black hat was perched
on the back of his tow head. He had the clothes-line tied to the hind
leg of a pig which he was driving. He seemed to be in high feather,
and apparently felt scant lack of a more spirited steed. In fact, the
pig gave ample occupation to his skill, coming to a halt sometimes and
rooting about in an insouciant manner, reckless of control. When he was
pushed and thumped and forced to take up the line of march, he would
squeal dolorously and set out at a rate of speed hardly predicable of the
porcine tribe. “Look how he’s a-actin’ to that thar pore peeg,” added
Rood.
Old Gus Griff fixed his dark eye upon him.
“Enny friend o’ yourn?” he asked.
“Who?” demanded Rood, amazed.
“That thar peeg.”
“Naw, o’ course not.”
“Then keep yer jaw off’n him. Who set ye up ter jedge o’ the actions o’
my gran’chile. That thar boy’s name air ’Gustus Thomas Griff—fur _me_!
An’ I got nine mo’ gran’chil’n jes’ like him. An’ ye lay yer rough
tongue ter a word agin one o’ ’em, an’ old ez I be I’ll stretch ye out
flat on that thar groun’ they air a-medjurin’ ter shoot on. Ye greasy
scandal-hit scamp yerse’f!”
Rood was fain to step back hastily, for the miller came blustering
up with an evident bellicose intention. “Lord A’mighty, old man!” he
exclaimed, “I never said nuthin’ agin ’em, ’cept what ye say yerse’f. I
wouldn’t revile the orphan!”
“Jes’ stop a-pityin’ ’em, then, durn ye!” exclaimed the exacting old man.
“They ain’t no orphans sca’cely nohows, with thar grandad an’ sech alive.”
“That’s what I knowed, Mr. Griff,” said the bland Price, standing
between them. “Pete’s jes’ ’bidin’ the time o’ the fool-killer. Must be
a powerful rank crap fur him somewhar, bein’ ez Pete’s spared this long.
That’s what I knowed an’ always say ’bout them chill’n.”
The old man, mollified for the instant, paused, his gnarled knotted
hands shaking nervously, the tremor in his unseen lips sending a vague
shiver down all the length of his silver beard. The excitement, painful
to witness, was dying out of his eager eyes, when a mad peal of laughter
rang out from the recesses of the old mill.
“What be that thar blamed idjit a-doin’ of now! him an’ that thar minkish
Mink!”
He turned and went hastily into the shadowy place. Bags of grain were
scattered about. The hopper took up much room in the limited space;
behind it the miller’s nephew and Mink were sitting on the step of a rude
platform. They had a half-bushel measure inverted between them, and on it
was drawn a geometric figure upon which were ranged grains of corn.
There was a pondering intentness on the idiot’s wide face very nearly
approaching a gleam of intelligence. Mink, incongruously patient and
silent, awaited Tad’s play; both were unaware of the old man, among the
dusky shadows, peering at them from over the hopper. At last, Tad, with
an appealing glance at Mink, and an uncertain hand, adjusted a grain of
corn. He leaned forward eagerly, as Mink promptly played in turn. Then,
fixing all the faculties of his beclouded mind upon the board, he finally
perceived that the game had ended, and that his opponent was victor. Once
more his harsh laughter echoed from the rafters. “Ye won it, Mink. Ye won
the coon.”
“I don’t want yer coon,” said Mink, good-naturedly. “Ye kin keep yer coon
ter bet nex’ time.”
“Naw, ye kin hev the coon, Mink!” He caught at a string dandling from a
beam. “Kem down hyar, ye idjit!” he cried, with a strange, thick-tongued
enunciation. “Kem down hyar, ye damned fool!”
The old man suddenly made his way around the hopper and stood before
them. Tad rose, with a startled face. Mink looked up composedly.
“Do ye know what ye air a-doin’ of, Mink Lorey?” asked the old man,
sternly.
“L’arnin’ Tad ter play ‘five corn,’” said Mink, innocently. “He kin play
right sorter peart fur a lackin’ one. I dunno ez I b’lieve Tad’s so
powerful fursaken no-ways, ef ennybody would take the pains ter l’arn
him. I b’lieves he’d show a right mind arter a while.”
“An’ thar ye sit, ez complacent ez a bull-frog—ye that the Lord
hev favored with senses,” cried the old man, “sech ez they be,” he
stipulated, making not too much of Mink’s endowments, “a-usin’ of ’em ter
ruin a pore idjit boy,”—Mink’s eyes flashed surprise,—“a-l’arnin’ him ter
play a gamblin’ game.”
“Shucks! _five corn!_” cried Mink, accustomed to the iniquity of “playin’
kyerds,” and scorning to rate the puerile beguilements of “five corn”
among the “gambling games” which he had mastered,—“what’s _five corn_!
Enny child kin play it—that thar coon could l’arn it ef he hed a mind ter
do it. I don’t want the critter. Tad; I don’t want it.”
The old man’s tongue had found its ready oaths. “A-fixin’ on the idjit
boy fur the prey o’ Satan. A-l’arnin’ him ter play a gamblin’ game ter
damn his soul. An’ a-trickin’ him out’n his coon.”
“I never!” cried Mink, in hasty extenuation. “I jes’ put up my rifle
agin his coon ter make him think he war playin’ sure enough! But I ain’t
a-goin’ ter keep his coon, an’ I don’t want it, nuther!”
“I kin read the future,” cried out the old man, suddenly, flinging up
his hand and shading his peering eyes with it. “I kin view the scenes o’
hell. I see ye, Mink Lorey, a-writhin’ in the pits o’ torment, with the
flames a-wroppin’ round ye, an’ a-swallerin’ melted iron an’ a-smellin’
sulphur an’ brimstone. I see ye! Bless the Lord,—I see ye thar!”
“Naw, _ye don’t_!” interpolated Mink, angrily.
The idiot had slunk to one side, and was gazing at the two with a white,
startled face, still mechanically jerking the string, at the end of which
the reluctant coon tugged among the beams above.
“I see ye thar,—damned yerse’f fur tryin’ ter damn the idjit’s soul!”
“Ye’d better look arter yer own soul!” cried Mink, “an’ quit l’arnin’ the
idjit ter cuss. He do it percisely like he gits the word from ye, an’
ye air a perfessin’ member, what shouts at the camp-meetin’, an’ prays
with ’the Power,’ an’ laffs with the ‘holy laff’! Shucks! I hev hearn ye
exhortin’ them on the mourners’ bench.”
Once more the old man broke out angrily.
Mink interrupted. “Quit cussin’ me! Quit it!” he cried. He wore a more
harried look than one would have believed possible, as the miller, with
his hoary head and tremulous beard, pressed close upon him in the dark,
narrow apartment, the idiot’s white face—a sort of affrighted glare upon
it—dimly visible beside him. “Quit it! I ain’t a-goin’ ter take nare
nuther word off ’n ye!”
“How ye goin’ ter holp it? Goin’ ter hit a old man,—old enough ter be
yer grandad, eh?” suggested the wary old creature, making capital of his
infirmities.
“I’ll bust yer mill down, ef ye don’t lemme out’n it Lemme out!” cried
Mink, tumultuously, striving to push past.
Jerry Price’s long, lank figure appeared in the doorway. It was not
policy which animated him, for he had nothing at stake. With an inherent
knowledge of human nature, some untutored instinctive capacity for
manipulating its idiosyncrasies, he half consciously found a certain
satisfaction in exercising his keen acumen on the men about him. It
might have been employed more profitably in the field of local politics,
had the gift been adequately realized and valued. He was of an amiable,
even of an admirable, temperament, and he devised the adjustment of many
complications, in which open interference would avail naught, by subtly
appealing to some predominant motive or sentiment with the accuracy with
which a surgeon can touch a nerve.
“Look-a-hyar, Mink,” he said, apparently unobservant of any signs of a
quarrel, “ain’t you-uns a-goin’ ter shoot?”
Mink’s angry aspect dropped like a husk.
“Waal, I can’t, ye know,” he said, in a voice eager with interest. “They
’lowed ter me ez they hed done made up the money an’ bought the beef, an’
all the chances are gone,—six fur a dollar, shillin’ apiece.”
“Waal, I bought eight chances. I’ll let ye hev two of ’em, ef two’ll do
ye.”
“Jiminy Crack-corn an’ I don’t keer!” exclaimed Mink, doubling himself
partly in a gesture of ecstasy, and partly to reach a silver coin that
led a lonesome life in the depths of his long pocket. He handed it over,
and slapped his leg with a sounding thwack. “I could shoot ye all off ’n
the ground, an’ I kin git the fust an’ second ch’ice in two cracks.”
Rood, in the doorway behind Price, regarded the transaction with
disapproval.
“I don’t b’lieve it’s ’cordin’ ter rules, Jerry,” he expostulated, “ter
go roun’ an’ swap off yer chances arter ye paid fur ’em. I never seen it
done afore, no-ways.”
“Ye hold yer jaw!” said Price, imperious, though good-natured. “I hev
shot fur beef ’fore ye war born!”—a diminutive marksman, were this
statement to receive full credit, since he was but a year or two older
than Rood.
Irregular though it may have been, there was no appeal from the
self-arrogated authority of Price, and his oft-reiterated formula as to
his experience before his interlocutor’s birth had all the enlightened
functions of precedent.
Rood said no more, appreciating the futility of remonstrance. He stood,
surly enough, in the doorway, listening absently to the garrulous clamor
of the old miller, who was telling again and again of Mink’s iniquity in
teaching Tad “five corn,” and of his threats against the mill.
“I dare ye ter lay a finger on the mill!” he cried. “I’ll put ye in that
thar hopper an’ grind every ounce o’ yer carcass ter minch meat.”
Mink gave him no heed. He had joined the group of marksmen near the
tree on which the targets were to be fixed. He was loading his gun,
holding the ball in the palm of his hand, and pouring enough powder
over it to barely cover it in a conical heap. He dexterously adjusted
the “patching,” and as he rammed down the charge he paused suddenly.
From a little log cabin on a rise hard by, a delicate spiral wreath of
smoke curled up over the orchard, and airily defined itself against
the mountain. Beside the rail fence a girl of fifteen was standing;
sunny-haired, blue-eyed, barefooted, and slatternly. The peaches were
ripe in the weighted trees above her head; he heard the chanting bees
among them. The pig was grunting luxuriously among their roots and the
fallen over-ripe fruit; for his driver, ’Gustus Tom, and the elder boy,
Joseph, had gone down to the mill for a closer view of the shooting; the
small girls who had mounted the fence being deterred from accompanying
them by feminine decorum. The dogs appertaining to the place had also
gone down to the mill, and were conferring with the followers of the
contestants in the match. One, however, a gaunt and gray old hound,
that had half climbed the fence, hesitated, his fore-paws resting
on the topmost rail, a lean, eager curiosity on his grave, serious
countenance, his neck stretched, his head close to the pretty head of the
golden-haired maiden.
“Howdy, sis!” called out the bold Mink, the ramrod arrested half-way
in the barrel, his face shadowed by his broad-brimmed hat, his hair
flaunting in the wind.
She gave a flattered smile, full of precocious coquetry.
“Sick him, Bose!” she exclaimed to the faithful dog. “Sick him!”
Bose fastened his glare on Mink, raised his bristles, and growled
obediently.
The young man with a gay laugh drove the charge home, and rattled the
ramrod sharply into its place.
Already the first report of the rifle had pealed into the quietude of
the cove; the rocks clamored as with the musketry of a battle. Far, far
and faint the sound clanged back from the ranges between Chilhowee and
the river, from all the spurs and ravines of the Big Smoky. The sunshine
had the burnished fullness of post-meridian lustre, mellow, and all
unlike the keen, matutinal glitter of earlier day; but purple shadows
encircled the cove, and ever and anon a shining curve was described on
the mountain side as the wings of a homeward-bound bird caught the light.
Sometimes the low of cattle rose on the air. The beef, as the young ox
was prematurely called, lifted his head, listening. He stood, the rope
about his neck, secured to a hitching-post near the mill, looking calmly
upon the ceremonies that sealed his destiny. It is to be hoped, in view
of the pangs of prescience, that the animal’s deductive capacities and
prophetic instincts are not underrated, or the poor beef’s presence at
the shooting-match might express the acme of anguished despair. He was
an amiable brute, and lent himself passively to the curiosity of ’Gustus
Tom, who came up more than once, gazed fixedly at him, and examined
his horns and hoofs, his eyes and nozzle, doubtless verifying some
preconceptions as to facts in natural history.
The young mountaineers seemed to shoot with startling rapidity. Only
one green hand labored under the delusion that a long aim can do aught
but “wobble the eyes.” As each flung himself prostrate, with a grave
intentness of expression and a certain precipitancy of gesture, it might
have seemed some strange act of worship, but for the gun resting upon
a log placed for the purpose, sixty yards from the mark,—the customary
distance in shooting-matches with the old-fashioned rifle,—and the sudden
sharp crack of the report. Their marksmanship was so nearly equal that it
became readily apparent that the office of the anxious-eyed judges was
not an enviable honor. Occasionally disputes arose, and the antagonists
gathered around the tree, examining the targets with vociferous
gesticulation which often promised to end in cuffs. Once the two judges
disagreed, when it became necessary to call in an impartial “thirdsman”
and submit the question. The old miller, placid once more, accepted the
trust, decided judiciously, and the match proceeded.
Mink’s turn came presently.
As he ran deftly in and out among the heavy young mountaineers, he
seemed more than ever like some graceful wild animal, with such elastic
lightness, such reserve of strength, such keen endowment of instinct.
He arranged in its place his board, previously blackened with moistened
powder, and marked with a cross drawn on it with a knife-blade; each
contestant had brought a precisely similar target. Then, to distinguish
the centre at sixty yards he carefully affixed a triangular piece of
white paper, so that it touched the cross at the intersection of the
lines. As he ran lightly back to the log and flung himself upon the
ground, his swift movement and his lithe posture struck the attention of
one of the men.
“Now, ain’t ye the livin’ image o’ a mink! Ye’ve got nothin’ ter do but
ter crope under that thar log, like thar war a hen hidin’ thar, an’ ye
war tryin’ ter git it by the throat.”
Mink cast his bright eyes upward. “Ye shet up!” he exclaimed. Then he
placed his rifle on the log and aimed in a twinkling,—his finger was on
the trigger.
At this moment ’Gustus Tom, in his overwhelming curiosity, contrived to
get his small anatomy between the marksman and the tree. The jet of red
light leaped out, the funnel-shaped smoke diffused itself in a formless
cloud, and the ball whizzed close by the boy’s head.
There ensued a chorus of exclamation. The old man quavered out piteously.
Mink, dropping the rifle to the ground, leaped up, seized the small boy
by the nape of the neck, and deposited him with a shake in the bosom of
his aged relative.
“Ye limb o’ Satan, ’Gustus Tom!” cried out the old man. “Ain’t ye got no
better sense ’n ter go out fur a evenin’ walk ’twixt that thar tree an’
these hyar boys, ez couldn’t begin ter shoot agin me an’ my mates when I
shot for beef whenst I war young? A-many-a-time I hev fired the five bes’
shots myself, an’ won all the five ch’ices o’ the beef, an’ jes’ druv the
critter home,—won it all! But these hyar fool boys jes’ ez soon bang yer
head off ez hit the mark. Ye g’ long ’fore I skeer the life out’n ye!”
And ’Gustus Tom, in the unbridled pride of favoritism and with the fear
of no man before his eyes, went along as far as the front rank of the
crowd, continuing a fervid spectator of the sport.
The agitation of the moment had impaired to a slight degree Mink’s aim.
The shot was, however, one of the best yet made, and there was a clamor
of negation when he insisted that he ought to have it over. The judges
ruled against him and the sport proceeded.
As Rood made his last shot, his strongly marked dark face was lighted
with a keen elation. Although, according to strictest construction, the
ball had not penetrated the centre, it was within a hair’s breadth of it,
and it was so unlikely that it would be surpassed that he tasted all the
assured triumphs of victory before the battle was won.
With Mink’s second shot arose the great dispute of the day. Like Rood’s,
it was not fairly in the bull’s-eye, if the point of intersection might
be so called, but it too lacked only a hair’s breadth. Mink was willing
enough for a new trial, but Rood, protesting, stood upon his rights. The
judges consulted together apart, reëxamined the boards, finally announced
their incapacity to decide, and called in the “thirdsman.”
Mink made no objection when the miller, as referee, came to look at the
board. He, too, examined it closely, holding his big hat in his hand
that it might cast no shadow. There was no perceptible difference in the
value of the two shots. Mink hardly believed he had heard aright when the
“thirdsman,” with scarcely a moment’s hesitation, declared there was no
doubt about the matter. Rood’s shot was the fairer. “I could draw a line
’twixt Mink’s and the centre.”
There was a yell of derision from the young fellows. Rood wore a
provoking sneer. Mink stood staring.
“Look-a-hyar,” he said roughly, “ye haffen-blind old ow_el_! Ye can’t
tell the differ ’twixt them shots. It’s a tie.”
“Rood’s air the closest, an’ he gits the fust ch’ice o’ beef!” said the
old man, his white beard and mustache yawning with his toothless laugh.
“Ai-yi! Mink, ye ain’t so powerful minkish yit ez ter git the fust ch’ice
o’ beef.”
“Ye’ll hev the second ch’ice, Mink,” said Price consolingly. He himself,
the fourth best shot, had the fourth choice.
“I won’t hev the second ch’ice!” exclaimed Mink. “It’s nobody but that
thar weezened old critter ez ’lows I oughter. Fust he sent his gran’son,
that thar slack-twisted ’Gustus Tom, ter git in my aim,—wisht I hed
shot him! An’ then, when I lets him be thurdsman, he air jes’ so durned
m’licious he don’t even stop an’ take a minit ter decide.” Mink’s heart
was hot. He had been wounded in his most vulnerable susceptibility, his
pride in his marksmanship.
“Look-a-hyar, Mink!” remonstrated Price, “ye ain’t a-goin’ off ’fore the
beef’s been butchered an’ ye git the second ch’ice. Stop! Hold on!”
For Mink was about to mount.
“I don’t want no beef,” he said. “I hev been cheated ’mongst ye. I won
the fust ch’ice, an’ I won’t put up with the second.”
Price was nonplused for a moment; then he evolved a solution. “I’ll sell
it, Mink,” he cried, “an’ bring ye the money! An’ don’t ye furgit old
Tobias Winkeye,” he added beguilingly.
“Who’s old Tobias Winkeye?” asked the miller tartly.
Price laughed, sticking his hands in the pockets of his jeans trousers,
and looked around, winking at the others with a jocosity enfeebled
somewhat by his light sparse lashes. “Jes’ a man ez hev got a job fur
Mink,” he said, enigmatically.
The old miller, baffled, and apprehending the mockery, laughed loud and
aggressively, his white beard shaking, his bushy eyebrows overhanging his
twinkling eyes.
“Hedn’t ye better bust the mill down, Mink?” he said floutingly.
“I will,—see ef I don’t!” Mink retorted, as he wheeled his mare.
Only idle wrath, an idle threat, void of even the vaguest intention. They
all knew that at the time. But the significance of the scene was altered
in the light of after events.
Mink’s fate had mounted with him, and the mare carried double as he rode
out of Piomingo Cove.
III.
The iterative echoes of the shooting-match, sharply jarring from mountain
to mountain, from crag to crag, evoked a faint reverberation even in the
distant recesses of Wild-Cat Hollow. Alethea Sayles, sitting at her loom
on the porch of the little log cabin, paused, the shuttle motionless in
her deft hand, to listen.
All aloof from the world was Wild-Cat Hollow, a limited depression, high
up on the vast slope of the Great Smoky. It might have seemed some secret
nook, some guarded fastness, so closely did the primeval wilderness
encompass it, so jealously did the ridgy steeps rise about it on every
hand. It was invisible from the valley below, perhaps too from the
heights above. And only a glimpse was vouchsafed to it of the world from
which it was sequestered: beyond a field, in a gap of the minor ridges
superimposed upon the mountain, where the dead and girdled trees stood in
spectral ranks among the waving corn, might be seen a strip of woods in
the cove below, a glint of water, a stately file of lofty peaks vanishing
along the narrow skyey vista. Sunrise and sunset,—the Hollow knew them
not: a distant mountain might flare with a fantasy of color, a star of
abnormal glister might palpitate with some fine supernal thrill of dawn;
but for all else, it only knew that the night came early and the day
broke late, and in many ways it had meagre part in the common lot.
The little log cabin, set among its scanty fields, its weed-grown
“gyarden spot,” and its few fruit-trees, was poor of its kind. The
clapboards of its roof were held in place by poles laid athwart them,
with large stones piled between to weight them down. The chimney was
of clay and sticks, and leaned away from the wall. In a corner of the
rickety rail fence a gaunt, razor-backed hog lay grunting drowsily.
Upon a rude scaffold tobacco leaves were suspended to dry. Even the
martin-house was humble and primitive: merely a post with a cross-bar,
from which hung a few large gourds with a cavity in each, whence the
birds were continually fluttering. Behind it all, the woods of the steep
ascent seemed to touch the sky. The place might give a new meaning to
exile, a new sentiment to loneliness.
Seldom it heard from the world,—so seldom that when the faint rifle-shots
sounded in the distance a voice from within demanded eagerly, “What on
yearth be that, Lethe?”
“Shootin’ fur beef, down in the cove, I reckon, from thar firin’ so
constant,” drawled Alethea.
“Ye dunno,” said the unseen, unexpectedly, derisive of this conjecture.
“They mought be a-firin’ thar bullets inter each other. Nobody kin
count on a man by hisself, but a man in company with a rifle air jes’ a
outdacious, jubious critter.”
Alethea looked speculatively down at the limited section of the cove
visible from the Hollow above. Her hazel eyes were bright, but singularly
grave. The soft sheen of her yellow hair served to definitely outline
the shape of her head against the brown logs of the wall. The locks lay
not in ripples, but in massive undulations, densely growing above her
forehead, and drawn in heavy folds into a knot at the back of her head.
She had the delicate complexion and the straight, refined lineaments so
incongruous with the poverty-stricken mountaineer, so commonly seen among
the class. Her homespun dress was of a dull brown. About her throat, of
exquisite whiteness, was knotted a kerchief of the deepest saffron tint.
Her hands and arms—for her sleeves were rolled back—were shapely, but
rough and sun-embrowned. She had a deliberate, serious manner that very
nearly approached dignity.
“I hopes they ain’t,” she said, still listening. “I hopes they ain’t
a-shootin’ of one another.”
“Waal, I’m a-thinkin’ the lead wouldn’t be wasted on some of ’em,” said
the acrid voice. “Piomingo Cove could make out mighty well ’thout some o’
them boys ez rip an’ rear aroun’ down thar ez a constancy. I dunno ez I’d
feel called on ter mourn fur Mink Lorey enny. An’ I reckon the cove could
spare him.”
Looking through the window close by the bench of the loom, Alethea could
see the interior of the room, rudely furnished and with the perennial
fire of the wide chimney-place slowly smouldering in a bed of ashes. A
half-grown Shanghai pullet was pecking about the big flat stones of the
hearth in a premature and unprescient proximity to the pot. There were
two bedsteads of a lofty build, the thick feather beds draped with quilts
of such astounding variety of color as might have abashed the designers
of Joseph’s coat. The scrupulous cleanliness and orderliness of the place
were as marked a characteristic as its poverty.
A sharp-featured woman of fifty sat in a low chair by the fire,
wearing a blue-checked homespun dress, a pink calico sun-bonnet, and a
cob-pipe,—the last was so constantly sported that it might be reckoned an
article of attire. She was not so old as she seemed, but the loss of her
teeth and her habit of crouching over the fire gave her a cronish aspect.
Alethea hesitated. Then, with a deprecatory manner, she said in her soft
contralto drawl, “He ain’t down ’mongst the boys in Piomingo Cove none.”
Mrs. Sayles sneered. “Ye b’lieve that?”
“He be a-herdin’ cattle along o’ Ben Doaks on Piomingo Bald.”
Mrs. Sayles looked at her step-daughter and puffed a copious wreath of
smoke for reply.
“Reuben tole me that hisself,—an’ so did Ben Doaks,” persisted Alethea.
“_Mink_, I calls him, an’ nuthin’ shorter,” said Mrs. Sayles,
obdurately,—as if anything could be shorter. “But ef Ben Doaks gin the
same word, it mus’ be a true one.”
Alethea flushed. “I know ye air sot agin Reuben, but I’d believe his word
agin enny other critter’s in the mountings.”
“Set a heap o’ store on him, don’t ye?” said Mrs. Sayles, sarcastically.
“An’ when he kem a-courtin’ ye, an’ ’peared crazy ’bout’n ye, an’ ye
an’ him war promised ter marry, ye couldn’t quit jowin’ at him fur one
minit. Ye plumb beset him ter do like _ye_ thought war right,—ez ef _he_
hed no mo’ conscience o’ his own ’n that pullet thar, an’ hedn’t never
hearn on salvation. An’ ye’d beg an’ beg him ter quit consortin’ with
the moonshiners; an’ a-drinkin’ o’ apple-jack an’ sech; an’ a-rollickin’
round the kentry; an’ layin’ folkses fences down on the groun’; an’
liftin’ thar gates off’n the hinges; an’ ketchin’ thar geese, an’ pickin’
’em, an’ scatterin’ thar feathers in the wind, an’ sendin’ ’em squawkin’
home; an’ a-playin’ kyerds; an’ a-whoopin’, an’ ridin’, an’ racin’. An’
ye war always a-preachin’ at him, an’ tryin’ ter straighten him out, an’
make him suthin’ he war never born ter be.”
Her pipe was smoked out. She drew from her pocket a fragment of tobacco
leaf, which was apparently not sufficiently cured for satisfactory
smoking, for she laid it on the hot ashes on the hearth and watched it as
it dried, her meditative eyes shaded by her pink calico sun-bonnet.
“Naw, sir!” she continued, as she crumpled the bit of leaf with her
fingers and crowded it into the bowl of her pipe, “I hev never liked
Mink. I ain’t denyin’ it, nuther. I ain’t gamesome enough ter git tuk
up with sech ways ez his’n. Mighty few folks air! But I could see
reason in the critter when he ’lowed one day, right hyar by this very
chimbly-place,—he sez, sez he, ‘Lethe, ye don’t like nuthin’ I do or say,
an’ I’m durned ef I kin see how ye like _me_!’”
Alethea’s serious, lustrous eyes, looking in at the window, saw not the
uncouth interior of her home,—no! As in a vision, irradiated by some
enchantment, she beheld the glamours of the idyllic past, fluctuating,
waning.
Even to herself it sometimes seemed that she might have been content more
lightly. Her imbuement with those practical ideas of right and wrong, the
religion of deeds rather than the futilely pious fervors of the ignorant
mountaineers in which creed and act were often widely at variance, was
as mysterious an endowment as the polarity of the loadstone. She was not
introspective, however; she never even wondered that she should speak
openly, without fear or favor, as she felt impelled. Had she lived in an
age when every inward monition was esteemed the voice of the Lord, she
might have fancied that she was called to warn the world of the errors
of its ways. Her sedulous conscience, the austere gravity of her spirit,
her courage, her steadfastness, her fine intelligence, even her obdurate
self-will, might all have had assertive values in those long bygone days.
As an historic woman, she might have founded an order, or juggled with
state-craft, or perished a martyr, or rode, enthusiast, in the ranks
of battle. By centuries belated in Wild-Cat Hollow, she was known as a
“perverted, cross-grained gal” and “a meddlin’ body,” and the “widder
Jessup” had much sympathy for having in a misguided moment married
Alethea’s father. Sometimes the Hollow, distorted though its conscience
was, experienced a sort of affright to recognize its misdeeds in her
curt phrase. It could only ask in retort who set her up to judge of her
elders, and regain its wonted self-complacency as best it might. Even her
own ascetic rectitude lacked some quality to commend it.
“I can’t find no regular fault with Lethe,” her step-mother was wont to
say, “’ceptin’ she’s jes’—Lethe.”
Mrs. Sayles’s voice, pursuing the subject, recalled the girl’s attention:—
“An’ ye tired his patience out,—the critter hed mo’ ’n I gin him credit
fur,—an’ druv him off at last through wantin’ him ter be otherwise. An’
now folks ’low ez him an’ Elviry Crosby air a-goin’ ter marry. I’ll be
bound she don’t harry him none ’bout’n his ways, ’kase her mother tole
me ez she air mighty nigh a idjit ’bout’n him, an’ hev turned off Peter
Rood, who she hed promised ter marry, though the weddin’ day hed been
set, an’ Pete air wuth forty sech ez Mink.”
Alethea turned away abruptly to her work, and as she lightly tossed the
shuttle to and fro she heard, amidst the creaking of the treadle and the
thumping of the batten, her step-mother’s persistent voice droning on:—
“An’ so ye hed yer say, an’ done yer preachin’, an’ he profited by it. I
reckon he ’lowed ef ye jawed that-a-way afore ye war married, thar war
no yearthly tellin’ what ye _could_ say arterward. An’ now,” rising to
the dramatic, “hyar kems along Ben Doaks, powerful peart an’ good enough
ter satisfy ennybody; perlite, an’ saaft-spoken, an’ good-lookin’, an’
respected by all, an’ ready ter marry ye ter-morrer, ef ye’ll say the
word. He owns cattle-critters”—
“An’ sheep,” put in an unexpected voice. A dawdling young woman, with
a shallow blue eye and a pretty, inane soft face, had stepped into the
back door, and heard the last words of the monologue which apparently had
been often enough repeated to admit of no doubt as to its tenor. She had
a slatternly, ill-adjusted look, and a snuff-brush in the corner of her
mouth.
“An’ herds cattle in the summer season,” said Mrs. Sayles.
“He hev a good name ’mongst the cattle-owners,” observed the young woman,
her daughter-in-law.
“An’ hev bought him right smart land,” added Mrs. Sayles.
“Down in Piomingo Cove! not h’isted up on the side o’ the mounting, like
we-uns!” exclaimed the young woman, with more enthusiasm than one would
have believed possible from the flaccid indifference of her manner.
“An’ he put in all the fair weather las’ winter a-raisin’ him a house,”
Mrs. Sayles pursued.
“An’ he ’lowed ter me ez every log war hefted, an’ every pat o’ clay war
daubed on the chinkin’, with the thought o’ Lethe!” cried the other.
“He hev been plantin’ round thar some, a’ready,” said the old woman.
“Corn, pumpkins, wheat, an’ terbacco,” supplemented the daughter-in-law.
“An’ he hev got him some bee-gums,—I never hearn how many bees,” said
Mrs. Sayles.
“Down in Piomingo Cove!” the climax of worldly prosperity.
“Laws-a-massy!” exclaimed Mrs. Sayles, with a freshened realization of
despair. “Lethe ain’t never goin’ ter live in that house! I dunno what
ails the gal! She takes a notion ez she likes a man with sech ways ez she
can’t abide, an’ she quar’ls with him mornin’ an’ evenin’. An’ then when
a feller kems along, with all sort’n good ways ez she likes, she don’t
like _him_! Gals never acted similar whenst I war young. I ’low it mus’
be the wiles o’ Satan on the onruly generation.”
“Lethe ’pears ter think the Lord hev app’inted the rocky way,” said the
other. “She be always a-doin’ of what’s the hardest. An’ she can’t quit
nowhar this side o’ nuthin’! Ef ever she’s condemned ter Torment she’ll
kerry a leetle kindlin’ along, fur fear the fire won’t be het up hot
enough ter burn her fur her sins.”
She was silent during a momentary activity of the snuff-brush.
“But ef _I_ war you-uns, Lethe, an’ hed the chance o’ livin’ in my own
house all ter myself”—she began anew.
“Plenty o’ elbow-room,” interrupted Mrs. Sayles; “not all jammed
tergether, like we-uns hyar.”
Alethea, aware of her lack of logic, made an effort to effect a diversion.
“I never hearn o’ folks a-grudgin’ a gal house-room, an’ wantin’ her ter
go off an’ marry fur a place ter bide,” she said, pausing in her weaving.
Mrs. Sayles, who piqued herself, not without some reason, on her kindness
to her step-daughter, having her prosaic welfare, at least, at heart,
retorted in righteous wrath. “An’ nobody ain’t never said no sech word,”
she declared, with amplest negation. “Grudgin’ ye house-room,—shucks!”
“One less wouldn’t be no improve_mint_ ter we-uns, Lethe,” said the
daughter-in-law. “We air jes’ like a hen settin’ on forty aigs: she kin
kiver ’em ez well ez thirty-nine.”
“But I ain’t got no medjure o’ patience with this latter-day
foolishness!” said Mrs. Sayles, tartly. “Whenst I war young, gals married
thar fust chance,—mought hev been afeard they’d never git another,” she
added, impersonally, that others might profit by this contingency. “An’ I
don’t keer much nohow fur these hyar lonesome single wimmen. Ye never kin
git folks ter b’lieve ez they ever _hed_ enny chance.”
“Laws-a-massy, Lethe,” the daughter-in-law reassured her, still vaguely
serene, “I ain’t wantin’ ter git shet o’ ye, nohow. Ye hev tuk mo’ keer
o’ my chill’n than I hev, an’ holped me powerful. It’s well ye done it,
too, fur Jacob Jessup ain’t sech ez kin content me with Wild-Cat Hollow.
I war raised in the cove!”
“Thar’s L’onidas now, axin’ fur suthin’ ter eat,” said the uncompromising
Alethea, whose voice was the slogan of duty.
The loom occupied a full third of the space on the little porch; two or
three rickety chairs stood there, besides; a yoke hung against the wall;
the spinning-wheel was shadowed by the jack-bean vines, whose delicate
lilac blooms embellished the little cabin, clambering to its roof; on
the floor were several splint baskets. A man was languidly filling them
with peaches, which he brought in a wheel-barrow from the trees farther
down on the slope. He was tall and stalwart, but his beard was gray,
and he had assumed the manner and all the exemptions of extreme age;
occasionally he did a little job like this with an air of laborious
precision. He was accompanied both in going and coming by his step-son’s
daughter, a tow-headed, six-year-old girl, and a gaunt yellow dog. The
little girl’s voice, dictatorial and shrill, was on the air continuously,
broken only by the low, acquiescent refrain of the old man’s replies,
carefully adjusted to meet her propositions. The dog paced silently and
discreetly along, his appreciation of the placid pleasure of the occasion
plainly manifested in his quiet demeanor and his slightly wagging tail.
His decorum suffered a lapse when, as they came close to the porch, he
observed Leonidas issue from the door,—a small boy of four, a plump
little caricature of a man, in blue cotton trousers, an unbleached cotton
shirt, and a laughably small pair of knitted suspenders. He held in
his hand a piece of fat meat several inches square, considered in the
mountains peculiarly wholesome for small boys, and a reliable assistant
in “gittin’ yer growth.”
Tige paused not for reflection. He sprang upon the porch, capering
gleefully about, and uttering shrill yelps of discovery with much his
triumphant manner in treeing a coon. Leonidas shared the common human
weakness of overestimating one’s own size. He thought to hold the booty
out of Tige’s reach, and extended his arm at full length, whereupon the
dog, with an elastic bound and extreme nicety of aim, caught it and
swallowed it at a single gulp. Leonidas winked very fast; then, realizing
his bereavement, burst into noisy tears. Tige’s facetiousness had a
discordantly sudden contrast in the serious howl he emitted as he was
kicked off the porch by the child’s father. This was an unkempt young
fellow just emerging from the shed-room. He had a red face and swollen
eyes, and there were various drowsy intimations in his manner that he
was just roused from sleep. No natural slumber, one might have judged;
the odor of whiskey still hung about him, and he walked with an unsteady
gait to the end of the porch and sat down on the edge of the floor, his
feet dangling over the ground. Tige, who had sought refuge beneath the
house, and was giving vent to sundry sobbing wheezes, thrust his head out
to lick his master’s boots. Upon this mollifying demonstration, the man
looked down with the lenient expression of one who loves dogs. “What ails
ye, then,” he reasoned, “ter be sech a fool as ter ’low ye kin be let ter
rob a child the size o’ L’onidas thar?”
And forthwith the mercurial Tige came out, cheerful as before.
In the limited interval when Leonidas—who had been supplied with another
piece of meat, but still wept aloud with callow persistence because of
the affronts offered by Tige—was fain to pause for breath, and between
the alternate creaking of the treadle of the loom and the thumping of the
batten, the man’s ear caught that unwonted stir in the air, the sound of
consecutive rifle-shots.
“Look-a-hyar,” he cried, springing to his feet, “what’s that a-goin’ on
down in the cove? Lethe, stop trompin’ on that thar n’isy treadle, so ez
I kin listen! Quit yellin’, ye catamount!” with a vengeful glance at the
small boy.
But the grief of Leonidas was imperative, and he abated nothing.
Jacob Jessup stood for an instant baffled. Then suddenly he put both
hands to his mouth, and roused all the echoes of Wild-Cat Hollow with a
ringing halloo.
“Who be ye a-hollerin’ at?” asked his mother from her nook in the chimney
corner.
“I ’lowed I viewed a man up yander ’mongst them woods,—mought be one o’
the herders.”
Alethea’s foot paused on the treadle. Her uplifted hand stayed the
batten, the other held the shuttle motionless. She turned her head and
with a sudden rich flush on her cheek and a deep light in her lifted
eyes looked up toward the forests that rose in vast array upon the steep
slopes of the ridge until they touched the sky. Accustomed to the dusky
shadows of their long avenues, she discerned a mounted figure in their
midst. There was a tense moment of suspense. The man had wheeled his
horse on hearing the halloo. He seemed to hesitate; then in lieu of
response he took his way down the hill toward the cabin. The trees were
fewer on the edge of the clearing. Before he drew rein by the rail fence
she had turned back to the loom, and once more the shuttle winged its
short, clumsy flights, like a fledgeling bird, from one side to the
other, and the treadle creaked, and the batten thumped, and she spared
not an instant from her work.
For it was only Ben Doaks dismounting, glad of a pretext, throwing the
reins over a projecting rail of the fence, and tramping up to the house.
“Howdy,” he observed comprehensively. And the family, meditatively eying
him, responded, “Howdy.”
“Keep yer health, Ben?” the old woman demanded. She had come to the door,
and took a gourd of water from a pail which was on a shelf without. She
drank leisurely, and tossed the surplus water from the gourd across
the porch, where it spattered the half-grown pullet, which shunted off
suddenly with a loud, shocked exclamation, as if it sported half a score
of ruffled petticoats.
“Yes’m,” drawled Ben, seating himself on the edge of the porch, near
Jacob, “I keeps toler’ble well.”
“I dunno how ye do it,—livin’ off’n what ye cooks yerse’f.” She
manifested a truly mundane interest in the eligible young man. She did
not return to her chair by the fireside, but sat down on the doorstep.
“I’d look ter be p’isoned ef I hed ter live on yer cookin’.”
“Waal, I reckon _ye_ couldn’t put up with it right handy, seem’ the
sorter table ye set out hyar.”
Was the old woman more than human, to be untouched by this sincere
tribute?
“Ye oughter kem down hyar oftener ye do, Ben, an’ bide ter meals,” she
said, her spectacles turned upon him with a certain grave luminosity.
“We’ll make ye powerful welcome ter sech vittles ez we hev got. Ye ain’t
been hyar fur a right smart time.”
“I know that, but somehows I never kin feel right welcome comin’ so
often,” said Ben. He had leaned back against the post of the porch. He
could look, without moving, into Alethea’s grave, absorbed face as she
worked.
“’Count o’ Lethe? Shucks! thar ain’t but one fool hyar. Mought kem ter
see the rest o’ we-uns.”
Alethea’s face flushed. Ben Doaks, dismayed to be the indirect occasion
of her anger, and secretly affronted by the breach of decorum which he
considered involved in this open mention of his bootless suit, hastened
to change the subject. “Did ye hev a word ter say ter me, Jacob?” he
asked. “Ye ’lowed, day ’fore yestiddy, ye wanted ter sell yer steer.”
There was now no sound from the cove. The burnished glisters of the
sunshine hung above it, holding in suspension a gauzy haze, through which
the purple mountains were glamourous and darkly vague. Jacob, his senses
yet in thrall, could hardly recall the question he had desired to ask
concerning the rifle-shots that had trivially jarred its perfect serenity.
“Yes, yes,” he said hastily. “Buck, ye know,” with the manner of
introduction. “Yander he be.” He pointed to a gaunt dun-colored ox with
long horns and a joyless mien, standing within a few feet of a rude
trough which the spring branch kept supplied.
“Jacob,” said Alethea, turning her head with a knitted brow, “ef ye sell
Buck, how air we goin’ ter plough our craps? How air we goin’ ter live
along?”
“Laws-a-massy!” exclaimed Mrs. Sayles. “I ain’t s’prised none ef the man
ez marries Lethe at last will find out he hev got a turrible meddler. She
jes’ ups an’ puts inter her elders’ affairs ez brash ez ef hern war the
only brains in the fambly. Jacob’s a-savin’ ter buy a horse, child. Yer
dad ’lowed Jacob mought use his jedgmint ’bout all the crappin’, bein’ ez
yer dad’s old an’ ain’t long fur this worl’. So Jacob hev determinated
ter buy a horse. Who wants ter work a steer when they ken hev a horse?”
Doaks looked intently at Alethea, loyally eager to range himself on her
side. She was oblivious of his presence now; every faculty was on the
alert in her single-handed contest against the family.
“Whar’s the money he hev saved?” she demanded.
Her step-brother seemed frowzier than ever, as he lifted his eyebrows in
vain cogitation for an answer.
“Ye shet up,” he said, in triumphant substitution; “ye ain’t no kin ter
me.”
Alethea, all lacking in the bland and mollifying feminine influences that
subtly work their ends in seeming submission, bluntly spoke her inmost
thought:
“Ez long ez thar’s a moonshine still a-runnin’ somewhar round Piomingo
Cove, Jacob ain’t goin’ ter save no money.”
“Thar ain’t no still round hyar ez I knows on,” said Doaks, in surprise.
“Over yander in Eskaqua Cove thar air a bonded still, I know.”
“That bonded still hev ter sell wholesale, hevin’ no license otherwise,”
she retorted, “an’ Jacob hain’t saved enough yit ter buy by the five
gallon. An’ though he may ’pear sober ter you-uns, he don’t ter me.”
Jacob bore her scathing glance with an admirable equanimity.
“Ye shet up, Lethe; ye dunno nuthin’ ’bout stills, bonded or no.
Look-a-hyar, Ben, don’t ye want ter buy Buck? See him thar?”
“I don’t want him,” said Ben.
Jacob turned fiercely on Alethea. “Whyn’t ye hold yer jaw, ef ye know
how; ye have done spiled my trade. Look-a-hyar, Ben,” he said alluringly,
“it’s this hyar steer,”—there was but one,—“this hyar steer; he’s wuth
money. I tell ye,” he vociferated, with a drunken wag of his head,
“Buck’s a good steer. I dunno ef I kin git my cornsent ter trade Buck
off, no-ways. Buck’s plumb like a member o’ the fambly. I tell ye we-uns
fairly dote on Buck.”
“Waal, I don’t want him. Older ’n enny of ye, ain’t he?” drawled Ben. He
was not a dull fellow, and he had taken his cue. He would decry the ox
and forego his bargain, a consciously hopeless sacrifice to his affection.
Jacob straightened himself with an effort, and stared at his interlocutor.
“Who? Buck? Why, Buck ain’t much older than L’onidas thar.” He waved
his hand toward the boy, who had perched on the bench of the loom
beside Alethea. Now and then she patted his shoulder, which effort at
consolation he received with a distinct crescendo; he had begun to relish
the sound of his vocal performance, evidently attempting new and bizarre
effects.
“L’onidas air about four year old, ain’t he, Mis’ Jessup?” Doaks asked
of the young matron, who seemed placidly regardless how the negotiation
should terminate.
“I b’lieve he’s ’bout four,” she said, without animation.
“Waal, he be toler’ble bouncin’ fur that,” said Doaks, looking with the
eye of speculation at the boy, as if he were about to offer a bid for
Leonidas, “but I kin see a heap o’ diff’unce ’twixt his size an’ Buck’s.”
The drunken man turned and stared at the diminutive person on the bench.
“Waal,” he said in a low-spirited way, as if he must yield the point, “I
never knowed ye wanted a steer o’ that size. Wouldn’t be much use ter ye.
Our’n ain’t.”
“He ’pears sorter jubious in his temper. Does he hook?”
“Who? Buck?”—with an air of infinite amazement. “Why, Buck’s ez saaft ez
L’onidas thar.”
As Leonidas was just now extremely loud, the comparison was hardly
felicitous.
“I don’t want no work-ox, nohow,” said Doaks. “I want cattle ter fatten.”
“Jes’ try Buck. He’ll lay on fat fur ev’y ear o’ corn fedded him. Ye
dunno Buck. He hain’t laid on much yit, ’kase, ye see,”—Jessup’s voice
took a confidential intonation, although it was not lowered because of
the roaring Leonidas,—“we-uns ain’t hed much corn ter feed ter Buck,
bein’ back’ard las’ year. The drought cotched our late corn, an’ so Buck,
though he worked it, he never got none sca’cely. An’ that’s why he ain’t
no fatter ’n he be.”
Logical of Buck, but it availed him as little as the logic of misfortunes
profits the rest of the world.
Alethea had risen and turned half round, leaning against the great clumsy
frame of the loom. Her posture displayed her fine height; her supple
figure was slight, as became her age, but with a suggestion of latent
strength in every curve. There was something strangely inconsistent in
the searching, serious expression of her grave brown eyes and the lavish
endowment of her beauty, which seemed as a thing apart from her. Perhaps
only Ben Doaks noted, or rather felt in a vague, unconscious way, the
fascination of its detail: the lustre of her dense yellow hair showing
against the brown wall, where a string of red peppers hung, heightening
the effect; the glimpse of her white throat under the saffron kerchief;
the lithe grace of her figure, about which her sober-hued dress fell in
straight folds. To the home-folks she gave other subjects to contemplate.
“Naw,” she drawled, in her soft, low voice, whose intonation only
suggested sarcasm, “we didn’t plant much o’ nuthin’ las’ year,—hed no
seed sca’cely, an’ nuthin’ ter trade fur ’em. The plenties’ o’ ennythin’
roun’ hyar-abouts war bresh whiskey, an’ ez Buck don’t drink it he ain’t
no fatter ’n he be.”
“Waal,” said Doaks, feeling all the discomforts incident to witnessing a
family row, incompetent to participate by reason of non-membership, “I
’lowed the mountings hed in an’ about done with moonshinin’, cornsiderin’
the way the raiders kep’ up with the distillers. It’s agin the law, ye
know.”
“I ain’t a-keerin’ fur the law,” said Alethea loftily. “The law air jes’
the men’s foolishness, an’ they air a-changin’ of it forever till ’tain’t
got no constancy. Ef I war minded ter break it I’d feel no hendrance in
the sperit.”
Her eyes met his. He looked vaguely away. Certainly there was no
reasoning on this basis.
“’Tain’t right,” she said suddenly. “Jacob sleeps an’ drinks his time
away, an’ don’t do his sheer o’ the work. I done _all_ the ploughin’ this
year,—me an’ Buck,—an’ I ain’t one o’ the kind ez puts up with sech. I
ain’t a Injun woman, like them at Quallatown. Pete Rood,—he hev been over
thar,—he ’lows the wimmen do _all_ the crappin’ while the men go huntin’.
I’ll kerry my e-end o’ the log, but when the t’other e-end draps ’pears
ter me I oughter drap mine.”
“What ye goin’ ter do, Lethe?” said the old woman. “Goin’ ter take ter
idlin’ an’ drinkin’ bresh whiskey, too?”
She laughed, but she sneered as well.
Alethea, all unmoved by her ridicule, drawled calmly on: “I dunno nuthin’
’bout bresh whiskey, an’ I ain’t idled none, ez the rest o’ you-uns kin
see; but ef Jacob don’t do his stent nex’ year, thar’ll be less corn hyar
than this.”
It was hard for Doaks to refrain from telling her that there was a home
ready for her, and one to share it who would work for both. Only futility
restrained him. He flushed to the roots of his light brown hair, and as
a resource he drew out a clasp-knife and absently whittled a chip as he
listened.
“Waal, wimmen hev ter holp men along with thar work wunst in a while,”
said Mrs. Sayles patronizingly. “Ye’ll find that out, child, whenst ye
git married.”
“Ef I war married,” said Alethea, severely contemplating the
possibility,—and Doaks felt a vague thrill of jealousy,—“I’d do his work
ef he war ailin’ ennywise, but not ter leave him in the enjyement o’
bresh whiskey.”
“Ye shet up, Lethe,” said Jacob, nettled. “Ye ain’t no kin ter me,—jes’
a step-sister,—an’ ye ain’t got no right ter jow at me. Ye dunno nuthin’
’bout bresh whiskey. Ye dunno whar it’s made nor who makes it.”
“Ef I did”—she began abruptly.
He looked up at her with a sober dismay on his face.
“Don’t go ter ’lowin’ ye’d gin the word ter the revenuers?” he said.
Mrs. Sayles dropped her knitting in her lap.
“Look-a-hyar, Lethe,” she exclaimed, “it’s ez much ez yer life’s wuth ter
say them words!”
“I ain’t said ’em,” declared Alethea. She looked vaguely away with absent
eyes, disregarding Jacob’s growling defense of himself, which consisted
in good measure of animadversions on people who faulted their elders and
gals who couldn’t hold their tongues. Suddenly she stepped from the porch.
“Whar be ye goin’, Lethe?” demanded Mrs. Sayles, ruthlessly interrupting
Jacob’s monologue.
“Ter hunt up that thar lam’,” replied Alethea calmly, as if nothing else
had been under discussion. “I ain’t seen nuthin’ of it ter-day, an’ some
o’ the chill’n—I b’lieve ’twar Joe—’lowed its dam war down yander nigh
Boke’s spring yestiddy, actin’ sorter cur’ous, an’ I reckon suthin’ ’s
happened ter it.”
Doaks looked after her as she went, tempted to follow. She took her way
down the path beside the zigzag rail-fence. All the corners were rank
with wild flowers, vines and bushes, among which her golden head showed
from time to time as in a wreath. She was soon without the limits of
Wild-Cat Hollow. More than once she paused as she went, holding her
hands above her eyes, and looking at the vast array of mountains on
every side. A foreign land to her, removed even from vague speculation;
she only saw how those august summits lifted themselves into the sky,
how the clouds, weary-winged, were fain to rest upon them. There was a
vague blurring at the horizon-line, for a shower was succeeded by mist.
The woods intervened presently; the long stretches of the majestic
avenues lay before her, all singularly open, cleared of undergrowth
by the fiery besom of the annual conflagration. It was very silent;
once only she heard the shrill trilling of a tree-frog; and once the
insistent clamor of a locust broke out close at hand, vibrating louder
and louder and dying away, to be caught up antiphonally in the distance.
Often she noted the lightning-scathed trees, the fated of the forest,
writhen and blanched and spectral among their flourishing kindred. There
were presently visible at the end of the long leafy vista other dead
trees: their blight was more prosaic; they stood girdled and white in
an abandoned field that lay below the slope on which she had paused,
and near the base of the mountain. A broken rotting rail-fence still
encircled it. Blackberry bushes, broom-sedge, a tangle of weeds, were a
travesty of its crops. A fox, a swift-scudding tawny streak, sped across
it as she looked. Hard by there was a deserted hut: the doors were open,
showing the dark voids within; the batten shutters flapped with every
changing whim of the winds. Fine sport they had often had, these riotous
mountain sprites, shrieking down the chimney to affright the loneliness;
then falling to sobs and sighs to mock the voices of those who had known
sorrow here and perhaps shed tears; sometimes wrapping themselves in snow
as in a garment, and reeling in fantastic whirls through the forlorn and
empty place; sometimes twitting the gaunt timbers with their infirmities,
and one wild night wrenching off half a dozen clapboards from the roof
and scattering them about the door. Thus the moon might look in, seeing
no more those whose eyes had once met its beam, and even the sunlight
had melancholy intimations when it shone on the forsaken hearth-stone.
A screech-owl had found refuge among the rafters, and Alethea heard its
quavering scream ending in a low, sinister chuckle. There was a barn near
at hand,—a structure of undaubed, unhewn logs, with a wide open pass-way
below the loft to shelter wagons and farm implements; it seemed in better
repair than the house. The amber sky above the dark woods had deepened to
orange, to crimson; the waning light suffused the waters of the spring
branch which flowed close by the barn, the willows leaning to it, the
ferns laving in it. The place was incredibly solitary and mournful with
the persistent spectacle of the deserted home, suggestive of collapsed
energies, of the defeated scheme of some simple humanity.
A faint bleat rose suddenly. Alethea turned quickly. Amongst a patch of
briers she caught a glimpse of something white; another glance,—it was
the ewe, quietly nibbling the grass.
Alethea had no intention of moving softly, but her skirts brushing
through the weeds made hardly a sound. Her light, sure step scarcely
stirred a leaf. The ewe saw her presently, and paused in feeding. She
had been making the best of her woes, remaining near her lamb, which had
fallen into a sink-hole, sustained by the earth, gravel and banks of
leaves held in the mouth of the cavity. Its leg was broken, and thus,
although the sheep could venture to it, the lamb could not follow to the
vantage-ground above. Seeing that succor was at hand, the sheep lost all
patience and calmness, and ran about Alethea in a distracting fashion,
bleating, till the lamb, roused to a renewed sense of its calamities,
bleated piteously too. As it lay down in the cavity upon the dead leaves,
it had a strangely important look upon its face, appreciating how much
stir it was making in the world for one of its size. Alethea noticed
this, albeit she was too self-absorbed at the moment. These treacherous
hopper-shaped sink-holes are of indefinite depth, and are often the
mouths of caves. To reach the lamb she must needs venture half across the
cavity. She stepped cautiously down the debris, holding fast the while to
the branches of an elder-bush growing on its verge. She felt the earth
sinking beneath her feet. The sheep, which had jumped in too, sprang
hastily out. Alethea had a dizzying realization of insecurity. She caught
the lamb up in one arm, then stepped upon the sinking mass and struggled
up the side of the aperture, as with a great gulp the leaves and earth
were swallowed into the cavity. She looked down with that sickening sense
of a sheer escape, still holding the lamb in one arm; the other hand
readjusted the heavy masses of her golden hair, and the saffron kerchief
about the neck of her brown dress. The sheep, one anxiety removed, was
the prey of another, and pressed close to Alethea, with outstretched head
and all the fears of kidnapping in her pleading eyes.
Alethea waited for a moment to rest. Then as she glanced over her
shoulder her heart seemed to stand still, her brain reeled, and but for
her acute consciousness she would have thought she must be dreaming.
The clearing lay there all as it was a moment before: the deserted
buildings, the weed-grown fields, the rotting rail fence; the woods
dark about it, the sky red above it. Around and around the old barn, in
a silent circuit, three men were solemnly tramping in single file. She
stood staring at them with dilated eyes, all the mystic traditions of
supernatural manifestations uppermost in her mind. Once more the owl’s
scream rent the brooding stillness. How far that low, derisive chuckle
echoed! A star, melancholy, solitary, was in the pensive sky. The men’s
faces were grave,—once, twice, thrice, they made the round. Then they
stood together in the open space beneath the loft, and consulted in
whispers.
One suddenly spoke aloud.
“Oh, Tobe!” he called.
“_Tobe!_” called the echoes.
There was no answer. All three looked up wistfully. Then they again
conferred together in a low tone.
“Oh, Tobias!” cried the spokesman in a voice of entreaty.
“_Tobias!_” pleaded the plaintive echoes.
Still there was no answer. The owl screamed suddenly in its weird,
shrill tones. It had flown out from among the rafters and perched on
the smokeless chimney of the hut. Then its uncanny laughter filled the
interval.
Once more the men whispered anxiously to each other. One of them, a tall,
ungainly, red-haired fellow, seemed to have evolved a solution of the
problem which had baffled them.
“Mister Winkeye!” he exclaimed, with vociferous confidence.
The echoes were forestalled. A sneeze rang out abruptly from the loft of
the deserted old barn,—a sneeze resonant, artificial, grotesque enough to
set the blades below to roaring with delighted laughter.
“He mus’ hev his joke. _Mister Winkeye_ air a mighty jokified old man,”
declared the red-haired fellow.
They made no effort to hold further communication with the sneezer in the
loft. They hastily placed a burly jug in the centre of the space below,
and laid a silver half-dollar upon the cob that served as stopper. The
coin looked extremely small in this juxtaposition. There may be people
elsewhere who would be glad of a silver coin of that size capable of
filling so disproportionately large a jug. Then they ran off fleetly out
of the clearing and into the woods, and Alethea could hear the brush
crackling as they dashed through it on the slopes below.
She was still pale and tremulous, but no longer doubts beset her. She
understood the wiles of the illicit distiller, pursued so closely by the
artifices of the raiders that he was prone to distrust the very consumers
of his brush whiskey. They never saw his face, they knew not even his
name. They had no faint suspicion where his still was hidden. They were
not even dangerous as unwilling witnesses, should they be caught with
the illicit liquor in their hands. The story that they had left a jug
and a half-dollar in a deserted barn, and found the jug filled and the
coin vanished, would inculpate no one. From the loft the distiller or
his emissary could see and recognize them as they came. Alethea, having
crept down the slope amongst the briers in search of the lamb, had been
concealed from him. She was seized instantly by the desire to get away
before he should appear. She coveted the knowledge of no such dangerous
secret. She walked boldly out from the leafy covert, that he might see
her in the clearing and delay till she was gone.
The lamb was bleating faintly in her arms; the sheep pressed close to her
side, nudging her elbow with an insistent nozzle. The last flush of the
day was on her shining hair and her grave, earnest face. The path led
her near the barn. She hesitated, stopped, and drew back hastily. A man
was swinging himself alertly down from the loft. He caught up the coin,
slipped it into his pocket, and lifted the jug with the other hand. The
next moment he dropped it suddenly, with a startled exclamation. His eyes
had met her eyes. There was a moment of suspense charged with mutual
recognition. Then she ran hastily by, never pausing till she was far away
in the deep obscurity of the woods.
IV.
The night came on. The dark summits of the great mountains were heavily
defined against the sky. Here and there along those steep slanting lines
that mark the ravines a mist hung, vaguely perceived. A point of red
light might gleam in the dusky depths of Piomingo Cove where the flare
of a hearth-stone flickered out. All the drowsy nocturnal voices joined
in iterative unison, broken only when the marauding wolf of the Great
Smoky howled upon the bald. The herders ruefully thought of the roaming
yearlings, and presaged calamity. All the world was sunk in gloom, till
gradually a rayonnant heralding halo, of a pallid and lustrous green,
appeared above the deeply purple summits; in its midst the yellow moon
slowly revealed itself, and with a visible tremulousness rose solemnly
into the ascendency of the night.
It was high in the sky when Mink Lorey rode along the wild mountain ways.
More than once he looked up earnestly at it, not under the spell of
lunar splendors, but with a prosaic calculation of the hour. Suddenly he
drew up the mare. He lifted his head, listening. Voices sounded in the
depths of the woods,—faint, far, hilarious voices; then absolute silence.
He struck the mare with his heels. The animal pushed on unwillingly,
breaking through the brush, stumbling over the stones, scrambling up
and down steep slopes. All at once, with a burst of laughter, there was
disclosed an opening in the forest. A glory of pale moonlight suffused
the mountains in the distance and the shimmering mists in the valley. In
the flecking shadow of the great trees were half a dozen figures, with
hairy moonlit faces and shining eyes, seated on logs or rocks, or lying
upon the ground.
Not fauns nor satyrs; not Bacchus come again with all his giddy rout.
Only the malcontents because of the bonded still.
“Hy’re, Mink!” exclaimed Jerry Price. “We fund the jug hyar ’cordin’ ter
promise, hid in a hollow tree.”
“I hope,” said Mink with sudden apprehension, as he dismounted, “thar be
some lef’ fur me.”
“A leetle, I reckon. Hyar, Mink, wet yer whistle.”
Mink sat down on the roots of a tree draped from its summit to its lowest
bough with the rank luxuriance of a wild grapevine. The pendent ends
swayed in the wind. The dew was upon the bunches of green fruit and the
delicate tendrils, and the moonlight slanted on them with a glistening
sheen.
Mink took the jug, which gurgled alluringly. He removed the cob that
served as stopper, and smelled it with the circumspect air of those who
drink from jugs. Then he turned it up to his mouth. A long bubbling
sound, and he put it down with a sigh of satisfaction.
“Ye don’t ’pear ez riled ez ye did when ye rid out’n Piomingo Cove,”
suggested Pete Rood.
He had a swaggering, triumphant manner, although he was lying on the
ground.
Mink, leaning back against the bole of the tree, the moonlight full on
his wild dark eyes, his clear-cut face, and tousled hair, gave no sign of
anger or even of attention.
“Whar hev ye been all this time?” asked Jerry Price.
“Waal,” said Mink leisurely, “ye know that thar coon ez Tad gin me,—I won
it at ‘five corn:’ arter I hed rid out’n Piomingo Cove an’ hed started
up the mounting, I hearn suthin’ yappin’ arter me, an’ thar war Tad
a-fetchin’ his coon. That thar idjit hed run mighty nigh three miles
ter fetch me his coon! Waal, I hedn’t no ’casion fur a cap, an’ the
coon war a powerful peart leetle consarn,—smiled mighty nigh ekal ter a
possum,—an’ I ’lowed Elviry Crosby mought set store by sech fur a pet,
an’ so I rid over thar an’ gin the coon ter her. She war mos’ pleased ter
death ter git the critter.”
“Ye ain’t been thar ever sence!” exclaimed Jerry.
“Yes,” said Mink demurely. “I bided ter supper along of ’em,—the old
folks bein’ powerful perlite an’ gin me an invite.”
Jerry poked him in the ribs. “Ye air a comical cuss! Ye hev got all the
gals in the mountings crazy ’bout’n ye.”
Mink laughed lightly, and stayed the fleet jug, which was agile
considering its bulk, and once more drank deeply. If he had needed zest
for his draught, he might have found it in the expression of Pete Rood’s
face. He had already revenged himself, but he must needs push the matter
further. He smiled with reminiscent relish, as he leaned against the tree.
“Elviry axed mighty p’inted ef I war a-goin’ right straight up ter
the herders’ cabin ter-night, an’ I tole her ez I hed a job on hand
with a man named Tobias Winkeye ez I hed ter look arter fust. But she
suspicioned suthin’, ’count o’ the name, I reckon, though she never
drempt ’twar jes’ whiskey. She ’lowed she hed never hearn o’ nobody named
sech. An’ I tole her she hed: her dad used ter like old Winkeye mightily,
though _she_ didn’t know him ez well ez some. She ’lowed I war a-goin’
off a-courtin’ some other gal. It war toler’ble hard ter pacify her,”
with a covert glance at Rood. “I hed ter talk sixteen ter the dozen.”
“Waal, we hed better look out how our tongues wag so slack with that thar
name,” said Price. “I lef’ old man Griff settin’ outside the mill door
a-waitin’ fur old Winkeye ter ride by,—bein’ ez I hed gin the word he
lives in Eskaqua Cove,—’kase he wanted ter warn him not ter let no job o’
work go ter Mink Lorey. He ’lowed he war goin’ ter gin Mink a bad name.”
Mink’s blood, fired by the liquor, burned at fever heat. His roving eyes
were distended and unnaturally bright as the moonlight flashed into them.
His cheek was deeply flushed. Despite the rare chill air of the heights,
he was hot; often he took off his hat to let the wind play in his long
tangled hair that hung down to his shoulders, and lay in heavy moist
rings on his forehead. Every fibre was strained to the keenest tension
of excitement. He was equally susceptible to any current of emotion, to
anger or mirth. He broke out indignantly:—
“Old man Griff hed better quit tryin’ ter spite me. I’ll fix him fur it.
I’m goin’ by thar this very night an’ lift the mill gate an’ set the
wheel a-runnin’. It’ll be ez good ez a coon-fight ter see him kem out’n
his house an’ cuss!”
He burst into sudden laughter.
“Oh, ah! Oh, ah!” he sang,—
“The wind blows brief, the moon hangs high;
Oh, listen, folks!—the dead leaves fly.
The witch air out with a broom o’ saidge,
Ter sweep ’em up an’ over the aidge
O’ the new-made grave, ‘ter hide,’ she said,
‘The prints o’ my fingers buryin’ the dead;
Fur how he died—oh, ah! oh, ah!
I’d tell ef ’twarn’t fur the mornin’ star.’”
His mellow, rich baritone voice, hilarious and loud, echoed far and wide,
and incongruously filled the solemn solitudes.
“Who air a-goin’ ter hear?” he demanded, when caution was suggested. “The
herders on the mounting? Too fur off! Too high up! Asleep, besides.”
“They’d think ’twar a wolf,” said Peter Rood, still lying at length on
the ground.
Mink had his sensibilities. On these harmonious numbers he piqued
himself. He felt affronted.
“A leetle mo’, an’ I’ll break this jug over yer head. Nobody ain’t
a-goin’ ter think ez my singin’ air a wolf.”
“Ye hand it hyar,” said Pete; “nobody gits a fair show at that jug but
you-uns.” As he rose to his knees one foot caught in a grapevine, in his
haste.
“Wait till it be empty,” said Mink, making a feint of lifting it to his
mouth. Then turning suddenly, he faced Pete Rood as he staggered to his
feet, and dealt a blow which sent that worthy once more prone upon the
ground.
There was a jumble of excited protest from the others, each vociferously
trying to quiet his companions. Mink was squaring off with clenched fists.
“Kem on,” he observed, “thar’s ground enough hyar fur ez many ez kin
kiver it.”
“Look-a-hyar,” exclaimed Jerry Price, whose grief that the placidities
of the festivity should be frustrated very nearly resembled a regard for
law and order, “ye two boys hev jes’ got ter quit fightin’ an’ sech, an’
spilin’ the enjyement o’ the rest o’ we-uns. Quit foolin’, Mink. Ye ain’t
hurt no-ways, air ye, Pete?”
“Laws-a-massy, naw,” said Pete unexpectedly. “Mink never knocked me down
nohow. I jes’ cotched my foot in a grapevine. That’s all.”
But he lifted himself heavily, and he limped as he walked to a rock at a
little distance and sat down.
Mink with his sudden change of temper let the encounter pass as a bit of
fun. He referred to the jug frequently afterward, and again burst into
song:—
“Oh, ah! Oh, ah!
The weevil’s in the wheat, the worm’s in the corn,
The moon’s got a twist in the eend o’ her horn;
Fur the witch, she grinned and batted her eye,
An’ gin ’em an ail ez she went by
Ter fresk in the frost, ‘an’ show,’ she said,
‘I kin dance on my ankle-j’ints an’ swaller my head,
An’ how I do it, oh, ah! oh, ah!
I’d tell ef ’twarn’t fur the mornin’ star.’”
The others joined tumultuously in the chorus. One sprang up, dancing a
clumsy measure and striking his feet together with an uncouth deftness
worthy of all praise in the estimation of his comrades. They broke
into ecstatic guffaws, in the midst of which Mink’s “Oh, ah! Oh, ah!”
heralding the next verse, seemed a voice a long way off. Down the ravine
was visible a collection of great white trees, girdled and dead long ago,
standing in some field, all so tiny in the distance that it was as if the
fingers of a ghostly hand had pointed upward at the group of revelers on
the ridge.
The shadows had shifted, slanted. The moon was westering fast. Every
gauzy effect of vapor had its fascination in the embellishing beam,
and shone vaguely iridescent All were drifting down the valley toward
Chilhowee. Above them rose that enchanted mountain’s summit, with its
long irregular horizontal line, purple and romantic, suggestive of its
crags, its caves, its forests, and its wild unwritten poetry. A star was
close upon it. Peace brooded on its heights.
The prophecy of dawn was momently reiterated with fuller phrase, with
plainer significance. Even Mink, reluctant to recognize it, yielded at
last to Jerry Price’s insistence. And indeed the jug was empty.
“Put the jug in the hollow tree, then, like we promised, an’ let’s go,”
said Mink. “Mos’ day, ennyhow. ‘Oh, ah! Oh, ah! The daylight’s apt ter
break,’ said the witch.”
The jug was thrust in the hollow of the tree, and the drunken fellows, in
the securities of their fancied quiet, went whooping through the woods.
The owl’s hoot ceased as their meaningless clamor rose from under the
boughs. Now and then that crisp, matutinal sound, the vibrant chirp of
half-awakened nestlings, jarred the air.
The group presently began to separate, some going down to Eskaqua Cove,
where they would find their several homes if they could, but would at
all hazards lay down their neighbors’ fences. Rood lingered for a time
with Mink and one or two others who cherished the design of seeing old
man Griff’s mill started before day. He turned off, however, when they
had reached the open spaces of Piomingo Cove. It lay quiet, pastoral,
encircled by the solemn mountains, with the long slant of the moonbeams
upon it and the glister of the dew. The fields had all a pearly, luminous
effect, marked off by the zigzag lines of the rail fences and the dark
bushes that stood in corners. The houses, indicated by clumps of trees
among which they nestled, were dark and silent. Not even a dog barked.
When a cock crew the sudden note seemed clear and resonant as a bugle.
“Crowin’ fur fower o’clock.” said Mink.
The road ran among woods much of the distance; through the trees could
be caught occasional glimpses of the illuminated world without. But
presently they gave way. A wide, deep notch in the summit of a mountain
revealed the western sky. The translucent amber moon swung above these
purple steeps, all suffused with its glamourous irradiation. Below,
the shining breadth of the Scolacutta River swept down from the vague
darkness. It was still night, yet one could see how the pawpaw and the
laurel crowded the banks. The oblique line of the roof of the mill was
drawn against the purple sky; its windows were black; its supports were
reflected in the stream with a distinct reduplication; the water trickled
down from crevices in the race with a lace-like effect, seeming never
to fall, but to hang as if it were some gauzy fragment of a fabric.
Beneath the great wheel, motionless, circular, shadowy, was a shoaling
yellow light, pellucid and splendid,—the moon among the shallows. The
natural dam, a glassy cataract, bursting into foam and spray, was whitely
visible, with surging rapids below. The sound seemed louder than usual;
it deadened the snap when Mink cut a pole from a pawpaw tree and hastily
trimmed the leaves. He climbed gingerly upon the timbers of the race,
then paused, looked back, and hesitated.
The others had reined in their horses, and stood, ill-defined equestrian
shadows, on the bank watching him.
He placed the pole beneath the lever by which the gate was raised, its
other end being within the building. There was no sound but the monotone
of the river. Then with a great creak the gate was lifted. The imprisoned
water came through with a tumultuous rush. Mink felt the stir beneath as
the wheel began to revolve. There was a sudden jar, a jerk, the structure
swayed beneath him, a crash among the timbers, a harsh, wrenching sound
as they tore apart. He saw the faint stars reel as in some distraught
vision. He heard the wild exclamations of the men on the bank. He could
not distinguish what they said, but with an instinct rather than any
appreciation of cause and effect he tried to draw away the pole to let
the gate down.
Too late. Through the sunken wreck of the race the water still poured
over the madly plunging wheel. Mink sprang upon the bank, fell upon his
hands and knees, and as he struggled to his feet he saw beneath the race
the grotesque distortions of the simple machinery. Some villain’s hand
had adroitly contrived a series of clogs, each of insufficient weight to
stop the wheel with the water still pouring over it, but as it crushed
them—first an empty barrel, then a pole, then a fence-rail—giving it a
succession of shocks that were fast breaking it in pieces. Thus what
was designed for jest should result in destruction. The mill itself was
a rotten old structure at best. Jarring with every convulsive wrench
and jerk of the bewitched wheel, its supports tottered feebly in the
water, and when all at once the race came down, and the wheel and the
heavy beams were driven against its walls, for an instant it quivered,
then careened, crashed. There was a great cloud of dust rising from the
tumbled wreck on the bank. In the water, floating away on the swollen
floods, were timbers, and barrels, and boards, and parts of the clapboard
roof.
And then, from their midst, as if the old building had an appreciated
agony in its dissolution, a great cry of pain went up. Mink turned
with a white face, as he put his foot in the stirrup, to stare over
his shoulder. Surely he was drunk, very drunk. Had the others heard? A
twinkling light sprang up beyond the orchard boughs. The house had taken
the alarm. His companions were getting away in haste. Sober enough for
flight and flapping their elbows, they crowed in mockery. Mink leaped
into his saddle to ride as ride he must, still looking with a lingering
fear over his shoulder, remembering that quavering cry.
Was he drunk, or did he hear? Could any creature have been in the mill,
undisturbed,—for they were so craftily quiet,—asleep till awakened by
those death throes of the little building? Could it have been a pet fawn
bleating with almost a human intonation in that common anguish of all
life, the fear of death,—a pet cub? What! his heart ached for it,—he, the
hardy hunter? Oh, was his conscience endowed with some subtle discernment
more acute than his senses? It seemed a surly fate that had crept up on
the unwitting creature in the dark, in the humble peace of its slumbers.
And he was sorry, too, for the old man’s mill; and then a vague terror
possessed him when he thought of the trickery with the wheel. Surely the
hand of another had compassed its destruction, yet when or why he could
not understand, could not guess; or was he himself the miscreant? He
could not remember what he had done; he had been so very drunk.
Ah, should he ever again see Chilhowee thus receive the slant of the
sunrise, and stand revealed in definite purple heights against the pale
blue of the far west? Should he ever again mark that joyous matutinal
impulse of nature as the dawn expanded into day? The note of a bird,
sweet, thrilling with gladness, came from the woods, so charged with the
spirit of the morning that it might have been the voice of the light.
And the dew was rich with the fragrance of flowers, and as he galloped
along the bridle-path they stretched their rank growth across his way,
sometimes smiting him lightly in the face, like a challenge to mirth.
When he climbed the steep ridge from which were visible the domes of the
Great Smoky, all massive and splendid against the dispersing roseate
tints in the sky, the sunlight gushing down in a crimson flood while
the dazzling focus rose higher than the highest bald, he cared less to
look above than into the shadowed depths of Piomingo Cove. Did he fancy,
or could he see a stir there? An atom slowly moved down the lane, and
across the red clay slope of a hill,—another, and yet one more. Was the
settlement already roused with the news of the disaster to the mill? He
turned and pressed his mare along the rocky road, up slopes and down
again, still ascending and descending the minor ridges that lie about
the base of the Smoky. Sometimes he wondered at himself with a harsh,
impersonal reprehension, as if his deed were another’s. “How’s the old
man goin’ ter make out ter barely live ’thout his mill?” he demanded of
himself; “an’ them gran’chil’n ter keer fur, an’ Tad, an’ all.”
Then would come again the recollection of that strange muffled scream,
and though the sun was warm he shivered.
Often he drew up the mare and listened with a vague sense of pursuit.
Stillness could hardly be more profound. Not the stir of a leaf, never a
stealthy tread. Then as he started again down the rocky way, some vagrant
echo, or a stone rolling under his mare’s hoof, would bring to him again
that sudden affright, and he would swiftly turn to see who dogged him.
There were many curves in the path, and once in its opening vista he saw
before him a girl with yellow hair outlined against the green and gold
foliage of the sunlit woods, clad in brown homespun, partly leading and
partly driving a dun-colored ox, with a rope knotted about his long horns.
She paused, swaying hard on it to check the animal, when she beheld the
horseman, and her brown eyes were full of surprised recognition.
Mink gravely nodded in response to her grave salutation. He seemed at
first about to pass without stopping, but when it was evident that she
intended to let the ox trudge on he drew up the mare.
“Howdy, Lethe,” he said.
“Howdy,” returned Alethea.
“Enny news?”
She shook her head without speaking.
“Whar be ye a-goin’ with Buck?” he asked.
“Arter the warpin’ ars. They war loaned ter aunt Dely, an’ she hain’t got
but one steer ter haul ’em home. So Buck hed ter go.”
The ox had reached up his dun-colored head for the leaves, all green and
flecked with golden light. She had loosed her hold upon the rope, and
seriously gazed at Mink.
“I war down ter Crosby’s yestiddy evenin’,” he observed, watching her.
“I hopes ye enjyed yerse’f,” she said, with tart self-betrayal.
He laughed a little, and turned the reins in his hands. He relished
infinitely the sight of the red and angry spot on either cheek, the spark
in her eye.
“I did,” he said jauntily, noting the effect of his words. “I seen
Elviry.”
She made an effort at self-control.
“Waal,” she returned, calmly, although her voice trembled a little, “I
hope ye kin agree with her better ’n ye ever done with me. We warn’t made
fur one another, I reckon, no-ways.”
“Oh, I hain’t never axed Elviry; ’tain’t never gone ez fur ez that. I
’lowed ez mebbe ye an’ me mought make it up some day.”
He was only trying her, but the vaunted feminine intuition did not detect
this. Her cheek crimsoned. Her eyes were full of liquid lights. She
laughed, a low gurgling laugh of happiness, that, nevertheless, broke
into a sob.
“I dunno ’bout that,” she said, evasively, belying the rapture in her
face.
She was very beautiful at the moment A cultivated man, versed in the
harmonies of line and color, tutored to discriminate expressions and
gauge feelings and recognize types, might have perceived something
innately noble in her, foolish though the affection was which embellished
her.
Even he was impressed by it. “I hev never axed nobody but ye,” he said.
“Not even arter we quar’led.”
He was not bound by this, which he knew full well, and it promised
nothing. But it held her love and loyalty for him, if ever he should want
them.
Nevertheless, while he piqued himself on his domination, he was under
her influence at the fleeting moment when he was with her. Perhaps her
presence induced some tender affinity for the better things. He said
with a sigh, “I hev done gone an’ got in a awful scrape, Lethe. I reckon
nobody never hed sech a pack o’ troubles in this worl’.”
With a sort of pitying deprecation of the wiles of old Tobias Winkeye she
gravely listened. Once she unconsciously put up her hand and stroked his
mare. He was petulant, like a spoiled child, when he told how he only
meant a jest and such woful destruction had ensued. “An’ me so boozy
I dunno _what_ I done. An’ that thar pore old man! An’ his mill plumb
ruined! An’ all his gran’chillen an’ Tad ter keer fur!”
Her face had become very pale. Her voice trembled as she said,—
“Ain’t sech agin the law, Reuben?”
She always called him by his name, rather than the sobriquet his pranks
had earned. He was unfamiliar with himself thus dignified, and it gave
him an added sense of importance.
“Yes, but ’tain’t nuthin’ but ten dollar fine, mebbe, an’ a few days in
jail,”—she gasped,—“_ef_ they ketches me.”
He looked at her with a swift, crafty brightness that was wonderfully
like the little creature whose name he bore.
“I wouldn’t keer fur that, though,” he added after a pause. “Bein’ in
jail fur rollickin’ roun’ the kentry jes’ fur fun ain’t a disgrace, like
fur stealin’ an’ sech. What pesters me so is studyin’ ’bout the old man
and his mill, plumb ruined. Lord! Lord! I’d gin my mare an’ hogs an’ gun
ef it hed never happened!”
She stood meditative and motionless against the leafy background, all
dark and restful verdure close at hand, opening into a vista of luminous
emerald lightened in the distance to a gilded green where the sunshine
struck aslant with a climax of gold.
“I reckon ye think so, Reuben, but ye wouldn’t,” she said at last, with
her fatal candor.
He winced. He was both hurt and angry as he rejoined, “An’ why wouldn’t
I?”
“Why, ye be ’bleeged ter know ef ye war ter gin the old man yer mare an’
gun an’ hogs, he’d be more ’n willin’ ter gin it up agin ye. The mill
stones air thar yit under the water, an’ he could sell that truck o’
yourn an’ build ez good a shanty ez he hed afore,—better, ’kase ’twould
be new.”
He looked down at her, tapping his heavy boot with the hickory switch in
his hand.
“Ye ain’t changed none, since we war promised to marry,” he said slowly.
“Then ye war forever a-jawin’ an’ a-preachin’ at me ’bout what I done an’
what I oughter do, same ez the rider. Ye talk ’bout jewty ez brash ez ef
_ye_ never hed none, same ez he does ’bout religion. He ain’t hurt with
_that_, ef ye watch him fresk ’round when they air pourin’ him out a dram
or settin’ out the table. That’s sech grace ez he hev got, but he kin
talk powerful sober ter other folks; jes’ like you-uns. I’m sorry I ever
tole ye about it, enny ways. I’m sorry I met up with ye this mornin’”—
The girl’s face was as visibly pained as if he had cruelly struck her.
He went on tumultuously, aggregating wrath and a sense of injury and a
desire of reprisal with every word.
“I’m sorry I ever seen ye! Ye ’mind me o’ that thar harnt o’ a Herder on
Thunderhead the folks tells about Ef ye happen ter kem upon him suddint,
an’ don’t turn back but ketch his eye, that year air withered. Nuthin’ ye
plant will grow, an’ ef the craps air laid by they won’t ripen. He can’t
kill ye; he jes’ spiles yer chance. An’ ye ’minds me o’ him.”
“Oh, Reuben!” the girl cried, in deprecation.
“Ye do,—ye do! I tole ye, ’kase I lowed mebbe ye mought holp me,—more
fool me!—leastways ye mought be sorry. Shucks! And now I’m sorry I tole
ye.”
He struck the mare suddenly and slowly rode past. He glanced back once.
If Alethea had been looking wistfully after him he might have paused.
He expected it; he had even listened for her to call. The light fell
with a rich tinge on her golden hair and her delicate profile as she
reached up to adjust the rope on the long horns of the dun-colored ox.
The vacillating color of the leaves shoaling in the wind and the sunshine
seemed the more fantastic for the sober hue of her brown gown and the
crude red clay path. Even when the ox resumed his journey she did not
once look back, and presently the fluctuating leaves hid her from sight.
Mink’s gust of temper had served to divert him for the moment from the
contemplation of his perplexities. Now they reasserted themselves.
Before, however, he had seen no hope of extrication. But Alethea’s words
had given him something. He began to appreciate the necessity of a
definite plan of action. If he should go up to Piomingo Bald he would be
taken at the herders’ cabin by the officers of the law. His home could be
no refuge. He felt a respite essential. He craved the time to think of
Alethea’s suggestion, to canvass the ground, to judge what was possible.
At last he dismounted and turned his mare out; even here he could hear
the occasional jangling bells of the herds, and the animal would soon
follow the familiar sound. He took his way on foot down the mountain and
through Eskaqua Cove. “The news’ll travel slower ’n me,” he said.
He hardly felt hunger; he did not realize his fatigue. The red clay roads
were vacant, the few daily passers were not yet astir. He avoided, as far
as he might, the possibility of meeting them by taking short cuts over
the mountains and through valleys. His instinct was to remove himself
from his accustomed haunts. Nevertheless, he had no definite intention
of hiding, for after traversing Hazel Valley, he struck boldly into the
county road that leads up the eastern slope of Big Injun Mountain. He
had no thought of resisting arrest. He walked along meditatively, hardly
conscious even of the company of his shadow climbing the mountain with
him, until he suddenly found that it had skulked away and he was bereft
of this vague similitude of a comrade. For the sun was already west of
Big Injun. A pensive shade lay far down the slope, but below there was
again the interfulgent play of sunshine itinerant with the wind among the
leaves.
Once he sat down on a rock close by the road, with his head in his hands
and his elbows on his knees, and sought again to adjust his course to
the best interests of conscience and policy. A woman with a bag of fruit
on her back passed him presently. He replied to her “howdy;” then after
a time rose and trudged up and up the road. He had known repentance
before, for he was plastic morally. But in his experience there had been
no perplexity. It seemed to him, with the urgency of decision and the
turmoil of doubt pressing upon him, that it was happier to be resolutely
reckless. The harassments of uncertainty had affected his nerves, and he
gave a quick start when the abrupt jangle of a bell smote the air. On
the opposite side of the road, among the great craggy steeps, there was
a wide, low niche in the face of the cliff, with a beetling roof and a
confusion of rocks and bushes below. Sheep had climbed into it; some were
standing looking down at him, now and then stirring and setting the bell
to clanking fitfully; others lay motionless in the shadowy nook. He was
about to go on; suddenly he turned and began to scale the huge fragments
of rock to the niche in the cliff.
“Ye clar out,” he said to the sheep as they scuttled away at his
approach; “ye hev got the very spot I want.”
They huddled together as he crept in; two or three hastily ran out upon
the rocks,—only a little frightened, for they began presently to nibble
the grass growing in the rifts. He lay down, pillowing his head upon
his arm, and turning his eyes on the scene without. He could see far
below into the depths of Hazel Valley, with hill and dale in undulatory
succession. The light glanced here and there on the minute lines of a
zigzag fence; on a field in which the stark and girdled trees stood in
every gaunt attitude of despair; on a patch striped with green where
tobacco grew in orderly ranks,—all amongst the dense forests, upon
which these tiny suggestions of civilization seemed only some ephemeral
incident, ineffective, capable of slightest significance. Beyond, the
wooded mountains rose in the densities of unbroken primeval wilderness,
with irregular summit-lines, with graduating tones from bronze-green to
blue-gray, with a solemnity that even the sunshine did not abate. Still
further, the Great Smoky, veiled with mist and vague with distance,
stood high against the sky,—so high that but for the familiar changeless
outline it must have seemed the fiction of the clouds.
The sheep came back and crowded about him,—he lay so still. Once he was
conscious of their motion; he intended to rouse himself in a moment and
drive them off. And once afterward he was vaguely aware of the tinkle of
the bell. Then he heard no more.
The afternoon wore on. The sunlight deepened to orange and burned to red.
The mountains were all garbed in purple. The sky above that splendid
summit-line of the Great Smoky caught the reflection from the west and
was delicately roseate. Cow-bells were clanking in Hazel Valley, faintly,
faintly. A star, most serene, was at the zenith.
The sheep in the dark niche of the crags stirred, and huddled together
again, and were quiet. The moon came and looked coyly in, as if she
sought Endymion. The face of the mountaineer, its reckless spirit all
spent, was gentle and young in the soft, shy light.
All at once he was awake. The sheep were crowding timorously about him. A
voice broke with sudden discord into the harmonies of the night.
“Nuthin’ but sheep, I reckon.”
There was a great scuffling among the rocks and bushes, and Mink ventured
to lift his head.
He saw the mist-filled valley below; the glister of the moon in the skies
above; the infinite expanse of mountain forms all along the background;
and in the stony road on the verge of the precipice an equestrian group
standing motionless in shadow and sheen.
He recognized the sheriff of the county among them, and the constable
from Piomingo Cove was in the act of clambering up the rocks.
V.
The officer laid his hand on the jagged lower ledge of the niche. His hat
and its shadow, like some double-headed monster, slowly appeared above
the verge as he climbed the crag. The sheep shrank back precipitately
into the cavernous place, their hoofs crowding over the young
mountaineer. He lay at full length in motionless suspense.
There was a moment’s pause. A cloud crossed the moon. Its shadow fell in
Hazel Valley. A gust of wind stole along the mountain slopes, sighing as
it went, as if its errand were of sorrow. Then, silence. The brilliant
lustre burst forth again, suffusing the heights above and the depths so
far below. In the midst of the craggy steeps the huddled sheep looked
mildly down, with bright, apprehensive eyes, at the constable.
“Nuthin’ but sheep,” he said, scanning the interior of the niche.
It seemed to Mink, hidden by his fleecy comrades, that the stone walls
of his refuge resounded with the loud throbbing of his heart, which must
betray him.
“D’ ye reckon,” said the sheriff below, “ez that woman could hev made a
mistake ’bout hevin’ seen him on this road?”
“Mrs. Beale knows Mink Lorey ez well ez I do,” declared the constable.
“Mought hev been foolin’ us some,” suggested the sheriff, suspiciously.
“She hain’t got no call,” the constable reasoned. As he partly stood on a
sharp projection, and partly hung by one arm to the ledges of the niche,
he took a plug of tobacco from his pocket and perilously gnawed at it.
“Waal, I reckon he ain’t round hyar-abouts,” said the sheriff, with an
intonation of disappointment “We hed better push on.”
The double-headed monster, chewing as he went, the action reproduced in
frightful pantomime on the floor of the cavern, slowly withdrew. There
was heavy breathing; the sound of falling clods and fragments of rock,
and of straining bushes and roots as the descending officer clutched
them. A sudden final thud announced that he had sprung upon his feet on
level ground.
A momentary interval, a clatter of hoofs, and the file of horsemen, with
their mounted shadows erect upon the vertical cliffs of the rock-bound
road, passed slowly along the wild, narrow way. Long after they had
disappeared the sound of the hoof-beats intruded upon the stillness, and
died away, and again smote the air with dull iteration, reverberating
from distant crags of the winding road.
When all was still, Mink’s mind turned again to his perplexities with a
sharpened sense of the necessity of decision. The project which Alethea
had suggested began to shape itself in his mind in full detail, as he lay
there and thought it over. The alternative of skulking about to avoid
arrest was too doubtful and limited to be contemplated.
“The sheriff air a-ridin’ now,” he said, “an’ the constable too—an’ what
made ’em fetch along fower other men ez a posse?” he broke off suddenly,
recognizing the incongruity.
His lip curled with satisfaction. “They mus’ hev been powerful ’feared o’
me,” he said, his heart swelling with self-importance, “ter think ’twould
take six men ter arrest me fur a leetle job like that.”
He appreciated, however, that the midnight caper at the mill had shaken
all the securities of the mountain community, and it was to the immediate
personal interest of every man within twenty miles that he should be
dealt with as harshly as the law would allow. But if, he argued, without
waiting for arrest, he should go down to-morrow,—not to old Griff (bold
as he was, he hardly dared encounter the miller’s rage), but to some man
of influence, some mediator, old Squire White, perhaps,—and tell what he
had done, and offer in reparation to give the miller all he possessed,
his mare, his gun, his hogs, might he not thus avert the more serious
phases of a prosecution, or perhaps escape altogether?
Turn as he might, he could see only the sacrifice of his little all as
the price of his orgy.
“I’d hev ter pay it ter the lawyer ter defend me; or mebbe old Griff
could git it out’n me ez damages ennyhow. I can’t holp losing it. I’ll
gin it up, an’ begin over, an’ make it up with Lethe,—I don’t keer a
straw fur all the t’others,—an’ git married an’ be stiddy. I never war so
wild nohow when me an’ her war promised. Mebbe bein’ jawed at, an’ sech,
air good fur folks, an’ holped ter keep me quiet in them days,—leastwise
ez quiet ez I war able ter be,” he qualified, the recollection of sundry
active vagaries constraining him.
Although doubts and fears still lurked in his mind, he found himself
waiting for dawn, not with hope or impatience, but with the dull
resolution of reluctant decision. He could hardly have said why, but he
experienced a disappointment as he noted the weather signs. The mists
thickened and pervaded the moonbeams in gigantic wavering spectral
effects. Over toward the Great Smoky they slowly tended, those veiled
mystic figures, with diaphanous trailing garments, and with sometimes a
lifted hand as if to swear by the heaven it almost touched. He watched
the throngs grow denser, lose the similitude of individuality, take
on the aspect of lowering clouds. The moonbeams glittered faintly and
failed. When the day broke at last, the light expressed itself only in
the dull visibility of the enveloping vapors. Not the depths of Hazel
Valley, not the slopes of Big Injun Mounting, could be seen as he
clambered out of the niche and down upon the road. Even the log at its
verge serving as a curb seemed a sort of defense against the usurping
immateriality which had engulfed the rest of the world. He heard the
moisture dripping from the summit of the craggy heights; sometimes, too,
the quick, tumultuous patter of a shower in Hazel Valley, as if a cloud
had lost its balance on the brink of the mountain and had fallen into the
depths beneath.
He trudged along, seeing nothing but the blank inexpressiveness of the
encompassing fog, with only the vaguest divination of the locality and
the distance.
“I wouldn’t feel so weighted ef the weather would clear,” he said.
Once he paused, suddenly recollecting that the county court was in
session, and that Squire White was doubtless at Shaftesville. When
he thought of the unaccustomed scenes of the town, the people, their
questions and comments, he wavered again. Then he remembered Alethea.
“She ’lowed ’twould be jestice an’ the bes’ ez I could do ennyhows, an’
somehows the critter ’pears ter be right in her jedgmints. So I reckon
I’ll jes’ ’bide by Lethe’s word.”
Presently the mists began to lift. He could see along the green aisles
of the forest how they wavered and shifted in the tops of the trees.
Everywhere the flowers were blooming,—the trumpet blossom and the
jewel-weed, the delicate lilac “Christmas flower,” the “mountain snow,”
the red cardinal blossoms, and, splendid illumination of the woods, the
Chilhowee lily. All along the wayside, silvery cascades tumbled over the
rocks amongst fantasies of ferns, and the laurel and the ivy crowded the
banks of the torrent. When he was fairly in the valley, fences bordered
the road, with poke-berries darkly glittering in corners crowded with
weeds. He was nearing Shaftesville now. A little house appeared here and
there, a stretch of open land, stacks of fodder, an occasional passer.
High up in the air were suggestions of sunshine, yellow, diffusive,
but not penetrating the vapors below. All at once the beams burst
through. The mists dallied for a moment longer; then with a suggestion
of spreading wings they rose in slow, shining, ethereal flights. Among
them, as he skirted the crest of a hill, appeared the roofs of the little
town, the tower of the court-house, the church steeple, all dissolving
into invisibility like some vain vagary of the mist, as he descended into
the intervenient dale.
The grass-grown streets were astir with jeans-clad countrymen already
in with wagons drawn by oxen, or with a flock of bleating sheep running
helter-skelter, and demonstrating their bucolic proclivities by a
startling lack of adaptation to the thoroughfares of Shaftesville; a few
loungers were sitting on the barrels and boxes in front of the doors of
the stores; Mink met no one he knew as he went. One man on the rickety
steps of the court-house knew him, perhaps, for he looked hard at him
as he passed; then turned and stared after him with an expression which
Mink could hardly analyze. He scowled fiercely in return, and took his
way into the room in which several of the justices sat, amicably chatting
together, for the day’s proceedings had not yet been inaugurated. With
a sudden irritation and bewilderment Mink beheld upon each countenance,
the moment they caught sight of him, the same amazed intentness which
had characterized the look of the man on the steps. He felt a sort of
dull ache in his heart, a turbulence in his blood pulsing fast, a heavy,
dazed consciousness which gave the scene the dim unreality of a dream:
the sunshine, pale and flickering, outlining the panes of the windows on
the dirty floor; the stove, that stood in its place winter and summer;
the circle of bearded, jeans-clad justices, all their faces turned toward
him, seeming not unlike, with the same expression upon each.
Mink began abruptly, but with an effort, addressing the chairman. “I kem
over hyar, Squair,” he said, “’kase I wanter leave ter men what I done.
I ain’t goin’ ter hide nuthin’ nor run away from nuthin’. I ain’t sayin’
what I done war right, but I’m willin’ ter abide by my deed ez fur ez
leavin’ it ter men, an’ furder.”
He was fluent now. There was an exhilaration in this close attention
from these men whom he esteemed mighty in the law, in this pose of
importance before them, in the generosity of the offer he was about to
make. He spoke responsive to the respectful surprise with which his fancy
had endowed them.
“I war drunk, Squair. I ain’t denyin’ it none. Naw, sir, I ain’t.”
He nodded his head, and pushed his broad hat further back on his long,
auburn locks.
“I’ll jes’ tell ye how it war, Squair.” He shifted his weight upon one
stalwart leg, and bent over a little, and looked down meditatively at
his boots as he arranged his ideas in his mind. “I war drunk, Squair,”
he reiterated, as he rose once more to the perpendicular. “How I kem so,
it don’t consarn me to say. But me an’ old man Griff, we hed hed words
’bout my l’arnin’ Tad ter play ‘five corn’; he ’lowed ’twar a gamblin’
game,—mighty old-fashioned game, ye know yerself, Squair,—an’ ez I kem
along back that night I ’lowed I’d start the mill an’ see him run out
skeered. An’ I dunno what I done ter the wheel, but it jes’ seemed ter
be plumb ’witched when I lifted the gate. It jes’ performed an’ cavorted
round like it hed the jim-jams;—ye never seen nuthin’ act like it done
sence ye war born, Squair. An’ I tried ter let the gate down, but war
plumb shuck off’n the race. An’ the mill begun ter shake, Squair, an’
fust I knowed down it went inter the ruver. An’ ez I seen a light in the
old man’s house I ’lowed he war a-comin’ fur me.” He laughed a little.
“Old Griff be a powerful survigrous old man when his dander hev riz, so I
jes’ rid off ez fas’ ez I could.”
There was no responsive smile upon the stony, staring faces turned toward
him. But he was quite at ease now. He hardly cared to notice that a man
went hurriedly out of the room and came back. “I’m mighty sorry fur the
old man, Squair,” he resumed, “surely I am. An’ ter prove it, me an’
the gal I’m a-goin’ ter marry, we-uns ’greed tergether ez I’d gin him
my mare, an’ my hogs, an’ a gun, an’ fower sheep, an’ ’twould build him
another mill better ’n the one he hed, ef he could git the mill-stones
hefted. I’d go holp myself.”
Still not a word from the justices. Other men had begun to come in. They,
too, stood silently listening. Mink was all debonair and cheery again,
so fairly had he exploited his mission. As to the man who had gone out
and returned, Mink stared hard at him, for he was not an acquaintance,
yet he approached and held out his hand. Mink slowly extended his own. A
sudden grip of iron encircled the unsuspecting member; the other hand was
caught in a rude grasp. A harsh, grating sound, the handcuffs were locked
upon his wrists, and the deputy sheriff lifted a countenance scarlet
with repressed excitement. He passed his hands quickly all along the
prisoner’s side to make sure that he carried no concealed weapons, then
ejaculated, “Now ye’re all right!”
The young mountaineer’s head was in a whirl. His heart beat tumultuously.
His voice sounded to him far away. His volition seemed to rebel. Surely
he did not utter the stammering, incoherent, foaming curses that he
heard. They terrified him. He strove with futile strength to tear off
these fetters, every muscle strained. For the first time in his life,
he, the wild, free creature of the woods, felt the bonds of constraint,
the irking touch of a man he could not strike. Old Squire White, who had
moved out of the way with an agility wonderful in a man of his years,
exhorted the deputy to his duty.
“Ye mus’ gin him the reason fur his arrest, ez he hev axed fur it, Mr.
Skeggs, sech bein’ the law o’ Tennessee. Ye’d better tell him, sence
the sher’ff hev kerried off the warrant, that he air arrested fur the
drownding o’ Tad Simpkins.”
Mink hardly heard. He did not heed. He only tore desperately at the
handcuffs, every cord standing out, every vein swelled to bursting;
stamping wildly about while the scuttling, excited crowd nimbly kept out
of his way. He turned the glare of reddened eyes upon the deputy, who
mechanically repeated the justice’s words, still following the prisoner
with soothing insistence. Suddenly Mink made a burst toward the door;
he was seized by a dozen willing hands, thrown down and pinioned. He
fainted, perhaps, for it was only the free outer air that roused him
to the knowledge that he was borne through the streets, followed by a
gaping, hooting crowd, black and white. Then ensued another interval
of unconsciousness. When he came to himself he stared blankly at his
unfamiliar surroundings.
He was alone. He felt weak, sore. He turned his bewildered eyes toward
the light. The window was barred. He sprang up from the bed on which he
lay, and tried the door. He beat upon it and shouted in baffled rage.
Stealthy footsteps sounded outside from time to time, excited whispers,
and once a low titter.
Somehow, ridicule conquered him as force could not. He slunk back to
the bed, and there he lay quiet, that no stir might come to the mocker
without. Sometimes he would lift his head and listen with a sort of
terror for the step, for the suppressed breathing, for the low laugh.
Often his eyes would rest, dilated, fascinated, on the door. Then he
would fall back, reviewing futilely the scenes through which he had
passed. What was that strange thing they had said? It was indistinct
for a time; he could not constrain his reluctant credulity. But those
terrible words, the drowning of Tad Simpkins, beset his memory, and came
back to him again and again. And then he recalled that weird cry from
out the crash of the falling timbers of the mill. Could the ill-treated
little drudge have slept there? He had a vague idea that he had once
heard that when the old man was angry he would swear that he would not
give Tad house-room, and would cast him out into the night, or shut him
into the mill and lock the door upon him. And remembering that cry of
despair, so anguished an echo rose to Mink’s lips that he turned and
buried his head in the pillow because of the scoffer in the hall without.
The room darkened gradually; shadows were glooming about him. The moon
rose after a time. The beams in radiant guise came slanting in, and
despite the bars stood upon the floor, a lustrous presence, and leaned
against the wall. It reminded him of the angel of the Lord,—tall,
ethereal, fair, and crowned with an amaranthine wreath,—who burst the
bars and appeared to the disciple in prison. With that arrogation of all
spiritual bounties, so pathetically human, he perceived no incongruity
that such a similitude should appear to him. In some sort it comforted
him. It moved from time to time, and slowly crossed, pace by pace, the
floor of the cell.
VI.
That terrible isolation of identity, the burden of individuality which
every man must bear alone, is never so poignantly appreciated as when
some anguish falls on the solitary soul, while those who would wish to
share it are unconscious and others uncaring.
News, the worldling, was never a pioneer, and hangs aloof from the long
stretches of the wildernesses of the Great Smoky Mountains. It seemed
afterward to Alethea that she had lacked some normal faculty, to have
been so tranquilly uncognizant, so heedlessly placid, in the days that
ensued. The glimpse of the world vouchsafed to Wild-Cat Hollow was
silent, peaceful, steeped in the full, languorous sheen of the midsummer
sun. To look down upon the cove, with its wooded levels, its verdure,
its silver glint of waters, and its sheltering mountains, it might have
seemed only the scene of some serenest eclogue—especially one afternoon
when the red west flung roseate tints upon the strata clouds and the
delicate intervenient spaces of the pale blue heavens, and suffused the
solemn ranges and the quiet valley with a tender glamour. The voices
projected upon this mute placidity had a strident emphasis. There was
the occasional clamor of guinea-fowls about the barn, and some turkeys
were flying up to roost on the naked boughs of a dead tree, drawn in high
relief and sharp detail against the sky; they fluttered down often, with
heavy wings, and ungainly flappings, and discordant cries, in their
vain efforts to settle the question of precedence that harassed them.
The lowing of the homeward-bound cows had fugue-like communings with
their echoes. Alethea, going out to meet them, doubted within herself at
times whether they had crossed the mountain stream that coursed through
Wild-Cat Hollow. The blackberry brambles swayed full fruited above it;
in the lucid, golden-brown, gravelly depths a swift shadow darted,
turned, cleft the surface with a fin, and was gone. A great skeleton
tree, broken half-way, hollow long ago, stood on the bank, rotted by the
winter’s floods that ceaselessly washed it when the stream was high, and
bleached by the summer’s suns to a bone-like whiteness. A great ball of
foam, mysterious sport of the waters, caught in an eddy, was whirling
giddily. One could fancy a figure of some fine ethereal essence might
just have been veiled within it. The woods, dense, tangled with vines,
sombre with shadows, bore already the downcast look of night. Alethea
eyed them languidly as she came down to the lower fence, her piggin on
her head, one hand staying it, while the other gave surreptitious aid to
the efforts of L’onidas and Lucindy to take down the bars, as they piqued
themselves upon rendering her this stalwart service. Tige had come too,
and now and then he pawed and pranced about the calves, that were also
expectantly waiting at the opening of the inclosure. One of them who had
known him of yore only lifted his ears and fixed a remonstrant stare upon
him. But the other, young and of an infantile expression, ran nimbly from
him, and bleated plaintively, and pressed in between Alethea and the
children, in imminent danger of having his brains knocked out in the wild
handling of the bars.
“That’s enough,” she drawled presently, moderating their energies; “the
calf’ll git out ef ye take down enny mo’. The cow kin step over sech ez
be left.”
The faint clanging of cow-bells stirred the air. The little house on the
rise at one side was darkly brown against the irradiated mountains seen
in the narrow vista of the gap. The martins fluttered from the pendulous
gourds and circled about the chimneys, and were gone again. The sky
cast its bright gold about the Hollow, on the tow heads of the barefoot
children, and multiplied the shimmers in the swirls of the stream.
Alethea looked once more toward it, hearing again the far-off lowing. A
sudden movement attracted her eye. Against the great hollow whitened tree
a man was leaning, whittling a stick with a clasp-knife, and now and then
furtively eying her.
For a moment she did not move a muscle. The color surged into her face,
and receded, leaving it paler than before. A belated humming-bird, its
breast a glistening green, beat the air with its multiplied suggestions
of gauzy wings close to her golden head, and was gone like a flash.
The children babbled on. Tige was afraid of a stick which L’onidas had
brought to keep off the calf while the cow was milked, and he yelped
before he was struck, without prejudice to yelping afterward.
The man presently drew himself erect, closed his knife with a snap, and
walked up slowly toward the fence.
“Howdy?” he said, as he came.
She leaned one elbow on the rails, and with the other hand she held the
empty piggin. She only nodded in return.
He had an embarrassed, deprecatory manner. He was tall and lank,
and clumsy of gait. He had an indifferent, good-natured expression,
incongruous with the gleam of anxiety in his eye. His face was almost
covered by a long, straggling brown beard.
“What made ye run off so t’other night down yander ter Boke’s Spring? I
hed a word ter say ter ye.”
“I war sorry I seen ye.”
He fixed a keen look upon her.
“What fur?”
“I didn’t want ter know who ’twar a-moonshinin’,” she said.
“Waal, ye air the only one,” he declared.
He looked about him dubiously.
“I ain’t keerin’ none,” he added. “Me an’ yer mother war kin somehow; I
disremember how, edzac’ly—through the Scruggses, I reckon. Ef she war
alive she’d gin ye the word ez she air kin ter Sam Marvin, sure. Nobody
ain’t ’spicioned nuthin’ ’bout moonshinin’ but you-uns, ’cept them ez be
in it.”
He put his hands in his pockets and leaned against the fence. The
clanking of the cow-bell was nearer. The little calf bleated, and thrust
its soft head over the bars.
“I wanted ter say a word ter ye,” he continued, still more ill at ease
because of her silence. “I seen ye comin’ along o’ all them chill’n,”
nodding at Leonidas and Lucinda, who seemed to deserve being accounted
more numerous than they were, having engaged in a wordy altercation over
the bars; the little fellow dragging them off to some special spot which
he had chosen, of occult advantage, while the girl, older and wiser,
insisted that they should lie handy where they were. Only Tige listened
to the conversation, slowly wagging his tail. “I ’lowed I couldn’t talk
ter ye ’thout bein’ hendered, but I reckon I’ll try. I’m kin ter ye,—that
be a true word. An’ I’m moonshinin’. Ye ain’t tole nobody ’bout seein’ me
an’ the jug thar in Boke’s barn?”
He fixed his eyes, eager with the query, upon her face.
She slowly shook her head in negation.
“An’ ye won’t, eh?”
He smiled beguilingly, showing his long, tobacco-stained teeth.
“Ef nobody axes me.”
His countenance fell suddenly.
“Look-a-hyar, Lethe Sayles, don’t ye fool with me, a-doublin’ on yer
words like a fox on his tracks,” he said roughly. Then, more temperately,
“I’m afeard o’ that very thing,—ef somebody axes ye.”
“’Tain’t likely,” said Alethea.
“I dunno,” he insisted, wagging his big head in doubtful pantomime. “I
want ye ter ’low ye won’t tell.”
“I don’t b’lieve in sech ez moonshinin’ an’ drinkin’ liquor.”
“What fur?” he demanded, with an air of being ready for argument.
“’Tain’t religion.”
“Shucks!” exclaimed Sam Marvin contemptuously. “D’ ye reckon ef ’twarn’t
religion I’d plant corn an’ raise my own damnation, an’ sit an’ bile
wrath, an’ still fury, an’ yearn Torment, by sech? Naw, sir! Ye oughter
go hear the rider read the Bible: every one o’ them disciples drunk low
wines in them days, an’ hed it at weddin’s an’ sech; the low wines is on
every page.”
Alethea was for a moment overborne by this argument.
Then, “’Tain’t right,” persisted the zealot of Wild-Cat Hollow.
“Will ye listen at the gal!” he exclaimed, in angry apostrophe. But
controlling himself, he added quietly, “Ye let older heads ’n yourn
jedge, Lethe. Yer brains ain’t ripened yit, an’ livin’ off in Wild-Cat
Hollow ye ain’t hed much chance ter see an’ l’arn. Yer elders knows bes’.
That’s what the Bible says.”
Down the shadowy vista of the path on the opposite side of the stream
the long horns and slowly nodding heads of the cows appeared. The little
calf frisked with nimble joy on legs that seemed hardly bovine in their
agility. Lucinda ran to bring the pail of bran, and Leonidas produced a
handful of salt in a small gourd. The moonshiner saw that his time was
short.
“What ails ye, ter think ’tain’t right, Lethe?” he asked.
“Look how good-fur-nuthin’ it makes Jacob Jessup, an’—an’ Mink Lorey, an’
all them boys in Piomingo Cove.”
“It’s thar own fault, not the good liquor’s. Look at me. I ain’t
good-fur-nuthin’. Ever see me drunk? How be I a-goin’ ter keer fur sech a
houseful ez we-uns hev got ’thout stillin’ the corn? Can’t sell the corn
’n the apples nuther, an’ can’t raise nuthin’ else on the side o’ the
mounting, an’ I’m too pore ter own lan’ in the cove.”
The cows were fording the stream. The water foamed about their flanks.
Their breath was sweet with the mountain grasses.
He looked at Alethea, suspiciously.
“Ye ain’t goin’ ter promise me ye won’t tell ef ye be axed?” he said,
with an air of finality.
In her heart the compact of secrecy was already secure. Somehow she
withheld the assurance. It was all wrong, she felt. And if in fear he
should desist, so much the safer for him, so much the better would the
community fare.
“I ain’t a-goin’ ter promise nuthin’,” she said, slowly, her lustrous
eyes full upon his face. “I ain’t goin’ ter do nuthin’ ter holp along
what ain’t right.”
“Waal, then, Lethe Sayles, ye jes’ ’member ez ye war warned,” he said, in
a low, vehement voice, between his set teeth, and coming up close to her.
“An’ ef ever we-uns air fund out an’ raided, we-uns will keep in mind ez
nobody knowed but you-uns; an’ whether we be dragged off ter jail an’
our still cut up an’ sech or no, ye won’t git off scot-free. Ye mark my
words. Ye air warned.”
She had shrunk from his glittering eyes and angry gestures. Nevertheless,
she struck back with ready sarcasm.
“Then, mebbe I won’t tell,” she said, in her soft drawl, “fur I be
toler’ble easy skeered.”
He stared at her in the gathering dusk; then turned, and took his way
across the mossy log that bridged the stream and down the path through
the woods.
For a moment she had an overwhelming impulse to call him back. Long
afterward she had cause to remember its urgency. Now she only leaned
upon the rail fence, even her golden hair dim in the closing shadows,
and gazed with uncomprehended wistfulness after him as he disappeared
down the path, and reappeared in a rift of the foliage, and once more
disappeared finally.
And here the cow’s great head was thrust over the bars, and L’onidas
was on hand in full force to engage in combat with the little calf,
and Lucindy was alert with the bucket of bran. All through the milking
Alethea was sensible of a yearning regret in her heart. And although
she had the testimony of good conscience and could say in full faith,
“’Tain’t right,” she was not consoled.
She lifted the pail of milk to her head, and as they went back to the log
cabin the moon projected their grotesque shadows as a vanguard, and for
all Leonidas ran he could not overtake the quaint little man that led the
way.
Stars were in the sky, aloof from the moon. A mocking-bird sang on an
elder-bush among the blossoms, fragrant and white; and from time to time,
as he joyously lifted his scintillating wings, the boughs seemed enriched
with some more radiant bloom. The rails of the fence had a subdued
glimmer,—the moonlight on the dew.
Her heart, with its regretful disquiet, was out of harmony with the
nocturnal peace of the scene; she had somehow an intimation of an
impending sorrow before she heard the sound of sobbing from the porch.
The vines that clambered about it were drawn upon the floor with every
leaf and tendril distinct. The log cabin was idealized in some sort with
the silver lustre of the moon, the glister of the dew, the song of the
bird, and the splendid suggestions of the benighted landscape; yet there
was the homely loom, the spinning-wheel and its shadow, the cat in the
doorway, with the dull illumination of the smouldering fire behind her,
eying a swift, volant shadow that slipped in and out noiselessly, and
perhaps was a bat. A group of figures stood in the tense attitudes of
listening surprise. But a girl had flung herself upon the bench of the
loom, now leaning against the frame and weeping aloud, and now sitting
erect and talking with broken volubility.
“Hyar be Elviry Crosby,” Mrs. Sayles said, as Alethea stepped upon the
porch and set the piggin on the shelf.
The visitor looked up, with her dark eyes glistening with tears. Her
face was pale in the moonbeams. She had short dark hair, thin and fine,
showing the shape of her delicate head, and lying in great soft rings
about her brow and neck. As she spoke, her quivering red lips exhibited
the small, regular white teeth. She was slight and about the medium
height, and habited in a yellowish dress, from which the moonlight did
not annul the idea of color.
“I ain’t got no gredge agin Lethe,” she said, gazing at her with a
certain intentness, “but I hev got my feelin’s, an’ I hev got my pride,
an’ I ain’t goin’ ter hev no jail-bird a-settin’ up ter me! I’m sorry
I ever seen him!” she declared, with a fresh burst of tears, throwing
herself back against the loom. “But ez Lethe never hed nobody else, _she_
mought put up with the raccoon ez he fetched me,—fur I won’t gin the
critter house-room, now.”
As Alethea gazed at her, amazed and uncomprehending, a sudden movement
on the loom caught her attention. About the clumsy beams a raccoon
was climbing nimbly, turning his eyes upon her, full of the peculiar
brightness of the night-roaming beast. She noticed his grin as he hung
above the group, as if he perceived in the situation humor of special
zest.
“I ain’t a-goin’ ter keep it!” cried Elvira. “All the kentry will be
tellin’, ennyhow, ez I hev kep’ company with a murderer.” A low, muffled
cry escaped from Alethea’s lips. “He kem a-makin’ up ter me till I went
an’ turned off Pete Rood, ez war mad ez hops. I can’t hender ’em from
knowin’ it. But I ain’t a-goin’ ter hev that thar spiteful leetle beast
a-grinnin’ at me ’bout’n it, like he war makin’ game o’ me fur bein’
sech a fool. I’d hev killed it, ’ceptin’ I ’lowed thar hed been enough
onnecessary killin’ along o’ Mink Lorey.”
“Elviry!” exclaimed Alethea, her voice so tense, so vibrant, so charged
with anguish, that, low as it was, it thrilled the stillness as a shriek
might hardly do, “what hev Reuben done?”
“Oh, ‘Reuben,’ ez ye calls him,” cried the other, sitting upright on the
bench of the loom, her dark eyes flashing and dry,—“yer fine Reuben tore
down old Griff’s mill, an’ drownded his nevy, Tad, an’ war put in jail,
an’ air goin’ ter be tried, an’ hung, I reckon. That’s what ‘Reuben’
done! He’s Mink by name an’ Mink by natur’—an’ oh! I wish I hed never
seen him.”
She once more leaned on the loom behind her, and bowed her head on her
hands.
“No!—no!” cried Alethea. She caught her breath in quick gasps; for one
moment she seemed losing consciousness. The mountains in the background,
the faint stars in the sky, the shadowy roof, the swaying vines, the
raccoon in their midst with his grotesque grin, were before her suddenly
as if she had just awakened. She had sunk into a chair.
“Ye kin call me a liar! So do!” cried Elvira, lifting her head defiantly.
“But he went hisself down ter the court-house an’ told it hisself, an’
wanted ter gin his gun an’ mare ef they’d let him off.” She laughed—a
dainty little laugh of scorn. “That’s what he ’lowed the idjit war wuth.
But my dad ’lows ez the law sets store on the idjit’s life same ez folks
ginerally.”
Alethea felt as if she were turning to stone. Was it her advice that had
led him into danger? Was it her fatal insistence that he should see the
right as it was revealed to her?
She sprang to her feet, the eager questions crowding to her lips.
“Ye shet up, Lethe!” said her step-mother, entertained by the unwonted
spectacle of Elvira’s dramatic grief, and not caring to hear again
the news of the tragedy already recited. As to Mink, he had only been
overtaken by the disasters which must have fallen upon him sooner or
later, and he was in many ways a good riddance. This phase was uppermost
in her mind when she said, “Ye see now what gals git fur goin’ agin thar
elders’ word. I’ll be bound, Elviry, ’twarn’t yer mother’s ch’ice fur ye
ter take Mink an’ gin Pete Rood the go-by.”
“That it warn’t!” cried the repentant Elvira, with a gush of tears. “I
wish I hed bided by her word! I reckon I war born lackin’! I hev been
sech a fool!”
Mrs. Sayles turned to look at Alethea and nod her head in triumphant
confirmation. Then she remarked consolingly, “Waal, waal, I reckon ye kin
toll Pete Rood back.”
“I dunno,” sobbed Elvira. “I met him yestiddy at the cross-roads in
Piomingo Cove, an’ he jes’ turned his head aside an’ walked by ’thout
nare word. I wish—oh, I wish I hed never seen that thar minkish Mink.”
“Waal,” said Mrs. Sayles, who was very human, and who, despite her
sympathy for Elvira, had a rankling recollection of her taunt for
Alethea’s paucity of the material for “keeping company,” “I hopes
Lethe’ll take warning’, an’ not fling away her good chance, fur the sake
o’ the wuthless, like Mink an’ sech.”
“Who be her good chance?” exclaimed Elvira, the jealousy nourished on
general principles checking her grief.
“Shucks, child! ye purtendin’ not ter know ez Ben Doaks hev mighty nigh
wore out his knee-pans a-beggin’ an’ a-prayin’ Lethe ter listen ter him!”
Elvira was meeker after this, and presently rose to go.
“I hed ter kem arter dark, else I couldn’t hev hed Sam an’ the mare,
bein’ ez she hev been workin’ in the field ter-day,” she remarked.
There was the mare dozing at the gate, and Sam, a boy with singularly
long legs and arms, looking something like an insect of the genus
_Tipula_, was waiting too. She mounted behind him, and together they rode
off in the moonlight, taking their way over the nearest ridge, and so out
of sight.
“Waal, waal, sir!” exclaimed Mrs. Sayles, as she reseated herself on the
porch, with her knitting in her hand, “that thar Mink Lorey never hed
no jedgmint no-ways. He couldn’t hev tuk ch’ice of a wuss time ter git
fetched up afore a court ’n jes’ now. Squair White tole me ez our Jedge
Averill hev agreed ter exchange with Jedge Gwinnan from over yander in
Kildeer County nex’ term, ez he can’t try his cases, bein’ kin ter them
ez air lawing. So Gwinnan will hold court in Shaftesville nex’ term. I’d
hate mightily fur sech a onsartin, onexpected critter ez him ter hev enny
say-so ’bout me or mine. But shucks! Men folks ennyhow,” she continued,
discursively, her needles swiftly moving, as if they were endowed with
independent volition, and needed no supervision, “air freakish, an’
fractious, an’ sot in thar way, an’ gin ter cur’ous cavortin’. It never
s’prised me none ez arter the Lord made man he turned in an’ made woman,
the fust job bein’ sech a failure.”
There was a pause. The regular metre of the katydid’s song pulsed in
the interval. The dewdrops glimmered on the chickweed by the porch. The
fragrance of mint and ferns was on the air, and the smell of the dark
orchard. Now and then an abrupt thud told that a great Indian peach had
reached the measure of ripeness and had fallen. Through the open window
and door the moonlight lay in glittering rhomboids on the puncheon floor.
All the interior was illuminated, and the grotesque figure of the pet
cub was distinctly visible to Jacob Jessup, who was lounging on the
porch without, as the creature stole across the floor, and rose upon
his hind legs to reach the pine table. As he thrust his scooping claw
into the bread trough,—the long, shallow, wooden bowl in which batter
for corn-dodgers was mixed,—he turned his cautious head to make sure he
was unobserved, and his cunning, twinkling eyes met Jessup’s. Somehow
the sudden consciousness of the creature, his nervous haste to be off,
appealed to Jessup’s lenient mood. He listened to the scuttling claws on
the puncheon floor as the beast hurried out of the back door, and while
he debated whether or not he should play informer, his wife, sitting on
the doorstep with the baby in her arms, asked suddenly,—
“’Pears like ye air sorter sot agin this Jedge Gwinnan, mother. I never
hearn afore ez ye knowed him whenst ye lived in Kildeer County. What
sorter man be he?”
Mrs. Sayles wagged her head inside her sun-bonnet to intimate contempt.
“A young rooster, ’bout fryin’ size,” she said, laughing sneeringly, the
scorn accented by her depopulated gums. It seemed very forlorn to be
laughed at like that.
“Waal, a man can’t be ’lected jedge till he’s thirty,” said Jessup,
consciously imparting information. “He’s been on the bench right smart
time, too.”
Mrs. Sayles looked at him over her spectacles, still knitting, as if her
industry were a disconnected function.
“What air thirty?”
“Waal”—began Jessup, argumentatively, puffing at his cob pipe. Thirty
seemed to him a mature age. And the constitution of the State evidently
presumes folly to be permanent if it is not in some sort exorcised before
reaching that stage of manhood. He did not continue, however, seeing that
thirty was held to be very young by Mrs. Sayles, who, to judge from her
wrinkles, might be some four or five hundred.
“I ain’t ’quainted with the man myself,” she went on presently, “an’
what’s more I ain’t wantin’ ter be. But,” impressively, “I know a woman
ez knowed that man’s mother whenst he war a baby. She ’lowed he war a
powerful cantankerous infant, ailin’ an’ hollerin’ all night an’ mighty
nigh all day; couldn’t make up his mind ter die, an’ yit warn’t willin’
ter take the trouble ter live.”
Jessup felt it a certain injustice that the nocturnal rampages of infancy
should be as rancorously animadverted upon as the late hours of a larger
growth.
“Waal, Jedge Gwinnan is powerful pop’lar now’days,” he urged. “He made a
mighty fine race when he war ’lected.”
“Shucks! ye can’t tell me nuthin’!” said his mother, self-sufficiently.
“I know all ’bout him, an’ Jedge Burns too, ez war on the bench afore
Jeemes Gwinnan. Whenst I war a widder-woman an’ lived in Kildeer
County we-uns useter hev Jedge Burns on the circuit. He war a settled,
middle-aged man ’bout fifty, an’ the law war upheld, an’ things went
easy, an’ he war ’lected time arter time, till one year they all turned
crazy ’bout this hyar feller, ez war run by his party through fools bein’
sca’ce, I s’pose. Jeemes war ’lected. I tell ye I know all ’bout him.
He war born right yander nigh Colbury, an’ I know a woman ez useter be
mighty friendly with his mother.”
“What fambly in Colbury did he marry inter?” asked her daughter-in-law,
more interested in items of personal history than in his judicial record.
“Bless yer soul, he air a single man. His heart air set on hisself.
He wouldn’t marry no gal ’thout she hed some sorter office she could
’lect him ter, ez be higher’n jedge. He be plumb eat up with scufflin’
an’ tryin’ ter git up in the world higher’n the Lord hev set him, an’
’tain’t religion; that ’tain’t. He minds me o’ Lucifer. He’ll fall some
day. Not out o’ heaven, mebbe, ’kase he ain’t never goin’ ter git thar,
but leastwise out’n his circuit. Somebody’ll top him off, an’ mebbe I’ll
live ter see the day. I dunno, though, I—Laws-a-massy!” she exclaimed,
so suddenly that both her listeners started, “look-a-yander at that thar
perverted tur-r-key hen an’ her delikit deedies, ez air too leetle ter
roost! She’s a-hoverin’ of ’em in that thar tall grass, wet with the dew,
an’ it’ll be the death o’ ’em! Whyn’t Lethe tend ter ’em when she kem up
from milkin’? Lethe! Lethe! Whar’s that gal disappeared ter?”
With the vagrant instinct of the wild fowl still strong in the
domesticated turkey, she had distrusted the hen-house, and because of her
brood she was prevented from roosting high up in the old dead tree.
There was no answer to Mrs. Sayles’s call. The daughter-in-law made a
feint of busily rocking the baby, and after a doubtful glance at her
Mrs. Sayles got up briskly, putting her knitting-needles into her ball
of yarn, and thrusting them both into her deep pocket. She clutched
her bonnet further forward on her head, took up a splint basket, and
presently there arose a piping sound among the weeds, as she darted
this way and that in the moonlight with uncanny agility, catching the
deedies one by one and transferring them to her basket. The turkey hen,
her long neck stretched, her wings outspread, ran wildly about, now and
then turning and showing irresolute, futile fight for a moment, and again
striving to elude the whole misfortune with her long, ungainly strides.
When Mrs. Sayles in triumph unbent her back for the last time and started
toward the house, the fluttered mother following, clamoring hysterically,
she exclaimed:
“Whar _be_ that thar triflin’ Lethe?”
“’Pears like ter me ez I hearn Lethe go up the ladder ter the roof-room a
consider’ble while ago,” said the old man slowly, speaking for the first
time during the evening.
Once more Mrs. Sayles paused irresolute.
“Laws-a-massy, then, ef the gal’s asleep I reckon I mought ez well put
the tur-r-key an’ deedies inter the hen-house myse’f; but ’pears ter me
the young folks does nuthin’ nowadays but doze.”
She took a step further, then suddenly bethought herself. “Hyar, Jacob,”
she said to her son, handing him the basket, “make yerse’f nimble. I
reckon ye hev got sense enough ter shet that thar tur-r-key an’ deedies
up in the hen-house. Leastwise I’ll resk it.”
Sleep was far from Alethea that night. For hours she sat at the roof-room
window, looking out with wide, unseeing eyes at the splendid night. And
so she had given her counsel freely in the full consciousness of right,
and the man she loved had done her bidding. What misery she had wrought!
She winced to know how his thoughts must upbraid her. She remembered his
petulant taunts, his likening her to the Herder on Thunderhead, whose
glance blights those on whom he looks; and she wondered vaguely if the
harnt knew the woe it was his fate to wreak, and if it were grief to him
as he rode in the clouds on the great cloud-mountain.
“I reckon I know how he feels,” she said.
An isolated star blazing in the vast solitudes of the sky above the peak
of Thunderhead burst suddenly into a dazzling constellation before her
eyes, for she felt the hot tears dropping down one by one on her hand.
Alas, Alethea! one needs to be strong to attain martyrdom for the sacred
sake of the right.
Her tears wore out the night, but when the sun rose she was fain to dry
them.
VII.
The site of the old mill continued the scene of many curious groups long
after all efforts for the recovery of the body had ceased. The river was
dragged no more, and hope was relinquished. There had never been any
strong expectation of success. The stream was abnormally high considering
the season of the year, and running with great impetuosity. Though with
the aggregations of its tributaries swollen by the late rains it had the
volume of a river, it retained all the capricious traits of the mountain
torrent which it had been. It was full of swirling rapids, of whirlpools,
of sudden cataracts. Its bed was treacherous with quicksands and rugged
with bowlders. Hitched to the miller’s orchard fence were rows of horses,
dozing under their old Mexican saddles or the lighter weight of a ragged
blanket or a folded quilt; teams of oxen stood yoked under the trees of
the open space beyond; children and dogs sat on the roots or lay in the
grass, while the heavy, jeans-clad figures of the mountaineers explored
the banks as they chewed their quids with renewed vigor, and droned the
gossip in drawling voices.
The same faces were seen day after day,—often enough to excite no
particular remark that, whoever came or was absent, Peter Rood was here
with the dawn, and night found him still strolling along the banks,
looking upon the swollen floods with gloomy, insistent dark eyes, as
if he were seeking to read in the writhing lines of the current the
inscrutable secret of the Scolacutta River. Sometimes, with his hands
in his pockets, his lowering face shadowed by his broad hat, he would
silently listen to the speculations of those who found solace for the
futility of the undertaking in the enlarged conjectural field which
failure afforded, discussing the relative probabilities whether the body
had floated down to the Tennessee River, or whether it had been engulfed
by the quicksands and buried forever, or caught among the rocks of the
jagged bank and wedged in, to be found some day—a ghastly skeleton—by a
terrified boy, fishing or wading at low water.
It was only when these bootless surmises had palled at last, through many
repetitions and lack of further developments, that the ruins of the old
mill asserted an interest. There seemed a strange hush on the landscape,
here where the wheel would whir no more. A few timbers scattered about,
a rotten old stump that had served as part of the foundation, the hopper
washed up by the waters, several of the posts which had upheld the race,
were all that was left of the old mill, so long the salient feature of
the place that more than one mountaineer was beset with bewilderment
at the sight,—the recollection of the oblique line of the roof against
the mountain, the open door, the reflections in the water, having more
reality than the bereft bank of the river.
And now the old miller—seeming older than before—was wont to come
tottering out with his stick, the gay sunshine on his long, white hair,
and sit on the broken timbers, forlorn amidst the ruins of his poverty.
At first his appearance created renewed excitement, and his old customers
and friends pressed up to speak to him and hear what he would say,
feeling a certain desire to mark the moral phenomena of loss and the fine
processes of grief. But he held his clasped hands upon the stick, and
silently shook his bowed gray head in his ragged old hat.
“I reckon ye’d better leave him alone,” his pretty granddaughter said;
for she always accompanied him, and stood, as radiant as youth may
ever be, twirling the end of her tattered apron between her fingers,
her tangled yellow hair, like skeins of sunshine, hanging down on
her shoulders, and her blue, undismayed eyes looking with a shallow
indifference upon the scene. It was replete with interest and curiosity,
not to say awe, to the little four-year-old sister who hung upon her
skirts, or thrust a tow head from behind her grandfather. Sometimes her
lips were wreathed with a smile as she saw some child in the crowd, but
if the demonstration were returned she straightway hid her head in the
old man’s sleeve and for a while looked out no more.
Once old Griff spoke suddenly. “’Gustus Tom,” for his favorite kept
beside him, “ye wouldn’t treat nobody mean, would ye?”
“Would ef they treated me mean,” said ’Gustus Tom, with an unequivocal
nod, which intimated that his code of ethics recognized retribution.
“’Thout,” he qualified, “’twar sister Eudory thar,”—he glanced at the
little girl,—“I’d gin ’em ez good ez they sent.”
“’Tain’t religion, ’Gustus Tom,—’tain’t religion,” said the old man
brokenly. ’Gustus Tom, with his fragment of hat on the side of his tow
head, hardly looked as if he cared.
A grizzled old mountaineer in jeans, with a stern, square face and a
deep-set eye, that was lighted suddenly, spoke abruptly in a sepulchral
voice.
“Ye oughter go ter camp, Brother Griff,” he said in a religious
twang,—“ye oughter go ter camp, an’ tell yer ’speriunce! Ye hev lived
long. Ye hev wrastled with the devil. Ye hev seen joy, ye hev knowed
sorrow, ye hev fund grace. Yes, sir! Yes, sir! Ye air full o’ ’speriunce,
brother, an’ ye oughter go ter camp an’ comfort yerse’f, an’ sing, an’
pray.”
“I pray no mo’,” said the old man, lifting his aged, piteous face.
“I’m ’feared the Lord mought hear me an’ answer my prayer.” He smote
his breast. “I ain’t keerin’ fur the mill. I ain’t keerin’ for the
chill’n,—they’ll make out somehows. But ef my prayers could take back
every word o’ wrath I ever spoke ter the idjit, every lick I struck him,
I’d weary the very throne o’ grace. Ef I could git him back an’ begin
over—but I can’t! An’ I won’t pray fur myself, fur the Lord mought hear
me. An’ I want ter remember every one o’ them words an’ every lick, an’
pay back fur ’em, wropped in the flames o’ Torment.”
He got up and tottered away toward the house, followed by his
grandchildren, leaving the by-standers staring after him, strangely
thrilled.
“Waal, I hopes they won’t hear at the camp-meetin’ o’ his talkin’
sech ez that,” remarked the elderly adviser in dismay. “They hev been
a-sermonizin’ a good deal ’bout Tad’s early death an’ Mink Lorey’s awful
crime, an’ sech, ter them young sinners over yander ter camp, an’ it
’peared ter be a-sorter skeerin’ of ’em, a-sorter a-shooin’ of ’em inter
the arms o’ grace. An’ I hopes none o’ ’em will hear ’bout the old man
a-repentin’ an’ wantin’ ter burn, an’ sech, fur the boy’s hevin’ been
c’rected by his elders; they air perverted enough now agin them ez hev
authority over ’em.”
“Old Griff would change his mind ’bout burnin’ ef he seen the fire one
time,” said another, winking seriously, as if he spoke from pyrotechnic
experience. Then with a sudden change of tone, “What ails Pete Rood?”
For Rood was leaning against a tree, his swarthy face overspread with a
sallow paleness, his lips blue, his eyes half closed, his hand clutching
at his heart.
He said it was nothing much; he had been “tuk” this way often before; he
would be better presently. Indeed, he was shortly able to walk down to
the bank of the river, and sit and listen to the surmises of a half dozen
idle fellows, lying in the grass, as to the drowning of Tad and the fate
of Mink, and the terrible illustrations that both had furnished in the
sermons at the camp-meeting in Eskaqua Cove.
And when he left them at last it was to the camp-meeting he went.
The afternoon brought a change in the weather. Rood noted it as he
rode his raw-boned horse over the ranges and down the red clay roads
into Eskaqua Cove. Clouds had gathered, obscuring the sun. There were
no shadows, no gradations of light, no point of brilliant climax.
The foliage was heavy masses of solid color. Only in certain plumy
silver-green boughs lurked a subdued glister, some luculent enchantment;
for if ever the moonlight were enmeshed by a tree it is in the branches
of the white pine.
Silence had fallen, as if the source of light were also source of sound.
There was wind in the upper atmosphere, but no breath stirred the leaves.
Twilight had sunk upon the cove before he turned off into a road leading
up a wooded hill. In the dusk, sundry equine figures loomed up. The head
of a horse was clearly defined against a patch of the pale sky, and a
shrill neigh jarred the quiet. There were wagons, too, under the trees,
empty, the teams unharnessed, and the poles lying on the ground. A dim
light, deeply yellow, shone among the boles of the trees further on, a
little misty, because already large drops were falling. All unmindful of
the rain, a row of young men and half-grown boys perched on a rail fence
in crouching attitudes, not unlike gigantic roosting fowls. Now and then
a subdued, drawling voice sounded from among them, and a smothered laugh
was attestation of callow humanity. They were not devoid of interest in
the proceedings of the camp-meeting, but it was in the impersonal quality
of spectator, and they held aloof from the tabernacle as if they had no
souls to be saved. They turned to look down at Rood as he dismounted and
hitched his horse, and he heard his own name passed along the row, it
being a self-constituted register of all who came and went. The little
gate dragged and creaked on its hinges, and resisted as if it grudged
the spiritual opportunities to which it gave access, and desired to
point the fact that salvation was not easy to come by. As it yielded
and Rood entered the inclosure there were more yellow lights showing
with misty halos in the olive-green dusk. They came from the doors of a
row of shanties, floorless and windowless, which served as quarters for
the crowd at night. There was a great flaring flame in the rear of each
cabin, with leaping red tongues, surrounded by busy, hovering figures
that cast huge distorted shadows against the encompassing foliage, as
if some uncanny phenomenal beings were stalking a solemn round among
the trees. These fires had uncomfortable spiritual suggestions. But
they issued merely from the kitchens, the most cheerful things at camp,
and here saint and sinner were equally heartily represented. Supper was
over, however. The hymn rising even now from the tabernacle was far from
cheerful: one of the long-drawn, melancholy songs, with wild, thrilling
swells and sudden falls and monotonous recitative passages, sometimes
breaking into a strange, ecstatic chant. The serried vertical lines of
rain seemed to vibrate with it like the strings of a harp. Far away
the thunder rolled in its pauses. More than once the sudden lightning
illumined the grounds with a ghastly gleam, and the rhythmic solemn song
went on like a part of the storm. It was a grave assemblage under the
great roof of the rude structure, shown in the dim light of six or eight
kerosene lamps fixed against the posts. At one end was a platform with
a bench, on which sat some five or six of the preachers participating
in the exercises. Brother Jethro Sims, a hoary-headed patriarch, was
walking slowly up and down the main aisle, clapping his hands and singing
with a look of ecstasy in his upturned eyes which a sophisticated
religionist might vainly wonder at, finding that his superior attainments
and advanced theories had bereft him of the power to even comprehend
such faith, such piously prescient joys. The ground was covered with
a deep layer of straw, deadening the stir among the rows of benches.
Many of these, having no backs, served to acquaint their occupants with
martyrdom and to offer a premium to the naturally upright. There were
numbers of little children present, for as yet the lenient rule of the
mountain churches tolerates their babble and even their crying in reason.
Here and there one of the humbly clad young women, with her sleeping
infant in her arms, the yellow light falling upon its head and on her
solemn, listening, almost holy face, might remind one of another peasant
mother whose Child is the hope of the world. The extreme seriousness,
the devout aspiration, the sublimity of the unquestioning faith, that
animated the meeting, could annul ignorance, poverty, uncouthness.
There were many canine figures on the outskirts of the crowd, now and
then peering with wolfish green eyes and weird effect from the darkness
among the laurel, which was beginning to sway and sound with the wind.
Those in the full light, standing even beneath the roof and, with lolling
tongue and wagging tail, looking upon the proceedings, seemed peculiarly
idle here and to incur the imputation of loafers, despite that they
are never very busy elsewhere. Others were more selfishly employed,
creeping about under the benches and among the feet of the congregation,
searching in the straw for the bits of bread and meat thrown aside by the
frequenters of the meeting who did not camp on the grounds, but brought
their lunch for the midday, and went home at night. One little dapper
yellow dog had bounded on the end of the mourners’ bench, and sat there,
gravely gazing about him with small, affable eyes, all unnoticed by the
elders, but threatening the gravity of an urchin, who grinned and coughed
to hide the grin, breaking out with a wild, uncontrollable vocalization,
relic of the whooping-cough, not long over-past. He was finally motioned
out of the tabernacle, and scudded across in the rain to the shanty,
while the little dog sat demure and unmolested on the mourners’ bench.
Larger sinners were gathering there presently, albeit slowly.
“Come! come!” cried the old man sonorously over the singing. “Delay not!
My brethren, I hev never seen a meetin’ whar the devil held sech a strong
hold! Come! Hell yawns fur ye! Come! Yer time is short! Grace beckons!
Come! The fires o’ perdition air kindled! The flames air red!”
And as his voice broke forth once more in the chanting, the thunder
rolled as a repetition of his summons, the lightning glared, all the
mountains became visible over the woods of the abrupt declivity toward
the east; and higher still above the summits was revealed a vast
cloud-vista in the midst of the black night, vividly white, full of
silent surging motion, with strange suggestions of bending forms, of an
awful glister at the vanishing point,—darkness enveloped it, and once
more the thunder pealed.
As the gathering storm burst, the monotonously chanting voices seemed
keyed to an awed undertone, lisping with this mighty psalm of nature,—the
thunder and its echo in the mountains, the tumultuous cry of the wind,
and the persistent iteration of the rain. In the intervals of its
splendid periods, one might feel it a relief to hear the water timidly
splashing in the little ditches that served to drain the ground on either
side of the tabernacle, and the continual whisper in the pines above the
primitive structure. Here and there two or three boughs hung down further
than the rest, fringing the eaves. Ben Doaks noted, when the lightning
flared again, that just between them the distant peak of Thunderhead
loomed dimly visible,—or was it a cloud? Strain his eyes as he might, he
could hardly say.
For Ben Doaks was there, the first to respond to the earnest exhortations
to the sinners to come forward. He had a shamefaced look as he shambled
up and took his seat on the mourners’ bench, while the little dog sat
unnoticed at the other end. Doaks was quick, however, to observe that one
of the preachers eyed him sharply, and spoke to another, who shook his
head with a gesture indeed of negation, but an expression of reluctant
affirmation, and he felt sure that they recognized how often he had sat
there, and that they were saying to each other that it was of no use,—he
was evidently rejected by grace.
Now and then low voices sounded in the midst of the singing,—the
Christians urging those convicted of sin to go up and be prayed for.
Others came forward. There was more stir than before; a vivid curiosity
was on many faces turning about to see who was going up, who was
resisting entreaty, who ought to be convicted of sin, being admirably
supplied with obliquity of which to repent.
Pete Rood sat, his black eyes on the ground, intent, brooding, deeply
grave. Elvira Crosby thought at first that he affected to overlook her.
Then, with a sinking of the heart, she realized that indeed he did
not see her. The tears welled up to her eyes. The past was not to be
recalled. When was he ever before unaware of her presence? He had been
so eager, so devoted, so unlike the capricious lover for whom she had
lightly flung him away. It was all over, though. She looked about her
to divert her mind, to preserve her composure. She noted Mrs. Sayles in
the congregation, identifying her by her limp sun-bonnet. Mrs. Sayles
had long been saying that she intended to put splints in it some day
when time favored her; but it still hung over her eyes, obscuring her
visage, except her mouth, as she sang, and she was an edifying spectacle
of a disregard of earthly pomps and a lack of vain interest in baubles
and bonnets. Alethea’s face, like some fair flower half enfolded in its
sheath, was visible in the funnel-shaped depths of her own brown bonnet,
with a glistening suggestion of her gold hair on her forehead, and one
escaped tress hanging down beneath the curtain on her dark brown homespun
dress. She did not sing, and she looked downcast.
In the aisle between the two benches reserved for the mourners the
brethren were crowding, talking individually to the contrite sinners,
sometimes with such effect that sobs and tears broke forth; and then
the hymn was renewed, with the rhythmic sound of the clapping of hands,
while the thunder crashed and the forked lightnings darted through
the sky. The lurid scenic effects added their impressiveness to the
terrible word-painting of another preacher, who was less interesting
though not less efficient than that gentle old man, Brother Jethro Sims.
He described hell with an accurate knowledge of its topography, its
_personnel_, and its customs, which was a triumph of imagination, and
made one feel that he had surely been there. A young woman suddenly
broke into wild screams, shouting that she had found her salvation, and
clapping her hands, and crying, “Glory!” finally fainting, and being
borne out into the rain.
In the aisles they all often knelt, praying aloud in turns: sometimes,
the voice of one failing in a whispered Amen! another would cry out
insistently, “Let us continue the supplication!” And once more the prayer
would go up.
There were no more conversions. Over and again the brethren announced
in pious dudgeon that it was a stubborn meeting, and hell gaped for the
sinner. It was evidence of the sincerity of the mourners, and their
anxiety not to deceive themselves and others, that they could thus resist
the urgency of the impassioned appeals, that with quivering nerves they
could still withhold all demonstrations of yielding until the spirit
should descend upon them.
Presently persons who desired the prayers of the congregation were
requested to rise and make known their wish. It might be feared that some
of the compliances did not tend to preserve domestic harmony. One woman
asked prayers for her husband, whose heart, she stated, was not in his
religion, and the defiant contradiction expressed in the face of a man
seated beside her suggested that she had thus publicly made reprisal for
sundry conjugal differences. Nevertheless, old Brother Sims said, “Amen!”
Mrs. Sayles rose and begged prayers for the “headin’ young folks o’ the
kentry, that they’d be guided by thar elders, an’ not trest thar own
green jedgmints, an’ finally be led ter grace.” And all the old people
said, heartily, “Amen!” Many turned to look at Alethea, whose face had
become a delicate pink.
And suddenly Peter Rood rose. “I want the prayers o’ the godly,” he said,
now and then casting a hasty glance at Brother Sims, who stood listening
intently, his chin in the air, his hands arrested in the gesture of
clapping, “fur light ter my steps. I reckon I’m a backslider, fur I git
no light when I pray. It’s all dark,—mighty dark!” His voice trembled.
He was beginning to lose his self-control. “My actions tarrify me! I
’lowed wunst I hed fund grace, but in trouble I hev no helper.”
The lightnings flashed once more. The swift illumination seemed to blanch
his swarthy face, and lighted his uplifted black eyes with a transient
gleam. “I’m in sin an’ great mis’ry. I hev done wrong.” He was about to
sit down.
“Make reparation, brother, an’ free yer soul in prayer,” said the old man.
“I can’t!” he cried, shrilly. “I’m ’feard! I’m ’feard o’ my life. I
wouldn’t hev done sech ’ceptin’ I war drunk,—drunk with liquor an’ drunk
with spite.”
He felt that he was saying too much. He sat down, biting his lip till the
blood started. Then he rose and faltered, “I want yer prayers fur light.”
“Amen!” said Brother Sims.
Rood had recovered himself abruptly. He was looking about with furtive
sharpness through the congregation, seeking to gauge the effect of what
he had said when under the strong spell of religious excitement that
had swayed the crowd. Fearful as he was, he detected only curiosity,
interest, nothing more marked; for in the rhetoric of frenzied repentance
these good men often apply to themselves language that seriously
entertained could only grace an indictment.
The rain had ceased; the quiet without seemed to conduce to a calmer
spirit within. The fervor of the meeting had spent itself. Only a few of
the brethren were “workin’” with Ben Doaks; his face was troubled and
perplexed, his anxious eyes turned from one to another.
“Can’t ye feel ye air jes’ a wuthless worm a-crawlin’ round the throne o’
grace? Can’t ye feel that only mercy kin save ye?—fur ye richly desarve
damnation.”
“Laws-a-massy, naw,” said poor, candid Ben, greatly harried. “I think
mighty well o’ myself!”
And so they left him in his sins. The crowd was breaking up, chiefly
seeking their several camps, as the shanties were called. But a few had
come merely to participate in the exercises of the evening, and these
were busy in harnessing their horses or yoking their oxen into their
wagons on the hillside without the inclosure. The declivity was veined
with rivulets, into which the heavy feet of the men and beasts splashed;
the leaves continuously dripped; frogs were croaking near at hand in
the sombre woods,—not so dark now, for the melancholy waning moon shone
among the breaking clouds. The rumble of wheels presently intruded upon
the low-toned conversation, the burden of which was the meeting and
reminiscent comparison with other meetings. Several of the boys, not
burdened with immortality, took leave less decorously, whooping loudly at
each other as they galloped past the vehicles, and were soon out of sight
and hearing.
The red clay road was presently lonely enough as Alethea trudged along
it. There was no room for her in the little wagon which Buck drew in
single harness, as might be called the ropes by which the ox, fastened
between the shafts, was made to dispense with a yoke-fellow. A rope tied
to his horn was intended to guide him along any intricacies of the road
with which he might not be acquainted. Mrs. Sayles, her daughter-in-law,
and several of the children were seated in the wagon, and sometimes
Alethea walked in advance, and sometimes fell into the rear. It was no
great distance that they were to travel,—their destination being her
aunt’s house in Eskaqua Cove, where they were to spend the night before
wagoning up the Great Smoky.
Alethea was beset with her own unquiet thoughts; the remorse that would
not loose its hold; the strange wrong which the right had wrought. Her
conscience, forever on the alert—serving, if need were, as proxy—could
find no flaw in what she had counseled; and thus perverse fate, in
the radiant guise of rectitude, had led Reuben Lorey to despair, and
delivered her to grief.
She hardly noted the incidents of the wayside,—the foot-bridge over
the creek; the stars amongst the ripples; the sound of the insects; the
zigzag fences on either hand; the mists that lurked among the trees,
that paced the turn-rows of the corn-fields, that caught the moonbeams,
and glittered against the dark mountain side. It was another gleam that
struck her attention; she looked again,—the slant of the rays against the
windows of a little school-house. There was a deep impression of silence
upon it, vacant in the night, dark but for the moonbeams. The pines that
overhung it were sombre and still. The vapors shifted about it, fringing
even the rotten palings that inclosed it. Her feet had followed her gaze.
She was near the edge of the narrow road, as she paused to wait for Buck
and the wagon to come up. She heard nothing as she listened. She said to
herself that she must be a long way ahead. She was sensible of fatigue
presently; the excitements of the evening were superimposed on the work
of the day. She leaned against the tottering fence. Her bonnet had fallen
back on her shoulders; she rested her head on her hand, her elbows on
the low palings. She might have dreamed for a moment. Suddenly something
touched her. She turned her head quickly; her shriek seemed to pierce the
sky, for there in the inclosure,—did she see aright?—the idiot’s face!
white with a responsive terror upon it, vanishing in the mist. Or was it
the mist? Did she hear the quick thud of retreating footsteps, or was it
the throbs of her own plunging heart? As she turned, wildly throwing up
both arms, she beheld Buck and the wagon on the crest of the hill, with
the worshipers from the camp-meeting, and the sight restored to her more
mundane considerations.
VIII.
In those long days while Mink languished in jail, he wondered how the
world could wag on without him. He hungered with acute pangs for the
mountains; he pined for the sun and the wind. Sometimes he stood for
hours at the window, straining for a breath of air. Then the barred
aspect of the narrow scene outside of the grating maddened him, and he
would fling himself upon his bed; and it would seem to him that he could
never rise again.
He speculated upon Alethea with a virulence of rage which almost
frightened him,—whether she had heard of his arrest, how she had received
the news.
“Mighty pious, I reckon,” he sneered. “I know ez well ez ef I hed seen
her ez she be a-goin’ ’round the kentry a-tellin’ ’bout my wickedness,
an’ how she worried an’ worked with me, an’ couldn’t git me shet o’ my
evil ways.”
He thought of Elvira, too, with a certain melancholy relish of her
fancied grief. His heart had softened toward her as his grudge against
Alethea waxed hot. “_She_ tuk it powerful hard, I know. I’ll be bound it
mighty nigh killed her,—she set so much store by me. But I reckon her
folks air glad, bein’ ez they never favored me.”
It seemed to him, as he reflected on the probable sentiment of his
friends and neighbors, that he had lived in a wolfish community, ready
with cowardly cruelty to attack and mangle him since fortune had brought
him down.
“I’m carrion now; I’ll hev ter expec’ the wolves an’ buzzards,” he said
bitterly to his lawyer, as they canvassed together what witnesses they
had best summon to prove his general good character, and whom they should
challenge on the jury list. There was hardly a man of the number on whom
Mink had not played some grievous prank calculated to produce a rankling
grudge and foster prejudice. He recited these with a lugubrious gravity
incongruous enough with the subject matter, that often elicited bursts of
unwilling laughter from the perplexed counsel.
This was a bluff, florid man of forty, with a hearty, resonant voice, a
light blue eye, thick, yellow hair, which he wore cut straight across
beneath his ears, showing its density, and thrown back without parting
from his forehead. When the locks fell forward, as they often did, he
tossed them back with an impatient gesture. He had a long mustache and
beard. His lips were peculiarly red. Altogether he was a high-colored,
noisy, confident, blustering fellow, and he inspired Mink with great
faith.
“I done a better thing ’n I knowed of whenst I voted an’ electioneered so
brash fur you-uns ez floater in the legislatur’,” said Mink one day, in a
burst of hopefulness. When he had sent for the lawyer to defend him, he
had based his appeal for aid partly on his political services, and relied
on them to atone for any deficiency of fees.
“Do it again, Mink, early and often!” And the floater’s jolly laughter
rang out, jarring against the walls of the bare room, which was, however,
far more cheerful for the sound.
Mink had found in the requirements of the approaching trial, urged upon
his attention by the lawyer, a certain respite from his mental anguish.
But in the midst of the night, griefs would beset him. In his dreams the
humble, foolish individuality of the idiot boy was invested with awe,
with a deep pathos, with a terrible dignity. It seemed often that he was
awakened by the clutch of a hand to an imperative consciousness of the
crime of which he was accused, to a torturing uncertainty of his guilt
or innocence. His conscience strove in vain to reckon with him.
“Mebbe, though, the jury kin tell?” he said one morning, piteously, to
his counsel, who had come cheerily in, to find him wild-eyed and haggard.
“A jury,” said the lawyer sententiously, “is the cussedness of one man
multiplied by twelve.”
He had flung his somewhat portly bulk into a chair which creaked beneath
his weight, and he was looking at his client with calculating keenness.
He had supplemented a fair knowledge of the law with a theory of human
motives, deduced from his experience among men both as a politician
and before the courts. In their less complex expressions he was quick
to detect them. But he was devoid of intuition, of divination. His
instincts were blunt. His moral perceptions were good, but elementary.
His apprehension of crime was set forth in its entirety and in due detail
by the code of Tennessee with the consequent penalty prescribed by the
statute. He recognized no wrong unpunishable by law. The exquisite
anguish of a moral doubt, the deep, helpless, hopeless affliction
of remorse, the keen, unassuaged pangs of irreparability,—he had no
spiritual sense to take cognizance of these immaterial issues. If Mink,
escaping by his counsel’s clever use of a technicality, should ever again
think of the miller, dream of the boy weltering in the river, wake with
the sound of that weird scream in his ears, Mr. Harshaw would wonder at
him as a fool. As to the bar of conscience, how could that vague essence
assume all the functions of a court under the constitution?
And still conning his simple alphabet of the intricate language of
emotions, he interpreted the prisoner’s wan cheek and restless eyes as
the expression of fear. This induced a secret irritation and an anxiety
as to how he had best conduct the case, in view of his professional
reputation. He had besought Mink in his own interests to be frank, and
now he was perplexed by doubts of his client’s candor.
It required only a few moments’ reflection to assure himself that he had
best assume, for the purposes of defense, the guilt of the prisoner until
proved innocent. As he placed both hands on his knees he pursed up his
lips confidentially, and with a quick sidelong glance he said,—
“We’ve got some time, though, before we have to face ’em, Mink. We’re
entitled to one continuance, on account of the inflamed state of public
sentiment.”
The brooding, abstracted look passed suddenly from Mink’s face, leaving
it more recognizable with its wonted bright intentness.
“Air ye ’lowin’ ye’d put off the trial furder ’n the day be set fur, Mr.
Harshaw?” he asked, with the accents of dismay. “Fur Gawd’s sake, don’t
let ’em do that. I wouldn’t bide hyar, all shet up”—his eyes turned from
wall to wall with the baffled eagerness of a caged beast—“I wouldn’t bide
hyar a day longer ’n I’m ’bleeged ter, not ter git shet o’ damnation.
Lord A’mighty, don’t go a-shovin’ the day off; hurry it up, ef ye kin. I
want ter kem ter trial an’ git back ter the mountings. I feel ez ef I be
bound ter go.”
The lawyer still looked at him with his keen sidelong glances.
“The jury stands ’twixt you and the mountains, Mink. Mightn’t get out,
after all’s said and done.”
Mink looked at him with a sudden alarm in his dilated eyes, as if the
contingency had been all undreamed of.
“They’ll be bound ter let me out,” he declared. “I ain’t feared o’ the
jury.”
“If you don’t know what you did yourself, you can’t expect them to be
much smarter in finding it out,” reasoned the lawyer.
“I ain’t done nuthin’ ter keep me jailed this hyar way,” said Mink,
hardily. “I feel it in my bones I’ll git out. I never try them bars,”
nodding at the window, “but what I looks fur ’em ter break in my hand.”
“See here,” said the lawyer, sternly, “you let ‘them bars’ alone; you
ain’t going ter do yourself any good breaking jail.”
He looked down meditatively at his feet, and stamped one of them that his
trousers might slip further down over his boot-leg, which deported itself
assertively and obtrusively, as if it were in the habit of being worn on
the outside.
“I don’t know,” he said reflectively, “if you want to be tried speedily,
but what it’s best, anyhow. We won’t have Averill to preside; he’s
incompetent in a number of civil cases, and Jim Gwinnan will hold court.
He’s a”—he pursed up his red lips again, and looked about with an air
intimating a high degree of contempt; Mink hung upon his words with an
oppressive sense of helplessness and eagerness, that now and then found
vent in an unconscious long-drawn sigh—“well, he’s a selfish, ambitious
sort of fellow, and he’s found out it’s mighty popular to make a blow
about cleaning up the docket, and avoiding the law’s delays, and trotting
the lawyers right through. He’ll hold court till twelve o’clock at night,
and he just opposes, tooth and nail, every motion for delay. I reckon
he’d make it look as if we were afraid to come to trial, if we wanted a
continuance; so it’s just as well, if you feel ready, for we mightn’t get
it, after all.”
Mink experienced a new fear. “Ain’t he a mighty bad kind of a jedge ter
hev?” he faltered, quaking before the mental vision of the man who held
his fate in the hollow of his hand.
“No,” said Harshaw musingly, “he ain’t a bad judge for us for this
reason,—though he’s mighty apt to lean to public opinion, he’s a sound
lawyer, and he’s mighty careful about his rulings. He don’t get reversed
by the S’preme Court. That’s what he sits on the bench for: not to
administer justice,—he don’t think about justice once a week,—but to
be affirmed by the S’preme Court. He’s more particular than Averill in
little things, and he won’t let the attorney-general walk over him, like
Averill does,—sorter spunky.”
“I hev seen the ’torney-gineral,—hearn him speak wunst. They ’lowed he
war a fine speaker,” submitted Mink, anxious concerning the untried,
unmeasured forces about to be arrayed against him.
“Mighty fine,” said Harshaw, derisively. “Got a beautiful voice—for
calling hogs!”
He laughed and rose. “Oh, bless my soul, I plumb forgot!” he exclaimed.
“There’s a girl out here wanting to see you. Don’t know but what she may
be your sweetheart;” he winked jocosely. “Perkins said she might come in
if you want to see her. Looks like she’s walked about forty mile,—plumb
beat out.”
Mink was flattered. Instantly he thought of Elvira, and he remembered the
journey with his offering of the raccoon that fateful night.
“She hev got dark hair an’ eyes, an’ air toler’ble leetle ter be growed
up?” he asked. The remark was in the form of a question, but it was
uttered with the conviction of certainty.
“Lord, no! Sandy hair, big brown eyes, and tall, and”—
He paused, for Mink had risen suddenly.
“Ye go tell her,” he said, passionately, pointing at the door,—“go
straight an’ tell her ter keep in mind what I said bout’n the harnt on
Thunderhead, an’ how I ’lowed she favored him; ef she can’t kill, she
sp’iles yer chance.”
“Why, look here, Mink,” remonstrated the lawyer.
“Go ’long an’ tell her!” cried Mink, imperatively. “Tell her I want her
ter cl’ar out from hyar. Tell her I can’t breathe ef she’s nigh.” He
clutched at his throat, tearing open his collar with both hands. “’Twar
her ez brung me hyar. ’Twar her ez got me locked an’ barred up. An’ now I
don’t want ter see her no mo’ ez long ez I live. Gin her that word from
me,—an’ the Herder on Thunderhead what she favors.”
The lawyer, with a gesture of expostulation, left the cell, appreciating
that it was an unpleasant job to tell the travel-stained apparition at
the door that her journey was in vain.
She was sitting upon the doorstep, in the sunshine, her brown bonnet
hanging half off her golden head; her homespun dress seemed dark upon the
rough gray stone. She watched absently, with her serious brown eyes, the
gauzy wings of a blue-bottle that droned slumberously by. She held with
idle hands the yellow blossoms of the golden-rod that she had plucked by
the way. There was no passing in the street, hardly a sound; so still she
sat that a lizard, basking in the sun, did not scruple to run across her
motionless feet. She had taken off her coarse shoes to ease them after
her long walk, for they were swollen and bruised.
She looked up with a start when the lawyer stood in the door. “No, sis,”
he said in a debonair fashion, glancing about the street. “Mink ain’t in
a good humor to-day, and you can’t see him.”
She cast up to him her haggard eyes, full of appeal, of fear, of woe. He
had no intention of stabbing her with the cruel words of the message.
“You can’t see him to-day; some other day.” He waved his hand with a
promissory gesture, and was turning away.
She sprang up with a cry. “They hendered him! They wouldn’t let him!” she
said, with quivering lips.
“Yes, yes. They hindered him,” he kindly prevaricated.
Her eyes were suddenly all on fire. As he caught their gleam he
hesitated, looking at her. Her cheeks were flushed. Her teeth were set.
She raised her clenched hand.
“He lied ter me, that thar jailer. He ’lowed I mought see Reuben. He
lied! he lied! I’ll—I’ll”—She dropped her threatening hand. “Lord! Lord!
what kin I do!”
“Look here, girl,” said the lawyer, alarmed at the idea of an indignant
demonstration on the part of any of his client’s friends. “’Tain’t the
jailer’s fault. Mink said he wouldn’t see you.”
She stood as if stunned for a moment. Then, her confidence in Mink
rebounding, “I don’t b’lieve ye!” she said, bluntly.
“Well, then, maybe you will when I tell you that he told me to ask you to
clear out, and to remind you of the ‘harnt’ on Thunderhead that he said
you favored.”
She shrank back as if he had struck her. He eyed her indignantly. “I
reckon you’ll believe me now. Well, begone. We’ve had enough of you.”
He turned and walked off briskly. He heard the court-house bell jangling
out its summons, for the chancery court was in session, and he quickened
his pace. He gave a start of irritation when he became aware that she was
following him. He turned and faced her.
“What do you want?” he said, abruptly.
“I want ter tell ye su’thin’,” she gasped. She leaned forward as if to
touch his arm. He moved suddenly back, and she almost fell. She showed no
anger, but came a faltering pace nearer, with the same imploring gesture.
“I mus’ tell ye suthin’ ’bout Reuben, soon ez I git my breath,—suthin’
ye’d never b’lieve.”
Perhaps it was an unreasoning anger which possessed him, but he was late,
and she had cast the lie in his teeth, and somehow her presence irked
him, and he vaguely sought to forecast what she had to say.
“No, you won’t, for I ain’t going to listen. You just take yourself off,
and stay at home if you know how, and satisfy yourself with the harm you
have done already. You’d better put out, and so I tell you.”
He turned once more and strode away rapidly. He heard a faint cry
behind him, and, for a time, pursuing steps. He quickened his own. In
fact, he presently ran lightly,—marvelously lightly for a man of his
bulk,—laughing within himself the while at the absurdity and incongruity
of the episode, should it be noticed by any one in the sleepy streets.
After a little he looked over his shoulder, half in relenting, half in
curiosity.
She was not following him. She was limping back toward her shoes, that
lay on the steps of the jail.
IX.
It was close upon nightfall when Alethea, on her homeward journey,
reached the banks of the Scolacutta River. It still had a melancholy
version of the sunset imprinted upon its surface. It was full of dreamy
crimson tints, and olive-green shadows, and gentle pensive effects of
undistinguishable lustres. Its ceaseless monotone was on the air; its
breath was of freshness and fragrance; the bluffs that towered above it
gave the austerity of rugged rocks and the dignity of great heights to
the incidents of its margin. Stunted trees clung to the niches of these
splintered cliffs; everywhere along the banks the leaves of the sourwood
were red and gay as a banner, the tassels all gleaming and white; the
dogwood showed a flaunting ochreous tint, but the sweet-gum was as yet
only a dull purple, and the sumach had merely hung out its garnet tufts.
An amethystine haze rested on the nearest mountains, softening the
polychromatic richness that glimmered all along the great slopes; further
away they wore the softened blue of autumn. The scene was familiar to
her, for she had already passed through the gap of the mountain down into
Eskaqua Cove, and her aunt Dely’s house lay among the tawny corn-fields
on the other side. Very lonely this habitation was among the great
company of the mountains; they rose about the cove on every side with
a visible immensity of wilderness which belittled the slight hold of
humanity expressed in the house, the fields, the road that seemed itself
a vagrant, for there was no bourne in sight of the wide landscape to
which it might be supposed to tend.
The log cabin had heard the river sing for nearly a century. It appeared
for many years the ready prey of decay: the chimney leaned from the
wall, the daubing was falling from the chinking, there were holes in the
floor and the roof. Suddenly a great change came over it. The frivolity
of glass enlivened the windows where batten shutters had formerly
sufficed; a rickety little porch was added; a tiny room was partitioned
off from this, and Mrs. Purvine rejoiced in the distinction of possessing
a company bedroom, which was far from being a haven of comfort to the
occasional occupant of those close quarters. She had always been known to
harbor certain ambitions. Her husband’s death, some two or three years
before, had given her liberty to express her tastes more fully than when
hampered by his cautious conservatism. And now, although the fields
might be overrun with weeds, and the sheep have the rot, and the poultry
the cholera, and the cow go dry, and the “gyarden truck” defer to the
crab-grass, and the bees, clever insects, prepare only sufficient honey
for their own use, Mrs. Purvine preserved the appearance of having made a
great rise in life, and was considered by the casual observer a “mighty
spry widder woman.” Such a one as Mrs. Sayles shook her head and spared
not the vocabulary. “Dely,” she would observe, “air my husband’s sister,
an’ I ain’t goin’ ter make no words about her. Ef she war ennybody else’s
sister, I’d up an’ down declar’ ez she hev been snared in the devices
o’ the devil, fur sech pride ez hern ain’t godly,—naw sir! nur religion
nuther. Glass in the winder! Shucks! she’d better be thinkin’ ’bout
gittin’ light on salvation,—that she hed! Folks ez knowed Dely whenst
she war a gal knowed she war headin’ an’ sot agin her elders, an’ run
away from home ter git married, an’ this is what kem of sech onregenerate
ways. _Glass_ in the winder! I’ll be bound the devil looks through that
winder every day at yer aunt Dely whenst she sets thar an’ spins. He gits
a glimge o’ her when she ain’t a-lookin’. The pride o’ the yearth is
mighty strong in her. Ye oughter sati’fy yerse’f with ’sociatin’ with her
in this life, fur ye ain’t a-goin’ ter meet up with her in heaven. Naw,
sir, yer aunt Dely’ll remember that winder in the darkness o’ Torment,
an’ ef she war ennybody else’s sister than my own husband’s _I’d say so_.”
Mrs. Purvine was standing on the porch, so fine a manifestation of her
pride, and gazing with unrecognizing curiosity at Alethea as the girl
came up the stony hillside.
Mrs. Purvine hardly looked the woman of a vaulting worldly ambition.
She had a broad, moon-like face and blue eyes with much of the whites
showing, the more as she had a trick of peering over her spectacles.
She had no teeth; despite her social culture she had never heard of a
false set, or her mouth would have been a glittering illustration of the
dentist’s art. She held in her hand a short clay pipe, from which the
smoke slowly curled. She wore a blue-checked homespun apron, but a calico
gown, being, according to report, “too triflin’” to do very much weaving
at home, and the cross-roads store was only ten miles from her house, on
the road to Shaftesville. She had journeyed even to the town, twice or
thrice in her life, mounted on a gray mare with a colt at her heels, and
had looked from beneath her sun-bonnet at the metropolitan splendors and
habits with a starveling’s delight in such of the meagre conventional
graces of life as the little village possessed, and as were vouchsafed
to her comprehension. Nobody knew whence she derived her “vagrantin’
ways;” for these excursions earned for her the reputation of an insatiate
traveler, and her frivolous disposition and pride were the occasion
of much reprehension and comment. They could hardly take the form of
remonstrance, however, without open rupture; for Mrs. Purvine, right well
aware of them, with an acumen and diplomacy grafted like some strange
exotic upon her simple character, was always bewailing the frivolous
tendency of the times, the pride of “some folks,” the worthless nature of
women nowadays, and foisting herself upon her interlocutor as an example
of all homely and primitive tastes and virtues.
Her moon face suddenly assumed an expression of recognition and of stern
reprobation as she came solemnly down from the door, a feat which it was
difficult to perform with stateliness or even safety; for the two or
three plank steps were only set against the wall, and although far more
imposing than the hewn logs or rough stones customary elsewhere, they
were extremely insecure. Often when a foot was placed upon the lowest of
the number they careened forward with the weight.
Mrs. Purvine accomplished the descent with dignity, and as she held the
gate open she addressed her niece, looking full in her tear-stained face:—
“I knowed it would kem ter this,—I knowed it, sooner or later. What’s
that thar step-mother o’ yourn been doin’ ter ye?”
Albeit Mrs. Sayles had few equals as a censor, Mrs. Purvine, with a
secret intuition of her animadversions, returned them as best she might,
and Mrs. Sayles’s difficult position as a step-mother rendered her as a
shorn lamb to the blast.
“Nuthin’,” sobbed Alethea,—“nuthin’ ez I knows on.” She started up the
steps, which bounded forward with a precipitancy that had a startling
effect as if the house had jumped at her. Alethea stumbled, and Mrs.
Purvine commented upon her awkwardness:—
“Look at the gal,—usin’ her feet with no mo’ nimbleness ’n a cow.
Laws-a-massy, young folks ain’t what they war in my day. Whenst I war a
gal, ’fore I jined the church an’ tuk ter consortin’ with the saints,
ye oughter hev seen me dance! Could shake my foot along with the
nimblest! But I ain’t crackin’ up bran dances, nuther. I’m a perfessin’
member,—bless the Lord! Satan hides in a fiddle. Ye always remember yer
aunt Dely tole ye that word. An’ ef ever ye air condemned ter Torment,
don’t ye up an’ ’low ez ye hed no l’arnin’; don’t ye do it.” Then looking
over her spectacles, “What ails ye, ef ’tain’t that step-mother?”
“I hev been ter Shaftesville. I bided all night at Cousin Jane Scruggs’s
in Piomingo Cove, an’ next day I footed it ter town.”
This announcement would have surprised any one more than the roving Mrs.
Purvine. Even she demanded, as in duty bound, with every intimation of
deep contempt, “Laws-a-massy, what ye wanter go ter Shaftesville fur?”
“I went ter see Reuben Lorey in jail,” replied Alethea.
Mrs. Purvine looked at her with an expression of deep exasperation.
“Waal,” she observed sarcastically, “I’d hev liked ter seen him thar,
too. I ain’t seen ez good a fit ez Mink Lorey an’ the county jail fur
this many a day. Kem hyar one night, an’ tuk them bran’ new front steps
o’ mine, an’ hung ’em up on the martin-house. An’ thar war a powerful
deep snow that night, an’ it kivered the consarn so ez nex’ mornin’ we
couldn’t find out what unyearthly thing hed fell on the martin-house, an’
we war fairly feared ’twar a warnin’ or a jedgmint till we missed them
front steps. They ain’t never been so stiddy sence.”
Alethea had laid aside her bonnet and bathed her face. She was going
about the house in a way which was a tribute to Mrs. Purvine’s
hospitality, for she felt much at home there. She had glanced toward the
great fireplace, where the ashes piled on the top of the oven and the
coffee-pot perched on the trivet over the coals told that the work of
preparing supper was already done. She suddenly took down the quilting
frame, suspended to the beams above by long bands of cloth, produced
thread and thimble from her pocket, and, seating herself before it
as before a table, began to quilt dexterously and neatly where Mrs.
Purvine’s somewhat erratic performance had left off long before. The
smouldering firelight touched her fine, glistening hair, her pensive,
downcast face; there was still light enough in the room through the
pernicious glass window to reveal the grace of her postures and her
slender figure. Aunt Dely, with some instinct for beauty native in
her blood along with her “vagrantin’ ways” and her original opinions,
contemplated her for a time, and presently commented upon her.
“I’m yer father’s own sister,” she averred. “I ain’t denyin’ it none,
though he did go an’ marry that thar Jessup woman, ez nobody could
abide; an’ I hate ter see a peart gal like you-uns, ez air kin ter me,
a-sp’ilin’ her eyes an’ a-cryin’ over a feller ez her folks don’t favor
no-ways. Yer elders knows bes’, Lethe.”
“Why, aunt Dely, you-uns _married_ a man ez yer elders never favored;
they war powerful sot agin him.”
Mrs. Purvine was clad in logic as in armor.
“An’ look how it turned out,—him dead an’ me a widder woman!”
Alethea stitched on silently for a moment. Then she observed with unusual
softness, for she feared being accounted “sassy,” “I ’lowed I hed hearn
ye say he war fifty-five year old, when he died.”
“What’s fifty-five?” demanded Mrs. Purvine aggressively. “I knowed a man
ez war a hunderd an’ ten.”
And so Alethea was forced to acquiesce in the proposition that Mrs.
Purvine’s consort had been cut off in the flower of his youth as a
judgment for having some thirty years previous eloped with the girl of
his heart.
Both women looked conscious when a sudden step sounded in cautious ascent
of the flight before the door, which illustrated so pointedly the truism
that pride goes before a fall, and a tall, lank, stoop-shouldered,
red-headed fellow strode in at the door.
“Air yer eyesight failin’ ye, Jerry Price?” Mrs. Purvine admonished him.
He was her husband’s nephew. “Thar’s Lethe Sayles.”
Being called to order in this manner might well embarrass the young
man, who had not expected to see Alethea, and who was rebuked for the
dereliction before he was well in the room.
He shambled up to shake hands with her with a somewhat elaborate show of
cordiality.
“Waal, Lethe,” he exclaimed, “ye air a sight fur sore eyes! Ain’t seen ye
fur a month o’ Sundays.”
“Looks like she hed sore eyes herself, bound with red ferretin’,”
commented Mrs. Purvine gruffly. She often had a disposition, as she
averred, to knock these young people’s heads together,—a sufficiently
dangerous proceeding, for according to her account there were not two
such hard heads in all Eskaqua Cove and Piomingo to boot. She had
cherished an earnest desire to make a match between them, frustrated only
by their failure to second the motion. They were well aware of this, and
it impaired the ease of their relations, hampering even the exchange of
the compliments of the season.
“Young folks take the lead!” Mrs. Purvine often exclaimed, oblivious of
her own sentimental history. “Ef nobody war wantin’ ’em ter marry they’d
be runnin’ off with one another.”
She had considered this breach of obedience on the part of her husband’s
nephew a special instance of filial ingratitude, and had begun to remind
him, and in fact to remember, all that she had done for him.
“Folkses ’lowed ter me, whenst Jerry Price’s mammy died, ez I hed
better leave him be, an’ his aunt Melindy Jane would keer fur him. An’
I hedn’t been merried but a few years, an’ bein’ ez I runned away my
folks wouldn’t gin me nuthin’, an’ me an’ my old man war most o’ the
furniture we hed in the house. But law! we hed plenty arter a while,
an’ ter spare!” cried the rich aunt Dely. “An’ they all ’lowed I hed
better not lumber myse’f up with other folkses chill’n. Waal, I never
expected ter, when I went ter the fun’el. But thar on the floor sot the
hardest-featured infant I ever seen, red-headed, blinkin’ eye, lean, an’
sucked his thumb! An’ all them folks war standin’ ’round him, lookin’
down at him with thar eyes all perverted an’ stretched, like a gobbler
looks at a deedie ’fore he pecks him on the noodle. An’ they were all
pityin’ Melindy Jane fur hevin’ ter keer fur him. Thar she war settin’
wropped in a shawl, an’ ’pearin’ ez ef she could bite a ten-penny nail
in two, sayin’ she mus’ submit ter the Lord! Waal, ’peared ter me ez I
jes’ could view the futur’, an’ the sorter time Red-head would hev along
o’ a woman ez war submittin’ on account o’ him ter the Lord! An’ I jes’
ups an’ lied afore ’em all. I sez, ‘That’s the purties’ child I ever see.
Surely he is!’ An’ I sez right hearty ter the b’reaved husband, ‘Ephr’im,
ef ye’ll gin him ter me, I’ll keer fur him till he’s able ter keer fur
me.’ An’ Eph looked up ez s’prised an’ pleased, and says, ‘_Will_ ye,
Dely?’ An’ ef ye’ll b’lieve me, arter I hed called him ‘purty’ Melindy
Jane ’lowed _she_ wanted him, an’ hed nuthin’ ter say ’bout the Lord. But
I jes’ stepped inter the floor an’ snatched him up under my arm, an’ set
out an’ toted him five mile home. An’ lean ez he ’peared, he war middlin’
heavy. I rubbed some pepper on his thumb that night. He ain’t sucked it
sence.”
Jerry Price used to listen, calmly smoking, hardly identifying himself—as
what man would!—with the homely subject of the sketch; and yet with a
certain sense of obligation to Mrs. Purvine, returning thanks in some
sort in behalf of the unprepossessing infant.
“Ye an’ me made a right good trade out’n it, ain’t we, aunt Dely?” he
would say.
She formerly accorded jocund acquiescence to this blithe proposition. But
now she would exclaim, “Did ennybody think ye’d grow up ter set yerse’f
ter spite me, an’ won’t do nuthin’ I ax ye? ’Kase I hev sot my heart on
hevin’ Lethe Sayles ter live along o’ me, ye won’t go courtin’ her.”
The specious Price would demand, “How d’ye know ez I won’t?”
And hope would once more gleam from the ashes of Mrs. Purvine’s
disappointments.
“Lethe’s been ter Shaftesville,” she said, nodding triumphantly, sure to
impress Jerry with this statement, for he was as worldly as she. Then,
with sudden animation, she turned to her niece: “Lethe, did ye see enny
lookin’-glasses thar like mine?” She pointed to a cherry-framed mirror,
some ten or twelve inches square, hung upon the wall at a height that
prevented it from reflecting aught but the opposite wall. It was as
well, perhaps, for glass of that quality could only return a corrugated
image that might have induced depression of spirit in one gazing on the
perversions of its surface. The walls were pasted over with pictures
from almanacs and bright-tinted railway advertisements; for her husband
had once been postmaster of the invisible neighborhood, and these were
the most important trophies and emoluments of the office. They quite
covered the mellow brown logs and the daubing between, and were as crude
and gairish a substitute as well might be. They were the joy of Mrs.
Purvine’s heart, however, and as she dwelt upon them and committed them
to memory they assumed all the functions of a literature. She valued
hardly less a cheap clock that stood upon a shelf, and gave no more
intimation of the passage of time than a polite hostess. Whether it had
no works, whether it had sustained some internal injury, whether the
worldly nephew and aunt had not sufficient knowledge of the springs of
its being to wind it up, Alethea never speculated and Mrs. Purvine did
not care. It was more than was owned by any one else in her acquaintance,
and she rejoiced without stint in its possession.
“An’ I’ll be bound ye never seen no clock like mine!” she said.
“Naw’m,” said Alethea; “but I jes’ went ter the jail.”
“What fur?” demanded Jerry. He was leaning against the door, and did not
notice that he kept the light from Alethea’s work, but she was unwilling
to remonstrate, and sewed on in the shadow.
“She went ter see Mink Lorey,” said his aunt. “I hope he ’lowed he war
sorry fur his sins,—though ’twon’t do him no good now; oughter hev been
sorry fust.”
“I never seen him,” said Alethea.
Mrs. Purvine had knelt before the fire for the purpose of investigating
the baking of the egg-bread; she held the lid of the oven up with a bit
of kindling, while she turned half around to fix an astonished gaze on
the girl.
“In the name o’—Moses!”—she produced the adjuration as if she thought it
equal to the occasion,—“what did ye kem hyar lyin’ ’bout’n it, Lethe,
an’ sayin’ ye hed been ter see him? Ye’ll git yer nose burnt, an’ I’ll
be glad of it.” She broke off suddenly, addressing a hound that, lured
by the appetizing odor gushing out from under the lid of the oven, had
approached with a sinuous, beguiling motion, and was extending his long
neck. “Ye’d look mighty desirable with a blister on it.”
“I never said I seen Reuben,” returned Alethea, regardless of this
interlude. “He wouldn’t see me.”
“What fur?” asked Jerry excitedly.
The lid fell from Mrs. Purvine’s hand upon the oven with a crash. She was
speechless with amazement.
Alethea sat, her hands clasped on the quilting frame, the glow of the
firelight full on her golden hair; her beauty seemed heightened by the
refined pathos which weeping often leaves upon the face when it is once
more calm. It was hard to say the cruel words, but her voice was steady.
“He ’lowed I favored the harnt on Thunderhead what sp’iles folkses’
prospects. I hed ’lowed ter him, when I las’ seen him, ez he oughter gin
what he hed ter old man Griff. An’ he went ter Shaftesville. An’ they
jailed him.”
Mrs. Purvine’s moon face turned scarlet. “Now, ain’t ye up an’ down
’shamed o’ yerse’f, Lethe Ann Sayles? Ter set store by a man ez talks ter
you-uns like that!” She rose, with a toss of her head. “The kentry hev
got my cornsent ter hang him!”
She began to move about more briskly as she placed the plates on the
table. The fact of this breach between Alethea and Mink was auspicious to
her darling scheme. “Naw, child,” she said as the girl offered to assist,
“ye set an’ talk ter Jerry ’bout Mink; he wants ter hear ’bout Mink.”
“I wisht I could be witness fur Reuben,” said Alethea, feeling an intense
relief to be able to mention this without revealing her secret. “I
b’lieve I could holp Reuben some.”
“Whyn’t ye go ter his lawyer?” asked Jerry. “Harshaw, they say, he hev
got ter defend him.”
“He wouldn’t listen; he fairly run from me.”
“In Moses’s name!” cried Mrs. Purvine, with sibilant inversion of her
favorite exclamation, “what ails them crazy bucks in Shaftesville? All of
’em got the jim-jams, in jail an’ out!”
“Waal,” said Jerry coolly, “ef ye want ter tell him sech ez ye know, I’ll
_make_ him listen ter ye. I hev been summonsed on the jury fur the nex’
term, an’ I’ll hev ter go ter Shaftesville or be fined. An’ ef ye air
thar I’ll see Harshaw don’t run from ye,—else he won’t run fur, no mo’.
He’ll lack his motions arter that.”
“Ai-yi! When Jerry talks he ain’t minchin’ his words!” cried aunt Dely
admiringly.
Alethea was very grateful for this stalwart championship. She said
nothing, however, for she had no cultured phrases of acknowledgment.
Her spirits rose; her flagging brain was once more alert; she was
eager to be alone,—to think what she would say to the lawyer, to Mink,
on the witness-stand. She hardly noticed Mrs. Purvine’s manner of
self-gratulation, or her frequent glances toward her young people as
they sat together before the dull fire. Alethea was very beautiful, and
Jerry—Mrs. Purvine never deluded herself with denials of her adopted
son’s ugliness—was good and manly, and as sharp as a brier. Any man might
be esteemed a poor match for looks, unless it were the worthless Mink, so
safe in jail.
The feat a woman’s imagination can accomplish in a given time is the most
triumphant illustration of the agility of the human mind. Before either
spoke again Mrs. Purvine had elaborated every detail of the courtship and
engagement, pausing from time to time, as she placed the dishes on the
table, and looking about the room in complete abstraction, planning how
to arrange the furniture to give space for the dancing at the infair.
“Set out the supper in the shed-room, an’ take these hyar two beds an’
thar steads up-steers inter the roof-room,” she muttered, measuring with
her eye. “The loom kin jes’ be h’isted out ’n the shed-room inter the
yard—an’ I don’t keer ef I never see it agin—an’ the spinning-wheels set
in the bedroom.” As to Satan, she had forgotten that he was quite capable
of making himself small enough to hide in the fiddle.
The light was growing dull out of doors; the stridulous voices of the
September insects sounded ceaselessly, scarcely impinging upon the sense
of quiet, so monotonous was the iteration of their song. The strokes
of an axe, betokening activity at the wood-pile, seemed to cleave the
silence, and reverberated from the mountains, as if the echoes were
keeping a tally. Alethea had rolled up the quilting frame, and it
swung from the beams. Presently the children were trooping in, three
great awkward boys, who evidently formed themselves upon Jerry Price’s
manner, except the youngest, a lad of fourteen, whose face had a certain
infantile lower, saved over from his juvenile days, and concentrating
readily into a pout. Even his mother admitted that he was “sp’iled some.”
Together they made short work of the egg-bread and “br’iled bacon.”
They tarried not long afterward, but trooped noisily up the ladder to
the roof-room; and as they strode about on the floor, which was also the
ceiling of the room below, it seemed momently that they would certainly
come through.
Jerry lighted his pipe and sat on the doorstep; the fashionable Mrs.
Purvine lighted hers and took a chair near. All the doors stood open, for
the night was sultry. The stars were very bright in the moonless sky. The
dogs lolling their tongues, sat on the porch, or lay in the dewy grass;
making incursions now and then into the room, climbing cavalierly over
Jerry’s superfluity of long legs, and nosing about among the ashes to
make sure that none of the scraps had escaped.
“Don’t ye know I never waste nuthin’, ye grisly gluttons?” demanded Mrs.
Purvine, the model housekeeper. But their fat sides did not confirm this
statement, and, bating a wag of homage in the extreme tip of their tails,
they paid no attention to her.
“What _I’m_ a-honin’ ter know,” said Jerry Price presently, “air how them
boys ez war along o’ Mink an’ war summonsed ez witnesses air goin’ ter
prove he war drunk. Ef they ’low Mink war drunk the ’torney-gin’al ’ll
try ter make out he war sober. He’s a-goin’ ter ax, ‘Whar’d he git the
whiskey, bein’ ’s all the still thar is air a bonded still, an’ by law
can’t sell less ’n five gallons. Then them boys’ll be afeard ter tell
whar they got the whiskey, ’kase folks mought think they knowed who war
makin’ it. An’ ef the moonshiners war raided, _they_ mought declar’ ez
some o’ them boys war aidin’ an’ abettin’ ’em, an’ the revenuers would
arrest them too.”
“Don’t ye know who air makin’ it?” Alethea asked, a vivid picture in
her mind of Boke’s barn, and Jerry Price and his cronies stalking their
fantastic rounds about it.
“Naw, sir! an’ don’t wanter, nuther. I war along o’ ’em in the woods that
night. I holped tote the jug. We lef’ it empty in Boke’s barn an’ fund it
filled, but I dunno nuthin’ mo’.”
“Lethe,” said Mrs. Purvine, handing her a ball of gray yarn, the
knitting-needles thrust through an ill-knit beginning of a sock, “I wish
ye’d try ter find out whar I drapped them stitches, an’ ravel it out an’
knit it up agin. I hate ter do my work over, an’ I hev ter be powerful
partic’lar with Jerry’s socks,—he wears ’em out so fas’. Ye’d ’low he war
a thousand-legs, ef ye could see the stacks of ’em I hev ter darn.”
Alethea drew up a great rocking-chair, and now and then leaned over its
arms toward the fire to catch the red glow of the embers upon her work,
as her deft hands repaired the damages of Mrs. Purvine’s inattention.
Suddenly she said in a pondering tone, “Why would the ’torney-gineral
ruther prove Reuben war sober?”
“’Kase ef he war proved drunk the jury would lean ter him,” said Jerry.
She laid her work down in her lap, and gazed intently at him. His face
had the transient glow of his pipe upon it, and then, as he took it from
his lips, was as indistinct as his long, lank figure disposed in the
doorway.
“They oughtn’t ter do it,—but they do. I ain’t never seen nare jury hold
a drunk man ez up an’ down ’sponsible ez ef he war sober. They’ll lean
ter him ef he could be proved drunk.”
Alethea said nothing. Her mental attitude was one of intense receptivity.
Her keen appreciation of how much depended on her comprehension, her
desire that no point should escape her attention, were positive pain in
their acute consciousness.
The discerning Jerry went on with that acumen and cogency which were such
odd concomitants of his ignorance and uncouthness:—
“It makes me laff every time I see a witness swore ter tell ‘the truth,
the whole truth, an’ nuthin’ but the truth.’ Folks is so apt ter b’lieve
the truth air jes’ what they wanter b’lieve. Git them boys skeered up
right smart ’bout the revenuers on one side an’ the moonshiners on t’
other, an’ they’ll feel the truth war ez none o’ we-uns hed ennythin’
ter drink that night; mought hev hed a dram o’ cider, or mebbe nuther
stronger ’n yerb tea, but nobody war bodaciously boozy. Then they don’t
know sure enough whar the liquor kem from; mos’ folks don’t b’lieve
thar’s no still round ’bout the mountings now.”
Alethea leaned back in the rocking-chair, her nerveless hands falling
idly upon the work in her lap. The crude mosaic of advertisements on the
walls started out with abnormal distinctness, as a tiny flame rose from
the embers and fell into sudden extinction among the ashes, leaving the
only picture in the room the dusky night-scene dimly painted in purple
and dove color upon the panes of the window.
It was only she who could remedy the deficiency in this valuable
testimony. She knew full well the source of their secret supply. She it
was who had seen the jug left in the barn by the roistering blades, and
the moonshiner swing down from the loft to seize upon it. She had his
full confession from his own lips. She appreciated the distinctions the
jury would make between hilarious drunken sport and coolly intentional
malice in the prisoner, and that it was in her hands to sacrifice one of
these men to the other.
For the first time she was quick to distrust her own intuitions. Her
tyrant conscience, hitherto always ready to immolate every cherished
wish on the altar of the right, seemed now the suavest mentor, urging
that her lover’s liberty, his life for aught she knew, should not be
jeopardized to protect a man whose vocation she accounted a curse to the
community. She felt a secret amaze that her first vague project should
expand into a fully equipped plan, with hardly a conscious process of
thought to give it shape and detail. Her natural doubts, her efforts at
alternatives, were flouted by some inner imperious determination. It was
in the nature of a concession from this suddenly elate and willful power
that she obtained her own consent, as she would have phrased it, to warn
Sam Marvin, for the sake of his “houseful,” that he might elude capture,
and perhaps save his still and appliances from destruction. And she would
warn Jerry, too, despite that triumphant, tumultuous consciousness which
held all else so slight since she had knowledge that could aid in proving
Mink’s irresponsibility for what he had really done, and his innocence of
the graver crime of which he was accused.
“Jerry,” she said, observing that Mrs. Purvine had fallen asleep in
her chair, her moon face all askew, her idle hands neatly rolled up in
her apron,—“Jerry, I reckon ye wouldn’t want me a-goin’ testifyin’ ter
Shaftesville ef ye knowed I seen you-uns leave the jug that evenin’ in
Boke’s barn. I sca’cely b’lieved ’twar ye, at fust, all of ye acted so
cur’ous; I ’lowed ’twar sperits in yer likeness. An’ I seen the distiller
kem an’ git the jug. An’ he seen me.”
“Look-a-hyar, Lethe!” exclaimed Jerry, seriously. “Don’t joke ’bout sech
ez that. Ye know the moonshiners mought fairly kill ye, ef they fund out
ye knowed an’ tole on ’em. They hev done sech afore now. Ye keep yer
mouth shet an’ yer tongue ’twixt yer teeth, ef ye knows what’s healthy
fur ye.”
“I ain’t jokin’,” said Alethea.
“Ye mind what I say,” declared Jerry. “I ain’t afeard myself o’ the
moonshiners nor the revenuers, nare one,—ain’t got no call ter be,—but
words sech ez ye air speakin’ air powerful ticklish an’ techy kind o’
talk. Ye better tend ter the cows an’ sheep an’ weavin’ an’ sech, an’
leave the men’s business alone. I hev never knowed,” continued Jerry,
a trifle acrimoniously, “a woman git ten steps away from home but what
she acts ez ef she hed tuk off her brains an’ lef’ ’em thar along of her
every-day clothes.”
“I jes’ went ter git the lam’ out’n a hole,” said Alethea, in no wise
daunted, and ready with her retort. “His leg’s mendin’, though he hops
some yit. An’ I war in the cow-pen when the moonshiner kem an’ talked ter
me.”
“Listen at ye, a-settin’ talkin’ ’bout law-breakers,” said the fastidious
Mrs. Purvine, who had abruptly waked. “I ain’t kin ter none o’ ’em. Naw,
sir, an’ I wouldn’t own it ef I war. Mind me o’ yer uncle Pettin Guyther,
ez war always talkin’ ’bout murder an’ robbery: every tale he told they
killed the folks a diff’ent way,—spilled thar blood somehows, an’ cracked
thar skulls bodaciously; an’ whenever he’d git hisself gone from hyar I
useter be ’feared lawless ones would kem hyar of a night ter thieve an’
kill, knowin’ ez I hed consider’ble worldly goods. The Bible say riches
ain’t no ’count. Mebbe so, but I ain’t so sure ’bout that.”
Perhaps it was her clock which she had in mind, for—without any monition
from it, however—she added, “Time ter go ter bed, chill’n,—time ter go
ter bed.”
She did not rise from her chair at once. She admonished Jerry to “kiver”
the fire with ashes, and watched him as he did it. Then he tramped up
the ladder to the roof-room, noisily enough to wake the dead, perhaps,
but not aunt Dely’s boys.
She gave a long, mournful yawn of sleepiness and fatigue, and stretched
her arms wearily above her head. Then with sudden cheerfulness she
exclaimed, “Lethe, ye hain’t never hed a chance ter sleep in the bedroom!”
She spoke as if there were but one on the face of the earth.
“Ye hev never been down hyar ’thout yer elders an’ sech, ez ye hev
hed ter show respec’ ter, an’ stan’ back fur,—yer step-mam, an’ Jacob
Jessup’s wife, an’ sech; but ye shell sleep in the bedroom one time,
sure, instead o’ in this room, ez be het up so hot with cookin’ supper in
it.”
She rose bustlingly to stir up the fire, that there might be light enough
to make the requisite preparations. Alethea’s heart failed her when she
thought of the tiny apartment partitioned off at the end of the porch,
and beheld her aunt lighting a little tin lamp without a chimney at
the fire. The mountain girl, with all the conservatism of her class,
possessed the strength of prejudice against innovation which usually
appertains to age. The characteristic of years seemed reversed as she
looked on with reluctance, and the old woman flustered about, full of
her experimental glories and her eager relish of a new fashion. “Ye kem
along, child!” she exclaimed, her moon face wreathed with a toothless
smile and the redolent emanations of the smoking and sputtering lamp. It
was placed on a shelf in the little room, and as Alethea buttoned the
door it gave out less light than a suffocating odor. It served, however,
to reveal the timbers that formed the sides of the room, for it was
built after the treasures of the post-office had been exhausted in the
decoration of the main house. Upon them hung an array of Mrs. Purvine’s
dresses, suspended by the neck, and suggesting the uncheerful idea of a
row of executed women. The bed was high, huge with feathers and heaped
with quilts. There were no means of ventilation, unless sundry cracks
incident to mountain architecture might be relied upon. Alethea made
haste to extinguish the lamp. When she had climbed the altitudes of the
feather bed she could not sleep. The roof-room at home, with its windows
and its sweeps of high air, was not so fine, it might be, but as she
smothered by slow degrees she thought poorly of fashion. Her brain was
hot with the anxious, strenuous thoughts that seethed through it. She was
much less cheerful as the hours wore on. The recollections of the sad
day bore heavily upon her spirit. Over and again Mink’s cruel words, the
ridicule to which the lawyer had subjected her in her own estimation,
the affront to her dignity,—she had no such fine name for it, she could
only feel,—came back to her, and she could but marvel that the evening
had passed so placidly; she wondered that she even lived, so acute were
the pangs of her wounded pride. She had an ineffable repugnance to the
idea of ever seeing Harshaw again; for herself alone, for her life, she
felt, she would have made no further effort. “I’ll do it fur Reuben,
though,” she said. The thought of him, too, was very bitter. Her wakeful
eyes were hot, but they harbored no tears. Once she slipped down from
the bed and unbuttoned the door, hoping to sleep with the influx of air.
It came in fresh, sweet, full of the sense of dew. The night was not
black; only a subdued gray shadow lay over all the land: how its passive,
neutral aspect expressed the idea of rest! Looking out from the cavernous
overhanging portal of the little porch, she could see the Great Smoky,
darkly rising above the cove. She heard the stir of a bird roosting in an
althea bush by the gate, and then a scuttling noise under the house. She
had moved very softly, but the vigilant Towser bounded upon the porch.
He knew her—for she spoke to him instantly—as well as he knew his name,
but for some unexplained affectation of his nature he would not recognize
her, and sat before her door and barked at her with a vehemence that made
the roof ring, the sound reverberating from the mountains as if a troop
of wolves were howling in the melancholy woods. Twice he tired of this
pastime, and withdrew under the house, coming out once more to renew it.
She shut the door, finally, and again and again he threw himself against
it, at last lying down before it and growling at intervals. She fell
asleep after a time, through sheer fatigue, regardless of the lack of air
in the little dungeon; waking heavy-eyed and fagged in the morning, able
to acquiesce only faintheartedly when Mrs. Purvine triumphantly saluted
her: “Waal, Lethe, now nobody kin never say ez ye ain’t slep’ in the
bedroom.”
All day she felt the effects of her vigil. She thought it was this which
had touched her courage. She stood still with a quaking at her heart,
when, climbing the Great Smoky, she reached the forks in the road where
she should turn off to go to Sam Marvin’s house. There was no view of
the valley. The woods were immeasurable about her, all splendid with
the pomp and state of autumn. Those great trees, ablaze with color,—the
flaming yellow of the hickory, the rich, dull purple of the sweet-gum,
the crimson of the oaks,—reached up in endless arches above her head, all
boldly painted against the blue sky. An incredible brilliancy of effect
was afforded by the long vistas, free of undergrowth, and carpeted with
the poly-tinted leaves. Among the boughs often the full purple clusters
of the muscadines hung, the vines climbing to the tops of the trees,
and then trailing over to the ground. As she stood she heard a creaking
and straining of the strong cables,—a fox in their midst as they lay
tangled upon the earth. She noted, too, the translucent red globes of the
persimmon hanging upon trees denuded of all but a few yellow leaves.
She sat down on a log at the forks of the road, feeling greatly perturbed
and anxious. To do what she proposed to do was to take her life in her
hands. Not her step-mother alone, but Jacob Jessup, had warned her, and
Jerry Price had repeated what they had said, almost in their very words.
But they had only sought to curb her foolish tongue. They had never
dreamed of the reckless temerity of going into the moonshiner’s den to
defy him, proclaim herself the informer, and warn him to save himself.
He had already threatened her; she remembered his stern, vehement face
in the closing dusk. She wondered that her mind should balk from the
decision so imperatively urged upon it. She seemed, as it were, to catch
herself in lapses of attention. Often she looked, first at one, then at
the other, of the roads,—neither visible for more than a few yards up the
steep ascent,—as if she expected some diversion, some extraneous aid, in
her dilemma, something to happen to decide it for her.
What, she said to herself, if never again she should behold this place?
What if, in taking choice of the forks of the road, she should take a
path she might never tread again?
And then she wondered that she should notice that the log on which she
sat was a “lick log,” should speculate whether the cattle often came here
for salt, should look idly into the cleft within it to see if perchance
there were still salt there.
It would be safer, it might be better for all, to give her testimony if
it should be called for, and leave Sam Marvin to the law. “I’m fairly
feared o’ him, ennyways. I’m feared ter go thar an’ let him know that
he’ll git fund out, mebbe, fur I’ll tell on him ef I’m summonsed ez a
witness. My step-mother’s always sayin’ I’m a meddler, an’ mebbe I be.”
She listened to the sound of an outgushing roadside spring. She looked up
at the new moon, which seemed to follow the lure of the wind beckoning in
the trees. They shook their splendid plumes together like an assemblage
of bowing courtiers, gayly bedight.
She remembered the “houseful,” the pinching poverty, the prison, the
destruction of the still. She rose reluctantly and turned to the left.
Her eyes were bright; her cheeks were flushed; her red lips parted. She
listened intently from time to time: not a sound but her own slow, light
footfall. She had thought to hear the dogs barking, for the place was
now near at hand. When she saw a rail-fence terminating the vista her
heart gave a great bound; she paused, looking at it with dilated eyes.
Then she went on, up and up, till the house came in view,—a forlorn
little cabin, with a clay and stick chimney, smokeless! She stared at it
amazed. There was no creature in the hog-pen, which was large for the
pretensions of the place,—the distillery refuse explained its phenomenal
size, perhaps; the door of the house swung loose in the wind. There were
several slats nailed across the entrance low down, evidently intended to
keep certain vagrant juveniles from falling out of the door. No need for
this now. The place was deserted. Alethea walked up to the fence,—the
bars lay upon the ground,—and stepped over the slats into the empty room.
The ashes had been dead for days in the deep chimney-place; a few rags in
a corner fluttered in the drafts from crannies; the whole place had that
indescribable mournfulness of a deserted human habitation that had so
pathetically appealed to her in the little house at Boke’s Spring. Here
it pierced her heart. It was from fear of her that they had fled,—and
whither? A poor home at best, where could they find another? She need
not have quaked, she said to herself; they had not sought to still her
tongue, lest it should wag against them. They had uprooted their home,
and had withdrawn themselves alike from the informer and the law that
threatened them. The tears sprang into her eyes. She deprecated their
bitter feeling, their saddened lives, their deserted hearth-stone. And
yet it was all wrong that they should distill the brush whiskey, and
could she say she was to blame?
A faint scratching sound struck her attention. It came from behind the
closed door of the shed-room. She stood listening for a moment, unable to
account for it. Then she went forward and unlatched the door.
A starved cat, emaciated and forlorn to the last degree, forgotten in
the removal, shut by some accident into the room, crept quivering out.
It went through the dumb show of mewing; it could not walk; its bones
almost pierced its skin. Its plight served to approximate the date of the
flitting. It had been there for days, weeks perhaps.
She picked up the creature, and carried it home in her arms.
X.
The little brick court-house in Shaftesville had stood for half a century
in the centre of the village square, as impassive as an oracle to the
decrees which issued from it. Even time seemed able to make but scant
impression upon it. True, the changes of the day might register on its
windows, flaring with fictitious fires when the sun was in the west, or
reflecting the moonlight with pallid glimmers, as if some white-faced
spectre had peered out into the midnight through the dusty pane. Mosses
clung to its walls; generations of swallows nested in its chimneys,
soaring up from them now and then, bevies of black dots, as if the
records below had spewed out a surplusage of punctuation marks and blots;
decay had touched a window-sill here and there. But it was still called
the “new court-house,” in contradistinction to the primitive log building
that it had replaced; and despite some inward monitions of its age once
in a while, its long experience of various phases of life, its knowledge
of the coming and going of many men who would come and go no more, it
was enabled to maintain an air of jaunty unconsciousness, as it was
still the handsomest edifice in Shaftesville and of a somewhat imposing
architectural pretension. It had beheld many a “State’s day” dawn like
this, with fitful gusts of wind and rain, with a frenzied surging of the
boughs of the hickory-trees about it as if some sylvan grief beset them,
with a continual shifting of the mists that veiled the mountains and hung
above the roofs of the straggling little town.
The few stores, all of which faced the square, were early full of
customers clad in jeans, with heavy cowhide boots deeply bemired by the
red clay mud of the streets, and with gruff faces that expressed surly
disapproval of the frills and frippery of civilization as exhibited
in Shaftesville. Canvas-covered wagons, laden with produce and drawn
by oxen, stood before the doors, and among the piles of corn and bags
of apples and chestnuts children’s wide-eyed, grave faces looked out
cautiously from behind the flaps at the inexplicable “town ways.” In
the intervals of the down-pour there was much stir in the streets. Men
with long-skirted coats and broad hats and stern, grizzled faces rode
about on gaunt mountain horses. Now and then one would be accompanied by
an elderly woman in homespun dress, a shawl and sun-bonnet, wearing a
settled look of sour disaffection, and chirruping a sharp warning rather
than encouragement to her stumbling, antiquated gray mare. There were
many horses hitched to the palings of the court-house fence, and numbers
of men lounged about the yard, all crowding up the steps as the tuneless
clangor of the bell smote the air. Around the door of the jail boys and
rowdyish young men assembled, waiting with an indomitable patience,
despite the quick, sharp showers, to see the prisoner led out.
The people of Shaftesville regarded the swarm of visitors as somewhat
an encroachment upon their vested rights. “Leave _anybody_ in the
mountains?” was a frequent raillery.
“Ye town folks jes’ ’lowed ye’d hev all the fun ter yerselves o’ seein’
Mink Lorey tried, ye grudgin’ half-livers,” the mountaineers would
retort; “but from what I kin see, I reckon ye air sorter mistook this
time, sure.”
And indeed the court-room was crowded as it had seldom been in the fifty
years that justice had been meted out here. In the space without the
bar the benches groaned and creaked beneath the weight of those who had
taken the precaution to secure seats in advance, and had occupied them in
dreary waiting since early in the morning. The forethought of one coterie
had come to naught, for the bench succumbed beneath twenty stalwart
mountaineers; its feeble supports bent, and as the party collapsed in a
wild mingling of legs and arms, waving in frantic efforts to recover
equilibrium, Shaftesville was “mighty nigh tickled ter death,” for the
first time that day. As the sprawling young fellows sheepishly gathered
themselves together, a burst of jeering laughter filled the room, only
gradually subdued by the sheriff’s “Silence in court!”
The attorney-general was already piling his books and papers on the
table, consulting his notes and absorbed in his preparations. He was a
man of fifty, perhaps, with a polished bald head that might have been
of interest to a phrenologist (for it had sundry marked protuberances),
blunt, strong features, a heavy lower jaw, an expression of insistent
common sense, and a deep bass voice. He was sonorously clearing his
throat just now, and was wiping from his thick, short, grizzled mustache
drops of some fluid that gave a pervasive unequivocal odor to his breath.
It had only rejoiced his stomach, however, and did not affect the keen
acumen for which he was famous, and he was settling to his work with
an evident intention of giving the defense all they would be able to
wrestle with. The old miller, in his rags and patches, sat beside him as
prosecutor. His face wore a strange meekness. Now and then he lifted his
bleared eyes with an intent look, as if hearing some unworded counsels;
then shook his head and bowed it, with its long white locks, upon his
hands clasped on his stick. There were many glances directed toward him,
half in commiseration, half in curiosity; but these sentiments were bated
somewhat by familiarity, for there was hardly a man in Cherokee County
who had not visited the ruins of the mill and heard much gossip about the
old man’s uncharacteristic humility and submissive grief.
A stronger element of interest was added to the impending trial by the
circumstance that it was a stranger on the bench. Comparatively few of
the assemblage had been in attendance the preceding days, during the
trial of the civil cases, and in the preliminary moments, throughout the
opening of the court, the reading of the minutes, the calling of the
roll, the miscellaneous motions, until the criminal docket was taken up
and the case called, the judge sustained the fixed gaze of one half the
county.
He did not embody the sleek, successful promise of his reputation. He
had the look of a man who has fought hard for all that he has won,
and, unsatisfied, is ready to fight again. It was a most unappeased,
belligerent spirit expressed in his eyes. They were of a dark gray, and
deeply set. He had straight black hair, cut short about his head. His
face wore a repressed impatience; sharp lines were drawn about it, making
him seem somewhat older than his age, which was thirty-five or six; his
nose had a fine, thin nostril; his chin was round and heavy. He wore a
long mustache; now and then he gnawed at the end of it. He sat stiffly
erect before the desk, his elbow upon it, his chin resting in his hand.
His blue flannel suit hung negligently on his tall, slender figure, and
they were lean, long fingers that held his chin.
He was looking about with a restless eye. The great round stove in the
room was red hot. Snow had been seen on the summits of the distant Smoky,
and was not this sure indication that winter was at hand? The sheriff
was a man of rigid rule and precedent, and the fire had been built
accordingly.
The judge spoke suddenly. He had a singularly low, inexpressive voice, a
falling inflection, and a deliberate, measured manner. “Mr. Sheriff,” he
said, “hoist that window, will you?”
All the windows were occupied by men and boys, some of them standing that
they might obtain a better view of the prisoner when he should be led in.
From the sill of the window indicated they descended with clumsy hops and
thumps upon the floor, as they made way for the sheriff to admit the air.
There was a half-suppressed titter from those more fortunately placed, as
the dispossessed and discomfited spectators crowded together against the
wall. The judge glanced about with displeasure in his eyes.
“I’ll have you to understand,” he said in his unimpassioned drawl, “that
a trial before a court of justice is not a circus or a show. And if
there’s not more quiet in this court-room, I’ll send one half of this
crowd to jail.”
There was quiet at once. The gaze fixed upon him was suddenly an
unfriendly look. To be sure, he was not a visiting clergyman, but one
expects a certain degree of urbanity from the stranger within one’s
gates, however lofty his mission and imperious his authority. Their own
judicial magnate, Judge Averill, was a very lenient man, fat, and bald,
and jolly. The frequenters of the place could but be impressed with the
contrast. If Judge Averill found the room or the weather too warm, he
took off his coat, and tried his cases clothed in his right mind, and in
little else. Everybody in the county was familiar with the back of his
vest, which had a triangular wedge of cloth let into it, for the judge
had become more expansive than when the vest was a fit. He was a sound
lawyer and an excellent man, and his decisions suffered no disparagement
from his shirt sleeves.
The pause of expectation was prolonged. The stove was cracking, as it
abruptly cooled, as if with inarticulate protest against these summary
proceedings. The autumnal breeze came in dank and chill at the window.
The spectators moved restlessly in their places. There was a sharp
contrast between the townspeople—especially the lawyers within the bar,
in their dapper store clothes, and with that alert expression habitual
with men who think for a living—and the stolid, ruminative mountain
folks, with unshorn beards and unkempt heads, habited in jeans, and
lounging about in slouching postures.
There was a sudden approach of feet in the hall,—the feet, to judge
by their nimble irresponsibility, of scuttling small boys. A thrill
of excitement ran through the crowd as a heavier tramp resounded. The
sheriff in charge of the prisoner, who was accompanied by his counsel,
came into the room so swiftly as almost to impair the effect of the
entry, and Mink and his lawyer sat down within the bar.
Oddly enough, Mink’s keen, bright eyes were elate as he glanced about.
He looked so light, so alert, so elastically ready to bound away,
that those cautious souls, who like to be on the safe side, felt that
it would conduce to the public weal if he were still ironed. He was
visibly excited, too; his expression conveyed the idea of an inadequate
recognition of everything that he saw, but he stood up and pleaded “Not
guilty” in a steady, strong voice, and with his old offhand, debonair,
manly manner. He held his hat in his hand,—a long time, poor fellow,
since he had had need of it; his clothes still bore the rents of the
struggle when he was captured; his fine hair curled down upon his brown
jeans coat collar; and his face had an unwonted delicacy of effect, the
refined result of the prosaic “jail-bleach.” He seemed most thoroughly
alive. In contrast any other personality suggested torpor. His strong
peculiarities had a certain obliterative effect upon others; he was the
climax of interest in the room. The judge looked at him with marked
attention.
Harshaw had flung himself back in his chair, that quaked in every fibre
beneath him. He mopped his flushed face with his handkerchief, sighed
with fatness and anxiety, and pulled down his vest and the stubs of his
shirt sleeves about his thick wrists, for he wore no cuffs. He leaned
forward from time to time, and whispered with eager perturbation to the
prisoner, who seemed to listen with a sort of flout of indifference and
confident protest. Mink’s conduct was so unexpected, so remarkable, that
it attracted general attention. The members of the bar had taken note
of it, and presently two or three commented in whispers on Harshaw’s
preoccupation. For he, a stickler at trifles, a man that fought on
principle every point of his case, had allowed something to slip his
notice. The names of the jury were about to be drawn. The sheriff,
seeking, according to the law, that exponent of guilelessness, “a child
under ten years of age,” had encountered one in the hall, and came
back into the room, beckoning with many an alluring demonstration some
small person, invisible because of the density of the crowd. It once
more showed a disposition to titter, for the sheriff, a bulky, ungainly
man, was wreathing his hard features into sweetly insistent smiles,
when there appeared, in the open space near the judge’s desk, a little
maiden, following him, beginning to smile, too, under so many soft
attentions. Her blowzy, uncovered hair was of a sunny hue; her red lips
parted to show her snaggled little teeth; her eyes, so fresh, so blue,
were fastened upon him with an expression of blandest favor; her plump
little body was arrayed in a blue-checked cotton frock; and despite the
season her feet were bare. It was perhaps this special mark of poverty
that attracted the attention of one of the lawyers. He was a man of
extraordinary memory, a politician, and well acquainted in the coves. He
looked hard at the little girl. Then he whispered to a crony that she
was the miller’s granddaughter. For it was “Sister Eudory.” They watched
Harshaw with idle interest, expecting him to identify the small kinswoman
of the drowned boy, and to derive from the fact some fine-spun theory of
incompetency. He did not recognize her, however,—perhaps he had never
before seen her; he only gave her a casual glance, and then turned his
eyes upon the jury list in his hands.
The scrolls bearing the names of the proposed jurors were placed in
a hat, and the sheriff, bowing his long back, extended it to “Sister
Eudory.”
She held her pretty head askew, looked up, smiling with childish coquetry
at the judge, put in her dimpled hand with a delicate tentative gesture,
took out a scroll, and under the sheriff’s directions, handed it to the
clerk with an elaborate air of bestowal. He looked at it, and read the
name aloud.
Her charming infantile presence, as she stood by the judge’s desk among
the grave, bearded men, drawing the jury with her dimpled hands,
won upon the crowd. There were laughing glances interchanged, and no
dissenting opinion as to the prettiness and “peartness” of “Sister
Eudory.” She was evidently under the impression that she was performing
some great public feat, as she again thrust in her hand, caught up
another scroll, and smiled radiantly into the face of the judge, who was
visibly embarrassed by the blandishments of the small coquette. He hardly
knew how to return her gaze, and instead he glanced casually out of the
window close by.
The defense frequently availed themselves of their right of peremptory
challenge. This was a matter of preconcerted detail with the jury list
before them. Whenever it was possible they challenged “for cause”
until the _venire_ was exhausted. Then jurors were summoned from the
by-standers. It was not exactly the entertainment for which the crowd
had been waiting, but they found a certain interest in seeing Mink, no
longer indifferent, lean forward, and with acrimonious eagerness whisper
into the counsel’s ear presumable defamations of the juror, who looked on
helplessly and with an avidity of curiosity as to what was about to be
publicly urged against him. Over and again the sheriff made incursions
into the streets, summoning talesmen wherever he could lay his hands on
suitable persons. Men of undoubted integrity and sobriety were scarce at
the moment, for the good citizens of Shaftesville, averse to the duty,
and hearing that he was abroad on this mission, disappeared as if the
earth had swallowed them. Plunging into the stores, the baffled official
would encounter only the grins of the few callow clerks—proprietor and
customers having alike fled. Once he pursued the flying coat-tails and
the soles of the nimble feet of one of the solid men of the town around a
corner, never coming nearer. It was a time-honored custom to respond thus
to one’s country’s call, and engendered no bitterness in the sheriff’s
breast. Perhaps he considered this saltatory exercise one of the official
duties to which he had been dedicated.
The difficulty of securing a jury was unexampled in the annals of the
county. Many, otherwise eligible, confessed to a prejudice against Mink,
and had formed and freely expressed an opinion as to his guilt. One old
codger from some sequestered cove of the mountains, never before having
visited Shaftesville, and desirous of adding to the strange tales of his
travels the unique experience of serving on the jury, dashed his own
hopes when questioned as usual, by replying glibly in the affirmative.
He said, too, that the “outdacious rascality of the prisoner showed in
his face, an’ ef they locked him up for life he’d be a warnin’ ter the
other mischievious young minks, fur the kentry war a-roamin’ with ’em.”
His look of blank amazement and discomfiture when told to “stand aside”
elicited once more the ready titter of the crowd and the sheriff’s
formula, “Silence in court!”
As such admissions were made, Mink sat, his head thrust forward, his
bright, intent eyes flashing indignantly, a fluctuating flush on his
pallid cheek, his whole lithe, motionless figure seeming so alert that it
would scarcely have astonished the community if he had sprung upon the
holder of these aggressive views of his guilt. His lawyer sneered, and
now and then exchanged a glance of scornful comment with him,—for Harshaw
had recovered his equanimity in the exercise of that most characteristic
quality, his pugnacity, during his wrangles with the attorney for the
State in challenging the jurymen.
The crude gray light of the autumn day waned. A dim shadow fell over the
assemblage. Gusts of wind dashed the rain against the grimy panes, the
drops trickling down in long, irregular lines; the yellow hickory leaves
went whirling by, sometimes dropping upon the window-ledges, and away
again on the restless blast. The mists pressed against the glass, then
quivered and disappeared, and came once more. Occasionally a great hollow
voice sounded from the empty upper chambers of the building and through
the long halls; the doors left ajar slammed now and then, and the sashes
rattled as the wind rose higher.
It was not more cheerful when the lamps were lighted, for the court
did not adjourn at the usual hour. A strong smell of coal oil and of
ill-trimmed wicks pervaded the air; a bated suffusion of yellow radiance
emanated from them into the brown dimness of the great room. The
illumined faces were dull with fatigue and glistening with perspiration,
for the stove was once again red-hot,—an old colored man, with a tropical
idea of comfort, appearing at close intervals with an armful of wood.
Old Griff’s long white hair gleamed among the darker heads within the
bar. He had fallen asleep, his forehead bowed on his hands, his hands
clasped on his stick. Strange shadows seemed to be attending court.
Grotesque distortions of humanity walked the walls, and lurked among the
assemblage, and haunted the open door, and looked over the shoulder of
the judge.
It began to be very apparent to the spectators, the bar, the prisoner,
the attorney-general, and the sheriff, that Judge Gwinnan had the
fixed purpose of sitting there without adjournment until the requisite
competent dozen jurors should be secured. It was already late, long past
the usual hour for supper, and although the lawyers and the crowd, who
could withdraw and refresh themselves as they wished, might approve of
this ascetic determination neither to eat nor to sleep until the jury was
achieved, the sheriff, his deputy absent, felt it a hardship. He was a
bulky fellow, accustomed to locomotion only on horseback. He had taken
much exercise to-day on foot, a sort of official Diogenes,—searching for
a mythical unattained man of an exigent mental and moral pattern,—with
not even a tub as a haven to which he might have the poor privilege of
retiring. When he next darted out with a sort of unwieldy agility into
the hall, which was lighted by a swinging lamp, the wick turned too high
and the chimney emitting flames tipped with smoke, he was not easily to
be withstood. He seized upon a man leaning idly against the wall, his
hands in his pockets, whom he had not seen before to-day. “Ye air the
very feller I’m a-lookin’ fur!” he cried, magnifying the accident into a
feat of intention.
Peter Rood drew back further against the wall, with a shocked expression
on his swarthy face and in his glittering black eyes. “I can’t!” he
cried. “Lemme go!”
“Why can’t ye?” demanded the sheriff.
“I ain’t well,” protested Rood, more calmly.
“Shucks!” the officer incredulously commented. “Ef all I hev hearn o’
that sort to-day war true, thar ain’t a hearty, whoppin’ big man in
Cherokee County but what’s got every disease from the chicken pip ter the
yaller fever. Come on, Pete, an’ quit foolin’.”
Under the strong coercion of the law administered by a sheriff who wanted
his supper, Rood could but go.
Despite his rapacious interest in all that concerned the tragedy, he
had hitherto held aloof from the court-house; he had withdrawn himself
even from the streets, fearing to meet the sheriff. Seeing the great
yellow lights in the windows, each flaring in the rainy night like some
many-faceted topaz, he had fancied that the trial must be well under way,
for no gossip had come to him in his hiding-place of the difficulty of
securing a jury. He could no longer resist his curiosity. He strode at
his leisurely gait up the steps, meaning merely to glance within, when
the sheriff issued upon him.
As he came with the officer into the room, Mink scanned him angrily,
leaned forward, and whispered sharply to the lawyer. Rood was trembling
in every fibre; the fixed gaze of all the crowd seemed to pierce him; his
great eyes turned with a fluctuating, meaningless stare from one official
to the other.
He was a freeholder, not a householder. He had expressed no opinion as to
the guilt of the prisoner. Had he formed none? He had not thought about
it. He was challenged by the defense on the score of personal enmity
toward the prisoner, the peremptory challenges being exhausted. As he
was otherwise eligible he was put upon his _voir dire_.
Harshaw looked steadily at him for a moment, his red lips curling,
sitting with his arms folded across his broad chest. Mink’s bright, keen
face close behind him was expectant, already triumphant. His hand was on
the back of his counsel’s chair.
Suddenly Harshaw, tossing his hair from his brow, leaned forward, with
his folded arms on the table before him.
“Did you not, sir,” he said, smacking his confident red lips, and with
an exasperatingly deliberate delivery,—“did you not on the twentieth day
of August ascend a certain summit of the Great Smoky Mountains called
Piomingo Bald, and there”—he derisively thrust out his red tongue and
withdrew it swiftly—“shoot and kill a certain cow, believing it to belong
to Mink Lo—to Reuben Lorey?”
The judge’s eyes were fixed upon Rood. He seemed strangely agitated,
shocked; his face assumed a ghastly pallor.
The attorney-general protested that the juror was not obliged to answer
a question which tended to fasten disgrace, nay crime, upon him; Harshaw
the while still leaning on the table, laughing silently, and looking with
the roseate dimples of corpulent triumph at their discomfiture.
“The juror need not answer,” said the judge.
“I’m mighty willin’ ter answer, jedge,” gasped Rood. “I never done no
sech thing sence I war born.”
In the estimation of all the crowd it was natural that he should say
this; to accept the privilege of silence would be admission.
“Let me put another question in altogether another field,” said Harshaw,
smoothing his yellow beard. “If it please the court to permit us to cite
the decision of an inferior court, perhaps, but altogether beyond the
jurisdiction of this honorable court, I should like to refer to the dicta
in the courts of Cupid. Were not you and the prisoner suitors for the
hand of the same young lady?”
It tickled him, to use a phrase most descriptive of the enjoyment he
experienced, to describe in this inflated manner the humble “courtin’” of
the mountaineers. There was a broad smile on many of the faces within the
bar, the townspeople relishing particularly a joke of this character on
the mountain folks. The judge’s discerning gray eye was fixed upon him as
his pink laugh expanded, his peculiarly red lips showing his strong white
teeth.
“Yes, sir, we war,” Rood admitted. He was calm now; his agitation had
excited no comment; it was to be expected in a man surprised, confounded,
and dismayed by so serious a charge.
“You were! How interesting! Go where you may, the world’s the same! The
charmer spreads her snare even up in the cove! And you and Reuben Lorey
fell together in it, two willing victims. And as he got the best of it,
as the lady preferred him, it would be natural that you should have some
little grudge against him, hey?”
“I dunno how he got the best of it,” said Rood sharply. “I ain’t got no
grudge agin him fur that. ’Twar jes’ yestiddy she sent me word by her
mother ter kem back; she war jes’ foolin’ Mink.”
He was evidently glad to tell it; he did not care even for the giggle in
the crowd.
The lawyer was abashed for a moment, and Mink, so long accustomed to be
rated a breaker of hearts, a lady-killer, was grievously cut down. In
all the episodes of that day which had so bristled with animosity this
was the first moment that his spirit flagged, despite that he had never
heretofore cared for Elvira,—did not care for her now.
Rood hardly was aware how the examination was tending; in the interests
of self-defense he had overlooked its purpose. He stood staring with
blank amaze when the judge’s voice ended the discussion.
“The juror is competent,” he said.
The two remaining talesmen being unchallenged, the jury was duly
impaneled and sworn.
The court was adjourned. The sleepy crowd filed out into the streets,
the lights in the court-house windows disappeared, and a dark and vacant
interval ensued.
XI.
The morning dawned with a radiant disdain of mists. The wind was buoyant,
elated. The yellow sunshine, in its vivid perfection, might realize to
the imagination the light that first shone upon the world when God saw
that it was good. The air was no insipid fluid, breathed unconsciously.
It asserted its fragrance and freshness in every respiration. It
stirred the pulses like some rare wine; it seemed, indeed, the subtle
distillation of all the fruitage of the year, enriched with the bouquet
of the summer, and reminiscent of the delicate languors of the spring.
The sky had lifted itself to empyreal heights, luminously blue, with
occasional faint fleckings of fleecy vapors. The white summits of the
mountains were imposed against it with a distinctness that nullified
distance; even down their slopes, beyond the limits of the snowfall, the
polychromatic vestiges of autumn were visible, with no crudity of color
in these sharp contrasts, but with a soft blending of effect. Within
the court-house great blocks of sunshine fell upon the floor through
the dirty panes. Several of the sashes were thrown up to admit the air.
The rusty stove stood cold and empty. Many a day had passed since the
spider-webs that hung from the corners of the ceiling and draped the
bare windows of the great room had been disturbed. They might suggest to
the contemplative mind analogies to the labyrinthine snares of the law,
where the intrusive flies perish miserably, and the spiders batten. On
one of the window-panes a blue-bottle climbed the glass, intent on some
unimagined achievement; always slipping when near the top, and falling
buzzing drearily to the bottom, to recommence his laborious ascent in the
sunshine. Sometimes he would fly away, droning in melancholy disgust,
presently returning and renewing his futile efforts. He was a fine moral
example of perverted powers, and might well be commended to the notice
of human malcontents,—by nature fitted to soar, but sighing for feats of
pedestrianism. In contrast with the day in its alertness, its intense
brilliancy, yesterday was blurred, dim, like some distorted dream hardly
worth crediting as a portent. It might need as attestation of its reality
the jury which it had brought forth. They were all early in their places,
having been sequestered in charge of the sheriff, and having slept as it
were under the wing of the law. The privilege accorded by law, in phrase
of munificent bestowal,—to be tried by a jury of one’s peers,—seems
at times a gigantic practical joke, perpetrated by justice on simple
humanity. They were indeed Mink’s peers so far as ignorance, station,—for
most of them were mountaineers,—poverty, and prejudice might suffice.
Few were so intelligent, but none so lawless. Most of them were serving
under protest, indifferent to the dignity of the great engine of justice
which they represented. The two or three who showed willingness were
suspected, either by the defense or the prosecution, of occult motives.
All looked unkempt, stolid, dogged, even surlily stupid, as they sat in
two rows, chewing as with one gesture. Gradually, however, they visibly
brightened under the bland courtesy of Mr. Kenbigh, the attorney for the
State, who took early occasion to say—and he paraphrased the remark more
than once in the course of the day—that he had never had the pleasure of
trying a case before so intelligent a jury, or one to whom the sacred
interests of justice could be so safely entrusted. Harshaw, too, deported
himself toward them with a mollifying suavity which, to judge from his
ordinary manner, would have seemed impossible. He had a very pretty wit,
of a rough and extravagant style, that greatly commended him to them and
relieved the irksomeness of their duress. Mink had evidently been tutored
in regard to his demeanor toward them. He forbore to scowl at Pete Rood
with the fierce dismay his face had worn when he saw his enemy sworn on
the preceding night. But his dissembling was limited. He simply would
not look at Rood at all. There was an unaffected confidence, almost
indifference, upon his handsome face that occasioned much comment. It
had already been rumored among the bar, thence percolating through the
town at large, that the defense had discovered important testimony at
the last moment, but that for some reason Harshaw had desired to apply
for a continuance. The prisoner, it was said, had protested, and refused
downright, declaring that by nightfall, by to-morrow at farthest, he
would be on his way to his home in Hazel Valley. This rumor gave an added
interest to the moment when the witnesses were brought in to be sworn and
put under the rule. The crowd scanned each with a fruitless conjecture
as to which possessed the potent and significant knowledge on which the
defense relied. Several of them were women, demure as nuns in their
straight skirts and short waists and long, tunnel-like sun-bonnets. The
mountain men strode in, and stared about them freely, and were very bold,
in contrast to these decorous associates, with their grave, downcast eyes
and pale, passionless faces. The book was held toward the witnesses, two
or three were instructed to put their hands upon it, and then the clerk,
in a voice that might have proceeded from an automaton, so wooden was
the tone and elocution, recited the oath with a swiftness that seemed
profane. The group stood half in the slanting sunbeams, half in the
brown shadow, close about the clerk’s desk. Among the tall, muscular
figures of the mountain men and the pallid, attenuated elder women was
Alethea, looking like some fine illusion of the dusky shadow and gilded
sunshine, with her golden hair and her brown homespun dress. How shining
golden her hair, how exquisitely fresh and pure her face, how deep and
luminous and serious her brown eyes, showed as never before. Somehow she
was embellished by the incongruity of the sordid surroundings of the
court-room, the great, haggard, unkempt place, and the crude ugliness of
its frequenters. Her face was fully revealed, for she had pushed back
her bonnet that she might kiss the book. As she took it from the clerk’s
hand and pressed her lips to it, Mink’s heart stirred with a thrill it
had never before known. He was entering as a discoverer upon a new realm
of feeling. He experienced a subtle astonishment at the turbulence, the
fierceness, of his own emotion.
The judge was looking at her!
Gwinnan’s hand still held his pen. His head was still bent over the paper
on which he wrote. The casual side-glance of those discerning gray eyes
was prolonged into a steady gaze of surprise. He did not finish the word
he was writing. He laid the pen down presently. He watched her openly,
unconsciously, as she gave back the book, and as she walked with the
other witnesses into the adjoining room to await the calling of her name.
Mink could hardly analyze this strange emotional capacity, this new
endowment, that had come to him, so amazed was he by its unwonted
presence. He had not known that he could feel jealousy. He could not
identify it when it fell upon him. He had been so supreme in Alethea’s
heart, so arrogantly sure of its possession, that he had not cared for
Ben Doaks’s hopeless worship from afar; it did not even add to her
consequence in his eyes. But that this stranger of high degree—he would
not have phrased it thus, for he had been reared in ignorance of the
distinction of caste, yet he instinctively recognized it in the judge’s
power, his isolated official prominence, his utter removal from all the
conditions of the mountaineer’s world—that _this_ man should look at her
with that long, wondering gaze, should lay down his pen, forgetting the
word he was to write!
Mink felt a terrible pang of isolation. For the first time Alethea was
in his mind as an independent identity, subject to influences he could
scarcely gauge, perhaps harboring thoughts in which he had no share. Her
love for him had hitherto served for him as an expression of her whole
nature. He had never recognized other possibilities. Even her continual
pleas that he should take heed of the error of his ways he had esteemed
as evidence of her absorption in him, her eager, earnest aspiration for
his best good; she would endure his displeasure rather than forego aught
that might inure to his welfare. He had felt no gratitude that she had
come to rescue him, as she had often done, never so sorely needed as now;
it had seemed to him natural that she should bestir herself, since she
loved him so. The first doubt of the permanence and pervasiveness of this
paramount affection stirred within him. He wondered if she had noticed
the man’s look, if she were flattered by it. He sought to reassure
himself. “Lethe jes’ bogues along, though, seein’ nuthin’, studyin’ ’bout
suthin’ else; mebbe she never noticed. But ef Mis’ Purvine hed been hyar,
or Mis’ Sayles, I be bound, they’d hev seen it, an’ tole her, too, else
they ain’t the wimmen I take ’em fur.” He marveled whether Gwinnan had
thought she was pretty. He himself had always accounted her a fairly
“good-lookin’ gal,” but no better favored than Elvira Crosby.
He had had no fear of the result of the case since he had known of
Alethea’s strange glimpse of Tad; he was, too, in a moral sense,
infinitely relieved by the circumstance. Otherwise he might not have
been able to entertain a train of thought so irrelevant to the testimony
which was being given by the witnesses for the State. He heard it only
casually, although he now and then languidly joined the general smile
that rewarded some happy hit of Harshaw’s. These pleasantries were
chiefly elicited in cross-examining the witnesses for the State, and in
wrangles with the attorney-general as to the admissibility of evidence.
Kenbigh, with a determination of purple wrath to his bald head, would
in his stentorian roar call aloud upon his authorities with a reverent
faith as if they were calendared saints. More than once the court ruled
against him, when it seemed appropriate in his next remark to drop his
voice to a rumbling basso profundo. He maintained due respect for the
judge and showed a positive affection for the jury, but the very sight
of Harshaw would excite him to an almost bovine expression of rage,—the
florid counsel being like a red rag to a bull. At first the only point
which Harshaw seemed desirous to make was that none of the witnesses had
attached any importance to Mink’s threats, the afternoon of the shooting
match, to “bust down the mill,” until they heard of the disaster. He
tried, too, to induce them to admit that Mink was a good fellow in the
main. The tragic results, however, of his late mischief had given a new
and serious interpretation to all his previous pranks, and the witnesses
were more likely to furnish supplemental instances of freakish malice and
the mischievous ingenuity of his intentional reprisals than to palliate
his jocose capers. One old man, a by-stander at the shooting match, was
especially emphatic, even venomous. Harshaw involved him in a sketch of
what he considered a young man should be. When asked where he had ever
known such a man he naively confessed,—himself, “whenst I war young.”
Harshaw found it much safer to take the aggressive. He played upon the
alternating fears which Mink’s comrades entertained of the revenuers and
the moonshiners. He seemed to question rather _pro forma_ than with the
expectation of eliciting serious results, and to amuse himself with the
involutions and contradictions in which he contrived to enmesh them, in
replying to his questions as to their sobriety that night in the woods,
what they had to drink, how much it required to make them drunk.
To the witness it was not a reassuring playfulness. Harshaw looked very
formidable as he sat, his chair tilted back on its hind legs, both hands
clasping the lapels of his coat. Whenever he made a point he smacked his
confident red lips.
“You were perfectly sober that night?”
The witness virtuously assented.
“And why shouldn’t you be,” said the crafty Harshaw, “when we all know
there is no still but the God-fearing bonded still in the whole country!
Look at the jury, and tell them that you were not drinking that night.”
The unfortunate witness faltered that he _had_ been drinking some.
“You had!” exclaimed Harshaw, with the accents of surprise. “And yet you
say, on oath, that you were sober. Now what do you call sober? We must
inquire into this. What do you take? I wish I could put that question as
it should be between gentlemen, but”—he waved his fat hand—“some other
day.”
The witness stared dumbly at him, and the crowd grinned.
“Let me put the question in another form. How much of the reverend stuff
is enough to settle you? A pint?”
The witness gallantly declared that he could stand a pint.
“A jugful?”
“Oh, naw, sir,”—meaning a jugful would not be necessary.
In the staccato of affected amaze, “_Barrelful!_”
The badgered witness protested and explained, and Harshaw asked, lowering
his voice, as if it were exceedingly important, “Now, did that whiskey
taste like _brush_ whiskey?”
As the quaking, shock-headed country lout replied, the facetious counsel
recoiled.
“What! you tell this honorable court, and this intelligent jury, and this
upright and learned and teetotaling attorney for the State, that you
don’t know the difference in the taste between the illicit corn juice of
the mountains and the highly honorable, pure, rectified liquor, taxed
and stamped, made and drunk, under the auspices of this great, good, and
glorious government!”
The judge, who had watched Harshaw with a dilated, gleaming gray eye and
a quivering nostril, spoke abruptly.
“The court will not longer tolerate this buffoonery,” he drawled.
“Counsel may cross-examine witness, and if he has _nothing_ to say he may
be silent.”
Harshaw flushed deeply. He had always enjoyed certain privileges as a
wit. Judge Averill, who loved a joke for its own gladsome sake, had often
permitted him to transcend decorum. He had no idea, however, of figuring
as the butt of his own ridicule. He was a quick fellow, and took what
advantage was possible of the situation. “If it please your Honor,” he
said, rising to address the judge, and with an air of great courtesy,
“I will waive the right of cross-examination, since my methods fail in
satisfying the court.”
Gwinnan looked at him with thinly veiled antagonism. Harshaw relapsed
into his tilted chair, still lightly holding his lapels, that favorite
posture of rural gentlemen, listening with an air of polite but
incidental attention to the attorney-general’s examination of the next
witness, and declining with a wave of his fat hand to cross-examine.
A stir of excitement pervaded the bar; great interest was aroused in
the audience. An old farmer, sitting on one of the benches, holding one
treasured knee in both hands, put his foot on the floor to take care
of itself, and leaned forward in breathless eagerness to lose no word.
Others, who had been less attentive, were nudging one another, and asking
what had been said. Again and again, as the successive witnesses were
turned over to the defense for cross-examination, and the lawyer waved
his pudgy hand, there was a suppressed sensation. His freak of silence
had the effect of greatly expediting matters, and the attorney-general
announced before the adjournment for dinner that he had no more witnesses
to call.
In conducting the examination of the defendant’s witnesses Harshaw
was extremely grave. He had an excited gleam in his eye, a flurried,
precipitate manner, as he went on. Now and then he nodded his head, and
tossed back his mane of yellow hair as if it were heavy and harassed him.
He still sat in the big, important posture he liked to assume, but every
glance was full of an acute anxiety.
Mink strove again to fix his mind on the testimony. Over and over it
wandered. He only knew vaguely that his best friends were assuring the
jury that his escapades were all in mirth and naught in malice, and
instancing as indications of his deeper nature all the good turns he had
ever done. He was a loose-handed fellow. He had no thrifty instincts, and
perhaps because he valued lightly he gave freely. But the habit, such as
it might be, was displayed to the jury under the guise of generosity.
The sunlight now slanting upon the walls had turned to a deep golden-red
hue, for the early sunset was close at hand. Through a western window
one might see the great vermilion sphere, begirt with a horizontal band
of gray cloud, and sinking down into the dun-colored uncertainties about
the horizon. The yellow hickory-tree beside the window showed through
its thinning leaves the graceful symmetry of its black boughs. The room
was dropping into a mellow duskiness, hardly obscurity, for as yet the
soft light was sufficient to make all objects distinct in the midst of
the gathering shadow,—the lawyers, the prisoner, the tousled heads of the
audience, the attentive jury, the unwearied judge. Harshaw could even
read his own handwriting as he looked at the list he held, and said, “Mr.
Sheriff, call Alethea Sayles.”
“Alethea Sayles,” roared Mr. Sheriff at the door, as if Alethea Sayles
were “beyond the seas” and hard of hearing besides, instead of waiting
expectantly in the adjoining room, ten steps away.
As she came in, Mink was quick to notice the interest on Gwinnan’s
face,—a sort of grave curiosity without any element of disrespect. She
had a look in her eyes which Mink had often seen before, and which at
once rebuked and angered him,—an expression of spiritual earnestness,
of luminous purity; he had sneered at it as “trying to look pious.” She
sat down in the witness-chair, and pushed back from her forehead her
long bonnet; under its brown rim her golden hair showed in lustrous
waves. Her saffron kerchief was knotted beneath her round chin. Her
face was slightly flushed with the excitement of the moment, but she
was not flurried, nor embarrassed, nor restless, nor uncouth, as many
of her predecessors had been. Her deliberate, serious manner gave her
an air of great value, and as she began to reply to the questions, her
clear-voiced, soft drawl pervaded the court-room, singularly silent
now, and there was a growing impression that hers was the important
testimony for which all had been waiting. Harshaw’s manner served to
confirm this. He was repressed, grave; only the quick, nervous glance of
his opaque blue eye indicated his excitement; his questions were framed
with the greatest care, and some of these were strange enough to excite
comment. He asked her first to tell all that she knew about the party in
the woods that night,—whether they were drinking and had access to any
ample supply of liquor. She recited her adventure at Boke’s barn, and
detailed the subsequent interview with the moonshiner and her refusal
to keep his secret, throughout scarcely suppressed excitement in the
court-room, for every man knew that with the words she courted martyrdom
and took her life in her hands. Harshaw seemed to prize this attestation
of her courage and her high sense of the sacred obligations of her oath,
and dexterously contrived it so that the judge and the jury should be
fully impressed with the crystalline purity of her moral sense, with her
immovable determination to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing
but the truth. He persevered in the examination of this point with great
pertinacity, despite many stormy wrangles with the attorney for the
State as to the pertinence and admissibility of the evidence, and the
occasional ruling of the judge against him. Enough was secured, however,
to prove that despite the limitations of the bonded still, Mink had had
the opportunity to get drunk if he chose, and his habits were not those
of a teetotaler.
The lawyer’s questions then became more inexplicable.
“When you discovered that you could give some testimony in this case,
what did you do?”
Alethea pushed back her bonnet still further, and stared at him.
“Why, you-uns know,” she said.
“Tell the jury.”
Like many rural witnesses, she persisted in addressing the judge. She
would fix her serious brown eyes on the stolid wooden faces in the
jury-box, then lift them to the judge and answer.
“I kem down ter the jail ter see Reuben, an’ tell him.”
“And did you see him?”
She looked at Harshaw, with a deep humiliation and resentment
intensifying the flush on her delicate cheek to a burning crimson. His
gravity, the respect of his manner, reassured her. She replied with her
deliberate dignity,——
“You-uns know mighty well he wouldn’t see me.”
“Then what did you do?”
She seemed for a moment doubtful if she would answer.
“I dunno how ye hev forgot,” she said slowly. “_I_ hain’t.”
“I want you to tell the jury,” he explained.
“I tried to make you listen.”
“And what did I do?”
Once more she pushed her brown bonnet further from her golden head, and
looked at him silently.
The pause was so long that the attorney-general remarked that really he
could not see the pertinence of the examination.
The judge spoke presently: “Counsel would do well not to harass the
witness with unnecessary questions.”
What new life was in the man’s tones! He had forgotten to drawl. There
had been many a badgered witness on the stand to-day whom he had not
interfered to protect. Mink eyed him narrowly through the closing dusk.
He was leaning forward upon the desk. He was listening with no impartial
judicial interest. A personal concern was expressed in his face.
The sympathetic cadence in his voice struck on other ears than Mink’s.
It was like an open sesame to Alethea’s heart. The pent-up indignation
burst forth. She was all at once eager to tell the affronts she could
not resent. “He wouldn’t listen ter me, jedge!” she cried. “He ran from
me,—actially ran down the street. An’ I didn’t know what ter do. An’
nobody knowed ’bout ’n it but me. An’ I dassent tell nobody ’ceptin’ the
lawyer. An’ Jerry Price,—him ez air on the jury,—he ’lowed ef I knowed
suthin’ I wanted ter tell in court, he’d _make_ the lawyer listen, an’ so
he did. An’ I tole him.”
“When was that?” asked Harshaw.
“Yestiddy mornin’.”
“So that was the reason you didn’t tell it before?”
“I war feared ter tell ennybody but the lawyer, ’kase Reuben’s enemies
mought fix it somehows so ’twouldn’t be no ’count.”
“Well, what was this you wanted to tell?”
Her face was growing dim among the glooms. The dusky figures within the
bar, the shadowy judge, the indistinct mass of the crowd, the great
windows,—indefinite gray squares,—seemed for a moment the darker because
of a dull suffusion of yellow light in the halls, falling through the
doorways, and heralding the coming of the lamps.
“I wanted to tell that I seen Tad Simpkins arter they ’lowed he war
drownded.”
There was absolute silence for a moment; then, wild commotion. Men were
talking loudly to each other in the crowd. The lights came in with a
flare. Several of the jury requested to have the answer repeated. The
attorney-general began to ask a question, left off, and bent his head to
his notes. A sudden shrill, quaking voice pierced the tumult.
“I know it air a true word!” cried the old miller, clasping his hands.
“God would not deliver my soul ter hell. I fund him in my youth, but my
age air the age o’ the backslider. He would not desert me, though! An’ I
hev been gin ter do my good works o’ faith anew. I’ll find my boy. I’ll
make amends. I’ll”——
The sheriff’s insistence, “Silence in court!” had no coercion for him. He
began to sob and cry aloud, and to call the idiot’s name, and was finally
taken by the deputy and led out of the court-room, the officer promising
to come and let him know as soon as Alethea had disclosed the boy’s
whereabouts.
Mink glanced around him in triumph. His lip curved. A brilliant elation
shone in his eyes. He tossed back, with an arrogant gesture, his long,
red, curling hair, gilded by the lamplight to a brighter hue. He joyed
to see the discomfiture of his detractors, who had given their testimony
with all the gusto that appertains to stamping on a man, literally and
metaphorically, who is already down. He noted, too, the surprise and
pleasure in Ben Doaks’s eye, in Jerry Price’s freckled, ugly face, and,
strangely enough, Peter Rood looked transfigured. His surly scowl was
gone, as if it had never existed. His swarthy face was irradiated by his
great excited eyes. A flush dyed his cheek. His breath came in quick
gasps. He seemed inordinately relieved, delighted. What! because the
forlorn little idiot was not dead? Mink could not understand it. With
not even a surmise to explain the demonstration, he stared in suddenly
renewed gravity at his old enemy on the jury.
As soon as order was restored, Harshaw resumed his questions.
“Tell the jury when and where you saw him, and how you are sure it was
after he was reputed to be drowned.”
“’Kase ’twar on the Monday o’ the camp-meetin’ in Eskaqua Cove, an’ that
warn’t begun till arter the mill war busted down,” said Alethea.
She detailed the scene at the little school-house in her uncouth
phrasings, every syllable carrying conviction to her hearers. Her bonnet
had fallen quite back on her shoulders. Her face was delicately ethereal
in the lamplight,—so much of the sincerities of her nature it expressed,
so fine and true an intelligence, that, beautiful as it was, it was still
more spiritual. The strange story she had told was improbable. Looking
upon her face it was impossible to doubt it.
“That night, what did you do?”
“I let Buck an’ the rest o’ the fambly go by ter aunt Dely’s house, an’
whenst they war out o’ sight I called Tad, but he wouldn’t answer. An’
then I climbed over the fence, an’ sarched an’ sarched fur him. But I
couldn’t find him,—not in the house, nor under it, nare one. Then I went
on ter aunt Dely’s,—Mis’ Purvine’s,” she added, decorously, remembering
that her relative was a stickler for etiquette, and might not relish
the familiar appellation of kinship in a public assembly. “I never tole
nobody, ’kase I war feared ez whoever hed Tad a-hidin’ of him fur spite
agin Reuben would hear ’bout’n it, an’ take him so fur away ez we-uns
couldn’t never ketch him agin. I went back ter the school-house over an’
over, a-sarchin’ fur him, hopin’ he’d take a notion ter kem thar agin.
An’ at last I ’lowed I’d tell the lawyer.”
It had become very plain to the listeners that it was in the interests
of his client that Harshaw had permitted his own rude conduct to be made
public. The prosecution could not now reasonably demand why a hue and cry
had not been raised, and why the boy was not brought into court, as it
was very evident that because of the witness’s mistaken secrecy and the
lawyer’s purblind folly the facts had not become known to the defense
until the preceding day, when it was futile to search a place where the
fugitive had been glimpsed three months before.
The attorney-general, about to cross-examine the witness, cleared
his throat several times on a low key. He began with a deliberation
and caution which indicated that he considered her formidable to the
interests of the State. He sat with his side to the table,—the rural
lawyer seldom rises save to address the court,—with one elbow upon it,
and the other hand twirling his heavy gold watch-chain that festooned his
ample stomach. More than once he desisted in this operation, and passed
his hand soothingly over his bald head, as if he were encouraging his
ideas. He at once sought to show an interested motive in the testimony.
Was she a relation of the prisoner? Was she not interested in him? Was he
not her lover? Ah, he had been! And he was not now? And why?
Alethea’s simple and modest decorum in answering these questions abashed
the ridicule that the mere mention of the tender passion always excites
in a rural crowd. She only threw added light upon her character when she
replied:
“Reuben didn’t like folks ter argufy with him. I useter beg him not ter
play kyerds, an’ be so powerful gamesome, an’ drink whiskey, an’ git in
sech a many scrapes. An’ he ’lowed ’twarn’t my business. An’ I reckon
’twarn’t But it never ’peared-like ter me ez sech goin’s-on war right,
an’ I couldn’t holp sayin’ so. An’ so he ’lowed ez me an’ him couldn’t
agree, an’ thar war no use a-tryin’.”
Mink glanced up at Gwinnan to note the impression of this plain
statement. The judge was looking at _him_.
The attorney-general went on, hoping to find a discrepancy in her
testimony, yet hardly knowing how he had best approach it. The court-room
had relapsed into absolute silence. One could hear in the pauses the
slight movement of the branches of the trees without as the light wind
stirred. They were distinctly visible beside the windows, for the night
was fair. All the long upper sashes gave upon a sky of a fine, pure
azure, seeming more delicate for the dull yellow lamplight flooding
the room. The moon with an escort of clouds was riding splendidly up
toward the meridian; now and then they closed jealously about her, and
again through their parting ranks she looked out radiantly and royally
on her realms below. The frost touched the panes here and there with a
crystalline sparkle. The attorney-general fixed his eyes upon the moon as
he pondered; then, his fingers drumming lightly upon the table, he asked,
“It was at the little school-house on the road to Bethel camp-ground?”
“Yes, sir,” said Alethea.
“Were you ever there before?”
“A many a time,” said Alethea. “The folkses in Eskaqua Cove goes thar ter
preachin’.”
He glanced again absently at the moon, his fingers still drumming on the
table.
“It’s a church-house, then,” he said, adopting the vernacular, “as well
as a school-house?”
“Yes, sir,” assented the witness.
“Well, is this fence by which you were standing the fence around the
play-yard?”
“Naw, sir,” said Alethea, amazed at the idea of this civilized provision
for youthful sports. “The palin’s air round three sides o’ the house,
leavin’ out the side whar the door be, ter pertect the graves.”
The drumming fingers of the attorney-general were suddenly still. “It
is a graveyard, then?” he said, in a sepulchral undertone, overmastered
himself by the surprise.
“Yes, sir. Folks air buried thar. It’s a graveyard.”
There was a pause.
“There’s no place more appropriate for a boy in poor Tad’s predicament to
be!” cried the lawyer. “Look here,” squaring himself before the table and
placing his elbows upon it, “do you believe in ghosts?”
Harshaw had changed color; he had been fiercely biting his red lips and
stroking his yellow beard throughout these interrogatories, seeing their
drift more clearly, perhaps, than the prosecuting officer did. Now he
sprang to his feet, and insisted that the attorney for the State should
not be permitted to play upon the superstition of the witness. She had
seen no ghost. The court would not, he hoped, permit the questions
to take the form of an attempt to persuade a witness—of great native
intelligence, indeed, and of the highest moral worth, but densely
ignorant, and doubtless saturated with the ridiculous superstitions
of the uneducated—that in seeing this fugitive lad she had beheld a
supernatural manifestation. “In one moment, sir,” he interpolated,
addressing Peter Rood, who sat in the back row of the jury, and who had
suddenly bent forward, pointing a long finger at the witness, as if he
were about to ask a question. “The boy doubtless swam out of the river,
and being a maltreated little drudge ran away, and is now somewhere held
in hiding by persons inimical to the prisoner. The witness had a glimpse
of him. There is no man here ignorant enough to believe that she saw a
ghost,—least of all the learned and astute counsel for the State.”
“I don’t believe she saw a ghost,” said the attorney-general, still
seated, cocking up his eyes at his vehement opponent. “I do believe,
however, most firmly, that the witness had an illusion, hallucination.”
There was a stir in the audience and the jury as he uttered these big
words. They seemed to represent something more vaguely formidable than a
ghost.
“Counsel must conduct the examination on a reasonable basis,” remarked
the judge.
“I will do so, your Honor,” in the basso profundo of deep respect.
Mink, agitated, trembling with the sudden shock, leaned forward and
looked with burning eyes at Alethea. How was she discrediting the
testimony she had given for him? How was she jeopardizing his fate?
She was almost overcome for a moment. Her nerves were shaken; she was
appalled by the sudden revolution her simple disclosure had wrought.
Her lips trembled, her eyes filled, but she made a gallant struggle for
self-control, and answered in a steady voice the attorney-general’s next
question.
“Did the boy wear a hat, or was he bare-headed?”
There was suppressed excitement in the audience, for Tad’s hat and coat,
recovered from the river, had been shown to the jury while she was in the
ante-room with the other witnesses.
“I didn’t notice,—’twar so suddint”
“How was he dressed?”
“I didn’t see,” faltered Alethea.
“What _did_ you see?”
“I seen his face, ez clear ez I see yourn this minit.”
“How did he look,—hearty?”
“Naw, sir; he looked mighty peaked. His face war bleached,”—a thrill ran
through the crowd,—“an’ I reckon he war skeered ez he seen me, fur he
’peared plumb tarrified.”
“How long did you see his face?”
“A minit, mebbe; the fog passed ’twixt us.”
“Ah, there was fog!”
The attorney-general cast a triumphant sidelong glance at the jury.
He paused abruptly, and turned toward them.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, addressing Peter Rood. “I had quite
forgotten you wanted to ask a question.”
It did not immediately strike him as odd that the man was still in the
same position,—in the shadow, leaning forward, supported on the back
of the chair of the juryman in front of him, and still pointing at the
witness with a long finger.
The judge took note of the lapse of time. “Mr. Sheriff,” he said,
irritably, “wake that juror up. The man’s asleep.”
There was a stir in the jury-box among the attentive eleven men. The
juror on whose chair the immovable figure leaned turned his head, and met
the fixed gaze of the eyes so close to his own.
He sprang up with a loud cry.
“The man is dead!” he shrieked.
XII.
The finger of the dead man still pointed at Alethea. His ghastly eyes
were fixed upon her. The chair of the juryman in front of him had
sustained his weight in the same position in which he had fallen when the
first shock of the idea that the witness had seen a spectre instead of
the boy, alive and well, had thrilled through the room.
For a few moments it was a scene of strange confusion. The crowd rose
from their seats, and surged up to the bar. New-comers were rushing in
from the halls. Some one was calling aloud the name of the principal
physician of the place. Many were clamoring to know what had happened.
The judge’s voice sounded suddenly. “Look out for your prisoner, Mr.
Sheriff!” he exclaimed sharply; for the officer still stood as if
transfixed beside the dead man, on whose shoulder he had laid hold. No
hand, however heavy, could rouse him from the slumber into which he had
fallen.
The sheriff turned toward the prisoner. The proud mountaineer, keenly
sensitive to an indignity, burst out angry and aggrieved. “I hain’t
budged a paig!” he cried. And indeed he had not moved. “It’s jes’ ’kase
you-uns set thar in jedgmint, an’ I hev ter set hyar an’ be tried, ez ye
kin say sech ez that ter me!”
Harshaw had vehemently clutched his client’s arm as a warning to be
silent. To his relief, he perceived that Gwinnan had not heard. He was
absorbed in directing a physician to be called, and formally adjourned
court until nine o’clock the following morning. The reluctant jurymen,
quivering with excitement and consumed with curiosity as to the
subsequent proceedings, were led off from the scene in charge of an
officer,—himself a martyr to duty,—with many an eager backward glance and
thought. The crowd hung around outside with unabated excitement. Often
it effected an entrance and surged through the doors, to be turned out
again by the orders of the physicians. Many climbed on the window-ledges
to look through. The lower branches of the hickory-trees swarmed with the
figures of nimble boys. The wind now was high. The boughs swayed back and
forth with a monotonous clashing. Leaves continually fell from them like
the noiseless flight of birds. The moon showed the pale, passionless sky;
a planet swung above the distant mountains, burning with the steadfast
purity of vestal fires; the inequalities of the hills and dales on
which the rugged little town was built—very dark beneath the delicately
illumined heavens—showed in the undulating lines of lighted windows,
glimmering points stretching out into the gloom. Constantly the weighted
gate clanged as men trooped into the court-house yard. The shadows seemed
to multiply the number of the crowd.
Suddenly there was a cry: “He’s comin’! They’re bringin’ him! He’s
comin’!”
The expectation had been so strong that the physician would pronounce
it some transient paroxysm of the heart, which he was known to often
suffer, that the crowd was stricken into a shocked silence to recognize
the undertaker among the men coming out and bearing a litter on which
the motionless figure was stretched. One glance at it, and there seemed
nothing so inanimate in all nature. The moon, the trees, even the
invisible wind, were endowed with redundant life, with identity, with all
the affirmations of speculation, of imagination, in comparison with the
terrible nullity of this thing that once was Peter Rood. It expressed
only a spare finality.
It was strange to think he could not hear the wind blow, straight from
the mountains, the dull thud of the many feet that followed him through
the gate and down the street; could not see the moon which shone with a
ghastly gleam upon his stark, upturned face. He was dead!
He was so dead that already his world was going on with a full
acceptation of the idea. He had no longer an individuality as Peter
Rood; he was only considered as a dead man. Considered as a dead man, he
furnished the judge with a puzzle which irritated him. Gwinnan could not
remember any case in which a man had died upon a jury, and he debated
within himself whether this instance came under the statute leaving it to
the discretion of the court, in the case of a sick juror, to discharge
the jury and order a new one to be impaneled, or to excuse the juror and
summon another in his place from the by-standers. He went into one of the
lawyers’ offices, and turned over a few books in search of precedent.
The attorney-general utilized the respite. He had lingered at the scene
for a time, animated by curiosity. But when one of the physicians who
had been summoned to the court-house, returned to his office, after the
vain efforts to resuscitate the man, he found the attorney for the State
seated before the wood fire, his hands clasped behind his head, his feet
stretched out upon the hearth, his chair tilted back upon its hind legs,
waiting for him in comfortable patience.
There was no carpet on the floor. The small windows were lighted by tiny
panes of glass. The hearth was broken in many places, but painted a
bright red with a neat home-made varnish of powdered bricks mixed with
milk, commonly used in the country. There were several splint-bottomed
chairs, an easy-chair, and one or two tables; book-cases covered the
walls from the floor to the ceiling. It was the doctor’s professional
opinion that tobacco was the ruin of the country; on the high mantelpiece
were ranged several varieties of pipe, from the plebeian cob and
brier-root to the meerschaum presented by a grateful patient, all bearing
evidences of much use.
Kenbigh looked up quietly as the owner of the appropriated quarters
walked in. Dr. Lloyd was a tall, spare man of sixty odd, with a back
that never bent, dressed punctiliously in black broadcloth and the most
immaculate linen of an old-fashioned style. His thick hair was white.
He wore a stiff mustache; his shaven chin was square and resolute;
his features were singularly straight. His gray eye expressed great
cleverness and goodness, but there was a refined sarcasm in the curl of
his lips, and he affected a blunt indifference of manner, not to say
brusqueness.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing, doctor,—nothing with my vitals, or I wouldn’t have trusted
myself near you. The instinct of self-preservation is strong. I have come
for some information.”
“An aching void in the regions of your brain, eh? Well, at your time of
life that’s incurable.”
“I want you,” said the lawyer, his eyes roaming around the medical
library, ranged upon the wall, with a gloating, gluttonous gleam at the
idea of the feast of information within the covers of the volumes, “to
lecture me, doctor.”
“Where’s your Medical Jurisprudence?”
“It doesn’t teach me all I want to know about ghosts.”
Surprise was something Dr. Lloyd was never known to express or imply. He
sat looking at the visitor with his calm professional eye, as if it were
the most habitual thing in the world for sane lawyers to come into his
office at night, wanting to know about ghosts.
“I want to know all about absurd illusions,—in people of undoubted
sanity.”
“Subject of some scope,” dryly remarked the doctor.
“I want to know all that _you_ know about hallucinations, visions. I want
an elaborate exposition of the visual apparatus as connected with the
brain, and of the derangement of its nervous functions.”
“Upon my word, you’re a pretty fellow!”
“And then I want you to lend me _all_ your books.” And once more he gazed
around on the coveted treasures of the shelves.
One of the great logs had burned in two, the chunks falling forward upon
the other blazing sticks. The doctor had made a move toward the tongs,
but the lawyer arose, and with a sort of cumbrous agility kicked first
one and then the other into the space between the dogs. Dr. Lloyd watched
this proceeding with silent disapproval. Far be it from him to put his
dapper old-fashioned foot-gear to any such purpose.
The warmth of the fire was grateful, for it had grown much colder
without. The wind surged down the street like the passing of many feet,
some tumultuous human rush. The fir-tree beside the door was filled with
voices, sibilant whisperings, sighs. Clouds were scudding through the
sky; Kenbigh could see them from where he sat listening to the doctor’s
monologue. The moonlight lay on the old-fashioned garden without, all
pillaged by the autumn winds,—the rose-bushes but leafless wands; the
arbors, naked trellises; the walks, laid off with rectangular precision,
showing what the symmetry of its summer guise had been, as a skeleton
might suggest the perfection of the human form. The lights in the
two-story frame house beyond—for the doctor’s office was in the yard of
his dwelling and the garden lay a little to the rear—were extinguished
one by one. A dog close by barked for a time, with echoes from the
hills and depressions, and then fell to howling mournfully. The doctor
talked on, now and then taking down the books to illustrate; marking the
passages with a neat strip of paper in lieu of turning down a leaf, as
Kenbigh seemed disposed to do. He piled the volumes beside his apt pupil
on the candle-stand, and as the lawyer fell to at them he himself read
for a time, as a light recreation, from a history in some twelve volumes.
To a country gentleman of ample leisure and bookish habit, this lengthy
work was but as a mouthful.
Dr. Lloyd rose at last, knocked the ashes out of his pipe upon the head
of one of the fire-dogs, glanced at the absorbed lawyer, and remarked,
“You’ll come over to my house to go to bed after a little more, won’t
you?”
“Reckon so,” responded Kenbigh, without lifting his head.
The fire flared up the chimney in great white flames; they emanated from
a lustrous, restless, pulsing red heart. The sparks flew. The faint and
joyous sounds from the logs were like some fine fairy minstrelsy which
one is hardly sure one hears. A sylvan fragrance came from the pile of
wood in the corner, the baskets of chips, the pine knots.
The doctor left the room, opened the door and looked back.
“Don’t you set the house afire and burn up these books,” he said, with
the first touch of feeling in his tones that night.
The results of the attorney-general’s vigil were abundantly manifest in
his speech to the jury the following day. For that body was recruited
by summoning another talesman in Rood’s place, and the trial perforce
began anew; Gwinnan apparently thinking this alternative served better
the ends of justice than to risk the delays and vicissitudes of again
securing a competent jury. This decision encouraged Mink, who had been
tortured by the fear that by some disaster the case would be continued
to the next term. He was not now greatly perturbed by the strange turn
which the attorney-general had contrived to give to Alethea’s testimony.
Since Harshaw had found that any one claimed to have seen Tad after
the report of the boy’s death he had felt confident of an acquittal,
laying much stress on the necessity of proving the _corpus delicti_, as
he phrased it; and Mink accepted his lawyer’s opinion and relied upon
it. He had not been greatly affected by Rood’s fate, so absorbed was he
by his own interests; but it was a moment of tense excitement when the
testimony again reached the juncture at which, on the preceding day, the
unfortunate juror had leaned forward and pointed at the witness, his
question failing on his lips in the dumbness of death. Nothing further
was elicited from Alethea except that she did believe in ghosts, but that
she was sure she had seen Tad alive, albeit he had stood among the graves
with a blanched face, disappearing in a moment, lost in the mist.
The whole testimony occupied much less time than on the previous day, and
as the afternoon progressed it began to be apparent that the case would
go to the jury before the court adjourned.
The surprise of the day was the speech of the attorney-general. It opened
simply enough. He sought to show that it was impossible for Tad to be
alive. The poor boy was doubtless at the bottom of the river. How could
it be otherwise? Assume, as his learned opponent would have them believe,
that he had swum ashore. Where was he now? The suggestion that he was
in the custody of some enemy of the prisoner, who sought by concealing
him to effect the incarceration of Reuben Lorey in the penitentiary for
a long term, was so absurd that he hesitated to argue such a foolish
position before so intelligent a body of men as the jury whom he had the
pleasure of addressing. Who would, for revenge, encounter the hazards
of such a scheme? The boy was as well known throughout the section as
Piomingo Bald. Any chance glimpse of him by a casual visitor would fling
the conspirators themselves into the clutches of the law, that would be
loath to lightly loose its hold on such rascals. Who would voluntarily
burden themselves with the support of an idiot? If anybody had found Tad,
he would have been mighty quick to carry the boy back to old man Griff.
Say that no one had detained him,—what then? He was an idiot, incapable
of taking care of himself. If he were wandering at large, starving, half
clad, would not some one have seen him besides Alethea Sayles, in all
these weeks, gentlemen, in all these months? It was a remarkable story
that the witness had told,—a remarkable story. (The counsel seemed to
find fit expression of his sense of its solemnity by sinking his basso
profundo to a thunderous mutter.) No one for a moment could doubt the
sanity of that witness. She was evidently a girl of fine common sense;
an excellent girl, too,—no one could for a moment doubt the truth of any
word she uttered. The fact was, Alethea Sayles saw a strange thing that
night. She thought she saw Tad. It was only his image, not himself. “The
forlorn boy is dead, gentlemen,” he continued. “She saw the fantasy of
her own anxious, overwrought brain. He was in her mind. She had pondered
long upon him, and upon the plight of her lover, who had killed him. What
wonder, then, that in the mist, and the flickering moonlight, and the
lonely midnight, she should fancy that she saw him!”
He told the gaping and amazed jury that this was not an isolated
instance. He mentioned other victims of hallucination; he detailed the
strange experiences of Nicolai, of Spinoza, of Dr. Bostock, of Lord
Londonderry, of Baron de Géramb, of Leuret, of Lord Brougham.
Harshaw, who had sat listening, with his hands in his pockets and his
legs crossed, a smile of ostentatious derision upon his face, grew grave
upon the mention of the last name. He had never heard of the others,
but to attempt to bolster a theory of spectral apparition by this name,
revered in the profession, was, he felt, a juridical sacrilege that
should cause the attorney-general to be at the very least stricken from
the rolls.
As Kenbigh went on, expounding the relative and interdependent functions
of the brain and eye, the fine and subtle theories of spiritual and
physical life, its vague boundaries, its unmeasured capabilities,—the
deductions, the keen analysis of science, all reduced to the vernacular
in the mouth of a man trained by years of practice to speak to the
people,—Harshaw sat in blank dismay. He had never heard of any spiritual
manifestation but the vulgar graveyard ghost, usually headless, stalking
in its shroud to accomplish missions of vengeance upon the very ignorant
in the deep midnight. But Kenbigh’s account of sundry ethereal-minded
and mild-mannered spectres, with a preference for high company, singing,
appearing at dinner-tables, conversing agreeably, arrayed in conventional
garb, as decorous and reasonable and as mindful of etiquette as if
still bound by all the restraints of the world, the flesh, and the
devil, disappearing as noiselessly as they had come, with no appreciable
result of the visit,—it shocked every sense of precedent within him.
He was country-bred and did not know that when ghosts are fashionable
they conduct themselves as fashionable people do. He noted keenly the
discrepancies in the scientific explanations. Always, despite its show of
learning, its systems, its terminology, its physiology, its psychology,
and its persistent reference of supernatural appearances to natural
causes, Reason retires from the spectral exhibition with some admission
of occult influences, not fully understood,—in effect making a bow to the
ghost in question, “Saving your presence.” He noticed, too, that the jury
were listening with that intentness and eager interest which characterize
every mind, even the most ignorant, in considering things of the other
world, manifestations of hidden agencies. When he rose to reply he felt
at a loss. The sound, however, of his own hearty voice ringing against
the walls, instead of the sepulchral basso profundo of the attorney for
the State, the motion of his own stalwart arm sawing the air,—for he
was in the habit of impressing his views with a good deal of muscular
exertion,—had an invigorating effect upon him, and brought him back to
his normal state of confidence and bluster. He found words for his ready
scorn. He sought to discredit the attorney-general’s phantoms. He did not
know where the counsel got these old women’s tales; they were an insult
to the intelligence of the jury. The learned counsel knew mighty well
he wasn’t going to be called upon for his authorities,—medical books
can’t be produced as evidence in a court of justice, much less ghost
stories, “Raw-head and bloody-bones”! For his own part, he didn’t believe
a word of them. A fact is a thing that can be proved. The law requires
authentication. “Henry Brougham, Lord Chancellor, saw visions, did he?
And may be Lord Coke dreamed dreams,” he sneered indignantly. “And Lord
Mansfield perchance walked in his sleep. And who knows they did? And what
drivel is this! Gentlemen, _we_ live in the nineteenth century!”
The aspersion of Lord Brougham—for thus he considered the anecdote—was
very bitter to him. He was a man of few enthusiasms, and such
hero-worship as was possible to him had been expended upon the great
lights of his profession whose acquaintance he had formed in his early
reading of law, some twenty years ago. He so dwelt upon this point that
the jury received the valuable impression that Henry Brougham was a
chancellor and a “valley man,” hailing from Knoxville, perhaps, and was
held in high esteem by the lawyers in Shaftesville, and that Harshaw
seemed to think the attorney-general had slandered him. He wrenched
himself from this phase of the subject with some difficulty. “Gentlemen,”
he said sarcastically, “the attorney-general is a mighty smart man. He’s
got a heap of learning lately about visions.” He glanced down obliquely
at his opponent; he would have given a good deal to know how the counsel
for the State came by his information. He could have sworn that it was
not indigenous. “But there are plenty of folks in this town could have
told him just as much and more. He’s mighty particular to show the
difference between _il_-lusion and _de_-lusion, and hallucination and
mania. Visions! That ain’t what _we_ call ’em, gentlemen. Down here in
the flat woods we call ’em—‘snakes’!” The hit told, and he went on,
encouraged. “Right over yonder in Tim Becker’s saloon they keep every
assortment of vision. Men have seen green rabbits there, and black dogs,
and snakes, and whole menageries of hallucinations. Is anybody going
to believe Alethea Sayles had the jim-jams that night, coming from
camp-meeting? She had no call to see visions! This girl had her head in
her hands; she was leaning on the fence; she felt some one touch her; she
looked up, and saw the boy before her. Mighty few of the ghosts that we
have heard of had such consistency of entity as to make their presence
perceived by the sense of touch; on the contrary, it is thus that their
unreality is often demonstrated in these same fables. A lady passes her
fan through one immaterial image. A man thrusts his knife vainly into
the misty heart of another. And why does this instance differ? Because,
gentlemen, there was no phantom. It was Tad Simpkins in flesh and blood.
The fugitive boy sees Alethea Sayles, whom he knows well; he is about
to appeal to her; he lays his hand on her hand. She lifts her head, and
at the unexpected appari—sight, she screams, and the foolish boy is
frightened, and flees!”
He went on to say that he would impose upon the patience of this court
and jury only for a few moments longer. He wanted to contradict the
statements of the attorney-general that no one would voluntarily burden
himself with the support of a useless member of society. “How many yaller
dogs at your houses, gentlemen? I’d be afraid to count how many at mine.
How many of your wife’s relations? No, gentlemen, none of us are so
rich in this world’s goods as we deserve to be, but we ain’t got down
to dividing bread and meat that close yet. As to the reckless crime of
keeping the boy in hiding in order to put Mink Lorey in the penitentiary
for involuntary manslaughter,—why, gentlemen, if there were not just such
reckless people continually committing crimes, the consequences of which
they cannot escape, the attorney-general and I would have nothing to do.
We’d have to suck our paws for a living, like a bear in the winter, and
look at one another,—a profitless entertainment, gentlemen.”
He sat down, his pink smile enlivening his countenance, well satisfied
with his efforts and with the prospects of the case.
The attorney-general, who had the last word, was very brief in saying it.
The judge charged the jury, and he, too, was brief. The long slant of
sunshine falling athwart the room was reddening when the jury were led
out by the officer to their deliberations, noisily ascending the stairs
to the jury-room above, assigned to their use.
XIII.
They slouched into their lair, looking more like offenders detained
against their will than the free and enlightened citizens of a great
country in the exercise of the precious privilege of serving on the jury.
They were all tired. They had undergone much excitement. They felt the
mental strain of the arguments and counter-arguments to which they had
listened.
“It hev fairly gin me a mis’ry in my head ter hev ter hear ter them
red-mouthed lawyers jaw an’ jaw, like they done!” exclaimed one, flinging
himself in a chair, and putting his feet up against the round sides of
the stove, which was cold and fireless, the day being warm and genial.
The windows were open, the sunlight streaming over the dusty floor and
chairs and benches. Two or three of the jurymen, looking out, laughing,
and making signs to the people in the streets, were smartly remonstrated
with by the officer in charge.
His objections had the effect of congregating them in the middle of the
room, where the discussion began, most of them lighting their pipes, and
tilting their chairs on the hind legs. Two or three lifted their feet
to the giddy eminence of the backs of other chairs; several stretched
themselves at lank, ungainly length upon the benches. They were mostly
young or middle-aged men; the senior of the party being a farmer of
fifty, with a pointed, shaven chin, newly sprouting with a bristly beard,
over which he often passed his hand with a meditative gesture. His eyes
were downcast; he leaned his elbows on his knees; his mien was depressed,
not to say afflicted. “I ain’t hearn ten words together,” he remarked.
“I never knowed when they lef’ off, sca’cely, bein’ so all-fired oneasy
an’ beset ’bout them cattle o’ mine.” He turned to explain to the new
juror whom they had taken on that morning. “Ben Doaks hed my cattle
a-summerin’ of ’em up on Piomingo Bald, an’ when the cattle war rounded
up I went thar ter pick out mine, an’ I druv ’em down an’ got ez far ez
Shaftesville, an’ I let ’em go on with Bob, my son, ’bout fifteen year
old. An’ I stopped hyar ter git a drink an’ hear a leetle news. An’
durned ef they didn’t ketch me on the jury! An’ Bob dunno what’s kem o’
me, an’ I dunno what’s kem o’ Bob an’ the cattle, nor how fur they hed
traveled along the road ’fore they fund out I warn’t comin’ arter.”
“Waal, I reckon they be all right,” said the new man, a hunter from the
mountains, just come into town with game to sell.
“Lord knows! _I_ don’t!” said the old fellow, sighing over the futility
of speculation. “Ef Bob war ter draw the idee ez I got hurt, or robbed,
or scrimmagin’ in them town grog-shops,—I hev always been tellin’ him
a all-fired pack o’ lies ’bout the dangers in sech places, bein’ ez I
warn’t willin’ ter let him go whar I’d go myself,—he’d leave them cattle
a-standin’ thar in the road, an’ kem back ter town ter s’arch fur me.
He hain’t got much ’speriunce, an’ he ain’t ekal ter keerin’ fur them
cattle. They’ll stray, an’ I’ll never see ’em agin.”
“I reckon they hev strayed back ter the mountings by this time; must
be wilder ’n bucks, ef they hev been out all summer,” suggested a
broad-faced twinkling-eyed young fellow, with a jocose wink at the others.
“Bob dozes, too; sorter sleepy-headed, ye know,” said the old man, taking
note of all the contingencies. “I hev seen him snooze in the saddle,
ef the cattle war slow. He’s growin’, an’ runs mighty hard, an’ ef he
sets still, he falls off. Ef he got tired, he’s apt ter lie down in a
fence-corner ter rest; an’ he mought go ter sleep thar, an’ somebody
mought toll the cattle off. Or else he mought ax somebody ter keer fur
the cattle till he could kem back an’ find me. Lord A’mighty, thar’s no
yearthly tellin’ what Bob mought do!”
“Then, again, he _moughtn’t_” said Jerry Price. “Ye hev jes’ got ter gin
up yer hold on worldly things when ye air on a jury, like ye war dead.”
“Yes; but when ye air dead ye ain’t able ter be pestered by studyin’
’bout what yer administrator air a-doin’ with yer yearthly chattels an’
cattle.”
“How d’ye know?” demanded Price. “Arter all we hearn ter-day, a body
mought b’lieve a real likely harnt air ekal ter ennything in motion an’
looks, an’ ye dunno _what_ they air studyin’ ’bout. But time’s a-wastin’.
’Less we air wantin’ ter bide hyar all night agin, we hed better be
talkin’ ’bout our verdict on Mink Lorey. The jedge’s waitin’, an’ from
all I hev seen o’ him he ain’t handy at patience.”
“Waal, sir,” said the man with his feet on the stove, who was the foreman
of the jury, taking his pipe from his mouth, “I ain’t settin’ much store
on Gwinnan. I don’t b’lieve he acted right an’ ’cordin’ ter law about
this jury. Thar’s thirteen men on this jury!”
They all sat motionless, staring at him.
“Yes, sir,” he declared, reinserting his pipe between his teeth, and
speaking with them closed upon it. “I know the law! My uncle war a
jestice o’ the peace fur six year, ’bout ten year ago. An’ he hed a Code
o’ Tennessee! An’ I read in it! Some mighty interestin’ readin’ in the
Code o’ Tennessee. Sure’s ye born, thar is! The law say the juror, ef he
be ailin’, kin be excused, an’ another summonsed. But Peter Rood warn’t
excused, nor discharged nuthar. He’s on this jury yit.”
“Waal, fur Gawd’s sake, don’t git ter jawin’ ’bout Peter Rood!” cried
Bylor, the man on whose chair the dead juror had fallen, and who had
turned his face to the close encounter of the stare of death in those
glassy eyes. Bylor’s nerves were still unstrung. He looked as ill as a
broad-shouldered, sun-burned, brawny fellow could look. “I never slep’
a wink las’ night; an’ that thar cussed ’torney-gineral a-tellin’ them
awful tales ’bout harnts all day, an’ that thar solemn Lethe Sayles
purtendin’ she hed seen that drownded idjit,—I felt ez ef I’d fall down
in a fit ef they didn’t quit it.”
“I don’t b’lieve she seen Tad’s harnt,” said Ben Doaks, instinctively
adopting her view.
“Then what war it in the _graveyard_ fur?” demanded the foreman
conclusively.
There was momentary silence. The sunshine was dying out on the floor; the
dim tracery of the boughs of the hickory-tree was the only manifestation
of its presence. The rural sound of the lowing of cattle came in on
the soft air,—the village kine were returning from their pastures. The
voices of men in the rooms below rose and fell fitfully; they were trying
another case, in the interim of waiting for the verdict.
“An’ how kem nobody hev seen him sence, ’ceptin’ Lethe Sayles?” he
supplemented his question.
“The jedge hinted ez much ez we-uns oughter be powerful keerful o’ not
convictin’ a man fur killin’, when a witness claimed ter hev seen the
dead one sence,” argued Jerry Price, ambiguously.
“She never seen nuthin’ but his ghost,” said the foreman.
“Ben, how’d that leetle red cow o’ mine git her hawn bruk?” interpolated
the bereaved cattle-owner, meditating on the vicissitudes experienced by
his herds in their summer vacation.
“Gawd A’mighty, man, quit talkin’ ’bout yer cattle, interruptin’ we-uns
jes’ ez we war a-gittin’ ter the p’int!” exclaimed the foreman.
“I’d heap ruther hear Mr. Beames talk ’bout his cattle ’n hear ’bout
harnts, an’ sech,” said Bylor, as he lay on the bench. He was still
feeling far from well. He got up presently, and went to the officer, who
was at the door, and petitioned for something to drink. But that worthy,
determined upon the literal performance of duty, withstood his every
persuasion, even when he declared he was “plumb sick;” and the rest of
the jury, alarmed lest he should be excused, another juror summoned,
and the whole performance of the trial begin anew, the agony of their
detention thus lengthening indefinitely, pleaded for him. The officer’s
devotion to what he considered his duty did not save him from some abuse.
“’Twould sarve ye right ef we war ter lay a-holt o’ ye an’ fling ye outer
this winder,” said Ben Doaks.
“Ye mis’able leetle green gourd, ye dunno nuthin’ ’bout nuthin’,”
declared the foreman, the much informed because of the Code.
“Waal, ye kin say what ye wanter,” retorted the official. He was a young
man; he had a resolute eye and a shock head. “But ye ain’t goin’ ter
git out’n here till ye find yer verdict.” He withdrew his tousled head
suddenly, and shut the door on them.
Rebellion availing nothing, they resorted to faction.
“Ye needn’t be so powerful techy ’bout harnts; ye ain’t seen none ez I
knows on,” said the foreman, turning upon the sick juror.
“Naw, an’ I don’t wanter hear ’bout none o’ ’em till my stommick feels
stronger.”
“Shucks! that air nuthin’ oncommon, seein’ harnts an’ sech. Plenty o’
folks hev seen the same one. Thar’s ever so many o’ them herders on
Thunderhead hev seen the harnt ez herds up thar. Rob Carrick seen him. I
have hearn him tell ’bout’n it arter he got his mind back. Hain’t you,
Ben?”
The moon was at the eastern windows. The white lustre poured in. The
great room seemed lonely and deserted, despite the group of deliberating
jurymen, and the colorless double with which each had been furnished, to
ape his gesture, and caricature his size, and dog his every step. An owl
was hooting in some distant tree. The voices from the street were faint.
“Ain’t that thar weasel of a constable goin’ ter hev no lamps brung hyar
ter-night?” exclaimed Bylor.
But the lamps which came in almost immediately were inadequate to contend
with the solemn, ethereal, white pervasion of the night that still hung
in the window, and lay upon the floor, and showed the gaunt bare tree
outside. They only gave a yellow cast to the circle in which the party
sat, and made their faces seem less pallid and unnatural.
“Yes, I hev hearn Carrick tell it a many a time. He used ter herd with
Josh Nixon in life.” Ben Doaks paused a moment. “I seen the Herder wunst
myse’f, though I never felt right sure about it till ter-night. I ’lowed
I mought jes’ hev fancied it.”
“What made ye sure ’bout it ter-night?” demanded Bylor, starting up from
the bench.
“’Count o’ what the ’torney-gineral said ’bout _hell_ucination. I know
now ez ’twar a vision sent from hell, an’ I reckon that air one reason
I hev fund it air so hard ter git religion. My mind hev got too much in
league with Satan.”
“Waal, Carrick ’lowed ez Josh Nixon kem back from hell ter herd on
Thunderhead ’kase all his bones warn’t buried tergether,” said the
foreman.
“Law, Ben,” broke out the owner of cattle, “I wonder ef them beef bones
we seen on the top o’ Piomingo Bald warn’t the bones o’ that thar leetle
black heifer o’ mine ez couldn’t be fund, an’ ye ’lowed mus’ hev been eat
by a wolf.”
“I knocked off the vally o’ that thar heifer in our settlin’ up, an’ I
hed hoped ter hear no mo’ o’ her in this mortal life!” cried Ben Doaks,
lifting his voice from the bated undertone in which he had discussed the
spectral phenomena to an indignant worldly resonance. “I didn’t know ez
ye branded yer beastis on her bones,” sarcastically; “the las’ time I
seen her she war too fat ter show ’em. I never looked fur yer mark on
them bones on the bald.”
“Waal,” said a slow, measured voice, with that unnatural tone one has in
speaking to one’s self, “Tad hev got no call ter kem back.”
“Who air ye a-talkin’ ter?” cried Bylor, starting up, his nerves
quivering at the slightest provocation.
“Somebody told me just then ’twar Tad’s harnt,” said Price, rousing
himself with an effort.
“They never!” cried Bylor. “Old man Beames hain’t got done moanin’ ’bout
his cattle, like they war the ornymints o’ the nation. Nobody never
opened thar mouths ter ye. Ye jes’ answered ter nuthin’.”
“Harshaw never b’lieved Lethe Sayles seen no harnt,” declared one.
“He _hed_ ter say that,” observed the foreman, evidently of spectral
tendencies, “no matter what he believed. The ’torney-gin’al war powerful
sure she seen a harnt.”
“He ’lowed it war a _hell_ucination,” protested Bylor, being extremely
averse to any theory involving supernatural presence.
“Waal,” argued the logical Price, “he ’lowed ez a _hell_ucination war
suthin’ ez looks like a person, but ’tain’t him. Now ain’t that a harnt?
Ain’t Tad’s harnt suthin’ that looks like Tad, an’ ain’t Tad?”
“Oh,” cried Bylor, springing from the bench, “I feel obligated ter git
away from sech talk! I jes’ look ter see Peter Rood a-stalkin’ round hyar
direc’ly, with that awful stare he hed in his eyes when he war stone dead
fur ever so long, with his face so close ter mine. I can’t abide it no
longer! Let’s toss up. Heads, acquit! Tails, convict!” He produced a coin
from his pocket.
“Naw, ye won’t,” said the foreman quickly. “Naw! We’ll delib’rate on this
hyar question, an’ decide it like a jury oughter.”
Bylor cast a glance at the windows, each with its great white image upon
the floor below; at the dim faces about him; at the lamps, dull and
yellow, making the moonlight seem more pallid and vaguely blue. He threw
himself upon the bench, and for a long time was silent.
“Look hyar,” said Jerry Price, “it hev jes’ got down ter this,—harnt or
no harnt. Ef Lethe Sayles seen _Tad_, Mink never killed him, an’ hev ter
be acquitted. Ef Lethe Sayles seen Tad’s harnt, Mink killed him whilst
doin’ a unlawful act, an’ he hev ter go ter the pen’tiary fur involuntary
manslaughter, ez the jedge ’lows sech be a felony.”
The wrangle over the question, which bristled with difficulties enough,
began anew. They were even more illogical and irritable than before.
They were utterly unused to debate, to reason. The mental strain of
laboriously applying their attention to each detail, striving to
master circumstance and argument, throughout the two days during which
the case had been tried twice before them, had resulted in a certain
degree of prostration of their faculties. The singular surprise in the
evidence and the sudden death of one of their number had unnerved them
all, more or less. Being ignorant men, untrained to discriminate and
differentiate, while they could accept the strange occurrences which the
attorney-general had brought to their knowledge, they were not able to
perceive and apply the scientific explanations. And in fact many of these
were lame and inadequate. They had heard these seemingly supernatural
instances from a man of education and acumen, and it had fallen to
their lot to probe the probabilities, and possibilities, and decide an
important question based upon them. They were no nearer a conclusion when
Ben Doaks, who had been sitting with his arms folded, silently meditating
for a time, broke out abruptly, “That’s it! Tad’s harnt kem back ’kase
_his_ bones ain’t buried.”
Bylor once more started up. “Who tole ye that? Who said it fust?”
“I dunno,” replied Ben Doaks quietly. “Some o’ them boys.”
“They never!” cried Bylor. “I hev been listening ter every one. Some o’
ye answers the words o’ a man who never speaks aloud! Thar’s a harnt
on this jury! I know it! I feel it!” He stood up at his full height,
trembling like a leaf. He was in a nervous panic. “Gentlemen, we hev
got”—he faltered at the name—“him with us yet. Thar’s thirteen men on
this jury. For Gawd’s sake, let’s go down an’ tell the jedge we can’t
agree. I’ll see Rood d’rec’ly, an’ ye will too.”
“Laws-a-massy!” cried old Beames, interested for the first time in aught
save his cattle. “I’ll make a break an’ run”—he did not say where, the
obdurate officer being on the other side of the door. He too rose,
agitated, his toothless jaw shaking. “I couldn’t abide ter see him, like
he looked las’ night!”
“Thar’s thirteen men on the jury. Thar’s no use denyin’ it,” said the
foreman, “whether Pete Rood’s sperit’s in the panel or no.”
A great shadow suddenly flapped awkwardly across the floor. Every man of
them started. But it was only the owl they had heard in the distance,
now flying past the window. The situation was not more cheerful when the
ill-omened bird settled itself on the branch of the hickory-tree, and
shrilled its nerve-thrilling cry and convulsively chuckled aloud.
The foreman rose, too. “Thar’s no use a-tryin’,” he said: “we can’t
agree, an’ we hev got a right ter disagree. Le’s go down an’ tell the
jedge, an’ git discharged. I ain’t easy shook, but this hyar whole case
hev been powerful cur’ous, an’ I hev mighty nigh petered out.”
“Look hyar, oughtn’t we ter hold on a while longer? Fur Mink Lorey will
hev ter stay in jail fur four months more, till he kin git tried at the
next term,” suggested Jerry Price.
“I’m willin’,” said Ben Doaks reluctantly. He looked doubtfully over his
shoulder as he spoke. “Eh?” he said, as he turned his head back again.
“Nobody never said nuthin’,” declared the foreman.
“I ’lowed I hearn somebody call my name.”
“I’ll be bound ye did!” cried Bylor. “But nobody called it ez we kin
see—yit.”
He rushed to the door and summoned the officer. The court was notified,
and the twelve men were conducted down the stairs, each conscious of the
presence of the unseen thirteenth.
It was like a transition from the conditions of delirium to the serene
atmosphere of right reason. The windows were all flaring with lights,
as if the court-room were some factory that ran all night. The lawyers
looked fagged and worn out; they had the air of working by momentum
aggregated during the day rather than by immediate exertion. It was
a contrast to Averill’s leisurely procedure, and they regarded the
innovation with exasperation and the judge with some personal animosity.
He had his pen still in his hand; there was a moment’s silent waiting
while he finished the line he was writing. Mink had been brought out from
jail. He sat feverishly impatient and bright-eyed.
Harshaw and the attorney-general turned expectant and interested faces
toward the jury.
The judge laid down his pen and looked kindly at them. He viewed them as
a bit of completed work. He had a great respect for completed work.
When they were asked if they had agreed upon their verdict, the foreman
answered that they could not agree.
The prisoner’s countenance changed instantly. It had upon it an
expression of blank amaze, then of sharp distress. Harshaw’s face fell.
The attorney-general pricked up his ears. The judge looked grave,
concerned.
“Do you desire any further instructions,—any point of difficulty
explained?”
The foreman interpreted this formula as a general inquiry into the nature
of the trouble. He began precipitately, the quaking men behind him
feeling all the despair of being the members of a responsible corporate
body of which he was the mouthpiece.
“Ye see, jedge, we-uns can’t but feel thar’s thirteen men on this jury.”
They felt the judge’s quick gray eye counting them. Perhaps at that
moment they were all indifferent to the terrors of their spectral
associate, so much more substantial a source of terror being presented to
them.
The man who had read the Code went on: “Pete Rood—him ez died las’
night—war neither excused nor discharged, so thar’s thirteen men on this
jury; an’ we hearn him talkin’ up-stairs along o’ the rest o’ the jurors,
sometimes interruptin’ us, an’ we-uns can’t agree ’count o’ thar bein’ a
harnt on the jury.”
Even he faltered before the look in the face of the judge, whose
decisions were thus frankly criticised. There was something terrible in
the fury that his eyes expressed. He sat motionless, with an air of great
calmness and dignity. His face, however, crimsoned to the roots of his
hair. The veins in his forehead stood out swollen and blue. There was an
intense silence for a moment. Then his voice, as always, singularly low
and inexpressive, broke the pause.
“Mr. Sheriff,” he said, “conduct those thirteen—those twelve men to the
county jail, and keep them there for contempt of court until ten o’clock
to-morrow morning, permitting no communication with others.”
He directed that a fine of ten dollars should be entered against each,
and forthwith adjourned the court.
This high-handed proceeding had no parallel in the annals of the circuit.
Harshaw, swelling with rage, found knots of men eagerly discussing it, as
he pushed his way out into the hall. Some one was advancing the opinion
that a jury in jail was no longer a jury, but merely twelve culprits.
Another found a hearty laugh in the reflection that they would not
probably discover so many harnts in jail as in the jury-room. A third
demanded of Harshaw, “Why didn’t he discharge the jury, and imprison them
as men?”
“Too afraid of the S’preme Court,” Harshaw hissed between his teeth.
“Wish he had! On appeal a premature discharge would operate as an
acquittal of the prisoner.”
He regarded the action of the judge as an outrage, and he did not
hesitate to express this opinion. He had expended much time and force
upon his case, and looked for no compensation but the satisfaction of
success. He had that excellent quality in a lawyer, the faculty of making
his client’s cause his own. He felt the hardship of this extension of
the prisoner’s jeopardy scarcely less deeply than Mink himself. A little
remonstrance with the ignorant men, a little pocketing of personal and
judicial pride, a few coaxing, explanatory words, might have sent them
back refreshed and invigorated to their deliberations, with a good hope
of agreement. Now, there was no prophesying what effect these strong
measures would have upon them. He believed that Gwinnan had transcended
all the authority of his office. “By God,” he cried, “if he keeps on like
he’s started he’ll get impeached some day! And if I could see my way to
it, I swear I’d introduce the resolution in the House myself!”
He walked off, his head swimming a little. He had said this rash thing
before a motley crowd, and at any time it might be repeated to Gwinnan,
who was himself a politician in some sort, and a man of great force.
XIV.
Imprisonment proved an efficacious method of exorcising the “harnt”
upon the jury. Much of the sojourn in the county jail was expended in
criminations and recriminations. Not one of the jurymen would admit any
responsibility for their plight. Not one had entertained the slightest
belief in their ghostly associate. The mere contact with that practical,
prosaic mundane force, the law of the land, had so restored them that
they were emboldened to roundly denounce the harnt. And the name of poor
Peter Rood, which had been whispered with bated breath in the jury-room,
came smartly enough from the tongue even of Bylor. In fact, he was the
most persistent in disavowing susceptibility to spectral influence.
“I begged an’ begged ye ter shet up talkin’ ’bout sech,” he cried, which
was indeed the truth. “An’ ye jes’ kep’ it up an’ kep’ it up, till ye
skeered yerse’fs out’n yer boots, an’ then I couldn’t do nuthin’ with ye.”
They had all been locked temporarily into one room of the jail, while
the sheriff and jailer consulted in regard to the accommodations for
so unusual a number of prisoners. In their close quarters the jurymen
leaned against the wall or walked the floor, jostling each other in the
shadow, for the room was dark save for the moonbeams slanting through the
bars of the window. The foreman hung about in the obscure places, freely
addressed,—for they knew, without seeing, that he was there,—and required
to bear the brunt of all the reproaches for the calamity. Once he plucked
up spirit to retort.
“Ye war the very man ez yapped fur the dep’ty,” he said to Bylor, who
allowed himself to be drawn into argument.
“How’d I know ez you-uns war a-goin’ ter traipse down them steers an’
’low ter the jedge ez you-uns knowed mo’ law ’n he do? Ye dad-burned aged
idjit, ef ye warn’t older ’n me I’d lay ye out on this floor.”
“I felt jes’ like the tail of a dog in a fight,—could neither holp nor
hender the critter ez toted me ahint him, but war jes’ ez apt ter git
gnawed ez him,” said Jerry Price disconsolately.
“I looked ter see the jedge fetch him a pop ’side the head, myself,” said
the new juryman, evidently unacquainted with judicial methods. He had
regarded his capture to serve on the jury as a woful disaster, and could
hardly bear up under this aggregation of misfortunes. “Ef I hed knowed
what war comin’, I wouldn’t hev followed him down them steers.”
“Six spry young steers ’mongst my cattle,—I’ll never see ’em agin!” cried
old man Beames from out the darkness, reminded anew of his journeying
herds under the insufficient guidance of Bob. “I hev never done no wrong
in my life. I hev tuk heed ter my feet ter walk in the right way. An’
hyar in my old age, through another man’s fault, the door of a jail hev
been shet on me.”
His voice dropped. They were all feeling the poignant humiliation of the
imprisonment. They were honest men, to whom it could scarcely have come
but for this mischance. At every contortion of wounded pride they turned
upon the unlucky foreman.
“I ’lowed I’d drap in my tracks,” cried Ben Doaks, “whenst he jes’ tuk
the Code o’ Tennessee by the hawns an’ tail, an’ dragged it up afore the
jedge.”
And Jerry Price was fain to sneer, too.
“Did the Code hev nuthin’ in it ’bout cuttin’ out the tongue of a foreman
of a jury?” he demanded.
But the Code was an unabated fact still, and the nephew of the ex-justice
alone could say what was in it. “Naw, sir!” he retorted, emboldened by
the allusion to his superior knowledge, “nor about jailin’ a jury,
nuther. I don’t b’lieve the jedge hed the right ter jail the jury.”
“Waal,” drawled Jerry, satirically, “we-uns hed better make up our minds
powerful quick how we air a-goin’ ter pay him back fur it.”
The foreman was saved the mortification of acknowledging the hopelessness
of reprisal. A voice without sounded suddenly.
“I wanter see how many thar air,” said the jailer.
“On a jury? Shucks! ye’re funnin’. Twelve,” in the familiar tones of the
sheriff.
“I jes’ wanter look at ’em agin.”
“Ye sha’n’t,” retorted the sheriff.
He did not reckon on the fact that although he, as sheriff, had the
legal authority and control of the jail, the jailer was possessed of the
material keys, and locked and unlocked the doors at will. He opened this
one now, gingerly, and the men within felt the grin they could not see.
“Brung ’em hyar ’kase they couldn’t count,” he said, jocosely. “They air
the fust boarders we hev hed fur sech ez that.”
The sheriff, who was holding a lamp in the hall, pulled the door to,
still animated by his sense of duty, and the jury heard the lock click as
the facile jailer turned the key.
“They ’lowed thar war a harnt in the jury-room,” said the officer.
Within all were silent, that they might hear.
“I ain’t s’prised none,” said the jailer; “plenty o’ harnts hyar. Men
ez war hung, ye know,—liked our accommodations better’n them they got
arterwards; that brings ’em back. Tim Jenkins war dragged right out’n
that thar room whar the jury be now, when the lynchers kem an’ tuk him.
Hed me tied down-steers, ye ’member.”
He went off gayly down the hall, jingling his keys. Presently his voice
was heard in another mood, swearing at the judge and demanding, “What
sorter man is this hyar Gwinnan, ennyhow, ez you-uns hev got out thar on
the bench? Send me twelve men ter eat an’ sleep, an’ the jail ez full ez
it air! Does he think I keep a tavern? Thar ain’t room enough hyar fur
twelve fleas!”
He compassed the problem somehow, for the jurymen, smarting with
the indignity and hardship, were led forth the next morning, having
slept as well as was possible considering the united grievances of
the accommodations and the mortification, and eaten as their reduced
appetites and the prison fare permitted.
They resumed their deliberations in the jury-room, and it argues much for
their earnest desire to do right and their respect for their oath that
they did not find a verdict at hap-hazard. They reported again and again
that they could reach no decision. They were held over Sunday, and after
nightfall on Monday they came into the court-room, and in guarded phrase
and with some perturbation of manner announced once more that they could
not agree as to the guilt or innocence of the prisoner.
In answer to the usual question, the foreman was eager to explain that
they had experienced no difficulty other than a difference of opinion,
and felt no want of further instructions. He forbore to offer criticisms
upon judicial methods, and the men behind him, all acutely realizing
the position of the dog’s tail, breathed more freely. The judge looked
at them with a certain resentment in his eyes. He leaned back in his
chair, gnawing the end of his mustache. Mink sat beside his lawyer,
eager, intent, hardly appreciating at the moment the significance of
the disagreement. Harshaw had turned aside with a pettish mutter to his
yellow beard, for the final adjournment for the term impended, Gwinnan
being compelled to leave on the train that night to hold court in a
remote county in his own circuit.
How Gwinnan could infuse into his impassive mien and his soft,
expressionless drawl so caustic a suggestion of displeasure is one of
those mysteries of manner addressed to a subtle and receptive sense which
can take account of so fine and elusive a medium of communication.
The jury, in receiving their discharge, felt like culprits until they
were once more at large and in the outer air, when they swore at the
judge with the heartiest unanimity,—on this point they could agree,—and
promised themselves, taking note of his character as politician, that
if ever they were vouchsafed the opportunity they would retaliate. Then
among the loungers about the tavern they fell to asking the news with the
hungry interest of travelers who have been long absent.
They experienced a certain surprise to find that their accountability
as jurors had not ceased with their discharge. There was a manifest
inclination on the part of public opinion, as embodied in the idlers
about the hotel, to hold them individually responsible for the mischances
of the trial. Perhaps the impression that they had been long absent was
strengthened by the revolution which popular prejudice had accomplished
in the interval. Its flexibility could hardly be better illustrated than
by the fact that the prankish Mink had suddenly risen in its estimation
to the dignity of a public martyr.
“He’s a tremenjious wild scamp, the Lord knows,” said one, “but folks
ain’t jailed fur bein’ gamesome, an’ by rights ye oughter hev turned Mink
out’n that jail this evenin’.”
“Yessir,” assented another. “Mink oughter be mighty nigh Hazel Valley by
now, ef he had been gin a fair trial.”
That conclusive formula, “This is a free country, by the Lord!” was
often insistently reiterated in the discussion, for the bewildered jury
discovered that the persuasion of the prisoner’s innocence had never
wavered after Alethea Sayles had sworn that she had seen Tad Simpkins
since the disaster. The community at large had not been subjected to
the morbid influences of seclusion, and mental stress, and the nervous
shock which the jury had sustained upon the death of Peter Rood, and the
necessity of persistent consideration of spiritual and spectral phenomena
forced upon them by the attorney-general.
“You see, gentlemen,” said a young sprig of a lawyer, glad to air his
information, “you went off on the wrong road. ’Twarn’t the business o’
the defense to account for Tad. ’Twas the prosecution’s business to prove
that he was dead and that Mink killed him. And they didn’t do it; they
just proved he was missing, for that girl swore she saw him afterward.
They’ve got to prove the _corpus delicti_, gentlemen, in a case like
this.”
The jurymen were laughed to scorn when they suggested their doubts of the
genuineness of Tad’s appearance.
“Now didn’t the attorney-general stuff you as full of lies as an egg
of meat!” cried the young lawyer, divided between admiration of the
attorney-general’s resources and contempt for their credulity.
“Ye air the only folks in Cherokee County ez b’lieves sech,” said another
by-stander. “Old man Griff an’ all his gran’chil’n lef town yestiddy
evenin’ plumb sati’fied Tad’s alive, an’ goin’ ter hunt him up. An’ then
I reckon the old man’ll furgit all about his repentance, an’ club an’
beat him same ez he always done.”
“Waal,” demanded the ex-foreman, who was disposed to maintain the
difficulty of the question, “how could a idjit keer fur hisself all this
time?”
“Tad never war sech a idjit; could run a mill, an’ plough, an’ pull
fodder, an’ feed stock! I’ll be bound thar’s a mighty differ round old
man Griff’s diggins now, sure. He ’peared a idjit mos’ly when he war beat
over the head. Mos’ folks would look miser’ble then. He air lackin’, I
know, but I reckon he kin work fur hisself ez well ez he done fur old
man Griff. It’s a plumb shame ter jail Mink Lorey fur fower month more
till he kin git another fool jury ter try him, an’ mebbe send him ter the
Pen’tiary fur five year. I dunno what oughter be done ter sech a jury ez
you-uns.”
It was probably well for the public peace that events of general interest
had taken place during the seclusion of the jury which the by-standers
found a certain gloomy satisfaction in detailing; their attention was
thus readily enough diverted from the disagreements of the jury-room
to the circumstances of Peter Rood’s funeral,—who preached the sermon,
and who were in attendance. They all sat, solemnly chewing, tilted back
in their splint-bottomed chairs on the front gallery of the little
hotel. The lights which came from the doors and windows of the building,
slanting out in wide shafts, seemed to sever the gloom in equal sections.
The figures of the men were dimly seen in the dusky intervals. The stars,
in infinite hosts, were marshaled in the black sky, for the moon was
late to-night. Only about the horizon were melancholy desert spaces. The
summit line of the distant mountains was indistinguishable in the gloom.
The landscape was all benighted. The presence of invisible trees close
at hand was perceptible only to some fine sense of the differing degrees
of density in the blackness. A horse trotted through the slant of light,
falling into the road and showing the sleek roan of the steed and the
impassive face under the drooping hatbrim of the rider,—then loomed an
indeterminate centaur in the alternate glooms. The sounds of the town
were shrill, then faint, with lapses of silence. One forlorn cricket was
piping somewhere between the bricks of the pavement.
“’Pears ter me,” said Bylor, “toler’ble cur’ous ez they wagoned
deceased”—he had adopted the word from the reports of the sermon—“way up
yander ter Eskaqua Cove, ter be buried in the graveyard thar.”
“Waal,” explained a by-stander, “his mother ’lowed he’d feel mo’ lonesome
down hyar ’n he would ’mongst the mountings,—an’ I reckon he would.”
“Ennybody ez air dead always looked lonesome ter me,” suggested Ben Doaks.
“I don’t b’lieve thar’s a man in the Newnited States, alive or dead, ez
lonesome ez me!” cried the cattle-owner. “I wisht that thar durned moon
would heft over the mountings. Ez soon ez she shows her aidge I’m a-goin’
ter light out arter my cattle an’ Bob.”
“’Pears ter me,” said Doaks, reflectively, “ez things hev turned out
mighty cur’ous, ez he war buried in the same graveyard whar Lethe Sayles
seen Tad’s harnt.”
“I wouldn’t go by thar of a dark night fur nuthin’,” declared Bylor.
“Mought see both of ’em.”
“I reckon,” said Ben Doaks, “ez Peter Rood knows all ’bout’n it
now,—whether it war Tad’s harnt or no.”
Something at a distance sounded sharply and fell into silence.
“I reckon folks ez air dead hev got suthin’ mo’ ter tend ter’n studyin’
’bout folks they knowed in this life,” said Bylor, nodding his head with
grim conviction.
“Yes, sir-ee!” exclaimed the ex-foreman, as he chewed vigorously, and
spat at the post which upheld the floor of the gallery above; he was an
effective marksman. “They hev got a verdict in the courts of the t’other
world on Peter Rood by now. They ain’t got no failin’ human jury thar,”
he continued sanctimoniously. “I reckon he’s burnin’ in Torment before
now.” He offered this suggestion with that singular satisfaction in the
symmetry of the theory of fiery retribution characteristic of the rural
religionist.
Ben Doaks stirred uneasily. “I dunno ’bout that,” he said, dubiously.
“Rood war a perfessin’ member.” He himself laid great stress upon this
unattained grace.
“I know that,” said the ex-foreman, “but ’tain’t done him no good. I
hearn him ’low at camp ez he war a backslider, an’ ef the truth war
knowed I reckon he war a black-hearted sinner.”
Once more that strange sound, half smothered by the distance, smote upon
the air. Then the regular hoof-beat of a horseman riding by on the red
clay road interposed and rattled against the stones, and echoed from the
bridge below with hollow reverberations.
“What war that cur’ous noise?” demanded Ben Doaks.
“Sounded ter me like cattle a-bellerin’,” said old man Beames.
The attentive pause was illustrated by the red spark of each man’s
pipe, dulling as it was held motionless for a moment in the hand;
then restored to the smoker’s lips, it glowed into subdued brilliancy,
sometimes giving an elusive glimpse of the delicate and shadowy blue
vapor curling from the bowl. They heard nothing but a vague murmur,
dropping presently into silence.
“I b’lieve,” said Bylor, “ez Peter Rood hed suthin’ on his mind.”
“Me, too,” spoke up another man. “He sot next ter me, an’ he looked
troubled an’ tried, somehows, an’ wunst in a while he sighed mightily. I
dunno what ailed him.”
“I reckon he war sick,” suggested a by-stander.
“He didn’t ’pear ter be sick. He turned an’ looked at me plumb pleased
ter death when that Lethe Sayles ’lowed Tad war alive. An’ then when the
’torney-gineral made it out ez ’twar jes’ Tad’s harnt he jumped for’ards,
an’ pinted with his finger, an’ next thing I knowed the man war a harnt
hisself.”
The sound in the distance had become continuous, louder. Once more it
broke upon the conversation. “Boys,” said Jerry Price, in a tone of
conviction, “suthin’ is a-goin’ on somewhar.”
The vocation for the _rôle_ of spectator is strong in humanity. Each of
the long, lank mountaineers started up with unusual willingness, under
the impression that he was balked of some entertainment at which nature
intended that he should be dead-headed. The distant murmur was once more
lost in the sounds nearer at hand. A sudden resonant, brazen clangor
challenged the dark stillness. It had a vibratory, swaying iteration,
for it was the court-house bell, rung as an alarum to the law-abiding
population. As the group started swiftly in the direction of the sound, a
man came running at great speed down the pavement, almost overturning old
Beames, and called loudly to the proprietor of the hotel, asking if Judge
Gwinnan were within. They recognized the deputy sheriff as he rushed into
the bar-room.
“The old man’s been hevin’ hell with Mink Lorey, down yander at the
jail,” he explained in breathless gasps. “He kerried on like a crazy
idjit when we tuk him back,—fout like a wild-cat every foot o’ the way.
An’ now thar’s a crowd at the jail a-batterin’ the doors, an’ breakin’
the winders, an’ swearin’ they’ll take Mink Lorey out.”
In pursuit of the promise of excitement their feet did not lag. They
heard, as they set out, the deputy’s rasping voice behind them renewing
his anxious demand for Judge Gwinnan; then it was lost in the ceaseless
thud of their own feet, and the insistence of the bell filling the
darkness with its deliberate alternations of tone, till the night rocked
and swayed with the oscillating, remonstrant sound. Approaching the
court-house, they could hear those fainter and continuous vibrations
of the bell-metal, the turbulent but bated undertones, that set the
air a-trembling and seemed some muttered affirmation, some reserve of
clamors, that should presently break out, too, and utter wrath and
measured menace. The darkness seemed unparalleled, since there was
something to be done and at hazard. Only at long intervals in the
blackness, windows of dwellings were opened, and here and there a
venturesome female head was thrust out in baffled and hopeless curiosity.
But most of the houses had closed blinds and barred doors, for the alarum
of the court-house bell had told the inmates all that the prudent might
care to learn. The streets of Shaftesville, grass-grown as they were,
had known the tread of lynchers, and distrusted any lawless mission.
It was so dark that men, meeting at intersections of the streets, ran
blindly against each other, recoiling with oaths,—sometimes against trees
and posts. A few provident souls carrying lanterns, and looking in the
blackness like fleet fire-flies, were made aware when they encountered
the rescuers, in pressing in among the crowd in the jail-yard,—the
posse and the mob otherwise indistinguishable,—by having the lanterns
struck out of their hands. The jail was silent; its very vicinity had a
suggestion of glum resistance. Some consciousness of a darker and solid
mass in the air was the only cognizance that the senses could take of
its propinquity, except, indeed, the sound of breaking glass. A rail had
been dragged from a fence, and, in the hands of unseen parties, after the
manner of a battering-ram, the glass in the lower panes was shattered.
This was wanton destruction, for the bars withstood the assault. The
working of some instrument at them, ever and anon, was an evasive bit
of craft, for follow the sound as they might, the sheriff and his posse
could never locate it. A light showing in an upper window was saluted by
a volley of stones, and quickly disappeared. The missiles fell back in
the dense, panting, nameless, viewless crowd, eliciting here and there a
howl, succeeded by jeering laughter.
Once, as the glass crashed in a lower window, a child’s voice within
whimpered suddenly; a soothing murmur, and the child was silent.
“Mis’ Perkins,” called out a voice from among the mob to the jailer’s
wife, “make Jacob open the do’! Tell him we’ll string him up ef he don’t,
when we git holt o’ him.”
There was intense silence in the closely jammed, indistinguishable crowd
without, for who could say who was the posse or who the mob, helpless
against each other?
A murmur of remonstrance within. An interval. A sharp insistence from the
crowd, and a quavering response.
“I _can’t_, gentlemen!” cried a shrill feminine voice. “Jake’s sech a
bull-headed fool, he _won’t_!”
The summit line of the distant mountains was becoming vaguely visible;
the stars were not less bright, the black earth was as dark as ever, but
the moon-rise was imminent.
There was suddenly a surging commotion in the crowd; it swayed hither and
thither, and rushed violently upon the door. The point of attack being
plain enough, there was some feeble resistance, offered presumably by the
posse. A pistol was fired in the air—another—a wild turmoil; all at once
the door crashed and gave way; half the assailants were carried over its
splintered ruins by the force of their own momentum. There were lights
enough now springing up in every direction. Men with torches dashed
through the halls, holding them aloft with streaming clouds of flame and
smoke, as erratic as comets. It required only a moment, with the united
exertions of half a dozen stalwart young fellows, to break the door of
Mink’s cell; it offered no such opposition as the main entrance.
There was no cry of joy as they rushed in; no fraternal embrace for the
liberators who had risked so much in the cause of natural justice.
The cell was empty. The bars at the window were firm as ever. The locked
door was broken but a moment ago. And he was gone!
The word rang through the building. The infuriated crowd pervaded the
cell in a moment, like some tumultuous flood. The jailer himself was not
to be found. His wife and children had sought refuge elsewhere.
The doors were guarded against the sheriff, while a select party searched
every room in the house. Some serious fright was occasioned to certain
malefactors, who had reason to fear the people more than the law, and
esteemed the jail in some sort as a haven, but there were many who
appealed for liberation. One of these, a victim of the federal court,
Big Brandy Owen by name, made so earnest an insistence that his case was
considered. But he was no genuine moonshiner, it was argued; he was only
a saloon-keeper who had fallen a victim to the liquor laws. “We dunno
ye,” they prevaricated. “Ye ain’t labeled Brandy, ye see.” And so they
locked his door upon him.
They did as much damage as they could, in default of accomplishing their
object, and on retiring they dispersed without recognition among the
peaceful citizens who had weakly striven, half-heartedly, to uphold the
law.
The moon was up. The Great Smoky Mountains, in magnificent immensity,
clasped the world in the gigantic curve about the horizon east and
south. The trees seemed veiled in some fine, elusive silver gauze,
so gleaming a line of light came to the eye from their boughs. Frost
sparkled upon the grass-fringed streets. The shadows were sharp and
black. The stars—few now—faintly scintillated in empyreal distances. The
town was so still, not even a dog barked. The rescuers experienced a
luxury of bravado in the realization that it was for fear of them that it
was fain to hold its breath and lie in darkness, save for the light of
the moon. Perhaps it was as well, and spared further mischief, that they
exulted in riding their horses at a gallop through the streets, breaking
now and then into wild fantasies of yells, with a fantastic refrain of
echoes.
The rioters after a time disappeared. A long interval, and perhaps a
single equestrian figure would ride down the straggling street and whoop
aloud, and turn in his saddle to listen for a comrade’s response, and
then ride on.
Finally silence fell. The waning moon was high. The night was well-nigh
spent. Sundry movements of shadows on window blinds, sundry dim yellow
lights showing through them, despite the lustre of the moon, indicated
that the inhabitants considered that the drama had been played, and were
betaking themselves to bed. Alethea Sayles, crouching in the dormer
window of the cottage where the witness fee had sufficed to lodge her,
looking with dilated eyes over the little town enmeshed in the silver net
of its frosted trees, strained her ears in the silence, and exclaimed in
the anguish of suspense, “They mus’ hev tuk him out, Aunt Dely, or they
wouldn’t hev been so gamesome.”
She knew little of town ways. Had the mob been successful, the frost
itself could not vanish more silently.
Mrs. Purvine, her wise head pillowed, for the first time in her life, as
she remarked, on “town folkses’ geese,” sleepily assented.
The moon looked down in Alethea’s upturned eyes. The pine that stood
by the window tapped upon the pane. She felt as if it were a friendly
and familiar thing, here where there were so few trees; for the sight
of houses—crowded, indeed, they seemed—overwhelmed her in some sort,
and embarrassed her. It was all a-shimmer with the frost; even an empty
bird’s-nest on a bough was a miracle of delicate interweaving of silver
gleams. Her hair in its rich dishevelment fell in coils and tangles
half-way to her waist. She clasped her hands over one knee. It was an
interval of peace.
“Lethe!” said Mrs. Purvine, rousing herself. “Ain’t that gal kem ter
bed yit!” The admonition was a subterfuge. She was about to impart
information. “Lethe, ef ye b’lieve me, these hyar crazy muskrats o’ town
folks hev got _sun-bonnets ready-made_ in these hyar stores.”
The vicissitudes of the trial had been the veriest trifles to her. She
had utilized the metropolitan sojourn. She had pervaded the stores, as
women of her sort do elsewhere. Mighty little there was in these stores
that Aunt Dely had not rummaged.
“Ye tole me that afore,” said the absorbed Alethea.
Mrs. Purvine chuckled aloud as she reviewed the fact. It afforded her an
occult complacence, yet she laughed at it.
Presently she recurred to it.
“My cracky! Lethe,” she exclaimed, “_who_ makes ’em?”
And with this problem in her mind, she fell asleep among the comforts of
“town folkses’ geese.”
XV.
The fires of discontent smouldered throughout the next day. Although many
of the country people had left town, there was more than the usual stir
upon the streets. Idle knots of men strolling about or standing on the
corners neglected their avocations in eager discussion of the events of
the previous evening. There was very general reprehension of the action
of the mob,—so general that it might suggest a wonder as to whence
came its component elements, and an unpleasant feeling that perhaps a
satirical ringleader might be advancing these rebukes, and watching with
secret laughter their effect. Many rumors prevailed, some so fantastic
as to balk the credulity that sought to accept them, and others probable
enough to be a solution of Mink’s disappearance. Some maintained that
he had been liberated by the mob. Others said that at the time of the
onslaught he had been hidden in the cellar with the jailer and the
jailer’s family; and this was again roundly denied, for the cellars were
reported to have been thoroughly searched. It was said, too, that the
prisoner had been gagged, bound securely, and boldly carried forth from
the back door through the crowd in the intense darkness, and that he was
now held in retreat at the sheriff’s house. However it might have been,
that officer received about noonday two or three threatening letters
signed, “The men that elected you.”
He had since been disposed to exonerate himself, and he bore a
troubled, anxious face about the town, and talked in a loud, strained,
remonstrant falsetto. It was through some words which he let fall, in the
perturbation of the discovery that he was liable to be held to account
personally by this unknown and numerous enemy, that it became public
he had applied to Judge Gwinnan, not in his judicial capacity, but for
advice in this emergency, and that it was Gwinnan who had devised the
ruse which had baffled the rescuers.
The curiosity as to Mink’s fate grew so pronounced as the day wore on
that a party of young roughs went openly to the jail and interrogated
the jailer. For that functionary had returned. He showed himself at the
window of his stronghold jauntily enough. He had a jovial expression, a
black mustache that turned cheerfully upward,—for he laughed often and
usually laughed last,—quick brown eyes, and a bushy, unkempt head; he was
unshaven and in his shirt-sleeves. He seemed to care not an atom for the
illogical views of his fellow-citizens.
“I’m appinted by the sher’ff o’ Cherokee County ter keep folks in jail,
an’ by Hokey, I’m a-goin’ ter do it.”
They begged him to let them in; they had come to see him
sociably,—a-visitin’, they protested.
“Can’t git in hyar, ’thout ye steal a horse or kill yer gran’mother,
one.” He shook his keys jocosely at them, and vanished.
At noon, when the train was due at the little station, the mystery was
solved. The jailer was strolling up and down the platform, grave enough
for once in his life, and with apparently no purpose. Asked if he were
going to Glaston he replied, with an effort at his usual manner, “Not in
these clothes, if the court knows itself, an’ it rather think it do!”
It was a day of doubtful moods, of sibilant gusts of wind and intervals
of brooding stillness. There was a pervasive suggestion of moisture in
the air, but as yet no rain. The odor of decaying leaves came from the
woods on the other side of the road. The sunshine was uncertain. White
clouds were silently astir in the upper regions of the atmosphere; among
the distant blue ranges the intervenient valleys could be distinctly
located by the mist rising from them, elusively showing, then veiling
the farther heights, and anon falling like some airy cataract over a
mountain side, seeming to cleave it in twain, and simulating a gap, a
pass, in the impenetrabilities of the massive clifty range. The little
stream that flowed along on the other side of the rails reflected the
vacillating sentiments of the sky: now a cloud driving faster than
its current showed upon its lustrous olive-green surface among the
reflections of the crimson sumach bushes that lined its banks; and now it
glittered in a burst of sunshine and emulated the azure of the changing
heavens. The little town lay at a considerable distance; whether it
hoped to grow up to the depot, or desired the advantages of civilization
without its close contact, one might speculate in vain. Its clustering
roofs were quite distinct among the thinning red and yellow and brown
leaves of the trees.
A number of loungers waited to watch the train pass; for it was only a
short time since the road had been completed, and the engine was still
a mechanical miracle in the estimation of many of the country people,
who came sometimes great distances to see it. Harshaw was going down to
attend the court at Glaston. He was much smarter than usual, although
he wore on his yellow head a soft wide hat, which gave him a certain
highwayman-like aspect. A gay necktie of blue shot silk showed beneath
his yellow beard; his stiffly starched cuffs, already much crumpled,
protruded beneath his coat-sleeves.
“What are you about, my friend? Going to jump the country?” he demanded
of the deputy-sheriff, who was embarrassed, and replied evasively that
he was waiting to see a man. Harshaw turned to greet Gwinnan, who was
also going off, having adjourned the court a few moments too late the
preceding evening and thereby failing to catch the night train. Harshaw
accosted him with a full expression of his large, bluff, familiar
manner. It was received with a certain coolness, which may have been
Gwinnan’s normal social temperature, but Harshaw was keenly alert to
descry significance, and was disposed to refer it to the hasty threat
at the court-house door. Gwinnan’s impassive inexpressiveness gave him
no intimation whether or not it had been repeated, and as the judge
stood looking about the little unpainted wooden depot, all its business
easily to be comprised in the two rooms, Harshaw began to detail to him
how much the road had cost, how it was hoped it would aid in developing
the resources of the country, how it had already begun to conduct itself
like a sure enough grown-up railroad, and had got into law. Suddenly the
two shining parallel rails trembled with a metallic vibration. A distant
roar growing ever nearer and louder impinged upon the air. A cloud of
smoke appeared above the trees, and with a glitter of burnished metal,
a turmoil of sound, a swift gliding rush, the overpowering imperious
presence of the engine gladdened the sight of the simple country folks.
Gwinnan was silent as Harshaw talked, until suddenly that worthy broke
off, “Hello! what’s going on here?”
Some distance up the red clay road from the direction of the town,
a buggy was driven at a furious rate, with the evident intention of
forestalling the departure of the train.
All the loungers saw it. The conductor saw it, and yet he cried out,
“All aboard!” and sprang upon the platform as the train began to move.
The by-standers understood the ruse the next moment. There were two men
in the buggy: one was handcuffed; the other was the sheriff. The deputy
and two guards dragged the prisoner across the platform and upon the
slowly moving train, which forthwith rattled away around the curve at the
greatest speed of which it was capable, leaving the suspected rescuers
gazing blankly at it, and realizing that because of the insecurity of the
county jail Mink was to be lodged in the metropolitan prison of Glaston.
It is said that nothing so expands the mental horizon as the experience
of emotion. In this sense Mink was becoming a wise man. He knew despair
not as a word, a theory, a sentiment, but in its baffled, futile
finality. He had conned all the fine vacillations of suspense. He had
exhausted the delusions of hope.
Only the passion of rage had as yet unsated capacities. As he sat in
the car, shackled, among his guards, he fixed his shining eyes, full
of suppressed ferocity, on Gwinnan’s face, who was absorbed in a book
and heedless of his fellow-travelers. The guards did not notice the
prisoner’s gaze, and after a moment it was diverted for a time. For Mink
had quick enough perceptions and no mean power of deduction. He divined
that his guards and fellow-passengers were in much perturbation lest the
train should be stopped. At every intersection of the country roads with
the track there was a perceptible flurry amongst them, an anxious outlook
to descry mounted and armed men.
He had himself no further expectation of deliverance.
“Nobody’s goin’ ter resk ten year in the Pen’tiary fur rescuin’ me in
broad daylight whar they could be knowed. Ef the mob wanted ter hang me,
though, _they would_,” he said, with the cynicism of the truth.
“Nobody wants ter hang you-uns, Mink, nor hurt ye no-ways. All ye need is
a leetle patience ter wait fur another trial,” said the deputy.
“I ain’t got no mo’ patience,” said Mink drearily.
His fatigued faculties, that had almost sunk into stupor under the
strain of excitement and suspense, roused themselves to take note of the
surroundings. The motion of the train filled him with amaze. He held
his breath to see the fantasies of the flying landscape without. The
panting snorts and leaps of the engine, like some great living monster,
the dull rolling of the wheels, the iterative alternating sound of the
clanking machinery, each registered a new estimate of life upon his
intent, expressive face. His eyes rested on the lamp fixtures shining in
their places as if he beheld enchantment. The tawdry ornamentation, the
paneling of light and dark woods with occasional glimmers of gilding,
the red velvet of the seats, were to his unaccustomed eyes unparalleled
magnificence. He asked no questions. He accepted it all simply, without
comment, without consciousness. His fine head, with its rich coloring of
complexion and eyes and hair, looked as if it might have been painted
upon the panel of maple on which it leaned, he sat so still. His hat lay
on the seat beside him; he was well used now not to wear it. It may have
been because he was innocent, it may have been because he felt no shame,
but the handcuffs on his wrists seemed not more ignominious than a wild
creature’s captivity.
He had been so docile, so unresisting all the morning, that the deputy,
who had grown to like the young fellow in their constrained intercourse,
and valued him far more than a duller and a better man, was disposed to
treat him as gently as was consistent with duty. The guards were jolly
and they joked with him; but he had little to say, and presently they
talked to each other, and looked over their shoulders at the rest of the
company, covertly entertaining themselves with such fragments of the
conversation as the roaring and clangor of the train permitted to be
audible. They noticed after a time that the surroundings had ceased to
interest him, and that he was looking with lowering and surly ferocity at
Judge Gwinnan, intent upon his book.
“Look-a-hyar,” said one of the guards, nudging Mink violently, “ye ’pear
like some wild varmint. Ye look ez keen an’ wicked an’ mean ez a mink.
Quit eyin’ Jedge Gwinnan like that, else I’ll blindfold ye,—sure’s ye
born, I will.”
Mink’s dilated eyes rested upon the unconscious, half-averted face for a
moment longer. Then they turned to the face of the deputy in front of him.
“That thar man,” he said between his set teeth, and for all his voice
was low it was distinct, even in the rumbling and noise of the train,
so charged it was with the emphasis of intention, the definiteness of a
cherished revenge,—“d’ye know what he hev done ter me? He put Pete Rood
on the jury, though he knowed Pete hated me, an’ why. He put the jury in
jail, ’kase they war fools, an’ ’lowed they hed a harnt on the panel,
an’ bein’ jailed conflusticated ’em so they couldn’t find a verdict.
_He_ knows an’ _they_ know Tad’s alive, but I hev got ter bide in jail
fower month longer an’ resk the Pen’tiary agin, account o’ a drownded boy
ez hev run away. An’ when my friends wanted ter take me out’n jail,—God
A’mighty! I didn’t know I hed sech friends,—he goes out’n his way ter
tell the sher’ff how ter flustrate ’em. An’ I war gagged an’ ironed, an’
toted out’n the back door, an’ kep’ at the sher’ff’s house, an’ am tuk
off on the train. ’Twarn’t his business. Ye know thar warn’t ez much ez
that done whenst the lynchers kem fur Tim Jenkins,—_not ter save the
man’s life_.”
“Waal, he hed ter be hung some time, ennyhow,” said the deputy
indisputably.
“What did this hyar Jedge Gwinnan do all this hyar fur?” continued Mink.
“Waal, Mink, he war obleeged ter, by his office. Ye know I don’t hold no
grudge ter ye, yit I’m ’bleeged ter iron ye an’ gyard ye. I couldn’t set
no mo’ store by ye ef ye war my own blood relation,” said the deputy.
“Naw, sir! naw!” exclaimed Mink. “This hyar man have tuk a notion ter
Lethe Sayles,—I seen it; an’ he ’lows I ain’t good enough fur her, an’ he
be doin’ sech ez he kin agin me on account o’ her.”
The deputy sheriff broke into a horse-laugh. The others laughed, too,
more moderately. “Ye air teched in the head, Mink,” one of them remarked.
“Mebbe so,” Mink responded quietly enough, but with a glancing gleam in
his dark eyes. “But I’ll remember what he hev done ter me. An’ I’ll git
even with him fur it. By the Lord, I’ll git even with him fur it. An’ ye
shell see the day.”
He leaned back against the window, with his eyes bright, his lips
curving, tossing his tangled hair with a quick, excited gesture, as if he
saw his revenge an accomplished fact.
Somehow his look impressed the guards.
“Naw, ye won’t,” said one of them. “Ye won’t do nuthin’ like it. Ye air
goin’ ter jail _fower_ month, an’ arter that ter the Pen’tiary _five_
year, an’ time ye git out’n thar ye’ll be so powerful pleased ter be
foot-loose ye’ll mind yer manners the rest o’ yer days, an’ ye will hev
clean furgot Jedge Gwinnan.”
He evidently thought some harshness salutary. Mink made no reply, and
they presently fell to talking together of their town affairs and gossip,
excluding him from the conversation, in which, in truth, he desired to
take no share.
XVI.
In contrast with the steam-cars, the old ox-cart was a slow way of
getting through the world, and had little of that magnificence which
forced itself upon Mink’s jaded and preoccupied faculties. But as
Alethea turned her face toward the mountains, it seemed the progress
into Paradise, so happy was she in the belief that the rescuers had
prevailed. For she, aunt Dely, and Jerry Price had left town early
that morning, before doubts and contradictions were astir. The waning
yellow moon still swung high in the sky, above the violet vapors of the
level west. Long shadows were stalking athwart the fields and down the
woodland ways, as if some mystic beings of the night were getting them
home. A gust of wind came shivering along the road once and again,—an
invisible, chilly presence, that audibly rustled its weird garments and
convulsively caught its breath, and was gone. Above the Great Smoky
Mountains the inexpressible splendors of the day-star glowed and burned.
She walked behind the cart much of the time with Jerry, while aunt Dely
sat, a shapeless mass, within it. A scent of tar issued from its clumsy
wheels, heavy with the red clay mire of many a mile; a rasping creak
exuded from its axles, in defiance of wagon-grease. The ox between his
shafts had a grotesque burliness in the moonlight. The square, unpainted
little vehicle was a quaint contrivance. Four of the dogs ran beneath it,
in leash with their nimble shadows. And aunt Dely’s sun-bonneted head,
nodding with occasional lapses into sleep, was faithfully reproduced in
the antics of the silhouettes upon the ground that journeyed with them.
Now and again the Scolacutta River crossed their way in wide, shining
curves scintillating with the stars, and then Alethea would perch upon
the tail-board, and Jerry would clamber into his place as driver, and the
dogs would yelp and wheeze on the bank, reluctant to swim, and the ox
would plunge in, sometimes with a muttered low of surprise to find the
water so cold. Fording the stream was slow work; the wheels often scraped
against great hidden bowlders, threatening dislocation and destruction
to the running gear. The transit was attended with a coruscation of
glittering showers of spray, and left a foaming track across the swift
current. Sometimes it was a hard pull up the steep, rocky bank opposite.
The old ox had a sober aspect, a resolute tread, and insistently nodding
horns. His sturdy rustic demeanor might have suggested that he was glad
to be homeward bound, and to turn his back upon the frivolities of
civilization and fashion. Not so aunt Dely. It seemed for a time as if
her enforced withdrawal from these things had impaired her temper. She
woke up ever and anon with caustic remarks.
“I reckon now, Lethe Ann Sayles, ye be goin’ ter bide along o’ yer
step-mother?”
“Ye know that’s my home. I hev ter, aunt Dely.”
The girl’s voice was clear, sweet, thrilling with gladness, like some
suddenly awakened bird’s singing a stave before dawn.
“I b’lieve ye!” satirically. “Ennybody but you-uns would be ’shamed
ter own up ez ye hev got no home. Old ez ye be, an’ ye ain’t married
yit! How old be ye? Lemme see,”—with a tone intimating that she would
give no quarter,—“nineteen year, five month, an’ fower days. It’s plumb
scandalous,” she muttered, arranging her shawl about her. “Ye Bluff!”
addressing the ox in a querulous crescendo, “ye goin’ ter jolt the life
out’n me, a-tryin’ ter ape the gait o’ the minchin’ sinners ye seen in
Shaftesville! Actially the steer hev got the shuffles! I tell ye, Sodom
an’ G’morrah warn’t nowhar fur seethin’ sin ter Shaftesville. The devil
be a-gatherin’ his harvest thar. His bin an’ barn air full. Them folks
will know some day ez store clothes ain’t no defense agin fire. They hev
bartered thar salvation fur store clothes. But I do wisht,” she broke off
suddenly, dropping her voice from her sanctimonious whine to her cheery
drawl, “I hed one o’ them ready-made sun-bonnets. I hed traded off all my
feathers an’ truck for store sugar an’ sech afore I seen ’em. I was so
full o’ laff that I couldn’t keep my face straight whenst I viewed the
contrivance.”
The darkness had fled; the moonlight had failed; the fine, chastened
pallor of the interval—the moment’s pause before the dawn—showed the
colorless sky, the massive dusky mountains, the stretches of woods below,
almost leafless now, the gaunt, tawny fields here and there, the zigzag
lines of the rail fences, the red clay road. There were gullies of such
depth on either side that the ox, who received so little supervision that
he appeared to have the double responsibility of drawing and driving
the cart, demonstrated, in keeping out of pitfalls, ampler intellectual
capacities than are usually credited to the bovine tribe. But indeed his
gifts were recognized. “I ain’t s’prised none ef some day Bluff takes
ter talkin’,” his mistress often averred, with her worldly pride in her
possessions.
The wind freshened; the white frost gleamed; a pale flush, expanding into
a suffusion of amber light, irradiated the sky; and the great red wintry
sun rose slowly above the purple ranges.
They had barely passed through a gap of the mountains and entered Eskaqua
Cove, when they saw riding along an intersecting road close to the bank
of the river a girl in a yellow homespun dress, with a yellow bonnet on
her head, and mounted on a great white mare. She had the slaie of a loom
in her hand which she had borrowed of a neighbor, and which served to
explain her early errand.
Alethea, in her joy, had forgotten Elvira Crosby’s sneers and gibes the
night she had brought to the Hollow the raccoon which Mink had given her.
All other considerations were dwarfed by the rapturous idea that he was
at liberty. Eager to tell the news, she sprang forward.
“Elviry!” she cried. The girl drew up her mare and turned about. Alethea
ran down the road and caught the bridle. “Elviry,” she reiterated,
“Reuben air out o’ jail! He’s free! He’s free!”
The news was not received as she expected. Elvira put back her bonnet
from the soft rings of short hair that lay about her head. She fixed her
dark eyes on Alethea in doubting surprise.
“Waal,” she demanded, as if herself sitting in judgment, “who killed Tad?”
“Tad be alive ez I be!” cried Alethea, harried by the reawakening of
those questions which she had thought were forever set at rest.
“An’ did the jury say sech?” Elvira asked. It might have seemed that with
the breach between her and Mink irreparable, she was not rejoiced to hear
of his good fortune.
“The jury couldn’t ’gree,” said Alethea breathlessly. “The rescuers tuk
him out.”
“Sech ez that be agin the law,” said Elvira staidly.
“I ain’t keerin’ fur the law!” cried Alethea. “He hev done no harm, an’
all the kentry knowed it. An’ ’twarn’t right ter keep him cooped in jail.
So they tuk him out.”
She lifted her head and smiled. Ah, did she indeed look upon a wintry
landscape with those eyes? So irradiated with the fine lights of joy, so
soft, they were, it might seem they could reflect only endless summers.
The gaunt, bleak mountains shivered in the niggardliness of the averted
sun; the wind tossed her loose locks of golden hair from beneath her
brown bonnet as if they were flouts to the paler beams.
Elvira looked down at her with the pitiless enmity of envy.
“Waal,” she said, “’twixt ye two ye hev done me a powerful mean turn.
Mink kep’ a-tryin’ ter cut out Pete Rood till I didn’t know my own mind.
An’ then ye a-tellin’ them tales ’bout harnts till Pete drapped dead,—ye
knowin’ he hed heart-disease! Yes, sir, he’s dead; buried right over
yander in the graveyard o’ the church-house in the cove. An’ I reckon ye
be sati’fied now,—ef _ye kin_ be sati’fied.”
She looked away over the swift flow of the river, and began to fleck her
shoe with the hickory switch she carried.
Alethea’s face fell. She still stood holding the mare’s rein, but aunt
Dely’s voice had broken upon the silence. For Bluff had followed Alethea
when she turned from the main road, and had refused to be guided by Mrs.
Purvine’s acrid remonstrance. As to Jerry, he was stalking on ahead,
unaware that the others were not close on his steps. Sawing upon the
ropes on Bluff’s horns which served for reins, Mrs. Purvine succeeded in
drawing him up when she reached the spot where the two girls stood. She
suddenly joined in the conversation with an astute intention.
“Yes, sir, Mink’s out,” she said, confirming her niece’s statement. “An’
ye’ll hev ter do mighty little tollin’ ter git him back agin, Elviry,”
she added beguilingly.
“I don’t want no jail-bird roun’ me,” said Elvira, with a toss of her
head.
“Mebbe ye air right, child!” cried Mrs. Purvine. “That’s edzacly what
I tole Lethe.” She nodded gayly, and her head-gear, swaying with the
expressive gesture, could not have seemed more jaunty had it been a
ready-made sun-bonnet from the store. “Ye mark my words, Lethe air goin’
ter marry a man she seen in Shaftesville.” Elated with this effort of
imagination, she continued, inspirationally, “He ’lowed she war a plumb
beauty, beat ennything he ever dreampt could hev kem out’n the mountings.
He air a town man, an’ he be a fust-rate one.”
“Oh, aunt Dely!” faltered Alethea, amazed and almost speechless.
But aunt Dely, charmed with the image she had conjured up, had no mind to
relinquish this mythical man, and added another touch of verisimilitude:
“He’s well off, too. Lethe, she don’t keer nuthin’ ’bout riches, but
bein’ ez I hev ’sociated so much with town folks, I sorter set store by
worldly goods,—though not enough ter resk my soul’s salvation, nuther.”
Aunt Dely’s evident desire was to combine spiritual and material welfare,
and in this she was not unlike more sophisticated religionists.
The opinionated Bluff being induced to turn around at last, Mrs. Purvine
let fly a Parthian dart: “But ez ter you-uns, Elviry, I dunno whether
ye hed better be lookin’ down on fust one boy, an’ then another. Ye’ll
git lef’ hyar a lonesome single woman, the fust thing ye know,—_the only
one in the cove_! But then, mebbe ye’d better jes’ bow yer mind ter the
dispensation, fur arter all ye moughtn’t be able ter ketch Mink. The gals
honey him up so ez he air toler’ble sp’iled; they ’low he air special
good-lookin’, though I hev never been able ter see good looks in him
sence he kem ter my house, one night, an’ bedeviled my front steps so ez
they hev never been so stiddy sence.”
“Aunt Dely,” cried Alethea, when they were once more on their homeward
way, “what ailed ye ter tell Elviry sech a pack o’”—Respect for her
elders restrained her.
“I war prompted by my conscience!” replied the logical Mrs. Purvine,
unexpectedly. “I can’t be at peace with my conscience ’thout doin’ all
I kin ter purvent a spry, good-lookin’ gal like you-uns from marryin’ a
wuthless critter sech ez Mink Lorey.” She made no secret of her designs.
“He be good a plenty an’ ter spare fur that thar snake-eyed Elviry
Crosby, but I want ye ter marry Jerry Price, an’ kem an’ live along o’
me.”
The immaterial suitor evolved by Mrs. Purvine’s conscience dwelt in
Alethea’s mind with singular consistency and effect afterward. When
she was once more in Wild-Cat Hollow, and day after day passed,—short
days they were, of early winter,—and Mink did not come, expectation was
supplanted by alternations of hope and disappointment, and they in their
turn by fear and despair. Was it possible, she asked herself, that he
could have heard and credited this fantastic invention of Mrs. Purvine’s
affection and pride; that Elvira had poisoned his mind; that he was
jealous and angry; that for this he had held aloof? Then the recollection
of their old differences came upon her. His sorrows had obliterated them
in her contemplation. It did not follow, however, that they had brought
her nearer to him. He had long ago fallen away from her. Why should she
expect that he would return now? She remembered with a new interpretation
his joyous relief the morning that she had told to him and his lawyer
in the jail the story of her glimpse of Tad; although she had shared
his gratulation, it was for his sake alone. She remembered his burning
eyes fixed with fiery reproaches upon her face in the court-room, when
the disclosure was elicited that it was in a graveyard she had seen the
missing boy. After all, she had done nothing for him; her testimony had
fostered doubt and roused superstition, and other and stronger friends
had effected his release.
She became silent, sober-eyed, and absorbed, and went mechanically about
the house. Her changed demeanor occasioned comment from Mrs. Jessup, who
sat idle, with a frowzy head and an active snuff-brush, by the fireside
instead of on the porch, as in the summer days. “When Lethe fust kem back
from Shaftesville she ’peared sorter peart an’ livened up. Her brain war
shuck up, somehow, by her travels. I ’lowed she war a-goin’ ter behave
arter this like sure enough folks,—but shucks! she ’pears ter be feared
ter open her mouth, else folks’ll know she hev got a tongue ’twixt her
teeth.” For Alethea found it hard now to reply to the continued queries
of Mrs. Sayles and Mrs. Jessup, who had relished her opportunity, and in
the girl’s observation of village life were enjoying all the benefits
of travel without impinging upon their inertia or undertaking its
fatigues. The elder woman sat smoking in the corner, her pink sun-bonnet
overhanging her pallid, thin face, ever and anon producing a leaf of
badly cured tobacco, and drying it upon the hearth-stone before serving
her pipe. Now and then she chuckled silently and toothlessly at some
detail of the gossip. It had hurt the girl to know how little they cared
for the true object of the expedition. Mink Lorey was naught to them, and
they did not affect a picturesque humanity which they did not feel.
“Waal, sir!” Mrs. Sayles would say, “I’ll be bound them town folks air
talkin’ ’bout Dely Purvine yit. I jes’ kin view in the sperit how she
went a-boguein’ roun’ that town, stare-gazin’ everything, like she
war raised nowhar, an’ warn’t used ter nuthin’. Didn’t the folks laff
powerful at yer aunt Dely?”
“I never seen nobody laffin’,” protested Alethea, loyally.
Jacob Jessup, sober enough, but surly, was wont also to sit in these
days idle by the fire. The farm work, such as it was, had been done. The
stock he fed when he liked. He chose to consider Alethea’s metropolitan
trip as a bit of personal self-assertion, and sneered whenever it was
mentioned, and sought to ignore it as far as he might. For his own part,
he had never been to Shaftesville, and he grudged her the distinction. He
would not recognize it; he treated the fact as if it were not, and thus
he extinguished it. He seemed somehow, as he sprawled idly about, to take
up much more room by the fire than the women, despite their skirts, and
he was often engaged in altercations with the dogs, the children, and the
pet cub as to the space they occupied. The bear had been reared in a bad
school for his manners; he had grown intelligent and impudent and selfish
in captivity among his human friends. He would stretch himself along the
hearth in front of the family, absorbing all the heat, snarling, and
showing his teeth sometimes, but steeling himself in his fur and his fat
and his fortitude, and withstanding kicks and blows till his persecutor
was tired. Sometimes Jessup would catch him by the rolls of fat about
his neck and drag him to the door, but the nimble beast would again be
stretched upon the hearthstones before the man could reach his chair.
Jessup did the brute no great hurt, for, lowering and ill-natured as the
fellow was, he was kindly disposed toward animals, and this made the more
marked a sort of spite which he seemed to entertain toward the raccoon
which Mink had given Elvira, and which she had brought to Alethea. The
grotesque creature was in some sort a domestic martyr. As it scuttled
about the uneven puncheon floor, he would affect to stumble over it,
swear at it, seize it by the tail, and fling it against the wall. But
the coon’s griefs were readily healed. It would skulk away for a time,
and then be seen eating stolen delicacies in its dainty fashion, washing
the food between its two fore-paws in the drinking pail. Old man Sayles,
silent, subdued, sat a sort of alien at his own fireside, sorting seeds,
and bits of tobacco, buttons, herbs, tiny gourds, which went by the
name of “lumber” with him, in a kind of trough beneath the window that
served in lieu of sill. Now and then he passed his hand over his head
and sighed. Perhaps he regretted his second matrimonial venture; for the
domestic scene was one of frowzy confusion, very pronounced when crowded
into one small room, instead of being shared with the porch, which the
wind swept now and shook, and where the mists congregated in the evenings
or the frosts convened. The Jessup children were shrill at play. The
baby had got on its feet, and was walking into everything,—unwary pans
and kettles and tubs of water. Tige’s overbearing disposition was very
manifest in his capacity as fireside companion. And when the chimney
smoked, and L’onidas preferred his complaints at Alethea’s side as she
sat and carded wool, and the cub leaned his weight against her as he
contemplated the fire with his head upon her knee, and her step-mother
scolded, and Jacob Jessup fumed and contradicted, and the experimental
baby brought down the churn with a crash, while the cat lapped amidst
the waste, Mrs. Jessup would shift her snuff-brush to the other corner
of her pretty mouth, and demand, “Now ain’t Lethe a plumb fool ter live
hyar along o’ sech cavortin’ ways up on the side o’ a mounting, a-waitin’
fur a pore wuthless scamp like Mink Lorey, when she could hev a house
ter herself in Piomingo Cove, with no hendrance but Ben Doaks, a quiet
respectable boy, ez I don’t look down on ’kase he ain’t got religion! I
know some folks ez religion itself can’t holp.”
Sometimes, however,—it was at long intervals,—even Mrs. Jessup would
be summoned to rouse herself from the heavy sluggishness that made all
exertion, beyond the necessary routine, positive pain. The code of
etiquette that prevails in the mountains, simple as it is, has yet its
rigorous requirements; and when the death of a kinsman in Eskaqua Cove
presently occurred, the graceless creature deplored it less than the
supervening necessity of attending the obsequies. There was no snow, nor
ice, nor rain, to urge as an excuse. The weather was singularly fine and
dry. It was easier getting down the mountain now than in the summer. And
so she was constrained to go.
The sunshine was still, languid; the air was calm, Wild-Cat Hollow wore
its wintry aspect, although below in the cove one might have glimpses of
red and yellow, as if the autumn yet lingered. Everywhere there was a
wider outlook because of the denudation of the woods, and the landscape
was the more gaunt, the more rugged. It was like a mind stripped of the
illusions of youth; the stern facts are the plainer, and alas! more
stern. The purplish-garnet hue of the myriads of bare boughs in the
forests covering the mountain slopes contrasted with the indeterminate
blue of the sky. There was a fibrous effect in their fine detail; even
the great mass, seen at a distance, was like some delicate penciling.
Singularly still it was, the air very dry; the dead leaves on the ground
did not rustle; the corn-stalks, standing withered and yellow in the
fields, did not stir. The only motion was the slow shifting of the
shadows as the day went on, and perhaps high, high even above the Great
Smoky, a swift passing of wild geese flying southward, their cabalistic
syllable _Houk! houk!_ floating down, seeming in the silence strangely
intoned and mysterious. At night a new moon looked through the rigid,
naked trees. The feeble glimmer from the little log cabin was solitary.
The stars themselves were hardly more aloof from the world. The narrow
vista through the gap only attested how darkly indistinguishable was the
cove, how annihilated in the blackness were the mountains.
No sound of cattle drifted down now from the bald; the herds were gone;
sometimes in the midnight the howl of a wolf echoed and re-echoed in
all the tortuous ways of the wilderness; then silence, that seemed to
tremble with fear of the reiteration of the savage cry. Alethea was prone
to be wakeful and sad and anxious, so perhaps it was well that she had
much to occupy her thoughts during the day. The baby fretted for his
mother. Mrs. Jessup was not a model mother, but she was the only one
the baby had, and he was not recreant to filial sentiment. He exacted a
vast number of petty attentions from Alethea which he had never before
required. Tige and the cub resented the pampering she gave him; they were
jealous and made their feeling known in many dumb manifestations: they
kept themselves sadly in the way; now they were hungry and now they were
thirsty, and they whined continually about her.
She hardly noticed at first that a thick haze had appeared over the cove,
but as yet did not dim the sky. It climbed the mountain sides, and hung
like a gauze veil about the cabin and the sheds. Suddenly she became
aware of the pungent odor of smoke. She put the child away from her, as
he clung to her skirts, and stepped out upon the porch. The dog and cub
pressed close after her, fancying that they had scored one against the
baby, who had sunk, squalling because of his desertion, upon the floor.
She looked about for a moment at the still white presence that had
usurped the earth, the air, the sky.
“Somebody hev set out fire in the woods!” she cried.
“Hev ye jes’ fund that out?” drawled Jacob Jessup, as he sat on the
porch. Her father and he were languidly discussing whether they should
fire against it. It was far enough away as yet, they thought, and with
the annual conflagrations in the woods they had become experts in judging
of the distance and of the emergencies of fighting fire with fire.
She listened as they talked, thinking that Sam Marvin’s home, miles away,
would presently be in danger, if they were right as to the location of
the fire. The cruel flames would complete the desolation she had wrought.
Her conscience winced always at the recollection of its bare, denuded
plight. Some small reparation was suggested in the idea that she might
save it; she might go thither now and fire the dead leaves on the slopes
below. Above there was a desolate, barren stretch of rocks, covering many
acres, which the flames could hardly overleap. There was no wind, but a
slight stir was now in the air. Its current was down the mountain.
She set out, Tige and the coon with her: the wild thing ambling demurely
along with all the decorum of cultivated manners; the domestic animal
barking and leaping before her in mad ecstasy for the simple privilege of
the excursion. The cub looked after them from the doorway, whined, and
crept within to the fire.
As she went she was vividly reminded of the day when she had journeyed
thither before, although the woods had then worn the rich guise of
autumn, and they were now austere and bleak and silent, and shrouded in
the white smoke. She even noted the lick-log at the forks of the road,
where she had sat and trembled and debated within herself. She wondered
if what she had said in the court-room would pursue the moonshiner in his
hiding place. Would it harm him? Had she done right or wrong?
Still walking on up the steep slant to the moonshiner’s house, seeing
only a yard or two before her, she at last came upon the fence. She
paused and leaned upon the rails, and looked about her. The corn-field
comprised more acreage than is usual in mountain agriculture. The
destination of the crop was not the limited legitimate market of the
region. It was planted for use in the still. She experienced another pang
when she realized that it too was a grievous loss; for Sam Marvin had
been forced to leave the fruit of his industry when it stood immature.
Now, early in December, the full crisp ears leaned heavily from the
sere stalk. She wondered that the abandoned crop, a fine one, had not
been plundered. Then she bethought herself how deep in the wilderness
it stood secluded. All at once she heard a rustling among the corn. Her
first thought was the bear. In amaze she discerned a wagon looming hard
by in the smoke. Then the indistinct figures of a man, a woman, and
a half-grown girl came slowly down the turn row. To judge from their
gestures, they were gathering the corn.
XVII.
Alethea stood motionless for some little time, still leaning on the
fence. A stalk of golden-rod, brown and withered, its glory departed,
touched the rails now and then. Its slight, infrequent swaying was the
only intimation of wind, except that the encompassing smoke, filling
the vast spaces between heaven and earth, shifted occasionally, the
dense convolutions silently merging into new combinations of ill-defined
shapes,—colorless phantasmagoria, dimly looming. It might have seemed as
if all the world had faded out, leaving only these blurred suggestions of
unrecognized forms, like the vestiges of forgotten æons.
Even the harvesters did not maintain always a human aspect. Through
the haze they were grotesque, distorted, gigantic; their hands vaguely
visible, now lifted, now falling, in their deliberate but ceaseless work.
They looked like vagrants from that eccentric populace of dreams, given
over to abnormal, inconsequent gestures, to shifting similitudes, to
preposterous conditions and facile metamorphoses of identity. Alethea
felt a strange doubt, in recognizing Sam Marvin, whether it were indeed
the moonshiner whom she saw.
An insistent silence possessed the air, broken only by the rustle of the
crisp husks as the three dim figures pulled the corn. Suddenly there
sounded a mad, scuttling rush, shrill canine yelps, and a series of
nimble shadows vaulted over the fence. The coon ran up a tree, while
the moonshiner’s dogs ranged themselves beneath it, with upturned heads
askew, and gloating, baffled eyes, and moans of melancholy frustration,
punctuated ever and anon with yaps of more poignant realization of the
coon’s inaccessibility. Tige, irresolute, showed fight at first to the
strangers; then he too sat down, and with quivering fore-paws and wagging
tail wheezed and yelped at his fireside companion, as if he had no
personal acquaintance with the raccoon, had held with him no relations of
enforced amity, and could not wait one moment to crunch his bones.
The half-grown girl, desisting from her work, turned her head in the
direction of the noise, and caught a glimpse of Alethea. She had an
excited eye, high cheek-bones, and a thin, prominent nose. Her face
looked peculiarly sharp inside her flabby sun-bonnet. She was at the
“growing age,” and her frock was consequently short for the bare,
sun-embrowned legs which protruded from it. Her bare feet were long and
bony. She seemed to be growing lengthwise only, for her shoulders were
narrow, her arms slim. She had a callow, half-fledged look, not unlike a
Shanghai pullet. Her manner was abrupt and fluttered, and her voice high
and shrill.
“Laws-a-massy!” she exclaimed, jumping precipitately backward on her
long, attenuated legs, “yander’s Lethe Sayles!”
Both the man and the woman started violently,—not because of the matter
of the disclosure, but of its manner, as was manifested in his rebuke.
“By Gosh, Sereny! ef ye ain’t mighty nigh skeered me ter death!” he cried
angrily. “S’pose it air Lethe Sayles!” He bowed his body grotesquely
amidst the smoke, as he emphasized his reproof. “Air she ennything so
powerful oncommon ez ye hev ter jump ez sprightly ez ef ye hed stepped on
a rattlesnake, an’ squeech out that-a-way? Howdy, Lethe,” he added, with
an odd contrast of a calm voice and a smooth manner, as if Alethea were
deaf to these amenities. “Thrivin’, I s’pose?”
Alethea faltered that she was well, and said no more. The imperative
consciousness of all that she had done against him, of all for which she
feared him, prevailed for a time. She knew that it would have been wiser
to venture some commonplace civility, and then go. But that insistent
conscience, strong within her, forbade this. She was all unprepared now
for the disclosure of her testimony in the court-room, but the fact that
she had ever intended to warn him made it seem as if this were due. She
felt as if she had missed a certain fortification of her courage in
that she had not had the privilege of trembling over the prospect, of
familiarizing herself with it, of approaching it slowly, but none the
less surely, by lessening degrees of trepidation. She wondered that he
did not look at her with more of the indignation which she knew he must
feel toward her. Bitterness, however, was acridly manifested in the
woman’s manner, her averted head, her sedulous silence. She continued
industriously pulling the corn, as if no word had been spoken, no
creature stood by. The gallinaceous girl, silent too, returned to her
work, but often looked askance at Alethea over her shoulder.
The man spoke presently. His face and figure were blurred now in the
smoke. It was as if a shadow had purloined a sarcastic voice. Alethea’s
nerves were unstrung by the surprise of the meeting, and the fact that
she could see only this elusive suggestion of his presence harassed and
discomposed her.
“Waal, Lethe, I dunno ez I be s’prised ter see ye. I hev seen ye sech a
many times whenst I never expected ye,—startin’ up yander at Boke’s barn
ez suddint ez ef ye hed yer headquarters in the yearth or the sky. An’
jes’ at this junctry, whenst we air a-tryin’ ter steal our _own_ corn
away from hyar, ye kem a-boundin’ out’n the smoke, like ye hed no abidin’
place more ’n a witch or that thar Herder on Thunderhead, or sech harnts.
I never see yer beat ez a meddler. Satan ain’t no busier with other
folkses’ souls.”
She made no reply. The shifting vapor hid the tree where the bright-eyed
coon hung fast by his claws, and the wheezing yapping of the foiled dogs
besieging his stronghold seemed strangely loud and near since they were
invisible.
The shucks rustled sibilantly. The ears of maize fell with a monotonous
sound upon the heaps in the turn row.
“What did the revenuers do when they kem up the mounting?” Marvin asked
suddenly. His tone was all alert now with curiosity. He could reserve his
rebukes till his craving for gossip should be satisfied. Conversation, a
fine art elsewhere, assumes the dignity of a privilege in these sparsely
settled wilds, where its opportunities are scant.
“They ain’t never kem, ez I knows on,” said Alethea tremulously. They
might come yet, and here he was still unwarned and at the mercy of
accident. She had climbed the fence, springing lightly down on the other
side, and had mechanically begun to assist them in their work,—the usual
courtesy of a guest in the mountains who finds the host employed.
“Slip-shuck it, Lethe,” he remarked, calling her attention to the fact
that the outer husks were left upon the stalks, and the ear, enveloped
merely in its inner integuments, was thrown upon the heap. “I hates
powerful ter be obleeged ter leave all this hyar good roughness;” he
indicated the long rows of shucks upon the stalks. “My cattle would be
mighty thankful ter hev sech fedded ter ’em. But the corn itself air
about ez much ez I kin haul so fur”—
“_Don’t_ ye tell her wharabouts we-uns lives nowadays,” broke out the
woman.
She was standing near Alethea, and she turned and looked at her. The
girl’s fresh and beautiful countenance was only more delicate, more
sensitive, with that half-affrighted perturbation on it, that piteous
deprecation. The elder woman’s face was furrowed and yellow in contrast;
her large, prominent eyes, of a light, hazel color, were full of tears,
and had a look as if tears were no unfamiliar visitants. She wiped them
away with the curtain of her pink sun-bonnet, and went on pulling the
corn.
“I dunno whar Sam Marvin lives, myself,” the moonshiner declared, with
reckless bravado. “I don’t go by that name no mo’.”
He straightened up and set his arms akimbo, as he laughed.
“Ye needn’t send no mo’ o’ yer spies, Lethe, arter me,” he declared. “My
neighbors way over yander dunno no sech man ez Sam Marvin.”
Alethea’s lifted hand paused upon the shuck on the sere stalk. As she
turned half round he saw her face in the smoke; her golden hair and
fresh cheek, and the saffron kerchief tied beneath the round chin. He
was not struck by her beauty; it always seemed a thing apart from her,
the slightest incident of her personality, so much more forceful were
the impressions of her character, so much more intimately her coercive
opinions concerned those with whom she came in contact. But in her clear
eyes he detected a surprise which he hardly understood at the moment. And
he paused to look at her, wondering if it were only simulated.
Her heart throbbed with a dull and heavy pain. So angry were they because
she would not promise to keep their secret. She shrank from their rage
when she should tell that she had voluntarily disclosed it.
“Ye’ll be purtendin’ ez ’twar somebody else ez sent the spy ter make sure
o’ the place whar we kep’ our still. I _know ye_!” He wagged his head in
more active assertion that her machinations could not avail against his
discernment.
“I never sent no spy,” faltered Alethea.
“Thar now! What did I tell ye!” he broke out, laughing disdainfully;
the woman added a high, shrill, unmirthful refrain; even Serena the
pullet, stepping about in the smoke on her long, yellow feet and in her
abbreviated garments, cackled scornfully.
“Ye may thank yer blessed stars,” cried the woman scathingly,—she could
hold silence no longer—“ez ye done nuthin’ agin we-uns. An’ the revenuers
never raided our still, nor got nare drap o’ our liquor, nor tuk nuthin’
o’ ourn. Yer bones would be a-bleachin’ on the hillside ef they hed!
Jes’ afore yer spy kem them white-livered men—Sam thar, an’ the t’other
distillers—war a-talkin’ ’bout how they could make ye hesh up yer mouth,
ez ye wouldn’t keep it shet yerse’f. They ’lowed it never seemed right
handy ter them ter shoot a woman same ez a man, an’ I jes’ up-ed an’
tole ’em ez ye desarved no better ’n a bullet through that yaller head
o’ yourn, an’ they could git a shot at ye enny evenin’ whenst ye war
a-drivin’ up the cow. An’ I ’lowed ez whenst a woman went a-meddlin’ an’
informin’ like a man, let her take what a man hev ter take. Naw, sir!
but they mus’ run away, ’count o’ a meddler like you-uns, an’ go live
somwhar else! An’ I hed ter leave my home, an’ the three graves o’ my
dead chill’n, yander on the rise, ez lonesome an’ ez meagre-lookin’ ez ef
they war three pertater hills.”
She burst into a tumult of tears. The smoke wafted down, obscuring
her,—there was commotion in its midst, for the wind was rising,—and her
sobs sounded from out the invisibility that had effaced the earth as if
some spirit of grief were abroad in it.
“Shet up, M’ria! Ye talk like ye hed no mo’ sense ’n a sheep. The chill’n
ain’t in them graves,” Marvin said, with the consolations of a sturdy
orthodoxy.
“Thar leetle bones is,” said the spirit of grief from the densities of
the clouds.
And he could not gainsay this.
She wept on persistently for the little deserted bones. He could not feel
as she did, yet he could understand her feeling. His under-jaw dropped
a little; some stress of melancholy and solemnity was on his face, as
if a saddened retrospection were evoked for him, too. But it was a
recollection which his instinct was to throw off, rather than to cherish
as a precious sorrow, jealously exacting for it the extremest tribute of
sighs and tears.
“Lethe,” he said suddenly, with a cheerful note, “bein’ ez they never
cotch us, did they pay ye ennything ez informer? I ain’t right sure how
the law stands on that p’int. The law ’pears ter me ter be a mighty
onstiddy, contrariwise contrivance, an’ the bes’ way ter find out
ennything _sartain sure_ ’bout’n it air ter ’sperience it. Did they pay
ye ennything?”
“I never informed the revenuers,” declared Alethea, once more.
He turned upon her a look of scorn.
“I knowed ye war a powerful fool, a-talkin’ ’bout ‘what’s right,’ an’
preachin’ same ez the rider, an’ faultin’ yer elders. But I never knowed
ye war a liar an’ a scandalous hypocrite. The Bible say, ‘Woe ter ye,
hypocrites!’ I wonder ye ain’t hearn that afore; either a-wrastlin’ with
yer own soul, or meddlin’ with other folkses’ salvation.” It occurred to
him that he preached very well himself, and he was minded, in the sudden
vanity of the discovery, to reiterate, “Woe unto ye, hypocrite!”
“What makes ye ’low ez I gin the word ter the revenuers?” demanded
Alethea.
“’Kase the spy kem up thar with yer name on his lips. ‘Lethe Sayles,’ he
sez,—‘Lethe Sayles.’”
The girl stared wide-eyed and amazed at him.
Marvin’s wife noted the expression. “Oh, g’long, Lethe Sayles!” she cried
impatiently; “ye air so deceivin’!”
“The spy!” faltered Alethea. “Who war the spy? I never tole nobody ’bout
seein’ ye at Boke’s barn, nor whenst I war milkin’ the cow, nuther, till
a few weeks ago. Ye hed lef’ hyar fur months afore then.”
The woman, listening, with an ear of corn in her motionless hand, turned
and cast it upon the heap with a significant gesture of rejection, as if
she thus discarded the claims of what she had heard. She sneered, and
laughed derisively and shrill. The pullet, too, broke into mocking mirth,
and then both fell to pulling corn with a sort of flouting energy.
“Oh, shucks!” exclaimed Marvin, with a feint of sharing their
incredulity. But he held his straggling beard in one hand, and looked
at Alethea seriously. To him her manner constrained belief in what she
had said. “Why, Lethe,” he broke out, abruptly, “’twarn’t long arter
that evenin’ whenst I seen ye a-milkin’ the cow when the spy kem. We-uns
war a-settin’ roun’ the still,—we kep’ it in the shed-room, me an’ my
partners,—an’ we war a-talkin’ ’bout you-uns, an’ how ye acted; an’
M’ria, she war thar, an’ she went agin ye, an’ ’lowed ez we hed better
make ye shet yer mouth; an’ some o’ the boys were argufyin’ ez ye war
jes’ sayin’ sech ez ye done ter hear yerse’f talk, an’ feel sot up in
yer own ’pinion. They ’lowed ye’d be feared ter tell, sure enough, but
ye hankered ter be begged ter shet up. ’Twar a powerful stormy night.
I never hear a wusser wind ez war a-cavortin’ round the house. An’ the
lightnin’ an’ thunder hed been right up an’ down sniptious. A lightnin’
ball mus’ hev bust up on Piomingo Bald, ’kase nex’ day I see the ground
tore up round the herders’ cabin, though Ben Doaks warn’t thar,—hed
gone down ter the cove, I reckon. Waal, sir, it quit stormin’ arter a
while, but everything war mighty damp an’ wet; the draps kep’ a-fallin’
off’n the eaves. We could hear the hogs in the pen a-squashin’ about
in the mud. An’ all of a suddenty they tuk ter squealin’ an’ gruntin’,
skeered mighty nigh ter death. An’ my oldest son, Mose, he ’lowed it
war a varmint arter ’em; an’ he snatched his gun an’ runned out ter
the hog-pen. An’ thar they war, all jammed up tergether, gruntin’ an’
snortin’; an’ Mose say he war afeard to shoot ’mongst ’em, fur fear o’
hittin’ some o’ them stiddier the varmint. An’ whilst he war lookin’
right keerful,—the moon hed kem out by then,—he seen, stiddier a wolf,
suthin’ a-bowin’ down off’n the fence. An’ the thing cotch up a crust
o’ bread, or a rind o’ water-million, or suthin’, out o’ the trough fur
the hogs, an’ then sot up ez white-faced on the fence, a-munchin’ it an’
a-lookin’ at him. An’ Mose ’lowed he war so plumb s’prised he los’ his
senses. He ’lowed ’twar a harnt,—it looked so onexpected. He jes’ flung
his rifle on the groun’ an’ run. It’s mighty seldom sech tracks hev been
made on the Big Smoky ez Mose tuk. We-uns ain’t medjured ’em yit, but
Mose hev got the name ’mongst the gang o’ bein’ able ter step fourteen
feet at a stride.”
He showed his long, tobacco-stained teeth in the midst of his straggling
beard, and as he talked on he gnawed at a plug of tobacco, as if, being
no impediment to thought, it could be none to its expression.
“Mose lept inter the house, declarin’ thar war a harnt a-settin’ on the
fence. Ye know Jeb Peake?—hongry Jeb, they useter call him.” Marvin
broke off suddenly, having forgotten the significance and purpose of the
recital in the rare pleasure of recounting. Even his wife’s face bore
only retrospective absorption, and Serena had lifted her head, and fixed
an excited, steadfast eye upon him. “Waal, hongry Jeb war a-settin’ thar
in the corner, an’ bein’ toler’ble sleepy-headed he hed drapped off,
his head agin the chimbley. An’ when Mose kem a-rampagin’ in thar, with
his eyes poppin’ out, declarin’ thar war a harnt settin’ on the fence,
eatin’,—‘_Eatin’ what?_’ sez hongry Jeb, a-startin’ up. Ha! ha! ha!”
“Jeb ain’t never forgot the bottom o’ the pot yit,” chimed in the wife.
“I ain’t a-grudgin’ him ter eat, though,” stipulated the moonshiner,
“nor the harnt, nuther. I jes’ ’lowed ez that thar white-faced critter
a-settin’ on the fence, a-thievin’ from the hog, mought take up a fancy
ter Mose’s rifle, lef’ onpertected on the ground. So I goes out. Nuthin’
warn’t settin’ on the fence, ’ceptin’ the moonlight an’ that thar
onregenerate young tur-rkey ez nuthin’ could hender from roostin’ on the
rails o’ the hog-pen, stiddier on a limb o’ a tree, ’longside o’ the
t’other tur-rkeys.”
“An’ thar a fox cotch her afore daybreak,” interpolated Mrs. Marvin,
supplying biographical deficiencies.
“I always _did_ b’lieve ’twar them thar greedy old hogs,” said Serena.
Marvin went on, disregarding the interruption:—
“I picked up Mose’s gun, an’ in I kem. I barred up the door, an’ then I
sot down an’ lighted my pipe. An’ Jeb, he tuk ter tellin’ tales ’bout
all the folks ez he ever knowed ter be skeered haffen ter death”—
“Nare one of ’em war Jeb,” remarked the observant Mrs. Marvin, seizing
the salient trait of the romancer. “In all Jeb’s tales _he_ comes out’n
the big e-end o’ the hawn.”
“An’ ez I sot thar, jes’ wallin’ my eyes round the room, I seen suthin’
that, ef the t’others hed said they seen, I’d hev tole ’em they war
lyin’. ’Twar a couple o’ eyes an’ a white face peekin’ through the holes
in the chinkin’ o’ the walls, whar the daubin’ hed fell out. ’Twar right
close ter me at fust,—that war how I kem ter see it so plain. I ’lowed
ter jes’ stick my knife right quick inter one o’ them eyes. I ’lowed
’twar a raider. ’Fore I could move ’twar gone! Then all of a suddenty I
seen the face an’ eyes peekin’ in close ter the door. I jes’ flew at it
that time,—warn’t goin’ ter let nuthin’ hender”—
“I war ’twixt him an’ the door, an’ he jes’ run over me,” interpolated
the pullet. “Knocked me plumb over, head fust, inter a tub o’ beer. Hed
ter set in the sun all nex’ day fur my hair ter dry out, an’ I smelt like
a toper.”
Sam Marvin not ungenially permitted his family thus to share in telling
his story. He resumed with unabated ardor:—
“An’ I jumped through the door so quick that the spy jes’ did see me,
an’ war steppin’ out ter run when I cotch him by the collar. I don’t
reckon thar ever war a better beatin’ ’n I gin him. I hed drapped my
knife a-runnin’, an’ I hed no dependence ’ceptin’ my fists. His face war
so bloody I didn’t know him a-fust, when I dragged him in the house,
with his head under my arm. An’ when I seen him I knowed he never kem
of hisself, but somebody had sent him. An’ I say, ‘What did ye kem hyar
fur?’ An’ he say, ‘Lethe Sayles.’ An’ I say, ‘Who sent ye?’ An’ he say,
‘Lethe Sayles.’”
“Now, Lethe, see what a liar ye hev been fund out ter be!” said the
woman, scornfully. “Lord knows I never ’lowed ye would kem ter sech. I
knowed ye whenst ye war a baby. A fatter one I never see. Nobody would
hev b’lieved ye’d grow up sour, an’ preachified, an’ faultin’ yer elders,
an’ bide a single woman, ez ef nobody would make ch’ice o’ ye.”
Alethea looked vaguely from one to the other. Denial seemed futile. She
asked mechanically, rather than from any definite motive, “Did ye hear o’
enny revenuers arter that?”
“Didn’t wait ter,” said Marvin. “We hed hearn enough, knowin’ ez ye hed
tole, an’ the word hed got round the kentry, so ez the spy hed been sent
up ter make sure o’ the place. We-uns war too busy a-movin’ the still
an’ a-hustlin’ off. Ef thar hed been time enough fur ennything, I reckon
some o’ them boys would hev put a bullet through that thar sandy head o’
yourn. But the raiders never kem up with we-uns, nor got our still an’
liquor,—we-uns war miles an’ miles away from hyar the night arter Tad kem
a-spyin’.”
Alethea stood staring, speechless. “Tad!” she gasped at last. “_Tad!_”
They all stopped and looked at her through the wreathing smoke, as if
they hardly understood her.
“Lethe, ye air too pretensified ter be healthy!” Mrs. Marvin exclaimed at
last.
“O’ course ye knowed, bein’ ez ye tole him,” said the moonshiner. He did
not resume his work, but stood gazing at her. They were all at a loss,
amazed at her perturbation.
Her breath came fast; her lips were parted. One lifted hand clung to
the heavily enswathed ear of corn upon the tall, sere stalk; the other
clutched the kerchief about her throat, as if she were suffocating. Her
face was pale; her eyes were distended.
“I wouldn’t look so pop-eyed fur nuthin’,” remarked the pullet, in callow
pertness; she might not have been suspected of laying so much stress on
appearances.
“I’m tryin’ ter think,” said Alethea, dazed, “ef that war afore Tad war
drownded or arterward.”
Marvin turned, and leered significantly at his family.
“Mus’ hev been afore he war drownded, I reckon,” he said satirically.
“Lethe Sayles,” observed Serena reprehensively, “ye air teched in the
head.”
She tossed her own head with a conviction that, if not strictly
ornamental, it was level. Then, like the sane fowl that she was, she went
stepping about on her long, yellow feet with a demure, grown-up air.
“Oh,” said Alethea, fixing the dates in her mind, “it mus’ hev been
arterwards”—
“Likely,” interrupted Sam Marvin.
—“’kase that very evenin’ arter I seen ye at the cow-pen Elviry Crosby
kem an’ tole ez how Reuben Lorey hed bust down old man Griff’s mill, an’
his nevy Tad war in it, an’ war drownded in the ruver.”
“Laws-a-me!” exclaimed Mrs. Marvin, clutching her sun-bonnet with both
hands, and thrusting it backward from her head, as if it intercepted the
news.
“Waal, sir!” cried the moonshiner, amazed.
“Oh,” cried Alethea, clasping both her hands, “ef I hed called ye back
that evenin’, an’ promised not ter tell, like I war minded ter do”—
“Ye ’lowed ’twarn’t right,” suggested the moonshiner.
—“ye would hev knowed ez Tad warn’t no spy, but war jes’ vagabondin’
round the kentry, a runaway, houseless an’ hongry; an’ ye would hev
tuk him back ter old man Griff, an’ Reuben wouldn’t hev been tried fur
killin’ him!”
“Shucks, Mink warn’t tried fur sech sure enough?” said Marvin, uneasily.
His face had changed. His wife was turning the corner of her apron
nervously between her fingers, and looking at him in evident trepidation.
“He hev been in jail fur months an’ months,” said Alethea. “An’ when he
war tried, I told on the witness stand ’bout glimpsin’ Tad one night
whenst I kem from camp,—mus’ hev been the same night whenst he went up
the mounting ter yer house, ’kase thar war a awful storm. An’ when I seen
him suddint I screamed, bein’ s’prised; an’ I reckon that war the reason
he said ‘Lethe Sayles.’ An’ at the trial they lowed I hed seen nuthin’
but Tad’s harnt, an’ the jury disagreed.”
“An’—an’—an’ air Mink in jail yit?” demanded the moonshiner, his jaw
falling in dismay.
“The rescuers tuk him out,” said Alethea.
“Waal, sir,” he exclaimed, with a long breath. “Ye see,”—he seemed to
feel that he must account for his excitement and interest,—“bein’ hid
out, I hain’t hearn no news, sca’cely, sence we-uns lef’.”
“Whar be Tad now?” Alethea asked suddenly, realizing that here was the
man who had seen him last.
He glanced quickly at her, then in perplexed dubitation at his wife. In
common with many women, she was willing enough to steer when it was all
plain sailing, but among the breakers she left him with an undivided
responsibility. She fell to pulling corn with an air of complete
absorption in her work.
He made a clumsy effort at diversion. “By Gosh,” he declared, waving his
hand about his head, “ef this hyar smoke don’t clar away, we-uns’ll all
be sifflicated in it.”
But the smoke was not now so dense. High up, its sober, dun-colored folds
were suffused with a lurid flush admitted from the wintry sunset. The
black, dead trees within the inclosure stood out distinctly athwart the
blank neutrality of the gray, nebulous background. The little house on
the rise was dimly suggested beyond the corn-field, across which skulked
protean shapes of smoke,—monstrous forms, full of motion and strange
consistency and slowly realized symmetry, as if some gigantic prehistoric
beasts were trembling upon the verge of materialization and visibility.
The wind gave them chase. It had lifted its voice in the silences.
Like a clarion it rang down the narrow ravine below. But Sam Marvin,
expanding his lungs to the freshened air, declared that he felt “plumb
sifflicated.”
“Whar be Tad now?” persisted Alethea.
He spat meditatively upon the ground. “Waal, Lethe,” he said at last,
“that’s more’n I know. I dunno whar Tad be now.”
She detected consciousness in the manner of the woman and the girl. She
broke out in a tumult of fear:—
“Ye didn’t harm Tad, did ye?” with wild, terrified eyes fixed upon him.
“Ye didn’t kill Tad fur a spy?—’kase he warn’t.”
“Shet up, ye blatant fool!” exclaimed Mrs. Marvin, “layin’ sech ez that
at we-uns’s door.”
“An’ shet up yerse’f, M’ria. Least said, soonest mended,” Marvin
interposed. “Look-a-hyar, Lethe Sayles, ye hev done harm enough; it may
be ’kase it war right. Take sech satisfaction ez ye kin in yer notion. It
never turned out right,—turned out mighty wrong. I ain’t goin’ ter answer
ye nare nuther word. I hev got a question ter ax you-uns right now. Who
war it ye tole ’bout findin’ out ’twar me a-moonshinin’?”
She detailed tremulously the scene in the court-room, and the impression
it produced was altogether at variance with her expectations. Perhaps,
however, it was only natural that Sam Marvin should feel less interest in
the belated disclosure, which he had thought was made months previous,
than in the circumstances of the trial, Peter Rood’s death, the
imprisonment of the jury, and the riot of the rescuing mob. As to his
wife, she was chiefly shocked by the publicity attaching to testimony in
open court.
“An’ ye jes’ stood up thar, Lethe Sayles, ez bold-faced ez a
biscuit-block, an’ lifted up yer outdacious voice afore all them men?
Waal, sir! Waal! I dunno what the wimmen air a-comin’ ter!”
“I war obligated ter tell sech ez I knowed,” Alethea contended against
this assumption of superior delicacy. “I never felt no more bold-faced
than in tellin’ ’speriunce ’fore the brethren at camp.”
“Oh, child!” cried Mrs. Marvin. “It’s the spirit o’ grace movin’ at camp,
but at court it’s the nimbleness o’ the devil.”
Alethea argued no further, for conversation was impeded by the succeeding
operations of gathering the crop. Marvin was leading the team of the
great wagon from one to another of the heaps of corn. The huge creaking
wheels crushed the ranks of stalks that fell in confusion on either side;
the white canvas cover had been removed from the hoops, in order to
facilitate the throwing of the corn into the wagon. Through the wreaths
of smoke appeared the long ears of a pair of mules. Sam Marvin had
apparently found his new home in a thirstier locality than his old, for
he was evidently thriving. The pair of mules might have been considered
a sorry team in point of appearance: their sides were rubbed bare with
the friction of the trace-chains; they were both unkempt, and one was
very tall and the other small, but they were stalwart and sure-footed and
fleet, and a wonderful acquisition in lieu of the yoke of slow oxen she
remembered. The continuous thud, as the ears of corn were thrown into the
wagon, enabled Marvin to affect not to hear Alethea’s reiteration as to
Tad’s fate.
“I wisht ye’d tell me suthin’ ’bout’n Tad,” she said piteously. “I wisht
I knew ye hedn’t hurt him, nor—nor”—
She paused in the work, looking drearily about her. The wind tossed her
garments; she was fain at times to catch her bonnet by the curtain, to
hold it. The smoke had taken flight; dragons, winged horses, griffins,
forgotten myths, all scurrying away before the strong blast. And still
they came and went, and rose once more, for the wind that lifted the
smoke fanned the fire. The flames were in sight along the base of Big
Injun Mounting, writhing now like fiery serpents, and now rising like
some strange growth in quivering blades; waving and bowing, appearing
and disappearing, and always extending further and further. They seemed
so alive, so endowed with the spirit of destruction, so wantonly alert,
so merciless to the fettered mountain that tossed its forests in wild
commotion, with many a gesture of abject despair, and spite of all could
not flee. Their strong, tawny color contrasted with the dull garnet
of the bare boughs and the deep, sombre green of the solemn pines. The
smoke carried from the fire a lurid reflection, fading presently in the
progress across the landscape of the long, dun-colored flights. The
wintry sunset was at hand. The sky was red and amber; the plains of the
far west lay vaguely purple beneath. On Walden’s Ridge, rising against
the horizon, rested the sun, from which somehow the dazzling fire seemed
withdrawn, leaving a sphere of vivid scarlet, indescribably pure and
intense, upon which the eye could nevertheless gaze undaunted.
Pensive intimations there were in its reduced splendors; in the deep
purple of Chilhowee, in the brown tints of the nearer ranges. Something
was gone from the earth,—a day,—and the earth was sad, though it had
known so many. And the night impended and the unimagined morrow. And thus
the averted Future turns by slow degrees the face that all flesh dreads
to see. The voice of lowing cattle came up from the cove. The fires in
the solitudes burned apace.
“I hev axed ye time an’ agin, Sam Marvin, whar Tad be. Ef ye don’t tell,
I’ll be bound ter b’lieve ye moonshiners hev done suthin’ awful ter him.”
They were about to depart on their journey. Already Serena was on her
uneasy bed of corn in the ear. But the pullet’s life had been made
up chiefly of rough jouncing, and never having heard of a wagon with
springs, she was in a measure incapable of appreciating her deprivation.
She had wrapped a quilt of many colors about her shoulders, for the
evening air was chill, and she looked out of the opening in the back
of the canvas-covered wagon in grotesque variegation. Mrs. Marvin was
climbing upon the wheel to her seat on the board in front. The moonshiner
stood by the head of one of the mules, busy arranging the simple
tackling. He looked with a sneer at Alethea over the beast’s neck.
“An’ I hev tole ye, Lethe Sayles, ez I dunno whar Tad be now. I’m a
mighty smart man, sure enough, but ’twould take a smarter one ’n me ter
say whar Tad be now, an’ what he be a-doin’.”
He looked at his wife with a grin. She laughed aloud in tuneless scorn.
The girl, gazing out of the back of the wagon as it jolted off, echoed
the derision in a shrill key. And as the clumsy vehicle went creaking
down the precipitous slope, beyond which could be seen only the flaming
base of the opposite mountain, all luridly aflare in the windy dusk, they
seemed to Alethea as if they were descending into Tophet itself.
XVIII.
For a long time that night Alethea sat on the cabin porch in Wild-Cat
Hollow, absently watching the limited landscape seen through the narrow
gap of the minor ridges superimposed upon the great mountain. The
sky was dark but for the light that came from the earth. The flames
were out of sight behind the intervening ranges. Weird fluctuating
gleams, however, trembled over the cove below, and summoned from the
darkness that stately file of peaks stretching away along the sole
vista vouchsafed to the Hollow. Sometimes the illumination was a dull
red suffusion, merging in the distance into melancholy gradations of
tawny yellow and indeterminate brown, and so to densest gloom. Again
it was golden, vivid, fibrous, divergent, like the segment of a halo
about some miraculous presence, whose gracious splendor was only thus
suggested to the debarred in Wild-Cat Hollow. The legions of the smoke
were loosed: down in the cove, always passing in endless ranks what way
the wind might will; along the mountain side, marshaled in fantasies
reflecting from the fires subtle intimations of color,—of blue and red
and purple; deploying upward, interposing between the constellations,
that seemed themselves upon the march. There were clouds in the sky; the
night was chill. Alethea gathered her shawl over her head. Now and then
Tige, who sat beside her, wheezed and glanced over his shoulder at the
door ajar, as if to urge her to go in. Sometimes he ran thither himself,
looking backward to see if she would follow him. Then, as she continued
motionless, he would come and sit beside her, with a plaintive whine of
resignation. Tige was pensive and humble to-night, and was making an
edifying show of repentance. On the homeward walk he had been disposed to
follow the example of the moonshiner’s dogs and harass the coon, thereby
becoming acquainted with the teeth of the smiling creature, and incurring
Alethea’s rebukes and displeasure.
It was a cheerful scene within, glimpsed through the half-open door,
contrasting with the wild, dark world without, and its strange glares
and fluctuating glooms and far-off stars and vast admeasurements of
loneliness. The old woman knitted and nodded in her rocking-chair; Jessup
and Mr. Sayles smoked their pipes, and ever and anon the old man began
anew to detail—the pipe-stem between his teeth—the legends that his
grandfather had learned from the Indians of the hidden silver mines in
these mountains, found long ago, and visited stealthily, the secret of
the locality dying with its discoverer, who thus carried out of the world
more than he brought with him. Their eyes gloated on the fire as they
talked, seeing more than the leaping yellow flames or the white heats of
the coals below. It might seem as if the craving for precious metal is a
natural appetite, since these men that knew naught of the world, of the
influence of wealth, of its powers, of its infinite divergences, should
be a-hungered for it in their primitive fastnesses, and dream of it by
night.
“On the top of the Big Smoky Mountings, on a spot whar ye kin see the
Tennessee River in three places at once,” said the old man, repeating the
formula of the tradition.
Jessup puffed his pipe a moment in silence, watching the wreathing smoke.
“I know twenty sech spots,” he said presently.
The old man sighed and shifted his position. “Me too,” he admitted. “But
thar it be,” he observed, “fur the man ez air a-comin’.”
They fell silent, perhaps both projecting a mental ideal of the man of
the future, and the subservient circumstance that should lead him to
stand one day on these stupendous heights, with sunshine and clouds about
him and the world at his feet, and to look upon the mystic curves of the
river, trebly visible, strike his heel upon the ground, and triumphantly
proclaim, “It is here!”
The dogs lay about the hearth; one, a hound, in the shadow, with his
muzzle stretched flat on the floor between his fore-paws, had saurian
suggestions,—he was like an alligator. Leonidas and Lucinda had gone to
bed, but the baby was still up and afoot. The fiat of nursery ethics that
gentry of his age should be early asleep had been complied with only so
far as getting him into his night-gown, which encased his increasing
plumpness like a cylinder. He wore a queer night-cap, that made him look
incongruously ancient and feminine. He plodded about the puncheon floor,
in the joy of his newly acquired powers of locomotion, with reckless
enthusiasm. His shadow accompanied him, magnified, elongated,—his
similitude as he might be in years to come; he seemed in some sort
attended by the presentiment of his future. The energy, however, with
which he had started on his long journey through life would presently be
abated. In good sooth, he would be glad to sit down often and be still,
and would find solace in perching on fences and whittling, and would
know that hustling through this world is not what one might hope. He had
fallen under the delusion that he could talk as well as walk, and was
inarticulately loquacious.
Alethea’s errand outside was to gather chips from the wood-pile hard by,
to kindle the morning’s fires. It had been long since rain had fallen,
but the routine of spreading them upon the hearth, to dry during the
night, was as diligently observed as if the reason that gave rise to the
habit now existed. The splint baskets filled and redolent of the hickory
bark, stood at her feet, yet she did not move.
She was solitary in her isolated life, with her exalted moral ideal that
could compromise with nothing less than the right. She had known no human
being dominated by a supreme idea. The reformers, the martyrs, all who
have looked upward, sacrificed in vain for her—not even as a tradition,
an exemplar might they uphold when she failed. Religion was vague,
distorted, uncomprehended, in the primitive expoundings to which she was
accustomed. Her inherent conscience prevailed within her like some fine,
ecstatic frenzy. It was of an essence so indomitably militant that in her
ignorant musings it seemed that it must be this which marshals the human
forces, and fights the battle of life, and is unconquered in death, and
which the stumbling human tongue calls the soul. And yet so strange it
was, she thought, that she could not always recognize the right,—that she
must sedulously weigh and canvass what she had done and what she might
have done, and what had resulted.
She dwelt long on the moonshiner’s story. She was heart-sore for the
hungry idiot, filching from the hogs,—and what forlorn fate had he found
at last! She drew her shawl closer about her head, and shivered more
with her fears than with the wind. She was very tired; not in body, for
she was strong and well, but in mind and heart and life. Somehow, she
felt as if she were near the end,—surely there was not enough vitality
of hope to sustain her further,—the frequent illusion of sturdy youth,
with the long stretches of weary years ahead. There was even a certain
relaxation of Mink’s tyrannous hold upon her thoughts. It was not that
she cared for him less, but she had pondered so long upon him that her
imagination was numb; she had beggared her invention. She could no more
project scenes where he walked with all those gentler attributes with
which her affection, despite the persistent contradictions of her subtler
discernment, had invested him. She could no longer harass herself with
doubts of his state of mind, with devising troublous reasons why he had
avoided her, with fears of harm and grief menacing him. She had revolted
at last from the thrall of these arid unrealities. She felt, in a sort
of grief for herself, that they were but poor delusions that occupied
her. He must come, and come soon, her heart insistently said. And yet
so tired was her heart that she felt in a sort of dismay that were he
here to-night there would be no wild thrill of ecstasy in her pulses, no
trembling joys. All that she had suffered—despair, and frantic hope that
was hardly less poignant, and keen anxieties, and a stress of care—had
made apathy, quiet, rest, nullity, the grave, seem dearer than aught the
earth could promise.
“He oughter hev kem afore,” she said to herself, in weary deprecation.
And then she thought that perhaps now, since he was at liberty again, he
was happy with Elvira, and she experienced another pang to know that she
was not jealous.
The clouds had obscured the few stars. The wind was flagging; the smoke
grew denser; the forest flames emitted only a dull red glow; the file of
peaks that they had conjured from the blackness of night was lost again
in the deepening gloom.
She was roused suddenly to the fact that it was intensely quiet in-doors.
She could even hear the sound of the fire in the deep chimney-place; it
was “treadin’ snow,” the noise being very similar to the crunch of a
footfall on a frozen crust. She rose, looking upward and holding her hand
to the skies; the glow from within fell upon her fair face, half hooded
in the shawl, and upon her pensive eyes. Flakes were falling; now, no
more; and again she felt the faint touch in her palm.
Her first thought was of Mrs. Jessup, and the impediment that a
snow-storm might prove to her return; and thus she was reminded that the
pedestrian within was still, for she no longer heard the thud of his
bare feet on the floor. He had fallen asleep in a corner of the hearth,
with a gourd in one hand, and in the other a doll, made, after the rural
fashion, of a forked twig arrayed in a bit of homespun. Tige watched him
as he was borne off to his cradle with an envy that was positively human.
It was for the baby’s sake that Mrs. Jessup returned the next day,
despite the deep snow that covered the ground. She had had a dream about
him, she declared,—a dreadful dream, which she could not remember.
It had roused all the maternal sentiment of which she was capable.
She had endured some serious hardship in coming to assure herself of
his well-being, for she was obliged to walk much of the way up the
mountain,—the snow and ice making the road almost impracticable, and
rendering it essential that there should be as little weight as possible
in the wagon; to a woman of her sedentary habit this was an undertaking
of magnitude. After her wild-eyed inquiry, “Air Ebenezer well ez common?”
she seemed to hold him responsible for the deceit of her dream, as if he
were in conspiracy with her sleeping thoughts, and to be disappointed
that the trouble which she had given herself was altogether unnecessary.
“Ye fat gopher!” she remarked, contemptuously, eying his puffy red
cheeks. “Don’t lean on me. I’m fit ter drap. Lean on yer own dinner. I’ll
be bound Lethe stuffed ye ez full ez a sassidge.”
She addressed herself to bewailing that she had curtailed her visit,
having enjoyed it beyond the limits which the lugubrious occasion of the
funeral might seem to warrant.
“Mis’ Purvine war mighty perlite an’ saaft-spoken. I never see a house
so fixed up ez hem air,—though I don’t b’lieve that woman hev more’n two
or three hogs ter slarter fur meat this year, ef that. I slep’ in the
bedroom; ’twar mighty nice, though colder’n ’twar in the reg’lar house,
through hevin’ no fire. I reckon that’s what sot me off ter dreamin’ a
pack o’ lies ’bout that thar great hearty catamount, fairly bustin’ with
fatness. I wisht I hed bided in the cove! Mis’ Purvine begged me ter
bide. We-uns went ter the fun’el tergether, an’ the buryin’, an’ we went
round an’ seen my old neighbors, an’ traded ter the sto’. An’ I spun some
fur Mis’ Purvine.”
“Mighty little, I’ll bet,” declared her husband inopportunely, “ef what
ye do hyar be enny sign.”
Whereupon Mrs. Jessup retorted that she wished she had made an excuse of
the snow to remain with Mrs. Purvine until the thaw, and retaliated amply
by refusing to tell what hymns were sung at the funeral, and to recite
any portion of the sermon.
This resolution punished the unoffending members of the family as
severely as Jessup himself; but it is a common result that the innocent
many must suffer for the guilty unit,—justice generally dealing in the
gross. The old man’s lower jaw fell, dismayed at the deprivation. He
had relinquished sorting his “lumber,” and had roused himself to listen
and note. The details would long serve him for meditation, and would
gradually combine in his recollection in dull mental pictures to dwell
on hereafter, and to solace much lonely vacant time. Mrs. Sayles was
irritated. Alethea had looked to hear something from Mink, and Jessup was
unexpectedly balked.
Nothing could be more complete than Mrs. Jessup’s triumph, as she held
her tongue,—having her reason. Her blue eyes were bright with a surface
gleam, as it were; there was a good deal of fresh color in her face. She
was neater than usual, having been “smartened up ter meet the folks in
the cove.” Her snuff-brush, however, was very much at home in the corner
of an exceedingly pretty mouth. As they all sat before the fire, she
took off the socks which Aunt Dely had lent her, and which she had worn
up the mountain over her shoes, because of the snow; and she could not
altogether refrain from remark.
“Ef these hyar socks hedn’t been loant ter me,” she said, holding one of
them aloft, “I couldn’t holp noticin’ how Mis’ Purvine turned them heels,
knittin’ ’em. I do declar’, ef these hyar socks fits Jerry Price, he hev
got a foot shaped like Buck’s, an’ no mistake.”
It jumped with her idle humor to keep them all waiting, uncertain whether
or not she would relent and disclose the meagre gossip they pined to
hear. Nothing was developed till Jacob Jessup, retaliating in turn,
flatly refused to go and feed Buck, still harnessed in the wagon.
Alethea rose indignantly.
“I don’t lay off ter do yer work ginerally, but I ain’t goin’ ter let the
steer go hongry,” she said, “’kase ye air idle an’ onfeelin’.”
“Don’t ye let him go hongry, then,” said Jessup, provokingly.
It had ceased to snow. When Alethea opened the door many of the traits
of Wild-Cat Hollow were so changed amid the deep drifts that one who had
seen it only in its summer garb might hardly recognize it. Austere and
bleak as it was, it had yet a symmetry that the foliage and bloom, and
even the stubble and fallen leaves of autumn, served only to conceal.
The splendid bare slope down the mountain, the precipitous ascent on
either side of the deep ravine, showed how much the idea of majesty may
be conveyed in mere lines, in a gigantic arc. The boles of the trees
were deeply imbedded in drifts. On the mountain above, the pines and
the firs supported great masses of snow lodged amongst the needles.
Sometimes a sharp crack told that a branch had broken, over-burdened.
The silence was intense; the poultry had hardly ventured off their
roosts to-day; the gourds that hung upon a pole as a martin-house were
whitened, and glittered pendulous. Once, as Alethea stood motionless, a
little black-feathered head was thrust out and quickly withdrawn. Down
in the cove the snow lay deep, and the forests seemed all less dense,
lined about as they were with white, which served in some sort as an
effacement. Through the narrow gap of the ridges was revealed the long
mountain vista, with the snowy peaks against the gray sky. Very distinct
it all was, sharply drawn, notwithstanding that there lacked but an hour,
perhaps, of the early nightfall. For a moment she had forgotten her
errand; the next she turned back in surprise. “Whar’s Buck an’ the wagin?”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Jessup, still serenely casual, “he’s a-kemin’ up the
mounting along o’ Ben Doaks. I met Ben, an’ I ’lowed ez I didn’t know
how I’d make out ter drive sech a obstinate old steer up the mounting in
all this snow. Buck hev fairly tuk ter argufyin’ ’bout the road ter go,
till ye dunno whether ye air drivin’ the steer or the steer air drivin’
you-uns. I mos’ pulled off his hawns sence I been gone. So Ben, he ’lowed
he’d like ter kem an’ spen’ a few days along o’ we-uns, ennyhow.”
“Whyn’t ye tell that afore?” demanded her mother-in-law angrily. “Ye want
him ter ’low ez we air a-grudgin’ him victuals. Lethe, put in some mo’ o’
them sweet ’taters in the ashes ter roast, an’ ye hed better set about
supper right now.”
For Mrs. Sayles had been accounted in her best days a good housekeeper,
for the mountains, and she cherished the memory of so fair a record.
Perhaps her reputation owed something to the fact that she entertained
a unique theory of hospitality, and made particularly elaborate
preparations when the guests were men. “Wimmen don’t keer special ’bout
eatin’. Show ’em all the quilts ye have pieced, an’ yer spun truck, an’
yer gyardin, an’ they’ll hev so much ter study ’bout an’ be jealous ’bout
ez they won’t want nuthin’ much ter eat.”
Now she proceeded to “put the big pot into the little pot,” to use a
rural expression, singularly descriptive of the ambitious impossibilities
achieved. She did it chiefly by proxy, directing from her seat in the
chimney corner Alethea’s movements, but wearing the absorbed, anxious
countenance of strategy and resource. The glory of the victory is due
rather to the head that devised than to the hands that executed; as in
greater battles the pluck of the soldiery is held subordinate to the
science of the commander.
It was no mean result that smoked upon the table when the sound of Buck’s
slow hoofs was heard on the snow without, and a warm welcome was in
readiness besides. A cheerful transition it was from the bleak solitudes:
the fire flared up the chimney; the peppers and the peltry hanging from
the rafters might sway in draughts that naught else could feel; the snow
without was manifested only by the drifts against the batten shutters,
visible in thin white lines through the cracks, and in that intense
silence of the muffled earth which appeals to the senses with hardly less
insistence than sound.
Ben’s aspect was scarcely so negative, so colorless, as usual, despite
his peculiarly pale brown hair and beard. The sharp sting of the cold air
had brought a flush to his face; his honest, candid gray eyes were bright
and eager. His manner was very demure and propitiatory, especially to
Mrs. Sayles, who conducted herself with an ideally motherly air, which
was imbued with many suggestions of approval, even of respect.
“Howdy, Ben, howdy? We-uns air mighty glad ter see ye, Ben.”
“Don’t ye git too proud, Ben,” said Mrs. Jessup, roused from her inertia
by the unwonted excitements of her journey to the cove, and, since she
was not too lazy to exercise her perversity, thoroughly relishing it.
“They’d be jes’ ez glad ter see ennybody,—it air so beset an’ lonesome up
hyar. They fairly tore me ter pieces with thar questions whenst I kem.”
And this reminded old man Sayles that the details of the funeral could
be elicited from Ben Doaks. Upon request the young man lugubriously
rehearsed such portions of the sermon as he could remember, prompted now
and then by Mrs. Jessup, who did not disdain to refresh his recollection
when it flagged; he even lifted his voice in a dolorous refrain to show
how a certain “hyme chune” went. But his attention wandered when supper
was over, and he observed Alethea, with a bowl of scraps in her hand and
a shawl over her head, starting toward the door.
The dogs ran after her, with voracious delight in the prospect of supper,
and bounded up against the door so tumultuously that she had difficulty
in opening it.
“Goin’ ter feed the dogs, Lethe?” said Ben Doaks, seizing the
opportunity. “I’ll keep ’em back till ye kin git out.”
He held the door against the dogs, and when he shut it he too was on
the outer side. It was not yet quite dark; the whiteness of the snow
contended with the night. The evening star showed through the rifts in
the clouds, and then was obscured. The dogs were very distinct as they
ran hither and thither on the snow at Alethea’s feet, while she leaned
against the post of the porch and threw to them scraps from the bowl.
Ben knew that his time was short. “Lethe,” he said, with a lamentable
lack of tact, “I hearn ez how ye hev done gin up waitin’ fur Mink.”
Her lustrous eyes seemed all undimmed by the shadows. The sheen of her
hair was suggested beneath the faded shawl, drawn half over her head.
What light the west could yet bestow, a pearly, subdued glimmer, was on
her face. She said nothing.
He lifted his hand to the low eaves of the porch,—for he was very
tall,—and the motion dislodged a few flakes that fell upon her head. He
did not notice them.
“I hearn Mis’ Purvine ’low ye air all plumb outdone with Mink, an’
wouldn’t hev him ef he war ter ax ye agin,—an’ I reckon ye won’t see him
no mo’. ’Tain’t likely, ye know. An’ Mis’ Purvine ’lowed ye hed been
mightily struck with a man in Shaftesville,—a town cuss” (with acrimony),
“ez war mighty nigh demented ’bout yer good looks an’ sech. Now, Lethe,
ye dunno nuthin’ ’bout’n them town folks, an’ the name they hev got at
home, ’mongst thar neighbors.”
She looked steadily at him, never moving a muscle save to cast more
scraps to the hounds, who, when their tidbits became infrequent, or were
accidentally buried in the snow by inopportune movements of their paws,
gamboled about to attract her attention; rising upon their hind legs, and
almost dancing, in a manner exceedingly creditable to untrained mountain
dogs.
“An’ I ’lowed I war a tremenjious fool ter hev kep out’n the way ’count
o’ Mink,—jes’ ’kase ye seemed ter set so much store by him. T’other folks
mought kem in whilst I war a-holdin’ back. Nobody ain’t never goin’ ter
keer fur ye like I do, Lethe. Mink don’t—never did. An’ my house air
ready fur ye enny day ye’ll walk in. I got ye a rockin’-cheer the t’other
day, an’ a spinnin’-wheel. It looks like home, sure enough, down thar,
Lethe. I jes’ gazed at that thar rockin’-cheer afore the fire till I
could fairly see ye settin’ in it. But shucks, I kin hear ye callin’
chickens roun’ thar,—‘Coo-chee, Coo-chee!’—enny time I listens right
hard.” He laughed in embarrassment because of his sentimentality. “I
reckon I mus’ be gittin’ teched in the head.”
It was snowing again. From those stupendous heights above the Great Smoky
Mountains down into the depths of Piomingo Cove the flakes steadily fell.
Myriads of serried white atoms interposed a veil, impalpable but opaque,
between Wild-Cat Hollow and the rest of the world. Doaks looked about him
a little, and resumed suddenly:——
“I ain’t purtendin’ I’m better ’n other men. I never _could_ git
religion. I ain’t nigh good enough fur ye,—only I think mo’ of ye. I’m
mean ’bout some things. I couldn’t holp but think, whenst I hearn ’bout
Mink, ez now ye’d gin him up. I warn’t _bodaciously_ glad, but I couldn’t
_holp_ thinkin’ ’twar better fur ye an’ me. Ye’d be happier married ter
me, Lethe, than ter him, enny time.”
“I ain’t never goin’ to marry you-uns, Ben,” she said drearily. “An’ now
ye hev hed yer say, an’ thar’s no use a-jawin’ no mo’ ’bout’n it.”
She turned to go in. Tige was already scratching at the door, as eager
for the fire as he had been for his supper. She glanced at Ben over her
shoulder, with some appreciation of his constancy, some pity for his
disappointment.
“Ye hed better go make a ch’ice ’mongst some o’ them gals in the cove,”
she suggested.
He cast a glance of deep reproach upon her, and followed her silently
into the house. Their return was the occasion of some slight flutter in
the home circle, in which had prevailed the opinion that the young folks
out in the cold “war a-courtin’.”
All relics of the supper were cleared away; the fire leaped joyously
up the chimney. L’onidas and Lucindy were asleep. The baby in his
night-gown, all unaware that he cut an unpresentable figure before
company, pounded up and down the floor, unmolested. The pipes were
lighted. As Ben Doaks leaned down to scoop up a coal from the fire, his
face was distinct in the flare, and Mrs. Jessup noted the disappointment
and trouble upon it. Mrs. Sayles too deduced a sage conclusion. A glance
was exchanged between the two women. Then Mrs. Jessup, with a view to
righting matters between these young people, whom fate seemed to decree
should be lovers, asked abruptly, “Did ye tell Lethe the news ’bout Mink?”
“Naw,” Doaks responded, somewhat shortly. “I ’lowed she knowed it long
ago.”
“Naw, she don’t,” said Mrs. Jessup; “none o’ we-uns hyar on the mounting
knowed it.”
She paused to listen to the wind, for it was astir without. A hollow,
icy cry was lifted in the dark stillness,—now shrill and sibilant, now
hoarsely roaring, then dying away in the distance, to be renewed close at
hand. The boughs of the bare trees beat together. The pines were voiced
with a dirge. The porch trembled, and the door shook.
“Why, Lethe,” resumed Mrs. Jessup, turning toward the girl, as she sat
in a low chair in the full radiance of the firelight, “Mink ain’t out’n
jail. The rescuers never tuk him out.”
The color left Alethea’s face. Her doubting eyes were dilated. Mrs.
Jessup replied to the expression in them.
“Mis’ Purvine, she ’lowed ez she an’ you-uns hearn everybody sayin’ the
rescuers tuk him out afore ye lef’ Shaftesville that mornin’. That war
town talk. But ’twarn’t true. The jailer an’ the sher’ff tied an’ gagged
him, an’ tuk him out tharse’fs in the midst o’ the dark, whenst nobody
could see ’em. Makes me laff ter think how they fooled them boys! They
jes’ busted up the jail so ez ’twarn’t safe ter try ter keep him thar no
mo’, an’ the nex’ day the dep’ty an’ two gyards tuk him down ter the jail
at Glaston,—an’ thar he’s safe enough.”
Alethea’s first thought, charged with vague, causeless self-reproach,
was that she had let Sam Marvin, who had seen Tad since the disaster at
the mill, go in the belief that Mink had been released. But how could
she have detained him? And would he, a moonshiner, suffer himself to be
subpœnaed as a witness, and thus insure his own arrest?
Her lips moved without a sound, as if she were suddenly bereft of the
power to articulate.
“Glaston, that’s a fac’,” reiterated Mrs. Jessup, noticing the
demonstration, “’kase I see ’Lijah Miles, ez war one o’ the gyards. He
kem up ter the cove ter the fun’el, bein’ ez his wife war kin ter the
corpse. She war one o’ the Grinnells afore she war married,—not the
Jer’miah fambly, but Abadiah’s darter; an’ Abadiah’s gran’mother war own
cousin ter the corpse’s mother”—
“I dunno ’bout’n that,” said Mrs. Sayles, following this genealogical
detail with a knitted brow and a painstaking attention.
“Corpse war ’bleeged ter hev hed a mother wunst, ef ever he war alive,”
said Mrs. Jessup, recklessly.
“I reckon I know _that_” retorted Mrs. Sayles. “But ’Lijah Miles’s wife’s
father’s grandmother war the aunt o’ the corpse, stiddier his mother’s
cousin,”—she tossed her head with a cheerful sense of accuracy,—“sure ez
ye air a born sinner.”
Mrs. Jessup paused in her recital, leaned her elbows on her knees, and
fixed her eyes on the fire, as if following some abstruse calculation.
The wind swept about the house and whistled down the chimney, till even
Tige roused himself, and lifted his head to listen and to growl.
“Waal, hev it so,” said the young woman, unable to contradict. “Howbeit
he war kin ter the corpse, he kem ter the fun’el, an’ arterward, ez he
war goin’ back ter Shaftesville, he stopped at Mis’ Purvine’s an’ stayed
all night. An’ he tole us ’bout’n takin’ Mink ter jail in Glaston. An’
’twar the fust Mis’ Purvine knowed ez Mink warn’t out. But she ’lowed
she’d miss him less in jail ’n out.”
“I reckon everybody feels that-a-way ’bout Mink,” interpolated Mrs.
Sayles. “Folks never knowed what _could_ happen onexpected an’ upsettin’
till Mink’s capers l’arned ’em.”
“Waal, none o’ his capers ever war like this las’ one o’ his’n,” said
Mrs. Jessup, nodding seriously. “They tuk him ter Glaston, an’ ’Lijah
Miles war one o’ the gyards. They tuk him on the steam-kyars.”
“I’ll be bound Mink war fairly skeered by them steam-kyars!” exclaimed
Mrs. Sayles, with all the assumption of superior experience, although she
herself had never had a glimpse of them.
“Waal, I reckon not, from the way he kerried on ’cordin’ ter ’Lijah,”
said Mrs. Jessup, clasping one knee as she talked, eying the fire.
“’Lijah ’lowed he never seen sech a fool. Mink got ter talkin’ ter the
gyards an’ dep’ty ’bout this hyar Jedge Gwinnan”——
“Needn’t tell me nuthin’ ’bout Jedge Gwinnan. ‘Jeemes’ air what they call
him over yander in Kildeer County. An’ ‘Jim,’ too,” said Mrs. Sayles. “I
knowed a woman ez knowed that man’s mother whenst he war a baby.”
“Waal, he’s changed some sence then. He ain’t a baby now. Mink kep’
a-talkin’ ter his gyards ’bout Gwinnan, an’ swearin’ Gwinnan had spited
him in the trial,—put Pete Rood on the jury an’ sent ’em ter jail, an’
tole the sher’ff ter look arter his prisoner or he’d escape the night
Pete Rood fell dead, an’ tole ’em how ter keep the crowd from rescuin’
him, an’ all sech ez that. An’ what d’ ye reckon Mink ’lowed Gwinnan hed
done it fur? ’Kase Gwinnan hed tuk a notion hisself ter Lethe Sayles, an’
’lowed Mink warn’t good enough fur her.”
The incongruity of the idea impressed none of them. They all looked
silently expectant as Mrs. Jessup went on:—
“Waal, Mink swore ez some day he’d git his chance, an’ he’d git even
with Gwinnan, sure. An’ ’Lijah, he seen ez Mink war a-lookin’ at Jedge
Gwinnan,—the jedge, he war a-goin’ down on the train ter Glaston, an’
then out ter wharever he war a-goin’ ter hold court, an’ he war a-smokin’
in the ‘smokin’-kyar,’ ’Lijah say they call it, whar they hed Mink. An’
’Lijah say Mink looked at Gwinnan with his mouth sorter open, an’ his jaw
sorter drapped, an’ his eyes ez set ez ef he war a wild beastis.”
Once more the wind, tumultuous, pervasive, with all the vast solitudes
given over to it, swept down the mountain with shrill acclaim.
“Goin’ ter hev some weather arter this,—ye mind my words,” said Mrs.
Sayles, listening a moment.
“Waal, ’Lijah never thunk nuthin’ mo’, an’ Mink kep’ his eyes ter hisself
the rest o’ the way. When they got ter Glaston the gyards sorter waited
fur the t’other folks ter git out fust, an’ then they started. Waal,
’Lijah say the dep’ty he jumped off’n the platform fust, an’ tole Mink
ter kem on. An’ the dep’ty—’Lijah say the dep’ty set a heap o’ store
by Mink—he war a-tellin’ Mink ter look how many tracks an’ locomotives
an’ sech thar war in the depot, an’ not noticin’ Mink much. An’ ’Lijah
say he seen Mink dart ter one side; he ’lowed Mink war makin’ a bust
ter git away. Naw, sir! Gwinnan hed stopped by the side o’ the kyar ter
speak ter a man. ’Lijah say he felt like he war a-dreamin’ when he seen
Mink lift up both his handcuffed hands an’ bring the irons down on the
jedge’s head. ’Lijah say him an’ the dep’ty an’ the t’other gyard hed
thar pistols out in a second. But they war feared ter shoot, fur the
jedge, stiddier drappin’ on the groun’, whurled roun’ an’ grabbed the
man ez hit him. He got Mink by the throat, an’ held on ter him same ez
a painter or sech. He nearly strangled Mink ter death, though the jedge
war fairly blinded with his own blood. Mink writhed an’ wriggled so they
couldn’t tell one man from t’other. The gyards war feared ter shoot at
Mink, ’kase they mought kill the jedge. They tore Mink loose at last.
They ’lowed his face war black ez ef he hed been hung. He won’t tackle
Gwinnan agin in a hurry. Ye ’lowed Gwinnan war a feeble infant, mother;
he ain’t very feeble now. Though he did faint arterward, an’ war hauled
up ter the tavern in a kerridge. They hed ter hev some perlice thar ter
holp keep the crowd off Mink, takin’ him ter jail. Waal, ’Lijah say they
dunno whether the jedge will live or no,—suthin’ the matter with his
head. But even ef he do live, ’Lijah say we ain’t likely ter see Mink
in these parts no mo’ fur a right smart while, ’kase he hearn thar ez
assault with intent ter c’mit murder air from three ter twenty-one year
in the pen’tiary. An’ I reckon enny jury would gin Mink twenty”——
“Yes, sir, he needs a good medjure!” exclaimed the negative Mr. Sayles,
with unwonted hearty concurrence.
“Mink will be an old man by the time he do git back,” computed Mrs.
Sayles.
“Now, Lethe,” argued Mrs. Jessup, “ain’t ye got sense enough ter see ez
Mink ain’t nobody ter set sech store on, an’ ef ye like him it’s ’kase ye
air a fool?”
The girl sat as if stunned, looking into the fire with vague distended
eyes. She lifted them once and gazed at Mrs. Jessup, as if she hardly
understood.
“Look-a-hyar, Lethe, what sorter face air that ye hev got onter ye?”
cried Mrs. Sayles. “Ye better not set yer features that-a-way. I hev
hearn folks call sech looks ‘the dead-face,’ an’ when ye wear the
‘dead-face’ it air a sign ye air boun’ fur the grave.”
“Waal, that’s whar we all air boun’ fur,” moralized old man Sayles.
“Quit it!” his wife admonished the girl, who passed her hand over her
face as if seeking to obliterate the obnoxious expression. “Ye go right
up-steers ter bed. I’m goin’ ter gin ye some yerb tea.”
She took down a small bag, turning from it some dried leaves into her
hand, and looked at them mysteriously, as if she were about to conjure
with them.
The girl rose obediently, and went up the rude, uncovered stairs to the
roof-room. After an interval Mrs. Jessup observed the babbling baby
pointing upward. Among the shadows half-way up the flight Alethea was
sitting on a step, looking down vacantly at them. But upon their sudden
outcry she seemed to rouse herself, rose, and disappeared above.
XIX.
Gwinnan, upon recovering consciousness, showed no retrospective interest
in the scene at the depot. He remarked imperatively to the physician whom
he found in attendance that it was necessary for him to leave during
the afternoon,—in fact, as soon as possible,—to hold court in a distant
county. He added, for the instruction of the doctor, that the clerk could
open court, and had no doubt done so on Monday and Tuesday, and would
be obliged to repeat this on Wednesday, without the presence of the
presiding judge, but Thursday was the last day for which the statute had
provided the alternative. He evidently expected that if the physician had
any flimsy objections he would withdraw them before this grave necessity,
understanding that this was no time for the indulgence of professional
whimseys.
There was something so arrogantly disregardful of any other claims upon
his attention, so belittling of merely corporeal considerations, that the
physician would have been a little less than medical had he been able
to repress a certain sense of domination as he answered, “Well, that
happened more than two weeks ago, judge, and I reckon court was adjourned
over to the next term.”
Gwinnan became aware with a sort of amaze that the hands he lifted did
not seem his own; that his head was light and giddy, or dully aching;
that he was fretful and helpless; that no manner of respect was paid to
his views. He was hardly pleased by the exchange of identity with this
ill-adjusted, listless, forlorn being; the less when he finally grew able
to stand upon his feet again, and was informed that for the next month
or so he must do nothing but seek to interest and entertain the invalid,
to see that he forbore to dwell on business, to seek to occupy his
attention with passing events, to divert him with trifles.
It might have seemed even to others an arduous task to amuse with
incidents a man whose every waking moment was occupied by principles.
So completely had his rarefied, judicial ambition, his pride of office,
his solicitous reverence of its dignity, attenuated his personality that
he cared little for Gwinnan as a man; he respected him as a judge. He
had held himself sedulously to his aspirations; as it were on his knees,
he had served his vocation day and night. It was to him as essential an
organic constituent of his being as the lungs; he could ill live without
it, even for a time. Perhaps he might not have made the effort had
not the physician warned him that he might never be fit for business,
never again sit upon the bench, should he overexert himself now, before
recovering from the effect of those terrible blows upon the skull. He
became suddenly tractable, wistful, and turned mournfully to the search
of light entertainment. He assented with a dreary docility to the
prescription of a change of air and scene. He accepted without demur,
with a dull sense of endurance, the plan briskly devised for him to spend
a week or two in Nashville, and if he did not recuperate rapidly, to go
thence South for the winter. He was not given to scanning his own mental
poses and adjusting them to some theory of symmetry; he could but feel,
however, as if he were already dead, stalking among scenes in which he
had no interest, half-heartedly mingling with men whose every instinct
was as far removed from the spirit that swayed him as if some essential
condition of existence divided them. It was with a truly post-mortem
indifference that he listened to the talk of his friends who sought him
out during his stay in Nashville,—very interesting talk, doubtless, but
purposeless, inefficacious; they cited neither case nor section. He
preferred to sit alone and idle before the blazing coal fire in his own
room,—expressionless with the stereotyped hotel furniture; now and then
he roused himself, with a conscientious start, when he found his mind
revolving like a moth around some _scintilla juris_ which had a special
attraction for him.
He had experienced a sense of reluctant relinquishment to find how the
weeks had fled during his illness. Winter had advanced; the Cumberland
River was full of floating ice; the town had the shrunken, deserted,
torpid aspect common to every southern city when the snow is on the
ground. No one was abroad without absolute necessity except the English
sparrow, prosperous exile. In the hope of varying the tedium, one
evening, Gwinnan sat down in one of the arm-chairs drawn close to the
balustrade of the corridor overlooking the rotunda. It was a coigne of
vantage from which all the life of the hotel was visible. Below, at the
desk, the in-coming travelers were registering their names; the click of
billiards was a cheerful incident of the atmosphere, with the rising of
the fumes of many a cigar. On the opposite corridor the clatter of dishes
could be heard from the dining-room, and occasionally there emerged
gentlemen and toothpicks. The rumble of the elevator sounded ceaselessly,
and now and then fluttering flounces issued from its door which was
visible down a cross-hall.
Behind Gwinnan the great windows opened upon the snowy street. He could
see the white roofs opposite gleam dimly against the nebulous sky.
Carriage-lamps sometimes flashed past, yellow, lucent with jeweled
effects. An electric light hard by flamed with a fibrous radiance, and
empurpled the black night, and conjured circles, mystically white,
far-reaching into the snow. The plate-glass gave a reflection of his
long lank figure and the red velvet arm-chair, and of the innumerable
children of the place, racing about, unrestrained, in white frocks, much
bedizened. There was a dog among them, a poodle, in his white frock too,
accoutered also with a sharp, shrill cry, and swiftly gamboling despite
much fat. He had as independent an aspect as if he knew that all the
legislators crowded into all the caucuses in the city could not compass
a dog-law that would interfere with his pretty liberty, or place a tax
on his frizzy head. The sovereign people would have none of it. And so
the obnoxious law stands repealed, and the dog-star is in the ascendant.
Now and then he came and sat at Gwinnan’s feet, with a lolling tongue and
panting sides.
There had been a caucus in the reading-room of the hotel, and presently
the doors opening upon the corridor began to disgorge knots of men, some
of whom walked off together, others stood in discussion. Now and then one
was seized by a lobbyist, lying in wait. Gwinnan was aware of Harshaw’s
presence before he saw him: a liquid, gurgling, resonant laugh, and then
the floater, accompanied by a colleague into whose arm he had hooked his
own, came through the door. His hat was thrust on the back of his yellow
head; he stroked his yellow beard with a gesture of self-satisfaction;
his face was broad and animated, and pink with prosperity.
Fortune was favoring Mr. Harshaw, and few men have ever basked in her
smiles so appreciatively. He had the reputation of being very influential
in the House. His coöperation was eagerly sought. In truth, as a
wire-puller he had developed marked dexterity, and there were precious
few things that Mr. Harshaw could not accomplish in a caucus. He did a
little “log-rolling,” but he was chary of the interchange of favors,
carrying his point usually by persistence and pugnacity, and he possessed
tremendous staying power as a debater. He had a certain barbaric delight
in oppression; having become possessed of the opportunity, he used it
often when neither he nor his constituents had anything to gain. He took
advantage of his ascendency to pay off many old grudges, some of them
of a purely arbitrary construction and æsthetic nature. He was in some
sort aware that his colleagues were ashamed of his rough manners, his
bullying, his coarse onslaughts, in which, being of the same political
party, they were often constrained to appear as his supporters. He
continually alluded to himself as if he were of peculiarly humble origin,
representing himself as being _of_ the People, _from_ the People, and FOR
the People, and forcing the conclusion that the other members from his
region were bloated aristocrats. Nevertheless, whoever would go to the
State Senate next session, it seemed safe to say that the demagogue had
assured his own nomination; for merit had a fine chance to be modest, as
behooves it, while Mr. Harshaw was shaping the future by manipulating the
present.
And now suddenly he was not quite sure that he wanted the nomination.
In these days, while he divided his time between the beautiful Capitol
building and one of the hotels of the town, he meditated much upon Mink’s
assault upon Judge Gwinnan in the depot of Glaston. Not in the interest
of his client, however; even the most solicitous of counsel could not be
expected to occupy his attention with the fate of the wayward Mink, who
had passed beyond his aid. Mink’s deed did not in truth seem to Harshaw
so very much amiss. Of course he recognized its iniquity, being one of
those cognizable by the law, but he also perceived in it the finger of
Providence,—laid somewhat heavily, it must be confessed, on Gwinnan. He
speculated deeply, despite his other absorptions, on who would probably
be elected to supply Gwinnan’s place, in case of the death of the wounded
incumbent, and he reflected that he himself as a lawyer was highly
esteemed in that circuit, for he had a large practice throughout the
region, and that moreover, by a certain fortuitous circumstance, he was
eligible for the position; although his law office was in Shaftesville,
he lived on his farm which was several miles distant, just within the
boundaries of Kildeer County, one of the judicial circuits over which
Gwinnan presided. Apart from his repute at the bar, he was well known to
the people at large through certain popular measures he had advocated.
He devoted himself to these with renewed ardor. He never allowed himself
to view with a vacillating mind any course, however obviously salutary,
when he had once discovered with a keen instinct that it was unlikely to
secure the approval of the masses. Nevertheless, he applied his tact with
such success that this foregone conclusion was not readily apparent, and
he was continually beset for his influence. He had a secret gratulation
that he was held in special veneration by the lobbyists. He could ill
maintain the aspect of unwilling captive, when he was waylaid and
button-holed, and his attention eagerly entreated for certain measures.
As an anxious-faced man, who had evidently been awaiting him, stepped
forward now, glancing with a casual apology at his friend, who walked on,
Harshaw’s reluctant pause, his frown, his important bored sufferance,
were as fine histrionically as if he were playing at being a statesman on
a stage,—which, indeed, he was.
He listened with a divided mind to the outpouring of the lobbyist, his
opaque blue eyes fixed in seeming deliberation upon the chandelier
hanging down into the rotunda below, his exceedingly red lips pursed up
in a pucker of dubitation. Now and then he patted the toe of one boot on
the floor meditatively. Occasionally he looked his interlocutor full in
the face, asking a question, presumably a poser; then his triumphant,
resonant, burly laugh would vibrate above the dancing of the over-dressed
children, and the riotous barking of the dog, and the tinkling waltzes
played by a band of musicians ranged about the fountain in the rotunda.
His entertainment in his own self-importance and posings was so absorbing
that the lobbyists and the advocates of many measures were often at a
loss to know how best to reach Mr. Harshaw’s desire to serve his country;
for he did not love money, and his integrity, as far as it was concerned,
was above suspicion.
All at once genuine interest usurped these feignings on his face. His
eye fell on Judge Gwinnan walking along the corridor, and leaning upon
a stout cane. He looked very thin, very pale, taller than before, and
somehow his face was more youthful with the wistfulness of illness upon
it, his hair clipped close, and the eyes hollow and luminous. He moved
slowly, and with little spirit.
Harshaw stepped briskly forward, with a curt “Excuse me” to the lobbyist,
taking no reproach for leaving him with his mouth open, for it seemed his
normal condition.
“Why, judge,” Harshaw exclaimed, with his bluff familiarity, “you look
bloomin’!” He was about to stretch out his hand, but desisted, noticing
that Gwinnan held his hat in one hand, and leaned upon his stick with the
other. He took the judge by the elbow, as he walked a few steps with him.
A dim image of the pair paced along in the plate-glass windows, as if
their doubles were stalking without in the snow in scenes of which they
were unconscious. “I had no idea you were pulling together so fast,” he
continued, scanning the face which was almost spectral in its attenuation
and pallor, in close contrast to his own fat floridity of countenance,
his red lips, his gleaming white teeth, his mane of yellow hair, and his
dense yellow beard. His wide, black soft hat stuck on the back of his
head accented his high color. “But I declare, it’s worth while for a man
to get hit over the head to find out how important he is, and how he is
esteemed. I never knew more profound sympathy and indignation than the
affair excited. As to myself, I felt it especially, as I had taken so
much stock in that rascally client of mine.”
Gwinnan made no reply. His face was turned toward Harshaw with a certain
unresponsiveness, an inscrutable questioning, a cadaverous gravity. His
hollow eyes were very bright and large. Somehow they put Harshaw out of
countenance. Something there was in their expression beyond his skill to
decipher. He became a trifle embarrassed, and yet he could not have said
why. He went on at random. He had observed that a number of people were
remarking them. There was nothing uncommon in the peripatetic method that
the interview had taken, but suddenly he found it odd that Gwinnan had
not paused.
“That fellow, Mink Lorey, is a most extraordinary and unexpected kind
of scamp,” Harshaw proceeded uneasily, making talk. “To my certain
knowledge, he cared so little about the girl that he refused to see her
when she came to visit him in jail. But the idea that another man admired
her seemed to set him wild.”
Gwinnan stopped short.
“What girl?” he asked, in his soft, inexpressive drawl.
“The girl that testified,—Alethea Sayles,” said Harshaw, relieved that
Gwinnan had spoken, and striving for his old bluff assurance, but still
conscious that he had lost his tact. “She was pretty, very pretty indeed,
and you were not alone in having the good taste to notice it. The rest of
us didn’t have to pay for it with a broken head, though, eh, judge? Ha!
ha!”
There was a moment’s pause.
“Mr. Harshaw,” said Gwinnan, leaning against one of the great pillars,
the reflection in the plate-glass duplicating the posture on the snowy
sidewalk, as if that other self, liberated and in isolated independence,
busied in different scenes, now meditated, and now spoke and now lifted
a fiery glance, “I will take this opportunity to tell you that I believe
you to be an egregious liar, and I know you for an arrant hypocrite.”
“Sir!” cried Harshaw, starting back, tingling from the words as if they
were blows. He made an instinctive gesture toward his pistol pocket;
it was empty. He was acutely conscious of the spectators who pressed a
little nearer, noticing the excitement.
Gwinnan’s voice had a singular carrying quality, and every deliberate,
low-toned word was distinct.
“I repudiate your professions of friendship. I despise your protestations
of sympathy. If your threats at the court-house door in Shaftesville had
been earlier repeated to me, ludicrously impotent as they are, you should
never have approached me again. Now,”—his voice broke suddenly, in his
feebleness and excitement, and was thin and tremulous and shrill,—“keep
out of my way, or I will beat you with this stick like a dog!”
Gwinnan had lifted the stick, and shook it threateningly in his trembling
hand. Harshaw, with his own reasons for declining to give the first blow,
could only shrink and wince in anticipation. The stick did not descend
on him, however, for Gwinnan turned, and, leaning on it, made his way
down the corridor among the wondering men, who slowly opened an aisle for
him in their midst.
XX.
It was a confused scene which Gwinnan had left. Harshaw’s friends
pressed about him, animated equally, perhaps, by curiosity and surprise.
His self-restraint had given way. He swore with every breath he drew,
repeating, in answer to questions, the unlucky threat over and again.
“I said that he would be impeached, and that I would introduce the
resolution in the House myself. And so, by God, I will!”
His face was hot and scarlet. The perspiration stood out on his forehead.
He ground his teeth and clenched his hands. He would walk forward a few
unsteady steps, then pause to reiterate and explain, and swear that if
Gwinnan were not at death’s door he would cowhide him within an inch
of his life. The progress of the group, slow as it was, with these
frequent interruptions, was in the direction of the stairs. It was
chiefly composed of members of the legislature, and, there being a night
session, they mechanically took their way to the Capitol. A few gentlemen
lounging about the corridor were watching their exit with the gusto
of disinterested spectators, as they disappeared down the staircase,
reappearing below in the rotunda,—Harshaw still in the van, his florid
face bloated with rage, his hat on the back of his head, his hands thrust
in the pockets of his trousers. His friends wore a becoming gravity, but
Harshaw was too thoroughly a man of this world not to suspect that they
valued more the diversion he furnished than his interests as affected
by the episode. They all crossed the office, and disappeared finally
through the street door, and the spectators on the corridor shifted
their postures, and tipped off the ash grown long on their cigars, and
commented.
“Biggest blatherskite out of hell, Harshaw is,” remarked a young fellow,
who flung himself diagonally into a seat, hanging his long legs over one
arm of the chair and resting his back against the other. He put his cigar
into his mouth, and puffed at his ease. He had a pale face, thin dark
hair, irregular features, straight black eyebrows, and wide, black eyes,
quickly glancing, but with a suggestion of melancholy. He was handsomely
dressed, although he wore his clothes with a slouching, irreverent air,
as if he gave his attire scant heed. Despite their cut and quality, there
was nothing dapper about him. He had a lank, listless white hand, and
a foot singularly long and narrow. His forehead was remarkably high,
austere, and noble; one might look in vain for correlative expressions
in the other features. He was languid and inattentive, but this manner
suggested affectation, for it did not eliminate the idea of energy. He
smoked a great deal, and drank not much, but discriminatingly; he was
proud of seeming reckless, and of being more reckless than he seemed.
He had other qualities more genial. He knew a good dog when he saw
him. He knew a good horse, and he loved him. He was the possessor of
a liberal hand and a long purse. He had an enthusiastic admiration
of fine principles, and he had—the pity of it!—his own definition of
fine principles. He entertained a horror of anything base, and he had
a command of very strong language to characterize it. He arrogated to
himself the finer attributes. He strained for the heroic poise. He would
feel nothing, believe nothing, do nothing, that was unbecoming of what
he esteemed the noblest expression of man and gentleman. Nevertheless
he had no serious objects in life, no absorbing ambition, no ability to
originate. But he could espouse another man’s cause with a fervor of
unselfishness. The excitements and vicissitudes of the affairs of others
rejoiced the voids of his capacities for emotion. He was of the stuff of
which adherents are made, essentially a partisan. His prototypes have
ridden in the ranks of every losing cause since the world began. He was
of the essence of those who are born for freaks of valor, for vagrant
enthusiasms, for misguided fantastic feuds, for revolution.
“Do you think, sir, that Mr. Harshaw had no foundation for his threat,”
said an elderly granger, who leaned against a pillar,—“no foundation for
this charge against Judge Gwinnan?”
“Gwinnan may have ruled against him a time or two,” said Kinsard. “That’s
about the size of it.”
He had a pedigree as long as his favorite colt’s, but this was the way he
talked.
“It is a gross slander, then; it implies a stealage, or taking a bribe,
or some malfeasance in office,—the judicial office,” said one of the
by-standers.
“It was very shabby in Harshaw to say it; then, thinking Gwinnan
had never heard of it, to go fawning up, pretending to be so mighty
friendly,” rejoined another.
Kinsard’s black eyes turned slowly from one speaker to the other.
“If I had been Judge Gwinnan, I would have killed him for it,” he said,
with his cigar held tightly between his fingers. “I would have spilt his
brains, not his blood; and I would have had some scientific man to find
the precise section of the brain structure which ideated that theory,
and I would have had it comminuted, and vaporized, and transmuted into
nothingness.”
He spoke with calmness, as if these things were done every day for the
vengeful in Tennessee.
The granger took off his spectacles suddenly. He wanted to see this
extraordinary young man, who he had an idea was too dangerous to be at
large.
The others looked at him with a less serious air. They had before heard
him talk.
“Well,” said a certain Mr. Forsey, also a young man, who had dropped upon
the broad window-seat and lounged there, holding one knee in his clasped
hands, and smoking too, “do you think Harshaw would have ventured to say
it if there were no foundation for it,—if Gwinnan had done nothing to
suggest such a proceeding? What motive had Harshaw?”
He was a different manner of man. He had close-cut fair hair, a face
broad across the cheek-bones and narrow at the chin, sparse whiskers and
a light gray, wide-open eye. He had a sedulously neat appearance, a soft
tread, and delicate white hands, in one of which he held his hat.
“What motive? What motive for slander? Go to first principles. Gwinnan
has got something that Harshaw wants.” Kinsard put his cigar into his
mouth and went on talking as he held it fast between his teeth. “What
fools we all are! We make laws against predatory beasts and decree their
extermination. Pay a bounty for the scalps of the marauding men, I
say,—the sharp fellows who ravage and pillage and have contrived so far
to keep the law on their side. But pshaw!” he shifted his legs over the
arm of the chair impatiently. “He can’t hurt Gwinnan. Talk can’t compass
the impeachment of a judge. Gwinnan is one of the strongest men on the
bench. Made the stiffest show that ever was seen when he ran against old
Judge Burns, who had sat on the bench in that circuit till everybody
thought he owned it. Old man could have mortgaged the bench,—could have
raised money on it, I haven’t a doubt. Gwinnan couldn’t have beat Burns,
if he hadn’t been above reproach and suspicion; it’s a tremendous thing
to upset an old fixture like that.”
Mr. Kinsard’s views, as his colleagues in the legislature had discovered
to their confusion, were apt to confirm his hearers in the opposite
opinion. A bill was much safer when he arrayed himself against it. Mr.
Forsey was not convinced that so serious a charge would have been made
with absolutely nothing to support it. The idea of the blurtings of
an uncontrolled rage occurred to neither of them. Forsey sat looking
so steadily at the dapper toe of his boot for a time, and yet with so
stealthy a stillness, that his manner might have suggested the bated
exultation of a cat that had had a glimpse of a frisking mouse in that
neighborhood, and was waiting to pounce upon it.
“Judge Gwinnan has the reputation,” gravely remarked the granger, who
looked as if he might be a pillar of the church, “of being a very upright
man, a most worthy man, and a Christian gentleman.”
“Of course he is,” said Kinsard; “no question about it, and nobody but
a fool would have thought of anything else. I am going to introduce a
bill,” he added seriously, “to make the fool-killer a State officer. We
need him more than a geologist, or a governor, or anybody but a sheriff.
A fool-killer ought to be on the State pay-roll.”
No one said anything further, for Kinsard was lazily pulling himself out
of the contortions into which he had sunk in the chair.
He was very striking when he stood at his full height. There was an
air of dash and bravery about him engaging to the imagination. His
high, broad forehead gave nobility and seriousness to a face that would
otherwise have been only sparkling, or sneering, or melancholy, as
his mood dictated. One might have hoped that should he wear out his
fantastic, aimless, erratic spirit, should some blow subdue it and give
it into his control, he would develop great gifts hitherto dwarfed and
denied. He was aware of them in some sort; he bore himself as a man
endowed with some splendor of preeminence. And others accorded it. Youth
has much credit given to its promise, despite that it so often falls in
the bud or fails in the fruit. But it rarely has so brilliant a prospect
as here; and after he had strolled off at a leisurely, swinging gait,
saying that he was going to the House, where a bill was coming up that
he wanted to kill, they all looked after him, and commented on him, and
called him a fine, high-minded young man, and said that it was a good
thing for young fellows to have political ambition, and that it was dying
out among that class generally, who was too fond of making money and of
using their time to their own advantage.
He stood for a moment on the steps of the hotel, drawing on his gloves.
Despite the snow, there was a faint suggestion of spring in the air. A
thaw had set in. He heard drops slowly pattering down from the cornice
above. The blue-white splendors of the electric light, with its myriad
fine and filar rays whorled out into the darkness, showed a deserted
street. A carriage, looking with its two lamps like some watchful-eyed
monster, pulled up in front of the door, and the colored driver, with a
wide display of a toothful grin, alighted with a “Want a hack, boss?”
“Jim, Tom—oh, it’s Dick,” said Kinsard, glancing at the dusky face in the
lamplight; he knew all the colored folks in town. “Well, drive me to the
Capitol, and don’t be all night about it, either.”
He flung himself upon the seat, lifted his long, slender feet to the
opposite cushions, and with a complete collapse of anatomy resigned
himself to the transit. The vehicle moved from the curb with something of
the sound of a boat pushing off from shore, so splashing was its progress
through the deep slush of the streets. The hoof-beats of the horses were
muffled; the voice of the driver sounded, and was still again. Kinsard
smoked in idle abstraction, hardly thinking, perhaps, even of his mission
and the slaughter of the “innocent William,” as he slangily called the
bill which he intended to kill. When the carriage had climbed the Capitol
hill, on which the fair edifice towered, glimmering vaguely white against
the purple night, its rows of illuminated windows all gleaming yellow,
and casting dim shafts of light adown the snowy slopes of the grounds
below, he roused himself and looked out. Even after he had alighted and
ascended the long flights of stone steps, between the groups of great
figures that stand beneath the flaring gas lamps, he turned, and more
than once walked the length of the stately portico, gazing down with
a vague attraction which he could hardly have explained at the snowy
roofs of the city, on its many hills, amidst the dun-colored intervals
of the streets and the misty depressions. The heavens were purple above
it; the stars palpitated in the infinite distances; a late moon was
rising. He recognized the outline of Fort Negley to the south against
the sky; he saw the steely gleam of the river. Spires, long glancing
lines of light, domes, turrets, mansard roofs, mingled in picturesque
fantasies of architecture. A bell rang out a mellow note; the icy air
had crystalline vibrations. Here and there the aureola of an unseen
electric light, the mere fringes of lustre, seemed the rising of some
more cheerful orb; for melancholy hung upon the progress of the moon.
In the tower of a public building Time lifted a smiling face in an
illuminated dial, and far away to the west he saw a planet touch a spire,
in an unprophesied conjunction. The lights of homes, yellow, steady,
gleaming in some fantasy of form, seemed themselves a constellation of
more genial suggestion than the pallid keener clustered scintillations of
the chimeras of the skies. The gilded cross of the cathedral held aloft
over the city was sublimated in the moonbeams and the fair nocturnal
influences; it was mystic, effulgent, seeming to radiate light like the
consecrated sign in a vision. He did not feel the cold; he stood for
a long time, with his hands in his pockets, his overcoat falling back
on his shoulders, watching with his restless eyes the quiet snowy town
suffused with dreamy yellow light and pervaded by long, pensive shadows.
Suddenly he turned and went within.
The House of Representatives presented a spectacle not altogether
unprecedented in his experience. A spirited debate was in progress.
Sixteen men were trying to speak at once. The seventeenth earnest orator
was forcibly held in his chair by his friends. The speaker’s gavel
sounded continuously, but produced little effect upon the incoherency of
the discussion. Other members were talking in low tones of alien matters;
one had fallen asleep. His snores might have been generally noticed but
for the commotion. Kinsard glanced at him as he took his seat close by.
“That’s the best oratorical effort I ever heard McKimmon make,” he said
to a friend. “Observe how he sticks to the point: iterative, it is
true; tautology might be urged against it as mere diction; but I admire
its simplicity, its comprehensibility, its continuity. There are no
digressions; nothing is done for effect; plain, cogent, impressive. It is
a fine display of natural eloquence.” His colleague burst out laughing,
and Kinsard looked at him in apparent surprise, lifting his straight
black eyebrows a little. Then he asked if the bill to remove the county
seat of Kildeer County had yet been reached.
“No,” said his friend, “but Harshaw has been around here after you three
or four times.”
The speaker’s gavel had succeeded in securing order, and now the sixteen
men’s statements and counter-statements were elicited in decorous
routine. The sudden cessation of noise roused Mr. McKimmon, whose
somnolency ended in a snort and a conviction that he had not closed
his eyes. He perceived a suspicion to the contrary in the minds of his
nearest neighbors, and he could not account for it.
After the House had voted upon the question of public policy which had so
agitated it, various minor bills were taken up, and there was a good deal
of quiet movement, groups of two or three colloguing together here and
there, and Harshaw came up again to talk to Kinsard.
“I want to know whether you’ll coöperate with us against the bill for
moving the county seat of Kildeer County.”
He stood leaning one arm upon Kinsard’s desk; the other was akimbo. He
knitted his brow meditatively, and pursed up his red lips, and looked not
at Kinsard, but at his inkstand. He had not altogether recovered from the
rebuff so publicly given in the hotel corridor.
It is always a misfortune when a man of Harshaw’s stamp has to contend
with any degree of injustice. He had repeated to Gwinnan the truth, and
for it he had been given the lie direct in circumstances under which
he could not resent it; even the original threat was only the blurtings
of an honest rage and for another man’s sake. He was clever in adroitly
justifying means and ends. To be armed with the truth, a genuine
grievance endowed him with a force, a self-respect, all-potent in their
way, and a wonderful driving-wheel to an already lubricated and too alert
machinery. He had an imperative serious air which seemed to intimate to
Mr. Kinsard that this was no time for fooling.
Kinsard was eccentric, ill-balanced. He was made up of prejudices, and he
obeyed the impulse of the moment as other men obey interest or law. He
was not predisposed in Harshaw’s favor. He took a different view of the
scene upon which Harshaw presumed. He looked up, a whimsical light in his
grave eyes, as he allowed Harshaw to waste his breath in urging him to
vote against a bill which he was already pledged to kill.
“The county line of those portions taken from Cherokee and Kildeer
counties to form a new county in no instance approaches the county seat
of Kildeer within eleven miles. There is no use for the people of Kildeer
to commit the extravagance of a new court-house when they already have
one,—a frame building, it is true, but spacious.”
He looked very spacious himself, as he stood erect and waved his arm, the
mental vision of the commodious Temple of Justice of Kildeer before him.
“Then, sir, it is thought there may be a railroad to the present county
seat, a branch of the T. C. V., which will aid in developing the
resources of the country.”
“Well, I don’t believe in railroads,” said Kinsard, unexpectedly.
“Whenever they get to talking about running a railroad from one little
town where there is nothing to another little town where that nothing is
not wanted, I understand it as developing the resources of the country.”
Harshaw was not in a mood to be bantered.
“Mr. Kinsard,” he said, “you are either a fool absolute, or you think I
am.”
“As far as you are concerned,” said Kinsard with mock courtesy, “I have
the highest opinion of your intelligence; ergo, it is more than probable
that I _am_ a fool.”
Harshaw endeavored to recover himself. He reassumed his more genial
manner. “Admit that we are a choice brace. Well, now, we want you on our
side; all the solid, substantial people of Kildeer County are arrayed
against it.”
“Oh, there are some solid citizens for it,” said Kinsard perversely, “or
you’d be willing for it to be put to the popular vote.”
Harshaw looked keenly at him. “Judge Gwinnan has been talking to you,
hasn’t he? We’ve had to fight his influence all the way through.”
“Well, Judge Gwinnan is a prominent citizen of that county and a very
sensible man, and if he is in favor of the change he must have good
reasons,” said Kinsard, seriously. “That’s enough to take it through.”
Harshaw cast an indignant glance upon him. “Well, before I’m done with
it I’ll show you that this General Assembly isn’t run by Judge Gwinnan’s
influence and by his myrmidons. I am glad you have let me know at last
whose mouthpiece you are!”
He walked away with that extraordinary quickness and lightness so
incongruous with his portliness. Kinsard’s black eyes, that seemed
kindled with actual flames, followed him for a moment. Then, as
comprehension slowly dawned upon him, and with a wrench as if he broke
from actual physical restraint, he started from his seat to follow.
“No, you won’t, now; no, you won’t.” His nearest neighbor had locked his
arm into Kinsard’s, and held it like a vise. He was a square-built, slow,
muscular man, solid as granite. His eyes were fixed upon Harshaw, who was
already speaking against the bill. “What is that man saying?”
Kinsard at once lapsed into attention. Harshaw was a clear and forcible
speaker, and with lucid arguments ranged upon the side of conservatism
and economy he was giving the advocates of the measure a very stiff
fight. They got on their feet time and again, and came at him. He had
a great fund of pugnacity, and on principle fought every point. His
face was flushed; his eyes were grave and intent; his frequent gestures
ponderous and forcible. Now and then he tossed back his mane of yellow
hair, as if its weight vexed him. He sought to show the ephemeral nature
of the advantages urged, the solid interests relinquished. Presently his
old slogan was resounding on the air. He was representing that the sacred
interests of the people were imperiled by the machinations of the bloated
plutocracy of Kildeer County. He wanted it to be distinctly understood
that he did not charge any nefarious practices, any corrupt influences;
only that most subtle, insidious, and pervasive sway always exerted by
the views of men of position, men of family, men of “prawperty,” against
the simple will and simple needs of the Plain People. The high-toned
folks, the few rich folks, wished the county seat moved to Damascus,
because they had “prawperty” there. (He pronounced “prawperty” with so
contemptuous an intonation that one felt one could never take pleasure
in paying taxes again.) They had “prawperty,” and railroad stock, and
thus from the people, the many of moderate means, who had built up the
present county town and made it what it was, who spent their money right
there instead of going off to patronize merchants and schools in Glaston,
as was the habit of the wealthy,—from this class would be wrenched those
privileges which they had made valuable. All those advantages which had
been nursed for years, which were so much actual materialization of the
efforts of the Plain People, would go to—not to Tophet, as one might have
expected from the tone, but to—Damascus!
But he would champion their rights; he would be heard; he would not heed
the ostentatious reference of the gentleman from Cherokee to his watch.
Why, he could tell the speaker that these same influential men had their
personal representation in this House. A member confessed to him that
because one of these little great men wanted a thing it had to go through
this General Assembly. “And so his mouthpiece repeats his wish, his tool
does his will!”
A murmur arose.
Kinsard was on his feet in an instant.
“Mr. Speaker,” he thundered, “the member means _me_!”
There was sudden silence.
He stood at his full height, his head thrown back, his brilliant eyes
fixed angrily on Harshaw.
Harshaw was dumfounded. He had expected Kinsard to quake silently and
secretly under the lash; to quiver in terror lest his identity be hinted.
This open avowal had routed him. He was in an ill-humor, but he had no
desire to seriously attack Kinsard on a point like this. He wanted to
punish him, to intimidate him; to threaten that most sensitive possession
of the young and spirited, his reputation, or, as Kinsard would have
phrased it, his “sacred honor.” He had the usual contempt of a man of
forty for youth,—its self-assertion, its domineering. He intended the
chance allusion as discipline. He had fallen under his own lash. He stood
in dismay as Kinsard reiterated, “He means _me_!”
There was a general laugh; the imputation, in view of his character, his
prominence, his wealth, his very eye, was so absurd.
“But,”—Kinsard’s tones were grandiloquent,—“in view of the publicity of
this charge, I consider that I am wounded in my reputation, and I demand
reparation.”
“I can make no formal retraction,” said Harshaw, hastily, “for I have
imputed no discredit, except being easily dominated.”
Kinsard fixed upon him a look of amazement. He turned again to the chair.
“Mr. Speaker,” he said, “the member from the floterial district of
Cherokee and Kildeer”—he sedulously avoided the word “gentleman”—“labors
under a mistake. I do not demand the retraction of a word. Perhaps he
will understand this token.” He took his glove, and cast it in the open
space before the speaker’s desk.
Only a nineteenth-century kid glove, with two porcelain buttons at the
wrist, but it was flung down with as splendid and gallant a gesture as if
it were a gauntlet of mail.
The old fellows, who had outlived folly such as this, were grinning at
the revival of their ancient manners. The younger men, profiting by the
traditions of their elders, were grave and quivering with excitement.
Harshaw was in a quandary, conscious of being ridiculous in the eyes of
one class, and of being defied in the eyes of the other. He would not do
so absurd a thing as to lift Kinsard’s glove. Yet with the significance
of the “token” he was ashamed to let it lie.
And the speaker had a big job on his hands.
The gavel sounded now and again. Someone, with a pious view of making bad
worse, was calling attention to the anti-dueling legislation. Another
reminded Mr. Kinsard of his “sacred obligations” to his constituents,
to the people of Tennessee, to the House, all of which seemed to have
escaped him for the moment. Kinsard’s colleague had sprung forward,
recovered the somewhat ridiculous glove, and, crumpling it up, put it
into his own pocket. He succeeded in attracting the attention of the
chair and of the House. He wished—he spoke in a labored way, with a pause
between each phrase, and a rising inflection—to remark that the House was
disposed to take a great deal on trust. The gentleman had not given any
challenge. Did a member ask what that glove meant, then? Why, defiance!
Dueling was with a _deadly_ weapon; _deadly_ weapon was of the essence of
the offense. The gentleman might have preferred to have a round or two
at fisticuffs, or, perhaps, simply to engage in debate. (Derisive cries
and laughter.) Defiance only! It was a breach of all the proprieties
to mention the anti-dueling laws in this connection. Too much taken
for granted, Mr. Speaker. If I should be heard to say to a man that I
would see him before dinner, it would be highly preposterous to have me
arrested. We might be going to kill each other, it is true, but then,
again, we might be only going to “smile.”
The speaker sat listening gravely, much wishing to further the acceptance
of this view, for he considered the demonstration mere boyish wrath and
folly. He made strong efforts for the adjustment of the difficulty.
Harshaw rose presently, and begged to call attention to the fact that he
had named no names, had given no intimation as to identity. He had spoken
indefinitely, and the gentleman had insisted upon revealing himself. He
would say that he desired to provoke no quarrel; he had no ill-will to
the gentleman in question. He begged to withdraw what he had said, and he
tendered his apologies.
Kinsard, under the pressure that was brought to bear, could hardly do
less than accept them, and thus, it seemed at the time, the matter ended.
It had been a stormy evening for Harshaw. He was, however, well
accustomed to contention. It was not this that irked him; he writhed
under the sense of disadvantage, of being brought in propinquity to
defeat. He was a man not susceptible of the finer emotions of success,
of gratulation because of the thing attained rather than the plaudits
of attainment. His sensibility to achievement was manifested in a
certain sordid inversion of values. He made popularity, position,
social opportunity, political preferment, the end of mental supremacy,
rather than its humble incident. And thus it was that, rough as he was,
courageous, obstinate, full of rugged nodules of traits, hard, strong,
but limited, there was no solid substratum of absolute sincere purpose
in his nature, no bed-rock impervious to all infiltration of temptation,
all extraneous influence; whatever he might build would fail at the
foundation.
His world had changed to him in some sort during the short hours since
the darkness had fallen. He strode into the hotel feeling a different
man. He found it necessary to assert himself. All the fight in him was
on the alert. He cared little for Kinsard or for the scene itself in
the House, but it was peculiarly obnoxious to him that it should have
been another chance allusion to the man he hated which precipitated the
collision. He revolted from the fact that it might seem a reiteration of
the lesson received earlier in the evening. He knew that many commented
upon the coincidence, and that doubtless he was recommended to leave
Gwinnan alone. Now submission was not what he was prepared to offer. He
preferred that it should seem a persistent attack on Gwinnan. Once more
he returned to the charge.
He was serious, lowering, formidable. He did not go at once to his room,
as the lateness of the hour might have impelled him. He was quick to
observe the faces of the legislators about: some were merely curious;
others held a half-cloaked triumph; and still others an open gloating
satisfaction. It was with a manner which was a distinct replication to
all three manifestations that he lounged about the reading-room with a
striding gait, his hat on the back of his head, his hands in his pockets,
and his cigar fast between his teeth. He finally threw himself into a
chair by the table before the open fire in the inner room, and said
in a meditative undertone to a gentleman with whom he had sufficient
association to make it seem a confidence to a friend, “I reckon I’ll have
to write to Judge Gwinnan.” The others heard it, however, and it was
to several that he read the letter when it was completed. They thought
it very bold; to show that it was not empty bluster, but written with
all the sincerity of immediate intention, he rang for a bell-boy, and
dispatched it in their presence to Gwinnan’s room.
That gentleman’s physician still urged his patient to cultivate a more
vivid interest in life, in passing events; to seek to absorb himself;
to rouse himself. Mr. Harshaw’s letter very effectually compassed this
result.
The writer begged to call Judge Gwinnan’s attention to sundry facts
which he proceeded to set forth in due detail. He premised that he would
endeavor to take no other notice of an insult offered him by a man who
was virtually at death’s door, and who might uncharitably, perhaps,
be supposed to have taken advantage of that circumstance; such as the
advantage was, he made Judge Gwinnan most heartily welcome to it. In
defense of his reputation for veracity, however, he felt it necessary
to state his authority, besides his own observation, for saying that
Judge Gwinnan had taken such notice of a very beautiful girl, who
was a witness, as to render her lover, who was the prisoner, wildly
jealous, and to result in the injuries from which Judge Gwinnan was now
unfortunately suffering. His authority was the deputy sheriff and the two
guards, to whom the prisoner stated these facts, swearing that he would
get even with Judge Gwinnan. Mr. Harshaw begged to remark in addition
that he fully realized that he was ill advised in saying he would like to
introduce a resolution to impeach Judge Gwinnan. He knew that the action
of a court in a matter of contempt committed in the presence of the court
is wholly a matter of judicial discretion not liable to be reviewed by
the court above, and therefore it should have been free from impotent
criticism, which could avail naught to either counsel or prisoner, who
have absolutely no resource nor recourse. He deeply regretted his words,
and their futility.
The mock apology, which had been highly appreciated by the coterie in
the reading-room, the whole tenor of the letter, the revelation which it
made, had important results to Judge Gwinnan, who was accustomed to deal
with larger motives and finer issues than Harshaw’s wrath or satire could
furnish.
He had such exceeding confidence in the dignity and decorum of Gwinnan as
judge that at first it seemed almost impossible that he should have taken
such notice of the witness as to attract the attention of others. But
there was a sort of coercive evidence in the circumstance that the girl’s
face had lingered in his mind with a luminous distinctness, a surprised
pleasure, a newly awakened sense of beauty, which he had associated with
no other face that he could remember. He was not a sentimental man.
He had had few romantic experiences, and the flavor they had left was
vapid and foolish. Alethea had not primarily impressed him as beautiful.
She looked so noble, so true, so radiantly good. It was altogether an
abstract sentiment, a tribute to the lofty qualities which he revered and
she embodied.
He cared so little for Gwinnan as Gwinnan that he entertained the mildest
resentment toward the man who had struck him on the head with his iron
shackles. The indignity offered by the foreman of the jury, and afterward
by Harshaw, to Gwinnan the judge had burned into his consciousness, and
the scars would be there on the judgment day. The knowledge that the
attack was not in revenge for some fancied wrong in the trial, but that
it was the frenzy of a madly jealous lover in chains and in expatriation,
altered the whole aspect of the case for Gwinnan as Gwinnan.
The judge could not, perhaps, have sufficiently condemned Gwinnan’s state
of mind as he sat down and wrote to Mr. Kenbigh, the attorney for the
State at Glaston, requesting that no action should be taken in regard to
the assault, as he was not willing to prosecute.
XXI.
Alethea Sayles awoke early the morning after the momentous news of Mink’s
journey had come to Wild-Cat Hollow; such an awakening as a barn-swallow
might know, the familiar of the rafters and the clapboards. There was
no other ceiling to the roof-room. She might put up her hand and touch
it where she lay, but in the centre it was higher,—high enough for many
pendent uses: bags of cotton swung from the ridge-pole; hanks of yarn;
bunches of pepper; gourds; old hats and garments, of awry, distorted,
facetious aspect in their caricature of the habit of humanity. The snow
pressed heavily without; through the crevices vague white glimpses of
the drifts might be seen, for the dull glow from the fire in the room
below penetrated the cracks between the boards of the flooring, which
served as the ceiling of the lower story. Light came in, too, from the
rifts between the wall and the great stick-and-clay chimney, which
bulged outward, being built outside the house, as is the habit in the
region. It was the light of the waning moon, fitful, fluctuating, for
clouds were astir. Now and then, too, Alethea could see the great morning
star with its tremulous glister, seeming nearer, dearer, than all the
others,—splendid, yet tender and full of promise. She looked wistfully
at it for a moment, feeling the dull aching wound in her heart, and
forgetting what dealt it. Then it all came back to her, and she wondered
she had awakened again. She could not understand how she lived. She felt
as if she could rise no more. But the cow was to be milked; she listened
to the cocks crowing. The baby, who had developed a virulent habit of
early rising, was already astir. She heard his thumping bare feet on
the floor of the room below; he would be cold, and she thought of the
danger of the embers, and remembered that the sluggard his mother still
drowsed. The breakfast must be cooked, the dishes must be washed. Her
physical strength was asserting itself against the shock to her mind. Her
collapsed energies were recuperated by sleep, albeit the slumber induced
by the primitive narcotics of the “yerb bag.” Ah, the world of Wild-Cat
Hollow, small though it was, was full of work, and she must lay hold. And
so she rose once more, and joined hands with joyless duty.
Ben Doaks sojourned with them for a time, and went hunting with Jessup,
and brought back game, and made Mrs. Sayles presents of the peltry. As he
sat by the fire at night he told the news from the cove in great detail,
and discussed it freely with Mrs. Jessup, and developed remarkable
capacities for acquiescence. Old Griff, he said, was having a mighty hard
winter. His mill had proved a sore loss, for he was bereft of his tolls,
and he had planted little corn. “He mought make out, though. His meat
looks thrivin’; he hain’t killed yit.” Ben spoke of the miller’s hogs
afoot as if they held their fat in trust and were stewards of their own
bacon. The old man seemed failing, and talked much about Tad; sometimes
as if he had already returned, sometimes as if he momently expected him.
The children, too, “’peared thrivin’,” though Ben didn’t believe Sophy
would ever be good for much except to look at, and the little ones “all
’peared ragged ez ef she didn’t study ’bout them much.”
“Too many peart, spry boys in the cove fur her ter study ’bout, stiddier
them,” said Mrs. Sayles, with a scornful toss of the head, histrionically
seeing the situation from Sophy’s standpoint.
“Jerry Price ’pears ter set a heap o’ store by Sophy’s looks,” submitted
Ben, with the implication of the remark.
“Waal, ’twould be a jedgmint on Dely Purvine fur all her onwholesome
vanity an’ slack-twisted sort o’ religion, ef that thar Jerry Price, ez
she hev brung up ez ef he war her own son,—though his looks air enough
ter tarrify a mole,—war ter marry Sophy Griff.”
“Waal, sir, one thing,—her housekeepin’ couldn’t ’stonish him none arter
Mis’ Purvine’s,” remarked Mrs. Jessup, with an elaborate semblance of
seeing the brighter side of things.
“Shucks!” Mrs. Sayles commented. “He’d miss mightily the show and the
shine he hev been used ter along o’ Mis’ Purvine.”
“Waal,” said Ben, “I don’t b’lieve ez Mis’ Purvine would mind much who
Jerry marries, so long ez he keeps clar o’ Elviry Crosby. Mis’ Purvine
air mightily outdone with her. She hev been mournin’ fur Peter Rood same
ez ef she war a widder-woman. An’ ye know she wouldn’t speak ter him ez
long ez Mink war out’n the grip o’ the sher’ff. She tried ter toll Pete
back arterwards. I hearn him ’low sech when they war drawin’ the jury. I
dunno how she made out.”
Mrs. Sayles gazed at the fire solemnly from under her pink sun-bonnet.
“Death tolled him,” she said lugubriously.
“I’d jes’ ez lief Death as Elviry Crosby,” said Mrs. Jessup, in calm
superiority to the wiles of feminine fascination.
Old man Sayles shook his head in negation.
“Mighty dark under the ground,” he said, with terror of the termination
of life; which for him signified so little that a sponge with a vocable
or two might have seemed his correlative.
But when Ben was gone,—and the sight of Alethea, silent, absorbed,
pallid, broken-hearted, gave him little wish to prolong his stay,—the
scene at the fireside was less amicable and cheerful. The elder women,
bereft of gossip, bickered over the trifling mishaps of the day. The old
man sorted his “lumber.” Jessup slouched and lazed and smoked. Only the
weather varied the aspect of the world. The snow slipped away in the
thaw, leaving mud and ooze and intervals of blackened ice. Then the rains
descended, and the scene without was dimly visible through the long,
slanting, dun-colored fringes of the cloud. The roof clamored with the
resonant fall of the drops, the clapboards leaked, and puddles formed
even in the ashes of the chimney corner. The sun might shine vaguely for
a day. The chill splendors of the wintry constellations scintillated
icily in the dark spaces of the night. But the clouds, rallying from
every repulse, closed once more about the Great Smoky, and ravine and
peak and cove were again deeply covered with snow.
Mrs. Jessup bewailed the change. “I war a-hopin’,” she remarked, “ez
we would hev no mo’ fallin’ weather, so Lethe could go ter the meetin’
at the church-house in Eskaqua Cove, an’ fetch up some word o’ what’s
a-goin’ on down thar ter this benighted roost. _I_ war raised in the
_cove_! I ain’t used ter sech a dwindlin’ sort o’ life ez this hyar.”
“What ailed ye, then, ter marry a mounting boy?” Mrs. Sayles would demand
in resentment.
“’Kase I war the mos’ outdacious an’ astonishin’ fool in Cherokee County.”
Mrs. Jessup was not a woman of great abilities, but she had an uncommon
gift of conclusiveness in retort.
Mrs. Sayles could only knit off her needle with a sort of whisking
scornfulness of gesture.
And presently, not to be silenced, she demanded when the meetin’ was to
be held.
“To-morrer’s the day; this be Sat’dy. Ter-morrer’s Sunday.”
“The snow’s a dry snow,” remarked Mrs. Sayles. “I dunno what’s ter hender
Lethe, ef she feels minded ter go ter meetin’.”
It never occurred to either of them to undertake themselves the hardships
and dangers of the excursion. Even Mrs. Jessup, pining for the fuller
development and richer social opportunities of life in the cove, did not
covet them to the extent of exertion.
Alethea was glad to be alone. The burden of the work, however
mechanically accomplished, had pressed heavily upon her consciousness.
The acrimony, the continual talk, the trivial stir, had impinged
jarringly upon her deeper absorption. The infinite solitude of the
wilds, the austere dignity of their silence, harmonized with her mood.
She had craved to hear the preaching. She was spiritually an hungered.
She turned to the consolations of religion. Now and then she drew a deep
sigh as she went, and paused and looked about her with eyes that felt as
if they had wept long; but they were dry, and tears for a time had been
strangers. She was fain to note closely to-day the aspects of the outer
world, or, woodland creature though she was, she might have missed her
way in the tortuous intricacies that the road had followed in striving
to make and keep a footing among the steeps. Icicles still hung to the
dark faces of the crags, grim and distinct upon the snowy slopes about
them. On every side towered the great trees, their gigantic proportions
more incredibly imposing when fully revealed in bare bole and branch than
when the foliage had veiled them. Now and then she met a mist, stealing
softly, silently along, or lurking like some half-affrighted apparition
in the depth of ravines, or peering down from over unmeasured heights.
As the road turned abruptly she saw a mass of white vapor against the
sky,—nay, it was Thunderhead, the great cloud-mountain. There was
movement upon the slopes of the peak. The mists shifted to and fro, with
vague gray shadows mysteriously attendant upon them. Sudden gusts of
wind swept through the forest, rousing it to motion, to weird murmurs.
She gathered her brown shawl about her and drew her bonnet forward. And
then the wind would slip away, and she would hear it repeating its mystic
apostrophe far off among the ravines of Thunderhead, or Big Injun, or
another of the mighty company of the border. Through rifts of the clouds
came sometimes a pallid glimpse of the midday moon. It had a strange
ghastly gleam on this sad gray day, above the great legendary mountain.
She stood and gazed at it for a moment in vague fascination, then she
turned and went on. She saw occasionally the footprints of small animals
in the snow. Often she looked after them, for she had the compassionate
tenderness of a compatriot for these little mountaineers. Once she
noticed a rabbit that crouched chilled and trembling for an instant, and
then went leaping through the frozen weeds.
She was not cold. It was growing warmer as she made her way down to lower
levels, and much of the time she walked rapidly. Only when she cautiously
crossed the mountain torrent, icy and motionless save that in its crystal
heart a stream like a silver arrow swiftly and silently glided, glancing
in the light, she felt the chill of the day. For the foot-bridge was hung
with icicles and enveloped in deceptive snow that fell at the touch of
her foot, and she began to be afraid she would lose so much time here
that she might be late and miss some part of the sermon. When the cove
became visible, one might fail to discern any expression of the social
opportunities for which Mrs. Jessup valued it. In its wintry guise it
was peculiarly open to the eye: its forests were bare; the unbroken snow
lay in its broad fields in lieu of its harvested crops; its road was
distinguishable by the narrow interval between the zigzag fences; the
serpentine lines of the river were defined by its snow-fringed laureled
banks; here and there a curl of blue smoke arose from the chimney of a
little house heavily thatched with drifts.
The church had for Alethea many melancholy associations. She paused at
the palings, remembering the night when she had stood here in the silent
moonshine, in the full summer-tide, and the vapors had shifted about,
and in their midst she had seen the boy whom they had said was dead. How
much had come into her life since then, and, alas, how much had gone
forth forever! The snow hung heavy in the pine-trees; the faint moon was
in the fretted gray sky above the mountains. The little house was dark
and drear under its whitened roof. The snow was melting close to the
chimney. She heard the drops trickling down. The mounds in the inclosure
were very distinct. Some of them had a square of palings close about:
those were the graves of the well-to-do people of the cove. She could
hardly have said, but for her life-long knowledge of the place, which
was the new-made grave where lay the man who had pointed at her with his
last living impulse, whose last word was intended for her, becoming dumb
on his lips as his life died in him,—a word never to be heard, never to
be answered. Here they all were, little ephemeral mounds in the midst of
the great eternities of the mountains. She wondered if there were words
to be said buried with the others; deeds to be done or undone; hopes
unrealized; promises deferred until now when time was no more for them.
Life was transitory, and so she was minded anew of the preacher.
He was already in the pulpit when she entered the low, dark little
building, with its scanty congregation huddled on the few benches. He
was a long-haired, wild-eyed, jeans-clad mountaineer, with a powerful
physique and an admiration of prowess. He was a worthy and a well-meaning
man, and there are those of his profession wiser than he who forget that
they are apostles of peace. The circumstantial account of various feuds
detailed in the Old Bible proved of intense interest to the majority of
his congregation, who listened with eager faces and spellbound attention.
The methods of slaughter in those days seem to have had phenomenal
diversity, and certainly exceeded anything of the sort that had ever been
heard of in Eskaqua Cove.
Alethea’s mind was too closely held in subordination to reverence for
her to acknowledge, even to herself, how little this discourse met her
peculiar needs. She endeavored to fix her attention humbly upon the
harrowing details of barbarity; now and then an expression of wincing
sympathy was in her clear eyes.
The application of the sermon—for it had an application—was to be found
in the thankfulness which every professing member should experience
because his lot was cast in Eskaqua Cove, where such practices did not
obtain, and the fear which the unregenerate should harbor, since these
tortures were nothing in comparison to what would happen to him in the
next world, unless he forthwith mended his ways.
It left a certain trace of meditative astonishment among the heavy
mountaineers, slouching out to their horses and wagons, slowly commenting
while chewing hard on their great quids of tobacco. The women lingered
and talked in a lack-lustre fashion to one another of their ailments,
and interchanged inquiries concerning absent members of the family.
Sophy Griff stood by the palings, debating whether she should accept the
proffer of one of the youths to take her home on his horse behind him.
She was looking about doubtfully. “I brung two o’ the chil’ren along o’
me, but they ’pear ter hev runned off somewhar. I dunno ez I wanter leave
’em.”
“They’ll be home ’fore supper-time,” urged the gallant. “Trest ’em ter
git thar ef thar’s enny eatin’ goin’ on.”
With this logic she suffered herself to be persuaded, mounted his horse
behind him, and they rode away after the manner of a cavalier and his
lady-love of the olden time.
Alethea trudged along the road to Mrs. Purvine’s house, for the journey
up the mountain was hardly a possible achievement after the fatigues
of the descent. The sun had come out. It scintillated on the snow. The
cascades in the half-frozen river glittered iridescent. The bluffs
were outlined with drifts in all their fissures; icicles clung to them
at every jutting point, and the stunted trees of their summit, whose
insistent roots seemed to pierce the stone, were encased in ice, and
sparkled as the wind moved them. In the midst of all this splendor
Mrs. Purvine’s house was dark and humble, despite the porch, and the
front steps, and the glass windows. In the half-buried garden a bevy
of dark figures sped this way and that over the snow. They were aunt
Dely’s boys chasing rabbits. The creatures, half famished and bold with
necessity,—fatally distinct on the whitened ground,—were deftly knocked
on the head with a stick, and one blow from such experts was sufficient.
In the party was a smaller boy, whom, at first, Alethea was puzzled to
remember. Presently she recognized ’Gustus Tom, and this prepared her
to see, when she entered, “sister Eudory,” sitting in front of Mrs.
Purvine’s fire.
The pernicious glass in the windows added much cheerfulness to the
apartment in weather like this. It aided the firelight in revealing
sister Eudory’s tangle of flaxen hair and beguiling plumpness, as she
sat, looking demure and wise, in one of the large rickety chairs. She was
nearly five years of age now, and a great girl, and when she got down and
went and stood behind the churn, in an affectation of shyness because of
Alethea’s presence, she was not hidden by the article, and the handle of
the dasher was insufficient to obscure her downcast face and her finger
in her mouth.
“Yer aig will pop an’ bust, fust thing ye know,” said aunt Dely, the
politic.
And Eudora forthwith came briskly out to investigate an egg which she was
roasting in the ashes, the kind present of Mrs. Purvine. The hen that
laid it was stalking about the room in unconscious bereavement. Now and
then there was a shrill piping from a basket on the floor, from which
overflowed, as it were, a downy collection of fall “deedies,” hatched
too late to stand any chance of weathering the winter except by being
reared into those obnoxious animals, house-chickens. A matronly feathered
head would occasionally be thrust out with a remonstrant cluck, and the
assemblage, miraculously escaping the heedless human foot, would climb
into the basket, and there would ensue a soft sound of snuggling down and
drowsy pipings. All of which excited sister Eudory almost to ecstasy.
Mrs. Purvine experienced less complacence. “Ef ennybody ain’t got no
baby, an’ feels like adoptin’ one ter take trouble about, jes’ let ’em
git ’em a settin’ o’ aigs an’ hatch out some fall deedies. They’ll be ez
much trouble ez twins!”
“Whyn’t you-uns stay ter the meetin’ ter the church-house, Eudory?”
demanded Alethea.
The little girl, kneeling on the hearth, anxiously adjusted a broom straw
on the egg to see if it were done,—when, according to culinary tradition,
the straw would turn; she glanced up with her charming smile showing her
snaggled little teeth.
“’Gustus Tom wouldn’t bide,” she declared.
“Waal, now, ’Gustus Tom oughter begin ez early ez he kin,” said Mrs.
Purvine. “Sech ez ’Gustus Tom hev a mighty wrastle with Satan ’fore
they git grace. ’Gustus Tom hev got a long way o’ wickedness afore him.
He oughter be among them in early youth convicted o’ sin an’ afeard o’
Satan.”
“Naw,” said the child, sitting upright and staring steadily at the straw.
“He be ’feared o’ Pete Rood. An’ he won’t bide a-nigh the church-house.”
The light of the fire was on her face. Its breath stirred her bright
hair. Her chubby hand hovered about the egg in the ashes. Surely the
straw was turning at last.
“Pete Rood is dead, Eudory,” said Mrs. Purvine, rebukingly.
“In the groun’,” said Eudory unequivocally.
The mention of him recalled to Alethea that momentous day of drawing the
jury, the mystery of Tad’s fate, the hardships of Mink’s duress, and
finally the calamity which he had brought upon himself.
Alethea had taken off her bonnet, and sat down in the rocking-chair
before the fire, her eyes fixed reflectively upon the great burning logs.
The interior of Mrs. Purvine’s house always had a leisurely aspect;
to-day it wore the added quiet and ease of Sunday stillness. It was
evident that here no anxious female heart was “harried ter death,” in
yearnings for the perfecting of a theory of housekeeping.
Mrs. Purvine, sitting with her empty hands in her lap, once more
rebuked sister Eudory, the decorums of the day giving a more stringent
interpretation to her code of manners.
“Ye mustn’t say ’Gustus Tom air ’feard o’ Pete Rood, ’kase he air dead.”
“That’s what ’Gustus Tom say—he say don’t talk ’bout’n it.” Eudora looked
up gravely. “He be wusser ’feard now ’n he war when Pete Rood war ’live.”
There was a sudden hand on the latch, and ’Gustus Tom came hastily in.
“Look-a-hyar, sister Eudory!” he cried remonstrantly, seizing her by the
arm, “what ails ye ter let yer tongue break loose that-a-way? Shet up! Ye
promised ye wouldn’t tell.”
He had an excited, grave, frightened look that was incongruous with the
roguish cast of his features; his torn old hat was jauntily askew; his
clothes were ragged; a single suspender seemed quite adequate to support
so many holes; his shoes were broken. There was a distinct deprecation
and anxiety in his face more pitiable than poverty, as he looked from one
to the other of the women. He was evidently wondering how much of his
secrets the faithless sister Eudory had told. He could not control his
fears. He broke out suddenly:
“Hev she tole ’bout’n what I done?”
Mrs. Purvine, who was jocose with children, and who could not appreciate
at this stage of the disclosure that anything of moment impended, folded
her arms slowly across her bosom, looked at him over her spectacles,
a great deal of the whites of her blue eyes showing, and with mock
solemnity nodded assent.
“Waal, waal—did she tell ’bout’n the—the mill, too?”
Aunt Dely shook her head in burlesque reproach. “She hev tole on ye,
’Gustus Tom. Yer wicked ways air made plain.”
His eyes were wildly starting from his head; he caught his breath in
quick gasps. The little girl first detected the genuine terror which he
was suffering, and as she held his hand she began to whimper and to lay
her head against his ragged shirt-sleeve.
“Oh, Mis’ Purvine,” cried ’Gustus Tom, “I never knowed aforehand how
’twar goin’ ter turn out, else I’d never hev gone thar that night, an’ I
wouldn’t hev knowed no mo’ ’bout who bust down the mill ’n nobody else!”
“Didn’t Mink bust the mill down?” asked Mrs. Purvine, staring.
“Naw,” said ’Gustus Tom, miserably, “Mink never.”
Aunt Dely suddenly sat upright, and took her spectacles from her
astonished eyes. She was about to speak sharply, but met Alethea’s
warning glance, and desisted.
XXII.
Conscience, the great moral inquisitor, whose sessions are held in
secret, whose absolute justice is untempered by mercy, whose processes
are unrelated and superior to the laws of the land, makes manifest
its decrees only at such long intervals that we are prone to consider
their results exceptional. Although its measures are invariably meted,
they are seldom so plainly set forth as in Peter Rood’s fate. Alethea,
listening to ’Gustus Tom’s story, saw in aghast dismay how he had been
pursued by those terrible potencies of the right which he had sought
to disregard. Many things that had been vague were made distinct. She
understood suddenly the meaning of the strange words he had spoken at
the camp-meeting, when his spiritual struggles had nearly betrayed him.
She divined the mingled fear and self-reproach, and at the same time the
cowardly gratulation he experienced because of his fancied security, when
entrapped to serve on the jury. She remembered with a new comprehension
his joyous excitement when it appeared that the idiot boy had not been
drowned, and the pallid anguish on his face as the lawyer dexterously
reversed the probabilities. It might seem that he had expiated his deed,
but the extremest penalties were not abated. He had been a pillar in the
church, renowned for a certain insistent piety, and zealous to foster
good repute among men; and this last possession that he held dear upon
earth, which may be maintained even by a dead man, who can carry naught
out of the world, was wrested from him.
The truth which he had so feared, which he had so labored to hide, over
which the grave had seemed to close, was at last brought to light by very
simple means.
On the eventful morning, the miller’s erratic grandson, awaking early, he
knew not why, had sought to utilize the occurrence by robbing an owl’s
nest in the hollow of a tree beside the mill. The day had not yet dawned,
and he hoped that one or the other of the great birds would be away on
its nocturnal foragings, so that he might the more easily secure the
owlet, which he had long wanted for a pet. It was very still, ’Gustus Tom
said. The frogs by the water had ceased their croaking; the katydids were
silenced long ago; he heard only the surging monotone of the gleaming
cascade falling over the natural dam. He had climbed the tree to the
lower limbs, and had perched on one of them to rest for a moment, when
there broke upon the air the sound of the galloping of a horse far away,
approaching at a tremendous rate of speed. Presently he came into view,
his head stretched forward, his coat flecked with foam, his rider plying
both heel and whip.
This rider was Peter Rood, whom ’Gustus Tom knew well, as he often came
to the mill. He dismounted hastily, close to the water-side. He walked
uncertainly, even pausing sometimes to steady himself by holding to
the supports of the old mill. He was evidently very drunk, and thus it
appeared to ’Gustus Tom the less surprising that he should drag two or
three fence rails stranded on the margin of the river,—which was high
and full of floating rubbish,—and laboriously place them in a position
to cumber the wheel; an empty barrel, too, he found and put to this use,
some poles, drift-wood. He paused after a careful survey of his work, and
held up his head, looking away toward the east, as if he were listening.
It seemed to ’Gustus Tom, all veiled by the dew-tipped chestnut leaves,
that Rood was strangely intent of purpose for a drunken man. He heard,
long before the boy did, some monition of approach in the distance, for
he caught eagerly at his horse’s bridle. Yet he was drunk enough to find
difficulty in mounting. As the animal swerved, he was obliged to grasp
the stirrup with one hand in order to steady it, so that he could put
his foot in it; then he flung his right leg over the saddle, and away he
went along the grassy margin of the road,—noiseless, swift, dark, like
some black shadow, some noxious exhalation of the night.
’Gustus Tom explained at this point, with tears and many anxious
twistings of the button on his shirt front,—which was quite useless, the
correlative button-hole being torn out,—that he understood so little of
what all this meant at the time that it seemed to him the only important
point involved was to remember to tell his grandfather early in the day
of Pete Rood’s drunken freak of clogging the mill-wheel. He did not call
out and make his presence known, because he was frightened by the man’s
strange conduct and terrible look. As he still sat meditating on the limb
of the tree, the sound which had aroused Peter Rood again broke upon the
silence. Once more the regular thud of hoofs—of many hoofs. The pace was
far slower than the rattling gallop at which Pete Rood had come. There
were several men in the group that presently appeared. ’Gustus Tom knew
some of them,—he couldn’t help knowing Mink Lorey from far off; he looked
so wild and gamesome; the moonlight was on his face and all his hair was
flying. He knew Mink well. Mink it was who climbed the timbers of the
race and lifted the gate. And once more ’Gustus Tom, with quivering lips
and twisting the futile button on his shirt front, began to exculpate
himself. He did not understand what Mink was about to do until the gate
was lifted and the water surged through. The wheel, turning with its
curiously contrived clogs, jerked spasmodically, gave sudden violent
wrenches, finally breaking and crashing against the shanty, that itself
tottered and careened and fell. He heard Tad scream, for the idiot,
having incurred the miller’s displeasure during the day, had been locked
in the mill, supperless, to sleep. ’Gustus Tom did not see the boy in the
river, because of the falling timbers, the clouds of dust and flour and
meal, and the commotion of the water. The men galloped away, Mink among
them. For the house had been alarmed by the noise; old Griff ran out,
wringing his hands and crying aloud, first for the loss of the mill, then
for the fate of the idiot. The others of the family came, too. ’Gustus
Tom easily slipped down unobserved from the tree, in the midst of the
excitement, and no one was aware, except sister Eudory, that he knew more
than the rest. Lately she had noticed that he was afraid of the dark and
would not sit alone; and she had begun to say so much of this that he was
alarmed lest she might excite the suspicions of others. And so, thinking
she would keep his secret,—he would have divulged it to no one else,—he
told her that he was afraid of Peter Rood, who was dead, and who perhaps
had found out in the other world that he knew the secret, and would come
and haunt him to make sure that he did not reveal it. And at the renewal
of these ghastly terrors ’Gustus Tom bent his head upon his arm, and
began to sob afresh.
“Why didn’t ye tell at fust, ’Gustus Tom?” asked Alethea, her mind
futilely reviewing the complications that circumstance had woven about
Mink Lorey.
’Gustus Tom lifted his head, a gleam of this world’s acumen shining
through the tears in his eyes.
“He’d hev walloped the life out’n me, ef I hed told. He kem nigh every
day ter the mill arterward, whenst they war a-s’archin’ fur the body. An’
his eyes looked so black an’ mad an’ cur’ous whenst he cut ’em round at
me, I ’lowed he knowed what I knowed. An’ I war afeard o’ him.”
Aunt Dely could not be altogether repressed. “Waal, ’Gustus Tom, ye air
a bad aig,” she remarked, politely. “Ye ter know all that whenst ye war
down thar at Shaftesville, along o’ yer gran’dad, an’ seen them men
a-talkin’ by the yard-medjure, an’ a-cavortin’ ’bout in the court, ez
prideful ez ef thar brains war ez nimble ez thar tongues; an’ ye look at
’em try Mink fur bustin’ down the mill an’ drowndin’ Tad, an’ ye ter know
ez Pete Rood done it,—an’ ye say nuthin’!”
“Waal,” said ’Gustus Tom, sorely beset, “he war a-settin’ thar in the
cheer; he could hev told hisself.”
“Whyn’t ye tell arter he drapped dead?” suggested the politic Mrs.
Purvine.
The boy winced at the recollection. “He looked so awful!” he said,
putting up his hand to his eyes as if to shut out the image presented. “I
war ’feared he’d harnt me.”
It occurred to sister Eudora that this investigation was degenerating
into a persecution of ’Gustus Tom. She had looked from one to the other
in grave excitement and with a flushing face, as she stood on the hearth,
the breath from the fire waving her flaxen hair, hanging upon her
shoulders.
Suddenly, with an accession of color, she stepped across the broad,
ill-joined stones, and, fixing a threatening eye on Mrs. Purvine’s
moon-face, she lifted her fat hand, and retributively smote that lady on
the knee.
’Gustus Tom had never manifested any special desire to suit his own
conduct to a high standard of deportment, but he appeared to entertain
the most sedulous solicitude concerning sister Eudory’s manners, and to
be jealous that she should be esteemed the pink of juvenile propriety.
His mortification at the present lapse was very great. It expressed
itself in such unequivocal phrase, such energetic shakings of his
tow-head, which seemed communicated, with diminished rigor, however,
to her plump little shoulders,—for he went through all the motions of
discipline,—that Mrs. Purvine, beaming with injudicious laughter, was
forced to interfere. Her indulgence did not serve to reassure sister
Eudory, who stood dismayed at the fullness of fraternal displeasure.
She presently put her hands before her eyes, although she did not shed
tears, and thus she was led toward the door, to be taken home as unfit
for polite society. Mrs. Purvine hurried after her, carrying the roasted
egg—which was very hot, in its shell—between two chips, and further
pressing upon her a present of a sweet-potato, an ear of pop-corn, and a
young kitten, all of which sister Eudory, regardless of the animate and
the inanimate, the hot and the cold, carried together in her apron. The
affront was but a slight matter to aunt Dely, whose lenient temperament
precluded her from viewing it as an enormity; but as the brother and
sister went away in humiliation, one could well guess that sister Eudora
would be a woman grown before she would be allowed to contemplate with
indifference the dreadful day when she “hit Mis’ Purvine.”
In whatever manner it might have seemed judicious to make use, in Mink’s
interest, of the disclosures of Peter Rood’s agency in the destruction
of the mill, anything like caution, or reserve, or secrecy was rendered
impossible by the circumstance that it was Mrs. Purvine who shared in the
discovery of the fact. For weeks no one passed the house, going or coming
on the winding road, whom she did not descry through the worldly glass
windows,—which thus demonstrated an additional justification for their
existence,—and whom she did not hail with a loud outcry from the unsteady
flight of steps, and bring to a not unwilling pause as she hurried out to
the fence, with her glib tongue full of words. There was no weather too
cold for the indulgence of this gossip. Sometimes aunt Dely would merely
fling her apron over her head, if the exigency suggested haste; or she
would hood herself with her shawl, like a cowled friar, and stand in the
snow, defiant of the rigors of the temperature. More often, however, the
passer-by would suffer himself to be persuaded to come in and sit down
by aunt Dely’s fire, and discuss with her all the details so tardily
elicited. Pete Rood’s death, considered as a judgment upon him, was a
favorite point of contemplation, offering that symmetrical exposition
of cause and effect, sin and retribution, peculiarly edifying to the
obdurate in heart and acceptable to the literalist in religion. So much
was said on this subject at the store, and the blacksmith-shop, and the
saw-mill,—those places where the mountain cronies most congregated,—that
it came to the ear of Rood’s relatives with all the added poignancy of
comment. They indignantly maintained that only the ingenuity of malice
could feign to attach any special meaning to the moment or manner of his
death, for it was widely known that he had for years suffered from a
serious affection of the heart; they stigmatized the whole story as an
effort to blacken his name in order to clear Mink Lorey. Their attitude
and sentiment enlisted a certain sympathy, and it was only when they were
not of the company that the counter-replication was made that it was a
supremely significant moment when Peter Rood’s doom fell upon him, and
that it behooves those who sit in the shadow of death to be not easily
diverted from the true interpretation of the darkling signs of the wrath
of God.
It was a scene of pathetic interest when his aged mother, resolved
upon forcing a recantation, came herself to the miller’s home. A dark,
withered, white-haired crone she was, with a hooked nose and a keen,
fierce, intent eye that suggested strength of mind and purpose defying
age and ailments. She shrewdly questioned the boy, and sought to involve
him in discrepancies and to elicit some admission that the story had
been prompted by Alethea Sayles. Her dark-browed sons stood about the
great white-covered ox-wagon, their bemired boots drawn high over
their trousers, their broad hats pulled down to their lowering eyes,
maintaining a sedulous silence. So strong a family resemblance existed
between them and the dead man that ’Gustus Tom was greatly perturbed
as from time to time he glanced at them; looking away instantly with a
resolution to see them no more, and yet again with a morbid fascination
turning his eyes to meet theirs, before whose dark and solemn anger he
quailed. Now and then the sobs would burst from him, and he would lay his
head on his arm against the rails, as he cowered in the fence corner;
for the old woman would not enter the miller’s house, but stood upon
the frozen crust of snow by the roadside, and looked upon the denuded
site of the mill, and the turbulent river, and the austere bleak bluffs
on the opposite bank. The miller peered out from his door, himself the
impersonation of winter, his snowy locks and beard falling about his
rugged face; the desolate little shanty was plainly to be seen among the
naked and writhen boughs of the orchard, that bore only snow and icicles
in the stead of the bloom and fruit they had known.
Cross-questioning, threats, all the devices of suggestion, availed
naught. The terrible story once told, ’Gustus Tom found the pluck somehow
to stand by it without other support than the uncognizant affection of
sister Eudory; for the shallow Sophy cared for none of it. She came to
the door once to lead the old man within from the piercing wind, and she
lingered for a moment, her golden hair flying in the blast; her placid
blue eyes and superficial smile underwent no change when the old woman
turned away, baffled and hopeless and stricken.
“I ’lowed my son war dead,” she said to the cluster of gossips who
had assisted at the colloquy. She shook her head as she leaned upon
her stick, and hobbled down across the frozen ruts of the road toward
the wagon. “I ’lowed my son war dead, an’ I mourned him. But I said
the words of a fool, for he war alive; the best part of him, his good
name, war lef’ ter me. An’ now he air beset, an’ druv, an’ run down ter
death,—fur ye air a-murderin’ of him in takin’ his good name. Lemme know,
neighbors,”—she turned, with her hand upon the wheel,—“when the deed air
fairly done, so ez I kin gin myself ter mournin’ my son, fur then he’ll
be plumb dead.”
The two dark-browed brothers said never a word; the slow oxen started;
the wagon moved creaking down the road toward the snowy mountains, with
their whitened slopes and black trees, and gray shadows.
The public sentiment excited in favor of Mink Lorey by the developments
during his trial, and which had expressed itself in the riot and attempt
at a rescue, had sustained a rebuff consequent upon his assault on
Judge Gwinnan. Nevertheless, it is difficult to nullify a popular
prepossession, and the discovery that the young mountaineer had been
the victim of the machinations of the true criminal, that he had been
placed in jeopardy, had suffered many months’ imprisonment, had still
longer duress in prospect, served to justify him in some sort, and
reinstated him in the feelings of the people, never very logical. All
the details of the trial were canvassed anew with reviviscent interest.
Now that the veil of mystery was torn from it, there seemed still other
inculpations involved. It would appear to imply some gross negligence,
some intentional spite, some grotesque perversion of justice, that the
criminal should have been one of the jury impaneled to try an innocent
man. The fact itself was shocking. It was significant that only through
accident had it come to light, and it augured grievous insecurity of
liberty, life and property.
Mr. Harshaw, who had returned to Shaftesville upon the adjournment, for
a few days, of the Legislature, was not slow to note the direction and
progress of popular favor. In the state of his feelings toward Gwinnan,
he had no great impulse to combat the position taken by the unlearned
that it was a grave dereliction on the part of the court that Pete Rood
had been admitted to the panel. Why should he expound the theory of
judicial challenges, the conclusiveness of the _voir dire_, in instances
of general eligibility? He truly believed that in the incarceration
of the jury Gwinnan had sacrificed the interests of the defense and
a favorable verdict, and as he felt much reminiscent interest in the
details of his cases, he could listen with all the relish of mental
affirmation to the denunciations of the stranger judge, who was often
profanely apostrophized and warned to show his head no more in Cherokee
County.
“Somebody besides Mink Lorey’ll try ter beat some sense inter it, ef
he do,” said Bylor. The bitterness of the affront offered to the jury
by their imprisonment had grown more poignant as time went on, for
while the general excitement had gradually subsided, the fact remained.
Not one of the unlucky panel, venturing from time to time into town
with peltry, or game, or produce for sale, could escape the gibes and
laughter of retrospective ridicule. The dignity of the interests involved
had ceased to be a shield to them. Even the acrimony excited by their
failure to agree had yielded to light sarcasm and jocose scorn,—not
ill-natured, perhaps, but sufficiently nettling to proud and sensitive
men whom accident had succeeded in immuring behind the bars. Everywhere
the subject lurked in ambuscade,—in the stores, at the tavern, on the
streets. The jailer was the most hospitable man alive. “When’ll ye
kem an’ take pot-luck agin, gentlemen?” he would hail them in chance
encounters. “My door air easy ter open—_from the outside_.” Or he would
call out, with a roguish twinkle in his brown eyes, “How’s ’rithmetic up
in the cove?” in allusion to the unlucky thirteen on the panel. It seemed
to them that humiliation was their portion, and the festive and gala
occasion known as “goin’ ter town,” which had hitherto been so replete
with excitement and interest, and was in the nature of a tour and a
recompense of toil, had resolved itself into a series of mortifications.
Harshaw’s law-office proved in some sort a refuge to the coterie, as
it had always been more or less a resort. It had some of the functions
of a club-house, and its frequenters felt hardly less at home than its
proprietor. He was a man difficult to be taken amiss by his country
friends. He had a sonorous, hearty greeting for whoever came. If he were
at work, half a dozen sprawling fellows talking about his fireside were
no hindrance to the flow of his thought, the scratch of his pen, or the
chase of some elusive bit of legal game through the pages of a law-book.
More often he bore a part in the conversation. The bare floor defied the
red clay mire that came in with the heavy boots; the broken bricks in
the hearth were not more unsightly in his eyes for the stains of tobacco
juice. The high mantelpiece was ornamented by a box of tobacco, a can of
kerosene, and an untrimmed lamp that asserted its presence in unctuous
odors. There were some of the heavy books of his profession in a case,
and many more lying in piles on the floor, near the walls, defenseless
against the borrower. There was a window on one side of the office, and
another opening upon the street. At this a face was often applied, with
a pair of hands held above the eyes to shut out the light, that the
passer-by might scan the interior, perchance to see if someone sought
were within; perchance merely to regale an idle curiosity. The unique
proceeding occasioned no comment and gave no offense. An open door showed
an inner apartment, where consultations were held when too important for
the ear of the indiscriminate groups in the main office, and where there
was a lounge, on which he slept during court week, or when political
business was too brisk to admit of his driving out to his home on his
farm, some miles from the town.
“Well,” said Harshaw, tilting his chair back upon its hind legs until
it creaked and quaked with the weight, and clasping both hands behind
his yellow head, “I wonder you ain’t willing for Gwinnan to be a fool,
considering what Mink got for beating his skull into a different shape.”
The county boasted no weekly newspaper, and without it the news was a
laggard. Ben Doaks looked up with interest; Bylor paused expectant. Jerry
Price, too, was present, for there was an unusual number from the coves
in town—this was county court week, and the crowd assembled offered
special facilities for trading stock and small commodities.
The hickory logs crackled on the hearth above the gleaming coals, and the
white and yellow flames were broadly flaring; great beds of gray ashes
lay beneath, for they were seldom removed; the murmurous monotone of the
fire filled the pause.
“Yes, sir,” said Harshaw, taking his pipe from his lips and knocking
the ashes from the bowl, “Mink got a sentence for twenty years in the
penitentiary for assault with intent to commit murder.”
There was dead silence. The clay pipe that Jerry Price was smoking fell
from his hands unheeded, and broke into fragments on the hearth. This
knowledge affected the group more than the news of Mink’s death might
have done. That at least was uncertain. The mind flags and fails to
follow in the journey to the unknown the spirit that has quitted the
familiar flesh,—the entity for which it has merely a name, an impression,
an illusion of acquaintance. But this sordid, definite fact, this
measure of desolation bounded by four walls, this hopeless rage, this
mental revulsion from ignominy, all were of mortal experience and easily
imagined.
“Yes, sir,” resumed Harshaw, his florid face grave but firm. He had the
air of a man whose feelings have been schooled to calmness, but who
protests against a fact. “I did what I could for Mink. I couldn’t defend
him myself,—couldn’t leave the interests of my constituents in the House
for the sake of an individual; but I put the case in Jerome Maupert’s
hands. Maupert couldn’t help it. Mink was locking the door of the state
prison and double-locking it every time he lifted his hand to strike
Gwinnan. A _judge_, you know,”—he rolled his eyes significantly at the
group,—“a judge is a mighty big man, and Mink is just a poor mountain
boy.”
He stuck his pipe into his mouth again, and vigorously puffed it into a
glow.
“The crowd in court cheered when the jury gave their verdict,” he said.
The group looked at each other with quick, offended glances; then lapsed
into gazing at the fire and contemplating the circumstances.
“’Pears like ez nobody kin git even with Gwinnan right handy,” said
Bylor. “Ef ’twarn’t fur makin’ bad wuss fur Mink, I’d wisht ez he hed
killed him.”
“Shucks!” said Harshaw scornfully. “Gwinnan thinks he’s mighty popular
with the people. He’s always doing the humbugging and bamboozling dodge.
Just before I left Glaston the attorney-general—Kenbigh, you know—showed
me a letter from Judge Gwinnan asking him to take no notice of Mink’s
assault, as he wasn’t willing to prosecute.”
He brought his chair down with a thump on its forelegs, and looked about
the circle, his roseate plump face full of bantering sarcasm.
“What war his notion fur that?” demanded Doaks, slowly possessing himself
of the facts.
“To impose on the people—so good—so lenient”——
“Mighty lenient, sure!” interpolated Bylor. He rubbed his wrist
mechanically; he never was quite sure that he had not been shackled.
“Letter dated just about two weeks after Mink was sentenced,” Harshaw
sneered.
“Waal, who war the prosecutor, then?” demanded Jerry Price, at a loss.
“Why, of course they didn’t wait for a prosecutor. Mink was tried on a
presentment by the grand jury; and as the criminal court came on right
straight, Kenbigh just hurried him through. He’s a regular blood-hound,
Kenbigh is.”
There was a silence for a few moments. Several of the sticks of wood
had burned in two and fallen apart, and were sending up dull columns of
smoke, some of which puffed into the room,—an old trick of the chimney’s,
if the testimony of the blackened ceiling be admitted.
“As if,” cried Harshaw, suddenly uncrossing and crossing his legs,
reversing their position, “Gwinnan, of all the men in the world, wouldn’t
know and think of that! But Kenbigh seemed to take it _all_ in,—seemed
to think ’twas Gwinnan’s modesty. He showed me the answer he wrote to
the judge.” Harshaw cast up his eyes meditatively to the ceiling, as
if seeking to recall the words. “He begged to express his admiration
of Judge Gwinnan’s modesty in thinking that so serious an injury to
one of the most brilliant ornaments of the State judiciary could fail
to be summarily punished, or would need his personal interposition as
prosecutor.”
They all listened with an absent air, as if the refusal to hear the
compliments nullified them.
Harshaw gave a short, satirical laugh, showing his strong white teeth.
“I wisht ter Gawd that thar Gwinnan wanted ter go ter Congress, or sech,
ez would fling him ’fore the vote o’ Cher’kee County,—it be in the same
congressional deestric’ whar he hails from,—I’d show him,” said Bylor,
shaking his head with the savagery of supposititious revenge, and in
the full delusion of unbridled power characteristic of the free and
independent American unit. “_I’d_ show him.”
“I reckon everybody don’t feel like we-uns do,” said Jerry Price, who,
although he smarted under the unmerited disgrace he had experienced at
the hands of Gwinnan, had submitted to it as a judicial necessity. Its
rankling pangs were manifested only when, chancing to meet the foreman,
Jerry would ask, in a manner charged with interest and an affectation of
mystery, whether he had had his tongue measured yet, and how many joints
it had been ascertained to have.
“They’re a little more disgruntled over in Kildeer than you are here,”
Harshaw declared. “You’d allow the court-room was a distric’ school, if
you could know the way he domineers over there. I always look to see the
learned counsel put his finger in his mouth and whine when Gwinnan gets
on the rampage.”
“Why, look-a-hyar, Mr. Harshaw,” demanded Bylor, “do you-uns call this a
free country? Ain’t thar no way o’ stoppin’ him off? Goin’ ter hev five
mo’ years o’ him on the bench?”
“He’ll be impeached some day, mark my words,” Harshaw declared; and
then he fell to eying the smoking fire with slow, sullen, vengeful
speculation, and for the rest of the day he was not such jovial company
as his general repute for good-fellowship might promise.
In this interval of leisure which the recess afforded him, both as
legislator and lawyer, Harshaw devoted himself to furthering his
political prospects and strengthening his hold upon the predilections
of the people. He was a man of many mental and moral phases: he sang
loud and long at the revival at the cross-roads church; he attended
rural merry-makings; he connived at having his own house “stormed” by
a surprise party, the preparations being profuse and exhilarating, and
the flavor of his hospitality was not impaired by his shaking hands
with his guests, and violently promising to vote for them at the next
election, each enlightened and independent citizen being himself not
quite clear as to who was the prospective candidate: but the whole
episode faded from recollection with the evening, mingling with the
vain phantasmagoria of wild elation, and subsequent drowsiness, and
retributive headache, and physical repentance. He went on a camp hunt
with a party of roaring blades. The weather in the changeful Southern
winter had turned singularly fine and dry; the air had all the crisp
buoyancy of autumn and all the freshness of spring; fires drowsed on
hearths; doors stood ajar; the sunshine was pervasive, warm, languorous,
imbued with pensive vernal illusions. One might wonder to see the silent
sere grass; were there indeed no whirring songs, no skittering points of
light, hovering in mazy tangles, and telling the joy that existence might
prove to the tiniest insect life? Birds? The trees were empty, but one
must look to make sure: only the rising quail from the clumps of withered
weeds; only the infrequent cry of the wild turkey down the bare, sunny
vistas of the woods. The shadows of the deciduous trees were spare and
linear, distinctly traced on the brown ground or upon the gray rock. In
these fine curves and strokes of dendritic scripture a graceful sylvan
idyl might perchance be deciphered by the curious. But the dense masses
of laurel and the darkling company of pines cloaked themselves in their
encompassing gloom, in these bright days as ever, and in their shade the
dank smell and the depressing chill attested the winter. Vague shimmers
hung about the mountains, blue in the distance, garnet and brown and
black close at hand. The terrible heights and unexplored depths, the
vast, sheer, precipitous descents, the titanic cliffs, the breadth, the
muscle, the tremendous velocity of the torrents hurling down the gorges,
gave august impressions of space unknown to the redundant richness of the
summer woods. There were vistas of incomparable amplitude, as still,
with the somnolent sunshine and the sparse shadow, as if they were some
luminous effect on a canvas, painted in dark and light browns, graduated
through the tints of the sere leaf in ascendant transition to the pale
gold of the sunbeams; affording, despite the paucity of detail, an
ecstasy to the sense of color.
It was a moment of preëminent consequence to Harshaw one day, when far
up a stately avenue a deer appeared with the suddenness of an illusion,
yet giving so complete a realization of its presence that the very
fullness and splendor of its surprised eyes left their impression. Then,
as in some jugglery of the senses, the animal with consummate grace and
lightness, vanished, bounding through the laurel.
The wind was adverse and the hounds did not readily catch the scent.
A few tentative, melancholy yelps of uncertainty arose; then a deep,
musical, bell-like bay, another, and the pack opened with a great
swelling, oscillating cry, that the mountains echoed as with a thousand
voices, and in a vast compass of tone. The mounted men, hallooing to
one another, dashed off in different directions, making through the
woods towards various “stands” which the deer might be expected to pass.
Now and then the horn sounded to recall the stragglers,—inexpressibly
stirring tones, launched from crag to crag, from height to height;
far-away ravines repeated the summons with a fine and delicate mystery of
resonance, rendered elusive and idealized, till one might believe that
never yet did such sound waves float from the prosaic cow-horn of the
mountaineer.
Harshaw’s pursuits had not been those of a Nimrod, and although a
good horseman and a fair marksman, he had found himself at a grievous
disadvantage with others of the party who were mountaineers and crack
shots. Stimulated by rivalry, they had achieved prodigies in instances of
quickness of sight and unerring aim in unpropitious, almost impossible
circumstances. They had already had some good sport, in which he
had acquitted himself creditably enough; but his inexperience and
ignorance of the topography of the country had given him some occasion
to perceive that without more familiarity with the localities he could
not fully enjoy a camp hunt. He was not surprised when, becoming
involved in an almost impenetrable tangle of the laurel, he lost his
companions, who got over the broken ground with an amazing swiftness,
divination of direction, and quickness of resource. He drew rein upon
emerging, and listened to the baying hounds: now loud, now faint and
far away; now sharply yelping for the lost trail, and again lifting the
exultant, bell-like cry of bated triumph. He despaired of rejoining his
friends till the deer was lost or killed, and, remembering the pluck
of the _personnel_ of the diversion, of the deer, the hounds, and the
mountaineers, he reflected that this result might not soon ensue.
The echoes infinitely confused the sounds, giving no reliable suggestion
of the direction which the hunt was taking. He pushed on for a time—a
long time, his watch told him—in the complete silence of the wintry
woods. He began to experience a dull growing apprehensiveness. He had
no faint approximative conjecture concerning the locality; there was no
path, not even a herders’ trail. He could himself establish no landmark
by which he might be guided. There was a lavish repetitiousness in the
scene: grand as it might be with scarred cliffs and sudden chasms and
stupendous trees, it was presented anew with prolific magnificence forty
yards further, and ride as he might he seemed to make no progress. As
time passed, there recurred to his recollection instances—rare, it is
true, but as uninviting to the imagination as infrequent—of men who have
been lost in these fastnesses, trained woodsmen, herders, the familiars
of the wild nature into whose penetralia even they had ventured too
far. A handful of bleaching bones might tell the story, or perhaps the
mysterious disappearance would be explained by much circling of birds of
prey. Mr. Harshaw felt a sudden violent appreciation of the methods and
interests and affluent attractiveness of the civilized world. He could
not sufficiently condemn his folly in venturing out of its beaten track;
in leaving, even for a space, the things he loved for the things he cared
not for. The scene was inexpressibly repugnant to him; the woods closed
him in so frowningly; his mind recoiled from the stern, Gorgon-like
faces of the crags on every hand. The wintry sunlight was reddening; he
could see only the zenith through the dense forest, and upon its limited
section were interposed many interlacing outlines of the bare boughs;
nevertheless, he was aware that the sky was clouding. The wind did not
stir; the woods were appallingly still; there was no sound of horn or
hounds; the chase had gone like a phantom hunt,—suddenly evoked, as
suddenly disappearing.
XXIII.
As Harshaw paused to let his mare breathe, an abrupt sound smote his ear;
he lifted his head to listen. It was the fitful clank of a cow-bell—and
again; nearer than he had thought at first. He experienced infinite
relief. The prosaic jangling had a welcome significance. It intimated
the vicinity of some dwelling-place, for at this season the cattle are
not at large in the withered pasturage of the mountain. He heard the
bushes cracking at a little distance; he pressed his reluctant mare
in that direction, through a briery tangle, over the trunks of fallen
trees, pausing now and then to listen to the sound. Suddenly there
was a great thwack; a thick human tongue stammered a curse. There was
something strange and repellent and unnatural in the mouthing tones. The
next moment he understood. The laurel gave way into the open aisles of
the brown woods; a red suffusion of the sunset lingered among the dark
boles on the high slopes, contending with, rather than illuminating,
the lucent yellow tints on the dead leaves. A red cow shambled along at
a clumsy run amidst the pervasive duskiness, that was rather felt than
seen; and driving her with a long hickory sprout was a tall mountain boy,
who turned his head at the sound of the hoofs behind him, showing under
the bent and drooping brim of an old white hat a pale and flabby face,
on which pitiless nature had fixed the stamp of denied intelligence.
He gazed, with open mouth and starting eyes, at the horseman; then,
regardless of Harshaw’s friendly hail, he dropped his stick, and with a
strange, unearthly howl he fled along the woodland ways like a frightened
deer. He plunged into the laurel, and was out of sight in a moment.
Harshaw began to drive the cow along, hoping she would take the
familiar barn-yard way. He could hardly gauge his relief when, almost
immediately, he saw before him a rail-fence; and yet he had an accession
of irritation because of the folly, the futility, of the whole mishap.
His consciousness was so schooled to the exactions of political life that
he experienced a sort of grotesque shame as if the misadventure were
already added to the capital of a political opponent expert in the art of
ridicule.
No one was visible in the little clearing. Smoke, however, was curling
briskly from the chimney of a log hut; there was a barn of poles hard by,
evidently well filled. Harshaw hallooed, with no response save that his
hearty voice roused the dogs; they came trooping from under the house and
from out of it, sharply barking, although two or three, still drowsy,
paused to stretch themselves to a surprising length and to yawn with a
vast dental display. The cow went in by the way, doubtless, that she
had come out, stepping over the fence, where a number of rails had been
thrown off. Harshaw, thinking it as well to encounter the dogs within the
inclosure as without, followed her example, the mare resisting slightly,
and stumbling over those of the rails that lay upon the ground. He saw
that his approach had occasioned a commotion within the house; there was
a vague flutter of skirts elusively appearing and disappearing. Across
the doorway, low down, were nailed wooden slats, doubtless to restrain
the excursiveness of a small child, who suddenly thrust his head over
them, and was instantly snatched back by some invisible hand.
Nevertheless, the inhabitants were presently induced to hold a parley,
perhaps because of Harshaw’s manifest determination to force an entrance,
despite the dogs that leaped and yelped about his stirrup irons, their
vocal efforts more shrilly keyed as his whip descended among them; for
although he held his revolver cocked, he was too shrewd a politician to
present its muzzle to a mountaineer’s dog save in the direst emergency. A
woman suddenly appeared at the door. She looked at him with so keen and
doubtful a gaze, with a gravity so forbidding, a silence so significant,
that, accustomed as he was to the hospitable greeting and smile of
welcome that graces the threshold of every home of the region, however
humble, he lost for the moment his ready assurance. When he told her
of his plight, she received the statement with the chilling silence of
incredulity. Nevertheless, upon his request for shelter for the night
and a guide the next morning, she did not refuse, as he had feared, but
told him in a spiritless way to “’light and hitch,” and that the boy
would look after his horse. He strode up to the house, the dogs, suddenly
all very friendly, at his heels, and stepped over the barricade that
restrained the adventurous juvenile who was now hanging upon it, looking
with eager interest at the world of the door-yard, which was a very wide
world to him. He followed Harshaw to his seat by the fire, eying with
great persistence his boots and his spurs. The latter exerted upon him
special fascinations, and he presently stooped down and applied a small
inquisitive finger to the rowel. The interior was not unlike the other
homes of the region,—two high beds, a ladder ascending to a chamber in
the roof, a rude table, a spinning-wheel, at which a gaunt, half-grown
girl was working as industriously as if oblivious of the stranger’s
presence. The woman sat with her arms folded, her eyes on the fire,
pondering deeply. A young man came to the back door, glanced in, and
turned away.
When the woman fixed her grave, wide, prominent eyes upon Harshaw, there
was something in their expression so unnerving that his refuge seemed
hardly more comfortable than the savage wilderness without. But he said
bluffly to himself that he had not stumped Kildeer and Cherokee for
nothing; he rallied his traditions as a politician. Surely, he reflected,
he who could so beguile other men’s adherents to vote for him could win
his way to a simple woman’s friendship, if he tried.
He looked at the child and smiled, and said that the boy was “mighty
peart.” He dropped into the vernacular as a conscious concession to the
habits of the “plain people.”
The woman’s fierce face was transfigured. “That’s a true word, stranger,”
she said, beamingly. “An’ Philetus ain’t three year old yit, air he,
Sereny?”
The girl in an abrupt, piping way confirmed the marvel, and Harshaw
looked again at Philetus, who had no sort of hesitancy in seeking to take
off the spurs and convert them to his own use.
His mother went on: “Philetus, though, ain’t nigh so pretty ez three
others I hed ez died. Yes, sir, we-uns lived up higher than this, on a
mounting over yander thar.”
“You haven’t been living here long?” said Harshaw, merely by way of
making talk.
The woman instantly resumed her stony, impassive manner. “’Tain’t long
nor short by some folkses’ medjure,” she said equivocally. She looked
watchfully at him from time to time. An old gray cat that sat on the
warm stones in the corner of the hearth, purring, and feigning to lift
now one of her fore-paws and then the other, eyed him with a round,
yellow, somnolent stare, as if she too had a charge to keep him under
surveillance. She got up suddenly, arching her back, to affectionately
rub against the great booted feet of the idiot, who came and leaned on
the chimney and gazed solemnly at the stranger. He was overgrown and
overfat, and had a big, puffy, important face and a cavalier, arrogant
manner.
“Don’ wanter,” he said, in his thick, mouthing utterance, as the woman,
once more seeming flustered and anxious, told him to take the basket and
go out to the wood pile and fill it with chips.
The whir of the spinning-wheel was suddenly silent, and the girl, who
officiated as a sort of echo of her mother’s words, a reflection of her
actions, came and emptied the basket of the few bits of bark within it,
and handed it to him.
“G’ way, Sereny,” he said good-naturedly, but declining the duty.
The unfathomable dispensation of idiocy, its irreconcilability with
mundane theories of divine justice or mercy, its presentment at once
repellent and grotesque, has its morbid effect when confronted with
sanity. Harshaw was a man neither of delicate instincts nor of any subtle
endowment, but the contemplation of the great vacant face grimacing at
him, coupled with the singular influences of his reception, required
a recollection of the anguished anxiety he had experienced, the sound
of the rising wind without, the sight of the whirling dead leaves, the
gathering gloom of the cloudy dusk, to reconcile him to the conditions of
his refuge.
“Well, my man,” he said, looking at the boy, “what’s _your_ name?”
The idiot grinned importantly. “Tad,” he stuttered thickly,—“Tad
Simpkins. What’s yourn?”
Harshaw sat for a moment in stunned surprise. Then all the discomforts of
the situation vanished before the triumphs of this discovery. This—this
great, well-fed, hearty creature, the forlorn, maltreated idiot depicted
by the evidence in Mink Lorey’s trial; this, the pitiable boy drowned
in the mill like a rat in a trap; this, the elusive spectre of the
attorney-general’s science! The next moment it occurred to him that he
must use special caution here; the motives that had led these people to
harbor the idiot, if not to conceal him, were suspicious, and favored his
theory in the trial—which he had adopted more from the poverty of his
resources than a full credulity—that the retirement of the boy reputed
drowned was prompted by a deep-seated enmity to Mink Lorey.
He turned to the woman, all his normal faculties on the alert.
“Well, that’s a fact, Mrs. Simpkins; your son ain’t plumb bright,—I can
see that,—but he’s right there. I ought to tell you _my_ name.”
“Mine ain’t Simpkins,” said the woman suddenly, responding quickly to
his clever touch, “an’ Tad thar ain’t my son.” She was mixing corn-meal
batter for bread in a wooden bowl; she stirred it energetically as she
went on with a sort of partisan acrimony: “Mebbe he ain’t bright, ez ye
call it, but I ain’t never hearn o’ Tad doin’ a mean thing yit,—not ter
the chill’n, nor dogs, nor cats, nor nuthin’. He may be lackin’ in the
head, but he ain’t lackin’ in the heart; thar’s whar’s the complaint o’
mos’ folks ez ain’t idjits. I dunno which air held gifted in the sight o’
the Lord. ’Tain’t in human wisdom ter say. Tad’ll make a better show at
the jedgmint day’n many folks ez ’low they hev hed thar senses through
life.”
“Ain’t no idjit, nuther,” protested Tad, gruffly.
“Well, my name’s Harshaw—Bob Harshaw.” The guest leaned forward, with
his elbows on his knees, looking steadily at her as he talked. She held
her head on one side, listening eagerly, almost laboriously, sedulous
that she should lose no point, showing how sharp had been her desire for
him to give an account of himself. As he noticed this, he was more than
ever sure that the household had some cause to fear the law. His vanity
received a slight shock in the self-evident fact that she had never
before heard of him. “I’m a lawyer from Shaftesville. I defended Mink
Lorey when he was tried for drowning that chap.”
“Flung me in the water!” exclaimed Tad parenthetically.
“I hearn ’bout that,” said the woman. She had knelt on the broad
hearth-stone, depositing the bowl beside her while she made up the pones
in her hands, tossing them from one palm to the other, then placing them
upon the hoe which smoked upon the hot live coals drawn out from the bed
of the fire. “I war glad the rescuers tuk him out,” she continued, “fur
Tad ain’t drownded.”
“The rescuers didn’t take him out,” said Harshaw, sharply.
The woman looked up, surprised; her hand shook a little with the
bread in it; she was evidently capable of appreciating the weight of
responsibility.
“Why, Lethe Sayles told me so,” she said.
“Lethe Sayles!” he exclaimed, perplexed. Her name instantly recalled
Gwinnan—incongruous association of ideas!—and Mink’s persuasion of
Gwinnan’s enmity toward him for her sake. Had she known the judge before?
he wondered. Had Mink some foundation for his jealousy beyond the
disasters of the trial? Somehow, this false representation to the people
who knew that the lad was not drowned had, he thought, an undeveloped
significance in view of that fact. Harshaw resolved that there should
be no question of the substantiality of Tad’s apparition when the case
should come up to be tried anew. He forgot himself for the moment. “I’ll
produce you in open court, my fine fellow,” he said, swaggering to his
feet and striking the boy on his fat shoulder. “That’s what I’m bound
for!”
He had naught in mind save the details of his case. He regarded the
incident only as the symmetrical justification of his conduct of the
evidence and his evolution of the theory of the crime. He did not pause
to reflect on its slight and ineffective value to Mink himself, to whom
an acquittal could only mean that a few years were not to be added to the
long term of imprisonment which already impended for him. He did not even
notice that the woman rose suddenly from her knees, went toward the door,
and beckoned in the burly young fellow who had appeared on the porch at
intervals, covertly surveying the scene within.
“Naw, sir,” she exclaimed, with an agitated, accelerated method of speech
and a fierce eye, “ye won’t! Ye ain’t a-goin’ ter kem in hyar an’ spy us
out an’ perduce us in court, fur yer profit an’ our destruction.” Harshaw
turned and gazed at her, with a flushing, indignant face. The young man
had his rifle in his hand; she herself was taking down a gun which lay in
a rack above the fireplace. “Ye warn’t axed ter kem in hyar, but it be
our say-so ez ter when ye go out.”
The surprise of it overpowered him for a moment; he stood blankly staring
at them. The next, he realized that his pistols were in the holster
with his saddle, and his gun that he had placed beside the door had been
removed. He was not, however, deficient in physical courage.
“Take care how you attempt to detain me!” he blustered.
She laughed in return, shrilly, mirthlessly; as he looked at her he was
sure that she would not hesitate to draw the trigger that her long, lean
fingers, bedaubed with the corn-meal batter, already touched.
The idiot put his hands before his eyes, with a hoarse, wheezing moan
of horror and remonstrance. The girl looked on with the tranquillity of
sanity.
Harshaw could rely only on the superiority of his own intellectual
endowments.
“Why, look here, madam,” he said bluffly, rallying his wits, “what do you
want of me,—to stay here? I have got no notion of going, I assure you;
not till daybreak, anyhow.”
He flung himself into his chair, and looked up at her with an
exasperating composure, as if relegating to her all the jeopardy of the
initiative and the prerogatives of action.
She quailed before this unexpected submission. She could have had no
doubts as to her course had he shown fight; the tall and subsidiary
young man also wore an air of sheepish defeat. Harshaw stifled his
questions; he gave no sign of the anger that seethed within him, the
haunting fear that would not down. He stretched out his booted legs to
the warm fire, feeling in the very capacity of motion, in the endowment
of sensation, a relief, an appreciated value in sheer life which is the
common sequence of escape, and remembering that by this time, but for his
quick expedient, he might be in case to never move again. He thrust his
broad hat far back on his yellow head, put his hands into his pockets,
and looked in his confident fashion about his surroundings, while the
woman lowered her weapon, and presently went mechanically about her
preparations for supper, evidently attended by some lurking regret for
her precipitancy. She looked askance at him now and then, and after a
time ventured upon a question.
“Ye say yer name be Harshaw?” she asked.
“I said so,” Harshaw replied. So alert were her suspicions that she
fancied significance in the simple phrase. She exchanged a quick glance
with the young man, who appeared at once lowering and beset with doubt.
Even Tad apprehended the meaning in the look.
“Ye know my name, ’pears like, better ’n yourn,” he grinned, with a
guttural, foolish laugh.
As the boy spoke Harshaw was impressed anew with the change in his fate;
the creature of cuffs and curses, who had been the very derision of
perverse circumstances, was a marvelous contrast to the well-fed, fat,
kindly-tended lad who leered good-humoredly from where he lounged against
the great chimney. Yet despite this attestation of benignant impulses
harbored here, there was the rifle, which had had such importunate
concern for his attention, standing ready at the woman’s right hand.
“Well, madam,” said the politician, “I have been about right smart in the
mountains, and I have partaken of the cheer around many a hearth-stone,
but this is the first time I have ever been invited to look down the
muzzle of a rifle.”
She winced visibly at this reflection upon her hospitality, as she knelt
on the hearth, slipping the knife under the baking pones on the hoe, and
turning them with a dexterous flip.
“I wouldn’t have believed it,” continued Harshaw. “I have never heard of
anybody but law-breakers giving themselves to such practices,—moonshiners
and the like.”
The woman suddenly lifted her face, her dismayed jaw falling at the
significant word. Harshaw could have laughed aloud. The simple little
riddle was guessed. And yet the situation was all the graver for him.
There was a step outside; the door opened for only a narrow space;
darkness had fallen; the room was illumined by the flaring flames darting
up the chimney; he knew that he was scrutinized sharply from without, and
now and then he heard the sound of voices in low conference.
It was well, doubtless, that the secret petitions he preferred to
the powers of the earth and the air for the utter confusion and the
eternal destruction of the mountain hunters who had made so slight
and ineffective a search for him—or perhaps none at all—could not be
realized, or his misfortune might have engendered far-reaching and
divergent calamity, disproportionate in all eyes save his own.
He knew now that he had stumbled upon a gang of moonshiners, and had been
taken for a revenue spy, or a straggler from a raiding party. How to
escape with this impression paramount, or indeed how to escape at all,
was a question that bristled with portentous dubitation. He was content
to pretermit it in the guarded watchfulness that absorbed his every
faculty, as one by one the men strode in to the number of four or five,
each casting upon him a keen look, supplementing the survey through the
door.
One of them he suddenly recognized. “I have seen you before,” he said,
with a jolly intonation. “This is Sam Marvin, ain’t it?”
The owner of the name was discomfited when confronted with it, and seeing
this, Harshaw was sorry that he had, with the politician’s instinct, made
a point of remembering it.
He could with difficulty eat, despite the fatigues of the day, but he sat
down among them with a hearty show of appetite and with his wonted bluff
manner. His sharpened attention took cognizance of many details which
under ordinary circumstances he would not have noticed. He could have
sworn to every one of the rough faces—and right welcome would have been
the opportunity—grouped about the table. The men ate in a business-like,
capacious fashion, especially one lean, lank fellow, with unkempt black
hair and a thin face, the chin decorated with what is known as a goatee.
Notwithstanding their roughness they were not altogether unkind. Philetus
could not complain of disregarded pleas as he begged from chair to chair,
under the firm impression that there was something choice in the _menu_
not included in the contents of the pan placed for him on a bench, which
should serve as table, while he was to be seated on an inverted noggin.
And the dogs spent the time of the family meal alternately in a petrified
expectancy and sudden elastic bounds to catch the bits flung liberally
over the shoulders.
When the repast, conducted chiefly in silence, was concluded, the
group reassembled about the hearth-stone, the pipes were lighted, and
conversation again became practicable. It required some strong control of
his faculties to bear himself as an honored guest instead of a suspected
informer, trapped, but Harshaw managed to support much of his wonted
manner as he lighted a pipe that he had in his pocket and pulled it into
a strong glow. Nevertheless, he was beset with a realization of how easy
it would be for them to rid themselves of him without a possibility
that his fate would excite suspicion. As he looked into the flaming
coals of the fire, his quickened imagination could picture a man lying
lifeless at the foot of a great wall of rocks,—lying motionless where
he had fallen, but with an averted face,—and another vista in which
his horse, with an empty saddle, with pistols in the holster, cropped
the grass on a slope. He thought of it often afterward,—the man lying
lifeless beneath the crags, with a face he did not see! This was the
doom that persistently forced itself upon him as most obviously, most
insistently, his; naught else could so readily release these desperadoes
from the peril that threatened them. He began to remember various stories
of Marvin’s old encounters with the “revenuers:” on one occasion shots
had been exchanged; one or more of the posse had been killed; he could
not remember accurately, but he thought this was accredited to Jeb
Peake,—“hongry Jeb,” who could, according to the popular account of him,
“chaw up five men of his weight at a mouthful an’ beg for more.” They
had much at stake; perhaps, as they looked into the fire with that slow,
ruminative gaze, they also saw a picture,—a halter wavering in the wind.
The room alternately flared and faded as the flames rose and fell. It
bore traces of renovation: the door was new, the floor patched. He made a
rough guess that Marvin had taken possession of one of the long-deserted
huts seen at intervals in the mountains. Raindrops presently pattered on
the roof; then ceased, as if waiting breathlessly for some mandate; and
again a fusillade; and anon torrents. The melancholy elements in the wild
wastes without seemed not uncheerful companions in lieu of the saturnine
group about the fire. Alack, for liberty, the familiar thing! Harshaw
sought to reassure himself, noting their kindness to the idiot and to the
little child. Philetus climbed over their feet, and made demands, of a
frequency appalling to a mind less repetitious than the one encased in
the downy yellow head, to be ridden on their great miry boots.
Suddenly Marvin spoke: “My wife ’lows ez how ye defended Mink Lorey when
he war tried.”
“I did,” said Harshaw jauntily.
“Waal, did this hyar gal,—this Lethe Sayles, ez lives yander at the
t’other eend o’ the county,—did she up an’ tell in court ennything ’bout
me?”
Harshaw was not a truthful man for conscience’ sake; but in the course of
his practice he had had occasion to remark the inherent capacity of the
truth for prevailing. He was far too acute to prevaricate.
“Yes,” he said, sticking two fingers into his vest-pocket and swinging
the leg he had crossed over the other, “she swore that you were
moonshining and told her so; she had told me as much before. We wanted to
prove that Mink was drunk, and had somewhere to get whiskey besides the
bonded still. We couldn’t get in all the evidence, though.”
The fire snapped and sparkled and flared. The pendent sponge-like masses
of soot clinging to the chimney continually wavered in the strong current
of air; now and then fire was communicated to it, and a dull emblazonment
of sparks would trace some mysterious characters, dying out when half
realized.
Harshaw could but see that his frankness had produced its impression:
there was a troublous cast in all the stolid countenances around the
hearth; but he was glad to be regarded as a problem as well as a danger.
“In the name o’ Gawd,” exclaimed Marvin irritably, “why did ye kem hyar
ter this hyar place fur? Ain’t Shaftesville big enough ter hold ye?”
Harshaw repeated the account of himself which he had already given to
Mrs. Marvin. “I ain’t ready to go yet,” he remarked. “But when your
wife thought I wanted to, by George, she got down the gun and said I
shouldn’t.”
“Ye know too much,” suddenly put in “hongry Jeb,” who looked as
cadaverous and as melancholy as his name might imply.
“I know enough to shut my mouth,” said Harshaw bluffly, “and keep it
shut.”
He looked eagerly at “hongry Jeb,” as he threw this out tentatively.
The mountaineer’s face was distinct in the firelight, and he gazed at the
leaping flames instead of at the speaker.
“I ain’t able ter afford ter resk it,” said “hongry Jeb.” He made
a sudden pass across his jugular toward his left ear, exclaiming
“Tchisk!”—the whites of his eyes and the double row of his shining teeth
showing as he smiled horribly on Harshaw.
The lawyer turned sick. How could he hope that these moonshiners would
jeopardize aught for his sake? He could trust only to himself.
There was some drinking as the evening wore on; the monotony of this
proceeding was beguiled by the fact that one of the dogs took a drop
occasionally, at the instance of the youngest of the moonshiners—a mere
boy of twenty—and Marvin’s son Mose. It was desired that he should extend
his fitness as a boon companion by the use of a pipe, but he revolted
at fire and distrusted smoke, and displayed much power of shrillness
when snatched by the ears and cuffed. He was finally kicked out, to
crawl wheezingly under the house, debarred from the hearth-stone which
unaccomplished dogs who were not even bibulous, much less smokers, were
privileged to enjoy.
But the evening was not convivial. The moonshiners brooded silently as
they drank and smoked. Among them, unmolested, Tad sat. He had never been
so happy as now, poor fellow. He goggled about and laughed to himself
till he fell asleep, his grotesque head dropping to one side, his mouth
open, snoring prosperously.
Marvin glanced at him presently. Then he looked at Harshaw, showing
his long tobacco-stained teeth as he laughed. “I hearn ye hev all been
in a mighty tucker ter know what hed kem o’ Tad, down yander in the
flatwoods,” he said. He sat in a slouching posture as he smoked, his legs
crossed, his shoulders bent, his head thrust forward. “Lethe Sayles tole
me ’bout’n it.”
“Old Griff has nearly lost his mind about Tad,” said Harshaw.
“What?” demanded Marvin, with an affectation of deep surprise. “Can’t he
find nuthin’ else ter cuss an’ beat?”
“Pore—old—man!” exclaimed “hongry Jeb,” wagging his black head, and
showing the gleaming whites of his eyes in his characteristic sidelong
glance.
“Well, I expect Tad has been a good deal better off along of you,”
Harshaw admitted. “But that don’t make it right for you to have kidnapped
him.”
“Lord knows, we-uns didn’t want him,” said Marvin. “We-uns ain’t gifted
in goadin’ sech a critter ez him, like old man Griff. We can’t git work
enough out’n him ter wuth the stealin’. He jes’ kem up ter whar we-uns
lived, one night. I reckon ’twar several nights arter he war flung in the
water. He looked mighty peaked.”
“An’ I never see a critter so hongry,” put in the pullet boldly from her
seat in the chimney corner, her long yellow feet dangling beneath her
short homespun skirt, her hair, which was luxuriant, gathered in a sort
of top-knot on her head, “’thout ’twar Jeb thar.” She gave a cackling
laugh of elation at this thrust, as she knitted off her needle in a
manner that might make one wonder to see a pullet so deft.
Jeb good-naturedly grinned, and Marvin went on:—
“We reckoned he war a spy for the revenuers, ’kase they ’lowed we
wouldn’t suspect sech ez him, sent ter find out edzac’ly whar the place
be, an’ we war ’feared ter let him go back.”
Harshaw winced.
“So we jes’ kerried him off along o’ we-uns. Mebbe ’twarn’t right, but
folkses sech ez we-uns air can’t be choosers.”
“Naw, sir; else we can’t be folkses,” said “hongry Jeb.”
How could he grin, with that lean, ghastly countenance, whenever he
contemplated his terrible jeopardy!
“Ef Tad hed been well keered fur at home I’d hev felt wuss, but
’twouldn’t hev made no differ,” said Marvin; “but I know’d I could do
better by him ’n old Griff.”
“Mink’s in jail now to be tried again for drowning him,” said Harshaw,
surprised at his own boldness.
“Waal, stranger,” said Marvin satirically, evidently going to make the
best of it, “the court air gin over ter makin’ mistakes, an’ we pay taxes
ter support a S’preme Court ter make some mo’. Man’s human, arter all; he
can’t be trested ter turn from everything else, an’ take arter the right
an’ jestice. He ain’t like my gran’dad’s dog, ez would always leave the
scent of deer or b’ar an’ trail Injun. That dog knowed what war expected
of him, an’ he done it. But man’s human. Man’s nuthin’ but human.”
“Ho! ho! ho!” laughed “hongry Jeb,” in appreciative elation.
A pause ensued.
The sound of the rain on the roof was intermitted at intervals, and the
wind lifted a desolate voice in the solitudes. The sense of the vast
wilderness without, measureless, trackless, infinitely melancholy, preyed
upon the consciousness. Perhaps Harshaw, in the quick transition from the
artificial life of the world, was more susceptible to these influences,
more easily abashed, confronted with the grave, austere, and august
presence of Nature. He had a fleeting remembrance of life in the city:
the gush of soft light; the mingled sound of music and the babbling of
the fountain in the rotunda of the hotel; the Capitol building, seen
sometimes through morning fogs and contending sunshine, isolated in
the air above the roofs of the surrounding town, like a fine mirage,
some turreted illusion; and again its white limestone walls ponderously
imposed, every line definite, upon the deep blue midday sky.
That other sphere of his existence seemed for the moment more real to
him; he had a reluctance as of awakening from a trance, as he gazed at
the unkempt circle of mountaineers about the dying fire.
They were beginning to yawn heavily now. Marvin was laying the chunks
together and covering them with ashes, to keep the coals till morning.
Harshaw looked on meditatively. Once, as he lifted his eyes, he became
aware that they were all covertly watching him with curiosity and
speculation.
XXIV.
Quiet did not immediately ensue. After Harshaw had been ushered up the
rickety ladder to the roof-room he heard voices below in low-toned
conference. Occasionally he noted the peculiar chuckle of “hongry
Jeb,” suppressed even beneath its usual undertone; for it was a sort
of susurrus of laughter, never absolutely vocal,—a series of snorts
and pantings. It was not jocular at best, and now conveyed sinister
suggestions to Harshaw, as he listened to the vague sound of words he
could not distinguish. He had not been conscious of an effort of close
observation during the evening, and he was surprised to discover how
definitely he could differentiate the murmurs, the mere methods of
speech, of the various members of the household. As they discussed his
fate, he knew who urged measures, who was overpowered in argument, who
doubted. Now and then a word or two in the woman’s shrill voice broke
from the huskiness of her whisper, for she was the most insistent of the
group. He divined that her views were not mild, and he took hope from
the intimations of opposition in the tones of the men as they gruffly
counseled quiet. She it was, he felt sure, whom most he had to fear.
He had thrown himself, dressed as he was, on the sorry couch, which was
made by placing two poles between the logs of the house, supported at
the other end by a cross-bar laid in two crotched uprights on the floor.
It was not a stable contrivance, nor, although it upheld a heavy feather
bed, conducive to slumber, but Harshaw cared little for sleep.
The rain came through the leaks in the roof, now in an intermittent,
sullen pattering, and now the drops falling in quick succession, tossed
by the wind that whistled through the crevices, and piped a shrill
refrain to the sonorous cadences trumpeted by the great chimney. Once, in
a sudden flash of lightning, which was far distant and without thunder,
he saw through gaps in the chinking, the white clouds pressing close to
the house.
Again and again his courage would reassert itself, of its own sheer
force, and he would experience a sort of affront that it had ever
lapsed. He hardly knew how he could hereafter face that fact in his
consciousness. Then, in arguing to reinstate his self-respect, he would
review the dangers of his position,—and thus rouse anew the fears he had
sought to still. He would wonder that he did not die of fright; that
he made no effort to escape, to fire the house and force his way out
in the confusion,—his fingers even fumbled the matches in his pocket;
that he could lie still and listen to the sound of words impossible to
distinguish; that he could turn, with the heavy gesture of one roused
from sleep, when he heard a footfall on the rude stairs, and look yawning
over his shoulder, and demand in a slumbrous voice, “Why in the hell do
you make such a racket?”
A glimmer of light quivered on the brown rafters; it grew momently less
flickering; it revealed the wretched apartment, the slanting floor,
one or two pallets rolled up against the wall. And finally, as from a
trap-door of a theatre, through the rude aperture in the floor, Jeb’s
gaunt black head appeared among the shadows which the tallow dip, that he
carried in his hand, could not dispel.
He came in, and placed the sputtering light on a strut that supported one
of the rafters, and was converted to shelf-like utility. Marvin followed,
sitting down on the foot of Harshaw’s bed. His face was more lowering
than that of the other man; he leaned his hands ponderingly on his
knees, his elbows turned outward, and bent his eyes on the floor in deep
meditation.
There was a short silence.
“Hello?” said Harshaw interrogatively, raising himself on his elbow and
boldly taking the initiative. “Anything the matter?”
Jeb sat down on a keg close to the chimney, and the perturbed hosts
glanced at one another.
“Waal, stranger,” said Marvin, “ye hev gone an’ put us in a peck o’
troubles, ter kem interruptin’ us in this fur place, whar we hev been
hunted an’ hounded ter.”
“Yes, sir,” remarked “hongry Jeb,” “same ez the varmint, ez be specially
lef’ out’n salvation by the Bible.”
Marvin cast a glance over his shoulder at Harshaw. Then he continued,
evidently striving to put the worst possible interpretation on the
situation and to work himself into a rage: “We-uns air a-thinkin’ ez ye
mought be a spy fur the revenuers.”
Harshaw let his head fall back on the pillow. His resonant, burly laugh
rang out, jarring the rafters, and rousing in its hearty jocundity the
reciprocity of a smile on “hongry Jeb’s” cadaverous face. Even Marvin,
casting another hasty look over his shoulder, was mollified.
“Ye’d better be keerful how ye wake Philetus up, with his nap haffen out;
ye’ll ’low ye air neighborin’ a catamount,” he admonished his guest.
“I tell you,” said Harshaw, clasping his hands behind his yellow head as
he lay at length, “you fellows live up here in these lonesome woods till
your brains are addled. Why on earth would I, single-handed, mind you, a
lawyer, a member of the legislature, with a good big farm of my own and
half a dozen houses in town,” (he had never before thought to brag of
them,) “risk myself here, for the little reward I could get _if_—mighty
big _if_, folks—if I could get away again?”
He lifted his eyes, with a bluff challenge of fair play.
“You know who _I_ am. You’ve seen me in Shaftesville. You know my farm
down there in Kildeer County, on Owl Creek. Spy! Shucks! it makes me
laugh. Do the quality often come spying for the revenuers in this
neighborhood?”
Ten days ago he could not have believed that, however closely harried,
his tongue would ever so forget its formula as thus to repudiate his
alignment with the Plain People, and to claim to rank with “the quality.”
Under other circumstances the two mountaineers might have resented
this arrogation of superiority. They were, however, by virtue of their
law-breaking, a trifle more worldly-wise than their stolid compatriots
of the hills. It had been in some sort an education; had familiarized
them with the springs of commercial action, the relations of producer and
consumer, the value of money or its equivalent; had endowed them with an
appreciation of emergency and an ingenuity in expedients and makeshifts;
had forced upon their contemplation the operations of the law; and their
great personal risk had superinduced care, thoughtfulness, and the
exercise of a certain rude logic.
As they unconsciously sought to realize Harshaw’s position in the world,
resources, opportunity, their suspicion that he was a spy gradually waned.
There was a pause. The candle sputtered on the timber where it had
been placed, the flame now rising apparently with an effort to touch a
resinous knot in the wood just above it, and now crouching in a sudden
gust from a crevice hard by. The rain came down with redoubled force for
a few moments, then subsided again into its former steady, monotonous
fall. Harshaw’s senses, preternaturally keen now, detected an almost
imperceptible stir on the ladder that ascended to the loft. He knew as
well as if he had seen the coterie that Marvin’s wife and the rest of
the moonshiners were sitting on the rounds, listening and awaiting the
announcement of his fate. Perhaps it was this which prompted his reply,
when Marvin said pettishly,—
“It air all M’ria’s fault. Ef she hedn’t been so powerful quick ter git
down the gun, ye’d hev never knowed nor axed whar ye war, nor s’picioned
nuthin’.”
“Yes, I would, though,” Harshaw declared.
Marvin once more looked over his shoulder, and the lawyer quaked at the
risk he ran.
“I saw Tad, you know, and I was figurin’ round, big as all-out-of-doors,
how I was going to produce him in court, and she thought I meant right
off. Then, the minute I saw _you_ I knew you,—and I had heard that girl
say you were moonshining.”
“Ai-yi! Sam Marvin!” cried a shrill feminine voice from the primitive
stairway, “that’s what ye got fur tryin’ ter put the blame on me!”
Sam Marvin turned his bushy head toward the aperture in the floor.
It might seem that Mrs. Marvin had left him nothing to say, but the
versatility of the conjugal retort is well-nigh limitless, and he could
doubtless have defended himself with an admirable valor had not Jeb “the
hongry” interfered.
“Shet up, Sam,” he said, looking positively famished in his lean anxiety.
“We-uns hedn’t thunk o’ that. Mink Lorey hev got ter be tried agin.”
It was all that Harshaw could do to restrain some expression of despair
at this infelicitous turn given to the consultation, at which he seemed
to assist to devise his own doom. He found a certain relief in shifting
his position, and still, with his hands clasped under his head, briskly
participated in the conversation.
“Yes,” he assented in a debonair way which caused Marvin to look at him
in lowering amazement, “I’m Mink’s lawyer, but I couldn’t testify for
him. I couldn’t swear of my own knowledge that this Tad is the same boy,
for I never saw him before.”
Both of the men lapsed into the attitude of laborious pondering. Now and
then each looked at the other, as if to descry some intimation of the
mutual effect.
Harshaw, with another bold effort to possess the situation, yawned widely
and stretched his muscles.
“Oh—oh—oh—oh!” he exclaimed on a steadily descending scale. “Well,
gentlemen,” his features once more at rest, his voice normal, “I
should be glad to continue our conversation to-morrow”—he waved his
hand bluffly—“or next week. I ain’t used to huntin’,—that is, huntin’
deer,—and I’m in and about knocked up. If you’ve got anything to say to
me, say it now, or keep it till to-morrow.”
The two looked doubtfully at each other.
“Mr. Harshaw,” said Marvin, “we-uns air feared to let you-uns go.”
“Go to sleep?” asked Harshaw jocosely.
Jeb grinned, weakly, however, and Marvin continued:—
“Ter go ’way at all.”
“Well,” said Harshaw, easily, with another demonstration of somnolence,
“I’ll stay just as long as you like; you’re a clever lot of fellows, and
I’ll be contented enough, I’ll be bound. Your sitting up all night is the
only fault I’ve got to find with you.”
They apparently submitted this answer from one to the other, and each
silently canvassed it.
“Ye know too much,” said “hongry Jeb.”
“I’ll know more if I stay. I’ll find out whether you _are_ moonshining
now, sure enough, and where the still is.”
“That’s jes’ what I hev been tellin’ ye!” cried Mrs. Marvin’s shrill
voice from the ladder.
“Shet up, M’ria!” exclaimed Marvin, before “hongry Jeb” could interpose
his pacifying “Shet up, Sam.”
“Waal,” resumed Marvin, in angry perturbation, “it’s mighty
ill-convenient, yer nosin’ us out this way, up hyar, an’ many a man fixed
like me an’ Jeb would fling ye off’n a bluff, ez ef ye hed fell thar, an’
turn yer mare loose.”
Once more Harshaw’s rich, round laughter jarred the room.
“I’m in earnest,” said Marvin, sternly. “That’s what most men would do.”
“Oh no, they wouldn’t,” said Harshaw, cavalierly.
“Why wouldn’t they?” demanded Marvin, his curiosity aroused by this
strange indifference.
“Because these fellows I was hunting with will be sure to find this
place, and _they_ would know I wouldn’t go fall off a bluff of my own
accord, after such a good supper as I had here, and such a good bed.
They wouldn’t know I wasn’t allowed to sleep in it, though, on account of
a long-jawed couple like you two.”
He looked the picture of unconcern,—as if he had not really credited
their words.
“They couldn’t track ye hyar,” argued Jeb; “ground too dry in the evening
fur yer critter’s huffs to make enny mark.”
“Bless your bones!” cried Harshaw, contemptuously, “I broke a path
nigh a yard wide in the brush, and I blazed every oak-tree I met with
my hunting-knife,—look and see how hacked it is,—and I cut my name on
the first beech I came across. Think I was going to get lost in this
wilderness without leaving any way for my friends to find me? They know
pretty well where they left me. As soon as it’s light enough they’ll be
on my track.”
He lied seldom, but with startling effect. The verisimilitude of his
invention, which had flashed upon him at the last moment, carried
conviction. The other two men looked at each other in consternation.
This they thought was the secret of his ease of mind. This was the
reason that he was willing to abide with them as long as they listed.
These mysterious friends, these lurking hunters, might materialize at
any moment when day should fairly dawn. The moonshiners asked with eager
curiosity the names of the party. Marvin knew none of them, for it was a
new region to him, and his vocation restricted his social opportunities.
He had sprung up from the bed, and stood holding his ragged beard with
one hand, and gazing with perplexed eyes at the recumbent lawyer. The
frightful deed that he and his confederates had contemplated, that
had seemed their only safe recourse,—to fling the intruder over a
precipice, and to leave his mare grazing near, as if in his search he had
fallen,—had a predestined discovery through the craft of the man who had
marked the devious trail of his footsteps to their door. The moonshiner
trembled, as he stood so near this pitfall into which he had almost
stumbled.
There had been a stir on the ladder; clumsy feet descended the rickety
rungs. The movements below continued; there sounded the harsh scraping
of a shovel on the rude stones of the hearth, and presently the newly
kindled flames were crackling up the chimney; the flickering tallow dip
was not so bright that the lines of light in the crevices of the flooring
might not indicate how the room below was suddenly illumined. A smell of
frying bacon presently pervaded the midnight.
“By Gosh!” cried Marvin, rousing himself from his brown study with a
quick start, “air M’ria demented, ter set out a-cookin’ o’ breakfus’ in
the middle o’ the night?”
He turned himself suddenly about, and started down the ladder. “Hongry
Jeb,” looking after him with a keen anxiety, rose abruptly, took the
candle, and, holding it above his lean, cadaverous face, vanished by slow
degrees through the trap-door, feeling with his feet for each round of
the ladder before he trusted his weight upon it. Harshaw lifted himself
upon his elbow, watching the gradual disappearance. His face was pink
once more; the flesh that had seemed ten minutes since to hang flabbily
upon it was firm and full; his opaque blue eyes were bright; the last
feeble, ineffective rays of the vanishing candle showed his strong white
teeth between his parted red lips, and his triumphant red tongue thrust
out derisively.
Then he fell back on his pillow and tried to sleep. He felt, however, the
pressure of the excitement; his pulses, his nerves, could not so readily
accord with his calm mental conclusions, his logical inference of safety.
The tension upon his alert senses was unrelaxed. The stir below-stairs
made its incisive impression now, when he hardly cared to hear, as
before, when he had strained every faculty to listen. He knew that it
was Mrs. Marvin who had first devised the solution of the difficulty;
she had already set about its execution while she advocated the measure,
and insisted and argued with the men, who were disposed to canvass
alternatives, and doubt, and wait. Often her shrill voice broke from the
bated undertone in which they sought to conduct the conference, or she
whispered huskily, with vibrant distinctness, hardly less intelligible.
“Ye an’ Jeb take him,” she urged. “Let the t’others go an’ hide round
’bout the still. When the hunters git hyar they’ll find me an’ Mose an’
the chillen, an’ I’ll tell ’em my old man be gone with Mr. Harshaw,
a-guidin’ him down the mounting. They’ll never know ez thar be enny
moonshinin’ a-goin’ on hyar-abouts,—nuthin’ ter show fur it.”
She clashed her pans and pots and kettles, in the energy of her
discourse, and Harshaw lost the muttered objection.
“Ef ye don’t,” she persisted, in her sibilant whisper,—“ef ye kill him,
fling him off’n the bluff or sech,—they’ll find the body, sure!”
A chill ran through the listener as he bent his ear.
“The buzzards or the wolves will fust, an’ them men’ll track him ter our
door, an’ track _ye_ ter the spot.”
The rain pelted on the roof; the flames roared up the chimney; the
frying meat sputtered and sizzled, and the coffee dissipated a beguiling
promissory odor. One of the men—the lawyer thought it was “hongry
Jeb”—suggested in a dolorous whisper that they could depend in no degree
on Harshaw’s promise of secrecy. No man regarded an enforced pledge as
sacred.
“Them’s all _old_ offenses, ennyhows,” argued the woman. “But this hyar,
what ye men air a-layin’ off ter do”—
“‘Ye _men_’!” sneered her husband. “_Ye_ war the bouncin’est one o’ the
whole lay-out fur doin’ of it.”
“But, Lord A’mighty,” she protested, “who’d ever hev thunk o’ sech a
smart thing ez markin’ his trail ter the very door? He mus’ be the devil.
Smart enough, ennyways!”
She clashed her pots and pans once more, and moved about heavily across
the floor.
“I ain’t misdoubtin’ but what he _air_ a big man whar he hails from, an’
they sets store by him, an’ they’d be mighty apt ter stir round powerful
arter him ef he was los’. An’ this would be a new offense,—sure ter git
fund out. An’ Lord knows, we-uns hev been runned mighty nigh ter the
jumpin’-off place from the face o’ the yearth, an’ I want ter be let ter
set down, an’ ketch my breath, an’ see Philetus grow an’ git hearty, an’
let me hev a chance ter die in peace.”
Once more Jeb’s rumbling voice rose along the stairway.
“Shet up, Jeb!” she cried. “Ye hev jes’ been a-settin’ thar all the
night a-shakin’ yer head, an’ a-lowin’ ye wisht he hed done suthin’ mean
ter ye, so ez in gittin’ rid o’ him yer feelins wouldn’t be hurt. Now
yer feelins air safe, an’ ye ain’t got no mo’ thankfulness ’n that thar
cross-eyed, mangy hound fur the loan o’ a pipe.”
The mystery of cerebration; the strange, unmeasured force which works
in uncomprehended methods to unforeseen results; the subtle process
now formulating, and now erasing, an idea, like the characters of a
palimpsest, was never so potently present to Harshaw as in contemplating
the inspiration, the lucky thought, that had given him back to life,
to hope, to sheer identity. He took himself to task, knowing that the
obvious, the natural, the simple suggestion had lain all the evening in
his mind, waiting the effective moment. He reproached himself that he
should have suffered the agony of fright which he had endured. “I might
have known,” he argued within himself, in his bluff vanity, “that _I_’d
come out all right.”
He fell asleep, presently, and when he was roused he rose with so genuine
a reluctance that the last lurking doubt which Marvin and “hongry Jeb”
had entertained vanished, as he went yawning down the ladder.
“I hate ter hev ter turn ye out’n my house ’fore day,” Marvin remarked,
“but ye know I’m hunted like a b’ar, or suthin’ wild, an’ I can’t be
expected ter show manners like folks. Me an’ Jeb air a-goin’ ter take ye
pretty fur off, so ez ye kin never find yer way back, an’ by daylight
ye’ll be set in yer road. I’m hopin’ yer friends won’t git hyar; ef they
does, I don’t want ’em ter kem in, an’ ef they hain’t got no reason ter
stop I reckon they’ll go on. I’m powerful sorry ye kem along.”
“Though ye be toler’ble good com’p’ny, an’ we-uns ain’t got nuthin’ agin
you-uns,” remarked “hongry Jeb,” politely.
“’Kase,” continued Marvin, in a sing-song fashion, as he sat down at his
table, on which the corn-dodgers and bacon smoked, “’kase we-uns air
hunted an’ driv by the law,—ez ’lows we sha’n’t still our own corn ef we
air a mind ter,—we hev been afeard ye’d tell ’bout’n we-uns an’ whar we
air hid.”
“What for?” demanded Harshaw, with an incidental manner. He too was
seated at the board; one elbow was on it, and he passed his hand over his
eyes and yawned as he spoke. “So as to be dead sure to get beat like hell
the next time I run for anything? An informer is mighty unpopular, no
matter what he has got to tell. And make the biggest kind of hole in my
law practice?”
“That’s a fac’,” said Jeb, impressed with the logic of this proposition.
“The favor of Cherokee and Kildeer counties is the breath of my political
life, and you don’t catch me a-fooling with it by letting my jaw wag too
slack,” continued Harshaw.
Philetus, the only member of the family that had gone to bed, slumbered
peacefully in a small heap under the party-colored quilts. The dancing
firelight revealed his yellow head, and again it was undistinguishable in
the brown shadow. The pullet and Mose sat on a bench at one side of the
fire, and the moonshiners tilted their chairs back on the hind legs, and
watched the bright and leaping flames, which were particularly clear, the
fire being rekindled upon a warm hearth and in a chimney already full of
hot air. The occasional yawning of the group gave the only indication
of the hour. The sharp-faced woman sat in her chair, with folded arms,
and ever and anon gazing at her guest, who had so strangely commended
himself. His clever ruse to insure being followed by his friends had
induced infinite admiration of his acumen.
“I reckon ef ye wanted ter go ter Congress or sech, thar wouldn’t be
nuthin’ ter hender,” she said slowly, contemplating him.
She was a simple woman, and he a wise man. He flushed with pleasure to
hear his cherished thought in another’s words. He bore himself more
jauntily at the very suggestion. He toyed with his knife and fork as he
protested.
“There’s a mighty long road to travel ’twixt me and Congress.”
“Waal, you-uns kin make it, I’ll be bound,” she said.
And he believed her.
As he rose from the table, at the conclusion of the meal, he took out his
purse.
“Nare cent,” said Marvin hastily. “We-uns hev been obligated by yer
comp’ny, an’ air powerful pleased ter part in peace.”
Harshaw insisted, however, on leaving his knife for Philetus, and
expressed regret that one of the blades was broken.
“He can’t cut hisself with that un, nohow,” said the anxious mother, in
graciously accepting it.
Harshaw divined that she might have valued it more if all the blades had
been in like plight. She placed it carefully on the high mantelpiece,
where, it was safe to say, Philetus would not for some years be able to
attain it.
Harshaw never forgot that ride. As the light flickered out from the door
into the black midnight, vaguely crossed with slanting lines of rain,
to the rail-fence where his mare stood, saddled, the pistols in the
holster, he experienced an added sense of confidence in his own methods
and capacities, and an intense elation that so serious an adventure had
terminated with so little injury.
When he was in the saddle he looked back at the little house, crouching
in the infinite gloom of the night and the vast forests that overhang
it, with no fierce recollection of his trepidation, of his deadly
and imminent peril. In conducting himself with due regard for the
representations he had made, his mental attitude had in some sort adapted
itself to his manner, and he felt as unconcerned, as easy, as friendly,
as he looked. He hallooed back a genial adieu to the household standing
in the doorway, in the flare of the fire. Philetus, roused by the noise
to the sense of passing events, appeared in the midst, rubbing his eyes
with both hands. The group gave the guest godspeed, the dogs wagged
their tails. As Harshaw rode out of the inclosure, the vista of the room
seemed some brilliant yellow shaft sunk in the dense darkness. And then
he could see nothing: the rain fell in the midst of the black night; he
felt it on his hands, his face, his neck; he turned up the collar of
his coat; he heard the hoofs of his mare splashing in the puddles, and
he marveled how the beast could see or follow Jeb, who, mounted on the
smaller of Marvin’s two mules, led the way, while Marvin himself brought
up the rear. He could only trust to the superior vision of the animal,
and adjust himself to the motion which indicated the character of the
ground they traversed: now through tangles and amongst rocks; now coming
almost to a halt, as the mare stepped over the fallen bole of a tree; now
a sudden jump, clearing unseen obstructions; now down hill, now up; now
through the rushing floods of a mountain torrent. Harshaw’s buoyant mood
maintained itself; his bluff voice sounded in the midst of the dreary
rainfall, and his resonant, gurgling laugh over and again rang along the
dark, wintry fastnesses. His geniality was communicated to the other men,
and the conversation carried on at long range was animated and amicable.
“I wonder what’s become of those scamps I was hunting with,” he
remarked. “I just know that shed of pine branches they fixed has leaked
on ’em this night. I’ll bet they’re wallowin’ in mud.” He experienced a
certain satisfaction in the thought. They had not been so badly scared
as he, but at all events the camp hunters could not be happy under these
circumstances.
How vast, how vast was the wilderness! Unseen, it gave an impression of
infinite space. The wind clashed the bare boughs above his head. The
pines wailed and groaned aloud. The commotion of the elements, the many
subordinate, undetermined sounds, the weird, tumultuous voices of the
forest, rising often to a terrible climax, had a mysterious, overpowering
effect. It was a relief to detect a familiar note in the turmoil, even if
it were the howl of a wolf, or the distant crash of a riven tree. How his
mare plunged and floundered!—her head and neck now high before him, till
he almost fell back upon her haunches, and now diving down so low that he
had much ado to keep from slipping over the pommel.
“Well, Marvin,” said Harshaw, once more on level ground, “if you and Jeb
will come down to my farm and visit me, I’ll promise you one thing,—I
won’t turn you out of the house at midnight in a down-pour like this—ha!
ha! ha! Confound you, old lady,”—to the mare, as she stumbled,—“stand up,
can’t you?”
“You-uns oughtn’t ter set us down that-a-way,” said Marvin, grieved at
the reflection on his hospitality.
“Lord A’mighty!” exclaimed “hongry Jeb,”—his tones from out of the
darkness were vaguely yearning,—“talkin’ ter me ’bout ever kemin’ ter
see ennybody at thar farm! Ye mought ez well ax that thar wolf ez we-uns
hearn a-hollerin’ yander, ‘Jes’ kem an’ set awhile, Mister Wolf, an’ eat
supper at my farm.’ I wouldn’t dare no mo’ ter show my muzzle in the
settle_mints_ ’n he would his’n. The law ’lows both o’ us air pests an’
cumberers o’ the groun’, an’ thar’s a price on his head ez well ez mine.
The law ’lows we air both murderers.”
There was a pause, while the thud of the horses’ hoofs was barely heard
on the dank, soft mould. Then the voice of “hongry Jeb” seemed to detach
itself from kindred dreary voices of the rain and the winds and the
woods, and become articulate.
“That’s edzac’ly whar it hurts my feelins. The wolf air enough mo’ like
the revenuers, a-seekin’ who they may devour. I oughter played the sheep,
I reckon, an’ gin ’em my blood stiddier lead; but I’m human,—I’m human,”
insistently. “An’ when a feller with a pistol draws a bead on me, I jes’
naterally whips up my rifle an’ bangs too. An’ he war a pore shot an’ I
war a good un, an’ he got the wust o’ it.”
The horses surged through the ford of an invisible torrent, stumbling
among the rolling bowlders and struggling out on the other bank, and
then they could hear again the monotonous falling of the multitudinous
raindrops; the dreary wind took up its refrain, and the melancholy voice
of Jeb began anew.
“’Twould hev been self-defense, ef I hedn’t been engaged in a unlawful
act, preferrin’ ter squeege the juice out’n my apples, an’ bile an’
sell it, ’n ter let ’em rot on the groun’. I war a fool. I ’lowed the
apples war mine. Me an’ my dad an’ my gran’dad hed owned the orchard an’
the lan’ sence the Injun went. But ’twarn’t my apples,—b’long ter the
governmint. I ain’t never shot at no man ez didn’t shoot at me fust. But
’tain’t self-defense fur me. I’m got ter play sheep.”
The woful tenor of this discourse seemed to anger Marvin suddenly.
“Waal, I wish ye war slartered _now_!” he broke out. “I’d jes’ ez lief
listen ter that thar wolf conversin’ by the hour. What ails ye, Jeb, ter
git set a-goin’ so all-fired lonesome an’ doleful?”
“Lord, nuthin’,” said Jeb amenably, from the van of the procession. “I
ain’t lonesome nor doleful, nuther. When Mr. Harshaw ’lowed suthin’
’bout my kemin’ ter see him on his farm, it jes’ reminded me sorter ez
when I war young, afore my diff’unce with the governmint, I used ter
be a powerful lively boy, an’ knowed plenty o’ folks, an’ went about
mightily,—never lived like I does now. I war sorter o’ a vagrantin’
boy,—used ter consort with boys in the valley, an’ they’d kem up ter the
cove an’ bide an’ go huntin’, an’ I’d go down ter thar farms; an’ that’s
how it kem I knowed whar ye live on Ow_el_ Creek. Powerful good land some
of it air,—mellow, rich sile; some cherty hillsides, though. None o’ them
boys hev turned out like me. Why, I used ter know Jeemes Gwinnan ez well
ez the road ter mill, an’ Jim’s a jedge a-gracin’ the bench, an’ I’m—a
wolf!”
Harshaw experienced a sudden quickening of interest. “You knew Gwinnan?”
“Lord, yes; ez well ez the bark knows the tree. Jeemes war a fine shot,
an’ he liked huntin’ fust-rate. He hedn’t his health very well, an’ his
mother, bein’ a widder-woman, war more’n naterally foolish ’bout’n him,
an’ war always lookin’ fur him ter die. So she’d keep him out’n doors ez
well ez she could. But he’d kerry his book along, an’ read, ’thout he war
a-huntin’. So she let him kem whenst he war jes’ a boy, an’ go huntin’ in
the mountings along o’ the men growed. An’ it done him good. He war ez
fine a shot ez I ever see.”
A wonderful thing was happening in the woods,—the familiar miracle of
dawn. The vast forests were slowly asserting dim outlines of bole and
branch, lodgment for the mist which clothed them in light and fleecy
illusions of foliage. A gray revelation of light, rather the sheer values
of distinctness than a realized medium, was unfolding before the eye.
The serried slants of rain fell at wider intervals, and the equestrian
form of Jeb became visible,—lank, lean, soaked with rain, his old white
hat shedding the water from its brim in rivulets upon his straight and
straggling hair. As he jogged along on the little mule, whose long
ears seemed alternately to whisk off the shades of night, he seemed
a forlornly inadequate individual to have had a “diff’unce with the
governmint.”
“Jim’s what reminded me of how I war fixed in life,” he went on, more
cheerfully. “An’ this hyar whole trip air what reminded me o’ Jim. I
guided him—mus’ hev been fourteen year ago, or mo’—through jes’ sech a
rainy night ez this, an’ through these hyar very woods—naw, sir! more
towards the peak o’ Thunderhead.”
“I dunno ez ye hev got enny call ter be so durned pertic’lar ’bout the
percise spot,” said Marvin, significantly.
“That’s a fac’,” said Jeb, good-naturedly. “I guided him through the
mountings an’ over the line inter the old North State.”
“What in hell did he want to go there for, in the rain and the dead of
the night?” asked Harshaw. His breath was quick; he felt that he panted
on the brink of a discovery. Now plunge!
“’Kase, stranger, he war obleeged ter, sorter like you-uns,” said Jeb
enigmatically.
He looked back over his shoulder, with perhaps some stirring doubt, some
vague suspicion, at the man who followed; but Harshaw, now lifting a hand
to thrust a branch from across the path, now adjusting the bridle about
the mare’s head, seemed so careless, so casual, in his curiosity that Jeb
was reassured as to the innocuousness of his gossip, and went on.
“Ye see, them fellers he consorted with—huntin’, an’ a-pitchin’ o’
quates, an’ a-foot-racin’, an’ sech—war mostly powerful servigrus,
gamesome folks; an’ some o’ ’em war gin ter toler’ble wild ways, an’
Jeemes—his mother never keered much what he done, so ez he’d quit
stickin’ so all-fired constant ter his law-books, ’kase he war a-studyin’
law by that time in old Squair Dinks’s law-office in Colbury—he war ’bout
twenty-two year old—he war mixed up in a deal o’ them goin’s-on. An’
from one little thing an’ another he hed some ill-will started agin him
wunst in a while. Him an’ Eph Saunders hed a fallin’-out wunst. Eph war
a tremenjious strong man, an’ he kep’ flingin’ words at Jeemes. Sence
Jeemes hed tuk ter studyin’ o’ law an’ sech, an’ ’peared right hearty, he
tuk up with town ways powerfill, an’ went ter meet’n a-Sunday nights,
escortin’ the gals, an’ dressed hisself like a plumb peacock. An’ whenst
Eph ’tended circus in Colbury he met up with Jeemes, who hed a lot o’ his
gal cousins along. An’ Eph war drunk, an’ Jim gin him a push aside, an’
Eph, he fell on the groun’. Waal, sir, it like ter killed Eph,—ter be
knocked down by a man o’ Jeemes’s weight! Jim couldn’t hev done it ef Eph
hedn’t been drunk. Eph jes’ mourned like Samson arter his hair war cut
off. Ye’d hev ’lowed he war _de_-sgraced fur life! An’, like Samson, he
warn’t a-goin’ ter bide stopped off an’ done fur. He kep’ a-sendin’ all
sorts o’ words ter Jeemes; an’ ez Jeemes never wanted no fuss with Eph,
he kep’ out’n his way for a while. An’ Eph, he ’lowed ez Jim war afeard
an’ a-hidin’. Waal, sir, that hustled up Jeemes’s feelins mightily.
He jes’ wanted ter keep out’n his mother’s hearin’, though; she war a
powerful chicken-hearted, floppy kind o’ woman,—skeered at everything.
Then Jeemes, he sent Eph word ez he warn’t a-goin’ ter be beat inter a
jelly fur nuthin’ by a man twict his size; but he war a-kemin’ up ter
settle him with his rifle. An’ Eph, he sent word he’d meet him at the big
Sulphur Spring, thar on that spur o’ the mounting nigh Gran’dad’s Creek.
Ef Jeemes so much ez dared ter cross the foot-bredge over Gran’dad’s
Creek, an’ set his foot on the t’other side, Eph swore he’d shoot him
dead. An’ Eph, he sent word ter come Chewsday an hour by sun, an’ bring
his friends ter see fair play.”
“Laws-a-massy!” exclaimed Marvin, in the fervor of reminiscence, “I kin
jes’ see that thar spot,—that thar old foot-bredge in the woods, an’ the
water high enough ter lap the under side o’ the log; ’twar hewn a-top,
an’ made toler’ble level footin’. An’ me an’ Jeb dodgin’ in the laurel,
fur fear Eph would shoot ’fore Jeemes crost.”
“Jeemes seemed toler’ble long a-crossin’,” Jeb resumed,—“I ’member that;
an’ he stopped at the furder eend, an’ lifted his rifle ter his shoulder
ter be ready ter shoot. An’ thar stood Eph, a-sightin’ him keerful ez he
kem”—
“You were both there?” said Harshaw, hastily.
“Lord, yes,” said Jeb. “Jeemes hed stayed at my dad’s house the night
afore. An’ he never brung none o’ his town friends,—afeard o’ word
gittin’ ter his mother. So me an’ Sam,—Sam, he lived nigh me,—we-uns went
along.”
“Did he kill Eph?” demanded Harshaw, the query swift with the momentum of
the wish.
“Waal, not edzac’ly,” drawled Jeb. “That’s whar the funny part kem in.
Eph, he knowed ef Jeemes shot fust he war a dead man,—mighty few sech
shots ez Jeemes,—but he warn’t a-goin’ ter murder him by shootin’ him
afore he put his foot on the groun’ an’ tuk up the dare. So he waited,
an’ Jeemes stopped short right at the aidge o’ the bredge.”
“Lord, I ’members how he looked!” cried Marvin. “He had tuk off his coat
an’ vest, though we-uns hed tole him that thar b’iled shirt o’ his’n war
a good mark for Eph, ez looked jes’ the color o’ the clay-bank ahint him,
in them brown jeans clothes. Jim’s straw hat war drawn down over his
eyes; he war jes’ about the build o’ his ramrod,—slimmest, stringiest
boy!—ez delikit-lookin’ ez a gal. One thing Eph called him, ez riled him
wuss ’n all, war ‘Miss Polly.’”
“He hev widened out mightily sence then, though he ain’t got no fat ter
spare yit,” put in Jeb.
“An’ then, suddint,” resumed Marvin, “he jes’ stepped his foot right on
the groun’. In that very minute Eph’s gun flashed. An’ I seen Jeemes
standin’ thar, still sightin’. An’ then Eph, he drapped his gun, an’ held
his hands afore his face, an’ yelled out, ‘Shoot, ef ye air a-goin’ ter
shoot! I ain’t a-goin’ ter stan’ hyar no longer.’ An’ Jeemes, he looked
ez scornful”—
“I never seen a boy’s looks with sech a cuttin’ aidge ter ’em,”
interpolated Jeb.
“An’ Jeemes, he say, ‘I ain’t a-wastin’ powder ter-day. I never ’lowed ez
skunks war game.’ An’ he drapped his gun.”
“Yes sir!” exclaimed Jeb, “he jes’ hed that much grit,—ter stan’ up ez a
shootin’ mark fur Eph Saunders, an’ prove he warn’t afeard o’ nothin’. He
did sir!”
“Why, look here, my good friends!” cried the lawyer. “That was a duel. It
was a cool, premeditated affair. They met by previous appointment, and
fought with deadly weapons and with witnesses. It was a duel.”
“Mebbe so,” said Jeb, indifferently and uncomprehendingly. “I call it
clean grit.”
“Waal,” went on Marvin, “I run across the bredge lookin’ fur Eph’s
bullet. I said, ‘Whar’d it go?’ An’ by that time Eph an’ them low down
Kitwin boys war slinkin’ off. An’ sez Jeemes, ‘Don’t let ’em know it. I
don’t want my mother ter hear ’bout it. She air fibble an’ gittin’ old.’
An’ thar I seen the breast o’ his shirt war slow a-spottin’ with blood.
Waal, sir, that’s how kem me an’ Jeb an’ him rid over the mountings inter
North Carolina, whar he hed some kinsfolks livin’ ’mongst the hills.”
“Ye see,”—Jeb again took up his testimony,—“he didn’t want the news ter
git ter his mother afore he got well, ’kase he war delikit, an’ she war
always a-lookin’ fur him ter die; an’ Eph never knowed Jim war shot, an’
couldn’t kerry the tale down ter Colbury. Waal, we-uns war all young an’
toler’ble bouncin’ fools, I tell ye, an’ we sorter got light on that fac’
whenst we-uns sot out ter ride with a man with a gun-shot wound—I furgits
’zac’ly whar the doctor say the bullet went in—miles an’ miles through
the mountings; an’ the dark kem on an’ the rain kem down, an’ Jeemes got
out’n his head. An’ this ride with you-uns air what reminded me o’ it.”
“_I_ ain’t out of my head!” cried Harshaw, with covert meaning. “You bet
your immortal soul on that!”
“Naw,”—Jeb admitted the discrepancy,—“but the rain, an’ the ride, an’ the
mountings, an’ the darksomeness.”
“Lord! a body wouldn’t hev b’lieved how Jeemes’s pride war hurt ter be
called afeard!” exclaimed Marvin. “I ’low he’d hev let Eph chop him up in
minch meat ter prove he warn’t. He air prouder of hisself ’n enny man I
ever see. Thar’s whar his soul is—in his pride.”
“I’m glad ter hear it,” said Harshaw, so definitely referring to an
occult interpretation of his own that the old white hat, bobbing along
in front of him, turned slowly, and he saw the lank, cadaverous face
below it, outlined with its limp wisps of black hair against the nebulous
vapors. So strong an expression of surprise did Jeb’s features wear
that Harshaw hastily added, “A man that ain’t got any pride ain’t worth
anything.”
“Ef he hev got ennything ter be proud of,” stipulated melancholy Jeb.
The day had fully dawned; the rain, the mists, the looming forests,
had acquired a dull verity in the stead of the vague, illusory shadows
they had been. Nevertheless, the muddy banks of the creek down which
the mare slided, her legs rigid as iron; the obstructions of the
ford,—rocks, fallen limbs of trees, floating or entangled in intricacies
of overhanging bushes,—were all rendered more difficult, for Harshaw
mechanically controlled the reins instead of trusting to the mare’s
instinct; as he sawed on the bit, while she threw back her head, foaming
at the mouth, he brought her to her knees in the midst of the stream.
The water surged up about the great boots which he wore drawn over his
trousers to the knee, and the mare regained her footing with snorting
difficulty. There were no expletives, and Jeb looked back in renewed
surprise.
“Ye mus’ be studyin’ powerful hard, stranger,” he commented, “not ter hev
seen that thar bowlder.”
“Yer beastis war a-goin’ ter take slanchwise across the ruver whar thar
warn’t nuthin’ ter hender, till ye in an’ about pulled the jaw off’n
her,” Marvin said, as Harshaw pushed through the swollen flood and up the
opposite bank. His flushed face was grave; his eyes were intent; he rode
along silently. He was indeed thinking.
He was thinking that if what they had told him were true—and how could
he doubt it?—Gwinnan in taking the official oath had committed perjury;
he was disqualified for the judicial office, and liable to impeachment.
Harshaw was vaguely repeating to himself and trying to remember the
phraseology of the anti-dueling oath exacted of every office-holder in
the State of Tennessee,—an oath that he had not directly or indirectly
given or accepted a challenge since the adoption of the Constitution of
1835.
Under what pretext, what secret reservation or evasion, had Gwinnan been
able to evade this solemn declaration? Or had he adopted the simple
expedient of swallowing it whole? Harshaw wondered, remembering all the
acerbities of Gwinnan’s canvass and election, that the old story had not
before come to light. But it was a section of frequent feuds and bloody
collisions, the subject was trite and unsuggestive, and the details of an
old fight might seem to promise no novel developments. How odd that he,
of all men, should stumble on it, in view of its most signal significance!
Auxiliary facts pressed upon his attention. Nothing that could be now
urged against an official was so prejudicial as the crime of dueling.
The episode of Kinsard’s boyish demonstration attested the temper of
the public. With much difficulty had his friends shielded him by its
ambiguity; and indeed only because it was a meaningless folly, without
intention or result, had it proved innocuous. Even Kinsard, fire-eater as
he was, had been forced to accept their interpretations of its harmless
intent, and to subside under the frown of public displeasure. The more
lenient members of the House had had cause to regret their clemency,
the disapproval of their constituents being expressed in no measured
manner by the local journals. But no ambiguity was here; this was the
accomplished fact, this the clue that long he had sought. Even if the
House should decline to act in the matter, Gwinnan could be removed by
judicial proceedings. He would think it out at his leisure. How lucky,
how lucky was this ride!
The rain had ceased at last. They were among the minor ridges that lie
about the base of the Great Smoky. They had ridden many a mile out of
their way,—Harshaw could not say in what direction,—so that he might
not easily retrace his steps. The mists still hung about them when they
turned from the almost imperceptible path, which Jeb had followed with
some keen instinct or memory, into a road,—a rough wagon track. Bushes
were growing in its midst, bowlders lay here and there; its chief claim
to identification as a highway being its occasional mud-puddles, of
appalling depth and magnitude, and its red clay mire, fetlock deep at
least.
Harshaw roused himself suddenly, as the two moonshiners intimated their
intention of parting company with him.
“Thar’s yer way, stranger,” said Marvin, pausing on the rise and pointing
down the road. It was visible only a few rods in the mist, dreary and
deserted, with deep ditches, heavily washed by the rain, on either hand;
it might seem to lead to no fair spaces, no favored destination where
one might hope to be. But Harshaw drew up his mare, and gazed along it
with kindling eyes. His felt hat drooped in picturesque curves about his
dense yellow hair, soaked like his beard, to a darker hue. His closely
buttoned coat had a military suggestion. His heavy figure was imposing on
horseback. He flushed with sudden elation. Alack! he saw more trooping
down that prosaic dirt road than the mist, hastily scurrying; than the
progress of the wind in the swaying of the stunted cedars, clinging
to the gashed and gully-washed embankments; than the last trickling
stragglers of the storm.
He did not notice, or he did not care, that the two men had remarked his
silence, his evident absorption. He glanced cursorily at them, as they
sat regarding him,—one on the little lank mule, his partner on the big
lean one, both drenched, and forlorn, and poverty-stricken, and humble
of aspect. The politician’s mare, perhaps recognizing the road down
into Kildeer County, where she had spent the first frisky years of her
toilsome pilgrimage, showed a new spirit, and caracoled as Harshaw rode
up to the two men to offer his hand.
“Farewell, stranger,” they said; and in the old-fashioned phrase of the
primitive Plain People, “Farewell,” he replied.
They stood looking after him, hardly understanding what they lacked,
what they had expected, as the mare, with a mincing, youthful freshness,
cantered a little way along the grassy margin of the road, above the
rivulets in the ditches, surging twelve or fourteen feet below.
Presently Harshaw paused, yet unobscured by the mist which had gathered
about him, and glanced over his shoulder,—not to thank them for such aid
and comfort as they had given him.
“Gentlemen,” he said, a little ill at ease because of the restive mare,
“I must thank you for the story you told me. You don’t know how much
good it did me. A pretty little story, with a pretty little hero. A very
_pretty_ little story, indeed.”
He bent his roseate, dimpled smile upon them, and waved his hand
satirically; with a bound the mare disappeared in the mist, leaving the
grave, saturnine mountaineers staring after him, and listening to the
measured hoof-beat of his invisible progress till it died in the distance.
Then they looked at each other.
“Sam,” said Jeb, when they had turned again into their fastnesses, where
they could ride only in single file, “I dunno ef we-uns done right las’
night. This worl’ would be healthier ef that man war out’n it.”
“I ain’t misdoubtin’ that none,” replied Marvin. “’Peared ter me powerful
comical, the way he took off down the road, an’ I ain’t able ter study
out yit what he meant. My gran’mam always ’lowed ez them ez talks in
riddles larnt thar speech o’ the devil, him bein’ the deceivin’ one. But
’twarn’t healthy fur we-uns ter kill him, even ef we could hev agreed ter
do it. I reckon them hunters _would_ hev tracked him. An’ I don’t b’lieve
he war no spy nor sech.”
“Nor me nuther,” said “hongry Jeb,” well enough satisfied with the
termination of the adventure, “though I ain’t likin’ him now ez well ez I
done a-fust.”
They liked him still less, and all their old suspicions returned with
redoubled force, upon reaching home, when the afternoon was well
advanced. For no hunters had yet appeared, and the lurking moonshiners,
becoming surprised because of this, had tracked Harshaw’s way to the
house by the broken brush, the hairs from the mane and tail of the
mare, a bit of his coat clutched off by the briers, the plain prints of
the mare’s hoofs along a sandy stretch protected from the rain by the
beetling ledges of a crag. There were many oak-trees along this path,—not
one blazed by a hunting-knife. They understood at last his clever lie.
And Marvin upbraided M’ria:—
“Thar air more constancy in the ways o’ the wind, an’ mo’ chance o’
countin’ on ’em, ’n that thar woman. Fust he mus’ be dragged out straight
an’ kilt,—flunged off’n the bluff,—else we-uns would all go ter jail, an’
Philetus be lef’ ter starve ’mongst the painters, ez wouldn’t keep him
comp’ny, but would eat him up. Then when the man limbered his jaw an’ sot
out ter lyin’, she gits so all-fired skeered, she hed breakfus’ cooked
for we-uns ter journey ’fore I could sati’fy my mind ’bout nuthin’. Ef
the truth war knowed, we’d all be safer ef M’ria were flunged over the
bluff.”
And Maria, staring at the line of oak-trees, all undesecrated by the
knife, could not gainsay it.
She could only wring her hands, and rock herself to and fro, and revolve
her troublous fears, and grow yet more wan and gaunt with her prescient
woes for them all—and for Philetus.
XXV.
On the second day of February, the ground-hog, true to his traditions,
emerged from his hole, and looked about him cautiously for his shadow.
Fortunately, it was not in attendance. And by this token the spring was
early, and all the chill rains, and late frosts, and unpropitious winds,
and concomitant calamities, that might have ensued had he found his
ill-omened shadow awaiting him, were escaped. It was not long afterward
that small protuberances appeared on every twig and wand and branch,
although the trees had not budded save in these promissory intimations.
The sap was stirring. The dead world was quickened again. That beautiful
symbolism of the miracle of resurrection was daily presented in the
reawakening, in the rising anew of the spring. So pensively gladsome it
was, so gently approaching, with such soft and subtle languors! The sky
was blue; the clouds how light, how closely akin to the fleecy mists!
Sheep-bells were tinkling—for what! the pastures were already green! And
here and there a peach-tree beside a rail-fence burst forth in a cloud of
blossoms so exquisitely petaled, so delicately roseate, that only some
fine ethereal vagary of the sunset might rival the tint. Sometimes among
the still leafless mountains these pink graces of color would appear,
betokening the peach orchard of some hidden little hut, its existence
only thus attested. The Scolacutta River was affluent with the spring
floods: a wild, errant stream this, with many a wanton freak, with a
weakness for carrying off its neighbor’s rails; for snatching huge
slices of land from the banks; for breaking off trees and bushes, and
whirling them helplessly down its current, tossing and teetering in a
frantic, unwilling dance. Many a joke had it played before and since the
disaster to old Griff’s mill. The sunbeams might seem the strings of a
harp; whenever touched by a wing they were quivering and thrilling with
songs. Slow wreathing blue smoke curled in fields here and there where
the fires of rubbish blazed; sometimes a stump would burn sullenly all
night and char slowly, and with a puff of wind burst anew into flames.
The soft lustres of the Pleiades and the fiery Aldebaran were resplendent
in the heavens, and the moon was the paschal moon. A vernal thrill had
blessed the wild cherry, and it gave out its glad incense. For miles and
miles the exquisite fragrance from its vast growths on the mountain-side
pervaded the air. And presently the mountain-side wore the tender verdure
of budding leaves, and even the gloomy pines were tipped with new tufts
of vivid green, unlike their sombre hue; and here and there crags
flaunted a bourgeoning vine, and the wild ivy crept on the ground where
the wood violet bloomed. All day the ploughs turned the furrow, and the
air echoed with the calls “gee, haw” to the slow oxen.
And Mrs. Purvine was greatly distraught in the effort to remember exactly
where she had stowed away certain bags of seed necessary, in view of
their best interests, to be sown in the light of the moon.
Her sun-bonnet was all awry, her face wrinkled and anxious with the
cares of the spring-tide “gyarden spot,” her gestures laborious and
weary, as she sat on her porch, the lap of her ample apron filled with
small calico bags, each of which seemed to have a constitutional defect
in its draw-string; for when found closed it would not open, and if by
chance open it would not close. There was a sort of shelf in lieu of
balustrade against the posts of the porch, and on this were placed two or
three pieces of old crockery,—providentially broken into shapes that the
ingenious could utilize,—in which seeds were immersed in water, that they
might swell in the night, and thus enter the ground prepared to swiftly
germinate. One of these broken dishes stood on the floor at her feet, and
a graceless young rooster, that had the air of loafing about the steps,
approached by unperceived degrees, picked up several of the seed, and
was quenching his thirst, when spied by Mrs. Purvine, who was viciously
pulling the strings of a recalcitrant bag.
“In the name o’ Moses!” she adjured him so solemnly that the rooster
stopped and looked at her expectantly. “I’m in an’ about minded ter cut
them dish-rag-gourd seed out’n yer craw, ye great, big, ten-toed sinner,
you! Ye needn’t turn yer head up ’twixt every sup,—so thankful ter the
Lord fur water. Ye’ll find mo’ water in the pot ’n that. A-swallerin’
them few dish-rag-gourd seed ez nimble an’ onconsarned, an’ me jes’
a-chasin’ an’ a-racin’ an’ wore ter the bone ter find some mo’! Ye’d
better leave ’em be.”
The rooster, hardly comprehending the words, was about to again sample
the delicacy, when aunt Dely, stamping to startle him, inadvertently
overturned the dish and the seed on the floor. The fowl scuttled off,
looking askance at the ruin, and the water dripped through the cracks of
the puncheon floor.
So absorbed had she been that she had not observed an approach, and
Alethea was at the foot of the steps when she lifted her eyes.
“Hyar I be, aunt Dely,” said the girl, noticing Mrs. Purvine’s occupation
with a surprise that seemed hardly warranted, and speaking in a
breathless, eager way. “Air you-uns feelin’ enny better?”
For once in her life the crafty Mrs. Purvine was embarrassed; to conceal
her confusion, she engaged in a strenuous struggle with one of the bags
of seed.
“I feel toler’ble well,” she said at last, gruffly.
“Waal!” exclaimed Alethea, in amazement. “From the word Ben Doaks brung
ter Wild-Cat Hollow, ez he war drivin’ up some steers ter the bald o’ the
mounting, we-uns ’lowed ez ye hed been tuk awful sick, an’ war like ter
die.”
“I sent ye that word,” said Mrs. Purvine with admirable effrontery. “I
knowed thar warn’t no other way ter git ye down hyar. When hev ye hed the
perliteness ter fetch them bones o’ yourn hyar afore?” She looked over
her spectacles with angry reproach at the girl.
“Waal, aunt Dely,” said Alethea in her dulcet, mollifying drawl, sitting
down on the step as she talked, “ye know I hev hed ter do so much o’ the
ploughin’ an’ sech, a-puttin’ in o’ our craps. We-uns hev got sech a lot
o’ folks up ter our house. An’ I dunno when Jacob Jessup hev done less
work ’n he hev this spring.”
“Thought ye be always ’lowin’ ye ain’t layin’ off ter do his work,” said
the elder tartly.
“Waal,” rejoined Alethea wearily, “I don’t ’pear ter hev the grit ter
hold out an’ quar’l over it, like I used ter do. I reckon my sperit’s
a-gittin’ bruk; but I don’t mind workin’ off in the field, ’thout no
jawin’, whar I kin keep comp’ny with my thoughts.”
“I wouldn’t want ter keep comp’ny with ’em,” said aunt Dely cavalierly.
“I’ll be bound they air heavier ter foller ’n the plough. Mighty solemn,
low-sperited thoughts fur a spry young gal like you-uns! Ef yer head
could be turned inside out, thar ain’t nobody ez wouldn’t ’low it mus’
outside be gray. They’d say, ‘In the name o’ Moses! old ez this inside,
an’ yaller outside! ’Tain’t natur’!’”
The girl had taken off her bonnet. Her beauty was undimmed, despite
a pensive pallor on her delicate cheek. She fanned herself with her
sun-bonnet, and the heavy, undulating folds of her lustrous yellow hair
stirred softly. “I’m powerful glad ter find ye hevin’ yer health same ez
common,” she said.
“I’m s’prised ter hear ye say so,” declared Mrs. Purvine, tart from her
renewed conflicts with the bag. “I ain’t sick, bless the Lord, but I
wanted ye ter kem down hyar an’ bide with me, an’ I knowed I couldn’t
tole ye out’n that thar Eden, ez ye call Wild-Cat Hollow, ’thout
purtendin’ ter be nigh dead. So I jes’ held my han’ ter my side an’ tied
up my head, an’ hollered ter Ben Doaks ez he went by. He looked mighty
sorry fur me!” A faint smile flickered across her broad face. “I hed laid
off ter go ter bed afore you-uns kem, though. I will say fur ye ez ye
travel toler’ble fas’. Yes, sir!” she went on, after a momentary pause.
“I live in a ongrateful worl’. I hev ter gin out I’m dyin’ ter git my
own niece ter kem ter see me. An’ thar’s that thar Jerry Price, ez I
hev raised from a ill-convenient infant ez won’t do nuthin’ I say, nor
marry nobody I picks out fur him. I’ll be boun’ he wouldn’t hev no say-so
’bout’n it ef his aunt Melindy Jane hed hed the raisin’ of him. An’ Bluff
ez good ez ’lowed this mornin’ ez he’d hook me ef I didn’t quit foolin’
in his bucket o’ bran,—’kase I ’lowed ez mebbe the saaft-soap gourd war
drapped in it, bein’ ez I couldn’t find it nowhar, an’ I war afear’d
’twouldn’t agree with the critter’s insides. An’ thar’s that rooster,”—he
was now out among the weeds,—“he war a aig ez got by accident inter a
tur-r-key’s nest, an’ when he war hatched she wouldn’t hev him; an’ ez
I hed no hen ez war kerryin’ o’ chickens his size, _I_ hed ter care fur
him. I useter git up in my bare feet in the middle o’ a winter night ter
kiver up that thar rooster in a bat o’ cotton, fur he war easy ter git
cold, an’ he could holler ez loud ez a baby. An’ arter all, he kem hyar
an’ eat up ’bout haffen my dish-rag-gourd seed! I dunno what in Moses’
name is kem o’ the other bags. Never mind!”—she shook her head as she
addressed the jaunty and unprescient fowl,—“I’ll git up the heart ter
kill ye some day; an’ ef I can’t eat ye, bein’ so well acquainted with
ye, I’ll be boun’ Jerry kin.”
Alethea, apprised how precious the seeds were, began to gather them up as
she sat on the step.
“Listen ter Jerry, now!” exclaimed Mrs. Purvine, with whom the world had
evidently gone much amiss to-day. “Needn’t tell me he don’t hurt Bluff’s
feelins, callin’ him names whilst ploughing an’ yellin’ at him like a
plumb catamount. Ef Bluff hedn’t treated me like he done this mornin’,
I’d go thar an’ make Jerry shet up.”
Now and then the ox and the man at the plough-tail came into view at
the end of the field that sloped down to the road. One of aunt Dely’s
boys was dropping corn in the furrow, and the other followed with a hoe
and covered the grain in. Alethea watched them with the interest of a
practical farmer.
Aunt Dely, too, looked up, repeating the old formula:—
“One fur the cut-worm an’ one fur the crow,
Two fur the blackbird an’ one fur ter grow.”
Jerry, glancing toward the house, called out a salutation to Alethea, and
then at long range entered upon a colloquy with Mrs. Purvine touching the
lack of seed.
“Whar’s that thar t’other bag o’ seed-corn?” he demanded.
“Waal, I ain’t got none!” cried out Mrs. Purvine peremptorily. “I mus’
hev made a mistake, and fedded that thar bag o’ special an’ percise
fine seed-corn ter the chickens,—I wish they war every one fried. I
disremember now what I done, an’ what I done it fur. Ye jes’ gear up
Bluff in the wagin an’ go ter mill, an’ see ef ye can’t git some thar.”
“Laws-a-massy!” objected Jerry, “’tain’t no use ter make Bluff go. I kin
git thar an back quicker an’ easier ’thout him ’n with him.”
“Ye do ez ye air bid,” said Mrs. Purvine; and while Jerry stared she
presently explained, as she sawed away on the draw-strings of a bag, “I
want ye ter take Lethe along ter the post-office, ter see ef thar’s enny
letter fur me.”
Now, Mrs. Purvine had never written nor received a letter in her life; in
fact, would not have understood the functions of a post-office, had it
not been for her husband’s incumbency some years ago. Nevertheless, in
common with half the country-side, whenever she thought of it she gravely
demanded if there were a missive for her, and was gravely answered in the
negative, and went her way well content.
Both young people understood her ruse well enough,—to throw them
together, in the hope that propinquity might do a little match-making.
Since Mink’s long sentence of imprisonment had been pronounced upon him,
she felt that there was no longer fear of rivalry from that quarter, as
the Supreme Court would hardly reverse so plain and just a judgment. And
now, she thought, is Jerry’s golden opportunity. However, she elaborately
justified the expedition upon the basis of convenience.
“Ye _could_ fetch the letter an’ the corn too,” she observed, in a
cogitating manner; “but then, goin’ ter mill, ye’d be apt ter git meal
sprinkled onto it. I reckon I’d better send Lethe too. Ye kin leave her
at the post-office till ye go ter mill.”
This verisimilitude imposed even upon Alethea.
“Who air ye expectin’ a letter from, aunt Dely?” said the girl.
Mrs. Purvine was equal to the occasion.
“I ’lowed,” she said, with swift inspiration, “ez some o’ them folks ez
we-uns bided with down thar in Shaftesville mought take up a notion ter
write ter us.”
Alethea thought this not unlikely, and set out with Jerry with some
interest, fully prepared to preserve the precious letter from any contact
with meal.
Mrs. Purvine, her ill-humor evaporating in the successful exploiting of
her little plan, gazed after them with a benignant smile illuminating her
features, as they creaked off in the slow little ox-cart, its wheels now
leaning outward and now bending inward, as the loose linch-pin or some
obstruction in the road might impel. She noted, however, that the old
slouch hat and the brown sun-bonnet, with its coy tress of golden hair
showing beneath its curtain, were seldom turned toward each other, and
there was evidently little disposition for conversation between the two
young people.
“Bluff hev got mos’ o’ the brains in that thar comp’ny,” she said to
herself with indignation because of their mutual indifference. “But Lethe
Ann Sayles air mighty diffe’nt from some wimmin, ef she kin hold her jaw
fur twenty year, an’ keep that thar dead-an’-gin-out look on her face
fur Mink Lorey. He can’t git back ’fore then. An’ Jerry’s got ez good a
chance ez Ben Doaks. But it’s mighty hard on a pore old woman like me,
ez hed trouble enough marryin’ herself off thirty year ago, a-runnin’
away an’ sech, ter gin herself ter studyin’ ’bout sech foolishness in her
old age ez love-makin’, an’ onsettlin’ her mind, ’kase they hain’t got
enough sense ter do thar courtin’ ’thout help.”
But this unique grievance was so inadequate that Mrs. Purvine gave
up the effort to eke out thereby her ill-humor, and gazed about with
placid complacence at the spring landscape, tossing all the bags of seed
together into a splint basket, to be sorted at some more propitious day.
In Bluff’s slow progress along the red clay road, the gradual unfolding
of the scene, the vernal peace, the benedictory sunshine, had their
benignant effect on Alethea. Absorbed as she had been, in descending the
mountain, by her anxiety for the specious aunt Dely’s illness, she had
not noted until now how far the spring was advanced in the sheltered
depths of the cove, how loath to climb to the sterile fastnesses of
Wild-Cat Hollow.
“The season ’pears ter be toler’ble back’ard in the hollow, jedgin’ by
the cove,” she remarked, her eyes resting wistfully upon the tender
verdure on the margin of the river. The sun was warm, for it was not
long past noon, and Bluff stopped to drink in the midst of the ford.
The translucent brown water above the bowlders, all distinct in its
clear depths, washed about the miry wheels, and lapsed with soft sighs
against the rocky banks; great silvery circles elastically expanded on
its surface about the ox’s muzzle, distorting somewhat the image of his
head and his big, insistent, sullen eyes and long horns, as he drank.
Whenever the sunbeams struck the current a bevy of tiny insects might be
seen, skittering about over the water; and hark! a frog was croaking on
a rotten log in the dank shadow of the laurel. From the fields beyond
the call of the quail was sweet and clear. The ranges encompassing the
cove on every hand seemed doubly beautiful, doubly dear, with the
tender promise of summer upon them, with the freshened delights of soft
airs pervading them, with the predominant sense of the liberated joys
of nature in the bourgeonings and the blooms, in the swift rushing of
torrents, in the whirl of wings. The wooded lines of those summits close
at hand were drawn in fine detail against the sky, save where the great
balds towered,—symmetrical, ponderous, bare domes; further mountains
showed purple and blue, and among them was a lowering gray portent that
might have seemed a storm-cloud, save to those who knew the strange,
cumulose outline of Thunderhead.
Everywhere birds were building. A couple of jays were carrying straws
from a heap in a corner of a fence; they rose with a great whirl of blue
and white feathers, as Bluff, his horns nodding, approached them. A dove
was cooing in a clump of dogwood trees, whitely blooming by the road.
There was a great commotion of wings in the air from a lofty martin-house
in a wayside door-yard, as the plucky denizens chased a hawk round and
round and out of sight.
“Thought that thar war the way ter the post-office at Squair Bates’s,
Jerry,” Alethea observed, pointing down one of those picturesque winding
roads, so common to the region, threading the forests, its tawny red
convolutions flecked with shadow and sheen, showing in long, fascinating
vistas, and luring one to follow.
“Yes, sir,” said Jerry, “but I hev got ter take ye ter the post-office
at Locust Levels. Ain’t ye hearn aunt Dely ’low that? An’ I hev got ter
leave ye thar whilst I go ter the grist-mill nigh by, off the road a
piece.”
Alethea flushed with a dull annoyance, recognizing the device that the
long drive might be still longer. She nevertheless made no comment. They
were each too dutiful to vary the plan of the journey, although aunt Dely
might have considered this only obedience in the letter, and not in the
spirit, as neither again spoke for a mile or more.
“This be Kildeer County,” said Jerry, at last, breaking the long
silence. “We-uns crossed the line back thar ’bout haffen hour ago.”
Alethea’s pensive enjoyment of the gentle influences of the scene was
marred. To be sure, aunt Dely had an unequivocal right to send, if she
liked, to the post-office at Locust Levels, a hamlet of Kildeer County,
rather than to the one nearer, in her own county; but it was a patent
subterfuge that she should expect to receive letters here from their
friends in Shaftesville. It was Alethea’s excellent common sense that had
preserved her from the folly of the continual anticipation of a letter,
so common among ignorant people, who, with no acquaintances elsewhere,
beset the post-offices with their demands. She had never asked for a
letter for herself, and there had begun to be revealed to her the fact
that it was not a post-office which could produce an epistle for Mrs.
Purvine; she needed a correspondent.
“Ef ye ’low ye’ll feel like a fool axin’ fur that thar letter, Lethe,”
said the acute Jerry, divining her thoughts, “I’ll do it. I never mind
feelin’ like a fool,—thar’s a heap o’ ’em in this worl’. An’ whenever I
acts like one, I remembers I’m in powerful good company. An’ that’s why I
don’t try ter be no smarter ’n I am.”
But Alethea said that she would ask for the letter, as aunt Dely had
directed. When she alighted from the wagon at Locust Levels, Jerry and
Bluff drove off at a whisking pace, which indicated that both might feel
relieved.
At the post-office the wood-pile was in front of the house, and therefore
the approach was over chips, splinters, and shreds of bark, which gave
out a pungent fragrance. It was a low little gray cabin, partly of log
and partly of plank, and with a blossoming company of peach-trees about
it. They hung over the fence, and all the steep bank down to the road was
covered with their pink petals shed in the wind. Some golden candlesticks
and “butter-and-eggs” were blooming inside the rickety little palings,
and a girl stood upon the porch beside a spinning-wheel.
Alethea noted the unrecognizing stare bent upon her. She opened the gate
with difficulty, and went up on the shaded porch. The girl had stopped
spinning, but was still gazing at her. A yellow dog, who had been asleep
on the floor, his muzzle on his fore-paws, also scanned her curiously,
not stirring his head, only lifting his eyes. When she faltered her
inquiry for a letter for Mrs. Purvine, the dog got up as briskly as if he
were the postmaster.
“Fur who?” demanded a masculine voice, as a man with a plough-line in his
hand stepped around the corner, lured by the sound of the colloquy.
“Mis’ Purvine,” repeated Alethea.
He looked at her with a touch of indignation. He would never get through
his spring ploughing at this rate. He strode into the house, however, to
investigate. “I never hearn o’ her in all my life,” he said tartly.
And Alethea began to have a realization how very wide this world is.
The walls of the room bore many flaming graces of advertisement, pasted
over the logs. They were of more fantastic device and a newer fashion
than Mrs. Purvine’s relics of her husband’s postmastership. There were
two neat beds in the room, a very clean floor, and a woman in the
chimney-corner, smoking her pipe, who nodded with grave courtesy to
Alethea.
The postmaster inserted a key in the lock of a table-drawer, and there,
by some perversity, it stuck; it would neither come out nor go further
in, nor turn in either direction. The dog had entered, too, as he always
did, with a business-like air, and was standing beneath the table, slowly
wagging his tail and lolling out his tongue; what strange ideas did he
connect with the distribution of the mail? His position involved some
danger, as his master struggled and pulled at the drawer, and jerked the
table about. Finally, one of its legs came in contact with the foot of
the dog, who had the worst of it. As his shrieks filled the room, the
perspiring man turned to Alethea.
“I know thar ain’t no letter fur no Mis’ Purvine,” he declared. “Thar air
jes fower letters in this hyar dad-burned drawer, an’ they be fur Judge
Gwinnan. Ye see I can’t open it.”
The mail seemed indeed in safe-keeping. His daughter, who had been
peering down the road, suddenly spoke:—
“Ye’ll hev ter open it. Fur thar be Jedge Gwinnan now, a-ridin’ up on
that thar roan colt o’ his’n, what he hev jes’ bruk.”
A little play with the key, and the drawer abruptly opened.
There was, indeed, no letter for Mrs. Purvine, and snatching up the four
for Judge Gwinnan, with some newspapers, the postmaster ran hastily out,
hailing the rider as he drew rein at the corner of the orchard fence.
Alethea hesitated for a moment at the gate, gazing at the equestrian
figure that had paused under the soft pink glamours of the orchard. She
had heard of his belated plea for Mink Lorey. He evidently bore no grudge
for his injuries. Suddenly there flashed into her mind a word that she
might say for that graceless and forlorn wight,—a word which, perhaps,
might not be taken amiss; and if it should do no good, it could at least
work no harm. It was an abrupt resolution. She stood in eager impatience,
yet loath to interrupt him.
Gwinnan read his letters, one by one, while the postmaster went back to
the plough, where the gray mare dozed in the furrow.
As Gwinnan gathered up the reins, looking absently ahead, the girl
waiting by the roadside signed to him to stop. He did not see her.
Somehow Alethea could not speak. She sprang forward with a hoarse cry, as
he was about to pass like a flash, and caught his bridle. The young horse
swerved, instead of trampling upon her, but dragging her with him.
“Take care!” cried out Gwinnan sharply. He drew up his horse with an
effort, and looked down at her in amazement as she still clung to the
bridle.
The next moment he recognized her.
XXVI.
Under the strong pull on the curb, the young horse stood quivering in
every limb beneath the blossoming peach boughs that overhung the grassy
margin of the road. There seemed a reflection of their delicate roseate
tints in Alethea’s upturned face, as with one hand she still grasped the
bridle. Her old brown bonnet, falling back, showed her golden hair in its
dusky tunnel. The straight blooming wands of the volunteer peach sprouts,
that had sprung up outside the zigzag barriers of the rail fence,
clustered about the folds of her homespun dress, as she stood in their
midst.
All at once she was trembling violently. Her luminous brown eyes
suddenly faltered. In her every consideration she herself was always so
secondary—not with a sedulous effort of subordination, but yielding with
a fine and generous instinct to the interest of others—that until this
moment she had had no self-consciousness in regard to the jealousy which
had resulted in Gwinnan’s injuries. For this he had been struck down
and brought near to death. Some sense of a reciprocal consciousness, an
overwhelming deprecation of Mink’s folly in fancying him a rival, a vague
wonderment as to the effect of the idea upon Gwinnan, seized upon her for
the first time now in his presence, as if she had had no leisure hitherto
to think of these things. She could not speak. She could not meet his
serious, intent, expectant eye.
“Did you have something to say to me?” he asked, taking the initiative.
It was the same tone that had given her sympathetic encouragement in the
court-room, charged with a personal interest, a grave solicitude, all
unlike the superficial, unmeaning courtesy of the lawyers. She spoke
impetuously now as then, and with instant reliance upon him.
“I hearn, jedge,” she cried, looking up radiantly at him, “ez how ye hev
gin out ez ye never wanted Reuben Lorey ter be prosecuted fur tryin’ ter
kill ye, an’ axed fur him ter be let off, an’ I ’lowed ye hold no gredge
agin him. ’Pears ter me like ye war powerful good ’bout’n it.”
“But he was prosecuted,” the judge said quickly, fancying that she was
under a delusion.
“I know!” she cried, with a poignant accent. “I know! I hearn it all.”
She thought of his justification, his fancied provocation, and once more
timidity beset her. How could she have found courage to speak in his
behalf to Gwinnan? The judge himself was embarrassed; she knew it by the
way he turned the reins in his hands. She noted details which usually,
when her faculties were not so abnormally alert, would not have arrested
her attention: the sleek coat of the handsome young horse, which now
and then shook his head as if in disdain of her grasp; the super-fine
accoutrements of saddle and bridle; the smooth hands that held the reins;
the severely straight lineaments, shadowed by the brim of the hat; and
the searching, intent gray eyes, which saw, she felt, her inmost thought.
The postmaster, ploughing, came ever and anon down to the fence, pausing
there to turn, and sometimes to thrust with his foot the clinging mould
from the share. Occasionally he glanced at the incongruous couple, but
as if the colloquy between them were a very normal incident, and with
that courteous lack of curiosity and speculation characteristic of the
region. All the fowls of the place followed in the furrow, clucking
with gustatory satisfaction; now and then, with a gluttonous outcry,
they darted to certain clods upturned by the plough, and the pantomime
indicated much mortality among those poor troglodytes, the worms of the
earth.
“You wanted to speak to me about him,” said Gwinnan, with, it seemed to
her, wonderful divination.
“Ye know, jedge,” she said, more calmly, instantly reassured whenever he
spoke, “they hev fund out ez ’twarn’t him ez bust down the mill. A boy
seen it done, an’ he war feared ter tell afore. I reckon that war what
set Reuben off so awful onruly,—knowin’ he never done it, nor drownded
Tad nuther,—an’ the ’torney-gin’al makin’ folks ’low I seen a harnt.”
“I dare say,” remarked Gwinnan, dryly.
“An’ I ’lowed,” she continued, looking at him with beautiful, beseeching
eyes “ez ’twon’t do him much good ef he does git off at his nex’ trial,
’kase then he’ll be bound ter be in the prison arterward, ennyhow, fur
twenty years. An’ I ’lowed I’d ax ye, seein’ ez ye don’t hold no gredge
agin him,—I wonder at ye, too!—ef ye can’t do nuthin’ ez kin git him out
now.”
The wind waved the peach boughs above their heads, and the pink petals
were set a-drifting down the currents of the air. Among the blossoms bees
were booming, and on a budding spray a blue and crested jay was jauntily
pluming its wings. Gold flakes of sunshine shifted obliquely through
the rosy, inflorescent bower delicately imposed upon the blue sky. In
its fine azure cirrus clouds were vaguely limned. On the opposite side
of the road was the bluff end of a ridge, presenting a high escarpment
of grim splintered rocks; among the niches ferns grew and vines trailed
downward; there came from them a dank, refreshing odor, for moisture
continuously trickled from them, and a hidden spring in a cleft by the
wayside asserted its presence,—its tinkling distinctly heard in the pause
that ensued.
He looked meditatively at the jagged heights. Then suddenly he turned his
eyes upon her.
She was only a simple mountain girl, but it seemed to him that never
since the first spring bloomed had woman worn so noble and appealing a
face, so fine and delicate a personality. The crude dialect, familiar
enough to him accustomed to the region, significant of ignorance, of
poverty, of hopeless isolation from civilization, of uncouth manners, was
in her all that speech might be, a medium for her ideas; the coarseness
of her dress could hardly impinge upon the impression of her grace,—it
was merely a garb. Her embarrassment had ceased. She looked straight at
him; the unconscious dignity of her manner, the calmness of her grave
eyes, the fading flush in her cheek, betokened that she had made her
appeal to his generosity and that she had faith in it.
He was not a man who gave promises lightly. He was still silent. Again he
looked up the road, with an absorbed and knitted brow. He tipped his hat
further forward over his face; he shifted the reins uncertainly in his
hands; the horse impatiently shook his head and struck the ground with
his forefoot.
“It would be the worst thing I could do—for you,” Gwinnan said at last,
surprised himself at the tone he was taking.
She made no rejoinder; her face did not change; she only looked
expectantly at him.
“You ought not to marry a man like that,” he continued. “You are too good
for him; and that is not saying much for you either.”
“Oh,” she cried, renewing her hold upon the bridle, and looking up with
a face that coerced credence, “’tain’t fur myself I want him free! It
air jes’ fur him. He ’peared ter set mo’ store by another gal than me. I
ain’t thinkin’ ez we-uns would marry then. Like ez not he’d go straight
ter Elviry Crosby.”
Another man might have experienced an amusement, a sort of self-ridicule,
that he should remember the names of the infinitely insignificant,
uncouth and humble actors in the little drama played in the court-room.
But to Gwinnan people were people wherever he found them, and he had
more respect for their principles than for their clothes. He recollected
without effort the mention of Elvira in the testimony.
Nevertheless, with the many-sided view of the lawyer, he rejoined,
oblivious of the suggestion conveyed, “I think not. It was on your
account he attacked me.”
Her face crimsoned, but with that fine instinct of hers she steadfastly
met his gaze, intimating that she placed no foolish interpretation upon
his words or actions. She answered quietly enough, “Reuben air sometimes
gin ter reckless notions. I reckon he noticed ez ye tuk up fur me whenst
them lawyers war so besettin’. He warn’t used ter sech ez that in
Wild-Cat Hollow. Folks ginerally air sot agin me. Though I ain’t treated
mean, no-ways,” she added, hastily, lest she might decry her relatives.
“Only nobody thinks like me.”
A forlorn isolation she suggested,—away up in the Great Smoky Mountains,
thinking her unshared thoughts.
There was an increased attention in his face as he demanded, “Think
differently about what?”
He had an imperative eye, an insistent voice. It did not occur to
her that his interest was strange. And indeed he was not a man to be
questioned.
She paused for a moment, her eyes full of a dreamy retrospection. She was
not looking at him, but at the boughs of pink blossoms above his horse’s
head, and then she absently glanced at a black butterfly, bespangled with
orange and blue, flying across the road to the ferns about the spring. As
the fluttering wings disappeared she seemed to start from her reverie.
“Jedge,” she said, in a piteous deprecation, “things seem right ter me,
an’ other folks thinks ’em wrong. An’ I feel obleeged ter do what I ’low
air right, an’ it all turns out wrong. An’ then I’m besides myself with
blame! I reckon ye wouldn’t b’lieve it, but it’s all my fault ’bout’n
this trouble o’ Reuben Lorey’s. Ef it hedn’t been fur me, he wouldn’t hev
gone down ter Shaftesville ter gin up all he hed ter old man Griff—like
I tole him ter do ez soon ez I hed hearn ’bout bustin’ the mill down. I
tole him ter do it, an’ he done it. An’ look,—look!” She lifted her hand
as if she drew a veil from the disastrous sequences. Her voice choked,
her eyes were full of tears. “An’ then I told that thar moonshiner ez I
wouldn’t promise ter keep his secret, an’ they runned away fur fear o’
me, ’kase Tad went thar arter he got out o’ the ruver. I seen Sam Marvin
arterward, an’ he ’lowed ter me they s’posed he war a spy, an’ beat him,
an’—an’—I dunno _what_ else they done ter him. None o’ that would hev
happened ef I hed promised ter hold my tongue. But it didn’t ’pear right
ter me.”
“Then you were right not to promise,” he said, reassuringly. “No one
can do more than what seems right; that is,”—it behooves a man of his
profession to modify and qualify,—“within the limits of the law.”
She looked up at him a little wonderingly. Her latent faculties for
speculation were timorously developing in the first realization of
intelligent sympathy that had ever fallen to her lot. How strange that
such as he—and somehow she subtly appreciated in him that unification
of mental force, education, civilization, natural endowment, and moral
training, of the existence of which she was otherwise unconscious—should
tolerate her doctrine; nay, should revere and accept it as a creed!
“A heap o’ harm an’ wrong hev kem of it,” she said, submitting the logic
of Wild-Cat Hollow.
“That is not our lookout. The moral law is to do what seems right, no
matter what happens.”
A vague smile broke upon his face; his eyes were illumined with a new
light; he seemed suddenly young and very gentle.
“You need never be afraid of doing any harm; you may rely on it, you know
what is right.”
He was laughing at himself a moment later,—to gravely discuss these
elementary ethics with a weighty sense. And yet he was glad to reassure
her.
“Oh, jedge!” she cried, overcome with a sense of relief, with her happy
reliance on his superior knowledge,—was not he the judge?—“that ain’t
what folks tell me. They ’low I be like that thar harnt o’ a herder on
Thunderhead; ef I can’t kill ye, I jes’ withers yer time an’ spiles yer
prospects. Oh!”—she struggled for self-control,—“I hev studied on that
sayin’ till it ’peared ’twould kill me.”
“Whoever told you that was very cruel, and I dare say very worthless,”
said Gwinnan sharply. He was prompted by a vicarious resentment; he was
picturing to himself some harsh-faced mountain neighbor as he asked
sternly, “Who said it?”
She saw the indignation in his countenance and suddenly feared that she
was near to wrecking her lover’s interest with the powerful man whom she
sought to enlist.
“I—I can’t tell,” she faltered.
He waived the matter. “All right,” he said, hastily. His face had
hardened; he was laughing a little, cynically. Who it was he knew right
well. He had known right well, too, and many months ago, that she
was infatuated with this young fellow,—how dashing, how spirited the
scapegrace looked in his sudden recollection!—and only now he began
to definitely resent it. He glanced down at her with reprehensive,
reproachful eyes. He was but a man, for all that he sat upon the bench
and knew the law.
Alethea noted the subtle change in his face. It bewildered and
confused her, but the surprise of it was as naught to the amazement
that overpowered her to discover that the sky was reddening, the sun
was sinking low to the purple Chilhowee, all the intervenient levels
were suffused with a golden haze, and down the tawny, winding road she
discerned a moving speck, which she divined might be Jerry Price and
Bluff coming for her from the mill. Her rigorous conscience took her to
task that, beguiled by a word of sympathy, of comprehension, she should
have let the forlorn interests of her captive lover wait while she
listened.
“Oh, jedge,” she exclaimed, clinging to the bridle,—and it seemed he
heard for the first time the voice of supplication,—“I know ye ain’t one
ez medjures a gredge an’ pays it back. An’ I ’lowed I’d ax ye ter do
suthin’ fur him. He air a onruly boy, I know, but he never meant ter do
sech—no harm—leastwise he—He war harried by things turnin’ out so ez he
couldn’t git jestice. An’ leastwise, jedge”—
Poor Alethea was unskilled in argument, and even Harshaw had been fain to
let Mink’s moral worth pass without emblazonment.
“Oh, jedge,” she cried, “ef ye could do suthin’ fur him, ’twould be sech
a favior ter him,—all his life’s gone in that sentence,—an’—an’ ter me.”
He slowly shook his head.
“Not to you. It surprises me that you, who know so well what is right and
good, should care for a man like that. He has only two alternations: he
is either mischievous or malicious.”
She was once more helplessly feeling aloof from all the world; for here
his sympathy ended.
“It is a folly, and that is very wrong. You have mind enough, if you
would exert it, to be sensible, to be anything you like.”
And because he thought, with all the rest, that she was too good for the
man she loved, he would not help? Ah, what joys of liberty, what griefs
of long laborious years, what daily humiliation of that sturdy pride,
what inexorable tortures to break that elastic spirit,—for break at last
it must,—had Mink’s half-hearted affection cost him! Her face had grown
pale suddenly; the ebbing of her hope, that had rushed in upon her in a
strong, tumultuous tide, was like the ebbing of life. Her eyes filled
with tears, and her despair looked through them at him.
He had known much of the finalities of life. He dealt in conclusions.
Volition, circumstance, character, might all make vital play in the
varied causes that brought the event under his jurisdiction, but he
wielded the determining influence and affixed the result. All human
emotions had been unveiled to him: he could finely distinguish and
separate into its constituent elements hate, misery, despair, fear, rage,
envy; he even must needs seek to analyze the incomprehensible black heart
of the murderer. He was a man of ample learning, of high ambitions, of
excellent nerve, untouched by any morbid influence. He had pronounced the
death sentence without a tremor. He was deliberate, cautious, reserved.
And yet because her cheek paled, because her eyes looked at him with the
reproach of a dumb creature cruelly slain, because she said no word,
he was pierced with pity for her. He was definitely aware now of his
own generosity when he promised aught for her lover. He was amazed at
himself,—amazed at the pang that it gave him when he said,—
“But I’ll try,—I’ll see what can be done. I shall be in Nashville soon,
and I’ll talk to the governor, and make a strong effort to get a pardon.
Not at once, you understand, but after a little time.”
He gathered up the reins; the long horns of Bluff, approaching very near,
were affronting the tender sensibilities of the roan colt, who snorted
and stamped at the sight of them, and seemed likely to bolt. Alethea had,
perforce, moved back among the pink blossoms by the wayside; from amidst
them she looked up at Gwinnan with a rapture of gratitude, of admiration,
of benediction, for which she had no words. She felt that she did not
need them, for he understood so well, he understood so strangely, her
most secret thought. He nodded to her and to the staring Jerry, who sat
in the ox-cart. And then the restive roan bounded away into the golden
spring sunshine, his glossy coat and flying mane distinct against the
delicate green of the wayside, far, far up the road; and presently he was
but a dwindling atom, and anon lost to view.
XXVII.
The spectacular effects of the newly built railroad through Cherokee
County are of ceaseless interest to the denizens of the little log-cabins
that lie at wide intervals upon the route, along which, indeed, for many
miles, the only trace of civilization and progress is the occasional
swift apparition of the locomotive, and the long parallel rails
glistening in the sun. The dwellers in a certain hut near the river might
be considered to afford typical manifestations. The children appear
behind the rickety fence, or perhaps perched on the giddy eminence of
the topmost rail, and salute the engine with the dumb show of much
shouting and sometimes of derision. An old man hastily hobbles to the
door; a woman busy in hanging out clothes in the sun on the althea bushes
desists, to stare; the round-eyed baby on the doorstep becomes motionless
in amaze; the gazing dogs wag approving tails; the farmer, leaning on
his plough-handles, watches it till it is but a speck in the distance;
a cow in the pasture breaks into a shambling run and turns her head to
look back in affright; and near the woods-lot is a panic-stricken filly,
plunging, and kicking, and snorting. And however often the sight of it
may be vouchsafed, always the great splendid burnished motor, with its
clouds of white steam, its thunderous gait, its servitors standing upon
the platforms, and all its trains of loaded coaches, from which human
faces look forth, to be curiously scanned, is thus greeted. But at night
a mystery hangs about it. The reverberations of its footsteps may sound
in the deepest dreams. Where is the darkness so dense, when is the storm
so wild, that it cannot make its way as it lists? It seems then to these
simple folks like some development of abnormal force, as it rends the
gloom with its white glare, as it skims the denser medium of the earth
like a meteor through the sky,—or some strange serpent with a glittering
eye, drawing swiftly its sparkling lengths along. The rocks clamor with
the wild clangors it has taught them, and the tumultuous, exultant
shrieks of its whistle pierce the night. And for a time after it is gone
the rails shiver with the thought of it, and the hills cry out again and
again with fear.
It might appear that in the river lurks some danger for this bold
marauder; always it slackens its speed and bates its voice when it
approaches the bridge, and gives to the current a thousand glittering
gauds of reflection. If the hour is not too late, the wayside family
gather at the door to watch the train cross. When it reaches the other
side, and speeds away with a loud cry of triumph and a renewed redundancy
of motion, the old man turns, with an air of disappointment and a wag
of the head and a muttered insistence: “Can’t do that thar fool trick
_every_ time.” He had opposed the theory of railroads, and had looked
for a judgment to descend; in especial he had watched the building of
the bridge in a spirit of indignation, prophesying that there would be
a “big drownding” there one day, and had even lavished his advice upon
the engineer in charge of the work, who, nevertheless, did not desist.
Always he was convinced that that gossamer web, that union of strength
and lightness, would give way sometime under the weight, and one spring
night, as he hobbled to the door as usual to look at the flying and fiery
dragon, no longer mythical, the catastrophe seemed imminent.
There was a variety of passengers in the smoking-car. The commercial
traveler, returning with the swallow, was taking his way once more to the
places that knew him. Conference had been held in a neighboring town, and
the reverend gentlemen, homeward bound, were secular of aspect, genial
and jolly, enveloped in clouds of tobacco smoke of their own making. The
deputy-sheriff of Cherokee County was on board, and in his charge was
Mink Lorey, on his way to stand his new trial in Shaftesville, handcuffed
with Pete Owens, of the same county, who had had the misfortune to lose
his temper on a small provocation, and to kill his brother. They and the
guards were also a merry party. The deputy was undisguisedly glad to see
Mink again, and rehearsed for his benefit the news from the town, and the
rumors from the coves, and the vague echoes from the mountains, as he sat
facing his prisoner, his elbows on his knees, fanning himself with his
hat, now and then tousling his rough hair with one hand as he laughed, as
if to add this dishevelment to the contortions and grotesqueness of his
hilarity.
Mink listened with the wistful attention of one for whom all these things
are forever past. This world of redundant interest was to be his world
no more. Already it wore only the tender glamours of memory. The brown
shadows and yellow lights from the lamps were shifting and shoaling, as
the train jogged and lurched continually. The fluctuating gleams showed
that his face was a trifle thin, perhaps; the expression of his vivid
brown eyes had changed; they were desperate and hardened, but quickly
glancing and even brighter and larger than before. His white wool hat
was thrust on the back of his head as he leaned against the red velvet
cushion, and his auburn hair, longer than ever, curled down upon the
collar of his brown jeans coat. Now and then, when the deputy waxed
facetious, Mink laughed aloud in sympathy.
The moon was a-journeying, too, with all the train of stars. Always
through the open window one could find a serene transition from the
interior, with its gaudy colors, its lounging masculine figures,
its wreathing tobacco smoke, and the suffusion of yellow light and
alternating brown shadow. The sky was pure and blue; the young
mountaineer marked the weather-signs; the wind was astir,—a breeze other
than that caused by the motion of the train; he saw the trees on the
hillsides waving in the sweet spontaneity of the air; he noted the
shadow of the great locomotive swiftly traversing the wheat-fields, with
its piles of smoke scurrying behind it, and seeming not less material. He
leaned toward the window, and called to the deputy to mark how forward
the crops were. And then he fell back with a white despair on his face,
for the train was thundering through a forest, and the interfulgent sheen
and shadow amongst the great trees had caught the woodland creature’s
eye. The sylvan fragrance came to him for a moment. The fair, lonely
vista lured him. How long, how long it had been since he had trodden such
wilds! Rocks towered in the midst, and he was glad when they closed about
the way, and the reverberating clamors of the cut drowned the groan that
burst from him. And then they grew fainter, and here were the levels
once more, and suddenly—the Tennessee River! How should he fail to know
its splendid breadth and muscle, its majestic sinuosity as it curved! He
leaned once more toward the window, catching at the sill; the man with
whose hand his own was manacled complained of the strain. He dropped his
hand, and once more looked out as the train, at a bated and circumspect
pace, drew its slow length upon the bridge. Most of the passengers were
looking out, too, under the fascination that the water of a landscape
always exerts upon travelers. The moon hung above the broad vista of the
dark, lustrous stream, flinging upon its surface some gigantic magical
corolla, softly refulgent, to float on the water like a great white
lily. The dense forests, with a deeper gloom of shadow at their roots,
stood solemn and silent on either hand. The glare of the head-light
fell distorted on the ripples, and the lanterns of the brakemen evoked
twinkling reflections below. The dank vernal odors from the banks came in
on the breeze, and the wheels rolled slowly, and yet more slowly; they
were just beginning to accelerate their speed when one of the passengers,
glancing within to comment to a friend, saw the lithe young prisoner rise
suddenly and liberate his hand with a violent jerk, while his companion
in shackles with a hoarse cry, clutched frantically at him. The guard
turned with a start, as the young mountaineer, with an indescribably
swift and elastic bound, sprang through the window and caught the timbers
of the bridge. A violent jerk, a bell’s sharp jangle, and an abrupt
shiver ran through all the length of the train. Then the reflection
of the glare of the head-light and the lesser gleaming points in the
river were motionless. The train was at a stand-still in the middle of
the bridge. A wild clamor arose from many voices; the brakemen on the
platforms flashed their lanterns back and forth; a heavy body sprang into
the swift waters with a great splash, and the sharp crack of a pistol
echoed from the dark woods on either bank.
The startled passengers were treated to a fine display of conflicting
authorities as they poured out on the platform of the smoking-car, where
it seemed that the conductor of the train was laboring under the delusion
that he could arrest the deputy-sheriff of Cherokee County.
“You had no right to pull the bell-cord and stop my train,—and stop it on
the bridge!” he exclaimed.
“I’m bound ter ketch my prisoner!” cried the deputy-sheriff, wildly. “He
was handcuffed with this one, and he slipped his paw out somehow, an’
lept through the window, an’ perched thar on that timber o’ the bredge;
an’ I knowed he war expectin’ the train ter go right on, an’ I pulled the
rope ter stop it. I’d hev hed him,—I’d hev hed him, ef the durned Mink
hedn’t tuk ter the water! Lemme go! Lemme go!”
But the train was in motion again, slowly crossing the bridge, and the
officer could only rush to a window and look wildly over the waters,
illumined by the head-light and the glimmer of the moon, and fire at
devious black floating objects that showed resemblance to the head of a
swimming man struggling for his life. Several of the passengers derived
great sport from this unique target-shooting, and the quiet was invaded
with cries of excitement mingled with the reiterations of the pistol
pealing over the water. There! a fair shot! the object sinks,—only a
floating rail, for it is distinct as it rises once more to the surface;
and again the balls make havoc only among the ripples. The quarry
eludes,—eludes strangely. He must have had great practice in diving, or,
as one hopeful soul cries out, he must be at the bottom of the river.
Its current was placid enough when the train was safely on the other side
at a stand-still, and the people from the little log-cabin below climbed
the embankment to hear the cause of the unprecedented stoppage. The
bridge did not break on this occasion, but the old man is very sure they
cannot do this “fool trick” again.
Although the train waited for a time while the banks of the river were
patrolled, it was gone clanging on its way long before the rocks had
ceased to echo the tramp of excited horsemen and their hoarse cries, as
they beat the bushes in the neighboring woods, for the whole country-side
was roused. The opinion that the reckless young mountaineer had, in
leaping into the river, struck against some floating log, and had been
killed by the concussion, or had gone to the bottom among the bowlders
with a fatal force, gained ground as the day gradually dawned and no
trace of him was detected.
By degrees the search degenerated into the idler phases of morbid
curiosity. Many people visited the spot, ostensibly to join in the
effort, who stared at the bridge and speculated on its height, and
strolled up and down the banks, wondering futilely. Even when the sunset
was reddening the river; when the evening star was tangled in the boughs
of a white pine on the bank; when the sound of lowing kine was mellow on
the air; when the bridge doffed its massive aspect, and became illusory,
a shadow not more material than its shadow in the current below,—footing
for the moonbeams, lodgment for the dew, a perch for a belated bird,
familiar of the mist,—vague figures still lingered about the water-side,
and raucous voices grated on the evening air. But at last the darkness
slipped down; the train came and went; silence fell upon the river, save
for its own meditative, iterative voice, the croaking of frogs, and
the exquisite melody of the mocking-bird, as he sang in the slant of
the moonbeams glistening through fringes of the pines. A wind rose and
died away. The night was inexpressibly solitary. Far off a dog howled.
The constellations imperceptibly tended westward. And presently, in
the dark loneliness of the dead hour, something,—an otter, a musk-rat,
a mink?—some stealthy wild thing, stirred itself at the water’s edge,
beneath a broad ledge of the jagged, beetling rocks along the bank, under
the current, on the gravelly shallows. It made much commotion; the water
receded in widening circles far out toward the middle of the river,—a
scramble, a stroke or two, and it rose to its full height, and waded to
the shore; for it was the battered image of a man. He wore no hat; his
long locks hung in straight wisps down upon his shoulders. He glanced
about him continually with fearful eyes, as he hobbled stiffly up the
bank. Once he sat down on the roots of a tree in the shadow, and essayed
to draw off the great boots, heavy with water, and hampering his every
motion. But the leather, so long steeped, had swelled, and he could not
divest himself of them.
“Mought lose ’em, ennyhow, ef I war ter take ’em off,” he said, sturdily
adapting his optimism to the cumbrous impediments. And so he limped on.
He shivered in every limb. Over and again his breath seemed to fail him.
More than once his head whirled, and he leaned against a tree to steady
himself. The air was chill, but although the wind blew he was not sorry;
it would the earlier dry his garments.
“An’ I reckon I hev done cotch all the rheumatiz I kin hold, ennyways,
a-layin’ thar under the aidge o’ the ruver, half kivered with water fur a
night an’ a day.”
When the woods began to give way to fields he hung back, feeling desolate
and affrighted. How could he barter these sheltering shadows, this
nullifying darkness, for those wide, exposed spaces of the pasture? Its
dewy slope, with here and there an outcropping rock, but never a bush
nor a tree, lay under the slanting light of the moon. The mountains,
however, he knew were in that direction; and presently he took courage
to climb the fence, and with his hobbling shadow at his side,—from
which he sometimes shrunk with sudden fear, glancing over his shoulder
askance,—skulked across the grassy expanse, now in the melancholy sheen,
and now in the vague shade of a drifting cloud. There were sheep huddled
and white, at one side of the slope, all asleep, save one, that held its
head up and looked at him with a contemplative eye as he passed. A dog
seemed their only guardian. He did not bark, but came down toward the
stranger with a sinister growl. Mink had no fear of dogs, and somehow
they trusted him. The shepherd sniffed in surprise at his heels, bounded
up to lick his hand, followed with a wagging tail till he climbed the
fence, and regretfully saw him take his way down the road. For his
courage was renewed by its own achievements. He was bold enough presently
to invade a garden where potatoes had lately been planted, and he dug up
the sliced fragments, each carefully cut that it might contain two or
more “eyes.” He found, too, some turnips, and was greatly refreshed and
strengthened by his surreptitious meal. As he rose from the garden border
and turned away among the currant bushes, he was confronted suddenly by
the figure of a man. He sprang back, his heart plunging. He thought for a
moment that he was discovered. And yet—it stood so strangely still. Only
a suit of clothes stuffed with straw, and surmounted by an ancient and
battered hat.
Mink gazed gravely at the scarecrow, that had surpassed its evident
destiny in frightening that larger fowl, a jail-bird.
It might seem that with the weight of his heavy cares, the anguish of
his forlorn plight, the dispiriting influence of his imprisonment,
the jeopardy of his tortured freedom, his doubtful future,—exhausted,
chilled, sore,—he would find scant amusement or relish in the grotesque
image. One might wonder at the zest with which he applied himself, with
convulsive, feeble efforts, to uproot the pole that sustained it. He
conveyed it across the garden,—daring the dogs,—and placed the scarecrow
where it might seem to peer into the front window of the house. He stood
looking at it with intense satisfaction for a moment,—so like a man it
was! He could forecast how the women of the household would cry aloud
with terror when they should see it, how the mystified men would stare
and swear. He did not laugh; the feat in some other method satisfied his
sense of the ludicrous. It did not occur to him as a futile waste of
his time and strength,—of both he presently stood in sore need. For the
day was breaking when he still trudged between the zigzag lines of farm
fences, along a road that bore evidences of much travel, in a country
which he did not know, of which the only familiar objects were the dying
moon and the slowly developing outline of the Great Smoky Mountains, far
away.
“I’ll git ter Shaftesville in time ter stan’ my trial, ef I don’t mind,
’fore the dep’ty does,” he said to himself in a panic.
Nowhere were forests visible promising shelter. Here and there a limited
woods-lot lined the road; more often fields of corn, barely showing
tender sprouts above the ground, or stretches of winter wheat or millet,
or pastures. He was in the midst of a scene of exclusive agricultural
significance, when the startling sound of wagon wheels broke upon
the air, and the figure of a man driving a pair of strong mules rose
gradually from over the brow of the hill.
Mink’s clothes were already dry; his hair curled freshly once more, but
he was painfully conscious of the lack of his hat, and he knew that the
teamster’s eyes rested upon him in surprise. The man drew up his mules at
once. But the wily fugitive hailed him first.
“Howdy,” Mink remarked, advancing sturdily, putting one foot on the hub
of the front wheel and his hand on the off mule’s back, and looking
up with his bold, bright eyes at the driver. “Do you-uns hail from
nighabouts?”
“Down yander at Peters’ Cross-Roads,” responded the stranger promptly.
“I ax kase I ’lowed mebbe ye hed hearn some word o’ that thar prisoner ez
got away from the sher’ff o’ Cher’kee County,—Reuben Lorey.”
“_Mink_ Lorey, I hearn his name war,” corrected the teamster.
“Waal,”—Mink’s careless glance wandered aimlessly up and down the sunny
road,—“he oughter be named Mink, ef he ain’t; mean enough.”
“Ye’re ’quainted with him, I reckon,” said the teamster, still looking at
his hatless head.
“Mighty well! He hev gin me a heap o’ trouble. I dunno but I’d nigh ez
soon he’d be in the bottom o’ the Tennessee Ruver ez not. We-uns hail
from the same valley,—Hazel Valley.”
“What ye doin’ ’thout no hat?” demanded the saturnine, perplexed, and
vaguely suspicious man.
“Lost it in the ruver. Been fishin’. I hev been visitin’ some folks in
the flatwoods ez I be mighty well ’quainted with. I’m goin’ ter git me
another hat at the store.”
There was a pause.
“They ’low that thar man war drownded,” said the teamster, discursively.
“Waal,” said Mink, drawlingly, “I ’lowed I’d ax, so ez when I git ter
Hazel Valley I mought tell his folks a straight tale.”
The teamster’s wonderment, being satisfied as to the bare head of the
young fellow, he was eager to proceed on his journey. Certainly all
imaginable suspicions must have been allayed by the pertinacity with
which Mink hung upon the wheel, and talked about the rheumatism he feared
he had caught a-fishing, and declared he had found no sport in it.
Finally, with apparent reluctance, he took his foot from off the hub, and
the teamster was glad to go creaking along on his journey.
Although the danger was so successfully thwarted, the strain upon his
ingenuity, his nerves, and his presence of mind had told heavily upon
Mink’s reserve force of strength and courage. When at last he reached
the deep woods he was more dead than alive, as he flung himself down in
the hollow of a poplar-tree, struck long ago by lightning,—its great
length fallen, its branches burned, only its gigantic stump standing
to boast the proportions this chief of the savage wilds had borne. The
young mountaineer doubted, as he fell asleep, if he would ever wake.
But exhaustion did not prevail. Over and again, with a nervous start,
consciousness would seize upon him, and he would be himself long enough
to contrast his forlorn plight with the feignings of his dream, and so
sink again into troubled slumber. And yet it was with a deep satisfaction
that he gazed out at intervals upon the lonely crowded sylvan limits.
The underbrush closed about him; the great trees upreared their heads
against the sky, showing only a glimpse of the blue or a flake of the
burnished vernal sunshine. How restful the sight, how reassuring the
sound of the wind in the leaves! A squirrel frisked by, sleek and dapper,
with a brilliant, unaffrighted eye and a long curling tail. The familiar
creature seemed like a friend. “Howdy, mister,” observed Mink. “Ye air
one citizen ez I ain’t afeard on.”
But the squirrel came no more, although ever and anon Mink lifted
himself to look out. He noted the moss, green and gray, on the bark of a
rotting log; he started to hear the woodpecker tapping; he listened for
a time to a crested red-bird’s song, but its iteration was somnolent in
its effects, and when Mink next opened his eyes darkness enveloped the
world. He could hardly say whom he might be; he did not know where he
was. The oppression of his familiar cell in the Glaston jail filled his
consciousness until, as he groped about him, he felt the rotting sides of
the old tree and realized that he was free.
“I mus’ be a-travelin’,” he said to himself.
Free, but with so burning a pain in every limb that he could hardly
stand upon his feet; and what was this new misfortune? His forlorn boots
were bursting into fragments. As he staggered into the moonshine he
sat down, and putting one foot on his knee examined the sole in rueful
contemplation.
“Now don’t that thar beat kingdom come! Them boots war mighty nigh new
when I went ter jail, an’ I never stood on ’em none thar sca’cely. Mus’
hev been the soakin’ they got. I ain’t useter goin’ bar’foot lately, an’
how’ll I travel thirty mile this-a-way?”
It was at a slow gait that he hobbled along; now and then he stumbled,
and would have fallen but for his hasty clutch at a bush or a tree. His
feet were pierced by flints through the crevices of his boots, and he was
presently aware that he was marking his steps with his blood. He made
scant progress, although he struggled strenuously, and it was long before
day when he was fain to lie down in a rift in a great bank of rocks, and
recruit his wasted energies with sleep. “I hope I ain’t a-goin’ ter die
in sech a hole ez this,” he said, “ez ef I war a sure-enough mink. But
Laws-a-massy, what be I, ef I ain’t a mink?”
He laughed sarcastically as he turned himself over. He had evolved some
harsh theories of worldly inequalities. If he had knocked Jerry Price
or Ben Doaks senseless with a bit of iron, he argued, he would have
hardly been in jeopardy of arrest; the affair would perchance have been
chronicled by the gossips as “a right smart fight.” But he must forfeit
twenty years of his life for assaulting a man of Gwinnan’s quality. And
he had some bitter reflections to divert his mind, with the functions
of a counter-irritant, from his aching bones, his bleeding feet, his
overpowering sense of fatigue.
It was the next night—for he again lay hidden all day—that he at last
passed through the gap of the mountain and entered Eskaqua Cove. His
spirits had risen at the sight of the familiar things,—the foam on the
river dancing in the light of the moon, the dense solemn forests, the
great looming, frowning rocks. He hardly cared how steep the hillsides
were, how his sore feet burned and ached, how heavily he dragged his
weight. He could have cried aloud with joy when he beheld the little
foot-bridge which he knew so well, albeit he could scarcely stagger over
the narrow log; the low little house on the bank where Mrs. Purvine
lived. It was dark and silent under the silver moon, for the hour was
late, reckoning by rural habits,—about ten o’clock, he guessed. He
hesitated for a moment when he was in the road beside the fence. He
thought he might shorten the way by crossing the corn-field, for the
road made a bend below. He had climbed the fence and was well out in
the midst of the sprouting grain, when suddenly he started back. There
was a shadow coming to meet him. He could not flee. He could not hope
to escape observation. And yet, when he looked again, the dim figure
was curiously busy, and was not yet aware of his presence. It was the
figure of a woman, and he presently recognized Mrs. Purvine. Her head was
evidently much wrapped up against the night air, and her sun-bonnet was
fain to perch in a peaked attitude, in order to surmount the integuments
below; it was drawn down over her face, and by other means than the sight
of her countenance he identified her. It might seem an uncanny hour for
industry, but Mink could well divine that Mrs. Purvine had experienced
belated pangs of conscience concerning sundry rows of snap-beans, left
defenseless, save for her good wishes, against the frost. She was
engaged in covering them,—detaching a long board from a pile beside the
fence, and placing it with a large stone beneath either end above the
tender vegetable. Her shadow was doing its share, although it gave vent
to none of the pantings and puffings and sighs with which the flesh
protested, as it were, against the labor. It jogged along beside her on
the brown ground in dumpy guise, and stooped down, and rose up, and set
its arms akimbo to complacently observe the effect of the board, and
even wore a sun-bonnet at the same impossible angle. It started off with
corresponding alacrity to the pile to fetch another board for another
row, and was very busy as it stooped down to adjust a stone beneath. It
even sprang back and threw up both arms in sudden affright, when Mrs.
Purvine exclaimed aloud. For a deft hand had lifted the other end of the
board, and as she glanced around she saw a man kneeling on the mould and
placing the stone so that the delicate snap-beans might be sheltered.
“In the name o’ Moses!” faltered Mrs. Purvine between her chattering
teeth, as she rose to her feet, “air that thar Mink Lorey—or—or”—she
remembered how far away, how safe in jail, she had thought him—“or his
harnt?”
Mink turned his pallid face toward her. She saw the lustrous gleam of his
dark eyes.
He hesitated for a moment. Then, he could not resist. “I died ’bout two
weeks ago,” he drawled circumstantially.
Mrs. Purvine stood as one petrified for a moment. Then credulity revolted.
“Naw, Mink Lorey!” she said sternly. “Naw, sir! Ye ain’t singed nowhar.
Ef ye war dead, ye’d never hev got back onscorched.” She shook her
enveloped head reprehensively at him.
Regret had seized upon him. The fleeting privilege of frightening Mrs.
Purvine scarcely compensated for the risks he felt he ran in revealing
himself.
He stood silent and grave enough as she set her arms akimbo and gazed
speculatively at him.
“How d’ ye git out’n jail?” she demanded.
“Through thar onlockin’ the door,” said Mink.
Mrs. Purvine knitted her puzzled brows.
“War they willin’ fur ye ter leave?” she asked, seeking to fathom the
mystery.
“Waal, Mis’ Purvine,” equivocated the fugitive, jauntily, “I ain’t never
fund nobody, nowhar, right up an’ down _willin’_ fur me to leave ’em.
They hed ter let me go, though.”
“Waal, sir!” exclaimed Mrs. Purvine, with the accent of disappointment.
“I never b’lieved ez Jedge Gwinnan war in earnest whenst he promised
Lethe Sayles ter git ye pardoned. Whenst she kem back rej’icin’ over it
so, I ’lowed the jedge war jes’ laffin’ at her.”
The man, staring at her with unnaturally large and brilliant eyes,
recoiled suddenly, and his shadow seemed to revolt from her words. “Jedge
Gwinnan! pardon!” he cried, contemptuously, his voice rising shrilly into
the quiet night. “He got me no pardon! I’d hev none off’n him, damn him!
I’d bide in the prison twenty year, forty year,—I’d rot thar,—afore I’d
take enny faviors out’n _his_ hand! Lord! let me lay my grip on that man
one more time, an’ hell an’ all the devils can’t pull me off!”
His strength failed to support his excitement. He staggered to the pile
of boards and leaned against them, panting. Mrs. Purvine noted how white
his face was, how exhausted his attitude.
“Ye ’pear sorter peaked,” she remarked, prosaically, “an’ ye walk
toler’ble cripple.”
“Yes,” observed Mink, with his wonted manner, “it ’peared ter me a
toler’ble good joke ter jump off the middle o’ the bredge inter the
Tennessee Ruver. But it turned out same ez mos’ o’ my jokes,—makes me
laugh on the wrong side o’ my mouth.”
Mrs. Purvine began to understand. Her lower jaw dropped. “Whar hev ye hed
ennything ter eat?” she demanded, with bated breath.
“Waal,” said Mink, argumentatively, “eatin’ ’s a powerful expensive
business; we-uns would all save a heap ef we’d quit eatin’.”
Mrs. Purvine received this in pondering silence. Then she broke forth
suddenly:—
“Ye air a outdacious, sassy, scandalous mink, an’ I hev ’lowed ez much
fur many a year, but I never looked ter see the time when ye’d kem an’
prop yerse’f up in my gyarden-spot, an’ look me in the eye, an’ call me
stingy. How war I ter know ye warn’t ez full ez a tick, ye impident
half-liver? I kin see ez ye ain’t fat in no-wise, but how kin I tell by
the creases in a man’s face what he hed fur dinner?”
“Laws-a-massy, Mis’ Purvine!” exclaimed Mink, truly contrite for the
untoward interpretation which his words seemed to bear. “I never meant
sech ez that. Ef it hed been enny ways nigh cookin’ time, I’d hev kem
right in,—ef I hedn’t been afraid ye’d tell on me,—an’ axed ye fur a
snack. Ain’t I eat hyar time an’ agin along o’ Jerry Price? I hev hed a
heap o’ meals from you-uns,—more ’n ye know ’bout, fur I hev treated yer
water-million patch ez ef it hed been my own.”
If Mrs. Purvine was placated, she did not at once manifest the fact.
“What d’ye know ’bout cookin’ time, or cookin’, ye slack-twisted, lazy,
senseless critter? Jes’ kerry yer bones right inter that thar door, fur
eat ye hev got ter. In Moses’s name!” she ejaculated piteously, “the boy
kin sca’cely walk.”
But Mink hesitated. “I don’t wanter see Jerry,” he said. “I dunno what
Jerry mought think ’bout’n it all.”
“Jerry’s dead asleep, an’ so air all the boys,” declared the industrious
Mrs. Purvine. “Ye reckon ye air goin’ ter find ennybody up this time o’
night ’ceptin’ a hard-workin’ old woman like me? I can’t be no surer o’
ye ’n I be a’ready. Go ’long in, ’fore I set Bose on ye.”
He was sorry for himself,—to gauge the joy, the comfort, that the very
sight of the humble and familiar room afforded him. The fire had been
covered with ashes, but Mrs. Purvine promptly pulled out the coals and
piled on the pine knots, and the white flare showed the low-ceiled
apartment, the walls covered with the old advertisements; the puncheon
floor; the many strings of pepper and hanks of yarn hanging from the
beams, and the quilting-frame clinging to them like a huge bat; the two
high beds; the glister of the ostentatious mirror; the prideful clock,
silent on the shelf. As the interior became brilliantly illuminated, Mink
looked suspiciously at the glass in the windows; he experienced a relief
to note that the batten shutters were closed.
“I didn’t want nobody ter git a glimge o’ me,” he said, “’kase I
dunno but what they mought try ter hold ye ’sponsible fur feedin’ me,
cornsiderin’ I be a runaway.”
“They ain’t never ter goin’ ter find out ez ye hev been hyar now,” said
Mrs. Purvine.
“They mought ax ye,” suggested Mink.
“Waal, lies air healthy.” Mrs. Purvine accommodated her singular ethics
to many emergencies. “Church-yards air toler’ble full, but thar ain’t
nobody thar ez died from tellin’ lies. Not but what I’m a perfessin’
member,” she qualified, with a qualm of conscience, “an’ hev renounced
deceit in gineral; but ef ennybody kems hyar inquirin’ roun’ ’bout my
business,—what I done with this little mite o’ meat, an’ that biscuit,
an’ the t’other pot o’ coffee,—I answer the foolish accordin’ ter his
folly, like the Bible tells me, an’ send him reji’cin’ on his way.”
Mink, his every fear relieved, thought it a snug haven after the storms
that he had weathered, as he sat in Mrs. Purvine’s own rocking-chair, and
felt the grateful warmth of the blaze. He had hardly hoped ever again to
know the simple domestic comforts of the chimney-corner. The coffee put
new life into him, and after he had eaten the hot ash cake and bacon,
broiled on the coals, he took, at her insistence, another cup, and drank
it as she sat opposite him near the hearth. In this last potation she
joined him, having poured her coffee into a gourd, to save the trouble,
as she explained, of washing another cup and saucer.
“How do Lethe keep her health?” he asked.
“Fust-rate,” said Mrs. Purvine. Her tone had changed. She looked at him
speculatively from under the brim of her sun-bonnet, which she wore much
of the time in the house. “She air peart an’ lively ez ever.”
His lip curled slightly. He was sarcastic and critical concerning
Alethea’s mental attitude,—the reaction, perhaps, of much rebuke and
criticism received at her hands.
“I reckon she ain’t missed me none, then?” he hazarded.
“Waal, she never seen much o’ you-uns las’ summer, bein’ ez ye war
constant in keepin’ company with Elviry then; though she’s missed ye
cornsider’ble. Ye needn’t never ’low the gals will furgit ye, Mink,”
she added graciously. “The las’ time Lethe seen Jedge Gwinnan she war
a-beggin’ him fur ye,—an’ he promised, too. Lethe’s pretty enough ter
make a man do mos’ ennything,—leastwise these hyar town folks think so.”
The color had sprung into Mink’s face. He stood up for a moment,
searching for Jerry’s tobacco on the mantelpiece. He lighted his pipe by
a coal which he scooped up with the bowl, and as he put the stem between
his lips he looked hard at Mrs. Purvine’s placid face, as she drank her
coffee from the gourd, and meditatively swung her foot; the right knee
was crossed over the left; the other foot was planted squarely upon the
floor; a narrow section of a stout gray stocking was visible above a
leather shoe, laced incongruously with a white cotton cord, the kitten
having carried off its leather string, and Mrs. Purvine continually
“disremembering,” to more properly supply its place.
“Ben Doaks,—air he still thinkin’ ’bout marryin’ Lethe?” demanded Mink
between a series of puffs.
“Ef he air, he air barkin’ up the wrong tree, I kin tell ye!” exclaimed
Mrs. Purvine, angrily. “Lethe Sayles air goin’ ter marry a town
man,—leastwise that’s what all the kentry air sayin’. He ’lows she be
plumb beautiful! An’ I always did think so, though she air my own niece,”
as if this ought to be an obstacle. “I names no names,”—which would have
been difficult, under the circumstances,—“but he air a town man, an’ hev
got a high place, an’ air well off. Some folks don’t keer nuthin’ ’bout
money, but I ain’t one of ’em. An’ he air o’ good folks,—fust-rate stock;
an’ I sets store on fambly, too.”
Mink was leaning forward, with his elbows on his knees; his eyes burned
upon her face; his pipe-stem was quivering in his gaunt hand.
“Whar did she meet up with him?”
“Down in Shaftesville, when she went ter testify fur you-uns,” said Mrs.
Purvine. Then, with her sudden felicity of inspiration. “He seen her fust
in the court-room, an’ he war smitten at sight.”
She could not accurately define the impression she was making. But
she grew a little frightened as she watched the keen, clear-cut face,
changing unconsciously, responsive to her intimations: his wild dark
eyes, in no sort tamed or dimmed, dwelt steadily on the white vistas of
the fire; his fine red hair was tossed back, curling on his collar. As
she looked at him, constrained to note how handsome he was, she wished
very heartily, poor woman, that that mythical fortunate suitor had added
to the charming qualities with which she had endowed him the simple
essential, existence.
Mink burst suddenly into a satiric laugh, startling to hear. Mrs. Purvine
turned upon him, the gourd trembling in her hand.
“Ye ain’t got no manners, Mink Lorey,” she said, trying to resume her
note of superficial severity. “What be ye a-laffin’ at?”
“Jes’ at thoughts,” he said enigmatically; “thoughts!”
“Thoughts ’bout me, I’ll be bound,” said Mrs. Purvine aggressively.
“Naw; jes’ ’bout Lethe an’ that thar town man.” He whirled from the fire,
and walked up and down the floor with his hands in his pockets.
“Waal, don’t ye say no mo’ ’bout’n him,” said Mrs. Purvine, desirous of
contemplating him no longer, “an’ don’t ye ax me who he be—fur I won’t
tell ye!”
“Thar ain’t no need ter ax ye; I _know_.”
Mrs. Purvine pondered on this for a moment. She forgot it in her effort
to persuade the young fellow to accept the hospitalities of the spare
bedroom, of which she was so proud. “Ye kin jest stay in thar all night,
Mink, an’ all ter-morrer. Ye won’t wake up fur no breakfus’ arter the
tramp ye hev hed, an’ a long sleep’ll ease yer bones. An’ ter-morrer
night, ’bout ten o’clock, arter all the chill’n hev gone ter sleep
I’ll gin ye a good meal, an’ ye kin set out, heartened up an’ strong.
I’d ruther Jerry an’ the boys didn’t know ’bout yer bein’ hyar, ’kase
I dunno what the law does ter folks ez holps them ez be runnin’ from
jestice—or injestice; ’bout the same thing, ez fur ez I kin make out. An’
I don’t want them ter git inter trouble.”
“Mebbe the sher’ff’ll kem arter you-uns,” Mink warned her.
“Waal, I’ll tell him I ain’t got no time to waste, an’ ter take himself
off the way he kem;” and Mrs. Purvine dismissed the imaginary officer
with a lofty sniff.
It seemed to Mrs. Purvine, the next day, that many immediate requisites
were stowed away temporarily in the bedroom. She was continually on the
alert to prevent Jerry or the boys from invading it. “Keep out’n that
thar bedroom. I ain’t keerin’ ef ye _ain’t_ got no symblin’ seed. I ain’t
goin’ ter let ye s’arch _thar_. I hev got all my fine quilts what I
pieced myself—’ceptin’ with a leetle help from Lethe Sayles—a-hangin’ up
thar ter air. Hang ’em up in the sun, ye say? Who d’ye reckon wants ter
fade them gay colors out?”
When at last Jerry desisted in deference to this new strange whim, one of
the boys was beset with anxiety to get his shoes which he had set away
there.
“That’s the way the shoe-leather goes,—walkin’ on it,” said aunt Dely
reasonably. “Naw, sir! save them soles, an’ go bar’foot. The weather’s
warm now.”
The youngest, the most pertinacious and hard to resist, was tumultuous to
get a certain “whang o’ leather” which Bluff needed to complete his gear,
in order to continue ploughing.
“I ain’t a-keerin’ ef one o’ Bluff’s horns war lef’ in thar, an’ he
couldn’t wink without it. I ain’t goin’ ter hev them quilts disturbed.”
She presently became drowsy, because of her long vigil of the preceding
night, and placed her chair before the door that no one might enter
without rousing her, and thus, a solemn sentinel, she alternately knitted
and nodded away the afternoon.
It was a great relief to her when the house was still, the family all
asleep, and the fugitive’s meal prepared. She had taken special pains
with it, albeit she went about it yawningly, and had filled a tin pail
with provisions that he might carry with him.
She waited ten minutes or so after all was ready. She listened as she
knelt on the hearth. There was no sound from within but the stertorous
breathing of the sleepers in the roof-room. From without only the murmur
of the river, the croaking of a frog, the stir of the wind came in at the
open back door, through which she could see the white moonshine, lying
in lonely splendor upon the dark, prosaic expanse of the newly ploughed
fields. She rose and closed it, that the fugitive might not be revealed
to the casual eye of any nocturnal fisherman, striking through her domain
on his way to the river bank. Then she went to the bedroom door.
As she tapped on it, the door moved under the pressure, and she saw that
it was unbuttoned on the inside. “That thar keerless boy ought ter hev
buttoned this door!” she exclaimed. “The sher’ff could hev gone right in
and nabbed him whilst he war asleep. Ye Mink! _Mink!_”
There was no answer.
“Waal, sir! I never seen the beat.” Then in imperative crescendo, “_Ye
Mink!_”
She pushed the door open, presently. The moonlight slanted through the
porch and into the little bedroom, revealing the bed, empty, the room
deserted save for Mrs. Purvine’s rows of dresses hanging by the neck, and
the piles of quilts on a shelf, rising in imposing proportions to attest
her industry and a little help from Lethe Sayles.
He had fled,—when, why? She could not say; she could not imagine. She
stood staring, with a vacillating expression on her face. She was ready
for an outburst of futile anger, could she construe it as one of his
minkish tricks; he might even now be far away, laughing to picture how
she would look when she would stand at the open door and find the room
empty. Her face reddened at the thought. But perhaps, she argued, more
generously, he had taken some alarm, and fled for safety.
Mrs. Purvine had had no experience in keeping secrets, and her colloquial
habits were such as did not tend to cultivate the gift. More than once,
the next day, as she pondered on the mysterious disappearance of Mink,
she would drop her hands and exclaim in meditative wonderment, “Waal!
waal! waal! This worl’! This worl’! an’ a few mo’ ekal ter it.”
It went hard with her to resist the curious questionings that this
demonstration was calculated to excite. But when asked what she was
talking about she would only reply in enigmatical phrase, “Laros to
ketch meddlers!” and shake her head unutterably. Nevertheless, when it
became evident that her household had exhausted all their limited wiles
to elicit the mystery of which she seemed suddenly and incomprehensibly
possessed, and had reluctantly desisted, her resolution grew weaker
instead of stronger, and she was bereft of a piquant interest in their
queries and guesses. She began herself to play around the dangerous
subject; her remarks seemed to excite no suspicion and no surprise, and
thus she was astonished in her turn.
“I wonder, Jerry,” she said, as he and she, their pipes freshly lighted
after supper, strolled about the “gyarden-spot” to note how the truck was
thriving, Bose and a comrade or two at their heels,—“I wonder how high
that thar new bredge be over the Tennessee Ruver?”
“Never medjured it,” returned Jerry, his eyes twinkling as they met her
serious gaze.
“Ye g’ ’long!” exclaimed Mrs. Purvine tartly. She was addressing only
the unfilial spirit that prompted his reply, for she had no intention of
dismissing the audience, as she resumed at once in her usual tone. “Waal,
from all ye hev hearn, wouldn’t ye ’low ez ennybody jumpin’ off’n it war
’bleeged ter break thar neck?” she argued.
“I’d hev thunk so,” admitted Jerry, “but it seems not.”
She looked sharply at him from over her spectacles as she canvassed his
reply. It must have been accident. How could he know aught of Mink? She
was for a moment so impressed with a sense of danger here that she took
refuge in silence.
“Them peas’ll hev ter be stuck afore long,” Jerry remarked presently,
complacent in their growth.
But the simple pleasures of a garden were too insipid to enchain the
interest of the sophisticated Mrs. Purvine; her mind reverted to her
burning secret and the many speculations to which it gave rise. She
hardly noted the red sky, stretching so far above the purple mountains;
the river, with reflections of gold and pink amidst its silver glinting.
In the south Procyon, star of ill-omen, swung in the faint blue spaces. A
whip-poor-will sang. Darkness impended.
Once more she skirted the forbidden topic.
“Waal, I wouldn’t advise nobody ter try it.” She was alluding not to the
industrial necessity of sticking the peas, but to jumping off the bridge.
“Naw, sir,” Jerry assented quietly. “’Bout some things Mink ’pears ter
hev the devil’s own luck, though ginerally they run agin him. I reckon
nobody but Mink could hev lept from that bredge an’ swum out’n the ruver
’thout gittin’ cotched.”
Mrs. Purvine trembled from head to foot. As she turned her face toward
him the light of the evening struck upon her glittering spectacles in the
depths of her sun-bonnet, and it seemed a fiery and penetrating gaze she
bent on her adopted son.
“In the name o’ Moses, Jerry Price!” she solemnly adjured him. “How did
you-uns know ennything ’bout Mink Lorey?”
“Same way ye did,” said Jerry, in the accents of surprise.
Mrs. Purvine sat down abruptly on the pile of boards beside the fence.
Jerry, astonished at her evident agitation, proceeded:
“Yer mem’ry air failin’ surely, ef ye hev furgot ez the dep’ty sher’ff
tole us ’bout’n it yestiddy,—rid his critter right up thar ter the side
o’ the fence, an’ I lef’ Bluff whar I war a-ploughin’ an’ went down an’
talked ter him.”
“What war I a-doin’ of?” demanded Mrs. Purvine, feebly.
“Ye war settin’ knittin’ right in front o’ the bedroom door,—ter keep
we-uns from raidin’ in on them quilts ez ye war airin’ in the bedroom
whar thar ain’t no air.”
Mrs. Purvine breathed more freely. She had a vague memory of hearing a
man hallooing at the fence, and of seeing Jerry running to meet him; the
rest was lost in the deep slumber which she called “dozin’ off,” as she
sat sentinel in front of the door.
“I mus’ hev been noddin’,” she said, trembling again at the idea that the
sheriff and the prisoner had been at such close quarters. “I never hearn
none o’ it.”
“Waal,” explained Jerry, “he hed traced Mink up somewhar nighabouts. An’
he war mighty keen ter ketch him. He ’lowed Mink war a turrible fool ter
hev runned off, kase they hedn’t lef’ Glaston more’n two hours ’fore
Mink’s pardon kem. Jedge Gwinnan hed gone an’ beset the gov’nor, an’ tole
him ’twar a plumb mistake, an’ Mink warn’t no reg’lar jail-bird, nor
hardened critter, nor nuthin’ but a simple country boy. An’ he’d hed a
reg’lar martyrdom o’ injestice, an’ sech. An’ the ’sault war jes’ a boy’s
hittin’ a feller ez he ’lowed war gittin’ the better o’ him. ’Twarn’t
’count o’ the trial. He war jes’ jealous. Jedge Gwinnan ’lowed ez the
fight war mighty onfair, kase Mink war chained an’ he warn’t. An’ he
wouldn’t hev let him be prosecuted ef he could hev knowed it in time ter
hev holped it. An’ ez Mink’s case hed been affirmed by the S’preme Court
the gov’nor pardoned him. Skeggs ’lowed folks say the gov’nor war right
down glad ter do it, kase he hev hed ter be toler’ble hard on some folks
lately ez applied fur pardons; an’ he war glad Mink’s case kem along,
kase he didn’t want ter git onpop’lar, an’ ter ’pear set agin mercy ez a
constancy.”
“Waal! waal!” exclaimed Mrs. Purvine, divided between surprise and an
effort to gauge the effect of this intelligence on the prisoner listening
in the little room.
“Skeggs ’lowed ’twar mighty mean in Mink ter hide out an’ leave him ter
ketch all the consequences,—he air ’sponsible fur the ’scape,—kase they
don’t want Mink fur nuthin’ now but that thar leetle case ’bout’n the
mill, an’ everybody knows Tad ain’t dead, an’ Mink never bust down the
mill nohow. Mr. Harshaw ’lows he seen Tad when he war huntin’ up in the
mountings. An’ Lethe, she seen him. An’ Skeggs air honin’ an’ moanin’
’bout’n it, an’ ’lows Mink mought kem an’ be tried, ef he hed the feelins
o’ a man stiddier a mink.”
Mrs. Purvine rose slowly, and bent her meditative steps toward the door,
wondering all the more why Mink should have disappeared so mysteriously,
cognizant as he must have been of how his dangers had lessened, whither
he had gone, with what purpose.
“Aunt Dely,” said Jerry, suddenly, following her slowly, “how did ye know
ennything ’bout Mink, ef ye never hearn Skeggs tell it?”
“Jerry Price,” said Mrs. Purvine, sternly, “ef ye hed been raised by yer
aunt Melindy Jane, I’ll be bound ye’d hev larned better’n ter ax fool
questions with every breath ye draw.”
XXVIII.
Harshaw considered a knowledge of human nature as essential a tool of his
trade as the Tennessee Reports, and the common human attributes, so far
as he had discerned them, were definitely abstracted and tabulated in his
mind,—for he was systematic mentally.
Nevertheless, he was profoundly ignorant of these traits as manifested in
his own personality. Had another member of the legislature risen in his
place one day, when the spring was just beginning to open, stating that
he desired to make a motion based on public rumor, to which he considered
the attention of the House should be directed, Harshaw could not have
failed to note the ring of triumph in the voice, the predatory gleam in
the eye, the restive eagerness of address, the swift fluency of excited
words. He would not have been slow to deny to the demonstration those
motives so insistently arrogated,—public justice, patriotism, sense of
duty.
His manner had riveted the attention of the House, which was more
than usually quiet. It had that sombre, undecorative aspect common to
assemblages exclusively of men. The effect of uniformity of attire was,
however, annulled in a measure by the varying expressions in countenance,
in age, in attitude. The metropolitan representatives had a more dapper
appearance than the members from the outlying districts, who were
distinguished by a solid and serious mien that promised an intolerance of
flippancy in matters of religion, and morals, and manners.
Here and there was a face individual enough to arrest attention.
Kinsard’s head, with its high, earnest brow, its roving, melancholy black
eyes, its sharp, characteristic features, stood out from the rest in
strong relief, canceling the heads about it to a nebulous suggestion
of humanity. He lounged in one of the most negligent of his dislocated
postures. He had a smile of bitter contempt on his face, which bore no
relation to his attitude of indifference, and expressed an energy of
anger which he was at a loss how best to wreak. More than once he looked
away from Harshaw, as if to divert his thoughts, to allay his irritation,
by the contemplation of the scene without.
The windows stood open to the bland spring air. The languid, quiescent
sunshine loitered along the great white stone porticoes, looking in
often, a smiling, sheeny presence, upon the grave deliberations within.
The river glistened in lustrous curves between high banks fringed
with green as far as the eye could reach. The roofs of the city below
were almost smokeless,—only here and there a wreathing hazy curl. The
old forts on the hills wore all the dismantled and sunken aspect of
desuetude, and gathered into the scars of war the blossoms of peace and
the nestlings, and garnered the songs and the smiles of spring to make
the waste places merry.
Hardly a sound entered at the window,—only the droning of a portly bee
which, arrayed in a splendid buff jerkin and a black belt, came swiftly
in and went again in a slant of sunshine. Harshaw’s voice, echoing from
the stone walls, seemed doubly weighty and impressive and resonant.
The House had already received an intimation of what he was about to
say, and although his animosity to Gwinnan impugned his credibility and
relaxed the surprise which had been occasioned, his bold overt allusions
to his antagonism, his sturdy, undaunted address, had their effect. He
said he must impinge upon the indulgence of the House for some personal
explanation. Had he consulted his own inclinations he would have let
the matter pass. It had come to his knowledge with no solicitation, no
suspicion, by accident, or—with a reverent intonation—providentially,
he might better say. But (suspended effect) he was sworn (with a wag of
the head) to serve the interests of the people of Tennessee, and (he
thumped the desk) right zealously would he discharge that precious and
supreme trust! The duty of laying this matter before the representatives
of the people was the more distasteful to him because he was personally
in antagonism to Judge Gwinnan, whose title to the judicial office it
controverted and whose integrity it assailed. He did not seek to disguise
the truth; he wished it to be understood—and let the fact have what
weight it might—that he would be glad to see Judge Gwinnan removed from
the office which it was charged he had profaned. Apart from all else, he
had practiced in Gwinnan’s circuit; he had experienced his tyranny; he
had seen a jury snatched from their deliberations and clapped into jail
for some petty ignorant infringement of the deep reverence which Judge
Gwinnan exacted for his presence. No!—and the walls rang with the strong,
robust tones,—he would esteem Judge Gwinnan’s removal a source of great
gratulation and a furtherance of justice. But he would be glad, for his
own private considerations, if the circumstances upon which the motion
would presently be made could have come to the ear of some other member;
he appreciated that there was (sneering and smiling) a lack of grace,
of seemliness, in the emanation of the proposition from him, an avowed
personal enemy; moreover, he might expose himself to suspicions of his
motive.
“Right for once!” cried the unruly Kinsard, striking in suddenly.
The gavel sounded, and the interruption subsided.
Harshaw’s opaque blue eyes turned mechanically in the direction of the
voice, but with a preoccupied air of seeing nothing he went on, holding
the lapels of his coat, as he stood squarely beside his desk.
He could have evaded; he could have delegated the duty to another
member,—have made the facts known, have had the witnesses canvassed,
have set the machinery in motion, without himself appearing at all.
“But, Mr. Speaker,” with an arrogant port, “it is not my habit to beat
about the bush. I may be maligned by my foes, I may be misinterpreted by
my friends, I may be misjudged even by my constituents, but it is my
principle to come forth openly, and let my personal feeling weigh for
whatever it may be worth.”
He paused for a moment, stroking his yellow beard with an excited
gesture, his flushed face grave, his eyes intent, absorbed; his whole
presence instinct with determination, a hazardous tenacity, a ponderous
force. Then dropping his voice to the artificial dead-level elocutionary
intonation, he proceeded to make a formal motion that a committee be
appointed to investigate and report upon the accusations brought against
Judge Gwinnan, charging him with having fought a duel, thus being
disqualified for office; and with perjury in taking the official oath.
There was an interval of absolute silence when he had resumed his seat.
Significant glances were interchanged. It seemed that the motion would be
lost, until a little bland, cat-like fellow arose to say in a falsetto
voice, “Mr. Speaker, I second the motion.”
Kinsard turned his indolent anatomy about and looked with a scathing eye
at the little man, as, flushed and flustered, he took his seat. There was
no possible propriety in the charge of collusion; the two members had all
the liberties of consultation and coöperation. Then why, he argued within
himself, should Forsey look like a cat stealing cream? Bestirring his
recollection, he recalled in him a certain willingness to think ill of
Judge Gwinnan when previously threatened by Harshaw; and still dredging
for a motive, he remembered, though it happened some years ago, that
Gwinnan, sitting as special judge, had blocked the game of a big public
contract swindle, in which Forsey had had a large money interest.
Forsey had not the nerve of Harshaw, who was looking about him in
reddening displeasure and frowning prognostication of the baffling of his
vengeance. If he had indeed no backing but the irresolute Mr. Forsey, the
measure would be defeated by a most triumphant majority. The prospect
roused all his belligerent spirit, and he held up his head with a snort
of defiant welcome, like a war-horse smelling the battle from afar, when,
the question being stated from the chair, a member rose to say that he
doubted the jurisdiction of the House.
“If this matter be reported correctly as I have heard it during the
last two or three days,—to my very great surprise,—if Judge Gwinnan be
disqualified by reason of having before his incumbency fought a duel,
then he never was a judge except _de facto_. As I understand it, only an
officer _de jure_ can be impeached for crimes committed in office.”
Forsey wanted to know if perjury in taking the official oath were not a
crime committed in office.
Another member asked whether it was the commission of the crime itself
which disqualified, or the conviction of the crime.
The gavel sounded, and the member who had the floor persisted.
“I take it that the House cannot prefer articles of impeachment against a
private citizen who has unlawfully usurped an office. If he is removed at
all, it should be by proceedings in the chancery court in the nature of a
_quo warranto_.”
Mr. Kinsard rose, half leaning against his desk with a swaying negligence
of posture, to call attention to the fact that anything in the nature
of _quo warranto_ wouldn’t begin to do. To have a little one-horse
chancellor way up yonder in the seclusion of the mountains dump Judge
Gwinnan out of his office would not serve the purpose. Could any man
imagine that that proceeding, known merely to the members of the bar and
the few intelligent citizens of that benighted district who took note
of such matters, would satisfy such an animosity as the member from the
floaterial district of Cherokee and Kildeer had avowed, with a cheek
which might be contemplated only in astounded admiration? Would the
infliction of that limited degradation glut the member’s ravening greed
for revenge for his personal grudges? No! the member wished to disgrace
Judge Gwinnan with all the publicity that even the attempt to impeach
would entail—he designed that it should be canvassed throughout the
length and breadth of the State. It should resound through the clarion
columns of every newspaper. Every State in the Union should know that
the Senate of Tennessee had organized as a court of impeachment, and the
name of Gwinnan should be the synonym of contumely. Upon his word, he
could hardly take in the vastness of the effrontery that emboldened the
member to acknowledge, to proclaim to this House, his gross, his sordid
personal motives, in attacking one of the most able, most respected,
most diligent, most upright, of the State judiciary. He appealed to the
higher feeling of the House. He begged that they would not be driven like
so many sheep into an investigation which was in its very inception an
insult, an outrage, and a scandal.
A member demanded from his seat if it were not an obligation imperatively
imposed upon the House to inquire into such a rumor, for the purpose of
ascertaining and eliciting the truth or falsehood it promulgated. Since
such a rumor was abroad, it behooved Judge Gwinnan’s friends to advocate
an investigation, for it was his only hope of vindication if he were
maligned.
Harshaw, leaning forward, both arms on his desk, attentively listening,
pursed up his red lips meditatively and nodded with abstracted
affirmation, as if pondering the position. He gave no outward expression
of gratulation, but he was quick to mark the accession of recruits to
his ranks. He could command a stalwart and callous fortitude. He could
receive without wincing, without anger, without shame, Kinsard’s jeers
and thrusts, for the sake of the aroused antagonism which seemed the
natural sequence of the young man’s insistent arguments.
“It specially becomes the House,” continued the member, “to countenance
no leniency in regard to dueling and all that pertains to it, after the
will of the people has been so unequivocally expressed in regard to the
matter of the challenge, or what was so construed, upon this floor.”
The member was rebuked here for infringement of parliamentary usage
in upbraiding, as it were, the previous actions of the House and
interrupting the member who had the floor.
Kinsard, restive under the interpolation, seized the opportunity to
resume. “There is no pretense of justification for adopting formal
resolutions to asperse the oath of an honorable man, least of all at the
instigation of his avowed personal enemy. The story we have heard is at
its worst merely a country boy’s ‘taking up a dare.’ I will venture to
say that there is not a man within the sound of my voice who has not had
similar affrays,—has not in the days of his youth ‘taken up a dare,’ has
not fought by appointment.”
“Will the member explain what he means by a duel?” demanded Harshaw. He
did not turn his big yellow head; he only cast his opaque blue eyes at
Kinsard, and once more looked down at his hands clasped on his desk.
For a moment Kinsard, taken unaware, was checked.
“Perhaps the member had best begin at the beginning, and define a
challenge,” suggested a satiric voice from the rear.
There was a sharp call to order from the chair, and Kinsard, rallying
himself, went tumultuously on.
“I am not a dictionary,” he proclaimed angrily. “I am not here to
enlighten your ignorance.”
Harshaw, elated by the allusion to the old question of the challenge,
intimating anew a flocking to his standard, interrupted cleverly: “I have
a dictionary right here,—a law dictionary.” He read aloud, “Dueling is
the fighting of two persons, one against another, at an appointed time
and place, on a precedent quarrel.”
Kinsard vociferously claimed the floor, although it had become very
evident to the House that the interest he advocated fared hardly less
severely at the hands of its friend than its foe. In debate he was no
match for the wily Harshaw,—his natural endowments, his enthusiasms, his
finer emotions, succumbing to a practiced logic, and a militant habit,
and an instinctive discernment of the vulnerable point.
“It is impossible to seriously maintain that a fight between a couple of
country boys is a duel,” he vehemently insisted. “Everybody knows that
the common acceptation of the idea of a duel is a combat between men—men
of station” (Harshaw leaned forward with an air of mock attention,
placing his hand ostentatiously behind his ear)—“on some question of
honor, fighting under the control and direction of their seconds, at a
specified number of paces, and with pistols”—
“Enactment provides that they shall be silver-mounted, hair-trigger?”
sneered Harshaw.
Once more there was a call to order. But Kinsard, badgered, turned at bay.
“I heard Judge Gwinnan tell you once that unless you kept out of his way
he would beat you with a stick, like a dog. How you do tempt the cur’s
deserts!”
Harshaw rose hastily to his feet. He stood for a moment, his head
lowered, his eyes flaming from under his knitted brows; he looked like
the champion mad bull of an arena, about to charge. Suddenly he turned,
and without a word resumed his seat. There was a storm of applause from
every quarter of the House. A dozen voices were crying that the offensive
words should be taken down; the clerk hastily obeyed; they were read
aloud, and the speaker called upon Kinsard to deny them or retract.
Kinsard could have said with all the fervor of truth that he was sorry
indeed, but it was in an inapplicable sense. He saw, with a sinking of
the heart, the havoc he was making in another’s fate,—the moral murder
that hung upon his hands. He looked about with despair at the faces
around him: they had been friendly, partisan, when he began to speak
against the motion; now they were reluctant, alienated, antagonistic.
It were better for Gwinnan had he had no friend but his own repute. The
impetuous young fellow felt that he had done the worst that was possible.
He would not now eat his words. He looked at Harshaw with an indignant
divination of his motives, when that gentleman, begging the indulgence
of the House, moved that the matter be dropped. He was not here to
maintain personal consequence. He was willing—nay, eager—to waive any
individual considerations which hindered the deliberations of the House
and the course of justice. If the member were so ungenerous as to decline
to apologize for words spoken in heat, confirming them in cool malice,
he himself was able to overlook them, the more as his character was, he
trusted, too favorably known to be injured by these reflections.
He sat down in the midst of a clamor from a number of eager occupants
of the floor,—one of whom the speaker presently recognized,—protesting
against the unparliamentary nature of the proposal. The objectionable
words were again read, and the speaker called upon Kinsard to apologize
or to deny them.
Perhaps Kinsard alone appreciated in this edifying demonstration
Harshaw’s policy. He could not be tempted to run counter. He would not
slack his pursuit of Gwinnan for another trail, however alluring. He
had higher game in view than the stripling’s insults could furnish. And
he had made himself an example of marvelous tolerance, forbearance, and
dignity.
Kinsard, lowering and pierced with all the barbed realization of futility
and defeat, adopted his words, refused to retract or apologize, and,
being commanded by the speaker to withdraw, took up his hat, and, with a
scornful, indifferent manner that angered every member as if charged with
a personal relation, strode out of the room.
Harshaw had followed his motions with narrowing eyelids. His attention
had relaxed with momentary exultation at this result. He was smiling a
little in his beard, and he glanced in a debonair preoccupation out of
the window near his seat. The sky was red, for the sun was going down. He
noted the flush with a casual eye, unprescient how it should be with him
when the day, fading now and dropping its dulling petals on every side,
should whitely bloom again. Then he reverted with zest to the proceedings
within.
Kinsard walked slowly along the portico to the flight of steps. A belt
of clouds, their edges glinting with gold, obscured the scarlet disk of
the sun, but from their lower verge a great glory of yellow light gushed
down, each of the multitudinous rays distinct, giving a fibrous effect,
upon the blue hills of the horizon, upon the city in the foreground. Here
and there they struck upon a spire or a tin roof that responded with a
glister fiercely white. The intervals showed soft shadows of restful
tints, the tops of the budding trees, the silver-gray shingles of an old
house, and here and there an open space where the renewed blue-grass
grew apace. It wore a dark richness all adown the slopes of the Capitol
hill. Somehow as he noted it there was borne upon him for the moment a
subtle intimation of the serenity of that life of Nature close to our
artificial existence,—mysterious, inevitable, quiescent. The contrast
gave a sharpened sense of the turmoils of his heart, the weariness of his
spirit, the rasping jars of his petty cares. He paused on the sidewalk
and looked about him. Then he produced a cigar, and took his way down
into the city.
He did not fear the sentence of the House. He was resolute in the
position he had taken, but he carried throughout the evening an
imperative sense of abeyance. He noticed with a secret scorn the clumsy
efforts of his legislative friends to sound his state of mind, when they
came down from the Capitol; he divined their fear of a collision, their
anxiety that the asperities with Harshaw should be allowed to quietly
drop. They sought to have him observe that they considered he had the
best of it, and that an apology now from him would mean merely a desire
to promote public interest. Only the age of another adviser—his father’s
friend as well as his own—restrained him from openly ridiculing the deep
satisfaction which this mentor evidently derived from the fact that
the young man’s mind would be occupied with lighter themes during the
evening, and he might forget the rancors of the debate. His thoughts,
however, were incongruous enough with the scene of a fashionable
wedding, where he officiated as an usher, and he paced the aisles of the
church with as mechanical a notice of his surroundings as a somnambulist.
His attention hardly pretermitted its hold upon the subject that had
absorbed him, and when again at liberty he went at once to his room at
the hotel, with a view of changing his dress to attend the night session
of the House.
It was the slightest matter that attracted his notice. He had lighted
the gas, and as he glanced into a drawer of the bureau some trivial
difference from the usual arrangement of his effects caught his eye.
He stood for a moment in motionless surprise. Perhaps it was accident,
perhaps his alert divination, but he slipped his hand beneath the pile
of garments and touched a wooden case of pistols. He flushed slightly,
and for a moment he was ashamed. He had doubted if it were still there.
He had thought that perhaps his cautious friends might have robbed him,
pending the time when he was in anger, of the means to do more than war
with words. He had taken instant fire at the idea of an interference with
his liberty. It was the smouldering embers of this thought that actuated
him rather than any serious expectation, but suddenly he turned back to
the bureau and lifted the case. He opened it slowly. It was empty. He
gazed at the vacant space, his eyes flashing, his cheek flushing. The
pistols had been abstracted and the case left that his attention might
not by its absence be directed to the weapons. He could easily divine all
of his friends’ arguments. He would not notice the disappearance of the
pistols, they must doubtless have said, unless he wanted them. He would
not want them unless he were intent upon some fatal folly. He could not
supply himself anew, for all the shops were closed, and by to-morrow he
would be in a cooler frame of mind.
His indignation was natural enough. He took heed, too, of contingencies
of which his anxious friends, accustomed to him always in the character
of assailant, lost sight. “I should be helpless,” he said, “if that man
should attack me. I should be incapable of self-defense.”
Suddenly he caught up a light spring overcoat, threw it over his arm,
and left the room. As he went down the staircase into the rotunda of
the hotel, he seemed the embodiment of handsome, gay, fortunate youth.
His cheek was flushed; his eyes were very brilliant. He paced up and
down the floor for a moment in front of the counter, for strangers were
registering their names and the clerks were busy. The fountain tossed up
its spray, and the tinkling drops fell into the basin; around it plants
were blooming. Somebody journeying from the South had presented the hotel
with a little alligator, that splashed about in the water and was a
source of diversion to the out-comers and in-goers, many of whom paused
to rouse it up with their canes and punch the head of the infant saurian.
Kinsard walked presently to the desk.
“I want to borrow a pistol,” he said to the clerk, to whom he was well
known.
The official, fancying that the guest contemplated a journey or a long
nocturnal drive into the country, and that the request was a matter
merely of precaution, turned with alacrity, took a pistol out of a
drawer, and laid it on the counter. He was looking for the cartridges,
when an acquaintance of Kinsard’s demanded casually, “What do you want a
gun for?”
Kinsard lifted his brilliant, reckless eyes. “To shoot Bob Harshaw,” he
declared.
The clerk turned hastily from his search and made a motion to clutch the
pistol.
Kinsard’s grasp had closed upon the handle.
“Man alive!” he cried angrily, “do you think I would use it except for
self-defense?”
He hastily thrust it into his pistol-pocket and went out into the night.
It was moonless and very dark, despite the myriads of scintillating
stars. The Capitol was visible only as suggested in the irradiations of
its great, flaring, yellow windows and the lights without on either side
of the long flight of steps. As Kinsard ascended he noticed on the broad
portico a group of men, separating at the moment, three of them going
within and one approaching the steps.
He could not fail to recognize Harshaw’s bluff manner, his portly figure,
his long, yellow beard, and his brisk, light step; and as the younger
man walked along the portico, Harshaw’s eyes, glancing out sharply
from under the brim of his slouch hat, identified him. There was no
one by to note how they should meet; the significance of the encounter
might have rejoiced the lovers of sensation. Kinsard was about to pass
without salutation, but Harshaw, whirling half round on his light heel,
paused, and with a bantering smile on his dimpled pink face showing in
the gaslight above their heads, “Great news!” he exclaimed. “They’ve
appointed a committee to investigate ‘the jedge’!”
Kinsard experienced a sharp pang of dismay for Gwinnan’s sake.
“And I suppose you are satisfied now,” he said, bitterly.
“Oh, no, my dear little sir. I am not half satisfied!” cried Harshaw,
with his liquid rotund laugh. His foreshortened shadow swayed on the
blocks of white limestone as if it could scarcely contain itself for
laughter.
He had lost the poise which he had endured so much to maintain that
day. He was intoxicated with his triumph; and indeed he could afford to
indulge it, for he felt that there was nothing now at stake.
“And that is the reason,” continued Harshaw, “that I feel I owe you an
obligation which I must not let pass without acknowledgment. In your able
and cogent speech this afternoon you did more to effect Judge Gwinnan’s
impeachment than, unaided, I could possibly have compassed. Let me beg
you to accept my thanks—ha! ha! ha!”
Deeply wounded by this thrust, and conscious of the injury he had done
Gwinnan’s interests, Kinsard turned upon him, but not without dignity.
“Mr. Harshaw,” he said, “if I believed you to be sincere in this matter,
if I thought you were not ingeniously perverting the facts and the law,
I should most willingly coöperate with you. But I know your motives to
be a rancorous jealousy and an insatiable spite. And if I have not done
anything to nullify them, it is not because I am without the will.”
He looked at his interlocutor from head to foot, as if he found a source
of surprise in his very embodiment.
“I cannot imagine how a soul so petty should be so corpulently lodged. It
might appropriately animate some tiny writhing worm that, showing venom,
could be crushed by a foot.”
“Look here, youngster,” said Harshaw, sneering and showing his strong
white teeth, his eyes gleaming under the brim of his hat, “I know you
mean you’d take my life if you could defy the consequence. But you’d
better mind how you go to extremes in Gwinnan’s service. I have a
contempt for you, but a pity, too. I know you are only his miserable
tool, his abject creature.”
Kinsard sprang forward with the suddenness of a tiger. A stinging thrill
ran through Harshaw’s face before he could realize that with an open palm
he had been struck upon the cheek.
It was the impulse of the moment,—he never could afterward explain it
to his will, he never could justify it to his policy; he was shocked
with an extreme surprise when the keen, abrupt tone of a pistol rang
upon the chill night air, and he became conscious that he was shaking a
smoking weapon in his right hand, jarred in some manner by the discharge.
The young man had flung himself upon him; he saw as in a dream Kinsard
take one convulsive step backward and fall from the verge of the great
portico to the stones below. There was a moment of intense silence.
Harshaw looked wildly to the doors, the windows, expecting the issuance
of startled men, roused from their deliberations. It was strange; if
the pistol-shot had been heard, it had doubtless been accounted some
violation of the law prohibiting target-practicing within the corporate
limits. Hardly a minute had elapsed when Harshaw ran down the long flight
to where the man lay, half in the shadow and half in the light, at the
foot of the stone wall.
“Are you hurt?” he cried in an agonized voice, as he bent over the
motionless figure. “Are you dead—already?”
He took one of the listless white hands,—very listless it was, and chill.
As he moved the submissive figure he felt the pistol in the pocket; he
drew it forth, glad at least that the man was armed. As he turned it
in his hands he saw in despair that it was unloaded. What theory of
self-defense could this bear? The next moment his quick eye noted that
the bore and make were the same as his own weapon’s. He slipped in a
cartridge, two, three, and replaced it in Kinsard’s pocket. Then he rose
to his feet to summon help. He turned as he was about to ascend the
steps, and looked back fearfully over his shoulder.
The sudden remembrance of his vision smote him. He gazed upon the scene
as if he had before beheld it. The man lay there at the foot of great
rocks, motionless and with an averted face.
He had braced himself as well as he might to endure the shock of
public reprehension, surprise, repulsion, reacting on his own nerves,
sensitive to every variation of popular opinion, when he should go to
his associates, his weapon in his hand, the report of his own foul deed
upon his lips. And yet, strong as he was, he faltered, he tottered, he
fell almost fainting against the door at which he entered. He had a vague
idea of the startled faces turned toward him, the expectant stillness,
the sound of his hoarse, disconnected words in an appalled staccato,
the sudden rush, the wild clamor. He hardly recognized the two men who
disengaged themselves from the turmoil and came to him,—the best friends
he had in the world, he might be sure now. He was only aware of what he
had said and how well he had said it, when he was supported between them
to a carriage, and was driving with them and with the officer who had
been summoned at his request, to the magistrate’s house. His friends were
talking together in respectful undertones of this “unfortunate affair,”
and arranging the details,—a little complicated because of the late
hour,—that there might be naught more unseemly than giving speedy bail.
Neither intruded on his reserve. The officer was silent, unofficial,
respectfully null, effaced. The stars were bright in the dark sky. The
horses’ hoofs flashed fire.
The magistrate, roused to the fact that justice may not sleep when
wrongs are to be righted, made the necessary inquiries in so grave and
courteous a tone that it seemed he recognized that the occasional killing
of a gentleman may be lamentable to the deceased and inconvenient to the
surviving, but was nothing to unduly stretch the limits of his elastic
impartiality and abeyance of harsh opinion. He promptly accepted the
proffered bail, and Harshaw’s friends left him only at his bedroom door,
where they shook hands gravely and kindly with him, and in response to
some muttered thanks declared they proposed to see him through.
He found beneath the door the cards and notes of other friends who,
hearing some wild rumor of the trouble, had called to proffer services.
His lips curled triumphantly as he scanned them one by one. They
represented the estimation in which he was held. They intimated a
reliance on his good faith and motive in any deed.
“But I tell you, Mr. Harshaw,” he said ceremoniously to himself, “’twould
have been mighty different if ’twasn’t for your own smartness!” For he
could hardly thank his craft enough for the timely expedient of slipping
the cartridges into Kinsard’s empty pistol.
He slept badly in the earlier part of the night, but toward day he fell
into a deep and dreamless slumber, and woke refreshed. It was later
than usual, and he was solitary at breakfast save for the company of
strangers. The corridors were well-nigh deserted when he came out with
his unfolded newspaper in his hand,—he would not look at it earlier.
Most of the members who sojourned at the same hotel had gone to the
Capitol. The reading-rooms were quite empty, but for the presence of
the sunlight in glittering white blocks upon the carpet. He had lighted
a cigar and flung himself into a chair, nerving himself to read the
accounts of the shooting and the comments, when suddenly one of his
bondsmen came into the room with so precipitate a manner, so perturbed
a face, that the trouble so cleverly manipulated assumed anew an
indefinitely threatening aspect. He felt his muscles tighten, his pulses
quicken as he asked hastily, “What’s up?”
He could not mistake the nature of the look the man bent on him; it made
him tingle from head to foot. And yet his errand was the last offices of
friendship.
“You’re too quick on the trigger in more ways than one, Harshaw,” he
said. “Kinsard was not hit.”
If Harshaw’s conscience had suffered one pang, this announcement might
have weighed more with him than all that was to come. The extreme
surprise told only on his nerves: his heart thumped heavily; his breath
was short, his face flushed; he looked at his interlocutor with eyes that
seemed lidless in their intentness.
“Kinsard was not shot. He lost his balance and was stunned by the fall.
They have been working with him all night long, but the doctor says he’ll
pull through now.” The man faltered a little. It was hard to look into
another man’s eyes and say this. “He revived once before you left. He saw
you in the gaslight load his pistol with your cartridges. And then he
fainted again. I thought I’d tell you. The whole town’s talking.”
It was admirably managed,—Harshaw’s long, amazed stare, the slow rising
from the chair, the rotund resonant laughter filling the room. It renewed
his friend’s faith in him.
“Lie, eh?” he asked anxiously.
“Go away!” Harshaw bluffly waved him off. “I’m done with you. Coming to
_Me_ with a cock-and-bull story like this,—the visions a stunned man saw
between his faints!”
As he took his way boldly down into the rotunda amongst the crowds
of men assembled there, the effect of his presence, his manner, his
bluff hilarious voice as he canvassed the story, did much to annul its
credibility, in fact might have destroyed it but for the recollection of
the clerk’s declaration—silently pondered—that the pistol loaned was new,
had never been discharged; that the box of cartridges was unopened in his
possession; that Kinsard went straight from him to the Capitol; that the
shooting occurred within fifteen minutes.
The subtle perception of this mental reservation had no influence on
Harshaw’s capable swagger and burly ridicule, but as he noted it he
was saying again and again to himself, “You’re a mighty smart man, Bob
Harshaw. You’re just a little mite _too_ smart. There’s no mistake this
time. It is you who are dead—politically as dead as Hector.”
No action was taken in the matter by the legislature, for it bristled
with unprecedented difficulties. The session was drawing to a close,
and Harshaw’s term ceased with it. His usefulness ceased previously.
Whatever measures he had advocated were tainted with suspicion and
encountered disfavor. Bereft of the influences of his enmity toward
Judge Gwinnan, the committee appointed to investigate the charges
against him deliberated, and dawdled, and finally reported adversely to
the resolution to prefer articles of impeachment. Their doubt of the
jurisdiction of the legislature was said to be the determining cause of
their action. It was a perplexed and a troublous question. And thus they
washed their hands of it.
It had been in this cause that Harshaw had flung himself away, and it was
in this result that he experienced the extremest rigors of defeat. It
added to the helpless chagrin with which he watched his future, coming on
so fast that already its coarsened grotesque features were wearing the
immediate aspect of the present. A fine contrast he was, to be sure, to
the man whose seat on the bench he had sought to shake, still serenely
immovable, while he, the loiterer about the tavern at Shaftesville,
beginning to drink heavily now, although his habits had been temperate,
telling idle stories to the other loiterers with the zestful skill
acquired as a politician, useless now, must needs watch all the interests
that he had spent his life to conserve dwindle by degrees, till, case
after case withdrawn from him, he should become a mere hanger-on in those
courts in which he had aspired to preside.
And then there came to him news for which he felt he had no commensurate
capacity for astonishment. Gwinnan, aggrieved by the indecision of the
legislature, was clamoring for a vindication. It was nominally at the
relation of a third party that the attorney-general brought a suit in
the chancery court to test his title to office; and in the interval
before the trial Mr. Harshaw had a great deal to say about judicial
whitewashing, and speculated much concerning the probable result of
the case, and pondered deeply on Gwinnan’s motives in encountering its
hazards.
Sometimes he was half minded to accredit their probity, and then,
ambitious of all that may serve to lift, he fell envious again, and
railed at his harsh penalty, that, being not all base, one crafty
deed—sequence of how many crafty thoughts!—should determine his future
and affix his life sentence.
XXIX.
It seemed to Mink Lorey, trudging on toward the mountains, as if they
had been suddenly caught up in the clouds. The horizon had fallen from
their invisible summits to the levels of the cove, and where the flat
stretches of the perspective met the nullities of the enveloping vapors
the scene had all the prosaic, denuded desolation of prairie distances.
Yearning for the sight of the blue peaks, he felt as if it were in
rebuke, in alienation, that they had hidden their faces from him, had
drawn the tissues of the air about them and veiled their heads. As the
day unfolded hour by hour, as the distance lessened mile by mile, he
sought if perchance in a rent of the mist he might not glimpse some dome,
the familiar of his early life, unchanged through all the vicissitudes
that time had wrought for him. Once he was not sure if it were mountain
or cloud outlined in individual symmetry amongst the indeterminate,
shapeless masses of vapor. Then the haze thickened, and he lost the
semblance, whether of earth or air.
It was before dawn that he had escaped from the haven he had found,
and Mrs. Purvine, throughout the day, keeping watch over these snug
quarters, guarded an empty nest. After the first deep, dreamless slumber
of exhaustion he had silently slipped out, taking his way toward the
Great Smoky, the thought of Alethea heavier than all his calamities. He
knew naught of the report of his pardon; he hardly cared now what might
betide him. He would see her and tax her with her fickle heart, and then
he would flee whither he might. Sometimes, as he toiled along, he would
raise his arm with a frantic gesture, and again and again his lips moved
unconsciously as he forecast in sibilant mutters the words that he would
say.
There was little danger at this early hour of meeting any traveler along
the deserted road, but he hardly felt safe until he reached the base
of the Great Smoky, and was amongst the dense laurel of those mighty
forests, still veiled with the mists and effaced from the day. He turned
back often, despite the numbing clutch of despair in his heart and the
turbulence of his rage, hoping that he might see again Chilhowee with
the sunshine on it; with the circuit of birds in the adjacent domains
of the sky; with detached flakes of mist, like stole-clad figures, in
airy processional pacing the summit to elusive evanescences; with its
colors of bronze-green, and anon purple, and, stretching far away, more
finely, softly azure than the heaven it touched. Alas, no,—this he might
remember. And yet he had chance rencontres with old familiars. A torrent,
gray-green, glassy, whitely foaming, darted out from the vapors suddenly,
and was suddenly withdrawn into the blank spaces. And was he akin to the
balsam firs; could he have met brethren with more joy? Even when they
towered undistinguishably above him, they whispered to him a word now and
then, and filled the air with the cordial, inspiriting sense of their
presence. And what was this? He stood still to listen, staring into the
white vagueness of the invisible woods. A fitful, metallic tinkling. Was
he so high up the great steeps that already he could distinguish the
bells of the herds, or was this a stray? He heard a hoof struck upon the
ground presently, the sound of munching teeth, and suddenly a horse’s
head was thrust forward amongst the mists, showing a black mane and wide
brilliant eyes and the arch of a clay-bank neck.
“Thar ye be, Grasshopper! At it agin, air ye?” Mink called out, with the
rancorous formula of an old reproach.
It was a horse that he knew, and knew well,—one of the charges of the
herders during the previous summer,—a wild young creature, with a
proclivity for breaking bounds and straying. The animal pricked up his
ears at the sound of his name, and his eyes met Mink’s with seeming
recognition. The young mountaineer reflected that it was he who had
usually salted the animals. With a hope of bettering his plight he held
out his hand.
“Cobe! Cobe!” he called seductively. The horse looked dubiously at him,
as he stood, one hand thrust in his leather belt, his white hat—an old
one belonging to Jerry Price, which Mrs. Purvine had loaned him—perched
on the back of his head, his red hair limp with the moisture of the damp
day. The creature approached gingerly, snuffing at the empty hand. He
moved back abruptly, detecting the deception; but Mink had caught him by
the halter which he wore, and sprung upon his back.
“Gimme a lift up the mounting, Grasshopper,” suggested Mink placidly.
The stray reared and plunged and kicked, striving to unhorse the rider,
who, although without saddle or bridle, contrived to maintain his seat,
but could neither govern nor guide the animal, that at last bolted off
through the woods, running as rapidly as the nature of the ground would
permit. On he went, invading the mists; piercing the invisibilities of
the wilderness; up hill and down; among bowlders and gigantic trees,
dimly looming; fording streams and standing pools and morasses; pausing
to kick and rear and plunge anew, and away once more. Mink waited calmly
till the stray should exhaust his energies. This proved longer than he
had anticipated. But after several delusive intimations of abating speed
the horse fell into a canter, then into a trot, and as Mink pulled on
the halter the comity with his rider was renewed once more, and he lent
himself to guidance. Looking about him, the young mountaineer could
hardly say where he had been carried. Once as the mist shifted he saw
through the limbs of stunted trees a great peak, a mile away perhaps,
appearing and disappearing elusively among the rifts. He began to
understand that he was on the summit of the ridge in the interval between
two great uprising domes. Often he must needs lie flat on the horse’s
back, lest the low boughs of the ancient dwarfed trees sweep him to
the ground; as it was, they played cruel havoc with his old jeans coat,
and once snatched his hat away. He drew up with difficulty, and as he
clapped it on his head he heard again, in the momentary silence of his
horse’s hoofs, the tinkling of bells other than the one which the nomadic
Grasshopper wore at his neck. He rode toward the sound. It led him into a
limited open space where the trees, struck and burned by the lightnings,
had fallen charred upon the earth: two or three cows were pausing to crop
in the lush grass, despite the crack of a whip and the call of a herder.
Mink recognized the voice of his old comrade, Doaks.
The mounted figure of the fugitive loomed, half discerned, gigantic in
the mist, as Ben Doaks stood and stared. The horse, restive, freakish,
rose upon his hind feet, pawing the air. The young mountaineer, half
doubting the policy of revealing himself, his prudent fears returning,
hesitated, then leaned forward and waved his hand. He did not speak, for
Doaks suddenly, with a wild shrill cry of terror, turned and fled.
Mink sat his horse motionless, staring in amazement. An angry flush rose
to the roots of his hair.
“Ben’s ’feared ter hev enny dealin’s with law-breakers an’ sech,” he
sneered. “’Feared the law mought take arter him.”
He rode along for a few moments, pondering his jeopardy and the long
imprisonment to which he was sentenced. If this demonstration were any
indication of the feeling against him, he would be taken again here
amongst the herders, or at his home in Hazel Valley, or in Wild-Cat
Hollow.
“I oughtn’t ter go ter see Lethe,” he said to himself. “I ought jes’ ter
hustle over inter North Carliny, whar they dunno me, an’ git in with
some o’ them folks ez lives lonesome, the herders, or them Injuns at
Quallatown, till the sher’ff gits tired o’ huntin’ fur me. Nobody ’lows
but what I’m dead ’cept Mis’ Purvine, an’ she ain’t a-goin’ ter tell on
me. I dunno ’bout Lethe; mebbe she’ll ’low ’tain’t right, ’specially
sence she air so powerful pleased with the jedge. I’ll git cotched sure
ef I keep a-roamin’ ’round hyar like a painter, or that thar harnt o’ a
herder ez rides on Thunderhead.”
With the words there flashed upon him a new interpretation of Ben Doaks’s
sudden flight. He recollected the significance of an equestrian figure
here, strangely silent, looming in the mist. As he looked about him,
catching vague glimpses of the neighboring peaks, he recognized the
slopes of Thunderhead.
“Ben mus’ hev been over ter s’arch fur strays, an’ I reckon ye air one of
’em, Grasshopper,” he said.
His lips were curving, and his eyes brightening beneath the brim of the
old wool hat. His prudent resolves vanished. He leaned forward and deftly
divested the horse of the bell. He tossed his head gayly as he struck his
heels against the flanks of the animal with an admonition to get up.
“Ef I don’t ride up thar an’ skeer them herders on Thunderhead inter
fits, I’m the harnt Ben takes me fur, that’s all.”
That misty morning was long remembered on Thunderhead. To the herders,
busy with their simple, leisurely, bucolic avocation on the great
elevated pastures, as aloof from the world, as withdrawn from mundane
influence, as if they herded on lunar mountains, there appeared, veiled
with the mist and vague with a speedy gait, the traditional phantom
horseman: more distinct than they could have imagined, more personally
addressing its presence to the spectators, silently waving its hand, and
once leaning forward and clutching at the empty air, as if it would fain
reach them, and once assuming an aggressive aspect and leveling an unseen
weapon.
The cattle had not all arrived at their summer pastures from the coves
and the “flat woods.” To-day young Bylor, whose father was a farmer
on the slopes below, had driven up a “bunch” of cows, and while he
was standing quite alone at some distance from the cabin, engaged in
readjusting a brass tag which had been lost from the horn of one of the
animals, he heard the sound of an approach, and glanced about him in
the fleecy white nullity that had taken the place of the erased world.
He did not recognize in the dim figure of the horseman the terrible
ghostly herder, the steed rearing and plunging, the erect figure
looming gigantic, merging with no distinct outlines into the enveloping
uncertainty of the mist. He stood stolidly gazing for a moment; then he
hailed it.
“Howdy, stranger!” he cried.
The figure paused; the horse fell upon his haunches and pawed the air
with his forefeet, while the rider leaned forward, beckoning slowly as
Bylor approached. What monition induced him to pause he could hardly have
said. The significance of the insistently beckoning apparition flashed
upon him in the moment. He turned precipitately, stumbling over the roots
of a tree and falling prone upon the ground; then recovering himself, he
ran at full speed through the blinding fog toward the cabin. He swore
afterward that he heard behind him the tramp of a horse’s hoofs and a
voice laughing mockingly.
At the herders’ cabin he found Ben Doaks and his partner from Piomingo
Bald, pallid and shaken, among the other herders who had gathered
there, all panic-stricken, and each arguing to shift to his partner the
responsibility of the care of the cattle, that he might leave the weird,
haunted summits, and find rest and peace and reassuring human comradeship
in the prosaic depths of the cove.
“From what I hev hearn tell ’bout that thar herder,” said Doaks, with his
facile credulity, “none o’ we-uns air a-goin’ ter hev sense enough ter
keer fur cattle ’n’ nuthin’ else fur a year an’ a day. Leastwise that hev
been the ’speriunce o’ other folks ez hev viewed the harnt.”
He laid on another stick of wood, for the day was chill, and the great
fire crackled and sparkled, and the red and yellow flames darted up
the rude and tremulous chimney, and gave the one bright element of
illuminated color to the dark interior. The bearded men grouped about the
fire were seated one upon a keg of salt, three on a log, and Ben Doaks
had dropped on a saddle flung down upon the hearth. The door was closed;
once it came unbuttoned, and every face turned quickly to scan the
shivering mists, pallid and cold and opaque, crowding to the entrance, to
be shut out summarily into the vast vagueness of the outer world.
“I dunno ez I feel ennywise lackin’,” observed another, after a long
introspective pause. He rubbed his hand meditatively over his beard. “I
never ’lowed ez I war special gifted, but I ain’t a spang fool yit.”
“I reckon we hain’t hed time ter ’speriunce it,” said Doaks, as he
settled himself to wait for the dreaded doom, a little astonished,
subacutely, to be conscious of no diminution of mental power.
“I seen him so close!” cried Bylor. “I wish ter goodness I hed shot at
him!”
“Bullet would jes’ hev gone through him,” said Doaks, “’thout
interruptin’ him none.”
“Waal,” rejoined Bylor, “I hev hearn some folks ’low ef ye shoots at a
harnt they don’t like it, an’ sorter makes tharse’fs sca’ce arter that.
I dunno what ailed him ter take arter me. I never herded with him on
Thunderhead. I ain’t no herder, an’ never war. I hate powerful ter go
down inter the cove ter drivel fur a year an’ a day. I never done no work
sca’cely las’ year, through feelin’ sorter keerless ’bout’n it. An’ ef I
hed drempt bout’n’ this hyar harnt a-takin’ arter me I’d hev put in my
work then.”
“Waal, ye can’t git the time back,” said Ben Doaks; and many an idler
before and since Bylor has learned this melancholy truth.
He sat silent for a time, ruefully pondering upon his blasted industrial
prospects. Then he broke forth fretfully once more:—
“I war fool enough ter go so close. I seen the very hat he wore,”—his
tones were full of a despairing regret,—“a big white hat sot onto the
back o’ his head.”
“That war jes’ Josh Nixon,” said the elder of the herders, gravely
shaking his head. “That war the very kind o’ hat he wore, an’ set the
same.”
Three of the five hats in the room were of that exact description; in
fact, it was a fashion common enough in the region for Jerry Price to
have two alike, and the old one which Mrs. Purvine had lent the fugitive
was hardly distinguishable from Mink’s own, floating down the Tennessee
River.
It did not shadow a face altogether appreciative of his own pranks, as
Mink drew it down over his brow and rode away in the mist, when convinced
that the herders were likely to come out no more for the present.
“I can’t take no sure enough enjyemint in nuthin’,” he complained. “I
feel so badgered an’ hunted.”
He looked about him doubtfully. A few strides of his horse and he would
be across the state line, and safer than for many a day. He stood
drearily contemplating the vacancy of the clouds above the Carolina side,
as unresponsive to the imagination as his future, which in vain he sought
to forecast. He suddenly wheeled.
“I’m bound ter see Lethe, though! I’m bound ter tell her I hev fund her
out. She’ll know what I think o’ her afore I’m done.”
He pressed the horse, broken now to a steady gait, into the elusive ways
of the herders’ trail through the weird, stunted woods along the ridge to
the great Piomingo Bald; thence into a path that led down into Wild-Cat
Hollow. He noted its well-worn and smooth curves.
“Ben Doaks hev made a reg’lar turnpike, a-travelin’ ter see Lethe
Sayles,” he said, with some half scornful pity that would not bestir
itself to be jealous.
He made a wide detour of the little house, nestling in the great cleft
of the mountain, occasionally becoming dimly visible as the mist shook
out its gauzy folds in long pervasive shivers, and anon obliterated as it
dropped its denser curtain. Over the valley it was torn into fringes, a
slant of sunlight gilding it, the blue of the sky showing through.
One of the sudden precipitous ascents from the deep depression of the
hollow was distinctly imposed against the horizon. There were great
rocks, with herbs and grasses growing in niches, on either side of a
narrow gorge. Two splintered cliffs amongst them were like a rude and
gigantic gateway giving access to the higher verdant slopes of the
mountain. His eyes, turning mechanically toward the opening vista, were
arrested by the sight of Alethea high up the gorge, standing in the
clifty gateway. Her sun-bonnet, still tied under her chin, had fallen
on her shoulders; her yellow hair was like the golden sunlight denied
to the dreary heights; her familiar brown homespun dress was distinct
against the tender green of the slope; a basket of herbs was on her
arm. Now and then she moved a step and plucked a sprig from a niche,
and again she would pause looking down upon the valley, where the white
glister of the mist united with the suffusion of yellow sunshine beyond
in a gauzy, splendid sheen that now and then parted to reveal the purple
mountains, the blue sky, the silver river, the fields as radiantly green
as the meadows of the blest. His heart beat with emotions he hardly
comprehended, as he noted her luminous, grave, undimmed eyes, her fair,
delicately tinted face.
He dismounted and hitched the horse by the halter to a tree. She did not
see him; she heard nothing; she silently looked about her, and plucked
the herb she sought. He took his way softly up the gorge among the fallen
fragments of rock; he was standing still in the great rift that simulated
a gateway when she turned slowly, and her eyes, widening with fear, with
surprise, with rapture, fell upon him.
His heart could but thrill at her loud, wild cry of joy. He had meant to
upbraid her. She was sobbing on his shoulder, and he held her in his arms.
The mists flickered and faded about them; the sunshine slanted down
through the clouds. The wind lifted its wings, for they heard the flutter
of the breeze, and beside some hidden nest amongst the gray old rocks a
mocking-bird was suddenly singing—singing!
“Ye war pardoned! I know it!” she cried. “I know it!”
He had for once a thought for her,—a vain regret to annul her joy. When
had Alethea looked thus?—the radiant spirit of love, the triumphant
delight of the spring.
He delayed replying. He stooped to gather up the herbs that had fallen on
the ground; for the old hound that followed her had smelt the basket, and
was thrusting his intrusive muzzle among them.
“What be ye a-doin’ of, Lethe?” asked Mink, restoring them, and setting
the basket up on a bowlder.
To detail the simple domestic errand relaxed the tense agitation of their
meeting, and it was a relief to him to listen.
“A-getherin’ wild sallet fur dinner,” she drawled, her happy smiles
and tears together in her eyes. “Our turnip patch never done nuthin’,
sca’cely, an’ ez we-uns ain’t got no turnip-greens I ’lowed I’d gether a
mess o’ wild sallet. The chillen hone so fur suthin’ green.”
There was no quivering sense of deprivation in her voice; the hardships
of poverty would wear to-day the guise of triumphant expedient.
“I hev got about enough,” she said, smiling up at him. “Ye kem on ter the
house an’ I’ll gin ye a soon dinner. Ye mus’ be tired an’ hongry with yer
travels. They’ll all make ye welcome.”
He hesitated. In the supreme happiness of the moment, his face had in a
measure lost the lines that anxiety and suffering had drawn. But now, as
he stood doubtful of what he should say, she noted his changed expression.
“Reuben,” she cried, in tender commiseration, laying her hand on his arm,
“what makes ye look like that? What hev happened ter you-uns?”
“Waal,” said Mink, leaning against the wall of rock behind him, “right
smart o’ different things,—fust an’ last.”
The simple heart’s-ease in being near her again,—he had not realized how
dear he held it,—in hearing her voice, full of solicitude for him, in the
renewing of his unconscious reliance upon her love, had begun to give way
to the antagonism inevitable between them, with their widely opposing
views of life and duty, their uncongenial characters and aims.
He laughed satirically. “Ye talk ’bout pardon! I hain’t got no pardon. I
’low ye wimmin-folks hev got no feelin’ nor pride nuther. I wouldn’t hev
no pardon off’n Gwinnan. I wouldn’t take a favior from him,—not ter save
him from hell, nor me nuther. But I hev got no pardon.”
“Ye air foolin’ me, Reuben, ain’t ye?” she exclaimed, hopefully.
He shook his head.
She gazed gravely at him. “How’d ye git away?”
“Bruk an’ run.”
She stood still; her heart sank; her eyes filled with tears. “Oh,”
she cried, with all the despair of a relinquished hope, “I couldn’t
but b’lieve yestiddy, when Jacob Jessup kep’ a-lookin’ so secret an’
m’licious, ez thar war good news ez he wouldn’t lemme hear,—more ’n he
told ’bout what Jedge Gwinnan said when he rid up ter the cabin, whilst
we war all away ter the church-house ter the revival. An’ I b’lieved
’twar ez you-uns war pardoned. I hev drempt of it! I hev prayed fur it!
I’d hev died fur it!”
“Look hyar, Lethe Sayles!” he exclaimed, tense and erect again. “That
thar ain’t a true word ez ye air a-tellin’ me,—ez that thar man hev kem
ter Wild-Cat Hollow!” His eyes blazed upon her.
She was deprecating and downcast. Her intuition warned her that it
behooved her to be careful. She was too deliberate. He broke out
vehemently:
“He hev! An’ ’twar ter see you-uns.”
“I know ’twar, Reuben, but”—
“I swear ter Heaven,” he cried, lifting his clenched right hand, “ez
the Lord never afore built sech a fool ez me!” His self-pity and
self-contempt were pathetic. “Ain’t I jes’ now been down yander ter Mis’
Purvine’s, an’ hear her tell how that man—oh, curse him, curse him!—air
nigh dead in love with ye, an’ ye hed promised ter marry him!”
“No, Reuben, no! ’Tain’t true. It air jes’ one o’ aunt Dely’s notions.”
“An’ I kem hyar fit in mind ter kill ye dead,” he went on. “An’ the minit
I see ye I furgit it all, an’ ye twist me round yer finger the same ez
ef I war a bit o’ spun truck! G’way, Lethe!”—his voice broke; “don’t ye
tech me.” He moved away, that she might not lay her remonstrant hand
on his shoulder. “I wait on yer word like a child. Ye got me inter all
this trouble through heedin’ yer wisdom ez turned out folly fur me. The
foolishness o’ them ez air bereft air wise ter me! Ye done it!”
He struck his hands despairingly together as he thought of his forlorn
past. Perhaps he was the happier that his reflective moods were so rare.
“I know, Reuben,—I know I did. But I never meant it. I jes’ wanted ye ter
do what war right.”
“Yes, but I hev got ter abide by the consequences o’ what _ye_ think air
right,—don’t ye know it?” he demanded.
“Ef I could hev suffered fur it, stiddier you-uns,” she declared, in
tears, “I’d hev gone ter jail happy—happy.”
His manner changed suddenly. He was at once shocked and displeased. “What
air ye talkin ’bout, Lethe?” he said, in stern rebuke. “Don’t ye know
thar ain’t no ’spectable wimmin in jail?”
This had not occurred to her. She only sighed, and looked away at the
shifting mist over the sunlit valley at the heavier masses of cloud
dropping down upon the mountain above. A great eagle, near enough to
show the gallant spread of his broad wings, swept from their midst,
poised in the sunlight high above the cove, and swooped to the slopes
below. Mink’s gaze followed the bird, his easily diverted interest
quickening. Alethea strove to take advantage of the moment. “I jes’ want
ter tell ye, Reuben”—she began.
“I don’t want ye ter tell me nuthin’!” he cried, fixing on her his brown
fiery eyes, with a bright red spark in their pupils. “Ye make a fool
out’n me. Ye don’t let me hev no mind o’ my own. I reckon it air ’kase
I be in love with ye,—an’ nobody else. All the t’other gals war in love
with me.”
There was none of his jaunty self-sufficiency as he said this,—only a
dreary recognition of the fact.
“Ye hev cut me out’n a heap, Lethe; enny one o’ ’em would hev been mighty
willin’ ter put up with me an’ my ways. They never harried me none, ez ef
I couldn’t do nuthin’ right. I reckon I’d hev been happy an’ peaceable
married ter enny o’ them.”
“I know, Reuben, an’ that’s the reason I wanter tell ye”—She paused,
expecting to be interrupted. But he was looking at her coolly and calmly,
waiting and listening. He was saying to himself that he might safely
hear; it was best that he should know. He would be on his guard. He
would not blindly fall again under her influence. He felt with secret
elation, stern and savage, the handle of a pistol in his pocket. He had
thought it no harm to borrow Jerry Price’s for the purpose of resisting
arrest, finding it on the shelf in the spare room at Mrs. Purvine’s, the
less because it was he who had given it to his friend, with his wonted
free-handedness,—but indeed he had won it lightly, shooting for it at a
match.
He stood with one hand on his hip, the other laid against the rock. His
head was a little thrown back, his hair tossing slightly in the renewing
breeze; he looked at her with dissent and doubt in every line of his face.
“Ye see, he kem hyar ter ax me ’bout Sam Marvin. Ye know I tole on the
trial ’bout him moonshinin’.”
Mink nodded. The thought of those terrible alternations of hope and
despair and remorse was very bitter to him still.
“An’ he ’lowed I knowed whar Marvin be now.”
“What’s he want along o’ Marvin?” demanded Mink, surprised.
“He wanted Marvin, but mostly Jeb Peake, ter testify fur him, ’kase he
’lows thar air goin’ ter be some sort’n trial agin him. Mr. Harshaw got
it up, Jacob Jessup said. Jacob ’lowed the jedge war powerful outed
ter find out ez Jeb war s’pected o’ hevin’ kilt a man, ’kase he war
feared nare one o’ ’em could be tolled out ter testify fur him. An’
Jacob tole him ez Marvin hed quit this mounting, but he hed hearn ez
down on one o’ them ridges nigh Thunderhead thar war a strange man ez
war a-moonshinin’,—Jacob’s mighty apt ter know sech ez that,—an’ he hed
tuk old man Craig’s house, what he hed lef’ ter go ter North Car’liny
ter live with his son. An’ from the account Jacob hearn o’ these folks
he wouldn’t be s’prised none ef them war Sam an’ Jeb. An’ the jedge
knowed the house an’ whar it be. An’ he jes’ lit out ter ride over thar
an’ see. He went yestiddy evenin’, an’ he air kemin’ back hyar ter-day.
’Kase he tole Jacob ef he couldn’t toll Sam or Jeb ter testify thar’d be
no witnesses but his enemies. He ’lowed he’d stay all night at Bylor’s
house, though Jake tole him ter be mighty keerful how he talked about
Sam an’ Jeb thar, fur old man Bylor air runnin’ fur office,—sher’ff, or
constable, or jestice, or suthin’,—an’ wouldn’t ax no better ’n ter git
a chance ter harry law-breakers. An’ the jedge ’lowed ez things hed come
ter a pretty pass with him, an’ rid off.”
She looked up at Mink gravely, earnestly. She had sat down on one of the
rocks beside the basket; her hand toyed with a sprig of the herbs within;
her dense golden hair, heavily undulating, was all the brighter for the
contrast with the dark green vine that draped the gray rocks behind and
above her, the delicate coloring of her face the finer, the tint of the
saffron kerchief, knotted beneath her chin, the more intense. Her brown
gown lay in straight, simple folds about her lithe figure; the gaunt old
hound sat down at her feet and leaned his head on her knee.
Mink had not always been definitely aware of her beauty,—it was not
of the type which most appeals to the rural admirer; but its subtle,
unrealized fascinations had swayed him unconsciously. Now he looked at
her critically, speculatively, striving to behold her as she appeared to
Gwinnan, to adjust his estimate to Mrs. Purvine’s report of the florid
judicial compliments. He cared naught for the rumor of the impending
trial. He felt no gratulation that Harshaw had been able to compass the
jeopardy, if not the disgrace, of the man he hated. He gazed at her with
sedulous attention, to see her with Gwinnan’s eyes.
“Lethe,” he said, suddenly,—he had dropped down upon the ground near her
feet, and leaned back against the rock,—“did Jedge Gwinnan say ennything
ter you-uns ’bout me?”
She was in a tremor instantly.
He did not seem to notice. He was affecting to offer the dog a morsel in
a deceptive bit of stone, and as the creature, with a dubiously wrinkling
and sniffing nose, would attempt to take it he would snatch it away. “Did
he?” he persisted, looking up at her from under the brim of the old white
hat.
“Whenst I talked ter him an’ begged him ter git ye a pardon or suthin’,”
she said. She was not without the tact to avail herself of discreet
ellipses; but she forecast with dread that with these he would not be
content.
“What did he say?” He was suffering the hound to lick the stone in
baffled reproach, and turn away disdainful. Mink’s lip was curling with
fierce sarcasm as he reiterated, “What did he say?”
“I couldn’t ondertake ter remember all he said, Reuben. ’Twar down yander
at the post-office at Locust Levels. Me an’ Jerry Price rid thar in the
wagin ter see ef thar war enny letter fur Mis’ Purvine.”
“I’ll be bound I kin tell ye suthin’ _ye_ said!” exclaimed Mink. “Ye tole
him ez he war powerful good ter hold no gredge agin me.”
She turned her despairing eyes upon him. He could read the truth in their
clear depths.
“An’ he tole ye ez ye war too good ter marry me.”
There was no need to answer.
“An’ ye b’lieved him!”
“Oh, Reuben, ye know better ’n that!” she exclaimed, reassured to speak
freely. “He jes’ talked ’bout’n ye like my step-mother, an’ aunt Dely,
an’ Jake Jessup’s wife; none o’ them air gamesome, an’ they don’t set
store on gamesome ways. ’Twar jes’ sech talk ez theirn.”
He listened, his chin in his hand, his elbow on the rock. She should not
delude him again; he would not succumb to her influence. He felt the
handle of the pistol in his pocket. There was affirmation in its very
touch.
“Gamesome ain’t what _he_ said. He ’lowed I war m’licious.”
Once more he glanced up to read the truth in her eyes.
He slowly pulled himself to his feet. He stood for a moment, erect
and jaunty, his hand thrust in his leather belt, his eyes bright and
confident, his hair tossing back as he moved his head.
“Ye tole him how good he war,” his merciless divinations went on.
She cowered beneath his serene and casual glance.
“Ye don’t deny it, an’ yit ye expec’ me ter not b’lieve what the whole
kentry air a-sayin’,—ez ye hev promised ter marry him an’ hev gin me the
go-by.”
He turned abruptly away. “Reuben,” she cried, “air ye goin’ agin, when
ye hev jes’ kem back?” She laid her importunate hands upon his arm. His
resolution was strong now; he could afford to be lenient and to humor her.
“’Bleeged ter, Lethe,” he said softly, looking down upon her with
the calmness of finality. She did not loose her hold. “Ef ye keep me
a-foolin’ hyar longer ’n I oughter stay, I mought git cotched agin,” he
warned her—“fur twenty year! Jake Jessup would ez soon arrest me ez not.”
She relaxed her grasp, looking fearfully about her in the mist and at the
summit of the great rocks. She followed him, the old hound by her side,
down to the spot where the horse still stood hitched.
“But ye’ll kem back agin, Reuben?” she said, her heart-break in her
voice, her eyes full of tears.
“Laws-a-massy, yes; times an’ times. I kin whistle plumb like a
mocking-bird, an’ whenever ye hear one a-singin’ the same chune three
times ye kem out ’mongst the rocks an’ ye’ll find me.”
Once more he held her at arm’s length and looked searchingly at her
tearful face. Suddenly he mounted his horse and rode away.
XXX.
He did not maintain this sedulous semblance of calmness as he galloped
the wild young horse along the mountain slopes in the mist. His eyes
burned; his teeth were fiercely set; sometimes he lifted his right hand
and shook it clenched as if he held his vengeance within his grasp and
would not lightly let it go. Over and again he cried aloud a curse upon
the man he hated, and then he would fall to muttering his grudges, all
unforgotten, all registered indelibly in his mind despite its facile
laxity, despite its fickle traits. He reviewed the events since the
morning that Alethea had stood by the judge’s desk, and he laid down his
pen to gaze, to the afternoon when, amongst the blossoms and the sunshine
and the birds, they had talked together, and she had asked a futile
thing, doubtless to beguile the hour, and he had warned her solemnly.
“I ain’t goin’ ter North Car’liny, an’ leave ’em hyar tergether,” he
declared vehemently. “I’ll meet up with him somewhar this side o’ the
Craig house. I’ll dare him ter fight, an’ ef he don’t kill me I’ll kill
him, an’ kiss the hand that does the deed!”
The mists shivered to listen; the rocks repeated the threat, and again
in hesitant dread, and still once more a word in an awed and tremulous
staccato. On and on he went,—never abating speed, flying over the
broken ground; deaf to the sound of horn and hounds borne fitfully from
the slopes below on some hardly perceptible current of the air, and
again dying to the dumbness of the shrouded woods; blind to the burly
apparition of a bear trotting out of the clouds and in again, although
the horse reared and pawed the air; callous to the keen chill of the
torrent, swollen out of its banks with the spring rains till it surged
about his limbs as he forded through. Over and again the mountain
water-courses intercepted his path, but only once his attention was
attracted to his surroundings, and this was because there seemed here
a check upon his progress, and he must needs take heed of his way.
The stream known as Gran’dad’s creek showed in the thickening mist
a turbulent volume, a swollen breadth, covering rocks and brush and
gullies, and washing the boles of trees far from its normal channel; he
hardly knew where he might safely take the ford. Now the water elusively
glimmered, swift, foaming, full of enormous bowlders, and with trees
standing in its midst; and as he went down to the verge in a cleft of the
rock the vapors closed again, and it seemed to recede into invisibility.
The horse had become restive. He resisted and snorted, and finally
deliberately faced about, as he was recklessly urged to enter the stream.
He was forced again to the margin, when suddenly Mink thought he was
dreaming. The fluctuating vapors parted once more, and in the rifts he
saw on the opposite bank the man he sought. He stood in numb surprise; a
strange overwhelming sense of hatred possessed him with the image thus
palpably presented; he quivered with a recollection of all his wrongs.
This was no dream. It was Gwinnan returning from the moonshiners’ house.
He rose from his stirrups and waved his hand with a smile. Mink heard his
ringing halloo. Then Gwinnan pressed his roan colt down to the margin of
the water and took the ford.
“Saved us wettin’ our feet agin, Grasshopper,” Mink observed. He was
very distinct as he sat on the bareback stray; his feet dangling without
stirrups, his big wool hat, his flaunting auburn hair, his keen,
clear-cut face, all definitely painted on the opaque white background
of the mist; a bole was barely outlined here and there behind him, or
a towering crag, as if there were other elements of the picture merely
sketched in. More than once Gwinnan lifted his grave eyes toward him. But
when the mist came between them, surging in a great cloudy volume, Mink
drew the pistol from his pocket.
“Ye don’t kerry straight. I ’member yer tricks. I reckon he hev got a
six-shooter, but I’ll resk ye, ennyhows. I’ll wait till he kems across
an’ then dare him to fight.”
As he waited it might have seemed that he was the only human creature in
the world, so desolately vacant were the barren mists, so unresponsive
to the sense of the landscape that they hid, so null, so silent, save
for the river, forever flowing on like life, resistless as eternity.
The interval was long to his impatience,—so long that, alarmed at last
lest his revenge be snatched from him by some mischance, at this supreme
moment when it had seemed the fierce joy he had craved was vouchsafed,
he hastily rode along the clifty bank above the tumultuous current.
Once more the mist lifted. Suddenly he saw the roan colt, his full eyes
starting from his head, his scream almost human in its frantic terror,
pawing the cliffs, to the base of which the encroaching waters had risen;
finding no footing, no shallows, only the forbidding inaccessibilities of
the rocks. The saddle was vacant. The rider had been swept away by the
wanton vagaries of the current.
The young mountaineer stared stolidly and uncomprehendingly for a
moment. In a sort of daze he dismounted from his horse. He hardly
realized what had happened, until, as he climbed deftly down among the
splintered crags, lithe, agile, sure-footed as a deer, he saw clinging
to a bramble growing from a fissure, and supported on a ledge of the
rock, the unconscious figure familiar to his dream of vengeance. It was
forestalled! The wild freak of the mountain torrent had given him his
heart’s desire, and yet his hands were clean. The wolves, the wild dogs,
and the vultures would not leave the man to creep away were there yet
life left in him.
And there was life. He noted the convulsive fluttering of breath, the
trembling clutch of the fingers; for the nerves remembered the saving
boughs that the senses had forgotten.
As Mink stood looking down he suddenly lifted his head with a quick
start, as if a word had been spoken to him from out the silence. Why this
gratuity of pity, this surging fellow-feeling, this clamorous instinct to
aid? Was a hand held out to him in his hour of need? Nay, he might have
known rescue and release, his future might now be fair and free, but for
the device of this man who had bestirred himself to thwart the friendly
mob. Was not his hope attained, his prayer? Here was a sublimated
revenge. His enemy would die at his feet, and yet his hands were clean.
And at this moment he was muttering, “I’ll be bound ef he hed a leetle
wild-cat whiskey now ’twould save his life ez respons’ble ez ef ’twar ez
legal ez the taxed corn-juice.”
He stood thinking for a moment. There was Marvin’s still at the Craig
house, as Alethea had said, two miles away; the man would be dead of
exhaustion before help could come thence. But not a quarter of a mile
below, on one of the divergent ridges of Thunderhead, was Bylor’s home.
Mink started with affright. The old man was a candidate for office. The
certainty of arrest awaited him there, whatever his mission. It was a
decision swift as an impulse. It meant twenty years’ imprisonment at hard
labor, and he realized it as he sprang upon the bare back of his horse.
“I reckon I kin make a break an’ run, or tunnel out, or suthin’,” he
said, with his preposterous hopefulness; “leastwise, I can’t leave him
thar ter die that-a-way, half drownded and harried ter death by wolves
an’ painters an’ buzzards. Ef the darned critter,” he cried out, in a
renewal of despair, “would hev jes’ stood up an’ been shot like healthy
folks!”
Mink never reached his destination.
It was not held to be a strange nor an unjustifiable action that young
Bylor was led to do. He said afterward that that day, as he made his
way home in the midst of the clouds that begirt the mountain, he was
affrighted to behold again, evolved from their expressionless monotony,
the equestrian figure of the mystic herder that rides on Thunderhead. His
nerves were shaken, for before that morning he had seen the “harnt,” and
at close quarters. He noted the wildly beckoning hand vague in the mist;
he heard, or thought he heard, a shrill, insistent hail; he quickened
his pace, pursued by the thunderous hoofs of the spectral steed, riding
him down, as he feared. He faced about in desperate terror and fired his
rifle.
Then he knew what he had done, for the rider lurched from the horse and
fell, and the animal dashed past him, running at full speed. It was Mink
Lorey whom he found upon the ground,—strong enough only to gasp out his
errand; and though Bylor rose instantly to obey his behest and go to
succor Gwinnan, Mink was dead before he left.
No great loss, the country-side said, and indeed it was suspected for a
time that Gwinnan’s straits had resulted from Mink’s wanton mischief.
When the facts became known, one or two reflective souls—recognizing
in his deed that universal vital element of better possibilities astir
within him insistently militant, enlisting every sterling trait common to
humanity—were moved to say that he was not all mink.
No one in the mountains, however, fully appreciated the impulse that had
controlled him except Alethea. To her it served as a sacred apotheosis,
and she adored his memory for what he might have been, and forgot what he
was. Often, when the spring bloomed, or the summer was flushing with the
wild roses and the roseate dawns and the red sunset-tides, she hearkened
to the mocking-bird’s singing, thrice—thrice the mystic strain, and she
was wont to go and search for her lover at their tryst among the crags.
And when she would come back, her face so full of peace, her eyes softly
luminous, her drawling formula, “Jest been talkin’ with Reuben ’mongst
the rocks,” pervaded with tranquil joy, her step-mother and Mrs. Jessup
would whisper apart and look askance upon her, and start at any sudden
jar or sound, as if it were instinct with her spectre lover’s freakish
presence.
And so, patient drudge though she was, they listened to Mrs. Purvine’s
eager insistence to have her bide in the cove; and although she went to
live with this cheery soul, it was with tears and sighs and sadness to
leave the clifty gorges that he haunted.
But she found the mocking-bird singing there, thrice, thrice the mystic
strain, amongst the rocky banks of the Scolacutta River. And so she
smiled again.
Except for this delusion she gave little indication of the unsettling of
her mind. She was placidly happy with her aunt, though the two women were
much alone, for Jerry Price presently married Sophy Griff. He became the
sole dependence of the miller and his grandchildren, but a measure of
Mrs. Purvine’s jaunty prosperity seemed to follow him. Old Griff’s little
log cabin took on a more pretentious guise, and there was a slipshod
thrift within. Jerry lifted the mill-stones and rebuilt the mill, and
the whir began anew as if it had never left off; and the old miller sat
without the door, and listened, and grew garrulous and cheerful and dusty
with meal and flour, and brightened into some faint reflection of his old
imperative self. Tad never reappeared from the moonshiners’ lair, and
they still successfully elude the law.
The failure to secure their testimony proved no disaster to Gwinnan, as
the chancellor held that a duel is a matter of deliberate and formal
arrangement between men who recognize both the nature of the proceeding
and the law infringed.
Nevertheless, Gwinnan was not satisfied. He had never regarded the matter
as a duel; he had forgotten even the circumstances. Once brought forcibly
to his mind, he dissented from the decision of the case, which he had
watched more as if from the bench than from the bar. He resigned when
reinstated.
The relinquishment of his ambition was very bitter to him. He had infused
into it much of the essence of his identity; it had amply promised the
end for which he had rejoiced to labor; it had borne a lofty and isolated
existence. And yet, as he brooded on his despoiled life, his trained
mind, applied to moral discernment, could but perceive at length that
it had been sheerly a technical excellence toward which he had bent his
energies, a selfish end he had held in view. Without a high ennobling
purpose, without a dominate hope to dispense benefit, his unsanctified
ambition had only lured with a wish to rise, and despite the heights
to which it had attained it had been held to earth by its own inherent
weight.
Works of Fiction.
PUBLISHED BY
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY,
4 PARK ST., BOSTON; 11 E. 17TH ST., NEW YORK.
Thomas Bailey Aldrich.
Story of a Bad Boy. Illustrated. 12mo. $1.50
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