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BEQUEST of
IRVING KANE POND
C.E. 1879, A.M. (BION. ) 1911
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THE AROAHAE 7" OA' 7THE GRAEA 7"
,SMOATY MOOAV ZAZAWS.
A NOVEL.
I6mo, $1.25.
ANO WAV 7. HAZ AºA WZAWAE.
A STORY FOR YOUNG FOLKS.
Illustrated. $1.Oo.
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.
Publishers,
BOSTON,
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IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS
* Mea. C. Y. º
CHARLEs EGBERT CRADDOCK tº
FourTEENTH EDITION
B O STON
| HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
New York : 11 East Seventeenth Street
@#2 iſſuergitz º Çambridge
I88 x,

Copyright, 1884,
By HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO,
All rights reserved.
The Riverside Press, Cambridge:
Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Co.
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CONTENTS.
--O-
PAGE
§ DRIFTING Down LosT CREEK . . . . . . . . . I 3.
A-PLAYIN’ OF OLD SLEDGE AT THE SETTLEMINT . . 80 ***
f THE STAR IN THE WALLEY . . . . . . . . . . 120 º
| ELECTIONEERIN' on Big INJUN Mounting . . . . 155 °
º THE ROMANCE OF SUNRISE Rock . . . . . . . 182 & 7 r
* THE DANCIN' PARTY AT HARRIson's Cove . . . . 215 # 3
() OvKR on THE T'o'THER MoUNTING . . . . . . . 247
2}
THE “HARNT * THAT WALKS CHILHowL.B. . . . . . 283 & 4-
IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
DRIFTING DOWN LOST CREEK.
I.
HIGH above Lost Creek Valley towers a wil-
derness of pine. So dense is this growth that it
masks the mountain whence it springs. Even
when the Cumberland spurs, to the east, are
gaunt and bare in the wintry wind, their de-
ciduous forests denuded, their crags unveiled
and grimly beetling, Pine Mountain remains a
sombre, changeless mystery; its clifty heights
are hidden, its chasms and abysses lurk unseen.
Whether the skies are blue, or gray, the dark,
austere line of its summit limits the horizon.
It stands against the west like a barrier. It
seemed to Cynthia Ware that nothing which
went beyond this barrier ever came back again.
One by one the days passed over it, and in
splendid apotheosis, in purple and crimson and
gold, they were received into the heavens, and
1
2 IN THE TENN ESSEE MOUNTAINS.
returned no more. She beheld love go hence,
and many a hope. Even Lost Creek itself,
meandering for miles between the ranges, sud-
denly sinks into the earth, tunnels an unknown
channel beneath the mountain, and is never seen
again. She often watched the floating leaves,
a nettle here and there, the broken wing of a
moth, and wondered whither these trifles were
borne, on the elegiac current. She came to
fancy that her life was like them, worthless in
itself and without a mission ; drifting down
Lost Creek, to vanish vaguely in the mountains.
Yet her life had not always been thus desti-
tute of pleasure and purpose. There was a
time — and she remembered it well — when she
found no analogies in Lost Creek. Then she
saw only a stream gayly dandering down the
valley, with the laurel and the pawpaw close in
to its banks, and the kildeer's nest in the sand.
Before it takes that desperate plunge into the
unexplored caverns of the mountain, Lost Creek
lends its aid to divers jobs of very prosaic work.
Further up the valley it turns a mill-wheel, and
on Mondays it is wont to assist in the family
wash. A fire of pine-knots, kindled beside it
on a flat rock, would twine long, lucent white
flames about the huge kettle in which the
clothes were boiled. Through the steam the
distant landscape flickered, ethereal, dream-like.
DRIFTING DOWN LOST CREEK. 3
The garments, laid across a bench and beaten
white with a wooden paddle, would flutter hi-
lariously in the wind. Deep in some willowy
tangle the water-thrush might sing. Ever and
anon from the heights above vibrated the clink-
ing of a hand-hammer and the clanking of a
sledge. This iterative sound used to pulse like
a lyric in Cynthia's heart. But her mother,
one day, took up her testimony against it.
“I do declar', it sets me plumb catawampus
ter hev ter listen ter them blacksmiths, up yan-
der ter thar shop, at thar everlastin’ chink-
chank an’ chink-chank, considerin’ the tales I
hearm 'bout 'em, when I war down ter the
quiltin' at M’ria's house in the Cove.”
She paused to prod the boiling clothes with
a long stick. She was a tall woman, fifty years
of age, perhaps, but seeming much older. So
gaunt she was, so toothless, haggard, and di-
sheveled, that but for her lazy step and languid
interest she might have suggested one of Mac-
beth's witches, as she hovered about the great
cauldron.
“They lowed down yander ter M'ria's house
ez this hyar Evander Price hev kem ter be the
headin’est, no 'count critter in the kentry |
They lowed ez he hev been a-foolin’ round
Pete Blenkins's forge, a-workin’ fur him eZ a
striker, till he thinks hisself eZ good a black-
4. IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTA INS.
smith ez Pete, an’ better. An’ all of a suddenty
this same 'Vander Price riz up an’ made a con-
sarn ter bake bread in, sech ez hed never been
seen in the mountings afore. They'lowed down
ter M'ria's ez they dunno what he patterned
arter. The Evil One must hev revealed the
contrivance ter him. But they say it did cook
bread in less ºn haffen the time that the reg’lar
oven takes; leastwise his granny's bread, "kase
his mother air a toler’ble sensible woman, an’
would tech no sech foolish fixin’. But his
granny 'lowed ez she did n’t hev long ter live,
nohow, an’ mought ez well please the chil’ren
whilst she war spared. So she resked a batch
, o' her salt-risin’ bread on the consarn, an’ she
do say it riz like all possessed, an’ eat toler’ble
short. An’ that banged critter 'Vander war
so proud o' his contrivance that he showed it
ter everybody ez kem by the shop. An' when
two valley men rid by, an’ one o' thar beastis
cast a shoe, 'Vander hed ter take out his con-
traption fur them ter gape over, too. An' they
ups an’ says they hed seen the like afore a-many
a time; sech ovens war common in the valley
towns. An' when they fund out ez Vander
hed never hearn on sech, but jes’ got the idee
out ºn his own foolishness, they jes' stared at
one another. They tole the boy ez he oughter
take hisself an' his peartness in workin’ in iron
DRIFTING DO WN LOST CREEK. 5
down yander ter some o' the valley towns, whar
he 'd find out what other folks hed been doin’
in metal, an’git a good hank on his knack fur
new notions. But Vander, he clung ter the
mountings. They lowed down yander at
M’ria's quiltin’ ez Vander fairly tuk ter the
woods with grief through other folks hevin'
made sech contraptions eZ his'n, afore he war
born.” -
The girl stopped short in her work of pound-
ing the clothes, and, leaning the paddle on the
bench, looked up toward the forge with her
luminous brown eyes full of grave compassion.
Her calico sun-bonnet was thrust half off her
head. Its cavernous recesses made a back-
ground of many shades of brown for her auburn
hair, which was of a brilliant, rich tint, highly
esteemed of late years in civilization, but in
the mountains still accounted a capital defect.
There was nothing as gayly colored in all the
woods, except perhaps a red-bird, that carried
his tufted top-knot so bravely through shade
and sheen that he might have been the trans-
migrated spirit of an Indian, still roaming in
the old hunting-ground. The beech shadows,
delicately green, imparted a more ethereal fair-
ness to her fair face, and her sombre brown
homespun dress heightened the effect by con-
trast. Her mother noted an unwonted flush
6 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAIWS:
upon her cheek, and recommenced with a deep,
astute purpose.
“They 'lowed down yander in the Cove, ter
M’ria's quiltin', ez this hyar 'Vander Price hev
kem ter be mighty difficult, sence he hev been
so gin over ter pride in his oven an' sech. They
'lowed ez even Pete Blenkins air fairly afeard
o' him. Pete hisself hev always been knowed
ez a powerful evil man, an’ what 'twixt drink
an’ deviltry mos' folks hev been keerful ter gin
him elbow-room. But this hyar 'Vander Price
hectors round an' jaws back so sharp ez Pete
hev got ter be truly mealy-mouthed where
'Vander be. They lowed down yander at
M’ria's quiltin’ ez one day Pete an' 'Wander
hed a piece o' iron a-twixt 'em on the anvil, an’
Pete would tap, same eZ common, with the
hand-hammer on the hot metal ter show 'Van-
der wharter strike with the sledge. An’ Pete
got toler’ble bouncin', an’ kep' faultin' 'Van-
der, —jes' like he use ter quar’l with his tºother
striker, till the man would bide with him no
more. All at wunst 'Wander hefted the sledge,
an' gin Pete the ch'ice ter take it on his skull-
bone, or show more manners. An’ Pete showed
‘em.”
There was a long pause. Lost Creek sounded
some broken minor chords, as it dashed against
the rocks on its headlong way. The wild grapes
DRIFTING DOWN LOST CREEK. 7
were blooming. Their fragrance, so delicate
yet so pervasive, suggested some exquisite un-
seen presence — the dryads were surely abroad
The beech-trees stretched down their silver
branches and green shadows. Through rifts
in the foliage shimmered glimpses of a vast
array of sunny parallel mountains, converging
and converging, till they seemed to meet far
away in one long, level line, so ideally blue that
it looked less like earth than heaven. The
pine-knots flamed and glistered under the great
wash-kettle. A tree-toad was persistently call-
ing for rain, in the dry distance. The girl,
gravely impassive, beat the clothes with the
heavy paddle. Her mother shortly ceased to
prod the white heaps in the boiling water, and
presently took up the thread of her discourse.
“An’’Vander hev got ter be a mighty sud-
dint man. I hearn tell, when I war down ter
M’ria's house ter the quiltin', ez how in that
sorter fight an’ scrimmage they hed at the mill,
las’ month, he war powerful ill-conducted. No-
body hed thought of hevin' much of a fight, —
thar hed been jes' a few licks passed atwixt
the men thar ; but the fust finger eZ war laid
on this boy, he jes' lit out an’ fit like a cat-
amount. Right an’ left he lay about him with
his fists, an’ he drawed his huntin' knife on
some of 'em. The men at the mill war in no
wise pleased with him.”
8 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
“’Pears-like ter me ez Vander air a peace-
able boy enough, ef he ain’t jawed at, an' air
lef’ be,” drawled Cynthia.
Her mother was embarrassed for a moment.
Then, with a look both sly and wise, she made
an admission, — a qualified admission. “Waal,
wimmen — ef—ef – ef they air young an’ tol-
er’ble hard-headed yit, air likely ter jaw some,
ennyhow. An' a gal ought n’t ter marry a man
eZ hev sot his heart on bein’ lef’ in peace. He's
apt ter be a mighty sour an’ disapp'inted crit-
ter.” s
This sudden turn to the conversation invested
all that had been said with new meaning, and
revealed a subtle diplomatic intention. The
girl seemed deliberately to review it, as she
paused in her work. Then, with a rising flush,
“I ain't studyin' 'bout marryin' nobody,” she
asserted staidly. “I hev laid off ter live single.”
Mrs. Ware had overshot the mark, but she
retorted, gallantly reckless, “That’s what yer
aunt Malviny useter declar' fur gospel sure,
when she war a gal. An’ she hev got ten
chil’ren, an hev buried two husbands, an’ ef
all they say air true she's tollin' in the third
man now. She 's a mighty spry, good-featured
woman an a fust-rate manager, yer aunt Mal-
viny air, an’ both her husbands lef her su'thin’,
— cows, or wagons, or land. An’ they war
DRIFTING DO WN LOST CREEK. 9
quiet men when they war alive, an’ stays whar
they air put, now that they air dead; not like
old Parson Hoodenpyle what his wife hears
stumpin’ round the house an’ preachin' every
night, though she air ez deef ez a post, an’
he hev been in glory twenty year, – twenty
year, an’ better. Yer aunt Malviny hed luck,
somebbe 't ain't no killin' complaint fur a gal
ter git ter talkin' like a fool about marryin’ an’
sech. Leastwise, I ain’t minded ter sorrow.”
She looked at her daughter with a gay grin,
which, distorted by her toothless gums and the
wreathing steam from the kettle, enhanced her
witch-like aspect and was spuriously malevo-
lent. She did not notice the stir of an approach
through the brambly tangles of the heights
above until it was close at hand; as she turned,
she thought only of the mountain cattle, – to
see the red cow's picturesque head and crum-
pled horns thrust over the Sassafras bushes, or
to hear the brindle's clanking bell. It was cer-
tainly less unexpected to Cynthia when a young
mountaineer, clad in brown jeans trousers and
a checked homespun shirt, emerged upon the
rocky slope. He still wore his blacksmith's
leather apron, and his powerful corded ham-
mer-arm was bare beneath his tightly rolled
sleeve. He was tall and heavily built; his sun-
burned face was square, with a strong lower
10 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
jaw, and his features were accented by fine lines
of charcoal, as if the whole were a clever sketch.
His black eyes held fierce intimations, but there
was mobility of expression about them that sug-
gested changing impulses, strong but fleeting.
He was like his forge fire: though the heat
might be intense for a time, it fluctuated with
the breath of the bellows. Just now he was
meekly quailing before the old woman, whom
he evidently had not thought to find here. It
was as apt an illustration as might be, perhaps,
of the inferiority of strength to finesse. She
seemed an inconsiderable adversary, as haggard,
lean, and prematurely aged she swayed on her
prodding-stick about the huge kettle ; but she
was as a veritable David to this big young Go-
liath, though she too flung hardly more than a
pebble at him.
“Laws-a-me!” she cried, in shrill, toothless
glee; “ef hyar ain’t Vander Price What
brung ye down hyar along o' we-uns, 'Van-
der ?” she continued, with simulated anxiety.
“Hev that thar red heifer o’ our'n lept over the
fence agin, an’ got inter Pete's corn ? Waal,
sir, ef she ain’t the headin’est heifer l’’
“I hain’t seen none o' yer heifer, ez I knows
on,” replied the young blacksmith, with gruff,
drawling deprecation. Then he tried to regain
his natural manner. “I kem down hyar,” he
DRIFTING DO WN LOST CREEK. 11
remarked in an off-hand way, “ter git a drink
o’ water.” He glanced furtively at the girl;
then looked quickly away at the gallant red-
bird, still gayly parading among the leaves.
The old woman grinned with delight. “Now,
2 2 3
ef that ain't sprisin’,” she declared. “Ef we
hed knowed ez Lost Creek war a-goin’ dry over
yander a-nigh the shop, so ye an’ Pete would
hev ter kem hyar thirstin’ fur water, we-uns
would hev brung su'thin’ down hyar ter drink
out'n. We-uns hain't got no gourd hyar, hev
we, Cynthy 2”
“”Thout it air the little gourd with the saft
soap in it,” said Cynthia, confused and blush-
ing.
Her mother broke into a high, loud laugh.
“Ye ain’t wantin’ ter gin Vander the soap-
gourd ter drink out’n, Cynthyl Leastwise, I
ain’t goin’ ter gin it ter Pete. Fur I s'pose ef
ye hew ter kem a haffen mile ter git a drink,
'Vander, ez surely Pete'll hev ter kem, too.
Waal, waal, who would hew b'lieved ez Lost
Creek would go dry nigh the shop, an’ yit be
a-scuttlin’ along like that, hyar-abouts!” and
she pointed with her bony finger at the swift
flow of the water.
He was forced to abandon his clumsy pretense
of thirst. “Lost Creek ain’t gone dry nowhar,
ez I knows on,” he admitted, mechanically roll-
12 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
ing the sleeve of his hammer-arm up and down
as he talked. “It air toler’ble high, – higher 'n
I ever see it afore. ‘T war jes' night afore las'
eZ two men got a kyart sunk in a quicksand,
whilst fordin’ the creek. An’ one o’ thar
wheels kem off, an’ they hed right smart scuf-
flin’ ter keep thar load from washin’ out’n the
kyart an’ driftin' clean away. Leastwise, that
was how they telled it ter me. They war val-
ley men, I’m a-thinkin’. They lowed ter me
ez they hed ter cut thar beastis out ºn the traces.
They loaded him up with the goods an’ fotched
him ter the shop.”
Mrs. Ware forebore her ready gibes in her in-
terest in the countryside gossip. She ceased to
prod the boiling clothes. She hung motionless
on the stick. “I spose they 'lowed, mebbe, ez
what sort'n goods they hed,” she hazarded, see-
ing a peddler in the dim perspective of a pro-
saic imagination. -
“They lef some along o' we-uns ter keep till
they kem back agin. They lowed ez they
could travel better ef thar beastis war eased
some of his load. They hed some o' all sorts o'
truck. They 'lowed ez they war aimin’ ter Sot
up a store over yander ter the Settlemint on
Milksick Mounting. They lef’ right smart o'
truck up yander in the shed ahint the shop ,
'pears like ter me it air a kyart-load itself.
DRIFTING DOWN LOST CREEK. 13
I promised ter keer fur it till they kem back
agin.”
Certainly, so far as Cynthia was concerned,
the sharpness of wits and the acerbity of tem-
per ascribed generally to the red-haired gentry
could be accounted no slander. The flame-col-
ored halo about her face, emblazoned upon the
dusky depths of her old brown bonnet, was not
more fervid than an angry glow overspreading
her delicate cheek, and an intense fiery spark
suddenly alight in her brown eyes.
“Pete Blenkins mus’ be sodden with drink,
I’m a-thinkin’ſ ” she cried impatiently. “Like
ez not them men will 'low ez the truck ain’t all
thar, when they kem back. An’ then thar’ll
be a tremenjious scrimmage ter the shop, an’
somebody 'll git hurt, an’ mebbe killed.”
“Waal, Cynthy,” exclaimed her mother, in
tantalizing glee, “air you-uns goin’ ter ache
when Pete's head gits bruk 2 That's power-
ful 'commodatin’ in ye, cornsiderin’ ez he hev
got a wife, an’ chil’ren ez old ez ye be. Waal,
sorrow fur Pete, ef ye air so minded.”
The angry spark in Cynthia's eyes died out
as suddenly as it kindled. She began to beat
the wet clothes heavily with the paddle, and her
manner was that of having withdrawn herself
from the conversation. The young blacksmith
had flushed, too, and he laughed a little, but
14 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
demurely. Then, as he still rolled and unrolled
the sleeve of his hammer-arm, his wonted grav-
ity returned.
“Pete hain't got nothin’ ter do with it, no-
how,” he averred. “Pete hev been away fur two
weeks an’ better: he hev gone ter see his uncle
Joshua, over yander on Caney Fork. He lowed
eZ apple-jack grows powerful fine in them parts.”
“Then who war holpin' at the forge ter-
day?” asked Mrs. Ware, surprised. “I’lowed
I hearn the hand-hammer an' sledge too, same
eZ common.”
There was a change among the lines of char-
coal that seemed to define his features. He
looked humbled, ashamed. “I hed my brother
a-strikin’ fur me,” he said at last.
“Why, "Vander,” exclaimed the old woman
shrilly, “that thar boy’s a plumb idjit! Ye
ought n’t trust him along o' that sledge ' He'd
jes' ez lief maul ye on the head with it ez maul
the hot iron. Ye know he air ez strong ez
a ox; an' the critter’s fursaken in his mind.”
“I knows that,” Evander admitted. “I
would n’t hev done it, ef I hedn’t been a-work-
in’ on a new fixin’ ez I hev jes' thought up, an’
I war jes’ obligated ter hev somebody ter strike
fur me. An’ laws-a-massy, 'Lijah would n’t
harm nobody. The critter war ez peart an’
lively ez a June-bug, — so proud ter be allowed
DRIFTING DO WN LOST CREEK. 15
ter work around like folks!” He stopped short
in sudden amazement: something stood in his
eyes that had no habit there ; its presence stu-
pefied him. For a moment he could not speak,
and he stood silently gazing at that long, level
blue line, in which the converging mountains
met, — so delicately azure, so ethereally sug-
gestive, that it seemed to him like the Promised
Land that Moses viewed, “The critter air
mighty aggervatin’ mos’ly ter the folks at our
house,” he continued, “but they hectors him.
He treats me well.”
“An ill word is spoke 'bout him ginerally
round the mounting,” said the old woman, who
had filled and lighted her pipe, and was now
trying to crowd down the charge, so to speak,
without scorching too severely her callous fore-
finger. “I hev hearn folks 'low ez he hev got
so turrible crazy ez he oughter be sent away an’
shet up in jail. An’ it 'pears like ter me ez
that word air jestice. The critter's fursaken.”
“Fursaken or no fursaken, he ain’t goin’ ter
be jailed fur nothin', -’ceptin' that the hand
o' the Lord air laid too heavy on him. I can’t
lighten its weight. I’m mortial myself. The
rider says thar's some holp in prayer. I hain't
seen it yit, though I hev been toler’ble busy
lately a-workin' in metal, one way an’ another.
What good air it goin’ ter do the mounting ter
16 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
hev 'Lijah jailed, stiddier goin’ round the woods
a-talkin' ter the grasshoppers an' squir’ls, ez
seem ter actially know the critter, an’ bein’ ez
happy ez they air, 'ceptin' when he gits it inter
his noodle, like he sometimes do, ez he ain’t
edzactly like other folks be 7” He paused.
Those strange visitants trembled again upon
his smoke-blackened lids. “Fursaken or no,”
he cried impulsively, “the man ez tries ter git
him jailed will 'low ez he air fursaken his own
self, afore Igits done with him l’”
“’Vander Price,” said the old woman rebuk-
ingly, “ye talk like ye hain't got good sense
yerself.” She sat down on a rock embedded
in the ferns by Lost Creek, and pulled deliber-
ately at her long cob-pipe. Then she too turned
her faded eyes upon the vast landscape, in which
she had seen no change, save the changing sea-
son and the waxing or the waning of the day,
since first her life had opened upon it. That
level line of pale blue in the poetic distance
had become faintly roseate. The great bronze-
green ranges nearer at hand were assuming a
royal purple. Shadows went skulking down
the valley. Across the amber Zenith an eagle
was flying homeward. Her mechanical glance
followed the sweeping, majestic curves, as the
bird dropped to its nest in the wild fastnesses
of Pine Mountain, that towered, rugged and
DRIFTING DO WN LOST CREEK. 17
severe of outline, against the crimson west. A
cow-bell jangled in the laurel.
“Old Suke's a-comin’ home ez partic'lar
an’ percise eZ ef she hed her calf thar yit. I
hev traded Suke's calf ter my merried daugh-
ter M’ria, – her ez merried Amos Baker, in
the Cove. The old brindle can’t somehow on-
derstan’ the natur’ o' the bargain, an’ kems
up every night moo-ing, mighty disappºinted.
*T war n’t much shakes of a calf, nohow, an' I
stood toler’ble well arter the trade.”
She looked up at the young man with a leer
of self-gratulation. He still lingered, but the
unsophisticated mother in the mountains can be
as much an obstacle to anything in the nature
of love-making, when the youth is not approved,
as the expert tactician of a drawing-room. He
had only the poor consolation of helping Cyn-
thia to carry in the load of stiff, dry clothes to
the log cabin, ambushed behind the beech-trees,
hard by in the gorge. The house had a very
unconfiding aspect; all its belongings seemed
huddled about it for safe-keeping. The bee-
hives stood almost under the eaves; the ash-
hopper was visible close in the rear; the rain-
barrel affiliated with the damp wall; the chick-
ens were going to roost in an althea bush beside
the porch ; the boughs of the cherry and plum
and crab-apple trees were thickly interlaced
2
18 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
above the path that led from the rickety rail
fence, and among their roots flag-lilies, lark-
spur, and devil-in-the-bush mingled in a floral
mosaic. The old woman went through the
gate first. But even this inadvertence could
not profit the loitering young people. “Law,
Cynthy,” she exclaimed, pointing at a loose-
jointed elderly mountaineer, who was seated
beneath the hop vines on the little porch, while
a gaunt gray mare, with the plow-gear still
upon her, cropped the grass close by, “yander
is yer daddy, ez empty ez a gourd, I’ll be
bound ! Hurry an' git supper, child. Time ’s
a-wastin', - time 's a-wastin'!”
When Evander was half-way up the steep
slope, he turned and looked down at the em-
bowered little house, that itself turned its face
upward, looking as it were to the mountain's
summit. How it nestled there in the gorge I
He had seen it often and often before, but
whenever he thought of it afterward it was as
it appeared to him now : the darkling valley
below it, the mountains behind it, the sunset
sky still flaring above it, though stars had blos-
somed out here and there, and the sweet June
night seemed full of their fragrance. He could
distinguish for a good while the gate, the rick-
ety fence, the path beneath the trees. The
vista ended in the open door, with the broad
DRIFTING Do WN LOST CREEK. 19
flare of the fire illumining the puncheon floor
and the group of boisterous tow-headed chil-
dren; in the midst was the girl, with her bright
hair and light figure, with her round arms bare,
and her deft hand stirring the batter for bread
in a wooden bowl. She looked the very genius
of home, and so he long remembered her.
The door closed at last, and he slowly re-
sumed his way along the steep slope. The
scene that had just vanished seemed yet vividly
present before him. The gathering gloom
made less impression. He took scant heed of
external objects, and plodded on mechanically.
He was very near the forge when his senses
were roused by some inexplicable inward moni-
tion. He stood still to listen: only the insects
droning in the chestnut-oaks, only the wind
astir in the laurel. The night possessed the
earth. The mountains were sunk in an indis-
tinguishable gloom, save where the horizontal
line of their summits asserted itself against an
infinitely clear sky. But for a hunter's horn,
faintly wound and faintly echoed in Lost Creek .
Valley, he might have seemed the only human
creature in all the vast wilderness. He saw
through the pine boughs the red moon rising.
The needles caught the glister, and shone like
a golden fringe. They overhung dusky, angular
shadows that he knew was the little shanty of
20 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
a blacksmith shop. In its dark recesses was a
dull red point of light, where the forge fire still
smouldered. Suddenly it was momentarily
eclipsed. Something had passed before it.
“’Lijah !” he called out, in vague alarm.
There was no answer. The red spark now
gleamed distinct. .
“Look-a-hyar, boy, what be you-uns a-doin'
of thar 7” he asked, beset with a strange anxi-
ety and a growing fear of he knew not what.
Still no answer.
It was a terrible weapon he had put into the
idiot's hand that day, - that heavy sledge of
his. He grew cold when he remembered poor
Elijah's pleasure in useful work, in his great
strength gone to waste, in the ponderous imple-
ment that he so lightly wielded. He might
well have returned to-night, with some vague,
distraught idea of handling it again. And what
vague, distraught idea kept him skulking there
With it 2
“Foolin’ along o' that new straw-cutter ter-
day will be my ruin, I'm afeard,” Evander
muttered ruefully. Then the sudden drops
broke out on his brow. “I pray ter mercy,”
he exclaimed fervently, “the boy hain't been
a-spºilin’ o' that thar new straw-cutter l’’
This fear dominated all others. He strode
hastily forward. “Come out o' thar, 'Lijah ' "
he cried roughly.
DRIFTING DO WN LOST CREEK. 21
There were moving shadows in the great barn-
like door, – three — four — The moon was
behind the forge, and he could not count them.
They were advancing shadows. A hand was
laid upon his arm. A drawling voice broke lan-
guidly on the night. “I’m up an’ down sorry
ter hev ter arrest you-uns, 'Vander, bein’ ez we
air neighbors an’ mos’ly toler’ble friendly ; but
law is law, an’ ye air my prisoner,” and the
constable of the district paused in the exercise
of his functions to gnaw off a chew of tobacco
with teeth which seemed to have grown blunt
in years of that practice; then he leisurely re-
sumed : “I war jes' sayin’ ter the sheriff an’
dep’ty hyar,” — indicating the figures in the
doorway, - “ez we-uns hed better lay low till
we seen how many o' you-uns war out hyar;
else I would n’t hev kep' ye waitin’so long.”
The young mountaineer's amazement at last
expressed itself in words. “Ye hev surely los'
yer senses, Jubal Tynes | What air ye arrestin’
of me fur 2 º’
“Fur receivin' of stolen goods, - the shed
back yander air full of 'em. I dunno whether
ye holped ter rob the cross-roads store or no;
but yander’s the goods in the shed o' the shop,
an’ Pete's been away two weeks, an’ better; so
’t war obleeged ter be you-uns ez received ’em.”
Evander, in a tumult of haste, told his story.
22 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
The constable laughed lazily, with his quid be-
tween his teeth. “Mebbe so, -mebbe so ; but
that's fur the jedge an' jury ter study over.
Them men never tuk thar kyart no furder.
*T war never stuck in no quicksand in Lost
Creek. They knowed the sheriff war on thar
track, an’ they stove up thar kyart, an’ sent the
spokes an’ shafts an’ sech a-driftin’ down Lost
Creek, thinkin’’t would be swallered inter the
mounting an’ never be seen agin. But jes’ whar
Lost Creek sinks under the mounting the drift
war cotched. We fund it thar, an’ knowed ez
all we hed ter do war ter trace 'em up Lost
Creek. An’ hyar we be The goods hev been
identified this very hour by the man ez owns
'em. I hope ye never holped ter burglarize the
store, too; but ’t ain’t fur me ter say. Ye hev
ter kem along o' we-uns, whether ye like it or
no,” and he laid a heavy hand on his prisoner's
shoulder.
The next moment he was reeling from a pow-
erful blow planted between the eyes. It even
felled the stalwart constable, for it was so sud-
denly dealt. But Jubal Tynes was on his feet
in an instant, rushing forward with a bull-like
bellow. Once more he measured his length
upon the ground, - close to the anvil this time,
for the position of all the group had changed in
the fracas. He did not rise again; the second
DRIFTING DOWN LOST CREEK. 23
blow was struck with the ponderous sledge. As
the men hastened to lift him, they were much
hindered by the ecstatic capers of the idiot
brother, who seemed to have been concealed in
the shop. The prisoner made no attempt at
flight, although, in the confusion, he was for-
gotten for the time by the officers, and had some
chance of escape. He appeared frightened and
very meek; and when he saw that there was
blood upon the sledge, and they said brains, too,
he declared that he was sorry he had done it.
“I done it !” cried the idiot joyfully. “Jube
sha’n’t fight 'Wander | I done it !” and he was
so boisterously grotesque and wild that the men
lost their wits while he was about ; so they
turned him roughly out of the forge, and closed
the doors upon him. At last he went away, al-
though for a time he beat loudly upon the shut-
ter, and called piteously for Evander.
It was a great opportunity for old Dr. Patton,
who lived six miles down the valley, and zeal-
ously he improved it. He often felt that in this
healthful country, where he was born, and where
bucolic taste and local attachment still kept
him, he was rather a medical theorist than a
medical practitioner, so few and slight were the
demands upon the resources of his science. He
was as one who has long pondered the unsug-
gestive details of the map of a region, and who
24 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
suddenly sees before him its glowing, vivid
landscape.
“A beautiful fracture l’” he protested with
rapture, — “a beautiful fracture l’” :
Through all the countryside were circulated
his cheerful accounts of patients who had sur-
vived fracture of the skull. Among the simple
mountaineers his learned talk of the trephine
gave rise to the startling report that he intended
to put a linchpin into Jubal Tynes's head. It
was rumored, too, that the unfortunate man’s
brains had “in an’ about leaked haffen out ; ”
and many freely prompted Providence by the
suggestion that “ef Jube war ready ter die it
war high time he war taken,” as, having been
known as a hasty and choleric man, it was pre-
dicted that he would “make a most survigrus
idjit.”
“Cur’ous enough ter me ter find out ez Jube
ever hed brains,” commented Mrs. Ware.
“”T war well enough ter let some of 'em leak
out ter prove it. He hev never showed he hed
brains no other way, ez I knows on. Now,”
she added, “ somebody oughter tap 'Vander's
head, an’ mebbe they’ll find him pervided, too.
Wonders will never cease ! Nobody would hev
accused Jube o' sech. Folks 'll hev ter respec’
them brains. 'Vander done him that favior in
splitting his head open.”
DRIFTING DOWN LOST CREEK. 25
“”T war n’t 'Wander's deed!” Cynthia de-
clared passionately. She reiterated this phrase
a hundred times a day, as she went about her
household tasks. “”T war n’t 'Vander’s deed ”
How could she prove that it was not, she asked
herself as often, – and prove that against his
own word 7
For she herself had heard him acknowledge
the crime. The new day had hardly broken
when, driving her cow, she came by the black-
smith's shop, all unconscious as yet of the trag-
edy it had housed. A vague prescience of dawn
was on the landscape; dim and spectral, it stood
but half revealed in the doubtful light. The
stars were gone; even the sidereal outline of
the great Scorpio had crept away. But the
gibbous moon still swung above the dark and
melancholy forests of Pine Mountain, and its
golden chalice spilled a dreamy glamour all
adown the lustrous mists in Lost Creek Valley.
Ever and anon the crags reverberated with the
shrill clamor of a watch-dog at a cabin in the
Cove; for there was an unwonted stir upon
the mountain's brink. The tramp of horses,
the roll of wheels, the voices of the officers at
the forge, busily canvassing their preparations
for departure, sounded along the steeps. The
sight of the excited group was as phenomenal
to old Suke as to Cynthia, and the cow stopped
26 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
short in her shambling run, and turned aside
into the blooming laurel with a muttered low
and with crouching horns. Early wayfarers
along the road had been attracted by the un-
usual commotion. A rude slide drawn by a
yoke of oxen stood beneath the great pine that
overhung the forge, while the driver was breath-
lessly listening to the story from the deputy
sheriff. A lad, mounted on a lank gray mare,
let the sorry brute crop, unrebuked, the Sassa-
fras leaves by the wayside, while he turned half
round in his saddle, with a white horror on his
face, to see the spot pointed out on which Jubal
Tynes had fallen. The wounded man had been
removed to the nearest house, but the ground
was still dank with blood, and this heightened
the dramatic effects of the recital. The sher-
iff's posse and their horses were picturesquely
grouped about the open barn-like door, and the
wagon laden with the plunder stood hard by.
It had been discovered, when they were on the
point of departure, that one of the animals had
cast a shoe, and the prisoner was released that
he might replace it. -
When Evander kindled the forge fire he felt
that it was for the last time. The heavy sigh-
ing of the bellows burst forth, as if charged
with a conscious grief. As the fire alternately
flared and faded, it illumined with long, evanes-
DRIFTING D O WN LOST CREEK. 27
cent red rays the dusky interior of the shop: the
horseshoes hanging upon a rod in the window,
the plowshares and bars of iron ranged against
the wall, the barrel of water in the corner, the
smoky hood and the anvil, the dark spot on the
ground, and the face of the blacksmith himself,
as he worked the bellows with one hand, while
the other held the tongs with the red-hot horse-
shoe in the fire. It was a pale face. Somehow,
all the old spirit seemed spent. Its wonted
suggestions of a dogged temper and latent
fierceness were effaced. It bore marks of pa-
tient resignation, that might have been wrought
by a life-time of self-sacrifice, rather than by
one imperious impulse, as potent as it was irre-
vocable. The face appeared in some sort sub-
limated.
The bellows ceased to sigh, the anvil began
to sing, the ringing staccato of the hammer
punctuated the droning story of the deputy
sheriff, still rehearsing the sensation of the hour
to the increasing crowd about the door. The
girl stood listening, half hidden in the bloom-
ing laurel. Her senses seemed strangely sharp-
ened, despite the amazement, the incredulity,
that possessed her. She even heard the old
cow cropping the scanty grass at her feet, and
saw every casual movement of the big brindled
head. She was conscious of the splendid her-
28 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
ald of a new day flaunting in the east. Against
this gorgeous presence of crimson and gold,
brightening and brightening till only the rising
sun could outdazzle it, she noted the romantic
outlines of the Cumberland crags and woody
heights, and marveled how near they appeared.
She was sensible of the fragrance of the dewy
azaleas, and she heard the melancholy song of
the pines, for the wind was astir. She marked
the grimaces of the idiot, looking like a dim
and ugly dream in the dark recesses of the
forge. His face was filled now with strange,
wild triumph, and now with partisan anger for
his brother's sake ; for Evander was more than
once harshly upbraided.
“An’so yer tantrums hev brung ye ter this
e-end, at last, 'Vander Price l’’ exclaimed an
old man indignantly. “I misdoubted ye when
I hearn how ye fit, that day, yander ter the
mill; an' they do say ez even Pete Blenkins air
plumb afeard ter jaw at ye, nowadays, on 'count
o' yer fightin’ an’ quar’lin’ ways. An’ now
ye hev gone an’ bodaciously slaughtered pore
Jubal Tynes! From what I hev hearn tell, I
jedge he air obleeged ter die. Then nothin'
kin save yel”
The girl burst suddenly forth from the flow-
ering splendors of the laurel. “”T war n’t
'Vander's deed!” she cried, perfect faith in
DRIFTING DO WN LOST CREEK. 29
every tone. “’Vander, 'Vander, who did it 2
Who did it 7” she reiterated imperiously.
Her cheeks were aflame. An eager expec-
tancy glittered in her wide brown eyes. Her
auburn hair flaunted to the breeze as brilliantly
as those golden harbingers of the sun. Her
bonnet had fallen to the ground, and her milk-
piggin was rolling away. The metallic stac-
cato of the hammer was silenced. A vibratory
echo trembled for an instant on the air. The
group had turned in slow surprise. The black-
Smith looked mutely at her. But the idiot
was laughing triumphantly, almost sanely, and
pointing at the sledge to call her attention to
its significant stains. The sheriff had laid the
implement carefully aside, that it might be pro-
duced in court in case Jubal Tynes should pass
beyond the point of affording, for Dr. Patton's
satisfaction, a gratifying instance of survival
from fracture of the skull, and die in a com-
monplace fashion which is of no interest to the
books or the profession.
“”T war n’t 'Vander's deed It could n’t
bel ” she declared passionately.
For the first time he faltered. There was
a pause. He could not speak.
“I done it !” cried the idiot, in shrill glee.
Then Evander regained his voice. “”T war
the eZ done it,” he said huskily, turning away
30 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
to the anvil with a gesture of dull despair. “I
done it !”
Fainting is not a common demonstration in
the mountains. It seemed to the bewildered
group as if the girl had suddenly dropped dead.
She revived under the water and cinders dashed
into her face from the barrel where the steel
was tempered. But life returned enfeebled
and vapid. That vivid consciousness and in-
tensity of emotion had reached a climax of sen-
sibility, and now she experienced the reaction.
It was in a sort of lethargy that she watched
their preparations to depart, while she sat upon
a rock at the verge of the clearing. As the
wagon trundled away down the road, laden
with the stolen goods, one of the posse looked
back at her with some compassion, and observed
to a companion that she seemed to take it con-
siderably to heart, and Sagely opined that she
and 'Vander “must hev been a-keepin’ com-
pany tergether some. But then,” he argued,
“she 's a downright good-lookin' gal, ef she do
be so red-headed. An’ thar air plenty likely
boys left in the mountings yit; an' ef thar ain’t,
she can jes' send down the valley a piece fur
me !” and he laughed, and went away quite
cheerful, despite his compassion. The horse-
men were in frantic impatience to be off, and
presently they were speeding in single file along
the Sandy mountain road.
DRIFTING DOWN LOST CREEK. 31
Cynthia sat there until late in the day, wist-
fully gazing down the long green vista where
they had disappeared. She could not believe
that Evander had really gone. Something, she
felt sure, would happen to bring them back.
Once and again she thought she heard the
beat of hoofs, – of distant hoofs. It was only
the melancholy wind in the melancholy pines.
They were laden with snow before she heard
aught of him. Beneath them, instead of the
dusky vistas the summer had explored, were
long reaches of ghastly white undulations,
whence the boles rose dark and drear. The
Cumberland range, bleak and bare, with its
leafless trees and frowning cliffs, stretched out
long, parallel spurs, one above another, one be-
yond another, tier upon tier, till they appeared
to meet in one distant level line somewhat
grayer than the gray sky, somewhat more des-
olate of aspect than all the rest of the desolate
world. When the wind rose, Pine Mountain
mourned with a mighty voice. Cynthia had
known that voice since her birth. But what
new meaning in its threnody Sometimes the
forest was dumb ; the sun glittered frigidly,
and the pines, every tiny needle encased in ice,
shone like a wilderness of gleaming rays. The
crags were begirt with gigantic icicles; the air
was crystalline and cold, and the only sound
32 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
was the clinking of the hand-hammer and the
clanking of the sledge from the forge on the
mountain’s brink. For there was a new striker
there, of whom Pete Blenkins did not stand
in awe. He felt peculiarly able to cope with
the world in general since his experience had
been enriched by a recent trip to Sparta. He
had been subpoenaed by the prosecution in the
case of the State of Tennessee versus Evander
Price, to tell the jury all he knew of the vio-
lent temper of his quondam striker, which he
did with much gusto and self-importance, and
pocketed his fee with circumspect dignity.
“’Vander looks toler’ble skimpy an' jail.
bleached, - so Pete Blenkins say,” remarked
Mrs. Ware, as she sat smoking her pipe in the
chimney corner, while Cynthia stood before the
warping bars, winding the party-colored yarn
upon the equidistant pegs of the great frame.
“Pete lowed ter me ez he hed tole you-uns ez
'Vander say he air powerful sorry he would
never l’arn ter write, when he went ter the
school at the Notch. 'Vander say he never
knowed ez he would have a use for sech. But
law the critter hed better be studyin' 'bout
the opportunities he hev wasted fur grace; fur
they say now ez Jube Tynes air bound ter die.
An' he will fur true, efold Dr. Patton air the
man I take him fur.”
DRIFTING DO WN LOST CREEK. 33
“”T war n’t "Vander's deed,” said Cynthia,
her practiced hands still busily investing the
warping bars with a homely rainbow of scarlet
and blue and saffron yarn. It added an embel-
lishment to the little room, which was already
bright with the firelight and the sunset stream-
ing in at the windows, and the festoons of red
pepper and popcorn and peltry swinging from
the rafters.
“Waal, waal, hew it so,” said her mother, in
acquiescent dissent, — “hew it so | But 't war
his deed receivin’ of the stolen goods; leastwise,
the jury b'lieved so. Pete say, though, ez they
would n’t hev been so sure, ef it war n’t fur
'Vander’s resistin’ arrest an’ in an’ about haffen
killin' Jubal Tynes. Pete say ez 'Vander's
name fur fightin’ an’ sech seemed ter hev sot
the jury powerful agin him.”
“An' thar war nobody thar ez would gin a
good word fur him l’ cried the girl, dropping
her hands with a gesture of poignant despair.
“”T war n’t in reason ez thar could be,” said
Mrs. Ware. “‘Wander's lawyer never sum-
monsed but a few of the slack-jawed boys from
the Settlemint ter prove his good character, an’
Pete said they 'peared awk’ard in thar minds
an’ flustrated, an’ spoke more agin 'Vander ’n
fur him. Pete 'lows ez they hed ter be paid
thar witness-fee by the State, too, on account of
2
34 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
'Vander hevin' no money ter fetch witnesses an’
sech ter Sparty. His dad an’ mam air mighty
shiftless — always war, – an’ they hev got that
hulking idjit ter eat 'em out ºn house an' home.
They hev been mightily put ter it this winter
ter live along, 'thout 'Vander ter holp 'em, like
he uster. But they war no ways anxious 'bout
his trial, 'kase Squair Bates tole 'em ez the
jedge would app’int a lawyer ter defend 'Van-
der, ez he hed no money ter hire a lawyer fur
hisself. An’ the jedge app’inted a young law-
yer thar; an' Pete 'lowed ez that young law-
yer made the trial the same eZ a gander-pullin’
fur the 'torney-gineral. Pete say ez that young
lawyer's ways tickled the 'torney-gineral haffen
ter death. Pete say the 'torney-gineral jes' sot
out ter devil that young lawyer, an’ he done it.
Pete say the young lawyer hed never hed more
'n one or two cases afore, an' he acted so fool-
ish that the 'torney-gineral kep' all the folks
laffin' at him. The jury laffed, an’so did the
jedge. I reckon Vander thought 't war mighty
pore fun. Pete say eZ 'Vander's lawyer furgot
a heap ez he oughter hev remembered, an’ fairly
ruined 'Vander's chances. Arter the trial the
'torney-gineral 'lowed ter Pete ez the State hed
hed a mighty shaky case agin 'Vander. But I
reckon he jes' said that ter make his own smart-
mess in winnin’ it seem more sprisin'. 'Vander
DRIFTING DO WN LOST CREEK. 35
>
war powerful interrupted by thar laffin' an’ the
game they made o' his lawyer, an’ said he did
n’t want no appeal. He lowed he hed seen
enough o' jestice. He lowed ez he'd take the
seven years in the pentiary that the jury gin
him, fur fear at the nex’ trial they'd gin him
twenty-seven ; though the 'torney-gineral say
ef Jube dies they will fetch him out agin, an’
try him fur that. The 'torney-gineral 'lowed
ter Pete ez 'Vander war a fool not ter move fur
a new trial an appeal, an' sech. He lowed ez.
'Vander war a derned ignorant man. An’ all
the folks round the court-house gin thar opinion
ez 'Vander hev got less gumption 'bout ºn the
law o' the land than enny man they ever see,
'cept that young lawyer he hed ter defend him.
Pete air powerful sati'fied with his performin’
in Sparty. He ups an’’lows ez they paid him
a dollar a day fur a witness-fee, an’ treated him
mighty perlite, – the jedge an' jury too.”
How Cynthia lived through that winter of
despair was a mystery to her afterward. Often,
as she sat brooding over the midnight embers,
she sought to picture to herself some detail of
the life that Evander was leading so far away.
The storm would beat heavily on the roof of
the log cabin, the mountain wind sob through
the sighing pines; ever and anon a wolf might
howl in the sombre depths of Lost Creek Wal-
36 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINs.
ley. But Evander had become a stranger to
her imagination. She could not construct even
a vague status that would answer for the prob-
lematic mode of life of the “valley folks” who
dwelt in Nashville, or in the penitentiary hard
by. She began to appreciate that it was a
narrow existence within the limits of Lost
Creek Valley, and that to its simple denizens
the world beyond was a foreign world, full of
strange habitudes and alien complications. Thus
it came to pass that he was no longer even a
vision. Because of this subtle bereavement she
would fall to sobbing drearily beside the dreary,
dying fire, — only because of this, for she never
wondered if her image to him had also grown
remote. How she pitied him, so lonely, so
strange, so forlorn, as he must be Did he
yearn for the mountains? Could he see them
in the spirit 2 Surely in his dreams, surely in
some kindly illusion, he might still behold that
fair land which touched the sky: the golden
splendors of the sunshine sifting through the
pines; flying shadows of clouds as fleet racing
above the distant ranges; untrodden woodland
nooks beside singing cascades; or some lonely
pool, whence the gray deer bounded away
through the red sumach leaves.
Sombre though the present was, the future
seemed darker still, clouded by the long and
DRIFTING DOWN LOST CREEK. 37
terrible suspense concerning the wounded offi-
cer's fate and the crime that Evander had ac-
knowledged.
“He could n’t hev done it,” she argued fu-
tilely. “”T war n’t his deed.”
She grew pale and thin, and her strength
failed with her failing spirit, and her mother
querulously commented on the change.
“An' sech a hard winter ez we-uns air a-tus-
slin’ with ; an' that thar ewe a-dyin’ ez Mºria
traded fur my little calf, ez war wuth forty sech
dead critters; an' hyar be Cynthy lookin' like
she hed fairly pegged out forty year ago, an’
been raised from the grave, – an’ all jes' 'kase
'Vander Price hev got ter be a evil man, an’
air locked up in the pen'tiary. It beats my
time ! He never said nothin' 'bout marryin',
nohow, ez I knows on. I never would hew
b'lieved you-uns would hev turned off Jeemes
Blake, ez hev got a good grist-mill o' his own
an’ a mighty desirable widder-woman fur a
mother, jes’ account of 'Vander Price. An’
'Vander will never kem back ter Pine Mount.
ing no more 'n Lost Creek will.”
Cynthia's color flared up for a moment.
Then she sedately replied, “I hev tole Jeemes
Blake, and I hev tole you-uns, ez I count on
livin' single.” -
“I’ll be bound ye never tole 'Vander that
38 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
word l’’ cried the astute old woman. “Waal,
waal, waall ” she continued, in exclamatory dis-
approval, as she leaned to the fire and scooped
up a live coal into the bowl of her pipe, “a gal
is a aggervatin’ contrivance, ennyhow, in the
world ! But I jes' up an’ tole Jeemes ez ye
hed got ter lookin' so peaked an’ mournful,
like some critter ez war shot an’ creepin’ away
ter die somewhar, an’ he hed n’t los’ much,
arter all.” She puffed vigorously at her pipe;
then, with a change of tone, “An' Jeemes air
mighty slack-jawed ter his elders, too ! He
tuk me up ez sharp. He lowed ez he hed no
fault ter find with yer looks. He said ye war
pritty enough fur him. Then my dander riz,
an' I spoke up, an’ says, “Mebbe so, Jeemes,
mebbe so, fur ye air in no wise pritty yerself.”
An' then he gin me no more of his jaw, but
arter he hed sot a while longer he said, ‘Far'-
well,’ toler’ble perlite, an’ put out.”
After a long time the Snow slipped gradually
from the mountain top, and the drifts in the
deep abysses melted, and heavy rains came on.
The mists clung, shroud-like, to Pine Mountain.
The distant ranges seemed to withdraw them-
selves into indefinite space, and for weeks Cyn-
thia was bereft of their familiar presence. Myr-
iads of streamlets, channeling the gullies and
swirling among the bowlders, were flowing
DRIFTING DOWN LOST CREEK. 39
down the steeps to join Lost Creek, on its way
to its mysterious sepulchre beneath the moun-
tains.
And at last the spring opened. A vivid
green tipped the sombre plumes of the pines.
The dull gray mists etherealized to a silver
gauze, and glistened above the mellowing land-
scape. The wild cherry was blooming far and
near. From the summit of the mountain could
be seen for many a mile the dirt-road in the
valley, - a tawny streak of color on every hill-
top, or winding by every fallow field and rocky
slope. A wild, new hope was suddenly astir
in Cynthia's heart ; a new energy fired her
blood. It may have been only the recuperative
power of youth asserting itself. To her it was
as if she had heard the voice of the Lord; and
she arose and followed it.
II.
Following the voice of the Lord, Cynthia took
her way along a sandy bridle-path that pene-
trates the dense forests of Pine Mountain. The
soft spring wind, fluttering in beneath her sun-
bonnet, found the first wild-rose blooming on
her thin cheek. A new light shone like a stead-
fast star in her deep brown eyes. “I hev took
a-holt,” she said resolutely, “an’ I’ll never gin
40 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
it up. ‘T war n’t his deed, an’ I’ll prove that,
agin his own word. I dunno how, - but I’ll
prove it.” .
The woods seemed to open at last, for the
brink of the ridge was close at hand. As the
trees were marshaled down the steep declivity,
she could see above their heads the wide and
splendid mountain landscape, with the benedic-
tion of the spring upon it, with the lofty peace
of the unclouded sky above it, with an impres-
sive silence pervading it that was akin to a holy
solemnity.
There was a rocky, barren slope to the left,
and among the brambly ledges sheep were feed-
ing. As the flock caught her attention she ex-
perienced a certain satisfaction. “ They hed
sheep in the Lord’s lifetime,” she observed.
“He gins a word 'bout ºn them more 'n enny
other critter.”
And she sat down on a rock, among the harm-
less creatures, and was less lonely and forlorn.
A little log house surmounted the slope. It
was quaintly awry, like most of the mountain-
eers' cabins, and the ridgepole, with its irregu-
larly projecting clapboards serrating the sky be-
hind it, described a negligently oblique line.
Its clay chimney had a leaning tendency, and
was propped to its duty by a long pole. There
was a lofty martin-house, whence the birds
DRIFTING DOWN LOST CREEK. 41
whirled fitfully. The rail fence inclosing the
dooryard was only a few steps from the porch.
There rested the genial afternoon sunshine. It
revealed the spinning-wheel that stood near the
wall; the shelf close to the door, with a pail of
water and a gourd for the incidentally thirsty;
the idle churn, its dasher on another shelf to
dry; a rooster strutting familiarly in at the
open door; and a newly hatched brood picking
about among the legs of the splint-bottomed
chairs, under the guidance of a matronly old
“Dominicky hen.” In one of the chairs sat a
man, emaciated, pallid, swathed in many gay-
colored quilts, and piping querulously in a high,
piercing key to a worn and weary woman, who
came to the fence and looked down the hill as
he feebly pointed.
“Cynthy — Cynthy Ware l’” she called out,
“air that you-uns?”
Cynthia hesitated, then arose and went for-
ward a few steps. “It be me,” she said, as if
making an admission.
“Kem up hyar. Jube's wantin’ ter know
why ye hain’t been hyar ter inquire arter him.”
The woman waited at the gate, and opened it
for her visitor. She looked hardly less worn
and exhausted than the broken image of a man
in the chair. “Jube counts up every critter in
the mountings ez kems ter inquire arter him,”
42 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
she added, in a lower voice. “’Pears-like ter
me eZ it air about time fur worldly pride ter
hev loosed a-holt on him ; but Satan kin foster
guile whar thar ain’t enough life left fur nuthin'
else, an’ pore Jube hev never been so gin over
ter the glory o' this world ez now.”
“He ‘pears ter be gittin' on some,” said the
girl, although she hardly recognized in the
puny, pallid apparition among the muffling
quilts the bluff and hale mountaineer she had
known.
“Fust-rate l’’ weakly piped out the constable.
“I eat a haffen pone o’ bread fur dinner l’’
Then he turned querulously to his wife : “Jane
Elmiry, ain’t ye goin’ tergit me that thar fraish
aig ter whip up in whiskey, like the doctor
Said 2 ”
“”T ain’t time yit, Jube,” replied the patient
wife. “The doctor 'lowed ez the aig must be
spang fraish ; an' ez old Topknot lays ter the
minit every day, I’m a-waitin' on her.”
The wasted limbs under the quilts squirmed
around vivaciously. “An’yander's the darned
critter,” he cried, spying old Topknot leisurely
pecking about under a lilac bush, “a-feedin'
around ez complacent an’ sati'fied eZ ef I war
n’t a-settin’ hyar waitin' on her lazy bones
Cynthy, I’m jes' a-honing arter Suthin’ ter eat
all the time, an’ that's what makes me 'low ez
DRIFTING DO WN LOST CREEK, 43
I’m gittin’ well; though Jane Elmiry”—he
glared fiercely at his meek wife, “hev some-
hows los' her knack at cookin', an’sometimes
I can’t eat my vittles when they air fetched
ter me.”
He fell back in his chair, his tangled, over-
grown hair hardly distinguishable from his tan-
gled, overgrown beard. His eyes roved rest-
lessly about the quiet landscape. A mist was
gathering over the eastern ranges; shot with
the sunlight, it was but a silken and filmy sug-
gestion of vapor. A line of vivid green in the
valley marked the course of Lost Creek by the
willows and herbage fringing its banks. A
gilded bee, with a languorous drone, drifted in
and out of the little porch, and the shadow of
the locust above it was beginning to lengthen.
The tree was in bloom, and Cynthia picked up
a fallen spray as she sat down on the step. He
glanced casually at her ; then, with the ego-
tism of an invalid, his mind reverted to himself.
“Why hain't ye been hyar ter inquire arter
me, Cynthy, -you-uns, or yer dad, or yer mam,
or somebody ? I hain’t been lef’ ter suffer,
though, thout folkses axin’ arter me, I tell ye |
The miller hev been hyar day arter day. Ba-
ker Teal, what keeps the store yander ter the
Settlemint, hew rid over reg’lar. Tom Peters
kems ez sartain ez the sun. An' the jestice o'
44 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
the peace”—he winked weakly in triumph,
“Squair Bates — hev been hyar nigh on ter
wunst a week. The sheriff or one o’ the dep'-
ties hain't been sca’ce round hyar, nuther. An’
Some other folkses — I name no names — sends
me all the liquor I kin drink from a still ez they
say grows in a hollow rock round hyar some-
whar. They sends me all I kin drink, an’ Jane
Elmiry, too. I don’t want but a little, but Jane
Elmiry air a tremenjious toper, ye know !”
He laughed in a shrill falsetto at his joke, and
his wife smiled, but faintly, for she realized the
invalid's pleasant mood was brief. “Ef I hed
a-knowed how pop’lar I be, I’d hev run fur jes-
tice o’ the peace stiddier constable. But nex’
time thar’ll be a differ; that hain’t the las’ elec-
tion this world will ever see, Cynthy.” Then,
as his eyes fell upon her once more, he remem-
bered his question. “Why n’t ye been hyar
ter inquire arter me 7”
The girl was confused by his changed aspect,
his eager, restless talk, his fierce girding at his
patient wife, and lost what scanty tact she
might have otherwise claimed.
“The folkses ez rid by hyar tole us how ye
be a-gittin' on. An' we-uns 'lowed ez mebbe
ye would n’t want ter see us, bein’ ez we war
always sech friends with 'Vander, an’” —
The woman stopped her by a hasty gesture
DRIFTING DOWN LOST CREEK. 45
and a look of terror. They did not escape the
invalid's notice.
“What ails ye, Jane Elmiry 2” he cried, an-
grily. “Ye act like ye war destracted l’”
A sudden fit of coughing impeded his utter-
ance, and gave his wife the opportunity for a
whispered aside. “He ain’t spoke 'Vander's
name sence he war hurt. The doctor said he
war n’t ter talk about his a-gittin' hurt, an’ the
man ez done it. The doctor 'lowed 't would
fever him an' put him out ºn his head, an' he
must jes' think 'bout 'm gittin' well all the
time, an’ sech.”
Jubal Tynes had recovered his voice and his
temper. “I hain't got no grudge agin' 'Van-
der,” he declared, in his old, bluff way, “nur
'Vander's friends, nuther. It air jes' that dad-
burned idjit, 'Lijah, ez I despise. Jane El-
miry, ain’t that old Topknot ez J hear a-cack-
lin’? Waal, waal, sir, dad-burn that thar lazy,
idle poultry ! Air she a-stalkin’ round the yard
yit 2 GO, Jane Elmiry, an’ see whar she be.
Ef she ain't got sense enough ter git on her
nest an lay a aig when desirable, she hain’t got
sense enough ter keep out ºn a chicken pie.”
“I mought skeer her off ºn her nest,” his
wife remonstrated. -
But the imperious invalid insisted. She rose
reluctantly, and as she stepped off the porch
she cast an imploring glance at Cynthia.
46 fM THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
The girl was trembling. The mere mention
of the deed to its victim had unnerved her.
She felt it was perhaps a safe transition from
the subject to talk about the idiot brother. “I
hev hearn folks low ez Lijah oughter be
locked up, but I dunno,” she said.
The man fixed a concentrated gaze upon her.
“Waal, ain’t he 7”.
“’Lijah ain’t locked up,” she faltered, bewil-
dered.
His face fell. Unaccountably enough, his
pride seemed grievously cut down.
“Waal, 'Lijah ain't 'sponsible, I know,” he
reasoned; “but bein’ ez he treated me this way,
an’ me a important off’cer o’ the law, 'pears-
like ’t would a-been more respec'ful ef they hed
committed him ter jail eZ insane, or sent him
ter the 'sylum, -fur they take some crazies at
the State's expense.” He paused thoughtfully.
He was mortified, hurt. “But shucks l’” he
exclaimed presently, “let him treat haffen the
county ez he done me, ef he wants ter. I ain’t
a-keerin’.”
Cynthia's head was awhirl. She could hardly
credit her senses.
“How war it that 'Lijah treated you-uns 2 ”
she gasped. g
In his turn he stared, amazed.
“Cynthy, ‘pears-like ye hev los' yer mind
DRIFTING DOWN LOST CREEK. - 47
How did 'Lijah treat me? Waal, 'Lijah
whacked me on the head with his brother's
sledge, an’ split my skull, an’ the folks say
some o' my brains oozed out. I hev got more
of 'em now, though, than ye hev. Ye look
plumb bereft. What ails the gal?”
“Air ye sure — sure ez that war the happen-
ing of it? — kase 'Vander tells a differ. He
'lowed ez’t war him ez hit ye with the sledge.
An' nobody suspicioned 'Lijah.”
Jubal Tynes looked very near death now.
His pallid face was framed in long elf-locks; he
thrust his head forward, till his emaciated
throat and neck were distinctly visible ; his
lower jaw dropped in astonishment.
“God A’mighty l’’ he ejaculated, “why hev
'Vander tole sech a lie? Sure! Why, I seen
'Lijah ' 'Wander never teched the sledge. An’
'Vander never teched me.”
“Ye hev furgot, mebbe,” she urged, fever.
ishly. “’Twar in the dark.”
“Listen at the gal argufyin’ with me!” he
exclaimed, angrily. “I seen 'Lijah, I tell ye,
in the light o' the forge fire. ‘T war n’t more 'n
a few coals, but eZ 'Lijah swung his arm it
fanned the fire, an’ it lept up. I seen his face
in the glow, an’ the sledge in his hand. 'Lijah
war hid a-hint the hood. 'Vander war tº other
side o’ the anvil. I gripped with 'Lijah. I
48 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
seen him plain. He hit me twict. I never
los' my senses till the second lick. Then I
drapped. What ails Vander, ter tell sech a
lie 2 Ef I hed a-died, stiddier gittin’ well so
powerful peart, they’d hev hung him, sure.”
“Mebbe he thought they’d hang Lijah !”
she gasped, appalled at the magnitude of the
sacrifice. *
“’Lijah ain’t 'sponsible ter the law,” said
Jubal Tynes, with his magisterial aspect,
“bein’ ez he air a ravin' crazy, ez oughter be
locked up.”
“I reckon Vander never knowed ez that war
true,” she rejoined, reflectively. “The 'torney-
gineral tole Pete Blenkins, when 'Vander war
convicted of receivin' of stolen goods, ez how
'Vander war toler’ble ignorant, an’ knowed
powerful little 'bout the law o' the land. He
done it, I reckon, ter pertect the idjit.”
Jubal Tynes made no rejoinder. He had fallen
back in his chair, so frail, so exhausted by the
unwonted excitement, that she was alarmed
anew, realizing how brief his time might be.
“Jubal Tynes,” she said, leaning forward
and looking up at him imploringly, “ef I war
ter tell what ye hev tole me, nobody would be-
lieve me, ’kase — "kase 'Vander an’ me hev kep'
company some. Hed n’t ye better tell it ter
the Squair ez how 'Vander never hit ye, but
2
DRIFTING DO WN LOST CREEK. 49
said he did, ter git the blame shet o' the idjit
'Lijah, ez ain't 'sponsible, nohows 7 Ain't thar
no way ter make it safe fur Vander 2 They
'lowed he would n’t hev been convicted of re-
ceivin' of stolen goods 'ceptin’ fur the way the
jury thought he behaved 'bout resistin’ arrest
an' hittin' ye with the sledge.”
The sick man's eyes were aflame. “Ye 'low
ez I'm goin’ ter die, Cynthy Ware l’’ he cried,
with sudden energy. “I’ll gin ye ter onder-
stand ez I feel ez strong ez a ox! I won’t do
nuthin’ fur 'Vander. Let him stand or fall by
the lie he hev tole ! I feel ez solid ez Pine
Mounting ! I won’t do nuthin’ ez ef I war
a-goin’ ter die, – like eZ ef I war a chicken
with the pip — an’ whar air that ole hen ez
war nominated ter lay a aig, ter whip up in
whiskey, an' ain’t done it 7”
A sudden wild cackling broke upon the air.
The red rooster, standing by the gate, stretched
up his long neck to listen, and lifted his voice
in jubilant sympathy. Jubal Tynes looked
around at Cynthia with a laugh. Then his
brow darkened, and his mind reverted to his
refusal.
“Ye jes' onderstand,” he reiterated, “ez I
won’t do muthin’ like eZ ef I war goin’ ter die.”
She got home as best she could, weeping and
wringing her hands much of the way, feeling
50 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
baffled and bruised, and aghast at the terrible
perplexities that crowded about her.
Jubal Tynes had a bad night. He was rest-
less and fretful, and sometimes, when he had
been still for a while, and seemed about to sink
into slumber, he would start up abruptly, de-
claring that he could not “git shet of studying
'bout 'n 'Vander, an’’Lijah, an’ the sledge,”
and violently wishing that Cynthia Ware had
died before she ever came interrupting him
about 'Wander, and 'Lijah, and the sledge.
Toward morning exhaustion prevailed. He
sank into a deep, dreamless sleep, from which
he woke refreshed and interested in the mat-
ter of breakfast.
That day a report went the excited rounds of
the mountain that he had made a sworn state-
ment before Squire Bates, denying that Evander
Price had resisted arrest, exonerating him of all
connection with the injuries supposed to have
been received at his hands, and inculpating only
the idiot Elijah. This was supplemented by
Dr. Patton’s affidavit as to his patient's mental
soundness and responsibility.
It roused Cynthia's flagging spirit to an ec-
stasy of energy. Her strength was as fictitious
as the strength of delirium, but it sufficed.
Opposition could not baffle it. Obstacles but
multiplied its expedients. She remembered
DRIFTING DOWN LOST CREEK, 51
that the trained and astute attorney for the
State had declared to Pete Blenkins, after the
trial, that the prosecution had no case against
Evander Price for receiving stolen goods, and
must have failed but for the prejudice of the
jury. It was proved to them by his own con-
fession that he had resisted arrest and assaulted
the officer of the law, and circumstantial evi-
dence had a light task, with this auxiliary, to
establish other charges. Now, she thought, if
the jury that convicted him, the judge that sen-
tenced him, and the governor of the State were
cognizant of this stupendous self-sacrifice to
fraternal affection, could they, would they, still
take seven years of his life from him 2 At least,
they should know of it, — she had resolved on
that. She hardly appreciated the difficulty of
the task before her. She was densely ignorant.
She lived in a primitive community. Such a
paper as a petition for executive clemency had
never been drawn within its experience. She
could not have discovered that this proceeding
was practicable, except for the pride of office
and legal lore of Jubal Tynes. He joyed in dis-
playing his learning ; but beyond the fact that
such a paper was possible, and sometimes suc-
cessful, and that she had better see the lawyer
at the Settlement about it, he suggested nothing
of value. And so she tramped a matter of ten
52 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
miles along the heavy, sandy road, through the
dense and lonely woods ; and weary, but flushed
with joyous hope, she came upon the surprised
lawyer at the Settlement. This was a man who
built the great structure of justice upon a foun-
dation of fees. He listened to her, noted the
poverty of her aspect, and recommended her to
secure the coöperation of the convict’s imme-
diate relatives. And so, patiently back again,
along the dank and darkening mountain road.
The home of her lover was not an inviting
abode. When she had turned from the thor-
oughfare into a vagrant, irresponsible-looking
path, winding about in the depths of the forest,
it might have seemed that in a group which
presently met her eyes, the animals were the
more emotional, alert, and intelligent element.
The hounds came huddling over the rickety
fence, and bounded about her in tumultuous
recognition. An old sow, with a litter of shrill
soprano pigs, started up from a clump of weeds,
in maternal anxiety and doubt of the intruder's
intentions. The calf peered between the rails
in mild wonder at this break in the monotony.
An old man sat motionless on the fence, with
as sober and business-like an aspect as if he did
it for a salary. The porch was occupied by an
indiscriminate collection of household effects,
— cooking utensils, garments, broken chairs,
DRIFTING DO WN LOST CREEK. 53
—and an untidy, disheveled woman. An old
crone, visible within the door, was leisurely
preparing the evening meal. Cynthia's heart
warmed at the sight of the familiar place. The
tears started to her sympathetic eyes. “I hev
kem ter tell ye all 'bout 'n 'Vander l’” she cried
impulsively, when she was welcomed to a chair
and a view of the weed-grown “gyarden-spot.”
But the disclosure of her scheme did not
waken responsive enthusiasm. The old man,
still dutifully riding the fence, conservatively
declared that the law of the land was a “mighty
tetchy contrivance,” and he did n’t feel called on
to meddle with it. “They mought jail the whole
fambly, ez fur ez I know, an’ then who would
work the gyarden-spot, ez air thrivin' now, an’
the peas fullin' up cornsider’ble?”
Mrs. Price had “no call ter holp sot the law
on 'Lijah agin 'Vander's word. I dunno what
the folks would do ter Lijah ef Jube died,
sence he hev swore eZ he hev done afore Squair
Bates. Some tole me eZ 'Lijah air purtected
by bein’ a idjit but I ain’t sati'fied 'bout ºn that.
'Lijah war sane enough ter be toler’ble skeered
when he hearn bout ’n it all, an’ hev tuk ter
shettin' hisself up in the shed-room when stran-
gers kem about.” And indeed Cynthia had an
unpleasant impression that the idiot was look-
ing out suspiciously at her from a crack in the
54 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS,
door, but he precipitately slammed it when she
turned her head to make sure. The old crone
paused in her preparations for supper, that she
might apply all her faculties to argument. “It
don’t 'pear ter reason how the gov'nor will par-
don 'Vander fur receivin' of stolen goods jes’
'kase 't war n’t him ez bruk Jube Tynes's head,”
she declared. “Wander war jailed fur receivin'
stolen goods, – nobody never keered nothin’ fur
Jube Tynes's head ſhev knowed the Tynes
fambly time out 'n mind,” she continued, rais-
ing her voice in shrill contempt. “I knowed
Jubal Tynes, an' his daddy afore him. An’
now ter kem talkin’ ter me 'bout the gov'nor
o' Tennessee keerin’ fur Jube Tynes's nicked
head. I don't keer nothin' 'bout Jube Tynes's
nicked head; an' let ’em tell the gov'nor that
fur me, an’ see what he will think then l’’
Poor Cynthia It had never occurred to her
to account herself gifted beyond her fellows
and her opportunities. The simple events of
their primitive lives had never before elicited
the contrast. It gave her no satisfaction. She
only experienced a vague, miserable wonder that
she should have perceptions beyond their range
of vision, should be susceptible of emotions
which they could never share. She realized
that she could get no material aid here, and she
went away at last without asking for it.
DRIFTING DO WN LOST CREEK. 55
Her little all was indeed little, – a few chick-
ens, some “spun-truck,” a sheep that she had
nursed from an orphaned lamb, a “cag” of ap-
ple-vinegar, and a bag of dried fruit, — but it
had its value to the mountain lawyer ; and when
he realized that this was indeed “all” he drew
the petition in consideration thereof, and ap-
pended the affidavits of Jubal Tynes and Dr.
Patton.
“She ain’t got a red head on her for nothin’,”
he said to himself, in admiration of her astute-
ness in insisting that, as a part of his services,
he should furnish her with a list of the jury
that convicted Evander Price.
“For every man of 'em hev got ter sot his
name ter that thar petition,” she averred.
He even offered, when his energy and inter-
est were aroused, to take the paper with him to
Sparta when he next attended circuit court.
There, he promised, he would secure some in-
fluential signatures from the members of the
bar and other prominent citizens.
When she was fairly gone he forgot his en-
ergy and interest. He kept the paper three
months. He did not once offer it for a signa-
ture. And when she demanded its return, it
was mislaid, lost.
Oratory is a legal requisite in that region.
He might have taken some fine points from her
56 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
tº
unconscious eloquence, inspired by love and
grief and despair, her scathing arraignment of
his selfish neglect, her upbraidings and alternate
appeals. It overwhelmed him, in some sort,
and yet he was roused into activity unusual
enough to revive the lost document. She went
away with it, leaving him in rueful meditation.
“She hain't got a red head on her for nothin’,”
he said, remembering her pungent rhetoric.
But as he glanced out of the door, and saw
her trudging down the road, all her grace and
pliant swaying languor lost in convulsive, awk-
ward haste and a feeble, jerky gait, he laughed.
For poor Cynthia had become in some sort a
grotesque figure. Only Time can pose a crusa-
der to picturesque advantage. The man or
woman with a great and noble purpose carries
about with it a pitiful little personality that
reflects none of its lustre. Cynthia's devotion,
her courage, her endurance in righting this
wrong, were not so readily apparent when, in
the valley, she went tramping from one juror's
i
house to another's as were her travel-stained gar-
ments, her wild, eager eye, her incoherent, anx-
ious speech, her bare, swollen feet, — for some-
times she was fain to carry her coarse shoes in
her hands for relief in the long journeyings.
Her father had refused to aid “Sech a fool yer-
rand,” and locked up his mare in the barn.
DRIFTING DO WN LOST CREEK. 57
Without a qualm, he had beheld Cynthia set
out resolutely on foot. “She’ll be back afore
the cows kem home,” he said, with a laughing
nod at his wife. But they came lowing home
and clanking their mellow bells in many and
many a red sunset before they again found Cyn-
thia waiting for them on the banks of Lost
Creek.
The descent to a lower level was a painful
experience to the little mountaineer. She was
“sificated" by the denser atmosphere of the
“valley country,” and exhausted by the heat :
but when she could think only of her mission
she was hopeful, elated, and joyously kept on
her thorny way. Sometimes, however, the dogs
barked at her, and the children hooted aftes
her, and the men and women she met looked
askance upon her, and made her humbly con-
scious of her disheveled, dusty attire, her awk-
ward, hobbling gait, her lean, hungry, worn
aspect. Occasionally they asked for her story,
and listened incredulously and with sarcastic
comments. Once, as she started again down
the road, she heard her late interlocutor call out
to some one at the back of the house, “Becky,
take them clothes in off ºn the line, an’ take
'em in quick l’”
And though her physical sufferings were
great, she had some tears to shed for sorrow's
sake.
58 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS,
Always she got a night's lodging at the house
of one or another of the twelve jurymen, whose
names were gradually affixed to the petition.
But they too had questions that were hard to
answer. “Are you kin of his?” they would
ask, impressed by her hardships and her self-
immolation. And when she would answer,
“No,” she would fancy that the shelter they
gave her was not in confidence, but for mere
humanity. And she shrank sensitively from
these supposititious suspicions. They were poor
men, mostly, but one of them stopped his plow-
ing to lend her his horse to the next house, and
another gave her a lift of ten miles in his wagon,
as it was on his way. He it was who told her,
in rehearsing the country-side gossip, that the
governor was canvassing the State for reëlec-
tion, and had made an appointment to speak at
Sparta the following day.
A new idea flashed into her mind. Her Sud-
den resolution fairly frightened her. She cow-
ered before it, as they drove along between the
fields of yellowing corn, all in the gairish Sun-
shine, spreading so broadly over the broad plain.
That night she lay awake thinking of it, while
the cold drops started upon her brow. Before
daybreak she was up and trudging along the
road to Sparta. It was still early when she
entered the little town of the mountain bench,
DRIFTING D OWN LOST CREEK. 59
set in the flickering mists and chill, matutinal
sunshine, and encompassed on every hand by the
mighty ranges. A flag floated from the roof of
the court-house, and there was an unusual stir
in the streets. Excited groups were talking at
every corner, and among a knot of men, stand-
ing near, one riveted her attention. He had
been spoken of in her hearing as the governor
of the State. Bold with the realization of the
opportunity, she pushed through the staring
crowd and thrust the much-thumbed petition
into his hand. He cast a surprised glance upon
her, then looked at the paper. “All right; I’ll
examine it,” he said hastily, and folding it he
turned away. In his political career he had
studied many faces; unconsciously an adept, he
may have deciphered those subtle hieroglyphics
of character, and despite her ignorance, her
poverty, and the low, criminal atmosphere of
her mission, read in her eyes the dignity of
her endeavor, the nobility of her nature, and
the prosaic martyrdom of her toilsome experi-
ence. He turned suddenly back to reassure
her. “Rely on it,” he said heartily, “I’ll do
what I can.” -
Her pilgrimage was accomplished ; there was
nothing more but to turn her face to the moun-
tains. It seemed to her at times as if she should
never reach them. They were weary hours
60 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
before she came upon Lost Creek, loitering
down the sunlit valley to vanish in the grew-
some caverns beneath the range. The su-
mach leaves were crimsoning along its banks.
The scarlet-oak emblazoned the mountain side.
Above the encompassing heights the sky was
blue, and the mountain air tasted like wine.
Never a crag or chasm so sombre but flaunted
some swaying vine or long tendriled moss, gilded
and gleaming yellow. Buckeyes were falling,
and the ashy “Indian pipes” silvered the roots
of the trees. In every marshy spot glowed
the scarlet cardinal-flower, and the goldenrod
had sceptred the season. Now and again the
forest quiet was broken by the patter of acorns
from the chestnut-Oaks, and the mountain swine
were abroad for the plenteous mast. Overhead
she heard the faint, weird cry of wild geese
winging southward. The whole aspect of the
scene was changed, save only Pine Mountain.
There it stood, solemn, majestic, mysterious,
masked by its impenetrable growth, and hung
about with duskier shadows wherever a ravine
indented the slope. The spirit within it was
chanting softly, softly. For the moment she
felt the supreme exaltation of the mountains. It
lifted her heart. And when a sudden fluctuating
red glare shot out over the murky shades, and
the dull sighing of the bellows reached her ear
DRIFTING DO WN LOST CREEK. 61
from the forge on the mountain's brink, and the
air was presently vibrating with the clinking of
the hand-hammer and the clanking of the sledge,
and the crags clamored with the old familiar
echoes, she realized that she had done all she had
sought to do; that she had gone forth helpless
but for her own brave spirit; that she had re-
turned helpful, and hopeful, and that here was
her home, and she loved it.
This enabled her to better endure the anger
and reproaches of her relatives and the curi-
osity and covert suspicion of the whole country-
side.
Evander's people regarded the situation with
grave misgivings. “I hope ter the mercy-seat,”
quavered old man Price, “ez Cynthy Ware
hain’t gone an’ actially sot the gov'nor o' Ten-
nessee more ºn ever agin that pore critter; but
I misdoubts,”— he shook his head piteously, as
he perched on the fence, — “I misdoubts.”
“An' the insurance o’ that thar gall” cried
Mrs. Price. “She never had no call ter med-
dle with 'Vander.”
Cynthia's mother entertained this view, also,
but for a different reason. “”T war no consarn
o’ Cynthy's, nohow,” she said, advising with
her daughter Maria. “Cynthy air neither kith
nor kin o' 'Wander, who air safer an’ likelier in
the pen'tiary 'n ennywhar else, 'kase it leaves
62 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
her no chºice but Jeemes Blake, ez she hed bet-
ter take whilst he air in the mind fur it an’
whilst she kin git him.”2%
Jubal Tynes wished he could have foreseen
that she would meet the governor, for he could
have told her exactly what to say ; and this, he
was confident, would have secured the pardon.
And it was clearly the opinion of the “moun-
ting,” expressed in the choice coteries assem-
bled at the mill, the blacksmith's shop, the Set-
tlement, and the still-house, that a “young gal
like Cynthy’” had transcended all the bounds of
propriety in this “wild junketing after gov-
'nors an’ sech through all the valley country,
whar she war n’t knowed from a gate-post, nor
her dad nuther.”
There were, however, doubters, who dispar-
aged the whole account of the journey as a fa-
ble, and circulated a whisper that the petition
had never been presented.
This increased to open incredulity as time
wore on, to ridicule, to taunts, for no word
came of the petition for pardon and no word
of the prisoner.
The bleak winter wore away ; spring budded
and bloomed into summer ; summer was ripen-
ing into autumn, and every day, as the corn
yellowed and, thickly swathed ears hung far
from the stalk, and the drone of the locust was
DRIFTING DOWN LOST CREEK. 63
loud in the grass, and Sthe deep, slumberous
glow of the sunshine suffused every open spot,
Cynthia, with the return of the season, was
vividly reminded of her weary ploddings, with
bleeding feet and aching head, between such
fields along the lengthening valley roads. And
the physical anguish she remembered seemed
light — seemed naught — to the anguish of sus-
pense which racked her now. Sometimes she
felt impelled to a new endeavor. Then her
strong common sense checked the useless im-
pulse. She had done all that could be done.
She had planted the seed. She had worked
€ /
J./
and watched, and beheld it spring up and putſ
forth and grow into fair proportions; only time
might bring its full fruition.
The autumn was waning; cold rains set in,
and veined the rocky chasms with alien tor-
rents; the birds had all flown, when suddenly
the Indian summer, with its golden haze and
its great red sun, its purple distances and its
languorous joy, its balsamic perfumes and it
vagrant day-dreams, slipped down upon the
gorgeous crimson woods, and filled them with
its glamour and its poetry.
One of these days — a perfect day — a great
sensation pervaded Pine Mountain. Word
went the rounds that a certain notorious horse
thief, who had served out his term in the peni-
64 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
tentiary, had stopped at the blacksmith shop
on his way home, glad enough of the prospect
of being there once more ; “an ez pious in
speech ez the rider, mighty nigh,” said the
dwellers about Pine Mountain, unfamiliar with
his aspect as a penitent and discounting his re-
pentance. It was a long story he had to tell
about himself, and he enjoyed posing as the cen-
tral figure in the curious crowd that had gath-
ered about him. He seemed for the time less
like a criminal than a great traveler, so strange
and full of interest to the simple mountaineers
were his experiences and the places he had
seen. He stood leaning against the anvil, as he
talked, looking out through the barn-like door
upon the amplitude of the great landscape be-
fore him ; its mountains so dimly, delicately
blue in the distance, so deeply red and brown
and yellow nearer at hand, and still closer
shaded off by the dark plumy boughs of the
pines on either side of the ravine above which
the forge was perched. Deep in the valley, be-
tween them all, Lost Creek hied along, veining
the purple haze with lines of palpitating silver.
It was only when the material for personal nar-
ration was quite exhausted that he entered,
though with less Zest, on other themes.
“Waal, - now, 'Wander Price,” he drawled,
shifting his great cowhide boots one above
DRIFTING DOWN LOST CREEK. . 65
another. “I war 'stonished when I hearn ez
'Vander war in fur receivin' of stolen goods.
Shucks!” — his little black eyes twinkled be-
neath the drooping brim of a white wool hat,
and his wide, flat face seemed wider and flatter
for a contemptuous grin, – “I can’t onderstand
how a man kin git his own cornsent tergo corn-
sortin’ with them ez breaks inter stores and
dwellin's an’ sech, an’ hankerin’ arter store-fix-
in’s an’ store-truck. Live-stock air a differ. The
beastis air temptin', partic’lar ef they air young
an' hev got toler’ble paces.” Perhaps a change
in the faces of his audience admonished him, for
he qualified: “The beastis air temptin' — ter
the ungodly. I hev gin over sech doin’s myself,
'kase we hed a toler’ble chaplain yander in the
valley” (he alluded thus equivocally to his late
abode), “an' I sot under the preachin' a good
while. But store-truck I — shucks | Waal, the
gyards 'lowed ez 'Vander war a turrible feller
ter take keer on, when they war a-fetchin’ him
down ter Nashvul. He jes' seemed desolated.
One minit he'd fairly cry ez ef every sob would
take his life; an' the nex’ he "d be squarin’ off
ez Savage, an’ tryin’ ter hit the gyards in the
head. He war ironed, hand an’ foot.”
There was no murmur of sympathy. All lis-
tened with stolid curiosity, except Cynthia, who
was leaning against the open door. The tears
5
66 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
forced their way, and silently flowed, unheeded,
down her cheeks. She fixed her brown eyes
upon the man as he went on : —
“But when they struck the railroad, an’ the
critter seen the iron engine eZ runs by steam,
like I war a-tellin' ye about, he jes' stood
rooted ter the spot in amaze; they could sca’cely
git him budged away from thar. They lowed
they hed never seen sech joy ez when he war
travelin' on the steam-kyars ahint it. When
they went a-skeetin’ along ez fast an ez steady
ez a tur-r-key-buzzard kin fly, 'Vander would
jes' look fust at one o’ the gyards an’ then at
the t'other, a-smilin’ an’ tickled nearly out 'n
his senses. An’ wunst he said, “Ef this ain’t
the glory o' God revealed in the work o' man,
what is?’ The gyards 'lowed he acted so cu-
r’ous they would hev b'lieved he war a plumb
idjit, ef it hed n’t a-been fur what happened ar-
terward at the Pen.”
“Waal, what war it ezhappened at the Pen?”
demanded Pete Blenkins. His red face, suffused
with the glow of the smouldering forge-fire, was
a little wistful, as if he grudged his quondam
striker these unique sensations.
“They put him right inter the forge at the
Pen, an’ he tuk ter the work like a pig ter car-
rots.” The ex-convict paused for a moment,
and cast his eye disparagingly about the primi-
DRIFTING DO WN LOST CREEK. 67
tive smithy. “They do a power o’ work thar,
Pete, ez you-uns never drempt of.”
“Shucks l’’ rejoined Pete incredulously, yet
a trifle ill at ease.
“’Vander war a good blacksmith fur the
mountings, but they sot him ter l'arnin’ thar.
They lowed, though, ez he war pearter’n the
peartest. He got ter be powerful pop’lar with
all the gyards an authorities, an’ sech. He war :
plumb welded ter his work — he sets more store
by metal than by grace. He lowed ter me ez
he would n’t hev missed bein’ thar fur nuth-
in’ſ 'Vander air a powerful cur’ous critter: he
'lowed ter me eZ one year in the forge at the
Pen war wuth a hundred years in the mount-
ings ter him.”
Poor Cynthia | Her eyes, large, luminous,
and sweet, with the holy rapture of a listening
saint, were fixed upon the speaker's evil, uncouth
face. Evander had not then been so unhappy
“But when they hired out the convict labor
ter some iron works’ folks, 'Vander war glad ter
go, kase he'd git ter l’arn more yit 'bout work-
in’ in iron an’ sech. An' he war powerful outed
when he hed ter kem back, arter ten months,
from them works. He hed tuk his stand in
metal thar, too. An' he hed fixed some sort 'n
contrivance ter head rivets quicker 'n cheaper 'n
it air ginerally done; an' he war afeard ter try
68 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
ter git it “patented, ez he calls it, "kase he
b'lieved the Pen could claim it ez convict labor,
— though some said not. Leastwise, he deter-
minated ter hold on ter his idee till his term
war out. But he war powerful interrupted in
his mind fur fear somebody else would think up
the idee, too, an’ patent it fust. He war pow-
erful irked by the Pen arter he kem back from
the iron works. He 'lowed ter me ez he war
fairly crazed ter git back ter'em. He lowed
ez he hed ruther see that thar big shed an’ the
red hot puddler's balls a-trundlin’ about, an’ all
the wheels a-whurlin', an’ the big shears a-bitin’
the metal ez nip, an’ the tremenjious hammer
a-poundin’ away, an’ all the dark night around
split with lines o' fire, than to see the hills o'
heaven It 'pears to me mo' like hell ! But
jes' when Vander war honing arter them works
ez efit would kill him ter bide away from thar,
his pardon kem. He fairly lept an’ shouted fur
joy l’”
“His pardon 1 ° cried Cynthia.
“Air 'Vander pardoned fur true?” exclaimed
a chorus of mountaineers.
The ex-convict stared about him in surprise.
“Ain’t you-uns knowed that afore ? 'Vander
hev been out ºn the Pen a year.”
A year ! A vague, chilly premonition thrilled
through Cynthia. “Whar be he now 7” she
asked.
DRIFTING DO WN LOST CREEK. 69
“Yander ter them iron works. He lit out
straight. I seen him las’ week, when I war
travelin' from my cousin Jerry’s house, whar I
went ez soon eZ I got out ºn the Pen. The
steam -kyars stopped at a station ez be nigh
them iron works, an' I met up with 'Vander on
the platform. That 's how I fund out all I hev
been a-tellin' ye, 'kase we did n’t hew no time
ter talk whilst we war in the Pen ; they don’t
allow no chin-choppin' thar. When 'Vander
war released, the folks at the iron works tuk
him ter work on weges, an' gin him eighty dol-
lars a month.”
There was an outburst of incredulity. “Waal,
sir!” “Tim'thy, ye kerry that mouth o' yourn
too wide open, an’ it leaks out all sorts o' lies l’”
“We-uns know ye of old, Tim'thy l’” “Pine
Mounting haint furgot ye yit !”
“I would n’t gin eighty dollars fur 'Wander
Price, hide, horns, an’ tallow !” declared Pete
Blenkins, folding his big arms over his leathern
apron, and looking about with the air of a man
who has placed his valuation at extremely lib-
eral limits.
“I knowed ye would n’t b'lieve that, but
it air gospel-true,” protested the ex-convict.
“Thar is more money a-goin’ in the valley 'n
thar is in the mountings, an’ folks pays more
fur work. Besides that, 'Wander hev got a pa-
70 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
tent, ez he calls it, fur his rivet contrivance, an’
he 'lows ez it hev paid him some already. It’ll
sorter stiffen up the backbone o’ that word ef
I tell ye ez he 'lowed ez he hed jes' sent two
hunderd dollars ter Squair Bates ter lift the
mortgage off ºn old man Price's house an’ land,
an’ two hunderd dollars more ter be gin ter
his dad ez a present. An' Squair Bates acted
'cordin’ ter’Vander’s word, an’ lifted the mort-
gage, an’ handed old man Price the balance.
An' what do ye spose old man Price done with
the money 7. He went right out an’ buried it
in the woods, fur fear he'd be pulled out ºn his
bed fur it, some dark night, by lawless ones.
He 'll never find it agin, I reckon. The idjit
hed more sense. I seen 'Lijah diggin' fur it, ez
I rid by thar ter-day.”
“Did 'Vander 'low when he air comin’ back
ter Pine Mounting?” asked Pete Blenkins.
“He hev been gone two year an' a half now.”
“I axed him that word. An’ he said he
mought kem back ter see his folks nex’ year,
mebbe, or the year arter that. But I mis-
doubts. He air so powerful tuk up with metal
an’ iron, an’ sech, an’ So keen 'bout his 'ven-
tions, ez he calls 'em, ez he seemed mighty
glad ter git shet o' the mountings. 'Vander
'lows eZ you-uns dunno nothin' 'bout iron up
hyar, Pete.”
DRIFTING DO WN LOST CREEK. 71
It was too plain. Cynthia could not deceive
herself. He had forgotten her. His genius,
once fairly evoked, possessed him, and faith-
fully his ambitions served it. His love, in com-
parison, was but a little thing, and he left it in
the mountains, – the mountains that he did
not regret, that had barred him so long from
all he valued, that had freed him at last only
through the prison doors. His love had been
an unavowed love, and there was no duty
broken. For the first time she wondered if
he ever knew that she cared for him, - if he
never remembered. And then she was sud-
denly moved to ask, “Did he 'low ter you-uns
who got his pardon fur him 7”
“I axed that word when las’ I seen him, an’
the critter said he actially hed never tuk time
ter think 'bout ºn that. He 'lowed he war so
tickled ter git away from the Pen'tiary right
straight ter the iron works an’ the consarn he
hed made ter head rivets so peart, ez he never
wondered 'bout ºn it. He made sure, though,
now he had kem ter study 'bout ’n it, ez his dad
hed done it, or it mought hev been gin him fur
good conduc’ an’ sech.”
“”T war Cynthy hyar ez done some of it,”
explained Pete Blenkins, “though Jubal Tynes
stirred himself right Smart.”
As Cynthia walked slowly back to her home
72 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
in the gorge, she did not feel that she had lav-
ished a noble exaltation and a fine courage in
vain ; that the subtlest essence of a most ethe-
real elation was expended as the motive power
of a result that was at last flat, and Sordid, and
most material. She did not murmur at the cru-
elty of fate that she should be grieving for his
woes while he was so happy, so blithely busy.
She did not regret her self-immolation. She
did not grudge all that love had given him ;
she rejoiced that it was so sufficient, so nobly
ample. She grudged only the wasted feeling,
and she was humbled when she thought of it.
The sun had gone down, but the light yet
lingered. The evening star trembled above
Pine Mountain. Massive and darkling it stood
against the red west. How far, ah, how far,
stretched that mellow crimson glow, all adown
Lost Creek Valley, and over the vast mountain
solitudes on either hand I Even the eastern
ranges were rich with this legacy of the dead
and gone day, and purple and splendid they
lay beneath the rising moon. She looked at it
with full and shining eyes.
“I dunno how he kin make out ter furgit
the mountings,” she said ; and then she went
on, hearing the crisp leaves rustling beneath
her tread, and the sharp bark of a fox in the
silence of the night-shadowed valley.
DRIFTING DOWN LOST CREEK. 73
Mrs. Ware had predicted bitter things of
Cynthia's future, more perhaps in anger than
with discreet foresight. Now, when her proph-
ecy was in some sort verified, she shrank from
it, as if with the word she had conjured up the
fact. And her pride was touched in that her
daughter should have been given the “go-by,”
as she phrased it. All the mountain — nay,
all the valley — would know of it. “Law,
Cynthy,” she exclaimed, aghast, when the girl
had rehearsed the news, “what be ye a-goin'
ter do 2 ”
“I’m a-goin’ ter weavin’,” said Cynthia.
She already had the shuttle in her hand. It
was a useful expression for a broken heart, as
she was expert at the loom.
She became so very skillful, with practice, that
it was generally understood to be mere pastime
when she would go to help a neighbor through
the weaving of the cloth for the children’s
clothes. She went about much on this mission;
for although there were children at home, the
work was less than the industry, and she seemed
“ter hew a craze fur stirrin’ about, an’ war a
toler’ble oneasy critter.” She was said to have
“broken some sence 'Wander gin her the go-by,
like he done,” and was spoken of at the age of
twenty-one as a “settled single woman; ” for
early marriages are the rule in the mountains. …
2
74 IW THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
When first her father and then her mother died,
she cared for all the household, and the world
went on much the same. The monotony of her
tragedy made it unobtrusive. Perhaps no one
on Pine Mountain remembered aright how it
had all come about, when after an absence of
ten years Evander Price suddenly reappeared
among them.
Old man Price had, in the course of nature,
ceased to sit upon the fence, — he could hardly
be said to have lived. The fence itself was de-
crepit; the house was falling to decay. The
money which Evander had sent from time to
time, that it might be kept comfortable, had
been safely buried in various localities and in
separate installments, as the remittances had
come. To this day the youth of Pine Moun-
tain, when afflicted with spasms of industry
and, as unaccustomed, the lust for gold, dig
for it in likely spots as unavailingly as the idiot
once sought it. Evander took the family with
him to his valley home, and left the little hut
for the owl and the gopher to hide within, for
the red-berried vines to twine about the rot-
ting logs, for the porch to fall in the wind, for
silence to enter therein and make it a dwelling-
place.
“How will yer wife like ter put up with the
idjit 7” asked Pete Blenkins of his old striker.
1)RIFTING DOWN LOST CREEK. 75
“She’ll be obleeged ter like it !” retorted
Evander, with an angry flash in his eyes; pre-
Saging contest.
It revealed the one dark point in his pros-
pects. The mountaineers were not so slow-
witted as to overlook it, but Evander had come
to be the sort of man whom one hardly likes to
Question. He had a traveling companion, how-
ever, who hailed from the same neighborhood,
and who talked learnedly of coal measures, and
prodded and digged and bought leagues of land
for a song, — much of it dearly bought. He let
fall a hint that in marrying, Evander had con-
trived to handicap himself. “He would do
wonders but for that woman l’’
His mountain auditors could hardly grasp the
finer points of the incompatibility; they could
but dimly appreciate that the kindling scintilla
of a discovery in mechanics, more delicately
poised on practicability than a sunbeam on a
cobweb, could have a tragic extinction in a wo-
man's inopportune peevishness or selfish exac-
tions.
In Evander's admiration of knowledge and
all its infinite radiations, he had been attracted
by a woman far superior to himself in education
and social position, although not in this world's
goods. She was the telegraph operator at the
station near the iron works. She had felt that
76 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
there was a touch of romance and self-abnega-
tion in her fancy for him, and this titillated her
more tutored innagination. His genius was held
in high repute at the iron works, and she had
believed him a rough diamond. She did not
realize how she could have appreciated polished
facets and a brilliant lustre and a conventional
setting until it was too late. Then she began
to think this genius of hers uncouth, and she
presently doubted if her jewel were genuine.
For although of refined instincts, he had been
rudely reared, while she was in some sort inured
to table manners and toilet etiquette and Eng-
lish grammar. She could not be content with
his intrinsic worth, but longed for him to prove
his value to the world, that it might not think
she had thrown herself away. In moments of
disappointment and depression his prison record
bore heavily upon her, and there was a breach
when, in petulance, she had once asked, If he
were indeed innocent in receiving the stolen
goods, why had he not proved it 2 And she
urged him to much striving to be rich ; and she
would fain travel the old beaten road to wealth
in the iron business, and scorned experiments
and new ideas and inventions, that took money
out without the certainty of putting it in. And
she had been taught, and was an adept in spe-
cious argument. He could not answer her; he
DRIFTING DOWN LOST CREEK, 77
could only keep doggedly on his own way; but
obstimacy is a poor substitute for ardor. Though
he had done much, he had done less than he
had expected, - far, far less in financial results
than she had expected. His ambitions were
still hot within him, but they were worldly am-
bitions now. They scorched his more delicate
sensibilities, and Seared his freshest perceptions,
and set his heart afire with sordid hopes. He
was often harassed by a lurking doubt of his
powers; he vaguely sought to measure them ;
and he began to fear that this in itself was a
sign of the approach to their limits. He could
still lift his eyes to great heights, but alas for
the wings, – alas ! |
He had changed greatly: he had become mer-
vous, anxious, concentrated, yet not less affec-
tionate. He said much about his wife to his
old friends, and never a word but loyal praise.
“Em’ly air school-l'arned fur true, an’ kin talk
ekal ter the rider.” 3.
The idiot 'Lijah was welcome at his side, and
the ancient yellow cur, that used to trot nimbly
after him in the old days, rejoiced to limp fee-
bly at his heels. He came over, one morning,
and sat on the rickety little porch with Cyn-
thia, and talked of her father and mother; but
he had forgotten the mare, whose death she
also mentioned, and the fact that old Suke's
j
|
78 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
third calf was traded to M’ria Baker. His rec-
ollections were all vague, although at Some rem-
iniscence of hers he laughed jovially, and 'lowed
that “in them days, Cynthy, ye an’ me hed
a right Smart notion of keeping company ter-
gether.” He did not notice how pale she was,
and that there was often a slight spasmodic
contraction of her features. She was busy
with her spinning-wheel, as she placidly replied,
“Yes, – though I always 'lowed ez I counted
on livin' single.”
It was only a fragmentary attention that he
accorded her. He was full of his plans and anx-
ious about rains, lest a rise in Caney Fork
should detain him in the mountains; and he often
turned and surveyed the vast landscape with a
hard, callous glance of worldly utility. He saw
only weather signs. The language of the moun-
tains had become a dead language. Oh, how
|should he read the poem that the opalescent mist
traced in an illuminated text along the dark,
gigantic growths of Pine Mountain
At length he was gone, and forever, and Cyn-
thia's heart adjusted itself anew. Sometimes,
to be sure, it seems to her that the years of her
life are like the floating leaves drifting down
Lost Creek, valueless and purposeless, and
vaguely vanishing in the mountains. Then she
remembers that the sequestered subterranean
DRIFTING D O WN LOST CREEK. 79
current is charged with its own inscrutable, im-
perative mission, and she ceases to question and
regret, and bravely does the work nearest her
hand, and has glimpses of its influence in the
widening lives of others, and finds in these a
placid content. &
A—PLAYIN’ OF OLD SLEDGE AT THE
SETTLEMINT.
--O--
“I HEV hearn tell ez how them thar boys
rides thar horses over hyar ter the Settlemint
nigh on ter every night in the week ter play
kyerds, - “Old Sledge’ they calls it ; an' thar
goin’s-on air jes' scandalous, – jes’ a-drinkin’ of
apple-jack, an’ a-bettin' of thar money.”
It was a lonely place: a sheer precipice on
one side of the road that curved to its verge;
On the other, an ascent so abrupt that the tall
stems of the pines seemed laid upon the ground
as they were marshaled in serried columns up
the slope. No broad landscape was to be seen
from this great projecting ledge of the moun-
tain; the valley was merely a little basin,
walled in on every side by the meeting ranges
that rose so high as to intercept all distant pros-
pect, and narrow the world to the contracted
area bounded by the sharp lines of their wooded
summits, cut hard and clear against the blue
sky. But for the road, it would have seemed
OLD S LEDGE AT THE SETTLEMINT. 81
impossible that these wild steeps should be the
chosen haunt of aught save deer, or bear, or
fox; and certainly the instinct of the eagle built
that eyrie called the Settlement, still higher,
far above the towering pine forest. It might
be accounted a tribute to the enterprise of Old
Sledge that mountain barriers proved neither let
nor hindrance, and here in the fastnesses was
held that vivacious sway, potent alike to fasci-
nate and to scandalize.
In the middle of the stony road stood a group
of roughly clad mountaineers, each in an atti-
tude of sluggish disinclination to the allotted
task of mending the highway, leaning lazily
upon a grubbing-hoe or sorry spade, – except,
indeed, the overseer, who was upheld by the
single crowbar furnished by the county, the only
sound implement in use among the party.
The provident dispensation of the law, leaving
the care of the road to the tender mercies of its
able-bodied neighbors over eighteen and under
forty-five years of age, was a godsend to the Set-
tlement and to the inhabitants of the tributary
region, in that even if it failed of the immediate
design of securing a tolerable passway through
the woods, it served the far more important
purpose of drawing together the diversely scat-
tered settlers, and affording them unwonted
conversational facilities. These meetings were
6
82 IN THE TENN ESSEE MOUNTAINS.
well attended, although their results were often
sadly inadequate. To-day the usual comple-
ment of laborers was on hand, except the three
boys whose scandalous susceptibility to the min-
gled charms of Old Sledge and apple-jack had
occasioned comment.
“They 'll hev ter be fined, ef they don’t take
keer an’ come an’ work,” remarked the overseer
of the road, one Tobe Rains, who reveled in a
little brief authority.
“From what I hev hearn tell 'bout thar go-
in’s-on, none of 'em is a-goin’ ter hew nuthin'
ter pay fines with, when they gits done with
thar foolin’ an’ sech,” said Abner Blake, a man
of weight and importance, and the eldest of the
party.
It did not seem to occur to any of the group
that the losses among the three card-players
served to enrich one of the number, and that
the deplorable wholesale insolvency shadowed
forth was not likely to ensue in substance. Per-
haps their fatuity in this regard arose from the
fact that fining the derelict was not an actual-
ity, although sometimes of avail as a threat.
“An' we hev ter leave everythink whar it
fell down, an’ come hyar ter do thar work fur
'em, - a-fixin' up of this hyar road fur them ter
travel,” exclaimed Tobe Rains, attempting to
chafe himself into a rage. “It’s got ter quit,
OLD S LEDGE AT THE SETTL EMINT 83
— that 's what I say ; this hyar way of doin’
hev got ter quit.” By way of lending veri-
similitude to the industrial figure of rhetoric,
he lifted his hammer and dealt an ineffectual
blow at a large bowlder. Then he picked up his
crowbar, and, leaning heavily on the implement,
resigned himself to the piquant interest of gos-
sip. “An’ thar's that Josiah Tait,” he contin-
ued, “a settled married man, a-behavin’ no bet-
ter’n them fool boys. He hain't struck a lick
of work fur nigh on ter a month, – ’ceptin’
a-goin’ huntin' with the t'others, every wunst
in a while. He hev jes' pulled through at the
little eend of the horn. I never sot much store
by him, nohow, though when he war married
ter Melindy Price, nigh 'bout a year ago, the
folks all 'lowed ez she war a-doin’ mighty well
ter git him, ez he war toler’ble well off through
his folks all bein’ dead but him, an’ he hed
what he hed his own self.”
“I would n’t let my darter marry no man ez
plays kyerds,” said a very young fellow, with
great decision of manner, “no matter what he
hed, nor how he hed it.”
As the lady referred to was only two weeks
old, and this solicitude concerning her matri-
monial disposition was somewhat premature,
there was a good-natured guffaw at the young
fellow’s expense.
84 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
“An' now,” Tobe Rains resumed, “ef Josiah
keeps on the way ez he hev started, he hain’t
a-goin’ ter hev no more ºn the t'other boys round
the mounting, — mebbe not eZ much, – an’
Melindy Price hed better hev a-tuken some-
body what owned less but hed a harder grip.”
A long silence fell upon the party. Three
of the twenty men assembled, in dearth of any-
thing else to do, took heart of grace and fell to
work; fifteen leaned upon their hoes in a vari-
ety of postures, all equally expressive of sloth,
and with slow eyes followed the graceful sweep
of a hawk, drifting on the wind, without a mo-
tion of its wings, across the blue sky to the op-
posite range. Two, one of whom was the over-
seer, searched their pockets for a plug of to-
bacco, and when it was found its possessor gave
to him that lacked. At length, Abner Blake,
who furnished all the items of news, and led
the conversation, removed his eyes from the
flight of the hawk, as the bird was absorbed in
the variegated October foliage of the opposite
mountain, and reopened the discussion. At the
first word the three who were working paused
in attentive quietude; the fifteen changed their
position to one still more restful; the overseer
sat down on a bowlder by the roadside, and
placed his contemplative elbows on his knees
and his chin in his hands.
*OLD SLEDGE AT THE SETTLEMINT. 85
“I hev hearn tell,” said Abner Blake, with
the pleasing consciousness of absorbing the at-
tention of the company, and being able to meet
high expectations, “ez how Josiah hev los' that
thar brindled heifer ter Budd Wray, an’ the
main heft of his crap of corn. But mebbe he'll
take a turn now an’ win 'em back agin.”
“”T ain’t likely,” remarked Tobe Rains.
“No, 't ain’t,” coincided the virtuous fifteen.
The industrious three, who might have done
better in better company, went to work again
for the space of a few minutes; but the next in-
articulate gurgle, preliminary always to Blake's
speech, – a sort of rising-bell to ring up som-
nolent attention, — brought them once more to
a stand-still.
“An’ cornsiderin’ ez how Budd Wray, -he
it war ez won 'em ; I seen the heifer along o' the
cow ter his house yestiddy evenin', ez I war
a-comin' from a-huntin' yander ter the sulphur
spring, — an’ cornsiderin’ ez he is nuthin' but
a single man, an’ hain’t got no wife, it do look
mighty graspin’ ter be a-takin' from a man ez
hev got a wife an' a houseful of his wife's kins-
folks ter look arter. Mighty graspin', it 'pears
like ter me.”
“I spose,” said one of the three workers sug-
gestively, — “I s’pose eZ how Budd won it fair.
*T warn’t no onderhand job, war it 7”
86 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
There was a portentous silence. The flight
of the hawk, again floating above the moun-
tains, now in the shadow of the resting clouds,
\ now in the still sunshine, was the only motion
in the landscape. The sudden bark of a fox in
\ the woods near at hand smote the air shrilly.
“That thar ain’t fur me ter say,” Blake re-
plied at last, with significant emphasis.
The suspicion fell upon the party like a reve-
lation, with an auxiliary sense of surprise that
it had not been earlier presented, so patent
was the possibility.
Still that instinct of justice latent in the hu-
man heart kept the pause unbroken for a while.
Then Blake, whose information on most points
at issue entitled him to special consideration,
proceeded to give his opinion on the subject:
“I’m a perfessin’ member of the church, an' I
dunno one o’ them thar kyerds from the t'other;
an’ what is more, I ain't a-wantin' ter know. I
hev seen 'em a-playin’ wunst, an’ I hearn 'em
a-talkin' that thar foolishness 'bout ºn ‘high
an’ ‘low,’ an’ sech, – they’ll all be low enough
'fore long. But what I say is, I dunno how
come Josiah Tait, what’s always been a peart,
Smart boy, an’ his dad afore him always war
a thrivin’ man, an’ Budd Wray war never
nobody nor nuthin', - he war always mighty
no-count, him an’ all his folks, – an’ what I
OLD S LEDGE AT THE SETTLEMINT. 87
dunno is, how come he kin git the upper hand
of Josiah Tait at these hyar kyerds, an’ can’t
git it no other way. Ef he keeps on a-playin'
of Old Sledge hyar at the Settlemint, he 'll be
wuth ez much eZ anybody on the mounting
what’s done been a-workin’ all thar days, an’
hed a toler’ble start ter begin with. It don’t
look fair an’ sensible ter me.”
“’Pears like ter me,” said the very young
fellow, father of the very young daughter, “ef
a man is old enough ter git married, he is old
enough to take keer of hisself. I kin make out
no good reason why Josiah Tait oughter be per-
tected agin Budd Wray. 'Pears ter me ef one
of 'em kin larn ter play Old Sledge, the t'other
kin. An’ Josiah hev got toler’ble good sense.”
“That 's how come all ye young muskrats
dunno nuthin’,” retorted Blake in some heat.
“Jes’ let one of you-uns git turned twenty year
old, an’ ye think ye air ez wise an’ ez settled as
ef ye war sixty, an’ye can’t l’arn nuthin’ more.”
“All the same, I don’t see ez Josiah Tait
needs a dry-muss ter keep off Wray an’ sech
critters,” was the response. And here this con-
troversy ended.
“Somehow,” said Tobe Rains, reflectively,
“it don't look likely ter me ez he an’ Josiah
Tait hev enny call ter be sech frien’ly folks. I
hev hearn ez how Budd Wray war a-follerin’
88 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
round Melindy Price afore she war married,
an’ she liked him fustrate till Josiah tuk ter
comin' 'bout ºn the Scrub-Oak Ridge, whar she
lived in them days. That thar ain’t the stuff
ter make frien’s out 'n. Thar is some sort 'n
cur’ous doin's a-goin' on 'bout ºn these hyar
frien’ly kyerds.”
“I knowed that thar 'bout ºn his a-follerin’
round Melindy afore she war married. I'lowed
one time ez Melindy hed a mind ter marry
Wray stiddier Josiah,” said the young father,
shaken in his partisanship. “An’ it always
'peared like ter me eZ it war mighty comical
ez he an’ Josiah tuk ter playin' of Old Sledge
an’ sech tergether.”
These questions were not easy of solution.
Many speculations were preferred concerning
the suspicious circumstance of Budd Wray's
singular proficiency in playing Old Sledge; but
beyond disparaging innuendo and covert insin-
uation conjecture could not go. Everything was
left doubtful, and so was the road.
It was hardly four o’clock, but the languid
work had ceased and the little band was dis-
persing. Some had far to go through the deep
woods to their homes, and those who lived closer
at hand were not disposed to atone for their
comrades' defection by prolonging their stay.
The echoes for a long time vibrated among the
OLD SLEDGE AT THE SETTLEMINT. 89
lonely heights with the metallic sound of their
horses’ hoofs, every moment becoming fainter,
until at last all was hushed. Dusky shadows,
which seemed to be exhaled from the ground,
rose higher and higher up the mountain side
from the reservoir of gloom that lay in the val-
ley. The sky was a lustrous contrast to the
darkling earth. The sun still lingered, large
and red, above the western Summits; the clouds
about it were gorgeous in borrowed color; even
those hovering in the east had caught the re-
flection of the sunset splendor, and among their
gold and crimson flakes swung the silver globe
of the hunter's moon. Now and then, at long
intervals, the bark of the fox quivered on the
air; once the laurel stirred with a faint rustle,
and a deer stood in the midst of the ill-mended
road, catching upon his spreading antlers the
mingled light of sun and moon. For a moment
he was motionless, his hoof uplifted; the next,
with an elastic spring, as of a creature without
weight, he was flying up the steep slope and
disappearing amid the slumberous shades of the
dark pines. A sudden sound comes from far
along the curves of the road, - a sound foreign
to woods and stream and sky; again, and yet
again, growing constantly more distinct, the
striking of iron against stone, the quick, regular
beat of a horse's tread, and an equestrian figure,
90 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
facing the moon and with the sun at his back,
rides between the steep ascent and the precipice
on his way to the Settlement and the entice
ments of Old Sledge.
He was not the conventional type of the rois.
tering blade. There was an expression of set-
tled melancholy on his face very usual with these
mountaineers, reflected, perhaps, from the inde-
finable tinge of sadness that rests upon the Al-
leghany wilds, that hovers about the purpling
mountain-tops, that broods over the silent woods,
; that sounds in the voice of the singing waters.
Nor was he like the prosperous “perfessin'
member" of the card-playing culte. His listless
manner was that of stolidity, not of a studied
calm ; his brown jeans suit was old and worn
and patched; his hat, which had seen many a
drenching winter rain and scorching summer
sun, had acquired sundry drooping curves un-
dreamed of in its maker's philosophy. He rode
a wiry gray mare without a saddle, and carried
a heavy rifle. He was perhaps twenty-three
years of age, a man of great strength and stat-
ure, and there were lines about his lips and chin
which indicated a corresponding development of
a firm will and tenacity of purpose. His slow
brown eyes were fixed upon the horizon as he
went around the ledge, and notwithstanding the
languid monotony of the expression of his face
OLD SLEDGE AT THE SETTLEMINT. 91
he seemed absorbed in some definite train of
thought, rather than lost in the vague, hazy
reverie which is the habitual mental atmos-
phere of the quiescent mountaineer. The mare,
left to herself, traveled along the rocky way in
a debonair fashion implying a familiarity with
worse roads, and soon was around the curve
and beginning the sharp ascent which led to
the Settlement. There was a rickety bridge to
cross, that spanned a deep, narrow stream,
which caught among its dark pools now a long,
slender, polished lance of sunlight, and now a
dart from the moon. As the rider went on up-
ward the woods were dense as ever; no glimpse
yet of the signet of civilization set upon the
wilderness and called the Settlement. By the
time he had reached the summit the last red
rays of the day were fading from the tops of
the trees, but the moon, full and high in the
eastern heavens, shed so refulgent a light that
it might be questioned whether the sun rose on
a brighter world than that which he had left.
A short distance along level ground, a turn to
the right, and here, on the highest elevation of
the range, was perched the little town. There
was a clearing of ten acres, a blacksmith's shop,
four log huts facing indiscriminately in any di-
rection, a small store of one story and one room,
and a new frame court-house, whitewashed and
92 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
inclosed by a plank fence. In the last session
of the legislature, the Settlement had been made
the county-seat of a new county; the additional
honor of a name had been conferred upon it,
but as yet it was known among the population
of the mountain by its time-honored and accus-
tomed title.
Wray dismounted in front of the store, hitched
the mare to a laurel bush, and, entering, discov-
ered his two boon companions drearily waiting,
and shuffling the cards again and again to while
Jº the time. An inverted splint-basket served
as table; a tallow dip, a great extravagance in
these parts, blinked on the head of a barrel near
by, and gave a most flickering and ineffectual
light, but the steady radiance of the moon
poured in a wide, white flood through the open
door, and kindly supplied all deficiencies. The
two young mountaineers were of the usual sad-
eyed type, and the impending festivities might
have seemed to those of a wider range of ex-
perience than the Settlement could furnish to
be clouded with a funereal aspect. Before the
fire, burning low and sullenly in the deep chim-
ney, were sitting two elderly men, who looked
with disfavor upon Wray as he came in and
placed his gun with a clatter in the corner.
“Ye war a long time a-gittin’ hyar, Budd,”
said one of the card-shufflers in a gentle voice,
OLD S LEDGE AT THE SETTLEMINT. 93
with curiously low-spirited cadences. He spoke
slowly, too, and with a slight difficulty, as if he
seldom had occasion to express himself in words
and his organs were out of practice. He was
the proprietor of the store, one Tom Scruggs,
and this speech was by way of doing the honors.
The other looked up with recognizing eyes, but
said nothing.
“I war hendered some,” replied Wray, seat-
ing himself in a rush-bottomed chair, and draw-
ing close to the inverted basket. “Ez I war
a-comin’ along, 'bout haffen mile an’ better from
our house, – ’t war nigh on ter three o'clock, I
reckon, — I seen the bigges’, fattes' buck I hev
seen this year a-bouncin’ through the laurel,
an' I shot him. An Ihed to kerry him 'long
home, ’kase suthin' mought hev got him ef I
hed a-left him thar. An’ it hendered me some.”
“An' we hew ter sit hyar a-wastin' away an’
a-waitin’ while ye goes a-huntin' of deer,” said
Josiah Tait, angrily, and speaking for the first
time. “I could hev gone an’ shot twenty deer
ef I would hev tuk the time. Ye said ez how
ye war a-goin’ ter be hyar an hour by sun, an’
jes' look a-yander,” pointing to the lustrous disc
of the moon.
“That thar moon war high enough 'fore the
sun war a-settin’,” returned Wray. “Ef ye
air in sech a hurry, why n’t yer cut them thar
94 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
kyerds fur deal, an’ stop that thar jowin' o'
yourn. I hev hed eZ much of that ez I am
a-goin’ ter swallow.”
“I 'll put it down ye with the ramrod o'
that thar gun o' mine, ef ye don’t take keer
how ye talk,” retorted the choleric Tait; “an’
ef that don’t set easy on yer stomach, I’ll see
how ye’ll digest a bullet.”
“I’m a-waitin’ fur yer ramrod,” said Wray
“Jes’ try that fust, an’ see how it works.”
The melancholy-voiced store-keeper inter.
rupted these amenities, not for the sake of
peace, — white-winged angel, - but in the in-
terests of Old Sledge. “Ef I hed a-knowed ez
how ye two boys war a-goin’ ter take ter quar-
relin' an’ a-fightin’ round hyar, a-stiddier playin'
of kyerds sensible-like, I would n’t hev shet up
shop so quick. I hed a good many little turns
of work ter do, what I hev lef’ ter play kyerds.
An' ye two mought jow tergether some other
day, it 'pears like ter me. Ye air a-wastin'
more time a-jowin', Josiah, than Budd tuk up
in comin’ an’ deer-huntin' tergether. Ye hev
cut the lowest in the pack, so deal the kyerds,
or give 'em ter them ez will.”
The suggestion to resign the deal touched Jo-
siah in a tender spot. He protested that he was
only too willing to play, - that was all he
wanted. “But ter be kep' a-waitin’ hyar while
OLD SLEDGE AT THE SETTLEMINT. 95
Budd comes a-snakin' through the woods, an’
a-stoppin’ ter shoot wild warmints an’ sech,
an’ then a-goin’ home ter kerry 'em, an’ then
a-snakin' agin through the woods, an’ a-gittin’
hyar nigh on ter night-time, – that 's what riles
me.”
“Waal, go 'long, now !” exclaimed Wray,
fairly roused out of his imperturbability. “Deal
them kyerds, an’ stop a-talkin'. That thar
tongue o' yourn will git cut out some o’ these
hyar days. It jes' goes like a grist-mill, an’ it's
enough ter make a man deef fur life.”
Thus exhorted, Josiah dealt. In receiving
their hands the players looked searchingly at
every card, as if in doubtful recognition of an
old acquaintance ; but before the game was
fairly begun another interruption occurred. One
of the elderly men beside the fire rose and ad-
vanced upon the party.
“Thar is a word ez we hev laid off ter ax ye,
Budd Wray, which will be axed twict, — wunst
right hyar, an’ wunst at the Jedgmint Day.
War it ye ez interjuced this hyar coal o' fire
from hell, that ye call Old Sledge, up hyar ter
the Settlemint 2 ”
The querist was a gaunt, forlorn-looking man,
stoop-shouldered, and slow in his movements.
There was, however, a distinct intimation of
power in his lean, sinewy figure, and his face
96 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
bore the scarlet scar of a wound torn by a furi-
ous fang, which, though healed long ago, was an
ever-present reminder of a fierce encounter with
a wild beast, in which he had come off victorious.
The tones of his voice and the drift and rhetoric
of his speech bespoke the loan of the circuit-
rider.
The card-players looked up, less in surprise
than exasperation, and Josiah Tait, fretfully an-
ticipating Wray, spoke in reply: “No, he never.
I fotched this hyar coal o' fire myself, an’ ef ye
don’t look out an’ stand back out ºn the way
it’ll flare up an’ singe ye. I larnt how ter
play when I went down yander ter the Cross-
Roads, an' I brung it ter the Settlemint myself.”
There was a mingled glow of the pride of the
innovator and the disdainful superiority of the
iconoclast kindling within Josiah Tait as he
claimed the patent for Old Sledge. The cate-
chistic terrors of the Last Day had less reality
for him than the present honor and glory apper-
taining to the traveled importer of a new game.
The Judgment Day seemed imminent over his
dodging head only when beholding the masterly
scene-painting of the circuit-rider, and the fire
and brimstone out of sight were out of mind.
“But ef ye air a-thinkin’ of callin’ me ter
'count fur sech,” said Wray, nodding at the
cards, “I’ll hew ye ter know ez I kin stand up
OLD SLEDGE AT THE SETTLEMINT. 97
ter anything I does. I hev got no call ter be
ashamed ov myself, an’ I ain’t afeard o’ nuthin'
an’ nobody.”
“Ye gin meter onderstand, then, ez Josiah
l'arned ye ter play ?” asked the self-constituted
grand inquisitor. “How come, then, Budd
Wray, ez ye wins all the truck from Josiah, ef
ye air jes' a-l'arnin’?”
There was an angry exclamation from Josiah,
and Wray laughed out triumphantly. The walls
caught the infrequent mirthful sound, and re-
verberated with a hollow repetition. From the
dark forest just beyond the moon-flooded clear-
ing the echo rang out. There was a subtle,
weird influence in those exultant tones, rising
and falling by fitful starts in that tangled,
wooded desert ; now loud and close at hand,
now the faintest whisper of a sound. The men
all turned their slow eyes toward the sombre
shadows, so black beneath the silver moon, and
then looked at each other.
“It’s ’bout time fur me ter be a-startin’,”
said the old hunter. “Whenever I hear them
critters a-laffin' that thar way in them woods I
puts out fur home an’ bars up the door, fur I
hev hearn tellez how the sperits air a-prowlin’
round then, an’ some mischief is a-happenin’.”
“'T'ain't nuthin' but Budd Wray a-laffin’,”
said the store-keeper reassuringly. “I hev hearn
N 7
98 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAIWS.
them thar rocks an’ things a-answerin’ back
every minute in the day, when anybody hollers
right loud.”
“They don't laff, though, like they war
a-laffin' jes’ a while ago.”
“No, they don’t,” admitted the store-keeper
reluctantly; “but mebbe it air 'kase thar is
nobody round hyar ez hev got much call ter
laff.” -
He was unaware of the lurking melancholy
in this speech, and it passed unnoticed by the
others.
“It’s this hyar a-foolin’ along of Old Sledge
an’ sech ez calls the sperits up,” said the old
hunter. “An’ ef ye knows what air good fur
ye, ye ’ll light out from hyar an' go home.
They air a-laffin' yit’— He interrupted him-
self, and glanced out of the door.
The faintest staccato laugh thrilled from
among the leaves. And then all was silent, —
not even the bark of a dog nor a tremulous whis-
per of the night-wind. -
The other elderly man, who had not yet
spoken, rose from his seat by the fire. “I’m
a-goin', too,” he said. “I kem hyar ter the
Settlemint,” he added, turning upon the gam-
blers, “’kase I hev been called ter warn ye o'
the wickedness o' yer ways, ez Jonah afore me
war tole ter go up ter Nineveh ter warn the
folks thar.”
OLD SLEDGE AT THE SETTLEMINT. 99
“Things turns out powerful cur’ous wunst
in a while,” retorted Wray. “He war swal-
lowed by a whale arterward.”
“’Kase he would n’t do ez he war tole; but
even thar Providence pertected him. He kem
out ºn the whale agin, what nobody kin do ez
gits swallowed in the pit. They hev ter stay.”
“It hain’t me ez keeps up this hyar game,”
said Wray sullenly, but stung to a slight repent-
ance by this allusion to the pit. “It air Josiah
hyar ez is a-aimin’ ter win back the truck he
hev los’; an' so air Tom, hyar. I hev hed tol-
er’ble luck along o' this Old Sledge, but they
know, an’ they hev got ter stand up ter it, ez I
never axed none of 'em ter play. Ef they
scorches tharselves with this hyar coal o’ fire
from hell, ez ye calls it, Josiah brung it, an’ it
air Tom an' him a-blowin' on it eZ hev kep' it
a-light.”
“I ain’t a-goin’ ter quit,” said Josiah Tait
angrily, the loser's desperate eagerness pulsing
hot and quick through his veins, – “I ain’t
a-goin’ ter quit till Igits back that thar brindled
heifer an’ that thar gray mare out yander, what
Budd air a-ridin', an’ them thar two wagon-
loads o' corn.”
“We hev said our say, an’ we air a-goin’,”
remarked one of the unheeded counselors,
“An' play on of yer kyerds !” cried Josiah
100 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
to the others, in a louder, shriller voice than
was his wont, as the two elderly men stepped
out of the door. The woods caught the sound
and gave it back in a higher key.
“S'pose we stops fur ter-night,” suggested
the store-keeper; “them thar rocks do sound
sort ’n cur’ous now.”
“I ain’t a-goin’ ter stop fur nuthin’ an’ no-
body l’exclaimed Josiah, in a tremor of keen
anxiety to be at the sport. “Dad-burn the
sperits! Let 'em come in, an’ I’ll deal 'em a
hand. Thar ! that trick is mine. Play ter this
hyar queen o’ trumps.” -
The royal lady was recklessly thrown upon
the basket, with all her foes in ambush. Some-
how, they did not present themselves. Tom
was destitute, and Budd followed with the
seven. Josiah again pocketed the trick with
unction. This trifling success went dispropor-
tionately far in calming his agitation, and for a
time he played more heedfully. Tom Scruggs's
caution made ample amends for his lack of ex-
perience. So slow was he, and so much time
did he require for consideration, that more than
once he roused his companions to wrath. The
anxieties with which he was beset preponder-
ated over the pleasure afforded by the sport,
and the winning back of a half-bushel measure,
which he had placed in jeopardy and lost, so
OLD SLEDGE AT THE SETTLEMINT. 101
satisfied this prudent soul that he announced
at the end of the game that he would play no
more for this evening. The others were wel-
come, though, to continue if they liked, and he
would sit by and look on. He snuffed the
blinking tallow dip, and reseated himself, an
eager spectator of the play that followed.
Wray was a cool hand. Despite the awk-
ward, unaccustomed clutch upon the cards and
the doubtful recognition he bestowed on each
as it fell upon the basket, he displayed an im-
perturbability and nerve that usually come only
of long practice, and a singular pertinacity in
pursuing the line of tactics he had marked out,
— lying in wait and pouncing unerringly upon
his prey in the nick of time. The brindled
heifer's mother followed her offspring into his
ownership; a yoke of oxen, a clay-bank filly.
ten hogs, – every moment he was growing
richer. But his success did not for an instant
shake his stolid calm, quicken his blood, nor
relax his vigilant attention ; his exultation was
held well in hand under the domination of a
strong will and a settled purpose. Josiah Tait
became almost maddened by these heavy losses;
his hands trembled, his eager exclamations
were incoherent, his dull eyes blazed at fever
heat, and ever and anon the echo of his shrill,
raised voice rang back from the untiring rocks.
102 IN THE TENN ESSEE MOUNTAINS.
The single spectator of the game now and
then, in the intervals of shuffling and dealing
the cards, glanced over his shoulder at the dark
trees whence the hidden mimic of the woods,
with some strong suggestion of sinister intent,
repeated the agitated tones. There was a sil-
ver line all along the summit of the foliage,
along the roofs of the houses and the topmost
rails of the fences; a sense of freshness and
dew pervaded the air, and the grass was all
a-sparkle. The shadows of the laurel about
the door were beginning to fall on the step,
every leaf distinctly defined in the moon’s mag-
ical tracery. He knew without looking up that
she had passed the meridian, and was swinging
down the western sky. sº
“Boys,” he said, in a husky undertone, –
he dared not speak aloud, for the mocker in
the woods, – “boys, I reckon it's 'bout time
we war a-quittin' o' this hyar a-playin’ of Old
Sledge; it's midnight an’ past, an’ Budd hev
tolerble fur ter go.”
The tallow dip, that had long been flickering
near its end, suddenly went out, and the party
suffered a partial eclipse. Josiah Tait dragged
the inverted basket closer to the door and into
the full brilliance of the moon, declaring that
neither Wray nor he should leave the house till
he had retrieved his misfortunes or lost every,
OLD SLEDGE AT THE SETTLEMINT. 103
thing in the effort. The host, feeling that
even hospitality has its limits, did not offer
to light another expensive candle, but threw
a quantity of pine-knots on the Smouldering
coals; presently a white blaze was streaming up
the chimney, and in the mingled light of fire
and moon the game went on.
“Ye oughter take keer, Josiah,” remonstrated
the sad-voiced store-keeper, as a deep groan
and a deep curse emphasized the result of high,
jack, and game for Wray, and low alone for
Tait. “An' it's 'bout time ter quit.”
“Dad-burn the luck!” exclaimed Josiah, in
a hard, strained voice, “I ain't a-goin’ ter leave
this hyar spot till I hev won back them thar
critters o' mine what he hew tuk. An' I kin
do it, — I kin do it in one more game. I’ll
bet — I’ll bet” — he paused in bewildered ex-
citement; he had already lost to Wray every-
thing available as a stake. There was a sud-
den unaccountable gleam of malice on the lucky
winner's face ; the quick glance flashed in the
moonlight into the distended hot eyes of his
antagonist. Wray laughed silently, and began
to push his chair away from the basket.
“Stop! stop !” cried Josiah, hoarsely. “I
hev got a house, – a house an’ fifty acres, nigh
about. I’ll bet the house an’ land agin what
ye hev won from me, – them two cows, an’ the
104 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
brindled heifer, an’ the gray mare, an’ the clay-
bank filly, an’ them ten hogs, an’ the yoke o'
steers, an’ the wagon, an’ the corn, –them two
loads o' corn : that will 'bout make it even,
won’t it?” He leaned forward eagerly as he
asked the question.
“Look a-hyar, Josiah,” exclaimed the store-
keeper, aghast, “this hyar is a-goin’ too fur !
Hain’t ye los’ enough already but ye must be
a-puttin' up the house what shelters ye? Look
at me, now : I ain’t done los' nothin' but the
half-bushel measure, an’ I hev got it back agin.
An’ it air a blessin’ that I hev got it agin, for
’t would hev been mighty ill-convenient round
hyar 'thout it.”
“Will ye take it 7” said Josiah, almost
pleadingly, persistently addressing himself to
Wray, regardless of the remonstrant host.
“Will ye put up the critters agin the house
an’ land 2’’
Wray made a feint of hesitating. Then he
signified his willingness by seating himself and
beginning to deal the cards, saying before he
looked at his hand, “That thar house an’land
o' yourn agin the truck ez I hev won from
ye 2 22
“Oh, Lord, boys, this must be sinful!” re-
monstrated the proprietor of the cherished half-
bushel measure, appalled by the magnitude of
the interests involved.
OLD SLEDGE AT THE SETTLEMINT. 105
“Hold yer jaw hold yer jaw l’” said Josiah
Tait. “I kin hardly make out one kyerd from
another while ye ’re a-preachin’ away, same ez
the rider! I done tole ye, Budd,” turning again
to Wray, “I’ll put up the house an’ land agin
the truck. I’ll git a deed writ fur ye in the
mornin', ef ye win it,” he added, hastily, think-
ing he detected uncertainty still lurking in the
expression of Wray's face. “The court air
a-goin' ter sit hyar ter-morrer, an’ the lawyers
from the valley towns will be hyar toler’ble
soon, I reckon. An’ I’ll git ye a deed writ
fust thing in the mornin’.”
“Ye hearn him say it?” said Wray, turn-
ing to Tom Scruggs.
“I hearn him,” was the reply.
And the game went on.
“I beg,” said Josiah, piteously, after care-
fully surveying his hand.
“I ain’t a-goin’ ter deal ye mare 'nother
kyerd,” said Wray. “Ye kin take a pint
fust.” .
The point was scored by the faithful look-
er-on in Josiah’s favor. High, low, and game
were made by Wray, jack being in the pack.
Thus the score was three to one. In the next
deal, the trump, a spade, was allowed by Wray
to stand. He led the king, “I’m low, any-
how,” said Josiah, in momentary exultation, as
106 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
he played the deuce to it. Wray next led the
ace whisking for the jack, and caught it.
“Dad-burn the rotten luck!” cried Josiah.
With the advantage of high and jack a fore-
gone conclusion, Wray began to play warily for
game. But despite his caution he lost the next
trick. Josiah was in doubt how to follow up
this advantage; after an anxious interval of cog-
itation he said, “I b'lieve I’ll throw away fur
a while,” and laid that safe card, the five of di-
amonds, upon the basket. “Tom,” he added,
“put on some more o’ them knots. I kin hardly
tell what I’m a-doin’ of. I hev got the shakes,
an’ somehow 'nother my eyes is cranky, and
wobble so ez I can’t see.”
The white sheets of flame went whizzing mer-
rily up the chimney, and the clear light fell full
upon the basket as Wray laid upon the five the
ten of diamonds.
“Lord Josiah !” exclaimed Tom Scruggs,
becoming wild, and even more ill judged than
usual, beginning to feel as if he were assisting
at his friend’s obsequies, and to have a more de-
cided conviction that this way of coming by
house and land and cattle and goods was sinful.
“Lord Josiah that thar kyerd he's done
saved 'll count him ten fur game. Ye had bet-
ter hev played that thar queen o' di’monds, an'
dragged it out ºn him.”
OLD SLEDGE AT THE SETTLEMINT. 107
“Good Lord in heaven l’ shrieked Josiah,
in a frenzy at this unwarrantable disclosure.
“Lord in heaven!” rang loud from the depths
of the dark woods. “Heaven l’softly vibrated
the distant heights. The crags close at hand
clanged back the sound, and the air was filled
with repetitions of the word, growing fainter
and fainter, till they might have seemed the
echo of a whisper.
The men neither heard nor heeded. Tom
Scruggs, although appreciating the depth of the
infamy into which he had unwittingly plunged,
was fully resolved to stand stoutly upon the de-
fensive, – he even extended his hand to take
down his gun, which was laid across a couple of
nails on the wall.
“Hold on, Josiah, – hold on 1’’ cried Wray,
as Tait drew his knife. “Tom never went fur
ter tell, an’ I’ll give ye a ten ter make it fair.
Thar's the ten o’ hearts; an' a ten is the mos'
ez that thar critter of a queen could hev made
out ter hev tuk, anyhow.”
Josiah hesitated.
“That thar is the mos’ ez she could hev done,”
said the store-keeper, smoothing over the results
of his carelessness. “The jacks don’t count but
fur one apiece, so that thar ten is the mos’ ez
she could hev made out ter git, even ef I hed n’t
a-forgot an’ tole Budd she war in yer hand.”
108 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
*.
\
\
s
§
^
l
Josiah was mollified by this very equitable
proposal, and resuming his chair he went on with
the play. The ten of hearts which he had thus
secured was, however, of no great avail in count-
ing for game. Wray had already high and jack,
and game was added to these. The score there-
fore stood six to two in his favor. . -
The perennial faith of the gambler in the next
turn of the wheel was strong in Josiah Tait.
Despite his long run of bad luck, he was still
animated by the feverish delusion that the gra-
cious moment was surely close at hand when suc-
cess would smile upon him. Wray, it was true,
needed to score only one point to turn him out
of house and land, homeless and penniless. He
was confident it would never be scored. If he
could make the four chances he would be even
with his antagonist, and then he could win back
in a single point all that he had lost. His face
wore a haggard, eager expectation, and the agi-
tation of the moment thrilled through every
nerve. He watched with fiery eyes the dealing
of the cards, and after hastily scrutinizing his
hand he glanced with keen interest to see the
trump turned. It was a knave, counting one
for the dealer. There was a moment of intense
silence; he seemed petrified as his eyes met the
triumphant gaze of his opponent. The next
instant he was at Wray's throat.
OLD S LEDGE AT THE SETTL EMINT. 109
The shadows\of the swaying figures reeled
across the floor, marring the exquisite arabesque
of moonshine and laurel leaves, – quick, hard
panting, a deep oath, and spasmodic efforts on
the part of each to draw a sharp knife pre-
vented by the strong intertwining arms of the
other.
The store-keeper, at a safe distance, remon-
strated with both, to no purpose, and as the
struggle could end only in freeing a murderous
hand he rushed into the clearing, shouting the
magical word “Fight !” with all the strength
of his lungs. There was no immediate response,
save that the affrighted rocks rang with the
frenzied cry, and the motionless woods and the
white moonlight seemed pervaded with myriads
of strange, uncanny voices. Then a cautious
shutter of a glassless window was opened, and
through the narrow chink there fell a bar of red
light, on which was clearly defined an inquiring
head, like an inquisitively expressive silhouette.
“They air a-fightin' yander ter the store, whar
they air a-playin' of Old Sledge,” said the mas-
ter of the shanty, for the enlightenment of the
curious within. And then he closed the shut-
ter, and like the law-abiding citizen that he was
betook himself to his broken rest. This was
the only expression of interest elicited.
A dreadful anxiety was astir in the store-
110 IN THE TENNESSEE MoUNTAINS.
keeper's thoughts. One of the men would cer-
tainly be killed; but he cared not so much for
the shedding of blood in the abstract as that the
deed should be committed on his premises at the
dead of night; and there might be such a con-
catenation of circumstances, through the male-
factor's willful perversion of the facts, that sus-
picion would fall upon him. The first circuit
court ever held in the new county would be in
session to-morrow ; and the terrors of the law,
deadly to an unaccustomed mind, were close
upon him. Finding no help from without, he
rushed back into the store, determined to make
one more appeal to the belligerents. “Budd,”
he cried, “I’ll holp ye ter hold Josiah, ef ye ’ll
promise ye won't tech him ter hurt. He air
crazed, through a-losin’ of his truck. Say ye
won’t tech him ter hurt, an’ I’ll holp ye ter
hold him.” -
Josiah succumbed to their united efforts, and
presently made no further show of resistance,
but sank, still panting, into one of the chairs
beside the inverted basket, and gazed blankly,
with the eyes of a despairing, hunted creature,
out at the sheen of the moonlight.
“I ain’t a-wantin' ter hurt nobody,” said
Wray, in a surly tone. “I never axed him ter
play kyerds, nor ter bet, nor nuthin’. He
l'arned me hisself, an’ ef I hed los' stiddier of
OLD SLEDGE AT THE SETTLEMINT. 111
him he would be a-thinkin' now eZ it’s all
right.”
“I’m a-goin’ ter stand up ter what I done
said, though,” Josiah declared brokenly. “Ye
need n’t be afeard eZ how I ain't a-goin’ ter
make my words true. Ef ye comes hyar at
noon termorrer, ye ’ll git that thar deed, an’ye
kin take the house an’ land ez I an’ my folks
hev hed nigh on ter a hundred year. I ain’t
a-goin’ ter fail o' my word, though.”
He rose suddenly, and stepped out of the door.
His footfalls sounded with a sullen thud in the
utter quietude of the place ; a long shadow
thrown by the sinking moon dogged him noise-
lessly as he went, until he plunged into the
depths of the woods, and their gloom absorbed
both him and his silent pursuer.
A dank, sunless morning dawned upon the
house in which Josiah Tait and his fathers had
lived for nearly a hundred years: it was a hum-
ble log cabin nestled in the dense forest, about
four miles from the Settlement. Fifty cleared
acres, in an irregular shape, lay behind it; the
cornstalks, sole remnant of the crop lost at Old
Sledge, were still standing, their sickly yellow
tint blanched by contrast with the dark brown
of the tall weeds in a neighboring field, that
had grown up after the harvested wheat, and
flourished in the summer Sun, and died under
112 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
the first fall of the frost. A heavy moisture lay
upon them at noon, this dreary autumnal day;
a wet cloud hung in the tree-tops; here and
there, among its gray vapors, a Scarlet bough
flamed with sharply accented intensity. There
was no far-reaching perspective in the long aisles
of the woods; the all-pervading mist had en-
wrapped the world, and here, close at hand, were
bronze-green trees, and there spectre-like out-
lines of boles and branches, dimly seen in the
haze, and beyond an opaque, colorless curtain.
From the chimney of the house the smoke rose
slowly; the doors were closed, and not a crea-
ture was visible save ten hogs prowling about
in front of the dwelling among the fallen acorns,
pausing and looking up with that odd, porcine
expression of mingled impudence and malignity
as Budd Wray appeared suddenly in the mist
and made his way to the cabin. N
He knocked ; there was a low-toned response.
After hesitating a moment, he lifted the latch
and went in. He was evidently unexpected;
the two occupants of the room looked at him
with startled eyes, in which, however, the mo-
mentary surprise was presently merged in an
expression of bitter dislike. The elder, a faded,
careworn woman of fifty, turned back without
a word to her employment of washing clothes.
The younger, a pretty girl of eighteen, looked
OLD SLEDGE AT THE SETTLEMINT, 113
hard at him with fast-filling blue eyes, and ris-
ing from her low chair beside the fire said, in
a voice broken by grief and resentment, “Ef
this hyar house air yourn, Budd Wray, I wants
ter git out ºn it.”
“I hev come hyar ter tell ye a word,” said
Budd Wray, meeting her tearful glance with a
stern stolidity. He flung himself into a chair,
and fixing his moody eyes on the fire went on :
“A word ez I hev been a-aimin’ an’ a-contrivin'
ter tell ye ever sence ye war married ter Josiah
Tait, an’ afore that, — ever sence ye tuk back
the word eZ ye hedgin me afore ye ever seen
him, 'kase o' his hevin' a house, an’ critters, an’
Sech like. He hain’t got none now, - none of
'em. I hev been a-layin' off ter bring him ter
this pass fur a long time, 'count of the scanda-
lous way ye done treated me a year ago las’
June. He hain't got no house, nor no critters,
nor nuthin'. I done it, an’ I come hyar with
the deed in my pocket ter tell ye what I done
it fur.”
Her tears flowed afresh, and she looked ap-
pealingly at him. He did not remove his in-
dignant eyes from the blaze, stealing timidly
up the smoky chimney. “I never hed nuthin'
much,” he continued, “an' I never said I hed
nuthin’ much, like Josiah; but I thought ez how
ye an’ me might make out toler’ble well, bein’
8
114 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
ez we sot consider’ble store by each other in
them days, afore he ever tukter comin’ a-huntin'
yander ter Scrub-Oak Ridge, whar ye war a-liv-
in’ then. I don’t keer nuthin' 'bout ’n it now,
'ceptin’ it riles me, an' I war bound ter spite ye
fur it. I don’t keer nuthin’ more 'bout ye now
than fur one o’ them thar dead leaves. I want
ye ter know I jes' done it ter spite ye, – ye
is the One. I hain’t got no grudge agin Josiah
ter talk about. He done like any other man
would.”
The color flared into the drooping face, and
there was a flash in the weeping blue eyes.
“I spose I hed a right ter make a ch'ice,”
she said, angrily, stung by these taunts.
“Jes’ so,” responded Wray, coolly; “ye hed
a right ter make a ch'ice at wixt two men, but
no gal hev got a right ter put a man on one
eend o' the beam, an’ a lot o' senseless critters
an' house an’ land on the t'other. Ye never
keered nuthin’ fur me nor Josiah nuther, ef
the truth war knowed; ye war all tuk up with
the house an’ land an’ critters. An’ they hev
done lef’ ye, what mare one o’ the men would
hev done.”
The girl burst into convulsive sobs, but the
sight of her distress had no softening influence
upon Wray. “I hev done it ter pay ye back
fur what ye hev done ter me, an’ I reckon ye 'll
OLD SLEDGE AT THE SETTLEMINT. 115
'low now ez we air toler’ble even. Ye tuk all
I keered fur away from me, an’ now I hev tuk
all ye keer fur away from ye. An' I'm a-goin'
now yander ter the Settlemint ter hev this hyar
deed recorded on the book ter the court-house,
like Lawyer Green tole meter do right straight.
I laid off, though, ter come hyar fust, an’ tell
ye what I hev been aimin’ ter be able ter tell
ye fur a year an’ better. An’ now I’m a-goin' '
ter git this hyar deed recorded.”
He replaced the sheet of scrawled legal-cap
in his pocket, and rose to go ; then turned, and,
leaning heavily on the back of his chair, looked
at her with lowering eyes.
“Ye’re a pore little critter,” he said, with
scathing contempt. “I dunno what ails Josiah
nor me nuther ter hew sot our hearts on sech
a little stalk o' cheat.”
He went out into the enveloping mountain
mist with the sound of her weeping ringing in
his ears. His eyes were hot, and his angry
heart was heavy. He had schemed and waited
for his revenge with persistent patience. For-
tune had favored him, but now that it had fully
come, strangely enough it failed to satisfy him.
The deed in his breast-pocket weighed like a
stone, and as he rode on through the clouds
that lay upon the mountain top, the sense of its
pressure became almost unendurable. And yet,
116 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
s-|
ſ
§: |
×.|
with a perplexing contrariety of emotion, he
felt more bitterly toward her than ever, and
experienced a delight almost Savage in hold-
ing the possessions for which she had been so
willing to resign him. “Jes’ kicked me out 'n
the way like I war nuthin’ more ºn that thar
branch o' pisen-Oak, fur a passel o' cattle an’
sech like critters, an' a house an’land. — "kase
3. 9
I don’t count Josiah in. 'T war the house an’
land an’ sech she war a-studyin' 'bout.” And
every moment the weight of the deed grew
heavier. He took scant notice of external ob-
jects as he went, keeping mechanically along
the path, closed in twenty yards ahead of him
by the opaque curtain of mist. The trees at
the greatest distance visible stood shadow-like
and colorless in their curious, unreal atmos-
phere; but now and then the faintest flake of a
pale rose tint would appear in the pearly haze,
deepening and deepening, till at the vanishing
point of the perspective a gorgeous scarlet-oak
tree would rise, red enough to make a respecta-
ble appearance on the planet Mars. There was
an audible stir breaking upon the silence of the
solemn woods, the leaves were rustling together,
and drops of moisture began to patter down
upon the ground. The perspective grew grad-
ually longer and longer, as the rising wind
cleared the forest aisles; and when he reached
OLD S LEDGE AT THE SETTLEMINT. 117
the road that ran between the precipice and
the steep ascent above, the clouds were falling
apart, the mist had broken into thousands of
fleecy white wreaths, clinging to the fantasti-
cally tinted foliage, and the sunlight was strik-
ing deep into the valley. The woods about the
Settlement were all aglow with color, and spark-
ling with the tremulous drops that shimmered
in the sun.
There was an unwonted air of animation and
activity pervading the place. To the court-
house fence were hitched several lean, forlorn
horses, with shabby old saddles, or sometimes
merely blankets; two or three wagons were
standing among the stumps in the clearing.
The door of the store was occupied by a coterie
of mountaineers, talking with unusual vivacity
of the most startling event that had agitated
the whole country-side for a score of years, –
the winning of Josiah Tait's house and land at
Old Sledge. The same subject was rife among
the choice spirits congregated in the court-
house yard and about the portal of that temple
of justice, and Wray's approach was watched
with the keenest interest.
He dismounted, and walked slowly to the
door, paused, and turning as with a sudden
thought threw himself hastily upon his horse ;
he dashed across the clearing, galloped heed-
118 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
lessly down the long, steep slope, and the as-
tounded loiterers heard the thunder of the hoofs
as they beat at a break-neck speed upon the
frail, rotten timbers of the bridge below.
Josiah Tait had put his troubles in to soak at
the still-house, and this circumstance did not
tend to improve the cheerfulness of his little
home when he returned in the afternoon. The
few necessities left to the victims of Old Sledge
had been packed together, and were in readi-
ness to be transported with him, his wife, and
mother-in-law to Melinda’s old home on Scrub-
Oak Ridge, when her brother should drive his
wagon over for them the next morning.
They never knew how to account for it.
While the forlorn family were sitting before the
smoking fire, as the day waned, the door was
suddenly burst open, and Budd Wray strode in
impetuously. A brilliant flame shot up the
chimney, and the deed which Josiah Tait had
that day executed was a cinder among the logs.
He went as he came, and the mystery was never
explained.
There was, however, “a sayin' goin' 'bout
the mounting ez how Josiah an’ Melindy jes'
'ticed him, somehow 'nother, ter thar house, an’
held him, an’tuk the deed away from him ter-
gether. An’ they made him send back the crit-
ters an’ the corn what he done won away from
OLD SLEDGE AT THE SETTLEMINT. 119

‘em.” This version came to his ears, and was
never denied. He was more ashamed of relent-
ing in his vengeance than of the wild legen
that he had been worsted in a tussle with Me
linda and Josiah.
And since the night of Budd Wray's barrén
success the playing of Old Sledge has become a
lost art at the Settlement.
THE STAR IN THE WALLEY.
HE first saw it in the twilight of a clear
October evening. As the earliest planet sprang
into the sky, an answering gleam shone red
amid the glooms in the valley. A star too it
seemed. And later, when the myriads of the
fairer, whiter lights of a moonless night were
all athrob in the great concave vault bending to
the hills, there was something very impressive
in that solitary star of earth, changeless and
motionless beneath the ever-changing skies.
Chevis never tired of looking at it. Somehow
it broke the spell that draws all eyes heaven-
ward on starry nights. He often strolled with
his cigar at dusk down to the verge of the crag,
and sat for hours gazing at it and vaguely spec-
ulating about it. That spark seemed to have
kindled all the soul and imagination within
him, although he knew well enough its prosaic
source, for he had once questioned the gawky
mountaineer whose services he had secured as
guide through the forest solitudes during this
hunting expedition.
THE STAR IN THE WALLEY. 121
:
“That thar spark in the valley 2” Hi Bates
had replied, removing the pipe from his lips
and emitting a cloud of strong tobacco smoke.
“”Tain’t muthin' but the light in Jerry Shaw's
house, 'bout haffen mile from the foot of the
mounting. Ye pass that thar house when ye
goes on the Christel road, what leads down the
mounting off the Back-bone. That's Jerry
Shaw’s house, – that's what it is. He 's a
blacksmith, an’ he kin shoe a horse toler’ble
well when he ain’t drunk, ez he mos’ly is.”
“Perhaps that is the light from the forge,”
suggested Chevis.
“That thar forge ain’t run more ºn half the
day, let 'lone o’ nights. I hev never hearn tell
on Jerry Shaw a-workin’ o' nights, – nor in the
daytime nuther, ef he kin git shet of it. No
sech no 'count critter’twixt hyar an’ the Settle-
mint.”
So spake Chevis’s astronomer. Seeing the
star even through the prosaic lens of stern re-
ality did not detract from its poetic aspect.
Chevis never failed to watch for it. The first
faint glinting in the azure evening sky sent his
eyes to that red reflection suddenly aglow in the
valley; even when the mists rose above it and
hid it from him, he gazed at the spot where it
had disappeared, feeling a calm satisfaction to
know that it was still shining beneath the cloud-
z'
A
122 IN THE TENNESSEE MoUNTAINs.
curtain. He encouraged himself in this bit of
sentimentality. These unique eventide effects
seemed a fitting sequel to the picturesque day,
passed in hunting deer, with horn and hounds,
through the gorgeous autumnal forest; or per-
chance in the more exciting sport in some rocky
gorge with a bear at bay and the frenzied pack
around him ; or in the idyllic pleasures of bird-
l
i
}
l
}
|
}
l
}
$
º
i shooting with a thoroughly-trained dog; and
coming back in the crimson sunset to a well-
appointed tent and a smoking supper of veni-
son or wild turkey, - the trophies of his skill.
The vague dreaminess of his cigar and the
charm of that bright bit of color in the night-
shrouded valley added a sort of romantic zest
to these primitive enjoyments, and ministered
to that keen susceptibility of impressions which
Reginald Chevis considered eminently charac-
teristic of a highly wrought mind and nature.
He said nothing of his fancies, however, to
his fellow sportsman, Ned Varney, nor to the
mountaineer. Infinite as was the difference be-
tween these two in mind and cultivation, his
observation of both had convinced him that
they were alike incapable of appreciating and
comprehending his delicate and dainty musings.
Varney was essentially a man of this world;
his mental and moral conclusions had been
adopted in a calm, mercantile spirit, as giving

THE STAR IN THE WALLE F. 123
the best return for the outlay, and the market
was not liable to fluctuations. And the moun-
taineer could go no further than the prosaic fact
of the light in Jerry Shaw's house. Thus Reg-
inald Chevis was wont to sit in contemplative
silence on the crag until his cigar was burnt out,
and afterward to lie awake deep in the night,
listening to the majestic lyric welling up from
the thousand nocturnal voices of these moun-
tain wilds.
During the day, in place of the red light a
gauzy little curl of smoke was barely visible, the
only sign or suggestion of human habitation to
be seen from the crag in all the many miles of .
long, narrow valley and parallel tiers of ranges.
Sometimes Chevis and Varney caught sight of it
from lower down on the mountain side, whence
was faintly distinguishable the little log-house
and certain vague lines marking a rectangular
inclosure ; near at hand, too, the forge, silent
and smokeless. But it did not immediately oc-
cur to either of them to theorize concerning its
inmates and their lives in this lonely place; for
a time, not even to the speculative Chevis. As
to Varney, he gave his whole mind to the mat-
ter in hand, -his gun, his dog, his game, – and
his mote-book was as systematic and as roman-
tic as the ledger at home.
It might be accounted an event in the history
124 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
of that log-hut when Reginald Chevis, after rid-
ing past it eighty yards or so, chanced one day
to meet a country girl walking toward the house.
She did not look up, and he caught only an in-
distinct glimpse of her face. She spoke to him,
however, as she went by, which is the invaria-
|ble custom with the inhabitants of the seques-
tered nooks among the encompassing mountains,
jwhether meeting stranger or acquaintance. He
'lifted his hat in return, with that punctilious
courtesy which he made a point of according to
persons of low degree. In another moment she
had passed down the narrow sandy road, over-
hung with gigantic trees, and, at a deft, even
pace, hardly slackened as she traversed the
great log extending across the rushing stream,
she made her way up the opposite hill, and dis-
appeared gradually over its brow.
The expression of her face, half-seen though
it was, had attracted his attention. He rode
slowly along, meditating. “Did she go into
Shaw's house, just around the curve of the
road 2 ” he wondered. “Is she Shaw's daugh-
ter, or some visiting neighbor 7” -
That night he looked with a new interest at
the red star, set like a jewel in the floating
mists of the valley.
“Do you know,” he asked of Hi Bates, when
the three men were seated, after supper, around
THE STAR IN THE WALLEY. 125
the camp-fire, which sent lurid tongues of flame
and a thousand bright sparks leaping high in
the darkness, and illumined the vistas of the
woods on every side, save where the sudden
crag jutted over the valley, - “Do you know
whether Jerry Shaw has a daughter, — a young
girl?” \
“Ye-es,” drawled Hi Bates, disparagingly,
“ he hew.”
A pause ensued. The star in the valley was
blotted from sight; the rising mists had crept
to the verge of the crag ; nay, in the under-
growth fringing the mountain's brink, there
were softly clinging white wreaths.
“Is she pretty 2 * asked Chevis.
“Waal, no, she ain’t,” said Hi Bates, deci-
sively. “She’s a pore, no 'count critter.” Then
he added, as if he were afraid of being misap-
prehended, “Not ez thar is any harm in the
gal, ye onderstand. She 's a mighty good, saft-
spoken, quiet sort o' gal, but she 's a pore,
white-faced, slim little critter. She looks like
she hain't got no sort 'n grit in her. She makes
me think o' one o’ them slim little slips o' wil-
low every time nor I sees her. She hain't got
long ter live, I reckon,” he concluded, dismally.
Reginald Chevis asked him no more ques-
tions about Jerry Shaw's daughter.
Not long afterward, when Chevis was hunt-
126 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
ing through the deep woods about the base of
the mountain near the Christel road, his horse
happened to cast a shoe. He congratulated
himself upon his proximity to the forge, for
there was a possibility that the blacksmith
might be at work ; according to the account
which Hi Bates had given of Jerry Shaw's hab-
its, there were half a dozen chances against it.
But the shop was at no great distance, and he
set out to find his way back to the Christel
road, guided by sundry well-known landmarks
on the mountain side: certain great crags hang-
ing above the tree-tops, showing in grander
ublimity through the thinning foliage, or beet-
ling bare and grim ; a dismantled and deserted
ovel, the red-berried vines twining amongst
the rotting logs; the full flow of a tumultuous
stream making its last leap down a precipice
eighty feet high, with yeasty, maddening waves
below and a rainbow-crowned crystal sheet
above. And here again the curves of the wood-
land road. As the sound of the falling water
grew softer and softer in the distance, till it was
hardly more than a drowsy murmur, the faint
vibrations of a far-off anvil rang upon the air.
Welcome indeed to Chevis, for however entic-
ing might be the long rambles through the red-
olent October woods with dog and gun, he had
no mind to tramp up the mountain to his tent,

THE STAR IN THE WALLE Y. 127
five miles distant, leading the resisting horse all
the way. The afternoon was so clear and so
still that the metallic sound penetrated far
through the quiet forest. At every curve of
the road he expected to see the log-cabin with
its rail fence, and beyond the low-hanging
chestnut - tree, half its branches resting upon
the roof of the little shanty of a blacksmith's
shop. After many windings a sharp turn
brought him full upon the humble dwelling,
with its background of primeval woods and the
purpling splendors of the western hills. The
chickens were going to roost in a stunted cedar-
tree just without the door; an incredibly old
man, feeble and bent, sat dozing in the linger-
ing sunshine on the porch; a girl, with a pail
on her head, was crossing the road and going
down a declivity toward a spring which bub-
bled up in a cleft of the gigantic rocks that
were piled one above another, rising to a great
height. A mingled breath of cool, dripping
water, sweet-scented fern, and pungent mint
greeted him as he passed it. He did not see
the girl's face, for she had left the road before
he went by, but he recognized the slight figure,
with that graceful poise acquired by the prosaic
habit of carrying weights upon the head, and
its lithe, swaying beauty reminded him of the
mountaineer's comparison, — a slip of willow.
128 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
And now, under the chestnut-tree, in anxious
converse with Jerry Shaw, who came out ham-
mer in hand from the anvil, concerning the
shoe to be put on Strathspey's left fore-foot,
and the problematic damage sustained since the
accident. Chevis’s own theory occupied some
minutes in expounding, and so absorbed his at-
tention that he did not observe, until the horse
was fairly under the blacksmith's hands, that,
despite Jerry Shaw's unaccustomed industry,
this was by no means a red-letter day in his
habitual dissipation. He trembled for Strath-
spey, but it was too late now to interfere. Jerry
Shaw was in that stage of drunkenness which
is greatly accented by an elaborate affectation
of sobriety. His desire that Chevis should
consider him perfectly sober was abundantly
manifest in his rigidly steady gait, the preter-
natural gravity in his bloodshot eyes, his spar-
ingness of speech, and the earnestness with
which he enunciated the acquiescent formulae
which had constituted his share of the conver-
sation. Now and then, controlling his faculties
by a great effort, he looked hard at Chevis to
discover what doubts might be expressed in his
face concerning the genuineness of this staid
deportment; and Chevis presently found it best
to affect too. Believing that the blacksmith's
histrionic attempts in the rôle of sober artisan
THE STAR IN THE WALLEY. 129
were occupying his attention more than the
paring of Strathspey's hoof, which he held be-
tween his knees on his leather apron, while the
horse danced an animated measure on the other
three feet, Chevis assumed an appearance of in-
difference, and strolled away into the shop. He
looked about him, carelessly, at the horseshoes
hanging on a rod in the rude aperture that
served as window, at the wagon-tires, the plow-
shares, the glowing fire of the forge. The air
within was unpleasantly close, and he soon
found himself again in the door-way.
“Can I get some water here 7” he asked, as
Jerry Shaw reëntered, and began hammering
vigorously at the shoe destined for Strathspey.
The resonant music ceased for a moment.
The solemn, drunken eyes were slowly turned
upon the visitor, and the elaborate affectation
of sobriety was again obtrusively apparent in
the blacksmith's manner. He rolled up more
closely the blue-checked homespun sleeve from
his corded hammer-arm, twitched nervously at
the single suspender that supported his copper-
colored jeans trousers, readjusted his leather
apron hanging about his neck, and, casting upon
Chevis another glance, replete with a challeng-
ing gravity, fell to work upon the anvil, every
heavy and well-directed blow telling with the
precision of machinery.
9
130 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
The question had hardly been heard before
forgotten. At the next interval, when he was
going out to fit the horse, Chevis repeated his
request.
“Water, did ye say?” asked Jerry Shaw,
looking at him with narrowing eyelids, as if to
shut out all other contemplation that he might
grapple with this problem. “Thar's no fraish
water hyar, but ye kin go yander ter the house
and ax fur some ; or,” he added, shading his
eyes from the sunlight with his broad, blackened
hand, and looking at the huge wall of stone be-
yond the road, “ye kin go down yander ter
the spring, an’ ax that thar gal fur a drink.”
Chevis took his way, in the last rays of sun-
shine, across the road and down the declivity
in the direction indicated by the blacksmith.
A cool gray shadow fell upon him from the
heights of the great rocks, as he neared them ;
the narrow path leading from the road grew
dank and moist, and presently his feet were
sunk in the still green and odorous water-loving
weeds, the clumps of fern, and the pungent
mint. He did not notice the soft verdure; he
did not even see the beautiful vines that hung
from earth-filled niches among the rocks, and
lent to their forbidding aspect something of a
smiling grace; their picturesque grouping, where
they had fallen apart to show this sparkling

THE STAR IN THE WALLEY. 131
fountain of bright up-springing water, was all
lost upon his artistic perceptions. His eyes were
fixed on the girl standing beside the spring, her
pail filled, but waiting, with a calm, expectant
look on her face, as she saw him approaching.
No creature could have been more coarsely
habited : a green cotton dress, faded to the
faintest hue ; rough shoes, just visible beneath
her skirts; a dappled gray and brown calico
Sun-bonnet, thrown aside on a moss-grown
bowlder near at hand. But it seemed as if the
wild nature about her had been generous to this
being toward whom life and fortune had played
the niggard. There were opaline lights in her
dreamy eyes which one sees nowhere save in
sunset clouds that brood above dark hills; the
golden Sunbeams, all faded from the landscape,
had left a perpetual reflection in her bronze
hair; there was a subtle affinity between her
and other pliant, swaying, graceful young
things, waving in the mountain breezes, fed by
the rain and the dew. She was hardly more
human to Chevis than certain lissome little
woodland flowers, the very names of which he
did not know, -pure white, star-shaped, with
a faint green line threading its way through
each of the five delicate petals; he had seen
them embellishing the banks of lonely pools, or
growing in dank, marshy places in the middle
132 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
of the unfrequented road, where perhaps it had
been mended in a primitive way with a few rot-
ting rails.
“May I trouble you to give me some water?”
asked Chevis, prosaically enough. She neither
smiled nor replied. She took the gourd from
the pail, dipped it into the lucent depths of the
spring, handed it to him, and stood awaiting
its return when he should have finished. The
cool, delicious water was drained, and he gave
the gourd back. “I am much obliged,” he said.
“Ye’re welcome,” she replied, in a slow, sing-
ing monotone. Had the autumn winds taught
her voice that melancholy cadence 2
Chevis would have liked to hear her speak
again, but the gulf between his station and hers
—so undreamed of by her (for the differences
of caste are absolutely unknown to the indepen-
dent mountaineers), so patent to him — could
be bridged by few ideas. They had so little in
common that for a moment he could think of
nothing to say. His cogitation suggested only
the inquiry, “Do you live here 7” indicating the
little house on the other side of the road.
“Yes,” she chanted in the same monotone,
“I lives hyar.”
She turned to lift the brimming pail. Chevis
spoke again : “Do you always stay at home 7
Do you never go anywhere?”
THE STAR IN THE WALLEY. 133
Her eyes rested upon him, with a slight sur-
prise looking out from among their changing
lights. “No,” she said, after a pause; “I hev
no call to go nowhar ez I knows on.”
She placed the pail on her head, took the dap-
pled sun-bonnet in her hand, and went along the
path with the assured, steady gait and the grace-
ful backward poise of the figure that precluded
the possibility of spilling a drop from the vessel.
He had been touched in a highly romantic
way by the sweet beauty of this little woodland
flower. It seemed hard that so perfect a thing
of its kind should be wasted here, unseen by
more appreciative eyes than those of bird, or
rabbit, or the equally uncultured human beings
about her ; and it gave him a baffling sense of
the mysterious injustice of life to reflect upon
the difference in her lot and that of others of
her age in higher spheres. He went thought-
fully through the closing shadows to the shop,
mounted the re-shod Strathspey, and rode along
the rugged ascent of the mountain, gravely
pondering on worldly inequalities.
He saw her often afterward, although he
spoke to her again but once. He sometimes
stopped as he came and went on the Christel
road, and sat chatting with the old man, her
grandfather, on the porch, sunshiny days, or
lounged in the barn-like door of Jerry Shaw's
*
134 JN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
<
N he became interested in these people, entered
shop talking to the half-drunken blacksmith.
He piqued himself on the readiness with which
into their thoughts and feelings, obtained a com-
prehensive idea of the machinery of life in this
wilderness, – more complicated than one could
readily believe, looking upon the changeless
face of the wide, unpopulated expanse of moun-
tain ranges stretching so far beneath that infi-
nite sky. They appealed to him from the basis
of their common humanity, he thought, and the
; pleasure of watching the development of the
common human attributes in this peculiar and
| primitive state of society never palled upon him.
| He regarded with contempt Warney's frivolous
j displeasure and annoyance because of Hi Bates's
jutter insensibility to the difference in their so-
cial position, and the necessity of either acqui-
i escing in the supposititious equality or dispens-
*ing with the invaluable services of the proud
and independent mountaineer; because of the
patois of the untutored people, to hear which,
Varney was wont to declare, set his teeth on
edge; because of their narrow prejudices, their
mental poverty, their idle shiftlessness, their un-
couth dress and appearance. Chevis flattered
himself that he entertained a broader view. He
\had not even a subacute idea that he looked
upon these people and their inner life only as
THE STAR IN THE WALLEY. 135
picturesque bits of the mental and moral land-
scape; that it was an aesthetic and theoretical
pleasure their contemplation afforded him ; that
he was as far as ever from the basis of common
humanity.
Sometimes while he talked to the old man on
the sunlit porch, the “slip o' willow * sat in the
door-way, listening too, but never speaking.
Sometimes he would find her with her father at
the forge, her fair, ethereal face illumined with
an alien and fluctuating brilliancy, shining and
fading as the breath of the fire rose and fell.
He came to remember that face so well that
in a sorry sketch-book, where nothing else was
finished, there were several laborious pages
lighted up with a faint reflection of its beauty.
But he was as much interested perhaps, though
less poetically, in that massive figure, the idle
blacksmith. He looked at it all from an ideal
point of view. The star in the valley was only
a brilliant, set in the night landscape, and sug-
gested a unique and pleasing experience.
How should he imagine what luminous and
wistful eyes were turned upward to where
another star burned, - the light of his camp-
fire on the crag ; what pathetic, beautiful eyes
had learned to watch and wait for that red
gleam high on the mountain's brow, - hardly
below the stars in heaven it seemed ! How
|
|
136 IN THE TENNESSEE MoUNTAINs.
could he dream of the strange, vague, unrea-
soning trouble with which his idle comings and
goings had clouded that young life, a trouble
as strange, as vague, as vast, as the limitless
sky above her.
She understood him as little. As she sat in
the open door-way, with the flare of the fire be-
hind her, and gazed at the red light shining on
the crag, she had no idea of the heights of
worldly differences that divided them, more in-
surmountable than precipices and flying chutes
of mountain torrents, and chasms and fissures
of the wild ravine : she knew nothing of the
life he had left, and of its rigorous artificialities
and gradations of wealth and estimation. And
with a heart full of pitiable unrealities she
looked up at the glittering simulacrum of a star
on the crag, while he gazed down on the ideal
l star in the valley.
The weeks had worn deep into November.
Chevis and Warney were thinking of going
home; indeed, they talked of breaking camp
day after to-morrow, and saying a long adieu to
wood and mountain and stream. They had
had an abundance of good sport and a surfeit of
roughing it. They would go back to town and
town avocations invigorated by their holiday,
and taking with them a fresh and exhilarating
recollection of the forest life left so far behind.

THE STAR IN THE WALLEY. 137
It was near dusk, on a dull, cold evening,
when Chevis dismounted before the door of the
blacksmith's little log-cabin. The chestnut-tree
hung desolate and bare on the eaves of the
forge ; the stream rushed by in swift gray whirl-
pools under a sullen gray sky; the gigantic wall
* of broken rocks loomed gloomy and sinister on
the opposite side of the road, - not so much as
a withered leaf of all their vines clung to their
rugged surfaces. The mountains had changed
color: the nearest ranges were black with the
myriads of the grim black branches of the de-
nuded forest; far away they stretched in par-
allel lines, rising tier above tier, and showing
numberless gradations of a dreary, neutral tint,
which grew ever fainter in the distance, till
merged in the uniform tone of the sombre sky. .
Indoors it was certainly more cheerful. A \
hickory fire dispensed alike warmth and light.
The musical whir of a spinning-wheel added its
unique charm. From the rafters depended
numberless strings of bright red pepper-pods
and ears of pop-corn; hanks of woolen and cot-
ton yarn; bunches of medicinal herbs; brown
gourds and little bags of seeds. On rude shelves
against the wall were ranged cooking uten-
sils, drinking vessels, etc., all distinguished by
that scrupulous cleanliness which is a marked
feature of the poor hovels of these mountaineers,
|
138 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
!
:
and in striking contrast to the poor hovels of
lowlanders. The rush-bottomed chairs, drawn
in a semicircle before the rough, ill-adjusted
stones which did duty as hearth, were occupied
by several men, who seemed to be making the
blacksmith a prolonged visit; various members
of the family were humbly seated on sundry in-
verted domestic articles, such as wash-tubs, and
splint-baskets made of white oak. There was
circulating among Jerry Shaw's friends a flat
bottle, facetiously denominated “tickler,” read-
ily emptied, but as readily replenished from a
keg in the corner. Like the widow’s cruse of
oil, that keg was miraculously never empty.
The fact of a still near by in the wild ravine
might suggest a reason for its perennial flow.
It was a good strong article of apple-brandy,
and its effects were beginning to be distinctly
visible. -
Truly the ethereal woodland flower seemed
strangely incongruous with these brutal and un-
couth conditions of her life, as she stood at a
little distance from this group, spinning at her
wheel. Chevis felt a sudden sharp pang of pity
for her when he glanced toward her; the next
instant he had forgotten it in his interest in her
work. It was altogether at variance with the
ideas which he had hitherto entertained concern-
ing that humble handicraft. There came across
THE STAR IN THE WALLEY. 139
him a vague recollection from his city life that
the peasant girls of art galleries and of the lyric
stage were wont to sit at the wheel. “But per-
haps they were spinning flax,” he reflected.
This spinning was a matter of walking back
and forth with smooth, measured steps and
graceful, undulatory motion; a matter, too, of
much pretty gesticulation, — the thread in one
hand, the other regulating the whirl of the
wheel. He thought he had never seen attitudes
so charming.
Jerry Shaw hastened to abdicate and offer
one of the rush-bottomed chairs with the eager
hospitality characteristic of these mountaineers,”
—a hospitality that meets a stranger on the
threshold of every hut, presses upon him, un-
grudgingly, its best, and follows him on his de-
parture with protestations of regret out to the
rickety fence. Chevis was more or less known
to all of the visitors, and after a little, under
the sense of familiarity and the impetus of the
apple-brandy, the talk flowed on as freely as be-
fore his entrance. It was wilder and more an-
tagonistic to his principles and prejudices than
anything he had hitherto heard among these
people, and he looked on and listened, interest-
ed in this new development of a phase of life
which he had thought he had sounded from its
lowest note to the top of its compass. He was
!
140 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
glad to remain ; the scene had impressed his
cultivated perceptions as an interior by Teniers
might have done, and the vehemence and law-
lessness of the conversation and the threats of
violence had little reality for him; if he thought
about the subject under discussion at all, it was
with a reassuring conviction that before the
plans could be carried out the already intoxi-
cated mountaineers would he helplessly drunk.
Nevertheless, he glanced ever and anon at the
young girl, loath that she should hear it, lest its
virulent, angry bitterness should startle her.
She was evidently listening, too, but her fair
face was as calm and untroubled as one of the
pure white faces of those flower-stars of his
early stay in the mountains.
“Them Peels ought n’t ter be let live!” ex-
claimed Elijah Burr, a gigantic fellow, arrayed
in brown jeans, with the accompaniments of
knife, powder-horn, etc., usual with the hunters
of the range; his gun stood, with those of the
other guests, against the wall in a corner of the
room. “ They ought n’t ter be let live, an’ I’d
top off all three of 'em fur the skin an' horns of
a deer.”
“That thar is a true word,” assented Jerry
Shaw. “They oughter be run down an’ kilt,
— all three o’ them Peels.”
Chevis could not forbear a question. Always
THE STAR IN THE WALLEY. 141
on the alert to add to his stock of knowledge
of men and minds, always analyzing his own
inner life and the inner life of those about .
him, he said, turning to his intoxicated host,
“Who are the Peels, Mr. Shaw, -—if I may
ask?”
“Who air the Peels 7” repeated Jerry Shaw,
making a point of seizing the question. “They
air the meanest men in these hyar mountings.
Ye might hunt from Copperhead Ridge ter
Clinch River, an’ the whole spread o' the val-
ley, an’ never hear tell o' no sech no 'count crit-
ters.”
“They ought n’t ter be let live!” again urged
Elijah Burr. “No man ez treats his wife like
that dad-burned scoundrel Ike Peel do oughter
be let live. That thar woman is my sister an’
Jerry Shaw’s cousin, – an' I shot him down in
his own door year afore las'. I shot him ter
kill; but somehow 'nother I war that shaky,
an’ the cussed gun hung fire a-fust, an’ that thar
pore wife o' his’n screamed an’ hollered so, that
I never done nuthin’ arter all but lay him up
for four month an’ better for that thar pore crit-
ter ter muss. He 'll see a mighty differ nex’
time I gits my chance. An’’t ain’t fur off,”
he added threateningly.
“Would n’t it be better to persuade her to
leave him 7” suggested Chevis pacifically, with-
142 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
out, however, any wild idea of playing peace-
maker between fire and tow.
Burr growled a fierce oath, and then was si-
lent.
A slow fellow on the opposite side of the fire-
place explained: “Thar's whar all the trouble
kem from. She would nºt leave him, fur all he
treated her awful. She said ez how he war
mighty good ter her when he war n’t drunk. So
'Lijah shot him.”
This way of cutting the Gordian knot of do-
mestic difficulties might have proved efficacious
but for the shakiness induced by the thrill of
fraternal sentiment, the infusion of apple-brandy,
the protest of the bone of contention, and the
hanging fire of the treacherous gun. Elijah
Burr could remember no other failure of aim
for twenty years.
“He won’t git shet of me that easy agin'”
Burr declared, with another pull at the flat
tickler. “But ef it hed n’t hev been fur what
happened las’ week, I mought hev let him off
fur awhile,” he continued, evidently actuated by
some curiously distorted sense of duty in the
premises. “I oughter hev kilt him afore. But
now the cussed critter is a gone coon. Dad-
burn the whole tribe l’”
Chevis was desirous of knowing what had
happened last week. He did not, however, feel
THE STAR IN THE WALLEY. 143
justified in asking more questions. But apple-
brandy is a potent tongue-loosener, and the
unwonted communicativeness of the stolid and
silent mountaineers attested its strength in this
regard. Jerry Shaw, without inquiry, enlight-
ened him.
“Ye see,” he said, turning to Chevis, “’Li-
jah he thought ez how ef he could git that fool
woman ter come ter his house, he could shoot
Ike furhis meanness 'thout botherin’ of her, an’
things would all git easy agin. Waal, he went
thar one day when all them Peels, the whole
lay-out, war gone down ter the Settlemint ter
hear the rider preach, an' he jes' run away with
two of the brats, – the littlest ones, ye onder-
stand, - a-thinkin’ he mought tole her off from
Ike that thar way. We hearn ez how the pore
critter war nigh on ter distracted 'bout 'em,
but Ike never let her come arter 'em. Least-
ways, she never kem. Las’ week Ike kem fur
'em hisself, -him an' them two cussed brothers
o' his'n. All 'Lijah's folks war out ºn the way;
him an' his boys war off a-huntin', an' his wife
hed gone down ter the spring, a haffen mile an’
better, a-washin' clothes; nobody war ter the
house 'ceptin’ them two chillen o’ Ike's. An’
Ike an' his brothers jes' tuk the chillen away,
an’ set fire ter the house; an' time 'Lijah's wife
got thar, 't war nuthin' but a pile o' ashes. So
144 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS. N
we’ve determinated ter go up yander ter Laurel
Notch, twenty mile along the ridge of the moun-
ting, ter-night, an’ wipe out them Peels, — 'kase
they air a-goin’ ter move away. That thar
wife o’ Ike's, what made all the trouble, hev
fretted an' fretted at Ike till he hev determinat-
ed ter break up an’ wagon across the range
ter Kaintucky, whar his uncle lives in the hills
thar, Ike hev gin his cornsent ter go jes' ter
pleasure her, "kase she air mos' crazed ter git
Ike away whar Lijah can’t kill him. Ike's
brothers is a-goin', too. I hearn ez how they'll
make a start at noon ter-morrer.” ~,
“They'll never start ter Kaintucky ter-mor-
rer,” said Burr, grimly. “They’ll git off, afore
that, fur hell, stiddier Kaintucky. I hev been
a-tryin’ ter make out ter shoot that thar man
ever sence that thar gal war married ter him,
seven year ago, -—seven year an' better. But
what with her a-foolin’ round, an’ a-talkin', an’
a-goin’ on like she war distracted — she run
right 'twixt him an’ the muzzle of my gun
wunst, or I would hev hed him that time fur sure
— an’ somehow 'nother that critter makes me so
shaky with her ways of goin’ on that I feel like
I hain't got good sense, an’ can’t git no good
aim at nuthin’. Nex' time, though, thar’ll be a
differ. She ain't a-goin’ ter Kaintucky along of
him ter be beat fur nuthin’ when he's drunk.”
THE STAR IN THE WALLEY. 145
It was a pitiable picture presented to Chevis’s
open-eyed imagination, — this woman standing
for years between the two men she loved : hold-
ing back her brother from his vengeance of her
wrongs by that subtle influence that shook his
aim ; and going into exile with her brute of a
husband when that influence had waned and
failed, and her wrongs were supplemented by
deep and irreparable injuries to her brother.
And the curious moral attitude of the man :
the strong fraternal feeling that alternately
nerved and weakened his revengeful hand.
“We air goin’ thar 'bout two o'clock ter-
night,” said Jerry Shaw, “ and wipe out all
three o’ them Peels, — Ike an' his two broth-
ers.”
“They oughtn't ter be let live,” reiterated
Elijah Burr, moodily. Did he speak to his
faintly stirring conscience, or to a woful premo-
nition of his sister's grief? -
“They’ll all three be stiff an’ stark afore day-
break,” resumed Jerry Shaw. “We air all kin
ter’Lijah, an’ we air goin’ ter holp him top off
them Peels. Thar's ten of us an’ three o’ them,
an’ we won’t hev no trouble 'bout it. An' we'll
bring that pore critter, Ike's wife, an' her chil-
len hyarter stay. She's welcome ter live along
of us till 'Lijah kin fix some sort’m place fur
her an’ the little chillen. Thar won’t be no
10
146 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
trouble a-gittin’ rid of the men folks, ez thar is
ten of us an’ three o’ them, an' we air goin’ ter
take 'em in the nighy.”
There was a protest from an unexpected quar-
ter. The whir of the spinning-wheel was
abruptly silenced. “I don’t see no sense,” said
Celia Shaw, her singing monotone vibrating in
the sudden lull, - “I don’t see no sense in
shootin’ folks down like they war nuthin' better
nor bear, nor deer, nor suthin’ wild. I don’t see
no sense in it. An' I never did see none.”
There was an astonished pause.
“Shet up, Cely Shet up !” exclaimed Jerry
Shaw, in mingled anger and surprise. “Them
folks ain’t no better nor bear, nor sech. They
hain't got no right ter live, – them Peels.”
“No, that they hain't l” said Burr.
“They is powerful no 'count critters, I
know,” replied the little woodland flower, the
firelight bright in her opaline eyes and on the
flakes of burnished gold gleaming in the dark
masses of her hair. “They is always a-hangin'
round the still an’ a-gittin' drunk; but I don’t
see no sense in a-huntin' 'em down an' a-killin’
'em off. 'Pears ter me like they air better nor
the dumb ones. I don’t see no sense in shootin’
'em.”
“Shet up, Cely Shet up !” reiterated Shaw.
Celia said no more. Reginald Chevis was
THE STAR IN THE WALLEY. 147
pleased with this indication of her sensibility;
the other women — her mother and grand-
mother — had heard the whole recital with the
utmost indifference, as they sat by the fire mo-
notonously carding cotton. She was beyond
her station in sentiment, he thought. However,
he was disposed to recant this favorable estimate
of her higher nature when, twice afterward, she
stopped her work, and, filling the bottle from
the keg, pressed it upon her father, despite her
unfavorable criticism of the hangers-on of stills.
Nay, she insisted. “Drink some more,” she
said. “Ye hain’t got half enough yit.” Had
the girl no pity for the already drunken crea-
ture? She seemed systematically trying to make
him even more helpless than he was.
He had fallen into a deep sleep before Chevis
left the house, and the bottle was circulating
among the other men with a rapidity that boded
little harm to the unconscious Ike Peel and his
brothers at Laurel Notch, twenty miles away.
As Chevis mounted Strathspey he saw the
horses of Jerry Shaw's friends standing partly
within and partly without the blacksmith's shop.
They would stand there all night, he thought.
It was darker when he commenced the ascent
of the mountain than he had anticipated. And
what was this driving against his face, — rain Ż
No, it was snow. He had not started a moment
148 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
too soon. But Strathspey, by reason of fre-
quent travel, knew every foot of the way, and
perhaps there would only be a flurry. And so
he went on steadily up and up the wild, wind-
ing road among the great, bare, black trees and
the grim heights and chasms. The snow fell
fast, — so fast and so silently, before he was
half-way to the summit he had lost the vague
companionship of the sound of his horse's hoofs,
now muffled in the thick carpet so suddenly
flung upon the ground. Still the snow fell, and
when he had reached the mountain's brow the
ground was deeply covered, and the whole as-
pect of the scene was strange. But though ob-
scured by the fast-flying flakes, he knew that
\down in the bosom of the white valley there
glittered still that changeless star.
“Still spinning, I suppose,” he said to him-
self, as he looked toward it and thought of the
interior of the log-cabin below. And then he
turned into the tent to enjoy his cigar, his aes-l
thetic reveries, and a bottle of wine.
But the wheel was no longer awhirl. Both
music and musician were gone. Toiling along
the snow-filled mountain ways; struggling with
the fierce gusts of wind as they buffeted and
hindered her, and fluttered derisively among
her thin, worn, old garments; shivering as the
driving flakes came full into the pale, calm face,
THE STAR IN THE WALLEY. 149
and fell in heavier and heavier wreaths upon the
dappled calico sun-bonnet; threading her way
through unfrequented woodland paths, that she
might shorten the distance; now deftly on the
verge of a precipice, whence a false step of
those coarse, rough shoes would fling her into
unimaginable abysses below ; now on the sides
of steep ravines, falling sometimes with the
treacherous, sliding snow, but never faltering;
tearing her hands on the shrubs and vines she
clutched to help her forward, and bruised and
bleeding, but still going on ; trembling more
than with the cold, but never turning back,
when a sudden noise in the terrible loneliness
of the sheeted woods suggested the close prox-
imity of a wild beast, or perhaps, to her igno-
rant, superstitious mind, a supernatural pres-
ence, — thus she journeyed on her errand of
deliverance.
Her fluttering breath came and went in
quick gasps; her failing limbs wearily dragged
through the deep drifts; the cruel winds untir-
ingly lashed her; the snow soaked through the
faded green cotton dress to the chilled white
skin, – it seemed even to the dull blood cours-
ing feebly through her freezing veins. But she
had small thought for herself during those
long, slow hours of endurance and painful ef-
fort. Her pale lips moved now and then with
150 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
muttered speculations: how the time went by ;
whether they had discovered her absence at
home; and whether the fleeter horsemen were
even now ploughing their way through the
longer, winding mountain road. Her only hope
was to outstrip their speed. Her prayer—this
untaught being !—she had no prayer, except
perhaps her life, the life she was so ready to im-
peril. She had no high, cultured sensibilities
to sustain her. There was no instinct stirring
within her that might have nerved her to save
her father's, or her brother's, or a benefactor's
life. She held the creatures that she would
have died to warn in low estimation, and spoke
of them with reprobation and contempt. She
had known no religious training, holding up
forever the sublimest ideal. The measureless
mountain wilds were not more infinite to her
than that great mystery. Perhaps, without
any philosophy, she stood upon the basis of a
common humanity. -
When the silent horsemen, sobered by the
chill night air and the cold snow, made their
cautious approach to the little porch of Ike
Peel's log-hut at Laurel Notch, there was a
thrill of dismayed surprise among them to dis-
cover the door standing half open, the house
empty of its scanty furniture and goods, its
owners fled, and the very dogs disappeared;
THE STAR IN THE WALLE Y. 151
only, on the rough stones before the dying fire,
Celia Shaw, falling asleep and waking by fitful
starts.
“Jerry Shaw swore ez how he would hev
shot that thar gal o' his'n, – that thar Cely,”
Hi Bates said to Chevis and Warney the next
day, when he recounted the incident, “only he
didn’t think she hed her right mind; a-walkin'
through this hyar deep snow full fifteen mile,
—it’s fifteen mile by the short cut ter Laurel
Notch, – ter git Ike Peel's folks off fore 'Li-
jah an' her dad could come up an’ settle Ike
an his brothers. Leastways, 'Lijah an’ the
tºothers, fur Jerry hed got so drunk he couldn't
go; he war dead asleep till ter-day, when they
kem back a-fotchin’ the gal with 'em. That
thar Cely Shaw never did look ter me like she
hed good sense, nobow. Always looked like
she war queer an’ teched in the head.”
There was a furtive gleam of speculation on
the dull face of the mountaineer when his two
listeners broke into enthusiastic commendation
of the girl’s high heroism and courage. The
man of ledgers swore that he had never heard
of anything so fine, and that he himself would
walk through fifteen miles of snow and mid-
night wilderness for the honor of shaking hands
with her. There was that keen thrill about
their hearts sometimes felt in crowded theatres,
152 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
responsive to the cleverly simulated heroism of
the boards; or in listening to a poet's mid-air
song; or in looking upon some grand and enno-
bling phase of life translated on a great paint-
er's canvas.
Hi Bates thought that perhaps they too were
a little “teched in the head.”
There had fallen upon Chevis a sense of deep
humiliation. Celia Shaw had heard no more
of that momentous conversation than he ; a
wide contrast was suggested. He began to
have a glimmering perception that despite all
his culture, his sensibility, his yearnings toward
humanity, he was not so high a thing in the
scale of being ; that he had placed a false esti-
mate upon himself. He had looked down on
her with a mingled pity for her dense igno-
rance, her coarse surroundings, her low station,
and a dilettante's delight in picturesque effects,
and with no recognition of the moral splendors
of that star in the valley. A realization, too,
was upon him that fine feelings are of most
avail as the motive power of fine deeds.
He and his friend went down together to
the little log-cabin. There had been only jeers
and taunts and reproaches for Celia Shaw from
her own people. These she had expected, and
she had stolidly borne them. But she listened
to the fine speeches of the city-bred men with
THE STAR IN THE. VALLEY. 153
a vague wonderment on her flower-like face, —
whiter than ever to-day.
“It was a splendid — a noble thing to do,”
said Warney, warmly.
“I shall never forget it,” said Chevis, “it
will always be like a sermon to me.”
There was something more that Reginald
Chevis never forgot : the look on her face as he
turned and left her forever ; for he was on his
way back to his former life, so far removed
from her and all her ideas and imaginings. He
pondered long upon that look in her inscruta-
ble eyes, – was it suffering, some keen pang of
despair? — as he rode down and down the val-
ley, all unconscious of the heart-break he left
behind him. He thought of it often afterward ;
he never penetrated its mystery.
He heard of her only once again. On the
eve of a famous day, when visiting the outposts
of a gallant corps, Reginald Chevis happened
to recognize in one of the pickets the gawky
mountaineer who had been his guide through
those autumnal woods so far away. Hi Bates
was afterward sought out and honored with an
interview in the general’s tent; for the acci-
dental encounter had evoked many pleasant
reminiscences in Chevis’s mind, and among
other questions he wished to ask was what had
become of Jerry Shaw's daughter.
154 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTA INS.
“She 's dead, - long ago,” answered Hi
Bates. “She died afore the winter war over
the year ez ye war a-huntin' thar. She never
hed good sense ter my way o' thinkin', nohow,
an’ one night she run away, an' walked 'bout
fifteen mile through a big snow-storm. Some
say it settled on her chist. Anyhow, she jes'
sorter fell away like afterward, an’ never held
up her head good no more. She always war a
slim little critter, an’ looked like she war
teched in the head.”
There are many things that suffer unheeded
in those mountains: the birds that freeze on
the trees; the wounded deer that leaves its
cruel kind to die alone; the despairing, flying
fox with its pursuing train of Savage dogs and
men. And the jutting crag whence had shone
the camp-fire she had so often watched — her
star, set forever —looked far over the valley be-
neath, where in one of those sad little rural
graveyards she had been laid so long ago.
But Reginald Chevis has never forgotten her.
Whenever he sees the earliest star spring into
the evening sky, he remembers the answering
red gleam of that star in the valley.
ELECTIONEERIN' ON BIG INJUN
MOUNTING.
“AN’ef ye’ll believe me, he hev hed the face
an’ grace ter come a-prowlin' up hyar on Big
Injun Mounting, electioneerin’ fur votes, an’
a-shakin’ hands with every darned critter on
it.”
To a superficial survey the idea of a constit-
uency might have seemed incongruous enough
with these rugged wilds. The July sunshine
rested on stupendous crags; the torrent was
bridged only by a rainbow hovering above the
cataract; in all the wide prospect of valley and
far-stretching Alleghany ranges the wilderness
was broken by no field or clearing. But over
this gloomy primeval magnificence of nature
universal suffrage brooded like a benison, and
candidates munificently endowed with “face
an’ grace” were wont to thread the tangled
mazes of Big Injun Mounting.
The presence of voters in this lonely region
was further attested by a group of teamsters,
156 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
who had stopped at the wayside spring that the
oxen might drink, and in the interval of wait-
ing had given themselves over to the interest of
local politics and the fervor of controversy.
“Waal, they tells me ez he made a power-
ful good torney-gineral las’ time. An’ it 'pears
ter me ez the mounting folks oughter vote fur
him agin them town cusses, 'kase he war born
an’ raised right down hyar on the slope of Big
Injun Mounting. He never lefthar till he war
twenty year old, when he went ter live yander
at Carrick Court House, an’ arter a while tuk
ter studyin' of law.”
. The last speaker was the most uncouth of the
rough party, and poverty-stricken as to this
world’s goods. Instead of a wagon, he had only
a rude “slide ; ” his lean oxen were thrust from
the water by the stronger and better fed teams;
and his argument in favor of the reëlection of
the attorney for the State in this judicial circuit
— called in the vernacular “the 'torney-gin-
eral” — was received with scant courtesy.
“Ye ’re a darned fool ter be braggin' that
Rufus Chadd air a mounting boy!” exclaimed
Abel Stubbs, scornfully. “He hev hed the in-
surance ter git ez thick ez he kin with them
town folks down thar at Ephesus, an' he hev
made eZ hard speeches agin everybody that war
tuk ter jail from Big Injun eZ ef he hed never
ON BIG INJUN MOUNTING. 157
ſaid eyes on ’em till that minit; an' arter all
that the mounting folks hev done fur him, too !
*T war thar vote that elected him the fust time
he run, "kase the convention put up that thar
Taylor man, what nobody knowed nuthin’ about
an' jes' despised; an' the tº other candidates
would n’t agree ter the convention, but jes' went
before the people ennyhow, an’ the vote war so
split that Big Injun kerried Rufe Chadd in.
An' what do he do? Ef it hed n’t hev been fur
his term a-givin' out he would hev jailed the
whole mounting arter a while !”
The dwellers on Big Injun Mounting are not
the first rural community that have aided in the
election of a prosecuting officer, and afterward
have become wroth with a fiery wrath because
he prosecutes.
“An’ them town folks,” Abel Stubbs contin-
ued, after a pause, – “at fust they war might-
ily interrupted 'bout the way that the election
hed turned out, an’ they promised the Lord that
they would never butt agin a convention no
more while they lived in this life. Hevin' a
mounting lawyer over them town folks in Col-
bury an' Ephesus war mighty humbling ter thar
pride, I reckon; nobody hed never hearn tell o'
sech a thing afore. But when these hyar horse-
thieves an’ mounting fellers ginerally got ter
goin’ in Sech a constancy ter the pen'tiary, them
158 IN THE TENNESSEE MoUNTAINS.
town folks changed thar tune 'bout Rufe Chadd.
They lowed ez they hed never hed sech a
good 'torney-gineral afore. An’ now they air
goin’ ter hew a new election, an’ hyar is Rufe .
a-leadin’ off at the head of the convention ez
graceful ezef he hed never butted agin it in his
life.”
“Waal,” drawled a heavy fellow, speaking
for the first time, – a rigid soul, who would fain
vote the straight ticket, —“I won’t support
Rufe Chadd; an' yit I dunno how I kin git my
cornsent ter vote agin the nominee.”
“Rufe Chadd air goin’ ter be beat like hell
broke loose,” said Abel Stubbs, hopefully.
“He will ef Big Injun hev enny say so 'bout
ºn it,” rejoined the rigid voter. “I hev never
seen a man ez on popular ez he is nowadays on
this mounting.”
“I hev hearn tell that the kin-folks of some
of them convicts, what he made sech hard
speeches agin, hev swore ter git even with him
yit,” said Abel Stubbs. “Rufe Chadd hev been
shot at twice in the woods sence he kem up on
Big Injun Mounting. I seen him yestiddy, an’
he tole me so ; an' he showed me his hat whar
a rifle ball hed done gone through. An I axed
him ef he warn’t afeard of all them men what
hed sech a grudge agin him. “Mister Stubbs,’
he say, sorter Saft, — ye know them 's the ways
ON BIG INJUN MOUNTING. 159
he hev l’arned in Ephesus an’ Colbury an’ sech,
an’ he hed, afore he ever left Big Injun Mount-
ing, the sassiest tongue that ever wagged, –
• Mister Stubbs, Rufe say, mighty perlite, ‘fool-
in’ with me is like makin’ faces at a rattlesnake:
it may be satisfying to the feelin's, but ’t ain't
safe.” That 's what Rufe tole ter me.”
“”T would pleasure me some ter see Rufe
Chadd agin,” said the driver of the slide. “Me
an' him air jes' the same age, – thirty-three
year. We used ter go huntin' tergether some.
They tells me ez he hev app’inted ter speak
termorrer at the Settlemint along of them
t’other five candidates what air a-runnin' agin
him. I likes ter hear him speak; he knocks
things up somehow.”
“He did talk mighty sharp an’ stingin' the
fust time he war electioneerin’ on Big Injun
Mounting,” the rigid voter reluctantly admit-
ted; “but mebbe he hev furgot how sence he
hev done been livin’ with them town folks.”
“Ef ye wants ter know whether Rufe Chadd
hev furgot how ter talk, jes’ take ter thievin'
of horses an’ sech, will ye l’exclaimed Abel
Stubbs, with an emphatic nod. “Ye oughter
hev hearn the tale my brother brung from the
court-house at Ephesus when Josh Green war
tried. He said Rufe jes' tuk that jury out 'n
tharselves; an' he gits jes' Sech a purchase on
160 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
every jury he speaks afore. My brother says
he believes that ef Rufe hedgin the word, that
jury would hev got out ºn thar cheers an’ throt-
tled Josh. It 's a mighty evil sort 'n gift, —
this hyar way that Rufe talks.”
“Waal, his tongue can’t keep the party from
bein’ beat. I hates ter see it disgraced agin,”
said the rigid voter. “But law, I can’t stand
hyar all day jowin' 'bout Rufus Chadd l I hev
got my wheat ter thrash this week, though I
don’t expec’ ter make more ºn enough fur seed
fur nex’ year, – ef that. I must be joltin'
along.”
The ox-carts rumbled slowly down the steep
hill, the slide continued its laborious ascent,
and the forest was left once more to the fitful
stir of the wind and the ceaseless pulsations of
the falling torrent. The shadows of the oak
leaves moved to and fro with dazzling effects
of interfulgent sunbeams. Afar off the blue
mountains shimmered through the heated air;
\ but how cool was this clear rush of emerald wa-
ter and the bounding white spray of the cata-
| ract ' The sudden flight of a bird cleft the
| rainbow ; there was a flash of moisture on his
swift wings, and he left his wild, sweet cry
echoing far behind him. Beetling high above
the stream, the crags seemed to touch the sky.
One glance up and up those towering, majestic
$.
ON BIG INJUN MOUNTING. 161
~ .
steeps, – how it lifted the soul! The Settle-
ment, perched upon the apparently inaccessible
heights, was not visible from the road below.
It cowered back affrighted from the verge of the
great cliff and the grimly yawning abysses.
The huts, three or four in number, were al
silent, and might have been all tenantless, so
lonely was their aspect. Behind them rose the
dense forest, filling the background. In a rush-
bottomed chair before the little store was the
only human creature to be seen in the hamlet,
— a man whose appearance was strangely at va-
riance with his surroundings. He had the long,
lank frame of the mountaineer ; but instead of
the customary brown jeans clothes, he wore a
suit of blue flannel, and a dark straw hat was
drawn over his brow. This simple attire and
the cigar that he smoked had given great of
fense to the already prejudiced dwellers on Big
Injun Mounting. It was not deemed meet
that Rufe Chadd should “git tuk up with them
town ways, an’ sot hisself ter wearin’ of store-
clothes.” His face was a great contrast to the
faces of the stolid mountaineers. It was keenly
chiseled ; the constant friction of thought had
worn away the grosser lines, leaving sharply
defined features with abrupt turns of expres-
sion. The process might be likened to the
gradual denudation of those storied strata of




11
162 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
t
.
s
s.
his mountains by the momentum of their tor.
rents.
And here was no quiet spirit. It could brook
neither defeat nor control; conventional barri-
ers went down before it ; and thus some years
ago it had come to pass that a raw fellow from
the unknown wildernesses of the circuit was
precipitated upon it as the attorney for the
State. A startling sensation had awaited the
dull court-rooms of the villages. The moun-
taineer seemed to have brought from his rugged
heights certain subtle native instincts, and the
wily doublings of the fox, the sudden savage
spring of the catamount, the deadly sinuous ap-
proach of the copperhead, were displayed with
a frightful effect translated into human antago-
nism. There was a great awakening of the
somnolent bar ; counsel for the defense became
eager, active, zealous, but the juries fell under
his domination, as the weak always submit to
the strong. Those long-drawn cases that hang
on from term to term because of faint-hearted
tribunals, too merciful to convict, too just to ac-
quit, vanished as if by magic from the docket.
The besom of the law swept the country, and
his name was a terror and a threat.
His brethren of the bar held him in some-
what critical estimation. It was said that his
talents were not of a high order; that he knew
ON BIG INJUN MOUNTING. 163
no law ; that he possessed only a remarkable
dexterity with the few broad principles familiar
to him, and a certain Swift suppleness in their
application, alike effectual and imposing. He
was a natural orator, they admitted. His suc-
cess lay in his influence on a jury, and his influ-
ence on a jury was due to a magnetic earnest-
ness and so strong a belief in his own powers
that every word carried conviction with it. But
he did not see in its entirety the massive grand-
eur of that greatest monument of human intel-
lect known as the common law of England.
In the face of all detraction, however, there
were the self-evident facts of his success and the
improvement in the moral atmosphere wrought
during his term of office. He was thinking of
these things as he sat with his absorbed eyes
fastened upon the horizon, and of the change
in himself since he had left his humble home
on the slope of Big Injun Mounting. There
he had lived seventeen years in ignorance of
the alphabet; he was the first of his name who
could write it. From an almost primitive state
he had overtaken the civilization of Ephesus
and Colbury, - no great achievement, it might
seem to a sophisticated imagination ; but, the
mountains were a hundred years behind the
progress of those centres. His talents had
burst through the stony crust of circumstance,
164 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
like the latent fires of a volcano. And he had
plans for the future. Only a short while ago
he had been confident when he thought of
them ; now they were hampered by the great
jeopardy of his reëlection, because of the egre-
gious blindness that could not distinguish duty
from malice, justice from persecution. He had
felt the strength of education and civilization;
he was beginning to feel the terrible strength
of ignorance. His faith in his own powers was
on the wane. He had experienced a suffocat-
ing sense of impotence when, in stumping Big
Injun Mounting, he had been called upon by the
meagre but vociferous crowd to justify the hard
bearing of the prosecution upon Josh Green
“fur stealin' of Squire Bibb's old gray mare,
that ye knows, Rufe, – fur ye hev plowed with
her, — war n’t wuth more ºn ten dollars. Ef
Josh hed n’t been in the dark, he would n’t hev
teched sech a pore old critter. Tell us 'bout 'n
seven year in the pen'tiary fur a mare wuth
ten dollars.” What possibility — even with
Chadd's wordy dexterity — of satisfying such
demands as this He found that the strength
of ignorance lies in its blundering brutality.
And he found, too, that mental supremacy does
not of its inherent nature always aspire, but
can be bent downward to low ends. The op-
posing candidates made capital of these illogi-
ON BIG INJUN MOUNTING. 165
cal attacks; they charged him with his most
brilliant exploits as ingenious perversions of
the law and attempts upon the liberties of the
people. Chadd began to despair of dissipating
the prejudice and ignorance so readily crystal-
lized by his opponents, and the only savage in-
stinct left to him was to die game. He justi-
fied his past conduct by the curt declaration
that he had done his duty according to the law,
and he asked the votes of his fellow-citizens
with an arrogant hauteur worthy of Coriolanus.
The afternoon was wearing away; the length-
ening shadows were shifting; the solitary fig-
ure that had been motionless in the shade was
now motionless in the golden sunshine. A
sound broke upon the air other than the muf-
fled thunder of the falls and the droning reiter-
ation of the katydid. There came from the
rocky path threading the forest the regular
beat of horses' hoofs, and in a few moments
three men rode into the clearing that sloped to
the verge of the cliff. The first faint footfall
was a spell to wake the Settlement to sudden
life: sundry feminine faces were thrust out of
the rude windows; bevies of lean-limbed, tow-
headed, unkempt children started up from un-
expected nooks; the store-keeper strolled to the
door, and stood with his pipe in his mouth,
leaning heavily against the frame; and Rufus
166 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
Chadd changed his position with a slow, loung.
ing motion, and turned his eyes upon the road.
“Waal,” said the store-keeper, with frank
criticism, as the trio came in sight, “Isaac Bo-
ker’s drunk agin. It 's the natur’ of the crit-
ter, I’m a-thinkin’. He hev been ter the still,
ez sure eZ ye air born. I hopes 't ain’t a dan-
cin'-drunk he hev got. The las’ time he hed a
dancin'-drunk, he jes' bounced up an’ down the
floor, an’ hollered an’ sung an’ sech, an’ made
sech a disturbament that the Settlemint war
kep' awake till daybreak, mighty nigh. 'Twar
mighty pore enjoymint for the Settlemºnt.
*T war like sittin' up with the sick an’ dead,
stiddier along of a happy critter like him. I’m
powerful sorry fur his wife, ’kase he air mighty
rough ter her when he air drunk;e he cut her
once a toler’ble bad slash. She hev hed ter do
all the work fur four year, − plowin', an’ chop-
pin’ wood, an cookin', an’ washin', an’ sech. It
hev aged her some. An’ all her chillen is gals,
— little gals. Boys, now, mought grow some
help, but gals is more no 'count the bigger they
gits. She air a tried woman, surely. Isaac is
drunk ez a constancy, — dancin'-drunk, mos’ly.
Nuthin’ kin stop him.”
“A good thrashing would help him a little,
I’m thinking,” drawled the lawyer. “And if
I lived here as a constancy I’d give it to him
ON BIG INJUN MOUNTING. 167
the first sober spell he had.” His speech was
slow ; his voice was spiritless and languid; he
still possessed the tone and idiom of the moun-
taineer, but he had lost the characteristic pro-
nunciation, more probably from the influence of
other associations than an appreciation of its in-
Correctness.
“That ain’t the right sort o” Sawder fur a
candidate, Rufe,” the store-keeper admonished
him. “An’’t ain’t safe no how fur sech a slim,
stringy boy eZ ye air ter talk that way 'bout 'n
Isaac Boker. He air a tremenjous man, an’ ez
strong eZ an ox.”
“I can thrash any man who beats his wife,”
protested the officer of the law. “I don’t see
how the Settlement gets its own consent to
let that sort of thing go on.”
“She air his wife,” said the store-keeper, who /
was evidently of conservative tendencies. “An’’
she air powerful tuk up with him. I hev hearn
her 'low ez he air better dancin'-drunk than
other men sober. She could hev married other
men; she did n’t suffer with hevin’ no ch'ice.”
“He ought to be put under lock and key,”
said Chadd. “That would sober him. I wish
these dancin'-drunk fellows could be sent to the
state-prison. I could make a jury think ten
years was almost too good for that wife-beating
chap. I’d like to see him get away from me.”
168 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
There was a certain calculating cruelty in his
face as he said this. He was animated by no
chivalric impulse to protect the weak and help-
less; the spirit roused within him was rather
the instinct of the beast of prey. The store-
keeper looked askance at him. In his mental
review of the changes wrought in the past few
years there was one that had escaped Rufus
Chadd's attention. The process was insinuating
and gradual, but the result was bold and obvi-
ous. In the constant opposition in which he
was placed to criminals, in the constant contem-
plation of the worst phases of human nature, in
the active effort which his duty required to
bring the perpetrators of all foul deeds to jus-
tice, he had grown singularly callous and piti-
less. The individual criminal had been merged
in the abstract idea of crime. After the first
few cases he had been able to banish the visions
of the horrors brought upon other lives than
that of the prisoner by the verdict of guilty.
Mother, wife, children, – these pale, pursuing
phantoms were exorcised by prosaic custom, and
his steely insensibility made him the master of
many a harrowing court-room scene.
“That would be a mighty pore favor ter his
wife,” said the store-keeper, after a pause.
“She bed ruther be beat.”
The three men had dismounted, hitched their
ON BIG INJUN MOUNTING. 169
horses, and were now approaching the store.
Rufus Chadd rose to shake hands with the fore-
most of the party. The quick fellow was easily
schooled, and the store-keeper's comment upon
his lack of policy induced him to greet the
new-comers with a greater show of cordiality
than he had lately practiced toward his constit-
uents.
“I never looked ter find ye hyar this soon,
Rufe,” said one of the arrivals. “What hev
ye done with the t'other candidates ?”
“I left them behind, as I always do,” said
Chadd, laughing, “ and as I expect to do again
next Thursday week, if I can get you to prom-
ise to vote for me.”
“I ain’t a-goin’ ter vote furye, – nary time,”
interpolated Boker, as he reeled heavily for-
ward.
“Well, I’m sorry for that,” said Chadd,
with the candidate's long-suffering patience.
“Why?”
Isaac Boker felt hardly equal to argument,
but he steadied himself as well as he could, and
looked vacantly into the eyes of his interlocutor
for some pointed inspiration ; perhaps he caught
there an intimation of the contempt in which he
was held. He still hesitated, but with a sudden
anger inflaming his bloated face. Chadd waited
a moment for a reply; then he turned care-
170 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
lessly away, saying that he would stroll about
a little, as sitting still so long was fatiguing.
“Ef ye war whar ye oughter be, a-follerin' of
the plow,” said Isaac Boker, “ye wouldn’t git
a chance ter tire yerself a-sittin' in a cheer.”
“I don’t hold myself too high for plow-
ing,” replied Chadd, in a conciliatory manner.
“Plowing is likely work for any able-bodied
man.” This speech was unlucky. There was
in it an undercurrent of suggestion to Isaac Bo-
ker's suspicious conscience. He thought Chadd
intended a covert allusion to his own indolence
in the field, and his wife's activity as a substi-
tute. “It was only an accident that took me
out of the furrow,” Chadd continued.
“”T war a killin’ accident ter the country,”
said Isaac Boker. “Fur they tells me that ye
don’t know no more law than a mounting fox.”
Chadd laughed, but he sneered too. His pa-
tience was evaporating. Still he restrained his
irritation by an effort, and Boker went on :
“Folks ez is bred ter the plow ain’t got the
sense an’ the showin' ter make peart lawyers.
An' that 's why I ain't a-goin’ ter vote fur ye.”
This plain speaking was evidently relished by
the others; they said nothing, but their low ac-
quiescent chuckle demonstrated their opinion.
“I have n’t asked you for your vote,” said
Chadd, sharply.
ON BIG INJUN MOUNTING. 171
The burly fellow paused for a moment, in
stupid surprise; then his drunken wrath rising,
he exclaimed, “An' why n’t ye ax me fur my
vote, them 2 Ye're the damnedest critter in
this country, Rufe Chadd, ter come election-
eerin’ on Big Injun Mounting, an’ a-makin’ out
ez I ain’t good enough ter be axed ter vote
fur ye | Ye hed better, not be tryin’ ter sot
me down lower 'n other folks. I’ll break that
empty cymlin' of a head of yourn,” and he
raised his clenched fist.
“If you come a step nearer I'll throw you
off the bluff,” said Chadd.
“That’ll be a powerful cur’ous tale ter go
the rounds o' the mounting,” remarked one of
the disaffected by-standers. “Ye hev done all
ye kin ter torment yer own folks up hyar on
Big Injun Mounting what elected ye afore ; an'
then ye comes up hyar agin, an’ the fust man
that says he won't vote fur ye must be flunged
off ºn the bluff.”
“’Pears ter me,” said Isaac Boker, surlily,
and still shaking his fist, “ez thar ain’t all yit
in the pen'tiary that desarves ter go thar. Bet-
ter men than ye air, Rufe Chadd, hev been
locked up, an' hung too, sence ye war elected
ter office.”
There was a sudden change in the lawyer's
attitude; a strong tension of the muscles, as of
172 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
a wild-cat ready to spring; the quickening of
his blood showed in his scarlet face; there was
a fiery spark in his darkening eyes.
“Oh, come now, Rufe,” said one of the look-
ers-on hastily. “Ye ought n’t ter git ter fightin'
with a drunken man. Jes' walk yerself off fur
a while.”
“Oh, he can say what he likes while he 's
drunk,” replied Chadd, with a short, scornful
laugh. “But I tell you, now, he had better
keep his fists for his wife.”
The others gathered about the great, massive
fellow, who was violently gesticulating and inco-
herently asserting his offended dignity. Chadd
strolled away toward the gloomy woods, his
hands in his pockets, and his eyes bent upon
the ground. Glances of undisguised aversion
followed him, - from the group about the store,
from the figures in the windows and doors of the
poor dwellings, even from the half-clad children
who paused in their spiritless play to gaze after
him. He was vaguely conscious of these pur-
suing looks of hatred, but only once he saw the
universal sentiment expressed in a face. As the
long shadows of the forest fell upon his path, he
chanced to raise his eyes, and encountered those
of a woman, standing in Boker's cabin. He
went on, feeling like a martyr. The thick foli-
age closed upon him ; the Sound of his languid
ON BIG INJUN MOUNTING, 178
footsteps died in the distance, and the figures
on the cliff stood in the sunset glow, watching
the spot where he had disappeared, as silent
and as motionless as if they had fallen under
some strange, uncanny spell.
The calm of the woodland, the refreshing aro-
matic odors, the rising wind after the heat of
the sultry day, exerted a revivifying influence
upon the lawyer's spirits, as he walked on into
the illimitable solitudes of the forest. Night
was falling before he turned to retrace his way;
above the opaque, colorless leaves there was the
lambent glinting of a star; the fitful plaint of
a whip-poor-will jarred the dark stillness; gro-
tesque black shadows had mustered strong
among the huge boles of the trees. But he took
no note of the gathering gloom ; somehow, his
heart had grown suddenly light. He had for-
gotten the drunken wrangler and all the fretting
turmoils of the canvass; once he caught himself
in making plans, with his almost impossible suc-
cess in the election as a basis. And yet, incon-
sistently enough, he felt a dismayed astonish-
ment at his unaccountable elation. The work-
ings of his own mind and their unexpected
developments were always to him strange phe-
nomena. He was introspective enough to take
heed of this inward tumult, and he had a shrewd
suspicion that more activity was there than in
174 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAZNS,
all the mental exercitations of the combined
bench and bar of the circuit. But he harbored
a vague distrust of this uncontrollable power
within, so much stronger than the untutored
creature to whom it appertained. A harassing
sense of doubleness often possessed him, and he
was torn by conflicting counsels, — the inherent
inertia and conservatism of the mountaineer,
who would fain follow forever the traditional
customs of his ancestry, and an alien overwhelm-
ing impetus, which carried him on in spite of
himself, and bewildered him with his own ex-
ploits. He was helpless under this unreason-
able expectation of success, and regarded the
mental gymnastic of joyous anticipation with
perplexed surprise. “I’m fixing a powerful
disappointment for myself,” he said.
He could now see, through the long vista of
the road, the open space where the Settlement
was perched upon the crag. The black, jagged
outline of the rock serrated the horizon, and
was cut sharply into the delicate, indefinable
tints of the sky. Above it a great red moon
was rising. There was the gleam of the water-
fall; how did it give the sense of its emerald
green in the darkness 2 The red, rising moon
showed, but did not illumine, the humble cluster
of log huts upon the great cliff. Here and there
a dim yet genial flare of firelight came broadly
ON BIG INJUN MoUNTING. 175
ſlickering out into the night. It was darker
still in the dense woods from which the road
showed this nocturnal picture framed in the oak
leaves above his head. But was a sudden flash
of lightning shooting across that clear, tenderly-
tinted sky? He felt his warm blood gushing
down his face; he had a dizzying sense of fall-
ing heavily ; and he heard, strangely dulled, a
hoarse, terrified cry, which he knew he did not
utter. It echoed far through the quiet woods,
startling the apathetic inhabitants of the Settle-
ment, and waking all the weird spirits of the
rocks. The men sitting in the store took their
pipes from their mouths, and looked at each
other in surprise.
“What's that ?” asked one of the newly-
arrived candidates, an Ephesus man, who held
that the mountains were not over and above safe
for civilized people, and was fain to investigate
unaccustomed sounds.
“Jes’ somebody a-hollerin’ fur thar cow,
mebbe,” said the store-keeper. “Or mebbe it
air Isaac Boker, ez gits dancin'-drunk wunst in
a while.”
The cry rose again, filling all the rocky abysses
and mountain heights with a frenzied horror.
From the woods a dark figure emerged upon
the crag ; it seemed to speed along the sky,
'blotting out, as it went, the moon and stars.
176 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
The men at the store sprang to their feet, shaken
by a speechless agitation, when Isaac Boker
rushed in among them, suddenly Sobered, and
covered with blood.
“I hev done it !” he exclaimed, with a pallid
anguish upon his bloated face. “I met him in
the woods, an’ slashed him ter pieces.”
The red moon turned to gold in the sky, and
the world was flooded with a gentle splendor;
and as the hours went by no louder sound broke
upon the gilded dusk than the throb of the cat-
aract, pulsing like the heart of the mountains,
and the stir of the wind about the rude hut
where the wounded man had been carried.
When Rufus Chadd opened his eyes upon
the awe-stricken faces that clustered about the
bed, he had no need to be reminded of what had
happened. The wave of life, which it seemed
would have carried him so far, had left him
stranded here in the ebb, while all the world
sailed on.
“They hev got Isaac Boker tied hard an’
fast, Rufe,” said the store-keeper, in an attempt
to reply to the complex changes of expression
that flitted over the pale face.
Chadd did not answer. He was thinking that
no adequate retribution could be inflicted upon
Isaac Boker. The crime was not only the de-
struction of merely sensuous human life, but,
ON BIG INJUN MOUNTING. 177
alas, of that subtler entity of human schemes,
and upward-reaching ambitions, and the im-
measurable opportunity of achievement, which
after all is the essence of the thing called life.
He was to die at the outset of his career, which
his own steadfast purpose and unaided talent
had rendered honorable and brilliant, for the
unreasoning fury of a drunken mountaineer.
And this was an end for a man who had turned
his ambitious eyes upon a chief-justice’s chair,
— an absurd ambition but for its splendid ef-
frontery ! In all this bitterness, however, it was
Some comfort to know that the criminal had not
escaped.
“Are you able to tell how it happened,
Chadd 2 ” asked one of the lawyers.
As Chadd again opened his eyes, they fell
upon the face of a woman standing just within
the door, – so drawn and piteous a face, with
such lines of patient endurance burnt into it,
with such a woful prophecy in the sunken, hor-
ror-stricken eyes, he turned his head that he
might see it no more. He remembered that
face with another expression upon it. It had
given him a look like a stab from the door of
Boker's hut, when he had passed in the after-
noon. He wished never to see it again, and yet
he was constrained to glance back. There it
was, with its quiver of a prescient heart-break.
12
178 IN THE TENNESSEE MoUNTAINS.
<
* ..
\!
He felt a strange inward thrill, a bewildering
rush of emotion. That sense of doubleness and
development which so mystified him was upon
him now. He was surprised at himself when
the said, distinctly, so that all might hear, “If I
ldie — don't let them prosecute Isaac Boker.”
There was a sudden silence, so intense that it
seemed as if the hush of death had already fal-
len, or that the primeval stillness of creation
was never broken. Had his soul gone out into
the night 2 Was there now in the boundless
spaces of the moonlit air some mysterious pres-
ence, as incomprehensible to this little cluster of
overawed humanity as to the rocks and woods
of the mighty, encompassing wilderness? How
did the time pass 2 It seemed hours before the
stone-like figure stirred again, and yet the white
radiance on the puncheon floor had not shifted.
His consciousness was coming back from those
vague border-lands of life and death. He was
about to speak once more. “Nobody can know
how it happened except me.” And then again,
as he drifted away, “Don’t let them prosecute.”
There was a fine subject of speculation at the
Settlement the next morning, when the coun-
try-side gathered to hear the candidates speak.
The story of Isaac Boker's attack upon Rufus
Chadd was repeated to every new-comer, and
the astonishment created by the victim's un-
oN BIG INJUN MoUNTING. 179
characteristic request when he had thought he
was dying revived with each consecutive recital.
It presently became known that no fatal result
was to be anticipated. The doctor, who lived
twenty miles distant, and who had just arrived,
said that the wounds, though painful, were not
dangerous, and his opinion added another ele-
ment of interest to the eager discussion of the
incident.
Thus relieved of the shadow of an impending
tragedy, the knots of men congregated on the
great cliff gradually gave themselves up to the
object of their meeting. Candidates of smiling
mien circulated among the Saturnine, grave-
faced mountaineers. In circulation, too, were
other genial spirits, familiarly known as “apple-
jack.” It was a great occasion for the store-
keeper; so pressing and absorbing were his du-
ties that he had not a moment's respite, until
Mr. Slade, the first speaker of the day, mounted
a stump in front of the store and began to ad-
dress his fellow-citizens. He was a large, florid
man, with a rotund voice and a smooth manner,
and he was considered Chadd's most formidable
competitor. The mountaineers hastily concen-
trated in a semicircle about him, listening with
the close attention singularly characteristic of
rural audiences. Behind the crowd was the im-
mensity of the unpeopled forests; below, the
180 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
mad fret of the cataract ; above, the vast hem-
isphere of the lonely skies; and far, far away
was the infinite stretching of those blue ranges
that the Indians called The Endless.
Chadd had lain in a sort of stupor all the
morning, vaguely conscious of the distant moun-
tains visible through the open window, -
vaguely conscious of numbers of curious faces
that came to the door and gazed in upon him, -
vaguely conscious of the candidate's voice be-
ginning to resound in the noontide stillness.
Then he roused himself.
The sensation of the first speech came at its
close. As Chadd lay in expectation of the sten-
torian “Hurrah for Sladel” which should greet
his opponent's peroration, his face flushed, his
hands trembled; he lifted himself on his elbow,
and listened again. He could hardly trust his
senses, yet there it was once more, — his own
name, vibrating in a prolonged cheer among the
mountain heights, and echoing far down the
narrow valley.
That sympathetic heart of the multitude, so
quick to respond to a noble impulse, had caught
the true interpretation of last night's scene, and
to-day all the barriers of ignorance and misun-
derstanding were down.
The heaviest majority ever polled on Big In-
jun Mounting was in the reëlection of the attor-
ON BIG INJUN MOUNTING. 181
ney for the State. And the other candidates
thought it a fine electioneering trick to get one's
self artistically slashed; they became misan-
thropic in their views of the inconstancy of the
people, and lost faith in Saving grace and an
overruling Providence.
This uncharacteristic episode in the life of
Rufus Chadd was always incomprehensible to
his associates. He hardly understood it him-
self. He had made a keen and subtle distinc-
tion in a high-moral principle. As Abel Stubbs
said, in extenuation of the inconsistency of vot-
ing for him, “I knows that this hyar Rufe
Chadd air a powerful hard man, an’ evil-doers
ez offends agin the law ain’t got no mercy ter
expect from him. But then he don't hold no
grudge agin them ez hev done him harm. An’
that 's what I’m a-lookin' at.”
THE ROMANCE OF SUNRISE ROCK.
-Ö-
I.
WHAT momentous morning arose with so re-
splendent a glory that it should have imprinted
its indelible reflection on the face of this great
Cumberland cliff; what eloquence of dawn so
splendid that the dumb, insensate stone should
catch its spirit and retain its expression for-
ever and forever ? A deep, narrow stream
flowed around the base of the “paint-rock.”
Immense fissures separated it from its fellows.
And charged with its subtler meaning it tow-
ered above them in isolated majesty. Moons
waxed and waned; nations rose and fell; cen-
turies came and went. And still it faced the
east, and still, undimmed by storm and time, it
reiterated the miracle and the prophecy of the
rising sun.
“”T war painted by the Injuns, – that 's
what I hev always hearn tell. Them folks war
mos’ly leagued with the Evil One. That's
how it kem they war gin the grasp ter scuffle
up that thar bluff, eZ air four hunderd feet
THE ROMANCE OF SUNR/SE ROCK. 183
high an’ ez sheer ez a wall; it ain't got foot-
hold fur a cockle-burr. I hev hearn tell that
when they got ez high ez the pictur’ they war
'lowed by the devil ter stand on air. An' I be-
lieves it. Else how 'd they make out ter do
that thar job 7"
The hairy animal, whose jeans suit pro-
claimed him man, propounded this inquiry with
a triumphant air. There was a sarcastic curve
on the lips of his interlocutor. Clearly it was
not worth his while to enlighten the mountain-
eer, — to talk of the unknown races whose
work so long survives their names, to speculate
upon the extent of their civilization and the me-
chanical contrivances that reached those dizzy
heights, to confide his nebulous fancies clus-
tering about the artist-poet who painted this
grand, rude lyric upon the immortal rock. He
turned from the strange picture, suspended be-
tween heaven and earth, and looked over the
rickety palings into the dismal little graveyard
of the mountaineers. Nowhere, he thought,
was the mystery of life and death so gloomily
suggested. Humanity seemed so small, so tran-
sitory a thing, expressed in these few mounds
in the midst of the undying grandeur of the
mountains. Material nature conquers; man
and mind are as naught. Only a reiteration of
a well-conned lesson, for so far this fine young
184 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
fellow of thirty had made a failure of life;
the material considerations with which he had
wrestled had got the better of him, and a place
within the palings seemed rather preferable to
his place without.
It was still strange to John Cleaver that his
lines should have fallen in this wilderness; that
the door of that house on the slope of the
Backbone should be the only door upon earth
open to him ; that such men as this mountain-
eer were his neighbors and associates. The
fact seemed a grotesque libel on likelihood. As
he rode away he was thinking of his costly ed-
ucation, the sacrifices his father had made to
secure it, his dying conviction, which was such
a comfort to him, that in it he had left his pen-
niless son a better thing than wealth, – with
such training and such abilities what might he
not reach 2 When John Cleaver returned from
his medical studies in Paris to the Western
city of his birth, to scores of charity patients,
and to a fine social position by virtue of the
prestige of a good family, there seemed only a
little waiting needed. But the old physicians
held on to life and the paying practice with the
grip of the immortals. And he found it diffi-
cult to sustain existence while he waited.
At the lowest ebb of his fortunes there came
to him a letter from a young lawyer, much in
THE ROMANCE OF SUNRISE ROCK. 185
his own professional position, but who had con-
fessed himself beaten and turned sheep-farmer.
Here, among the mountains of East Tennes-
see, said the letter, he had bought a farm for
a song; the land was the poorest he ever saw,
but served his purposes, and the house was
a phenomenal structure for these parts, – a
six-room brick, built fifty years ago by a city
man with a bucolic craze and consumptive ten-
dencies. The people were terribly poor; still,
if his friend would come he might manage to
pick up something, for there was not a physi-
cian in a circuit of sixty miles. -
So Cleaver had turned his face to the moun-
tains. But unlike the sheep-farmer he did not
meet his reverses lightly. The man was at bay.
And like a savage thing he took his ill-fortune
by the throat. Success had seemed so near
that there was something like the pain of death
in giving up the life to which he had looked
forward with such certainty. He could not
console himself with this comatose state, and
call it life. He often told himself that there
was nothing left but to think of what he might
have done, and eat out his heart. His ambi-
tion died hard.
As his horse ambled along, a gruff voice
broke his reverie, “’Light an' hitch,” called
out the master of a wayside hovel.
186 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
A man of different temperament might have
found in Cleaver's uncouth surroundings some
points of palliation. His heart might have
warmed to the ignorant mountaineers’ high
and tender virtue of hospitality. A responsive
| respect."might have been induced by the con-
templation of their pride, so intense that it rec-
ognizes no superior, so inordinate that one is
tempted to cry out, Here are the true republi-
cans ! or, indeed, Here are the only aristocrats |
The rough fellow was shambling out to stop
him with cordial insistence. An old crone,
leaning on a stick in the doorway, called after
her son, “Tell him ter 'light an' hitch, Peter,
an’ eat his supper along of we-uns.” A young
girl sitting on the rude porch, reeling yarn pre-
paratory to weaving, glanced up, her sedate
face suddenly illumined. Even the bare-footed,
tow-headed children stood still in pleased ex-
pectation. Certainly John Cleaver's position
in life was as false as it was painful. But the
great human heart was here, untutored though
it was, and roughly accoutred. And he himself
had found that Greek and Latin do not alto-
gether avail.
The little log-house was encompassed by the
splendor of autumnal foliage. A purple haze
clung to the distant mountains; every range
and every remove had a new tone and a new
THE ROMANCE OF SUNRISE ROCK. 187
delight. The gray crags, near at hand, stood
out sharply against the crimson sky. And high
above them all in its impressive isolation loomed
Sunrise Rock, heedless of the transitory dying
day and the ineffective coming night.
The girl’s reel was still whirling; at regular
intervals it ticked and told off another cut.
Cleaver's eyes were fixed upon her as he de-
clined Peter Teake's invitation. He had seen
her often before, but he did not know as yet
that that face would play a strange part in the
little mental drama that was to lead to the
making of his fortune. Her cheek was flushed;
her delicate crimson lips were slightly parted;
the live gold of the sunbeams touched the dead-
yellow, lustreless masses of her hair. Here and
there the clustering tendrils separated, as they
hung about her shoulders, and disclosed bright
glimpses of a red cotton kerchief knotted around
her throat ; she wore a dark blue homespun
dress, and despite the coarse texture of her at-
tire there was something of the mingled brill-
iance and softness of the autumn tints in her
humble presence. Her eyes reminded him of
those deep, limpid mountain streams with gold-
en-brown pebbles at the bottom. Scornful as
he was, he was only a man — and a young man.
With a sudden impulse he leaned forward and
handed her a pretty cluster of ferns and berries
which he had gathered in the forest.
188 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
The reel stopped, the thread broke. She
looked up, as she received mechanically his
woodland treasure, with so astonished a face
that it induced in this man of the world a sense
of embarrassment.
“Air they good yerbs fur somethin’?” she
asked. -
A quick comprehension of the ludicrous situ-
ation flashed through his mind. She evidently
made no distinctions in the healing art as prac-
ticed by him and the “yerb-doctor,” with whom
he occasionally came into professional contact.
And the presentation of the “ yerbs” seemed a
prescription instead of a compliment.
“No, - no,” he said hastily, thinking of
the possibility of a decoction. “They are not
good for tea. They are of no use, – except to
look at.”
And he rode away, laughing softly.
Everything about the red brick house was
disorganized and dilapidated; but the dining-
room, which served the two young bachelors as
a sitting-room also, was cheerful with the glow
of a hickory fire and a kerosene lamp, and al-
though the floor was bare and the tiny-paned
windows curtained only with cobwebs, there
was a suggestively comfortable array of pipes
on the mantel-piece, and a bottle of gracious
aspect. Sitting in front of the fire, the light
THE ROMANCE OF SUNRISE ROOK. 189
full on his tawny beard and close-clipped blond
hair, was a man of splendid proportions, a fine,
frank, intellectual face, and a manner and ac-
cent that proclaimed him as distinctly exotic as
his friend. He too had reared the great scaf-
folding of an elaborate education that he might
erect the colossal edifice of his future. His
hands beat the empty air and he had no ma-
terials wherewith to build. But there was the
scaffolding, a fine thing in itself, - wasted, per-
haps. For the sheep-farmer did not need it.
“Well, old sinner l’ he exclaimed smilingly,
as Cleaver entered. “Did you tell Tom to put
up your ‘beastis' 2 He is so “brigaty” that he
might not stand.”
Were the two friends sojourning in the Cum-
berland Mountains on a câmp-hunt, these ex-
cerpts from the prevalent dialect might have
seemed to Cleaver a pleasantry of exquisite
flavor. But they were no sojourners; they were
permanently established here. And he felt that
every concession to the customs of the region
was a descent toward the level of its inhabitants.
He thought Trelawney was already degenerat-
ing in this disheveled life, – mentally, in man-
ner, even in speech. For with a philologist's
zest Trelawney chased verbal monstrosities to
their lair, and afterward displayed them in his
daily conversation with as much pride as a con-
190 IN THE TENNESSEE MoUNTAINs.
r
noisseur feels in exhibiting odd old china. As
these reflections intruded themselves, Cleaver
silently swore a mighty oath — an oath he had
often sworn before—that he would not go down
with him, he would not deteriorate too, he
would hold hard to the traditions of a higher
sphere. -
But sins against convention could not detract
from the impressiveness of the man lounging
before the fire. If Trelawney only had money,
how he would adorn the state of nabob
“Brigaty 1” he reiterated. “That’s a funny
word. It sounds as if it might be kin to the
Italian brigata. Or, see here — briga 2–eh 2
— brigare — brigars; 3 I wonder how these peo-
ple come by it.”
A long pause ensued, broken only by the
ticking of their watches: the waste of time as-
serted itself. All was silent without ; no wind
stirred ; no leaf nor acorn fell; the mute mists
pressed close to the window. Surely there were
no other creatures in all the dreary world. And
this, thought Cleaver, was what he had come
to, after all his prestige, all his efforts |
“Trelawney,” he said suddenly, “these are
long evenings. Don't you think that with all
this time on our hands — I don’t know — but
don't you think we might write something to.
gether ?”
THE ROMANCE OF SUNRISE ROCK, 191
A frank surprise was in his friend's brown
eyes. He replied doubtfully, “Write what?”
“I don’t know,” said Cleaver despondently.
“And suppose we had the talent to project
“something’ and the energy to complete it, who
would publish it 7”
“I don't know,” said the doctor, more hope-
lessly still.
Another pause. The foxes were barking in
the moonlight, in the red autumn woods. That
a man should feel less lonely for the sound of a
wild thing's voice
“My dear fellow,” said John Cleaver, a cer-
tain passion of despair welling up in his tones,
— he leaned forward and laid his hand on his
friend’s knee, -“it won't do for us to spend our
lives here. We must turn about and get back
into the world of men and action. Don’t think
I’m ungrateful for this haven, – you are the
only one who held out a hand, - but we must
get back, and go on with the rest. Help me,
Trelawney, - help me think out some way.
I’m losing faith in myself alone. Let us help
each other. Many a man has made his pen his
strongest friend; they were only men at last,
just such as we are. Many of them were poor;
the best of them were poor. We can try noth-
ing else, Fred, - so little chance is left to us.”
Trelawney laid his warm strong hand upon
192 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
the cold nervous hand trembling on his knee.
“Jack,” he said, “I have given it all up. – I am
through forever with those cursed alternations
of hope and despair. I don’t believe we could
write anything that would do — do any good, I
mean. I wore out all energy and afflatus — the
best part of me — waiting for the clients who
never came. And all the time my appropriate
sphere, my sheep-farm, was waiting for me here.
I have found contentment, the manna from
heaven, while you are still sighing for the flesh-
pots of Egypt. Ambition has thrown me once;
I sha’n’t back the jade again. I am a shepherd,
Jack, a shepherd.
“Pastorem, Tityre, pingues
Pascere oportet oves, deductum dicere carmen.”
That's it, my dear old boy. Sing a slender
song! We’ve pitched our voices on too high
a key for our style of vocalization. We must
sing small, Jack, -sing a slender song!”
“I’ll be damned if I do | * cried Cleaver, im-
petuously, springing to his feet and pacing the
room with a quick stride.
But his friend's words dogged him deep into
the night. They would not let him sleep. He
lay staring blankly at the darkness, his thoughts
busy with his forlorn position and his forlorn
prospects, and that sense of helplessness, so ter-
rible to a man, pressing heavily upon his heart.
THE ROMANCE OF SUNRISE ROCK. 193
In the midst of the memories of his hopes, his
ambitions, and his failures he was like a worm
in the fire. The vague presence of the majestic
company of mountains without preyed upon him;
they seemed stolid, unmoved witnesses of his
despair. The only human creature who might
have understood him would not understand him.
He knew that if he were writhing in pain with
a broken limb, or the sentimental spurious an-
guish of a broken heart, Trelawney would re-
solve himself into every gracious phase of heal-
ing sympathy. But a broken life l— his friend
would not make an effort. Yet why should he
crave support 2 Was it true that he had pitched
his voice too high 2 In this day of over-educa-
tion, when every man is fitted for any noble
sphere of intellectual achievement and only in-
born talent survives, might it not be that he had
mistaken a cultivated aspiration for latent
power? And if indeed his purposes had out-
stripped his abilities, the result was tragic —
tragic. He was as dead as if he were six feet
deep in the ground. A bitter throe of shame
came with these reflections. There is something
so ludicrously contemptible in a great personal
ambition and a puny capacity. Ambition is the
only grand passion that does not ennoble. We
do not care that a low thing should lift its eyes.
And if it does, we laugh.
• 13
194 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
There was a movement in the hall below.
He had left Trelawney reading, but now his
step was on the stairs, and with it rose the full
mellow tones of his voice. He was singing of
the spring-time in the autumn midnight. Poor
Fred It was always spring with him. He met
his misfortunes with so cordial an outstretched
hand that it might have seemed he disarmed
them. It did not seem so to John Cleaver. He
shifted his attitude with a groan. His friend's
fatal apathy was an added pang to his own sor-
rows. And now the house was still, and he
watched through all the long hours the western
moonlight silently scale the gloomy pines, till on
their plumy crests the yellow beams mingled
with the red rays of the rising sun, and the
empty, lonely day broke in its useless, wasted
splendor upon the empty loneliness of the splen-
did night.
II.
Cleaver took little note, at this period, of
those who came and went in his life; and he
took little note of how he came and went in the
lives of others. He had no idea of those inex-
plicable circles of thought and being that touch
at a single point, and jar, perhaps. One day,
while the Indian summer was still red on the
hills, — he had reason to remember this day, -
THE ROMANCE OF SUNRISE ROCK, 195
while the purple haze hovered over the land-
scape and mellowed to artistic delicacy the bold,
bright colors of Sunrise Rock, he chanced to
drive alone in his friend's rickety buggy along
the road that passed on the opposite bank from
the painted cliff and encircled the dreary little
graveyard of the mountaineers. He became
suddenly aware that there was a figure leaning
against the palings; he recognized Selina Teake
as he lifted his absorbed eyes. She held her
sun-bonnet in her hand, and her yellow hair and
fair face were unshaded ; how little did he or
she imagine what that face was to be to him
afterward | He drew up his horse and spoke:
“Well, this is the last place I should think you
would want to come to.”
She did not understand his dismal little joke
at the graveyard. She silently fixed upon him
those eyes, so suggestive of deep, clear waters
in which some luminous planet has sunk a
starry reflection.
“Did you intend to remain permanently 2”
“I war restin’ awhile,” she softly replied.
He had a vague consciousness that she was
the first of these proud mountaineers whom he
had ever seen embarrassed or shy. She was in-
dubitably blushing as he looked at her, and as
she falteringly looked at him. How bright her
eyes were, how red her delicate lips, what a
196 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
faint fresh wild-rose was suddenly abloom on
her cheek
“Suppose you drive with me the remainder
sf the way,” he suggested.
This was only the courtesy of the road in this
region, and with her grave, decorous manner she
stepped lightly into the vehicle, and they bowled
away together. She was very mute and motion-
less as she sat beside him, her face eloquent
with some untranslated emotion of mingled won-
derment and pleasure and pain. Perhaps she
drew in with the balsamic sunlit air the sweet-
est experience of her short life. He was silent
too, his thoughts still hanging drearily about
his blighted prospects and this fatal false step
that had led him to the mountains; wondering
whether he could have done better, whether he
could have done otherwise at all, when it would
end, - when, and how.
Trelawney was lounging against the rail fence
in front of Teake's house, looking, in his negli-
gent attire, like a prince in disguise, and talk-
ing to the mountaineers about a prospective
deer-hunt. There was a surprised resentment
on his face when Cleaver drove up, but the re-
turn of Selina with him made not a ripple
among the Teakes. It would have been impos-
sible to demonstrate to them that they stood on
a lower social plane. Their standard of moral-
THE ROMANCE OF SUNRISE ROCK. 197
ity and respectability could not be questioned;
there had never been a man or a woman of the
humble name who had given the others cause
for shame; they had lived in this house on their
own land for a hundred years; they neither
stole nor choused; they paid as they went, and
asked no favors; they took no alms, – nay, they
gave of their little ! As to the artificial dis-
tinctions of money and education, — what do
the ignorant mountaineers care about money
and education |
Selina stood for a moment upon the cabin
porch, her yellow hair gleaming like an aureola
upon a background of crimson Sumach leaves.
A pet fawn came to the door and nibbled at her
little sun-burned hands. As she turned to go
in, Trelawney spoke to her. “Shall I bring
you a fawn again 7 or will you have some ven-
ison from the hunt to-morrow 7"
She fixed her luminous eyes upon him and
laughed a little. There was no shyness in her
face and manner now. Was Trelawney so ac-
customed a presence in her life, Cleaver won-
dered.
“Ah, I see,” said Fred, laughing too. “I’ll
bring you some venison.”
He was grave enough as he and his friend
drove homeward together, and Cleaver was
roused to the perception that there was a cer-
198 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
tain unwonted coldness slipping insidiously be-
tween them. It was not until they were seated
before the fire that Trelawney again spoke.
“How did it happen that you and she were to-
gether ?” Evidently he had thought of noth-
ing else since.
“Who? — the Lady Selina 2° said Cleaver,
mockingly. Trelawney's eyes warned him to
forbear. “Oh, I met her walking, and I asked
her to drive with me the rest of the way.”
Nothing more was said for a time. Cleaver
was thinking of the fawn which Fred had given
her, of the patent fact that he was a familiar
visitor at the Teake house. His question, and
his long dwelling upon the subject before he
asked it, seemed almost to indicate jealousy.
Jealousy Cleaver could hardly credit his own
suspicion.
Trelawney broke the silence. “Education,”
he said abruptly, “what does education accom-
plish for women in our station of life? They
learn to write a fashionable hand that nobody
can decipher. They take a limited course of
reading and remember nothing. Their study
of foreign languages goes so far sometimes as to
enable them to interject commonplace French
phrases into their daily conversation, and ren-
der their prattle an affront to good taste as well
an insult to the understanding. They have
THE ROMANCE OF SUNRISE ROCK. 199
converted the piano into an instrument of tor-
ture throughout the length and breadth of the
land. Sometimes they are learned ; then they
are given over to “making an impression, and
are prone to discuss, with a fatal tendency to
misapply terms, what they call ‘philosophy.’
As to their experience in society, no one will
maintain that their flirtations and husband-
hunting tend greatly to foster delicacy and re-
finement. What would that girl,” modding
toward the log-cabin near Sunrise Rock, “think
of the girls of our world who pursue “society’
as a man pursues a profession, who shove and
jostle each other and pull caps for the great
matches, and “put up with the others when
no better may be had 2 She is my ideal of a
modest, delicate young girl, - and she is the
only sincere woman I ever saw. Upon my
soul, I think the primitive woman holds her
own very finely in comparison with the result-
ant of feminine culture.”
Cleaver listened in stunned dismay. Could
Trelawney have really fallen in love with the
little mountaineer 2 He had adapted himself
so readily to the habits of these people. He
was so far from the world; he was dropping its
chains. Many men under such circumstances,
under far happier circumstances, had fallen into
the fatal error of a mésalliance. Positively he
200 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
might marry the girl. Cleaver felt it an imper-
ative duty to make an effort to avert this al-
most grotesque catastrophe. In its very incep-
tion, however, he was hopeless. Trelawney
had always been so intolerant of control, so te-
nacious of impressions and emotions, so careless
of results and the opinion of society. These
seemed only originalities of character when he
was the leader of a clique of men of his own so-
cial position. Was Cleaver a snob because they
seemed to him, now that his friend was brought
low in the world, a bull-headed perversity, a
ludicrous eccentricity, an unkempt republican-
ism, a raw incapacity to appreciate the right
relations of things? In the delicately adjusted
balance of life is that which is fine when a man
is up, folly when a man is down 2
“She is a pretty little thing,” he said, slight-
ingly, “and no doubt a good little thing. And,
Trelawney, if I were in your place I would n’t
hang around her. Your feelings might become
involved — she is so pretty — and she might
fall in love with you, and ’ –
“You’ve said enough l’ exclaimed Trelaw-
ney, fiercely.
It was monstrous ! Trelawney would marry
her. And he was as helpless to prevent it as if
Fred intended to hang himself.
“Your railing at the women of society in
THE ROMANCE OF SUNRISE ROCK, 201
that shallow fashion suggests the idea to me
that you are trying to justify yourself in some
tremendous folly. Do you contemplate marry-
ing her ?”
“That is exactly what I propose to do,” said
Trelawney.
“And you are mad enough to think you are
really in love with her ?”
“Why should I not be? If she were differ-
ently placed in point of wealth and station
would there be any incongruity ? I don't want
to say anything hard of you, Cleaver, but you
would be ready to congratulate me.”
“I admit,” retorted Cleaver, sharply, “that
if she were your equal in station and appro-
priately educated I should not have a word of
objection to say.”
“And after all, is it the accident of position
and fortune, or the human creature, that a man
takes to his heart 2"
“But her ignorance, Fred " —
“Great God 1 does a man fall in love with a
society girl for the sake of what she calls her
‘education ?? Whatever attracts him, it is not
that. They are all ignorant; this girl's igno-
rance is only relative.”
“Ah, – you know all that is bosh, Fred.”
“In point of manner you yourself must con-
cede that she is in many respects superior to
202 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
them. She has a certain repose and gravity
and dignity difficult to find among young ladies
of high degree whose education has not proved
an antidote for flippancy. I won’t be hard
enough on them to compare the loveliness of
her face or her fine, unspoiled nature. You
don’t want her to be learned any more than
you want an azalea to be learned. An azalea
in a green-house becomes showy and flaunting
and has no fragrance, while here in the woods
its exquisite sweetness fills the air for miles.”
“Trelawney, you are fit for Bedlam.”
“I knew you would say so. I thought so
too at first. I tried to stamp it out, and put it
down, and for a long time I fought all that is
best in me.”
“Does she know anything about your feel-
ings 2"
“Not one word, as yet.”
“Then I hope something — anything — may
happen to put a stop to it before she does.”
This hasty wish seemed cruel to him after-
ward, and he regretted it.
“It would break my heart,” said Trelawney,
with an extreme earnestness. “I know you
think I am talking wildly, but I tell you it
would break my heart.”
Cleaver fell to meditating ruefully upon the
future in store for his friend in this desolate
THE ROMANCE OF SUNRISE ROCK. 203
place. King Cophetua and the beggar-maid
are a triumph of ideal contrast, eminently fas-
cinating in an ideal point of view. But real
life presents prosaic corollaries, – the Teakes,
for example, on the familiar footing of Trelaw-
ney's brothers-in-law ; the old crone with her
pipe, his wife's grandmother ; that ignorant
girl, his wife — oh, these sublunary considera-
tions are too inexorable. In his sluggish con-
tent he would never make another effort ; he
would always live here; he would sink, year by
year, by virtue of his adaptability and uncouth
associations nearer to the level of the mountain-
eers. This culminating folly seemed destined
to complete the ruin of every prospect in a fine
man’s life.
Cleaver did not know what was to come, and
he brooded upon these ideas.
III.
Those terrible problems of existence of which
happier men at rare intervals catch a fleeting
glimpse, and are struck aghast for a moment,
pursued John Cleaver relentlessly day by day.
He could not understand this world ; he could
not understand the waste of himself and his
friend in this useless, purposeless way; he could
not even understand the magnificent waste of
204 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
the nature about him. Sometimes he would
look with haggard eyes on the late dawns and
marvel that the sun should rise in such efful-
gence upon this sequestered spot ; a perpetual
twilight might have sufficed for the threnody,
called life, here. He would gaze on Sunrise
Rock, forever facing and reflecting the dawn,
and wonder who and what was the man that in
the forgotten past had stood on these red hills,
and looked with his full heart in his eyes upon
that sun, and smote the stone to sudden speech.
Were his eyes haggard too? Was his life
heavy 2 Were his fiery aspirations only a
touch of the actual cautery to all that was sen-
sitive within him 2 Did he know how his world
was to pass away ? Did he know how little he
was in the world? Did he too wring his hands,
and beat his breast, and sigh for the thing that
was not 7
Cleaver did the work that came to him con-
scientiously, although mechanically enough.
But there was little work to do. Even the ca-
reer of a humble country doctor seemed closed
to him. He began to think he saw how it
would end. He would be obliged to quit the
profession; in sheer manliness he would be
obliged to get to something at which he could
work. A terrible pang here. He cared noth-
ing for money, - this man, who was as poor
THE ROMANCE OF SUNRISE ROCK. 205
as the very mountaineers. He was vowed to
science as a monk is vowed to his order.
It was an unusual occurrence, therefore, when
Trelawney came in one day and found that
Cleaver had been called out professionally. He
sat down to dine alone, but before he had fin-
ished carving, his friend entered.
“Well, doctor,” said Trelawney cheerily,
“how is your patient 7”
Cleaver was evidently out of sorts and pre-
occupied. “These people are as uncivilized as
the foxes that they live among,” he exclaimed
irrelevantly. “A case of malignant diphtheria,
a physician their nearest neighbor, and they
don’t let him know till nearly the last gasp.
Then they all go frantic together, and swear
they had no idea it was serious. I could have
brained that fool, Peter Teake. But it is a
hopeless thing now.”
A premonition thrilled through Trelawney.
“Who is ill at Teake's 2''
Cleaver was stricken dumb. His professional
indignation had canceled all realization of the
impending crisis. He remembered Fred's fool-
ish fancy an instant too late. His silence an-
swered for him. And Trelawney, a sudden
blight upon his handsome face, rose and walked
out heavily into the splendors of the autumn
sunset. Cleaver was bitter with self-reproach.
206 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
Still he felt an impotent anger that Fred should
have persuaded himself that he was in love with
this girl, and laid himself liable to this senti-
mental pain.
“A heart l” thought Cleaver, scornfully.
“That a heart should trouble a man in a place
like this l’’
And yet his own well-schooled heart was all
athrob with a keen, undreamed-of anguish when
Once more he had come back from the cabin in
the gorge. As he entered, Trelawney, after one
swift glance, turned his eyes away. He had
learned from Cleaver's face all he feared to know.
He might have learned more, a secret too subtly
bitter for his friend to tell. King Cophetua
was as naught to the beggar-maid. In her dying
eyes John Cleaver had seen the fresh and pure
affection that had followed him. In her tones
he had heard it. Was she misled by that pro-
fessional tenderness of manner which speaks so
soothingly and touches so softly — as mechan-
ical as the act of drawing off his gloves — that
she should have been moved to cry out in her
huskily pathetic voice, “How good — how good
ye air!” and extend to him, amongst all her kin-
dred who stood about, her little sun-burned
hand?
And after that she was speechless, and when
the little hand was unloosed it was cold.
THE ROMANCE OF SUNRISE ROCK. 207
She had loved him, and he had never known
it until now. He felt like a traitor as he
glanced at his friend's changed face, and he was
crushed by a sense of the immense capacity of
human nature for suffering. What a great
heart-drama was this, with its incongruous and
humble dramatis personae : the little moun-
taineer, and these two poverty-stricken strag-
glers from the vast army of men of action, —
deserters, even, it might seem. What chaotic
sarcasm in this mysterious ordering of events,
— Trelawney, with his grand sacrificial pas-
sion; the poor little girl, whose first fresh love
had unsought followed another through these
waste places ; and he, all unconscious, absorbed
in himself, his worldly considerations and the
dying throes of his dear ambitions. And now,
for him, who had felt least of all, was rising a
great vicarious woe. If he had known this girl's
heart-secret while she yet lived he might have
thought scornfully of it, slightingly; who can
say how 2 But now that she was dead it was as
if he had been beloved by an angel, and was
only too obtuse, too gross, too earthly-minded
to hear the rustle of her wings. How pitiable
was the thought of her misplaced affection; how
hard it was for his friend ; how hard it was for
him that he had ever discovered it. Did she
know that he cared nothing 2 Were the last
208 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
days of her short life embittered with the pangs
of a consciously unrequited love 2 Or did she
tremble, and hope, and tremble again 2 Ah,
poor, poor, pretty thing ! -
He had no name for a certain vague, myste-
rious thrill which quivered through every fibre
whenever he thought of that humble, tender
love that had followed him so long, unasked and
unheeded. It began to hang about him now
like a dimly-realized presence. Occasionally it
occurred to him that his nerves were disordered,
his health giving way, and he would commence
a course of medicine, to forget it in his preoc-
cupation, and discontinue it almost as soon as
begun. What happened afterward was a nat-
ural sequence enough, although at the time it
seemed wonderful indeed.
One misty midnight, when these strong feel-
ings were upon him, it so chanced that he was
driving from a patient's house on the summit
of the ridge, and his way lay beneath Sunrise
Rock along the road which encircled the little
graveyard of the mountaineers. The moon was
bright; so bright that the wreaths of vapor,
hanging motionless among the pines, glistened
like etherealized silver ; so bright that the
mounds within the inclosure — Was it the
mist 2 Was it the moonbeam 2 Was it the
glimmer of yellow hair 2 Did he see, leaning
THE ROMANCE OF SUNRISE ROCK. 209
on the palings, “restin' awhile,” the grace-
ful figure he remembered so well ? He was
dreaming, surely ; or were those deep, instarred
eyes really fixed upon him with that wistful
gaze which he had seen only twice before ?
— once here, where he had met her, and once
when she died. She was approaching him ; she
was so close he might have touched her hand.
Was it cold, he wondered; cold as it was when
he held it last 2 He hardly knew, -— but she
was seated beside him, as in that crimson sun-
set-tide, and they were driving together at a
frenzied speed through the broken shadows of
the wintry woods. He did not turn his head,
and yet he saw her face, drawn in lines of pal-
lid light and eloquent with some untranslated
emotion of mingled wonderment and pleasure
and pain. Like the wind they sped together
through the mist and the moonbeam, over the
wild mountain road, through the flashing moun-
tain waters, down, down the steep slope toward
the red brick house, where a light still burned,
and his friend was waiting. He did not know
when she slipped from his side. He did not
know when this mad pace was checked. He
only regained his faculties after he had burst
into the warm home atmosphere, a ghastly hor-
ror in his face and his frantic fright upon his
lips.
14
210 IN THE TENNESSEE M (M &WNTAINS.
Trelawney stood breathless.
“Oh, forgive me,” cried Cleaver. “I have
spoken sacrilege. It was only hallucination ; I
know it now.”
Trelawney was shaken. “Hallucination ?”
he faltered, with quivering lips.
“I did not reflect,” said Cleaver. “I would
not have jarred your feelings. I am ill and ner-
vous.”.
Trelawney was too broken to resent, to heed,
or to answer. He sat cold and shivering, un-
conscious of the changed eyes watching him,
unconscious of a new idea kindling there, — be-
ginning to flicker, to burn, to blaze, – uncon-
scious of the motive with which his friend after
a time drew close to the table and fell to writ-
ing with furious energy, unconscious that in this
moment Cleaver's fortune was made.
And thus he wrote on day after day. So clev,
erly did he analyze his own mental and nervous
condition, so unsparing and insidious was this
curious introversion, that when his treatise on
the “Derangement of the Nervous Functions”
was given to the world it was in no degree
remarkable that it should have attracted the
favorable attention of the medical profession ;
that the portion devoted to hallucinations should
have met with high praise in high quarters;
that the young physician's successful work
THE ROMANCE OF SUNRISE ROCK. 211
should have brought him suddenly to the re-
membrance of many people who had almost for-
gotten poor John Cleaver. No one knew, no
one ever knew, its romantic inspiration. No
one ever knew the strange source whence he
had this keen insight ; how his imperious will
had held his shaken, distraught nerves for the
calm scrutiny of science; how his senses had
played him false, and that stronger, subtler
critical entity, his intellect, had marked the
antics of its double self and noted them down.
Among the men to whom his treatise brought
John Cleaver to sudden remembrance was a
certain notable physician. He was growing in-
firm now, his health was failing, his heavy prac-
tice was too heavy for his weakening hands.
He gave to the young fellow's work the meed
of his rare approval, cleverly gauged the clev-
erness behind it, and wrote to Cleaver to come.
And so he returned to his accustomed and
appropriate sphere. In his absence his world
had flattened, narrowed, dulled strangely. Peo-
ple were sordid, and petty, and coarse-minded ;
and society — his little clique that he called so-
ciety — possessed a painfully predominating ele-
ment of snobs; men who had given him no no-
tice before were pleased to be noticed now, and
yet the lucky partnership was covertly com-
mented upon as the freak of an old man in his
212 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
dotage. He was suddenly successful, he had
suddenly a certain prospect of wealth, he was
suddenly bitter. He thought much in these
days of his friend Trelawney and the indepen-
dent, money-scorning aristocrats of the moun-
tains, of the red hills of the Indian summer,
and the towering splendors of Sunrise Rock.
That high air was perhaps too rare for his lungs,
but he was sensible of the density of the denser
medium.
As to that vague and tender mystery, the
ghost that he saw, it had been exorcised by
prosaic science. But it made his fortune, it
crowned his life, it bestowed upon him all he
craved. Perhaps if she could know the wonder-
ful work she had wrought in his future, the
mountain girl, who had given her heart unasked,
might rest more easily in her grave than on that
night when she had come from among the moon-
lit mounds beneath Sunrise Rock, and once
more sat beside him as he drove through shadow
and sheen. For whether it was the pallid mist,
whether it was the silver moon, whether it was
the fantasy of an overwrought brain, or whether
that mysterious presence was of an essence more
ethereal than any, who can know?
In these days he carried his friend’s interest
close to his heart. He opened a way in the
crowd, but Trelawney held back from the hands
THE ROMANCE OF SUNRISE ROCK. 213
stretched out. He had become wedded to the
place. The years since have brought him a
Quiet, uneventful, not unhappy existence. Af-
ter a time he grew more cheerful, but not less
gentle, and none the less beloved of his simple
neighbors. They feel vaguely sometimes that
since he first came among them he is a saddened
man, and are moved to ask with sympathetic
solicitude concerning the news from his supposi-
titious folks “down thar in the valley whar ye
hails from.” The fortune in sheep-farming still
eludes his languid pursuit. The red brick house
is disorganized and dilapidated as of yore ; a
sense of loneliness broods upon it, hardly less
intense than the loneliness of the mighty en-
compassing forest. Deep in these solitudes he
often strolls for hours, most often in the crim-
son and purple eventides along the road that
passes beneath Sunrise Rock and encircles the
little graveyard of the mountaineers. Here Tre-
lawney leans on the palings while the sun goes
down, and looks, with his sore heart bleeding
anew, upon one grassy mound till the shadows
and the tears together blot it from his sight.
Sometimes his heart is not sore, only sad.
Sometimes it is tender and resigned, and he
turns to the sunrise emblazoned on the rock and
thinks of the rising Sun of Righteousness with
healing in his wings. For the skepticism of his
214 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
college days has fallen from him somehow, and
his views have become primitive, like those of
his primitive neighbors. There is a certain calm
and strength in the old theories. With the
dawn of a gentle and hopeful peace in his heart,
very like the comfort of religion, he goes his
way in the misty moonrise.
And sometimes John Cleaver, so far away, as
with a second sight becomes subtly aware of
these things. He remembers how Trelawney
is deceived, and a remorse falls on him in the
still darkness, and tears and mangles him.
And yet there are no words for confession, —
there is nothing to confess. Would his conjec-
ture, his unsupported conviction, avail aught ;
would it not be cruel to re-open old wounds
with the sharp torture of a doubt 2 And the
daybreak finds him with these questions un-
solved, and his heart turning wistfully to that
true and loyal friend, with his faithful, un-
requited love still lingering about the grave of
the girl who died with her love unrequited.
THE DANCIN’ PARTY AT HARRISON'S
COVE.
&
“FUR ye see, Mis’ Darley, them Harrison
folks over yander ter the Cove hev determi-
nated on a dancin’ party.”
The drawling tones fell unheeded on old Mr.
Kenyon's ear, as he sat on the broad hotel piazza
of the New Helvetia Springs, and gazed with
meditative eyes at the fair August sky. An
early moon was riding, clear and full, over this
wild spur of the Alleghanies; the stars were few
and very faint ; even the great Scorpio lurked,
vaguely outlined, above the wooded ranges; and
the white mist, that filled the long, deep, narrow
valley between the parallel lines of mountains,
shimmered with opalescent gleams.
All the world of the watering-place had con-
verged to that focus, the ball-room, and the cool,
moonlit piazzas were nearly deserted. The fell
determination of the “Harrison folks” to give
a dancing party made no impression on the pre-
occupied old gentleman. Another voice broke
216 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
his reverie, – a soft, clear, well-modulated voice,
— and he started and turned his head as his own
name was called, and his niece, Mrs. Darley,
came to the window.
“Uncle Ambrose, – are you there 2 So glad |
I was afraid you were down at the summer-
house, where I hear the children singing. Do
come here a moment, please. This is Mrs. Johns,
who brings the Indian peaches to sell, -you
know the Indian peaches 2 °
Mr. Kenyon knew the Indian peaches, the
dark crimson fruit streaked with still darker
lines, and full of blood-red juice, which he had
meditatively munched that very afternoon. Mr.
Kenyon knew the Indian peaches right well.
He wondered, however, what had brought Mrs.
Johns back in so short a time, for although the
principal industry of the mountain people about
the New Helvetia Springs is selling fruit to the
summer sojourners, it is not customary to come
twice on the same day, nor to appear at all after
nightfall.
Mrs. Darley proceeded to explain.
“Mrs. Johns's husband is ill and wants us to
send him some medicine.”
Mr. Kenyon rose, threw away the stump of
his cigar, and entered the room. “How long
has he been ill, Mrs. Johns?” he asked, dis-
mally. -
DANCIN PARTY AT HARRISON'S COVE. 217
i Mr. Kenyon always spoke lugubriously, and
he was a dismal-looking old man. Not more
cheerful was Mrs. Johns; she was tall and lank,
and with such a face as one never sees except
in these mountains, -elongated, sallow, thin,
with pathetic, deeply sunken eyes, and high
cheek-bones, and so settled an expression of
hopeless melancholy that it must be that naught
but care and suffering had been her lot ; hold-
ing out wasted hands to the years as they pass,
— holding them out always, and always empty.
She wore a shabby, faded calico, and spoke with
the peculiar expressionless drawl of the moun-
taineer. She was a wonderful contrast to Mrs.
Darley, all furbelows and flounces, with her
fresh, smooth face and soft hair, and plump,
round arms half-revealed by the flowing sleeves
of her thin, black dress. Mrs. Darley was in
mourning, and therefore did not affect the ball-
room. At this moment, on benevolent thoughts
intent, she was engaged in uncorking sundry
small phials, gazing inquiringly at their labels,
and shaking their contents.
In reply to Mr. Kenyon's question, Mrs.
Johns, sitting on the extreme edge of a chair
and fanning herself with a pink calico sun-bon-
net, talked about her husband, and a misery in
his side and in his back, and how he felt it
“a-comin' on nigh on fier a week ago.” Mr.
218 JN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS,
W
Kenyon expressed sympathy, and was surprised
by the announcement that Mrs. Johns consid-
ered her husband's illness “a blessin', 'kase ef
he war able ter git out ºn his bed, he 'lowed ter
go down ter Harrison's Cove ter the dancin'
party, "kase Rick Pearson war a-goin’ ter be
thar, an’ hed said eZ how none o’ the Johnses
should come.”
“What, Rick Pearson, that terrible outlaw l’”
exclaimed Mrs. Darley, with wide open blue
eyes. She had read in the newspapers sundry
thrilling accounts of a noted horse thief and out-
law, who with a gang of kindred spirits defied
justice and roamed certain sparsely-populated
mountainous counties at his own wild will, and
she was not altogether without a feeling of fear
as she heard of his proximity to the New Helve-
tia Springs, – not fear for life or limb, because
she was practical-minded enough to reflect that
the sojourners and employés of the watering-
place would far outnumber the outlaw's troop,
but fear that a pair of shiny bay ponies, Castor
and Pollux, would fall victims to the crafty
wiles of the expert horse thief.
“I think I have heard something of a diffi-
culty between your people and Rick Pearson,”
said old Mr. Kenyon. “Has a peace never
been patched up between them 7”
“No-o,” drawled Mrs. Johns; “same as it
DANCINP PARTY AT HARRISON'S CO.V.E. 219
always war. My old man’ll never believe but
what Rick Pearson stole that thar bay filly we
lost 'bout five year ago. But I don’t believe he
done it ; plenty other folks around is ez mean
ez Rick, leastways mos’ ez mean ; plenty mean
enough ter steal a horse, ennyhow. Rick say he
never tuk the filly ; say he war a-goin’ ter shoot
off the nex’ man's head ez say so. Rick say
he'd ruther give two bay fillies than hev a man
say he tuk a horse eZ he never tuk. Rick say
ez how he kin stand up ter what he does do, but
it’s these hyar lies on him what kills him out.
But ye know, Mis’ Darley, ye know yerself,
he never give nobody two bay fillies in this
world, an’ what’s more he 's never goin’ ter.
My old man an’ my boy Kossute talks on 'bout
that thar bay filly like she war stole yestiddy,
an' 't war five year ago an’ better; an' when
they hearn ez how Rick Pearson hed showed
that red head o' his’n on this hyar mounting las'
week, they war fightin’ mad, an’ would hev lit
out fur the gang sure, 'ceptin’ they hed been
gone down the mounting fur two days. An’ my
son Kossute, he sent Rick word that he had bet-
ter keep out 'n gunshot o' these hyar woods;
that he did n’t want no better mark than that
red head o' his'n, an’ he could hit it two mile
off. An’ Rick Pearson, he sent Kossute word
that he would kill him fur his sass the very nex’
220 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
time he see him, an’ ef he don’t want a bullet
in that pumpkin head o' his ’n he hed better
keep away from that dancin’ party what the
Harrisons hev laid off ter give, ’kase Rick say
he 's a-goin’ ter it hisself, an’ is a-goin’ ter dance
too; he ain't been invited, Mis’ Darley, but
Rick don’t keer fur that. He is a-goin’ enny-
how, an’ he say ez how he ain’t a-goin’ ter let
Kossute come, 'count o' Kossute's sass an’ the
fuss they’ve all made 'bout that bay filly that
war stole five year ago, -’t war five year an’
better. But Rick say ez how he is goin', fur all
he ain’t got no invite, an’ is a-goin’ ter dance
too, "kase you know, Mis’ Darley, it's a-goin'
ter be a dancin’ party; the Harrisons hev deter-
minated on that. Them gals of theirn air mos’
crazed 'bout a dancin’ party. They ain’t been
a bit of account sence they went ter Cheatham’s
Cross-Roads ter see thar gran'mother, an' picked
up all them queer new notions. So the Harri-
sons hev determinated on a dancin' party; an'
Rick say ez how he is goin’ ter dance too; but
Jule, she say ez how she know thar ain’t a gal
on the mounting ez would dance with him ; but
I ain’t so sure 'bout that, Mis’ Darley; gals air
cur’ous critters, ye know yerself; thar’s no
sort o' countin' on 'em ; they’ll do one thing
one time, an’ another thing nex’ time; ye can't
put no dependence in 'em. But Jule say
DANCIN PARTY AT HARRISON'S COVE. 221
ef he kin git Mandy Tyler ter dance with him,
it ’s the mos’ he kin do, an’ the gang 'll be
no whar. Mebbe he kin git Mandy ter dance
with him, kase the other boys say ez how none
o' them is a-goin’ ter ax her ter dance, 'count
of the trick she played on 'em down ter the
Wilkins settlemint — las’ month, war it 2 mo,
’t war two month ago, an’ better ; but the boys
ain’t forgot how scandalous she done 'em, an’
none of 'em is a-goin’ ter ax her ter dance.”
“Why, what did she do?” exclaimed Mrs.
Darley, surprised. “She came here to sell
peaches one day, and I thought her such a nice,
pretty, well-behaved girl.”
“Waal, she hev got mighty quiet say-nuthin'
sort ’n ways, Mis’ Darley, but that thar gal do
behave rediculous. Down thar ter the Wilkins
settlemint, — ye know it’s 'bout two mile or
two mile ’n a half from hyar, – wadl, all the
gals walked down thar ter the party an hour by
sun, but when the boys went down they tuk
thar horses, ter give the gals a ride home be-
bind 'em. Waal, every boy axed his gal ter
ride while the party war goin’ on, an’ when
’t war all over they all set out fur ter come home.
Waal, this hyar Mandy Tyler is a mighty favo-
rite 'mongst the boys, – they ain’t got no sense,
ye know, Mis’ Darley, -an’ stiddier one of
'em axin' her ter ride home, thar war five of
222 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
'em axed her ter ride, ef ye ’ll believe me, an’
what do ye think she done, Mis’ Darley 2 She
tole all five of 'em yes; an' when the party war
over, she war the last tergo, an’ when she started
out ºn the door, thar war all five of them boys
a-standin’ thar waitin’ fur her, an’ every one
a-holdin’ his horse by the bridle, an’ mone of 'em
knowed who the others war a-waitin’ fur. An’
this hyar Mandy Tyler, when she got ter the
door an’ seen 'em all a-standin’ thar, never said
one word, jest walked right through 'mongst
'em, an’ set out fur the mounting on foot with
all them five boys a-followin’ an’ a-leadin’ thar
horses an a-quarrelin’ enough ter take off each
others’ heads 'bout which one war a-goin’ ter
ride with her ; which none of 'em did, Mis’ Dar-
ley, fur I hearn ez how the whole lay-out footed
it all the way ter New Helveshy. An’ thar
would hev been a fight 'mongst 'em, 'ceptin’ her
brother, Jacob Tyler, went along with 'em, an’
tried ter keep the peace atwixt 'em. An’ Mis’
Darley, all them married folks down thar at the
party — them folks in the Wilkins settlemint
is the biggest fools, sure — when all them mar-
ried folks come out ter the door, an’ see the way
Mandy Tyler hed treated them boys, they jest
hollered and laffed an’ thought it war mighty
smart an’ funny in Mandy; but she never say
a word till she kem up the mounting, an' I
DANCIN PARTY AT HARRISON'S CO.V.E. 223
never hearn ez how she say ennything then.
An' now the boys all say none of 'em is a-goin'
ter ax her ter dance, ter pay her back fur them
fool airs of hern. But Kossute say he’ll dance
with her ef none the rest will. Kossute he
thought 't war all mighty funny too, - he's
sech a fool 'bout gals, Kossute is, – but Jule,
she thought ez how ’t war scandalous.”
Mrs. Darley listened in amused surprise; that
these mountain wilds could sustain a first-class
coquette was an idea that had not hitherto en-
tered her mind; however, “that thar Mandy”
seemed, in Mrs. Johns's opinion at least, to
merit the unenviable distinction, and the party
at Wilkins settlement and the prospective gay-
ety of Harrison's Cove awakened the same
sentiments in her heart and mind as do the
more ambitious germans and kettledrums of the
lowland cities in the heart and mind of Mrs.
Grundy. Human nature is the same every-
where, and the Wilkins settlement is a micro-
cosm. The metropolitan centres, stripped of
the civilization of wealth, fashion, and culture,
would present only the bare skeleton of human-
ity outlined in Mrs. Johns's talk of Harrison's
Cove, the Wilkins settlement, the enmities and
scandals and sorrows and misfortunes of the
mountain ridge. As the absurd resemblance
developed, Mrs. Darley could not forbear a
224 IN THE TENNESSEE MoUNTAINs.
smile. Mrs. Johns looked up with a momen-
tary expression of surprise ; the story presented
no humorous phase to her perceptions, but she
too smiled a little as she repeated, “Scandalous,
ain’t it?” and proceeded in the same lack-lustre
tone as before.
“Yes, – Kossute say ez how he'll dance
with her ef none the rest will, fur Kossute say
ez how he hev laid off ter dance, Mis’ Darley;
an’ when I ax him what he thinks will become
of his soul ef he dances, he say the devil may
crack away at it, an’ ef he kin hit it he's wel-
come. Fur Soul or no soul he 's a-goin’ ter
dance. Kossute is a-fixin' of hisself this very
minit ter go; but I am verily afeard the boy'll
be slaughtered, Mis’ Darley, 'kase thar is goin'
ter be a fight, an’ ye never in all yer life hearn
sech Sass ez Kossute and Rick Pearson done
sent word ter each other.” -
Mr. Kenyon expressed some surprise that she
should fear for so young a fellow as Kossuth.
“Surely,” he said, “the man is not brute
enough to injure a mere boy ; your son is a
mere boy.”
“That’s so,” Mrs. Johns drawled. “Kossute
ain't more ºn twenty year old, an’ Rick Pearson
is double that ef he is a day; but ye see it’s
the fire-arms eZ makes Kossute more 'n a match
fur him, 'kase Kossute is the best shot on the
DANCIN PARTY AT HARRISON'S COVE. 225
mounting, an’ Rick knows that in a shootin’
fight Kossute’s better able ter take keer of his-
self an’ hurt somebody else nor ennybody. Kos-
sute's more likely ter hurt Rick nor Rick is ter
hurt him in a shootin’ fight; but ef Rick did n’t
hurt him, an' he war ter shoot Rick, the gang
would tear him ter pieces in a minit; and
'mongst 'em I’m actially afeard they'll slaugh-
ter the boy.”
Mr. Kenyon looked even graver than was his
wont upon receiving this information, but said
no more ; and after giving Mrs. Johns the feb-
rifuge she wished for her husband, he returned
to his seat on the piazza.
Mrs. Darley watched him with some little
indignation as he proceeded to light a fresh ci-
gar. “How cold and unsympathetic uncle Am-
brose is,” she said to herself. And after con-
doling effusively with Mrs. Johns on her appre-
hensions for her son's safety, she returned to
the gossips in the hotel parlor, and Mrs. Johns,
with her pink calico sun-bonnet on her head,
went her way in the brilliant summer moon,
light.
The clear lustre shone white upon all the
dark woods and chasms and flashing waters that
lay between the New Helvetia Springs and the
wide, deep ravine called Harrison's Cove, where
from a rude log hut the vibrations of a violin,
15
226 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS,
and the quick throb of dancing feet, already min-
gled with the impetuous rush of a mountain
stream close by and the weird night-sounds of
the hills, — the cry of birds among the tall trees,
the stir of the wind, the monotonous chanting
of frogs at the water-side, the long, drowsy
drone of the nocturnal insects, the sudden faint
blast of a distant hunter's horn, and the far
baying of hounds.
Mr. Harrison had four marriageable daughters,
and had arrived at the conclusion that some-
thing must be done for the girls; for, strange
as it may seem, the prudent father exists even
among the “mounting folks.” Men there real-
ize the importance of providing suitable homes
for their daughters as men do elsewhere, and
the eligible youth is as highly esteemed in those
wilds as is the much scarcer animal at a fash-
ionable watering-place. Thus it was that Mr.
Harrison had “determinated on a dancin'
party.” True, he stood in bodily fear of the
judgment day and the circuit-rider; but the
dancing party was a rarity eminently calculated
to please the young hunters of the settlements
round about, so he swallowed his qualms, to be
indulged at a more convenient season, and threw
himself into the vortex of preparation with an
ardor very gratifying to the four young ladies,
who had become imbued with sophistication at
Cheatham's Cross-Roads.
DANCIN, PARTY AT HARRISON'S CO.V.E. 227
Not so Mrs. Harrison; she almost expected
the house to fall and crush them, as a judgment
on the wickedness of a dancing party ; for so
heinous a sin, in the estimation of the greater
part of the mountain people, had not been com-
mitted among them for many a day. Such tri-
fles as killing a man in a quarrel, or on suspi-
cion of stealing a horse, or wash-tub, or anything
that came handy, of course, does not count ; but
a dancing party Mrs. Harrison could only
hold her idle hands, and dread the heavy pen-
alty that must surely follow so terrible a crime.
It certainly had not the gay and lightsome
aspect supposed to be characteristic of such a
scene of sin : the awkward young mountaineers
clogged heavily about in their uncouth clothes
and rough shoes, with the stolid-looking, lack-
lustre maids of the hill, to the violin’s monoto-
nous iteration of The Chicken in the Bread-
Trough, or The Rabbit in the Pea-Patch, – all
their grave faces as grave as ever. The music
now and then changed suddenly to one of those
wild, melancholy strains sometimes heard in old-
fashioned dancing tunes, and the strange pa-
thetic cadences seemed more attuned to the
rhythmical dash of the waters rushing over their
stone barricades out in the moonlight yonder,
or to the plaintive sighs of the winds among the
great dark arches of the primeval forests, than
228 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
to the movement of the heavy, coarse feet dans
cing a solemn measure in the little log cabin in
Harrison's Cove. The elders, sitting in rush-
bottomed chairs close to the walls, and looking
on at the merriment, well-pleased despite their
religious doubts, were somewhat more lively;
every now and then a guffaw mingled with the
violin's resonant strains and the dancers’ well-
marked pace; the women talked to each other
with somewhat more animation than was their
wont, under the stress of the unusual excite-
ment of a dancing party, and from out the shed-
room adjoining came an anticipative odor of
more substantial sin than the fiddle or the grave
jiggling up and down the rough floor. A little
more cider too, and a very bad article of ille-
gally-distilled whiskey, were ever and anon cir-
culated among the pious abstainers from the
dance; but the sinful votaries of Terpsichore
could brook no pause nor delay, and jogged up
and down quite intoxicated with the mirthful-
ness of the plaintive old airs and the pleasure
of other motion than following the plow or hoe-
ing the corn.
And the moon smiled right royally on her
dominion: on the long, dark ranges of moun-
tains and mist-filled valleys between ; on the
woods and streams, and on all the half-dormant
creatures either amongst the shadow-flecked
DANCIN PARTY AT HARRISON'S CO.V.E. 229
foliage or under the crystal waters; on the
long, white, Sandy road winding in and out
through the forest ; on the frowning crags of the
wild ravine; on the little bridge at the entrance
of the gorge, across which a party of eight men,
heavily armed and gallantly mounted, rode
Swiftly and disappeared amid the gloom of the
shadows.
The sound of the galloping of horses broke
suddenly on the music and the noise of the dan-
cing; a moment's interval, and the door gently
opened and the gigantic form of Rick Pearson
appeared in the aperture. He was dressed, like
the other mountaineers, in a coarse suit of brown
jeams somewhat the worse for wear, the trow-
sers stuffed in the legs of his heavy boots; he
wore an old soft felt hat, which he did not
remove immediately on entering, and a pair of
formidable pistols at his belt conspicuously
challenged attention. He had auburn hair,
and a long full beard of a lighter tint reach-
ing almost to his waist; his complexion was
much tanned by the sun, and roughened by
exposure to the inclement mountain weather ;
his eyes were brown, deep-set, and from under
his heavy brows they looked out with quick,
sharp glances, and occasionally with a roguish
twinkle; the expression of his countenance was
rather good-humored, – a sort of imperious
230 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
good-humor, however, — the expression of a
man accustomed to have his own way and not
to be trified with, but able to afford some ami-
ability since his power is undisputed.
He stepped slowly into the apartment, placed
his gun against the wall, turned, and solemnly
gazed at the dancing, while his followers trooped
in and obeyed his example. As the eight guns,
one by one, rattled against the wall, there was
a startled silence among the pious elders of the
assemblage, and a sudden disappearance of the
animation that had characterized their inter-
course during the evening. Mrs. Harrison, who
by reason of flurry and a housewifely pride in the
still unrevealed treasures of the shed-room had
well-nigh forgotten her fears, felt that the antici-
pated judgment had even now descended, and in
what terrible and unexpected guise ! The men
turned the quids of tobacco in their cheeks and
looked at each other in uncertainty; but the
dancers bestowed not a glance upon the new-
comers, and the musician in the corner, with his
eyes half-closed, his head bent low upon the in-
strument, his hard, horny hand moving the bow
back and forth over the strings of the crazy old
fiddle, was utterly rapt by his own melody. At
the supreme moment when the great red beard
had appeared portentously in the doorway and
fear had frozen the heart of Mrs. Harrison
DANCIN PARTY AT HARRISON'S COVE. 231
within her at the ill-omened apparition, the
host was in the shed-room filling a broken-nosed
pitcher from the cider-barrel. When he re-
entered, and caught sight of the grave sun-
burned face with its long red beard and sharp
brown eyes, he too was dismayed for an instant,
and stood silent at the opposite door with the
pitcher in his hand. The pleasure and the pos-
sible profit of the dancing party, for which he
had expended so much of his scanty store of
this world’s goods and risked the eternal treas-
ures laid up in heaven, were a mere phantasm ;
for, with Rick Pearson among them, in an ill
frame of mind and at odds with half the men
in the room, there would certainly be a fight,
and in all probability one would be killed, and
the dancing party at Harrison's Cove would be
a text for the bloody-minded sermons of the
circuit-rider for all time to come. However, the
father of four marriageable daughters is apt to
become crafty and worldly-wise ; only for a
moment did he stand in indecision; then, catch-
ing suddenly the small brown eyes, he held up
the pitcher with a grin of invitation. “Rick l’”
he called out above the scraping of the violin
and the clatter of the dancing feet, “slip round
hyar ef ye kin, I’ve got somethin’ for ye;”
and he shook the pitcher significantly.
Not that Mr. Harrison would for a moment
232 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
have thought of Rick Pearson in a matrimonial
point of view, for even the sophistication of the
Cross-Roads had not yet brought him to the
state of mind to consider such a half loaf as this
better than no bread, but he felt it imperative
from every point of view to keep that set of
young mountaineers dancing in peace and quiet,
and their guns idle and out of mischief against
the wall. The great red beard disappeared and
reappeared at intervals, as Rick Pearson slipped
along the gun-lined wall to join his host and the
cider-pitcher, and after he had disposed of the
refreshment, in which the gang shared, he re-
lapsed into silently watching the dancing and
meditating a participation in that festivity.
Now, it so happened that the only young girl
unprovided with a partner was “that thar
Mandy Tyler,” of Wilkins settlement renown;
the young men had rigidly adhered to their reso-
lution to ignore her in their invitations to dance,
and she had been sitting since the beginning of
the festivities, quite neglected, among the mar-
ried people, looking on at the amusement which
she had been debarred sharing by that unpop-
ular bit of coquetry at Wilkins settlement.
Nothing of disappointment or mortification was
expressed in her countenance; she felt the slight
of course, – even a “mounting ” woman is sus-
ceptible of the sting of wounded pride; all her
DANCIN PARTY AT HARRISON'S COVE. 233
long-anticipated enjoyment had come to naught
by this infliction of penance for her ill-timed
jest at the expense of those five young fellows
dancing with their triumphant partners and
bestowing upon her not even a glance; but she
looked the express image of immobility as she
sat in her clean pink calico, so carefully gotten
up for the occasion, her short black hair curling
about her ears, and watched the unending reel
with slow, dark eyes. Rick's glance fell upon
her, and without further hesitation he strode over
to where she was sitting and proffered his hand
for the dance. She did not reply immediately,
but looked timidly about her at the shocked
pious ones on either side, who were ready but
for mortal fear to aver that “dancin’ enny-
how air bad enough, the Lord knows, but
dancin’ with a horse thief air jest scandalous!”
Then, for there is something of defiance to es-
tablished law and prejudice in the born flirt
everywhere, with a sudden daring spirit shining
in her brightening eyes, she responded, “Don’t
keer ef I do,” with a dimpling half-laugh; and
the next minute the two outlaws were flying
down the middle together.
While Rick was according grave attention to
the intricacies of the mazy dance and keeping
punctilious time to the scraping of the old fid-
dle, finding it all a much more difficult feat than
234 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
galloping from the Cross Roads to the “Snake's
Mouth' on some other man’s horse with the
sheriff hard at his heels, the solitary figure of a
tall gaunt man had followed the long winding
path leading deep into the woods, and now be-
gan the steep descent to Harrison's Cove. Of
what was old Mr. Kenyon thinking, as he
walked on in the mingled shadow and sheen 2
Of St. Augustin and his Forty Monks, prob-
ably, and what they found in Britain. The
young men of his acquaintance would gladly
have laid you any odds that he could think of
nothing but his antique hobby, the ancient
church. Mr. Kenyon was the most prominent
man in St. Martin’s church in the city of
B , not excepting the rector. He was a
lay - reader, and officiated upon occasions of
“clerical sore-throat,” as the profane denomi-
nate the ministerial summer exodus from heated
cities. This summer, however, Mr. Kenyon's
own health had succumbed, and he was having
a little “sore-throat '' in the mountains on his
own account. Very devout was Mr. Kenyon.
Many people wondered that he had never taken
orders. Many people warmly congratulated
themselves that he never had ; for drier Ser-
mons than those he selected were surely never
feard, and a shuddering imagination shrinks
appalled from the problematic mental drought
DANCINP PARTY AT HARRISON'S COVE. 235
of his ideal original discourse. But he was
an integrant part of St. Martin's; much of his
piety, materialized into contributions, was built
up in its walls and shone before men in the cost-
liness of its decorations. Indeed, the ancient
name had been conferred upon the building as
a sort of tribute to Mr. Kenyon's well-known
enthusiasm concerning apostolic succession and
kindred doctrines.
Dull and dismal was Mr. Kenyon, and there-
fore it may be considered a little strange that he
should be a notable favorite with men. They
were of many different types, but with one in-
variable bond of union : they had all at one
time served as soldiers; for the war, now ten
years passed by, its bitterness almost forgotten,
had left some traces that time can never oblit-
erate. What a friend was the droning old
churchman in those days of battle and blood-
shed and suffering and death Not a man sat
within the walls of St. Martin’s who had not
received some signal benefit from the hand
stretched forth to impress the claims of certain
ante-Augustin British clergy to consideration
and credibility; not a man who did not remem-
ber stricken fields where a good Samaritan
went about under shot and shell, sucCoring the
wounded and comforting the dying ; not a man
who did not applaud the indomitable spirit and
236 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
courage that cut his way from surrender and
Safety, through solid barriers of enemies, to de-
liver the orders on which the fate of an army
depended ; not a man whose memory did not
harbor fatiguing recollections of long, dull ser-
mons read for the souls' health of the soldiery.
And through it all, - by the camp-fires at
night, on the long white country-roads in the
sunshiny mornings; in the mountains and the
morasses; in hilarious advance and in cheer-
less retreat ; in the heats of summer and by the
side of frozen rivers, the ancient British clergy
went through it all. And, whether the old
churchman’s premises and reasoning were false,
whether his tracings of the succession were
faulty, whether he dropped a link here or took
in one there, he had caught the spirit of those
staunch old martyrs, if not their falling churchly
mantle.
The mountaineers about the New Helvetia
Springs supposed that Mr. Kenyon was a regu-
larly ordained preacher, and that the sermons
which they had heard him read were, to use the
vernacular, out of his own head. For many of
them were accustomed on Sunday mornings to
occupy humble back benches in the ball-room,
where on week-day evenings the butterflies so-
journing at New Helvetia danced, and on the
Sabbath metaphorically beat their breasts, and
DANCIN PARTY AT HARRISON'S COVE. 237
literally avowed that they were “miserable sin-
ners,” following Mr. Kenyon's lugubrious lead.
The conclusion of the mountaineers was not
unnatural, therefore, and when the door of Mr.
Harrison’s house opened and another uninvited
guest entered, the music suddenly ceased. The
half-closed eyes of the fiddler had fallen upon
Mr. Kenyon at the threshold, and, supposing
him a clergyman, he immediately imagined
that the man of God had come all the way
from New Helvetia Springs to stop the dancing
and snatch the revelers from the jaws of hell.
The rapturous bow paused shuddering on the
string, the dancing feet were palsied, the pious
about the walls were racking their slow brains
to excuse their apparent conniving at sin and
bargaining with Satan, and Mr. Harrison felt
that this was indeed an unlucky party and it
would undoubtedly be dispersed by the direct
interposition of Providence before the shed-
room was opened and the supper eaten. As to
his soul — poor man these constantly recur-
ring social anxieties were making him callous
to immortality; this life was about to prove too
much for him, for the fortitude and tact even of
a father of four marriageable young ladies has
a limit. Mr. Kenyon, too, seemed dumb as he
hesitated in the door-way, but when the host,
partially recovering himself, came forward and
238 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
offered a chair, he said with one of his dismal
smiles that he hoped Mr. Harrison had no ob-
jection to his coming in and looking at the
dancing for a while. “Don’t let me interrupt
the young people, I beg,” he added, as he seated
himself. The astounded silence was unbroken
for a few moments. To be sure he was not
a circuit-rider, but even the sophistication of
Cheatham's Cross-Roads had never heard of a
preacher who did not object to dancing. Mr.
Harrison could not believe his ears, and asked
for a more explicit expression of opinion.
“Ye say ye don’t keer ef the boys an” gals
dance?” he inquired. “Ye don’t think it's
sinful ?” *>
And after Mr. Kenyon's reply, in which the
astonished “mounting folks' caught only the
surprising statement that dancing if properly
conducted was an innocent, cheerful, and health-
ful amusement, supplemented by something
about dancing in the fear of the Lord, and that
in all charity he was disposed to consider ob-
jections to such harmless recreations a tithing
of mint and anise and cummin, whereby might
ensue a neglect of weightier matters of the
law; that clean hands and clean hearts — hands
clean of blood and ill-gotten goods, and hearts
free from falsehood and cruel intention — these
were the things well-pleasing to God, – after
DANCIN PARTY AT HARRISON'S CO.V.E. 239
/
his somewhat prolix reply, the gayety recom-
menced. The fiddle quavered tremulously at
first, but soon resounded with its former vigo-
rous tones, and the joy of the dance was again
exemplified in the grave joggling back and
forth.
Meanwhile Mr. Harrison sat beside this
strange new guest and asked him questions con-
cerning his church, being instantly, it is need-
less to say, informed of its great antiquity, of
the journeying of St. Augustin and his Forty
Monks to Britain, of the church they found al-
ready planted there, of its retreat to the hills of
Wales under its oppressors’ tyranny, of many
cognate themes, side issues of the main branch
of the subject, into which the talk naturally
drifted, the like of which Mr. Harrison had
never heard in all his days. And as he watched
the figures dancing to the violin’s strains, and
beheld as in a mental vision the solemn gyra-
tions of those renowned Forty Monks to the
monotone of old Mr. Kenyon's voice, he ab-
stractedly hoped that the double dance would
continue without interference till a peaceable
dawn.
His hopes were vain. It so chanced that
Kossuth Johns, who had by no means relin-
quished all idea of dancing at Harrison's Cove
and defying Rick Pearson, had hitherto been
240 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
detained by his mother's persistent entreaties,
some necessary attentions to his father, and the
many trials which beset a man dressing for a
party who has very few clothes, and those very
old and worn. Jule, his sister-in-law, had been
most kind and complaisant, putting on a button
here, sewing up a slit there, darning a refrac-
tory elbow, and lending him the one bright rib-
bon she possessed as a neck-tie. But all these
things take time, and the moon did not light
Kossuth down the gorge until she was shining
almost vertically from the sky, and the Harrison
Cove people and the Forty Monks were dancing
together in high feather. The ecclesiastic dance
halted suddenly, and a watchful light gleamed
in old Mr. Kenyon's eyes as he became silent
and the boy stepped into the room. The moon-
light and the lamp-light fell mingled on the
calm, inexpressive features and tall, slender
form of the young mountaineer. “Hy’re, Kos-
sute l’’ A cheerful greeting from many voices
met him. The next moment the music ceased
once again, and the dancing came to a stand-
still, for as the name fell on Pearson's ear he
turned, glanced sharply toward the door, and
drawing one of his pistols from his belt ad-
vanced to the middle of the room. The men
fell back; so did the frightened women, with-
out Screaming, however, for that indication of
DANCIN PARTY AT HARRISON'S CO.V.E. 241
feminine sensibility had not yet penetrated to
Cheatham’s Cross-Roads, to say nothing of the
mountains.
“I told ye that ye war n’t ter come hyar,”
said Rick Pearson imperiously, “and ye’ve got
ter go home ter yer mammy, right off, or ye’ll
never git thar no more, youngster.”
“I’ve come hyar ter put you out, ye cussed
red-headed horse thief l’’ retorted Kossuth, an-
grily ; “ye hed better tell me whar that thar
bay filly is, or light out, one.”
It is not the habit in the mountains to parley
long on these occasions. Kossuth had raised
his gun to his shoulder as Rick, with his pis-
tol cocked, advanced a step nearer. The out-
law's weapon was struck upward by a quick,
strong hand, the little log cabin was filled with
flash, roar, and smoke, and the stars looked in
through a hole in the roof from which Rick's
bullet had sent the shingles flying. He turned
in mortal terror and caught the hand that had
struck his pistol, - in mortal terror, for Kos-
suth was the crack shot of the mountains and
he felt he was a dead man. The room was
somewhat obscured by smoke, but as he turned
upon the man who had disarmed him, for the
force of the blow had thrown the pistol to the
floor, he saw that the other hand was over the
muzzle of young Johns's gun, and Kossuth was
16
242 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
*
swearing loudly that by the Lord Almighty if
he did n’t take it off he would shoot it off.
“My young friend,” Mr. Kenyon began, with
the calmness appropriate to a devout member
of the one catholic and apostolic church ; but
then, the old Adam suddenly getting the upper-
hand, he shouted out in irate tones, “If you
don’t stop that moise, I’ll break your head
Well, Mr. Pearson,” he continued, as he stood
between the combatants, one hand still over the
muzzle of young Johns's gun, the other, lean
and sinewy, holding Pearson's powerful right
arm with a vise-like grip, “well, Mr. Pearson,
you are not so good a soldier as you used to
be ; you did n’t fight boys in the old times.”
Rick Pearson’s enraged expression suddenly
gave way to a surprised recognition. “Ye may
drag me through hell an’ beat me with a soot-
bag ef hyar ain’t the old fightin’ preacher agin l’’
he cried.
“I have only one thing to say to you,” said
Mr. Kenyon. “You must go. I will not have
you here shooting boys and breaking up a
party.”
Rick demurred. “See hyar, now,” he said,
“ye ’ve got no business meddlin’.”
“You must go,” Mr. Kenyon reiterated.
“Preachin's yer business,” Rick continued;
‘’pears like ye don’t 'tend to it, though.”
DANCIN PARTY AT HARRISON'S CO.V.E. 243
“You must go.”
“S'pose I say I won’t,” said Rick, good-
humoredly ; “I spose ye ’d say ye'd make
me.”
“You must go,” repeated Mr. Kenyon. “I
am going to take the boy home with me, but I
intend to see you off first.”
Mr. Kenyon had prevented the hot-headed
Kossuth from firing by keeping his hand persis-
tently over the muzzle of the gun ; and young
Johns had feared to try to wrench it away lest
it should discharge in the effort. Had it done
so, Mr. Kenyon would have been in sweet con-
verse with the Forty Monks in about a minute
and a quarter. Kossuth had finally let go the
gun, and made frantic attempts to borrow a
weapon from some of his friends, but the stern
authoritative mandate of the belligerent peace-
maker had prevented them from gratifying him,
and he now stood empty-handed beside Mr.
Kenyon, who had shouldered the old rifle in an
absent-minded manner, although still retaining
his powerful grasp on the arm of the outlaw.
“Waal, parson,” said Rick at length, “I’ll
go, jest ter pleasure you-uns. Ye see, I ain’t
forgot Shiloh.”
“I am not talking about Shiloh now,” said
the old man. “You must get off at once, — all
of you,” indicating the gang, who had been so
244 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
whelmed in astonishment that they had not
lifted a finger to aid their chief.
“Ye say ye ’ll take that — that ” — Rick
looked hard at Kossuth while he racked his
brains for an injurious epithet — “that sassy
child home ter his mammy 2 ”
“Come, I am tired of this talk,” said Mr.
Kenyon; “you must go.”
Rick walked heavily to the door and out into
the moonlight. “Them was good old times,”
he said to Mr. Kenyon, with a regretful cadence
in his peculiar drawl; “good old times, them
War days. I wish they was back agin, – I wish
they was back agin. I ain’t forgot Shiloh yit,
though, and I ain’t a-goin’ ter. But I’ll tell
ye one thing, parson,” he added, his mind re-
verting from ten years ago to the scene just
past, as he unhitched his horse and carefully ex-
amined the saddle-girth and stirrups, “ye ’re a
mighty queer preacher, ye air, a-sittin' up an’
lookin' at sinners dance an’ then gittin' in a
fight that don’t consarn ye, – ye’re a mighty
queer preacher Ye ought ter be in my gang,
that 's whar ye ought ter be,” he exclaimed
with a guffaw, as he put his foot in the stirrup;
“ye ’ve got a damned deal too much grit fur
a preacher. But I ain't forgot Shiloh yit, an’
I don’t mean ter, nuther.”
A shout of laughter from the gang, an oath
DANCIN PARTY AT HARRISON'S COVE. 245
or two, the quick tread of horses' hoofs pressing
into a gallop, and the outlaw's troop were speed-
ing along the narrow paths that led deep into
the vistas of the moonlit summer woods.
As the old churchman, with the boy at his
side and the gun still on his shoulder, ascended
the rocky, precipitous slope on the opposite side
of the ravine above the foaming waters of the
wild mountain stream, he said but little of ad-
monition to his companion; with the disappear-
ance of the flame and smoke and the dangerous
ruffian his martial spirit had cooled; the last
words of the outlaw, the highest praise Rick
Pearson could accord to the highest qualities
Rick Pearson could imagine — he had grit
enough to belong to the gang —had smitten a
tender conscience. He, at his age, using none
of the means rightfully at his command, the
gentle suasion of religion, must needs rush be-
tween armed men, wrench their weapons from
their hands, threatening with such violence that
an outlaw and desperado, recognizing a parallel
of his own belligerent and lawless spirit, should
say that he ought to belong to the gang ! And
the heaviest scourge of the sin-laden consciences
was the perception that, so far as the unsubdued
old Adam went, he ought indeed.
He was not so tortured, though, that he did
not think of others. He paused on reaching
246 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
the summit of the ascent, and looked back at
the little house nestling in the ravine, the lamp-
light streaming through its open doors and win-
dows across the path among the laurel bushes,
where Rick's gang had hitched their horses.
“I wonder,” said the old man, “if they are
quiet and peaceable again ; can you hear the
music and dancing 2*
“Not now,” said Kossuth. Then, after a mo-
ment, “Now, I kin,” he added, as the wind
brought to their ears the oft-told tale of the rab-
bit's gallopade in the pea-patch. “They 're
a-dancin’ now, and all right agin.”
As they walked along, Mr. Kenyon's racked
conscience might have been in a slight degree
comforted had he known that he was in some
sort a revelation to the impressible lad at his
side, that Kossuth had begun dimly to compre-
hend that a Christian may be a man of spirit
also, and that bravado does not constitute brav-
ery. Now that the heat of anger was over, the
young fellow was glad that the fearless interpo.
sition of the warlike peace-maker had prevented
any killing, “’kase ef the old man hed n’t hung
on ter my gun like he done, I’d have been a
murderer like he said, an’ Rick would hev been
dead. An’ the bay filly ain’t sech a killin' mat-
ter nohow; ef it war the roan three-year-old
now, 't would be different.”
OVER ON THE T’OTHER MOUNTING.
—(?-
STRETCHING out laterally from a long oblique
line of the Southern Alleghanies are two paral-
lel ranges, following the same course through
several leagues, and separated by a narrow strip
of valley hardly half a mile in width. As they
fare along arm in arm, so to speak, Sundry dif-
ferences between the close companions are dis-
tinctly apparent. One is much the higher, and
leads the way; it strikes out all the bold curves
and angles of the course, meekly attended by
the lesser ridge; its shadowy coves and sharp
ravines are repeated in miniature as its comrade
falls into the line of march ; it seems to have
its companion in charge, and to conduct it away
from the majestic procession of mountains that
traverses the State.
But, despite its more imposing appearance,
all the tangible advantages are possessed by its
humble neighbor. When Old Rocky-Top, as
the lower range is called, is fresh and green
with the tender verdure of spring, the snow still
248 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
lies on the summit of the T'other Mountin
and drifts deep into treacherous rifts and chasm.,
and muffles the voice of the singing pines; and
all the crags are hung with gigantic glittering
icicles, and the woods are gloomy and bleak.
When the sun shines bright on Old Rocky-Top,
clouds often hover about the loftier mountain,
and storms brew in that higher atmosphere ; the
all-pervading winter winds surge wildly among
the groaning forests, and wrench the limbs from
the trees, and dash huge fragments of cliffs down
deep gorges, and spend their fury before they
reach the sheltered lower spur. When the
kindly shades of evening slip softly down on
drowsy Rocky-Top, and the work is laid by in
the rough little houses, and the simple home-
folks draw around the hearth, day still lingers
in a weird, paralytic life among the tree-tops
of the T'other Mounting ; and the only rem-
nant of the world visible is that stark black
line of its summit, stiff and hard against the
faint green and saffron tints of the sky. Be-
fore the birds are well awake on Old Rocky-
Top, and while the shadows are still thick, the
T'other Mounting has been called up to a new
day. Lonely dawns these : the pale gleam
strikes along the October woods, bringing first
into uncertain twilight the dead yellow and red
of the foliage, presently heightened into royal

OVER ON THE T OTHER MOUNTING. 249
gold and crimson by the first ray of sunshine;
it rouses the timid wild-fowl ; it drives home
the plundering fox; it meets, perhaps, some
lumbering bear or skulking mountain wolf; it
flecks with light and shade the deer, all gray
and antlered; it falls upon no human habitation,
for the few settlers of the region have a persist-
ent predilection for Old Rocky-Top. Somehow,
the T'other Mounting is vaguely in ill repute
among its neighbors, – it has a bad name.
“It’s the onluckiest place ennywhar nigh
about,” said Nathan White, as he sat one after-
noon upon the porch of his log-cabin, on the
summit of Old Rocky-Top, and gazed up at the
heights of the T'other Mounting across the nar-
row valley. “I hev hearn tell all my days ez
how, ef ye go up thar on the T'other Mounting,
Suthin’ will happen ter ye afore ye kin git away.
An' I knows myself eZ how — 't war ten year
ago an’ better — I went up thar, one Jan’ry
day, a-lookin’ fur my cow, ez hed strayed off
through not hevin’ enny calf ter our house ; an'
I fund the cow, but jes' tuk an’ slipped on a icy
rock, an’ bruk my ankle-bone. T war sech a
job a-gittin' off ºn that thar Tºother Mounting
an’ back over hyar, it hev l’arned me ter stay
away from thar.”
“Thar war a man,” piped out a shrill, qua-
vering voice from within the door, – the voice
250 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAIWS.
of Nathan White's father, the oldest inhabitant
of Rocky-Top, — “thar war a man hyar, nigh
on ter fifty year ago, - he war mightily gin ter
thievin’ horses; an' one time, while he war a-
runnin’ away with Pete Dilks's dapple-gray
mare, — they called her Luce, five year old she
war, – Pete, he war a-ridin’ a-hint him on his
old sorrel mare, — her name 't war Jane, an’—
the Jeemes boys, they war a-ridin’ arter the
horse-thief too. Thar, now ! I clar forgits what
horses them Jeemes boys war a-ridin' of.” He
paused for an instant in anxious reflection.
“Waal, sir! it do beat all that I can’t remem-
ber them Jeemes boys' horses ' Anyways, they
got ter that thar tricky ford through Wild-
Duck River, thar on the side o' the T'other
Mounting, an’ the horse-thief war ahead, an’
he hed ter take it fust. An’ that thar river, —
it rises yander in them pines, nigh about,”
pointing with a shaking fore-finger, — “an' that
thar river jes' spun him out ºn the saddle like a
top, an’ he war n’t seen no more till he hed
floated nighter Colbury, ez dead ez a door-nail,
nor Pete's dapple-gray mare nuther; she bruk
her knees agin them high stone banks. But he
war a good swimmer, an' he war drowned. He
war witched with the place, ez sure eZ ye air
born.”
A long silence ensued. Then Nathan White
OVER ON THE T OTHER MOUNTING. 251
raised his pondering eyes with a look of slow
curiosity. “What did Tony Britt say he war
a-doin’ of, when ye kem on him suddint in the
woods on the T'other Mounting 2* he asked,
addressing his son, a stalwart youth, who was
sitting upon the step, his hat on the back of his
head, and his hands in the pockets of his jeans
trousers.
“He said he war a-huntin', but he hed n’t
hed no sort 'm luck. It 'pears ter meez all the
game thar is witched somehow, an’ ye can’t git
no good shot at nuthin'. Tony tole me to-day
that he got up three deer, an' hed toler’ble aim ;
an’ he missed two, an’ the t'other jes' trotted off
with a rifle-ball in his flank, ez onconsarned ez
ef he hed hit him with an acorn.”
“I hev always hearn ez everything that be-
longs on that thar T'other Mounting air witched,
an’ ef ye brings away so much ez a leaf, or a
stone, or a stick, ye fotches a curse with it,”
chimed in the old man, “’kase thar hev been
sech a many folks killed on the T'other Mount-
ing.”
“I tole Tony Britt that thar word,” said the
young fellow, “an' 'lowed ter him ez how he
hed tuk a mighty bad spot ter go a-huntin’.”
“What did he say ?” demanded Nathan
White.
“He say he never knowed ez thar war mur-
252 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
ders commit on T'other Mounting, an’ ef thar
war he 'spects 't war nuthin’ but Injuns, long
time ago. But he 'lowed the place war power-
ful onlucky, an' he believed the mounting war
witched.”
“Ef Tony Britt's arter enny harm,” said the
octogenarian, “he’ll never come off ºn that thar
T'other Mounting. It 's a mighty place fur
bad folks ter make thar eend. Thar 's that
thar horse thief I war a-tellin' 'bout, an’ that
dapple-gray mare, — her name 't war Luce.
An’ folks ez is a-runnin' from the sheriff jes'
takes ter the T'other Mounting ez nateral ezef
it war home; an' ef they don’t git cotched, they
is never hearn on no more.” He paused im-
pressively. “The rocks falls on 'em, an’ kills
'em ; an' I'll tell ye jes’ how I knows,” he re-
sumed, oracularly. “”T war sixty year ago,
nigh about, an’ me an’ them Jeemes boys war
a-burnin’ of lime tergether over on the T'other
Mounting. We hed a lime-kiln over thar, jes’
under Piney Notch, an’ never hed no luck, but
jes' stuck ter it like fools, till Hiram Jeemes got
one of his eyes put out. So we quit burnin' of
lime on the T'other Mounting, 'count of the
place bein’ witched, an’ kem over hyar ter Old
Rocky-Top, an’ got along toler’ble well, cornsid-
erin’. But one day, whilst we war a-workin’
on the T'other Mounting, what d'ye think I
OVER ON THE T OTHER MOUNTING. 253
fund in the rock 2 The print of a bare foot
in the solid stone, ez plain an' ez materal ez ef
the track hed been lef’ in the clay yestiddy.
Waal, I knowed it war the track o' Jeremiah
Stubbs, what shot his step-brother, an’gin the
sheriff the slip, an’ war las’ seen on the T'other
Mounting, kase his old shoe jes' fit the track,
fur we tried it. An' a good while arterward I
fund on that same T'other Mounting—in the
solid stone, mind ye — a fish, what he had done
br’iled fur supper, jes' turned ter a stone.”
“So thar’s the Bible made true,” said an el-
derly woman, who had come to the door to hear
this reminiscence, and stood mechanically stir-
ring a hoe-cake batter in a shallow wooden
bowl. “Ax fur a fish, an’ ye’ll git a stone.”
The secret history of the hills among which
they lived was indeed as a sealed book to these
simple mountaineers.
“The las’ time I war ter Colbury,” said Na-
than White, “I hearn the sheriff a-talkin' 'bout
how them evil-doers an’ sech runs fur the T'other
Mounting fust thing; though he 'lowed ez it
war powerful foxy in 'em ter try ter hide thar,
'kase he said, ef they wunst reaches it, he
mought eZ well look fur a needle in a hay-stack.
He lowed ef he hed a posse a thousand men
strong he could n’t git ’em out.”
“He can't find 'em, 'kase the rocks falls on
254 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
'em, or swallers 'em in,” said the old man. “Ef
Tony Britt is up ter mischief he'll never come
back no more. He 'll git into worser trouble
than ever he see afore.”
“He hev done seen a powerful lot of trouble,
fust one way an’ another, 'thout foolin’ round
the T'other Mounting,” said Nathan White.
“They tells me eZ he got hisself indicted, I
believes they calls. it, or suthin’, down yander.
ter the court at Colbury, - that war year afore
las', -an” he hed ter pay twenty dollars fine;
'kase when he war overseer of the road he jes'
war constant in lettin' his friends, an’ folks gin-
erally, off 'thout hevin' 'em fined, when they
did n’t come an’ work on the road, - though
that air the way ez the overseers hev always
done, without nobody a-tellin' on 'em an' sech.
But them ez war n’t Tony Britt's friends seen
a mighty differ. He war dead sure ter fine
Caleb Hoxie seventy-five cents, 'cordin’ ter the
law, fur every day that he war summonsed ter
work an’ never come ; "kase Tony an' Caleb hed
some sort 'n grudge agin one another 'count of a
spavined horse what Caleb sold ter Tony, makin'
him out to be a sound critter, — though Caleb
swears he never knowed the horse war spavined
when he sold him ter Tony, no more ºn nuthin'.
Caleb war mightily worked up 'bout this hyar
finin’ business, an' him an’ Tony hed a tussle
OVER ON THE T OTHER MOUNTING. 255
'bout it every time they kem tergether. But
Caleb war always sure ter git the worst of it,
'kase Tony, though he air toler’ble spindling sort
o’ build, he air somehow or other sorter stringy
an’ tough, an’ makes a right smart show in a
reg’lar knock-down an' drag-Out fight. So Ca-
leb he war beat every time, an’ fined too. An’
he tried wunst ter shoot Tony Britt, but he
missed his aim. An' when he war a-layin' off
how ter fix Tony, fur treatin’ him that way, he
war a-stoppin', one day, at Jacob Green's black-
smith's shop, yander, a mile down the valley,
an' he war a-talkin' 'bout it ter a passel o' folks
thar. An' Lawyer Rood from Colbury war
thar, an’ Jacob war a-shoein’ of his mare ; an'
he hearn the tale, an axed Caleb why n’t he
report Tony ter the court, an’git him fined fur
neglect of his duty, bein’ overseer of the road.
An' Caleb never knowed before that it war the
law that everybody what war summonsed an’
did n’t come must be fined, or the overseer must
be fined hisself; but he knowed that Tony hed
been a-lettin' of his friends off, an’ folks giner-
ally, an' he jes’ ‘greed fur Lawyer Rood ter stir
up trouble fur Tony. An' he done it. An’ the
court fined Tony twenty dollars fur them ways
o' his'n. An’ it kept him so busy a-scufflin' ter
raise the twenty dollars that he never hed a
chance ter give Caleb Hoxie more 'n one or
256 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
two beatin's the whole time he war a-scrapin'
up the money.”
This story was by no means unknown to the
little circle, nor did its narrator labor under the
delusion that he was telling a new thing. It
was merely a verbal act of recollection, and an
attentive silence reigned as he related the fa-
miliar facts. To people who live in lonely
regions this habit of retrospection (especially
noticeable in them) and an enduring interest
in the past may be something of a compensa-
tion for the scanty happenings of the present.
When the recital was concluded, the hush for a
time was unbroken, save by the rush of the
winds, bringing upon their breath the fragrant
woodland odors of balsams and pungent herbs,
and a fresh and exhilarating suggestion of sweep-
ing over a volume of falling water. They
stirred the fringed shadow of a great pine that
stood, like a sentinel, before Nathan White's
door and threw its colorless simulacrum, a boast-
ful lie twice its size, far down the Sunset road.
Now and then the faint clangor of a cow-bell
came from out the tangled woods about the lit-
tle hut, and the low of homeward-bound cattle
sounded upon the air, mellowed and softened
by the distance. The haze that rested above
the long, narrow valley was hardly visible, save
in the illusive beauty with which it invested
OVER ON THE T OTHER MOUNTING, 257
the scene, – the tender azure of the far-away
ranges; the exquisite tones of the gray and
purple shadows that hovered about the darken-
ing coves and along the deep lines marking the
gorges; the burnished brilliance of the sun-
light, which, despite its splendor, seemed lonely
enough, lying motionless upon the lonely land-
scape and on the still figures clustered about
the porch. Their eyes were turned toward the
opposite steeps, gorgeous with scarlet oak and
Sumac, all in autumnal array, and their thoughts
were busy with the hunter on the T'other
Mounting and vague speculations concerning
his evil intent.
“It 'pears ter me powerful strange eZ Tony
goes a-foolin’ round that thar T'other Mount-
ing, cornsiderin’ what happened yander in its
shadow,” said the woman, coming again to the
door, and leaning idly against the frame; the
bread was baking over the coals. “That thar
wife o’ his'n, afore she died, war always frettin’
'kase way down thar on the backbone, whar her
house war, the shadow o' the T'other Mounting
laid on it fur an hour an’ better every day of
the worl’. She 'lowed ez it always put her in
mind o' the shadow o' death. An' I thought
'bout that thar sayin' o' hern the day when I
see her a-lyin' stiff an’ cold on the bed, an’ the
shadow of the T'other Mounting drapping in at
17 -
258 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
the open door, an’ a-creepin’ an’ a-creepin’ over
her face. An' I war plumb glad when they
got that woman under ground, whar, ef the
sunshine can’t git ter her, neither kin the shad-
ow. Ef ever thar war a murdered woman, she
war one. Arter all that hed come an' gone
with Caleb Hoxie, fur Tony Britt ter go arter
him, kase he war a yerb-doctor, ter git him ter
physic his wife, who war nigh about dead with
the lung fever, an' gin up by old Dr. Marsh
—it looks ter me like he war plumb crazy, -
though him an' Caleb hed sorter made friends
'bout the spawined horse an’ sech afore then.
Jes’ ez soon eZ she drunk the stuff that Caleb
fixed fur her she laid her head back an’ shet
her eyes, an’ never opened ’em no more in this
worl’. She war a murdered woman, an’ Caleb
Hoxie done it through the yerbs he fixed fur
her.”
A subtile amethystine mist had gradually
overlaid the slopes of the T'other Mounting,
mellowing the brilliant tints of the variegated
foliage to a delicious hazy sheen of mosaics; but
about the base the air seemed dun-colored,
though transparent ; seen through it, even the
red of the crowded trees was but a sombre sort
of magnificence, and the great masses of gray
rocks, jutting out among them here and there,
wore a darkly frowning aspect. Along the sum.
OVER ON THE T OTHER MOUNTING. 259
mit there was a blaze of scarlet and gold in the
full glory of the sunshine; the topmost cliffs
caught its rays, and gave them back in unex-
pected gleams of green or grayish-yellow, as of
mosses, or vines, or huckleberry bushes, nour-
ished in the heart of the deep fissures.
“Waal,” said Nathan White, “I never did
believe eZ Caleb gim her ennythink ter hurt, —
though I knows thar is them ez does. Caleb is
the bes' yerb-doctor I ever see. The rheumatiz
would nigh on ter hev killed me, efit war n’t
fur him, that spell I hed las’ winter. An’ Dr.
Marsh, what they hed up afore the gran' jury,
swore that the yerbs what Caleb gin her war
nuthin’ ter hurt; he said, though, they couldn’t
holp nor hender. An' but fur Dr. Marsh they
would hev jailed Caleb ter stand his trial, like
Tony wanted 'em ter do. But Dr. Marsh said
she died with the consumption, jes' the same,
an' Caleb's yerbs war wholesome, though they
warn’t no 'count at all.”
“I knows I ain’t a-goin’ never ter tech nuthin'
he fixes fur me no more,” said his wife, “an’ I’ll
be bound nobody else in these hyar mountings
will, nuther.”
“Waal,” drawled her son, “I knows fur true
ez he air tendin’ now on old Gideon Croft, what
lives over yander in the valley on the t'other
side of the T'other Mounting, an’ is down with
260 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
the fever. He went over thar yestiddy evening,
late ; I met him when he war goin', an' he tole
me.”
“He hed better look out how he comes across
Tony Britt,” said Nathan White; “fur I hearn,
the las’ time I war ter the Settlemint, how Tony
hev swore ter kill him the nex’ time he see him,
fur a-givin’ of pizenous yerbs ter his wife. Tony
air mightily outdone 'kase the gran’jury let him
off. Caleb hed better be sorter keerful how he
goes a-foolin’ round these hyar dark woods.”
The sun had sunk, and the night, long held
in abeyance, was coming fast. The glooms gath-
ered in the valley; a soft gray shadow hung
over the landscape, making familiar things
strange. The T'other Mounting was all a
dusky, sad purple under the faintly pulsating
stars, save that high along the horizontal line
of its summit gleamed the strange red radiance
of the dead and gone sunset. The outline of the
foliage was clearly drawn against the pure lapis
lazuli tint of the sky behind it; here and there
the uncanny light streamed through the bare
limbs of an early leafless tree, which looked in
the distance like some bony hand beckoning, or
warning, or raised in horror.
“Anythink mought happen thar !” said the
woman, as she stood on night-wrapped Rocky-
Top and gazed up at the alien light, so red in
OVER ON THE T OTHER MOUNTING. 261
the midst of the dark landscape. When she
turned back to the door of the little hut, the
meagre comforts within seemed almost luxury,
in their cordial contrast to the desolate, dreary
mountain yonder and the thought of the forlorn,
wandering hunter. A genial glow from the
hearth diffused itself over the puncheon floor;
the savory odor of broiling venison filled the
room as a tall, slim girl knelt before the fire and
placed the meat upon the gridiron, her pale
cheeks flushing with the heat ; there was a
happy suggestion of peace and unity when the
four generations trooped in to their supper,
grandfather on his grandson's arm, and a sedate
two-year-old bringing up the rear. Nathan
White's wife paused behind the others to bar
the door, and once more, as she looked up at
the T'other Mounting, the thought of the lonely
wanderer smote her heart. The red sunset light
had died out at last, but a golden aureola her-
alded the moon-rise, and a gleaming thread
edged the masses of foliage; there was no faint
suggestion now of mist in the valley, and myr-
iads of stars filled a cloudless sky. “He hev
done gone home by this time,” she said to her
daughter-in-law, as she closed the door, “an’ ef
he ain’t, he’ll hew a moon ter light him.”
“Air ye a-studyin' 'bout Tony Britt yit 7”
asked Nathan White. “He hev done gone home
262 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
a good hour by sun, I’ll be bound. Jes' ketch
Tony Britt a-huntin' till sundown, will ye | He
air a mighty pore hand ter work. 'Stonishes
me ter hear he air even a-huntin' on the T'other
Mounting.”
“I don't believe he 's up ter enny harm,” said
the woman ; “he hev jes' tuk ter the woods
with grief.”
“’Pears ter me,” said the daughter-in-law,
rising from her kneeling posture before the fire,
and glancing reproachfully at her husband, -
“’pears ter me eZ ye mought hev brought him
hyar ter eat his supper along of we-uns, stiddier
a-leavin’ him a-grievin' over his dead wife in
them witched woods on the T'other Mounting.”
The young fellow looked a trifle abashed at
this suggestion. “I never wunst thought of
it,” he said. “Tony never stopped ter talk
more ºn a minit, nohow.”
The evening wore away; the octogenarian
and the sedate two-year-old fell asleep in their
chairs shortly after supper; Nathan White and
his son smoked their cob-pipes, and talked fit-
fully of the few incidents of the day; the women
sat in the firelight with their knitting, silent
and absorbed, except that now and then the el-
der, breaking from her reverie, declared, “I
can’t git Tony Britt out ºn my head nohow in
the worl’.
OVER ON THE T OTHER MOUNTING. 263
The moon had come grandly up over the
T'other Mounting, casting long silver lights and
deep black shadows through all the tangled re-
cesses and yawning chasms of the woods and
rocks. In the vast wilderness the bright rays
met only one human creature, the belated hun-
ter making his way homeward through the
dense forest with an experienced woodman's
craft. For no evil intent had brought Tony
Britt to the T'other Mounting; he had spent
the day in hunting, urged by that strong neces-
sity without which the mountaineer seldom
makes any exertion. Dr. Marsh's unavailing
skill had cost him dear; his only cow was sold
to make up the twenty dollars fine which his re-
venge on Caleb Hoxie had entailed upon him ;
without even so much as a spavined horse til-
lage was impossible, and the bounteous harvest
left him empty-handed, for he had no crops to
gather. The hardships of extreme poverty had
reinforced the sorrows that came upon him in
battalions, and had driven him far through long
aisles of the woods, where the night fell upon
him unaware. The foliage was all embossed
with exquisite silver designs that seemed to
stand out some little distance from the dark
masses of leaves; now and then there came to
his eyes that emerald gleam never seen upon
verdure in the day-time, – only shown by some
264 IN THE TEN’NESSEE MOUNTAINS.
artificial light, or the moon's sweet uncertainty.
The wind was strong and fresh, but not cold;
here and there was a glimmer of dew. Once,
and once only, he thought of the wild traditions
which peopled the T'other Mounting with evil
spirits. He paused with a sudden chill; he
glanced nervously over his shoulder down the
illimitable avenues of the lonely woods. The
grape-vines, hanging in festoons from tree to
tree, were slowly swinging back and forth,
stirred by the wind. There was a dizzy dance
of shadows whirling on every open space where
the light lay on the ground. The roar and fret
of Wild-Duck River, hidden there somewhere
in the pines, came on the breeze like a strange,
weird, fitful voice, crying out amid the haunted
solitudes of the T'other Mounting. He turned
abruptly, with his gun on his shoulder, and pur-
sued his way through the trackless desert in the
direction of his home. He had been absorbed
in his quest and his gloomy thoughts, and did
not realize the distance he had traversed until
it lay before him to be retraced ; but his super-
stitious terror urged him to renewed exertions.
“Ef ever I gits off ºn this hyar witched moun-
ting,” he said to himself, as he tore away the
vines and brambles that beset his course, “I’ll
never come back agin while I lives.” He grew
calmer when he paused on a huge projecting
OVER ON THE TO THER MOUNTING. 265
crag, and looked across the narrow valley at the
great black mass opposite, which he knew was
Old Rocky-Top ; its very presence gave him a
sense of companionship and blunted his fear,
and he sat down to rest for a few minutes, gaz-
ing at the outline of the range he knew so well,
so unfamiliar from a new stand-point. How low
it seemed from the heights of the T'other Moun-
ting ! Could that faint gleam be the light in
Nathan White's house 2 Tony Britt glanced
further down the indistinct slope, where he
knew his own desolate, deserted hut was
crouched. “Jes’ whar the shadow o' the T'other
Mounting can reach it,” he thought, with a new
infusion of bitterness. He averted his eyes; he
would look no longer; he threw himself at full
length among the ragged clumps of grass and
fragments of rock, and turned his face to the
stars. It all came back to him then. Some-
times, in his sordid cares and struggles for his
scanty existence, his past troubles were dwarfed
by the present. But here on the lonely cliff,
with the infinite spaces above him and the
boundless forest below, he felt anew his isola-
tion. No light on earth save the far gleam from
another man’s home, and in heaven only the
drowning face of the moon, drifting slowly
through the blue floods of the skies. He was
only twenty-five; he had youth and health and
266 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
strength, but he felt that he had lived his life;
it seemed long, marked as it was by cares and
privation and persistent failure. Little as he
knew of life, he knew how hard his had been,
even meted by those of the poverty-stricken
wretches among whom his lot was cast. “An’
sech luck l’ he said, as his sad eyes followed
the drifting dead face of the moon. “Along o'
that thar step-mother o' mine till I war growed;
an’ then when I war married, an’ we hed got
the house put up, an’ war beginnin’ tergit along
like other folks kin, an’ Car’line's mother gin
her that thar calf what growed ter a cow, an’
through pinchin'an' savin' we made out ter buy
that thar horse from Caleb Hoxie, jes' ez we
war a-startin’ ter work a crap he lays down an’
dies; an' that cussed twenty dollars ez I hed
ter pay ter the court; an' Car’line jes' a-gittin’
sick, an’ a-wastin’ an’ a-wastin’ away, till I, like
a fool, brung Caleb thar, an' he pizens her with
his yerbs — God A’mighty ' ef I could jes' lay
my hands wunst on that scoundrel I would n’t
leave a mite of him, ef he war pertected by a
hundred lyin', thievin' gran' juries ' But he
can’t stay a-hidin’ forevermo'. He's got ter
'count ter me, ef he ain’t ter the law; an’ he’ll
see a mighty differ atwixt us. I swear he 'll
never draw another breath !”
He rose with a set, stern face, and struck a
O VER ON THE T OTHER MOUNTING. 267
huge bowlder beside him with his hard clenched
hand as he spoke. He had not even an igno-
rant idea of an impressive dramatic pose; but
if the great gaunt cliff had been the stage of a
theatre his attitude and manner at that instant
would have won him applause. He was all
alone with his poverty and his anguished memo-
ries, as men with such burdens are apt to be.
The bowlder on which, in his rude fashion,
he had registered his oath was harder than his
hard hand, and the vehemence of the blow
brought blood; but he had scarcely time to
think of it. His absorbed reverie was broken
by a rustling other than that of the eddying
wind. He raised his head and looked about him,
half expecting to see the antlers of a deer.
Then there came to his ears the echo of the
tread of man. His eyes mechanically followed
the sound. Forty feet down the face of the
crag a broad ledge jutted out, and upon it ran
a narrow path, made by stray cattle, or the feet
of their searching owners; it was visible from
the summit for a distance of a hundred yards
or so, and the white glamour of the moonbeams
fell full upon it. Before a speculation had sug-
gested itself, a man walked slowly into view
along the path, and with starting eyes the hun-
ter recognized his dearest foe. Britt's hand lay
upon the bowlder; his oath was in his mind;
268 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
his unconscious enemy had come within his
power. Swifter than a flash the temptation
was presented. He remembered the warnings
of his lawyer at Colbury last week, when the
grand jury had failed to find a true bill against
Caleb Hoxie, – that he was an innocent man,
and must go unscathed, that any revenge for
fancied wrongs would be dearly rued; he re-
membered, too, the mountain traditions of the
falling rocks burying evil-doers in the heart of
the hills. Here was his opportunity. He would
have a life for a life, and there would be one
more legend of the very stones conspiring to
punish malefactors escaped from men added to
the terrible “ sayin's '' of the T'other Moun-
ting. A strong belief in the supernatural in-
fluences of the place was rife within him ; he
knew nothing of Gideon Croft's fever and the
errand that had brought the herb-doctor through
the “witched mounting; ” had he not been
transported thither by some invisible agency,
that the rocks might fall upon him and crush
him 2
The temptation and the resolve were simul-
taneous. With his hand upon the bowlder, his
hot heart beating fast, his distended eyes burn-
ing upon the approaching figure, he waited for
the moment to come. There lay the long, low,
black mountain opposite, with only the moon.
OVER ON THE TO THER MOUNTING. 269
*-
beams upon it, for the lights in Nathan White's
house were extinguished; there was the deep,
dark gulf of the valley; there, forty feet below
him, was the narrow, moon-flooded path on the
ledge, and the man advancing carelessly. The
bowlder fell with a frightful crash, the echoes
rang with a scream of terror, and the two men
— one fleeing from the dreadful danger he had
barely escaped, the other from the hideous deed
he thought he had done — ran wildly in oppo-
site directions through the tangled autumnal
woods.
Was every leaf of the forest endowed with a
woful voice, that the echo of that shriek might
never die from Tony Britt's ears? Did the
storied, retributive rocks still vibrate with this
new victim’s frenzied cry 2 And what was this
horror in his heart | Now, - so late, – was
coming a terrible conviction of his enemy’s in-
nocence, and with it a fathomless remorse.
All through the interminable might he fled
frantically along the mountain's summit,
scarcely knowing whither, and caring for noth-
ing except to multiply the miles between him
and the frightful object that he believed lay un-
der the bowlder which he had dashed down the
precipice. The moon sank beneath the horizon;
the fantastic shadows were merged in the dark-
est hour of the night; the winds died, and there
270 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAIAWS.
was no voice in all the woods, save the wail of
Wild-Duck River and the forever-resounding
screams in the flying wretch's ears. Sometimes
he answered them in a wild, hoarse, inarticulate
cry ; sometimes he flung his hands above his
head and wrung them in his agony; never once
did he pause in his flight. Panting, breathless,
exhausted, he eagerly sped through the dark-
ness; tearing his face upon the branbles; plung-
ing now and then into gullies and unseen quag-
mires; sometimes falling heavily, but recovering
himself in an instant, and once more struggling
on ; striving to elude the pursuing voices, and
to distance forever his conscience and his mem-
Ory.
And then came that terrible early daylight
that was wont to dawn upon the T'other Mount-
ing when all the world besides was lost in slum-
ber; the wan, melancholy light showed dimly
the solemn trees and dense undergrowth ; the
precarious pitfalls about his path; the long deep
gorges; the great crags and chasms; the cas-
cades, steely gray, and white; the huge mass, all
hung about with shadows, which he knew was
Old Rocky-Top, rising from the impenetrably
dark valley below. It seemed wonderful to him,
somehow, that a new day should break at all.
If, in a revulsion of nature, that utter blackness
had continued forever and ever it would not
0 VER ON THE T OTHER MOUNTING, 271
have been strange, after what had happened.
He could have borne it better than the sight of
the familiar world gradually growing into day,
all unconscious of his secret. He had begun
the descent of the T'other Mounting, and he
seemed to carry that pale dawn with him; day
was breaking when he reached the foot of Old
Rocky-Top, and as he climbed up to his own de-
serted, empty little shanty, it too stood plainly
defined in the morning light. He dragged him-
self to the door, and impelled by some morbid
fascination he glanced over his shoulder at the
T'other Mounting. There it was, unchanged,
with the golden largess of a gracious season blaz-
ing upon every autumnal leaf. He shuddered,
and went into the fireless, comfortless house.
And then he made an appalling discovery. As
he mechanically divested himself of his shot-
pouch and powder-horn he was stricken by a
sudden consciousness that he did not have his
gun One doubtful moment, and he remem-
bered that he had laid it upon the crag when
he had thrown himself down to rest. Beyond
question, it was there yet. His conscience was
still now, - his remorse had fled. It was only
a matter of time when his crime would be
known. He recollected his meeting with young
White while he was hunting, and then Britt
cursed the gun which he had left on the cliff.
272 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTA INS.
The discovery of the weapon there would be
strong evidence against him, taken in connection
with all the other circumstances. True, he
could even yet go back and recover it, but he
was mastered by the fear of meeting some one
on the unfrequented road, or even in the loneli-
ness of the T'other Mounting, and strengthen-
ing the chain of evidence against him by the
fact of being once more seen in the fateful neigh-
borhood. He resolved that he would wait un-
til night-fall, and then he would retrace his way,
secure his gun, and all might yet be well with
him. As to the bowlder, — were men never
before buried under the falling rocks of the
T'other Mounting?
Without food, without rest, without sleep, his
limbs rigid with the strong tension of his nerves,
his eyes bloodshot, haggard, and eager, his brain
on fire, he sat through the long morning hours
absently gazing across the narrow valley at the
solemn, majestic mountain opposite, and that
sinister jutting crag with the indistinctly defined
ledges of its rugged surface.
After a time, the scene began to grow dim ;
the sun was still shining, but through a haze
becoming momently more dense. The brill-
iantly tinted foliage upon the T'other Mount-
ing was fading; the cliffs showed strangely dis-
torted faces through the semi-transparent blue
oVER ON THE TOTHER MoUNTING. 273
vapor, and presently they seemed to recede alto-
gether; the valley disappeared, and all the
country was filled with the smoke of distant
burning woods. He was gasping when he first
became sensible of the smoke-laden haze, for he
had seen nothing of the changing aspect of the
landscape. Before his vision was the change-
less picture of a night of mingled moonlight
and shadow, the ill-defined black mass where
Old Rocky-Top rose into the air, the impene-
trable gloom of the valley, the ledge of the crag,
and the unconscious figure slowly coming within
the power of his murderous hand. His eyes
would look on no other scene, no other face, so
long as he should live.
He had a momentary sensation of stifling,
and then a great weight was lifted. For he
had begun to doubt whether the unlucky local-
ity would account satisfactorily for the fall of
that bowlder and the horrible object beneath it;
a more reasonable conclusion might be deduced
from the fact that he had been seen in the neigh-
borhood, and the circumstance of the deadly
feud. But what wonder would there be if the
dry leaves on the T'other Mounting should be
ignited and the woods burned ' What explana-
tions might not such a catastrophe suggest 1–
a frantic flight from the flames toward the cliff
and an accidental fall. And so he waited
18
274 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
throughout the long day, that was hardly day at
all, but an opaque twilight, through which could
be discerned only the stony path leading down
the slope from his door, only the blurred out-
lines of the bushes close at hand, only the great
gaunt limbs of a lightning-scathed tree, seem-
ing entirely severed from the unseen trunk, and
swinging in the air sixty feet above the earth.
Toward night-fall the wind rose and the
smoke-curtain lifted, once more revealing to the
settlers upon Old Rocky-Top the sombre T'other
Mounting, with the belated evening light still
lurid upon the trees, – only a strange, faint re-
semblance of the sunset radiance, rather the
ghost of a dead day. And presently this appari-
tion was gone, and the deep purple line of the
witched mountain's summit grew darker against
the opaline skies, till it was merged in a dusky
black, and the shades of the night fell thick on
the landscape.
The scenic effects of the drama, that serve to
widen the mental vision and cultivate the imag-
ination of even the poor in cities, were denied
these primitive, simple people; but that magni-
ficent pageant of the four seasons, wherein was
forever presented the imposing splendor of the
T'other Mounting in an ever-changing grandeur
of aspect, was a gracious recompense for the
spectacular privileges of civilization. And this
OVER ON THE T OTHER MOUNTING. 275
evening the humble family party on Nathan
White's porch beheld a scene of unique impres-
siveness. -
The moon had not yet risen ; the winds were
awhirl; the darkness draped the earth as with
a pall. Out from the impenetrable gloom of
the woods on the T'other Mounting there
started, suddenly, a scarlet globe of fire; one
long moment it was motionless, but near it the
spectral outline of a hand appeared beckoning,
or warning, or raised in horror, – only a leafless
tree, catching in the distance a semblance of
humanity. Then from the still ball of fire there
streamed upward a long, slender plume of golden
light, waving back and forth against the pale
horizon. Across the dark slope of the mountain
below, flashes of lightning were shooting in zig-
zag lines, and wherever they gleamed were seen
those frantic skeleton hands raised and wrung
in anguish. It was cruel sport for the cruel
winds; they maddened over gorge and cliff and
along the wooded steeps, carrying far upon their
wings the sparks of desolation. From the sum-
mit, myriads of jets of flame reached up to the
placid stars; about the base of the mountain
lurked a lake of liquid fire, with wreaths of
blue Smoke hovering over it ; ever and anon,
athwart the slope darted the sudden lightning,
widening into sheets of flame as it conquered
new o'round. -
276 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
The astonishment on the faces grouped about
Nathan White's door was succeeded by a star-
tled anxiety. After the first incoherent excla-
mations of surprise came the pertinent inquiry
from his wife, “Ef Old Rocky-Top war ter ketch
too, whar would we-uns run ter?” -
Nathan White's countenance had in its ex-
pression more of astounded excitement than of
bodily fear. “Why, bless my soul!” he said
at length, “the woods away over yander, what
hev been burnin’ all day, ain’t nigh enough ter
the T'other Mounting ter ketch it, — nuthin'
like it.”
“The T'other Mounting would burn, though,
ef fire war put ter it,” said his son. The two
men exchanged a glance of deep significance.
“Do ye mean ter say,” exclaimed Mrs. White,
her fire-lit face agitated by a sudden supersti-
tious terror, “that that thar T'other Mounting
is fired by witches an’ sech 7"
“Don’t talk so loud, Matildy,” said her hus-
band. “Them knows best eZ done it.”
“Thar's one thing sure,” quavered the old
man : “ that thar fire will never tech a leaf on
Old Rocky-Top. Thar's a church on this hyar
mounting, — bless the Lord fur it ! — an’ we
lives in the fear o' God.”
There was a pause, all watching with dis-
tended eyes the progress of the flames.
OVER ON THE T OTHER MOUNTING, 277
“It looks like it mought hev heen kindled in
torment,” said the young daughter-in-law.
“It looks down thar,” said her husband,
pointing to the lake of fire, “like the pit itself.”
The apathetic inhabitants of Old Rocky-Top
were stirred into an activity very incongruous
with their habits and the hour. During the
conflagration they traversed long distances to
reach each other's houses and confer concern-
ing the danger and the questions of supernatural
agency provoked by the mysterious firing of the
woods. Nathan White had few neighbors, but
above the crackling of the timber and the roar
of the flames there rose the quick beat of run-
ning footsteps; the undergrowth of the forest
near at hand was in strange commotion; and
at last, the figure of a man burst forth, the light
of the fire showing the startling pallor of his
face as he staggered to the little porch and
sank, exhausted, into a chair.
“Waal, Caleb Hoxie l’’ exclaimed Nathan
White, in good-natured raillery; “ye're skeered,
fur true ! What ails ye, ter think Old Rocky-
Top air a-goin’ ter ketch too 2 "Tain’t nigh
dry enough, I’m a-thinkin’.”
“Fire kindled that thar way can’t tech a leaf
on Old Rocky-Top,” sleepily piped out the old
man, nodding in his chair, the glare of the
flames which rioted over the T'other Mounting
278 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
gilding his long white hair and peaceful, slum-
berous face. “Thar's a church on Old Rocky-
Top, — bless the ” — The sentence drifted away
with his dreams.
“Does ye believe — them — them *-Caleb
Hoxie's trembling white lips could not frame
the word — “them — done it 7” -
“Like ez not,” said Nathan White. “But that
ain’t a-troublin’ of ye an' me. I ain’t never
hearn o' them witches a-tormentin’ of honest
folks what ain’t done nuthin’ hurtful ter no-
body,” he added, in cordial reassurance.
His son was half hidden behind one of the
rough cedar posts, that his mirth at the guest's
display of cowardice might not be observed.
But the women, always quick to suspect, glanced
meaningly at each other with widening eyes, as
they stood together in the door-way.
“I dunno, - I dunno,” Caleb Hoxie declared
huskily. “I ain’t never done nuthin’ ter no-
body, an’ what do ye sºpose them witches an’
sech done ter me las' night, on that T'other
Mounting 2 I war a-goin' over yander to Gid-
eon Croft’s fur ter physic him, ez he air mortal
low with the fever; an' ez I war a-comin’ along-
side o’ that thar high bluff”—it was very dis-
tinct, with the flames wreathing fantastically
about its gray, rigid features — “they throwed
a bowlder ez big ez this hyar porch down on ter
oVER ON THE TOTHER MoUNTING. 279
me. It jes' grazed me, an’ knocked me down,
an’ kivered me with dirt. An' I run home
a-hollerin’; an’ it seemed ter me ter-day ez I war
a-goin’ ter screech an’ screech all my life, like
some onsettled crazy critter. It peared like
’t would take a bar’l o’ hop tea tergit me quiet.
An' now look yander l’’ and he pointed tremu-
lously to the blazing mountain.
There was an expression of conviction on the
women's faces. All their lives afterward it
was there whenever Caleb Hoxie's name was
mentioned; no more to be moved or changed
than the stern, set faces of the crags among the
fiery woods.
“Thar's a church on this hyar mounting,”
said the old man feebly, waking for a moment,
and falling asleep the next.
Nathan White was perplexed and doubtful,
and a superstitious awe had checked the laugh-
ing youngster behind the cedar post.
A great cloud of flame came rolling through
the sky toward them, golden, pellucid, spangled
through and through with fiery red stars; pois-
ing itself for one moment high above the valley,
then breaking into myriads of sparks, and show-
ering down upon the dark abysses below.
“Look-a-hyar !” said the elder woman in a
frightened under-tone to her daughter-in-law ;
“this hyar wicked critter air too onlucky ter be
280 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
a-sittin' 'longside of us; we'll all be burnt up
afore he gits hisself away from hyar. An’ who
is that a-comin' yander 2° For from the en-
compassing woods another dark figure had
emerged, and was slowly approaching the porch.
The wary eyes near Caleb Hoxie saw that he
fell to trembling, and that he clutched at a post
for support. But the hand pointing at him was
shaken as with a palsy, and the voice hardly
seemed Tony Britt's as it cried out, in an agony
of terror, “What air ye a-doin' hyar, a-sittin'
'longside o' livin’ folks? Yer bones air under a
bowlder on the T'other Mounting, an’ ye air a
dead man l’’
They said ever afterward that Tony Britt
had lost his mind.“ through goin’ a-huntin' jes'
one time on the T'other Mounting. His spirit
air all broke, an’ he’s a mighty tame critter now-
adays.” Through his persistent endeavor he
and Caleb Hoxie became quite friendly, and he
was even reported to “’low that he war sati'fied
that Caleb never gin his wife nuthin’ ter hurt.”
“Though,” said the gossips of Old Rocky-Top,
“ them women up ter White's will hev it no
other way but that Caleb pizened her, an’ they
would n’t take no yerbs from him no more ºn
he war a rattlesnake. But Caleb always 'pears
sorter skittish when he an’ Tony air tergether,
OVER ON THE T OTHER MOUNTING. 281
ſ
like he did n’t know when Tony war a-goin’ ter
fotch him a lick. But law ! Tony air that
changed that ye can’t make him mad 'thout ye
mind him o' the time he called Caleb a ghost.”
A dark, gloomy, deserted place was the
charred T'other Mounting through all the long
winter. And when spring came, and Old Rocky-
Top was green with delicate fresh verdure, and
melodious with singing birds and chorusing
breezes, and bedecked as for some great festival
with violets and azaleas and laurel-blooms, the
T'other Mounting was stark and wintry and
black with its desolate, leafless trees. But after
a while the spring came for it, too : the buds
swelled and burst ; flowering vines festooned
the grim gray crags ; and the dainty freshness
of the vernal season reigned upon its summit,
while all the world below was growing into
heat and dust. The circuit-rider said it re-
minded him of a tardy change in a sinner's
heart: though it come at the eleventh hour, the
glorious summer is before it, and a full fruition;
though it work but an hour in the Lord’s vine-
yard, it receives the same reward as those who
labored through all the day.
“An’ it always did 'pear ter me ez thar war
mighty little jestice in that,” was Mrs. White's
comment.
But at the meeting when that sermon was
282 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
%
preached Tony Britt told his “experience.” It
seemed a confession, for according to the gos-
sips he “‘lowed that he hed flung that bowl-
der down on Caleb Hoxie, – what the witches
flung, ye know, -’kase he believed then that
Caleb hed killed his wife with pizenous yerbs;
an' he went back the nex’ night an’ fired the
woods, ter make folks think when they fund
Caleb's bones that he war a-runnin' from the
blaze an’ fell off’n the bluff.” And everybody
on Old Rocky-Top said incredulously, “Pore
Tony Britt He hev los’ his mind through
goin’ a-huntin' jes' one time on the T'other
Mounting.”
THE “ HARNT * THAT WALKS CHIL-
HOWEE.
JUNE had crossed the borders of Tennessee.
Even on the summit of Chilhowee Mountain
the apples in Peter Giles's orchard were begin-
ning to redden, and his Indian corn, planted on
so steep a declivity that the stalks seemed to
have much ado to keep their footing, was crested
with tassels and plumed with silk. Among the
dense forests, seen by no man's eye, the elder
was flying its creamy banners in honor of June's
coming, and, heard by no man’s ear, the pink
and white bells of the azalea rang out melodies
of welcome.
“An’ it air a toler’ble for’ard season. Yer
wheat looks likely; an' yer gyarden truck air
thrivin’ powerful. Even that cold spell we-uns
hed about the full o' the moon in May ain’t
done sot it back none, it 'pears like ter me.
But, 'cording ter my way o' thinkin', ye hev got
chickens enough hyar ter eat off every pea-
bloom ez soon eZ it opens.” And Simon Bur-
ney glanced with a gardener's disapproval at
the numerous fowls, lifting their red combs and
284 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
tufted top-knots here and there among the thick
clover under the apple-trees.
“Them's Clarsie's chickens, –my darter, ye
know,” drawled Peter Giles, a pale, listless, and
lank mountaineer. “An’ she hev been gin ter
onderstand ez they hev got ter be kep’ out
ºn the gyarden; 'thout,” he added indulgently,
— “’thout I’m a-plowin', when I lets 'em foller
in the furrow ter pick up worms. But law
Clarsie is so spry that she don’t ax no better ’n
ter be let ter run them chickens off ºn the
peas.”
Then the two men tilted their chairs against
the posts of the little porch in front of Peter
Giles's log cabin, and puffed their pipes in si-
lence. The panorama spread out before them
showed misty and dreamy among the delicate
spiral wreaths of smoke. But was that gossa-
mer-like illusion, lying upon the far horizon, the
magic of nicotian, or the vague presence of dis-
tant heights 7 As ridge after ridge came down
from the sky in ever-graduating shades of in-
tenser blue, Peter Giles might have told you
that this parallel system of enchantment was
only “the mountings: ” that here was Foxy,
and there was Big Injun, and still beyond was
another, which he had “hearn tell ran spang up
into Virginny.” The sky that bent to clasp this
kindred blue was of varying moods. Floods of
THE “HARNT" THAT WALKS CHILHOWEE, 285
sunshine submerged Chilhowee in liquid gold,
and revealed that dainty outline limned upon
the northern horizon; but over the Great Smoky
mountains clouds had gathered, and a gigantic
rainbow bridged the valley.
Peter Giles's listless eyes were fixed upon a
bit of red clay road, which was visible through
a gap in the foliage far below. Even a tiny
object, that ant-like crawled upon it, could be
seen from the summit of Chilhowee. “I reckon
that’s my brother's wagon an' team,” he said,
as he watched the moving atom pass under the
gorgeous triumphal arch. “He lowed he war
goin’ ter the Cross-Roads ter-day.”
Simon Burney did not speak for a moment.
When he did, his words seemed widely ir-
relevant. “That’s a likely gal o' yourn,” he
drawled, with an odd constraint in his voice, —
“a likely gal, that Clarsie.”
There was a quick flash of surprise in Peter
Giles's dull eyes. He covertly surveyed his
guest, with an astounded curiosity rampant in
his slow brains. Simon Burney had changed
color; an expression of embarrassment lurked
in every line of his honest, florid, hard-featured
face. An alert imagination might have de-
tected a deprecatory self-consciousness in every
gray hair that striped the black beard raggedly
fringing his chin.
286 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
“Yes,” Peter Giles at length replied, “Clar-
sie air a likely enough gal. But she air might-
ily sot ter hevin' her own way. An’ ef 't
ain’t give ter her peaceable-like, she jes' takes
it, whether or no.”
This statement, made by one presumably
fully informed on the subject, might have
damped the ardor of many a suitor, − for the
monstrous truth was dawning on Peter Giles's
mind that suitor was the position to which this
slow, elderly widower aspired. But Simon Bur-
ney, with that odd, all-pervading constraint
still prominently apparent, mildly observed,
“Waal, ez much ez I hev seen of her goin’s-on,
it 'pears ter me eZ her way air a mighty good
way. An’ it ain’t comical that she likes it.”
Urgent justice compelled Peter Giles to make
some amends to the absent Clarissa. “That 's
a fac’,” he admitted. “An’ Clarsie ain't no
hand ter jaw. She don’t hev no words. But
then,” he qualified, truth and consistency alike
constraining him, “she air a toler’ble hard-
headed gal. That air a true word. Ye mought
ez well try ter hender the Sun from shining ez
ter make that thar Clarsie Giles do what she
don’t want ter do.”
To be sure, Peter Giles had a right to his
opinion as to the hardness of his own daughter's
head. The expression of his views, however,
THE “HARN T''' THAT WALKS CHILHO WEE. 287
provoked Simon Burney to wrath ; there was
something astir within him that in a worthier
subject might have been called a chivalric thrill,
and it forbade him to hold his peace. He re-
torted : “Of course ye kin say that, ef so
minded ; but ennybody eZ hev got eyes kin see
the change eZ hev been made in this hyar place
sence that thar gal hev been growed. I ain’t
a-purtendin’ ter know that thar Clarsie eZ well
ez you-uns knows her hyar at home, but I hev
seen enough, an’ a deal more ºn enough, of her
goin’s-on, ter know that what she does ain’t
done fur herself. An'ef she will hev her way,
it air fur the good of the whole tribe of ye. It
'pears ter me ez thar ain’t many gals like that
thar Clarsie. An’ she air a merciful critter.
She air mighty savin' of the feelin's of every-
thing, from the cow an’ the mare down ter the
dogs, an’ pigs, an’ chickens; always a-feedin' of
'em jes' ter the time, an’ never draggin', an’
clawin', an’ beatin’ of 'em. Why, that thar
Clarsie can’t put her foot out ºn the door, that
every dumb beastis on this hyar place ain’t
a-runnin’ tergit nigh her. I hev seen them pigs
mos’ climb the fence when she shows her face
at the door. 'Pears ter me ez that thar Clarsie
could tame a b'ar, ef she looked at him a time
or two, she's so savin’ o' the critter's feelin's
An' thar’s that old yaller dog o' yourn,” point-
288 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
ing to an ancient cur that was blinking in the
sun, “he’s older 'n Clarsie, an’ no 'count in the
worl’. I hev hearn ye say forty times that ye
would kill him, 'ceptin' that Clarsie purtected
him, an' hed sot her heart on his a-livin’ along.
An' all the home-folks, an' everybody that kems
hyar to sot an’ talk awhile, never misses a
chance ter kick that thar old dog, or poke him
with a stick, or cuss him. But Clarsie ' — I hev
seen that gal take the bread an’ meat off’n her
plate, an’ give it ter that old dog, ez 'pears ter
me ter be the worst dispositionest dog I ever .
see, an’ no thanks lef’ in him. He hain’t hed
the grace ter wag his tail fur twenty year.
That thar Clarsie air surely a merciful critter,
an' a mighty spry, likely young gal, besides.”
Peter Giles sat in stunned astonishment dur-
ing this speech, which was delivered in a slow,
drawling monotone, with frequent meditative
pauses, but nevertheless emphatically. He
made no reply, and as they were once more
silent there rose suddenly the sound of melody
upon the air. It came from beyond that tu-
multuous stream that raced with the wind down
the mountain's side; a great log thrown from
bank to bank served as bridge. The song grew
momentarily more distinct ; among the leaves
there were fugitive glimpses of blue and white,
and at last Clarsie appeared, walking lightly
THE “HARNT" THAT WALKS CHILHOWEE, 289
along the log, clad in her checked homespun
dress, and with a pail upon her head.
She was a tall, lithe girl, with that delicately
transparent complexion often seen among the
women of these mountains. Her lustreless
black hair lay along her forehead without a rip-
ple or wave; there was something in the ex-
pression of her large eyes that suggested those
of a deer, — something free, untamable, and
yet gentle. “”T ain't no wonder ter me ez
Clarsie is all tuk up with the wild things, an’
critters ginerally,” her mother was wont to say.
“She sorter looks like 'em, I’m a-thinkin’.”
As she came in sight there was a renewal of
that odd constraint in Simon Burney's face and
manner, and he rose abruptly. “Waal,” he
said, hastily, going to his horse, a raw-boned
sorrel, hitched to the fence, “it’s about time I
war a-startin’ home, I reckons.”
He nodded to his host, who silently nodded
in return, and the old horse jogged off with him
down the road, as Clarsie entered the house and
placed the pail upon a shelf.
“Who d’ye think hev been hyar a-speakin'
of complimints on ye, Clarsie?” exclaimed Mrs.
Giles, who had overheard through the open door
every word of the loud, drawling voice on the
porch.
Clarsie's liquid eyes widened with surprise,
19
290 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
and a faint tinge of rose sprang into her pale
face, as she looked an expectant inquiry at her
mother.
Mrs. Giles was a slovenly, indolent woman,
anxious, at the age of forty-five, to assume the
prerogatives of advanced years. She had placed
all her domestic cares upon the shapely shoul-
ders of her willing daughter, and had betaken
herself to the chimney-corner and a pipe.
“Yes, thar hev been somebody hyar a-speak-
in’ of complimints on ye, Clarsie,” she reiter-
ated, with chuckling amusement. “He war a
mighty peart, likely boy, - that he war !”
Clarsie's color deepened.
“Old Simon Burney !” exclaimed her mother,
in great glee at the incongruity of the idea.
“Old Simon Burney / —jes' a-sittin' out thar,
a-wastin’ the time, an’ a-burnin’ of daylight —
jes' ez perlite an’ smilin’ ez a basket of chips
— a-speakin' of complimints on yel ”
There was a flash of laughter among the syl-
van suggestions of Clarsie's eyes, – a flash as
of sudden sunlight upon water. But despite
her mirth she seemed to be unaccountably dis-
appointed. The change in her manner was not
noticed by her mother, who continued banter-
ingly, -
“Simon Burney air a mighty pore old man.
Ye oughter be sorry fur him, Clarsie. Yo
TRIE “HARNT" THAT WALKS CHILHO WEE. 291
must n’t think less of folks than ye does of the
dumb beastis, – that ain’t religion. Ye knows
ye air sorry fur mos' everything; why not fur
this comical old consarn ? Ye oughter marry
him ter take keer of him. He said ye war a
merciful critter; now is yer chance ter show it !
Why, air ye a-goin’ ter weavin', Clarsie, jes'
when I wants ter talk ter ye 'bout 'm old Simon
Durney? But law I knows ye kerry him with
ye in yer heart.”
The girl summarily closed the conversation
by seating herself before a great hand-loom ;
presently the persistent thump, thump, of the
batten and the noisy creak of the treadle filled
the room, and through all the long, hot after-
noon her deft, practiced hands lightly tossed the
shuttle to and fro.
The breeze freshened, after the sun went
down, and the hop and gourd vines were all
astir as they clung about the little porch where
Clarsie was sitting now, idle at last. The rain
clouds had disappeared, and there bent over the
dark, heavily wooded ridges a pale blue sky,
with here and there the crystalline sparkle of a
star. A halo was shimmering in the east, where
the mists had gathered about the great white
moon, hanging high above the mountains.
Noiseless wings flitted through the dusk; now
and then the bats swept by so close as to wave
*
te
292 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
Clarsie's hair with the wind of their flight.
What an airy, glittering, magical thing was that
gigantic spider-web suspended between the sil-
ver moon and her shining eyes! Ever and anon
there came from the woods a strange, weird,
long-drawn sigh, unlike the stir of the wind in
the trees, unlike the fret of the water on the
rocks. Was it the voiceless sorrow of the sad
earth 2 There were stars in the night besides
those known to astronomers: the stellular fire-
flies gemmed the black shadows with a fluctu-
ating brilliancy; they circled in and out of the
porch, and touched the leaves above Clarsie's
head with quivering points of light. A steadier
and an intenser gleam was advancing along the
road, and the Sound of languid footsteps came
with it ; the aroma of tobacco graced the at-
mosphere, and a tall figure walked up to the
gate.
“Come in, come in,” said Peter Giles, rising,
and tendering the guest a chair. “Ye air Tom
Pratt, ez well ez I kin make out by this light.
Waal, Tom, we hain't furgot ye sence ye done
been hyar.”
As Tom had been there on the previous
evening, this might be considered a joke, or an
equivocal compliment. The young fellow was
restless and awkward under it, but Mrs. Giles
chuckled with great merriment.
THE “HARNT " THAT WALKS CHILHO WEE. 293
“An' how air yea-comin' on, Mrs. Giles?”
he asked propitiatorily.
“Jes’ toler’ble, Tom. Air they all well ter
yer house 7”
“Yes, they’re toler’ble well, too.” He
glanced at Clarsie, intending to address to her
some polite greeting, but the expression of her
shy, half-startled eyes, turned upon the far-away
moon, warned him. “ Thar never war a gal so
skittish,” he thought. “She’d run a mile,
skeered ter death, ef I said a word ter her.”
And he was prudently silent.
“Waal,” said Peter Giles, “what 's the news
out yer way, Tom 2 Ennything a-goin’ on ?”
“Thar war a shower yander on the Back-
bone; it rained toler’ble hard fur a while, an’
sot up the corn wonderful. Did ye git enny
hyar 2"
“Not a drap.”
“’Bears ter me ez I kin see the clouds a-cir-
clin’ round Chilhowee, an’ a-rainin’ on every-
body's corn-field 'ceptin’ ourn,” said Mrs. Giles.
“Some folks is the favored of the Lord, an’
t’ others hev ter work fur everything an' git
nuthin'. Waal, waal ; we-uns will see our re-
ward in the nex’ worl’. Thar 's a better worl’
than this, Tom.”
“That’s a fac’,” said Tom, in orthodox as-
Sent.
294 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
“An' when we leaves hyar once, we leaves
all trouble an' care behind us, Tom ; fur we
don’t come back no more.” Mrs. Giles was
drifting into one of her pious moods.
“I dunno,” said Tom. “ Thar hev been
them ez hew.”
“Hew what ?” demanded Peter Giles, star-
tled.
“Hev come back ter this hyar yearth. Thar's
a harnt that walks Chilhowee every night o' the
worl’. I know them ez hev seen him.”
Clarsie's great dilated eyes were fastened on
the speaker's face. There was a dead silence
for a moment, more eloquent with these looks
of amazement than any words could have been.
“I reckons ye remember a puny, shriveled
little man, named Reuben Crabb, eZ used ter
live yander, eight mile along the ridge ter that
thar big sulphur spring,” Tom resumed, appeal-
ing to Peter Giles. “He war born with only
one arm.”
“I’members him,” interpolated Mrs. Giles,
vivaciously. “He war a mighty porely, sickly
little critter, all the days of his life. 'Twar a
wonder he war ever raised ter be a man, – an’
a pity, too. An’’t war powerful comical, the
way of his takin' off; a stunted, one-armed lit-
tle critter a-ondertakin' ter fight folks an’ shoot
pistols. He hed the use o' his one arm, sure.”
THE “HARNT' THAT WALKS CHILHO WEE. 295
“Waal,” said Tom, “his house ain’t thar
now, 'kase Sam Grim's brothers burned it ter
the ground fur his a-killin' of Sam. That
warn’t all that war done ter Reuben fur killin’
of Sam. The sheriff run Reuben Crabb down
this hyar road 'bout a mile from hyar, – mebbe
less, – an’ shot him dead in the road, jes’ whar
it forks. Waal, Reuben war in company with
another evil-doer, — he war from the Cross-
Roads, an’ I furgits what he hed done, but he
war a-tryin’ ter hide in the mountings, too; an'
the sheriff lef Reuben a-lying thar in the road,
while he tries ter ketch up with the t'other ;
but his horse got a stone in his hoof, an' he los'
time, an' hed ter gin it up. An' when he got
back ter the forks o' the road whar he had lef’
Reuben a-lyin’ dead, thar war nuthin’ thar 'cept-
in a pool o' blood. Waal, he went right on ter
Reuben’s house, an’ them Grim boys hed burnt
it ter the ground; but he seen Reuben’s brother
Joel. An’ Joel, he tole the sheriff that late
that evenin’ he hed tuk Reuben’s body out’n
the road an’ buried it, "kase it hed been lyin'
thar in the road ever sence early in the mornin',
an’ he could n’t leave it thar all night, an' he
hed n’t no shelter fur it, sence the Grim boys
hed burnt down the house. So he war obleeged
terbury it. An' Joel showed the sheriff a new-
made grave, an’ Reuben's coat whar the sher-
296 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
iff's bullet hed gone in at the back an’ kem
out'n the breast. The sheriff lowed ez they’d
fine Joel fifty dollars fur a-buryin' of Reuben
afore the cor’ner kem ; but they never done it, ez
I knows on. The sheriff said that when the cor’-
ner kem the body would be tuk up fur a 'quest.
But thar hed been a powerful big frishet, an’
the river 'twixt the cor’ner's house an’ Chil-
howee could n’t be forded fur three weeks.
The corner never kem, an’ so thar it all stayed.
That war four year ago.”
“Waal,” said Peter Giles, dryly, “I ain’t
seen no harnt yit. I knowed all that afore.”
Clarsie's wondering eyes upon the young
man's moonlit face had elicited these facts, fa-
miliar to the elders, but strange, he knew, to her.
“I war jes' a-goin’ on ter tell,” said Tom,
abashed. “Waal, ever sence his brother Joel
died, this spring, Reuben’s harnt walks Chil-
howee. He war seen week afore las', 'bout day-
break, by Ephraim Blenkins, who hed been a-
fishin', an’ war a-goin’ home. Eph happened
ter stop in the laurel ter wind up his line, when
all in a minit he seen the harnt go by, his face
white, an’ his eye-balls like fire, an’ puny an’
one-armed, jes' like he lived. Eph, he owed
me a haffen day's work; I holped him ter plow
las’ month, an’ so he kem ter-day an' hoed
along cornsider’ble ter pay fur it. He say he
THE “HARNT * THAT WALKS CHILHOWEE. 297
believes the harnt never seen him, 'kase it went
right by. He lowed ef the harnt hed so much
ez cut one o’ them blazin’ eyes round at him he
could n’t but hev drapped dead. Waal, this
mornin', 'bout sunrise, my brother Bob's little
gal, three year old, strayed off from home while
her mother war out milkin' the cow. An’ we
went a-huntin' of her, mightily worked up, "kase
thar hev been a b'ar prowlin’ round our corn-
field twict this summer. An’ I went to the
right, an' Bob went to the lef’. An' he say ez
he war a-pushin' 'long through the laurel, he
seen the bushes ahead of him a-rustlin'. An’
he jes' stood still an’ watched 'em. An’ fur
a while the bushes war still too; an' then they
moved jes’ a little, fust this way an' then that,
till all of a suddint the leaves opened, like the
mouth of hell mought hev done, an’ thar he
seen Reuben Crabb's face. He say he never
seen sech a face Its mouth war open, an’ its
eyes war a-startin’ out ºn its head, an’ its skin
war white till it war blue ; an' ef the devil hed
hed it a-hangin' over the coals that minit it
could n't hev looked no more skeered. But
that war all that Bob seen, kase he jes' shet
his eyes an’ screeched an’ screeched like he war
destracted. An' when he stopped a second ter
ketch his breath he hearn su'thin’ a-answerin’
him back, sorter weak-like, an’ thar war little
298 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
Peggy a-pullin' through the laurel. Ye know
she ’s too little ter talk good, but the folks
down ter our house believes she seen the harnt,
too.”
“My Lord l’’ exclaimed Peter Giles. “I
'low I could n’t live a minit ef I war ter see
that thar harnt that walks Chilhowee l’’
“I know I could n’t,” said his wife.
“Nor me, nuther,” murmured Clarsie.
“Waal,” said Tom, resuming the thread of
his narrative, “we hev all been a-talkin’ down
yander ter our house ter make out the reason
why Reuben Crabb's harnt hev sot out ter walk
jes' sence his brother Joel died, = "kase it war
never seen afore then. An'ez nigh ez we kin
make it out, the reason is 'kase thar’s nobody
lef’ in this hyar worl’ what believes he war n’t
ter blame in that thar killin' o' Sam Grim. Joel
always swore ez Reuben never killed him no
more ºn nuthin’; that Sam's own pistol went off
in his own hand, an’ shot him through the heart
jes' ez he war a-drawin’ of it ter shoot Reuben
Crabb. An' I hev hearn other men ez war
a-standin’ by say the same thing, though them
Grims tells another tale ; but ez Reuben never
owned no pistol in his life, nor kerried one, it
don't 'pear ter meez what them Grims say air
reasonable. Joel always swore eZ Sam Grim
war a mighty mean man, – a great big feller
THE “HARNT''' THAT WALKS CHILHO WEE. 299
f
like him a-rockin’ of a deformed little critter,
an’ a-mockin’ of him, an' a hittin' of him. An’
the day of the fight Sam jes' knocked him down
fur nuthin' at all; an' afore ye could wink Reu-
ben jumped up suddint, an’ flew at him like an
eagle, an’ struck him in the face. An’ then
Sam drawed his pistol, an’ it went off in his own
hand, an’ shot him through the heart, an’ killed
him dead. Joel said that ef he could hev kep'
that pore little critter Reuben still, an’ let the
sheriff arrest him peaceable-like, he war sure
the jury would hev let him off; 'kase how war
Reuben a-goin ter shoot ennybody when Sam
Grim never left a-holt of the only pistol between
'em, in life, or in death 2 They tells me they
hed ter bury Sam Grim with that thar pistol
in his hand; his grip war too tight fur death
to unloose it. But Joel said that Reuben war
Sartain they 'd hang him. He hed n’t never
seen no jestice from enny one man, an’ he could
n’t look fur it from twelve men. So he jes' sot
out ter run through the woods, like a painter or
a wolf, ter be hunted by the sheriff, an’ he war
run down an’ kilt in the road. Joel said he
kep’ up arter the sheriff ez well ez he could on
foot, —fur the Crabbs never hed no horse, –
ter try ter beg fur Reuben, ef he war cotched,
an’ tell how little an' how weakly he war. I
never seen a young man's head turn white like
300 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
Joel's done; he said he reckoned it war his
troubles. But ter the las’ he stuck ter his rifle
faithful. He war a powerful hunter; he war
out rain or shine, hot or cold, in sech weather
ez other folks would think thar war n’t no use
in tryin' ter do nuthin’ in. I’m mightily afeard
o' seein’ Reuben, now, that 's a fac’,” concluded
Tom, frankly ; “’kase I hev hearn tell, an’ I be-
lieves it, that ef a harnt speaks ter ye, it air
sartain ye ’re bound ter die right then.”
“’Pears ter me,” said Mrs. Giles, “ez many
mountings ez thar air round hyar, he mought
hev tuk ter walkin' some o’ them, stiddier Chil-
howee.”
There was a sudden noise close at hand : a
great inverted splint-basket, from which came
a sound of flapping wings, began to move
slightly back and forth. Mrs. Giles gasped out
an ejaculation of terror, the two men sprang to
their feet, and the coy Clarsie laughed aloud in
an exuberance of delighted mirth, forgetful of
her shyness. “I declar' ter goodness, you-uns
air all skeered fur true ! Did ye think it war
the harnt that walks Chilhowee?”
“What's under that thar basket?” demanded
Peter Giles, rather sheepishly, as he sat down
again.
“Nuthin' but the duck-legged Dominicky,”
said Clarsie, “what air bein’ broke up from
THE “HARNT* THAT WALKS CHILHOWEE. 301
settin’.” The moonlight was full upon the
dimpling merriment in her face, upon her shin-
ing eyes and parted red lips, and her gurgling
laughter was pleasant to hear. Tom Pratt
edged his chair a trifle nearer, as he, too, sat
down.
“Ye ought n’t never ter break up a duck-
legged hen, nor a Dominicky, nuther,” he vol-
unteered, “’kase they air sech a good kind o'
hen ter kerry chickens; but a hen that is duck-
legged an' Dominicky too oughter be let ter
set, whether or no.”
Had he been warned in a dream, he could
have found no more secure road to Clarsie's fa-
vor and interest than a discussion of the poul-
try. “I’m a-thinkin’,” she said, “that it air
too hot fur hens ter set now, an’’t will be till
the las’ of August.”
“It don’t 'pear ter me eZ it air hot much in
June up hyar on Chilhowee, – thar’s a differ,
I know, down in the valley; but till July, on
Chilhowee, it don’t 'pear ter meez it air too hot
£er set a hen. An' a duck-legged Dominicky
air mighty hard ter break up.”
“That's a fac’,” Clarsie admitted; “but I’ll
hev ter do it, somehow, 'kase I ain’t got no eggs
fur her. All my hens air kerryin' of chickens.”
“Waall ” exclaimed Tom, seizing his oppor-
tunity, “I’ll bring ye some ter-morrer night,
302 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
when I come agin. We-uns hev got eggs ter
our house.”
“Thanky,” said Clarsie, shyly smiling.
This unique method of courtship would have
progressed very prosperously but for the inter-
ference of the elders, who are an element always
more or less adverse to love-making. “Ye
oughter turn out yer hen now, Clarsie,” said
Mrs. Giles, “ez Tom air a-goin’ ter bring ye
some eggs ter-morrer. I wonder ye don’t think
it 's mean ter keep her up longer 'n ye air
obleeged ter. Ye oughter remember ye war
called a merciful critter jes' ter-day.”
Clarsie rose precipitately, raised the basket,
and out flew the “duck-legged Dominicky,”
with a frantic flutter and hysterical cackling.
But Mrs. Giles was not to be diverted from her
purpose ; her thoughts had recurred to the ab-
surd episode of the afternoon, and with her rel-
ish of the incongruity of the joke she opened
upon the subject at once.
“Waal, Tom,” she said, “we’ll be hevin'
Clarsie married, afore long, I’m a-thinkin’.”
The young man sat bewildered. He, too, had
entertained views concerning Clarsie's speedy
marriage, but with a distinctly personal appli-
cation; and this frank mention of the matter
by Mrs. Giles had a sinister suggestion that per-
haps her ideas might be antagonistic. “An'
THE “HARNT " THAT WALKS CHILHOWEE. 303
who d'ye think hev been hyar ter-day, a-speak-
in’ of complimints on Clarsie 2 * He could not
answer, but he turned his head with a look of
inquiry, and Mrs. Giles continued, “He is a
mighty peart, likely boy, — he is.”
There was a growing anger in the dismay on
Tom Pratt's face; he leaned forward to hear
the name with a fiery eagerness, altogether in-
congruous with his usual lack-lustre manner.
“Old Simon Burney !” cried Mrs. Giles,
with a burst of laughter. “Old Simon Burney!
Jes’ a-speakin' of complimints on Clarsie l’’
The young fellow drew back with a look of
disgust. “Why, he's a old man ; he ain't no
fit husband fur Clarsie.”
“Don’t ye be too sure ter count on that. I
war jes' a-layin' off ter tell Clarsie that a gal
oughter keep mighty clar o' widowers, 'thout
she wants ter marry One. Fur I believes,” said
Mrs. Giles, with a wild flight of imagination,
“ez them men hev got some sort ºn trade with
the Evil One, an’ he gives 'em the power ter
witch the gals, somehow, so 's ter git ’em ter
marry; 'kase I don’t think that any gal that 's
got good sense air a-goin’ ter be a man's second
ch'ice, an’ the mother of a whole pack of step-
chil’ren, 'thout she air under some sort 'n spell.
But them men carries the day with the gals,
ginerally, an’ I’m a-thinkin’ they're banded
304 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
with the devil. Ef I war a gal, an’ a smart,
peart boy like Simon Burney kem around
a-speakin' of complimints, an’ sayin' I war a
merciful critter, I’d jes' give it up, an’ marry
him fur second ch'ice. Thar's one blessin’,”
she continued, contemplating the possibility in
a cold-blooded fashion positively revolting to
Tom Pratt : “he ain’t got no tribe of chil’ren
fur Clarsie ter look arter; nary chick nor child
hev old Simon Burney got. He hed two, but
they died.”
The young man took leave presently, in great
depression of spirit, — the idea that the widower
was banded with the powers of evil was rather
overwhelming to a man whose dependence was
in merely mortal attractions; and after he had
been gone a little while Clarsie ascended the
ladder to a nook in the roof, which she called
her room. -
For the first time in her life her slumber was
fitful and restless, long intervals of wakefulness
alternating with snatches of fantastic dreams,
At last she rose and sat by the rude window,
looking out through the chestnut leaves at the
great moon, which had begun to dip toward the
dark uncertainty of the western ridges, and at
the shimmering, translucent, pearly mists that
filled the intermediate valleys. All the air was
dew and incense; so subtle and penetrating an
THE “ IIARNT" THAT WALKS CHILH OWEE. 305
odor came from that fir-tree beyond the fence
that it seemed as if some invigorating infusion
were thrilling along her veins; there floated up-
ward, too, the warm fragrance of the clover, and
every breath of the gentle wind brought from
over the stream a thousand blended, undistin-
guishable perfumes of the deep forests beyond.
The moon's idealizing glamour had left no trace
of the uncouthness of the place which the day-
light revealed; the little log house, the great
overhanging chestnut-oaks, the jagged preci-
pice before the door, the vague outlines of the
distant ranges, all suffused with a magic sheen,
might have seemed a stupendous alto-rilievo in
silver repoussé. Still, there came here and
there the sweep of the bat's dusky wings; even
they were a part of the night's witchery. A
tiny owl perched for a moment or two amid
the dew-tipped chestnut-leaves, and gazed with
great round eyes at Clarsie as solemnly as she
gazed at him.
“I’m thankful enough that ye hed the grace
not ter screech while ye war hyar,” she said,
after the bird had taken his flight. “I ain’t
ready ter die yit, an’ a screech-owel air the sure
sign.”
She felt now and then a great impatience with
her wakeful mood. Once she took herself to
task: “Jes' a-sittin' up hyar all night, the same
20
306 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
eZ ef I war a fox, or that thar harnt that walks
Chilhowee l’”
And then her mind reverted to Tom Pratt,
to old Simon Burney, and to her mother's em-
phatic and oracular declaration that widowers
are in league with Satan, and that the girls upon
whom they cast the eye of supernatural fasci-
nation have no choice in the matter. “I wish
I knowed ef that thar sayin' war true,” she
murmured, her face still turned to the western
spurs, and the moon sinking so slowly toward
them.
With a sudden resolution she rose to her feet.
She knew a way of telling fortunes which was,
according to tradition, infallible, and she deter-
mined to try it, and ease her mind as to her
future. Now was the propitious moment. “I
hev always hearn that it won’t come true 'thout
ye try it jes' before daybreak, an’ a-kneelin'
down at the forks of the road.” She hesitated
a moment and listened intently. “They'd
never git done a-laffin' at me, ef they fund it
out,” she thought.
There was no sound in the house, and from
the dark woods arose only those monotonous
voices of the night, so familiar to her ears that
she accounted their murmurous iteration as si-
lence too. She leaned far out of the low win-
dow, caught the wide-spreading branches of the
THE “HARNT* THAT WALKS CHILHO WEE. 307
tree beside it, and swung herself noiselessly to
the ground. The road before her was dark with
the shadowy foliage and dank with the dew ;
but now and then, at long intervals, there lay
athwart it a bright bar of light, where the
moonshine fell through a gap in the trees. Once,
as she went rapidly along her way, she saw
speeding across the white radiance, lying just
before her feet, the ill-omened shadow of a rab-
bit. She paused, with a superstitious sinking
of the heart, and she heard the animal’s quick,
leaping rush through the bushes near at hand;
but she mustered her courage, and kept steadily
on. “”T ain't no use a-goin' back ter git shet
o' bad luck,” she argued. “Ef old Simon Bur-
ney air my fortune, he 'll come whether or no,
— ef all they say air true.”
The serpentine road curved to the mountain's
brink before it forked, and there was again that
familiar picture of precipice, and far-away
ridges, and shining mist, and sinking moon,
which was visibly turning from silver to gold.
The changing lustre gilded the feathery ferns
that grew in the marshy dip. Just at the angle
of the divergent paths there rose into the air a
great mass of indistinct white blossoms, which
she knew were the exquisite mountain azaleas,
and all the dark forest was starred with the
blooms of the laurel.
308 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
She fixed her eyes upon the mystic sphere
dropping down the sky, knelt among the aza-
leas at the forks of the road, and repeated the
time-honored invocation : —
“Ef I’m a-goin’ ter marry a young man,
whistle, Bird, whistle. Ef I’m a-goin’ ter
marry an old man, low, Cow, low. Ef I ain’t
a-goin’ ter marry nobody, knock, Death, knock.”
There was a prolonged silence in the matuti-
nal freshness and perfume of the woods. She
raised her head, and listened attentively. No
chirp of half-awakened bird, no tapping of wood-
pecker, or the mysterious death-watch; but
from far along the dewy aisles of the forest, the
ungrateful Spot, that Clarsie had fed more
faithfully than herself, lifted up her voice, and
set the echoes vibrating. Clarsie, however, had
hardly time for a pang of disappointment.
While she still knelt among the azaleas her
large, deer-like eyes were suddenly dilated with
terror. From around the curve of the road
came the quick beat of hastening footsteps, the
sobbing sound of panting breath, and between
her and the sinking moon there passed an at-
tenuated, one-armed figure, with a pallid, sharp-
ened face, outlined for a moment on its brilliant
disk, and dreadful starting eyes, and quivering
open mouth. It disappeared in an instant
among the shadows of the laurel, and Clarsie,
THE “HARNT" TITAT WALKS CHILHOWEE. 809
with a horrible fear clutching at her heart,
sprang to her feet.
Her flight was arrested by other sounds. Be-
fore her reeling senses could distinguish them,
a party of horsemen plunged down the road.
They reined in suddenly as their eyes fell upon
her, and their leader, an eager, authoritative
man, was asking her a question. Why could
she not understand him 2 With her nerveless
hands feebly catching at the shrubs for support,
she listened vaguely to his impatient, meaning-
less words, and saw with helpless deprecation
the rising anger in his face. But there was no
time to be lost. With a curse upon the stupid-
ity of the mountaineer, who could n’t speak
when she was spoken to, the party sped on in a
sweeping gallop, and the rocks and the steeps
were hilarious with the sound.
When the last faint echo was hushed, Clarsie
tremblingly made her way out into the road;
not reassured, however, for she had a frightful
conviction that there was now and then a
strange stir in the laurel, and that she was
stealthily watched. Her eyes were fixed upon
the dense growth with a morbid fascination, as
she moved away; but she was once more rooted
to the spot when the leaves parted and in the
golden moonlight the ghost stood before her.
She could not nerve herself to run past him, and
310 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
he was directly in her way homeward. His
face was white, and lined, and thin ; that piti-
ful quiver was never still in the parted lips; he
looked at her with faltering, beseeching eyes.
Clarsie's merciful heart was stirred. “What
ails ye, ter come back hyar, an’ foller me?”
she cried out, abruptly. And then a great hor-
ror fell upon her. Was not one to whom a
ghost should speak doomed to death, sudden
and immediate 7
The ghost replied in a broken, shivering
voice, like a wail of pain, “I war a-starvin', -
I war a-starvin’,” with despairing iteration.
It was all over, Clarsie thought. The ghost
had spoken, and she was a doomed creature.
She wondered that she did not fall dead in the
road. But while those beseeching eyes were
fastened in piteous appeal on hers, she could
not leave him. “I never hearn that 'bout ye,”
she said, reflectively. “I knows ye hed awful
troubles while ye war alive, but I never knowed
ez ye war starved.”
Surely that was a gleam of sharp surprise in
the ghost's prominent eyes, succeeded by a sly
intelligence. -
“Day is nigh ter breakin’,” Clarsie admon-
ished him, as the lower rim of the moon touched
the silver mists of the west. “What air ye
a-wantin' of me?”
THE “HARNT" THAT WALKS CHILHOWEE, 311
There was a short silence. Mind travels far
in such intervals. Clarsie's thoughts had over-
taken the scenes when she should have died
that sudden terrible death: when there would
be no one left to feed the chickens; when no
one would care if the pigs cried with the pangs
of hunger, unless, indeed, it were time for them
to be fattened before killing. The mare, — how
often would she be taken from the plow, and
shut up for the night in her shanty without a
drop of water, after her hard day’s work | Who
would churn, or spin, or weave? Clarsie could
not understand how the machinery of the uni-
verse could go on without her. And Towse,
poor Towse ! He was a useless cumberer of the
ground, and it was hardly to be supposed that
after his protector was gone he would be spared
a blow or a bullet, to hasten his lagging death.
But Clarsie still stood in the road, and watched
the face of the ghost, as he, with his eager,
starting eyes, scanned her open, ingenuous
Countenance.
“Ye do ez ye air bid, or it'll be the worse
for ye,” said the “harnt,” in the same quiver-
ing, shrill tone. “Thar's hunger in the nex’
worl' ez well ez in this, an’ ye bring me some
vittles hyar this time ter-morrer, an’ don't ye
tell nobody ye hev seen me, nuther, or it'll be
the worse for ye.”
312 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
There was a threat in his eyes as he disap-
peared in the laurel, and left the girl standing
in the last rays of moonlight.
A curious doubt was stirring in Clarsie's mind
when she reached home, in the early dawn, and
heard her father talking about the sheriff and
his posse, who had stopped at the house in the
night, and roused its inmates, to know if they
had seen a man pass that way.
“Clarsie never hearn none o’ the noise, I’ll
be bound, 'kase she always sleeps like a log,”
said Mrs. Giles, as her daughter came in with
the pail, after milking the cow. “Tell her
'bout ’n it.”
“They kem a-bustin’ along hyar a while afore
day-break, a-runnin’ arter the man,” drawled
Mr. Giles, dramatically. “An’ they knocked
me up, ter know ef ennybody hed passed. An’
one o’ them men — I never seen none of 'em
afore ; they's all valley folks, I’m a-thinkin’—
an’ one of 'em bruk his saddle-girt’ a good piece
down the road, an’ he kem back ter borrer
mine; an' ez we war a-fixin' of it, he tole me
what they war all arter. He said that word
war tuk ter the sheriff down yander in the val-
ley—’pears ter me them town-folks don’t think
nobody in the mountings hev got good sense —
word war tuk ter the sheriff 'bout this one-armed
harnt that walks Chilhowee ; an' he sot it down
THE “HARNT' THAT WALKS CHILHO WEE, 313
that Reuben Crabb war n’t dead at all, an’ Joel
jes' purtended ter hev buried him, an’ it air
Reuben hisself that walks Chilhowee. An’ thar
air two hunderd dollars blood-money reward
fur ennybody ez kin ketch him. These hyar
valley folks air powerful eur’ous critters, – two
hunderd dollars blood-money reward fur that
thar harnt that walks Chilhowee I jes' sot
myself ter laffin' when that thar cuss tole it so
solemn. I jes' 'lowed ter him ez he couldn’t
shoot a harnt nor hang a harnt, an’ Reuben
Crabb hed about got done with his persecutions
in this worl’. An' he said that by the time
they hed scoured this mounting, like they hed
laid off ter do, they would find that that thar
puny little harnt war nuthin' but a mortal man,
an’ could be kep' in a jail ez handy ez enny
other flesh an’ blood. He said the sheriff 'lowed
eZ the reason Reuben hed jes’ taken ter walk
Chilhowee sence Joel died is 'kase thar air no-
body ter feed him, like Joel done, mebbe, in the
nights; an' Reuben always war a pore, one-
armed, weakly critter, what can’t even kerry a
gun, an” he air driv by hunger out’n the hole whar
he stays, ter prowl round the cornfields an' hen-
coops ter steal Suthin’, - an’ that 's how he kem
ter be seen frequent. The sheriff 'lowed that
Reuben can’t find enough roots an’ yerbs ter
keep him up ; but law — a harnt eatin'! It
314 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAIWS.
jes' sot me off ter laffin’. Reuben Crabb hev
been too busy in torment fur the las’ four year
ter be a-studyin' 'bout eatin’; an’ it air his
harnt that walks Chilhowee.” * ‘.
The next morning, before the moon sank,
Clarsie, with a tin pail in her hand, went to
meet the ghost at the appointed place. She
understood now why the terrible doom that
falls upon those to whom a spirit may chance
to speak had not descended upon her, and that
fear was gone; but the secrecy of her errand
weighed heavily. She had been scrupulously
careful to put into the pail only such things as
had fallen to her share at the table, and which
she had saved from the meals of yesterday. “A
gal that goes a-robbin’ fur a hongry harnt,” was
her moral reflection, “oughter be throwed bo-
daciously off'n the bluff.”
She found no one at the forks of the road.
In the marshy dip were only the myriads of
mountain azaleas, only the masses of feathery
ferns, only the constellated glories of the laurel
blooms. A sea of shining white mist was in
the valley, with glinting golden rays striking
athwart it from the great cresset of the sinking
moon; here and there the long, dark, horizontal
line of a distant mountain's summit rose above
the vaporous shimmer, like a dreary, sombre
island in the midst of enchanted waters. Her
THE “HARNT, THAT WALKS CHILHOWEE. 315
large, dreamy eyes, so wild and yet so gentle,
gazed out through the laurel leaves upon the
floating gilded flakes of light, as in the deep
coverts of the mountain, where the fulvous-tinted
deer were lying, other eyes, as wild and as
gentle, dreamily watched the vanishing moon.
Overhead, the filmy, lace-like clouds, fretting
the blue heavens, were tinged with a faint rose.
Through the trees she caught a glimpse of the
red sky of dawn, and the glister of a great
lucent, tremulous star. From the ground, misty
blue exhalations were rising, alternating with
the long lines of golden light yet drifting through
the woods. It was all very still, very peaceful,
almost holy. One could hardly believe that
these consecrated solitudes had once reverber-
ated with the echoes of man's death-dealing in-
genuity, and that Reuben Crabb had fallen, shot
through and through, amid that wealth of flow-
ers at the forks of the road. She heard suddenly
the far-away baying of a hound. Her great
eyes dilated, and she lifted her head to listen.
Only the solemn silence of the woods, the slow
sinking of the noiseless moon, the voiceless
splendor of that eloquent day-star.
Morning was close at hand, and she was be-
ginning to wonder that the ghost did not ap-
pear, when the leaves fell into abrupt commo-
tion, and he was standing in the road, beside
316 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
her. He did not speak, but watched her with
an eager, questioning intentness, as she placed
the contents of the pail upon the moss at the
roadside. “I’m a-comin' agin ter-morrer,” she
said, gently. He made no reply, quickly gath-
ered the food from the ground, and disappeared
in the deep shades of the woods.
She had not expected thanks, for she was
accustomed only to the gratitude of dumb
beasts; but she was vaguely conscious of some-
thing wanting, as she stood motionless for a
moment, and watched the burnished rim of the
moon slip down behind the western mountains.
Then she slowly walked along her misty way
in the dim light of the coming dawn. There
was a footstep in the road behind her; she
thought it was the ghost once more. She turned,
and met Simon Burney, face to face. His rod
was on his shoulder, and a string of fish was in
his hand.
“Ye air a-doin’ wrongful, Clarsie,” he said,
sternly. “It air agin the law fur folks ter feed
an’ shelter them ez is a-runnin' from jestice.
An' ye’ll git yerself inter trouble. Other folks
will find ye out, besides me, an’ then the sher-
iff’ll be up hyar arter ye.”
The tears rose to Clarsie's eyes. This pros-
pect was infinitely more terrifying than the aw-
ful doom which follows the horror of a ghost's
speech.
THE “HARWT’’ THAT WALKS CHILHOWEE. 317
“I can’t holp it,” she said, however, dog-
gedly swinging the pail back and forth. “I
can’t gin my consent ter starvin' of folks, even
ef they air a-hidin’ an’ a-runnin' from jestice.”
“They mought put ye in jail, too, - I
dunno,” suggested Simon Burney.
“I can’t holp that, nuther,” said Clarsie, the
sobs rising, and the tears falling fast. “Ef
they comes an' gits me, and puts me in the
pen’tiary away down yander, somewhars in the
valley, like they done Jane Simpkins, fur a-cut-
tin' of her step-mother's throat with a butcher-
knife, while she war asleep, — though some said
Jane war crazy, - I can’t gin my consent ter
starvin’ of folks.”
A recollection came over Simon Burney of
the simile of “hendering the sun from shin-
ing.”
“She hev done sot it down in her mind,” he
thought, as he walked on beside her and looked
at her resolute face. Still he did not relinquish
his effort.
“Doin' wrong, Clarsie, ter aid folks what air
a-doin’ wrong, an’ mebbe hev done wrong, air
powerful hurtful ter everybody, an' henders the
law an’jestice.”
“I can’t holp it,” said Clarsie.
“It 'pears toler’ble comical ter me,” said
Simon Burney, with a sudden perception of a
318 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
curious fact which has proved a marvel to wiser
men, “that no matter how good a woman is,
she ain’t got no respect fur the laws of the
country, an’ don’t sot no store by jestice.” Af.
ter a momentary silence he appealed to her
on another basis. “Somebody will ketch him
arter a while, ez sure ez ye air born. The
sheriff's a-sarchin' now, an’ by the time that
word gits around, all the mounting boys’ll turn
out, "kase thar air two hunderd dollars blood-
money fur him. An’ then he 'll think, when
they ketches him, - an' everybody 'll say so,
too, -ez ye war constant in feedin' him jes'
ter’tice him ter comin’ ter one place, so ez ye
could tell somebody whar ter go ter ketch him,
an’ make them gin ye haffen the blood-money,
mebbe. That’s what the mounting will say,
mos' likely.”
“I can’t holp it,” said Clarsie, once more.
He left her walking on toward the rising sun,
and retraced his way to the forks of the road.
The jubilant morning was filled with the song
of birds; the sunlight flashed on the dew ; all
the delicate enameled bells of the pink and
white azaleas were swinging tremulously in the
wind ; the aroma of ferns and mint rose on the
delicious fresh air. Presently he checked his
pace, creeping stealthily on the moss and grass
beside the road rather than in the beaten path.
THE “HARNT" THAT WALKS CHILHO WA.E. 819
He pulled aside the leaves of the laurel with no
more stir than the wind might have made, and
stole cautiously through its dense growth, till
he came suddenly upon the puny little ghost,
lying in the sun at the foot of a tree. The
frightened creature sprang to his feet with a
wild cry of terror, but before he could move a
step he was caught and held fast in the strong
grip of the stalwart mountaineer beside him.
“I hev kem hyar ter tell ye a word, Reuben
Crabb,” said Simon Burney. “I hev kem hyar
ter tell ye that the whole mounting air a-goin'
ter turn out ter sarch fur ye; the sheriff air
a-ridin’ now, an’ ef ye don’t come along with
me they 'll hev ye afore night, 'kase thar air
two hunderd dollars reward fur ye.” -
What a piteous wail went up to the smiling
blue sky, seen through the dappling leaves
above them ' What a horror, and despair, and
prescient agony were in the hunted creature's
face | The ghost struggled no longer; he
slipped from his feet down upon the roots of
the tree, and turned that woful face, with its
starting eyes and drawn muscles and quivering
parted lips, up toward the unseeing sky.
“God A'mighty, man l’ exclaimed Simon
Burney, moved to pity. “Why n’t ye quit
this hyar way of livin' in the woods like ye
war a wolf 2 Why n’t ye come back an’ stand
320 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
yer trial? From all I’ve hearn tell, it 'pears
ter me ez the jury air obleeged ter let ye off,
an’ I’ll take keer of ye agin them Grims.”
“I hain't got no place ter live in,” cried out
the ghost, with a keen despair.
Simon Burney hesitated. Reuben Crabb
was possibly a murderer, — at the best could
but be a burden. The burden, however, had
fallen in his way, and he lifted it.
“I tell ye now, Reuben Crabb,” he said, “I
ain't a-goin’ ter holp no man ter break the law
an' hender jestice; but ef ye will go an’ stand
yer trial, I’ll take keer of ye agin them Grims
ez long ez I kin fire a rifle. An arter the jury
hev done let ye off, ye air welcome ter live along
o' me at my house till ye die. Ye air no-'count
ter work, I know, but I ain't a-goin’ ter grudge
ye fur a livin' at my house.”
And so it came to pass that the reward set
upon the head of the harnt that walked Chil-
howee was never claimed.
With his powerful ally, the forlorn little
spectre went to stand his trial, and the jury
acquitted him without leaving the box. Then
he came back to the mountains to live with
Simon Burney. The cruel gibes of his burly
mockers that had beset his feeble life from his
childhood up, the deprivation and loneliness
and despair and fear that had filled those days
THE “HARNT * THAT WALKS CHILHO WEE. 821
when he walked Chilhowee, had not improved
the harnt's temper. He was a helpless crea-
ture, not able to carry a gun or hold a plow,
and the years that he spent smoking his cob-
pipe in Simon Burney's door were idle years
and unhappy. But Mrs. Giles said she thought
he was “a mighty lucky little critter: fust, he
hed Joel tertake keer of him an’ feed him, when
he tuk ter the woods ter pertend he war a
harnt ; an' they do say now that Clarsie Pratt,
afore she war married, used ter kerry him vit-
tles, too; an' then old Simon Burney tuk him
up an’ fed him ez plenty eZ ef he war a good
workin’ hand, an' gin him clothes an' house-
room, an’ put up with his jawin’ jes' like he
never hearn a word of it. But law some folks
dunno when they air well off.”
There was only a sluggish current of peasant
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more royal hand. Ungrudgingly he gave of
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guest at the risk of his life; with a moral gal-
lantry he struggled with his sloth, and worked
early and late, that there might be enough to
divide. There was no possibility of a recom-
pense for him, not even in the encomiums of
discriminating friends, nor the satisfaction of
tutored feelings and a practiced spiritual dis-
21
322 IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS.
cernment; for he was an uncouth creature, and
densely ignorant. •
The grace of culture is, in its way, a fine
thing, but the best that art can do — the polish
of a gentleman — is hardly equal to the best
that Nature can do in her higher moods.
ČIorfig of ſiction
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TJncle Tom's Cabin. Holiday AEdition. With red line
border, Introduction, and a Bibliography by George
I2 Works of Fiction.
Bullen, of the British Museum. Over Ioo Illustra-
tions. 12mo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . $3.50
Half calf. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6.00
Morocco, or tree calf . . . . . . . . . . 7.50
Popular Edition. I2mo . . . . . . . . . . I.Oo
A Dog's Mission, etc. Illustrated. Small 4to . . . 1.25
Queer Little People. Illustrated. Small 4to . . . 1.25
Little Pussy Willow. Illustrated. Small 4to . . . 1.25
Gen. Lew Wallace.
The Fair God ; or, The Last of the 'Tzins. 12mo . 1.5o
Henry Watterson. *
Oddities in Southern Life and Character. Illustrated.
Iómo . . . . . . I.So
Richard Grant White.
The Fate of Mansfield Humphreys, together with the
Episode of Mr. Washington Adams in England.
I6mo . . . . • • . . . . . . . . . I.25
Adeline D. T. Whitney.
Faith Gartney's Girlhood. Illustrated. I2mo . . . 1.5o
Hitherto : A Story of Yesterdays. 12mo . . . . 1.5o
Patience Strong’s Outings. I2mo . . . . . . . I.5o
The Gayworthys. I2mo . . . . . . . . . . I.50
Leslie Goldthwaite. Illustrated. 12mo . . . I.50
We Girls : A Home Story. Illustrated. 12mo . . 1.5o
Real Folks. Illustrated. I2mo . . . . . . . . I.50
The Other Girls. Illustrated, 12mo . . . . . . 1.5o
Sights and Insights. 2 vols. I2mo . . . . . . . 3.00
Odd, or Even 12mo . . . . . . . . . . . I.50
Boys at Chequasset. Illustrated. I2mo . . . . . I.50
Bonnyborough . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I-50
The above thirteen volumes in box . . . . . . 19.5o
*** For sale by all Booksellers. Sent, Żost-paid, on receipt of Żrice (in
theck on Bostone or New York, money-order, or registered letter) by the
Publishers,
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY,
4 PARK ST., BOSTON, MASS.; II EAST SEVENTEENTH ST.,
NEW YORK.
A Catalogue containing portraits of many of the above authors,
with a description of their works, will be sent free, on application,
to any address.