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diff --git a/76600-0.txt b/76600-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e91291c --- /dev/null +++ b/76600-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5541 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76600 *** + + + + + +_BOOKS BY_ + +“Charles Egbert Craddock.” + +(MARY N. MURFREE) + + +IN THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS. Short Stories. 16mo, $1.25. + +DOWN THE RAVINE. Illustrated. 16mo, $1.00. + +THE PROPHET OF THE GREAT SMOKY MOUNTAINS. A Novel 16mo, $1.25. + +IN THE CLOUDS. A Novel 16mo, $1.25. + +THE STORY OF KEEDON BLUFFS. 16mo, $1.00. + + HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. + BOSTON AND NEW YORK. + + + + + THE + STORY OF KEEDON BLUFFS + + BY + CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK + AUTHOR OF “IN THE CLOUDS,” “DOWN THE RAVINE,” “IN THE + TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS,” “THE PROPHET OF THE + GREAT SMOKY MOUNTAINS,” ETC. + + [Illustration] + + BOSTON AND NEW YORK + HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY + The Riverside Press, Cambridge + 1888 + + Copyright, 1887, + BY MARY N. MURFREE. + + _All rights reserved._ + + _The Riverside Press, Cambridge_: + Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Co. + + + + +THE STORY OF KEEDON BLUFFS. + + + + +I. + + +Towering into the air, reflected deep in the river, the great height of +Keedon Bluffs is doubled to the casual glance and augmented in popular +rumor. Nevertheless a vast mass of rock it is, splintered and creviced, +and with rugged, beetling ledges, all atilt, and here and there a niche +which holds a hardy shrub, subsisting surely on the bounty of the air or +the smile of the sun, for scant sustenance can be coaxed from the solid +sandstone. + +Here bats and lizards colonize, and amongst the trailing vines winged +songsters find a home, and sometimes stealthy, four-footed, marauding +shadows, famous climbers, creep in and out of the hollows of the rocks, +for it is in the very heart of the wilderness on a slope of the Great +Smoky Range. Naught was likely to behold them—save their own bright-eyed +images in the swift current below, or perhaps a wayfaring cloud above, +journeying adown the sky from the zenith—until one day a boy chanced +to come this way in driving home the cow; he paused on one side of the +horseshoe bend, which the river describes just here, and gazed fixedly +across the bight at the bluffs. + +If at this moment one of the shy dwellers of the cliff had thrust forth +an unwary head there was no need to hastily withdraw it. The boy’s +attention was concentrated on a motionless object lying on a ledge; he +looked at it in doubting surprise. It was a cannon-ball, precariously +lodged where it had fallen, spent and harmless, years ago. + +For Keedon Bluffs had not always been so silent. They had echoed the +clamors of artillery. Not that a battle was ever fought in these +fastnesses, but once from a distant point the woods in the cove were +shelled, and, ranging further than the bursting bombs, this solid round +shot cleared the river at the mountain’s base, and dropped at last on +the ledge, remaining the only memento of the day. Covered with rust, +half draped by a vine, peaceful and motionless and mute, it lay. And Ike +Guyther, looking at it, wished that he had lived in those times of riding +and raiding, when the batteries roared their sulphurous thunder, and +flung their shells, hurtling along these quiet woodland ways, with fuses +all a-flaring. + +“Folks in them days hed a chance ter show thar grit, an’ ride, an’ fight, +an’ fire off them big guns,” he grumbled, when he had gone back to his +father’s cabin, in Tanglefoot Cove, three miles away, and had detailed +his discovery to the fireside group. “They war mos’ly boys, no older +sca’cely ’n me. An’ hyar _I_ be—_a-drivin’ up the cow_!” + +“Waal, now,” exclaimed his mother in her consolatory drawl, “ye oughter +be powerful thankful ye hev got a cow ter drive. The gu’rillas made beef +o’ yer aunt Jemimy’s cow.” + +“An’ fur goodness’ sake look at yer uncle Abner ef ye hanker so ter go +a-fightin’,” his aunt Jemima tartly admonished him. + +There sat all day beside the wood-fire a man of middle age, but with a +face strangely young. It was like the face of a faded painting, changing +only in the loss of color. The hair, growing off a broad forehead, was +bleaching fast; the tints had become dim on cheek and lip, but time and +care had drawn no lines, and an expression of childlike tranquillity +hovered about the downcast eyes, forever shielded by the drooping +lids. Life seemed to have ended for him twenty years before, on a day +surcharged with disaster, when the great gun, which had been a sort of +Thor to him, and which he had served with an admiring affection and +reverent care, was spiked by its own cannoneers that it might fall +useless into the hands of the enemy. It was the last thing he ever +saw—this great silenced god of thunder—as he stood beside it with the +sponge-staff in his hand. For among the shells shrieking through the +smoky air, one was laden with his doom. A hiss close at hand, the din of +an abrupt explosion, and he fell unconscious under the carriage of the +piece, and there he was captured. + +And when the war was over and he came forth alike from the prison and the +hospital, blinded and helpless, naught remained to him but to vaguely +ponder on what had been in the days that had gone forever, for he hardly +seemed to look to the future, and the present was empty-handed. + +He had met his grief and the darkness with a stoicism difficult to +comprehend. He spent his days in calm unimbittered meditation, not +gentle, but with flashes of his old spirit to attest his unchanged +identity. Acclimated to sorrow, without hope, or fear, or anxiety, or +participation in life, time could but pass him by, and youth seemed to +abide with him. + +The old martial interest flared up when Ike told of his discovery on the +ledge of Keedon Bluffs. + +“What kind o’ ball, Ike?” he demanded. + +But Ike had been born too late to be discerning as to warlike projectiles. + +“I wisht I could lay my hand on it!” said the blind artillery-man. +“I’ll be bound I’d know, ef I jes’ could heft it wunst! Whar did it +lodge, Ike? Could I make out ter git a-nigh it? Could ye an’ me git thar +tergether?” + +“Ye ’pear b’reft, Abner!” aunt Jemima cried out angrily. “Ye mus’ hev +los’ more ’n yer sight. Hev ye furgot how Keedon Bluffs look? Thar ain’t +nobody sca’cely ez could keep foot-hold ’mongst them sheer cliffs. An’ ye +oughtn’t ter be aggin’ on Ike ter climb sech places—git his neck bruk. +Ye hain’t got no call, sure, ter set store on no mo’ cannon-balls, an’ +artillery, an’ sech. I ’low ez ye’d hev hed enough o’ guns, an’ I wish +ye’d never hed nuthin’ ter do with no rebels.” + +For this was one of the divided families so usual in East Tennessee, and +while the elders had clung to the traditions of their fathers—the men +fighting staunchly for the Union—the youngest had as a mere boy fled +from his home to join the Confederate forces, and had stood by his gun +through many a fiery hail of battle storms. But the bitterness of these +differences was fast dying out. + +“I hev gin the word,” said Ike’s father, and grizzled, and stern, and +gigantic, he looked eminently fitted to maintain his behests, “ez no mo’ +politics air ter be talked roun’ this ha’th-stone, Jemimy.” + +“I ain’t talkin’ no politics,” retorted aunt Jemima, sharply. “But I +ain’t goin’ ter hold my jaw tee-totally. I never kin git over hevin’ Ab +settin’ up hyar plumb benighted! plumb benighted!—ez blind ez a mole!” +She shook her head with a sort of acrimonious melancholy. + +“Yes,” drawlingly admitted the blind artillery-man, all unmoved by this +uncheerful discourse. “Yes, that’s a true word.” He lifted his head +suddenly and tossed back the gray hair from his boyish face. “But I _hev_ +seen—sights!” + +Even less tolerated than politics were Ike’s repinings and longings for +some flaunting military exploit. “Take yer axe,” his soldier-father said +sternly, “an’ show what sort’n grit ye hev got at the wood-pile.” + +The blind man with a laugh more leniently suggested, “Ye wouldn’t hev +been much use ter we-uns in our battery, Ike, throwin’ up a yearth-work +ter pertect the guns an’ sech, seein’ the way ye fairly _de_-spise a +spade.” + +Ike had yet to learn that it is the spirit in which a deed is done that +dignifies and magnifies it. + +He found the stories of the military glories he would have achieved, had +the opportunity fallen to his lot, much more gently treated by a certain +young neighbor, who had indeed a good and willing pair of ears, and much +readiness and adaptability of assent. Very pliable, withal, was “Skimpy” +Sawyer—by the nickname “Skimpy” he was familiarly known, a tribute to his +extreme spareness. He was peculiarly thin, and wiry, and loose-jointed. +He had a good-natured freckled face, paler for the contrast with a crop +of red hair; a twinkling and beguiling brown eye; great nimbleness of +limb; and many comical twists of countenance at command. + +He accompanied Ike blithely enough to Keedon Bluffs, one afternoon, to +look at the cannon-ball on the ledge. A bridle-path, almost a road it +might have seemed—for the woods, bereft of undergrowth by the annual +conflagrations, gave it space—wound along the side of the mountain +near the verge of the cliffs. The river, all scarlet, and silver, and +glinting blue, was swirling far down in the chasm beneath them; the sheer +sandstone bank rose opposite, solid as a wall; and beyond, the cove—its +woods, and cabins, and roads, and fences, bounded by the interlacing +mountains—lay spread out like an open map. + +Peaceful enough it was to-day, as the boys stood on the Bluffs. There +were wings, homeward bound, hurrying through the air, instead of shells +with fuses burning bright against the sunset sky. No bugle sang. The +river was murmuring low a plaintive minor lay that one might hear forever +and never tire. Scanty shrubs of dogwood and sour-wood flaunted, red and +orange, from the rifts of the great crags; here and there were fissures, +irregularly shaped, and dark, save that upon the upper arch of each a +ceaseless silvery light shimmered, reflected from the water. On one of +the many ledges the cannon-ball lay unstirred. + +“Skimpy, I b’lieve I could actially climb down this hyar bluff an’ coon +it roun’ that thar ledge an’ git that ball,” said Ike, balancing himself +dangerously over the precipice. + +So far did it overhang the river at this point that he was startled by +seeing a hat and face suddenly looking up at him from the depths below, +and it was a moment before he realized that the hat and face were his +own, mirrored in a dark pool. + +“Ye couldn’t climb up ag’in with it in yer paw,” retorted Skimpy. + +“Naw,” Ike admitted. “But ennyhow I’d like ter climb down thar an’ see +what’s in them hollows. I b’lieve I could git inter one o’ ’em.” + +Skimpy had taken a handful of pebbles and was skipping them down the +river. He turned so suddenly that the one in his hand flew wide of the +mark and nearly tipped his friend’s hat off his head. + +“What air ye a-hankerin’ ter git in one o’ them holes fur?” he demanded, +surprised, “so ez ye can’t git out ag’in? ’Pears-like ter me they’d be a +mighty tight fit on sech a big corn-fed shoat ez ye air. An’ then I’d +hev ter climb down thar an’ break my neck, I reckon, ter pull ye out by +the heels.” + +“I wouldn’t git in ’thout thar ’peared ter be plenty o’ elbow room,” Ike +qualified. + +“Who’s that?” said Skimpy, suddenly. + +So absorbed had they been that until this moment they were not aware of +a slow approach along the road behind them. The sight of a stranger was +unusual, but so little curiosity do the mountaineers manifest in unknown +passers-by that if the man’s manner had had no appeal to the boys, they +would hardly have lifted their eyes; they would not even have stared +after his back was turned. + +But the stranger was about to hail them. He had already lifted his hand +with an awkward wave of salutation. Still he fixed his eyes upon them and +did not speak as he slouched toward them, and the two boys were impressed +with the conviction that he had heard every word that they had been +saying. + +He was a tall, dawdling fellow of forty, perhaps, carrying a rifle on his +shoulder, and dressed in an old brown jeans suit, ill-mended and patched +here and there, and with some rents not patched at all. His hair, long +and brown, streaked with gray, hung down to his collar beneath his old +broad-brimmed wool hat. His face was lined and cadaverous, his features +were sharp and shrewd. His eyes, bright, small, dark, and somehow not +reassuring, expressed a sort of anxiety and anger that the boys could not +comprehend. + +There came along the road after him, plainly defined on the summit of the +great bluffs, between the woods and the sunset sky, with the river in the +abyss beneath and a gleaming star in the haze above, a grotesque little +cart, the wheels creaking dismally with every revolution and filling the +air with the odor of tar and wagon grease. A lean scraggy ox was between +the shafts; a cow shambled along at the tail-board; a calf and two or +three dogs trotted further in the rear. The man was moving, evidently, +for the poverty-stricken aspect of the vehicle was accented by the meagre +show of household utensils—frying-pan, oven, skillet, spinning-wheel—and +the bedding, and two or three chairs with which it was laden. On top of +it all, sitting in a snug nest of quilts, with a wealth of long yellow +hair, tousled and curling upon her shoulders, was a little girl, four +or five years old. Her infantile beauty had naught in common with his +down-looking, doubtful, careworn face, but she fixed the two boys with a +pair of grave, urgent, warning gray eyes, which intimated that whatever +the man might do or say he had a small but earnest backer. And though the +autumn leaves were red and yellow above her head, the roses of spring +bloomed on her cheek, and its sunshine was tangled in her hair; all its +buoyant joys were in her laugh when she chose to be merry, and her smile +brightened the world for him and for her. She was at the threshold of her +life—likely to be a poor thing enough and hedged with limitations, but it +had space for all the throbs of living, for all there is of bliss and woe. + +The man glanced back at her as he spoke. + +“Jes’ set a-top thar, Rosamondy; set right still an’ stiddy, leetle +darter. I hev got a word or two ter pass with these folkses. Howdy! +Howdy! Strangers! Do you-uns know whar old man Binwell hev moved ter +hyar-abouts? I stopped at his house a piece back, an’ thar warn’t nobody +thar, ’pears like; chimbly tore down; nare door in the cabin; empty.” + +He had a strained rasping voice; his tone was not far from tears. + +The two boys looked at one another. “Old man Binwell” was Ancient History +to them—like Cæsar or Hannibal to boys of wider culture. + +“Him? he’s dead,” they said together, slowly producing the recollection. + +“I war ’feared so,” said the stranger. “An’ whar’s ’Liza Binwell, an’ +Aleck?” + +These were more modern. “Waal—her,” said Ike, “I hev hearn tell ez +how she merried a man ez kem hyar in the war-times along o’ the Texas +Rangers; an’ he seen her then, an’ kem arter her when the fightin’ war +over. I disremember his name. An’ he persuaded Aleck an’ his fambly ter +move with them ter Texas.” + +The man nodded his head in melancholy reception of the facts. + +“They be my brother an’ sister,” he said drearily. “I hain’t hearn +nothin’ ’bout’n ’em fur a long time. But when we-uns lef’ cousin Zeke +Tynes’s this mornin’—we bided thar las’ night—an’ started fur Tanglefoot +Cove, he ’lowed they war hyar yit. I counted on stayin’ with ’em this +winter. Who’s a-livin’ hyar-abouts now ez mought be minded ter let us +bide with ’em fur ter-night?” + +The boys prompting each other, mentioned the names of the few families +in the cove. The stranger’s face fell as he listened. There was no house +nearer than three or four miles, and the gaunt and forlorn old ox was not +a beast of unrivaled speed. The man looked up doubtfully at the ragged +edges of a black cloud, barely showing above the mountain summits, but +definitely in motion before a wind that was beginning to surge in the +upper regions of the air, although it hardly swayed the tops of the +trees on Keedon Bluffs. The evening had stormy premonitions, despite the +exquisite clearness of the western sky. + +“I’m ’feared I’ll hev ter feed an’ water the beastis, else he won’t hold +out so fur,” he half soliloquized, looking at the ox, drowsing between +the shafts. + +Then his attention reverted to the boys. + +“Thanky, strangers, thanky fur tellin’ me. I dunno ye, ye see, but I war +born an’ bred hyar-abouts. Thanky. If thar’s enny favior I kin do fur +you-uns lemme know. Fish-in’?” he inquired suddenly. + +Skimpy colored. To be asked if he were fishing from the great heights of +Keedon Bluffs savored of ridicule. + +“How could we fish from sech a place ez this?” he said a trifle gruffly. + +“Sure enough! Sure enough! I hed furgot how high ’twar,” and the stranger +came up and peered with them over the river. “I ain’t seen this spot +fur a good many seasons, folkses,” he said, his eyes fixed upon the +cavities of the great cliffs across the bend. The cow was munching the +half-withered grass by the roadside; the dogs laid their tired bones down +among the fallen leaves and went to sleep; Rosamond on her throne among +the household goods sat in the red after-glow of the sunset, all flushed +and gilded, and swung one plump bare foot, protruding its pink dimples +from beneath her blue checked homespun dress, and planted the other foot +recklessly upon her discarded dappled calico sunbonnet which she suffered +to lie among the quilts. + +“I tell ye what,” he added, still looking about at the darkling forests, +at the swift current below the stern grim cliffs, at the continuous +shifting shimmer reflected upon the upper arch of the hollows, “you-uns +hev got mo’ resky ’n ever I be, ter bide ’roun’ this hyar spot when it +begins ter be cleverly dark.” + +Both boys looked quickly at him. + +“Hain’t ye hearn what the old folks tells ’bout them hollows in the rock?” + +“Naw!” they exclaimed together. + +Skimpy’s eyes were distended. He felt a sudden chilly thrill. Ike, +although as superstitious as Skimpy, experienced an incredulity before he +even heard what this man had to say. + +“Waal,” resumed the stranger, and he lowered his voice, “the old folks +’low ez the witches lie thar in the daytime—ye know they never die—an’ +the yearth grants ’em no other place in the day, so they takes ter the +hollows in the rock. An’ thar they keeps comp’ny with sech harnts ez air +minded fur harm ter humans—folks ez hev been hung an’ sech. An’ then in +the evenin’-time they all swarms out tergether.” + +Skimpy glanced over his shoulder. It was doubtless his fancy, but the +foolish boy thought he saw a black head thrust suddenly out of one of the +hollows and as suddenly withdrawn. + +Now Skimpy was afraid of nothing that went about in the daytime, and +indeed of nothing human and mortal. Witches, however, were, he felt, +of doubtful destiny and origin, malevolent in character, and he had a +vaguely frightful idea concerning their physiognomy and form. He revolted +at the prospect of a closer acquaintance. + +“Kem on, Ike,” he said hastily, clutching his friend’s sleeve, “let’s go +home.” And he peered fearfully about in the closing dusk. + +But Ike was steadily studying the stranger’s face, and the man looked at +him though he addressed Skimpy. + +“Yes; it’s better ter be away from hyar betimes. They air special active +in the full o’ the moon.” + +It had risen before the sun had set, and ever and again, from fleecy +spaces amongst the ranks of the dark clouds, its yellow lustre streamed +forth in myriads of fine fibrous lines slanting upon the tumultuous +palpitating purple vapors massed about it. Sometimes a rift disclosed its +full splendor as it rode supreme in the midst of the legions of the storm. + +“But them witches an’ sech air in them holes all day an’ ef ennybody war +sech a fool ez ter go meddlin’ with ’em, ef so be they could git down +thar ennywise—_they’d ketch it_!” + +He shook his head in a way that promised horrors. + +“What would they do ter ’em?” asked the morbidly fascinated Skimpy. He +dared not look over his shoulder now. + +The narrator was forced to specify, “Strangle ’em.” + +Skimpy shuddered, but Ike was ready to laugh outright. He stared at the +speaker as if he found him far more queer than his story. + +“Ye ’member old man Hobbs?” said the stranger suddenly. + +“I hearn my dad tell ’bout’n him,” returned Ike. “Old man Hobbs said +he walked off’n the Bluffs through bein’ drunk an’ fell inter the +river—though ez he war picked up alive folks b’lieved he never fell off’n +the Bluffs, but jes’ said so, bein’ drunk an’ foolish.” + +“Naw, it’s a fac’,” said the stranger, as if he knew all about it. “The +witches got ter clawin’ an’ draggin’ of him, an’ they drug him in the +water, bein’ ez he war a-foolin’ roun’ them hollows an’ this hyar spot +ginerally.” + +“Oh, I’m goin’,” cried Skimpy; then as he started off, the idea of being +alone in the great woods, with the night settling down, came upon him +with overwhelming terror, and he renewed his pleas to Ike. “Kem on, Ike. +We-uns hev been hyar long enough.” + +“Oh, shet up,” cried Ike roughly. “The witches ain’t goin’ ter strangle +ye ez long ez ye hev got me alongside ter pertect ye.” + +He wanted to hear more of what this man had to say, for he placed a +different interpretation upon his words. But Rosamond had lifted her +voice, and seeing that her father was preparing to start anew on their +forlorn journeying was insisting on a change in the arrangement. + +“I wants ye ter let the calf ride!” she cried in her vibrating musical +treble. “I wants the calf ter ri-ride!” + +The calf added its voice to hers, and bleated as it ran along behind. It +had evidently come far and was travel-worn. + +“I wants the calf ter ride wif _me_!” she cried again, with an imperious +squeal upon the last syllable. + +“The calf can’t ride, Rosamondy,” the man said, in gentlest +expostulation. “He’s too heavy fur the steer—pore steer.” + +“Naw, pore calf!” cried Rosamondy, and burst into tearful rage. + +“Ah, Rosamondy, ain’t ye ’shamed ter be sech a bad leetle gal? Ain’t ye +’feared them boys’ll go off an’ tell ev’ybody what a bad leetle gal ye +be!” + +But Rosamond evidently did not care how far and wide they published her +“badness,” and after the boys had turned off into the woods, leaving the +wagon creaking along the road with the ox between the shafts, and the man +driving the cow in advance, they still heard the piteous bleats of the +little calf trotting behind, and Rosamondy’s insistent squeal, “I wants +the calf ter ride wif _me_!” + +In the dense woods the darkness was deeper; indeed they might only know +that as yet it was not night by seeing vaguely the burly forms of the +great boles close at hand. The shadowy interlacing boughs above their +heads merged indistinguishably into the mass of foliage. Every sound was +startlingly loud and in the nature of an interruption of some sylvan +meditation. The rustle of their feet in the crisp fallen leaves seemed +peculiarly sibilant, and more than once suggested a pursuer. Skimpy +looked hastily over his shoulder,—only the closing obscurity that baffled +his vision. A gust of wind swept through the woods rousing a thousand +weird utterances of bough, and leaf, and rock, and hollow, and died away +again into the solemn silence. + +Skimpy quickened his pace. “Kem on, Ike,” he muttered, and started at the +sound of his own voice. + +Suddenly Ike Guyther, without a word of warning, turned about and began +to retrace his way. + +“Whar ye bound fur?” cried Skimpy, laying hold on his arm and striving to +keep him back. + +“Bound fur the Bluffs,” said Ike. “’Twon’t take we-uns long. I jes’ +wanter sati’fy myself whether that thar man air too ’feard o’ witches +ter water an’ feed his steer at that thar spring ’mongst the rocks nigh +Keedon Bluffs.” + +“_We-uns!_” cried Skimpy. “I tell ye now, I’d be palsied in every toe an’ +toe-nail too ’fore I’d go a inch.” + +“Waal, I’ll ketch up with ye,” said Ike. + +Skimpy made an effort to hold him, but the stronger boy pulled easily +away from him and ran. A whirl of the dry leaves, a whisking sound, and +he was lost among the trees. + +He did not keep this speed. He had slackened his pace to a walk before he +emerged upon the road that ran between the verge of the bluffs and the +woods. It seemed much earlier now, for here was presented the definite +aspect of the evening instead of the uncertain twilight of the forest. +In the faint blue regions of the zenith still loitered gauzy roseate +reflections of the gorgeous sunset, not yet overspread by the black cloud +gradually advancing up the vast spaces of the heavens. The river, in its +cliff-bound channel, caught here and there a glittering moonbeam on its +lustrous dark current. The amber tints of the western sky shaded into a +pallid green above the duskily purple mountains. A pearl-colored mist, +most vaguely visible, lurked in the depths of the cove. + +Suddenly the rocks by the roadside stood distinct and ruddy in a broad +flickering red flare; there were moving figures, grotesque elongated +shadows, among the trees. Ike Guyther stopped short, with a sudden +dread of the witches of Keedon Bluffs trembling within him. Then, for +he was stout-hearted, he ventured to creep along a few steps further. +There under the boughs of the pines and the scarlet oaks and the yellow +hickory trees a fire of pine knots flamed, throwing hilarious sparks +and frisking smoke high into the melancholy white mists gathering in +the woods; and grouped about it—not witches nor harnts—but the humble +travelers eating their supper by the wayside. Ike recognized the clumsy +cart in the shadowy background; the ox, out of the shafts, now munching +his well-earned feed; the cow lying on the ground licking the head of +her calf. And sitting by the fire with her yellow hair glittering, her +face illumined by the blaze, her pink feet presented to the warmth, was +Rosamondy, commenting gravely as her father broiled a bit of bacon on +the coals and deftly constructed an ash-cake. The dogs too sat beside +the fire, all upright and wide awake, and with an alert interest in the +proceedings. Now and then as the man turned the meat and the savory odor +would rise, one of them would twist his head admiringly askew and lick +his chops in anticipation. + +The little girl talked continuously, her babyish voice clear on the still +air, and the man listened and affected amazement when she thought she +was astonishing him, and laughed mightily when she laughed, and agreed +punctiliously with whatever she might say. But indeed she seemed a person +who would tolerate little contradiction. + +The picture vanished suddenly as Ike Guyther turned back into the sombre +depths of the woods. + +“Waal, sir!” said the shrewd young fellow to himself, “whoever b’lieves +ez witches an’ harnts swarm out’n them hollows in the night times ter +strangle folks ez be nigh by, the man ez stops ter cook his supper a-top +o’ the Bluffs—don’t. An’ that air a true word.” + +The more he reflected upon the circumstance, as he took his way through +the woods to rejoin Skimpy, the more he felt sure that this stranger +had overheard his proposal to climb down to those hollows, and had some +purpose to serve in frightening him away from the cavities in the cliffs. + +Still pondering upon this mystery he looked back once after he and +Skimpy had reached the levels of Tanglefoot Cove. The advancing cloud +still surged over the summit of the range, throwing its darkling +shadows far down the steeps. In the mingled light of the dying day and +the fitful gleam of the moon he could yet distinguish the stern grim +crags, and below, on the slope where the grassy road wound in serpentine +convolutions, he saw the cart with the little girl once more perched +high, the ox between the shafts, the man driving the cow, the dogs and +the calf trotting in the rear—all the little procession on the way again +to seek shelter in some hospitable farmer’s cabin. And thus they fared +down the rugged mountain ways into the future of Tanglefoot Cove. + + + + +II. + + +When clouds gather over Tanglefoot Cove, and storms burst on the mountain +slopes, the sounds of the tempest are redoubled by the echoes of the +crags, trumpeting anew the challenge of the wind and reiterating the +slogan of the thunder. For begirt on every side by clifty ranges the +secluded valley lies. Ike’s mother, listening to the turmoil of the +powers of the air and the sinister response of the powers of the earth, +as the surly night closed in, waited with anxiety for the boy’s return, +and welcomed him with a brightening face as he entered. + +A great fire flared on the hearth, illumining the ill-laid puncheon +floor; the high bed with its gayly tinted quilts; the warping bars; the +spinning-wheel; the guns upon their racks of deer-antlers; the strings +of red peppers, swaying overhead; the ladder leading up to the shadowy +regions of the roof-room through a black hole in the ceiling. The +fire-light even revealed in a dusky nook a rude box on rockers—which had +cradled in turn these stalwart soldiers, and later Ike, himself—and, +under a low shelf in the corner, a tiny empty chair. + +The wind rushed down the chimney, and every cranny piped a shrill +fife-like note, and the thunder rolled. + +“I dunno when I ever hev seen sech a onexpected storm,” said Ike’s father +as he hung up the ox-yoke on the wall, having turned out the team from +his wagon. + +“T’wouldn’t s’prise me none,” said aunt Jemima, “ef ’twar jes’ a big blow +ez tore down the fodder-stack an’ rooted up yer orcherd’ an’ never gin +ye nare drop o’ rain fur the drought;” she cast an almost reprehensive +glance upon him, as if it were through his neglect that he was threatened +with these elemental disasters. + +“Waal,” he retorted, “I ain’t settin’ myself ter fault the Lord’s +weather. An’ my immortal hopes ain’t anchored in a fodder-stack, nuther +in the orcherd. An’ thar’s no dispensation ez kin happen ez I ain’t in +an’ about able ter stan’.” + +Even aunt Jemima was rather taken aback by this sturdy defiance of fate. +She had nothing to say, which was rather rare, for she had given most +of her declining years to argument, and much practice had developed her +natural resources of contradiction, which were originally great. As Ike’s +father was himself testy and dogmatic, and the blind man often proclaimed +that he took “nuthin’ off’n nobody,” the family might have been divided +by dissension were it not for the placid temperament of Ike’s mother. +She received no credit, however, for—as people often observed—she was +not born a Guyther and had “no call to be high-strung an’ sperited.” She +had been a great beauty in her girlhood and had had lovers by the score, +but care and age and poverty had bereft her of her personal charms, and +she had neither culture nor grace of manner to fill the breach. Her hard +experience of life, however, had failed to sour her temper, and her +placidity had something of the buoyancy of youth, as she often declared, +“It’ll be all the same a hundred year from now.” + +“’Pears like ter me ’twon’t blow that hard,” she remarked as she stirred +the corn-meal batter in a wooden bowl, “the wind don’t fool much with our +orcherd nohow.” + +“I’d ruther hev the wind ’n, no rain,” said aunt Jemima, plaintively. + +“I’m a-thinkin’ we’ll git rain too, jes’ ’bout enough. Yellimints don’t +neglec’ us noways ez I kin see. Seedtime an’ harvest shell never fail”— + +“Kems mighty nigh it, wunst in a while,” said aunt Jemima, shaking +her head. “Ef ye hed enny jedgment an’ forecast, M’ria, ye’d look fur +troubles ahead like them ye hev seen.” + +There was a shadow on the wasted placid face under Mrs. Guyther’s +sunbonnet as she knelt to put the potatoes with their jackets on in the +ashes to roast. + +“Waal—let troubles go down the road. I wouldn’t hev liked thar looks no +better through viewin’ ’em ’fore I got ter ’em. I ain’t a-goin’ ter turn +roun’ now ter see ag’in how awful they war whenst they war a-facin’ me. +Let troubles go down the road.” + +And so she covered the potatoes while aunt Jemima knit off another row. + +The next moment both were besprinkled with ashes; the chimney-place +seemed full of a vivid white light never kindled on a hearthstone; there +was a frightful crack of thunder, then it seemed to roll upon the roof, +and the cabin rocked with the fierce assaults of the wind. + +“That thar shot war aimed p’int blank,” said the blind artillery-man, +thrusting his hands deeper in his pockets, and stretching out his long +legs, booted to the knee. His gray hair had flakes of the white ashes +scattered upon it. + +“Suthin’ mus’ hev been struck right hyar in the door-yard,” said aunt +Jemima. She had laid down her knitting with a sort of affronted and +expostulatory air. “I’ll be bound it’s the martin-house.” + +“I’ll be bound it’s nuthin’ we want,” said Mrs. Guyther. + +There was a hesitating drop, another, upon the clap-boards that roofed +the house; then came the heavy down-pour of the rain, the renewed gusts +of the wind, and amidst it all a husky cry. + +They turned and looked at one another. Then Hiram Guyther lifted the +latch. The opening door let in the moist, melancholy air of the stormy +evening that seemed to saturate the room in pervading it. A crouching +figure, the sombre clouds, the slanting lines of rain, the tossing +dark woods, were barely visible without, until a sudden, blue forked +flash, of lightning played through this dusky landscape of grays and +browns. As it broadened into a diffusive red flare, it showed an ox with +low-hanging horns between the shafts of a queer little cart, piled high +with household goods. Among them half smothered in the quilts—wound +tightly about her shoulders—appeared the yellow head, and pink face, and +big, startled gray eyes of a little girl. It was only for a moment that +this picture was presented, then it faded away to the dark monotony of +the shapeless shadows of the woods; and as Ike went to the door he heard +the drawling voice of the man he had seen at Keedon Bluffs asking Hiram +Guyther for shelter for the night. + +“We-uns hev been travelin’ an’ hoped ter git settled fur the winter ’fore +enny sech weather ez this lit onto us.” + +“Kem in, traveler! Ye air hearty welcome ef ye kin put up with sech +ez we-uns kin gin ye,” the hospitable mountaineer drawled sonorously, +raising his voice that it might be heard above the blast. + +“We’ll all hev pleurisy, though, ef ye don’t shet that thar door, an’ +keep it shet,” muttered aunt Jemima, in her half articulate undertone. + +She was silent the next moment, for there was slowly coming into the +room—nay, into the grim heart of aunt Jemima—a new power in her life. A +yellow-topped, cylindrical bundle, much like a silking ear of corn, was +set on end in the middle of the puncheon floor, and as the strange man +unwrapped the parti-colored quilts from about it, there stepped forth, +golden-haired, ragged, smiling, with one finger between her small and +jagged teeth, with dimples that graced the poverty and atoned for the +dirt, a little girl, looking quaintly askance at the group about the +fire, and making straight for the little chair under the shelf. She +did not move it. She sat there, under the shelf, smiling and pink and +affectedly shy. + +Aunt Jemima stared over her spectacles. She too smiled as her eyes met +the child’s—a grim demonstration. Her features adapted themselves to it +reluctantly as if they were not used to it. + +“Kem up by the fire, child,” she said. + +But the little girl sat still under the shelf. + +“Warm yer feet!” aunt Jemima further sought to beguile her. + +The little guest’s pleased smile took on the proportions of an ecstatic +grin, but she only settled herself more comfortably in the small chair +under the shelf. + +Aunt Jemima, tall, bent, raw-boned, rose and approached the little girl +with a seriousness that might have seemed formidable. She looked up with +her big gray eyes all shining in the firelight, but did not offer to +retreat. She only clutched fast the arms of the little chair that had +taken her delighted fancy, and since she evidently would not leave it for +a moment, the old woman pulled the chair, child and all, in front of the +fire, into the full genial radiance of the blazing hickory logs. Ike and +his mother and the hounds looked on at this proceeding, and one of the +dogs, following close after the chair when it was dragged over the floor, +squeaked in a low-spirited key and wheezed and licked aunt Jemima’s hand, +as it grasped the knob, seeking to call attention to himself. “Now ain’t +ye a nice one, a-goin’ on four legs an’ switchin’ a tail a-hint ye, an’ +yit ondertakin’ ter be ez jealous ez folks,” she admonished him, and he +frisked a little, glad to be spoken to on any terms, and sat down between +her and the little girl, who still clutched the arms of the tiny chair. + +“Waal now, it air a plumb shame fur her ter be bar’foot this weather,” +said aunt Jemima, contemplating the little guest. + +The old woman was abashed when she glanced up and saw the child’s +companion, who, with Hiram Guyther, had just returned from the task of +stabling the ox and sheltering the wagon, for she had not intended that +the stranger should overhear this reflection. + +“I know that,” he drawled in a desolate low-spirited cadence, his +eyes blinking in the light of a tallow dip that Mrs. Guyther had set +on the mantel-piece, and seeking with covert curiosity to distinguish +the members of the group. He paused suddenly, for at the sound of his +voice the blind man abruptly rose to his feet and stretched out his +arms gropingly. “Who—who?” he stuttered, as if his speech were failing +him—“who be this ez hev kem hyar ter-night?” He passed his hands angrily +across his eyes—“Ain’t it Jerry Binwell?” + +Blind as he was, he was the first to recognize the newcomer with that +sharpening of the remaining senses which seeks to compensate for the loss +of one. But indeed Jerry Binwell had outwardly changed beyond recognition +in the twenty years since they had last seen him, when he and Abner were +mere boys in the Cove, and had run off together to join the Southern army. + +Binwell took a step toward the door as if he regretted his entrance and +wished that he still might go. + +“What hev gin ye the insurance ter kem a-nigh me!” Abner cried angrily, +still reaching out with hands that were far enough from what they sought +to clutch. The child, in her little chair at his feet, gazed up with +awe. “Arter all ye done in camp, a-lyin’ an’ a-deludin’ me; an’ then +slanderin’ an’ backbitin’ me ter the off’cers, an’ men; an’ every leetle +caper I cut, gittin’ me laid by the heels fur it; an’ ev’ry time ye got +in a scrape, puttin’ the blame on me. An’ at last—at last”—he cried, +raising his voice and smiting his hands together as if overborne anew +by the despair and scorn of it, “whenst we war flanked by the Feds ye +deserted! An’ ye gin ’em the word how ter surround our battery! An’ +cannon, an’ cannoneers, an’ horses, an’ caissons, an’ battery-wagon, all +war captured! That war yer sheer o’ the fight.” + +He paused for a moment. Then he took a step forward, his stalwart, +soldierly figure erect, his face flushed, his hand pointing toward the +door. + +“G ’long!” he said roughly. “Go out. Haffen o’ this house is mine. An’ ye +sha’n’t bide in it one minute. I hev hed enough of ye an’ yer ways. Go +out!” + +“It’s a plumb harricane out’n doors, Ab,” Mrs. Guyther pleaded timidly. +“Won’t ye—won’t ye jes’ let him bide till the storm’s over?” + + + + +III. + + +The lightning flashed; the thunder pealed. The blind man lifted his head, +listening. He hesitated between his righteous scorn, his sense of injury, +and the hospitality that was the instinct of his nature. He yielded at +last, shamefacedly, as to a weakness. + +“Waal, waal,” he said, in an off-hand cavalier fashion, “keep Jerry dry; +he’s mighty val’y’ble. Good men air sca’ce, Jerry; take keer o’ yerse’f!” + +He laughed sarcastically and resumed his chair. As he did so his booted +knee struck against the little girl, still staring at him with eyes full +of wonder. + +“What’s this?” he cried sharply, his nerves jarring yet with the +excitement. He had not before noticed her. “I can’t see!” with a shrill +rising inflection, as if the affliction were newly realized. + +A propitiatory smile broke upon her face. + +“Jes’ Rosamondy.” Her voice vibrated through the room—the high quavering +treble of childhood that might have been shrill were it not so sweet. + +“Jerry’s leetle gal,” said aunt Jemima. + +“Shucks!” he exclaimed, contemptuously, and turned aside. + +“Set down, Rosamondy,” said aunt Jemima, assuming a grandmotherly +authority. “Set down like a good leetle gal.” + +But Rosamond was not amenable to bidding and paid no heed. She had risen +from her chair and stood by the side of the blind artillery-man. + +“Set down,” aunt Jemima admonished her again. “_He_ can’t see.” + +“Kin ye feel?” she said, suddenly laying her dimpled pink hand upon his. +She gazed up at him, her eyes bright and soft, her lips parted, her cheek +flushed. “Kin ye feel my hand?” + +He looked surly, affronted for a moment. He shook the light hand from +his own. It fell upon his knee where Rosamond leaned her weight upon +it. There was a subtle change on his face. In his old debonair way +he drawled, “Yes, I kin feel. What’s this?”—he laid his hand upon her +hair—“Flax, I reckon. Hyar, Sis’ Jemimy, hyar’s that flax ye war goin’ +ter hackle. Mus’ I han’ it over ter ye?” + +He made a feint of lifting her by her hair, and she sank down beside him, +screaming with laughter till the rafters rang. + +Aunt Jemima had taken the sock from her knitting needles and was swiftly +putting on the stitches for newly projected work. + +“Lemme medjure ye fur a stockin’,” she said, reaching out for the little +girl. “Look at the stitches this child’s stockin’ will take! The fatness +of her is s’prisin’. An’ ef Ab air willin’,” she continued, “I want +Rosamondy ter bide hyar till I can knit her a couple o’ pair o’ stockin’s +an’ mend up her clothes.” + +“I dunno ’bout’n that,” said Jerry Binwell. He had seated himself in a +chair, his garments dripping with rain, and small puddles forming from +them on the floor. “I dunno ez we-uns kin bide enny arter the rain’s +over.” + +The capable aunt Jemima cast upon him a glance which seemed to contrast +his limp, forlorn, and ineffective personality with her own stalwart +moral value. + +“I ain’t talkin’ ter you-uns, Jerry, nor thinkin’ ’bout ye, nuther,” +she remarked slightingly. “I done said my say,” she continued after +the manner of a proclamation. “That thar child air goin’ ter bide hyar +till I fix her clothes comfortable—ef it takes me a year.” Then with +a recollection of her brother’s grievance she again added, “Ef Ab’s +willin’.” + +The stocking was already showing a ribbed top of an admirable +circumference. Aunt Jemima evidently felt a pride in its proportions +which was hardly decorous. + +Jerry made no reply. He looked disconsolately at the fire from under the +brim of his rain-soaked hat, that now and then contributed a drop to his +cheek, which thus bore a tearful aspect. Presently he broke the silence, +speaking in a strained rasping voice. + +“Ef I hed knowed ez Ab held sech a pack o’ old gredges ag’in me I +wouldn’t kem nigh hyar,”—he glanced at the stalwart soldierly form +bending to the little laughing maiden. “Ab dunno what I tole the en’my—he +warn’t thar. I never tole the en’my nuthin’. An’ ennybody ez be captured +kin be accused o’ desertin’—ef folks air so minded. I never deserted, +nuther. An’ sech gredges ez Ab hev got,” he continued, complainingly, +“air fur what I done, an’ what I ain’t done whenst I war nuthin’ but a +boy.” + +Ab turned his imperious youthful face toward him. “Ye hesh up!” he said. +“Thar ain’t no truce hyar fur you-uns.” + +His attention reverted instantly to the babyish sorceress at his knee, +who with an untiring repetition and an unfailing delight in the exercises +would rise from her chair and gently touch his hand or brow crying out, +with a joyous voice full of laughter, “Kin you-uns feel my hand!” Then he +would pinch her rosy cheeks and retort in a gruff undertone, “Kin you-uns +feel my hand!” + +They all behaved, Ike thought, as if they had found something choice and +of rare value. And if the truth must be known, he watched the scene +with somewhat the same sentiments which animated the old dogs. He shared +their sense of supersedure, and he noticed how they whined and could take +comfort in no spot about the hearth; how they would walk around three +times and lie down with a sigh of renunciation, to get up suddenly with +an afflicted wheeze, and hunt about for another place where the distemper +of their jealous hearts might let them find rest for their lazy bones. +They all sought to intrude themselves upon notice. One of them crept +to aunt Jemima and humbly licked her foot, only to have that stout and +decided member deal him a prompt rebuke upon the nose, eliciting a yelp +altogether out of proportion to the twinge inflicted; for the dog, since +he was not going to be petted, was glad to have some grievance to howl +about, as he might thus more potently appeal to her sympathy. The hound +that was accustomed to lead the blind man was even more insistent in +his manifestations. He went and rested his head on his master’s knee, +while the little girl sat close in her chair on the opposite side, and +he wagged his tail and looked imploringly up in the sightless face. But +Rosamondy leaned across and patted the dog on the head, and let him take +her hand between his teeth, and jovially pulled his ears, and finally +caught him by both, when they lost their balance and went over on the +hearth together in a wild scramble, about to be “scorched an’ scarified +ter death,” as aunt Jemima said snappishly when she rescued the little +girl, who was a very red rose now, and with a tender shake deposited her +once more in her chair. Then the old dog left his master, and ran and sat +by her and sought to incite more gambols. + +But Ike was not so easily reconciled. He did not appreciate the +gratulation in this acquisition that pervaded the fireside. She was +nothing but a girl, and a little one at that. Girls were not uncommon; +in fact they abounded. They were nothing to brag on—Ike was young as +yet. They couldn’t do anything that was worth while. To be sure the +miller’s daughter _was_ tolerably limber, and could walk on the timbers +of the race, which were high above the stream. But how she worked her +arms above her head to balance herself! And she pretended to shoot once +in a while; he would rather be the mark than stand forty yards from it. +That was the best he could say for her shooting. And she was the most +valuable and desirable specimen of girlhood in his acquaintance. He noted +with a sort of wonder that his mother, through sheer absorption, let the +hoe-cake burn to a cinder, and had to make up and bake one anew. And when +it was at last done, and placed on the table with the platter of venison +and corn dodgers, he did not admire particularly the simple but vivid +delight with which Rosamond greeted the prospect of supper. But even the +saturnine Hiram Guyther looked at her with a smile as she ran glibly +around the table, and with her hands on the edge stood on her tiptoes to +see what they were to have, and he turned and said to Jerry Binwell, “She +air a powerful bouncin’ leetle gal. I reckon we-uns’ll hev ter borry her, +Jerry—ef,” recollecting in his turn that this was the child of his blind +brother’s enemy, “ef Ab’s willin’.” + +The dawdling Jerry, still staring disconsolately at the fire, drawled +non-committally, “I dunno ’bout’n that.” + +Despite all her fervor of anticipation, Rosamondy was not hungry. She +knelt in her chair at the table to be tall enough to participate in the +exercises, and her beaming pink face, and her tossing yellow hair, and +her glittering rows of squirrel teeth—she showed a great many of them +when she laughed—irradiated the space between aunt Jemima and Ab. Her +conduct was what Ike mentally designated as “robustious.” She bounced +up and down; she fed her supper to the dogs; she let the cat climb up +the back of her chair and put two paws on her shoulder among her tangled +yellow curls and lap milk out of her saucer. She shrieked and bobbed +about till Ike did not know whether he was eating hoe-cake or sawdust. +She looked as if she were out in a high wind. Aunt Jemima vainly sought +to make her eat her supper, but the displeasure on her face was a feigned +rebuke for which Rosamond cared as little as might be. When she concluded +her defiance of all those observances, which Ike had been taught to +respect, by taking her empty saucer, inverting it and perching it on her +tousled yellow pate after the manner of a cap, Hiram Guyther, the meal +being ended, caught her up delightedly and rode her to the fireplace on +his shoulder. + +“I declar’, Jerry,” he exclaimed cordially, his big bass voice booming +amidst the trilling treble laughter, “we-uns’ll hev ter steal this hyar +leetle gal from ye.” + +And Jerry, demurely disconsolate, replied, “I reckon I couldn’t spare +her, right handy.” + +Presently Ike began to notice that it was very difficult for Rosamondy +to get enough of a joke. She refused to descend from the gigantic +mountaineer’s shoulder, and when he tried to put her down clung to his +collar, around his neck, indeed she did not scruple to clutch his hair. +Hiram Guyther had not for a long time taken such active exercise—for in +this region men of his age assume all the privileges and ailments of +advanced years—as during the time that he trotted up and down the floor +with the little girl on his shoulder, playing he was a horse. A hard +driver he had, to be sure, and he was obliged to stamp, and shy, and +jump, and spurt, smartly. He did not look quite sensible Ike thought in +unfilial surprise. + +The whole domestic routine was upset. His mother and aunt Jemima had left +the clearing away of the dishes and applied themselves to pulling out +the old trundle-bed—long ago too short for any of the family—and they +arranged it with loving care and much precaution against the cold and +draughts. + +“I’m fairly feared she mought roll out, an’ git her spine bruk, or her +neck,” said aunt Jemima, knitting her wrinkled brows in affectionate +alarm as she looked at the trundle-bed that was about two feet from the +floor. + +“I reckon not,” said Jerry meekly as he inoffensively watched the +arrangement of the cosy nest. “She never fell off ’n the top o’ the +kyart—an’ sometimes she napped ef the sun war hot.” + +“An’ ye air the only man in Tennessee ez would hev sot the leetle critter +up thar—an’ her tender bones so easy ter break,” said aunt Jemima, tartly. + +“Waal, I done the bes’ I could fur her,” drawled Jerry in his tearful +voice, looking harried and woeful. + +And remembering how kind and gentle he had seemed to his little +daughter, Ike wondered that he did not feel sorry for Jerry when aunt +Jemima intimated that he was heedless of her safety and neglected her. +But watching the man Ike was even more disapproving of the wholesale +adoration which the family seemed disposed to lay at the feet of the +little girl and of her adoption into a solicitude and love that was +almost parental. He believed that Jerry had an inimical appreciation of +all the slighting consideration of him, but offered no objection to the +authority they had assumed over Rosamondy, thinking it well that she +should get all she could out of them. + +Her hilarity seemed to increase as the hour waxed later, and when +aunt Jemima finally took her, squirming and wriggling and shouting +with laughter, from Hiram Guyther’s shoulder and tucked her into the +trundle-bed with a red quilt drawn up close under her dimpled white +chin and her long yellow hair, Ike expected to see the whole bed +paraphernalia rise up while she resurrected herself. + +“Ye lie still, now,” said aunt Jemima sternly, laying a hand upon each +shoulder. + +A vague squirm, a sleepy chuckle, and Rosamond was eclipsed for the night. + +“Waal, that beats my time,” said the grim aunt Jemima softly. “Asleep +a’ready!” + +She sat down and resumed her knitting. Hiram Guyther was mopping his brow +with his handkerchief. + +“I feel like ez ef I’d los’ ten pound o’ flesh,” he said. And Ike thought +it not unlikely. His mother was washing the dishes; the blind man was +reflectively smoking his pipe; the dogs came and disposed themselves with +reproachful sighs prominently about the hearth. Jerry Binwell did not +share their relief. He stirred uneasily in his chair, the legs grating on +the puncheon floor, as if he feared that with this distraction removed +the more unfriendly attention of the family might be directed to him. No +one spoke for a moment, all listening to the tumult of the rain on the +roof; they had not before noticed that the violence of the storm had +subsided into a steady downpour. Then, after a glance at the sleeping +face, pensive now and ethereal and sensitive, framed in the yellow hair +that streamed over the red quilt, aunt Jemima turned a long calculating +gaze on Jerry Binwell. + +As its result she observed bluntly, “Her mother mus’ hev been a mighty +pritty woman.” + +If the inference that Rosamond inherited none of her beauty from her +father was apprehended by Jerry, he did not resent it. His eyes filled +with tears. + +“Yes, she war,” he said, dropping his voice to a husky undertone. “She +war a plumb beauty whenst she war young, afore she tuk ter ailin’.” + +Another pause ensued. The rain beat monotonously; the eaves dripped +and dripped; the trees on the mountain slopes swayed, and creaked, and +crashed together. + +“It hev been mighty hard on me,” Jerry again lifted up his dreary voice, +“ter know how bes’ ter keer fur Rosamondy—not bein’ a ’oman myself an’ +sech. I know she’s ragged, but I can’t mend her clothes so they’ll +stay; she jumps so onexpected. I can’t sew fitten fur much, though I hev +tried ter l’arn. I ’pear ter be slow an’ don’t get much purchase on it. +I can’t keep no stiddy aim with a needle, nuther. An’ all the wimmen +ez ever hed a chance at Rosamondy tuk ter quar’lin over her, like them +done ez Sol’mon hed ter jedge a-twixt, till I war actially afeared she +be tore in two. Ever since the war I hev been livin’ down in Persimmon +Cove an’ thar it war I merried. ’Bout a year ago Em’line she died o’ +the lung complaint. An’ then the ’tother wimmen, her sister an’ mother, +they quar’led so over Rosamondy, an’ set tharse’fs so ter spite me every +which-a-way, ez I jes’ ’lowed I’d fetch her up hyar fur this winter ter +bide with my folks awhile. An’ I fund ’em all dead or moved away—jes’ +my luck! Rosamondy an’ me hev hed a mighty hard time. I hev been mighty +poor, never could git no good holt on nuthin’. I ain’t felt much like +tryin’ noways sence Em’line lef’; ’pears mighty hard she couldn’t hev +been let ter bide awhile longer.” And once more his eyes filled with +tears. + +“Waal, mournin’ the dead is grudgin’ ’em the glory,” said Mrs. Guyther in +her comforting tones. + +“I know that,” said Jerry, “I hev tried ter bow my mind;” his eyes were +still full of tears. And Ike, looking at them, was disposed to wonder +where he got them, so little did they seem genuine. + +The tallow dip on the mantel-piece went out in a splutter and left them +all sitting in the red glow of the fire, which was a mass of coals where +the white flames had been. It was far later than the usual bed-time of +the family, and thus they were reminded of it. Mrs. Guyther, kneeling on +the hearth, began to cover the coals with the plentiful ashes that lay +in great heaps on either side. The dogs, summoned by Hiram Guyther to +leave the house, pulled themselves into various efforts at an upright +posture, and sat gazing blinkingly at the fire with a determination to +misunderstand the tenor of his discourse. One of them glanced over his +shoulder at the door and shivered at the thought of the bleak dampness +outside. Another yawned shrilly and was adjured by aunt Jemima to +hesh his mouth—didn’t he know he’d wake the baby up if he kep’ yappin’ +that-a-way. + +“Let the dogs alone, Hiram,” said Mrs. Guyther, “they count on bein’ +allowed ter stay till the las’ minit. Ye show Jerry whar he hev ter sleep +whilst I fix the fire.” + +After the host had shown Jerry up the ladder to the shadowy roof-room, +Abner, who had not again spoken to the visitor, and seeming as if he were +gazing ponderingly into the fire, said suddenly to the two women:— + +“What do that leetle gal look like?” + +Mrs. Guyther paused with the shovel in her hand, as she still knelt on +the hearth. + +Aunt Jemima dropped her knitting in her lap. + +They replied in a breath:— + +“The pritties’ yearthly human ever you see!” + +“Bigges’ gray eyes!” cried Mrs. Guyther, “an’ black lashes!” + +“An’ yaller hair—yaller ez gold an’ haffen a yard long,” exclaimed aunt +Jemima. + +“Fine bleached skin, white ez milk,” said Mrs. Guyther. + +“An’ yit she’s all pink—special when she laughs,” cried aunt Jemima, +“jes’ like these hyar wild roses—ye ’member ’em, don’t ye, Ab, growin’ in +the fence corner in the June weather”— + +—“Sech a many of ’em over yander by Keedon Bluffs,” put in Mrs. Guyther. + +“I ’member ’em,” said Ab. + +“Jes’ the color of ’em when she laughs—jes’ like they be, a-blowin’ about +in the wind,” declared aunt Jemima. + +“She’s named right—Rosy; she’s like ’em,” said Mrs. Guyther. + +The red glow of the embers was full on the blind man’s face, encircled by +shadows. It seemed half smiling, or perhaps that was some illusion of the +fire-light, for it was pensive too, and wistful. He pondered for a while; +then—“I’d like ter see her,” he said, simply. “I would.” + +Every word was distinctly audible in the roof-room. Jerry Binwell sat +in a rickety chair amongst the shadows, his head attentively bent down, +his hands on his knees, his hat drooping half over his face. The rifts +between the puncheons of the flooring admitted a red glow from the +fire-lit room below, and illumined the dusky loft with longitudinal +shafts of light. A triumphant smile played over his face as the women +talked of the beauty of the little Rosamond—a smile that might have +expressed only paternal pride and satisfaction in the comfortable results +of the evening. But when the blind man’s rich low voice sounded, “I’d +like ter see her—I would,” the listener’s face changed. The narrow +gleam of light from the cracks in the floor played upon the mocking +animosity in his eyes, the sneer on his lips as they parted. He stood +suddenly erect, in a tense soldierly position—among the shadows, and the +bags of “yerbs,” and the old clothes, and the peltry hanging from the +ridge-pole—brought his heels together with a swift precision, and then +the deserter mockingly carried his hand to his hat in a military salute. + +“I would,” dreamily reiterated the blind soldier in the room below. + +The deserter, relaxing his martial attitude to his normal slouch, +noiselessly smote his thigh with his right hand, and burst into silent +laughter. + + + + +IV. + + +The next morning Ike woke with an odd, heavy sense of having sustained +some serious misfortune, and it was several moments before he +could identify it; when he did, he was amazed to find it only his +intuitive distrust of the stranger’s presence here, and an aversion +to its continuance. He upbraided himself in the same instant for the +inhospitable thought. “Hyar I be, actially a-grudgin’ the houseless ones +a shelter from the yellimints,” he said in shame. + +He was disappointed, however, to observe that after breakfast there was +no sign of an impending departure; Jerry Binwell easily adapted himself +to the domestic routine and smoked and lounged before the fire, or +strolled lazily about the yard. Ike thought, for all he so readily made +himself at home, that his sordid, weak, sly face looked strangely alien +and out of place among the sterling, honest, candid countenances of the +family circle. So ill at ease did Ike feel with this vague anxiety that +he was glad enough when his mother bethought herself that she needed +logwood from the store. Mounted on the old gray mare he set out on this +errand, feeling liberated in a measure, riding against the fresh wind +that seemed to blow away the vexing distemper of his thoughts. + +The rain had revivified the world; everything seemed made anew. The +colors were so luminously clear; how splendidly the maples deployed down +the mountain side, with red and amber and purple gleams; every needle of +the pines was tipped with a rain-drop, prismatically glittering. Mists +rose from the intermediate valleys between the ranges, and folded their +wings for a space, dallying on the summit, and then, drawn sunwards, +lifted with silent ethereal grace into the soft blue sky. How lofty the +mountains seemed to-day—how purple! Even the red mud beneath his mare’s +hoofs had depths of rich ocherous tints, restful to the eye. It splashed +monotonously under the steady jogging tread, so muffled that a squirrel, +nimbly speeding along the topmost rail of the wayside fence, had no +thought of an approach, and seemed a fellow-traveler; a swift one!—the +old mare is soon far behind. And now the river is crossed, swollen by +the rain and of a clay-color, instead of its wonted limpid silvery tint, +and deep enough in the middle to make the old mare flounder to the girth +and then unwillingly swim, while Ike gathers himself on his knees on +the saddle to keep out of the cold water. And now up the rocky bank in +the deep shadowy woods,—where there is no fence on either side of the +road, which seems merely a vagrant wheel-track here and there in the +mud, covered with the yellow and red and brown fallen leaves—and all the +bosky vistas are full of richest color. Everywhere the giant trees close +thickly in—no sign of mountains now, save the tonic balsamic air in proof +of the altitudes. Only the pines and cedars and the jungles of the laurel +are green, and green they will be all winter. Hear that! a fox barks in +that dense tangle—are the frost grapes ripe, old Crafty? And suddenly +between a scarlet oak and a yellow hickory a section of purple mountain +shows, a floating capricious sprite-like mist slips in and out of sight, +and there at the base of the range is the little store—a low white-washed +shanty of one room; further up the slope in the clearing a gray log-cabin +stands where Skimpy Sawyer lives. + +Skimpy’s father kept the store, in a leisurely and unexcited +fashion—indeed many people might have considered that the store kept +itself. As Ike dismounted and hitched the mare to the fence, he gave a +peculiar whistle, a preconcerted signal, loud and shrill enough to summon +his friend if he had been anywhere in the vicinity. No one responded, and +Ike took his way to the open door of the store. + +He had a certain pleasant anticipation; here congregated the mountain +cronies, and he loved to listen to their talk enriched with warlike +reminiscences, through which vibrated, as it were, some faint and far-off +echo of the strain of the bugle and the roll of the drum. + +His hopes were suddenly destroyed. As he ascended the three or four +unhewn rocks that formed the steps to the door, he heard the long, +expressionless drawl of the storekeeper within, and then a fat man’s +husky laugh. Ike started guiltily at the sound. But the broad sunshine +had thrown a squatty shadow of him upon the floor within, and he +knew that this caricature was recognized, for the voice sang out +suddenly—“Ai—yi Ike; I see ye! Needn’t be hidin’! I’ll kem arter ye!” + +Then as the boy, shamefaced and a little lowering, appeared in the +doorway, he continued, “Whar’s that buckeye tree ye war a-goin’ ter cut +down fur me so brash?” + +“I plumb furgot it,” mumbled Ike, as if his contrition were more +acceptable when half articulate. “I furgot it, Mr. Corbin.” + +“I’ll be bound ye did!” said the fat man vivaciously. + +He was seated in one of the rickety chairs which hardly seemed adequate +to his weight. He wore an unbleached cotton shirt, a suit of blue jeans +much creased and crumpled, and a broad-brimmed hat, beneath which was +a face also creased and crumpled. He was slow and inactive rather than +old, and a man of his age who had lived a different life would hardly +have such gray hair as his, or so many wrinkles. Nevertheless he had +not entirely subsided into the chimney corner as is the habit of the +elderly mountaineer. He still plied his trade which was that of making +spinning-wheels and chairs, bread troughs and bowls, which require +mechanical dexterity rather than agility; thus it was that he had hired +Ike to find and cut down a sound and stalwart buckeye suitable for his +purposes, his own unwieldy bulk and sedentary habits making him averse to +undertaking the job himself. + +Peter Sawyer, the storekeeper, was tall and lank. He had a long head, +an attenuated face, and a habit of basking in the sun, which was not +incongruous with a certain lizard-like aspect. He sat now with his +chair tilted against the frame of the doorway, and the sunshine poured +through upon him. He too wore his hat, and did not move while one of +his customers counted some pelts that he had brought to exchange and +announced the result. “Want some sugar an’ salt fur ’em?” demanded the +merchant lazily. “He’p yerse’f, neighbor; he’p yerse’f.” + +The neighbor, who lived on the other side of the mountain, pottered +around among the merchandise in search of the sugar and salt, attended +only by the storekeeper’s dog, an earnest-minded and grave-mannered +brute, that guarded the store by night and seemed to clerk there by day, +following the customers about with sedulous politeness, and apparently +only hindered from waiting upon them by the lack of adaptability in +his paws. His urbanity did not extend to their followers. He measured +strength with all the dogs that came to the store. It was useless for any +pacifically disposed hound to sit under the wagon bed at a safe distance. +The clerk would rush out with a celerity that implied a hundred feet, +and the fracas under the wagon would be long and loud and bloody. But +he had not all the canine pluck in the Big Smoky, and thus it was that +one of his ears was slit, and he preferred to shut one eye, and his tail +was but a stump. He turned wagging it vivaciously as Ike came in, and +the storekeeper, regardless of old Corbin’s reproofs, said benignantly, +“Howdy, Ike, howdy? Make yerse’f at home. How’s the fambly, Ike, how’s +the fambly?” + +“Jes’ toler’ble,” said Ike, taking a rickety chair near the door. + +“Uncle Ab ez well ez common?” demanded the customer, still hunting about +for the salt. He was a tall, straight, soldierly fellow, and though he +had fought on the opposite side he felt a comrade-like sympathy for the +blinded artillery-man. + +“He be jes’ ez peart ez ever—jes’ a-settin’-back,” said Ike, with +responsive interest. He had great love for his uncle and a special +veneration for a man so learned as he fancied Abner Guyther to be in the +science of gunnery. “He air jes’ ez lively ez a three-year-old colt.” + +“Ain’t he a heap o’ trouble ter lead about an’ sech?” demanded old +Corbin, turning his crow’s-feet—one could hardly have said his glance, +for it was so deeply enveloped among the folds of wrinkles—upon Ike. + +“Naw sir!” the boy repudiated the idea with a glowing cheek and a +flashing eye. “Uncle Ab air sech good comp’ny everybody in the fambly +jes’ hankers ter bide nigh him; the identical dogs fight one another fur +which one air ter be ’lowed ter lead him—sometimes ef we-uns air busy +he walks with a string ter the dog’s neck. Shucks! the main thing air +to _git_ ter lead him—jes’ ez apt ez not uncle Ab will set out by his +lone self. An’ he don’t often run over ennything—he ’pears ter hev a +heap o’ sense in his hands, an’ he knows whenst he air a-comin’ towards +ennything like a door or post, though he’ll walk ag’in cheers or tubs or +sech. ’Tother day—ye mought hev knocked me down I war so surprised—I kem +along the road ’bout a quarter o’ a mile from home, an’ thar sot uncle +Ab a-top o’ the rail fence—jes’ a-settin’ thar in the sun all alone an’ +a-whistlin’ the bugle calls.” + +“Ho! ho!” exclaimed the customer, “he always hed spunk,—Abner hed; an’ he +air a-showin’ it now, jes’ ez true ez when he sarved in his battery.” + +“Yes, sir!” exclaimed Ike, gratified by this sign of appreciation. +Then warming to the subject he continued, “Uncle Ab ain’t ’feared o’ +nuthin’—not even now, in the everlastin’ dark ez he be. Why, ’tother +day I see a old cannon-ball a-layin’ on a ledge over yander at Keedon +Bluffs, an’ when he learn ’bout’n it he war plumb trembly, he war so +excited, an’ he ’lowed he’d go ef I’d holp him a leetle, an’ climb down +them tremenjious cluffs, jes’ ter lay his hand on that cannon-ball, +ter remind hisself o’ that thar old gun o’ his’n, what he doted on so. +It fairly bruk his heart ter spike it. I hev heard him tell ’bout’n it +a-many-a-time.” + +“Hey!” exclaimed Peter Sawyer, turning about in amaze, “a blind man climb +down Keedon Bluffs! ’Twould take a mighty spry feller with all his senses +fur that. I misdoubts ef ennybody hev ever done sech ez that—thout ’twar +Ab whenst he war young an’ limber, an’ wild ez a buck.” + +Ike had become suddenly conscious that old Corbin was watching him +curiously. + +“He don’t ’pear ter know he air blind, do he?” demanded the fat man, +slowly. + +Ike detected some covert meaning in the tones. “Waal,” he said, vaguely +embarrassed and swinging his foot against the rung of the chair, “Uncle +Ab—he jes’ sets an’ laffs, an’ talks ’bout whar he hev been an’ what him +an’ his comrades done, an’ he don’t notice much what’s goin’ on now, nor +look out fur nuthin’ ez is ter kem.” + +“He ain’t soured noways,” put in the customer, still intent on his +purchase. + +There was a momentary silence. The flies buzzed about the sorghum barrel. +You might have heard the cat purring on the shelf. + +“This hyar ’bout fair medjure, Pete?” the customer demanded lifting his +grave eyes as he helped himself to salt. + +“I reckon so; I reckon so,” said the storekeeper casually. + +Ike rose abruptly in awkward and eager haste; in a constrained and +nervous way he asked for the logwood he wanted. His quick instincts had +detected fault in something that he had said or the meaning that he had +conveyed. But his penetration was not so subtle as to descry wherein the +fault consisted. He was eager to get away. “’Fore I let my jaw git ter +wabblin’ ag’in. An’ then I hed better cut off the e-end o’ my tongue with +a hatchet an’ mebbe it wouldn’t be so powerful nimble.” + +He expected old Corbin to say more, but the fat man sat solemnly puffing +his pipe, his face more than usually wrinkled, as he watched Ike with his +small twinkling eyes while Peter Sawyer procured the logwood and gave it +to the boy. + +With some indefinite intention of propitiation Ike turned toward him at +the door. “I hev been toler’ble busy lately, but I’m a-goin’ ter cut down +that thar tree this evening, sure.” + +“So do! So do!” assented old Corbin unreservedly. “Then I’ll gin ye that +thar rooster I war a-tellin’ ye ’bout. Powerful spry Dominicky.” + +Ike looked back over his shoulder once as he trotted off on the old white +mare. The storekeeper and his clerk were standing in the doorway; the +ex-soldier had completed his purchases, and was riding off toward the +mountain; old Corbin was visible sitting within the door, a hand on +either knee, his eyes meditatively downcast. He solemnly shook his head +as he cogitated, and Ike was moved to wonder what he meant by it. “I +wisht I hedn’t tole what uncle Ab say ’bout climbin’ down them bluffs. +They ’pear ter think it be so cur’ous.” + +And it was of Abner Guyther that the two gossips were talking as Ike rode +away out of sight. + +“That be a powerful strange thing fur Abner ter be a-sayin’,” remarked +the storekeeper presently. + +Old Corbin shook his head with a wise look; a wise smile wrinkled about +the corners of his mouth. + +“In my opinion _he_ ain’t no blind man. He kin see _some_, mebbe more, +mebbe less. He air jes’ purtendin’. Set up thar an’ laff an’ joke ez spry +ez a boy o’ twenty, an’ talk ’bout climbin’ down the bluffs—an’ tell me +he ain’t hed his vision for all these years! I know Abner!” + +“What makes ye ’low sech ez that, Jake?” demanded his crony, fairly +startled out of his composure by this proposition. + +“Kase Abner always war a ’sateful an’ a plottin’ boy—look at the way he +fooled his folks when he run off ter jine the Secesh! I ain’t furgittin’ +that. An sure’s ye air born thar’s suthin’ behind all them thar shet +eyeballs. Abner, he hain’t quit his plannin’ an’ sech. He hev got his +reason fur it. It’s slow a-showin’. But it’ll be made plain.” + +The storekeeper puffed his cob-pipe, and silently watched the blue +wreaths curl from it. He did not enter readily into this opinion, for +he was a man of the practical views natural to those who associate much +with their fellows. Despite the sparse population of the district he had +a pivotal participation in such life as there was on the slopes and in +the cove, for it revolved about the store. But Corbin spent his days in +mere mechanical labor that left his mind free to wander. Thus speculation +and vague fancies were his companions, and there was scant wonder that he +should presently treat them as conclusions and facts. + +In silent anticipation of the elucidation of the singular theory +advanced, Peter Sawyer drew from his pocket a strong clasp knife and +began to whittle a bit of wood which he picked up from the doorstep. But +old Corbin’s next remark seemed to have no relation to the subject. + +“Who d’ye reckon I seen yestiddy up yander by that thar big vine-grown +spot what they calls Old Scratch’s vineyard?” + +Pete Sawyer looked inquiringly doubtful, but silently puffed his pipe. + +“_Jerry Binwell!_” + +Old Corbin paused after he said this, smiling broadly and fixedly—all the +wrinkles about his mouth and eyes seemed to come out as if to enjoy the +sensation that this announcement occasioned. + +The storekeeper stared blankly for a moment, then dropped his pipe upon +the ground. The fire rolled out. + +“Laws-a-massy!” he exclaimed, unheeding. + +“Yes, sir! same old Jerry; the wuss fur wear; some _de_-lapidated; +but—same old Jerry!” + +“I ’lowed he war in Texas; folks said he went thar arter the war.” + +“I hailed him; he purtended not ter know me a-fust, an’ he stopped, an’ +we talked awhile. He ’lowed he had never been ter Texas. Jes’ down the +kentry a piece in Persimmon Cove. I dunno whether he war tellin’ the +truth.” + +“I reckon he war,” said the storekeeper. “It air a mighty out-o’-the-way +place—Persimmon Cove; Satan hisself mought hid out in Persimmon an’ folks +in gineral never be the wiser ez the Enemy war enny nigher.” + +“He ’lowed he married thar,” continued Corbin. “An’ what d’ye reckon he +hed along o’ him?” + +He looked at his crony with a broad grin. + +“A—leetle gal! Thar they war a-travelin’ along the slope. Hed a leetle +ox-cart an’ a steer geared up in it; he hed a cow critter too; calf +followed; an’ sech cheers an’ house-stuff ez he owned piled in the cart, +an’ settin’ a-top o’ it all this hyar leetle gal—’bout ez big ez a +shingle. She rid, bein’ ez she hain’t got no weight sca’cely.” + +“An’ whar’s the ’oman?” asked the storekeeper, missing an important +factor in the family circle. + +Corbin lowered his voice and his humorous wrinkles strove to retire +themselves. + +“Dead,” he said gravely. + +Peter Sawyer, bethinking himself of his pipe, filled it anew with a +crumpled leaf of tobacco, relighted it, and with the pipe-stem between +his teeth resumed the conversation. + +“An’ what sorter welcome do he reckon he air goin’ ter find ’mongst the +mountings hyar. Do he ’low we hev furgot his sheer in the war, kase it +hev been right smart time since? Naw sir. I ’members like yestiddy whenst +old Jeemes Guyther—Abner’s dad, ye know—kem ter my store, lookin’ ez ef +he hed buried all his kin on yearth, an’ tole ez Abner hed run off ter +jine the Secesh along o’ Jerry Binwell. An’ the old man said he hoped Ab +mought die afore he reached the Rebel lines, kase he’d ruther mourn him +dead ’n know he hed raised his hand ag’in the Nunion.” + +“But he wouldn’t, though,” said Corbin prosaically. “Them war days when +men talked mighty big.” + +“An’ they acted mighty big too, sometimes,” retorted Sawyer. + +“Waal, Abner war the apple o’ the old man’s eye,” said Corbin; “I b’lieve +he’d turn in his grave ef he could know how Ab war hurt. The whole fambly +jes’ the same, too. Look how Ab air pompered now. Ef Abner war blind sure +enough he couldn’t be better treated. His dad always put the blame o’ +Ab’s goin’ on Jerry. An’ Jerry war a wuthless chance! He kem back inside +o’ a year—deserted! But Ab never kem back till arter the s’render.” + +“What makes ye ’low ez Abner hev got his vision same ez common?” Sawyer +demanded again. “That notion ’pears powerful cur’ous ter me—seein’ him +led about hyar fur nigh on ter twenty year, now by Ike, an’ now by his +brother, an’ then ag’in by a dog an’ sech.” + +Old Corbin looked cautiously over his shoulder through the open door +as if he feared some lurking eaves-dropper. The cabin on the slope +stood silent and motionless in the motionless yellow radiance of the +autumnal sun. But the winds were astir, and as they swayed the woods +they revealed bizarre sunbeams rioting hither and thither in glittering +fantasies among the leaves. No one sauntered down the curves of the +winding road nor along the banks of the shining river. The only creature +visible was the old dog asleep, but sitting upright, in a dislocated +posture, his head nodding spasmodically, and his lower jaw dropped. + +“Ye hearn,” said Corbin softly, “that thar nevy o’ his, Ike Guyther, ’low +Ab want ter climb down Keedon Bluffs ter whar that old ball’s a-lyin’. +Now do ye reckon a _blind_ man ez hev got good sense air goin’ ter trest +his bones a-gittin’ down that jagged bluff ez sheer ez a wall with sech +holp ez that thar skitter-brained Ike kin gin?” + +Sawyer, holding his pipe in one hand and his grizzled chin in the other, +meditatively shook his head. + +“Naw sir,” said Corbin, putting the gesture into the more stalwart +negation of words. “A man, though, ez hed his vision, though his j’ints +be stiff some with age and laziness, mought do it, special ef he hed the +holp o’ some strong spry boy like Ike, ez be astonishin’ grown fur his +age, but ain’t got no mo’ sense an’ scrimination than a boy naterally +hev.” + +Once more Peter Sawyer nodded his head—this time the action was vertical, +for the gesture intimated affirmation. + +“What in the name o’ reason do Abner want ter go down whar the old ball +be lodged?” he asked in a speculative voice, as if he hardly expected an +answer. + +But the ready Corbin, primed with surmises, first looked cautiously up +and down the road and then ventured a suggestion. + +“Waal, sir; seein’ Jerry Binwell minded me o’ Abner Guyther, an’ how they +used ter consort together, an’ thinkin’ o’ Ab ’minded me o’ the store +old Squair Torbett used ter set on him. Ab war mighty nigh always at the +Squair’s house a-doin’ some leetle job or other, special arter the Squair +tuk ter agein’ so through worryin’ ’bout the war an’ his sons ez war in +the army. An’ Jerry Binwell war at the Squair’s too, bein’ Ab’s shadder. +Waal, ye know the Squair hed a power o’ money, an’ he hed drawed it +out’n the banks in the valley towns, ’count o’ the raidin’ soldiers an’ +sech. An’ he hid it somehows. Some ’lowed he buried it, but most folks +said he let these hyar two boys inter the secret, an’ Ab clomb down +an’ hid the money in a strong box in a hole in Keedon Bluffs, whilst +Jerry watched. Ye hev hearn that word? Waal, sir, the Bluffs air like a +honeycomb; so full o’ holes ef a body didn’t know which one they hid it +in they couldn’t find it.” + +“I hev hearn folks a-talkin’ ’bout it myself,” put in Pete Sawyer, +“though o’ late years they hev gin that up, mos’ly.” + +“Yessir,” assented Corbin. “An’ the g’rillas they s’arched the Squair’s +house ag’in an’ ag’in, an’ couldn’t find nuthin’. These two boys hed run +off ter the Secesh army, by that time, else they’d hev been made ter tell +whar the plunder war hid. An’ though Jerry deserted an’ kem back, the +Southern sympathizers wouldn’t let him bide one single night in the cove, +but druv him off, an’ he ain’t dared ter show his face hyar sence, else I +reckon he’d hev stole the money, ef he hed knowed whar it war—the Squair +being dead mighty onexpected.” + +The storekeeper’s eyes widened. “Ye—’low—the—money’s—thar—yit—hid in +Keedon Bluffs?” he panted. + +“I know this,” said old Corbin. “’Twar hid thar, an’ I hearn with my +own ears the heirs say they never got no money out’n Keedon Bluffs—they +fairly scouted the idee. An’ now,” he pursued, “one of the heirs is dead; +an’ the t’ other’s moved ter Arkansas. An’ hyar kems one o’ the men ez +watched whilst the money war hid; an’ the t’ other ez hid it—a _blind_ +man—be in a mighty hurry an’ disturbament ter climb down Keedon Bluffs. I +dunno why they hain’t got it afore. I can’t foller percisely the serpient +trail of the evil men. But ye mark my words—them two fellers will hev a +powerful big row—or”—his eyes twinkled—“they’ll divide the plunder an’ +ye’ll hear o’ them consortin’ tergether like frien’s.” + +He met with a triumphant leer the distended astonished gaze of the +storekeeper. + +“Ho! ho! Keedon Bluffs don’t speak ’less they be spoke to fust,” he +continued, “but thar secrets git noised abroad. Thar’s suthin’ thar wuth +layin’ hands on ’thout foolin’ along of a old spent cannon-ball.” + + + + +V. + + +The arrival of Jerry Binwell and his little girl at Hiram Guyther’s cabin +soon became known throughout the Cove, and the fact, which Ike shortly +discovered, that the newcomers were regarded with disfavor by others +did not tend to further commend them to him. He felt an odd sinking of +the heart and a grotesque sort of mortification whenever he went to the +mill or the store and encountered questions and comments concerning his +father’s guests. Sometimes he was taken aside by a conservative old +codger, and the queries were propounded in a mysterious and husky whisper +which imparted additional urgency. + +“They tell me ez _Jerry Binwell_ air a-visitin’ yer dad—air that a true +word?” + +And Ike would sulkily nod. + +“What did he kem fur?” + +“Ter get out’n the storm.” + +“Storm’s been over a week an’ better”—with an implacable logic. Then, +dredging with new energy for information—“When’s he goin’ away?” + +“Dunno.” + +“Whar’s he goin’ ter?” persistently. + +“Dunno.” + +“What’s he doin’ of?” changing the base of attack. + +“Nuthin’.” + +“What’s he say?” + +“Ennything.” + +“Waal sir!” in a tone of disappointment, the whole examination resulting +in the total amount of nothing. + +Out of Ike’s presence public opinion expressed itself more freely and +it was unanimous. No one denied that it was a strange thing that Hiram +Guyther, one of the most solid, respectable, and reliable men of the +whole country-side, whose very name was a guarantee of good faith, +should be harboring a graceless, worthless, neer-do-weel like Jerry +Binwell, who was, moreover, suspected of treachery which had resulted +in Abner’s blindness. The lines of demarkation between those of high +character and those who lack the sterling virtues are strongly drawn +and rigorously observed in the mountains. The stern and grim old Hiram +himself was forced to recognize the incongruity of the situation and its +utter irreconcilability with the popular estimation of himself and his +household. But he maintained his ground as well as he might. + +“Yaas,” he would drawl, “Jerry’s a-puttin’ up with we-uns now. Dunno how +long he’ll stay. Till the spring o’ the year, mebbe. Naw, him an’ Abner +don’t clash none. Naw, he don’t pester me, nuther.” + +And with these baffling evasions he would ride away, leaving the gossips +at the store or the mill drawing their chairs closer together, and +knitting their brows, and shaking their heads. + +It was all most ominous and depressing to Ike, for he was proud and +keenly sensitive to any decline in public esteem; sometimes he was fairly +tempted to tell that the old folks at his house had fallen victims to the +witching charms of a noisy little body three feet high, who made them +like everything she did, and do things of which they would never have +believed themselves capable. Thus they tolerated Jerry for her sake. +And then he held his peace for fear the gossips would say they were all +touched in the head. + +For certain severe elderly people who had visited the house—it had more +visitors than usual—had observed in his hearing that they were sorry for +his mother and his aunt Jemima;—“ter be cluttered up at thar time o’ life +with a young child, special sech a one ez that, ez could no mo’ stan’ +still ’n a pea on a hot shovel, an’ war a-laffin’ an’ a-hollerin’ all the +time till a-body couldn’t hear thar own ears.” + +Ike felt peculiar resentment against the propounders of these strictures, +although he had not consciously fallen under the fascination of the +little Rosamond. He could not however always disregard her hilarious +challenges to play, but when he succumbed it was with a sort of surly +surprise at his own relenting. He even consented to see-saw with her,—a +pastime which she greatly affected,—although he was obliged to sit on +a very short end of the plank thrust between the rails of the fence +in order to balance her very small weight as she sat at the other +extremity, on the inside of the fence. And there, as she swayed high +and dropped low, beaming with smiles and pink with delight, she looked +like a veritable rose, blown about in the playful wind. But Ike was less +picturesque as he bobbed up and down very close indeed to the rails and +the leaning cross-stakes. “I’ll butt my brains out ag’in these rails like +a demented Billy-goat if I don’t mind,” he said to himself in dudgeon. + +One day, when he and Skimpy had been visiting certain traps that they +had jointly set in the woods, their homeward way led them past the +store. They had had good luck with their snares, and their fine spirits +responded alertly to a robust chorusing laugh that suddenly rang out from +the dark interior of the building. + +The boys quickened their steps; there was something unusual going on +inside. + +The brown, unpainted walls within, the shadowy beams and dusky rafters +above, the burly boxes and barrels in the background, were dimly +illumined by the one fibrous slant of sunshine through the window, which +served to show too the long gaunt figure of the storekeeper standing near +the entrance. He was swaying backward, laughing as he smote his thigh, +and he called out, “Do it ag’in, Shanks! Do it ag’in!” + +Then the boys observed that there was a large group of figures standing +at one side, although not easily distinguishable since their brown jeans +garb so assimilated with the mellow tint of the walls. The next minute +Ike reached the door and the whole scene was distinct before him. In the +midst of the circle stood Jerry Binwell, his coat lying on the floor, +his hat hanging on the knob of a rickety chair. His thin, long face was +flushed; he was laughing too and rubbing his hands, and walking to and +fro a few steps each way. “Do it ag’in, Shanks,” once more called out +Peter Sawyer. + +There were friendly enough glances bent upon him, and everybody was +laughing pleasantly, despite the pipes held between strong discolored +teeth. Even old Jake Corbin had a reluctant twinkle among the many +wrinkles that encircled his eyes as he sat smoking, his rickety chair +tilted back against the wall. + +“Pritty spry yit, fur a ole man,” declared Binwell, still rubbing his +hands. + +“Do it ag’in, Shanks!” rang out from the bystanders. + +Binwell looked up for a moment, drawing back to the extreme end of +the apartment. Suddenly he crouched and sprang into the air with an +incredible lightness. It was a long oblique jump to the beam on which he +caught; he did not wait a second but “skinned the cat” among the rafters +with an admirable dexterity and dropped softly on his feet at the doorway. + +Once more there was a guffaw. “Go it, Shanks!” “He’s a servigrous jumper, +sure!” “Spry as a deer!” + +It was a most pacific scene and the exhibition of agility seemed likely +to promote only good fellowship and the pleasant passing of the hour +until old Corbin remarked: + +“Yes, Jerry’s a good jumper, an’ a good runner, too, I hev hearn.” + +Binwell cast a quick glance over his shoulder; a light gleamed in his +small, dark, defiant eye. Whether he did not pique himself on his speed, +or whether he detected a sub-current of meaning in the comment, he was +moved to demand abruptly: + +“Whar did ye ever see me run?” + +Old Corbin’s delight in the opportunity broadened his face by an inch or +two. The display of intricate hieroglyphic wrinkles about his eyes was +more than one might imagine possible to be described by age and fatness. +His mouth distended to show the few teeth that had not yet forsaken his +gums; his burly sides were shaking with laughter before he said, “I never +_seen_ ye run, Jerry, but I hearn ez ye done some mighty tall runnin’ in +the old war time.” + +There was a shout of derision from the crowd, most of the men having +served in one army or the other. The object of this barbed ridicule +looked as if he might sink through the floor. His face flushed, his +abashed eyes dropped, he stood quivering and abject before them all. + +Ike had a quick pang of pity and resentment. And yet he was ashamed that +this was the man who sat by his father’s hearth and shared their bread. + +It was only for a moment that he was sorry for Binwell. The recovery from +all semblance of shame or wounded pride was instantaneous as he retorted: + +“That’s mighty easy ter say ’bout ennybody.” He whirled around on his +light heel. “Naw, folks,” he cried out, “I ain’t much on the run; never +footed it more’n jes’ fairly. But I tell ye—ef ye be tired o’ seein’ me +jump—my jumpin’ ain’t nuthin’ ter my heftin’. I kin lift the heaviest man +hyar an’ jump with him. Less see,” he affected to turn about and survey +the burly, stalwart crowd. “Who pulls the beam at the highest figger?” + +He hesitated for a moment; then with a sudden dart that was like the +movement of a fish, he seized on old Corbin. + +“Naw! naw!” wheezed the fat old fellow as the stringy, muscular arms +encircled him. He strove to hold to his chair; it fell over in the +fracas and eluded his grasp; he clutched at the window-sill—vainly; his +hat dropped off; his face was scarlet, and he roared for help. + +It would doubtless have been extended had not the quick and agile Jerry +forestalled the heavy mountaineers. He lifted Corbin with a mighty +effort; he even carried out his boast of jumping—not high, after all, but +high enough for the wildly clutching old man to catch the low beam with +both hands. + +Binwell suddenly loosed his hold and left him swaying ponderously to and +fro, two or three feet from the floor, in imminent danger of falling, +sputtering and wheezing, and red in the face and with eyes starting out +of his head. Then his tormentor, fearful doubtless of the recoil of +public opinion, caught up his hat and coat and with a loud scornful laugh +ran out of the store and disappeared up the leafy road. + +To a man of ordinary weight and agility it would have been easy enough +to spring to the floor. But the cumbersome bulk and slow, clumsy habit +of old Corbin lent the situation real danger. There was a rush to his +assistance—some officious hand thrust an empty barrel beneath his feet, +hoping to afford him support, but it toppled under his weight and down he +came, amidst a great rending of staves, as the barrel collapsed beneath +him. + +He was unhurt, although greatly shaken. He had been frightened at first; +perhaps there was never so angry a man in the limits of the Cove as he +was now. Again and again, as he was helped to his chair, he declared +that he would revenge himself on Jerry Binwell, and the sympathetic +crowd expressed their sense of the injury and the danger to which he had +been subjected, as well as the indignity offered him. To Ike’s extreme +amazement Binwell’s name was often coupled with that of his father, or +the blind man, his uncle. Now, ordinarily, Ike would have felt that +these two spirited and responsible people were amply able to answer +for themselves; but he knew that it was only by an odd combination of +circumstances that they were associated, almost with the intimacy of +family relations, with such a person as Binwell. It implied a friendship +for him which he knew they did not feel, and an indorsement of him which +they were not prepared to give. Secure in their own sense of rectitude +and good repute this possibility of a decline in public esteem had never, +he was sure, occurred to them. Alas, Rosamondy, he heartily regretted +that she had ever put her dimpled foot across their threshold, and yet he +stipulated again within himself that it was not in his heart to wish any +houseless creatures out of the shelter they had found. + +He had a vague terror of this false position in which the family was +placed. He knew, with suddenly awakened forecast, that the antagonism to +Jerry Binwell would not end here. Old Corbin’s spleen that might once +have passed for naught was now rendered a valid and righteous anger +in public opinion, and he would have the sympathy and aid of all the +country-side. But how or why, in the name of justice, could it include +his father and his blind uncle, who had done naught after all but feed +the hungry, and forgive the enemy, and house the roofless vagrant. + +He lingered for a time after old Corbin had gone to Sawyer’s house to get +“a bite an’ rest his bones,” listening to the younger men discuss the +incident, and comment on Binwell’s strength. + +When Ike at last rose and started, Skimpy started too. + +“Skimp!” called the storekeeper after him, “yer mam’s got suthin’ fur ye +to do at the house. Go thar!” + +Skimpy obediently turned from the road into the by-path and Ike went +on, his heart swelling with indignation and his eyes hot with tears. He +knew that his friend was to be withheld from his association after this, +lest he might come under the influence of so worthless and injurious an +example as Jerry Binwell. He trudged along home, wishing that his father +might have beheld the scene and wondering if that would have urged him to +take some decided action in the case. + +Ike had an odd indisposition to relate it all. He had been trained in a +maxim,—good enough so far as it goes,—“If you can’t say anything kind +of your neighbor, say nothing.” The only manifestation of his opinion +was expressed in deeds, not in words. His mother had looked sharply at +him from time to time during the past week, and this afternoon, as she +opened suddenly the shed-room door and saw him casting down a great pile +of bark, and chips, and sticks of wood, ready for the morning fires, she +said unexpectedly: + +“Ike, ain’t ye ailin’ nowhar?” + +“Naw’m,” he replied, drawing himself up with stalwart pride, “I feel ez +solid an’ sound ez a rock.” + +“I ’lowed ye mus’ be sick—ye ’pear so sober-faced, an’ occupy yerself no +ways sca’cely, ’cept in workin’—tendin’ on the wood-pile, an’ packin’ the +water, an’ drivin’ the cow-critter. I ain’t hed ez much wood hyar ter +burn, nor water ter cook with, nor the cow ez constant at the bars, fur +ten year.” + +Ike turned and glanced reflectively about him. The mountain, gorgeous +in autumnal array, loomed above; a blue sky looked pensively down; some +aerial craft had spread a cloud-sail, and the wind was fair. + +“I never ’lowed ter feel sech pleasure in a wood-pile,” he said, +meditatively. “I hev made up my mind ez I ain’t a-goin’ ter ondertake to +be a shirk in this world.” + +She understood him instantly. As the door swung a little ajar she looked +back over her shoulder through the shed-room into the main room of the +cabin. Binwell was not there; no one was visible in the ruddy glare of +the fire illuminating the brown walls but the little Rosamond and the +blind man. She had elected to consider herself some neighing, prancing +steed, and Abner held her by one long, golden curl, that served as reins. +A short tether, to be sure, but she curveted, and stamped, and laughed +as few horses have ever done. The reflection of her merriment was in the +smile on the blind man’s face. Her very shadow was glad, as it sported +with the firelight on the floor. + + + + +VI. + + +There is nothing so conducive to happiness as work—work done well and +willingly. It is in itself happiness. Ike wondered to find, as he bent +his mind and all his energy to his simple tasks—grown strangely light and +seeming few—how little he suffered from his exclusion from his friend’s +society and from the unjust discrimination made against him for no fault +of his; how amply his duty filled his horizon, and presently arrayed +itself in the glad garb of pleasure. He sang—he could but sing—as he +wielded the axe, as he fed the stock, as he went back and forth on his +errands through the lonely woods, sometimes hearing the voice of Keedon +Bluffs singing too, in fitful and fugue-like response. + +Nevertheless, he was glad enough to be reassured of his friend’s loyalty +in their enforced separation, for when they presently met by accident +Skimpy seized upon him eagerly, “Ye ain’t holdin’ no gredge ag’in _me_, +air ye, Ike? I couldn’t holp it; ye know I couldn’t.” + +This accidental meeting occurred one evening when all the boys of +Tanglefoot Cove and the mountain slopes had gathered for a coon-hunt. +The Sawyer lads were of the party, Skimpy and three brothers, all much +alike, all long-legged, red-haired, freckled-faced fellows, and not +fascinating to look upon, but they took a great deal of pleasure in +themselves, and there was considerable boy-nature to the square inch in +these four Sawyers. They were first-rate comrades too; could both take +a joke and make one; all had bright, honest, steady brown eyes, and +they were evidently destined to grow better looking as they grew older. +With one exception they were clad in whole, stout homespun garments, +well woven and well made, for their mother was a peculiarly precise, +neat, and industrious woman. Skimpy was the exception; his elbows were +out; his ankles could not wait for his trousers to grow, so they showed +themselves, right nimble and sturdy members, although the garment, which +was blue, had been encouraged lengthwise with a fresh contrasting piece +of copper-colored jeans; his knees bulged against the threadbare cloth in +a way that intimated they would not long be able to shelter themselves +in their flimsy retirement. He and his mother found it difficult to +reconcile their diverse theories of the uses and the care of clothes. +Although serious enough when they climaxed, these differences had no +depressing effect on Skimpy’s spirits, and did not suffice to save his +wardrobe. He harbored no unfilial resentment, but he thought his mother a +very queer and particular woman. + +The Sawyers had brought with them the dutiful clerk, who was also +preëminent as a coon-dog. There he sat in his yellow hide, decorated +with his slit ear, and his docked tail, and his half-closed eyelid. When +away from the store his demeanor lacked the urbanity which characterized +him there. He bore himself now with the surly air of a magnate whose +affability has been swallowed up in the consciousness of importance. + +The Sawyers specially piqued themselves on being the proud possessors +of Bose. Every now and then one would reverently glance at the animal, +as he sat upright lolling out an indifferent tongue, and say to those +unacquainted with him—“Mind how ye fool with Bose—he’s sharp” (with +an excited eye and a wag of the red head); “he’s mighty fierce.” And +the other Sawyers would nod their heads in confirmation of this report +of Bose’s belligerent qualities. They had a sort of hero-worshiping +reverence for this trait of dog-sharpness, but any one who did not think +respectfully of Bose was some one who did not care to go coon-hunting. He +was the central figure of the group that had collected in the woods by +a sulphur spring, on a slope of one of the minor ridges at the base of +the Great Smoky. The early dusk had not yet fallen, but the shadows were +lengthening fast, and night was on the way. The boughs of the trees above +their heads were drawn in fine distorted lines on a crimson sky; here and +there a slant of sunshine fell amongst the brown shadows upon some red +and yellow fantasy of foliage that so blazed with color and light in its +dusky surroundings that it might seem some outburst of fire which had +been slyly “set out” in the woods. + +The sulphur spring had sought to hide itself, it might seem. Across a +narrow, rocky cleft lay a great flat slab, and a rill trickled away +somewhere; no one would have imagined that beneath this slab was a +spring with brown crystalline water, and a vibrant whisper, and some +exquisite perfumed breath of freshness borrowed from the dawn of day. +The dogs knew where it was, running to it with lolling tongues and with +much affectation of thirst, yet wanting only a drop or two. For other +dogs were there and they seemed to have heard and to have profited by +the Sawyers’ account of Bose, or perhaps the dignity of his mien awed +them, or experience admonished them, for none of them molested him, +although they became involved in noisy fights with each other, or gambols +as turbulent. The boys, ten or twelve in number, all had cow-horns to +blow and torches to carry, and while they waited for certain cronies +to arrive the talk was chiefly of the subject that had brought them +together. The coon seemed a fascinating study apart from his great +gifts of celerity. Mentally he is generously endowed. If Skimpy might +be believed the coon can do anything short of reading, writing, and +ciphering. + +“Even mam, she hev ter ’low ez coons ain’t lackin’ fur head-stuffin’,” +he remarked, as he stood with his arms akimbo. “You-uns know the kind +o’ ways mam hev gin herself over ter—a-sweepin’, an’ a-scourin’, an’ +a-cleanin’, till I actially looks ter see ef she won’t take ter washin’ +the chickens’ faces an’ curryin’ the cat. Waal, Cousin Eph Bates, he +stopped thar one day with his pet coon. An’ mam she made him welcome an’ +set out the table. An’ mam, she ’lowed the coon mus’ be hongry, so she +called it an’ gin it a nice piece o’ corn dodger. What’s that coon do?” +he cried, his eyes widening with the interest of the recital. “Popped up +on the aidge o’ the drinkin’ pail an’ ondertook ter wash that thar piece +o’ dodger ’twixt his fore paws, ’fore he would eat it. I wish ye could +hev seen mam’s face. I laffed till I like ter drapped in my tracks. An’ +Cousin Eph—he jes’ hollered. An’ mam, she hed furgot, ef she ever knowed, +how coons do; she say, ‘Cousin Eph, ye needn’t bring no sech pertic’lar +vis’tor ter my house ag’in—a-washin’ the clean vittles _I_ gin him.’ +Thar sot the coon, ez onconsarned, a-washin’ his hands an’ a-washin’ the +dodger.” Skimpy suited the action to the words and teetered up and down, +washing his paws and an imaginary piece of corn dodger. “I laffed an’ +laffed. That coon like ter been the death o’ me ’fore he got away from +thar.” + +“I know that thar coon o’ Eph Bates’s,” cried Ike. “I stayed up ter his +house one night along o’ his chill’n an’ ’twar bright moonlight whenst I +went ter bed in the roof-room, but after a while I woke up an’ I ’lowed +’twar a hailstorm goin’ on outside on the roof. Ye never hearn sech a +skedaddlin’ up an’ down them clapboards. Kem ter find out, ’twar nuthin’ +but the coon a-playin’ tag with his shadder in the moonlight.” + +“Oh, he’s a powerful tricky, Mister Coon air,” Skimpy declared, his +freckled face distended with relish of Mr. Coon’s smartness. “Mam an’ +Cousin Eph hed sot tharselfs down afore the fire an’ got ter talkin’ +’bout’n the folkses in the Cove, an’ how mighty few o’ ’em had enny sech +religion ez they purtended ter hev, when mam she put her hand in her +pocket fur ter git her knittin’. An’ there warn’t nuthin’ in her pocket +but a ball o’ yarn. An’ she looked up, an’ thar war a great long e-end o’ +it a-stretchin’ ter the door. An’ thar on the steps sot Mister Coon with +them knittin’ needles, an’ the sock, a-holdin’ ’em like he war knittin’, +ez onconsarned—oh my! I laffed ag’in.” + +“I’ll bet yer mam didn’t laff,” said an intimate of the family. + +“Naw,” Skimpy admitted. “Mam, she’s mighty sober-sided. She’d like the +coon better ef he wore spec’s an’ cut wood. Cousin Eph, he axed her how +many rows that coon knit. An’ mam, she said—‘_None!_ He drug two needles +bodaciously out an’ spiled fower rows.’ Mam ’lowed ez she thought she +hed the mos’ mischievious created critter—meanin’ me—but she said she +b’lieved Cousin Eph mought take the prem_ium_. An’ Cousin Eph, he said +enny time she war minded ter swap he’d trade the coon fur me. An’ mam, +she cut her eye round at me an’ tole me I hed better mend my manners; +the mounting would talk mightily ’bout me ef I war traded off fur a coon +’thout enny boot.” + +“That thar mus’ be the same coon ez Cousin Eph Bates fotched along o’ +him ter the store when he kem ter trade, las’ summer,” said Obadiah, the +eldest Sawyer. “An’ dad, he tole Cousin Eph ter holp hisself. An’ nobody +noticed the coon till Cousin Eph war ready ter go, an’ tuk ter huntin’ +fur him. I don’t reckon that coon could surely hev thunk ez dad meant it +fur _him_ whenst he told Cousin Eph ter holp hisself. But leastwise the +coon done it; he holped _his_-self. They fund him propped up on the aidge +o’ the sugar bar’l, an’ they say the way his whiskers war gormed with +sugar war a sight ter be seen. He hedn’t no expression ter his face, an’ +he looked plumb cross-eyed with pleasure. Sugar in his paws, too, and +dad kerried on like he war mighty nigh demented. An’ he wanted Cousin Eph +ter pay for that sugar the coon hed eat, an’ said he wanted that thar +coon’s skin. But Cousin Eph, he snatched his coon up under his arm an’ +’lowed he mought ez well try ter trade fur one o’ his chill’n’s hides. I +b’lieve he gin dad some money or suthin’, though. He sot out arter that +with his coon fur home.” + +“Waal, he warn’t so ’fectionate with that thar coon las’ time I seen +him,” Ike added his testimony. “’Twar over yander at the church-house in +the gap. An’ whilst the folks war settin’ inside, a-listenin’ ter the +preachin’, we-uns hearn the biggest rumpus outside ’mongst the teams, an’ +everybody looked plumb wretched, wonderin’ ef ’twar suthin’ hed happened +ter thar steer or horse critter. An’ dad whispered ter me ter go out an’ +see. An’ thar, ’mongst all the wagins, an’ yokes o’ oxen, an’ saddle +horses under the trees, war a young claybank horse ez b’long ter Eph +Bates. An’ that thar coon he had slyed off an’ follered his master ter +the church-house, an’ stiddier goin’ inside—it’s a mercy he didn’t—he +seen Eph’s horse, an’ he clomb the tree, an’ drapped down on the pommel +o’ the saddle. Waal, sir, sech kickin’! that horse war young an’ skeery; +sech squealin’! An’ whenst I seen him he war tremblin’ like he hed a fit +o’ the ague, an’ then he’d turn his head an’ git a glimge o’ that thar +citizen in the saddle, an’ begin ter plunge an’ shy an’ snort ag’in. Jes’ +’fore I got ter him he bruk his halter, an’ he lit out; around an’ around +that thar church-house he went a-cavortin’ an’ a-gallopin’, Mister Coon +settin’ in the saddle, a-holdin’ on fur life, an’ a-smilin’ from ear to +ear. An’ the folks in the church-house seen what war a-goin’ on, an’ Eph +an’ some o’ them nigh the door run out an’ hollered, ‘Whoa! Whoa!’ at the +horse. Didn’t do no good. Ez soon ez the critter seen he couldn’t shake +the coon off he bolted an’ run through the woods. Eph, he walked home +that Sunday, five mile, but Mister Coon, he rid.” + +“Oh, Mister Coon, oh, Mister Coon,” Skimpy was murmuring, and presently +he broke into song:— + + “Bob Snooks, he eat up all in his plate, + An’ he dreampt a dream that night right late. + A-settin’ on a cloud war a big raccoon, + A-eatin’ an’ a-washin’ his paws in the moon. + ’Twar brimmin’ full o’ clabber an’ whey. + His tail war ringed with black an’ gray; + It hung plumb down ter the poplar-tree, + An’ he wagged it up an’ down in glee. + + CHORUS. + + “Oh, Mister Coon! oh, Mister Coon, + Oh, take them dirty paws out’n the moon. + + “He looked at Bob, ter wink an’ grin, + An’ then Bob say—‘Ez sure ez sin + I’ll yank ye off’n the aidge o’ that moon, + Though ye air a mos’ surprisin’ coon.’ + Bob sicked on Towse—_Towse clomb the tree!_ + An’ grabbed the coon right nat’rally. + An’ suddint Bob woke—thar war _no_ raccoon, + Bob wisht he hed lef’ him up thar on the moon. + + CHORUS. + + “Oh, Mister Coon! oh, Mister Coon, + Oh, why can’t ye once more balance on the moon.” + +It was quite dark before they were fairly started. The shadows gloomed +thick about them. The stars were in the sky. The sound of the boyish +voices whooping and calling, and singing snatches of the coon-song, +echoed far and wide among the solemn woods and the listening rocks. The +dogs answered to the eager urgency of their masters by wheezing and +snuffing about the ground as they ran with their muzzles down, but the +best among them, even the preëminent Bose, could conjure no coon where no +coon was. + +“What ails ’em ter take ter sech a piece o’ briars,” Skimpy cried out +suddenly with an accompaniment of a ripping sound. “Ef I tear up these +hyar clothes o’ mine enny mo’ I’ll hev some rents ter mend in my skin, +fur my mother hev sot it down ef I gin her so many repairs ter make +she’ll gin me some.” + +This terrifying prospect did not unduly alarm Skimpy nor hinder his +joyous pursuit of the coon. He was the first fellow to fall into the +briars and to flounder into the branch. His nimble feet followed more +closely than any others their canine precursors. It was he who cried +out and encouraged the dogs and kept them together, and even the +self-sufficient and experienced Bose hearkened to his counsel and lent +himself to guidance. Skimpy was close upon the docked tail of this animal +when suddenly the wheezing Bose emitted a short sharp cry and sprang off +in the darkness with all the dogs after him. + + + + +VII. + + +The moon was just beginning to rise. A vague red glow suffused the +summit of the eastern mountains. It hardly revealed, but in some sort +it suggested, the presence of the vast forests of the Cove, that still +stood dusky and gloomily mysterious. The solemn silence, native to the +solitudes, was for the nonce annihilated. The whole night seemed to +ring with the shouting triumph of the boys. The cry of the dogs was +unintermittent. Naught impeded the wild chase, save that now and then a +projecting root caught an unwary foot, and a boy would go crashing to +the ground, his companions jumping over his prostrate form, or perhaps +falling upon him, then scrambling up together and away again hilariously. +Sometimes a horn would sound, and if one had cared to listen he might +have wondered to hear the countless blasts that the echoes wound, or +laughed to fancy how that mimic chase in the air did fare. Sometimes, +too, a voice would call out from the van of the line, “Oh, Mister Coon!” +And anon Keedon Bluffs repeated the words in a solemn staccato, as if +they were some uncomprehended incantation. “Oh, Mister Coon!” + +What that gentleman thought of it all nobody can say. Whether he resented +the fact that his coat was considered too good for him, and just good +enough for a cap for somebody else; or whether he felt complimented that +he was esteemed so game that it was accounted a pleasure to see him +fight, singly, a score of savage dogs, and die in the jaws of the enemies +he crippled, nobody will ever know. The only certain thing is that he +carried his fat and his fur, and his palpitating identity inside of +them, as fast and as far as he could. And then in desperation he swiftly +climbed a tree, and sat there panting, looking down with eyes whose +dilated pupils defied the night, to mark how the fierce rout came at +full cry over the rise. The boys knew what he had done, notwithstanding +the dark forests that intervened, for the dogs announced in loud and +joyful barks that the coon was treed as they besieged the oak, springing +as high as they could about its trunk. There was a chorus, “Oh, Mister +Coon!” from the hunters as they came pelting over the hill, almost dead +beat with the run. For the coon had footed it bravely, and treeing him +was long delayed. + +The torches, skimming swiftly about under the oak, which was close upon +a precipice, flared in the darkness far along the slopes, and the coon +hunt glimpsed from the distant cove was like an errant constellation, +run away from the skies. Nearer, flame and smoke flaunted back in the +wind, showing the colors of a limited section of the autumn woods close +about, and thus conjuring an oasis of gorgeous brilliance in that +desert of gloom. In the radiance of the fringed flaring lights might be +distinguished, in high relief against the dusky background, Ike’s eager +face, and Skimpy’s hatchet-like features,—as he bent to beseech Bose +to calm himself instead of bounding futilely about the tree which he +could not climb like the dream-dog,—and the muscular poses of Obadiah +Sawyer, who wielded the axe about the trunk of the tree. How the echoes +answered! How the rocks rang with the stalwart strokes! The chips flew +with every cleavage. The dogs leaped, and barked on every shrill key of +impatience. The coon, barely visible, crouched in the darkness, growled, +and looked down on his boisterous enemies. “Keep out’n the way o’ this +axe, I tell ye,” Obadiah Sawyer would cry as the backward motion would +threaten one of the boys or their four-footed comrades, who pressed so +close about the tree as to lose all sense of safety. + +Suddenly, without any warning, the trunk of the tree not half severed, +the coon ran down almost over Obadiah into the midst of the dogs. There +was a frantic plunge amongst them; a fierce growling and yelping and +snapping; a crunching of teeth; and now and then as one suffered the +sharp fangs of the coon, a hideous clamor that seemed to pierce the sky. + +The boys stood amazed at this innovation on the part of Mr. Coon, whose +sense of etiquette does not usually permit him to tackle the dogs until +the falling of the tree throws the hapless creature into their jaws. How +he distinguished the sound in all that shrill tumult Skimpy could never +say;—a low growl, exceeding in ferocity aught he had ever before heard, +caught his attention. He moved back a pace and held the torch aloft. +There, upon the bole of the tree, slowly descending from limb to limb, +with lissome noiseless tread, with great yellow eyes, illuminated by the +flare, was a full-grown female panther, made bold enough to face the +light by the imminence of the danger, for the cutting down of the tree +meant certain dislodgment amongst the dogs and the boys. This was the +denizen of the oak, the discovery of whom had made the coon prefer the +dogs. + +Skimpy needed but a single glance. He said afterward that it flashed upon +him in a moment that the animal’s young were perhaps in a crevice of +the great wall of rock close at hand, and that for this reason she had +not fled from the noise and the lights. Skimpy dashed his torch to the +ground, and crying “Painter! Painter!” he set out at a pace which has +seldom been excelled. All the torches were flared upward. The creature +glared down at the boys and growled. There was not a gun in the party. +Obadiah in a sort of mental aberration flung his axe into the tree; it +almost grazed the animal’s nose, then fell upon the back of a yelping dog. + +Each boy seemed to announce his flight by taking up the panic-stricken +cry of “Painter!” The dogs had discovered that more had been treed +than the coon, which at last had been killed. They would not heed the +whistlings and the callings of their masters, and as the boys ran a +tremendous yelping and growling announced that the panther had sprung +from the tree amidst the pack. Presently something, with its tail between +its legs, shot by the hindmost boy, and another, and yet another. The +dogs had felt the panther’s teeth and claws and were leaving, but none of +these fugitives was Bose. + +“Oh,” cried Skimpy, “le’s go back—le’s go back—Bose will be bodaciously +eat up! Le’s go back an’ call Bose off!” + +“Call the painter on, ye mean!” exclaimed Ike. “Ye can’t do nuthin’ ter +hurt a painter ’thout ye hed a gun!” + +“Oh Bose!” plained another of the Sawyers in a heart-wrung voice. +“What’ll mam do ’thout Bose! Sech a shepherd! Sech a dog ter take keer +o’ the baby, too! Sech a gyard dog!” For Bose’s virtues were not all +belligerent, but shone resplendent in times of peace. “Oh _Bose_,” he +shrieked down the wind, “let the painter be!” + +“Oh _Bose_!” cried Obadiah in a tone of obituary. “Sech a coon dog! +_Bose!_ An’ a swimmer! _Bose!_ How he used ter drive up the cow! Oh, +_Bose_!” + +“Ye talk like nobody in the mountings hed a dog but you-uns,” panted +one of the fleeing hunters. “Ye ought ter be thankful ye air out’n the +painter’s jaws—’thout no gun!” + +“Oh, Bose ain’t no common dog!” cried the bereaved Skimpy; “Bose is like +folks! Bose _is_ folks!” rising to the apotheosis of grief. + +He did not run like folks. Deserted both by boys and dogs he had bravely +encountered the panther. It required not only a broken rib and repeated +grips of the creature’s teeth, but the stealthy approach of its mate to +convince Bose how grievously he was overmatched. Then this gifted dog, +whose prowess was only exceeded by his intelligence, saw that it was time +to run. He passed the boys with the action of a canine meteor. He sought +the seclusion beneath the house and he did not leave it for days. + +When Ike struck into the road that leads by Keedon Bluffs he was feeling +considerably nettled by the result of the adventure, and resolved that +hereafter he would always carry a gun for any presumable panther that +might hang upon the outskirts of a coon-hunt. He walked on slowly for a +time, sure that the panther would hardly follow so far, if indeed she had +followed at all. He listened now and then, hearing no sound of the hunt +or of the hunters. It was growing late, he knew as he glanced at the sky. +The moon had risen high—a waning moon of a lustrous reddish tint, sending +long shafts of yellow light down the dusky woods, and, despite its +brightness, of grewsome and melancholy suggestions. As the road turned +he came upon the great Bluffs towering above the river, and he noted the +spherical amber reflection in the dark current below, with trailing +lines of light and gilded ripples seeming to radiate from it. A vague +purple nullity had blurred the familiar distances, but close at hand all +was wonderfully distinct. The gloomy forest on one side of the road drew +a sharp summit line along the sky. A blackberry bush, denuded of all +but a few leaves, was not more definite than the brambly wands of its +shadow on the sandy road. As he drew nearer he noted how dark the water +was, how white in the slant of the yellow moonlight rose the great sheer +sandstone Bluffs; how black, how distinct were the cavities in the rock. +And the voiceless beams played about the old cannon-ball on the ledge. +How silent! Only his crunching tread, half muffled in the soft sand; +the almost imperceptible murmur of the deep waters; the shrilling of a +cricket somewhere, miraculously escaped from the frost. Near midnight, it +must have been. He realized how tired he was. He suddenly sat down on the +verge of the Bluffs, his feet dangling over, and leaned his back against +a bowlder behind him. + +He drew a long sigh of fatigue and gazed meditatively below. The next +moment he gave a quick start. There along the ledges and niches of the +great Bluffs, climbing down diagonally with the agility of a cat, was a +dark figure, that at the instant he could hardly recognize as beast or +man—or might it be some mysterious being that the cavities of the rock +harbored! As he remembered the stories of the witches of Keedon Bluffs, +which he had flouted and scorned, he felt a cold thrill quiver through +every limb. + +A sharp exclamation escaped his lips. Instantly he saw the climbing +creature give a great start and then stand still as if with responsive +fright. He bent forward and strained his eyes. + +He had not yet recovered his normal pulse; his heart was still plunging +with wild throbs; nevertheless he noted keenly every movement of the +strange object, and as it turned in the direction whence came the +intrusive voice, it looked up apprehensively. Ike said nothing, but gazed +down into the pallid face lifted in the white moonlight. + + + + +VIII. + + +“Hello!” cried out the figure. + +“Hello!—hello!—hello!” the echoing voices of Keedon Bluffs sepulchrally +hailed the boy. + +Now Ike would have been indignant had some one suspected him of being +afraid of the witches of the Bluffs. But he was immensely relieved by +this form of address. For although he had never held intimate converse +with witches he felt sure they did not say “Hello!” + +He leaned over and responded in a sturdy tone “Hello, yerse’f!” + +“Hello yerse’f!” cried out the prompt echoes. Ike drew back a little. +Although he had acquitted the climbing man of being a witch, he could not +repulse an odd uncomfortable feeling that scores of mischievous invisible +spirits of the rock were assisting at the conversation. He could imagine +that they nudged each other as they repeated the words. Perhaps they all +fell to silently laughing when a belated voice far down the river called +in a doubtful and hesitant tone, “Hello yerse’f!” + +“Who’s that up thar?” demanded the man, still looking up. + +“Ike Guyther,” the boy replied. + +He could not accurately distinguish the sound, so confused was he by the +iteration of the meddlesome echoes, but it seemed to him that the man +uttered a sudden gruff imprecation at the revelation of his name, and +surely the tell-tale rocks were presently grumbling in an uncertain and +displeased undertone. + +Ike strained his eyes to recognize the features, but the man looked down +suddenly and coughed dubiously. + +There was something vaguely familiar in his voice that might have served +to establish his identity but for the repetitious sounds that followed +every word. + +“What air ye doin’ up thar?” demanded the man, and all the echoes became +inquisitorial. + +“Been a-coon-huntin’. What ye doin’ down thar?” said Ike, at last +thinking it but fair that he should ask a few questions himself. + +The white face was once more turned downward, and the man coughed and +seemed to try to spit out his doubt. It had evidently not occurred to him +that he himself was unrecognized, for with a tone that indicated that he +sought to make the best of an awkward situation he said, “Why, I hearn +Ab talkin’ wunst in a while ’bout climbin’ down Keedon Bluffs, ter that +old cannon-ball on that ledge, an’ I ’lowed I’d try ef the thing could be +done—jes’ fur fun—ha! ha! Toler’ble tough fun, though.” + +The vain effort at jollity, the strained nervous tone, the merciless +echoes exaggerated a thousand fold. But Ike Guyther sat unheeding, more +perturbed than he could well have expressed. + +It was Jerry Binwell, his father’s guest. How had he escaped, Ike +wondered, from the roof room where his host thought he lay sleeping? Had +he stolen out from amongst the unconscious family, leaving the doors +ajar that any marauder might enter? He could not. Old Hiram slept as +lightly as a cat, and the blind man was often wakeful and restless. And +what could be his object here in the stealthy midnight, risking life and +limb—nay, neither! Ike Guyther, watching him climbing—with the frightful +depths below into which a false step would instantly precipitate him—lost +that morbid and nervous fascination which a feat of great danger induces +in the spectator, and began suddenly to experience a sort of confidence, +merging into certainty. He was amazed at the lightness, the strength, +the marvelous elasticity, the fine precision of every movement. Strain +credulity as he might, he could not believe Binwell when he said +suddenly, “But I ain’t goin’ ter try it enny furder—break my neck! This +hyar chicken is a-gittin’ old an’ stiff; couldn’t git down thar ter save +my life.” + +He climbed up and up, his silent shadow climbing with him till he neared +the spot where Ike sat, when he suddenly paused. “Git up, Ike,” he said; +“that’s the only place whar thar’s purchase enough ter pull up by.” + +He evidently knew all the ground. Ike dragged himself out of the way, +and, with his hands in his pockets, stood pensively watching him as he +pulled himself to the verge, and then upon his knees, and so to his +feet on the roadside. He paused for a moment, panting. He looked at his +companion with an expression which had no relation to the words on his +lips. Many a boy might not have detected this yawning gulf between what +he meant and what he said, but Ike’s senses were sharpened by suspicion +and anxiety. + +“Whew! Great Molly Har’!” Jerry mopped his brow with his red cotton +handkerchief. “I’m too old fur sech didoes as this hyar—old man’s a-goin’ +fas’. Knees plumb bent. Don’t ye laff, Ike! Don’t ye laff.” Ike had shown +no sign of merriment. “An’ ’fore everything don’t ye tell Ab ez I tried +ter climb down Keedon Bluffs ter that old ball, an’ couldn’t. I wouldn’t +hev the mounting ter git a-holt o’ that thar joke on me fur nuthin’!” + +He looked sharply at the boy, who said not a word, but simply stared at +him as he stood on the verge of the Bluff in the slanting melancholy +yellow light of the waning moon. There was a quiver in Binwell’s nostril, +a nervous motion of the lips, a keen inimical gleam of the eyes under his +hat brim. He was giving Ike more notice than he had ever before bestowed +on him. + +“Hey!” he cried jocularly, clapping the boy on the shoulder, “don’t ye +tell on me, Ike—ye won’t, will ye?” + +This direct appeal brought an answer. But Ike was on his guard. + +“Mebbe then uncle Ab would quit thinkin’ ez how _he_ could,” he said +cautiously. + +Jerry Binwell suddenly changed his tactics. + +“Tell ennybody ye want ter, ye wide-mouthed shoat, ye! Ef I can’t climb +down thar nobody else kin, an’ nobody air a-goin’ ter try. Got too tender +feelin’s fur thar necks. I ain’t ashamed o’ gittin’ old nohow! Ye’ll be +whar I am some day, Ike, ef ye don’t die fust.” + +He strode on ahead with a deft free step. Ike, doubtful and grievously +ill at ease, followed. Come what might he felt that he would tell his +father all, and let him solve the mystery about this strange guest. Then +he began to reflect how slight this “all” was. There were the innuendoes +of the men at the store; but his father knew as well as he how little +Jerry Binwell had been liked in his early youth, how strong the prejudice +remained. The affront to old Corbin was indeed reprehensible, but as to +climbing about the rocks at night surely any one might do that who was +foolish or idle or nimble enough. + +Ike was surprised that although he found in summing up there was no +positive heinous wickedness involved, his aversion to the man remained +and his resolution was strong. He would tell his father all that he had +heard, that he had seen. He would shift the responsibility. His shoulders +were not strong enough to carry it. + +Jerry’s long, lean figure, with the company of his longer and leaner +shadow which dogged his steps like some pursuing phantom of sorrow or +dismay that might materialize in the fullness of time, kept steadily down +the road. He made no pretense of silence or concealment, but whistled +blithely and loud—a sound to pierce the pensive hour with discordant +interruption. Did it awaken the birds? A peevish, intermittent chirring +rose drowsily from the woods, and then was still, and anon sounded again. +Or was it that the dawn was coming hardily upon the slowly departing +night, long lingering, loath to go? The moon showed no paling sign; belts +of pearly vapors, catching its light, were rising from the furthest +reaches of the purple mountains. And here the river was dark and deep; +and there it flowed in translucent amber waves, with a silver flash of +foam, all the brighter for the shadow of the rock hard by. And now it +was out of sight and there were the long stretches of the familiar woods +on either hand, with no suggestion of the vivid tints of autumn, only a +dusky black alternating with a gleaming gold strewn like the largess of a +dream fantasy all a-down the winding ways. + +Morning surely; the thrush sings a stave. And silence again. + +The shadows falter, though the pensive lunar light yet lingers. And again +the thrush—fresh, thrilling, a quiver of ecstasies, a soaring wing, +though it catches the yellow moonbeams. The sky reddens. Alas, for the +waning moon! Oh, sorry ghost; how pale! how pale! + +For the prosaic day is in the awakening woods. The mountains rise above +their encompassing mists and shadows. Beneath them, brown and gray, with +closed batten shutters, Ike sees, slowly revealed, his father’s house, +the sheep lying huddled at one side, barely astir—a head lifted now, and +then dropped—the cow drowsing in a fence corner; the chickens beginning +to jump down from the althea bushes, where, despite the autumnal chill, +they still roost. And, as the first slanting sun ray shoots up over the +mountains, the door opens, and there is thrust out the pink face of +Rosamond, dimpling with glee at the sight of them, and her shout of glad +recognition is loud enough to waken all the sluggards in the cabin, or +for that matter in the Cove. + +The cabin, however, was already astir. Ike learned, with emotions not +altogether relating to the recital, that his father’s aunt who had +brought him up from infancy had been taken ill, and a runner having been +sent to apprise him he had gone over to the Carolina side, and would not +return until the old woman should be better or the worst over. + +Ike had postponed his disclosures too long. There was little good, he +thought, as he swung his axe at the wood-pile—as wide awake as though +he had participated in no coon-hunt—to tell his mother; she had cares +enough—and what could she do? And truly he had nothing to tell except +to put into words vague suspicions; nay, his thoughts were not so well +defined; to canvass actions and accents and looks that displeased him. +They all knew—at least they would not be surprised to learn that Jerry +Binwell had not outlived the malice of his youth. Aunt Jemima would +regard the slightest word against him as an effort to bereave her of +this late-blooming pleasure and joy of her life, the little Rosamond. +Ike hopefully considered for a time the blind man’s aversion to Binwell. +Abner would never hear nor reply when he spoke—and since the first night, +he had not spoken to Binwell, except indeed one day when he chanced to +stumble against the sprawling loafer before the fire. Abner struck at him +fiercely and called out imperiously—“Get out of my way—or I will kick you +out!” + +Jerry had moved, but there was an odd glancing expression from his +half-closed lids that alarmed Ike, so malignant it seemed. The little +girl had run gayly up, caught Abner by the hand, and guided him to his +place by the fire. For she it was who had superseded all the others, +and had made the blind artillery-man her special charge. All day she +was laughing beside him. Any time the oddly assorted couple could be +met, she leading him carefully, holding two of his bronzed fingers, as +they strolled down the sunset road, or they might be seen sitting on the +wood-pile while he told her stories or sang. And she sang also, loud +and clear—gayly too, whatever might have been the humble poet’s mood—in +no wise dismayed or hindered by the infantile disability of not being +able to carry a tune. She had a thousand quirks and conceits, incredibly +entertaining to him in his enforced idleness. She had watched wide-eyed +when Hiram Guyther read from an old and tattered Testament, for the +accomplishment of reading was rare in the region, and had not before been +brought to her observation. Often thereafter she equipped herself with a +chip, held sturdily before her dancing eyes, and from this unique book +she droned forth, in imitation of Hiram’s gruff voice, strange stories of +beasts and birds, and the human beings about her, pausing only to scream +with laughter at her own wit, and then gruffly droned on once more. She +fell ill once for a day or so—a red and a swollen throat, and a flushing, +dull-eyed fever. Aunt Jemima and Ike’s mother exhausted their skill and +simple remedies, and went about haggard and nervous; and the blind man, +breaking a long silence, said suddenly, “Ef ennything war ter happen ter +that thar child I’d ’low the Lord hed fursook me.” + +A neighbor, who happened to be at the house, eyed him curiously. “Ef I +war you-uns, Ab,” he said, “I’d ’low ez He hed fursook me whenst He let +my eyes git put out.” + +The brave fellow had had no repinings, not even when the war was his +daily thought. Now he seemed to have forgotten it, so full, and varied, +and cheerful an interest had this little creature brought into his life. +Often aunt Jemima would tell in gladsome superlatives what she looked +like, and when she spoke he would turn an intent smiling face toward her +as if he beheld some charming image. + +What was the use of talking, Ike thought, remembering all this. They +would not jeopardize the loan of this treasure for all that Jerry Binwell +could do or say. + +He cut away vehemently at the wood, making the chips fly and the mountain +echoes ring. He responded curtly, but without discourtesy, when Jerry +Binwell came out of the house, took a seat upon the wood-pile, and began +to talk to him. Jerry had a confidential tone, and he slyly laughed at +the folks in the Cove, and he took on a comrade-like manner—implying a +certainty of appreciation and sympathy—that might once have flattered +Ike, coming from one so much older than himself. Now, however, Ike merely +swung the axe in silence, casting an occasional distrustful glance at +the thin sharp face with its long grayish goatee. More than once he +encountered a keen inquiring look that did not seem to agree with the +careless, casual nature of the talk. + +“Old Jake Corbin—ye know him; oh yes, ye seen me h’ist him up on the beam +thar at the store—waal, he be powerful keen ter get a chance ter torment +other folks, but cut a joke on him, an’ I tell ye, old Jake’ll git his +mad up, sure. I seen him the ’tother day, an’ he plumb looked wild-cats +at me—fairly glared. Tell ye, Ike, ye an’ me’ll git round him some day, +an’ hev some fun out’n him—git his dander up an’ see him hop.” He winked +at Ike and chewed resolutely on his huge quid of tobacco. + +“Naw, I won’t,” said Ike suddenly. “I hev’ been raised ter respec’ my +elders. An’ I’m a-goin’ ter do it now jes’ the same ez afore ye kem.” + +“Bless my bones!” cried Jerry Binwell, affecting contemptuous surprise +and speaking in a jeering falsetto voice. “Jes’ listen how leetle Sally +do talk—ye plumb perlite leetle gal!” He leered unpleasantly at the +flushing boy. Then he suddenly resumed his natural tone and his former +manner, as if he had borne no part in this interlude. + +“Ye oughter hear how he talks ’bout you-uns, Ike—’lows ye air plumb lazy.” + +“That war a true word whenst he said it,” interpolated Ike. + +“An’ never done yer work, an’ war onreliable, an’ onstiddy, an’ hedn’t no +grit ter stan’ up ter yer word, an’ thar war no sech thing ez makin’ a +man out’n ye. I hearn him say that an’ mo’, ’fore twenty other men.” + +Ike’s axe had dropped to the ground. He listened with a red cheek and a +glowing eye. The other watched him intently. + +“Waal, that’s pretty tough talk,” said Ike. + +“’Tis _that_!” assented Binwell. + +“But I hev been shirking some an’ no mistake, an’ I reckon the old man +’lowed that war jes’ the kind o’ stuff I be made out’n, totally. Now I be +a-goin’ ter show him ’tain’t nuthin’ more ’n a streak.” + +And the steady strokes of the axe rang, and the chips flew, and the +mountains echoed the industrial sound. + +Jerry Binwell looked unaccountably disappointed and disturbed. He changed +the subject. “Why war ye axin’ Ab fur the loan o’ his gun this mornin’?” + +“Kase dad hev kerried his’n off, an’ I be a-goin’ ter git up the boys an’ +go arter that thar painter. It riles me powerful ter go a-huntin’ a coon +an’ git run by a painter. So I ’lowed we-uns would go ter-night.” + +Again the man slouching on the wood-pile seemed unaccountably worried +and ill at ease. This reminded Ike of that curious nocturnal climbing of +the rocks, and when he went up to the roof-room for some lead to mould +bullets for the gun, he stood looking about him and wondering how Jerry +Binwell contrived to escape from his hospitable quarters without rousing +the family who slept in the room and in the shed-room below. There was no +window; the long tent-like place was illumined only by the many cracks in +the wall and roof. They had a dazzling silvery glister when one looked +steadily at the light pouring through them amongst the brown timbers, and +the many garments, and bags, and herbs, and peltries, hanging from the +ridge-pole. One of these rifts struck him as wider than he had thought +any of them could be. He reached up and touched the clapboard. It was +loose; it rose with the pressure. A man not half so active as Binwell +could have sprung through and upon the roof, and thence swung himself to +the ground. + +The panther was surprised and killed that night. Jerry Binwell, and +several other men who heard of the adventure, joined the party. They +were all in high feather going home, and Skimpy sang a number of his +roundelays, as he had often done before without exciting any particular +admiration. He sang from animal spirits, as the other boys, less +musically endowed, shouted and grotesquely yelled. Nevertheless, with +the musician’s susceptibility to plaudits, his ear was attuned to Jerry +Binwell’s exclamation, addressed to one of the men in the rear, “Jes’ +listen how that thar young one kin sing! ’Pears plumb s’prisin’!” + +And the good-natured mountaineer returned, “That’s a fac’. Wouldn’t be +s’prised none ef Skimp shows a reg’lar gift fur quirin’.” + +“He sings better now’n all the folkses in the church-house,” said the +guileful Jerry. + +The flattered Skimpy! + +He knew that the society of Ike had been forbidden to him, lest he should +come in contact with this elderly reprobate, but he felt a great flutter +of delight when Binwell, coming up beside him, as he trotted along in the +moonlight, said again that he could sing like all possessed, and declared +that if he had a fiddle he could teach Skimpy many new tunes that he had +heard when he lived down in Persimmon Cove. “Mighty fiddlin’ folks down +thar,” he added, seductively. + +Now there was hanging on the wall at the Sawyer house—and it is barely +possible that Jerry Binwell may have seen it there—a crazy old fiddle and +bow. It was claimed as the property of Obadiah, the eldest of the boys, +who had his share of such musical talent as blessed the Sawyer family. In +him it expressed itself in fiddling to the exclusion of his brothers—for +very intolerant was he of anybody who undertook to “play the fool with +this fiddle,” as he phrased it. A critical person might have said that he +played the fool with it himself, or perhaps that it played the fool with +him. But such as the performance was, he esteemed the instrument as the +apple of his eye, and was very solicitous of not breaking its “bredge.” +Therefore Skimpy was a very bold boy, and preposterously hopeful, when +he suggested to Binwell that he could borrow Obadiah’s fiddle, and thus +the treasures of sound so rapturously fiddled forth by the dwellers in +Persimmon Cove might rejoice the air in Tanglefoot. + +“Naw, naw, don’t ’sturb Obadiah,” said the considerate Jerry. “Jes’ +to-morrer evenin’, two hours by sun, whenst he ain’t needin’ it an’ ain’t +studyin’ bout’n it, ye jes’ git it, an’ ye kem an’ meet me by the sulphur +spring, an’ I kin l’arn ye them new chunes.” + +Skimpy’s ridiculous attenuated shadow thumped along in front of them; +Jerry’s eyes were fixed upon it—he was too cautious to scan the boy +himself. It stumped its toe presently on a stone which Skimpy was too +much absorbed to see, and so it had to hop and limp for a while. Skimpy +said nothing, for he was wondering how it would be easiest and safest to +undertake to play the fool with that fiddle of Obadiah’s. + +They were a considerable distance in advance of the others and nearing +Keedon Bluffs; the whoopings of their invisible companions, who were +hidden by the frequent turns in the road, came now and again upon the +air, arousing the latent voices of the rocks; occasionally there was only +the sound of loud indistinguishable talking, as if the powers of the +earth and the air had broken out in prosaic communion. + +“Pipe up, sonny,” said the paternal Jerry, seeing that the conversation +was not likely to be resumed. “Gin us that one bout’n ‘Dig Taters;’ that +thar one air new ter me.” + +To his surprise Skimpy refused. “I can’t ’pear ter git no purchase on it +hyar. Them rocks keep up sech a hollerin’.” + +They trudged on in silence for a few minutes. Then said Skimpy, glancing +back over his shoulder, “I wish them boys would stir thar stumps an’ +overhaul us. I hate ter be with sech a few folks arter night-fall ’roun +Keedon Bluffs,”—he shrank apprehensively from the verge. + +“What fur?” demanded Jerry sharply. + +“Kase,” Skimpy lowered his voice and slipped nearer to his companion, +“the folkses ’low ez thar be witches ’round hyar of a night arter it gits +cleverly dark an’ lays by day in them hollows in the Bluffs, an’ kem out +of a night ter strangle folkses.” He suddenly remembered from whom he had +heard these fables. “Ye know ’twar _you-uns_ ez war a-tellin’ me an’ Ike +’bout them witches fus’ evenin’ we ever seen ye—along this hyar road +with yer kyart an’ yer leetle gal.” + +Binwell was silent for a moment. Then he began to laugh in a chuckling +way, and the Bluffs responded in muffled and sinister merriment. “’Twar +jes’ a pack o’ lies, Skimp!” he said jovially. “I jes’ done it ter skeer +that thar boy ez war along o’ you-uns—Ike Guyther. He be powerful easy +skeered, an’ I wanted ter see how he’d look! I tell ye of a night he +jes’ gathers his bones tergether an’ sets close ter the ha’th. Ef enny +witches take arter him, they’ll hev ter kem down the chimbly afore all +the fambly. Ike, he puts them witches on thar mettle ter ketch him.” + +“Waal, sir!” exclaimed the candid Skimpy, “it skeered me a sight wuss’n +it did Ike. I ’lowed I’d never git home; ef I hed hed ez many feet ez a +thousand-legs I could hev fund a use fur ’em all. An’ them two I did hev +mos’ weighed a ton. Ike never ’peared ter me ter skeer a speck.” + +There was no doubt in his tones. He was a friendly fellow himself, and he +looked only for fair-dealing in others. + +“Waal, I never went ter skeer _you-uns_,” said Jerry in his companionable +manner. “I seen from the fust jes’ what sort’n boy you-uns war—stiddy, +an’ reliable, an’ the kind o’ feller ez a body kin put dependence in—know +jes’ whar ter find ye.” + +Skimpy listened in tingling delight to this sketch—it would not have been +recognized at home. His mother might have considered it ridicule. + +“I jes’ wanted ter skeer that thar t’other boy”—he was looking Skimpy +over very closely as he spoke, his eyes narrowing, his lips pursed up +in a sort of calculation—he might have seemed to be mentally measuring +Skimpy’s attenuated frame. “I jes’ wanted ter skeer that thar t’other +boy. He’s powerful mean, Ike is. He air always a-purtendin’ ter like +ennybody, an’ then a-laffin’ at ’em ahint thar backs. I didn’t know him +then, but I knowed his uncle Ab, an’ I seen the minit I clapped eyes on +him ez they war jes’ alike. An’ ez I hed a reason fur it, I skeered him. +He’s mighty cantankerous ahint ennybody’s back,” Jerry continued as he +strode on, swinging his right arm. “I hev hearn him declar’ ez that +thar old cur o’ yourn, Bose, air the bes’-lookin’ member o’ the Sawyer +fambly.” He glanced sharply at Skimpy, steadily stamping along the sandy +road. + +“Waal, ye know,” said Skimpy in a high excited voice, “Bose, ye know, is +a plumb special coon-dog. An’ he’s sharp; mighty few gyard-dogs sech ez +Bose. An’ he air a shepherd too. I’ll be bound none o’ our sheep air ever +missin’ or kilt. An’ Bose sets ez much store by the baby ez enny o’ the +fambly do; he jes’ gyards that cradle; he’ll snap at me if I so much ez +kem nigh it—nobody but mam kin tech that baby arter Bose takes his stand. +An’ Bose, he kin go out an’ find our cow out’n fifty an’ fetch her home.” + +Binwell had long ago perceived that he had touched the wrong chord. +Skimpy was quite content to be rated as secondary in beauty to the +all-accomplished and beloved Bose. + +“I know Bose,” he admitted. “Bose is hard to beat.” + +“_Yes_, sir! Yes, _sir_!” And Skimpy wagged his convinced head. + +“But Ike ’lows he be ugly.” + +“Shucks! I say ugly!” cried Skimpy scornfully; he was willing to be +considered no beauty himself—but _Bose_! + +“An’ he ’lows he’d jes’ ez lief hear Bose howl ez you-uns sing.” + +Skimpy paused, turning his astonished face up to Binwell, the moonlight +full upon its stung and indignant expression. Now Bose had never been +considered musical—not even by Skimpy. He drew the line that bounds +perfection at Bose’s dulcet utterances. He was almost incredulous at +this, despite his confiding nature. + +“Why, I hev jes’ sot an’ sung fur Ike till I mighty nigh los’ my breath.” + +“Ye oughter hear him mock ye, arter ye gits gone. Oh, Mister Coon! Oh, +e-aw, Mister Kyune!” mimicked Jerry in an insulting falsetto. “He ’lows +it gin him the year-ache; ye ’members how bad he had it.” + +“Dellaw!” exclaimed the outdone and amazed Skimpy, stopping in the road, +his breath short, his face scarlet. + +“Made me right up an’ down mad,” said Jerry. “Oh, I knowed that Ike, +minit I set eyes on him! I knowed his deceivin’ natur’. I wanted ter +skeer him away from Keedon Bluffs. I never minded you-uns. I’d jes’ ez +lief tell you-uns ez not why I wanted ter keep him off’n ’em.” + +“What fur?” said Skimpy, once more trudging along. + +“Waal, hyar I be whar my road turns off from yer road,” said Jerry, +pausing. He stood at the forks of the road, half in the light of the +moon, half in the shadow of the thinning overhanging foliage. The mists +were in the channel of the river, and the banks were brimming with the +lustrous pearly floods; the blue sky was clear save that the moon was +beset by purple broken clouds—all veined about with opalescent gleams. +The shadows were black in the woods; the long shafts of light, yellow and +slanting, penetrated far down the aisles, which seemed very lonely and +silent; an acorn presently fell from the chestnut oak above Binwell’s +head into the white sandy road, so unfrequented that the track of a +wagon which had passed long before would hardly be soon displaced unless +by the wind or the rain. + +“I tell ye,” said Jerry, looking down into the candid upturned face +beneath the torn brim of the old white wool hat, “ye fetch Obadiah’s +fiddle ter-morrer, an hour ’fore sundown, ter the sulphur spring, an’ +I’ll l’arn ye them new chunes. An’ I’ll tell ye all ’bout Ike, an’ what +he said an’ why I wanter keep sech ez him off’n them Bluffs.” + +“Waal,” assented Skimpy, “I kin make out ter git the fiddle, I reckon.” + +But it was with little joyous anticipation that he turned away. Ike’s +words, as reported by Binwell, rankled in his heart; it was hot and heavy +within him. He even shed a forlorn tear or two—to thus make acquaintance +with the specious delusions of friendship. It was not so much the sting +of wounded vanity, although he was sensible too of this—but that Ike +should affect to esteem him so dearly and ridicule him behind his back! +He was generous enough, however, to seek to make excuses to himself +for his friend. “I reckon,” he muttered, “it mus’ hev been arter dad +wouldn’t lemme go with Ike no mo’ an’ it riled him, an’ so he tuk ter +tongue-lashin’ me. I reckon he never thunk ez I couldn’t holp it.” + +And thus he disappeared down the woodland ways, leaving Jerry Binwell +standing in the road and looking meditatively after him. + +“I reckon it’s better ennyhow,” Binwell soliloquized. “Ike’s a hundred +times smarter’n him, but he air smart enuff. Bes’ not be too smart. An’ +though he be ez tall ez Ike he’s a deal stringier; he’s powerful slim. +Ike ain’t much less’n me—an’ I be a deal too bulky—git stuck certain. +Skimpy’s the boy.” + +He remained silent for a time, vacantly gazing down the woods. Then +suddenly he turned and betook himself homeward. + + + + +IX. + + +Circumstances the next day seemed adverse to Skimpy’s scheme. Obadiah +for some time past had not been musically disposed, and the violin had +hung silent on the cabin wall in company with strings of red peppers, and +bags of herbs, and sundry cooking utensils. That afternoon the spirit of +melody within him was newly awakened. + +Skimpy, who had been lurking about the place, watching his opportunity, +was dismayed to see Obadiah come briskly out of the cabin door with the +instrument in his hand, and establish himself in a rickety chair on the +porch. He tilted this back on its hind-legs until he could lean against +the wall, stuck the violin under his chin, and with his long lean arm +in a fascinating crook, he began to bow away rapturously. They were +very merry tunes that Obadiah played—at least the tempo was lively and +required a good many quick jerks and nods of the head, and much flirting +and shaking of his long red mane to keep up with it. Occasionally his +bow would glance off the strings with a very dashing effect, when he +would hold it at arm’s-length, and grin with satisfaction, and wink +triumphantly at Skimpy, who had come and seated himself on the steps +of the porch hard by. He looked up from under the wide brim of his hat +somewhat wistfully at Obadiah. + +The violinist was happier for an audience, although he could have sat +alone till sunset, with one leg doubled up under the other, which swayed +loosely from the tilted elevation of the chair, and played for his own +appreciative ear, and found art sufficient unto itself. But applause is +a pleasant concomitant of proficiency and he loved to astonish Skimpy. +His hat had fallen on the floor, and the kitten, fond of queer places to +sleep, had coiled herself in the crown, and now and then lifted her head +and looked out dubiously at Skimpy. Just above Obadiah was a shelf on +which stood a pail of water and a gourd. What else there was up there an +inquisitive young rooster was trying to find out, having flown over the +heedless musician, still blithely sawing away. + +“He oughter hev his wings cropped, so ez he couldn’t fly around that +a-way,” said Skimpy suddenly. “Oughtn’t he, Oby?” + +Now one would imagine that when Obadiah was harmoniously disposed all +the chords of his nature would be attuned to the fine consonance which +so thrilled him. On the contrary the vibrations of his temper were most +discordant when his mood was most melodic. He had one curt effective +rejoinder for any remark that might seek to interrupt him. + +“Hesh up!” he said, tartly. + +His mother, a tall gaunt woman of an aggressively neat appearance, was +hanging out the clothes to dry on the althea bushes in the sun. She was +near enough to overhear the conversation, and she suddenly joined in it. + +“Nobody oughter want ter tie up other folkses tongues till they be right +sure they hev got no call ter be tongue-tied tharself.” + +To this reproof Obadiah refrained from making any unfilial reply, but +scraped away joyously till Skimpy, longing for silence and the fiddle, +felt as if the mountains shimmering through the haze were beginning to +clumsily dance, and experienced a serious difficulty in keeping his own +feet still, so nervous had he become in his eagerness to lay hold of the +bow himself. + +Sunset would be kindling presently—he gazed anxiously toward the western +sky across the vast landscape, for the cabin was perched well up on the +mountain slope, and the privilege of overlooking the long stretches of +valley and range and winding river was curtailed only by the limits of +vision. The sun was as yet a glittering focus of dazzling white rays, but +they would be reddening soon, and doubtless his new friend was already +waiting for him at the sulphur spring. + +“I wisht ye’d lemme hev that thar fiddle a leetle while, Oby,” he said +suddenly, his manner at once beguiling for the sake of the favor he +sought, and reproachful for the denial he foresaw. + +Obadiah’s arm seemed electrified—there was one terrific shriek from +the cat-gut, and then his quivering hand held the bow silent above the +strings. + +“Air ye turned a bodacious idjit, Skimp?” he cried, positively appalled +by the audacity of the request. “I wouldn’t hev ye a-ondertakin’ ter play +the fool with this hyar fiddle, fur”—he hesitated, but his manner swept +away worlds of entreating bribes—“fur _nuthin’_.” + +The young rooster, finding that there was nothing upon the shelf except +the water-pail and gourd, and hardly caring to appropriate them, had +made up his mind to descend. After the manner of his kind, however, +he teetered about on the edge of the shelf in some excitement, unable +to determine just at what spot to attempt the leap. Twice or thrice +he spread his bronzed red and yellow wings, stretched his neck, and +bowed his body down—to rise up exactly where he was before. At last +the adventurous fowl decided to trust himself to providence. With a +squawk at his own temerity he fluttered awkwardly off the shelf, and +almost alighted on the musician’s head, giving a convulsive clutch at +it with his claws as he flopped past. There was a distressful whine +from the fiddle-strings in Obadiah’s sudden perversion of the bow; he +had forgotten all about the rooster on the shelf; he jumped back with a +galvanic jerk, as he felt the fluttering wings about his head and the +scrape of the yellow claws, and emitted a sharp cry of startled dismay. + +Bose, who had been lying close beside a clumsy wooden box on rockers, +growled surlily, fixing a warning eye on the boy; then his voice rose +into a gruff bark. There was no longer use in his keeping quiet and +guarding the cradle. Beneath the quilts was a great commotion; the +personage enveloped therein, although sleeping according to infantile +etiquette with its head covered, had no mind to be thus eclipsed when +broad awake. There presently emerged a pair of mottled fists, the red +head of the Sawyer tribe, an indignant, frowning red face, and a howl so +vigorous that it seemed almost visible. It had no accompaniment of tears, +for the baby wept for rage rather than grief, and sorrow was the share +of those who heard him. + +Mrs. Sawyer turned and looked reproachfully at the group on the porch. + +“’Twarn’t _me_, mam, ’twar the rooster ez woke the baby,” Obadiah +exclaimed, seeking to exculpate himself. + +Bose was stretching himself to a surprising length, all his toe-nails +elongated as he spread out his paws, and still half-growling and +half-barking at Obadiah, the utterance complicated with a yawn. + +“’Twar the rooster,” reiterated Obadiah—“the rooster, an’—an’—Bose.” + +“’Twarn’t Bose!” exclaimed Skimpy, loyally. + +“Hesh up!” said the dulcet musician. + +“Needn’t tell me nuthin’ ag’in Bose—I know Bose!” said Mrs. Sawyer +emphatically—thus a good name is ever proof against detraction. “Hang +up that thar fiddle, Oby,” she continued. “I wonder the baby ain’t been +woked up afore considerin’ the racket ye kep’ up. An’ go down yander +ter the ’tater patch an’ see ef yer dad don’t need ye ter holp dig the +’taters. I don’t need ye hyar—an’ that fiddle don’t need ye nuther. I +be half crazed with that thar everlastin’ sawin’ an’ scrapin’ o’ yourn, +keep-in’ on ez ef yer muscles war witched, an’ ye _couldn’t_ quit.” + +She sat down on a chair beside the cradle and began to rock it with her +foot, readjusting the while the quilts over the head of the affronted +infant, who straightway flung them off again that he might have more room +for his vocalization. + +Obadiah went obediently and hung up the fiddle, and presently looking +down the slope Skimpy saw him wending his way toward the potato patch. + +“I dunno how kem Oby ’lows that thar old fiddle b’longs to him, more’n +it do ter the rest o’ we-uns,” Skimpy observed discontentedly, when the +baby’s vociferations had subsided into a sort of soliloquy, keeping +time with the rhythmic motions of the rockers. It was neither mutter +nor wail nor indicative of unhappiness, but it expressed a firmly +perverse resolution not to go to sleep again if he could help it, and +rose instantly into a portentous howl if the monotonous rocking was +intermitted for a moment. + +“’Twar yer gran’dad’s fiddle,” said Mrs. Sawyer. “That’s the only sure +enough owner it ever hed—he never gin it ter nobody in partic’lar whenst +he died. An’ it jes’ hung thar on the wall till Obadiah ’peared ter take +a kink ter play it.” + +Obadiah doubtless considered himself entitled to the fiddle by the right +of primogeniture—though Obadiah did not call it by this name. As Skimpy +reflected upon the nature of his brother’s claim he felt that there was +no reason why he should not insist on sharing the ownership. It was not +Obadiah’s fiddle—it belonged to the family. + +The baby’s voice sank gradually to a jerky monotone, then to a murmur and +so to silence. The rockers of the cradle jogged thumpingly up and down +the floor for a few minutes longer. And then Mrs. Sawyer betook herself +once more to her task of hanging out the clothes, while Bose guarded the +cradle, and Skimpy still sat on the steps, his elbows on his knees, and +his pondering head held between his hands. + +The lengthening yellow sunbeams poured through the cabin door, venturing +gradually up the walls to where the silent instrument hung, filling it +with a rich glow and playing many a fantasy though never stirring a +string. + + + + +X. + + +When Jerry Binwell repaired to the sulphur spring that afternoon, +there was no waiting figure amongst the rocks beside it. He paused at +a little distance and glanced about with surprise. Then he slouched on +toward the trysting place. In all the long avenues of the woods that +seemed illumined by the clear amber tint of the dead leaves covering the +ground, on which the dark boles of the trees stood out with startling +distinctness, his roving eye encountered no living creature, except +indeed a squirrel. It was perched upright upon the flat slab that almost +hid the spring, eating a chestnut held between its deft paws; it scudded +away, its curling tail waving as it ran up a tree hard by, and Binwell +heard it chattering there afterward; more than once it dropped empty +nutshells upon the man’s hat as he waited half-reclining among the rocks +beside the spring. Time dawdled on; the sunshine adjusted itself to a +new slant; it deepened to a richer tint; the shadows became pensive; the +squirrel had fled long ago. Often Binwell lifted himself on his elbow +and glanced about him, frowning surlily; but the vast woods were utterly +solitary and very still this quiet day. Once a rustling sound caught +his ear, and as he sprang up looking about hopefully for the boy, his +motion alarmed some hogs that were roaming wild in the forest to fatten +on the mast. They stood still, and fixed small sharp eyes intently upon +him, then with an exclamatory and distrustful vociferation they ran off +through the woods hardly less fleetly than deer. Jerry Binwell muttered +his discontent, and glancing once more at the sky began to walk slowly +about, keeping the spring in sight. Still no Skimpy came. The man’s face +wore an expression both scornful and indignant as he paused at last. + +The forest was remarkably free from undergrowth just here; the fiery +besoms of the annual conflagrations destroyed the young and tender +shoots, and left to the wilderness something of the aspect of a vast +park. Only on one side, and that was where the ground sloped suddenly +to the depths of a rugged ravine, an almost impenetrable jungle of +laurel reached from the earth into the branches of the trees. Its +ever-green leaves had a summer suggestion as the sun glanced upon them; +none had changed, none had fallen. And yet, as he looked, he noted a +thinning aspect, a sort of gap at a certain point in the massive wall +of interlacing boughs, made, he fancied, when some lumbering bear tore +a breach in search of winter quarters in those bosky securities. He was +an idle man, and trifles were wont to while away his time. His momentary +curiosity served to mitigate the tedium of waiting for Skimpy. He slowly +strolled toward the gap amidst the foliage, wondering whether the animal +had only lately passed, whether it was possible to come upon it in its +lair and surprise it. He was near enough to lay his hand on the laurel +leaves when he noticed there was a distinctly marked path threading its +way through the tangle. He could not see the ground, but a furrow amongst +the boughs indicated continual passing and repassing. For a few yards +this was visible as he stood looking through the gap of bent and broken +branches; then the rift among the leaves seemed to curve and he saw no +further. Still meditating on the bear, he experienced some surprise when +he observed in the marshy earth in the open space near where he stood the +print of a man’s boot; not his own, as he was half-inclined to think at +first. For as he held his foot above the track, he saw that the print in +the moist earth was much broader, and that the man walked with a short +pace, far different from his own long stride. The steps had not only gone +into the laurel but had come thence; often, too, judging from the number +and direction of the footprints. + +“I wonder whar this path leads,” he said. “Somebody must be moonshinin’ +hyar-abouts.” + +He stood gazing down meditatively. The broad footprint was always the +same, the step always the short measure indicating a slow and heavy man. + +This suggested the idea of old Corbin. The retort, in the nature of +a practical joke, played on the old codger at the store, had not +altogether satisfied Binwell’s enmity; this, in fact, was, in a measure, +reinforced by the surly silence and looks of aversion which had since +been meted out to him throughout the community. It was more than +curiosity which he now felt; it was a certain joy in secretly spying +upon his enemy, and there was a merry sneer in his eyes as he began to +push his way through the laurel. As the path curved, he saw the groove +among the leaves anew before him, and he had but to follow its twists +and turns. A long way it led him down the rugged descent, the laurel +leaves almost closing over his head, the great forest trees rising high +above the thicket, flinging their darkling shadows into the midst. He +was chuckling to think what a time of it old Corbin must have had to get +down. “An’ how in Kingdom Come did he ever git up ag’in?” he laughed. + +The words had hardly escaped his lips before he emitted a husky cry of +surprise: he had come suddenly to his journey’s end. In the midst of a +clear patch of rocky ground, where even the sturdy laurel could not +strike root, were scattered shavings and bits of wood, and stretching +into the dense growth, so long they were, lay two staunch but slender +poles upon the ground. They were joined by rungs, well fitted in a +workman-like manner. It was in fact a great ladder, the like of which +had never been seen in Tanglefoot Cove, and, indeed, rarely elsewhere. +It might have reached from the river bank to the hollows of Keedon +Bluffs! As Binwell gazed with starting eyes he noted that it was nearly +completed—only a few rungs remained to be set in. + +A sudden vibrating sound set all the stillness to jarring; he turned +abruptly, his nerves tense, an oath between his teeth. It was too late +for him to hide, to flee. He could only gaze in despair at Skimpy’s red +head, his white wool hat set on the back of it, bobbing along through the +laurel; his freckled, grinning face was bowed on Obadiah’s fiddle that +wailed and complained beneath his sawing arm. + +Perhaps it was the urgency of the moment that made Binwell bold and +rallied his quick expedients. He did not even wonder how the boy had +happened to discover him. Skimpy had descried him from a distance in +the open woods, and had followed, bringing the fiddle according to +their agreement. Binwell looked gravely at the boy and motioned to him +to advance. The fiddle ceased to shiver beneath Skimpy’s inharmonious +touch, and with his eyes stretched, and his mouth too, for that matter, +he pressed on down to the spot. He could not restrain a wondering “Waal, +sir!” when Binwell pointed to the ladder. + +“Don’t say nuthin’, Skimp,” said Binwell. “Lay the fiddle an’ bow thar +in the laurel; level em’ so ez they won’t fall; thar! Ye kin find ’em +ag’in by that thar rock. Now take a-holt of that thar ladder, ’bout hyar; +that’s the dinctum—an’ jes’ foller me.” + +Skimpy recognized this as an odd proceeding, and yet he hardly felt +warranted in questioning Jerry Binwell. He could not refuse his +assistance in a mere matter of “toting”; he began to think that this +service was the reason his friend had appointed this place of meeting +on pretext of playing the fiddle. He did not definitely suspect anything +worse than a scheme to get a little unrequited work from him. More +especially were his doubts annulled by the quiet glance with which Jerry +Binwell met his eager inquiring look. + +“Yes, take a-holt right thar”—as if this was an answer to all that the +boy was about to ask. Binwell himself had run swiftly ahead and had +caught up the other extremity of the ladder. He went straight forward, +breaking a path through the jungle by the aid of the ladder that he +allowed to precede him by ten or twelve feet. He did not hesitate, +although there was no rift here amongst the leaves to guide him. His +manner was as assured as if he were following a definite route that he +had traveled often. Skimpy had no doubt that he knew whither he was +going through that trackless desert. Nevertheless Binwell now and then +looked back over his shoulder at the sun, as if to make sure of the +direction which he was taking. He did not care to notice the anxious +freckled face, down the vista of the leaves, from which all jocundity had +vanished. For Skimpy, although the best-natured of boys, began to rebel +inwardly. He had a troublous consciousness that Jerry Binwell would not +be safe to trust, and wondered that he could have so disregarded his +father’s wish that he should not be brought into this association. It +seemed odd to Skimpy that the danger should have manifested itself so +close upon the heels of the warning. In common with many boys, he was apt +to regard the elders as too cautious, too slow. He had not learned as yet +that it is experience which has made them so. It was not merely mentally +that he was ill at ease. His bare feet were beginning to burn, for they +had now climbed long distances up the mountain slope amidst the laurel. +The weight of the ladder asserted itself in every straining muscle, and +yet he realized that his callow strength would hardly have enabled him +to carry one end, were it not for the aid of the upholding boughs of the +laurel, that would not suffer it to touch the ground, even when his +grasp sometimes relaxed in spite of himself. He dreaded to think how he +would fare when they should emerge into the open woods. “I won’t tote my +e-end no furder,” he said to himself, still striving to look upon himself +as a free agent. + +He called once or twice to Binwell, who feigned not to hear. His deafness +suddenly vanished when Skimpy stopped and the ladder lay upon the +interlacing laurel-boughs. “Whar be we-uns a-goin’ ter tote this hyar +contrivance, ennyways?” the boy demanded. + +“Jes’ a leetle furder, sonny,” said Jerry Binwell paternally, turning +upon him a quiet face, immovable save for the industriously ruminant +jaws, subduing a great quid of tobacco; he was apparently so unaware +of any cause for suspicions that they were erased from Skimpy’s mind. +He took up his end of the ladder again, thinking it probably belonged +to Binwell, and thankful that he had put into words no intimation of +his vague but uneasy doubts. He even hummed a song as he stumped along, +willing enough to be cheerful if the adventure only signified a little +work for no pay. “But I’d hev ruther not l’arn them chunes folks fiddle +down in Persimmon Cove ef I hed knowed I hed ter skitter up the mounting +this-a-way.” + +For they were in truth near the summit, not ascending the great bald, +but in a gap between two peaks. The laurel had given way to open woods, +and Skimpy’s end of the ladder almost dragged. The trees, instead of the +great forest kings on the mountain slopes below, were the stunted growths +peculiar to the summit. They heard no call of herder, no tinkle of bell, +for the cattle that found summer pasturage here had been rounded up and +driven home to the farms in the “flat-woods.” The silence was intense; +they saw no living creature save a buzzard circling high in the red skies +of the sunset. Skimpy thought for a moment they were going down on the +North Carolina side; he was about to protest; the way was indescribably +rocky and tortuous; the night was coming on. Suddenly Binwell paused. + +“Kem along, sonny; take the ladder in the middle an’ feed it out ter me.” + +Skimpy, wondering, took the ladder in the middle, giving it a series of +shoves toward Binwell, who suddenly lifted the end, and with one effort +flung it from him—and out of the world, as it seemed to Skimpy. + +He listened for a moment, hearing it crash among the tree-tops as it +went falling down the precipice whence Binwell had thrown it. A moment +after there was silence as intense as before. Then Binwell knelt on the +verge and looked down the abyss. He raised a triumphant grinning face, +and silently beckoned to Skimpy. The boy went forward and knelt too, +to look over. At first he could see nothing but the shelving side of +the mountain; the deep abyss gloomed with shadows, the richness of the +autumnal colors sombre and tempered beneath the purple dusk. And then +he discovered one end of the ladder, barely perceptible in the top of a +pine-tree. + +“It lodged ’mongst them pines,” said the jubilant Binwell. “It’s safe, +summer or winter; nobody’ll find it but the birds or the squir’ls.” + +Skimpy could no longer resist. “Air—air—it yourn?” he faltered, +struggling with his instinct of politeness. + +Binwell had risen to his feet; he was rubbing the earth off his +hands—recklessly bedaubed when he had knelt down—and also from his +trousers, nimbly raising first one knee, then the other, for the purpose. +He was chuckling unpleasantly as he looked at the boy. + +“Ever see folks fling thar own ladders off’n the bluffs, an’ land ’em +’mongst the tree-tops fur the birds ter roost in?” + +Skimpy stared, and ruefully shook his head. + +“Waal then! what ye talkin’ ’bout?” Binwell’s tone was cheerful, +triumphant; a sinister triumph. + +The dumfounded Skimpy faltered,— + +“Whose war it, then?” + +“Dunno edzac’ly,” cried the blithe Binwell. + +“Waal, now, that ain’t fair!” protested Skimpy, indignantly. “I’m goin’ +right down ter the Cove, and tell.” + +“Naw, ye won’t! Naw, ye won’t!” exclaimed the undismayed Binwell. “Ef ye +do, ye’ll git jailed quick’n never war seen.” + +“I ain’t done nothin’,” cried Skimpy, recoiling. + +“Ain’t ye! Tote a man’s ladder up the mounting, over ter the Carliny +side, an’ tumble it down ’mongst the pine tops, whar he’d hev ter make +another ter reach it. Mebbe the constable an’ old Greeps, ez be jestice +o’ the peace, don’t ’low ez that’s suthin’, but I reckon they will!” + +Skimpy was silent in acute dismay. Into what danger, what wrong-doing, +had he not thrust himself by his disobedience! He looked at the grinning +face, flushed by the fading remnant of the roseate sunset, feeling that +he was in Binwell’s power, wondering what he should do, how he should be +liberated from the toils spread for him. + +“See now, Skimp,” said Binwell beguilingly, and the poor boy’s heart +leaped up at the kindly tone, for he sought to put the best construction +on Jerry Binwell’s intentions, if only to calm his own despair and +distress. “I could jes’ take ye under my arm—so,” he tucked Skimpy’s +head under his arm and lightly lifted him high off his feet—“an’ strong +ez I be I could fling ye off’n that bluff half down that thar gorge; thar +wouldn’t be enough o’ ye lef’ ter pick up on a shovel; an’ that would +keep ye from tellin’ tales on me, I reckon.” He swung the boy perilously +close to the edge of the precipice, then set him gently on his feet. “But +I don’t want ter hurt ye, an’ I ain’t goin’ ter do it. I know ye air a +plumb honer’ble, good sorter boy, an’ ain’t goin’ ter make a tale-tell o’ +yerse’f, even if ye wouldn’t git jailed. I wouldn’t trest no boy I ever +see but you-uns. I wouldn’t trest Ike Guyther fur nuthin’. I war goin’ +ter tell you-uns all ’bout’n it ennyways, even ’fore I fund that thar +ladder. An’ then ye kin jedge whether I be right or wrong.” + +Skimpy, eager to be reassured, felt his heart lighten with the words. He +strained his credulity to believe in Jerry Binwell. Surely he had not +done so very wrong; there might be no harm in the man, after all. He drew +a deep breath of relief, and then picked up his hat which had fallen +from his head when Jerry Binwell was illustrating the terrible fate he +might decree for the lad if he chose. The man was closely studying his +face when their eyes met once more, but Binwell said simply that they had +better go after Obadiah’s fiddle or night would overtake them before they +found it. + +He talked as they went. + +“Ye see, Skimpy,” he said, “my tongue don’t lay holt nat’rally ter the +words, kase I hev got some things ter tell ez I ain’t right proud on.” + +He glanced down at the wondering, upturned face, with its eyes wide +with anticipation, and its mouth opening as if to swallow, without the +customary grain of salt, any big tale which might be told. + +“Ye hearn old Corbin say, yander at the store that day, ez I run durin’ +the War. An’ I h’isted him up on the beam fur shamin’ me ’fore all them +folks. Waal, I oughtn’t ter done it, kase ’twar true—_jes’ one time_! I +felt powerful ’shamed ter hear ’bout it ag’in—plumb bowed down.” + +The crafty eyes scanning Skimpy’s ingenuous face saw that he was +sympathetic. + +“War ain’t a healthy bizness, nohow,” continued Jerry. “But thar air lots +o’ men, ez run heap more’n me, ez don’t hev it fetched up ag’in ’em every +day. Lots o’ runnin’ war done in the War—but folks nowadays ginerally +talks ’bout thar fightin’. Some nimble fellers showed their heels in them +times—folks ez live right hyar in the Cove. But I be the only one ez hev +got ter hear ’bout it in these days. It’s kase I’m pore, Skimp. Ef I hed +a good cabin an’ right smart cornfield, an’ consider’ble head o’ stock, +ye wouldn’t hear ’bout my runnin’ that time.” + +Cynicism is eminently infectious. Skimpy wagged his head significantly. +“You wouldn’t indeed!” the gesture seemed to say. + +“They don’t like me jes’ kase I’m pore. An’ kase I’m pore they call +me shif’less. I hev hed a heap o’ trouble; sech truck ez I hed I war +obleeged ter spen’ fur doctors’ ’tendance on my wife, ez war ailin’ +always, an’ arter all she died at last.” + +The unromantic Skimpy, meditating on the case, felt that at least the +doctors’ bills were at an end. + +“An’ now I be homeless, an’ a wanderer, an’ hev my leetle gal ter feed. +Folks actially want ter take her away from me. Ef ’twarn’t fur her, them +Guythers wouldn’t let me stay thar a day.” + +Skimpy knew that this was true. Ike had confided so much to him of the +family feeling on the matter. + +“An’ now folks in the Cove air a-fixin’ ter drive me out’n it—me an’ +little Rosamondy. They can’t set the law onto me, fur I never done +nothin’ ag’in it—so they be a-goin’ ter laff me out’n it. Ye wanter know +whose ladder that is?” he broke off with apparent irrelevance. + +Skimpy nodded an eager assent. + +“It’s old Corbin’s, I’ll be bound, an’ I’ll tell ye why I ’low sech; no +man but him kin do sech a job. Waal, ye know what he wants it fur? He +wants somebody ez be light an’ handy ter climb up Keedon Bluffs by it ter +them hollows. An’ ye wanter know what fur? Ter git suthin’ ez air hid in +one o’ ’em. An’ ye wanter know what that be?” + +Skimpy’s face in the closing dusk might have been cut out of stone, so +white and set it was—such a petrified expectancy upon it. The man’s eyes +glittered as he held his own face nearer and spoke in a hissing whisper, +albeit in the lonely wilderness none could hear his words. + +“Some war maps, an’ orders in a box what a courier—thinkin’ he war +a-goin’ ter be captured—hid thar; an’ he war killed afore ever he got +’em ag’in. An’ long o’ ’em air a letter a-tellin’ ’bout me a-runnin’ +an’ a-orderin’ me ter be shot fur a deserter. An’ old Corbin, bearin’ a +gredge ag’in me, air a-goin’ ter perduce ’em an’ fairly laff me out’n the +Cove. An’ I ain’t got nowhar ter go.” + +“He’s mighty mean!” cried Skimpy, his heart swelling with indignation. + +“Waal, I wanter scotch his wheel!” exclaimed Binwell. “I don’t want him +ter do it.” + +“How kin ye purvent it?” said Skimpy, briskly. Surely there was no +malice, no mischief on Binwell’s part in this. His spirits had risen to +their normal high pitch. + +“Waal, Skimp, I hev been a-studyin’ bout’n it. But till I fund that +ladder—it air too long fur enny mortal place but Keedon Bluffs—an’ made +sure o’ what he war a-doin’ of, I warn’t sati’fied in my mind. Ef ye’ll +holp me—kase I be too bulky nowadays ter creep in one o’ them hollows—ef +I’ll kerry ye down thar will ye snake in an’ git the box? Ye ’feared?” + +For Skimpy had drawn back at this proposition. “Naw,” he faltered, but +with an affirmative tendency. He saw Binwell’s teeth and eyes gleam +through the dusk. This man _who ran_ was laughing at him for being afraid +of the great heights of Keedon Bluffs, of the black abysses below! + +“We hed better hev tuk the ladder ter climb by,” suggested Skimpy. + +“An’ hev old Corbin come along the river bank an’ take it down whilst we +war on it? I’m better’n enny ladder ye ever see, bein’ so strong. Feel +my arm,” he held it out. “Shucks, boy! Fust time I ever see ye, ye war +talkin’ ter Ike ’bout climbin’ down thar ’thout enny holp. But mebbe ef +ye don’t want ter go, Ike will. I hain’t axed him yit. I’d ruther hev +you-uns. But I reckon he ain’t _afeard_.” + +In addition to Skimpy’s sympathy for the ostracized Binwell his terror of +being considered a coward was very great. “Naw—I’ll go—I ain’t ’feared; +but I be powerful oneasy an’ troubled bout’n that thar ladder.” + +“Waal, arter we git the box—the papers air in it—we’ll go over to yon +side o’ the mounting with a axe, an’ cut down the tree ez cotched the +ladder, an’ tote it back whar we fund it.” + +Skimpy’s objections vanished at the prospect of being able to undo soon +the harm he had done. He hoped fervently that old Corbin would not miss +his ladder before it was replaced. + +“Hyar’s Obadiah’s fiddle!” exclaimed Binwell, who led the way while the +boy followed through the laurel, grown quite dark now; and when they +emerged into the open woods they beheld the stars glistening in the +shallows of the branch, and many a pensive glimmer came through the bare +boughs, and through the thinning leaves. + + + + +XI. + + +The ladder was early missed; indeed it was the next morning that old +Corbin puffed and pushed through the laurel to the bare space where his +handiwork had been wont to lie and to grow apace, rung by rung. He did +not at first notice its absence. He put his box of tools on the ground. +Then he sat down on a rock and mopped his brow with his red bandana +handkerchief and gazed meditatively down the vistas of the woods. The +Indian summer was abroad in the land, suffusing it with languor and +light—a subtly tempered radiance; with embellishments of color, soft and +brilliant; with fine illusions of purpling haze; with a pensive joy in +sheer existence. How gracious it was to breathe such air, such aromatic +perfumes; to hear such melodic sounds faintly piped with the wind among +the boughs. Ah, summer, not going, surely! for despite the sere leaf one +must believe it had barely come. + +They were not poetic lungs which Mr. Corbin wore, encased in much fat, +but they expanded to the exquisite aroma of the morning as amply as if +they differentiated and definitely appreciated it. He drew several long +luxurious sighs, and then it seemed as if he would breathe no more. He +gasped; turned red; his eyes started from his head. He had taken notice +at last that the ladder had been removed. He arose tremulously and +approached the spot where it usually lay. There was no trace of it. He +staggered a few steps backward in dismayed recoil. His spectacles fell to +the ground, the lenses shattering on the stones. + +“Witches!” he spluttered. “Witches!” He cast one terrified appealing look +at the solitudes about him, half-fearing to see the mystic beings that +his superstition deemed lurking there; then he began to waddle—for he +could hardly be said to run—as fast as he could go along the path through +the laurel. + +Tremulous alike with his years and the shock of surprise, his condition +was pitiable by the time he reached the store—for he at once sought his +friend and crony the storekeeper. And some time elapsed before he could +be restored to his normal calmness and make intelligible the detail of +what had befallen him. Peter Sawyer was a man of considerable acumen. He +was far more disposed to believe that the ladder had been found by some +freakish boys who had mischievously hidden it in the laurel hard by, than +that it had been spirited away by witches. He considered, however, that +his old friend had been victimized beyond the limits of fun, and before +setting out for the spot he summoned the constable of the district to +their aid, for he felt that arrests for malicious mischief were in order. +Both he and the officer were prepared to beat the laurel and patrol the +neighborhood and ferret out the miscreants. They arranged their plans as +they trudged on together, now and then pausing to wait for old Corbin as +he pounded along behind them. The storekeeper was detailing, too, to the +constable the reasons for the manufacture of the long ladder—for he was +the confidential friend of Jake Corbin, and in fact had suggested the +scheme. + +“We mought ez well let ye inter the secret fus’ ez las’, kase this hyar +case air one fur the strong arm o’ the law.” He threw back his narrow +lizard-like head and laughed, showing his closely-set tobacco-stained +teeth. + +“Strong ez it air ’tain’t plumb long enough!” he added. + +The constable, a thick-set, slow man, cocked his head inquiringly askew. + +“’Tain’t long enough,” continued Sawyer, enjoying the involutions of +the method of disclosure he had adopted. “The arm o’ the law ain’t long +enough ter reach up ter them hollows in Keedon Bluffs!” + +“In Keedon Bluffs!” echoed the amazed officer. + +“Jes’ so,” said Sawyer, laughing and nodding. “So we hev lengthened its +reach by the loan of a ladder.” He strode on silently for a few moments +beside the constable, their two shadows following them down the red clay +road, in advance of old Corbin, who was lumbering on behind attended by +a portly, swaying, lunging image of himself, impudently magnified and +nearly twice as big. + +“Ye see,” resumed Sawyer, “Jake Corbin b’lieves ez some o’ old Squair +Torbett’s money an’ sech, what he hid in the war times, air right up +_yander_ in one o’ them holes—’twar this hyar Jerry Binwell, ez war +a slim boy then, an’ Ab Guyther ez holped ter hide it. Waal, ye know +how things turned out. The Squair died ’fore many months were over an’ +them boys had run away to the Wars. Waal, ye know how cur’ous the heirs +acted—looked sorter sideways when questioned, an’ swore they never hed +hed no money out’n Keedon Bluffs.” + +“I ’member,” said the constable, “Ed declared out he never b’lieved thar +war no money thar.” + +“Waal, Ed’s dead, an’ the tother heir moved ter Arkansas, an’ the +kentry-side ginerally b’lieved like them—that thar warn’t no money +thar—big fool tale. Waal, hyar kems back Jerry Binwell, arter twenty +year, bein’ pore ez Job’s tur-r-key, an’ takes ter a-loafin’ roun’ +them Bluffs; I seen him thar twict myself. An’ Ab Guyther hev tuk ter +declarin’ he wants ter climb down Keedon Bluffs an’ lay his hand on that +thar old cannon-ball.” + +“Wants ter lay his hand on Squair’s old money-box, ye better say,” +exclaimed Corbin. + +“Waal now, I ain’t goin’ ter b’lieve nuthin’ ag’in Ab!” exclaimed the +constable excitedly. + +“Ennyhow,” wheezed old man Corbin, “we-uns ’lowed we’d git a ladder an’ +summons a officer an’ take down that box, ef we could git a boy ter climb +in, an’ turn it over ter the law. Jerry Binwell ain’t done nuthin’ ez yit +ter warrant arrestin’ him, but we jes’ ’lowed we-uns warn’t a-goin ter +set by an’ let him put folks on beams an’ steal money, an’ loaf around ef +thar war enny way ter pervent it.” + +The constable seemed to approve of the plan, and only muttered a +stipulation that he did not believe Ab had anything to do with any +rascality. + +Little was said as they pushed through the tangle of the laurel. The +storekeeper was ahead, leading the way, for he knew it well, having +often come to consult his crony. “Waal, sir!” he exclaimed in indignant +ruefulness when the bare rocky space was revealed along which the great +ladder was wont to stretch. He glanced around excitedly at the constable, +directing his attention to the spot, then called aloud, “Why, Jake,” in a +voice of exasperated compassion. + +A cold chill was upon old Corbin as he waddled through the last of the +tangled bushes; it required no slight nerve for him to again approach the +place. He quivered from head to foot and wailed forth tumultuously, “I +hev been snared by the witches. Le’s git out’n these hyar witched woods! +Don’t ye reckon ’twar the witches? It mus’ hev been the witches!” + +A new idea suddenly struck Peter Sawyer. “’Twarn’t no witches,” he +declared abruptly. “An’ ’twarn’t no mischievous boys! ’Twar Jerry +Binwell; that’s who hev got that ladder. Ef we-uns could ketch him a-nigh +hyar I’d git him ’rested sure. He hev fund out what we air wantin’ ter +do.” + +“Better find the ladder an’ git the box fust. We-uns don’t want him—a +rascal—ez much ez the law wants the Squair’s money-box ter gin it back +ter the heirs,” said the cautious constable. “Go slow an’ sure. Besides +I don’t wanter make no foolish arrests. The jestice would jes’ discharge +him on sech evidence ag’in him ez we kin show—kase we can’t tell all we +know,—fur the word would git all over the Cove, an’ some limber-legged +fellow mought climb up thar, an’ ef he didn’t break his neck he mought +git the box. I tell ye—I’m a-goin’ ter set a watch on them Bluffs from +day-dawn till it’s cleverly dark. An’ ef that thar ladder be in these +hyar woods I’ll find it.” + +These wise counsels were heeded. Old Corbin started back to the store +with his friend after one more apprehensive, tremulous, and searching +glance for the witches’ lair in the laurel which he dreaded to discover, +and the constable took his way cautiously through the woods toward the +river. + +The morning wore on to the vertical noontide when the breeze died, and +the shadows collapsed, and the slumberous purple haze could neither +shift nor shimmer, but brooded motionless over the ravines and along the +mountain slopes; the midday glowed, and burned with color more richly +still, until the vermilion climax of the sunset made splendid the west, +and tinged the east with gold and pink reflections. And all day the +constable himself, hidden in a clump of crimson sour-wood, knelt on the +summit of the Bluffs, watching the deep silent gliding of the river and +the great sand-stone cliffs—with here a tuft of grass or a hardy bush in +a niche, with sheer reaches and anon crevices, and on a ledge the ball +from the deadly gun, lying silent and motionless in the sun. + +Nothing came except a bird that perched on the cannon-ball; a +mocking-bird, all newly plumed. He trimmed his jaunty wing, and turned +his brilliant eye and his delicately poised head upward. Then, with his +white wing-feathers catching the light, away he went to where the echoes +awaited him. A star was in the river—its silver glitter striking through +the roseate reflections of the clouds; and presently the darkness slipped +down. + +And the constable’s joints were very stiff when he clambered out of the +clump of sour-wood shoots. + + + + +XII. + + +It was a very dark night. The wind freshened; leaves were set adrift in +the black void spaces; the jarring of bare boughs, continually clashing +together, pervaded the gloom: the water was ruffled, and the reflection +of the stars was distorted or annulled amongst the vacillating ripples as +the faint beams fell. No other sound near Keedon Bluffs, no other stir. + +By the fireside of Hiram Guyther’s house one could hardly be unconscious +of the tumult of the mountain forest, or of the swirl of the wind in the +funnel-like depths of the Cove, however deep the reverie, however the +fire might crackle as the big blazes sprang up the chimney, however the +little Rosamondy might laugh or might sing. + +“How the wind blows!” the blind man said from time to time, lifting his +gray head and his young face. And aunt Jemima would remark on “the +powerful clatter” of the orchard boughs and the rustling swish of the +Indian corn standing dead and stark in the fields. + +As the trumpeting blast came down the chimney once more Ab roused himself +anew and exclaimed, “’Minds me o’ the night Rosamondy kem.” + +“Did the wind blow me hyar?” cried Rosamondy, as she sat in her little +chair. + +“The bes’ wind that ever blew!” declared aunt Jemima, her gleaming +spectacles intercepting her caressing glance. + +Jerry Binwell turned a trifle aside in his chair to hide the scornful +curve of his lips. There was no need to shift his posture. Aunt Jemima’s +eyes were bent once more upon her knitting, and Abner was blind alike to +sneers and smiles. Rosamond’s attention was fixed upon a big red apple +roasting and sputtering between two stones that served as fire-dogs. +Now and then, with the aid of a stick, she turned the other side of the +apple to the heat. Only the blinking cat saw the jeer on his face, and +this animal was too frequently ridiculed to care to cultivate any fine +distinctions in the nature of laughs. Curiously enough, the cat wore a +queer gown of blue-checked homespun and a ruffled cap that was often +awry, for she sometimes put up a disaffected paw to scrape it off, or it +became disarranged in hasty or too energetic washings of her face. She +had been thus accoutered by aunt Jemima to appease Rosamondy’s craving +for a live doll. The cat was very much alive, and seated before the fire +she had an antique and dame-like look, which was highly appreciated by +her owner, but which was totally destroyed when she walked on all-fours. +The live doll was eminently satisfactory to Rosamond, and except for the +tyranny of her garments was in danger of being killed by kindness. + +The laugh on Jerry Binwell’s face was only a transient gleam. He relapsed +into brooding gravity and meditatively eyed the fire. + +“Ab,” he said suddenly, when aunt Jemima had left the room to join Mrs. +Guyther, who was “sizin’” yarn in the shed-room, and he could hear their +voices in animated controversy as to the best methods. “Ab, I’ll tell ye +what this windy night in the fall of the year ’minds me of.” + +His voice had the most agreeable inflections of which it was capable, +but it elicited no response, for Abner had not relented toward his old +comrade, and seldom would seem aware of his existence. Binwell’s face +contorted into a disagreeable grimace. This secret taunt the blind man +was spared. Then Binwell’s smooth tones went on as if he had not expected +a rejoinder. + +“’Minds me o’ that night in the old War time whenst me an’ you-uns holped +old Squair Torbett ter hide his plunder from g’rillas an’ sech—ye ’member +how the wind blowed?” + +Abner’s fire-lit face glowed with more than the reflection of the flames. +His lip curled; the reminiscence seemed to afford him some occult +amusement. + +“I ’member! I ’member!” he said slowly; then he chuckled softly to +himself. + +Binwell’s eyes were fixed upon him with an antagonistic intentness, as +if he would fain seize upon his withheld thought in some unconscious +betrayal of face. But the blind man could only hear his voice, languid +and reminiscent, drawling on, aimlessly, it seemed. “Waal, I ’members +it too, mighty well. How flustry the old man war! Wonder if we’ll be +that-a-way when we-uns git ez old ez him? He gin us the box, an’ we-uns +kerried it ter the top o’ the Bluffs, an’ ye clomb down whilst I watched. +An’ wunst in a while the old man would nudge me,” then with a quick +change of voice—“‘Ain’t that a horse a-lopin’, Jerry? hear it? hear it?’ +An’ I’d say, ‘It’s the wind, Squair—the wind, a-wallopin’ up the gorge.’ +An’ then he’d rest fur a minit an’ say, ‘Air sign o’ Ab? That thar boy’ll +break his neck, I’m ’feared.’ An’ I’d say, ‘I hear the clods in the +niches a-fallin’ whilst he climbs, Squair; he’s a-goin’ it.’ An’ then +he’d clutch me by the arm, an’ say, whispery an’ husky, ‘Jerry! Jerry! +what’s that down the road—the jingle o’ spurs, the clank o’ a sabre?’ An’ +I’d say—‘It’s jes’ the dead leaves, Squair, a-rustlin’ as they fly in the +wind.’ An’ he warn’t easy one minit till ye clomb up the Bluffs ag’in, +empty-handed an’ the box hid.” + +As he talked, Rosamond’s hands had fallen still in her lap while she +listened with the wide-eyed wonder of childhood. Her curling yellow hair, +ruddily gleaming in the firelight, hung down over her shoulders, her +cheek was flushed, her great gray eyes, full of starry lights and yet +pensively shadowed by her long black lashes, were fixed upon his face. +When the tension slackened she sighed deeply and stirred, and then lapsed +into intent interest again. + +The blind man had bent forward, his elbows on his knees. “I ’members,” he +said again. + +“I never did know, Ab, whether ye fund them hollows in the Bluffs a +toler’ble tight fit, nor how fur back they run in them rocks; but ye war +a mighty slim boy in them days.” + +“Warn’t slim enough ter git inter the fust nor the second,” spoke up the +blind soldier briskly, with awakened interest. + +“So ye put it inter the thurd?” demanded Jerry. + +If he could have seen himself how well he would have thought it that his +old comrade could not see him! His head was thrust forward till all the +ligaments in his long thin neck were visible, strained and stretched. His +eyes were starting. His breath was quick, and his under jaw had dropped. +Rosamond had a half affrighted look as she sat in her chair on the hearth +beside the sleeping dogs and the grotesquely attired cat that was gravely +washing its face. + +The blind man nodded. “Yes,” he said simply, “I put it in the thurd, an’ +pritty far back, too.” + +The chimney was resounding with the burden of the blast as it sang +without; its tumultuous staves echoed far up the mountain slopes. Abner +lifted his head to listen, hearing perhaps the faint din of the winds of +memory blowing as they listed about Keedon Bluffs. The next instant his +attention was recalled. In the momentary absorption the sharpened hearing +of the blind had failed him. He subtly knew that there was a change in +the room, but what it was he could not say. He stretched out his hand +with a groping gesture. “Jerry,” he called out in a friendly voice. There +was no answer. + +The puzzled expression deepened on his face. He heard the stirring of the +child. “Rosamondy,” he said, “who’s hyar?” + +“Nobody,” the vibrant, sweet voice answered, “nobody but me—an’ Mis’ Cat.” + +“Whar’s Jerry?” he demanded. + +“Gone out,” she said promptly. “Sech walkin’ on tiptoes I never see.” + +There sounded instantly a queer thumping on the puncheon floor, a +tumble, a great gush of treble laughter; then the eccentric thumping was +renewed and Abner knew that Rosamondy was imitating the deft celerity of +Binwell’s exit on tiptoes. He did not laugh. He leaned back in his chair +with doubt and perplexity corrugating his brow. + +A step was upon the ladder, descending from the roof-room—not Ike’s usual +light step, but he it was, slowly appearing from the shadows. Even after +he had emerged into the genial firelight their gloom seemed still to +rest upon his face, and his eyes were at once anxious and mournful. He +withstood as well as he could the shock of welcome with which Rosamond +rushed upon him, seizing him round the knees till he almost toppled +over, and was constrained to wildly wave his arms in order to regain his +equilibrium. She fell into ecstasies of delight because of the awkward +insecurity he exhibited, and as with outstretched arms, and flying hair, +and tangled feet, and rippling, gurgling cries, she mimicked him, he +found himself at liberty to sink into a chair. And then while Rosamond, +always long in exhausting her jokes, still toppled about the floor, he +silently brooded over the fire. + +Once or twice he raised his eyes and looked toward his uncle who seemed +too lost in reverie. Sometimes Abner lifted his head to listen to the +rioting winds and again bent it to his dreams. The white firelight +flickered, and now the brown shadow wavered. He was presently subtly +aware of a new presence by the hearth, unseen by others as all must be by +him. + +“Ye hev got trouble alongside o’ ye, Ike,” he remarked. “Ye’re mighty +foolish. It’s a great thing ter be young, an’ strong, an’ hev all yer +senses. The beastises hev got mo’ gumption than ye. Ever see a young +strong critter, free an’ fat, that war mournful? Naw; an’ ye ain’t goin’ +ter. Ye hev got the worl’ in a sling. An’ ye set an’ mope.” + +Ike made an effort to rouse himself. “I know I oughtn’t,” he said in a +strained voice, “but I be mighty—mighty troubled.” + +“Jes’ so,” said the blind man. + +Ike looked at the flickering white flames for a moment, at the pulsing +red coals, at the vacillating brown shadows. Rosamondy had rushed into +the shed-room to exhibit her imitation of Ike to his mother and aunt +Jemima. He listened to the chorus of voices for a moment, then he said, +“I dunno but what I’m foolish, uncle Ab, but I hearn what ye tole Jerry +Binwell jes’ now ’bout whar ye hid the Squair’s money-box, an’—an’ I +wisht ye hedn’t done it.” + +“What fur?” the blind man lifted his face lighted with sudden interest, +“ye be ’feared ez he mought ’low it’s thar yit an’ go arter it an’ git +his neck bruk.” + +Ike moved uneasily. + +“That’s jes’ the reason he tried to keep me an’ Skimpy Sawyer from +climbin’ down thar one evenin’—fust time I ever seen him; tried ter skeer +we-uns with witches an’ sech. The Squair’s money-box air what he war +arter, I be bound, the night o’ the coon hunt whenst I cotch him thar. +I’m feared he’ll git it. I dunno what to do! I s’picioned suthin’, but I +never ’lowed ’twar money. He’ll git arrested ef he don’t mind.” + +“I wisht he would,” said Abner; he chuckled fiercely and fell to +revolving his old grudges. + +“Waal, I’d hate that mightily,” said Ike dolorously, “arrested out’n +we-uns’s house. I war goin’ ter tell dad nex’ day, but he war gone ’fore +I got home. I wisht Jerry Binwell bed never kem hyar!” + +“Why, Ike,” Abner retorted cogently, “then leetle Rosamondy would never +hev kem!” + +“I seen old Corbin an’ the constable with thar heads mighty close +tergether ter-day,” Ike went on drearily, “an’ arterward I passed down +the river-bank on the opposite side ter Keedon Bluffs, an’ I see the +constable a-hidin’ hisself in a clump o’ sour-wood. I dunno what ter +do. I feel ’sponsible, somehows. I don’t want him ter git the money—a +thievin’ scamp—and yit I don’t want him ter git arrested.” He paused in +astonishment. + +Abner Guyther was laughing in sardonic delight. “He ain’t goin’ ter git +the money!” he cried. “An’ I dunno nobody ez needs arrestin’ ez bad ez he +do—somebody oughter scotch his wheel, sartain! G’long, Ike; g’long ter +bed. An’ quit addlin’ yer brains ’bout’n yer elders.” + +Ike was not reassured by the reception of his disclosure. And he had not +told the worst of his troubles. More than once of late he had seen Skimpy +and Binwell together. He had felt no resentment that his friend had +been forbidden association with him, to avoid contact with this elderly +villain. It seemed wise in Skimpy’s father, and he only wished that his +own had been sufficiently uninfluenced and firm to have determined upon +a similar course. Noting the constable in the clump of sour-wood, and +with his own recollection of Binwell climbing down Keedon Bluffs, he had +been smitten with terror for Skimpy’s sake. He knew that Binwell had some +reason of his own for affecting the lad’s society. In cudgeling his mind +for the man’s motive he had brought to light the true one which might not +have been so readily presented were not Keedon Bluffs so continually in +his thoughts of late. He was sure that Binwell wished Skimpy, being light +and slim, to explore the hollows of the Bluffs—with what end in view he +had not definitely known until to-night. Nevertheless the conviction that +his simple-hearted friend had become involved in serious danger had been +strong enough that afternoon to induce him to go to Skimpy’s home. Old +man Sawyer sat on the porch morosely smoking his pipe, and Ike paused at +the fence and whistled for Skimpy—a shrill, preconcerted signal; it was +in the deepest confidence that he was about to impart his suspicions and +his warnings and he did not feel justified in including the elder Sawyer +in the colloquy. It might be a slander on Jerry Binwell, after all. “An’ +I don’t wanter be a backbiter like him,” said Ike to himself. + +The whistle brought Skimpy promptly out from the barn. To Ike’s surprise, +however, he did not approach the fence, which was at some distance from +the house. He simply stood near the porch with his old hat on the back of +his red head, his long arms crooked, his hands thrust into his pockets, +and upon his face a sardonic grin that seemed broader than anything in +his whole physical economy. + +“Kem down hyar. I hev a word ter say ter ye,” called Ike. + +He felt as if he were dreaming when instead of replying Skimpy swayed +himself grotesquely and mockingly about, and began to sing with +outrageous fluctuations from the key “Oh-aw-e-Mister Coon! Oh-aw-i-Mister +Ky-une.” + +It seemed a frenzied imitation of himself, and Ike was about to speak +when Skimpy, putting his fingers in his ears that he might not hear Ike, +although to the casual observer it might well seem that he had good +reasons for not wanting to hear himself, bellowed and piped mockingly, +“Oh-aw-i-Mister Kyune! That’s the way he ’lows I sing,” he observed in +an aside to his father, who might have been carved from a corn-cob, for +all the animation he showed, except to silently smoke his corn-cob pipe. + +“I never!” cried Ike indignantly; “somebody hev been settin’ ye ag’in +me—a backbitin’ scamp! An’ I’ll be bound I know who ’twar.” + +But Skimpy’s fingers were in his ears, and he was still swaying back and +forth and making the air shudder with his mock vocalizations. At last Ike +turned away in sheer futility, angered and smarting, but as anxious and +troubled as before. + +Now he was sorry he had not persisted for he had not realized how +immediate and terrible was the danger to Skimpy. He sat still for a +moment, afraid to say aught of the perplexities that racked him, lest +being mistaken he might needlessly implicate Skimpy in any crime that +Binwell might commit. Presently he rose with a look of determination +on his face. The sound of the lifting latch, the cold in-rushing of +the air, the light touch of the flakes of ashes set a-flying from the +hearth, notified Abner that he was solitary by the fire. He heard the +cat purring, the low murmuring of the flames in the chimney, the wind +outside, the voices of the two women busy in the shed-room. + +Another stir of a latch and a presence entered bright even to the blind +man. “All alone-y by hisself-y!” Rosamondy cried as she pattered across +the floor and flung herself into his arms. He shared much baby talk with +Mrs. Cat, but he was not jealous of that esteemed friend, for he was +Rosamondy’s preferred crony. Through her, life had come to mean for him +a present as well as a past, and to hold for him a future and a vista. +He planned for her with the two old women. He had let it be known to all +his relatives that all he had in the world—his horse, his cows, his share +of the cabin, his gun, a captured sabre—was to be hers at his death. +Always in his simple dreams for enriching her, and for her fair fate, +Jerry Binwell’s image would be intruded like some ugly blight upon it +all. He had heretofore thrust away the thought of him, and dreamed on +resolutely. Somehow he could not do this to-night. As he patted her on +the head and heard the silken rustle of her hair beneath his hand, he +could but remember that it was her father risking his life on the rocks, +his liberty, the lurking officer and everlasting ignominy, which must +surely rebound upon her. + +“She wouldn’t know nuthin’ ’bout it now, ef he war branded ez a thief, +but she air a-goin’ ter be a gal ez will keer mightily fur a good name +an’ sech. Jerry Binwell hain’t never hed a good name wuth talkin’ ’bout, +but he ain’t never yit been branded ez a thief.” + +Mrs. Cat was brought and perched upon his knee, and he was required to +shake hands and inquire after her health and that of her family, which +ceremony both he and the poor animal performed lugubriously enough, +although with a certain dexterity, having been trained to it by frequent +repetitions. Rosamondy, however, found herself a better improvisor than +he of conversation for Mrs. Cat, and as she prattled on his anxious +thoughts reverted to the subject. + +“He air her dad, an’ he’ll be disgraced fur life, an’ I could hev +purvented it. Too late! Too late!” he groaned aloud. + +He felt like a traitor as she passed her soft little arm around his neck +and kissed his cheek—pale now, although it had never blanched for shot or +shell. He had both her and Mrs. Cat to hold, and although both were of +squirming tendencies his mind could still steadily pursue its troublous +regrets. + +“But I oughtn’t ter hev done it jes’ fur Rosamondy, nuther. I oughter +hev done it fur the sake of—_folks_! A man oughter keep another man +from doing wrong, ef he kin, same ez ter keep his own score clear—them +ez kin stan’ ter thar guns oughter keer ter keep the whole line from +waverin’, stiddier a-pridin’ tharse’fs on the aim o’ thar one battery. +Laws-a-massy; I wish I hed tole him. I wish I hed gin him a word. He mus’ +be nigh thar now. Ef I jes’ could ketch him! Ef I jes’ could find my way! +I ain’t been nigh thar fur twenty year. Fur one hour o’ sight ter save a +man from crime! Fur one hour o’ sight to hold the battle-line! Fur one +hour o’ sight to do the Lord’s kind will!” + +He was speaking aloud. He had risen from his chair, the little girl and +her cat slipping softly down upon the floor. He took a step forward, both +groping hands outstretched. “Fur one hour o’ sight!” + +“I’ll lead ye, unky Ab,” the child compassionately exclaimed, putting up +her soft, warm hand to his cold trembling fingers. + +“Lead me! yes! Lead me ter Keedon Bluffs,” he cried eagerly. “She kin do +it! She kin save him! Stop,” he caught himself. “Look out, Rosamondy. Air +the night dark?” + +She opened the door; a mild current of air flowed in above her yellow +head, for the wind now was laid. She saw the dark woods gloom around; +the stars glimmer in the vast spaces of the sky; but about the mountain +summit shone an aureola of burnished gold. + +“The moon’s a-risin’,” she said. + +He placed his hand in hers; she stepped sturdily upon the ground. The +door closed, and the hearth was vacant behind them but for the flicker of +the flames, the drowsing dogs, and the purring Mrs. Cat. + + + + +XIII. + + +That night as Skimpy sat with the family group by the fireside in +his father’s cabin, he had much ado to maintain a fictitious flow of +spirits, for at heart he was far from cheerful. Often he would pause, the +laugh fading from his face, and he would lift his head as if listening +intently. Surely the wind had no message for him as it came blaring down +the mountain side! What significance could he detect in the clatter of +the bare boughs of the tree by the door-step that he should turn pale at +their slightest touch on the roof? Then recognizing the sound he would +draw a deep breath of relief, and glance covertly about the circle to +make sure that he had been unobserved. So expert in feigning had poor +Skimpy become that he might have eluded all but the vigilance of a +mother’s eye. + +“Air ye ailin’, Skimpy?” she demanded anxiously. “Ye ’pear ter feel the +wind. Ye shiver every time it blows brief. Be thar enny draught thar in +the chinkin’?” + +“Naw’m!” said Skimpy hastily. “I war jes’ studyin’ ’bout that thar song— + + “‘The sperits o’ the woods ride by on the blast, + An’ a witch they say lives up in the moon. + Heigh! Ho! Jine in the chune! + Jine in, neighbor, jine in the chune!’ + +“It jes’ makes my marrer freeze in my bones ter sing that song,” Skimpy +said when his round fresh voice had quavered away into silence—somehow he +could not sing to-night. + +“Waal, I never set no store by sech,” said his mother. She looked +reassuringly at him over the head of the baby, who slept so much during +the day that he kept late hours, and did his utmost to force the family +to follow his example. He sat on her knee, sturdily upright, although +she held her hand to his back under the mistaken impression that his +youthful spine might be weak; but he had more backbone—literally and +metaphorically—than many much bigger people. He was munching his whole +fist, for his mouth seemed not only large but flexible, and as he gazed +into the fire he soliloquized after an inarticulate fashion. His face +was red; his head was bald except for a slight furze, which was very red, +along the crown; notwithstanding his youth he looked both aged and crusty. + +Bose was at his mistress’s feet. He too sat upright, meditatively +watching the fire with his one eye, and now and then lifting the remnants +of his slit ears with redoubled attention as the wind took a fiercer +twirl about the chimney. Occasionally as the baby’s monologue grew loud +and vivacious, Bose wagged the stump of his tail in joy and pride, and it +thwacked up and down on the floor. + +It was a very cheerful hearth—the grinding tidiness of Mrs. Sawyer showed +its value when one glanced about the well-ordered room; at the clean pots +and pans and yellow and blue ware on the shelves; at the bright tints of +the quilts on the bed and of the hanks of yarn and strings of peppers +hanging from the rafters that harbored no cobwebs; at the clear blazes +unhindered by ashes. + +Obadiah with his fiddle under his chin was directly in front of the +fire. He was tightening and twanging the strings; now and then cocking +the instrument close to his ear to better distinguish the vibrations. +There are few musicians who have a more capable and discerning air than +Obadiah affected in those impressive moments of preparation. His three +brothers sat on a bench, drawn across the hearth in the chimney corner, +its equilibrium often endangered, for the two at one end now and again +engaged in jocose scuffling, and Skimpy in the corner was barely heavy +enough to keep it from upsetting. Sometimes their father, solemnly +smoking his corn-cob pipe, would, with a sober sidelong glance and a deep +half-articulate voice, admonish them to be quiet, and their efforts in +this direction would last for a few moments at least. In one of these +intervals their father spoke suddenly to Skimpy. + +“I war downright glad ye tuk Ike up ez short ez ye done this evenin’, +Skimp,” he said. “Though,” he added, with an afterthought, “I don’t want +ye to gin yerse’f up ter makin’ game o’ folks.” + +“’Twar him ez fust made game o’ me,” said Skimpy, ruefully, the taunt +devised by the ingenious Binwell still rankling deep in his simple heart. + +The twanging fiddle-strings were suddenly silent. Obadiah looked up with +a fiery glance. “What gin the critter the insurance ter make game o’ +you-uns, Skimp?” he demanded angrily. + +Until today Skimpy had never mentioned his grievance, so deeply cut down +was his self-esteem, and so reduced his pride in his “gift in quirin’.” +He had hardly understood it himself, but he dreaded to have the family +know how low his powers were rated lest they too think poorly of them. +For Skimpy himself had come to doubt his gift—the insidious jeer had +roused the first self-distrust that had ever gnawed him. His voice no +longer sounded to him so full, so sweet, and loud, and buoyant. He sang +only to quaver away, forlorn and incredulous after the first few tones. +No more soaring melodies for him. He could only fitfully chirp by the +wayside. + +“He ’lowed,” said Skimpy, turning red, “ez I couldn’t sing—ez Bose, +thar, could sing better’n _me_—hed a better voice; Bose, yander, mind ye.” + +Bose at the sound of his name looked up with a sleepy inquiry in his +single eye. Skimpy did not notice, but began to wheeze and rasp forth,— + +“‘Oh-aw-ee-ye, Mister Kyune, Oh, Mister Kyune!’ That’s the way he ’lowed +I sing.” + +“Dell-law!” Obadiah’s flexible lips distended in a wide and comprehensive +sneer that displayed many large irregular teeth, and was in more ways +than one far from beautiful. But to Skimpy no expression had ever seemed +so benignant, indicating as it did the strength of fraternal partisanship. + +“He’s jes’ gredgin’ ye, Skimp,” cried Obadiah. “Else he be turned a +bodacious idjit! He air a idjit fur the lack o’ sense! Shucks!”—his +manner was the triumph of lofty contempt as he again lifted his violin to +his ear—“don’t ye ’sturb me ag’in ’bout Ike Guyther. Don’t ye, now.” + +The two boys who sat at the end of the bench talked together, so eager +were they to express their scorn. “The whole Smoky Mountings knows +better’n that!” cried one belligerently. + +“Nobody kin sing like Skimpy—sings like a plumb red-headed mocking-bird, +an’ Ike knows that fac’ ez well ez road ter mill,” said the other. + +His mother had almost dropped the baby, who made a great lunge toward +Bose. “Why,” she cried, “Skimpy gits his singin’ ways right straight from +his gran-dad Grisham—_my_ dad—ez war knowed ter be the mos’ servigrous +singer they hed ennywhar roun’ in this kentry fifty year ago. I hev hearn +all the old folks tell ’bout’n his singin’ an’ his fiddlin’ when he war +young, an’ I ’members he sung fune’l chunes whenst he war a old man; +he hed gin up the ways o’ the worl’ an’ he wouldn’t sing none ’ceptin’ +’round the buryin’ groun’ whenst they war c’mittin’ some old friend ter +the yearth. An’ his voice would sound strange—strange, an’ sweet an’ +wild, like the water on the rocks in a lonesome place, or the voice of a +sperit out’n the sky. Oh my!—oh my!”—she was rocking herself to and fro +with the baby in her arms, her distended eyes looking far down the vistas +of the past. “How I ’members it—how I ’members it!” + +Hark! Skimpy starts with a sudden shock. Was that the beating of the +boughs on the roof, drum-like, or a rub-a-dub measure played with two +pea-sticks on the rail fence of the garden—the signal by which Jerry +Binwell was to summon him should he conclude to try the hazardous +enterprise this night? The wind—only the wind; wild weather without! +Thankful he was to be left to this cheerful fireside, and the warm +partisan hearts so near akin to him. + +“I wonder ye didn’t larrup Ike, Skimpy,” said Obadiah. “Ye could do it. +He’s heavy, but mighty clumsy. Ye could run aroun’ him fifty times whilst +he war a-turnin’ his fat sides roun’.” + +Obadiah knitted his brows and nodded confidently at Skimpy. + +“I never thunk ’bout fightin’,” responded Skimpy. “My feelin’s war jes’ +so scrabbled up I never keered fur nuthin’ else! Arter Ike an’ me hed +been so frien’ly too!” + +“That’s like my dad. Skimpy’s like his gran-dad,” said Mrs. Sawyer, +dreamily. “He war tender an’ easy hurt in his feelin’s.” + +Like that saintly old man! How _could_ she think it. Skimpy was ready to +burst into tears. And yet, he argued, there was nothing wicked about what +he was to do. He wished only to help Jerry Binwell to secure the box of +papers that could do naught but harm now—to help a man who could have no +other aid. Why did the enterprise terrify him as a crime might? he asked +himself in exasperation. Certainly as far as he could see there was no +mischief in it. As far as he could see! Alas, Skimpy! How shortsighted +a boy is apt to be! He began to say to himself that it was because +everybody was down on Binwell, being poor and therefore unpopular, that +he too was influenced by the prevalent feelings, even when he sought +to be friendly. Yet this reasoning was specious. If it had involved no +disobedience, his heart would have been light enough. He could have gone +along gayly with his father, whom he trusted, and explored every chasm +and cavity in Keedon Bluffs, or, for the matter of that, in the Great +Smoky Mountains. But as he listened for the summons—a faint travesty of +a drum-beat on the rail fence—he would grow rigid and pale, and when +the boughs swaying in the blast touched with quick, tremulous twigs the +clapboards of the roof with a tapping sound, he shivered, and started +from his seat, and fell back again, hot and cold by turns. + +“I be glad fur ye ter hev no mo’ ter do with them Guythers, ennyhow,” +said his father gravely. “They hev acted mighty strange bout’n Jerry +Binwell—an’ ef they consorts with sech ez him me an’ mine can’t keep +in sech comp’ny. Folks hev tuk ter specla’tin’ powerful bout’n Ab an’ +him hevin’ been sech enemies—Ab war blinded through his treachery—an’ +now livin’ peaceable together under one roof. Some folks ’low ez Ab hev +got his reasons fur it, an’ they ain’t honest ones. I ain’t a-goin’ ter +pernounce on that; I ain’t a-goin ter jedge, kase I don’t want ter be +jedged. I reckon I’d show up powerful small—though honest—thar ain’t no +two ways ’bout that, I thank the mercy. But ye done mighty well, Skimpy, +ter gin up yer frien’ like I tole yer ter do thout no questions, kase +this Binwell war thar. Ye’ll l’arn one day ez I hed a reason—a mighty +good one, too.” + +He sucked his pipe sibilantly. “Ye done mighty well, Skimpy,” he repeated +with an earnest sidelong glance at his son. + +Skimpy listened, half choking with the confession that crowded to his +lips. And yet how could he divulge that he had given up Ike indeed for +Binwell himself; how could he confide Binwell’s secret of the Bluffs, the +story of the courier and his hidden box and the order to be shot as a +deserter; and above all, how could he admit having assisted in throwing +away old Corbin’s ladder—the malice and the mischief of it frightened him +even yet. + +“I’ll tell ez soon ez I kin put it back. I’ll tell dad ennyhows; I hev +got ter holp Jerry Binwell this time, but arter that I’ll never go along +o’ him ag’in,” he thought, as he stared pale and abstractedly at his +father, who was tilted back in his chair contentedly smoking his pipe. + +Obadiah twanged gleefully on his fiddle while the firelight and shadows +danced to the measure; the other two boys scuffled merrily with one +another, sometimes leaving the bench to “wrastle” about the floor, +falling heavily from time to time. The baby sputtered and crowed and +grabbed Bose’s ear in a strong mottled fist until that amiable animal +showed the white of his eye in gazing pleadingly upward at the infantile +tyrant. The wind whirled about the house, the door shook, and the +branches of the tree close by thrashed the roof. + +“Why, Skimpy, how mournful ye look!” exclaimed Mrs. Sawyer. + +“Shucks!” said Obadiah fraternally, “ye needn’t be mournin’ over Ike an’ +his comp’ny. I wouldn’t gin a pig-tail, nor a twist of one, fur Ike!” + +“Ye hev got comp’ny a plenty at home,” exclaimed Mrs. Sawyer, “with yer +three big brothers”— + +“An’ the baby,” cried one of the wrestlers pausing for breath. + +“An’ Bose,” added the other, red-faced and panting. + +“Laws-a-massy, Skimp,” exclaimed Obadiah, rising to the heights of +heroism, “I’ll gin ye the loan o’ my fiddle. Thar!” + +He placed the instrument in Skimpy’s trembling hand, and laid the bow +across his knee. And this from Obadiah, who had always seemed without +feeling except for his own music! + +Their kindness melted Skimpy, who held the instrument up to his agitated +face as if to shield it from observation, and burst into tears. + +“Waal, sir!” exclaimed the wrestlers in chorus. + +“Tut—tut—Skimpy boy!” said his father in remonstrance. + +Obadiah’s face was anxious. “Jes’ lean a leetle furder ter the right, +Skimp,” he said, “don’t drap no tears inter the insides o’ that thar +fiddle—might sp’ile it tee-totally.” + +Skimpy held the violin well to one side, and wept as harmlessly as +he might. He found a great relief in his sobs, a relaxation of the +nervous tension—he might have told them all then had it not been for the +inopportune solicitude of his mother. + +“Ye hed better go ter bed, sonny. I know it’s early yit, but ye look +sorter raveled out. Ye better go ter bed an’ git a good sleep, an’ ye +won’t keer nuthin’ ’bout Ike an’ his aggervations in the mornin’.” + +Skimpy, still carefully holding the precious violin, sat on the bench +for a moment longer, struggling with that extreme reluctance to retire +which is characteristic of callow humanity. But he felt that it would be +better to be out of the sight of them all; he might be tempted to say or +do something that he would regret afterward; he rose slowly, and with +an averted face, held the fiddle and bow out toward Obadiah who grasped +them with alacrity, glad enough that his generosity had not resulted in +the total destruction of the instrument in which his heart was bound up. +Skimpy with slow tread and a downcast look which greatly impressed the +two sympathetic wrestlers, who were standing still now and gravely gazing +after him, took his way up the ladder in the corner which ascended into +the roof-room of the cabin. He paused when he had almost reached the top, +turned and glanced down doubtfully at the group below. + +The flames, yellow and red, filled all the chimney, and the little +room was brave in the golden glow. Already the two wrestlers were +again matching strength in friendly rivalry, seizing each other by the +waist, and swaying hither and thither with sudden jerks to compass a +downfall—their combined shadow on the wall reeling after them seemed some +big, frightful two-headed monster. Obadiah’s cheek was tenderly bent upon +the violin; a broad smile was on his face as the whisking bow in his deft +handling drew out the tones. The baby’s stalwart grip on Bose’s ear had +begun to elicit a long, lingering, wheezing whine for mercy, not unlike +the violin’s utterance; it ended in a squeak before Mrs. Sawyer noticed +how the youngster was enjoying himself. + +“Pore Bose!” she cried as she unloosed the mottled pink and purple fist, +and then with a twirl she whisked the baby around on her lap with his +back to his victim. A forgiving creature was Bose, for as the baby’s +bald head turned slowly on its neck and the staring round eyes looked +after the dog, Skimpy could hear his stump of a tail wagging in cheerful +fealty to the infant, and thwacking the floor—although the wrestlers were +unusually noisy, although the violin droned and droned, and although the +winds sang wildly without and the sibilant leaves whirled. + +Skimpy hesitated even then for a moment as he stood on the ladder; +finally he mounted the remaining rungs, his story untold. + +It was not very dark in the roof-room; through the aperture in the floor, +where the ladder came up, rose the light from the fire below, and there +were many cracks which served the same purpose of illumination. Skimpy +could see well enough the two beds where he and his brothers were wont to +sleep. Garments hung from the rafters, familiar some of them and often +worn, and others were antique and belonged to elders in the family long +ago dead; these had never been taken down since placed there by their +owners; several were falling to pieces, shred by shred, others were +still fresh and filled out, and bore a familiar air of humanity. + +Skimpy did not approach the beds, he quietly crossed the room to the +gable end, paused to listen, then opened the batten shutter of a little +glassless window beside the chimney. Dark—how dark it was as he thrust +out his head; he started to hear a dull swaying of the garments, among +the rafters, as if they clothed again life and motion. Only the illusion +of the wind, he remembered, as he strove to calm the tumultuous throbbing +of his heart, his head instinctively turning toward the fluttering +vestments that he could barely see. + +The wind still piped—not so sonorous a note, however; failing cadences +it had and dying falls, as of a song that is sung to the end. Once again +the boughs beat upon the eaves—and, what was that! Skimpy’s heart gave a +great plunge, and he felt the blood rush to his head. A faint clatter—a +ra-ta-ta, beaten drum-like on the rail fence of the “garden spot”—or was +it his fancy? + +The wind comes again down the gorge. The althea bushes and the holly +shiver together. The dead Indian corn, standing writhen and bent in the +fields, sighs and sighs for the sere season. And the boughs of the tree +lash the roof. An interval. And once more—ra-ta-ta! from the garden +fence! And ra-ta-ta, again. + + + + +XIV. + + +The group below took no heed how the time passed. Thinking of it +afterward, they said it seemed only a few moments before they heard +amongst the fitful gusts of the wind, wearing away now, and the dull +stirring of the tree without, a hurried, irregular footstep suddenly +falling on the porch, a groping, nervous hand fumbling at the latch. + +“Hev ye los’ yer manners ez ye can’t knock at the door,” said Peter +Sawyer sardonically, speaking through his teeth, for he still held his +pipe-stem in his mouth. + +Ike had burst in without ceremony and stood upon the threshold, holding +the door in one hand and gazing about with wild eyes, half blinded by the +light, uncertain whether Skimpy was really absent or overlooked among the +rest. + +“I—I—kem ter see Skimpy,” he faltered. + +Mrs. Sawyer had set the baby on the floor beside Bose, and had folded her +arms stiffly. She looked at Ike with heightened color and a flashing eye. + +“Waal, I ain’t keerin’ ef ye never see Skimpy ag’in,” she said +indignantly, “considerin’ the way ye treat him. That thar boy air tender +in his feelin’s, an’ he hev been settin’ hyar an’ cryin’ his eyes out +’count o’ you-uns. Ye want ter torment him some mo’, I s’pose.” + +Ike stared bewildered. “I ain’t never tormented Skimp none ez I knows on.” + +“Ye ain’t!” exclaimed Obadiah, scornfully. Then grotesquely +distorting his face he careened to one side and began to wheeze +distractingly—“Oh—aw—yi-i, Mister Ky-une, Oh—aw—ee-ee, Mister Ky-une.” + +As Ike still stood holding the door open, the flames bowed fantastically +before the wind, sending puffs of smoke into the room and scurrying ashes +about the hearth. + +“Kem in, ef ye air a-comin’, an’ go out ef ye air a-goin’,” said Mrs. +Sawyer tartly. “Ennyhow we-uns will feel obligated ef ye’ll shet that +door.” + +The invitation was none too cordial, but Ike availed himself of the +opportunity to speak, since the matter was so important. + +He closed the door and sat down on the end of the bench where Skimpy had +been sitting so short a time before. + +“Skimp ’lows that’s the way ye mocked him,” said Obadiah. “An’ ye wants +ter see him ag’in, do ye? Ef I war Skimp I’d gin ye sech a dressin’ ez +ye wouldn’t want ter see _me_ ag’in soon.” He winked fiercely at Ike and +nodded his head. Then he stuck his violin under his chin and began to saw +away once more as if nothing had happened. + +Ike gave a great gulp as if he literally swallowed a bitter dose in +taking Obadiah’s defiance; the strain on his temper was severe, but he +succeeded in controlling himself. It was in a calm and convincing voice +that he said:— + +“Oby, ye an’ me, an’ Skimp, and the t’others”—pointing to the tangled-up +wrestlers—“hev been too good frien’s ter be parted by folks tattlin’ +lies an’ tales from one ter ’nother. I never said sech. I never mocked +Skimpy’s singin’ sence I been born. I hev sot too much store by Skimp +fur that, an’ he oughter know it.” + +Mrs. Sawyer’s expression softened. “Ye only would hev proved yerse’f a +idjit ef ye hed faulted Skimpy’s singin’,” she said. Then, still more +genially—“Set up closer ter the fire. It mus’ be airish out’n doors. Who +d’ye reckon tole Skimp sech a wicked, mean story on ye?” + +Ike trembled in his eagerness to tell. “I dunno fur true, Mis’ Sawyer, +and mebbe I oughtn’t ter say, but I b’lieves it be Jerry Binwell, kase +Skimpy hev been goin’ a powerful deal with him lately, an’”— + +Peter Sawyer turned suddenly upon the boy. “The truth ain’t in ye, Ike +Guyther. Ye knows ez yer dad an’ yer uncle, an’ yerse’f an’ yer folks +ginerally, air the only critters in the Cove ez would ’sociate with Jerry +Binwell, an’ live in fellowship with him under the same roof. I ’low they +air crazy—plumb bereft. It’s yer folks ez hev harbored him hyar, an’ ye +can’t tar Skimpy with sayin’ he consorts with sech. I forbid Skimp ever +ter go with you-uns enny mo’, so’s ter keep him out’n Binwell’s way. +Now, sir; ye can’t shoulder him off on Skimpy!” + +Ike’s face turned scarlet. “I hev glimpsed Skimp with him ag’in an’ +ag’in. An’ I b’lieves he be a-goin’ ter git Skimp inter mischief.” + +Obadiah laid his fiddle down on his knee, pursed up his lips, and looked +aggravatingly cross-eyed at Ike, up from his toes to the crown of his +head. + +“’Twouldn’t take much mo’, Ike, ter make _me_ settle you-uns,” he +observed. + +“I ain’t keerin’ fur you-uns, Obadiah!” cried Ike. “I hev kem ter say +my say—an’ I’m a-goin’ ter do it. I b’lieve Jerry Binwell air arter old +Squair Torbett’s money what folks ’low he hid in a box in a hollow o’ +Keedon Bluffs.” + +Peter Sawyer’s pipe had fallen from his hand, and the fire and tobacco +and ashes rolled out upon the hearth. He gave it no heed. He sat +motionless, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his surprised, +intent eyes fixed upon the boy’s face. + +“I never s’picioned at fust what he war arter, though I seen him foolin’ +roun’ them Bluffs an’ a-climbin’ on the ledges. But I knowed ’twar +suthin’ cur’us. An’ whenst I seen Skimp along o’ him so much I kem hyar +this evenin’ an’ tried ter warn him. But ter-night I hearn Jerry Binwell +ax uncle Ab—him it war ez holped the Squair hide the box whilst Jerry +Binwell watched—what hollow he hid it in.” + +“An’—an’—did Ab tell him?” demanded Peter Sawyer, leaning down, +his excited face close to Ike’s, his eyes full of curiosity and +more—intention, suspicion. + +Once again Ike recognized the false position into which his uncle was +thrust. How could any man’s honest repute survive a misunderstanding like +this? He realized that in his eager desire to save his friend his tongue +had outstripped his prudence. + +“I jes’ wanter tell Skimp what I hearn,” he said, declining to answer +categorically, “an’ then let him go on with Binwell ef he wants ter. I +war feared he’d purvail on Skimp, by foolin’ him somehows, ter snake +inter them hollows an’ git that box fur him. Whar be Skimp?” + +“Asleep in bed, whar he oughter be, Ike,” said Skimpy’s mother +contentedly rocking by the fire. + +Peter Sawyer hesitated for a moment. Then he slowly rose. “’Twon’t hurt +Skimp ter wake him up. He mought ez well hear this ez not.” + +He winked at his wife. He thought that if Skimpy were present he himself +would hear more of the whereabouts of the box, which might prove of +service in the constable’s search for it, when the ladder could be found +or a substitute provided. He walked toward the primitive stairway, +feeling very clever and a trifle surprised at the promptitude and acumen +of his decision. He himself would wake Skimpy in order to give him a +quiet caution not to become involved in any quarrel that might restrain +or prevent Ike’s disclosure. He tramped slowly and heavily up the ladder +as if he were not used to it, and indeed he seldom ascended into the +roof-room, its chief use being that of a dormitory for the boys. As he +left the bright scene below, suffused with mellow light, the shadows +began to gloom about him as if they came down a rung or two to meet +him or to lend him a helping hand; he raised his eyebrows and peered +curiously about. His head was hardly above the level of the floor of the +loft before he became aware that the roof-room was full of motion. He +gave a sudden start, and stood still to stare, to collect his senses that +surely had played him false. No,—solemnly wavering to and fro, a pace +here, a measure there, was the gaunt company of old clothes, visible in +the glimmer through the crevices of the floor, and bearing the semblance +of life in the illusions of the faint light and the failing shadow, as +if they had outwitted fate somehow, despite their owners’ mounds in the +little mountain graveyard. Peter Sawyer gasped—then he shivered. And it +was, perhaps, this involuntary expression of physical discomfort which +led his mind to judge of cause and effect. “The winder mus’ be open,” he +said through his chattering teeth. + +The next moment he saw it—he saw the purplish square amidst the darkness +of the walls; the naked boughs of the tree without; and high, high—for he +was looking upward—the massive looming mountain, and the moon, the yellow +waning moon, rising through the gap in the range. + +“The wind’s laid,” he muttered, “or the flappin’ o’ that thar shutter +would hev woke the boy afore this time.” + +He clumsily ascended the remaining rungs and strode across the floor to +Skimpy’s bed, looking now with curious half-averted eyes at the lifelike +figures of the old clothes, and then at the yellow moon shining through +the little window into the dusky place, and drawing the shadow of the +neighboring tree upon the floor. + +Sawyer’s hand touched the pillow. + +“Skimpy!” he said. And again, “Skimpy!” + +It was a louder tone. A penetrating quality it had, charged as it was +with a sudden, keen fear. + +“Fetch a light!” he cried, running to the top of the ladder, dashing away +the spectral garments. “Fetch the lantern, Oby, or a tallow dip.” + +Below they heard his quick footsteps returning to the bed as they sprang +up, affrighted, yet hardly knowing what had happened. + +“Skimpy!” his voice sounded strong again—reassured; he could not, would +not believe this thing. “Quit foolin’, sonny; whar hev ye hid?” + +Skimpy’s mother had waited for neither the candle nor the lantern; she +mounted the ladder by the light of the fire, and she understood what had +happened almost as soon as Ike did, as pale and dismayed he looked over +her shoulder into the dusky garret. The golden moonlight fell through the +little window upon the slowly-pacing clothes, and drew the image of the +bare tree upon the floor, and slanted upon the empty bed by which Peter +Sawyer stood crying aloud—“He hev gone, wife; he hev gone!” + + + + +XV. + + +The great gray sandstone heights of Keedon Bluffs began to glimmer in +the midst of the black night when the yellow moon, slow and pensive, +showed its waning disk, half veiled with a fibrous mist, in the gap of +the eastern mountain. The woods were still densely dark on the other side +of the road. A slender beech, white and spectral, was dimly suggested at +their verge, shuddering and shivering in the last vagrant gust of the +wind. Skimpy glanced fearfully at it for a moment as he came softly down +the road and then he stood shivering too, with his hands in his pockets. + +A swift, dark figure, as noiseless as if unhampered with substance, +appeared at his side, and a husky, wheezing voice murmured suddenly—“Hyar +we air, Skimp!” + +Even so bated a tone did not elude the alert echo. “S-Skimp-imp-mp,” the +Bluffs were sibilantly multiplying the tones. It seemed to Skimpy that +some vague spy of the earth or of the air was repeating the sound to +charge its memory with the word. He could ill trust even Keedon Bluffs +with the secret of his name now, and he looked with futile deprecation +over his shoulder at every whisper of the familiar word. + +“Don’t talk!” he said nervously. + +“Shucks!” exclaimed Binwell; “I’d sing ef I war minded ter—an’ ef I hed +a pipe like yourn. What ails ye ter be so trembly? ’Tain’t no s’prisin’ +job—it’s fun, boy! An’ ter-morrer ye and me will go an’ cut down them +pines an’ git old Fat-sides’ ladder out’n ’em.” + +Skimpy plucked up a little. The prospect of retrieving his folly +reassured him. It was the hour, the secrecy of his escape from the +roof-room window at home, the atmosphere of mystery that surrounded the +adventure, he endeavored to think, rather than any distrust of Jerry +Binwell, which shook his nerves. He lent himself with docile acquiescence +to a sort of harness of rope which the man slipped over his head and +secured beneath his armpits, one end fastened to Binwell’s arm. Its +ostensible use was to aid the boy while climbing, in case he should slip +among the ledges. A mind prone to suspicion might have deemed its utility +most pronounced in preventing Skimpy from hiding anew or making off with +anything of value which he might find hidden in the hollows. + +There were no shadows on the brow of the precipice when the golden +rays from the moon rested broadly upon the road or journeyed in long +stately files down the sylvan vistas. Both man and boy had slipped from +the verge, and were clambering along the jagged, oblique ledges of the +Bluffs, Skimpy often stayed and helped by the strong hand of the other. +The moon was higher now in the sky. A white radiant presence suddenly +began to walk upon the water. Down between the banks it came, upon the +lustrous darkness of the current and the mirrored shadows, diffusing +softest splendor, most benignant and serene. Skimpy, pausing to rest, +hearing the stir of the pines on the opposite bank and the musical +monotone of the river, stood mopping his brow and clinging to the strong +arm held out to him; he abruptly pointed out the reflection of the moon +to his companion, and asked if it did not remind him of that night on a +distant sea when Christ came walking along the troubled waves. + +A sudden great lurch! It was not Skimpy, but Binwell—the athlete—who +started abruptly, and almost fell from the Bluff into the water far +below. He recovered himself with an oath. + +“Ain’t ye got no better sense, ye weasel! ’n ter set out with sech +senseless, onexpected gabble in sech a job ez this? Naw, it don’t look +like nuthin’—nuthin’ but a powerful onlucky wanin’ moon, a-showin’ how +the time’s a-wastin’. Ye hustle yer bones else I’ll drap ye down thar an’ +then ye’ll find out what’s walked on the water.” + +Skimpy said nothing; he heartily wished he was on the top of Keedon +Bluffs once more. Their steps dislodged now and then a bit of stone from +the rock that fell with a ringing sound against the face of the Bluffs +into the river. Sometimes clods dropped with a muffled thud; every +moment the moon grew brighter. There were no more stoppages on the way. +Binwell urged the boy on whenever he would pause for breath, and it was +not long before they were near the gaping cavities that looked grewsome +and uninviting enough as Skimpy approached. He cast one despairing glance +up at the face of the cliffs—it seemed that he could never again stand +on the summit, so long, so toilsome was the way. He might have thought +it short enough with some hearty comrade. For Binwell’s grasp was savage +now on the boy’s arm; he cursed Skimpy under his breath whenever a step +faltered. He no longer cared to be smooth, to propitiate. “He’d take me +by the scruff o’ the neck, an’ pitch me into the ruver ef I didn’t do his +bid now, bein’ ez I can’t holp myself,” thought Skimpy, appalled. + +A pity that a boy cannot inherit his father’s experience—but must learn +wisdom as it were under the lash! + +Very black indeed the first of the cavities was as he passed; he hardly +dared look within the embrasure-like place; no grim muzzle of a gun +he beheld, no bursting shell flung forth; only a bat’s soft, noiseless +wings striking him in the face as he climbed by on the ledge below. The +second hollow was passed too, and now for the third. Binwell stopped +the boy, and began to rearrange the cords beneath his arms. “Confound +ye,” he said, his fingers trembling over the knots as he lifted his eyes +reproachfully to the boy’s face, “ye hev got me plumb upset with yer fool +talk—I ’lowed jes’ now I hearn leetle Rosamondy a-callin’ me.” + +The rocks were vibrating softly—but could the echoes of Keedon Bluffs +repeat the fancy of a sound! + +Skimpy stretched his arm into the cavity as far as it might go, half +expecting it to be snatched by the claw of a witch; but no—his empty palm +closed only on the clammy air. + +“Up with ye!” said Jerry impatiently. + +One moment—and there were the duskily purple mountains, the gray +obscurity of the misty intervals, the lustrous darkness of the river, +the fair sky, and the reigning moon; then the vault-like blackness of the +hollow. + +The boy scuffled along it for a few moments, “snakin’ it,” he called the +process, and feeling like so much pith in the bark. Binwell still paid +out the cord as Skimpy crept further and further, and then— + +What was the matter with the rocks! Endowed with Rosamond’s voice they +called him again and again, with dulcet treble iteration that was like +the fine vibrations of a stringed instrument all in tune. He listened, +paling a little; it was no fancy; he was discovered. He stood his ground +for the nonce. What affinity for harm and wrong! The coward might be +brave for a space. + +Another voice; he jerked nervously at the cord on Skimpy’s arm. It was +Abner’s voice; he was on the summit of the Bluffs. He too was calling +aloud: + +“Kem up, Jerry, ’tain’t no use. Kem up.” + +Jerry made no answer; he muttered only to himself, “Ye’ll fall off’n the +aidge o’ that Bluff unbeknown ter yerse’f, ole mole!” + +Abner began anew and all the echoes were pleading and insistent. “Kem +up, Jerry! Ye’ll be deesgraced fur life, and hyar’s leetle Rosamondy +a-waitin’ fur ye!” + +Jerry was standing breathless, for Skimpy within was suddenly motionless. +Then the cord grew slack in his hand, for the boy was coming out backward. + +Binwell gave no heed to the commotion on the summit. A heavy, clanking +metallic sound had caught his ear—it was the money-box of the Squire +which the boy was dragging out, every moment coming nearer to that +clutching, quivering hand. + +Ah, Rosamond, calling in vain! Give it up, old soldier! No battle-cry of +honor can rally comrades like this. But they pressed perilously close to +the edge of the cliff—the blind man and the little child—beginning to +sob together with dreary helplessness and futility, and casting their +hopeless entreaties upon the night air, the echoes joining their pleas +with wild insistence, and the forest silence holding its breath that no +wistful word might be lost. + +And thus others found them, shadowy figures as stealthily approaching as +if the blind man could see, and the confiding little child wonder;—two, +three, four, five figures pausing on the summit of the cliff, watching in +intensest excitement the man on the ledge, and, slowly emerging from the +cavity, dragging after him an iron box twelve inches square perhaps and +weighty to handle, a boy, slight, agile, unmistakable. + +Skimpy, covered with dust, choking, out of breath, confused by the sound +of voices on the summit and the clamor of the echoes, hardly knew how it +was that he should hear in the medley the familiar tones of his father +calling on Heaven to pity him, for his son was a thief! He heard too the +voice of the child and the blind soldier’s entreaties. And then the sharp +tones of the constable rang out—“Surrender thar—or I fire!” His senses +reeled as Binwell, catching the box from his hands, turned and with quick +leaps like a fox’s clambered on down the ledges. The cord was still +about Skimpy’s shoulders; with a sharp twist he came to his knees in +great pain; then the end of the rope swung slack below, and he knew that +Binwell had just cut it to liberate himself—a great splash in the river +told that he had taken to the water and the constable’s bullet whizzed by +the Bluffs a second too late. + +“He’ll hev ter gin up the box time I light out arter him,” cried the +constable; “I’ll meet up with him by the ruver-bank. He can’t run fur +with a heavy box full o’ gold an’ silver.” + +There was no use in keeping the secret longer. + +“It’s full o’ sand!” cried the blind man with dreary contempt in the +fact. “The Squair kerried it full o’ sand whenst he buried it—jes’ fur +a blind. He knowed Jerry s’picioned he hed money an’ he never trested +him. Jerry kep’ watch, an’ I clomb the Bluffs, an’ hid the box. Whar the +Squair an’ me actially hid the money war in a hollow o’ one o’ the logs +o’ his house, an’ thar’s whar the money war kep’ till the e-end o’ the +war. The heirs knowed it all the time. Write ter Arkansas an’ ax the one +ez be livin’ thar.” + +A relish was added to the excitement which the events produced +throughout the Cove next day by the gossips’ speculations on Binwell’s +disappointment—how he must have looked, what he must have said, when he +felt sufficiently safe to open the box and found it full of sand. For +he made good his escape, the pursuit being given over instantly upon +the discovery that he had stolen nothing worth having. The constable +contented himself with declaring that he should never again come within +the district save to be ushered into the county jail. The neighborhood +cronies congregated at the store and talked the matter over, each having +some instance of Binwell’s duplicity to relate. All were willing enough +to credit Peter Sawyer’s account of how Skimpy had been deluded into +assisting Binwell’s scheme by the pretense that there were only papers +hidden in the box which he had a right to destroy. Notwithstanding the +fact that no suspicion rested upon him, Skimpy was not for a long time +so blithe a lad as before he climbed down Keedon Bluffs. And he is ready +now to believe that his father learned a good many things in those years +of seniority which are still unknown to him, and he has some respect for +experience. It is not necessary to scald him now in order to convince him +that boiling water is—as it is said to be—hot. + +The blind man’s story was amply confirmed by a letter from the surviving +heir who had been told by his father of the hoax of the hidden box, and +who had always relished its mystery, since it had served its purpose and +had diverted plunder and search from the hoard concealed in the wall. + +At Hiram Guyther’s cabin, however, the gossip had no zest. For the first +time a deep gloom had fallen on the blind soldier’s face as he sat in his +enforced inactivity, a-wasting his life away in the chimney corner. His +gray hair hardly seemed so incongruous now, for an ashen furrowed pallid +anxiety had replaced the florid tints of cheek and brow. Sometimes he +would rise from his chair and stride back and forth the length of the +room; now and again a deep sigh would burst from him. + +“I wouldn’t mind it, Ab,” Mrs. Guyther would say in her comforting soft +drawl. “Ye done all ye could—more ’n enny other man would, ’flicted with +blindness. Fairly makes me shiver whenst I ’member ye an’ Rosamondy +walkin’ along them cliffs in the dead o’ night like ye done.” + +“She’ll never be able ter live through it when she finds out ’bout her +dad; she’s a gal ez be a-goin’ ter hev a heap o’ feelin’s,” he would +groan, with prescient grief for the gay Rosamond’s future woes. “It’ll +plumb kill her ter know she don’t kem o’ honest folks. Ef it don’t—it’s +wuss yit; fur it’ll break her sperit, an’ that’s like livin’ along ’thout +a soul; sorter like walkin’ in yer sleep.” + +And even Ike’s mother could say naught to this. + +Only on aunt Jemima’s countenance a grim satisfaction began to dawn. She +was not an optimist; nevertheless she contrived to extract a drop of +honey from all this wormwood. + +“It’s all fur the bes’—I’ve hearn that preached all my days. Ev’y body +knowed ennyhow ez he war mean enough fur ennything—ter steal, ef ’casion +riz. An’ he war her dad; couldn’t git roun’ that! All’s fur the bes’! Ef +he hed hev stayed he mought hev tuk a notion ter kerry Rosamondy away +from hyar. _Now_ he don’t dare ter show his nose hyar ag’in. An’ we hev +got Rosamondy safe an’ sure fur good an’ all.” + +So she knitted on with a stern endorsement of the course of events +expressed in her firmly-set lips and the decisive click of her needles. + +Even this view did not mitigate Abner’s grief, and he sorrowed on for +Rosamondy’s sake. + +The secret of Keedon Bluffs once discovered was spread far and wide. +The news, crossing the ranges, penetrated other coves, and was talked +of round many a stranger’s hearth. Even to Persimmon Cove, where Jerry +Binwell had married, the story came, albeit tardily. It was told first +there by the sheriff, who had chanced to be called to that remote and +secluded spot in pursuit of some evil doer hiding in the mountains, +and he gave to the constable, as he passed through Tanglefoot Cove +on his way to the county town, sundry items, gathered during his stay +in Persimmon Cove, which that functionary felt it was his duty to +communicate to the Guythers. + +It was a widow whom Jerry Binwell had married in Persimmon Cove—a young +woman with one child; and when he left the place after her death, he +took his stepdaughter with him; some people said his motive was to spite +her grandmother, with whom he had quarreled, and who had sought to claim +her; others said that it was because the little Rosamond contrived to +keep a strong hold on the heart of every creature that came near her, and +had even won upon Jerry Binwell. Certain it was that old Mrs. Peters, +her grandmother, had heard with great delight the tidings of Rosamond’s +whereabouts, and the sheriff had promised her to acquaint with the facts +the family with whom the child lived. + +Every member of the household felt stunned as by a blow when the +constable had left them to their meditations. Even Rosamond, with all +her merry arts, could not win a smile from the grave and troubled faces +grouped about the fire, and she desisted at last; she leaned her head, +with its floating lengths of golden hair, against the brown logs of the +wall, and looked wistfully at them all with a contemplative finger in her +pink mouth. + +“She hev ter go!” said the upright Hiram Guyther with a sigh, “she ain’t +ourn ter keep.” + +“We hev ter gin her up,” groaned the blind man. + +Mrs. Guyther looked wistfully at her with moist eyes, and dropped a +half-dozen stitches in her knitting. + +And aunt Jemima suddenly threw her blue-checked cotton apron over her +head, and burst into a tumult of passionate tears. “I wisht,” she +exclaimed—wicked old soul!—“thar warn’t no sech thing ez right an’ wrong! +But I don’t keer fur right. An’ I don’t keer fur wrong. They shan’t take +my child away from hyar.” + +Although it wrung their hearts they decided to relinquish their household +treasure. But they temporized as well as their scanty tact would enable +them. A message was sent to old Mrs. Peters, coupled with an invitation +to come and make them a visit. And thus they eked out the weeks. + +One day—a day of doom it seemed to them—there rode up to the door a small +wizened old woman, sharp-eyed, with a high voice and a keen tongue; she +was riding a white mare with a colt at her heels. She scarcely seemed +perturbed by Rosamond’s reluctance to recognize her. The alert eyes took +in first with an amazed stare the child’s cleanly and whole attire, +her delicately tended flowing hair, her fine, full, glowing look of +health; then with more furtive glances she expended what capacity for +astonishment remained to her on the scoured puncheon floor, the neat +women and men, the loom, with a great roll of woven cloth of many yards +hanging to it; the evidences of a carefully adjusted domestic routine, of +thrift and decorum and moral worth; the cooking and quality of the meal +presently set forth on the table. She had not lived so long in this world +to be unable to recognize sterling people when she met them. + +They all talked on indifferent topics for a time. But presently she broke +forth. + +“I dunno ez I oughter up an’ remark it so flat-footed—but I never +expected ter find Jerry Binwell’s friends sech ez you-uns. I wouldn’t hev +rid my mare’s back sore ef I hed. I dunno ez I’d hev kem at all.” + +“Waal,” said Hiram Guyther, “I reckon ’twar leetle Rosamondy ez jes’ +tangled herself up in our heart-strings—an’ that made us put up with +Jerry. We ’lowed he war her dad.” + +“I’m powerful glad he ain’t!” said Abner. + +“I say!” cried the sharp little woman scornfully. “_Her dad_ war a +mighty solid, ’sponsible, ’spectable young man, an’ good-lookin’ till +you couldn’t rest! He’d hev lived till he war eighty ef his gun hedn’t +bust an’ killed him. I dunno what ailed Em’line ter marry sech ez Jerry +arterward. He made way with everything her fust husband lef’ her, an’ +mighty nigh all I hed, ’mongst his evil frien’s an’ drinkin’. But he +always war mighty good ter Rosamondy. I’ll gin him that credit.” + +“Ennybody would be good ter sech a child ez Rosamondy!” cried aunt Jemima. + +“Waal, we war all frien’s ter Jerry, ez fur ez he’d let us be, an’ ter +the leetle gal,” said Hiram, solidly, “an’ I hope, mum, ye’ll let her +spen’ cornsider’ble of her time with us.” + +This was the cautious way it began, although it fired aunt Jemima’s blood +to hear the permission humbly craved instead of claimed as a right. + +But Mrs. Peters smilingly accorded it. She herself had entered upon +a long visit; whenever she made a motion to return, the family so +vehemently demurred that she relented, only stipulating that when she +should depart aunt Jemima should accompany her. She took a sad pleasure +in the talk of the blind artillery-man, her own son, who was killed in +battle, having been in the same command. Abner remembered him after a +time, and told her many things of his army life which she had not before +known. She had a sort of maternal tenderness for his comrade, and loved +to see how Rosamond had blossomed in the waste places of his life. + +“I don’t think ’twould be right ter take her away from Ab,” she said, +when the visit was at last at an end. And so only the two old women went +to Persimmon Cove; together they came back after a time. And thus for +years, the old cronies, cherishing so strong a bond of friendship, have +vibrated on visits to and fro. But whoever comes or goes Rosamond has +never yet left the hearthstone made brighter by her presence. + +And when she and the blind artillery-man walk hand in hand down the shady +road to Keedon Bluffs, she always cries out gleefully when she sees the +great cannon-ball arrested midway on the ledge, and he tells her again +how it must have burst forth from the muzzle of the gun far away, and, +sounding its shrill battle cry, whirled through the air, describing a +great arc against the sky, dropping at last, spent and futile, on the +ledge there above the river. + +“Sometimes,” he says, “sometimes, Rosamondy, I feels ez ef I’d like ter +lay my hand on that ball ef I could git nigh it—’minds me so o’ the war +times; ’twould bring ’em nigher; they seems a-slippin’ away now.” + +“I hate that cannon-ball; it kem so nigh a-killin’ somebody,” says +Rosamondy, “an’ I hate war times. An’ I don’t want folks ter be hurted no +mo’.” + +And in the deep peace of the silent mountain fastnesses and the sheltered +depths of the Cove, they leave the old ball, spent and mute and harmless, +lying on the ledges of Keedon Bluffs, above the reddening river, and take +their way homeward through the sunset glow. + + + + +Standard and Popular Library Books + +SELECTED FROM THE CATALOGUE OF + +HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY. + + +=A Club of One.= An Anonymous Volume, $1.25. + +=Brooks Adams.= The Emancipation of Massachusetts, crown 8vo, $1.50. + +=John Adams and Abigail Adams.= Familiar Letters of, during the +Revolution, 12mo, $2.00. + +=Oscar Fay Adams.= Handbook of English Authors, 16mo, 75 cents; Handbook +of American Authors, 16mo, 75 cents. + +=Louis Agassiz.= Methods of Study in Natural History, Illustrated, 12mo, +$1.50; Geological Sketches, Series I. and II., 12mo, each, $1.50; A +Journey in Brazil, Illustrated, 12mo, $2.50; Life and Letters, edited by +his wife, 2 vols. 12mo, $4.00; Life and Works, 6 vols. $10.00. + +=Anne A. 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Fields.= Yesterdays with Authors, 12mo, $2.00; 8vo, +Illustrated, $3.00; Underbrush, 18mo, $1.25; Ballads and other Verses, +16mo, $1.00; The Family Library of British Poetry, royal 8vo, $5.00; +Memoirs and Correspondence, cr. 8vo, $2.00. + +=John Fiske.= Myths and Mythmakers, 12mo, $2.00; Outlines of Cosmic +Philosophy, 2 vols. 8vo, $6.00; The Unseen World, and other Essays, 12mo, +$2.00; Excursions of an Evolutionist, 12mo, $2.00; The Destiny of Man, +16mo, $1.00; The Idea of God, 16mo, $1.00; Darwinism, and Other Essays, +New Edition, enlarged, 12mo, $2.00. + +=Edward Fitzgerald.= Works. 2 vols. 8vo, $10.00. + +=O. B. Frothingham.= Life of W. H. Channing. Cr. 8vo, $2.00. + +=William H. Furness.= Verses, 16mo, vellum, $1.25. + +=Gentleman’s Magazine Library.= 14 vols. 8vo, each $2.50; Roxburgh, +$3.50; _Large-Paper Edition_, $6.00. I. Manners and Customs. II. Dialect, +Proverbs, and Word-Lore. III. Popular Superstitions and Traditions. +IV. English Traditions and Foreign Customs. 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Gunsaulus.= The Transfiguration of Christ. 16mo, $1.25. + +=Anna Davis Hallowell.= James and Lucretia Mott, $2.00. + +=R. P. Hallowell.= Quaker Invasion of Massachusetts, revised, $1.25. The +Pioneer Quakers, 16mo, $1.00. + +=Arthur Sherburne Hardy.= But Yet a Woman, 16mo, $1.25; The Wind of +Destiny, 16mo, $1.25. + +=Bret Harte.= Works, 6 vols. cr. 8vo, each $2.00; Poems, _Household +Edition_, Illustrated, 12mo, $1.75; cr. 8vo, full gilt, $2.25; _Red-Line +Edition_, small 4to, $2.50; _Cabinet Edition_, $1.00; In the Carquinez +Woods, 18mo, $1.00; Flip, and Found at Blazing Star, 18mo, $1.00; On the +Frontier, 18mo, $1.00; By Shore and Sedge, 18mo, $1.00; Maruja, 18mo, +$1.00; Snow-Bound at Eagle’s, 18mo, $1.00; The Queen of the Pirate Isle, +Illustrated, small 4to, $1.50; A Millionaire, etc., 18mo, $1.00; The +Crusade of the Excelsior, 16mo, $1.25. + +=Nathaniel Hawthorne.= Works, _“Little Classic” Edition_, Illustrated, +25 vols. 18mo, each $1.00; the set $25.00; _New Riverside Edition_, +Introductions by G. P. Lathrop, 11 Etchings and Portrait, 12 vols. cr. +8vo, each $2.00; _Wayside Edition_, with Introductions, Etchings, etc., +24 vols. 12mo, $36.00; _Fireside Edition_, 6 vols. 12mo, $10.00; The +Scarlet Letter, 12mo, $1.00. + +=John Hay.= Pike County Ballads, 12mo, $1.50; Castilian Days, 16mo, $2.00. + +=Caroline Hazard.= Memoir of J. L. Diman. Cr. 8vo, $2.00. + +=Franklin H. Head.= Shakespeare’s Insomnia. 16mo, parchment paper, 75 +cents. + +=The Heart of the Weed.= Anonymous Poems. 16mo, parchment paper, $1.00. + +=S. E. Herrick.= Some Heretics of Yesterday. Cr. 8vo, $1.50. + +=George S. Hillard.= Six Months in Italy. 12mo, $2.00. + +=Oliver Wendell Holmes.= Poems, _Household Edition_, Illustrated, 12mo, +$1.75; cr. 8vo, full gilt, $2.25; _Illustrated Library Edition_, 8vo, +$3.50; _Handy-Volume Edition_, 2 vols. 32mo, $2.50; The Autocrat of the +Breakfast-Table, cr. 8vo, $2.00; _Handy-Volume Edition_, 32mo, $1.25; +The Professor at the Breakfast-Table, cr. 8vo, $2.00; The Poet at the +Breakfast-Table, cr. 8vo, $2.00; Elsie Venner, cr. 8vo, $2.00; The +Guardian Angel, cr. 8vo, $2.00; Medical Essays, cr. 8vo, $2.00; Pages +from an Old Volume of Life, cr. 8vo, $2.00; John Lothrop Motley, A +Memoir, 16mo, $1.50; Illustrated Poems, 8vo, $4.00; A Mortal Antipathy, +cr. 8vo, $1.50; The Last Leaf, Illustrated, 4to, $10.00. + +=Nathaniel Holmes.= The Authorship of Shakespeare. New Edition. 2 vols. +$4.00. + +=Blanche Willis Howard.= One Summer, Illustrated, 12mo, $1.25; One Year +Abroad, 18mo, $1.25. + +=William D. Howells.= Venetian Life, 12mo, $1.50; Italian Journeys, 12mo, +$1.50; Their Wedding Journey, Illustrated, 12mo, $1.50; 18mo, $1.25; +Suburban Sketches, Illustrated, 12mo, $1.50; A Chance Acquaintance, +Illustrated, 12mo, $1.50; 18mo, $1.25; A Foregone Conclusion, 12mo, +$1.50; The Lady of the Aroostook, 12mo, $1.50; The Undiscovered Country, +12mo, $1.50. + +=Thomas Hughes.= Tom Brown’s School-Days at Rugby, 16mo, $1.00; Tom Brown +at Oxford, 16mo, $1.25; The Manliness of Christ, 16mo, $1.00; paper, 25 +cents. + +=William Morris Hunt.= Talks on Art, 2 Series, each $1.00. + +=Henry James.= A Passionate Pilgrim and other Tales, 12mo, $2.00; +Transatlantic Sketches, 12mo, $2.00; Roderick Hudson, 12mo, $2.00; The +American, 12mo, $2.00; Watch and Ward, 18mo, $1.25; The Europeans, 12mo, +$1.50; Confidence, 12mo, $1.50; The Portrait of a Lady, 12mo, $2.00. + +=Anna Jameson.= Writings upon Art Subjects. New Edition, 10 vols. 16mo, +the set, $12.50. + +=Sarah Orne Jewett.= Deephaven, 18mo, $1.25; Old Friends and New, 18mo, +$1.25; Country By-Ways, 18mo, $1.25; Play-Days, Stories for Children, +square 16mo, $1.50; The Mate of the Daylight, 18mo, $1.25; A Country +Doctor, 16mo, $1.25; A Marsh Island, 16mo, $1.25; A White Heron, 18mo, +$1.25. + +=Rossiter Johnson.= Little Classics, 18 vols. 18mo, each $1.00; the set, +$18.00. + +=Samuel Johnson.= Oriental Religions: India, 8vo, $5.00; China, 8vo, +$5.00; Persia, 8vo, $5.00; Lectures, Essays, and Sermons, cr. 8vo, $1.75. + +=Charles C. Jones, Jr.= History of Georgia, 2 vols. 8vo, $10.00. + +=Malcolm Kerr.= The Far Interior. 2 vols. 8vo, $9.00. + +=Omar Khayyám.= Rubáiyát, _Red-Line Edition_, square 16mo., $1.00; +the same, with 56 Illustrations by Vedder, folio, $25.00; The Same, +_Phototype Edition_, 4to, $12.50. + +=T. Starr King.= Christianity and Humanity, with Portrait, 12mo, $1.50; +Substance and Show, 16mo, $2.00. + +=Charles and Mary Lamb.= Tales from Shakespeare. _Handy-Volume Edition_, +32mo, $1.00. + +=Henry Lansdell.= Russian Central Asia. 2 vols. $10.00. + +=Lucy Larcom.= Poems, 16mo, $1.25; An Idyl of Work, 16mo, $1.25; Wild +Roses of Cape Ann and other Poems, 16mo, $1.25; Breathings of the Better +Life, 18mo, $1.25; Poems, _Household Edition_, Illustrated, 12mo, $1.75; +full gilt, $2.25; Beckonings for Every Day, 16mo, $1.00. + +=George Parsons Lathrop.= A Study of Hawthorne 18mo, $1.25. + +=Henry C. Lea.= Sacerdotal Celibacy, 8vo, $4.50. + +=Sophia and Harriet Lee.= Canterbury Tales. New Edition, 3 vols. 12mo, +$3.75. + +=Charles G. Leland.= The Gypsies, cr. 8vo, $2.00; Algonquin Legends of +New England, cr. 8vo, $2.00. + +=George Henry Lewes.= The Story of Goethe’s Life, Portrait, 12mo, $1.50; +Problems of Life and Mind, 5 vols. 8vo, $14.00. + +=A. Parlett Lloyd.= The Law of Divorce, cloth, $2.00; sheep, $2.50. + +=J. G. Lockhart.= Life of Sir W. Scott, 3 vols. 12mo, $4.50. + +=Henry Cabot Lodge.= Studies in History, cr. 8vo, $1.50. + +=Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.= Complete Poetical and Prose Works, +_Riverside Edition_, 11 vols. cr. 8vo, $16.50; Poetical Works, _Riverside +Edition_, 6 vols. cr. 8vo, $9.00; _Cambridge Edition_, 4 vols. 12mo, +$7.00; Poems, _Octavo Edition_, Portrait and 300 Illustrations, $7.50; +_Household Edition_, Illustrated, 12mo, $1.75; cr. 8vo, full gilt, +$2.25; _Red-Line Edition_, Portrait and 12 Illustrations, small 4to, +$2.50; _Cabinet Edition_, $1.00; _Library Edition_, Portrait and 32 +Illustrations, 8vo, $3.50; Christus, _Household Edition_, $1.75; cr. +8vo, full gilt, $2.25; _Cabinet Edition_, $1.00; Prose Works, _Riverside +Edition_, 2 vols. cr. 8vo, $3.00; Hyperion, 16mo, $1.50; Kavanagh, 16mo, +$1.50; Outre-Mer, 16mo, $1.50; In the Harbor, 16mo, $1.00; Michael +Angelo: a Drama, Illustrated, folio, $5.00; Twenty Poems, Illustrated, +small 4to, $2.50; Translation of the Divina Commedia of Dante, _Riverside +Edition_, 3 vols. cr. 8vo, $4.50; 1 vol. cr. 8vo, $2.50; 3 vols. royal +8vo, $13.50; cr. 8vo, $4.50; Poets and Poetry of Europe, royal 8vo, +$5.00; Poems of Places, 31 vols. each $1.00; the set, $25.00. + +=James Russell Lowell.= Poems, _Red-Line Edition_, Portrait, Illustrated, +small 4to, $2.50; _Household Edition_, Illustrated, 12mo, $1.75; cr. 8vo, +full gilt, $2.25; _Library Edition_, Portrait and 32 Illustrations, 8vo, +$3.50; _Cabinet Edition_, $1.00; Fireside Travels, 12mo, $1.50; Among my +Books, Series I. and II. 12mo, each $2.00; My Study Windows, 12mo, $2.00; +Democracy and other Addresses, 16mo, $1.25; Uncollected Poems. + +=Thomas Babington Macaulay.= Works, 16 vols. 12mo, $20.00. + +=Mrs. Madison.= Memoirs and Letters of Dolly Madison, 16mo, $1.25. + +=Harriet Martineau.= Autobiography, New Edition, 2 vols. 12mo, $4.00; +Household Education, 18mo, $1.25. + +=H. B. McClellan.= The Life and Campaigns of Maj.-Gen. J. E. B. Stuart. +With Portrait and Maps, 8vo, $3.00. + +=G. W. Melville.= In the Lena Delta, Maps and Illustrations, 8vo, $2.50. + +=T. C. Mendenhall.= A Century of Electricity. 16mo, $1.25. + +=Owen Meredith.= Poems, _Household Edition_, Illustrated, 12mo, +$1.75; cr. 8vo, full gilt, $2.25; _Library Edition_, Portrait and 32 +Illustrations, 8vo, $3.50; Lucile, _Red-Line Edition_, 8 Illustrations, +small 4to, $2.50; _Cabinet Edition_, 8 Illustrations, $1.00. + +=Olive Thorne Miller.= Bird-Ways, 16mo, $1.25. + +=John Milton.= Paradise Lost. _Handy-Volume Edition_, 32mo, $1.00. +_Riverside Classic Edition_, 16mo, Illustrated, $1.00. + +=S. Weir Mitchell.= In War Time, 16mo, $1.25; Roland Blake, 16mo, $1.25. + +=J. W. Mollett.= Illustrated Dictionary of Words used in Art and +Archæology, small 4to, $5.00. + +=Montaigne.= Complete Works, Portrait, 4 vols. 12mo, $7.50. + +=William Mountford.= Euthanasy, 12mo, $2.00. + +=T. Mozley.= Reminiscences of Oriel College, etc., 2 vols. 16mo, $3.00. + +=Elisha Mulford.= The Nation, 8vo, $2.50; The Republic of God, 8vo, $2.00. + +=T. T. Munger.= On the Threshold, 16mo, $1.00; The Freedom of Faith, +16mo, $1.50; Lamps and Paths, 16mo, $1.00; The Appeal to Life, 16mo, +$1.50. + +=J. A. W. Neander.= History of the Christian Religion and Church, with +Index volume, 6 vols. 8vo, $20.00; Index, $3.00. + +=Joseph Neilson.= Memories of Rufus Choate, 8vo, $5.00. + +=Charles Eliot Norton.= Notes of Travel in Italy, 16mo, $1.25; +Translation of Dante’s New Life, royal 8vo, $3.00. + +=Wm. D. O’Connor.= Hamlet’s Note-Book, 16mo, $1.00. + +=G. H. Palmer.= Trans. of Homer’s Odyssey, 1-12, 8vo, $2.50. + +=Leighton Parks.= His Star in the East. Cr. 8vo, $1.50. + +=James Parton.= Life of Benjamin Franklin, 2 vols. 8vo, $5.00; Life of +Thomas Jefferson, 8vo, $2.50; Life of Aaron Burr, 2 vols. 8vo, $5.00; +Life of Andrew Jackson, 3 vols. 8vo, $7.50; Life of Horace Greeley, 8vo, +$2.50; General Butler in New Orleans, 8vo, $2.50; Humorous Poetry of +the English Language, 12mo, $1.75; full gilt, $2.25; Famous Americans +of Recent Times, 8vo, $2.50; Life of Voltaire, 2 vols. 8vo, $6.00; The +French Parnassus, 12mo, $1.75; crown 8vo, $3.50; Captains of Industry, +16mo, $1.25. + +=Blaise Pascal.= Thoughts, 12mo, $2.25; Letters, 12mo, $2.25. + +=Elizabeth Stuart Phelps.= The Gates Ajar, 16mo, $1.50; Beyond the +Gates, 16mo, $1.25; Men, Women, and Ghosts, 16mo, $1.50; Hedged In, +16mo, $1.50; The Silent Partner, 16mo, $1.50; The Story of Avis, 16mo, +$1.50; Sealed Orders, and other Stories, 16mo, $1.50; Friends: A Duet, +16mo, $1.25; Doctor Zay, 16mo, $1.25; Songs of the Silent World, 16mo, +gilt top, $1.25; An Old Maid’s Paradise, 16mo, paper, 50 cents; Burglars +in Paradise, 16mo, paper, 50 cents; Madonna of the Tubs, cr. 8vo, +Illustrated, $1.50. + +=Phillips Exeter Lectures=: Delivered before the Students of Phillips +Exeter Academy, 1885-6. By E. E. HALE, PHILLIPS BROOKS, Presidents +MCCOSH, PORTER, and others. 12mo, $1.50. + +=Mrs. S. M. B. Piatt.= Selected Poems, 16mo, $1.50. + +=Carl Ploetz.= Epitome of Universal History, 12mo, $3.00. + +=Antonin Lefevre Pontalis.= The Life of John DeWitt, Grand Pensionary of +Holland, 2 vols. 8vo, $9.00. + +=Margaret J. Preston.= Colonial Ballads, 16mo, $1.25. + +=Adelaide A. Procter.= Poems, _Cabinet Edition_, $1.00; _Red-Line +Edition_, small 4to, $2.50. + +=Progressive Orthodoxy.= 16mo, $1.00. + +=Sampson Reed.= Growth of the Mind, 16mo, $1.00. + +=C. F. Richardson.= Primer of American Literature, 18mo, $.30. + +=Riverside Aldine Series.= Each volume, 16mo, $1.00. First edition, +$1.50. 1. Marjorie Daw, etc., by T. B. ALDRICH; 2. My Summer in a Garden, +by C. D. WARNER; 3. Fireside Travels, by J. R. LOWELL; 4. The Luck of +Roaring Camp, etc., by BRET HARTE; 5, 6. Venetian Life, 2 vols., by W. +D. HOWELLS; 7. Wake Robin, by JOHN BURROUGHS; 8, 9. The Biglow Papers, 2 +vols., by J. R. LOWELL; 10. Backlog Studies, by C. D. WARNER. + +=Henry Crabb Robinson.= Diary, Reminiscences, etc. cr. 8vo, $2.50. + +=John C. Ropes.= The First Napoleon, with Maps, cr. 8vo, $2.00. + +=Josiah Royce.= Religious Aspect of Philosophy, 12mo, $2.00. + +=Edgar Evertson Saltus.= Balzac, cr. 8vo, $1.25; The Philosophy of +Disenchantment, cr. 8vo, $1.25. + +=John Godfrey Saxe.= Poems, _Red-Line Edition_, Illustrated, small 4to, +$2.50; _Cabinet Edition_, $1.00; _Household Edition_, Illustrated, 12mo, +$1.75; full gilt, cr. 8vo, $2.25. + +=Sir Walter Scott.= Waverley Novels, _Illustrated Library Edition_, 25 +vols. 12mo, each $1.00; the set, $25.00; Tales of a Grandfather, 3 vols. +12mo, $4.50; Poems, _Red-Line Edition_. Illustrated, small 4to, $2.50; +_Cabinet Edition_, $1.00. + +=W. H. Seward.= Works, 5 vols. 8vo, $15.00; Diplomatic History of the +War, 8vo, $3.00. + +=John Campbell Shairp.= Culture and Religion, 16mo, $1.25; Poetic +Interpretation of Nature, 16mo, $1.25; Studies in Poetry and Philosophy, +16mo, $1.50; Aspects of Poetry, 16mo, $1.50. + +=William Shakespeare.= Works, edited by R. G. White, _Riverside Edition_, +3 vols. cr. 8vo, $7.50; The Same, 6 vols., cr. 8vo, uncut, $10.00; The +Blackfriars Shakespeare, per vol. $2.50, _net._ (_In Press._) + +=A. P. Sinnett.= Esoteric Buddhism, 16mo, $1.25; The Occult World, 16mo, +$1.25. + +=M. C. D. Silsbee.= A Half Century in Salem. 16mo, $1.00. + +=Dr. William Smith.= Bible Dictionary, _American Edition_, 4 vols. 8vo, +$20.00. + +=Edmund Clarence Stedman.= Poems, _Farringford Edition_, Portrait, 16mo, +$2.00; _Household Edition_, Illustrated, 12mo, $1.75; full gilt, cr. 8vo, +$2.25; Victorian Poets, 12mo, $2.00; Poets of America, 12mo, $2.25. The +set, 3 vols., uniform, 12mo, $6.00; Edgar Allan Poe, an Essay, vellum, +18mo, $1.00. + +=W. W. Story.= Poems, 2 vols. 16mo, $2.50; Fiammetta: A Novel, 16mo, +$1.25. Roba di Roma, 2 vols. 16mo, $2.50. + +=Harriet Beecher Stowe.= Novels and Stories, 10 vols. 12mo, uniform, +each $1.50; A Dog’s Mission, Little Pussy Willow, Queer Little People, +Illustrated, small 4to, each $1.25; Uncle Tom’s Cabin, 100 Illustrations, +8vo, $3.00; _Library Edition_, Illustrated, 12mo, $2.00; _Popular +Edition_, 12mo, $1.00. + +=Jonathan Swift.= Works, _Edition de Luxe_, 19 vols. 8vo, the set, $76.00. + +=T. P. Taswell-Langmead.= English Constitutional History. New Edition, +revised, 8vo, $7.50. + +=Bayard Taylor.= Poetical Works, _Household Edition_, 12mo, $1.75; cr. +8vo. full gilt, $2.25; Melodies of Verse, 18mo, vellum, $1.00; Life and +Letters, 2 vols. 12mo, $4.00; Dramatic Poems, 12mo, $2.25; _Household +Edition_, 12mo, $1.75; Life and Poetical Works, 6 vols. uniform. +Including Life, 2 vols.; Faust, 2 vols.; Poems, 1 vol.; Dramatic Poems, 1 +vol. The set, cr. 8vo, $12.00. + +=Alfred Tennyson.= Poems, _Household Edition_, Portrait and +Illustrations, 12mo, $1.75; full gilt, cr. 8vo, $2.25; _Illustrated +Crown Edition_, 2 vols. 8vo, $5.00; _Library Edition_, Portrait +and 60 Illustrations, 8vo, $3.50; _Red-Line Edition_, Portrait and +Illustrations, small 4to, $2.50; _Cabinet Edition_, $1.00; Complete +Works, _Riverside Edition_, 6 vols. cr. 8vo, $6.00. + +=Celia Thaxter.= Among the Isles of Shoals, 18mo, $1.25; Poems, small +4to, $1.50; Drift-Weed, 18mo, $1.50; Poems for Children, Illustrated, +small 4to, $1.50; Cruise of the Mystery, Poems, 16mo, $1.00. + +=Edith M. Thomas.= A New Year’s Masque and other Poems, 16mo, $1.50; The +Round Year, 16mo, $1.25. + +=Joseph P. Thompson.= American Comments on European Questions, 8vo, $3.00. + +=Henry D. Thoreau.= Works, 9 vols. 12mo, each $1.50; the set, $13.50. + +=George Ticknor.= History of Spanish Literature, 3 vols. 8vo, $10.00; +Life, Letters, and Journals, Portraits, 2 vols. 12mo, $4.00. + +=Bradford Torrey.= Birds in the Bush, 16mo, $1.25. + +=Sophus Tromholt.= Under the Rays of the Aurora Borealis, Illustrated, 2 +vols. $7.50. + +=Mrs. Schuyler Van Rensselaer.= H. H. Richardson and his Works. + +=Jones Very.= Essays and Poems, cr. 8vo, $2.00. + +=Annie Wall.= Story of Sordello, told in Prose, 16mo, $1.00. + +=Charles Dudley Warner.= My Summer in a Garden, _Riverside Aldine +Edition_, 16mo, $1.00; _Illustrated Edition_, square 16mo, $1.50; +Saunterings, 18mo, $1.25; Backlog Studies, Illustrated, square 16mo, +$1.50; _Riverside Aldine Edition_, 16mo, $1.00; Baddeck, and that Sort of +Thing, 18mo, $1.00; My Winter on the Nile, cr. 8vo, $2.00; In the Levant, +cr. 8vo, $2.00; Being a Boy, Illustrated, square 16mo, $1.50; In the +Wilderness, 18mo, 75 cents; A Roundabout Journey, 12mo, $1.50. + +=William F. Warren, LL.D.= Paradise Found, cr. 8vo, $2.00. + +=William A. Wheeler.= Dictionary of Noted Names of Fiction, 12mo, $2.00. + +=Edwin P. Whipple.= Essays, 6 vols. cr. 8vo, each $1.50. + +=Richard Grant White.= Every-Day English, 12mo, $2.00; Words and their +Uses, 12mo, $2.00; England Without and Within, 12mo, $2.00; The Fate of +Mansfield Humphreys, 16mo, $1.25; Studies in Shakespeare, 12mo, $1.75. + +=Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney.= Stories, 12 vols. 12mo, each $1.50; Mother Goose +for Grown Folks, 12mo, $1.50; Pansies, 16mo, $1.25; Daffodils, 16mo, +$1.25; Just How, 16mo, $1.00; Bonnyborough, 12mo, $1.50; Holy Tides, +16mo, 75 cents; Homespun Yarns, 12mo, $1.50. + +=John Greenleaf Whittier.= Poems, _Household Edition_, Illustrated, 12mo, +$1.75; full gilt, cr. 8vo, $2.25; _Cambridge Edition_, Portrait, 3 vols. +12mo, $5.25; _Red-Line Edition_, Portrait, Illustrated, small 4to, $2.50; +_Cabinet Edition_, $1.00; _Library Edition_, Portrait, 32 Illustrations, +8vo, $3.50; Prose Works, _Cambridge Edition_, 2 vols. 12mo, $3.50; The +Bay of Seven Islands, Portrait, 16mo, $1.00; John Woolman’s Journal, +Introduction by Whittier, $1.50; Child Life in Poetry, selected by +Whittier, Illustrated, 12mo, $2.00; Child Life in Prose, 12mo, $2.00; +Songs of Three Centuries, selected by Whittier: _Household Edition_, +Illustrated, 12mo, $1.75; full gilt, cr. 8vo, $2.25; _Library Edition_, +32 Illustrations, 8vo, $3.50; Text and Verse, 18mo, 75 cents; Poems of +Nature, 4to, Illustrated, $6.00; St. Gregory’s Guest, etc., 16mo, vellum, +$1.00. + +=Woodrow Wilson.= Congressional Government, 16mo, $1.25. + +=J. A. Wilstach.= Translation of Virgil’s Works, 2 vols. cr. 8vo, $5.00. + +=Justin Winsor.= Reader’s Handbook of American Revolution, 16mo, $1.25. + +=W. B. Wright.= Ancient Cities from the Dawn to the Daylight, 16mo, $1.25. + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76600 *** |