{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_20365/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_20365","id":"gutenberg_20365","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/20365","summary":null,"tags":["Category: American Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Cumberland Mountains -- Fiction","Mountain life -- Fiction","Short stories, American","Tennessee -- Social life and customs -- Fiction"],"text":"Produced by Dave Macfarlane and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was\nproduced from images generously made available by The\nInternet Archive/American Libraries.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: HE WAS PALLID AND PANTING]\n\n\n\n\nTHE YOUNG MOUNTAINEERS\n\n_SHORT STORIES_\n\nBY\n\nCHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK\n\n\nWITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY MALCOLM FRASER\n\n[Illustration]\n\nBOSTON AND NEW YORK\nHOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY\nThe Riverside Press, Cambridge\n1897\n\nCopyright, 1897,\nBY MARY N. MURFREE.\n\n\n_All rights reserved_.\n\n_The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A._\nElectrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton and Company.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS                                            PAGE\n\n\nTHE MYSTERY OF OLD DADDY'S WINDOW                      1\n'WAY DOWN IN POOR VALLEY                              26\nA MOUNTAIN STORM                                      63\nBORROWING A HAMMER                                    83\nTHE CONSCRIPTS' HOLLOW                               103\nA WARNING                                            172\nAMONG THE CLIFFS                                     186\nIN THE \"CHINKING\"                                    208\nON A HIGHER LEVEL                                    230\nCHRISTMAS DAY ON OLD WINDY MOUNTAIN                  245\n\n\n\n\nLIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS                               PAGE\n\n\nHE WAS PALLID AND PANTING   (see page 221)     _Frontispiece._\nTOGETHER THEY WENT OVER THE CLIFF                     48\nHOW LONG WAS IT TO LAST                              190\nIN THE MIDST OF THE TORRENT                          242\n\n\n\n\nTHE MYSTERY OF OLD DADDY'S WINDOW\n\n\nPicture to yourself a wild ravine, gashing a mountain spur, and with\nhere and there in its course abrupt descents. One of these is so deep\nand sheer that it might be called a precipice.\n\nHigh above it, from the steep slope on either hand, beetling crags jut\nout. Their summits almost meet at one point, and thus the space below\nbears a rude resemblance to a huge window. Through it you might see the\nblue heights in the distance; or watch the clouds and sunshine shift\nover the sombre mountain across the narrow valley; or mark, after the\nday has faded, how the great Scorpio draws its shining curves along the\ndark sky.\n\nOne night Jonas Creyshaw sat alone in the porch of his log cabin, hard\nby on the slope of the ravine, smoking his pipe and gazing meditatively\nat \"Old Daddy's Window.\" The moon was full, and its rays fell aslant on\none of the cliffs, while the rugged face of the opposite crag was in the\nshadow.\n\nSuddenly he became aware that something was moving about the precipice,\nthe brink of which seems the sill of the window. Although this precipice\nis sheer and insurmountable, a dark figure had risen from it, and stood\nplainly defined against the cliff, which presented a comparatively\nsmooth surface to the brilliant moonlight.\n\nWas it a shadow? he asked himself hastily.\n\nHis eyes swept the ravine, only thirty feet wide at that point, which\nlies between the two crags whose jutting summits almost meet above it to\nform Old Daddy's Window.\n\nThere was no one visible to cast a shadow.\n\nIt seemed as if the figure had unaccountably emerged from the sheer\ndepths below.\n\nOnly for a moment it stood motionless against the cliff. Then it flung\nits arms wildly above its head, and with a nimble spring\ndisappeared--upward.\n\nJonas Creyshaw watched it, his eyes distended, his face pallid, his pipe\ntrembling in his shaking hand.\n\n\"Mirandy!\" he quavered faintly.\n\nHis wife, a thin, ailing woman with pinched features and an uncertain\neye, came to the door.\n\n\"Thar,\" he faltered, pointing with his pipe-stem--\"jes' a minit ago--I\nseen it!--a ghost riz up over the bluff inter Old Daddy's Window!\"\n\nThe woman fell instantly into a panic.\n\n\"'Twarn't a-beckonin', war it? 'Twarn't a-beckonin'? 'Kase ef it war,\nye'll hev ter die right straight! That air a sure sign.\"\n\nA little of Jonas Creyshaw's pluck and common sense came back to him at\nthis unpleasant announcement.\n\n\"Not on _his_ say-so,\" he stoutly averred. \"I ain't a-goin' ter do the\nbeck nor the bid of enny onmannerly harnt ez hev tuk up the notion ter\nriz up over the bluff inter Old Daddy's Window, an' sot hisself ter\nmotionin' ter me.\"\n\nHe rose hastily, knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and followed his\nwife into the house. There he paused abruptly.\n\nThe room was lighted by the fitful flicker of the fire, for the nights\nwere still chilly, and an old man, almost decrepit, sat dozing in his\nchair by the hearth.\n\n\"Mirandy,\" said Jonas Creyshaw in a whisper, \"'pears like ter me ez\nfather hed better not be let ter know 'bout'n that thar harnt. It mought\nskeer him so ez he couldn't live another minit. He hev aged some\nlately--an' he air weakly.\"\n\nThis was \"Old Daddy.\"\n\nBefore he had reached his thirtieth year, he was thus known, far and\nwide.\n\n\"He air the man ez hev got a son,\" the mountaineers used to say in\ngrinning explanation. \"Ter hear him brag 'bout'n that thar boy o' his'n,\nye'd think he war the only man in Tennessee ez ever hed a son.\"\n\nThroughout all these years the name given in jocose banter had clung to\nhim, and now, hallowed by ancient usage, it was accorded to him\nseriously, and had all the sonorous effect of a title.\n\nSo they said nothing to Old Daddy, but presently, when he had hobbled\noff to bed in the adjoining shed-room, they fell to discussing their\nterror of the apparition, and thus it chanced that the two boys, Tad and\nSi, first made, as it were, the ghost's acquaintance.\n\nTad, a stalwart fellow of seventeen, sat listening spellbound before the\nglowing embers. Si, a wiry, active, tow-headed boy of twelve, perched\nwith dangling legs on a chest, and looked now at the group by the fire,\nand now through the open door at the brilliant moonlight.\n\n\"Waal, sir,\" he muttered, \"I'll hev ter gin up the notion o' gittin'\nthat comical young ow_el_, what I hev done set my heart onto. 'Kase ef I\nwar ter fool round Old Daddy's Window, _now_, whilst I war a-cotchin' o'\nthe ow_el_, the ghost mought--cotch--_Me!_\"\n\nA sorry ghost, to be sure, that has nothing better to do than to \"cotch\"\n_him!_ But perhaps Si Creyshaw is not the only one of us who has an\ninflated idea of his own importance.\n\nHe was greatly awed, and he found many suggestions of supernatural\npresence about the familiar room. As the fire alternately flared and\nfaded, the warping-bars looked as if they were dancing a clumsy measure.\nThe handle of a portly jug resembled an arm stuck akimbo, and its cork,\ntilted askew, was like a hat set on one side; Si fancied there was a\nmost unpleasant grimace below that hat. The churn-dasher, left upon a\nshelf to dry, was sardonically staring him out of countenance with its\nhalf-dozen eyes. The strings of red pepper-pods and gourds and herbs,\nswinging from the rafters, rustled faintly; it sounded to Si like a\nmoan.\n\nHe wished his father and mother would talk about some wholesome subject,\nlike Spot's new calf, for instance, instead of whispering about the\nmystery of Old Daddy's Window.\n\nHe wished Tad would not look, as he listened, so much like a ghost\nhimself, with his starting eyes and pale, intent face. He even wished\nthat the baby would wake up, and put some life into things with a good\nhealthy, rousing bawl.\n\nBut the baby slept peacefully on, and after so long a time Si Creyshaw\nslept too.\n\nWith broad daylight his courage revived. He was no longer afraid to\nthink of the ghost. In fact, he experienced a pleased importance in\ngiving Old Daddy a minute account of the wonderful apparition, for he\n_felt_ as if he had seen it.\n\n\"'Pears ter me toler'ble comical, gran'dad, ez they never tole ye a word\n'bout'n it all,\" he said in conclusion. \"Ye mought hev liked ter seen\nthe harnt. Ef he war 'quainted with ye when he lived in this life, he\nmought hev stopped an' jowed sociable fur a spell!\"\n\nHow brave this small boy was in the cheerful sunshine!\n\nOld Daddy hardly seemed impressed with the pleasure he had missed in\nlosing a sociable \"jow\" with a ghostly crony. He sat silent, blinking\nin the sunshine that fell through the gourd-vines which clambered about\nthe porch where Si had placed his chair.\n\n\"'Twarn't much of a sizable sperit,\" Si declared; he seemed courageous\nenough now to measure the ghost like a tailor. \"It warn't more'n four\nfeet high, ez nigh ez dad could jedge. Toler'ble small fur a harnt!\"\n\nStill the old man made no reply. His wrinkled hands were clasped on his\nstick. His white head, shaded by his limp black hat, was bent down close\nto them. There was a slow, pondering expression on his face, but an\nexcited gleam in his eye. Presently, he pointed backward toward a little\nunhewn log shanty that served as a barn, and rising with unwonted\nalacrity, he said to the boy,--\n\n\"Fotch me the old beastis!\"\n\nSilas Creyshaw stood amazed, for Old Daddy had not mounted a horse for\ntwenty years.\n\n\"Studyin' 'bout'n the harnt so much hev teched him in the head,\" the\nsmall boy concluded. Then he made an excuse, for he knew his\ngrandfather was too old and feeble to safely undertake a solitary jaunt\non horse-back.\n\n\"I war tole not ter leave ye fur a minit, gran'dad. I war ter stay nigh\nye an' mind yer bid.\"\n\n\"That's my bid!\" said the old man sternly. \"Fotch the beastis.\"\n\nThere was no one else about the place. Jonas Creyshaw had gone fishing\nshortly after daybreak. His wife had trudged off to her sister's house\ndown in the cove, and had taken the baby with her. Tad was ploughing in\nthe cornfield on the other side of the ravine. Si had no advice, and he\nhad been brought up to think that Old Daddy's word was law.\n\nWhen the old man, mounted at last, was jogging up the road, Tad chanced\nto come to the house for a bit of rope to mend the plough-gear. He saw,\nfar up the leafy vista, the departing cavalier. He cast a look of amazed\nreproach upon Si. Then, speechless with astonishment, he silently\npointed at the distant figure.\n\nSi was a logician.\n\n\"I never lef' _him_,\" he said. \"He lef' _me_.\"\n\n\"Ye oughter rej'ice in yer whole bones while ye hev got 'em,\" Tad\nreturned, with withering sarcasm. \"When dad kems home, some of 'em 'll\ngit bruk, sure. Warn't ye tole not ter leave him fur _nuthin'_, ye\ntriflin' shoat!\"\n\n\"He lef' _me_!\" Si stoutly maintained.\n\nMeantime, Old Daddy journeyed on.\n\nExcept for the wonderful mountain air, the settlement, three miles\ndistant, had nothing about it to indicate its elevation. It was far from\nthe cliffs, and there was no view. It was simply a little hollow of a\nclearing scooped out among the immense forests. When the mountaineers\nclear land, they do it effectually. Not a tree was left to embellish the\nyards of any of the four or five little log huts that constituted the\nhamlet, and the glare was intense.\n\nAs six or eight loungers sat smoking about the door of the store, there\nwas nothing to intercept their astonished view of Old Daddy when he\nsuddenly appeared out of the gloomy forest, blinking in the sun and bent\nhalf double with fatigue.\n\nEven the rudest and coarsest of these mountaineers accord a praiseworthy\ndeference to the aged among them. Old Daddy was held in reverential\nestimation at home, and was well accustomed to the respect shown him\nnow, when, for the first time in many years, he had chosen to jog\nabroad. They helped him to dismount, and carried him bodily into the\nstore. After he had tilted his chair back against the rude counter, he\nlooked around with an important face upon the attentive group.\n\n\"My son,\" shrilly piped out Old Daddy,--\"my son air the strongest man\never seen, sence Samson!\"\n\n\"I hev always hearn that sayin', Old Daddy,\" acquiesced an elderly\ncodger, who, by reason of \"rheumatics,\" made no pretension to muscle.\n\nA gigantic young blacksmith looked down at his corded hammer-arm, but\nsaid nothing.\n\nA fly--several flies--buzzed about the sorghum barrel.\n\n\"My son,\" shrilly piped out Old Daddy,--\"my son air the bes' shot on\nthis hyar mounting.\"\n\n\"That's a true word, Old Daddy,\" assented the schoolmaster, who had\nceased to be a Nimrod since devoting himself to teaching the young idea\nhow to shoot.\n\nThe hunters smoked in solemn silence.\n\nThe shadow of a cloud drifted along the bare sandy stretch of the\nclearing.\n\n\"My son,\" shrilly piped out Old Daddy,--\"my son hev got the peartest\nboys in Tennessee.\"\n\n\"I'll gin ye that up, Old Daddy,\" cheerfully agreed the miller, whose\nfamily consisted of two small \"daughters.\"\n\nThe fathers of other \"peart boys\" cleared their throats uneasily, but\nfinally subsided without offering contradiction.\n\nA jay-bird alighted on a blackberry bush outside, fluttered all his\nblue and white feathers, screamed harshly, bobbed his crested head, and\nwas off on his gay wings.\n\n\"My son,\" shrilly piped out Old Daddy,--\"my son hev been gifted with the\nsight o' what no other man on this mounting hev ever viewed.\"\n\nThe group sat amazed, expectant. But the old man preserved a stately\nsilence. Only when the storekeeper eagerly insisted, \"What hev Jonas\nseen? what war he gin ter view?\" did Old Daddy bring the fore legs of\nthe chair down with a thump, lean forward, and mysteriously pipe out\nlike a superannuated cricket,--\n\n\"My son,--my son hev seen a harnt, what riz up over the bluff\na-purpose!\"\n\n\"Whar 'bouts?\" \"When?\" \"Waal, sir!\" arose in varied clamors.\n\nSo the proud old man told the story he had journeyed three laborious\nmiles to spread. It had no terrors for him, so completely was fear\nswallowed up in admiration of his wonderful son, who had added to his\nother perfections the gift of seeing ghosts.\n\nThe men discussed it eagerly. There were some jokes cracked--as it was\nstill broad noonday--and at one of these Old Daddy took great offense,\nmore perhaps because the disrespect was offered to his son rather than\nto himself.\n\n\"Jes' gin Jonas the word from me,\" said the young blacksmith, meaning no\nharm and laughing good-naturedly, \"ez I kin tell him percisely what\nmakes him see harnts; it air drinkin' so much o' this onhealthy whiskey,\nwhat hain't got no tax paid onto it. I looks ter see him jes'\na-staggerin' the nex' time I comes up with him.\"\n\nOld Daddy rose with affronted dignity.\n\n\"My son,\" he declared vehemently,--\"my son ain't gin over ter drinkin'\nwhiskey, tax or no tax. An' he ain't got no call ter stagger--_like some\nfolks!_\"\n\nAnd despite all apology and protest, he left the house in a huff.\n\nHis old bones ached with the unwonted exercise, and were rudely enough\njarred by the rough roads and the awful gaits of his ancient steed. The\nsun was hot, and so was his heart, and when he reached home, infinitely\nfatigued and querulous, he gave his son a sorry account of his reception\nat the store. As he concluded, saying that five of the men had sent word\nthat they would be at Jonas Creyshaw's house at moon-rise \"ter holp him\nsee the harnt,\" his son's brow darkened, and he strode heavily out of\nthe room.\n\nHe usually exhibited in a high degree the hospitality characteristic of\nthese mountaineers, but now it had given way to a still stronger\ninstinct.\n\n\"Si,\" he said, coming suddenly upon the boy, \"put out right now fur\nBently's store at the settle_mint_, an' tell them sneaks ez hang round\nthar ter sarch round thar own houses fur harnts, ef they hanker ter see\nenny harnts. Ef they hev got the insurance ter kem hyar, they'll see\nwusser sights 'n enny harnts. Tell 'em I ain't a-goin' ter 'low no man\nter cross my doorstep ez don't show Old Daddy the right medjure o'\nrespec'. They'd better keep out'n my way ginerally.\"\n\nSo with this bellicose message Si set out. But an unlucky idea occurred\nto him as he went plodding along the sandy road.\n\n\"Whilst I'm a-goin' on this hyar harnt's yerrand\"----The logical Si\nbrought up with a shiver.\n\n\"I went ter say--whilst I'm a-goin' on this hyar yerrand fur the\nharnt\"----This was as bad.\n\n\"Whilst,\" he qualified once more, \"I'm a-goin' on this hyar yerrand\n_'bout'n_ the harnt, I mought ez well skeet off in them deep woods a\npiece ter see ef enny wild cherries air ripe on that tree by the spring.\nI'll hev plenty o' time.\"\n\nBut even Si could not persuade himself that the cherries were ripe, and\nhe stood for a moment under the tree, staring disconsolately at the\ndistant blue ridges shimmering through the heated air. The sunlight was\nmotionless, languid; it seemed asleep. The drowsy drone of insects\nfilled the forest. As Si threw himself down to rest on the rocky brink\nof the mountain, a grasshopper sprang away suddenly, high into the air,\nwith an agility that suggested to him the chorus of a song, which he\nbegan to sing in a loud and self-sufficient voice:--\n\n  \"The grasshopper said--'Now, don't ye see\n  Thar's mighty few dancers sech ez me--\n    Sech ez _me_!--Sech ez ME!'\"\n\nThis reminded Si of his own capabilities as a dancer. He rose and began\nto caper nimbly, executing a series of steps that were singularly swift,\nspry, and unexpected,--a good deal on the grasshopper's method. His\ntattered black hat bobbed up and down on his tow head; his brown jeans\ntrousers, so loose on his lean legs, flapped about hilariously; his bare\nheels flew out right and left; he snapped his fingers to mark the time;\nnow and then he stuck his arms akimbo, and cut what he called the\n\"widgeon-ping.\" But his freckled face was as grave as ever, and all the\ntime that he danced he sang:--\n\n  \"In the middle o' the night the rain kem down,\n  An' gin the corn a fraish start out'n the ground,\n  An' I thought nex' day ez I stood in the door,\n  That sassy bug mus' be drownded sure!\n  But thar war Goggle-eyes, peart an' gay,\n  Twangin' an' a-tunin' up--'Now, dance away!\n  Ye may sarch night an' day ez a constancy\n  An' ye won't find a fiddler sech ez me!\n    Sech ez _me_!--Sech ez ME!'\"\n\nAs he sank back exhausted upon the ground, a new aspect of the scene\ncaught his attention.\n\nThose blue mountains were purpling--there was an ever-deepening flush in\nthe west. It was close upon sunset, and while he had wasted the time,\nthe five men to whom his father had sent that stern message forbidding\nthem to come to his house were perhaps on their way thither, with every\nexpectation of a cordial welcome. There might be a row--even a\nfight--and all because he had loitered.\n\nHow he tore out of the brambly woods! How he pounded along the sandy\nroad! But when he reached the settlement close upon nightfall, the\nstorekeeper's wife told him that the men had gone long ago.\n\n\"They war powerful special ter git off early,\" she added, \"'kase they\nwanted ter be thar 'fore Old Daddy drapped off ter sleep. Some o' them\nfoolish, slack-jawed boys ter the store ter-day riled the old man's\nfeelin's, an' they 'lowed ter patch up the peace with him, an' let him\nan' Jonas know ez they never meant no harm.\"\n\nThis suggestion buoyed up the boy's heart to some degree as he toiled\nalong the \"short cut\" homeward through the heavy shades of the gloomy\nwoods and the mystic effects of the red rising moon. But he was not\naltogether without anxiety until, as he drew within sight of the log\ncabin on the slope of the ravine, he heard Old Daddy piping pacifically\nto the guests about \"my son,\" and Jonas Creyshaw's jolly laughter.\n\nThe moon was golden now; Si could see its brilliant shafts of light\nstrike aslant upon the smooth surface of the cliff that formed the\nopposite side of Old Daddy's Window. He stopped short in the deep shadow\nof the more rugged crag. The vines and bushes that draped its many\njagged ledges dripped with dew. The boughs of an old oak, which grew\nclose by, swayed gently in the breeze. Hidden by its huge hole, Si cast\nan apprehensive glance toward the house where his elders sat.\n\nCertainly no one was thinking of him now.\n\n\"This air my chance fur that young ow_el_--ef ever,\" he said to himself.\n\nThe owl's nest was in the hollow of the tree. The trunk was far too\nbulky to admit of climbing, and the lowest branches were well out of the\nboy's reach. Some thirty feet from the ground, however, one of the\nboughs touched the crag. By clambering up its rugged, irregular ledges,\nmaking a zigzag across its whole breadth to the right and then a similar\nzigzag to the left, Si might gain a position which would enable him to\nclutch this bough of the tree. Thence he could scramble along to the\nowl's stronghold.\n\nHe hesitated. He knew his elders would disapprove of so reckless an\nundertaking as climbing about Old Daddy's Window, for in venturing\ntoward its outer verge, a false step, a crumbling ledge, the snapping of\na vine, would fling him down the sheer precipice into the depths below.\n\nHis hankering for a pet owl had nevertheless brought him here more than\nonce. It was only yesterday evening--before he had heard of the ghost's\nappearance, however--that he had made his last futile attempt.\n\nHe looked up doubtfully. \"I ain't ez strong ez--ez some folks,\" he\nadmitted.\n\n\"But then, come ter think of it,\" he argued astutely, \"I don't weigh\nnuthin' sca'cely, an' thar ain't much of me ter hev ter haul up thar.\"\n\nHe flung off his hat, he laid his wiry hands upon the wild grape-vines,\nhe felt with his bare feet for the familiar niches and jagged edges, and\nup he went, working steadily to the right, across the broad face of the\ncliff.\n\nIts heavy shadow concealed him from view. Only one ledge, at the extreme\nverge of the crag, jutted out into the full moonbeams. But this, by\nreason of the intervening bushes and vines, could not be seen by those\nwho sat in the cabin porch on the slope of the ravine, and he was glad\nto have light just here, for it was the most perilous point of his\nenterprise. By deft scrambling, however, he succeeded in getting on the\nmoonlit ledge.\n\n\"I clumb like a painter!\" he declared triumphantly.\n\nHe rested there for a moment before attempting to reach the vines high\nup on the left hand, which he must grasp in order to draw himself up\ninto the shadowy niche in the rock, and begin his zigzag course back\nagain across the face of the cliff to the projecting bough of the tree.\n\nBut suddenly, as he still stood motionless on the ledge in the full\nradiance of the moon, the clamor of frightened voices sounded at the\nhouse. Until now he had forgotten all about the ghost. He turned,\nhorror-stricken.\n\nThere was the frightful thing, plainly defined against the smooth\nsurface of the opposite cliff--some thirty feet distant--that formed the\nother side of Old Daddy's Window.\n\nAnd certainly there are mighty few dancers such as that ghost! It lunged\nactively toward the precipice. It suddenly dashed wildly back--gyrating\ncontinually with singularly nimble feet, flinging wiry arms aloft and\nmaintaining a sinister silence, while the frightened clamor at the house\ngrew ever louder and more shrill.\n\nSeveral minutes elapsed before Si recognized something peculiarly\nfamiliar in the ghost's wiry nimbleness--before he realized that the\nshadow of the cliff on which he stood reached across the ravine to the\nbase of the opposite cliff, and that the figure which had caused so much\nalarm was only his own shadow cast upon its perpendicular surface.\n\nHe stopped short in those antics which had been induced by mortal\nterror; of course, his shadow, too, was still instantly. It stood upon\nthe brink of the precipice which seems the sill of Old Daddy's Window,\nand showed distinctly on the smooth face of the cliff opposite to him.\n\nHe understood, after a moment's reflection, how it was that as he had\nclimbed up on the ledge in the full moonlight his shadow had seemed to\nrise gradually from the vague depths below the insurmountable\nprecipice.\n\nHe sprang nimbly upward to seize the vines that shielded him from the\nobservation of the ghost-seers on the cabin porch, and as he caught them\nand swung himself suddenly from the moonlit ledge into the gloomy shade,\nhe noticed that his shadow seemed to fling its arms wildly above its\nhead, and disappeared upward.\n\n\"That air jes' what dad seen las' night when I war down hyar afore,\na-figurin' ter ketch that thar leetle ow_el_,\" he said to himself when\nhe had reached the tree and sat in a crotch, panting and excited.\n\nAfter a moment, regardless of the coveted owl, he swung down from branch\nto branch, dropped easily from the lowest upon the ground, picked up his\nhat, and prepared to skulk along the \"short cut,\" strike the road, and\ncome home by that route as if he had just returned from the settlement.\n\n\"'Kase,\" he argued sagely, \"ef them skeered-ter-death grown folks war\nter find out ez _I_ war the _harnt_--I mean ez the _harnt_ war\n_me_--ennyhow,\" he concluded desperately, \"I'd KETCH it--sure!\"\n\nSo impressed was he with this idea that he discreetly held his tongue.\n\nAnd from that day to this, Jonas Creyshaw and his friends have been\nunable to solve the mystery of Old Daddy's Window.\n\n\n\n\n'WAY DOWN IN POOR VALLEY\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nThere was the grim Big Injun Mountain to the right, with its bare,\nbeetling sandstone crags. There was the long line of cherty hills to the\nleft, covered by a dark growth of stunted pines. Between lay that\nmelancholy stretch of sterility known as Poor Valley,--the poorest of\nthe several valleys in Tennessee thus piteously denominated, because of\nthe sorry contrast which they present to the rich coves and fertile\nvales so usual among the mountains of the State.\n\nHow poor the soil was, Ike Hooden might bitterly testify; for ever since\nhe could hold a plough he had, year after year, followed the old\n\"bull-tongue\" through the furrows of the sandy fields which lay around\nthe log cabin at the base of the mountain. In the intervals of\n\"crappin'\" he worked at the forge with his stepfather, for close at\nhand, in the shadow of a great jutting cliff, lurked a dark little\nshanty of unhewn logs that was a blacksmith's shop.\n\nWhen he first began this labor, he was, perhaps, the youngest striker\nthat ever wielded a sledge. Now, at eighteen, he had become expert at\nthe trade, and his muscles were admirably developed. He was tall and\nrobust, and he had never an ache nor an ill, except in his aching heart.\nBut his heart was sore, for in the shop he found oaths and harsh\ntreatment, and even at home these pursued him; while outside, desolation\nwas set like a seal on Poor Valley.\n\nOne drear autumnal afternoon, when the sky was dull, a dense white mist\noverspread the valley. As Ike plodded up the steep mountain side, the\nvapor followed him, creeping silently along the deep ravines and chasms,\ntill at length it overtook and enveloped him. Then only a few feet of\nthe familiar path remained visible.\n\nSuddenly he stopped short and stared. A dim, distorted something was\npeering at him from over the top of a big boulder. It was moving--it\nnodded at him. Then he indistinctly recognized it as a tall, conical\nhat. There seemed a sort of featureless face below it.\n\nA thrill of fear crept through him. His hands grew cold and shook in his\npockets. He leaned forward, gazing intently into the thick fog.\n\nAn odd distortion crossed the vague, featureless face--like a leer,\nperhaps. Once more the tall, conical hat nodded fantastically.\n\n\"Ef ye do that agin,\" cried Ike, in sudden anger, all his pluck coming\nback with a rush, \"I'll gin ye a lick ez will weld yer head an' the\nboulder together!\"\n\nHe lifted his clenched fist and shook it.\n\n\"Haw! haw! haw!\" laughed the man in the mist.\n\nIke cooled off abruptly. He had been kicked and cuffed half his life,\nbut he had never been laughed at. Ridicule tamed him. He was ashamed,\nand he remembered that he had been afraid, for he had thought the man\nwas some \"roamin' harnt.\"\n\n\"I dunno,\" said Ike sulkily, \"ez ye hev got enny call ter pounce so\nsuddint out'n the fog, an' go ter noddin' that cur'ous way ter folks ez\ncan't half see ye.\"\n\n\"I never knowed afore,\" said the man in the mist, with mock apology in\nhis tone and in the fantastic gyrations of his nodding hat, \"ez it air\nyou-uns ez owns this mounting.\" He looked derisively at Ike from head to\nfoot. \"Ye air the biggest man in Tennessee, ain't ye?\"\n\n\"Naw!\" said Ike shortly, feeling painfully awkward, as an overgrown boy\nis apt to do.\n\n\"Waal, from yer height, I mought hev thunk ye war that big Injun that\nthe old folks tells about,\" and the stranger broke suddenly into a\nhoarse, quavering chant:--\n\n  \"'A red man lived in Tennessee,\n      Mighty big Injun, sure!\n  He growed ez high ez the tallest tree,\n  An' he sez, sez he, \"Big Injun, me!\"\n      Mighty big Injun, sure!'\"\n\n\"Waal, waal,\" in a pensive voice, \"so ye ain't him? I'm powerful glad ye\ntole me that, sonny, 'kase I mought hev got skeered hyar in the woods by\nmyself with that big Injun.\"\n\nHe laughed boisterously, and began to sing again:--\n\n  \"'Settlers blazed out a road, ye see,\n      Mighty big Injun, sure!\n  He combed thar hair with a knife. Sez he,\n  \"It's combed fur good! Big Injun, me!\"\n      Mighty big Injun, sure!'\"\n\nHe broke out laughing afresh, and Ike, abashed and indignant, was about\nto pass on, when the man gayly balanced himself on one foot, as if he\nwere about to dance a grotesque jig, and held out at arm's length a big\nsilver coin.\n\nIt was a dollar. That meant a great deal to Ike, for he earned no money\nhe could call his own.\n\n\"Free an' enlightened citizen o' these Nunited States,\" the man\naddressed him with mock solemnity, \"I brung this dollar hyar fur\nyou-uns.\"\n\n\"What air ye layin' off fur me ter do?\" asked Ike.\n\nThe man grew abruptly grave. \"Jes' stable this hyar critter fur a night\nan' day.\"\n\nFor the first time Ike became aware of a horse's flank, dimly seen on\nthe other side of the boulder.\n\n\"Ter-morrer night ride him up ter my house on the mounting. Ye hev hearn\ntell o' me, hain't ye, Jedge? My name's Grig Beemy. Don't kem till\nnight, 'kase I won't be thar till then. I hev got ter stop\nyander--yander\"--he looked about uncertainly, \"yander ter the sawmill\ntill then, 'kase I promised ter holp work thar some. I'll gin ye the\ndollar now,\" he added liberally, as an extra inducement.\n\n\"I'll be powerful glad ter do that thar job fur a dollar,\" said Ike,\nthinking, with a glow of self-gratulation, of the corn which he had\nraised in his scanty leisure on his own little patch of ground, and\nwhich he might use to feed the animal.\n\n\"But hold yer jaw 'bout'n it, boy. Yer stepdad wouldn't let the beastis\nstay thar a minute ef he knowed it, 'kase--waal--'kase me an' him hev\nhed words. Slip the beastis in on the sly. Pearce Tallam don't feed an'\ntend ter his critters nohow. I hev hearn ez his boys do that job, so he\nain't like ter find it out. On the sly--that's the trade.\"\n\nIke hesitated.\n\nOnce more the man teetered on one foot, and held out the coin\ntemptingly. But Ike's better instincts came to his aid.\n\n\"That barn b'longs ter Pearce Tallam. I puts nuthin' thar 'thout his\nknowin' it. I ain't a fox, nur a mink, nur su'thin wild, ter go skulkin'\n'bout on the sly.\"\n\nThen he pressed hastily on out of temptation's way.\n\n\"Haw! haw! haw!\" laughed the man in the mist.\n\nThere was no mirth in the tones now; his laugh was a bitter gibe. As it\nfollowed Ike, it reminded him that the man had not yet moved from beside\nthe boulder, or he would have heard the thud of the horse's hoofs.\n\nHe turned and glanced back. The opaque white mist was dense about him,\nand he could see nothing. As he stood still, he heard a muttered oath,\nand after a time the man cleared his throat in a rasping fashion, as if\nthe oath had stuck in it.\n\nIke understood at last. The man was waiting for somebody. And this was\nstrange, here in the thick fog on the bleak mountainside. But Ike said\nto himself that it was no concern of his, and plodded steadily on, till\nhe reached a dark little log house, above which towered a flaring yellow\nhickory tree.\n\nWithin, ranged on benches, were homespun-clad mountain children. A\nhigh-shouldered, elderly man sat at a table near the deep fireplace,\nwhere a huge backlog was smouldering. Through the cobwebbed window-panes\nthe mists looked in.\n\nIke did not speak as he stood on the threshold, but his greedy glance at\nthe scholars' books enlightened the pedagogue. \"Do you want to come to\nschool?\" he asked.\n\nThen the boy's long-cherished grievance burst forth. \"They hev tole me\nez how it air agin the law, bein' ez I lives out'n the _dee_stric'.\"\n\nThe teacher elevated his grizzled eyebrows, and Ike said, \"I kem hyar\nter ax ye ef that be a true word. I 'lowed ez mebbe my dad tole me that\nword jes' ter hender me, an' keep me at the forge. It riles me powerful\nter hev ter be an ignorunt all my days.\"\n\nTo a stranger, this reflection on his \"dad\" seemed unbecoming. The\nteacher's sympathy ebbed. He looked severely at the boy's pale, anxious\nface, as he coldly said that he could teach no pupils who resided\noutside his school district, except out of regular school hours, and\nwith a charge for tuition.\n\nIke Hooden had no money. He nodded suddenly in farewell, the door\nclosed, and when the schoolmaster, in returning compassion, opened it\nafter him, and peered out into the impenetrable mist, the boy was\nnowhere to be seen. He had taken his despair by the hand, and together\nthey went down, down into the depths of Poor Valley.\n\nHe stood so sorely in need of a little kindness that he felt grateful\nfor the friendly aspect of his stepbrother, whom he met just before he\nreached the shop.\n\n\"'Pears like ye air toler'ble late a-gittin' home, Ike,\" said Jube. \"I\ndone ye the favior ter feed the critters. I 'lowed ez ye would do ez\nmuch fur me some day. I'll feed 'em agin in the mornin', ef ye'll forge\nme three lenks ter my trace-chain ter-night, arter dad hev gone home.\"\n\nNow this broad-faced, sandy-haired, undersized boy, who was two or three\nyears younger than Ike, and not strong enough for work at the anvil, was\na great tactician. It was his habit, in doing a favor, rigorously to\nexact a set-off, and that night when the blacksmith had left the shop,\nJube slouched in.\n\nThe flare of the forge-fire illumined with a fitful flicker the dark\ninterior, showing the rod across the corner with its jingling weight of\nhorseshoes, a ploughshare on the ground, the barrel of water, the low\nwindow, and casting upon the wall a grotesque shadow of Jube's dodging\nfigure as he began to ply the bellows.\n\nPresently he left off, the panting roar ceased, the hot iron was laid on\nthe anvil, and his dodging image on the wall was replaced by an immense\nshadow of Ike's big right arm as he raised it. The blows fell fast; the\nsparks showered about. All the air was ajar with the resonant clamor of\nthe hammer, and the anvil sang and sang, shrill and clear. When the iron\nwas hammered cold, Jube broke the momentary silence.\n\n\"I hev got,\" he droned, as if he were reciting something made familiar\nby repetition, \"two roosters, 'leven hens, an' three pullets.\"\n\nThere was a long pause, and then he chanted, \"One o' the roosters air a\nDominicky.\"\n\nHe walked over to the anvil and struck it with a small bit of metal\nwhich he held concealed in his hand.\n\n\"I hev got two shoats, a bag o' dried peaches, two geese, an' I'm\ntradin' with mam fur a gayn-der.\"\n\nHe quietly slipped the small bit of shining metal in his pocket.\n\n\"I hev got,\" he droned, waxing very impressive, \"a red heifer.\"\n\nIke paused meditatively, his hammer in his hand. A new hope was dawning\nwithin him. He knew what was meant by Jube, who often recited the list\nof his possessions, seeking to rouse enough envy to induce Ike to\nexchange for the \"lay out\" his interest in a certain gray mare.\n\nNow the mare really belonged to Ike, having come to him from his\npaternal grandfather. This was all of value that the old man had left;\nfor the deserted log hut, rotting on another bleak waste farther down in\nPoor Valley, was worth only a sigh for the home that it once\nwas,--worth, too, perhaps, the thanks of those it sheltered now, the rat\nand the owl.\n\nThe mare had worked for Pearce Tallam in the plough, under the saddle,\nand in the wagon all the years since. But one day, when the boy fell\ninto a rage,--for he, too, had a difficult temper,--and declared that\nhe would sell her and go forth from Poor Valley never to return, he was\nmet by the question, \"Hain't the mare lived off'n my fields, an' hain't\nI gin ye yer grub, an' clothes, an' the roof that kivers ye?\"\n\nThus Pearce Tallam had disputed his right to sell the mare. But it had\nmore than once occurred to him that the blacksmith would not object to\nJube's buying her.\n\nHitherto Ike had not coveted Jube's variegated possessions. But now he\nwanted money for schooling. It was true he could hardly turn these into\ncash, for in this region farm produce of every description is received\nat the country stores in exchange for powder, salt, and similar\nnecessities, and thus there is little need for money, and very little is\nin circulation.\n\nStill, Ike reflected that he might now and then get a small sum at the\nstore, or perhaps the schoolmaster might barter \"l'arnin'\" for the\nheifer or the shoats.\n\nHis hesitation was not lost upon Jube, who offered a culminating\ninducement to clinch the trade. He suddenly stood erect, teetered\nfantastically on one foot, as if about to begin to dance, and held out a\nglittering silver dollar.\n\nThe hammer fell from Ike's hands upon the anvil. \"'Twar ye ez Grig\nBeemy war a-waitin' fur thar on the mounting in the mist!\" he cried out,\nrecognizing the man's odd gesture, which Jube had unconsciously\nimitated.\n\nDoubtless the dollar was offered to Jube afterward, exactly as it had\nbeen offered to him. And Jube had taken it. The imitative monkey thrust\nit hastily into his pocket, and came down from his fantastic toe, and\nstood soberly enough on his two feet.\n\n\"Grig Beemy gin ye that thar dollar,\" said Ike.\n\nJube sullenly denied it. \"He never, now!\"\n\n\"His critter hev got no call ter be in dad's barn.\"\n\n\"His critter ain't hyar,\" protested Jube. \"This dollar war gin me in\ntrade ter the settle_mint_.\"\n\nIke remembered the queer gesture. How could Jube have repeated it if he\nhad not seen it? He broke into a sarcastic laugh.\n\n\"That's how kem ye war so powerful 'commodatin' ez ter feed the\ncritters. Ye 'lowed ez I wouldn't see the strange beastis, an' then tell\ndad. Foolin' me war a part o' yer trade, I reckon.\"\n\nJube made no reply.\n\n\"Ef ye war ez big ez me, or bigger, I'd thrash ye out'n yer boots fur\nthis trick. Ye don't want no lenks ter yer chain. Ye jes' want ter be\nsure o' keepin' me out'n the barn. Waal--thar air yer lenks.\"\n\nHe caught up the tongs and held the links in the fire with one hand\nwhile he worked the bellows with the other. Then he laid them red-hot\nupon the anvil. His rapid blows crushed them to a shapeless mass. \"And\nnow--thar they ain't.\"\n\nJube did not linger long. He was in terror lest Ike should tell his\nfather. But Ike did not think this was his duty. In fact, neither boy\nimagined that the affair involved anything more serious than stabling a\nhorse without the knowledge of the owner of the shelter.\n\nWhen Ike was alone a little later, an unaccustomed sound caused him to\nglance toward the window.\n\nSomething outside was passing it. His position was such that he could\nnot see the object itself, but upon the perpendicular gray wall of the\ncrag close at hand, and distinctly defined in the yellow flare that\nflickered out through the window from the fire of the forge, the\ngigantic shadow of a horse's head glided by.\n\nHe understood in an instant that Jube had slipped the animal out of the\nbarn, and was hiding him in the misty woods, expecting that Ike would\nacquaint his father with the facts. He had so managed that these facts\nwould seem lies, if Pearce Tallam should examine the premises and find\nno horse there.\n\nAll the next day the white mist clung shroud-like to Poor Valley. The\nshadows of evening were sifting through it, when Ike's mother went to\nthe shop, much perturbed because the cow had not come, and she could not\nfind Jube to send after her.\n\n\"Ike kin go, I reckon,\" said the blacksmith.\n\nSo Ike mounted his mare and set out through the thick white vapor. He\nhad divined the cause of Jube's absence, and experienced no surprise\nwhen on the summit of the mountain he overtook him, riding the strange\nhorse, on his way to Beemy's house.\n\n\"I s'pose that critter air yourn, an' ye mus' hev bought him fur a pound\no' dried peaches, or sech, up thar ter the settle_mint_,\" sneered Ike.\n\nJube was about to reply, but he glanced back into the dense mist with a\nchanging expression.\n\n\"Hesh up!\" he said softly. \"What's that?\"\n\nIt was the regular beat of horses' hoofs, coming at a fair pace along\nthe road on the summit of the mountain. The riders were talking\nexcitedly.\n\n\"I tell ye, ef I could git a glimpse o' the man ez stole that thar\nhorse, it would go powerful hard with me not to let daylight through\nhim. I brung this hyar shootin'-iron along o' purpose. Waal, waal,\nthough, seein' ez ye air the sheriff, I'll hev ter leave it be ez\nyou-uns say. I wouldn't know the man from Adam; but ye can't miss the\ncritter,--big chestnut, with a star in his forehead, an'\"--\n\nSomething strange had happened. At the sound of the voice the horse\npricked up his ears, turned short round in the road, and neighed\njoyfully.\n\nThe boys looked at each other with white faces. They understood at last.\nJube was mounted on a stolen horse within a hundred yards of the\npursuing owner and the officers of the law. Could explanations--words,\nmere words--clear him in the teeth of this fact?\n\n\"Drap out'n the saddle, turn the critter loose in the road, an' take ter\nthe woods,\" urged Ike.\n\n\"They'll sarch an' ketch me,\" quavered Jube.\n\nHe was frantic at the idea of being captured on the horse's back, but if\nit should come to a race, he preferred trusting to the chestnut's four\nlegs rather than to his own two.\n\nIke hesitated. Jube had brought the difficulty all on himself, and\nsurely it was not incumbent on Ike to share the danger. But he was\nswayed by a sudden uncontrollable impulse.\n\n\"Drap off'n the critter, turn him loose, an' I'll lope down the road a\npiece, an' they'll foller me, in the mist.\"\n\nHe might have done a wiser thing. But it was a tough problem at best,\nand he had only a moment in which to decide.\n\nIn that swift, confused second he saw Jube slide from the saddle and\ndisappear in the mist as if he had been caught up in the clouds. He\nheard the horse's hoofs striking against the stones as he trotted off,\nwhinnying, to meet his master. There was a momentary clamor among the\nmen, and then with whip and spur they pressed on to capture the supposed\nmalefactor.\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nAll at once it occurred to Ike, as he galloped down the road, that when\nthey overtook him, they would think that he was the thief, and that he\nhad been leading the horse. He had been so strong in his own innocence\nthat the possibility that they might suspect him had not before entered\nhis mind.\n\nHe had intended only to divert the pursuit from Jube, who, although free\nfrom any great wrong-doing, was exposed to the most serious\nmisconstruction. The knowledge of the pursuers' revolvers had made this\na hard thing to do, but otherwise he had not thought of himself, nor of\nwhat he should say when overtaken.\n\nThey would question him; he must answer. Would they believe his story?\nCould he support it? Grig Beemy of course would deny it. And Jube--had\nhe not known how Jube could lie? Would he not fear that the truth might\nsomehow involve him with the horse-thief?\n\nIke, with despair in his heart, urged his mare to her utmost speed,\nknowing now the danger he was in as a suspected horse-thief. Suddenly,\nfrom among his pursuers, a tiny jet of flame flared out into the dense\ngray atmosphere, something whizzed through the branches of the trees\nabove his head, and a sharp report jarred the mists.\n\nPerhaps the officer fired into the air, merely to intimidate the\nsupposed criminal and induce him to surrender. But now the boy could not\nstop. He had lost control of the mare. Frightened beyond measure by the\nreport of the pistol, she was in full run.\n\nOn she dashed, down sharp declivities, up steep ascents, and then away\nand away, with a great burst of speed, along a level sandy stretch.\n\nThe black night was falling like a pall upon the white, shrouded day.\nIke knew less where he was than the mare did; he was trusting to her\ninstinct to carry him to her stable. More than once the low branches of\na tree struck him, almost tearing him from the saddle, but he clung\nfrantically to the mane of the frightened animal, and on and on she\nswept, with the horsemen thundering behind.\n\nHe could hear nothing but their heavy, continuous tramp. He could see\nnothing, until suddenly a dim, pure light was shining in front of him,\non his own level, it seemed. He stared at it with starting eyeballs. It\ncleft the vapors,--they were falling away on either side,--and they\nreflected it with an illusive, pearly shimmer.\n\nIn another moment he knew that he was nearing the abrupt precipice, for\nthat was the moon, riding like a silver boat upon a sea of mist, with a\nglittering wake behind it, beyond the sharply serrated summit line of\nthe eastern hills.\n\nHe could no longer trust to the mare's instinct. He trusted to\nappearances instead. He sawed away with all his might on the bit,\nstriving to wheel her around in the road.\n\nShe resisted, stumbled, then fell upon her knees among a wild confusion\nof rotting logs and stones that rolled beneath her, as, snorting and\nangry, she struggled again to her feet. Once more Ike pulled her to the\nleft.\n\nThere was a great displacement of earth, a frantic scramble, and\ntogether they went over the cliff.\n\nThe descent was not absolutely sheer. At the distance of twelve or\nfourteen feet below, a great bulging shelf of rock projected. They fell\nupon this. The boy had instantly loosed his hold of the reins, and\nslipped away from the prostrate animal. The mare, quieted only for a\nmoment by the shock, sprang to her feet, the stones slipped beneath her,\nand she went headlong over the precipice into the dreary depths of Poor\nValley.\n\nThe pursuers heard the heavy thud when she struck the ground far below.\nThey paused at the verge of the crag, and talked in eager, excited\ntones. They did not see the boy, as he sat cowering close to the cliff\non the ledge below.\n\nIke listened in great trepidation to what they were saying; he\nexperienced infinite surprise when presently one of them mentioned Grig\nBeemy's name.\n\n[Illustration: TOGETHER THEY WENT OVER THE CLIFF]\n\nSo they knew who had stolen the horse! It was little consolation to Ike,\nwith his mare lying dead at the foot of the cliff, to reflect that if he\nhad had the courage to face the emergency, and rely upon his innocence,\nhis story would only have confirmed their knowledge of the facts.\n\nAlthough the master of the horse did not know the thief \"from Adam,\"\nBeemy had been seen with the animal and recognized by others, who,\naccompanying the sheriff and the owner, had traced him for two days\nthrough many wily doublings in the mountain fastnesses.\n\nThey now concluded to press on to Beemy's house. Ike knew they would\nfind him there waiting for Jube and the horse. Beemy had feared that he\nwould be followed, and this was the reason that he had desired to rid\nhimself of the animal for a day and night, until he could make sure and\nfeel more secure.\n\nAs the horsemen swept round the curve, Ike remembered how close was the\nroad to the cliff. If he had only given the mare her head, she would\nhave carried him safely around it. But there she lay dead, way down in\nPoor Valley, and he had lost all he owned in the world.\n\nNight had come, and in the dense darkness he did not dare to move. Only\na step away was the edge of the precipice, over which the mare had\nslipped, and he could not tell how dangerous was the bluff he must climb\nto regain the summit. He felt he must lie here till dawn.\n\nHe was badly jarred by his fall. Time dragged by wearily, and his\nbruises pained him. He knew at length that all the world slept,--all but\nhimself and some distant ravening wolf, whose fierce howl ever and anon\nset the mists to shivering in Poor Valley where he prowled. This\nblood-curdling sound and his bitter thoughts were but sorry company.\n\nAfter a long time he fell asleep. Fortunately, he did not stir. When he\nregained consciousness and a sense of danger, he found still around him\nthat dense white vapor, through which the pale, drear day was slowly\ndawning. Above his head was swinging in the mist a cluster of\nfox-grapes, with the rime upon them, and higher still he saw a quivering\nred leaf.\n\nIt was the leaf of a starveling tree, growing out of a cleft where there\nwas so little earth that it seemed to draw its sustenance from the rock.\nIt was a scraggy, stunted thing, but it was well for him that it had\nstruck root there, for its branches brushed the solid, smooth face of\nthe cliff, which he could not have surmounted but for them and the\ngrape-vine that had fallen over from the summit and entangled itself\namong them.\n\nAs he climbed the tree, he felt it quake over the abysses, which the\nmists still veiled. He had a sense of elation and achievement when he\ngained the top, and it followed him home. There it suddenly deserted\nhim.\n\nHe found Pearce Tallam in a frenzy of rage at the discovery, which he\nhad made through Jube's confession, that a stolen horse had been stabled\non his premises. Despite his tyranny and his fierce, rude temper, he\nwas an honest man and of fair repute. Although he realized that neither\nboy knew that the animal had been stolen, he gave Jube a lesson which he\nremembered for many a long day, and Ike also came in for his share of\nthis muscular tuition.\n\nFor in the midst of the criminations and recriminations, the violent\nblacksmith caught up a horseshoe and flung it across the shop, striking\nIke with a force that almost stunned him. He was a man in strength, and\nit was hard for him not to return the blow; but he only walked out of\nthe shop, declaring that he would stay for no more blows.\n\n\"Cl'ar out, then!\" called out Pearce Tallam after him. \"I don't keer ef\nye goes fur good.\"\n\nHe met, at the door of the dwelling, a plaintive reproach from his\nmother. \"'Count o' ye not tellin' on Jube, he mought hev been tuk up fur\na horse-thief. I dunno what I'd hev done 'thout him,\" she added, \"'long\no' raisin' the young tur-r-keys, an' goslin's, an' deedies, an' sech; he\nhev been a mighty holp ter me. He air more of a son ter me than my own\nboy.\"\n\nShe did not mean this, but she had said it once half in jest, half in\nreproach, and then it became a formula of complaint whenever Ike\ndispleased her.\n\nNow he was sore and sensitive. \"Take him fur yer son, then!\" he cried.\n\"I'm a-goin' out'n Pore Valley, ef I starves fur it. I shows my face\nhyar no more.\"\n\nAs he shouldered his gun and strode out, he noted the light of the\nforge-fire quivering on the mist, but he little thought it was the last\nfire that Pearce Tallam would ever kindle there.\n\nHe glanced back again before the dense vapor shut the house from view.\nHis mother was standing in the door, with her baby in her arms, looking\nafter him with a frightened, beseeching face. But his heart was hardened\nand he kept on,--kept on, with that deft, even tread of the mountaineer,\nwho seems never to hurry, almost to loiter, but gets over the ground\nwith surprising rapidity.\n\nHe left the mists and desolation of Poor Valley far behind, but not that\nfrightened, beseeching face. He thought of it more often when he lay\ndown under the shelter of a great rock to sleep than he did of the howl\nof the wolf which he had heard the night before, not far from here.\n\nLate the next afternoon he came upon the outskirts of a village. He\nentered it doubtfully, for it seemed metropolitan to him, unaccustomed\nas he was to anything more imposing than the cross-roads store. But the\nfirst sound he heard reassured him. It was the clear, metallic resonance\nof an anvil, the clanking of a sledge, and the clinking of a\nhand-hammer.\n\nHere, at the forge, he found work. It had been said in Poor Valley that\nhe was already as good a blacksmith even as Pearce Tallam. He had great\nnatural aptitude for the work, and considerable experience. But his\nwages only sufficed to pay for his food and lodging. Still, there was a\nprospect for more, and he was content.\n\nIn his leisure he made friends among those of his own age, who took him\nabout the town and enjoyed his amazement. He examined everything wrought\nin metal with such eager interest, and was so outspoken about his\nambition, that they dubbed him Tubal-cain.\n\nHe was struck dumb with amazement when, for the first time in his life,\nhe saw a locomotive gliding along the rails, with a glaring headlight\nand a cloud of flying sparks. Once, when it was motionless on the track,\nthey talked to the engineer, who explained \"the workings of the\ncritter,\" as Ike called it.\n\nThe boy understood so readily that the engineer said, after a time,\n\"You're a likely feller, for such a derned ignoramus! Where have you\nbeen hid out, all this time?\"\n\n\"Way down in Pore Valley,\" said Ike very humbly.\n\n\"He's concluded to be a great inventor,\" said one of his young friends,\nwith a merry wink.\n\n\"He's a mighty artificer in iron,\" said the wit who had named him\nTubal-cain.\n\nThe engineer looked gravely at Ike. \"Why, boy,\" he admonished him, \"the\nworld has got a hundred years the start of you!\"\n\n\"I kin ketch up,\" Ike declared sturdily.\n\n\"There's something in grit, I reckon,\" said the engineer. Then his\nwonderful locomotive glided away, leaving Ike staring after it in silent\necstasy, and his companions dying with laughter.\n\nHe started out to overtake the world at a night-school, where his mental\nquickness contrasted oddly with his slow, stolid demeanor. He worked\nhard at the forge all day; but everybody was kind.\n\nOutside of Poor Valley life seemed joyous and hopeful; progress and\nactivity were on every hand; and the time he spent here was the happiest\nhe had ever known,--except for the recollection of that frightened,\nbeseeching face which had looked out after him through the closing\nmists.\n\nHe wished he had turned back for a word. He wished his mother might know\nhe was well and happy. He began to feel that he could go no further\nwithout making his peace with her. So one day he left his employer with\nthe promise to return the following week, \"ef the Lord spares me an'\nnuthin' happens,\" as the cautious rural formula has it, and set out for\nhis home.\n\nThe mists had lifted from it, but the snow had fallen deep. Poor Valley\nlay white and drear--it seemed to him that he had never before known how\ndrear--between the grim mountain with its great black crags, its chasms,\nits gaunt, naked trees, and the long line of flinty hills, whose stunted\npines bent with the weight of the snow.\n\nThere was no smoke from the chimney of the blacksmith's shop. There were\nno footprints about the door. An atmosphere charged with calamity seemed\nto hang over the dwelling. Somehow he knew that a dreadful thing had\nhappened even before he opened the door and saw his mother's mournful\nwhite face.\n\nShe sprang up at the sight of him with a wild, sobbing cry that was half\ngrief, half joy. He had only a glimpse of the interior,--of Jube,\nlooking anxious and unnaturally grave; of the listless children, grouped\nabout the fire; of the big, burly blacksmith, with a strange, deep\npallor upon his face, and as he shifted his position--why, how was that?\n\nThe boy's mother had thrust him out of the door, and closed it behind\nher. The jar brought down from the low eaves a few feathery flakes of\nsnow, which fell upon her hair as she stood there with him.\n\n\"Don't say nuthin' 'bout'n it,\" she implored. \"He can't abide ter hear\nit spoke of.\"\n\n\"What ails dad's hand?\" he asked, bewildered.\n\n\"It's gone!\" she sobbed. \"He war over ter the sawmill the day ye\nlef'--somehow 'nuther the saw cotched it--the doctor tuk it off.\"\n\n\"His right hand!\" cried Ike, appalled.\n\nThe blacksmith would never lift a hammer again. And there the forge\nstood, silent and smokeless.\n\nWhat this portended, Ike realized as he sat with them around the fire.\nTheir sterile fields in Poor Valley had only served to eke out their\nsubsistence. This year the corn-crop had failed, and the wheat was\nhardly better. The winter had found them without special provision, but\nwithout special anxiety, for the anvil had always amply supplied their\nsimple needs.\n\nNow that this misfortune had befallen them, who could say what was\nbefore them unless Ike would remain and take his stepfather's place at\nthe forge? Ike knew that this contingency must have occurred to them as\nwell as to him. He divined it from the anxious, furtive glances which\nthey one and all cast upon him from time to time,--even Pearce Tallam,\nwhose turn it was now to feel that greatest anguish of calamity,\nhelplessness.\n\nBut must he relinquish his hopes, his chance of an education, that\nplucky race for which he was entered to overtake the world that had a\nhundred years the start of him, and be forever a nameless, futureless\nclod in Poor Valley?\n\nHis mother had the son she had chosen. And surely he owed no duty to\nPearce Tallam. The hand that was gone had been a hard hand to him.\n\nHe rose at length. He put on his leather apron. \"Waal--I mought ez well\ng' long ter the shop, I reckon,\" he remarked calmly. \"'Pears like thar's\ntime yit fur a toler'ble spot o' work afore dark.\"\n\nIt was a hard-won victory. Even then he experienced a sort of\nsatisfaction in knowing that Pearce Tallam must feel humiliated and of\nsmall account to be thus utterly dependent for his bread upon the boy\nwhom he had so persistently maltreated. In his pale face Ike saw\nsomething of the bitterness he had endured, of his broken spirit, of his\nhumbled pride.\n\nThe look smote upon the boy's heart. There was another inward struggle.\nThen he said, as if it were a result of deep cogitation,--\n\n\"Ye'll hev ter kem over ter the shop, dad, wunst in a while, ter advise\n'bout what's doin'. 'Pears ter me like mos' folks would 'low ez a boy\nno older 'n me couldn't do reg'lar blacksmithin' 'thout some sperienced\nbody along fur sense an' showin'.\"\n\nThe man visibly plucked up a little. Was he, indeed, so useless? \"That's\na fac', Ike,\" he said gently. \"I reckon ye kin make out\ntoler'ble--cornsiderin'. But I'll be along ter holp.\"\n\nAfter this Ike realized that he had been working with something tougher\nthan iron, harder than steel,--his own unsubdued nature. He traced an\nanalogy from the forge; and he saw that those strong forces, the fires\nof conscience and the coercion of duty, had wrought the stubborn metal\nof his character to a kindly use.\n\nGradually the relinquishment of his wild, vague ambition began to seem\nless bitter to him; for it might be that these were the few things over\nwhich he should be faithful,--his own forge-fire and his own fiery\nheart. And so he labors to fulfill his trust.\n\nThe spring never comes to Poor Valley. The summer is a cloud of dust.\nThe autumn shrouds itself in mist. And the winter is snow. But poverty\nof soil need not imply poverty of soul. And a noble manhood may nobly\nexist \"'Way Down in Poor Valley.\"\n\n\n\n\nA MOUNTAIN STORM\n\n\n\"Ef the filly war bridle-wise\"--\n\n\"The filly _air_ bridle-wise.\"\n\nA sullen pause ensued, and the two brothers looked angrily at each\nother.\n\nThe woods were still; the sunshine was faint and flickering; the low,\nguttural notes of a rain-crow broke suddenly on the silence.\n\nPresently Thad, mechanically examining a bridle which he held in his\nhand, began again in an appealing tone: \"'Pears like ter me ez the filly\nair toler'ble well bruk ter the saddle, an' she would holp me powerful\nter git thar quicker ter tell dad 'bout'n that thar word ez war fotched\nup the mounting. They 'lowed ez 'twar jes' las' night ez them revenue\nmen raided a still-house, somewhar down thar in the valley, an' busted\nthe tubs, an' sp'iled the coppers, an' arrested all the moonshiners ez\nwar thar. An' ef they war ter find out 'bout'n this hyar still-house\nover yander in the gorge, they'd raid it, too. An' thar be dad,\" he\ncontinued despairingly, \"jes' sodden with whiskey an' ez drunk ez a\nfraish b'iled ow_el_, an' he wouldn't hev the sense nor the showin' ter\nmake them off'cers onderstand ez he never hed nothin' ter do with the\nmoonshiners--'ceptin' ter go ter thar still-house, an' git drunk along\no' them. An' I dunno whether the off'cers would set much store by that\nsayin' ennyhow, an' I want ter git dad away from thar afore they kem.\"\n\n\"I don't believe that thar word ez them men air a-raidin' round the\nmountings no more 'n _that_!\" and Ben kicked away a pebble\ncontemptuously.\n\nThad was in a quiver of anxiety. While Ben indulged his doubts, the\npaternal \"B'iled Ow_el_\" might at any moment be arrested on a charge of\naiding and abetting in illicit distilling.\n\n\"Ye never b'lieve nothin' till ye see it--ye sateful dunce!\" he\nexclaimed excitedly.\n\nThus began a fraternal quarrel which neither forgot for years.\n\nBen turned scarlet. \"Waal, then, jes' leave my filly in the barn whar\nshe be now; ye kin travel on Shank's mare!\"\n\nThad started off up the steep slope. \"Ef ye ain't a-hankerin' fur me ter\nride that thar filly, ez air ez bridle-wise ez ye be, jes' let's see ye\nkem on, an'--hender!\"\n\n\"I hopes she'll fling ye, an' ye'll git yer neck bruk,\" Ben called out\nafter him.\n\n\"I wish ennything 'ud happen, jes' so be I mought never lay eyes on ye\nagin,\" Thad declared.\n\nAs he glanced over his shoulder, he saw that his brother was not\nfollowing, and when he reached the flimsy little barn, there was nothing\nto prevent him from carrying out his resolution.\n\nNevertheless, he hesitated as he stood with the door in his hand. A\nclay-bank filly came instantly to it, but with a sudden impulse he\nclosed it abruptly, and set out on foot along a narrow, brambly path\nthat wound down the mountain side.\n\nHe had descended almost to its base before the threatening appearance of\nthe sky caught his attention. A dense black cloud had climbed up from\nover the opposite hills, and stretched from their jagged summits to the\nzenith. There it hung in mid-air, its sombre shadow falling across the\nvalley, and reaching high up the craggy slope, where the boy's home was\nperched. The whole landscape wore that strange, still, expectant aspect\nwhich precedes the bursting of a storm.\n\nSuddenly a vivid white flash quivered through the sky. The hills,\nsuffused with its ghastly light, started up in bold relief against the\nblack clouds; even the faint outlines of distant ranges that had\ndisappeared with the strong sunlight reasserted themselves in a pale,\nillusive fashion, flickering like the unreal mountains of a dream about\nthe vague horizon. A ball of fire had coursed through the air, striking\nwith dazzling coruscations the top of a towering oak, and he heard,\namidst the thunder and its clamorous echo, the sharp crash of riving\ntimber.\n\nAll at once he had a sense of falling, a sudden pain shot through him,\ndarkness descended, and he knew no more.\n\nWhen he gradually regained consciousness, it seemed that a long time had\nelapsed since he was trudging down the mountain side. He could not\nimagine where he was now. He put out his hand in the intense darkness\nthat enveloped him, and felt the damp mould beside him,--above--below.\n\nFor one horrible instant he recalled a sickening story of a man who was\nnegligently buried alive. He had always believed that this was only a\nfireside fiction invented in the security of the chimney corner; but was\nit to have a strange confirmation in his own fate? He was pierced with\npity for himself, as he heard the despair in his voice when he sent\nforth a wild, hoarse cry. What a cavernous echo it had!\n\nAgain and again, after his lips were closed, that voice of anguish rang\nout, and then was silent, then fitfully sounded once more on another\nkey. He strove to rise, but the earth on his breast resisted. With a\ngreat effort he finally burst through it; he felt the clods tumbling\nabout him; he sat upright; he rose to his full height; and still all was\nmerged in the densest darkness, and, when he stretched up his arms as\nhigh as he could reach, he again felt the damp mould.\n\nThe truth had begun vaguely to enter his mind even before, in shifting\nhis position, he caught sight of a rift in the deep gloom, some fifteen\nfeet above his head. Then he realized that at the moment of the flash of\nlightning, unmindful of his footing, he had strayed aside from the path,\nstumbled, fallen, and, as it chanced, was received into one of those\nunsuspected apertures in the ground which are common in all cavernous\ncountries, being sometimes the entrance to extensive caves, and which\nare here denominated \"sink-holes.\"\n\nThese cavities were exceedingly frequent in the valley, on the boundary\nof which Thad lived, and his familiarity with them did away for the\nmoment with all appreciation of the perplexity and difficulty of the\nsituation. He laughed aloud triumphantly.\n\nInstantly these underground chambers broke forth with wild, elfish\nvoices that mimicked his merriment till it died on his lips. He\npreferred utter loneliness to the vague sense of companionship given by\nthese weird echoes. Somehow the strangeness of all that had happened to\nhim had stirred his imagination, and he could not rid himself of the\nidea that there were grimacing creatures here with him, whom he could\nnot see, who would only speak when he spoke, and scoffingly iterate his\ntones.\n\nHe was faint, bruised, and exhausted. He had been badly stunned by his\nfall; but for the soft, shelving earth through which he had crashed, it\nmight have been still worse. He could scarcely move as he began to\ninvestigate his precarious plight. Even if he could climb the\nperpendicular wall above his head, he could not thence gain the\naperture, for, as his eyes became more accustomed to the darkness, he\ndiscovered that the shape of the roof was like the interior of a roughly\ndefined dome, about the centre of which was this small opening.\n\n\"An' a human can't walk on a ceilin' like a fly,\" he said\ndiscontentedly.\n\n\"Can't!\" cried an echo close at hand.\n\n\"Fly!\" suggested a distant mocker.\n\nThad closed his mouth and sat down.\n\nHe had moved very cautiously, for he knew that these sink-holes are\noften the entrance of extensive caverns, and that there might be a deep\nabyss on any side. He could do nothing but wait and call out now and\nthen, and hope that somebody might soon take the short cut through the\nwoods, and, hearing his voice, come to his relief.\n\nHis courage gave way when he reflected that the river would rise with\nthe heavy rain which he could hear steadily splashing through the\nsink-hole, and for a time all prudent men would go by the beaten road\nand the ford. No one would care to take the short cut and save three\nmiles' travel at the risk of swimming his horse, for the river was\nparticularly deep just here and spanned only by a footbridge, except,\nperhaps, some fugitive from justice, or the revenue officers on their\nhurried, reckless raids. This reminded him of the still-house and of\n\"dad\" there yet, imbibing whiskey, and sharing the danger of his chosen\ncronies, the moonshiners.\n\nBen, at home, would not have his anxiety roused till midnight, at least,\nby his brother's failure to return from the complicated feat of decoying\nthe drunkard from the distillery. Thad trembled to think what might\nhappen to himself in the interval. If the volume of water pouring down\nthrough the sink-hole should increase to any considerable extent, he\nwould be drowned here like a rat. Was he to have his wish, and see his\nbrother never again?\n\nAnd poor Ben! How his own cruel, wicked parting words would scourge him\nthroughout his life,--even when he should grow old!\n\nThad's eyes filled with tears of prescient pity for his brother's\nremorse.\n\n\"Ef ennything war ter happen hyar, sure enough, I wish he mought always\nknow ez I don't keer nothin' now 'bout'n that thar sayin' o' his'n,\" he\nthought wistfully.\n\nHe still heard the persistent rain splashing outside. The hollow,\nunnatural murmur of a subterranean stream rose drearily. Once he sighed\nheavily, and all the cavernous voices echoed his grief.\n\nWhen that terrible flash of lightning came, Ben was still on the slope\nof the mountain where his brother had left him. The next moment he heard\nthe wild whirl of the gusts as they came surging up the valley. He saw\nthe frantic commotion of the woods on distant spurs as the wind\nadvanced, preceded by swirling columns of dust which carried myriads of\nleaves, twigs, and even great branches rent from the trees, as evidence\nof its force.\n\nBen turned, and ran like a deer up the steep ascent. \"It'll blow\nthat thar barn spang off'n the bluff, I'm thinkin'--an' the\nfilly--Cobe--Cobe!\" he cried out to her as he neared the shanty.\n\nHe stopped short, his eyes distended. The door was open. There was no\nhair nor hoof of the filly within. He could have no doubt that his\nbrother had actually taken his property for this errand against his\nwill.\n\n\"That thar boy air no better 'n a low-down horse-thief!\" he declared\nbitterly.\n\nThe gusts struck the little barn. It careened this way and that, and\nfinally the flimsy structure came down with a crash, one of the boards\nnarrowly missing Ben's head as it fell. He had a hard time getting to\nthe house in the teeth of the wind, but its violence only continued a\nfew minutes, and when he was safe within doors he looked out of the\nwindow at the silent mists, beginning to steal about the coves and\nravines, and at the rain as it fell in serried columns. Long after dark\nit still beat with unabated persistence on the roof of the log cabin,\nand splashed and dripped with a chilly, cheerless sound from the low\neaves. Sometimes a drop fell down the wide chimney, and hissed upon the\nred-hot coals, for Ben had piled on the logs and made a famous fire. He\ncould see that his mother now and then paused to listen in the midst of\nher preparations for supper. Once as she knelt on the hearth, and\ndeftly inserted a knife between the edges of a baking corn-cake and the\nhoe, she looked up suddenly at Ben without turning the cake. \"I hearn\nthe beastis's huff!\" she said.\n\nBen listened. The fire roared. The rain went moaning down the valley.\n\n\"Ye never hearn nothin',\" he rejoined.\n\nNevertheless, she rose and opened the door. The cold air streamed in.\nThe firelight showed the mists, pressing close in the porch,\nshivering, and seeming to jostle and nudge each other as they peered in,\ncuriously, upon the warm home-scene, and the smoking supper, and the\nhilarious children, as if asking of one another how they would like to\nbe human creatures, instead of a part of inanimate nature, or at best\nthe elusive spirits of the mountains.\n\nThere was nothing to be seen without but the mists.\n\n\"Thad tuk the filly, ye say fur true?\" she asked, recurring to the\nsubject when supper was over.\n\nBen nodded. \"I hopes ter conscience she'll break his neck,\" he declared\ncruelly.\n\nHis mother took instant alarm. She turned and looked at him with a face\nexpressive of the keenest anxiety. \"'Pears like to me ez the only reason\nThad kin be so late a-gittin' back air jes' 'kase it air a toler'ble\naggervatin' job a-fotchin' of dad home,\" she said, striving to reassure\nherself.\n\n\"That air a true word 'bout'n dad, ennyhow,\" Ben assented bitterly.\n\nHis old grandfather suddenly lifted up his voice.\n\n\"This night,\" said the graybeard from out the chimney corner,--\"this\nnight, forty years ago, my brother, Ephraim Grimes, fell dead on this\ncabin floor, an' no man sence kin mark the cause.\"\n\nA pause ensued. The rain fell. The pallid, shuddering mists looked in at\nthe window.\n\n\"Ye ain't a-thinkin',\" cried the woman tremulously, \"ez the night air\none app'inted fur evil?\"\n\nThe old man did not answer.\n\n\"This night,\" he croaked, leaning over the glowing fire, and kindling\nhis long-stemmed cob-pipe by dexterously scooping up with its bowl a\nlive coal,--\"this night, twenty-six years ago, thar war eleven sheep o'\nmine--ez war teched in the head, or somehows disabled from good\nsense--an' they jumped off'n the bluff, one arter the other, an' fell\nhaffen way down the mounting, an' bruk thar fool necks 'mongst the\nboulders. They war dead. Thar shearin's never kem ter much account\nnuther. 'Twar powerful cur'ous, fust an' last.\"\n\nThe woman made a gesture of indifference. \"I ain't a-settin' of store by\ncritters when humans is--is--whar they ain't hearn from.\"\n\nBut Ben was susceptible of a \"critter\" scare.\n\n\"I hope, now,\" he exclaimed, alarmed, \"ez that thar triflin' no-'count\nThad Grimes ain't a-goin' ter let my filly lame herself, nor nothin',\na-travelin' with her this dark night, ez seems ter be a night fur things\nter happen on ennyhow. Oh, shucks! shucks!\" he continued impatiently,\n\"I jes' feels like thar ain't no use o' my tryin' ter live along.\"\n\nThree of the children who habitually slept in the shed-room had started\noff to go to bed. As they opened the connecting door, there suddenly\nresounded a wild commotion within. They shrieked with fright, and banged\nthe door against a strong force which was beginning to push from the\nother side.\n\nThe old grandfather rose, pale and agitated, his pipe falling from his\nnerveless clasp.\n\n\"This night,\" he said, with white lips and mechanical utterance,--\"this\nnight\"--\n\n\"Satan is in the shed-room!\" shouted the three small boys, as they held\nfast to the door with a strength far beyond their age and weight.\nNevertheless, they were hardly able to cope with the strength on the\nother side of the door, and it was alternately forced slightly ajar, and\nthen closed with a resounding slam. Once, as the firelight flickered\ninto the dark shed-room, the ignorant, superstitious mountaineers had a\nfleeting glimpse of an object there which convinced them: they beheld\ngreat gleaming, blazing eyes, a burnished hoof, and--yes--a flirting\ntail.\n\n\"I believe it is Satan himself!\" cried Ben, with awe in his voice.\n\nIn the wild confusion and bewilderment, Ben was somehow vaguely aware\nthat Satan had often been in the shed-room before,--in the antechamber\nof his own heart. Whenever this heart of his was full of unkindness, and\nhardened against his brother, although those better fraternal instincts\nwhich he kept repressed and dwarfed might repudiate this cruelty under\nthe pretext that he did not really mean it, still the great principle of\nevil was there in the moral shed-room, clamoring for entrance at the\ninner doors. And this, we may safely say, may apply to wiser people than\npoor Ben.\n\nIn the midst of the general despair and fright, something suddenly\nwhinnied. At the sound the three small boys fell in a limp, exhausted\nheap on the floor, and, as the door no longer offered resistance, the\nunknown visitor pranced in: it was the filly, snorting and tossing her\nmane, and once more whinnying shrilly for her supper.\n\nIn a moment Ben understood the whole phenomenon. Thad had left the barn\ndoor unfastened, and, when that terrible flash of lightning came and the\nwind arose, the frightened animal had instantly fled to the house for\nsafety. She had doubtless pushed open the back door of the shed-room\neasily enough, but it had closed behind her, and she had remained there\na supperless prisoner.\n\nThe small boys picked themselves up from among the filly's hoofs, with\ndisconnected exclamations of \"Wa-a-a-l, sir!\" while Ben led the animal\nout, with a growing impression that he would try to \"live along\" for a\nwhile, at all events.\n\nHe had led Satan out of the moral shed-room, as well. The reappearance\nof the filly without Thad had raised a great anxiety about his brother's\ncontinued absence. All at once he began to feel as if those brutal\nwishes of his were prophetic,--as if they were endowed with a malignant\npower, and could actually pursue poor Thad to some violent end. He did\nnot understand now how he could have framed the words.\n\nWhen a fellow really likes his brother,--and most fellows do,--there is\nscant use or grace or common-sense in keeping up, from mere\ncarelessness, or through an irritable habit, a continual bickering, for\nthese germs of evil are possessed of a marvelous faculty for growth, and\nsome day their gigantic deformities will confront you in deeds of which\nyou once believed yourself incapable.\n\nBen's hands were trembling as he folded a blanket, and laid it on the\nanimal's back to serve instead of a saddle.\n\n\"I'm a-goin' ter the still-house ter see ef Thad ever got thar,\" he\nsaid, when his mother appeared at the door.\n\nHe added, \"I'm a-gittin' sorter skeered ez su'thin' mought hev happened\nter him.\"\n\nHis grandfather hobbled out into the little porch. \"Them roads air\nturrible rough fur that thar filly, ez ain't fairly broke good yit, nor\nused ter travel,\" he suggested.\n\n\"I'd gin four hunderd fillies, ef I hed 'em, jes' ter know that thar boy\nair safe an' sound,\" Ben declared, as he mounted.\n\nHe took the short cut, judging that, at the point where it crossed the\nriver, the stream was still fordable. When he heard his brother's\npiteous cries for help, he quaked to think what might have happened to\nThad if he had not recognized the presence of Satan in the moral\nshed-room, and summarily ejected him. The rainfall had been sufficient\nto aggregate considerable water in the gullies about the sink-hole, and\nthese, emptying into the cavity and sending a continuous stream over the\nboy, had served to chill him through and through, and he had a pretty\nfair chance of being drowned, or dying from cold and exhaustion. Ben\npressed on to the still-house at the best speed he could make, and such\nof the moonshiners as were half sober came out with ropes and a barrel,\nwhich they lowered into the cavity. Thad managed to crawl into the\nbarrel, and, after several ineffectual attempts, he was drawn up through\nthe sink-hole.\n\nThere was no formal reconciliation between the two boys. It was enough\nfor Ben to feel Thad's reluctance to unloose his eager clutch upon his\nbrother's arms, even after he had been lifted out upon the firm ground.\nAnd Thad knew that that complicated sound in Ben's throat was a sob,\nalthough, for the sake of the men who stood by, he strove to seem to be\ncoughing.\n\n\"Right smart of an idjit, now, ain't ye?\" demanded Ben, hustling back,\nso to speak, the tears that sought to rise in his eyes.\n\n\"Waal, stranger, how's yer filly?\" retorted Thad, laughing in a gaspy\nfashion.\n\nThere was a tone of forgiveness in the inquiry. The answer caught the\nsame spirit.\n\n\"Middlin',--thanky,--jes' middlin',\" said Ben.\n\nAnd then they and \"dad\" fared home together by the light of the\nmoonshiners' lantern.\n\n\n\n\nBORROWING A HAMMER\n\n\nOn a certain bold crag that juts far over a steep wooded mountain slope\na red light was seen one moonless night in June. Sometimes it glowed\nintensely among the gray mists which hovered above the deep and sombre\nvalley; sometimes it faded. Its life was the breath of the bellows, for\na blacksmith's shop stands close beside the road that rambles along the\nbrink of the mountain. Generally after sunset the forge is dark and\nsilent. So when three small boys, approaching the log hut through the\ngloomy woods, heard the clink! clank! clink! clank! of the hammers, and\nthe metallic echo among the cliffs, they stopped short in astonishment.\n\n\"Thar now!\" exclaimed Abner Ryder desperately; \"dad's at it fur true!\"\n\n\"Mebbe he'll go away arter a while, Ab,\" suggested Jim Gryce, another\nof the small boys. \"Then that'll gin us our chance.\"\n\n\"Waal, I reckon we kin stiffen up our hearts ter wait,\" said Ab\nresignedly.\n\nAll three sat down on a log a short distance from the shop, and\npresently they became so engrossed in their talk that they did not\nnotice when the blacksmith, in the pauses of his work, came to the door\nfor a breath of air. They failed to discreetly lower their voices, and\nthus they had a listener on whose attention they had not counted.\n\n\"Ye see,\" observed Ab in a high, shrill pipe, \"dad sets a heap o' store\nby his tools. But dad, ye know, air a mighty slack-twisted man. He gits\nhis tools lost\" (reprehensively), \"he wastes his nails, an' then he\n'lows ez how it war _me_ ez done it.\"\n\nHe paused impressively in virtuous indignation. A murmur of surprise and\nsympathy rose from his companions. Then he recommenced.\n\n\"Dad air the crankiest man on this hyar mounting! He won't lend me none\no' his tools nowadays,--not even that thar leetle hammer o' his'n. An'\nI'm obleeged ter hev that thar leetle hammer an' some nails ter fix a\nbox fur them young squir'ls what we cotched. So we'll jes' hev ter go\nter his shop of a night when he is away, an'--an'--an' borry it!\"\n\nThe blacksmith, a tall, powerfully built man, of an aspect far from\njocular, leaned slightly out of the door, peering in the direction where\nthe three tow-headed urchins waited. Then he glanced within at a leather\nstrap, as if he appreciated the appropriateness of an intimate relation\nbetween these objects. But there was no time for pleasure now. He was\nback in his shop in a moment.\n\nHis next respite was thus entertained:--\n\n\"What makes him work so of a night?\" asked Jim Gryce.\n\n\"Waal,\" explained Ab in his usual high key, \"he rid ter the settle_mint_\nthis mornin'; he hev been a-foolin' round thar all day, an' the crap air\njes' a-sufferin' fur work! So him an' Uncle Tobe air layin' thar ploughs\nin the shop now, kase they air goin' ter run around the corn\nter-morrer. Workin', though, goes powerful hard with dad enny time. I\ntole old Bob Peachin that, when I war ter the mill this evenin'. Him an'\nthe t'other men thar laffed mightily at dad. An' I laffed too!\"\n\nThere was an angry gleam in Stephen Ryder's stern black eyes as he\nturned within, seized the tongs, and thrust a piece of iron among the\ncoals, while Tobe, who had been asleep in the window at the back of the\nshop, rose reluctantly and plied the bellows. The heavy panting broke\nforth simultaneously with the red flare that quivered out into the dark\nnight. Presently it faded; the hot iron was whisked upon the anvil,\nfiery sparks showered about as the rapid blows fell, and the echoing\ncrags kept time with rhythmic beats to the clanking of the sledge and\nthe clinking of the hand-hammer. The stars, high above the\nfar-stretching mountains, seemed to throb in unison, until suddenly the\nblacksmith dealt a sharp blow on the face of the anvil as a signal to\nhis striker to cease, and the forge was silent.\n\nAs he leaned against the jamb of the door, mechanically adjusting his\nleather apron, he heard Ab's voice again.\n\n\"Old Bob say he ain't no 'count sca'cely. He 'lowed ez he had knowed him\nmany a year, an' fund him a sneakin', deceivin' critter.\"\n\nThe blacksmith was erect in a moment, every fibre tense.\n\n\"That ain't the wust,\" Ab gabbled on. \"Old Bob say, though't ain't known\nginerally, ez he air gin ter thievin'. Old Bob 'lowed ter them men,\nhangin' round the mill, ez he air the biggest thief on the mounting!\"\n\nThe strong man trembled. His blood rushed tumultuously to his head, then\nseemed to ebb swiftly away. That this should be said of him to the\nloafers at the mill! These constituted his little world. And he valued\nhis character as only an honest man can. He was amazed at the boldness\nof the lie. It had been openly spoken in the presence of his son. One\nmight have thought the boy would come directly to him. But there he sat,\nglibly retailing it to his small comrades! It seemed all so strange\nthat Stephen Ryder fancied there was surely some mistake. In the next\nmoment, however, he was convinced that they had been talking of him, and\nof no one else.\n\n\"I tole old Bob ez how I thought they oughtn't ter be so hard on him, ez\nhe warn't thar to speak for hisself.\"\n\nAll three boys giggled weakly, as if this were witty.\n\n\"But old Bob 'lowed ez ennybody mought know him by his name. An' then he\ntold me that old sayin':--\n\n  'Stephen, Stephen, so deceivin',\n  That old Satan can't believe him!'\"\n\nHere Ben Gryce broke in, begging the others to go home, and come to\n\"borry\" the hammer next night. Ab agreed to the latter proposition, but\nstill sat on the log and talked. \"Old Bob say,\" he remarked cheerfully,\n\"that when he do git 'em, he shakes 'em--shakes the life out'n 'em!\"\n\nThis was inexplicable. Stephen Ryder pondered vainly on it for an\ninstant. But the oft-reiterated formula, \"Old Bob say,\" caught his\nears, and he was absorbed anew in Ab's discourse.\n\n\"Old Bob say ez my mother air one of the best women in this world. But\nshe air so gin ter humoring every critter a-nigh her, an' tends ter 'em\nso much, an' feeds 'em so high an' hearty, ez they jes' gits good fur\nnothin' in this world. That's how kem she air eat out'n house an' home\nnow. Old Bob say ez how he air the hongriest critter! Say he jes'\ndespise ter see him comin' round of meal times. Old Bob say ef he hev\ngot enny good lef' in him, my mother will kill it out yit with\nkindness.\"\n\nThe blacksmith felt, as he turned back into the shop and roused the\nsleepy-headed striker, that within the hour all the world had changed\nfor him. These coarse taunts were enough to show in what estimation he\nwas held. And he had fancied himself, in countrified phrase, \"respected\nby all,\" and had been proud of his standing.\n\nSo the bellows began to sigh and pant once more, and kept the red light\nflaring athwart the darkness. The people down in the valley looked up at\nit, glowing like a star that had slipped out of the sky and lodged\nsomehow on the mountain, and wondered what Stephen Ryder could be about\nso late at night. When he left the shop there was no sign of the boys\nwho had ornamented the log earlier in the evening. He walked up the road\nto his house, and found his wife sitting alone in the rickety little\nporch.\n\n\"Hev that thar boy gone ter bed?\" he asked.\n\n\"Waal,\" she slowly drawled, in a soft, placid voice, \"he kem hyar\n'bout'n haffen hour ago so nigh crazed ter go ter stay all night with\nJim an' Benny Gryce ez I hed ter let him. Old man Gryce rid by hyar in\nhis wagon on his way home from the settle_mint_. So Ab went off with the\nGryce boys an' thar gran'dad.\"\n\nThus the blacksmith concluded his tools were not liable to be \"borrowed\"\nthat night. He had a scheme to insure their safety for the future, but\nin order to avoid his wife's remonstrances on Ab's behalf, he told her\nnothing of it, nor of what he had overheard.\n\nEarly the next morning he set out for the mill, intending to confront\n\"old Bob\" and demand retraction. The road down the deep, wild ravine was\nrugged, and he jogged along slowly until at last he came within sight of\nthe crazy, weather-beaten old building tottering precariously on the\nbrink of the impetuous torrent which gashed the mountain side. Crags\ntowered above it; vines and mosses clung to its walls; it was a dank,\ncool, shady place, but noisy enough with the turmoil of its primitive\nmachinery and the loud, hoarse voices of the loungers striving to make\nthemselves heard above the uproar. There were several of these idle\nmountaineers aimlessly strolling among the bags of corn and wheat that\nwere piled about. Long, dusty cobwebs hung from the rafters. Sometimes a\nrat, powdered white with flour and rendered reckless by high living,\nraced boldly across the floor. The golden grain poured ceaselessly\nthrough the hopper, and leaning against it was the miller, a tall,\nstoop-shouldered man about forty years of age, with a floury smile\nlurking in his beard and a twinkle in his good-humored eyes overhung by\nheavy, mealy eyebrows.\n\n\"Waal, Steve,\" yelled the miller, shambling forward as the blacksmith\nappeared in the doorway. \"Come 'long in. Whar's yer grist?\"\n\n\"I hev got no grist!\" thundered Steve, sternly.\n\n\"Waal--ye're jes' ez welcome,\" said the miller, not noticing the rigid\nlines of the blacksmith's face, accented here and there by cinders, nor\nthe fierceness of the intent dark eyes.\n\n\"I reckon I'm powerful welcome!\" sneered Stephen Ryder.\n\nThe tone attracted \"old Bob's\" attention. \"What ails ye, Steve?\" he\nasked, surprised.\n\n\"I'm a deceivin', sneakin' critter--hey,\" shouted the visitor, shaking\nhis big fist; he had intended to be calm, but his long-repressed fury\nhad found vent at last.\n\nThe miller drew back hastily, astonishment and fear mingled in a pallid\npaste, as it were, with the flour on his face.\n\nThe six startled on-lookers stood as if petrified.\n\n\"Ye say I'm a thief!--a thief!--a thief!\"\n\nWith the odious word Ryder made a frantic lunge at the miller, who\ndodged his strong right arm at the moment when his foot struck against a\nbag of corn lying on the floor and he stumbled. He recovered his\nequilibrium instantly. But the six bystanders had seized him.\n\n\"Hold him hard, folkses!\" cried honest Bob Peachin. \"Hold hard! I'll\ntell ye what ails him--though ye mustn't let on ter him--he air teched\nin the head!\"\n\nHe winked at them with a confidential intention as he roared this out,\nforgetting in his excitement that mental infirmity does not impair the\nsense of hearing. This folly on his part was a salutary thing for\nStephen Ryder. It calmed him instantly. He felt that he had need for\ncaution. A fearful vista of possibilities opened before him. He\nremembered having seen in his childhood a man reputed to be suddenly\nbereft of reason, but who he believed was entirely sane, bound hand and\nfoot, and every word, every groan, every effort to free himself,\naccounted the demonstration of a maniac. This fate was imminent for him.\nThey were seven to one. He trembled as he felt their hands pressing upon\nthe swelling muscles of his arms. With an abrupt realization of his\ngreat strength, he waited for a momentary relaxation of their clutch,\nthen with a mighty wrench he burst loose from them, flung himself upon\nhis mare, and dashed off at full speed.\n\nHe did no work that afternoon, although the corn was \"suffering.\" He sat\nafter dinner smoking his pipe on the porch of his log cabin, while he\nmoodily watched the big shadow of the mountain creeping silently over\nthe wooded valley as the sun got on the down grade. Deep glooms began to\nlurk among the ravines of the great ridge opposite. The shimmering blue\nsummits in the distance were purpling. A redbird, alert, crested, and\nwith a brilliant eye, perched idly on the vines about the porch, having\nrelinquished for the day the job of teaching a small, stubby imitation\nof himself to fly. The shocks of wheat in the bare field close by had\nturned a rich red gold in the lengthening rays before Stephen Ryder\nrealized that night was close at hand.\n\nAll at once he heard a discordant noise which he knew that Ab Ryder\ncalled \"singing,\" and presently the boy appeared in the distance, his\nmouth stretched, his tattered hat stuck on the back of his tow-head, his\nbare feet dusty, his homespun cotton trousers rolled up airily about his\nknees, his single suspender supporting the structure. His father laughed\na little at sight of him, rather sardonically it must be confessed, and\nsaying to his wife that he intended to go to the shop for a while, he\nrose and strolled off down the road.\n\nWhen supper was over, however, Ab was immensely relieved to see that\nhis father had no idea of continuing his work. Consequently the usual\nroutine was to be expected. Generally, when summoned to the evening\nmeal, the blacksmith hastily plunged his head in the barrel of water\nused to temper steel, thrust off his leather apron, and went up to the\nhouse without more ado. He smoked afterward, and lounged about, enjoying\nthe relaxation after his heavy work. He did not go down to lock the shop\nuntil bed-time, when he was shutting up the house, the barn, and the\ncorn-crib for the night. In the interval the shop stood deserted and\nopen, and this fact was the basis of Ab's opportunity. To-night there\nseemed to be no deviation from this custom. He ascertained that his\nfather was smoking his pipe on the porch. Then he went down the road and\nsat on the log near the shop to wait for the other boys who were to\nshare the risks and profits of borrowing the hammer.\n\nAll was still--so still! He fancied that he could hear the tumult of the\ntorrent far away as it dashed over the rocks. A dog suddenly began to\nbark in the black, black valley--then ceased. He was vaguely over-awed\nwith the \"big mountings\" for company and the distant stars. He listened\neagerly for the first cracking of brush which told him that the other\nboys were near at hand. Then all three crept along cautiously among the\nhuge boles of the trees, feeling very mysterious and important. When\nthey reached the rude window, Ab sat for a moment on the sill, peering\ninto the intense blackness within.\n\n\"It air dark thar, fur true, Ab,\" said Jim Gryce, growing faint-hearted.\n\"Let's go back.\"\n\n\"Naw, sir! Naw, sir!\" protested Ab resolutely. \"I'm on the borry!\"\n\n\"How kin we find that thar leetle hammer in sech a dark place?\" urged\nJim.\n\n\"Waal,\" explained Ab, in his high key, \"dad air mightily welded ter his\ncranky notions. An' he always leaves every tool in the same place\nedzactly every night. Bound fur me!\" he continued in shrill exultation\nas he slapped his lean leg, \"I know whar that thar leetle hammer air\nsot ter roost!\"\n\nHe jumped down from the window inside the shop, and cut a wiry caper.\n\n\"I'm a man o' bone and muscle!\" he bragged. \"Kin do ennything.\"\n\nThe other boys followed more quietly. But they had only groped a little\ndistance when Jim Gryce set up a sharp yelp of pain.\n\n\"Shet yer mouth--ye pop-eyed catamount!\" Ab admonished him. \"Dad will\nhear an'--ah-h-h!\" His own words ended in a shriek. \"Oh, my!\"\nvociferated the \"man of bone and muscle,\" who was certainly, too, a man\nof extraordinary lung-power. \"Oh, my! The ground is hot--hot ez iron!\nThey always tole me that Satan would ketch me--an' oh, my! now he hev\ndone it!\"\n\nHe joined the \"pop-eyed catamount\" in a lively dance with their bare\nfeet on the hot iron bars which were scattered about the ground in every\ndirection. These were heated artistically, so that they might not really\nscorch the flesh, but would touch the feelings, and perhaps the\nconscience. As the third boy's scream rent the air, and told that he,\ntoo, had encountered a torrid experience, Ab Ryder became suddenly aware\nthat there was some one besides themselves in the shop. He could see\nnothing; he was only vaguely conscious of an unexpected presence, and he\nfancied that it was in the corner by the barrel of water.\n\nAll at once a gruff voice broke forth. \"I'm on the borry!\" it remarked\nwith fierce facetiousness. \"I want ter borry a boy--no! a man o' bone\nan' muscle--fur 'bout a minit and a quarter!\" A strong arm seized Ab by\nhis collar. He felt himself swept through the air, soused head foremost\ninto the barrel of water, then thrust into a corner, where he was\nthankful to find there was no more hot iron.\n\n\"I want to borry another boy!\" said the gruff voice. And the \"pop-eyed\ncatamount\" was duly ducked.\n\n\"'Twould pleasure me some ter borry another!\" the voice declared with\ngrim humor. But Ben was the youngest and smallest, and only led into\nmischief by the others. They never knew that the blacksmith relented\nwhen his turn came, and that he got a mere sprinkle in comparison with\ntheir total immersion.\n\nThen Stephen Ryder set out for home, followed by a dripping procession.\n\"I'll l'arn ye ter 'borry' my tools 'thout leave!\" he vociferated as he\nwent along.\n\nWhen they had reached the house, he faced round sternly on Ab. \"Whyn't\nye kem an' tell me ez how the miller say I war a sneakin', deceivin'\ncritter, an'--an'--an' a thief!\"\n\nHis wife dropped the dish she was washing, and it broke unheeded upon\nthe hearth. Ab stretched his eyes and mouth in amazement.\n\n\"Old Bob Peachin never tole me no sech word sence I been born!\" he\ndeclared flatly.\n\n\"Then what ailed ye ter go an' tell sech a lie ter Gryce's boys las'\nnight jes' down thar outside o' the shop?\" Stephen Ryder demanded.\n\nAb stared at him, evidently bewildered.\n\n\"Ye tole 'em,\" continued the blacksmith, striving to refresh his memory,\n\"ez Bob Peachin say ez how ye mought know I war deceivin' by my bein'\nnamed Stephen--an' that I war the hongriest critter--an'\"--\n\n\"'Twar the t-a-a-a-rrier!\" shouted Ab, \"the little rat tarrier ez we war\na-talkin' 'bout. He hev been named Steve these six year, old Bob say. He\ngimme the dog yestiddy, 'kase I 'lowed ez the rats war eatin' us out'n\nhouse an' home, an' my mother hed fed up that old cat o' our'n till he\nwon't look at a mice. Old Bob warned me, though, ez Steve, _the\ntarrier_, air a mighty thief an' deceivin' ginerally. Old Bob say he\nreckons my mother will spile the dog with feedin' him, an' kill out what\nlittle good he hev got lef' in him with kindness. But I tuk him, an'\nbrung him home ennyhow. An' las' night arter we hed got through talkin'\n'bout borryin' (he looked embarrassed) the leetle hammer, we tuk to\ntalkin' 'bout the tarrier. An' yander he is now, asleep on the\nchil'ren's bed!\"\n\nA long pause ensued.\n\n\"M'ria,\" said the blacksmith meekly to his wife, \"hev ye tuk notice how\nthe gyarden truck air a-thrivin'? 'Pears like ter me ez the peas air\na-fullin' up consider'ble.\"\n\nAnd so the subject changed.\n\nHe had it on his conscience, however, to explain the matter to the\nmiller. For the second time old Bob Peachin, and the men at the mill,\n\"laffed mightily at dad.\" And when Ab had recovered sufficiently from\nthe exhaustion attendant upon borrowing a hammer, he \"laffed too.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE CONSCRIPTS' HOLLOW\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\"I'm a-goin' ter climb down ter that thar ledge, an' slip round ter the\nhollow whar them conscripts built thar fire in the old war times.\"\n\nNicholas Gregory paused on the verge of the great cliff and cast a\nsidelong glance at Barney Pratt, who was beating about among the red\nsumach bushes in the woods close at hand, and now and then stooping to\nsearch the heaps of pine needles and dead leaves where they had been\nblown together on the ground.\n\n\"Conscripts!\" Barney ejaculated, with a chuckle. \"That's precisely what\nthem men war determinated _not_ ter be! They war a-hidin' in the\nmountings ter git shet o' the conscription.\"\n\n\"Waal, I don't keer ef _ye_ names 'em 'conscripts' or no,\" Nicholas\nretorted loftily. \"That's what other folks calls 'em. I'm goin' down ter\nthe hollow, whar they built thar fire, ter see ef that old missin'\ntur-r-key-hen o' our'n hain't hid her nest off 'mongst them dead chunks,\nan' sech.\"\n\n\"A tur-r-key ain't sech a powerful fool ez that,\" said Barney, coming to\nthe edge of the precipice and looking over at the ledge, which ran along\nthe face of the cliff twenty feet below. \"How'd she make out ter fotch\nthe little tur-r-keys up hyar, when they war hatched? They'd fall off'n\nthe bluff.\"\n\n\"A tur-r-key what hev stole her nest away from the folks air fool enough\nfur ennything,\" Nicholas declared.\n\nPerhaps he did not really expect to find the missing fowl in such an\nout-of-the-way place as this, but being an adventurous fellow, the sight\nof the crag was a temptation. He had often before clambered down to the\nledge, which led to a great niche in the solid rock, where one night\nduring the war some men who were hiding from the conscription had\nkindled their fire and cooked their scanty food. The charred remnants of\nlogs were still here, but no one ever thought about them now, except the\ntwo boys, who regarded them as a sort of curiosity.\n\nSometimes they came and stared at them, and speculated about them, and\ndeclared to each other that _they_ would not consider it a hardship to\ngo a-soldiering.\n\nThen Nick would tell Barney of a wonderful day when he had driven to the\ncounty town in his uncle's wagon. There was a parade of militia there,\nand how grand the drum had sounded! And as he told it he would shoulder\na smoke-blackened stick, and stride about in the Conscripts' Hollow, and\nfeel very brave.\n\nHe had no idea in those days how close at hand was the time when his own\ncourage should be tried.\n\n\"Kem on, Barney!\" he urged. \"Let's go down an' sarch fur the tur-r-key.\"\n\nBut Barney had thrown himself down upon the crag with a long-drawn sigh\nof fatigue.\n\n\"Waal,\" he replied, in a drowsy tone, \"I dunno 'bout'n that. I'm sorter\nbanged out, 'kase I hev had a powerful hard day's work a-bilin' sorghum\nat our house. I b'lieves I'll rest my bones hyar, an' wait fur ye.\"\n\nAs he spoke, he rolled up one of the coats which they had both thrown\noff, during their search for the nest on the summit of the cliff, and\nslipped it under his head. He was far the brighter boy of the two, but\nhis sharp wits seemed to thrive at the expense of his body. He was small\nand puny, and he was easily fatigued in comparison with big burly Nick,\nwho rarely knew such a sensation, and prided himself upon his toughness.\n\n\"Waal, Barney, surely ye air the porest little shoat on G'liath\nMounting!\" he exclaimed scornfully, as he had often done before. But he\nmade no further attempt to persuade Barney, and began the descent alone.\n\nIt was not so difficult a matter for a sure-footed mountaineer like\nNick to make his way down to the ledge as one might imagine, for in a\ncertain place the face of the cliff presented a series of jagged edges\nand projections which afforded him foothold. As he went along, too, he\nkept a strong grasp upon overhanging vines and bushes that grew out\nfrom earth-filled crevices.\n\nHe had gone down only a short distance when he paused thoughtfully.\n\"This hyar wind air blowin' powerful brief,\" he said. \"I mought get\nchilled an' lose my footin'.\"\n\nHe hardly liked to give up the expedition, but he was afraid to continue\non his way in the teeth of the mountain wind, cold and strong in the\nOctober afternoon. If only he had his heavy jeans coat with him!\n\n\"Barney!\" he called out, intending to ask his friend to throw it over to\nhim.\n\nThere was no answer.\n\n\"That thar Barney hev drapped off ter sleep a'ready!\" he exclaimed\nindignantly.\n\nHe chanced to glance upward as he was about to call again. There he saw\na coat lying on the edge of the cliff, the dangling sleeve fluttering\njust within his reach. When he dragged it down and discovered that it\nwas Barney's instead of his own, he was slightly vexed, but it\ncertainly did not seem a matter of great importance.\n\n\"That boy hev got _my_ coat, an' this is his'n. But law! I'd ruther\nsqueeze myself small enough ter git inter his'n, than ter hev ter yell\nlike a catamount fur an hour an' better ter wake him up, an' make him\ngimme mine.\"\n\nHe seated himself on a narrow projection of the crag, and began to\ncautiously put on his friend's coat. He had need to be careful, for a\nprecarious perch like this, with an unmeasured abyss beneath, the far\nblue sky above, the almost inaccessible face of a cliff on one side, and\non the other a distant stretch of mountains, is not exactly the kind of\nplace in which one would prefer to make a toilet. Besides the dangers of\nhis position, he was anxious to do no damage to the coat, which although\nloose and baggy on Barney, was rather a close fit for Nick.\n\n\"I ain't used ter climbin' with a coat on, nohow, an' I mus' be mighty\nkeerful not ter bust Barney's, 'kase it air all the one he hev got,\" he\nsaid to himself as he clambered nimbly down to the ledge.\n\nThen he walked deftly along the narrow shelf, and as he turned abruptly\ninto the immense niche in the cliff called the Conscripts' Hollow, he\nstarted back in sudden bewilderment. His heart gave a bound, and then it\nseemed to stand still.\n\nHe hardly recognized the familiar place. There, to be sure, were the\nwalls and the dome-like roof, but upon the dusty sandstone floor were\nscattered quantities of household articles, such as pots and pails and\npans and kettles. There was a great array of brogans, too, and piles of\nblankets, and bolts of coarse unbleached cotton and jeans cloth.\n\n\"Waal, sir!\" he exclaimed, as he gazed at them with wild,\nuncomprehending eyes.\n\nThen the truth flashed upon him. A story had reached Goliath Mountain\nsome weeks before, to the effect that a cross-roads store, some miles\ndown the valley, had been robbed. The thieves had escaped with the\nstolen goods, leaving no clue by which they might be identified and\nbrought to justice.\n\nNick saw that he had made a discovery. Here it was that the robbers had\ncontrived to conceal their plunder, doubtless intending to wait until\nsuspicion lulled, when they could carry it to some distant place, where\nit could safely be sold.\n\nSuddenly a thought struck him that sent a shiver through every fibre of\nhis body. This store was robbed in a singular manner. No bolt was\nbroken,--no door burst open. There was a window, however, that lacked\none pane of glass. The aperture would not admit a man's body. It was\nbelieved that the burglars had passed a boy through it, who had handed\nout the stolen goods.\n\nAnd now, Nick foolishly argued, if any one should discover that _he_\nknew where the plunder was hidden, they would believe that _he_ was that\nboy who had robbed the store!\n\nHe began to resolve that he would say nothing about what he had\nseen,--not even to Barney. He thought his safety lay in his silence.\nStill, he did not want his silence to be to the advantage of wicked men,\nso he tried to persuade himself that the burglars would soon be traced\nand captured without the information which he knew it was his duty to\ngive. \"Ter be sartain, the officers will kem on this place arter a\nwhile,\" he said meditatively.\n\nThen he shook his head doubtfully. The crag was far from any house, and\nexcept the dwellers on Goliath Mountain, few people knew of this great\nniche in it. \"They war sly foxes what stowed away thar plunder hyar!\" he\nexclaimed in despair.\n\nOften, when Nick had before stood in the Conscripts' Hollow, he had\nimagined that he would make a good soldier. But his idea of a soldier\nwas a fine uniform, and the ra-ta-ta of martial music. He had no\nconception of that high sense of duty which nerves a man to face danger;\neven now he did not know that he was a coward as he faltered and feared\nin the cause of right to encounter suspicion.\n\nCourage!--Nick thought that meant to crack away at a bear, if you were\nlucky enough to have the chance; or to kill a rattlesnake, if you had a\nbig heavy stone close at hand; or to scramble about among crags and\nprecipices, if you felt certain of the steadiness of your head and the\nstrength of your muscles. But he did not realize that \"courage\" could\nmean the nerve to speak one little word for duty's sake.\n\nHe would not speak the word,--he had determined on that,--for might they\nnot think that _he_ was the boy who had robbed the store?\n\nHe was quivering with excitement when he turned and began to walk along\nthe ledge toward those roughly hewn natural steps by which he had\ndescended. He knew that his agitation rendered his footing insecure. He\nwas afraid of falling into the depths beneath, and he pressed close\nagainst the cliff.\n\nOn the narrow ledge, hardly two yards distant from the Conscripts'\nHollow, a clump of blackberry bushes was growing from a crevice in the\nrock. They had never before given him trouble; but now, as he brushed\nhastily past, they seemed to clutch at him with their thorny branches.\n\nAs he tore away from them roughly, he did not observe that he had left a\nfragment of his brown jeans clothing hanging upon the thorns, as a\nwitness to his presence here close to the Conscripts' Hollow, where the\nstolen goods lay hidden. There was a coarse, dark-colored horn button\nattached to the bit of brown jeans, which was a three-cornered scrap of\nhis coat. No! of _Barney's_ coat. And was it to be a witness against\npoor Barney, who had not gone near the Conscripts' Hollow, but was lying\nasleep on the summit of the crag, supposing he had his own coat under\nhis own head?\n\nHe did not discover his mistake until some time afterward, for when Nick\nhad slowly and laboriously climbed up the steep face of the cliff, he\nstripped off his friend's torn coat before he roused him. Barney was\nawakened by having his pillow dragged rudely from under his head, and\nwhen at last he reluctantly opened his eyes on the hazy yellow\nsunlight, and saw Nick standing near on the great gray crag, he had no\nidea that this moment was an important crisis in his life.\n\nThe wind was coming up the gorge fresh and free; the autumnal foliage,\nswaying in it, was like the flaunting splendors of red and gold banners;\nthe western ranges had changed from blue to purple, for the sun was\nsinking.\n\n\"It's gittin' toler'ble late, Barney,\" said Nick. \"Let's go.\" He had on\nhis own coat now, and he was impatient to be off.\n\n\"Did ye find the tur-r-key's nest in the Conscripts' Hollow?\" asked\nBarney, with a lazy yawn, and still flat on his back.\n\n\"No,\" said Nick curtly.\n\nThen it occurred to him that it would be safer if his friend should\nthink he had not been in the Hollow. \"No,\" he reiterated, after a pause,\n\"I didn't go down ter the ledge arter all.\"\n\nHe had begun to lie,--where would it end?\n\n\"Whyn't you-uns go?\" demanded Barney, surprised.\n\n\"The wind war blowin' so powerful brief,\" Nick replied without a qualm.\n\"So I jes' s'arched fur a while in the woods back thar a piece.\"\n\nIn a moment more, Barney rose to his feet, picked up his coat, and put\nit on. He did not notice the torn place, for the garment was old and\nworn, and had many ragged edges. It lacked, however, but one button, and\nthat missing button was attached to the triangular bit of brown jeans\nthat fluttered on the thorny bush close to the Conscripts' Hollow.\n\nAll unconscious of his loss, he went away in the rich autumnal sunset,\nleaving it there as a witness against him.\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nAfter this, Nicholas Gregory was very steady at his work for a while. He\nkept out of the woods as much as possible, and felt that he knew more\nalready than was good for him. Above all, he avoided that big sandstone\ncliff and the Conscripts' Hollow, where the goods lay hidden.\n\nHe heard no more of the search that had been made for the burglars and\ntheir booty, and he congratulated himself on his caution in keeping\nsilent about what he had found.\n\n\"Now, ef it hed been that thar wide-mouthed Barney, stid o' me, he'd hev\nblabbed fust thing, an' they'd all hev thunk ez he war the boy what them\nscoundrels put through the winder ter steal the folkses' truck. They'd\nhev jailed him, I reckon.\"\n\nHe had begun to forget his own part in the wrong-doing,--that his\nsilence was helping to screen \"them scoundrels\" from the law.\n\nThis state of mind continued for a week, perhaps. Then he fell to\nspeculating about the stolen goods. He wondered whether they were all\nthere yet, or whether the burglars had managed to carry them away. His\ncuriosity grew so great that several times he was almost at the point of\ngoing to see for himself; but one morning, early, when an opportunity\nto do so was suddenly presented, his courage failed him.\n\nHis mother had just come into the log cabin from the hen-house with a\nwoe-begone face.\n\n\"I do declar'!\" she exclaimed solemnly, \"that I'm surely the\nafflictedest 'oman on G'liath Mounting! An' them young fall tur-r-keys\nair so spindlin' an' delikit they'll be the death o' me yit!\"\n\nThey were so spindling and delicate that they were the death of\nthemselves. She had just buried three, and her heart and her larder were\nalike an aching void.\n\n\"Three died ter-day, an' two las' Wednesday!\" As she counted them on her\nfingers she honored each with a shake of the head, so mournful that it\nmight be accounted an obituary in dumb show. \"I hev had no sort'n luck\nwith this tur-r-key's brood, an' the t'other hev stole her nest away,\nan' I hev got sech a mean no-'count set o' chillen they can't find her.\nWaal! waal! waal! this comin' winter the Lord'll be _obleeged_ ter\npervide.\"\n\nThis was washing-day, and as she began to scrub away on the noisy\nwashboard, a sudden thought struck her. \"Ye told me two weeks ago an'\nbetter, Nick, that ye hed laid off ter sarch the Conscripts' Hollow; ye\n'lowed ye hed been everywhar else. Did ye go thar fur the tur-r-key?\"\n\nShe faced him with her dripping arms akimbo.\n\nNick's face turned red as he answered, \"That thar tur-r-key ain't a-nigh\nthar.\"\n\n\"What ails ye, Nick? thar's su'thin' wrong. I kin tell it by yer looks.\nYe never hed the grit ter sarch thar, I'll be bound; did ye, now?\"\n\nNick could not bring himself to admit having been near the place.\n\n\"No,\" he faltered, \"I never sarched thar.\"\n\n\"Ye'll do it now, though!\" his mother declared triumphantly. \"I'm afeard\nter send Jacob on sech a yerrand down the bluffs, kase he air so little\nhe mought fall; but he air big enough ter go 'long an' watch ye go down\nter the Hollow--else ye'll kem back an' say ye hev sarched thar, when\nye ain't been a-nigh the bluff.\"\n\nThere seemed for a moment no escape for Nick. His mother was looking\nresolutely at him, and Jacob had gotten up briskly from his seat in the\nchimney-corner. He was a small tow-headed boy with big owlish eyes, and\nNick knew from experience that they were very likely to see anything he\ndid _not_ do. He must go; and then if at any time the stolen goods\nshould be discovered, Jacob and his mother, and who could say how many\nbesides, would know that he had been to the Conscripts' Hollow, and must\nhave seen what was hidden there.\n\nIn that case his silence on the subject would be very suspicious. It\nwould seem as if he had some connection with the burglars, and for that\nreason tried to conceal the plunder.\n\nHe was saying to himself that he would not go--and he must! How could he\navoid it? As he glanced uneasily around the room, his eyes chanced to\nfall on a little object lying on the edge of the shelf just above the\nwashtub. He made the most of the opportunity. As he slung his hat upon\nhis head with an impatient gesture, he managed to brush the shelf with\nit and knock the small object into the foaming suds below.\n\nHis mother sank into a chair with uplifted hands and eyes.\n\n\"The las' cake o' hop yeast!\" she cried. \"An' how air the bread ter be\nraised?\"\n\nTo witness her despair, one would think only jack-screws could do it.\n\n\"Surely I _am_ the afflictedest 'oman on G'liath Mounting! An'\nter-morrer Brother Pete's wife an' his gals air a-comin', and I hed laid\noff ter hev raised bread.\"\n\nFor \"raised bread\" is a great rarity and luxury in these parts, the\nnimble \"dodgers\" being the staff of life.\n\n\"I never went ter do it,\" muttered Nick.\n\n\"Waal, ye kin jes' kerry yer bones down the mounting ter Sister\nMirandy's house, an' ax her ter fotch me a cake o' her yeast when she\nkems up hyar ter-day ter holp me sizin' yarn. Arter that I don't keer\nwhat ye does with yerself. Ef ye stays hyar along o' we-uns, ye'll haul\nthe roof down nex', I reckon. 'Pears like ter me ez boys an' men-folks\nair powerful awk'ard, useless critters ter keep in a house; they oughter\nhev pens outside, I'm a-thinkin'.\"\n\nShe had forgotten about the turkey, and Nick was glad enough to escape\non these terms.\n\nIt was not until after he had finished his errand at Aunt Mirandy's\nhouse that he chanced to think again of the Conscripts' Hollow. As he\nwas slowly lounging back up the mountain, he paused occasionally on the\nsteep slope and looked up at the crags high on the summit, which he\ncould see, now and then, diagonally across a deep cove.\n\nWhen he came in sight of the one which he had such good reason to\nremember, he stopped and stood gazing fixedly at it for a long time,\nwondering again whether the robbers had yet carried off their plunder\nfrom its hiding-place.\n\nHe was not too distant to distinguish the Conscripts' Hollow, but from\nhis standpoint, he could not at first determine where was the ledge. He\nthought he recognized it presently in a black line that seemed drawn\nacross the massive cliff.\n\nBut what was that upon it? A moving figure! He gazed at it spell-bound\nfor a moment, as it slowly made its way along toward the Hollow. Then he\nwanted to see no more; he wanted to know no more. He turned and fled at\nfull speed along the narrow cow-path among the bushes.\n\nSuddenly there was a rustle among them. Something had sprung out into\nthe path with a light bound, and as he ran, he heard a swift step behind\nhim. It seemed a pursuing step, for, as he quickened his pace, it came\nfaster too. It was a longer stride than his; it was gaining upon him. A\nhand with a grip like a vise fell upon his shoulder, and as he was\nwhirled around and brought face to face with his pursuer, he glanced up\nand recognized the constable of the district.\n\nThis was a tall, muscular man, dressed in brown jeans, and with a bushy\nred beard. He knew Nick well, for he, too, was a mountaineer.\n\n\"Ye war a-dustin' along toler'ble fast, Nicholas Gregory,\" he exclaimed;\n\"but nothin' on G'liath Mounting kin beat me a-runnin' 'thout it air a\ndeer. Ye'll kem along with me now, and stir yer stumps powerful lively,\ntoo, kase I hain't got no time ter lose.\"\n\n\"What am I tuk up fur?\" gasped Nick.\n\n\"S'picious conduc',\" replied the man curtly.\n\nNick knew no more now than he did before. The officer's next words made\nmatters plainer. \"Things look mightily like ye war set hyar ter watch\nthat thar ledge. Ez soon ez ye seen our men a-goin' ter the Conscripts'\nHollow ter sarch fur that thar stole truck, ye war a-goin' ter scuttle\noff an' gin the alarm ter them rascally no-'count burglars. I saw ye and\nyer looks, and I suspicioned some sech game. Ye don't cheat the law in\n_this_ deestrick--not often! Ye air the very boy, I reckon, what\nholped ter rob Blenkins's store. Whar's the other burglars? Ye'd better\ntell!\"\n\n\"I dunno!\" cried Nick tremulously. \"I never had nothin' ter do with\n'em.\"\n\n\"Ye hev told on yerself,\" the man retorted. \"Why did ye stand a-gapin'\nat the Conscripts' Hollow, ef ye didn't know thar was suthin special\nthar?\"\n\nNick, in his confusion, could invent no reply, and he was afraid to tell\nthe truth. He looked mutely at the officer, who held his arm and looked\ndown sternly at him.\n\n\"Ye air a bad egg,--that's plain. I'll take ye along whether I ketches\nthe other burglars or no.\"\n\nThey toiled up the steep ascent in silence, and before very long were on\nthe summit of the mountain, and within view of the crag.\n\nThere on the great gray cliff, in the midst of the lonely woods, were\nseveral men whom Nick had never before seen. Their busy figures were\ndarkly defined against the hazy azure of the distant ranges, and as they\nmoved about, their shadows on the ground seemed very busy too, and\nblotted continually the golden sunshine that everywhere penetrated the\nthinning masses of red and bronze autumn foliage.\n\nA wagon, close at hand, was already half full of the stolen goods, and a\nnumber of men were going cautiously up and down the face of the cliff,\nbringing articles, or passing them from one to another.\n\n\"Well, this _is_ a tedious job!\" exclaimed the sheriff, John Stebbins by\nname. He was a quick-witted, good-natured man, but being active in\ntemperament, he was exceedingly impatient of delay. \"How long did it\ntake 'em to get all those heavy things down into the Conscripts'\nHollow,--hey, bub?\" he added, appealing to Nick, who had been brought to\nhis notice by the constable. It was terrible to Nick that they should\nall speak to him as if he were one of the criminals. He broke out with\nwild protestations of his innocence, denying, too, that he had had any\nknowledge of what was hidden in the Conscripts' Hollow.\n\n\"Then what made ye run, yander on the slope, when ye seen thar war\nsomebody on the ledge?\" demanded the constable.\n\nNick had a sudden inspiration. \"Waal,\" he faltered, with an explanatory\nsob, which was at once ludicrous and pathetic, \"I war too fur off ter\nmake out fur sure what 'twar on the ledge. 'Twar black-lookin', an' I\n'lowed 'twar a b'ar.\"\n\nAll the men laughed at this.\n\n\"I sot out ter run ter Aunt Mirandy's house ter borry Job's gun ter kem\nup hyar, an' mebbe git a crack at him,\" continued Nick.\n\n\"That doesn't seem unnatural,\" said the sheriff. Then he turned to the\nconstable. \"This ain't enough to justify us in holding on to the boy,\nJim, unless we can fix that scrap with the button on him. Where is it?\"\n\n\"D'ye know whose coat this kem off'n?\" asked the constable, producing a\nbit of brown jeans, with a dark-colored horn button attached to it.\n\"How'd it happen ter be stickin' ter them blackberry-bushes on the\nledge?\"\n\nNick recognized it in an instant. It was Barney Pratt's button, and a\nbit of Barney Pratt's coat. But he knew well enough that he himself must\nhave torn it when he wore it down to the Conscripts' Hollow.\n\nHe realized that he should have at once told the whole truth of what he\nknew about the stolen goods. He was well aware that he ought not to\nsuffer the suspicion which had unjustly fallen upon him to be unjustly\ntransferred to Barney, who he knew was innocent.\n\nBut he was terribly frightened, and foolishly cautious, and he did not\ncare for justice, nor truth, nor friendship, now. His only anxiety was\nto save himself.\n\n\"That thar piece o' brown jeans an' that button kem off'n Barney Pratt's\ncoat. I'd know 'em anywhar,\" he answered, more firmly than before. He\nnoted the fact that the searching eyes of both officers were fixed upon\nhis own coat, which was good and whole, and lacked no buttons. He had\nnot even a twinge of conscience just now. In his meanness and cowardice\nhis heart exulted, as he saw that suspicion was gradually lifting its\ndark shadow from him. He cared not where it might fall next.\n\n\"We'll have to let you slide, I reckon,\" said the sheriff. \"But what\nsize is this Barney Pratt?\"\n\n\"He air a lean, stringy little chap,\" said Nick.\n\n\"Is that so?\" said the sheriff. \"Well, this is a bit of his coat and his\nbutton; and they were found on the ledge, close to the Conscripts'\nHollow where the plunder was hid; and he's a small fellow, that maybe\ncould slip through a window-pane. That makes a pretty strong showing\nagainst him. We'll go for Barney Pratt!\"\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nBarney Pratt expected this day to be a holiday. Very early in the\nmorning his father and mother had jolted off in the wagon to attend the\nwedding of a cousin, who lived ten miles distant on a neighboring\nmountain, and they had left him no harder task than to keep the\nchildren far enough from the fire, and his paralytic grandmother close\nenough to it.\n\nThis old woman was of benevolent intentions, although she had a stick\nwith which she usually made her wants known by pointing, and in her\nconvulsive clutch the stick often whirled around and around like the\nsails of a windmill, so that if Barney chanced to come within the circle\nit described, he got as hard knocks from her feeble arm as he could have\nhad in a tussle with big Nick Gregory.\n\nHe was used to dodging it, and so were the smaller children. Without any\nfear of it they were all sitting on the hearth at the old woman's\nfeet,--Ben and Melissa popping corn in the ashes, and Tom and Andy\nwatching Barney's deft fingers as he made a cornstalk fiddle for them.\n\nSuddenly Barney glanced up and saw his grandmother's stick whirling over\nhis head. Her eyes were fastened eagerly upon the window, and her lips\ntrembled as she strove to speak.\n\n\"What d'ye want, granny?\" he asked.\n\nThen at last it came out, quick and sharp, and in a convulsive\ngasp,--\"Who air all that gang o'folks a-comin' yander down the road?\"\n\nBarney jumped up, threw down the fiddle, and ran to the door with the\nchildren at his heels. There was a quiver of curiosity among them, for\nit was a strange thing that a \"gang o'folks\" should be coming down this\nlonely mountain road.\n\nThey went outside of the log cabin and stood among the red sumach bushes\nthat clustered about the door, while the old woman tottered after them\nto the threshold, and peered at the crowd from under her shaking hand as\nshe shaded her eyes from the sunlight.\n\nPresently a wagon came up with eight or ten men walking behind it, or\nriding in it in the midst of a quantity of miscellaneous articles of\nwhich Barney took no particular notice. As he went forward, smiling in\na frank, fearless way, he recognized a familiar face among the crowd. It\nwas Nick Gregory's, and Barney's smile broadened into a grin of pleasure\nand welcome.\n\nThen it was that Nick's conscience began to wake up, and to lay hold\nupon him.\n\nAs the sheriff looked at Barney he hesitated. He balanced himself\nheavily on the wheel, instead of leaping quickly down as he might have\ndone easily enough, for he was a spare man and light on his feet. Nick\noverheard him speak in a low voice to the constable, who stood just\nbelow.\n\n\"_That_ ain't the fellow, is it, Jim?\"\n\n\"That's him, percisely,\" responded Jim Dow.\n\n\"He don't _look_ like it,\" said Stebbins, jumping down at last, but\nstill speaking under his breath.\n\n\"Waal, thar ain't no countin' on boys by the _outside_ on 'em,\" returned\nthe constable emphatically; he had an unruly son of his own.\n\nThe sheriff walked up to Barney.\n\n\"You're Barney Pratt, are you? Well, youngster, you'll come along with\nus.\"\n\nThere was silence for a moment. Barney stared at him in amaze. Not until\nhe had caught sight of the constable, whom he knew in his official\ncharacter, did he understand the full meaning of what had been said. He\nwas under arrest!\n\nAs he realized it, everything began to whirl before him. The yellow\nsunshine, the gorgeously tinted woods, the blue sky, and the silvery\nmists hovering about the distant mountains, were all confusedly mingled\nin his failing vision.\n\nHe looked as if he were about to faint. But in a few minutes he had\npartially recovered himself.\n\n\"I dunno what this air done ter me fur,\" he said tremulously, glancing\nup at the officer whose hand was on his shoulder.\n\n\"Hain't ye been doin' nothin' mean lately?\" demanded Jim Dow sternly.\n\nBarney shook his head.\n\n\"Let's see ef this won't remind ye,\" said the constable, producing the\nbit of jeans and the button.\n\nAs Nick watched Barney turning the piece of cloth in his hand and\nexamining the button, he felt a terrible pang of remorse. But he was\nnone the less resolved to keep the freedom from danger which he had\nsecured at the expense of his friend. To explain would be merely to\nexchange places with Barney, and he was silent.\n\n\"This hyar looks like a scrap o' my coat,\" said Barney, utterly unaware\nof the significance of his words. As he fitted it into the jagged edges\nof the garment, the officers watched the proceeding closely. \"'Pears\nlike ter me ez it war jerked right out thar--yes--kase hyar air the\nmissin' button, too.\"\n\nHis air of unconsciousness puzzled the sheriff. \"Do you know where you\nlost this scrap?\" he asked.\n\n\"Somewhars 'mongst the briers in the woods, I reckon,\" replied Barney.\n\n\"No; you tore it on a blackberry bush on the ledge of a bluff; it was\nclose to the Conscripts' Hollow, where some burglars have hidden stolen\nplunder. I found the scrap and the button there myself.\"\n\nBarney felt as if he were dreaming. How should his coat be torn on that\nledge, where he had not been since the cloth was woven!\n\nThe next words almost stunned him.\n\n\"Ye see, sonny,\" said the constable, \"we believes ye're the boy what\nholped to rob Blenkins's store by gittin' through a winder-pane an'\nhandin' out the stole truck ter the t'other burglars. Ye hev holped\nabout that thar plunder somehows,--else this hyar thing air a liar!\" and\nhe shook the bit of cloth significantly.\n\n\"We'd better set out, Jim,\" said Stebbins, turning toward the wagon.\n\"We'll pass Blenkins's on the way, and we'll stop and see if this chap\ncan slip through the window-pane. If he can't, it's a point in his\nfavor, and if he can, it's a point against him. As we go, we can try to\nget him to tell who the other burglars are.\"\n\n\"Kem on, bubby; we can't stand hyar no longer, a-wastin' the time an'\na-burnin' of daylight,\" said the constable.\n\nBarney seemed to have lost control of his rigid limbs, and he was\nhalf-dragged, half-lifted into the wagon by the two officers. The crowd\nbegan to fall back and disperse, and he could see the group of\n\"home-folks\" at the door. But he gave only one glance at the little log\ncabin, and then turned his head away. It was a poor home, but if it had\nbeen a palace, the pang he felt as he was torn from it could not have\nbeen sharper.\n\nIn that instant he saw granny as she stood in the doorway, her head\nshaking nervously and her stick whirling in her uncertain grasp. He knew\nthat she was struggling to say something for his comfort, and he had a\nterrible moment of fear lest the wagon should begin to move and her\nfeeble voice be lost in the clatter of the wheels. But presently her\nshrill tones rang out, \"No harm kin kem, sonny, ter them ez hev done no\nharm. All that happens works tergether fur good, an' the will o' God.\"\n\nLittle breath as she had left, it had done good service to-day,--it had\nbrought a drop of balm to the poor boy's heart. He did not look at her\nagain, but he knew that she was still standing in the doorway among the\nclustering red leaves, whirling her stick, and shaking with the palsy,\nbut determined to see the last of him.\n\nAnd now the wagon was rolling off, and a piteous wail went up from the\nchildren, who understood nothing except that Barney was being carried\naway against his will. Little four-year-old Melissa--she always seemed a\nbeauty to Barney, with her yellow hair, and her blue-checked cotton\ndress, and her dimpled white bare feet--ran after the wagon until the\ntears blinded her, and she fell in the road, and lay there in the dust,\nsobbing.\n\nThen Barney found his voice. His father and mother would not return\nuntil to-morrow, and the thought of what might happen at home, with\nnobody there but the helpless old grandmother and the little children,\nmade him forget his own troubles for the time.\n\n\"Take good keer o' the t'other chillen, Andy!\" he shouted out to the\nnext oldest boy, thus making him a deputy-guardian of the family, \"an'\npick Melissy up out'n the dust, an' be sure ye keeps granny's cheer\nclose enough ter the fire!\"\n\nThen he turned back again. He could still hear Melissa sobbing. He\nwondered why the two men in the wagon looked persistently in the\nopposite direction, and why they were both so silent.\n\nThe children stood in the road, watching the wagon as long as they could\nsee it, but Nick had slunk away into the woods. He could not bear the\nsight of their grief. He walked on, hardly knowing where he went. He\nfelt as if he were trying to get rid of himself. He appreciated fully\nnow the consequences of what he had done. Barney, innocent Barney, would\nbe thrust into jail.\n\nHe began to see that the most terrible phase of moral cowardice is its\ncapacity to injure others, and he could not endure the thought of what\nhe had brought upon his friend. Soon he was saying to himself that\nsomething was sure to happen to prevent them from putting Barney in\nprison,--he shouldn't be surprised if it were to happen before the wagon\ncould reach the foot of the mountain.\n\nIn his despair, he had flung himself at length upon the rugged, stony\nground at the base of a great crag. When this comforting thought of\nBarney's release came upon him, he took his hands from his face, and\nlooked about him. From certain ledges of the cliff above, the road which\nled down the valley was visible at intervals for some distance. There he\ncould watch the progress of the wagon, and see for a time longer what\nwas happening to Barney.\n\nThere was a broad gulf between the wall of the mountain and the crag,\nwhich, from its detached position and its shape, was known far and wide\nas the \"Old Man's Chimney.\"\n\nIt loomed up like a great stone column, a hundred feet above the wooded\nslope where Nick stood, and its height could only be ascended by\ndexterous climbing.\n\nHe went at it like a cat. Sometimes he helped himself up by sharp\nprojections of the rock, sometimes by slipping his feet and hands into\ncrevices, and sometimes he caught hold of a strong bush here and there,\nand gave himself a lift. When he was about forty feet from the base, he\nsat down on one of the ledges, and turning, looked anxiously along the\nred clay road which he could see winding among the trees down the\nmountain's side.\n\nNo wagon was there.\n\nHis eyes followed the road further and further toward the foot of the\nrange, and then along the valley beyond. There, at least two miles\ndistant, was a small moving black object, plainly defined upon the red\nclay of the road.\n\nBarney was gone! There was no mistake about it. They had taken him away\nfrom Goliath Mountain! He was innocent, and Nick knew it, and Nick had\nmade him seem guilty. There was no one near him now to speak a good word\nfor him, not even his palsied old grandmother.\n\nIt all came back upon Nick with a rush. His eyes were blurred with\nrising tears. Unconsciously, in his grief, he made a movement forward,\nand suddenly clutched convulsively at the ledge.\n\nHe had lost his balance. There was a swift, fantastic whirl of vague\nobjects before him, then a great light seemed flashing through his very\nbrain, and he knew that he was falling.\n\nHe knew nothing else for some time. He wondered where he was when he\nfirst opened his eyes and saw the great stone shaft towering high above,\nand the tops of the sun-gilded maples waving about him.\n\nThen he remembered and understood. He had fallen from that narrow ledge,\nhardly ten feet above his head, and had been caught in his descent by\nthe far broader one upon which he lay.\n\n\"It knocked the senses out'n me fur a while, I reckon,\" he said to\nhimself. \"But I hev toler'ble luck now, sure ez shootin', kase I mought\nhev drapped over this ledge, an' then I'd hev been gone fur sartain\nsure!\"\n\nHis exultation was short-lived. What was this limp thing hanging to his\nshoulder? and what was this thrill of pain darting through it?\n\nHe looked at it in amazement. It was his strong right\narm--broken--helpless.\n\nAnd here he was, perched thirty feet above the earth, weakened by his\nlong faint, sore and bruised and unnerved by his fall, and with only his\nleft arm to aid him in making that perilous descent.\n\nIt was impossible. He glanced down at the sheer walls of the column\nbelow, shook his head, and lay back on the ledge. Reckless as he was, he\nrealized that the attempt would be fatal.\n\nThen came a thought that filled him with dismay,--how long was this to\nlast?--who would rescue him?\n\nHe knew that a prolonged absence from home would create no surprise. His\nmother would only fancy that he had slipped off, as he had often done,\nto go on a camp-hunt with some other boys. She would not grow uneasy for\na week, at least.\n\nHe was deep in the heart of the forest, distant from any dwelling. No\none, as far as he knew, came to this spot, except himself and Barney,\nand their errand here was for the sake of the exhilaration and the\nhazard of climbing the crag. It was so lonely that on the Old Man's\nChimney the eagles built instead of the swallows. His hope--his only\nhope--was that some hunter might chance to pass before he should die of\nhunger.\n\nThe shadow of the great obelisk shifted as the day wore on, and left him\nin the broad, hot glare of the sun. His broken arm was fevered and gave\nhim great pain. Now and then he raised himself on the other, and looked\ndown wistfully at the cool, dusky depths of the woods. He heard\ncontinually the impetuous rushing of a mountain torrent near at hand;\nsometimes, when the wind stirred the foliage, he caught a glimpse of the\nwater, rioting from rock to rock, and he was oppressed by an intolerable\nthirst.\n\nThus the hours lagged wearily on.\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nWhen the wagon was rolling along the road in the valley, Barney at first\nkept his eyes persistently fastened upon the craggy heights and the red\nand gold autumnal woods of Goliath Mountain, as the mighty range\nstretched across the plain.\n\nBut presently the two men began to talk to him, and he turned around in\norder to face them. They were urging him to confess his own guilt and\ntell who were the other burglars, and where they were. But Barney had\nnothing to tell. He could only protest again and again his innocence.\nThe men, however, shook their heads incredulously, and after a while\nthey left him to himself and smoked their pipes in silence.\n\nWhen Barney looked back at the mountains once more, a startling change\nseemed to have been wrought in the landscape. Instead of the frowning\nsandstone cliffs he loved so well, and the gloomy recesses of the woods,\nthere was only a succession of lines of a delicate blue color drawn\nalong the horizon. This was the way the distant ranges looked from the\ncrags of his own home; he knew that they were the mountains, but which\nwas Goliath?\n\nSuddenly he struck his hands together, and broke out with a bitter cry.\n\n\"I hev los' G'liath!\" he exclaimed. \"I dunno whar I live! An' whar _is_\nMelissy?\"\n\nA difficult undertaking, certainly, to determine where among all those\ngreat spurs and outliers, stretching so far on either hand, was that\nlittle atom of dimpled pink-and-white humanity known as \"Melissy.\"\n\nThe constable, being a native of these hills himself, knew something by\nexperience of the homesickness of an exiled mountaineer,--far more\nterrible than the homesickness of low-landers; he took his pipe\npromptly from between his lips, and told the boy that the second blue\nridge, counting down from the sky, was \"G'liath Mounting,\" and that\n\"Melissy war right thar somewhar.\"\n\nBarney looked back at it with unrecognizing eyes,--this gentle, misty,\nblue vagueness was not the solemn, sombre mountain that he knew. He\ngazed at it only for a moment longer; then his heart swelled and he\nburst into tears.\n\nOn and on they went through the flat country. The boy felt that he could\nscarcely breathe. Even tourists, coming down from these mountains to the\nvalley below, struggle with a sense of suffocation and oppression; how\nmust it have been then with this half-wild creature, born and bred on\nthose breezy heights!\n\nThe stout mules did their duty well, and it was not long before they\nwere in sight of the cross-roads store that had been robbed. It was a\npart of a small frame dwelling-house, set in the midst of the yellow\nsunlight that brooded over the plain. All the world around it seemed to\nthe young backwoodsman to be a big cornfield; but there was a garden\nclose at hand, and tall sunflowers looked over the fence and seemed to\nnod knowingly at Barney, as much as to say they had always suspected\nhim of being one of the burglars, and were gratified that he had been\ncaught at last.\n\nPoor fellow! he saw so much suspicion expressed in the faces of a crowd\nof men congregating about the store, that it was no wonder he fancied he\ndetected it too in inanimate objects.\n\nOf all the group only one seemed to doubt his guilt. He overheard\nBlenkins, the merchant, say to Jim Dow,--\n\n\"It's mighty hard to b'lieve this story on this 'ere boy; he's a manly\nlooking, straight-for'ard little chap, an' he's got honest eyes in his\nhead, too.\"\n\n\"He'd a deal better hev an honest heart in his body,\" drawled Jim Dow,\nwho was convinced that Barney had aided in the burglary.\n\nWhen they had gone around to the window with the broken pane, Barney\nlooked up at it in great anxiety. If only it should prove too small for\nhim to slip through! Certainly it seemed very small.\n\nHe had pulled off his coat and stood ready to jump.\n\n\"Up with you!\" said Stebbins.\n\nThe boy laid both hands on the sill, gave a light spring, and went\nthrough the pane like an eel.\n\n\"That settles it!\" he heard Stebbins saying outside. And all the idlers\nwere laughing because it was done so nimbly.\n\n\"That boy's right smart of a fool,\" said one of the lookers-on. \"Now, if\nthat had been me, I'd hev made out to git stuck somehows in that winder;\nI'd have scotched my wheel somewhere.\"\n\n\"Ef ye hed, I'd have dragged ye through ennyhow,\" declared Jim Dow, who\nhad no toleration of a joke on a serious subject. \"This hyar boy air a\ndeal too peart ter try enny sech fool tricks on _Me_!\"\n\nBarney hardly knew how he got back into the wagon; he only knew that\nthey were presently jolting along once more in the midst of the yellow\nglare of sunlight. It had begun to seem that there was no chance for\nhim. Like Nick, he too had madly believed, in spite of everything, that\nsomething would happen to help him. He could not think that, innocent as\nhe was, he would be imprisoned. Now, however, this fate evidently was\nvery close upon him.\n\nSuddenly Jim Dow spoke. \"I s'pose ye war powerful disapp'inted kase ye\ncouldn't git yerself hitched in that thar winder; ye air too well used\nto it,--ye hev been through it afore.\"\n\n\"I hev never been through it afore!\" cried Barney indignantly.\n\n\"Well, well,\" said Stebbins pacifically, \"it wouldn't have done you any\ngood if you hadn't gone through the pane just now. I'd have only thought\nyou were one of those who stood on the outside. You see, the _main_\npoint against you is that scrap of your coat and your button found right\nthere by the Conscripts' Hollow,--though, of course, your going through\nthe window-pane so easy makes it more complete.\"\n\nBarney's tired brain began to fumble at this problem,--how did it\nhappen?\n\nHe had not been on the ledge nor at the Conscripts' Hollow for six\nmonths at least. Yet there was that bit of his coat and his button found\non the bush close at hand only to-day.\n\nWas it possible that he could have exchanged coats by mistake with Nick\nthe last afternoon that they were on the crag together?\n\n\"Did Nick wear _my_ coat down on the ledge, I wonder, an' git it tored?\nDid Nick see the plunder in the Conscripts' Hollow, an' git skeered, an'\nthen sot out ter lyin' ter git shet o' the blame?\"\n\nAs he asked himself these questions, he began to remember, vaguely,\nhaving seen, just as he was falling asleep, his friend's head slowly\ndisappearing beneath the verge of the crag.\n\n\"Nick started down ter the ledge, anyhow,\" he argued.\n\nDid he dream it, or was it true, that when Nick came back he seemed at\nfirst strangely agitated?\n\nAll at once Barney exclaimed aloud,--\n\n\"This hyar air a powerful cur'ous thing 'bout'n that thar piece what war\ntored out'n my coat!\"\n\n\"What's curious about it?\" asked Stebbins quickly.\n\nJim Dow took his pipe from his mouth, and looked sharply at the boy.\n\nBarney struggled for a moment with a strong temptation. Then a nobler\nimpulse asserted itself. He would not even attempt to shield himself\nbehind the friend who had done him so grievous an injury.\n\nHe _knew_ nothing positively; he must not put his suspicions and his\nvague, half-sleeping impressions into words, and thus possibly criminate\nNick.\n\nHe himself felt certain now how the matter really stood,--that Nick had\nno connection whatever with the robbery, but having accidentally\nstumbled upon the stolen goods, he had become panic-stricken, had lied\nabout it, and finally had saved himself at the expense of an innocent\nfriend.\n\nStill, Barney had no _proof_ of this, and he felt he would rather suffer\nunjustly himself than unjustly throw blame on another.\n\n\"Nothin', nothin',\" he said absently. \"I war jes' a-studyin' 'bout'n it\nall.\"\n\n\"Well, I wouldn't think about it any more just now,\" said good-natured\nStebbins. \"You look like you had been dragged through a keyhole instead\nof a window-pane. This town we're coming to is the biggest town you ever\nsaw.\"\n\nBarney could not respond to this attempt to divert his attention. He\ncould only brood upon the fact that he was innocent, and would be\npunished as if he were guilty, and that it was Nick Gregory, his chosen\nfriend, who had brought him to this pass.\n\nHe would not be unmanly, and injure Nick with a possibly unfounded\nsuspicion, but his heart burned with indignation and contempt when he\nthought of him. He felt that he would go through fire and water to be\njustly revenged upon him.\n\nHe determined that, if ever he should see Nick again, even though years\nmight intervene, he would tax him with the injury he had wrought, and\nmake him answer for it.\n\nBarney clenched his fists as he looked back at the ethereal blue shadows\nthat they said were the solid old hills.\n\nPerhaps, however, if he had known where, in the misty uncertainty that\nenveloped Goliath Mountain, Nick Gregory was at this moment,--far away\nin the lonely woods, helpless with his broken arm, perched high up on\nthe \"Old Man's Chimney,\"--Barney might have thought himself the more\nfortunately placed of the two.\n\nBefore he was well aware of it, the wagon was jolting into the town. He\ntook no notice of how much larger the little village was than any he had\never seen before. His attention was riveted by the faces of the people\nwho ran to the doors and windows, upon recognizing the officers, to\nstare at him as one of the burglars.\n\nWhen the wagon reached the public square, a number of men came up and\nstopped it.\n\nBarney was surprised that they took so little notice of him. They were\ntalking loudly and excitedly to the officers, who grew at once loud and\nexcited, too.\n\nThe boy roused himself, and began to listen to the conversation. The\nburglars had been captured!--yes, that was what they were saying. The\ndeputy-sheriff had nabbed the whole gang in a western district of the\ncounty this morning early, and they were lodged at this moment in jail.\nBarney's heart sank. Would he be put among the guilty creatures? He\nflinched from the very idea.\n\nSuddenly, here was the deputy-sheriff himself, a young man, dusty and\ntired with his long, hard ride, but with an air of great satisfaction in\nhis success. He talked with many quick gestures that were very\nexpressive. Sometimes he would leave a sentence unfinished except by a\nbrisk nod, but all the crowd caught its meaning instantly. This\npeculiarity gave him a very animated manner, and he seemed to Barney to\nenjoy being in a position of authority.\n\nHe pressed his foaming horse close to the wagon, and leaning over,\nlooked searchingly into Barney's face.\n\nThe poor boy looked up deprecatingly from under his limp and drooping\nhat-brim.\n\nAll the crowd stood in silence, watching them. After a moment of this\nkeen scrutiny, the deputy turned to the constable with an interrogative\nwave of the hand.\n\n\"This hyar's the boy what war put through the winder-pane ter thieve\nfrom Blenkins,\" said Jim Dow. \"Thar's consider'ble fac's agin him.\"\n\n\"You mean well, Jim,\" said the deputy, with a short, scornful laugh.\n\"But your performance ain't always equal to your intentions.\"\n\nHe lifted his eyebrows and nodded in a significant way that the crowd\nunderstood, for there was a stir of excitement in its midst; but poor\nBarney failed to catch his meaning. He hung upon every tone and gesture\nwith the intensest interest. All the talk was about him, and he could\ncomprehend no more than if the man spoke in a foreign language.\n\nStill, he gathered something of the drift of the speech from the\nconstable's reply.\n\n\"That thar boy's looks hev bamboozled more'n one man ter-day, jes' at\nfust,\" Jim Dow drawled. \"_Looks_ ain't nothin'.\"\n\n\"I'd believe 'most anything a boy with a face on him like that would\ntell me,\" said the deputy. \"And besides, you see, one of those scamps,\"\nwith a quick nod toward the jail, \"has turned State's evidence.\"\n\nBarney's heart was in a great tumult. It seemed bursting. There was a\nhot rush of blood to his head. He was dizzy--and he could not\nunderstand!\n\nState's evidence,--what was that? and what would that do to him?\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nBarney observed that these words produced a marked sensation. The crowd\nbegan to press more closely around the deputy-sheriff's foaming horse.\n\n\"Who hev done turned State's evidence?\" asked Jim Dow.\n\n\"Little Jeff Carew,--you've seen that puny little man a-many a\ntime--haven't you, Jim? He'd go into your pocket.\"\n\n\"He would, I know, powerful quick, ef he thunk I hed ennything in it,\"\nsaid Jim, with a gruff laugh.\n\n\"I didn't mean that, though it's true enough. I only went ter say that\nhe's small enough to go into any ordinary-sized fellow's pocket. Some of\nthe rest of them wanted to turn State's evidence, but they weren't\nallowed. They were harder customers even than Jeff Carew,--regular old\njail-birds.\"\n\nBarney began to vaguely understand that when a prisoner confesses the\ncrime he has committed, and gives testimony which will convict his\npartners in it, this is called turning \"State's evidence.\"\n\nBut how was it to concern Barney?\n\nAn old white-haired man had pushed up to the wagon; he polished his\nspectacles on his coat-tail, then put them on his nose, and focused them\non Barney. Those green spectacles seemed to the boy to have a solemnly\naccusing expression on their broad and sombre lenses. He shrank as the\nold man spoke,--\n\n\"And is this the boy who was slipped through the window to steal from\nBlenkins?\"\n\n\"No,\" said the deputy, \"this ain't the boy.\"\n\nBarney could hardly believe his senses.\n\n\"Fact is,\" continued the deputy, with a brisk wave of his hand, \"there\nwasn't any boy with 'em,--so little Jeff Carew says. _He_ jumped through\nthe window-pane _himself_. We wouldn't believe that until we measured\none there at the jail of the same size as Blenkins's window-glass, and\nhe went through it without a wriggle.\"\n\nBarney sprang to his feet.\n\n\"Oh, tell it ter me, folkses!\" he cried wildly; \"tell it ter me,\nsomebody! Will they keep me hyar all the same? An' when will I see\nG'liath Mounting agin, an' be whar Melissy air?\"\n\nHe had burst into tears, and there was a murmur of sympathy in the\ncrowd.\n\n\"Oh, that lets you out, I reckon, youngster,\" said Stebbins. \"I'm glad\nenough of it for one.\"\n\nThe old man turned his solemnly accusing green spectacles on Stebbins,\nand it seemed to Barney that he spoke with no less solemnly accusing a\nvoice.\n\n\"He ought never to have been let in.\"\n\nStebbins replied, rather eagerly, Barney thought, \"Why, there was enough\nagainst that boy to have clapped him in jail, and maybe convicted him,\nif this man hadn't turned State's evidence.\"\n\n\"We hed the fac's agin him,--dead agin him,\" chimed in Jim Dow.\n\n\"That just shows how much danger an innocent boy was in; it seems to me\nthat somebody ought to have been more careful,\" the old man protested.\n\n\"That's so!\" came in half a dozen voices from the crowd.\n\nBarney was surprised to see how many friends he had now, when a moment\nbefore he had had none. But he ought to have realized that there is a\ngreat difference between _being_ a young martyr, and _seeming_ a young\nthief.\n\n\"I want to see the little fellow out of this,\" said the old man with the\nterrible spectacles.\n\nHe saw him out of it in a short while.\n\nThere was an examination before a magistrate, in which Barney was\ndischarged on the testimony of Jeff Carew, who was produced and swore\nthat he had never before seen the boy, that he was not among the gang of\nburglars who had robbed Blenkins's store and dwelling-house, and that he\nhad had no part in helping to conceal the plunder. In opposition to\nthis, the mere finding of a scrap of Barney's coat close to the\nConscripts' Hollow seemed now of slight consequence, although it could\nnot be accounted for.\n\nWhen the trial was over, the old man with the green spectacles took\nBarney to his house, gave him something to eat, and saw him start out\nhomeward.\n\nAs Barney plodded along toward the blue mountains his heart was very\nbitter against Nick Gregory, who had lied and thrown suspicion upon him\nand brought him into danger. Whenever he thought of it he raised his\nclenched fist and shook it. He was a little fellow, but he felt that\nwith the strength of this grievance he was more than a match for big\nNick Gregory. He would force him to confess the lies that he had told\nand his cowardice, and all Goliath Mountain should know it and despise\nhim for it.\n\n\"I'll fetch an' kerry that word to an' fro fur a thousand mile!\" Barney\ndeclared between his set teeth.\n\nNow and then a wagoner overtook him and gave him a ride, thus greatly\nhelping him on his way. As he went, there was a gradual change in the\nblue and misty range that seemed to encircle the west, and which he\nknew, by one deep indentation in the horizontal line of its summit, was\nGoliath Mountain. It became first an intenser blue. As he drew nearer\nstill, it turned a bronzed green. It had purpled with the sunset before\nhe could distinguish the crimson and gold of its foliage and its\nbeetling crags. Night had fallen when he reached the base of the\nmountain.\n\nThere was no moon; heavy clouds were rolling up from the horizon, and\nthey hid the stars. Nick Gregory, lying on the ledge of the \"Old Man's\nChimney,\" thirty feet above the black earth, could not see his hand\nbefore his face. The darkness was dreadful to him. It had closed upon a\ndreadful day. The seconds were measured by the throbs and dartings of\npain in his arm. He was almost exhausted by hunger and thirst. He\nthought, however, that he could have borne it all cheerfully, but for\nthe sharp remorse that tortured him for the wrong he had done to his\nfriend, and his wild anxiety about Barney's fate. Nick felt that he,\nhimself, was on trial here, imprisoned on this tower of stone, cut off\nfrom the world, from everything but his sternly accusing conscience and\nhis guilty heart.\n\nFor hours he had heard nothing but the monotonous rushing of the water\nclose at hand, or now and then the shrill, quavering cry of a distant\nscreech-owl, or the almost noiseless flapping of a bat's wings as they\nswept by him.\n\nHe had hardly a hope of deliverance, when suddenly there came a new\nsound, vague and indistinguishable. He lifted himself upon his left\nelbow and listened again. He could hear nothing for a moment except his\nown panting breath and the loud beating of his heart. But there--the\nsound came once more. What was it? a dropping leaf? the falling of a\nfragment of stone from the \"Chimney\"? a distant step?\n\nIt grew more distinct as it drew nearer; presently he recognized\nit,--the regular footfall of some man or boy plodding along the path.\nThat path!--a recollection flashed through his mind. No one knew that\nshort cut up the mountain but him and Barney; they had worn the path\nwith their trampings back and forth from the \"Old Man's Chimney.\"\n\nHe thought he must be dreaming, or that he had lost his reason; still he\nshouted out, \"Hold on, thar! air it ye, Barney?\"\n\nThe step paused. Then a reply came in a voice that he hardly recognized\nas Barney's; it was so fierce, and so full of half-repressed anger.\n\n\"Yes, it air Barney,--ef _ye_ hev any call ter know.\"\n\n\"How did ye git away, Barney?--how did ye git away?\" exclaimed Nick,\nwith a joyous sense of relief.\n\n\"A _thief's_ word cl'ared me!\"\n\nThis bitter cry came up to Nick, sharp and distinct, through the dark\nstillness. He said nothing at the moment, and presently he heard Barney\nspeak again, as he stood invisible, and enveloped in the gloom of the\nnight, at the foot of the mighty column.\n\n\"'Twar my bes' frien' ez sunk me deep in trouble. But the _thief_, he\nfished me up. He 'lowed ter the jestice ez I never holped him ter steal\nnothin' nor ter hide it arterward, nuther.\"\n\nNick said not a word. The hot tears came into his eyes. Barney, he\nthought, could feel no more bitterly toward him than he felt toward\nhimself.\n\n\"How kem my coat ter be tored down thar on the ledge, close ter the\nConscripts' Hollow, whar I hain't been sence the cloth war wove?\"\n\nThere was a long pause.\n\n\"I wore it thar, Barney, 'stid o' mine,\" Nick replied at last. \"I never\nknowed, at fust, ez I hed tored it. I was so skeered when I seen the\nstole truck, I never knowed nothin'.\"\n\n\"An' then ye spoke a lie! An' arterward, ye let the folks think ez 'twar\nme ez hed tored that coat close by the Conscripts' Hollow!\"\n\n\"I was skeered haffen ter death, Barney!\"\n\nNick was very contemptible in his falsehood and cowardice,--even in his\nrepentance and shame and sorrow. At least, so the boy thought who stood\nin the darkness at the foot of the great column. Suddenly it occurred to\nBarney that this was a strange place for Nick to be at this hour of the\nnight. His indignation gave way for a moment to some natural curiosity.\n\n\"What air ye a-doin' of up thar on the Old Man's Chimney?\" he asked.\n\n\"I kem up hyar this mornin' early, ter watch the wagon a-takin' ye off.\nThen I fell and bruk my arm, an' I can't git down 'thout bein' holped a\nlittle.\"\n\nThere was another silence, so intense that it seemed to Nick as if he\nwere all alone again in the immensity of the mountains, and the black\nnight, and the endless forests. He had expected an immediate proffer of\nassistance from Barney. He had thought that his injured friend would\nrelent in his severity when he knew that he had suffered too; that he\nwas in great pain even at this moment.\n\nBut not a word came from Barney.\n\n\"I hed laid off ter ax ye ter holp me a little,\" Nick faltered meekly,\nmaking his appeal direct.\n\nThere was no answer.\n\nIt was so still that the boy, high up on the sandstone pillar, could\nhear the wind rising among the far spurs west of Goliath. The foliage\nnear at hand was ominously quiet in the sultry air. Once there was a\nflash of lightning from the black clouds, followed by a low muttering\nof thunder. Then all was still again,--so still!\n\nNick raised himself upon his left arm, and leaned cautiously over the\nverge of the ledge, peering, with starting eyes, into the darkness, and\nhoping for another flash of lightning that he might see below for an\ninstant. A terrible suspicion had come to him. Could Barney have slipped\nquietly away, leaving him to his fate?\n\nHe could see nothing in the impenetrable gloom; he could hear nothing in\nthe dark stillness.\n\nBarney had not yet gone, but he was saying to himself, as he stood at\nthe foot of the great obelisk, that here was his revenge, far more\ncomplete than he had dared even to hope.\n\nHe could measure out his false friend's punishment in any degree he\nthought fit. He could leave him there with his broken arm and his pangs\nof hunger for another day. He deserved it,--he deserved it richly. The\nrecollection was still very bitter to Barney of the hardships he had\nendured at the hands of this boy, who asked him now for help. Why did he\nnot refuse it? Why should he not take the revenge he had promised\nhimself?\n\nAnd then he knew there was danger in now trying to climb the jagged\nedges of the Old Man's Chimney. His nerves were shaken by the\nexcitements of the day; he was fagged out by his long tramp; the wind\nwas beginning to surge among the trees; it might blow him from his\nuncertain foothold. But when it gained more strength, might it not drive\nNick, helpless with his broken arm, from that high ledge?\n\nAs this thought crossed his mind, he tore off his hat, coat, and shoes,\nand desperately began the ascent. He thought he knew every projection\nand crevice and bush so well that he might have found his way\nblindfolded, and guided by the sense of touch alone. But he did not lack\nfor light. Before he was six feet up from the ground, the clouds were\nrent by a vivid flash, and an instantaneous peal of thunder woke all\nthe echoes. This was the breaking of the storm; afterward, there was a\ncontinuous pale flickering over all the sky, and at close intervals,\ndazzling gleams of lightning darted through the rain, which was now\nfalling heavily.\n\n\"I'm a-comin', Nick!\" shouted Barney, through the din of the elements.\n\nSomehow, as he climbed, he felt light-hearted again. It seemed to him\nthat he had left a great weight at the foot of the gigantic sandstone\ncolumn. Could it be that bitter revenge he had promised himself? He had\nthought only of Nick's safety, but he seemed to have done himself a\nkindness in forgiving his friend,--the burden of revenge is so heavy!\nHis troubles were already growing faint in his memory,--it was so good\nto feel the rain splashing in his face, and his rude playfellow, the\nmountain wind, rioting around him once more. He was laughing when at\nlast he pulled himself up, wet through and through, on the ledge beside\nNick.\n\n\"It's airish up hyar, ain't it?\" he cried.\n\n\"Barney,\" said Nick miserably, \"I dunno how I kin ever look at ye agin,\nsquar' in the face, while I lives.\"\n\n\"Shet that up!\" Barney returned good-humoredly. \"I don't want ter ever\nhear 'bout'n it no more. I'll always know, arter this, that I can't\nplace no dependence in ye; but, law, ye air jes' like that old gun o'\nmine; sometimes it'll hang fire, an' sometimes it'll go off at\nhalf-cock, an' ginerally it disapp'ints me mightily. But, somehows, I\ncan't determinate to shoot with no other one. I'll hev ter feel by ye\njes' like I does by that thar old gun.\"\n\nThe descent was slow and difficult, and very painful to Nick, and\nfraught with considerable danger to both boys. They accomplished it in\nsafety, however, and then, with Barney's aid, Nick managed to drag\nhimself through the woods to the nearest log cabin, where his arm was\nset by zealous and sympathetic amateurs in a rude fashion that probably\nwould have shocked the faculty. They had some supper here, and an\ninvitation to remain all night; but Barney was wild to be at home, and\nNick, in his adversity, clung to his friend.\n\nThe rain had ceased, and they had only half a mile further to go.\nBarney's heart was exultant when he saw the light in the window of his\nhome, and the sparks flying up from the chimney. He had some curiosity\nto know how the family circle looked without him.\n\n\"Ye wait hyar, Nick, a minute, an' I'll take a peek at 'em afore I\nbounce in 'mongst 'em,\" he said. \"I'm all eat up ter know what Melissy\nair a-doin' 'thout me.\"\n\nBut the sight smote the tears from his eyes when he stole around to the\nwindow and glanced in at the little group, plainly shown in the flare\nfrom the open fire.\n\nGranny looked ten years older since morning. The three small boys,\ninstead of popping corn or roasting apples and sweet potatoes, as was\ntheir habit in the evenings, sat in a dismal row, their chins on their\nfreckled, sunburned hands, and their elbows on their knees, and gazed\nruefully at the fire. And Melissy,--why, there was Melissy, a little\nblue-and-white ball curled up on the floor. Asleep? No. Barney caught\nthe gleam of her wide-open blue eyes; but he missed something from\nthem,--the happy expression that used to dwell there.\n\nHe went at the door with a rush. And what an uproar there was when he\nsuddenly sprang in among them! Melissy laughed until she cried. Granny\nwhirled and whirled her stick, and nodded convulsively, and gasped out\neager questions about the trial and the \"jedge.\" The little boys jumped\nfor joy until they seemed strung on wire.\n\nSoon they were popping corn and roasting apples once more. The flames\nroared up the chimney, and the shadows danced on the wall, and as the\nhours wore on, they were all so happy that when midnight came, it caught\nthem still grouped around the fire.\n\n\n\n\nA WARNING\n\n\nIt was night on Elm Ridge. So black, so black that the great crags and\nchasms were hidden, the forest was lost in the encompassing gloom, the\nvalley and the distant ranges were gone,--all the world had disappeared.\n\nThere was no wind, and the dark clouds above the dark earth hung low and\nmotionless. Solomon Grow found it something of an undertaking to grope\nhis way back from the little hut of unhewn logs, where he had stabled\nhis father's horse, to the door of the cabin and the home-circle within.\n\nHe fumbled for the latchstring, and pulling it carelessly, the door flew\nopen suddenly, and he almost fell into the room.\n\n\"Why d' ye come a-bustin' in hyar that thar way, Sol?\" his mother\ndemanded rather tartly. \"Ef ye hed been raised 'mongst the foxes, ye\ncouldn't show less manners.\"\n\n\"Door slipped out'n my hand,\" said Sol, a trifle sullenly.\n\n\"Waal--air ye disabled anywhar so ez ye can't shet it, eh?\" asked his\nfather, with a touch of sarcasm.\n\nSol shut the door, drew up an inverted tub, seated himself upon it, and\nlooked about, loweringly. He thought he had been needlessly affronted.\nStill, he held his peace.\n\nWithin, there was a great contrast to the black night outside. The ash\nand hickory logs in the deep fireplace threw blue and yellow flames high\nup the wide stone chimney. The flickering light was like some genial,\ncheery smile forever coming and going.\n\nIt illumined the circle about the hearth. There sat Sol's mother, idle\nto-night, for it was Sunday. His grandmother, too, was there, so old\nthat she seemed to confirm the story told of these healthy mountains, to\nthe effect that people are obliged to go down in the valley to die, else\nthey would live forever.\n\nThere was Sol's father, a great burly fellow, six feet three inches in\nheight, still holding out his hands to the blaze, chilled through and\nthrough by his long ride from the church where he had been to hear the\ncircuit-rider preach on \"Forgiveness of Injuries.\"\n\nHe was beginning now to quarrel vehemently with his brother-in-law,\nJacob Smith, about the shabby treatment he had recently experienced in\nthe non-payment of work,--for work in this country is a sort of\ncirculating medium; a man will plough a day for another man, on\ncondition that the favor is rigorously reciprocated.\n\nJacob Smith had been to the still, and apparently had imbibed the spirit\nthere prevailing, to more effect than Sol's father had absorbed the\nspirit that had been taught in church.\n\nIn plain words, Jacob Smith was very drunk, and very quarrelsome, and\nvery unreasonable. The genial firelight that played upon his bloated\nface played also over objects much pleasanter to look upon,--over the\nstrings of red pepper-pods hanging from the rafters; over the bright\nvariegations of color in the clean patchwork quilt on the bed; over the\nshining pans and pails set aside on the shelf; over the great, curious\nframe of the warping-bars, rising up among the shadows on the other side\nof the room, the equidistant pegs still holding the sized yarn that\nSolomon's mother had been warping, preparatory to weaving.\n\nOn the other side of the room, too, was a little tow-headed child\nsitting in a cradle, which, small as he was, he had long ago outgrown as\na bed.\n\nIt was only a pine box placed upon rude rockers, and he used it for a\nrocking-chair. His bare, fat legs hung out on one side of the box, and\nas he delightedly rocked back and forth, his grotesque little shadow\nwaved to and fro on the wall, and mocked and flouted him.\n\nWhat he thought of it, nobody can ever know; his grave eyes were fixed\nupon it, but he said nothing, and the silent shadow and substance swayed\njoyously hither and thither together.\n\nThe quarrel between the two men was becoming hot and bitter. One might\nhave expected nothing better from Jacob Smith, for when a man is drunk,\nthe human element drops like a husk, and only the unreasoning brute is\nleft.\n\nBut had John Grow forgotten all the good words he had heard to-day from\nthe circuit-rider? Had they melted into thin air during his long ride\nfrom the church? Were the houseless good words wandering with the rising\nwind through the unpeopled forest, seeking vainly a human heart where\nthey might find a lodgment?\n\nThe men had risen from their chairs; the drunkard, tremulous with anger,\nhad drawn a sharp knife. John Grow was not so patient as he might have\nbeen, considering the great advantage he had in being sober, and the\ngood words with which he had started out from the \"meet'n'-house.\"\n\nHe laid his heavy hand angrily upon the drunken man's shoulder.\n\nIn another moment there would have been bloodshed. But suddenly the\ndark shadows at the other end of the room swayed with a strange motion;\na great creaking sound arose, and the warping-bars tottered forward and\nfell upon the floor with a crash.\n\nThe wranglers turned with anxious faces. No one was near the bars, it\nseemed that naught could have jarred them; but there lay the heavy frame\nupon the floor, the pegs broken, and the yarn twisted.\n\n\"A warning!\" cried Sol's mother. \"A warning how you-uns spen' the\nevenin' o' the Lord's Day in yer quar'lin', an' fightin', an' sech. An'\nye, John Grow, jes' from the meet'n'-house!\"\n\nShe did not reproach her brother,--nobody hopes anything from a\ndrunkard.\n\n\"A sign o' bad luck,\" said the grandmother. \"It 'minds me o' the time\nlas' winter that the wind blowed the door in, an' straight arter that\nthe cow died.\"\n\n\"Them signs air ez likely ter take hold on folks ez on cattle,\" said\nJacob Smith, half-sobered by the shock.\n\nThere was a look of sudden anxiety on the face of Solomon's mother. She\ncrossed the room to the youngster rocking in the cradle.\n\n\"Come, Benny,\" she said, \"ye oughter go ter bed. Ye air wastin' yer\nstrength sittin' up this late in the night. An' ye war a-coughin' las'\nweek. Ye must go ter bed.\"\n\nBenny clung to his unique rocking-chair with a sturdy strength which\npromised well for his muscle when he should be as old as his great,\nstrong brother Solomon. He had been as quiet, hitherto, as if he were\ndumb, but now he lifted up his voice in a loud and poignant wail, and\nafter he was put to bed, he resurrected himself from among the\nbedclothes, ever and anon, with a bitter, though infantile, jargon of\nprotest.\n\n\"I'm fairly afeard o' them bars,\" said Mrs. Grow, looking down upon the\nprostrate timbers. \"It's comical that they fell down that-a-way. I hopes\n'tain't no sign o' bad luck. I wouldn't hev nothin' ter happen fur\nnothin'. An' Benny war a-coughin' las' week.\"\n\nShe had not even the courage to put her fear into words. And she\ntenderly admonished tow-headed Benny, who was once more getting out of\nbed, to go to sleep and save his strength, and remember how he was\ncoughing last week.\n\n\"He hed a chicken-bone acrost his throat,\" said his father. \"No wonder\nhe coughed.\"\n\nSolomon rose and went out into the black night,--so black that he could\nnot distinguish the sky from the earth, or the unobstructed air from the\ndense forest around.\n\nHe walked about blindly, dragging something heavily after him. The\nweight of concealment it was. He knew something that nobody knew\nbesides.\n\nAt the critical moment of the altercation, he had stepped softly among\nthe shadows to the warping-bars,--a strong push had sent the great frame\ncrashing down. He was back in an instant among the others, and by reason\nof the excitement his agency in the sensation was not detected.\n\nLike his biblical namesake, Solomon was no fool. Had he been reared in a\ncultivated community, with the advantages of education, he might have\nbeen one of the bright young fellows who manage other young fellows, who\ncontrol debating societies, who are prominent in mysterious\nassociations, the secret of which is at once guarded and represented by\na Cerberus of three Greek letters.\n\nBut, wise as he was, Solomon was not a prophet. He had intended only to\neffect a diversion, and stop the quarrel. He had had no prevision of the\npanic of superstition that he had raised in the minds of these simple\npeople; for the ignorant mountaineer is a devout believer in signs and\nwarnings.\n\nAs Solomon wandered about outside, he heard his father stumbling from\nthe door of the house to the barn to see if aught of evil had come to\nthe cow or the horse. He knew how his grandmother's heart was wrung with\nfear for her heifer, and he could hardly endure to think of his mother's\nanxieties about Benny.\n\nNo prophetic eye was needed to foresee the terrors that would beset her\nin the days to come, when she would walk back and forth before the\nbars, warping the yarn to be woven into cloth for his and Benny's\nclothes; how she would regard the harmless frame as an uncanny thing,\nendowed with supernatural powers, and look askance at it, and shrink\nfrom touching it; how she would watch for the sign to come true, and\ntremble lest it come.\n\nHe turned about, dragging and tugging this weight of concealment after\nhim, reentered the house, and sat down beside the fire.\n\nHis uncle Jacob Smith had gone to his own home. The others were telling\nstories, calculated to make one's hair stand on end, about signs and\nwarnings, and their horrible fulfillment.\n\n\"Granny,\" said Solomon suddenly.\n\n\"Waal, sonny?\" said his grandmother.\n\nWhen the eyes of the family group were fixed upon him, Solomon's courage\nfailed.\n\n\"Nothin',\" he said hastily. \"Nothin' at all.\"\n\n\"Why, what ails the boy?\" exclaimed his mother.\n\n\"I tell ye now, Solomon,\" said his grandmother, with an emphatic nod,\n\"ye hed better respec' yer elders,--an' a sign in the house!\"\n\nSolomon slept little that night. Toward day he began to dream of the\nwarping-bars. They seemed to develop suddenly into an immense animated\nmonster, from which he only escaped by waking with a sudden start.\n\nThen he found that a great white morning, full of snow, was breaking\nupon the black night. And what a world it was now! The mountain was\ngraced with a soft white drapery; on every open space there were vague\nsuggestions of delicate colors: in this hollow lay a tender purple\nshadow; on that steep slope was an elusive roseate flush, and when you\nlooked again, it was gone, and the glare was blinding.\n\nThe bare black branches of the trees formed strangely interlaced\nhieroglyphics upon the turquoise sky. The crags were dark and grim,\ndespite their snowy crests and the gigantic glittering icicles that here\nand there depended from them. A cascade, close by in the gorge, had\nbeen stricken motionless and dumb, as if by a sudden spell; and still\nand silent, it sparkled in the sun.\n\nThe snow lay deep on the roof of the log cabin, and the eaves were\ndecorated with shining icicles. The enchantment had followed the zigzag\nlines of the fence, and on every rail was its embellishing touch.\n\nAll the homely surroundings were transfigured. The potato-house was a\nvast white billow, the ash-hopper was a marble vase, and the\nfodder-stack was a great conical ermine cap, belonging to some mountain\ngiant who had lost it in the wind last night.\n\n\"I mought hev knowed that we-uns war a-goin' ter hev this spell o'\nweather by the sign o' the warpin'-bars fallin' las' night,\" said John\nGrow, stamping off the snow as he came in from feeding his horse.\n\n\"I hope 'tain't no worse sign,\" said his wife. \"But I misdoubts.\" And\nshe sighed heavily.\n\n\"'Tain't no sign at all,\" said Solomon suddenly. He could keep his\nsecret no longer. \"'Twar me ez flung down them warpin'-bars.\"\n\nFor a moment they all stared at him in silent amazement.\n\n\"What fur?\" demanded his father at last. \"Just ter enjye sottin' 'em up\nagin? I'll teach ye ter fling down warpin'-bars!\"\n\n\"Waal,\" said the peacemaker, hesitating, \"it 'peared ter me ez Uncle\nJacob Smith war toler'ble drunk,--take him all tergether,--an' ez he hed\ndrawed a knife, I thought that ye an' him hed 'bout quar'led enough. An'\nso I flung down the warpin'-bars ter git the fuss shet up.\"\n\n\"Waal, sir!\" exclaimed his grandmother, red with wrath. \"Ez ef _my_ son\ncouldn't stand up agin all the Smiths that ever stepped! Ye must fling\ndown the warpin'-bars an' twist the spun-truck--fur Jacob Smith!\"\n\n\"Look-a-hyar, Sol,\" said his father gruffly, \"'tend ter yerself, an' yer\nown quar'ls, arter this, will ye!\"\n\nThen, with a sudden humorous interpretation of the incident, he broke\ninto a guffaw. \"I hev lived a consider'ble time in this tantalizin'\nworld, an' ez yit I dunno ez I hev hed any need o' Sol ter pertect\n_me_.\"\n\nBut Sol had unburdened his mind, and felt at ease again; not the less\nbecause he knew that but for his novel method of making peace, there\nmight have been something worse than a sign in the house.\n\n\n\n\nAMONG THE CLIFFS\n\n\nIt was a critical moment. There was a stir other than that of the wind\namong the pine needles and dry leaves that carpeted the ground.\n\nThe wary wild turkeys lifted their long necks with that peculiar cry of\nhalf-doubting surprise so familiar to a sportsman, then all was still\nfor an instant.\n\nThe world was steeped in the noontide sunlight, the mountain air\ntasted of the fresh sylvan fragrance that pervaded the forest, the\nfoliage blazed with the red and gold of autumn, the distant Chilhowee\nheights were delicately blue.\n\nThat instant's doubt sealed the doom of one of the flock. As the turkeys\nstood in momentary suspense, the sunlight gilding their bronze feathers\nto a brighter sheen, there was a movement in the dense undergrowth. The\nflock took suddenly to wing,--a flash from among the leaves, the sharp\ncrack of a rifle, and one of the birds fell heavily over the bluff and\ndown toward the valley.\n\nThe young mountaineer's exclamation of triumph died in his throat. He\ncame running to the verge of the crag, and looked down ruefully into the\ndepths where his game had disappeared.\n\n\"Waal, sir,\" he broke forth pathetically, \"this beats my time! If my\nluck ain't enough ter make a horse laugh!\"\n\nHe did not laugh, however. Perhaps his luck was calculated to stir only\nequine risibility. The cliff was almost perpendicular; at the depth of\ntwenty feet a narrow ledge projected, but thence there was a sheer\ndescent, down, down, down, to the tops of the tall trees in the valley\nfar below.\n\nAs Ethan Tynes looked wistfully over the precipice, he started with a\nsudden surprise. There on the narrow ledge lay the dead turkey.\n\nThe sight sharpened Ethan's regrets. He had made a good shot, and he\nhated to relinquish his game. While he gazed in dismayed meditation, an\nidea began to kindle in his brain. Why could he not let himself down to\nthe ledge by those long, strong vines that hung over the edge of the\ncliff?\n\nIt was risky, Ethan knew,--terribly risky. But then,--if only the vines\nwere strong!\n\nHe tried them again and again with all his might, selected several of\nthe largest, grasped them hard and fast, and then slipped lightly off\nthe crag.\n\nHe waited motionless for a moment. His movements had dislodged clods of\nearth and fragments of rock from the verge of the cliff, and until these\nhad ceased to rattle about his head and shoulders he did not begin his\ndownward journey.\n\nNow and then as he went he heard the snapping of twigs, and again a\nbranch would break, but the vines which supported him were tough and\nstrong to the last. Almost before he knew it he stood upon the ledge,\nand with a great sigh of relief he let the vines swing loose.\n\n\"Waal, that warn't sech a mighty job at last. But law, ef it hed been\nPeter Birt stid of me, that thar wild tur-r-key would hev laid on this\nhyar ledge plumb till the Jedgmint Day!\"\n\nHe walked deftly along the ledge, picked up the bird, and tied it to one\nof the vines with a string which he took from his pocket, intending to\ndraw it up when he should be once more on the top of the crag. These\npreparations complete, he began to think of going back.\n\nHe caught the vines on which he had made the descent, but before he had\nfairly left the ledge, he felt that they were giving way.\n\nHe paused, let himself slip back to a secure foothold, and tried their\nstrength by pulling with all his force.\n\nPresently down came the whole mass in his hands. The friction against\nthe sharp edges of the rock over which they had been stretched with a\nstrong tension had worn them through. His first emotion was one of\nintense thankfulness that they had fallen while he was on the ledge\ninstead of midway in his precarious ascent.\n\n\"Ef they hed kem down whilst I war a-goin' up, I'd hev been flung plumb\ndown ter the bottom o' the valley, 'kase this ledge air too narrer ter\nhev cotched me.\"\n\nHe glanced down at the sombre depths beneath. \"Thar wouldn't hev been\nenough left of me ter pick up on a shovel!\" he exclaimed, with a tardy\nrealization of his foolish recklessness.\n\nThe next moment a mortal terror seized him. What was to be his fate? To\nregain the top of the cliff by his own exertions was an impossibility.\n\nHe cast his despairing eyes up the ascent, as sheer and as smooth as a\nwall, without a crevice which might afford a foothold, or a shrub to\nwhich he might cling.\n\nHis strong head was whirling as he again glanced downward to the\nunmeasured abyss beneath. He softly let himself sink into a sitting\nposture, his heels dangling over the frightful depths, and addressed\nhimself resolutely to the consideration of the terrible danger in which\nhe was placed.\n\n[Illustration: HOW LONG WAS IT TO LAST]\n\nTaken at its best, how long was it to last? Could he look to any human\nbeing for deliverance? He reflected with growing dismay that the place\nwas far from any dwelling, and from the road that wound along the ridge.\n\nThere was no errand that could bring a man to this most unfrequented\nportion of the deep woods, unless an accident should hither direct some\nhunter's step.\n\nIt was quite possible, nay, probable, that years might elapse before the\nforest solitude would again be broken by human presence.\n\nHis brothers would search for him when he should be missed from\nhome,--but such boundless stretches of forest! They might search for\nweeks and never come near this spot. He would die here, he would\nstarve,--no, he would grow drowsy when exhausted and fall--fall--fall!\n\nHe was beginning to feel that morbid fascination that sometimes seizes\nupon those who stand on great heights,--an overwhelming impulse to\nplunge downward. His only salvation was to look up. He would look up to\nthe sky.\n\nAnd what were these words he was beginning to faintly remember? Had not\nthe circuit-rider said in his last sermon that not even a sparrow falls\nto the ground unmarked of God? There was a definite strength in this\nsuggestion. He felt less lonely as he stared resolutely at the big blue\nsky. There came into his heart a sense of encouragement, of hope.\n\nHe would keep up as long and as bravely as he could, and if the worst\nshould come,--was he indeed so solitary? He would hold in remembrance\nthe sparrow's fall.\n\nHe had so nerved himself to meet his fate that he thought it was a fancy\nwhen he heard a distant step. But it did not die away, it grew more and\nmore distinct,--a shambling step, that curiously stopped at intervals\nand kicked the fallen leaves.\n\nHe sought to call out, but he seemed to have lost his voice. Not a sound\nissued from his thickened tongue and his dry throat. The step came\nnearer. It would presently pass. With a mighty effort Ethan sent forth a\nwild, hoarse cry.\n\nThe rocks reverberated it, the wind carried it far, and certainly there\nwas an echo of its despair and terror in a shrill scream set up on the\nverge of the crag. Then Ethan heard the shambling step scampering off\nvery fast indeed.\n\nThe truth flashed upon him. It was some child, passing on an\nunimaginable errand through the deep woods, frightened by his sudden\ncry.\n\n\"Stop, bubby!\" he shouted; \"stop a minute! It's Ethan Tynes that's\ncallin' of ye. Stop a minute, bubby!\"\n\nThe step paused at a safe distance, and the shrill pipe of a little boy\ndemanded, \"Whar is ye, Ethan Tynes?\"\n\n\"I'm down hyar on the ledge o' the bluff. Who air ye ennyhow?\"\n\n\"George Birt,\" promptly replied the little boy. \"What air ye doin' down\nthar? I thought it war Satan a-callin' of me. I never seen nobody.\"\n\n\"I kem down hyar on vines arter a tur-r-key I shot. The vines bruk, an'\nI hev got no way ter git up agin. I want ye ter go ter yer mother's\nhouse, an' tell yer brother Pete ter bring a rope hyar fur me ter climb\nup by.\"\n\nEthan expected to hear the shambling step going away with a celerity\nproportionate to the importance of the errand. On the contrary, the step\nwas approaching the crag.\n\nA moment of suspense, and there appeared among the jagged ends of the\nbroken vines a small red head, a deeply freckled face, and a pair of\nsharp, eager blue eyes. George Birt had carefully laid himself down on\nhis stomach, only protruding his head beyond the verge of the crag, that\nhe might not fling away his life in his curiosity.\n\n\"Did ye git it?\" he asked, with bated breath.\n\n\"Git what?\" demanded poor Ethan, surprised and impatient.\n\n\"The tur-r-key--what ye hev done been talkin' 'bout,\" said George Birt.\n\nEthan had lost all interest in the turkey. \"Yes, yes; but run along,\nbub. I mought fall off'n this hyar place,--I'm gittin' stiff sittin'\nstill so long,--or the wind mought blow me off. The wind is blowin'\ntoler'ble brief.\"\n\n\"Gobbler or hen?\" asked George Birt eagerly.\n\n\"It air a hen,\" said Ethan. \"But look-a-hyar, George, I'm a-waitin' on\nye, an' ef I'd fall off'n this hyar place, I'd be ez dead ez a door-nail\nin a minute.\"\n\n\"Waal, I'm goin' now,\" said George Birt, with gratifying alacrity. He\nraised himself from his recumbent position, and Ethan heard him\nshambling off, kicking every now and then at the fallen leaves as he\nwent.\n\nPresently, however, he turned and walked back nearly to the brink of the\ncliff. Then he prostrated himself once more at full length,--for the\nmountain children are very careful of the precipices,--snaked along\ndexterously to the verge of the crag, and protruding his red head\ncautiously, began to parley once more, trading on Ethan's necessities.\n\n\"Ef I go on this yerrand fur ye,\" he said, looking very sharp indeed,\n\"will ye gimme one o' the whings of that thar wild tur-r-key?\"\n\nHe coveted the wing-feathers, not the joint of the fowl. The \"whing\" of\nthe domestic turkey is used by the mountain women as a fan, and is\nconsidered an elegance as well as a comfort. George Birt aped the\ncustoms of his elders, regardless of sex,--a characteristic of very\nsmall boys.\n\n\"Oh, go 'long, bubby!\" exclaimed poor Ethan, in dismay at the\ndilatoriness and indifference of his unique deliverer. \"I'll give ye\nboth o' the whings.\" He would have offered the turkey willingly, if\n\"bubby\" had seemed to crave it.\n\n\"Waal, I'm goin' now.\"\n\nGeorge Birt rose from the ground and started off briskly, exhilarated by\nthe promise of both the \"whings.\"\n\nEthan was angry indeed when he heard the boy once more shambling back.\nOf course one should regard a deliverer with gratitude, especially a\ndeliverer from mortal peril; but it may be doubted if Ethan's gratitude\nwould have been great enough to insure that small red head against a\nvigorous rap, if it had been within rapping distance, when it was once\nmore cautiously protruded over the verge of the cliff.\n\n\"I kem back hyar ter tell ye,\" the doughty deliverer began, with an air\nof great importance, and magnifying his office with an extreme relish,\n\"that I can't go an' tell Pete 'bout'n the rope till I hev done kem back\nfrom the mill. I hev got old Sorrel hitched out hyar a piece, with a bag\no' corn on his back, what I hev ter git ground at the mill. My mother\nair a-settin' at home now a-waitin' fur that thar corn-meal ter bake\ndodgers with. An' I hev got a dime ter pay at the mill; it war lent ter\nmy dad las' week. An' I'm afeard ter walk about much with this hyar\ndime; I mought lose it, ye know. An' I can't go home 'thout the meal;\nI'll ketch it ef I do. But I'll tell Pete arter I git back from the\nmill.\"\n\n\"The mill!\" echoed Ethan, aghast. \"What air ye doin' on this side o' the\nmounting, ef ye air a-goin' ter the mill? This ain't the way ter the\nmill.\"\n\n\"I kem over hyar,\" said the little boy, still with much importance of\nmanner, notwithstanding a slight suggestion of embarrassment on his\nfreckled face, \"ter see 'bout'n a trap that I hev sot fur squir'ls. I'll\nsee 'bout my trap, an' then I hev ter go ter the mill, 'kase my mother\nair a-settin' in our house now a-waitin' fur meal ter bake corn-dodgers.\nThen I'll tell Pete whar ye air, an' what ye said 'bout'n the rope. Ye\nmust jes' wait fur me hyar.\"\n\nPoor Ethan could do nothing else.\n\nAs the echo of the boy's shambling step died in the distance, a\nredoubled sense of loneliness fell upon Ethan Tynes. But he endeavored\nto solace himself with the reflection that the important mission to the\nsquirrel-trap and the errand to the mill could not last forever, and\nbefore a great while Peter Birt and his rope would be upon the crag.\n\nThis idea buoyed him up as the hours crept slowly by. Now and then he\nlifted his head and listened with painful intentness. He felt stiff in\nevery muscle, and yet he had a dread of making an effort to change his\nconstrained position. He might lose control of his rigid limbs, and fall\ninto those dread depths beneath.\n\nHis patience at last began to give way. His heart was sinking. His\nmessenger had been even more dilatory than he was prepared to expect.\nWhy did not Pete come? Was it possible that George had forgotten to tell\nof his danger?\n\nThe sun was going down, leaving a great glory of gold and crimson clouds\nand an opaline haze upon the purple mountains. The last rays fell on the\nbronze feathers of the turkey still lying tied to the broken vines on\nthe ledge.\n\nAnd now there were only frowning masses of dark clouds in the west; and\nthere were frowning masses of clouds overhead.\n\nThe shadow of the coming night had fallen on the autumnal foliage in the\ndeep valley; in the place of the opaline haze was only a gray mist.\n\nAnd now came, sweeping along between the parallel mountain ranges, a\nsombre rain-cloud. The lad could hear the heavy drops splashing on the\ntreetops in the valley, long, long before he felt them on his head.\n\nThe roll of thunder sounded among the crags. Then the rain came down\ntumultuously, not in columns, but in livid sheets. The lightnings rent\nthe sky, showing, as it seemed to him, glimpses of the glorious\nbrightness within,--too bright for human eyes.\n\nHe clung desperately to his precarious perch. Now and then a fierce rush\nof wind almost tore him from it. Strange fancies beset him. The air was\nfull of that wild symphony of nature, the wind and the rain, the pealing\nthunder, and the thunderous echo among the cliffs, and yet he thought he\ncould hear his own name ringing again and again through all the tumult,\nsometimes in Pete's voice, sometimes in George's shrill tones.\n\nHe became vaguely aware, after a time, that the rain had ceased, and the\nmoon was beginning to shine through rifts in the clouds.\n\nThe wind continued unabated, but, curiously enough, he could not hear it\nnow. He could hear nothing; he could think of nothing. His consciousness\nwas beginning to fail.\n\nGeorge Birt had indeed forgotten him,--forgotten even the promised\n\"whings.\" Not that he had discovered anything so extraordinary in his\ntrap, for his trap was empty, but when he reached the mill, he found\nthat the miller had killed a bear and captured a cub, and the orphan,\nchained to a post, had deeply absorbed George Birt's attention.\n\nTo sophisticated people, the boy might have seemed as grotesque as the\ncub. George wore an unbleached cotton shirt. The waistband of his baggy\njeans trousers encircled his body just beneath his armpits, reaching to\nhis shoulder-blades behind, and nearly to his collar-bone in front. His\nred head was only partly covered by a fragment of an old white wool hat;\nand he looked at the cub with a curiosity as intense as that with which\nthe cub looked at him. Each was taking first lessons in natural history.\n\nAs long as there was daylight enough left to see that cub, did George\nBirt stand and stare at the little beast. Then he clattered home on old\nSorrel in the closing darkness, looking like a very small pin on the top\nof a large pincushion.\n\nAt home, he found the elders unreasonable,--as elders usually are\nconsidered. Supper had been waiting an hour or so for the lack of meal\nfor dodgers. He \"caught it\" considerably, but not sufficiently to impair\nhis appetite for the dodgers. After all this, he was ready enough for\nbed when small boy's bedtime came. But as he was nodding before the\nfire, he heard a word that roused him to a new excitement.\n\n\"These hyar chips air so wet they won't burn,\" said his mother. \"I'll\ntake my tur-r-key whing an' fan the fire.\"\n\n\"Law!\" he exclaimed. \"Thar, now! Ethan Tynes never gimme that thar wild\ntur-r-key's whings like he promised.\"\n\n\"Whar did ye happen ter see Ethan?\" asked Pete, interested in his\nfriend.\n\n\"Seen him in the woods, an' he promised me the tur-r-key whings.\"\n\n\"What fur?\" inquired Pete, a little surprised by this uncalled-for\ngenerosity.\n\n\"Waal,\"--there was an expression of embarrassment on the important\nfreckled face, and the small red head nodded forward in an explanatory\nmanner,--\"he fell off'n the bluffs arter the tur-r-key whings--I mean,\nhe went down to the ledge arter the tur-r-key, and the vines bruk an' he\ncouldn't git up no more. An' he tole me that ef I'd tell ye ter fotch\nhim a rope ter pull up by, he would gimme the whings. That happened\na--leetle--while--arter dinner-time.\"\n\n\"Who got him a rope ter pull up by?\" demanded Pete.\n\nThere was again on the important face that indescribable shade of\nembarrassment. \"Waal,\"--the youngster balanced this word judicially,--\"I\nforgot 'bout'n the tur-r-key whings till this minute. I reckon he's thar\nyit.\"\n\n\"Mebbe this hyar wind an' rain hev beat him off'n the ledge!\" exclaimed\nPete, appalled, and rising hastily. \"I tell ye now,\" he added, turning\nto his mother, \"the best use ye kin make o' that thar boy is ter put him\non the fire fur a back-log.\"\n\nPete made his preparations in great haste. He took the rope from the\nwell, asked the crestfallen and browbeaten junior a question or two\nrelative to locality, mounted old Sorrel without a saddle, and in a few\nminutes was galloping at headlong speed through the night.\n\nThe rain was over by the time he had reached the sulphur spring to\nwhich George had directed him, but the wind was still high, and the\nbroken clouds were driving fast across the face of the moon.\n\nWhen he had hitched his horse to a tree, and set out on foot to find the\ncliff, the moonbeams, though brilliant, were so intermittent that his\nprogress was fitful and necessarily cautious. When the disk shone out\nfull and clear, he made his way rapidly enough, but when the clouds\nintervened, he stood still and waited.\n\n\"I ain't goin' ter fall off'n the bluff 'thout knowin' it,\" he said to\nhimself, in one of these eclipses, \"ef I hev ter stand hyar all night.\"\n\nThe moonlight was brilliant and steady when he reached the verge of the\ncrag. He identified the spot by the mass of broken vines, and more\nindubitably by Ethan's rifle lying upon the ground just at his feet. He\ncalled, but received no response.\n\n\"Hev Ethan fell off, sure enough?\" he asked himself, in great dismay and\nalarm. Then he shouted again and again. At last there came an answer,\nas though the speaker had just awaked.\n\n\"Pretty nigh beat out, I'm a-thinkin'!\" commented Pete. He tied one end\nof the cord around the trunk of a tree, knotted it at intervals, and\nflung it over the bluff.\n\nAt first Ethan was almost afraid to stir. He slowly put forth his hand\nand grasped the rope. Then, his heart beating tumultuously, he rose to\nhis feet.\n\nHe stood still for an instant to steady himself and get his breath.\nNerving himself for a strong effort, he began the ascent, hand over\nhand, up, and up, and up, till once more he stood upon the crest of the\ncrag.\n\nAnd, now that all danger was over, Pete was disposed to scold. \"I'm\na-thinkin',\" said Pete severely, \"ez thar ain't a critter on this hyar\nmounting, from a b'ar ter a copper-head, that could hev got in sech a\nfix, 'ceptin' ye, Ethan Tynes.\"\n\nAnd Ethan was silent.\n\n\"What's this hyar thing at the e-end o' the rope?\" asked Pete, as he\nbegan to draw the cord up, and felt a weight still suspended.\n\n\"It air the tur-r-key,\" said Ethan meekly.\n\n\"I tied her ter the e-end o' the rope afore I kem up.\"\n\n\"Waal, sir!\" exclaimed Pete, in indignant surprise.\n\nAnd George, for duty performed, was remunerated with the two \"whings,\"\nalthough it still remains a question in the mind of Ethan whether or not\nhe deserved them.\n\n\n\n\nIN THE \"CHINKING\"\n\n\nNot far from an abrupt precipice on a certain great mountain spur there\nstands in the midst of the red and yellow autumn woods a little log\n\"church-house.\" The nuts rattle noisily down on its roof; sometimes\nduring \"evenin' preachin'\"--which takes place in the afternoon--a\nflying-squirrel frisks near the window; the hymns echo softly, softly,\nfrom the hazy sunlit heights across the valley.\n\n\"That air the doxol'gy,\" said Tom Brent, one day, pausing to listen\namong the wagons and horses hitched outside. He was about to follow home\nhis father's mare, that had broken loose and galloped off through the\nwoods, but as he glanced back at the church, a sudden thought struck\nhim. He caught sight of the end of little Jim Coggin's comforter\nflaunting out through the \"chinking,\"--as the mountaineers call the\nseries of short slats which are set diagonally in the spaces between the\nlogs of the walls, and on which the clay is thickly daubed. This work\nhad been badly done, and in many places the daubing had fallen away.\nThus it was that as Jim Coggin sat within the church, the end of his\nplaid comforter had slipped through the chinking and was waving in the\nwind outside.\n\nNow Jim had found the weather still too warm for his heavy jeans jacket,\nbut he was too cool without it, and he had ingeniously compromised the\ndifficulty by wearing his comforter in this unique manner,--laying it on\nhis shoulders, crossing it over the chest, passing it under the arms,\nand tying it in a knot between the shoulder-blades. Tom remembered this\nwith a grin as he slyly crept up to the house, and it was only the work\nof a moment to draw that knot through the chinking and secure it firmly\nto a sumach bush that grew near at hand.\n\nIt never occurred to him that the resounding doxology could fail to\nrouse that small, tow-headed, freckle-faced boy, or that the\ncongregation might slowly disperse without noticing him as he sat\nmotionless and asleep in the dark shadow.\n\nThe sun slipped down into the red west; the blue mountains turned\npurple; heavy clouds gathered, and within three miles there was no other\nhuman creature when Jim suddenly woke to the darkness and the storm and\nthe terrible loneliness.\n\nWhere was he? He tried to rise: he could not move. Bewildered, he\nstruggled and tugged at his harness,--all in vain. As he realized the\nsituation, he burst into tears.\n\n\"Them home-folks o' mine won't kem hyar ter s'arch fur me,\" he cried\ndesperately, \"kase I tole my mother ez how I war a-goin' ter dust down\nthe mounting ter Aunt Jerushy's house ez soon ez meet'n' war out an'\nstay all night along o' her boys.\"\n\nStill he tried to comfort himself by reflecting that it was not so bad\nas it might have been. There was no danger that he would have to starve\nand pine here till next Sunday, for a \"protracted meeting\" was in\nprogress, service was held every day, and the congregation would return\nto-morrow, which was Thursday.\n\nHis philosophy, however, was short-lived, for the sudden lightning rent\nthe clouds, and a terrific peal of thunder echoed among the cliffs.\n\n\"The storm air a-comin' up the mounting!\" he exclaimed, in vivacious\nprotest. \"An' ef this brief wind war ter whurl the old church-house\noff'n the bluff an' down inter the valley whar-r--would--I--be?\"\n\nAll at once the porch creaked beneath a heavy tread. A clumsy hand was\nfumbling at the door. \"Strike a light,\" said a gruff voice without.\n\nAs a lantern was thrust in, Jim was about to speak, but the words froze\nupon his lips for fear when a man strode heavily over the threshold and\nhe caught the expression of his face.\n\nIt was an evil face, red and bloated and brutish. He had small,\nmalicious, twinkling eyes, and a shock of sandy hair. A suit of\ncopper-colored jeans hung loosely on his tall, lank frame, and when he\nplaced the lantern on a bench and stretched out both arms as if he were\ntired, he showed that his left hand was maimed,--the thumb had been cut\noff at the first joint.\n\nA thickset, short, swaggering man tramped in after him.\n\n\"Waal, Amos Brierwood,\" he said, \"it's safes' fur us ter part. We\noughter be fur enough from hyar by daybreak. Divide that thar traveler's\nmoney--hey?\"\n\nThey carefully closed the rude shutters, barred the door, and sat down\non the \"mourners' bench,\" neither having noticed the small boy at the\nother end of the room.\n\nPoor Jim, his arms akimbo and half-covered by his comforter, stuck to\nthe wall like a plaid bat,--if such a natural curiosity is\nimaginable,--feverishly hoping that the men might go without seeing him\nat all.\n\nFor surely no human creature could be more abhorrent, more incredibly\nodious of aspect, than Amos Brierwood as he sat there, his red, brutish\nface redder still with a malign pleasure, his malicious eyes gloating\nover the rolls of money which he drew from a pocket-book stolen from\nsome waylaid traveler, snapping his fingers in exultation when the\namount of the bills exceeded his expectation.\n\nThe leaves without were fitfully astir, and once the porch creaked\nsuddenly. Brierwood glanced at the door sharply,--even fearfully,--his\nhand motionless on the rolls of money.\n\n\"Only the wind, Amos, only the wind!\" said the short, stout man\nimpatiently.\n\nBut he, himself, was disquieted the next moment when a horse neighed\nshrilly.\n\n\"That ain't my beastis, Amos, nor yit your'n!\" he cried, starting up.\n\n\"It air the traveler's, ye sodden idjit!\" said Brierwood, lifting his\nuncouth foot and giving him a jocose kick.\n\nBut the short man was not satisfied. He rose, went outside, and Jim\ncould hear him beating about among the bushes. Presently he came in\nagain. \"'Twar the traveler's critter, I reckon; an' that critter an'\nsaddle oughter be counted in my sheer.\"\n\nThen they fell to disputing and quarreling,--once they almost\nfought,--but at length the division was made and they rose to go. As\nBrierwood swung his lantern round, his malicious eyes fell upon the poor\nlittle plaid bat sticking against the wall.\n\nHe stood in the door staring, dumfounded for a moment. Then he clenched\nhis fist, and shook it fiercely. \"How did ye happen ter be hyar this\ntime o' the night, ye limb o' Satan?\" he cried.\n\n\"Dunno,\" faltered poor Jim.\n\nThe other man had returned too. \"Waal, sir, ef that thar boy hed been a\ncopper-head now, he'd hev bit us, sure!\"\n\n\"_He mought do that yit_,\" said Amos Brierwood, with grim significance.\n\"He hev been thar all this time,--'kase he air tied thar, don't ye see?\nAn' he hev _eyes_, an' he hev _ears_. What air ter hender?\"\n\nThe other man's face turned pale, and Jim thought that they were afraid\nhe would tell all he had seen and heard. The manner of both had changed,\ntoo. They had a skulking, nervous way with them now in place of the\ncoarse bravado that had characterized them hitherto.\n\nAmos Brierwood pondered for a few minutes. Then he sullenly demanded,--\n\n\"What's yer name?\"\n\n\"It air Jeemes Coggin,\" quavered the little boy.\n\n\"Coggin, hey?\" exclaimed Brierwood, with a new idea bringing back the\nmalicious twinkle to his eyes. He laughed as though mightily relieved,\nand threw up his left hand and shook it exultingly.\n\nThe shadow on the dark wall of that maimed hand with only the stump of a\nthumb was a weird, a horrible thing to the child. He had no idea that\nhis constant notice of it would stamp it in his memory, and that\nsomething would come of this fact. He was glad when the shadow ceased to\nwrithe and twist upon the wall, and the man dropped his arm to his side\nagain.\n\n\"What's a-brewin', Amos?\" asked the other, who had been watching\nBrierwood curiously.\n\nThey whispered aside for a few moments, at first anxiously and then with\nwild guffaws of satisfaction. When they approached the boy, their manner\nhad changed once more.\n\n\"Waal, I declar, bubby,\" said Brierwood agreeably, \"this hyar fix ez ye\nhev got inter air sateful fur true! It air enough ter sot enny boy on\nthe mounting cat-a-wampus. 'Twar a good thing ez we-uns happened ter kem\nby hyar on our way from the tan-yard way down yander in the valley whar\nwe-uns hev been ter git paid up fur workin' thar some. We'll let ye out.\nWho done yer this hyar trick?\"\n\n\"Dunno--witches, I reckon!\" cried poor Jim, bursting into tears.\n\n\"Witches!\" the man exclaimed, \"the woods air a-roamin' with 'em this\ntime o' the year; bein', ye see, ez they kem ter feed on the mast.\"\n\nHe chuckled as he said this, perhaps at the boy's evident terror,--for\nJim was sorrowfully superstitious,--perhaps because he had managed to\ncut unnoticed a large fragment from the end of the comforter. This he\nstuffed into his own pocket as he talked on about two witches, whom he\nsaid he had met that afternoon under an oak-tree feeding on acorns.\n\n\"An' now, I kem ter remind myself that them witches war inquirin' round\n'bout'n a boy--war his name Jeemes Coggin? Le''s see! That boy's name\n_war_ Jeemes Coggin!\"\n\nWhile Jim stood breathlessly, intently listening, Brierwood had twisted\nsomething into the folds of his comforter so dexterously that unless\nthis were untied it would not fall; it was a silk handkerchief of a\nstyle never before seen in the mountains, and he had made a knot hard\nand fast in one corner.\n\n\"Thar, now!\" he exclaimed, holding up the fragment of knitted yarn, \"I\nhev tore yer comforter. Never mind, bubby, 'twar tore afore. But it'll\ndo ter wrop up this money-purse what b'longs ter yer dad. He lef' it\nhid in the chinking o' the wall over yander close ter whar I war sittin'\nwhen I fust kem in. I'll put it back thar, 'kase yer dad don't want\nnobody ter know whar it air hid.\"\n\nHe strode across the room and concealed the empty pocket-book in the\nchinking.\n\n\"Ef ye won't tell who teched it, I'll gin a good word fur ye ter them\nwitches what war inquirin' round fur ye ter-day.\"\n\nJim promised in hot haste, and then, the rain having ceased, he started\nfor home, but Brierwood stopped him at the door.\n\n\"Hold on thar, bub. I kem mighty nigh furgittin' ter let ye know ez I\nseen yer brother Alf awhile back, an' he axed me ter git ye ter go by\nTom Brent's house, an' tell Tom ter meet him up the road a piece by that\nthar big sulphur spring. Will ye gin Tom that message? Tell him Alf said\nter come quick.\"\n\nOnce more Jim promised.\n\nThe two men holding the lantern out in the porch watched him as he\npounded down the dark road, his tow hair sticking out of his tattered\nblack hat, the ends of his comforter flaunting in the breeze, and every\ngesture showing the agitated haste of a witch-scared boy. Then they\nlooked at each other significantly, and laughed loud and long.\n\n\"He'll tell sech a crooked tale ter-morrer that Alf Coggin an' his dad\nwill see sights along o' that traveler's money!\" said Brierwood,\ngloating over his sharp management as he and his accomplice mounted\ntheir horses and rode off in opposite directions.\n\nWhen Jim reached Tom Brent's house, and knocked at the door, he was so\nabsorbed in his terrors that, as it opened, he said nothing for a\nmoment. He could see the family group within. Tom's father was placidly\nsmoking. His palsied \"gran'dad\" shook in his chair in the chimney-corner\nas he told the wide-eyed boys big tales about the \"Injuns\" that harried\nthe early settlers in Tennessee.\n\n\"Tom,\" Jim said, glancing up at the big boy,--\"Tom, thar's a witch\nwaitin' fur ye at the sulphur spring! Go thar, quick!\"\n\n\"Not ef I knows what's good fur me!\" protested Tom, with a great\nhorse-laugh. \"What ails ye, boy? Ye talk like ye war teched in the\nhead!\"\n\n\"I went ter say ez Alf Coggin air thar waitin' fur ye,\" Jim began again,\nnodding his slandered head with great solemnity, \"an' tole me ter tell\nye ter kem thar quick.\"\n\nHe took no heed of the inaccuracy of the message; he was glancing\nfearfully over his shoulder, and the next minute scuttled down the road\nin a bee-line for home.\n\nTom hurried off briskly through the woods. \"Waal, sir! I'm mighty nigh\ncrazed ter know what Alf Coggin kin want o' me; goin' coon-huntin',\nmebbe,\" he speculated, as he drew within sight of an old\nlightning-scathed tree which stood beside the sulphur spring and\nstretched up, stark and white, in the dim light.\n\nThe clouds were blowing away from a densely instarred sky; the moon was\nhardly more than a crescent and dipping low in the west, but he could\nsee the sombre outline of the opposite mountain, and the white mists\nthat shifted in a ghostly and elusive fashion along the summit. The\nnight was still, save for a late katydid, spared by the frost, and\npiping shrilly.\n\nHe experienced a terrible shock of surprise when a sudden voice--a voice\nhe had never heard before--cried out sharply, \"Hello there! Help! help!\"\n\nAs he pressed tremulously forward, he beheld a sight which made him ask\nhimself if it were possible that Alf Coggin had sent for him to join in\nsome nefarious work which had ended in leaving a man--a stranger--bound\nto the old lightning-scathed tree.\n\nEven in the uncertain light Tom could see that he was pallid and\npanting, evidently exhausted in some desperate struggle: there was blood\non his face, his clothes were torn, and by all odds he was the angriest\nman that was ever waylaid and robbed.\n\n\"Ter-morrer he'll be jes' a-swoopin'!\" thought Tom, tremulously untying\nthe complicated knots, and listening to his threats of vengeance on the\nunknown robbers, \"an' every critter on the mounting will git a clutch\nfrom his claws.\"\n\nAnd in fact, it was hardly daybreak before the constable of the\ndistrict, who lived hard by in the valley, was informed of all the\ndetails of the affair, so far as known to Tom or the \"Traveler,\"--for\nthus the mountaineers designated him, as if he were the only one in the\nworld.\n\nBy reason of the message which Jim had delivered, and its strange\nresult, they suspected the Coggins, and as they rode together to the\njustice's house for a warrant, this suspicion received unexpected\nconfirmation in a rumor that they found afloat. Every man they met\nstopped them to repeat the story that Coggin's boy had told somebody\nthat it was his father who had robbed the traveler, and hid the empty\npocket-book in the chinking of the church wall. No one knew who had set\nthis report in circulation, but a blacksmith said he heard it first from\na man named Brierwood, who had stopped at his shop to have his horse\nshod.\n\nIt was still early when they reached Jim Coggin's home; the windows and\ndoors were open to let out the dust, for his mother was just beginning\nto sweep. She had pushed aside the table, when her eyes suddenly\ndistended with surprise as they fell upon a silk handkerchief lying on\nthe floor beside it. The moment that she stooped and picked it up, the\nstrange gentleman stepped upon the porch, and through the open door he\nsaw it dangling from her hands.\n\nHe tapped the constable on the shoulder.\n\n\"That's my property!\" he said tersely.\n\nThe officer stepped in instantly. \"Good-mornin', Mrs. Coggin,\" he said\npolitely. \"'T would pleasure me some ter git a glimpse o' that\nhandkercher.\"\n\n\"Air it your'n?\" asked the woman wonderingly. \"I jes' now fund it, an' I\nwar tried ter know who had drapped it hyar.\"\n\nThe officer, without a word, untied the knot which Amos Brierwood had\nmade in one corner, while the Coggins looked on in open-mouthed\namazement. It contained a five-dollar bill, and a bit of paper on which\nsome careless memoranda had been jotted down in handwriting which the\ntraveler claimed as his own.\n\nIt seemed a very plain case. Still, he got out of the sound of the\nwoman's sobs and cries as soon as he conveniently could, and sauntered\ndown the road, where the officer presently overtook him with Alf and his\nfather in custody.\n\n\"Whar be ye a-takin' of us now?\" cried the elder, gaunt and haggard, and\nwith his long hair blowing in the breeze.\n\n\"Ter the church-house, whar yer boy says ye hev hid the traveler's\nmoney-purse,\" said the officer.\n\n\"_My boy_!\" exclaimed John Coggin, casting an astounded glance upon his\nson.\n\nPoor Alf was almost stunned. When they reached the church, and the men,\nafter searching for a time without result, appealed to him to save\ntrouble by pointing out the spot where the pocket-book was concealed, he\ncould only stammer and falter unintelligibly, and finally he burst into\ntears.\n\n\"Ax the t'other one--the leetle boy,\" suggested an old man in the crowd.\n\nAlf's heart sank--sank like lead--when Jim, suddenly remembering the\npromised \"good word\" to the witches, piped out, \"I war tole not ter tell\nwho teched it,--'kase my dad didn't want nobody ter know 'twar hid\nthar.\"\n\nJohn Coggin's face was rigid and gray.\n\n\"The Lord hev forsook me!\" he cried. \"An' all my chillen hev turned\nliars tergether.\"\n\nThen he made a great effort to control himself.\n\n\"Look-a-hyar, Jim, ef ye hev got the truth in ye,--speak it! Ef ye know\nwhar I hev hid anything,--find it!\"\n\nJim, infinitely important, and really understanding little of what was\ngoing on, except that all these big men were looking at him, crossed the\nroom with as much stateliness as is compatible with a pair of baggy\nbrown jeans trousers, a plaid comforter tied between the shoulder-blades\nin a big knot, a tow-head, and a tattered black hat; he slipped his\ngrimy paw in the chinking where Amos Brierwood had hid the pocket-book,\nand drew it thence, with the prideful exclamation,--\n\n\"B'longs ter my dad!\"\n\nThe officer held it up empty before the traveler,--he held up, too, the\nbit of comforter in which it was folded, and pointed to the small boy's\nshoulders. The gentleman turned away, thoroughly convinced. Alf and his\nfather looked from one to the other, in mute despair. They foresaw many\nyears of imprisonment for a crime which they had not committed.\n\nThe constable was hurrying his prisoners toward the door, when there was\na sudden stir on the outskirts of the crowd. Old Parson Payne was\npushing his way in, followed by a tall young man, who, in comparison\nwith the mountaineers, seemed wonderfully prosperous and well-clad, and\nvery fresh and breezy.\n\n\"You're all on the wrong track!\" he cried.\n\nAnd his story proved this, though it was simple enough.\n\nHe was sojourning in the mountains with some friends on a \"camp-hunt,\"\nand the previous evening he had chanced to lose his way in the woods.\nWhen night and the storm came on, he was perhaps five miles from camp.\nHe mistook the little \"church-house\" for a dwelling, and dismounting, he\nhitched his horse in the laurel, intending to ask for shelter for the\nnight. As he stepped upon the porch, however, he caught a glimpse,\nthrough the chinking, of the interior, and he perceived that the\nbuilding was a church. There were benches and a rude pulpit. The next\ninstant, his attention was riveted by the sight of two men, one of whom\nhad drawn a knife upon the other, quarreling over a roll of money. He\nstood rooted to the spot in surprise. Gradually, he began to understand\nthe villainy afoot, for he overheard all that they said to each other,\nand afterward to Jim. He saw one of the men cut the bit from the\ncomforter, wrap the pocket-book in it, and hide it away, and he\nwitnessed a dispute between them, which went on in dumb show behind the\nboy's back, as to which of two bills should be knotted in the\nhandkerchief which they twisted into the comforter.\n\nThe constable was pressing him to describe the appearance of the\nruffians.\n\n\"Why,\" said the stranger, \"one of them was long, and lank, and\nloose-jointed, and had sandy hair, and\"--He paused abruptly, cudgeling\nhis memory for something more distinctive, for this description would\napply to half the men in the room, and thus it would be impossible to\nidentify and capture the robbers.\n\n\"He hedn't no thumb sca'cely on his lef' hand,\" piped out Jim, holding\nup his own grimy paw, and looking at it with squinting intensity as he\ncrooked it at the first joint, to imitate the maimed hand.\n\n\"No thumb!\" exclaimed the constable excitedly. \"Amos Brierwood fur a\nthousand!\"\n\nJim nodded his head intelligently, with sudden recollection. \"That air\nthe name ez the chunky man gin him when they fust kem in.\"\n\nAnd thus it was that when the Coggins were presently brought before the\njustice, they were exonerated of all complicity in the crime for which\nBrierwood and his accomplice were afterward arrested, tried, and\nsentenced to the State Prison.\n\nJim doubts whether the promised \"good word\" was ever spoken on his\nbehalf to the witches, who were represented as making personal inquiries\nabout him, because he suspects that the two robbers were themselves the\nonly evil spirits roaming the woods that night.\n\n\n\n\nON A HIGHER LEVEL\n\n\nAs Jack Dunn stood in the door of his home on a great crag of Persimmon\nRidge and loaded his old rifle, his eyes rested upon a vast and imposing\narray of mountains filling the landscape. All are heavily wooded, all\nare alike, save that in one the long horizontal line of the summit is\nbroken by a sudden vertical ascent, and thence the mountain seems to\ntake up life on a higher level, for it sinks no more and passes out of\nsight.\n\nThis abrupt rise is called \"Elijah's Step,\"--named, perhaps, in honor of\nsome neighboring farmer who first explored it; but the ignorant boy\nbelieved that here the prophet had stepped into his waiting fiery\nchariot.\n\nHe knew of no foreign lands,--no Syria, no Palestine. He had no dream of\nthe world that lay beyond those misty, azure hills. Indistinctly he had\ncaught the old story from the nasal drawl of the circuit-rider, and he\nthought that here, among these wild Tennessee mountains, Elijah had\nlived and had not died.\n\nThere came suddenly from the valley the baying of a pack of hounds in\nfull cry, and when the crags caught the sound and tossed it from\nmountain to mountain, when more delicate echoes on a higher key rang out\nfrom the deep ravines, there was a wonderful exhilaration in this sylvan\nminstrelsy. The young fellow looked wistful as he heard it, then he\nfrowned heavily.\n\n\"Them thar Saunders men hev gone off an' left me,\" he said reproachfully\nto some one within the log cabin. \"Hyar I be kept a-choppin' wood an' a\npullin' fodder till they hev hed time ter git up a deer. It 'pears ter\nme ez I mought hev been let ter put off that thar work till I war\nthrough huntin'.\"\n\nHe was a tall young fellow, with a frank, freckled face and auburn hair;\nstalwart, too. Judging from his appearance, he could chop wood and pull\nfodder to some purpose.\n\nA heavy, middle-aged man emerged from the house, and stood regarding his\nson with grim disfavor. \"An' who oughter chop wood an' pull fodder but\nye, while my hand air sprained this way?\" he demanded.\n\nThat hand had been sprained for many a long day, but the boy made no\nreply; perhaps he knew its weight. He walked to the verge of the cliff,\nand gazed down at the tops of the trees in the valley far, far below.\n\nThe expanse of foliage was surging in the wind like the waves of the\nsea. From the unseen depths beneath there rose again the cry of the\npack, inexpressibly stirring, and replete with woodland suggestions. All\nthe echoes came out to meet it.\n\n\"I war promised ter go!\" cried Jack bitterly.\n\n\"Waal,\" said his mother, from within the house, \"'tain't no good nohow.\"\n\nHer voice was calculated to throw oil upon the troubled waters,--low,\nlanguid, and full of pacifying intonations. She was a tall, thin woman,\nclad in a blue-checked homespun dress, and seated before a great\nhand-loom, as a lady sits before a piano or an organ. The creak of the\ntreadle, and the thump, thump of the batten, punctuated, as it were, her\nconsolatory disquisition.\n\nHer son looked at her in great depression of spirit as she threw the\nshuttle back and forth with deft, practiced hands.\n\n\"Wild meat air a mighty savin',\" she continued, with a housewifely\nafterthought. \"I ain't denyin' that.\"\n\nThump, thump, went the batten.\n\n\"But ye needn't pester the life out'n yerself 'kase ye ain't a-runnin'\nthe deer along o' them Saunders men. It 'pears like a powerful waste o'\ntime, when ye kin take yer gun down ter the river enny evenin' late,\njes' ez the deer air goin' ter drink, an' shoot ez big a buck ez ye hev\ngot the grit ter git enny other way. Ye can't do nothin' with a buck but\neat him, an' a-runnin' him all around the mounting don't make him no\ntenderer, ter my mind. I don't see no sense in huntin' 'cept ter git\nsomethin' fitten ter eat.\"\n\nThis logic, enough to break a sportsman's heart, was not a panacea for\nthe tedium of the day, spent in the tame occupation of pulling fodder,\nas the process of stripping the blades from the standing cornstalks is\ncalled.\n\nBut when the shadows were growing long, Jack took his rifle and set out\nfor the profit and the pleasure of still-hunting. As he made his way\nthrough the dense woods, the metallic tones of a cow-bell jangled on the\nair,--melodious sound in the forest quiet, but it conjured up a scowl on\nthe face of the young mountaineer.\n\n\"Everything on this hyar mounting hev got the twistin's ter-day!\" he\nexclaimed wrath-fully. \"Hyar is our old red cow a-traipsing off ter Andy\nBailey's house, an' thar won't be a drap of milk for supper.\"\n\nThis was a serious matter, for in a region where coffee and tea are\nalmost unknown luxuries, and the evening meal consists of such\nthirst-provoking articles as broiled venison, corn-dodgers, and sorghum,\none is apt to feel the need of some liquid milder than \"apple-jack,\"\nand more toothsome than water, wherewith to wet one's whistle.\n\nIn common with everything else on the mountain, Jack, too, had the\n\"twistin's,\" and it was with a sour face that he began to drive the cow\nhomeward. After going some distance, however, he persuaded himself that\nshe would leave the beaten track no more until she reached the cabin. He\nturned about, therefore, and retraced his way to the stream.\n\nThere had been heavy rains in the mountains, and it was far out of its\nbanks, rushing and foaming over great rocks, circling in swift\nwhirlpools, plunging in smooth, glassy sheets down sudden descents, and\nmaddening thence in tumultuous, yeasty billows.\n\nAn old mill, long disused and fallen into decay, stood upon the brink.\nIt was a painful suggestion of collapsed energies, despite its\npicturesque drapery of vines. No human being could live there, but in\nthe doorway abruptly appeared a boy of seventeen, dressed, like Jack, in\nan old brown jeans suit and a shapeless white hat.\n\nJack paused at a little distance up on the hill, and parleyed in a\nstentorian voice with the boy in the mill.\n\n\"What's the reason ye air always tryin' ter toll off our old red muley\nfrom our house?\" he demanded angrily.\n\n\"I ain't never tried ter toll her off,\" said Andy Bailey. \"She jes' kem\nter our house herself. I dunno ez I hev got enny call ter look arter\nother folkses' stray cattle. Mind yer own cow.\"\n\n\"I hev got a mighty notion ter cut down that thar sapling,\"--and Jack\npointed to a good-sized hickory-tree,--\"an' wear it out on ye.\"\n\n\"I ain't afeard. Come on!\" said Andy impudently, protected by his\ninnocence, and the fact of being the smaller of the two.\n\nThere was a pause. \"Hev ye been a-huntin'?\" asked Jack, beginning to be\nmollified by the rare luxury of youthful and congenial companionship;\nfor this was a scantily settled region, and boys were few.\n\nAndy nodded assent.\n\nJack walked down into the rickety mill, and stood leaning against the\nrotten old hopper. \"What did ye git?\" he said, looking about for the\ngame.\n\n\"Waal,\" drawled Andy, with much hesitation, \"I hain't been started out\nlong.\" He turned from the door and faced his companion rather\nsheepishly.\n\n\"I hopes ye ain't been poppin' off that rifle o' your'n along that\ndeer-path down in the hollow, an' a-skeerin' off all the wild critters,\"\nsaid Jack Dunn, with sudden apprehension. \"Ef I war ez pore a shot ez ye\nair, I'd go a-huntin' with a bean-pole instead of a gun, an' leave the\ngame ter them that kin shoot it.\"\n\nAndy was of a mercurial and nervous temperament, and this fact perhaps\nmay account for the anomaly of a mountain-boy who was a poor shot. Andy\nwas the scoff of Persimmon Ridge.\n\n\"I hev seen many a gal who could shoot ez well ez ye kin,--better,\"\ncontinued Jack jeeringly. \"But law! I needn't kerry my heavy bones down\nthar in the hollow expectin' ter git a deer ter-day. They air all off in\nthe woods a-smellin' the powder ye hev been wastin'.\"\n\nAndy was pleased to change the subject. \"It 'pears ter me that that thar\nwater air a-scuttlin' along toler'ble fast,\" he said, turning his eyes\nto the little window through which the stream could be seen.\n\nIt _was_ running fast, and with a tremendous force. One could obtain\nsome idea of the speed and impetus of the current from the swift\nvehemence with which logs and branches shot past, half hidden in foam.\n\nThe water looked black with this white contrast. Here and there a great,\ngrim rock projected sharply above the surface. In the normal condition\nof the stream, these were its overhanging banks, but now, submerged,\nthey gave to its flow the character of rapids.\n\nThe old mill, its wooden supports submerged too, trembled and throbbed\nwith the throbbing water. As Jack looked toward the window, his eyes\nwere suddenly distended, his cheek paled, and he sprang to the door\nwith a frightened exclamation.\n\nToo late! the immense hole of a fallen tree, shooting down the channel\nwith the force and velocity of a great projectile, struck the tottering\nsupports of the crazy, rotting building.\n\nIt careened, and quivered in every fibre; there was a crash of falling\ntimbers, then a mighty wrench, and the two boys, clinging to the\nwindow-frame, were driving with the wreck down the river.\n\nThe old mill thundered against the submerged rocks, and at every\nconcussion the timbers fell. It whirled around and around in eddying\npools. Where the water was clear, and smooth, and deep, it shot along\nwith great rapidity.\n\nThe convulsively clinging boys looked down upon the black current, with\nits sharp, treacherous, half-seen rocks and ponderous driftwood. The\nwild idea of plunging into the tumult and trying to swim to the bank\nfaded as they looked. Here in the crazy building there might be a\nchance. In that frightful swirl there lurked only a grim certainty.\n\nThe house had swung along in the middle of the stream; now its course\nwas veering slightly to the left. This could be seen through the window\nand the interstices of the half-fallen timbers.\n\nThe boys were caged, as it were; the doorway was filled with the heavy\ndebris, and the only possibility of escape was through that little\nwindow. It was so small that only one could pass through at a\ntime,--only one could be saved.\n\nJack had seen the chance from far up the stream. There was a stretch of\nsmooth water close in to the bank, on which was a low-hanging\nbeech-tree,--he might catch the branches.\n\nThey were approaching the spot with great rapidity. Only one could go.\nHe himself had discovered the opportunity,--it was his own.\n\nLife was sweet,--so sweet! He could not give it up; he could not now\ntake thought for his friend. He could only hope with a frenzied\neagerness that Andy had not seen the possibility of deliverance.\n\nIn another moment Andy lifted himself into the window. A whirlpool\ncaught the wreck, and there it eddied in dizzying circles. It was not\nyet too late. Jack could tear the smaller, weaker fellow away with one\nstrong hand, and take the only chance for escape. The shattered mill was\ndashing through the smoother waters now; the great beech-tree was\nhanging over their heads; an inexplicable, overpowering impulse mastered\nin an instant Jack's temptation.\n\n\"Ketch the branches, Andy!\" he cried wildly.\n\nHis friend was gone, and he was whirling off alone on those cruel,\nfrantic waters. In the midst of the torrent he was going down, and down,\nand down the mountain.\n\nNow and then he had a fleeting glimpse of the distant ranges. There was\n\"Elijah's Step,\" glorified in the sunset, purple and splendid, with red\nand gold clouds flaming above it. To his untutored imagination they\nlooked like the fiery chariot again awaiting the prophet.\n\nThe familiar sight, the familiar, oft-repeated fancy, the recollection\nof his home, brought sudden tears to his eyes. He gazed wistfully at the\nspot whence he believed the man had ascended who left death untasted,\nand then he went on in this mad rush down to the bitterness of death.\n\nEven with this terrible fact before him, he did not reproach himself\nwith his costly generosity. It was strange to him that he did not regret\nit; perhaps, like that mountain, he had suddenly taken up life on a\nhigher level.\n\nThe sunset splendor was fading. The fiery chariot was gone, and in its\nplace were floating gray clouds,--the dust of its wheels, they seemed.\nThe outlines of \"Elijah's Step\" were dark. It looked sad, bereaved. Its\nglory had departed.\n\nSuddenly the whole landscape seemed full of reeling black shadows,--and\nyet it was not night. The roar of the torrent was growing faint upon\nhis ear, and yet its momentum was unchecked. Soon all was dark and all\nwas still, and the world slipped from his grasp.\n\n[Illustration: IN THE MIDST OF THE TORRENT]\n\n\"They tell me that thar Jack Dunn war mighty nigh drownded when them men\nfished him out'n the pond at Skeggs's sawmill down thar in the valley,\"\nsaid Andy Bailey, recounting the incident to the fireside circle at his\nown home. \"They seen them rotten old timbers come a-floatin' ez\npeaceable on to the pond, an' then they seen somethin' like a human\na-hangin' ter 'em. The water air ez still ez a floor thar, an' deep an'\nsmooth, an' they didn't hev no trouble in swimmin' out to him. They\ncouldn't bring him to, though, at fust. They said in a little more he\nwould hev been gone sure! Now\"--pridefully--\"ef he hed hed the grit ter\nketch a tree an' pull out, like I done, he wouldn't hev been in sech a\ndanger.\"\n\nAndy never knew the sacrifice his friend had made. Jack never told him.\nApplause is at best a slight thing. A great action is nobler than the\nmonument that commemorates it; and when a man gives himself into the\ncontrol of a generous impulse, thenceforward he takes up life on a\nhigher level.\n\n\n\n\nCHRISTMAS DAY ON OLD WINDY MOUNTAIN\n\n\nThe sun had barely shown the rim of his great red disk above the sombre\nwoods and snow-crowned crags of the opposite ridge, when Rick Herne, his\nrifle in his hand, stepped out of his father's log cabin, perched high\namong the precipices of Old Windy Mountain. He waited motionless for a\nmoment, and all the family trooped to the door to assist at the\ntime-honored ceremony of firing a salute to the day.\n\nSuddenly the whole landscape catches a rosy glow, Rick whips up his\nrifle, a jet of flame darts swiftly out, a sharp report rings all around\nthe world, and the sun goes grandly up--while the little tow-headed\nmountaineers hurrah shrilly for \"Chris'mus!\"\n\nAs he began to re-load his gun, the small boys clustered around him,\ntheir hands in the pockets of their baggy jeans trousers, their heads\ninquiringly askew.\n\n\"They air a-goin' ter hev a pea-fow_el_ fur dinner down yander ter\nBirk's Mill,\" Rick remarked.\n\nThe smallest boy smacked his lips,--not that he knew how pea-fowl\ntastes, but he imagined unutterable things.\n\n\"Somehows I hates fur ye ter go ter eat at Birk's Mill, they air sech a\nset o' drinkin' men down thar ter Malviny's house,\" said Rick's mother,\nas she stood in the doorway, and looked anxiously at him.\n\nFor his elder sister was Birk's wife, and to this great feast he was\ninvited as a representative of the family, his father being disabled by\n\"rheumatics,\" and his mother kept at home by the necessity of providing\ndinner for those four small boys.\n\n\"Hain't I done promised ye not ter tech a drap o' liquor this Chris'mus\nday?\" asked Rick.\n\n\"That's a fac',\" his mother admitted. \"But boys, an' men-folks\nginerally, air scandalous easy ter break a promise whar whiskey is in\nit.\"\n\n\"I'll hev ye ter know that when I gin my word, I keeps it!\" cried Rick\npridefully.\n\nHe little dreamed how that promise was to be assailed before the sun\nshould go down.\n\nHe was a tall, sinewy boy, deft of foot as all these mountaineers are,\nand a seven-mile walk in the snow to Birk's Mill he considered a mere\ntrifle. He tramped along cheerily enough through the silent solitudes of\nthe dense forest. Only at long intervals the stillness was broken by the\ncracking of a bough under the weight of snow, or the whistling of a gust\nof wind through the narrow valley far below.\n\nAll at once--it was a terrible shock of surprise--he was sinking! Was\nthere nothing beneath his feet but the vague depths of air to the base\nof the mountain? He realized with a quiver of dismay that he had\nmistaken a huge drift-filled fissure, between a jutting crag and the\nwall of the ridge, for the solid, snow-covered ground. He tossed his\narms about wildly in his effort to grasp something firm. The motion only\ndislodged the drift. He felt that it was falling, and he was going\ndown--down--down with it. He saw the trees on the summit of Old Windy\ndisappear. He caught one glimpse of the neighboring ridges. Then he was\nblinded and enveloped in this cruel whiteness. He had a wild idea that\nhe had been delivered to it forever; even in the first thaw it would\ncurl up into a wreath of vapor, and rise from the mountain's side, and\ntake him soaring with it--whither? How they would search these bleak\nwintry fastnesses for him,--while he was gone sailing with the mist!\nWhat would they say at home and at Birk's Mill? One last thought of the\n\"pea-fow_el_,\" and he seemed to slide swiftly away from the world with\nthe snow.\n\nHe was unconscious probably only for a few minutes. When he came to\nhimself, he found that he was lying, half-submerged in the great drift,\non the slope of the mountain, and the dark, icicle-begirt cliff towered\nhigh above. He stretched his limbs--no bones broken! He could hardly\nbelieve that he had fallen unhurt from those heights. He did not\nappreciate how gradually the snow had slidden down. Being so densely\npacked, too, it had buoyed him up, and kept him from dashing against the\nsharp, jagged edges of the rock. He had lost consciousness in the jar\nwhen the moving mass was abruptly arrested by a transverse elevation of\nthe ground. He was still a little dizzy and faint, but otherwise\nuninjured.\n\nNow a great perplexity took hold on him. How was he to make his way back\nup the mountain, he asked himself, as he looked at the inaccessible\ncliffs looming high into the air. All the world around him was\nunfamiliar. Even his wide wanderings had never brought him into this\nvast, snowy, trackless wilderness, that stretched out on every side. He\nwould be half the day in finding the valley road that led to Birk's\nMill. He rose to his feet, and gazed about him in painful indecision.\nThe next moment a thrill shot through him, to which he was\nunaccustomed. He had never before shaken except with the cold,--but this\nwas fear.\n\nFor he heard voices! Not from the cliffs above,--but from below! Not\nfrom the dense growth of young pines on the slope of the mountain,--but\nfrom the depths of the earth beneath! He stood motionless, listening\nintently, his eyes distended, and his heart beating fast.\n\nAll silence! Not even the wind stirred in the pine thicket. The snow lay\nheavy among the dark green branches, and every slender needle was\nencased in ice. Rick rubbed his eyes. It was no dream. There was the\nthicket; but whose were the voices that had rung out faintly from\nbeneath it?\n\nA crowd of superstitions surged upon him. He cast an affrighted glance\nat the ghastly snow-covered woods and sheeted earth. He was remembering\nfireside legends, horrible enough to raise the hair on a sophisticated,\neducated boy's head; much more horrible, then, to a young backwoodsman\nlike Rick. On this, the most benign day that ever dawns upon the world,\nwas he led into these endless wastes of forest to be terrified by the\n\"harnts\"?\n\nSuddenly those voices from the earth again! One was singing a drunken\ncatch,--it broke into falsetto, and ended with an unmistakable hiccup.\n\nRick's blood came back with a rush.\n\n\"I hev never hearn tell o' the hoobies gittin' boozy!\" he said with a\nlaugh. \"That's whar they hev got the upper-hand o' humans.\"\n\nAs he gazed again at the thicket, he saw now something that he had been\ntoo much agitated to observe before,--a column of dense smoke that rose\nfrom far down the declivity, and seemed to make haste to hide itself\namong the low-hanging boughs of a clump of fir-trees.\n\n\"It's somebody's house down thar,\" was Rick's conclusion. \"I kin find\nout the way to Birk's Mill from the folkses.\"\n\nWhen he neared the smoke, he paused abruptly, staring once more.\n\nThere was no house! The smoke rose from among low pine bushes. Above\nwere the snow-laden branches of the fir.\n\n\"Ef thar war a house hyar, I reckon I could see it!\" said Rick\ndoubtfully, infinitely mystified.\n\nThere was a continual drip, drip of moisture all around. Yet a thaw had\nnot set in. Rick looked up at the gigantic icicles that hung to the\ncrags and glittered in the sun,--not a drop trickled from them. But this\nfir-tree was dripping, dripping, and the snow had melted away from the\nnearest pine bushes that clustered about the smoke. There was heat below\ncertainly, a strong heat, and somebody was keeping the fire up steadily.\n\n\"An' air it folkses ez live underground like foxes an' sech!\" Rick\nexclaimed, astonished, as he came upon a large, irregularly shaped rift\nin the rocks, and heard the same reeling voice from within, beginning to\nsing once more. But for this bacchanalian melody, the noise of Rick's\nentrance might have given notice of his approach. As it was, the\ninhabitants of this strange place were even more surprised than he,\nwhen, after groping through a dark, low passage, an abrupt turn brought\nhim into a lofty, vaulted subterranean apartment. There was a great\nflare of light, which revealed six or seven muscular men grouped about a\nlarge copper vessel built into a rude stone furnace, and all the air was\npervaded by an incomparably strong alcoholic odor. The boy started back\nwith a look of terror. That pale terror was reflected on each man's\nface, as on a mirror. At the sight of the young stranger they all sprang\nup with the same gesture,--each instinctively laid his hand upon the\npistol that he wore.\n\nPoor Rick understood it all at last. He had stumbled upon a nest of\ndistillers, only too common among these mountains, who were hiding from\nthe officers of the Government, running their still in defiance of the\nlaw and eluding the whiskey-tax. He realized that in discovering their\nstronghold he had learned a secret that was by no means a safe one for\nhim to know. And he was in their power; at their mercy!\n\n\"Don't shoot!\" he faltered. \"I jes' want ter ax the folkses ter tell me\nthe way ter Birk's Mill.\"\n\nWhat would he have given to be on the bleak mountain outside!\n\nOne of the men caught him as if anticipating an attempt to run. Two or\nthree, after a low-toned colloquy, took their rifles, and crept\ncautiously outside to reconnoitre the situation. Rick comprehended their\nsuspicion with new quakings. They imagined that he was a spy, and had\nbeen sent among them to discover them plying their forbidden vocation.\nThis threatened a long imprisonment for them. His heart sank as he\nthought of it; they would never let him go.\n\nAfter a time the reconnoitring party came back.\n\n\"Nothin' stirrin',\" said the leader tersely.\n\n\"I misdoubts,\" muttered another, casting a look of deep suspicion on\nRick. \"Thar air men out thar, I'm a-thinkin', hid somewhar.\"\n\n\"They air furder 'n a mile off, ennyhow,\" returned the first speaker.\n\"We never lef' so much ez a bush 'thout sarchin' of it.\"\n\n\"The off'cers can't find this place no-ways 'thout that thar chap fur a\nguide,\" said a third, with a surly nod of his head at Rick.\n\n\"We're safe enough, boys, safe enough!\" cried a stout-built, red-faced,\nred-bearded man, evidently very drunk, and with a voice that rose into\nquavering falsetto as he spoke. \"This chap can't do nothin'. We hev got\nhim bound hand an' foot. Hyar air the captive of our bow an' spear,\nboys! Mighty little captive, though! hi!\" He tried to point jeeringly at\nRick, and forgot what he had intended to do before he could fairly\nextend his hand. Then his rollicking head sank on his breast, and he\nbegan to sing sleepily again.\n\nOne of the more sober of the men had extinguished the fire in order that\nthey should not be betrayed by the smoke outside to the revenue officers\nwho might be seeking them. The place, chilly enough at best, was growing\nbitter cold. The strange subterranean beauty of the surroundings, the\nlimestone wall and arches, scintillating wherever they caught the\nlight; the shadowy, mysterious vaulted roof; the white stalactites that\nhung down thence to touch the stalagmites as they rose up from the\nfloor, and formed with them endless vistas of stately colonnades, all\nwere oddly incongruous with the drunken, bloated faces of the\ndistillers. Rick could not have put his thought into words, but it\nseemed to him that when men had degraded themselves like this, even\ninanimate nature is something higher and nobler. \"Sermons in stones\"\nwere not far to seek.\n\nHe observed that they were making preparations for flight, and once more\nthe fear of what they would do with him clutched at his heart. He was\nsomething of a problem to them.\n\n\"This hyar cub will go blab,\" was the first suggestion.\n\n\"He will keep mum,\" said the vocalist, glancing at the boy with a\njovially tipsy combination of leer and wink. \"Hyar is the persuader!\" He\nrapped sharply on the muzzle of his pistol. \"This'll scotch his wheel.\"\n\n\"Hold yer own jaw, ye drunken 'possum!\" retorted another of the group.\n\"Ef ye fire off that pistol in hyar, we'll hev all these hyar rocks\"--he\npointed at the walls and the long colonnades--\"answerin' back an'\nyelpin' like a pack o' hounds on a hot scent. Ef thar air folks outside,\nthe noise would fotch 'em down on us fur true!\"\n\nRick breathed more freely. The rocks would speak up for him! He could\nnot be harmed with all these tell-tale witnesses at hand. So silent now,\nbut with a latent voice strong enough for the dread of it to save his\nlife!\n\nThe man who had put out the fire, who had led the reconnoitring party,\nwho had made all the active preparations for departure, who seemed, in\nshort, to be an executive committee of one,--a long, lazy-looking\nmountaineer, with a decision of action in startling contrast to his\nwhole aspect,--now took this matter in hand.\n\n\"Nothin' easier,\" he said tersely. \"Fill him up. Make him ez drunk ez a\nfraish b'iled ow_el_. Then lead him to the t'other eend o' the cave,\nan' blindfold him, an' lug him off five mile in the woods, an' leave him\nthar. He'll never know what he hev seen nor done.\"\n\n\"That's the dinctum!\" cried the red-bearded man, in delighted approval,\nbreaking into a wild, hiccupping laugh, inexpressibly odious to the boy.\nRick had an extreme loathing for them all that showed itself with\nimpolitic frankness upon his face. He realized as he had never done\nbefore the depths to which strong drink will reduce men. But that the\nvery rocks would cry out upon them, they would have murdered him.\n\nIn the preparations for departure all the lights had been extinguished,\nexcept a single lantern, and a multitude of shadows had come thronging\nfrom the deeper recesses of the cave. In the faint glimmer the figures\nof the men loomed up, indistinct, gigantic, distorted. They hardly\nseemed men at all to Rick; rather some evil underground creatures,\nneither beast nor human.\n\nAnd he was to be made equally besotted, and even more helpless than\nthey, in order that his senses might be sapped away, and he should\nremember no story to tell. Perhaps if he had not had before him so vivid\nan illustration of the malign power that swayed them, he might not have\nexperienced so strong an aversion to it. Now, to be made like them\nseemed a high price to pay for his life. And there was his promise to\nhis mother! As the long, lank, lazy-looking mountaineer pressed the\nwhiskey upon him, Rick dashed it aside with a gesture so unexpected and\nvehement that the cracked jug fell to the floor, and was shivered to\nfragments.\n\nRick lifted an appealing face to the man, who seized him with a strong\ngrip. \"I can't--I won't,\" the boy cried wildly. \"I--I--promised my\nmother!\"\n\nHe looked around the circle deprecatingly. He expected first a guffaw\nand then a blow, and he dreaded the ridicule more than the pain.\n\nBut there were neither blows nor ridicule. They all gazed at him,\nastounded. Then a change, which Rick hardly comprehended, flitted across\nthe face of the man who had grasped him. The moonshiner turned away\nabruptly, with a bitter laugh that startled all the echoes.\n\n\"_I--I_ promised _my_ mother, too!\" he cried. \"It air good that in her\ngrave whar she is she can't know how I hev kep' my word.\"\n\nAnd then there was a sudden silence. It seemed to Rick, strangely\nenough, like the sudden silence that comes after prayer. He was\nreminded, as one of the men rose at length and the keg on which he had\nbeen sitting creaked with the motion, of the creaking benches in the\nlittle mountain church when the congregation started from their knees.\nAnd had some feeble, groping sinner's prayer filled the silence and the\nmoral darkness!\n\nThe \"executive committee\" promptly recovered himself. But he made no\nfurther attempt to force the whiskey upon the boy. Under some whispered\ninstructions which he gave the others, Rick was half-led, half-dragged\nthrough immensely long black halls of the cave, while one of the men\nwent before, carrying the feeble lantern. When the first glimmer of\ndaylight appeared in the distance, Rick understood that the cave had an\noutlet other than the one by which he had entered, and evidently miles\ndistant from it. Thus it was that the distillers were well enabled to\nbaffle the law that sought them.\n\nThey stopped here and blindfolded the boy. How far and where they\ndragged him through the snowy mountain wilderness outside, Rick never\nknew. He was exhausted when at length they allowed him to pause. As he\nheard their steps dying away in the distance, he tore the bandage from\nhis eyes, and found that they had left him in the midst of the wagon\nroad to make his way to Birk's Mill as best he might. When he reached\nit, the wintry sun was low in the western sky, and the very bones of the\n\"pea-fow_el_\" were picked.\n\nOn the whole, it seemed a sorry Christmas Day, as Rick could not know\nthen--indeed, he never knew--what good results it brought forth. For\namong those who took the benefit of the \"amnesty\" extended by the\nGovernment to the moonshiners of this region, on condition that they\ndiscontinue illicit distilling for the future, was a certain long, lank,\nlazy-looking mountaineer, who suddenly became sober and steady and a\nlaw-abiding citizen. He had been reminded, this Christmas Day, of a\nbroken promise to a dead mother, and this by the unflinching moral\ncourage of a mere boy in a moment of mortal peril. Such wise, sweet,\nuncovenanted uses has duty, blessing alike the unconscious exemplar and\nhim who profits by the example.\n\n\nThe Riverside Press\n\nCAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS, U. S. A.\nELECTROTYPED AND PRINTED BY\nH. O. HOUGHTON AND CO.","title":"The Young Mountaineers: Short Stories","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":43922}