'Hell fer Sartain'

and

Other Stories

by

JOHN FOX, JR. 

 TO MY BROTHER JAMES

AUTHOR'S NOTE

CONTENTS

 ON HELL-FER-SARTAIN CREEK THROUGH THE GAP A TRICK O' TRADE GRAYSON'S BABY COURTIN' ON CUTSHIN THE MESSAGE IN THE SAND THE SENATOR'S LAST TRADE PREACHIN' ON KINGDOM-COME THE PASSING OF ABRAHAM SHIVERS A PURPLE RHODODENDRON

ON HELL-FER-SARTAIN CREEK

Thar was a dancin'-party Christmas night on "Hell fer Sartain. " Jestu'n up the fust crick beyond the bend thar, an' climb onto a stump, an' holler about ONCE, an' you'll see how the name come. Stranger, hit's HELL fer sartain! Well, Rich Harp was thar from the head-waters, an' Harve Hall toted Nance Osborn clean across the Cumberlan'. Fustone ud swing Nance, an' then t'other. Then they'd take a pull out'nthe same bottle o' moonshine, an'--fust one an' then t'other--they'dswing her agin. An' Abe Shivers a-settin' thar by the fire a-bitin'his thumbs!

Well, things was sorter whoopin', when somebody ups an' tells Harvethat Rich had said somep'n' agin Nance an' him, an' somebody ups an'tells Rich that Harve had said somep'n' agin Nance an' HIM. In aminute, stranger, hit was like two wild-cats in thar. Folks got 'emparted, though, but thar was no more a-swingin' of Nance that night. Harve toted her back over the Cumberlan', an' Rich's kinsfolks tuk himup "Hell fer Sartain"; but Rich got loose, an' lit out lickety-splitfer Nance Osborn's. He knowed Harve lived too fer over Black Mountainto go home that night, an' he rid right across the river an' up toNance's house, an' hollered fer Harve. Harve poked his head out'n theloft--he knowed whut was wanted--an' Harve says, "Uh, come in hyeh an'go to bed. Hit's too late!" An' Rich seed him a-gapin' like a chicken, an' in he walked, stumblin' might' nigh agin the bed whar Nance wasa-layin', listenin' an' not sayin' a word. 

Stranger, them two fellers slept together plum frien'ly, an' they ettogether plum frien'ly next mornin', an' they sa'ntered down to thegrocery plum frien'ly. An' Rich says, "Harve, " says he, "let's have adrink. " "All right, Rich, " says Harve. An' Rich says, "Harve, " sayshe, "you go out'n that door an' I'll go out'n this door. " "All right, Rich, " says Harve, an' out they walked, steady, an' thar was two shootsshot, an' Rich an' Harve both drapped, an' in ten minutes they wasstretched out on Nance's bed an' Nance was a-lopin' away fer the yarbdoctor. 

The gal nussed 'em both plum faithful. Rich didn't hev much to say, an' Harve didn't hev much to say. Nance was sorter quiet, an' Nance'smammy, ole Nance, jes grinned. Folks come in to ax atter 'em rightpeart. Abe Shivers come cl'ar 'cross the river--powerful frien'ly--an'ever' time Nance ud walk out to the fence with him. One time shedidn't come back, an' ole Nance fotched the boys thar dinner, an' oleNance fotched thar supper, an' then Rich he axed whut was the matterwith young Nance. An' ole Nance jes snorted. Atter a while Rich says:"Harve, " says he, "who tol' you that I said that word agin you an'Nance?" "Abe Shivers, " says Harve. "An' who tol' you, " says Harve, "that I said that word agin Nance an' YOU?" "Abe Shivers, " says Rich. An' both says, "Well, damn me!" An' Rich tu'ned right over an' begunpullin' straws out'n the bed. He got two out, an' he bit one off, an'he says: "Harve, " says he, "I reckon we better draw fer him. Theshortes' gits him. " An' they drawed. Well, nobody ever knowed whichgot the shortes' straw, stranger, but--

Thar'll be a dancin'-party comin' Christmas night on "Hell ferSartain. " Rich Harp 'll be thar from the head-waters. Harve Hall'sa-goin' to tote the Widder Shivers clean across the Cumberlan'. Fustone 'll swing Nance, an' then t'other. Then they'll take a pull out'nthe same bottle o' moonshine, an'--fust one an' then t'other--they'llswing her agin, jes the same. ABE won't be thar. He's a-settin' by abigger fire, I reckon (ef he ain't in it), a-bitin' his thumbs!

THROUGH THE GAP

When thistles go adrift, the sun sets down the valley between thehills; when snow comes, it goes down behind the Cumberland and streamsthrough a great fissure that people call the Gap. Then the last lightdrenches the parson's cottage under Imboden Hill, and leaves anafter-glow of glory on a majestic heap that lies against the east. Sometimes it spans the Gap with a rainbow. 

Strange people and strange tales come through this Gap from theKentucky hills. Through it came these two, late one day--a man and awoman--afoot. I met them at the foot-bridge over Roaring Fork. 

"Is thar a preacher anywhar aroun' hyeh?" he asked. I pointed to thecottage under Imboden Hill. The girl flushed slightly and turned herhead away with a rather unhappy smile. Without a word, the mountaineerled the way towards town. A moment more and a half-breed Malungianpassed me on the bridge and followed them. 

At dusk the next day I saw the mountaineer chopping wood at a shantyunder a clump of rhododendron on the river-bank. The girl was cookingsupper inside. The day following he was at work on the railroad, andon Sunday, after church, I saw the parson. The two had not been tohim. Only that afternoon the mountaineer was on the bridge withanother woman, hideously rouged and with scarlet ribbons flutteringfrom her bonnet. Passing on by the shanty, I saw the Malungian talkingto the girl. She apparently paid no heed to him until, just as he wasmoving away, he said something mockingly, and with a nod of his headback towards the bridge. She did not look up even then, but her facegot hard and white, and, looking back from the road, I saw her slippingthrough the bushes into the dry bed of the creek, to make sure thatwhat the half-breed told her was true. 

The two men were working side by side on the railroad when I saw themagain, but on the first pay-day the doctor was called to attend theMalungian, whose head was split open with a shovel. I was one of twowho went out to arrest his assailant, and I had no need to ask who hewas. The mountaineer was a devil, the foreman said, and I had to clubhim with a pistol-butt before he would give in. He said he would geteven with me; but they all say that, and I paid no attention to thethreat. For a week he was kept in the calaboose, and when I passed theshanty just after he was sent to the county-seat for trial, I found itempty. The Malungian, too, was gone. Within a fortnight themountaineer was in the door of the shanty again. Having no accuser, hehad been discharged. He went back to his work, and if he opened hislips I never knew. Every day I saw him at work, and he never failed togive me a surly look. Every dusk I saw him in his door-way, waiting, and I could guess for what. It was easy to believe that the sternpurpose in his face would make its way through space and draw her tohim again. And she did come back one day. I had just limped down themountain with a sprained ankle. A crowd of women was gathered at theedge of the woods, looking with all their eyes to the shanty on theriver-bank. The girl stood in the door-way. The mountaineer wascoming back from work with his face down. 

"He hain't seed her yit, " said one. "He's goin' to kill her shore. Itol' her he would. She said she reckoned he would, but she didn'tkeer. "

For a moment I was paralyzed by the tragedy at hand. She was in thedoor looking at him when he raised his head. For one moment he stoodstill, staring, and then he started towards her with a quickened step. I started too, then, every step a torture, and as I limped ahead shemade a gesture of terror and backed into the room before him. The doorclosed, and I listened for a pistol-shot and a scream. It must havebeen done with a knife, I thought, and quietly, for when I was withinten paces of the cabin he opened the door again. His face was verywhite; he held one hand behind him, and he was nervously fumbling athis chill with the other. As he stepped towards me I caught the handleof a pistol in my side pocket and waited. He looked at me sharply. 

"Did you say the preacher lived up thar?" he asked. 

"Yes, " I said, breathlessly. 

In the door-way just then stood the girl with a bonnet in her hand, andat a nod from him they started up the hill towards the cottage. Theycame down again after a while, he stalking ahead, and she, after themountain fashion, behind. And after this fashion I saw them at sunsetnext day pass over the bridge and into the mouth of the Gap whence theycame. Through this Gap come strange people and strange tales from theKentucky hills. Over it, sometimes, is the span of a rainbow. 

A TRICK O' TRADE

Stranger, I'm a separATE man, an' I don't inQUIZite into no man'sbusiness; but you ax me straight, an' I tell ye straight: You watchole Tom!

Now, I'll take ole Tom Perkins' word agin anybody's 'ceptin' when hitcomes to a hoss trade ur a piece o' land. Fer in the tricks o' sech, ole Tom 'lows--well, hit's diff'ent; an' I reckon, stranger, as how hitsorter is. He was a-stayin' at Tom's house, the furriner was, a-dickerin' fer a piece o' lan'--the same piece, mebbe, that you'reatter now--an' Tom keeps him thar fer a week to beat him out'n adollar, an' then won't let him pay nary a cent fer his boa'd. Now, stranger, that's Tom. 

Well, Abe Shivers was a-workin' fer Tom--you've heerd tell o' Abe--an'the furriner wasn't more'n half gone afore Tom seed that Abe was up tosome of his devilMINT. Abe kin hatch up more devilMINT in a minit thanSatan hisself kin in a week; so Tom jes got Abe out'n the stable undera hoe-handle, an' tol' him to tell the whole thing straight ur he'dhave to go to glory right thar. An' Abe tol'!

'Pears like Abe had foun' a streak o' iron ore on the lan', an' hadracked his jinny right down to Hazlan an' tol' the furriner, who wasthar a-buyin' wild lands right an' left. Co'se, Abe was goin' to makethe furriner whack up fer gittin' the lan' so cheap. Well, brother, the furriner come up to Tom's an' got Tom into one o' them new-fangledtrades whut the furriners calls a option--t'other feller kin git out'nhit, but you can't. The furriner 'lowed he'd send his podner up tharnext day to put the thing in writin' an' close up the trade. Hitlooked like ole Tom was ketched fer shore, an' ef Tom didn't ra'r, I'dtell a man. He jes let that hoe-handle drap on Abe fer 'bout haffenhour, jes to give him time to study, an' next day thar was ole Toma-settin' on his orchard fence a-lookin' mighty unknowin', when thefurriner's podner come a-prancin' up an' axed ef old Tom Perkins livedthar. 

Ole Tom jes whispers. 

Now, I clean fergot to tell ye, stranger, that Abe Shivers nuver couldtalk out loud. He tol' so many lies that the Lawd--jes to make thingseven--sorter fixed Abe, I reckon, so he couldn't lie on more'n one sideo' the river at a time. Ole Tom jes knowed t'other furriner had tol'this un 'bout Abe, an, ' shore 'nough, the feller says, sorter soft, says he:

"Aw, you air the feller whut foun' the ore?"

Ole Tom--makin' like he was Abe, mind ye--jes whispers: "Thar hain'tnone thar. "

Stranger, the feller mos' fell off'n his hoss. "Whut?" says he. OleTom kep' a-whisperin': "Thar hain't no coal--no nothing; ole TomPerkins made me tell t'other furriner them lies. "

Well, sir, the feller WAS mad. "Jes whut I tol' that fool podner ofmine, " he says, an' he pull out a dollar an' gives hit to Tom. Tom jessticks out his han' with his thum' turned in jes so, an' the furrinersays, "Well, ef you can't talk, you kin make purty damn good signs";but he forks over four mo' dollars (he 'lowed ole Tom had saved him apile o' money), an' turns his hoss an' pulls up agin. He was a-gittin'the land so durned cheap that I reckon he jes hated to let hit go, an'he says, says he: "Well, hain't the groun' rich? Won't hit raise notabaccy nur corn nur nothin'?"

Ole Tom jes whispers:

"To tell you the p'int-blank truth, stranger, that land's so durnedpore that I hain't nuver been able to raise my voice. "

Now, brother, I'm a separATE man, an' I don't inQUIZite into no man'sbusiness--but you ax me straight an' I tell ye straight. Ole TomPerkins kin trade with furriners, fer he have l'arned their ways. Youwatch ole Tom!

GRAYSON'S BABY

The first snow sifted in through the Gap that night, and in a "shack"of one room and a low loft a man was dead, a woman was sick to death, and four children were barely alive; and nobody even knew. For theywere hill people, who sicken, suffer, and sometimes die, like animals, and make no noise. 

Grayson, the Virginian, coming down from the woods that morning, sawthe big-hearted little doctor outside the door of the shack, walking upand down, with his hands in his pockets. He was whistling softly whenGrayson got near, and, without stopping, pointed with his thumb within. The oldest boy sat stolidly on the one chair in the room, his littlebrother was on the floor hard by, and both were hugging a greasy stove. The little girl was with her mother in the bed, both almost out ofsight under a heap of quilts. The baby was in a cradle, with its faceuncovered, whether dead or asleep Grayson could not tell. A pinecoffin was behind the door. It would not have been possible to add tothe disorder of the room, and the atmosphere made Grayson gasp. Hecame out looking white. The first man to arrive thereafter took awaythe eldest boy, a woman picked the baby girl from the bed, and achildless young couple took up the pallid little fellow on the floor. These were step-children. The baby boy that was left was the woman'sown. Nobody came for that, and Grayson went in again and looked at ita long while. So little, so old a human face he had never seen. Thebrow was wrinkled as with centuries of pain, and the little drawn mouthlooked as though the spirit within had fought its inheritance without amurmur, and would fight on that way to the end. It was the pluck ofthe face that drew Grayson. "I'll take it, " he said. The doctor wasnot without his sense of humor even then, but he nodded. "Cradle andall, " he said, gravely. And Grayson put both on one shoulder andwalked away. He had lost the power of giving further surprise in thattown, and had he met every man he knew, not one of them would have feltat liberty to ask him what he was doing. An hour later the doctorfound the child in Grayson's room, and Grayson still looking at it. 

"Is it going to live, doctor?"

The doctor shook his head. "Doubtful. Look at the color. It'sstarved. There's nothing to do but to watch it and feed it. You cando that. "

So Grayson watched it, with a fascination of which he was hardlyconscious. Never for one instant did its look change--the quiet, unyielding endurance that no faith and no philosophy could ever bringto him. It was ideal courage, that look, to accept the inevitable butto fight it just that way. Half the little mountain town was talkingnext day--that such a tragedy was possible by the public road-side, with relief within sound of the baby's cry. The oldest boy was leaststarved. Might made right in an extremity like his, and the boy hadtaken care of himself. The young couple who had the second lad incharge said they had been wakened at daylight the next morning by somenoise in the room. Looking up, they saw the little fellow at thefireplace breaking an egg. He had built a fire, had got eggs from thekitchen, and was cooking his breakfast. The little girl wasmischievous and cheery in spite of her bad plight, and nobody knew ofthe baby except Grayson and the doctor. Grayson would let nobody elsein. As soon as it was well enough to be peevish and to cry, he took itback to its mother, who was still abed. A long, dark mountaineer wasthere, of whom the woman seemed half afraid. He followed Graysonoutside. 

"Say, podner, " he said, with an unpleasant smile, "ye don't go up toCracker's Neck fer nothin', do ye?"

The woman had lived at Cracker's Neck before she appeared at the Gap, and it did not come to Grayson what the man meant until he was half-wayto his room. Then he flushed hot and wheeled back to the cabin, butthe mountaineer was gone. 

"Tell that fellow he had better keep out of my way, " he said to thewoman, who understood, and wanted to say something, but not knowinghow, nodded simply. In a few days the other children went back to thecabin, and day and night Grayson went to see the child, until it wasout of danger, and afterwards. It was not long before the women intown complained that the mother was ungrateful. When they sent thingsto eat to her the servant brought back word that she had called out, "'Set them over thar, ' without so much as a thanky. " One message wasthat "she didn' want no second-hand victuals from nobody's table. "Somebody suggested sending the family to the poor-house. The mothersaid "she'd go out on her crutches and hoe corn fust, and that thepeople who talked 'bout sendin' her to the po'-house had better savetheir breath to make prayers with. " One day she was hired to do somewashing. The mistress of the house happened not to rise until teno'clock. Next morning the mountain woman did not appear until thathour. "She wasn't goin' to work a lick while that woman was a-layin'in bed, " she said, frankly. And when the lady went down town, she toodisappeared. Nor would she, she explained to Grayson, "while thatwoman was a-struttin' the streets. "

After that, one by one, they let her alone, and the woman made not aword of complaint. Within a week she was working in the fields, whenshe should have been back in bed. The result was that the childsickened again. The old look came back to its face, and Grayson wasthere night and day. He was having trouble out in Kentucky about thistime, and he went to the Blue Grass pretty often. Always, however, heleft money with me to see that the child was properly buried if itshould die while he was gone; and once he telegraphed to ask how itwas. He said he was sometimes afraid to open my letters for fear thathe should read that the baby was dead. The child knew Grayson's voice, his step. It would go to him from its own mother. When it was sickestand lying torpid it would move the instant he stepped into the room, and, when he spoke, would hold out its thin arms, without opening itseyes, and for hours Grayson would walk the floor with the troubledlittle baby over his shoulder. I thought several times it would diewhen, on one trip, Grayson was away for two weeks. One midnight, indeed, I found the mother moaning, and three female harpies about thecradle. The baby was dying this time, and I ran back for a flask ofwhiskey. Ten minutes late with the whiskey that night would have beentoo late. The baby got to know me and my voice during that fortnight, but it was still in danger when Grayson got back, and we went to see ittogether. It was very weak, and we both leaned over the cradle, fromeither side, and I saw the pity and affection--yes, hungry, half-shamedaffection--in Grayson's face. The child opened its eyes, looked fromone to the other, and held out its arms to ME. Grayson should haveknown that the child forgot--that it would forget its own mother. Heturned sharply, and his face was a little pale. He gave something tothe woman, and not till then did I notice that her soft black eyesnever left him while he was in the cabin. The child got well; butGrayson never went to the shack again, and he said nothing when I camein one night and told him that some mountaineer--a long, darkfellow-had taken the woman, the children, and the household gods of theshack back into the mountains. 

"They don't grieve long, " I said, "these people. "

But long afterwards I saw the woman again along the dusty road thatleads into the Gap. She had heard over in the mountains that Graysonwas dead, and had walked for two days to learn if it was true. Ipointed back towards Bee Rock, and told her that he had fallen from acliff back there. She did not move, nor did her look change. Moreover, she said nothing, and, being in a hurry, I had to ride on. 

At the foot-bridge over Roaring Fork I looked back. The woman wasstill there, under the hot mid-day sun and in the dust of the road, motionless. 

COURTIN' ON CUTSHIN

Hit was this way, stranger. When hit comes to handlin' a right peertgal, Jeb Somers air about the porest man on Fryin' Pan, I reckon; an'Polly Ann Sturgill have got the vineg'rest tongue on Cutshin or anyother crick. 

So the boys over on Fryin' Pan made it up to git 'em together. AbeShivers--you've heerd tell o' Abe--tol' Jeb that Polly Ann had seed himin Hazlan (which she hadn't, of co'se), an' had said p'int-blank thathe was the likeliest feller she'd seed in them mountains. An' he tol'Polly Ann that Jeb was ravin' crazy 'bout her. The pure misery of itjes made him plumb delirious, Abe said; an' 'f Polly Ann wanted to findher match fer languige an' talkin' out peert--well, she jes ought tostrike Jeb Somers. Fact is, stranger, Jeb Somers air might' nigh aidgit; but Jeb 'lowed he'd rack right over on Cutshin an' set up withPolly Ann Sturgill; an' Abe tells Polly Ann the king bee air comin'. An' Polly Ann's cousin, Nance Osborn, comes over from Hell fer Sartain(whut runs into Kingdom-Come) to stay all night an' see the fun. 

Now, I hain't been a-raftin' logs down to the settlemints o' Kaintuckfer nigh on to twenty year fer nothin', An' I know gallivantin' isdiff'ent with us mountain fellers an' you furriners, in the premises, anyways, as them lawyers up to court says; though I reckon hit's purtymuch the same atter the premises is over. Whar you says "courtin', "now, we says "talkin' to. " Sallie Spurlock over on Fryin' Pan isa-talkin' to Jim Howard now. Sallie's sister hain't nuver talked to noman. An' whar you says "makin' a call on a young lady, " we says"settin' up with a gal"! An', stranger, we does it. We hain't gotmore'n one room hardly ever in these mountains, an' we're jes obleegedto set up to do any courtin' at all. 

Well, you go over to Sallie's to stay all night some time, an' purtysoon atter supper Jim Howard comes in. The ole man an' the ole womangoes to bed, an' the chil'un an' you go to bed, an' ef you keeps oneeye open you'll see Jim's cheer an' Sallie's cheer a-movin' purty soon, till they gets plumb together. Then, stranger, hit begins. Now I wantye to understand that settin' up means business. We don't 'low nofoolishness in these mountains; an' 'f two fellers happens to meet atthe same house, they jes makes the gal say which one she likes best, an' t'other one gits! Well, you'll see Jim put his arm 'round Sallie'sneck an' whisper a long while--jes so. Mebbe you've noticed whutfellers us mountain folks air fer whisperin'. You've seed fellersa-whisperin' all over Hazlan on court day, hain't ye? Ole Tom Perkins'll put his arm aroun' yo' neck an' whisper in yo' year ef he's tenmile out'n the woods. I reckon thar's jes so much devilmint a-goin' onin these mountains, folks is naturely afeerd to talk out loud. 

Well, Jim let's go an' Sallie puts her arm aroun' Jim's neck an'whispers a long while--jes so; an' 'f you happen to wake up anywhar totwo o'clock in the mornin' you'll see jes that a-goin' on. Brother, that's settin' up. 

Well, Jeb Somers, as I was a-sayin' in the premises, 'lowed he'd rackright over on Cutshin an' set up with Polly Ann comin' Christmas night. An' Abe tells Polly Ann Jeb says he aims to have her fer a Christmasgift afore mornin'. Polly Ann jes sniffed sorter, but you know womenfolks air always mighty ambitious jes to SEE a feller anyways, 'f he'sa-pinin' fer 'em. So Jeb come, an' Jeb was fixed up now fittin' tokill. Jeb had his hair oiled down nice an' slick, and his mustache wasjes black as powder could make hit. Naturely hit was red; but a fellercan't do nothin' in these mountains with a red mustache; an' Jeb had abig black ribbon tied in the butt o' the bigges' pistol Abe Shiverscould borrer fer him--hit was a badge o' death an' deestruction to hisenemies, Abe said, an' I tell ye Jeb did look like a man. He neveropened his mouth atter he says "howdy"--Jeb never does say nothin';Jeb's one o' them fellers whut hides thar lack o' brains by a-lookin'solemn an' a-keepin' still, but thar don't nobody say much tell the olefolks air gone to bed, an' Polly Ann jes 'lowed Jeb was a-waitin'. Fact is, stranger, Abe Shivers had got Jeb a leetle disguised byliquer, an' he did look fat an' sassy, ef he couldn't talk, a-settin'over in the corner a-plunkin' the banjer an' a-knockin' off "Sour-woodMountain" an' "Jinny git aroun'" an' "Soapsuds over the Fence. "

 "Chickens a-crowin' on Sour-wood Mountain, Heh-o-dee-um-dee-eedy-dahdy-dee! Git yo' dawgs an' we'll go huntin', Heh-o-dee-um-dee-eedy-dahdy-dee!"

An' when Jeb comes to

 "I've got a gal at the head o' the holler, Heh-o-dee-um-dee-eedy-dahdy-dee!"

he jes turns one eye 'round on Polly Ann, an' then swings his chinaroun' as though he didn't give a cuss fer nothin'. 

 "She won't come, an' I won't foller, Heh-o-dee-um-dee-eedy-dahdy-dee!"

Well, sir, Nance seed that Polly Ann was a-eyin' Jeb sort o' flusteredlike, an' she come might' nigh splittin' right thar an' a-sp'ilin' thefun, fer she knowed what a skeery fool Jeb was. An' when the ole folksgoes to bed, Nance lays thar under a quilt a-watchin' an' a-listenin'. Well, Jeb knowed the premises, ef he couldn't talk, an' purty soonNance heerd Jeb's cheer creak a leetle, an' she says, Jeb's a-comin', and Jeb was; an' Polly Ann 'lowed Jeb was jes a leetle TOO resolute an'quick-like, an' she got her hand ready to give him one lick anyways ferbein' so brigaty. I don't know as she'd 'a' hit him more'n ONCE. Jebhad a farm, an' Polly Ann--well, Polly Ann was a-gittin' along. ButPolly Ann sot thar jes as though she didn't know Jeb was a-comin', an'Jeb stopped once an' says, "You hain't got nothin' agin me, has ye?"

An' Polly Ann says, sorter quick, "Naw; ef I had, I'd push it. "

Well, Jeb mos' fell off his cheer, when, ef he hadn't been sech askeery idgit, he'd 'a' knowed that Polly Ann was plain open an' sheta-biddin' fer him. But he sot thar like a knot on a log fer haffenhour, an' then he rickollected, I reckon, that Abe had tol' him PollyAnn was peppery an' he mustn't mind, fer Jeb begun a-movin' ag'in tillhe was slam-bang agin Polly Ann's cheer. An' thar he sot like apunkin, not sayin' a word nur doin' nothin'. An' while Polly Ann wasa-wonderin' ef he was gone plumb crazy, blame me ef that durned fooldidn't turn roun' to that peppery gal an' say, "Booh, Polly Ann!"

Well, Nance had to stuff the bedquilt in her mouth right thar to keepfrom hollerin' out loud, fer Polly Ann's hand was a-hangin' down by thecheer, jes a-waitin' fer a job, and Nance seed the fingers a-twitchin'. An' Jeb waits another haffen hour an' Jeb says, "Ortern't I be killed?"

"Whut fer?" says Polly Ann, sorter sharp. 

An' Jeb says, "Fer bein' so devilish. "

Well, brother, Nance snorted right out thar, an' Polly Ann Sturgill'shand riz up jes once; an' I've heerd Jeb Somers say the next time hejumps out o' the Fryin' Pan he's a-goin' to take hell-fire 'stid o'Cutshin fer a place to light. 

THE MESSAGE IN THE SAND

Stranger, you furriners don't nuver seem to consider that a woman hasalways got the devil to fight in two people at once! Hit's two aginone, I tell ye, an' hit hain't fa'r. 

That's what I said more'n two year ago, when Rosie Branham was a-layin'up thar at Dave Hall's, white an' mos' dead. An', GOD, boys, I says, that leetle thing in thar by her shorely can't be to blame. 

Thar hain't been a word agin Rosie sence; an', stranger, I reckon tharnuver will be. Fer, while the gal hain't got hide o' kith or kin, tharair two fellers up hyeh sorter lookin' atter Rosie; an' one of 'em isthe shootin'es' man on this crick, I reckon, 'cept one; an', stranger, that's t'other. 

Rosie kep' her mouth shet fer a long while; an' I reckon as how thefeller 'lowed she wasn't goin' to tell. Co'se the woman folks got hitout'n her--they al'ays gits whut they want, as you know--an' thar thesorry cuss was--a-livin' up thar in the Bend, jes aroun' that bluff o'lorrel yander, a-lookin' pious, an' a-singin', an' a-sayin' Amen louder'n anybody when thar was meetin'. 

Well, my boy Jim an' a lot o' fellers jes went up fer him right away. I don't know as the boys would 'a' killed him EXACTLY ef they hadkotched him, though they mought; but they got Abe Shivers, as tol' thefeller they was a-comin'--you've heard tell o' Abe-an' they mos' beatAbraham Shivers to death. Stranger, the sorry cuss was Dave. Rosiehadn't no daddy an' no mammy; an' she was jes a-workin' at Dave's ferher victuals an' clo'es. 'Pears like the pore gal was jes tricked intoevil. Looked like she was sorter 'witched--an' anyways, stranger, shewas a fightin' Satan in HERSELF, as well as in Dave. Hit was two aginone, I tell ye, an' hit wasn't fa'r. 

Co'se they turned Rosie right out in the road I hain't got a word tosay agin Dave's wife fer that; an' atter a while the boys lets Davecome back, to take keer o' his ole mammy, of co'se, but I tell yeDave's a-playin' a purty lonesome tune. He keeps purty shy YIT. Hedon't nuver sa'nter down this way. 'Pears like he don't seem to thinkhit's healthy fer him down hyeh, an' I reckon Dave's right. 

Rosie? Oh, well, I sorter tuk Rosie in myself. Yes, she's been livin'thar in the shack with me an' my boy Jim, an' the-- Why, thar he isnow, stranger. That's him a-wallerin' out thar in the road. Do youreckon thar'd be a single thing agin that leetle cuss ef he had tostan' up on Jedgment Day jes as he is now?

Look hyeh, stranger, whut you reckon the Lawd kep' a-writin' thar onthe groun' that day when them fellers was a-pesterin' him 'bout thatpore woman? Don't you jes know he was a writin' 'bout sech as HIM--an'Rosie? I tell ye, brother, he writ thar jes what I'm al'ays a-sayin'. 

Hit hain't the woman's fault. I said it more'n two year ago, whenRosie was up thar at ole Dave's, an' I said it yestiddy, when my boyJim come to me an' 'lowed as how he aimed to take Rosie down to townto-day an' git married. 

"You ricollect, dad, " says Jim, "her mammy?"

"Yes, Jim, " I says; "all the better reason not to be too hard on Rosie. "

I'm a-lookin' fer 'em both back right now, stranger; an' ef you will, I'll be mighty glad to have ye stay right hyeh to the infair this verynight. Thar nuver was a word agin Rosie afore, thar hain't been sence, an' you kin ride up an' down this river till the crack o' doom an'you'll nuver hear a word agin her ag'in. Fer, as I tol' you, my boy, Jim is the shootin'es' feller on this crick, I reckon, 'cept ONE, an', stranger, that's ME!

THE SENATOR'S LAST TRADE

A drove of lean cattle were swinging easily over Black Mountain, andbehind them came a big man with wild black hair and a bushy beard. Nowand then he would gnaw at his mustache with his long, yellow teeth, orwould sit down to let his lean horse rest, and would flip meaninglesslyat the bushes with a switch. Sometimes his bushy head would droop overon his breast, and he would snap it up sharply and start painfully on. Robber, cattle-thief, outlaw he might have been in another century; forhe filled the figure of any robber hero in life or romance, and yet hewas only the Senator from Bell, as he was known in the little Kentuckycapital; or, as he was known in his mountain home, just the Senator, who had toiled and schemed and grown rich and grown poor; who hadsuffered long and was kind. 

Only that Christmas he had gutted every store in town. "Give meeverything you have, brother, " he said, across each counter; and nextday every man, woman, and child in the mountain town had a present fromthe Senator's hands. He looked like a brigand that day, as he lookednow, but he called every man his brother, and his eye, while black andlustreless as night, was as brooding and just as kind. 

When the boom went down, with it and with everybody else went theSenator. Slowly he got dusty, ragged, long of hair. He lookedtortured and ever-restless. You never saw him still; always he sweptby you, flapping his legs on his lean horse or his arms in his ricketybuggy here, there, everywhere--turning, twisting, fighting his way backto freedom--and not a murmur. Still was every man his brother, and ifsome forgot his once open hand, he forgot it no more completely thandid the Senator. He went very far to pay his debts. He felt honorbound, indeed, to ask his sister to give back the farm that he hadgiven her, which, very properly people said, she declined to do. Nothing could kill hope in the Senator's breast; he would hand back thefarm in another year, he said; but the sister was firm, and without aword still, the Senator went other ways and schemed through the nights, and worked and rode and walked and traded through the days, until now, when the light was beginning to glimmer, his end was come. 

This was the Senator's last trade, and in sight, down in a Kentuckyvalley, was home. Strangely enough, the Senator did not care at all, and he had just enough sanity left to wonder why, and to be worried. It was the "walking typhoid" that had caught up with him, and he waslistless, and he made strange gestures and did foolish things as hestumbled down the mountain. He was going over a little knoll now, andhe could see the creek that ran around his house, but he was nottouched. He would just as soon have lain down right where he was, orhave turned around and gone back, except that it was hot and he wantedto get to the water. He remembered that it was nigh Christmas; he sawthe snow about him and the cakes of ice in the creek. He knew that heought not to be hot, and yet he was--so hot that he refused to reasonwith himself even a minute, and hurried on. It was odd that it shouldbe so, but just about that time, over in Virginia, a cattle dealer, nearing home, stopped to tell a neighbor how he had tricked someblack-whiskered fool up in the mountains. It may have been just whenhe was laughing aloud over there, that the Senator, over here, tore hiswoollen shirt from his great hairy chest and rushed into the icystream, clapping his arms to his burning sides and shouting in hisfrenzy. 

"If he had lived a little longer, " said a constituent, "he would havelost the next election. He hadn't the money, you know. "

"If he had lived a little longer, " said the mountain preacher high upon Yellow Creek, "I'd have got that trade I had on hand with himthrough. Not that I wanted him to die, but if he had to--why--"

"If he had lived a little longer, " said the Senator's lawyer, "he wouldhave cleaned off the score against him. "

"If he had lived a little longer, " said the Senator's sister, notmeaning to be unkind, "he would have got all I have. "

That was what life held for the Senator. Death was more kind. 

PREACHIN' ON KINGDOM-COME

I've told ye, stranger, that Hell fer Sartain empties, as it oughter, of co'se, into Kingdom-Come. You can ketch the devil 'most any day inthe week on Hell fer Sartain, an' sometimes you can git Gloryeverlastin' on Kingdom-Come. Hit's the only meetin'-house thar intwenty miles aroun'. 

Well, the reg'lar rider, ole Jim Skaggs, was dead, an' the bretherinwas a-lookin' aroun' fer somebody to step into ole Jim's shoes. Thar'dbeen one young feller up thar from the settlemints, a-cavortin' aroun', an' they was studyin' 'bout gittin' him. 

"Bretherin' an' sisteren, " I says, atter the leetle chap was gone, "he's got the fortitood to speak an' he shorely is well favored. He'sgot a mighty good hawk eye fer spyin' out evil--an' the gals; he canoutholler ole Jim; an' IF, " I says, "any IDEES ever comes to him, he'llbe a hell-rouser shore--but they ain't comin'!" An', so sayin', I takesmy foot in my hand an' steps fer home. 

Stranger, them fellers over thar hain't seed much o' this world. Lotsof 'em nuver seed the cyars; some of 'em nuver seed a wagon. An' atterjowerin' an' noratin' fer 'bout two hours, what you reckon they saidthey aimed to do? They believed they'd take that ar man Beecher, efthey could git him to come. They'd heerd o' Henry endurin' the war, an' they knowed he was agin the rebs, an' they wanted Henry if theycould jes git him to come. 

Well, I snorted, an' the feud broke out on Hell fer Sartain betwixt theDays an' the Dillons. Mace Day shot Daws Dillon's brother, as Irickollect--somep'n's al'ays a-startin' up that plaguey war an'a-makin' things frolicsome over thar--an' ef it hadn't a-been fer atall young feller with black hair an' a scar across his forehead, whowas a-goin' through the mountains a-settlin' these wars, blame me ef Ibelieve thar ever would 'a' been any mo' preachin' on Kingdom-Come. This feller comes over from Hazlan an' says he aims to hold a meetin'on Kingdom-Come. "Brother, " I says, "that's what no preacher have everdid whilst this war is a-goin' on. " An' he says, sort o' quiet, "Well, then, I reckon I'll have to do what no preacher have ever did. " An' Iups an' says: "Brother, an ole jedge come up here once from thesettlemints to hold couht. 'Jedge, ' I says, 'that's what no jedge haveever did without soldiers since this war's been a-goin' on. ' An', brother, the jedge's words was yours, p'int-blank. 'All right, ' hesays, 'then I'll have to do what no other jedge have ever did. ' An', brother, " says I to the preacher, "the jedge done it shore. He jeslaid under the couht-house fer two days whilst the boys fit over him. An' when I sees the jedge a-makin' tracks fer the settlemints, I says, 'Jedge, ' I says, 'you spoke a parable shore. '"

Well, sir, the long preacher looked jes as though he was a-sayin' tohisself, "Yes, I hear ye, but I don't heed ye, " an' when he says, "Jesthe same, I'm a-goin' to hold a meetin' on Kingdom-Come, " why, I jestakes my foot in my hand an' ag'in I steps fer home. 

That night, stranger, I seed another feller from Hazlan, who wasa-tellin' how this here preacher had stopped the war over thar, an' hadgot the Marcums an' Braytons to shakin' hands; an' next day ole TomPerkins stops in an' says that WHARAS there mought 'a' been preachin'somewhar an' sometime, thar nuver had been PREACHIN' afore onKingdom-Come. So I goes over to the meetin' house, an' they was allthar--Daws Dillon an' Mace Day, the leaders in the war, an' Abe Shivers(you've heerd tell o' Abe) who was a-carryin' tales from one side tot'other an' a-stirrin' up hell ginerally, as Abe most al'ays is; an'thar was Daws on one side o' the meetin'-house an' Mace on t'other, an'both jes a-watchin' fer t'other to make a move, an' thar'd 'a' beenbilly-hell to pay right thar! Stranger, that long preacher talked jesas easy as I'm a-talkin' now, an' hit was p'int-blank as the fellerfrom Hazlan said. You jes ought 'a' heerd him tellin' about the Lawda-bein' as pore as any feller thar, an' a-makin' barns an' fences an'ox-yokes an' sech like; an' not a-bein' able to write his ownname--havin' to make his mark mebbe--when he started out to save theworld. An' how they tuk him an' nailed him onto a cross when he'd comedown fer nothin' but to save 'em; an' stuck a spear big as a corn-knifeinto his side, an' give him vinegar; an' his own mammy a-standin' downthar on the ground a-cryin' an' a-watchin' him an' he a-fergivin' allof 'em then an' thar!

Thar nuver had been nothin' like that afore on Kingdom-Come, an' allalong I heerd fellers a-layin' thar guns down; an when the preachercalled out fer sinners, blame me ef the fust feller that riz wasn'tMace Day. An' Mace says, "Stranger, 'f what you say is true, I reckonthe Lawd 'll fergive me too, but I don't believe Daws Dillon everwill, " an' Mace stood thar lookin' around fer Daws. An' all of asudden the preacher got up straight an' called out, "Is thar a human inthis house mean an' sorry enough to stand betwixt a man an' his Maker"?An' right thar, stranger, Daws riz. "Naw, by God, thar hain' t!" Dawssays, an' he walks up to Mace a-holdin' out his hand, an' they allbusts out cryin' an' shakin' hands--Days an' Dillons--jes as thepreacher had made 'em do over in Hazlan. An' atter the thing was over, I steps up to the preacher an' I says:

"Brother, " I says, "YOU spoke a parable, shore. "

THE PASSING OF ABRAHAM SHIVERS

"I tell ye, boys, hit hain t often a feller has the chance o' doin' somuch good jes by DYIN'. Fer 'f Abe Shivers air gone, shorely gone, therest of us--every durn one of us--air a-goin' to be saved. Fer AbeShivers--you hain't heerd tell o' ABE? Well, you must be a stranger inthese mountains o' Kaintuck, shore. 

"I don't know, stranger, as Abe ever was borned; nobody in thesemountains knows it 'f he was. The fust time I ever heerd tell o' Abehe was a-hollerin' fer his rights one mawnin' at daylight, endurin' thewar, jes outside o' ole Tom Perkins' door on Fryin' Pan. Abe was leftthar by some home-gyard, I reckon. Well, nobody air ever turned out'ndoors in these mountains, as you know, an' Abe got his rights thatmawin', an' he's been a-gittin' 'em ever sence. Tom already had ahouseful, but 'f any feller got the bigges' hunk o' corn-bread, thatfeller was Abe; an' ef any feller got a-whalin', hit wasn't Abe. 

"Abe tuk to lyin' right naturely--looked like--afore he could talk. Fact is, Abe nuver could do nothin' but jes whisper. Still, Abe couldmanage to send a lie furder with that rattlin' whisper than ole Tomcould with that big horn o' hisn what tells the boys the revenoos aircomin' up Fryin' Pan. '

"Didn't take Abe long to git to braggin' an' drinkin' an' naggin' an'hectorin'--everything, 'mos', 'cept fightin'. Nobody ever drawed AbeShivers into a fight. I don't know as he was afeerd; looked like Abewas a-havin' sech a tarnation good time with his devilmint he jesdidn't want to run no risk o' havin' hit stopped. An' sech devilmint!Hit ud take a coon's age, I reckon, to tell ye. 

"The boys was a-goin' up the river one night to git ole Dave Hall fertrickin' Rosie Branham into evil. Some feller goes ahead an' tells oleDave they's a-comin. ' Hit was Abe. Some feller finds a streak o' oreon ole Tom Perkins' land, an' racks his jinny down to town, an' tells afurriner thar, an' Tom comes might' nigh sellin' the land fer nothin'. Now Tom raised Abe, but, jes the same, the feller was Abe. 

"One night somebody guides the revenoos in on Hell fer Sartain, an'they cuts up four stills. Hit was Abe. The same night, mind ye, afeller slips in among the revenoos while they's asleep, and cuts offtheir hosses' manes an' tails--muled every durned critter uv 'em. Stranger, hit was Abe. An' as fer women-folks--well, Abe was the illfavoredest feller I ever see, an' he couldn't talk; still, Abe wassassy, an' you know how sass counts with the gals; an' Abe's whisperin'come in jes as handy as any feller's settin' up; so 'f ever you seed aman with a Winchester a-lookin' fer the feller who had cut him out, stranger, he was a-lookin' fer Abe. 

"Somebody tells Harve Hall, up thar at a dance on Hell-fer-Sartain oneChristmas night, that Rich Harp had said somep'n' agin him an' NanceOsborn. An' somebody tells Rich that Harve had said sompe'n' aginNance an' HIM. Hit was one an' the same feller, stranger, an' thefeller was Abe. Well, while Rich an' Harve was a-gittin' well, somebody runs off with Nance. Hit was Abe. Then Rich an' Harve jesdraws straws fer a feller. Stranger, they drawed fer Abe. Hit's purtyhard to believe that Abe air gone, 'cept that Rich Harp an' Harve Halldon't never draw no straws fer nothin'; but 'f by the grace o'Goddle-mighty Abe air gone, why, as I was a-sayin', the rest ofus--every durned one of us air a-goin' to be saved, shore. Fer Abe'sgone fust, an' ef thar's only one Jedgment Day, the Lawd 'll nuver gitto us. "

A PURPLE RHODODENDRON

The purple rhododendron is rare. Up in the Gap here, Bee Rock, hungout over Roaring Rock, blossoms with it--as a gray cloud purples withthe sunrise. This rock was tossed lightly on edge when the earth wasyoung, and stands vertical. To get the flowers you climb the mountainto one side, and, balancing on the rock's thin edge, slip down by rootsand past rattlesnake dens till you hang out over the water and reachfor them. To avoid snakes it is best to go when it is cool, atdaybreak. 

I know but one other place in this southwest corner of Virginia wherethere is another bush of purple rhododendron, and one bush only isthere. This hangs at the throat of a peak not far away, whose agelessgray head is bent over a ravine that sinks like a spear thrust into theside of the mountain. Swept only by high wind and eagle wings as thisis, I yet knew one man foolhardy enough to climb to it for a flower. He brought one blossom down: and to this day I do not know that it wasnot the act of a coward; yes, though Grayson did it, actually smilingall the way from peak to ravine, and though he was my best friend--bestloved then and since. I believe he was the strangest man I have everknown, and I say this with thought; for his eccentricities weresincere. In all he did I cannot remember having even suspectedanything theatrical but once. 

We were all Virginians or Kentuckians at the Gap, and Grayson was aVirginian. You might have guessed that he was a Southerner from hisvoice and from the way he spoke of women--but no more. Otherwise, hemight have been a Moor, except for his color, which was about the onlyracial characteristic he had. He had been educated abroad and, afterthe English habit, had travelled everywhere. And yet I can imagine nomore lonely way between the eternities than the path Grayson trod alone. 

He came to the Gap in the early days, and just why he came I neverknew. He had studied the iron question a long time, he told me, andwhat I thought reckless speculation was, it seems, deliberate judgmentto him. His money "in the dirt, " as the phrase was, Grayson got him ahorse and rode the hills and waited. He was intimate with nobody. Occasionally he would play poker with us and sometimes he drank a gooddeal, but liquor never loosed his tongue. At poker his face told aslittle as the back of his cards, and he won more than admiration--evenfrom the Kentuckians, who are artists at the game; but the money wentfrom a free hand, and, after a diversion like this, he was apt to bemoody and to keep more to himself than ever. Every fortnight or two hewould disappear, always over Sunday. In three or four days he wouldturn up again, black with brooding, and then he was the last man toleave the card-table or he kept away from it altogether. Where he wentnobody knew; and he was not the man anybody would question. 

One night two of us Kentuckians were sitting in the club, and from ahome paper I read aloud the rumored engagement of a girl we bothknew--who was famous for beauty in the Bluegrass, as was her motherbefore her and the mother before her--to an unnamed Virginian. Graysonsat near, smoking a pipe; and when I read the girl's name I saw himtake the meerschaum from his lips, and I felt his eyes on me. It was amystery how, but I knew at once that Grayson was the man. He sought meout after that and seemed to want to make friends. I was willing, or, rather he made me more than willing; for he was irresistible to me, asI imagine he would have been to anybody. We got to walking togetherand riding together at night, and we were soon rather intimate; but fora long time he never so much as spoke the girl's name. Indeed, he keptaway from the Bluegrass for nearly two months; but when he did go hestayed a fortnight. 

This time he came for me as soon as he got back to the Gap. It wasjust before midnight, and we went as usual back of Imboden Hill, through moon-dappled beeches, and Grayson turned off into the woodswhere there was no path, both of us silent. We rode through tremulous, shining leaves--Grayson's horse choosing a way for himself--and, threshing through a patch of high, strong weeds, we circled past anamphitheatre of deadened trees whose crooked arms were tossed out intothe moonlight, and halted on the spur. The moon was poised overMorris's farm; South Fork was shining under us like a loop of gold, themountains lay about in tranquil heaps, and the moon-mist rose luminousbetween them. There Grayson turned to me with an eager light in hiseyes that I had never seen before. 

"This has a new beauty to-night!" he said; and then "I told her aboutyou, and she said that she used to know you--well. " I was glad my facewas in shadow--I could hardly keep back a brutal laugh--and Grayson, unseeing, went on to speak of her as I had never heard any man speak ofany woman. In the end, he said that she had just promised to be hiswife. I answered nothing. Other men, I knew, had said that with thesame right, perhaps, and had gone from her to go back no more. And Iwas one of them. Grayson had met her at White Sulphur five yearsbefore, and had loved her ever since. She had known it from the first, he said, and I guessed then what was going to happen to him. Imarvelled, listening to the man, for it was the star of constancy inher white soul that was most lustrous to him--and while I wondered themarvel became a commonplace. Did not every lover think his loved oneexempt from the frailty that names other women? There is no ideal offaith or of purity that does not live in countless women to-day. Ibelieve that; but could I not recall one friend who walked withDivinity through pine woods for one immortal spring, and who, beingsick to death, was quite finished--learning her at last? Did I notknow lovers who believed sacred to themselves, in the name of love, lips that had been given to many another without it? And now did I notknow--but I knew too much, and to Grayson I said nothing. 

That spring the "boom" came. Grayson's property quadrupled in valueand quadrupled again. I was his lawyer, and I plead with him to sell;but Grayson laughed. He was not speculating; he had invested onjudgment; he would sell only at a certain figure. The figure wasactually reached, and Grayson let half go. The boom fell, and Graysontook the tumble with a jest. It would come again in the autumn, hesaid, and he went off to meet the girl at White Sulphur. 

I worked right hard that summer, but I missed him, and I surely wasglad when he came back. Something was wrong; I saw it at once. He didnot mention her name, and for a while he avoided even me. I sought himthen, and gradually I got him into our old habit of walking up into theGap and of sitting out after supper on a big rock in the valley, listening to the run of the river and watching the afterglow over theCumberland, the moon rise over Wallen's Ridge and the stars come out. Waiting for him to speak, I learned for the first time then anothersecret of his wretched melancholy. It was the hopelessness of thattime, perhaps, that disclosed it. Grayson had lost the faith of hischildhood. Most men do that at some time or other, but Grayson had nobusiness, no profession, no art in which to find relief. Indeed, therewas but one substitute possible, and that came like a gift straightfrom the God whom he denied. Love came, and Grayson's ideals of love, as of everything else, were morbid and quixotic. He believed that heowed it to the woman he should marry never to have loved another. Hehad loved but one woman, he said, and he should love but one. Ibelieved him then literally when he said that his love for the Kentuckygirl was his religion now--the only anchor left him in his sea oftroubles, the only star that gave him guiding light. Without thislove, what then?

I had a strong impulse to ask him, but Grayson shivered, as though hedivined my thought, and, in some relentless way, our talk drifted tothe question of suicide. I was not surprised that he rather defendedit. Neither of us said anything new, only I did not like the way hetalked. He was too deliberate, too serious, as though he were reallyfacing a possible fact. He had no religious scruples, he said, nofamily ties; he had nothing to do with bringing himself into life;why--if it was not worth living, not bearable--why should he not endit? He gave the usual authority, and I gave the usual answer. Religion aside, if we did not know that we were here for some purpose, we did not know that we were not; and here we were anyway, and our dutywas plain. Desertion was the act of a coward, and that Grayson couldnot deny. 

That autumn the crash of '91 came across the water from England, andGrayson gave up. He went to Richmond, and came back with money enoughto pay off his notes, and I think it took nearly all he had. Still, heplayed poker steadily now--for poker had been resumed when it was nolonger possible to gamble in lots--he drank a good deal, and he beganjust at this time to take a singular interest in our volunteer policeguard. He had always been on hand when there was trouble, and Isha'n't soon forget him the day Senator Mahone spoke, when we werepunching a crowd of mountaineers back with cocked Winchesters. He hadlost his hat in a struggle with one giant; he looked half crazy withanger, and yet he was white and perfectly cool, and I noticed that henever had to tell a man but once to stand back. Now he was the firstman to answer a police whistle. When we were guarding Talt Hall, healways volunteered when there was any unusual risk to run. When weraided the Pound to capture a gang of desperadoes, he insisted on goingahead as spy; and when we got restless lying out in the woods waitingfor daybreak, and the captain suggested a charge on the cabin, Graysonwas by his side when it was made. Grayson sprang through the doorfirst, and he was the man who thrust his reckless head up into the loftand lighted a match to see if the murderers were there. Most of us didfoolish things in those days under stress of excitement, but Grayson, Isaw, was weak enough to be reckless. His trouble with the girl, whatever it was, was serious enough to make him apparently care littlewhether he were alive or dead. And still I saw that not yet even hadhe lost hope. He was having a sore fight with his pride, and he gotbody-worn and heart-sick over it. Of course he was worsted, and in theend, from sheer weakness, he went back to her once more. 

I shall never see another face like his when Grayson came back thatlast time. I never noticed before that there were silver hairs abouthis temples. He stayed in his room, and had his meals sent to him. Hecame out only to ride, and then at night. Waking the third morning atdaybreak, I saw him through the window galloping past, and I knew hehad spent the night on Black Mountain. I went to his room as soon as Igot up, and Grayson was lying across his bed with his face down, hisclothes on, and in his right hand was a revolver. I reeled into achair before I had strength enough to bend over him, and when I did Ifound him asleep. I left him as he was, and I never let him know thatI had been to his room; but I got him out on the rock again that night, and I turned our talk again to suicide. I said it was small, mean, cowardly, criminal, contemptible! I was savagely in earnest, andGrayson shivered and said not a word. I thought he was in better mindafter that. We got to taking night rides again, and I stayed asclosely to him as I could, for times got worse and trouble was uponeverybody. Notes fell thicker than snowflakes, and, through thefoolish policy of the company, foreclosures had to be made. Graysonwent to the wall like the rest of us. I asked him what he had donewith the money he had made. He had given away a great deal to poorerkindred; he had paid his dead father's debts; he had played away a gooddeal, and he had lost the rest. His faith was still imperturbable. Hehad a dozen rectangles of "dirt, " and from these, he said, it would allcome back some day. Still, he felt the sudden poverty keenly, but hefaced it as he did any other physical fact in life--dauntless. He usedto be fond of saying that no one thing could make him miserable. Buthe would talk with mocking earnestness about some much-dreadedcombination; and a favorite phrase of his--which got to have peculiarsignificance--was "the cohorts of hell, " who closed in on him when hewas sick and weak, and who fell back when he got well. He had onestrange habit, too, from which I got comfort. He would deliberatelywalk into and defy any temptation that beset him. That was the way hestrengthened himself, he said. I knew what his temptation was now, andI thought of this habit when I found him asleep with his revolver, andI got hope from it now, when the dreaded combination (whatever thatwas) seemed actually to have come. 

I could see now that he got worse daily. He stopped his mockeries, hisoccasional fits of reckless gayety. He stopped poker--resolutely--hecouldn't afford to lose now; and, what puzzled me, he stopped drinking. The man simply looked tired, always hopelessly tired; and I couldbelieve him sincere in all his foolish talk about his blessed Nirvana:which was the peace he craved, which was end enough for him. 

Winter broke. May drew near; and one afternoon, when Grayson and Itook our walk up through the Gap, he carried along a huge spy-glass ofmine, which had belonged to a famous old desperado, who watched hisenemies with it from the mountain-tops. We both helped capture him, and I defended him. He was sentenced to hang--the glass was my fee. We sat down opposite Bee Rock, and for the first time Grayson told meof that last scene with her. He spoke without bitterness, and he toldme what she said, word for word, without a breath of blame for her. Ido not believe that he judged her at all; she did not know--he alwayssaid; she did not KNOW; and then, when I opened my lips, Graysonreached silently for my wrist, and I can feel again the warning crushof his fingers, and I say nothing against her now. 

I asked Grayson what his answer was. 

"I asked her, " he said, solemnly, "if she had ever seen a purplerhododendron. "

I almost laughed, picturing the scene--the girl bewildered by hisabsurd question--Grayson calm, superbly courteous. It was a mentalpeculiarity of his--this irrelevancy--and it was like him to end amatter of life and death in just that way. 

"I told her I should send her one. I am waiting for them to come out, "he added; and he lay back with his head against a stone and sighted thetelescope on a dizzy point, about which buzzards were circling. 

"There is just one bush of rhododendron up there, " he went on. "I sawit looking down from the Point last spring. I imagine it must blossomearlier than that across there on Bee Rock, being always in the sun. No, it's not budding yet, " he added, with his eye to the glass. 

"You see that ledge just to the left? I dropped a big rock from thePoint square on a rattler who was sunning himself there last spring. Ican see a foothold all the way up the cliff. It can be done, " heconcluded, in a tone that made me turn sharply upon him. 

"Do you really mean to climb up there?" I asked, harshly. 

"If it blossoms first up there--I'll get it where it blooms first. " Ina moment I was angry and half sick with suspicion, for I knew hisobstinacy; and then began what I am half ashamed to tell. 

Every day thereafter Grayson took that glass with him, and I went alongto humor him. I watched Bee Rock, and he that one bush at the throatof the peak--neither of us talking over the matter again. It wasuncanny, that rivalry--sun and wind in one spot, sun and wind inanother--Nature herself casting the fate of a half-crazed fool with aflower. It was utterly absurd, but I got nervous overit--apprehensive, dismal. 

A week later it rained for two days, and the water was high. The nextday the sun shone, and that afternoon Grayson smiled, looking throughthe glass, and handed it to me. I knew what I should see. One purplecluster, full blown, was shaking in the wind. Grayson was leaning backin a dream when I let the glass down. A cool breath from the woodsbehind us brought the odor of roots and of black earth; up in theleaves and sunlight somewhere a wood-thrush was singing, and I saw inGrayson's face what I had not seen for a long time, and that waspeace--the peace of stubborn purpose. He did not come for me the nextday, nor the next; but the next he did, earlier than usual. 

"I am going to get that rhododendron, " he said. "I have been half-wayup--it can be reached. " So had I been half-way up. With nerve andagility the flower could be got, and both these Grayson had. If he hadwanted to climb up there and drop, he could have done it alone, and hewould have known that I should have found him. Grayson was testinghimself again, and, angry with him for the absurdity of the thing andwith myself for humoring it, but still not sure of him, I picked up myhat and went. I swore to myself silently that it was the last time Ishould pay any heed to his whims. I believed this would be the last. The affair with the girl was over. The flower sent, I knew Graysonwould never mention her name again. 

Nature was radiant that afternoon. The mountains had the leafyluxuriance of June, and a rich, sunlit haze drowsed on them between theshadows starting out over the valley and the clouds so white that theblue of the sky looked dark. Two eagles shot across the mouth of theGap as we neared it, and high beyond buzzards were sailing overGrayson's rhododendron. 

I went up the ravine with him and I climbed up behind him--Graysongoing very deliberately and whistling softly. He called down to mewhen he reached the shelf that looked half-way. 

"You mustn't come any farther than this, " he said. "Get out on thatrock and I'll drop them down to you. "

Then he jumped from the ledge and caught the body of a small tree closeto the roots, and my heart sank at such recklessness and all my fearsrose again. I scrambled hastily to the ledge, but I could get nofarther. I might possibly make the jump he had made--but how should Iever get back? How would he? I called angrily after him now, and hewouldn't answer me. I called him a fool, a coward; I stamped the ledgelike a child--but Grayson kept on, foot after hand, with stealthycaution, and the purple cluster nodding down at him made my head whirl. I had to lie down to keep from tumbling from the ledge; and there on myside, gripping a pine bush, I lay looking up at him. He was close tothe flowers now, and just before he took the last upward step he turnedand looked down that awful height with as calm a face as though hecould have dropped and floated unhurt to the ravine beneath. 

Then with his left hand he caught the ledge to the left, strained up, and, holding thus, reached out with his right. The hand closed aboutthe cluster, and the twig was broken. Grayson gave a great shout then. He turned his head as though to drop them, and, that far away, I heardthe sibilant whir of rattles. I saw a snake's crest within a yard ofhis face, and, my God! I saw Grayson loose his left hand to guard it!The snake struck at his arm, and Grayson reeled and caught back once atthe ledge with his left hand. He caught once, I say, to do him fulljustice; then, without a word, he dropped--and I swear there was asmile on his face when he shot down past me into the trees. 

I found him down there in the ravine with nearly every bone in his bodycrushed. His left arm was under him, and outstretched in his righthand was the shattered cluster, with every blossom gone but one. Onewhite half of his face was unmarked, and on it was still the shadow ofa smile. I think it meant more than that Grayson believed that he wasnear peace at last. It meant that Fate had done the deed for him andthat he was glad. Whether he would have done it himself, I do notknow; and that is why I say that though Grayson brought the flowerdown--smiling from peak to ravine--I do not know that he was not, afterall, a coward. 

That night I wrote to the woman in Kentucky. I told her that Graysonhad fallen from a cliff while climbing for flowers; and that he wasdead. Along with these words, I sent a purple rhododendron.