THE TRAIL OF THE LONESOME PINE

BY

JOHN FOX, JR. 

ILLUSTRATED BY F. C. YOHN

[Illustration: Frontispiece]

[Illustration: Titlepage]

To F. S. 

THE TRAIL OF THE LONESOME PINE

I

She sat at the base of the big tree--her little sunbonnet pushed back, her arms locked about her knees, her bare feet gathered under hercrimson gown and her deep eyes fixed on the smoke in the valley below. Her breath was still coming fast between her parted lips. There weretiny drops along the roots of her shining hair, for the climb had beensteep, and now the shadow of disappointment darkened her eyes. Themountains ran in limitless blue waves towards the mounting sun--but atbirth her eyes had opened on them as on the white mists trailing up thesteeps below her. Beyond them was a gap in the next mountain chain anddown in the little valley, just visible through it, were trailing bluemists as well, and she knew that they were smoke. Where was the greatglare of yellow light that the "circuit rider" had told about--andthe leaping tongues of fire? Where was the shrieking monster that ranwithout horses like the wind and tossed back rolling black plumes allstreaked with fire? For many days now she had heard stories of the"furriners" who had come into those hills and were doing strange thingsdown there, and so at last she had climbed up through the dewy morningfrom the cove on the other side to see the wonders for herself. She hadnever been up there before. She had no business there now, and, if shewere found out when she got back, she would get a scolding and maybesomething worse from her step-mother--and all that trouble and riskfor nothing but smoke. So, she lay back and rested--her little mouthtightening fiercely. It was a big world, though, that was spread beforeher and a vague awe of it seized her straightway and held her motionlessand dreaming. Beyond those white mists trailing up the hills, beyond theblue smoke drifting in the valley, those limitless blue waves must rununder the sun on and on to the end of the world! Her dead sister hadgone into that far silence and had brought back wonderful stories ofthat outer world: and she began to wonder more than ever before whethershe would ever go into it and see for herself what was there. With thethought, she rose slowly to her feet, moved slowly to the cliff thatdropped sheer ten feet aside from the trail, and stood there like agreat scarlet flower in still air. There was the way at her feet--thatpath that coiled under the cliff and ran down loop by loop throughmajestic oak and poplar and masses of rhododendron. She drew a longbreath and stirred uneasily--she'd better go home now--but the path hada snake-like charm for her and still she stood, following it as far downas she could with her eyes. Down it went, writhing this way and thatto a spur that had been swept bare by forest fires. Along this spur ittravelled straight for a while and, as her eyes eagerly followed itto where it sank sharply into a covert of maples, the little creaturedropped of a sudden to the ground and, like something wild, lay flat. 

A human figure had filled the leafy mouth that swallowed up the trailand it was coming towards her. With a thumping heart she pushed slowlyforward through the brush until her face, fox-like with cunning andscreened by a blueberry bush, hung just over the edge of the cliff, andthere she lay, like a crouched panther-cub, looking down. For a moment, all that was human seemed gone from her eyes, but, as she watched, allthat was lost came back to them, and something more. She had seen thatit was a man, but she had dropped so quickly that she did not see thebig, black horse that, unled, was following him. Now both man and horsehad stopped. The stranger had taken off his gray slouched hat and he waswiping his face with something white. Something blue was tied looselyabout his throat. She had never seen a man like that before. His facewas smooth and looked different, as did his throat and his hands. Hisbreeches were tight and on his feet were strange boots that were thecolour of his saddle, which was deep in seat, high both in front andbehind and had strange long-hooded stirrups. Starting to mount, the manstopped with one foot in the stirrup and raised his eyes towards herso suddenly that she shrank back again with a quicker throbbing at herheart and pressed closer to the earth. Still, seen or not seen, flightwas easy for her, so she could not forbear to look again. Apparently, hehad seen nothing--only that the next turn of the trail was too steep toride, and so he started walking again, and his walk, as he strode alongthe path, was new to her, as was the erect way with which he held hishead and his shoulders. 

In her wonder over him, she almost forgot herself, forgot to wonderwhere he was going and why he was coming into those lonely hills until, as his horse turned a bend of the trail, she saw hanging from theother side of the saddle something that looked like a gun. He was a"raider"--that man: so, cautiously and swiftly then, she pushed herselfback from the edge of the cliff, sprang to her feet, dashed past the bigtree and, winged with fear, sped down the mountain--leaving in a spot ofsunlight at the base of the pine the print of one bare foot in the blackearth. 

II

He had seen the big pine when he first came to those hills--one morning, at daybreak, when the valley was a sea of mist that threw soft clingingspray to the very mountain tops: for even above the mists, that morning, its mighty head arose--sole visible proof that the earth still sleptbeneath. Straightway, he wondered how it had ever got there, so farabove the few of its kind that haunted the green dark ravines far below. Some whirlwind, doubtless, had sent a tiny cone circling heavenward anddropped it there. It had sent others, too, no doubt, but how had thistree faced wind and storm alone and alone lived to defy both so proudly?Some day he would learn. Thereafter, he had seen it, at noon--but littleless majestic among the oaks that stood about it; had seen it catchingthe last light at sunset, clean-cut against the after-glow, and like adark, silent, mysterious sentinel guarding the mountain pass under themoon. He had seen it giving place with sombre dignity to the passingburst of spring--had seen it green among dying autumn leaves, greenin the gray of winter trees and still green in a shroud of snow--achangeless promise that the earth must wake to life again. The LonesomePine, the mountaineers called it, and the Lonesome Pine it always lookedto be. From the beginning it had a curious fascination for him, andstraightway within him--half exile that he was--there sprang up asympathy for it as for something that was human and a brother. And nowhe was on the trail of it at last. From every point that morning it hadseemed almost to nod down to him as he climbed and, when he reached theledge that gave him sight of it from base to crown, the winds murmuredamong its needles like a welcoming voice. At once, he saw the secret ofits life. On each side rose a cliff that had sheltered it from stormsuntil its trunk had shot upwards so far and so straight and so strongthat its green crown could lift itself on and on and bend--blow whatmight--as proudly and securely as a lily on its stalk in a morningbreeze. Dropping his bridle rein he put one hand against it as though onthe shoulder of a friend. 

"Old Man, " he said, "You must be pretty lonesome up here, and I'm gladto meet you. "

For a while he sat against it--resting. He had no particular purposethat day--no particular destination. His saddle-bags were across thecantle of his cow-boy saddle. His fishing rod was tied under one flap. He was young and his own master. Time was hanging heavy on his handsthat day and he loved the woods and the nooks and crannies of themwhere his own kind rarely made its way. Beyond, the cove looked dark, forbidding, mysterious, and what was beyond he did not know. So downthere he would go. As he bent his head forward to rise, his eye caughtthe spot of sunlight, and he leaned over it with a smile. In the blackearth was a human foot-print--too small and slender for the foot ofa man, a boy or a woman. Beyond, the same prints were visible--widerapart--and he smiled again. A girl had been there. She was the crimsonflash that he saw as he started up the steep and mistook for a flamingbush of sumach. She had seen him coming and she had fled. Still smiling, he rose to his feet. 

III

On one side he had left the earth yellow with the coming noon, but itwas still morning as he went down on the other side. The laurel andrhododendron still reeked with dew in the deep, ever-shaded ravine. The ferns drenched his stirrups, as he brushed through them, and eachdripping tree-top broke the sunlight and let it drop in tent-like beamsthrough the shimmering undermist. A bird flashed here and there throughthe green gloom, but there was no sound in the air but the footfalls ofhis horse and the easy creaking of leather under him, the drip of dewoverhead and the running of water below. Now and then he could see thesame slender foot-prints in the rich loam and he saw them in the sandwhere the first tiny brook tinkled across the path from a gloomy ravine. There the little creature had taken a flying leap across it and, beyond, he could see the prints no more. He little guessed that while he haltedto let his horse drink, the girl lay on a rock above him, looking down. She was nearer home now and was less afraid; so she had slipped from thetrail and climbed above it there to watch him pass. As he went on, sheslid from her perch and with cat-footed quiet followed him. Whenhe reached the river she saw him pull in his horse and eagerly bendforward, looking into a pool just below the crossing. There was a bassdown there in the clear water--a big one--and the man whistled cheerilyand dismounted, tying his horse to a sassafras bush and unbuckling a tinbucket and a curious looking net from his saddle. With the net in onehand and the bucket in the other, he turned back up the creek and passedso close to where she had slipped aside into the bushes that she camenear shrieking, but his eyes were fixed on a pool of the creek aboveand, to her wonder, he strolled straight into the water, with his bootson, pushing the net in front of him. 

He was a "raider" sure, she thought now, and he was looking for a"moonshine" still, and the wild little thing in the bushes smiledcunningly--there was no still up that creek--and as he had left hishorse below and his gun, she waited for him to come back, which he did, by and by, dripping and soaked to his knees. Then she saw him untie thequeer "gun" on his saddle, pull it out of a case and--her eyes got bigwith wonder--take it to pieces and make it into a long limber rod. In amoment he had cast a minnow into the pool and waded out into the waterup to his hips. She had never seen so queer a fishing-pole--so queera fisherman. How could he get a fish out with that little switch, shethought contemptuously? By and by something hummed queerly, the man gavea slight jerk and a shining fish flopped two feet into the air. It wassurely very queer, for the man didn't put his rod over his shoulder andwalk ashore, as did the mountaineers, but stood still, winding somethingwith one hand, and again the fish would flash into the air and thenthat humming would start again while the fisherman would stand quietand waiting for a while--and then he would begin to wind again. In herwonder, she rose unconsciously to her feet and a stone rolled down tothe ledge below her. The fisherman turned his head and she started torun, but without a word he turned again to the fish he was playing. Moreover, he was too far out in the water to catch her, so she advancedslowly--even to the edge of the stream, watching the fish cut halfcircles about the man. If he saw her, he gave no notice, and it waswell that he did not. He was pulling the bass to and fro now through thewater, tiring him out--drowning him--stepping backward at the same time, and, a moment later, the fish slid easily out of the edge of the water, gasping along the edge of a low sand-bank, and the fisherman reachingdown with one hand caught him in the gills. Then he looked up andsmiled--and she had seen no smile like that before. 

"Howdye, Little Girl?"

One bare toe went burrowing suddenly into the sand, one finger went toher red mouth--and that was all. She merely stared him straight in theeye and he smiled again. 

"Cat got your tongue?"

Her eyes fell at the ancient banter, but she lifted them straightway andstared again. 

"You live around here?"

She stared on. 

"Where?"

No answer. 

"What's your name, little girl?"

And still she stared. 

"Oh, well, of course, you can't talk, if the cat's got your tongue. "

The steady eyes leaped angrily, but there was still no answer, and hebent to take the fish off his hook, put on a fresh minnow, turned hisback and tossed it into the pool. 

"Hit hain't!"

He looked up again. She surely was a pretty little thing--and more, nowthat she was angry. 

"I should say not, " he said teasingly. "What did you say your name was?"

"What's YO' name?"

The fisherman laughed. He was just becoming accustomed to the mountainetiquette that commands a stranger to divulge himself first. 

"My name's--Jack. "

"An' mine's--Jill. " She laughed now, and it was his time forsurprise--where could she have heard of Jack and Jill?

His line rang suddenly. 

"Jack, " she cried, "you got a bite!"

He pulled, missed the strike, and wound in. The minnow was all right, sohe tossed it back again. 

"That isn't your name, " he said. 

"If 'tain't, then that ain't your'n?"

"Yes 'tis, " he said, shaking his head affirmatively. 

A long cry came down the ravine:

"J-u-n-e! eh--oh--J-u-n-e!" That was a queer name for the mountains, andthe fisherman wondered if he had heard aright--June. 

The little girl gave a shrill answering cry, but she did not move. 

"Thar now!" she said. 

"Who's that--your Mammy?"

"No, 'tain't--hit's my step-mammy. I'm a goin' to ketch hell now. " Herinnocent eyes turned sullen and her baby mouth tightened. 

"Good Lord!" said the fisherman, startled, and then he stopped--thewords were as innocent on her lips as a benediction. 

"Have you got a father?" Like a flash, her whole face changed. 

"I reckon I have. "

"Where is he?"

"Hyeh he is!" drawled a voice from the bushes, and it had a tone thatmade the fisherman whirl suddenly. A giant mountaineer stood on the bankabove him, with a Winchester in the hollow of his arm. 

"How are you?" The giant's heavy eyes lifted quickly, but he spoke tothe girl. 

"You go on home--what you doin' hyeh gassin' with furriners!"

The girl shrank to the bushes, but she cried sharply back:

"Don't you hurt him now, Dad. He ain't even got a pistol. He ain't no--"

"Shet up!" The little creature vanished and the mountaineer turned tothe fisherman, who had just put on a fresh minnow and tossed it into theriver. 

"Purty well, thank you, " he said shortly. "How are you?"

"Fine!" was the nonchalant answer. For a moment there was silence and apuzzled frown gathered on the mountaineer's face. 

"That's a bright little girl of yours--What did she mean by telling younot to hurt me?"

"You haven't been long in these mountains, have ye?"

"No--not in THESE mountains--why?" The fisherman looked around and wasalmost startled by the fierce gaze of his questioner. 

"Stop that, please, " he said, with a humourous smile. "You make menervous. "

The mountaineer's bushy brows came together across the bridge of hisnose and his voice rumbled like distant thunder. 

"What's yo' name, stranger, an' what's yo' business over hyeh?"

"Dear me, there you go! You can see I'm fishing, but why does everybodyin these mountains want to know my name?"

"You heerd me!"

"Yes. " The fisherman turned again and saw the giant's rugged face sternand pale with open anger now, and he, too, grew suddenly serious. 

"Suppose I don't tell you, " he said gravely. "What--"

"Git!" said the mountaineer, with a move of one huge hairy hand up themountain. "An' git quick!"

The fisherman never moved and there was the click of a shell throwninto place in the Winchester and a guttural oath from the mountaineer'sbeard. 

"Damn ye, " he said hoarsely, raising the rifle. "I'll give ye--"

"Don't, Dad!" shrieked a voice from the bushes. "I know his name, hit'sJack--" the rest of the name was unintelligible. The mountaineer droppedthe butt of his gun to the ground and laughed. 

[Illustration: "Don't, Dad!" shrieked a voice from the bushes, 0034]

"Oh, air YOU the engineer?"

The fisherman was angry now. He had not moved hand or foot and he saidnothing, but his mouth was set hard and his bewildered blue eyes hada glint in them that the mountaineer did not at the moment see. Hewas leaning with one arm on the muzzle of his Winchester, his face hadsuddenly become suave and shrewd and now he laughed again:

"So you're Jack Hale, air ye?"

The fisherman spoke. "JOHN Hale, except to my friends. " He looked hardat the old man. 

"Do you know that's a pretty dangerous joke of yours, my friend--I mighthave a gun myself sometimes. Did you think you could scare me?" Themountaineer stared in genuine surprise. 

"Twusn't no joke, " he said shortly. "An' I don't waste time skeeringfolks. I reckon you don't know who I be?"

"I don't care who you are. " Again the mountaineer stared. 

"No use gittin' mad, young feller, " he said coolly. "I mistaken ye fersomebody else an' I axe yer pardon. When you git through fishin' come upto the house right up the creek thar an' I'll give ye a dram. "

"Thank you, " said the fisherman stiffly, and the mountaineer turnedsilently away. At the edge of the bushes, he looked back; the strangerwas still fishing, and the old man went on with a shake of his head. 

"He'll come, " he said to himself. "Oh, he'll come!"

That very point Hale was debating with himself as he unavailingly casthis minnow into the swift water and slowly wound it in again. How didthat old man know his name? And would the old savage really have hurthim had he not found out who he was? The little girl was a wonder:evidently she had muffled his last name on purpose--not knowing itherself--and it was a quick and cunning ruse. He owed her something forthat--why did she try to protect him? Wonderful eyes, too, the littlething had--deep and dark--and how the flame did dart from them when shegot angry! He smiled, remembering--he liked that. And her hair--it wasexactly like the gold-bronze on the wing of a wild turkey that he hadshot the day before. Well, it was noon now, the fish had stopped bitingafter the wayward fashion of bass, he was hungry and thirsty and hewould go up and see the little girl and the giant again and get thatpromised dram. Once more, however, he let his minnow float down into theshadow of a big rock, and while he was winding in, he looked up tosee in the road two people on a gray horse, a man with a woman behindhim--both old and spectacled--all three motionless on the bank andlooking at him: and he wondered if all three had stopped to ask his nameand his business. No, they had just come down to the creek and both theymust know already. 

"Ketching any?" called out the old man, cheerily. 

"Only one, " answered Hale with equal cheer. The old woman pushed backher bonnet as he waded through the water towards them and he saw thatshe was puffing a clay pipe. She looked at the fisherman and his tacklewith the naive wonder of a child, and then she said in a commandingundertone. 

"Go on, Billy. "

"Now, ole Hon, I wish ye'd jes' wait a minute. " Hale smiled. He lovedold people, and two kinder faces he had never seen--two gentler voiceshe had never heard. 

"I reckon you got the only green pyerch up hyeh, " said the old man, chuckling, "but thar's a sight of 'em down thar below my old mill. "Quietly the old woman hit the horse with a stripped branch of elm andthe old gray, with a switch of his tail, started. 

"Wait a minute, Hon, " he said again, appealingly, "won't ye?" but calmlyshe hit the horse again and the old man called back over his shoulder:

"You come on down to the mill an' I'll show ye whar you can ketch amess. "

"All right, " shouted Hale, holding back his laughter, and on they went, the old man remonstrating in the kindliest way--the old woman silentlypuffing her pipe and making no answer except to flay gently the rump ofthe lazy old gray. 

Hesitating hardly a moment, Hale unjointed his pole, left his minnowbucket where it was, mounted his horse and rode up the path. About him, the beech leaves gave back the gold of the autumn sunlight, and a littleravine, high under the crest of the mottled mountain, was on firewith the scarlet of maple. Not even yet had the morning chill left thedensely shaded path. When he got to the bare crest of a little rise, he could see up the creek a spiral of blue rising swiftly from a stonechimney. Geese and ducks were hunting crawfish in the little creek thatran from a milk-house of logs, half hidden by willows at the edge ofthe forest, and a turn in the path brought into view a log-cabin wellchinked with stones and plaster, and with a well-built porch. A fenceran around the yard and there was a meat house near a little orchardof apple-trees, under which were many hives of bee-gums. This man hadthings "hung up" and was well-to-do. Down the rise and through a thickethe went, and as he approached the creek that came down past the cabinthere was a shrill cry ahead of him. 

"Whoa thar, Buck! Gee-haw, I tell ye!" An ox-wagon evidently was comingon, and the road was so narrow that he turned his horse into the bushesto let it pass. 

"Whoa--Haw!--Gee--Gee--Buck, Gee, I tell ye! I'll knock yo' fool headoff the fust thing you know!"

Still there was no sound of ox or wagon and the voice sounded like achild's. So he went on at a walk in the thick sand, and when he turnedthe bushes he pulled up again with a low laugh. In the road across thecreek was a chubby, tow-haired boy with a long switch in his right hand, and a pine dagger and a string in his left. Attached to the string andtied by one hind leg was a frog. The boy was using the switch as a goadand driving the frog as an ox, and he was as earnest as though both werereal. 

"I give ye a little rest now, Buck, " he said, shaking his headearnestly. "Hit's a purty hard pull hyeh, but I know, by Gum, you canmake hit--if you hain't too durn lazy. Now, git up, Buck!" he yelledsuddenly, flaying the sand with his switch. "Git up--Whoa--Haw--Gee, Gee!" The frog hopped several times. 

"Whoa, now!" said the little fellow, panting in sympathy. "I knowed youcould do it. " Then he looked up. For an instant he seemed terrified buthe did not run. Instead he stealthily shifted the pine dagger over tohis right hand and the string to his left. 

"Here, boy, " said the fisherman with affected sternness: "What are youdoing with that dagger?"

The boy's breast heaved and his dirty fingers clenched tight around thewhittled stick. 

"Don't you talk to me that-a-way, " he said with an ominous shake of hishead. "I'll gut ye!"

The fisherman threw back his head, and his peal of laughter did what hissternness failed to do. The little fellow wheeled suddenly, and his feetspurned the sand around the bushes for home--the astonished frog draggedbumping after him. "Well!" said the fisherman. 

IV

Even the geese in the creek seemed to know that he was a stranger and todistrust him, for they cackled and, spreading their wings, fled cacklingup the stream. As he neared the house, the little girl ran around thestone chimney, stopped short, shaded her eyes with one hand for a momentand ran excitedly into the house. A moment later, the bearded giantslouched out, stooping his head as he came through the door. 

"Hitch that 'ar post to yo' hoss and come right in, " he thunderedcheerily. "I'm waitin' fer ye. "

The little girl came to the door, pushed one brown slender hand throughher tangled hair, caught one bare foot behind a deer-like ankle andstood motionless. Behind her was the boy--his dagger still in hand. 

"Come right in!" said the old man, "we are purty pore folks, but you'rewelcome to what we have. "

The fisherman, too, had to stoop as he came in, for he, too, was tall. The interior was dark, in spite of the wood fire in the big stonefireplace. Strings of herbs and red-pepper pods and twisted tobacco hungfrom the ceiling and down the wall on either side of the fire; and inone corner, near the two beds in the room, hand-made quilts of manycolours were piled several feet high. On wooden pegs above the doorwhere ten years before would have been buck antlers and an old-fashionedrifle, lay a Winchester; on either side of the door were auger holesthrough the logs (he did not understand that they were port-holes) andanother Winchester stood in the corner. From the mantel the butt of abig 44-Colt's revolver protruded ominously. On one of the beds in thecorner he could see the outlines of a figure lying under a brilliantlyfigured quilt, and at the foot of it the boy with the pine dagger hadretreated for refuge. From the moment he stooped at the door somethingin the room had made him vaguely uneasy, and when his eyes in swiftsurvey came back to the fire, they passed the blaze swiftly and met onthe edge of the light another pair of eyes burning on him. 

"Howdye!" said Hale. 

"Howdye!" was the low, unpropitiating answer. 

The owner of the eyes was nothing but a boy, in spite of his length: somuch of a boy that a slight crack in his voice showed that it was justpast the throes of "changing, " but those black eyes burned on withoutswerving--except once when they flashed at the little girl who, with herchin in her hand and one foot on the top rung of her chair, was gazingat the stranger with equal steadiness. She saw the boy's glance, sheshifted her knees impatiently and her little face grew sullen. Halesmiled inwardly, for he thought he could already see the lay of theland, and he wondered that, at such an age, such fierceness could be: soevery now and then he looked at the boy, and every time he looked, theblack eyes were on him. The mountain youth must have been almost sixfeet tall, young as he was, and while he was lanky in limb he was wellknit. His jean trousers were stuffed in the top of his boots and weretight over his knees which were well-moulded, and that is rare with amountaineer. A loop of black hair curved over his forehead, down almostto his left eye. His nose was straight and almost delicate and his mouthwas small, but extraordinarily resolute. Somewhere he had seen that facebefore, and he turned suddenly, but he did not startle the lad with hisabruptness, nor make him turn his gaze. 

"Why, haven't I--?" he said. And then he suddenly remembered. He hadseen that boy not long since on the other side of the mountains, ridinghis horse at a gallop down the county road with his reins in his teeth, and shooting a pistol alternately at the sun and the earth with eitherhand. Perhaps it was as well not to recall the incident. He turned tothe old mountaineer. 

"Do you mean to tell me that a man can't go through these mountainswithout telling everybody who asks him what his name is?"

The effect of his question was singular. The old man spat into the fireand put his hand to his beard. The boy crossed his legs suddenly andshoved his muscular fingers deep into his pockets. The figure shiftedposition on the bed and the infant at the foot of it seemed toclench his toy-dagger a little more tightly. Only the little girlwas motionless--she still looked at him, unwinking. What sort of wildanimals had he fallen among?

"No, he can't--an' keep healthy. " The giant spoke shortly. 

"Why not?"

"Well, if a man hain't up to some devilment, what reason's he got fernot tellin' his name?"

"That's his business. "

"Tain't over hyeh. Hit's mine. Ef a man don't want to tell his name overhyeh, he's a spy or a raider or a officer looking fer somebody or, " headded carelessly, but with a quick covert look at his visitor--"he's gotsome kind o' business that he don't want nobody to know about. "

"Well, I came over here--just to--well, I hardly know why I did come. "

"Jess so, " said the old man dryly. "An' if ye ain't looking fer trouble, you'd better tell your name in these mountains, whenever you're axed. Efenough people air backin' a custom anywhar hit goes, don't hit?"

His logic was good--and Hale said nothing. Presently the old man rosewith a smile on his face that looked cynical, picked up a black lump andthrew it into the fire. It caught fire, crackled, blazed, almost oozedwith oil, and Hale leaned forward and leaned back. 

"Pretty good coal!"

"Hain't it, though?" The old man picked up a sliver that had flown tothe hearth and held a match to it. The piece blazed and burned in hishand. 

"I never seed no coal in these mountains like that--did you?"

"Not often--find it around here?"

"Right hyeh on this farm--about five feet thick!"

"What?"

"An' no partin'. "

"No partin'"--it was not often that he found a mountaineer who knew whata parting in a coal bed was. 

"A friend o' mine on t'other side, "--a light dawned for the engineer. 

"Oh, " he said quickly. "That's how you knew my name. "

"Right you air, stranger. He tol' me you was a--expert. "

The old man laughed loudly. "An' that's why you come over hyeh. "

"No, it isn't. "

"Co'se not, "--the old fellow laughed again. Hale shifted the talk. 

"Well, now that you know my name, suppose you tell me what yours is?"

"Tolliver--Judd Tolliver. " Hale started. 

"Not Devil Judd!"

"That's what some evil folks calls me. " Again he spoke shortly. Themountaineers do not like to talk about their feuds. Hale knew this--andthe subject was dropped. But he watched the huge mountaineer withinterest. There was no more famous character in all those hills than thegiant before him--yet his face was kind and was good-humoured, but thenose and eyes were the beak and eyes of some bird of prey. The littlegirl had disappeared for a moment. She came back with a blue-backedspelling-book, a second reader and a worn copy of "Mother Goose, " andshe opened first one and then the other until the attention of thevisitor was caught--the black-haired youth watching her meanwhile withlowering brows. 

"Where did you learn to read?" Hale asked. The old man answered:

"A preacher come by our house over on the Nawth Fork 'bout three yearago, and afore I knowed it he made me promise to send her sister Sallyto some school up thar on the edge of the settlements. And after shecome home, Sal larned that little gal to read and spell. Sal died 'bouta year ago. "

Hale reached over and got the spelling-book, and the old man grinnedat the quick, unerring responses of the little girl, and the engineerlooked surprised. She read, too, with unusual facility, and herpronunciation was very precise and not at all like her speech. 

"You ought to send her to the same place, " he said, but the old fellowshook his head. 

"I couldn't git along without her. "

The little girl's eyes began to dance suddenly, and, without opening"Mother Goose, " she began:

"Jack and Jill went up a hill, " and then she broke into a laugh and Halelaughed with her. 

Abruptly, the boy opposite rose to his great length. 

"I reckon I better be goin'. " That was all he said as he caught up aWinchester, which stood unseen by his side, and out he stalked. Therewas not a word of good-by, not a glance at anybody. A few minutes laterHale heard the creak of a barn door on wooden hinges, a cursing commandto a horse, and four feet going in a gallop down the path, and he knewthere went an enemy. 

"That's a good-looking boy--who is he?"

The old man spat into the fire. It seemed that he was not going toanswer and the little girl broke in:

"Hit's my cousin Dave--he lives over on the Nawth Fork. "

That was the seat of the Tolliver-Falin feud. Of that feud, too, Halehad heard, and so no more along that line of inquiry. He, too, soon roseto go. 

"Why, ain't ye goin' to have something to eat?"

"Oh, no, I've got something in my saddlebags and I must be getting backto the Gap. "

"Well, I reckon you ain't. You're jes' goin' to take a snack righthere. " Hale hesitated, but the little girl was looking at him with suchunconscious eagerness in her dark eyes that he sat down again. 

"All right, I will, thank you. " At once she ran to the kitchen and theold man rose and pulled a bottle of white liquid from under the quilts. 

"I reckon I can trust ye, " he said. The liquor burned Hale like fire, and the old man, with a laugh at the face the stranger made, tossed offa tumblerful. 

"Gracious!" said Hale, "can you do that often?"

"Afore breakfast, dinner and supper, " said the old man--"but I don't. "Hale felt a plucking at his sleeve. It was the boy with the dagger athis elbow. 

"Less see you laugh that-a-way agin, " said Bub with such deadlyseriousness that Hale unconsciously broke into the same peal. 

"Now, " said Bub, unwinking, "I ain't afeard o' you no more. "

V

Awaiting dinner, the mountaineer and the "furriner" sat on the porchwhile Bub carved away at another pine dagger on the stoop. As Halepassed out the door, a querulous voice said "Howdye" from the bed inthe corner and he knew it was the step-mother from whom the little girlexpected some nether-world punishment for an offence of which he wasignorant. He had heard of the feud that had been going on between thered Falins and the black Tollivers for a quarter of a century, and thiswas Devil Judd, who had earned his nickname when he was the leader ofhis clan by his terrible strength, his marksmanship, his cunning and hiscourage. Some years since the old man had retired from the leadership, because he was tired of fighting or because he had quarrelled with hisbrother Dave and his foster-brother, Bad Rufe--known as the terror ofthe Tollivers--or from some unknown reason, and in consequence there hadbeen peace for a long time--the Falins fearing that Devil Judd wouldbe led into the feud again, the Tollivers wary of starting hostilitieswithout his aid. After the last trouble, Bad Rufe Tolliver had gone Westand old Judd had moved his family as far away as possible. Hale lookedaround him: this, then, was the home of Devil Judd Tolliver; the littlecreature inside was his daughter and her name was June. All around thecabin the wooded mountains towered except where, straight before hiseyes, Lonesome Creek slipped through them to the river, and the old manhad certainly picked out the very heart of silence for his home. Therewas no neighbour within two leagues, Judd said, except old Squire BillyBeams, who ran a mill a mile down the river. No wonder the spot wascalled Lonesome Cove. 

"You must ha' seed Uncle Billy and ole Hon passin', " he said. 

"I did. " Devil Judd laughed and Hale made out that "Hon" was short forHoney. 

"Uncle Billy used to drink right smart. Ole Hon broke him. She followedhim down to the grocery one day and walked in. 'Come on, boys--let'shave a drink'; and she set 'em up an' set 'em up until Uncle Billy mostwent crazy. He had hard work gittin' her home, an' Uncle Billy hain'tteched a drap since. " And the old mountaineer chuckled again. 

All the time Hale could hear noises from the kitchen inside. The oldstep-mother was abed, he had seen no other woman about the house and hewondered if the child could be cooking dinner. Her flushed face answeredwhen she opened the kitchen door and called them in. She had not onlycooked but now she served as well, and when he thanked her, as he didevery time she passed something to him, she would colour faintly. Onceor twice her hand seemed to tremble, and he never looked at her but herquestioning dark eyes were full upon him, and always she kept one handbusy pushing her thick hair back from her forehead. He had not asked herif it was her footprints he had seen coming down the mountain for fearthat he might betray her, but apparently she had told on herself, forBub, after a while, burst out suddenly:

"June, thar, thought you was a raider. " The little girl flushed and theold man laughed. 

"So'd you, pap, " she said quietly. 

"That's right, " he said. "So'd anybody. I reckon you're the first manthat ever come over hyeh jus' to go a-fishin', " and he laughed again. The stress on the last words showed that he believed no man had yet comejust for that purpose, and Hale merely laughed with him. The old fellowgulped his food, pushed his chair back, and when Hale was through, hewasted no more time. 

"Want to see that coal?"

"Yes, I do, " said Hale. 

"All right, I'll be ready in a minute. "

The little girl followed Hale out on the porch and stood with her backagainst the railing. 

"Did you catch it?" he asked. She nodded, unsmiling. 

"I'm sorry. What were you doing up there?" She showed no surprise thathe knew that she had been up there, and while she answered his question, he could see that she was thinking of something else. 

"I'd heerd so much about what you furriners was a-doin' over thar. "

"You must have heard about a place farther over--but it's coming overthere, too, some day. " And still she looked an unspoken question. 

The fish that Hale had caught was lying where he had left it on the edgeof the porch. 

"That's for you, June, " he said, pointing to it, and the name as hespoke it was sweet to his ears. 

"I'm much obleeged, " she said, shyly. "I'd 'a' cooked hit fer ye if I'd'a' knowed you wasn't goin' to take hit home. "

"That's the reason I didn't give it to you at first--I was afraid you'ddo that. I wanted you to have it. "

"Much obleeged, " she said again, still unsmiling, and then she suddenlylooked up at him--the deeps of her dark eyes troubled. 

"Air ye ever comin' back agin, Jack?" Hale was not accustomed to thefamiliar form of address common in the mountains, independent of sex orage--and he would have been staggered had not her face been so serious. And then few women had ever called him by his first name, and this timehis own name was good to his ears. 

"Yes, June, " he said soberly. "Not for some time, maybe--but I'm comingback again, sure. " She smiled then with both lips and eyes--radiantly. 

"I'll be lookin' fer ye, " she said simply. 

VI

The old man went with him up the creek and, passing the milk house, turned up a brush-bordered little branch in which the engineer saw signsof coal. Up the creek the mountaineer led him some thirty yards abovethe water level and stopped. An entry had been driven through therich earth and ten feet within was a shining bed of coal. There was noparting except two inches of mother-of-coal--midway, which would make itbut easier to mine. Who had taught that old man to open coal in such away--to make such a facing? It looked as though the old fellow were insome scheme with another to get him interested. As he drew closer, hesaw radiations of some twelve inches, all over the face of the coal, star-shaped, and he almost gasped. It was not only cannel coal--it was"bird's-eye" cannel. Heavens, what a find! Instantly he was the cautiousman of business, alert, cold, uncommunicative. 

"That looks like a pretty good--" he drawled the last two words--"veinof coal. I'd like to take a sample over to the Gap and analyze it. " Hishammer, which he always carried--was in his saddle pockets, but he didnot have to go down to his horse. There were pieces on the ground thatwould suit his purpose, left there, no doubt, by his predecessor. 

"Now I reckon you know that I know why you came over hyeh. "

Hale started to answer, but he saw it was no use. 

"Yes--and I'm coming again--for the same reason. "

"Shore--come agin and come often. "

The little girl was standing on the porch as he rode past the milkhouse. He waved his hand to her, but she did not move nor answer. What alife for a child--for that keen-eyed, sweet-faced child! But that coal, cannel, rich as oil, above water, five feet in thickness, easy to mine, with a solid roof and perhaps self-drainage, if he could judge from thedip of the vein: and a market everywhere--England, Spain, Italy, Brazil. The coal, to be sure, might not be persistent--thirty yards within itmight change in quality to ordinary bituminous coal, but he could settlethat only with a steam drill. A steam drill! He would as well ask forthe wagon that he had long ago hitched to a star; and then there mightbe a fault in the formation. But why bother now? The coal wouldstay there, and now he had other plans that made even that findinsignificant. And yet if he bought that coal now--what a bargain! Itwas not that the ideals of his college days were tarnished, but he wasa man of business now, and if he would take the old man's land fora song--it was because others of his kind would do the same! But whybother, he asked himself again, when his brain was in a ferment with acolossal scheme that would make dizzy the magnates who would some daydrive their roadways of steel into those wild hills. So he shook himselffree of the question, which passed from his mind only with a transientwonder as to who it was that had told of him to the old mountaineer, andhad so paved his way for an investigation--and then he wheeled suddenlyin his saddle. The bushes had rustled gently behind him and out fromthem stepped an extraordinary human shape--wearing a coon-skin cap, belted with two rows of big cartridges, carrying a big Winchester overone shoulder and a circular tube of brass in his left hand. With hisright leg straight, his left thigh drawn into the hollow of his saddleand his left hand on the rump of his horse, Hale simply stared, his eyesdropping by and by from the pale-blue eyes and stubbly red beard of thestranger, down past the cartridge-belts to the man's feet, on whichwere moccasins--with the heels forward! Into what sort of a world had hedropped!

"So nary a soul can tell which way I'm going, " said the red-hairedstranger, with a grin that loosed a hollow chuckle far behind it. 

"Would you mind telling me what difference it can make to me which wayyou are going?" Every moment he was expecting the stranger to ask hisname, but again that chuckle came. 

"It makes a mighty sight o' difference to some folks. "

"But none to me. "

"I hain't wearin' 'em fer you. I know YOU. "

"Oh, you do. " The stranger suddenly lowered his Winchester and turnedhis face, with his ear cocked like an animal. There was some noise onthe spur above. 

"Nothin' but a hickory nut, " said the chuckle again. But Hale hadbeen studying that strange face. One side of it was calm, kindly, philosophic, benevolent; but, when the other was turned, a curioustwitch of the muscles at the left side of the mouth showed the teeth andmade a snarl there that was wolfish. 

"Yes, and I know you, " he said slowly. Self-satisfaction, straightway, was ardent in the face. 

"I knowed you would git to know me in time, if you didn't now. "

This was the Red Fox of the mountains, of whom he had heard somuch--"yarb" doctor and Swedenborgian preacher; revenue officer and, some said, cold-blooded murderer. He would walk twenty miles to preach, or would start at any hour of the day or night to minister to thesick, and would charge for neither service. At other hours he would besearching for moonshine stills, or watching his enemies in the valleyfrom some mountain top, with that huge spy-glass--Hale could seenow that the brass tube was a telescope--that he might slip down andunawares take a pot-shot at them. The Red Fox communicated with spirits, had visions and superhuman powers of locomotion--stepping mysteriouslyfrom the bushes, people said, to walk at the traveller's side and asmysteriously disappearing into them again, to be heard of in a few hoursan incredible distance away. 

"I've been watchin' ye from up thar, " he said with a wave of his hand. "I seed ye go up the creek, and then the bushes hid ye. I know whatyou was after--but did you see any signs up thar of anything you wasn'tlooking fer?"

Hale laughed. 

"Well, I've been in these mountains long enough not to tell you, if Ihad. "

The Red Fox chuckled. 

"I wasn't sure you had--" Hale coughed and spat to the other side of hishorse. When he looked around, the Red Fox was gone, and he had heard nosound of his going. 

"Well, I be--" Hale clucked to his horse and as he climbed the laststeep and drew near the Big Pine he again heard a noise out in thewoods and he knew this time it was the fall of a human foot and not of ahickory nut. He was right, and, as he rode by the Pine, saw again at itsbase the print of the little girl's foot--wondering afresh at the reasonthat led her up there--and dropped down through the afternoon shadowstowards the smoke and steam and bustle and greed of the TwentiethCentury. A long, lean, black-eyed boy, with a wave of black hair overhis forehead, was pushing his horse the other way along the Big Blackand dropping down through the dusk into the Middle Ages--both allbut touching on either side the outstretched hands of the wild littlecreature left in the shadows of Lonesome Cove. 

VII

Past the Big Pine, swerving with a smile his horse aside that he mightnot obliterate the foot-print in the black earth, and down the mountain, his brain busy with his big purpose, went John Hale, by instinct, inheritance, blood and tradition--pioneer. 

One of his forefathers had been with Washington on the Father's firsthistoric expedition into the wilds of Virginia. His great-grandfatherhad accompanied Boone when that hunter first penetrated the "Darkand Bloody Ground, " had gone back to Virginia and come again with asurveyor's chain and compass to help wrest it from the red men, among whom there had been an immemorial conflict for possession and anever-recognized claim of ownership. That compass and that chain hisgrandfather had fallen heir to and with that compass and chain hisfather had earned his livelihood amid the wrecks of the Civil War. Halewent to the old Transylvania University at Lexington, the first seat oflearning planted beyond the Alleghanies. He was fond of history, of thesciences and literature, was unusually adept in Latin and Greek, and hada passion for mathematics. He was graduated with honours, he taught twoyears and got his degree of Master of Arts, but the pioneer spirit inhis blood would still out, and his polite learning he then threw to thewinds. 

Other young Kentuckians had gone West in shoals, but he kept his eye onhis own State, and one autumn he added a pick to the old compass and theancestral chain, struck the Old Wilderness Trail that his grandfatherhad travelled, to look for his own fortune in a land which that oldgentleman had passed over as worthless. At the Cumberland River he tooka canoe and drifted down the river into the wild coal-swollen hills. Through the winter he froze, starved and prospected, and a year laterhe was opening up a region that became famous after his trust andinexperience had let others worm out of him an interest that would havemade him easy for life. 

With the vision of a seer, he was as innocent as Boone. Stripped clean, he got out his map, such geological reports as he could find and wentinto a studious trance for a month, emerging mentally with the freshnessof a snake that has shed its skin. What had happened in Pennsylvaniamust happen all along the great Alleghany chain in the mountains ofVirginia, West Virginia, Kentucky, Alabama, Tennessee. Some day theavalanche must sweep south, it must--it must. That he might be a quarterof a century too soon in his calculations never crossed his mind. Someday it must come. 

Now there was not an ounce of coal immediately south-east of theCumberland Mountains--not an ounce of iron ore immediately north-east;all the coal lay to the north-east; all of the iron ore to thesouth-east. So said Geology. For three hundred miles there were onlyfour gaps through that mighty mountain chain--three at water level, andone at historic Cumberland Gap which was not at water level and wouldhave to be tunnelled. So said Geography. 

All railroads, to east and to west, would have to pass through thosegaps; through them the coal must be brought to the iron ore, or the oreto the coal. Through three gaps water flowed between ore and coal andthe very hills between were limestone. Was there any such juxtapositionof the four raw materials for the making of iron in the known world?When he got that far in his logic, the sweat broke from his brows; hefelt dizzy and he got up and walked into the open air. As the vastnessand certainty of the scheme--what fool could not see it?--rushed throughhim full force, he could scarcely get his breath. There must be a townin one of those gaps--but in which? No matter--he would buy all ofthem--all of them, he repeated over and over again; for some day theremust be a town in one, and some day a town in all, and from all he wouldreap his harvest. He optioned those four gaps at a low purchase pricethat was absurd. He went back to the Bluegrass; he went to New York;in some way he managed to get to England. It had never crossed his mindthat other eyes could not see what he so clearly saw and yet everywherehe was pronounced crazy. He failed and his options ran out, but he wasundaunted. He picked his choice of the four gaps and gave up the otherthree. This favourite gap he had just finished optioning again, and nowagain he meant to keep at his old quest. That gap he was entering nowfrom the north side and the North Fork of the river was hurrying toenter too. On his left was a great gray rock, projecting edgewise, covered with laurel and rhododendron, and under it was the firstbig pool from which the stream poured faster still. There had been aterrible convulsion in that gap when the earth was young; the stratahad been tossed upright and planted almost vertical for all time, and, alittle farther, one mighty ledge, moss-grown, bush-covered, sentinelledwith grim pines, their bases unseen, seemed to be making a heavy flighttoward the clouds. 

Big bowlders began to pop up in the river-bed and against them the waterdashed and whirled and eddied backward in deep pools, while above himthe song of a cataract dropped down a tree-choked ravine. Just there thedrop came, and for a long space he could see the river lashing rock andcliff with increasing fury as though it were seeking shelter from somerelentless pursuer in the dark thicket where it disappeared. Straight infront of him another ledge lifted itself. Beyond that loomed a mountainwhich stopped in mid-air and dropped sheer to the eye. Its crown wasbare and Hale knew that up there was a mountain farm, the refuge of aman who had been involved in that terrible feud beyond Black Mountainbehind him. Five minutes later he was at the yawning mouth of the gapand there lay before him a beautiful valley shut in tightly, for all theeye could see, with mighty hills. It was the heaven-born site for theunborn city of his dreams, and his eyes swept every curve of the valleylovingly. The two forks of the river ran around it--he could followtheir course by the trees that lined the banks of each--curving withina stone's throw of each other across the valley and then looping awayas from the neck of an ancient lute and, like its framework, comingtogether again down the valley, where they surged together, slippedthrough the hills and sped on with the song of a sweeping river. Upthat river could come the track of commerce, out the South Fork, too, itcould go, though it had to turn eastward: back through that gap it couldbe traced north and west; and so none could come as heralds into thosehills but their footprints could be traced through that wild, rocky, water-worn chasm. Hale drew breath and raised in his stirrups. 

"It's a cinch, " he said aloud. "It's a shame to take the money. "

Yet nothing was in sight now but a valley farmhouse above the ford wherehe must cross the river and one log cabin on the hill beyond. Still onthe other river was the only woollen mill in miles around; fartherup was the only grist mill, and near by was the only store, the onlyblacksmith shop and the only hotel. That much of a start the gap had hadfor three-quarters of a century--only from the south now a railroadwas already coming; from the east another was travelling like a woundedsnake and from the north still another creeped to meet them. Every roadmust run through the gap and several had already run through it linesof survey. The coal was at one end of the gap, and the iron ore at theother, the cliffs between were limestone, and the other elements to makeit the iron centre of the world flowed through it like a torrent. 

"Selah! It's a shame to take the money. "

He splashed into the creek and his big black horse thrust his nose intothe clear running water. Minnows were playing about him. A hog-fish flewfor shelter under a rock, and below the ripples a two-pound bass shotlike an arrow into deep water. 

Above and below him the stream was arched with beech, poplar and watermaple, and the banks were thick with laurel and rhododendron. His eyehad never rested on a lovelier stream, and on the other side of the townsite, which nature had kindly lifted twenty feet above the water level, the other fork was of equal clearness, swiftness and beauty. 

"Such a drainage, " murmured his engineering instinct. "Such a drainage!"It was Saturday. Even if he had forgotten he would have known that itmust be Saturday when he climbed the bank on the other side. Many horseswere hitched under the trees, and here and there was a farm-wagonwith fragments of paper, bits of food and an empty bottle or two lyingaround. It was the hour when the alcoholic spirits of the day wereusually most high. Evidently they were running quite high that day andsomething distinctly was going on "up town. " A few yells--the high, clear, penetrating yell of a fox-hunter--rent the air, a chorus ofpistol shots rang out, and the thunder of horses' hoofs started beyondthe little slope he was climbing. When he reached the top, a merryyouth, with a red, hatless head was splitting the dirt road toward him, his reins in his teeth, and a pistol in each hand, which he was lettingoff alternately into the inoffensive earth and toward the unrebukingheavens--that seemed a favourite way in those mountains of defying Godand the devil--and behind him galloped a dozen horsemen to the music ofthroat, pistol and iron hoof. 

The fiery-headed youth's horse swerved and shot by. Hale hardly knewthat the rider even saw him, but the coming ones saw him afar and theyseemed to be charging him in close array. Hale stopped his horsea little to the right of the centre of the road, and being equallyhelpless against an inherited passion for maintaining his own rights anda similar disinclination to get out of anybody's way--he sat motionless. Two of the coming horsemen, side by side, were a little in advance. 

"Git out o' the road!" they yelled. Had he made the motion of an arm, they might have ridden or shot him down, but the simple quietness of himas he sat with hands crossed on the pommel of his saddle, face calm andset, eyes unwavering and fearless, had the effect that nothing else hecould have done would have brought about--and they swerved on eitherside of him, while the rest swerved, too, like sheep, one stirrupbrushing his, as they swept by. Hale rode slowly on. He could hearthe mountaineers yelling on top of the hill, but he did not lookback. Several bullets sang over his head. Most likely they were simply"bantering" him, but no matter--he rode on. 

The blacksmith, the storekeeper and one passing drummer were coming infrom the woods when he reached the hotel. 

"A gang o' those Falins, " said the storekeeper, "they come over lookin'for young Dave Tolliver. They didn't find him, so they thought they'dhave some fun"; and he pointed to the hotel sign which was punctuatedwith pistol-bullet periods. Hale's eyes flashed once but he saidnothing. He turned his horse over to a stable boy and went across to thelittle frame cottage that served as office and home for him. While hesat on the veranda that almost hung over the mill-pond of the otherstream three of the Falins came riding back. One of them had leftsomething at the hotel, and while he was gone in for it, another put abullet through the sign, and seeing Hale rode over to him. Hale's blueeye looked anything than friendly. 

"Don't ye like it?" asked the horseman. 

"I do not, " said Hale calmly. The horseman seemed amused. 

"Well, whut you goin' to do about it?"

"Nothing--at least not now. "

"All right--whenever you git ready. You ain't ready now?"

"No, " said Hale, "not now. " The fellow laughed. 

"Hit's a damned good thing for you that you ain't. "

Hale looked long after the three as they galloped down the road. "When Istart to build this town, " he thought gravely and without humour, "I'llput a stop to all that. "

VIII

On a spur of Black Mountain, beyond the Kentucky line, a lean horse wastied to a sassafras bush, and in a clump of rhododendron ten yards away, a lean black-haired boy sat with a Winchester between his stomach andthighs--waiting for the dusk to drop. His chin was in both hands, thebrim of his slouch hat was curved crescent-wise over his forehead, andhis eyes were on the sweeping bend of the river below him. That wasthe "Bad Bend" down there, peopled with ancestral enemies and thehead-quarters of their leader for the last ten years. Though they hadbeen at peace for some time now, it had been Saturday in the county townten miles down the river as well, and nobody ever knew what a Saturdaymight bring forth between his people and them. So he would not riskriding through that bend by the light of day. 

All the long way up spur after spur and along ridge after ridge, allalong the still, tree-crested top of the Big Black, he had been thinkingof the man--the "furriner" whom he had seen at his uncle's cabin inLonesome Cove. He was thinking of him still, as he sat there waitingfor darkness to come, and the two vertical little lines in his forehead, that had hardly relaxed once during his climb, got deeper and deeper, as his brain puzzled into the problem that was worrying it: who thestranger was, what his business was over in the Cove and his businesswith the Red Fox with whom the boy had seen him talking. 

He had heard of the coming of the "furriners" on the Virginia side. Hehad seen some of them, he was suspicious of all of them, he dislikedthem all--but this man he hated straightway. He hated his boots and hisclothes; the way he sat and talked, as though he owned the earth, andthe lad snorted contemptuously under his breath:

"He called pants 'trousers. '" It was a fearful indictment, and hesnorted again: "Trousers!"

The "furriner" might be a spy or a revenue officer, but deep down in theboy's heart the suspicion had been working that he had gone over thereto see his little cousin--the girl whom, boy that he was, he had marked, when she was even more of a child than she was now, for his own. Hispeople understood it as did her father, and, child though she was, she, too, understood it. The difference between her and the"furriner"--difference in age, condition, way of life, education--meantnothing to him, and as his suspicion deepened, his hands dropped andgripped his Winchester, and through his gritting teeth came vaguely:

"By God, if he does--if he just does!"

Away down at the lower end of the river's curving sweep, the dirt roadwas visible for a hundred yards or more, and even while he was cursingto himself, a group of horsemen rode into sight. All seemed to becarrying something across their saddle bows, and as the boy's eyescaught them, he sank sidewise out of sight and stood upright, peeringthrough a bush of rhododendron. Something had happened in town thatday--for the horsemen carried Winchesters, and every foreign thought inhis brain passed like breath from a window pane, while his dark, thinface whitened a little with anxiety and wonder. Swiftly he steppedbackward, keeping the bushes between him and his far-away enemies. Another knot he gave the reins around the sassafras bush and then, Winchester in hand, he dropped noiseless as an Indian, from rock torock, tree to tree, down the sheer spur on the other side. Twentyminutes later, he lay behind a bush that was sheltered by the topboulder of the rocky point under which the road ran. His enemies were intheir own country; they would probably be talking over the happenings intown that day, and from them he would learn what was going on. 

So long he lay that he got tired and out of patience, and he was aboutto creep around the boulder, when the clink of a horseshoe againsta stone told him they were coming, and he flattened to the earth andclosed his eyes that his ears might be more keen. The Falins were ridingsilently, but as the first two passed under him, one said:

"I'd like to know who the hell warned 'em!"

"Whar's the Red Fox?" was the significant answer. 

The boy's heart leaped. There had been deviltry abroad, but his kinsmenhad escaped. No one uttered a word as they rode two by two, under him, but one voice came back to him as they turned the point. 

"I wonder if the other boys ketched young Dave?" He could not catch theanswer to that--only the oath that was in it, and when the sound of thehorses' hoofs died away, he turned over on his back and stared up at thesky. Some trouble had come and through his own caution, and the mercyof Providence that had kept him away from the Gap, he had had his escapefrom death that day. He would tempt that Providence no more, even byclimbing back to his horse in the waning light, and it was not untildusk had fallen that he was leading the beast down the spur and into aravine that sank to the road. There he waited an hour, and when anotherhorseman passed he still waited a while. Cautiously then, with earsalert, eyes straining through the darkness and Winchester ready, he wentdown the road at a slow walk. There was a light in the first house, butthe front door was closed and the road was deep with sand, as he knew;so he passed noiselessly. At the second house, light streamed throughthe open door; he could hear talking on the porch and he halted. Hecould neither cross the river nor get around the house by the rear--theridge was too steep--so he drew off into the bushes, where he had towait another hour before the talking ceased. There was only one morehouse now between him and the mouth of the creek, where he would besafe, and he made up his mind to dash by it. That house, too, waslighted and the sound of fiddling struck his ears. He would give them asurprise; so he gathered his reins and Winchester in his left hand, drewhis revolver with his right, and within thirty yards started his horseinto a run, yelling like an Indian and firing his pistol in the air. As he swept by, two or three figures dashed pell-mell indoors, and heshouted derisively:

"Run, damn ye, run!" They were running for their guns, he knew, butthe taunt would hurt and he was pleased. As he swept by the edge of acornfield, there was a flash of light from the base of a cliff straightacross, and a bullet sang over him, then another and another, but hesped on, cursing and yelling and shooting his own Winchester up in theair--all harmless, useless, but just to hurl defiance and taunt themwith his safety. His father's house was not far away, there was no soundof pursuit, and when he reached the river he drew down to a walk andstopped short in a shadow. Something had clicked in the bushes above himand he bent over his saddle and lay close to his horse's neck. The moonwas rising behind him and its light was creeping toward him through thebushes. In a moment he would be full in its yellow light, and he wasslipping from his horse to dart aside into the bushes, when a voiceahead of him called sharply:

"That you, Dave?"

It was his father, and the boy's answer was a loud laugh. Several menstepped from the bushes--they had heard firing and, fearing that youngDave was the cause of it, they had run to his help. 

"What the hell you mean, boy, kickin' up such a racket?"

"Oh, I knowed somethin'd happened an' I wanted to skeer 'em a leetle. "

"Yes, an' you never thought o' the trouble you might be causin' us. "

"Don't you bother about me. I can take keer o' myself. "

Old Dave Tolliver grunted--though at heart he was deeply pleased. 

"Well, you come on home!"

All went silently--the boy getting meagre monosyllabic answers to hiseager questions but, by the time they reached home, he had gathered thestory of what had happened in town that day. There were more men inthe porch of the house and all were armed. The women of the house movedabout noiselessly and with drawn faces. There were no lights lit, andnobody stood long even in the light of the fire where he could be seenthrough a window; and doors were opened and passed through quickly. TheFalins had opened the feud that day, for the boy's foster-uncle, BadRufe Tolliver, contrary to the terms of the last truce, had come homefrom the West, and one of his kinsmen had been wounded. The boy toldwhat he had heard while he lay over the road along which some of hisenemies had passed and his father nodded. The Falins had learned in someway that the lad was going to the Gap that day and had sent men afterhim. Who was the spy?

"You TOLD me you was a-goin' to the Gap, " said old Dave. "Whar was ye?"

"I didn't git that far, " said the boy. 

The old man and Loretta, young Dave's sister, laughed, and quiet smilespassed between the others. 

"Well, you'd better be keerful 'bout gittin' even as far as you didgit--wharever that was--from now on. "

"I ain't afeered, " the boy said sullenly, and he turned into thekitchen. Still sullen, he ate his supper in silence and his mother askedhim no questions. He was worried that Bad Rufe had come back to themountains, for Rufe was always teasing June and there was somethingin his bold, black eyes that made the lad furious, even when thefoster-uncle was looking at Loretta or the little girl in LonesomeCove. And yet that was nothing to his new trouble, for his mind hungpersistently to the stranger and to the way June had behaved in thecabin in Lonesome Cove. Before he went to bed, he slipped out to theold well behind the house and sat on the water-trough in gloomy unrest, looking now and then at the stars that hung over the Cove and over theGap beyond, where the stranger was bound. It would have pleased hima good deal could he have known that the stranger was pushing his bigblack horse on his way, under those stars, toward the outer world. 

IX

It was court day at the county seat across the Kentucky line. Halehad risen early, as everyone must if he would get his breakfast in themountains, even in the hotels in the county seats, and he sat with hisfeet on the railing of the hotel porch which fronted the main streetof the town. He had had his heart-breaking failures since the autumnbefore, but he was in good cheer now, for his feverish enthusiasm had atlast clutched a man who would take up not only his options on the greatGap beyond Black Mountain but on the cannel-coal lands of Devil JuddTolliver as well. He was riding across from the Bluegrass to meet thisman at the railroad in Virginia, nearly two hundred miles away; he hadstopped to examine some titles at the county seat and he meant to goon that day by way of Lonesome Cove. Opposite was the brick CourtHouse--every window lacking at least one pane, the steps yellow withdirt and tobacco juice, the doorway and the bricks about the upperwindows bullet-dented and eloquent with memories of the feud which hadlong embroiled the whole county. Not that everybody took part in it but, on the matter, everybody, as an old woman told him, "had feelin's. "It had begun, so he learned, just after the war. Two boys were playingmarbles in the road along the Cumberland River, and one had a patch onthe seat of his trousers. The other boy made fun of it and the boy withthe patch went home and told his father. As a result there had alreadybeen thirty years of local war. In the last race for legislature, political issues were submerged and the feud was the sole issue. And aTolliver had carried that boy's trouser-patch like a flag to victory andwas sitting in the lower House at that time helping to make laws for therest of the State. Now Bad Rufe Tolliver was in the hills again andthe end was not yet. Already people were pouring in, men, women andchildren--the men slouch-hatted and stalking through the mud in therain, or filing in on horseback--riding double sometimes--two men or twowomen, or a man with his wife or daughter behind him, or a woman with ababy in her lap and two more children behind--all dressed in homespunor store-clothes, and the paint from artificial flowers on her hatstreaking the face of every girl who had unwisely scanned the heavensthat morning. Soon the square was filled with hitched horses, and anauctioneer was bidding off cattle, sheep, hogs and horses to the crowdof mountaineers about him, while the women sold eggs and butter andbought things for use at home. Now and then, an open feudsman with aWinchester passed and many a man was belted with cartridges for the bigpistol dangling at his hip. When court opened, the rain ceased, the suncame out and Hale made his way through the crowd to the battered templeof justice. On one corner of the square he could see the chief store ofthe town marked "Buck Falin--General Merchandise, " and the big man inthe door with the bushy redhead, he guessed, was the leader of the Falinclan. Outside the door stood a smaller replica of the same figure, whomhe recognized as the leader of the band that had nearly ridden him downat the Gap when they were looking for young Dave Tolliver, the autumnbefore. That, doubtless, was young Buck. For a moment he stood at thedoor of the court-room. A Falin was on trial and the grizzled judge wasspeaking angrily:

"This is the third time you've had this trial postponed because youhain't got no lawyer. I ain't goin' to put it off. Have you got you alawyer now?"

"Yes, jedge, " said the defendant. 

"Well, whar is he?"

"Over thar on the jury. "

The judge looked at the man on the jury. 

"Well, I reckon you better leave him whar he is. He'll do you more goodthar than any whar else. "

Hale laughed aloud--the judge glared at him and he turned quicklyupstairs to his work in the deed-room. Till noon he worked and yet therewas no trouble. After dinner he went back and in two hours his work wasdone. An atmospheric difference he felt as soon as he reached the door. The crowd had melted from the square. There were no women in sight, buteight armed men were in front of the door and two of them, a red Falinand a black Tolliver--Bad Rufe it was--were quarrelling. In everydoorway stood a man cautiously looking on, and in a hotel window he sawa woman's frightened face. It was so still that it seemed impossiblethat a tragedy could be imminent, and yet, while he was trying totake the conditions in, one of the quarrelling men--Bad RufeTolliver--whipped out his revolver and before he could level it, a Falinstruck the muzzle of a pistol into his back. Another Tolliver flashedhis weapon on the Falin. This Tolliver was covered by another Falinand in so many flashes of lightning the eight men in front of him werecovering each other--every man afraid to be the first to shoot, since heknew that the flash of his own pistol meant instantaneous death for him. As Hale shrank back, he pushed against somebody who thrust him aside. Itwas the judge:

"Why don't somebody shoot?" he asked sarcastically. "You're a purty seto' fools, ain't you? I want you all to stop this damned foolishness. Nowwhen I give the word I want you, Jim Falin and Rufe Tolliver thar, todrap yer guns. "

Already Rufe was grinning like a devil over the absurdity of thesituation. 

"Now!" said the judge, and the two guns were dropped. 

"Put 'em in yo' pockets. "

They did. 

"Drap!" All dropped and, with those two, all put up their guns--eachman, however, watching now the man who had just been covering him. Itis not wise for the stranger to show too much interest in the personalaffairs of mountain men, and Hale left the judge berating them and wentto the hotel to get ready for the Gap, little dreaming how fixed thefaces of some of those men were in his brain and how, later, they wereto rise in his memory again. His horse was lame--but he must go on:so he hired a "yaller" mule from the landlord, and when the beast wasbrought around, he overheard two men talking at the end of the porch. 

"You don't mean to say they've made peace?"

"Yes, Rufe's going away agin and they shuk hands--all of 'em. " The otherlaughed. 

"Rufe ain't gone yit!"

The Cumberland River was rain-swollen. The home-going people werehelping each other across it and, as Hale approached the ford of a creekhalf a mile beyond the river, a black-haired girl was standing on aboulder looking helplessly at the yellow water, and two boys were on theground below her. One of them looked up at Hale:

"I wish ye'd help this lady 'cross. "

"Certainly, " said Hale, and the girl giggled when he laboriously turnedhis old mule up to the boulder. Not accustomed to have ladies ridebehind him, Hale had turned the wrong side. Again he laboriously wheeledabout and then into the yellow torrent he went with the girl behind him, the old beast stumbling over the stones, whereat the girl, unafraid, made sounds of much merriment. Across, Hale stopped and saidcourteously:

"If you are going up this way, you are quite welcome to ride on. "

"Well, I wasn't crossin' that crick jes' exactly fer fun, " said the girldemurely, and then she murmured something about her cousins and lookedback. They had gone down to a shallower ford, and when they, too, hadwaded across, they said nothing and the girl said nothing--so Halestarted on, the two boys following. The mule was slow and, being in ahurry, Hale urged him with his whip. Every time he struck, the beastwould kick up and once the girl came near going off. 

"You must watch out, when I hit him, " said Hale. 

"I don't know when you're goin' to hit him, " she drawled unconcernedly. 

"Well, I'll let you know, " said Hale laughing. "Now!" And, as he whackedthe beast again, the girl laughed and they were better acquainted. Presently they passed two boys. Hale was wearing riding-boots and tightbreeches, and one of the boys ran his eyes up boot and leg and if theywere lifted higher, Hale could not tell. 

"Whar'd you git him?" he squeaked. 

The girl turned her head as the mule broke into a trot. 

"Ain't got time to tell. They are my cousins, " explained the girl. 

"What is your name?" asked Hale. 

"Loretty Tolliver. " Hale turned in his saddle. 

"Are you the daughter of Dave Tolliver?"

"Yes. "

"Then you've got a brother named Dave?"

"Yes. " This, then, was the sister of the black-haired boy he had seen inthe Lonesome Cove. 

"Haven't you got some kinfolks over the mountain?"

"Yes, I got an uncle livin' over thar. Devil Judd, folks calls him, "said the girl simply. This girl was cousin to little June in LonesomeCove. Every now and then she would look behind them, and when Haleturned again inquiringly she explained:

"I'm worried about my cousins back thar. I'm afeered somethin' moughthappen to 'em. "

"Shall we wait for them?"

"Oh, no--I reckon not. "

Soon they overtook two men on horseback, and after they passed and werefifty yards ahead of them, one of the men lifted his voice jestingly:

"Is that your woman, stranger, or have you just borrowed her?" Haleshouted back:

"No, I'm sorry to say, I've just borrowed her, " and he turned to see howshe would take this answering pleasantry. She was looking down shyly andshe did not seem much pleased. 

"They are kinfolks o' mine, too, " she said, and whether it was inexplanation or as a rebuke, Hale could not determine. 

"You must be kin to everybody around here?"

"Most everybody, " she said simply. 

By and by they came to a creek. 

"I have to turn up here, " said Hale. 

"So do I, " she said, smiling now directly at him. 

"Good!" he said, and they went on--Hale asking more questions. She wasgoing to school at the county seat the coming winter and she was fifteenyears old. 

"That's right. The trouble in the mountains is that you girls marry soearly that you don't have time to get an education. " She wasn't goingto marry early, she said, but Hale learned now that she had a sweetheartwho had been in town that day and apparently the two had had a quarrel. Who it was, she would not tell, and Hale would have been amazed had heknown the sweetheart was none other than young Buck Falin and that thequarrel between the lovers had sprung from the opening quarrel that daybetween the clans. Once again she came near going off the mule, and Haleobserved that she was holding to the cantel of his saddle. 

"Look here, " he said suddenly, "hadn't you better catch hold of me?" Sheshook her head vigorously and made two not-to-be-rendered sounds thatmeant:

"No, indeed. "

"Well, if this were your sweetheart you'd take hold of him, wouldn'tyou?"

Again she gave a vigorous shake of the head. 

"Well, if he saw you riding behind me, he wouldn't like it, would he?"

"She didn't keer, " she said, but Hale did; and when he heard thegalloping of horses behind him, saw two men coming, and heard oneof them shouting--"Hyeh, you man on that yaller mule, stop thar"--heshifted his revolver, pulled in and waited with some uneasiness. Theycame up, reeling in their saddles--neither one the girl's sweetheart, as he saw at once from her face--and began to ask what the girlcharacterized afterward as "unnecessary questions": who he was, who shewas, and where they were going. Hale answered so shortly that the girlthought there was going to be a fight, and she was on the point ofslipping from the mule. 

"Sit still, " said Hale, quietly. "There's not going to be a fight solong as you are here. "

"Thar hain't!" said one of the men. "Well"--then he looked sharplyat the girl and turned his horse--"Come on, Bill--that's ole DaveTolliver's gal. " The girl's face was on fire. 

"Them mean Falins!" she said contemptuously, and somehow the mere factthat Hale had been even for the moment antagonistic to the otherfaction seemed to put him in the girl's mind at once on her side, andstraightway she talked freely of the feud. Devil Judd had takenno active part in it for a long time, she said, except to keep itdown--especially since he and her father had had a "fallin' out" andthe two families did not visit much--though she and her cousin Junesometimes spent the night with each other. 

"You won't be able to git over thar till long atter dark, " she said, andshe caught her breath so suddenly and so sharply that Hale turned to seewhat the matter was. She searched his face with her black eyes, whichwere like June's without the depths of June's. 

"I was just a-wonderin' if mebbe you wasn't the same feller that wasover in Lonesome last fall. "

"Maybe I am--my name's Hale. " The girl laughed. "Well, if this ain't thebeatenest! I've heerd June talk about you. My brother Dave don't likeyou overmuch, " she added frankly. "I reckon we'll see Dave purty soon. If this ain't the beatenest!" she repeated, and she laughed again, asshe always did laugh, it seemed to Hale, when there was any prospect ofgetting him into trouble. 

"You can't git over thar till long atter dark, " she said againpresently. 

"Is there any place on the way where I can get to stay all night?"

"You can stay all night with the Red Fox on top of the mountain. "

"The Red Fox, " repeated Hale. 

"Yes, he lives right on top of the mountain. You can't miss his house. "

"Oh, yes, I remember him. I saw him talking to one of the Falins in townto-day, behind the barn, when I went to get my horse. "

"You--seed--him--a-talkin'--to a Falin AFORE the trouble come up?" thegirl asked slowly and with such significance that Hale turned to lookat her. He felt straightway that he ought not to have said that, andthe day was to come when he would remember it to his cost. He knew howfoolish it was for the stranger to show sympathy with, or interestin, one faction or another in a mountain feud, but to give any kind ofinformation of one to the other--that was unwise indeed. Ahead of themnow, a little stream ran from a ravine across the road. Beyond was acabin; in the doorway were several faces, and sitting on a horse at thegate was young Dave Tolliver. 

"Well, I git down here, " said the girl, and before his mule stopped sheslid from behind him and made for the gate without a word of thanks orgood-by. 

"Howdye!" said Hale, taking in the group with his glance, but leavinghis eyes on young Dave. The rest nodded, but the boy was too surprisedfor speech, and the spirit of deviltry took the girl when she saw herbrother's face, and at the gate she turned:

"Much obleeged, " she said. "Tell June I'm a-comin' over to see her nextSunday. "

"I will, " said Hale, and he rode on. To his surprise, when he had gone ahundred yards, he heard the boy spurring after him and he looked aroundinquiringly as young Dave drew alongside; but the boy said nothing andHale, amused, kept still, wondering when the lad would open speech. Atthe mouth of another little creek the boy stopped his horse as thoughhe was to turn up that way. "You've come back agin, " he said, searchingHale's face with his black eyes. 

"Yes, " said Hale, "I've come back again. "

"You goin' over to Lonesome Cove?"

"Yes. "

The boy hesitated, and a sudden change of mind was plain to Hale in hisface. "I wish you'd tell Uncle Judd about the trouble in town to-day, "he said, still looking fixedly at Hale. 

"Certainly. "

"Did you tell the Red Fox that day you seed him when you was goin' overto the Gap last fall that you seed me at Uncle Judd's?"

"No, " said Hale. "But how did you know that I saw the Red Fox that day?"The boy laughed unpleasantly. 

"So long, " he said. "See you agin some day. " The way was steep and thesun was down and darkness gathering before Hale reached the top of themountain--so he hallooed at the yard fence of the Red Fox, who peeredcautiously out of the door and asked his name before he came to thegate. And there, with a grin on his curious mismatched face, he repeatedyoung Dave's words:

"You've come back agin. " And Hale repeated his:

"Yes, I've come back again. "

"You goin' over to Lonesome Cove?"

"Yes, " said Hale impatiently, "I'm going over to Lonesome Cove. Can Istay here all night?"

"Shore!" said the old man hospitably. "That's a fine hoss you gotthar, " he added with a chuckle. "Been swappin'?" Hale had to laugh as heclimbed down from the bony ear-flopping beast. 

"I left my horse in town--he's lame. "

"Yes, I seed you thar. " Hale could not resist: "Yes, and I seed you. "The old man almost turned. 

"Whar?" Again the temptation was too great. 

"Talking to the Falin who started the row. " This time the Red Foxwheeled sharply and his pale-blue eyes filled with suspicion. 

"I keeps friends with both sides, " he said. "Ain't many folks can dothat. "

"I reckon not, " said Hale calmly, but in the pale eyes he still sawsuspicion. 

When they entered the cabin, a little old woman in black, dumb andnoiseless, was cooking supper. The children of the two, he learned, hadscattered, and they lived there alone. On the mantel were two pistolsand in one corner was the big Winchester he remembered and behind itwas the big brass telescope. On the table was a Bible and a volume ofSwedenborg, and among the usual strings of pepper-pods and beans andtwisted long green tobacco were drying herbs and roots of all kinds, andabout the fireplace were bottles of liquids that had been stewed fromthem. The little old woman served, and opened her lips not at all. Supper was eaten with no further reference to the doings in town thatday, and no word was said about their meeting when Hale first went toLonesome Cove until they were smoking on the porch. 

"I heerd you found some mighty fine coal over in Lonesome Cove. "

"Yes. "

"Young Dave Tolliver thinks you found somethin' else thar, too, "chuckled the Red Fox. 

"I did, " said Hale coolly, and the old man chuckled again. 

"She's a purty leetle gal--shore. "

"Who is?" asked Hale, looking calmly at his questioner, and the Red Foxlapsed into baffled silence. 

The moon was brilliant and the night was still. Suddenly the Red Foxcocked his ear like a hound, and without a word slipped swiftly withinthe cabin. A moment later Hale heard the galloping of a horse and fromout the dark woods loped a horseman with a Winchester across his saddlebow. He pulled in at the gate, but before he could shout "Hello" the RedFox had stepped from the porch into the moonlight and was going tomeet him. Hale had never seen a more easy, graceful, daring figure onhorseback, and in the bright light he could make out the reckless faceof the man who had been the first to flash his pistol in town thatday--Bad Rufe Tolliver. For ten minutes the two talked in whispers--Rufebent forward with one elbow on the withers of his horse but lifting hiseyes every now and then to the stranger seated in the porch--and thenthe horseman turned with an oath and galloped into the darkness whencehe came, while the Red Fox slouched back to the porch and droppedsilently into his seat. 

"Who was that?" asked Hale. 

"Bad Rufe Tolliver. "

"I've heard of him. "

"Most everybody in these mountains has. He's the feller that's alwayscausin' trouble. Him and Joe Falin agreed to go West last fall to endthe war. Joe was killed out thar, and now Rufe claims Joe don't countnow an' he's got the right to come back. Soon's he comes back, thingsgit frolicksome agin. He swore he wouldn't go back unless another Falingoes too. Wirt Falin agreed, and that's how they made peace to-day. NowRufe says he won't go at all--truce or no truce. My wife in thar isa Tolliver, but both sides comes to me and I keeps peace with both of'em. "

No doubt he did, Hale thought, keep peace or mischief with or againstanybody with that face of his. That was a common type of the bad man, that horseman who had galloped away from the gate--but this old man withhis dual face, who preached the Word on Sundays and on other days was awalking arsenal; who dreamed dreams and had visions and slipped throughthe hills in his mysterious moccasins on errands of mercy or chasing menfrom vanity, personal enmity or for fun, and still appeared so sane--hewas a type that confounded. No wonder for these reasons and as a tributeto his infernal shrewdness he was known far and wide as the Red Foxof the Mountains. But Hale was too tired for further speculation andpresently he yawned. 

"Want to lay down?" asked the old man quickly. 

"I think I do, " said Hale, and they went inside. The little old womanhad her face to the wall in a bed in one corner and the Red Fox pointedto a bed in the other:

"Thar's yo' bed. " Again Hale's eyes fell on the big Winchester. 

"I reckon thar hain't more'n two others like it in all these mountains. "

"What's the calibre?"

"Biggest made, " was the answer, "a 50 x 75. "

"Centre fire?"

"Rim, " said the Red Fox. 

"Gracious, " laughed Hale, "what do you want such a big one for?"

"Man cannot live by bread alone--in these mountains, " said the Red Foxgrimly. 

When Hale lay down he could hear the old man quavering out a hymn or twoon the porch outside: and when, worn out with the day, he went to sleep, the Red Fox was reading his Bible by the light of a tallow dip. It isfatefully strange when people, whose lives tragically intersect, lookback to their first meetings with one another, and Hale never forgotthat night in the cabin of the Red Fox. For had Bad Rufe Tolliver, whilehe whispered at the gate, known the part the quiet young man silentlyseated in the porch would play in his life, he would have shot him wherehe sat: and could the Red Fox have known the part his sleeping guest wasto play in his, the old man would have knifed him where he lay. 

X

Hale opened his eyes next morning on the little old woman in black, moving ghost-like through the dim interior to the kitchen. A wood-thrushwas singing when he stepped out on the porch and its cool notes had theliquid freshness of the morning. Breakfast over, he concluded to leavethe yellow mule with the Red Fox to be taken back to the county town, and to walk down the mountain, but before he got away the landlord's sonturned up with his own horse, still lame, but well enough to limp alongwithout doing himself harm. So, leading the black horse, Hale starteddown. 

The sun was rising over still seas of white mist and wave after waveof blue Virginia hills. In the shadows below, it smote the mists intotatters; leaf and bush glittered as though after a heavy rain, and downHale went under a trembling dew-drenched world and along a tumblingseries of water-falls that flashed through tall ferns, blossoming laureland shining leaves of rhododendron. Once he heard something move belowhim and then the crackling of brush sounded far to one side of theroad. He knew it was a man who would be watching him from a covert and, straightway, to prove his innocence of any hostile or secret purpose, hebegan to whistle. Farther below, two men with Winchesters rose fromthe bushes and asked his name and his business. He told both readily. Everybody, it seemed, was prepared for hostilities and, though the newsof the patched-up peace had spread, it was plain that the factions werestill suspicious and on guard. Then the loneliness almost of LonesomeCove itself set in. For miles he saw nothing alive but an occasionalbird and heard no sound but of running water or rustling leaf. At themouth of the creek his horse's lameness had grown so much better thathe mounted him and rode slowly up the river. Within an hour he couldsee the still crest of the Lonesome Pine. At the mouth of a creek amile farther on was an old gristmill with its water-wheel asleep, andwhittling at the door outside was the old miller, Uncle Billy Beams, who, when he heard the coming of the black horse's feet, looked up andshowed no surprise at all when he saw Hale. 

"I heard you was comin', " he shouted, hailing him cheerily by name. "Ain't fishin' this time!"

"No, " said Hale, "not this time. "

"Well, git down and rest a spell. June'll be here in a minute an' youcan ride back with her. I reckon you air goin' that a-way. "

"June!"

"Shore! My, but she'll be glad to see ye! She's always talkin' about ye. You told her you was comin' back an' ever'body told her you wasn't: butthat leetle gal al'ays said she KNOWED you was, because you SAID youwas. She's growed some--an' if she ain't purty, well I'd tell a man! Youjes' tie yo' hoss up thar behind the mill so she can't see it, an' gitinside the mill when she comes round that bend thar. My, but hit'll be asurprise fer her. "

The old man chuckled so cheerily that Hale, to humour him, hitched hishorse to a sapling, came back and sat in the door of the mill. The oldman knew all about the trouble in town the day before. 

"I want to give ye a leetle advice. Keep yo' mouth plum' shut about thishere war. I'm Jestice of the Peace, but that's the only way I've keptouten of it fer thirty years; an' hit's the only way you can keep outenit. "

"Thank you, I mean to keep my mouth shut, but would you mind--"

"Git in!" interrupted the old man eagerly. "Hyeh she comes. " His kindold face creased into a welcoming smile, and between the logs of themill Hale, inside, could see an old sorrel horse slowly coming throughthe lights and shadows down the road. On its back was a sack of corn andperched on the sack was a little girl with her bare feet in the hollowsbehind the old nag's withers. She was looking sidewise, quite hidden bya scarlet poke-bonnet, and at the old man's shout she turned the smilingface of little June. With an answering cry, she struck the old nag witha switch and before the old man could rise to help her down, slippedlightly to the ground. 

"Why, honey, " he said, "I don't know whut I'm goin' to do 'bout yo'corn. Shaft's broke an' I can't do no grindin' till to-morrow. "

"Well, Uncle Billy, we ain't got a pint o' meal in the house, " she said. "You jes' got to LEND me some. "

"All right, honey, " said the old man, and he cleared his throat as asignal for Hale. 

The little girl was pushing her bonnet back when Hale stepped into sightand, unstartled, unsmiling, unspeaking, she looked steadily at him--onehand motionless for a moment on her bronze heap of hair and thenslipping down past her cheek to clench the other tightly. Uncle Billywas bewildered. 

"Why, June, hit's Mr. Hale--why---"

"Howdye, June!" said Hale, who was no less puzzled--and still she gaveno sign that she had ever seen him before except reluctantly to give himher hand. Then she turned sullenly away and sat down in the door of themill with her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands. 

Dumfounded, the old miller pulled the sack of corn from the horseand leaned it against the mill. Then he took out his pipe, filled andlighted it slowly and turned his perplexed eyes to the sun. 

"Well, honey, " he said, as though he were doing the best he could with adifficult situation, "I'll have to git you that meal at the house. 'Boutdinner time now. You an' Mr. Hale thar come on and git somethin' to eatafore ye go back. "

"I got to get on back home, " said June, rising. 

"No you ain't--I bet you got dinner fer yo' step-mammy afore you left, an' I jes' know you was aimin' to take a snack with me an' ole Hon. "The little girl hesitated--she had no denial--and the old fellow smiledkindly. 

"Come on, now. "

Little June walked on the other side of the miller from Hale back to theold man's cabin, two hundred yards up the road, answering his questionsbut not Hale's and never meeting the latter's eyes with her own. "OleHon, " the portly old woman whom Hale remembered, with brass-rimmedspectacles and a clay pipe in her mouth, came out on the porch andwelcomed them heartily under the honeysuckle vines. Her mouth and facewere alive with humour when she saw Hale, and her eyes took in both himand the little girl keenly. The miller and Hale leaned chairs againstthe wall while the girl sat at the entrance of the porch. Suddenly Halewent out to his horse and took out a package from his saddle-pockets. 

"I've got some candy in here for you, " he said smiling. 

"I don't want no candy, " she said, still not looking at him and with alittle movement of her knees away from him. 

"Why, honey, " said Uncle Billy again, "whut IS the matter with ye? Ithought ye was great friends. " The little girl rose hastily. 

"No, we ain't, nuther, " she said, and she whisked herself indoors. Haleput the package back with some embarrassment and the old miller laughed. 

"Well, well--she's a quar little critter; mebbe she's mad because youstayed away so long. "

At the table June wanted to help ole Hon and wait to eat with her, butUncle Billy made her sit down with him and Hale, and so shy was she thatshe hardly ate anything. Once only did she look up from her plate andthat was when Uncle Billy, with a shake of his head, said:

"He's a bad un. " He was speaking of Rufe Tolliver, and at the mention ofhis name there was a frightened look in the little girl's eyes, when shequickly raised them, that made Hale wonder. 

An hour later they were riding side by side--Hale and June--on throughthe lights and shadows toward Lonesome Cove. Uncle Billy turned backfrom the gate to the porch. 

"He ain't come back hyeh jes' fer coal, " said ole Hon. 

"Shucks!" said Uncle Billy; "you women-folks can't think 'bout nothin''cept one thing. He's too old fer her. "

"She'll git ole enough fer HIM--an' you menfolks don't think less--youjes' talk less. " And she went back into the kitchen, and on the porchthe old miller puffed on a new idea in his pipe. 

For a few minutes the two rode in silence and not yet had June liftedher eyes to him. 

"You've forgotten me, June. "

"No, I hain't, nuther. "

"You said you'd be waiting for me. " June's lashes went lower still. 

"I was. "

"Well, what's the matter? I'm mighty sorry I couldn't get back sooner. "

"Huh!" said June scornfully, and he knew Uncle Billy in his guess as tothe trouble was far afield, and so he tried another tack. 

"I've been over to the county seat and I saw lots of your kinfolks overthere. " She showed no curiosity, no surprise, and still she did not lookup at him. 

"I met your cousin, Loretta, over there and I carried her home behind meon an old mule"--Hale paused, smiling at the remembrance--and still shebetrayed no interest. 

"She's a mighty pretty girl, and whenever I'd hit that old---"

"She hain't!"--the words were so shrieked out that Hale was bewildered, and then he guessed that the falling out between the fathers was moreserious than he had supposed. 

"But she isn't as nice as you are, " he added quickly, and the girl'squivering mouth steadied, the tears stopped in her vexed dark eyes andshe lifted them to him at last. 

"She ain't?"

"No, indeed, she ain't. "

For a while they rode along again in silence. June no longer avoided hiseyes now, and the unspoken question in her own presently came out:

"You won't let Uncle Rufe bother me no more, will ye?"

"No, indeed, I won't, " said Hale heartily. "What does he do to you?"

"Nothin'--'cept he's always a-teasin' me, an'--an' I'm afeered o' him. "

"Well, I'll take care of Uncle Rufe. "

"I knowed YOU'D say that, " she said. "Pap and Dave always laughs at me, "and she shook her head as though she were already threatening herbad uncle with what Hale would do to him, and she was so serious andtrustful that Hale was curiously touched. By and by he lifted one flapof his saddle-pockets again. 

"I've got some candy here for a nice little girl, " he said, as thoughthe subject had not been mentioned before. "It's for you. Won't you havesome?"

"I reckon I will, " she said with a happy smile. 

Hale watched her while she munched a striped stick of peppermint. Hercrimson bonnet had fallen from her sunlit hair and straight down from itto her bare little foot with its stubbed toe just darkening with driedblood, a sculptor would have loved the rounded slenderness in thecurving long lines that shaped her brown throat, her arms and her hands, which were prettily shaped but so very dirty as to the nails, and herdangling bare leg. Her teeth were even and white, and most of themflashed when her red lips smiled. Her lashes were long and gave atouching softness to her eyes even when she was looking quietly at him, but there were times, as he had noticed already, when a broodinglook stole over them, and then they were the lair for the mysteriousloneliness that was the very spirit of Lonesome Cove. Some day thatlittle nose would be long enough, and some day, he thought, she would bevery beautiful. 

"Your cousin, Loretta, said she was coming over to see you. "

June's teeth snapped viciously through the stick of candy and then sheturned on him and behind the long lashes and deep down in the depth ofthose wonderful eyes he saw an ageless something that bewildered himmore than her words. 

"I hate her, " she said fiercely. 

"Why, little girl?" he said gently. 

"I don't know--" she said--and then the tears came in earnest and sheturned her head, sobbing. Hale helplessly reached over and patted her onthe shoulder, but she shrank away from him. 

"Go away!" she said, digging her fist into her eyes until her face wascalm again. 

They had reached the spot on the river where he had seen her first, andbeyond, the smoke of the cabin was rising above the undergrowth. 

"Lordy!" she said, "but I do git lonesome over hyeh. "

"Wouldn't you like to go over to the Gap with me sometimes?"

Straightway her face was a ray of sunlight. 

"Would--I like--to--go--over--"

She stopped suddenly and pulled in her horse, but Hale had heardnothing. 

"Hello!" shouted a voice from the bushes, and Devil Judd Tolliver issuedfrom them with an axe on his shoulder. "I heerd you'd come back an'I'm glad to see ye. " He came down to the road and shook Hale's handheartily. 

"Whut you been cryin' about?" he added, turning his hawk-like eyes onthe little girl. 

"Nothin', " she said sullenly. 

"Did she git mad with ye 'bout somethin'?" said the old man to Hale. "She never cries 'cept when she's mad. " Hale laughed. 

"You jes' hush up--both of ye, " said the girl with a sharp kick of herright foot. 

"I reckon you can't stamp the ground that fer away from it, " said theold man dryly. "If you don't git the better of that all-fired temper o'yourn hit's goin' to git the better of you, an' then I'll have to spankyou agin. "

"I reckon you ain't goin' to whoop me no more, pap. I'm a-gittin' toobig. "

The old man opened eyes and mouth with an indulgent roar of laughter. 

"Come on up to the house, " he said to Hale, turning to lead the way, thelittle girl following him. The old step-mother was again a-bed; smallBub, the brother, still unafraid, sat down beside Hale and the old manbrought out a bottle of moonshine. 

"I reckon I can still trust ye, " he said. 

"I reckon you can, " laughed Hale. 

The liquor was as fiery as ever, but it was grateful, and again theold man took nearly a tumbler full plying Hale, meanwhile, about thehappenings in town the day before--but Hale could tell him nothing thathe seemed not already to know. 

"It was quar, " the old mountaineer said. "I've seed two men with thedrap on each other and both afeerd to shoot, but I never heerd of sech aring-around-the-rosy as eight fellers with bead on one another and not ashoot shot. I'm glad I wasn't thar. "

He frowned when Hale spoke of the Red Fox. 

"You can't never tell whether that ole devil is fer ye or agin ye, butI've been plum' sick o' these doin's a long time now and sometimesI think I'll just pull up stakes and go West and git out ofhit--altogether. "

"How did you learn so much about yesterday--so soon?"

"Oh, we hears things purty quick in these mountains. Little DaveTolliver come over here last night. "

"Yes, " broke in Bub, "and he tol' us how you carried Loretty from townon a mule behind ye, and she jest a-sassin' you, an' as how she said shewas a-goin' to git you fer HER sweetheart. "

Hale glanced by chance at the little girl. Her face was scarlet, and alight dawned. 

"An' sis, thar, said he was a-tellin' lies--an' when she growed up shesaid she was a-goin' to marry---"

Something snapped like a toy-pistol and Bub howled. A little brown handhad whacked him across the mouth, and the girl flashed indoors withouta word. Bub got to his feet howling with pain and rage and started afterher, but the old man caught him:

"Set down, boy! Sarved you right fer blabbin' things that hain't yo'business. " He shook with laughter. 

Jealousy! Great heavens--Hale thought--in that child, and for him!

"I knowed she was cryin' 'bout something like that. She sets a greatstore by you, an' she's studied them books you sent her plum' to pieceswhile you was away. She ain't nothin' but a baby, but in sartain waysshe's as old as her mother was when she died. " The amazing secret wasout, and the little girl appeared no more until supper time, when shewaited on the table, but at no time would she look at Hale or speak tohim again. For a while the two men sat on the porch talking of the feudand the Gap and the coal on the old man's place, and Hale had no troublegetting an option for a year on the old man's land. Just as dusk wassetting he got his horse. 

"You'd better stay all night. "

"No, I'll have to get along. "

The little girl did not appear to tell him goodby, and when he went tohis horse at the gate, he called:

"Tell June to come down here. I've got something for her. "

"Go on, baby, " the old man said, and the little girl came shyly down tothe gate. Hale took a brown-paper parcel from his saddle-bags, unwrappedit and betrayed the usual blue-eyed, flaxen-haired, rosy-cheeked doll. Only June did not know the like of it was in all the world. And as shecaught it to her breast there were tears once more in her uplifted eyes. 

"How about going over to the Gap with me, little girl--some day?"

He never guessed it, but there were a child and a woman before him nowand both answered:

"I'll go with ye anywhar. "

 * * * * * * *

Hale stopped a while to rest his horse at the base of the big pine. Hewas practically alone in the world. The little girl back there wasborn for something else than slow death in that God-forsaken cove, andwhatever it was--why not help her to it if he could? With this thoughtin his brain, he rode down from the luminous upper world of the moon andstars toward the nether world of drifting mists and black ravines. Shebelonged to just such a night--that little girl--she was a part of itsmists, its lights and shadows, its fresh wild beauty and its mystery. Only once did his mind shift from her to his great purpose, and that waswhen the roar of the water through the rocky chasm of the Gap made himthink of the roar of iron wheels, that, rushing through, some day, woulddrown it into silence. At the mouth of the Gap he saw the white valleylying at peace in the moonlight and straightway from it sprang again, asalways, his castle in the air; but before he fell asleep in his cottageon the edge of the millpond that night he heard quite plainly again:

"I'll go with ye--anywhar. "

XI

Spring was coming: and, meanwhile, that late autumn and short winter, things went merrily on at the gap in some ways, and in some ways--not. 

Within eight miles of the place, for instance, the man fell ill--the manwho was to take up Hale's options--and he had to be taken home. StillHale was undaunted: here he was and here he would stay--and he would tryagain. Two other young men, Bluegrass Kentuckians, Logan andMacfarlan, had settled at the gap--both lawyers and both of pioneer, Indian-fighting blood. The report of the State geologist had been spreadbroadcast. A famous magazine writer had come through on horseback andhad gone home and given a fervid account of the riches and the beauty ofthe region. Helmeted Englishmen began to prowl prospectively around thegap sixty miles to the southwest. New surveying parties were directinglines for the rocky gateway between the iron ore and the coal. Engineersand coal experts passed in and out. There were rumours of a furnaceand a steel plant when the railroad should reach the place. Capital hadflowed in from the East, and already a Pennsylvanian was starting a mainentry into a ten-foot vein of coal up through the gap and was cokingit. His report was that his own was better than the Connellsville coke, which was the standard: it was higher in carbon and lower in ash. TheLudlow brothers, from Eastern Virginia, had started a general store. Twoof the Berkley brothers had come over from Bluegrass Kentucky and theirfamily was coming in the spring. The bearded Senator up the valley, whowas also a preacher, had got his Methodist brethren interested--and thecommunity was further enriched by the coming of the Hon. Samuel Budd, lawyer and budding statesman. As a recreation, the Hon. Sam was ananthropologist: he knew the mountaineers from Virginia to Alabama andthey were his pet illustrations of his pet theories of the effect ofa mountain environment on human life and character. Hale took a greatfancy to him from the first moment he saw his smooth, ageless, kindlyface, surmounted by a huge pair of spectacles that were hooked behindtwo large ears, above which his pale yellow hair, parted in the middle, was drawn back with plaster-like precision. A mayor and a constablehad been appointed, and the Hon. Sam had just finished his firstcase--Squire Morton and the Widow Crane, who ran a boarding-house, eachhaving laid claim to three pigs that obstructed traffic in the town. TheHon. Sam was sitting by the stove, deep in thought, when Hale cameinto the hotel and he lifted his great glaring lenses and waited for nointroduction:

"Brother, " he said, "do you know twelve reliable witnesses come onthe stand and SWORE them pigs belonged to the squire's sow, and twelveequally reliable witnesses SWORE them pigs belonged to the Widow Crane'ssow? I shorely was a heap perplexed. "

"That was curious. " The Hon. Sam laughed:

"Well, sir, them intelligent pigs used both them sows as mothers, andmay be they had another mother somewhere else. They would breakfast withthe Widow Crane's sow and take supper with the squire's sow. And so themwitnesses, too, was naturally perplexed. "

Hale waited while the Hon. Sam puffed his pipe into a glow:

"Believin', as I do, that the most important principle in law ismutually forgivin' and a square division o' spoils, I suggested acompromise. The widow said the squire was an old rascal an' thief andhe'd never sink a tooth into one of them shoats, but that her lawyerwas a gentleman--meanin' me--and the squire said the widow had beenblackguardin' him all over town and he'd see her in heaven before shegot one, but that HIS lawyer was a prince of the realm: so the otherlawyer took one and I got the other. "

"What became of the third?"

The Hon. Sam was an ardent disciple of Sir Walter Scott:

"Well, just now the mayor is a-playin' Gurth to that little runt forcosts. "

Outside, the wheels of the stage rattled, and as half a dozen strangerstrooped in, the Hon. Sam waved his hand: "Things is comin'. "

Things were coming. The following week "the booming editor" brought ina printing-press and started a paper. An enterprising Hoosier soonestablished a brick-plant. A geologist--Hale's predecessor in LonesomeCove--made the Gap his headquarters, and one by one the vanguard ofengineers, surveyors, speculators and coalmen drifted in. The wings ofprogress began to sprout, but the new town-constable soon tendered hisresignation with informality and violence. He had arrested a Falin, whose companions straightway took him from custody and set him free. Straightway the constable threw his pistol and badge of office to theground. 

"I've fit an' I've hollered fer help, " he shouted, almost crying withrage, "an' I've fit agin. Now this town can go to hell": and he pickedup his pistol but left his symbol of law and order in the dust. Nextmorning there was a new constable, and only that afternoon when Halestepped into the Ludlow Brothers' store he found the constable alreadybusy. A line of men with revolver or knife in sight was drawn up insidewith their backs to Hale, and beyond them he could see the new constablewith a man under arrest. Hale had not forgotten his promise to himselfand he began now:

"Come on, " he called quietly, and when the men turned at the sound ofhis voice, the constable, who was of sterner stuff than his predecessor, pushed through them, dragging his man after him. 

"Look here, boys, " said Hale calmly. "Let's not have any row. Let him goto the mayor's office. If he isn't guilty, the mayor will let him go. Ifhe is, the mayor will give him bond. I'll go on it myself. But let's nothave a row. "

Now, to the mountain eye, Hale appeared no more than the ordinary man, and even a close observer would have seen no more than that his face wasclean-cut and thoughtful, that his eye was blue and singularly clearand fearless, and that he was calm with a calmness that might come fromanything else than stolidity of temperament--and that, by the way, isthe self-control which counts most against the unruly passions of othermen--but anybody near Hale, at a time when excitement was high and acrisis was imminent, would have felt the resultant of forces emanatingfrom him that were beyond analysis. And so it was now--the curious powerhe instinctively had over rough men had its way. 

"Go on, " he continued quietly, and the constable went on with hisprisoner, his friends following, still swearing and with their weaponsin their hands. When constable and prisoner passed into the mayor'soffice, Hale stepped quickly after them and turned on the threshold withhis arm across the door. 

"Hold on, boys, " he said, still good-naturedly. "The mayor can attend tothis. If you boys want to fight anybody, fight me. I'm unarmed and youcan whip me easily enough, " he added with a laugh, "but you mustn't comein here, " he concluded, as though the matter was settled beyond furtherdiscussion. For one instant--the crucial one, of course--the menhesitated, for the reason that so often makes superior numbers of noavail among the lawless--the lack of a leader of nerve--and withoutanother word Hale held the door. But the frightened mayor inside let theprisoner out at once on bond and Hale, combining law and diplomacy, wenton the bond. 

Only a day or two later the mountaineers, who worked at the brick-plantwith pistols buckled around them, went on a strike and, that night, shotout the lights and punctured the chromos in their boarding-house. Then, armed with sticks, knives, clubs and pistols, they took a triumphantmarch through town. That night two knives and two pistols were whippedout by two of them in the same store. One of the Ludlows promptly blewout the light and astutely got under the counter. When the combatantsscrambled outside, he locked the door and crawled out the back window. Next morning the brick-yard malcontents marched triumphantly again andHale called for volunteers to arrest them. To his disgust only Logan, Macfarlan, the Hon. Sam Budd, and two or three others seemed willing togo, but when the few who would go started, Hale, leading them, lookedback and the whole town seemed to be strung out after him. Below thehill, he saw the mountaineers drawn up in two bodies for battle and, ashe led his followers towards them, the Hoosier owner of the plant rodeout at a gallop, waving his hands and apparently beside himself withanxiety and terror. 

"Don't, " he shouted; "somebody'll get killed. Wait--they'll give up. " SoHale halted and the Hoosier rode back. After a short parley he came backto Hale to say that the strikers would give up, but when Logan startedagain, they broke and ran, and only three or four were captured. TheHoosier was delirious over his troubles and straightway closed hisplant. 

"See, " said Hale in disgust. "We've got to do something now. "

"We have, " said the lawyers, and that night on Hale's porch, the three, with the Hon. Sam Budd, pondered the problem. They could not build atown without law and order--they could not have law and order withouttaking part themselves, and even then they plainly would have theirhands full. And so, that night, on the tiny porch of the little cottagethat was Hale's sleeping-room and office, with the creaking of the onewheel of their one industry--the old grist-mill--making patient musicthrough the rhododendron-darkness that hid the steep bank of thestream, the three pioneers forged their plan. There had beengentlemen-regulators a plenty, vigilance committees of gentlemen, andthe Ku-Klux clan had been originally composed of gentlemen, as they allknew, but they meant to hew to the strict line of town-ordinance andcommon law and do the rough everyday work of the common policeman. So volunteer policemen they would be and, in order to extend theirauthority as much as possible, as county policemen they would beenrolled. Each man would purchase his own Winchester, pistol, billy, badge and a whistle--to call for help--and they would begin drilling andtarget-shooting at once. The Hon. Sam shook his head dubiously:

"The natives won't understand. "

"We can't help that, " said Hale. 

"I know--I'm with you. "

Hale was made captain, Logan first lieutenant, Macfarlan second, and theHon. Sam third. Two rules, Logan, who, too, knew the mountaineer well, suggested as inflexible. One was never to draw a pistol at all unlessnecessary, never to pretend to draw as a threat or to intimidate, andnever to draw unless one meant to shoot, if need be. 

"And the other, " added Logan, "always go in force to make anarrest--never alone unless necessary. " The Hon. Sam moved his head upand down in hearty approval. 

"Why is that?" asked Hale. 

"To save bloodshed, " he said. "These fellows we will have to deal withhave a pride that is morbid. A mountaineer doesn't like to go home andhave to say that one man put him in the calaboose--but he doesn't mindtelling that it took several to arrest him. Moreover, he will give into two or three men, when he would look on the coming of one man as apersonal issue and to be met as such. "

Hale nodded. 

"Oh, there'll be plenty of chances, " Logan added with a smile, "foreveryone to go it alone. " Again the Hon. Sam nodded grimly. It wasplain to him that they would have all they could do, but no one of themdreamed of the far-reaching effect that night's work would bring. 

They were the vanguard of civilization--"crusaders of the nineteenthcentury against the benighted of the Middle Ages, " said the Hon. Sam, and when Logan and Macfarlan left, he lingered and lit his pipe. 

"The trouble will be, " he said slowly, "that they won't understand ourpurpose or our methods. They will look on us as a lot of meddlesome'furriners' who have come in to run their country as we please, whenthey have been running it as they please for more than a hundred years. You see, you mustn't judge them by the standards of to-day--you mustgo back to the standards of the Revolution. Practically, they are thepioneers of that day and hardly a bit have they advanced. They areour contemporary ancestors. " And then the Hon. Sam, having dropped hisvernacular, lounged ponderously into what he was pleased to call hisanthropological drool. 

"You see, mountains isolate people and the effect of isolation onhuman life is to crystallize it. Those people over the line have hadno navigable rivers, no lakes, no wagon roads, except often the beds ofstreams. They have been cut off from all communication with the outsideworld. They are a perfect example of an arrested civilization and theyare the closest link we have with the Old World. They were Unionistsbecause of the Revolution, as they were Americans in the beginningbecause of the spirit of the Covenanter. They live like the pioneers;the axe and the rifle are still their weapons and they still have thesame fight with nature. This feud business is a matter of clan-loyaltythat goes back to Scotland. They argue this way: You are my friend ormy kinsman, your quarrel is my quarrel, and whoever hits you hits me. If you are in trouble, I must not testify against you. If you are anofficer, you must not arrest me; you must send me a kindly request tocome into court. If I'm innocent and it's perfectly convenient--why, maybe I'll come. Yes, we're the vanguard of civilization, all right, allright--but I opine we're goin' to have a hell of a merry time. "

Hale laughed, but he was to remember those words of the Hon. SamuelBudd. Other members of that vanguard began to drift in now by twos andthrees from the bluegrass region of Kentucky and from the tide-watercountry of Virginia and from New England--strong, bold young men withthe spirit of the pioneer and the birth, breeding and education ofgentlemen, and the war between civilization and a lawlessness that wasthe result of isolation, and consequent ignorance and idleness startedin earnest. 

"A remarkable array, " murmured the Hon. Sam, when he took an inventoryone night with Hale, "I'm proud to be among 'em. "

Many times Hale went over to Lonesome Cove and with every visit hisinterest grew steadily in the little girl and in the curious peopleover there, until he actually began to believe in the Hon. Sam Budd'santhropological theories. In the cabin on Lonesome Cove was a craneswinging in the big stone fireplace, and he saw the old step-mother andJune putting the spinning wheel and the loom to actual use. Sometimeshe found a cabin of unhewn logs with a puncheon floor, clapboards forshingles and wooden pin and auger holes for nails; a batten woodenshutter, the logs filled with mud and stones and holes in the roof forthe wind and the rain. Over a pair of buck antlers sometimes lay thelong heavy home-made rifle of the backwoodsman--sometimes even with aflintlock and called by some pet feminine name. Once he saw the hominyblock that the mountaineers had borrowed from the Indians, and once ahandmill like the one from which the one woman was taken and theother left in biblical days. He struck communities where the medium ofexchange was still barter, and he found mountaineers drinking metheglinstill as well as moonshine. Moreover, there were still log-rollings, house-warmings, corn-shuckings, and quilting parties, and sports werethe same as in pioneer days--wrestling, racing, jumping, and liftingbarrels. Often he saw a cradle of beegum, and old Judd had in his housea fox-horn made of hickory bark which even June could blow. He ranacross old-world superstitions, too, and met one seventh son of aseventh son who cured children of rash by blowing into their mouths. Andhe got June to singing transatlantic songs, after old Judd said one daythat she knowed the "miserablest song he'd ever heerd"--meaning the mostsorrowful. And, thereupon, with quaint simplicity, June put her heels onthe rung of her chair, and with her elbows on her knees, and her chinon both bent thumbs, sang him the oldest version of "Barbara Allen" in avoice that startled Hale by its power and sweetness. She knew lots more"song-ballets, " she said shyly, and the old man had her sing some songsthat were rather rude, but were as innocent as hymns from her lips. 

Everywhere he found unlimited hospitality. 

"Take out, stranger, " said one old fellow, when there was nothing onthe table but some bread and a few potatoes, "have a tater. Take two of'em--take damn nigh ALL of 'em. "

Moreover, their pride was morbid, and they were very religious. Indeed, they used religion to cloak their deviltry, as honestly as it was everused in history. He had heard old Judd say once, when he was speaking ofthe feud:

"Well, I've al'ays laid out my enemies. The Lord's been on my side an' Igits a better Christian every year. "

Always Hale took some children's book for June when he went to LonesomeCove, and she rarely failed to know it almost by heart when he wentagain. She was so intelligent that he began to wonder if, in her case, at least, another of the Hon. Sam's theories might not be true--thatthe mountaineers were of the same class as the other westward-sweepingemigrants of more than a century before, that they had simply laindormant in the hills and--a century counting for nothing in the matterof inheritance--that their possibilities were little changed, andthat the children of that day would, if given the chance, wipe out thehandicap of a century in one generation and take their place abreastwith children of the outside world. The Tollivers were of good blood;they had come from Eastern Virginia, and the original Tolliver hadbeen a slave-owner. The very name was, undoubtedly, a corruption ofTagliaferro. So, when the Widow Crane began to build a brick house forher boarders that winter, and the foundations of a school-house werelaid at the Gap, Hale began to plead with old Judd to allow June to goover to the Gap and go to school, but the old man was firm in refusal:

"He couldn't git along without her, " he said; "he was afeerd he'dlose her, an' he reckoned June was a-larnin' enough without goin' toschool--she was a-studyin' them leetle books o' hers so hard. " But ashis confidence in Hale grew and as Hale stated his intention to take anoption on the old man's coal lands, he could see that Devil Judd, thoughhis answer never varied, was considering the question seriously. 

Through the winter, then, Hale made occasional trips to Lonesome Coveand bided his time. Often he met young Dave Tolliver there, but theboy usually left when Hale came, and if Hale was already there, he keptoutside the house, until the engineer was gone. 

Knowing nothing of the ethics of courtship in the mountains--how, whentwo men meet at the same girl's house, "they makes the gal say which oneshe likes best and t'other one gits"--Hale little dreamed that the firsttime Dave stalked out of the room, he threw his hat in the grassbehind the big chimney and executed a war-dance on it, cursing theblankety-blank "furriner" within from Dan to Beersheba. 

Indeed, he never suspected the fierce depths of the boy's jealousy atall, and he would have laughed incredulously, if he had been told how, time after time as he climbed the mountain homeward, the boy's blackeyes burned from the bushes on him, while his hand twitched at hispistol-butt and his lips worked with noiseless threats. For Dave hadto keep his heart-burnings to himself or he would have been laughedat through all the mountains, and not only by his own family, but byJune's; so he, too, bided his time. 

In late February, old Buck Falin and old Dave Tolliver shot each otherdown in the road and the Red Fox, who hated both and whom each thoughtwas his friend, dressed the wounds of both with equal care. Thetemporary lull of peace that Bad Rufe's absence in the West had broughtabout, gave way to a threatening storm then, and then it was that oldJudd gave his consent: when the roads got better, June could go to theGap to school. A month later the old man sent word that he did not wantJune in the mountains while the trouble was going on, and that Halecould come over for her when he pleased: and Hale sent word back thatwithin three days he would meet the father and the little girl at thebig Pine. That last day at home June passed in a dream. She went throughher daily tasks in a dream and she hardly noticed young Dave when hecame in at mid-day, and Dave, when he heard the news, left in sullensilence. In the afternoon she went down to the mill to tell Uncle Billyand ole Hon good-by and the three sat in the porch a long time and withfew words. Ole Hon had been to the Gap once, but there was "so muchbustle over thar it made her head ache. " Uncle Billy shook his headdoubtfully over June's going, and the two old people stood at the gatelooking long after the little girl when she went homeward up the road. Before supper June slipped up to her little hiding-place at the pool andsat on the old log saying good-by to the comforting spirit that alwaysbrooded for her there, and, when she stood on the porch at sunset, anew spirit was coming on the wings of the South wind. Hale felt it ashe stepped into the soft night air; he heard it in the piping offrogs--"Marsh-birds, " as he always called them; he could almost see itin the flying clouds and the moonlight and even the bare trees seemedtremulously expectant. An indefinable happiness seemed to pervade thewhole earth and Hale stretched his arms lazily. Over in Lonesome Covelittle June felt it more keenly than ever in her life before. She didnot want to go to bed that night, and when the others were asleep sheslipped out to the porch and sat on the steps, her eyes luminous and herface wistful--looking towards the big Pine which pointed the way towardsthe far silence into which she was going at last. 

XII

June did not have to be awakened that morning. At the first clarion callof the old rooster behind the cabin, her eyes opened wide and a happythrill tingled her from head to foot--why, she didn't at first quiterealize--and then she stretched her slender round arms to full lengthabove her head and with a little squeal of joy bounded out of the bed, dressed as she was when she went into it, and with no changes to makeexcept to push back her tangled hair. Her father was out feeding thestock and she could hear her step-mother in the kitchen. Bub still sleptsoundly, and she shook him by the shoulder. 

"Git up, Bub. "

"Go 'way, " said Bub fretfully. Again she started to shake him butstopped--Bub wasn't going to the Gap, so she let him sleep. For a littlewhile she looked down at him--at his round rosy face and his frowsy hairfrom under which protruded one dirty fist. She was going to leave him, and a fresh tenderness for him made her breast heave, but she did notkiss him, for sisterly kisses are hardly known in the hills. Then shewent out into the kitchen to help her step-mother. 

"Gittin' mighty busy, all of a sudden, ain't ye, " said the sour oldwoman, "now that ye air goin' away. "

"'Tain't costin' you nothin', " answered June quietly, and she picked upa pail and went out into the frosty, shivering daybreak to the old well. The chain froze her fingers, the cold water splashed her feet, and whenshe had tugged her heavy burden back to the kitchen, she held her red, chapped hands to the fire. 

"I reckon you'll be mighty glad to git shet o' me. " The old womansniffled, and June looked around with a start. 

"Pears like I'm goin' to miss ye right smart, " she quavered, and June'sface coloured with a new feeling towards her step-mother. 

"I'm goin' ter have a hard time doin' all the work and me so poorly. "

"Lorrety is a-comin' over to he'p ye, if ye git sick, " said June, hardening again. "Or, I'll come back myself. " She got out the dishes andset them on the table. 

"You an' me don't git along very well together, " she went on placidly. "I never heerd o' no step-mother and children as did, an' I reckonyou'll be might glad to git shet o' me. "

"Pears like I'm going to miss ye a right smart, " repeated the old womanweakly. 

June went out to the stable with the milking pail. Her father had spreadfodder for the cow and she could hear the rasping of the ears of cornagainst each other as he tumbled them into the trough for the oldsorrel. She put her head against the cow's soft flank and under hersinewy fingers two streams of milk struck the bottom of the tin pailwith such thumping loudness that she did not hear her father's step;but when she rose to make the beast put back her right leg, she saw himlooking at her. 

"Who's goin' ter milk, pap, atter I'm gone?"

"This the fust time you thought o' that?" June put her flushed cheekback to the flank of the cow. It was not the first time she had thoughtof that--her step-mother would milk and if she were ill, her father orLoretta. She had not meant to ask that question--she was wondering whenthey would start. That was what she meant to ask and she was glad thatshe had swerved. Breakfast was eaten in the usual silence by the boy andthe man--June and the step-mother serving it, and waiting on the lordthat was and the lord that was to be--and then the two females sat down. 

"Hurry up, June, " said the old man, wiping his mouth and beard with theback of his hand. "Clear away the dishes an' git ready. Hale said hewould meet us at the Pine an' hour by sun, fer I told him I had to gitback to work. Hurry up, now!"

June hurried up. She was too excited to eat anything, so she beganto wash the dishes while her step-mother ate. Then she went into theliving-room to pack her things and it didn't take long. She wrapped thedoll Hale had given her in an extra petticoat, wound one pair of yarnstockings around a pair of coarse shoes, tied them up into one bundleand she was ready. Her father appeared with the sorrel horse, caught uphis saddle from the porch, threw it on and stretched the blanket behindit as a pillion for June to ride on. 

"Let's go!" he said. There is little or no demonstrativeness in thedomestic relations of mountaineers. The kiss of courtship is the onlyone known. There were no good-bys--only that short "Let's go!"

June sprang behind her father from the porch. The step-mother handed herthe bundle which she clutched in her lap, and they simply rode away, thestep-mother and Bub silently gazing after them. But June saw the boy'smouth working, and when she turned the thicket at the creek, she lookedback at the two quiet figures, and a keen pain cut her heart. Sheshut her mouth closely, gripped her bundle more tightly and the tearsstreamed down her face, but the man did not know. They climbed insilence. Sometimes her father dismounted where the path was steep, butJune sat on the horse to hold the bundle and thus they mounted throughthe mist and chill of the morning. A shout greeted them from the top ofthe little spur whence the big Pine was visible, and up there they foundHale waiting. He had reached the Pine earlier than they and was comingdown to meet them. 

"Hello, little girl, " called Hale cheerily, "you didn't fail me, didyou?"

June shook her head and smiled. Her face was blue and her little legs, dangling under the bundle, were shrinking from the cold. Her bonnet hadfallen to the back of her neck, and he saw that her hair was parted andgathered in a Psyche knot at the back of her head, giving her a quaintold look when she stood on the ground in her crimson gown. Hale had notforgotten a pillion and there the transfer was made. Hale lifted herbehind his saddle and handed up her bundle. 

"I'll take good care of her, " he said. 

"All right, " said the old man. 

"And I'm coming over soon to fix up that coal matter, and I'll let youknow how she's getting on. "

"All right. "

"Good-by, " said Hale. 

"I wish ye well, " said the mountaineer. "Be a good girl, Juny, and dowhat Mr. Hale thar tells ye. "

"All right, pap. " And thus they parted. June felt the power of Hale'sbig black horse with exultation the moment he started. 

"Now we're off, " said Hale gayly, and he patted the little hand that wasabout his waist. "Give me that bundle. "

"I can carry it. "

"No, you can't--not with me, " and when he reached around for it andput it on the cantle of his saddle, June thrust her left hand into hisovercoat pocket and Hale laughed. 

"Loretta wouldn't ride with me this way. "

"Loretty ain't got much sense, " drawled June complacently. "'Tain't noharm. But don't you tell me! I don't want to hear nothin' 'bout Lorettynoway. " Again Hale laughed and June laughed, too. Imp that she was, shewas just pretending to be jealous now. She could see the big Pine overhis shoulder. 

"I've knowed that tree since I was a little girl--since I was a baby, "she said, and the tone of her voice was new to Hale. "Sister Sally ustertell me lots about that ole tree. " Hale waited, but she stopped again. 

"What did she tell you?"

"She used to say hit was curious that hit should be 'way up here allalone--that she reckollected it ever since SHE was a baby, and she usedto come up here and talk to it, and she said sometimes she could hear itjus' a whisperin' to her when she was down home in the cove. "

"What did she say it said?"

"She said it was always a-whisperin' 'come--come--come!'" June croonedthe words, "an' atter she died, I heerd the folks sayin' as how sheriz up in bed with her eyes right wide an' sayin' "I hears it! It'sa-whisperin'--I hears it--come--come--come'!" And still Hale kept quietwhen she stopped again. 

"The Red Fox said hit was the sperits, but I knowed when they told methat she was a thinkin' o' that ole tree thar. But I never let on. Ireckon that's ONE reason made me come here that day. " They were close tothe big tree now and Hale dismounted to fix his girth for the descent. 

"Well, I'm mighty glad you came, little girl. I might never have seenyou. "

"That's so, " said June. "I saw the print of your foot in the mud rightthere. "

"Did ye?"

"And if I hadn't, I might never have gone down into Lonesome Cove. " Junelaughed. 

"You ran from me, " Hale went on. 

"Yes, I did: an' that's why you follered me. " Hale looked up quickly. Her face was demure, but her eyes danced. She was an aged little thing. 

"Why did you run?"

"I thought yo' fishin' pole was a rifle-gun an' that you was a raider. "Hale laughed--"I see. "

"'Member when you let yo' horse drink?" Hale nodded. "Well, I was on arock above the creek, lookin' down at ye. An' I seed ye catchin' minnersan' thought you was goin' up the crick lookin' fer a still. "

"Weren't you afraid of me then?"

"Huh!" she said contemptuously. "I wasn't afeared of you at all, 'ceptfer what you mought find out. You couldn't do no harm to nobody withouta gun, and I knowed thar wasn't no still up that crick. I know--I knowedwhar it was. " Hale noticed the quick change of tense. 

"Won't you take me to see it some time?"

"No!" she said shortly, and Hale knew he had made a mistake. It was toosteep for both to ride now, so he tied the bundle to the cantle withleathern strings and started leading the horse. June pointed to the edgeof the cliff. 

"I was a-layin' flat right thar and I seed you comin' down thar. My, but you looked funny to me! You don't now, " she added hastily. "You lookmighty nice to me now--!"

"You're a little rascal, " said Hale, "that's what you are. " The littlegirl bubbled with laughter and then she grew mock-serious. 

"No, I ain't. "

"Yes, you are, " he repeated, shaking his head, and both were silent fora while. June was going to begin her education now and it was just aswell for him to begin with it now. So he started vaguely when he wasmounted again:

"June, you thought my clothes were funny when you first saw them--didn'tyou?"

"Uh, huh!" said June. 

"But you like them now?"

"Uh, huh!" she crooned again. 

"Well, some people who weren't used to clothes that people wear overin the mountains might think THEM funny for the same reason--mightn'tthey?" June was silent for a moment. 

"Well, mebbe, I like your clothes better, because I like you better, "she said, and Hale laughed. 

"Well, it's just the same--the way people in the mountains dress andtalk is different from the way people outside dress and talk. It doesn'tmake much difference about clothes, though, I guess you will want to beas much like people over here as you can--"

"I don't know, " interrupted the little girl shortly, "I ain't seed 'emyit. "

"Well, " laughed Hale, "you will want to talk like them anyhow, becauseeverybody who is learning tries to talk the same way. " June was silent, and Hale plunged unconsciously on. 

"Up at the Pine now you said, 'I SEED you when I was A-LAYIN on theedge of the cliff'; now you ought to have said, 'I SAW you when I wasLYING--'"

"I wasn't, " she said sharply, "I don't tell lies--" her hand shot fromhis waist and she slid suddenly to the ground. He pulled in his horseand turned a bewildered face. She had lighted on her feet and was poisedback above him like an enraged eaglet--her thin nostrils quivering, hermouth as tight as a bow-string, and her eyes two points of fire. 

"Why--June!"

"Ef you don't like my clothes an' the way I talk, I reckon I'd better goback home. " With a groan Hale tumbled from his horse. Fool that he was, he had forgotten the sensitive pride of the mountaineer, even while hewas thinking of that pride. He knew that fun might be made of her speechand her garb by her schoolmates over at the Gap, and he was trying toprepare her--to save her mortification, to make her understand. 

"Why, June, little girl, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. You don'tunderstand--you can't now, but you will. Trust me, won't you? _I_ likeyou just as you are. I LOVE the way you talk. But other people--forgiveme, won't you?" he pleaded. "I'm sorry. I wouldn't hurt you for theworld. "

She didn't understand--she hardly heard what he said, but she did knowhis distress was genuine and his sorrow: and his voice melted her fiercelittle heart. The tears began to come, while she looked, and when he puthis arms about her, she put her face on his breast and sobbed. 

"There now!" he said soothingly. "It's all right now. I'm so sorry--sovery sorry, " and he patted her on the shoulder and laid his hand acrossher temple and hair, and pressed her head tight to his breast. Almost assuddenly she stopped sobbing and loosening herself turned away from him. 

"I'm a fool--that's what I am, " she said hotly. 

"No, you aren't! Come on, little girl! We're friends again, aren't we?"June was digging at her eyes with both hands. 

"Aren't we?"

"Yes, " she said with an angry little catch of her breath, and she turnedsubmissively to let him lift her to her seat. Then she looked down intohis face. 

"Jack, " she said, and he started again at the frank address, "I ain'tNEVER GOIN' TO DO THAT NO MORE. "

"Yes, you are, little girl, " he said soberly but cheerily. "You're goin'to do it whenever I'm wrong or whenever you think I'm wrong. " She shookher head seriously. 

"No, Jack. "

In a few minutes they were at the foot of the mountain and on a levelroad. 

"Hold tight!" Hale shouted, "I'm going to let him out now. " At thetouch of his spur, the big black horse sprang into a gallop, faster andfaster, until he was pounding the hard road in a swift run like thunder. At the creek Hale pulled in and looked around. June's bonnet was down, her hair was tossed, her eyes were sparkling fearlessly, and her facewas flushed with joy. 

"Like it, June?"

"I never did know nothing like it. "

"You weren't scared?"

"Skeered o' what?" she asked, and Hale wondered if there was anything ofwhich she would be afraid. 

They were entering the Gap now and June's eyes got big with wonder overthe mighty up-shooting peaks and the rushing torrent. 

"See that big rock yonder, June?" June craned her neck to follow withher eyes his outstretched finger. 

"Uh, huh. "

"Well, that's called Bee Rock, because it's covered with flowers--purplerhododendrons and laurel--and bears used to go there for wild honey. They say that once on a time folks around here put whiskey in the honeyand the bears got so drunk that people came and knocked 'em in the headwith clubs. "

"Well, what do you think o' that!" said June wonderingly. 

Before them a big mountain loomed, and a few minutes later, at the mouthof the Gap, Hale stopped and turned his horse sidewise. 

"There we are, June, " he said. 

June saw the lovely little valley rimmed with big mountains. She couldfollow the course of the two rivers that encircled it by the trees thatfringed their banks, and she saw smoke rising here and there and thatwas all. She was a little disappointed. 

"It's mighty purty, " she said, "I never seed"--she paused, but went onwithout correcting herself--"so much level land in all my life. "

The morning mail had just come in as they rode by the post-office andseveral men hailed her escort, and all stared with some wonder at her. Hale smiled to himself, drew up for none and put on a face of utterunconsciousness that he was doing anything unusual. June felt vaguelyuncomfortable. Ahead of them, when they turned the corner of the street, her eyes fell on a strange tall red house with yellow trimmings, thatwas not built of wood and had two sets of windows one above the other, and before that Hale drew up. 

"Here we are. Get down, little girl. "

"Good-morning!" said a voice. Hale looked around and flushed, andJune looked around and stared--transfixed as by a vision from anotherworld--at the dainty figure behind them in a walking suit, a short skirtthat showed two little feet in laced tan boots and a cap with a plume, under which was a pair of wide blue eyes with long lashes, and a mouththat suggested active mischief and gentle mockery. 

"Oh, good-morning, " said Hale, and he added gently, "Get down, June!"

The little girl slipped to the ground and began pulling her bonnet onwith both hands--but the newcomer had caught sight of the Psyche knotthat made June look like a little old woman strangely young, and themockery at her lips was gently accentuated by a smile. Hale swung fromhis saddle. 

"This is the little girl I told you about, Miss Anne, " he said. "She'scome over to go to school. " Instantly, almost, Miss Anne had been meltedby the forlorn looking little creature who stood before her, shy for themoment and dumb, and she came forward with her gloved hand outstretched. But June had seen that smile. She gave her hand, and Miss Annestraightway was no little surprised; there was no more shyness in thedark eyes that blazed from the recesses of the sun-bonnet, and Miss Annewas so startled when she looked into them that all she could say was:"Dear me!" A portly woman with a kind face appeared at the door of thered brick house and came to the gate. 

"Here she is, Mrs. Crane, " called Hale. 

"Howdye, June!" said the Widow Crane kindly. "Come right in!" In herJune knew straightway she had a friend and she picked up her bundle andfollowed upstairs--the first real stairs she had ever seen--and intoa room on the floor of which was a rag carpet. There was a bed in onecorner with a white counterpane and a washstand with a bowl and pitcher, which, too, she had never seen before. 

"Make yourself at home right now, " said the Widow Crane, pulling open adrawer under a big looking-glass--"and put your things here. That's yourbed, " and out she went. 

How clean it was! There were some flowers in a glass vase on the mantel. There were white curtains at the big window and a bed to herself--herown bed. She went over to the window. There was a steep bank, lined withrhododendrons, right under it. There was a mill-dam below and down thestream she could hear the creaking of a water-wheel, and she could seeit dripping and shining in the sun--a gristmill! She thought of UncleBilly and ole Hon, and in spite of a little pang of home-sickness shefelt no loneliness at all. 

"I KNEW she would be pretty, " said Miss Anne at the gate outside. 

"I TOLD you she was pretty, " said Hale. 

"But not so pretty as THAT, " said Miss Anne. "We will be great friends. "

"I hope so--for her sake, " said Hale. 

 * * * * * * *

Hale waited till noon-recess was nearly over, and then he went to takeJune to the school-house. He was told that she was in her room and hewent up and knocked at the door. There was no answer--for one does notknock on doors for entrance in the mountains, and, thinking he had madea mistake, he was about to try another room, when June opened the doorto see what the matter was. She gave him a glad smile. 

"Come on, " he said, and when she went for her bonnet, he stepped intothe room. 

"How do you like it?" June nodded toward the window and Hale went to it. 

"That's Uncle Billy's mill out thar. "

"Why, so it is, " said Hale smiling. "That's fine. "

The school-house, to June's wonder, had shingles on the OUTSIDE aroundall the walls from roof to foundation, and a big bell hung on top ofit under a little shingled roof of its own. A pale little man withspectacles and pale blue eyes met them at the door and he gave June apale, slender hand and cleared his throat before he spoke to her. 

"She's never been to school, " said Hale; "she can read and spell, butshe's not very strong on arithmetic. "

"Very well, I'll turn her over to the primary. " The school-bell sounded;Hale left with a parting prophecy--"You'll be proud of her some day"--atwhich June blushed and then, with a beating heart, she followed thelittle man into his office. A few minutes later, the assistant camein, and she was none other than the wonderful young woman whom Hale hadcalled Miss Anne. There were a few instructions in a halting voice andwith much clearing of the throat from the pale little man; and a momentlater June walked the gauntlet of the eyes of her schoolmates, every oneof whom looked up from his book or hers to watch her as she went to herseat. Miss Anne pointed out the arithmetic lesson and, without liftingher eyes, June bent with a flushed face to her task. It reddened withshame when she was called to the class, for she sat on the bench, tallerby a head and more than any of the boys and girls thereon, exceptone awkward youth who caught her eye and grinned with unashamedcompanionship. The teacher noticed her look and understood with a suddenkeen sympathy, and naturally she was struck by the fact that the newpupil was the only one who never missed an answer. 

"She won't be there long, " Miss Anne thought, and she gave June a smilefor which the little girl was almost grateful. June spoke to no one, butwalked through her schoolmates homeward, when school was over, like ahaughty young queen. Miss Anne had gone ahead and was standing at thegate talking with Mrs. Crane, and the young woman spoke to June mostkindly. 

"Mr. Hale has been called away on business, " she said, and June's heartsank--"and I'm going to take care of you until he comes back. "

"I'm much obleeged, " she said, and while she was not ungracious, hermanner indicated her belief that she could take care of herself. AndMiss Anne felt uncomfortably that this extraordinary young personwas steadily measuring her from head to foot. June saw the smartclose-fitting gown, the dainty little boots, and the carefully brushedhair. She noticed how white her teeth were and her hands, and she sawthat the nails looked polished and that the tips of them were likelittle white crescents; and she could still see every detail when shesat at her window, looting down at the old mill. She SAW Mr. Hale whenhe left, the young lady had said; and she had a headache now and wasgoing home to LIE down. She understood now what Hale meant, on themountainside when she was so angry with him. She was learning fast, andmost from the two persons who were not conscious what they were teachingher. And she would learn in the school, too, for the slumbering ambitionin her suddenly became passionately definite now. She went to the mirrorand looked at her hair--she would learn how to plait that in two braidsdown her back, as the other school-girls did. She looked at her handsand straightway she fell to scrubbing them with soap as she had neverscrubbed them before. As she worked, she heard her name called and sheopened the door. 

"Yes, mam!" she answered, for already she had picked that up in theschool-room. 

"Come on, June, and go down the street with me. "

"Yes, mam, " she repeated, and she wiped her hands and hurried down. Mrs. Crane had looked through the girl's pathetic wardrobe, while she wasat school that afternoon, had told Hale before he left and she had asurprise for little June. Together they went down the street and intothe chief store in town and, to June's amazement, Mrs. Crane beganordering things for "this little girl. "

"Who's a-goin' to pay fer all these things?" whispered June, aghast. 

"Don't you bother, honey. Mr. Hale said he would fix all that with yourpappy. It's some coal deal or something--don't you bother!" And June ina quiver of happiness didn't bother. Stockings, petticoats, some softstuff for a new dress and TAN shoes that looked like the ones thatwonderful young woman wore and then some long white things. 

"What's them fer?" she whispered, but the clerk heard her and laughed, whereat Mrs. Crane gave him such a glance that he retired quickly. 

"Night-gowns, honey. "

"You SLEEP in 'em?" said June in an awed voice. 

"That's just what you do, " said the good old woman, hardly less pleasedthan June. 

"My, but you've got pretty feet. "

"I wish they were half as purty as--"

"Well, they are, " interrupted Mrs. Crane a little snappishly; apparentlyshe did not like Miss Anne. 

"Wrap 'em up and Mr. Hale will attend to the bill. "

"All right, " said the clerk looking much mystified. 

Outside the door, June looked up into the beaming goggles of the Hon. Samuel Budd. 

"Is THIS the little girl? Howdye, June, " he said, and June put her handin the Hon. Sam's with a sudden trust in his voice. 

"I'm going to help take care of you, too, " said Mr. Budd, and Junesmiled at him with shy gratitude. How kind everybody was!

"I'm much obleeged, " she said, and she and Mrs. Crane went on back withtheir bundles. 

June's hands so trembled when she found herself alone with her treasuresthat she could hardly unpack them. When she had folded and laid themaway, she had to unfold them to look at them again. She hurried tobed that night merely that she might put on one of those wonderfulnight-gowns, and again she had to look all her treasures over. She wasglad that she had brought the doll because HE had given it to her, butshe said to herself "I'm a-gittin' too big now fer dolls!" and she putit away. Then she set the lamp on the mantel-piece so that she could seeherself in her wonderful night-gown. She let her shining hair fall likemolten gold around her shoulders, and she wondered whether she couldever look like the dainty creature that just now was the model she sopassionately wanted to be like. Then she blew out the lamp and sat awhile by the window, looking down through the rhododendrons, at theshining water and at the old water-wheel sleepily at rest in themoonlight. She knelt down then at her bedside to say her prayers--asher dead sister had taught her to do--and she asked God to blessJack--wondering as she prayed that she had heard nobody else call himJack--and then she lay down with her breast heaving. She had told himshe would never do that again, but she couldn't help it now--the tearscame and from happiness she cried herself softly to sleep. 

XIII

Hale rode that night under a brilliant moon to the worm of a railroadthat had been creeping for many years toward the Gap. The head of it wasjust protruding from the Natural Tunnel twenty miles away. There hesent his horse back, slept in a shanty till morning, and then the traincrawled through a towering bench of rock. The mouth of it on the otherside opened into a mighty amphitheatre with solid rock walls shootingvertically hundreds of feet upward. Vertically, he thought--with theback of his head between his shoulders as he looked up--they were morethan vertical--they were actually concave. The Almighty had not onlystored riches immeasurable in the hills behind him--He had driven thispassage Himself to help puny man to reach them, and yet the wretchedroad was going toward them like a snail. On the fifth night, thereafterhe was back there at the tunnel again from New York--with a grim mouthand a happy eye. He had brought success with him this time and there wasno sleep for him that night. He had been delayed by a wreck, it was twoo'clock in the morning, and not a horse was available; so he startedthose twenty miles afoot, and day was breaking when he looked down onthe little valley shrouded in mist and just wakening from sleep. 

Things had been moving while he was away, as he quickly learned. The English were buying lands right and left at the gap sixty milessouthwest. Two companies had purchased most of the town-site where hewas--HIS town-site--and were going to pool their holdings and form animprovement company. But a good deal was left, and straightway Hale gota map from his office and with it in his hand walked down the curve ofthe river and over Poplar Hill and beyond. Early breakfast was readywhen he got back to the hotel. He swallowed a cup of coffee so hastilythat it burned him, and June, when she passed his window on her way toschool, saw him busy over his desk. She started to shout to him, buthe looked so haggard and grim that she was afraid, and went on, vaguelyhurt by a preoccupation that seemed quite to have excluded her. For twohours then, Hale haggled and bargained, and at ten o'clock he went tothe telegraph office. The operator who was speculating in a small wayhimself smiled when he read the telegram. 

"A thousand an acre?" he repeated with a whistle. "You could have gotthat at twenty-five per--three months ago. "

"I know, " said Hale, "there's time enough yet. " Then he went to hisroom, pulled the blinds down and went to sleep, while rumour played withhis name through the town. 

It was nearly the closing hour of school when, dressed and freshlyshaven, he stepped out into the pale afternoon and walked up toward theschoolhouse. The children were pouring out of the doors. At the gatethere was a sudden commotion, he saw a crimson figure flash into thegroup that had stopped there, and flash out, and then June came swiftlytoward him followed closely by a tall boy with a cap on his head. Thatfar away he could see that she was angry and he hurried toward her. Herface was white with rage, her mouth was tight and her dark eyes wereaflame. Then from the group another tall boy darted out and behindhim ran a smaller one, bellowing. Hale heard the boy with the cap callkindly:

"Hold on, little girl! I won't let 'em touch you. " June stopped with himand Hale ran to them. 

"Here, " he called, "what's the matter?"

June burst into crying when she saw him and leaned over the fencesobbing. The tall lad with the cap had his back to Hale, and he waitedtill the other two boys came up. Then he pointed to the smaller one andspoke to Hale without looking around. 

"Why, that little skate there was teasing this little girl and--"

"She slapped him, " said Hale grimly. The lad with the cap turned. Hiseyes were dancing and the shock of curly hair that stuck from his absurdlittle cap shook with his laughter. 

"Slapped him! She knocked him as flat as a pancake. "

"Yes, an' you said you'd stand fer her, " said the other tall boy who wasplainly a mountain lad. He was near bursting with rage. 

"You bet I will, " said the boy with the cap heartily, "right now!" andhe dropped his books to the ground. 

"Hold on!" said Hale, jumping between them. "You ought to be ashamed ofyourself, " he said to the mountain boy. 

"I wasn't atter the gal, " he said indignantly. "I was comin' fer him. "

The boy with the cap tried to get away from Hale's grasp. 

"No use, sir, " he said coolly. "You'd better let us settle it now. We'llhave to do it some time. I know the breed. He'll fight all right andthere's no use puttin' it off. It's got to come. "

"You bet it's got to come, " said the mountain lad. "You can't call mybrother names. "

"Well, he IS a skate, " said the boy with the cap, with no heat at all inspite of his indignation, and Hale wondered at his aged calm. 

"Every one of you little tads, " he went on coolly, waving his hand atthe gathered group, "is a skate who teases this little girl. And youolder boys are skates for letting the little ones do it, the whole packof you--and I'm going to spank any little tadpole who does it hereafter, and I'm going to punch the head off any big one who allows it. It's gotto stop NOW!" And as Hale dragged him off he added to the mountain boy, "and I'm going to begin with you whenever you say the word. " Hale waslaughing now. 

"You don't seem to understand, " he said, "this is my affair. "

"I beg your pardon, sir, I don't understand. "

"Why, I'm taking care of this little girl. "

"Oh, well, you see I didn't know that. I've only been here two days. But"--his frank, generous face broke into a winning smile--"you don't goto school. You'll let me watch out for her there?"

"Sure! I'll be very grateful. "

"Not at all, sir--not at all. It was a great pleasure and I think I'llhave lots of fun. " He looked at June, whose grateful eyes had hardlyleft his face. 

"So don't you soil your little fist any more with any of 'em, but justtell me--er--er--"

"June, " she said, and a shy smile came through her tears. 

"June, " he finished with a boyish laugh. "Good-by sir. "

"You haven't told me your name. "

"I suppose you know my brothers, sir, the Berkleys. "

"I should say so, " and Hale held out his hand. "You're Bob?"

"Yes, sir. "

"I knew you were coming, and I'm mighty glad to see you. I hope you andJune will be good friends and I'll be very glad to have you watch overher when I'm away. "

"I'd like nothing better, sir, " he said cheerfully, and quiteimpersonally as far as June was concerned. Then his eyes lighted up. 

"My brothers don't seem to want me to join the Police Guard. Won't yousay a word for me?"

"I certainly will. "

"Thank you, sir. "

That "sir" no longer bothered Hale. At first he had thought it a markof respect to his superior age, and he was not particularly pleased, butwhen he knew now that the lad was another son of the old gentleman whomhe saw riding up the valley every morning on a gray horse, withseveral dogs trailing after him--he knew the word was merely a familycharacteristic of old-fashioned courtesy. 

"Isn't he nice, June?"

"Yes, " she said. 

"Have you missed me, June?"

June slid her hand into his. "I'm so glad you come back. " They wereapproaching the gate now. 

"June, you said you weren't going to cry any more. " June's head drooped. 

"I know, but I jes' can't help it when I git mad, " she said seriously. "I'd bust if I didn't. "

"All right, " said Hale kindly. 

"I've cried twice, " she said. 

"What were you mad about the other time?"

"I wasn't mad. "

"Then why did you cry, June?"

Her dark eyes looked full at him a moment and then her long lashes hidthem. 

"Cause you was so good to me. "

Hale choked suddenly and patted her on the shoulder. 

"Go in, now, little girl, and study. Then you must take a walk. I've gotsome work to do. I'll see you at supper time. "

"All right, " said June. She turned at the gate to watch Hale enter thehotel, and as she started indoors, she heard a horse coming at a gallopand she turned again to see her cousin, Dave Tolliver, pull up in frontof the house. She ran back to the gate and then she saw that he wasswaying in his saddle. 

"Hello, June!" he called thickly. 

Her face grew hard and she made no answer. 

"I've come over to take ye back home. "

She only stared at him rebukingly, and he straightened in his saddlewith an effort at self-control--but his eyes got darker and he lookedugly. 

"D'you hear me? I've come over to take ye home. "

"You oughter be ashamed o' yourself, " she said hotly, and she turned togo back into the house. 

"Oh, you ain't ready now. Well, git ready an' we'll start in themornin'. I'll be aroun' fer ye 'bout the break o' day. "

He whirled his horse with an oath--June was gone. She saw him rideswaying down the street and she ran across to the hotel and found Halesitting in the office with another man. Hale saw her entering the doorswiftly, he knew something was wrong and he rose to meet her. 

"Dave's here, " she whispered hurriedly, "an' he says he's come to takeme home. "

"Well, " said Hale, "he won't do it, will he?" June shook her head andthen she said significantly:

"Dave's drinkin'. "

Hale's brow clouded. Straightway he foresaw trouble--but he saidcheerily:

"All right. You go back and keep in the house and I'll be over by andby and we'll talk it over. " And, without another word, she went. She hadmeant to put on her new dress and her new shoes and stockings that nightthat Hale might see her--but she was in doubt about doing it when shegot to her room. She tried to study her lessons for the next day, butshe couldn't fix her mind on them. She wondered if Dave might not getinto a fight or, perhaps, he would get so drunk that he would goto sleep somewhere--she knew that men did that after drinking verymuch--and, anyhow, he would not bother her until next morning, and thenhe would be sober and would go quietly back home. She was so comfortedthat she got to thinking about the hair of the girl who sat in front ofher at school. It was plaited and she had studied just how it was doneand she began to wonder whether she could fix her own that way. Soshe got in front of the mirror and loosened hers in a mass about hershoulders--the mass that was to Hale like the golden bronze of a wildturkey's wing. The other girl's plaits were the same size, so that thehair had to be equally divided--thus she argued to herself--but how didthat girl manage to plait it behind her back? She did it in front, ofcourse, so June divided the bronze heap behind her and pulled one halfof it in front of her and then for a moment she was helpless. Thenshe laughed--it must be done like the grass-blades and strings she hadplaited for Bub, of course, so, dividing that half into three parts, shedid the plaiting swiftly and easily. When it was finished she looked atthe braid, much pleased--for it hung below her waist and was much longerthan any of the other girls' at school. The transition was easy now, sointerested had she become. She got out her tan shoes and stockingsand the pretty white dress and put them on. The millpond was dark withshadows now, and she went down the stairs and out to the gate just asDave again pulled up in front of it. He stared at the vision wonderinglyand long, and then he began to laugh with the scorn of soberness and thesilliness of drink. 

"YOU ain't June, air ye?" The girl never moved. As if by a preconcertedsignal three men moved toward the boy, and one of them said sternly:

"Drop that pistol. You are under arrest. ' The boy glared like a wildthing trapped, from one to another of the three--a pistol gleamed in thehand of each--and slowly thrust his own weapon into his pocket. 

"Get off that horse, " added the stern voice. Just then Hale rushedacross the street and the mountain youth saw him. 

"Ketch his pistol, " cried June, in terror for Hale--for she knew whatwas coming, and one of the men caught with both hands the wrist ofDave's arm as it shot behind him. 

"Take him to the calaboose!"

At that June opened the gate--that disgrace she could never stand--butHale spoke. 

"I know him, boys. He doesn't mean any harm. He doesn't know theregulations yet. Suppose we let him go home. "

"All right, " said Logan. "The calaboose or home. Will you go home?"

In the moment, the mountain boy had apparently forgotten his captors--hewas staring at June with wonder, amazement, incredulity strugglingthrough the fumes in his brain to his flushed face. She--a Tolliver--hadwarned a stranger against her own blood-cousin. 

"Will you go home?" repeated Logan sternly. 

The boy looked around at the words, as though he were half dazed, andhis baffled face turned sick and white. 

"Lemme loose!" he said sullenly. "I'll go home. " And he rode silentlyaway, after giving Hale a vindictive look that told him plainer thanwords that more was yet to come. Hale had heard June's warning cry, butnow when he looked for her she was gone. He went in to supper and satdown at the table and still she did not come. 

"She's got a surprise for you, " said Mrs. Crane, smiling mysteriously. "She's been fixing for you for an hour. My! but she's pretty in them newclothes--why, June!"

June was coming in--she wore her homespun, her scarlet homespun and thePsyche knot. She did not seem to have heard Mrs. Crane's note of wonder, and she sat quietly down in her seat. Her face was pale and she did notlook at Hale. Nothing was said of Dave--in fact, June said nothing atall, and Hale, too, vaguely understanding, kept quiet. Only when he wentout, Hale called her to the gate and put one hand on her head. 

"I'm sorry, little girl. "

The girl lifted her great troubled eyes to him, but no word passed herlips, and Hale helplessly left her. 

June did not cry that night. She sat by the window--wretched andtearless. She had taken sides with "furriners" against her own people. That was why, instinctively, she had put on her old homespun with avague purpose of reparation to them. She knew the story Dave would takeback home--the bitter anger that his people and hers would feel atthe outrage done him--anger against the town, the Guard, against Halebecause he was a part of both and even against her. Dave was merelydrunk, he had simply shot off his pistol--that was no harm in thehills. And yet everybody had dashed toward him as though he had stolensomething--even Hale. Yes, even that boy with the cap who had stood upfor her at school that afternoon--he had rushed up, his face aflame withexcitement, eager to take part should Dave resist. She had cried outimpulsively to save Hale, but Dave would not understand. No, in his eyesshe had been false to family and friends--to the clan--she had sidedwith "furriners. " What would her father say? Perhaps she'd better gohome next day--perhaps for good--for there was a deep unrest within herthat she could not fathom, a premonition that she was at the parting ofthe ways, a vague fear of the shadows that hung about the strange newpath on which her feet were set. The old mill creaked in the moonlightbelow her. Sometimes, when the wind blew up Lonesome Cove, she couldhear Uncle Billy's wheel creaking just that way. A sudden pang ofhomesickness choked her, but she did not cry. Yes, she would go homenext day. She blew out the light and undressed in the dark as she didat home and went to bed. And that night the little night-gown lay apartfrom her in the drawer--unfolded and untouched. 

XIV

But June did not go home. Hale anticipated that resolution of hers andforestalled it by being on hand for breakfast and taking June over tothe porch of his little office. There he tried to explain to her thatthey were trying to build a town and must have law and order; that theymust have no personal feeling for or against anybody and must treateverybody exactly alike--no other course was fair--and though June couldnot quite understand, she trusted him and she said she would keep on atschool until her father came for her. 

"Do you think he will come, June?"

The little girl hesitated. 

"I'm afeerd he will, " she said, and Hale smiled. 

"Well, I'll try to persuade him to let you stay, if he does come. "

June was quite right. She had seen the matter the night before justas it was. For just at that hour young Dave, sobered, but still on theverge of tears from anger and humiliation, was telling the story of theday in her father's cabin. The old man's brows drew together and hiseyes grew fierce and sullen, both at the insult to a Tolliver and at thethought of a certain moonshine still up a ravine not far away and theindirect danger to it in any finicky growth of law and order. Still hehad a keen sense of justice, and he knew that Dave had not told all thestory, and from him Dave, to his wonder, got scant comfort--for anotherreason as well: with a deal pending for the sale of his lands, theshrewd old man would not risk giving offence to Hale--not until thatmatter was settled, anyway. And so June was safer from interferencejust then than she knew. But Dave carried the story far and wide, andit spread as a story can only in the hills. So that the two people mosttalked about among the Tollivers and, through Loretta, among the Falinsas well, were June and Hale, and at the Gap similar talk would come. Already Hale's name was on every tongue in the town, and there, becauseof his recent purchases of town-site land, he was already, aside fromhis personal influence, a man of mysterious power. 

Meanwhile, the prescient shadow of the coming "boom" had stolen over thehills and the work of the Guard had grown rapidly. 

Every Saturday there had been local lawlessness to deal with. The spiritof personal liberty that characterized the spot was traditional. Herefor half a century the people of Wise County and of Lee, whose borderwas but a few miles down the river, came to get their wool carded, theirgrist ground and farming utensils mended. Here, too, elections were heldviva voce under the beeches, at the foot of the wooded spur now knownas Imboden Hill. Here were the muster-days of wartime. Here on Saturdaysthe people had come together during half a century for sport andhorse-trading and to talk politics. Here they drank apple-jack andhard cider, chaffed and quarrelled and fought fist and skull. Here thebullies of the two counties would come together to decide who was the"best man. " Here was naturally engendered the hostility between thehill-dwellers of Wise and the valley people of Lee, and here was foughta famous battle between a famous bully of Wise and a famous bully ofLee. On election days the country people would bring in gingercakesmade of cane-molasses, bread homemade of Burr flour and moonshine andapple-jack which the candidates would buy and distribute through thecrowd. And always during the afternoon there were men who would try toprove themselves the best Democrats in the State of Virginia by resortto tooth, fist and eye-gouging thumb. Then to these elections sometimeswould come the Kentuckians from over the border to stir up the hostilitybetween state and state, which makes that border bristle with enmity tothis day. For half a century, then, all wild oats from elsewhere usuallysprouted at the Gap. And thus the Gap had been the shrine of personalfreedom--the place where any one individual had the right to do hispleasure with bottle and cards and politics and any other the right toprove him wrong if he were strong enough. Very soon, as the Hon. SamBudd predicted, they had the hostility of Lee concentrated on them assiding with the county of Wise, and they would gain, in additionnow, the general hostility of the Kentuckians, because as a crowd ofmeddlesome "furriners" they would be siding with the Virginians in thegeneral enmity already alive. Moreover, now that the feud threatenedactivity over in Kentucky, more trouble must come, too, from thatsource, as the talk that came through the Gap, after young DaveTolliver's arrest, plainly indicated. 

Town ordinances had been passed. The wild centaurs were no longerallowed to ride up and down the plank walks of Saturdays with theirreins in their teeth and firing a pistol into the ground with eitherhand; they could punctuate the hotel sign no more; they could not rideat a fast gallop through the streets of the town, and, Lost Spirit ofAmerican Liberty!--they could not even yell. But the lawlessness of thetown itself and its close environment was naturally the first objectivepoint, and the first problem involved was moonshine and its faithfulally "the blind tiger. " The "tiger" is a little shanty with an ever-openmouth--a hole in the door like a post-office window. You place yourmoney on the sill and, at the ring of the coin, a mysterious arm emergesfrom the hole, sweeps the money away and leaves a bottle of whitewhiskey. Thus you see nobody's face; the owner of the beast is safe, andso are you--which you might not be, if you saw and told. In every littlehollow about the Gap a tiger had his lair, and these were all bearded atonce by a petition to the county judge for high license saloons, which was granted. This measure drove the tigers out of business, andconcentrated moonshine in the heart of the town, where its devoteeswere under easy guard. One "tiger" only indeed was left, run by around-shouldered crouching creature whom Bob Berkley--now at Hale'ssolicitation a policeman and known as the Infant of the Guard--dubbedCaliban. His shanty stood midway in the Gap, high from the road, setagainst a dark clump of pines and roared at by the river beneath. Everybody knew he sold whiskey, but he was too shrewd to be caught, until, late one afternoon, two days after young Dave's arrest, Halecoming through the Gap into town glimpsed a skulking figure with ahand-barrel as it slipped from the dark pines into Caliban's cabin. Hepulled in his horse, dismounted and deliberated. If he went on down theroad now, they would see him and suspect. Moreover, the patrons of thetiger would not appear until after dark, and he wanted a prisoner ortwo. So Hale led his horse up into the bushes and came back to a covertby the roadside to watch and wait. As he sat there, a merry whistlesounded down the road, and Hale smiled. Soon the Infant of the Guardcame along, his hands in his pockets, his cap on the back of his head, his pistol bumping his hip in manly fashion and making the ravines echowith his pursed lips. He stopped in front of Hale, looked toward theriver, drew his revolver and aimed it at a floating piece of wood. Therevolver cracked, the piece of wood skidded on the surface of the waterand there was no splash. 

"That was a pretty good shot, " said Hale in a low voice. The boy whirledand saw him. 

"Well-what are you--?"

"Easy--easy!" cautioned Hale. "Listen! I've just seen a moonshiner gointo Caliban's cabin. " The boy's eager eyes sparkled. 

"Let's go after him. "

"No, you go on back. If you don't, they'll be suspicious. Get anotherman"--Hale almost laughed at the disappointment in the lad's face at hisfirst words, and the joy that came after it--"and climb high above theshanty and come back here to me. Then after dark we'll dash in and cinchCaliban and his customers. "

"Yes, sir, " said the lad. "Shall I whistle going back?" Hale noddedapproval. 

"Just the same. " And off Bob went, whistling like a calliope and noteven turning his head to look at the cabin. In half an hour Hale thoughthe heard something crashing through the bushes high on the mountainside, and, a little while afterward, the boy crawled through the bushesto him alone. His cap was gone, there was a bloody scratch across hisface and he was streaming with perspiration. 

"You'll have to excuse me, sir, " he panted, "I didn't see anybody butone of my brothers, and if I had told him, he wouldn't have let ME come. And I hurried back for fear--for fear something would happen. "

"Well, suppose I don't let you go. "

"Excuse me, sir, but I don't see how you can very well help. You aren'tmy brother and you can't go alone. "

"I was, " said Hale. 

"Yes, sir, but not now. "

Hale was worried, but there was nothing else to be done. 

"All right. I'll let you go if you stop saying 'sir' to me. It makes mefeel so old. "

"Certainly, sir, " said the lad quite unconsciously, and when Halesmothered a laugh, he looked around to see what had amused him. Darknessfell quickly, and in the gathering gloom they saw two more figures skulkinto the cabin. 

"We'll go now--for we want the fellow who's selling the moonshine. "

Again Hale was beset with doubts about the boy and his ownresponsibility to the boy's brothers. The lad's eyes were shining, but his face was more eager than excited and his hand was as steady asHale's own. 

"You slip around and station yourself behind that pine-tree just behindthe cabin"--the boy looked crestfallen--"and if anybody tries to get outof the back door--you halt him. "

"Is there a back door?"

"I don't know, " Hale said rather shortly. "You obey orders. I'm not yourbrother, but I'm your captain. "

"I beg your pardon, sir. Shall I go now?"

"Yes, you'll hear me at the front door. They won't make any resistance. "The lad stepped away with nimble caution high above the cabin, and heeven took his shoes off before he slid lightly down to his place behindthe pine. There was no back door, only a window, and his disappointmentwas bitter. Still, when he heard Hale at the front door, he meant tomake a break for that window, and he waited in the still gloom. He couldhear the rough talk and laughter within and now and then the clink of atin cup. By and by there was a faint noise in front of the cabin, and hesteadied his nerves and his beating heart. Then he heard the door pushedviolently in and Hale's cry:

"Surrender!"

Hale stood on the threshold with his pistol outstretched in his righthand. The door had struck something soft and he said sharply again:

"Come out from behind that door--hands up!"

At the same moment, the back window flew open with a bang and Bob'spistol covered the edge of the opened door. "Caliban" had rolled fromhis box like a stupid animal. Two of his patrons sat dazed and staringfrom Hale to the boy's face at the window. A mountaineer stood in onecorner with twitching fingers and shifting eyes like a caged wild thingand forth issued from behind the door, quivering with anger--young DaveTolliver. Hale stared at him amazed, and when Dave saw Hale, such a waveof fury surged over his face that Bob thought it best to attract hisattention again; which he did by gently motioning at him with the barrelof his pistol. 

"Hold on, there, " he said quietly, and young Dave stood still. 

"Climb through that window, Bob, and collect the batteries, " said Hale. 

"Sure, sir, " said the lad, and with his pistol still prominently in theforeground he threw his left leg over the sill and as he climbed in hequoted with a grunt: "Always go in force to make an arrest. " Grim andserious as it was, with June's cousin glowering at him, Hale could nothelp smiling. 

"You didn't go home, after all, " said Hale to young Dave, who clenchedhis hands and his lips but answered nothing; "or, if you did, you gotback pretty quick. " And still Dave was silent. 

"Get 'em all, Bob?" In answer the boy went the rounds--feeling thepocket of each man's right hip and his left breast. 

"Yes, sir. "

"Unload 'em!"

The lad "broke" each of the four pistols, picked up a piece of twine andstrung them together through each trigger-guard. 

"Close that window and stand here at the door. "

With the boy at the door, Hale rolled the hand-barrel to the thresholdand the white liquor gurgled joyously on the steps. 

"All right, come along, " he said to the captives, and at last young Davespoke:

"Whut you takin' me fer?"

Hale pointed to the empty hand-barrel and Dave's answer was a look ofscorn. 

"I nuvver brought that hyeh. "

"You were drinking illegal liquor in a blind tiger, and if you didn'tbring it you can prove that later. Anyhow, we'll want you as a witness, "and Hale looked at the other mountaineer, who had turned his eyesquickly to Dave. Caliban led the way with young Dave, and Hale walkedside by side with them while Bob was escort for the other two. The roadran along a high bank, and as Bob was adjusting the jangling weaponson his left arm, the strange mountaineer darted behind him and leapedheadlong into the tops of thick rhododendron. Before Hale knew what hadhappened the lad's pistol flashed. 

"Stop, boy!" he cried, horrified. "Don't shoot!" and he had to catchthe lad to keep him from leaping after the runaway. The shot had missed;they heard the runaway splash into the river and go stumbling across itand then there was silence. Young Dave laughed:

"Uncle Judd'll be over hyeh to-morrow to see about this. " Hale saidnothing and they went on. At the door of the calaboose Dave balked andhad to be pushed in by main force. They left him weeping and cursingwith rage. 

"Go to bed, Bob, " said Hale. 

"Yes, sir, " said Bob; "just as soon as I get my lessons. "

Hale did not go to the boarding-house that night--he feared to faceJune. Instead he went to the hotel to scraps of a late supper and thento bed. He had hardly touched the pillow, it seemed, when somebodyshook him by the shoulder. It was Macfarlan, and daylight was streamingthrough the window. 

"A gang of those Falins are here, " Macfarlan said, "and they're afteryoung Dave Tolliver--about a dozen of 'em. Young Buck is with them, andthe sheriff. They say he shot a man over the mountains yesterday. "

Hale sprang for his clothes--here was a quandary. 

"If we turn him over to them--they'll kill him. " Macfarlan nodded. 

"Of course, and if we leave him in that weak old calaboose, they'll getmore help and take him out to-night. "

"Then we'll take him to the county jail. "

"They'll take him away from us. "

"No, they won't. You go out and get as many shotguns as you can find andload them with buckshot. "

Macfarlan nodded approvingly and disappeared. Hale plunged his face ina basin of cold water, soaked his hair and, as he was mopping his facewith a towel, there was a ponderous tread on the porch, the door openedwithout the formality of a knock, and Devil Judd Tolliver, with his haton and belted with two huge pistols, stepped stooping within. His eyes, red with anger and loss of sleep, were glaring, and his heavy moustacheand beard showed the twitching of his mouth. 

"Whar's Dave?" he said shortly. 

"In the calaboose. "

"Did you put him in?"

"Yes, " said Hale calmly. 

"Well, by God, " the old man said with repressed fury, "you can't git himout too soon if you want to save trouble. "

"Look here, Judd, " said Hale seriously. "You are one of the last menin the world I want to have trouble with for many reasons; but I'm anofficer over here and I'm no more afraid of you"--Hale paused to letthat fact sink in and it did--"than you are of me. Dave's been sellingliquor. "

"He hain't, " interrupted the old mountaineer. "He didn't bring thatliquor over hyeh. I know who done it. "

"All right, " said Hale; "I'll take your word for it and I'll let himout, if you say so, but---"

"Right now, " thundered old Judd. 

"Do you know that young Buck Falin and a dozen of his gang are over hereafter him?" The old man looked stunned. 

"Whut--now?"

"They're over there in the woods across the river NOW and they want meto give him up to them. They say they have the sheriff with them andthey want him for shooting a man on Leatherwood Creek, day beforeyesterday. "

"It's all a lie, " burst out old Judd. "They want to kill him. "

"Of course--and I was going to take him up to the county jail right awayfor safe-keeping. "

"D'ye mean to say you'd throw that boy into jail and then fight themFalins to pertect him?" the old man asked slowly and incredulously. Halepointed to a two-store building through his window. 

"If you get in the back part of that store at a window, you can seewhether I will or not. I can summon you to help, and if a fight comes upyou can do your share from the window. "

The old man's eyes lighted up like a leaping flame. 

"Will you let Dave out and give him a Winchester and help us fight 'em?"he said eagerly. "We three can whip 'em all. "

"No, " said Hale shortly. "I'd try to keep both sides from fighting, andI'd arrest Dave or you as quickly as I would a Falin. "

The average mountaineer has little conception of duty in the abstract, but old Judd belonged to the better class--and there are many ofthem--that does. He looked into Hale's eyes long and steadily. 

"All right. "

Macfarlan came in hurriedly and stopped short--seeing the hatted, bearded giant. 

"This is Mr. Tolliver--an uncle of Dave's--Judd Tolliver, " said Hale. "Go ahead. "

"I've got everything fixed--but I couldn't get but five of thefellows--two of the Berkley boys. They wouldn't let me tell Bob. "

"All right. Can I summon Mr. Tolliver here?"

"Yes, " said Macfarlan doubtfully, "but you know---"

"He won't be seen, " interrupted Hale, understandingly. "He'll be at awindow in the back of that store and he won't take part unless a fightbegins, and if it does, we'll need him. "

An hour later Devil Judd Tolliver was in the store Hale pointed out andpeering cautiously around the edge of an open window at the wooden gateof the ramshackle calaboose. Several Falins were there--led by youngBuck, whom Hale recognized as the red-headed youth at the head of thetearing horsemen who had swept by him that late afternoon when he wascoming back from his first trip to Lonesome Cove. The old man grittedhis teeth as he looked and he put one of his huge pistols on a tablewithin easy reach and kept the other clenched in his right fist. Fromdown the street came five horsemen, led by John Hale. Every man carrieda double-barrelled shotgun, and the old man smiled and his respect forHale rose higher, high as it already was, for nobody--mountaineeror not--has love for a hostile shotgun. The Falins, armed only withpistols, drew near. 

"Keep back!" he heard Hale say calmly, and they stopped--young Buckalone going on. 

"We want that feller, " said young Buck. 

"Well, you don't get him, " said Hale quietly. "He's our prisoner. Keepback!" he repeated, motioning with the barrel of his shotgun--and youngBuck moved backward to his own men, The old man saw Hale and anotherman--the sergeant--go inside the heavy gate of the stockade. He saw aboy in a cap, with a pistol in one hand and a strapped set of books inthe other, come running up to the men with the shotguns and he heard oneof them say angrily:

"I told you not to come. "

"I know you did, " said the boy imperturbably. 

"You go on to school, " said another of the men, but the boy with the capshook his head and dropped his books to the ground. The big gate openedjust then and out came Hale and the sergeant, and between them youngDave--his eyes blinking in the sunlight. 

"Damn ye, " he heard Dave say to Hale. "I'll get even with you fer thissome day"--and then the prisoner's eyes caught the horses and shotgunsand turned to the group of Falins and he shrank back utterly dazed. There was a movement among the Falins and Devil Judd caught up his otherpistol and with a grim smile got ready. Young Buck had turned to hiscrowd:

"Men, " he said, "you know I never back down"--Devil Judd knew that, too, and he was amazed by the words that followed-"an' if you say so, we'llhave him or die; but we ain't in our own state now. They've got the lawand the shotguns on us, an' I reckon we'd better go slow. "

The rest seemed quite willing to go slow, and, as they put their pistolsup, Devil Judd laughed in his beard. Hale put young Dave on a horse andthe little shotgun cavalcade quietly moved away toward the county-seat. 

The crestfallen Falins dispersed the other way after they had takena parting shot at the Hon. Samuel Budd, who, too, had a pistol in hishand. Young Buck looked long at him--and then he laughed:

"You, too, Sam Budd, " he said. "We folks'll rickollect this on electionday. " The Hon. Sam deigned no answer. 

And up in the store Devil Judd lighted his pipe and sat down to thinkout the strange code of ethics that governed that police-guard. Hale hadtold him to wait there, and it was almost noon before the boy with thecap came to tell him that the Falins had all left town. The old manlooked at him kindly. 

"Air you the little feller whut fit fer June?"

"Not yet, " said Bob; "but it's coming. "

"Well, you'll whoop him. "

"I'll do my best. "

"Whar is she?"

"She's waiting for you over at the boarding-house. "

"Does she know about this trouble?"

"Not a thing; she thinks you've come to take her home. " The old man madeno answer, and Bob led him back toward Hale's office. June was waitingat the gate, and the boy, lifting his cap, passed on. June's eyes weredark with anxiety. 

"You come to take me home, dad?"

"I been thinkin' 'bout it, " he said, with a doubtful shake of his head. 

June took him upstairs to her room and pointed out the old water-wheelthrough the window and her new clothes (she had put on her old homespunagain when she heard he was in town), and the old man shook his head. 

"I'm afeerd 'bout all these fixin's--you won't never be satisfied aginin Lonesome Cove. "

"Why, dad, " she said reprovingly. "Jack says I can go over whenever Iplease, as soon as the weather gits warmer and the roads gits good. "

"I don't know, " said the old man, still shaking his head. 

All through dinner she was worried. Devil Judd hardly ate anything, soembarrassed was he by the presence of so many "furriners" and by thewhite cloth and table-ware, and so fearful was he that he would beguilty of some breach of manners. Resolutely he refused butter, and atthe third urging by Mrs. Crane he said firmly, but with a shrewd twinklein his eye:

"No, thank ye. I never eats butter in town. I've kept store myself, " andhe was no little pleased with the laugh that went around the table. Thefact was he was generally pleased with June's environment and, afterdinner, he stopped teasing June. 

"No, honey, I ain't goin' to take you away. I want ye to stay rightwhere ye air. Be a good girl now and do whatever Jack Hale tells ye andtell that boy with all that hair to come over and see me. " June grewalmost tearful with gratitude, for never had he called her "honey"before that she could remember, and never had he talked so much to her, nor with so much kindness. 

"Air ye comin' over soon?"

"Mighty soon, dad. "

"Well, take keer o' yourself. "

"I will, dad, " she said, and tenderly she watched his great figureslouch out of sight. 

An hour after dark, as old Judd sat on the porch of the cabin inLonesome Cove, young Dave Tolliver rode up to the gate on a strangehorse. He was in a surly mood. 

"He lemme go at the head of the valley and give me this hoss to githere, " the boy grudgingly explained. "I'm goin' over to git minetermorrer. "

"Seems like you'd better keep away from that Gap, " said the old mandryly, and Dave reddened angrily. 

"Yes, and fust thing you know he'll be over hyeh atter YOU. " The old manturned on him sternly. 

"Jack Hale knows that liquer was mine. He knows I've got a still overhyeh as well as you do--an' he's never axed a question nor peeped aneye. I reckon he would come if he thought he oughter--but I'm on thisside of the state-line. If I was on his side, mebbe I'd stop. "

Young Dave stared, for things were surely coming to a pretty pass inLonesome Cove. 

"An' I reckon, " the old man went on, "hit 'ud be better grace in you tostop sayin' things agin' him; fer if it hadn't been fer him, you'd belaid out by them Falins by this time. "

It was true, and Dave, silenced, was forced into another channel. 

"I wonder, " he said presently, "how them Falins always know when I goover thar. "

"I've been studyin' about that myself, " said Devil Judd. Inside, the oldstep-mother had heard Dave's query. 

"I seed the Red Fox this afternoon, " she quavered at the door. 

"Whut was he doin' over hyeh?" asked Dave. 

"Nothin', " she said, "jus' a-sneakin' aroun' the way he's al'aysa-doin'. Seemed like he was mighty pertickuler to find out when you wascomin' back. "

Both men started slightly. 

 "We're all Tollivers now all right, " said the Hon. Samuel Buddthat night while he sat with Hale on the porch overlooking themill-pond--and then he groaned a little. 

"Them Falins have got kinsfolks to burn on the Virginia side and they'dfight me tooth and toenail for this a hundred years hence!"

He puffed his pipe, but Hale said nothing. 

"Yes, sir, " he added cheerily, "we're in for a hell of a merry time NOW. The mountaineer hates as long as he remembers and--he never forgets. "

XV

Hand in hand, Hale and June followed the footsteps of spring from thetime June met him at the school-house gate for their first walk into thewoods. Hale pointed to some boys playing marbles. 

"That's the first sign, " he said, and with quick understanding Junesmiled. 

The birdlike piping of hylas came from a marshy strip of woodland thatran through the centre of the town and a toad was croaking at the footof Imboden Hill. 

"And they come next. "

They crossed the swinging foot-bridge, which was a miracle to June, and took the foot-path along the clear stream of South Fork, under thelaurel which June called "ivy, " and the rhododendron which was "laurel"in her speech, and Hale pointed out catkins greening on alders in oneswampy place and willows just blushing into life along the banks of alittle creek. A few yards aside from the path he found, under a patchof snow and dead leaves, the pink-and-white blossoms and the waxy greenleaves of the trailing arbutus, that fragrant harbinger of the oldMother's awakening, and June breathed in from it the very breath ofspring. Near by were turkey peas, which she had hunted and eaten manytimes. 

"You can't put that arbutus in a garden, " said Hale, "it's as wild as ahawk. "

Presently he had the little girl listen to a pewee twittering in athorn-bush and the lusty call of a robin from an apple-tree. A bluebirdflew over-head with a merry chirp--its wistful note of autumn long sinceforgotten. These were the first birds and flowers, he said, and June, knowing them only by sight, must know the name of each and the reasonfor that name. So that Hale found himself walking the woods with aninterrogation point, and that he might not be confounded he had, later, to dip up much forgotten lore. For every walk became a lesson in botanyfor June, such a passion did she betray at once for flowers, and herarely had to tell her the same thing twice, since her memory was like avise--for everything, as he learned in time. 

Her eyes were quicker than his, too, and now she pointed to a snowyblossom with a deeply lobed leaf. 

"Whut's that?"

"Bloodroot, " said Hale, and he scratched the stem and forth issuedscarlet drops. "The Indians used to put it on their faces andtomahawks"--she knew that word and nodded--"and I used to make red inkof it when I was a little boy. "

"No!" said June. With the next look she found a tiny bunch of fuzzyhepaticas. 

"Liver-leaf. "

"Whut's liver?"

Hale, looking at her glowing face and eyes and her perfect little body, imagined that she would never know unless told that she had one, and sohe waved one hand vaguely at his chest:

"It's an organ--and that herb is supposed to be good for it. "

"Organ? Whut's that?"

"Oh, something inside of you. "

June made the same gesture that Hale had. 

"Me?"

"Yes, " and then helplessly, "but not there exactly. "

June's eyes had caught something else now and she ran for it:

"Oh! Oh!" It was a bunch of delicate anemones of intermediate shadesbetween white and red-yellow, pink and purple-blue. 

"Those are anemones. "

"A-nem-o-nes, " repeated June. 

"Wind-flowers--because the wind is supposed to open them. " And, almostunconsciously, Hale lapsed into a quotation:

"'And where a tear has dropped, a wind-flower blows. '"

"Whut's that?" said June quickly. 

"That's poetry. "

"Whut's po-e-try?" Hale threw up both hands. 

"I don't know, but I'll read you some--some day. "

By that time she was gurgling with delight over a bunch of springbeauties that came up, root, stalk and all, when she reached for them. 

"Well, ain't they purty?" While they lay in her hand and she looked, therose-veined petals began to close, the leaves to droop and the stem gotlimp. 

"Ah-h!" crooned June. "I won't pull up no more o' THEM. "

'"These little dream-flowers found in the spring. ' More poetry, June. "

A little later he heard her repeating that line to herself. It was aneasy step to poetry from flowers, and evidently June was groping for it. 

A few days later the service-berry swung out white stars on the lowhill-sides, but Hale could tell her nothing that she did not know aboutthe "sarvice-berry. " Soon, the dogwood swept in snowy gusts along themountains, and from a bank of it one morning a red-bird flamed and sang:"What cheer! What cheer! What cheer!" And like its scarlet coat thered-bud had burst into bloom. June knew the red-bud, but she had neverheard it called the Judas tree. 

"You see, the red-bud was supposed to be poisonous. It shakes in thewind and says to the bees, 'Come on, little fellows--here's your nicefresh honey, and when they come, it betrays and poisons them. "

"Well, what do you think o' that!" said June indignantly, and Hale hadto hedge a bit. 

"Well, I don't know whether it REALLY does, but that's what they SAY. "A little farther on the white stars of the trillium gleamed at themfrom the border of the woods and near by June stooped over some lovelysky-blue blossoms with yellow eyes. 

"Forget-me-nots, " said Hale. June stooped to gather them with a radiantface. 

"Oh, " she said, "is that what you call 'em?"

"They aren't the real ones--they're false forget-me-nots. "

"Then I don't want 'em, " said June. But they were beautiful and fragrantand she added gently:

"'Tain't their fault. I'm agoin' to call 'em jus' forget-me-nots, an'I'm givin' 'em to you, " she said--"so that you won't. "

"Thank you, " said Hale gravely. "I won't. "

They found larkspur, too--

"'Blue as the heaven it gazes at, '" quoted Hale. 

"Whut's 'gazes'?"

"Looks. " June looked up at the sky and down at the flower. 

"Tain't, " she said, "hit's bluer. "

When they discovered something Hale did not know he would say that itwas one of those--

"'Wan flowers without a name. '"

"My!" said June at last, "seems like them wan flowers is a mighty bigfambly. "

"They are, " laughed Hale, "for a bachelor like me. "

"Huh!" said June. 

Later, they ran upon yellow adder's tongues in a hollow, each blossomguarded by a pair of ear-like leaves, Dutchman's breeches and wildbleeding hearts--a name that appealed greatly to the fancy of theromantic little lady, and thus together they followed the footsteps ofthat spring. And while she studied the flowers Hale was studying theloveliest flower of them all--little June. About ferns, plants and treesas well, he told her all he knew, and there seemed nothing in the skies, the green world of the leaves or the under world at her feet to whichshe was not magically responsive. Indeed, Hale had never seen a man, woman or child so eager to learn, and one day, when she had apparentlyreached the limit of inquiry, she grew very thoughtful and he watchedher in silence a long while. 

"What's the matter, June?" he asked finally. 

"I'm just wonderin' why I'm always axin' why, " said little June. 

She was learning in school, too, and she was happier there now, forthere had been no more open teasing of the new pupil. Bob's championshipsaved her from that, and, thereafter, school changed straightway forJune. Before that day she had kept apart from her school-fellows atrecess-times as well as in the school-room. Two or three of the girlshad made friendly advances to her, but she had shyly repelled them--whyshe hardly knew--and it was her lonely custom at recess-times to builda play-house at the foot of a great beech with moss, broken bits ofbottles and stones. Once she found it torn to pieces and from the lookon the face of the tall mountain boy, Cal Heaton, who had grinned at herwhen she went up for her first lesson, and who was now Bob's arch-enemy, she knew that he was the guilty one. Again a day or two later it wasdestroyed, and when she came down from the woods almost in tears, Bobhappened to meet her in the road and made her tell the trouble she wasin. Straightway he charged the trespasser with the deed and was lied tofor his pains. So after school that day he slipped up on the hill withthe little girl and helped her rebuild again. 

"Now I'll lay for him, " said Bob, "and catch him at it. "

"All right, " said June, and she looked both her worry and her gratitudeso that Bob understood both; and he answered both with a nonchalant waveof one hand. 

"Never you mind--and don't you tell Mr. Hale, " and June in dumbacquiescence crossed heart and body. But the mountain boy was wary, andfor two or three days the play-house was undisturbed and so Bob himselflaid a trap. He mounted his horse immediately after school, rode pastthe mountain lad, who was on his way home, crossed the river, made awide detour at a gallop and, hitching his horse in the woods, came tothe play-house from the other side of the hill. And half an hour later, when the pale little teacher came out of the school-house, he heardgrunts and blows and scuffling up in the woods, and when he ran towardthe sounds, the bodies of two of his pupils rolled into sight clenchedfiercely, with torn clothes and bleeding faces--Bob on top with themountain boy's thumb in his mouth and his own fingers gripped about hisantagonist's throat. Neither paid any attention to the school-master, who pulled at Bob's coat unavailingly and with horror at his ferocity. Bob turned his head, shook it as well as the thumb in his mouth wouldlet him, and went on gripping the throat under him and pushing the headthat belonged to it into the ground. The mountain boy's tongue showedand his eyes bulged. 

"'Nough!" he yelled. Bob rose then and told his story and theschool-master from New England gave them a short lecture on gentlenessand Christian charity and fixed on each the awful penalty of "stayingin" after school for an hour every day for a week. Bob grinned:

"All right, professor--it was worth it, " he said, but the mountain ladshuffled silently away. 

An hour later Hale saw the boy with a swollen lip, one eye black andthe other as merry as ever--but after that there was no more troublefor June. Bob had made his promise good and gradually she came intothe games with her fellows there-after, while Bob stood or sat aside, encouraging but taking no part--for was he not a member of the PoliceForce? Indeed he was already known far and wide as the Infant ofthe Guard, and always he carried a whistle and usually, outside theschool-house, a pistol bumped his hip, while a Winchester stood in onecorner of his room and a billy dangled by his mantel-piece. 

The games were new to June, and often Hale would stroll up to theschool-house to watch them--Prisoner's Base, Skipping the Rope, AntnyOver, Cracking the Whip and Lifting the Gate; and it pleased him to seehow lithe and active his little protege was and more than a match instrength even for the boys who were near her size. June had to take thepenalty of her greenness, too, when she was "introduced to the King andQueen" and bumped the ground between the make-believe sovereigns, or gota cup of water in her face when she was trying to see stars through apipe. And the boys pinned her dress to the bench through a crack andonce she walked into school with a placard on her back which read:

"June-Bug. " But she was so good-natured that she fast became afavourite. Indeed it was noticeable to Hale as well as Bob that CalHeaton, the mountain boy, seemed always to get next to June in the Tugsof War, and one morning June found an apple on her desk. She swept theroom with a glance and met Cal's guilty flush, and though she ate theapple, she gave him no thanks--in word, look or manner. It was curiousto Hale, moreover, to observe how June's instinct deftly led her toavoid the mistakes in dress that characterized the gropings of othergirls who, like her, were in a stage of transition. They wore gaudycombs and green skirts with red waists, their clothes bunched at thehips, and to their shoes and hands they paid no attention at all. Noneof these things for June--and Hale did not know that the little girl hadleaped her fellows with one bound, had taken Miss Anne Saunders as hermodel and was climbing upon the pedestal where that lady justly stood. The two had not become friends as Hale hoped. June was always silent andreserved when the older girl was around, but there was never a move ofthe latter's hand or foot or lip or eye that the new pupil failedto see. Miss Anne rallied Hale no little about her, but he laughedgood-naturedly, and asked why SHE could not make friends with June. 

"She's jealous, " said Miss Saunders, and Hale ridiculed the idea, fornot one sign since she came to the Gap had she shown him. It was thejealousy of a child she had once betrayed and that she had outgrown, he thought; but he never knew how June stood behind the curtains of herwindow, with a hungry suffering in her face and eyes, to watch Hale andMiss Anne ride by and he never guessed that concealment was but a signof the dawn of womanhood that was breaking within her. And she gave nohint of that breaking dawn until one day early in May, when she heard awoodthrush for the first time with Hale: for it was the bird she lovedbest, and always its silver fluting would stop her in her tracks andsend her into dreamland. Hale had just broken a crimson flower from itsstem and held it out to her. 

"Here's another of the 'wan ones, ' June. Do you know what that is?"

"Hit's"--she paused for correction with her lips drawn severely in forprecision--"IT'S a mountain poppy. Pap says it kills goslings"--her eyesdanced, for she was in a merry mood that day, and she put both handsbehind her--"if you air any kin to a goose, you better drap it. "

"That's a good one, " laughed Hale, "but it's so lovely I'll take therisk. I won't drop it. "

"Drop it, " caught June with a quick upward look, and then to fix theword in her memory she repeated--"drop it, drop it, DROP it!"

"Got it now, June?"

"Uh-huh. "

It was then that a woodthrush voiced the crowning joy of spring, andwith slowly filling eyes she asked its name. 

"That bird, " she said slowly and with a breaking voice, "sung justthat-a-way the mornin' my sister died. "

She turned to him with a wondering smile. 

"Somehow it don't make me so miserable, like it useter. " Her smilepassed while she looked, she caught both hands to her heaving breast anda wild intensity burned suddenly in her eyes. 

"Why, June!"

"'Tain't nothin', " she choked out, and she turned hurriedly ahead ofhim down the path. Startled, Hale had dropped the crimson flower to hisfeet. He saw it and he let it lie. 

Meanwhile, rumours were brought in that the Falins were coming over fromKentucky to wipe out the Guard, and so straight were they sometimes thatthe Guard was kept perpetually on watch. Once while the members were attarget practice, the shout arose:

"The Kentuckians are coming! The Kentuckians are coming!" And, at doublequick, the Guard rushed back to find it a false alarm and to see menlaughing at them in the street. The truth was that, while the Falinshad a general hostility against the Guard, their particular enmity wasconcentrated on John Hale, as he discovered when June was to take herfirst trip home one Friday afternoon. Hale meant to carry her over, but the morning they were to leave, old Judd Tolliver came to the Gaphimself. He did not want June to come home at that time, and he didn'tthink it was safe over there for Hale just then. Some of the Falins hadbeen seen hanging around Lonesome Cove for the purpose, Judd believed, of getting a shot at the man who had kept young Dave from falling intotheir hands, and Hale saw that by that act he had, as Budd said, arrayed himself with the Tollivers in the feud. In other words, he wasa Tolliver himself now, and as such the Falins meant to treat him. Hale rebelled against the restriction, for he had started some work inLonesome Cove and was preparing a surprise over there for June, but oldJudd said:

"Just wait a while, " and he said it so seriously that Hale for a whiletook his advice. 

So June stayed on at the Gap--with little disappointment, apparently, that she could not visit home. And as spring passed and the summercame on, the little girl budded and opened like a rose. To the prettyschool-teacher she was a source of endless interest and wonder, forwhile the little girl was reticent and aloof, Miss Saunders felt herselfwatched and studied in and out of school, and Hale often had to smileat June's unconscious imitation of her teacher in speech, manners anddress. And all the time her hero-worship of Hale went on, fed bythe talk of the boardinghouse, her fellow pupils and of the town atlarge--and it fairly thrilled her to know that to the Falins he was nowa Tolliver himself. 

Sometimes Hale would get her a saddle, and then June would usurp MissAnne's place on a horseback-ride up through the gap to see the firstblooms of the purple rhododendron on Bee Rock, or up to Morris's farm onPowell's mountain, from which, with a glass, they could see the LonesomePine. And all the time she worked at her studies tirelessly--and whenshe was done with her lessons, she read the fairy books that Hale gotfor her--read them until "Paul and Virginia" fell into her hands, andthen there were no more fairy stories for little June. Often, late atnight, Hale, from the porch of his cottage, could see the light ofher lamp sending its beam across the dark water of the mill-pond, andfinally he got worried by the paleness of her face and sent her tothe doctor. She went unwillingly, and when she came back she reportedplacidly that "organatically she was all right, the doctor said, " butHale was glad that vacation would soon come. At the beginning of thelast week of school he brought a little present for her from New York--aslender necklace of gold with a little reddish stone-pendant that wasthe shape of a cross. Hale pulled the trinket from his pocket as theywere walking down the river-bank at sunset and the little girl quiveredlike an aspen-leaf in a sudden puff of wind. 

"Hit's a fairy-stone, " she cried excitedly. 

"Why, where on earth did you--"

"Why, sister Sally told me about 'em. She said folks found 'em somewhereover here in Virginny, an' all her life she was a-wishin' fer one an'she never could git it"--her eyes filled--"seems like ever'thing shewanted is a-comin' to me. "

"Do you know the story of it, too?" asked Hale. 

June shook her head. "Sister Sally said it was a luck-piece. Nothin'could happen to ye when ye was carryin' it, but it was awful bad luckif you lost it. " Hale put it around her neck and fastened the clasp andJune kept hold of the little cross with one hand. 

"Well, you mustn't lose it, " he said. 

"No--no--no, " she repeated breathlessly, and Hale told her the prettystory of the stone as they strolled back to supper. The little crosseswere to be found only in a certain valley in Virginia, so perfect inshape that they seemed to have been chiselled by hand, and they were agreat mystery to the men who knew all about rocks--the geologists. 

"The ge-ol-o-gists, " repeated June. 

These men said there was no crystallization--nothing like them, amendedHale--elsewhere in the world, and that just as crosses were of differentshapes--Roman, Maltese and St. Andrew's--so, too, these crosses werefound in all these different shapes. And the myth--the story--was thatthis little valley was once inhabited by fairies--June's eyes lighted, for it was a fairy story after all--and that when a strange messengerbrought them the news of Christ's crucifixion, they wept, and theirtears, as they fell to the ground, were turned into tiny crosses ofstone. Even the Indians had some queer feeling about them, and for along, long time people who found them had used them as charms to bringgood luck and ward off harm. 

"And that's for you, " he said, "because you've been such a good littlegirl and have studied so hard. School's most over now and I reckonyou'll be right glad to get home again. "

June made no answer, but at the gate she looked suddenly up at him. 

"Have you got one, too?" she asked, and she seemed much disturbed whenHale shook his head. 

"Well, I'LL git--GET--you one--some day. "

"All right, " laughed Hale. 

There was again something strange in her manner as she turned suddenlyfrom him, and what it meant he was soon to learn. It was the lastweek of school and Hale had just come down from the woods behind theschool-house at "little recess-time" in the afternoon. The children wereplaying games outside the gate, and Bob and Miss Anne and the littleProfessor were leaning on the fence watching them. The little man raisedhis hand to halt Hale on the plank sidewalk. 

"I've been wanting to see you, " he said in his dreamy, abstracted way. "You prophesied, you know, that I should be proud of your little protegesome day, and I am indeed. She is the most remarkable pupil I've yetseen here, and I have about come to the conclusion that there is noquicker native intelligence in our country than you shall find in thechildren of these mountaineers and--"

Miss Anne was gazing at the children with an expression that turnedHale's eyes that way, and the Professor checked his harangue. Somethinghad happened. They had been playing "Ring Around the Rosy" and June hadbeen caught. She stood scarlet and tense and the cry was:

"Who's your beau--who's your beau?"

And still she stood with tight lips--flushing. 

"You got to tell--you got to tell!"

The mountain boy, Cal Heaton, was grinning with fatuous consciousness, and even Bob put his hands in his pockets and took on an uneasy smile. 

"Who's your beau?" came the chorus again. 

The lips opened almost in a whisper, but all could hear:

"Jack!"

"Jack who?" But June looked around and saw the four at the gate. Almoststaggering, she broke from the crowd and, with one forearm across herscarlet face, rushed past them into the school-house. Miss Anne lookedat Male's amazed face and she did not smile. Bob turned respectfullyaway, ignoring it all, and the little Professor, whose life-purpose waspsychology, murmured in his ignorance:

"Very remarkable--very remarkable!"

Through that afternoon June kept her hot face close to her books. Bobnever so much as glanced her way--little gentleman that he was--butthe one time she lifted her eyes, she met the mountain lad's bent ina stupor-like gaze upon her. In spite of her apparent studiousness, however, she missed her lesson and, automatically, the little Professortold her to stay in after school and recite to Miss Saunders. And soJune and Miss Anne sat in the school-room alone--the teacher reading abook, and the pupil--her tears unshed--with her sullen face bent overher lesson. In a few moments the door opened and the little Professorthrust in his head. The girl had looked so hurt and tired when he spoketo her that some strange sympathy moved him, mystified though he was, tosay gently now and with a smile that was rare with him:

"You might excuse June, I think, Miss Saunders, and let her recite sometime to-morrow, " and gently he closed the door. Miss Anne rose:

"Very well, June, " she said quietly. 

June rose, too, gathering up her books, and as she passed the teacher'splatform she stopped and looked her full in the face. She said nota word, and the tragedy between the woman and the girl was played insilence, for the woman knew from the searching gaze of the girl and theblack defiance in her eyes, as she stalked out of the room, that her ownflush had betrayed her secret as plainly as the girl's words had toldhers. 

Through his office window, a few minutes later, Hale saw June passswiftly into the house. In a few minutes she came swiftly out againand went back swiftly toward the school-house. He was so worried by thetense look in her face that he could work no more, and in a few minuteshe threw his papers down and followed her. When he turned the corner, Bob was coming down the street with his cap on the back of his head andswinging his books by a strap, and the boy looked a little consciouswhen he saw Hale coming. 

"Have you seen June?" Hale asked. 

"No, sir, " said Bob, immensely relieved. 

"Did she come up this way?"

"I don't know, but--" Bob turned and pointed to the green dome of a bigbeech. 

"I think you'll find her at the foot of that tree, " he said. "That'swhere her play-house is and that's where she goes when she's--that'swhere she usually goes. "

"Oh, yes, " said Hale--"her play-house. Thank you. "

"Not at all, sir. "

Hale went on, turned from the path and climbed noiselessly. When hecaught sight of the beech he stopped still. June stood against it likea wood-nymph just emerged from its sun-dappled trunk--stood stretched toher full height, her hands behind her, her hair tossed, her throat tenseunder the dangling little cross, her face uplifted. At her feet, the play-house was scattered to pieces. She seemed listening to thelove-calls of a woodthrush that came faintly through the still woods, and then he saw that she heard nothing, saw nothing--that she was in adream as deep as sleep. Hale's heart throbbed as he looked. 

"June!" he called softly. She did not hear him, and when he calledagain, she turned her face--unstartled--and moving her posture not atall. Hale pointed to the scattered play-house. 

"I done it!" she said fiercely--"I done it myself. " Her eyes burnedsteadily into his, even while she lifted her hands to her hair as thoughshe were only vaguely conscious that it was all undone. 

"YOU heerd me?" she cried, and before he could answer--"SHE heerdme, " and again, not waiting for a word from him, she cried still morefiercely:

"I don't keer! I don't keer WHO knows. "

Her hands were trembling, she was biting her quivering lip to keep backthe starting tears, and Hale rushed toward her and took her in his arms. 

"June! June!" he said brokenly. "You mustn't, little girl. I'mproud--proud--why little sweetheart--" She was clinging to him andlooking up into his eyes and he bent his head slowly. Their lips met andthe man was startled. He knew now it was no child that answered him. 

 Hale walked long that night in the moonlit woods up and aroundImboden Hill, along a shadow-haunted path, between silvery beech-trunks, past the big hole in the earth from which dead trees tossed out theircrooked arms as if in torment, and to the top of the ridge under whichthe valley slept and above which the dark bulk of Powell's Mountainrose. It was absurd, but he found himself strangely stirred. She was achild, he kept repeating to himself, in spite of the fact that he knewshe was no child among her own people, and that mountain girls were evenwives who were younger still. Still, she did not know what she felt--howcould she?--and she would get over it, and then came the sharp stab ofa doubt--would he want her to get over it? Frankly and with wonder heconfessed to himself that he did not know--he did not know. But again, why bother? He had meant to educate her, anyhow. That was the firststep--no matter what happened. June must go out into the world toschool. He would have plenty of money. Her father would not object, andJune need never know. He could include for her an interest in her ownfather's coal lands that he meant to buy, and she could think that itwas her own money that she was using. So, with a sudden rush of gladnessfrom his brain to his heart, he recklessly yoked himself, then andthere, under all responsibility for that young life and the eager, sensitive soul that already lighted it so radiantly. 

And June? Her nature had opened precisely as had bud and flower thatspring. The Mother of Magicians had touched her as impartially as shehad touched them with fairy wand, and as unconsciously the little girlhad answered as a young dove to any cooing mate. With this Hale did notreckon, and this June could not know. For a while, that night, she layin a delicious tremor, listening to the bird-like chorus of the littlefrogs in the marsh, the booming of the big ones in the mill-pond, thewater pouring over the dam with the sound of a low wind, and, as hadall the sleeping things of the earth about her, she, too, sank to happysleep. 

XVI

The in-sweep of the outside world was broadening its current now. Theimprovement company had been formed to encourage the growth of the town. A safe was put in the back part of a furniture store behind a woodenpartition and a bank was started. Up through the Gap and towardKentucky, more entries were driven into the coal, and on the Virginiaside were signs of stripping for iron ore. A furnace was coming in justas soon as the railroad could bring it in, and the railroad was pushingahead with genuine vigor. Speculators were trooping in and the town hadbeen divided off into lots--a few of which had already changed hands. One agent had brought in a big steel safe and a tent and was buying coallands right and left. More young men drifted in from all points of thecompass. A tent-hotel was put at the foot of Imboden Hill, and of nightsthere were under it much poker and song. The lilt of a definite optimismwas in every man's step and the light of hope was in every man's eye. 

And the Guard went to its work in earnest. Every man now had hisWinchester, his revolver, his billy and his whistle. Drilling andtarget-shooting became a daily practice. Bob, who had been a year in amilitary school, was drill-master for the recruits, and very gravelyhe performed his duties and put them through the skirmishers'drill--advancing in rushes, throwing themselves in the new grass, andvery gravely he commended one enthusiast--none other than the Hon. Samuel Budd--who, rather than lose his position in line, threw himselfinto a pool of water: all to the surprise, scorn and anger of themountain onlookers, who dwelled about the town. Many were the commentsthe members of the Guard heard from them, even while they were at drill. 

"I'd like to see one o' them fellers hit me with one of them locustposts. "

"Huh! I could take two good men an' run the whole batch out o' thecounty. "

"Look at them dudes and furriners. They come into our country and airtryin' to larn us how to run it. "

"Our boys air only tryin' to have their little fun. They don't meannothin', but someday some fool young guard'll hurt somebody and thenthar'll be hell to pay. "

Hale could not help feeling considerable sympathy for their point ofview--particularly when he saw the mountaineers watching the Guard attarget-practice--each volunteer policeman with his back to the target, and at the word of command wheeling and firing six shots in rapidsuccession--and he did not wonder at their snorts of scorn at such badshooting and their open anger that the Guard was practising for THEM. But sometimes he got an unexpected recruit. One bully, who had beenconspicuous in the brickyard trouble, after watching a drill went up tohim with a grin:

"Hell, " he said cheerily, "I believe you fellers air goin' to have morefun than we air, an' danged if I don't jine you, if you'll let me. "

"Sure, " said Hale. And others, who might have been bad men, becamemembers and, thus getting a vent for their energies, were asenthusiastic for the law as they might have been against it. 

Of course, the antagonistic element in the town lost no opportunity toplague and harass the Guard, and after the destruction of the "blindtigers, " mischief was naturally concentrated in the high-licensesaloons--particularly in the one run by Jack Woods, whose local powerfor evil and cackling laugh seemed to mean nothing else than closepersonal communion with old Nick himself. Passing the door of his saloonone day, Bob saw one of Jack's customers trying to play pool with aWinchester in one hand and an open knife between his teeth, and the boystepped in and halted. The man had no weapon concealed and was making nodisturbance, and Bob did not know whether or not he had the legal rightto arrest him, so he turned, and, while he was standing in the door, Jack winked at his customer, who, with a grin, put the back of hisknife-blade between Bob's shoulders and, pushing, closed it. The boylooked over his shoulder without moving a muscle, but the Hon. SamuelBudd, who came in at that moment, pinioned the fellow's arms from behindand Bob took his weapon away. 

"Hell, " said the mountaineer, "I didn't aim to hurt the little feller. Ijes' wanted to see if I could skeer him. "

"Well, brother, 'tis scarce a merry jest, " quoth the Hon. Sam, and helooked sharply at Jack through his big spectacles as the two led the manoff to the calaboose: for he suspected that the saloon-keeper was at thebottom of the trick. Jack's time came only the next day. He had regardedit as the limit of indignity when an ordinance was up that nobody shouldblow a whistle except a member of the Guard, and it was great fun forhim to have some drunken customer blow a whistle and then stand in hisdoor and laugh at the policemen running in from all directions. That dayJack tried the whistle himself and Hale ran down. 

"Who did that?" he asked. Jack felt bold that morning. 

"I blowed it. "

Hale thought for a moment. The ordinance against blowing a whistlehad not yet been passed, but he made up his mind that, under thecircumstances, Jack's blowing was a breach of the peace, since the Guardhad adopted that signal. So he said:

"You mustn't do that again. "

Jack had doubtless been going through precisely the same mental process, and, on the nice legal point involved, he seemed to differ. 

"I'll blow it when I damn please, " he said. 

"Blow it again and I'll arrest you, " said Hale. 

Jack blew. He had his right shoulder against the corner of his door atthe time, and, when he raised the whistle to his lips, Hale drew andcovered him before he could make another move. Woods backed slowlyinto his saloon to get behind his counter. Hale saw his purpose, and heclosed in, taking great risk, as he always did, to avoid bloodshed, and there was a struggle. Jack managed to get his pistol out; but Halecaught him by the wrist and held the weapon away so that it was harmlessas far as he was concerned; but a crowd was gathering at the doortoward which the saloon-keeper's pistol was pointed, and he feared thatsomebody out there might be shot; so he called out:

"Drop that pistol!"

The order was not obeyed, and Hale raised his right hand high aboveJack's head and dropped the butt of his weapon on Jack's skull--hard. Jack's head dropped back between his shoulders, his eyes closed and hispistol clicked on the floor. 

Hale knew how serious a thing a blow was in that part of the world, andwhat excitement it would create, and he was uneasy at Jack's trial, forfear that the saloon-keeper's friends would take the matter up; but theydidn't, and, to the surprise of everybody, Jack quietly paid his fine, and thereafter the Guard had little active trouble from the town itself, for it was quite plain there, at least, that the Guard meant business. 

Across Black Mountain old Dave Tolliver and old Buck Falin had got wellof their wounds by this time, and though each swore to have vengeanceagainst the other as soon as he was able to handle a Winchester, bothfactions seemed waiting for that time to come. Moreover, the Falins, because of a rumour that Bad Rufe Tolliver might come back, and becauseof Devil Judd's anger at their attempt to capture young Dave, grew waryand rather pacificatory: and so, beyond a little quarrelling, a littlethreatening and the exchange of a harmless shot or two, sometimes inbanter, sometimes in earnest, nothing had been done. Sternly, however, though the Falins did not know the fact, Devil Judd continued to holdaloof in spite of the pleadings of young Dave, and so confident was theold man in the balance of power that lay with him that he sent June wordthat he was coming to take her home. And, in truth, with Hale going awayagain on a business trip and Bob, too, gone back home to the Bluegrass, and school closed, the little girl was glad to go, and she waited forher father's coming eagerly. Miss Anne was still there, to be sure, and if she, too, had gone, June would have been more content. The quietsmile of that astute young woman had told Hale plainly, and somewhat tohis embarrassment, that she knew something had happened between the two, but that smile she never gave to June. Indeed, she never encounteredaught else than the same silent searching gaze from the strangely maturelittle creature's eyes, and when those eyes met the teacher's, alwaysJune's hand would wander unconsciously to the little cross at her throatas though to invoke its aid against anything that could come between herand its giver. 

The purple rhododendrons on Bee Rock had come and gone and thepink-flecked laurels were in bloom when June fared forth one sunnymorning of her own birth-month behind old Judd Tolliver--home. Back upthrough the wild Gap they rode in silence, past Bee Rock, out of thechasm and up the little valley toward the Trail of the Lonesome Pine, into which the father's old sorrel nag, with a switch of her sunburnttail, turned leftward. June leaned forward a little, and there was thecrest of the big tree motionless in the blue high above, and shelteredby one big white cloud. It was the first time she had seen the pinesince she had first left it, and little tremblings went through her fromher bare feet to her bonneted head. Thus was she unclad, for Hale hadtold her that, to avoid criticism, she must go home clothed just as shewas when she left Lonesome Cove. She did not quite understand that, andshe carried her new clothes in a bundle in her lap, but she took Hale'sword unquestioned. So she wore her crimson homespun and her bonnet, withher bronze-gold hair gathered under it in the same old Psyche knot. She must wear her shoes, she told Hale, until she got out of town, elsesomeone might see her, but Hale had said she would be leaving too earlyfor that: and so she had gone from the Gap as she had come into it, withunmittened hands and bare feet. The soft wind was very good to thosedangling feet, and she itched to have them on the green grass or in thecool waters through which the old horse splashed. Yes, she was goinghome again, the same June as far as mountain eyes could see, though shehad grown perceptibly, and her little face had blossomed from her heartalmost into a woman's, but she knew that while her clothes were thesame, they covered quite another girl. Time wings slowly for the young, and when the sensations are many and the experiences are new, slowlyeven for all--and thus there was a double reason why it seemed an age toJune since her eyes had last rested on the big Pine. 

Here was the place where Hale had put his big black horse into a deadrun, and as vivid a thrill of it came back to her now as had been thethrill of the race. Then they began to climb laboriously up the rockycreek--the water singing a joyous welcome to her along the path, fernsand flowers nodding to her from dead leaves and rich mould and peepingat her from crevices between the rocks on the creek-banks as high up asthe level of her eyes--up under bending branches full-leafed, with thewarm sunshine darting down through them upon her as she passed, andmaking a playfellow of her sunny hair. Here was the place where she hadgot angry with Hale, had slid from his horse and stormed with tears. What a little fool she had been when Hale had meant only to be kind! Hewas never anything but kind--Jack was--dear, dear Jack! That wouldn'thappen NO more, she thought, and straightway she corrected that thought. 

"It won't happen ANY more, " she said aloud. 

"Whut'd you say, June?"

The old man lifted his bushy beard from his chest and turned his head. 

"Nothin', dad, " she said, and old Judd, himself in a deep study, droppedback into it again. How often she had said that to herself--that itwould happen no more--she had stopped saying it to Hale, because helaughed and forgave her, and seemed to love her mood, whether she criedfrom joy or anger--and yet she kept on doing both just the same. 

Several times Devil Judd stopped to let his horse rest, and each time, of course, the wooded slopes of the mountains stretched downward inlonger sweeps of summer green, and across the widening valley the topsof the mountains beyond dropped nearer to the straight level of hereyes, while beyond them vaster blue bulks became visible and ran on andon, as they always seemed, to the farthest limits of the world. Evenout there, Hale had told her, she would go some day. The last curvingup-sweep came finally, and there stood the big Pine, majestic, unchangedand murmuring in the wind like the undertone of a far-off sea. As theypassed the base of it, she reached out her hand and let the tips of herfingers brush caressingly across its trunk, turned quickly for a lastlook at the sunlit valley and the hills of the outer world and then thetwo passed into a green gloom of shadow and thick leaves that shut herheart in as suddenly as though some human hand had clutched it. She wasgoing home--to see Bub and Loretta and Uncle Billy and "old Hon" and herstep-mother and Dave, and yet she felt vaguely troubled. The valley onthe other side was in dazzling sunshine--she had seen that. The sun muststill be shining over there--it must be shining above her over here, forhere and there shot a sunbeam message from that outer world down throughthe leaves, and yet it seemed that black night had suddenly fallen abouther, and helplessly she wondered about it all, with her hands grippedtight and her eyes wide. But the mood was gone when they emerged at the"deadening" on the last spur and she saw Lonesome Cove and the roofof her little home peacefully asleep in the same sun that shone on thevalley over the mountain. Colour came to her face and her heart beatfaster. At the foot of the spur the road had been widened and showedsigns of heavy hauling. There was sawdust in the mouth of the creek and, from coal-dust, the water was black. The ring of axes and the shouts ofox-drivers came from the mountain side. Up the creek above her father'scabin three or four houses were being built of fresh boards, and therein front of her was a new store. To a fence one side of it two horseswere hitched and on one horse was a side-saddle. Before the door stoodthe Red Fox and Uncle Billy, the miller, who peered at her for a momentthrough his big spectacles and gave her a wondering shout of welcomethat brought her cousin Loretta to the door, where she stopped a moment, anchored with surprise. Over her shoulder peered her cousin Dave, andJune saw his face darken while she looked. 

"Why, Honey, " said the old miller, "have ye really come home agin?"While Loretta simply said:

"My Lord!" and came out and stood with her hands on her hips looking atJune. 

"Why, ye ain't a bit changed! I knowed ye wasn't goin' to put on noairs like Dave thar said "--she turned on Dave, who, with a surly shrug, wheeled and went back into the store. Uncle Billy was going home. 

"Come down to see us right away now, " he called back. "Ole Hon's mightnigh crazy to git her eyes on ye. "

"All right, Uncle Billy, " said June, "early termorrer. " The Red Foxdid not open his lips, but his pale eyes searched the girl from head tofoot. 

"Git down, June, " said Loretta, "and I'll walk up to the house with ye. "

June slid down, Devil Judd started the old horse, and as the two girls, with their arms about each other's waists, followed, the wolfish side ofthe Red Fox's face lifted in an ironical snarl. Bub was standing at thegate, and when he saw his father riding home alone, his wistful eyesfilled and his cry of disappointment brought the step-mother to thedoor. 

"Whar's June?" he cried, and June heard him, and loosening herselffrom Loretta, she ran round the horse and had Bub in her arms. Then shelooked up into the eyes of her step-mother. The old woman's face lookedkind--so kind that for the first time in her life June did what herfather could never get her to do: she called her "Mammy, " and then shegave that old woman the surprise of her life--she kissed her. Right awayshe must see everything, and Bub, in ecstasy, wanted to pilot her aroundto see the new calf and the new pigs and the new chickens, but dumblyJune looked to a miracle that had come to pass to the left of thecabin--a flower-garden, the like of which she had seen only in herdreams. 

XVII

Twice her lips opened soundlessly and, dazed, she could only pointdumbly. The old step-mother laughed:

"Jack Hale done that. He pestered yo' pap to let him do it fer ye, an'anything Jack Hale wants from yo' pap, he gits. I thought hit was plum'foolishness, but he's got things to eat planted thar, too, an' I declarhit's right purty. "

That wonderful garden! June started for it on a run. There was abroad grass-walk down through the middle of it and there were narrowgrass-walks running sidewise, just as they did in the gardens which Haletold her he had seen in the outer world. The flowers were planted inraised beds, and all the ones that she had learned to know and love atthe Gap were there, and many more besides. The hollyhocks, bachelor'sbuttons and marigolds she had known all her life. The lilacs, touch-me-nots, tulips and narcissus she had learned to know in gardensat the Gap. Two rose-bushes were in bloom, and there were strangegrasses and plants and flowers that Jack would tell her about whenhe came. One side was sentinelled by sun-flowers and another sideby transplanted laurel and rhododendron shrubs, and hidden in theplant-and-flower-bordered squares were the vegetables that won herstep-mother's tolerance of Hale's plan. Through and through June walked, her dark eyes flashing joyously here and there when they were not alittle dimmed with tears, with Loretta following her, unsympathetic inappreciation, wondering that June should be making such a fuss about alot of flowers, but envious withal when she half guessed the reason, andimpatient Bub eager to show her other births and changes. And, over andover all the while, June was whispering to herself:

"My garden--MY garden!"

When she came back to the porch, after a tour through all that was newor had changed, Dave had brought his horse and Loretta's to the gate. No, he wouldn't come in and "rest a spell"--"they must be gittin' alonghome, " he said shortly. But old Judd Tolliver insisted that he shouldstay to dinner, and Dave tied the horses to the fence and walked to theporch, not lifting his eyes to June. Straightway the girl went into thehouse co help her step-mother with dinner, but the old woman told hershe "reckoned she needn't start in yit"--adding in the querulous toneJune knew so well:

"I've been mighty po'ly, an' thar'll be a mighty lot fer you to do now. "So with this direful prophecy in her ears the girl hesitated. The oldwoman looked at her closely. 

"Ye ain't a bit changed, " she said. 

They were the words Loretta had used, and in the voice of each was thesame strange tone of disappointment. June wondered: were they sorryshe had not come back putting on airs and fussed up with ribbons andfeathers that they might hear her picked to pieces and perhaps do someof the picking themselves? Not Loretta, surely--but the old step-mother!June left the kitchen and sat down just inside the door. The Red Fox andtwo other men had sauntered up from the store and all were listening tohis quavering chat:

"I seed a vision last night, and thar's trouble a-comin' in thesemountains. The Lord told me so straight from the clouds. These railroadsand coal-mines is a-goin' to raise taxes, so that a pore man'll have tosell his hogs and his corn to pay 'em an' have nothin' left to keephim from starvin' to death. Them police-fellers over thar at the Gap isa-stirrin' up strife and a-runnin' things over thar as though the earthwas made fer 'em, an' the citizens ain't goin' to stand it. An' thiswar's a-comin' on an' thar'll be shootin' an' killin' over thar an' overhyeh. I seed all this devilment in a vision last night, as shore as I'msettin' hyeh. "

Old Judd grunted, shifted his huge shoulders, parted his mustache andbeard with two fingers and spat through them. 

"Well, I reckon you didn't see no devilment. Red, that you won't take ahand in, if it comes. "

The other men laughed, but the Red Fox looked meek and lowly. 

"I'm a servant of the Lord. He says do this, an' I does it the bestI know how. I goes about a-preachin' the word in the wilderness an'a-healin' the sick with soothin' yarbs and sech. "

"An' a-makin' compacts with the devil, " said old Judd shortly, "whenthe eye of man is a-lookin' t'other way. " The left side of the Red Fox'sface twitched into the faintest shadow of a snarl, but, shaking hishead, he kept still. 

"Well, " said Sam Barth, who was thin and long and sandy, "I don't keerwhat them fellers do on t'other side o' the mountain, but what air theya-comin' over here fer?"

Old Judd spoke again. 

"To give you a job, if you wasn't too durned lazy to work. "

"Yes, " said the other man, who was dark, swarthy and whose blackeyebrows met across the bridge of his nose--"and that damned Hale, who'sa-tearin' up Hellfire here in the cove. " The old man lifted his eyes. Young Dave's face wore a sudden malignant sympathy which made Juneclench her hands a little more tightly. 

"What about him? You must have been over to the Gap lately--like Davethar--did you git board in the calaboose?" It was a random thrust, butit was accurate and it went home, and there was silence for a while. Presently old Judd went on:

"Taxes hain't goin' to be raised, and if they are, folks will be betterable to pay 'em. Them police-fellers at the Gap don't bother nobody ifhe behaves himself. This war will start when it does start, an' as forHale, he's as square an' clever a feller as I've ever seed. His word isjust as good as his bond. I'm a-goin' to sell him this land. It'll behis'n, an' he can do what he wants to with it. I'm his friend, and I'mgoin' to stay his friend as long as he goes on as he's goin' now, an' I'm not goin' to see him bothered as long as he tends to his ownbusiness. "

The words fell slowly and the weight of them rested heavily on allexcept on June. Her fingers loosened and she smiled. 

The Red Fox rose, shaking his head. 

"All right, Judd Tolliver, " he said warningly. 

"Come in and git something to eat, Red. "

"No, " he said, "I'll be gittin' along"--and he went, still shaking hishead. 

The table was covered with an oil-cloth spotted with drippings from acandle. The plates and cups were thick and the spoons were of pewter. The bread was soggy and the bacon was thick and floating in grease. Themen ate and the women served, as in ancient days. They gobbled theirfood like wolves, and when they drank their coffee, the noise they madewas painful to June's ears. There were no napkins and when her fatherpushed his chair back, he wiped his dripping mouth with the back ofhis sleeve. And Loretta and the step-mother--they, too, ate with theirknives and used their fingers. Poor June quivered with a vague newborndisgust. Ah, had she not changed--in ways they could not see!

June helped clear away the dishes--the old woman did not object tothat--listening to the gossip of the mountains--courtships, marriages, births, deaths, the growing hostility in the feud, the random killing ofthis man or that--Hale's doings in Lonesome Cove. 

"He's comin' over hyeh agin next Saturday, " said the old woman. 

"Is he?" said Loretta in a way that made June turn sharply from herdishes toward her. She knew Hale was not coming, but she said nothing. The old woman was lighting her pipe. 

"Yes--you better be over hyeh in yo' best bib and tucker. "

"Pshaw, " said Loretta, but June saw two bright spots come into herpretty cheeks, and she herself burned inwardly. The old woman waslooking at her. 

"'Pears like you air mighty quiet, June. "

"That's so, " said Loretta, looking at her, too. 

June, still silent, turned back to her dishes. They were beginning totake notice after all, for the girl hardly knew that she had not openedher lips. 

Once only Dave spoke to her, and that was when Loretta said she mustgo. June was out in the porch looking at the already beloved garden, andhearing his step she turned. He looked her steadily in the eyes. Shesaw his gaze drop to the fairy-stone at her throat, and a faint sneerappeared at his set mouth--a sneer for June's folly and what he thoughtwas uppishness in "furriners" like Hale. 

"So you ain't good enough fer him jest as ye air--air ye?" he saidslowly. "He's got to make ye all over agin--so's you'll be fitten ferhim. "

He turned away without looking to see how deep his barbed shaft wentand, startled, June flushed to her hair. In a few minutes they weregone--Dave without the exchange of another word with June, and Lorettawith a parting cry that she would come back on Saturday. The old manwent to the cornfield high above the cabin, the old woman, groaningwith pains real and fancied, lay down on a creaking bed, and June, with Dave's wound rankling, went out with Bub to see the new doings inLonesome Cove. The geese cackled before her, the hog-fish darted likesubmarine arrows from rock to rock and the willows bent in the samewistful way toward their shadows in the little stream, but its crystaldepths were there no longer--floating sawdust whirled in eddies on thesurface and the water was black as soot. Here and there the whitebelly of a fish lay upturned to the sun, for the cruel, deadly workof civilization had already begun. Farther up the creek was a buzzingmonster that, creaking and snorting, sent a flashing disk, rimmed withsharp teeth, biting a savage way through a log, that screamed with painas the brutal thing tore through its vitals, and gave up its life eachtime with a ghost-like cry of agony. Farther on little houses were beingbuilt of fresh boards, and farther on the water of the creek got blackerstill. June suddenly clutched Bud's arms. Two demons had appeared ona pile of fresh dirt above them--sooty, begrimed, with black faces andblack hands, and in the cap of each was a smoking little lamp. 

"Huh, " said Bub, "that ain't nothin'! Hello, Bill, " he called bravely. 

"Hello, Bub, " answered one of the two demons, and both stared at thelovely little apparition who was staring with such naive horror at them. It was all very wonderful, though, and it was all happening in LonesomeCove, but Jack Hale was doing it all and, therefore, it was all right, thought June--no matter what Dave said. Moreover, the ugly spot on thegreat, beautiful breast of the Mother was such a little one after alland June had no idea how it must spread. Above the opening for themines, the creek was crystal-clear as ever, the great hills were thesame, and the sky and the clouds, and the cabin and the fields of corn. Nothing could happen to them, but if even they were wiped out by Hale'shand she would have made no complaint. A wood-thrush flitted from aravine as she and Bub went back down the creek--and she stopped withuplifted face to listen. All her life she had loved its song, and thiswas the first time she had heard it in Lonesome Cove since she hadlearned its name from Hale. She had never heard it thereafter withoutthinking of him, and she thought of him now while it was breathing outthe very spirit of the hills, and she drew a long sigh for already shewas lonely and hungering for him. The song ceased and a long waveringcry came from the cabin. 

"So-o-o-cow! S-o-o-kee! S-o-o-kee!"

The old mother was calling the cows. It was near milking-time, and witha vague uneasiness she hurried Bub home. She saw her father coming downfrom the cornfield. She saw the two cows come from the woods into thepath that led to the barn, switching their tails and snatching mouthfulsfrom the bushes as they swung down the hill and, when she reached thegate, her step-mother was standing on the porch with one hand on her hipand the other shading her eyes from the slanting sun--waiting for her. Already kindness and consideration were gone. 

"Whar you been, June? Hurry up, now. You've had a long restin'-spellwhile I've been a-workin' myself to death. "

It was the old tone, and the old fierce rebellion rose within June, butHale had told her to be patient. She could not check the flash from hereyes, but she shut her lips tight on the answer that sprang to them, andwithout a word she went to the kitchen for the milking-pails. The cowshad forgotten her. They eyed her with suspicion and were restive. Thefirst one kicked at her when she put her beautiful head against its softflank. Her muscles had been in disuse and her hands were cramped andher forearms ached before she was through--but she kept doggedly at hertask. When she finished, her father had fed the horses and was standingbehind her. 

"Hit's mighty good to have you back agin, little gal. "

It was not often that he smiled or showed tenderness, much less spoke itthus openly, and June was doubly glad that she had held her tongue. Thenshe helped her step-mother get supper. The fire scorched her face, thathad grown unaccustomed to such heat, and she burned one hand, butshe did not let her step-mother see even that. Again she noticedwith aversion the heavy thick dishes and the pewter spoons and thecandle-grease on the oil-cloth, and she put the dishes down and, whilethe old woman was out of the room, attacked the spots viciously. Againshe saw her father and Bub ravenously gobbling their coarse food whileshe and her step-mother served and waited, and she began to wonder. Thewomen sat at the table with the men over in the Gap--why not here? Thenher father went silently to his pipe and Bub to playing with the kittenat the kitchen-door, while she and her mother ate with never a word. Something began to stifle her, but she choked it down. There were thedishes to be cleared away and washed, and the pans and kettles to becleaned. Her back ached, her arms were tired to the shoulders and herburned hand quivered with pain when all was done. The old woman had lefther to do the last few little things alone and had gone to her pipe. Both she and her father were sitting in silence on the porch when Junewent out there. Neither spoke to each other, nor to her, and both seemedto be part of the awful stillness that engulfed the world. Bub fellasleep in the soft air, and June sat and sat and sat. That was allexcept for the stars that came out over the mountains and were slowlybeing sprayed over the sky, and the pipings of frogs from the littlecreek. Once the wind came with a sudden sweep up the river and shethought she could hear the creak of Uncle Billy's water-wheel. Itsmote her with sudden gladness, not so much because it was a reliefand because she loved the old miller, but--such is the power ofassociation--because she now loved the mill more, loved it because themill over in the Gap had made her think more of the mill at the mouthof Lonesome Cove. A tapping vibrated through the railing of the porch onwhich her cheek lay. Her father was knocking the ashes from his pipe. Asimilar tapping sounded inside at the fireplace. The old woman had goneand Bub was in bed, and she had heard neither move. The old man rosewith a yawn. 

"Time to lay down, June. "

The girl rose. They all slept in one room. She did not dare to put onher night-gown--her mother would see it in the morning. So she slippedoff her dress, as she had done all her life, and crawled into bed withBub, who lay in the middle of it and who grunted peevishly whenshe pushed him with some difficulty over to his side. There were nosheets--not even one--and the coarse blankets, which had a close acridodour that she had never noticed before, seemed almost to scratch herflesh. She had hardly been to bed that early since she had left home, and she lay sleepless, watching the firelight play hide and seek withthe shadows among the aged, smoky rafters and flicker over the stringsof dried things that hung from the ceiling. In the other corner herfather and stepmother snored heartily, and Bub, beside her, was in anerveless slumber that would not come to her that night-tired and achingas she was. So, quietly, by and by, she slipped out of bed and out thedoor to the porch. The moon was rising and the radiant sheen of it haddropped down over the mountain side like a golden veil and was lightingup the white rising mists that trailed the curves of the river. It sankbelow the still crests of the pines beyond the garden and dropped onuntil it illumined, one by one, the dewy heads of the flowers. She roseand walked down the grassy path in her bare feet through the silentfragrant emblems of the planter's thought of her--touching this flowerand that with the tips of her fingers. And when she went back, she bentto kiss one lovely rose and, as she lifted her head with a startof fear, the dew from it shining on her lips made her red mouth asflower-like and no less beautiful. A yell had shattered the quiet of theworld--not the high fox-hunting yell of the mountains, but something newand strange. Up the creek were strange lights. A loud laugh shatteredthe succeeding stillness--a laugh she had never heard before in LonesomeCove. Swiftly she ran back to the porch. Surely strange things werehappening there. A strange spirit pervaded the Cove and the very airthrobbed with premonitions. What was the matter with everything--whatwas the matter with her? She knew that she was lonely and that shewanted Hale--but what else was it? She shivered--and not alone from thechill night-air--and puzzled and wondering and stricken at heart, shecrept back to bed. 

XVIII

Pausing at the Pine to let his big black horse blow a while, Halemounted and rode slowly down the green-and-gold gloom of the ravine. Inhis pocket was a quaint little letter from June to "John Hail"; thankinghim for the beautiful garden, saying she was lonely, and wanting him tocome soon. From the low flank of the mountain he stopped, looking downon the cabin in Lonesome Cove. It was a dreaming summer day. Trees, air, blue sky and white cloud were all in a dream, and even the smoke lazingfrom the chimney seemed drifting away like the spirit of something humanthat cared little whither it might be borne. Something crimson emergedfrom the door and stopped in indecision on the steps of the porch. Itmoved again, stopped at the corner of the house, and then, moving onwith a purpose, stopped once more and began to flicker slowly to andfro like a flame. June was working in her garden. Hale thought he wouldhalloo to her, and then he decided to surprise her, and he went on down, hitched his horse and stole up to the garden fence. On the way hepulled up a bunch of weeds by the roots and with them in his arms henoiselessly climbed the fence. June neither heard nor saw him. Herunderlip was clenched tight between her teeth, the little cross swungviolently at her throat and she was so savagely wielding the light hoehe had given her that he thought at first she must be killing a snake;but she was only fighting to death every weed that dared to show itshead. Her feet and her head were bare, her face was moist and flushedand her hair was a tumbled heap of what was to him the rarest gold underthe sun. The wind was still, the leaves were heavy with the richness offull growth, bees were busy about June's head and not another soul wasin sight. 

"Good morning, little girl!" he called cheerily. 

The hoe was arrested at the height of a vicious stroke and the littlegirl whirled without a cry, but the blood from her pumping heartcrimsoned her face and made her eyes shine with gladness. Her eyes wentto her feet and her hands to her hair. 

"You oughtn't to slip up an' s-startle a lady that-a-way, " she said withgrave rebuke, and Hale looked humbled. "Now you just set there and waittill I come back. "

"No--no--I want you to stay just as you are. "

"Honest?"

Hale gravely crossed heart and body and June gave out a happy littlelaugh--for he had caught that gesture--a favourite one--from her. Thensuddenly:

"How long?" She was thinking of what Dave said, but the subtle twist inher meaning passed Hale by. He raised his eyes to the sun and June shookher head. 

"You got to go home 'fore sundown. "

She dropped her hoe and came over toward him. 

"Whut you doin' with them--those weeds?"

"Going to plant 'em in our garden. " Hale had got a theory from agarden-book that the humble burdock, pig-weed and other lowly plantswere good for ornamental effect, and he wanted to experiment, but Junegave a shrill whoop and fell to scornful laughter. Then she snatched theweeds from him and threw them over the fence. 

"Why, June!"

"Not in MY garden. Them's stagger-weeds--they kill cows, " and she wentoff again. 

"I reckon you better c-consult me 'bout weeds next time. I don't knowmuch 'bout flowers, but I've knowed all my life 'bout WEEDS. " She laidso much emphasis on the word that Hale wondered for the moment if herwords had a deeper meaning--but she went on:

"Ever' spring I have to watch the cows fer two weeks to keep 'em fromeatin'--those weeds. " Her self-corrections were always made gravely now, and Hale consciously ignored them except when he had something to tellher that she ought to know. Everything, it seemed, she wanted to know. 

"Do they really kill cows?"

June snapped her fingers: "Like that. But you just come on here, "she added with pretty imperiousness. "I want to axe--ask you somethings--what's that?"

"Scarlet sage. "

"Scarlet sage, " repeated June. "An' that?"

"Nasturtium, and that's Oriental grass. "

"Nas-tur-tium, Oriental. An' what's that vine?"

"That comes from North Africa--they call it 'matrimonial vine. '"

"Whut fer?" asked June quickly. 

"Because it clings so. " Hale smiled, but June saw none of hishumour--the married people she knew clung till the finger of deathunclasped them. She pointed to a bunch of tall tropical-looking plantswith great spreading leaves and big green-white stalks. 

"They're called Palmae Christi. "

"Whut?"

"That's Latin. It means 'Hands of Christ, '" said Hale with reverence. "You see how the leaves are spread out--don't they look like hands?'

"Not much, " said June frankly. "What's Latin?"

"Oh, that's a dead language that some people used a long, long timeago. "

"What do folks use it nowadays fer? Why don't they just say 'Hands o'Christ'?"

"I don't know, " he said helplessly, "but maybe you'll study Latin someof these days. " June shook her head. 

"Gettin' YOUR language is a big enough job fer me, " she said with suchquaint seriousness that Hale could not laugh. She looked up suddenly. "You been a long time git--gettin' over here. "

"Yes, and now you want to send me home before sundown. "

"I'm afeer--I'm afraid for you. Have you got a gun?" Hale tapped hisbreast-pocket. 

"Always. What are you afraid of?"

"The Falins. " She clenched her hands. 

"I'd like to SEE one o' them Falins tech ye, " she added fiercely, andthen she gave a quick look at the sun. 

"You better go now, Jack. I'm afraid fer you. Where's your horse?" Halewaved his hand. 

"Down there. All right, little girl, " he said. "I ought to go, anyway. "And, to humour her, he started for the gate. There he bent to kiss her, but she drew back. 

"I'm afraid of Dave, " she said, but she leaned on the gate and lookedlong at him with wistful eyes. 

"Jack, " she said, and her eyes swam suddenly, "it'll most kill me--but Ireckon you better not come over here much. " Hale made light of it all. 

"Nonsense, I'm coming just as often as I can. " June smiled then. 

"All right. I'll watch out fer ye. "

He went down the path, her eyes following him, and when he looked backfrom the spur he saw her sitting in the porch and watching that shemight wave him farewell. 

Hale could not go over to Lonesome Cove much that summer, for he wasaway from the mountains a good part of the time, and it was a weary, racking summer for June when he was not there. The step-mother was astern taskmistress, and the girl worked hard, but no night passed thatshe did not spend an hour or more on her books, and by degrees shebribed and stormed Bub into learning his A, B, C's and digging at ablue-back spelling book. But all through the day there were times whenshe could play with the boy in the garden, and every afternoon, whenit was not raining, she would slip away to a little ravine behind thecabin, where a log had fallen across a little brook, and there in thecool, sun-pierced shadows she would study, read and dream--with thewater bubbling underneath and wood-thrushes singing overhead. For Halekept her well supplied with books. He had given her children's booksat first, but she outgrew them when the first love-story fell into herhands, and then he gave her novels--good, old ones and the best of thenew ones, and they were to her what water is to a thing athirst. But thehappy days were when Hale was there. She had a thousand questions forhim to answer, whenever he came, about birds, trees and flowers and thethings she read in her books. The words she could not understand in themshe marked, so that she could ask their meaning, and it was amazing howher vocabulary increased. Moreover, she was always trying to use thenew words she learned, and her speech was thus a quaint mixture ofvernacular, self-corrections and unexpected words. Happening once tohave a volume of Keats in his pocket, he read some of it to her, andwhile she could not understand, the music of the lines fascinated herand she had him leave that with her, too. She never tired hearing himtell of the places where he had been and the people he knew and themusic and plays he had heard and seen. And when he told her that she, too, should see all those wonderful things some day, her deep eyes tookfire and she dropped her head far back between her shoulders and lookedlong at the stars that held but little more wonder for her than theworld of which he told. But each time he was there she grew noticeablyshyer with him and never once was the love-theme between them taken upin open words. Hale was reluctant, if only because she was still such achild, and if he took her hand or put his own on her wonderful head orhis arm around her as they stood in the garden under the stars--he didit as to a child, though the leap in her eyes and the quickening of hisown heart told him the lie that he was acting, rightly, to her and tohimself. And no more now were there any breaking-downs within her--therewas only a calm faith that staggered him and gave him an ever-mountingsense of his responsibility for whatever might, through the part he hadtaken in moulding her life, be in store for her. 

When he was not there, life grew a little easier for her in time, because of her dreams, the patience that was built from them and Hale'skindly words, the comfort of her garden and her books, and the blessedforce of habit. For as time went on, she got consciously used to therough life, the coarse food and the rude ways of her own people andher own home. And though she relaxed not a bit in her own daintycleanliness, the shrinking that she felt when she first arrived home, came to her at longer and longer intervals. Once a week she went downto Uncle Billy's, where she watched the water-wheel dripping sun-jewelsinto the sluice, the kingfisher darting like a blue bolt upon his prey, and listening to the lullaby that the water played to the sleepy oldmill--and stopping, both ways, to gossip with old Hon in her porch underthe honeysuckle vines. Uncle Billy saw the change in her and he grewvaguely uneasy about her--she dreamed so much, she was at times sorestless, she asked so many questions he could not answer, and shefailed to ask so many that were on the tip of her tongue. He saw thatwhile her body was at home, her thoughts rarely were; and it all hauntedhim with a vague sense that he was losing her. But old Hon laughed athim and told him he was an old fool and to "git another pair o' specs"and maybe he could see that the "little gal" was in love. This startledUncle Billy, for he was so like a father to June that he was as slowas a father in recognizing that his child has grown to such absurdmaturity. But looking back to the beginning--how the little girl hadtalked of the "furriner" who had come into Lonesome Cove all duringthe six months he was gone; how gladly she had gone away to the Gapto school, how anxious she was to go still farther away again, and, remembering all the strange questions she asked him about things in theoutside world of which he knew nothing--Uncle Billy shook his head inconfirmation of his own conclusion, and with all his soul he wonderedabout Hale--what kind of a man he was and what his purpose was withJune--and of every man who passed his mill he never failed to ask if heknew "that ar man Hale" and what he knew. All he had heard had been inHale's favour, except from young Dave Tolliver, the Red Fox or from anyFalin of the crowd, which Hale had prevented from capturing Dave. Their statements bothered him--especially the Red Fox's evil hintsand insinuations about Hale's purposes one day at the mill. The millerthought of them all the afternoon and all the way home, and when hesat down at his fire his eyes very naturally and simply rose to his oldrifle over the door--and then he laughed to himself so loudly that oldHon heard him. 

"Air you goin' crazy, Billy?" she asked. "Whut you studyin' 'bout?"

"Nothin'; I was jest a-thinkin' Devil Judd wouldn't leave a grease-spotof him. "

"You AIR goin' crazy--who's him?"

"Uh--nobody, " said Uncle Billy, and old Hon turned with a shrug of hershoulders--she was tired of all this talk about the feud. 

All that summer young Dave Tolliver hung around Lonesome Cove. He wouldsit for hours in Devil Judd's cabin, rarely saying anything to June orto anybody, though the girl felt that she hardly made a move that he didnot see, and while he disappeared when Hale came, after a surly gruntof acknowledgment to Hale's cheerful greeting, his perpetual espionagebegan to anger June. Never, however, did he put himself into words untilHale's last visit, when the summer had waned and it was nearly time forJune to go away again to school. As usual, Dave had left the house whenHale came, and an hour after Hale was gone she went to the little ravinewith a book in her hand, and there the boy was sitting on her log, hiselbows dug into his legs midway between thigh and knee, his chin in hishands, his slouched hat over his black eyes--every line of him picturingangry, sullen dejection. She would have slipped away, but he heard herand lifted his head and stared at her without speaking. Then he slowlygot off the log and sat down on a moss-covered stone. 

"'Scuse me, " he said with elaborate sarcasm. "This bein' yo'school-house over hyeh, an' me not bein' a scholar, I reckon I'm in yourway. "

"How do you happen to know hit's my school-house?" asked June quietly. 

"I've seed you hyeh. "

"Jus' as I s'posed. "

"You an' HIM. "

"Jus' as I s'posed, " she repeated, and a spot of red came into eachcheek. "But we didn't see YOU. " Young Dave laughed. 

"Well, everybody don't always see me when I'm seein' them. "

"No, " she said unsteadily. "So, you've been sneakin' around through thewoods a-spyin' on me--SNEAKIN' AN' SPYIN', " she repeated so searinglythat Dave looked at the ground suddenly, picked up a pebble confusedlyand shot it in the water. 

"I had a mighty good reason, " he said doggedly. "Ef he'd been up to someof his furrin' tricks---" June stamped the ground. 

"Don't you think I kin take keer o' myself?"

"No, I don't. I never seed a gal that could--with one o' themfurriners. "

"Huh!" she said scornfully. "You seem to set a mighty big store by thedecency of yo' own kin. " Dave was silent. "He ain't up to no tricks. An'whut do you reckon Dad 'ud be doin' while you was pertecting me?"

"Air ye goin' away to school?" he asked suddenly. June hesitated. 

"Well, seein' as hit's none o' yo' business--I am. "

"Air ye goin' to marry him?"

"He ain't axed me. " The boy's face turned red as a flame. 

"Ye air honest with me, an' now I'm goin' to be honest with you. Youhain't never goin' to marry him. "

[Illustration: You hain't never goin' to marry him. ", 0242]

"Mebbe you think I'm goin' to marry YOU. " A mist of rage swept beforethe lad's eyes so that he could hardly see, but he repeated steadily:

"You hain't goin' to marry HIM. " June looked at the boy long andsteadily, but his black eyes never wavered--she knew what he meant. 

"An' he kept the Falins from killin' you, " she said, quivering withindignation at the shame of him, but Dave went on unheeding:

"You pore little fool! Do ye reckon as how he's EVER goin' to axe yeto marry him? Whut's he sendin' you away fer? Because you hain't goodenough fer him! Whar's yo' pride? You hain't good enough fer him, " herepeated scathingly. June had grown calm now. 

"I know it, " she said quietly, "but I'm goin' to try to be. "

Dave rose then in impotent fury and pointed one finger at her. His blackeyes gleamed like a demon's and his voice was hoarse with resolution andrage, but it was Tolliver against Tolliver now, and June answered himwith contemptuous fearlessness. 

"YOU HAIN'T NEVER GOIN' TO MARRY HIM. "

"An' he kept the Falins from killin' ye. "

"Yes, " he retorted savagely at last, "an' I kept the Falins from killin'HIM, " and he stalked away, leaving June blanched and wondering. 

It was true. Only an hour before, as Hale turned up the mountain thatvery afternoon at the mouth of Lonesome Cove, young Dave had called tohim from the bushes and stepped into the road. 

"You air goin' to court Monday?" he said. 

"Yes, " said Hale. 

"Well, you better take another road this time, " he said quietly. "Threeo' the Falins will be waitin' in the lorrel somewhar on the road tolay-way ye. "

Hale was dumfounded, but he knew the boy spoke the truth. 

"Look here, " he said impulsively, "I've got nothing against you, andI hope you've got nothing against me. I'm much obliged--let's shakehands!"

The boy turned sullenly away with a dogged shake of his head. 

"I was beholden to you, " he said with dignity, "an' I warned you 'boutthem Falins to git even with you. We're quits now. "

Hale started to speak--to say that the lad was not beholden to him--thathe would as quickly have protected a Falin, but it would have only madematters worse. Moreover, he knew precisely what Dave had against him, and that, too, was no matter for discussion. So he said simply andsincerely:

"I'm sorry we can't be friends. "

"No, " Dave gritted out, "not this side o' Heaven--or Hell. "

XIX

And still farther into that far silence about which she used to dreamat the base of the big Pine, went little June. At dusk, weary andtravel-stained, she sat in the parlours of a hotel--a great graycolumned structure of stone. She was confused and bewildered and herhead ached. The journey had been long and tiresome. The swift motion ofthe train had made her dizzy and faint. The dust and smoke had almoststifled her, and even now the dismal parlours, rich and wonderful asthey were to her unaccustomed eyes, oppressed her deeply. If she couldhave one more breath of mountain air!

The day had been too full of wonders. Impressions had crowded on hersensitive brain so thick and fast that the recollection of them was asthrough a haze. She had never been on a train before and when, asit crashed ahead, she clutched Hale's arm in fear and asked how theystopped it, Hale hearing the whistle blow for a station, said:

"I'll show you, " and he waved one hand out the window. And he repeatedthis trick twice before she saw that it was a joke. All day he hadsoothed her uneasiness in some such way and all day he watched her withan amused smile that was puzzling to her. She remembered sadly watchingthe mountains dwindle and disappear, and when several of her own peoplewho were on the train were left at way-stations, it seemed as though alllinks that bound her to her home were broken. The face of the countrychanged, the people changed in looks, manners and dress, and she shrankcloser to Hale with an increasing sense of painful loneliness. Theselevel fields and these farm-houses so strangely built, so varied incolour were the "settlemints, " and these people so nicely dressed, soclean and fresh-looking were "furriners. " At one station a crowdof school-girls had got on board and she had watched them with keeninterest, mystified by their incessant chatter and gayety. And at lasthad come the big city, with more smoke, more dust, more noise, moreconfusion--and she was in HIS world. That was the thought that comfortedher--it was his world, and now she sat alone in the dismal parlourswhile Hale was gone to find his sister--waiting and trembling at theordeal, close upon her, of meeting Helen Hale. 

Below, Hale found his sister and her maid registered, and a few minuteslater he led Miss Hale into the parlour. As they entered June rosewithout advancing, and for a moment the two stood facing each other--thestill roughly clad, primitive mountain girl and the exquisite modernwoman--in an embarrassment equally painful to both. 

"June, this is my sister. "

At a loss what to do, Helen Hale simply stretched out her hand, butdrawn by June's timidity and the quick admiration and fear in her eyes, she leaned suddenly forward and kissed her. A grateful flush overspreadthe little girl's features and the pallor that instantly succeeded wentstraight-way to the sister's heart. 

"You are not well, " she said quickly and kindly. "You must go to yourroom at once. I am going to take care of you--you are MY little sisternow. "

June lost the subtlety in Miss Hale's emphasis, but she fell withinstant submission under such gentle authority, and though she could saynothing, her eyes glistened and her lips quivered, and without lookingto Hale, she followed his sister out of the room. Hale stood still. He had watched the meeting with apprehension and now, surprised andgrateful, he went to Helen's parlour and waited with a hopeful heart. When his sister entered, he rose eagerly:

"Well--" he said, stopping suddenly, for there were tears of vexation, dismay and genuine distress on his sister's face. 

"Oh, Jack, " she cried, "how could you! How could you!"

Hale bit his lips, turned and paced the room. He had hoped too much andyet what else could he have expected? His sister and June knew as littleabout each other and each other's lives as though they had occupieddifferent planets. He had forgotten that Helen must be shocked by June'sinaccuracies of speech and in a hundred other ways to which he hadbecome accustomed. With him, moreover, the process had been gradual and, moreover, he had seen beneath it all. And yet he had foolishly expectedHelen to understand everything at once. He was unjust, so very wisely heheld himself in silence. 

"Where is her baggage, Jack?" Helen had opened her trunk and was liftingout the lid. "She ought to change those dusty clothes at once. You'dbetter ring and have it sent right up. "

"No, " said Hale, "I will go down and see about it myself. "

He returned presently--his face aflame--with June's carpet-bag. 

"I believe this is all she has, " he said quietly. 

In spite of herself Helen's grief changed to a fit of helpless laughterand, afraid to trust himself further, Hale rose to leave the room. Atthe door he was met by the negro maid. 

"Miss Helen, " she said with an open smile, "Miss June say she don't wantNUTTIN'. " Hale gave her a fiery look and hurried out. June was seatedat a window when he went into her room with her face buried in her arms. She lifted her head, dropped it, and he saw that her eyes were red withweeping. "Are you sick, little girl?" he asked anxiously. June shook herhead helplessly. 

"You aren't homesick, are you?"

"No. " The answer came very faintly. 

"Don't you like my sister?" The head bowed an emphatic "Yes--yes. "

"Then what is the matter?"

"Oh, " she said despairingly, between her sobs, "she--won't--like--me. Inever--can--be--like HER. "

Hale smiled, but her grief was so sincere that he leaned over her andwith a tender hand soothed her into quiet. Then he went to Helen againand he found her overhauling dresses. 

"I brought along several things of different sizes and I am going to tryat any rate. Oh, " she added hastily, "only of course until she can getsome clothes of her own. "

"Sure, " said Hale, "but--" His sister waved one hand and again Hale keptstill. 

June had bathed her eyes and was lying down when Helen entered, andshe made not the slightest objection to anything the latter proposed. Straightway she fell under as complete subjection to her as she had doneto Hale. Without a moment's hesitation she drew off her rudely fashioneddress and stood before Helen with the utmost simplicity--her beautifularms and throat bare and her hair falling about them with the rich goldof a cloud at an autumn sunset. Dressed, she could hardly breathe, but when she looked at herself in the mirror, she trembled. Magictransformation! Apparently the chasm between the two had been bridgedin a single instant. Helen herself was astonished and again her heartwarmed toward the girl, when a little later, she stood timidly underHale's scrutiny, eagerly watching his face and flushing rosywith happiness under his brightening look. Her brother had notexaggerated--the little girl was really beautiful. When they went downto the dining-room, there was another surprise for Helen Hale, forJune's timidity was gone and to the wonder of the woman, she was clothedwith an impassive reserve that in herself would have been little lessthan haughtiness and was astounding in a child. She saw, too, that thechange in the girl's bearing was unconscious and that the presence ofstrangers had caused it. It was plain that June's timidity sprang fromher love of Hale--her fear of not pleasing him and not pleasing her, hissister, and plain, too, that remarkable self-poise was little June's tocommand. At the table June kept her eyes fastened on Helen Hale. Not amovement escaped her and she did nothing that was not done by one of theothers first. She said nothing, but if she had to answer a question, shespoke with such care and precision that she almost seemed to be usinga foreign language. Miss Hale smiled but with inward approval, and thatnight she was in better spirits. 

"Jack, " she said, when he came to bid her good-night, "I think we'dbetter stay here a few days. I thought of course you were exaggerating, but she is very, very lovely. And that manner of hers--well, it passesmy understanding. Just leave everything to me. "

Hale was very willing to do that. He had all trust in his sister'sjudgment, he knew her dislike of interference, her love of autocraticsupervision, so he asked no questions, but in grateful relief kissed hergood-night. 

The sister sat for a long time at her window after he was gone. Herbrother had been long away from civilization; he had become infatuated, the girl loved him, he was honourable and in his heart he meant to marryher--that was to her the whole story. She had been mortified by themisstep, but the misstep made, only one thought had occurred to her--tohelp him all she could. She had been appalled when she first saw thedusty shrinking mountain girl, but the helplessness and the lonelinessof the tired little face touched her, and she was straightway responsiveto the mute appeal in the dark eyes that were lifted to her ownwith such modest fear and wonder. Now her surprise at her brother'sinfatuation was abating rapidly. The girl's adoration of him, her wildbeauty, her strange winning personality--as rare and as independent ofbirth and circumstances as genius--had soon made that phenomenon plain. And now what was to be done? The girl was quick, observant, imitative, docile, and in the presence of strangers, her gravity of manner gavethe impression of uncanny self-possession. It really seemed as thoughanything might be possible. At Helen's suggestion, then, the threestayed where they were for a week, for June's wardrobe was sadly in needof attention. So the week was spent in shopping, driving, and walking, and rapidly as it passed for Helen and Hale it was to June the longestof her life, so filled was it with a thousand sensations unfelt by them. The city had been stirred by the spirit of the new South, but the charmof the old was distinct everywhere. Architectural eccentricities hadstartled the sleepy maple-shaded rows of comfortable uniform dwellingshere and there, and in some streets the life was brisk; but it wasstill possible to see pedestrians strolling with unconscious good-humouraround piles of goods on the sidewalk, business men stopping for asocial chat on the streets, street-cars moving independent of time, men invariably giving up their seats to women, and, strangers or not, depositing their fare for them; the drivers at the courteous personalservice of each patron of the road--now holding a car and placidlywhistling while some lady who had signalled from her doorway went backindoors for some forgotten article, now twisting the reins around thebrakes and leaving a parcel in some yard--and no one grumbling! But whatwas to Hale an atmosphere of amusing leisure was to June bewilderingconfusion. To her his amusement was unintelligible, but though inconstant wonder at everything she saw, no one would ever have suspectedthat she was making her first acquaintance with city scenes. At firstthe calm unconcern of her companions had puzzled her. She could notunderstand how they could walk along, heedless of the wonderful visionsthat beckoned to her from the shop-windows; fearless of the strangenoises about them and scarcely noticing the great crowds of people, or the strange shining vehicles that thronged the streets. But she hadquickly concluded that it was one of the demands of that new life tosee little and be astonished at nothing, and Helen and Hale surprised inturn at her unconcern, little suspected the effort her self-suppressioncost her. And when over some wonder she did lose herself, Hale wouldsay:

"Just wait till you see New York!" and June would turn her dark eyes toHelen for confirmation and to see if Hale could be joking with her. 

"It's all true, June, " Helen would say. "You must go there some day. It's true. " But that town was enough and too much for June. Her headbuzzed continuously and she could hardly sleep, and she was glad whenone afternoon they took her into the country again--the Bluegrasscountry--and to the little town near which Hale had been born, and whichwas a dream-city to June, and to a school of which an old friend ofhis mother was principal, and in which Helen herself was a temporaryteacher. And Rumour had gone ahead of June. Hale had found her dashingabout the mountains on the back of a wild bull, said rumour. She was asbeautiful as Europa, was of pure English descent and spoke the languageof Shakespeare--the Hon. Sam Budd's hand was patent in this. She hadsaved Hale's life from moonshiners and while he was really in lovewith her, he was pretending to educate her out of gratitude--andhere doubtless was the faint tracery of Miss Anne Saunder's naturalsuspicions. And there Hale left her under the eye of his sister--lefther to absorb another new life like a thirsty plant and come back to themountains to make his head swim with new witcheries. 

XX

The boom started after its shadow through the hills now, and Halewatched it sweep toward him with grim satisfaction at the fulfilment ofhis own prophecy and with disgust that, by the irony of fate, itshould come from the very quarters where years before he had playedthe maddening part of lunatic at large. The avalanche was sweepingsouthward; Pennsylvania was creeping down the Alleghanies, emissaries ofNew York capital were pouring into the hills, the tide-water of Virginiaand the Bluegrass region of Kentucky were sending in their best bloodand youth, and friends of the helmeted Englishmen were hurrying over theseas. Eastern companies were taking up principalities, and at CumberlandGap, those helmeted Englishmen had acquired a kingdom. They werebuilding a town there, too, with huge steel plants, broad avenues andbusiness blocks that would have graced Broadway; and they were pouringout a million for every thousand that it would have cost Hale to acquirethe land on which the work was going on. Moreover they were doing itthere, as Hale heard, because they were too late to get control ofhis gap through the Cumberland. At his gap, too, the same movement wasstarting. In stage and wagon, on mule and horse, "riding and tying"sometimes, and even afoot came the rush of madmen. Horses and mules weredrowned in the mud holes along the road, such was the traffic and suchwere the floods. The incomers slept eight in a room, burned oil at onedollar a gallon, and ate potatoes at ten cents apiece. The Grand CentralHotel was a humming Real-Estate Exchange, and, night and day, theoccupants of any room could hear, through the thin partitions, lotsbooming to right, left, behind and in front of them. The labourand capital question was instantly solved, for everybody became acapitalist-carpenter, brick-layer, blacksmith, singing teacher andpreacher. There is no difference between the shrewdest business man anda fool in a boom, for the boom levels all grades of intelligence andproduces as distinct a form of insanity as you can find within the wallsof an asylum. Lots took wings sky-ward. Hale bought one for June forthirty dollars and sold it for a thousand. Before the autumn was gone, he found himself on the way to ridiculous opulence and, when springcame, he had the world in a sling and, if he wished, he could toss itplayfully at the sun and have it drop back into his hand again. And theboom spread down the valley and into the hills. The police guard hadlittle to do and, over in the mountains, the feud miraculously came to asudden close. 

So pervasive, indeed, was the spirit of the times that the Hon. SamBudd actually got old Buck Falin and old Dave Tolliver to sign a truce, agreeing to a complete cessation of hostilities until he carried througha land deal in which both were interested. And after that wasconcluded, nobody had time, even the Red Fox, for deviltry and privatevengeance--so busy was everybody picking up the manna which was droppingstraight from the clouds. Hale bought all of old Judd's land, formed astock company and in the trade gave June a bonus of the stock. Money wasplentiful as grains of sand, and the cashier of the bank in the back ofthe furniture store at the Gap chuckled to his beardless directors as helocked the wooden door on the day before the great land sale:

"Capital stock paid in--thirteen thousand dollars;

"Deposits--three hundred thousand;

"Loans--two hundred and sixty thousand--interest from eight to twelveper cent. " And, beardless though those directors were, that statementmade them reel. 

A club was formed and the like of it was not below Mason and Dixon'sline in the way of furniture, periodicals, liquors and cigars. Pokerceased--it was too tame in competition with this new game of town-lots. On the top of High Knob a kingdom was bought. The young bloods of thetown would build a lake up there, run a road up and build a Swiss chaleton the very top for a country club. The "booming" editor was discharged. A new paper was started, and the ex-editor of a New York Daily was gotto run it. If anybody wanted anything, he got it from no matter where, nor at what cost. Nor were the arts wholly neglected. One man, who wasproud of his voice, thought he would like to take singing lessons. Anemissary was sent to Boston to bring back the best teacher he couldfind. The teacher came with a method of placing the voice by trying tosay "Come!" at the base of the nose and between the eyes. This was withthe lips closed. He charged two dollars per half hour for this effort, he had each pupil try it twice for half an hour each day, and for sixweeks the town was humming like a beehive. At the end of that period, the teacher fell ill and went his way with a fat pocket-book and nota warbling soul had got the chance to open his mouth. The experiencedampened nobody. Generosity was limitless. It was equally easy to raisemoney for a roulette wheel, a cathedral or an expedition to Africa. And even yet the railroad was miles away and even yet in February, theImprovement Company had a great land sale. The day before it, competingpurchasers had deposited cheques aggregating three times the sumasked for by the company for the land. So the buyers spent the nightorganizing a pool to keep down competition and drawing lots for theprivilege of bidding. For fairness, the sale was an auction, and one oldfarmer who had sold some of the land originally for a hundred dollars anacre, bought back some of that land at a thousand dollars a lot. 

That sale was the climax and, that early, Hale got a warning word fromEngland, but he paid no heed even though, after the sale, the boomslackened, poised and stayed still; for optimism was unquenchable andanother tide would come with another sale in May, and so the springpassed in the same joyous recklessness and the same perfect hope. 

In April, the first railroad reached the Gap at last, and families camein rapidly. Money was still plentiful and right royally was it spent, for was not just as much more coming when the second road arrived inMay? Life was easier, too--supplies came from New York, eight o'clockdinners were in vogue and everybody was happy. Every man had two orthree good horses and nothing to do. The place was full of visitinggirls. They rode in parties to High Knob, and the ring of hoof and thelaughter of youth and maid made every dusk resonant with joy. On PoplarHill houses sprang up like magic and weddings came. The passing strangerwas stunned to find out in the wilderness such a spot; gayety, prodigalhospitality, a police force of gentlemen--nearly all of whom werecollege graduates--and a club, where poker flourished in the smoke ofHavana cigars, and a barrel of whiskey stood in one corner with a faucetwaiting for the turn of any hand. And still the foundation of the newhotel was not started and the coming of the new railroad in May did notmake a marked change. For some reason the May sale was postponed by theImprovement Company, but what did it matter? Perhaps it was better towait for the fall, and so the summer went on unchanged. Every man stillhad a bank account and in the autumn, the boom would come again. At sucha time June came home for her vacation, and Bob Berkley came back fromcollege for his. All through the school year Hale had got the bestreports of June. His sister's letters were steadily encouraging. Junehad been very homesick for the mountains and for Hale at first, but thehomesickness had quickly worn off--apparently for both. She had studiedhard, had become a favourite among the girls, and had held her ownamong them in a surprising way. But it was on June's musical talent thatHale's sister always laid most stress, and on her voice which, she said, was really unusual. June wrote, too, at longer and longer intervals andin her letters, Hale could see the progress she was making--the changein her handwriting, the increasing formality of expression, and theincreasing shrewdness of her comments on her fellow-pupils, her teachersand the life about her. She did not write home for a reason Hale knew, though June never mentioned it--because there was no one at home whocould read her letters--but she always sent messages to her father andBub and to the old miller and old Hon, and Hale faithfully deliveredthem when he could. 

From her people, as Hale learned from his sister, only one messenger hadcome during the year to June, and he came but once. One morning, a tall, black-haired, uncouth young man, in a slouch hat and a Prince Albertcoat, had strode up to the school with a big paper box under his arm andasked for June. As he handed the box to the maid at the door, it brokeand red apples burst from it and rolled down the steps. There was ashriek of laughter from the girls, and the young man, flushing red asthe apples, turned, without giving his name, and strode back with nolittle majesty, looking neither to right nor left. Hale knew and Juneknew that the visitor was her cousin Dave, but she never mentioned theincident to him, though as the end of the session drew nigh, her lettersbecame more frequent and more full of messages to the people in LonesomeCove, and she seemed eager to get back home. Over there about this time, old Judd concluded suddenly to go West, taking Bud with him, and whenHale wrote the fact, an answer came from June that showed the blot oftears. However, she seemed none the less in a hurry to get back, andwhen Hale met her at the station, he was startled; for she came back indresses that were below her shoe-tops, with her wonderful hair massedin a golden glory on the top of her head and the little fairy-crossdangling at a woman's throat. Her figure had rounded, her voice hadsoftened. She held herself as straight as a young poplar and she walkedthe earth as though she had come straight from Olympus. And still, inspite of her new feathers and airs and graces, there was in her eye andin her laugh and in her moods all the subtle wild charm of the child inLonesome Cove. It was fairy-time for June that summer, though her fatherand Bud had gone West, for her step-mother was living with a sister, thecabin in Lonesome Cove was closed and June stayed at the Gap, not at theWidow Crane's boarding-house, but with one of Hale's married friendson Poplar Hill. And always was she, young as she was, one of the merryparties of that happy summer--even at the dances, for the dance, too, June had learned. Moreover she had picked up the guitar, and many timeswhen Hale had been out in the hills, he would hear her silver-clearvoice floating out into the moonlight as he made his way toward PoplarHill, and he would stop under the beeches and listen with ears ofgrowing love to the wonder of it all. For it was he who was the ardentone of the two now. 

June was no longer the frank, impulsive child who stood at the foot ofthe beech, doggedly reckless if all the world knew her love for him. Shehad taken flight to some inner recess where it was difficult for Hale tofollow, and right puzzled he was to discover that he must now win againwhat, unasked, she had once so freely given. 

Bob Berkley, too, had developed amazingly. He no longer said "Sir" toHale--that was bad form at Harvard--he called him by his first name andlooked him in the eye as man to man: just as June--Hale observed--nolonger seemed in any awe of Miss Anne Saunders and to have lost alljealousy of her, or of anybody else--so swiftly had her instinct taughther she now had nothing to fear. And Bob and June seemed mightilypleased with each other, and sometimes Hale, watching them as theygalloped past him on horseback laughing and bantering, felt foolishto think of their perfect fitness--the one for the other--and theincongruity of himself in a relationship that would so naturally betheirs. At one thing he wondered: she had made an extraordinaryrecord at school and it seemed to him that it was partly through theconsciousness that her brain would take care of itself that she couldpay such heed to what hitherto she had had no chance to learn--dress, manners, deportment and speech. Indeed, it was curious that she seemedto lay most stress on the very things to which he, because of his longrough life in the mountains, was growing more and more indifferent. It was quite plain that Bob, with his extreme gallantry of manner, his smart clothes, his high ways and his unconquerable gayety, hadsupplanted him on the pedestal where he had been the year before, justas somebody, somewhere--his sister, perhaps--had supplanted Miss Anne. Several times indeed June had corrected Hale's slips of tongue withmischievous triumph, and once when he came back late from a long trip inthe mountains and walked in to dinner without changing his clothes, Hale saw her look from himself to the immaculate Bob with an unconsciouscomparison that half amused, half worried him. The truth was he wasbuilding a lovely Frankenstein and from wondering what he was going todo with it, he was beginning to wonder now what it might some daydo with him. And though he sometimes joked with Miss Anne, who hadwithdrawn now to the level plane of friendship with him, about thetransformation that was going on, he worried in a way that did neitherhis heart nor his brain good. Still he fought both to little purposeall that summer, and it was not till the time was nigh when June mustgo away again, that he spoke both. For Hale's sister was going to marry, and it was her advice that he should take June to New York if only forthe sake of her music and her voice. That very day June had for thefirst time seen her cousin Dave. He was on horseback, he had beendrinking and he pulled in and, without an answer to her greeting, staredher over from head to foot. Colouring angrily, she started on and thenhe spoke thickly and with a sneer:

"'Bout fryin' size, now, ain't ye? I reckon maybe, if you keep on, you'll be good enough fer him in a year or two more. "

"I'm much obliged for those apples, Dave, " said June quietly--and Daveflushed a darker red and sat still, forgetting to renew the old threatthat was on his tongue. 

But his taunt rankled in the girl--rankled more now than when Dave firstmade it, for she better saw the truth of it and the hurt was the greaterto her unconquerable pride that kept her from betraying the hurt to Davelong ago, and now, when he was making an old wound bleed afresh. Butthe pain was with her at dinner that night and through the evening. Sheavoided Hale's eyes though she knew that he was watching her all thetime, and her instinct told her that something was going to happen thatnight and what that something was. Hale was the last to go and when hecalled to her from the porch, she went out trembling and stood at thehead of the steps in the moonlight. 

"I love you, little girl, " he said simply, "and I want you to marry mesome day--will you, June?" She was unsurprised but she flushed under hishungry eyes, and the little cross throbbed at her throat. 

"SOME day-not NOW, " she thought, and then with equal simplicity: "Yes, Jack. "

"And if you should love somebody else more, you'll tell me rightaway--won't you, June?" She shrank a little and her eyes fell, butstraight-way she raised them steadily:

"Yes, Jack. "

"Thank you, little girl--good-night. "

"Good-night, Jack. "

Hale saw the little shrinking movement she made, and, as he went downthe hill, he thought she seemed to be in a hurry to be alone, and thatshe had caught her breath sharply as she turned away. And brooding hewalked the woods long that night. 

Only a few days later, they started for New York and, with all herdreaming, June had never dreamed that the world could be so large. Mountains and vast stretches of rolling hills and level land meltedaway from her wondering eyes; towns and cities sank behind them, swiftstreams swollen by freshets were outstripped and left behind, darknesscame on and, through it, they still sped on. Once during the night shewoke from a troubled dream in her berth and for a moment she thought shewas at home again. They were running through mountains again and therethey lay in the moonlight, the great calm dark faces that she knew andloved, and she seemed to catch the odour of the earth and feel the coolair on her face, but there was no pang of homesickness now--she was tooeager for the world into which she was going. Next morning the air wascooler, the skies lower and grayer--the big city was close at hand. Thencame the water, shaking and sparkling in the early light like a greatcauldron of quicksilver, and the wonderful Brooklyn Bridge--a ribbon oftwinkling lights tossed out through the mist from the mighty city thatrose from that mist as from a fantastic dream; then the picking of away through screeching little boats and noiseless big ones and whitebird-like floating things and then they disappeared like two tiny grainsin a shifting human tide of sand. But Hale was happy now, for on thattrip June had come back to herself, and to him, once more--and now, awedbut unafraid, eager, bubbling, uplooking, full of quaint questionsabout everything she saw, she was once more sitting with affectionatereverence at his feet. When he left her in a great low house thatfronted on the majestic Hudson, June clung to him with tears and of herown accord kissed him for the first time since she had torn her littleplayhouse to pieces at the foot of the beech down in the mountains faraway. And Hale went back with peace in his heart, but to trouble in thehills. 

 * * * * * * *

Not suddenly did the boom drop down there, not like a falling star, but on the wings of hope--wings that ever fluttering upward, yet sankinexorably and slowly closed. The first crash came over the waters whencertain big men over there went to pieces--men on whose shoulders restedthe colossal figure of progress that the English were carving from thehills at Cumberland Gap. Still nobody saw why a hurt to the Lion shouldmake the Eagle sore and so the American spirit at the other gaps andall up the Virginia valleys that skirt the Cumberland held faithfuland dauntless--for a while. But in time as the huge steel plants grewnoiseless, and the flaming throats of the furnaces were throttled, asympathetic fire of dissolution spread slowly North and South and it wasplain only to the wise outsider as merely a matter of time until, all upand down the Cumberland, the fox and the coon and the quail could comeback to their old homes on corner lots, marked each by a pathetic littlewhitewashed post--a tombstone over the graves of a myriad of buriedhuman hopes. But it was the gap where Hale was that died last andhardest--and of the brave spirits there, his was the last and hardest todie. 

In the autumn, while June was in New York, the signs were sure but everysoul refused to see them. Slowly, however, the vexed question of labourand capital was born again, for slowly each local capitalist went slowlyback to his own trade: the blacksmith to his forge, but the carpenternot to his plane nor the mason to his brick--there was no more buildinggoing on. The engineer took up his transit, the preacher-politician wasoftener in his pulpit, and the singing teacher started on his round ofraucous do-mi-sol-dos through the mountains again. It was curious to seehow each man slowly, reluctantly and perforce sank back again to his oldoccupation--and the town, with the luxuries of electricity, water-works, bath-tubs and a street railway, was having a hard fight for the plainnecessities of life. The following spring, notes for the second paymenton the lots that had been bought at the great land sale fell due, and but very few were paid. As no suits were brought by the company, however, hope did not quite die. June did not come home for thesummer, and Hale did not encourage her to come--she visited some of herschool-mates in the North and took a trip West to see her father who hadgone out there again and bought a farm. In the early autumn, Devil Juddcame back to the mountains and announced his intention to leave them forgood. But that autumn, the effects of the dead boom became perceptiblein the hills. There were no more coal lands bought, logging ceased, thefactions were idle once more, moonshine stills flourished, quarrellingstarted, and at the county seat, one Court day, Devil Judd whipped threeFalins with his bare fists. In the early spring a Tolliver was shotfrom ambush and old Judd was so furious at the outrage that he openlyannounced that he would stay at home until he had settled the old scoresfor good. So that, as the summer came on, matters between the Falins andthe Tollivers were worse than they had been for years and everybody knewthat, with old Judd at the head of his clan again, the fight would befought to the finish. At the Gap, one institution only had suffered inspirit not at all and that was the Volunteer Police Guard. Indeed, asthe excitement of the boom had died down, the members of that force, as a vent for their energies, went with more enthusiasm than ever intotheir work. Local lawlessness had been subdued by this time, the Guardhad been extending its work into the hills, and it was only a questionof time until it must take a part in the Falin-Tolliver troubles. Indeed, that time, Hale believed, was not far away, for Election Day wasat hand, and always on that day the feudists came to the Gap in a searchfor trouble. Meanwhile, not long afterward, there was a pitched battlebetween the factions at the county seat, and several of each would fightno more. Next day a Falin whistled a bullet through Devil Judd's beardfrom ambush, and it was at such a crisis of all the warring elements inher mountain life that June's school-days were coming to a close. Halehad had a frank talk with old Judd and the old man agreed that thetwo had best be married at once and live at the Gap until thingswere quieter in the mountains, though the old man still clung to hisresolution to go West for good when he was done with the Falins. At sucha time, then, June was coming home. 

XXI

Hale was beyond Black Mountain when her letter reached him. His workover there had to be finished and so he kept in his saddle the greaterpart of two days and nights and on the third day rode his big blackhorse forty miles in little more than half a day that he might meether at the train. The last two years had wrought their change in him. Deterioration is easy in the hills--superficial deterioration inhabits, manners, personal appearance and the practices of all the littleniceties of life. The morning bath is impossible because of the crowdeddomestic conditions of a mountain cabin and, if possible, might ifpractised, excite wonder and comment, if not vague suspicion. Sleepinggarments are practically barred for the same reason. Shaving becomes arare luxury. A lost tooth-brush may not be replaced for a month. In timeone may bring himself to eat with a knife for the reason that it is hardfor a hungry man to feed himself with a fork that has but two tines. Thefinger tips cease to be the culminating standard of the gentleman. Itis hard to keep a supply of fresh linen when one is constantly in thesaddle, and a constant weariness of body and a ravenous appetite make aman indifferent to things like a bad bed and worse food, particularlyas he must philosophically put up with them, anyhow. Of all these thingsthe man himself may be quite unconscious and yet they affect him moredeeply than he knows and show to a woman even in his voice, his walk, his mouth--everywhere save in his eyes, which change only in severity, or in kindliness or when there has been some serious break-down of soulor character within. And the woman will not look to his eyes for thetruth--which makes its way slowly--particularly when the woman hasstriven for the very things that the man has so recklessly let go. Shewould never suffer herself to let down in such a way and she does notunderstand how a man can. 

Hale's life, since his college doors had closed behind him, had alwaysbeen a rough one. He had dropped from civilization and had gone backinto it many times. And each time he had dropped, he dropped the deeper, and for that reason had come back into his own life each time with moredifficulty and with more indifference. The last had been his roughestyear and he had sunk a little more deeply just at the time when June hadbeen pluming herself for flight from such depths forever. Moreover, Hale had been dominant in every matter that his hand or his brain hadtouched. His habit had been to say "do this" and it was done. Thoughhe was no longer acting captain of the Police Guard, he always acted ascaptain whenever he was on hand, and always he was the undisputed leaderin all questions of business, politics or the maintenance of order andlaw. The success he had forged had hardened and strengthened his mouth, steeled his eyes and made him more masterful in manner, speech andpoint of view, and naturally had added nothing to his gentleness, hisunselfishness, his refinement or the nice consideration of little thingson which women lay such stress. It was an hour by sun when he clatteredthrough the gap and pushed his tired black horse into a gallop acrossthe valley toward the town. He saw the smoke of the little dummy and, ashe thundered over the bridge of the North Fork, he saw that it was justabout to pull out and he waved his hat and shouted imperiously for it towait. With his hand on the bell-rope, the conductor, autocrat that he, too, was, did wait and Hale threw his reins to the man who was nearest, hardly seeing who he was, and climbed aboard. He wore a slouched hatspotted by contact with the roof of the mines which he had hastilyvisited on his way through Lonesome Cove. The growth of three days'beard was on his face. He wore a gray woollen shirt, and a bluehandkerchief--none too clean--was loosely tied about his sun-scorchedcolumn of a throat; he was spotted with mud from his waist to the solesof his rough riding boots and his hands were rough and grimy. But hiseye was bright and keen and his heart thumped eagerly. Again it was themiddle of June and the town was a naked island in a sea of leaveswhose breakers literally had run mountain high and stopped for all timemotionless. Purple lights thick as mist veiled Powell's Mountain. Below, the valley was still flooded with yellow sunlight which lay along themountain sides and was streaked here and there with the long shadow ofa deep ravine. The beech trunks on Imboden Hill gleamed in it like whitebodies scantily draped with green, and the yawning Gap held the yellowlight as a bowl holds wine. He had long ago come to look upon the hillsmerely as storehouses for iron and coal, put there for his specialpurpose, but now the long submerged sense of the beauty of it allstirred within him again, for June was the incarnate spirit of it alland June was coming back to those mountains and--to him. 

 * * * * * * *

And June--June had seen the change in Hale. The first year he had comeoften to New York to see her and they had gone to the theatre and theopera, and June was pleased to play the part of heroine in what was sucha real romance to the other girls in school and she was proud of Hale. But each time he came, he seemed less interested in the diversions thatmeant so much to her, more absorbed in his affairs in the mountains andless particular about his looks. His visits came at longer intervals, with each visit he stayed less long, and each time he seemed more eagerto get away. She had been shy about appearing before him for the firsttime in evening dress, and when he entered the drawing-room she stoodunder a chandelier in blushing and resplendent confusion, but he seemednot to recognize that he had never seen her that way before, and foranother reason June remained confused, disappointed and hurt, for hewas not only unobserving, and seemingly unappreciative, but he was moresilent than ever that night and he looked gloomy. But if he had grownaccustomed to her beauty, there were others who had not, and smart, dapper college youths gathered about her like bees around a flower--atriumphant fact to which he also seemed indifferent. Moreover, he wasnot in evening clothes that night and she did not know whether he hadforgotten or was indifferent to them, and the contrast that he was madeher that night almost ashamed for him. She never guessed what the matterwas, for Hale kept his troubles to himself. He was always gentle andkind, he was as lavish with her as though he were a king, and she wasas lavish and prodigally generous as though she were a princess. Thereseemed no limit to the wizard income from the investments that Halehad made for her when, as he said, he sold a part of her stock in theLonesome Cove mine, and what she wanted Hale always sent her withoutquestion. Only, as the end was coming on at the Gap, he wrote once toknow if a certain amount would carry her through until she was ready tocome home, but even that question aroused no suspicion in thoughtlessJune. And then that last year he had come no more--always, always he wastoo busy. Not even on her triumphal night at the end of the session washe there, when she had stood before the guests and patrons of the schoollike a goddess, and had thrilled them into startling applause, herteachers into open glowing pride, the other girls into bright-eyed envyand herself into still another new world. Now she was going home and shewas glad to go. 

She had awakened that morning with the keen air of the mountains in hernostrils--the air she had breathed in when she was born, and her eyesshone happily when she saw through her window the loved blue hills alongwhich raced the train. They were only a little way from the town whereshe must change, the porter said; she had overslept and she had no timeeven to wash her face and hands, and that worried her a good deal. Theporter nearly lost his equilibrium when she gave him half a dollar--forwomen are not profuse in the way of tipping--and instead of putting herbag down on the station platform, he held it in his hand waiting to doher further service. At the head of the steps she searched about forHale and her lovely face looked vexed and a little hurt when she did notsee him. 

"Hotel, Miss?" said the porter. 

"Yes, please, Harvey!" she called. 

An astonished darky sprang from the line of calling hotel-porters andtook her bag. Then every tooth in his head flashed. 

"Lordy, Miss June--I never knowed you at all. "

June smiled--it was the tribute she was looking for. 

"Have you seen Mr. Hale?"

"No'm. Mr. Hale ain't been here for mos' six months. I reckon he aint inthis country now. I aint heard nothin' 'bout him for a long time. "

June knew better than that--but she said nothing. She would rather havehad even Harvey think that he was away. So she hurried to the hotel--shewould have four hours to wait--and asked for the one room that had abath attached--the room to which Hale had sent her when she had passedthrough on her way to New York. She almost winced when she looked in themirror and saw the smoke stains about her pretty throat and ears, andshe wondered if anybody could have noticed them on her way from thetrain. Her hands, too, were dreadful to look at and she hurried to takeoff her things. 

In an hour she emerged freshened, immaculate from her crown of lovelyhair to her smartly booted feet, and at once she went downstairs. Sheheard the man, whom she passed, stop at the head of them and turn tolook down at her, and she saw necks craned within the hotel office whenshe passed the door. On the street not a man and hardly a womanfailed to look at her with wonder and open admiration, for she was anapparition in that little town and it all pleased her so much that shebecame flushed and conscious and felt like a queen who, unknown, movedamong her subjects and blessed them just with her gracious presence. For she was unknown even by several people whom she knew and that, too, pleased her--to have bloomed so quite beyond their ken. She was like ameteor coming back to dazzle the very world from which it had flown fora while into space. When she went into the dining-room for the middaydinner, there was a movement in almost every part of the room as thoughthere were many there who were on the lookout for her entrance. The headwaiter, a portly darky, lost his imperturbable majesty for a moment insurprise at the vision and then with a lordly yet obsequious wave of hishand, led her to a table over in a corner where no one was sitting. Fouryoung men came in rather boisterously and made for her table. She liftedher calm eyes at them so haughtily that the one in front halted withsudden embarrassment and they all swerved to another table from whichthey stared at her surreptitiously. Perhaps she was mistaken for thecomic-opera star whose brilliant picture she had seen on a bill board infront of the "opera house. " Well, she had the voice and she mighthave been and she might yet be--and if she were, this would be thedistinction that would be shown her. And, still as it was she wasgreatly pleased. 

At four o'clock she started for the hills. In half an hour she wasdropping down a winding ravine along a rock-lashing stream with thosehills so close to the car on either side that only now and then couldshe see the tops of them. Through the window the keen air came from thevery lungs of them, freighted with the coolness of shadows, the scent ofdamp earth and the faint fragrance of wild flowers, and her soul leapedto meet them. The mountain sides were showered with pink and whitelaurel (she used to call it "ivy") and the rhododendrons (she used tocall them "laurel") were just beginning to blossom--they were her oldand fast friends--mountain, shadow, the wet earth and its pure breath, and tree, plant and flower; she had not forgotten them, and it was goodto come back to them. Once she saw an overshot water-wheel on the bankof the rushing little stream and she thought of Uncle Billy; she smiledand the smile stopped short--she was going back to other things as well. The train had creaked by a log-cabin set in the hillside and then pastanother and another; and always there were two or three ragged childrenin the door and a haggard unkempt woman peering over their shoulders. How lonely those cabins looked and how desolate the life they suggestedto her now--NOW! The first station she came to after the train hadwound down the long ravine to the valley level again was crowded withmountaineers. There a wedding party got aboard with a great deal oflaughter, chaffing and noise, and all three went on within and withoutthe train while it was waiting. A sudden thought stunned her like alightning stroke. They were HER people out there on the platform andinside the car ahead--those rough men in slouch hats, jeans and cowhideboots, their mouths stained with tobacco juice, their cheeks and eyeson fire with moonshine, and those women in poke-bonnets with their sad, worn, patient faces on which the sympathetic good cheer and joy ofthe moment sat so strangely. She noticed their rough shoes and theirhomespun gowns that made their figures all alike and shapeless, witha vivid awakening of early memories. She might have been one of thosenarrow-lived girls outside, or that bride within had it not been forJack--Hale. She finished the name in her own mind and she was consciousthat she had. Ah, well, that was a long time ago and she was nothing buta child and she had thrown herself at his head. Perhaps it was differentwith him now and if it was, she would give him the chance to withdrawfrom everything. It would be right and fair and then life was so fullfor her now. She was dependent on nobody--on nothing. A rainbow spannedthe heaven above her and the other end of it was not in the hills. Butone end was and to that end she was on her way. She was going to justsuch people as she had seen at the station. Her father and her kinsmenwere just such men--her step-mother and kinswomen were just such women. Her home was little more than just such a cabin as the desolate onesthat stirred her pity when she swept by them. She thought of how shefelt when she had first gone to Lonesome Cove after a few months at theGap, and she shuddered to think how she would feel now. She was gettingrestless by this time and aimlessly she got up and walked to the frontof the car and back again to her seat, hardly noticing that the otheroccupants were staring at her with some wonder. She sat down for a fewminutes and then she went to the rear and stood outside on the platform, clutching a brass rod of the railing and looking back on the droppingdarkness in which the hills seemed to be rushing together far behind asthe train crashed on with its wake of spark-lit rolling smoke. A cinderstung her face, and when she lifted her hand to the spot, she saw thather glove was black with grime. With a little shiver of disgust she wentback to her seat and with her face to the blackness rushing past herwindow she sat brooding--brooding. Why had Hale not met her? He had saidhe would and she had written him when she was coming and had telegraphedhim at the station in New York when she started. Perhaps he HAD changed. She recalled that even his letters had grown less frequent, shorter, more hurried the past year--well, he should have his chance. Always, however, her mind kept going back to the people at the station and toher people in the mountains. They were the same, she kept repeatingto herself--the very same and she was one of them. And always she keptthinking of her first trip to Lonesome Cove after her awakening and ofwhat her next would be. That first time Hale had made her go back asshe had left, in home-spun, sun-bonnet and brogans. There was the samereason why she should go back that way now as then--would Hale insistthat she should now? She almost laughed aloud at the thought. She knewthat she would refuse and she knew that his reason would not appeal toher now--she no longer cared what her neighbours and kinspeople mightthink and say. The porter paused at her seat. 

"How much longer is it?" she asked. 

"Half an hour, Miss. "

June went to wash her face and hands, and when she came back to her seata great glare shone through the windows on the other side of the car. Itwas the furnace, a "run" was on and she could see the streams of whitemolten metal racing down the narrow channels of sand to their narrowbeds on either side. The whistle shrieked ahead for the Gap and shenerved herself with a prophetic sense of vague trouble at hand. 

 * * * * * * *

At the station Hale had paced the platform. He looked at his watch tosee whether he might have time to run up to the furnace, half a mileaway, and board the train there. He thought he had and he was about tostart when the shriek of the coming engine rose beyond the low hills inWild Cat Valley, echoed along Powell's Mountain and broke against thewrinkled breast of the Cumberland. On it came, and in plain sight itstopped suddenly to take water, and Hale cursed it silently andrecalled viciously that when he was in a hurry to arrive anywhere, the water-tower was always on the wrong side of the station. He got sorestless that he started for it on a run and he had gone hardly fiftyyards before the train came on again and he had to run back to beat itto the station--where he sprang to the steps of the Pullman before itstopped--pushing the porter aside to find himself checked by the crowdedpassengers at the door. June was not among them and straightway he ranfor the rear of the car. 

June had risen. The other occupants of the car had crowded forward andshe was the last of them. She had stood, during an irritating wait, atthe water-tower, and now as she moved slowly forward again she heardthe hurry of feet behind her and she turned to look into the eager, wondering eyes of John Hale. 

"June!" he cried in amazement, but his face lighted with joy and heimpulsively stretched out his arms as though he meant to take her inthem, but as suddenly he dropped them before the startled look in hereyes, which, with one swift glance, searched him from head to foot. Theyshook hands almost gravely. 

XXII

June sat in the little dummy, the focus of curious eyes, while Hale wasbusy seeing that her baggage was got aboard. The checks that she gavehim jingled in his hands like a bunch of keys, and he could hardlyhelp grinning when he saw the huge trunks and the smart bags that weretumbled from the baggage car--all marked with her initials. There hadbeen days when he had laid considerable emphasis on pieces like those, and when he thought of them overwhelming with opulent suggestions thatdebt-stricken little town, and, later, piled incongruously on the porchof the cabin on Lonesome Cove, he could have laughed aloud but for anameless something that was gnawing savagely at his heart. 

He felt almost shy when he went back into the car, and thoughJune greeted him with a smile, her immaculate daintiness made himunconsciously sit quite far away from her. The little fairy-cross wasstill at her throat, but a tiny diamond gleamed from each end of it andfrom the centre, as from a tiny heart, pulsated the light of a littleblood-red ruby. To him it meant the loss of June's simplicity and wasthe symbol of her new estate, but he smiled and forced himself intohearty cheerfulness of manner and asked her questions about her trip. But June answered in halting monosyllables, and talk was not easybetween them. All the while he was watching her closely and not amovement of her eye, ear, mouth or hand--not an inflection of hervoice--escaped him. He saw her sweep the car and its occupants witha glance, and he saw the results of that glance in her face and thedown-dropping of her eyes to the dainty point of one boot. He sawher beautiful mouth close suddenly tight and her thin nostrils quiverdisdainfully when a swirl of black smoke, heavy with cinders, camein with an entering passenger through the front door of the car. Twohalf-drunken men were laughing boisterously near that door and even herears seemed trying to shut out their half-smothered rough talk. The carstarted with a bump that swayed her toward him, and when she caught theseat with one hand, it checked as suddenly, throwing her the other way, and then with a leap it sprang ahead again, giving a nagging snap to herhead. Her whole face grew red with vexation and shrinking distaste, and all the while, when the little train steadied into its creaking, puffing, jostling way, one gloved hand on the chased silver handle ofher smart little umbrella kept nervously swaying it to and fro on itssteel-shod point, until she saw that the point was in a tiny pool oftobacco juice, and then she laid it across her lap with shudderingswiftness. 

At first Hale thought that she had shrunk from kissing him in the carbecause other people were around. He knew better now. At that moment hewas as rough and dirty as the chain-carrier opposite him, who was justin from a surveying expedition in the mountains, as the sooty brakemanwho came through to gather up the fares--as one of those good-natured, profane inebriates up in the corner. No, it was not publicity--she hadshrunk from him as she was shrinking now from black smoke, rough men, the shaking of the train--the little pool of tobacco juice at her feet. The truth began to glimmer through his brain. He understood, even whenshe leaned forward suddenly to look into the mouth of the gap, that wasnow dark with shadows. Through that gap lay her way and she thought himnow more a part of what was beyond than she who had been born of it was, and dazed by the thought, he wondered if he might not really be. At oncehe straightened in his seat, and his mind made up, as he always made itup--swiftly. He had not explained why he had not met her that morning, nor had he apologized for his rough garb, because he was so glad to seeher and because there were so many other things he wanted to say; andwhen he saw her, conscious and resentful, perhaps, that he had not donethese things at once--he deliberately declined to do them now. He becamesilent, but he grew more courteous, more thoughtful--watchful. She wasvery tired, poor child; there were deep shadows under her eyes whichlooked weary and almost mournful. So, when with a clanging of the enginebell they stopped at the brilliantly lit hotel, he led her at onceupstairs to the parlour, and from there sent her up to her room, whichwas ready for her. 

"You must get a good sleep, " he said kindly, and with his usual firmnessthat was wont to preclude argument. "You are worn to death. I'll haveyour supper sent to your room. " The girl felt the subtle change in hismanner and her lip quivered for a vague reason that neither knew, but, without a word, she obeyed him like a child. He did not try again tokiss her. He merely took her hand, placed his left over it, and with agentle pressure, said:

"Good-night, little girl. "

"Good-night, " she faltered. 

 * * * * * * *

Resolutely, relentlessly, first, Hale cast up his accounts, liabilities, resources, that night, to see what, under the least favourable outcome, the balance left to him would be. Nearly all was gone. His securitieswere already sold. His lots would not bring at public sale one-half ofthe deferred payments yet to be made on them, and if the company broughtsuit, as it was threatening to do, he would be left fathoms deep indebt. The branch railroad had not come up the river toward LonesomeCove, and now he meant to build barges and float his cannel coal down tothe main line, for his sole hope was in the mine in Lonesome Cove. The means that he could command were meagre, but they would carry hispurpose with June for a year at least and then--who knew?--he might, through that mine, be on his feet again. 

The little town was dark and asleep when he stepped into the coolnight-air and made his way past the old school-house and up ImbodenHill. He could see--all shining silver in the moonlight--the still crestof the big beech at the blessed roots of which his lips had met June'sin the first kiss that had passed between them. On he went through theshadowy aisle that the path made between other beech-trunks, harnessedby the moonlight with silver armour and motionless as sentinels on watchtill dawn, out past the amphitheatre of darkness from which the deadtrees tossed out their crooked arms as though voicing silently now hisown soul's torment, and then on to the point of the spur of foot-hillswhere, with the mighty mountains encircling him and the world, adreamland lighted only by stars, he stripped his soul before the Makerof it and of him and fought his fight out alone. 

His was the responsibility for all--his alone. No one else was toblame--June not at all. He had taken her from her own life--had swervedher from the way to which God pointed when she was born. He had givenher everything she wanted, had allowed her to do what she pleasedand had let her think that, through his miraculous handling of herresources, she was doing it all herself. And the result was natural. Forthe past two years he had been harassed with debt, racked with worries, writhing this way and that, concerned only with the soul-tormentingcatastrophe that had overtaken him. About all else he had growncareless. He had not been to see her the last year, he had writtenseldom, and it appalled him to look back now on his own self-absorptionand to think how he must have appeared to June. And he had gone on inthat self-absorption to the very end. He had got his license to marry, had asked Uncle Billy, who was magistrate as well as miller, to marrythem, and, a rough mountaineer himself to the outward eye, he hadappeared to lead a child like a lamb to the sacrifice and had found awoman with a mind, heart and purpose of her own. It was all his work. Hehad sent her away to fit her for his station in life--to make her fit tomarry him. She had risen above and now HE WAS NOT FIT TO MARRY HER. Thatwas the brutal truth--a truth that was enough to make a wise man laughor a fool weep, and Hale did neither. He simply went on working to makeout how he could best discharge the obligations that he had voluntarily, willingly, gladly, selfishly even, assumed. In his mind he treatedconditions only as he saw and felt them and believed them at that momenttrue: and into the problem he went no deeper than to find his simpleduty, and that, while the morning stars were sinking, he found. And itwas a duty the harder to find because everything had reawakened withinhim, and the starting-point of that awakening was the proud glow inUncle Billy's kind old face, when he knew the part he was to play in thehappiness of Hale and June. All the way over the mountain that day hisheart had gathered fuel from memories at the big Pine, and down themountain and through the gap, to be set aflame by the yellow sunlight inthe valley and the throbbing life in everything that was alive, for themonth was June and the spirit of that month was on her way to him. Sowhen he rose now, with back-thrown head, he stretched his arms suddenlyout toward those far-seeing stars, and as suddenly dropped them with anangry shake of his head and one quick gritting of his teeth that such athought should have mastered him even for one swift second--the thoughtof how lonesome would be the trail that would be his to follow afterthat day. 

XXIII

June, tired though she was, tossed restlessly that night. The one lookshe had seen in Hale's face when she met him in the car, told her thetruth as far as he was concerned. He was unchanged, she could give himno chance to withdraw from their long understanding, for it was plainto her quick instinct that he wanted none. And so she had asked himno question about his failure to meet her, for she knew now that hisreason, no matter what, was good. He had startled her in the car, forher mind was heavy with memories of the poor little cabins she hadpassed on the train, of the mountain men and women in the wedding-party, and Hale himself was to the eye so much like one of them--had sostartled her that, though she knew that his instinct, too, was at work, she could not gather herself together to combat her own feelings, forevery little happening in the dummy but drew her back to her previoustrain of painful thought. And in that helplessness she had told Halegood-night. She remembered now how she had looked upon Lonesome Coveafter she went to the Gap; how she had looked upon the Gap after heryear in the Bluegrass, and how she had looked back even on the first bigcity she had seen there from the lofty vantage ground of New York. Whatwas the use of it all? Why laboriously climb a hill merely to see andyearn for things that you cannot have, if you must go back and live inthe hollow again? Well, she thought rebelliously, she would not go backto the hollow again--that was all. She knew what was coming and hercousin Dave's perpetual sneer sprang suddenly from the past to cutthrough her again and the old pride rose within her once more. She wasgood enough now for Hale, oh, yes, she thought bitterly, good enoughNOW; and then, remembering his life-long kindness and thinking what shemight have been but for him, she burst into tears at the unworthiness ofher own thought. Ah, what should she do--what should she do? Repeatingthat question over and over again, she fell toward morning into troubledsleep. She did not wake until nearly noon, for already she had formedthe habit of sleeping late--late at least, for that part of theworld--and she was glad when the negro boy brought her word that Mr. Hale had been called up the valley and would not be back until theafternoon. She dreaded to meet him, for she knew that he had seenthe trouble within her and she knew he was not the kind of man to letmatters drag vaguely, if they could be cleared up and settled by openfrankness of discussion, no matter how blunt he must be. She had to waituntil mid-day dinner time for something to eat, so she lay abed, pickeda breakfast from the menu, which was spotted, dirty and meagre inofferings, and had it brought to her room. Early in the afternoon sheissued forth into the sunlight, and started toward Imboden Hill. It wasvery beautiful and soul-comforting--the warm air, the luxuriantly woodedhills, with their shades of green that told her where poplar and oak andbeech and maple grew, the delicate haze of blue that overlay them anddeepened as her eyes followed the still mountain piles north-eastwardto meet the big range that shut her in from the outer world. The changeshad been many. One part of the town had been wiped out by fire and a fewbuildings of stone had risen up. On the street she saw strange faces, but now and then she stopped to shake hands with somebody whom she knew, and who recognized her always with surprise and spoke but few words, andthen, as she thought, with some embarrassment. Half unconsciouslyshe turned toward the old mill. There it was, dusty and gray, and thedripping old wheel creaked with its weight of shining water, and themuffled roar of the unseen dam started an answering stream of memoriessurging within her. She could see the window of her room in the oldbrick boarding-house, and as she passed the gate, she almost stoppedto go in, but the face of a strange man who stood in the door with aproprietary air deterred her. There was Hale's little frame cottage andhis name, half washed out, was over the wing that was still his office. Past that she went, with a passing temptation to look within, and towardthe old school-house. A massive new one was half built, of gray stone, to the left, but the old one, with its shingles on the outside that hadonce caused her such wonder, still lay warm in the sun, but closed anddeserted. There was the playground where she had been caught in"Ring around the Rosy, " and Hale and that girl teacher had heard herconfession. She flushed again when she thought of that day, but theflush was now for another reason. Over the roof of the schoolhouse shecould see the beech tree where she had built her playhouse, and memoryled her from the path toward it. She had not climbed a hill for a longtime and she was panting when she reached it. There was the scatteredplayhouse--it might have lain there untouched for a quarter of acentury--just as her angry feet had kicked it to pieces. On a root ofthe beech she sat down and the broad rim of her hat scratched the trunkof it and annoyed her, so she took it off and leaned her head againstthe tree, looking up into the underworld of leaves through whicha sunbeam filtered here and there--one striking her hair which haddarkened to a duller gold--striking it eagerly, unerringly, as thoughit had started for just such a shining mark. Below her was outspreadthe little town--the straggling, wretched little town--crude, lonely, lifeless! She could not be happy in Lonesome Cove after she had knownthe Gap, and now her horizon had so broadened that she felt now towardthe Gap and its people as she had then felt toward the mountaineers: forthe standards of living in the Cove--so it seemed--were no fartherbelow the standards in the Gap than they in turn were lower than the newstandards to which she had adapted herself while away. Indeed, even thatBluegrass world where she had spent a year was too narrow now for hervaulting ambition, and with that thought she looked down again on thelittle town, a lonely island in a sea of mountains and as far fromthe world for which she had been training herself as though it were inmid-ocean. Live down there? She shuddered at the thought and straightwaywas very miserable. The clear piping of a wood-thrush rose far away, atear started between her half-closed lashes and she might have gone toweeping silently, had her ear not caught the sound of something movingbelow her. Some one was coming that way, so she brushed her eyes swiftlywith her handkerchief and stood upright against the tree. And thereagain Hale found her, tense, upright, bareheaded again and her handsbehind her; only her face was not uplifted and dreaming--it was turnedtoward him, unstartled and expectant. He stopped below her and leanedone shoulder against a tree. 

"I saw you pass the office, " he said, "and I thought I should find youhere. "

His eyes dropped to the scattered playhouse of long ago--and a faintsmile that was full of submerged sadness passed over his face. It washis playhouse, after all, that she had kicked to pieces. But he did notmention it--nor her attitude--nor did he try, in any way, to arouse hermemories of that other time at this same place. 

"I want to talk with you, June--and I want to talk now. "

"Yes, Jack, " she said tremulously. 

For a moment he stood in silence, his face half-turned, his teeth hardon his indrawn lip--thinking. There was nothing of the mountaineer abouthim now. He was clean-shaven and dressed with care--June saw that--buthe looked quite old, his face seemed harried with worries and ravaged bysuffering, and June had suddenly to swallow a quick surging of pity forhim. He spoke slowly and without looking at her:

"June, if it hadn't been for me, you would be over in Lonesome Cove andhappily married by this time, or at least contented with your life, foryou wouldn't have known any other. "

"I don't know, Jack. "

"I took you out--and it rests with you whether I shall be sorry Idid--sorry wholly on your account, I mean, " he added hastily. 

She knew what he meant and she said nothing--she only turned her headaway slightly, with her eyes upturned a little toward the leaves thatwere shaking like her own heart. 

"I think I see it all very clearly, " he went on, in a low and perfectlyeven voice. "You can't be happy over there now--you can't be happy overhere now. You've got other wishes, ambitions, dreams, now, and I wantyou to realize them, and I want to help you to realize them all Ican--that's all. "

"Jack!--" she helplessly, protestingly spoke his name in a whisper, butthat was all she could do, and he went on:

"It isn't so strange. What is strange is that I--that I didn't foreseeit all. But if I had, " he added firmly, "I'd have done it just thesame--unless by doing it I've really done you more harm than good. "

"No--no--Jack!"

"I came into your world--you went into mine. What I had grownindifferent about--you grew to care about. You grew sensitive while Iwas growing callous to certain--" he was about to say "surface things, "but he checked himself--"certain things in life that mean more to awoman than to a man. I would not have married you as you were--I've gotto be honest now--at least I thought it necessary that you should beotherwise--and now you have gone beyond me, and now you do not want tomarry me as I am. And it is all very natural and very just. " Veryslowly her head had dropped until her chin rested hard above the littlejewelled cross on her breast. 

"You must tell me if I am wrong. You don't love me now--well enough tobe happy with me here"--he waved one hand toward the straggling littletown below them and then toward the lonely mountains--"I did notknow that we would have to live here--but I know it now--" he checkedhimself, and afterward she recalled the tone of those last words, butthen they had no especial significance. 

"Am I wrong?" he repeated, and then he said hurriedly, for her facewas so piteous--"No, you needn't give yourself the pain of saying it inwords. I want you to know that I understand that there is nothing in theworld I blame you for--nothing--nothing. If there is any blame at all, it rests on me alone. " She broke toward him with a cry then. 

"No--no, Jack, " she said brokenly, and she caught his hand in both herown and tried to raise it to her lips, but he held her back and sheput her face on his breast and sobbed heart-brokenly. He waited for theparoxysm to pass, stroking her hair gently. 

"You mustn't feel that way, little girl. You can't help it--I can't helpit--and these things happen all the time, everywhere. You don't have tostay here. You can go away and study, and when I can, I'll come to seeyou and cheer you up; and when you are a great singer, I'll send youflowers and be so proud of you, and I'll say to myself, 'I helped dothat. ' Dry your eyes, now. You must go back to the hotel. Your fatherwill be there by this time and you'll have to be starting home prettysoon. "

Like a child she obeyed him, but she was so weak and trembling thathe put his arm about her to help her down the hill. At the edge of thewoods she stopped and turned full toward him. 

"You are so good, " she said tremulously, "so GOOD. Why, you haven't evenasked me if there was another--"

Hale interrupted her, shaking his head. 

"If there is, I don't want to know. "

"But there isn't, there isn't!" she cried, "I don't know what is thematter with me. I hate--" the tears started again, and again she was onthe point of breaking down, but Hale checked her. 

"Now, now, " he said soothingly, "you mustn't, now--that's all right. Youmustn't. " Her anger at herself helped now. 

"Why, I stood like a silly fool, tongue-tied, and I wanted to say somuch. I--"

"You don't need to, " Hale said gently, "I understand it all. Iunderstand. "

"I believe you do, " she said with a sob, "better than I do. "

"Well, it's all right, little girl. Come on. "

They issued forth into the sunlight and Hale walked rapidly. The strainwas getting too much for him and he was anxious to be alone. Withouta word more they passed the old school-house, the massive new one, andwent on, in silence, down the street. Hitched to a post, near the hotel, were two gaunt horses with drooping heads, and on one of them was aside-saddle. Sitting on the steps of the hotel, with a pipe in hismouth, was the mighty figure of Devil Judd Tolliver. He saw themcoming--at least he saw Hale coming, and that far away Hale saw hisbushy eyebrows lift in wonder at June. A moment later he rose to hisgreat height without a word. 

"Dad, " said June in a trembling voice, "don't you know me?" The old manstared at her silently and a doubtful smile played about his beardedlips. 

"Hardly, but I reckon hit's June. "

She knew that the world to which Hale belonged would expect her to kisshim, and she made a movement as though she would, but the habit of alifetime is not broken so easily. She held out her hand, and with theother patted him on the arm as she looked up into his face. 

"Time to be goin', June, if we want to get home afore dark!"

"All right, Dad. "

The old man turned to his horse. 

"Hurry up, little gal. "

In a few minutes they were ready, and the girl looked long into Hale'sface when he took her hand. 

"You are coming over soon?"

"Just as soon as I can. " Her lips trembled. 

"Good-by, " she faltered. 

"Good-by, June, " said Hale. 

From the steps he watched them--the giant father slouching in hissaddle and the trim figure of the now sadly misplaced girl, erect on theawkward-pacing mountain beast--as incongruous, the two, as a fairy onsome prehistoric monster. A horseman was coming up the street behind himand a voice called:

"Who's that?" Hale turned--it was the Honourable Samuel Budd, cominghome from Court. 

"June Tolliver. "

"June Taliaferro, " corrected the Hon. Sam with emphasis. 

"The same. " The Hon. Sam silently followed the pair for a moment throughhis big goggles. 

"What do you think of my theory of the latent possibilities of themountaineer--now?"

"I think I know how true it is better than you do, " said Hale calmly, and with a grunt the Hon. Sam rode on. Hale watched them as they rodeacross the plateau--watched them until the Gap swallowed them up and hisheart ached for June. Then he went to his room and there, stretched outon his bed and with his hands clenched behind his head, he lay staringupward. 

Devil Judd Tolliver had lost none of his taciturnity. Stolidly, silently, he went ahead, as is the custom of lordly man in themountains--horseback or afoot--asking no questions, answering June's inthe fewest words possible. Uncle Billy, the miller, had been complaininga good deal that spring, and old Hon had rheumatism. Uncle Billy'sold-maid sister, who lived on Devil's Fork, had been cooking for him athome since the last taking to bed of June's step-mother. Bub had "growedup" like a hickory sapling. Her cousin Loretta hadn't married, and somefolks allowed she'd run away some day yet with young Buck Falin. Hercousin Dave had gone off to school that year, had come back a monthbefore, and been shot through the shoulder. He was in Lonesome Cove now. 

This fact was mentioned in the same matter-of-fact way as the otherhappenings. Hale had been raising Cain in Lonesome Cove--"A-cuttin'things down an' tearin' 'em up an' playin' hell ginerally. "

The feud had broken out again and maybe June couldn't stay at home long. He didn't want her there with the fighting going on--whereat June'sheart gave a start of gladness that the way would be easy for her toleave when she wished to leave. Things over at the Gap "was agoin' toperdition, " the old man had been told, while he was waiting for June andHale that day, and Hale had not only lost a lot of money, but if thingsdidn't take a rise, he would be left head over heels in debt, if thatmine over in Lonesome Cove didn't pull him out. 

They were approaching the big Pine now, and June was beginning to acheand get sore from the climb. So Hale was in trouble--that was what hemeant when he said that, though she could leave the mountains when shepleased, he must stay there, perhaps for good. 

"I'm mighty glad you come home, gal, " said the old man, "an' that ye airgoin' to put an end to all this spendin' o' so much money. Jack saysyou got some money left, but I don't understand it. He says he made a'investment' fer ye and tribbled the money. I haint never axed him noquestions. Hit was betwixt you an' him, an' 'twant none o' my businesslong as you an' him air goin' to marry. He said you was goin' to marrythis summer an' I wish you'd git tied up right away whilst I'm livin', fer I don't know when a Winchester might take me off an' I'd die a sighteasier if I knowed you was tied up with a good man like him. "

"Yes, Dad, " was all she said, for she had not the heart to tell him thetruth, and she knew that Hale never would until the last moment he must, when he learned that she had failed. 

Half an hour later, she could see the stone chimney of the little cabinin Lonesome Cove. A little farther down several spirals of smoke werevisible--rising from unseen houses which were more miners' shacks, herfather said, that Hale had put up while she was gone. The water of thecreek was jet black now. A row of rough wooden houses ran along itsedge. The geese cackled a doubtful welcome. A new dog leaped barkingfrom the porch and a tall boy sprang after him--both running for thegate. 

"Why, Bub, " cried June, sliding from her horse and kissing him, and thenholding him off at arms' length to look into his steady gray eyes andhis blushing face. 

"Take the horses, Bub, " said old Judd, and June entered the gate whileBub stood with the reins in his hand, still speechlessly staring herover from head to foot. There was her garden, thank God--with all herflowers planted, a new bed of pansies and one of violets and the borderof laurel in bloom--unchanged and weedless. 

"One o' Jack Hale's men takes keer of it, " explained old Judd, andagain, with shame, June felt the hurt of her lover's thoughtfulness. When she entered the cabin, the same old rasping petulant voice calledher from a bed in one corner, and when June took the shrivelled old handthat was limply thrust from the bed-clothes, the old hag's keen eyesswept her from head to foot with disapproval. 

"My, but you air wearin' mighty fine clothes, " she croaked enviously. "I ain't had a new dress fer more'n five year;" and that was the welcomeshe got. 

"No?" said June appeasingly. "Well, I'll get one for you myself. "

"I'm much obleeged, " she whined, "but I reckon I can git along. "

A cough came from the bed in the other corner of the room. 

"That's Dave, " said the old woman, and June walked over to where hercousin's black eyes shone hostile at her from the dark. 

"I'm sorry, Dave, " she said, but Dave answered nothing but a sullen"howdye" and did not put out a hand--he only stared at her in sulkybewilderment, and June went back to listen to the torrent of the oldwoman's plaints until Bub came in. Then as she turned, she noticed forthe first time that a new door had been cut in one side of the cabin, and Bub was following the direction of her eyes. 

"Why, haint nobody told ye?" he said delightedly. 

"Told me what, Bub?"

With a whoop Bud leaped for the side of the door and, reaching up, pulled a shining key from between the logs and thrust it into her hands. 

"Go ahead, " he said. "Hit's yourn. "

"Some more o' Jack Hale's fool doin's, " said the old woman. "Go on, gal, and see whut he's done. "

With eager hands she put the key in the lock and when she pushed openthe door, she gasped. Another room had been added to the cabin--and thefragrant smell of cedar made her nostrils dilate. Bub pushed by her andthrew open the shutters of a window to the low sunlight, and June stoodwith both hands to her head. It was a room for her--with a dresser, along mirror, a modern bed in one corner, a work-table with a student'slamp on it, a wash-stand and a chest of drawers and a piano! On thewalls were pictures and over the mantel stood the one she had firstlearned to love--two lovers clasped in each other's arms and under themthe words "Enfin Seul. "

"Oh-oh, " was all she could say, and choking, she motioned Bub from theroom. When the door closed, she threw herself sobbing across the bed. 

Over at the Gap that night Hale sat in his office with a piece of whitepaper and a lump of black coal on the table in front of him. His foremanhad brought the coal to him that day at dusk. He lifted the lump to thelight of his lamp, and from the centre of it a mocking evil eye leeredback at him. The eye was a piece of shining black flint and told himthat his mine in Lonesome Cove was but a pocket of cannel coal and worthno more than the smouldering lumps in his grate. Then he lifted thepiece of white paper--it was his license to marry June. 

XXIV

Very slowly June walked up the little creek to the old log where she hadlain so many happy hours. There was no change in leaf, shrub or tree, and not a stone in the brook had been disturbed. The sun dropped thesame arrows down through the leaves--blunting their shining points intotremulous circles on the ground, the water sang the same happy tuneunder her dangling feet and a wood-thrush piped the old lay overhead. 

Wood-thrush! June smiled as she suddenly rechristened the bird forherself now. That bird henceforth would be the Magic Flute to musicalJune--and she leaned back with ears, eyes and soul awake and her brainbusy. 

All the way over the mountain, on that second home-going, she hadthought of the first, and even memories of the memories aroused by thatfirst home-going came back to her--the place where Hale had put hishorse into a dead run and had given her that never-to-be-forgottenthrill, and where she had slid from behind to the ground and stormedwith tears. When they dropped down into the green gloom of shadow andgreen leaves toward Lonesome Cove, she had the same feeling that herheart was being clutched by a human hand and that black night hadsuddenly fallen about her, but this time she knew what it meant. Shethought then of the crowded sleeping-room, the rough beds and coarseblankets at home; the oil-cloth, spotted with drippings from a candle, that covered the table; the thick plates and cups; the soggy bread andthe thick bacon floating in grease; the absence of napkins, the eatingwith knives and fingers and the noise Bub and her father made drinkingtheir coffee. But then she knew all these things in advance, and thememories of them on her way over had prepared her for Lonesome Cove. Theconditions were definite there: she knew what it would be to facethem again--she was facing them all the way, and to her surprise therealities had hurt her less even than they had before. Then had come thesame thrill over the garden, and now with that garden and her new roomand her piano and her books, with Uncle Billy's sister to help do thework, and with the little changes that June was daily making in thehousehold, she could live her own life even over there as long as shepleased, and then she would go out into the world again. 

But all the time when she was coming over from the Gap, the way hadbristled with accusing memories of Hale--even from the chatteringcreeks, the turns in the road, the sun-dappled bushes and trees andflowers; and when she passed the big Pine that rose with such friendlysolemnity above her, the pang of it all hurt her heart and kept onhurting her. When she walked in the garden, the flowers seemed not tohave the same spirit of gladness. It had been a dry season and theydrooped for that reason, but the melancholy of them had a sympathetichuman quality that depressed her. If she saw a bass shoot arrow-likeinto deep water, if she heard a bird or saw a tree or a flower whosename she had to recall, she thought of Hale. Do what she would, shecould not escape the ghost that stalked at her side everywhere, so likea human presence that she felt sometimes a strange desire to turn andspeak to it. And in her room that presence was all-pervasive. The piano, the furniture, the bits of bric-a-brac, the pictures and books--all wereeloquent with his thought of her--and every night before she turnedout her light she could not help lifting her eyes to her once-favouritepicture--even that Hale had remembered--the lovers clasped in eachother's arms--"At Last Alone"--only to see it now as a mocking symbol ofhis beaten hopes. She had written to thank him for it all, and notyet had he answered her letter. He had said that he was coming overto Lonesome Cove and he had not come--why should he, on her account?Between them all was over--why should he? The question was absurd inher mind, and yet the fact that she had expected him, that she so WANTEDhim, was so illogical and incongruous and vividly true that it raisedher to a sitting posture on the log, and she ran her fingers over herforehead and down her dazed face until her chin was in the hollow of herhand, and her startled eyes were fixed unwaveringly on the running waterand yet not seeing it at all. A call--her step-mother's cry--rang up theravine and she did not hear it. She did not even hear Bub coming throughthe underbrush a few minutes later, and when he half angrily shouted hername at the end of the vista, down-stream, whence he could see her, shelifted her head from a dream so deep that in it all her senses had forthe moment been wholly lost. 

"Come on, " he shouted. 

She had forgotten--there was a "bean-stringing" at the house thatday--and she slipped slowly off the log and went down the path, gathering herself together as she went, and making no answer to theindignant Bub who turned and stalked ahead of her back to the house. Atthe barnyard gate her father stopped her--he looked worried. 

"Jack Hale's jus' been over hyeh. " June caught her breath sharply. 

"Has he gone?" The old man was watching her and she felt it. 

"Yes, he was in a hurry an' nobody knowed whar you was. He jus' comeover, he said, to tell me to tell you that you could go back to New Yorkand keep on with yo' singin' doin's whenever you please. He knowed Ididn't want you hyeh when this war starts fer a finish as hit's goin'to, mighty soon now. He says he ain't quite ready to git married yit. I'm afeerd he's in trouble. "

"Trouble?"

"I tol' you t'other day--he's lost all his money; but he says you've gotenough to keep you goin' fer some time. I don't see why you don't gitmarried right now and live over at the Gap. "

June coloured and was silent. 

"Oh, " said the old man quickly, "you ain't ready nuther, "--he studiedher with narrowing eyes and through a puzzled frown--"but I reckon hit'sall right, if you air goin' to git married some time. "

"What's all right, Dad?" The old man checked himself:

"Ever' thing, " he said shortly, "but don't you make a fool of yo'selfwith a good man like Jack Hale. " And, wondering, June was silent. Thetruth was that the old man had wormed out of Hale an admission of thekindly duplicity the latter had practised on him and on June, and hehad given his word to Hale that he would not tell June. He did notunderstand why Hale should have so insisted on that promise, for it wasall right that Hale should openly do what he pleased for the girl he wasgoing to marry--but he had given his word: so he turned away, but hisfrown stayed where it was. 

June went on, puzzled, for she knew that her father was withholdingsomething, and she knew, too, that he would tell her only in hisown good time. But she could go away when she pleased--that was thecomfort--and with the thought she stopped suddenly at the corner of thegarden. She could see Hale on his big black horse climbing the spur. Once it had always been his custom to stop on top of it to rest hishorse and turn to look back at her, and she always waited to wave himgood-by. She wondered if he would do it now, and while she lookedand waited, the beating of her heart quickened nervously; but herode straight on, without stopping or turning his head, and June feltstrangely bereft and resentful, and the comfort of the moment beforewas suddenly gone. She could hear the voices of the guests in the porcharound the corner of the house--there was an ordeal for her aroundthere, and she went on. Loretta and Loretta's mother were there, andold Hon and several wives and daughters of Tolliver adherents fromup Deadwood Creek and below Uncle Billy's mill. June knew that the"bean-stringing" was simply an excuse for them to be there, for shecould not remember that so many had ever gathered there before--at thatfunction in the spring, at corn-cutting in the autumn, or sorghum-makingtime or at log-raisings or quilting parties, and she well knew themotive of these many and the curiosity of all save, perhaps, Loretta andthe old miller's wife: and June was prepared for them. She had borroweda gown from her step-mother--a purple creation of home-spun--she hadshaken down her beautiful hair and drawn it low over her brows, andarranged it behind after the fashion of mountain women, and when shewent up the steps of the porch she was outwardly to the eye one of themexcept for the leathern belt about her slenderly full waist, her blacksilk stockings and the little "furrin" shoes on her dainty feet. Shesmiled inwardly when she saw the same old wave of disappointment sweepacross the faces of them all. It was not necessary to shake hands, butunthinkingly she did, and the women sat in their chairs as she went fromone to the other and each gave her a limp hand and a grave "howdye, "though each paid an unconscious tribute to a vague something about her, by wiping that hand on an apron first. Very quietly and naturally shetook a low chair, piled beans in her lap and, as one of them, went towork. Nobody looked at her at first until old Hon broke the silence. 

"You haint lost a spec o' yo' good looks, Juny. "

June laughed without a flush--she would have reddened to the roots ofher hair two years before. 

"I'm feelin' right peart, thank ye, " she said, dropping consciously intothe vernacular; but there was a something in her voice that was vaguelyfelt by all as a part of the universal strangeness that was in her erectbearing, her proud head, her deep eyes that looked so straight intotheir own--a strangeness that was in that belt and those stockings andthose shoes, inconspicuous as they were, to which she saw every eye intime covertly wandering as to tangible symbols of a mystery that wasbeyond their ken. Old Hon and the step-mother alone talked at first, andthe others, even Loretta, said never a word. 

"Jack Hale must have been in a mighty big hurry, " quavered the oldstep-mother. "June ain't goin' to be with us long, I'm afeerd:" and, without looking up, June knew the wireless significance of the speechwas going around from eye to eye, but calmly she pulled her threadthrough a green pod and said calmly, with a little enigmatical shake ofher head:

"I--don't know--I don't know. "

Young Dave's mother was encouraged and all her efforts at good-humourcould not quite draw the sting of a spiteful plaint from her voice. 

"I reckon she'd never git away, if my boy Dave had the sayin' of it. "There was a subdued titter at this, but Bub had come in from the stableand had dropped on the edge of the porch. He broke in hotly:

"You jest let June alone, Aunt Tilly, you'll have yo' hands full if youkeep yo' eye on Loretty thar. "

Already when somebody was saying something about the feud, as June camearound the corner, her quick eye had seen Loretta bend her head swiftlyover her work to hide the flush of her face. Now Loretta turned scarletas the step-mother spoke severely:

"You hush, Bub, " and Bub rose and stalked into the house. Aunt Tilly wasleaning back in her chair--gasping--and consternation smote the group. June rose suddenly with her string of dangling beans. 

"I haven't shown you my room, Loretty. Don't you want to see it? Comeon, all of you, " she added to the girls, and they and Loretta with oneswift look of gratitude rose shyly and trooped shyly within wherethey looked in wide-mouthed wonder at the marvellous things that roomcontained. The older women followed to share sight of the miracle, and all stood looking from one thing to another, some with their handsbehind them as though to thwart the temptation to touch, and all sayingmerely:

"My! My!"

None of them had ever seen a piano before and June must play the "shinycontraption" and sing a song. It was only curiosity and astonishmentthat she evoked when her swift fingers began running over the keys fromone end of the board to the other, astonishment at the gymnastic qualityof the performance, and only astonishment when her lovely voice set thevery walls of the little room to vibrating with a dramatic love songthat was about as intelligible to them as a problem in calculus, andJune flushed and then smiled with quick understanding at the dry commentthat rose from Aunt Tilly behind:

"She shorely can holler some!"

She couldn't play "Sourwood Mountain" on the piano--nor "Jinny gitAroun', " nor "Soapsuds over the Fence, " but with a sudden inspirationshe went back to an old hymn that they all knew, and at the end she wonthe tribute of an awed silence that made them file back to the beans onthe porch. Loretta lingered a moment and when June closed the piano andthe two girls went into the main room, a tall figure, entering, stoppedin the door and stared at June without speaking:

"Why, howdye, Uncle Rufe, " said Loretta. "This is June. You didn't knowher, did ye?" The man laughed. Something in June's bearing made him takeoff his hat; he came forward to shake hands, and June looked up into apair of bold black eyes that stirred within her again the vague fears ofher childhood. She had been afraid of him when she was a child, and itwas the old fear aroused that made her recall him by his eyes now. Hisbeard was gone and he was much changed. She trembled when she shookhands with him and she did not call him by his name Old Judd came in, and a moment later the two men and Bub sat on the porch while the womenworked, and when June rose again to go indoors, she felt the newcomer'sbold eyes take her slowly in from head to foot and she turned crimson. This was the terror among the Tollivers--Bad Rufe, come back from theWest to take part in the feud. HE saw the belt and the stockings andthe shoes, the white column of her throat and the proud set of hergold-crowned head; HE knew what they meant, he made her feel thathe knew, and later he managed to catch her eyes once with an amused, half-contemptuous glance at the simple untravelled folk about them, thatsaid plainly how well he knew they two were set apart from them, and sheshrank fearfully from the comradeship that the glance implied andwould look at him no more. He knew everything that was going on in themountains. He had come back "ready for business, " he said. When he madeready to go, June went to her room and stayed there, but she heard himsay to her father that he was going over to the Gap, and with a laughthat chilled her soul:

"I'm goin' over to kill me a policeman. " And her father warned gruffly:

"You better keep away from thar. You don't understand them fellers. " Andshe heard Rufe's brutal laugh again, and as he rode into the creek hishorse stumbled and she saw him cut cruelly at the poor beast's ears withthe rawhide quirt that he carried. She was glad when all went home, andthe only ray of sunlight in the day for her radiated from Uncle Billy'sface when, at sunset, he came to take old Hon home. The old miller wasthe one unchanged soul to her in that he was the one soul that could seeno change in June. He called her "baby" in the old way, and he talked toher now as he had talked to her as a child. He took her aside to ask herif she knew that Hale had got his license to marry, and when she shookher head, his round, red face lighted up with the benediction of arising sun:

"Well, that's what he's done, baby, an' he's axed me to marry ye, " headded, with boyish pride, "he's axed ME. "

And June choked, her eyes filled, and she was dumb, but Uncle Billycould not see that it meant distress and not joy. He just put his armaround her and whispered:

"I ain't told a soul, baby--not a soul. "

She went to bed and to sleep with Hale's face in the dream-mist ofher brain, and Uncle Billy's, and the bold, black eyes of Bad RufeTolliver--all fused, blurred, indistinguishable. Then suddenly Rufe'swords struck that brain, word by word, like the clanging terror of afrightened bell. 

"I'm goin' to kill me a policeman. " And with the last word, it seemed, she sprang upright in bed, clutching the coverlid convulsively. Daylightwas showing gray through her window. She heard a swift step up thesteps, across the porch, the rattle of the door-chain, her father'squick call, then the rumble of two men's voices, and she knew as wellwhat had happened as though she had heard every word they uttered. Rufehad killed him a policeman--perhaps John Hale--and with terror clutchingher heart she sprang to the floor, and as she dropped the old purplegown over her shoulders, she heard the scurry of feet across the backporch--feet that ran swiftly but cautiously, and left the sound of themat the edge of the woods. She heard the back door close softly, thecreaking of the bed as her father lay down again, and then a suddensplashing in the creek. Kneeling at the window, she saw strange horsemenpushing toward the gate where one threw himself from his saddle, strodeswiftly toward the steps, and her lips unconsciously made soft, little, inarticulate cries of joy--for the stern, gray face under the hat ofthe man was the face of John Hale. After him pushed other men--fullyarmed--whom he motioned to either side of the cabin to the rear. By hisside was Bob Berkley, and behind him was a red-headed Falin whom shewell remembered. Within twenty feet, she was looking into that grayface, when the set lips of it opened in a loud command: "Hello!" Sheheard her father's bed creak again, again the rattle of the door-chain, and then old Judd stepped on the porch with a revolver in each hand. 

"Hello!" he answered sternly. 

"Judd, " said Hale sharply--and June had never heard that tone from himbefore--"a man with a black moustache killed one of our men over in theGap yesterday and we've tracked him over here. There's his horse--and wesaw him go into that door. We want him. "

"Do you know who the feller is?" asked old Judd calmly. 

"No, " said Hale quickly. And then, with equal calm:

"Hit was my brother, " and the old man's mouth closed like a vise. Hadthe last word been a stone striking his ear, Hale could hardly have beenmore stunned. Again he called and almost gently:

"Watch the rear, there, " and then gently he turned to Devil Judd. 

"Judd, your brother shot a man at the Gap--without excuse or warning. Hewas an officer and a friend of mine, but if he were a stranger--we wanthim just the same. Is he here?"

Judd looked at the red-headed man behind Hale. 

"So you're turned on the Falin side now, have ye?" he saidcontemptuously. 

"Is he here?" repeated Hale. 

"Yes, an' you can't have him. " Without a move toward his pistol Halestepped forward, and June saw her father's big right hand tighten on hishuge pistol, and with a low cry she sprang to her feet. 

"I'm an officer of the law, " Hale said, "stand aside, Judd!" Bub leapedto the door with a Winchester--his eyes wild and his face white. 

"Watch out, men!" Hale called, and as the men raised their guns therewas a shriek inside the cabin and June stood at Bub's side, barefooted, her hair tumbled about her shoulders, and her hand clutching the littlecross at her throat. 

"Stop!" she shrieked. "He isn't here. He's--he's gone!" For a moment asudden sickness smote Hale's face, then Devil Judd's ruse flashed to himand, wheeling, he sprang to the ground. 

"Quick!" he shouted, with a sweep of his hand right and left. "Up thosehollows! Lead those horses up to the Pine and wait. Quick!"

Already the men were running as he directed and Hale, followed byBob and the Falin, rushed around the corner of the house. Old Judd'snostrils were quivering, and with his pistols dangling in his hands hewalked to the gate, listening to the sounds of the pursuit. 

"They'll never ketch him, " he said, coming back, and then he droppedinto a chair and sat in silence a long time. June reappeared, her facestill white and her temples throbbing, for the sun was rising on days ofdarkness for her. Devil Judd did not even look at her. 

"I reckon you ain't goin' to marry John Hale. "

"No, Dad, " said June. 

XXV

Thus Fate did not wait until Election Day for the thing Hale mostdreaded--a clash that would involve the guard in the Tolliver-Falintroubles over the hills. There had been simply a preliminary politicalgathering at the Gap the day before, but it had been a crucial day forthe guard from a cloudy sunrise to a tragic sunset. Early that morning, Mockaby, the town-sergeant, had stepped into the street freshly shaven, with polished boots, and in his best clothes for the eyes of hissweetheart, who was to come up that day to the Gap from Lee. Beforesunset he died with those boots on, while the sweetheart, unknowing, was bound on her happy way homeward, and Rufe Tolliver, who had shotMockaby, was clattering through the Gap in flight for Lonesome Cove. 

As far as anybody knew, there had been but one Tolliver and one Falin intown that day, though many had noticed the tall Western-looking strangerwho, early in the afternoon, had ridden across the bridge over the NorthFork, but he was quiet and well-behaved, he merged into the crowd andthrough the rest of the afternoon was in no way conspicuous, even whenthe one Tolliver and the one Falin got into a fight in front of thespeaker's stand and the riot started which came near ending in a bloodybattle. The Falin was clearly blameless and was let go at once. Thisangered the many friends of the Tolliver, and when he was arrested therewas an attempt at rescue, and the Tolliver was dragged to the calaboosebehind a slowly retiring line of policemen, who were jabbing therescuers back with the muzzles of cocked Winchesters. It was just whenit was all over, and the Tolliver was safely jailed, that Bad Rufegalloped up to the calaboose, shaking with rage, for he had just learnedthat the prisoner was a Tolliver. He saw how useless interference was, but he swung from his horse, threw the reins over its head after theWestern fashion and strode up to Hale. 

"You the captain of this guard?"

"Yes, " said Hale; "and you?" Rufe shook his head with angry impatience, and Hale, thinking he had some communication to make, ignored hisrefusal to answer. 

"I hear that a fellow can't blow a whistle or holler, or shoot off hispistol in this town without gittin' arrested. "

"That's true--why?" Rufe's black eyes gleamed vindictively. 

"Nothin', " he said, and he turned to his horse. 

Ten minutes later, as Mockaby was passing down the dummy track, awhistle was blown on the river bank, a high yell was raised, a pistolshot quickly followed and he started for the sound of them on a run. Afew minutes later three more pistol shots rang out, and Hale rushed tothe river bank to find Mockaby stretched out on the ground, dying, and amountaineer lout pointing after a man on horseback, who was making at aswift gallop for the mouth of the gap and the hills. 

"He done it, " said the lout in a frightened way; "but I don't know whohe was. "

Within half an hour ten horsemen were clattering after the murderer, headed by Hale, Logan, and the Infant of the Guard. Where the roadforked, a woman with a child in her arms said she had seen a tall, black-eyed man with a black moustache gallop up the right fork. She nomore knew who he was than any of the pursuers. Three miles up that forkthey came upon a red-headed man leading his horse from a mountaineer'syard. 

"He went up the mountain, " the red-haired man said, pointing tothe trail of the Lonesome Pine. "He's gone over the line. Whut's hedone--killed somebody?"

"Yes, " said Hale shortly, starting up his horse. 

"I wish I'd a-knowed you was atter him. I'm sheriff over thar. "

Now they were without warrant or requisition, and Hale, pulling in, saidsharply:

"We want that fellow. He killed a man at the Gap. If we catch him overthe line, we want you to hold him for us. Come along!" The red-headedsheriff sprang on his horse and grinned eagerly:

"I'm your man. "

"Who was that fellow?" asked Hale as they galloped. The sheriff deniedknowledge with a shake of his head. 

"What's your name?" The sheriff looked sharply at him for the effect ofhis answer. 

"Jim Falin. " And Hale looked sharply back at him. He was one of theFalins who long, long ago had gone to the Gap for young Dave Tolliver, and now the Falin grinned at Hale. 

"I know you--all right. " No wonder the Falin chuckled at thisHeaven-born chance to get a Tolliver into trouble. 

At the Lonesome Pine the traces of the fugitive's horse swerved alongthe mountain top--the shoe of the right forefoot being broken in half. That swerve was a blind and the sheriff knew it, but he knew where RufeTolliver would go and that there would be plenty of time to get him. Moreover, he had a purpose of his own and a secret fear that it might bethwarted, so, without a word, he followed the trail till darkness hidit and they had to wait until the moon rose. Then as they started again, the sheriff said:

"Wait a minute, " and plunged down the mountain side on foot. A fewminutes later he hallooed for Hale, and down there showed him the tracksdoubling backward along a foot-path. 

"Regular rabbit, ain't he?" chuckled the sheriff, and back they went tothe trail again on which two hundred yards below the Pine they saw thetracks pointing again to Lonesome Cove. 

On down the trail they went, and at the top of the spur that overlookedLonesome Cove, the Falin sheriff pulled in suddenly and got off hishorse. There the tracks swerved again into the bushes. 

"He's goin' to wait till daylight, fer fear somebody's follered him. He'll come in back o' Devil Judd's. "

"How do you know he's going to Devil Judd's?" asked Hale. 

"Whar else would he go?" asked the Falin with a sweep of his arm towardthe moonlit wilderness. "Thar ain't but one house that way fer tenmiles--and nobody lives thar. "

"How do you know that he's going to any house?" asked Hale impatiently. "He may be getting out of the mountains. "

"D'you ever know a feller to leave these mountains jus' because he'dkilled a man? How'd you foller him at night? How'd you ever ketch himwith his start? What'd he turn that way fer, if he wasn't goin' toJudd's--why d'n't he keep on down the river? If he's gone, he's gone. Ifhe ain't, he'll be at Devil Judd's at daybreak if he ain't thar now. "

"What do you want to do?"

"Go on down with the hosses, hide 'em in the bushes an' wait. "

"Maybe he's already heard us coming down the mountain. "

"That's the only thing I'm afeerd of, " said the Falin calmly. "But whutI'm tellin' you's our only chance. "

"How do you know he won't hear us going down? Why not leave the horses?"

"We might need the hosses, and hit's mud and sand all the way--you oughtto know that. "

Hale did know that; so on they went quietly and hid their horses asidefrom the road near the place where Hale had fished when he first went toLonesome Cove. There the Falin disappeared on foot. 

"Do you trust him?" asked Hale, turning to Budd, and Budd laughed. 

"I reckon you can trust a Falin against a friend of a Tolliver, ort'other way round--any time. " Within half an hour the Falin came backwith the news that there were no signs that the fugitive had yet comein. 

"No use surrounding the house now, " he said, "he might see one of usfirst when he comes in an' git away. We'll do that atter daylight. "

And at daylight they saw the fugitive ride out of the woods at the backof the house and boldly around to the front of the house, where he lefthis horse in the yard and disappeared. 

"Now send three men to ketch him if he runs out the back way--quick!"said the Falin. "Hit'll take 'em twenty minutes to git thar through thewoods. Soon's they git thar, let one of 'em shoot his pistol off an'that'll be the signal fer us. "

The three men started swiftly, but the pistol shot came before they hadgone a hundred yards, for one of the three--a new man and unaccustomedto the use of fire-arms, stumbled over a root while he was seeing thathis pistol was in order and let it go off accidentally. 

"No time to waste now, " the Falin called sharply. "Git on yo' hossesand git!" Then the rush was made and when they gave up the chase at noonthat day, the sheriff looked Hale squarely in the eye when Hale sharplyasked him a question:

"Why didn't you tell me who that man was?"

"Because I was afeerd you wouldn't go to Devil Judd's atter him. I knowbetter now, " and he shook his head, for he did not understand. And soHale at the head of the disappointed Guard went back to the Gap, andwhen, next day, they laid Mockaby away in the thinly populated littlegraveyard that rested in the hollow of the river's arm, the spirit oflaw and order in the heart of every guard gave way to the spirit ofrevenge, and the grass would grow under the feet of none until RufeTolliver was caught and the death-debt of the law was paid with death. 

That purpose was no less firm in the heart of Hale, and he turnedaway from the grave, sick with the trick that Fate had lost no time inplaying him; for he was a Falin now in the eyes of both factions and anenemy--even to June. 

The weeks dragged slowly along, and June sank slowly toward the depthswith every fresh realization of the trap of circumstance into which shehad fallen. She had dim memories of just such a state of affairs whenshe was a child, for the feud was on now and the three things thatgoverned the life of the cabin in Lonesome Cove were hate, caution, andfear. 

Bub and her father worked in the fields with their Winchesters closeat hand, and June was never easy if they were outside the house. Ifsomebody shouted "hello"--that universal hail of friend or enemy in themountains--from the gate after dark, one or the other would go outthe back door and answer from the shelter of the corner of the house. Neither sat by the light of the fire where he could be seen through thewindow nor carried a candle from one room to the other. And when eitherrode down the river, June must ride behind him to prevent ambush fromthe bushes, for no Kentucky mountaineer, even to kill his worst enemy, will risk harming a woman. Sometimes Loretta would come and spendthe day, and she seemed little less distressed than June. Dave wasconstantly in and out, and several times June had seen the Red Foxhanging around. Always the talk was of the feud. The killing of thisTolliver and of that long ago was rehearsed over and over; all thewrongs the family had suffered at the hands of the Falins were retold, and in spite of herself June felt the old hatred of her childhoodreawakening against them so fiercely that she was startled: and she knewthat if she were a man she would be as ready now to take up a Winchesteragainst the Falins as though she had known no other life. 

Loretta got no comfort from her in her tentative efforts to talk of BuckFalin, and once, indeed, June gave her a scathing rebuke. With every dayher feeling for her father and Bub was knit a little more closely, andtoward Dave grew a little more kindly. She had her moods even againstHale, but they always ended in a storm of helpless tears. Her fathersaid little of Hale, but that little was enough. Young Dave was openlyexultant when he heard of the favouritism shown a Falin by the Guardat the Gap, the effort Hale had made to catch Rufe Tolliver and hiswell-known purpose yet to capture him; for the Guard maintained a fundfor the arrest and prosecution of criminals, and the reward it offeredfor Rufe, dead or alive, was known by everybody on both sides of theState line. For nearly a week no word was heard of the fugitive, andthen one night, after supper, while June was sitting at the fire, theback door was opened, Rufe slid like a snake within, and when Junesprang to her feet with a sharp cry of terror, he gave his brutal laugh:

"Don't take much to skeer you--does it?" Shuddering she felt his evileyes sweep her from head to foot, for the beast within was alwaysunleashed and ever ready to spring, and she dropped back into her seat, speechless. Young Dave, entering from the kitchen, saw Rufe's look andthe hostile lightning of his own eyes flashed at his foster-uncle, whoknew straightway that he must not for his own safety strain the boy'sjealousy too far. 

"You oughtn't to 'a' done it, Rufe, " said old Judd a little later, andhe shook his head. Again Rufe laughed:

"No--" he said with a quick pacificatory look to young Dave, "not toHIM!" The swift gritting of Dave's teeth showed that he knew what wasmeant, and without warning the instinct of a protecting tigress leapedwithin June. She had seen and had been grateful for the look Dave gavethe outlaw, but without a word she rose new and went to her own room. While she sat at her window, her step-mother came out the back door andleft it open for a moment. Through it June could hear the talk:

"No, " said her father, "she ain't goin' to marry him. " Dave grunted andRufe's voice came again:

"Ain't no danger, I reckon, of her tellin' on me?"

"No, " said her father gruffly, and the door banged. 

No, thought June, she wouldn't, even without her father's trust, thoughshe loathed the man, and he was the only thing on earth of which she wasafraid--that was the miracle of it and June wondered. She was a Tolliverand the clan loyalty of a century forbade--that was all. As she rose shesaw a figure skulking past the edge of the woods. She called Bub in andtold him about it, and Rufe stayed at the cabin all night, but June didnot see him next morning, and she kept out of his way whenever he cameagain. A few nights later the Red Fox slouched up to the cabin with someherbs for the step-mother. Old Judd eyed him askance. 

"Lookin' fer that reward, Red?" The old man had no time for the meekreply that was on his lips, for the old woman spoke up sharply:

"You let Red alone, Judd--I tol' him to come. " And the Red Fox stayedto supper, and when Rufe left the cabin that night, a bent figure with abig rifle and in moccasins sneaked after him. 

The next night there was a tap on Hale's window just at his bedside, andwhen he looked out he saw the Red Fox's big rifle, telescope, moccasinsand all in the moonlight. The Red Fox had discovered the whereabouts ofRufe Tolliver, and that very night he guided Hale and six of theguard to the edge of a little clearing where the Red Fox pointed to aone-roomed cabin, quiet in the moonlight. Hale had his requisition now. 

"Ain't no trouble ketchin' Rufe, if you bait him with a woman, " hesnarled. "There mought be several Tollivers in thar. Wait till daybreakand git the drap on him, when he comes out. " And then he disappeared. 

Surrounding the cabin, Hale waited, and on top of the mountain, aboveLonesome Cove, the Red Fox sat waiting and watching through his bigtelescope. Through it he saw Bad Rufe step outside the door at daybreakand stretch his arms with a yawn, and he saw three men spring withlevelled Winchesters from behind a clump of bushes. The woman shot fromthe door behind Rufe with a pistol in each hand, but Rufe kept his handsin the air and turned his head to the woman who lowered the half-raisedweapons slowly. When he saw the cavalcade start for the county seatwith Rufe manacled in the midst of them, he dropped swiftly down intoLonesome Cove to tell Judd that Rufe was a prisoner and to retake himon the way to jail. And, as the Red Fox well knew would happen, old Juddand young Dave and two other Tollivers who were at the cabin gallopedinto the county seat to find Rufe in jail, and that jail guarded byseven grim young men armed with Winchesters and shot-guns. 

Hale faced the old man quietly--eye to eye. 

"It's no use, Judd, " he said, "you'd better let the law take itscourse. " The old man was scornful. 

"Thar's never been a Tolliver convicted of killin' nobody, much lesshung--an' thar ain't goin' to be. "

"I'm glad you warned me, " said Hale still quietly, "though it wasn'tnecessary. But if he's convicted, he'll hang. "

The giant's face worked in convulsive helplessness and he turned away. 

"You hold the cyards now, but my deal is comin'. "

"All right, Judd--you're getting a square one from me. "

Back rode the Tollivers and Devil Judd never opened his lips again untilhe was at home in Lonesome Cove. June was sitting on the porch when hewalked heavy-headed through the gate. 

"They've ketched Rufe, " he said, and after a moment he added gruffly:

"Thar's goin' to be sure enough trouble now. The Falins'll think allthem police fellers air on their side now. This ain't no place feryou--you must git away. "

June shook her head and her eyes turned to the flowers at the edge ofthe garden:

"I'm not goin' away, Dad, " she said. 

XXVI

Back to the passing of Boone and the landing of Columbus no man, in thatregion, had ever been hanged. And as old Judd said, no Tolliver had everbeen sentenced and no jury of mountain men, he well knew, could befound who would convict a Tolliver, for there were no twelve men inthe mountains who would dare. And so the Tollivers decided to await theoutcome of the trial and rest easy. But they did not count on the mettleand intelligence of the grim young "furriners" who were a flying wedgeof civilization at the Gap. Straightway, they gave up the practice oflaw and banking and trading and store-keeping and cut port-holes in thebrick walls of the Court House and guarded town and jail night and day. They brought their own fearless judge, their own fearless jury andtheir own fearless guard. Such an abstract regard for law and order themountaineer finds a hard thing to understand. It looked as though themotive of the Guard was vindictive and personal, and old Judd was almoststifled by the volcanic rage that daily grew within him as the toilsdaily tightened about Rufe Tolliver. 

Every happening the old man learned through the Red Fox, who, with hishuge pistols, was one of the men who escorted Rufe to and from CourtHouse and jail--a volunteer, Hale supposed, because he hated Rufe;and, as the Tollivers supposed, so that he could keep them advised ofeverything that went on, which he did with secrecy and his own peculiarfaith. And steadily and to the growing uneasiness of the Tollivers, thelaw went its way. Rufe had proven that he was at the Gap all day and hadtaken no part in the trouble. He produced a witness--the mountain loutwhom Hale remembered--who admitted that he had blown the whistle, giventhe yell, and fired the pistol shot. When asked his reason, the witness, who was stupid, had none ready, looked helplessly at Rufe and finallymumbled--"fer fun. " But it was plain from the questions that Rufehad put to Hale only a few minutes before the shooting, and from thehesitation of the witness, that Rufe had used him for a tool. So thetestimony of the latter that Mockaby without even summoning Rufe tosurrender had fired first, carried no conviction. And yet Rufe hadno trouble making it almost sure that he had never seen the dead manbefore--so what was his motive? It was then that word reached the earof the prosecuting attorney of the only testimony that could establish amotive and make the crime a hanging offence, and Court was adjourned fora day, while he sent for the witness who could give it. That afternoonone of the Falins, who had grown bolder, and in twos and threes werealways at the trial, shot at a Tolliver on the edge of town and therewas an immediate turmoil between the factions that the Red Fox had beenwaiting for and that suited his dark purposes well. 

That very night, with his big rifle, he slipped through the woods to aturn of the road, over which old Dave Tolliver was to pass next morning, and built a "blind" behind some rocks and lay there smoking peacefullyand dreaming his Swedenborgian dreams. And when a wagon came round theturn, driven by a boy, and with the gaunt frame of old Dave Tolliverlying on straw in the bed of it, his big rifle thundered and thefrightened horses dashed on with the Red Fox's last enemy, lifeless. Coolly he slipped back to the woods, threw the shell from his gun, tirelessly he went by short cuts through the hills, and at noon, benevolent and smiling, he was on guard again. 

The little Court Room was crowded for the afternoon session. Inside therailing sat Rufe Tolliver, white and defiant--manacled. Leaning on therailing, to one side, was the Red Fox with his big pistols, his goodprofile calm, dreamy, kind--to the other, similarly armed, was Hale. At each of the gaping port-holes, and on each side of the door, stooda guard with a Winchester, and around the railing outside were severalmore. In spite of window and port-hole the air was close and heavy withthe smell of tobacco and the sweat of men. Here and there in the crowdwas a red Falin, but not a Tolliver was in sight, and Rufe Tolliver satalone. The clerk called the Court to order after the fashion since thedays before Edward the Confessor--except that he asked God to save acommonwealth instead of a king--and the prosecuting attorney rose:

"Next witness, may it please your Honour": and as the clerk got tohis feet with a slip of paper in his hand and bawled out a name, Halewheeled with a thumping heart. The crowd vibrated, turned heads, gaveway, and through the human aisle walked June Tolliver with the sherifffollowing meekly behind. At the railing-gate she stopped, head uplifted, face pale and indignant; and her eyes swept past Hale as if he wereno more than a wooden image, and were fixed with proud inquiry on theJudge's face. She was bare-headed, her bronze hair was drawn low overher white brow, her gown was of purple home-spun, and her right hand wasclenched tight about the chased silver handle of a riding whip, andin eyes, mouth, and in every line of her tense figure was the mutequestion: "Why have you brought _me_ here?"

[Illustration: "Why have you brought me here?", 0342]

"Here, please, " said the Judge gently, as though he were about to answerthat question, and as she passed Hale she seemed to swerve her skirtsaside that they might not touch him. 

"Swear her. "

June lifted her right hand, put her lips to the soiled, old, black Bibleand faced the jury and Hale and Bad Rufe Tolliver whose black eyes neverleft her face. 

"What is your name?" asked a deep voice that struck her ears asfamiliar, and before she answered she swiftly recalled that she hadheard that voice speaking when she entered the door. 

"June Tolliver. "

"Your age?"

"Eighteen. "

"You live--"

"In Lonesome Cove. "

"You are the daughter of--"

"Judd Tolliver. "

"Do you know the prisoner?"

"He is my foster-uncle. "

"Were you at home on the night of August the tenth?"

"I was. "

"Have you ever heard the prisoner express any enmity against thisvolunteer Police Guard?" He waved his hand toward the men at theportholes and about the railing--unconsciously leaving his hand directlypointed at Hale. June hesitated and Rufe leaned one elbow on the table, and the light in his eyes beat with fierce intensity into the girl'seyes into which came a curious frightened look that Hale remembered--thesame look she had shown long ago when Rufe's name was mentioned in theold miller's cabin, and when going up the river road she had put herchildish trust in him to see that her bad uncle bothered her no more. Hale had never forgot that, and if it had not been absurd he would havestopped the prisoner from staring at her now. An anxious look had comeinto Rufe's eyes--would she lie for him?

"Never, " said June. Ah, she would--she was a Tolliver and Rufe took abreath of deep content. 

"You never heard him express any enmity toward the Police Guard--beforethat night?"

"I have answered that question, " said June with dignity and Rufe'slawyer was on his feet. 

"Your Honour, I object, " he said indignantly. 

"I apologize, " said the deep voice--"sincerely, " and he bowed to June. Then very quietly:

"What was the last thing you heard the prisoner say that afternoon whenhe left your father's house?"

It had come--how well she remembered just what he had said and how, thatnight, even when she was asleep, Rufe's words had clanged like a bell inher brain--what her awakening terror was when she knew that the deed wasdone and the stifling fear that the victim might be Hale. Swiftly hermind worked--somebody had blabbed, her step-mother, perhaps, and whatRufe had said had reached a Falin ear and come to the relentless man infront of her. She remembered, too, now, what the deep voice was sayingas she came into the door:

"There must be deliberation, a malicious purpose proven to make theprisoner's crime a capital offence--I admit that, of course, yourHonour. Very well, we propose to prove that now, " and then she hadheard her name called. The proof that was to send Rufe Tolliver to thescaffold was to come from her--that was why she was there. Her lipsopened and Rufe's eyes, like a snake's, caught her own again and heldthem. 

"He said he was going over to the Gap--"

There was a commotion at the door, again the crowd parted, and intowered giant Judd Tolliver, pushing people aside as though they werestraws, his bushy hair wild and his great frame shaking from head tofoot with rage. 

"You went to my house, " he rumbled hoarsely--glaring at Hale--"an' tookmy gal thar when I wasn't at home--you--"

"Order in the Court, " said the Judge sternly, but already at a signalfrom Hale several guards were pushing through the crowd and old Juddsaw them coming and saw the Falins about him and the Winchesters at theport-holes, and he stopped with a hard gulp and stood looking at June. 

"Repeat his exact words, " said the deep voice again as calmly as thoughnothing had happened. 

"He said, 'I'm goin' over to the Gap--'" and still Rufe's black eyesheld her with mesmeric power--would she lie for him--would she lie forhim?

It was a terrible struggle for June. Her father was there, her uncleDave was dead, her foster-uncle's life hung on her next words and shewas a Tolliver. Yet she had given her oath, she had kissed the sacredBook in which she believed from cover to cover with her whole heart, and she could feel upon her the blue eyes of a man for whom a lie wasimpossible and to whom she had never stained her white soul with a wordof untruth. 

"Yes, " encouraged the deep voice kindly. 

Not a soul in the room knew where the struggle lay--not even thegirl--for it lay between the black eyes of Rufe Tolliver and the blueeyes of John Hale. 

"Yes, " repeated the deep voice again. Again, with her eyes on Rufe, sherepeated:

"'I'm goin' over to the Gap--'" her face turned deadly white, sheshivered, her dark eyes swerved suddenly full on Hale and she saidslowly and distinctly, yet hardly above a whisper:

"'TO KILL ME A POLICEMAN. '"

"That will do, " said the deep voice gently, and Hale started towardher--she looked so deadly sick and she trembled so when she tried torise; but she saw him, her mouth steadied, she rose, and without lookingat him, passed by his outstretched hand and walked slowly out of theCourt Room. 

XXVII

The miracle had happened. The Tollivers, following the Red Fox's adviceto make no attempt at rescue just then, had waited, expecting the oldimmunity from the law and getting instead the swift sentence that RufeTolliver should be hanged by the neck until he was dead. Astounding andconvincing though the news was, no mountaineer believed he would everhang, and Rufe himself faced the sentence defiant. He laughed when hewas led back to his cell:

"I'll never hang, " he said scornfully. They were the first words thatcame from his lips, and the first words that came from old Judd's whenthe news reached him in Lonesome Cove, and that night old Judd gatheredhis clan for the rescue--to learn next morning that during the nightRufe had been spirited away to the capital for safekeeping until thefatal day. And so there was quiet for a while--old Judd making ready forthe day when Rufe should be brought back, and trying to find out who itwas that had slain his brother Dave. The Falins denied the deed, but oldJudd never questioned that one of them was the murderer, and he came outopenly now and made no secret of the fact that he meant to have revenge. And so the two factions went armed, watchful and wary--especially theFalins, who were lying low and waiting to fulfil a deadly purpose oftheir own. They well knew that old Judd would not open hostilities onthem until Rufe Tolliver was dead or at liberty. They knew that theold man meant to try to rescue Rufe when he was brought back to jail ortaken from it to the scaffold, and when either day came they themselveswould take a hand, thus giving the Tollivers at one and the same timetwo sets of foes. And so through the golden September days the two clanswaited, and June Tolliver went with dull determination back to her oldlife, for Uncle Billy's sister had left the house in fear and shecould get no help--milking cows at cold dawns, helping in the kitchen, spinning flax and wool, and weaving them into rough garments for herfather and step-mother and Bub, and in time, she thought grimly--forherself: for not another cent for her maintenance could now come fromJohn Hale, even though he claimed it was hers--even though it was intruth her own. Never, but once, had Hale's name been mentioned in thecabin--never, but once, had her father referred to the testimony thatshe had given against Rufe Tolliver, for the old man put upon Hale thefact that the sheriff had sneaked into his house when he was away andhad taken June to Court, and that was the crowning touch of bitternessin his growing hatred for the captain of the guard of whom he had oncebeen so fond. 

"Course you had to tell the truth, baby, when they got you there, " hesaid kindly; "but kidnappin' you that-a-way--" He shook his great bushyhead from side to side and dropped it into his hands. 

"I reckon that damn Hale was the man who found out that you heard Rufesay that. I'd like to know how--I'd like to git my hands on the felleras told him. "

June opened her lips in simple justice to clear Hale of that charge, butshe saw such a terrified appeal in her step-mother's face that shekept her peace, let Hale suffer for that, too, and walked out into hergarden. Never once had her piano been opened, her books had lain unread, and from her lips, during those days, came no song. When she was notat work, she was brooding in her room, or she would walk down to UncleBilly's and sit at the mill with him while the old man would talk intender helplessness, or under the honeysuckle vines with old Hon, whosebrusque kindness was of as little avail. And then, still silent, shewould get wearily up and as quietly go away while the two old friends, worried to the heart, followed her sadly with their eyes. At other timesshe was brooding in her room or sitting in her garden, where she wasnow, and where she found most comfort--the garden that Hale had plantedfor her-where purple asters leaned against lilac shrubs that wouldflower for the first time the coming spring; where a late rosebloomed, and marigolds drooped, and great sunflowers nodded and giantcastor-plants stretched out their hands of Christ, And while June thuswaited the passing of the days, many things became clear to her: for thegrim finger of reality had torn the veil from her eyes and let her seeherself but little changed, at the depths, by contact with John Male'sworld, as she now saw him but little changed, at the depths, by contactwith hers. Slowly she came to see, too, that it was his presence in theCourt Room that made her tell the truth, reckless of the consequences, and she came to realize that she was not leaving the mountains becauseshe would go to no place where she could not know of any danger that, inthe present crisis, might threaten John Hale. 

And Hale saw only that in the Court Room she had drawn her skirts aside, that she had looked at him once and then had brushed past his helpinghand. It put him in torment to think of what her life must be now, and of how she must be suffering. He knew that she would not leave herfather in the crisis that was at hand, and after it was all over--whatthen? His hands would still be tied and he would be even more helplessthan he had ever dreamed possible. To be sure, an old land deal had cometo life, just after the discovery of the worthlessness of the minein Lonesome Cove, and was holding out another hope. But if that, too, should fail--or if it should succeed--what then? Old Judd had sent back, with a curt refusal, the last "allowance" he forwarded to June andhe knew the old man was himself in straits. So June must stay in themountains, and what would become of her? She had gone back to hermountain garb--would she lapse into her old life and ever again becontent? Yes, she would lapse, but never enough to keep her from beingunhappy all her life, and at that thought he groaned. Thus far he wasresponsible and the paramount duty with him had been that she shouldhave the means to follow the career she had planned for herself outsideof those hills. And now if he had the means, he was helpless. There wasnothing for him to do now but to see that the law had its way with RufeTolliver, and meanwhile he let the reawakened land deal go hang and sethimself the task of finding out who it was that had ambushed old DaveTolliver. So even when he was thinking of June his brain was busy onthat mystery, and one night, as he sat brooding, a suspicion flashedthat made him grip his chair with both hands and rise to pace the porch. Old Dave had been shot at dawn, and the night before the Red Fox hadbeen absent from the guard and had not turned up until nearly noon nextday. He had told Hale that he was going home. Two days later, Hale heardby accident that the old man had been seen near the place of the ambushabout sunset of the day before the tragedy, which was on his way home, and he now learned straightway for himself that the Red Fox had notbeen home for a month--which was only one of his ways of mistreating thepatient little old woman in black. 

A little later, the Red Fox gave it out that he was trying to ferret outthe murderer himself, and several times he was seen near the place ofambush, looking, as he said, for evidence. But this did not halt Hale'ssuspicions, for he recalled that the night he had spent with the RedFox, long ago, the old man had burst out against old Dave and hadquickly covered up his indiscretion with a pious characterization ofhimself as a man that kept peace with both factions. And then why had hebeen so suspicious and fearful when Hale told him that night that he hadseen him talking with a Falin in town the Court day before, and had hedisclosed the whereabouts of Rufe Tolliver and guided the guard to hishiding-place simply for the reward? He had not yet come to claim it, andhis indifference to money was notorious through the hills. Apparentlythere was some general enmity in the old man toward the whole Tolliverclan, and maybe he had used the reward to fool Hale as to his realmotive. And then Hale quietly learned that long ago the Tolliversbitterly opposed the Red Fox's marriage to a Tolliver-that Rufe, when aboy, was always teasing the Red Fox and had once made him dance in hismoccasins to the tune of bullets spitting about his feet, and that theRed Fox had been heard to say that old Dave had cheated his wife out ofher just inheritance of wild land; but all that was long, long ago, andapparently had been mutually forgiven and forgotten. But it was enoughfor Hale, and one night he mounted his horse, and at dawn he was at theplace of ambush with his horse hidden in the bushes. The rocks forthe ambush were waist high, and the twigs that had been thrust in thecrevices between them were withered. And there, on the hypothesis thatthe Red Fox was the assassin, Hale tried to put himself, after the deed, into the Red Fox's shoes. The old man had turned up on guard beforenoon--then he must have gone somewhere first or have killed considerabletime in the woods. He would not have crossed the road, for there weretwo houses on the other side; there would have been no object in goingon over the mountain unless he meant to escape, and if he had gone overthere for another reason he would hardly have had time to get to theCourt House before noon: nor would he have gone back along the roadon that side, for on that side, too, was a cabin not far away. So Haleturned and walked straight away from the road where the walking waseasiest--down a ravine, and pushing this way and that through the busheswhere the way looked easiest. Half a mile down the ravine he came toa little brook, and there in the black earth was the faint print of aman's left foot and in the hard crust across was the deeper print of hisright, where his weight in leaping had come down hard. But the printswere made by a shoe and not by a moccasin, and then Hale recalledexultantly that the Red Fox did not have his moccasins on the morninghe turned up on guard. All the while he kept a sharp lookout, right andleft, on the ground--the Red Fox must have thrown his cartridge shellsomewhere, and for that Hale was looking. Across the brook he could seethe tracks no farther, for he was too little of a woodsman to follow soold a trail, but as he stood behind a clump of rhododendron, wonderingwhat he could do, he heard the crack of a dead stick down the stream, and noiselessly he moved farther into the bushes. His heart thumped inthe silence--the long silence that followed--for it might be a hostileTolliver that was coming, so he pulled his pistol from his holster, madeready, and then, noiseless as a shadow, the Red Fox slipped past himalong the path, in his moccasins now, and with his big Winchester in hisleft hand. The Red Fox, too, was looking for that cartridge shell, foronly the night before had he heard for the first time of the whisperedsuspicions against him. He was making for the blind and Hale trembledat his luck. There was no path on the other side of the stream, and Halecould barely hear him moving through the bushes. So he pulled off hisboots and, carrying them in one hand, slipped after him, watching fordead twigs, stooping under the branches, or sliding sidewise throughthem when he had to brush between their extremities, and pausing everynow and then to listen for an occasional faint sound from the Red Foxahead. Up the ravine the old man went to a little ledge of rocks, beyondwhich was the blind, and when Hale saw his stooped figure slip over thatand disappear, he ran noiselessly toward it, crept noiselessly to thetop and peeped carefully over to see the Red Fox with his back to himand peering into a clump of bushes--hardly ten yards away. WhileHale looked, the old man thrust his hand into the bushes and drew outsomething that twinkled in the sun. At the moment Hale's horse nickeredfrom the bushes, and the Red Fox slipped his hand into his pocket, crouched listening a moment, and then, step by step, backed toward theledge. Hale rose:

"I want you, Red!"

The old man wheeled, the wolf's snarl came, but the big rifle was tooslow--Hale's pistol had flashed in his face. 

"Drop your gun!" Paralyzed, but the picture of white fury, the old manhesitated. 

"Drop--your--gun!" Slowly the big rifle was loosed and fell to theground. 

"Back away--turn around and hands up!"

With his foot on the Winchester, Hale felt in the old man's pockets andfished out an empty cartridge shell. Then he picked up the rifle andthrew the slide. 

"It fits all right. March--toward that horse!"

Without a word the old man slouched ahead to where the big black horsewas restlessly waiting in the bushes. 

"Climb up, " said Hale. "We won't 'ride and tie' back to town--but I'lltake turns with you on the horse. "

The Red Fox was making ready to leave the mountains, for he had beenfalsely informed that Rufe was to be brought back to the county seatnext day, and he was searching again for the sole bit of evidence thatwas out against him. And when Rufe was spirited back to jail and was onhis way to his cell, an old freckled hand was thrust between the bars ofan iron door to greet him and a voice called him by name. Rufe stoppedin amazement; then he burst out laughing; he struck then at the pallidface through the bars with his manacles and cursed the old man bitterly;then he laughed again horribly. The two slept in adjoining cells of thesame cage that night--the one waiting for the scaffold and the otherwaiting for the trial that was to send him there. And away over the bluemountains a little old woman in black sat on the porch of her cabinas she had sat patiently many and many a long day. It was time, shethought, that the Red Fox was coming home. 

XXVIII

And so while Bad Rufe Tolliver was waiting for death, the trial of theRed Fox went on, and when he was not swinging in a hammock, reading hisBible, telling his visions to his guards and singing hymns, he was inthe Court House giving shrewd answers to questions, or none at all, withthe benevolent half of his mask turned to the jury and the wolfish snarlof the other half showing only now and then to some hostile witness forwhom his hate was stronger than his fear for his own life. And in jailBad Rufe worried his enemy with the malicious humour of Satan. Now hewould say:

"Oh, there ain't nothin' betwixt old Red and me, nothin' at all--'ceptthis iron wall, " and he would drum a vicious tattoo on the thin wallwith the heel of his boot. Or when he heard the creak of the Red Fox'shammock as he droned his Bible aloud, he would say to his guard outside:

"Course I don't read the Bible an' preach the word, nor talk withsperits, but thar's worse men than me in the world--old Red in thar' forinstance"; and then he would cackle like a fiend and the Red Fox wouldwrithe in torment and beg to be sent to another cell. And always hewould daily ask the Red Fox about his trial and ask him questions in thenight, and his devilish instinct told him the day that the Red Fox, too, was sentenced to death-he saw it in the gray pallour of the old man'sface, and he cackled his glee like a demon. For the evidence againstthe Red Fox was too strong. Where June sat as chief witness against RufeTolliver--John Hale sat as chief witness against the Red Fox. He couldnot swear it was a cartridge shell that he saw the old man pick up, butit was something that glistened in the sun, and a moment later hehad found the shell in the old man's pocket--and if it had been firedinnocently, why was it there and why was the old man searching for it?He was looking, he said, for evidence of the murderer himself. Thatclaim made, the Red Fox's lawyer picked up the big rifle and the shell. 

"You say, Mr. Hale, the prisoner told you the night you spent at hishome that this rifle was rim-fire?"

"He did. " The lawyer held up the shell. 

"You see this was exploded in such a rifle. " That was plain, and thelawyer shoved the shell into the rifle, pulled the trigger, took it out, and held it up again. The plunger had struck below the rim and near thecentre, but not quite on the centre, and Hale asked for the rifle andexamined it closely. 

"It's been tampered with, " he said quietly, and he handed it to theprosecuting attorney. The fact was plain; it was a bungling job andbetter proved the Red Fox's guilt. Moreover, there were only two suchbig rifles in all the hills, and it was proven that the man whoowned the other was at the time of the murder far away. The days ofbrain-storms had not come then. There were no eminent Alienists to proveinsanity for the prisoner. Apparently, he had no friends--none save thelittle old woman in black who sat by his side, hour by hour and day byday. 

And the Red Fox was doomed. 

In the hush of the Court Room the Judge solemnly put to the gray facebefore him the usual question:

"Have you anything to say whereby sentence of death should not bepronounced on you?"

The Red Fox rose:

"No, " he said in a shaking voice; "but I have a friend here who I wouldlike to speak for me. " The Judge bent his head a moment over his benchand lifted it:

"It is unusual, " he said; "but under the circumstances I will grantyour request. Who is your friend?" And the Red Fox made the souls of hislisteners leap. 

"Jesus Christ, " he said. 

The Judge reverently bowed his head and the hush of the Court Room grewdeeper when the old man fished his Bible from his pocket and calmly readsuch passages as might be interpreted as sure damnation for his enemiesand sure glory for himself--read them until the Judge lifted his handfor a halt. 

And so another sensation spread through the hills and a superstitiousawe of this strange new power that had come into the hills went with ithand in hand. Only while the doubting ones knew that nothing could savethe Red Fox they would wait to see if that power could really availagainst the Tolliver clan. The day set for Rufe's execution was thefollowing Monday, and for the Red Fox the Friday following--for it waswell to have the whole wretched business over while the guard was there. Old Judd Tolliver, so Hale learned, had come himself to offer the littleold woman in black the refuge of his roof as long as she lived, and hadtried to get her to go back with him to Lonesome Cove; but it pleasedthe Red Fox that he should stand on the scaffold in a suit of white--capand all--as emblems of the purple and fine linen he was to put on above, and the little old woman stayed where she was, silently and withoutquestion, cutting the garments, as Hale pityingly learned, from a whitetable-cloth and measuring them piece by piece with the clothes the oldman wore in jail. It pleased him, too, that his body should be keptunburied three days--saying that he would then arise and go aboutpreaching, and that duty, too, she would as silently and with as littlequestion perform. Moreover, he would preach his own funeral sermon onthe Sunday before Rufe's day, and a curious crowd gathered to hear him. The Red Fox was led from jail. He stood on the porch of the jailer'shouse with a little table in front of him. On it lay a Bible, on theother side of the table sat a little pale-faced old woman in black witha black sun-bonnet drawn close to her face. By the side of the Bible laya few pieces of bread. It was the Red Fox's last communion--a communionwhich he administered to himself and in which there was no other soulon earth to join save that little old woman in black. And when the oldfellow lifted the bread and asked the crowd to come forward to partakewith him in the last sacrament, not a soul moved. Only the old woman whohad been ill-treated by the Red Fox for so many years--only she, ofall the crowd, gave any answer, and she for one instant turned her facetoward him. With a churlish gesture the old man pushed the bread overtoward her and with hesitating, trembling fingers she reached for it. 

Bob Berkley was on the death-watch that night, and as he passed Rufe'scell a wiry hand shot through the grating of his door, and as the boysprang away the condemned man's fingers tipped the butt of the bigpistol that dangled on the lad's hip. 

"Not this time, " said Bob with a cool little laugh, and Rufe laughed, too. 

"I was only foolin', " he said, "I ain't goin' to hang. You hear that, Red? I ain't goin' to hang--but you are, Red--sure. Nobody'd risk hislittle finger for your old carcass, 'cept maybe that little old woman o'yours who you've treated like a hound--but my folks ain't goin' to seeme hang. "

Rufe spoke with some reason. That night the Tollivers climbed themountain, and before daybreak were waiting in the woods a mile on thenorth side of the town. And the Falins climbed, too, farther along themountains, and at the same hour were waiting in the woods a mile to thesouth. 

Back in Lonesome Cove June Tolliver sat alone--her soul shaken andterror-stricken to the depths--and the misery that matched hers was inthe heart of Hale as he paced to and fro at the county seat, on guardand forging out his plans for that day under the morning stars. 

XXIX

Day broke on the old Court House with its black port-holes, on thegraystone jail, and on a tall topless wooden box to one side, fromwhich projected a cross-beam of green oak. From the centre of this beamdangled a rope that swung gently to and fro when the wind moved. And with the day a flock of little birds lighted on the bars of thecondemned man's cell window, chirping through them, and when the jailerbrought breakfast he found Bad Rufe cowering in the corner of his celland wet with the sweat of fear. 

"Them damn birds ag'in, " he growled sullenly. 

"Don't lose yo' nerve, Rufe, " said the jailer, and the old laugh ofdefiance came, but from lips that were dry. 

"Not much, " he answered grimly, but the jailer noticed that while heate, his eyes kept turning again and again to the bars; and the turnkeywent away shaking his head. Rufe had told the jailer, his one friendthrough whom he had kept in constant communication with the Tollivers, how on the night after the shooting of Mockaby, when he lay down tosleep high on the mountain side and under some rhododendron bushes, aflock of little birds flew in on him like a gust of rain and perchedover and around him, twittering at him until he had to get up and pacethe woods, and how, throughout the next day, when he sat in the sunplanning his escape, those birds would sweep chattering over his headand sweep chattering back again, and in that mood of despair he had saidonce, and only once: "Somehow I knowed this time my name was Dennis"--aphrase of evil prophecy he had picked up outside the hills. And nowthose same birds of evil omen had come again, he believed, right on theheels of the last sworn oath old Judd had sent him that he would neverhang. 

With the day, through mountain and valley, came in converging linesmountain humanity--men and women, boys and girls, children and babesin arms; all in their Sunday best--the men in jeans, slouched hats, andhigh boots, the women in gay ribbons and brilliant home-spun; in wagons, on foot and on horses and mules, carrying man and man, man and boy, lover and sweetheart, or husband and wife and child--all moving throughthe crisp autumn air, past woods of russet and crimson and along browndirt roads, to the straggling little mountain town. A stranger wouldhave thought that a county fair, a camp-meeting, or a circus was theirgoal, but they were on their way to look upon the Court House withits black port-holes, the graystone jail, the tall wooden box, theprojecting beam, and that dangling rope which, when the wind moved, swayed gently to and fro. And Hale had forged his plan. He knew thatthere would be no attempt at rescue until Rufe was led to the scaffold, and he knew that neither Falins nor Tollivers would come in a band, sothe incoming tide found on the outskirts of the town and along everyroad boyish policemen who halted and disarmed every man who carried aweapon in sight, for thus John Hale would have against the pistolsof the factions his own Winchesters and repeating shot-guns. And thewondering people saw at the back windows of the Court House and at thethreatening port-holes more youngsters manning Winchesters, more at thewindows of the jailer's frame house, which joined and fronted the jail, and more still--a line of them--running all around the jail; and theold men wagged their heads in amazement and wondered if, after all, aTolliver was not really going to be hanged. 

So they waited--the neighbouring hills were black with people waiting;the housetops were black with men and boys waiting; the trees in thestreets were bending under the weight of human bodies; and the jail-yardfence was three feet deep with people hanging to it and hanging aboutone another's necks--all waiting. All morning they waited silently andpatiently, and now the fatal noon was hardly an hour away and not aFalin nor a Tolliver had been seen. Every Falin had been disarmed of hisWinchester as he came in, and as yet no Tolliver had entered the town, for wily old Judd had learned of Hale's tactics and had stayed outsidethe town for his own keen purpose. As the minutes passed, Hale wasbeginning to wonder whether, after all, old Judd had come to believethat the odds against him were too great, and had told the truth when heset afoot the rumour that the law should have its way; and it was justwhen his load of anxiety was beginning to lighten that there was alittle commotion at the edge of the Court House and a great red-headedfigure pushed through the crowd, followed by another of like build, andas the people rapidly gave way and fell back, a line of Falins slippedalong the wall and stood under the port-holes-quiet, watchful, anddetermined. Almost at the same time the crowd fell back the other wayup the street, there was the hurried tramping of feet and on came theTollivers, headed by giant Judd, all armed with Winchesters--for oldJudd had sent his guns in ahead--and as the crowd swept like water intoany channel of alley or doorway that was open to it, Hale saw the yardemptied of everybody but the line of Falins against the wall and theTollivers in a body but ten yards in front of them. The people on theroofs and in the trees had not moved at all, for they were out of range. For a moment old Judd's eyes swept the windows and port-holes of theCourt House, the windows of the jailer's house, the line of guards aboutthe jail, and then they dropped to the line of Falins and glared withcontemptuous hate into the leaping blue eyes of old Buck Falin, and forthat moment there was silence. In that silence and as silently as thesilence itself issued swiftly from the line of guards twelve youngsterswith Winchesters, repeating shot-guns, and in a minute six were facingthe Falins and six facing the Tollivers, each with his shot-gun at hiship. At the head of them stood Hale, his face a pale image, as hardas though cut from stone, his head bare, and his hand and his hipweaponless. In all that crowd there was not a man or a woman who had notseen or heard of him, for the power of the guard that was at his backhad radiated through that wild region like ripples of water from adropped stone and, unarmed even, he had a personal power that belongedto no other man in all those hills, though armed to the teeth. His voicerose clear, steady, commanding:

"The law has come here and it has come to stay. " He faced the beetlingeyebrows and angrily working beard of old Judd now:

[Illustration: "We'll fight you both!", 0370]

"The Falins are here to get revenge on you Tollivers, if you attack us. I know that. But"--he wheeled on the Falins--"understand! We don't wantyour help! If the Tollivers try to take that man in there, and one ofyou Falins draws a pistol, those guns there"--waving his hand toward thejail windows--"will be turned loose on YOU, WE'LL FIGHT YOU BOTH!" Thelast words shot like bullets through his gritted teeth, then the flashof his eyes was gone, his face was calm, and as though the whole matterhad been settled beyond possible interruption, he finished quietly:

"The condemned man wishes to make a confession and to say good-by. In five minutes he will be at that window to say what he pleases. Tenminutes later he will be hanged. " And he turned and walked calmly intothe jailer's door. Not a Tolliver nor a Falin made a movement or asound. Young Dave's eyes had glared savagely when he first saw Hale, forhe had marked Hale for his own and he knew that the fact was known toHale. Had the battle begun then and there, Hale's death was sure, and Dave knew that Hale must know that as well as he: and yet withmagnificent audacity, there he was--unarmed, personally helpless, andinvested with an insulting certainty that not a shot would be fired. Nota Falin or a Tolliver even reached for a weapon, and the fact was thesubtle tribute that ignorance pays intelligence when the latter isforced to deadly weapons as a last resort; for ignorance faced nowbelching shot-guns and was commanded by rifles on every side. Old Juddwas trapped and the Falins were stunned. Old Buck Falin turned his eyesdown the line of his men with one warning glance. Old Judd whisperedsomething to a Tolliver behind him and a moment later the man slippedfrom the band and disappeared. Young Dave followed Hale's figure with alook of baffled malignant hatred and Bub's eyes were filled with angrytears. Between the factions, the grim young men stood with their gunslike statues. 

At once a big man with a red face appeared at one of the jailer'swindows and then came the sheriff, who began to take out the sash. Already the frightened crowd had gathered closer again and now a hushcame over it, followed by a rustling and a murmur. Something was goingto happen. Faces and gun-muzzles thickened at the port-holes and at thewindows; the line of guards turned their faces sidewise and upward;the crowd on the fence scuffled for better positions; the people in thetrees craned their necks from the branches or climbed higher, and therewas a great scraping on all the roofs. Even the black crowd out on thehills seemed to catch the excitement and to sway, while spots of intenseblue and vivid crimson came out here and there from the blackness whenthe women rose from their seats on the ground. Then--sharply--there wassilence. The sheriff disappeared, and shut in by the sashless window asby a picture frame and blinking in the strong light, stood a man withblack hair, cropped close, face pale and worn, and hands that lookedwhite and thin--stood bad Rufe Tolliver. 

He was going to confess--that was the rumour. His lawyers wanted him toconfess; the preacher who had been singing hymns with him all morningwanted him to confess; the man himself said he wanted to confess; andnow he was going to confess. What deadly mysteries he might clear up ifhe would! No wonder the crowd was eager, for there was no soul there butknew his record--and what a record! His best friends put his victims nolower than thirteen, and there looking up at him were three women whomhe had widowed or orphaned, while at one corner of the jail-yard stooda girl in black--the sweetheart of Mockaby, for whose death Rufe wasstanding where he stood now. But his lips did not open. Instead hetook hold of the side of the window and looked behind him. The sheriffbrought him a chair and he sat down. Apparently he was weak and he wasgoing to wait a while. Would he tell how he had killed one Falin in thepresence of the latter's wife at a wild bee tree; how he had killed asheriff by dropping to the ground when the sheriff fired, in this waydodging the bullet and then shooting the officer from where he laysupposedly dead; how he had thrown another Falin out of the Court Housewindow and broken his neck--the Falin was drunk, Rufe always said, andfell out; why, when he was constable, he had killed another--because, Rufe said, he resisted arrest; how and where he had killed Red-neckedJohnson, who was found out in the woods? Would he tell all that andmore? If he meant to tell there was no sign. His lips kept closed andhis bright black eyes were studying the situation; the little squad ofyoungsters, back to back, with their repeating shot-guns, the line ofFalins along the wall toward whom protruded six shining barrels, thehuddled crowd of Tollivers toward whom protruded six more--old Juddtowering in front with young Dave on one side, tense as a leopard aboutto spring, and on the other Bub, with tears streaming down his face. Ina flash he understood, and in that flash his face looked as though hehad been suddenly struck a heavy blow by some one from behind, and thenhis elbows dropped on the sill of the window, his chin dropped intohis hands and a murmur arose. Maybe he was too weak to stand andtalk--perhaps he was going to talk from his chair. Yes, he was leaningforward and his lips were opening, but no sound came. Slowly his eyeswandered around at the waiting people--in the trees, on the roofs andthe fence--and then they dropped to old Judd's and blazed their appealfor a sign. With one heave of his mighty chest old Judd took off hisslouch hat, pressed one big hand to the back of his head and, despitethat blazing appeal, kept it there. At that movement Rufe threw hishead up as though his breath had suddenly failed him, his face turnedsickening white, and slowly again his chin dropped into his tremblinghands, and still unbelieving he stared his appeal, but old Judd droppedhis big hand and turned his head away. The condemned man's mouthtwitched once, settled into defiant calm, and then he did one kindlything. He turned in his seat and motioned Bob Berkley, who was justbehind him, away from the window, and the boy, to humour him, stepped aside. Then he rose to his feet and stretched his arms wide. Simultaneously came the far-away crack of a rifle, and as a jet of smokespurted above a clump of bushes on a little hill, three hundred yardsaway, Bad Rufe wheeled half-way round and fell back out of sight intothe sheriff's arms. Every Falin made a nervous reach for his pistol, theline of gun-muzzles covering them wavered slightly, but the Tolliversstood still and unsurprised, and when Hale dashed from the door again, there was a grim smile of triumph on old Judd's face. He had kept hispromise that Rufe should never hang. 

"Steady there, " said Hale quietly. His pistol was on his hip now and aWinchester was in his left hand. 

"Stand where you are--everybody!"

There was the sound of hurrying feet within the jail. There was theclang of an iron door, the bang of a wooden one, and in five minutesfrom within the tall wooden box came the sharp click of a hatchet andthen--dully:

"T-H-O-O-MP!" The dangling rope had tightened with a snap and the windswayed it no more. 

At his cell door the Red Fox stood with his watch in his hand and hiseyes glued to the second-hand. When it had gone three times around itscircuit, he snapped the lid with a sigh of relief and turned to hishammock and his Bible. 

"He's gone now, " said the Red Fox. 

Outside Hale still waited, and as his eyes turned from the Tolliversto the Falins, seven of the faces among them came back to him withstartling distinctness, and his mind went back to the opening troublein the county-seat over the Kentucky line, years before--when eight menheld one another at the points of their pistols. One face was missing, and that face belonged to Rufe Tolliver. Hale pulled out his watch. 

"Keep those men there, " he said, pointing to the Falins, and he turnedto the bewildered Tollivers. 

"Come on, Judd, " he said kindly--"all of you. "

Dazed and mystified, they followed him in a body around the corner ofthe jail, where in a coffin, that old Jadd had sent as a blind to hisreal purpose, lay the remains of Bad Rufe Tolliver with a harmlessbullet hole through one shoulder. Near by was a wagon and hitched to itwere two mules that Hale himself had provided. Hale pointed to it:

"I've done all I could, Judd. Take him away. I'll keep the Falins underguard until you reach the Kentucky line, so that they can't waylay you. "

If old Judd heard, he gave no sign. He was looking down at the face ofhis foster-brother--his shoulder drooped, his great frame shrunken, andhis iron face beaten and helpless. Again Hale spoke:

"I'm sorry for all this. I'm even sorry that your man was not a bettershot. "

The old man straightened then and with a gesture he motioned young Daveto the foot of the coffin and stooped himself at the head. Past thewagon they went, the crowd giving way before them, and with the deadTolliver on their shoulders, old Judd and young Dave passed with theirfollowers out of sight. 

XXX

The longest of her life was that day to June. The anxiety in times ofwar for the women who wait at home is vague because they are mercifullyignorant of the dangers their loved ones run, but a specific issue thatinvolves death to those loved ones has a special and poignant terror ofits own. June knew her father's plan, the precise time the fight wouldtake place, and the especial danger that was Hale's, for she knew thatyoung Dave Tolliver had marked him with the first shot fired. Dry-eyedand white and dumb, she watched them make ready for the start thatmorning while it was yet dark; dully she heard the horses snorting fromthe cold, the low curt orders of her father, and the exciting mutteringsof Bub and young Dave; dully she watched the saddles thrown on, thepistols buckled, the Winchesters caught up, and dully she watched themfile out the gate and ride away, single file, into the cold, damp mistlike ghostly figures in a dream. Once only did she open her lips andthat was to plead with her father to leave Bub at home, but her fathergave her no answer and Bub snorted his indignation--he was a man now, and his now was the privilege of a man. For a while she stood listeningto the ring of metal against stone that came to her more and morefaintly out of the mist, and she wondered if it was really June Tolliverstanding there, while father and brother and cousin were on their way tofight the law--how differently she saw these things now--for a man whodeserved death, and to fight a man who was ready to die for his duty tothat law--the law that guarded them and her and might not perhaps guardhim: the man who had planted for her the dew-drenched garden that waswaiting for the sun, and had built the little room behind her forher comfort and seclusion; who had sent her to school, had never beenanything but kind and just to her and to everybody--who had taught herlife and, thank God, love. Was she really the June Tolliver who had goneout into the world and had held her place there; who had conquered birthand speech and customs and environment so that none could tell whatthey all once were; who had become the lady, the woman of the world, inmanner, dress, and education: who had a gift of music and a voice thatmight enrich her life beyond any dream that had ever sprung from her ownbrain or any that she had ever caught from Hale's? Was she June Tolliverwho had been and done all that, and now had come back and was slowlysinking back into the narrow grave from which Hale had lifted her? Itwas all too strange and bitter, but if she wanted proof there was herstep-mother's voice now--the same old, querulous, nerve-racking voicethat had embittered all her childhood--calling her down into the oldmean round of drudgery that had bound forever the horizon of her narrowlife just as now it was shutting down like a sky of brass around herown. And when the voice came, instead of bursting into tears as she wasabout to do, she gave a hard little laugh and she lifted a defiantface to the rising sun. There was a limit to the sacrifice for kindred, brother, father, home, and that limit was the eternal sacrifice--theeternal undoing of herself: when this wretched terrible business wasover she would set her feet where that sun could rise on her, busy withthe work that she could do in that world for which she felt she wasborn. Swiftly she did the morning chores and then she sat on the porchthinking and waiting. Spinning wheel, loom, and darning needle wereto lie idle that day. The old step-mother had gotten from bed and wasdressing herself--miraculously cured of a sudden, miraculously active. She began to talk of what she needed in town, and June said nothing. Shewent out to the stable and led out the old sorrel-mare. She was going tothe hanging. 

"Don't you want to go to town, June?"

"No, " said June fiercely. 

"Well, you needn't git mad about it--I got to go some day this week, and I reckon I might as well go ter-day. " June answered nothing, but insilence watched her get ready and in silence watched her ride away. Shewas glad to be left alone. The sun had flooded Lonesome Cove now with alight as rich and yellow as though it were late afternoon, and she couldyet tell every tree by the different colour of the banner that each yetdefiantly flung into the face of death. The yard fence was festoonedwith dewy cobwebs, and every weed in the field was hung with them aswith flashing jewels of exquisitely delicate design: Hale had once toldher that they meant rain. Far away the mountains were overhung withpurple so deep that the very air looked like mist, and a peacethat seemed motherlike in tenderness brooded over the earth. Peace!Peace--with a man on his way to a scaffold only a few miles away, andtwo bodies of men, one led by her father, the other by the man sheloved, ready to fly at each other's throats--the one to get thecondemned man alive, the other to see that he died. She got up witha groan. She walked into the garden. The grass was tall, tangled, andwithering, and in it dead leaves lay everywhere, stems up, stems down, in reckless confusion. The scarlet sage-pods were brown and seeds weredropping from their tiny gaping mouths. The marigolds were frost-nippedand one lonely black-winged butterfly was vainly searching them oneby one for the lost sweets of summer. The gorgeous crowns of thesun-flowers were nothing but grotesque black mummy-heads set on lean, dead bodies, and the clump of big castor-plants, buffeted by the wind, leaned this way and that like giants in a drunken orgy trying to keepone another from falling down. The blight that was on the garden was theblight that was in her heart, and two bits of cheer only she found--oneyellow nasturtium, scarlet-flecked, whose fragrance was a memory of thespring that was long gone, and one little cedar tree that had caughtsome dead leaves in its green arms and was firmly holding them as thoughto promise that another spring would surely come. With the flower inher hand, she started up the ravine to her dreaming place, but it was solonely up there and she turned back. She went into her room and triedto read. Mechanically, she half opened the lid of the piano and shutit, horrified by her own act. As she passed out on the porch again shenoticed that it was only nine o'clock. She turned and watched the longhand--how long a minute was! Three hours more! She shivered and wentinside and got her bonnet--she could not be alone when the hour came, and she started down the road toward Uncle Billy's mill. Hale! Hale!Hale!--the name began to ring in her ears like a bell. The little shackshe had built up the creek were deserted and gone to ruin, and she beganto wonder in the light of what her father had said how much of a tragedythat meant to him. Here was the spot where he was fishing that day, whenshe had slipped down behind him and he had turned and seen her for thefirst time. She could recall his smile and the very tone of his kindvoice:

"Howdye, little girl!" And the cat had got her tongue. She rememberedwhen she had written her name, after she had first kissed him at thefoot of the beech--"June HAIL, " and by a grotesque mental leap thebeating of his name in her brain now made her think of the beating ofhailstones on her father's roof one night when as a child she had lainand listened to them. Then she noticed that the autumn shadows seemed tomake the river darker than the shadows of spring--or was it alreadythe stain of dead leaves? Hale could have told her. Those leaves werefloating through the shadows and when the wind moved, others zig-zaggedsoftly down to join them. The wind was helping them on the water, too, and along came one brown leaf that was shaped like a tiny trireme--itsstem acting like a rudder and keeping it straight before the breeze--sothat it swept past the rest as a yacht that she was once on had sweptpast a fleet of fishing sloops. She was not unlike that swift littleship and thirty yards ahead were rocks and shallows where it and thewhole fleet would turn topsy-turvy--would her own triumph be as shortand the same fate be hers? There was no question as to that, unless shetook the wheel of her fate in her own hands and with them steered theship. Thinking hard, she walked on slowly, with her hands behind herand her eyes bent on the road. What should she do? She had no money, herfather had none to spare, and she could accept no more from Hale. Onceshe stopped and stared with unseeing eyes at the blue sky, and onceunder the heavy helplessness of it all she dropped on the side of theroad and sat with her head buried in her arms--sat so long that she rosewith a start and, with an apprehensive look at the mounting sun, hurriedon. She would go to the Gap and teach; and then she knew that if shewent there it would be on Hale's account. Very well, she would not blindherself to that fact; she would go and perhaps all would be made upbetween them, and then she knew that if that but happened, nothing elsecould matter. .. 

When she reached the miller's cabin, she went to the porch withoutnoticing that the door was closed. Nobody was at home and she turnedlistlessly. When she reached the gate, she heard the clock beginningto strike, and with one hand on her breast she breathlessly listened, counting--"eight, nine, ten, eleven"--and her heart seemed to stop inthe fraction of time that she waited for it to strike once more. But itwas only eleven, and she went on down the road slowly, still thinkinghard. The old miller was leaning back in a chair against the log sideof the mill, with his dusty slouched hat down over his eyes. He did nothear her coming and she thought he must be asleep, but he looked up witha start when she spoke and she knew of what he, too, had been thinking. Keenly his old eyes searched her white face and without a word he got upand reached for another chair within the mill. 

"You set right down now, baby, " he said, and he made a pretence ofhaving something to do inside the mill, while June watched the creakingold wheel dropping the sun-shot sparkling water into the swift sluice, but hardly seeing it at all. By and by Uncle Billy came outside and satdown and neither spoke a word. Once June saw him covertly looking at hiswatch and she put both hands to her throat--stifled. 

"What time is it, Uncle Billy?" She tried to ask the question calmly, but she had to try twice before she could speak at all and when she didget the question out, her voice was only a broken whisper. 

"Five minutes to twelve, baby, " said the old man, and his voice had agulp in it that broke June down. She sprang to her feet wringing herhands:

"I can't stand it, Uncle Billy, " she cried madly, and with a sob thatalmost broke the old man's heart. "I tell you I can't stand it. "

 * * * * * * *

And yet for three hours more she had to stand it, while the cavalcadeof Tollivers, with Rufe's body, made its slow way to the Kentucky linewhere Judd and Dave and Bub left them to go home for the night and beon hand for the funeral next day. But Uncle Billy led her back to hiscabin, and on the porch the two, with old Hon, waited while the threehours dragged along. It was June who was first to hear the gallopingof horses' hoofs up the road and she ran to the gate, followed by UncleBilly and old Hon to see young Dave Tolliver coming in a run. At thegate he threw himself from his horse:

"Git up thar, June, and go home, " he panted sharply. June flashed outthe gate. 

"Have you done it?" she asked with deadly quiet. 

"Hurry up an' go home, I tell ye! Uncle Judd wants ye!"

She came quite close to him now. 

"You said you'd do it--I know what you've done--you--" she looked as ifshe would fly at his throat, and Dave, amazed, shrank back a step. 

"Go home, I tell ye--Uncle Judd's shot. Git on the hoss!"

"No, no, NO! I wouldn't TOUCH anything that was yours"--she put herhands to her head as though she were crazed, and then she turned andbroke into a swift run up the road. 

Panting, June reached the gate. The front door was closed and there shegave a tremulous cry for Bub. The door opened a few inches and throughit Bub shouted for her to come on. The back door, too, was closed, andnot a ray of daylight entered the room except at the port-hole whereBub, with a Winchester, had been standing on guard. By the light of thefire she saw her father's giant frame stretched out on the bed and sheheard his laboured breathing. Swiftly she went to the bed and dropped onher knees beside it. 

"Dad!" she said. The old man's eyes opened and turned heavily towardher. 

"All right, Juny. They shot me from the laurel and they might nigh gotBub. I reckon they've got me this time. "

"No--no!" He saw her eyes fixed on the matted blood on his chest. 

"Hit's stopped. I'm afeared hit's bleedin' inside. " His voice haddropped to a whisper and his eyes closed again. There was anothercautious "Hello" outside, and when Bub again opened the door Dave ranswiftly within. He paid no attention to June. 

"I follered June back an' left my hoss in the bushes. There was three of'em. " He showed Bub a bullet hole through one sleeve and then he turnedhalf contemptuously to June:

"I hain't done it"--adding grimly--"not yit. He's as safe as you air. Ihope you're satisfied that hit hain't him 'stid o' yo' daddy thar. "

"Are you going to the Gap for a doctor?"

"I reckon I can't leave Bub here alone agin all the Falins--not even togit a doctor or to carry a love-message fer you. "

"Then I'll go myself. "

A thick protest came from the bed, and then an appeal that might havecome from a child. 

"Don't leave me, Juny. " Without a word June went into the kitchen andgot the old bark horn. 

"Uncle Billy will go, " she said, and she stepped out on the porch. ButUncle Billy was already on his way and she heard him coming just as shewas raising the horn to her lips. She met him at the gate, and withouteven taking the time to come into the house the old miller hurriedupward toward the Lonesome Pine. The rain came then--the rain that thetiny cobwebs had heralded at dawn that morning. The old step-mother hadnot come home, and June told Bub she had gone over the mountain to seeher sister, and when, as darkness fell, she did not appear they knewthat she must have been caught by the rain and would spend the nightwith a neighbour. June asked no question, but from the low talk of Buband Dave she made out what had happened in town that day and a wildelation settled in her heart that John Hale was alive and unhurt--thoughRufe was dead, her father wounded, and Bub and Dave both had butnarrowly escaped the Falin assassins that afternoon. Bub took the firstturn at watching while Dave slept, and when it was Dave's turn she sawhim drop quickly asleep in his chair, and she was left alone with thebreathing of the wounded man and the beating of rain on the roof. Andthrough the long night June thought her brain weary over herself, herlife, her people, and Hale. They were not to blame--her people, they butdid as their fathers had done before them. They had their own code andthey lived up to it as best they could, and they had had no chance tolearn another. She felt the vindictive hatred that had prolonged thefeud. Had she been a man, she could not have rested until she had slainthe man who had ambushed her father. She expected Bub to do that now, and if the spirit was so strong in her with the training she had had, how helpless they must be against it. Even Dave was not to blame--not toblame for loving her--he had always done that. For that reason he couldnot help hating Hale, and how great a reason he had now, for he couldnot understand as she could the absence of any personal motive that hadgoverned him in the prosecution of the law, no matter if he hurt friendor foe. But for Hale, she would have loved Dave and now be married tohim and happier than she was. Dave saw that--no wonder he hated Hale. And as she slowly realized all these things, she grew calm and gentleand determined to stick to her people and do the best she could with herlife. 

And now and then through the night old Judd would open his eyes andstare at the ceiling, and at these times it was not the pain in hisface that distressed her as much as the drawn beaten look that she hadnoticed growing in it for a long time. It was terrible--that helplesslook in the face of a man, so big in body, so strong of mind, soiron-like in will; and whenever he did speak she knew what he was goingto say:

"It's all over, Juny. They've beat us on every turn. They've got us oneby one. Thar ain't but a few of us left now and when I git up, if I everdo, I'm goin' to gether 'em all together, pull up stakes and take 'emall West. You won't ever leave me, Juny?"

"No, Dad, " she would say gently. He had asked the question at firstquite sanely, but as the night wore on and the fever grew and his mindwandered, he would repeat the question over and over like a child, andover and over, while Bub and Dave slept and the rain poured, June wouldrepeat her answer:

"I'll never leave you, Dad. "

XXXI

Before dawn Hale and the doctor and the old miller had reached the Pine, and there Hale stopped. Any farther, the old man told him, he would goonly at the risk of his life from Dave or Bub, or even from any Falinwho happened to be hanging around in the bushes, for Hale was hatedequally by both factions now. 

"I'll wait up here until noon, Uncle Billy, " said Hale. "Ask her, forGod's sake, to come up here and see me. "

"All right. I'll axe her, but--" the old miller shook his head. Breakfastless, except for the munching of a piece of chocolate, Halewaited all the morning with his black horse in the bushes some thirtyyards from the Lonesome Pine. Every now and then he would go to the treeand look down the path, and once he slipped far down the trail and asideto a spur whence he could see the cabin in the cove. Once his hungryeyes caught sight of a woman's figure walking through the little garden, and for an hour after it disappeared into the house he watched for it tocome out again. But nothing more was visible, and he turned back to thetrail to see Uncle Billy laboriously climbing up the slope. Halewaited and ran down to meet him, his face and eyes eager and his lipstrembling, but again Uncle Billy was shaking his head. 

"No use, John, " he said sadly. "I got her out on the porch and axed her, but she won't come. "

"She won't come at all?"

"John, when one o' them Tollivers gits white about the mouth, an' thareyes gits to blazin' and they KEEPS QUIET--they're plumb out o' reacho' the Almighty hisself. June skeered me. But you mustn't blame her jes'now. You see, you got up that guard. You ketched Rufe and hung him, andshe can't help thinkin' if you hadn't done that, her old daddy wouldn'tbe in thar on his back nigh to death. You mustn't blame her, John--she'smost out o' her head now. "

"All right, Uncle Billy. Good-by. " Hale turned, climbed sadly back tohis horse and sadly dropped down the other side of the mountain and onthrough the rocky gap-home. 

A week later he learned from the doctor that the chances were even thatold Judd would get well, but the days went by with no word of June. Through those days June wrestled with her love for Hale and her loyaltyto her father, who, sick as he was, seemed to have a vague sense of thetrouble within her and shrewdly fought it by making her daily promisethat she would never leave him. For as old Judd got better, June'sfierceness against Hale melted and her love came out the stronger, because of the passing injustice that she had done him. Many times shewas on the point of sending him word that she would meet him at thePine, but she was afraid of her own strength if she should see him faceto face, and she feared she would be risking his life if she allowed himto come. There were times when she would have gone to him herself, hadher father been well and strong, but he was old, beaten and helpless, and she had given her sacred word that she would never leave him. Soonce more she grew calmer, gentler still, and more determined to followher own way with her own kin, though that way led through a breakingheart. She never mentioned Hale's name, she never spoke of going West, and in time Dave began to wonder not only if she had not gotten overher feeling for Hale, but if that feeling had not turned into permanenthate. To him, June was kinder than ever, because she understood himbetter and because she was sorry for the hunted, hounded life he led, not knowing, when on his trips to see her or to do some service for herfather, he might be picked off by some Falin from the bushes. So Davestopped his sneering remarks against Hale and began to dream his olddreams, though he never opened his lips to June, and she was unconsciousof what was going on within him. By and by, as old Judd began to mend, overtures of peace came, singularly enough, from the Falins, and whilethe old man snorted with contemptuous disbelief at them as a pretence tothrow him off his guard, Dave began actually to believe that they weresincere, and straightway forged a plan of his own, even if the Tolliversdid persist in going West. So one morning as he mounted his horse at oldJudd's gate, he called to June in the garden:

"I'm a-goin' over to the Gap. " June paled, but Dave was not looking ather. 

"What for?" she asked, steadying her voice. 

"Business, " he answered, and he laughed curiously and, still withoutlooking at her, rode away. 

 * * * * * * *

Hale sat in the porch of his little office that morning, and the Hon. Sam Budd, who had risen to leave, stood with his hands deep in hispockets, his hat tilted far over his big goggles, looking down at thedead leaves that floated like lost hopes on the placid mill-pond. Halehad agreed to go to England once more on the sole chance left him beforehe went back to chain and compass--the old land deal that had come tolife--and between them they had about enough money for the trip. 

"You'll keep an eye on things over there?" said Hale with a backwardmotion of his head toward Lonesome Cove, and the Hon. Sam nodded hishead:

"All I can. "

"Those big trunks of hers are still here. " The Hon. Sam smiled. "Shewon't need 'em. I'll keep an eye on 'em and she can come over and getwhat she wants--every year or two, " he added grimly, and Hale groaned. 

"Stop it, Sam. "

"All right. You ain't goin' to try to see her before you leave?" Andthen at the look on Hale's face he said hurriedly: "All right--allright, " and with a toss of his hands turned away, while Hale satthinking where he was. 

Rufe Tolliver had been quite right as to the Red Fox. Nobody would riskhis life for him--there was no one to attempt a rescue, and but a few ofthe guards were on hand this time to carry out the law. On the last dayhe had appeared in his white suit of tablecloth. The little old womanin black had made even the cap that was to be drawn over his face, andthat, too, she had made of white. Moreover, she would have his body keptunburied for three days, because the Red Fox said that on the third dayhe would arise and go about preaching. So that even in death the Red Foxwas consistently inconsistent, and how he reconciled such a dual lifeat one and the same time over and under the stars was, except to histwisted brain, never known. He walked firmly up the scaffold steps andstood there blinking in the sunlight. With one hand he tested the rope. For a moment he looked at the sky and the trees with a face that waswhite and absolutely expressionless. Then he sang one hymn of two versesand quietly dropped into that world in which he believed so firmly andtoward which he had trod so strange a way on earth. As he wished, thelittle old woman in black had the body kept unburied for the threedays--but the Red Fox never rose. With his passing, law and order hadbecome supreme. Neither Tolliver nor Falin came on the Virginia sidefor mischief, and the desperadoes of two sister States, whose skirtsare stitched together with pine and pin-oak along the crest of theCumberland, confined their deviltries with great care to places longdistant from the Gap. John Hale had done a great work, but the limit ofhis activities was that State line and the Falins, ever threatening thatthey would not leave a Tolliver alive, could carry out those threats andHale not be able to lift a hand. It was his helplessness that was makinghim writhe now. 

Old Judd had often said he meant to leave the mountains--why didn't hego now and take June for whose safety his heart was always in his mouth?As an officer, he was now helpless where he was; and if he went awayhe could give no personal aid--he would not even know what washappening--and he had promised Budd to go. An open letter was clutchedin his hand, and again he read it. His coal company had accepted hislast proposition. They would take his stock--worthless as they thoughtit--and surrender the cabin and two hundred acres of field and woodlandin Lonesome Cove. That much at least would be intact, but if he failedin his last project now, it would be subject to judgments against himthat were sure to come. So there was one thing more to do for Junebefore he left for the final effort in England--to give back her home toher--and as he rose to do it now, somebody shouted at his gate:

"Hello!" Hale stopped short at the head of the steps, his right handshot like a shaft of light to the butt of his pistol, stayed there--andhe stood astounded. It was Dave Tolliver on horseback, and Dave's righthand had kept hold of his bridle-reins. 

"Hold on!" he said, lifting the other with a wide gesture of peace. "Iwant to talk with you a bit. " Still Hale watched him closely as he swungfrom his horse. 

"Come in--won't you?" The mountaineer hitched his horse and slouchedwithin the gate. 

"Have a seat. " Dave dropped to the steps. 

"I'll set here, " he said, and there was an embarrassed silence for awhile between the two. Hale studied young Dave's face from narrowedeyes. He knew all the threats the Tolliver had made against him, thebitter enmity that he felt, and that it would last until one or theother was dead. This was a queer move. The mountaineer took off hisslouched hat and ran one hand through his thick black hair. 

"I reckon you've heard as how all our folks air sellin' out over themountains. "

"No, " said Hale quickly. 

"Well, they air, an' all of 'em are going West--Uncle Judd, Loretty andJune, and all our kinfolks. You didn't know that?"

"No, " repeated Hale. 

"Well, they hain't closed all the trades yit, " he said, "an' they moughtnot go mebbe afore spring. The Falins say they air done now. Uncle Judddon't believe 'em, but I do, an' I'm thinkin' I won't go. I've got aleetle money, an' I want to know if I can't buy back Uncle Judd's housean' a leetle ground around it. Our folks is tired o' fightin' and Icouldn't live on t'other side of the mountain, after they air gone, an'keep as healthy as on this side--so I thought I'd see if I couldn't buyback June's old home, mebbe, an' live thar. "

Hale watched him keenly, wondering what his game was--and he went on:"I know the house an' land ain't wuth much to your company, an' as thecoal-vein has petered out, I reckon they might not axe much fer it. " Itwas all out now, and he stopped without looking at Hale. "I ain't axin'any favours, leastwise not o' you, an' I thought my share o' Mam's farmmought be enough to git me the house an' some o' the land. "

"You mean to live there, yourself?"

"Yes. "

"Alone?" Dave frowned. 

"I reckon that's my business. "

"So it is--excuse me. " Hale lighted his pipe and the mountaineerwaited--he was a little sullen now. 

"Well, the company has parted with the land. " Dave started. 

"Sold it?"

"In a way--yes. "

"Well, would you mind tellin' me who bought it--maybe I can git it fromhim. "

"It's mine now, " said Hale quietly. 

"YOURN!" The mountaineer looked incredulous and then he let loose ascornful laugh. 

"YOU goin' to live thar?"

"Maybe. "

"Alone?"

"That's my business. " The mountaineer's face darkened and his fingersbegan to twitch. 

"Well, if you're talkin' 'bout June, hit's MY business. Hit always hasbeen and hit always will be. "

"Well, if I was talking about June, I wouldn't consult you. "

"No, but I'd consult you like hell. "

"I wish you had the chance, " said Hale coolly; "but I wasn't talkingabout June. " Again Dave laughed harshly, and for a moment his angry eyesrested on the quiet mill-pond. He went backward suddenly. 

"You went over thar in Lonesome with your high notions an' your slicktongue, an' you took June away from me. But she wusn't good enough feryou THEN--so you filled her up with yo' fool notions an' sent her awayto git her po' little head filled with furrin' ways, so she could befitten to marry you. You took her away from her daddy, her family, herkinfolks and her home, an' you took her away from me; an' now she's beenover thar eatin' her heart out just as she et it out over here when shefust left home. An' in the end she got so highfalutin that SHE wouldn'tmarry YOU. " He laughed again and Hale winced under the laugh and thelashing words. "An' I know you air eatin' yo' heart out, too, becauseyou can't git June, an' I'm hopin' you'll suffer the torment o' hell aslong as you live. God, she hates ye now! To think o' your knowin' theworld and women and books"--he spoke with vindictive and insultingslowness--"You bein' such a--fool!"

"That may all be true, but I think you can talk better outside thatgate. " The mountaineer, deceived by Hale's calm voice, sprang to hisfeet in a fury, but he was too late. Hale's hand was on the butt of hisrevolver, his blue eyes were glittering and a dangerous smile was athis lips. Silently he sat and silently he pointed his other hand at thegate. Dave laughed:

"D'ye think I'd fight you hyeh? If you killed me, you'd be electedCounty Jedge; if I killed you, what chance would I have o' gittin' away?I'd swing fer it. " He was outside the gate now and unhitching his horse. He started to turn the beasts but Hale stopped him. 

"Get on from this side, please. "

With one foot in the stirrup, Dave turned savagely: "Why don't you go upin the Gap with me now an' fight it out like a man?"

"I don't trust you. "

"I'll git ye over in the mountains some day. "

"I've no doubt you will, if you have the chance from the bush. " Hale wasgetting roused now. 

"Look here, " he said suddenly, "you've been threatening me for a longtime now. I've never had any feeling against you. I've never doneanything to you that I hadn't to do. But you've gone a little too farnow and I'm tired. If you can't get over your grudge against me, supposewe go across the river outside the town-limits, put our guns down andfight it out--fist and skull. "

"I'm your man, " said Dave eagerly. Looking across the street Hale sawtwo men on the porch. 

"Come on!" he said. The two men were Budd and the new town-sergeant. "Sam, " he said "this gentleman and I are going across the river to havea little friendly bout, and I wish you'd come along--and you, too, Bill, to see that Dave here gets fair play. "

The sergeant spoke to Dave. "You don't need nobody to see that you gitfair play with them two--but I'll go 'long just the same. " Hardly a wordwas said as the four walked across the bridge and toward a thicketto the right. Neither Budd nor the sergeant asked the nature of thetrouble, for either could have guessed what it was. Dave tied his horseand, like Hale, stripped off his coat. The sergeant took charge ofDave's pistol and Budd of Hale's. 

"All you've got to do is to keep him away from you, " said Budd. "Ifhe gets his hands on you--you're gone. You know how they fightrough-and-tumble. "

Hale nodded--he knew all that himself, and when he looked at Dave'ssturdy neck, and gigantic shoulders, he knew further that if themountaineer got him in his grasp he would have to gasp "enough" in ahurry, or be saved by Budd from being throttled to death. 

"Are you ready?" Again Hale nodded. 

"Go ahead, Dave, " growled the sergeant, for the job was not to hisliking. Dave did not plunge toward Hale, as the three others expected. On the contrary, he assumed the conventional attitude of the boxerand advanced warily, using his head as a diagnostician for Hale'spoints--and Hale remembered suddenly that Dave had been away at schoolfor a year. Dave knew something of the game and the Hon. Sam straightwaywas anxious, when the mountaineer ducked and swung his left Budd's heartthumped and he almost shrank himself from the terrific sweep of the bigfist. 

"God!" he muttered, for had the fist caught Hale's head it must, itseemed, have crushed it like an egg-shell. Hale coolly withdrew his headnot more than an inch, it seemed to Budd's practised eye, and jabbedhis right with a lightning uppercut into Dave's jaw, that made themountaineer reel backward with a grunt of rage and pain, and when hefollowed it up with a swing of his left on Dave's right eye and anotherterrific jolt with his right on the left jaw, and Budd saw the crazyrage in the mountaineer's face, he felt easy. In that rage Dave forgothis science as the Hon. Sam expected, and with a bellow he started atHale like a cave-dweller to bite, tear, and throttle, but the lithefigure before him swayed this way and that like a shadow, and with everyside-step a fist crushed on the mountaineer's nose, chin or jaw, until, blinded with blood and fury, Dave staggered aside toward the sergeantwith the cry of a madman:

"Gimme my gun! I'll kill him! Gimme my gun!" And when the sergeantsprang forward and caught the mountaineer, he dropped weeping with rageand shame to the ground. 

"You two just go back to town, " said the sergeant. "I'll take keer ofhim. Quick!" and he shook his head as Hale advanced. "He ain't goin' toshake hands with you. "

The two turned back across the bridge and Hale went on to Budd's officeto do what he was setting out to do when young Dave came. There he hadthe lawyer make out a deed in which the cabin in Lonesome Cove andthe acres about it were conveyed in fee simple to June--her heirs andassigns forever; but the girl must not know until, Hale said, "herfather dies, or I die, or she marries. " When he came out the sergeantwas passing the door. 

"Ain't no use fightin' with one o' them fellers thataway, " he said, shaking his head. "If he whoops you, he'll crow over you as long ashe lives, and if you whoop him, he'll kill ye the fust chance he gets. You'll have to watch that feller as long as you live--'specially whenhe's drinking. He'll remember that lickin' and want revenge fer it tillthe grave. One of you has got to die some day--shore. "

And the sergeant was right. Dave was going through the Gap at thatmoment, cursing, swaying like a drunken man, firing his pistol andshouting his revenge to the echoing gray walls that took up his criesand sent them shrieking on the wind up every dark ravine. All the way upthe mountain he was cursing. Under the gentle voice of the big Pinehe was cursing still, and when his lips stopped, his heart was beatingcurses as he dropped down the other side of the mountain. 

When he reached the river, he got off his horse and bathed his mouth andhis eyes again, and he cursed afresh when the blood started afresh athis lips again. For a while he sat there in his black mood, undecidedwhether he should go to his uncle's cabin or go on home. But he had seena woman's figure in the garden as he came down the spur, and the thoughtof June drew him to the cabin in spite of his shame and the questionsthat were sure to be asked. When he passed around the clump ofrhododendrons at the creek, June was in the garden still. She waspruning a rose-bush with Bub's penknife, and when she heard him comingshe wheeled, quivering. She had been waiting for him all day, and, likean angry goddess, she swept fiercely toward him. Dave pretended not tosee her, but when he swung from his horse and lifted his sullen eyes, he shrank as though she had lashed him across them with a whip. Her eyesblazed with murderous fire from her white face, the penknife in her handwas clenched as though for a deadly purpose, and on her trembling lipswas the same question that she had asked him at the mill:

"Have you done it this time?" she whispered, and then she saw hisswollen mouth and his battered eye. Her fingers relaxed about the handleof the knife, the fire in her eyes went swiftly down, and with a smilethat was half pity, half contempt, she turned away. She could not havetold the whole truth better in words, even to Dave, and as he lookedafter her his every pulse-beat was a new curse, and if at that minute hecould have had Hale's heart he would have eaten it like a savage--raw. For a minute he hesitated with reins in hand as to whether he shouldturn now and go back to the Gap to settle with Hale, and then he threwthe reins over a post. He could bide his time yet a little longer, fora crafty purpose suddenly entered his brain. Bub met him at the door ofthe cabin and his eyes opened. 

"What's the matter, Dave?"

"Oh, nothin', " he said carelessly. "My hoss stumbled comin' down themountain an' I went clean over his head. " He raised one hand to hismouth and still Bub was suspicious. 

"Looks like you been in a fight. " The boy began to laugh, but Daveignored him and went on into the cabin. Within, he sat where he couldsee through the open door. 

"Whar you been, Dave?" asked old Judd from the corner. Just then he sawJune coming and, pretending to draw on his pipe, he waited until she hadsat down within ear-shot on the edge of the porch. 

"Who do you reckon owns this house and two hundred acres o' landroundabouts?"

The girl's heart waited apprehensively and she heard her father's deepvoice. 

"The company owns it. " Dave laughed harshly. 

"Not much--John Hale. " The heart out on the porch leaped with gladnessnow. 

"He bought it from the company. It's just as well you're goin' away, Uncle Judd. He'd put you out. "

"I reckon not. I got writin' from the company which 'lows me to stayhere two year or more--if I want to. "

"I don't know. He's a slick one. "

"I heerd him say, " put in Bub stoutly, "that he'd see that we stayedhere jus' as long as we pleased. "

"Well, " said old Judd shortly, "ef we stay here by his favour, we won'tstay long. "

There was silence for a while. Then Dave spoke again for the listeningears outside--maliciously:

"I went over to the Gap to see if I couldn't git the place myself fromthe company. I believe the Falins ain't goin' to bother us an' I ain'thankerin' to go West. But I told him that you-all was goin' to leave themountains and goin' out thar fer good. " There was another silence. 

"He never said a word. " Nobody had asked the question, but he wasanswering the unspoken one in the heart of June, and that heart sanklike a stone. 

"He's goin' away hisself-goin' ter-morrow--goin' to that same place hewent before--England, some feller called it. "

Dave had done his work well. June rose unsteadily, and with one hand onher heart and the other clutching the railing of the porch, she creptnoiselessly along it, staggered like a wounded thing around thechimney, through the garden and on, still clutching her heart, to thewoods--there to sob it out on the breast of the only mother she had everknown. 

Dave was gone when she came back from the woods--calm, dry-eyed, pale. Her step-mother had kept her dinner for her, and when she said shewanted nothing to eat, the old woman answered something querulous towhich June made no answer, but went quietly to cleaning away the dishes. For a while she sat on the porch, and presently she went into her roomand for a few moments she rocked quietly at her window. Hale was goingaway next day, and when he came back she would be gone and she wouldnever see him again. A dry sob shook her body of a sudden, she putboth hands to her head and with wild eyes she sprang to her feet and, catching up her bonnet, slipped noiselessly out the back door. Withhands clenched tight she forced herself to walk slowly across thefoot-bridge, but when the bushes hid her, she broke into a run as thoughshe were crazed and escaping a madhouse. At the foot of the spur sheturned swiftly up the mountain and climbed madly, with one hand tightagainst the little cross at her throat. He was going away and she musttell him--she must tell him--what? Behind her a voice was calling, thevoice that pleaded all one night for her not to leave him, that hadmade that plea a daily prayer, and it had come from an old man--wounded, broken in health and heart, and her father. Hale's face was before her, but that voice was behind, and as she climbed, the face that she wasnearing grew fainter, the voice she was leaving sounded the louder inher ears, and when she reached the big Pine she dropped helplessly atthe base of it, sobbing. With her tears the madness slowly left her, the old determination came back again and at last the old sad peace. Thesunlight was slanting at a low angle when she rose to her feet and stoodon the cliff overlooking the valley--her lips parted as when she stoodthere first, and the tiny drops drying along the roots of her dull goldhair. And being there for the last time she thought of that time whenshe was first there--ages ago. The great glare of light that she lookedfor then had come and gone. There was the smoking monster rushing intothe valley and sending echoing shrieks through the hills--but there wasno booted stranger and no horse issuing from the covert of maple wherethe path disappeared. A long time she stood there, with a wandering lookof farewell to every familiar thing before her, but not a tear came now. Only as she turned away at last her breast heaved and fell with one longbreath--that was all. Passing the Pine slowly, she stopped and turnedback to it, unclasping the necklace from her throat. With tremblingfingers she detached from it the little luck-piece that Hale had givenher--the tear of a fairy that had turned into a tiny cross of stonewhen a strange messenger brought to the Virginia valley the story of thecrucifixion. The penknife was still in her pocket, and, opening it, shewent behind the Pine and dug a niche as high and as deep as shecould toward its soft old heart. In there she thrust the tiny symbol, whispering:

"I want all the luck you could ever give me, little cross--for HIM. "Then she pulled the fibres down to cover it from sight and, crossing herhands over the opening, she put her forehead against them and touchedher lips to the tree. 

[Illustration: Keep it Safe Old Pine, Frontispiece]

"Keep it safe, old Pine. " Then she lifted her face--looking upwardalong its trunk to the blue sky. "And bless him, dear God, and guard himevermore. " She clutched her heart as she turned, and she was clutchingit when she passed into the shadows below, leaving the old Pine towhisper, when he passed, her love. 

 * * * * * * *

Next day the word went round to the clan that the Tollivers would startin a body one week later for the West. At daybreak, that morning, UncleBilly and his wife mounted the old gray horse and rode up the river tosay good-by. They found the cabin in Lonesome Cove deserted. Many thingswere left piled in the porch; the Tollivers had left apparently in agreat hurry and the two old people were much mystified. Not until noondid they learn what the matter was. Only the night before a Tolliverhad shot a Falin and the Falins had gathered to get revenge on Judd thatnight. The warning word had been brought to Lonesome Cove by LorettaTolliver, and it had come straight from young Buck Falin himself. SoJune and old Judd and Bub had fled in the night. At that hour they wereon their way to the railroad--old Judd at the head of his clan--hisright arm still bound to his side, his bushy beard low on his breast, June and Bub on horseback behind him, the rest strung out behind them, and in a wagon at the end, with all her household effects, the littleold woman in black who would wait no longer for the Red Fox to arisefrom the dead. Loretta alone was missing. She was on her way with youngBuck Falin to the railroad on the other side of the mountains. Betweenthem not a living soul disturbed the dead stillness of Lonesome Cove. 

XXXII

All winter the cabin in Lonesome Cove slept through rain and sleet andsnow, and no foot passed its threshold. Winter broke, floods came andwarm sunshine. A pale green light stole through the trees, shy, etherealand so like a mist that it seemed at any moment on the point of floatingupward. Colour came with the wild flowers and song with the wood-thrush. Squirrels played on the tree-trunks like mischievous children, thebrooks sang like happy human voices through the tremulous underworld andwoodpeckers hammered out the joy of spring, but the awakening only madethe desolate cabin lonelier still. After three warm days in March, UncleBilly, the miller, rode up the creek with a hoe over his shoulder--hehad promised this to Hale--for his labour of love in June's garden. Weeping April passed, May came with rosy face uplifted, and withthe birth of June the laurel emptied its pink-flecked cups and therhododendron blazed the way for the summer's coming with white stars. 

Back to the hills came Hale then, and with all their rich beauty theywere as desolate as when he left them bare with winter, for his missionhad miserably failed. His train creaked and twisted around the benchesof the mountains, and up and down ravines into the hills. The smokerolled in as usual through the windows and doors. There was the samecrowd of children, slatternly women and tobacco-spitting men in thedirty day-coaches, and Hale sat among them--for a Pullman was no longerattached to the train that ran to the Gap. As he neared the bulkof Powell's mountain and ran along its mighty flank, he passed theore-mines. At each one the commissary was closed, the cheap, dingylittle houses stood empty on the hillsides, and every now and then hewould see a tipple and an empty car, left as it was after dumping itslast load of red ore. On the right, as he approached the station, thebig furnace stood like a dead giant, still and smokeless, and the pilesof pig iron were red with rust. The same little dummy wheezed him intothe dead little town. Even the face of the Gap was a little changed bythe gray scar that man had slashed across its mouth, getting limestonefor the groaning monster of a furnace that was now at peace. The streetswere deserted. A new face fronted him at the desk of the hotel and theeyes of the clerk showed no knowledge of him when he wrote his name. Hissupper was coarse, greasy and miserable, his room was cold (steam heat, it seemed, had been given up), the sheets were ill-smelling, the mouthof the pitcher was broken, and the one towel had seen much previous use. But the water was the same, as was the cool, pungent night-air--bothblessed of God--and they were the sole comforts that were his thatnight. 

The next day it was as though he were arranging his own funeral, withbut little hope of a resurrection. The tax-collector met him when hecame downstairs--having seen his name on the register. 

"You know, " he said, "I'll have to add 5 per cent. Next month. " Halesmiled. 

"That won't be much more, " he said, and the collector, a new one, laughed good-naturedly and with understanding turned away. Mechanicallyhe walked to the Club, but there was no club--then on to the office ofThe Progress--the paper that was the boast of the town. The Progresswas defunct and the brilliant editor had left the hills. A boy with anink-smeared face was setting type and a pallid gentleman with glasseswas languidly working a hand-press. A pile of fresh-smelling papers layon a table, and after a question or two he picked up one. Two of itsfour pages were covered with announcements of suits and sales to satisfyjudgments--the printing of which was the raison d'etre of the noblesheet. Down the column his eye caught John Hale et al. John Hale et al. , and he wondered why "the others" should be so persistently anonymous. There was a cloud of them--thicker than the smoke of coke-ovens. He hadbreathed that thickness for a long time, but he got a fresh sense ofsuffocation now. Toward the post-office he moved. Around the cornerhe came upon one of two brothers whom he remembered as carpenters. Herecalled his inability once to get that gentleman to hang a door forhim. He was a carpenter again now and he carried a saw and a plane. There was grim humour in the situation. The carpenter's brother hadgone--and he himself could hardly get enough work, he said, to supporthis family. 

"Goin' to start that house of yours?"

"I think not, " said Hale. 

"Well, I'd like to get a contract for a chicken-coop just to keep myhand in. "

There was more. A two-horse wagon was coming with two cottage-organsaboard. In the mouth of the slouch-hatted, unshaven driver was acorn-cob pipe. He pulled in when he saw Hale. 

"Hello!" he shouted grinning. Good Heavens, was that uncouth figure thevoluble, buoyant, flashy magnate of the old days? It was. 

"Sellin' organs agin, " he said briefly. 

"And teaching singing-school?"

The dethroned king of finance grinned. 

"Sure! What you doin'?"

"Nothing. "

"Goin' to stay long?"

"No. "

"Well, see you again. So long. Git up!"

Wheel-spokes whirred in the air and he saw a buggy, with the top down, rattling down another street in a cloud of dust. It was the same buggyin which he had first seen the black-bearded Senator seven years before. It was the same horse, too, and the Arab-like face and the bushy blackwhiskers, save for streaks of gray, were the same. This was the man whoused to buy watches and pianos by the dozen, who one Xmas gave a presentto every living man, woman and child in the town, and under whosecolossal schemes the pillars of the church throughout the State stood assupports. That far away the eagle-nosed face looked haggard, haunted andall but spent, and even now he struck Hale as being driven downward likea madman by the same relentless energy that once had driven him upward. It was the same story everywhere. Nearly everybody who could get awaywas gone. Some of these were young enough to profit by the lesson andtake surer root elsewhere--others were too old for transplanting, and ofthem would be heard no more. Others stayed for the reason that gettingaway was impossible. These were living, visible tragedies--stillhopeful, pathetically unaware of the leading parts they were playing, and still weakly waiting for a better day or sinking, as by gravity, back to the old trades they had practised before the boom. A few sturdysouls, the fittest, survived--undismayed. Logan was there--lawyer forthe railroad and the coal-company. MacFarlan was a judge, and two orthree others, too, had come through unscathed in spirit and undauntedin resolution--but gone were the young Bluegrass Kentuckians, the youngTide-water Virginians, the New England school-teachers, the bankers, real-estate agents, engineers; gone the gamblers, the wily Jews andthe vagrant women that fringe the incoming tide of a newprosperity--gone--all gone!

Beyond the post-office he turned toward the red-brick house that satabove the mill-pond. Eagerly he looked for the old mill, and he stoppedin physical pain. The dam had been torn away, the old wheel was gone anda caved-in roof and supporting walls, drunkenly aslant, were the onlyremnants left. A red-haired child stood at the gate before the red-brickhouse and Hale asked her a question. The little girl had never heard ofthe Widow Crane. Then he walked toward his old office and bedroom. Therewas a voice inside his old office when he approached, a tall figurefilled the doorway, a pair of great goggles beamed on him like beaconlights in a storm, and the Hon. Sam Budd's hand and his were claspedover the gate. 

"It's all over, Sam. "

"Don't you worry--come on in. "

The two sat on the porch. Below it the dimpled river shone throughthe rhododendrons and with his eyes fixed on it, the Hon. Sam slowlyapproached the thought of each. 

"The old cabin in Lonesome Cove is just as the Tollivers left it. "

"None of them ever come back?" Budd shook his head. 

"No, but one's comin'--Dave. "

"Dave!"

"Yes, an' you know what for. "

"I suppose so, " said Hale carelessly. "Did you send old Judd the deed?"

"Sure--along with that fool condition of yours that June shouldn't knowuntil he was dead or she married. I've never heard a word. "

"Do you suppose he'll stick to the condition?"

"He has stuck, " said the Hon. Sam shortly; "otherwise you would haveheard from June. "

"I'm not going to be here long, " said Hale. 

"Where you goin'?"

"I don't know. " Budd puffed his pipe. 

"Well, while you are here, you want to keep your eye peeled for DaveTolliver. I told you that the mountaineer hates as long as he remembers, and that he never forgets. Do you know that Dave sent his horse back tothe stable here to be hired out for his keep, and told it right and leftthat when you came back he was comin', too, and he was goin' to straddlethat horse until he found you, and then one of you had to die? How hefound out you were comin' about this time I don't know, but he has sentword that he'll be here. Looks like he hasn't made much headway withJune. "

"I'm not worried. "

"Well, you better be, " said Budd sharply. 

"Did Uncle Billy plant the garden?"

"Flowers and all, just as June always had 'em. He's always had the ideathat June would come back. "

"Maybe she will. "

"Not on your life. She might if you went out there for her. "

Hale looked up quickly and slowly shook his head. 

"Look here, Jack, you're seein' things wrong. You can't blame that girlfor losing her head after you spoiled and pampered her the way you did. And with all her sense it was mighty hard for her to understand yourbeing arrayed against her flesh and blood--law or no law. That'smountain nature pure and simple, and it comes mighty near bein' humannature the world over. You never gave her a square chance. "

"You know what Uncle Billy said?"

"Yes, an' I know Uncle Billy changed his mind. Go after her. "

"No, " said Hale firmly. "It'll take me ten years to get out of debt. Iwouldn't now if I could--on her account. "

"Nonsense. " Hale rose. 

"I'm going over to take a look around and get some things I left atUncle Billy's and then--me for the wide, wide world again. "

The Hon. Sam took off his spectacles to wipe them, but when Bale's backwas turned, his handkerchief went to his eyes:

"Don't you worry, Jack. "

"All right, Sam. "

An hour later Hale was at the livery stable for a horse to ride toLonesome Cove, for he had sold his big black to help out expenses forthe trip to England. Old Dan Harris, the stableman, stood in the doorand silently he pointed to a gray horse in the barn-yard. 

"You know that hoss?"

"Yes. "

"You know whut's he here fer?"

"I've heard. "

"Well, I'm lookin' fer Dave every day now. "

"Well, maybe I'd better ride Dave's horse now, " said Hale jestingly. 

"I wish you would, " said old Dan. 

"No, " said Hale, "if he's coming, I'll leave the horse so that he canget to me as quickly as possible. You might send me word, Uncle Dan, ahead, so that he can't waylay me. "

"I'll do that very thing, " said the old man seriously. 

"I was joking, Uncle Dan. "

"But I ain't. "

The matter was out of Hale's head before he got through the great Gap. How the memories thronged of June--June--June!

"YOU DIDN'T GIVE HER A CHANCE. "

That was what Budd said. Well, had he given her a chance? Why shouldn'the go to her and give her the chance now? He shook his shoulders at thethought and laughed with some bitterness. He hadn't the car-fare forhalf-way across the continent--and even if he had, he was a promisingcandidate for matrimony!--and again he shook his shoulders and settledhis soul for his purpose. He would get his things together and leavethose hills forever. 

How lonely had been his trip--how lonely was the God-forsaken littletown behind him! How lonely the road and hills and the little whiteclouds in the zenith straight above him--and how unspeakably lonely thegreen dome of the great Pine that shot into view from the north as heturned a clump of rhododendron with uplifted eyes. Not a breath ofair moved. The green expanse about him swept upward like a wave--butunflecked, motionless, except for the big Pine which, that far away, looked like a bit of green spray, spouting on its very crest. 

"Old man, " he muttered, "you know--you know. " And as to a brother heclimbed toward it. 

"No wonder they call you Lonesome, " he said as he went upward into thebright stillness, and when he dropped into the dark stillness of shadowand forest gloom on the other side he said again:

"My God, no wonder they call you Lonesome. "

And still the memories of June thronged--at the brook--at the river--andwhen he saw the smokeless chimney of the old cabin, he all but groanedaloud. But he turned away from it, unable to look again, and went downthe river toward Uncle Billy's mill. 

 * * * * * * *

Old Hon threw her arms around him and kissed him. 

"John, " said Uncle Billy, "I've got three hundred dollars in a old yarnsock under one of them hearthstones and its yourn. Ole Hon says so too. "

Hale choked. 

"I want ye to go to June. Dave'll worry her down and git her if youdon't go, and if he don't worry her down, he'll come back an' try tokill ye. I've always thought one of ye would have to die fer that gal, an' I want it to be Dave. You two have got to fight it out some day, and you mought as well meet him out thar as here. You didn't give thatlittle gal a fair chance, John, an' I want you to go to June. "

"No, I can't take your money, Uncle Billy--God bless you and oldHon--I'm going--I don't know where--and I'm going now. "

XXXIII

Clouds were gathering as Hale rode up the river after telling old Honand Uncle Billy good-by. He had meant not to go to the cabin in LonesomeCove, but when he reached the forks of the road, he stopped his horseand sat in indecision with his hands folded on the pommel of his saddleand his eyes on the smokeless chimney. The memories tugging at his heartdrew him irresistibly on, for it was the last time. At a slow walk hewent noiselessly through the deep sand around the clump of rhododendron. The creek was clear as crystal once more, but no geese cackled andno dog barked. The door of the spring-house gaped wide, the barn-doorsagged on its hinges, the yard-fence swayed drunkenly, and the cabin wasstill as a gravestone. But the garden was alive, and he swung from hishorse at the gate, and with his hands clasped behind his back walkedslowly through it. June's garden! The garden he had planned and plantedfor June--that they had tended together and apart and that, thanks tothe old miller's care, was the one thing, save the sky above, left inspirit unchanged. The periwinkles, pink and white, were almost gone. Theflags were at half-mast and sinking fast. The annunciation lilies werebending their white foreheads to the near kiss of death, but the pinkswere fragrant, the poppies were poised on slender stalks like brilliantbutterflies at rest, the hollyhocks shook soundless pink bells tothe wind, roses as scarlet as June's lips bloomed everywhere and therichness of mid-summer was at hand. 

Quietly Hale walked the paths, taking a last farewell of plant andflower, and only the sudden patter of raindrops made him lift his eyesto the angry sky. The storm was coming now in earnest and he had hardlytime to lead his horse to the barn and dash to the porch when the veryheavens, with a crash of thunder, broke loose. Sheet after sheet sweptdown the mountains like wind-driven clouds of mist thickening into wateras they came. The shingles rattled as though with the heavy slappingof hands, the pines creaked and the sudden dusk outside made the cabin, when he pushed the door open, as dark as night. Kindling a fire, he lithis pipe and waited. The room was damp and musty, but the presence ofJune almost smothered him. Once he turned his face. June's door was ajarand the key was in the lock. He rose to go to it and look within andthen dropped heavily back into his chair. He was anxious to get awaynow--to get to work. Several times he rose restlessly and looked out thewindow. Once he went outside and crept along the wall of the cabin tothe east and the west, but there was no break of light in the murky skyand he went back to pipe and fire. By and by the wind died and the rainsteadied into a dogged downpour. He knew what that meant--there would beno letting up now in the storm, and for another night he was a prisoner. So he went to his saddle-pockets and pulled out a cake of chocolate, acan of potted ham and some crackers, munched his supper, went to bed, and lay there with sleepless eyes, while the lights and shadows from thewind-swayed fire flicked about him. After a while his body dozed but hisracked brain went seething on in an endless march of fantastic dreams inwhich June was the central figure always, until of a sudden young Daveleaped into the centre of the stage in the dream-tragedy forming in hisbrain. They were meeting face to face at last--and the place was the bigPine. Dave's pistol flashed and his own stuck in the holster as he triedto draw. There was a crashing report and he sprang upright in bed--butit was a crash of thunder that wakened him and that in that swiftinstant perhaps had caused his dream. The wind had come again and wasdriving the rain like soft bullets against the wall of the cabin nextwhich he lay. He got up, threw another stick of wood on the fire andsat before the leaping blaze, curiously disturbed but not by the dream. Somehow he was again in doubt--was he going to stick it out in themountains after all, and if he should, was not the reason, deep downin his soul, the foolish hope that June would come back again. No, he thought, searching himself fiercely, that was not the reason. Hehonestly did not know what his duty to her was--what even was his inmostwish, and almost with a groan he paced the floor to and fro. Meantimethe storm raged. A tree crashed on the mountainside and the lightningthat smote it winked into the cabin so like a mocking, malignant eyethat he stopped in his tracks, threw open the door and stepped outsideas though to face an enemy. The storm was majestic and his soul wentinto the mighty conflict of earth and air, whose beginning and end werein eternity. The very mountain tops were rimmed with zigzag fire, whichshot upward, splitting a sky that was as black as a nether world, andunder it the great trees swayed like willows under rolling clouds ofgray rain. One fiery streak lit up for an instant the big Pine andseemed to dart straight down upon its proud, tossing crest. For a momentthe beat of the watcher's heart and the flight of his soul stoppedstill. A thunderous crash came slowly to his waiting ears, another flashcame, and Hale stumbled, with a sob, back into the cabin. God's fingerwas pointing the way now--the big Pine was no more. 

XXXIV

The big Pine was gone. He had seen it first, one morning at daybreak, when the valley on the other side was a sea of mist that threw soft, clinging spray to the very mountain tops--for even above the mists, thatmorning, its mighty head arose, sole visible proof that the earth stillslept beneath. He had seen it at noon--but little less majestic, amongthe oaks that stood about it; had seen it catching the last light atsunset, clean-cut against the after-glow, and like a dark, silent, mysterious sentinel guarding the mountain pass under the moon. He hadseen it giving place with sombre dignity to the passing burst of spring, had seen it green among dying autumn leaves, green in the gray of wintertrees and still green in a shroud of snow--a changeless promise that theearth must wake to life again. It had been the beacon that led him intoLonesome Cove--the beacon that led June into the outer world. From ither flying feet had carried her into his life--past it, the same feethad carried her out again. It had been their trysting place--hadkept their secrets like a faithful friend and had stood to him as thechangeless symbol of their love. It had stood a mute but sympatheticwitness of his hopes, his despairs and the struggles that lay betweenthem. In dark hours it had been a silent comforter, and in the last yearit had almost come to symbolize his better self as to that self he cameslowly back. And in the darkest hour it was the last friend to whom hehad meant to say good-by. Now it was gone. Always he had lifted his eyesto it every morning when he rose, but now, next morning, he hung backconsciously as one might shrink from looking at the face of a deadfriend, and when at last he raised his head to look upward to it, animpenetrable shroud of mist lay between them--and he was glad. 

And still he could not leave. The little creek was a lashing yellowtorrent, and his horse, heavily laden as he must be, could hardly swimwith his weight, too, across so swift a stream. But mountain streamswere like June's temper--up quickly and quickly down--so it was noonbefore he plunged into the tide with his saddle-pockets over oneshoulder and his heavy transit under one arm. Even then his snortinghorse had to swim a few yards, and he reached the other bank soaked tohis waist line. But the warm sun came out just as he entered the woods, and as he climbed, the mists broke about him and scudded upwardlike white sails before a driving wind. Once he looked back from a"fire-scald" in the woods at the lonely cabin in the cove, but it gavehim so keen a pain that he would not look again. The trail was slipperyand several times he had to stop to let his horse rest and to slow thebeating of his own heart. But the sunlight leaped gladly from wet leafto wet leaf until the trees looked decked out for unseen fairies, andthe birds sang as though there was nothing on earth but joy for all itscreatures, and the blue sky smiled above as though it had never bred alightning flash or a storm. Hale dreaded the last spur before the littleGap was visible, but he hurried up the steep, and when he lifted hisapprehensive eyes, the gladness of the earth was as nothing to thesudden joy in his own heart. The big Pine stood majestic, stillunscathed, as full of divinity and hope to him as a rainbow in aneastern sky. Hale dropped his reins, lifted one hand to his dizzy head, let his transit to the ground, and started for it on a run. Across thepath lay a great oak with a white wound running the length of its mightybody, from crest to shattered trunk, and over it he leaped, and like achild caught his old friend in both arms. After all, he was not alone. One friend would be with him till death, on that border-line between theworld in which he was born and the world he had tried to make his own, and he could face now the old one again with a stouter heart. Thereit lay before him with its smoke and fire and noise and slumberingactivities just awakening to life again. He lifted his clenched fisttoward it:

"You got ME once, " he muttered, "but this time I'll get YOU. " He turnedquickly and decisively--there would be no more delay. And he went backand climbed over the big oak that, instead of his friend, had fallenvictim to the lightning's kindly whim and led his horse out into theunderbrush. As he approached within ten yards of the path, a metallicnote rang faintly on the still air the other side of the Pine and downthe mountain. Something was coming up the path, so he swiftly knottedhis bridle-reins around a sapling, stepped noiselessly into the pathand noiselessly slipped past the big tree where he dropped to hisknees, crawled forward and lay flat, peering over the cliff and downthe winding trail. He had not long to wait. A riderless horse filled theopening in the covert of leaves that swallowed up the path. It was grayand he knew it as he knew the saddle as his old enemy's--Dave. Dave hadkept his promise--he had come back. The dream was coming true, and theywere to meet at last face to face. One of them was to strike a trailmore lonesome than the Trail of the Lonesome Pine, and that man wouldnot be John Hale. One detail of the dream was going to be left out, hethought grimly, and very quietly he drew his pistol, cocked it, sightedit on the opening--it was an easy shot--and waited. He would give thatenemy no more chance than he would a mad dog--or would he? The horsestopped to browse. He waited so long that he began to suspect a trap. He withdrew his head and looked about him on either side andbehind--listening intently for the cracking of a twig or a footfall. Hewas about to push backward to avoid possible attack from the rear, whena shadow shot from the opening. His face paled and looked sick of asudden, his clenched fingers relaxed about the handle of his pistoland he drew it back, still cocked, turned on his knees, walked pastthe Pine, and by the fallen oak stood upright, waiting. He heard a lowwhistle calling to the horse below and a shudder ran through him. Heheard the horse coming up the path, he clenched his pistol convulsively, and his eyes, lit by an unearthly fire and fixed on the edge of thebowlder around which they must come, burned an instant later on--June. At the cry she gave, he flashed a hunted look right and left, steppedswiftly to one side and stared past her-still at the bowlder. She haddropped the reins and started toward him, but at the Pine she stoppedshort. 

"Where is he?"

Her lips opened to answer, but no sound came. Hale pointed at the horsebehind her. 

"That's his. He sent me word. He left that horse in the valley, toride over here, when he came back, to kill me. Are you with him?" Fora moment she thought from his wild face that he had gone crazy and shestared silently. Then she seemed to understand, and with a moan shecovered her face with her hands and sank weeping in a heap at the footof the Pine. 

The forgotten pistol dropped, full cocked to the soft earth, and Halewith bewildered eyes went slowly to her. 

"Don't cry, "--he said gently, starting to call her name. "Don't cry, " herepeated, and he waited helplessly. 

"He's dead. Dave was shot--out--West, " she sobbed. "I told him I wascoming back. He gave me his horse. Oh, how could you?"

"Why did you come back?" he asked, and she shrank as though he hadstruck her--but her sobs stopped and she rose to her feet. 

"Wait, " she said, and she turned from him to wipe her eyes with herhanderchief. Then she faced him. 

"When dad died, I learned everything. You made him swear never totell me and he kept his word until he was on his death-bed. YOU dideverything for me. It was YOUR money. YOU gave me back the old cabin inthe Cove. It was always you, you, YOU, and there was never anybody elsebut you. " She stopped for Hale's face was as though graven from stone. 

"And you came back to tell me that?"

"Yes. "

"You could have written that. "

"Yes, " she faltered, "but I had to tell you face to face. "

"Is that all?"

Again the tears were in her eyes. 

"No, " she said tremulously. 

"Then I'll say the rest for you. You wanted to come to tell me of theshame you felt when you knew, " she nodded violently--"but you could havewritten that, too, and I could have written that you mustn't feel thatway--that" he spoke slowly--"you mustn't rob me of the dearest happinessI ever knew in my whole life. "

"I knew you would say that, " she said like a submissive child. Thesternness left his face and he was smiling now. 

"And you wanted to say that the only return you could make was to comeback and be my wife. "

"Yes, " she faltered again, "I did feel that--I did. "

"You could have written that, too, but you thought you had to PROVE itby coming back yourself. "

This time she nodded no assent and her eyes were streaming. He turnedaway--stretching out his arms to the woods. 

"God! Not that--no--no!"

"Listen, Jack!" As suddenly his arms dropped. She had controlled hertears but her lips were quivering. 

"No, Jack, not that--thank God. I came because I wanted to come, " shesaid steadily. "I loved you when I went away. I've loved you everyminute since--" her arms were stealing about his neck, her face wasupturned to his and her eyes, moist with gladness, were looking into hiswondering eyes--"and I love you now--Jack. "

"June!" The leaves about them caught his cry and quivered with the joyof it, and above their heads the old Pine breathed its blessing with thename--June--June--June. 

XXXV

With a mystified smile but with no question, Hale silently handed hispenknife to June and when, smiling but without a word, she walked behindthe old Pine, he followed her. There he saw her reach up and dig thepoint of the knife into the trunk, and when, as he wonderingly watchedher, she gave a sudden cry, Hale sprang toward her. In the hole she wasdigging he saw the gleam of gold and then her trembling fingers broughtout before his astonished eyes the little fairy stone that he had givenher long ago. She had left it there for him, she said, through tears, and through his own tears Hale pointed to the stricken oak:

"It saved the Pine, " he said. 

"And you, " said June. 

"And you, " repeated Hale solemnly, and while he looked long at her, herarms dropped slowly to her sides and he said simply:

"Come!"

Leading the horses, they walked noiselessly through the deep sand aroundthe clump of rhododendron, and there sat the little cabin of LonesomeCove. The holy hush of a cathedral seemed to shut it in from the world, so still it was below the great trees that stood like sentinels oneternal guard. Both stopped, and June laid her head on Hale's shoulderand they simply looked in silence. 

"Dear old home, " she said, with a little sob, and Hale, still silent, drew her to him. 

"You were _never_ coming back again?"

"I was never coming back again. " She clutched his arm fiercely as thougheven now something might spirit him away, and she clung to him, while hehitched the horses and while they walked up the path. 

"Why, the garden is just as I left it! The very same flowers in the verysame places!" Hale smiled. 

"Why not? I had Uncle Billy do that. "

"Oh, you dear--you dear!"

Her little room was shuttered tight as it always had been when she wasaway, and, as usual, the front door was simply chained on the outside. The girl turned with a happy sigh and looked about at the noddingflowers and the woods and the gleaming pool of the river below and upthe shimmering mountain to the big Pine topping it with sombre majesty. 

"Dear old Pine, " she murmured, and almost unconsciously she unchainedthe door as she had so often done before, stepped into the dark room, pulling Hale with one hand after her, and almost unconsciously reachingupward with the other to the right of the door. Then she cried aloud:

"My key--my key is there!"

"That was in case you should come back some day. "

"Oh, I might--I might! and think if I had come too late--think if Ihadn't come _now!_" Again her voice broke and still holding Hale's arm, she moved to her own door. She had to use both hands there, but beforeshe let go, she said almost hysterically:

"It's so dark! You won't leave me, dear, if I let you go?"

For answer Hale locked his arms around her, and when the door opened, hewent in ahead of her and pushed open the shutters. The low sun floodedthe room and when Hale turned, June was looking with wild eyes from onething to another in the room--her rocking-chair at a window, her sewingclose by, a book on the table, her bed made up in the corner, herwashstand of curly maple--the pitcher full of water and clean towelshanging from the rack. Hale had gotten out the things she had packedaway and the room was just as she had always kept it. She rushed to him, weeping. 

"It would have killed me, " she sobbed. "It would have killed me. "She strained him tightly to her--her wet face against his cheek:"Think--_think_--if I hadn't come now!" Then loosening herself she wentall about the room with a caressing touch to everything, as though itwere alive. The book was the volume of Keats he had given her--which hadbeen loaned to Loretta before June went away. 

"Oh, I wrote for it and wrote for it, " she said. 

"I found it in the post-office, " said Hale, "and I understood. "

She went over to the bed. 

"Oh, " she said with a happy laugh. "You've got one slip inside out, " andshe whipped the pillow from its place, changed it, and turned down theedge of the covers in a triangle. 

"That's the way I used to leave it, " she said shyly. Hale smiled. 

"I never noticed that!" She turned to the bureau and pulled open adrawer. In there were white things with frills and blue ribbons--and sheflushed. 

"Oh, " she said, "these haven't even been touched. " Again Hale smiledbut he said nothing. One glance had told him there were things in thatdrawer too sacred for his big hands. 

"I'm so happy--_so_ happy. "

Suddenly she looked him over from head to foot--his rough riding boots, old riding breeches and blue flannel shirt. 

"I am pretty rough, " he said. She flushed, shook her head and lookeddown at her smart cloth suit of black. 

"Oh, _you_ are all right--but you must go out now, just for a littlewhile. "

"What are you up to, little girl?"

"How I love to hear that again!"

"Aren't you afraid I'll run away?" he said at the door. 

"I'm not afraid of anything else in this world any more. "

"Well, I won't. "

He heard her moving around as he sat planning on the porch. 

"To-morrow, " he thought, and then an idea struck him that made himdizzy. From within June cried:

"Here I am, " and out she ran in the last crimson gown of her younggirlhood--her sleeves rolled up and her hair braided down her back asshe used to wear it. 

"You've made up my bed and I'm going to make yours--and I'm going tocook your supper--why, what's the matter?" Hale's face was radiant withthe heaven-born idea that lighted it, and he seemed hardly to notice thechange she had made. He came over and took her in his arms:

"Ah, sweetheart, _my_ sweetheart!" A spasm of anxiety tightened herthroat, but Hale laughed from sheer delight. 

"Never you mind. It's a secret, " and he stood back to look at hen Sheblushed as his eyes went downward to her perfect ankles. 

"It _is_ too short, " she said. 

"No, no, no! Not for me! You're mine now, little girl, _mine_--do youunderstand that?"

"Yes, " she whispered, her mouth trembling, Again he laughed joyously. 

"Come on!" he cried, and he went into the kitchen and brought out anaxe:

"I'll cut wood for you. " She followed him out to the wood-pile and thenshe turned and went into the house. Presently the sound of his axe rangthrough the woods, and as he stooped to gather up the wood, he heard acreaking sound. June was drawing water at the well, and he rushed towardher:

"Here, you mustn't do that. "

She flashed a happy smile at him. 

"You just go back and get that wood. I reckon, " she used the wordpurposely, "I've done this afore. " Her strong bare arms were pulling theleaking moss-covered old bucket swiftly up, hand under hand--so he gotthe wood while she emptied the bucket into a pail, and together theywent laughing into the kitchen, and while he built the fire, June gotout the coffee-grinder and the meal to mix, and settled herself with thegrinder in her lap. 

"Oh, isn't it fun?" She stopped grinding suddenly. 

"What would the neighbours say?"

"We haven't any. "

"But if we had!"

"Terrible!" said Hale with mock solemnity. 

"I wonder if Uncle Billy is at home, " Hale trembled at his luck. "That'sa good idea. I'll ride down for him while you're getting supper. "

"No, you won't, " said June, "I can't spare you. Is that old horn hereyet?"

Hale brought it out from behind the cupboard. 

"I can get him--if he is at home. "

Hale followed her out to the porch where she put her red mouth to theold trumpet. One long, mellow hoot rang down the river--and up thehills. Then there were three short ones and a single long blast again. 

"That's the old signal, " she said. "And he'll know I want him _bad_. "Then she laughed. 

"He may think he's dreaming, so I'll blow for him again. " And she did. 

"There, now, " she said. "He'll come. "

It was well she did blow again, for the old miller was not at home andold Hon, down at the cabin, dropped her iron when she heard the hornand walked to the door, dazed and listening. Even when it came againshe could hardly believe her ears, and but for her rheumatism, she wouldherself have started at once for Lonesome Cove. As it was, she ironedno more, but sat in the doorway almost beside herself with anxiety andbewilderment, looking down the road for the old miller to come home. 

Back the two went into the kitchen and Hale sat at the door watchingJune as she fixed the table and made the coffee and corn bread. Onceonly he disappeared and that was when suddenly a hen cackled, and with ashout of laughter he ran out to come back with a fresh egg. 

"Now, my lord!" said June, her hair falling over her eyes and her faceflushed from the heat. 

"No, " said Hale. "I'm going to wait on you. "

"For the last time, " she pleaded, and to please her he did sit down, andevery time she came to his side with something he bent to kiss the handthat served him. 

"You're nothing but a big, nice boy, " she said. Hale held out a lockof his hair near the temples and with one finger silently followed thetrack of wrinkles in his face. 

"It's premature, " she said, "and I love every one of them. " And shestooped to kiss him on the hair. "And those are nothing but troubles. I'm going to smooth every one of _them_ away. "

"If they're troubles, they'll go--now, " said Hale. 

All the time they talked of what they would do with Lonesome Cove. 

"Even if we do go away, we'll come back once a year, " said Hale. 

"Yes, " nodded June, "once a year. "

"I'll tear down those mining shacks, float them down the river and sellthem as lumber. "

"Yes. "

"And I'll stock the river with bass again. "

"Yes. "

"And I'll plant young poplars to cover the sight of every bit of uptornearth along the mountain there. I'll bury every bottle and tin can inthe Cove. I'll take away every sign of civilization, every sign of theoutside world. "

"And leave old Mother Nature to cover up the scars, " said June. 

"So that Lonesome Cove will be just as it was. "

"Just as it was in the beginning, " echoed June. 

"And shall be to the end, " said Hale. 

"And there will never be anybody here but you. "

"And you, " said June. 

While she cleared the table and washed the dishes Hale fed the horsesand cut more wood, and it was dusk when he came to the porch. Throughthe door he saw that she had made his bed in one corner. And throughher door he saw one of the white things, that had lain untouched in herdrawer, now stretched out on her bed. 

The stars were peeping through the blue spaces of a white-clouded skyand the moon would be coming by and by. In the garden the flowers weredim, quiet and restful. A kingfisher screamed from the river. An owlhooted in the woods and crickets chirped about them, but every passingsound seemed only to accentuate the stillness in which they wereengulfed. Close together they sat on the old porch and she made him tellof everything that had happened since she left the mountains, and shetold him of her flight from the mountains and her life in the West--ofher father's death and the homesickness of the ones who still werethere. 

[Illustration: She made him tell of everything, 0444]

"Bub is a cowboy and wouldn't come back for the world, but I couldnever have been happy there, " she said, "even if it hadn't been foryou--here. "

"I'm just a plain civil engineer, now, " said Hale, "an engineer withouteven a job and--" his face darkened. 

"It's a shame, sweetheart, for you--" She put one hand over his lips andwith the other turned his face so that she could look into his eyes. Inthe mood of bitterness, they did show worn, hollow and sad, and aroundthem the wrinkles were deep. 

"Silly, " she said, tracing them gently with her finger tips, "I loveevery one of them, too, " and she leaned over and kissed them. 

"We're going to be happy each and every day, and all day long! We'lllive at the Gap in winter and I'll teach. "

"No, you won't. "

"Then I'll teach _you_ to be patient and how little I care for anythingelse in the world while I've got you, and I'll teach you to care fornothing else while you've got me. And you'll have me, dear, forever andever----"

"Amen, " said Hale. 

Something rang out in the darkness, far down the river, and both sprangto their feet. "It's Uncle Billy!" cried June, and she lifted the oldhorn to her lips. With the first blare of it, a cheery hallooanswered, and a moment later they could see a gray horse coming up theroad--coming at a gallop, and they went down to the gate and waited. 

"Hello, Uncle Billy" cried June. The old man answered with afox-hunting yell and Hale stepped behind a bush. 

"Jumping Jehosophat--is that you, June? Air ye all right?"

"Yes, Uncle Billy. " The old man climbed off his horse with a groan. 

"Lordy, Lordy, Lordy, but I was skeered!" He had his hands on June'sshoulders and was looking at her with a bewildered face. 

"What air ye doin' here alone, baby?"

June's eyes shone: "Nothing Uncle Billy. " Hale stepped into sight. 

"Oh, ho! I see! You back an' he ain't gone! Well, bless my soul, if thisain't the beatenest--" he looked from the one to the other and his kindold face beamed with a joy that was but little less than their own. 

"You come back to stay?"

"My--where's that horn? I want it right now, Ole Hon down thar isa-thinkin' she's gone crazy and I thought she shorely was when she saidshe heard you blow that horn. An' she tol' me the minute I got here, if hit was you--to blow three times. " And straightway three blasts rangdown the river. 

"Now she's all right, if she don't die o' curiosity afore I git backand tell her why you come. Why did you come back, baby? Gimme a drink o'water, son. I reckon me an' that ole hoss hain't travelled sech a gaitin five year. "

June was whispering something to the old man when Hale came back, andwhat it was the old man's face told plainly. 

"Yes, Uncle Billy--right away, " said Hale. 

"Just as soon as you can git yo' license?" Hale nodded. 

"An' June says I'm goin' to do It. "

"Yes, " said Hale, "right away. "

Again June had to tell the story to Uncle Billy that she had told toHale and to answer his questions, and it was an hour before the oldmiller rose to go. Hale called him then into June's room and showed hima piece of paper. 

"Is it good now?" he asked. 

The old man put on his spectacles, looked at it and chuckled:

"Just as good as the day you got hit. "

"Well, can't you----"

"Right now! Does June know?"

"Not yet. I'm going to tell her now. June!" he called. 

"Yes, dear. " Uncle Billy moved hurriedly to the door. 

"You just wait till I git out o' here. " He met June in the outer room. 

"Where are you going, Uncle Billy?"

"Go on, baby, " he said, hurrying by her, "I'll be back in a minute. "

She stopped in the doorway--her eyes wide again with sudden anxiety, butHale was smiling. 

"You remember what you said at the Pine, dear?" The girl nodded and shewas smiling now, when with sweet seriousness she said again: "Your leastwish is now law to me, my lord. "

"Well, I'm going to test it now. I've laid a trap for you. " She shookher head. 

"And you've walked right into it"

"I'm glad. " She noticed now the crumpled piece of paper in his hand andshe thought it was some matter of business. 

"Oh, " she said, reproachfully. "You aren't going to bother with anythingof that kind _now?_"

"Yes, " he said. "I want you to look over this. "

"Very well, " she said resignedly. He was holding the paper out to herand she took it and held it to the light of the candle. Her face flamedand she turned remorseful eyes upon him. 

"And you've kept that, too, you had it when I----"

"When you were wiser maybe than you are now. "

"God save me from ever being such a fool again. " Tears started in hereyes. 

"You haven't forgiven me!" she cried. 

"Uncle Billy says it's as good now as it was then. "

He was looking at her queerly now and his smile was gone. Slowly hismeaning came to her like the flush that spread over her face and throat. She drew in one long quivering breath and, with parted lips and hergreat shining eyes wide, she looked at him. 

"Now?" she whispered. 

"Now!" he said. 

Her eyes dropped to the coarse gown, she lifted both hands for a momentto her hair and unconsciously she began to roll one crimson sleeve downher round, white arm. 

"No, " said Hale, "just as you are. "

She went to him then, put her arms about his neck, and with head thrownback she looked at him long with steady eyes. 

"Yes, " she breathed out--"just as you are--and now. "

Uncle Billy was waiting for them on the porch and when they came out, herose to his feet and they faced him, hand in hand. The moon had risen. The big Pine stood guard on high against the outer world. Nature wastheir church and stars were their candles. And as if to give them evena better light, the moon had sent a luminous sheen down the darkmountainside to the very garden in which the flowers whispered likewaiting happy friends. Uncle Billy lifted his hand and a hush ofexpectancy seemed to come even from the farthest star.