Marshal John Stone was a mountaineer of the better sort, who had the respect and admiration of the law-abiding citizens in his district, and the hate of the evil-doers. He stood full six feet in his socks, and he was broad and muscled in proportion. His gray eyes were of the sort to harden to steel against an enemy, to soften wonderfully for a friend. The mouth, half-hidden by the thick mustache, was very firm, yet prone to smiles. To an excellent intelligence had been added a fair amount of education. Since he respected both himself and his work, and had developed a veritable passion for the capture of malefactors, he was more than usually successful. His zeal, tempered with discretion, had won the appreciative attention of official superiors. There could be no doubt that promotion would shortly remove him to a higher plane of service. The fact would have been most agreeable to Stone, but for two things. He desired beyond all else, before going from the mountains, to capture Dan Hodges, who had so persistently flouted the law, and himself, its 85 representative; the second unsatisfied ambition was to come on the long-lost Burns’ still.
The Scottish poet’s poverty was almost equal to his genius. On that account, Robert Burns was glad to secure the stipend of fifty pounds a year to which he became entitled on his appointment as exciseman in 1788. It may be that his convivial habits made his official position particularly acceptable, since doubtless his perquisites included the keeping of his own jug filled. And there were moonshiners among the Scottish hills in those days, as perhaps there are to-day. On occasion, the poet made a gift of a captured still to some discreet friend. One recipient emigrated to America, and bore into the wilderness that has become North Carolina the kettle and cap of copper on which Burns had graven his name, and the date, 1790. Afterward, as the years passed, the still knew many owners, mostly unlawful. It won fame, and this saved it from the junk-heap of its fellows, when seized by the Federal officers. Three times, it was even placed on public exhibition. As many, it was stolen by moonshiners. For years now, it had remained in secret. Marshal Stone yearned to recapture the Burns still. There was no reason whatsoever for believing it to be in the possession of Hodges, yet it might as easily be with that desperado as with another. There was at least the 86 possibility. The marshal, as he rode north before the dawn next morning, felt a new kindling of hope. It seemed to him almost certain that the opportunity was at hand to satisfy one ambition at least by putting Hodges behind the bars. For the other, it was on the lap of the gods.
The officer was at pains to use every precaution to avoid being observed while in company with the girl, whom he duly met at the appointed place while the sun was yet low on the eastern horizon. The two made their way with what quiet they could through devious paths to Luffman’s Branch. The dew lay heavy on the laurel leaves of the thickets, and the breeze was perfumed with the penetrant fragrance of many blossoms. The day was thrilling with the matins of the birds. The balsamic air was a wine of life. The rugged mountain peaks seemed to stand as an impregnable barrier against the confusions and evils of the larger world. But the man and the girl recked nought of these things as they went forward, with cautious steps and watchful eyes. They knew that the tranquil scene masked wickedness close by them, which would not hesitate to destroy. The discovery of the marshal in that vicinity would mean for him the bullet of an assassin from out the screen of leaves, and the same fate—or worse—for his companion. The corpses would be lost in the Devil’s Cauldron. Men 87 would whisper grim surmises, and whisper low lest the like come upon them. And that would be all.
They reached the cliff top overlooking the little cañon, and Plutina pointed out the location of the traps on the strip of dry ground below, and the huddles of brush that disguised the buildings of the still. Then, the girl went her way. She had done her part. The man remained to study the scene above for hours through his glasses, and to map out the night’s campaign into the enemy’s country.
A delicate moonlight fell over the mountains, when, in the evening, Stone led his men from the rendezvous at Trap Hill. The six were heavily armed and well mounted. Their course at the outset led them along the Elkin road to Joines’ store, where they swung into the trail over which Zeke and Plutina had walked the day of their parting. The cavalcade rode swiftly. There was no conversation; only the pounding of hoofs and the jangling of accoutrements. When, at last, they reached the edge of the Widow Higgins’ clearing, they turned sharply to the eastward, following the path toward the Cherry Lane post-office. Presently, at a low word of command from the leader, they halted and dismounted. The horses were left to the care of one man in a near-by thicket, and the remainder of the party continued the advance on foot. 88
The marshal, during his watch on the still that day, had planned his attack in every detail. He hoped to make his capture of the gang without unnecessary casualties, for in this particular he had achieved an enviable record, on which he prided himself. At first, he had thought of ascending along the course of Luffman’s Branch, after springing the traps, but had given over the plan as one offering more chance of the raiders being discovered prematurely. Instead, he had decided on taking his men up the mountainside by a round-about route, likely to be free from watchers. His men were already instructed in every point, so now they followed him rapidly and almost noiselessly, as he forced his way through the thick growths of the wooded slopes. The darkness added to the difficulties of the progress, but the posse were inured to hardships, and went onward and upward resolutely. Despite the necessities of the detour, they came surprisingly soon to a height from which they looked across a small ravine to the level space where the still perched by the stream. A few whispered words from the leader, and the company crept with increased care across the ravine. From the ridge beyond, three of the men passed forward to make ambush—one above, and one below, and one on the far side of the still. Stone and a single companion 89 remained, hiding behind the clumps of rhododendrons.
It was with huge satisfaction that the marshal recognized Hodges himself, plainly revealed by the firelight. The “kettle” was running at full blast. The seasoned hickory logs, in the rough stone furnace beneath the kettle, were burning fiercely, and the blue and gold of their flames lighted all the scene into vivid relief against the background of shadows. Stone, even at his distance, could see distinctly the tiny stream of colorless mountain-corn whiskey, as it flowed out from the worm into the keg placed to receive it. The leader of the gang was seated at ease on a stool just outside the brush enclosure that masked the buildings. The villain was evidently in a mood of contentment, untainted by remorse over the havoc his traps might wreak on any passing through the gorge below. Rather, doubtless, the memory of those sinister sentinels gave him a sense of safety, on which his serenity was founded. In his lap was a banjo which he thrummed vigorously, with rhythmic precision, if no greater musical art, and head and body and feet, all gave emphasis to the movement. At intervals, his raucous voice rumbled a snatch of song. It was evident that the moonshiner was mellow from draughts of his own potent product.
Others of the gang were busied here and there, 90 bulking grotesquely as they moved about the fire, seeming disheveled demons of the pit. Like some master imp torturing a pigmy over the flames, old Ben York was kneeling close beside the blaze, holding to the coals a hickory stick, which served as spit for the roasting of a squirrel. The brilliance shone full on the frowsy gray whiskers, and, above them, the blinking, rheumy eyes, so intent on the proper browning of the game. None of the outlaws had a weapon in his grasp—a fact noted with satisfaction by the chief of the raiders, who knew that these men would not scruple against bloodshed to escape arrest. There were arms at hand, of course; Hodges’ rifle was visible, leaning against a ground pine within his reach. But Stone hoped that the surprise would be such that the gang could not avail themselves of their weapons.
Hodges had just completed a strident rendering of “Cripple Crick,” and had thumped out the opening bars of “Short’nin’ Bread,” when the marshal gave the signal for attack—a single flash of his electric torch. In the same second, the raiders’ rifles crashed out. The big bullets struck true to aim in the ground of the open place before the fire. A shower of dirt and pebbles spat back viciously. Some of the flying fragments struck the men, terrifying them with the thought of bullet wounds. Hodges, as the reports sounded, felt the bruise of 91 stones on his bare legs, and shrieked in panic fear. His instinctive recoil carried him over backward, from the stool to the ground. The banjo jangled discordant triumph over his fall. When, dazed by the suddenness of it all, he would have struggled up, he found himself fast in the clutches of two raiders, who locked manacles on his wrists. Stone grunted joyously as he surveyed the captive. The others of the gang, except Ben York, had contrived to slip away into the laurel, whither it would avail nothing to follow them, save useless risk of being killed from ambush. But the marshal cared little for the escape of the lesser malefactors. He had succeeded in taking prisoner the most notorious criminal of the mountains.
Ben York had failed to effect his usual flight, because of being at a disadvantage on his knees. Before he could scramble up for a plunge into the thickets the enemy was upon him. Yet, even in this moment of shock, the old scoundrel’s cunning sought and found a ruse. He stood swaying for seconds, and then tumbled limply headlong to the ground, in a drunkard’s fall, familiar to his muscles by experience through three-score years. So he lay inert, seemingly sodden from the kettle’s brew. His captors, if resolved to hold him prisoner, would be forced to the arduous task of carrying him through the dark, down the rough slopes. It would be 92 strange, he mused complacently, if in the course of the journey, their vigilance did not relax a little. And a very little would suffice him! Then, though to all appearance in a drunken stupor, he sighed. He was unhappily aware that the revenue men would not be gentle in their efforts to arouse him to consciousness. Whether they believed him shamming or not, they would use no doubtful measures. But, whatever might come, he must endure it for the sake of escape.
The raiders realized the need of haste, for they must be done with their work here, and down the steeps of the mountain into the open road, ere the fugitives should have time to arm themselves, and waylay the posse from the thickets. So, with due watchfulness of the two prisoners, the men set about that task of destruction which their duty required. The fermenters, huge tubs holding the mixture of meal, malt and water making ready for the still, received first attention. Since York had fallen before these, the men rolled him roughly to one side, without arousing him to any sign of consciousness. Stone knew the man to be shamming, since there had been no show of even incipient drunkenness before the moment of the raid. He resolved to try a test at least, for he was alert to the hindrance the limp form would prove in the descent of the mountain. He thrust the body forward with his foot, close to one of the great “stands” of the mixture, and bade an appreciative assistant apply the ax to the slippery-elm hoops that bound the staves. As the bands fell and the great volume of liquid gushed forth, the raiders leaped aside from the flood. But York never stirred. The down-rushing tide fell fairly on him, engulfed him. He made no movement, no outcry. Even Stone himself was led to a half-remorseful wonder whether he had been deceived concerning the fellow’s state. Then, after a few seconds, the bald head rose, glistening from the pool of the “beer.” The thin wisps of gray hair hung in dank strings; the jungle of beard seemed strangely thin; there was something curiously unlike Ben York in the lineaments. The marshal guessed that the metamorphosis was wrought by the swirling mess, which had scrubbed the weazened face almost clean for the first time in the memory of living man. As the dilapidated head emerged, it showed the grotesque caricature of a Neptune, whose element was not the waters of ocean, but the shattered hogsheads of “beer.” Even now, however, Ben clung to his rôle. Once his face was clear, he continued to sit placidly, though the surface of the viscous pool was at his neck. For better effect, he blinked vacuously, and gurgled. Perhaps, memory of a bath in infancy inspired him. He had had none since. He beat his 94 scrawny hands in the “beer,” and cackled. It was admirable art, but wasted.
The eight fermenters were broken and emptied, the whiskey stores, both “singlin’s” and “doublin’s,” were poured out on the ground, which drank them as thirstily as did ever law-scorning “boomer.” Then, the raiders turned to the chief spoils, kettle, cap and worm. Stone and his men took the copper worm from the cooling barrel, removed the cap, drew the fire from the furnace, and finally pulled down the kettle. In the varied excitement of the night, the marshal had almost forgotten his second great ambition, in the accomplishment of his first. Almost, not quite. Now, the memory of it jumped within him. He thrust the cap where the glow of the fire would light it clearly, dropped to his knees, and peered closely. His stern face relaxed abruptly to joyousness.
“By the Lord, boys,” he shouted, “it’s the Bobbie Burns’ still!”
Nevertheless, Stone wasted no time in exultation. He merely ordered his men to carry the copper utensils along, instead of destroying them on the spot. Then, he addressed Ben York, who grinned idiotically from toothless gums, where he crouched in the diminishing puddle. The marshal’s voice rasped.
“You’re going with us, Ben. It’s for you to say how. If we have to, we’ll carry you all the 95 way. We’ll snake you down the mountains without being too almighty careful of that rum-tanned hide of yours, and then we’ll sling you across the roughest-gaited horse we’ve got—face down across the saddle and roped snug. That’s the way you’ll do twenty-odd miles, Ben, if we have to tote you down a single rod. Make up your mind—now! It’ll be too late to change it, in a minute. You’re plumb sober, and I know it. Get up, you old fox!”
And Ben York, shivering in his sticky, drenched rags, recognized the inevitable, and scrambled to his feet, snarling curses.
“Hit was thet-thar damned gal!” he mumbled venomously. But none heard.
It is a far cry from the savagery of the illicit mountain still to that consummate luxury of civilization, an ocean-going steam yacht. Yet, in actual space, the distance between these two extremes was not great. The Josephine, all in snowy white, save for the gleam of polished brass-work, and flying the pennant of the New York Yacht Club, glided forth from Norfolk Harbor in serene magnificence on the same day that The Bonita chugged fussily over the same course. The yacht was setting out on the second stage of her leisurely pleasure voyage to Bermuda. The skipper had been instructed to follow the coast southward as far as Frying Pan Shoals, for the sake of rounding Hatteras. Afterward, since the weather grew menacing, the craft continued down the coast to Cape Lookout, where anchor was dropped in the Harbor of Refuge.
The island that lies there is a long, narrow, barren strip of sand, dotted thickly with dunes. Only a coarse marsh grass grows, with dwarfed pines and cedars. In this bleak spot live and thrive droves of wild ponies, of uncertain ancestry. It was these 97 creatures that just now held the attention of two persons on the yacht.
Under the awning in the stern, two girls were chatting as they dawdled over their morning chocolate. The younger and prettier of these was Josephine Blaise, the motherless daughter of the yacht-owner; the other was Florence Marlow, her most intimate friend.
“Dad told me I could have the runabout ashore,” Josephine was saying, with a sudden access of animation. “We’ll go along the beach, as long as the going’s good, or till we scare up the ponies.”
“I do hope we’ll see them digging holes in the sand, so as to get fresh water,” Florence exclaimed.
But Josephine was quick to dissent:
“They don’t dig for water,” she explained, with a superior air. “They dig the holes in the beach when the tides out, and then the tide comes in and fills the holes, of course. When it ebbs, the ponies go around and pick out the fish, and eat them.”
Florence stared disbelievingly.
“Oh, what a whopper!” she cried.
“Captain Hawks told me himself,” Josephine asserted, with confidence. “He knows all about them—he’s seen them wild on the island and tame on the mainland.”
“Same ones, probably!” was the tart retort. “I 98 thought the doctor lied ably, but he’s truth itself compared with that hairy skipper of yours.”
Josephine tossed her head.
“We’ll run ’em down and observe their habits, scientifically, and convince you.”
A glance shoreward showed the car awaiting them. As they descended the ladder to the launch, a yelp sounded from the deck, and a bull-terrier came charging after. Florence regarded the dog without any evidence of pleasure.
“Does the pest go, too?” she asked, resignedly.
Josephine pulled the terrier’s ears fondly, as it cuddled close against her skirt.
“Chubbie deserves an outing after the bump he got from that horrid man yesterday,” she said.
The girls exchanged glances, and laughed over some secret joke. When, presently, they were seated together in the runaabout, with Josephine at the wheel, the bull-terrier squatted in dignity on the small back seat. The level sand formed a perfect roadway, and the car darted smoothly and swiftly between the twin barren spaces of land and sea. As they swept forward, the girls watched alertly for a glimpse of the ponies among the dunes, but there was nowhere any sign of a living thing, save the few hurrying gulls. They had gone perhaps twenty miles, and were beginning to fear disappointment, when, without warning, a drove of 99 the horses came galloping over the crest of a little rise, a half-mile beyond. As the car ran forward, along the ribbon of sand below the higher ground, the ponies suddenly perceived it, and halted with the precision of a troop of cavalry. Near at hand, now, the girls could note details, and both observed with interest the leader, which stood a little in advance of his troop, at the end near the approaching machine. He was a handsome creature, with lines as suavely strong as an Arabian’s. He stood with head held high, tail streaming, a fore-hoof pawing challengingly at the sand. Only the thick, shaggy bay coat showed the barbarian, rather than the thoroughbred. The mares, a score of them in one orderly rank behind him, were crowding and lashing out nervously, as they watched the strange monster racing so fast on the ocean’s edge. Some of them nickered curiously. But the stallion rested silent, until the automobile halted, hardly fifty yards away. Then he tossed his head proudly, and blared a great trumpet-note of defiance. Josephine instinctively answered with the horn. The mechanical cry broke harshly, swelled and wailed. The eerie response terrified the mares; it perplexed and alarmed their lord. But he showed no dismay. For a moment still, he remained motionless. His noisy challenge rang forth once again. Since the invader on the sands below kept silence, nor made any 100 movement toward attack, the leader seemed to feel that his prestige was safe enough; that prudence were now the better part. He sounded a low call, and set off at a gallop along the ridge top. The rank of mares pounded obediently at his heels.
“Oh, after them, Josie!” Florence cried.
In a moment, the car shot forward. The horn clamored again. The fleeing horses looked back, then leaped to new speed before the monster that threatened them with unknown terrors. As the car increased its pace, the ponies strove the harder. Their strides lengthened, quickened. The stunted marsh grass beat on the low bellies. Despite their desperate striving, the runabout drew closer and closer, reached abreast of them. The excitement of the chase was in the sparkling eyes of the girls. The dog, scrambling up and falling in its seat, yelped madly. Here, the beach broadened to a sharper ascent of the ridge. Josephine shifted the wheel. The car swung in a wide curve and drove straight toward the panic-stricken troop, as if it would soar up to them. Fear took pride’s place in the leader’s heart. He sounded a command. The flying drove veered, vanished from the ridge top. The muffled thudding of hoofs came faintly for a minute against the sea wind. Then, as the car came to a standstill, the girls listened, but heard no sound. 101
“It was bully fun!” Josephine said. “I’m sorry it’s over.”
“After that run, they may be thirsty enough to dig for water,” Florence suggested, with a laugh. “Let’s climb up, and take a look round from the ridge.”
But a glance from this point of advantage made it clear that the peculiarities of the ponies in drinking or fishing were not to be explained to-day. They were visible still, to be sure, but a mile off, and the rapidity with which the moving mass diminished to the eye was proof that they were still in panic.
“We might as well get back to the yacht,” was Josephine’s rueful comment. “There’s not another single thing to see, now they’re gone.” She ran her keen gaze over the dreary waste of the island with a little shiver of distaste. Then her glance roved the undulant expanse of sea. She uttered a sharp ejaculation of surprise.
“There is something, after all,” she called out, excitedly. “See—over there!”
Florence looked in the direction marked by the pointing finger.
“It’s a canoe,” she hazarded, as her eyes fell on the object that bobbed lightly in the surf, two hundred yards from the shore. “I can see the man in it. He’s lying down. Funny!” 102
But Josephine, wiser from much experience on shipboard, now saw clearly, and the sight thrilled.
“It’s a life-raft,” she declared, with a tremor in her voice; “and there’s a man on it. It’s a—real—castaway. Come!”
With that, she set off running down the steep slope of the ridge toward the sea. Behind her came Florence, startled and alarmed. The dog barked exultantly once, then leaped ahead, only to return and circle the slower playfellows joyfully. They came to the water’s edge, and halted, perforce. Josephine saw the raft, as it rode on a breaking wave. It was perceptibly nearer. She dared hope it might be brought within reach. With deft motions, the flannel skirt was tucked within her belt, leaving her legs free. Florence, somewhat reluctantly, made the like adjustment. The bull-terrier, disheartened by this immobility, sat on its haunches, and regarded the two doubtfully, perhaps prudishly disapproving. From time to time the raft showed for a few seconds; only to vanish again behind the screen of spume. But it advanced shoreward, steadily. The body of the man was distinct—prone, motionless. The girls watched and waited in palpitant eagerness. The dog, sensing the tension of the moment, began to hasten to and fro, snuffing and whining. Suddenly, the two cried out in the same moment. They saw the raft floating fast and 103 smoothly toward them on the crest of a breaker. They dashed forward, knee-deep, to meet the charge. The huge mass of the wave pounded upon them, almost swept them from their feet. The angry waters boiled about them. It was up to their waists now. The flying spray lashed their faces and blinded them. When, at last, their vision cleared, the raft had vanished. They caught sight of it again, presently. It was floating from them, already fifty yards distant.
Nevertheless, the girls, though discouraged, did not give over their hope of rescue. Not even when another wave thrust the raft fairly upon them, so that their hands clutched the tubes, then tore it ruthlessly from their puny grasp, and flung it afar. The dog, accustomed to sporting in the surf with its mistress, rushed to seize this flotsam, but the powerful jaws could find no hold. As the dog approached, swimming, Josephine put her hand to its collar, and so supported it while they waited anxiously for the raft’s return.
It came more quickly than before. It was, indeed, as if fate finally relented, for the raft was borne this time on a smaller wave, almost with gentleness, as it seemed. Yet, the gentleness of appearance was only mockery. When the two girls laid hands on it with all their strength it swerved violently, wrested itself from their clutch. Josephine cried out 104 in despair. She saw the dog, released by her effort, plunging forward. A rope dragged in the raft’s wake, a remnant of the lashings. The dog lunged viciously, and its jaws locked on the rope. Immediately, then, the bull-terrier began swimming toward the shore. There was no progress. But the going of the raft was momentarily stayed. Josephine saw the opportunity and shrieked to Florence. The two sprang, and caught the raft again. It rested passively in the grasp of the three. The dog continued swimming, its face set resolutely shoreward. The girls, up to their breasts in water, stepped forward, tugging lustily. The three advanced slowly. The raft moved with them.
It was a struggle that taxed the strength of each to the uttermost. Those three puny creatures fighting against the might of the ocean for the body of a dead man! Dead the man seemed, at least, to the girls, who, after one glance into the drawn and ghastly face of their burden, dared not look again. The undertow writhed about their legs, jerked at them wrathfully. Waves crashed upon them with shattering force. Once, Florence was hurled from her footing, but her hands held their grip on the raft. The wrenching shock was sustained by Josephine and the dog. They gave a little, but with fierce, stubborn resistance. Florence regained her feet. The rout was stayed. The pitiful combat between 105 pigmies and Titans was on again. There was good blood in the three. A fighting ancestry had dowered them with the courage that does not know defeat when it is met. Their strength was exhausted. Yet, they battled on. A great comber smashed against them. It snatched the raft from the weakened hold of the girls, threw it far up on the sand. The dog shot in a wide arc through the air. They could hear its grunt as it fell. But the jaws were still locked. In the same instant, the beast was firmly set, hauling at the rope. The raft was held for a little by the dog alone, against the waters as they sucked back. Then, the girls tottered to aid. They fell to their knees in the shallows, and clung frantically. The waves hissed away from them.
They feared the coming of a larger breaker to undo their work. Josephine perceived to her astonishment that the man was not fastened to the raft, except by the vise-like gripping of his big hands. And, too, she saw now that he was living. She guessed that he was stupefied by exhaustion, yet not swooning. She shrieked to him to unclench his fingers. It may be that his dulled brain understood in a measure; it may be that he was come to the very end of his strength. Anyhow, as she put her fingers to his, there was no resistance. The grasp that had withstood the sea’s fury, yielded at once to the soft pressure of her touch. The two girls 106 summoned new energy to the task. The dog let go the rope, and, whining curiously, caught a trouser leg between its teeth, and aided. Somehow, the three contrived to roll and push and pull the inert form to a point of safety. Then, they sank down, panting.
Josephine stirred first. With a gasping sigh, she struggled to a sitting position. The dog at once stood up, and shook itself with great violence. The drops splashed over the face of Florence, and she, in turn, opened her eyes, groaned deeply, and sat up, with a wry smile of discomfort.
“What’ll we do with the corpse?” she inquired, in an undertaker’s best manner.
The funereal suggestion, so sincerely offered, provoked Josephine to a weak peal of laughter.
“Better wait to worry over that till he’s dead,” she answered briskly, if somewhat incoherently. “And he will be, if we don’t watch out. There should be a flask in the motor. Run and get it, Flo. I’ll chafe his hands.”
“Run!” the other exclaimed. “If I can crawl it, I’ll be proud.” Nevertheless, she got to her feet, stiffly, but readily enough. “And sprinkle water on his face,” she called over her shoulder. “It might cheer him anyhow, after having had it all over him by the ton.” Both girls in the first reaction 107 from the stress of their war against death were brimming with joyousness, notwithstanding fatigue.
While Josephine rubbed the rough hands as strongly as she could between her own tender ones, the dog drew near. When the girl looked up, she saw that her pet was licking the man’s face. She called out in sharp rebuke. At the same moment, the castaway’s eyes unclosed. For long seconds, he stared, unblinking. Then, abruptly, his voice sounded in a low drawl of wonder:
“Hit’s thet-thar damned man-faced dawg!”
The castaway’s gaze went to the girl kneeling beside him.
“An’ the furrin woman!” he muttered.
Florence came running with the flask, which was full of brandy.
“Quick!” Josephine urged. “He’s better, but he’s raving crazy. Thinks I’m a foreigner.”
But, as Florence could have filled the cup of the flask, Zeke interposed, with more animation than he had hitherto shown.
“If so be that’s likker, an’ ye ’lows to give hit to me, if hit don’t make no p’tic’lar diff’rence to you-all, I’d like to drink hit right smack outen thet-thar new-fangled bottle, jest as we be a-used to doin’ in the State o’ Wilkes.”
“As you wish, of course,” Florence replied, soothingly. “It will make a new man of you.”
Zeke promptly sat up and put his lips to the mouth of the flask, and held them there while the rhythmic movement of his adam’s apple visibly witnessed thirstiness. The girls regarded him with astonishment, which quickly merged in dismay, for 109 they could not guess the boomer’s capacity for fiery drink. As a matter of fact, Zeke, while he drank, lamented the insipidity of the draught, and sighed for a swig of moonshine to rout the chill in his veins with its fluid flames. He, in turn, was presently to learn, with astonishment, that a beverage so mild to the taste had all the potency of his mountain dram, and more. Chilled as he had been by the long hours of exposure to the night air of the sea, while drifting the fifteen miles from Ocracoke Inlet, and worn in body and mind by the peril of his situation, Zeke found himself almost at once strengthened and cheered by the generous spirit. He was, in fact, another man than the exhausted castaway, as the girl had promised; he was himself again. He was still weak and shaken; but his splendid vitality was asserting itself. The gray, drawn face was colored to golden tan; the clear eyes were shining with new appreciation of the joy of life. He had not thought much after the very first, during those long, racking hours of tossing on the sea. His brain had become numb. His fancies had run to tender memories of moments spent with Plutina. Often, he had felt her presence there with him, in the dark spaces of the sea. But the idea that most dominated his mind had sprung from the lusty instinct of self-preservation; he must cling to the raft. It had been the one thing 110 that he could do toward safety. His whole will had centered in the clutch of his hands on the tubes.
Seeing the man thus recovered, the girls withdrew toward the runabout to adjust their clothing, and to find some garment for the man, since he wore only shirt and trousers. But the bull-terrier, for a wonder, did not follow its mistress. Instead, it sat on its haunches close to the mountaineer, and muzzled his hand. Zeke pulled the dog’s ears gently.
“That thump I gin ye must ’a’ struck plumb down to yer heart, an’ made a right-smart change in yer affections. Ye wa’n’t so dummed friendly when ye tuck thet-thar hunk out o’ my pants.”
The dog whined an answer, and crept fawningly into the mountaineer’s lap, where it nestled contentedly. It was thus that the girls, returning with a rain-coat, found the two, and they stared in surprise, for the bull-terrier was none too amiable with strangers.
“I never knew Chubbie make friends like that before,” Josephine exclaimed. She looked in fresh curiosity upon the wholesome face with the regular features, rather stern in repose, but now softened by a smile. “It must be because he helped us pull you out. We couldn’t have done it without him. That makes you belong to him, in a way.”
Zeke stared at the dog, with new respect. 111
“The darned son of a gun!” he ejaculated, gravely. “I reckon,” he continued after a meditative pause, “the little cuss felt like he owed me somethin’ fer sp’ilin’ my jeans. That crack I gin him put the fear o’ God into his bosom, so to speak. ‘The more ye beat ’em, the better they be.’”
Josephine started at his words. Without a hat, the dark curls had given a look so different to the face that, until now, she had not recognized the man of the ferry-boat.
“Why,” she cried, “you are the one!” She turned to the bewildered Florence. Her blue eyes were flashing; her voice was hard. “He’s the creature that almost killed Chubbie. And to think we troubled to save him!”
“That hell-fired pup o’ your’n took a holt on me first,” Zeke protested wrathfully, forgetful of his reconciliation with the dog. Then, a plaintive whine recalled him. He smiled whimsically, as he patted the bull-terrier’s head, which was lifted toward him fondly. The anger died out of his face, and he smiled. “I’ve hearn these-hyar dumb critters git things ’bout right by instinct, somehow. Yer dawg’s done fergive me. Won’t you-all, mum?”
Josephine hesitated. The ingenuous appeal touched her. Only pride held her from yielding.
“An’, besides,” Zeke went on, “ye was a-sayin’ as how the dawg kind o’ felt I belonged to him like, 112 bein’ he he’ped pull me out o’ the ocean, an’ so he had to like me. Thet-thar argyment goes fer you-all, too, mum. So, I ’low ye gotter fergive me—specially kase yer dawg begun hit.”
Josephine relaxed with a ripple of laughter. The mountaineer both interested and pleased her. To her inevitable interest in one whom she had helped to save from death, there was now added a personal attraction. She perceived, with astonishment, that this was by no means the hulking brute she had deemed him when her pet had suffered at his hands. The dog’s attitude toward him impressed her deeply. Moreover, she saw that he was intelligent, as well as naïve. She perceived that he had humor and quickness of feeling. His responsiveness to the dog’s advances pleased her. She was greedy of experience and knowledge, easily bored by familiar things, likely to be vastly interested, for a brief season, in the new and strange. She realized that here, ready to her hand, was a type wholly novel. She felt that it was her prerogative to understand something of the nature of this singular being thus cast at her feet by fate. Certainly, it would be absurd to cherish any rancor. As he had said, the dog’s action sufficed. Besides, she must be friendly if she would learn concerning this personality. Every reason justified inclination. She rebelled no 113 longer. Her blue eyes gleamed with genuine kindliness, as she spoke:
“I’ll take Chubbie’s word for it.” Her voice became authoritative. “Now, if you feel equal to standing up, we’ll have this rain-coat on you, and then run you down to the yacht. We’ll attend to landing you somewhere after you’ve rested and had something to eat.”
Already Josephine’s brain was busy, scheming to her own ends, but of this she gave no hint.
Zeke pushed away the reluctant dog, and rose up stiffly. The stimulation of the brandy stood him in good stead.
“I ’low I’m havin’ a right-smart lot of experience,” he remarked, chuckling. “What with steam-cars, an’ boats, an’ wrecks, an’ now one o’ them ornery devil-wagons. I hain’t a-feared none,” he added, musingly, “but I hain’t a-pinin’ neither. I reckon I kin stand anythin’ what gals an’ a dog kin. I’m plumb nervous or hungry—I don’t know which. Both, like’s not!”
He rejected the offer of support, and walked firmly enough to the machine, which he eyed distrustfully. Florence took the rear seat, and Zeke established himself beside Josephine, the dog between his feet. After the first few minutes, he found himself delighting in this smooth, silent rush over the white sands. In answer to Josephine’s question, he gave 114 a bare outline of his adventures in the three days of his absence from the mountains.
“I was a-hankerin’ arter experience,” he concluded, “an’ aimin’ to make my everlastin’ fortin. I been doin’ pretty peart, so fer.”
“You’ve certainly had more than your share of experience in the time,” Josephine agreed; “though I don’t know about the fortune.”
“Started right-smack off at the rate of more’n seventy-five thousand dollars a year,” Zeke rejoined, complacently. He laughed joyously at the bewildered face the girl turned to him.
“I done figured hit out las’ night, not havin’ much of anythin’ to do on thet-thar raft, ’cept to stick.” He gave an account of the capture of the negro outlaw, for which he had received a reward. “I’m only a-jokin’, of course,” he went on with new seriousness. “I hain’t pinin’ fer no foolishness. All I want is enough so’s not to be hog-pore. An’ I got a chance to learn somethin’, an’ to make somethin’, an’, arter all, go right on livin’ in my own country. An’ that’s what Plutiny wants, too. An’ I’ll have enough to buy her straighteners, if she wants ’em, by cracky!”
“Oh—straighteners?” Josephine repeated, mystified. Vague memories of a visit to a hospital suggested an explanation. “Then, this person you speak of, Plutina, is deformed?” 115
“Deformed!” For an instant, Zeke could only repeat the word, helplessly.
“A curvature of the spine, I suppose,” Josephine continued, without interest. She had her eyes on the ribbon of sand now, and guessed nothing as to her companion’s disturbance, until his voice came in a burst of protest that made her jump.
“Plutiny—deformed!” he exclaimed, harshly. Then, his voice softened wonderfully, though it shook with the tensity of his feeling. “Why, Plutiny’s better’n anybody else in all the world—she is, an’ she looks hit. Plutiny—deformed! Why, my Plutiny’s straight as thet-thar young pine tree atop Bull Head Mounting. An’ she’s as easy an’ graceful to bend an’ move as the alders along Thunder Branch. There hain’t nary other woman in all the world to ekal my Plutiny. Plutiny—deformed! Why, mum, you-all talk plumb foolish.”
The girl was too astonished before this outburst to take offense.
“But you spoke about straighteners for her,” she protested.
Zeke stared for a moment, then grinned understandingly.
“Thet’s what we-uns call ’em,” he said. “You-all call ’em corsets.”
Yet, the effect of this conversation reached beyond the humorous. In some subtle fashion, it 116 provoked the girl to keener interest in the young man. She was perhaps, though she would have denied the suggestion hotly, a little piqued by the exaltation with which he praised his rustic sweetheart. Josephine was an exceedingly attractive young woman, and she was accustomed to having men show their appreciation of the fact. It was new to her thus essentially to be ignored, and not quite agreeable. There could be no tender interest between herself and this handsome barbarian. The idea even of flirtation was quite inconceivable. Nevertheless, it was strange that he should be so imperceptive of her charms. Doubtless, his eyes were blind to the refinements of beauty. They should be opened. It would be dreadful if the fellow should grow away from the girl who was waiting for him. And yet—Josephine checked her thoughts, and blushed a little. But a plan matured.
That plan was followed diplomatically when she secured a private interview with her father, after the return on board the yacht.
“Daddy, dear,” she said, with a manner as casual as she could contrive, “let’s keep this Mister Higgins on board. He’s bound for New York, but in no particular hurry. We’ll get him there in about ten days.”
Mr. Blaise, who was a plethoric, fussy little man, adamant to all the world save his only child, 117 regarded her now in perplexity, his shrewd eyes a bit mischievous.
“I don’t imagine it’s to be the stereotyped romance, just because you dragged him out of the sea,” he said. “The chap has the makings of considerable of a man in him, and he’s good-looking enough to catch a girl’s fancy; but he’s not your sort. So, why?”
“Besides,” Josephine retorted, smiling, “Florence has the same right in him as treasure trove. That would make the romance too complicated.”
“Why?” Mr. Blaise repeated.
“I’ve never met anyone like him,” the girl explained, with truth, if not all the truth. “He’s unique. I want to study him. Such knowledge is broadening—better than books.”
“Bosh!” was the comment. “You mean, he’s just a freak to you, and you’d like to look him over a little longer. There’s no harm in that, if it amuses you. But don’t be silly about broadening yourself.” He regarded his daughter critically. “And leave out the deserts. They’re too broadening, if you like. You’re getting plump.”
Josephine accepted this meekly, in her satisfaction over having her way as to the new guest.
“I’ll go and invite him, right away,” she exclaimed. “He’ll liven us up.”
But her father wrinkled his brows in doubt.
“What about the effect on the young fellow, himself?” 118 he demanded. “It can’t do him any good, Josie. That sort of thing’s unsettling, you know.”
Josephine attempted no reply, as she went on her way. Her father could not see the flush that touched her cheeks.
Through such devious ways did it come to pass that the mountaineer entered a world of which he had never even dreamed. His own complete ignorance of social conditions prevented him from appreciating the marvel wrought by fate in his behalf. In the simplicity of his character, he accepted the change as a perfectly natural event in the world that he had set out to explore. It was this simplicity, which kept him from undue self-consciousness, that carried him safely through what must otherwise have been an ordeal. He accepted what had befallen thankfully, and sought to learn what he best might from the novel environment. His interest was conspicuously in others, not in himself. He was greedy of information, lavish in liking. By a benign miracle, there were no snobs in the yachting party, which included also two young men, and two of the owner’s age, besides Josephine’s aunt. This chaperon was a motherly soul, and, in sheer kindliness of heart did much to make the situation easy. The informality of the party, too, was a tremendous advantage to the young man, though he never guessed it. On the contrary, he accepted 119 things as they were enthusiastically, with never a thought of dismay. In flannels loaned him by the largest guest, which fitted too snugly, he presented an appearance so excellent that Mr. Blaise was moved to pinch his daughter’s ear, while reminding her of the stereotyped romance.
Such was the cause of Plutina’s wearisome waiting for the letter that did not come. Zeke found, to his distress, too late that an interval of a week or more must elapse before a letter posted in Bermuda could possibly reach the mountains. But, beyond that, there was nothing to disturb the girl who loved him. The heart of the lad amid the luxuries of life on the yacht was unchanged in its devotion. It was, indeed, as if he saw all things as a frame for her. He was forever thinking how Plutina would look here or there, in connection with this or the other. The gowns of the three women, were viewed critically in relation to the mountain girl. He would imagine her loveliness enhanced by the sheen of silk, by the films of lace, by the lusters of jewels. Josephine thought once when she appeared in a dainty evening frock, not too daring, that she had penetrated his armor of aloofness, for he blushed hotly as his eyes went to her neck, and his gaze fell. She was deceived. He remembered in that moment, how he had once kissed the soft whiteness of Plutina’s throat, where the homespun gown lay open. 120 Now, memory of the warm bliss of that kiss sent the blood racing and tingling.
That self-deception was as near as Josephine ever came to triumph.
Florence understood, to some extent, at least, the mood that influenced her friend. A feminine intuition inspired in her a like ambition to pierce this young savage’s reserve. Through her own feeling, she readily divined that of Josephine. Thus, the two became unconfessed allies in the employment of their wiles against an unsuspecting victim. It was, indeed, the lack of suspicion on his part that irritated them to the point of exasperation. He was so utterly innocent of their manoeuvers against his peace! Both of the girls were attractive beyond the average. Josephine, a plump blonde, ingenuous of manner, sophisticated, capricious, yet not spoiled, egotistic, but winsome, full of electric vitality; Florence, taller and darker, with an air more sedate, yet doubtless capable of deeper and more enduring emotions. Each possessed excellent features, and the fascinations of radiant health, sufficient culture, and the most exquisite refinements of personal detail. They deserved the humble admiration of any man. They expected tender adulation from most, and from most they received it. At the outset a certain impassivity on the part of this wild mountaineer excited their astonishment, then, quickly, 121 their dissatisfaction. They were moved to a caprice against his calm, against this indifference that was an affront. They had no wish to work him serious harm, but his disregard was intolerable. Since the heart of neither was engaged, there was no jealousy between them in the affair. Since each was secretly ashamed of her motives, there was no confidence between them.
Their failure, in the lazy days and evenings of voyaging and of rambling in the Bermudan islands, was undeniable. It was the more aggravating since the young man patently admired them. Even, his admiration was excessive, almost reverential, at times. Yet, it was altogether impersonal. They came eventually to know that this mountaineer regarded them with warm friendliness, with a lively gratitude, with a devoted respect, with a certain veneration. But that was all. No dart from their quiver of charms touched to the passionate heart of him—nor ever could. From whichever side the shafts were thrown, always they were shattered against a white shield, and fell harmless. That shield was Plutina.
One night, as the yacht neared New York, Josephine and Zeke sat together, watching the scud of clouds across the moon. The mountaineer spoke softly, after an interval of silence. 122
“The clouds is runnin’ thar jest as I’ve seen ’em lookin’ out across the valley from Stone Mounting—with Plutiny.” There was a caress in his voice.
Josephine checked an ejaculation of impatience. The savage was incorrigible—quite! Him, and his everlasting Plutina! Perverse curiosity overcame discretion. Perhaps, too, after all, he only needed guidance. She tried to believe, though vainly, that only shyness prevented him from improving an opportunity any other man would have coveted.
“Tell me,” she said softly, with a sympathetic lure in her tones, “is Plutina so very beautiful?”
The lure was effective. Zeke turned to her with the hazel eyes darkly luminous in the moonlight.
“Tiny’s beautiful,” he answered tenderly; and there was music now in the slow drawl. “I ’low she’s the most beautiful woman in the world.”
“I’m afraid you’re prejudiced,” Josephine objected, with a disarming laugh. “Of course, you ought to think so, but, really you know, you haven’t quite seen all the beautiful women in the world. Now, have you?”
“All I need to,” was the confident assurance. “Why,” he continued with an apologetic smile for his boldness. “I done seen you-all, Miss Blaise, an’ 123 I reckon you-all are about as beautiful as a woman kin be—’ceptin’ Plutina.”
The tribute was potent from its very unexpectedness. It eased the chagrin from which vanity had suffered. Evidently, her charms were not disregarded. It was simply that this lover had given his heart, and that he was loyal. The girl sighed a little enviously at the realization. She knew too well that many, perhaps most, in her world were not loyal, even when their hearts were given. She wondered if, in truth, there awaited her the boon of a like faithfulness. Yet she persevered in her probing.
“Out in the world,” she said musingly, “where things are so different from up in your mountains, you may change. It may be you won’t want to go back, to the hills—to Plutina.”
A flush of wrath burned in Zeke’s cheeks, visible in the gloom.
“Hit ain’t fittin’ fer you-all to say no such thing, Miss Blaise. But I kin fergive ye, kase ye hain’t seen our mountings. They hain’t no other place more beautiful. Mister Sutton done told me so, an’ he’s been all over the hull world. An’, besides, hit’s home. A man what don’t love his home country better’n any other—why, mum, he’s jest a plain skunk.... An’ Plutiny, she’s the best part o’ 124 home. There hain’t no land so beautiful, nor no woman. No, mum, I sha’n’t change—never! I kain’t!”
And Josephine knew that it was so, and once again she sighed.