Uncle Dick, as he was universally known in the mountains, had celebrated his eightieth birthday before his granddaughters, Plutina and Alvira, by leaping high in the air, and knocking his heels together three times before returning to the ground. There was, in fact, no evidence of decrepitude anywhere about him. The thatch of coal-black hair was only moderately streaked with gray, and it streamed in profuse ringlets to his shoulders. His black eyes were still keen; the leathery face, with its imperious features, was ruddy. He carried his six-foot-three of bone and muscle lightly.
As of the body, so of the heart. The springs of feeling in him showed no signs of drying up. On the contrary, they threatened to gush forth in a new flood over the Widow Brown, on whose plump prettiness, hardly dimmed by her three-score years, he looked with appreciative and ardent eyes. Indeed, his conduct justified the womenfolk of his household in apprehensions, for witness to the seriousness of the affair was afforded the morning 126 after the raid on Dan Hodges’ still. He demanded of Alvira that she burn the grease from an old skillet with great care.
“If they’s a mite of hit, hit makes a scum, an’ floats off the gold on hit,” he explained.
The sisters regarded each other in consternation, but forebore questioning. When he had mounted his mare, and ridden away, Plutina spoke with bitterness:
“I reckon Mis’ Higgins done hit the nail on the haid ’bout Gran’pap an’ the Widder Brown.”
Alvira nodded.
“Yep. Hit means business, shore, if he’s a-gallavantin’ over to Pleasant Valley to pan gold. Hit means he’s aimin’ to marry her.” She waxed scornful, with the intolerance of her sixteen years. “Hit’s plumb ridic’lous—at his age.”
“Seems like he was ’most ole enough to git sense,” Plutina agreed.
“Mebby we’re mistook ’bout his intentions,” Alvira suggested, hopefully. “O’ course, he git’s a heap of enjoyment settin’ to Widder Brown. But he hain’t got to be plumb foolish, an’ marry her. I guess as how hit’s fer you-all he’s arter the gold kase Zeke’ll be comin’ home by-’n’-bye.”
Plutina shook her head dubiously. It was the custom of the lover himself to seek, in the gold-bearing sands of the tiny mountain stream to the 127 west, for the grains from which to fashion a ring for his sweetheart. Many a wife of the neighborhood wore such proudly on forefinger or thumb. The old man was not fond enough of toil to undertake the slow washing out of gold there unless for a selfish sentimental reason. And her fears were confirmed that afternoon by Zeke’s mother whom she visited.
“They hain’t nary chance to save him no more,” the old woman averred, lugubriously. “Hit’s allus been said hyarbouts as how a feller allus gits his gal shore, if he pans her a ring in Pleasant Valley.”
“Huh—girl!” quoth Plutina.
Yet this amorous affair was of small moment just now to the granddaughter, though she voluntarily occupied her thoughts with it. She hoped thus to keep in the background of her mind the many fears that threatened peace, by reason of her part in the night’s work. She knew that she could trust the secrecy of Marshal Stone, but there was the possibility of discovery in some manner unforeseen. There was even the chance that suspicion against her had been aroused in Ben York. She could not bear to contemplate what must follow should her betrayal of the still become known. It was a relief to be certain that the two men she chiefly dreaded would be in jail, and unable personally to wreak vengeance. It was improbable, she thought, that persons so notorious and so detested could secure 128 bail. But, even with them out of the way, the case would be disastrous on account of her grandfather’s hatred of the revenue officers, and more especially, of those among his own people guilty of the baseness of informing. Should her deed come to his knowledge, it would mean tragedy. She dreaded the hour when he should hear of the raid, and was glad that he had gone away, for in all likelihood he would have the news before his return and the first shock of it would have passed.... So it fell out.
Uncle Dick rode briskly toward the little stream that tumbles down the mountain west of Air Bellows Gap, where long ago men washed for gold in feverish desire of wealth. Now, none sought a fortune in the branch grit, where a day’s labor at best could yield no more than a dollar or two in gold. Only devoted swains, like himself, hied them there to win wherewithal for a bauble with which to speed their wooing. Uncle Dick chose a favorable spot, and washed steadily until the blackened old copper skillet itself shone like the flecks of gold he sought. When he ceased he had a generous pinch of the precious dust carefully disposed in a vial. He hid the skillet to serve another day, and set out on his return. Before he crossed Garden Greek, a neighbor, whom he met on the trail, told him of the raid. Eager for all particulars, Uncle Dick turned his mount into the high road, and hurried to Joines’ 129 store. The single-footing mare carried him quickly to this place of assembly for neighborhood gossip, where he found more than the usual number gathered, drawn by excitement over the raid. The company was in a mixed mood, in which traditional enmity against the “revenuers” warred against personal rejoicing over the fate fallen on Dan Hodges, whom they hated and feared. From the garrulous circle of his acquaintance, Uncle Dick speedily learned the history of the night. The account was interrupted by the coming of a clerk to the store door. He waved his hand toward the group on the steps to command attention.
“You, Uncle Dick!” he called. “No’th Wilkesboro’ wants ye on the telephone.”
Wondering mightily at the unexpected summons, the old man hurried to the instrument.
“Hello! Hello!” he roared, in a voice to be heard across the miles.
“Be that you-all, Uncle Dick?” the question came thinly.
“Yep. Who be you?”
“Hit’s Dan Hodges. I reckon you-all done hearn ’bout last night.”
“Yep. I shore have hearn a heap,” Uncle Dick acquiesced, sourly. “I tole ye to quit, the officers air gittin’ so a’mightly peart. They hain’t no more chance fer a good set o’ men to make a run—to say 130 nothin’ of a wuthless gang like your’n.... What ye want o’ me?”
The reply was explicit enough.
“The hearin’ ’s to-morrer ’fore the United States Commissioner. Marshal Stone says the bail’ll be two thousand dollars, cash or land. They hain’t nobody kin put hit up, ’cept you-all, Uncle Dick. An’, if ye don’t, Ben an’ me’ll have to lay in jail till Fall. If ye’ll he’p me, Uncle Dick, ye know Dan Hodges won’t never fail ye.”
“That’s what I’m afeared on,” Uncle Dick retorted, glumly. “I ’most know ’twas you-all an’ yer gang kilt thet-thar heifer o’ mine in cold blood. Now, the ole man ye’ve treated dirt is yer las’ chance. Wall, cuss ye! I’ll come down t’-morrer an’ bail ye out—not kase I love ye any, but kase I’m again the revenuers. An’ listen ’ere! I’m some old, but I’m some spry yit, ye bet! You-all stop round these parts whar I kin keep an eye on ye till Fall Cote. If ye don’t, damn ye!—wall, my ole rifle’s bright an’ ’iled, an’ I’ll git ye! Jest remember thet, Dan Hodges: I’ll git ye!” And with this grim warning, Uncle Dick slammed the receiver on its hook, and stalked out of the store.
On the following day, he journeyed duly to North Wilkesboro’, where, despite the protest of his lawyer, he put up his land as security for the appearance of the two malefactors. Uncle Dick was a 131 consistent conservative. Had the accident of birth made him an English squire, he would have been a stanch Tory, would have held the King’s commission on the bench of justices, and would have administered the penalties of the law with exceeding severity against poachers. Having been born in the Blue Ridge Mountains, he staked his property in behalf of two scoundrels, for the sake of an inherited feud against the Federal authority.
Nevertheless, his personal distrust of the men he had thus relieved was made manifest when, immediately after the commitment of the two before the Commissioner, he betook himself to a hardware store, where he bought a forty-one caliber Colt’s revolver, with a holster and a box of cartridges. He had given up the habitual carrying of weapons on his seventy-fifth birthday, as unseemly and unnecessary for one of his patriarchal years. Now, he reverted to the use as a measure of prudence.
“The damned dawg’s done me dirt, an’ he hain’t above doin’ hit ag’in,” he muttered, as he strapped the holster beneath his left arm.
To his womankind, Uncle Dick spoke of the affair casually, concealing his apprehensions. Neither of the granddaughters ventured remonstrance, though Alvira’s pretty face was mutinous, and Plutina felt a sickening sense of calamity rushing upon her. It seemed to her the irony of fate that 132 her own relation should thus interfere to render abortive the effect she had risked so much to secure. She realized, with a shrinking misery, that the sufferers from her act were now at liberty to inflict vengeance upon her, should suspicion be born in them. For the first time in her life, Plutina experienced a feminine cowardice, bewailing her helplessness. There was none to whom she might turn for counsel; none, even, in whom she might confide. It was no mere chimera of fear that beset her. She was far too sensible and too strong for hysterical imaginings. But she knew that her peril was real and grave. In the face of it, she felt suddenly a new longing for the absent lover. Hitherto, her fondness had been tender and passionate, touched with the maternal protectiveness that is instinctive in every woman. Now, a new desire of him leaped in her. She yearned for rest on his bosom, secure within the shelter of his arms, there to pour forth all the story of her trouble, there to hear his voice of consolation, there to be at peace. She touched the fairy crystal that lay between her breasts, and she smiled, very sadly, and very wistfully.
“Zeke will shorely come,” she whispered, “if I need him—bad enough.”
There was a tremor in her voice, but it was not of doubt.
Early in the morning following his trip to North Wilkesboro’ Uncle Dick Siddon rode off to Pleasant Valley, there to prosecute his sentimental labors for the pleasuring of the Widow Brown. Alvira fared abroad on some errand to a neighboring cabin. Plutina, her usual richness of coloring dimmed by a troubled night, was left alone. In the mid-forenoon she was sitting on the porch, busy over a pan of beans, which she was stringing for dinner. As she chanced to raise her eyes, she saw Dan Hodges coming up the path. At sight of the evil lowering face, repulsion flared hot in the girl. The instinct of flight was strong, but her good sense forbade it. She felt a stirring of unfamiliar terror in the presence of the man. She scorned herself for the weakness, but it persisted. Her very fear dictated the counsels of prudence. She believed that in dissimulation lay her only possibility of safety. The thought of any intercourse with the moonshiner was unspeakably repugnant, yet she dared not risk needless offense. Nevertheless, the first effect of her resolve was a self-contempt that 134 moved her to wrath, and made her opening speech more venomous even than it had been otherwise.
“Howdy, my little honey?” Hodges called out as he shambled to a halt before her. His coarse features writhed in a simper that intensified their ugliness. His coveting of this woman was suddenly magnified by sight of her loveliness, flawless in the brilliant light. The blood-shot eyes darted luxuriously over the curving graces beneath the scant homespun garment.
The girl sensed the insult of the man’s regard. It, rather than the insolent familiarity of address, provoked her outburst.
“Shet yer mouth, Dan Hodges,” she snapped. “I’ve done told ye afore, ye kain’t ‘honey’ me. If ye wants to pass the time o’ day, jest don’t fergit as how hit’s Miss Plutiny fer you-all.”
Hodges gaped bewilderedly under the rebuke. Then he growled defiantly.
“Wall, I’ll be dogged! Quite some spit-fire, hain’t ye? Reckon I know what’s a-bitin on ye. Ye’re mad kase Uncle Dick tuk the mounting land ye gals look to heir to, to bail me and Ben.” He stared at the girl ominously, with drawn brows. His voice was guttural with threatening. “So be ye mout hev to eat them words o’ your’n. Mebby, when I’ve done tole ye a thing er two, ye’ll be a-askin’ of me to call ye ‘honey.’ Mebby, ye’ll want to hover yer ole ‘hon,’ arter I let’s ye know a thing or two ’bout the doin’s o’ you-all an’ thet damned little runt, thet reportin’ dawg sweetheart o’ your’n—Zeke Higgins.”
The girl was stricken. She understood the outlaw’s reference. Somehow he had gained certain knowledge of Zeke’s part in saving the Quaker-school-teacher spy. She realized that the criminal gang would not hesitate at the murder of one who had thus foiled them. For the moment, she gave no heed to the danger that menaced herself as well. Her whole concern was for her lover. The single comfort came from the fact of his absence. Much as she had been longing for his coming, her prayer now was that he should not return until these men were imprisoned.
With a fierce effort toward bravery in the face of catastrophe, Plutina stood up, and drew herself proudly erect. Her dark eyes flashed wrathfully. She spoke with disdain:
“Ye wouldn’t dast say that to Zeke Higgins’ teeth. Mebby, he hain’t so thick through as you-all, and he hain’t so thick-headed, nuther. An’ he hain’t no runt, as ye’d find quick ’nuf, if so be’s ye dast stand up to him, man to man, ’stid o’ with a gun from the laurel. He’s a man—what you-all hain’t. He hain’t the kind to layway from the bushes, ner to be a-stealin’ his neighbor’s cattle an’ hawgs. An’ 136 what’s more Dan Hodges, ef ye say as how Zeke ever reported ary still, ye’re a hell-bustin’ liar!”
Her jibes were powerless against the coarse-fibered brute. He grinned malevolently as he jeered at her.
“Thar, now! Hain’t it a pity to have a sweetheart what hain’t brave ’nuf to stand ’is ground, an’ runs off, an’ leaves ’is gal to fit fer ’im.” Then, abruptly, the moonshiner’s expression changed to one meant to be ingratiating. “Wall, now, Miss Plutiny, I shore likes the way ye stan’s up fer the pore cuss. But, arter all, hes’ done up and left ye. An’ he hain’t comin’ back. Hit wouldn’t be healthy fer him to come back,” he added, savagely. “An’ what’s more, ye hain’t a-gwine to jine ’im whar he’s at. The Hodges’ crowd won’t stan’ fer no sech! He’s been writ, Zeke Higgins has, with the sign o’ the skull an’ the cross—the hull thing. Ye know what thet means, I reckon.”
Plutina blenched, and seated herself again, weakly. It was true, she knew the fantastic rigmarole, which made absurd the secret dictates of these illiterate desperadoes. But that absurdity meant death, none the less—death for the one she loved. In her misery, she listened almost apathetically as Hodges went on talking in his heavy, grating voice.
“Zeke Higgins knows as how the Allens give us 137 the word ’bout ’is crossin’ Bull Head with the spy. He knows thet, if ’e shows up in this-hyar kentry ag’in, the Devil’s Pot’ll have ’im fer a b’ilin’. An’ thet’s ’nuf fer Zeke’s case. Now, we’ll jest chin a mite ’bout your’n.”
There was a little interval of silence, in which the girl stared unseeingly toward the splendors of the blossoming rhododendrons that fringed the clearing. The apathy had passed now, and she listened intently, with self-control to mask the despair that welled in her heart. It seemed to her that here was the need for that dissimulation she had promised herself—need of it for life’s sake, however hateful it might be, however revolting to her every instinct. So she listened in a seeming of white calm, while the flames shriveled her soul.
The man straightened his great bulk a little, and regarded the girl with new earnestness. Into his speech crept a rude eloquence, for he voiced a sincere passion, though debased by his inherent bestiality.
“Plutiny Siddon, I’ve knowed ye, an’ I’ve craved ye, this many year. Some way, hit just seemed as how I couldn’t he’p hit. The more ye mistreated me, the more I wanted ye. Hit shames me, but hit’s true as preachin’. An’ hit’s true yit—even arter seein’ yer bare futprint tracks thar on the Branch, alongside them of a man with shoes—the 138 damned revenuer what got us. Ye showed ’im the place, Plutiny Siddon—cuss ye, fer a spy!... An’ I craves ye jest the same.... An’ I’ll have ye—right soon!”
At this saying, terror mounted high in the girl. The thing she so dreaded was come to pass. She forgot, for a few moments, the threats against her lover. Despair crushed her in the realization of discovery. Her treachery was known to the man she feared. The peril she had voluntarily risked was fallen upon her. She was helpless, at the mercy of the criminal she had betrayed—and she knew that there was no mercy in him. She shrank physically, as under a blow, and sat huddled a little, in a sudden weakness of body under the soul’s torment. Yet she listened with desperate intentness, as Hodges went on speaking. She cast one timid glance toward him, then dropped her gaze, revolted at the grotesque grimaces writhen by the man’s emotions.
“Harkin to me, Miss Plutiny!” he pleaded, huskily. “Harkin to me! I knows what I’m a-doin’ of. They hain’t nothin’ ye kin do to stop me. Kase why? Wall, if ye love yer gran’pap, ye’ll hold yer tongue ’bout all my talk. Yep! He’s done pledged his land to keep me an’ Ben out o’ the jail-house till cote. If ye tells ’im I’m a-misusin’ o’ ye, he’d cancel the bond, an’ try to deliver me up. I knows all thet. But he wouldn’t cancel no bond, an’ no more 139 he wouldn’t do any deliverin’ o’ me up. Kase why? Kase he’d jest nacherly die fust. Thet’s why. The land’d be good fer the bond jest the same till Fall. Thet’d give me an’ Ben a heap o’ time to git ready to light out o’ this-hyar kentry. They hain’t nary pusson a-goin’ to bother us none. They knows hit’s healthier a-mindin’ their own business. I been dodgin’ revenuers fifteen year, an’ I’ll dodge ag’in, an’ take my savin’s along, too. An’ they’s quite some savin’s, Plutiny.”
Hodges paused, as if to give greater impressiveness to the conclusion of his harangue. His voice as he continued held a note of savage finality.
“So, ye understand, Plutiny, I hain’t afeared none arter what I done told ye’ll happen, if so be ye talk. I knows ye love yer gran’pap, an’ hain’t a hankerin’ fer ’im to be murdered. Now, I’m gwine to leave ye till t’-morrer, to git kind o’ used to the idee as how ye’re gwine to leave this-hyar kentry with me arter I pays yer gran’pap the money fer the bail. If you-all is so plumb foolish as to say no, hit ’ll jest leave yerself an’ yer kin in the hands o’ we boys to reckon with. Do as I’m a-sayin’ on, an’ I’ll shore fergit ’bout yer reportin’ the still. I’ll jest ’low to myself as how ye was only a gal, an’ used damn’ poor jedgment. I hold hit were powerful unkind o’ you-all, seein’ as how we-uns hain’t never wronged ye none. I suspicion ye had 140 hit figgered out as how Zeke could come back ’ere a’gin if ye had me kotched. Wall, little missy, Dan Hodges air jest a mite too cunnin’ fer ye.” The boaster gloated over his cowering victim, malice sparkling in his lustful eyes.
It seemed to the girl that she was in truth hopelessly ensnared by fate. Her harried thoughts ran in a circle, dizzily. She could find no loophole for escape from the net. The mesh of the outlaw’s deviltry was strong; her flutterings were feeble, futile. She found one ray of comfort in Zeke’s absence. She forgot it in distress for the danger to her grandfather. Then, horror for herself beat upon her spirit. But a memory of her first resolve came to her. From stark necessity, she put her whole reliance on an effort to temporize. She felt that her only recourse in this emergency must lie in deceiving the ruffian who thus beset her. Much as she abhorred him, she had no choice. There was none to whom she could appeal for succor. She must depend absolutely upon her ability to beguile him. She must hide the revulsion inspired by his mere presence. She must arm herself with the world-old weapons of her sex, and by wiles blind him to the truth of her feeling, gain time for—something, anything! At least here was room for hope, uncertain, absurd even, yet hope. A little 141 color crept to her pallid cheeks. If she could but manage the deceit to secure delay until the Fall.
She raised her eyes furtively toward the adversary, an appraising glance, as if to judge his gullibility. The brutish passion of the man showed in the pendulous lower lip, thrust forward a little, in the swinish lifting of the wide-flaring nostrils, in the humid glowing of the inflamed eyes. A nausea of disgust swept over her. She fought it down. Then, with hypocrisy that amazed herself, she met his ardent stare boldly, though with a pretense of timidity. She spoke with a hesitant, remonstrant voice, as if in half-hearted protest,
“Hit’s dangerous to talk hyar, Dan,” she said. She assumed a pose of coquetry. “If I agrees to save Gran’pap an’ ’is land, an’ takes ye, have ye got money ’nough fer us to git along among the furriners down below?” A pleased smile showed. “An’ could ye buy me purty clo’s an’ sech-like? Don’t ye dast lie to me, Dan Hodges, fer a woman wants plenty o’ nice fixin’s. An’ if ye means hit all, like ye says, I’ll meet ye at Holloman Gate t’-morrer at twelve, an’ give ye yes er no.”
The moonshiner received with complacence this evidence of yielding on the girl’s part. He had, indeed, the vanity that usually characterizes the criminal. It was inconceivable to his egotism that he 142 must be odious to any decent woman. Plutina’s avaricious stipulation concerning money pleased him as a display of feminine shrewdness. He was in nowise offended. The women of his more intimate acquaintance did not scruple to bargain their charms. From such trollops, he gained his estimate of the sex. The sordid pretense by Plutina completed his delusion. The truckling of familiars had inflated conceit. He swelled visibly. The finest girl in the mountains was ready to drop into his arms! Passion drove him toward her.
Plutina raised her hand in an authoritative gesture. She could feign much, but to endure a caress from the creature was impossible. Somehow, by some secret force in the gesture, his advance was checked, he knew not why.
“Not now, Dan,” she exclaimed, sharply. She added a lie, in extenuation of the refusal: “Alviry’s in the house. Besides, I got to have time to think, like ye said. But I’ll be at the gate t’-morrer.”
Hodges accepted her decree amiably enough. He was still flattered by her complaisant attitude toward his wooing.
“Ye’re talkin’ sense, Plutiny—the kind I likes to hear. I’ll be thar, waitin’ fer ye, ye kin bet on thet.” Then his natural truculence showed again in a parting admonition: “An’ don’t you-all try fer to play 143 Dan Hodges fer a fool. If so be ye does, ye’ll wish to God ye hadn’t.”
With the threat, he turned and went lumbering down the path, to vanish quickly within the shadows of the wood.
After his day of toil in Pleasant Valley, Uncle Dick Siddon sprawled at ease on the porch, smoking his pipe, and watching with mildly sentimental eyes the rosy hues of the cloud masses that crowned Stone Mountain. His mood was tranquilly amorous. The vial in his pocket was full of golden grains. Presently, he would fashion a ring. Then, heigh-ho for the parson! He smiled contentedly over his vision of the buxom Widow Brown. Her placid charms would soothe his declining years. A tempestuous passion would be unbecoming at his age. But the companionship of this gentle and agreeable woman would be both fitting and pleasant. Really, Uncle Dick mused, it was time he settled down. One should be sedate at eighty. But he sighed.
A horseman appeared over the brow of the hill. The horse traveled slowly, as if wearied by many miles. A single glance at the erect, soldierly figure made known to Uncle Dick that this was a stranger, and he watched intently. As the rider came nearer, he hesitated, then guided his mount toward the 145 clearing. Uncle Dick perceived, of a sudden, that the left sleeve of the stranger’s coat, which was pinned across the breast, was empty. At the sight, a great sadness fell on him. He guessed the identity of the horseman. His soul was filled with mourning over a shattered romance. He fairly winced as the rider drew rein before him, with a cheery, “Howdy?”
There was a curious constraint in Uncle Dick’s voice, as he made hospitable answer.
“Howdy, yerse’f, Stranger? ’Light, an’ come in.”
“I hain’t time to ’light,” the traveler declared. “Jones is my name. What mout your’n be?”
Uncle Dick descended the steps, regarding the visitor intently. There was a perceptible aloofness in his manner, though no lack of courtesy.
“My name passes fer Siddon. I ’low ye hain’t familiar round these-hyar parts?”
“I’m right-smart strange, I reckon,” was the admission. “But I was borned forty-mile south o’ here, on the Yadkin. My father owned the place Daniel Boone lived when he sickened o’ this-hyar kentry, kase it wa’n’t wild ’nough. I’m kin ter Boone’s woman—Bryant strain—raised ’twixt this-hyar creek an’ Air Bellows.”
“Wall, say ye so!” Uncle Dick exclaimed, heartily. “Why, I knowed ye when ye was a boy. You-all’s 146 pap used to buy wool, an’ my pap tuk me with ’im to the Boone place with ’is Spring shearin’. Thet makes we-uns some sort o’ kin. Ye’d better ’light an’ take a leetle breathin’ spell. A drink o’ my ole brandy might cheer ye. An’ ye know,” he concluded, with a quick hardening of his tones, “hit’s customary to know a stranger’s business up in these-hyar mountings.”
The horseman took no offense.
“I rid up to the balcony jest to make inquiry ’bout a friend what I hain’t seed in a right-smart bit, an’ who I learnt was a-livin’ a lonely widder’s life on Guarding Creek. Could you-all direct me to the abode o’ one Widder Brown? I hev some private an’ pussonal business with the widder. Hit’s a kind what don’t consarn nary human critter but me an’ her.”
Uncle Dick sought no further for information, but issued the requested direction, and moodily watched the horseman out of sight. Then, with a sigh that was very like a groan, he moved away toward a small outbuilding, in which was a forge. Here when he had set the forge glowing, he took from his pocket the vial of gold dust, and emptied the contents into a ladle. When the metal was melted, he poured off the dross, and proceeded to hammer the ingot into a broad band. Eventually, he succeeded in forming a massive ring of the virgin 147 gold. But, throughout the prosecution of the task, there was none of that fond elation which had upborne him during the hours while he gathered the material. On the contrary, his shaggy brows were drawn in a frown of disappointment. He cursed below his breath from time to time, with pointed references to one-armed veterans, who dast come back when they hadn’t orter. He was still in a saddened and rebellious mood, when he returned to the porch, where he found his granddaughters seated at some sewing. His face lightened a little at sight of them.
“Guess I got my han’s full ’nough o’ women-folks, anyhow,” he muttered. “Fine gals they be, too!” He regarded them attentively, with a new pride of possession. “I ’low I hain’t a-kickin’ much of any. I reckon like ’nough I be settled down right now, only I didn’t know ’nough to know it.” He chuckled over this conceit, as he seated himself, and became uncommonly sociable, somewhat to the distress of Plutina, who found it difficult to conceal her anxiety.
Dusk was falling when the horseman reappeared. This time there was no hesitation, as he turned from the road into the clearing. Uncle Dick rose, and shouted greeting, with labored facetiousness.
“Wall, Mister Jones, I ’lowed as how ye mout be the tax-collector, arter the widder’s mite, seein’ 148 how long ye was a-hangin’ on up thar. Me an’ the gals’d feel a right-smart consarn to lose Fanny Brown fer a neighbor, if she was pushed too hard fer her debts.”
“Mister Siddon, suh,” the stranger answered promptly. “I opine you-all hain’t half-bad at a guess. I be a tax-collector, so to speak, a debt-collector. Hit’s a debt contracted fifty-year agone. Fanny Brown done tole me as how you-all been good neighbors o’ her’n, so I don’t mind tellin’ ye she’s willin’ fer me to collect thet-thar debt o’ mine.” There was an expression of vast complacency on the veteran’s face, as he stroked the tuft of whisker on his chin, and he smiled on his three auditors half-triumphantly, half-shamefacedly. “I got cheated o’ her oncet by being too slow. I hain’t goin’ to do no sech foolishness ag’in. T’-morrer, if the clerk’s office is open, I’ll git the satisfaction piece an’ Preacher Roberts’ll tie the knot good and proper—amen!”
Uncle Dick sighed audibly at the announcement, but his chagrin was given no further expression as he invited the victorious rival to dismount and partake of his hospitality. Alvira received the news with bubbling delight, which showed gaily in her sparkling black eyes and dimpling cheeks. Even Plutina was heartened by the discovery that her grandfather’s folly, as she deemed it, must end, 149 though there could be no gladness in her by reason of the fear.
It was after the supper was done, when the visitor’s horse stood at the door, that Uncle Dick took a sudden resolve.
“Alviry,” he ordered, “you-all come hold this-hyar hoss, a leetle minute, whilst me an’ ’im has a confab.”
He led the puzzled veteran to a bench beneath a locust, out of earshot of his granddaughters, who regarded the proceeding curiously, and not without apprehension since they knew the violent temper of the old man when thwarted. They were relieved to perceive that his demeanor remained altogether peaceable.
“Hit’s jest this-away, Seth Jones,” Uncle Dick began at once, after the two were seated side by side on the bench. “Ye see, I knew you-all, an’ yer name an’ yer business, soon’s I sot eyes on ye. Hit were thet-thar danglin’ sleeve o’ your’n as ye rid up the path what done hit. I knowed then as how my fate was sealed, s’ fur’s the Widder Brown’s consarned. Fanny done told me about you-all an’ yer disapp’intment. She allers said, arter her man died, as how ye’d be a-comin’ ’long, though I was hopin’ ye wouldn’t—cuss ye! Excuse me—no offense intended. The widder an’ me has been clost friends, an’ I told her from the first as how I respected the 150 claims of this-hyar Jones galoot, if so be he turned up afore we got hitched. An’ now hyar ye be—dang hit!”
The veteran cleared his throat apologetically. His own happiness made him exaggerate the injury thus wrought by his reappearance. He ventured no remark, however. He could not say that the woman in the case was hardly worth troubling over, and, for the life of him, he could think of nothing else in the way of consolation. He discreetly cleared his throat a second time, and maintained a masterly silence. But the garrulous old man at his side needed no encouragement. He quickly resumed his discourse, with a certain unctuous enjoyment, distinctly inconsistent with his love-lorn pose.
“Seth Jones,” he announced solemnly, “if you-all an’ me was young ag’in, an’ fired by the passion o’ youth, thar wouldn’t be no love-feast hyar jest now like this un. No, sirree! Hit’d shore be war a-twixt we-uns—with hell a-poppin’ at the end on’t fer one, mebby both. But my blood don’t git het up now the way hit use’ to did. I’m thinkin’ fer the widder’s sake hit’s good ye’re younger ner me, an’ got more years to give ’er. So, Mr. Jones, when all’s said an’ done, I’m glad ye come to Guarding Creek.”
Then, Uncle Dick, in his turn, displayed some 151 slight symptoms of embarrassment, and cleared his throat in a manner to shock a drawing-room.
“An’ now I got jest one leetle favor to ax o’ ye, Seth Jones. You-all knows as how the gals in this-hyar kentry air partic’lar proud to have a weddin’ ring made from the gold washed out o’ the soil in Pleasant Valley by their sweetheart. Wall, I talked a heap ’bout hit to Fanny, an’, when she showed signs like she’d give in to me, I went an’ panned the gold fer the ring. Fanny’d be right-smart disapp’inted not to have a lover-made ring, I reckon. So, bein’ as you-all only got one arm, I wants ye to take this-hyar ring, an’ wed her proper with the blessin’ an’ best wishes o’ Uncle Dick Siddon.”
He offered the ring, which was gratefully accepted, and the two old men parted on excellent terms.
At eleven o’clock the next morning, Uncle Dick was sitting on the porch, when he saw a horse passing over the trail toward the south. In the saddle was the erect, spruce figure of the one-armed veteran, Seth Jones. And, on a blanket strapped behind the saddle to serve as pillion, rode a woman, with her arms clasped around the man’s waist. It was the Widow Brown, dressed all in gala white.
It was, indeed, heigh-ho for the parson!
Uncle Dick stared fixedly until the two had vanished 152 beyond the brow of the hill. Then, at last, he stirred, and his eyes roved over his home and its surroundings wistfully. He sighed heavily. But he himself would have been hard put to it to tell whether that sigh held more of regret, or of relief.
While her grandfather was still on the porch, and her sister was out of the house, Plutina possessed herself of the new revolver, with its holster, which, after slipping down her gown from the shoulder, she attached under the left arm-pit. The looseness of the ill-fitting garment concealed the weapon effectually enough. For ready access, the upper buttons to the throat were left unfastened, in seeming relief against the heat of midday. Thus equipped, the girl stole out through the back way, unobserved by her relations, to keep tryst with the desperado.
As she followed a blind trail that shortened the distance between the Siddon cabin and the Holloman Gate to a short two miles, Plutina was torturing a brain already overtaxed in the effort to devise some means whereby she might wreck the projects of the villain, without at the same time bringing ruin on herself, or those she loved. Always, however, her thoughts went spinning toward the same vortex of destruction. She could, indeed, contrive nothing better than the policy of cajolery on which 154 she had first determined, and to this course, as it seemed to her, she must cling, though her good sense was well advised of its futility. She knew that a scoundrel of Hodges unrestrained passions could not long be held from his infamous purposes by any art of hers. At the best, she might hope perhaps to delay the catastrophe only by hours. In her discouraged state, she admitted that it would be quite impossible to restrain him until the law should come to her aid. She was determined none the less to employ every resource at her command, in order to postpone decisive action. One thing was at once her chief reliance and her chief source of fear: the outlaw’s passion for her. In his brutal fashion, the man loved her. That fact gave her power over him, even while it exposed her to the worst peril at his hands.
The presence of the revolver comforted her mightily. From time to time, she moved her right hand stealthily across her bosom, to reassure a failing courage by feeling the stiff leather of the holster under the gown. She was experienced in the use of weapons. Her rifle had often contributed to the cabin larder. Muscles that knew no tremor and a just eye had given her a skill in marksmanship much beyond the average, even in this region where firearms were forever in the hands of the men, and familiar to the women. Once, her moving fingers 155 felt the little bag hanging from its leathern thong about her neck, in which was the fairy crystal. The hardness of her expression vanished on the instant, and in its stead was a wonderful tenderness. A world of yearning shone in the dark lustres of the eyes, and the curving lips drooped in pathetic wistfulness. Her soul went out toward the distant lover in a very frenzy of desire. She felt the longing well in her, a craving so agonized that nothing else mattered, neither life nor death. Had the power been hers then, she would have summoned him across the void. The loneliness was a visible, tangible monster, beating in upon her, crushing her with hideous, remorseless strength. Her man must come back!
It was the mood of a moment, no more. Even as she thrilled with the anguished longing she lifted her eyes, and halted, aghast at the scene before her. There, close at hand to the southeast, Stone Mountain upreared its huge and rugged bulk. It loomed implacable, with the naked cliffs staring grotesquely. It overhung her like immutable fate, silent, pitiless. There was sinister significance in its aspect, for just before her lay the cavernous shadows of the Devil’s Cauldron. The girl’s gaze went to the verge of the precipice far above. It followed down the wild tumblings of the little stream, fed from lofty springs. It descended in 156 the last long leap of the waters into the churning pool. And she had a vision of the man she loved, bound, and helpless—dead perhaps, shot from behind—and now thrust out from the verge into the abyss, to go hurtling into the mist-wreathed depths.... No, Zeke must not come back. The hardness crept again into her face, as she went forward. She held her eyes averted from that gruesome cavern high in the mountain’s face.
The girl came soon to the Holloman Gate, which swung across the trail near the west end of the mountain. Tall poplars and spruce made an ample shade, but a glance toward the sun showed it at the zenith. She was prompt to the rendezvous; it was the lover who was laggard. She wondered a little at that, but with no lightening of her mood. She was sure that he would come all too speedily. She stood waiting in misery, leaning listlessly against the fence, her gaze downcast. The geranium blossoms touched the sward richly with color; the rhododendrons flaunted the loveliness of their flowering round about the spot. A delicate medley of birds’ songs throbbed from out the thickets; a tiny stream purled over its pebbled bed in the ravine that entrenched the trail. Plutina gave no heed. She saw and she heard, but, in this hour, she was without response to any charm of sight or of sound. Yet, that she was alert was proven presently, for 157 her ear caught the faint crackle of a twig snapping. It was a little way off—somewhere along the line of the brush-grown fence, on the same side of the trail. She peered steadily in the direction of the noise. When her eyes became accustomed to the shadows, she made out the figure of a man, crouched in a corner of the fence, behind the screen of a bush. He was no more than three or four rods from her. She was sure even that she recognized him—Gary Hawks, one of the most vicious of the Hodges gang, but notorious for cowardice. She was puzzled for only a moment by the presence of the fellow. Then, she realized that he doubtless was acting under his leader’s orders. It was another menace against her own safety. The fingers of her hand went once again for encouragement to the holster beneath her arm.
Plutina gave no sign that she had discovered the lurking man’s presence. But, after a minute, she retraced her steps a little way along the trail, until she came to a point where there was a clear space on either side, which was out of hearing from the fence line. She had scarcely reached the place, when Hodges appeared, his bare feet trudging swiftly. His head, too, was bare. In the hollow of his left arm lay the long rifle. He was approaching from the east, and halted at the gate, without having observed the girl beyond it. He whistled a 158 soft note as a signal if she should be anywhere about.
Plutina called out softly in answer.
“Hyar, Dan!” As he looked toward her, she beckoned him to approach.
Hodges shook his head in dissent, and, by a gesture, bade her come to him. But, when she showed no sign of obeying, he moved forward, scowling, ferociously. The girl seemed undaunted. She spoke curtly in rebuke:
“’Pears to me, Dan Hodges, like ye hain’t very prompt, seein’ as how I’ve been a-waiting hyar a quarter-hour fer ye. When a man loves a gal, he gen’rally gits to the place sot ahead o’ her. Ye hain’t a-startin’ right to win me, Dan, an’ so I’m a-tellin’ ye fair.”
“You-all orter have more sense than hang out hyar in the sun. Come back to the gate, under the shade o’ the sarvis bushes.” He turned away, but paused as the girl made no movement to follow. “What in hell’s the matter on ye?” he demanded, angrily. “This place in the rud hain’t fitten fer talk, nohow.”
“Hit’s fitten ’nough fer me,” Plutina retorted, quietly. A mellow laugh sounded. “Seems to me this-hyar bright sunshine orter warm yer love up some, Dan. We’ll stay hyar, I reckon. I’m afeared 159 o’ snakes an’ eavesdroppers an’ sech critters thar in the shade.”
The man was racked by many emotions. He had come swiftly under the hot sun, and the haste and the heat had irritated him. The sight of the girl moved him to fierce passion of desire. He was aflame with eagerness to take her within his arms, there where were the cool shadows. Her indifference to his command exasperated him; her final refusal infuriated him. In the rush of feeling he lost what little judgment he might otherwise have had. He had meant to placate her by a temporary gentleness, to be offset by future brutalities. Now, in his rage, he forgot discretion under the pricking of lawless impulse. He reached out and dropped a huge hand on Plutina’s shoulder, and twisted her about with a strength she was powerless to resist. The clutch of his fingers cut cruelly into her flesh, firm though it was, and she winced. He grinned malevolently.
“Git back thar as I done tol’ ye,” he rasped; “afore ye git wuss.”
With a deft twist of the body, Plutina stood free. The face, which had paled, flushed darkly. The eyes blazed. The head was uplifted in scorn. Her aspect awed the man, and he hesitated, gaping at her. Yet her voice was very soft when she spoke. The 160 tone surprised her listener, rendered him strangely uneasy, for some reason he could not understand.
“Thet ten minutes ye was late was more’n I had need fer, Dan Hodges,” she said. “I promised ye yer answer hyar, an’ I’m a-goin’ to give hit to ye right now.”
She lifted an arm, and pointed to where the Devil’s Cauldron blotched the cliffs of the mountainside ... It was her left arm that she lifted.
“Look, Dan! See thet-thar big hole in the wall. I been a-lookin’ at hit, Dan. I ’low you-all don’t dast look at hit. Mebby ye’re afeared o’ seein’ the bones o’ them hit holds—bones o’ dead men—what you-all an’ yer gang hev kilt an’ slid into the pot, to lie hid till Jedgment. Hit’s thar ye’re aimin’ to put my Zeke. Why, a haar o’ his head’s wuth more’n the hull caboodle of sech murderers as yew be.”
She stepped closer to the outlaw, and spoke with unleashed hate. He flinched at the change.
“I was skeered o’ ye back thar on the piazzy yist’-day, an’ I lied to ye, kase I was skeered. I wasn’t a-likin’ the look in them pig eyes o’ your’n. An’ I was a-feared o’ Gran’pap’s hearin’ how I reported the still. Wall, now I hain’t skeered no more. I promised ye yer answer at the gate. We’ll move over thar, an’ I’ll keep my promise.”
Before he could guess her purpose, before he 161 could shift the rifle from the hollow of his arm, the fingers of Plutina’s right hand had slipped within the open bodice. The Colt’s flashed in the sunlight. The level barrel lay motionless, in deadly readiness. For the girl, though not yet quite sure, was almost sure that she would kill Dan Hodges.
The idea had not come to her until this meeting. In all the racking hours of thought, this simple solution of the difficulty had never entered her mind. Now, at its coming, she welcomed it with infinite relief. It offered a means of escape so simple and so sure—escape for herself and for those she loved. It was the touch of the man that had wrought the miracle of revolt. She had felt herself polluted by the contact. On the instant, the hypocrisy of cajoling was no longer possible. But there was more in the effect than that. The savagery of the outlaw aroused the savagery in her. She became, in the twinkling of an eye, the primitive woman. There was little in the sentiment of her people to dam the outburst. Her kin had followed the lex talionis. They had killed their fellows for the sake of their proper pride. The blood-feud was familiar to her, and she knew no shame in it. Why should she not slay this creature who outraged her self-respect, who threatened her every hope? Her finger on the trigger of the revolver tensed ever so slightly.
The man felt the vibration of her impulse and 162 cringed. He was in a daze before this violence of attack, where he had expected only supine yielding. In his creed, the beating of women marked manliness. The drabs he had caressed crept and fawned under his blows, like whipped curs. He could not realize this challenge by the girl with his own method of might. But he saw clearly enough through the haze of fear that the blue barrel was trained exactly upon him, that the slim hand held it rigid, and he knew that, in this instant, he was very, very close to death. The red of his face changed to a mottled purple. He felt himself trembling.
Plutina perceived the abject terror of the man. It mitigated her wrath with scorn, and so saved him for the moment. She cried out to him fiercely, her voice rough with abhorrence.
“To the gate fer yer answer, ye cowardly houn’. Move quick, er I’ll drap ye in yer tracks, ye murderin’ wolf. Do as I say!”
She moved another step toward him. Her voice rose shrill:
“Drap thet rifle-gun!”
The weapon slipped from Hodges’ nerveless fingers, and fell on the turf with a soft thud.
“Put up yer han’s!”
Cowed, the man thrust his long arms to their length above his head. 163
“Now, turn round, an’ march to the gate!”
There was no faltering in the obedience.
The hulking bully knew that he was in mortal peril. For his life’s sake, he dared neither word nor gesture of resistance to the girl’s will. His only hope was that the hidden ally might somehow come to his aid. But the hope was feeble. He knew the other’s craven spirit.
Plutina, too, knew it. As she drove her captive to the gate, she peered, and saw the crouching figure still in the shadows behind the bush. The Colt’s cracked. Even as Hodges shuddered, imagining the tearing of the bullet through his own flesh, there came a shriek of pain from beyond him. The hidden man leaped forth, his right arm dangling clumsily. He scrambled into the cover of the spruces and vanished. The noises of his flight lessened, died.
“I’ve scotched a snake,” Plutina said, malignantly. “Hit’s about time to kill the dawg, I reckon. Turn round.” Then, when he had obeyed, she went on speaking. “Now, hyar at the gate, I’ll tell ye somethin’. You-all ’lowed ye could git me with money. If ye had all they is in the world, hit wouldn’t be enough. An’ ye thought I tuk money fer reportin’ the still. Wall, I didn’t. I reported thet-thar still o’ your’n kase I seed ye a-settin’ 164 b’ar-traps fer humans, an’ hit made me hate ye even wuss ’n I done hated ye afore.”
Somehow, the flame of her fury was dying. The girl felt this, and bitterly resented it, yet she was powerless. It seemed to her that with all the strength of her nature she was desirous of killing this enemy. He stood cowering before her in dread. Her finger on the trigger needed only the slightest flexing to speed the death he merited. And, for some occult reason, the will to slay failed her. She was enraged against her own weakness of resolve. Nevertheless, she was helpless. Her mood had reached its climax in the impulsive wounding of the other man. Now, her blood was losing its fever. With the slowing pulse, the softer instincts prevailed to thwart her purpose. Despite an anguished eagerness, she could not kill this trembling wretch. She loathed her frailty, even as she yielded to it. She must let him go unscathed, a foe the more dangerous after this humiliation. Of no use to threaten him, to extort promises. There was no truth in him. He must be left free to work what evil he would. Oh, if only the wrath in her had not died too soon!
“Put yer han’s down, an’ march up the trail,” she commanded, presently. Her voice was lifeless. The man drew new hope from the quality of it. He ventured no resistance to the command, but 165 went padding softly through the dust. Behind him, Plutina followed, her bare feet padding an echo. Her right hand hung at her side, but it retained the revolver, ready for instant use. As she came to Hodges’ rifle, she picked it up, and threw it far down into the ravine. At the clattering noise of its fall, the outlaw started, but he did not pause in his stride, or turn. The girl’s whole soul was convulsed with longing that he should make some effort of revolt—anything. Then, she would shoot and kill—oh, so gladly!
But the instinct to live guided the man. He trudged meekly. There was no excuse against him. So, they came at last near to the Siddon clearing, where a little path ran through the wood toward the house. Here, Plutina paused, without a word. She was ashamed of herself, grievously ashamed of this softness of fiber that had spared a life. Without a word, she watched him pass along the trail, up the slope, and out of sight beyond. Her face was drawn and white, and the great eyes were brooding with bitterness, when, finally, she stirred, and moved forward in the path. She slipped the revolver into its holster. Then, her fingers went to the bag that held the fairy cross to her breast. She fondled it tenderly. She was longing as never before for the giver of the talisman.