CHAPTER IXLifting the Yoke
Paul Waffingtoninhaled deep draughts of the crisp night air as he ascended the mountainside, and was refreshed. He had been glad to greet the folk of the little village after two long years of absence. Especially glad to learn of the sticking qualities of Miss Emeline Hobbs and the prosperity of the little Sunday-school. With all this he had been in some degree satisfied. But there was one thing still for which he had a longing desire to know, and that one thing was, how went life with Gena Filson. Well, he soon would know, and with renewed energy he mended his pace up the mountainside. Half way up, he stopped and looked down at the little village in the dark valley. Some two or three faint flickering lights was all that could be made out. The laboring men of the mountains retire early and arise early. Not all the fathers of the Blood Camp neighborhood idled away their time. Many of them were logmen—men who felled trees the long day through, winter and summer alike, others yoked together the oxen and “snaked in” the logs from the mountain coves so they could be loaded on the wagons and hauled away to the markets. But, by this hour, the oxen had been given his fodder, each workman had sat at his humble board and partaken of his portion, and now man and beast had gone to his bed that he might find rest. Under the shining heaven’s blue Paul Waffington stood upon the mountain’s side and reflected upon it all. A single light was now burningin Blood Camp. He watched its faint glow—it flickered now and went out—Blood Camp is at rest.
“What if old Jase should resent this visit?” he thought, as he resumed his journey. Well, old Jase had invited him in the first place to visit his home. It was not a late hour—7:30 o’clock. Rather a seasonable hour for a summer night’s call, he thought. And, further, it was perfectly proper for him to accept the invitation and pay his respects to Jase Dillenburger and his adopted daughter.
But what could he do for Gena Filson? If Jase were willing he might assist her to a scholarship in some college of music. She had gone to the public schools until her thirteenth year, but that was little indeed. Then her own mother had been a Pennsylvania school-teacher and had taught her little daughter much at home. She had once even said that she was fond of music. Now, if old Jase were willing, he might do something to help her to get a musical education. But, aye, would the old mountaineer let her go, if the college were found, board provided and tuition—and all paid? Would he be willing to let her go at any price? Would he ever let her go beyond the neighborhood of Blood Camp, for any reason? Well, at all events, thought Paul Waffington, he would do the best that he could for her. “Eat the best first” was the maxim of Boaz Honeycutt, and Paul Waffington decided that he would “do the best first” for Gena Filson. In fact, he meant to adopt the maxim of Boaz Honeycutt in many things hereafter. He had resolved to have the best first in all his work henceforth.
The parting words of old Professor Goff in the college classroom came to him clear and plain:
“As you go out into life, remember, Paul, my boy, that every man is a sculptor. Remember, that the stones whichyou are carving are the people with whom you come in contact. Each deed and act are strokes upon the chisel which you will hold. Some strokes upon the chisel will deface the stone for time. Other strokes will polish, and carve beauty and character. Hold your chisel at such an angle and apply such strokes, my boy, as will bring polish to the stones and happiness to the world.”
These grand words were ringing in his ears tonight, as he put out his hand and turned the latch in the gate in front of Jase Dillenburger’s cabin. At the first click of the latch, the great watch-dog flew down through the yard with a vicious look. But Paul Waffington had had experience with dogs before. Bringing his tact quickly into play, he saluted the great mastiff with a low, gentle whistle, and they were friends at once, without a single bark from the dog. He wished to give old Jase and Gena a complete surprise tonight. Then, too, he was fearful, if the dog should give warning, that old Jase might mistake him for an officer of the law and shoot him on the spot. How he would surprise them, he thought at last! Would not Gena be glad to see him after more than a year of absence? Then what would he find her doing? Perhaps reading to her foster-father from some cast-off weekly paper that Slade Pemberton had given Jase. Maybe she was singing some hymn that she had recently learned in the Sunday-school.
He walked lightly up to the door and put his hand out to knock——
“What’s that?” he said under his breath.
“You aint no account. Your old sorry daddy before you warn’t no account. He warn’t nothin’ but a cold black murderer. That’s what he wuz, an’ he died in the pen, ter boot! But you’re mine by law, an’ you’ve got to do as I say. You aint apayin’ fur the salt ’at goes inyer bread. Sick? Sick nothin’. Git outen that bed. I’ll let you know when ter go ter bed.”
Paul Waffington stood at the cabin door and heard it all. He swallowed down a great lump that came up in his throat, and his heart thumped against his breast loud and fast. He clinched his fists and shoved them deep down into his coat pockets, and listened again. His ears caught the begging cry and pleading of the girl as she lay upon her hard bunk.
“I’m so sick, daddy Jase. I’m so sick, daddy Jase. I can’t get up. I can’t get up, daddy Jase. Oh, my dear mamma, if you would only come back and take me away!” was the final cry that came so feebly from the feverish lips.
The old mountaineer’s voice grew louder and more furious, and then Paul Waffington heard distinctly the stroke——!!! The door flew open as if a bolt of lightning had struck it as Paul Waffington went through.
“Hold on there, Jase Dillenburger, hold on there! Don’t you strike her again, don’t, don’t, don’t you strike her again, I say. Yes, I know that you can kill me. You can shoot me on the spot. But, Jase Dillenburger, don’t you forget to calculate that if I come up missing I have two brothers back in the Kentucky valley that will hunt you down like the stealthy fox that you are. They will scour this continent for your shaggy head—aye, they will drag the sea for your bones. Don’t you strike—don’t, don’t. If I were not a gentleman and a Christian I would say to you, begone to your place, you imp of Satan, and I would punctuate it with this,” and he shot out his athletic fist like an iron shaft within an inch of old Jase Dillenburger’s nose and held it there, glaring into the beady-black eyes of his savage enemy without a tremor. For a moment they both stood glaring at each other. Then, quick as a flash, Paul Waffington flew to the bunk,snatched the sick girl in his arms and cleared the door, crouching as he went, expecting to be shot with old Jase’s deadly gun.
He evidently had judged his man aright. As he cleared the door old Jase reached for his gun, with which to bring down his man. But as the hammer of his gun came back, strong arms wound around him, steel bands snapped together over his wrists, and before he could collect his mind three men had their hands upon him, and the spokesman of the three was no other than the old fiddler himself.
“In the name of the President and the United States, I arrest you, Jason Dillenburger,” said the fiddler, at the same time exhibiting the badge of a United States revenue officer.
Ten minutes after the handcuffs had snapped together around the wrists of Jase Dillenburger Paul Waffington had placed Gena Filson between clean, white sheets on a bed in the home of Emeline Hobbs. The people of Blood Camp were stirred and seemed conscious of some great change taking place in some inexplainable way, hence it was but a few minutes until the little house of Emeline Hobbs was running over with frightened people.
As the night wore on, some of the people returned to the others were told the story of the flight, and were requested not to insist on going into the sick-room, for the sake of the sick one. Men stood about in groups and shook their heads while women spoke out boldly and pitied Paul Waffington, for they were constrained to believe that Jase Dillenburger would be on the trail of him within an hour, and when found would shoot him down.
As the night wore on, some of the people returned to their homes, others hung about the sick-room at a safe distance to see if Jase Dillenburger would appear. Byand by, word was passed out from the sick-room that Gena Filson was burning up with a dreadful fever and that she was then delirious. It was certain now that some grave sickness was upon her. Paul Waffington sought out Fen Green, and asked him if he would venture to make the twelve miles through the dark night and the gorge for the doctor.
“Fenton, I want you to bring the doctor when you return without fail. Gena is burning up with fever, and is delirious. Make all the speed that you possibly can, Fenton,” was the request of Waffington.
“I’ll bring ’im. Don’t you never doubt but what I’ll bring ’im. I’ll bring ’im, dead or alive, shore’s my name is Fen Green,” and into the dark and dangerous gorge he turned his horse at a fast gallop.
Every living soul in Blood Camp was up before the sun on the following morning. They wished to get a start with the sun and see what new things the day would bring forth.
Not long after the store had opened for the day, a wagon drew up in which were seated the old fiddler, Jase Dillenburger and two guards. All the fathers of Blood Camp had gathered at the store to see the going away of their neighbor Jason Dillenburger in the company of an officer of the law.
“Boys, the next time a man comes into your neighborhood fiddling free, be careful,” said Bull Jones, the fiddler. “I’ve not fiddled here for more than a solid year for nothing, boys. I didn’t go out here on the hills during the long summer days and plough and hoe corn with no expectation of receiving a reward in the end. I’ve milked every cow in the neighborhood, hoed most of the gardens, planted sugar-cane and played the fiddle in the store there by the week. Remember, boys, that somebodyalways has the fiddler to pay. Good-bye, boys, and good luck,” and the officer gave the signal to start.
Old Jase had sat still and sullen throughout it all. He had been arrested by an officer of the law for moonshining, counterfeiting and several other violations. He knew that he would now go to prison for a long term of years, however light the sentence might be. He knew, too, that he was old and that he would never live to serve out his time and return to Blood Camp. Therefore, as the wagon moved away, he turned his great shaggy head and looked at Fen Green standing on the store platform and called out:
“Fen, don’t fergit, thet I want ye to have Genie, Christmas, ef she don’t die.”
The shock of the arrest and the presence of an officer in her home was too much for the little stout wife of old Jase. Consequently, she gathered up a few of her choicest belongings in a red tablecloth, threw the bundle over her shoulder, and made her way back across the mighty Snake back to her “people” on the Catawba.
“Never liked to live thar, a day of the thirty year nohow,” she said.
Many long, weary weeks went by at Blood Camp. Paul Waffington, Fen Green and Emeline Hobbs watched over the sufferer day and night with never a murmur. Each day, each night, the faithful Waffington had followed the old doctor to the gate and asked him the same question:
“How is the patient, doctor?”
Each time in reply the old doctor had shook his head. Business was hard pressing him to return to his Knoxville home, but he remained at the bedside of the sufferer. Then, too, he had failed to make his annual visit back to Kentucky to see the home folks. He had duly written to his mother that she might know the reason of hisdelay. But tonight he has received a letter from her that burns him:
“Hazel Green, Ky., July 4th, 19—.“Dearest Paul:“We are all deeply disappointed to learn that you will not come home this summer. Your two brothers, your little sister and your father, too, have all made mention of it and expressed disappointment. I fear that you are unwell—and are doing too much.“We have looked forward with delight to the time when you would come and make us all so happy.“Your little schoolmate, Imogene, inquires about you most every week—and, Paul, she has grown so beautiful during the past year.“Your dear father is not well, and your sister says to tell you to come home soon. I miss you so much, my boy.“Let no one, nothing, come between us, dear son, and may Heaven bless my boy.“Your devotedMother.”
“Hazel Green, Ky., July 4th, 19—.
“Dearest Paul:
“We are all deeply disappointed to learn that you will not come home this summer. Your two brothers, your little sister and your father, too, have all made mention of it and expressed disappointment. I fear that you are unwell—and are doing too much.
“We have looked forward with delight to the time when you would come and make us all so happy.
“Your little schoolmate, Imogene, inquires about you most every week—and, Paul, she has grown so beautiful during the past year.
“Your dear father is not well, and your sister says to tell you to come home soon. I miss you so much, my boy.
“Let no one, nothing, come between us, dear son, and may Heaven bless my boy.
“Your devotedMother.”
He read the letter again. Getting up he studied the ground between his feet for an answer. Then looking up, he kissed the little note, put it into his pocket and walked away towards the sick-room.
“Yes, I will go. But—not—now,” he said, as he went.