Behind them was the very hound of the devil, cursing and swearing uproariously. Every curse was an avowed vengeance, every breath foretold the death of someone. The murderous black eyes of the mountain wolf gazed on, the steel-like paws of the forest lion tore the earth where he lay, the savage instinct of an untamed Indian of primeval days filled his blood. The heart of the most ferocious beast was encased within his bosom, and vengeance, sweet vengeance, was his insistent cry. He rose from the earth where Jack Wade had laid him with that powerful blow of his heavy fist, snorted like a hyena, shook his fist tragically after Wade and Nora, then crouched as a panther when about to spring upon an unsuspecting victim or an awaiting foe, leaped high into the air, and, yelling like a Comanche on the war-path, darted like a frightened hare down the mountain side in the direction whence he came, spitting out fire and brimstone as he ran.
"She's mine, mine!" he shouted, "an' ye needn't think she hain't."
Down the other side of the mountain now rode two beings who seemed farther apart than before they knew each other, yet whose hearts beat as one, and who were in reality closer together than any other two human beings on the great earth.
When Al Thompson opened his lungs and sent forth that unearthly yell which vibrated through the forest down in the valley, the girl caught hold of Wade's arm. She quivered, he felt the emotion playing over her being, and caught the soft hand in his own.
"Have no fear whatever," he said reassuringly. "He is drunk. When he comes out from under the spell once more, he will think nothing of this affair."
"Ye don't know him, Jack," she replied. "I warn ye agin', cause——" She stopped.
"Because what, child?" he questioned, noting her hesitation. "Speak what is in your heart."
"Because," she continued falteringly, "I don't want ye ter get hurt."
He smiled encouragingly.
"He won't hurt me, but I'll keep a close watch for your sake. If he gives me further trouble I'll put him in jail down in the village."
"Huh! that jail won't hold him; hit ain't never held a——one of these mountain fellers yet. That won't do; ye must hold him some other way."
"All right, I'll hold him some way, sure. I want you to feel satisfied that I am able to do it."
As they were nearing the house they saw old Peter Judson standing at the gate awaiting their return.
"I've enjoyed this trip with you, Jack," she whispered softly.
"No more than I have enjoyed it with you," he replied feelingly.
"And ther birds——"
"Whar's yer game?" shouted Peter as they rode up, both flushing red. "An' fer the land sake," continued Peter, "what makes ye look so durn funny 'bout ther eyes an' face? What in ther world's got hold of ye; air ye sick, gal?"
She was not very ill, she said. Indeed, she had never felt better physically, but——
The old man was fumbling through the saddle-bags in search of birds or other game. Wade could not suppress a smile because of the comical expression upon the face of the disappointed old man.
"This is ther durndest hunt I ever heerd 'bout in these hills," said Peter. "A half-day out, an' no game."
"We haven't fired a gun," replied Wade, "therefore have no game." The old man looked at Wade, then at his daughter. His disappointed expression was at once superseded by one of anxiety. Indeed, he looked very sorrowful. "But ye fired one good shot," he said sternly. "An ef ye intend ter be foolin', I want ter warn ye ter be a-lookin' out. Fun shots don't go in this hyar kintry." He appeared to be greatly agitated now, but when he learned the real circumstances he softened, and his eyes gave forth a tender expression. "Git down," he said, "chuck is put nigh ready. I'll put yer hoss up'n feed him, an' we'll have a old time talk 'bout everything, from ther days o' Goliath till ther days o' corn-huskin',—'bout which ye know mighty little, I reckon, ef I don't miss my guess a long way, by lookin' at ye."
Old Peter refrained from remarking just at this time anything touching upon the actions of Al Thompson, but many strange and peculiar thoughts were romping pell-mell through his heavy brain.
Dining at the home of a farmer was quite a new and novel experience to Wade, as there was no similarity to dining in a fashionable restaurant on a fashionable street in a large city. This was an experience in his life that he often thought of afterward. At one end of the table sat Peter Judson, to his right sat Mrs. Judson. In one corner of the stuffy little cabin dining-room sat a gray old cat on its haunches, appearing in every respect to be quite angry because it had been made to wait until the second table when it had been accustomed to eating with the family. Wade watched the cat, for it very often "licked its chops." Beside him lay Rover, the furry-headed dog, Nora's pet.
Jack was just as awkward at that table as the girl would have been had she been sitting down at a table in the greatest hotel in New York City. His manners and table etiquette were so entirely different that his actions did not seem at all right or natural. He sat like a boy who has been allowed to eat at the first table when his father had company. When Nora asked if he wouldn't take a piece of the "sow's belly," and he replied, "Thank you, I wouldn't choose any," she still held the dish before him until he took a slice. He sipped his coffee daintily, as a girl at an evening tea, holding the cup by the handle, while his little finger was extended high, and the girl gave him a cup-towel—"so's ther cup wouldn't burn his fingers" when he was drinking his coffee. He cut the meat off his chicken bone with his knife and put it into his mouth with his fork, causing the girl to blush because he was acting so ridiculous before her Dad and Mam, when she had really expected so much of him at this crucial time.
Old Peter would take about half his coffee at one gulp—this was more natural—making a noise like unto a sawmill when it is thoroughly busy. Then he would wipe his mouth on his shirt sleeve and take the coffee off his mustache with a sizzing noise. The climax to this long-to-be-remembered meal came when Wade put his knife and fork in his plate and picked up the scraps of bread and chicken bones and put them carefully alongside the knife and fork. Being unable to understand such strange conduct, Nora stepped behind Jack and hid her face in a dish towel. We do not know just what she was doing behind the towel, but presume she "stole a sweet smile," as her face was very red when she finally came out of hiding.
They got through the meal, however, after a great length of time had elapsed, for they conversed about every thing, crops especially and folks in the city in general. Tom was off toward the village purchasing supplies and would not return, likely, until late in the afternoon, so Wade must content himself with listening to Peter Judson for at least a half-day. This he did, and he listened with growing interest. The old man knew of things that had happened away back yonder 'afore the war, and he knew about things that would happen at some future date. He had lived through one generation of feuds and thought "thar mout be tough times ahead fer some folks as he know'd of now, an' they hain't fer away, nuther," he said meaningly. "Why, jest let me tell you somethin', Wade," said old Peter, bending over and shaking his finger at the latter. "Way back yonder somewhar in the eighteens we had some mouty lot of trouble, that we did. Them was ther days when ther white caps or somethin' done things, and I hain't fergot it nuther, an' what's more, I hain't never a-goin ter fergit. I hain't that sort—ther fergit'n kind. An' ye'll find that out 'afore ye air hyar in this kintry much longer. Ef a man treats Peter Judson all right, he's a-goin' ter git treated all right back again. Ef he treats me mean, why, he's gotter look out fer his head, that's all. I kin remember onct away back yonder—I was on t'other side then—an' was as peaceful a man as lived, when I was a plowin' in my field an' up comes a feller as fast as he could ride a hoss, an' says, sayse: 'Peter Judson, yer gotter git out o' this kintry, an' that putty quick. Ef yer don't, yer neck'll be stretched.' 'Well, I won't,' says I, 'not till I git good'n ready, an' ef you ner anybody else thinks as how they kin make me git out afore I want to, let's see ther color o' his hair. An' I takes ther lines from my shoulders an' drops 'em down over ther plow handle an' squares myself, thinkin' maybe he'd want some of it right then an' thar. But no, what'd he do? He up an' put spurs to his hoss an' digs out down ther road lip-i-ty-clip, an' I seed nuthin' o' him no more."
The old man paused to let out a great stream of tobacco juice.
Wade threw his left leg over his right knee by way of change, and asked, "Was there any special reason, Mr. Judson, that this man should have requested you to leave the country?"
"None. None 'tall, but I left."
"Oh, you did?"
"Yes, siree. I left putty quick after a while. You see, I hain't told you all of it yet. Them durn fellers come back one night, but I gits wind of it somehow, an' sends ther family away an' takes everything out an' puts ther stock in ther pasture,—nuthin's never hid from Peter Judson,—an' I lays out in ther bushes in a dark spot an' waits patiently. Long 'bout a little after midnight here they comes, 'bout a half-dozen strong, an' shot fire into my house an' barns so fast that afore I know'd what'd happened ther whole business was a flame o' fire. Seein' as how I couldn't do nuthin' ter save ther things, I jest waited till they gits through with their cussedness, an' then—what'd ye think? Afore they know'd what'd struck 'em I sent ther bullets from my Winchester a-flyin' after them like hot cakes, an' four o' them fell in their tracks, while ther two got away, an' all their hosses lit out down ther road, without riders, like lead shot out o' a cannon on ther field o' war."
The old man spat out another wad of tobacco and put a fresh plug in his mouth. There was some hesitation before he spoke again.
"You take it rather cool," said Wade, after a short silence.
"Gotter, my boy. Them was terrible times 'round hyar, but ef I calkerlate right, we air in ther midst o' jest sich another time, right now."
Old Peter Judson looked squarely into Wade's eyes, forcing the latter to turn his gaze.
"Ye air a young man, Wade," said Judson, "an' I want ter give ye some advice, fust class advice, an' yer better take it, too. When ye dig a hole fer some other feller, be shore ye dig it so deep he cain't get out'n hit, an' then"—Peter was emphatic—"be shore ye don't git into that hole yerself. Hit's a durn sight easier, Wade, ter start somethin' than hit is ter stop it after ye onct git it started. D'ye mind that now?"
"I believe I understand," said Wade, with a far-away look on his countenance.
"I'll tell ye agin, young man, that yer Uncle Peter Judson's been through ther fires o' hell 'round this hyar mountain, an' he knows what he's talkin' 'bout. Afore mornin' ye'll see that cabin down yonder all aflames, lickin' ther very sky in an effort ter eat up ther stars."
"What, mine, do you mean?"
"Ther same, boy. Why, what makes yer look so durn funny? Hit's ther solid truth, God knows, Jack Wade, yer own cabin'll be ashes afore another sun rises over ther mountain. Ye have made a enemy out'n Al Thompson, an' nuthin' this side o' hell could stop him from a-killin' ye, ef ye don't git him fust. Ye needn't git upon yer high spirits an' think yer kin stop it, fer ye cain't. A fawty-hoss power gatlin'-gun woudn't stop them savages to-night, so jest be easy an' take it natural like, an' ye won't feel so bad when hit's all over. Me an' Tom'll go down with ye after awhile an' help ye put everything out in ther field, an' move ther stock ter a place o' safety, so's ter fool them fiends that much—"
"I won't submit to it," interrupted Wade angrily. "I'll kill the man who tries to burn my property."
"That's what ye kin do, Wade, but ye must wait till some other time. I'd ruther take that rifle thar an' blow yer brains out'n yer head whar ye stand than ter let ye go down thar an' git killed without any show 'tall. Don't up an' git mad now. Ye'll see that old Peter Judson knows what he's talkin' 'bout. I've been in this kintry too long fer to not know. Ye've made a enemy out o' Al Thompson, an' he's a chip off'n ther old block, only his Daddy is worse nur him. He's worse nur the old devil hisself, an' they won't rest till they're torn the earth up around ther mountain, an' dug a hole deep 'nough ter put a dozen good men in."
Old Peter paused again, while Wade looked down toward the earth with a troubled expression on his face.
"What's the matter with the law in this country?" asked Wade, although he knew that law and order were unknown to these people.
"Ther hain't any law," replied Peter. "Ther law tried ter git out here onct, an' I seed old Jim Thompson kill two officers. I seed it with my own eyes, an' Tom a-comin' yonder saw him shoot one down in his tracks. They want no more in town what'd tackle comin' after him, an' he's still hyar a-doin' business in ther same old way."
Jack Wade was considerably puzzled. Here was an old farmer, who he had calculated to shoot through the heart some day, now giving him advice which he thought would save his life—at least would save him much trouble. Here was a man who had just related to him that the Riders had at one time swooped down on him and destroyed his home and all else he had possessed save what he took out to the field; here was a man that rumor said was one of the very leaders of a band of lawless desperadoes who sought the lives of all good citizens of the community, now telling him of a man whose deeds were enough to turn the heart of a less brave man into a channel of terrible fear. This man was now trying to save his life, would himself rather put a bullet into his brain than see others do it or know that others had done so. That was friendship bordering on love. What kind of a man is he?
The mysteries of the hill deepen, the mysteries of the valley broaden. The closer he seems to have got to his desired end the further is he away from it. His plans seem crumbling to decay, his strong heart was bound in utter weakness. One glance from the firm, dark eyes of Nora Judson took all the manhood out of his soul. One touch of her finger tips made weak his stalwart frame. Now he must stand idle, in meek submission, while his sworn enemies burned his cabin and filled the air with their curses because they could not find the object of their vengeance and tear him to pieces bit by bit.
Jack Wade cursed under his breath and bit his lips till the blood flowed, as he looked down toward his lonesome little cabin home, which he had come to look upon as a true friend. His heart bounded in his bosom, his brow corrugated, his eyes danced and gleamed fire as he swore a second vengeance upon the perpetrators of this intended foul, heinous crime. The black demons of hell darted before his maddened stare, laughing joyously, dancing happily, because of his great discomfiture. He gripped the butt of his pistol, while his eyes lighted on a rifle, which he snatched up, then started off in lone defense of his own property. Nora, who had been watching him constantly, laid her hand upon his shoulder. The touch was like magic upon his wearied soul.
"Don't, Jack," she whispered softly, impressively. "Dad is quite right. Ye are sure to git killed ef ye go down there to-night."
Nora saw that Wade was filled with emotional indignity. For a moment he was about to shake loose from her grasp, but he felt her grip on his arm tighten.
"For my sake, Jack."
He turned and looked into her eyes. The light of real love shone from them, and a thrill ran through his being.
"For your sake I'd better go," he said.
Mounting his horse, Al Thompson rode rapidly along the ridge of the mountain, with hot breath of hate steaming from his extended nostrils. His soul cried out loudly for revenge, and he meant to fulfill its desires though he brought all his friends into the quarrel. He meant to murder the man who so grossly insulted him and belittled him in the presence of the girl who was more to him than his own life, more to him now than she had ever been before. As the road grew less rugged he stiffened his pace, beating his horse over the flanks with his hat, until he finally broke into a dead run. On he went with the breath of fury still flying from his dilated nostrils, infuriated the more by the low hanging limbs, until he reached the stream at the base of the mountain, crossed over and turned up the main road, putting his horse to his best, when he came in sight of a cabin, the very sight of which seemed to lend strength to his tired body. He let out a terrible yell and fired his pistol into the air to attract the inmates of the cabin, who, upon hearing him and the pistol shots, rushed out feeling that a terrible calamity was about to befall them. When they appeared in the doorway Thompson cried out in an old, familiar way: "Git ready. Ther old rock on ther mountain top—midnight. The cap'n says be thar shore."
"Who's ther victim?" cried one.
"Ther newcomer," answered Thompson.
"What?"
"Shore."
Thompson was off again in a dead run before more questions could be asked. These cabineers had heard the call from the same voice before, and in the same manner, therefore did not hesitate to prepare. Thompson reached another cabin, and went through the same maneuver, and a third, the resultant effect being the same in every instance. He was quite satisfied. His lying tongue had done its work and the outcome did not worry him in the least. His heart and soul joined in crying for revenge, and it should come at any cost to others.
When the appointed hour of the night had come on, he, waiting until the last moment, would ride up, driving right through the waiting crowd, yell like a Comanche, and they would follow willingly. His plans were working well, his lying heart was satisfied. He snarled like a wolf which had found a piece of fresh meat.
The night was dark. Heavy black clouds obscured the vision of the stars. A clouded canopy overhung the entire world, the fierce lightning flashed and shook its fiery tints over the sleeping mountain. The thunder peals burst forth in loud report, the echo resounding down deep into the quiet valley below. Save for the flashing lightning and the pealing thunder all else was quiet. What a fearful night for a fearful deed! What a night for the use of a black-hearted scoundrel! What a time for deeds born of a charred heart!
Jack Wade made no effort to sleep; he did not retire to the bunk in the little room with Tom Judson. Old Peter did not wish to retire. It was in his nature to see the alpha and omega of such deeds, he wanted to see it all. Nora could not close her eyes in sleep, although prevailed upon to do so. No, Jack Wade's own burdened heart pervaded the quiet atmosphere about Peter Judson's home, and no one cared to seek rest. Even good old dog Rover discovered in the funeral-like few about him that something was about to go wrong, and went about from one to the other whining, looking questioningly into their faces. Wade walked up and down, to and fro, like a lion in a cage or a madman in confinement, so intense was his anger because he couldn't prevent that which Judson had predicted was sure to follow. He believed now that Peter Judson spoke the truth, there was no reason, as he could figure, for his speaking anything else. He believed Judson had warned him from his heart, because he wished to save his life. Why should this old reprobate of a murderer desire that he should live at all? He would not have warned other men, for he had done so at his own peril. The consequences even now might lead to his own death. The old man, who had been closely scrutinizing Wade's troubled face, opened his mouth to speak.
"Ye needn't take it so hard, boy," he said. "Ye kin build another cabin like that in a few days, after ye git ther logs an' lumber out, that ye kin, shore."
As old Peter was speaking there came even then, down from toward the mountain way, the wild yell of the Comanche.
"Listen," said Peter, blowing out his light. "Thar ye air now. Don't say a word nur make any noise. Let 'em go on by, a-thinkin' we air asleep, an' ye'll see a putty sight soon. The fiends! the fiends! They're bent on a-killin' of ye right now, Wade, an' gloatin' in their hearts cause ye air mout nigh dead, so they think."
The well-known clatter of the horses feet came nearer and nearer. Old Peter stepped up close to Wade and laid his hand on his shoulder reassuringly. On the other side of him Wade felt the warm breath of old Peter's daughter, as she hovered close to him. She was consoling him in her kind, simple way, and he thanked God in his heart that it was so. Thus they stood, waiting, while the lightning flashed fiercer and the thunder peals grew louder.
Slowly the rain began to descend. Then suddenly, in that terrible moment of anxious quietude, there burst forth through the midnight darkness a faint ray of light which soon appeared a flame of fire, leaping and dancing exultantly.
"Thar ye air," exclaimed Judson. "Yer cabin'll be in ashes afore mornin', jest as I told ye awhile ago."
Silently the watchers watched, knowing full well what was in the heart of Jack Wade. It was useless to try to hold conversation during that awful period of suspense. Jack watched his little cabin burn, while the flames, cracking and roaring, seemed to touch his own heart and set it aflame also. The growing vengeance softened his feelings.
"Let her burn," he said, "but one soul shall burn in hell for this night's work."
"Mor'n one," whispered Tom Judson.
The significance of his remarks, however, was lost to Jack Wade, who thought only of avenging himself now. No thought for anyone entered his heart.
For some time not a word was spoken, only watching; silently watching. The flames reached high into the air, lighting up the landscape back toward the mountain and over in the valley, although the cabin was a small one. The yells of those revengeful men rent the midnight air while all that was dear to Jack Wade was fast going down to ashes and utter ruin.
The horses' feet beat a heavy clattering retreat back up the road. When they passed Peter Judson's cabin Wade slipped noiselessly out into the darkness, struck the road and started, on foot, rapidly after the fast retreating horsemen. He knew it would have been folly under ordinary circumstances to have tried to catch up with them, but he figured they would soon strike the roughest part of the hill where horses could not travel fast, and he might by traveling rapidly catch up with them before they left the mountain road.
Old Peter Judson did not realize what the young man contemplated until he was too far gone. When he came to a realization of the truth he swore a blue streak and started out in search of "ther durn fool," who, for some unknown reason, he had come to like.
Jack Wade could hear the clattering noise of the horses as they rushed over the rocky way. Fainter and fainter the noise grew until he could hear it no more. Undismayed, however, he trudged on, in the hope of soon finding some trace of those he pursued. The heavy raindrops pelted down upon him, soaking his clothes until their weight became a burden to his tired and weary limbs. On he went, regardless of distance, picking his way by the light of an occasional flash of lightning, which made it more necessary to grope his way when the lightning failed to give the needed light, until when the gray streaks of early dawn appeared in the eastern horizon he found himself many miles away from his burned cabin. Yet he had discovered no trace of the perpetrators of the foul deed, whom he had followed for almost half of the night.
Water soaked, tired and worn in body and mind, he remembered that he had not slept for twenty-four hours, nor had he eaten anything, save a lunch, for nearly as long. Weak and sore of foot, he sat down on a little hillock and leaned his head back against a boulder to get a little much needed rest before attempting to start on his return journey homeward. As he sat thus the dawn grew brighter, the streaks of light in the eastern sky painting a few clouds a beautiful red. The mountain scenery was still wrapped in silent mystery. Soon birds began their chirping songs from their abode in the thickets, and all wild life was beginning to stir. Dew-dipped grasses began to raise their heads to the breaking light in obedience to the will of day, while the great heavy overhanging clouds were fast dispersing, giving way to the power of the coming dawn.
The strenuousness of the day and night before had weakened Wade's system until, when he closed his eyes against the growing beauty about him, he fell fast asleep; but his weary, laden brain kept moving on. Before him, in vision, the mighty lightning flashed, the great torrents of rain fell and engulfed him. Suddenly there burst before his darkened vision a licking flame of fire, from out of the midst of which came one bearing a long-bladed knife in either hand. He was snarling like a wolf and dancing jubilantly over his intended victim. The vision grew until the knives were being brandished over his head, and he knew that it would be only a moment until they should descend and his own heart would be cut in twain. He seemed powerless to prevent. The sight was so fearful that he became sick at heart and fainted away. His head bumped against a boulder, and he awoke with a start.
When he opened his eyes he saw standing over him in reality Al Thompson, with hand poised high in the air, ready to descend. In that hand was a long-bladed knife, sickening to behold.
"Damn ye," said Thompson, between closely clamped teeth, "ye escaped me somehow last night, but ye won't do it now. Ye mont as well say yer prayers, an' say 'em quick, fer ye air a goner. I'll tear yer heart out an' hang it on a pole an' take it back to ther gal."
Thompson raised himself a little higher until he stood on the tips of his toes, in order that the force of his blow might be felt more heavily. The knife started on its descending mission of murder.
Wade shuddered, he felt it was his last moment on earth. The carelessness of falling to sleep bad given his enemy a great advantage. But no, Fate was to save him. A rifle shot rang out over the mountain stillness, the knife dropped to the ground, the band that had held it fell limp to one side. With a cursing snarl and a howl of intense pain Thompson quickly picked up the knife with his left hand and was about to plunge it into the drowsy form of Jack Wade. Just at this juncture old Peter Judson burst through the undergrowth and, in a commanding voice, cried out: "Drap that knife, Al Thompson, or ye air a dead man right thar!"
Thompson, looking into the barrel of Peter's rifle, concluded that chances were against him, and allowed the knife to fall harmless at Wade's feet.
"Ye'll not be after committin' murder on the mountain to-day," said Judson.
"So ye're helpin' ther newcomer, Judson, air ye?" asked Thompson sullenly.
"No, durn ye," replied Peter. "I'm helpin' you, ye fool. I'm seein' fair play, too. Ye hain't satisfied ter burn up all a feller's cabin, an' everything else ye kin git at, but ye want ter commit a dogged, dirty murder right hyar afore my eyes. Ye git, now, Thompson, an' git quick."
Knowing that it would gain him nothing to argue with Judson, Thompson moved off, holding his crippled hand with the good one. Sending back a parting shot, he darted out of sight.
"Ye'll regret that act, Peter Judson," he said. Giving each of them a sullen look, he was gone like a flash.
"Ther dirty wolf!" exclaimed Peter, shaking his fist after the retreating form of Thompson. Turning to Wade he asked: "What made ye take sich a fool notion as this, boy?"
Jack replied evasively. "You have saved me, Judson," he said, "and I reckon my life is in your hands. Do as you like. By my own foolishness I might have died twice, yea, thrice, in the last twenty-four hours, but you have saved me."
"What one man does for another is not to be talked about," said Peter. "Jest ye don't be sich a fool any more. By yer foolishness, as ye call it, ye have got me in ther same boat 'long side o' ye. I 'low thar'll be no rest 'bout this hyar mountain till both of us is in our graves, fer I've waked up ther devil from ther deep o' hell this day shore."
"I'm sorry to have caused you this trouble," said Wade regretfully. "It may have been better had that snarling wolf——"
"Stop!" interrupted Peter. "Trouble o' this matter is ther kind I like best. Let 'em tackle us when Tom's got his shootin' irons on an' his shootin' eye open; he'll pick 'em off as fast as they kin come. Ye mind what I'm a-tellin' ye, Wade. It's jest as true as what I told ye last night, only they'll be a little more keerful 'bout ther time they take ter burn Peter Judson's shanty. Did ye know ye air ten miles away from home?"
Jack did not know this.
"Well, ye air, an' we'd better be a-gettin' back. Somebody'll bring some hosses out ter meet us so's we won't have ter walk very far a-goin' back."
"Must have been a long chase for one like you," said Jack.
"Well," replied Judson, "hit ain't so fer fer me as hit is fer you, I'll tell ye that, Wade. I kin stand more walkin' right now than any feller in this kintry. What'n ther world made ye go ter sleep when ye was on sich a jolt as this?"
Wade turned sharply on Peter. How did he know?
"Don't ax ther question," said Judson, judging of what was on Wade's mind. "I saw ye a long time afore ye woke up."
They heard the sound of approaching horses farther down the road, and in a few seconds Tom and Nora Judson hove into view with the mounts.
Jack Wade's new cabin was built much stronger and a little more elaborately than the old one. It was not at all like the old one, nor was it put up in quite the same location. It was built some twenty-five feet eastward and faced the mountain, while the old one had faced just the opposite. Besides, the new cabin had a small porch attached, while the front of the old one was plain. Wade sat upon this little gallery, pondering over the events of the past, much bewildered in mind on account of the slow progress he had made toward his desired end, toward the fulfillment of his avowed designs. He was unable to reason out many things mysterious, one being the deep friendship for him that had sprung up in the heart of that wicked old man, Peter Judson. It may have been, he thought, because of the fact that old Jim Thompson had ridden hastily up to Peter's cabin late one day and yelled to Peter that "they was now enemies forever, an' ther war would last 'twixt 'em till one or t'other was dead with their boots on," and Peter needed consolation and friendship. Old Peter, however, had replied to Jim Thompson:
"Maybe ye want a little of it right now. Ef yer do, jest git down off o' yer hoss an' I'll give ye all ye want, ye beggar."
Angered to the toes, old Jim struck his horse with the spurs and rode rapidly away toward the mountain, firing back at Peter as he went. He would, no doubt, have shot Peter in his own yard, had he not seen Tom sitting in the cabin door with a Winchester lying across his arms, and he knew only too well that the aim of the slender youth was true. He knew well that, as old Peter had said, Tom would pick him off his saddle before he could even fire at Peter. Discretion, therefore, being the better part of valor, he bridled his anger and rode away without deigning to make reply to old Peter's challenge, cursing and snorting, breathing hot revenge against his enemies.
Wade knew of these circumstances; he knew that his own folly had brought about these conditions, and it was his human duty to aid the Judsons all he could, because they had been nothing but friends to him. The gleaming dark eyes of that girl of the wilds were ever before him, he could not rid himself of their presence, try as he would. They were an everlasting companion, and he was not altogether sorry that it was so, for in his most lonely hours he looked out into the dreamy space and saw them, and they made him feel less lonely. He had spent much time with Nora, sometimes at her father's cabin, sometimes hunting over the mountain, sometimes angling in the brook, and sometimes up the country road between the two cabins. The old brindle cow had not quit getting under the wire,—at any rate, she got out very often, and always headed down the road, never toward the mountain. Probably she was a lazy cow and did not like the idea of a steep climb up the hill, though the grass was sweeter up that way. However that may be, she always wentdownthe road. Constant companionship had drawn Jack and Nora closer together, and Wade was teaching her in such a kind way that she took no offense whatever. He brought to her new books to read, which she devoured eagerly as a child learning its letters.
When she was not busy with some domestic duties, Nora was out in some nook remote from the cabin devouring the contents of a book. She was an apt scholar and learned rapidly. She would say "ye" only when speaking in great haste; other times she said "you." In one book that she read the heroine was a country girl like herself, and would say "hit" and "ye" like she did, and she discovered in reading that she was not properly educated as to the use of language, therefore she applied herself the harder. She took special delight in this book, and read it the second time, being greatly pleased with the sweet little character, the country girl, who, before the novel closed, went off to college in the big city and, after a few years study, came home refined in manners and neat in dress. This same country girl was ever afterward her own model, because she became gentle and kind, and married the millionaire's son, to the satisfaction of all concerned. Jack Wade was in her mind's eye the very hero himself. She thought of him as a big-hearted, generously kind boy, whose sole hope was to benefit someone else, though he might be personally affected by so doing.
She thought of him as a great wise man who was spending his life out in the mountains for her special benefit. She thought of him by day, and when night came on, the hideous night of darkness, when her awakened soul longed for light, she thought of him. When her body passed into the oblivion of peaceful slumber she dreamed of him, of the man who had done so much toward enlightening her mind and soul, who had brought her out of the darkness and set her upon a high pinnacle of knowledge, where light shone in on her benighted being and she saw. He had spoken to her of God, a great God, Maker of the mighty universe, as no one had ever before spoken to her. The light shone brighter from his eyes as he talked to her about things of which she had hitherto known nothing. The song of the little bird in the tree top, the little wild bird, sounded sweeter than it was wont in times past. Their notes came clearer and had a new meaning. Her darkened soul opened wide its closed windows and the light came streaming in until she saw through different eyes. Her interest in the wild, golden-headed flowers that grew in great profusion along the ridge of the mountain grew day by day, until she felt she must plant a garden of her own somewhere near the cabin, so that she could go out and work among the flowers and talk with them. Her very soul yearned for something new, something it had not felt before.
She was kind and tender toward her big brown dog, in which she now saw a true friend. They had always been friends in a way, but that way had been to kick him and speak gruffly to him. Those things she did no more. She did not kick the old brindle cow in the flanks and say: "Saw thar, durn ye! or ye'll git yer head knock off," but the rather she pushed her gently and spoke kindly to her. "Be very careful, Brindle, don't step on my toes or turn the milk over, I am not going to hurt you." So the old brindle cow saw and knew and quit blinking her eyes when Nora was near. She formerly began blinking when she saw the girl coming out of the house with the milk pails, because she had grown to expect a crack over the solid portion of her head before the milking process began. The consequence of a life of continued abuses was that she had formed a great habit of blinking both eyes when near one of the feminine gender. Not so any more. The old cow naturally wondered at the strange, sweet change, her own life was made the more peaceful because no one set the dog to biting her heels every time she poked her head around the corner of the barn, and she did not kick out her "hind" leg every time the dog came near, because the dog didn't bite her any more. They were good friends now. A cow has good sense, and can do a terrible sight of thinking when it comes to the way things are going on about milking time. Her teats were not whacked with a big stick on a cold winter day any more because she did not feel like standing in one position so long, and peace reigned within her heart.
Nora's touch became more gentle and she squeezed the lacteal fluid from the bovine with more consideration, all the while humming sweet songs softly to herself, and the old cow heard and knew. She heard Nora say "father" when she spoke to old Peter. Only on rare occasions would she spurt out in the same old way with "Dad," and then be sorry because she had allowed herself to become agitated to such an extent. Everyone noted the great change, but none dared to speak, lest they should disturb her—except Tom, who chided kindly occasionally. They all knew and understood perfectly, and the knowledge was kept secretly in their own bosoms.
Jack Wade thought of all these things too, as he sat on his own little gallery looking wistfully toward the big mountain, with heart bowed in submission to the will of fate. Since his old cabin was burned there had come a great change in his own life. His desires had changed, his purposes seemed different, but he fought it all out courageously. Murderous design was still lodged in his heart. He longed to commit that deed, which done and within itself is a power to bring a man's soul to the deepest depths of degradation and sorrow, to the very brink of hell. His certain knowledge that the savage Al Thompson was only waiting an opportunity to drive to the hilt the knife that would pierce his heart, or from ambush send a bullet from a forty-four Winchester crashing through his brain, weighed upon his mind. These thoughts did not deter him nor move him one inch from his original motive, which, if life was spared him, would be fulfilled to the letter. As Wade sat gazing out through the bright sunlight the big brown dog, Nora's pet, came gliding silently through the gateway and paced up before him. He looked around quickly as the dog; wagging his long, hairy tail, stepped upon the porch.
"What omen have you brought to me this fine day, Rover?" he said, speaking to the dog, all the while rubbing his hand over the shaggy head. "What could have caused you to visit me at this hour?"
The dog just continued to wag his tail and lick the big hands that petted him. Rover had grown to like the big strong young man who was so often with his mistress, and thought perhaps a call at this time would not be out of place.
"This country is terribly agitated just now. Rover," said Wade. "You must watch your mistress closely, and should you think any harm is likely to befall her, you must come and tell me quick."
The dog wagged his tail, seeming to understand fully what Wade was saying.
Up near the mountain no one ever spoke to another concerning anything that happened. Not a word ever escaped the lips of those sturdy farmers. If somebody was killed, that somebody was buried by his own people, and the wailing and gnashing of teeth was confined chiefly to the unhappy kin-folk. There were none to console them, no one condoled with them, they grieved in solitude.
In the village it was quite different, though even there no one dared to speak openly against an individual or a "click" or "clan." The fact that someone had been murdered by the terrible "Black ghosts of the night," or that the settlers had been terrified by the fearful, hideous howlings of the ravagers of peace, concerned everyone in the village, and old women talked of it over the fence, old men jabbered about it as they sat on dry-goods boxes, whittling on the soft pine boxes or squirting great streams of tobacco juice between their two first fingers, watching it until it struck the earth some six feet away or flowed gently down the boot leg of someone standing dangerously near. One old man, fearless on account of his many years in the country, did say once that "them damn Riders ought all to be hung by the neck until they were dead." When he had said that he dropped his head to spit, and when he raised it again he was alone, every man near him having slipped quietly away, leaving him to his own way of thinking.
Men gathered together up the valley way, but they talked farm products straight and "wunk" at each other in a knowing way. There was one farm upon which an immense tobacco crop had sprung up, and the eyes of every farmer in the community were cast toward it. Not in many years had so many men passed that way. Not in many days had there been so many clandestine meetings over the country, mostly around and beyond the mountain. What was it all about? It surely meant ill for someone, but for whom? That was the great question.
Jack Wade had gone to visit the city, Nora Judson was busy with her domestic duties, and Tom had gone on a jaunt over the hill, while the warehouse operator remarked to his companion that he had been appointed special officer, that the regular officers were afraid of their shadows, and would not move a peg, and the Nightriders were gathering again and destruction was imminent. It had been mere chance that had put him next to the business that bid fair to bring much sport, and he was going with his trusty rifle and faithful horse to see if he couldn't arrest a Rider before morning. As he was in sore need of a companion, he invited his friend to accompany him. The matter looked so feasible, and as the Riders had given both of them so much trouble, he consented to go along as an assistant to the appointed officer. Of what was to happen he received perfect knowledge from the warehouse man.
Wade also was deeply interested. A certain barn with its contents of high-priced tobacco was to be burned by two lone Nightriders, and this fact—that there would be only two—was hailed with great pleasure, for the chances would not only be equal, but the advantage was decidedly with the officers, as they were cognizant of the raid contemplated, while the Riders were totally in the dark regarding their knowledge or identity.
The arrangement was that they should meet at a certain place and proceed out of Guthrie to a given point some distance out and some distance still on the other side of the mountain. Wade knew the exact spot where they were to locate themselves in hiding until the Nightriders should pass, and he also knew what their intentions were after that. His great longing to learn something more of the terrible Nightriders, and of the manner in which it was expected they would be handled on this occasion, caused him to make a hurried trip back to his own cabin to make hasty arrangements for a long ride through the darkness of night. When his clock tolled the hour nine he began that tedious lonesome ride down the valley. Uppermost in his mind was the movements and actions of the Nightriders, who had become active again and who were threatening with utter destruction the entire country, composed of twenty-two counties of the richest soil in Kentucky and Tennessee. Notices had been posted everywhere, giving warning to the open raisers, stating that no man should attempt to sell tobacco openly, that he who was not for the association was against it. One was found on Wade's own gatepost, and he gave it deep, thoughtful consideration. He had fully intended raising a very large crop of tobacco the coming season, and he intended doing it openly, unless his mind should be changed in the meantime.
Wade rode on, putting his horse to a trot, then as time went by, to a gallop. Had it not been for the brightly shining little stars the night would have been utter darkness, but the twinkling little heavenly bodies lighted the way sufficiently well to allow of seeing and keeping the beaten road. Thoughts concerning happenings of the past were flitting rapidly through Wade's brain, tumbling one over the other in rapid succession, in their great hurry to get through, while he traveled on, unmindful of the awful darkness that encompassed him or of the blood-curdling deeds which would be committed on that memorable night. At last, tired and sore, he reached the vicinity of the barn soon to be burned and the vicinity of a community where murder, foul to some and gladsome to the hearts of others, would soon be committed.
Jack Wade had learned through his experiences of the past to be very cautious on all occasions, more especially on occasions like the present one, therefore he sought out a quiet dark spot in the brush and waited silently to see what should happen. The distance he had traveled brought him very late at the goal, so he was compelled to wait not long before he saw sights enough to weaken the heart of the strongest man.
The little stars twinkled on from their orbits in the sky, the cuckoo sang from a remote distance, the woodland animals scampered over their runs, making the dry leaves crack as they flurried on. Suddenly a faint light arose over the woodland, and grew until it lighted up the whole country around the anxious watcher. It became so very light where he was that he was compelled to recede deeper into the underbrush. The great flame grew brighter and higher, leaping heavenward at every bound, making a terrible, cracking noise. Wade's heart beat heavily against his bosom, but he watched on. Not a great way off he heard the cracking of the dry twigs. It was much heavier than the noise made by scampering animals, and he knew instantly that the two officers were near. He continued to keep silent, listening breathlessly to every sound. Soon there came to his listening ears the heavy sound or clatter of rapidly retreating horses. The riders passed his hiding-place and on they flew, pushing their horses to full speed over the rough trail. Then, "Oh, God!" In the next moment there rang out upon the midnight stillness the terrible "crack!" of a death-dealing rifle, and in response a boy went down to the earth heavily. Some mother's idol received a wound that would take him hurriedly into eternity. His horse sped on, riderless. Another "crack!" from those rifles and the other horse was killed in his tracks, falling near the dying lad, while his rider, untouched, unhurt, darted off into the thick sheltering brush and was seen no more.
Those who had fired the shots that caused death and sorrow, weeping and wailing, listened not to the wailing of the dying boy, heard not his pitiful moaning, nor his distressed cry for assistance, but thinking of themselves dashed off through the brush, to safety, in an opposite direction. They hadgot a Rider, and were evidently well satisfied with their night's work.Fiends, may the tortures of hell be theirs!
Jack Wade, born with a love for his fellow-man, did hear and heed that dying wail, and slowly led his own good steed out from his hiding-place and on to the groaning one. He bent over him and looked into his contorted face with a heavy, sorrowful heart. He was not dead, but dying.
"Friend or foe," whispered the youth, as Wade appeared over him.
"Friend," replied Wade.
"Then you didn't shoot me?"
"No. Thank God, I didn't shoot you, lad." Tears were gathering in Wade's eyes.
"I'm glad you didn't, stranger," said the lad. "I'm Fred Conover, and I'm dying now. I can feel the cold, clammy sweat of death gathering over me, my eyes are blinded until all is dark. I know that the death call has been sounded to me, and I am going, going, but I am dying for a good cause." He gasped his words now. "Stranger," he whispered, softly, "you may not be a Rider—you ought to be. You may not be in open revolt against us—you should not be. Listen, stranger, listen well to my last words on earth, that you may carry them to the heart of every man in this community, to the heart of every well-thinking man in the world, that all the world may know we are right. My father was once a well-to-do, honest, faithful farmer, but the trusts and combined wealth put his nose to the grind-stone. I must speak quick. But for them we could have lived nicely and comfortable. They took everything and forced—stranger, help the Riders, for in doing so you are helping the poor people, the struggling millions. You are helping the widow and orphans, you are helping those who must die of starvation unless the fight is kept up a few more years. Tell them I died willingly for them, that my heart is with them in my dying moments; that I shall carry the burden to God; that I do not hesitate, have no fear, and tell my father——"
The boy threw his head back, raised his breast, then fell to the earth once more. Jack Wade raised the lad's head and placed it gently upon his own limb, that he might remember he died there. The small bottle of whiskey which Wade took out from town was still in his pocket and he gave the boy of it to drink.
"I thought that was my last moment," said the boy, after sipping the whiskey. "I feel quite relieved now. They are mean, stranger," he continued, with a catching breath. "Those fellows will raise tobacco for the trusts, andmustbe handled severely. I do not regret my action, I do not regret that my last act was to apply the torch to yon burning building. No, I do not."
Here was an opportunity, Wade thought, to learn something of interest, so he placed his lips close to the dying lad's ear and asked if he knew John Redmond before he was killed.
"I knew him well," he replied, gasping for breath, "and he was the grandest——"
The head fell limp, the boy breathed his last. Fred Conover wasdead.
Immediately the surroundings took on a death-chamber appearance. Wade removed his limb from beneath the dead boy's head and laid him gently upon the cold, damp earth. Beside him was the carcass of the big black horse which fell dead at the same time the boy went down. They were both dead. The pall grew heavier. Wade raised himself, looked at the horse, then into the deathly pale face of the boy, raising his head slowly until he looked into the heavens, then said:
"O God, Thou great God, Thou hast, through thy mercy, saved me from this awful deed."
He let his head drop again.
"That was a dog of a deed for an officer to commit," he said mentally. "It was nothing but cold-blooded murder. Why did he not show himself and make an effort to arrest, rather than do murder in this fashion, the dirty coward!" said Wade, with a wave of his head. "You are free just now, but freedom shall be taken from you for this night's ghastly work, for this foul deed which has taken from earth all that was dear to a good mother and father. If you hang"—Wade shook his fist toward the brush tragically—"the shame and sorrow shall fall upon your own head and heart."
Throwing his coat over the dead form, Wade drew it to one side and departed.
Wade was very excited in thought and action as he rode out through the darkness of the night to go to the home of Fred Conover's father. He had covered the body with his own toga, and he felt the necessity for it as he split the cool night air in his great haste to get the news to the old father, whom he would surely find waiting anxiously to learn what success the boy had met with. Unmindful of any danger to himself, though the country was well stirred up, he raced on, looking neither to his right nor to his left, but kept his sight straight ahead and his thoughts far beyond. He shook his head gravely as he pondered over the events that had transpired, were transpiring, and would transpire in the future. He knew now much more of the conditions confronting the poor farmers of this part of the world, knew of the terrible struggle into which they had entered for the mere maintenance of their own immediate families, knew more of the feelings existing among them, and wondered no longer that they had taken such desperate means to relieve themselves of the yoke of bondage which had been placed upon their freedom, to tie them to the heart-eating trusts, which were dogging out their lives, eating to the marrow of their bones.
Wade had now reached the rise of the hill. In front of him, a little way beyond, was a dense thicket through which he must go. He went on, regarding not the deeper gathering gloom nor the many dangers accompanying. As he neared the thicket he was suddenly confronted by a night prowler, who commanded him to halt. This he did immediately, without hesitation, while he was in his present state of mind, not desiring an encounter with anyone.
"Git down, quick," said the voice of one who held the bridle at the horse's head with one hand, while a pistol held by the other hand was pointed directly at Wade's breast.
For a moment Wade was on the point of reaching for his own pistol and fighting it out, but as his hand started back he heard the command: "Ye needn't do that. Ef ye make a move I'll blow yer brains out."
Wade now reached the conclusion that he was being held up by a highwayman, and the best thing for him to do would be to comply with his request, for he knew that these fellows in this country, highwayman or Nightrider, were as desperate in character as the most blackened criminal the world holds. He got quietly down.
"Now," said the captor, "turn yer back to me."
Reluctantly Wade did this very thing. He had some little misgivings in doing so, for he might be shot in the back.
Not so. The midnight marauder merely took his pistols from his pockets, placed them in the saddle-bags and got quietly upon the horse. Turning to Wade, who stood disconsolate, he said: "I'll return yer hoss, stranger, an' thank ye fer the use o' him, till I can git one o' my own." Then he galloped off as though nothing had taken place, never looking back again.
Awe-struck and indignant, Wade stood beneath the shining stars for one moment just as he had been left, gazing intently after the fast fleeing horse and his mysterious rider, then resumed his journey on foot. He reproached himself that he was a great "mummy," that he had come into this country on an errand of revenge and had placed himself more than a half dozen times right between the jaws of his enemies, between the snapping jaws of death. He figured that fate must have thrown a strong guard around his life to save him for a special purpose. All these thoughts came into his mind as he trudged weary and footsore across the rugged country, picking his way as best he could under the circumstances.
Instead of trying to make his way direct to Conover's farm, he turned in the direction of his own home, and at some time just before daybreak pulled up at Peter Judson's gate, where he "helloed" until old Peter, with rifle in hand, showed himself at the door and cried:
"Who air ye, that wants ter bother a feller at sich a time o' ther mornin'?"
"Wade," came the reply.
"Oh!" exclaimed Peter. "Come on in, boy. What'n thunder brings ye at sich a hour as this?"
"Didn't you see the fire?" returned Wade.
"Sure. Did ye think I didn't know it would be?"
"I didn't know," replied Wade, "but I thought I'd tell you that Fred Conover has been killed, and——"
"Thunder, ye say!" interrupted Peter. "Thunder, ye say!" he repeated. "What do yer mean by tellin' me that, Wade; is it really true?"
"It is really true, Judson, and I thought I'd come by and get Tom to go over to Conover's with me to give the news."
"Ye needn't, Wade; they'll have it long afore ye kin git thar with it, an' besides ye cain't git Tom fer anything fer awhile. He's been shot through ther leg."
"What!"
"It's true, too, Wade. I told ye what'd happen when we went after them Thompsons. It's war ter ther death 'twixt us, shore. Tom met old Jim an' 'nuther feller over ther hill ter-day, an' ther fun commenced right. They both opened fire on Tom, but he didn't budge a step till he'd throwed old Jim flat o' his back, an' he'd a-throwed t'other feller, too, ef it hadn't been fer that sneakin' Al, who slipped through ther woods like a snake a-crawlin' on his belly, an' let in on him, an' shot him through ther leg. Seein' he was shot an' bleedin' putty bad, Tom lit out fer home, 'thout seein' what'd happened after the smoke o' battle cleared away. Me an' the good gal, hyar, a-hearin' of ther shootin', pitched out over ther hill with our Winchesters, jest ter git a little o' ther fun while hit was a-goin' on, an' we seed Tom a-comin' an' a-fightin' back, with his shot leg a-hangin' loose over the hoss. Me an' Nory give a Comanche yell what they knowed, an' when them durn fellers heered us they turned heels an' took out t'other way 'bout as fast as ye ever seed anybody git over ther mountain in yer life."
Peter Judson told of these circumstances as unconcernedly as if it had been play. It was real fun to him. The noise of battle suited him much better than the quiet of peace. Turning to Wade, he asked, "What did ye do with yer hoss?"
"Someone held me up and took him from me," Wade replied.
"Ye don't know these people yet, Wade," said Peter, after a moment of silence. "Don't ye know that hit was Fred's pard what tuck yer hoss? An' he's done spread ther news over ther whole kintry by now, an' long afore ye got out o' ther woods. Ye needn't bother 'bout goin' over. Ther old man'll be so wild when he hears o' this that he'll want ter kill every feller he meets. Ther committees what sent them two boys out on that job oughter have their own necks strung up ter a tree, that's shore. That's what oughter happen ter them. Now, yer needn't worry, Wade. Ye'll git yer hoss back all right. I'm shore o' that, an' ther shootin' irons, too. Seems like hit ain't no use fer ye ter have any shootin' irons, 'cause ye never have used 'em, yet, have ye?"
"Doesn't look as though I have any great use for them."
"No, hit don't, Jack. But ye mout use 'em sometime. Better have 'em along anyhow, when ye meet a Thompson, 'cause ye air shore ter need 'em then. Now, Wade, I reckon ye hadn't better git angry 'cause that boy borried yer hoss. Hit won't do ye any good, an' hit mout do ye harm. Ye'll git him back agin. Tom won't be sore long, an' when he gits well 'nough so's he kin git 'bout a little, ye kin listen out fer ther crack o' rifles in good shape. Come on in an' we'll git somethin' ter eat, after hit gits good'n daylight. I want ter have 'nuther talk with ye, sorter face ter face like, afore ye leave me agin. This durn kintry is stirred up from ther top o' ther hill ter ther bottom o' ther creek, an' then some on t'other side, an' ye'll see some hot flames, one after t'other, an' hear o' how hell is raised, an' see many fellers turn up their heels afore long, ef I don't miss my guess putty bad. Them trust fellers is determined ter drive us all out o' ther kintry, or see us go ter ther graves as poor as Job's turkey—however poor that was—an' they do say that they was mouty poor; but, by gad, they'll have a tough time a-doin' of it! Ther bother of a feud with old Jim Thompson an' his mean gang hain't nuthin' long side o' what's a-goin' ter happen 'bout hyar soon. Ther worst o' ther whole thing, Wade, is that ther air so many in ther association what'll raise terbacker fer ther trusts. Them's ther fellers as is ther hardest ter go up agin, an' ther ones as oughter have ther neck broken. They'll sell ther stuff fer three an' six cents a pound when they mout as well git eighteen an' twenty fer ther same terbacker; but no, they'd ruther go ahead agin everybody an' agin therselves, an' sell cheap. They'll have a time a-sellin' that terbacker this year fer that price. We cain't raise terbacker fer five cents a pound an' come out even, let alone makin' a livin' out'n it. Ther durn fools!"
Old Peter Judson generally warmed up when talking over the tobacco situation, and he cared but little to whom he was talking, nor who heard him, when he used rough language. His greatest expression was "Ther durn fool!" and when he exclaimed in that fashion he was generally done with that subject or person.
"They'll git ther fill of it all right this season," Peter continued, after a pause, wherein he caught a second breath, "they'll git plenty of it. Why, let me tell ye, Wade, what happened one time, an' I'm a-tellin' ye fer yer own good. I don't want ye ter git yourself inter that deep hole what I told ye 'bout one day, ther time I told ye a feller mout git inter his own hole, remember?" Jack did remember. "Well," continued Peter, "there was a feller onct,—an' he's over t'other side yet,—by ther name o' Mike Donovan. Mike is a old Irish settler, 'bout ther fust ter come hyar. Ye've heerd o' him, no doubt. Well, he tuck a hot Irish notion in his thick head ter run things his own way 'bout hyar, but ther balance o' ther farmers wouldn't have it that way 'tall. They tried their level best ter git old Mike to join the association, but he got hard-headed an' said he'd be durned ef he joined any sich association o' fools as was scattered 'bout this valley; that he'd raise as much terbacker as he wanted ter hisself accordin' to his own feelin's in that, an' he'd sell hit ter who he wanted, an' fer what he wanted ter. Now, Wade, ye know well 'nough that ther farmers cain't go agin sich hard-headedness as that an' win out, 'course ye do. Any fool'd know that, so they begged him ter quit his foolishness an' join ther association like a good feller, an' git more fer his trouble o' raisin' terbacker; but ye know how a Irisher is on that point. They won't give in ter nobody fer nuthin'; so he wouldn't come in. Well, in the course o' time he done like he said he would do, an' raised a big crop o' terbacker. He had a notion that he'd fool everybody 'round hyar, an' he did try it. A committee was 'pinted ter call on him once more an' ax him fer to quit, but he wouldn't. He went on an' raised ther terbacker an' made open threats that he'd take it ter town on a certain day, in wagons. He tried it all right. Ther committee, ter give him 'nuther chance, called on him agin, an' tried ter git him ter keep his terbacker in his barns fer a little while longer, but he just perlitely told ther committee that they could go ter 'h,' followed by an 'e' two 'els.' Now, Wade, that feller loaded nine wagons with good terbacker an' started off to Hopkinsville with it."
Peter Judson paused again for new breath.
"Did he get there with it?" asked Wade interestedly.
"Git thar, did ye say, Wade, git thar! Ye durn fool, d'ye think them farmers'd have their plans spoiled by that old hot-headed Irisher? No, he didn't git thar with it. Do ye mind ther old-fashioned zigzag rail fences in some parts o' this kintry?"
Wade remembered having seen them.
"Well, at a certain turn in ther road whar ther fence is built out o' 'em, a powerful gang o' good farmers met Mike Donovan an' his fine train o' terbacker, an' axed him ef he wouldn't please be so kind an' turn back with it an' store it in his barns a little while longer. 'No,' said Mike, 'I won't,' an' he whipped his horses an' said, 'Git up!' But them horses couldn't budge a inch. 'Turn back,' said ther leader. Mike jest sot thar an' never moved. All ther time men was a-gittin' them rails off that old rail fence an' a-pilin' 'em up in ther road. Still ther stubborn Mike Donovan wouldn't turn back. They kivered him with a forty-four Winchester, while one wagonload o' terbacker was piled on ther rails. 'Will ye turn back, Mike?' they asked. Mike said never a word. 'Nuther load was piled on ther rails, an' a row o' rails on top o' that, an' they axed Mike agin ter turn back. He jest stood thar a-sullen. Every load o' terbacker was piled on ther rails, one row o' rails an' one load o' terbacker, an' still old Mike wouldn't give in. Well, ye kin guess ther rest, Wade, cain't ye? No? Well, that was one o' ther puttiest fires I ever seed, an' ther air was so full o' pure terbacker smoke that some o' them told me they didn't have ter smoke their pipes fer three or four days after that fire. All they had to do was to git out on their porch, raise their head a little an' draw in a good long breath, then spit her out, an' they was done smoking fer a while. Mike Donovan—did ye ax what 'bout him, ther durn fool? Course he turned back, but he didn't have no money, nur any terbacker ter store in his barns."
Daylight was approaching and Peter, looking in the direction of Jack Wade's cabin, exclaimed, "Thar's yer hoss now, Wade."