The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe Nightriders' FeudThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: The Nightriders' FeudAuthor: Walter Caruth McConnellRelease date: October 2, 2010 [eBook #33829]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by David Garcia, Mary Meehan and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Kentuckiana Digital Library)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE NIGHTRIDERS' FEUD ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: The Nightriders' FeudAuthor: Walter Caruth McConnellRelease date: October 2, 2010 [eBook #33829]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by David Garcia, Mary Meehan and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Kentuckiana Digital Library)
Title: The Nightriders' Feud
Author: Walter Caruth McConnell
Author: Walter Caruth McConnell
Release date: October 2, 2010 [eBook #33829]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by David Garcia, Mary Meehan and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Kentuckiana Digital Library)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE NIGHTRIDERS' FEUD ***
CHAPTER ICHAPTER IICHAPTER IIICHAPTER IVCHAPTER VCHAPTER VICHAPTER VIICHAPTER VIIICHAPTER IXCHAPTER XCHAPTER XICHAPTER XIICHAPTER XIIICHAPTER XIVCHAPTER XV
John Redmond, the second, had just completed his education in a New York college, having been graduated with high honors, and was therefore prepared to go out into the world and set it on fire with his brilliancy. But the call of the great business world was strangely superseded by the "call of the wild," which had long since taken firm hold upon his young heart. Since his earliest recollections his soul had longed to go out into the wild Western country, and he was now fully determined to appease his adventurous appetite amid the great wild mountains of the West.
Thoughts concerning his future flitted fast through his study-ladened brain as the train sped on toward his home. Yes, he would go to the mountains and seek gold or coal where others, with less ability to find, had passed over the immense wealth which must surely lie hid deep beneath the great earthen mounds. This wealth, he thought, had been placed there by the Maker of the mighty earth, that his great skill as an engineer might be made known to the world. It was there for his own pleasure; it had not been intended that others should make the discovery. His training would enable him to make discoveries which others had not been skillful enough to make. The life would be just to his liking, and would fill a long-felt desire to invade the bowels of the hitherto uninvaded depths of rocky earth. It was not his intention to delay one moment; he would go at once.
The train sped on, and he reached his home in good time. There he was greeted with the sad news that his uncle, John Redmond, for whom he was named, had been slain by murderous Nightriders over in the valley of Kentucky. His tobacco crop had been utterly destroyed, his barns and out-houses devastated, his home burned to the earth, and as he was fleeing from the burning building, in an effort to save himself from a torturous death, he had been shot down in his tracks like a dog, a forty-four Winchester bullet tearing his heart to pieces.
What more would man need to set his soul on fire? What more would he need to raise his ire to the verge of distraction?
John Redmond, the second, stood with bowed head, listening to the terrible outrage; his Southern blood warmed to the boiling point. His heart beat fast, his teeth came together with a sharp noise, and his fists were tightly clenched. Revenge burned within him, his soul felt that the foul deed called for vengeance. In a twinkling his plans were changed. His adventurous spirit told him that his life's work had been found, that he must hie him to the country where his uncle had met such a hasty and untimely death; that he must seek out those who had murdered him and revenge the cold deed.
John Redmond had hardly known this uncle, having seen him only one time, but he was a kinsman, the same blood ran through their veins, their forefathers were the same, and he would be speedily avenged.
The younger Redmond sent agents into Kentucky to purchase land, and in a little while all preparations for a hasty departure had been made. The cabin purchased needed repair, but that would be done with his own hands. He would have plenty of time for all such work.
His intention was to go over and raise tobacco in direct opposition to the great association of good farmers. Let them do what they would, he would show them that he was a man of his own notions, and no set of men could run him, much less a body of uneducated "galoots."
Next you see of John Redmond he is crossing the country by wagon train. Slowly his caravan moves, finally reaching the place purchased for the future home of this man of strong desires and peculiar aims. The belongings were unloaded, and those who assisted him in the move bade him a successful ending and returned to civilization. While John Redmond, who introduced himself to this new country as "Jack Wade," was making preparations for a comfortable living, the eyes of the surrounding community were cast upon him. Slowly and untiringly he labored for a few weeks, getting everything in comfortable condition, seeking the assistance of the few loafing farmers, until matters were fairly arranged and everything fixed up comfortably for bachelor quarters.
If one should have been standing on the hill at a time very near sunset one afternoon, he could have seen Jack Wade, the graduate engineer, standing at the bars or gate leading from his horse-lot to a plot of ground used as a pasture for his one cow and one horse. He no longer has the appearance of a soft-skinned school-boy, but rather is dark and ruddy, the warm Kentucky sun having changed his complexion. He has on a blue shirt, soft, with collar attached, high-top boots, into the legs of which his corduroy pantaloons are stuffed, in the style of a true Westerner. He has one foot resting upon the lower wire while his arms fell loosely across the top wire. He is surveying with his keen dark eye the surrounding country, not having had time heretofore to look about him.
Over yonder, about one mile to the south of him, is a farmhouse; over to his right, and a little to the northwest, is another cabin. Behind him looms up the huge mountain, amid whose rugged rocks and green shrubbery much of his time will be spent. He turns and looks toward the mountain; there he sees another cabin, or small house. It is the home of a tobacco planter, who has one son and an only daughter.
Nora Judson has many times looked longingly down the dusty road toward the cabin of the newcomer and wondered what he was like. Her scheming brain found a way by which she could tell.
Twilight's shadows are drawing the day to a close. Down the cow-trodden road can be seen an old brindle cow, coming leisurely, switching her tail from one side to the other, nibbling the sweet tufts of grass along the side of the trail. On she comes, until she passes the watcher and goes out into the woodland just beyond.
Wade watched the cow until she was out of sight, then he sighed.
"It's going to be a fearful job," he said mentally, "but the thingshallbe done. Not one of them shall be left if God spares me long enough to take them away."
As the last words left his mind he glanced heavenward, as if to implore the Almighty to aid him in a work which he honestly thought was for the good of humanity at large and for God Himself. He was honestly convinced that he was on an errand of great mercy, and the world would be made better and humanity live more peaceably among themselves, and more godly by the fulfillment of his plans.
"Not one," he repeated, "not one shall be left to molest the peace of the innocent ones in this great valley,"—he swept his hand about him tragically,—"in this wonderful valley."
He sighed again. The gloom of a departing day was gathering about him. The lonesomeness of a twilight in the valley was making a deep impression upon his young life and he was beginning to long for companionship.
The monotony of the hour was broken by the faint sound of a female voice coming from toward the mountain, calling, "Soo-cow, soo-cow, sook-sook!" The call came vibrating down through the valley to his listening ears. Jack Wade's heart gave one joyful bound because a human being, and that a girl, was near. Nearer and nearer came the call, until through the gathering darkness could be seen the form of a valley maid. Soon she hove into full view just up the road. On she came, calling the cow, until she stood directly opposite Wade.
Apparently she had not before noticed him standing beside the fence.
"Good-evening," said Wade pleasantly. A lovely flush covered her dark face.
"Howdy?" she replied. Then falteringly, "Seen anything of a old brindle cow down this away?"
"Yes," said Wade. "She's just yonder in the woodland grazing leisurely. I'll go fetch her for you."
"Ye needn't be so kind," said the girl. "I kin git her myself. Much obleeged."
She started on, unmindful of his grateful glance, after the cow.
"I'll go with you, if you don't mind," he said, "and show you where to find her."
She didn't mind, so Wade bolted, in athletic style, over the fence and joined her.
Old Peter Judson's daughter was a very beautiful girl. Jack looked into her face,—he had nothing else to do just now,—and wondered how it was possible that she could be so pretty. Though born and reared in the valley, and having known nothing of the outside world, she was fearless in speech and manner. Her form was indeed very fine for one who had not the opportunities to gather grace, her voice was musically soft and sweet, her face was delicately fair. She looked up into Wade's eyes with an expression of earnestness that was almost an appeal.
"Ye are the newcomer, ain't ye?" she asked, unabashed.
"I've not been here a great many days," he replied thoughtfully.
"Have ye come to stay?" she asked.
The question was very direct, but Wade felt no uneasiness in replying truthfully. He had come to stay so long as everything was pleasant for him, otherwise he might pull up "stakes" and leave when he thought the time was ripe.
Her next question was even more direct. She stood for one moment, surveying Wade casually.
"Have ye come to raise terbacker?" she asked.
"No," he replied, "I shall raise tobacco but in small quantities, merely as a pastime. I am here especially on account of my health."
She surveyed him again, her large dark eyes going over him from head to feet.
"Ye don't look unhealthy."
She was quite right. He did not look unhealthy. His large athletic frame was not physically disabled.
"No?" he questioned. "Well, I'm not quite dead."
He laughed and so did she laugh, her silvery voice ringing out through the fast gathering darkness.
"There is your brindle cow," he said, pointing to the creature which stood with neck bent, looking back at the two approaching figures.
"Thank ye for bein' so kind," she said, looking up at him with a grateful expression upon her countenance. Picking up a short piece of broken tree limb she went round the cow, crying "Hooey-hooey!" and striking her about the flanks. The cow, fully understanding what was wanted of her, started back up the road toward home, while the girl appeared to pay no further heed to Wade's presence, feeling that he had done his full duty in locating the cow. However, the latter followed her out of the woods, both of them trailing along slowly and silently behind the cow.
"I'm going to help you to get the runaway home," said Wade, smiling.
"Ye needn't," she exclaimed; "I know the road all right," a little sarcastically.
"But I also want to learn it," he replied, not in the least rebuffed.
"Ye might be losin' time for me, an' I don't want ye to do that," tenderly.
"I'd rather lose time assisting you than do anything else at this moment."
"Oh!" she exclaimed, "ef ye want to learn the road, come on."
Her face flushed. She felt it, but Wade could not penetrate the twilight sufficiently to discern the crimson coloring.
"I do want to," he said, "and I wish I had such a companion to show me the way over the mountain and through the entire country."
Unheeding this remark, she said, "Hit's a little lonely, livin' alone, hain't it?"
"It is while I am not very well acquainted with my neighbors, but I shall become better acquainted soon. One cannot expect to be greatly elated at once, or happy altogether, until he knows his neighbors well."
"Nice folks 'round here," she replied. "Once you git to know them you are sure to like them."
There came a moment of silence.
"Do you live in the house toward the mountain?" asked Wade.
"That's Dad's house. I live there—have lived there for many years."
"You are very fond of the hills and ravines, I presume?"
"An' the brooks. They are the only companions I have ever known, except my brother, an' he's been in the saddle ever since I was old enough to have companions, or remember anything. They are my friends,—the cow and the dog, the chickens an' the geese, the ducks an' the turkeys, an' even the grunting pigs, are the only friends I have ever known."
"What a terribly lonesome life that seems to have been."
"Not to me; it has been a happy one."
"Pardon me, I should not have spoken that way."
"Hit don't make any difference how you speak," she said independently. "We are used to everything here."
"Who lives yonder to the south of us?" asked Wade, pointing in the direction indicated.
"Jim Thompson. He's a terbacker raiser, too."
"And who to the west yonder?"
"Oh, that's the place where old John Redmond lived. It's not used now."
There was a tinge of sorrow in the girl's voice as she spoke.
"What became of old John Redmond?" asked Wade, his own voice quivering.
"Don't ye know, hain't ye heerd?"
"Haven't heard anything yet; haven't been here long enough to learn much."
This untruth brought a flush over Jack Wade's face, but it was not seen by the girl, the darkness being too deep.
"He was killed by the Nightriders," she said, choking; "shot to death when his home was burned."
"So that's the course pursued with a fellow here, is it?" Wade's lips curled scornfully.
"Sometimes, an' sometimes they don't. It's accordin' to what the other feller is about."
"What has a fellow to do to bring about such an end as that served out to old John Redmond?"
"Nuthin'. Old John didn't do nuthin'; that's what the trouble was."
"Who are the Nightriders?" asked Wade, after a moment's thought.
"Say, stranger," said the girl at this juncture, and evasively, "here's my home, an' ye better git now. Ef Dad ketches ye here he mou't do to ye like them fellers done old John Redmond, so I says much obleege fer helpin' me fetch the old brindle cow home."
"I'll helpyouany time I can," he said.
"Thank ye," she held out her hand shyly. Jack Wade held it in his own, pressing it tenderly, until she pulled it away from him.
"Good-by," she said softly.
"Good-by," he returned, and then turned to face the lonesome gloom.
As Jack Wade faced about to return to his own cabin he saw a lone horseman coming up the road toward him, riding very rapidly, which was a custom in the country. No one ever rode slowly.
Remembering the girl's remarks of warning, he concluded it the height of wisdom to be seen as little as possible lurking around the vicinity, as he was in the community for an avowed purpose and he must be very cautious in order to fulfill his mission. He therefore stepped back into the shadow of a friendly bush and allowed the horseman to gallop by without discovering him. He turned and watched the rider, until he entered the gate through which the girl had driven the cow a few moments before. A sudden impulse seized him to creep back under the shadow of the trees and learn what he might from the conversation which he could now hear but faintly. This being a very dangerous proceeding, his mind was changed. He did not feel that he was thoroughly enough acquainted with the surroundings nor the people and their customs, and would take no chances until he should know more clearly what he was about—until he became more accustomed to everything and everybody.
The horseman he had seen was none other than Tom Judson, brother of the girl he had assisted in locating the cow. Tom rode into the lot, jumped from his horse in true Western style, threw the reins of his bridle over the saddle-horn, rapped the horse over the hips with his gloves, and walked on behind him to the barn. Nora was now milking the old brindle cow, and her father was inside the barn putting feed into the trough for the stock.
"Peers ye air mighty late git'n' yer milkin' done," said Tom. "What's ther matter of ye?"
He tapped the girl upon the head with the finger end of his glove, and he tapped her again because she made no immediate reply.
"Reckon I hain't no later git'n' hit done than ye are a git'n' home, seein' as how I'm most done now," she replied.
"Milkin' a cow hain't nuthin' like takin' a day fer to ride over the country a givin' warnin's."
"What ye warnin' 'bout now, Tom?" she asked, with much interest.
"Go 'long, gal. Ye ain't been raised in this country fer nothin'! Ye know what I've been warnin' 'bout well 'nough, 'thout axin' me. They's a-goin' ter be hell raised in this country to-night. That's what I've been warnin' 'bout. Now do ye know, durn ye!"
"I reckon I do. Who's a-goin' ter git it this time?"
"Aw, ye want to know too much all to once. Jest wait 'til ye see ther blaze 'long erbout midnight, an' ye'll know all ye want to know."
"I mout be asleep then." Nora spoke feelingly. She desired to know more, but hesitated to ask direct questions.
"Yes," said Tom, "I reckon ye will be asleep when ye think somethin's a-goin' to be a-doin'. Them durn big black eyes of yourn'll see everything in the whole blame valley afore mornin'. Ye kin see plum through ther mountain when ye want to, an' they'll be a plenty fer you ter see to-night, an' ther newcomer——!" Tom stopped suddenly and Nora looked hastily up, inquiringly, hoping to hear him finish the sentence, but he spoke never another word.
"What's hit about ther newcomer, Tom?" she asked after a moment's hesitation.
"Nuthin'. What'd ye keer if hit was anything about him?"
"I don't; but ye was about ter say somethin' about him. That's why I axed ye. I don't keer nothin' about him no mor'n anybody else." Nora did have some anxiety about his safety, however, but she did not wish to show this to Tom. She knew her brother's failing.
"Well," said Tom slowly, "seein' as how ye don't keer, I was a-goin' ter say that he'd git his fill of peekin' 'round here afore he's many days older, d'ye hear me?"
Nora did hear, and felt a pang peculiarly new to her pass over her heart. Having now finished milking the old brindle cow, she raised up, gave her a kick on the legs, and poured the milk into a larger pail conveniently near. For one moment she studied the features of her brother, then spoke to him tenderly.
"Now, Tom," she said, "what has ther newcomer done that ye've got it in fer him?"
"Nuthin'," sullenly. "Nuthin' 'tall. Thought ye didn't keer so much 'bout him?"
"I don't."
"Then ye air mighty interested in somethin' down that away. What made ye ax me that fer?"
"Aw, go 'long, will ye? Ef ye don't know nuthin', keep yer lips buttoned; ef ye know somethin', tell it, an' don't be so tight with yer knowin's."
"Ye air sassy, sis. Well, they hain't nuthin' ther matter with him, but he acts like he mout do somethin' ef he hain't checked fust. Ef he opens his mouth too much 'round here ye know good an' well what mout happen ter him putty quick, don't ye?"
Tom gave Nora a slap in the face and followed on after his horse.
Old Peter Judson came out of the barn and, upon seeing Tom, asked if he had given the warning to everybody. He had, he said, "and what's more, everybody'd be thar."
Nora took up her milk pails and hurried into the house, where she found her mother busily engaged in getting supper on the table. After straining the milk and putting it away in its accustomed place, she assisted her mother in the work.
Silence prevailed within her soul. Not a word escaped her lips as she busied herself over the meal. Somehow she felt a strange foreboding. Her heart was full of thought for the safety of the newcomer, in whom she felt a peculiar interest.
He, not at all like other men she had known, had spoken kind words to her, and they touched a tender spot in her heart. He had assisted her to find the old brindle cow and had helped to drive her home. What was it that attracted this wild flower of the mountain to this man? And what was it that caused the unhappy throb when Tom remarked concerning him? These remarks were anything but reassuring. She worked on amid her soliloquy.
Mrs. Judson could not refrain from remarking the contrast between this thoughtful girl and her own Nora.
"Ye air mighty quiet, Nora," she said, her face drawn up gingerly. "What's ther matter of ye, that yer tongue hain't a-waggin' as usual?"
Nora stood for one moment thoughtfully pondering, while she deftly dried, for the third time, the saucer which she held in her hand, then throwing the dish towel over her shoulder, she faced her mother.
"Cain't a feller be quiet 'thout somebody a-thinkin' somethin's wrong?"
She was smiling deeply, the dimples in her cheeks showing beautifully.
"Not 'round this hyar kintry," replied Mrs. Judson. "Ye know yerself that when everythings quiet like 'round this hill somethin's 'bout ter happen. Now what does ail ye? What is ther matter with yer?"
"Tom says theys a-goin' ter be doin's 'round here to-night," replied Nora, "an' I reckon he knows, ef anybody does."
Mrs. Judson now assumed an air of utter silence. She knew full well that her daughter spoke the truth, that when Tom said that something was likely to happen about the valley it usually did happen, and very soon thereafter.
Tom and his father came into supper and ate quietly, while the women served them, this being the custom in this country. The fact that they were non-communicative now was because no doubt they had said, before entering the room, all that was necessary concerning the plans for the night. Nora remained in silence, ate her meal and cleared away the dishes, still holding the silence. She gazed up at the twinkling stars dancing in the heavens, at the great moon shining brightly, sending darting rays through the foliage of the large trees overhanging the cabin. A silvery mist hung over the mountain and flitted through the valley, the while the stars smiled down on the troubled earth. Troubled? Yes, all mankind is troubled down the valley. Over all the deep blue of the heavens dropped a shining sheen to cover the already beautiful landscape. From afar over the mountain the voice of the night-bird came gliding through the mist, the "hoot" of the night owl sounded a note of warning, the sleepless animals of darkness pealed forth their notes of joy as they gamboled over the green mountainside, and down, far down in the depths of the rich valley, the cow-bell tinkled as the cow nibbled the sweet green grass. None of these had thoughts of fear, none of these discerned the great danger to humanity, none of these felt the deep heart throbs that beat in the breast of humanity.
It is growing late, but Nora Judson did not retire at her usual hour. She dared not, lest she should lose the sight that had greeted her on many similar occasions. However, she should not fail in one duty, her evening prayer. This had been a lifelong duty, taught her early. Even in the roughest and most rugged parts of this great universe the children are taught that God liveth and reigneth. Somehow God gets into the most seemingly forsaken communities in the remotest corners of the earth, and lets it be known that He is the Almighty. He assumes power everywhere. The child of the wildest region learns some form of prayer. Mrs. Judson had taught Nora in her earliest days to say "Now I lay me down to sleep," but knowing that she was not going to sleep this night Nora said to herself, "What shall I do? what shall I do? fer I hain't a-goin' to lay me down ter sleep this night. I hain't. O Lord, what shall I say?"
Strange as it may seem, it had never occurred to her that any form of speech other than she had been taught would be a prayer, therefore she was utterly lost to know how to proceed. She looked wonderingly heavenward as if to catch inspiration. Then it was that the thought was aroused within her, the thought that she should pray for others. Her pure young heart had found a way to speak to God, so she bowed her head and clasped her hands and said tenderly, "O God,"—she hesitated as if gathering thought for expression,—"kin Ye keep a secret? Ef Ye kin, don't tell anybody how the old brindle cow got under the wire. Don't, fer goodness' sake, 'cause ef ye do, hit mout githiminto trouble. O God, he is so nice. Them han'some eyes of his'n is a-hauntin' of me yet, an' he was so good ter help me find old brindle an' drive her home. Iwasaskeered to come up ther road by myself, but I didn't want to let on to him like as ef I was, 'cause he mout a-thought I was weak, an' he was so good an' spoke so tenderly an' kind-like.
"No man hain't never spoke to me that away afore, not even Al Thompson; but I 'spect I don't keer nuthin' 'bout Al, an' maybe I never did; an'hesaid he was here for his health an' would raise ter—he said to-bac-co. He knows, an' that must be right. O God, I hope Ye didn't let Tom see him as he was a-goin' back ter his shanty, 'cause ef ye did, hit mout bring on more trouble fer him, an' I know Ye don't want him to get into trouble. Tom's a good boy an' don't mean anybody harm, but——"
Nora stopped and leaned forward, straining her ears to catch the weird sound. From toward the mountain there came the clattering of many horses' feet as they fell heavily upon the rocky hillside. On they came. Nearer and nearer, louder and louder, the clattering sound grew.
Every strike of a hoof upon the rocky way was like a needle driven into her breast over her heart. With few words she cut her prayer short. Looking heavenward she muttered imploringly, "Save him, an' let old brindle git out again sometime."
She stepped over to her one lonely, paneless window, pulled the latch string, shoved the wooden panel aside and, peering out into the gloom, listened with heavy beating heart to the clatter of the horses' feet as they drew nearer. Heretofore this same sound had been as sweet music in her ears. She had grown up in the midst of it, and her heart bounded with great pleasure whenever she heard such a sound; but now it was different, somehow she did not enjoy it. The many horsemen drew nearer, until she could see them bounding rapidly down the mountain road.
Outside she saw two lone horsemen in saddles, standing by the gate, as immovable as statues. Silently they sat, neither horse nor rider moving, not a sound escaping their lips. The mighty throng of horsemen were now passing directly in front, and the two silent watchers of the night quickly joined the mad race. Not a word escaped any of them until they were nearing Jack Wade's cabin. Then one fellow leaned over and whispered, through his heavy dark head-gear, to his companion nearest him, "Wonder if he'll fall in, too?" There was no reply. Perhaps one was not expected.
On they flew, black demons of darkness, destructive vultures of freedom, cutting the wind as if they had been a two-edged sword; slashing the mist with their foaming steeds, dark steeds, as dark as the starless night; enshrouded in caps as dark as the cloud-covered moon, speaking never a word, but groaning destruction deep down in their revengeful souls.
Jack Wade was awakened from a peaceful slumber by the thundrous tramp of the horses' heavy feet as they galloped swiftly by. He rose stupidly and went out, but as he looked, saw nothing, yet it seemed to him that the very atmosphere of the valley was alive with fantastic dancers. The weird spectacle grew before his sleep-ladened eyes, until the devils of hell seemed encrouched about him. Evidently they were bent on tearing his heart asunder, for there they were preparing to spring upon him.
"Begone, ye devils!"
The beat of the horses' feet falling upon the softer ground grew fainter and fainter, until the sound could be heard no more. Wade sat in his doorway pondering and wondering over the strangeness of the people among whom he had taken up his abode. He knew that the noise which woke him had been made by the tramping of many horses, but knew not whither they were bound, nor what their errand. He sat for a long time looking down through the lowlands, dreaming, pondering. Ever the great dark eyes of the valley girl danced in the moonlight space before him. Her soft stare, tender hands, and innocent expression haunted him. Out in the deep distance a dog was baying. The horsemen had no doubt awakened him as they had awakened Wade, and he was entering his protest in loud and continuous bays. Behind him a rooster was crowing the midnight hour, his own wall clock tolling the same hour. Overhead the moon was shining brightly, sending her silvery rays to greet all the earth.
Suddenly there arose over the valley the shout of many voices, mingled with the baying of as many dogs, then the midnight air was rent in twain by the vibrations caused from the firing of pistols and rifles.
"What now?" thought the ponderer. "Ye gods! this is a fearful condition."
Some two miles away a faint red light grew up out of the mist. Wade strained his eyes in an effort to discern more clearly the cause. The light grew until the watcher could clearly discern the flickering blaze as it leaped high into the heavens, apparently bent on devouring the very stars that gave light to the darkened earth. Still the blaze grew, sending forth sparks like great balloons of fire. Over a little way beyond another light sprang up to greet the straining eyes of the watcher, and also grew in brightness, until the whole landscape for miles over the valley was one bright sea of flame. The sight was too much for Wade; he could not sit longer and watch it from such a great distance. Hastily saddling his horse he rode toward the conflagration, having two specific objects in view. One, and the lesser, to witness the great conflagration; the other, to learn something of interest to himself.
The road over which he was traveling was so entirely new to him that he found it quite difficult to make any speed, therefore he resigned himself to a jog-trot, picking his way over ravines and around low growing shrubs, sometimes emerging out into the open and traveling beneath the large forest trees. He often wondered how it was possible for the horsemen who had gone on ahead of him to have kept up such a terrible speed on such a road. They knew the earth beneath their horses' feet, every inch of it, and feared not, he concluded. Their horses were fully acquainted with the rough way, and hesitated not. How friendly the light of the waning moon appeared to that lonely traveler in that silent dark region! How beautifully shone the little friendly stars, those small heavenly bodies, from their homes in the clear blue sky! One does not realize the full value of the moonlight until one has real necessity for it, then its great value is known—indeed no value can be placed upon it then.
No light now came from the conflagration he was desiring to witness, but there would be, as soon as he emerged once more into the open. He went on cautiously, until he came out into the moonlight again. Yonder to the right of him was the fire, still burning brightly, sending up a flickering blaze. He hurried his pace as much as possible over the road, and now saw a lone horseman speeding like the wind toward him. In another moment he passed. His head was uncovered, but that was not unnatural. It was all right; he knew him not. This lone horseman turned in his saddle and glanced at Wade when he had got past him, never a moment allowing his steed to slacken his pace. That was also all right. They did not know each other. Wade hurried on, finally reaching the burning building, where he found not a living thing, human nor beast, nothing saving the dying embers of a burning home. The light from the burning barn was brighter, and as he glanced that way he discovered a poor horse lying by the gate in the agonies of death.
"Poor fellow," he thought, as he watched him breathe his last, "your useful days are over; nothing can save you now."
Wade looked farther. On all sides he saw nothing but charred ruins, dark devastation, no sign of human nor animal life—not even a sign of vegetable life. No noise, not even the deep bay or the low whine of the farmhouse dog greeted his ears. Again he turned back into the darkness of the night and made his way to his cabin, none the wiser for having taken the trip.
Jack Wade was neither physically nor mentally afflicted. His great body was physically strong, his mind was symmetrically powerful. His college training prepared him to face the many difficult problems of life, his elect wisdom led him carefully at all times, and his athletic ability stood him well in hand on many occasions. As he sat pondering, he wondered over the peculiar fact that not a soul in the entire valley with whom he had talked had been willing to breathe one word concerning the great conflagration of a few nights previous. No one ever spoke of it, as though nothing so important had ever happened. Yet one man had lost, in little more time than an hour, what it had taken a lifetime to accumulate.
Things down in the valley were mysteriously strange. Wade had been in the community for some time, with an avowed purpose, but had not learned a single thing that would lead him to any knowledge of what he most desired to know. He was not yet even fully acquainted with his nearest neighbors, and, feeling this to be necessary, he placed a book under his arm and strode up the hot dusty road toward the cabin nearest the mountain, knowing but little what kind of reception would be accorded him. However, the reception was a secondary matter,—the sort did not bother him in the least,—as his thoughts were not on kindly receptions in this God-forsaken community. Apparently there was no friendly feeling between any two persons in the valley, therefore he did not look for a kindly reception, nor did he desire one. He wanted to know the people, that was all.
He passed the little bush which had so kindly sheltered him when Tom Judson came rushing by, and reached the spot where he had bid the little wild flower, the valley girl, good-by. It all looked the same yet. There was the planter's cabin, just as he had seen it on the other occasion; there was the old rickety wire gate through which the girl drove the cow and through which her brother had led his horse soon afterward, and through which he himself now strolled. He felt a peculiar shyness, this man of the world, when he went into the little farmyard. The dog bayed, the chickens cackled loudly, and the ducks quacked, raising their heads loftily and scampering off toward the horse-lot. One old turkey gobbler proudly strutted dangerously near him, signifying that he must be very careful while treading on the soil of their domain. Through the window the girl was watching him, her lustrous eyes all aglow at his approach, her big heart beating a pit-a-pat against her shapely bosom, so fast that she greatly feared lest he must hear it from his waiting place outside.
It was really the newcomer, the one person of all persons whom she most desired to see. She remembered his last conversation, his kind words, his attentive attitude. She had enjoyed him hugely, and wished for the time when she should hear his sweet voice again. By the time he was ready to knock she stood at the door, slightly blushing, not in the least backward. Their eyes met, but that bespoke nothing. Her eyes had met the gaze of others; so had his.
"I've brought a book for you to read," he said, not knowing that she could read at all.
"You needn't," she replied, reddening. But she took the book, as he gave it to her. Turning her face back toward the house she cried with a loud voice, "Mam! here's John, ther newcomer."
Jack looked up startled, greatly confused. She laughed at his confusion.
"That's the name I give everybody who I don't know," she said, smiling.
Wade felt quite relieved, his confusion at once disappearing. The simplicity of this pure valley girl wrought within his soul a feeling almost sympathetic. The simple means she had employed in asking him to introduce himself caused a feeling akin to shame to cover his heart. Recovering his composure, he said:
"I am Jack Wade. I beg your pardon for not having told you before."
"Ye needn't," she replied, extending her hand. A continuous smile played about her face.
"And your name?" he asked hesitatingly.
"Huh!" she grunted. "Thought everybody knowed me. I'm Nory Judson, only gal of Peter Judson, owner of this large terbac—to-bac-ker farm. I'm pleased ter know ye, Jack."
Wade smiled as she requested him to take a seat upon the rickety little porch and make himself at home. She sat beside him and dangled her feet in and out under the porch.
"You haven't got it quite right yet," he said, looking into her face.
"Got whut right?" she asked, a far-away expression covering her countenance.
"Tobacco. T-o-b-a-c-c-o."
"To-bac-co, tobacco," she slowly spelled after him studiously. "I thought hit was terbacker," she continued in apparent animation, "an' nobody hain't never said hit ain't 'round here." She did not mean to rebuke him for the correction. He thought so only because he understood her so very little. However, the subject was most too grave for him just at this juncture in their lives, therefore he quietly evaded further comment, feeling assured that it was not his duty to show this simple, sweet child of the mountainside how incorrectly she spoke, although he would gladly have done so could it have been done without in the least affecting her feelings. The time was not opportune. She was sensitive, perhaps, in a large degree, and he cared not to trample upon her sensibility. Far better that he place himself on a plane equal to her own as regards the use of the English language; otherwise she was more than his equal. Besides, he was in sore need of friends to assist him in fulfilling his purpose.
"No one may ever say that you are not quite right," he said jovially. "If they do, you may call on me and I'll see to it that justice is done."
He smiled and she could not refrain from smiling.
"I forgive ye," she said, "because ye are a lonely bachelor, an' I don't want ye ter feel bad. Ye look so lonesome."
"Thank you. It is very lonely down at my cabin just now, though I surely will become accustomed to this quiet life soon. Then all loneliness will disappear, I presume. Just think of a fellow being away out here by his lonesome self all day and all night, without a human soul to vent his wrath upon or to have a quiet conversation with, and your old brindle cow won't come down that way any more."
She blushed, the crimson covering her face making her appear the more beautiful, if such was possible. The flickering sunlight played on her face as she replied, "She mout a-come agin fer all ye know sometime."
"If she does, I hope she'll get entirely lost deep down in the woodland."
She turned sharply toward him.
"What fer?"
"So you may take longer to look for her, and upon discovering your inability to locate her, may request the newcomer to aid you in the search."
She was studiously silent for a moment, her feet still swinging to and fro underneath the porch. "I know these woods better'n you."
"But we are to suppose that the hour is very late and you are quite afraid to go into the woodland for fear some wild beast will catch you."
Her merry laughter rang over the mountain.
"Would ye help me agin?" she asked.
"Every time."
Again she sat silent.
"Old brindle mout git out agin and she mout git lost. Whut's ther book ye brought me?"
"A story of the Dark Ages."
"Whut's that?"
"What?"
"Ther Dark Ages."
"Oh, that's a time away back yonder before you were born."
"Hit was putty dark in them days, wasn't it?"
Wade's face flushed perceptibly, but he smiled.
"You cannot be so very much younger than myself," he said.
"I don't know how old ye are, but I know I'm old 'nough ter go ter town alone, an' can bring the cows home when Tom's not here."
"Who is Tom?"
"My only brother. Ye seed him t'other night when ye come with me ter fetch the old brindle cow home, didn't ye?"
"I saw someone on horse back coming up the road."
"Didhesee ye?" She bent over and looked straight into Wade's eyes.
"I tried to keep him from doing so. I stepped behind a sheltering bush while he passed, not that I particularly cared for his seeingme, but I felt for your safety. You had told me that your father must not see you with me, therefore I was in hiding for you, not for myself at all."
"Ye needn't," she replied warmly. "It's fer yourself I'm lookin' out. I can take care of me. The next time ye can, jest keep on in ther middle of ther road ef ye think yer hidin' fer me. Ye hain't, no, ye hain't."
Again Wade thoroughly misunderstood. "Let us keep peace," he said tenderly, "because you are my nearest neighbor now, and I'm a most neighborly fellow. I came over to-day because I believe neighbors ought to be friendly."
"Is that all?" she asked, a wild and troubled expression in her dark eyes. "No, not all, not quite all," he answered thoughtfully. "Had there not been an attraction here——"
"Whut's 'attraction'?" she interrupted shyly.
"Something to bring a fellow." She could not seem to understand.
"Your hoss could a-done that."
Wade laughed outright. The silvery notes touched deep down into the girl's very heart and soul, and she laughed a joyous laugh.
"I mean there is something on the other end to attract, to cause a fellow to have a desire to go. For instance, a magnetic power attracts other things, other bits of steel directly to it——"
"Whut's magnetic power?" she asked, interrupting.
"Haven't you seen a lodestone or a bit of steel in the shape of a horseshoe that will pick up a needle of its own power?"
"I can do that. Is it a sign that I'm magnetic?"
"Sure. You are the power of attraction just now."
"Aw," she ejaculated, looking shyly at him, "I don't know whut you mean yet."
"I'll bring a stone when I go to the village again and teach you something of the power of magnetism."
"Ye needn't. I know all about that. Al Thompson said onct that I was so powerful a magnetic that he jest couldn't keep away from me. Now I know whut he meant."
"Who is Al Thompson?" asked Wade.
"Why, don't ye know? He's ther wolf—night-watch jest now."
"You are talking strange things to me, Nora. I don't know the wolf—night-watch—at all." The girl placed her finger over her lips. "Here comes Mam," she said.
The scrawny figure of Mrs. Judson appeared in the doorway. "Nora," she said, drawling, "who'd ye say this man was?"
"His name is Jack. That's all I remember."
"Wade," said Jack, smiling.
"That's hit, Mam, Jack Wade. Well, he's ther newcomer, an' our neighbor, an' he's come over ter make hisself 'quainted with us."
"Yer welcome, neighbor Wade," said Mrs. Judson. "Whar be ye from?"
"All the way from New York City."
"Phew!" whistled Nora, dangling her feet a little more furiously. "That's ther biggest city whut hit is, haint it?"
"Well, the largest in the United States, at any rate."
"Be ye a-goin' ter raise terbacker——"
"Tobacco, Mam," corrected Nora, with a knowing wink.
"Whar'd yer l'arn ter be so smart?" asked Mrs. Judson angrily.
"From Jack here. He's been teachin' me ther smart ways of ther town folks."
Jack smiled good-naturedly. He did not intend raising tobacco in great quantities, he said, as he was here on account of his health, but would raise some tobacco, just enough to keep him engaged, to keep him out of deeper mischief.
"I might have the same fate served out to me as did one over yonder a few nights back, if I should raise much tobacco."
For a moment there was a deep silence over the trio. Nora looked quickly up toward the mountain, while her mother cast her eyes downward and counted the cracks in the porch floor.
"Ye mout come through all right," she said finally.
"I might, and I may conclude to raise a large crop some time. I have lately purchased the old Redmond farm, but don't intend using it for the time being. A fellow living a lonely life does not feel greatly like working much."
"Ye've got the richest land in ther whole valley," said Mrs. Judson, "that's sure."
"I have heard so. I look for great crops off it in the future. Do not hope to meet the same fate the former owner met with."
"Not very likely that ye will. I hope not."
"Thank you."
Wade, feeling that to prolong his call at this time would be encroaching on mountain hospitality, excused himself, promising to come again.
"I'm very sorry," he said, "not to have met your men folks."
"They mout be here next time you call," said Nora, following him out to the gate, loath to see him going. "I'll read ther book clean through. Good-by, Jack."
"Good-by, Nora."
There was something attractive in young Jack Wade's bearing that caused Nora Judson to look long after him as he wended down the road toward his own cabin. Once he looked back and saw her still standing at the gate, where he left her. Her hands were clasped before her, she stood erect, looking neither to the right nor to the left, but straight in front of her. Jack waved his hand, but she did not return the wave. When he was a long way off he turned and looked again. She still stood motionless, gazing out into the far beyond, her dress waving in the gentle wind, her tresses, wafted by the gentle breezes, falling about her crimson cheeks.
The cool air of the early morning, blowing down from the mountain, is refreshing and invigorating to Jack Wade, who is standing in the door of his cabin leaning against the facing leisurely, taking in with his eye the broad expanse of the valley before him.
He inhales deeply of the pure fresh Kentucky morning air, while his athletic frame quivers in the light of the rising sun. The eastern horizon was all aglow with the brightness shining through the flitting snow-white clouds. It was a beautiful picture, so he stood silent, drinking in the scenery of the surrounding country with great pleasure. Behind him, unknown to his waiting heart, stood a pure, sweet girl, gazing out through the deep mist of the morning, as if to penetrate the very depths to a distance where she might get one glimpse of the single man who had unconsciously awakened within her soul a new life, a new hope. A new being sprang up within her, her soul longed for the time when she could see him and hear his musical voice speaking to her inner life and vibrating to the deepest depths of her quivering young heart.
Wade thought of her often, but only as a newborn, unopened bud. He thought of her oftener than he felt he should, but he couldn't help that. Still, a flush of feeling came into his heart when he did think of her. What was it? What was this dark-eyed daughter of a tobacco planter to him that he should quit his pondering when the memory of her crossed his mind or when her crimson face rose like a vision before his eyes? She must be regarded as secondary. Other matters claimed his attention first, and should receive strict and careful consideration. But he could not resist. Temptation, ah, temptation! thou art the power which overcomes strong man. Wade threw the saddle on his horse, strapped his rifle on the saddle, and rode up the road toward the climbing sun, toward the towering mountain, intending to take a few hours in hunting, and casting over the views on the other side. When he reached Peter Judson's cabin he hesitated. "The attraction, the hoss, hit brung him."
Old Peter was stringing some new wire along the outer fence and did not notice Wade's approach; if he had noticed him he did not let on.
"Busy this morning, neighbor," said Wade, pulling up. Old Peter turned abruptly, spat out a great stream of "terbacker" juice and replied: "Ther durned old cow gits out too often. Gotter double ther wires. 'Light an' hitch, won't ye?"
Wade would, as he wished to become better acquainted with his nearest neighbor. He had called before, he said, but had found Mr. Judson gone out on business, and he was glad to find him at home on this beautiful morning. While Wade talked with Old Peter Judson, he could feel the power of those piercing dark eyes as they penetrated the window pane behind him. The vision was again before him. The bewitching smile, the great rows of pearly white teeth, the dimples in either cheek, he saw, though she sat somewhere in the dark recesses of that little old cabin. But this did not deter him. He spoke of the great prospect for another crop, while the old man leaned against a fence post and occasionally spit a stream of dark red tobacco juice.
Once he took deliberate aim at a young chick and missed him about a half inch. He would have drowned him had he hit the mark.
"Ye haint got chickens down ter yer shanty?" said the old man questioningly.
Wade had a few old hens and a rooster, he said. The hens were not laying,—they were not the laying sort,—but he hoped to raise a few chickens along just for his own pleasure, to get diversion from other duties. He spoke so kindly and firmly that Peter Judson thought he was going to like him, unless he took to different ways, unless he was "agin" the poor man, unless he "mout do something terrible." There was a chance that he was all right and there was a chance that he was all wrong. The "Wolf, Night-Watch," had discovered things that did not at all seem right, and until they were proved false or true an opinion would not be entertained. While one talked with him, there arose a doubt as to whether the Wolf, Night-Watch, might not be utterly mistaken. That would be determined later. For the present he was perfectly all right.
Wade was also making discoveries of which he thought his neighbors knew nothing. He was in the community, he told Judson, to aid and assist his neighbors, especially those who showed an inclination to assist him and a friendliness toward him. He had sufficient funds, he said, to enable him to go through life easily, and therefore his sole aim wasnotto make money, but to regain lost health. Old Peter opened wide his eyes, making occasional replies.
Though thoroughly uneducated, Peter Judson was no fool by any means, and he had a mathematical way of his own to figure out problems which confronted him in every-day life. He was plain, but staunch, was glad to know his neighbor, and hoped he would call often. They were immediate neighbors, he said, and should be friends: Peter even invited Wade to come back and take dinner, and Wade accepted, pleased with the opportunity that should lead him into the family of which he desired to learn more. He wanted to know their home life, their inmost thoughts, and he therefore gladly accepted the kind invitation to lunch. Wade turned to go, but some supernatural power impelled him to hesitate, and that hesitation brought forth her whom he of all people most desired to see. Nora, seeing that the conversation between her father and the newcomer was about completed, stepped out, with flushed face and throbbing heart, to thank him for the book which she said she had read and enjoyed.
"I have others," he said. "I shall bring another to you soon."
"Thank ye. Are ye goin' a-huntin' fer game, er what?"
"For game."
"I can show you where ye can git lots of birds."
"That she kin," said Peter. "I most forgot. Jest take mine an' Tom's guns an' leave yer rifle here, an' that gal'll show ye how ter hunt in this kintry. She knows ther haunts o' every bird an' every squirrel in the mountain."
This arrangement was very agreeable to Wade, who accepted with beaming pleasure, leaving his rifle while he took a shotgun, as suggested by Nora Judson's father. Wade desired to saddle a horse for Nora, but she protested stoutly, saying that she could throw a saddle on a horse quicker than he could, which he readily agreed was true. Together and happily they rode toward the mountain, with light hearts—they were both young—conversing as freely as if they had been lifelong acquaintances. Over the rugged mountain side they rode, sometimes down the little ravines or nitches, sometimes beside the rough boulders, always side by side, talking, laughing, joking, until they reached a spot where they were to hitch the horses and traverse farther in on foot. The sweet wild mountain flowers waving in the breeze nodded their little dew-dipped golden heads in the light of the summer sun as they passed them by.
Wade dreamed of their beauty and fragrance as they peeped up from their rocky beds with a look of entire approval and recognition. He stopped once to pluck a flower, which he gave to Nora, and which she accepted blushing. This one simple act carried to her heart, inexperienced as it was in the ways of the world, greater significance than Wade had meant. He was so thoroughly unacquainted with the customs of these mountain people, and didn't know. She was silent for a brief spell,—she was always very silent when thinking,—then as if impelled by the spirits of the air she thanked him in her simple, innocent way, while her head dropped until her chin rested on her bosom.
"I read your book through," she said, breaking the silence, "and hit—it has done me so much good."
"Tell me about it." They had reached an open grassy spot bordered by thick brush and tall trees. "Sit here while you tell me something from your heart."
Wade had not failed to notice that she often corrected herself in speech at times when she deliberated.
"And the birds?" she asked, looking toward the blue sky with a far-off expression.
"Never mind them,"—hastily. "We shall get all the birds we shall want to take home later. Now, let us have one good talk together out here in the open, on the side of this lovely mountain, where none save God shall see us or hear us, where we can open our hearts to each other."
She sat down in a manner not unbecoming anywhere, and he sat opposite her.
"It must be mighty lonely fer ye all by yerself—yourself," she said.
"It is, quite, just now; but I shall have company soon."
She looked up sharply, inquiringly. "When and who?" painfully.
"Can't just tell when, but sometime in the near future."
She was still looking at him questioningly.
"I'm going to have a family on the Redmond farm," he continued; "am building there now."
She felt relieved.
"Haint ye got a sweetheart back yonder in the big city?" she asked.
He looked into her eyes, but she cunningly evaded the stare.
"Won't you be my sweetheart?" he asked, smiling. He saw the crimson creep to her face and she lowered her head.
"Ye didn't answer my question," she said softly, head still drooping.
"I have not. I have no sweetheart anywhere. Women never cared for me"—sorrowfully.
The little brown poppies waved their heads in wild delight, while the chirping birds sang songs of rejoicing from the treetops, as they looked upon this peculiar mountain scene.
"What did ye come into this country for?" she asked abruptly.
He smiled.
"You don't believe me. If I should say I came here to rid the country of the terrible band of destructive Nightriders, would you believe it?"
She started violently.
"Don't say that," she said; "don't ye do it."
"Why not? If I tell you I am here for my health, you don't believe that. Why not say something equally as ridiculous?"
"Nobody believes ye come here for your health, an' everybody might believe ye had an idea ye could rid the country of Nightriders. They're ready to believe anything of a newcomer. They think he's a spy, an' they mout think anything that they take a notion to think. My warnin' to ye is that ye better not say that, ye better take it back as a joke right now."
"You wouldn't tell on me, would you?"
"Ye better take it back."
"I won't take anything back," he said firmly, but smiling.
"Ye frighten me, Jack."
She spoke with all the tenderness of her heart.
"I don't mean to do that. I'm very docile, I'm just opening my life to you because I—I think I like you and——"
"Ye needn't," she said, blushing. "I know what ye would say. Dad don't like for the gentlemen to talk to me that away."
"Dad is far away just now, and if I say I like you, Nora, it is because I do, and your Dad can know that much if he so desires. I do not mean to deceive him, nor would I deceive you for all the world and this big mountain thrown in." He peered down into those great dark eyes, which met his gaze with unflinching, gleaming admiration. "It's so pleasant here," he added.
"Ain't it pleasant in the big city?" she asked doubtfully.
The outer world now held a certain charm which to her had not been known before.
"Not so pleasant as it is here on the mountain side," he replied. "Listen, Nora. In the city you cannot hear the rippling waters as they dance down the rocky pathway over the hill to the stream beyond. You cannot listen to the song of the wild morning bird as he cries out in his great freedom from his lofty perch in yonder tree top; you cannot inhale the pure fresh air as it glides gently over the brushy way; you cannot hear the rustling of the dry leaves as you do here, therefore, it is not so pleasant in the big city."
"Ye gets used to that here," she said.
"You get used to the clanging bells, to the snorting whistles, and to the dusty, smoky atmosphere in the city, too, but there is still a difference. There you see people at all hours of the day and night busily rushing to and fro, this way and that, rushing, pushing, jamming, nothing more."
"I think I would like that for a while," she said.
"No, you wouldn't. Not long. It is not near so pleasant there as it is here, and by your side." He slipped his arm around her waist. She made no effort to disengage it. "It's so ple——"
"What's that?" she said, startled. A rifle shot, followed by a wild yell, broke the peaceful stillness of the mountain air. She leaned her head far over and listened. "That's Al Thompson," she cried. "Let's be a-goin'. When he's that away I don't want to meet him. He's dangerous." She broke from his grasp and stood erect, listening.
"I have no fear of Al Thompson, nor any other man," he said, rising. "Where this arm falls power falls with it. I am monarch of the hill just now."
He was dramatic, and she admired his great physique and brave words.
"Ye don't know Al," she said. "He's been drinkin', an' is not accountable for his actions, so we'd better be a-gittin'."
"If you have no confidence in my strength," he said angrily, "we shall go."
She felt a little hurt.
"I didn't mean to," she said slowly, "but I want you to go so's you'll be safe."
They started off, but before they cleared the opening that hideous yell broke the otherwise dead silence, and Al Thompson darted through the thicket like a madman, brandishing his pistol over his head, and with a roar of anger, cried out:
"I've got ye now, durn ye', an' ye'll never see daylight agin. Hit ther road, gal, while I lay him out like a dog."
Al was coming nearer and nearer as he spoke. Wade did not flinch, but stood like a man. Nora stepped in front of him to protect him from the onslaught, but she was like a twig in the hands of that maddened giant. He caught her by the shoulder and cast her aside as though she had been chaff before a strong wind. However, he did not reckon on the powerful agility of his athletic antagonist, who, before the wild man knew what had happened, knocked the pistol from his maniacal grasp. One of Wade's fists then shot out and struck Thompson squarely on the nose. He went down, grunting under the smart of pain, while Wade stood over him like a heroic victor, not deigning to strike his enemy while he was down. Nora's admiration for Jack's daring and skill grew stronger as she saw him standing there over the prostrate form of his victim, whom he could have killed had he chosen to do so.
"What ye goin' ter do with me since you got me down?" asked Al doggedly, not in the least defiantly.
"I'm going to let you get up so I can have the great pleasure of knocking you down again," Wade replied, with flushed face and animated voice.
Thompson saw the very streaks of fire as they shot from Jack Wade's eyes, and he made no effort to rise. He just looked sullenly, first at Wade, then at the girl.
"Get up, quick, you coward!" exclaimed Wade warmly.
"I'm comfortable 'nough here," replied Thompson. "If I get up ye might keep your word an' lay me out again."
Jack Wade was not fully acquainted with the mountain laws, the laws as regarded between man and man, or man and his sworn enemy. No other law counted for anything with the mountaineers. If any one of those fellows had got him in the same position, under similar circumstances, they would not have left enough of him to rise from the earth, in fact, there would not have been enough of him for his friends to gather up with a shovel, so utterly thorough would have been the destruction of his tenement of clay.
Thompson, seeing that he was safe from further attack, contented himself by saying, "I'll git ye yet."
"Come," said Wade, taking Nora by the arm, "let us now be going. Forgive me for such unseemly conduct in your presence."
The girl did not seem to understand. Such as she had just seen she had been accustomed to always, ever since she first remembered anything that was going on about her. Never before had she heard an apology when one man knocked another down.
"Ye couldn't help it," she said. After a few moments silence she continued, "He'll kill ye shore, ef ye don't keep away from him."
"No, he won't, Nora. He won't attempt it again. If he does, well—that's something else. I presume he is a Rider, is he not?" She did not reply. "Come, Nora," said Wade pleadingly; "don't be reticent. Tell me all you can, being consistent, just as I have told you everything—all the contents of my heart to-day."
She could not resist the appeal. Tears were gathering in her eyes; they were the first Wade had seen in any eyes for a long time, and his own heart was touched. She opened her innocent life before him and told him all she knew. The women folks, however, did not know nearly so much as they often prided themselves as knowing. She believed he ought to know, more especially since the incident with Al Thompson, because it would be a sort of protection to him. He would know what to look for and how to bear himself.
"They aint a-goin' ter hurt ye, ef I can help ye," she said, sobbingly.
He understood her feelings perfectly well, and determined there on the wild mountainside, in the presence of the rugged hills and within sound of the running waters, to protect and aid this unopened wild flower of the mountain so long as he had power to do so, so long as this power lasted—so long as he had breath in his lungs.
This vow he faithfully kept. Men do things very often during life for which they are very sorry, do things which, in more conservative moments, bring on pangs of regret; but Jack Wade felt not the least regret because he had knocked down Al Thompson. He did not regret that act, but a tinge of sorrow and shame ran through his soul as he looked upon the crimson face of his gentle companion. The advantage he had taken in her moment of weakness would, no doubt, stand him well in fulfilling the purpose for which he had quit a life of plenty,—a life of sociality, and had come to the lonesome hills to live in a cabin all alone to carry out. The burden of it all was burning his own soul and gnawing at the very vitals of the life within him. He was a man through and through, a man who could have gained the topmost heights of the most elevated, elaborate society, but he had sought instead the quiet life of the farmer, a life alone in a cabin away toward the hills of Kentucky, far from civilization. Beside him rode in perfect silence, broken only by the sound of the horses' feet falling upon the dirt, a child of the wilds, whose own heart burned her bosom, that heart which had in an unguarded moment unloaded all that was most sacred to her and to her own people, all that had been held dear to one who had been taught in only one way. She felt sorrowful, but that same power which bound her when Jack Wade was away kept her silent when he was near. The rocks of the rugged mountain ridge pointed to her as she passed, the little yellow wild flowers bowed their sweet heads in shame when her skirts touched them. She would not look at them, their beauty had in a moment flown. She would not look over the wild mountain scenery; its picturesqueness had departed. A dead shade rested over everything. She would not even glance up at the strong man at her side for fear his powerful gaze might pierce her heart as an arrow shot out from a strong arm. But why all this sorrow? He knew, he understood, and was silent. He looked toward her in silent admiration, and his heart smiled, but his lips moved not. To assure her was his thought, was the only motive of his heart, but he could wait until a calmer moment. The waters of life were troubled now, there was a storm upon the quiet sea, whose ruffled, wind-tossed waves were rolling high, and he must wait.