The Boy lost his skin but grew another and incidentally absorbed some ideas he never forgot.
On the day he was able to put on his clothes, it poured down rain and work in the fields was impossible. A sense of delicious joy filled him. He worked because he had to, not because he liked it. He was too proud to shirk, too brave to cry when every nerve and muscle of his little body ached with mortal weariness, but he hated it.
The sun rose bright and warm and shone clear in the Southern sky next morning before he was called. He climbed down the ladder from his loft wondering what marvellous thing had happened that he should be sleeping with the sun already high in the heavens.
"What's the matter, Ma?" he asked anxiously. "Why didn't you call me?"
"It's too wet to plow. Your father's going to chop wood in the clearing. He wanted you to pile brush after him, but I asked him to let you off to go fishing for me."
He ate breakfast with his heart beating a tattoo, rushed into the garden, dug a gourd full of worms, drew his long cane rod from the eaves of the cabin, and with old Boney trotting at his heels was soon on his way to a deep pool in the bend of the creek.
Fishing forher! His mother understood. He wondered why he had ever been fool enough to disobey her that Sunday. He could die for her without a moment's hesitation.
It was glorious to have this marvellous day of spring all his own. The birds were singing on every field and hedge. The trees flashed their polished new leaves. The sweet languor of the South was in the air and he drew it in with deep breaths that sent the joy of life tingling through every vein.
Four joyous hours flew on tireless wings. He had caught five catfish and a big eel—more than enough for a good meal for the whole family.
He held them up proudly. How his mother's eyes would sparkle! He could see Sarah's admiring gaze and hear his father's good-natured approval.
He had just struck the path for home when the forlorn figure of a rough bearded man came limping to meet him.
He stepped aside in the grass to let him pass. But the man stopped and gazed at the fish.
"My, my, Sonny, but you've got a fine string there!" he exclaimed.
"Pretty good for one day," the Boy proudly answered.
"An' just ter think I ain't had nothin' ter eat in 'most two days."
"Don't you live nowhere?" the youngster asked in surprise.
"I used ter have a home afore the war, but my folks thought I wuz dead an' moved away. I'm tryin' ter find 'em. Hit's a hard job with a Britisher's bullet still a-pinchin' me in the leg."
"Did you fight with General Washington?"
"Lordy, no, I ain't that old, ef I do look like a scarecrow. No, I fit under Old Hickory at New Orleans. I tell ye, Sonny, them Britishers burnt out Washington fur us but we give 'em a taste o' fire at New Orleans they ain't goin' ter fergit."
"Did we lick 'em good?"
"Boy, ye ain't never heard tell er sich a scrimmage—we thrashed 'em till they warn't no fight in 'em, an' they scrambled back aboard them ships an' skeddaddled home. Britishers can't fight nohow. We've licked 'em twice an' we kin lick 'em agin. But the old soldier that does the fightin'—everybody fergits him!"
The Boy looked longingly at his string of fish for a moment with the pride of his heart, and then held up his treasure.
"You can have my fish if ye want 'em; they'll make you a nice supper."
The old soldier stroked the tangled hair and took his string of fish.
"You're a fine boy! I won't fergit you, Sonny!"
The words comforted him until he neared the house. And then a sense of bitter loss welled up in spite of all.
"Did I do right, Ma?" he asked wistfully.
She placed her hand on his forehead:
"Yes—I'm proud of you. I know what that gift cost a boy's heart. It was big because it was all you had and the pride of your soul was in it."
The sense of loss was gone and he was rich and happy again.
When the supper was over and they sat before the flickering firelight he asked her a question over which his mind had puzzled since he left the old soldier.
"Why is it," he said thoughtfully, "British soldiers can't fight?"
The mother smiled:
"Who said they couldn't fight?"
"The old soldier I gave my fish to. He said we just made hash out o' them. We've licked 'em twice and we can do it again!"
The last sentence he didn't quote. He gave it as a personal opinion based on established facts.
"We didn't win because the British couldn't fight," the mother gravely responded.
"Then why?" he persisted.
"The Lord was good to us."
"How?"
The question came with an accent of indignation. Sometimes he couldn't help getting cross with his mother when she began to give the Lord credit for everything. If the Lord did it all why should he give his string of fish to an old soldier!
The grey eyes looked into his with wistful tenderness. She had been shocked once before by the fear that there was something in this child's eternal why that would keep him out of the church. The one deep desire of her heart was that he should be good.
"Would you like to hear," she began softly, "something about the Revolution which my old school teacher told me in Virginia?"
"Yes, tell me!" he answered eagerly.
"He said that we could never have won our independence but for God. We didn't win because British soldiers couldn't fight. We held out for ten years because we outran them. We ran quicker, covered more ground, got further into the woods and stayed there longer than any fighters the British had ever met before. That's why we got the best of them. Our men who fought and ran away lived to fight another day. General Washington was always great in retreat. He never fought unless he was ready and could choose his own field. He waited until his enemies were in snug quarters drinking and gambling, and then on a dark night, so dark and cold that some of his own men would freeze to death, he pushed across a river, fell on them, cut them to pieces and retreated.
"The number of men he commanded was so small he could not face his foes in the open if he could avoid it. His men were poorly armed, poorly drilled, half-clothed and half-starved at times. The British troops were the best drilled and finest fighting men of the world in their day, armed with good guns, well fed, well clothed, and well paid."
She paused and smiled at the memory of her teacher's narrative.
"What do you suppose happened on one of our battlefields?"
"I dunno—what?"
"When the Red-coats charged, our boys ran at the first crack of a gun. They ran so well that they all got away except one little fellow who had a game leg. He stumbled and fell in a hole. A big British soldier raised a musket to brain him. The little fellow looked up and cried: 'All right. Kill away, ding ye—ye won't get much!'
"The Britisher laughed, picked him up, brushed his clothes and told him to go home."
The Boy laughed again and again.
"He was a spunky one anyhow, wasn't he?"
"Yes," the mother nodded, "that's why the Red-coat let him go. And we never could have endured if God hadn't inspired one man to hold fast when other hearts had failed."
"And who was he?" the Boy broke in.
"General Washington. At Valley Forge our cause was lost but for him. Our men were not paid. They could get no clothes, they were freezing and starving. They quit and went home in hundreds and gave up in despair. And then, Boy——"
Her voice dropped to a tense whisper:
"General Washington fell on his knees and prayed until he saw the shining face of God and got his answer. Next day he called his ragged, hungry men together and said:
"'Soldiers, though all my armies desert, the war shall go on. If I must, I'll gather my faithful followers in Virginia, retreat to the mountains and fight until our country is free!'
"His words cheered the despairing men and they stood by him. We were saved at last because help came in time. Lord Cornwallis had laid the South in ashes, and camped at Yorktown, his army of veterans laden with spoils. He was only waiting for the transports from New York to take his victorious men North, join the army there and end the war, and then——"
She drew a deep breath and her eyes sparkled:
"And then, Boy, it happened—the miracle! Into the Chesapeake Bay in Virginia, three big ships dropped anchor at the mouth of the York River. Our people on the shore thought they were the transports and that the end had come. But the ships were too far away to make out their flags, and so they sent swift couriers across the Peninsula, to see if there were any signs in the roadstead at Hampton. There—Glory to God! lay a great fleet flying the flag of France. The French had loaned us twenty millions of dollars, and sent their navy and their army to help us. Had the Lord sent down a host from the sky we couldn't have been more surprised. They landed, joined with General Washington's ragged men, and closed in on Cornwallis. Surprised and trapped he surrendered and we won.
"But there never was a year before that, my Boy, that we were strong enough to resist the British army had the mother country sent a real general here to command her troops."
"Why didn't she?" the Boy interrupted.
Again the mother's voice dropped low:
"Because God wouldn't let her—that's the only reason. If Lord Clive had ever landed on our shores, Washington might now be sleeping in a traitor's grave."
The voice again became soft and dreamy—almost inaudible.
"And he didn't come?" the Boy whispered.
"No. On the day he was to sail he put the papers in his pocket, went into his room, locked the door and blew his own brains out. This is God's country, my son. He gave us freedom. He has great plans for us."
The fire flickered low and the Boy's eyes glowed with a strange intensity.
A barbecue, with political speaking, was held at the village ten miles away. The family started at sunrise. The day was an event in the lives of every man, woman and child within a radius of twenty miles. Many came as far as thirty miles and walked the whole distance. Before nine o'clock a crowd of two thousand had gathered.
The dark, lithe young mother who led her boy by the hand down the crowded aisle of the improvised brush arbor that day performed a deed which was destined to change the history of the world.
The speaker who held the crowd spellbound for two hours was Henry Clay. The Boy not only heard an eloquent orator. His spirit entered for all time into fellowship with a great human soul.
In words that throbbed with passion, he pictured the coming glory of a mighty nation whose shores would be washed by two oceans, whose wealth and manhood would be the hope and inspiration of the world. Never before had words been given such wings. The ringing tones found the Boy's soul and set his brain on fire. A big idea was born within his breast. This was his country. His feet pressed its soil. Its hills and plains, its rivers and seas were his. His hands would help to build this vision of a great spirit into the living thing. He breathed softly and his eyes sparkled. When the crowd cheered, he leaped to his feet, swung his little cap into the air and shouted with all his might. When the last glowing picture of the peroration faded into a silence that could be felt, and the tumult had died away, he saw men and women crowding around the orator to shake his hand.
"Take me, Ma!" he whispered. "I want to see him close!"
The mother lifted him in her arms above the crowd, pressed forward, and the Boy's shining eyes caught those of the brilliant statesman. Over the heads of the men by his side the orator extended his hand and grasped the trembling outstretched fingers.
He smiled and nodded, that was all. The Boy understood. From that moment he had an ideal leader whose words were inspired.
The mother's dark face was lit for a moment with tender pride. She made no effort to reach the orator's side. It was enough that she had seen the flash from her Boy's eyes. She was content. The day was filled with a great joy.
The summer camp meetings began the following week. The grounds were located a mile from the straggling little village which was the center of the county's activities. All religious denominations used the spacious auditorium for their services. The Methodists camped there an entire month. The Baptists stayed but two weeks. The Baptist temperament frowned on the social frivolities which were inseparable from these long intimate associations at close quarters. The more volatile temperament of the Methodists revelled in them, and Methodism grew with astounding rapidity under the system.
The auditorium was simply a huge quadrangular shed with board roof uphold by cedar posts. At one end of the shed stood the platform on which was built the pulpit, a square box-like structure about four feet high. The seats were made of rough-hewn half logs set on pegs driven in augur holes. There were no backs to them. A single wide aisle led from the end facing the pulpit, and two narrow ones intersected the main aisle at the centre.
In front of the pulpit were placed the mourner's benches facing the three sides of the space left for the free movement of the mourners under the stress of religious emotion.
The Boy's mother and father were devout members of the Baptist Church, but they were not demonstrative. They modestly and reverently took their seats in an inconspicuous position about midway the building, entering from one of the small aisles on the side. The Boy had often been to a regular church service before, but this was his first camp meeting.
Four preachers sat in grim silence behind the pulpit's solid box front. The Boy could just see the tops of their heads over the board that held the big gilt-edged Bible.
The entire first two days and nights were given to a series of terrific sermons on Death, Hell, and the Judgment, with a brief glimpse of the pearly gates of Heaven and a few strains from the golden harps inside for the damned to hear by way of contrast. The first purpose of the preachers was to arouse a deep under-current of religious emotional excitement that at the proper moment would explode and sweep the crowd with resistless fire. Usually the fuse was timed to explode on the morning of the third day. Sometimes, when sermons of extraordinary power had followed each other in rapid succession, the fire broke out by a sort of spontaneous combustion on the night of the second day.
It did so this time. The mother had no trouble in keeping the Boy by her side through these first two days. He felt instinctively the growing emotional tension about him, and knew in his bones that something would break loose soon. He was keyed to a high pitch of interest to see just what it would be like.
The storm broke in the middle of the second sermon on the second night. The preacher had worked himself into a frenzy of emotional excitement. His arms were waving over his head, his eyes blazing, his feet stamping, his voice screaming in anguish as he described the agony of a soul lost forever in the seething cauldron of eternal hell fire!
A tremulous startled moan, half-wail, half-scream came from a girl just in front of the Boy, as she dropped her head in her hands.
"What's the matter with her?" he whispered. "Has she got a pain?"
His mother pressed his hand:
"Sh!"
And then the storm broke. From every direction came the startled cries of long pent terror and anguish. The girl staggered to her feet and started stumbling down the aisle to the mourners' bench without invitation, and from every row of seats they tumbled, crowding on her heels, sobbing, wailing, screaming, groaning.
The preacher ceased to talk and, in a high tremulous voice, that rang through the excited crowd as the peal of the Archangel's trumpet, began to sing:
"Come humble sinners in whose breastsA thousand thoughts revolve!"
"Come humble sinners in whose breastsA thousand thoughts revolve!"
The crowd rose instinctively and all who were not mourning, joined in the half-savage, terror-stricken wail of the song. The sinners that hadn't given up at the first break of the storm could not resist the thrill of this wild music. One by one they pushed their way through the crowd, found the aisle and staggered blindly to the front.
The Boy noticed curiously that it seemed to be the rule for them to completely cover their streaming eyes with a handkerchief or with the bare hands and go it blindly for the mourners' benches. If they missed the way and butted into anything, a church member kindly took them by the arm and guided them to a vacant place where they dropped on their knees.
The Boy had leaped on the bench and stood beside his mother to get a better view of the turmoil. He couldn't keep his eyes off a tall, red-headed, thick-bearded man just across the aisle three rows behind who kept twitching his face, looking toward the door and struggling against the impulse to follow the mourners. Presently he broke down with a loud cry:
"Lord, have mercy!"
He placed his hands over his face and started on a run to the front.
The Boy giggled, and his mother pinched him.
"Did ye see that red-headed feller, Ma," he whispered. "He didn't do fair. He peeked through his fingers—I saw his eyes!"
"Sh!"
The preachers had come down from the pulpit now and stood over the wailing prostrated mourners and exhorted them to repent and believe before it was forever and eternally too late. Three of them were talking at the same time to different groups of mourners. The louder they exhorted the louder the sinners cried. The fourth preacher walked down the aisle searching for those who were yet hardening their hearts and stiffening their necks. He paused beside a prim little old maid who had lately arrived from Tidewater Virginia. Her bright eyes were dry.
"Dear lady, are you a child of God?" the preacher cried.
The prim figured stiffened indignantly:
"No, sir! I'm an Episcopalian!"
The preacher groaned and passed on and the Boy stuffed his fist in his mouth.
For half an hour the roar of the conflict was incessant, and its violence indescribable. It was broken now and then by a kindly soul among the elderly women raising a sweet old-fashioned hymn.
Suddenly an exhorter threw his hands above his head and, in a voice that soared above the roar of mourners and their attendants, cried:
"Behold the Lamb of God that taketh away the sins of the world!"
Quick as a flash came an answering shout from the red-headed man who leaped to his feet and with wide staring eyes looked up at the roof.
"I see him! I see Jesus up a tree!"
A fat woman lifted her head and shouted:
"Hold him till I get there!"
And she started for the red-headed man. There was a single moment of strange silence and the Boy laughed aloud.
His mother caught and shook him violently. He crammed his little fist again into his mouth, but the stopper wouldn't hold.
He dropped to his seat to keep the people from seeing him, buried his face in his hands and laughed in smothered giggles in spite of all his mother could do.
At last he whispered:
"Take me out quick! I'm goin' to bust—I'll bust wide open I tell ye!"
She rose sternly, seized his arm and led him a half mile into the woods. He kept looking back and laughing softly.
She gazed at him sorrowfully:
"I'm ashamed of you, Boy! How could you do such a thing!"
"I just couldn't help it!"
He sat down on a stone and laughed again.
"What makes the fools holler so?" he asked through his tears.
"They are praying God to forgive their sins."
"But why holler so loud? He ain't deaf—is He? You said that God's in the sun and wind and dew and rain—in the breath we breathe. Ain't He everywhere then? Why do they holler at Him?"
The mother turned away to hide a smile she couldn't keep back, and a cloud overspread her dark face. Surely this was an evil sign—this spirit of irreverent levity in the mind of a child so young. What could it mean? She had forgotten that she had been teaching him to think, and didn't know, perhaps, that he who thinks must laugh or die.
After that she let him spend long hours at the spring playing with boys and girls of his age. He didn't go into the meetings again. But he enjoyed the season. The watermelons, muskmelons, and ginger cakes were the best he had ever eaten.
During the Christmas holidays the father got ready for a coon hunt in which the Boy should see his first battle royal in the world of sport.
Dennis came over and brought four extra dogs, two of his own and two which he had borrowed for the holidays.
A sudden change came over the spirit of old Boney—short for Napoleon Bonaparte. He understood the talk about coons as clearly as if he could speak the English language. He was in a quiver of eager excitement. He knew from the Boy's talk that he was going, too. He wagged his tail, pushed his warm nose under his little friend's arm, whining and trembling while he tried to explain what it meant to strike a coon's trail in the deep night, chase him over miles of woods and swamps and field, tree him and fight it out, a battle to the death between dog and beast!
At two o'clock, before day, his father's voice called and in a jiffy he was down the ladder, his eyes shining. He had gone to sleep with his clothes on and lost no time in dressing.
Without delay the start was made. Down the dim pathway to the creek and then along its banks for two miles, its laughing waters rippling soft music amid the shadows, or gleaming white and mirror-like in the starlit open spaces.
In half an hour the stars were obscured by a thin veil of fleecy clouds, and, striking no trail in the bottoms, they turned to the big tract of woods on the hills and plunged straight into their depths for two miles.
"Hush!"
Tom suddenly stopped:
Far off to the right came the bark of a dog on the run.
"Ain't that old Boney's voice?" the father asked.
"I don't think so," the Boy answered.
The note of wild savage music was one he had never heard before.
"Yes it was, too," was the emphatic decision. He squared his broad shoulders and gave the hunter's shout of answer-joy to the dog's call.
Never had the Boy heard such a shout from human lips. It sent shivers down his spine.
The dog heard and louder came the answering note, a deep tremulous boom through the woods that meant to the older man's trained ear that he was on the run.
"That's old Boney shore's yer born!" the father cried, "an' he ain't got no doubts 'bout hit nother. He's got his head in the air. The trail's so hot he don't have ter nose the ground. You'll hear somethin' in a minute when the younger pups git to him."
Two hounds suddenly opened with long quivering wails.
"Thar's my dogs—they've hit it now!" Dennis cried excitedly.
Another hound joined the procession, then another and another, and in two minutes the whole pack of eight were in full cry.
Again the hunter's deep voice rang his wild cheer through the woods and every dog raised his answering cry a note higher.
"Ain't that music!" Tom cried in ecstacy.
They stood and listened. The dogs were still in the woods and with each yelp were coming nearer. Evidently the trail led toward them, but in the rear and almost toward the exact spot at which they had entered the forest.
"Just listen at old Boney!" the Boy cried. "I can tell him now. He can beat 'em all!"
Loud and clear above the chorus of the others rang the long savage boom of Boney's voice, quivering with passion, defiant, daring, sure of victory! It came at regular intervals as if to measure the miles that separated him from the battle he smelled afar. He was far in the lead. He was past-master of this sport. The others were not in his class.
The Boy's heart swelled with pride.
"Old Boney's showin' 'em all the way!" he exclaimed triumphantly.
"Yer can bet he always does that, Sonny!" the father answered. "That's a hot trail. Nigh ez I can figger we're goin' ter have some fun. There's more'n one coon travelin' over that ground."
"How can you tell?" Dennis asked incredulously.
"Hit's too easy fer the other pups—they'd lose the scent now an' then ef they weren't but one. They ain't lost it a minute since they struck it—Lord, jest listen!"
He paused and held his breath.
"Did ye ever hear anything like hit on this yearth!" Dennis cried.
Every dog was opening now at the top of his voice at regular intervals, the swing and leap of their bodies over the brush and around the trees registering in each stirring note.
Again Tom gave a shout of approval.
The sound of the leader's voice suddenly flattened and faded.
"By Gum!" the old hunter cried, "they've left the woods, struck that field an' makin' for the creek! Ye won't need that axe ter-night, Dennis."
"Why?"
"Wait an' see!" was the short answer.
They hurried from the woods and had scarcely reached the edge of the field when suddenly old Boney's cry stopped short and in a moment the others were silent.
"Good Lord, they've lost it!" Dennis groaned.
And then came the quick, sharp, fierce bark of the leader announcing that the quarry had been located.
Tom gave a yell of triumph and started on a run for the spot.
"Up one o' them big sycamores in the edge o' that water I'll bet!" Dennis wailed.
"You'll need no axe," was the older man's short comment.
They pushed their way rapidly through the cane to the banks of the creek and found the dogs scratching with might and main straight down into the sand about ten feet from the water's edge.
"Well, I'll be doggoned," Dennis cried, "if I ever seed anything like that afore! They've gone plum crazy. They ain't no hole here. A coon can't jist drap inter the ground without a hole."
The old hunter laughed:
"No, but a coon mought learn somethin' from a beaver now an' then an' locate the door to his house under the water line an' climb up here ter find a safe place, couldn't he?"
"I don't believe it!" Dennis sneered.
"You'll have ter go to the house an' git a spade," Tom said finally. "It'll take one ter dig a hole big enough ter ever persuade one er these dogs ter put his nose in that den. Hit ain't more'n a mile ter the house—hurry back."
Dennis started on a run.
"Don't yer let 'em out an' start that fight afore I git here!" he called.
"You'll see it all," Tom reassured him.
He made the dogs stop scratching and lie down to rest.
"Jest save yer strenk, boys," Tom cried. "Yer'll need it presently."
They sat down, the father lit his pipe and told the Boy the story of a great fight he had witnessed on such a creek bank once before in his life.
Day was dawning and the eastern sky reddening.
The Boy stamped on the solid ground and couldn't believe it possible that any dog could smell game through six feet of earth.
He lifted Boney's long nose and looked at it curiously. His wonderful nostrils were widely distended and though he lay quite still in the sand on the edge of the hole his muscles were quivering with excitement and his wistful hound eyes had in them now the red glare of coming battle.
It was quick work when Dennis arrived to throw the sand and soft earth away and open a hole five feet in depth and of sufficient width to allow all the dogs to get foothold inside.
Suddenly the spade crashed through an opening below and the rasp of sharp desperate teeth and claws rang against its polished surface.
"Did you hear that?" Tom laughed.
Another spadeful out and they could be plainly seen. How many it was impossible to tell, but three pairs of glowing bloodshot eyes in the shadows showed plainly.
Tom straightened his massive figure and gave a shout to the dogs. They all danced around the upper rim of the hole and barked with fierce boastful yelps, but not one would venture his nose within two feet of those grim shining eyes.
"Well, Dennis," Tom sighed, "I reckon I'll have ter shove you down thar an' hold ye by the heels while yer pull one of 'em out!"
"I'll be doggoned ef yer do!" he remarked with emphasis.
Tom laughed. "You wuz afeared ye wouldn't git here in time ye know."
"Oh, I'm in time all right!"
The hunter put his hands in his pockets and gazed at the warriors below.
"Waal, we'll try ter git a dog ter yank one of 'em out an' then they'll all come. But I have my doubts. I don't believe that Godamighty ever yet built a dog that'll stick his nose in that hole. Hit takes three dogs ter kill one coon in a fair fight. Old Boney's the only pup I ever seed do it by hisself. But it's askin' too much o' him ter stick his nose in a place like that with three of 'em lookin' right at him ready ter tear his eyes out. But they ain't nothin' like tryin'——"
He paused and looked at the old warrior of a hundred bloody fields, pointed at the bottom of the hole and in stern command shouted:
"Fetch 'em out, Bone!"
With a deep growl the faithful old soldier sprang to the front. With teeth shining in white gleaming rows he scrambled within a foot of the opening of the den, circled it twice, his eyes fixed on the flashing lights below. They followed his every move. He tried the stratagem of right and left flank movements, but the space was too narrow. He dashed straight toward the opening once with a loud angry cry, hoping to get the flash of a coward's back. He met three double rows of white needle-like teeth daring him to come on.
He squatted flat on his belly and growled with desperate fury, but he wouldn't go closer. The hunter urged in vain.
"Hit's no use!" he cried at last. "Jest ez well axe er dog ter walk into a den er lions. I don't blame him."
The Boy's pride was hurt.
"I can make him bring one out," he said.
Tom shook his head:
"Not much. Less see ye?"
The Boy stepped down to the dog's side.
"Look out, ye fool, don't let yer foot slip in thar!" his father warned.
The Boy knelt beside the dog, patted his back and began to talk to him in low tense tones:
"Fetch 'im out, Bone! Go after 'm! Sick 'em, boy, sick 'em!"
Closer and closer the brave old fighter edged his way, only a low mad growl answering to the Boy's urging. His eyes were blazing now in the red rays of the rising sun like two balls of fire. With a sudden savage plunge he hurled himself into the den and quick as a flash of lightning his short hairy neck gave a flirt, and a coon as large as one of the hounds whizzed ten feet into the air, and, with his white teeth shining, struck the ground, lighting squarely on his feet. A hound dashed for him and one slap from the long sharp claws sent him howling and bleeding into the canes.
But old Boney had watched him in the air, and, circling the pack that faced the coon, with a quick leap had downed him. Then every dog was with him and the battle was on. Eight dogs to one coon and yet so sharp were his claws, so keen the steel-like points of his teeth, he sometimes had four dogs rolling in agony beside the growling mass of fur and teeth and nails.
The fight had scarcely begun when one of the remaining coons leaped out of the den. Tom's watchful eye had seen him. He pulled three dogs from the first battle group and hurled them on the new fighter. He had scarcely started this struggle when the third sprang to the top of the earthen breastwork, surveyed the field and with sullen deliberation, trotted to the water's edge, jumped in and, placing two paws on a swaying limb, dared any dog to come.
Here was work for the veteran! Boney was the only dog in the pack who would dare accept that challenge. Tom choked him off the first coon, pulled him to the bank and showed him his enemy in the water. He looked just a moment at the snarling, daring mouth and made the plunge.
The boy had followed the dog and watched with bated breath. He circled the coon twice, swimming in swift graceful curves. But his enemy was too shrewd. A flank movement was impossible. The coon's fierce mouth was squarely facing him at every turn and the dog plunged straight on his foe.
To his horror the Boy saw the fangs sink into his friend's head, four sets of sharp claws circle his neck, a tense grey ball of fur hanging its dead weight below. The water ran red for a moment as both slowly sank to the bottom.
Eyes wide with anguish he heard his father cry:
"By the Lord, he'll kill that dog shore—he's a goner!"
"No, he won't neither!" the Boy shouted, leaping into the water where he saw them go down.
Before his father could warn him of the danger his head disappeared in the deep still eddy.
"Look out for us, Dennis, with a pole I'm goin' ter dive fer 'em!"
In a moment they came to the surface, the man holding the Boy, the Boy grasping his dog, the coon fastened to the dog's head.
"Well, don't that beat the devil!" Tom laughed, as he carried them to a little rocky island in the middle of the creek.
The Boy intent on saving his dog had held his breath and was not even strangled. The dog had buried his nose in the coon's throat and was chewing and choking with savage determination.
Tom stood over them now on the little island with its smooth stone-paved battle arena ringed with the music of laughing waters. He threw both hands above his shaggy head and yelled himself hoarse—the wild cry of the hunter's soul in delirious joy.
"Yaaaiih! Yaaaiiih!"
A moment's pause, and then the low snarl and growl and clash of tooth and claw! Again the hunter's gnarled hands flew over his head.
"Yaaaiih! Yaaaaiiih! Yaaiih! Yaaaaiiiihhh!!"
On the shore Dennis stood first over one group of swirling, rolling, snarling brutes, and then over the other, yelling and cheering.
The coon on the island suddenly broke his assailant's death-like grip, and, with a quick leap, reached the water. Boney was on him in a moment and down they went beneath the surface again.
The Boy sprang to the rescue.
His father brushed him roughly aside:
"Keep out! I'll git 'em!"
Three times the coon made the dash for deep water and three times Tom carried both dog and coon back to the little island yelling his battle cry anew.
The smooth stones began to show red. Fur and dog hair flew in little tufts and struck the ground, sometimes with the flat splash of red flesh.
The Boy frowned and his lips quivered. At last he could hold in no longer. Through chattering teeth he moaned:
"He'll kill Boney, Pa!"
"Let him alone!" was the sharp command. "I never see sich a dog in my life. He'll kill that coon by hisself, I tell ye!"
Again his enemy broke Boney's grim hold on his throat, sprang back four feet and, to the dog's surprise, made no effort to reach the water. Instead he stood straight and quivering on his hind legs and faced his enemy, his white needle-like fangs gleaming in two rows and his savage fore-claws opening and closing with deadly threat.
The old warrior, taken completely by surprise by this new stratagem of his foe, circled in a vain effort to reach the flank or rear. Each turn only brought them again face to face, and at last he plunged straight on the centre line of attack. With a quick side leap the coon struck the dog's head a blow with his claw that split his ear for three inches as cleanly and evenly as if a surgeon's knife had been used.
With a low growl of rage and pain, Boney wheeled and repeated his assault with the same results for the other ear. He turned in silence and deliberately crept toward his foe. There would be no chance for a side blow. He wouldn't plunge or spring. He might get another bloody gash, but he wouldn't miss again.
This time he found the body, they closed and rolled over and over in close blood-stained grip. For the first time Tom's face showed doubts, and he called to Dennis:
"Choke off two dogs from that fust coon an' throw 'em in here!"
They came in a moment and clinched with Boney's enemy. The charge of two new troopers drove the coon to desperation. The sharp claws flew like lightning. The new dogs ran back into the water with howls of pain and scrambled up the bank to their old job.
Boney paid no attention either to the unexpected assault of his friends or their ignoble desertion. Every ounce of his dog-manhood was up now. It was a battle to the death and he had no wish to live if he couldn't whip any coon that ever made a track in his path.
The Boy's pride was roused now and the fighting instinct that slumbers in every human soul flashed through his excited eyes. He drew near and watched with increasing excitement and joined with his father at last in shouts and cheers.
"Did ye ever see such a dog!" he cried through his tears.
"He beats creation!" was the admiring answer.
The Boy bent low over the squirming pair and his voice was in perfect tune with his dog's low growl:
"Eat him up, Bone! Eat him alive!"
"Don't touch 'em!" Tom warned. "Let 'im have a fair fight—ef he don't kill that coon I'll eat 'im raw, hide an' hair!"
Boney had succeeded at last in fastening his teeth in a firm grip on the coon's throat. He held it without a cry of pain while the claws ripped his ears and gashed his head. Deeper and deeper sank his teeth until at last the razor claws that were cutting relaxed slowly and the long lean body with its beautiful fur lay full length on the red-marked stones.
The dog loosed his hold instantly. His work was done. He scorned to strike a fallen foe. He started to the water's edge to quench his thirst and staggered in a circle. The blood had blinded him.
The Boy sprang to his side, lifted him tenderly in his arms, carried him to the water and bathed his eyes and head.
"He's cut all to pieces!" he sobbed at last. "He'll die—I just know it!"
"Na!" his father answered scornfully. "Be all right in two or three days."
The Boy went back and looked at the slim body of the dead coon with wonder.
"Why did this one fight so much harder than the ones on the bank?" he asked thoughtfully.
"'Cause she's their mother," Tom said casually, "an' them's her two children."
Something hurt deep down in the Boy's soul as he looked at the graceful nose and the red-stained fur at her throat. He saw his mother's straight neck and head outlined again against the starlit sky the night she stood before him rifle in hand and shot at that midnight prowler.
His mouth closed firmly and he spoke with bitter decision:
"I don't like coon hunting. I'm not coming any more."
"Good Lord, Boy, we got ter have skins h'ain't we?" was the hearty answer.
"I reckon so," he sorrowfully admitted. But all the way home he walked in brooding silence.
The following winter brought the event for which the mother had planned and about which she had dreamed since her boy was born—a school!
The men gathered on the appointed day, cut the logs and split the boards for the house. Another day and it was raised and the roof in place.
Tom volunteered to make the teacher's table and chair and benches for the scholars. He had the best set of tools in the county and he wished to do it because he knew it would please his wife. There was no money in it but his life was swiftly passing in that sort of work. He was too big-hearted and generous to complain. Besides the world in which he lived—the world of field and wood, of dog and gun, of game and the open road was too beautiful and interesting to complain about it. He was glad to be alive and tried to make his neighbors think as he did about it.
When the great day dawned the young mother eagerly prepared breakfast for her children. She wouldn't allow Sarah to help this morning. It must be a perfect day in her life. She washed the Boy's face and hands with scrupulous care when the breakfast things were cleared away, and her grey eyes were shining with a joy he had never seen before. He caught her excitement and the spirit of it took possession of his imagination.
"What'll school be like, Ma?" he asked in a tense whisper.
"Oh, this one won't be very exciting; maybe in a little room built of logs. But it's the beginning, Boy, of greater things. Just spelling, reading, writing and arithmetic now—but you're starting on the way that leads out of these silent, lonely woods into the big world where great men fight and make history. Your father has never known this way. He's good and kind and gentle and generous, but he's just a child, because he doesn't know. You're going to be a man among men for your mother's sake, aren't you?"
She seized his arms and gripped them in her eagerness until he felt the pain.
"Won't you, Boy?" she repeated tensely.
He looked up steadily and then slowly said:
"Yes, I will."
She clasped him impulsively in her arms and hurried from the cabin leading the children by the hand. The Boy could feel her slender fingers trembling.
When they drew near the cross roads where the little log house had been built, she stopped, nervously fixed their clothes, took off the Boy's cap and brushed his thick black hair.
They were the first to arrive, but in a few minutes others came, and by nine o'clock more than thirty scholars were in their seats. The mother's heart sank within her when she met the teacher and heard him talk. It was only too evident that he was poorly equipped for his work. He could barely read and could neither write nor teach arithmetic. The one qualification about which there was absolute certainty, was that he could lick the biggest boy in school whenever the occasion demanded it. He conveyed this interesting bit of information to the assemblage in no uncertain language.
The mother could scarcely keep back her tears. By the end of the week it was plain that her children knew as much as their teacher.
"What's the use?" Tom asked in disgust. "Hit's a waste o' time an' money. Let 'em quit!"
"No, I can't take them out!" was the firm reply. "They may not learn much, but if the school keeps going, don't you see, a better man will come bye and bye, and then it will be worth while."
Tom shook his head, but let her have her own way.
"Besides," she went on, "he'll learn something being with the other children."
"Learn to fight, mebbe," the husband laughed.
He did, too, and the way it came about was as big a surprise to the Boy as it was to the youngster he fought.
The small bully of the school lived in the same direction as the Boy and Sarah. They frequently walked together for a mile going or coming and grew to know one another well. The Boy disliked this tow-head urchin from the moment they met. But he was quiet, unobtrusive and modest and generally allowed the loud-mouthed one to have his way. The tow-head took the Boy's quiet ways for submission and insisted on patronizing his friend. The Boy good-naturedly submitted when it cost him nothing of self-respect.
At the close of school, the tow-head whispered:
"Come by the spring with me, I want to show you somethin'!"
"No, I don't want to," he replied.
"Let Sarah go on an' we'll catch her—I got a funny trick ter show you. You'll kill yourself a-laughin'."
The Boy's curiosity was aroused and he consented.
They hastened to the spring where the embers of a fire at which the scholars were accustomed to warm their lunch, were still smouldering. The tow-headed one drew from the corner of the fence a turtle which he had captured and tied, scooped a red-hot coal from the fire with a piece of board and placed it on the turtle's back.
The poor creature, tortured by the burning coal, started in a scramble trying to run from the fire. The tow-head roared with laughter.
The Boy flushed with sudden rage, sprang forward and knocked the coal off.
The two faced each other.
"You do that again an' I'll knock you down!" shouted the bully.
"You do it again and I'll knock you down," was the sturdy answer.
"You will, will you?" the tow-head cried with scorn. "Well, I'll show you."
With a bound he replaced the coal.
The Boy knocked it off and pounced on him.
The fight was brief. They had scarcely touched the ground before the Boy was on top pounding with both his little, clinched fists.
"Stop it—you're killin' me!" the under one screamed.
"Will you let him alone?" the Boy hissed.
"You're killin' me, I tell ye!" the tow-head yelled in terror. "Stop it I say—would you kill a feller just for a doggoned old cooter?"
"Will you let him alone?"
"Yes, if ye won't kill me."
The Boy slowly rose. The tow-head leaped to his feet and with a look of terror started on a run.
"You needn't run, I won't hit ye again!" the Boy cried.
But the legs only moved faster. Never since he was born did the Boy see a pair of legs get over the ground like that. He sat down and laughed and then hurried on to join Sarah.
He didn't tell his sister what had happened. His mother mustn't know that he had been in a fight. But when he felt the touch of her hand on his forehead that night as he rose from her knee he couldn't bear the thought of deceiving her again and so he confessed.
"It wasn't wrong, was it, to fight for a thing like that?" he asked wistfully.
"No," came the answer. "He needed a thrashing—the little scoundrel, and I'm glad you did it."
The school flickered out in five weeks and the following summer another lasted for six weeks.
And then they moved to the land Tom had staked off in the heart of the great forest fifteen miles from the northern banks of the Ohio. He would still be in sight of the soil of Kentucky.
The Boy's heart beat with new wonder as they slowly floated across the broad surface of the river. He could conceive of no greater one.
"Thereisa bigger one!" his father said. "The Mississippi is the daddy of 'em all—the Ohio's lost when it rolls into her banks—stretchin' for a thousand miles an' more from the mountains in the north way down to the Gulf of Mexico at New Orleans."
"And it's all ours?" he asked in wonder.
"Yes, and plenty more big ones that pour into hit from the West."
The Boy saw again the impassioned face of the orator telling the glories of his country, and his heart swelled with pride.
They left the river and plunged into the trackless forest. No roads had yet scarred its virgin soil. Only the blazed trail for the first ten miles—the trail Tom had marked with his own hatchet—and then the magnificent woods without a mark. Five miles further they penetrated, cutting down the brush and trees to make way for the wagon.
They stopped at last on a beautiful densely wooded hill near a stream of limpid water. A rough camp was quickly built Indian fashion and covered with bear skins.
The next day the father put into the Boy's hand the new axe he had bought for him.
"You're not quite eight years old, Boy," he said, encouragingly, "but you're big as a twelve-year-old an' you're spunky. Do you think you can swing an axe that's a man's size?"
"Yes," was the sturdy answer.
And from that day he did it with a song on his lips no matter how heavy the heart that beat in his little breast.
At first they cut the small poles and built a half-faced camp, and made it strong enough to stand the storms of winter in case a cabin could not be finished before spring. This half-faced camp was made of small logs built on three sides, with the fourth open to the south. In front of this opening the log fire was built and its flame never died day or night.
To the soul of the Boy this half-faced camp with its blazing logs in the shadow of giant trees was the most wonderful dwelling he had ever seen. The stars that twinkled in the sky beyond the lacing boughs were set in his ceiling. No king in his palace could ask for more.
But into the young mother's heart slowly crept the first shadows of a nameless dread. Fifteen miles from a human habitation in the depths of an unmarked wilderness with only a hunter's camp for her home, and she had dreamed of schools! To her children her face always gave good cheer. But at night she lay awake for long, pitiful hours watching the stars and fighting the battle alone with despair.
Yet there was never a thought of surrender. God lived and her faith was in Him. The same stars were shining above that sparkled in old Virginia and Kentucky. Something within sang for joy at the sight of her Boy—strong of limb and dauntless of soul. He was God's answer to her cry, and always she went the even tenor of her way singing softly that he might hear.
His father set him to the task of clearing the first acre of ground for the crop next spring. It seemed a joke to send a child with an axe into that huge forest and tell him to clear the way for civilization. And yet he went with firm, eager steps.
He chose the biggest tree in sight for his first task—a giant oak three feet in diameter, its straight trunk rising a hundred feet without a limb or knot to mar its perfect beauty.
The Boy leaped on the fallen monarch of the woods with a new sense of power. Far above gleamed a tiny space in the sky. His hand had made it. He was a force to be reckoned with now. He was doing things that counted in a man's world.
Day after day his axe rang in the woods until a big white patch of sky showed with gleaming piles of clouds. And shimmering sunbeams were warming the earth for the seed of the coming spring. His tall thin body ached with mortal weariness, but the spirit within was too proud to whine or complain. He had taken a man's place. His mother needed him and he'd play the part.
The winter was the hardest and busiest he had ever known. He shot his first wild turkey from the door of their log camp the second week after arrival. Proud of his marksmanship he talked of it for a week, and yet he didn't make a good hunter. He allowed his father to go alone oftener than he would accompany him. There was a queer little voice somewhere within that protested against the killing. He wouldn't acknowledge it to himself but half the joy of his shot at his turkey was destroyed by the sight of the blood-stained broken wing when he picked it up.
The mother watched this trait with deepening pride. His practice at writing and reading was sheer joy now. Her interest was so keen he always tried his best that he might see her smile.
It was time to begin the spring planting before the heavy logs were rolled and burned and the smaller ones made ready for the cabin. The corn couldn't wait. The cabin must remain unfinished until the crop was laid by.
It had been a long, lonely winter for the mother. But with the coming of spring, the wooded world was clothed in beauty so fresh and marvellous, she forgot the loneliness in new hopes and joys.
Settlers were moving in now. Every week Tom brought the news of another neighbor. Her aunt came in midsummer bringing Dennis and his dogs with fun and companionship for the Boy.
The new cabin was not quite finished, but they moved in and gave their kin their old camp for a home, all ready without the stroke of an axe.
Dennis was wild over the hunting and proposed to the Boy a deer hunt all by themselves.
"Let's just me and you go, Boy, an' show Tom what we can do with a rifle without him. You can take the first shot with old 'Speakeasy' an' then I'll try her. The deer'll be ez thick ez bees around that Salt Lick now."
The Boy consented. Boney went with him for company. As a self-respecting coon dog he scorned to hunt any animal that couldn't fight with an even chance for his life. As for a deer—he'd as lief chase a calf!
Dennis placed the Boy at a choice stand behind a steep hill in which the deer would be sure to plunge in their final rush to escape the dogs when close pressed in the valley.
"Now the minute you see him jump that ridge let him have it!" Dennis said. "He'll come straight down the hill right inter your face."
The Boy took his place and began to feel the savage excitement of his older companion. He threw the gun in place and drew a bead on an imaginary bounding deer.
"All right. I'll crack him!" he promised.
"Now, for the Lord's sake, don't you miss 'im!" Dennis warned. "I don't want Tom ter have the laugh on us."
The Boy promised, and Dennis called his dogs and hurried into the bottoms toward the Salt Lick. In half an hour the dogs opened on a hot trail that grew fainter and fainter in the distance until they could scarcely be heard. They stopped altogether for a moment and then took up the cry gradually growing clearer and clearer. The deer had run the limit of his first impulse and taken the back track, returning directly over the same trail.
Nearer and nearer the pack drew, the trail growing hotter and hotter with each leap of the hounds.
The Boy was trembling with excitement. He cocked his gun and stood ready. Boney lay on a pile of leaves ten feet away quietly dozing. Louder and louder rang the cry of the hounds. They seemed to be right back of the hill now. The deer should leap over its crest at any moment. His gun was half lifted and his eyes flaming with excitement when a beautiful half grown fawn sprang over the hill and stood for a moment staring with wide startled eyes straight into his.
The savage yelp of the hounds close behind rang clear, sharp and piercing as they reared the summit. The panting, trembling fawn glanced despairingly behind, looked again into the Boy's eyes, and as the first dog leaped the hill crest made his choice. Staggering and panting with terror, he dropped on his knees by the Boy's side, the bloodshot eyes begging piteously for help.
The Boy dropped his gun and gathered the trembling thing in his arms. In a moment the hounds were on him leaping and tearing at the fawn. He kicked them right and left and yelled with all his might:
"Down, I tell you! Down or I'll kill you!"
The hounds continued to leap and snap in spite of his kicks and cries until Boney saw the struggle, and stepped between his master and his tormenters. One low growl and not another hound came near.
When Dennis arrived panting for breath he couldn't believe his eyes. The Boy was holding the exhausted fawn in his lap with a glazed look in his eyes.
"Well, of all the dam-fool things I ever see sence God made me, this takes the cake!" he cried in disgust. "Why didn't ye shoot him?"
"Because he ran to me for help—how could I shoot him?"
Dennis sat down and roared:
"Well, of all the deer huntin', this beats me!"
The Boy rose, still holding the fawn in his arms.
"You can take the gun and go on. Boney and me'll go back home——"
"You ain't goin' ter carry that thing clean home, are you?"
"Yes, I am," was the quiet answer. "And I'll kill any dog that tries to hurt him."
Dennis was still laughing when he disappeared, Boney walking slowly at his heels.
He showed the fawn to his mother and told Sarah she could have him for a pet. The mother watched him with shining eyes while he built a pen and then lifted the still trembling wild thing inside.
Next morning the pen was down and the captive gone. The Boy didn't seem much surprised or appear to care. When he was alone with his mother she whispered:
"Didn't you go out there last night and let it loose when the dogs were asleep?"
He was still a moment and then nodded his head.
His mother clasped him to her heart.
"O my Boy! My own—I love you!"
The second winter in the wilderness was not so hard. The heavy work of clearing the timber for the corn fields was done and the new cabin and its furniture had been finished except the door, for which there was little use.
The new neighbors had brought cheer to the mother's heart.
An early spring broke the winter of 1818 and clothed the wilderness world in robes of matchless beauty.
The Boy's gourds were placed beside the new garden and the noise of chattering martins echoed over the cabin. The toughened muscles of his strong, slim body no longer ached in rebellion at his tasks. Work had become a part of the rhythm of life. He could sing at his hardest task. The freedom and strength of the woods had gotten into his blood. In this world of waving trees, of birds and beasts, of laughing sky and rippling waters, there were no masters, no slaves. Millions in gold were of no value in its elemental struggle. Character, skill, strength and manhood only counted. Poverty was teaching him the first great lesson of human life, that man shall eat his bread in the sweat of his brow and that industry is the only foundation on which the moral and material universe has ever rested or can rest.
Solitude and the stimulus of his mother's mind were slowly teaching him to think—to think deeply and fearlessly, and think for himself.
Entering now in his ninth year, he was shy, reticent, over-grown, consciously awkward, homely and ill clad—he grew so rapidly it was impossible to make his clothes fit. But in the depths of his hazel-grey eyes there were slumbering fires that set him apart from the boys of his age. His mother saw and understood.
A child in years and yet he had already learned the secrets of the toil necessary to meet the needs of life. He swung a woodman's axe with any man. He could plow and plant a field, make its crop, harvest and store its fruits and cook them for the table. He could run, jump, wrestle, swim and fight when manhood called. He knew the language of the winds and clouds, and spoke the tongues of woods and field.
And he could read and write. His mother's passionate yearning and quenchless enthusiasm had placed in his hand the key to books and the secrets of the ages were his for the asking.
He would never see the walls of a college, but he had already taken his degree in Industry, Patience, Caution, Courage, Pity and Gentleness.
The beauty and glory of this remarkable spring brought him into still closer communion with his mother's spirit. They had read every story of the Bible, some of them twice or three times, and his stubborn mind had fought with her many a friendly battle over their teachings. Always too wise and patient to command his faith, she waited its growth in the fulness of time. He had read every tale in "Æsop's Fables" and brought a thousand smiles to his mother's dark face by his quaint comments. She was dreaming now of new books to place in his eager hands. Corn was ten cents a bushel, wheat twenty-five, and a cow was only worth six dollars. Whiskey, hams and tobacco were legal tender and used instead of money. She had ceased to dream of wealth in goods and chattels until conditions were changed. Her one aim in life was to train the minds of her children and to this joyous task she gave her soul and body. It was the only thing worth while. That God would give her strength for this was all she asked.
And then the great shadow fell.
The mother and children were walking home from the woods through the glory of the Southern spring morning in awed silence. The path was hedged with violets and buttercups. The sweet odor of grapevine, blackberry and dewberry blossoms filled the air. Dogwood and black-haw lit with white flame the farthest shadows of the forest and the music of birds seemed part of the mingled perfume of flowers.
The boy's keen ear caught the drone of bees and his sharp eye watched them climb slowly toward their storehouse in a towering tree. All nature was laughing in the madness of joy.
The Boy silently took his mother's hand and asked in subdued tones:
"What is the pest, Ma, and what makes it?"
"Nobody knows," she answered softly. "It comes like a thief in the night and stays for months and sometimes for years. They call it the 'milk-sick' because the cows die, too—and sometimes the horses. The old Indian women say it starts from the cows eating a poison flower in the woods. The doctors know nothing about it. It just comes and kills, that's all."
The little hand suddenly gripped hers with trembling hold:
"O Ma, if it kills you!"
A tender smile lighted her dark face as the warmth of his love ran like fire through her veins.
"It can't harm me, my son, unless God wills it. When he calls I shall be ready."
All the way home he clung to her hand and sometimes when they paused stroked it tenderly with both his.
"What's it like?" he asked at last. "Can't you take bitters for it in time to stop it? How do you know when it's come?"
"You begin to feel drowsy, a whitish coating is on the tongue, a burning in the stomach, the feet and legs get cold. You're restless and the pulse grows weak."
"How long does it last?"
"Sometimes it kills in three days, sometimes two weeks. Sometimes it's chronic and hangs on for years and then kills."
Every morning through the long black summer of the scourge he asked her with wistful tenderness if she were well. Her cheerful answers at last brought peace to his anxious heart and he gradually ceased to fear. She was too sweet and loving and God too good that she should die. Besides, both his father and mother had given him a lesson in quiet, simple heroism that steadied his nerves.
He looked at the rugged figure of his father with a new sense of admiration. He was no more afraid of Death than of Life. He was giving himself without a question in an utterly unselfish devotion to the stricken community. There were no doctors within thirty miles, and if one came he could but shake his head and advise simple remedies that did no good. Only careful nursing counted for anything. Without money, without price, without a murmur the father gave his life to this work. No neighbor within five miles was stricken that he did not find a place by that bedside in fearless, loving, unselfish service.
And when Death came, this simple friend went for his tools, cut down a tree, ripped the boards from its trunk, made the coffin, and with tender reverence dug a grave and lowered the loved one. He was doctor, nurse, casket-maker, grave-digger, comforter and priest. His reverent lips had long known the language of prayer.
With tireless zeal the mother joined in this ministry of love, and the Boy saw her slender dark figure walk so often beside trembling feet as they entered the valley of the great shadow, that he grew to believe that she led a charmed life. Nor did he fear when Dennis came one morning and in choking tones said that both his uncle and aunt were stricken in the little half-faced camp but a few hundred yards away. He was sorry for Dennis. He had never known father or mother—only this uncle and aunt.
"Don't you worry, Dennis," the Boy said tenderly. "You'll live with us if they die."
They both died within a few days. The night after the last burial, Dennis crawled into the loft with the Boy to be his companion for many a year.
And then the blow fell, swift, terrible and utterly unexpected. He had long ago made up his mind that God had flung about his mother's form the spell of his Almighty power and the pestilence that walked in the night dared not draw near. An angel with flaming sword stood beside their cabin door.
Last night in the soft moonlight a whip-poor-will was singing nearby and he fancied he saw the white winged sentinel, and laughed for joy.
When he climbed down from his loft next morning his mother was in bed and Sarah was alone over the fire cooking breakfast.
His heart stood still. He walked with unsteady step to her bedside and whispered:
"Are you sick, Ma?"
"Yes, dear, it has come."
He grasped her hot outstretched hand and fell on his knees in sobbing anguish. He knew now—it was the angel of Death he had seen.