The Young Mountaineers

C >> Charles Egbert Craddock >> The Young Mountaineers

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Ben's hands were trembling as he folded a blanket, and laid it on the
animal's back to serve instead of a saddle.

"I'm a-goin' ter the still-house ter see ef Thad ever got thar," he
said, when his mother appeared at the door.

He added, "I'm a-gittin' sorter skeered ez su'thin' mought hev happened
ter him."

His grandfather hobbled out into the little porch. "Them roads air
turrible rough fur that thar filly, ez ain't fairly broke good yit, nor
used ter travel," he suggested.

"I'd gin four hunderd fillies, ef I hed 'em, jes' ter know that thar boy
air safe an' sound," Ben declared, as he mounted.

He took the short cut, judging that, at the point where it crossed the
river, the stream was still fordable. When he heard his brother's
piteous cries for help, he quaked to think what might have happened to
Thad if he had not recognized the presence of Satan in the moral
shed-room, and summarily ejected him. The rainfall had been sufficient
to aggregate considerable water in the gullies about the sink-hole, and
these, emptying into the cavity and sending a continuous stream over the
boy, had served to chill him through and through, and he had a pretty
fair chance of being drowned, or dying from cold and exhaustion. Ben
pressed on to the still-house at the best speed he could make, and such
of the moonshiners as were half sober came out with ropes and a barrel,
which they lowered into the cavity. Thad managed to crawl into the
barrel, and, after several ineffectual attempts, he was drawn up through
the sink-hole.

There was no formal reconciliation between the two boys. It was enough
for Ben to feel Thad's reluctance to unloose his eager clutch upon his
brother's arms, even after he had been lifted out upon the firm ground.
And Thad knew that that complicated sound in Ben's throat was a sob,
although, for the sake of the men who stood by, he strove to seem to be
coughing.

"Right smart of an idjit, now, ain't ye?" demanded Ben, hustling back,
so to speak, the tears that sought to rise in his eyes.

"Waal, stranger, how's yer filly?" retorted Thad, laughing in a gaspy
fashion.

There was a tone of forgiveness in the inquiry. The answer caught the
same spirit.

"Middlin',--thanky,--jes' middlin'," said Ben.

And then they and "dad" fared home together by the light of the
moonshiners' lantern.

BORROWING A HAMMER

On a certain bold crag that juts far over a steep wooded mountain slope
a red light was seen one moonless night in June. Sometimes it glowed
intensely among the gray mists which hovered above the deep and sombre
valley; sometimes it faded. Its life was the breath of the bellows, for
a blacksmith's shop stands close beside the road that rambles along the
brink of the mountain. Generally after sunset the forge is dark and
silent. So when three small boys, approaching the log hut through the
gloomy woods, heard the clink! clank! clink! clank! of the hammers, and
the metallic echo among the cliffs, they stopped short in astonishment.

"Thar now!" exclaimed Abner Ryder desperately; "dad's at it fur true!"

"Mebbe he'll go away arter a while, Ab," suggested Jim Gryce, another
of the small boys. "Then that'll gin us our chance."

"Waal, I reckon we kin stiffen up our hearts ter wait," said Ab
resignedly.

All three sat down on a log a short distance from the shop, and
presently they became so engrossed in their talk that they did not
notice when the blacksmith, in the pauses of his work, came to the door
for a breath of air. They failed to discreetly lower their voices, and
thus they had a listener on whose attention they had not counted.

"Ye see," observed Ab in a high, shrill pipe, "dad sets a heap o' store
by his tools. But dad, ye know, air a mighty slack-twisted man. He gits
his tools lost" (reprehensively), "he wastes his nails, an' then he
'lows ez how it war _me_ ez done it."

He paused impressively in virtuous indignation. A murmur of surprise and
sympathy rose from his companions. Then he recommenced.

"Dad air the crankiest man on this hyar mounting! He won't lend me none
o' his tools nowadays,--not even that thar leetle hammer o' his'n. An'
I'm obleeged ter hev that thar leetle hammer an' some nails ter fix a
box fur them young squir'ls what we cotched. So we'll jes' hev ter go
ter his shop of a night when he is away, an'--an'--an' borry it!"

The blacksmith, a tall, powerfully built man, of an aspect far from
jocular, leaned slightly out of the door, peering in the direction where
the three tow-headed urchins waited. Then he glanced within at a leather
strap, as if he appreciated the appropriateness of an intimate relation
between these objects. But there was no time for pleasure now. He was
back in his shop in a moment.

His next respite was thus entertained:--

"What makes him work so of a night?" asked Jim Gryce.

"Waal," explained Ab in his usual high key, "he rid ter the settle_mint_
this mornin'; he hev been a-foolin' round thar all day, an' the crap air
jes' a-sufferin' fur work! So him an' Uncle Tobe air layin' thar ploughs
in the shop now, kase they air goin' ter run around the corn
ter-morrer. Workin', though, goes powerful hard with dad enny time. I
tole old Bob Peachin that, when I war ter the mill this evenin'. Him an'
the t'other men thar laffed mightily at dad. An' I laffed too!"

There was an angry gleam in Stephen Ryder's stern black eyes as he
turned within, seized the tongs, and thrust a piece of iron among the
coals, while Tobe, who had been asleep in the window at the back of the
shop, rose reluctantly and plied the bellows. The heavy panting broke
forth simultaneously with the red flare that quivered out into the dark
night. Presently it faded; the hot iron was whisked upon the anvil,
fiery sparks showered about as the rapid blows fell, and the echoing
crags kept time with rhythmic beats to the clanking of the sledge and
the clinking of the hand-hammer. The stars, high above the
far-stretching mountains, seemed to throb in unison, until suddenly the
blacksmith dealt a sharp blow on the face of the anvil as a signal to
his striker to cease, and the forge was silent.

As he leaned against the jamb of the door, mechanically adjusting his
leather apron, he heard Ab's voice again.

"Old Bob say he ain't no 'count sca'cely. He 'lowed ez he had knowed him
many a year, an' fund him a sneakin', deceivin' critter."

The blacksmith was erect in a moment, every fibre tense.

"That ain't the wust," Ab gabbled on. "Old Bob say, though't ain't known
ginerally, ez he air gin ter thievin'. Old Bob 'lowed ter them men,
hangin' round the mill, ez he air the biggest thief on the mounting!"

The strong man trembled. His blood rushed tumultuously to his head, then
seemed to ebb swiftly away. That this should be said of him to the
loafers at the mill! These constituted his little world. And he valued
his character as only an honest man can. He was amazed at the boldness
of the lie. It had been openly spoken in the presence of his son. One
might have thought the boy would come directly to him. But there he sat,
glibly retailing it to his small comrades! It seemed all so strange
that Stephen Ryder fancied there was surely some mistake. In the next
moment, however, he was convinced that they had been talking of him, and
of no one else.

"I tole old Bob ez how I thought they oughtn't ter be so hard on him, ez
he warn't thar to speak for hisself."

All three boys giggled weakly, as if this were witty.

"But old Bob 'lowed ez ennybody mought know him by his name. An' then he
told me that old sayin':--

'Stephen, Stephen, so deceivin',
That old Satan can't believe him!'"

Here Ben Gryce broke in, begging the others to go home, and come to
"borry" the hammer next night. Ab agreed to the latter proposition, but
still sat on the log and talked. "Old Bob say," he remarked cheerfully,
"that when he do git 'em, he shakes 'em--shakes the life out'n 'em!"

This was inexplicable. Stephen Ryder pondered vainly on it for an
instant. But the oft-reiterated formula, "Old Bob say," caught his
ears, and he was absorbed anew in Ab's discourse.

"Old Bob say ez my mother air one of the best women in this world. But
she air so gin ter humoring every critter a-nigh her, an' tends ter 'em
so much, an' feeds 'em so high an' hearty, ez they jes' gits good fur
nothin' in this world. That's how kem she air eat out'n house an' home
now. Old Bob say ez how he air the hongriest critter! Say he jes'
despise ter see him comin' round of meal times. Old Bob say ef he hev
got enny good lef' in him, my mother will kill it out yit with
kindness."

The blacksmith felt, as he turned back into the shop and roused the
sleepy-headed striker, that within the hour all the world had changed
for him. These coarse taunts were enough to show in what estimation he
was held. And he had fancied himself, in countrified phrase, "respected
by all," and had been proud of his standing.

So the bellows began to sigh and pant once more, and kept the red light
flaring athwart the darkness. The people down in the valley looked up at
it, glowing like a star that had slipped out of the sky and lodged
somehow on the mountain, and wondered what Stephen Ryder could be about
so late at night. When he left the shop there was no sign of the boys
who had ornamented the log earlier in the evening. He walked up the road
to his house, and found his wife sitting alone in the rickety little
porch.

"Hev that thar boy gone ter bed?" he asked.

"Waal," she slowly drawled, in a soft, placid voice, "he kem hyar
'bout'n haffen hour ago so nigh crazed ter go ter stay all night with
Jim an' Benny Gryce ez I hed ter let him. Old man Gryce rid by hyar in
his wagon on his way home from the settle_mint_. So Ab went off with the
Gryce boys an' thar gran'dad."

Thus the blacksmith concluded his tools were not liable to be "borrowed"
that night. He had a scheme to insure their safety for the future, but
in order to avoid his wife's remonstrances on Ab's behalf, he told her
nothing of it, nor of what he had overheard.

Early the next morning he set out for the mill, intending to confront
"old Bob" and demand retraction. The road down the deep, wild ravine was
rugged, and he jogged along slowly until at last he came within sight of
the crazy, weather-beaten old building tottering precariously on the
brink of the impetuous torrent which gashed the mountain side. Crags
towered above it; vines and mosses clung to its walls; it was a dank,
cool, shady place, but noisy enough with the turmoil of its primitive
machinery and the loud, hoarse voices of the loungers striving to make
themselves heard above the uproar. There were several of these idle
mountaineers aimlessly strolling among the bags of corn and wheat that
were piled about. Long, dusty cobwebs hung from the rafters. Sometimes a
rat, powdered white with flour and rendered reckless by high living,
raced boldly across the floor. The golden grain poured ceaselessly
through the hopper, and leaning against it was the miller, a tall,
stoop-shouldered man about forty years of age, with a floury smile
lurking in his beard and a twinkle in his good-humored eyes overhung by
heavy, mealy eyebrows.

"Waal, Steve," yelled the miller, shambling forward as the blacksmith
appeared in the doorway. "Come 'long in. Whar's yer grist?"

"I hev got no grist!" thundered Steve, sternly.

"Waal--ye're jes' ez welcome," said the miller, not noticing the rigid
lines of the blacksmith's face, accented here and there by cinders, nor
the fierceness of the intent dark eyes.

"I reckon I'm powerful welcome!" sneered Stephen Ryder.

The tone attracted "old Bob's" attention. "What ails ye, Steve?" he
asked, surprised.

"I'm a deceivin', sneakin' critter--hey," shouted the visitor, shaking
his big fist; he had intended to be calm, but his long-repressed fury
had found vent at last.

The miller drew back hastily, astonishment and fear mingled in a pallid
paste, as it were, with the flour on his face.

The six startled on-lookers stood as if petrified.

"Ye say I'm a thief!--a thief!--a thief!"

With the odious word Ryder made a frantic lunge at the miller, who
dodged his strong right arm at the moment when his foot struck against a
bag of corn lying on the floor and he stumbled. He recovered his
equilibrium instantly. But the six bystanders had seized him.

"Hold him hard, folkses!" cried honest Bob Peachin. "Hold hard! I'll
tell ye what ails him--though ye mustn't let on ter him--he air teched
in the head!"

He winked at them with a confidential intention as he roared this out,
forgetting in his excitement that mental infirmity does not impair the
sense of hearing. This folly on his part was a salutary thing for
Stephen Ryder. It calmed him instantly. He felt that he had need for
caution. A fearful vista of possibilities opened before him. He
remembered having seen in his childhood a man reputed to be suddenly
bereft of reason, but who he believed was entirely sane, bound hand and
foot, and every word, every groan, every effort to free himself,
accounted the demonstration of a maniac. This fate was imminent for him.
They were seven to one. He trembled as he felt their hands pressing upon
the swelling muscles of his arms. With an abrupt realization of his
great strength, he waited for a momentary relaxation of their clutch,
then with a mighty wrench he burst loose from them, flung himself upon
his mare, and dashed off at full speed.

He did no work that afternoon, although the corn was "suffering." He sat
after dinner smoking his pipe on the porch of his log cabin, while he
moodily watched the big shadow of the mountain creeping silently over
the wooded valley as the sun got on the down grade. Deep glooms began to
lurk among the ravines of the great ridge opposite. The shimmering blue
summits in the distance were purpling. A redbird, alert, crested, and
with a brilliant eye, perched idly on the vines about the porch, having
relinquished for the day the job of teaching a small, stubby imitation
of himself to fly. The shocks of wheat in the bare field close by had
turned a rich red gold in the lengthening rays before Stephen Ryder
realized that night was close at hand.

All at once he heard a discordant noise which he knew that Ab Ryder
called "singing," and presently the boy appeared in the distance, his
mouth stretched, his tattered hat stuck on the back of his tow-head, his
bare feet dusty, his homespun cotton trousers rolled up airily about his
knees, his single suspender supporting the structure. His father laughed
a little at sight of him, rather sardonically it must be confessed, and
saying to his wife that he intended to go to the shop for a while, he
rose and strolled off down the road.

When supper was over, however, Ab was immensely relieved to see that
his father had no idea of continuing his work. Consequently the usual
routine was to be expected. Generally, when summoned to the evening
meal, the blacksmith hastily plunged his head in the barrel of water
used to temper steel, thrust off his leather apron, and went up to the
house without more ado. He smoked afterward, and lounged about, enjoying
the relaxation after his heavy work. He did not go down to lock the shop
until bed-time, when he was shutting up the house, the barn, and the
corn-crib for the night. In the interval the shop stood deserted and
open, and this fact was the basis of Ab's opportunity. To-night there
seemed to be no deviation from this custom. He ascertained that his
father was smoking his pipe on the porch. Then he went down the road and
sat on the log near the shop to wait for the other boys who were to
share the risks and profits of borrowing the hammer.

All was still--so still! He fancied that he could hear the tumult of the
torrent far away as it dashed over the rocks. A dog suddenly began to
bark in the black, black valley--then ceased. He was vaguely over-awed
with the "big mountings" for company and the distant stars. He listened
eagerly for the first cracking of brush which told him that the other
boys were near at hand. Then all three crept along cautiously among the
huge boles of the trees, feeling very mysterious and important. When
they reached the rude window, Ab sat for a moment on the sill, peering
into the intense blackness within.

"It air dark thar, fur true, Ab," said Jim Gryce, growing faint-hearted.
"Let's go back."

"Naw, sir! Naw, sir!" protested Ab resolutely. "I'm on the borry!"

"How kin we find that thar leetle hammer in sech a dark place?" urged
Jim.

"Waal," explained Ab, in his high key, "dad air mightily welded ter his
cranky notions. An' he always leaves every tool in the same place
edzactly every night. Bound fur me!" he continued in shrill exultation
as he slapped his lean leg, "I know whar that thar leetle hammer air
sot ter roost!"

He jumped down from the window inside the shop, and cut a wiry caper.

"I'm a man o' bone and muscle!" he bragged. "Kin do ennything."

The other boys followed more quietly. But they had only groped a little
distance when Jim Gryce set up a sharp yelp of pain.

"Shet yer mouth--ye pop-eyed catamount!" Ab admonished him. "Dad will
hear an'--ah-h-h!" His own words ended in a shriek. "Oh, my!"
vociferated the "man of bone and muscle," who was certainly, too, a man
of extraordinary lung-power. "Oh, my! The ground is hot--hot ez iron!
They always tole me that Satan would ketch me--an' oh, my! now he hev
done it!"

He joined the "pop-eyed catamount" in a lively dance with their bare
feet on the hot iron bars which were scattered about the ground in every
direction. These were heated artistically, so that they might not really
scorch the flesh, but would touch the feelings, and perhaps the
conscience. As the third boy's scream rent the air, and told that he,
too, had encountered a torrid experience, Ab Ryder became suddenly aware
that there was some one besides themselves in the shop. He could see
nothing; he was only vaguely conscious of an unexpected presence, and he
fancied that it was in the corner by the barrel of water.

All at once a gruff voice broke forth. "I'm on the borry!" it remarked
with fierce facetiousness. "I want ter borry a boy--no! a man o' bone
an' muscle--fur 'bout a minit and a quarter!" A strong arm seized Ab by
his collar. He felt himself swept through the air, soused head foremost
into the barrel of water, then thrust into a corner, where he was
thankful to find there was no more hot iron.

"I want to borry another boy!" said the gruff voice. And the "pop-eyed
catamount" was duly ducked.

"'Twould pleasure me some ter borry another!" the voice declared with
grim humor. But Ben was the youngest and smallest, and only led into
mischief by the others. They never knew that the blacksmith relented
when his turn came, and that he got a mere sprinkle in comparison with
their total immersion.

Then Stephen Ryder set out for home, followed by a dripping procession.
"I'll l'arn ye ter 'borry' my tools 'thout leave!" he vociferated as he
went along.

When they had reached the house, he faced round sternly on Ab. "Whyn't
ye kem an' tell me ez how the miller say I war a sneakin', deceivin'
critter, an'--an'--an' a thief!"

His wife dropped the dish she was washing, and it broke unheeded upon
the hearth. Ab stretched his eyes and mouth in amazement.

"Old Bob Peachin never tole me no sech word sence I been born!" he
declared flatly.

"Then what ailed ye ter go an' tell sech a lie ter Gryce's boys las'
night jes' down thar outside o' the shop?" Stephen Ryder demanded.

Ab stared at him, evidently bewildered.

"Ye tole 'em," continued the blacksmith, striving to refresh his memory,
"ez Bob Peachin say ez how ye mought know I war deceivin' by my bein'
named Stephen--an' that I war the hongriest critter--an'"--

"'Twar the t-a-a-a-rrier!" shouted Ab, "the little rat tarrier ez we war
a-talkin' 'bout. He hev been named Steve these six year, old Bob say. He
gimme the dog yestiddy, 'kase I 'lowed ez the rats war eatin' us out'n
house an' home, an' my mother hed fed up that old cat o' our'n till he
won't look at a mice. Old Bob warned me, though, ez Steve, _the
tarrier_, air a mighty thief an' deceivin' ginerally. Old Bob say he
reckons my mother will spile the dog with feedin' him, an' kill out what
little good he hev got lef' in him with kindness. But I tuk him, an'
brung him home ennyhow. An' las' night arter we hed got through talkin'
'bout borryin' (he looked embarrassed) the leetle hammer, we tuk to
talkin' 'bout the tarrier. An' yander he is now, asleep on the
chil'ren's bed!"

A long pause ensued.

"M'ria," said the blacksmith meekly to his wife, "hev ye tuk notice how
the gyarden truck air a-thrivin'? 'Pears like ter me ez the peas air
a-fullin' up consider'ble."

And so the subject changed.

He had it on his conscience, however, to explain the matter to the
miller. For the second time old Bob Peachin, and the men at the mill,
"laffed mightily at dad." And when Ab had recovered sufficiently from
the exhaustion attendant upon borrowing a hammer, he "laffed too."

THE CONSCRIPTS' HOLLOW

CHAPTER I

"I'm a-goin' ter climb down ter that thar ledge, an' slip round ter the
hollow whar them conscripts built thar fire in the old war times."

Nicholas Gregory paused on the verge of the great cliff and cast a
sidelong glance at Barney Pratt, who was beating about among the red
sumach bushes in the woods close at hand, and now and then stooping to
search the heaps of pine needles and dead leaves where they had been
blown together on the ground.

"Conscripts!" Barney ejaculated, with a chuckle. "That's precisely what
them men war determinated _not_ ter be! They war a-hidin' in the
mountings ter git shet o' the conscription."

"Waal, I don't keer ef _ye_ names 'em 'conscripts' or no," Nicholas
retorted loftily. "That's what other folks calls 'em. I'm goin' down ter
the hollow, whar they built thar fire, ter see ef that old missin'
tur-r-key-hen o' our'n hain't hid her nest off 'mongst them dead chunks,
an' sech."

"A tur-r-key ain't sech a powerful fool ez that," said Barney, coming to
the edge of the precipice and looking over at the ledge, which ran along
the face of the cliff twenty feet below. "How'd she make out ter fotch
the little tur-r-keys up hyar, when they war hatched? They'd fall off'n
the bluff."

"A tur-r-key what hev stole her nest away from the folks air fool enough
fur ennything," Nicholas declared.

Perhaps he did not really expect to find the missing fowl in such an
out-of-the-way place as this, but being an adventurous fellow, the sight
of the crag was a temptation. He had often before clambered down to the
ledge, which led to a great niche in the solid rock, where one night
during the war some men who were hiding from the conscription had
kindled their fire and cooked their scanty food. The charred remnants of
logs were still here, but no one ever thought about them now, except the
two boys, who regarded them as a sort of curiosity.

Sometimes they came and stared at them, and speculated about them, and
declared to each other that _they_ would not consider it a hardship to
go a-soldiering.

Then Nick would tell Barney of a wonderful day when he had driven to the
county town in his uncle's wagon. There was a parade of militia there,
and how grand the drum had sounded! And as he told it he would shoulder
a smoke-blackened stick, and stride about in the Conscripts' Hollow, and
feel very brave.

He had no idea in those days how close at hand was the time when his own
courage should be tried.

"Kem on, Barney!" he urged. "Let's go down an' sarch fur the tur-r-key."

But Barney had thrown himself down upon the crag with a long-drawn sigh
of fatigue.

"Waal," he replied, in a drowsy tone, "I dunno 'bout'n that. I'm sorter
banged out, 'kase I hev had a powerful hard day's work a-bilin' sorghum
at our house. I b'lieves I'll rest my bones hyar, an' wait fur ye."

As he spoke, he rolled up one of the coats which they had both thrown
off, during their search for the nest on the summit of the cliff, and
slipped it under his head. He was far the brighter boy of the two, but
his sharp wits seemed to thrive at the expense of his body. He was small
and puny, and he was easily fatigued in comparison with big burly Nick,
who rarely knew such a sensation, and prided himself upon his toughness.

"Waal, Barney, surely ye air the porest little shoat on G'liath
Mounting!" he exclaimed scornfully, as he had often done before. But he
made no further attempt to persuade Barney, and began the descent alone.

It was not so difficult a matter for a sure-footed mountaineer like
Nick to make his way down to the ledge as one might imagine, for in a
certain place the face of the cliff presented a series of jagged edges
and projections which afforded him foothold. As he went along, too, he
kept a strong grasp upon overhanging vines and bushes that grew out
from earth-filled crevices.

He had gone down only a short distance when he paused thoughtfully.
"This hyar wind air blowin' powerful brief," he said. "I mought get
chilled an' lose my footin'."

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