The Young Mountaineers

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Now and then a wagoner overtook him and gave him a ride, thus greatly
helping him on his way. As he went, there was a gradual change in the
blue and misty range that seemed to encircle the west, and which he
knew, by one deep indentation in the horizontal line of its summit, was
Goliath Mountain. It became first an intenser blue. As he drew nearer
still, it turned a bronzed green. It had purpled with the sunset before
he could distinguish the crimson and gold of its foliage and its
beetling crags. Night had fallen when he reached the base of the
mountain.

There was no moon; heavy clouds were rolling up from the horizon, and
they hid the stars. Nick Gregory, lying on the ledge of the "Old Man's
Chimney," thirty feet above the black earth, could not see his hand
before his face. The darkness was dreadful to him. It had closed upon a
dreadful day. The seconds were measured by the throbs and dartings of
pain in his arm. He was almost exhausted by hunger and thirst. He
thought, however, that he could have borne it all cheerfully, but for
the sharp remorse that tortured him for the wrong he had done to his
friend, and his wild anxiety about Barney's fate. Nick felt that he,
himself, was on trial here, imprisoned on this tower of stone, cut off
from the world, from everything but his sternly accusing conscience and
his guilty heart.

For hours he had heard nothing but the monotonous rushing of the water
close at hand, or now and then the shrill, quavering cry of a distant
screech-owl, or the almost noiseless flapping of a bat's wings as they
swept by him.

He had hardly a hope of deliverance, when suddenly there came a new
sound, vague and indistinguishable. He lifted himself upon his left
elbow and listened again. He could hear nothing for a moment except his
own panting breath and the loud beating of his heart. But there--the
sound came once more. What was it? a dropping leaf? the falling of a
fragment of stone from the "Chimney"? a distant step?

It grew more distinct as it drew nearer; presently he recognized
it,--the regular footfall of some man or boy plodding along the path.
That path!--a recollection flashed through his mind. No one knew that
short cut up the mountain but him and Barney; they had worn the path
with their trampings back and forth from the "Old Man's Chimney."

He thought he must be dreaming, or that he had lost his reason; still he
shouted out, "Hold on, thar! air it ye, Barney?"

The step paused. Then a reply came in a voice that he hardly recognized
as Barney's; it was so fierce, and so full of half-repressed anger.

"Yes, it air Barney,--ef _ye_ hev any call ter know."

"How did ye git away, Barney?--how did ye git away?" exclaimed Nick,
with a joyous sense of relief.

"A _thief's_ word cl'ared me!"

This bitter cry came up to Nick, sharp and distinct, through the dark
stillness. He said nothing at the moment, and presently he heard Barney
speak again, as he stood invisible, and enveloped in the gloom of the
night, at the foot of the mighty column.

"'Twar my bes' frien' ez sunk me deep in trouble. But the _thief_, he
fished me up. He 'lowed ter the jestice ez I never holped him ter steal
nothin' nor ter hide it arterward, nuther."

Nick said not a word. The hot tears came into his eyes. Barney, he
thought, could feel no more bitterly toward him than he felt toward
himself.

"How kem my coat ter be tored down thar on the ledge, close ter the
Conscripts' Hollow, whar I hain't been sence the cloth war wove?"

There was a long pause.

"I wore it thar, Barney, 'stid o' mine," Nick replied at last. "I never
knowed, at fust, ez I hed tored it. I was so skeered when I seen the
stole truck, I never knowed nothin'."

"An' then ye spoke a lie! An' arterward, ye let the folks think ez 'twar
me ez hed tored that coat close by the Conscripts' Hollow!"

"I was skeered haffen ter death, Barney!"

Nick was very contemptible in his falsehood and cowardice,--even in his
repentance and shame and sorrow. At least, so the boy thought who stood
in the darkness at the foot of the great column. Suddenly it occurred to
Barney that this was a strange place for Nick to be at this hour of the
night. His indignation gave way for a moment to some natural curiosity.

"What air ye a-doin' of up thar on the Old Man's Chimney?" he asked.

"I kem up hyar this mornin' early, ter watch the wagon a-takin' ye off.
Then I fell and bruk my arm, an' I can't git down 'thout bein' holped a
little."

There was another silence, so intense that it seemed to Nick as if he
were all alone again in the immensity of the mountains, and the black
night, and the endless forests. He had expected an immediate proffer of
assistance from Barney. He had thought that his injured friend would
relent in his severity when he knew that he had suffered too; that he
was in great pain even at this moment.

But not a word came from Barney.

"I hed laid off ter ax ye ter holp me a little," Nick faltered meekly,
making his appeal direct.

There was no answer.

It was so still that the boy, high up on the sandstone pillar, could
hear the wind rising among the far spurs west of Goliath. The foliage
near at hand was ominously quiet in the sultry air. Once there was a
flash of lightning from the black clouds, followed by a low muttering
of thunder. Then all was still again,--so still!

Nick raised himself upon his left arm, and leaned cautiously over the
verge of the ledge, peering, with starting eyes, into the darkness, and
hoping for another flash of lightning that he might see below for an
instant. A terrible suspicion had come to him. Could Barney have slipped
quietly away, leaving him to his fate?

He could see nothing in the impenetrable gloom; he could hear nothing in
the dark stillness.

Barney had not yet gone, but he was saying to himself, as he stood at
the foot of the great obelisk, that here was his revenge, far more
complete than he had dared even to hope.

He could measure out his false friend's punishment in any degree he
thought fit. He could leave him there with his broken arm and his pangs
of hunger for another day. He deserved it,--he deserved it richly. The
recollection was still very bitter to Barney of the hardships he had
endured at the hands of this boy, who asked him now for help. Why did he
not refuse it? Why should he not take the revenge he had promised
himself?

And then he knew there was danger in now trying to climb the jagged
edges of the Old Man's Chimney. His nerves were shaken by the
excitements of the day; he was fagged out by his long tramp; the wind
was beginning to surge among the trees; it might blow him from his
uncertain foothold. But when it gained more strength, might it not drive
Nick, helpless with his broken arm, from that high ledge?

As this thought crossed his mind, he tore off his hat, coat, and shoes,
and desperately began the ascent. He thought he knew every projection
and crevice and bush so well that he might have found his way
blindfolded, and guided by the sense of touch alone. But he did not lack
for light. Before he was six feet up from the ground, the clouds were
rent by a vivid flash, and an instantaneous peal of thunder woke all
the echoes. This was the breaking of the storm; afterward, there was a
continuous pale flickering over all the sky, and at close intervals,
dazzling gleams of lightning darted through the rain, which was now
falling heavily.

"I'm a-comin', Nick!" shouted Barney, through the din of the elements.

Somehow, as he climbed, he felt light-hearted again. It seemed to him
that he had left a great weight at the foot of the gigantic sandstone
column. Could it be that bitter revenge he had promised himself? He had
thought only of Nick's safety, but he seemed to have done himself a
kindness in forgiving his friend,--the burden of revenge is so heavy!
His troubles were already growing faint in his memory,--it was so good
to feel the rain splashing in his face, and his rude playfellow, the
mountain wind, rioting around him once more. He was laughing when at
last he pulled himself up, wet through and through, on the ledge beside
Nick.

"It's airish up hyar, ain't it?" he cried.

"Barney," said Nick miserably, "I dunno how I kin ever look at ye agin,
squar' in the face, while I lives."

"Shet that up!" Barney returned good-humoredly. "I don't want ter ever
hear 'bout'n it no more. I'll always know, arter this, that I can't
place no dependence in ye; but, law, ye air jes' like that old gun o'
mine; sometimes it'll hang fire, an' sometimes it'll go off at
half-cock, an' ginerally it disapp'ints me mightily. But, somehows, I
can't determinate to shoot with no other one. I'll hev ter feel by ye
jes' like I does by that thar old gun."

The descent was slow and difficult, and very painful to Nick, and
fraught with considerable danger to both boys. They accomplished it in
safety, however, and then, with Barney's aid, Nick managed to drag
himself through the woods to the nearest log cabin, where his arm was
set by zealous and sympathetic amateurs in a rude fashion that probably
would have shocked the faculty. They had some supper here, and an
invitation to remain all night; but Barney was wild to be at home, and
Nick, in his adversity, clung to his friend.

The rain had ceased, and they had only half a mile further to go.
Barney's heart was exultant when he saw the light in the window of his
home, and the sparks flying up from the chimney. He had some curiosity
to know how the family circle looked without him.

"Ye wait hyar, Nick, a minute, an' I'll take a peek at 'em afore I
bounce in 'mongst 'em," he said. "I'm all eat up ter know what Melissy
air a-doin' 'thout me."

But the sight smote the tears from his eyes when he stole around to the
window and glanced in at the little group, plainly shown in the flare
from the open fire.

Granny looked ten years older since morning. The three small boys,
instead of popping corn or roasting apples and sweet potatoes, as was
their habit in the evenings, sat in a dismal row, their chins on their
freckled, sunburned hands, and their elbows on their knees, and gazed
ruefully at the fire. And Melissy,--why, there was Melissy, a little
blue-and-white ball curled up on the floor. Asleep? No. Barney caught
the gleam of her wide-open blue eyes; but he missed something from
them,--the happy expression that used to dwell there.

He went at the door with a rush. And what an uproar there was when he
suddenly sprang in among them! Melissy laughed until she cried. Granny
whirled and whirled her stick, and nodded convulsively, and gasped out
eager questions about the trial and the "jedge." The little boys jumped
for joy until they seemed strung on wire.

Soon they were popping corn and roasting apples once more. The flames
roared up the chimney, and the shadows danced on the wall, and as the
hours wore on, they were all so happy that when midnight came, it caught
them still grouped around the fire.

A WARNING

It was night on Elm Ridge. So black, so black that the great crags and
chasms were hidden, the forest was lost in the encompassing gloom, the
valley and the distant ranges were gone,--all the world had disappeared.

There was no wind, and the dark clouds above the dark earth hung low and
motionless. Solomon Grow found it something of an undertaking to grope
his way back from the little hut of unhewn logs, where he had stabled
his father's horse, to the door of the cabin and the home-circle within.

He fumbled for the latchstring, and pulling it carelessly, the door flew
open suddenly, and he almost fell into the room.

"Why d' ye come a-bustin' in hyar that thar way, Sol?" his mother
demanded rather tartly. "Ef ye hed been raised 'mongst the foxes, ye
couldn't show less manners."

"Door slipped out'n my hand," said Sol, a trifle sullenly.

"Waal--air ye disabled anywhar so ez ye can't shet it, eh?" asked his
father, with a touch of sarcasm.

Sol shut the door, drew up an inverted tub, seated himself upon it, and
looked about, loweringly. He thought he had been needlessly affronted.
Still, he held his peace.

Within, there was a great contrast to the black night outside. The ash
and hickory logs in the deep fireplace threw blue and yellow flames high
up the wide stone chimney. The flickering light was like some genial,
cheery smile forever coming and going.

It illumined the circle about the hearth. There sat Sol's mother, idle
to-night, for it was Sunday. His grandmother, too, was there, so old
that she seemed to confirm the story told of these healthy mountains, to
the effect that people are obliged to go down in the valley to die, else
they would live forever.

There was Sol's father, a great burly fellow, six feet three inches in
height, still holding out his hands to the blaze, chilled through and
through by his long ride from the church where he had been to hear the
circuit-rider preach on "Forgiveness of Injuries."

He was beginning now to quarrel vehemently with his brother-in-law,
Jacob Smith, about the shabby treatment he had recently experienced in
the non-payment of work,--for work in this country is a sort of
circulating medium; a man will plough a day for another man, on
condition that the favor is rigorously reciprocated.

Jacob Smith had been to the still, and apparently had imbibed the spirit
there prevailing, to more effect than Sol's father had absorbed the
spirit that had been taught in church.

In plain words, Jacob Smith was very drunk, and very quarrelsome, and
very unreasonable. The genial firelight that played upon his bloated
face played also over objects much pleasanter to look upon,--over the
strings of red pepper-pods hanging from the rafters; over the bright
variegations of color in the clean patchwork quilt on the bed; over the
shining pans and pails set aside on the shelf; over the great, curious
frame of the warping-bars, rising up among the shadows on the other side
of the room, the equidistant pegs still holding the sized yarn that
Solomon's mother had been warping, preparatory to weaving.

On the other side of the room, too, was a little tow-headed child
sitting in a cradle, which, small as he was, he had long ago outgrown as
a bed.

It was only a pine box placed upon rude rockers, and he used it for a
rocking-chair. His bare, fat legs hung out on one side of the box, and
as he delightedly rocked back and forth, his grotesque little shadow
waved to and fro on the wall, and mocked and flouted him.

What he thought of it, nobody can ever know; his grave eyes were fixed
upon it, but he said nothing, and the silent shadow and substance swayed
joyously hither and thither together.

The quarrel between the two men was becoming hot and bitter. One might
have expected nothing better from Jacob Smith, for when a man is drunk,
the human element drops like a husk, and only the unreasoning brute is
left.

But had John Grow forgotten all the good words he had heard to-day from
the circuit-rider? Had they melted into thin air during his long ride
from the church? Were the houseless good words wandering with the rising
wind through the unpeopled forest, seeking vainly a human heart where
they might find a lodgment?

The men had risen from their chairs; the drunkard, tremulous with anger,
had drawn a sharp knife. John Grow was not so patient as he might have
been, considering the great advantage he had in being sober, and the
good words with which he had started out from the "meet'n'-house."

He laid his heavy hand angrily upon the drunken man's shoulder.

In another moment there would have been bloodshed. But suddenly the
dark shadows at the other end of the room swayed with a strange motion;
a great creaking sound arose, and the warping-bars tottered forward and
fell upon the floor with a crash.

The wranglers turned with anxious faces. No one was near the bars, it
seemed that naught could have jarred them; but there lay the heavy frame
upon the floor, the pegs broken, and the yarn twisted.

"A warning!" cried Sol's mother. "A warning how you-uns spen' the
evenin' o' the Lord's Day in yer quar'lin', an' fightin', an' sech. An'
ye, John Grow, jes' from the meet'n'-house!"

She did not reproach her brother,--nobody hopes anything from a
drunkard.

"A sign o' bad luck," said the grandmother. "It 'minds me o' the time
las' winter that the wind blowed the door in, an' straight arter that
the cow died."

"Them signs air ez likely ter take hold on folks ez on cattle," said
Jacob Smith, half-sobered by the shock.

There was a look of sudden anxiety on the face of Solomon's mother. She
crossed the room to the youngster rocking in the cradle.

"Come, Benny," she said, "ye oughter go ter bed. Ye air wastin' yer
strength sittin' up this late in the night. An' ye war a-coughin' las'
week. Ye must go ter bed."

Benny clung to his unique rocking-chair with a sturdy strength which
promised well for his muscle when he should be as old as his great,
strong brother Solomon. He had been as quiet, hitherto, as if he were
dumb, but now he lifted up his voice in a loud and poignant wail, and
after he was put to bed, he resurrected himself from among the
bedclothes, ever and anon, with a bitter, though infantile, jargon of
protest.

"I'm fairly afeard o' them bars," said Mrs. Grow, looking down upon the
prostrate timbers. "It's comical that they fell down that-a-way. I hopes
'tain't no sign o' bad luck. I wouldn't hev nothin' ter happen fur
nothin'. An' Benny war a-coughin' las' week."

She had not even the courage to put her fear into words. And she
tenderly admonished tow-headed Benny, who was once more getting out of
bed, to go to sleep and save his strength, and remember how he was
coughing last week.

"He hed a chicken-bone acrost his throat," said his father. "No wonder
he coughed."

Solomon rose and went out into the black night,--so black that he could
not distinguish the sky from the earth, or the unobstructed air from the
dense forest around.

He walked about blindly, dragging something heavily after him. The
weight of concealment it was. He knew something that nobody knew
besides.

At the critical moment of the altercation, he had stepped softly among
the shadows to the warping-bars,--a strong push had sent the great frame
crashing down. He was back in an instant among the others, and by reason
of the excitement his agency in the sensation was not detected.

Like his biblical namesake, Solomon was no fool. Had he been reared in a
cultivated community, with the advantages of education, he might have
been one of the bright young fellows who manage other young fellows, who
control debating societies, who are prominent in mysterious
associations, the secret of which is at once guarded and represented by
a Cerberus of three Greek letters.

But, wise as he was, Solomon was not a prophet. He had intended only to
effect a diversion, and stop the quarrel. He had had no prevision of the
panic of superstition that he had raised in the minds of these simple
people; for the ignorant mountaineer is a devout believer in signs and
warnings.

As Solomon wandered about outside, he heard his father stumbling from
the door of the house to the barn to see if aught of evil had come to
the cow or the horse. He knew how his grandmother's heart was wrung with
fear for her heifer, and he could hardly endure to think of his mother's
anxieties about Benny.

No prophetic eye was needed to foresee the terrors that would beset her
in the days to come, when she would walk back and forth before the
bars, warping the yarn to be woven into cloth for his and Benny's
clothes; how she would regard the harmless frame as an uncanny thing,
endowed with supernatural powers, and look askance at it, and shrink
from touching it; how she would watch for the sign to come true, and
tremble lest it come.

He turned about, dragging and tugging this weight of concealment after
him, reentered the house, and sat down beside the fire.

His uncle Jacob Smith had gone to his own home. The others were telling
stories, calculated to make one's hair stand on end, about signs and
warnings, and their horrible fulfillment.

"Granny," said Solomon suddenly.

"Waal, sonny?" said his grandmother.

When the eyes of the family group were fixed upon him, Solomon's courage
failed.

"Nothin'," he said hastily. "Nothin' at all."

"Why, what ails the boy?" exclaimed his mother.

"I tell ye now, Solomon," said his grandmother, with an emphatic nod,
"ye hed better respec' yer elders,--an' a sign in the house!"

Solomon slept little that night. Toward day he began to dream of the
warping-bars. They seemed to develop suddenly into an immense animated
monster, from which he only escaped by waking with a sudden start.

Then he found that a great white morning, full of snow, was breaking
upon the black night. And what a world it was now! The mountain was
graced with a soft white drapery; on every open space there were vague
suggestions of delicate colors: in this hollow lay a tender purple
shadow; on that steep slope was an elusive roseate flush, and when you
looked again, it was gone, and the glare was blinding.

The bare black branches of the trees formed strangely interlaced
hieroglyphics upon the turquoise sky. The crags were dark and grim,
despite their snowy crests and the gigantic glittering icicles that here
and there depended from them. A cascade, close by in the gorge, had
been stricken motionless and dumb, as if by a sudden spell; and still
and silent, it sparkled in the sun.

The snow lay deep on the roof of the log cabin, and the eaves were
decorated with shining icicles. The enchantment had followed the zigzag
lines of the fence, and on every rail was its embellishing touch.

All the homely surroundings were transfigured. The potato-house was a
vast white billow, the ash-hopper was a marble vase, and the
fodder-stack was a great conical ermine cap, belonging to some mountain
giant who had lost it in the wind last night.

"I mought hev knowed that we-uns war a-goin' ter hev this spell o'
weather by the sign o' the warpin'-bars fallin' las' night," said John
Grow, stamping off the snow as he came in from feeding his horse.

"I hope 'tain't no worse sign," said his wife. "But I misdoubts." And
she sighed heavily.

"'Tain't no sign at all," said Solomon suddenly. He could keep his
secret no longer. "'Twar me ez flung down them warpin'-bars."

For a moment they all stared at him in silent amazement.

"What fur?" demanded his father at last. "Just ter enjye sottin' 'em up
agin? I'll teach ye ter fling down warpin'-bars!"

"Waal," said the peacemaker, hesitating, "it 'peared ter me ez Uncle
Jacob Smith war toler'ble drunk,--take him all tergether,--an' ez he hed
drawed a knife, I thought that ye an' him hed 'bout quar'led enough. An'
so I flung down the warpin'-bars ter git the fuss shet up."

"Waal, sir!" exclaimed his grandmother, red with wrath. "Ez ef _my_ son
couldn't stand up agin all the Smiths that ever stepped! Ye must fling
down the warpin'-bars an' twist the spun-truck--fur Jacob Smith!"

"Look-a-hyar, Sol," said his father gruffly, "'tend ter yerself, an' yer
own quar'ls, arter this, will ye!"

Then, with a sudden humorous interpretation of the incident, he broke
into a guffaw. "I hev lived a consider'ble time in this tantalizin'
world, an' ez yit I dunno ez I hev hed any need o' Sol ter pertect
_me_."

But Sol had unburdened his mind, and felt at ease again; not the less
because he knew that but for his novel method of making peace, there
might have been something worse than a sign in the house.

AMONG THE CLIFFS

It was a critical moment. There was a stir other than that of the wind
among the pine needles and dry leaves that carpeted the ground.

The wary wild turkeys lifted their long necks with that peculiar cry of
half-doubting surprise so familiar to a sportsman, then all was still
for an instant.

The world was steeped in the noontide sunlight, the mountain air
tasted of the fresh sylvan fragrance that pervaded the forest, the
foliage blazed with the red and gold of autumn, the distant Chilhowee
heights were delicately blue.

That instant's doubt sealed the doom of one of the flock. As the turkeys
stood in momentary suspense, the sunlight gilding their bronze feathers
to a brighter sheen, there was a movement in the dense undergrowth. The
flock took suddenly to wing,--a flash from among the leaves, the sharp
crack of a rifle, and one of the birds fell heavily over the bluff and
down toward the valley.

The young mountaineer's exclamation of triumph died in his throat. He
came running to the verge of the crag, and looked down ruefully into the
depths where his game had disappeared.

"Waal, sir," he broke forth pathetically, "this beats my time! If my
luck ain't enough ter make a horse laugh!"

He did not laugh, however. Perhaps his luck was calculated to stir only
equine risibility. The cliff was almost perpendicular; at the depth of
twenty feet a narrow ledge projected, but thence there was a sheer
descent, down, down, down, to the tops of the tall trees in the valley
far below.

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