Chapter 2

“Well,” said the old woman, “hit's all right to leave the door open. Nothin's goin' ter bother ye, but one o' my sons is out a coon-huntin' and he mought come in, not knowin' you're thar. But you jes' holler an' he'll move on.” She meant precisely what she said and saw no humor at all in such a possibility--but when the door closed, I could hear those girls stifling shrieks of laughter.

Literally, that night, I was a member of the family. I had a bed to myself (the following night I was not so fortunate)--in one corner; behind the head of mine the old woman, the daughter-in-law and the baby had another in the other corner, and the old man with the two boys spread a pallet on the floor. That is the invariable rule of courtesy with the mountaineer, to give his bed to the stranger and take to the floor himself, and, in passing, let me say that never, in a long experience, have I seen the slightest consciousness--much less immodesty--in a mountain cabin in my life. The same attitude on the part of the visitors is taken for granted--any other indeed holds mortal possibilities of offence--so that if the visitor has common sense, all embarrassment passes at once. The door was closed, the fire blazed on uncovered, the smothered talk and laughter of the two girls ceased, the coon-hunter came not and the night passed in peace.

It must have been near daybreak that I was aroused by the old man leaving the cabin and I heard voices and the sound of horses' feet outside. When he came back he was grinning.

“Hit's your mules.”

“Who found them?”

“The Wild Dog had 'em,” he said.

III. THE AURICULAR TALENT OF THE HON. SAMUEL BUDD

Behind us came the Hon. Samuel Budd. Just when the sun was slitting the east with a long streak of fire, the Hon. Samuel was, with the jocund day, standing tiptoe in his stirrups on the misty mountain top and peering into the ravine down which we had slid the night before, and he grumbled no little when he saw that he, too, must get off his horse and slide down. The Hon. Samuel was ambitious, Southern, and a lawyer. Without saying, it goes that he was also a politician. He was not a native of the mountains, but he had cast his fortunes in the highlands, and he was taking the first step that he hoped would, before many years, land him in the National Capitol. He really knew little about the mountaineers, even now, and he had never been among his constituents on Devil's Fork, where he was bound now. The campaign had so far been full of humor and full of trials--not the least of which sprang from the fact that it was sorghum time. Everybody through the mountains was making sorghum, and every mountain child was eating molasses.

Now, as the world knows, the straightest way to the heart of the honest voter is through the women of the land, and the straightest way to the heart of the women is through the children of the land; and one method of winning both, with rural politicians, is to kiss the babies wide and far. So as each infant, at sorghum time, has a circle of green-brown stickiness about his chubby lips, and as the Hon. Sam was averse to “long sweetenin'” even in his coffee, this particular political device just now was no small trial to the Hon. Samuel Budd. But in the language of one of his firmest supporters Uncle Tommie Hendricks:

“The Hon. Sam done his duty, and he done it damn well.”

The issue at stake was the site of the new Court-House--two localities claiming the right undisputed, because they were the only two places in the county where there was enough level land for the Court-House to stand on. Let no man think this a trivial issue. There had been a similar one over on the Virginia side once, and the opposing factions agreed to decide the question by the ancient wager of battle, fist and skull--two hundred men on each side--and the women of the county with difficulty prevented the fight. Just now, Mr. Budd was on his way to “The Pocket”--the voting place of one faction--where he had never been, where the hostility against him was most bitter, and, that day, he knew he was “up against” Waterloo, the crossing of the Rubicon, holding the pass at Thermopylae, or any other historical crisis in the history of man. I was saddling the mules when the cackling of geese in the creek announced the coming of the Hon. Samuel Budd, coming with his chin on his breast-deep in thought. Still his eyes beamed cheerily, he lifted his slouched hat gallantly to the Blight and the little sister, and he would wait for us to jog along with him. I told him of our troubles, meanwhile. The Wild Dog had restored our mules and the Hon. Sam beamed:

“He's a wonder--where is he?”

“He never waited--even for thanks.”

Again the Hon. Sam beamed:

“Ah! just like him. He's gone ahead to help me.”

“Well, how did he happen to be here?” I asked.

“He's everywhere,” said the Hon. Sam.

“How did he know the mules were ours?”

“Easy. That boy knows everything.”

“Well, why did he bring them back and then leave so mysteriously?”

The Hon. Sam silently pointed a finger at the laughing Blight ahead, and I looked incredulous.

“Just the same, that's another reason I told you to warn Marston. He's already got it in his head that Marston is his rival.”

“Pshaw!” I said--for it was too ridiculous.

“All right,” said the Hon. Sam placidly.

“Then why doesn't he want to see her?” “How do you know he ain't watchin' her now, for all we know? Mark me,” he added, “you won't see him at the speakin', but I'll bet fruit cake agin gingerbread he'll be somewhere around.”

So we went on, the two girls leading the way and the Hon. Sam now telling his political troubles to me. Half a mile down the road, a solitary horseman stood waiting, and Mr. Budd gave a low whistle.

“One o' my rivals,” he said, from the corner of his mouth.

“Mornin',” said the horseman; “lemme see you a minute.”

He made a movement to draw aside, but the Hon. Samuel made a counter-gesture of dissent.

“This gentleman is a friend of mine,” he said firmly, but with great courtesy, “and he can hear what you have to say to me.”

The mountaineer rubbed one huge hand over his stubbly chin, threw one of his long legs over the pommel of his saddle, and dangled a heavy cowhide shoe to and fro.

“Would you mind tellin' me whut pay a member of the House of Legislatur' gits a day?”

The Hon. Sam looked surprised.

“I think about two dollars and a half.”

“An' his meals?”

“No!” laughed Mr. Budd.

“Well, look-ee here, stranger. I'm a pore man an' I've got a mortgage on my farm. That money don't mean nothin' to you--but if you'll draw out now an' I win, I'll tell ye whut I'll do.” He paused as though to make sure that the sacrifice was possible. “I'll just give ye half of that two dollars and a half a day, as shore as you're a-settin' on that hoss, and you won't hav' to hit a durn lick to earn it.”

I had not the heart to smile--nor did the Hon. Samuel--so artless and simple was the man and so pathetic his appeal.

“You see--you'll divide my vote, an' ef we both run, ole Josh Barton'll git it shore. Ef you git out o' the way, I can lick him easy.”

Mr. Budd's answer was kind, instructive, and uplifted.

“My friend,” said he, “I'm sorry, but I cannot possibly accede to your request for the following reasons: First, it would not be fair to my constituents; secondly, it would hardly be seeming to barter the noble gift of the people to which we both aspire; thirdly, you might lose with me out of the way; and fourthly, I'm going to win whether you are in the way or not.”

The horseman slowly collapsed while the Hon. Samuel was talking, and now he threw the leg back, kicked for his stirrup twice, spat once, and turned his horse's head.

“I reckon you will, stranger,” he said sadly, “with that gift o' gab o' yourn.” He turned without another word or nod of good-by and started back up the creek whence he had come.

“One gone,” said the Hon. Samuel Budd grimly, “and I swear I'm right sorry for him.” And so was I.

An hour later we struck the river, and another hour upstream brought us to where the contest of tongues was to come about. No sylvan dell in Arcady could have been lovelier than the spot. Above the road, a big spring poured a clear little stream over shining pebbles into the river; above it the bushes hung thick with autumn leaves, and above them stood yellow beeches like pillars of pale fire. On both sides of the road sat and squatted the honest voters, sour-looking, disgruntled--a distinctly hostile crowd. The Blight and my little sister drew great and curious attention as they sat on a bowlder above the spring while I went with the Hon. Samuel Budd under the guidance of Uncle Tommie Hendricks, who introduced him right and left. The Hon. Samuel was cheery, but he was plainly nervous. There were two lanky youths whose names, oddly enough, were Budd. As they gave him their huge paws in lifeless fashion, the Hon. Samuel slapped one on the shoulder, with the true democracy of the politician, and said jocosely:

“Well, we Budds may not be what you call great people, but, thank God, none of us have ever been in the penitentiary,” and he laughed loudly, thinking that he had scored a great and jolly point. The two young men looked exceedingly grave and Uncle Tommie panic-stricken. He plucked the Hon. Sam by the sleeve and led him aside:

“I reckon you made a leetle mistake thar. Them two fellers' daddy died in the penitentiary last spring.” The Hon. Sam whistled mournfully, but he looked game enough when his opponent rose to speak--Uncle Josh Barton, who had short, thick, upright hair, little sharp eyes, and a rasping voice. Uncle Josh wasted no time:

“Feller-citizens,” he shouted, “this man is a lawyer--he's a corporation lawyer”; the fearful name--pronounced “lie-yer”--rang through the crowd like a trumpet, and like lightning the Hon. Sam was on his feet.

“The man who says that is a liar,” he said calmly, “and I demand your authority for the statement. If you won't give it--I shall hold you personally responsible, sir.”

It was a strike home, and under the flashing eyes that stared unwaveringly, through the big goggles, Uncle Josh halted and stammered and admitted that he might have been misinformed.

“Then I advise you to be more careful,” cautioned the Hon. Samuel sharply.

“Feller-citizens,” said Uncle Josh, “if he ain't a corporation lawyer--who is this man? Where did he come from? I have been born and raised among you. You all know me--do you know him? Whut's he a-doin' now? He's a fine-haired furriner, an' he's come down hyeh from the settlemints to tell ye that you hain't got no man in yo' own deestrict that's fittin' to represent ye in the legislatur'. Look at him--look at him! He's got FOUR eyes! Look at his hair--hit's PARTED IN THE MIDDLE!” There was a storm of laughter--Uncle Josh had made good--and if the Hon. Samuel could straightway have turned bald-headed and sightless, he would have been a happy man. He looked sick with hopelessness, but Uncle Tommie Hendricks, his mentor, was vigorously whispering something in his ear, and gradually his face cleared. Indeed, the Hon. Samuel was smilingly confident when he rose.

Like his rival, he stood in the open road, and the sun beat down on his parted yellow hair, so that the eyes of all could see, and the laughter was still running round.

“Who is your Uncle Josh?” he asked with threatening mildness. “I know I was not born here, but, my friends, I couldn't help that. And just as soon as I could get away from where I was born, I came here and,” he paused with lips parted and long finger outstretched, “and--I--came--because--I WANTED--to come--and NOT because I HAD TO.”

Now it seems that Uncle Josh, too, was not a native and that he had left home early in life for his State's good and for his own. Uncle Tommie had whispered this, and the Hon. Samuel raised himself high on both toes while the expectant crowd, on the verge of a roar, waited--as did Uncle Joshua, with a sickly smile.

“Why did your Uncle Josh come among you? Because he was hoop-poled away from home.” Then came the roar--and the Hon. Samuel had to quell it with uplifted hand.

“And did your Uncle Joshua marry a mountain wife? No I He didn't think any of your mountain women were good enough for him, so he slips down into the settlemints and STEALS one. And now, fellow-citizens, that is just what I'm here for--I'm looking for a nice mountain girl, and I'm going to have her.” Again the Hon. Samuel had to still the roar, and then he went on quietly to show how they must lose the Court-House site if they did not send him to the legislature, and how, while they might not get it if they did send him, it was their only hope to send only him. The crowd had grown somewhat hostile again, and it was after one telling period, when the Hon. Samuel stopped to mop his brow, that a gigantic mountaineer rose in the rear of the crowd:

“Talk on, stranger; you're talking sense. I'll trust ye. You've got big ears!”

Now the Hon. Samuel possessed a primordial talent that is rather rare in these physically degenerate days. He said nothing, but stood quietly in the middle of the road. The eyes of the crowd on either side of the road began to bulge, the lips of all opened with wonder, and a simultaneous burst of laughter rose around the Hon. Samuel Budd. A dozen men sprang to their feet and rushed up to him--looking at those remarkable ears, as they gravely wagged to and fro. That settled things, and as we left, the Hon. Sam was having things his own way, and on the edge of the crowd Uncle Tommie Hendricks was shaking his head:

“I tell ye, boys, he ain't no jackass even if he can flop his ears.”

At the river we started upstream, and some impulse made me turn in my saddle and look back. All the time I had had an eye open for the young mountaineer whose interest in us seemed to be so keen. And now I saw, standing at the head of a gray horse, on the edge of the crowd, a tall figure with his hands on his hips and looking after us. I couldn't be sure, but it looked like the Wild Dog.

IV. CLOSE QUARTERS

Two hours up the river we struck Buck. Buck was sitting on the fence by the roadside, barefooted and hatless.

“How-dye-do?” I said.

“Purty well,” said Buck.

“Any fish in this river?”

“Several,” said Buck. Now in mountain speech, “several” means simply “a good many.”

“Any minnows in these branches?”

“I seed several in the branch back o' our house.”

“How far away do you live?”

“Oh, 'bout one whoop an' a holler.” If he had spoken Greek the Blight could not have been more puzzled. He meant he lived as far as a man's voice would carry with one yell and a holla.

“Will you help me catch some?” Buck nodded.

“All right,” I said, turning my horse up to the fence. “Get on behind.” The horse shied his hind quarters away, and I pulled him back.

“Now, you can get on, if you'll be quick.” Buck sat still.

“Yes,” he said imperturbably; “but I ain't quick.” The two girls laughed aloud, and Buck looked surprised.

Around a curving cornfield we went, and through a meadow which Buck said was a “nigh cut.” From the limb of a tree that we passed hung a piece of wire with an iron ring swinging at its upturned end. A little farther was another tree and another ring, and farther on another and another.

“For heaven's sake, Buck, what are these things?”

“Mart's a-gittin' ready fer a tourneyment.”

“A what?”

“That's whut Mart calls hit. He was over to the Gap last Fourth o' July, an' he says fellers over thar fix up like Kuklux and go a-chargin' on hosses and takin' off them rings with a ash-stick--'spear,' Mart calls hit. He come back an' he says he's a-goin' to win that ar tourneyment next Fourth o' July. He's got the best hoss up this river, and on Sundays him an' Dave Branham goes a-chargin' along here a-picking off these rings jus' a-flyin'; an' Mart can do hit, I'm tellin' ye. Dave's mighty good hisself, but he ain't nowhar 'longside o' Mart.”

This was strange. I had told the Blight about our Fourth of July, and how on the Virginia side the ancient custom of the tournament still survived. It was on the last Fourth of July that she had meant to come to the Gap. Truly civilization was spreading throughout the hills.

“Who's Mart?”

“Mart's my brother,” said little Buck.

“He was over to the Gap not long ago, an' he come back mad as hops--” He stopped suddenly, and in such a way that I turned my head, knowing that caution had caught Buck.

“What about?”

“Oh, nothin',” said Buck carelessly; “only he's been quar ever since. My sisters says he's got a gal over thar, an' he's a-pickin' off these rings more'n ever now. He's going to win or bust a belly-band.”

“Well, who's Dave Branham?”

Buck grinned. “You jes axe my sister Mollie. Thar she is.”

Before us was a white-framed house of logs in the porch of which stood two stalwart, good-looking girls. Could we stay all night? We could--there was no hesitation--and straight in we rode.

“Where's your father?” Both girls giggled, and one said, with frank unembarrassment:

“Pap's tight!” That did not look promising, but we had to stay just the same. Buck helped me to unhitch the mules, helped me also to catch minnows, and in half an hour we started down the river to try fishing before dark came. Buck trotted along.

“Have you got a wagon, Buck?”

“What fer?”

“To bring the fish back.” Buck was not to be caught napping.

“We got that sled thar, but hit won't be big enough,” he said gravely. “An' our two-hoss wagon's out in the cornfield. We'll have to string the fish, leave 'em in the river and go fer 'em in the mornin'.”

“All right, Buck.” The Blight was greatly amused at Buck.

Two hundred yards down the road stood his sisters over the figure of a man outstretched in the road. Unashamed, they smiled at us. The man in the road was “pap”--tight--and they were trying to get him home.

We cast into a dark pool farther down and fished most patiently; not a bite--not a nibble.

“Are there any fish in here, Buck?”

“Dunno--used ter be.” The shadows deepened; we must go back to the house.

“Is there a dam below here, Buck?”

“Yes, thar's a dam about a half-mile down the river.”

I was disgusted. No wonder there were no bass in that pool.

“Why didn't you tell me that before?”

“You never axed me,” said Buck placidly.

I began winding in my line.

“Ain't no bottom to that pool,” said Buck.

Now I never saw any rural community where there was not a bottomless pool, and I suddenly determined to shake one tradition in at least one community. So I took an extra fish-line, tied a stone to it, and climbed into a canoe, Buck watching me, but not asking a word.

“Get in, Buck.”

Silently he got in and I pushed off--to the centre.

“This the deepest part, Buck?”

“I reckon so.”

I dropped in the stone and the line reeled out some fifty feet and began to coil on the surface of the water.

“I guess that's on the bottom, isn't it, Buck?”

Buck looked genuinely distressed; but presently he brightened.

“Yes,” he said, “ef hit ain't on a turtle's back.”

Literally I threw up both hands and back we trailed--fishless.

“Reckon you won't need that two-hoss wagon,” said Buck. “No, Buck, I think not.” Buck looked at the Blight and gave himself the pleasure of his first chuckle. A big crackling, cheerful fire awaited us. Through the door I could see, outstretched on a bed in the next room, the limp figure of “pap” in alcoholic sleep. The old mother, big, kind-faced, explained--and there was a heaven of kindness and charity in her drawling voice.

“Dad didn' often git that a-way,” she said; “but he'd been out a-huntin' hawgs that mornin' and had met up with some teamsters and gone to a political speakin' and had tuk a dram or two of their mean whiskey, and not havin' nothin' on his stummick, hit had all gone to his head. No, 'pap' didn't git that a-way often, and he'd be all right jes' as soon as he slept it off a while.” The old woman moved about with a cane and the sympathetic Blight merely looked a question at her.

“Yes, she'd fell down a year ago--and had sort o' hurt herself--didn't do nothin', though, 'cept break one hip,” she added, in her kind, patient old voice. Did many people stop there? Oh, yes, sometimes fifteen at a time--they “never turned nobody away.” And she had a big family, little Cindy and the two big girls and Buck and Mart--who was out somewhere--and the hired man, and yes--“Thar was another boy, but he was fitified,” said one of the big sisters.

“I beg your pardon,” said the wondering Blight, but she knew that phrase wouldn't do, so she added politely:

“What did you say?”

“Fitified--Tom has fits. He's in a asylum in the settlements.”

“Tom come back once an' he was all right,” said the old mother; “but he worried so much over them gals workin' so hard that it plum' throwed him off ag'in, and we had to send him back.”

“Do you work pretty hard?” I asked presently. Then a story came that was full of unconscious pathos, because there was no hint of complaint--simply a plain statement of daily life. They got up before the men, in order to get breakfast ready; then they went with the men into the fields--those two girls--and worked like men. At dark they got supper ready, and after the men went to bed they worked on--washing dishes and clearing up the kitchen. They took it turn about getting supper, and sometimes, one said, she was “so plumb tuckered out that she'd drap on the bed and go to sleep ruther than eat her own supper.” No wonder poor Tom had to go back to the asylum. All the while the two girls stood by the fire looking, politely but minutely, at the two strange girls and their curious clothes and their boots, and the way they dressed their hair. Their hard life seemed to have hurt them none--for both were the pictures of health--whatever that phrase means.

After supper “pap” came in, perfectly sober, with a big ruddy face, giant frame, and twinkling gray eyes. He was the man who had risen to speak his faith in the Hon. Samuel Budd that day on the size of the Hon. Samuel's ears. He, too, was unashamed and, as he explained his plight again, he did it with little apology.

“I seed ye at the speakin' to-day. That man Budd is a good man. He done somethin' fer a boy o' mine over at the Gap.” Like little Buck, he, too, stopped short. “He's a good man an' I'm a-goin' to help him.”

Yes, he repeated, quite irrelevantly, it was hunting hogs all day with nothing to eat and only mean whiskey to drink. Mart had not come in yet--he was “workin' out” now.

“He's the best worker in these mountains,” said the old woman; “Mart works too hard.”

The hired man appeared and joined us at the fire. Bedtime came, and I whispered jokingly to the Blight:

“I believe I'll ask that good-looking one to 'set up' with me.” “Settin' up” is what courting is called in the hills. The couple sit up in front of the fire after everybody else has gone to bed. The man puts his arm around the girl's neck and whispers; then she puts her arm around his neck and whispers--so that the rest may not hear. This I had related to the Blight, and now she withered me.

“You just do, now!”

I turned to the girl in question, whose name was Mollie. “Buck told me to ask you who Dave Branham was.” Mollie wheeled, blushing and angry, but Buck had darted cackling out the door. “Oh,” I said, and I changed the subject. “What time do you get up?”

“Oh, 'bout crack o' day.” I was tired, and that was discouraging.

“Do you get up that early every morning?”

“No,” was the quick answer; “a mornin' later.”

A morning later, Mollie got up, each morning. The Blight laughed.