Part 3

The afternoon was half gone when Talitha dropped down at the foot of a pine, tired and footsore. She was not yet rested from the journey of the two days previous, and it seemed as though her aching feet could never carry her home that night. She sat debating with herself as to the possibility of finding a nearby shelter. Not a cabin was in sight. She looked around anxiously, shading her eyes with her hand, to peer along the ridges. A broad shaft of sunlight lay across the leafage of the opposite mountain. How vividly it brought out the autumn tints which flecked the green like rich tapestry. Then, with a frightened gasp of dismay, she noticed for the first time the pile of threatening clouds in the west, and the long, deep shadows which lay in the hollows of those great hills.

Over the highest peak of the ridge beyond, they were coming—the slim, mist-coloured lances of the storm. Down the mountain-side they marched, legion after legion. A swift line of fire zigzagged above their heads, and suddenly the sky seemed filled with the rattle of musketry.

Talitha fled, at the first sign of approach, to the shelter of a thick cluster of oaks. She reached it trembling and breathless only to see a cabin a few rods beyond. Without waiting to speculate who its occupants might be, she ran to it, the storm at her back, the wind contesting each step over the rough slope. Her little bundle was a cumbrous weight upon her shoulders.

At the door the girl knocked hurriedly. Her heart was beating fast. It was twilight around her, and the voice of the storm came up with a terrible roar. There was no answer from within the cabin and the door did not open, but in her great stress Talitha entered timidly.

The wind closed the door violently behind her before she realized that the place was not empty. The feeble flame in the fireplace left the one room mostly in shadow, but it revealed the occupant, a weazened old man, wrapped in a faded quilt, sitting before the hearth. Talitha felt a sudden relief that she was not alone while such a storm raged outside. A man sick and perhaps in need of care was not to her an object of fear even though a stranger.

“I declar’ if hit ain’t Tally Coyle!” came in wheezy tones from the depths of the bed-quilt. “I ’lowed you war off ter the valley school long ’fore this.”

Talitha could hardly find her voice so great was her astonishment. She had gone farther out of her way than she knew to stumble upon her old teacher’s cabin. “Why, howdy, Mr. Quinn, you aren’t sick, are you?” she said, throwing down her bundle and shaking the raindrops from her moist skirts.

“Jest ailin’ a leetle mite. I hevn’t been what you mought call robustious the hull summer, and last week I was took with a mis’ry in my chist. I’ve been honin’ the hull day ter see some one and here you’ve come. I reckon the Lord sent you.” The old man broke into a wheezing cough which left him panting.

Talitha went to the fireplace and piled on fresh wood with a lavish hand. There was a brisk crackling as the flames shot upward merrily. “I’m going right to get supper,” she declared, forgetful of her weariness.

Si Quinn spread his hands before the blaze with a sigh of content, and watched the girl as she bustled about the cabin. There was much to do before even a simple meal could be prepared, for the schoolmaster’s housekeeping even in health was sadly at variance with the methods Talitha had learned at school the past year.

She brushed the floor as best she could with the stubby old broom, and then attacked the pile of soiled dishes energetically. Outside, the storm raged with fury, and a little rivulet trickled from under the door across the rough boards of the floor. Later the corn pone was set to baking, while the girl fried a platter of bacon and a dish of potatoes. In a corner of the fireplace, on a few coals among the hot ashes, the coffee pot sent forth an odour delightful to the nostrils of a half-famished man. Si Quinn sniffed it eagerly.

“I hain’t set down ter sech a meal o’ vittles sence I war ter your house,” he remarked gleefully as he drew his chair to the table and helped himself liberally to the homely fare. “A squar’ meal will do me a heap more good’n medsun. If I war reel sodden in selfishness, I’d wish you hadn’t any kin and could stay right along here with me. But I ain’t, I’m thankful you’ve got a better place’n this ol’ shack.”

Talitha looked at him curiously. She had never seen her old schoolmaster in such a kindly, paternal mood. In her younger days, the lean, spectacled face had inspired her with awe and a kind of terror. But since her return from Bentville she thought of him with pity, not unmingled with contempt, at his ignorance and dogged belief in the strange theories which still prevailed in the isolated portions of the mountains. She looked at the haggard old face that showed unmistakable signs of past suffering, with a troubled conscience.

At last Si Quinn leaned back with a long sigh of satisfaction. “I reckon you’ve ’bout saved my life, Tally. I war beginnin’ ter feel hit warn’t much use ter hold on ter this world when thar warn’t nobody seemin’ ter care speshul. Then you came along jest as though you’d been blowed acrost the mountings. I’m mighty cur’us ’bout hit, Tally. Only a couple o’ days ago, Dan Gooch looked in and said you-uns, and Ab and Gincy, hed started fer school. Did the folks down thar reckon you’d hed ’nough larnin’ and send you back?”

Talitha hesitated. She wisely felt the need of being very cautious as to the report which would go abroad. “We did go,” she acknowledged, “but the Girls’ Hall was full—just running over, the dean said—and the folks around had taken all they could. There wasn’t another one could be squeezed in, so I came—back,” she concluded, a renewed sense of her disappointment nearly overwhelming her.

“Whar’s Gincy?” demanded the old man keenly.

“Oh, she stayed. She hasn’t ever had a chance, you know. She’d have been terribly disappointed to have had to come home, and so would her father; he’s been lottin’ on it all summer. I’m so glad they let her stay,” Talitha added, fervently hoping that her secret had not slipped out unaware.

“Hit’s cur’us, mighty cur’us,” mused Si Quinn, looking off into the fire as though he had not heard a word Talitha had been saying. “Here I’d been askin’ and askin’ the Lord ter send you here, then Dan Gooch comes ’long and ’lows I won’t set eyes on you agin till next summer and here you be. Ain’t hit cur’us?”

“I never heard you were sick,” faltered the girl. “I’d have come before if I’d only known.”

“That wan’t hit,” rejoined the schoolmaster. “I’ve allers done fer myself, sick or well. I hain’t ever been used ter bein’ coddled afore, that ain’t what’s on my mind, Tally. I wanted ter tell you thet I’ve been a sorry teacher, but I never sensed hit till you-uns came back from Bentville. I never had no sech chance ter git larnin’, and hit seems a turrible pity you couldn’t hev stayed, but I know ’thout your tellin’ me that you-uns came back ter give Gincy a chanct—”

“Oh, you mustn’t tell,” implored Talitha. “Father’d be so angry.”

“Hit shan’t git no further, but hit war jest like Tally Coyle ter do hit, and mebbe the Lord had a hand in hit, too. I cal’late He knew jest how much the Goose Creek school needed a teacher, fer I ain’t ever goin’ back thar agin, Tally. My teachin’ days air over, but my heart hones fer those pore lambs that’s so set on gittin’ larnin’. I want you ter take ’em and teach ’em all you kin. Mebbe next year you-uns kin go back ter Bentville. Hit seems queer they couldn’t hev put up some kind of a shack fer the gals ter stay in. A lot of strong, young fellers like Mart, now, could hev taken holt.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” agreed Talitha, “but it would take money to make it comfortable, and the Bentville folks haven’t any to spare.”

The old man nodded thoughtfully. “Hit’s mighty strange when I’ve heerd thar’s folks livin’ in cities that’s more money’n they can anyways spend. And here’s the mounting boys and gals a-thirstin’ fer the larnin’ they can’t git.” The girl crouched before the fire puzzled over this new problem, while Si Quinn creaked back and forth in the old rocker.

Suddenly it stopped. “I wish you’d git the Book, Tally, over on the chist, and read a spell; you do hit so easy-like.”

Outside, in the wild night, the wind wailed loudly along the wooded ridges of the great hills and hurled itself in angry gusts against the little cabin unnoticed, as Talitha read chapter after chapter in clear, unfaltering tones. The old man looked fondly down at her with a paternal pride. His heart was at peace, for he had bequeathed his life work to younger, more capable hands, and he rested content.

V AN UNEXPECTED RIVAL

THE consternation at the Coyle cabin was great indeed when midway of the next afternoon Talitha appeared, after making the old schoolmaster as comfortable as possible. Although Sam Coyle had given but a grudging assent to his daughter’s return to Bentville, he now loudly bewailed the necessity which prevented her from “gittin’ more larnin’.”

His wrath cooled, however, when he learned that Si Quinn, who was highly esteemed by the dwellers around Red Mountain, had abdicated his place in the Goose Creek school in Talitha’s favour. It was an unprecedented honour, as “gal” teachers were not looked upon favourably among the mountaineers. It being the prevailing opinion that only a man could fill the position with the requisite dignity and severity.

Remembering the tradition, the beginning was an ordeal from which the girl inwardly shrank. She had never felt so helplessly ignorant in all her life, although she had so often smiled with her brother over Si Quinn’s incompetency.

It was soon rumoured that the old man had sent for Talitha Coyle to come home and finish the remaining school months. In the mountains, school begins the first of July and ends the last of December; when the heavy rains and snows make travel well-nigh impossible. For a week the little flock of pupils had been teacher-less, and Talitha was admonished to make all haste to pass the required examination and begin her duties. The county seat was twenty-five miles away, and she made preparations to start for it the very next morning, her father accompanying her. Fortunately, that night Dan Gooch brought word to the Coyle cabin that Mr. Breel, head of the board of examiners, was at the Settlement and would willingly give Talitha an examination if she could be on hand the next morning.

With fear and trembling she set forth at dawn the next day to return at night in triumph. It had not proved so terrible an ordeal as she had imagined. Mr. Breel had been very kind and wished her success in her undertaking.

Before Monday morning came, which should see Talitha installed as mistress of the little school, complications arose in the shape of Jake Simcox, a tall, fiery-headed, raw-boned youth. Noting the old schoolmaster’s growing infirmities the past year, he had resolved to secure the place. That it was about to be wrested from him by a “gal” proved too much for human endurance. Laboriously he travelled from one mountain home to another pleading his cause. But unfortunately for him, his first call on Dan Gooch made an implacable enemy, for he thoughtlessly mentioned the Bentville school in terms of derision, further adding that “Si Quinn, the smartest man in Goose Creek, didn’t need ter chase off ter git larnin’.”

But Jake departed, feeling that he had failed miserably in making the desired impression. He would have felt still more convinced that the fates were against him could he have known that Dan Gooch immediately mounted his horse and set out with all possible haste to thwart the new candidate’s efforts.

Dan secretly surmised the sacrifice Talitha had made that Gincy should have her chance, and his gratitude gave him a ready tongue in the former’s behalf. It was late that night when he and his jaded steed returned victorious, for every member of the board and a number of patrons of the school had been surprised at the Settlement store, and there Jake Simcox’s cause was lost, it being the opinion of the trustees that the old schoolmaster had a right to name a substitute for the remainder of the term.

Jake Simcox did not take his defeat kindly, and to be beaten by a “gal” was the bitterest drop in his cup. He had a brief pleasure in knowing that when Talitha began school a number of children whose parents were his adherents would be absent.

The young teacher was gathering her courage to meet the conditions to which she had been accustomed all her life; suddenly they appalled her. How could she make that bare and desolate place cheerful and inviting to her pupils?

Early that Monday morning, long before the time for her scholars to arrive, she started for the schoolhouse. Halfway up the slope she paused to consider it—a small log cabin set in the midst of blackberry vines and tall, brown weeds which reached to the eaves. A narrow, worn path led through the tangle to the low, front door. Talitha hurried on breathlessly and opened it. The shutter over the one glassless window at the rear was also thrown back to let a draught of fresh air through the damp, musty place. In one corner was a rusty sheet-iron stove, near it a number of plank benches without backs; while on the opposite side a rude desk and a single chair completed the furnishings. There were no blackboards, no maps. The walls were as bare and uninteresting as when Si Quinn sat in the seat of authority and ruled his little flock—she the most timid and shrinking of them all—with a rod of iron.

She sat for a long time thinking until a certain project entered her mind. It was something to be carefully considered. She sprang up and filled a tin can with water for the flowers and reddening vines she had gathered on the way, and placed it on her desk. Next, a large picture calendar was pinned to the wall and several pictures from a newspaper supplement—a part of her possessions acquired at Bentville.

A stream of sunlight through the open window lighted the gay colours on walls and desk. The children hovered about the door in amazement until they were bidden to enter. They were all small but Billy Gooch, the eldest, who was short and stocky for his fourteen years and quite prepared to be his young teacher’s most zealous champion.

The feeling of timidity with which Talitha began her duties vanished before the morning was over; and in its place was a great anxiety to help her pupils and make more attractive the cheerless place which only a wide stretch of the imagination could call a schoolhouse. The latter seemed an impossibility, but when she reached the creek path that night on her way home, she found Dan Gooch waiting for her, eager for the earliest news of the day’s proceedings. To this sympathetic listener she told her needs and plans. He heard her to the end with a silent gravity which gave little sign of encouragement, but at dawn the next morning, Dan was in the saddle wending his way to the Settlement store. The flitch of bacon in his saddlebag had been secretly purloined from the family’s scanty store to be bartered for a few lengths of sawed timber and a small quantity of black paint. Dan correctly surmising that the storekeeper, being a patron of the school, would add his own contribution in the way of generous measure beside the nails and loan of a hammer.

A few days later when Talitha entered the schoolroom, two large blackboards nailed securely to the rough walls met her astonished eyes. Si Quinn had never been able to evoke the interest which had so suddenly been aroused in the Goose Creek school.

The secret which the young teacher had so patiently guarded for weeks was at last revealed in the shape of maps and several much needed books. A bundle of papers and magazines from the Bentville school was a welcome addition to Talitha’s slender stock of material. A lump rose in Dan Gooch’s throat as he helped her unpack the box from the city publishing house and hang the maps where the best light from the window would fall upon them. No words were needed to tell him that a large part of the money, hoarded so carefully for Talitha’s expenses at Bentville, had been spent in their purchase, and three of his children would be benefited by them. Mentally he resolved that it should all be returned to her some day in good measure.

Si Quinn was not ignorant of his former pupil’s successes. As often as his health permitted he hobbled up the winding path and sat contentedly, like a happy child, listening to the young teacher explaining things of which he had never heard. At times he would shake his head in bewilderment, but he never disputed her word, even when his most cherished theory—that the earth was square—was disproved. His dulled brain failed to grasp the explanation, but the bigoted faith in his own meagre stock of knowledge died pitifully away.

Jake Simcox also was not unmindful of his rival’s success as a teacher. With increasing anger he heard her praises sounded. Already his friends had yielded to their children’s entreaties and sent them to school. Jake kept aloof from the place until one day, wandering idly across the foothills, he came suddenly in full view of the schoolhouse perched on the side of Red Mountain. Its worn, weather-beaten logs looked ancient enough against the autumn-tinted foliage. As he looked, the scowl on his face deepened. He hesitated a moment, then took the trail toward it. The place would be deserted for it was long past school time; there was not a house in sight, still he approached it cautiously with sly, furtive glances around.

Before he reached the building he could see that the weeds and blackberry bushes had been exterminated, and in their places were broad-leaved ferns planted close to the rough sides, and a healthy ivy that in another year would give both grace and beauty to the walls. Jake eyed these changes with a sneer. He tried the door; it was locked, an unheard-of thing which he also resented. After much effort he unfastened the shutter, threw it back, and sprang into the room.

The light of the setting sun streamed in broad shafts over the crest of the mountain straight into the schoolhouse and illumined it to the farthest corner. The autumn flowers and vines on the desk glowed crimson. The blackboards, maps, and pictures had transformed the place; it was bare no longer. A pail of water on a box, with a basin, towel, and soap, was another innovation.

Secretly, Jake Simcox felt himself dwindle and grow small before such superior knowledge, yet it only served to rouse him to greater indignation that a “gal” should be better qualified to teach than he. Striding to the desk he turned the leaves of the text-books Talitha cherished so carefully, with a rough hand, shaking his head over the bewildering pages. Naturally impetuous, his fiery temper once thoroughly aroused swept him away in unreasoning wrath. At last he dropped upon a bench, moodily taking note of every object around him until they seemed seared into his memory.

The sun sank behind the mountain’s crest and the long shadows deepened down the slopes. They crept silently in at the open window and filled the room with gloom, and still he huddled there frowning until only a faint, grey light struggled at the square opening. Then Jake moved slightly. Two forces were wrestling within him—one very feebly, now worn out with the unequal conflict. He sprang up, and, listening at every step, closed the shutter cautiously and struck a match. There was a basket of pine cones and crisp leaves behind the stove. He lifted the lid and thrust them in. Another match and the mass was ablaze. Recklessly the wood from a generous box full was thrown upon it, and then in the midst of this furnace of flame hastily, as though his conscience would smite him in the act, he caught the books from the desk and threw them upon the pile. The pictures from the walls followed, the maps—what he could tear off in great clinging shreds—were also added to the holocaust.

The stove was red hot by this time and roaring like a young volcano. The miscreant burned his fingers putting on the cover, and then it glowered at him like a red monster as he watched it. Already his rage was somewhat cooled; the provocation which had led to such a deed began to look miserably small. He looked around at the bared walls and wished he could put everything back as he found it.

But instead of dying down the fire seemed to wax hotter; there was a snapping and crackling in the short length of pipe. A strange smell suddenly pervaded the place which the frightened Jake knew was the mud and stick chimney. It was afire, and while he stared in consternation, he heard it crumble and fall.

For a moment the young fellow stood rooted to the spot. In his thirst for revenge he had committed a most serious offence, for which the mountaineers—a law unto themselves—would not hesitate to mete out a swift punishment. The cabin was doomed. The flames had leaped to the roof; the stovepipe reeled and hung tipsily, ready to drop in a moment.

Terror stricken, Jake Simcox flung back the shutter and leaped out into the darkness. Like some wild thing of the mountains he fled down the slope, on and on, only looking back once to see forked tongues of light against the sky reaching higher and higher, until a swift, illumining flash told that the great pine behind the little schoolhouse had caught fire, and like a signal torch was blazing his shameful deed to all the mountains. Where could he go to escape the consequences?

He turned toward a thicket of young trees to aid his escape, but as he reached it a lumbering body emerged and proceeded leisurely toward the creek, the measured jingle of a bell marking every step.

VI HUNTING A VARMINT

SUPPER was late at the Gooch cabin. Brindled Bess, who daily supplied a large portion of the evening meal, had strayed farther away than usual. For more than an hour Billy and his sister had been searching the mountain-side.

From his doorstep Dan looked gloomily forth into the fast gathering night. If the animal, suddenly startled at the brink of a ledge, had leaped over, it would be a sore calamity to the family. Dan listened to the clatter of dishes inside the cabin until hunger and suspense overcame him. He started up and with rapid strides disappeared across the mountain in a haste entirely foreign to his habits.

Both eye and ear were keenly alert. There was a strange, coppery glow on the eastern horizon. It reached far above the treetops, lurid and threatening against the soft blue of the evening sky.

“Some foolish feller’s let his bresh fire git away from him, I reckon,” commented Dan. But he went on without hearing a sound save those of the night.

Suddenly, there was a crackling of bushes above the creek path, the thud of hurried, stumbling steps. They came nearer until he could hear panting breaths, and Sudie was flying past him white-faced, wild-eyed, her hair streaming out like a frightened dryad of the mountains.

Dan caught roughly at her arm, and but for his grip she would have fallen in terror. “What’s the matter? Whar’s thet cow critter?” he demanded.

Sudie struggled with her sobs. “Oh, pappy, the schoolhouse is afire! Hit’s all-burnin’-up!” she gasped.

“What!” ejaculated her father in amazement.