Part 4

“Hit shore is,” asseverated Billy, coming up red-faced and panting. “We war a-headin’ the cow critter this way when we seen the fire a-bustin’ out’n the roof. Hit’s—” But Dan had not waited to hear more. He was sprinting in the direction of the schoolhouse like a boy. His children watched him for a moment in open-mouthed astonishment at such unheard-of alacrity on their father’s part, then followed.

A good quarter of a mile brought him in plain sight of the burning building, where he could plainly see the futility of further effort. The little schoolhouse was a mass of flame, but the old, well-seasoned logs would burn for hours yet. Fortunately the heavy shower of the morning prevented the flames from spreading, the weeds and bushes had been so thoroughly cleared away. Only the sentinel pine at the back of the cabin was doomed.

Sudie clung to her father, sobbing wildly. “What’ll Tally say? We can’t never go to school no more,” she wailed.

“Hesh, honey, hit don’t do no good ter take on thet a-way,” urged Dan. “Somebody must hev been mighty keerless with matches or the like ter hev fired hit. I reckoned Tally’d hed more sense.”

“Hit warn’t her,” Billy burst out, anxious to vindicate his teacher. “Hit war thet Jake Simcox, I’ll be boun’. Jest as we hove in sight of the place I seen him a-scootin’ fer the pines like a painter war after him.”

“The low-down, sneakin’ varmint! Thet’s jest who did hit, and he ’lowed not ter git ketched in the night time. He’ll git larned better. The dark’ll kiver a heap o’ things, but no sech deed as this.” All the fierceness that lies smouldering in the nature of the average mountain man leaped into as fierce a flame as that consuming the little schoolhouse. His younger children’s opportunities had been snatched from them by this miscreant. He should not escape—a swift, deserved punishment should be meted out to this offender as only mountain men could measure it.

“Run home, Sudie, and tell your mammy she’ll hev ter tend ter the cow critter ter-night, me and Billy won’t be back fer a spell. Thar’s a heap ter be done before mornin’.”

His father’s ominous tone startled Billy. It brought to memory stories he had heard of the Twilliger and Amyx feuds—his mother was a Twilliger. He trembled.

“Son,” said Dan as Sudie disappeared, “do you ’low you can make the Coyle place ter-night?”

“I reckon so,” answered Billy, bravely trying to forget that it was long past his supper time. Mountain justice never waited on hunger.

“Clip up thar and back as soon as you kin, and tell Sam Coyle fer me, thet we shall expect ter see him at the Forks ter-morrow mornin’ by light, ter hunt varmints. They may hev left the kentry, but we’ll smoke ’em out if they’re ter be found. Kin you remember?”

“Yes, Pappy”

“Well, I’m goin’ ter the Twilligers. I kin git the boys ter push on to the Settlemint, and then the news’ll carry fast enough, I reckon,” and father and son parted.

At daybreak the Forks was the scene of an assembling of the clans. Old scores were forgotten. They were meeting in a common cause which had suddenly endeared itself to all. Not one of the older men but had children among Tally’s flock, and they had begun to realize what the school had meant to them.

Nearly all of the company were horseback, but every member carried a “shooting iron,” a fact which had its own significance.

“If we could hev took after thet varmint last night, I reckon we could hev treed him,” said Eli Twilliger. “But he’d be a plumb fool if he warn’t out of the kentry by this time. Hit’s a mighty good thing he hasn’t any kin in these parts.”

“Them long legs of his’n could take him cornsiderable fur, but he hasn’t any hoss critter ter save his strength. I reckon he ain’t out of reach yit. He never war no great hand ter exert hisself, Jake warn’t,” drawled the blacksmith.

“Well, he’s gittin’ further off while we’re argefyin’,” objected Dan Gooch testily. “I ’low hit’s time we war gittin’ down ter bizness. Some of you fellers take the trails ’tween you, and Sam and I’ll go ’long the creek. We’ll meet whar the old schoolhouse war, and if you’ve run down any game you kin bring hit along.”

At nine o’clock the party straggled in from different directions empty-handed. Eli Twilliger was the last one. His had been a hard, rough climb. Thin and wiry, sure of foot as a wild cat, and as ready to pounce upon the object of his search, not a man knew so well the hiding places those mighty hills afforded. His shirt was torn, his hands and face bore scratches received in a careful search through the narrow subterranean passages which honeycombed the cliffs. Tired and hungry, he was in an ugly mood as with long strides he made toward the group gathered at the edge of the pine thicket.

Dan Gooch turned toward him with a warning finger which he resented. “What’s do-in’?” he growled. “Hev you caged the varmint and air makin’ a show of him?” He peered curiously over the intervening shoulders and was suddenly silenced.

In sight of the charred, smouldering ruins from which still issued little puffs of smoke, Talitha, nothing daunted by her ill fortune, had gathered her little flock. Smiles had begun to cover their tear-stained faces. It was a delightful novelty to sit on that mossy, sun-flecked bank and prepare the day’s lessons. Billy Gooch shared his large slate with the youngest of the Twilligers, and two small girls bent industriously over the same book.

The eyes of the rough mountaineers moistened, their hands tightened upon their rifles ominously. There was a stir among the foremost, and Si Quinn faced them. His face was like a thunder cloud. One crutch waved so threateningly that those nearest shrank back. “What air you goin’ ter do ’bout hit? Thet’s what I want ter ask. You might hev knowed you couldn’t ketch that feller; he wan’t brung up in the mountings fer nothin’. Hit was as big a piece of devilment as I ever heerd of, but mebbe hit won’t be the worst thing could hev happened, except fer the leetle gal losin’ the money she put inter hit. Let’s go ter work and put up somethin’ thet won’t shame us. You-all know thet old shack warn’t no way fitten fer a schoolhouse. I can’t help you ter cut a stick of timber much as I’d give fer the strength ter do hit, but I’ll give ’nough ter make up fer all Tally lost—”

“Sho now, Si, we ain’t goin’ ter let you do hit,” interrupted the blacksmith. “We’ll jest count your advice wuth thet much, and I reckon hit air. If we ain’t robustious ’nough ter put up another schoolhouse and git what Tally needs for our young-uns, I ’low we’re a sorry lot—”

“How you do go on, Enoch,” jibed Eli Twilliger, pushing his way to the front. “Air you intendin’ ter take the stump fer the next ’lection? Let’s git down ter bizness. Thar ain’t nothin’ I can see ter hinder us from startin’ ter-morrow mornin’, and if the weather is fair Tally shall hev her schoolhouse in two weeks. Ain’t thet so, boys?”

For answer, a shout went up that started the echoes from their hiding-places in the hills. Talitha and her flock looked up at them wonderingly. She was too far away to comprehend what good fortune was to be hers, but she could rejoice that something had restored the men to good humour. Greater than sorrow at the frustrating of her plans and the loss in which her small savings had been invested, was her horror at the revival of the old feud spirit. She had learned at the Bentville school the terribleness of it. In agony she had watched her father the previous night as he cleaned and loaded his rifle. Jake Simcox had done a despicable, cowardly thing, but she could not wish him dealt with according to the code of mountain justice.

At noon she sent the children home and walked slowly beside the schoolmaster. There were many questions she wished to ask him, but she kept silent, knowing that he would speak of his own accord or not at all.

“Hit war jest as I ’lowed,” he said at last. “Jake took time by the forelock and mighty well he did.”

“Oh, I’m so glad they didn’t find him!” exclaimed Talitha in a tone that struck the schoolmaster oddly.

“What’s thet, leetle gal! Mighty queer talk fer the gran’darter of a Bills.” The faded eyes twinkled.

“I can’t help it, it isn’t right; and it’s a terrible thing for folks to remember all their lives!”

“Pore leetle gal,” the old man nodded understandingly. “You warn’t bigger’n Sudie, I reckon, time o’ the Amyx shootin’. ’Twar a shame ter saddle you with sech mem’ries. I never did hev much use fer sech doin’s, and I said so, but hit warn’t a grain o’ use. You might jest as well talk ter a passel of hounds arter a Bushy tail. But chirk up, you won’t see Jake in these parts agin. What we’re most consarned ’bout now is whar you’re goin’ ter keep school when the ugly weather comes on.”

They had come to the parting of the ways, and here Talitha left the old man hobbling painfully toward his cabin.

Si Quinn’s progress homeward was slow. He stopped now and then to regain his breath and chuckle feebly to himself. “I reckon she thinks I’ve a heart of stun ter take hit so ca’m, but I ’low Jake Simcox didn’t do sech a bad thing. Hit war worse fer hisself than fer Goose Creek. Law, what’ll the gal say when she hears of hit! I reckon I’d better be sendin’ fer them school fixin’s ter-morrow.” He had reached the cabin door, and now he shuffled inside, closing it carefully. Shadowed by pines, the place was always gloomy enough even at mid-day with the shutters thrown wide. Now he uncovered the coals on the hearth, laid on a few small sticks, and swung the battered old tea kettle over the blaze. Then he drew up his chair cosily before it, and thrusting his hand into his trousers’ pocket brought forth a small leather bag. From it he counted a number of bills, smoothing each one tenderly across his knee.

“She shall hev ’em,” he said aloud. “I’ll do without somehow, and hit won’t be fer long. The old man’s nearin’ the end of the trail—” He glanced around uneasily, with a vague consciousness of something—he knew not what. In the far corner of the cabin a pair of eyes, bloodshot and wild, glared at him from under a thatch of red hair.

The old man grasped the money. It disappeared in his shirt as he staggered to his feet and faced the intruder.

“You needn’t be afeard, I ain’t goin’ ter tech hit.” The figure issued from the corner lamely. In the light it was still more forbidding. A bruise on the forehead made a disfiguring, parti-coloured lump on his otherwise pale, drawn face. “I ain’t teched a thing, not even a crumb, tho’ I’m ’most famished,” he growled.

“Hush, you crazy loon!” Si Quinn raised a warning finger.

“Aw, yes, I know,” sneered the young fellow recklessly. “The dogs air arter the wolf and they kin hev him.” He threw up his arms wildly.

“Set down in thet cheer and be still,” commanded the old man.

Jake dropped obediently into a seat.

“I ’lowed you war out’n the kentry. Why didn’t you make tracks when you had a chanct?”

“I did aim ter,” answered Jake Simcox, “but I fell, crawlin’ over thet ledge by the Gulch, and I didn’t know nothin’ till this mornin’. I could hear the men thrashin’ the bushes all ’round me, but I was jest out of sight of ’em. I wish fer the land they’d tuk me then and thar and done with hit.”

“The way of a transgressor is shorely hard,” exclaimed the old man pityingly.

“I didn’t go fer ter fire the place, Si, I shore didn’t. I jest thought ter burn the books and sech. Oh, I don’t know what made me do hit, ’less I was plumb crazy!” Jake bowed his head in his hands and groaned in agony.

The schoolmaster set the coffee pot upon the coals, where it simmered gently. “Sho now, Jake,” he said kindly, “you’re all beat out. Draw up and hev a bite; hit ain’t much but hit’ll put some heart in you. I don’t cornsider thet jest burnin’ thet old shack war sech a turrible sin; hit war the sperit you done hit in. You did ’low to burn all thet pore gal spent most of her savin’s on, and thet was the meanest part of the hull bizness. I allers said thet temper of yours would bring you ter grief. Hit’s like a skeery hoss critter; when hit gits loose you never can cal’late on all the didos hit’s goin’ ter cut up. Do you think thet if you hed another chanct you hev got grit ’nough ter turn ’round in your tracks?”

Jake reached a hand over the table and grasped the hard, shrivelled one. “Oh, I shore would if I could only hev hit,” he answered humbly. “I shore would, but hit’s too late.”

“Hit ain’t,” contradicted the old man cheerfully. “So long as you see the error of your ways, I’ll see thet you git out of this bizness hopin’ hit’s a lesson you won’t forgit.”

Until Jake Simcox was able both mentally and physically to make the journey, he remained in the schoolmaster’s cabin, hiding away in the little loft at the least sign of danger.

Late the third night after a hearty supper, Si Quinn filled his knapsack with provisions and slung it across the young shoulders. “Hike over the Ohiar line as quick as you kin,” he admonished, “and then find a job near a school whar you kin git some larnin’. I’m goin’ ter give you this,” putting a bill in the young fellow’s hand. “Hit’ll help you out till you git work, if you’re savin’. I’d make hit more, but most of the rest is goin’ fer books and maps fer Tally’s new schoolhouse they’re buildin’ fer her.”

Jake looked up shamefacedly; the money seemed to burn his hand, but to what straits might he be brought if he refused it. “I’ll pay hit all back—every cent,” he faltered, “and I shan’t ever fergit what you’ve done fer me.” Then he was swallowed up by the darkness.

VII THE JAM SOCIAL

THE tiny, blue calcimined room with one window looking southward seemed almost palatial in comparison with Gincy’s humble home quarters. Instead of the overhanging mountains were the foothills and the college gardens.

She tried to picture the scene back home without her at this early hour. Her mother milking Brindled Bet, Billy feeding the pigs, and her father—she couldn’t be thankful enough he wasn’t like Sam Coyle—getting ready to gather the “crap” in the south cove.

There was a slight stirring in the lower berth of the double-decker. “Talitha,” she called out softly. “Air you awake?” But the voice which answered was not Talitha’s.

“It’s Urilla,” it said hesitatingly.

Gincy leaned over and her eyes sought the occupant of the cot below. Propped up on the pillow was the pale face of the girl who had arrived yesterday. The solemn brown eyes looked straight up into hers inquiringly as though not at all sure of a welcome. “I reckon you’re some surprised,” she said. “You were asleep when I came in last night and I aimed to keep pretty still.”

“Yes,” answered Gincy rather dazed. “But whar’s Talitha?”

Urilla shook her head. “Mrs. Donnelly sent me here—I had this room last term. I reckon Talitha’s on this floor, though. The first and second year girls are mostly together.”

Gincy swung down and began dressing without another word. She would interview Talitha at breakfast; perhaps they could arrange to room together after all. Urilla looked too sober for a roommate. “Whar you from?” Gincy asked finally, rolling up her hair.

“Jackson County,” Urilla answered promptly. “I rode twenty miles yesterday and the road was might rocky. Where’d you come from?”

“Over in Clay,” Gincy smiled into the tired face as she answered. “I should think you’d be plumb tickled to be back. Seems like you couldn’t stay away from here nohow, but I heerd you say your mammy war sick,” she added, anxious not to appear lacking in friendly interest.

“Not bed sick, or I couldn’t have come. She’s up, but I keep studying about her and wondering if Sallie—that’s my next sister—will keep her from working. Mother’s had a spell of fever and don’t seem to get strong.”

Apparently, Urilla was fumbling in the little trunk on the floor for some article of wearing apparel, but Gincy saw the teardrops, and instantly her tender heart warmed. She stooped over and took the pale face between her two hard little palms. “You mustn’t fret, honey, mammy had the fever a couple of years back, and she’s robustious as kin be now.”

Urilla looked the thanks her lips were unable to speak. In a minute she had regained her composure, and by the time the breakfast bell sounded, her few belongings were carefully hung in her half of the little closet, the bedclothes airing, and the tiny dresser in perfect order.

Together they went down the long flights of stairs, but not to the same dining-room. Gincy had been assigned to a table in the Annex where Martin and Talitha ate, but the latter had not arrived. Silently she waited for the blessing, and then catching Martin’s eye, “Whar’s Talitha?” she inquired.

“I don’t know—exactly,” he answered with hesitation and truthfully, he thought. She might be anywhere between Clover Bottom and Lost Creek by this time.

Gincy ate her oatmeal without suspicion. Why should Martin know after all, when he roomed halfway across the campus? Another thought came to her. Perhaps Talitha had volunteered to go to one of the cottages that she might stay in the hall. It was just like her to be so unselfish.

This was the morning for registering, and Gincy felt very new indeed. In the absence of Talitha, Urilla and Kizzie Tipton offered to act as escorts. It seemed hours before her end of the line reached the desk and she was assigned to an examination in the Industrial Building a block away. Her sunny face was quite woe-begone as they started.

“Don’t you fret,” admonished Urilla. “I know just how you feel, but you needn’t be afraid.”

“I’m plumb ’shamed of my ignorance. I won’t be nowhar ’side of you-all,” Gincy answered disconsolately.

“You’ll be just where I was last year,” consoled Kizzie.

“Do you reckon so? Well, I’m bound ter work every minnit now I’ve got started.” Gincy’s mouth showed an even line of determination. She looked around curiously as they entered the big, brick building. On either side of the wide stairway were the rooms for cooking and sewing. Students were passing in and out.

“I’ve had cooking,” said Urilla, “and I’ve taught Sallie to make good bread.”

“I’d rather take sewing; it’s easier.” Kizzie’s black eyes twinkled.

“If I had my ruthers it would be cookin’,” declared Gincy. “I could help mammy a heap; hit’s better to move ’round some, too.”

A crowd was constantly passing up and down the stairs leading to the second floor. Some of the boys and girls had yellow slips in their hands; a few looked worried. In the large, upstairs classrooms there was a sprinkling of parents. Many had come a score of miles with ox teams and stood around anxiously awaiting the result of the examination.

All new pupils were assigned to Room 2, and here Gincy discovered Abner, his yellow head bent over a sheet of paper covered with figures. Gincy regarded him with confidence. Abner was strong in arithmetic—the one study the mountain teachers had impressed upon their pupils. For herself she was not so sure. Her knowledge of geography was hazy. In grammar the parts of speech had been carefully reviewed, but she was in doubt about parsing, and diagramming looked to her like a jumble of words tumbling over a precarious footing of loose boards. She dropped into a vacant seat near the door while Urilla looked for a teacher who was not too busy to interview her. Presently, she returned, and Gincy found herself shaking hands with an attractive young woman whose near-sighted brown eyes held the friendliest look in the world.

“I’m so glad to meet you, Miss Gooch; you’re from Clay County? You’ll find a good many boys and girls from there. Urilla told me all about you at breakfast time and we’re going to help you get acquainted. You’ll be one of my specials on the third floor, I can tell that by looking at you.”

Gincy’s heart took sudden courage. If all the teachers were going to be like Miss Howard she certainly would be a “special” if she had to study all night to accomplish it. Miss Howard sat close and questioned her softly, not seeming to mind when she stumbled or failed entirely. Gincy had a musical voice and read the easy selections in a way which pleased the teacher, for she recommended elocution and sub-normal arithmetic on the little slip which Gincy bore away an hour later. The other studies were not wholly settled, but it seemed like a good beginning.

“Be sure to come to the Jam Social to-night,” had been Miss Howard’s parting words, and Gincy had promised readily, although not feeling at all sure what a “Jam Social” really was.

She wandered around from one building to another, nowhere encountering Talitha or any one who had seen her. Once inside the Hall again she went straight to the office to question Mrs. Donnelly.

From behind a desk piled high with mail, the dean answered, “She’s gone home, Miss Gooch.”

“Gone home! When?” Gincy’s voice sounded strange to her own ears.

“About two o’clock this morning. She slept with me last night and Martin saw her off.”

“But why? Was any one sick—or?” The dean shook her head and began to open her mail. Suddenly Gincy knew it all. Talitha had gone that she might stay. After working so hard, too. What would Sam Coyle say to her? Not willing to make any sacrifices himself—for his children’s good—he would be angry to have them generous with others. Gincy turned and went up to her room. How could she accept such a sacrifice? She wrestled with the problem for hours, then in despair thought of Miss Howard. The little teacher listened patiently with one soft hand covering the girl’s work-roughened one. When Gincy had ended with a sob in her voice, Miss Howard’s arm stole around her and held her close.

“Don’t worry, dear, Talitha will come back to us some time. She’s determined to have an education. She has chosen to give you your chance now; make the very best of it. It would be foolish for you to start home and disappoint her—it would be useless, too. She’s going to write you in a day or so.”

Somewhat comforted, Gincy went back to her room. On every side doors were ajar and girls unpacking. There was the merry chatter of friends long separated, and those newly found, which sent a delightful glow through the heart of the mountain girl. Few and far between were the opportunities for sociability back in the hills, and as she realized what she was gaining, a keen sense of Talitha’s loss smote her.

“You’d better get ready for the Social before dinner,” a voice called out from behind, and Kizzie overtook Gincy. “I’ll call for you and Urilla promptly at seven.”

“I’d forgotten hit, sure enough,” answered Gincy, quickening her steps.

Early in the evening the large chapel blazed forth a welcome to the returning students from its many windows. From every direction they came—in groups or singly. Above, was a starlit sky, and the air was full of a soft, sweet melody unlike anything Gincy had ever heard before. Her ears, used only to the thrum of the banjo, or a crude performance on a small reed organ, were thrilled with delight as the college band finished the overture from “William Tell.”

She glanced shyly at Urilla to see if her emotion was shared, but the quiet face betrayed nothing more than deep satisfaction at being once more among her beloved schoolmates.