Part 5

"You know I can't be a-wantin' enny o' yer comp'ny," she said, and before the righteous anger of her eyes he shrank back abashed.

The summer passed slowly--dewy dawns, languid sunlit noons, and dusky evenings. The corn ripened, and the cotton-fields promised a fair yield. Tom Fannin worked steadily, early and late, as though finding in constant occupation a panacea for his troubles.

"He'll soon git tired o' that; min' what I say," said one prophet, "an' go ter idlin' round ag'in."

But he did not, growing thin and brawny with constant toil. But the change had come too late. The charge of theft could neither be forgiven nor forgotten in that community.

Farmer Crow carefully refrained from mentioning Tom Fannin's name to his daughter since the morning he sat on the fence and talked with Mr. Jim Edwards. But his shrewd, kindly eyes observed the young man's demeanor with approval.

"He's got more grit than we calkerlated on," he mused.

At last he broached the subject to Bet.

"It's a pity Tom Fannin sp'ilt his fortune a-takin' that money; he's a-doin' so mighty well now."

Bet looked reproachfully at him. "How do you know he took it, pa?"

"How do we know he didn't, Bet? Honey, don't be a-deceivin' yerself. I'm mighty proud you have dropped his comp'ny."

"I hain't dropped it, pa. We er jest a-waitin'."

He sighed.

"You air pow'fully sot in yer ways, Bet, fer er young creetur."

"Pa, I mought as well give up livin' as ter give up Tom. You know how 'tis," her eyes traveling to the round, placid face of her mother sitting out in the entry, knitting.

Her father's face softened.

"Well, well, honey, don't do nothin' you'll be sorry fer, that's all I ax. Waitin' is sometimes a mighty tryin' thing."

"But it mus' be better'n not havin' anything ter wait fer," she said, solemnly.

But as time passed monotonously, without bringing any vindication of her lover's name, and hope died slowly and painfully, she learned the bitterness of waiting.

It was "fodder-pullin'" time, and the farmers were out from dawn until evening stripping the yellowing blades from the stalk, tying it, and stacking it in the wide hot fields. The new railroad skirted the western bounds of Mr. Jesse Crow's farm, and through the almost breathless stillness could be heard the ring of hammer and steel from the bridge building over Cool Spring Creek. Some of the strange workmen had a reputation for lawlessness quite shocking to the simple, peaceable country people.

It was about the middle of the afternoon, and Bet Crow was spinning listlessly, while her mother carded the rolls for her. They were not dreaming of any danger, when a man, coatless, hatless, covered with dust, and panting heavily, leaped the fence and ran across the yard. It was Bill Sanders.

"Mis' Crow, for the love of God let me hide in here!" he gasped hoarsely, stumbling over the doorstep, and then staggering into the room.

"Bill Sanders! what on the face o' the yeth!" cried the frightened woman, her fresh-colored face growing pale.

"They air arter me! they mean to kill me!" he panted, crouching under the loom, quivering with exhaustion, wild-eyed with fear.

"Bet, Bet! what does it mean?" exclaimed her mother appealingly.

Bet ran to the door, and shading her eyes with her hand, looked out. Four or five men were running along the road toward the house, searching and cursing fiercely. She had no idea what had happened, but she knew they were workmen from the bridge, and a desperate-looking gang they were to her frightened eyes. For a moment her heart quailed. They might murder her and her mother, as well as Bill Sanders. He was incapable of offering any defense just then, and pity filled her heart. Her eyes flashed; her lips were set in a determined line. They should not get him if she could help it.

"Quick, ma! blow the horn for pa!" she said, then sprang up on a chair and took down her father's shot-gun from over the door, a trusty weapon he loved next to his wife and daughter.

"Don't you come enny nigher till you tell what you want," she said clearly, raising the gun in her none too steady hands as they scrambled over the fence. For a moment they were nonplussed, and stared at her with a mixture of surprise and uncertainty.

"We want the man that's hid in there," said one lowering fellow, fiercely.

"What for?"

"To hang to the nearest tree."

"What's he been a-doin'?"

"Killin' a friend of our'n down on the railroad."

The horror of it almost took her breath, but she maintained her defensive attitude bravely.

"That's er turrible thing," she said, praying that every blast of the horn would bring her father.

"See here, young woman, you'd better get outen that and let us have him. We don't mean no harm to you, but we ain't got time to argue with you."

"I'm plum' sorry for you, but I'm bound ter do what I kin fer the law. We air peaceable folks here, an' like ter be punished 'cordin' ter law. If you'll git the jestice o' the peace an' have Mr. Sanders tuk ter jail, I ain't no objections."

Their wrath was evidently cooling somewhat, and they were forced to a reluctant admiration of her pluck.

If they had known that she was trembling like a leaf, that her arms were feeling nerveless and weak, her eyes dim! She knew that she could not hold out much longer in that threatening attitude. A moment of dead silence fell while the men consulted in whispers, and Bet could hear the deep, hurried breathing of the hidden man, and the horrified moans and ejaculations of her mother with a distinctness absolutely painful to her. But help had come. Her strained eyes wandered despairingly from those dark, angry faces confronting her, and she saw her father and two or three other men coming through the lot.

Matters were at last peaceably adjusted. Mr. Crow argued so mildly and reasonably with the avenging party that they consented--the farmers bearing them company--to take their prisoner and allow the law to deal with him.

"But I'll tell you what, Sanders, you owe your life to that girl. We would 'a' killed you, sure, if she hadn't 'a' stood up in your defense like she did. We didn't want to hurt her," said one of the men grimly, and Sanders groaned heavily. He gave Bet one humbly grateful glance as they led him away.

The whole occurrence occupied but a brief space of time in the bright summer day. The dust settled softly upon the road behind the retreating footsteps of the self-appointed posse and their prisoner, and the crickets shrilling in the grass seemed the only living thing left. Bet sank down on the doorstep, and hid her face in her hands, faint and weak from the strain upon her nerves.

"Drink this, honey, it'll do you good," said her mother, holding a brimming gourd of water to her pale lips, and she drank a little and declared that she felt better.

"Do you s'pose they'll hang him, Bet?" in a fearful whisper.

"I don't know, ma, if he's tuk human life--" she paused with a shudder.

A new sensation had been furnished the settlement, and a far greater one than the mere theft of a little money. The men met to discuss the crime, and the women spoke of it in low, awestruck tones. Then it was discovered that the man had not been killed, but badly wounded and stunned. A quieter spirit prevailed, and when it came out that the stranger had struck the first blow, and that Sanders had only acted on the defensive, the tide of public sympathy turned in his favor.

It does not belong to this story to go into all the details of the trial held at the September term of the county court. It is enough to say the young man was acquitted and walked out of the court-room free, but subdued and quiet. He went direct to Farmer Crow's, and walked into the room where Bet sat with her patchwork. She greeted him with grave kindness, and asked him to sit down, but he declined, preferring to stand. He twisted the flexible willow switch he carried, nervously around in his hands, and swallowed audibly, as though something choked him.

"They'd 'a' tuk my life shure in their first mad fit if it hadn't 'a' been for you, Bet," he said finally, with an effort. "I don't know what to say; I ain't much fer words, but--"

"Please don't say nothin' 'bout it, Bill," she pleaded in great embarrassment. "Folks air a-puttin' what I done up too high. If I helped you it wasn't nothin' more'n duty, seein' as you was plum' tuckered out with runnin'. I'd 'a' done it fer ennybody."

"Don't I know that better'n you, Bet?" he exclaimed bitterly. "Don't I know you can't bear the sight o' me? but I'm a-goin' to show you that I ain't ungrateful fer what you've done fer me."

He passed his hands over his eyes. "Bet, I done somethin' for you that for yer sake I'm now a-goin' ter undo. Next Sunday is meetin' day at Cool Spring, an' I'm a-goin' ter make public acknowledgments o' my temptations, an' the doin's o' Satan in my heart. I've keered for you mighty nigh to the ruination o' my hopes fer a better world. But if God A'mighty kin fergive me, then you kin tu, Bet. Good-evenin'."

He turned to go. She sprang up, scattering her quilt pieces right and left.

"Bill!" she gasped, but he strode hastily out of the room, mounted his horse, and rode away.

The last song had been sung and the congregation at Cool Spring church were about to rise to receive the benediction when Bill Sanders stood up, and clearing his throat, looked around on the people. As he met the curious expectant eyes fixed upon him, he seemed to waver--to flinch from his purpose.

"Now speak out, Brother Sanders," said the pastor encouragingly, and the kindly voice of the old man gave him fresh strength.

"Broth'r'n an' sist'r'n, it becomes my duty ter tell you o' the temptations I've be'n a-fallin' under this year, an' ter ax yer forgiveness an' yer prayers. I've be'n a-wanderin' fur from the right way. I done er turrible thing ter brother Tom Fannin--took away his good name, an' made him a byword an' en example o' evil among you. Fer the sake o' one who it ain't becomin' in me ter name here, an' who ain't ter blame any more'n a innocent child, I 'lowed myself ter hate him--ter wanter cast disfavor 'pon him."

He paused, and a pinfall might have been heard in that church, so intensely quiet, so breathless were the excited people. He looked at Tom Fannin leaning forward eagerly on his seat, then his eyes rested for a moment on Bet Crow's drooping face, and he could almost feel the quick flutter of the pulse in her round soft throat. His eyes sank to the floor; he drew a long breath.

"Broth'r'n, this is er public acknowledgment, an' the solemn, bindin' truth--I put that money in Tom Fannin's pocket with my own hands."

He said no more, but sat down and hid his face in his hands, and a stir and murmur seemed to sweep over the church like a wave. The agitation, excitement, seemed about to break dignified Christian bounds, when Mr. Jesse Crow rose and solemnly said:

"Broth'r'n, we have all heard the public acknowledgments o' Brother Sanders's wrong-doin'. He has tole it 'thout bein' axed, an' o' his own free will an' inclernation. In dealin' with this errin' brother we mus' bear in min' thar air allus extinguishin' sarcumstances surroundin' ever' deed done by weak mortal creeturs, an' a confession o' guilt is er long way to'ards complete repentance."

Well, that public confession was the climax of that year of events in the Cool Spring settlement, if I except the wedding at Mr. Jesse Crow's, later in the season, when house and yard overflowed with guests, and all united in giving a kindly hand and a hearty word to the bridegroom. Bill Sanders was not present. He had gone out West to seek a new home, and let us hope that he was in time as happy as Tom Fannin and his wife, once the belle of Cool Spring settlement--Bet Crow.

*SILURY.*

*STORY OF A MOONSHINER'S DAUGHTER.*

Silury Cole threw a fresh pine-knot on the fire and stepped to the door to peer out into the night, listening intently for the first sound of her father's footsteps on the hard mountain road. For two days the revenue officers had been abroad on the mountains, and the hearts of women and children were heavy with terror and dread.

The rich pine kindled, burnt into vivid flame, throwing its light upon the girl from head to foot, on her smooth hair, black as the night, on the profile of her face, denoting unusual character for a girl of fourteen, and on her primitively fashioned gown of blue checked cotton.

The rioting flames, filling the black cavernous depths of the fireplace, lighted up the low room also, throwing grotesque shadows behind the loom and spinning-wheel, lingering round the flaxen heads of the three children asleep on the low trundle bed, glancing over the basket of corn ready to be shelled for the miller, and over the table and simple preparations for supper.

Mrs. Cole sat in the corner at one end of the flat stone hearth, smoking and silently brooding. She was a small, sickly looking woman with sunken eyes and sharp, delicate features. She leaned forward with her chin resting in one hand, staring into the fire. A stick of wood burned apart and fell softly to the coals underneath. She started and glanced at Silury.

"Is he comin', Silury?"

"Not yet, ma."

She refilled her pipe and laid a glowing coal on it, shaking her head slowly.

"An' not likely to till the revenue men have gone away."

"Ah, but don't you know, ma, pa never stays away mor'n two days at a time? Recollect the time he come a-whistlin' with his gun on his shoulder, an' the raiders just down on the mill road," said Silury, and laughed at the remembrance of his daring. "Pa ain't easily scared."

"That's so, an' I remember that he was mighty hungry, too," murmured her mother, a faint smile, for a moment, lighting up her prematurely wrinkled face.

Silury glanced over her shoulder at the oven of potatoes steaming on the hearth, and the frying-pan filled with fresh-cut rashers of bacon ready to place over the fire. Her preparations were all complete. When he came it would take but a few minutes to place a smoking hot supper, such as he loved, before him.

"Are the children covered up?" her mother inquired, glancing toward the bed. "These October nights are gettin' cold."

Silury stepped across the room and tucked the cover around the young sleepers. No wonder her face had such a mature look--she moved with such a womanly air--the cares of the household nearly all fell upon her. She was the pride of her father's heart, her mother depended on her, and the younger children always looked to her to supply their needs. Mrs Cole relapsed into her former attitude, for a few minutes, then suddenly raised her head, a look of fear flashing into her dull eyes. "Silury, it 'pears to me I hear somethin'," she whispered quickly.

The girl hurried back to the door, and leaned out again, her head slightly bent, one hand lifted to her ear in a listening attitude. A gust of wind swept down the black serried peaks, so high above the small cabin, so sharply cut against the starlit sky, hurrying on its erratic course to the valley. The cow munched dry corn husks in a corner of the fence, and Kit, the mule, pawed restlessly at the stable door. But none of those sounds had disturbed Mrs. Cole, roused that fear in her. Far away Silury heard the steady beat of hoofs upon the dry, hard road, as of a horse newly shod, and urged to his utmost speed.

"I 'low it's only somebody ridin' fer the doctor," she said soothingly, but a line, drawn by keenest anxiety, appeared between her dark brows. The sound came upward from the valley, not downward from the mountains. It drew nearer each moment, bringing glad or evil tidings to some lone dweller on the heights, for no one ever traveled over the mountains in that way simply for the pleasure of it. How swift, how steady, fell the iron-shod feet upon the earth! now clear and distinct, as they passed along a ridge, now almost lost as they plunged into a ravine. The big liver-colored hound, lying on the doorstep, stood up, sniffed the air, and howled mournfully.

"It may be the raiders," muttered Mrs. Cole restlessly.

"Or somebody's dead, an' they er comin' fer their folks," said Silury in awed tones.

She could hear the heavy panting of the horse, as, with slackened gait, he came up the hollow below the house, and see an outline of the rider as they turned the lot fence; then, as they crossed the narrow path of light projected from the doorway beyond the low yard fence, she recognized a valley neighbor. He scarcely halted, as he excitedly cried:

"Silury, the raiders got yer pa--took him over in Jimson's Brake, along with Peleg White, an' one o' the Davis boys. They'll pass Buckhorn Springs to-night."

And then he went on his way, to carry the sad news to more remote habitations; and great silence seemed to fall upon the mountain-side. Silury and her mother looked speechlessly at one another, then Mrs. Cole passed a trembling hand confusedly over her face.

"What all did he say, Silury? It 'pears to me my understandin' ain't quite clear to-night."

"He said--" she caught her breath in a sob. "Oh, ma! the raiders have took pa; what shall we do, what shall we do? Poor pa! it will kill him to be put in prison!" in a burst of despairing anguish.

Mrs. Cole crouched lower in her chair.

"I knew it would come. I've been a-feelin' it here for a long time--a long time," one thin hand groping for her heart. "Yes, he'll pine fer his freedom an' the mountings when he's shut up in jail. Oh, I've begged him not to be a moonshiner--not to make whiskey on the sly. They all have to suffer fer it sooner or later." Her wandering, tearful eyes fell on the waiting supper. "How hungry he must be!"

There were no noisy demonstrations, but a grief, pathetic as it was deep. They were mountaineers, patient by nature, and schooled by all the circumstances of life to endure and be strong. The law does not punish the moonshiner alone, but it falls heavily on his wife and children. Silury dried her eyes and touched her mother on the shoulder, speaking in a firmer tone:

"I must go down to Buckhorn Springs to-night, ma."

"Eh?" said the dazed woman.

"I must see pa; I must help him to get away from the raiders."

"You, Silury! How'll you do it?"

"I don't know," her lips trembling again, "but I must do it--I must!"

Mrs. Cole stared at her. She had faith in Silury's courage and ability, but now she caught the girl's hand, fresh terror seizing her.

"Don't you get into trouble, honey. Me an' the children would perish if your pa an' you were both took off."

"Don't you fret, ma; I'll come back to you an' bring pa, too."

"How'll you get to Buckhorn Springs?"

"Ride Kit."

She was already down on her knees before the fire, kindling a torch to take out to the lot with her. She looked up at her mother with brave, tender eyes.

"Now, don't pester yerself any more'n you can help, ma."

Mrs. Cole shook her head with a deep sigh, and instinctively reached for her pipe, but she could only sit and hold it in her hand, unfilled, unlighted, while Silury went away to the lot with the flaring torch and an old saddle thrown on her arm.

Kit was a shabby beast, thin, wiry, and with only one good eye, but he had served the Coles faithfully. He greeted the young girl with a gentle whinny, and she leaned her head against him with another burst of tears. But she quickly wiped them away, and led Kit out to the road. It did not take her long to put bridle and saddle on him, then she ran in, took down her father's rifle from the rack over the front door, and in a few minutes had started on her solitary ride down the mountains. The hound would have followed her, but she ordered him back. "Go back, Bolivar, an' take care o' them that's left behind," and he slunk unwillingly to the doorstep again.

It was a night to live in the child's memory all her life, for with all her fearlessness and hard training she had never before been called upon to traverse the mountain passes alone after darkness had fallen upon them. Solitude and gloom surrounded her. The valley seemed but a formless gulf of darkness, the multitudinous mountains, black sentinels, towering to the stars. Far away in some remote fastness of the mountains a dog barked, and she could hear the prolonged blast of a hunting horn. A star shot downward from the zenith, leaving a trail of fire across the sky, and was lost behind the far-reaching western ranges. A sense of isolation oppressed her. She seemed the only living human creature in all the vast, silent world. On the saddle in front of her she held the trusty rifle, and that gave her a sense of security from beasts of prey. Her father had taught her how to use the gun, and practice had given her an almost unerring aim. But my young readers will acknowledge that it was a trying situation for even a mountain girl, to ride alone through ravines and over declivities, often only a bridle path to guide her. It required a brave heart and a steady nerve.

Buckhorn Springs are on the public highway leading from a market town in North Georgia to Murphy, North Carolina, and traditions of the wonderful medicinal qualities of the water come down, even from the remote days when the Indian set up the poles of his wigwam near the springs, and slaked his thirst in their cool, healing streams, flowing out from under Buckhorn Mountain. The Indian and his wigwam are mere traditions now themselves, and the white man and his covered market wagon have taken their places. It has been the favorite camping-ground of the mountaineers coming from or going to market since the first white settlers boldly penetrated the wilderness beyond. Campers were there the night the revenue officers were to pass with Amaziah Cole, Peleg White, and young Davis. They were on the roadside, their white covered wagon drawn out under the sparse timber, their sleek red oxen lying unyoked near it. A camp-fire of brushwood and pine-knots blazed up in the open space between the timber and the road, throwing strange eerie shadows against the mountain-side, and in the tree-tops above.

A lean, brown-faced wagoner sat on an inverted feed-box whittling a stick, and a woman occupied a rude camp-stool nearer the fire, the light bringing out the stripes in her brown and yellow homespun skirts, and the melancholy lines in her sharp-featured face. A brown woolen veil was tied around her head, and she rubbed snuff with subdued enjoyment. Silury did not go down to the public road. On the mountain-side, above the springs, a ledge of gray rocks jutted out. Dismounting at a level spot in the pathway, Silury tied Kit's bridle to an overhanging bough, then with the gun grasped in her hands, she crept through the underbrush to the rocks. She trembled with excitement, for a daring thought had come to her--a scheme whereby she might deliver her father from his captors. She crouched down behind the rocks, and waited, praying that she might be calm, that her eye might be true, her hand steady when the time came.

Evidently the campers had heard of the raid, and were intending to sit up until the officers passed with the prisoners, for several times, during that lagging hour of suspense Silury spent behind the boulders, the man walked out into the road to listen for sounds of travel.

"I 'low they are comin' at last," he said, closing his knife with a sharp click, and his wife put up her snuff-box and joined him on the roadside.