Part 3

“I reckon so,” said Rood suddenly. “Thar goes one o’ ’em now.” He pointed to a scapegrace ten years of age, perhaps, clad in a suit of light blue checked cotton. His trousers reached to his shoulder blades, and were sustained by a single suspender. A ragged old black hat was perched on the back of his tow head. He had the clothes-line tied to the hind leg of a pig which he was driving. He seemed to be in high feather, and apparently felt scant lack of a more spirited steed. In fact, the pig gave ample occupation to his skill, coming to a halt sometimes and rooting about in an insouciant manner, reckless of control. When he was pushed and thumped and forced to take up the line of march, he would squeal dolorously and set out at a rate of speed hardly predicable of the porcine tribe. “Look how he’s a-actin’ to that thar pore peeg,” added Rood.

Old Gus Griff fixed his dark eye upon him.

“Enny friend o’ yourn?” he asked.

“Who?” demanded Rood, amazed.

“That thar peeg.”

“Naw, o’ course not.”

“Then keep yer jaw off’n him. Who set ye up ter jedge o’ the actions o’ my gran’chile. That thar boy’s name air ’Gustus Thomas Griff—fur _me_! An’ I got nine mo’ gran’chil’n jes’ like him. An’ ye lay yer rough tongue ter a word agin one o’ ’em, an’ old ez I be I’ll stretch ye out flat on that thar groun’ they air a-medjurin’ ter shoot on. Ye greasy scandal-hit scamp yerse’f!”

Rood was fain to step back hastily, for the miller came blustering up with an evident bellicose intention. “Lord A’mighty, old man!” he exclaimed, “I never said nuthin’ agin ’em, ’cept what ye say yerse’f. I wouldn’t revile the orphan!”

“Jes’ stop a-pityin’ ’em, then, durn ye!” exclaimed the exacting old man. “They ain’t no orphans sca’cely nohows, with thar grandad an’ sech alive.”

“That’s what I knowed, Mr. Griff,” said the bland Price, standing between them. “Pete’s jes’ ’bidin’ the time o’ the fool-killer. Must be a powerful rank crap fur him somewhar, bein’ ez Pete’s spared this long. That’s what I knowed an’ always say ’bout them chill’n.”

The old man, mollified for the instant, paused, his gnarled knotted hands shaking nervously, the tremor in his unseen lips sending a vague shiver down all the length of his silver beard. The excitement, painful to witness, was dying out of his eager eyes, when a mad peal of laughter rang out from the recesses of the old mill.

“What be that thar blamed idjit a-doin’ of now! him an’ that thar minkish Mink!”

He turned and went hastily into the shadowy place. Bags of grain were scattered about. The hopper took up much room in the limited space; behind it the miller’s nephew and Mink were sitting on the step of a rude platform. They had a half-bushel measure inverted between them, and on it was drawn a geometric figure upon which were ranged grains of corn.

There was a pondering intentness on the idiot’s wide face very nearly approaching a gleam of intelligence. Mink, incongruously patient and silent, awaited Tad’s play; both were unaware of the old man, among the dusky shadows, peering at them from over the hopper. At last, Tad, with an appealing glance at Mink, and an uncertain hand, adjusted a grain of corn. He leaned forward eagerly, as Mink promptly played in turn. Then, fixing all the faculties of his beclouded mind upon the board, he finally perceived that the game had ended, and that his opponent was victor. Once more his harsh laughter echoed from the rafters. “Ye won it, Mink. Ye won the coon.”

“I don’t want yer coon,” said Mink, good-naturedly. “Ye kin keep yer coon ter bet nex’ time.”

“Naw, ye kin hev the coon, Mink!” He caught at a string dandling from a beam. “Kem down hyar, ye idjit!” he cried, with a strange, thick-tongued enunciation. “Kem down hyar, ye damned fool!”

The old man suddenly made his way around the hopper and stood before them. Tad rose, with a startled face. Mink looked up composedly.

“Do ye know what ye air a-doin’ of, Mink Lorey?” asked the old man, sternly.

“L’arnin’ Tad ter play ‘five corn,’” said Mink, innocently. “He kin play right sorter peart fur a lackin’ one. I dunno ez I b’lieve Tad’s so powerful fursaken no-ways, ef ennybody would take the pains ter l’arn him. I b’lieves he’d show a right mind arter a while.”

“An’ thar ye sit, ez complacent ez a bull-frog—ye that the Lord hev favored with senses,” cried the old man, “sech ez they be,” he stipulated, making not too much of Mink’s endowments, “a-usin’ of ’em ter ruin a pore idjit boy,”—Mink’s eyes flashed surprise,—“a-l’arnin’ him ter play a gamblin’ game.”

“Shucks! _five corn!_” cried Mink, accustomed to the iniquity of “playin’ kyerds,” and scorning to rate the puerile beguilements of “five corn” among the “gambling games” which he had mastered,—“what’s _five corn_! Enny child kin play it—that thar coon could l’arn it ef he hed a mind ter do it. I don’t want the critter. Tad; I don’t want it.”

The old man’s tongue had found its ready oaths. “A-fixin’ on the idjit boy fur the prey o’ Satan. A-l’arnin’ him ter play a gamblin’ game ter damn his soul. An’ a-trickin’ him out’n his coon.”

“I never!” cried Mink, in hasty extenuation. “I jes’ put up my rifle agin his coon ter make him think he war playin’ sure enough! But I ain’t a-goin’ ter keep his coon, an’ I don’t want it, nuther!”

“I kin read the future,” cried out the old man, suddenly, flinging up his hand and shading his peering eyes with it. “I kin view the scenes o’ hell. I see ye, Mink Lorey, a-writhin’ in the pits o’ torment, with the flames a-wroppin’ round ye, an’ a-swallerin’ melted iron an’ a-smellin’ sulphur an’ brimstone. I see ye! Bless the Lord,—I see ye thar!”

“Naw, _ye don’t_!” interpolated Mink, angrily.

The idiot had slunk to one side, and was gazing at the two with a white, startled face, still mechanically jerking the string, at the end of which the reluctant coon tugged among the beams above.

“I see ye thar,—damned yerse’f fur tryin’ ter damn the idjit’s soul!”

“Ye’d better look arter yer own soul!” cried Mink, “an’ quit l’arnin’ the idjit ter cuss. He do it percisely like he gits the word from ye, an’ ye air a perfessin’ member, what shouts at the camp-meetin’, an’ prays with ’the Power,’ an’ laffs with the ‘holy laff’! Shucks! I hev hearn ye exhortin’ them on the mourners’ bench.”

Once more the old man broke out angrily.

Mink interrupted. “Quit cussin’ me! Quit it!” he cried. He wore a more harried look than one would have believed possible, as the miller, with his hoary head and tremulous beard, pressed close upon him in the dark, narrow apartment, the idiot’s white face—a sort of affrighted glare upon it—dimly visible beside him. “Quit it! I ain’t a-goin’ ter take nare nuther word off ’n ye!”

“How ye goin’ ter holp it? Goin’ ter hit a old man,—old enough ter be yer grandad, eh?” suggested the wary old creature, making capital of his infirmities.

“I’ll bust yer mill down, ef ye don’t lemme out’n it Lemme out!” cried Mink, tumultuously, striving to push past.

Jerry Price’s long, lank figure appeared in the doorway. It was not policy which animated him, for he had nothing at stake. With an inherent knowledge of human nature, some untutored instinctive capacity for manipulating its idiosyncrasies, he half consciously found a certain satisfaction in exercising his keen acumen on the men about him. It might have been employed more profitably in the field of local politics, had the gift been adequately realized and valued. He was of an amiable, even of an admirable, temperament, and he devised the adjustment of many complications, in which open interference would avail naught, by subtly appealing to some predominant motive or sentiment with the accuracy with which a surgeon can touch a nerve.

“Look-a-hyar, Mink,” he said, apparently unobservant of any signs of a quarrel, “ain’t you-uns a-goin’ ter shoot?”

Mink’s angry aspect dropped like a husk.

“Waal, I can’t, ye know,” he said, in a voice eager with interest. “They ’lowed ter me ez they hed done made up the money an’ bought the beef, an’ all the chances are gone,—six fur a dollar, shillin’ apiece.”

“Waal, I bought eight chances. I’ll let ye hev two of ’em, ef two’ll do ye.”

“Jiminy Crack-corn an’ I don’t keer!” exclaimed Mink, doubling himself partly in a gesture of ecstasy, and partly to reach a silver coin that led a lonesome life in the depths of his long pocket. He handed it over, and slapped his leg with a sounding thwack. “I could shoot ye all off ’n the ground, an’ I kin git the fust an’ second ch’ice in two cracks.”

Rood, in the doorway behind Price, regarded the transaction with disapproval.

“I don’t b’lieve it’s ’cordin’ ter rules, Jerry,” he expostulated, “ter go roun’ an’ swap off yer chances arter ye paid fur ’em. I never seen it done afore, no-ways.”

“Ye hold yer jaw!” said Price, imperious, though good-natured. “I hev shot fur beef ’fore ye war born!”—a diminutive marksman, were this statement to receive full credit, since he was but a year or two older than Rood.

Irregular though it may have been, there was no appeal from the self-arrogated authority of Price, and his oft-reiterated formula as to his experience before his interlocutor’s birth had all the enlightened functions of precedent.

Rood said no more, appreciating the futility of remonstrance. He stood, surly enough, in the doorway, listening absently to the garrulous clamor of the old miller, who was telling again and again of Mink’s iniquity in teaching Tad “five corn,” and of his threats against the mill.

“I dare ye ter lay a finger on the mill!” he cried. “I’ll put ye in that thar hopper an’ grind every ounce o’ yer carcass ter minch meat.”

Mink gave him no heed. He had joined the group of marksmen near the tree on which the targets were to be fixed. He was loading his gun, holding the ball in the palm of his hand, and pouring enough powder over it to barely cover it in a conical heap. He dexterously adjusted the “patching,” and as he rammed down the charge he paused suddenly. From a little log cabin on a rise hard by, a delicate spiral wreath of smoke curled up over the orchard, and airily defined itself against the mountain. Beside the rail fence a girl of fifteen was standing; sunny-haired, blue-eyed, barefooted, and slatternly. The peaches were ripe in the weighted trees above her head; he heard the chanting bees among them. The pig was grunting luxuriously among their roots and the fallen over-ripe fruit; for his driver, ’Gustus Tom, and the elder boy, Joseph, had gone down to the mill for a closer view of the shooting; the small girls who had mounted the fence being deterred from accompanying them by feminine decorum. The dogs appertaining to the place had also gone down to the mill, and were conferring with the followers of the contestants in the match. One, however, a gaunt and gray old hound, that had half climbed the fence, hesitated, his fore-paws resting on the topmost rail, a lean, eager curiosity on his grave, serious countenance, his neck stretched, his head close to the pretty head of the golden-haired maiden.

“Howdy, sis!” called out the bold Mink, the ramrod arrested half-way in the barrel, his face shadowed by his broad-brimmed hat, his hair flaunting in the wind.

She gave a flattered smile, full of precocious coquetry.

“Sick him, Bose!” she exclaimed to the faithful dog. “Sick him!”

Bose fastened his glare on Mink, raised his bristles, and growled obediently.

The young man with a gay laugh drove the charge home, and rattled the ramrod sharply into its place.

Already the first report of the rifle had pealed into the quietude of the cove; the rocks clamored as with the musketry of a battle. Far, far and faint the sound clanged back from the ranges between Chilhowee and the river, from all the spurs and ravines of the Big Smoky. The sunshine had the burnished fullness of post-meridian lustre, mellow, and all unlike the keen, matutinal glitter of earlier day; but purple shadows encircled the cove, and ever and anon a shining curve was described on the mountain side as the wings of a homeward-bound bird caught the light. Sometimes the low of cattle rose on the air. The beef, as the young ox was prematurely called, lifted his head, listening. He stood, the rope about his neck, secured to a hitching-post near the mill, looking calmly upon the ceremonies that sealed his destiny. It is to be hoped, in view of the pangs of prescience, that the animal’s deductive capacities and prophetic instincts are not underrated, or the poor beef’s presence at the shooting-match might express the acme of anguished despair. He was an amiable brute, and lent himself passively to the curiosity of ’Gustus Tom, who came up more than once, gazed fixedly at him, and examined his horns and hoofs, his eyes and nozzle, doubtless verifying some preconceptions as to facts in natural history.

The young mountaineers seemed to shoot with startling rapidity. Only one green hand labored under the delusion that a long aim can do aught but “wobble the eyes.” As each flung himself prostrate, with a grave intentness of expression and a certain precipitancy of gesture, it might have seemed some strange act of worship, but for the gun resting upon a log placed for the purpose, sixty yards from the mark,—the customary distance in shooting-matches with the old-fashioned rifle,—and the sudden sharp crack of the report. Their marksmanship was so nearly equal that it became readily apparent that the office of the anxious-eyed judges was not an enviable honor. Occasionally disputes arose, and the antagonists gathered around the tree, examining the targets with vociferous gesticulation which often promised to end in cuffs. Once the two judges disagreed, when it became necessary to call in an impartial “thirdsman” and submit the question. The old miller, placid once more, accepted the trust, decided judiciously, and the match proceeded.

Mink’s turn came presently.

As he ran deftly in and out among the heavy young mountaineers, he seemed more than ever like some graceful wild animal, with such elastic lightness, such reserve of strength, such keen endowment of instinct. He arranged in its place his board, previously blackened with moistened powder, and marked with a cross drawn on it with a knife-blade; each contestant had brought a precisely similar target. Then, to distinguish the centre at sixty yards he carefully affixed a triangular piece of white paper, so that it touched the cross at the intersection of the lines. As he ran lightly back to the log and flung himself upon the ground, his swift movement and his lithe posture struck the attention of one of the men.

“Now, ain’t ye the livin’ image o’ a mink! Ye’ve got nothin’ ter do but ter crope under that thar log, like thar war a hen hidin’ thar, an’ ye war tryin’ ter git it by the throat.”

Mink cast his bright eyes upward. “Ye shet up!” he exclaimed. Then he placed his rifle on the log and aimed in a twinkling,—his finger was on the trigger.

At this moment ’Gustus Tom, in his overwhelming curiosity, contrived to get his small anatomy between the marksman and the tree. The jet of red light leaped out, the funnel-shaped smoke diffused itself in a formless cloud, and the ball whizzed close by the boy’s head.

There ensued a chorus of exclamation. The old man quavered out piteously. Mink, dropping the rifle to the ground, leaped up, seized the small boy by the nape of the neck, and deposited him with a shake in the bosom of his aged relative.

“Ye limb o’ Satan, ’Gustus Tom!” cried out the old man. “Ain’t ye got no better sense ’n ter go out fur a evenin’ walk ’twixt that thar tree an’ these hyar boys, ez couldn’t begin ter shoot agin me an’ my mates when I shot for beef whenst I war young? A-many-a-time I hev fired the five bes’ shots myself, an’ won all the five ch’ices o’ the beef, an’ jes’ druv the critter home,—won it all! But these hyar fool boys jes’ ez soon bang yer head off ez hit the mark. Ye g’ long ’fore I skeer the life out’n ye!”

And ’Gustus Tom, in the unbridled pride of favoritism and with the fear of no man before his eyes, went along as far as the front rank of the crowd, continuing a fervid spectator of the sport.

The agitation of the moment had impaired to a slight degree Mink’s aim. The shot was, however, one of the best yet made, and there was a clamor of negation when he insisted that he ought to have it over. The judges ruled against him and the sport proceeded.

As Rood made his last shot, his strongly marked dark face was lighted with a keen elation. Although, according to strictest construction, the ball had not penetrated the centre, it was within a hair’s breadth of it, and it was so unlikely that it would be surpassed that he tasted all the assured triumphs of victory before the battle was won.

With Mink’s second shot arose the great dispute of the day. Like Rood’s, it was not fairly in the bull’s-eye, if the point of intersection might be so called, but it too lacked only a hair’s breadth. Mink was willing enough for a new trial, but Rood, protesting, stood upon his rights. The judges consulted together apart, reëxamined the boards, finally announced their incapacity to decide, and called in the “thirdsman.”

Mink made no objection when the miller, as referee, came to look at the board. He, too, examined it closely, holding his big hat in his hand that it might cast no shadow. There was no perceptible difference in the value of the two shots. Mink hardly believed he had heard aright when the “thirdsman,” with scarcely a moment’s hesitation, declared there was no doubt about the matter. Rood’s shot was the fairer. “I could draw a line ’twixt Mink’s and the centre.”

There was a yell of derision from the young fellows. Rood wore a provoking sneer. Mink stood staring.

“Look-a-hyar,” he said roughly, “ye haffen-blind old ow_el_! Ye can’t tell the differ ’twixt them shots. It’s a tie.”

“Rood’s air the closest, an’ he gits the fust ch’ice o’ beef!” said the old man, his white beard and mustache yawning with his toothless laugh. “Ai-yi! Mink, ye ain’t so powerful minkish yit ez ter git the fust ch’ice o’ beef.”

“Ye’ll hev the second ch’ice, Mink,” said Price consolingly. He himself, the fourth best shot, had the fourth choice.

“I won’t hev the second ch’ice!” exclaimed Mink. “It’s nobody but that thar weezened old critter ez ’lows I oughter. Fust he sent his gran’son, that thar slack-twisted ’Gustus Tom, ter git in my aim,—wisht I hed shot him! An’ then, when I lets him be thurdsman, he air jes’ so durned m’licious he don’t even stop an’ take a minit ter decide.” Mink’s heart was hot. He had been wounded in his most vulnerable susceptibility, his pride in his marksmanship.

“Look-a-hyar, Mink!” remonstrated Price, “ye ain’t a-goin’ off ’fore the beef’s been butchered an’ ye git the second ch’ice. Stop! Hold on!”

For Mink was about to mount.

“I don’t want no beef,” he said. “I hev been cheated ’mongst ye. I won the fust ch’ice, an’ I won’t put up with the second.”

Price was nonplused for a moment; then he evolved a solution. “I’ll sell it, Mink,” he cried, “an’ bring ye the money! An’ don’t ye furgit old Tobias Winkeye,” he added beguilingly.

“Who’s old Tobias Winkeye?” asked the miller tartly.

Price laughed, sticking his hands in the pockets of his jeans trousers, and looked around, winking at the others with a jocosity enfeebled somewhat by his light sparse lashes. “Jes’ a man ez hev got a job fur Mink,” he said, enigmatically.

The old miller, baffled, and apprehending the mockery, laughed loud and aggressively, his white beard shaking, his bushy eyebrows overhanging his twinkling eyes.

“Hedn’t ye better bust the mill down, Mink?” he said floutingly.

“I will,—see ef I don’t!” Mink retorted, as he wheeled his mare.

Only idle wrath, an idle threat, void of even the vaguest intention. They all knew that at the time. But the significance of the scene was altered in the light of after events.

Mink’s fate had mounted with him, and the mare carried double as he rode out of Piomingo Cove.

III.

The iterative echoes of the shooting-match, sharply jarring from mountain to mountain, from crag to crag, evoked a faint reverberation even in the distant recesses of Wild-Cat Hollow. Alethea Sayles, sitting at her loom on the porch of the little log cabin, paused, the shuttle motionless in her deft hand, to listen.

All aloof from the world was Wild-Cat Hollow, a limited depression, high up on the vast slope of the Great Smoky. It might have seemed some secret nook, some guarded fastness, so closely did the primeval wilderness encompass it, so jealously did the ridgy steeps rise about it on every hand. It was invisible from the valley below, perhaps too from the heights above. And only a glimpse was vouchsafed to it of the world from which it was sequestered: beyond a field, in a gap of the minor ridges superimposed upon the mountain, where the dead and girdled trees stood in spectral ranks among the waving corn, might be seen a strip of woods in the cove below, a glint of water, a stately file of lofty peaks vanishing along the narrow skyey vista. Sunrise and sunset,—the Hollow knew them not: a distant mountain might flare with a fantasy of color, a star of abnormal glister might palpitate with some fine supernal thrill of dawn; but for all else, it only knew that the night came early and the day broke late, and in many ways it had meagre part in the common lot.

The little log cabin, set among its scanty fields, its weed-grown “gyarden spot,” and its few fruit-trees, was poor of its kind. The clapboards of its roof were held in place by poles laid athwart them, with large stones piled between to weight them down. The chimney was of clay and sticks, and leaned away from the wall. In a corner of the rickety rail fence a gaunt, razor-backed hog lay grunting drowsily. Upon a rude scaffold tobacco leaves were suspended to dry. Even the martin-house was humble and primitive: merely a post with a cross-bar, from which hung a few large gourds with a cavity in each, whence the birds were continually fluttering. Behind it all, the woods of the steep ascent seemed to touch the sky. The place might give a new meaning to exile, a new sentiment to loneliness.

Seldom it heard from the world,—so seldom that when the faint rifle-shots sounded in the distance a voice from within demanded eagerly, “What on yearth be that, Lethe?”

“Shootin’ fur beef, down in the cove, I reckon, from thar firin’ so constant,” drawled Alethea.

“Ye dunno,” said the unseen, unexpectedly, derisive of this conjecture. “They mought be a-firin’ thar bullets inter each other. Nobody kin count on a man by hisself, but a man in company with a rifle air jes’ a outdacious, jubious critter.”

Alethea looked speculatively down at the limited section of the cove visible from the Hollow above. Her hazel eyes were bright, but singularly grave. The soft sheen of her yellow hair served to definitely outline the shape of her head against the brown logs of the wall. The locks lay not in ripples, but in massive undulations, densely growing above her forehead, and drawn in heavy folds into a knot at the back of her head. She had the delicate complexion and the straight, refined lineaments so incongruous with the poverty-stricken mountaineer, so commonly seen among the class. Her homespun dress was of a dull brown. About her throat, of exquisite whiteness, was knotted a kerchief of the deepest saffron tint. Her hands and arms—for her sleeves were rolled back—were shapely, but rough and sun-embrowned. She had a deliberate, serious manner that very nearly approached dignity.

“I hopes they ain’t,” she said, still listening. “I hopes they ain’t a-shootin’ of one another.”