Bridge to Cutter Gap / Silent Superstitions / The Angry Intruder

by Catherine Marshall

  “When are you going next?”

  “Startin’ now. That’s why I was gettin’ my boots on. Letters are piled up somethin’ fearful.”

  “Do you ride?”

  The mail-man looked astonished at her question. “No critter could make it in this snow!”

  Christy felt her heart sink a little. Mrs. Tatum had said it was seven miles from here to Cutter Gap. Christy had never walked seven miles at one stretch in her entire life. But what did that matter? She couldn’t exactly sit here, waiting for the snow to melt and spring to come.

  “Could I walk out there with you today?” Christy asked.

  “Nope. Too hard a walk for a city-gal. These here mountains make for tough walking, and the deep snow makes it near impossible, even for mountain people. And, besides, you’re just a runt of a girl. You’d never make it.”

  He did not sound like he was going to change his mind. “Mr. Pentland,” Christy said forcefully, “you don’t understand. I’m strong, honestly I am, and the snow may last for weeks.”

  “Sorry, Miss. It just wouldn’t be right for a woman to go along with the U-nited States mail.” He took a step backwards and placed his hand over his heart, as if he were about to salute the flag. “‘Neither rain . . . nor snow . . . nor heat . . . nor gloom of night . . . will stay these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.’”

  Christy stared at him in amazement. She had never heard that slogan before. Was Mr. Pentland making fun of her?

  “Beautiful, ain’t it?” Mr. Pentland asked. “The government in Washington wrote it up for us. Anyway, I figure if rain or snow can’t stop us from getting the mail where it needs to go, then I surely can’t have no city-gal getting in the way.” He turned to rejoin his companions by the stove.

  Now what? Mr. Pentland was Christy’s only chance to get to Cutter Gap. She couldn’t give up, not yet.

  “Mr. Pentland, please,” Christy begged, running after him. “That’s a wonderful slogan. I promise I won’t interfere with the mail one bit. I won’t even slow you down. Please? At least consider it?”

  The mail-man looked her over doubtfully. “Look, I don’t want to discourage you, but it’s for your own good. It ain’t easy, walkin’ in the snow. And what about your things?”

  So he was weakening—at least a little. “I only have one small suitcase,” Christy said hopefully. “The rest of my things are being shipped in a trunk. May I—” she smiled her most winning smile— “May I come with you?”

  Mr. Pentland smiled, shaking his head. “Can you be ready in a hip and a hurry?”

  “Ten minutes,” Christy vowed.

  She ran back to Mrs. Tatum’s and quickly gathered her belongings together. As she said goodbye on the front porch, Mrs. Tatum took Christy’s face between her hands, kissing first one cheek and then the other.

  “That’s for your mother, since she ain’t here,” she said. “And you let her know that I did my level best to send you home to her.” She shook her head. “You’re a sight on the eyes,” she said. “They’ve never seen the likes of you before, out at the mission.” She thrust a brown paper bag into Christy’s hand. “No use walkin’ on an empty stomach.”

  Christy turned to see Mr. Pentland, waiting impatiently by the edge of the road. “Women!” he muttered under his breath, clearly embarrassed by all the female fuss. “Always cacklin’ like hens!”

  “I must go,” Christy said. “Thank you again for everything, Mrs. Tatum.”

  “Mind you watch that slippery, log bridge over the creek!” Mrs. Tatum warned. “The Lord bless you and keep you, child.”

  Mr. Pentland walked at a brisk pace, but Christy managed to keep up with him. She was feeling much more hopeful this morning. The world looked fresh and welcoming, coated with glistening snow. Over the far mountains a soft smoky-blue haze hung like a cloak, but in the valley where she was walking, the sky was clear blue.

  Things were definitely looking up, Christy decided. Not only was Mr. Pentland letting her tag along—he had even offered to carry her suitcase, along with his mail bag. Out here, surrounded by the beauty of the mountains, the warnings she’d been hearing about Cutter Gap seemed silly.

  After a while, Mr. Pentland turned and gave Christy a smile. “Maybe I should whittle down my walk a bit,” he said. “Women’s skirts ain’t the best for snow.”

  Christy smiled back. There was something courteous and dignified about Mr. Pentland that she liked. His speech was full of odd expressions she had never heard before. The sun was a “sunball.” Twilight was “the edge of dark.” A mountain lion was a “painter.” The words were beautiful, but very strange to her ears.

  “Mr. Pentland,” Christy asked as they began to walk more slowly, “how many families are there in Cutter Gap?”

  He thought for a moment. “Maybe ’bout seventy in the Cove,” he answered at last.

  “The Cove?” Christy repeated.

  “A cove is like a holler.”

  Christy shook her head, still confused.

  “You know, a valley, between them mountains.”

  “Oh!” Christy nodded, understanding dawning at last. Would it always be so hard, she wondered, communicating with these people? “Most of the people farm, don’t they?” she asked. “What crops? What do they raise?”

  “Raise youngsters, mostly,” he answered dryly.

  Christy couldn’t help smiling. “And do most of these children go to the mission school?”

  “Well, now, that depends. Not all of them has got religion. Course, most everyone seems to like the new preacher, David Grantland.”

  “Has he been at the mission long?”

  “Three months or so.”

  “What else can you tell me about him? Is he married?”

  Mr. Pentland looked at Christy and chuckled. “Nope,” he said.

  Christy felt a blush rising in her cheeks. “Tell me,” she said, quickly changing the subject, “do you know Miss Alice Henderson?”

  “Everybody in Cutter Gap knows Miz Henderson.”

  “What’s she like? What does she look like?”

  The mountaineer shifted Christy’s suitcase to his other hand, considering her question. “Well, she’s a smiley woman. All her wrinkles are smile-wrinkles. Keeps busier than a honey-bee ’round a rosebush. Started two schools and churches before comin’ to Cutter Gap, she did. She rides a horse all over the mountains by herself. Sidesaddle, longskirt. Teachin’, preachin’, nursin’ the sick, comfortin’ the dyin’.” He smiled. “She has a heap of hair. Wears it in braids ’round her head, like a crown. And she sits in that saddle like a queen.”

  Christy considered the picture he’d painted for her. Because of his speech and the fact that he hadn’t had much formal education, she’d jumped to the conclusion that Mr. Pentland was a simple man. Clearly she’d been wrong. That was something she needed to remember.

  Mr. Pentland stopped at a small, rustic cabin, calling out, “Mornin’! U-nited States mail!”

  A woman rushed out to retrieve her two precious letters, waving happily at Mr. Pentland.

  “How many more stops will we have?” Christy asked as they headed on.

  “Four more letters. Ain’t that a wonder!”

  “But back at the store you said—” Christy stopped in mid sentence, trying to understand this mountain world where six letters meant “piled-up” mail.

  Soon the trail grew so winding and narrow that they had to walk single-file. After a couple of hours of walking in Mr. Pentland’s footsteps, the cold had begun to creep into Christy’s bones. Her eyes stung. Her skirts were wet from snow and were beginning to stiffen in the cold. Her eyelashes were beaded with wet snow.

  As she trudged along, she began to wonder if she really could make it all seven miles. She hadn’t imagined that the trail would be so steep. And what was that Mrs. Tatum had said about the “slippery, log bridge”? Whatever she’d meant, it didn’t sound easy.

  Gradually the path grew almost vertica
l. The trail seemed to have been sliced out of the side of the mountain to their right. To their left, the ledge dropped off into space. Before long, it was five hundred feet to the valley floor below. Christy’s breath came in short, hard gasps.

  “This here’s Lonesome Pine Ridge,” Mr. Pentland called back. “There’s another way that’s shorter. But that way is so up-tilted, you could stand up straight and bite the ground.”

  Struggling for breath, Christy wondered silently if any piece of land could be more up-tilted than this. The wind grew more fierce, a gale from the north with a howl that stood her hair on end. The closer they got to the top of the ridge, the more certain she was that she would be blown right over the cliff, falling to a rocky death.

  The memory of the falling dream, the one she’d had last night, came back to her suddenly. She shivered, but she couldn’t tell if it was from fear or from the never-ending, bitter-cold wind that seemed to sneak its way inside her coat.

  Christy studied her feet. One foot in front of the other. One dainty boot into each of Mr. Pentland’s great footprints. She was beginning to see why the mail-man hadn’t wanted her to come. This morning seemed like days and days ago.

  Don’t think about the wind, Christy told herself. Don’t think about how high you are. You are having an adventure, a great and wonderful adventure.

  Mr. Pentland must have sensed she was afraid. He called back over his shoulder, “Not much farther now to the Spencers’ cabin. They live just on the other side. Guess we could stop and sit a spell by their fire and let you warm yourself.”

  “I’d like that,” Christy called back wearily.

  “You must be mighty tired out,” Mr. Pentland called. “It’s just another step or two.”

  At last, when Christy didn’t think she could go another step, they came upon a cabin made of rough logs chinked together with mud. In the cleared place enclosed by a split-rail fence sat an immense black pot, a tall pile of logs for firewood, and some squawking chickens pecking in the snow.

  A man wearing overalls and a large, black felt hat appeared on the porch. “Howdy!” he called. Hounds raced toward Mr. Pentland and Christy, wagging their tails and yapping happily.

  “Howdy,” Mr. Pentland called back. “Jeb Spencer, this here’s Miz Huddleston. New teacher from Asheville.”

  “Howdy-do, Ma’am,” the man said respectfully.

  He led them through the doorway into the gloomy little cabin. At first Christy could see nothing but the red glow of firelight. Then she noticed several beds piled high with quilts. In the shadows to one side stood a tall woman and an assortment of children, all of them with white-blond hair.

  “Come and see the new teacher,” Mr. Spencer said to the children. He nodded at the woman in the shadows. “This here’s my wife, Fairlight,” he explained to Christy. “And that’s Zady, Clara, Lulu.” He pointed to a tiny boy. “And that there is Little Guy. The oldest boy, John, he’s out huntin’.”

  Would these children soon be some of her students? Christy wondered. She smiled at them and held her hand out to Mrs. Spencer. But the pretty woman didn’t seem to know what to do. She touched Christy’s fingers shyly. “Would you like to sit a spell?” she asked softly in a sweet, musical voice.

  Christy could scarcely take her eyes off Fairlight Spencer. She was beautiful, in a plain, simple way. She had on a worn calico dress, and her feet were bare, despite the cold.

  The Spencers, Christy realized, were watching her just as closely. As she took off her coat, the children seemed to be fascinated with the red sweater she was wearing underneath.

  Mr. Pentland handed Mrs. Spencer the lunch Mrs. Tatum had prepared. “You must be starvin’,” the woman said softly. “Dinner’ll be on the table right quick. You two rest up.”

  While Christy held her hands close to the fire, she had a better chance to look around the cabin. It was just two rooms, side by side. This one, she guessed, judging from all the beds, must serve as both the living and sleeping quarters. The other was the kitchen.

  The children’s bright eyes were still watching Christy. The littlest girl, the one named Lulu, had the fat-cheeked cherub look of a china doll. The tiny toddler—the one his father had called Little Guy—came up and touched his shy fingers to Christy’s red sweater.

  After a few minutes, Mrs. Spencer called everyone to dinner. The whole group gathered around a plank table set in a corner near the kitchen. Mr. Spencer began asking the blessing in a loud, clear voice. “Thank Thee, Lord, for providin’ this bounty. Bless us and bind us. Amen.”

  Just then, out of the corner of her eye, Christy noticed a small gray pig. As soon as the “Amen” had been spoken, the older girl named Clara spoke up eagerly. “That there’s Belinda, our pet pig,” she said proudly. She picked up the pig and set it in her lap.

  Christy tried not to show her surprise. But she couldn’t help thinking that a smelly pig at the table was probably just the beginning of what she’d have to get used to here in the mountains. And after all, her mother had always insisted that a lady should be poised under all circumstances. If only her mother could see— not to mention smell—this house! Were all the homes in Cutter Gap as primitive as this one?

  Mrs. Spencer placed a big black pot of steaming cabbage on the table, and the men broke up cornbread to sop it up. It looked awful to Christy. Longingly she gazed at Mrs. Tatum’s ham sandwiches, which Mrs. Spencer had placed on a tin plate. The children were staring at them with total fascination.

  “Would you like one of my sandwiches?” Christy asked, and within seconds, the ham sandwiches had disappeared. Even Belinda the pig sneaked a small bite.

  Taking a piece of cornbread, Christy gazed at the unscrubbed faces around her. There was something strong and serious about them— something that reflected a spirit and attitude of a time long ago. It was as if one of those old tintype photographs of pioneers had come to life. Well, these were pioneers, in a way, she thought. It certainly had taken strength and courage to journey hundreds of miles through wilderness to settle here. And it would take strength indeed to live and try to keep house in a cabin like this one.

  Sitting there with these people, Christy had a strange feeling. It was as if, in crossing the mountains with Mr. Pentland, she had crossed into another time, back to the days of the American frontier. Was she still Christy Rudd Huddleston from Asheville, North Carolina—or was she somebody else? It was as if the pages of her history book had opened—as if, by some magic, Daniel Boone or Davy Crockett could walk into this cabin at any moment. But this was no storybook. This was real.

  “Are you likin’ the food all right?” Fairlight Spencer asked nervously.

  Just as Christy opened her mouth to answer, a little red-haired boy rushed into the cabin. He leaned against the chimney, gasping for breath.

  “Creed Allen!” Mrs. Spencer cried. “What on earth is it?”

  “Mighty sorry, Miz Spencer,” he gasped. “But Pa’s been hurt bad! It was a fallin’ tree. Hit him on the head!”

  “Where is he?” Mr. Spencer asked.

  “They’re carrying him here.” The little boy’s eyes fell on Christy. “He was on his way to the station to fetch the new teacher when it happened!”

  Five

  Christy gasped, the boy’s words whirling in her head. So that was why no one had been at the station to meet her. A horrible feeling of guilt swept over her. Someone had been hurt because of her.

  A moment later, two boys carried in a makeshift stretcher made of branches. A man lay on it, limp and unconscious. His head was bloody.

  Mr. Spencer took one end of the stretcher and helped the boys ease the injured man onto a bed. Mrs. Spencer removed the man’s heavy shoes and covered him with a quilt.

  This happened because of me, Christy thought. She stared at the breathless little boy kneeling by the bed. “Pa,” he’d said. This poor man, so badly hurt, was the boy’s father.

  “Is Doc comin’?” Mr. Spencer asked.

  “Yep,” one of
the boys answered. “Ought to be here pretty quick.”

  “Who is the man who’s hurt?” Christy managed to whisper to Mrs. Spencer.

  “That be Bob Allen.” Her voice was gentle, as if she sensed how Christy felt. “Miz Henderson asked Bob to fetch you at the station. But it probably was snowin’ too heavy on Sunday for him to journey. Guess he figured the snow had you stuck there.” She nodded at one of the boys who’d carried in the stretcher. He was tall and slender, about fourteen or so. “That be Rob Allen, Bob’s oldest son.”

  Christy thought for a moment. Hadn’t that been the name of the boy Dr. Ferrand had mentioned in his speech last summer? The boy who had walked to school for miles, barefoot, because he was so anxious to learn?

  Christy glanced at the boy’s feet. They were barefoot, like all the children’s. Suddenly she felt self-conscious in her own expensive clothes and shoes.

  “That other boy, the fair-haired one, is mine. John. He’s fifteen. And that there is Creed Allen, Rob’s little brother,” Mrs. Spencer said. She pointed to the red-haired boy who’d run into the cabin to announce that his father was hurt. “A rascal, that one is.”

  At the sound of his name, Creed looked up.

  “This here’s the new teacher from Asheville,” Mrs. Spencer told him.

  Rob and Creed stared at Christy. She couldn’t read their faces. Was it curiosity or anger she saw there? Were they thinking that she was . . . that she was the cause of their father’s accident?

  Rob nodded shyly. “Proud to know you,” he said softly. “I been lookin’ forward to your comin’. . . . ” He turned back to his father, his voice trailing off.

  His little brother ran over to eye Christy more closely. Overalls, tousled hair, lots of freckles—he looked like a character out of the book Tom Sawyer. His two front teeth were missing.

  “Howdy-do,” he said, head tilted to one side.

  “I’m so sorry about your father,” Christy said.

  “It ain’t your fault,” the boy said. “Near as we can figure, Pa was cuttin’ across Pebble Mountain when a high wind come up. A big tulip-poplar tree bumped him right on the head.”