He was not disappointed in the place; the ridges were high, crowned with tall pines, and below their steep dark shoulders there were tall growing poplars in the narrow twisting valleys. He and the mules and Roan lodged in a great cathedral of a rock house above Left Long Branch, at a spot a few miles back from its mouth on Rockcastle. He thought he would have liked the country and the life there, had not the thought of Delph taken most of the pleasure away.
Trapping and hunting were good. The long grip of the hard cold had brought hunger to the wild things and made even the foxes less wary than usual. Some days Marsh would tramp for hours alone, turn sometimes and look back down the long ridge he had come, and see his tracks winding through the pine trees. It pleased him that his tracks should he the only sign of life about. Most always he had been
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with people, and he had been lonesome, not because he wanted the company of others and could not have it, but because the more he learned of most men the emptier did the world about him seem. But the trees and the rocks and the snow were not like men, they were what they were and left him to be the same.
Sometimes he went hunting for sights to describe to Delph. He explored forgotten rock houses where wildcat tracks were faint in the old dust and chips from Indian arrowheads had lain undisturbed for the last hundred and fifty years about great fire blackened stones. Other times he found walls and mounds of stone which he knew were Indian graves, or the graves of men older than the Indians.
He learned the boundaries of Roan's land, saw sometimes fine tall timber, but most often other things and ugliness which the snow could not hide; trunks of great trees felled in unhandy places and left to rot, young saplings that would never grow straight because logs had been rolled over them, or because they had been left to struggle with the loped off limbs of larger trees. There were whole valleys, usually near some deserted moonshiner's cabin, where the blackened trunks of dying trees stood everywhere, and all but the smallest of the undergrowth was dead. Some hill man had wanted easy fuel and so had fired the woods.
It was then in such a waste that Roan came alive. Anger would replace the pessimism habitual in his dark brown eyes, and he would berate men and governments, call them blind and crazy and wasteful; and his anger was like Dorie's sighs; not meant for one or a thousand acres of land and trees, but for the whole of Kentucky, or the nation, or maybe the world. One day Roan showed him a line of dying chestnut trees, a few holding frozen sick brown leaves that had died with their twigs during the summer. "Chestnut blight," Roan said, and cursed Sam Fairchild.
"You hate that man as bad as his own mother does. He can't help th' chestnut blight," Marsh observed.
Roan nodded. "I know.But used to be I thoughtthat maybe Sam would try to do somethin' about such things." He sat on a snow-covered log, and dug with his heel under the snow for partridge berries he thought might be growing there. He looked but absent-mindedly for the berries, for he talked of Sam Fairchild, and under his talk Marsh saw many things that Roan did not put into
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words, or maybe there were no words. Roan seldom spoke of himself, but now when he talked of Sam he talked of himself also. There was no helping it.
He and Sam had been young together, almost alone in a whole country of preachers, teachers, and speakers from the outlands who told stories of poor boys who became famous, and held always before the minds of the young that hope for their future lay in thrift and educationand in going out into the world. Any, even to the poorest, might, if he practiced all the virtues, go away and be a success; be a rich and famous banker, doctor, lawyer, another Abraham Lincoln or John D. Rockefeller. The world was out there, full of rich plums for any boy who had the grit and determination to go after them. And all the boysthat is the good ones, the bright oneswere going.
"It's hard to think what it was like fifteen years ago," Roan said, getting up and walking away. "A boy with any brains was a fool to talk a farmin'. Teachers looked troubled like they thought he was throwin' his life away, an' other boys thought when a boy planned to stay at home he was afraid he'd fail in a city."
"It's still like that," Marsh said.
Roan shook his head. "Th'hard times an' men comin' back from th' cities without jobs have changed thingsa little. I know of maybe a dozen men in this county that want their boys to be farmers an' are not ashamed to say so. Look how Perce Higginbottom hopes an' plans for his Ray to go to agricultural college an' then come back. In mine an' Sam's day I guess that Dorie was about th' only person in southern Westover that thought a man never got too well educated or too smart to farm. Ever'body laughed when a boy said he was goin' to study agriculture, an' then come back home an' do nothin' but farm."
"I guess it was different in college, though," Marsh said a little enviously. There seemed such a lot of things about his land and crops and stock he didn't know and couldn't always get from government bulletins, that he thought he might have learned in college.
"Not much," Roan answered. "Th' few that studied agriculture were aimin' to do ever'thing in th' world but farm; teach, work for th' government, or sell farm machinery. But Sam wasn't crazy after moneyaltogether."
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''I reckin," Marsh said. "Samhe had to give up his notion a havin' a farmto get some girl to have himmaybe?"
Roan laughed at that. "You don't know Samhe could always get a girl. They flocked to him like bees after clover.You never saw Dorie's manSam's father, I reckin?"
Marsh shook his head. "I've heard things though about him an' women, but all gossip I guess."
"He was th' one human on earth that could hold Dorie, doin' it mostly, I reckin, by his winnin' ways an' handsome looks. He was made like Sam, tall as I am, but slimmer an' straight as a stick, an' a proud high head.Delph, somethin' about th' way she holds her head, puts me in mind of Sam, but his hair's darker than hers, coal black, an' his eyes bluer than Katy's.He had all the brains that either side a th' family ever had, on top of that he had his father's pleasant ways, but at bottom he was Dorie through an' through. When he found out what he wanted he went after it hell bent for leatherlike Dorie payin' for that farm."
Roan got up and strode slowly on, stopping at times to look at this or that, talking still of Sam, with easy fluency as if his life were a story Roan had long since memorized and turned over in his mind until any meaning it might have once had was gone. In collegefor the first year or sotheir plans grew and became exciting, tangible things that they could touch. There had never been in the hills, a model all-purpose farm such as he Roan would have, and no man would ever experiment as Sam would experiment. But Roan's thoughts turned more and more to trees and wasted soil and wasted people until a farm of his own seemed too small a thing to hold his dreams. Sam's interest in the chemistry of plant life and growth, and the chemical content of soils had driven him deeper and deeper into the ever-narrowing world of chemistry.
At first the dreams of his boyhood had remained more or less unchanged; he would farm only enough to live and give the most of his time to research; there were so many thingschestnut blight, peach tree borer, corn smut, the need for types of grass and clover that would grow in leached soil and build it up, and the learning more about the types of soil and fertilizerand chemistry had seemed the answer for it all.
"It was slow like that," Roan explained. "I hardly noticed. I had too good a time, I reckin. Sometimes I was fool enough to feel proud.
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There were all th' others, worryin about jobs when they got out, an' talkin' a what they'd do, wonderin' if they'd make any money. I knew what I'd do. They were gettin' ready for somethin' I was beginnin' to do mine right then. I'd already started buyin' landfifty cents an acrewith any money I could get my hands on.
''I thought Sam was th' same way. But more an' more I noticed he spent his time in th' laboratory. By our third year I began to get worried. He went home that summer an' worked on th' farm like he always did, but nights he studiedchemistry. That fall h
e talked nitrates, always nitratesbut hardly ever' a word about th' clovers an' such that store nitrates from th' air.
"I noticed somethin' else, too. When we first went there, many was th' fight Sam an' I had with th' ones fool enough to call us hill billies. There was a bunch of usCombs boys from Harlan an' th' Hargis boys from Wolfwe'd talk sometimes, brag that we'd someday show th' world that life in th' hills could be good as any an' better than most. 'We've got brains,' Sam used to say, 'but th' brains like th' coal an' timber an' money all leave th' country,' an' he'd talk on, aimin' to live down here an' have a farm on th' Cumberland that would show what could be done in this country.
"But by th' end of his third year he hardly ever talked of livin' in th' hills. That fall when we came back together, somethin' about th' way he looked when th' train went over th' river made me know then an' there that he was tellin' th' country good-bye. He'd learned by then that he had more brainsat least for chemistrythan most. Nights sometimes that fall he'd wonder, say things like, 'Do you reckin I could do graduate work in an eastern university?' or 'I wonder how our brains would match up with th' ones in th' north?' He never told me he'd gone out for a scholarship in chemistry at an eastern university 'til he'd won it. He was pleased that night. Almost th' only time in my life I ever saw him proud. 'I'll show 'em,' he said, 'that hill billy brains can be as good as they come.'
"I tried to congratulate him, but I couldn't somehow. There he was thinkin' of nothin' but brains an' chemistrynever a thought for plants an' th' land or Dorie still expectin' him home. It seemed to me he was a foollike a child dazzled by a Christmas tree. I tried to talk with hima little.
"He just laughed and looked at me. I'll always recollect it. 'You're a mess, Roan,' he said. 'Think about your future, man. Where'll you
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be twenty years from nowlivin' in Westover County, wonderin' if you're fit for anything?' "
Roan stopped and studied the bark of a half dead beech tree. "He said a lot, I don't remember all he said. He laughed, too, at me an' my kiddish plans. I'd never be satisfied, he said, to come back here an' livealways. Other people had laughed at me all my life, but it never mattered. With him it was different. I reckin that's why I knocked him down, knocked out two of his teeth, smashed his lip, an' cut my knuckles. He lay there an' looked at me, an' I stood there an' looked at him. I thought he'd get up an' take his Colt off th' wall an' kill me. He was too slim built for fightin' with his fists. But he got up an' went off an' didn't say a word. Next day while I was out he moved.I've never seen him since. He went east soon as school was outdidn't even bother to wear his cap an' gown, for he'd never cared much about such things."
That evening while they sat in the rock house eating supper, Roan spoke of Sam again and wondered what the world had done to him, and if Dorie would ever give in and invite him home, or if he would come should she invite him. "Th' whole country would like to see him, that is if he's like he used to be. Take Delph now," he went on, "why she gets mad at me, I can see it in her eyes, when she asks about my travels in Europe an' I can't tell her anything she wants to hear, but Sam, Lord, he could have her seem' New York or th' inside of a munitions plant."
"Yes. I guess Delph would like him," Marsh said and got up. He went to the mouth of the rock house and studied the stars, sharp and bright above the cold. Roan came, too, and looked at them and said, "Looks like this cold snap will hang on."
"I wish it would turn warm," Marsh answered, and wished it were spring, time to begin the plowing. Things with Delph would maybe be different then. He thought of her, and as he had done countless other times since coming away, he went over all the things which he had told her to do or not to do, checked the provisions; tried to think of some bit of work he had left undone that she might try to do, but as usual everything at home seemed in order. Caesar was with her, Vinie would come at night, the neighbors would drop in, and she would be all right. Still, he was glad it was night. That was what he liked best about the stars just now. They reminded him
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that another day had gone, and the time for his returning to Delph was that much shorter.
His impatience to be home grew with the passing of the days, and each night he looked at the stars with a greater pleasure. It was Roan, however, who called his attention to the sky one evening when twilight had scarcely fallen, pointed out the blurred road of the Milky Way, and said he thought the other stars looked larger, and faintly filmed as if a cloud might be gathering high overhead. "Maybe it'll turn warm," Marsh said. "This heavy cold's goin' hard with stock, but Dorie said it would hang on till th' new a th' moon."
"Dorie could be wrong," Roan said, as if he hoped she were right. "It's a good thing it's January, an' not Marchall this snow piled up an' maybe a warm spell on th' way."
"It can't turn warm too soon to suit me," Marsh said, suddenly tired and eager to roll into his blankets and think of Delph.
But sleep was slow in coming. He was almost there when Roan raised on one elbow and called, "Marsh, when is Delph's baby comin'?"
"Sometime in late February, I reckin."
"You reckin. From her looks last time I saw her I didn't think it was that soon, else I wouldn't a begged you off this way." He made sounds as of counting on his fingers. "Why, it's maybe no more'n a month away."
"I'll be home in another week," Marsh answered, and wondered if Roan's thoughts were not a great deal like his own.
"Babies don't always come by th' clock, no more'n sheep," Roan observed, and rolled over and appeared to fall asleep. Presently he snored, and Marsh lay and listened and wished he would hush. The snores stopped, but he had scarcely time to be thankful before Roan was calling, "Marsh?"
"What?"
"It's gettin' lots warmer."
"Yeah. I noticed an' took off a blanket."
"Warmin' up awful fast for January."
"It's time."
Roan got up and looked at the stars. They were dimming rapidly now. He lay down and after a time of silence said, "We'd better start out in th' mornin'."
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Marsh spent a second in controlling his pleasure enough to say with reasonable conviction, "I thought you planned to stay two weeks."
"Weather's likely to turn bad, now in th' full a th' moon, an' this place is one God awful bad one to get out of if th' creeks get up," Roan said, and lapsed into silence but not sleep. Some time later he called again, "Marsh?"
"Now, what th' hell?" Marsh answered, and turned and saw in the red glow of the low fire, Roan sitting in his blankets, his head turned sideways toward the cave mouth in an attitude of troubled listening. Marsh listened, too, and heard, not the brittle howl of the north wind or the dead silence of a frozen sleeping world, the sound and lack of sound that had filled the rock house for days, but the long drawn, gently said s-w-i-s-s-s-sh of a south wind in the pine trees.
"Th' wind's swung clean around since dark," Roan said, and got up and walked to the cave mouth and looked at the sky, bright mother-of-pearl and silver gray toward the east where the moon rose.
"It's warmin' up fast," Marsh said, and threw off another blanket.
"God, I hope them clouds mean snow," Roan said, and lay down again.
Marsh slept at last, but awakened to the radiance of cloud filtered moonlight and a feel of rain in the air and the earthy smell of thawing snow. It was not such things that awakened him, but the sound of Roan throwing snow on the fire. He sprang up, folding his blankets as he did so, though by the look of the moon he knew it was far from morning. Roan ground out a coal with his shoe heel and did not look at him as he said, "Moon's light enough for travelin'. We'd better be goin'."
"Might as well," Marsh said, and stopped to listen to the south wind.
"For Christ's sake get a move on. There's a rain blowin' upfast," Roan said, as if that were excuse enough for his crazy notion of beginning a hard ride over rough ground at midnight. Marsh asked no questions. He wanted to be home, and Roan's haste gave him lit
tle time for questions. The mules were saddled and loaded and they were riding away before the fog of sleep had lifted from his
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