The Shepherd
of the Hills
Harold Bell Wright
Start Publishing LLC
Copyright © 2012 by Start Publishing LLC
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
First Start Publishing eBook edition October 2012
Start Publishing is a registered trademark of Start Publishing LLC
Manufactured in the United States of America
Cover Image © Can Stock Photo Inc. / leonidtit
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
ISBN 978-1-62793-992-8
To Frances, My Wife
In Memory of That Beautiful Summer
n the Ozark Hills, When, So Often,
We Followed the Old Trail Around
The Rise of Mutton Hollow—the Trail
That Is Nobody Knows How Old—and from
Sammy’s Lookout Watched the
Day Go over the Western Ridges.
“That all with one consent praise new-born gawds,
Tho they are made and moulded of things past,
And give to dust that is a little gilt
More laud than gilt o’er-dusted.”
TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. ACT 3; SC. 3.
Contents
The Stranger
Sammy Lane
The Voice from out the Mists
A Chat with Aunt Mollie
“Jest Nobody”
The Story
What Is Love?
“Why Ain’t We Got No Folks”
Sammy Lane’s Folks
A Feat of Strength and a Challenge
Ollie Stewart’s Good-by
The Shepherd and His Flock
Sammy Lane’s Ambition
The Common Yeller Kind
The Party at Ford’s
On the Way Home
What Happened at the Ranch
Learning to Be a Lady
The Drought
The Shepherd Writes a Letter
God’s Gold
A Letter from Ollie Stewart
Ollie Comes Home
What Makes a Man
Young Matt Remembers
Ollie’s Dilemma
The Champion
What Pete Told Sammy
Jim Lane Makes a Promise
Sammy Graduates
Castle Building
Preparation
A Ride in the Night
Jim Lane Keeps His Promise
“I Will Lift up Mine Eyes unto the Hills.”
“I Will Lift up Mine Eyes unto the Hills.”
Old Friends
I Ain’t Nobody No More
A Matter of Hours
The Shepherd’s Mission
The Other Side of the Story
The Way of the Lower Trail
Poor Pete
The Trail on the Sunlit Hills
Some Years Later
THE STRANGER
IT was corn-planting time, when the stranger followed the Old Trail into the Mutton Hollow neighborhood.
All day a fine rain had fallen steadily, and the mists hung heavy over the valley. The lower hills were wrapped as in a winding sheet; dank and cold. The trees were dripping with moisture. The stranger looked tired and wet.
By his dress, the man was from the world beyond the ridges, and his carefully tailored clothing looked strangely out of place in the mountain wilderness. His form stooped a little in the shoulders, perhaps with weariness, but he carried himself with the unconscious air of one long used to a position of conspicuous power and influence; and, while his well-kept hair and beard were strongly touched with white, the brown, clear lighted eyes, that looked from under their shaggy brows, told of an intellect unclouded by the shadows of many years. It was a face marked deeply by pride; pride of birth, of intellect, of culture; the face of a scholar and poet; but it was more—it was the countenance of one fairly staggering under a burden of disappointment and grief.
As the stranger walked, he looked searchingly into the mists on every hand, and paused frequently as if questioning the proper course. Suddenly he stepped quickly forward. His ear had caught the sharp ring of a horse’s shoe on a flint rock somewhere in the mists on the mountain side above. It was Jed Holland coming down the trail with a week’s supply of corn meal in a sack across his horse’s back.
As the figure of the traveler emerged from the mists, the native checked his horse to greet the newcomer with the customary salutation of the backwoods, “Howdy.”
The man returned Jed’s greeting cordially, and, resting his satchel on a rock beside the narrow path, added, “I am very glad to meet you. I fear that I am lost.”
The voice was marvelously pure, deep, and musical, and, like the brown eyes, betrayed the real strength of the man, denied by his gray hair and bent form. The tones were as different from the high keyed, slurring speech of the backwoods, as the gentleman himself was unlike any man Jed had ever met. The boy looked at the speaker in wide-eyed wonder; he had a queer feeling that he was in the presence of a superior being.
Throwing one thin leg over the old mare’s neck, and waving a long arm up the hill and to the left, Jed drawled, “That thar’s Dewey Bal’; down yonder’s Mutton Holler.” Then turning a little to the right and pointing into the mist with the other hand, he continued, “Compton Ridge is over thar. Whar was you tryin’ to git to, Mister?”
“Where am I trying to get to?” As the man repeated Jed’s question, he drew his hand wearily across his brow; “I—I—it doesn’t much matter, boy. I suppose I must find some place where I can stay to-night. Do you live near here?”
“Nope,” Jed answered, “Hit’s a right smart piece to whar I live. This here’s grindin’ day, an’ I’ve been t’ mill over on Fall Creek; the Matthews mill hit is. Hit’ll be plumb dark ‘gin I git home. I ‘lowed you was a stranger in these parts soon ‘s I ketched sight of you. What might yer name be, Mister?”
The other, looking back over the way he had come, seemed not to hear Jed’s question, and the native continued, “Mine’s Holland. Pap an’ Mam they come from Tennessee. Pap he’s down in th’ back now, an’ ain’t right peart, but he’ll be ‘round in a little, I reckon. Preachin’ Bill he ‘lows hit’s good fer a feller t’ be down in th’ back onct in a while; says if hit warn’t fer that we’d git to standin’ so durned proud an’ straight we’d go plumb over backwards.”
A bitter smile crossed the face of the older man. He evidently applied the native’s philosophy in a way unguessed by Jed. “Very true, very true, indeed,” he mused. Then he turned to Jed, and asked, “Is there a house near here?”
“Jim Lane lives up the trail ‘bout half a quarter. Ever hear tell o’ Jim?”
“No, I have never been in these mountains before.”
“I ‘lowed maybe you’d heard tell o’ Jim or Sammy. There’s them that ‘lows Jim knows a heap more ‘bout old man Dewey’s cave than he lets on; his place bein’ so nigh. Reckon you know ‘bout Colonel Dewey, him th’ Bal’ up thar’s named fer? Maybe you come t’ look fer the big mine they say’s in th’ cave? I’ll hep you hunt hit, if you want me to, Mister.”
“No,” said the other, “I am not looking for mines of lead or zinc; there is greater wealth in these hills and forests, young man.”
“Law, you don’t say! Jim Wilson allus ‘lowed thar must be gold in these here mountains, ‘cause they’re so dad burned rough. Lemme hep you, Mister. I’d like mighty well t’ git some clothes like them.”
“I do not speak of gold, my boy,” the stranger answered kindly. “But I must not keep you longer, or darkness will overtake us. Do you think this Mr. Lane would entertain me?”
Jed pushed a han
d up under his tattered old hat, and scratched awhile before he answered, “Don’t know ‘bout th’ entertainin’, Mister, but ‘most anybody would take you in.” He turned and looked thoughtfully up the trail. “I don’t guess Jim’s to home though; ‘cause I see’d Sammy a fixin’ t’ go over t’ th’ Matthews’s when I come past. You know the Matthews’s, I reckon?”
There was a hint of impatience now in the deep voice. “No, I told you that I had never been in these mountains before. Will Mr. Matthews keep me, do you think?”
Jed, who was still looking up the trail, suddenly leaned forward, and, pointing into the timber to the left of the path, said in an exciting whisper, “Look at that, Mister; yonder thar by that big rock.”
The stranger, looking, thought he saw a form, weird and ghost-like in the mist, flitting from tree to tree, but, even as he looked, it vanished among the hundreds of fantastic shapes in the gray forest. “What is it?” he asked.
The native shook his head. “Durned if I know, Mister. You can’t tell. There’s mighty strange things stirrin’ on this here mountain, an’ in the Holler down yonder. Say, Mister, did you ever see a hant?”
The gentleman did not understand.
“A hant, a ghost, some calls ‘em,” explained Jed. “Bud Wilson he sure seed old Matt’s—”
The other interrupted. “Really, young man, I must go. It is already late, and you know I have yet to find a place to stay for the night.”
“Law, that’s alright, Mister!” replied Jed. “Ain’t no call t’ worry. Stay anywhere. Whar do you live when you’re to home?”
Again Jed’s question was ignored. “You think then that Mr. Matthews will keep me?”
“Law, yes! They’ll take anybody in. I know they’re to home ‘cause they was a fixin’ t’ leave the mill when I left ‘bout an hour ago. Was the river up much when you come acrost?” As the native spoke he was still peering uneasily into the woods.
“I did not cross the river. How far is it to this Matthews place, and how do I go?”
“Jest foller this Old Trail. Hit’ll take you right thar. Good road all th’ way. ‘Bout three mile, I’d say. Did you come from Springfield or St. Louis, maybe?”
The man lifted his satchel from the rock as he answered: “No, I do not live in either Springfield or St. Louis. Thank you, very much, for your assistance. I will go on, now, for I must hurry, or night will overtake me, and I shall not be able to find the path.”
“Oh, hit’s a heap lighter when you git up on th’ hill ‘bove th’ fog,” said Jed, lowering his leg from the horse’s neck, and settling the meal sack, preparatory to moving. “But I’d a heap rather hit was you than me a goin’ up on Dewey t’night.” He was still looking up the trail. “Reckon you must be from Kansas City or Chicago? I heard tell they’re mighty big towns.”
The stranger’s only answer was a curt “Good-by,” as his form vanished in the mist.
Jed turned and dug his heels vigorously in the old mare’s flanks, as he ejaculated softly, “Well, I’ll be dod durned! Must be from New York, sure!”
Slowly the old man toiled up the mountain; up from the mists of the lower ground to the ridge above; and, as he climbed, unseen by him, a shadowy form flitted from tree to tree in the dim, dripping forest.
As the stranger came in sight of the Lane cabin, a young woman on a brown pony rode out of the gate and up the trail before him; and when the man reached the open ground on the mountain above, and rounded the shoulder of the hill, he saw the pony, far ahead, loping easily along the little path. A moment he watched, and horse and rider passed from sight.
The clouds were drifting far away. The western sky was clear with the sun still above the hills. In an old tree that leaned far out over the valley, a crow shook the wet from his plumage and dried himself in the warm light; while far below the mists rolled, and on the surface of that gray sea, the traveler saw a company of buzzards, wheeling and circling above some dead thing hidden in its depth.
Wearily the man followed the Old Trail toward the Matthews place, and always, as he went, in the edge of the gloomy forest, flitted that shadowy form.
SAMMY LANE
PREACHIN’ BILL, says, “Hit’s a plumb shame there ain’t more men in th’ world built like old man Matthews and that thar boy o’ his’n. Men like them ought t’ be as common as th’ other kind, an’ would be too if folks cared half as much ‘bout breeding folks as they do ‘bout raising hogs an’ horses.”
Mr. Matthews was a giant. Fully six feet four inches in height, with big bones, broad shoulders, and mighty muscles. At log rollings and chopping bees, in the field or at the mill, or in any of the games in which the backwoodsman tries his strength, no one had ever successfully contested his place as the strongest man in the hills. And still, throughout the country side, the old folks tell with pride tales of the marvelous feats of strength performed in the days when “Old Matt” was young.
Of the son, “Young Matt,” the people called him, it is enough to say that he seemed made of the same metal and cast in the same mold as the father; a mighty frame, softened yet by young manhood’s grace; a powerful neck and well poised head with wavy red-brown hair; and blue eyes that had in them the calm of summer skies or the glint of battle steel. It was a countenance fearless and frank, but gentle and kind, and the eyes were honest eyes.
Anyone meeting the pair, as they walked with the long swinging stride of the mountaineer up the steep mill road that gray afternoon, would have turned for a second look; such men are seldom seen.
When they reached the big log house that looks down upon the Hollow, the boy went at once with his axe to the woodpile, while the older man busied himself with the milking and other chores about the barn.
Young Matt had not been chopping long when he heard, coming up the hill, the sound of a horse’s feet on the Old Trail. The horse stopped at the house and a voice, that stirred the blood in the young man’s veins, called, “Howdy, Aunt Mollie.”
Mrs. Matthews appeared in the doorway; by her frank countenance and kindly look anyone would have known her at a glance as the boy’s mother. “Land sakes, if it ain’t Sammy Lane! How are you, honey?”
“I am alright,” answered the voice; “I’ve come over t’ stop with you to-night; Dad’s away again; Mandy Ford staid with me last night, but she had to go home this evenin’.” The big fellow at the woodpile drove his axe deeper into the log.
“It’s about time you was a comin’ over,” replied the woman in the doorway; “I was a tellin’ the menfolks this mornin’ that you hadn’t been nigh the whole blessed week. Mr. Matthews ‘lowed maybe you was sick.”
The other returned with a gay laugh, “I was never sick a minute in my life that anybody ever heard tell. I’m powerful hungry, though. You’d better put in another pan of corn bread.” She turned her pony’s head toward the barn.
“Seems like you are always hungry,” laughed the older woman, in return. “Well just go on out to the barn, and the men will take your horse; then come right in and I’ll mighty soon have something to fill you up.”
Operations at the woodpile suddenly ceased and Young Matt was first at the barn-yard gate.
Miss Sammy Lane was one of those rare young women whose appearance is not to be described. One can, of course, put it down that she was tall; beautifully tall, with the trimness of a young pine, deep bosomed, with limbs full-rounded, fairly tingling with the life and strength of perfect womanhood; and it may be said that her face was a face to go with one through the years, and to live still in one’s dreams when the sap of life is gone, and, withered and old, one sits shaking before the fire; a generous, loving mouth, red lipped, full arched, with the corners tucked in and perfect teeth between; a womanly chin and nose, with character enough to save them from being pretty; hair dark, showing a touch of gold with umber in the shadows; a brow, full broad, set over brown eyes that had never been taught to hide behind their fringed veils, but looked always square out at you with a healthy look of good comradesh
ip, a gleam of mirth, or a sudden, wide, questioning gaze that revealed depth of soul within.
But what is the use? When all this is written, those who knew Sammy will say, “‘Tis but a poor picture, for she is something more than all this.” Uncle Ike, the postmaster at the Forks, did it much better when he said to “Preachin’ Bill,” the night of the “Doin’s” at the Cove School, “Ba thundas! That gal o’ Jim Lane’s jest plumb fills th’ whole house. What! An’ when she comes a ridin’ up t’ th’ office on that brown pony o’ hern, I’ll be dad burned if she don’t pretty nigh fill th’ whole out doors, ba thundas! What!” And the little shrivelled up old hillsman, who keeps the ferry, removed his cob pipe long enough to reply, with all the emphasis possible to his squeaky voice, “She sure do, Ike. She sure do. I’ve often thought hit didn’t look jest fair fer God ‘lmighty t’ make sech a woman ‘thout ary man t’ match her. Makes me feel plumb ‘shamed o’ myself t’ stand ‘round in th’ same county with her. Hit sure do, Ike.”
Greeting the girl the young man opened the gate for her to pass.
“I’ve been a lookin’ for you over,” said Sammy, a teasing light in her eyes. “Didn’t you know that Mandy was stoppin’ with me? She’s been a dyin’ to see you.”
“I’m mighty sorry,” he replied, fastening the gate and coming to the pony’s side. “Why didn’t you tell me before? I reckon she’ll get over it alright, though,” he added with a smile, as he raised his arms to assist the girl to dismount.
The teasing light vanished as the young woman placed her hands on the powerful shoulders of the giant, and as she felt the play of the swelling muscles that swung her to the ground so easily, her face flushed with admiration. For the fraction of a minute she stood facing him, her hands still on his arms, her lips parted as if to speak; then she turned quickly away, and without a word walked toward the house, while the boy, pretending to busy himself with the pony’s bridle, watched her as she went.
When the girl was gone, the big fellow led the horse away to the stable, where he crossed his arms upon the saddle and hid his face from the light. Mr. Matthews coming quietly to the door a few minutes later saw the boy standing there, and the rugged face of the big mountaineer softened at the sight. Quietly he withdrew to the other side of the barn, to return later when the saddle and bridle had been removed, and the young man stood stroking the pony, as the little horse munched his generous feed of corn.
The Shepard of the Hills Page 1
