The Shepard of the Hills

by Harold Bell Wright

  The elder man laid his hand on the broad shoulder of the lad so like him, and looked full into the clear eyes. “Is it alright, son?” he asked gruffly; and the boy answered, as he returned his father’s look, “It’s alright, Dad.”

  “Then let’s go to the house; Mother called supper some time ago.”

  Just as the little company were seating themselves at the table, the dog in the yard barked loudly. Young Matt went to the door. The stranger, whom Jed had met on the Old Trail, stood at the gate.

  THE VOICE FROM OUT THE MISTS

  WHILE Young Matt was gone to the corral in the valley to see that the sheep were safely folded for the night, and the two women were busy in the house with their after-supper work, Mr. Matthews and his guest sat on the front porch.

  “My name is Howitt, Daniel Howitt,” the man said in answer to the host’s question. But, as he spoke, there was in his manner a touch of embarrassment, and he continued quickly as if to prevent further question, “You have two remarkable children, sir; that boy is the finest specimen of manhood I have ever seen, and the girl is remarkable—remarkable, sir. You will pardon me, I am sure, but I am an enthusiastic lover of my kind, and I certainly have never seen such a pair.”

  The grim face of the elder Matthews showed both pleasure and amusement. “You’re mistaken, Mister; the boy’s mine alright, an’ he’s all that you say, an’ more, I reckon. I doubt if there’s a man in the hills can match him to-day; not excepting Wash Gibbs; an’ he’s a mighty good boy, too. But the girl is a daughter of a neighbor, and no kin at all.”

  “Indeed!” exclaimed the other, “you have only one child then?”

  The amused smile left the face of the old mountaineer, as he answered slowly, “There was six boys, sir; this one, Grant, is the youngest. The others lie over there.” He pointed with his pipe to where a clump of pines, not far from the house, showed dark and tall, against the last red glow in the sky.

  The stranger glanced at the big man’s face in quick sympathy. “I had only two; a boy and a girl,” he said softly. “The girl and her mother have been gone these twenty years. The boy grew to be a man, and now he has left me.” The deep voice faltered. “Pardon me, sir, for speaking of this, but my lad was so like your boy there. He was all I had, and now—now—I am very lonely, sir.”

  There is a bond of fellowship in sorrow that knows no conventionalities. As the two men sat in the hush of the coming night, their faces turned toward the somber group of trees, they felt strongly drawn to one another.

  The mountaineer’s companion spoke again half to himself; “I wish that my dear ones had a resting place like that. In the crowded city cemetery the ground is always shaken by the tramping of funeral professions.” He buried his face in his hands.

  For some time the stranger sat thus, while his host spoke no word. Then lifting his head, the man looked away over the ridges just touched with the lingering light, and the valley below wrapped in the shadowy mists. “I came away from it all because they said I must, and because I was hungry for this.” He waved his hand toward the glowing sky and the forest clad hills. “This is good for me; it somehow seems to help me know how big God is. One could find peace here—surely, sir, one could find it here—peace and strength.”

  The mountaineer puffed hard at his pipe for a while, then said gruffly, “Seems that way, Mister, to them that don’t know. But many’s the time I’ve wished to God I’d never seen these here Ozarks. I used to feel like you do, but I can’t no more. They ‘mind me now of him that blackened my life; he used to take on powerful about the beauty of the country and all the time he was a turnin’ it into a hell for them that had to stay here after he was gone.”

  As he spoke, anger and hatred grew dark in the giant’s face, and the stranger saw the big hands clench and the huge frame grow tense with passion. Then, as if striving to be not ungracious, the woodsman said in a somewhat softer tone, “You can’t see much of it, this evening, though, ‘count of the mists. It’ll fair up by morning, I reckon. You can see a long way from here, of a clear day, Mister.”

  “Yes, indeed,” replied Mr. Howitt, in an odd tone. “One could see far from here, I am sure. We, who live in the cities, see but a little farther than across the street. We spend our days looking at the work of our own and our neighbors’ hands. Small wonder our lives have so little of God in them, when we come in touch with so little that God has made.”

  “You live in the city, then, when you are at home?” asked Mr. Matthews, looking curiously at his guest.

  “I did, when I had a home; I cannot say that I live anywhere now.”

  Old Matt leaned forward in his chair as if to speak again; then paused; someone was coming up the hill; and soon they distinguished the stalwart form of the son. Sammy coming from the house with an empty bucket met the young man at the gate, and the two went toward the spring together.

  In silence the men on the porch watched the moon as she slowly pushed her way up through the leafy screen on the mountain wall. Higher and higher she climbed until her rays fell into the valley below, and the drifting mists from ridge to ridge became a sea of ghostly light. It was a weird scene, almost supernatural in its beauty.

  Then from down at the spring a young girl’s laugh rose clearly, and the big mountaineer said in a low tone, “Mr. Howitt, you’ve got education; it’s easy to see that; I’ve always wanted to ask somebody like you, do you believe in hants? Do you reckon folks ever come back once they’re dead and gone?”

  The man from the city saw that his big host was terribly in earnest, and answered quietly, “No, I do not believe in such things, Mr. Matthews; but if it should be true, I do not see why we should fear the dead.”

  The other shook his head; “I don’t know—I don’t know, sir; I always said I didn’t believe, but some things is mighty queer.” He seemed to be shaping his thought for further speech, when again the girl’s laugh rang clear along the mountain side. The young people were returning from the spring.

  The mountaineer relighted his pipe, while Young Matt and Sammy seated themselves on the step, and Mrs. Matthews coming from the house joined the group.

  “We’ve just naturally got to find somebody to stay with them sheep, Dad,” said the son; “there ain’t nobody there to-night, and as near as I can make out there’s three ewes and their lambs missing. There ain’t a bit of use in us trying to depend on Pete.”

  “I’ll ride over on Bear Creek to-morrow, and see if I can get that fellow Buck told us about,” returned the father.

  “You find it hard to get help on the ranch?” inquired the stranger.

  “Yes, sir, we do,” answered Old Matt. “We had a good ‘nough man ‘till about a month ago; since then we’ve been gettin’ along the best we could. But with some a stayin’ out on the range, an’ not comin’ in, an’ the wolves a gettin’ into the corral at night, we’ll lose mighty nigh all the profits this year. The worst of it is, there ain’t much show to get a man; unless that one over on Bear Creek will come. I reckon, though, he’ll be like the rest.” He sat staring gloomily into the night.

  “Is the work so difficult?” Mr. Howitt asked.

  “Difficult, no; there ain’t nothing to do but tendin’ to the sheep. The man has to stay at the ranch of nights, though.”

  Mr. Howitt was wondering what staying at the ranch nights could have to do with the difficulty, when, up from the valley below, from out the darkness and the mists, came a strange sound; a sound as if someone were singing a song without words. So wild and weird was the melody; so passionately sweet the voice, it seemed impossible that the music should come from human lips. It was more as though some genie of the forest-clad hills wandered through the mists, singing as he went with the joy of his possessions.

  Mrs. Matthews came close to her husband’s side, and placed her hand upon his shoulder as he half rose from his chair, his pipe fallen to the floor. Young Matt rose to his feet and moved closer to the girl, who was also standing. The stranger alone kept his se
at and he noted the agitation of the others in wonder.

  For some moments the sound continued, now soft and low, with the sweet sadness of the wind in the pines; then clear and ringing, it echoed and reechoed along the mountain; now pleadings, as though a soul in darkness prayed a gleam of light; again rising, swelling exultingly, as in glad triumph, only to die away once more to that moaning wail, seeming at last to lose itself in the mists.

  Slowly Old Matt sank back into his seat and the stranger heard him mutter, “Poor boy, poor boy.” Aunt Mollie was weeping. Suddenly Sammy sprang from the steps and running down the walk to the gate sent a clear, piercing call over the valley: “O—h—h, Pete.” The group on the porch listened intently. Again the girl called, and yet again: “O—h—h, Pete.” But there was no answer.

  “It’s no use, honey,” said Mrs. Matthews, breaking the silence; “it just ain’t no use;” and the young girl came slowly back to the porch.

  A CHAT WITH AUNT MOLLIE

  WHEN the stranger looked from his window the next morning, the valley was still wrapped in its gray blanket. But when he and his host came from the house after breakfast, the sun had climbed well above the ridge, and, save a long, loosely twisted rope of fog that hung above the distant river, the mists were gone. The city man exclaimed with delight at the beauty of the scene.

  As they stood watching the sheep—white specks in the distance—climbing out of the valley where the long shadows still lay, to the higher, sunlit pastures, Mr. Matthews said, “We’ve all been a talkin’ about you this mornin’, Mr. Howitt, and we’d like mighty well to have you stop with us for a spell. If I understood right, you’re just out for your health anyway, and you’ll go a long ways, sir, before you find a healthier place than this right here. We ain’t got much such as you’re used to, I know, but what we have is yourn, and we’d be proud to have you make yourself to home for as long as you’d like to stay. You see it’s been a good while since we met up with anybody like you, and we count it a real favor to have you.”

  Mr. Howitt accepted the invitation with evident pleasure, and, soon after, the mountaineer rode away to Bear Creek, on his quest for a man to herd sheep. Young Matt had already gone with his team to the field on the hillside west of the house, and the brown pony stood at the gate ready for Sammy Lane to return to her home on Dewey Bald.

  “I’d like the best in the world to stay, Aunt Mollie,” she said, in answer to Mrs. Matthews’ protest; “but you know there is no one to feed the stock, and besides Mandy Ford will be back sometime to-day.”

  The older woman’s arm was around the girl as they went down the walk. “You must come over real often, now, honey; you know it won’t be long ‘til you’ll be a leavin’ us for good. How do you reckon you’ll like bein’ a fine lady, and livin’ in the city with them big folks?”

  The girl’s face flushed, and her eyes had that wide questioning look, as she answered slowly, “I don’t know, Aunt Mollie; I ain’t never seen a sure ‘nough fine lady; I reckon them city folks are a heap different from us, but I reckon they’re just as human. It would be nice to have lots of money and pretties, but somehow I feel like there’s a heap more than that to think about. Any how,” she added brightly, “I ain’t goin’ for quite a spell yet, and you know ‘Preachin’ Bill’ says, ‘There ain’t no use to worry ‘bout the choppin’ ‘til the dogs has treed the coon.’ I’ll sure come over every day.”

  Mrs. Matthews kissed the girl, and then, standing at the gate, watched until pony and rider had disappeared in the forest.

  Later Aunt Mollie, with a woman’s fondness for a quiet chat, brought the potatoes she was preparing for dinner, to sit with Mr. Howitt on the porch. “I declare I don’t know what we’ll do without Sammy,” she said; “I just can’t bear to think of her goin’ away.”

  The guest, feeling that some sort of a reply was expected, asked, “Is the family moving from the neighborhood?”

  “No, sir, there ain’t no family to move. Just Sammy and her Pa, and Jim Lane won’t never leave this country again. You see Ollie Stewart’s uncle, his father’s brother it is, ain’t got no children of his own, and he wrote for Ollie to come and live with him in the city. He’s to go to school and learn the business, foundry and machine shops, or something like that it is; and if the boy does what’s right, he’s to get it all some day; Ollie and Sammy has been promised ever since the talk first began about his goin’; but they’ll wait now until he gets through his schoolin’. It’ll be mighty nice for Sammy, marryin’ Ollie, but we’ll miss her awful; the whole country will miss her, too. She’s just the life of the neighborhood, and everybody ‘lows there never was another girl like her. Poor child, she ain’t had no mother since she was a little trick, and she has always come to me for everything like, us bein’ such close neighbors, and all. But law! sir, I ain’t a blamin’ her a mite for goin’, with her Daddy a runnin’ with that ornery Wash Gibbs the way he does.”

  Again the man felt called upon to express his interest; “Is Mr. Lane in business with this man Gibbs?”

  “Law, no! that is, don’t nobody know about any business; I reckon it’s all on account of those old Bald Knobbers; they used to hold their meetin’s on top of Dewey yonder, and folks do say a man was burned there once, because he told some of their secrets. Well, Jim and Wash’s daddy, and Wash, all belonged, ‘though Wash himself wasn’t much more than a boy then; and when the government broke up the gang, old man Gibbs was killed, and Jim went to Texas. It was there that Sammy’s Ma died. When Jim come back it wasn’t long before he was mighty thick again with Wash and his crowd down on the river, and he’s been that way ever since. There’s them that says it’s the same old gang, what’s left of them, and some thinks too that Jim and Wash knows about the old Dewey mine.”

  Mr. Howitt, remembering his conversation with Jed Holland, asked encouragingly, “Is this mine a very rich one?”

  “Don’t nobody rightly know about that, sir,” answered Aunt Mollie. “This is how it was: away back when the Injuns was makin’ trouble ‘cause the government was movin’ them west to the territory, this old man Dewey lived up there somewhere on that mountain. He was a mighty queer old fellow; didn’t mix up with the settlers at all, except Uncle Josh Hensley’s boy who wasn’t right smart, and didn’t nobody know where he come from nor nothing; but all the same, ‘twas him that warned the settlers of the trouble, and helped them all through it, scoutin’ and such. And one time when they was about out of bullets and didn’t have nothin’ to make more out of, Colonel Dewey took a couple of men and some mules up on that mountain yonder in the night, and when they got back they was just loaded down with lead, but he wouldn’t tell nobody where he got it, and as long as he was with them, the men didn’t dare tell. Well, sir, them two men was killed soon after by the Injuns, and when the trouble was finally over, old Dewey disappeared, and ain’t never been heard tell of since. They say the mine is somewhere’s in a big cave, but nobody ain’t never found it, ‘though there’s them that says the Bald Knobbers used the cave to hide their stuff in, and that’s how Jim Lane and Wash Gibbs knows where it is; it’s all mighty queer. You can see for yourself that Lost Creek down yonder just sinks clean out of sight all at once; there must be a big hole in there somewhere.”

  Aunt Mollie pointed with her knife to the little stream that winds like a thread of light down into the Hollow. “I tell you, sir, these hills is pretty to look at, but there ain’t much here for a girl like Sammy, and I don’t blame her a mite for wantin’ to leave. It’s a mighty hard place to live, Mr. Howitt, and dangerous, too, sometimes.”

  “The city has its hardships and its dangers too, Mrs. Matthews; life there demands almost too much at times; I often wonder if it is worth the struggle.”

  “I guess that’s so,” replied Aunt Mollie, “but it don’t seem like it could be so hard as it is here. I tell Mr. Matthews we’ve clean forgot the ways of civilized folks; altogether, though, I suppose we’ve done as well as most, and we hadn’t ought to com
plain.”

  The old scholar looked at the sturdy figure in its plain calico dress; at the worn hands, busy with their homely task; and the patient, kindly face, across which time had ploughed many a furrow, in which to plant the seeds of character and worth. He thought of other women who had sat with him on hotel verandas, at fashionable watering places; women gowned in silks and laces; women whose soft hands knew no heavier task than the filmy fancy work they toyed with, and whose greatest care, seemingly, was that time should leave upon their faces no record of the passing years. “And this is the stuff,” said he to himself, “that makes possible the civilization that produces them.” Aloud, he said, “Do you ever talk of going back to your old home?”

  “No, sir, not now;” she rested her wet hands idly on the edge of the pan of potatoes, and turned her face toward the clump of pines. “We used to think we’d go back sometime; seemed like at first I couldn’t stand it; then the children come, and every time we laid one of them over there I thought less about leavin’, until now we never talk about it no more. Then there was our girl, too, Mr. Howitt. No, sir, we won’t never leave these hills now.”

  “Oh, you had a daughter, too? I understood from Mr. Matthews that your children were all boys.”

  Aunt Mollie worked a few moments longer in silence, then arose and turned toward the house. “Yes, sir, there was a girl; she’s buried under that biggest pine you see off there a little to one side. We—we—don’t never talk about her. Mr. Matthews can’t stand it. Seems like he ain’t never been the same since—since—it happened. ‘Tain’t natural for him to be so rough and short; he’s just as good and kind inside as any man ever was or could be. He’s real taken with you, Mr. Howitt, and I’m mighty glad you’re goin’ to stop a spell, for it will do him good. If it hadn’t been for Sammy Lane runnin’ in every day or two, I don’t guess he could have stood it at all. I sure don’t know what we’ll do now that she’s goin’ away. Then there’s—there’s—that at the ranch in Mutton Hollow; but I guess I’d better not try to tell you about that. I wish Mr. Matthews would, though; maybe he will. You know so much more than us; I know most you could help us or tell us about things.”