The Shepard of the Hills

by Harold Bell Wright

  “WHY AIN’T WE GOT NO FOLKS”

  PREACHIN’ BILL says “There’s a heap o’ difference in most men, but Jim Lane now he’s more different than ary man you ever seed. Ain’t no better neighbor’n Jim anywhere. Ride out o’ his way any time t’ do you a favor. But you bet there ain’t ary man lives can ask Jim any fool questions while Jim’s a lookin’ at him. Tried it onct myself. Jim was a waitin’ at th’ ferry fer Wash Gibbs, an’ we was a talkin’ ‘long right peart ‘bout crops an’ th’ weather an’ such, when I says, says I, like a dumb ol’ fool, ‘How’d you like it down in Texas, Jim, when you was there that time?’ I gonies! His jaw shet with a click like he’d cocked a pistol, an’ that look o’ hisn, like he was a seein’ plumb through you, come int’ his eyes, an’ he says, says he, quiet like, ‘D’ you reckon that rain over on James yesterday raised th’ river much?’ An’ ‘fore I knowed it, I was a tellin’ him how that ol’ red bull o’ mine treed th’ Perkins’ boys when they was a possum huntin’.”

  Many stories of the Bald Knobber days, when the law of the land was the law of rifle and rope, were drifting about the country side, and always, when these tales were recited, the name of Jim Lane was whispered; while the bolder ones wondered beneath their breath where Jim went so much with that Wash Gibbs, whose daddy was killed by the Government.

  Mr. Lane was a tall man, well set up, with something in his face and bearing that told of good breeding; southern blood, one would say, by the dark skin, and the eyes, hair, and drooping mustache of black.

  His companion, Wash Gibbs, was a gigantic man; taller and heavier, even, than the elder Matthews, but more loosely put together than Old Matt; with coarse, heavy features, and, as Grandma Bowles said, “the look of a sheep killin’ dog.” Grandma, being very near her journey’s end, could tell the truth even about Wash Gibbs, but others spoke of the giant only in whispers, save when they spoke in admiration of his physical powers.

  As the two men swung stiffly from their saddles, Sammy came running to greet her father with a kiss of welcome; this little exhibition of affection between parent and child was one of the many things that marked the Lanes as different from the natives of that region. Your true backwoodsman carefully hides every sign of his love for either family or friends. Wash Gibbs stood looking on with an expression upon his brutal face that had very little of the human in it.

  Releasing his daughter, Mr. Lane said, “Got anything to eat, honey? We’re powerful hungry. Wash ‘lowed we’d better tie up at the river, but I knew you’d be watching for me. The horses are plumb beat.” And Gibbs broke in with a coarse laugh, “I wouldn’t mind killin’ a hoss neither, if I was t’ git what you do at th’ end o’ th’ ride.”

  To this, Jim made no reply; but began loosening the saddle girths, while Sammy only said, as she turned toward the house, “I’ll have supper ready for you directly, Daddy.”

  While the host was busy caring for his tired horse, the big man, who did not remove the saddle from his mount, followed the girl into the cabin. “Can’t you even tell a feller, Howdy?” he exclaimed, as he entered the kitchen.

  “I did tell you, Howdy,” replied the girl sharply, stirring up the fire.

  “‘Pears like you might o’ been a grain warmer about hit,” growled the other, seating himself where he could watch her. “If I’d been Young Matt er that skinny Ollie Stewart, you’d a’ been keen enough.”

  Sammy turned and faced him with angry eyes; “Look a here, Wash Gibbs, I done tol’ you last Thursday when you come for Daddy that you’d better let me alone. I don’t like you, and I don’t aim to ever have anything to do with you. You done fixed yourself with me that time at the Cove picnic. I’ll tell Daddy about that if you don’t mind. I don’t want to make no trouble, but you just got to quit pestering me.”

  The big fellow sneered. “I ‘lowed you might change your mind ‘bout that some day. Jim ain’t goin’ t’ say nothin’ t’ me, an’ if he did, words don’t break no bones. I’m a heap th’ best man in this neck o’ th’ woods, an’ your Paw knows hit. You know it, too.”

  Under his look, the blood rushed to the girl’s face in a burning blush. In spite of her anger she dropped her eyes, and, without attempting a reply, turned to her work.

  A moment later, Mr. Lane entered the room; a single glance at his daughter’s face, a quick look at Wash Gibbs, as the bully sat following with wolfish eyes every movement of the girl, and Jim stepped quietly in front of his guest. At the same moment, Sammy left the house for a bucket of water, and Wash turned toward his host with a start to find the dark faced man gazing at him with a look that few men could face with composure. Without a word, Jim’s right hand crept stealthily inside his hickory shirt, where a button was missing.

  For a moment Gibbs tried to return the look. He failed. Something he read in the dark face before him—some meaning light in those black eyes—made him tremble and he felt, rather than saw, Jim’s hand resting quietly now inside the hickory shirt near his left arm pit. The big man’s face went white beneath the tan, his eyes wavered and shifted, he hung his head and shuffled his feet uneasily, like an overgrown school-boy brought sharply to task by the master.

  Then Jim, his hand still inside his shirt, drawled, softly, but with a queer metallic ring in his voice, “Do you reckon it’s a goin’ t’ storm again?”

  At the commonplace question, the bully drew a long breath and looked around. “We might have a spell o’ weather,” he muttered; “but I don’t guess it’ll be t’night.”

  Then Sammy returned and they had supper.

  Next to his daughter, Jim Lane loved his violin, and with good reason, for the instrument had once belonged to his great-grandfather, who, tradition says, was a musician of no mean ability.

  Preachin’ Bill “‘lowed there was a heap o’ difference between a playin’ a violin an’ jest fiddlin’. You wouldn’t know some fellers was a makin’ music, if you didn’t see ‘em a pattin’ their foot; but hit ain’t that a way with Jim Lane. He sure do make music, real music.” As no one ever questioned Bill’s judgment, it is safe to conclude that Mr. Lane inherited something of his great-grandfather’s ability; along with his treasured instrument.

  When supper was over, and Wash Gibbs had gone on his way; Jim took the violin from its peg above the fireplace, and, tucking it lovingly under his chin, gave himself up to his favorite pastime, while Sammy moved busily about the cabin, putting things right for the night.

  When her evening tasks were finished, the girl came and stood before her father. At once the music ceased and the violin was laid carefully aside. Sammy seated herself on her father’s knee.

  “Law’, child, but you’re sure growin’ up,” said Jim, with a mock groan at her weight.

  “Yes, Daddy, I reckon I’m about growed; I’ll be nineteen come Christmas.”

  “O shucks!” ejaculated the man. “It wasn’t more’n last week that you was washin’ doll clothes, down by the spring.”

  The young woman laughed. “I didn’t wash no doll clothes last week,” she said. Then her voice changed, and that wide, questioning look, the look that made one think so of her father, came into her eyes. “There’s something I want to ask you, Daddy Jim. You—you know—Ollie’s goin’ away, an’—an’—an’ I was thinkin’ about it all day yesterday, an’, Daddy, why ain’t we got no folks?”

  Mr. Lane stirred uneasily. Sammy continued, “There’s the Matthews’s, they’ve got kin back in Illinois; Mandy Ford’s got uncles and aunts over on Lang Creek; Jed Holland’s got a grandad and mam, and even Preachin’ Bill talks about a pack o’ kin folks over in Arkansaw. Why ain’t we got no folks, Daddy?”

  The man gazed long and thoughtfully at the fresh young face of his child; and the black eyes looked into the brown eyes keenly, as he answered her question with another question, “Do you reckon you love him right smart, honey? Are you sure, dead sure you ain’t thinkin’ of what he’s got ‘stead of what he is? I know it’ll be mighty nice for you to be one of the fine fo
lks and they’re big reasons why you ought, but it’s goin’ to take a mighty good man to match you—a mighty good man. And it’s the man you’ve got to live with, not his money.”

  “Ollie’s good, Daddy,” she returned in a low voice, her eyes fixed upon the floor.

  “I know, I know,” replied Jim. “He wouldn’t do nobody no harm; he’s good enough that way, and I ain’t a faultin’ him. But you ought to have a man, a sure enough good man.”

  “But tell me, Daddy, why ain’t we got no folks?”

  The faintest glimmer of a smile came into the dark face; “You’re sure growed up, girl; you’re sure growed up, girl; you sure are. An’ I reckon you might as well know.” Then he told her.

  SAMMY LANE’S FOLKS

  IT began on a big southern plantation, where there were several brothers and sisters, with a gentleman father of no little pride, and a lady mother of equal pride and great beauty.

  With much care for detail, Jim drew a picture of the big mansion with its wide lawns, flower gardens and tree bordered walks; with its wealth of culture, its servants, and distinguished guests; for, said he, “When you get to be a fine lady, you ought to know that you got as good blood as the best of the thorough-breds.” And Sammy, interrupting his speech with a kiss, bade him go on with his story.

  Then he told how the one black sheep of that proud southern flock had been cast forth from the beautiful home while still hardly grown; and how, with his horse, gun and violin, the wanderer had come into the heart of the Ozark wilderness, when the print of moccasin feet was still warm on the Old Trail. Jim sketched broadly here, and for some reason did not fully explain the cause of his banishment; neither did he comment in any way upon its justice or injustice.

  Time passed, and a strong, clear-eyed, clean-limbed, deep-bosomed mountain lass, with all the mastering passion of her kind, mated the free, half wild, young hunter; and they settled in the cabin by the spring on the southern slope of Dewey. Then the little one came, and in her veins there was mingled the blue blood of the proud southerners and the warm red life of her wilderness mother.

  Again Jim’s story grew rich in detail. Holding his daughter at arm’s length, and looking at her through half-closed eyes, he said, “You’re like her, honey; you’re mighty like her; same eyes, same hair, same mouth, same build, same way of movin’, strong, but smooth and free like. She could run clean to the top of Dewey, or sit a horse all day. Do you ever get tired, girl?”

  Sammy laughed, and shook her head; “I’ve run from here to the signal tree, lots of times, Daddy.”

  “You’re like the old folks, too,” mused Jim; “like them in what you think and say.”

  “Tell me more,” said the girl. “Seems like I remember bein’ in a big wagon, and there was a woman there too; was she my mother?”

  Jim nodded, and unconsciously lowered his voice, as he said, “It was in the old Bald Knobber time. Things happened in them days, honey. Many’s the night I’ve seen the top of old Dewey yonder black with men. It was when things was broke up, that—that your mother and me thought we could do better in Texas; so we went,” Jim was again sketching broadly.

  “Your mother left us there, girl. Seemed like she couldn’t stand it, bein’ away from the hills or somethin’, and she just give up. I never did rightly know how it was. We buried her out there, way out on the big plains.”

  “I remember her a little,” whispered Sammy. Jim continued; “Then after a time you and me come back to the old place. Your mother named you Samantha, girl, but bein’ as there wasn’t no boy, I always called you Sammy. It seems right enough that way now, for you’ve sure been more’n a son to me since we’ve been alone; and that’s one reason why I learned you to ride and shoot with the best of them.

  “There’s them that says I ain’t done right by you, bringing you up without ary woman about the place; and I don’t know as I have, but somehow I couldn’t never think of no woman as I ought, after living with your mother. And then there was Aunt Mollie to learn you how to cook and do things about the house. I counted a good bit, too, on the old stock, and it sure showed up right. You’re like the old folks, girl, in the way you think, but you’re like your mother in the way you look.”

  Sammy’s arms went around her father’s neck, “You’re a good man, Daddy Jim; the best Daddy a girl ever had; and if I ain’t all bad, it’s on account of you.” There was a queer look on the man’s dark face. He had sketched some parts of his tale with a broad hand, indeed.

  The girl raised her head again; “But, Daddy, I wish you’d do something for me. I—I don’t like Wash Gibbs to be a comin’ here. I wish you’d quit ridin’ with him, Daddy. I’m—I’m afeared of him; he looks at me so. He’s a sure bad one—I know he is, Daddy.”

  Jim laughed and again there was that odd metallic note in his voice; “I’ve knowed him a long time, honey. Me and his daddy was—was together when he died; and you used to sit on Wash’s knee when you was a little tad. Not that he’s so mighty much older than you, but he was a man’s size at fifteen. You don’t understand, girl, but I’ve got to go with him sometimes. But don’t you fret; Wash Gibbs ain’t goin’ to hurt me, and he won’t come here more’n I can help, either.” Then he changed the subject abruptly. “Tell me what you’ve been doin’ while I was away.”

  Sammy told of’ her visit to their friends at the Matthews place, and of the stranger who had come into the neighborhood. As the girl talked, her father questioned her carefully, and several times the metallic note crept into his soft, drawling speech, while into his eyes came that peculiar, searching look, as if he would draw from his daughter even more than she knew of the incident. Once he rose, and, going to the door, stood looking out into the night.

  Sammy finished with her answer to Mandy Ford’s opinion of the stranger; “You don’t reckon a revenue would ask a blessin’, do you, Daddy? Seems like he just naturally wouldn’t dast; God would make the victuals stick in his throat and choke him sure.”

  Jim laughed, as he replied, “I don’t know, girl; I never heard of a revenue’s doin’ such. But a feller can’t tell.”

  When Sammy left him to retire for the night, her father picked up the violin again, and placed it beneath his chin as if to play; but he did not touch the strings, and soon hung the instrument in its place above the mantel. Then, going to the doorway, he lighted his pipe, and, for a full hour, sat, looking up the Old Trail toward the Matthews place, his right hand thrust into the bosom of his hickory shirt, where the button was missing.

  A FEAT OF STRENGTH AND A CHALLENGE

  WHAT the club is to the city man, and the general store or postoffice to the citizens of the country village, the mill is to the native of the backwoods.

  Made to saw the little rough lumber he needs in his primitive building, or to grind his corn into the rough meal, that is his staff of life, the mill does more for the settler than this; it brings together the scattered population, it is the news center, the heart of the social life, and the hub of the industrial wheel.

  On grinding day, the Ozark mountaineer goes to mill on horse-back, his grist in a sack behind the saddle, or, indeed, taking place of the saddle itself. The rule is, first come, first served. So, while waiting his turn, or waiting for a neighbor who will ride in the same direction, the woodsman has time to contribute his share to the gossip of the country side, or to take part in the discussions that are of more or less vital interest. When the talk runs slow, there are games; pitching horse shoes, borrowed from the blacksmith shop—there is always a blacksmith shop near by; running or jumping contests, or wrestling or shooting matches.

  Fall Creek Mill, owned and operated by Mr. Matthews and his son, was located on Fall Creek in a deep, narrow valley, about a mile from their home.

  A little old threshing engine, one of the very first to take the place of the horse power, and itself in turn already pushed to the wall by improved competitors, rolled the saw or the burr. This engine, which had been rescued by Mr. Matthews from the scrap-p
ile of a Springfield machine shop, was accepted as evidence beyond question of the superior intelligence and genius of the Matthews family. In fact, Fall Creek Mill gave the whole Mutton Hollow neighborhood such a tone of up-to-date enterprise, that folks from the Bend, or the mouth of the James, looked upon the Mutton Hollow people with no little envy and awe, not to say even jealousy.

  The settlers came to the Matthews mill from far up the creek, crossing and recrossing the little stream; from Iron Spring and from Gardner, beyond Sand Ridge, following faint, twisting bridle paths through the forest; from the other side of Dewey Bald, along the Old Trail; from the Cove and from the Postoffice at the Forks, down the wagon road, through the pinery; and from Wolf Ridge and the head of Indian Creek beyond, climbing the rough mountains. Even from the river bottoms they came, yellow and shaking with ague, to swap tobacco and yarns, and to watch with never failing interest the crazy old engine, as Young Matt patted, and coaxed, and flattered her into doing his will.

  They began coming early that grinding day, two weeks after Mr. Howitt had been installed at the ranch. But the young engineer was ready, with a good head of steam in the old patched boiler, and the smoke was rising from the rusty stack, in a long, twisting line, above the motionless tree tops.

  It was a great day for Young Matt; great because he knew that Sammy Lane would be coming to mill; he would see her and talk with her; perhaps if he were quick enough, he might even lift her from the brown pony.

  It was a great day, too, because Ollie Stewart would be saying good-by, and before to-morrow would be on his way out of the hills. Not that it mattered whether Ollie went or not. It was settled that Sammy was going to marry young Stewart; that was what mattered. And Young Matt had given her up. And, as he had told his father in the barn that day, it was alright. But still—still it was a great day, because Ollie would be saying good-by.

  It was a great day in Young Matt’s life, too, because on that day he would issue his challenge to the acknowledged champion of the country-side, Wash Gibbs. But Young Matt did not know this until afterwards, for it all came about in a very unexpected way.