The Shepard of the Hills

by Harold Bell Wright

  The company had been discussing the new arrival in the neighborhood, and speculating as to the probable length of Mr. Howitt’s stay at the ranch, and while Young Matt was in the burr-house with his father, they had gone over yet again the familiar incidents of the ghost story; how “Budd Wilson seen her as close as from here t’ th’ shop yonder.” How “Joe Gardner’s mule had gone plumb hog-wild when he tried to ride past the ol’ ruins near th’ ranch.” And “how Lem Wheeler, while out hunting that roan steer o’ hisn, had heard a moanin’ an’ a wailin’ under the bluff.”

  Upon Young Matthews returning to his engine, the conversation had been skilfully changed, to Ollie Stewart and his remarkable good fortune. From Ollie and his golden prospects, it was an easy way to Sammy Lane and her coming marriage.

  Buck Thompson was just concluding a glowing tribute to the girl’s beauty of face and form when Young Matt reached for an axe lying near the speaker. Said Buck, “Preachin’ Bill ‘lowed t’other day hit didn’t make no difference how much money th’ ol’ man left Ollie he’d be a poor sort of a man anyhow; an’ that there’s a heap better men than him right here in th’ hills that Sammy could a’ had fer th’ askin’.”

  “How ‘bout that, Matt?” called a young fellow from the river.

  The big man’s face flushed at the general laugh which followed, and he answered hotly, as he swung his axe, “You’d better ask Wash Gibbs; I hear he says he’s the best man in these woods.”

  “I reckin as how Wash can back his jedgment there,” said Joe.

  “Wash is a sure good man,” remarked Buck, “but there’s another not so mighty far away that’ll pretty nigh hold, him level.” He looked significantly to where Young Matt was making the big chips fly.

  “Huh,” grunted Joe. “I tell you, gentlemen, that there man, Gibbs, is powerful; yes, sir, he sure is. Tell you what I seed him do.” Joe pulled a twist of tobacco from his hip pocket, and settled down upon his heels, his back against a post. “Wash an’ me was a goin’ to th’ settlement last fall, an’ jest this side th’ camp house, on Wilderness Road, we struck a threshin’ crew stuck in th’ mud with their engine. Had a break down o’ some kind. Somethin’ th’ matter with th’ hind wheel. And jest as Wash an’ me drove up, th’ boss of th’ outfit was a tellin’ ‘em t’ cut a big pole for a pry t’ lift th’ hind ex, so’s they could block it up, an’ fix th’ wheel.

  “Wash he looked at ‘em a minute an’ then says, says he, ‘Hold on, boys; you don’t need ary pole.’

  “‘What do you know ‘bout an engine, you darned hill billy,’ says th’ old man, kind o’ short.

  “‘Don’t know nothin’ ‘bout an engine, you prairie hopper,’ says Wash, ‘but I know you don’t need no pole t’ lift that thing.’

  “‘How’d you lift it then?’ says t’other.

  “‘Why I’d jest catch holt an’ lift,’ says Wash.

  “The gang like t’ bust themselves laughin’. ‘Why you blame fool,’ says the boas; ‘do you know what that engine’ll weigh?”

  “‘Don’t care a cuss what she’ll weigh,’ says Wash. ‘She ain’t planted there, is she?’ An’ with that he climbs down from th’ wagon, an’ dad burn me if he didn’t take holt o’ that hind ex an’ lift one whole side o’ that there engine clean off th’ ground. Them fellers jest stood ‘round an’ looked at him t’ beat th’ stir. ‘Well,’ says Wash, still a keepin’ his holt; slide a block under her an’ I’ll mosey along!

  “That boss didn’t say a word ‘till he’d got a bottle from a box on th’ wagon an’ handed, hit t’ Wash; then he says kind o’ scared like, ‘Where in hell are you from, Mister?’

  “‘Oh, I’m jest a kid from over on Roark,’ says Wash, handin’ th’ bottle t’ me. ‘You ought t’ see some o’ th’ men in my neighborhood!’ Then we went on.”

  When the speaker had finished, there was quiet for a little; then the young man from the river drawled, “How much did you say that there engine ‘d weigh, Joe?”

  There was a general laugh at this, which the admirer of Gibbs took good naturedly; “Don’t know what she’d weigh but she was ‘bout the size o’ that one there,” he answered.

  With one accord everyone turned to inspect the mill engine. “Pretty good lift, Joe. Let’s you an’ me take a pull at her, Budd,” remarked Lem Wheeler.

  The two men lifted and strained at the wheel. Then another joined them, and, amid the laughter and good natured raillery of the crowd, the three tried in vain to lift one of the wheels; while Mr. Matthews, seeing some unusual movement, came into the shed and stood with his son, an amused witness of their efforts.

  “Sure this engine ain’t bigger’n t’other, Joe?” asked one of the group.

  “Don’t believe she weighs a pound more,” replied the mountaineer with conviction. “I tell you, gentlemen, that man Gibbs is a wonder, he sure is.”

  Old Matt and his son glanced quickly at each other, and the boy shook his head with a smile. This little by-play was lost on the men who were interested in the efforts of different ones, in groups of three, to move the wheel. When they had at last given it up, the young man from the river drawled, “You’re right sure hit weren’t after th’ boas give you that bottle that Wash lifted her, are you Joe? Or wasn’t hit on th’ way home from th’ settlement?”

  When the laugh at this insinuation had died out, Buck said thoughtfully, “Tell you what, boys; I’d like t’ see Young Matt try that lift.”

  Mr. Matthews, who was just starting back to the burr-house, paused in the doorway. All eyes were fixed upon his son. “Try her, Matt. Show us what you can do,” called the men in chorus. But the young man shook his head, and found something that needed his immediate attention.

  All that morning at intervals the mountaineers urged the big fellow to attempt the feat, but he always put them off with some evasive reply, or was too busy to gratify them.

  But after dinner, while the men were pitching horse shoes in front of the blacksmith shop, Buck Thompson approached the young engineer alone. “Look a here, Matt,” he said, “why don’t you try that lift? Durned me if I don’t believe you’d fetch her.”

  The young giant looked around; “I know I can, Buck; I lifted her yesterday while Dad fixed the blockin’; I always do it that way.”

  Buck looked at him in amazement. “Well, why in thunder don’t you show th’ boys, then?” he burst forth at last.

  “‘Cause if I do Wash Gibbs’ll hear of it sure, and I’ll have to fight him to settle which is th’ best man.”

  “Good Lord!” ejaculated Buck, with a groan. “If you’re afraid o’ Wash Gibbs, it’s th’ first thing I ever knowed you t’ be scared o’.”

  Young Matt looked his friend steadily in the eyes, as he replied; “I ain’t afraid of Wash Gibbs; I’m afraid of myself. Mr. Howitt says, ‘No man needn’t be afraid of nobody but himself.’ I’ve been a thinkin’ lately, Buck, an’ I see some things that I never see before. I figure it that if I fight Wash Gibbs or anybody else just to see which is th’ best man, I ain’t no better’n he is. I reckon I’ll have to whip him some day, alright, an’ I ain’t a carin’ much how soon it comes; but I ain’t a goin’ to hurt nobody for nothin’ just because I can.”

  Buck made no reply to this. Such sentiment was a little too much for his primitive notions. He went back to the men by the blacksmith shop.

  It was not long, however, until the players left their game, to gather once more about the engine. Lem Wheeler approached Young Matt with a serious air; “Look a here,” he said; “we all want t’ see you try that lift.”

  “I ain’t got no time for foolin’,” replied the young man; “Dad’s just pushin’ to get done before dark.”

  “Shucks!” retorted the other; “Hit won’t take a minute t’ try. Jest catch hold an’ show us what you can do.”

  “What are you all so keen about my liftin’ for, anyhow?” demanded the big fellow, suspiciously. “I ain’t never set up as the strong man of this country.”

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p; “Well, you see it’s this way; Buck done bet me his mule colt agin mine that you could lift her; an’ we want you to settle th’ bet!” exclaimed Lem.

  Young Matthews shot a glance at the mountaineer, who grinned joyously. “Yep,” said Buck, “that’s how it is; I’m a backin’ you. Don’t want you t’ hurt yourself for me, but I sure do need that colt o’ Lem’s; hit’s a dead match for mine.”

  The giant looked at his friend a moment in silence, then burst into a laugh of appreciation at Buck’s hint. “Seein’ as how you’re backin’ me, Buck, I’ll have t’ get you that mule if I can.”

  He shut off steam, and, as the engine came to a stop, stooped, and, with apparent ease, lifted the rear wheel a full four inches from the ground.

  Loud exclamations of admiration came from the little group of men in the shed. Lem turned with a long face, “Them colts ‘ll make a fine team, Buck;” he said.

  “You bet; come over an’ hep me break ‘em,” replied Buck, with another grin of delight.

  “Wait ‘till Wash Gibbs hears ‘bout this, an’ he’ll sure be for breakin’ Young Matt,” put in another.

  “Better get your fightin’ clothes on, Matt; Wash’ll never rest easy until you’ve done showed him.” These and similar remarks revealed the general view of the situation.

  While the men were discussing the matter, a thin, high-pitched voice from the edge of the crowd, broke in, “That there’s a good lift alright, but hit ain’t nothin’ t’ what I seed when I was t’ th’ circus in th’ city.”

  Young Matt, who had started the engine again, turned quickly. Ollie Stewart was sitting on a horse near by, and at his side, on the brown pony, was Miss Sammy Lane. They had evidently ridden up just in time to witness the exhibition of the giant’s strength.

  OLLIE STEWART’S GOOD-BY

  BESIDE the splendidly developed young woman, Ollie Stewart appeared but a weakling. His shoulders were too narrow and he stooped; his limbs were thin; his hair black and straight; and his eyes dull.

  As Young Matt stepped forward, Ollie dismounted quickly, but the big fellow was first at the brown pony’s side. Sammy’s eyes shone with admiration, and, as the strong man felt their light, he was not at all sorry that he had won the mule colt for Buck.

  “No,” she said, declining his offered assistance; she did not wish to get down; they were going to the postoffice and would call for the meal on their way home.

  Young Matt lifted the sack of corn from Brownie’s back and carried it into the shed. When he returned to the group, Ollie was saying in his thin voice, “In th’ circus I seen in the city there was a feller that lifted a man, big as Jed here, clean above his head with one hand.”

  Buck turned to his big friend. His look was met by a grim smile that just touched the corners of the lad’s mouth, and there was a gleam in the blue eyes that betrayed the spirit within. The lean mountaineer again turned to the company, while the boy glanced at Sammy. The girl was watching him and had caught the silent exchange between the two friends.

  “Shucks!” said Buck; “Matt could do that easy.” “Try it, Matt.” “Try Jed here.” “Try hit once,” called the chorus.

  This time the big fellow needed no urging. With Sammy looking on, he could not resist the opportunity which Ollie himself had presented. Without a word, but with a quick tightening of the lips, he stepped forward and caught Jed by the belt with his right hand; and then, before anyone could guess his purpose, he reached out with his other hand, and grasped Ollie himself in the same manner. There was a short step forward, a quick upward swing, and the giant held a man in each hand at full arm’s length above his head. Amid the shouts of the crowd, still holding the men, he walked deliberately to the blacksmith shop and back; then lowering them easily to their feet, turned to his engine.

  Ollie and Sammy rode away together, up the green arched road, and the little company in the mill shed stood watching them. As the finely formed young woman and her inferior escort passed from sight, a tall mountaineer, from the other side of Compton Ridge, remarked, “I done heard Preachin’ Bill say t’other day, that ‘mighty nigh all this here gee-hawin’, balkin’, and kickin’ ‘mongst th’ married folks comes ‘cause th’ teams ain’t matched up right.’ Bill he ‘lowed God ‘lmighty ‘d fixed hit somehow so th’ birds an’ varmints don’t make no mistake, but left hit plumb easy for men an’ women t’ make durned fools o’ theirselves.”

  Everybody grinned in appreciation, and another spoke up; “According t’ that, I’ll bet four bits if them two yonder ever do get into double harness, there’ll be pieces o’ th’ outfit strung from th’ parson’s clean t’ th’ buryin’ ground.”

  When the laughter had subsided, Buck turned to see Young Matt standing just outside the shed, ostensibly doing something with the belt that led to the burr, but in reality looking up the creek.

  “Law!” ejaculated Buck, under his breath; “what a team they’d make!”

  “Who?” said Lem, who was standing near by.

  “Them mule colts,” returned Buck with a grin.

  “They sure will, Buck. There ain’t two better in the country; they’re a dead match. I’ll come over an’ hep you break ‘em when they’re big ‘nough.” And then he wondered why Buck swore with such evident delight.

  One by one the natives received their meal, and, singly, or in groups of two or three, were swallowed up by the great forest. Already the little valley was in the shadow of the mountain, though the sun still shone brightly on the tree tops higher up, when Ollie and Sammy returned from the Forks. Mr. Matthews had climbed the hill when the last grist was ground, leaving his son to cool down the engine and put things right about the mill.

  “Come on, Matt,” said Ollie, as the big fellow brought out the meal; “It’s time you was a goin’ home.”

  The young giant hung back, saying, “You folks better go on ahead. I’ll get home alright.”

  “Didn’t think nothin’ would get you,” laughed Ollie. “Come on, you might as well go ‘long with us.”

  The other muttered something about being in the way, and started back into the shed.

  “Hurry up,” called Sammy, “we’re waitin’.”

  After this there was nothing else for the young man to do but join them. And the three were soon making their way up the steep mountain road together.

  For a time they talked of commonplace things, then Young Matt opened the subject that was on all their hearts. “I reckon, Ollie, this is the last time that you’ll ever be a climbin’ this old road.” As he spoke he was really thinking of the time to come when Sammy would climb the road for the last time.

  “Yes,” returned Stewart; “I go to-morrow ‘fore sun up.”

  The other continued; “It’ll sure be fine for you to live in the city and get your schoolin’ and all that. Us folks here in the woods don’t know nothin’. We ain’t got no chance to learn. You’ll be forgettin’ us all mighty quick, I reckon, once you get to livin’ with your rich kin.”

  “‘Deed, I won’t!” returned Ollie warmly. “Sammy an’ me was a talkin’ ‘bout that this evenin’. We aim t’ always come back t’ Mutton Holler onct a year, an’ be just like other folks; don’t we, Sammy?”

  The brown pony, stepping on a loose stone, stumbled toward the man walking by his side. And the big fellow put out his hand quickly to the little horse’s neck. For an instant, the girl’s hand rested on the giant’s shoulder, and her face was close to his. Then Brownie recovered his footing, and Young Matt drew farther away.

  Ollie continued; “We aim t’ have you come t’ th’ city after a while. I’m goin’ t’ get Uncle Dan t’ give you a job in th’ shops, an’ you can get out o’ these hills an’ be somebody like we’uns.”

  The tone was unmistakably patronizing. The big mountaineer lifted his head proudly, and turned toward the speaker; but before he could reply, Sammy broke in eagerly, “Law! but that would sure be fine, wouldn’t it, Matt? I’d know you’d do somethin’ big if you only had the chance.
I just know you would. You’re so—so kind o’ big every way,” she laughed. “It’s a plumb shame for you to be buried alive in these hills.”

  There was nothing said after this, until, coming to the top of the ridge, they stopped. From here Ollie and Sammy would take the Old Trail to the girl’s home. Then, with his eyes on the vast sweep of forest-clad hills and valleys, over which the blue haze was fast changing to purple in the level rays of the sun, Young Matt spoke.

  “I don’t guess you’d better figure on that. Some folks are made to live in the city, and some ain’t. I reckon I was built to live in these hills. I don’t somehow feel like I could get along without them; and besides, I’d always be knockin’ against somethin’ there.” He laughed grimly, and stretched out his huge arms. “I’ve got to have room. Then there’s the folks yonder.” He turned his face toward the log house, just showing through the trees. “You know how it is, me bein’ the only one left, and Dad gettin’ old. No, I don’t guess you need to count on me bein’ more than I am.”

  Then suddenly he wheeled about and looked from one face to the other; and there was a faint hint of defiance in his voice, as he finished; “I got an idea, too, that the backwoods needs men same as the cities. I don’t see how there ever could be a city even, if it wasn’t for the men what cleared the brush. Somebody’s got to lick Wash Gibbs some day, or there just naturally won’t be no decent livin’ in the neighborhood ever.”

  He held up his big hand to the man on the horse; “Good-by, and good luck to you, Ollie.” The horses turned down the Old Trail and with their riders, passed from sight.

  That night Sammy Lane said farewell to her lover, and, with many promises for the future, Ollie rode away to his cabin home, to leave the next morning for that world that lies so far—so far away from the world of Young Matt and his friends, the world that is so easy to get into after all, and so impossible to get out of ever.