The Shepard of the Hills

by Harold Bell Wright

  With a low exclamation, the shepherd let the parcel slip, and the money fell in a shining heap on the floor. He stood as in a dream, looking from the gold to the letter in his hand. Then, going to the door, he gazed long and searchingly in every direction. Nothing unusual met his eye. Turning back into the cabin again, he caught up the letter he had written, and stepped to the fireplace, an expression of relief upon his face. But with his hand outstretched toward the flames, he paused, the letter still in his grasp, while the expression of relief gave way to a look of fear.

  “The bank,” he muttered; “the robbery.” The shining pieces on the floor seemed to glisten mockingly; “No, no, no,” said the man. “Better the other way, and yet—” He read the letter again. “It’s good money, alright; you needn’t be afraid.”

  In his quandary, he heard a step without and looking up saw Pete in the open door.

  The boy’s sensitive face was aglow, as he said; “Pete’s glad this morning; Pete saw the sky. Did Dad see the sky?”

  Mr. Howitt nodded; then, moved by a sudden impulse, pointed to the money, and said, “Does Pete see this? It’s gold, all gold.”

  The boy drew near with curious eyes. “Dad doesn’t know where it came from,” continued the shepherd. “Does Pete know?”

  The youth gave a low laugh of delight; “Course Pete knows. Pete went up on Dewey this morning; ‘way up to the old signal tree, and course he took me with him. The sky was all soft and silvery, an’ the clouds was full, plumb full of gold, like that there.” He pointed to the yellow coins on the floor. “Didn’t Dad see? Some of it must o’ spilled out.”

  “Ah, yes, that was God’s gold,” said the older man softly.

  The lad touched his friend on the arm, and with the other hand again pointed to the glittering heap on the floor. “Pete says that there’s God’s gold too, and Pete he knows.”

  The man started and looked at the boy in wonder; “But why, why should it come to me at such a time as this?” he muttered.

  “‘Cause you’re the Shepherd of Mutton Hollow, Pete says. Don’t be scared, Dad. Pete knows. It’s sure God’s gold.”

  The shepherd turned to the fireplace and dropped the letter he had written upon the leaping flames.

  A LETTER FROM OLLIE STEWART

  THE Postoffice at the Forks occupied a commanding position in the northeast corner of Uncle Ike’s cabin, covering an area not less than four feet square.

  The fittings were in excellent taste, and the equipment fully adequate to the needs of the service: an old table, on legs somewhat rickety; upon the table, a rude box, set on end and divided roughly into eight pigeon holes, duly numbered; in the table, a drawer, filled a little with stamps and stationery, filled mostly with scraps of leaf tobacco, and an odd company of veteran cob pipes, now on the retired list, or home on furlough; before the table, a little old chair, wrought in some fearful and wonderful fashion from hickory sticks from which the bark had not been removed.

  With every change of the weather, this chair, through some unknown but powerful influence, changed its shape, thus becoming in its own way a sort of government weather bureau. And if in all this “land of the free and home of the brave” there be a single throne, it must be this same curiously changeable chair. In spite of, or perhaps because of, its strange powers, that weird piece of furniture managed to make itself so felt that it was religiously avoided by every native who called at the Forks. Not the wildest “Hill-Billy” of them all dared to occupy for a moment this seat of Uncle Sam’s representative. Here Uncle Ike reigned supreme over his four feet square of government property. And you may be very sure that the mighty mysterious thing known as the “gov’ment” lost none of its might, and nothing of its mystery, at the hands of its worthy official.

  Uncle Ike left the group in front of the cabin, and, hurriedly entering the office, seated himself upon his throne. A tall, thin, slow moving mule, brought to before a certain tree with the grace and dignity of an ocean liner coming into her slip. Zeke Wheeler dismounted, and, with the saddle mail pouch over his arm, stalked solemnly across the yard and into the house, his spurs clinking on the gravel and rattling over the floor. Following the mail carrier, the group of mountaineers entered, and, with Uncle Ike’s entire family, took their places at a respectful distance from the holy place of mystery and might, in the north east corner of the room.

  The postmaster, with a key attached by a small chain to one corner of the table, unlocked the flat pouch and drew forth the contents—five papers, three letters and one postal card.

  The empty pouch was kicked contemptuously beneath the table. The papers were tossed to one side. All eyes were fixed on the little bundle of first class matter. In a breathless silence the official cut the string. The silence was broken. “Ba thundas! Mary Liz Jolly’ll sure be glad t’ git that there letter. Her man’s been gone nigh onto three months now, an’ ain’t wrote but once. That was when he was in Mayville. I see he’s down in th’ nation now at Auburn, sendin’ Mary Liz some money, I reckon. Ba thundas, it’s ‘bout time! What!”

  “James Creelman, E-S-Q., Wal, dad burn me. Jim done wrote t’ that there house in Chicago more’n three weeks ago, ‘bout a watch they’re a sellin’ fer fo’ dollars. Ba thundas! They’d sure answer me quicker’n that, er they’d hear turkey. What! I done tole Jim it was only a blamed ol’ fo’ dollar house anyhow.”

  At this many nods and glances were exchanged by the group in silent admiration of the “gov’ment,” and one mountaineer, bold even to recklessness, remarked, “Jim must have a heap o’ money t’ be a buyin’ four dollar watches. Must er sold that gray mule o’ hisn; hit’d fetch ‘bout that much, I reckon.”

  “Much you know ‘bout it, Buck Boswell. Let me tell you, Jim he works, he does. He’s the workingest man in this here county, ba thundas! What! Jim he don’t sit ‘round like you fellers down on th’ creek an’ wait fer pawpaws to git ripe, so he can git a square meal, ba thundas!” The bold mountaineer wilted.

  Uncle Ike proceeded with the business of his office. “Here’s Sallie Rhodes done writ her maw a card from th’ Corners. Sallie’s been a visitin’ her paw’s folks. Says she’ll be home on th’ hack next mail, an’ wants her maw t’ meet her here. You can take th’ hack next time, Zeke. An’ ba thundas! Here’s ‘nother letter from that dummed Ollie Stewart. Sammy ain’t been over yet after th’ last one he wrote. Ba thundas! If it weren’t for them blamed gov’-ment inspectors, I’d sure put a spoke in his wheel. What! I’d everlastin’ly seva’ th’ connections between that gentleman an’ these here Ozarks. Dad burn me, if I wouldn’t. He’d better take one o’ them new fangled women in th’ city, where he’s gone to, an’ not come back here for one o’ our girls. I don’t believe Sammy’d care much, nohow, ba thundas! What!” The official tossed the letter into a pigeon hole beside its neglected mate, with a gesture that fully expressed the opinion of the entire community, regarding Mr. Stewart and his intentions toward Miss Lane.

  Sammy got the letters the next day, and read them over and over, as she rode slowly through the sweet smelling woods. The last one told her that Ollie was coming home on a visit. “Thursday, that’s the day after to-morrow,” she said aloud. Then she read the letter again.

  It was a very different letter from those Ollie had written when first he left the woods. Most of all it was different in that indefinable something by which a man reveals his place in life in the letters he writes, no less than in the words he speaks, or the clothing he wears. As Sammy rode slowly through the pinery and down the narrow Fall Creek valley, she was thinking of these things, thinking of these things seriously.

  The girl had been in a way conscious of the gradual change in Ollie’s life, as it had been revealed in his letters, but she had failed to connect the change with her lover. The world into which young Stewart had gone, and by which he was being formed, was so foreign to the only world known to Sammy, that, while she realized in a dim way that he was undergoing a transformation, she still saw him in her
mind as the backwoods boy. With the announcement of his return, and the thought that she would soon meet him face to face, it burst upon her suddenly that her lover was a stranger. The man who wrote this letter was not the man whom she had promised to marry. Who was he?

  Passing the mill and the blacksmith shop, the brown pony with his absorbed rider began to climb the steep road to the Matthews place. Half way up the hill, the little horse, stepping on a loose stone, stumbled, catching himself quickly.

  As a flash of lightning on a black night reveals well known landmarks and familiar objects, this incident brought back to Sammy the evening when, with Ollie and Young Matt, she had climbed the same way; when her horse had stumbled and her face had come close to the face of the big fellow whose hand was on the pony’s neck. The whole scene came before her with a vividness that was startling; every word, every look, every gesture of the two young men, her own thoughts and words, the objects along the road, the very motion of her horse; she seemed to be actually living again those moments of the past. But more than this, she seemed not only to live again the incidents of that evening, but in some strange way to possess the faculty of analyzing and passing judgment upon her own thoughts and words.

  Great changes had come to Sammy, too, since that night when her lover had said good-by. And now, in her deeper life, the young woman felt a curious sense of shame, as she saw how trivial were the things that had influenced her to become Ollie’s promised wife. She blushed, as she recalled the motives that had sent her to the shepherd with the request that he teach her to be a fine lady.

  Coming out on top of the ridge, Brownie stopped of his own accord, and the girl saw again the figure of a young giant, standing in the level rays of the setting sun, with his great arms outstretched, saying, “I reckon I was built to live in these hills. I don’t guess you’d better count on me ever bein’ more’n I am.” Sammy realized suddenly that the question was no longer whether Ollie would be ashamed of her. It was quite a different question, indeed.

  OLLIE COMES HOME

  THE day that Ollie was expected at the cabin on Dewey Bald, Mr. Lane was busy in the field.

  “I don’t reckon you’ll need me at th’ house nohow,” he said with a queer laugh, as he rose from the dinner table; and Sammy, blushing, told him to go on to his work, or Young Matt would get his planting done first.

  Jim went out to get his horse from the stable, but before he left, he returned once more to the house.

  “What is it, Daddy? Forget something?” asked Sammy, as her father stood in the doorway.

  “Not exactly,” drawled Jim. “I ain’t got a very good forgetter. Wish I had. It’s somethin’ I can’t forget. Wish I could.”

  In a moment the girl’s arms were about his neck, “You dear foolish old Daddy Jim. I have a bad forgetter, too. You thought when I began studying with Dad Howitt that my books would make me forget you. Well, have they?” A tightening of the long arm about her waist was the only answer. “And now you are making yourself miserable trying to think that Ollie Stewart and his friends will make me forget you; just as if all the folks in the world could ever be to me what you are; you, and Dad, and Uncle Matt, and Aunt Mollie, and Young Matt. Daddy, I am ashamed of you. Honest, I am. Do you think a real genuine lady could ever forget the father who had been so good to her? Daddy, I am insulted. You must apologize immediately.”

  She pretended to draw away, but the long arm held her fast, while the mountaineer said in a voice that had in it pride and pain, with a world of love, “I know, I know, girl. But you’ll be a livin’ in the city, when you and Ollie are married, and these old hills will be mighty lonesome with you gone. You see I couldn’t never leave the old place. ‘Tain’t much, I know, so far as money value goes. But there’s some things worth a heap more than their money value, I reckon. If you was only goin’ t’ live where I could ride over once or twice a week to see you, it would be different.”

  “Yes, Daddy; but maybe I won’t go after all. I’m not married, yet, you know.”

  Something in her voice or manner caused Jim to hold his daughter at arm’s length, and look full into the brown eyes; “What do you mean, girl?”

  Sammy laughed in an uneasy and embarrassed way. She was not sure that she knew herself all that lay beneath the simple words. She tried to explain. “Why, I mean that—that Ollie and I have both grown up since we promised, and he has been living away out in the big world and going to school besides. He must have seen many girls since he left me. He is sure to be changed greatly, and—and, maybe he won’t want a backwoods wife.”

  The man growled something beneath his breath, and the girl placed a hand over his lips; “You mustn’t say swear words, Daddy Jim. Indeed, you must not. Not in the presence of ladies, anyway.”

  “You’re changed a heap in some ways, too,” said Jim.

  “Yes, I suppose I am; but my changes are mostly on the inside like; and perhaps he won’t see them.”

  “Would you care so mighty much, Sammy?” whispered the father.

  “That’s just it, Daddy. How can I tell? We must both begin all over again, don’t you see?” Then she sent him away to his work.

  Sammy had finished washing the dinner dishes, and was putting things in order about the house, when she stopped suddenly before the little shelf that held her books. Then, with a smile, she carried them every one into her own room, placing them carefully where they could not be seen from the open door. Going next to the mirror, she deliberately took down her hair, and arranged it in the old careless way that Ollie had always known. “You’re just the same backwoods girl, Sammy Lane, so far as outside things go,” she said to the face in the glass; “but you are not quite the same all the way through. We’ll see if he—” She was interrupted by the loud barking of the dog outside, and her heart beat more quickly as a voice cried, “Hello, hello, I say; call off your dog!”

  Sammy hurried to the door. A strange gentleman stood at the gate. The strangest gentleman that Sammy had ever seen. Surely this could not be Ollie Stewart; this slender, pale-faced man, with faultless linen, well gloved hands and shining patent leathers. The girl drew back in embarrassment.

  But there was no hesitation on the part of the young man. Before she could recover from her astonishment, he caught her in his arms and kissed her again and again, until she struggled from his embrace. “You—you must not,” she gasped.

  “Why not?” he demanded laughingly. “Has anyone a better right? I have waited a long while for this, and I mean to make up now for lost time.”

  He took a step toward her again, but Sammy held him off at arm’s length, as she repeated, “No—no—you must not; not now.” Young Stewart was helpless. And the discovery that she was stronger than this man brought to the girl a strange feeling, as of shame.

  “How strong you are,” he said petulantly; ceasing his efforts. Then carefully surveying the splendidly proportioned and developed young woman, he added, “And how beautiful!”

  Under his look, Sammy’s face flushed painfully, even to her neck and brow; and the man, seeing her confusion, laughed again. Then, seating himself in the only rocking-chair in the room, the young gentleman leisurely removed his gloves, looking around the while with an amused expression on his face, while the girl stood watching him. At last, he said impatiently, “Sit down, sit down, Sammy. You look at me as if I were a ghost.”

  Unconsciously, she slipped into the speech of the old days, “You sure don’t look much like you used to. I never see nobody wear such clothes as them. Not even Dad Howitt, when he first come. Do you wear ‘em every day?”

  Ollie frowned; “You’re just like all the rest, Sammy. Why don’t you talk as you write? You’ve improved a lot in your letters. If you talk like that in the city; people will know in a minute that you are from the country.”

  At this, Sammy rallied her scattered wits, and the wide, questioning look was in her eyes, as she replied quietly, “Thank you. I’ll try to remember. But tell me, please, what harm could it do,
if people did know I came from the country?”

  It was Ollie’s turn to be amazed. “Why you can talk!” he said. “Where did you learn?” And the girl answered simply that she had picked it up from the old shepherd.

  This little incident put Sammy more at ease, and she skilfully led her companion to speak of the city and his life there. Of his studies the young fellow had little to say, and, to her secret delight, the girl found that she had actually made greater progress with her books than had her lover with all his supposed advantages.

  But of other things, of the gaiety and excitement of the great city, of his new home, the wealth of his uncle, and his own bright prospects, Ollie spoke freely, never dreaming the girl had already seen the life he painted in such glowing colors through the eyes of one who had been careful to point out the froth and foam of it all. Neither did the young man discover in the quiet questions she asked that Sammy was seeking to know what in all this new world he had found that he could make his own as the thing most worth while.

  The backwoods girl had never seen that type of man to whom the life of the city, only, is life. Ollie was peculiarly fitted by nature to absorb quickly those things of the world, into which he had gone, that were most different from the world he had left; and there remained scarcely a trace of his earlier wilderness training.

  But there is that in life that lies too deep for any mere change of environment to touch. Sammy remembered a lesson the shepherd had given her: gentle spirit may express itself in the rude words of illiteracy; it is not therefore rude. Ruffianism may speak the language of learning or religion; it is ruffianism still. Strength may wear the garb of weakness, and still be strong; and a weakling may carry the weapons of strength, but fight with a faint heart. So, beneath all the changes that had come to her backwoods lover, Sammy felt that Ollie himself was unchanged. It was as though he had learned a new language, but still said the same things.