The Shepard of the Hills

by Harold Bell Wright

  “That’s him, Doc,” called the driver. “That’s the feller what wallered Wash Gibbs like I was a tellin’ ye. Strongest man in the hills he is. Dad burn me if I believe he knows how strong he is.”

  “Doc—Doc—Dad burned—Doc,” muttered the stranger. “What would Sarah and the girls say!” He waddled to the wagon, and reached up one fat hand with a half dollar to Budd, “Here, driver, here. Get cigars with that; cigars, mind you, or candy. I stay here. Mind you don’t get anything to drink; nothing to drink, I say.”

  Budd gathered up the reins and woke the sleepy mules with a vigorous jerk. “Nary a drink, Doc; nary a drink. Thank you kindly all the same. Got t’ mosey ‘long t’ th’ still now; ought t’ o’ been there hour ago. ‘f I can do anything fer you, jest le’ me know. I live over on Sow Coon Gap, when I’m ‘t home. Come over an’ visit with me. Young Matt there’ll guide you.”

  As he watched the wagon down the valley, the stranger mused. “Doc—Doc—huh. Quite sure that fellow will buy a drink; quite sure.”

  When the wagon had disappeared, he turned to Mr. Matthews and his son; “According to that fellow, I am not far from a sheep ranch kept by a Mr. Howitt. That’s it, Mr. Daniel Howitt; fine looking man, fine; brown eyes; great voice; gentleman, sir, gentleman, if he is keeping sheep in this wilderness. Blast it all, just like him, just like him; always keeping somebody’s sheep; born to be a shepherd; born to be. Know him?”

  At mention of Mr. Howitt’s name, Young Matt had looked at his father quickly. When the stranger paused, he answered, “Yes, sir. We know Dad Howitt. Is he a friend of yourn?”

  “Dad—Dad Howitt. Doc and Dad. Well, what would Sarah and the girls say? Friend of mine? Young man Daniel and David, I am David; Daniel and David lay on the same blanket when they were babies; played in the same alley; school together same classes; colleged together; next door neighbors. Know him! Blast it all, where is this sheep place?”

  Again the two woodsmen exchanged glances. The elder Matthews spoke, “It ain’t so far from here, sir. The ranch belongs to me and my son. But Mr. Howitt will be out on the hills somewhere with the sheep now. You’d better go home with us and have supper, and the boy will take you down this evenin’.”

  “Well, now, that’s kind, sir; very kind, indeed. Man at the Postoffice is a savage, sir; blasted, old incorrigible savage. My name is Coughlan; Dr. David Coughlan, of Chicago; practicing physician for forty years; don’t do anything now; not much, that is. Sarah and the girls won’t let me. Your name, sir?”

  “Grant Matthews. My boy there has the same. We’re mighty glad to meet any friend of Dad’s, I can tell you. He’s sure been a God’s blessin’ to this neighborhood.”

  Soon they started homeward, Young Matt going ahead to do the chores, and to tell his mother of their coming guest, while Mr. Matthews followed more slowly with the doctor. Shortening his stride to conform to the slow pace of the smaller man, the mountaineer told his guest about the shepherd; how he had come to them; of his life; and how he had won the hearts of the people. When he told how Mr. Howitt had educated Sammy, buying her books himself from his meager wages, the doctor interrupted in his quick way, “Just like him! just like him. Always giving away everything he earned. Made others give, too. Blast it all, he’s cost me thousands of dollars, thousands of dollars, treating patients of his that never paid a cent; not a cent, sir. Proud, though; proud as Lucifer. Fine old, family; finest in the country, sir. Right to be proud, right to be.”

  Old Matt scowled as he returned coldly, “He sure don’t seem that way to us, Mister. He’s as common as an old shoe.” And then the mountaineer told how his son loved the shepherd, and tried to explain what the old scholar’s friendship had meant to them.

  The stranger ejaculated, “Same old thing; same old trick. Did me that way; does everybody that way. Same old Daniel. Proud, though; can’t help it; can’t help it.”

  The big man answered with still more warmth, “You ought to hear how he talks to us folks when we have meetin’s at the Cove school house. He’s as good as any preacher you ever heard; except that he don’t put on as much, maybe. Why, sir, when we buried Jim Lane week before last, everybody ‘lowed he done as well as a regular parson.”

  At this Dr. Coughlan stopped short and leaned against a convenient tree for support, looking up at his big host, with merriment he could not hide; “Parson, parson! Daniel Howitt talk as good as a parson! Blast it all! Dan is one of the biggest D. D.’s in the United States; as good as a parson, I should think so! Why, man, he’s my pastor; my pastor. Biggest church, greatest crowds in the city. Well what would Sarah and the girls say!” He stood there gasping and shaking with laughter, until Old Matt, finding the ridiculous side of the situation, joined in with a guffaw that fairly drowned the sound of the little man’s merriment.

  When they finally moved on again, the Doctor said, “And you never knew? The papers were always full, always. His real name is—”

  “Stop!” Old Matt spoke so suddenly and in such a tone that the other jumped in alarm. “I ain’t a meanin’ no harm, Doc; but you oughtn’t to tell his name, and—anyway I don’t want to know. Preacher or no preacher, he’s a man, he is, and that’s what counts in this here country. If Dad had wanted us to know about himself, I reckon he’d a told us, and I don’t want to hear it until he’s ready.”

  The Doctor stopped short again, “Right, sir; right. Daniel has his reasons, of course. I forgot. That savage at the Postoffice tried to interrogate me; tried to draw me. I was close; on guard you see. Fellow in the wagon tried; still on guard. You caught me. Blast it all, I like you! Fine specimen that boy of yours; fine!”

  When they reached the top of the ridge the stranger looked over the hills with exclamations of delight, “Grand, sir; grand! Wish Sarah and the girls could see. Don’t wonder Daniel staid. That Hollow down there you say; way down there? Mutton—Mutton Hollow? Daniel lives there? Blast it all; come on, man; come on.”

  As they drew near the house, Pete came slowly up the Old Trail and met them at the gate.

  OLD FRIENDS

  AFTER supper Young Matt guided the stranger down the trail to the sheep ranch in Mutton Hollow.

  When they reached the edge of the clearing, the mountaineer stopped. “Yonder’s the cabin, sir, an’ Dad is there, as you can see by the smoke. I don’t reckon you’ll need me any more now, an’ I’ll go back. We’ll be mighty glad to see you on the ridge any time, sir. Any friend of Dad’s is mighty welcome in this neighborhood.”

  “Thank you; thank you; very thoughtful; very thoughtful, indeed; fine spirit, fine. I shall see you again when Daniel and I have had it out. Blast it all; what is he doing here? Good night, young man; good-night.” He started forward impetuously. Matt turned back toward home.

  The dog barked as Dr. Coughlan approached the cabin, and the shepherd came to the open door. He had been washing the supper dishes. His coat was off, his shirt open at the throat, and his sleeves rolled above his elbows. “Here, Brave.” The deep voice rolled across the little clearing, and the dog ran to stand by his master’s side. Then, as Mr. Howitt took in the unmistakable figure of the little physician, he put out a hand to steady himself.

  “Oh, it’s me, Daniel; it’s me. Caught you didn’t I? Blast it all; might have known I would. Bound to; bound to, Daniel; been at it ever since I lost you. Visiting in Kansas City last week with my old friends, the Stewarts; young fellow there, Ollie, put me right. First part of your name, description, voice and all that; knew it was you; knew it. Didn’t tell them, though; blasted reporters go wild. Didn’t tell a soul, not a soul. Sarah and the girls think I am in Kansas City or Denver. Didn’t tell old man Matthews, either; came near, though, very near. Blast it all; what does it mean? what does it all mean?”

  In his excitement the little man spoke rapidly as he hurried toward the shepherd. When he reached the cabin, the two friends, so different, yet so alike, clasped hands.

  As soon as the old scholar could speak, he said, “David, David!
To think that this is really you. You of all men; you, whom I most needed.”

  “Huh!” grunted the other. “Look like you never needed me less. Look fit for anything, anything; ten years younger; every bit of ten years. Blast it all; what have you done to yourself? What have you done?” He looked curiously at the tanned face and rude dress of his friend. “Bless my soul, what a change! What a change! Told Matthews you were an aristocrat. He wouldn’t believe it. Don’t wonder. Doubt it myself, now.”

  The other smiled at the Doctor’s amazement. “I suppose I have changed some, David. The hills have done it. Look at them!” He pointed to the encircling mountains. “See how calm and strong they are; how they lift their heads above the gloom. They are my friends and companions, David. And they have given me of their calmness and strength a little. But come in, come in; you must be very tired. How did you come?”

  The doctor followed him into the cabin. “Railroad, hack, wagon, walked. Postoffice last night. Man there is a savage, blasted incorrigible savage. Mill this afternoon. Home with your friends on the ridge. Old man is a gentleman, a gentleman, sir, if God ever made one. His boy’s like him. The mother, she’s a real mother; made to be a mother; couldn’t help it. And that young woman, with the boy’s name, bless my soul, I never saw such a creature before, Daniel, never! If I had I—I—Blast it all; I wouldn’t be bossed by Sarah and the girls, I wouldn’t. See in that young man and woman what God meant men and women to be. Told them they ought to marry; that they owed it to the race. You know my ideas, Daniel. Think they will?”

  The shepherd laughed, a laugh that was good to hear.

  “What’s the matter now, Daniel? What is the matter? Have I said anything wrong again? Blast it all; you know how I always do the wrong thing. Have I?”

  “No, indeed, David; you are exactly right,” returned Mr. Howitt. “But tell me, did you see no one else at the house? There is another member of the family.”

  The doctor nodded. “I saw him; Pete, you mean. Looked him over. Mr. Matthews asked me to. Sad case, very sad. Hopeless, absolutely hopeless, Daniel.”

  “Pete has not seemed as well as usual lately. I fear so much night roaming is not good for the boy,” returned the other slowly. “But tell me, how are Sarah and the girls? Still looking after Dr. Davie, I suppose.”

  “Just the same; haven’t changed a bit; not a bit. Jennie looks after my socks and handkerchiefs; Mary looks after my shirts and linen; Anna looks after my ties and shoes; Sue looks after my hats and coats; and Kate looks after the things I eat; and Sarah, Sarah looks after everything and everybody, same as always. Blast it all! If they’d give me a show, I’d be as good as ever; good as ever, Daniel. What can a man do; what can a man do, with an only sister and her five old maid daughters looking after him from morning until night, from morning until night, Daniel? Tell them I am a full grown man; don’t do no good; no good at all. Blast it all; poor old things, just got to mother something; got to, Daniel.”

  While he was speaking, his eyes were dancing from one object to another in the shepherd’s rude dwelling, turning for frequent quick glances to Dad himself. “You live here, you? You ought not, Daniel, you ought not. What would Sarah and the girls say? Blast it all; what do you mean by it? I ordered you away on a vacation. You disappear. Think you dead; row in the papers, mystery; I hate mystery. Blast it all; what does it mean, what does it all mean? Not fair to me, Daniel; not fair.”

  By this time the little man had worked himself up to an astonishing pitch of excitement; his eyes snapped; his words came like pistol shots; his ejaculations were genuine explosions. He tapped with his feet; rapped with his cane; shook his finger; and fidgeted in his chair. “We want you back, Daniel. I want you. Church will want you when they know; looking for a preacher right now. I come after you, Daniel. Blast it all, I’ll tell Sarah and the girls, and they’ll come after you, too. Chicago will go wild when they know that Daniel Howitt Cha—”

  “Stop!” The doctor bounced out of his chair. The shepherd was trembling, and his voice shook with emotion. “Forgive me, David. But that name must never be spoken again, never. My son is dead, and that name died with him. It must be forgotten.”

  The physician noted his friend’s agitation in amazement. “There, there, Daniel. I didn’t mean to. Thought it didn’t matter when we were alone. I—I—Blast it all! Tell me Daniel, what do you mean by this strange business, this very strange business?”

  A look of mingled affection, regret and pain, came into the shepherd’s face, as he replied, “Let me tell you the story, David, and you will understand.”

  When he had finished, Mr. Howitt asked gently, “Have I not done right, David? The boy is gone. It was hard, going as he did. But I am glad, now, for Old Matt would have killed him, as he would kill me yet, if he knew. Thank God, we have not also made the father a murderer. Did I not say rightly, that the old name died with Howard? Have I not done well to stay on this spot and to give my life to this people?”

  “Quite right, Daniel; quite right. You always are. It’s me that goes wrong; blundering, bumping, smashing into things. Blast it all! I—I don’t know what to say. B—B—Blast it all!”

  The hour was late when the two men finally retired for the night. Long after his heavy, regular breathing announced that the doctor was sleeping soundly, the shepherd lay wide awake, keenly sensitive to every sound that stirred in the forest. Once he arose from his bed, and stepping softly left the cabin, to stand under the stars, his face lifted to the dark summit of Old Dewey and the hills that rimmed the Hollow. And once, when the first light of day came over the ridges, he went to the bunk where his friend lay, to look thoughtfully down upon the sleeping man.

  Breakfast was nearly ready when Dr. Coughlan awoke. The physician saw at once by the worn and haggard look on his friend’s face that his had been a sleepless night. It was as though all the pain and trouble of the old days had returned. The little doctor muttered angrily to himself while the shepherd was gone to the spring for water. “Blast it all, I’m a fool, a meddlesome, old fool. Ought to have let well enough alone. No need to drag him back into it all again; no need. Do no good; no good at all.”

  When the morning meal was finished, Mr. Howitt said, “David, will you think me rude, if I leave you alone to-day? The city pavement fits one but poorly to walk these hills of mine, and you are too tired after your trip and the loss of your regular sleep to go with me this morning. Stay at the ranch and rest. If you care to read, here are a few of your favorites. Will you mind very much? I should like to be alone to-day, David.”

  “Right, Daniel, right. I understand. Don’t say another word; not a word. Go ahead. I’m stiff and sore anyway; just suit me.”

  The shepherd arranged everything for his friend’s comfort, putting things in readiness for his noonday meal, and showing him the spring. Then, taking his own lunch, as his custom was, he went to the corral and released the sheep. The doctor watched until the last of the flock was gone, and he could no longer hear the tinkle of the bells and the bark of the dog.

  I AIN’T NOBODY NO MORE

  WITH the coming of the evening, the shepherd returned to his guest. Dr. Coughlan heard first the bells on the leaders of the flock, and the barking of the dog coming nearer and nearer through the woods. Soon the sheep appeared trooping out of the twilight shadows into the clearing; then came Brave followed by his master.

  The countenance of the old scholar wore again that look of calm strength and peace that had marked it before the coming of his friend. “Have you had a good rest, David? Or has your day been long and tiresome? I fear it was not kind of me to leave you alone in this wilderness.”

  The doctor told how he had passed the time, reading, sleeping and roaming about the clearing and the nearby woods. “And you,” he said, looking the other over with a professional eye, “you look like a new man; a new man, Daniel. How do you do it? Some secret spring of youth in the wilderness? Blast it all, wish you would show me. Fool Sarah and the girls, fool them,
sure.”

  “David, have you forgotten the prescription you gave me when you ordered me from the city? You took it you remember from one of our favorite volumes.” The shepherd bared his head and repeated,

  “If thou art worn and hard beset,

  With sorrows, that thou wouldst forget;

  If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keep

  Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep,

  Go to the woods and hills! No tears

  Dim the sweet look that Nature wears.”

  “David, I never understood until the past months why the Master so often withdrew alone into the wilderness. There is not only food and medicine for one’s body; there is also healing for the heart and strength for the soul in nature. One gets very close to God, David, in these temples of God’s own building.”

  Dr. Coughlan studied his old friend curiously; “Change; remarkable change in you! Remarkable! Never said a thing like that in all your life before, never.”

  The shepherd smiled, “It’s your prescription, Doctor,” he said.

  They retired early that evening, for the physician declared that his friend must need the rest. “Talk to-morrow,” he said; “all day; nothing else to do.” He promptly enforced his decision by retiring to his own bunk, leaving the shepherd to follow his example. But not until the doctor was sure that his friend was sleeping soundly did he permit himself to sink into unconsciousness.

  It was just past midnight, when the shepherd was aroused by the doctor striking a match to light the lamp. As he awoke, he heard Pete’s voice, “Where is Dad? Pete wants Dad.”