The Shepard of the Hills

by Harold Bell Wright

  Dr. Coughlan, thinking it some strange freak of the boy’s disordered brain, and not wishing to break his friend’s much needed rest, was trying in low tones to persuade the boy to wait until morning.

  “What does Pete want?” asked the shepherd entering the room.

  “Pete wants Dad; Dad and the other man. They must sure go with Pete right quick.”

  “Go where with Pete? Who told Pete to come for Dad?” asked Mr. Howitt.

  “He told Pete. Right now, he said. And Pete he come. ‘Course I come with him. Dad must go, an’ the other man too, ‘cause he said so.”

  In sickness or in trouble of any kind the people for miles around had long since come to depend upon the shepherd of Mutton Hollow. The old man turned now to the doctor. “Someone needs me, David. We must go with the boy.”

  “But, Daniel, Daniel! Blast it all! The boy’s not responsible. Where will he take us? Where do you want us to go, boy?”

  “Not me; not me; nobody can’t go nowhere, can they? You go with Pete, Mister.”

  “Yes, yes; go with Pete; but where will Pete take us?” persisted the Doctor.

  “Pete knows.”

  “Now, look at that, Daniel! Look at that. Blast it all; we ought not go; not in the night this way. What would Sarah and the girls say?” Notwithstanding his protests, the doctor was ready even before the shepherd. “Take a gun, Daniel; take a gun, at least,” he said.

  The other hesitated, then asked, “Does Pete want Dad to take a gun?”

  The youth, who stood in the doorway waiting impatiently, shook his head and laughed, “No, no; nothing can’t get Dad where Pete goes. God he’s there just like Dad says.”

  “It’s all right, David,” said the shepherd with conviction. “Pete knows. It is safe to trust him to-night.”

  And the boy echoed, as he started forward, “It’s alright, Mister; Pete knows.”

  “I wish you had your medicine case, though, David,” added Mr. Howitt, as they followed the boy out into the night.

  “Got one, Daniel; got one. Always have a pocket case; habit.”

  Pete led the way down the road, and straight to the old cabin ruin below the corral. Though the stars were hidden behind clouds, it was a little light in the clearing; but, in the timber under the shadow of the bluff, it was very dark. The two men were soon bewildered and stood still. “Which way, Pete?” said the shepherd. There was no answer. “Where’s Pete? Tell Pete to come here,” said Mr. Howitt again. Still there was on reply. Their guide seemed to have been swallowed up in the blackness. They listened for a sound. “This is strange,” mused the shepherd.

  A grunt of disgust came from the doctor, “Crazy, man, crazy. There’s three of us. Which way is the house? Blast it all, what would—” A spot of light gleamed under the bushes not fifty feet away.

  “Come, Dad. Come on, Pete’s ready.”

  They were standing close to the old cabin under the bluff. In a narrow space between the log wall of the house and the cliff, Pete stood with a lighted lantern. The farther end of the passage was completely hidden by a projection of the rock; the overhanging roof touched the ledge above; while the opening near the men was concealed by the heavy growth of ferns and vines and the thick branches of a low cedar. Even in daylight the place would have escaped anything but a most careful search.

  Dropping to his knees and to one hand the shepherd pushed aside the screen of vines and branches with the other, and then on all fours crawled into the narrow passage. The Doctor followed. They found their guide crouching in a small opening in the wall of rock. Mr. Howitt uttered an exclamation, “The lost cave! Old man Dewey!”

  The boy laughed, “Pete knows. Come, Dad. Come, other man. Ain’t nothin’ can get you here.” He scrambled ahead of them into the low tunnel. Some twenty feet from the entrance, the passage turned sharply to the left and opened suddenly into a hallway along which the shepherd could easily walk erect. Pete went briskly forward as one on very familiar ground, his lantern lighting up the way clearly for his two companions.

  For some distance their course dipped downward at a gentle angle, while the ceilings and sides dripped with moisture. Soon they heard the sound of running water, and entering a wider room saw sparkling in the lantern’s light a stream that came from under the rocky wall, crossed their path, and disappeared under the other wall of the chamber. “Lost Creek!” ejaculated the shepherd, as he picked his way over the stream on the big stones. And the boy answered, “Pete knows. Pete knows.”

  From the bank of the creek the path climbed strongly upward, the footing grew firmer, and the walls and ceiling drier; as they went on, the passage, too, grew wider and higher, until they found themselves in a large underground hallway that echoed loudly as they walked. Overhead, pure white stalactites and frost-like formations glittered in the light, and the walls were broken by dark nooks and shelf-like ledges with here and there openings leading who could tell where?

  At the farther end of this hallway where the ceiling was highest, the guide paused at the foot of a ledge against which rested a rude ladder. The shepherd spoke again, “Dewey Bald?” he asked. Pete nodded, and began to climb the ladder.

  Another room, and another ledge; then a long narrow passage, the ceiling of which was so high that it was beyond the lantern light; then a series of ledges, and they saw that they were climbing from shelf to shelf on one side of an underground cañon. Following along the edge of the chasm, the doctor pushed a stone over the brink, and they heard it go bounding from ledge to ledge into the dark heart of the mountain. “No bottom, Daniel. Blast it all, no bottom to it! What would Sarah and the girls say?”

  They climbed one more ladder and then turned from the cañon into another great chamber, the largest they had entered. The floor was perfectly dry; the air, too, was dry and pure; and, from what seemed to be the opposite side of the huge cavern, a light gleamed like a red eye in the darkness. They were evidently nearing the end of their journey. Drawing closer they found that the light came from the window of a small cabin built partly of rock and partly of logs.

  Instinctively the two men stopped. Pete said in a low tone, as one would speak in a sacred presence, “He is there. Come on, Dad. Come, other man. Don’t be scared.”

  Still the boy’s companions hesitated. Mr. Howitt asked, “Who, boy? who is there? Do you know who it is?”

  “No, no, not me. Nobody can’t know nothin’, can they?”

  “Hopeless case, Daniel; hopeless. Too bad, too bad,” muttered the physician, laying his hand upon his friend’s shoulder.

  The shepherd tried again, “Who does Pete say it is?”

  “Oh, Pete says it’s him, just him.”

  “But who does Pete say he is?” suggested Dr. Coughlan.

  Again the boy’s voice lowered to a whisper, “Sometimes Pete says it must be God, ‘cause he’s so good. Dad says God is good an’ that he takes care of folks, an’ he sure does that. ‘Twas him that scared Wash Gibbs an’ his crowd that night. An’ he sent the gold to you, Dad; God’s gold it was; he’s got heaps of it. He killed that panther, too, when it was a goin’ to fight Young Matt. Pete knows. You see, Dad, when Pete is with him, I ain’t nobody no more. I’m just Pete then, an’ Pete is me. Funny, ain’t it? But he says that’s the way it is, an’ he sure knows.”

  The two friends listened with breathless interest. “And what does Pete call him?” asked the doctor.

  “Pete calls him father, like Dad calls God. He talks to God, too, like Dad does. Do you reckon God would talk to God, mister?”

  With a cry the shepherd reeled. The doctor caught him. “Strong, Daniel, strong.” Pete drew away from the two men in alarm.

  The old scholar’s agitation was pitiful. “David, David; tell me, what is this thing? Can it be—my boy—Howard, my son—can it be? My God, David, what am I saying? He is dead. Dead, I tell you. Can the dead come back from the grave, David?” He broke from his friend and ran staggering toward the cabin; but at the door he stopped again. It was as
if he longed yet feared to enter, and the doctor and the boy came to his side. Without ceremony Pete pushed open the door.

  The room was furnished with a cupboard, table and small cook stove. It was evidently a living room. Through a curtained opening at the right, a light showed from another apartment, and a voice called, “Is that you, Pete?”

  A look of pride came into the face of the lad, “That’s me,” he whispered. “I’m Pete here, an’ Pete is me. It’s always that way with him.” Aloud, he said, “Yes, Father, it’s Pete. Pete, an’ Dad, an’ the other man.” As he spoke he drew aside the curtain.

  For an instant the two men paused on the threshold. The room was small, and nearly bare of furniture. In the full glare of the lamp, so shaded as to throw the rest of the room in deep shadow, hung a painting that seemed to fill the rude chamber with its beauty. It was the picture of a young woman, standing by a spring of water, a cup brimming full in her outstretched hand.

  On a bed in the shadow, facing the picture, lay a man. A voice faltered, “Father. Dr. Coughlan.”

  A MATTER OF HOURS

  “FATHER—Father; can—you—can—you—forgive me?”

  The man on his knees raised his head.

  “Forgive you, my son? Forgive you? My dear boy, there has never been in my heart a thought but of love and sympathy. Pain there has been, I can’t deny, but it has helped me to know what you have suffered. I understand it now, my boy. I understand it all, for I, too, have felt it. But when I first knew, even beneath all the hurt, I was glad—glad to know, I mean. It is a father’s right to suffer with his child, my son. It hurt most, when the secret stood between us, and I could not enter into your life, but I understand that, too. I understand why you could not tell me. I, too, came away because I was not strong enough.”

  “I—I thought it would be easier for you never to know,” said the son as he lay on the bed. “I am—sorry, now. And I am glad that you know. But I must tell you all about it just the same. I must tell you myself, you see, so that it will be all clear and straight when I—when I go.” He turned his eyes to the picture on the wall.

  “When you go?”

  Howard laid a hand upon the gray head. “Poor father; yes, I am going. It was an accident, but it was a kindness. It will be much better that way—only—only I am sorry for you, father. I thought I could save you all this. I intended to slip quietly away without your ever knowing, but when Pete said that Dr. Coughlan was here, I could not go without—without—”

  The little doctor came forward. “I am a fool, Howard, an old fool. Blast it all; no business to go poking into this; no business at all! Daniel would have sent if he had wanted me. Ought to have known. Old native can give me lessons on being a gentleman every time. Blast it all! What’s wrong, Howard? Get hurt? Now I am here, might as well be useful.”

  “Indeed, Doctor, you did right to come. You will be such a help to father. You will help us both, just as you have always done. Will you excuse us, father, while Dr. Coughlan looks at this thing here in my side?”

  The physician arranged the light so that it shone full upon the man on the bed, then carefully removed the bandages from an ugly wound in the artist’s side. Dr. Coughlan looked very grave. “When did this happen, Howard?”

  “I—I can’t tell exactly. You see I thought at first I could get along with Pete to help, and I did, for a week, I guess. Then things—didn’t go so well. Some fever, I think, for she—she came.” He turned his eyes toward the picture again. “And I—I lost all track of time. It was the night of the eighteenth. Father will know.”

  “Two weeks,” muttered the physician.

  A low exclamation came from the shepherd. “It was you—you who brought the horses to the ranch that night?”

  The artist smiled grimly. “The officers saw me, and thought that I was one of the men they wanted. It’s alright, though.” The old scholar instinctively lifted his hands and looked at them. He remembered the saddle, wet with blood.

  Making a careful examination, the doctor asked more questions. When he had finished and had skilfully replaced the bandages, the wounded man asked, “What about it, Dr. Coughlan?” The kind hearted physician jerked out a volley of scientific words and phrases that meant nothing, and busied himself with his medicine case.

  When his patient had taken the medicine, the doctor watched him for a few minutes, and then asked, “Feel stronger, Howard?”

  The artist nodded. “Tell me the truth, now, Doctor. I know that I am going. But how long have I? Wait a minute first. Where’s Pete? Come here, my boy.” The lad drew near. “Father.” Mr. Howitt seated himself on the bedside. “You’ll be strong, father? We are ready now, Dr. Coughlan.”

  “Yes, tell us, David,” said the shepherd, and his voice was steady.

  The physician spoke, “Matter of hours, I would say. Twenty-four, perhaps; not more; not more.”

  “There is no possible chance, David?” asked the shepherd.

  Again the little doctor took refuge behind a broadside of scientific terms before replying, “No; no possible chance.”

  A groan slipped from the gray bearded lips of the father. The artist turned to the picture and smiled. Pete looked wonderingly from face to face.

  “Poor father,” said the artist. “One thing more, Doctor; can you keep up my strength for awhile?”

  “Reasonably well, reasonably well, Howard.”

  “I am so glad of that because there is much to do before I go. There is so much that must be done first, and I want you both to help me.”

  THE SHEPHERD’S MISSION

  DURING the latter part of that night and most of the day, it rained; a fine, slow, quiet rain, with no wind to shake the wet from burdened leaf or blade. But when the old shepherd left the cave by a narrow opening on the side of the mountain, near Sammy’s Lookout, the sky was clear. The mists rolled heavily over the valley, but the last of the sunlight was warm on the knobs and ridges.

  The old man paused behind the rock and bushes that concealed the mouth of the underground passage. Not a hundred feet below was the Old Trail; he followed the little path with his eye until it vanished around the shoulder of Dewey. Along that way he had come into the hills. Then lifting his eyes to the far away lines of darker blue, his mind looked over the ridge to the world that is on the other side, the world from which he had fled. It all seemed very small and mean, now; it was so far—so far away.

  He started as the sharp ring of a horse’s iron shoe on the flint rocks came from beyond the Lookout, and, safely hidden, he saw a neighbor round the hill and pass on his way to the store on Roark. He watched, as horse and rider followed the Old Trail around the rim of the Hollow; watched, until they passed from sight in the belt of timber. Then his eyes were fixed on a fine thread of smoke that curled above the trees on the Matthews place; and, leaving the shelter of rock and bush, he walked along the Old Trail toward the big log house on the distant ridge.

  Below him, on his left, Mutton Hollow lay submerged in the drifting mists, with only a faint line of light breaking now and then where Lost Creek made its way; and on the other side Compton Ridge lifted like a wooded shore from the sea. A black spot in the red west shaped itself into a crow, making his way on easy wing toward a dead tree on the top of Boulder Bald. The old shepherd walked wearily; the now familiar objects wore a strange look. It was as though he saw them for the first time, yet had seen them somewhere before, perhaps in another world. As he went his face was the face of one crushed by shame and grief, made desperate by his suffering.

  Supper was just over and Young Matt was on the porch when Mr. Howitt entered the gate. The young fellow greeted his old friend, and called back into the house, “Here’s Dad, Father.” As Mr. Matthews came out, Aunt Mollie and Sammy appeared in the doorway. How like it all was to that other evening.

  The mountaineer and the shepherd sat on the front porch, while Young Matt brought the big sorrel and the brown pony to the gate, and with Sammy rode away. They were going to the Postoff
ice at the Forks. “Ain’t had no news for a week,” said Aunt Mollie, as she brought her chair to join the two men. “And besides, Sammy needs the ride. There’s goin’ to be a moon, so it’ll be light by the time they start home.”

  The sound of the horses’ feet and the voices of the young people died away in the gray woods. The dusk thickened in the valley below, and, as the light in the west went out, the three friends saw the clump of pines etched black and sharp against the blood red background of the sky.

  Old Matt spoke, “Reckon everything’s alright at the ranch, Dad. How’s the little doctor? You ought to brung him up with you.” He watched the shepherd’s face curiously from under his heavy brows, as he pulled at his cob pipe.

  “Tired out trampin’ over these hills, I reckon,” ventured Aunt Mollie. Mr. Howitt tried to answer with some commonplace, but his friends could not but note his confusion. Mrs. Matthews continued, “I guess you’ll be a leavin’ us pretty soon, now. Well, I ain’t a blamin’ you; and you’ve sure been a God’s blessin’ to us here in the woods. I don’t reckon we’re much ‘long ‘side the fine friends you’ve got back where you come from in the city; and we—we can’t do nothin’ for you, but—but—” The good soul could say no more.

  “We’ve often wondered, sir,” added Old Matt, “how you’ve stood it here, an educated man like you. I reckon, though, there’s somethin’ deep under it all, keepin’ you up; somethin’ that ignorant folks, without no education, like us, can’t understand.”

  The old scholar could have cried aloud, but he was forced to sit dumb while the other continued, “You’re goin’ won’t make no difference, though, with what you’ve done. This neighborhood won’t never go back to what it was before you come. It can’t with all you’ve taught us, and with Sammy stayin’ here to keep it up. It’ll be mighty hard, though, to have you go; it sure will, Mr. Howitt.”

  Looking up, the shepherd said quietly, “I expect to live here until the end if you will let me. But I fear you will not want me to stay when you know what I’ve come to tell you this evening.”