A Maid of the Kentucky Hills Part 28

My insane self made no reply to this last speech, because it no longer existed. I was effectually sobered. What Buck's laugh that morning may have meant did not really matter. All day he had been on the outskirts of my mind, but I had been too busy with other subjects to admit him for intimate inspection and consideration. Now my sane self proceeded to shove him forward relentlessly, and I accepted his presence as something quite necessary, but undesired. Whether or not he sensed the approaching encounter as plainly as I, of course I could not say. But I knew that a bulldog resolve had lodged in his mind to have Celeste for his wife, and it took no seer to declare that he would use every weapon in his reach to prevent me from taking her. He had only one weapon--his superb physical strength--and I knew he would arrange or provoke a meeting, if none arose naturally. What would become of me then? Instinctively I flexed my right arm and grasped the bulging biceps. Like rock. Not as large as the smith's, I was sure, but might dwelt there. I felt my other arm, my legs, and thumped my chest with my fist. Yes; I, too, was some man. I was hard as nails all over, but I was fearfully tired. All I needed was rest; good, sound, eight hours a day sleep, and presently I would be fit. I must adopt a rigid system of living, and hold to it faithfully until these parlous times were over.

For perhaps two hours then my mind worked along rational lines, and when I left my perch to carefully descend the perilous declivity, I realized with intense satisfaction that I had myself admirably well in hand.

The door to the Lodge stood open. I remembered distinctly drawing it to after me when I came out, although I never locked it. The night was calm. It could not have been blown wide by the wind. Not alarmed, but vaguely uneasy, I entered and walked to the table. I knew a box of matches was here, and I thrust out my hand. It encountered something upright in the darkness; something which did not belong there, for the object yielded to the force of my touch, to fly back in place when I removed my hand. Nervously I fumbled about until I grasped the matches.

Swiftly I struck one, and in the light of its tiny flare I saw what the foreign thing was. But I lighted my lamp very calmly, in spite of the disturbing nature of my discovery. Then I thrust my hands in my pockets and stood staring at the long hunting knife which had been driven through the orderly pile of ma.n.u.script composing my journal, deep into the oak top of the table. There it was, horn-handled, hafted, with a murderous blade six inches long.

I could not doubt its meaning, were I so inclined, any more than I could doubt the big brown hand which had planted that steel blade so deeply and firmly in the wood. It was a warning; a warning such as was given in the middle ages, but the man who had delivered it belonged by right just there. He dwelt in the same mental and moral atmosphere as did his forebears hundreds of years ago. And his declaration of war was a.s.suredly convincing. Nothing could be more real, more significant, more productive of contemplation, than that bit of imbedded steel, shining threateningly in the lamplight. I gathered one comforting fact from this sinister messenger. All was not well between Buck and Celeste. He, too, was in the dark as to her whereabouts, and he, too, failed to nurse in his heart any rea.s.suring message given before she went away. Plainly this man had reached a stage in his infatuation where he would employ any means to rid himself of me. Doubtless he had come to square accounts that night. He had found me out, had very likely waited, and when I had not come his wild hate and mad rage had found expression in the savage act whose result now confronted me. I remained for a long time looking at that knife, and my thoughts were many. Grave, too, they grew to be, as I traced the near future to a climax as fixed as Fate. There were two ways, as there always are, but no third consistent with honor. I must give up the Dryad, or I must kill or be killed. Neither alternative bore rosy tints. The thought of taking a human life filled me with a rebellious horror, but the thought of resigning Celeste--my golden-haired, gray-eyed Dryad--to the uncouth caresses of the smith of Hebron charged my inmost soul with a white-hot denial. I would not do it. I could not do it. The decision had pa.s.sed from my control. I would wait for her; I would yearn for her sweet presence with all the power of my spirit, and I would fight for her unto the death! Strange that not once did the thought come that I might be vanquished.

I put out my finger and rocked the weapon to and fro. It had been planted well. Then I grasped the handle and strove to draw it out. What a hold it had! In the end I had to get on the table with my knees and take both hands to force the blade loose. A silly and jealous anger now seized me at the power here shown. I took some unused paper, and made a bundle as near the size of my ma.n.u.script as I could, and placed it on the table. Then I set my teeth, gripped the knife, and lifting my arm drove downward furiously. The stroke fully equaled Buck Steele's, as a quick investigation showed, and brought a warm glow of animal satisfaction.

For the first time since I began life at the Lodge, before I went to bed I dropped the heavy bar of wood into the brackets on either side the door, thus making it absolutely secure. The windows remained open, as usual, but I placed my revolver under my pillow.

The next ten days would have been idyllic had I been entirely at peace.

As it was, I managed to absorb a great deal from them which strengthened and comforted. Each was a miraculous procession of perfect hours. I had laid down some simple rules of conduct which I followed strictly. I arose early, bathed, breakfasted, took a course in calisthenics which brought muscles into action mere tramping would not reach except faintly, and did some garden work. The rush of recent events had interfered with my horticultural notions lamentably, and now it was too late for anything except corn and beans. I rested an hour after dinner, and then walked until dusk. The quest of the life-plant had long ago become mechanical, and I never stirred abroad without the consciousness that I might find it this time. But I had come to believe of late that I had no need for it now. Perhaps 'Crombie had diagnosed my case wrong--had taken too much for granted, and had banished a man with an ulcerated throat, or a bleeding gum. For the first time I remembered my throat _was_ sore at that interview! Could it be possible? I had never felt better than at present, when the longest walks and the hardest pulls over the steep k.n.o.bsides were play. I was abed every night by nine o'clock.

My poise was speedily regained under this regimen. Vigor seemed to flow into me, and I must confess to a certain pride in my superb physical condition.

Then one pearl-gray morning which promised a flawless day, I flung open the door to find a piece of paper fluttering in my face. Right on a level with my eyes it hung and writhed in the twilight breeze, as if it was a live thing suffering from the bright new horse-shoe nail which impaled it. With finger and thumb I disengaged the soiled, flimsy sheet.

It was a torn portion of wrapping paper, and bore a brief message; a formless scrawl traced with a blunt lead pencil.

"THES HERE HOLERS AINT HELTHY FOR SITY FELLRS PLANE TALK IS BES UNDERSTUD"

It was Buck's second warning for me to leave. Could he have known my mental condition when I read the ignorant, threatening lines, I believe even he would have hesitated before attempting any radical move to be rid of me. I was not alarmed; I was not even annoyed. I am sure my heart action was not accelerated at all. It may be surmised that I did not comprehend the full significance of the words. But I did. They meant, differently presented: "If you don't get away from here I'm going to kill you." I knew what he meant to say, and I knew what he meant to do.

It must have been the consciousness of my bodily power which prevented even the slightest tremor as I labored through the misspelled, scarcely intelligible missive. I looked at it almost disinterestedly a moment after I had mastered it, then crumpled it into a wad and tossed it aside. At various times during the day I thought of it, but only as one's mind naturally reverts to an incident. I did not suppose the smith would ambush me. Apart from a.s.sa.s.sination, the belief was strong within me that I could hold my own, and more, with him.

The third Sat.u.r.day after the disappearance of the family at Lizard Point, I went to Hebron in the afternoon. A sense of supreme loneliness a.s.sailed me that day, and I realized more than I had ever done that mankind is by nature gregarious. In common with other animals, he must have the fellowship of his kind. That Sat.u.r.day morning the billowing ranges seemed types of eternal loneliness, and the old walks which heretofore had charmed were alive with the echo of dead voices. I suddenly became aware that I wanted to see somebody, to hear a human voice, however rough and untaught. I wanted to look into somebody's eyes, to talk to somebody, to sit down by somebody, cross my legs and smoke. The longing grew, until, at noon, I knew that I must see some of my fellow creatures. Should I go to the priest? He was kind, cultured, hospitable. No; I didn't want kindness and culture. I just wanted to rub shoulders with mere _humans_. Besides, I would have been more or less constrained with Father John. It was not in the nature of a mere man to forget that Beryl Drane was at the bottom of all this miserable condition of things, and had I gone to chat with his reverence, I should have had to listen to fulsome praises of that--person, and should also have been expected to add my little word of appreciation and compliment, since I had had the rare pleasure of a brief acquaintance with the paragon.

I went to Hebron, with a fine large twist of tobacco in my pocket, and an aching desire just to be with people.

It was Hebron's busy day--or busy half-day, of all the week. Not until I hove in sight of the little settlement and saw a row of horses. .h.i.tched to the pole near the store, and at least eight or ten persons in plain view, did I realize the truth. In nearly all rural communities, all farm work is knocked off at noon Sat.u.r.day. Then dissipation follows in going to the store. There is nothing else to do, unless one sneaks off to the barn and goes to sleep on the hay, or slips down to the river and goes seining. But seining was unlawful, and this was the wrong time of year, anyway. It was early in the afternoon--not past two o'clock--and only the advance guard had arrived. But the sight made me glad. I wanted to mix, move and talk with the yeomanry that day. So I sauntered up the road toward the store, paying no heed to the open-doored smithy as I strolled by. Buck was one who could not let up this day, for more than one horse's hoof had grown sore going barefoot a portion of that week, waiting for this afternoon. Though I did not turn my head, I knew there were a number of horses standing under the shed in front of the shop. I had barely pa.s.sed it when I heard a harsh, prolonged--

"_Who-oa!_ Durn ye! Can't ye stan' still a _minute_?"

This was accompanied by the sound of scuffling within. I turned to see a couple of urchins make their escape through the broad doorway, and I could discern fright on their faces as their bare feet patted the hot yellow dust of the road. They were headed toward the creek over which hung the home-made bridge, and they did not stop nor lessen their speed until they splashed into the shallow water. It was not sham terror, either, for now they stood holding each other by the arms, and gazing back at the shop.

I wheeled in my tracks, and walked under the shed.

I did not enter the smithy because there was no need. It was light as day in there, and I would have been in the way then. I saw three people and a mule, evidently young, and evidently fractious. It was a fine yearling; fat, sleek, shapely. Buck Steele, with a small, elongated iron shoe in his left hand, stood in a semi-profile position, facing the man who had brought the animal in. A negro boy lolled by the forge, his hand on the handle of the bellows.

"Whut's th' matter 'ith th' fool critter?" Buck was saying, as I halted under the shed. He had not seen my approach.

"Fus' time, yo' know," returned the man, in a wheedling kind of voice, thrusting his thumb under his bedticking suspender, and chasing it over his shoulder with that member. "Yo' 'll hev to be kind o' durn keerful, Buck"--he shifted his hold from the rope of the halter to the halter itself--"'cus he didn't miss yo' an inch las' time."

The mule was scared. It trembled at every move Buck made, and its eyes were distended and rolling.

"Nothin' 's ever pa.s.sed out o' this here shop bar'-footed that a man wants shoes on!" maintained the smith. "If yo' want this animile shod, I'll shoe 'im!"

"I sh.o.r.e want 'im shod!"

The speaker took a fresh grasp on the halter, and his hairy visage became contorted in an expression impossible to translate, as Buck stepped forward and put his hand on the smooth withers of the young mule. It shrank down under his touch, and blew short, gusty breaths.

Buck waited, patiently, until the animal became quiet, then, gently patting the reddish-brown skin, he gradually moved his hand along its side until he reached its flank. There he stooped, with low, soothing words, and a great admiration for his courage found birth within me as I saw him bend beside that sinewy thigh corded and bunched with muscles.

Gently his big brown fingers slid down the slender hock, then like the rebound of a crossbow the satiny limb shot out in a paroxysm of untamed fear. It was a lightning stroke, delivered so swiftly my eyes could not follow it. Buck saw it start, infinitesimal as the time must have been from its inception to its execution--perhaps he felt the steel thews hardening under his hand--for he leaped backward simultaneously. This action saved his life. As it was, the edge of the small hoof slashed his forehead like a razor, leaving a crimson, dripping gap. It went just below the surface, and did not even stun the smith. He staggered, it is true, but from his own recoil, and was erect an instant later. Then I witnessed a sight I shall never forget though I round out a century.

The sting of the hurt and the treachery of the brute took all of Buck's sense and judgment for the time. He was as much animal as the four-legged one in front of him that moment. His bearded face became convulsed horribly, his eyes shot fire, and with that red gash in his forehead from which tiny streams trickled unheeded, he advanced one step, drew back his arm, and struck that mule a blow which stretched it dead before our eyes!

I write the culmination of this incident with reluctance. Not from its brutal and somewhat harrowing complexion, but from the fear that many will be tempted to smile tolerantly, and in the kindness of their hearts forgive this one most palpable fiction in a book of fact. But it is true, nevertheless, and I venture to declare it will be a tale in the k.n.o.b country long after later and lesser things have been forgotten.

As the mule fell the negro boy screeched and climbed out the nearest window. A minute later the shop was full of an excited, noisy, inquiring crowd. Some one led Buck to the tub of water in which he cooled hot iron, and bathed his wound, never worrying as to whether this especial water would be entirely sanitary. The carca.s.s quickly became the center of a circle of amazed countrymen, and I, the only silent one present, leaned against the jamb of the door and slowly filled my pipe. The demonstration which I had just witnessed was not particularly comforting.

A youth of about nineteen stood near the mule's head. He was barefooted, and the sum total of his apparel consisted of two garments; a shirt with only one b.u.t.ton, which was at the throat, and a pair of pants (not trousers) which came to an abrupt conclusion several inches above his big ankle bones. He wore no hat of any description. Had he possessed one when the alarm was given, it had disappeared in the hurried rush which followed. This youth was powerfully impressed.

"Daid!... Plum' daid!" I heard him exclaim, in an awed undertone, withdrawing for a moment the fixed gaze with which he had regarded the mule ever since he came, to give a sweeping glance of incredulity around.

"Daid ez a nit he is, fur sho!" agreed another, a merry-faced fellow with a rotund paunch, over which the band to his pants refused to meet.

"A hunnerd 'n' fifty dollars' wuth o' live meat turned to cyarn in a secint.... Who's gunta pay fur it? Whut 's th' law, 'Squar?"

He looked at a big, full-whiskered man with his back to me.

The 'Squire cleared his throat and felt for his tobacco.

The mule's owner thrust forward in the interim, and brought up just in front of the magistrate.

"Yes, I wan' to know th' d.a.m.n law on th' subjic', too!" he bellowed, making no apparent effort to curb his feelings. "Wuth a hunnerd 'n'

sev'nty-five--wuth two hunnerd wuz that mule! Six foot 'n' 'n inch--thar he is! Measure 'im if yo' don't b'lieve me! Th' bes' yearlin' in my barn--mealy-nosed, to boot! So much good cash to be drug out to th'

buzzards--_d.a.m.n_!"

He spat on the ground and twisted his booted heel in rage.

"This is a onusual case--I mought say a on-pre-ce-dinted case," drawled the 'Squire, in a conciliatory voice. "We'll settle it right here 'n'

now, a'cordin' to th' test'munny 'n' my readin' o' th' law, ever'body bein' 'gree'ble. Yo' c'n take it to th' cote, sholy, but th' lawyers 'll eat yo' up. Bes' settle am-am-am'c'ble, right here 'n' now."

At this juncture Buck's tall form arose from beside the tub, where he had been sitting on a nail keg while a motherly Hebron matron had put balsam to the hurt, and bound it with a white cloth. He came slowly forward, his leathern ap.r.o.n still about him, and pushed his way through the ring.

"Whut yo' mouth'n' 'bout, Bart Crawley?" he demanded. The fire in his eyes had died to a smoldering gleam, but his mood was ugly.

The man addressed looked at him, then immediately shuffled back a little.

"That's th' bes' hoss mule in these parts--"

"Yo' mean he _wuz_ th' bes' hoss mule!" interrupted Buck, in a spirit of reckless deviltry.

Crawley flushed, paled, clenched his fists and glared hate at the speaker.

"Here now, men," spoke up the 'Squire, laying a knotty hand upon the shoulder of the owner. "Leas' said's soones' mended. They's no manner o'

ust carry'n' hard feelin's any fu'ther.... Buck, shet up!... Bart, keep _yo'_ trap shet till I git th' straight o' this. Whur's th' witnesses'?

Who saw th' killin' o' this here mule?"

His head went up, and his eyes roved over the packed interior of the shop.