When 'Bear Cat' Went Dry Part 43

There was no choice. Grudgingly the pair accepted exile, which after all was a more lenient punishment than they had expected or deserved.

Towers was permitted to take leave of his family, but it is doubtful if the woman regarded that parting as an unmixed affliction.

Slowly the culprits were escorted out to see in the darkness of the forests other black shapes that wavered fantastically and dreadfully under the flare and sputter of pine torches. At the middle of a long column, twisting like a huge snake along deserted roads, they were escorted into banishment.

The other men in the house were held prisoners until dawn. Then each, blindfolded and in custody of a separate squad, was taken to a point distant from his home--and liberated.

The morning came with a crystal clarity and hills locked in a grip of ice, but the army whose marching song had startled sleeping cabins into wakefulness had dissolved as though its ghostly existence could not survive the light of day. Yet behind that appearance and disappearance had been left an impression so profound that the life of the community would never again be precisely what it had been before.

A new power had arisen, inexplicable and mysterious--but one that could no longer be ignored.

With bated breath, around their hearth fires, the timorous and ignorant gossiped of witchcraft, and sparking swains were already singing to the accompaniment of banjo and "dulcimore" ballads of home-made minstrelsy, celebrating the unparalleled achievements of the young avenger of wrong-doings and his summary punishment of miscreants. They sang of the man who:

"Riz outen ther night with black specters at his back, Ter ther numbers of scores upon scores, An' rid straightway ter ther dwellin' house of Bad Jim Towers, Who treemored es they battered down ther doors."

More than one mountain girl bent forward listening with heightened pulses as the lad who had come "sweet-heartin'" her shrilled out his chorus.

"So his debt fer thet evil Jim Towers hed ter pay, Fer they driv him outen old Kaintuck, afore ther break of day.

All sich es follers burnin' down a pore man's happy home, Will hev ter reck ther Bear Cat's wrath an' no more free ter roam."

And perhaps as the la.s.s listened, she wondered if her own home-spun cavalier might not be going straight from her door to one of those mysterious meetings where oath-bound men gathered in awful and spectral conclave.

Sometimes, too, it was not only a song but an actual sight as well, which made the flesh creep along the scalp. Sometimes out of the distances came, first low and faint, then swelling into fulness that chorus of male voices along the breeze, and after it came the sight of a long serpent of light crawling the highways.

Through doors opened only to slits wondering eyes peered out into the blackness while that mysterious procession pa.s.sed, seemingly an endless line of torches shining on black hors.e.m.e.n riding in single file.

When the singing ended and the night-riders went in silence they were even more awe-inspiring and ghost-like than before--and, except by remembering that the man of the house was absent, no woman could guess who any member of the train might be, for they pa.s.sed with hat brims bent low and black masks coming down to their black slickers, and even their horses were swathed in flowing coverings of the same inky disguise. They were torch-lit silhouettes riding the night, but when they pa.s.sed, those who saw them knew that some task was being accomplished in which the law had failed and that somewhere black dread would deservedly strike.

Kinnard Towers himself, racking his brain, took a less romantic view, but one of equal concern.

"Hit's done got beyond a hurtful pest now," he grumbled to Black Tom as the two of them sat over their pipes. "Ther longer he goes on unchecked ther more an' more fools will flock ter him. He's gittin' ther _people_ behind him an' hit's a-spreadin' like hawg cholera amongst young shoats."

"Does ye 'low they're all Stacys--or air thar some of our own kin mixed in with 'em?" queried Tom anxiously, and because he, too, had been pondering that vexing question, the Towers leader shook his head moodily.

"Thar hain't no possible way of tellin'. They seems ter possess a means of smellin' a man thet hain't genu-_wine_ly fer 'em an' sich-like kain't git inter no meetin's ter find out nothin'."

He puffed out a cloud of smoke and sought to comfort himself with specious optimism. "I reckon folks is misled as ter numbers, though. A few folks ridin' in ther night-time with noise an' torches looks like a whole pa.s.sel."

"They acts like a whole pa.s.sel, too," supplemented Black Tom, who had a blunt and unrelieved fashion of speaking his mind. "What does ye aim ter do erbout hit all?"

The florid man brought his great fist down on the table and his bull-like neck swelled with anger.

"I aims ter keep right on twell I gits this d.a.m.ned young night-rider hisself. Ther minute he dies ther rest of hit'll fall in like a roof without no ridge-pole."

He paused, then went on musingly: "I wouldn't be amazed none if Fulkerson's gal knows whar he's at right frequent. I've done _dee_vised a means ter hev her lead somebody ter him some time when he's by hisself. Ratler Webb seed him walkin' alone in ther woods only yistiddy."

"Why didn't Ratler git him then?"

Kinnard ground his teeth. "Why don't none of 'em ever git him? He claims he hed a bad ca'tridge in his rifle-gun an' hit snapped on him.

Folks calls him Bear Cat an' hit 'pears like he's got nine lives in common with other cats. We've got ter keep right on till we puts an end ter all of em."

Black Tom was so inconsiderate as to burst in a raucous laugh of ridicule. "Hit usen't ter be so d.a.m.n' hard ter kill one man," was his unfeeling comment.

About that time Kinnard's man-pack developed a strong disinclination to take bold chances of falling in with the black army of torches. They moved about their tasks with such constraint that their quarry had a correspondingly greater freedom and lat.i.tude. And moonshiners no longer boasted defiance, but dug in and became infinitely secretive. In spite of all these precautions, however, day after day saw new trophies hanging along way-side branches until there were few left to hunt out.

One afternoon, walking alone through the woods, Bear Cat Stacy stooped at the edge of a "spring branch" to quench his thirst, and as he knelt he saw floating past him yellow and broken grains of corn. Cautiously and invisibly he followed the stream upward, worming himself along until he lay looking in upon the tiny plant of a typical illicit still.

Its fire was burning under the mash kettle and back far enough to escape the revealing light was a bark roofed, browse-thatched retreat in which sat an old man, reflectively smoking.

As Bear Cat looked on, a startled surprise came into his expression and his face worked spasmodically as if in pain. He wished he might not have seen the floating evidence which had brought him here and confronted him with the hardest tug-of-war between sincerity and blood-loyalty that he had yet encountered.

The man huddled there in his rabbit-warren retreat was old Turner Stacy, brother of Bear Cat's father and the uncle for whom he had himself been named. Bear Cat had not even suspected that this kinsman was operating such a plant. The elder Turner Stacy was a fierce and close-mouthed fellow whose affairs were confided to no one.

Bracing himself for an ordeal, Bear Cat emerged from his concealment and walked forward.

At sight of an unannounced visitor the old man's hand went quickly out toward the rifle lying at his side, but as he recognized the face, he rose without it and stood silently glowering.

"Uncle Turner," began the nephew seriously, "I hain't hardly willin'

ter use fo'ce erginst ye--but ye knows what hit would sound like fer folks ter fling hit up erginst me thet I'm favorin' my own blood. I wants thet ye give me yore hand ter quit."

For a moment the aged face worked with pa.s.sion, its white beard bristling and its eyes flaming.

"Who do ye think ye air--G.o.d Almighty?" came the angry question. "Who give ye license ter come brow-beatin' yore elders? Yore own paw's in jail now because somebody betrayed him.... I wonder war hit _you_!"

The young man recoiled as though an unexpected blow in the face had stunned him.

"My G.o.d," he exclaimed in a low voice, "I didn't never expect ter hear a kinsman charge me with sich infamy. I reckon I've got ter look over hit though. Ye're my father's brother an' ye're right aged." He paused and then his voice changed to one crisp and peremptory.

"I reckon ye knows I've got ther power ter compel ye as I've compelled others. Does ye aim ter destroy thet thing yoreself,--now,--or does ye want thet I brings fo'ce?"

There ensued a half hour of storm, but at its end the older Stacy bowed to necessity. He, too, knew of the black army, and though he swore like a baffled pirate into his beard he capitulated. Bear Cat left a demolished place, carrying with him a fresh trophy, but he went with a heavy heart.

It would have surprised him had he known that, left alone, his uncle's wrath had turned suddenly to amus.e.m.e.nt for some private joke of his own.

As the old man watched the retreating figure he chuckled and mumbled to himself.

"Hit's right good fortune thet he came this week 'stid of next," he soliloquized as he refilled his pipe's bowl, still smiling. "I'm glad he didn't know I'd done ordered me a brand-new worm--an' thet hit's due ter get hyar right soon."

As he puffed at the home grown tobacco, the elder Turner Stacy added: "I reckon, though, I'd better pick out a fresh spot afore I sets ther new one up."

Since Blossom had realized her neglect of Turner's mother that day in the grave yard she had sought to make amends by many small attentions and frequent visits.

One afternoon as she came into the house, she found Mrs. Stacy, who had been bed-ridden with a deep cold, dressing herself with weak and trembling hands. The girl's face became instantly stern.

"I told ye not ter rise from yore bed ter-day," she began and the other woman dropped into a chair in pure feebleness.

"I don't seem ter hev no stren'th lef' in me," she complained. "Seems like I've got a thousand bones inside me--an' all on 'em achin'."

"You must go back to bed, straightway. I'll brew ye somethin' hot an'