by Roy J. Snell
CHAPTER XVII THE LAST OF HER CLAN
There was a light in the lower right room of the nearest building.Straight to the door of this room they went and the next second foundthem blinking at the light and at the same time looking into one of themost saintly faces they had ever seen, the motherly face of Miss Bordell,who had for many years devoted her life to the education of mountainchildren.
The girls quickly told their story. Almost before they knew it, havingbeen assured that here they would be quite safe from any intruders, theyfound themselves tucked in between a pair of white sheets with Halliesleeping peacefully between them.
"We're safe," Marion whispered to herself, "but the mystery is notsolved. To-morrow--to-mor--" Her thoughts were never finished. Her wearybrain had closed shop for the night.
"It's the most unusual thing I have ever heard of," said the schoolprincipal after she had heard the girls' story the next morning. "You saythey were regular mountain folks?"
"Yes, ma'am," Patience nodded.
"That's what makes it so unusual," said the elderly lady, wrinkling herbrow. "Mountain folks aren't given to stealing and kidnapping. That sortof crime seems almost foreign to their nature. I'll tell you what we willdo. The Circuit Judge, John Bascomb, happens to be down at the village.We'll go down and talk it over with him. It's only a mile."
So down the road to the village they marched, Marion, Patience, littleHallie, and their benefactress.
They had reached the first cabin that stood by the creek road when of asudden Patience, pulling excitedly at the principal's sleeve, whisperedhoarsely:
"That's them there! They're the three men that carried Hallie away!"
A single glance told Marion she was right. So great was her fear of themthat her first impulse was to snatch up Hallie and flee. But her betterjudgment prevailed. Surely here they were safe.
The men, apparently without having seen them, turned up a side path toenter a cabin.
"Are you sure those are the men?" asked the principal.
"Yes, yes!" the girls answered in unison.
"Let's hurry, then."
A short time later they were telling their story to Judge Bascomb, akindly old man.
"First thing," he said after they had finished, "is to find out who themen are. Come on out and show me the cabin they entered."
"H'm," he mused as he sighted the cabin. "Can't be Long Jim. That's hiscabin. He's laid up with rheumatism. Must be some of his friends. Here,John Henry," he called to a barefoot boy. "Who's visiting at Long Jim's?"
"Reckon hit's Black John Berkhart and his brother, Blinkie Bill, andmebby Hog Farley."
"H'm," said the judge. "I know 'em. We'll just step over there."
"No, no," said Marion, hanging back. "I--I couldn't."
"That's all right, little girl," the judge reassured her. "They're justplain mountain folks. I can't understand their actions of yesterday, butthat's what we're going over there to find out."
The men in the cabin appeared a little startled at sight of the judge andthe girls, but having motioned them to seats around the crude fireplace,they sat there in stoical silence.
"Black John," said the judge in a friendly tone, "I'm told you took thislittle girl from her home yesterday and carried her away over themountains."
"I 'low you're right informed, Jedge."
"Don't you know that's kidnapping?"
"You kin name it, Jedge. I ain't much on larnin' nohow."
"Why did you do it?"
"Jedge, it's this way," the black-eyed mountaineer settled himself toexplain. "That little gal there is the last of her clan, the Cawoods, thefightenest clan that I reckon ever lived in these here mountings. Theyfit us and we fit them, and I reckon, Jedge, if'n ther'd been moreCawoods and less Berkharts there wouldn't been any Berkharts left, same'sthere's only one Cawood left, an' that's little Hallie.
"Jedge," the mountain man paused to stare moodily at the fire, "us folksis plum tired fightin'. 'T'ain't no satisfaction to go out a hoein' cornan' makin' crops on these here rocky hillsides when you know like as notsome feller's lying up there in the bresh above you waitin' for to putdaylight through you. And Jedge, long's there's a Cawood a-livin' inthese here mountings, even a little one like Hallie, there's some onegoin' to rise up to shoot and kill us. So, Jedge, we took her an'--
"No, Jedge," he protested as he saw the look of horror on the faces abouthim, "we didn't aim to kill her. Reckon there ain't no mounting folkanywhar mean as that. But, Jedge, out of the mountings thar's places I'veheard tell of, big places whar they keep orphans. Hallie bein' a trueorphan, we 'lowed we'd jest take her out thar and give her another name.She'd grow up and never know she was a Cawood, and not nobody else'dknow, either, and then thar'd be peace in these here mountings."
For a moment there was silence, then the judge spoke.
"Black John," he said, "you can't make right by doing a wrong. Hallie wasnot kin to you. You had no right to lay one finger upon her. You believein God, don't you?" The mountaineer dropped his head. "God never told youthat men would be raised up to kill your people for Hallie's sake. It wasthe powers of evil and darkness that told you that. It's not true.
"As for this crime you have committed," he said in a stern voice, "youare accountable to the law. You should perhaps be bound over to the grandjury, but you did the thing in ignorance--your motives were not criminalmotives. If those who were wronged are disposed to forgive you, and ifyou give me your word of honor that you will never molest the childagain, I'll do my best to see that you go free."
He turned to Patience and Marion.
"One thing else I want to know," said Marion, her voice husky withemotion as she turned to face Black John. "Why did you seize my friend atthe back of Pine Mountain and hold her against her will?"
"That, Jedge," said the mountain man, talking to the judge instead ofMarion, "was part and parcel of the same plan. Little Hallie were astayin' at their cabin then and we thought quite natural we might tradethe older girl fer the leetle one that wasn't only just a mounting girlnoways."
The judge looked at Marion as much as to say: "That is explained. Shallwe hold them?"
Marion frowned. She knew mountain ways and mountain courts, knew howseldom justice was done. She recalled a word Ransom Turner had let fall."Reckon a word of honor given by a mountain man's a heap site surer thana jury trial."
"I'll take his word, if he gives it freely," Marion said.
"Black John, do we have your word of honor?"
"Jedge, hit's mighty hard to see through; plumb hard, but I reckon hit'sright. I give my word, Jedge."
The judge bowed. Then, followed by the judge, they all filed out of thecabin.
At ten o'clock, in her room at the whipsawed cabin, with great eventshanging in the air all about her, Marion closed her weary eyes for a fewwinks of sleep. Little Hallie slept peacefully beside her.
CHAPTER XVIII THE STRANGE PROCESSION
When Florence awoke next morning at dawn she stared wildly about her foran instant, then settled back luxuriously among the covers.
"Home," she breathed. "Back at the whipsawed cabin!"
She lay there gazing dreamily at the time browned ceiling. Suddenly hergaze fell upon the misplaced board that covered the opening leading tothe attic.
At once her mind was filled with all manner of wild speculations. HadMarion, in her absence, thought of some new hiding place in that attic?Had she found the Confederate gold? Or had Uncle Billie talked too muchabout the vanished gold? Had some one, with no legal right to the gold,come to the house while everyone was away? Had he climbed to the atticand plundered it?
She found herself all but overcome by a desire to climb up there and lookfor herself.
"But this day," she said, sitting up wide awake, "this day I have no timefor treasure hunting. My business to-day is that of being tried by ajury. And after that,"--her thoughts were bitte
r,--"after that it is tobe my duty to show these mountain folks how gamely a girl from theoutside can lose an election."
Strangely enough, at this moment there passed through her mind movingpictures of her experience at the back of Pine Mountain.
"The deed for Caleb Powell's land," she whispered. "I wonder when theywill have it? Will they have it at all? Will we get our commission?"
"Oh well," she exclaimed, leaping out of bed, "there's no time for suchspeculation now."
The trial was on. The house was packed. Lacking a town hall, the Justicehad selected the schoolhouse for court room.
To Florence the thing was tragic. To be tried by a jury, a jury of menwho two months before were utterly unknown to her; to be tried by apeople whose children she had been helping to educate, this was tragicindeed. There were faces in the audience which seemed to reflect thetragedy; seamed faces, old before their time; faces of women who hadtoiled beyond their just lot that their children might have just a littlemore than they had enjoyed.
There was humor in the situation, too. To be sitting there in the verychair which she had been accustomed to use in her school-work; to belooking into the faces of scores of children, yet instead of directingtheir work to be listening to the Justice stumbling over the words of thewarrant, all this struck her as decidedly odd, a thing to smile about.
Ransom, too, must have seen the humor of it, for as Florence looked hisway she surprised a smile lurking around the corners of his mouth.
The jury was called. Florence, studying their faces as they cameshambling forward, was surprised and relieved to find there not a singleman who was hostile to her; not one of Black Blevens' men was on thatjury. She caught her breath as the true meaning of it came to her. GeorgeSergeant, the deputy, was her friend. He had seen to it that she had theproper sort of a jury. A lump came into her throat. It is good, at such atime as this, to know that one has friends. The very fact that she haddemanded a jury trial had perhaps saved the day for her.
The details of the case arranged, a lawyer arose to open the case. It wasFlorence's lawyer, provided not by herself, but by Ransom Turner and hismen.
It was a beautiful and wonderful speech that the young lawyer made. Aproduct of the mountain, born and raised far up in the hills, he had beenhelped to his earlier education by just such a school as the girls hadbeen teaching.
"An outrage! A shame and a blight to Laurel Creek's good name!" heexclaimed eloquently. "You all know what these summer schools have meantto us and to our children. Good hearted, generous people of education andrefinement come to our mountains to help our children, and how do werepay them? Arrest them for carrying concealed weapons! Arrest a womanfor that! And what was it that this lady did? She put a twenty-two pistolin her pocket after she failed to shoot a squirrel. A pistol, did I say?Really a little rifle. A long barrel and a handle. Attach a stock to itand it's a rifle.
"Concealed weapons!" his voice was filled with scorn. "You couldn't killa man with that! A twenty-two! Concealed weapons! If I were to searchthis crowd to-day I could find a hundred deadlier weapons on the personswho sit before me!" There was a sudden shuffling of the uneasy feet ofstartled mountaineers.
"Concealed weapons!" he went on. "I've a more deadly one in my ownpocket!" He drew a large clasp knife from his pocket and opened it. "Icould kill you quicker with that than with a twenty-two." He put theknife back in his pocket.
"And yet we arrest a woman, a girl really, who has come among us to helpus. As a reward we arrest her! Will you honorable jurymen place a blighton the name of such a one by saying she is guilty of a crime? Somethingtells me you will not."
As the young lawyer sat down there was a stir in the room, a whisperingthat came near to applause, but the bronze faces of the jurymen neverchanged. Nor had they changed when, after hearing the Justice give hisreasons why the girl should be found guilty, they left the room to retireto the shade of a distant beach tree.
It was a tense situation that followed. There was no conversation. Tomany in the room a sentence of "guilty" would mean the end of their hopesof a winter school worthy of the name.
"If only we can beat old Black Blevens in this trial," Ransom Turner waswhispering to his henchmen. "Hit's likely there's men who'll vote rightin the school election this afternoon. It's a chance, though. It's aplumb uncertain one. Can't tell next to nothin' what men'll do."
So, while the distant mumble of the jurymen floated indistinct throughthe windows, they waited and whispered among themselves.
A moment passed, two, three, four. Then the jurors came marching back.
In the midst of a silence that could be felt, the jurymen took theirseats and the Justice said:
"Gentlemen, what is your verdict?"
"Jedge," said a tall, lanky woodsman, rising to his feet, "we came to theconclusion that there weren't no deadly weapons packed, not narry one."
There followed ten seconds more of silence, then came a rush forward toshake the young teacher's hand.
In spite of her efforts at self control, Florence felt tears splash uponher hands, nor were hers the only tears shed that morning.
"But I must be strong," she told herself, setting her lips tight. "Theday is but begun. This is the day of the election."
The time for the election came.
Marion, having finished her short sleep and eaten a hearty dinner, was onhand as fresh and young as if she had not passed through the terrors ofthe previous night.
To the two girls, born and bred on the plains, the election, which hadreached a high pitch of excitement by early afternoon, was indeed arevelation. There were judges of that election who served without pay,twenty or more of them, not legal judges but men who were there to seethat their side had fair play. Ten or more of Black Bleven's men wereconstantly present; an equal number of the Ransom Turner clan were there.Not a word was said by any of them, but everyone knew that guns, notlips, would speak if things went wrong.
These men meant to see that the men of their side were permitted to voteand if trouble arose they were ready to fight.
All that quiet afternoon, as if before a storm, the air seemedelectrified. In every heart deep feelings surged; hatred in some, loyaltyin others. To every thinking man the situation held dire possibilities.Here might start a bloody feud that would not end until scores were intheir graves.
Men and women stood in little knots. Questions were asked in whispers.Would they vote? Would some of Black Blevens' men dare to cross his will?Would they dare? Black Blevens had large logging contracts. He would hiremany men during the coming winter. Dared the men, whose very bread andbutter depended upon him, desert him?
At three o'clock the question was beginning to be answered. The electionappeared clearly lost for Ransom Turner. At three-thirty he was elevenvotes behind, and no apparent chance of a rally.
Florence stuck grimly to her post, close to the schoolhouse door. Herheart was breaking. She loved the mountain children, had dreamed of abigger and better school than Laurel Branch had ever known. That was allpassing now. In two or three weeks she would be bidding the valleyfarewell forever. Yet, with the grim determination of a Spartan, shestuck to her post.
As for Marion, she had learned what seemed to her to be one of thesecrets of happiness. When one's greatest hope seems about to fail, it iswell to quickly swing one's interests to others, less important perhaps,but not less entrancing. As the election appeared lost, she thought oncemore of the Georgia gold and the attic of the whipsawed house. She it hadbeen who had removed the board from the ceiling. At that time, however,she had been suddenly called to other tasks and, having replaced theboard wrong end to, had left without climbing to the attic at all."There's time enough now," she thought, "and who knows what I mightdiscover? There's no need to stay here any longer. The election is lost."
Reaching her room, she at once shoved the bed beneath the loose board,and a moment later, candle in hand, found herself swinging along frombeam to beam toward the ancient pounding mill in the corner.
>
"Don't see why it's here," she murmured to herself. "Cumbersome oldthing. No good up here."
She put out her hand to touch it. Then she took it away in disgust. Itwas black with three decades of accumulated dust.
"Ugh!" she grunted. "Wonder if I could tip it over?"
She tried, and failed to move it,--tried once more and failed. Then shelooked about her for some sort of a pry. Having secured a loose board,she attacked the task once more.
This time she was more successful. With a thump that shook the solid oldframe from sill to rafter, the cumberstone block rolled over on its side.
As it fell the girl's heart skipped a beat. What was that she heard?Could it have been a metallic clinking? Had her ears deceived her? Shehoped not. But if she had heard aright, from whence had it come? Fromsome dark corner among the rafters, or from within the very heart of theold pounding mill?
At that moment there came to her ears the sound of hoarse shouting. Whatdid it mean? Was there to be trouble? Would there be shots? Would womenbe fleeing, men dying?
None of these. A strange and stirring scene was being enacted at theschoolhouse at the mouth of Laurel Branch.
A short time after Marion left the school building, as Florence stoodlooking away at the lovely blue of the hills and trying in vain to tellit all an affectionate goodbye, she heard someone exclaim:
"Look a'yonder!"
"Hit's them quare folks from up yonder beyond the stone gateway," saidanother.
At once the girl found herself staring in wonder at a strange processionmoving slowly down the road. A score of mountain men and women, some onhorseback, most on foot, led by a one-armed giant and a boy with an armin a sling, were advancing on the schoolhouse.
"Bud Wax!" the girl breathed. "Bud, and the folks from beyond the gates.What can it mean?"
The distance was short. She soon knew. As the giant's huge form darkenedthe schoolhouse door his deep voice rumbled a question:
"'Lection goin' on here?"
There came no answer from the surprised onlookers.
"Reckon I'll vote," said the giant.
At this move, every man of the watchers grew rigid. Whose man was this?Many a hand shifted to a pistol grip. The election hung in the balance.As this man voted, so would all that motley throng. There was noquestioning their right. They lived within the district. Their votescould be sworn in. How would they vote? They had come with Bud Wax. Thatlooked bad for Ransom Turner's clan. But there had been strangewhisperings about Bud. He had been heard to say things about the teachersfrom the outside that were far from unkind. Could it be that, having beenfairly conquered by one of these, he had learned a respect for them thathe had felt for no other one?
As for Florence, her heart was in her mouth. Would they do it? Could theycrush her hopes after she had done so much for little Hallie? They might.There was no accounting for the ways of these strange people.
There was a hush of silence as the giant, having given his name and swornin his vote, seized the ballot and made his mark.
Out of the silence there came a whisper:
"Hit's for Ransom."
The next moment the silence was shattered by a round of hoarse shouts.The election was won by Ransom Turner. The people from "up yonder" hadturned the balance.
As for Florence, it was too much for her overwrought nerves. Dashing awayinto a thicket, she threw herself flat upon the ground to give vent toviolent sobs.
A half hour later the two young teachers, each hurrying toward the other,met half way between the whipsawed house and the school.
"Oh, Florence! I've found it!" Marion exclaimed.
And Florence at the same instant cried, "Marion, we won! We won!"
Throwing themselves into each others arms, they laughed and criedtogether. After that they sat side by side on a log and calmly told theirstories.
To Florence, the thrilling climax of the election had been a revelation.Bud Wax had provided the great surprise. Won over by who knows whatcourse of reasoning, he had taken the side of his teachers. Having seenFlorence entering the forbidden gateway, he had followed as herprotector. While playing this role, he had broken his arm. He had spentthe past few days convincing those strange people "up yonder" that it wastheir duty to come down to the mouth of the creek and vote in the schoolelection. Convinced by his argument, and Florence's watchful care overHallie, they had consented to come.
"And just when we thought all was lost," Florence exclaimed, "here theycame, everyone of them, to vote for Ransom Turner.
"And now," she hurried on, "they've decided that the folks at the mouthof the creek are not such bad neighbors after all. They're going to sendtheir children down to our school."
"Oh, Florence!" Marion clasped her hands in an ecstasy of joy. "It'sgoing to be such a school! A real new school building with two rooms, newseats and stoves and everything!"
"Why! How--"
"I found the gold!"
"Where?"
"It was in the heart of the pounding mill. I tipped it over, and it sortof clinked. I thumped it here and there until I found that the hole wherethey pounded the corn had a false bottom. I pried it up and there was thegold!"
"Confederate gold?"
"No, not Confederate gold, but Georgia and Carolina gold. There never wasany Confederate gold. None ever was coined. I received a letter aboutthat from the museum this morning. The Confederate States coined a fewsilver half-dollars. All the rest of their money was paper."
For a moment the two girls sat in silent contemplation of their greatgood fortune and the joyous future that lay before them.
"There isn't such a lot of gold," Marion said at last. "Forty or fiftypieces, that's all, but each piece is worth several times its value ingold, so there will be enough."
"Quite enough," murmured Florence contentedly. "And we shall have aschool! Such a school!"
The schoolhouse was yet to be built. That this might be accomplished,grateful mountaineers sent their teams over the mountains for windows,doors, seats and hardware, while others, manning a small sawmill, got outthe lumber. When the time came for beginning the construction, there wasa "workin'." Mountain folks came for miles around; men with hammers, axesand saws, women with pots and pans and all manner of good things to eat.Men worked, women cooked. They made a holiday of it, and before the sunwent down that day the two room school building was two-thirds done.
"Hit's the way us mounting folks be," said old Uncle Billie, rubbing hishands together. "If'n we all likes you we likes you a right smart, an'if'n we all don't take to you, we can be meaner'n pisen."
The school was a success in every way. Long before the term came to anend Laurel Branch was looking forward to better things.
One day two months after the school began, Florence received a letterfrom Mr. Dobson, the coal man. With trembling fingers she tore it open. Asmall bit of paper fell out. Snatching it up, she read:
"Pay to the order.... Nineteen hundred and sixty dollars!"
"Oh Marion! Marion!" she fairly screamed. "Here's our commission!"
"That money," said Mrs. McAlpin, as they sat in fireside council thatnight, "is your own. You earned it fairly. It is no longer needed for theschool. If you feel you must give some, give a tenth of it to the school.It is your duty to use the remainder in completing your own education."
It was some time before the two girls could be brought to see the matterin this light. Perhaps they feared life would lose its thrill if theywere no longer dependent upon their muscles and their wits for theirliving. In the end they yielded. When, after finishing the winter school,they left the mountains for the University, it was with a full purse.
Florence found that the possession of money did not necessarily rob oneof the thrills that life should have. Had she not been free to wanderabout the city she would not have wandered into a curious place back ofthe Ghetto at 777 Monroe Street. Had she not been possessed of an unusualamount of cash, she would not have made an extraordinary purchase there,and having mis
sed the purchase, would have lost an unusually romantic andmysterious adventure as well. But she did make the purchase and theadventure came--but the story is a long one and will be found in our nextbook entitled "The Thirteenth Ring."
THE END
Transcriber's Notes
--Copyright notice provided as in the original printed text--this e-text is public domain in the country of publication.
--Silently corrected palpable typos; left non-standard spellings and dialect unchanged.