Backwoods Girl

by Peggy Gaddis

  Jim nodded slowly, his interest caught and held by the picture her words created. “That jibes with what Cindy herself told me,” he admitted.

  Eagerness flames in Lorna’s eyes. “The legend goes on that the Indians, fools that they were, believed that they would be allowed to return here. They had homes, and crops, and schools, and the land was theirs, they felt. They didn’t want to try to get any of their gold away with them, because they expected to come back to it. So, since Grady was so obviously on their side, they brought their gold to him, and he buried it some place on the farm, and they were to have it back when they came back.

  “Of course, they didn’t get to come back, so their gold is still hidden somewhere on that forty acres. The girl must know where, since she’s the last of the family. Her grandmother would surely have passed the family secret on to her before she died. That makes sense, doesn’t it?”

  “I suppose so,” Jim admitted reluctantly.

  “What good is it going to do her, living up there like a hermit, despised by the whole community?” Lorna pleaded eagerly. “Get her to tell us where it is. I’ll take her to Atlanta, see she is educated, fitted to live a decent, normal life. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Merely the fact that she told me herself she never wanted to live anywhere in the world but right where she is,” Jim pointed out.

  Lorna made an impatient gesture. “Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Jim, what does she know about living anywhere else? How could she choose? Do you think it’s right for her to live the way she does? It’s enough to drive her completely batty. You know yourself that women go queer living like that!” she protested, watching him anxiously.

  Jim stood up suddenly, and looked down at Lorna, his eyes troubled.

  “I felt the same way about her, Lorna,” he admitted. “But now, I don’t know. I do know that if there is any gold there, it’s rightfully Cindy’s, and I can’t see that you and I have the remotest right to interfere.”

  “The gold is there!” Lorna burst out, and then beneath the cold, measuring look in his eyes, her eagerness faded. At last she shrugged and turned away. “Okay, so I’m a fool. Let’s forget it.”

  “You’ve let yourself get all steamed up over some crazy legend that probably hasn’t got a word of truth in it.” Jim tried to erase the anger that registered in every line of her body.

  Her lovely mouth was twisted in a sneer. “You don’t know your history very well, do you?” she said contemptuously. “The Indians had been here for hundreds of years. What do you suppose they used for money to send their daughters to New England to be educated and taught what we call domestic arts? How do you suppose they financed their Indian leader who went there to learn to read and write, and came back to set up the first newspaper in the state? Oh, they used barter among themselves, I suppose, but when they stepped outside their own settlements, they had to have something the white man would recognize as of value. That’s probably the way the white men found out that there was gold here.”

  “And so the Indians lost their homes, their lands and their independence as well as their gold,” said Jim slowly.

  For a long moment Lorna studied him with anger and contempt, and then she turned to clearing the table, without a word. Jim helped her, and the dishes were washed and the cabin put in perfect order without another word between them.

  Lorna’s mouth was a thin line of anger, but Jim was too absorbed in his own thoughts to be conscious of her resentment. If what Lorna said was true, if the legend about the Indian gold at the Grady place was more than just a legend, then Cindy was in danger, very real danger. Why she had not been attacked and robbed a long time ago he could not quite understand. Yet, he remembered the dog and the gun. Still a dog could be shot by a determined marauder, and a girl could be disarmed.

  “Well?” demanded Lorna at last.

  “Sorry, I guess I was doing a spot of thinking,” he replied.

  “Not a bad idea. Suppose you keep it up, and next weekend we’ll talk some more,” she told him. “I have to start for Atlanta now. It’s more than a mile to the bus stop.”

  “Bus stop?” he repeated.

  “Of course!” she told him, puzzled by his surprise, “How else did you think I managed to get here? The bus picks me up at the end of the trail where it comes into the highway, and drops me at Marshallville. I leave my car there, and then I drive to Atlanta.”

  “A bus stop in this out-of-the-way place? I walked at least fifteen miles to get here, and I was lost for twenty-fours hours or more,” he protested.

  Lorna shrugged. “That’s because you came in across Old Hungry Mountain,” she told him carelessly. “This way, through the valley, it’s only a little more than a mile to a bus that looks like the Toonerville trolley, with a so-called road to match. But it’s only eight miles from the stop to Marshallville.”

  He nodded slowly, taking it all in. “Of course, it would have to be something like that,” he agreed. “Otherwise, how would the summer people get here?”

  “Quite,” Lorna agreed and cast a housewifely glance about the place to be sure everything was in order. She turned towards the door. “It’ll be dark in a little while, but if you’d care to walk with me to the bus stop, you can have that big flashlight to find your way back with. Unless you’d like to take the bus with me and ride on to Atlanta?”

  “Thanks, no,” he said.

  Lorna shrugged. “It’s your life. Mess it up to suit yourself,” she said as curtly as he had given his no, and led the way out into the late afternoon chill. “If you’re determined to stay here,” she said, “you might keep an eye on the place for me. Make yourself at home here if you like. I’ll leave you a key.”

  He thanked her, followed her out of the door and pulled it shut behind him, hearing the nightlatch click into place. The windows had been tightly closed, the wooden shutters locked into place, and the cabin was as snug and tight against intruders as it was possible to make it.

  He and Lorna walked single file along the trail that was too narrow to permit them to walk side by side, and as they walked, Jim’s thoughts were busy with the fantastic tale she had told him. In fancy he could see these woods peopled by Indians, and the first whites coming in, brought by the gold fever. Still, the whole thing had sounded so much like some cockeyed Grade-B movie that he could not make it seem real to him.

  Long before they reached the end of the trail, darkness had come down, and they were glad of the powerful beam of the flashlight to brighten the last part of the journey. They came out at last above the narrow, winding road, and Lorna turned to him swiftly.

  “Be here when I come back next weekend, Jim?” she begged with an unexpected anxiety.

  “I’ll be here,” he promised her. “Standing right here, waiting with my heart in my hand.”

  Her mouth quirked in an unwilling grin. “Damn you, how corny can you get?” she mocked, and suddenly she was in his arms, her own tight about him, kissing him hard. Just then a feeble yellow light wobbled over the hill in the narrow road, and the bus approached, laboring and protesting in every creaking nut and bolt. “Try to miss me, will you?” she said.

  “No trouble at all. I’ll miss you like hell,” he promised, and she laughed and waved the flashlight in a signal to the bus, as it lumbered to a groaning halt.

  He saw her aboard, and stood watching until the bus had wobbled out of sight. He had an absurd feeling of desolation when its light had disappeared into the darkness, and he turned to traverse the dark path behind him. Once more he felt the eerie loneliness of these woods, the fantastic story he had heard once more seeming to bring back those ancient people who had formerly roamed free and happy beneath these gaunt, leafless trees.

  The powerful beam of light cut through the darkness ahead of him, but he had still the feeling that there were ghostly, unseen creatures peering at him from every
shadowy evergreen shrub and the giant trunks of pines that must have been old when even the Indians came. As he walked, Jim told himself that he could begin to understand how these mountain people, inbred, isolated, stubbornly clinging to the old ways and the old tales, could be caught up in such legends as Lorna had told him and could begin to believe them true.

  CHAPTER 7

  Jim’s own cabin was in darkness when he reached it, but cheerful yellow lamplight spilled from the uncurtained windows of the gaunt store building, indicating that Marthy and Storekeeper were back. He went on into his cabin, lighted the oil lamp on the table and was pleased to find a few coals of fire beneath the powdery ash in the pot-bellied stove. He was just coaxing the fire into a heartening glow when Storekeeper rapped on the door and Jim called him to come in.

  “Marthy sent me to tell ye supper’s near’ ‘bout ready,” announced Storekeeper cheerfully. “We wusn’t shore you hadn’t took off to town along with Miss Blake, till we seen the light in yore window.”

  “Oh, I’ll be around for awhile,” said Jim. “I need a vacation, and this seems quite a good place for it.”

  “If a feller jes’ wants to rest up and not do a tarnation lick o’ work, reckon it’s all right,” Storekeeper agreed judiciously. “’Course, ain’t much doin’ winter times. Reckon summer folks gets a right smart o’ fun, though. Leastways, they keep a-comin’ back ever’ year.”

  Jim walked with him across to the store and back to the big old-fashioned dining room where Marthy greeted him curtly.

  “Pull up yore chairs and set,” she invited, and Jim, sniffing the tantalizing fragrance of the ample spread, discovered he was hungry.

  “Me ‘n’ Marthy taken dinner with friends over to Harmony Grove after church was out,” said Storekeeper, helping himself generously to the big platter of baked spare ribs. “Right good vittles, too. But reckon when a feller gits used to his own woman’s cookin’; nothin else don’t seem to set right in his mouth.”

  Sampling the spare ribs, Jim nodded appreciatively. “That I can understand,” he said and smiled tentatively at Marthy. “You’re a very fine cook, Mrs. Holden.”

  “Shucks, any gal can cook if she sets her mind to it,” Marthy scoffed; but there was a touch of color in her leathery cheeks and a pleased glint in her eyes. “Maw learned me to cook when I weren’t no bigger’n a jaybird, and my man’s always seen to it I had somethin’ to cook. I got to say that fer him, he’s a good pervider.”

  Storekeeper grinned at her, and she bridled and lowered her eyes. Jim realized then that underenath all their bickering and arguing they were genuinely fond of each other.

  “I ‘us tellin’ Mister here, ain’t much to do fer amusement this time o’ year. Too bad he didn’t come summertimes,” said Storekeeper around an enormous mouthful of spare ribs and home-made sauerkraut.

  “Well, now, reckin he ain’t gonna want too much ‘musement, with Miss Blake comin’ up ever’ now and then,” said Marthy slyly.

  “Summer folks gits a sight o’ fun outta huntin’ gold,” said Storekeeper hurriedly, as though to shut off his wife’s voice. “They come up, spen’ a lot o’ money, an’ if they can take home two-three dollars wuth o’ gold they washed outten the crick, ye’d think they’d found the Injun’s Cache.”

  Jim held himself steady and forced an idle amusement into his voice. “Is there an Indian’s Cache?”

  Marthy looked sharply at Storekeeper, who chuckled richly.

  “Well, they’s a heap o’ yarns ‘bout it,” he admitted. “Dunno how much truth they may be in them yarns. Folks loves to tell tales. The taller they are, the more folks tries to add to ‘em. Some folks claim the Cherokees hid out a mess o’ gold in some cave er hidey-hole, and ain’t nobody never found it.”

  Marthy cut in quickly, “They’s a feller over on t’other side o’ the ridge foun’ somethin’. Nobody knows whut it was, but all of a suddint-like he stopped bein’ a broke-down tenant farmer. Fust thin’ anybody knowed, hyer he wus, buildin’ him a fine house and settin’ himself up in the broiler business and makin’ a pile o’ money. Him bein’ so shet-mouthed an’ all, don’ nobody know where-at he got the money. All anybody does know is he all of a suddint had it.”

  “Folks thet passed by his place, ‘fore he got so stinkin’ rich, claims they seen lights movin’ ‘bout the place way late at night, an’ rich-like,” Storekeeper chimed in. “Then he goes in to Marshallville, buys the farm he’s been a-tenantin’ and builds hisself a brick house an’ a lot of broiler-brooder, houses, an’ he’s got three-four thousand layin’ hens and two-three thousand broilers, an’ now he’s a buyin’ fine cattle. Feller don’t make that kine o’ money offen farming. Not up here, in this country. Feller can’t even make thet kine of money offen ‘shine. Not with them danged revenooers smart as they are.”

  Jim looked from one to the other, realizing that they firmly believed this story, and he had to admit that he himself felt a small tingle of excitement, even though he tried to laugh at the idea. “Maybe his rich uncle died and left him a fortune,” he suggested lightly.

  “His rich uncle?” Storekeeper snorted. “I be’n knowin’ Lije Purcell’s folks since afore Lije was borned. Ain’t ary one of ‘em ever had more’n three-four dollars in their hull lives. Every danged one o’ them young’uns was grown ‘fore they knowed they was anything to make drawers out of, ‘cept sugar sacks and feed sacks.”

  “He found some Injun gold,” said Marthy firmly. “Ain’t no other way to figger it. He found him a mound, one o’ them places where them heathen Injuns used to bury their dead, an’ he found gold they’d hid there ‘long with their dead, figgerin’ nobody’d have the nerve to molest the resting place o’ the dead.”

  “Well, then that should put an end to people’s hunting for buried gold around Ghost Creek,” said Jim.

  Storekeeper leaned towards him and lowered his voice. “Mister, whut would ye say if I tole you they was millions and millions o’ dollars of Injun gold hid somewhere right around hyer?”

  “Oh, come now!” protested Jim, laughing.

  “It’s a known fact,” Storekeeper insisted stubbornly. “’Course, don’t nobody know fer certain-sure just whereat it’s hid, but they’s gold somewheres around. Been a heap o’ folks lookin’ fer it, fer a right smart time, but they ain’t found it yit. Not the big gold, nohow.”

  “Plenty o’ folks got idees whereat it mought be,” said Marthy. “Stands to reason them that was friendly to the Injuns ‘ud be the ones them Injuns would trust.”

  “Meaning the Gradys, of course,” said Jim. “Cindy’s people.” Anger burned within him so that for an instant he was not aware of the still, faintly hostile manner in which Marthy and her husband were studying him.

  “How come you know Cindy’s supposed to be the one that knows?” demanded Storekeeper at last.

  “Reckin him shelterin’ with her, she might ‘a’ told him,” suggested Marthy dryly.

  “You must remember that Miss Blake has lived here long enough to hear a few of the legends and the rumors that make the rounds here,” Jim countered.

  Marthy and Storekeeper exchanged swift glances.

  “Folks in these parts has kinda wondered ‘bout Miss Blake buyin’ that place and fixin’ it up,” said Storekeeper softly, after a long, thoughtful moment. “Folks kinda think mebbe she might ‘a’ found that Injun money herself.”

  “Not the big money,” Marthy snapped. “Stands to reason effen she’d found all that money she wouldn’t keep acomin’ back.” They were waiting tensely for Jim’s answer, and he looked from one to the other, curious, slightly contemptuous.

  “So far as I know, Miss Blake has most definitely not found what you call the big gold,” he said at last. “Or if she has, she hasn’t let me in on it, but after all, you must remember that I barely know the lady.”

  Beneath Marthy�
��s derisive, bitter eyes, Jim knew that he was showing a trace of color, but he met those eyes straightly. It was Storekeeper who put the question that was tormenting himself and his wife.

  “You didn’t come up hyer to he’p Miss Blake hunt that gold?” he demanded.

  “I never set eyes on her until she walked into the store here and you introduced us,” Jim snapped.

  “City folks makes friends right easy-like, seems as if,” said Marthy unpleasantly.

  Jim kept his temper under control because he had to admit there was justice in Marthy’s words. “I’m wondering, if people are so convinced that Cindy has the secret of all this fabulous gold, why somebody hasn’t attacked her, living there all alone as she does,” he said at last.

  “Oh,” Storekeeper lifted his ham-like hand in a gesture of dismissal, “ain’t nobody gonna harm Cindy.”

  “They’d be skeered to,” said Marthy matter-of-factly.

  Puzzled, Jim asked, “You mean the dog, and because she’s a good shot?”

  “I mean the curse,” said Marthy.

  “Curse?” Jim repeated, amused and bewildered.

  “The Injun curse, o’ course, an’ o’ course, Granny was right good at puttin’ the spell on folks,” Marthy explained. “Mountain folks ain’t takin’ chances Granny’s ghost, ner the Injuns neither.”

  Jim hid his amusement, deeply relieved that these people could so readily accept such a superstition. It was a protection for Cindy, he told himself. A sort of protection, anyway, but it did not entirely allay his uneasiness for the girl.