son, who well knew what they meant. He was safe enough from the law while the people took no part in his capture, but he grew apprehensive when he learned of the changes going on in the valley. None but old Gabe knew where he was, to be sure, but, with his own enemies to guide the soldiers, he could not hope to remain hidden long. Still, with that love of the mountains characteristic of all races born among them, he clung to his own land. He would rather stay where he was the space of a year and die, he told old Gabe passionately, than live to old age in another State. But there was another motive, and he did not hide it. On the other side he had one enemy left the last, too, of her race- who was more to him than his own dead kindred, who hated him, who placed at his door all her sorrows. For her he was living like a wolf in a cave, and old Gabe knew it. Her he would not leave. "I tell ye, Rome, you've got to go. Thar's no use talkin'. Cote comes the fust Monday in June. The soldiers will be hyar. Hit won't be safe. Thar 's some that s'picions I know whar ye air now, 'n' they 'll be spyin', 'n' mebbe hit 'll git me into trouble, too, aidin' 'n' abettin' a man to git away who air boun' to the law." The two were sitting on the earthen floor of the cave before a little fire, and Rome, with his hands about his knees, and his brows knitted, was staring into the yellow blaze. His unshorn hair fell to his shoulders; his face was pale from insufficient food and exercise, and tense with a look that was at once caged and defiant. "Uncle Gabe," he asked quietly, for the old man's tone was a little querulous," air ye sorry ye helped me? Do ye blame me fer whut I've done?" "No," said the old miller, answering both questions; "I don't. I believe whut ye tol' me. Though, even ef ye hed done it, I don't know as I'd blame ye, seein' thet it was a fa'r fight. I don't doubt he was doin' his best to kill you." Rome turned quickly, his face puzzled and darkening. "Uncle Gabe, whut air ye drivin' at?" The old man spat into the fire, and shifted his posture uneasily, as Rome's hand caught his knee. 'Well, ef I hev to tell ye, I s'pose I must. Thar's been nothin' pertickler ag'in' ye so fer, 'cept fer breakin' thet confederatin' statchet 'bout bandin' fightin' men together; 'n' nobody was very anxious to git hol' o' ye jes fer thet, but now" the old man stopped a moment, for Rome's eyes were kindling-"they say thet ye killed Jas Lewallen, 'n' thet ye air a murderer; 'n' hit air powerful strange how all of a suddint folks seem to be gittin' down on a man as kills his fellow-creetur; 'n' now they means to hunt ye till they ketch ye." It was all out now, and the old man was relieved. Rome rose to his feet, and in sheer agony of spirit paced the floor. "I tol' ye, Uncle Gabe, thet I did n't kill him." "So ye did,'n' I believe ye. But a feller seed you 'n' Steve comin' from the place whar Jas was found dead, 'n' whar the dirt 'n' rock was throwed about as by two bucks in springtime. Steve says he did n't do it, 'n' he would n't say you did n't. Looks to me like Steve did the killin', 'n' was lyin' a leetle. He hain't goin' to confess hit to save your neck; 'n' he can't no way, fer he hev lit out o' these mount'ins-long ago." If Steve was out of danger, suspicion could not harm him, and Rome said nothing. "Isom 's got the lingerin' fever ag'in, 'n' he's out 'n his head. He's ravin' 'bout thet fight. Looks like ye tol' him 'bout it. He says, 'Don't tell Uncle Gabe'; 'n' he keeps sayin' it. Hit 'll 'mos' kill him ef you go 'way; but he wants ye to git out o' the mount'ins; 'n', Rome, you 've got to go." "Who was it, Uncle Gabe, thet seed me 'n' Steve comin' 'way from thar?" "He air the same feller who hev been spyin' ye all the time this war 's been goin' on; hit 's thet dried-faced, snaky Eli Crump, who ye knocked down 'n' choked up in Hazlan one day fer sayin' somethin' ag'in' Isom." "I thought it - I thought it — oh, ef I could git my fingers roun' his throat once more-jes once more—I'd be 'mos' ready to die." He stretched out his hands as he strode back and forth, with his fingers crooked like talons; his shadow leaped from wall to wall, and his voice, filling the cave, was, for the moment, scarcely human. The old man waited till the paroxysm was over, and Rome had again sunk before the fire. "Hit 'u'd do no good, Rome," he said, rising to go. "You've got enough on ye now, without the sin o' takin' his life. You better make up yer mind to leave the mount'ins now right 'way. You 're a-gittin' no more 'n half-human, livin' up hyar like a catamount. I don't see how ye kin stand it. Thar 's no hope o' things blowin' over, boy, 'n' givin' ye a chance o' comin' out ag'in, as yer dad and yer grandad usen to do afore ye. The citizens air gittin' tired o' wars. They keeps out the furriners who makes roads 'n' buys lands; 'n' they air ag'in' the law, ag'in' religion, ag'in' yo' pocket, 'n' ag'in' mine. Lots o' folks hev been ag'in' all this fightin' fer a long time, but they was too skeery to say so. They air talkin' mighty big now, seein' they kin git soldiers hyar to pertect 'em. So ye mought as well give up the idea o' stayin' hyar, 'less 'n ye want to give yo'se'f up to the law." 7 502 The two stepped from the cave, and passed through the rhododendrons till they stood on the cliff overlooking the valley. The rich light lay like a golden mist between the mountains, and through it, far, far down, the river moaned like the wind of a coming storm. "Did ye tell the gal whut I tol' ye?" "Yes, Rome; hit was no use. She says Steve's word's as good as yourn; 'n' she knowed about the crosses. Folks say she swore awful ag'in' ye at young Jas's burial, 'lowin' thet she 'd hunt ye down herse'f, ef the soldiers did n't ketch ye. I hain't seen her sence she got sick; 'pears like ever body's sick. Mebbe she's a leetle settled down now -no tellin'. No use foolin' with her, Rome. You git away from hyar. Don't you worry 'bout Isom - I'll take keer o' him, 'n' when he gits well, he 'll want to come atter ye, 'n' I'll let him go. He could n't live hyar without you. But ye must git away, Rome, 'n' git away mighty quick." With hands clasped behind him, Rome stood and watched the bent figure slowly pick its way around the stony cliff. "I reckon I've got to go. She's ag'in' me; they 're all ag'in' me. I reckon I 've got to go. Somehow, I've been kinder hopin'-" He closed his lips to check the groan that rose to them, and turned again into the gloom behind him. XIV. JUNE came. The wild rose swayed above its image along every little shadowed stream, and the scent of wild grapes was sweet in the air and as vagrant as a blue-bird's note in autumn. The rhododendrons burst into beauty, making gray ridge and gray cliff blossom with purple, hedging streams with snowy clusters and shining leaves, and lighting up dark coverts in the woods as with white stars. The leaves were full, woodthrushes sang, and bees droned like unseen running water in the woods. more And with June came circuit court once and the soldiers. Faint music pierced the dreamy chant of the river one morning as Rome lay on a boulder in the summer sun; and he watched the guns flashing like another stream along the water, and then looked again to the Lewallen cabin. Never, morning, noon, or night, when he came from the rhododendrons, or when they closed about him, did he fail to turn his eyes that way. Often he would see a bright speck moving about the dim lines of the cabin, and he would scarcely breathe while he watched it, so easily would it disappear. Always he had thought it was Martha, and now he knew it was, for the old miller had told him more of the girl, and had wrung his heart with pity. She had been ill a long while. The "furriners" had seized old Jasper's cabin and land. The girl was homeless, and she did For a long while he sat on the remnant of the burnt and broken fence, and once more the old tide of bitterness rose within him and ebbed away. There were none left to hate, to wreak vengeance on. It was hard to leave the ruins as they were; and yet he would rather leave weeds and ashes than, like Martha, have some day to know that his home was in the hands of a stranger. While he thought of the girl he grew calmer; his own sorrows gave way to the thought of hers; and half from habit he raised his face to look across the river. Two eagles swept from a dark ravine under the shelf of rock where he had fought young Jasper, and made for a sun-lighted peak on the other shore. From them his gaze fell to Wolf's Head and to the cabin beneath, and a name passed his lips in a whisper. Then he took the path to the river, and he found the canoe where old Gabe had hidden it. Before the young moon rose, he pushed into the stream and drifted with the current. At the mouth of the creek that ran over old Gabe's water-wheel he turned the prow to the Lewallen shore. "Not yit! Not yit!" he said. XV. THAT night Rome passed in the woods, with his rifle, in a bed of leaves. Before daybreak he had built a fire in a deep ravine to cook his breakfast, and had scattered the embers that the smoke should give no sign. The sun was high when he crept cautiously in sight of the Lewallen cabin. It was much like his own home on the other shore, except that the house, closed and desolate, was standing, and the bees were busy. At the corner of the kitchen a rusty ax was sticking in a half-cut piece of timber, and on the porch was a heap of kindling- and firewood- the last work old Jasper and his son had ever done. In the Lewallens's garden, also, two graves were fresh; and the spirit of neglect and ruin overhung the place. All the morning he waited in the edge of the laurel, peering down the path, watching the clouds race with their shadows over the mountains, or pacing to and fro in his covert of leaves and flowers. He began to fear at last that she was not coming, that she was ill, and once he started down the mountain toward Steve Brayton's cabin. The swift descent brought him to his senses, and he stopped half-way, and climbed back again to his hiding-place. What he was doing, what he meant to do, he scarcely knew. Midday passed; the sun fell toward the mountains, and once more came the fierce impulse to see her, even though he must stalk into the Brayton cabin. Again, half-crazed, he started impetuously through the brush, and shrank back, and stood quiet. A little noise down the path had reached his ear. In a moment he could hear slow footfalls, and the figure of the girl parted the pink-and-white laurel blossoms, which fell in a shower about her when she brushed through them. She passed quite nearhim, walking slowly, and stopped for a moment to rest against a pillar of the porch. She was very pale; her face was traced deep with suffering, and she was, as old Gabe said, much changed. Then she went on toward the garden, stepping with an effort over the low fence, and leaned as if weak and tired against the apple-tree, the boughs of which shaded the two graves at her feet. For a few moments she stood there, listless, and Rome watched her with hungry eyes, at a loss what to do. She moved presently, walked quite around the graves without looking at them, came back toward him, and, seating herself in the porch, turned her face to the river. The sun lighted her hair, and in the sunken, upturned eyes Rome saw the shimmer of tears. "Marthy!" He could n't help it the thick, low cry broke like a groan from his lips, and the girl was on her feet, facing him. She did not know the voice, or the shaggy, halfwild figure in the shade of the laurel; and she started back as if to run; but seeing that the man did not mean to harm her, she stopped, looking for a moment with wonder and even with quick pity at the hunted face with its white appeal. Then a sudden spasm caught her throat, and left her body rigid, her hands shut, and her eyes dry and hard — she knew him. A slow pallor drove the flush of surprise from her face, and her lips moved once, but there was not even a whisper from them. Rome raised one hand before his face, as though to ward off something. "Don't look at me that way, Marthy-my God, don't! I did n't kill him. I sw'ar it! I give him a chance fer his life. I know, I knowSteve says he did n't. . Thar was only us two. Hit looks ag'in' me; but I hain't killed one nur t' other. I let 'em both go. Ye don't believe me?" He went swiftly toward her, his gun outstretched. "Hyar, gal! I heerd ye swore ag'in' me out thar in the garden-'lowin' the you was goin' to hunt me down if the soldiers did n't ketch me. Hyar's yer chance!" - The girl shrank away from him, too startled to take the weapon; and he leaned it against her, and stood away, with his hands behind him. "Kill me ef ye think I 'm a-lyin' to ye," he said. "Ye kin git even with me now. But I want to tell ye fust,--" the girl had caught the muzzle of the gun convulsively and was bending over it, her eyes burning, her face inscrutable,—“hit was a fa'r fight betwixt us, 'n' I whooped him. He got his gun then, 'n' would 'a' killed me ag'in' his oath ef he hed n't been shot fust. Hit's so, too, 'bout the crosses. 504 They 're thar on the gun. I made 'em; but The gun had fallen to the earth. The girl, trembling at the knees, sank to her seat on the porch, and folding her arms against the pillar, pressed her forehead against them, her face unseen. Rome stooped to pick up the weapon. "I'm goin' 'way, Marthy," he went on slowly, after a little pause, "but I could n't leave hyar without seein' you. I wanted ye to know the truth, 'n' I thought ye 'd believe me ef I tol' ye myself. I 've been a-waitin' thar in the lorrel fer ye sence mornin'. Uncle Gabe tol' me ye come hyar ever' day. He says I've got to go-'n' I reckon I'll never see these mount'ins ag'in. I 've been livin' over thar on the Knob, lookin' over hyar, 'n' hopin' I mought come out o' the bushes some day 'n' live ag'in like other folks. But Uncle Gabe says ever'body 's ag'in' me more 'n' ever, 'n' thet the soldiers mean to ketch me. The gov'ner out thar in the settlements says as how he 'll give five hundred dollars fer me livin' or dead. He'll never git me livin',-I've swore thet, 'n' as I hev done nothin' sech as folks on both sides hev done who air walkin' roun' free, I hain't goin' to give up. Hit's purty hard to leave these mount'ins. I've been livin' like a catamount over thar on the Knob. I could jes see ye over hyar, 'n' I reckon I hain't done much 'cept lay over thar on a rock 'n' watch ye movin' round hyar. Hit's mighty good to feel thet I 've seed ye, 'n' thet ye believe me, 'n' I want ye to know, Marthy, thet I've been stayin' over thar fer nothin' on earth but jes to see you ag'in; 'n' I want ye to know ye, 'n' a-sorrowin' how I've been a-thinkin' of fer ye, when ye was sick, 'n' a-pinin' to see ye, 'n' mighty nigh starvin' fer ye, hopin' some day ye mought kinder git over yer hate fer me'n'-", He had been talking with low tenderness, half to himself, and with his face to the river, and he did not see the girl's tears falling to the porch. Her sorrow gave way in a great sob now, and he turned with sharp remorse, and stood quite near her. "Don't cry, Marthy," he said. "I'm sorry fer ye, 'n' God only knows whut I'd give ef I'd 'd give never been born. Hit 's hard to think thet I've brought all this on ye when all these mount'ins to save ye from it. d'ye say? Don't cry." Whut The girl was trying to speak at last, and Rome bent over to catch the words. "I hain't cryin' fer myself," she said faintly, and then she said no more; but the first smile that had passed over Rome's face for many a day passed then, and he put out one big hand, and let it rest on the heap of lustrous hair. "Marthy, I hate to go 'way, leavin' ye hyar with nobody to take keer o' ye. Ye air all alone hyar in the mount'ins, 'n' I'm all alone; 'n' I reckon I'll be all alone wharever I go, ef ye stay hyar. I've got a boat down on the river waitin' fer me, 'n' I 'm goin' out West whar Uncle Rufe use to live. I hain't good fer nothin' much, but, Marthy," he spoke almost huskily; he could scarcely get the words to his lips,"I want ye to go with me. Won't ye?" The girl did not answer, but her sobbing ceased slowly, while Rome stroked her hair; and at last she lifted her face, and for a moment looked to the other shore. Then she rose. There is a strange pride in the Kentucky mountaineer. Rome," she said, "as you say, thar 's nobody left but you, 'n' nobody but me; but they burned ye out, 'n' we hain't even yit." Her eyes were on Thunderstruck Knob, where the last sunlight used to touch the Stetson cabin. 66 "Hyar, Rome!" He knew what she meant, and he kneeled at the pile of kindling-wood near the kitchen door. Then they stood back and waited. The sun dipped below a gap in the mountains, the sky darkened, and the flames rose to the shingled porch, and leaped into the gathering dusk. On the outer edge of the quivering light, where it touched the blossomed laurel, the two stood till the blaze caught the eaves of the cabin; and then they turned their faces where, burning to ashes in the west, was another fire, the light of which blended in the eyes of each with a light older and more lasting the light eternal. than its own THE END. John Fox, Jr. |