XXIII.

The roistering blades who had been wont to congregate at the forge had resumed that cheerful habit, for the more recent excitements touching the discovery of the identity of the mysterious smith, who busied himself about the anvil in the dead hour of the night, had quite crowded out all recollection of the previous sensation of the parson’s visions. Few, perhaps none but he himself, thought of the apparition that, accoutred with hoofs and equipped with wings “bat-wise,” had sat upon the anvil, while the ghastly simulacrum of one of the jolly group had held the shutter ajar to look in upon his unconscious rollicking mortal self; although often enough the sound of the uncouth hilarity, the scraping of the old fiddle, or the wild, barbaric choruses rang out in the solemn silence of the stricken woods, and acquainted the Settlement with the fact that the “boys were caperin’ like all possessed down thar at the forge.” The parson sighed, for all the ascetic convictions of his nature were wounded by the unthinking jocosity and revelry, the very laughter of which he, in his portentous gravity of creed, esteemed a sin. But even parsons can learn, and the good old man beheld no more visions thenceforward to the day of his death. Allegory and metaphor had departed, with all their attendant graces of rhetoric, from his discourse, and thereafter he urged upon his congregation the necessity of truth and the insidiousness of lying, until the subject seemed to grow personal, and each member ransacked the possibilities for the means whereby the pastor could have become acquainted with sundry individual feats of athletically drawing the long-bow.

The fluctuating shafts of red light, now flung across the landscape without, now suddenly withdrawn, as the breath of the bellows rose and fell, imparted a genial element to the gaunt and sere autumnal scene this afternoon, as Bassett approached the little low building under the beetling crags. The dusk had already fallen, the metallic lustre had tarnished in the sky, and only here and there a dimly burnished gleam gave evidences of how the sunset but now had flared. The depressing influences of the rain which its brilliancy had served to obliterate were reasserted in the closing night. Drops were ever and anon fitfully falling in the woods from their lodgment in the sere curled leaves, still clinging to the trees, as the wind stirred them. The mountains, dark and sinister, closed about the Cove, its spaces all narrowing in the hovering obscurity, only indicated, indeed, by the pallid stretches of crab-grass in the place of the harvested crops, and the tawny growth of the broomsedge, the curse of the abandoned land; for the last glimmers of the day revealed these lighter tones in the dull neutrality of the blending darkness. The dank breath of their sodden fibres came to him as he walked; the river called aloud in a tumult of elation, as it dashed bold and wild over the rocks, reinforced by its tributaries from the ranges; exhalations were rising from the ground, loitering in low places, and as the light flared out all red from the forge now and again, it cleft them in twain. The echoes waked still, despite the somnolent, night-shrouded aspect of mountain and valley, and were full of mirth, with snatches of lilting song, to repeat and con anew, till languorously, and syllable by syllable, they dropped to silence, or were overpowered by fresh outbursts of boisterous fun. It might have seemed, even to these accurate mimics, all as it was in the old days before Rathburn had ever come to the Great Smoky to search in chasm and gorge and cave for silver,—before they had been roused in the mystic midnight hour to keep a tally with the strokes of his hammer on the anvil, and repeat with bated breath his low-toned words,—all as it was. It did not seem thus to Bassett, coming nearer still. A preoccupation, a lack of zest in the jocularity, in the rallying sallies, he could detect in the very voices of the familiar group too distant to be articulate; and yet they were as bluffly loud as ever. Nevertheless, as he came in view of the interior, the figures of the young mountaineers, now distinct in the glow of the forge fire, now dull and almost indistinguishable in the shadow of the dusky brown walls, intimated but small thought save of the mirth of the moment. The violin’s tones were facetious under the bowing of so jovial a hand as Jube, the parson’s son, made shift to wield. The severe ascetic lines of his father’s profile were queerly imposed upon the rich red tint of the instrument, convulsed by a grin of a magnitude justified only by the phenomenal capers of the dancer, and distorted presently in sympathy with some very intricate harmonics, the production of which were somewhat beyond the performer’s capacity. The dancer was Andy Longwood, and his latent agility was manifested to an extent which one would hardly have suspected from his habitual slow, slouching gait. He held either hand upon his hips; his chin was uplifted; he looked not at his feet, surprising as were their deft gyrations to the circle of men who, with their pipes in their mouths, stood about and gazed at him with an expression of slow and lenient amusement, but at the dark and cobwebbed rafters of the high-peaked roof. The white light flared out from the fire for one moment upon his face, with his long fair hair shaken back and tossing with his movements; and as the dull red glow succeeded it, the surrounding spectators fell back laughing, their applause of an intricate double shuffle, with which he had concluded, audible to Bassett as he approached. When he reached the door and stood leaning against it their comments had not yet shifted from the subject.

“Andy, ye air spry fur true!—how did ye l’arn ter take them s’prisin’ steps?” observed Moses Hull, at whom Bassett glanced in surprise, for it was Hull’s ambition to do many things in the nature of feats of agility preëminently well, and commendation from him, therefore, usually was slack and scanty. “Shucks!” He made one or two teetering movements forward on the tips of his toes, then desisted with a debonair wave of his hand. “_I_ can’t,—gin it up.”

“Gin Andy su’thin’ ter drink; ’bleeged ter be dry arter all that hoppin’ an’ commotion,” said Dake, in a tone the essence of suavity. “Hey, Clem?” He appealed to the hospitalities of the blacksmith, who sat upon the anvil, all unmindful of the devil, and smoked his pipe, as he overlooked a game of cards which two young fellows were playing upon the head of a barrel.

“Let him gin hisse’f suthin’ ter drink,” said Clem, cavalierly, emitting a blue wreath of smoke from his lips. He had not forgiven the youthful rival his unintentionally misleading statement as to Marcella’s preference. “I reckon Andy hev got sense enough ter know the outside o’ a jug whenst he see it; ef not, let him go dry.”

He inserted his pipe once more between his lips, and bent his attention upon the game, solemnly and warily played by the light of the forge fire, the bellows accommodatingly worked by a youth who fancied he had a bent toward the smith’s vocation, and was happy to be allowed to meddle in any capacity with the paraphernalia of the forge.

“I won’t die o’ thirst, I reckon, yit awhile,” panted Andy, who, still out of breath, was walking himself about after the manner in which a horse is exercised after running. He took his way behind the elevated hearth of the forge, for in the dusky retirement of this nook stood a modestly disposed brown jug, with a corn-cob stopper. Its presence here was well-known, and the affectation of secrecy sprang, doubtless, from some mere sentiment of appropriateness, for the liquor was illegally distilled, and came few suspected whence.

Bassett watched the dumb show, very dim in the corner, of the shadow of a man drinking from the shadow of a jug; he was of an outspoken temperament, of which, however, censoriousness was more an element than candor.

“What ails ye, Gid, ter be a-coddlin’ Andy so special?” He did not desist because of a significant glance from Dake, standing in the rear of the anvil. “An’ what’s Andy a-doin’ of over hyar, so fur from home, ennyhows? His folks will ’low he be los’,—his mam will be out’n her head,” he sneered.

The bibulous shadow paused, with the jug at its lips. The pantomime was very expressive of scornful retort, as Longwood wagged his head silently, but with the fiery fluid in his throat he could not speak for a moment. “I’ll knock ye inter Kingdon Come, Joe Bassett, ef ye fool along o’ me. Talkin’ ez ef I war about five year old! _I_ ain’t axin’ you-uns ’bout sech ez I do, nohow.” And once more he applied his lips to the jug.

“Old or young, Andy hev been mighty important ter Brumsaidge,” said Hull seductively. “Some things we-uns would never hev knowed ef ’twarn’t fur him.”

Bassett stared in surprise; then gave a short, scornful laugh. “Waal, I feel powerful sorry fur Brumsaidge ef Andy kin tell ’em ennything!” he flouted.

The young fellow had come from behind the elevated hearth of the forge, wiping his lips on the back of his hand. He had suddenly grown conscious, and looked a trifle crestfallen. “Waal, I dunno ez I oughter hev tole what I done,—I hev been sorry fur it sence. It jes’ sorter slipped out’n my mouth ’fore I knowed it. I hed drunk cornsider’ble apple-jack,”—he made this admission with a callow pride in being thus overtaken,—“an’ I sca’cely knowed what I said. I war sorry arterward.”

“’Bout what?” demanded Bassett, choosing to disregard the telegraphic glances of Hull and Dake.

“Shucks!” said Hull, answering for Longwood, “jes’ ’bout tellin’ ez Eli Strobe hed gone deranged.”

Bassett said nothing, and Longwood, standing with his hands in his pockets, his head bare,—for he had not replaced his hat after dancing, and it now lay among the spokes of a broken wagon-wheel at one side of the shop,—gazed absently down at the game of cards.

“I dunno why ye air sorry ye tole,” said Hull craftily; and it occurred suddenly to Bassett that he was a half-brother of the defeated candidate for constable, and that Longwood was in the process of being cleverly manipulated. “Brumsaidge would hev been obleeged ter find it out, sooner or later. I s’pose,” he added, after a pause, “ye war ’feared they would try ter take his office ’way from him?”

“Edzac’ly!” said Longwood, lifting his large eyes, “an’ I didn’t want ter hev no part nor passel in sech.”

“Waal, ye won’t!” exclaimed Hull reassuringly. He was a dark-browed fellow, of a wooden-like countenance; it seemed specially devoid of expression as he chewed hard upon his quid of tobacco, and he had a casual manner as he continued: “Folks would hev been bound ter hear it n’ised abroad ’fore long, an’ then, ef he air crazy, Brumsaidge can’t keep him constable. This air a mighty big deestric’, an’ arter ye wunst gits out’n the Settlemint houses air few fur true, an’ fur apart, an’ woods air thick. A crazy constable ain’t no constable at all.”

“Yes, sir!” Dake broke in; “an’ folks out thar hev got ter hev some sort’n purtection besides a gyard-dog,—got ter sorter depend on the law, now’days. We-uns ain’t got grit enough ter take keer o’ ourselves, like we useter do.”

But this last sentiment boded a digression. Hull hastily interposed, still incidentally, however: “’Tain’t yer fault, Andy, ef he war ter lose his office,—ye didn’t make him go deranged; an’ it stands ter reason ez the law can’t be administered by a off’cer teched in the head. Naw, sir! But then he mought not be crazy. What did he say, Andy, ter make ye ’low he had gone deranged?”

The question was asked, and Hull gazed intently at the young fellow, fearing that at this significant moment some word, some movement, of the others might rob him of what he so zealously sought,—a clew for the guidance of those who were scheming in the matter of the inquisition of lunacy; for so close had been the race for constable that in the event of the office becoming vacant, and a consequent special election, Joshua Nevins could hardly fail to have a walk-over, as against any other candidate than the disabled incumbent. Nevertheless, although Hull’s face had grown conscious, his manner carefully dissembled his interest, and Longwood’s glance discovered naught to inflame his anger or rouse his caution. It was only because of the twinge of his own conscience that he declared irritably, lifting his voice, “I dunno what he said,—leastwise I hev no call ter tell, an’ I ain’t a-goin’ ter.” A sudden doubt, even suspicion, stirred within him. “Somebody else war axin’ me that question jes’ ter-day.”

Hull, fresh at politics, lost his self-possession. “’Twarn’t me!” he protested, as if repudiating an accusation.

“Did I say ’twar?” demanded Longwood, with a snarling accent. The whiskey which he had drunk and that goading sense of wrong-doing had blended in angry discomfort, which he was more disposed to wreak on others, if he might with impunity, than to suffer in silence.

“Don’t quar’l, boys,” eagerly objected Jube. His habit was not that of a peace-maker, but the prospect of a wrangle threatened to despoil the pleasure he experienced in twanging the old violin, for the loud voices overbore the vibrations of the strings as he experimented with some delicate flecking touches of the bow. “Don’t quar’l, boys.”

“I ain’t quar’lin’!” Longwood defended himself with still a louder tone. “Axin’ me—an’ I won’t stan’ it—ez ter what Eli Strobe said an’ didn’t say, ter make me ’low he hed gone deranged!”

His voice, rasping and querulous, caused Clem Sanders to look up with scowling disfavor from the game of which he had been an absorbed spectator. His frown grew blacker as the final words fell upon the air. “Gone deranged!” he sneered. “Air you-uns a-spreadin’ that gossip yit, kase the man hed a fever, an’ war a leetle out’n his head? I do declar’, ye make me laff.” His face seemed far from laughing, so indignant and flushed it was.

“A man can’t stay out’n his head jes’ with fever from August—election day air fust Thursday in August—plumb till the middle o’ October, an’ past. That’s when Andy hearn Eli Strobe a-maunderin’,” Hull excitedly argued.

“I never said he maundered,” Longwood protested vehemently. “I ain’t a-goin’ ter tell what he said.”

Clem Sanders had worn a startled, troubled face as he hearkened to Hull’s exposition of these dates. He seemed overpowered, convinced against his will. Then his anxious hope for Marcella’s sake making him ingeniously sanguine, he turned fiercely toward Longwood.

“An’ what sort’n jedge be you-uns? Gone deranged! Nobody hev gone haffen ez fur deranged ez you-uns. Ye ain’t got two atoms o’ brains ter keep one another comp’ny in that thar great big lonesome head o’ yourn.”

Longwood winced palpably before this vigorous scorn. The consideration with which he had been treated earlier in the evening had served to foster his self-esteem. The blacksmith was a man of mark in the community and enjoyed great popularity, and Longwood deprecated a “backing down” from this source. He was prone to strut and swagger, and Hull’s pretended deference had made him adopt a still more assuming pose.

He forgot his pangs of conscience, Marcella, the consequence to Eli Strobe,—all,—in the tumult of his self-importance and the desire to assert himself.

“Jedge o’ goin’ deranged! Even you-uns, I reckon, would hev hed gumption enough ter sense what war the matter ef ye hed hearn him declarin’—like I done—ez he hed killed Teck Jepson, bruk his neck, an’ kep’ axin’ whar Teck war buried, an’ who preached the fun’al sermon, an’ ef his harnt hed sot out ter walk! I reckon ye’d hev ’lowed he war deranged, ef ye hed hearn all that!”

He hurled forth these words upon Clem Sanders, who sat as one petrified, a stony dismay on his face, and seeming scarcely to breathe. Hull was excited, laughing a little, half in triumph, half in ridicule of the grotesque folly of thus revealing the secret that had been so carefully withheld from the inquiries hardly yet silent upon the air. The inconsequent Longwood, in the flush of his victory over the blacksmith, did not even dimly appreciate what he had done, till, turning, he saw Hull’s face, wooden no longer, and the satirically laughing Dake. He wilted a trifle; then with an effort to regain his manly port, he demanded in an offended tone, “What be ye fellers a-laffin’ at?”

Hull showed some aptitude for the affairs in which he intermeddled merely for reasons of consanguinity. “So funny,” he replied evasively,—“so durned funny, the idee o’ Teck Jepson bein’ dead! I wish he war!”

“That wouldn’t do we-uns no good,” said Dake. “We-uns can’t find whar Jake Baintree an’ his pardner air hidin’ in the mountings enny better ef Teck war dead than livin’.”

Jube Donnard ceased to scrape the old violin; the other men gathered close about; the game of cards paused midway; the very name of Baintree and his confederate seemed to supersede all other interests. Only Andy Longwood held apart, realizing with a sinking heart that he had given the clew—the subject of insanity—upon which the investigations would be pushed; otherwise, so sane was Strobe on every other point, he might have escaped, even though the inquiry were prompted and prosecuted by his political enemies.

He sat down upon the shoeing-stool, leaning his head against the chimney, and tried to reflect on what he had done and what it might precipitate. Perhaps it was the heat of the fire, perhaps the effects of the whiskey he had drunk: his head drooped more and more, and presently he was asleep, all oblivious of the absorbed group and the topic that so engrossed them.

Even the enthusiast at the bellows had deserted the scene of his ambition, and joined the others. The tone of the conversation intimated that the subject was a recurrent one, and each speaker had the air of producing his remark rather from a long train of previous reflection than upon the impulse of the moment.

“I dunno what ter think o’ Teck Jepson,” pursued Dake. “Some o’ the boys ’lowed ez Baintree an’ his pardner ez purtends ter be a-sarchin’ fur silver hed been warned, else Rathburn never would hev kem down ter the forge so early in the night with sech a plain, harmless tale.”

“Who would go a-hidin’ sech ez tryin’ ter git holt of a silver mine, ennyhow?” demanded Jube logically. “I’ll gin my cornsent ter his findin’ all the silver mines in the kentry. So would other folks, an’ he be ’bleeged ter know it.”

“Teck never denied they war warned, whenst faced with the fac’,” said one of the card-players, the superseded pack in his hand.

“An’ Teck ’lowed,” said the other, “ez he knowed who warned ’em. He hed ter ’low that whenst I taxed him with it. He said he wouldn’t lie.”

“But he wouldn’t tell who done it,” interpolated Jube, the violin lying idle and silent on his knee.

“Naw, sir!” exclaimed Dake. “I jes’ argufied with him fur a good hour an’ better, tryin’ ter pint out his jewty ter the benighted critter, fairly sodden in the pride o’ his religion. I tole him ’twar his jewty ter his kentry. An’ he jes’ ’lowed ez he hed seen the face o’ jewty too often not ter know it, an’ that all the legions o’ hell an’ all the hosts o’ heaven could not make him reveal that name ter mortal ears.”

The blacksmith, his ponderous arms folded, his head bent as he sat on the anvil and listened, rose suddenly, with a deep sigh, and walked once or twice the length of the little shop. He had refrained from speaking, fearing his lawless tongue might betray his intimate knowledge of the mystery that so baffled them. His silence had not been noted, but his movement brought him to the minds of the others, and one of the card-players demanded:—

“Did you-uns onderstan’, Clem, this hyar Rathburn ter say ez him an’ Jake war a-campin’ on the range ter the west o’ Brumsaidge? Whenst we-uns went up on the mounting, the t’other day, I do declar’ I b’lieve we sarched every squar’ mile fur ten mile, a-bushwhackin fur ’em.”

“That air what I onderstood him ter say,” replied the blacksmith cautiously, coming to a halt in the middle of the floor. “On the mounting ter the west. But I never paid no partic’lar ’tention ter him. I war a-mendin’ of his tool, an’ Jepson done the talkin’. I ’lowed ye’d be sati’fied with whatever Jepson done.”

“But he never done nuthin’!” cried Dake angrily. “Swaller a big tale ’bout’n sarchin’ fur silver ez easy ez skim milk, an’ then let the evil-doer slip through his fingers like pickin’ up water!”

“’Thout even findin’ out whar ter git him agin ef we-uns wanted him!” exclaimed Jube Donnard.

There was a silence. Each was conscious of a thought that he shared with the others, but as yet none had put it into words. The dim red glow of the coals slowly smouldering under the sooty hood suffused the dusky place, and but dimly revealed the great slouching figures of the mountaineers, as they lounged about on the few seats that the shop afforded, or stood with their hands in their pockets and deliberated. Outside of the widely opened doors the night gloomed. All was indistinguishable in the deep obscurity save the line of the western horizon, a dull copper hue, and against it were visible the gnarled limbs of the old tree just without the forge, each bough and twig black and distinct as it moved slightly in the wind. Now and again drops fell in quick, convulsive patterings from the growth of ever-green laurel on the slope of the hill, and sometimes the eaves added a few monotonous drippings to the rivulets in the gullies below, running fast and loud in the silence.

“Thar hev been a traitor ’mongst we-uns,” said Dake presently.

“Ye say that ez ef it war news,” sneered Bassett, still standing in the door.

“I reckon all o’ the boys hev sorter sensed who ’twar,” observed Dake.

“Ye ’member how keen Teck Jepson war fur appealin’ ter Jedge Lynch, ez he called it, whenst Baintree war fust let off from the court fur a-killin’ o’ Sam’l Keale, an’ whenst enny fool mought hev knowed the kentry would do nuthin’ agin the jury’s say-so?” Bassett remarked discursively.

The others stared at him through the red dusk of the shadowy place, surprised by this reminiscent turn to the conversation.

“Of course,” assented Jube, by way of giving him an impetus.

“That war a blind. He never wanted nuthin done ter Baintree,—oh, ye needn’t tell me!” For there was an incredulous laugh here and there in his audience.

“Shucks, Joe!” exclaimed Jube, turning aside as if he would once more lift the violin, then pausing and looking over his shoulder as Bassett resumed.

“An’ t’other night, up at Clem’s barn, he war dead agin hangin’ or ennythin’ ’thout them men war diskivered in mo’ wrong-doin’ sence killin’ Sam’l Keale,—ez ef they’d up an’ tell ’bout thar wrong-doin’s with all o’ we-uns in a hunderd yards of ’em, an’ they hevin’ been warned, an’ Teck Jepson knowin’ who warned ’em!”

“_I_’d like ter know who warned ’em. That busybody would be done with warnin’s,” declared one of the card-players. “I’d strangle that tattle-tale with a mighty good will, ef I hed the chance!”

“Hesh up! I’ll lay ye low with that thar sledge o’ mine!” cried Clem peremptorily, the image of Marcella in his mind.

“Laws-a-massy, Clem,” protested the card-player pacifically, surprised at his vehemence.

“Then,” pursued Bassett, all unheeding, a logical end in contemplation, “we-uns hev let Teck Jepson git the upper hand o’ us, so ez he felt full bold ter let that Rathburn go, an’ stayed argufyin’ with we-uns in the barn jes’ ter purvent us from goin’ arter him an’ capturin’ him, so ez him an’ Baintree would git off scot-free.”

“We-uns knowed all that afore,” said Hull placidly.

“Waal,” drawled Bassett slowly, but his eyes gleamed with excitement and his pulse quickened, “mebbe ye don’t know ez I viewed Jepson a-standin’ in his door this very evenin’, a-shakin’ hands with this very Baintree ez he always purtended ter _de_spise so, an’ ez we-uns can’t find high or low,—shakin’ hands, sir, shakin’ hands frien’ly an’ perlite, ez ef Baintree war the pa’son!”

There were two or three sharp, inarticulate exclamations, and dead silence ensued.

“We-uns hev been powerful deceived in this man ez hev fairly ruled Brumsaidge Cove!” said one of the mountaineers at last, smarting with the sense of being overreached.

“His rule air over!” cried Bassett, “else he hev stamped out every mite o’ pluck ’mongst us in his rule, ez ye call it.”

“Why, now, look-a-hyar, Joe, how air ye a-countin’ fur his bein’ frien’ly with Baintree? He ain’t a fool like this hyar Rathburn, hankerin’ arter silver ez Jake kin find,” urged Dake, dazed by the revelation, and seeking some adequate motive that might explain it.

Bassett had come forward into their midst. He stood with his hands in his pockets, his face grave but with suppressed excitement in every line of it, and now and then glancing over his shoulder at the broad open door, where a mist lurked shifting and shimmering, vaguely perceived in the dull red glow of the forge fire.

“Why, what kin it mean, boys,” he said, “’ceptin’ we-uns hev been fooled from the beginnin’? Teck wouldn’t act so ef Baintree didn’t hev a hank over him somehows,—could put him inter a mighty heap o’ trouble ef he did otherwise. Ez long ez Baintree hev been kep’ under our watch Teck hev b’friended him; afore that he ’peared ez much agin him ez ennybody, jes’ ez a blind ter keep folks from s’picionin’ them.”

“But what kin Teck hev done ez Baintree be in an’ knows about? Thar ain’t no crime been c’mitted in these parts,” ruminated Dake, his mind rummaging the possibilities, “’ceptin’—’ceptin’”—he drawled on uncertainly; then he suddenly glanced up, his eyes alight—“’ceptin’ the mysterious takin’-off o’ Sam’l Keale, five year ago an’ better.”

He had guessed Bassett’s suspicion; he saw this in his crony’s eyes, and the strength of his own suggestion was increased by its duplication. The others stirred uneasily, but the crime was a mystery never solved, and what could be more inexplicable than the fact that Jepson was seen shaking hands with the man whom he had denounced and threatened again and again, a contemptible wretch, and the outcast of the mountains?

“Ye ’low,” said Dake, “ez Jepson hed some hand in that business what ain’t never been brought ter light?”

“Elsewise what ails him ter purtect Baintree an’ his comical doctor-man, an’ ter swear he won’t tell who warned ’em, an’ ter be seen, when he thunk he war safe from view, a-shakin’ hands mighty frien’ly with the man he hev purtended ter run down?”

Bassett suddenly leaned forward, caught Dake’s hand, and went through the dumb show of a friendly parting, while the others looked on through the red glow of the fire. Then he flung himself back against the wall, laughing aloud,—a fleering falsetto laugh, that jarred the solemn silence beneath the bare trees, and echoed far along the road through the Settlement.