Part 5

“Oh, that’s all right, thank you, darling!” And he set off after Sam. When he returned, he was enthusiastic about his guide. “I like him! He hung back at first, and I finally found that Bowles wouldn’t plough for him without the money; so I paid him ten dollars in advance. That’s all he is charging to take me. We shall be gone only three or four days. He knows all the trails; and we can get our bacon and meal at a little store on Siler’s creek, and not have to carry a heavy pack from here.”

“If only you had an intelligent companion!” said Lucie with foreboding.

“Oh, Sam’s a fine fellow! And he knows a lot of old songs. You know I want to make a collection.”

“Do get ‘London City’ for me if you can,” I said. “He will never give me more than a snatch of it.

‘In London City where I did dwell A merchant boy I loved so well----’

I am sure it has been sung under the very bonnet of the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street, ‘City’ not ‘town’; ‘merchant,’ not ‘soldier’ or ‘sailor.’”

“It’s a link,” said Harvey. “Think of it! This remote spot where nothing ever happened, and old London! I’ll get it for you.”

I wasn’t hopeful, knowing Sam’s disposition to sing only at his own instance; but I could not discourage any one so gallantly sure as Harvey.

The next twenty-four hours were spent by the bear-hunters in making ready. I asked Sam where he intended to get a bear-dog, and was surprised to hear that they had decided not to take one.

“One o’ them big dogs’ll eat three men’s rations,” said Sam. “We’d have to carry a heap more stuff, an’ pay five dollars fer the hire of him, too. Anyways, if we took a bear-dog, he’d git all the credit for the killin’, when like as not he’d be back in camp eatin’ up our victuals.”

“It’s settled, Sam,” said Harvey. “A gun’s the clean thing.”

“I knowed you wanted to shoot bear, not claw ’em out like Jed Weaver does.”

As preparations went on, Lucie shrank to a wife’s place in the background; but near the starting-moment she slipped a pair of her husband’s best silk socks into his kit.

“They will rest your feet, dear,” she said, suppressing a crinkly catch in her voice.

The kiss she received was absent-mindedly given; but when a hundred yards on his way, Harvey turned thoughtfully and waved a marital hand broadly rearward.

The fifth morning thereafter, Lucie, who had been on watch at the curve of the road, came running in.

“Dolly,” she cried, “I thought tramps never got up here!”

“They don’t,” I said.

“But look!”

She turned again and gazed out; then stood framed in eerie silence. I saw, and she saw, that it was Ned. He came up with an unrelaxing smile, but looking as if he had not slept since his departure. Certainly he had not shaved, though I had seen him carefully pack his safety razor, and remembered his remark that even in the woods a man could be a gentleman. He had on Sam’s ragged coat, and under it we had glimpses of Sam’s still more ragged, and once blue, cotton shirt. His head was bare.

Lucie was white-lipped and wide-eyed. “Did the bears--” she began.

“No, Lucie, the bears did not get me,” he said; and preceded her to the barn.

Two or three hours afterward she returned to tell me that Ned was sleeping and did not wish to be awakened until next morning. He appeared at breakfast, neat and smiling, but his face was still marked by experience.

“He has suffered,” said Lucie, helping his plate with tender liberality.

“Oh, it was nothing,” said Ned. “Sam took a bad cold, and seemed threatened with pneumonia. As my clothes were warmer than his, of course I exchanged with him.”

“Your best silk socks, too?” cried Lucie.

“Certainly. He had _none_.”

Then he told us about it. “We climbed steadily, and the second day reached a height of four thousand feet or more. There was a fierce wind, and it was bitter cold. We had to keep a fire at night, and as Sam was not well, I attended to that, which cut out my sleep. _Don’t_ moan like that, please, dearest. I am glad I went. I feel better prepared for many things. I really do.”

And truly he did seem to have added to his stature. He had been very likable; but now I began to admire him.

“I didn’t get a bear, but I made some notes. You know I have always been interested in forest life. I ought to have been a woodsman.”

“I hope you won’t have to limp very long,” said Lucie; and a slight silence followed.

“Did Sam sing for you?” she continued, her usual discernment failing.

“Yes--a little--one song.”

“Oh, I hope you took it down!”

“It was very _cold_, Lucie. I did no unnecessary writing.”

“But you remember it?”

“I shall never forget it,” he said, and, to my ears, his voice held a slight acridity. I was glad when Lucie fell into her sweetest manner and they went off together.

As I moved about the deserted table, I noticed a note-book lying on the floor. The floor being frequently a repository for my own note-books, I picked this one up, to see what subject had lost my devotion. On the first page I read: “Night of the 15th: very cold; no sleep. 16th: very cold; no sleep. 17th: very cold; no sleep.” The rest was blank. I laid the book on the floor, a little under Harvey’s chair. Then I went to find Sam.

III

“How is your cold, Sam?” I asked.

He laughed his most purling-water laugh. “I cured that when I was crossin’ Siler’s creek comin’ home. There’s lots o’ sickness’ll leave you when you cross water. Hit takes right off.”

“Sam, do you know that Tom Bowles has not been near the place? There isn’t a furrow ploughed in that field.”

“Ay, I know it. I was so busy the day we went off, I forgot to tell you about that. Mr. Harvey bein’ yore friend, I wanted to do ever’thing I could to he’p him; but I said to myself that what you wanted ought to come first, so I went to that field an’ I looked all over it. I went cleverly all over it. An’ I saw ’twa’n’t no use to throw away ten dollars on Tom Bowles, fer that ground wouldn’t bring corn. Yer best chance is to wait until fall, an’ put it in rye. It’ll shore bring rye.”

“But when I wanted you to put it in rye last fall, you said I ought to wait until spring and plant corn.”

“I ain’t fergittin’ that, but last fall I hadn’t gone well over it like I ought.”

“It’s not too late for corn now, if you’ll set to ploughing at once.”

“I’d do it, Mis’ Dolly; I’d be willin’ to do jest as you say, even agin yer own intrust, which is what corn ’ud be in that ground; but I’ve got to go to Carson to-morr’ an’ git my front tooth put in. It’s been out six months now, an’ I’ve got the money in my pocket.”

“Couldn’t you wait a few days, Sam?”

“Why, I put it to you now, if you had a front tooth out, wouldn’t you git one in the first chance? I’ve got my clo’s, an’ the money, an’ it’s mighty hard to git ever’thing together at oncet.”

At last he had mentioned the clothes; so, without repulse, might I.

“Your jacket is a good fit, Sam.”

“How do you think it suits me, Mis’ Dolly?”

“I think you wear it about as well as Mr. Harvey did.”

“It set smart round the shoulders on him.”

“Smart on you too, Sam.”

“It looks better with the cap.” He put on the cap for proof. “I let Mr. Harvey keep his pants an’ leggin’s. That chap from Asheville left me his, an’ I thought they’s better’n Harvey’s. Jest let me walk off.”

He walked off, and I duly and sincerely admired.

“You reckon,” he said, coming back, “if you saw me as fur off as that black oak on the hill yander, an’ I had my back to you, an’ you didn’t know I had these clo’s, you reckon you’d take me fer Harvey?”

I assured him I would.

“He’s a well-set-up man, Harvey.”

It was time to hit the nail. “Sam, I want the truth. _Was_ there a bear on Pitcher Mountain?”

“Yes, there was--three year ago. I saw it myself, after it ’uz dead.”

“Go on. Make a clean breast of it.”

“There, I knowed you’d be right on me. All right, I’ll tell you ever’thing. I meant to all the time. But ’fore I begin, I want you to tell me what’s an impersile?”

“An impersile? Oh--ah--an imbecile is a sort of fool.”

“I reckoned it was about that,” he said; and, too late, I remembered.

“I won’t keep back a dod-blessed thing, Mis’ Dolly. You know how my dog Buck acts when they’s a fox usin’ around. He’ll lay on the hearth-rock thinkin’ how he’s goin’ to git that fox. An’ ’long about two o’clock I have to git up an’ let him out. Then he goes to Len’s an’ rumbles on the door till Len gits up an’ lets _his_ dog out, an’ Buck takes him off to hunt that fox. He’ll keep that up fer weeks if it takes weeks to git him. It was jest thataway with me. I had to study out how I was goin’ to git Harvey. He was a friend o’ yorn, stayin’ in yore barn, an’ I couldn’t go over there an’ lammux him. I’m a peaceable man anyhow, an’ that ain’t my way.”

“I know it isn’t, Sam, and I am surprised that you couldn’t overlook one thoughtless word, where no harm was meant.”

“Yer goin’ too fast now. I did overlook, come time. You know the Bible says that the birds may light on your head, but ye needn’t let ’em make a nest in yer hair. That means ’at hard words may drap on you, but ye needn’t harbor ’em in yer heart. When that word kep’ a-stickin’, I knowed I had to git it out, and I did. I feel all right now, an’ I’ll do any favor fer Mr. Harvey if he’ll come an’ ast me right. I’ll drive him down to the depot if he’ll ast me, though I told Krettie I’d never do it, an’ I said I’d make him push his trunks down hissef in a wheelbarr’.”

Concern must have risen to my face, for he became regally assuring.

“Don’t you worry a bit now. I thought it all out, an’ I ’lowed I could git along ’thout doin’ him any harm. Overlook it! Ain’t I showed that plain? Didn’t I knock off ploughin’ in the middle o’ April an’ the dogwoods a-buddin’ jest to take him bear-huntin’? He was bound to go. He was wuss’n a hen that’s goin’ to set, eggs er no eggs.”

“Oh, Sam, you know you started it yourself!”

“I jest talked a little, as is common. It’s a man’s nater to drap his talk aroun’ without lookin’ to see whose head is hot. Shorely to goodness, yer not goin’ to blame that on me!”

“Well, what happened? You’ve got his gun, his jacket, his cap, and his shirt.”

“An’ his safety razor,” added Sam, “an’ these here.” He pulled tenderly at a pocket of the jacket and gave me a shining glimpse of the silk socks. “I put ’em on oncet. Boys! Slipper-ellum ain’t nothin’!” Then he began his story.

IV

“I didn’t take my gun, ’cause I was only goin’ along to ’comerdate Harvey; an’ the trigger o’ mine was busted. I didn’t take Buck nuther, fer we _might_ ’a’ run across a bear, an’ Buck’s so swell-headed, he thinks he can wipe up anything, an’ a bear would ’a’ chawed him to a dish-rag. I couldn’t take any resk with him, fer Tim Reeves wrote me from Tennessee that he’d give me fifty dollars fer him when he comes back, he’s so hot fer fox. That first day me an’ Harvey travelled like brothers, an’ I got him a good ways along ’thout makin’ him feel the road. I carried his gun fer him, so he could walk faster, an’ he was likin’ me first-rate. At night I made a fine fire an’ he put his feet toward it an’ went to sleep. Next mornin’ he got up an’ et nine slices o’ bacon an’ a meal-pone I cooked on a rock. I pushed him to eat, tellin’ him we had a terrible climb afore us. He laffed at me, an’ says ‘Bring on yer mountains, Sam.’ An’ I brought ’em. By night we’s in a mile o’ the top o’ Smoky.”

“But you were going to Pitcher Mountain!”

“Aye, we _started_ there, but when we passed Jed Weaver’s, which is the last house, I said I’d go in an’ git me a little new terbacker, ’cause Jed raises it an’ it ’ud be neighborly to ast fer some. When I come out, I told Harvey that Jed said the bear on Pitcher had been killed an’ Mose Ashe had the hide. Which wuz ever’ word so. It ’uz the biggest bear in the memory o’ man, I told him; an’ that ’uz the truth too, fer I seen it myself. Harvey’s lip fell till I was sorry fer him, an’ I said I was willin’ to go on to the bear-ground on Smoky, if he thought he could hold out. I said I wouldn’t drive him, it wuz his trip anyway; an’ he said he was feelin’ better ever’ minute, that climbin’ agreed with him, an’ he looked like it did. I told him if he wanted to go on, it was lucky he took me with him, fer it was give up that I knowed the trails better’n anybody that had ever gone inter the bear-ground. Ain’t that so, Mis’ Dolly?”

“That’s what I’ve heard, Sam.”

“I spent a year in the woods after my first wife died. I thought it was the best chance I’d ever git, an’ I took it. So I said to Harvey: ‘Knowledge has got to be paid fer. It’s the custom.’ An’ he says: ‘Oh, anything, Sam!’ An’ I says: ‘What about yer gun?’ ‘Oh, my gun?’ says he, a little set back, fer it was fire-new, as you can see.”

His glance fondled the gleaming barrel of the gun which was leaning against a tree near us.

“I told Harvey I wasn’t feelin’ very well myself, an’ it might be better fer me to go home anyhow; but if we traded, I wouldn’t think o’ takin’ the gun till we got back home, an’ he could carry it from there on, ’cause we’s gittin’ inter a country where we might come on something wuth a bullet any minute. An’ he said: ‘All right, it’s a bargain. Move, partner.’

“So we climbed hard all day, an’ by night, as I told you, we’s well up Smoky, an’ the coldest wind ablowin’ that ever made an i-shickle out of a man’s gizzard. We drew up at a spring, an’ I says: ‘We’ll stay right here, fer there ain’t no water higher up.’ He was puffin’ some, an’ he says: ‘How fur are we from the bear-ground?’ I says: ‘It’s all around us. We’re right in it.’ He whitened a little an’ gripped his gun, an’ I explained o’ course we weren’t in the ackchal la’r’l thicket where the bears denned, an’ where they tromp roads in the brush big enough fer a horse to walk through. I told him we hadn’t got to the stair-steps in the cliffs where they climbed in an’ out o’ their dens; but they used the neighborhood fer roamin’ an’ fer gittin’ water. I reckoned he wouldn’t want to go on an’ knock at their doors till mornin’, after he’d had a good rest, an’ we’d keep a big fire all night so’s they wouldn’t bother us.

“I said I’d cook supper if he’d make the fire; an’ he started to git up some wood; but it was slow work ’cause he’d keep the gun in one hand an’ pull an’ drag at the brush with the other. When I’d rested good I went an’ he’ped, fer I was sorry fer him, an’ was pushin’ hungry. When I’d cooked supper, an’ he’d et enough to make him feel sort o’ cocky, an’ I’d got up a good lot o’ logs to last all night, he said he guessed he’d turn in so’s to git a good sleep an’ be ready fer the battle in the mornin’. An’ I said I b’lieved I would too. He got purty still at that, an’ watched me fixin’ my bed. It was so dod-a’mighty cold I got me a lot o’ fir-boughs an’ piled ’em high as my head. Then I began to crawl inter the middle of ’em.

“‘Looky here, Sam,’ says Harvey, ‘I never heard of a guide crawlin’ off to sleep when the camp needed watchin’.’--‘I ain’t no guide,’ I says; ‘I’m a friend what’s a long way from home jest to ’comerdate ye.’ An’ I went in.

“Then I put my head out an’ says, frien’ly as could be: ‘You turn in too. That fire’ll burn ha’f the night, the wind’ll keep it up. An’ long about one o’clock I’ll crawl out an’ throw on some more logs. Ef you hear a noise, jest lay still, ’cause it’ll only be me astirrin’. Bears,’ I says, ‘come up sly.’

“I reckon he’s a little stubborn by nater, ’cause he wouldn’t turn in at all. I looked out after a bit an’ saw he’d took off his cap an’ tied his muffler round his head, so I ast him if he wouldn’t let me have his cap. My hat was full o’ holes an’ seemed to draw the wind. I was all right, I said, ’cept the top o’ my head was freezin’ off. He handed me his cap then, slow-like, an’ never said I was welcome, ner nothin’. But I’d made up my mind I was goin’ to overlook ever’thing, jest as you say. I had some sleep after I got the cap, an’ when I looked out ’round midnight, he was settin’ there holdin’ his gun, an’ had a big fire that he’ped warm the whole place. I slept like I was in my own bed. Oncet I woke up thinkin’ I heard Krettie a-snorin’; then I remembered where I was an’ knew it was the wind thrashin’ about.

“An’ you ought to ’a’ seen the stars a-shinin’. When they’d wink, I’d almost jump, they seemed so close an’ knowin’. I’d been thinkin’ about leavin’ Harvey up there, an’ tellin’ him to foller one o’ the branches down the mountain, an’ I thought maybe I’d put him on one that ’ud bring him out about twenty miles from home. But lookin’ at them stars, I made up my mind to stand by him an’ bring him clean in to Mis’ Harvey.

“Next mornin’ he went to the spring, but he said it was so cold he guessed he wouldn’t wash. Then he looked at hissef in a little glass he took out o’ his kit. You know he’s one o’ them reddish men that have to keep the razor goin’ ever’ day ef they keep ahead o’ ther beard, an’ we’d been out two nights. After he’d looked, he said he guessed he’d heat some water in our tin cup an’ shave. But the wind was blowin’ so aggervatin’ hard he got nettleish, an’ I said he might cut hissef even if it was a safety, an’ bears had an awful scent fer blood.

“‘We’s huntin’ bears,’ I said, ‘an’ don’t want ’em huntin’ us.’ He says, ‘You mean it well enough, Sam, but they’s nothin’ in it.’ However, it was gittin’ late, an’ he guessed he wouldn’t shave till night. He put the razor back in its little box, an’ drapped it inter his jacket pocket. But I’d clear forgot I’d seen him put it there when he was rakin’ his kit fer it that night. I told him I ’lowed he’d drapped it up by the spring that mornin’ an’ I’d climb all the way back fer it if he wanted me to.”

“Why didn’t he look in his pockets?”

“’Cause I had the jacket then, an’ I didn’t think about it. I told him when he handed it to me that he’d better look in the pockets, there might be somethin’ in ’em he wanted; an’ he said they wasn’t nothin’ there, an’ if they was, I might as well take it now as later; only he said it rougher, like men’ll talk in the woods. ‘Not a dern thing in ’em,’ he says, if you’ll excuse me, Mis’ Dolly, an’ jest as good as told me to keep it if there wuz. I found the razor after I’d got home, an’ by all rights it’s mine. But Harvey can have it if he’ll come an’ ast fer it, though he’s got another one mighty nigh as good.”

He interrupted his story to say that I needn’t be lookin’ at him like that; he never forgot Harvey was a friend of mine, and he tried to do his best by him even with “influenzy comin’ on.”

“But you didn’t have influenza, Sam.”

“You don’t know how near I come to it, though. That very mornin’ after sleepin’ in the fir-boughs, I got up sneezin’ awful an’ my backbone creepin’. In the night my ol’ hat had blowed clear away, an’ I said to Harvey I reckoned he wouldn’t be usin’ the cap an’ muffler both at oncet, an’ I’d wear whichever he didn’t want. He says: ‘That’s kind of you, Sam.’

“He had took off the muffler when he thought he was goin’ to shave, an’ the next minute his ears looked so brickle I could ’a’ knocked ’em off with a stick. So he had put it back on. I told him the cap didn’t have any ear-pieces, an’ I could stand the wind better’n he could. I said mighty few bear-hunters ever got out o’ the la’r’l and in home with anything on their heads at all; that Jed Weaver always went into the woods bareheaded, ’cause he said it cost too much to put hats an’ caps on the la’r’l; an’ Harvey says: ‘Oh, jest keep it, Sam, an’ let’s go.’ I told him we’d scrummish around the mountain toward the sun, an’ maybe I could shake off my chill. But it stuck to me, an’ after a while I said I’d have to stop an’ build a fire.

“He got frustered then, an’ said he’d come fer bear, an’ he was goin’ to have one if he had to go on by hissef. I told him I’d go with him, even if it meant pneumony. Then he got frien’ly an’ said it wasn’t goin’ to be that bad. We’d git our bear an’ go down ’fore night. An’ he was all fer goin’ inter the la’r’l.

“I went a little furder with him, an’ then I stopped all in a shiver an’ told him he must remember I didn’t have on warm clo’s like he had, though I had the same sort o’ skin; an’ I said if I drapped an’ died up there, fer him to hit Siler’s creek an’ foller it down to the settlement.