Part 6

“‘How ’m I goin’ ter hit Siler’s creek?’ says he. Not a bit o’ feelin’ fer me. Jest thinkin’ how he was goin’ to git down. I come near tellin’ him right then that we’s ten miles west o’ the bear-ground an’ I didn’t aim to go there with a man ’at couldn’t shoot a buzzard off a washtub.”

“What do you mean, Sam?”

“Why, shorely yo don’t think I’d go right where the bears wuz without a bear-dog! We’s in a bear-ground all right, like I told Harvey, only it ’us the _old_ one, the one they used years ago ’fore the people drove ’em furder back. I knowed Harvey couldn’t shoot, an’ I had to study out how to take him bear-huntin’ without gittin’ him chawed to death. ’Course the bears do stray ’round there oncet in a while, an’ we might ’a’ come on one any time.

“Right after Harvey showed me so plain how little feelin’ he had, I thought I heard a bear growl off in the thicket, an’ I told him to git ready. I said as I had no gun, I’d climb a tree an’ he could shoot if we got a sight o’ the feller. He ast me if a man could shoot a bear from a tree, an’ I told him yes, but it was mighty hard to climb one with a gun in yer hand. He said as I was feelin’ so bad maybe we’d better start down an’ he’d come back next year an’ git his bear. I told him I wasn’t goin’ to spile his trip, an’ I b’lieved I could stick it out if I only had a warm shirt an’ jacket.

“About that time I crossed a bear’s trail, shore as you live. I’d seen the swipe a bear makes too often not to know it. Harvey he leaned over an’ whispered: ‘Which way’s he goin’, Sam?’ An’ I showed him how it was goin’ down. ‘It’s below us, Harvey,’ I says, ‘an’ the track ain’t an hour old. The wind ain’t blowed it dry.’ My heart was jumpin’ like it’d break through, an’ I thought to myself, ain’t I the one fool fer bein’ here without a bear-dog an’ with a man ’at kain’t shoot.

“Harvey says sudden: ‘How can we git down from here, Sam?’ An’ I told him there was another trail furder round the mountain that ’ud take us down to Siler’s creek. It would mean a sight more walkin’, but I thought I could make it if it wasn’t fer my chill. He says, ‘All right! Strip!’ an’ took off his coat an’ shirt. I give him mine, an’ after that little talk about the pockets, I got inter his clo’s an’ we started. I knew I could find the head o’ Siler’s creek an’ could make it down by keeping in sound o’ the water. Harvey would ’a’ been a lost man if he hadn’t been with a feller that knowed the country like I did. But he never let on that he wuz owin’ me anything. Jed Weaver had told me that old trail had got so thicketty a man would have to tie his eyeballs in if he come down it an’ didn’t lose ’em. An’ that is what it wuz. When we come out at Harney’s Bald, our fingers wuz bleedin’, an’ Harvey said he guessed if that thicket was ’tween us an’ the bear there wasn’t any more danger, an’ he throwed down the gun. I had to carry it from there on, which wasn’t the bargain at all. But I shot three squirrels, an’ Harvey seemed kinder peeved ’stead o’ bein’ glad I had something fer my trouble.

“That night it was awful cold agin, fer we come out in a northy cove about sundown an’ wuz too tired to go on. Harvey said he wouldn’t make a fire if he froze to death; so I got wood an’ cooked the squirrels, an’ was jest as brotherly as I could be. After supper he fell on the ground an’ went right to sleep. I covered him with balsam, ’cause I wasn’t goin’ to bring a friend o’ yorn back sick. In the mornin’ he woke up groanin’ an’ said his bones had hurt him so he hadn’t shet his eyes all night. I got him out an’ hurried him along all day. We had gone so fur around that bear, we had to camp out an extry night. I found a purty good campin’-place, but my feet was rubbed sore. Harvey was a-limpin’. He said it was a long trip to make on firecoals. I told him to keep in good heart, that he’d be with Mis’ Harvey next day, an’ she’d pet him up nice. But I couldn’t cheer him up noway, an’ he never said nothin’ all the time I was gittin’ wood an’ cookin’ supper.

“After we’d et, him asayin’ nothin’, I pulled off my boots, an’ he says: ‘Lord, man, don’t you wear socks?’ I said not in the woods. Mutton taller is better’n socks in the woods any day. An’ I took out a little piece o’ taller I had in my pack an’ rubbed my feet with it. Then I turned ’em to the fire an’ it eased ’em up fine. I told him I was sorry I didn’t have enough taller to divide, but I only had enough left to rub my feet with in the mornin’ ’fore we started, an’ as he had socks an’ I didn’t, I needed the taller wuss’n he did. He took off his boots an’ wrapped his feet in his muffler. A baby ought ’a’ knowed better, but I didn’t say anything. I was wore out thinkin’ fer him at ever’ turn. He looked so beat though, layin’ there in my ol’ clo’s, I thinks I’ll sing a little fer him. The first day we’s a-climbin’ he kept pesterin’ me to sing, an’ me ha’f out o’ breath, luggin’ pack an’ gun. I b’lieve in suitin’ a song to the time, an’ settin’ there, with my feet a-warmin’, I got to thinkin’ how fine it was out in the wild woods like that, an’ only one night from home too; an’ ’most ’fore I knowed it I was singin’ ‘Free a Little Bird.’ It goes this a-way:

“‘I’m as free a little bird as I can be; I’ll never build my nest on the ground; I’ll build my nest in a chinkapin-tree, Where the bad boys can never tear it down.

Carry me home, sweet Kitty, carry me home! The stars they are bright, An’ as soft as candle-light; Sweet Kitty, carry me home!’

“The verses are all jest alike ’cept the tree is different ever’ time. That little bird builds its nest in nineteen trees ’fore the song is done; an’ it’s ’lowable fer you to put in more if you want to an’ can think of ’em. I thought of a lot--the mulberry, the sourwood, the weepin’ willer, an’ so many more I was nigh an’ hour gittin’ through. Harvey never said a word when I stopped; he was awake though, fer I seen him move. But I didn’t expect anything from him. The first day we’s out it wuz ‘Thank ’e, Sam,’ all the time. But after we got inter the deep woods where I was his rale dependance, I never heard it oncet.

“Next mornin’ his feet wuz so sore he couldn’t let his boots tech ’em. ‘Sam,’ he says, ‘what’ll ye take fer that taller?’ I told him I wasn’t tradin’ it; if he needed it wuss’n I did, he was welcome. I could make out ef I had a pair o’ easy socks. ‘Yer ain’t used them silk ones yit, have ye?’ I says. He took ’em out of his kit an’ handed ’em to me ’thout openin’ his mouth; though I told him over agin that he was welcome to the taller. But these furriners ain’t got much manners anyhow, if you notice ’em close.

“He said he hadn’t shet his eyes, an’ he’d nearly froze, like as if I ought to ’a’ set up an’ kept the fire goin’. I was glad enough to git him in home that mornin’; an’ when he wants a friend to go bear-huntin’ with him agin, he’ll have to look furder’n me. We ain’t quarrelled though. That needn’t worry ye a bit. When I left him yisterday he says, ‘Sam, yer a ’tellergent feller,’ an’ he stuck out his hand.”

“You took it, Sam?”

“Oh, ay, I took it. But,” he added--for in those days in Unakasia every man was his own Shakespeare--“I knew he was jest aflowerin’ me.”

V

EVVIE: SOMEWHAT MARRIED

I

The Kanes were a deserving family, tainted with inarticulate ambition. I was glad to have them as rather distant neighbors instead of “share-croppers.” Evvie, the oldest child, possessed beauty of the appealing sort that stirs even the hurried passer-by with a feeling of responsibility. As a tenant’s daughter she would have troubled my sleep. Her mother was a Merlin and usually stopped to see me when on her way to visit some member of the clan. “Hypnotic,” though an intolerably cheapened word, must be used in describing the effect that my typewriter seemed to have on Mrs. Kane. I did not understand this until the day that she brought Evvie with her.

“She hain’t strong, Evvie. I kain’t git her to stay with a hoe long ’nough fer me to go in an’ git the dinner. I say to her, ‘Evvie, you take my place an’ let me go in,’ an’ she’ll try fer a bit, but her poppie’ll see her drappin’ back an’ gittin’ her breath hard, an’ he’ll say, ‘You run ’long now, Evvie, an’ he’p yer mother,’ an’ in she’ll come. So I’ve got in the way o’ lettin’ her git the dinner by herse’f an’ I stay with the hoe.”

“But she can’t be more than ten,” I said.

“She’s twelve, an’ that’s nigh to a woman. Cleve Saunders kain’t pass our place now ’thout peekin’ fer Evvie.”

I expected Evvie to drop her head or wriggle behind a chair; but her chiselled chin was high, and her eyes darkened as easily as twilight water. She was the traditional woman accepting her rôle.

Mrs. Kane’s glance swerved again to the typewriter, and her heart tumbled out as she said: “I been thinkin’ maybe you could learn Evvie to write on that.”

“If she is so much help to you,” I answered, snatching at the first defense, “why not keep her at home until she is married?”

“That’s jest the trouble--her marryin’. She’ll disapp’int any boy ’round here. They all expect a woman to take a hand in makin’ the livin’, through crap-time anyway. An’ Evvie kain’t hold out. If she could learn to work on _that_, an’ git a job in town, like as not some boy out there ’ud take a notion to her, an’ town boys don’t want their wives to work. ’Tain’t expected of ’em to do more’n the cookin’ an’ housework an’ sewin’, an’ that ’ud be easy for Evvie.”

Evvie had stepped into the yard. It was a habit with her, I found, to vanish as if for charming asides with herself and to reappear with no sign of absence upon her. I reminded her mother that there might be children to care for in addition to the occupations mentioned.

“’Course there would, but she’d have _them_ anywheres, an’ she’d better have ’em where life’s easier’n it is here.”

“No doubt. What is her school grade?”

“She’s got to the fourth reader. But she ain’t peart in her books, though she’s so smart-lookin’.”

Three years glowed in respite, and my voice warmed in reply.

“Bring her to me when she finishes the seventh grade, and I’ll see.”

The mother’s face grew long. “She ain’t fitten’ fer school,” she said. “She’s had to quit, ’count o’ that wheezin’ ’at ketches her when she climbs up the mountain. Her poppie had to meet her half-way down ever’ day an’ carry her up on his back. She’s too big fer that now, an’ he says he reckons she knows enough. He’s awful proud o’ Evvie. An’ she’s as smart as Annie Dills who learned to write on one o’ them things an’s makin’ twelve dollars a week in Asheville.”

I held out that skill on the machine would be useless without a little schooling behind it. Evvie, who had shown no interest in her future, revealed no disappointment. She was a flower and had implicit faith in the sun. But there was a touch of desperation in Mrs. Kane’s voice as she took her leave. I tried to believe with Evvie in the reliability of sunshine.

A year later Evvie was “talkin’ to” Cleve Saunders. He was a good boy who had here and there learned the carpenter’s trade. Occasionally he would go to Asheville to work on a job, and then a weekly letter would come to Evvie. I approved of Cleve, but Evvie was only thirteen, and though vividly and perfectly moulded as a woman, she was small for her years. I protested to Mrs. Kane.

“I ain’t goin’ to let her git married ’fore she’s fifteen,” the mother assured me. “Not if I can he’p it. Ef she had some work to keep her mind on----”

“I’ve a friend,” I said, as I stepped between Mrs. Kane and my typewriter, “who would like a helper with her children. It would be a good home for Evvie and she would have nothing to do but play.”

“You mean anybody’d pay her jest fer playin’?”

“With children. And Evvie is fine with her little brothers and sisters.” (I’ll _make_ Sue Waters take her, said I to myself.)

“Where’d the place be?”

“It’s on a big farm near Knoxville.”

“It’ll cost a heap to go, an’ we ain’t got nary calf we can sell now.”

“My friend will send the money for her fare, and Evvie can pay it back if she stays.”

Mrs. Kane, thin and worn, threw up her head with almost as fine an air as Evvie herself.

“Ef she don’t stay, I’ll pay it back ef it takes ever’ egg fer a year,” she said.

We thought it settled; but before I could sufficiently browbeat Sue Waters, Evvie’s mother came to me with a face grayer and more pinched than ever.

“I reckon,” she said, “Evvie kain’t go till next year. I shore thought I was through with babies, but there’s another acomin’, an’ Evvie’s all the he’p I’ve got.”

Now, during preparations for Evvie’s setting forth, I had seen more of her than usual, and had detected signs of a quick temper that gave me uneasy visions of her amid the Waters brood. Also I feared that her ideas of _fraternité et égalité_, which were as natural to her as the ground under her feet, might give some trouble. If little Margaret Waters should receive a piano for her birthday, Evvie would expect the same or “just as good.” Sue Waters, having taken her degree in the right subjects, would of course comprehend, but could hardly supply the piano. My relief was almost as deep as my concern when Mrs. Kane made her joyless announcement.

“Perhaps it is better to wait,” said I. “Evvie will be older and larger by a year.”

“I dunno as that’s better,” said the mother. “She’s a woman to the bone, an’ a year’ll seem a long time.”

Before the year was half out I left the mountains and was gone for several months. As soon as conditions in the Kane home permitted, I arranged by correspondence for Evvie’s going away. She was to write to Mrs. Waters when she was ready, and the money for her fare would be sent to her. As the train taking me home pulled into the village, I thought of Evvie, supposing her to be with Mrs. Waters, and I felt that I had helped to rob the hills of a flower that should belong to them utterly.

A woman sharing my seat had been giving me the news. I did not hear much of it, but finally caught the words “An’ Evvie got married.”

I jumped unmannerly, as if I would snatch the child to dry land. Then I made my conscience comfortable.

“Cleve will take good care of her,” I said.

“’Tain’t Cleve,” replied the woman. “It’s that young feller from Mossy Creek--Judd Mason.”

II

I had heard of him: a mountain buck; very big, very good-looking. He never worked except to make a little corn that he could turn into whiskey. As soon as I saw Evvie I asked her how she had happened to marry Judd.

“I was goin’ to the post-office,” she said, “with a letter to Mis’ Waters, tellin’ her to send the money an’ I’d come right on, when I met Judd an’ he walked along the road with me an’ begged me not to send the letter. He said I’d find it hard out there with strange folks who wouldn’t keer nothin’ fer me, an’ I’d better let him look after me right. I was kinder afraid to go so fur from home, an’ Judd--he talked good.”

“Where was Cleve?” I asked.

“He was over in Asheville workin’. He was goin’ to meet me an’ put me on the Knoxville train. He lost his job, goin’ to the train fer a week. I wrote to tell him I wasn’t comin’, but Judd lost the letter an’ forgot to tell me about it. Cleve got another job though. Anybody’ll give Cleve work.”

“And Judd has been as good as his talk, I suppose?”

Evvie swung her head to one side as if she forbade it to droop.

“It’ll be all right soon as we git to ourse’vs. We’re livin’ with poppie an’ mommie now, an’ they’s so many young-uns at home Judd gits pouty sometimes. I kain’t fix good things to eat where they’s so many, an’ Judd’ll leave the table when he don’t like what’s on it.”

Notwithstanding Evvie’s hopes, it was nearly a year before they got to “therse’vs.” Her parents, with a home already overflowing with small, unprofitable humanity, would have sheltered the young pair and their expected baby indefinitely and without a murmur, preferring to break their already bowed backs than breach the highland custom of welcome for all; but Judd was growing restless for his old occupation, and Evvie wanted her baby to be born in her own home.

So she said; but I knew that she was frightened, and would have chosen to stay with her mother if she could have given up the hopes she had built on getting Judd to herself.

Mrs. Kane, with her heart breaking over Evvie, took what relief she could from the exodus.

“I could stand Judd,” she told me, “ef it wasn’t fer his poutin’. The Merlins don’t pout. We git mad and blow off, and that’s all of it. Judd’ll hang on an’ pout till my bones git sore. I was gittin’ so edgy it’s jest as well they’re gone.”

I went once to see Evvie after she had moved. There was a trail down the western side of the ridge on which I lived that would bring me to Judd’s cabin at the end of four miles; and there was a wagon-road down the eastern side which would take me eleven miles around the foot of the ridge. I chose the trail and went down alone.

On the ridge top the sun had seemed to be of eternal brightness; but I descended strangely into an unlit world. The intervale below me was much narrower than the usual valley where a settlement lies; and it was almost cut in halves by a huge spur that, at its foot, was bounded on either side by a stream of water. The two streams, Nighthawk Branch and Mossy Creek, united at the toe of the spur. I took the trail up Mossy Creek, as I had been told to do, and walked along in sound of the water, but getting no glimpse of it through the smothering laurel. It was the first time that water running behind green leaves had left me untouched by a mysterious joy; the first time that I had ever thought of the laurel as sombre. Its dark radiance seemed like a challenge from Nature ready to spring and regain an inimical kingdom. I was half in sympathy with the Highlander who regarded it merely as a thing to fight or let contemptuously alone. My old admiration for the Greeks came rushing back. What a redoubtable imagination it was that, in the credulous youth and fear-time of the world, could draw all terror from the forest and people it with creatures of play and light!

The trail led me into a cove, away from the quavering incantation of the water, but the laurel went darkly with me, heavily mingled with kalmia that choked the trees and wrenched at their life with its curling arms.

“The shack’s on northy land,” Mrs. Kane had said to me, “an’ the la’r’l is so blustery it ’ud tangle a wild hog.”

I knew why the original settler had chosen such a spot, in spite of his aversion to “thicketty patches.” In the stifling coves it would take a most resolute official to find a hidden “still.” This made the place equally desirable in the eyes of the latest tenant, Judd. I had known Evvie only on sunny hilltops, and I wondered what “living under the mountain,” as the natives put it, had done to her spirit. I recalled Mrs. Kane’s remark after a first visit to Evvie. “Seemed like I had to keep wipin’ at the shadders all the time I’s there.” Evvie must be very tired, I thought, of wiping at the shadows.

The trees rose more freely and I came to a clearing. On a hill opposite me, which faced the east, was a cornfield, two or three acres in size. This, thanks to a low gap in the near-by ridge, received a few hours of morning sunlight. In the hollow below stood the shack where Evvie lived. I found her in bed with one of Judd’s sisters in sullen attendance.

“She’s in bed ’bout ever’ other day,” the sister said, “an’ Judd’s always havin’ to come over the branch fer one of us to wait on her.”

“I can git up to-morr’ sure,” said Evvie, but the faint remark only sent her attendant’s nose a little higher.

Evvie was strange to see. Her eyes, dark and burning, clung devouringly to a face that had already lost all flesh.

“Where is Judd?” I asked.

The sister was silent, but Evvie flushed and said he had gone to try to kill her a squirrel. “I ain’t eat nothin’ all day,” she said. “I been thinkin’ ’bout the devil tryin’ to ketch Amos Britton one night last week.”

I thought her delirious, but her companion gloatingly explained that the devil had indeed made an effort to capture Amos alive.

“It’s ’cause he killed Wes Baxter in a fight a year ago, an’ ain’t never said he was sorry. He went huntin’ with Jim Webster Thursday night, an’ something took after ’em, they couldn’t tell what. Jim got away an’ run home, but Amos got behind a tree to shoot it, an’ it knocked his gun down an’ run him round an’ round the tree fer hours. Then all at onct daylight was comin’ in, an’ the thing wa’n’t there. Amos says it run on two feet, near as he could make out, an’ kep’ flappin’ a tail. He’s so skeered he ain’t been out of his house sence he got home.”