Part 8

It was mostly during my first two years on the farm that things happened. Unfamiliarity sharpened events into adventure. Later the unusual gradually flattened into matter of course. For this reason I am glad that I looked over my wild-hog claim during the first year of possession, a time when I fed on explorer’s elixir, and knew not plain bread and meat.

I can still see Sam, a clear-cut figure, swinging from an overhead bough which he had grasped just in time to save himself from the plunging, foam-scattering boar that in another second would have had his life. But the beginning of the day was calm enough. For some time I had heard talk of my claim as a fund-producing property which, if looked after as it should be, would enable me to buy out the County Bank as soon as I chose. My predecessor had imported a few Berkshires and Poland Chinas to mix with the wild breed, and the result, Len assured me, was “the best mixtry in the mountains.” Quality had been improved without unfitting the hogs for hardy life on the ridges. Acorns were abundant; sprouting chestnuts could be uprooted until late in the spring. By taking the hogs in midwinter, before the mast began to grow scant, one could find them fairly fat, and two or three weeks in the pen, with plenty of corn to crunch, would make the meat sweet and marketable. Whenever things looked expensively blue on the farm there was always some one to remind me cheerfully of my wild hogs that could be “fotched in an’ cashed quick as nothin’.”

We were having some bright, windless days in January, and Len said to me wistfully: “Ain’t this the hog-huntin’ time, though?”

I was getting close to the wall as to ways and means, so I answered: “Very well, Len. Tell Sam about it and get ready for a round-up to-morrow.”

He was delighted. “I jest been achin’ to git into the woods,” he said. “There’ll be a lot o’ young-uns to mark. ’Course you know what yer mark is, Mis’ Dolly?” I didn’t, and he apologized for my ignorance in a matter so vital. “A woman kain’t be expected to know ever’thing ’bout the hog business. Yer mark is an undercrap in the right year an’ two main smart slits in the top o’ the left. Ag Snead’s got a mark nearly like yorn, only they’s a slit in the right an’ a crap too. It’s a top slit, an’ ever’ hog that’s got the top o’ his year torn off ol’ Ag drives in fer his’n. An’ they’s mainly yorn, Mis’ Dolly.”

“But how do they get their ears torn off?”

“Dogs. We have to ketch ’em with a dog, an’ he gits ’em by the year. Sometimes a blame hog’ll leave part of his year with the dog an’ go on. I’ve hearn ol’ Ag’ll sic his dogs onto yore mark, hopin’ to tear a year off an’ claim the hog, an’ I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“That’s rascality, Len, and Mr. Snead is a deacon.”

“Law, when a man goes hog-huntin’ he puts his ’ligion in the cupboard, so it won’t git hurt while he’s out.”

“Those hogs are mine. I’m going to have a talk with neighbor Snead.”

Len was startled. “Lord-a-mercy! This here’s a country where you kain’t call a man a hog-thief an’ git home by sundown.”

“I won’t call him a thief.”

“No, I reckon you’ll jest inquire ef he’s got any o’ yore hogs in his pen.”

Noting that I duly crumpled, he became protective as usual.

“You see, Mis’ Dolly, they ain’t any way to ’proach a man on sech a subject, less’n yer carryin’ a good gun.”

“We’ll meet at Sam’s,” he told me, “round about ’fore good daylight. There’ll be pap an’ my Ben, an’ we’ll take Burl ’cause he’s got a big dog.”

Burl was a cousin of Coretta’s, staying at Sam’s and trying, with fluctuating success, to court Len’s oldest girl. “A good hog-hunt,” said Len, “will show ef he’s any account, him an’ that dog o’ hisn.”

I managed to reach Sam’s the next morning while the smoky lamp was still burning on the kitchen table. As I approached I heard voices, zestful and happy, but when I appeared in the door there was surprise, then a troubled silence.

“You needn’t been afeard I wouldn’t git ’em off early,” said Coretta. “I been up sence three o’clock, an’ Len an’ Ben come at four. We’d done breakfast, an’ was jest chowin’ till light broke.”

“I’m not hurrying you. I was only afraid that I wouldn’t be in time myself.”

“You’re not going?” all questioned at once, and plunged into talk of the cliffs that I would tumble over, the thickets I couldn’t crawl through, and the “straight-ups” I couldn’t climb. I did not doubt their concern for me, but felt that more was behind their opposition than desire for my safety. In some subterranean way they knew that crafty hints had reached me of their having now and then spirited hogs to neighborly markets, forgetting to share the proceeds with the owner; they knew too, by the same invisible channels, that the tainting insinuations had been indignantly discouraged; yet they suspected me of wanting to keep on their track. After getting up at an heroic hour to prove my full comradeship, it was depressing to run against suspicion, as cold in my confident face as the frosty air of the dawn. But I innocently urged that I was bound for the hunt, that our lives were of equal value, and I would share all risks. After some minutes of talk--genuine even as it veiled the core of discussion--the springs of good humor began to flow, doubt was put to cover, and we were on the road.

Serena was with us. She had come with Len to the meet, and I had heard him insisting on her accompanying me. “You won’t have to go fur,” he said. “She’ll turn back ’fore we git to Broke Yoke Gap.”

Granpap also was of the party. “He kain’t run,” said Len, “but he’ll he’p us more’n you’d think. He caught a big feller last year all by hisse’f, ’cept what little ol’ Bub could do.”

“All right, granpap,” I said, feeling gay and generous as the sun began to warm our mountain, “you can have all you catch to-day. I won’t take any toll from you.”

There was no answer--no thanks. Everybody looked straight into the woods, ostensibly concerned with nothing but sighting a hog; and I knew thereby that my words had been taken seriously.

II

“We ought to git Red Granny to-day,” said Sam, examining the ground where the smoking leaves had been stirred. “Here’s her consarned ol’ broke-toed track. An’ here’s a lot o’ littler tracks. She’s been in an’ tolled out some more o’ our shotes. I bet if we hurried up we’d come right on her.”

“Let’s hurry then,” I urged; for I knew about the old sow called Red Granny, that for three years had proved uncapturable. She kept her inaccessible house on the side of a rough mountain, making her way to it through a great pile of rock by a passage yet undiscovered. Though a good breeder, filling the woods with sandy-haired pigs, she also seemed able to teach them the secret of escape. Bub, who was an old dog, could hardly be made to run a red pig unless it was on his own side of the mountain.

“’Tain’t no use to trail Red Granny,” said Len. “Ol’ Bub leads the dogs, an’ he won’t run thataway. I put him on her trail onct an’ he was out all night. When he come in next day he was too ’shamed to look at me.”

“Well, let’s get somewhere,” I said, feeling the cold in spite of the sun. Then I found I had made a mistake. The first part of hog-hunting is deliberation. There was a long discussion as to the most fruitful direction.

Finally little Ross, who had followed Serena, said, “Let’s go to the sow’s oak,” and to my amazement everybody agreed. “I bet that spotted sow is there with some little pigs, an’ poppie promised me one,” said Ross.

The sow’s oak was a giant tree with a large hollow at the butt, big enough to furnish good shelter for a litter. For years it had been a favorite bedding-place. To find it we had to descend into a cove where there was a clear spring. All stopped for water, though everybody had taken a drink just before leaving Sam’s. The Highlander can go without a meal or two with no inconvenience, but he drinks water in season and out of season. After leaving the spring we passed around the curving side of a hill and came in sight of the tree.

“Sst!” said Sam. “I see her. She’s in there, an’ she’s got pigs. Don’t crowd her now. Keep the dogs back. We don’t want her to git tore, an’ her a-sucklin’ pigs. Y’all stand out here in a circle like, so she kain’t git through if she runs, and I’ll ease up behind the tree. When ye see me bounce ’round to the front to grab her leg, ever’body an’ the dogs bear right in.”

He made a wide circuit and came up behind the tree, but before he reached it Burl’s dog, Bugle, who was new at the game, gave a yelp and the sow sprang out. About a dozen tiny pigs, black-spotted and with delicate pink noses, followed her. All three of the dogs rushed forward and yapped in her face. She bristled to fight, then turned and dashed in the opposite direction, flashing by Sam and leaving him to look foolish, with a knotted rope in his hands. The dogs flew after the sow and the men followed the dogs. Little Ross began to scramble after the terrified, squealing pigs.

“Go after the one with the black spot on its year,” said Serena. “It’s the purtiest.” Ross tumbled after the one she pointed out and secured it. Serena took it into her apron. By that time not a pig was to be seen or heard. They were all under the leaves, behind logs, anywhere they could secrete their quivering bodies. In the distance we could hear the cry of the dogs and shouts of the men. Then the yelping ceased, and we heard the wild squeals of the captive. When we reached the spot the men were looking down on the struggling sow. She was tied by one hind leg, and the other end of the rope was made fast to a young tree.

“She’ll keep all right,” said granpap, examining the knots critically. “Reckon anybody’ll find her here ’fore we git back? The woods air full o’ hunters.”

“Hunters and stealers,” said Len indignantly. “But we kain’t he’p it. We got to go on.”

“She’ll drive in easy,” said Serena. “It’s that sow you brought in last year, an’ I gentled her with slop fer a month.” She put the little pig down by his mother, who became very still as he lifted a nudging nose to her. I wanted to return and find the other pigs, but was swiftly talked down.

“They’ll find the sow ef she’ll squeal loud enough,” said Sam. “They won’t run fur anyhow, an’ we’ll look ’em out as we go home.”

The men had discovered some signs which they were sure would lead to a fine bunch of shotes. “An’ shotes pay,” they said. “Anybody’ll buy a shote.”

The “signs” took us by a very rough way through a damp hollow. Serena declared it was so “blustery” she couldn’t stand it, and persuaded me to turn up the slope and walk along the ridge, leaving the men to push their way below. “They always scour that holler,” she said, “but they’ve never brought a pig out of it.” In half an hour the men came up defeated. Some pigs had been found, but they proved to be in Ag Snead’s mark.

“I’ll tell ye what let’s do,” said Len. “We’ll go to Raven Den side to find that big b’ar hog that’s tuskin’ our gentles ever’ time they go to the woods.”

“B’ar hog” was euphemistic usage, in my presence, for boar. It was humorously incorrect, being similar in sound to the abbreviation for barrow.

“I’m afraid o’ that feller,” said young Ben. “I seen him onct. He suits me where he is.”

“Let’s go fer him,” said Burl. “That sounds like a hunt.”

“I’m ready,” said Sam. “That feller’s too mean to let live. I’ve had to sew up two shotes this week that come in all cut up.”

We were moving slowly along the ridge, and little Ross, who had been running ahead, came flying back to say that he had found a hog sound asleep. We rushed forward and came upon a fine sow lying dead. Len pointed to a bullet-hole in her forehead.

“Is it ours?” I asked, for my mind was set on revenue and this was a dismal beginning. So far we had to our credit only a half-tame sow that would probably have come in of her own accord when food grew scarce--and this. Len flicked the exposed ear of the sow. “You see the undercrap,” he said. Then he pulled the other ear from under her head. “An’ there’s the two slits. It’s a ten-dollar bill you got layin’ there.”

“Ay,” said Sam, “she’s worth ten dollars more yisterday than to-day.”

“Yisterday!” said Len. “She’s shot early this mornin’. She ain’t froze yit, an’ last night would ’a’ froze fire. Whoever shot her is in the woods now, an’ he better not come shammuckin’ where I can see him. I’d have my say.”

“You ain’t goin’ to talk into a gun, Len,” said Serena. “Wha’d you promise me about this hog business?”

“Shucks, Reenie, I ain’t broke no promise yit.”

“Y’ain’t goin’ to nuther. Ol’ Ag’s got more bullets. Reckon I’m goin’ to chance comin’ on you layin’ in the woods like this here sow?”

“Why,” I asked, at last getting in my burning question, “did they shoot the poor thing and leave her here?”

“Oh, she looked slick an’ fine a hundred yards off, but when they shot her an’ come up close they seen she was goin’ to litter an’ wasn’t fit fer meat.”

“What about a stomach that can eat a hog right off the mast?” said Sam. “Ag Snead ain’t more’n ha’f human anyway.”

“’Twa’n’t Ag,” said granpap. “It ’ud take two men to git this hog in home, an’ ol’ Ag is secrety. He wouldn’t want a partner in this kind o’ work. It’s the Copp boys more’n likely.”

“There’s ol’ Aggervation now,” called Ben. We looked ahead and saw a man approaching. It was Agnashus Snead. A boy, big-limbed and nearly grown, walked beside him.

“That’s his nephew, Ted Shoals,” said Len. “’Course they done it! Now watch Ag, the ol’ devil! You’d think he was jest from prayer-meetin’.”

“Howdy, folks,” Snead called to us. He was about seventy, with cool, pink cheeks, and white hair that still kept a youthful ripple. His eyes were golden brown and young as a boy’s. I found myself introduced, and shook hands with him almost eagerly. Oh, no, he couldn’t have done it!

“Any luck?” he asked, and Len pointed to the dead hog. The old man was properly shocked. “They’s some rotten folks in this kentry,” he said, “ef a man knowed where to find ’em.”

“Right, there is,” said Len, “an’ I b’lieve I’d know ’em ef I seen ’em.” His black eyes looked kindlingly into the brown eyes of Snead. Serena pushed in. “_Your_ luck’s all right, Uncle Ag. The boys jest now found a bunch o’ yore shotes down in that holler.”

“Reckon they didn’t have no years tore off?” he asked, repaying Len’s thrust. But no fight was precipitated because he accompanied his question with the frankest of smiles. Serena had often told me that you could say anything in the mountains if you took care to say it laughing.

“No,” put in Sam, with a grin equally disarming, “but if I’s as mean as _some_ folks I’d whacked off their years ragged-like, an’ druv ’em in home.” The laugh went round. Both parties had spoken their minds. Old Ag bent over and touched the bullet-hole.

“Them Copp boys air in the woods to-day.”

We knew what he meant, but if the Copp boys should ever get him cornered not one of us could swear that he had accused them.

“Their gun makes the same kind of a hole yorn does, I reckon,” said Len, with a steady look at Snead’s rifle.

This was going too far. Snead rose up and looked about. He would be two against five, with maybe a woman to claw him from the back. A tolerant smile spread over his face. “It shore does,” he said. “I’ll tell you what, boys. I kain’t take my shotes in with jest Ted here to he’p me. S’pose I hunt with you to-day, an’ you he’p me to-morr’.”

Asking a favor was more disarming than laughter. This was a neighborly appeal, and Len was first, last, and always, a good neighbor. In two minutes we were all on our way to the haunt of the big b’ar hog, leaving the embryo feud, for a time at least, to smother under amenities.

III

Serena had slyly given me several opportunities to turn back with her. At last she openly rebelled. “Ef yer goin’ down in them rocks,” she said, “I’m goin’ to make a fire on the ridge an’ set here till ye git back, if ye ever do git back.”

“Stay if you want to,” Len told her, “an’ keep Ross to he’p ye pick up brush. Ef we roust that b’ar there’d best be nobody round that kain’t hop quick.”

The entire party gave me a look which was a plain request that I keep Serena company. I was half angered. “Come on,” I said, taking the lead along the ridge. “I hope you’ll enjoy yourself, Serena.”

They stood dubiously, then came on with a shout.

“Yer like my first wife,” said Snead, striding alongside of me. “Nothin’ could head her. You’ve heard ’bout the man that had had three wives an’ when he prayed he would say: ‘God bless Patch, an’ Piece-patch, but dern ol’ Tear-all.’ Now I say it back’ards. My first un wuz Tear-all, an’ I’d ruther have her back than any of ’em. There wuzn’t any government them days. Ever’ feller had his own still ef he wanted one, an’ tended to his own business. Governments hadn’t come inter fashion. I’d say to my wife, ‘Serry, I’d like to cut up fer a week an’ lay drunk,’ an’ she’d say: ‘Go it, Ag, I’ll ’tend to the crap.’ An’ when I got through I’d let her have her turn ef she wanted it, and she generally did. When she wuz dyin’ she says ‘Ag, you’ve been square. You’ve come as you wanted an’ gone as you wanted, an’ so’ve I, bless Jesus.’ ‘Yes, Serry,’ I says, ‘you’ve never been tied to the meat-skillet or wash-pot.’ She laffed then an’ says: ‘I reckon you knowed that string would ’a’ broke anyhow, Ag.’ When she wuz dead I wuz fool enough to think my luck wouldn’t turn, an’ I married agin in about six weeks. Lord, Lord, she cleaned an’ she cooked an’ she mended till I begged her to let up an’ go huntin’ with me. I wuz so lonesome I purty near cried, an’ all she done wuz to git down on her marr’s an’ pray fer my soul. ‘O Lord,’ she says, ‘I’ll take keer o’ his pore neglected body ef you’ll jest save his soul.’ Well, I set in then an’ made her glad to git out. I set down an’ cussed her steady fer two days. She was ready to go the first day, but said she couldn’t till she got ever’thing done. She left my clothes all fixed an’ the house like pie, an’ enough cooked to keep me fer a week, an’ me cussin’ her in a solid streak. She had the grit, but it wuz turned the wrong way fer me. It gives me the all-gonest, lonesome feeling now to think of how she worked an’ worked, an’ all I wanted wuz company. ’Twa’n’t long till she married Ham Copp an’ I reckon he suited her, fer they’re livin’ together yit. It’s her two boys what’s been so near that dead sow back yander, no matter what Len Merlin’s got in his head about it. You kain’t blame the boys, they been brought up so religious. I think a heap of religion, but you got to keep it in bounds er it’s like fire an’ water; it’ll eat ye up. The Copp boys don’t want to be et up, an’ when they gets out they make t’other way, toward the devil. I’m a deacon, an’ pay my dues, but nobody can say I treat my religion too familiar.”

Sam called us to halt, and we paused in a body to look searchingly down over the cliffs where boulders struggled brokenly and trees and saplings scrambled for distorted life.

“He’s down there, boys. I’ll take Bub an’ Bugle, an’ pap to carry the rope, an’ when we find where he is, y’all stretch ’round above us, an’ I’ll go in an’ sic up the dogs. Len, you hold Buck. He’s my dog, an’ I ain’t savin’ him, but bein’ a fox-dog he’s better fer the run, of it comes to runnin’. They’s the masterest ivy thicket ’bout a quarter furder, an’ ef we roust him out he’s liable to make fer it.”

We began the descent, and as I stumbled laboriously downward I thought of Serena sitting by her fire, no doubt singing one of the many ballads which she had learned from her grandmother, and which had probably been sung by a score of generations before her without ever losing its essence in print. I stifled a lyrical regret and clung resolutely to my commercial mood. About thirty yards from the top we scattered and took our stations as Sam directed.

“Ef he breaks out, beat the bushes an’ make a noise like the whole Cher’kee nation full of corn-juice.”

Sam then went farther down, and was beginning to peer cautiously about for the boar when Len cried out: “Hold on! There he is! At the top!”

We looked up and saw the boar above us, monstrously outlined at the top of the ridge. He was huge and black, and my startled eyes magnified him to a fearsome thing. I found out later that he was not of inordinate size. He was poking a nose that seemed several feet long over the verge of a sheer cliff. There were simultaneous howls from the three dogs. The boar’s bristles rose like black Lombardy poplars; and as he flung himself around, his tusks, whiter than the whitest cloud, seemed to circle the heavens. He shot along the ridge, Buck plunging after him.

“Foller him, fellers,” shouted Sam. “I’ll take Bub an’ Bugle an’ make fer the thicket. That’s where he’s goin’.”