CHAPTER V

THE SHEPHERD OF NOBODY’S SHEEP

Paul Waffington was a Kentuckian. He was of that old Scotch-Irish type, of good blood, honest and poor, who, combining tact and skill, have always forged their way to the front. He had been bred and born in a cabin near by the town of Hazel Green that was made famous in the story of “Jonathan and His Continent,” by Max O’Rell.

When he was but a boy, hundreds of times he had followed in the footsteps of his father,--gone out on the ridges and gathered his load of fat pine-knots, that father and son alike might have a light by which to pursue their study. Then when circumstances changed a bit, and a half opportunity at a college course was offered him, he accepted it with a will.

Even when in college he had been called “sissy” and “girlie” by many of his classmates, for the simple reason that he was compelled to pay his way with the labor of his hands. But Paul Waffington cared not a straw for such proffered titles. Therefore, with a firm jaw and a determined heart, he rolled up his sleeves each evening and went into the mountain of dirty dishes before him with confidence, believing that reward was at the end. And if, after darkness comes light and after toil comes rest, then so it ever will be, that diligence and perseverance must bring reward.

One day college life was over with Paul Waffington. There was much bustle and hurry to get away, and he was leaving with the others. Around the old hall with its ivy-covered walls they lingered as they cheered and comforted one another and said good-bye. Amid those last moments of parting a little, frail, old man pushed his way through the crowd, and taking young Waffington by the hand led him away. Out through the long hall they went together, and into the little classroom through which the young collegian had passed a thousand times before. It was dear old Professor Goff that had singled him out and led him away. Such a dear old man, reader, from whom you turned away on that other day when you yourself went away from college. The old man shut the door and took his student’s hand in his own bony palms and held it long. Then came the parting message and the benediction and then the final handshake--and the aged man tried to say good-bye, but the words were never spoken.

The real commencement of Paul Waffington’s life began when he turned away from the old man, went out and shut the door. Everyone knew that Waffington had not only won the college honors--a gold medal, but that he had won and was carrying away with him the heart of the grand old man of the college.

Since college days he had for a time pitched his tent with the “lumber jacks” of the north--there to learn the true worth of honest toil. Then followed a couple of years of “roughing it” among the sandhills of New Mexico, that taught him to look the world in the face with confidence and courage. Finally, he returns to a certain city in his own southland and there established himself--to work in the interest of the children of the Appalachian hills.

We see him now as he steps from his car with traveling-bag. Five feet nine; twenty-two years, straight, and walks a little fast for most men of his age.

Blood Camp had been but little in the mind of Paul Waffington of late. In fact, demands upon him in other directions had taxed his mind and body to their capacity. More than a year had elapsed since he was in Blood Camp, but, after all, the time had not seemed long to him. But now, as he turned in at his headquarters for a few days’ rest, Gena and the people of Blood Camp comes sharply up before him.

During the past few months he had had conversation with two or perhaps three commercial travelers who had passed through the village recently, but they could give him no information of little Gena or old Jase. He settled at his desk and began going through his mail. After dashing off his answer to the last letter of the stack of accumulated mail, he turned from the desk and settled back in his chair with a breath of relief. But no sooner done, a feeling of apparent fear or dread possessed him.

“It is a little strange, though, that Gena has never written one single word,” he at length said, as he studied the floor. “I gave her some postcards and merely asked her to drop a line now and then, that I might know that she does well. Yes, I asked Jase to write, too. How long has it been? November is twelve, and June is seventeen months and never a word! Then I sent her a little Christmas present, too. But who knows if she received it? Jase may have taken it from the post-office, torn the little silk scarf to shreds and put a match to it for all I know. Oh no, he didn’t. Jase Dillenburger is too old a man to treat a sweet girl like Gena Filson in such a manner. His own adopted daughter? Oh no, he took the package to her. She simply has been too busy with the work that her tender hands find there to write,” he finishes. Then for a full ten minutes he sat thinking it all over. “Don’t like this protracted silence, though. Something might be wrong at Blood Camp,” he murmured.

Walking to the door of his room he looked out into the street. Darkness was coming on. He sees the street-lamps flash out their first rays for the night, and watches the carbons jump and pop in the one nearest him, as the current burnt off the new tips. Lifting his eyes a little, he looked through the meshes of telephone and electric wires, and searches the stars for answer to the question that he was debating in his mind.

“Perhaps I ought to go. It’s a long way removed from Knoxville, though, is Blood Camp. A hundred and twenty by rail and forty horseback or foot.” Taking a hasty look into his pocketbook he looked up quickly and finished, “and afoot this time without a doubt.”

The telephone bell rang, and he went to the telephone with his question unsettled.

“Hello.”

“How is that?”

“Yes, sir; this is Paul Waffington.”

“I didn’t understand, Doctor.”

“Well, I am very sorry, Doctor, but I will be away.”

“Why--er--Blood Camp, Doctor.”

“Good-bye, Doctor.” He hung up the receiver, turned about and shoved both hands down deep into his trousers pockets and stared at the floor.

“Now it’s settled, I think. Doctor Gray wanted me for dinner tomorrow and I told him that I was going away--to Blood Camp, so now it’s settled. Well, my promise is out to Gena Filson anyway, so that settles it.”

On the following morning the hero of this narrative stepped from his train with an air of rest and satisfaction, with forty miles of rough mountain road lying between him and Blood Camp. The meridian rays of a July sun beat mercilessly down upon him, as the rocks threw him first to one side of the road and then to the other side. But never a faltering moment with Paul Waffington, for the inviting shadows of the Mighty Snake was his goal.

He had learned early and well that great lesson, preparation. Hence he began early in the afternoon to find lodging along the way. At first he drew up before a little brown cottage near the roadside. The little mother of the home was sick, hence our traveler must be denied. He trudged on through the dust and called at the large white house just at the forks of the road. Here, too, was sickness, coupled with the fact that the master of the house was away. Again he takes up his traveling-bag, wipes the wet dust from his brow and journeys on. It seemed to the traveler a long way to the next house. But just before turning into the gorge he saw a great farmhouse by the roadside. Fat, sleek cattle grazed in the clovers; the barns were bursting with the crops of the preceding year; the fields were waving with coming crops, and surely, thought our pilgrim, he would lodge here with ease.

“What did you say your bizness is?” asked the woman on the front porch.

“I’m a Sunday-school worker, madam. I’m on my way to Blood Camp, and am tired and sore. I certainly would be glad to abide the night with you; I have change with which to pay for my lodging and----”

“I’m mighty sorry, but we’re all sick here, an’ I guess we can’t keep ye.”

“Is not that your husband over there in the field with the horses?” he inquired, kindly.

“Yes, sir. But you needn’t ax him, fur we’re all sick here an’ I guess thet we can’t keep ye,” she finished, as she moved towards the door.

“Madam, have you any sons?” he ventured to ask at length.

“Oh, a boy. But he’s not here. He’s in Texas.”

“Well, may the good Lord bless him. And may he ever find a kindly home in which to abide the night when he falls among strangers. Good evening, madam,” and swinging his heavy hand-bag as if it were a mere trifle, with renewed determination he trudged on.

The sun was closing his great, wonderful eye in the west and darkness was fast filling the valleys and gorges. On either side of his way now appeared great clumps of wild ivy and rhododendrons. Down from the deep gorge a gentle breeze brought to his nostrils the sweet breath of wild honeysuckles and mountain roses. He quickened his steps and went forward, believing that he could continue to walk the whole night through, in the breath of the sweet flowers. Here and there he plucked a tuft of mountain moss from the trunk of a fallen tree. Now he snatched a wild cucumber blossom from its stem that brushed his face and carried it on with him.

He turned into the deep gorge in the twilight of evening, recalling what he had once been told of the attacks of the wild animals that frequent the gorge. Then, too, he had been told, that the gorge contained at times bands of cutthroats and robbers, besides not a few moonshine distilleries. Commercial travelers always made it a point to pass through the gorge in the daytime. And if, perchance, they were delayed in making the gorge in the heat of the noon-day’s sun, they lodged the night on the North Carolina side, or vice versa, in order to be safe from harm.

“But nobody would harm me, I believe,” Paul Waffington murmured as he passed on into the gorge.

Just then he made out through the twilight a cabin almost hidden by a clump of rhododendrons. He drew up before it and called out:

“Hello!”

“Oh, Lordy have mercy! Oh! You liked to scared me plumb to death, sure,” said the voice of a large, fat woman as she came running out from behind the clump of rhododendrons, holding on to her milk-pail with one hand and digging the warm milk out of her eyes with the other. She stood there working the milk out of her eyes and wiping her face, a woman of some two hundred and fifty pounds avoirdupois and proportionately tall.

“I didn’t hear you acomin’ at all. Milk spilt? Why, Lordy bless you, I don’t care nothin’ fur the milk. Jist so old Blackie didn’t knock the bottom clean outer this new milk-pail is all I care fur. An’ it’s a thousand wonders thet she didn’t knock it clean out when she heard you holler over there. You see, she ain’t used to hearn’ anybody holler in this here gorge atter night. Nobody passes this gorge much at night. Then, besides, Blackie is the skeeriest cow in this here gorge, an’ has bin ever since she wuz a calf. An’ thet’s asayin’ a right smart, too, for this gorge is nine miles long. What did you say? A stranger and want to stay all night!” She softened down to a kind motherly tone and continued, “Why, Lordy bless you, child, we’re the poorest family ’twixt here an’ Blood Camp an’ jist one room. But, child, if you think thet you can put up with our fare, the door’s open, go in. Here, Cicero, fetch a chair out here in the yard, I believe it’s more pleasanter out here. Now hurry, Cicero, an’ bild’ a gnat-smoke here in the yard fur this gentleman. Hurry now. There, stranger, take thet chair an’ rest. The smoke maybe’ll keep the gnats off. Now jist make yourself at home an’ rest. My old man and tother boy Cæsar have gone to mill, but they’ll be back directly. So jist make yourself at home and rest,” and off she went into the cabin, to bake the corn-pone on the coals for supper.