The Shepherd of the Hills
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Harold Bell Wright >> The Shepherd of the Hills
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16 Produced by Jim Weiler and Robert Rowe
THE SHEPHERD OF THE HILLS
BY HAROLD BELL WRIGHT
TO FRANCES, MY WIFE
IN MEMORY OF THAT BEAUTIFUL SUMMER
IN THE OZARK HILLS, WHEN, SO OFTEN,
WE FOLLOWED THE OLD TRAIL AROUND
THE RISE OF MUTTON HOLLOW--THE TRAIL
THAT IS NOBODY KNOWS HOW OLD--AND FROM
SAMMY'S LOOKOUT WATCHED THE
DAY GO OVER THE WESTERN RIDGES.
"That all with one consent praise new-born gawds,
Tho they are made and moulded of things past,
And give to dust that is a little gilt
More laud than gilt o'er-dusted."
TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. ACT 3; SC. 3.
CHAPTER I.
THE STRANGER.
It was corn-planting time, when the stranger followed the Old
Trail into the Mutton Hollow neighborhood.
All day a fine rain had fallen steadily, and the mists hung heavy
over the valley. The lower hills were wrapped as in a winding
sheet; dank and cold. The trees were dripping with moisture. The
stranger looked tired and wet.
By his dress, the man was from the world beyond the ridges, and
his carefully tailored clothing looked strangely out of place in
the mountain wilderness. His form stooped a little in the
shoulders, perhaps with weariness, but he carried himself with the
unconscious air of one long used to a position of conspicuous
power and influence; and, while his well-kept hair and beard were
strongly touched with white, the brown, clear lighted eyes, that
looked from under their shaggy brows, told of an intellect
unclouded by the shadows of many years. It was a face marked
deeply by pride; pride of birth, of intellect, of culture; the
face of a scholar and poet; but it was more--it was the
countenance of one fairly staggering under a burden of
disappointment and grief.
As the stranger walked, he looked searchingly into the mists on
every hand, and paused frequently as if questioning the proper
course. Suddenly he stepped quickly forward. His ear had caught
the sharp ring of a horse's shoe on a flint rock somewhere in the
mists on the mountain side above. It was Jed Holland coming down
the trail with a week's supply of corn meal in a sack across his
horse's back.
As the figure of the traveler emerged from the mists, the native
checked his horse to greet the newcomer with the customary
salutation of the backwoods, "Howdy."
The man returned Jed's greeting cordially, and, resting his
satchel on a rock beside the narrow path, added, "I am very glad
to meet you. I fear that I am lost."
The voice was marvelously pure, deep, and musical, and, like the
brown eyes, betrayed the real strength of the man, denied by his
gray hair and bent form. The tones were as different from the high
keyed, slurring speech of the backwoods, as the gentleman himself
was unlike any man Jed had ever met. The boy looked at the speaker
in wide-eyed wonder; he had a queer feeling that he was in the
presence of a superior being.
Throwing one thin leg over the old mare's neck, and waving a long
arm up the hill and to the left, Jed drawled, "That thar's Dewey
Bal'; down yonder's Mutton Holler." Then turning a little to the
right and pointing into the mist with the other hand, he
continued, "Compton Ridge is over thar. Whar was you tryin' to git
to, Mister?"
"Where am I trying to get to?" As the man repeated Jed's question,
he drew his hand wearily across his brow; "I--I--it doesn't much
matter, boy. I suppose I must find some place where I can stay to-
night. Do you live near here?"
"Nope," Jed answered, "Hit's a right smart piece to whar I live.
This here's grindin' day, an' I've been t' mill over on Fall
Creek; the Matthews mill hit is. Hit'll be plumb dark 'gin I git
home. I 'lowed you was a stranger in these parts soon 's I ketched
sight of you. What might YER name be, Mister?"
The other, looking back over the way he had come, seemed not to
hear Jed's question, and the native continued, "Mine's Holland.
Pap an' Mam they come from Tennessee. Pap he's down in th' back
now, an' ain't right peart, but he'll be 'round in a little, I
reckon. Preachin' Bill he 'lows hit's good fer a feller t' be down
in th' back onct in a while; says if hit warn't fer that we'd git
to standin' so durned proud an' straight we'd go plumb over
backwards."
A bitter smile crossed the face of the older man. He evidently
applied the native's philosophy in a way unguessed by Jed. "Very
true, very true, indeed," he mused. Then he turned to Jed, and
asked, "Is there a house near here?"
"Jim Lane lives up the trail 'bout half a quarter. Ever hear tell
o' Jim?"
"No, I have never been in these mountains before."
"I 'lowed maybe you'd heard tell o' Jim or Sammy. There's them
that 'lows Jim knows a heap more 'bout old man Dewey's cave than
he lets on; his place bein' so nigh. Reckon you know 'bout Colonel
Dewey, him th' Bal' up thar's named fer? Maybe you come t' look
fer the big mine they say's in th' cave? I'll hep you hunt hit, if
you want me to, Mister."
"No," said the other, "I am not looking for mines of lead or zinc;
there is greater wealth in these hills and forests, young man."
"Law, you don't say! Jim Wilson allus 'lowed thar must be gold in
these here mountains, 'cause they're so dad burned rough. Lemme
hep you, Mister. I'd like mighty well t' git some clothes like
them."
"I do not speak of gold, my boy," the stranger answered kindly.
"But I must not keep you longer, or darkness will overtake us. Do
you think this Mr. Lane would entertain me?"
Jed pushed a hand up under his tattered old hat, and scratched
awhile before he answered, "Don't know 'bout th' entertainin',
Mister, but 'most anybody would take you in." He turned and looked
thoughtfully up the trail. "I don't guess Jim's to home though;
'cause I see'd Sammy a fixin' t' go over t' th' Matthews's when I
come past. You know the Matthews's, I reckon?"
There was a hint of impatience now in the deep voice. "No, I told
you that I had never been in these mountains before. Will Mr.
Matthews keep me, do you think?"
Jed, who was still looking up the trail, suddenly leaned forward,
and, pointing into the timber to the left of the path, said in an
exciting whisper, "Look at that, Mister; yonder thar by that big
rock."
The stranger, looking, thought he saw a form, weird and ghost-like
in the mist, flitting from tree to tree, but, even as he looked,
it vanished among the hundreds of fantastic shapes in the gray
forest. "What is it?" he asked.
The native shook his head. "Durned if I know, Mister. You can't
tell. There's mighty strange things stirrin' on this here
mountain, an' in the Holler down yonder. Say, Mister, did you ever
see a hant?"
The gentleman did not understand.
"A hant, a ghost, some calls 'em," explained Jed. "Bud Wilson he
sure seed old Matt's--"
The other interrupted. "Really, young man, I must go. It is
already late, and you know I have yet to find a place to stay for
the night."
"Law, that's alright, Mister!" replied Jed. "Ain't no call t'
worry. Stay anywhere. Whar do you live when you're to home?"
Again Jed's question was ignored. "You think then that Mr.
Matthews will keep me?"
"Law, yes! They'll take anybody in. I know they're to home 'cause
they was a fixin' t' leave the mill when I left 'bout an hour ago.
Was the river up much when you come acrost?" As the native spoke
he was still peering uneasily into the woods.
"I did not cross the river. How far is it to this Matthews place,
and how do I go?"
"Jest foller this Old Trail. Hit'll take you right thar. Good road
all th' way. 'Bout three mile, I'd say. Did you come from
Springfield or St. Louis, maybe?"
The man lifted his satchel from the rock as he answered: "No, I do
not live in either Springfield or St. Louis. Thank you, very much,
for your assistance. I will go on, now, for I must hurry, or night
will overtake me, and I shall not be able to find the path."
"Oh, hit's a heap lighter when you git up on th' hill 'bove th'
fog," said Jed, lowering his leg from the horse's neck, and
settling the meal sack, preparatory to moving. "But I'd a heap
rather hit was you than me a goin' up on Dewey t'night." He was
still looking up the trail. "Reckon you must be from Kansas City
or Chicago? I heard tell they're mighty big towns."
The stranger's only answer was a curt "Good-by," as his form
vanished in the mist.
Jed turned and dug his heels vigorously in the old mare's flanks,
as he ejaculated softly, "Well, I'll be dod durned! Must be from
New York, sure!"
Slowly the old man toiled up the mountain; up from the mists of
the lower ground to the ridge above; and, as he climbed, unseen by
him, a shadowy form flitted from tree to tree in the dim, dripping
forest.
As the stranger came in sight of the Lane cabin, a young woman on
a brown pony rode out of the gate and up the trail before him; and
when the man reached the open ground on the mountain above, and
rounded the shoulder of the hill, he saw the pony, far ahead,
loping easily along the little path. A moment he watched, and
horse and rider passed from sight.
The clouds were drifting far away. The western sky was clear with
the sun still above the hills. In an old tree that leaned far out
over the valley, a crow shook the wet from his plumage and dried
himself in the warm light; while far below the mists rolled, and
on the surface of that gray sea, the traveler saw a company of
buzzards, wheeling and circling above some dead thing hidden in
its depth.
Wearily the man followed the Old Trail toward the Matthews place,
and always, as he went, in the edge of the gloomy forest, flitted
that shadowy form.
CHAPTER II.
SAMMY LANE.
Preachin' Bill, says, "Hit's a plumb shame there ain't more men in
th' world built like old man Matthews and that thar boy o' his'n.
Men like them ought t' be as common as th' other kind, an' would
be too if folks cared half as much 'bout breeding folks as they do
'bout raising hogs an' horses."
Mr. Matthews was a giant. Fully six feet four inches in height,
with big bones, broad shoulders, and mighty muscles. At log
rollings and chopping bees, in the field or at the mill, or in any
of the games in which the backwoodsman tries his strength, no one
had ever successfully contested his place as the strongest man in
the hills. And still, throughout the country side, the old folks
tell with pride tales of the marvelous feats of strength performed
in the days when "Old Matt" was young.
Of the son, "Young Matt," the people called him, it is enough to
say that he seemed made of the same metal and cast in the same
mold as the father; a mighty frame, softened yet by young
manhood's grace; a powerful neck and well poised head with wavy
red-brown hair; and blue eyes that had in them the calm of summer
skies or the glint of battle steel. It was a countenance fearless
and frank, but gentle and kind, and the eyes were honest eyes.
Anyone meeting the pair, as they walked with the long swinging
stride of the mountaineer up the steep mill road that gray
afternoon, would have turned for a second look; such men are
seldom seen.
When they reached the big log house that looks down upon the
Hollow, the boy went at once with his axe to the woodpile, while
the older man busied himself with the milking and other chores
about the barn.
Young Matt had not been chopping long when he heard, coming up the
hill, the sound of a horse's feet on the Old Trail. The horse
stopped at the house and a voice, that stirred the blood in the
young man's veins, called, "Howdy, Aunt Mollie."
Mrs. Matthews appeared in the doorway; by her frank countenance
and kindly look anyone would have known her at a glance as the
boy's mother. "Land sakes, if it ain't Sammy Lane! How are you,
honey?"
"I am alright," answered the voice; "I've come over t' stop with
you to-night; Dad's away again; Mandy Ford staid with me last
night, but she had to go home this evenin'." The big fellow at the
woodpile drove his axe deeper into the log.
"It's about time you was a comin' over," replied the woman in the
doorway; "I was a tellin' the menfolks this mornin' that you
hadn't been nigh the whole blessed week. Mr. Matthews 'lowed maybe
you was sick."
The other returned with a gay laugh, "I was never sick a minute in
my life that anybody ever heard tell. I'm powerful hungry, though.
You'd better put in another pan of corn bread." She turned her
pony's head toward the barn.
"Seems like you are always hungry," laughed the older woman, in
return. "Well just go on out to the barn, and the men will take
your horse; then come right in and I'll mighty soon have something
to fill you up."
Operations at the woodpile suddenly ceased and Young Matt was
first at the barn-yard gate.
Miss Sammy Lane was one of those rare young women whose appearance
is not to be described. One can, of course, put it down that she
was tall; beautifully tall, with the trimness of a young pine,
deep bosomed, with limbs full-rounded, fairly tingling with the
life and strength of perfect womanhood; and it may be said that
her face was a face to go with one through the years, and to live
still in one's dreams when the sap of life is gone, and, withered
and old, one sits shaking before the fire; a generous, loving
mouth, red lipped, full arched, with the corners tucked in and
perfect teeth between; a womanly chin and nose, with character
enough to save them from being pretty; hair dark, showing a touch
of gold with umber in the shadows; a brow, full broad, set over
brown eyes that had never been taught to hide behind their fringed
veils, but looked always square out at you with a healthy look of
good comradeship, a gleam of mirth, or a sudden, wide, questioning
gaze that revealed depth of soul within.
But what is the use? When all this is written, those who knew
Sammy will say, "'Tis but a poor picture, for she is something
more than all this." Uncle Ike, the postmaster at the Forks, did
it much better when he said to "Preachin' Bill," the night of the
"Doin's" at the Cove School, "Ba thundas! That gal o' Jim Lane's
jest plumb fills th' whole house. WHAT! An' when she comes a
ridin' up t' th' office on that brown pony o' hern, I'll be dad
burned if she don't pretty nigh fill th' whole out doors, ba
thundas! What!" And the little shrivelled up old hillsman, who
keeps the ferry, removed his cob pipe long enough to reply, with
all the emphasis possible to his squeaky voice, "She sure do, Ike.
She sure do. I've often thought hit didn't look jest fair fer God
'lmighty t' make sech a woman 'thout ary man t' match her. Makes
me feel plumb 'shamed o' myself t' stand 'round in th' same county
with her. Hit sure do, Ike."
Greeting the girl the young man opened the gate for her to pass.
"I've been a lookin' for you over," said Sammy, a teasing light in
her eyes. "Didn't you know that Mandy was stoppin' with me? She's
been a dyin' to see you."
"I'm mighty sorry," he replied, fastening the gate and coming to
the pony's side. "Why didn't you tell me before? I reckon she'll
get over it alright, though," he added with a smile, as he raised
his arms to assist the girl to dismount.
The teasing light vanished as the young woman placed her hands on
the powerful shoulders of the giant, and as she felt the play of
the swelling muscles that swung her to the ground so easily, her
face flushed with admiration. For the fraction of a minute she
stood facing him, her hands still on his arms, her lips parted as
if to speak; then she turned quickly away, and without a word
walked toward the house, while the boy, pretending to busy himself
with the pony's bridle, watched her as she went.
When the girl was gone, the big fellow led the horse away to the
stable, where he crossed his arms upon the saddle and hid his face
from the light. Mr. Matthews coming quietly to the door a few
minutes later saw the boy standing there, and the rugged face of
the big mountaineer softened at the sight. Quietly he withdrew to
the other side of the barn, to return later when the saddle and
bridle had been removed, and the young man stood stroking the
pony, as the little horse munched his generous feed of corn.
The elder man laid his hand on the broad shoulder of the lad so
like him, and looked full into the clear eyes. "Is it alright,
son?" he asked gruffly; and the boy answered, as he returned his
father's look, "It's alright, Dad."
Then let's go to the house; Mother called supper some time ago."
Just as the little company were seating themselves at the table,
the dog in the yard barked loudly. Young Matt went to the door.
The stranger, whom Jed had met on the Old Trail, stood at the
gate.
CHAPTER III.
THE VOICE FROM OUT THE MISTS.
While Young Matt was gone to the corral in the valley to see that
the sheep were safely folded for the night, and the two women were
busy in the house with their after-supper work, Mr. Matthews and
his guest sat on the front porch.
"My name is Howitt, Daniel Howitt," the man said in answer to the
host's question. But, as he spoke, there was in his manner a touch
of embarrassment, and he continued quickly as if to prevent
further question, "You have two remarkable children, sir; that boy
is the finest specimen of manhood I have ever seen, and the girl
is remarkable--remarkable, sir. You will pardon me, I am sure, but
I am an enthusiastic lover of my kind, and I certainly have never
seen such a pair."
The grim face of the elder Matthews showed both pleasure and
amusement. "You're mistaken, Mister; the boy's mine alright, an'
he's all that you say, an' more, I reckon. I doubt if there's a
man in the hills can match him to-day; not excepting Wash Gibbs;
an' he's a mighty good boy, too. But the girl is a daughter of a
neighbor, and no kin at all."
"Indeed!" exclaimed the other, "you have only one child then?"
The amused smile left the face of the old mountaineer, as he
answered slowly, "There was six boys, sir; this one, Grant, is the
youngest. The others lie over there." He pointed with his pipe to
where a clump of pines, not far from the house, showed dark and
tall, against the last red glow in the sky.
The stranger glanced at the big man's face in quick sympathy. "I
had only two; a boy and a girl," he said softly. "The girl and her
mother have been gone these twenty years. The boy grew to be a
man, and now he has left me." The deep voice faltered. "Pardon me,
sir, for speaking of this, but my lad was so like your boy there.
He was all I had, and now--now--I am very lonely, sir."
There is a bond of fellowship in sorrow that knows no
conventionalities. As the two men sat in the hush of the coming
night, their faces turned toward the somber group of trees, they
felt strongly drawn to one another.
The mountaineer's companion spoke again half to himself; "I wish
that my dear ones had a resting place like that. In the crowded
city cemetery the ground is always shaken by the tramping of
funeral professions." He buried his face in his hands.
For some time the stranger sat thus, while his host spoke no word.
Then lifting his head, the man looked away over the ridges just
touched with the lingering light, and the valley below wrapped in
the shadowy mists. "I came away from it all because they said I
must, and because I was hungry for this." He waved his hand toward
the glowing sky and the forest clad hills. "This is good for me;
it somehow seems to help me know how big God is. One could find
peace here--surely, sir, one could find it here--peace and
strength."
The mountaineer puffed hard at his pipe for a while, then said
gruffly, "Seems that way, Mister, to them that don't know. But
many's the time I've wished to God I'd never seen these here
Ozarks. I used to feel like you do, but I can't no more. They
'mind me now of him that blackened my life; he used to take on
powerful about the beauty of the country and all the time he was a
turnin' it into a hell for them that had to stay here after he was
gone."
As he spoke, anger and hatred grew dark in the giant's face, and
the stranger saw the big hands clench and the huge frame grow
tense with passion. Then, as if striving to be not ungracious, the
woodsman said in a somewhat softer tone, "You can't see much of
it, this evening, though, 'count of the mists. It'll fair up by
morning, I reckon. You can see a long way from here, of a clear
day, Mister."
"Yes, indeed," replied Mr. Howitt, in an odd tone. "One could see
far from here, I am sure. We, who live in the cities, see but a
little farther than across the street. We spend our days looking
at the work of our own and our neighbors' hands. Small wonder our
lives have so little of God in them, when we come in touch with so
little that God has made."
"You live in the city, then, when you are at home?" asked Mr.
Matthews, looking curiously at his guest.
"I did, when I had a home; I cannot say that I live anywhere now."
Old Matt leaned forward in his chair as if to speak again; then
paused; someone was coming up the hill; and soon they
distinguished the stalwart form of the son. Sammy coming from the
house with an empty bucket met the young man at the gate, and the
two went toward the spring together.
In silence the men on the porch watched the moon as she slowly
pushed her way up through the leafy screen on the mountain wall.
Higher and higher she climbed until her rays fell into the valley
below, and the drifting mists from ridge to ridge became a sea of
ghostly light. It was a weird scene, almost supernatural in its
beauty.
Then from down at the spring a young girl's laugh rose clearly,
and the big mountaineer said in a low tone, "Mr. Howitt, you've
got education; it's easy to see that; I've always wanted to ask
somebody like you, do you believe in hants? Do you reckon folks
ever come back once they're dead and gone?"
The man from the city saw that his big host was terribly in
earnest, and answered quietly, "No, I do not believe in such
things, Mr. Matthews; but if it should be true, I do not see why
we should fear the dead."
The other shook his head; "I don't know--I don't know, sir; I
always said I didn't believe, but some things is mighty queer." He
seemed to be shaping his thought for further speech, when again
the girl's laugh rang clear along the mountain side. The young
people were returning from the spring.
The mountaineer relighted his pipe, while Young Matt and Sammy
seated themselves on the step, and Mrs. Matthews coming from the
house joined the group.
"We've just naturally got to find somebody to stay with them
sheep, Dad," said the son; "there ain't nobody there to-night, and
as near as I can make out there's three ewes and their lambs
missing. There ain't a bit of use in us trying to depend on Pete."
"I'll ride over on Bear Creek to-morrow, and see if I can get that
fellow Buck told us about," returned the father.
"You find it hard to get help on the ranch?" inquired the
stranger.
"Yes, sir, we do," answered Old Matt. "We had a good 'nough man
'till about a month ago; since then we've been gettin' along the
best we could. But with some a stayin' out on the range, an' not
comin' in, an' the wolves a gettin' into the corral at night,
we'll lose mighty nigh all the profits this year. The worst of it
is, there ain't much show to get a man; unless that one over on
Bear Creek will come. I reckon, though, he'll be like the rest."
He sat staring gloomily into the night.
"Is the work so difficult?" Mr. Howitt asked.
"Difficult, no; there ain't nothing to do but tendin' to the
sheep. The man has to stay at the ranch of nights, though."
Mr. Howitt was wondering what staying at the ranch nights could
have to do with the difficulty, when, up from the valley below,
from out the darkness and the mists, came a strange sound; a sound
as if someone were singing a song without words. So wild and weird
was the melody; so passionately sweet the voice, it seemed
impossible that the music should come from human lips. It was more
as though some genie of the forest-clad hills wandered through the
mists, singing as he went with the joy of his possessions.
Mrs. Matthews came close to her husband's side, and placed her
hand upon his shoulder as he half rose from his chair, his pipe
fallen to the floor. Young Matt rose to his feet and moved closer
to the girl, who was also standing. The stranger alone kept his
seat and he noted the agitation of the others in wonder.
For some moments the sound continued, now soft and low, with the
sweet sadness of the wind in the pines; then clear and ringing, it
echoed and reechoed along the mountain; now pleadings, as though a
soul in darkness prayed a gleam of light; again rising, swelling
exultingly, as in glad triumph, only to die away once more to that
moaning wail, seeming at last to lose itself in the mists.
Slowly Old Matt sank back into his seat and the stranger heard him
mutter, "Poor boy, poor boy." Aunt Mollie was weeping. Suddenly
Sammy sprang from the steps and running down the walk to the gate
sent a clear, piercing call over the valley: "O--h--h, Pete." The
group on the porch listened intently. Again the girl called, and
yet again: "O--h--h, Pete." But there was no answer.
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