Chapter VI: Hunting a Varmint

SUPPER was late at the Gooch cabin. Brindled Bess, who daily supplied a large portion of the evening meal, had strayed farther away than usual. For more than an hour Billy and his sister had been searching the mountain-side.

From his doorstep Dan looked gloomily forth into the fast gathering night. If the animal, suddenly startled at the brink of a ledge, had leaped over, it would be a sore calamity to the family. Dan listened to the clatter of dishes inside the cabin until hunger and suspense overcame him. He started up and with rapid strides disappeared across the mountain in a haste entirely foreign to his habits.

Both eye and ear were keenly alert. There was a strange, coppery glow on the eastern horizon. It reached far above the treetops, lurid and threatening against the soft blue of the evening sky.

“Some foolish feller’s let his bresh fire git away from him, I reckon,” commented Dan. But he went on without hearing a sound save those of the night.

Suddenly, there was a crackling of bushes above the creek path, the thud of hurried, stumbling steps. They came nearer until he could hear panting breaths, and Sudie was flying past him white-faced, wild-eyed, her hair streaming out like a frightened dryad of the mountains.

Dan caught roughly at her arm, and but for his grip she would have fallen in terror. “What’s the matter? Whar’s thet cow critter?” he demanded.

Sudie struggled with her sobs. “Oh, pappy, the schoolhouse is afire! Hit’s all-burnin’-up!” she gasped.

“What!” ejaculated her father in amazement.

“Hit shore is,” asseverated Billy, coming up red-faced and panting. “We war a-headin’ the cow critter this way when we seen the fire a-bustin’ out’n the roof. Hit’s—” But Dan had not waited to hear more. He was sprinting in the direction of the schoolhouse like a boy. His children watched him for a moment in open-mouthed astonishment at such unheard-of alacrity on their father’s part, then followed.

A good quarter of a mile brought him in plain sight of the burning building, where he could plainly see the futility of further effort. The little schoolhouse was a mass of flame, but the old, well-seasoned logs would burn for hours yet. Fortunately the heavy shower of the morning prevented the flames from spreading, the weeds and bushes had been so thoroughly cleared away. Only the sentinel pine at the back of the cabin was doomed.

Sudie clung to her father, sobbing wildly. “What’ll Tally say? We can’t never go to school no more,” she wailed.

“Hesh, honey, hit don’t do no good ter take on thet a-way,” urged Dan. “Somebody must hev been mighty keerless with matches or the like ter hev fired hit. I reckoned Tally’d hed more sense.”

“Hit warn’t her,” Billy burst out, anxious to vindicate his teacher. “Hit war thet Jake Simcox, I’ll be boun’. Jest as we hove in sight of the place I seen him a-scootin’ fer the pines like a painter war after him.”

“The low-down, sneakin’ varmint! Thet’s jest who did hit, and he ’lowed not ter git ketched in the night time. He’ll git larned better. The dark’ll kiver a heap o’ things, but no sech deed as this.” All the fierceness that lies smouldering in the nature of the average mountain man leaped into as fierce a flame as that consuming the little schoolhouse. His younger children’s opportunities had been snatched from them by this miscreant. He should not escape—a swift, deserved punishment should be meted out to this offender as only mountain men could measure it.

“Run home, Sudie, and tell your mammy she’ll hev ter tend ter the cow critter ter-night, me and Billy won’t be back fer a spell. Thar’s a heap ter be done before mornin’.”

His father’s ominous tone startled Billy. It brought to memory stories he had heard of the Twilliger and Amyx feuds—his mother was a Twilliger. He trembled.

“Son,” said Dan as Sudie disappeared, “do you ’low you can make the Coyle place ter-night?”

“I reckon so,” answered Billy, bravely trying to forget that it was long past his supper time. Mountain justice never waited on hunger.

“Clip up thar and back as soon as you kin, and tell Sam Coyle fer me, thet we shall expect ter see him at the Forks ter-morrow mornin’ by light, ter hunt varmints. They may hev left the kentry, but we’ll smoke ’em out if they’re ter be found. Kin you remember?”

“Yes, Pappy”

“Well, I’m goin’ ter the Twilligers. I kin git the boys ter push on to the Settlemint, and then the news’ll carry fast enough, I reckon,” and father and son parted.

At daybreak the Forks was the scene of an assembling of the clans. Old scores were forgotten. They were meeting in a common cause which had suddenly endeared itself to all. Not one of the older men but had children among Tally’s flock, and they had begun to realize what the school had meant to them.

Nearly all of the company were horseback, but every member carried a “shooting iron,” a fact which had its own significance.

“If we could hev took after thet varmint last night, I reckon we could hev treed him,” said Eli Twilliger. “But he’d be a plumb fool if he warn’t out of the kentry by this time. Hit’s a mighty good thing he hasn’t any kin in these parts.”

“Them long legs of his’n could take him cornsiderable fur, but he hasn’t any hoss critter ter save his strength. I reckon he ain’t out of reach yit. He never war no great hand ter exert hisself, Jake warn’t,” drawled the blacksmith.

“Well, he’s gittin’ further off while we’re argefyin’,” objected Dan Gooch testily. “I ’low hit’s time we war gittin’ down ter bizness. Some of you fellers take the trails ’tween you, and Sam and I’ll go ’long the creek. We’ll meet whar the old schoolhouse war, and if you’ve run down any game you kin bring hit along.”

At nine o’clock the party straggled in from different directions empty-handed. Eli Twilliger was the last one. His had been a hard, rough climb. Thin and wiry, sure of foot as a wild cat, and as ready to pounce upon the object of his search, not a man knew so well the hiding places those mighty hills afforded. His shirt was torn, his hands and face bore scratches received in a careful search through the narrow subterranean passages which honeycombed the cliffs. Tired and hungry, he was in an ugly mood as with long strides he made toward the group gathered at the edge of the pine thicket.

Dan Gooch turned toward him with a warning finger which he resented. “What’s do-in’?” he growled. “Hev you caged the varmint and air makin’ a show of him?” He peered curiously over the intervening shoulders and was suddenly silenced.

In sight of the charred, smouldering ruins from which still issued little puffs of smoke, Talitha, nothing daunted by her ill fortune, had gathered her little flock. Smiles had begun to cover their tear-stained faces. It was a delightful novelty to sit on that mossy, sun-flecked bank and prepare the day’s lessons. Billy Gooch shared his large slate with the youngest of the Twilligers, and two small girls bent industriously over the same book.

The eyes of the rough mountaineers moistened, their hands tightened upon their rifles ominously. There was a stir among the foremost, and Si Quinn faced them. His face was like a thunder cloud. One crutch waved so threateningly that those nearest shrank back. “What air you goin’ ter do ’bout hit? Thet’s what I want ter ask. You might hev knowed you couldn’t ketch that feller; he wan’t brung up in the mountings fer nothin’. Hit was as big a piece of devilment as I ever heerd of, but mebbe hit won’t be the worst thing could hev happened, except fer the leetle gal losin’ the money she put inter hit. Let’s go ter work and put up somethin’ thet won’t shame us. You-all know thet old shack warn’t no way fitten fer a schoolhouse. I can’t help you ter cut a stick of timber much as I’d give fer the strength ter do hit, but I’ll give ’nough ter make up fer all Tally lost—”

“Sho now, Si, we ain’t goin’ ter let you do hit,” interrupted the blacksmith. “We’ll jest count your advice wuth thet much, and I reckon hit air. If we ain’t robustious ’nough ter put up another schoolhouse and git what Tally needs for our young-uns, I ’low we’re a sorry lot—”

“How you do go on, Enoch,” jibed Eli Twilliger, pushing his way to the front. “Air you intendin’ ter take the stump fer the next ’lection? Let’s git down ter bizness. Thar ain’t nothin’ I can see ter hinder us from startin’ ter-morrow mornin’, and if the weather is fair Tally shall hev her schoolhouse in two weeks. Ain’t thet so, boys?”

For answer, a shout went up that started the echoes from their hiding-places in the hills. Talitha and her flock looked up at them wonderingly. She was too far away to comprehend what good fortune was to be hers, but she could rejoice that something had restored the men to good humour. Greater than sorrow at the frustrating of her plans and the loss in which her small savings had been invested, was her horror at the revival of the old feud spirit. She had learned at the Bentville school the terribleness of it. In agony she had watched her father the previous night as he cleaned and loaded his rifle. Jake Simcox had done a despicable, cowardly thing, but she could not wish him dealt with according to the code of mountain justice.

At noon she sent the children home and walked slowly beside the schoolmaster. There were many questions she wished to ask him, but she kept silent, knowing that he would speak of his own accord or not at all.

“Hit war jest as I ’lowed,” he said at last. “Jake took time by the forelock and mighty well he did.”

“Oh, I’m so glad they didn’t find him!” exclaimed Talitha in a tone that struck the schoolmaster oddly.

“What’s thet, leetle gal! Mighty queer talk fer the gran’darter of a Bills.” The faded eyes twinkled.

“I can’t help it, it isn’t right; and it’s a terrible thing for folks to remember all their lives!”

“Pore leetle gal,” the old man nodded understandingly. “You warn’t bigger’n Sudie, I reckon, time o’ the Amyx shootin’. ’Twar a shame ter saddle you with sech mem’ries. I never did hev much use fer sech doin’s, and I said so, but hit warn’t a grain o’ use. You might jest as well talk ter a passel of hounds arter a Bushy tail. But chirk up, you won’t see Jake in these parts agin. What we’re most consarned ’bout now is whar you’re goin’ ter keep school when the ugly weather comes on.”

They had come to the parting of the ways, and here Talitha left the old man hobbling painfully toward his cabin.

Si Quinn’s progress homeward was slow. He stopped now and then to regain his breath and chuckle feebly to himself. “I reckon she thinks I’ve a heart of stun ter take hit so ca’m, but I ’low Jake Simcox didn’t do sech a bad thing. Hit war worse fer hisself than fer Goose Creek. Law, what’ll the gal say when she hears of hit! I reckon I’d better be sendin’ fer them school fixin’s ter-morrow.” He had reached the cabin door, and now he shuffled inside, closing it carefully. Shadowed by pines, the place was always gloomy enough even at mid-day with the shutters thrown wide. Now he uncovered the coals on the hearth, laid on a few small sticks, and swung the battered old tea kettle over the blaze. Then he drew up his chair cosily before it, and thrusting his hand into his trousers’ pocket brought forth a small leather bag. From it he counted a number of bills, smoothing each one tenderly across his knee.

“She shall hev ’em,” he said aloud. “I’ll do without somehow, and hit won’t be fer long. The old man’s nearin’ the end of the trail—” He glanced around uneasily, with a vague consciousness of something—he knew not what. In the far corner of the cabin a pair of eyes, bloodshot and wild, glared at him from under a thatch of red hair.

The old man grasped the money. It disappeared in his shirt as he staggered to his feet and faced the intruder.

“You needn’t be afeard, I ain’t goin’ ter tech hit.” The figure issued from the corner lamely. In the light it was still more forbidding. A bruise on the forehead made a disfiguring, parti-coloured lump on his otherwise pale, drawn face. “I ain’t teched a thing, not even a crumb, tho’ I’m ’most famished,” he growled.

“Hush, you crazy loon!” Si Quinn raised a warning finger.

“Aw, yes, I know,” sneered the young fellow recklessly. “The dogs air arter the wolf and they kin hev him.” He threw up his arms wildly.

“Set down in thet cheer and be still,” commanded the old man.

Jake dropped obediently into a seat.

“I ’lowed you war out’n the kentry. Why didn’t you make tracks when you had a chanct?”

“I did aim ter,” answered Jake Simcox, “but I fell, crawlin’ over thet ledge by the Gulch, and I didn’t know nothin’ till this mornin’. I could hear the men thrashin’ the bushes all ’round me, but I was jest out of sight of ’em. I wish fer the land they’d tuk me then and thar and done with hit.”

“The way of a transgressor is shorely hard,” exclaimed the old man pityingly.

“I didn’t go fer ter fire the place, Si, I shore didn’t. I jest thought ter burn the books and sech. Oh, I don’t know what made me do hit, ’less I was plumb crazy!” Jake bowed his head in his hands and groaned in agony.

The schoolmaster set the coffee pot upon the coals, where it simmered gently. “Sho now, Jake,” he said kindly, “you’re all beat out. Draw up and hev a bite; hit ain’t much but hit’ll put some heart in you. I don’t cornsider thet jest burnin’ thet old shack war sech a turrible sin; hit war the sperit you done hit in. You did ’low to burn all thet pore gal spent most of her savin’s on, and thet was the meanest part of the hull bizness. I allers said thet temper of yours would bring you ter grief. Hit’s like a skeery hoss critter; when hit gits loose you never can cal’late on all the didos hit’s goin’ ter cut up. Do you think thet if you hed another chanct you hev got grit ’nough ter turn ’round in your tracks?”

Jake reached a hand over the table and grasped the hard, shrivelled one. “Oh, I shore would if I could only hev hit,” he answered humbly. “I shore would, but hit’s too late.”

“Hit ain’t,” contradicted the old man cheerfully. “So long as you see the error of your ways, I’ll see thet you git out of this bizness hopin’ hit’s a lesson you won’t forgit.”

Until Jake Simcox was able both mentally and physically to make the journey, he remained in the schoolmaster’s cabin, hiding away in the little loft at the least sign of danger.

Late the third night after a hearty supper, Si Quinn filled his knapsack with provisions and slung it across the young shoulders. “Hike over the Ohiar line as quick as you kin,” he admonished, “and then find a job near a school whar you kin git some larnin’. I’m goin’ ter give you this,” putting a bill in the young fellow’s hand. “Hit’ll help you out till you git work, if you’re savin’. I’d make hit more, but most of the rest is goin’ fer books and maps fer Tally’s new schoolhouse they’re buildin’ fer her.”

Jake looked up shamefacedly; the money seemed to burn his hand, but to what straits might he be brought if he refused it. “I’ll pay hit all back—every cent,” he faltered, “and I shan’t ever fergit what you’ve done fer me.” Then he was swallowed up by the darkness.