Chapter IV

“I didn’t take my gun, ’cause I was only goin’ along to ’comerdate Harvey; an’ the trigger o’ mine was busted. I didn’t take Buck nuther, fer we _might_ ’a’ run across a bear, an’ Buck’s so swell-headed, he thinks he can wipe up anything, an’ a bear would ’a’ chawed him to a dish-rag. I couldn’t take any resk with him, fer Tim Reeves wrote me from Tennessee that he’d give me fifty dollars fer him when he comes back, he’s so hot fer fox. That first day me an’ Harvey travelled like brothers, an’ I got him a good ways along ’thout makin’ him feel the road. I carried his gun fer him, so he could walk faster, an’ he was likin’ me first-rate. At night I made a fine fire an’ he put his feet toward it an’ went to sleep. Next mornin’ he got up an’ et nine slices o’ bacon an’ a meal-pone I cooked on a rock. I pushed him to eat, tellin’ him we had a terrible climb afore us. He laffed at me, an’ says ‘Bring on yer mountains, Sam.’ An’ I brought ’em. By night we’s in a mile o’ the top o’ Smoky.”

“But you were going to Pitcher Mountain!”

“Aye, we _started_ there, but when we passed Jed Weaver’s, which is the last house, I said I’d go in an’ git me a little new terbacker, ’cause Jed raises it an’ it ’ud be neighborly to ast fer some. When I come out, I told Harvey that Jed said the bear on Pitcher had been killed an’ Mose Ashe had the hide. Which wuz ever’ word so. It ’uz the biggest bear in the memory o’ man, I told him; an’ that ’uz the truth too, fer I seen it myself. Harvey’s lip fell till I was sorry fer him, an’ I said I was willin’ to go on to the bear-ground on Smoky, if he thought he could hold out. I said I wouldn’t drive him, it wuz his trip anyway; an’ he said he was feelin’ better ever’ minute, that climbin’ agreed with him, an’ he looked like it did. I told him if he wanted to go on, it was lucky he took me with him, fer it was give up that I knowed the trails better’n anybody that had ever gone inter the bear-ground. Ain’t that so, Mis’ Dolly?”

“That’s what I’ve heard, Sam.”

“I spent a year in the woods after my first wife died. I thought it was the best chance I’d ever git, an’ I took it. So I said to Harvey: ‘Knowledge has got to be paid fer. It’s the custom.’ An’ he says: ‘Oh, anything, Sam!’ An’ I says: ‘What about yer gun?’ ‘Oh, my gun?’ says he, a little set back, fer it was fire-new, as you can see.”

His glance fondled the gleaming barrel of the gun which was leaning against a tree near us.

“I told Harvey I wasn’t feelin’ very well myself, an’ it might be better fer me to go home anyhow; but if we traded, I wouldn’t think o’ takin’ the gun till we got back home, an’ he could carry it from there on, ’cause we’s gittin’ inter a country where we might come on something wuth a bullet any minute. An’ he said: ‘All right, it’s a bargain. Move, partner.’

“So we climbed hard all day, an’ by night, as I told you, we’s well up Smoky, an’ the coldest wind ablowin’ that ever made an i-shickle out of a man’s gizzard. We drew up at a spring, an’ I says: ‘We’ll stay right here, fer there ain’t no water higher up.’ He was puffin’ some, an’ he says: ‘How fur are we from the bear-ground?’ I says: ‘It’s all around us. We’re right in it.’ He whitened a little an’ gripped his gun, an’ I explained o’ course we weren’t in the ackchal la’r’l thicket where the bears denned, an’ where they tromp roads in the brush big enough fer a horse to walk through. I told him we hadn’t got to the stair-steps in the cliffs where they climbed in an’ out o’ their dens; but they used the neighborhood fer roamin’ an’ fer gittin’ water. I reckoned he wouldn’t want to go on an’ knock at their doors till mornin’, after he’d had a good rest, an’ we’d keep a big fire all night so’s they wouldn’t bother us.

“I said I’d cook supper if he’d make the fire; an’ he started to git up some wood; but it was slow work ’cause he’d keep the gun in one hand an’ pull an’ drag at the brush with the other. When I’d rested good I went an’ he’ped, fer I was sorry fer him, an’ was pushin’ hungry. When I’d cooked supper, an’ he’d et enough to make him feel sort o’ cocky, an’ I’d got up a good lot o’ logs to last all night, he said he guessed he’d turn in so’s to git a good sleep an’ be ready fer the battle in the mornin’. An’ I said I b’lieved I would too. He got purty still at that, an’ watched me fixin’ my bed. It was so dod-a’mighty cold I got me a lot o’ fir-boughs an’ piled ’em high as my head. Then I began to crawl inter the middle of ’em.

“‘Looky here, Sam,’ says Harvey, ‘I never heard of a guide crawlin’ off to sleep when the camp needed watchin’.’--‘I ain’t no guide,’ I says; ‘I’m a friend what’s a long way from home jest to ’comerdate ye.’ An’ I went in.

“Then I put my head out an’ says, frien’ly as could be: ‘You turn in too. That fire’ll burn ha’f the night, the wind’ll keep it up. An’ long about one o’clock I’ll crawl out an’ throw on some more logs. Ef you hear a noise, jest lay still, ’cause it’ll only be me astirrin’. Bears,’ I says, ‘come up sly.’

“I reckon he’s a little stubborn by nater, ’cause he wouldn’t turn in at all. I looked out after a bit an’ saw he’d took off his cap an’ tied his muffler round his head, so I ast him if he wouldn’t let me have his cap. My hat was full o’ holes an’ seemed to draw the wind. I was all right, I said, ’cept the top o’ my head was freezin’ off. He handed me his cap then, slow-like, an’ never said I was welcome, ner nothin’. But I’d made up my mind I was goin’ to overlook ever’thing, jest as you say. I had some sleep after I got the cap, an’ when I looked out ’round midnight, he was settin’ there holdin’ his gun, an’ had a big fire that he’ped warm the whole place. I slept like I was in my own bed. Oncet I woke up thinkin’ I heard Krettie a-snorin’; then I remembered where I was an’ knew it was the wind thrashin’ about.

“An’ you ought to ’a’ seen the stars a-shinin’. When they’d wink, I’d almost jump, they seemed so close an’ knowin’. I’d been thinkin’ about leavin’ Harvey up there, an’ tellin’ him to foller one o’ the branches down the mountain, an’ I thought maybe I’d put him on one that ’ud bring him out about twenty miles from home. But lookin’ at them stars, I made up my mind to stand by him an’ bring him clean in to Mis’ Harvey.

“Next mornin’ he went to the spring, but he said it was so cold he guessed he wouldn’t wash. Then he looked at hissef in a little glass he took out o’ his kit. You know he’s one o’ them reddish men that have to keep the razor goin’ ever’ day ef they keep ahead o’ ther beard, an’ we’d been out two nights. After he’d looked, he said he guessed he’d heat some water in our tin cup an’ shave. But the wind was blowin’ so aggervatin’ hard he got nettleish, an’ I said he might cut hissef even if it was a safety, an’ bears had an awful scent fer blood.

“‘We’s huntin’ bears,’ I said, ‘an’ don’t want ’em huntin’ us.’ He says, ‘You mean it well enough, Sam, but they’s nothin’ in it.’ However, it was gittin’ late, an’ he guessed he wouldn’t shave till night. He put the razor back in its little box, an’ drapped it inter his jacket pocket. But I’d clear forgot I’d seen him put it there when he was rakin’ his kit fer it that night. I told him I ’lowed he’d drapped it up by the spring that mornin’ an’ I’d climb all the way back fer it if he wanted me to.”

“Why didn’t he look in his pockets?”

“’Cause I had the jacket then, an’ I didn’t think about it. I told him when he handed it to me that he’d better look in the pockets, there might be somethin’ in ’em he wanted; an’ he said they wasn’t nothin’ there, an’ if they was, I might as well take it now as later; only he said it rougher, like men’ll talk in the woods. ‘Not a dern thing in ’em,’ he says, if you’ll excuse me, Mis’ Dolly, an’ jest as good as told me to keep it if there wuz. I found the razor after I’d got home, an’ by all rights it’s mine. But Harvey can have it if he’ll come an’ ast fer it, though he’s got another one mighty nigh as good.”

He interrupted his story to say that I needn’t be lookin’ at him like that; he never forgot Harvey was a friend of mine, and he tried to do his best by him even with “influenzy comin’ on.”

“But you didn’t have influenza, Sam.”

“You don’t know how near I come to it, though. That very mornin’ after sleepin’ in the fir-boughs, I got up sneezin’ awful an’ my backbone creepin’. In the night my ol’ hat had blowed clear away, an’ I said to Harvey I reckoned he wouldn’t be usin’ the cap an’ muffler both at oncet, an’ I’d wear whichever he didn’t want. He says: ‘That’s kind of you, Sam.’

“He had took off the muffler when he thought he was goin’ to shave, an’ the next minute his ears looked so brickle I could ’a’ knocked ’em off with a stick. So he had put it back on. I told him the cap didn’t have any ear-pieces, an’ I could stand the wind better’n he could. I said mighty few bear-hunters ever got out o’ the la’r’l and in home with anything on their heads at all; that Jed Weaver always went into the woods bareheaded, ’cause he said it cost too much to put hats an’ caps on the la’r’l; an’ Harvey says: ‘Oh, jest keep it, Sam, an’ let’s go.’ I told him we’d scrummish around the mountain toward the sun, an’ maybe I could shake off my chill. But it stuck to me, an’ after a while I said I’d have to stop an’ build a fire.

“He got frustered then, an’ said he’d come fer bear, an’ he was goin’ to have one if he had to go on by hissef. I told him I’d go with him, even if it meant pneumony. Then he got frien’ly an’ said it wasn’t goin’ to be that bad. We’d git our bear an’ go down ’fore night. An’ he was all fer goin’ inter the la’r’l.

“I went a little furder with him, an’ then I stopped all in a shiver an’ told him he must remember I didn’t have on warm clo’s like he had, though I had the same sort o’ skin; an’ I said if I drapped an’ died up there, fer him to hit Siler’s creek an’ foller it down to the settlement.

“‘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.”