Chapter III: Part 3

“Eric was never a man to fear or avoid conflict, even with the forces of the universe itself; and after this third appearance of the scarred bull whale, he scarce slept at all, but held himself and his boat’s crew ready for battle the day long. He was aloft from dawn till dark, endlessly scouring the seas for a spout that would reveal the creature which personified to him the thing he was fighting. He became silent, thoughtful; and strength flowed into him and nerved him to a hard and efficient readiness. He was like an athlete in training for a contest, every nerve and muscle tuned.

“We sighted the scarred whale for the fourth time on a Sunday morning; a day when the sea was just rippled by the gentlest breezes, when the sun shone warmly and comfortingly upon the world, when the boats danced upon the waves with a soothing and caressing motion. The water was blue as turquoise, and the sky above it; and the two met at the horizon with the sea’s deeper blue below the sky’s, and the whitecaps gleaming like silver in the wind.

“It was not Eric who sighted the whale, but one of the men on the fore-t’gallant crosstrees; and his long ‘Blo-o-o-o-o-ow’ came droning down to us on the decks and snatched each one to his post like machinery. Cap’n Tobbey turned his glass on the distant spouts, and ordered the boats away; and Eric’s hard and seasoned men made his boat swing ahead of the others instantly, and steadily increase the lead.

“There was no way of knowing whether or no this was the old scarred bull; but his spout told us it was a right whale, and not a sperm whale. Nevertheless, either Eric knew it was his enemy he went to meet, or else he was eager to discover whether it was or no, for he drove his men unsparingly, and was more than a quarter of a mile ahead of us when he reached the monster, and ran alongside.

“Over the water came to us the sound of his shouted command: ‘Let ’im have it!’ And I saw the boat steerer, standing in the bow with his knee in the clumsy-cleat, put all the strength of back and arms into the stroke, and snatch the second iron and send that home even as the whale leaped forward.

“While Eric and the boat steerer were changing places, the great whale up-ended ponderously, his flukes lifting gently toward the sky full thirty feet clear of the water, and slid down out of sight. He had sounded; and I spurred my men to harder efforts so that we might be at hand to help if need arose.

“Ahead of us, the boat lay idle on the waves. I could see Eric in the bow, his hand on the line where it ran through the notch, bending to peer down into the depths; and I could see he was putting a strain upon the line, for the bow was down and almost dipping in the waves.

“Then suddenly the bow bobbed up, the strain relaxed; and Eric bent further over in an effort to pierce the depths below him. The whale was coming up; and if by chance he came up under the boat, the fight would be done, forthwith. Eric shouted a command; and the men began to haul in the line desperately, dropping it in a loose coil astern. The boat steerer leaned upon his long oar, alert, bending to hear the word from Eric, and himself looking overside for any sign of the monster who was rushing up from the depths toward them.

“Then a shout from Eric, the boat swung around as though on a pivot; and next instant the whale breached between his boat and mine.

“There is no more splendid sight in the world than this; to see the biggest creature that breathes flinging his four or five score tons clear out of the water to hang, a black bulk against the sky, for an instant before he falls resoundingly. Imagine a leaping trout, magnify the trout’s size a million-fold or more, and you have some faint notion of the monstrous majesty and grace of the breaching whale.

“I had seen whales breach before, sometimes with terror, sometimes with wonder at the beauty of the spectacle; but when this whale leaped clear into the sky and seemed to hang for an instant fair above us, a thrill of horror shot through me.

“For as he was in the air, fair for all to see, the scar upon his head was revealed; a scar like a sunken cross, mark of some ancient wound. It was the scarred bull to which Eric’s boat was fast.

“I looked toward him, and saw that Eric had seen the scar; but Eric loved battle. He shouted to his men, and even as the great whale fell into the water again, Eric’s men hauled in till they were alongside the monster, and Eric drove home his lance.

“The whale, at the prick of steel, redoubled the furious struggle of the breach; and he rolled away and away from the boat, upon the surface, in a smother of foam and spray. The men were forced to loose the line again to avoid capsizing; but Eric himself set his hand to it, and by his own strength held the nose of the boat so near the rolling whale that when the enormous creature straightened out at last to run, half a dozen pulls brought them again alongside.

“They were in some fashion safer there than elsewhere. The harpoons had struck well behind the fin, and the whale’s rolling had wrapped the line about him in such fashion that when the boat pulled alongside it lay safely behind the fin, and yet safely forward of the flukes. If the whale rolled toward them, they would be crushed beneath his bulk; but short of such a move, the monster could not shake them off.

“And Eric was working his lance like mad. I had never seen such frantic energy. He sent the six-foot steel to its length into the soft body again and again, not with a long shove, but with a single stabbing thrust to each attack. His target was the whale’s greatest girth, and the lower part of the body; and although the battle seemed an endless flurry and strife of bloody foam, it was only a matter of seconds before the whale’s labored spouting crimsoned—sure sign he had received a mortal wound.

“I caught the sound of an exultant shout from Eric, and his boat sheered away. The monster had suddenly halted in its flight; it lay momentarily motionless, as though testing its own strength against this attack which had pierced its vitals. Then in a desperate and panic stricken flurry it leaped forward and away, the boat, with line running free, trailing safely behind.

“They drove past where my boat lay; and Eric turned to look toward me. He was a heroic figure in the bow of the little craft, erect and tall, his bright hair and his naked torso crimson with the flood from the whale’s bloody spout. He was gleaming wet with spray and red foam; and he waved his long lance as he passed and shouted:

“‘The scarred whale, Mark! I’ve killed him!’

“Before I could reply, he was beyond the sound of my voice; and then the great beast whirled and came back toward us. He must have seen my boat and supposed it that of his tormentor; for he charged at us, and only the swiftest swerve took us out of his path in time. Beyond me, I saw him wallow over the third mate’s boat and on; and I hurried to pick up the men in the water.

“Save for their bruises and their drenching, they were uninjured. We dragged them aboard, set a waif in the boat, tied its oars to keep it afloat, and set out after Eric and the whale. The great creature was circling in its last flurry; and as we drew near, with a tremendous spasm it threw its mighty bulk in a swift, short circle, and was still.

“We drove ahead, toward Eric’s boat; and Eric’s countenance was burning with a splendid triumph. This last moment of victorious pride Fate allowed him.

“He was ahead; his boat ran alongside the huge carcass, and Eric bent over the bow with the short boat spade to cut a hole in the whale’s tail for towing it to the ship.

“The boat spade is a steel blade, razor sharp, spade-shaped, attached to a stout wooden handle. Eric leaned far out and drove it into the tough fiber of the tail.

“And then the right whale’s flukes whirled in a last, spasmodic struggle; up they whirled, and over, and down. They missed the boat by inches; but from Eric’s strong hands the boat spade was torn. It twisted in the air, its steel blade flashing crimson. Under the blow of the flukes it twisted and sang, and then chocked home. The steel struck Eric squarely in the face; and it split his skull as you split a walnut.”

The old captain leaned forward to knock the dottel from his pipe upon the andirons, and settled in his chair again. For a little time we sat without speaking; but I asked at last:

“Joan—did she forgive him in the end?”

Cap’n Brackett’s grim old countenance softened. “Oh, aye,” he said. “She’d forgiven him before. She warned me when we started on the cruise to watch over him.” He filled and lighted his ancient pipe again, then softly finished: “She’s gone, long since. But our daughter looks very like her now.”

_Ben Ames Williams_.

WHEN BREATHITT WENT TO BATTLE

“_Bloody_” _Breathitt has been exempted from the draft_. _So prompt
and general was the response of her fighting men to the call for
volunteers_, _that her quota is more than filled_. _There is no need
of conscription_. _Thus does the outlaw mountain county of Kentucky
vindicate herself in the eyes of the world_, _mocking those who would
shame her with a record more fanciful than true_.

—_News Item_.

Breathitt was at peace.

As the Cumberland sun climbed over the eastern hills, bringing the rugged flush of morning to each crag and ridge and peak, a travel-worn rider, astride an even more worn mare, drew up at the stile in front of a four-room log cabin. On the rider’s smooth, strong features were marks of a sleepless night, emphasized by a tense foreboding. As he stopped, his mare heaved a shuddering sigh of exhaustion and lowered her head in weary relief; the man bent one booted leg over the pommel of his saddle, and with an expression of pity gazed at the cabin for some moments before he called.

“Hallo!” There was no response from within the chinked walls; only the snarl of a cur, that skulked near the rickety porch, and the lonesome tinkle of a cowbell from the barn lot.

Again, “Hallo!” This time, after half a minute, the heavy front door opened on its wooden hinges and a mountaineer, with untrimmed, grizzled mustache, stepped out into the morning sunshine.

“Wal, if hit ain’t Lawyer Todd—howdy!” The old man’s face glowed with cordiality as he approached the stile.

“Git off yer mare and come in, lawyer,” he invited. “We’ve jest ate, but Lizzie’ll have ye some breakfast in a jiffy. Leave yer critter right thar and come on in.”

“Thank you, Seth, but I reckon I won’t for a while.” Lawyer Todd tried to smile in answer to the welcome, but his eyes were grave.

He was a man of middle age and some little refinement of appearance, in spite of the mud that now besplotehed him. A native of the Kentucky Mountains, he had taken his degree at a college in the Blue Grass, but had returned to the hills to practice among his own people. He was one of them: he knew their ways, their faults, their virtues, their peculiarities, and of Seth Brannon he was particularly wise. Ever since hanging out his shingle at the county seat, Todd had been his legal adviser whenever Seth had seen fit to waive the local militant manner of settling disputes and rely upon the instruments of law and order. Between the two men there existed a feeling that was more than professional. Seth, while many years his senior, made Todd his confidant, looked up to him with the deference due superior wisdom, and knew that his trust was not misplaced. In return Todd gave sympathetic understanding to this primitive man of the hills, respected his traditions, and stood by him in time of trouble.

It was this bond between friend and friend, rather than between lawyer and client, that had drawn Todd over long, hard miles through the most isolated and inaccessible part of that Kentucky county which bears the title “Bloody.”

Todd did not dismount from his mare; and old Seth, squatting on the stile block, regarded him keenly with eyes much used to the analysis of their fellow-men.

“What’s on yer mind, lawyer?” he inquired. “’Pears like all ain’t good news ye’ve brung over the hills with ye.”

He took in at a glance the mud-caked legs and belly of the mare, and the blue clay drops that had sprayed and dried on the lawyer, from his leather boots to his gray slouch hat.

“Ye must ’a’ come a long piece, from the looks o’ ye,” Seth resumed with friendly concern. “Shorely, now, ye ain’t rid all the way from Jackson town?”

“Yes,” Todd answered, “that’s what I have.”

“And what fer?”

The lawyer reached to an inside pocket and drew out a yellow envelope, the flap of which had been torn open. With a slowness that was almost hesitancy, he handed the envelope to the old man.

“The operator at Jackson gave that to me, Seth,” said Todd. “He knew I sorta attended to matters there in town for you and that I’d see you got it. It came just after dark yesterday, and I’ve been riding ever since to bring it to you—and break the news.”

Seth scratched his mustache with a calloused forefinger, turning the yellow envelope over and over and looking at it with curiosity.

“What is hit?” he asked. “Ye know—ye know, lawyer, readin’ ain’t one o’ my strong p’ints, and these here printed things don’t mean nothin’ to me. What’s hit all about?”

“It’s a telegram, Seth, a telegram—about Jim.”

“About Jim—my Jim?” The old man groped for a moment. “Why, lawyer, Jim knows his pa can’t neither read or write. What’d Jim send me a teleygram fer?”

“Jim didn’t send it. It came through the Canadian War Department, at Ottawa.” Todd braced himself in his saddle. “Seth, when Jim went away, did you ever reckon you mightn’t see him again?”

The old man’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t reckon much about hit a-tall,” he said. “Fact is, Jim went withouten my lief and agin my best jedgment.” He paused, but as the lawyer made no reply, went on:

“Ye see, Jim ’as plumb crazy to go to war, soon as he heard hit had broke loose over yan. But I says, says I, ‘Jim, this ain’t none o’ our war; hit’s a-happenin’ way outside o’ these mountings whar we ain’t got no business. I’m a ole man and I’ve come to love peace. Ten year ago, after we’d fought and fought and finally whopped the Allens, over on South Fork, I swore thar’d be no more war if I could help hit. And I’ve purty well kept my word. Now, Jim,’ says I, ‘this feller Keeser and his Germins ain’t hurt we’uns. I ain’t got nothin’ agin ’em. And, what’s more, I don’t want we or no other Brannon o’ the name to be startin’ trouble with sech people.’

“‘Pa,’ says Jim, ‘I ain’t a-goin’ to start trouble. Keeser’s already started hit. He and his Germins done sunk a lot o’ ships and kilt a whole mess o’ wimmen and chil’ren, some of ’em Amerikin wimmen and chil’ren too. The English and the French been a-fightin’ him over thar fer nigh on two year. Now hit looks like this country’s a-goin’ to take a hand. The army men at Washington says thar jest ain’t no way o’ our gittin’ ’round fightin’ Keeser; either we got to help lick him over yan in Eurip or he’ll lick us over here.’

“‘Then let him come on over and try hit,’ says I. ‘I ain’t shot skunks and Allens and wildcats all my life fer nothin’,’ says I. ‘The same ole rifle-gun my granddaddy brung up from North Calliney and kilt Injuns with ain’t so rusty and no ’count that I can’t shoot a few shoots at this Keeser feller and his Germins.

“‘But, Jim,’ I says, ‘Jim, ye know a mounting man fights best on his own ground. Hit ain’t in nature fer him to go scrappin’ on furren soil amongst furreners. Up a hillside, behind a bunch o’ laurel, is a heap better place fer a mounting man than in them trenches yer talkin’ about. Fust o’ all,’ says I, ‘I’m fer peace; but if ye’ve got to fight, then stay home and fight nigh yer own front door.’

“Them’s exactly the words I spoke to him, lawyer,” continued Seth, cramming a handful of tobacco into his mouth. “Wait till somebody’s hit ye, then hit back and hit back damn hard. But don’t go meddlin’ ’round in a country ye don’t know nothin’ about, ’mongst folks what ain’t no kin to ye. That’s what I says, jest about them very words.”

“And yet Jim went,” said Todd. “Those two years you gave him at Berea College, Seth, made Jim more thoughtful than most boys hereabouts. He read war, he studied war; and, impatient at the delay of his own government in getting into it, he went up to Canada, enlisted in her armies and shipped to France—”

“Yas, that ’as the way hit was,” assented the old man. “All his ma and me could do couldn’t keep that boy from goin’ oncet he’d sot his head on hit.

“That ’as ’most a year ago. Course we miss Jim and all that,” Seth added; “but even if he has gone to war agin’ Keeser and his Germins, the rest o’ us here ain’t bearin’ no grudge toward ’em so long as they leaves us in peace.”

“They aren’t leaving you in peace, Seth; that’s just it.” Todd watched him closely to see the effect of his words. “Already when Jim enlisted Keeser and his Germins’ had killed American citizens by the score. Since then they’ve killed other Americans; helpless, unoffending people who believed as you do that because they hadn’t harmed the Germans, the Germans wouldn’t harm them.

“You had some reason for opposing Jim’s enlistment. We weren’t at war with Germany then. He was under no personal or patriotic obligation to fight. He acted mostly from the urge of conscience, I know, and after much far-sighted deliberation. But now it’s different, Seth. Last week our men in Washington declared war on Germany. We’ve got to fight as a nation whether as individuals we want to fight or not. Otherwise your rifle-gun and mine, and all the rifle-guns in these mountains, won’t save our homes and our women and children once the Germans land in this country. Don’t you see how it is, Seth? Our boys have to go to war, to save from war those who are left behind. Don’t you feel differently now about Jim’s going the way he did?”

The old man shook his head stubbornly. “I tell ye, lawyer, hit ain’t any o’ our war. What happens outside o’ these hills don’t consarn me and my folks. ‘What happens amongst these hills we can take care of when hit comes. Let them as wants to fight, fight. We’uns don’t axe nothin’ o’ other folks and other folks ain’t got no business axein’ nothin’ o’ us. That’s whar hit stands with me, lawyer.”

“Listen, Seth.” Todd leaned toward him from his saddle. “You know, the people outside of Breathitt don’t think much of us who live here. Not only in other parts of Kentucky, but in all the other states and even abroad, they call us ‘Bloody.’ That’s because we’ve been a bit too handy with our guns. We’ve killed too many of our own folks. We haven’t paid much attention to the law. Now this war gives us a chance to show the outside world that there’s more good than bad in us; that we can leave off fighting each other and use our lead on the Germans.”

Todd leaned closer to the old man, enthusiasm in his voice. “Listen, Seth. The President wants volunteers for the army. He’s got to have soldiers, lots of them. And the best soldier material in the country is right up here in these hills. We men of Breathitt are born to the trigger. Most of us soldier in a manner all our lives. Now, I say, we’ve got to stop aiming our rifle-guns at each other and point ’em toward the enemy. I’ve been thinking about it considerably lately and I want your help in bringing this very thing to pass.

“You, Seth, have more influence with the people than any one man in this county. You’re connected by family to every big clan in Breathitt. When you say peace, they keep the peace; when you say war, they fight. For years now there’s been no general trouble. That’s because, as you declared, war don’t pay. And you’re right, indeed you are, where feud wars are concerned. We’ve had enough of them, God knows!”

Todd continued: “Seth, they’re framing a draft bill there in Washington. They’re going to make men join the army if they won’t join it voluntarily. Now our boys never had to be kicked into battle, Seth. They’ve got the good old Kentucky warrior blood in their veins; and the better the cause, the harder they fight. Let’s show the country that Breathitt isn’t as bad as printer’s ink has painted her. Let’s not wait for that draft bill. Tell your men, Seth, that this is the worst war and the best war that ever happened. Tell ’em it’s the most wicked war and the holiest war in which a Kentuckian was ever privileged to draw a bead. Say the word, old friend, and every son of Breathitt will rally to the flag, to wipe the stains from their own hills and help clean the world’s slate for the universal writing of the name Democracy!”

Again old Seth shook his head. He waved his hand with a gesture of finality, then brought his fist to his knee with a dull thud.

“Yer a mighty purty talker, lawyer, and I ’low ye means what ye says—but, I tells ye, I ain’t got no consarn in this here war. Keeser and his Germins ain’t done nothin’ to me and my folks. Them men o’ Breathitt who wants to fight, can fight. I won’t stop ’em. But, lawyer, I ain’t a-goin’ to call ’em to war till that feller Keeser makes the fust move agin one o’ us. That’s what I says to Jim and that’s what I’m a-sayin’ to ye,” he added defiantly.

Lawyer Todd said nothing. He knew the mettle of his people. He believed in them. He also knew that old Seth was a victim of isolation and the teachings of a primitive creed; that his opposition sprang from ignorance, not disloyalty. It was the inborn nature of a mountaineer to prefer battle among his own hills, whose every rock and peak and cove he had studied with an eye to offense and defense, rather than wage war in the enemy’s country where he was a stranger. Besides, as Seth himself had said, the Brannons and their kin had not yet smelled blood. “Keeser and his Germins” must first offer direct injury to one of them before they could feel the personal touch of war and answer the challenge from oversea.

With this realization Todd broke the silence in a firm voice, pointing to the yellow envelope in the old man’s hand.

“Seth, that telegram holds bad news for you folks.”

Seth’s attitude of defiance relaxed. Taut cords stood out beneath the dry skin of his throat as the inner man gripped himself.

“Is Jim hurt?” There was a tremor of paternalism in the question. The yellow envelope fluttered to the ground near the mare’s feet.

Todd looked Seth steadily in the eyes. “Worse than hurt, old friend, yet better than hurt,” he replied. “Jim is dead.”

Not a cry, not a tear, not a groan, not even a quiver of the world-worn mouth and brow. Only an expression of incredulity that hardened into sternness.

“Dead?—dead! My Jim dead.” Then, after a while, “Hit’ll go plumb hard with his ma, her Jimmy dead.” The keen eyes widened and the wrinkled face was lifted to the hills.

Directly, in a calm, low voice: “Tell me, lawyer, who kilt him? How was he kilt, my Jim?”

“He was killed in action, Seth, killed by ‘Keeser and his Germins’ while bombing an enemy’s trench.”

“Bombing a trench! Whar in hell was his rifle-gun?”

“He wasn’t using it then.” Todd drew on his imagination. “But he sold out at a high figger, Seth, that boy of yours. A dozen Germans went down before they got him.”

The old man’s eyes flashed. “Ye say they did? Jim he kilt a dozen of ’em?” His friend nodded. “Lord!—now don’t that beat all!” Seth chuckled an unhealthy chuckle. “Kilt a dozen of ’em!”

When he next spoke, however, it was briefly and through lips parched and drawn.

“Wal, I reckon that settles hit. Yas, lawyer, I reckon that mighty nigh settles hit.” And with shoulders bent forward, his chin in his hand, the old man lapsed into lonely meditation.

Todd left him there, seated on the stile, and with a sigh of relief that his mission had been thus far accomplished, rode his mare around to the barn. The Breathitt country that day vibrated with a silent but compelling call. Bare-footed couriers, wizards of short cut and bypath, slipped through valley and over ridge, up rocky creek bed and down steep decline, bearing a message from their chief. The lesser clan heads received the message; and from beneath their clapboard roofs, they in turn sent forth couriers to their followers. Along the waters of Troublesome, Middle Fork, Quicksand and Kentucky River, the word flashed. A hushed suspense closed over the hills. Men greeted one another in undertones, sensing rather than speaking what each had in mind. Action was the necessity of the hour; swift, tense action that tarried neither to question nor to reason, but obeyed.

But little time elapsed after Lawyer Todd left old Seth at the stile, before the Brannons and their kinsmen began to gather at the cabin of their chief. They straggled in by ones and twos and threes, some mounted and some on foot. Among them were grandfathers, with stooped shoulders and snowy beards; others were mere boys.

Most of the men bore modern rifles and revolvers; a few had shotguns. One, on whom the hookworm had set its blight, had been able to muster only a pitchfork. Another was armed with a kitchen knife and a hickory club. Besides their weapons all the equipment the men carried was a bundle of food, done up in a greasy paper, consisting of chunks of corn bread, a bit of salt and several strips of bacon.

Some of the “neighbor wimmen” had come to Seth’s cabin to tender their services and sympathies to the bereaved mother. Old Seth himself sat alone on the edge of the weather-warped porch, brooding. His rifle lay across his knees, and while one hairy hand stroked the polished stock, his eyes were fastened on the horizon above the eastern hills. The only hint of emotion in his face was the dumbness of an emotion too deep for expression.

The men stood about the yard in little groups. Out in the barn lot several of the younger men pitched horseshoes. Others played mumble-peg near the stile block, or lounged against the rail fence, whittling. The patriarchs of the clan squatted at a respectful distance from their chief, waiting to be called to council.

And upon them all poured the warming rays of the afternoon sun. The pine-fringed mountains, green with the fresh, soft green of spring, closed in grim but kindly embrace about the little army in the valley below. A dove cooed plaintively from a near-by hollow; beneath the cabin porch the cur whined and howled with a sense of approaching crisis.

After a while old Seth arose, steadying himself against the corner of the porch. And silently his followers gathered about him.

“Boys,” he said, “I reckon ye all know why I sent fer ye. Jim’s been kilt. Him that was o’ my flesh and blood, and o’ yer flesh and blood, is dead. Keeser and his Germins kilt him, boys. Nothin’ on this airth that me or ye can do will bring him back to life.

“When Jim went to war, he went withouten my lief. I’d fought a lot in my time and I wanted him to keep outen sech trouble. But he went; he got the notion he ought to go, and all I could say wouldn’t stop him. Jim says that Keeser and his Germins ’as killin’ wimmen and chil’ren over yan. He says this country’d soon be at war and that we folks o’ Breathitt ought to git ready and fight same as the rest o’ the people. I studied on hit a heap then—and today I’ve studied on hit some more.

“As Jim ’lowed hit’d be, boys, this here country’s at war. I don’t understand all about hit myself, about this de-mocracy we’re a-fightin’ fer or what we’re goin’ to do with the thing after we gits hit. Lawyer Todd says hit’s jest another name fer freedom and liberty. Maybe hit is. Anyway, boys, since I’ve thought hit over, thar ain’t been a war yet when us fellers o’ the hills ain’t took a hand. Some fought fer the Union, some fer the South. Some fought in Cuby, and some o’ our kin helped whop them sassy niggers in the Fillerpines.

“Whenever we’ve fought, boys, we’ve had a reason fer hit, a mighty good reason. Do ye remember back thar, several year ago, when Bulger Allen plugged Hal Brannon in the heart as Hal ’as comin’ home from meetin’ with his gal? Do ye recollect how hit riled us and how we got our rifle-guns and went after them Allens? They’d kilt one o’ our folks, they’d broke the peace. But afore we got through with ’em, they seen hit ’as healthiest to leave our folks alone and keep their lead to themselves!”

Seth paused, swallowed, then went on:

“Boys, Jim’s been kilt. Yesterd’y we weren’t holdin’ nothin’ agin’ Keeser and his Germins. They hadn’t hurt none o’ we’uns. What devilment they’d done, they’d done outsider these hills whar we ain’t got no concarn. But now hit’s different. Hit’s jest another case o’ them Allens, boys. Hit means we got to draw blood fer blood. Had Jim been one o’ ye or yer sons, I’d say the same thing. A Brannon’s life has been took: ye and me and all our folks has got to take lives to pay fer hissen. That’s the way we do hit up here in these mountings. That’s the way we got to do hit with Keeser and his Germins.”

Lawyer Todd, standing on the edge of the company, frowned and bit his lip. He had been listening to the speech. Inwardly he had rejoiced. But now he felt a pang of disappointment. Seth, he feared, was about to overshoot the mark in his newly aroused enthusiasm. He was reckoning on personal vengeance against “Keeser and his Germins,” something that could not be but which would be hard for him to realize.

Todd, trying to attract as little notice as possible, edged through the crowd until he stood at the old chief’s elbow. As he paused in his delivery, the lawyer caught his attention.

“Seth,” he began in an undertone, “Seth, it doesn’t pay to be too hasty about this thing you’re doing. You know, those people at Washington don’t believe in fighting exactly the way we do down here. They go about it different. It’s the young men who are sent to war. The government takes only those who are in their prime, and it’s the government that picks out the guns they’ll shoot and the clothes they’ll wear and tells ’em how to act and what to do. Don’t misunderstand me, Seth. It’s all right for you to want to go to Europe and whip ‘Keeser and his Germins,’ but Seth, you just naturally can’t go.”

The old man looked at the lawyer in surprise.

“Can’t go?” he repeated aloud. “Ye mean to say I’m too old to go?” There was wrath in the tone. Those near by moved closer, listening. “Why, lawyer, I’m as young in feelin’s as any boy here. I can tromp as fer, shoot as straight and stand as much as any sodjer the gover’nent’s got.”

“Perhaps so,” replied Todd; “that all may be very true. But it’s only the young fellows they want. Lead your men down to Jackson, let the recruiting officers there pick those who are fit: then you and the rest come back here to your farms, raise more crops, pray for them that’s gone, and be good citizens. That’s your part in the war, old friend.”

“I’ll be damned if hit is!” Seth threw up his grizzled head in anger. “I can fight as well as the best of ’em. I reckon I’m an Amerikin too. Hit’s my country and my war and my Jim what’s been kilt. Won’t they let a pa fight them as murdered his son? Won’t they let him shoot them as shot him? By Gawd! o’ course they will, lawyer, and nothin’ in all creation can make me stay home!”

Todd stepped back. He saw the futility of further argument. He even doubted the wisdom of his speaking as much as he had.

Seth wrestled with his emotions for some moments in silence. Then the passion left his wrinkled features. He was thoughtful, debating with himself. Finally, his selfcontrol regained, he turned to the waiting multitude before him.

“Maybe Lawyer Todd’s right, boys,” he said with sudden frankness. “Maybe hit’s so that we can’t all go to war agin’ them as kilt our Jim.” He flashed a friendly glance of reassurance over the heads of his followers to where the lawyer stood. “Hit’s different outsider these hills ’an hit is here. We ain’t the only ones a-fightin’ Keeser and his Germins. The whole nation’s a-got hits dander up. Lawyer Todd says that afore the break o’ another spring thar’ll be more’n a million sodjers ’long side o’ us, ready to whop them Germins. I reckon I spoke kinda hasty jest now. We can’t have hit all our way. We’ll jest have to fit in with the rest wharever we can. Hit may be a close fit and hit may pinch at times, boys, but hit’s best. Lawyer Todd and them army men knows. We’ll try and make up our minds to do what they ’lows is fer the good o’ all o’ us.

“So we’ll go down to Jackson town, to that re-cruitin’ office, and axe them sodjer fellers thar to git us to Eurip. They’re showin’ others the way and I reckon they’ll show us. Some o’ us won’t come back, boys, like Jim won’t come back. Some o’ us is liable to lose a arm or a leg. But remember this, boys, wharever ye go or whoever ye’re fightin’, that ye’re men o’ Breathitt. Remember ve’re not only goin’ to kill Germins but to kill the bad name that the world ’as give us. Me and Lawyer Todd stands together on that. We’re goin’ to stop wastin’ powder on our own folks. We’re goin’ to show them people in the Blue Grass and all over the country, that the men o’ these mountings is men no different from them when hit comes to shoulderin’ a rifle-gun and pertectin’ their homes and wimmen and chil’ren. We’re goin’ to make Breathitt stand fer somethin’ else besides Breathitt blood.”

Old Seth picked up his rifle from where he had leaned it against the porch wall. His hand was steady; he pressed the gun over his heart as if to breathe into its lifeless mechanism a part of his own warrior spirit.

“Boys, time’s up,” he said. “War’s on. Jim’s body over yan is callin’ us to come. Hit’s a-callin’ us men o’ the hills, us men o’ Breathitt. We’re a-goin’”—he raised his voice. “Wars on, I say, boys, war’s on; and Keeser and his Germins is goin’ to catch hell—Breathitt hell—and hell a-plenty!”

As their chief concluded a wild yell burst from ten score mountain throats, a weird and ringing yell that surged through the neighboring valleys, beat against the stolid walls of rock and pine, and bounded upward and beyond, the answer of the Breathitt folk to humanity’s call to arms.

Lawyer Todd, a smile lifting the weariness from his face, sat his mare and watched the departure of the little army. There was no saying of farewells to the women and children; there were no handclasps or tears. Old Seth, astride a long-eared mule, led the way. The others straggled after him in irregular order. Those who had mounts rode them; the rest followed on foot. With their packs of food slung over their shoulders, their guns in the crook of their arms, the men filed out of the cabin yard and through the valley toward a distant gap in the hills.

“My people, my people!” softly exclaimed Todd, as he moved after them. “Kentuckians all, Americans all, this day you give the lie to the slander put upon your mountain race. My people, my noble people!”

Dry-eyed women, shading their brows with toil-scarred hands, lingered at their cabin doors, their children clustered about them, and watched their men go by. Occasionally one of them waved, and an answering salute came from among the irregular ranks.

Beyond the western ridges the sun dropped into a saffron sky, crowning with a halo of gold the reborn feudland, touching with mellow light the crags and peaks that stood out proudly in the dusk. High above the misty valleys a bald eagle circled, forward, backward, forward, backward, over the country of warrior clans; while through the distant gap marched mountain men, men of soul and heart and brawn.

Breathitt was at war!

_Lewis H. Kilpatrick_.

THE FORGIVER

Religion, said the mining man, sometimes puts me in mind of one of those new blasting powders; there’s no just telling when it’ll go off or whom it’ll blow up.

I was thinking then of Radway and Billsky: “Bad” Radway, him that beat up Ellis at Borromeo and shot Fargue O’Leary. You will have heard of him. Every one was hearing of him at one time, and then all the talk kind of faded out. By and by Radway himself faded out. It was Billsky that faded him.

Billsky was a little, serious, hairy fellow, not much higher than Radway’s elbow; a good little fellow, that never gave any trouble to any one. He always seemed, in a meek sort of way, puzzled over existence in general and his own share in it in particular. Men liked him. He was awful kindhearted, but he’d the same sense of humor as an Apache. Primitive, that’s what he was. He was part Russian, and he’d a primitive sort of name that no one ever tried to pronounce. Billsky came near enough.

He scarcely ever came in Rad’s way, though he moved with the same crowd. Rad was in the center, you see, Billsky just wanderin’ on the outskirts. They got mixed up pretty close, though, later.

It began with a girl, of course, a girl at Borromeo. No need for names. She was a nice girl, and a nice-lookin’ girl, just one of many, thank God. No one so much as guessed Billsky was sweet on her till she went away suddenly and was seen no more, and her folks moved away. It was put down to Rad, and he didn’t deny it; sort o’ smiled and looked knowin’. You know the kind. Then Billsky heard of it. He was working up at the Joyeux then, for that was before the irrigation was put through, and it was all cattle. He sent a message through to Radway. “I’m coming down to kill you,” said the message, “soon as I can get my time. Don’t go away.”

Well, that was Billsky all over, and most men thought it was a great joke. Radway did. “What does the little rat take me for?” he said. “I guess he’s in no hurry. I’ll have some time to wait.” Most men thought so, too, but not all.

Meanwhile, Billsky stuck to his job till he could quit without giving inconvenience. Then he got his time. He sunk every dollar of his pay in a fine pony, a quick goer. And down he came the eighty miles to Borromeo, like a fire in grass.

The betting was all on Rad, of course. It was said he thought Billsky too good a joke to shoot; he’d just beat him up a bit if he was troublesome, and let him go.

Twenty miles out of Borromeo, Billsky had to stop at a preacher’s. And there he got religion.

Yes, it’s a fact; he got it overnight. What he told the preacher, or the preacher said to him, I don’t know. I don’t begin to know. But Billsky went off afoot into the desert, five miles maybe; and it is pretty much of a desert round there. He had nothing with him but the gun he was going to shoot Radway with, and a Bible. He laid them both under a sagebush, and all night he knelt in front of them, and waited for the Lord to begin on him. There isn’t much in the desert at night, you know, but stars; and a sky back of ’em that makes even the planets look cheap. The Lord must have had His way with Billsky, without fear or favor, for at dawn he came staggering back to the preacher, drenched with sweat and dew. He had only the Bible with him.

“I believe,” he said to the preacher, “and as I hope for forgiveness, so I forgive the man it was in my heart to kill. Tell him so from me,” he said; “but it’s laid on me,” said Billsky, “that I’ll never save my soul till I tell him so myself. So tell him, too, to wait for me, for I’m a-coming to forgive him.” Then he went down in a heap at the preacher’s feet.

That old man was a real Christian, and he put Billsky to bed and looked after him like a father. He’d never had an out-and-out hot-on-the-spot convert like that before, and he was so worked up and excited over it that he saddled his old horse and rode into Borromeo himself to give Radway the message of forgiveness.

I was in Duluth’s, with some of the other fellows, looking at some new saddles he had in; and Rad was there, too, and there was a good deal of talk going on of one kind and another. Some one must have told the old preacher where Rad was, for he pulled up his old white nag outside Duluth’s, and “Mr. Radway!” he called, in a high voice, “Mr. Radway! I have a message for you.”

“Hello!” said Rad, winking at his cronies,—I wasn’t one,—“Is Billsky coming with his gun? I must get ready to hide.” And there was laughing.

Sitting his old horse straight as an Indian, the old preacher raised his head and took his hat off. His white hair shone in the sun. There seemed to be more than sun shining on his face. “Mr. Radway,” says he, “the message I bring is one of forgiveness. You have nothing to fear from Billsky. He forgives you. And I was to tell you that he will never rest until he himself can assure you of that forgiveness. And may the Lord have mercy on you,” said the old man, and put on his hat and rode away. I give you my word, I never heard Duluth’s so quiet! There wasn’t a sound till Radway caught his breath and began to curse.

Funny what’ll get a man’s nerve, eh? It sent Rad quite wild to think Billsky wanted to forgive him!

Billsky was sick at the preacher’s some time. He came into Borromeo looking queerer and hairier than ever, and simply eaten alive with the longin’ to forgive Rad. “’Tisn’t him I’m thinking of,” he explained in his careful way, “he’ll get what’s coming to him, anyway; it’s me,” he said. “How’m I to save my soul if I don’t forgive him?”

“Well, you can’t forgive him just yet,” said the man he was talking to, sort of soothing. “He ain’t here. He’s on a new job: foreman at the Llindura, and went out last week.”

“Oh!” said Billsky. He looked all around him, kind of taken aback and hurt. “Oh! Why’d he do that?”

“He didn’t do it because he was afraid of you, old sport,” said the other man, laughing fit to hurt himself, “if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Billsky looked more hurt than ever. He’d big collie-dog eyes in his furry face, and now they fairly filled with tears. “Why should I think that?” he said earnestly. “I only want to forgive him. I only want to tell him I forgive him.” And he went away, all puzzled at the contrariety of things in general.

He kept pretty small and quiet about Borromeo for a few days; and then I saw him looking awful pleased with himself. “Gray Thomas,” he told me, “he’s going out to the Llindura with some mules, and he’ll take me along. So now I’ll be able to forgive Radway,” he said, “and get it off my mind.”

He went out to the Llindura with the mules. When he got there, he found Rad had been sent to Sageville with a bunch of calves the day before.

He stayed a week at the Llindura, almost too worried to earn his keep, waiting for Radway. Radway didn’t come. At the end of the week, he lit out for Sageville. Halfway there, he met the rest of Rad’s outfit, coming back. “Rad’s been bit with the mining fever,” they told Billsky, “and he’s off into the Altanero country with a man he met in Sageville. The boss’ll be mad with him.” Billsky looked more grieved than ever.

“Did he know I was waiting for him?” said he.

“No,” said they, “how should he?”

Well, how should he? But I believe he did. You see, Billsky’s forgiveness had got on his nerves.

It was a close call in Sageville that Radway’d get forgiven in spite of himself. He actually rode out one end of the town with his new partner as Billsky came in at the other.

The fellows laughed at Billsky; but they liked him; and maybe they began to wonder. Anyway, Billsky stayed in Sageville a week, selling his pony and getting an outfit together. When they asked him what he wanted a prospectin’ outfit for, he just looked at them in a surprised, hurt sort of way, and said, “Why, to go after Rad and forgive him, of course. What’d you think?” Pretty soon, they stopped laughing. It was the look on Billsky’s face stopped them. You know how queer brown and yellow faces look to us? That’s because the expression never changes. Billsky began to look queer, like a Chink or an Indian; he’d just one expression in those days, stamped on his hairy face as if he’d been branded with it.

He got two burros and an outfit of sorts, and off he went at the end of the week, trailing Radway into the Altanero. Three days before he went, a mule wagon pulled out for Seear; it overtook Radway and his partner, and the driver told him his forgiver was following on. So, you see, Rad knew.

Have you ever seen the opening of the Altanero: the Gates of the Altanero? There’s desert, and there’s hills, and there’s cañons; and there’s the Altanero. This side the Gates, you’re still somebody, with work to do, and money to get, and girls to kiss: anything, if you go find it. Other side the Gates, you’re nobody, nothing. You just go out. Yes, you just go out. It’s like dying while you’re alive. You don’t count at all; and quite often you die dead.

Have you ever seen the Gates? You go on and on in the heat, away from Sageville, and Seear, and everything you know. They lie flat behind you, lost in the heat. You don’t see ’em if you turn and look. You don’t see anything. Even the sage thins out and goes. It’s all dust. Then ahead, ever so far, you see something gold. It rises higher, little by little,—oh so slow! and you see it’s rocks, great golden rocks. They lift, and lift, and lift. One day you find they’re behind you as well as in front: nothing but golden rocks; unless it’s red rocks or green rocks or rocks like clear black glass. I’ve known some queer moments, but there’s nothing so queer as when it first comes home to you that, for miles and miles in every direction, there’s just nothing but the rocks—like a world rough-cut from precious stones and left to die.

There’s few wells in the Altanero: few that are known. You travel by, and accordin’ to, the wells. Radway struck off into the hills from the Seaar trail, making for the first well. A week later, there was Billsky following over the same ground. Each night he’d camp by one of Radway’s cold fires; and, each night, he’d kneel in the ashes and pray. Sometimes he’d pray an hour, or two hours, or three, under the tremendous stars; but it was always that he might catch up with Rad quick, and forgive him, and get it off his mind. He wasn’t worrying. He was just eager. He knew he was bound to come across Rad sooner or later in the Altanero. Then he’d sleep, and eat, and off he’d go, singing hymns to the burros: “Greenland’s Icy Mountains,” most likely.

Once, in the dead ashes, he found a broke-off saucepan handle. He was so pleased he carted it along with him, like a mascot. It seemed to put him in touch with Radway: to bring the happy moment o’ forgiveness nearer.

And Radway? Well, there you have me.

The Altanero’s a bad country to travel in if you’ve anything on your nerves. I passed through a few miles of it once when I had something on mine: a sick child two hundred miles away; and I tell you, by the third day I was seein’ the kid everywhere. But Radway—I can’t just explain Radway. I wonder if he was seein’ the girl that started it.

Billsky made the first water-hole six days behind Rad; he’d gained a day.

Rad and company had used considerable of the water in that hole. It had shrunk, and there in the margin, baked hard and white like clay, were footprints of men and burros. Billsky picked out Rad’s footprints and patted ’em, he was so pleased. He rested by the water a few hours, and freshened up his burros. Then he went on.

Between the first water-hole and the second the country opens up. It isn’t just a huddle of rocks. It’s mesas rising from a dead level of dust like the worn foundations of towers and cathedrals and cities, banded in rose and violet and gold. You could no more climb most of ’em than you could climb the outside of a skyscraper. But Billsky found one he could climb, and up he went. He’d seen some sort of dry, grassy stuff at the top, and he wanted it for Sarah, one of the burros that was ailing. He found more than the grass on top. He found a grave. Didn’t know whose, of course; nobody knows, nor ever will. He gave the grass to Sarah; but next day she died. Billsky was terrible hurt and grieved, he was always so careful of beasts. He never realized that Sarah was just beat out: couldn’t stand the pace.

At the second water-hole he was only four days behind Rad.

He rested up a bit, being worried over his burro; and took out the lost time in prayer. Then on he went, at that terrible pace, overhauling Rad by the mile, achin’ to forgive him. It’s a long stretch to the third hole. Billsky gained two days on it. I can’t guess how. He told me he took short cuts through the cañons, and that they always turned out all right; and that he sang “Hold the Fort, for I Am Coming,” right along.