“That thar Herder on Thunderhead,” said Mink, lowering his voice. The fibrous mist, hovering about the summit of Thunderhead and stretching its long lines almost over to Piomingo Bald, might in some mysterious telegraphy of the air transmit the matter.
“Not ez I knows on,” said Doaks. “He ain’t been viewed lately. But Joe Boyd, he’s a-herdin’ over thar now: I kem acrost him one day las’ week, an’ he ’lowed ez his cattle hed been actin’ powerful strange. I ’lowed the cattle mus’ hev viewed the harnt, an’ mebbe he war tryin’ ter ’tice ’em off.”
“Ef ye’ll b’lieve me,” said Mink ruminatively, after a pause, “I never hearn none o’ them boys tell a word about that thar harnt of a herder on Thunderhead.”
“Them t’other herders on Thunderhead don’t hanker ter talk ’bout him, no-ways,” said Doaks. “It’s powerful hard ter git a word out’n ’em ’bout it; they’re mighty apt ter laff, an’ ’low it mus’ be somebody ridin’ roun’ from ’cross the line. But it’ll make enny of ’em bleach ef ye ax ’em suddint ef all o’ Joshua Nixon’s bones war buried tergether.”
The mists had spanned the abyss of the valley in a sheer, gossamer-like network, holding the sunbeams in a glittering entanglement. They elusively caressed the mountain summit, and hung about the two lounging figures of the herders,—a sort of ethereal eavesdropping of uncomfortable suggestions,—and slipped into the dwarfed woods, where they lurked spectrally.
“Waal, ef ye ax ’em ef Joshua Nixon’s bones war all buried tergether they’ll bleach,” Doaks repeated. “See that thar sort’n gap yander?” he continued, pointing at a notch on the slope of Thunderhead. “They fund his bones thar under a tree streck by lightning. They ’lowed that war the way he died. But the wolves an’ the buzzards hedn’t lef’ enough ter make sure. They hed scattered his bones all up an’ down the slope. He hed herded over thar a good many year, an’ some o’ the t’other boys keered fur the cattle till the owners kem in the fall.”
He recounted slowly. Time was no object on Piomingo Bald.
“Waal, nobody hearn nuthin’ mo’ ’bout’n it fur a few years, till one day when I war herdin’ thar the cattle war all fund, runned mighty nigh ter death, an’ a-bellerin’ an’ a-cavortin’ ez ef they war ’witched. An’ one o’ the herders, Ike Stern, kem in thar ter the cabin an’ ’lowed he hed seen a lot o’ strange cattle ’mongst our’n, an’ a herder ridin’ ’mongst ’em. ’Twar misty, bein’ a rainy spell, an’ he lost the herder in the fog. Waal, we jes’ ’lowed ’twar somebody from Piomingo Bald huntin’ fur strays, or somebody from ’cross the line. So we jes’ went on fryin’ the meat, an’ bakin’ the hoe-cake, an’ settin’ roun’ the fire; but this hyar man kept on complainin’ he couldn’t holp seein’ that thar herder. An’ wunst in a while he’d hold his hand afore his eyes. An’ one o’ the old herders,—Rob Carrick ’twar,—he jes’ axed him what that herder looked like. An’ Ike jes’ sot out ter tell. An’ the coffee war a-bilin’, an’ the meat a-sizzlin’, an’ Carrick war a-squattin’ afore the fire a-listenin’ an’ a-turnin’ the meat, till all of a suddint he lept up an’ drapped his knife, yellin’, ‘My God! ye lyin’ buzzard, don’t ye set thar a-tellin’ me ez Josh Nixon hev kem all the way from hell ter herd on Thunderhead! Don’t ye do it! Don’t ye do it!’ An’ Ike Stern,—he looked like he seen Death that minit; his eyes war like coals o’ fire, an’ he trembled all over,—he jes’ said, ‘I see I hev been visited by the devil, fur I hev been gin ter view a dead man, apin’ the motions o’ life.’”
Doaks pulled at his pipe for a few moments, his eyes still absently fixed on the purple peak shimmering in the gauzy white mists and the yellow sunshine.