Gena of the Appalachians

by Clarence Monroe Wallin

As the night wore on, some of the people returned to the others were told the story of the flight, and were requested not to insist on going into the sick-room, for the sake of the sick one. Men stood about in groups and shook their heads while women spoke out boldly and pitied Paul Waffington, for they were constrained to believe that Jase Dillenburger would be on the trail of him within an hour, and when found would shoot him down.

As the night wore on, some of the people returned to their homes, others hung about the sick-room at a safe distance to see if Jase Dillenburger would appear. By and by, word was passed out from the sick-room that Gena Filson was burning up with a dreadful fever and that she was then delirious. It was certain now that some grave sickness was upon her. Paul Waffington sought out Fen Green, and asked him if he would venture to make the twelve miles through the dark night and the gorge for the doctor.

“Fenton, I want you to bring the doctor when you return without fail. Gena is burning up with fever, and is delirious. Make all the speed that you possibly can, Fenton,” was the request of Waffington.

“I’ll bring ’im. Don’t you never doubt but what I’ll bring ’im. I’ll bring ’im, dead or alive, shore’s my name is Fen Green,” and into the dark and dangerous gorge he turned his horse at a fast gallop.

Every living soul in Blood Camp was up before the sun on the following morning. They wished to get a start with the sun and see what new things the day would bring forth.

Not long after the store had opened for the day, a wagon drew up in which were seated the old fiddler, Jase Dillenburger and two guards. All the fathers of Blood Camp had gathered at the store to see the going away of their neighbor Jason Dillenburger in the company of an officer of the law.

“Boys, the next time a man comes into your neighborhood fiddling free, be careful,” said Bull Jones, the fiddler. “I’ve not fiddled here for more than a solid year for nothing, boys. I didn’t go out here on the hills during the long summer days and plough and hoe corn with no expectation of receiving a reward in the end. I’ve milked every cow in the neighborhood, hoed most of the gardens, planted sugar-cane and played the fiddle in the store there by the week. Remember, boys, that somebody always has the fiddler to pay. Good-bye, boys, and good luck,” and the officer gave the signal to start.

Old Jase had sat still and sullen throughout it all. He had been arrested by an officer of the law for moonshining, counterfeiting and several other violations. He knew that he would now go to prison for a long term of years, however light the sentence might be. He knew, too, that he was old and that he would never live to serve out his time and return to Blood Camp. Therefore, as the wagon moved away, he turned his great shaggy head and looked at Fen Green standing on the store platform and called out:

“Fen, don’t fergit, thet I want ye to have Genie, Christmas, ef she don’t die.”

The shock of the arrest and the presence of an officer in her home was too much for the little stout wife of old Jase. Consequently, she gathered up a few of her choicest belongings in a red tablecloth, threw the bundle over her shoulder, and made her way back across the mighty Snake back to her “people” on the Catawba.