A Maid of the Kentucky Hills

by Edwin Carlile Litsey

I threw my head back against the cushioned leather, and in doing so my eyes lighted on a magnificent moose head over the mantel.

"You killed that fellow?" I asked, swerving suddenly from the subject without apology, as is permitted between old friends.

"Yes; in northern Maine. I trailed him ten days, went hungry for two, broke through some thin lake ice in zero weather, tramped five miles with my wet clothes frozen on me before I could get to a fire, and slept two nights under snow a foot deep. Then I killed him."

I stared at him curiously.

"I confess," I said, "that I have thought you were giving me a prescription you knew nothing about. I beg your pardon for my unbelief."

He smiled, and broke his cigar ash into the tray at his elbow.

"I wouldn't miss my annual trip into Eden for a year's income," he said. "It is during those thirty days I store up life and energy for the remaining three hundred and thirty-five."

Then we fell to discussing my departure, and there followed an hour's talk on ways and means. By eleven o'clock I had a list of everything I could possibly need which would contribute to my comfort or well being. But there was one thing more; one supreme thing. All that evening I had been trying to speak it, and couldn't. Now we were sitting side by side at the table where we had made my list, and suddenly courage came. I clasped the ham-like hand lying close to mine, and looking steadily and beseechingly into my friend's eyes, said:

"'Crombie, go with me! I don't mean go to stay. I'm not such a miserable, snuffling coward as that. But companion me there—show me the way—help me get established. Two days—not longer. That country is new to me. Cedarton would take me for an escaped lunatic if I should apply at a livery stable for a wagon to take me and my effects to a shack which used to stand on the slope of Bald Knob. Don't you see? The people know you, and a word from you would fix it all right. I'm your patient. But more than that, 'Crombie, is having your good old self with me. Just come to the shack with me, help me place my things, hearten me up by your good man-talk, make me believe and know that I am on the right track. Just two days. Won't you do it, 'Crombie?"

I knew that I was asking a great deal, probably more than I should. It would seem that it was enough for one man to show another where bodily salvation lay, without taking him by the hand and leading him to it. And forty-eight hours from town now meant a monetary loss to the man beside me. But God made men like Abercrombie Dane for other purposes than money getting.