A Maid of the Kentucky Hills

by Edwin Carlile Litsey

I wheeled in my tracks, and walked under the shed.

I did not enter the smithy because there was no need. It was light as day in there, and I would have been in the way then. I saw three people and a mule, evidently young, and evidently fractious. It was a fine yearling; fat, sleek, shapely. Buck Steele, with a small, elongated iron shoe in his left hand, stood in a semi-profile position, facing the man who had brought the animal in. A negro boy lolled by the forge, his hand on the handle of the bellows.

"Whut's th' matter 'ith th' fool critter?" Buck was saying, as I halted under the shed. He had not seen my approach.

"Fus' time, yo' know," returned the man, in a wheedling kind of voice, thrusting his thumb under his bedticking suspender, and chasing it over his shoulder with that member. "Yo' 'll hev to be kind o' durn keerful, Buck"—he shifted his hold from the rope of the halter to the halter itself—"'cus he didn't miss yo' an inch las' time."

The mule was scared. It trembled at every move Buck made, and its eyes were distended and rolling.

"Nothin' 's ever passed out o' this here shop bar'-footed that a man wants shoes on!" maintained the smith. "If yo' want this animile shod, I'll shoe 'im!"

"I shore want 'im shod!"

The speaker took a fresh grasp on the halter, and his hairy visage became contorted in an expression impossible to translate, as Buck stepped forward and put his hand on the smooth withers of the young mule. It shrank down under his touch, and blew short, gusty breaths. Buck waited, patiently, until the animal became quiet, then, gently patting the reddish-brown skin, he gradually moved his hand along its side until he reached its flank. There he stooped, with low, soothing words, and a great admiration for his courage found birth within me as I saw him bend beside that sinewy thigh corded and bunched with muscles. Gently his big brown fingers slid down the slender hock, then like the rebound of a crossbow the satiny limb shot out in a paroxysm of untamed fear. It was a lightning stroke, delivered so swiftly my eyes could not follow it. Buck saw it start, infinitesimal as the time must have been from its inception to its execution—perhaps he felt the steel thews hardening under his hand—for he leaped backward simultaneously. This action saved his life. As it was, the edge of the small hoof slashed his forehead like a razor, leaving a crimson, dripping gap. It went just below the surface, and did not even stun the smith. He staggered, it is true, but from his own recoil, and was erect an instant later. Then I witnessed a sight I shall never forget though I round out a century.

The sting of the hurt and the treachery of the brute took all of Buck's sense and judgment for the time. He was as much animal as the four-legged one in front of him that moment. His bearded face became convulsed horribly, his eyes shot fire, and with that red gash in his forehead from which tiny streams trickled unheeded, he advanced one step, drew back his arm, and struck that mule a blow which stretched it dead before our eyes!

I write the culmination of this incident with reluctance. Not from its brutal and somewhat harrowing complexion, but from the fear that many will be tempted to smile tolerantly, and in the kindness of their hearts forgive this one most palpable fiction in a book of fact. But it is true, nevertheless, and I venture to declare it will be a tale in the knob country long after later and lesser things have been forgotten.