The Shepherd of the Hills

by Harold Bell Wright

A match cracked. The light flared out, and a whiff of tobacco smoke came curling around the rock, as one of the men said: “Are you sure there is no mistake about their meeting at Lane’s to-night?”

“Can’t possibly be,” came the answer. “I was lying in the brush, right by the gate when the messenger got there, and I heard Jim give the order myself. Take it all the way through, unless we make a slip to-night, it will be one of the prettiest cases I ever saw.”

“Yes,” said the other; “but you mustn’t forget that it all hinges on whether or not that bank watchman was right in thinking he recognized Wash Gibbs.”

“The man couldn’t be mistaken there,” returned the other. “There is not another man in the country the size of Gibbs, except the two Matthews’s, and of course they’re out of the question. Then, look! Jim Lane was ready to move out because of the drought, when all at once, after being away several days the very time of the robbery, he changes his mind, and stays with plenty of money to carry him through. And now, here we are to-night, with that same old Bald Knobber gang, what’s left of them, called together in the same old way by Jim himself, to meet in his cabin. Take my word for it, we’ll bag the whole outfit, with the rest of the swag before morning. It’s as sure as fate. I’m glad that girl is away from home, though.”

Sammy had heard enough. As the full meaning of the officers’ words came to her, she felt herself swaying dizzily in the saddle and clung blindly to the pony’s mane for support. Then something in her brain kept beating out the words, “Ride, Ride, Ride.”

Never for an instant did Sammy doubt her father. It was all some horrible mistake. Her Daddy Jim would explain it all. Of course he would, if—if she could only get home first. But the men were between her and the path that led to the road.

Then all at once she remembered that Young Matt had told her how Sake Creek hollow headed in the pinery below the ridge along which they went from Fall Creek to the Forks. It might be that this bench at the foot of the ledge would lead to a way out.

As quick as thought the girl slipped to the ground, and taking Brownie by the head began feeling her way along the narrow shelf. Dead leaves, tangled grass and ferns, all wet and sodden, made a soft carpet, so that the men behind the rock heard no sound. Now and then the lightning revealed a glimpse of the way for a short distance, but mostly she trusted blindly to her pony’s instinct. Several times she stumbled over jagged fragments of rock that had fallen from above, cutting her hand and bruising her limbs cruelly. Once, she was saved from falling over the cliff by the little horse’s refusal to move. A moment she stood still in the darkness; then the lightning showed a way past the dangerous point.

After a time that seemed hours, she noticed that the ledge had become no higher than her head, and that a little farther on the bench was lost in the general slope of the hill. She had reached the head of the hollow. A short climb up the side of the mountain, and, pushing through the wet bushes, she found herself in the road. She had saved about three miles. It was still nearly five to her home. An instant later the girl was in her saddle, and the brown pony was running his best.

Sammy always looked back upon that ride in the darkness, and, indeed, upon all that happened that night, as to a dream of horror. As she rode, that other night came back to her, the night she had ridden to save the shepherd, and she lived over again that evening in the beautiful woods with Young Matt. Oh, if he were only with her now! Unconsciously, at times, she called his name aloud again and again, keeping time to the beat of her pony’s feet. At other times she urged Brownie on, and the little horse, feeling the spirit of his mistress, answered with the best he had to give. With eager, outstretched head, and wide nostrils, he ran as though he understood the need.