The Shepherd of the Hills

by Harold Bell Wright

At this the spokesman dropped his bantering tone, “Look a here, ol’ man. We’uns ain’t got no time t’ be a foolin’ here. We know who that feller is, an’ we’re a goin’ t’ have him. He’s been a sneakin’ ’round this here neighborhood long enough. As fer you, Mister, we ’low your health’ll be some better back where you come from; an’ we aim t’ hep you leave this neck o’ th’ woods right sudden. Open up, now, an’ turn that there feller over t’ us; an’ we’ll let you off easy like. If you don’t, we’ll bust in th’ door, an’ make you both dance t’ th’ same tune. There won’t be ary thing under you t’ dance on, nuther.”

The old shepherd was replying kindly, when his speech was interrupted by a pistol shot, and a command from the leader, at which the entire gang charged toward the cabin, firing as they came, and making the little valley hideous with their drunken oaths and yells.

From his window, Young Matt coolly emptied his revolver, but even as the crowd faltered, there came from their leader another volley of oaths. “Go on, go on,” yelled Wash. “Their guns are empty, now. Fetch ’em out ’fore they can load again.” With an answering yell, the others responded. Carrying a small log they made for the cabin at full speed. One crashing blow—the door flew from its hinges, and the opening was filled with the drunken, sweating, swearing crew. The same instant, Young Matt dropped his useless revolver, and, springing forward, met them on the threshold. The old shepherd—who had not fired a shot—could scarcely believe his eyes, as he saw the giant catch the nearest man by the shoulder and waist, and, lifting him high above his head, fling him with terrific force full into the faces of his bewildered companions.

Those who were not knocked down by the strange weapon scattered in every direction, crouching low. For a moment the big fellow was master of the situation, and, standing alone in the doorway, in the full light of the moon, was easily recognized.

“Hell, boys! Hit’s Young Matt hisself!” yelled the one who had raised a laugh, by saying that Young Matt was sick and the shepherd was wanted to doctor.

“Yes! It’s me, Bill Simpson. I’m sure ailin’ to-night. I need somebody to go for a doctor powerful bad,” returned the young giant.

“We never knowed it war you,” whined the other carefully lengthening the distance between the big man on the doorstep and himself.

“No, I reckon not. You all played to find an old man alone, and do for him like you’ve done for others. A fine lot you are, ten to one, and him not knowin’ the woods.”

While he was speaking, the men slowly retreated, to gather about their big leader under the tree, two of them being assisted by their companions, and one other limping painfully. Young Matt raised his voice, “I know you, Wash Gibbs, and I know this here is your dirty work. You’ve been a braggin’ what you’d do when you met up with me. I’m here now. Why don’t you come up like a man? Come out here into the light and let’s you and me settle this thing right now. You all—” Crack! A jet of flame leaped out of the shadow, and the speaker dropped like a log.

With a cry the shepherd ran to the side of his friend; but in a moment the crowd had again reached the cabin, and the old man was dragged from his fallen companion. With all his strength, Mr. Howitt struggled with his captors, begging them to let him go to the boy. But his hands were bound tightly behind his back, and when he still plead with those who held him, Wash Gibbs struck him full in the mouth, a blow that brought the blood.