At nine o’clock the party straggled in from different directions empty-handed. Eli Twilliger was the last one. His had been a hard, rough climb. Thin and wiry, sure of foot as a wild cat, and as ready to pounce upon the object of his search, not a man knew so well the hiding places those mighty hills afforded. His shirt was torn, his hands and face bore scratches received in a careful search through the narrow subterranean passages which honeycombed the cliffs. Tired and hungry, he was in an ugly mood as with long strides he made toward the group gathered at the edge of the pine thicket.
Dan Gooch turned toward him with a warning finger which he resented. “What’s do-in’?” he growled. “Hev you caged the varmint and air makin’ a show of him?” He peered curiously over the intervening shoulders and was suddenly silenced.
In sight of the charred, smouldering ruins from which still issued little puffs of smoke, Talitha, nothing daunted by her ill fortune, had gathered her little flock. Smiles had begun to cover their tear-stained faces. It was a delightful novelty to sit on that mossy, sun-flecked bank and prepare the day’s lessons. Billy Gooch shared his large slate with the youngest of the Twilligers, and two small girls bent industriously over the same book.
The eyes of the rough mountaineers moistened, their hands tightened upon their rifles ominously. There was a stir among the foremost, and Si Quinn faced them. His face was like a thunder cloud. One crutch waved so threateningly that those nearest shrank back. “What air you goin’ ter do ’bout hit? Thet’s what I want ter ask. You might hev knowed you couldn’t ketch that feller; he wan’t brung up in the mountings fer nothin’. Hit was as big a piece of devilment as I ever heerd of, but mebbe hit won’t be the worst thing could hev happened, except fer the leetle gal losin’ the money she put inter hit. Let’s go ter work and put up somethin’ thet won’t shame us. You-all know thet old shack warn’t no way fitten fer a schoolhouse. I can’t help you ter cut a stick of timber much as I’d give fer the strength ter do hit, but I’ll give ’nough ter make up fer all Tally lost—”
“Sho now, Si, we ain’t goin’ ter let you do hit,” interrupted the blacksmith. “We’ll jest count your advice wuth thet much, and I reckon hit air. If we ain’t robustious ’nough ter put up another schoolhouse and git what Tally needs for our young-uns, I ’low we’re a sorry lot—”
“How you do go on, Enoch,” jibed Eli Twilliger, pushing his way to the front. “Air you intendin’ ter take the stump fer the next ’lection? Let’s git down ter bizness. Thar ain’t nothin’ I can see ter hinder us from startin’ ter-morrow mornin’, and if the weather is fair Tally shall hev her schoolhouse in two weeks. Ain’t thet so, boys?”
For answer, a shout went up that started the echoes from their hiding-places in the hills. Talitha and her flock looked up at them wonderingly. She was too far away to comprehend what good fortune was to be hers, but she could rejoice that something had restored the men to good humour. Greater than sorrow at the frustrating of her plans and the loss in which her small savings had been invested, was her horror at the revival of the old feud spirit. She had learned at the Bentville school the terribleness of it. In agony she had watched her father the previous night as he cleaned and loaded his rifle. Jake Simcox had done a despicable, cowardly thing, but she could not wish him dealt with according to the code of mountain justice.
At noon she sent the children home and walked slowly beside the schoolmaster. There were many questions she wished to ask him, but she kept silent, knowing that he would speak of his own accord or not at all.
“Hit war jest as I ’lowed,” he said at last. “Jake took time by the forelock and mighty well he did.”
“Oh, I’m so glad they didn’t find him!” exclaimed Talitha in a tone that struck the schoolmaster oddly.