The Twins of Suffering Creek

by Ridgwell Cullum

But when next he looked up his moment of gentleness had passed. His easier moods were never of long duration. One swift glance again at the distant hill, and then he turned from it and sat gazing at the dank, oozy prospect of the low-lying flat he was just entering with no sort of friendliness. The sharp hoofs of his team were flinging mud in every direction, and the rattle of the wheels had deadened to a thick sucking as they sank into the black mud. It was a heavy pull, but the speed was not checked. It only needed an extra effort, and this the willing team readily applied. He knew the spot well; and he knew that beyond lay the hill, the crest of which had so held his attention a few minutes before.

His thoughts traveled no farther than that hill. For the time at least there was nothing beyond. Later it would be for him to consider that. Just ahead of him lay the chances and changes which went to make up such a life as his. This he knew. And somehow the thought stimulated his pulses to a fuller appreciation of things.

In a few moments he was nearing the far boundary of the flat, and the ascent of the hill was about to commence. He smiled. Yes, it was well calculated. The hill would have to be taken at a walk. It was by far the steepest of the journey. He remembered, too, that the crest of it was reached by a final climb that became almost precipitous. He remembered, too, that the black woods that crowded its sides at the crest gave place to the skeleton trunks left by some long-forgotten forest fire. Yes, it was the one spot on the whole journey best calculated for what was to come.

The team no longer labored in the ooze. The ascent was begun. With heads held high, with ears pricked and nostrils distended they faced the big effort unflinchingly.

And the driver’s mind was calculating many things. It was moving with the swiftness of an able general’s in the midst of a big action. He glanced at the sky. Already the sun was hidden behind the western hills. Already the shadows were lengthening and the gray of evening was falling. The profound woods, dense and ghostly, had closed in. The trail was so narrow that the dreary, weeping foliage often swept the sides of the cart. But these things did not occur to him. His mind was ahead, amongst those aged skeletons left by the raging fire-fiend.

Progress was slow. It was almost too slow for the man’s eager nerves. He wanted to reach his goal. His lean body thrilled with a profound joy. He lusted for the battle which he knew to lie ahead of him. But, even so, he gave no outward sign. His face was set and harsh. His small eyes bored through the gloom, thrusting to penetrate beyond every bend in the winding road. Nothing escaped them. Each small fur that fled in terror at his approach was carefully noted, for they told him things he wanted to know.

Now the final steep was reached. It was truly precipitous. The sharp hoofs of the team clawed their way up. Such was the struggle that even the man found himself leaning forward, instinctively desiring to help the laboring animals. The bends in the trail were sudden and at brief intervals. It was as though those responsible for the original clearing of the road had realized the impossibility of a direct ascent, and had chosen the zigzag path as the only means of surmounting the hill.

The moments passed. Bend followed bend. The man in the cart found himself mechanically counting them. Two more. One more. The summit was almost reached. And beyond? He sighed. Maybe it was the sigh of a man whose nerves are relieved from their tension, knowing that beyond this last bend lay his goal. Maybe it was inspired by sympathy for his struggling horses. Anyway, his whole manner underwent a change. The watchfulness seemed to have gone from his eyes, his muscles to have relaxed. He leant back in his seat like a man full of weariness, and securely fastened his reins to an iron rail on the side of the cart.

He was at the bend now. The leaders were abreast of it. They were past it. He––

There was a sharp rattle of firearms, and half-a-dozen bullets swept pinging their way over his head. A hoarse voice shouted a command to halt. His horses plunged forward. But, quick as lightning, his hands flew to the reins, and he drew them up to a standstill in the open.