“Yesterday, I saw the coach.” Ballard shifted uneasily. “I asked if he’d take you back on the team. He said, ‘Ballard’s never been off the team.’”
The girl paused. Ballard’s hand clutched at the log. His lips moved. He did not speak.
“The coach said,” Jensie went on after a time, “that he understood the code of the mountains. He’s lived down here. But he says the code of the mountains is not the code of Hillcrest. He said that people who call other folks vile names don’t have to be killed for it. In time they kill themselves. They get to talking out real loud and then they lose all their friends. After that they may not be dead but they might as well be.”
Once again the girl paused. The shadows in the valley had grown longer. All the meadow lands were in the shadows now.
“Ballard,” she began again, “we mountain folks can’t be quitters. I quit once. Daddy sent me away to school. I couldn’t take it. I came home. I—I’ve always been sorry for that.
“But you, Ballard,” she touched his hand, “you are a boy. Boys are strong, you can’t quit. It’s for the mountains, Ballard, and for your future, all the glorious, golden days that lie ahead.
“I—I think we better go down now.” She took up her gun. The big red hound sprang to his feet. They were off.
Their way home led past Cousin Bill’s store. Johnny sat on the bench beside the door. He was whittling and talking to old Noah Pennington.
“Hello, Johnny,” Jensie greeted. “When are we going back?”
“Any time you say. How about nine tomorrow morning?”