To the two girls, born and bred on the plains, the election, which had reached a high pitch of excitement by early afternoon, was indeed a revelation. There were judges of that election who served without pay, twenty or more of them, not legal judges but men who were there to see that their side had fair play. Ten or more of Black Bleven’s men were constantly present; an equal number of the Ransom Turner clan were there. Not a word was said by any of them, but everyone knew that guns, not lips, would speak if things went wrong.
These men meant to see that the men of their side were permitted to vote and if trouble arose they were ready to fight.
All that quiet afternoon, as if before a storm, the air seemed electrified. In every heart deep feelings surged; hatred in some, loyalty in others. To every thinking man the situation held dire possibilities. Here might start a bloody feud that would not end until scores were in their graves.
Men and women stood in little knots. Questions were asked in whispers. Would they vote? Would some of Black Blevens’ men dare to cross his will? Would they dare? Black Blevens had large logging contracts. He would hire many men during the coming winter. Dared the men, whose very bread and butter depended upon him, desert him?
At three o’clock the question was beginning to be answered. The election appeared clearly lost for Ransom Turner. At three-thirty he was eleven votes behind, and no apparent chance of a rally.
Florence stuck grimly to her post, close to the schoolhouse door. Her heart was breaking. She loved the mountain children, had dreamed of a bigger and better school than Laurel Branch had ever known. That was all passing now. In two or three weeks she would be bidding the valley farewell forever. Yet, with the grim determination of a Spartan, she stuck to her post.
As for Marion, she had learned what seemed to her to be one of the secrets of happiness. When one’s greatest hope seems about to fail, it is well to quickly swing one’s interests to others, less important perhaps, but not less entrancing. As the election appeared lost, she thought once more of the Georgia gold and the attic of the whipsawed house. She it had been who had removed the board from the ceiling. At that time, however, she had been suddenly called to other tasks and, having replaced the board wrong end to, had left without climbing to the attic at all. “There’s time enough now,” she thought, “and who knows what I might discover? There’s no need to stay here any longer. The election is lost.”
Reaching her room, she at once shoved the bed beneath the loose board, and a moment later, candle in hand, found herself swinging along from beam to beam toward the ancient pounding mill in the corner.
“Don’t see why it’s here,” she murmured to herself. “Cumbersome old thing. No good up here.”
She put out her hand to touch it. Then she took it away in disgust. It was black with three decades of accumulated dust.