“The damned dawg’s done me dirt, an’ he hain’t above doin’ hit ag’in,” he muttered, as he strapped the holster beneath his left arm.
To his womankind, Uncle Dick spoke of the affair casually, concealing his apprehensions. Neither of the granddaughters ventured remonstrance, though Alvira’s pretty face was mutinous, and Plutina felt a sickening sense of calamity rushing upon her. It seemed to her the irony of fate that 132 her own relation should thus interfere to render abortive the effect she had risked so much to secure. She realized, with a shrinking misery, that the sufferers from her act were now at liberty to inflict vengeance upon her, should suspicion be born in them. For the first time in her life, Plutina experienced a feminine cowardice, bewailing her helplessness. There was none to whom she might turn for counsel; none, even, in whom she might confide. It was no mere chimera of fear that beset her. She was far too sensible and too strong for hysterical imaginings. But she knew that her peril was real and grave. In the face of it, she felt suddenly a new longing for the absent lover. Hitherto, her fondness had been tender and passionate, touched with the maternal protectiveness that is instinctive in every woman. Now, a new desire of him leaped in her. She yearned for rest on his bosom, secure within the shelter of his arms, there to pour forth all the story of her trouble, there to hear his voice of consolation, there to be at peace. She touched the fairy crystal that lay between her breasts, and she smiled, very sadly, and very wistfully.
“Zeke will shorely come,” she whispered, “if I need him—bad enough.”
There was a tremor in her voice, but it was not of doubt.
CHAPTER XII
Early in the morning following his trip to North Wilkesboro’ Uncle Dick Siddon rode off to Pleasant Valley, there to prosecute his sentimental labors for the pleasuring of the Widow Brown. Alvira fared abroad on some errand to a neighboring cabin. Plutina, her usual richness of coloring dimmed by a troubled night, was left alone. In the mid-forenoon she was sitting on the porch, busy over a pan of beans, which she was stringing for dinner. As she chanced to raise her eyes, she saw Dan Hodges coming up the path. At sight of the evil lowering face, repulsion flared hot in the girl. The instinct of flight was strong, but her good sense forbade it. She felt a stirring of unfamiliar terror in the presence of the man. She scorned herself for the weakness, but it persisted. Her very fear dictated the counsels of prudence. She believed that in dissimulation lay her only possibility of safety. The thought of any intercourse with the moonshiner was unspeakably repugnant, yet she dared not risk needless offense. Nevertheless, the first effect of her resolve was a self-contempt that 134 moved her to wrath, and made her opening speech more venomous even than it had been otherwise.
“Howdy, my little honey?” Hodges called out as he shambled to a halt before her. His coarse features writhed in a simper that intensified their ugliness. His coveting of this woman was suddenly magnified by sight of her loveliness, flawless in the brilliant light. The blood-shot eyes darted luxuriously over the curving graces beneath the scant homespun garment.
The girl sensed the insult of the man’s regard. It, rather than the insolent familiarity of address, provoked her outburst.