An examination on the part of both swappers always results in a trade, boot being frequently given. A chance to make a change in horseflesh is never let slip by a natural-born trader. The life of his business consists in quick and frequent bargains; and at the end of a busy month he is either mounted on a good saddle horse, or is reduced to an old rack, blind and lame. The result will be due to the shrewdness or dullness of the men he dealt with, or the unexpected sickness on his hands of what was considered a sound animal.
One or more of the numerous candidates (Democratic, Republican, Independent, or otherwise) for county or state honors will likely descend on the green before the sport is over. He will shake hands with every full-fledged voter present,—shaking with his own peculiar grip, which one, with some plausibility, might be misled into believing meant “God bless you,” instead of “Be at the November polls for me—and liberty.” Most of the men understand the soft solder of the fawning politician, and exchange winks with one another, as in succession each one is button-holed by the aspirant.
It is generally an orderly crowd, and arrangements are soon made for the first shot. At sixty yards from the white piece of black-centered paper, the shooter lays himself flat on the ground; and, with his rifle (covered with a long tin shade to keep out the glaring sunlight) resting over a rail, he takes deliberate aim and pulls the trigger. A center shot meets with applause. Thus the day goes by, until every share has been blazed away, the beef is butchered and divided, and the lucky marksmen stagger homeward, each with his quarter in a sack on one shoulder and his rifle on the other. If daylight still remains, some of the crowd often engage in a squirrel hunt. It is no trouble to kill gray squirrels in any of the woods. The crack marksman with a rifle generally barks his squirrel. Barking a squirrel is one of the fine arts. The hunter takes aim and fires at the upper edge of the limb on which the squirrel sits, instantly killing him from concussion created by the splintered bark.
But let us pursue the river from the Cheowah mountain to the Little Tennessee. It is a distance of twelve miles, and not once do the road and stream part company. At Widow Nelson’s it is a white winding-sheet of rapids, as far as the eye can reach. A hundred yards by the house, and the mountains draw themselves together again. The road straggles around the foot of a cliff. The waters roar and splash beside it. Overhead, the foliage is of a brilliant green, and the sky usually a transparent blue. By the dilapidated dwelling of Widow Jarett you soon pass. There is a cleared tract of land here. Across the river, with its foot in the water, one of the Nantihala range towers 2,000 feet above the valley. You must lean back to look upward along its green face and see the edge of the summit. Up one steep ravine is a trail leading to Brier Town. It is termed the Cat’s Stairs. Your mule must be dragged by the bridle if you attempt the ascent.
Three miles down the stream, as you issue from the forest on the brow of a gentle declivity, a wild picture lies spread before the eyes. You are looking across a long pent-in vale. On one side the Anderson Roughs, lofty and impending, with steep ridges, one behind the other, descending to the river, reach away to where the blue sky dips in between them and the last visible perpendicular wall that frowns along the valley’s opposite border. The wildness of the scene is heightened instead of softened by the vision of Campbell’s lowly cabin in the center of the narrow corn-fields. You see the smoke above its blackened roof; several uncombed children tumbling in the sunshine; the rail fence close by its frail porch; and, beyond it, the limpid Nantihala, smooth and turbulent alternately, and filling the ears with its loud monotone. (See Frontispiece.)
“Buck” Campbell is a whole-souled fellow; his wife, a pleasant woman. If you have time, stop here. Excepting the good-natured bearing of the mountaineer and his wife, you will see nothing inviting about the place, until the table is set for supper, out in the open air, at one end of the cabin. The meal will be an appetizing one. Between each bite you take of a smoking piece of corn-dodger, you can look up at the shadowed front of the Anderson Roughs (for long since the western wall has intercepted the sunlight from pouring on it), and watch how the shadows thicken, while still the sky is bright and clear above. The signification of noon-day sun, as applied to the river, will strike you forcibly. Late in the morning and early in the evening the valley is in shade. There is but one room in the cabin, consequently you will all sleep together, and awake in the morning feeling that there is something in the humblest path of life to keep a man happy.
Every morning, except in winter, a heavy fog fills the valley. This is unfavorable for the cultivation of small grain, consequently corn is the only profitable production on the Nantihala. Issuing from the cabin, you jump the fence and go to the river to perform your ablutions. A tin basin is not one of Campbell’s possessions. You are sure of clean water, however; and, leaning over the river’s bosom, you have something to act as a mirror, while you comb your hair with your fingers. If you yell for it, a towel will be brought by one of a pair of black-eyed youngsters, fondly called “Dutch” and “Curly” by their father. Campbell says he believes in nicknaming his children; for he does not see why they should go by their proper names any more than people should call him “Buck,” instead of Alexander.
By 9 o’clock the mist has rolled itself in clouds and drifted up the heights, a belt of sunshine is half way down the mountain on the west, and day has fairly dawned. If it is in the early fall, the drum of the pheasant may be heard from the near woods. The quail has ceased his piping for the season, but he has by no means migrated, as one might infer from his silence; for if you stroll through the fields, great bevies will frequently rise from your feet and start in all directions with such a whirr of wings that you will jump in spite of yourself. I have started wood-cock in the wet tangles of the mountain streams, but they are rare birds.
Only two houses are between Campbell’s and the mouth of the river, ten miles below. This sort of a solitude is not infrequent on a highway across a mountain range, but the like is seldom seen along a river. Rich forests are entered just below Campbell’s. The trees grow to an unusual height. With underbrush they cover all the landscape, except the few cliffs on the summits of the peaks, and at the water’s edge. The variety is something remarkable. I counted twenty-three distinct species of timber in one woodland. The road, at times, winds around the mountain 100 yards above the river. It sparkles directly below through the trees. Across the gorge the Nantihalas lift their shaggy heads, at some points, like that of the Devil’s chin, exposing bare rocks above the clambering forests. Storms through this section are fierce, but of short duration. With the wind bearing down the river, a flash of lightning in the clear, narrow strip of sky will be the first premonitor of the storm. Then a black shroud will drift over half the strip; and with it comes, along between the valley’s green walls, thin clouds like smoke that fling themselves upon the piny spurs of the mountains, hiding them from view. Immediately you hear the rain drops pattering through the leaves, and the trees swaying beneath a blast that soon carries off the rack. Frequently not a drop of rain will touch you, while close by, the mountain steeps are drenched. The waters of the river grow deeper, roar louder, and a few minutes after the last rain drop fell, a sullen flood is sweeping between the banks. It is strange in how short a time a flood is created in a mountain valley, and how soon it wears itself away. At your stand far down the valley, you may not even know that a storm has been visiting the sources of the stream, for the black clouds rolled over the summits of the lofty mountains have escaped your observation. But a few minutes elapse, and the fords are impassible. Wait patiently, however, and you can see the waters subside and the landmarks appear as before.
Between Campbell’s and the next farm there is an exposed vein of soap-stone. From all indications it is inexhaustible, but at present it is unworked. Wherever cliffs are exposed, huge marble slabs, white and variegated, extend into the river. Where these slabs cross the road, their angular corners make a road-bed of the roughest character. At every road-working the gaps between the rocks are filled up, but the next freshet carries away the filling. It is not advisable to attempt a journey over it, except on horseback or a-foot. The Western North Carolina railroad will occupy the larger portion of this road. The question is, Where will they lay, for the mountaineers, a road in place of the one they have taken? The requirements of the statute will not be complied with, unless a miracle is performed.