This etext was transcribed by Les Bowler

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GOOSE CREEK FOLKS

A Story of the Kentucky Mountains

By
ISABEL GRAHAM BUSH
AND
FLORENCE LILIAN BUSH

New York Chicago Toronto
Fleming H. Revell Company
London and Edinburgh

Copyright, 1912, by
FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY

New York: 158 Fifth Avenue
Chicago: 125 N. Wabash Ave.
Toronto: 25 Richmond St., W.
London: 21 Paternoster Square
Edinburgh: 100 Princes Street

To

ALICE K. DOUGLAS
OF BEREA COLLEGE

whose helpfulness of spirit and enthusiasm for learning have inspired many a mountain boy and girl to a life of broad usefulness, this book is lovingly dedicated by

THE AUTHORS

CONTENTS

I
DAN GOOCH MAKES A DISCOVERY

“Do you reckon it’ll seem the same?” Talitha, quite breathless with the long climb, stood looking down at her brother, who was following more slowly up the scraggy slope of Red Mountain.

“Why not?” he answered. “But say, are you going to keep up this gait for long? If you do you’ll be plumb tuckered before we get home.”

The girl laughed, and then sighed. “I’m so anxious to get there, Mart; seems like I can’t wait. To think we’ve been away ’most a year! Do you s’pose Rufe and little Dock’ll know us?”

“Like as not they won’t. I’m sort o’ in hopes they’ll think we’ve changed some,” returned Martin. He dropped upon a convenient ledge and pulled his sister down beside him.

“I’m afraid they won’t see much difference in me, but you’ve changed a whole lot,” Talitha declared proudly with a sidewise glance of the brown eyes. “Mother’ll notice it the first thing.”

“I guess you haven’t looked in the glass lately,” scoffed Martin, reddening at the implied praise. “You aren’t the same girl who left for school last fall with a pigtail hanging down her back and her dress ’most to her knees.”

“I s’pose I looked just as Lalla Ponder did when she started in this spring, and she’s changed a sight.” Talitha put up her hands to smooth the soft roll of wavy hair which had taken the place of the tight, girlish braid. A year had never made so much difference before.

“I’m going back in the fall,” suddenly announced Martin. “Aren’t you, Tally?”

“So far as I know, I am, but it all depends on mammy. It’ll be harder for me to leave than you, I reckon.” Talitha rose to her feet and adjusted her bundle knapsack-fashion across her shoulders. “We’ll make it before dark, I should say,” thinking of the rough mountain way yet to be traversed. They had left the train early that morning, and walked steadily since sunrise. Now it lacked a half-hour of noon.

Another steady climb and a descent, and the two found themselves on familiar ground. At their feet Goose Creek crept sluggishly. A footpath followed on the low, sloping bank like a persistent shadow until both were lost to sight in the curves of the foothills. Here in the cool shade of a tangled growth, close to the stream, brother and sister paused to eat their lunch, which Martin produced from his bundle. They would be at home in time for supper.

“I wonder if Si Quinn is going to teach the Goose Creek school this term?” Martin helped himself to a sandwich.

“I reckon so, but I wish he could go to Bentville long enough to get it out of his head that the earth is square. To think of his teaching us such foolishness!”

Martin shook his head. “It wouldn’t be of any use; he’s the greatest person to argufy. He’s got it all figured out that if the earth is round we’d all be rolled off into nothing. It would be ‘onpossible’ to stay on it.”

Talitha dipped her hands in the creek and wiped them on her handkerchief. “I wish—” she began, then stopped suddenly. Martin looked up and his eyes followed hers.

Around the farther curve of the creek path appeared a horse’s head; then the animal and its rider came slowly into view. “It’s somebody from Stone Jug, I reckon,” said Martin, “only it rides like Dan Gooch.”

“It is Dan Gooch,” decided Talitha under her breath. “Wait and see if he knows us, Mart.”

The old sorrel plodded dejectedly along the path. The man on his back was as loose-jointed and angular as his steed. An ancient broad-brimmed hat slouched over his face to keep out the bright sunlight. If the two seated at the creek’s edge imagined he was about to pass them unnoticed, they were immediately undeceived, for the man raised his head and eyed them as though he had come for that express purpose.

“Howdy!” said Martin with the tone of one stranger saluting another.

“Howdy!” responded the man, still staring. His horse had already stopped and was nosing the herbage. “Hit ain’t Mart Coyle and Tally?” exclaimed Dan Gooch after a speculative silence.

“It is.” Talitha sprang up with a laugh. “But you didn’t know us right off, though.”

“I ’lowed ’twas you and agin I ’lowed ’twas furriners. I never seen young-uns change so in sech a few months. You’d better let me go ahead and tell your mammy thar’s comp’ny comin’ fer supper.” The man slipped from his horse with a chuckle. “If you’ve walked from the Gap, hit’s been a purty stiff climb. Crawl up on the beastie, Tally, I’ll keep Mart comp’ny.”

After much demurring the girl mounted the sorrel and soon both were lost to sight around the bend.

The sun, a huge, fiery ball, was poised on the bare summit of a peak in the west, when Talitha reached the edge of a cove on the mountain-side. Curling indolently upward, the smoke from a cabin chimney was lost among the trees crowding the slope beyond. In spite of her haste, she halted the not unwilling sorrel and sat for a few moments gazing at the place she called home. The picture in her memory supplied all invisible details.

The cabin was small, one-roomed, with a loft above, the rough, unbarked logs brown as a beech nut. The mud and stick chimney at one end looked ready to collapse at the first brisk wind. There was no glass in the two shuttered openings which served as windows. The interior of the cabin was scarcely more attractive. Wide cracks showed in the puncheon floor, the walls were smoke-stained. In a corner near the fireplace,—there was no stove,—were several rude shelves filled with coarse, nicked dishes. The loom, warping bars, spinning wheel, a deal table, with three or four chairs and a couple of benches, nearly filled the room. A row of last year’s pepper pods and a bunch of herbs still hung from the dingy ceiling.

Outside, two children romped among the geese and chickens. Presently a woman, spare and stooping, appeared, and toiled springward for a bucket of water. Tears filled Talitha’s eyes as she went on. Her mother was not old, yet she was as careworn and bent as women twice her age in the village. To the girl, Bentville stood for the world which lay beyond her mountains, and the longing to transform her home life into something like the comfort and harmony of those she had just left was almost overwhelming.

Talitha rode up to the door amid the joyful shrieks of the children and the squawks of the fowls as they flew precipitately in every direction. Dismounting, she released herself as soon as possible from small embracing arms and hurried to her mother who had set down the bucket and was eyeing her daughter perplexedly.

“Hit ’pears ter me you’ve growed a heap sence you war gone,” was all the comment Mrs. Coyle made upon Talitha’s changed appearance. “Whar’s Mart?” with sudden misgiving as the girl picked up the bucket of water and stepped briskly along at her side.

“He’s coming. Dan Gooch gave me a lift on his sorrel and he footed it with Mart.”

Talitha went on into the cabin, but her mother lingered outside. She had caught sight of a young, stalwart figure beside their neighbour. She smoothed her old homespun gown with worn, calloused hands, and wished she had the “tuckin’ comb” Talitha had sent her for Christmas in her hair.

“Hello, mammy!” Martin put his arms around his mother and kissed her awkwardly.

After Dan Gooch had accepted the hospitable invitation to stay for supper, the three repaired indoors. Talitha had rallied the younger members of the family to her assistance, and was already dishing up the evening meal. A fresh cloth had been laid, and a handful of mountain laurel, in a tin can on the window-sill, transferred to the centre of the table. At this juncture Sam Coyle appeared from the “fodder patch.” After a hasty greeting he retreated to the basin of water outside with a bewildered, company feeling he had not experienced since a college settlement worker had visited them the year before.

At the table he listened with silent pride to the answers which Dan Gooch’s volley of questions elicited. He learned that a mountain farm could bring its owner a good living if rightly cultivated, that Talitha had made with her own hands the dress and apron of “store goods” she was wearing. Perhaps his wife had been in the right after all when she insisted on the two older children going to school, although it was against his judgment.

“And you-uns hev been a-larnin’ carpenterin’?” continued their neighbour, addressing Martin.

“Yes, I’ve been working at it all the year, out of school hours,” was the reply.

“Then thar’s a job waitin’ fer you at Squar’ Dodd’s. His house ain’t big ’nough ter suit him, and he’s bound ter hev a po’ch and a lean-to on thet place of his’n.”

“Thank you ever so much. I’ll see Mr. Dodd about it to-night.” Martin’s eyes kindled at the thought of putting his knowledge to such immediate use.

“I reckon thet school’d be a fine place fer my Abner and Gincy,” mused Dan.

“Oh, it would,” urged Talitha delightedly. “And Gincy could room with me if I go back next year,” with an appealing glance at her father.

Sam Coyle frowned. “I reckon a year’s schoolin’s ’nough fer any gal. Hit’s a sight more’n I ever had,” he said surlily.

His neighbour gave a derisive laugh. “Can’t neither of us read or write no more’n if we war blind as bats. I hain’t any mind ter stand in the way of my chil’ren gettin’ larnin’, ’specially if hit ain’t costin’ me nothin’.”

The thrust went home, as the speaker intended, for it was well known that Martin and Talitha had paid for their year at school by their own exertions. Also that Sam Coyle had taken little of the added burdens—during their absence—upon his own shoulders.

“Gincy would like it ever so much,” pursued Talitha, anxious to preserve peace. “She’d especially like the singing.”

“She would, I reckon,” agreed her father proudly. “Gincy has a purty ear for a tune, and I’m aimin’ ter give her a chanct if I didn’t hev one myself,” he said, rising to take his departure.

Martin watched him disappear down the slope in silent astonishment. He had supposed Dan Gooch would be the last one to see the “needcessity of larnin’,” and here he was the champion of their cause against their own father.

Talitha was briskly clearing away the supper dishes when a couple mounted on one horse rode up to the door. “Howdy!” greeted Sam Coyle, lounging forward with a show of cordiality.

“Shad ’lowed he seen a gal and boy tromp-in’ ’cross the mounting this mornin’, and I sez hit wan’t nobody but Mart and Tally,” said the old woman, slipping cautiously to the ground.

“You war a true prophet fer once, Ann, but I’d be bound nobody’d known ’em anywhere else,” declared her brother.

“Plumb spiled, most likely,” grumbled Ann. From the depths of her black, slatted sunbonnet the gimlet eyes keenly scrutinized her nephew and niece. “Well, you air growed up fer sure, and I reckon you know more’n the old schoolmaster hisself. Thar ain’t nothin’ like the insurance o’ young-uns thet’s got a leetle larnin’,” pursued the old woman with acerbity. “Now what I want ter know is, what kin you do thet the gals and boys what never seen Bentville, can’t?” Ann Bills had seated herself before the fireplace, removed her sunbonnet, and was lighting the pipe she had taken from her pocket.

“Lawsy,’ Ann,” protested Mrs. Coyle indignantly, “their pappy and me air terrible pleased with what they’ve larned, and I don’t see no call fer you ter be so powerful ornery. If all your six boys hed been gals I’ll be bound thar couldn’t one of ’em make a gown like thet Tally’s wearin’, and she tuk every stitch herself. As fer Mart, you’ll know what he kin do ’fore long, I reckon.”

Mrs. Coyle and her sister-in-law did not agree on the subject of education. The latter’s family of boys had grown to man’s estate and married without having mastered the second reader. For once Sam Coyle did not come to his sister’s aid. Although he had no intention of allowing his children to return to school, he was swelling with pride at their changed appearance and his tongue was ready to wage a sharp battle in the cause of “larnin’.”

Failing to secure an ally, the old dame prudently changed her tactics. “Hit air purty fair work,” she admitted in a conciliatory tone, scrutinizing the hem of Talitha’s gown. “But I don’t set much store by thet kind o’ goods; hit can’t hold a candle ter homespun when hit comes ter wear. If I war you, I’d put Tally ter the loom; she air old ’nough ter be larnin’ somethin’ of more ’count.”

Talitha turned back to her dishes with a sigh. Martin had escaped Uncle Shad’s equally acrimonious tongue and gone to interview Squire Dodd. He did not return until the old couple had taken their departure.

Gincy Gooch came over the very next afternoon. The dinner work was out of the way and Mrs. Coyle was spinning while Talitha sat on the doorstep at work on the “store goods” Martin had brought his mother for a new gown. Gincy watched the deft fingers wistfully.

“Pappy says you-uns hev larned a heap of things,” she remarked. “And you’ve changed a sight; ’most ’pears ter me you ain’t Tally Coyle any more.”

Talitha laughed. “Well, I am, and when you’ve been to Bentville a while you’ll change, too.”

“Kin you reely read books right off ’thout spellin’ out the big words?”

“Yes,” Talitha nodded, remembering her shortcomings of only a year ago. If she never went back to school how many things she had to be thankful for. “You’d like the singing, Gincy,” she said abruptly, “it’s so different from any music you ever heard.”

“Diff’runt, how?”

“Well, I’ll show you. Just begin some song and don’t get off the tune no matter what I sing.”

“I ain’t never got off the tune yit,” reproved Gincy. She began in a clear, sweet voice “The Turkish Lady,” an old English ballad (one of many preserved for generations among the mountaineers). It ran thus:

“Lord Bateman was in England born,
He thought himself of a high degree;
He could not rest or be contented
Until he had voyaged across the sea.”

Talitha joined Gincy in a mellow alto, and together the two sang verse after verse. The spinning wheel ceased to turn while the spinner listened to this new blending of voices, for the mountain people only sang the air. At the edge of the slope Sam Coyle heard it in amazement. The old ballad was familiar enough, but it had never sounded so beautiful.

Gincy showed no surprise at the innovation. Her hands clasped in her lap she looked with large, dreamy eyes off to the green-topped hills lying peacefully against the shining sky. The echoes crept out of the silences and chanted the words softly over and over again.

When the song was finished, Gincy hardly paused to take breath before she swung into another familiar melody and Talitha followed, her work forgotten. They had hardly reached the third line when a bass voice joined them, and Martin dropped down on the doorstep beside the two girls.

Below, on the creek path, a sorrel horse and its rider had halted. “Thet air Gincy’s voice fer sartin. I reckon the Coyles air a-singin’, too, but hit sounds diff’runt’n I ever hearn ’em afore; somethin’ like them a-choirin’ up yander, I reckon,” glancing upward. With a regretful sigh he heard the last echo die away.

“Gincy’s goin’ ter hev a chanct ter git larnin’, thet’s all,” declared Dan Gooch as he jogged slowly homeward.

II
MARTIN SURPRISES GOOSE CREEK

The next day, Martin began work on the addition to Squire Dodd’s cabin. Sam Coyle, much elated at his son’s success in securing the job, hastened thither and planted himself in the shade to watch its progress. He was not without company. There were a number who considered the squire had shown undue haste in giving so important a piece of work to a “striplin’,” and had gathered to note proceedings and proffer advice.

Martin listened in silent good humour to the wagging tongues. That his employer had confidence in his ability was enough, and he worked with unceasing energy. At the end of the second day the critics were silenced, and before the week was over it had been noised abroad that Sam Coyle’s son had come back from school with a trade at his “finger eends ’sides a heap o’ book larnin’.” The Settlement store was, for the first time in many months, nearly destitute of loungers.

Instead of the intended lean-to, a one story frame addition was built across the front of the Dodd cabin, shutting the original completely from view of the traveller on the creek path. A wide porch increased the magnificence of the structure, and when a coat of yellow paint with trimmings of a brilliant red denoted the completion of Martin’s contract, the spectators were unanimous in agreeing that the mountains had never seen anything quite so grand. The peaks looked down at the innovation with a new dignity—so it seemed to the young carpenter. He had been learning the value of simplicity, and he realized how little his handiwork harmonized with the beauty around it. But he had only carried out the wishes of the squire, and he dismissed the subject from his mind for something more weighty was upon it.

“I’ve been thinking ever since I came home,” he said that night to Talitha, “of something Professor Scott said: ‘It isn’t enough to get good things for ourselves, we must pass them on.’ I wish I could take some of the boys back to school with me.”

“I think you can reckon on Abner Gooch and the three Shackley boys already. I call that a pretty fair beginning. And there’ll be more. I heard that Dan Gooch said yesterday over at the Settlement, ‘If you want ter know what thet school down below here kin teach your young-uns, jest look at Squar’ Dodd’s manshun yander.’”

Martin laughed grimly. “If they do go they won’t think it such a work of art when they come back.”

“When they get back they’ll have learned enough to understand, I reckon,” responded Talitha. “The thing is to get them there. You ought to see how Gincy’s working, and the whole family too, for that matter. I actually believe they’ve picked most of the berries for ten miles around here. They are at it now. Just think of Dan Gooch going berrying!”

“He has some backbone after all. It’s such a pity he couldn’t have had a chance when he was young. And that reminds me, I met Gincy ’way over in Bear Hollow yesterday morning at sun-up with a bucket. After berries, I suppose; but I don’t see how they’re going to eat ’em all.”

“Eat ’em! They don’t, they’re drying ’em to sell. The Settlement store has promised to take every pound. Then Mrs. Gooch is reckoning on her geese feathers, too. If Gincy can only get money enough for a start, she’ll find work to help her through the year.”

“I reckon so,” assented Martin. “They’re mighty friendly folks at the school.”

“You’ve saved enough now, haven’t you?” Talitha’s mind suddenly reverted to her brother’s prospects.

“Yes, I’ll make it do with the odd jobs I can pick up; but I misdoubt father’s being willing for me to go back. He thinks I know a sight now. He’s running all over the country trying to get me another job, and here’s the crop going to waste. I reckon I’m needed at home for a spell, anyway,” and Martin went gloomily out to work in the much neglected field.

He had seen thrifty orchards and gardens in the little sheltered coves of those great hills near Bentville, and he had often pictured his own home with such a background. Disheartened, the young fellow regarded the task before him for a moment, then rallied his two younger brothers. With the promise of a reward they attacked the weeds among the corn while Martin went on to the little orchard. It was thick with dead wood, and he fell to pruning the branches energetically. With the knowledge he had gained what a change he could make in the place even in the two months left of his vacation.

Over in the garden he could hear Talitha and her mother. Tending garden and milking the cow was as much woman’s work, according to the Kentucky mountain code, as washing dishes or making bread. The sound of a sturdily wielded hoe in the earth spurred him on. “I’ll go back some time, anyhow, if I live,” he declared, striking deep, vigorous blows into a lifeless tree trunk.

Had Martin and Talitha only known, their energy spoke volumes for the Cause lying so near their hearts. A new interest had been suddenly awakened in the Coyle family. The slightest pretext took their less ambitious neighbours along the creek path curious to see “what Mart Coyle was up ter now.” A wide, roomy porch across the front of the cabin—which Martin had skilfully contrived at little expense—served as sitting-room during the warm weather. Here Talitha’s wheel whirred diligently in the shadow of the vines which had taken kindly to her late transplanting.

The Coyle enterprise was contagious. Dan Gooch, with a new-born enthusiasm, valiantly led his sons forth to produce order from the confusion around the exterior of the cabin. Inside, Gincy and her mother worked with tireless energy and bright dreams of the future.

From the first Sunday of Martin’s and Talitha’s return, the Gooch family had taken to “jest droppin’ in,” during the afternoon, until it had become a settled custom followed by one neighbour after another. Part singing was a novelty of which they never tired. When the blacksmith’s eldest son found that he was the possessor of a richer, deeper bass voice than Martin’s, his delight was unbounded. There were others besides Gincy who could successfully hold their own in the air in spite of the other parts, although Gincy’s clear, bird-like tones rang above theirs on the high notes.

And so the summer wore away, and the heralds of approaching autumn sounded a warning note in the breezes and fluttered their signals from the mountain slopes.

It was only a week before the time for their departure that Sam Coyle gave a reluctant consent to Martin’s and Talitha’s return to school. Two others besides Abner and Gincy were to accompany them—Peter and Isaac Shackley, sons of the blacksmith at the Settlement. Peter was to take his horse, a handsome bay of which he was very proud, the fifty miles to Bentville, and then sell it to defray his expenses at the school. It had taken him a long time to determine on the sacrifice, and his was the only sober face in the merry little company which set forth that September morning.

The night before, the other members of the party came to the Coyle cabin in order to make an early start. That six young people were to leave for Bentville the next morning made a stir at Goose Creek. They were favourites in the mountains, and during the evening a dozen families called with some parting gift or admonition. They were not all wisely chosen, but the kindest intentions prompted each offering. From the younger ones there were various gifts of fruit and flowers. Ann Bills had so far relented as to present her niece with two pairs of wool stockings which Talitha could not refuse however much she would have liked to do so. Mrs. Twilliger brought several strings of freshly dried pumpkin which she much feared Gincy might “git ter hankerin’ arter.” The Slawson boy, who was “light-minded,” brought his pet coon and wept bitterly when Abner gently but firmly refused it. Little Tad Suttle was equally persistent in forcing on them his dog Wulf, who was warranted to keep the bears and painters at a proper distance when the company crossed the mountains.

The Bills family were inclined to consider the occasion a mournful one. If the young people had been going to the ends of the earth instead of but fifty miles away, they could not have been more pessimistic. That Martin and Talitha had returned unharmed seemed to have no weight with them.

“Sho, now,” objected the blacksmith jovially, “I ain’t goin’ ter cornsider my young-uns as lost ter the mountings. I ’low they’re jest goin’ ter git some larnin’ and come back ter help me.”

“Book larnin’ ain’t goin’ ter give ’em muscle,” objected the elder Bills.

“Law, no, they’ve got ’nough of thet now. I ain’t raisin’ a passel of prizefighters. If Kid stays home ter help me one blacksmith’s ’nough in a family, I reckon. I’ve heerd the Bentville school is great on idees, and thet’s jest what these mountings air needin’ bad.”

“You talk like we war plumb idjits, Enoch Shackley,” cried Ann Bills, her black eyes snapping angrily. “I’ve heerd tell o’ folks you’d never ’low had any head stuff’in’ till their skulls got a crack and you could git a sight of their brains, but I never heerd as this part of the kentry war noted fer sech. Me and my fambly hain’t never had ter go borrowin’ fer idees.”

“Lands, no,” said Mrs. Twilliger. “Hold up your head with the best of ’em, Gincy; Goose Creek folks hain’t never took a back seat fer nobody.”

At last the callers melted away and the weary people they left behind hurried to bed to get what sleep they might before time for their early departure.

As the little party started down the slope the next morning, a wonderful light quavered above the mountain-tops for the most part covered with a thick, gorgeous leafage of crimson, green, and gold flaming out among the duller browns. Now and then a rough, scraggy peak like Bear Knob showed grimly against the sky. Below them the mists lay huddled asleep awaiting the coming of the sun. The cool smell of the night was still in the air. Down where the creek path trailed out of sight came a jubilant chorus of bird voices.

A strange feeling made Gincy’s heart beat faster, and a lump rose in her throat. But what might have happened did not, for Talitha, with foresight, reached up and laid a rough, brown hand tenderly over the one on the pommel of the saddle. Gincy looked down into the blue eyes smiling encouragement and was herself again.

A straggling little procession, they followed the slim stream which curved around the base of the hills. At noon the party stopped to eat their lunch on its banks, and then they left it for a steep climb up the mountain.

An hour before sunset they had made good progress, coming out suddenly upon a cleared cove halfway down the mountain. At the farther side, against a background of pines, stood a large, well-built cabin. Vines tinted with autumn colouring clambered over the broad porch. The space in front was cleanly swept. Back of the low palings in the rear was a large, thrifty garden, and fragrant odours of ripening fruit came from the small, but heavily-laden, orchard.

“You can tell that a Bentville student lives here, all right,” said Martin. “This is where Tally and I stayed over night on our way to school last year.”

Their approach had been discovered, for two hounds ran around the house barking a joyful greeting. Then a tall, muscular young fellow hurried out of the door, followed by other members of the family.

There was no look of dismay on Joe Bradshaw’s face at the size of the party. With true mountain hospitality they were given a hearty welcome.

Inside the house Gincy looked around curiously. The two rooms were better furnished and neater than even Squire Dodd’s, which represented to her the height of elegance. In the living-room the supper was cooking over a stove; the fireplace was not even lighted. A white linen cloth of Mrs. Bradshaw’s own weaving covered the table, and there seemed to be plenty of dishes without the makeshifts common in her home and those of other mountain families she knew. True, it was only coarse, blue earthenware, but in her unaccustomed eyes nothing could be finer.

In the next room were two beds covered with blue and white “kivers,” also the product of the loom which stood in the corner of the living-room. Pinned on the walls were a half-dozen prints and bright-coloured pictures. Cheesecloth curtains were looped back from the windows, and on the mission table, of Joe’s making, was a store lamp with a flowered shade, and more books than Gincy had seen in all her life before.

That night she could hardly sleep for thinking of the wonders awaiting her on the morrow in the promised land of which she had dreamed through all the toil of the long summer days.

III
TALITHA SOLVES A PUZZLING PROBLEM

Joe Bradshaw was a member of the little party which set forth early the next morning with renewed expectations. Not a cloud hovered in the deep blue of the sky as they followed the devious trails across the mountains and along the foothills, valleyward. At the end of ten miles they reached the railroad. It was the first all but three of the party had ever seen. The horse the two girls were riding shied in terror at sight of the monster puffing forth clouds of smoke and steam. The passengers in the coaches looked curiously out at the bright, young faces shadowed by white sunbonnets. Gincy clung to Talitha and drew a long breath of relief as bell and whistle sounded and the train swept on, its rumble and roar re-echoing among the hills.

After that, the rest of the way seemed short indeed, so near were the travellers to their journey’s end. Every few miles now were homes which bore evidences of a thrift and energy which had not yet penetrated far into the mountains. One by one the stars came out, and a full moon climbed over the ridge and made a silvery, elusive pathway across the foothills. Another turn in the trail, and presently the foot-sore pilgrims came to a smooth pike. A half-hour later they looked upon shadowy roofs among tall trees where lights twinkled faintly in the radiance of the moon.

Martin and Joe hurried ahead along the street sure of a welcome, and they were not disappointed.

“Here are our two standbys again, and they didn’t come alone, either,” greeted the secretary with a hearty shake of the hand as the boys entered the office.

The girls were taken in charge by the dean, who whisked them off to the dining-room for a late supper. After that, with much contriving, they were stowed comfortably away for the night.

“You’d better go straight to sleep,” admonished Talitha. “Half-past five will come before you know it and then the rising bell rings. I expect we’ll feel pretty stiff for a day or two.”

Gincy only murmured a drowsy reply. She was already dreaming a beautiful dream, quite unaware of what Mrs. Donnelly, the dean, was saying to Miss Howard, her assistant.

“I don’t see how we can keep the girl who came with Talitha Coyle. We are overflowing already. Two beds in every room upstairs—”

“Can’t we manage some way?” urged Miss Howard for the tenth time that day. “She’s a bright little thing. If she were only a boy now, and yet the boys are coming in at a great rate this year; it’s wonderful!”

“Let me think.” The dean’s smooth forehead wrinkled in perplexity. “Well,” with a sudden inspiration, “if that girl from Kerby Knob doesn’t put in an appearance—she wrote me that her mother was sick and she was afraid she couldn’t—I’ll keep Gincy, but if Urilla does come back we shall be obliged to give her precedence because she will be a junior this year.”

So the matter rested, and blissfully ignorant of the fact that her good fortune was another girl’s misfortune, Gincy arose in the morning supremely happy. She was not to remain long a stranger, for Talitha was a person who made friends—hosts of them—she had such a way of forgetting Talitha Coyle, and in a few hours they were Gincy’s also. She laughed and chatted among the girls as she helped wipe the great stacks of dishes after the early breakfast. There were no lessons yet, but when the morning’s work was done and the services at the chapel over, Kizzie Tipton proposed a walk.

“You know the dean said you needn’t hurry to get registered,” added her new friend. “I’ll meet you on the front porch in five minutes,” and Kizzie ran to her room.

Gincy opened the hall door also in haste. She had thought of something she wished to say to Talitha—who was just going down the steps with her books—and nearly ran against a tall, pale-faced girl carrying a heavy handbag. “Oh!” Gincy ejaculated with a swift glance at the wan face. “Jest let me ketch a holt. I ’most tuk you down, I reckon.”

The weary eyes brightened. “You’re a new girl,” asserted the late arrival confidently as Gincy deposited the baggage in a corner of the hall.

“Yes,” she nodded, “I reckon I be, but I don’t seem ter sense hit much. Hit’s the nicest place I ever see fer findin’ friends,” and Gincy disappeared with a parting smile.

The newcomer sat down in thoughtful silence, forgetting that she had not made known her arrival to the dean. But that lady chanced to espy her from the top of the stairs and slowly descended, inwardly determined that her face should not reveal her embarrassment.

“Well, Urilla, you succeeded in getting here after all,” she said with a smile.

“Yes, ma’am,” answered the girl, rising respectfully. “Mother’s able to sit up most of the time, and she wouldn’t hear to my staying home now Sally’s big enough to help. If I can only manage to stay another year.” Urilla gave a long sigh.

The girl was sent to her room to get a little rest before dinner, and Gincy, returning from her walk in a high state of exuberance, was called to the office.

Two hours later, Talitha came unexpectedly upon Mrs. Donnelly. “I have been looking for you,” said that lady soberly.—It was a very difficult thing she had to do.—“I am very sorry to be the bearer of such bad news, but we shall be obliged to send Gincy home—”

“Send her home!” echoed Talitha in amazement, turning pale and trembling.

“Yes, Urilla Minter has come back, and there isn’t room for both of them; we’re crowded beyond the limit now. I’ve done my best, but not a place can be found for her. I’ll keep her name on the books so she will have an opportunity to come back next year.” Mrs. Donnelly’s heart was sore at parting with one of her flock who was so eager for an education. There were tears in her eyes as she turned away.

Talitha wandered out to a seat on the campus to think over the dreadful tidings. Gincy going home after working so hard all the summer to come! This would be her last chance, for Dan Gooch would never get over her being sent back, and he would hate the Coyles because Gincy would not have thought of attending the school had it not been for Talitha. All the beautiful, rosy clouds which had glorified the morning sky faded, leaving it dull and grey.

Gincy must not go home; that Talitha instantly decided, but—The girl sat for a long time struggling with herself, her hands clasped over the precious little pile of books in her lap. She was in a far corner, unnoticed by the merry bands of students passing back and forth. She could hear their laughter and happy chatter. Oh, it was hard, so hard!

At last, Talitha rose quickly as though she were afraid her courage might vanish, and hastened to the hall and straight to Mrs. Donnelly’s room. “I’ve come to tell you,” she began breathlessly, with a little tremor in her voice, “that I’ve—I’ve decided to go home. Gincy can stay, then. She mustn’t go, Mrs. Donnelly, she’s been workin’ and lottin’ on it all summer and her folks wouldn’t ever let her come back again. I’ll go and you’ll give her my place, won’t you?”

The dean never forgot the pleading face lifted to hers. It was white and the lips were trembling, but the light of a heroic, self-sacrificing spirit shone in the dark eyes. “Oh, my child,” protested the woman, “I can’t bear to think of your going home. If I could only plan some way, but I’ve tried and tried.”

“I know it,” nodded Talitha, “but I never once thought there wouldn’t be room for everybody who wanted to come. Anyway, I’m glad Gincy’s going to have a chance. You ought to hear her sing, Mrs. Donnelly. And if you’ll sort o’ mother her a little I’ll be real thankful. Gincy’s never been away from home before, and her folks were going to feel so easy because I was with her. Don’t feel bad, it couldn’t be helped, I reckon, and maybe I’ll come back next year.”

Talitha’s heart was heavy indeed as she climbed the stairs to her room. She found Gincy in a corner weeping piteously over the few belongings gathered in a little heap. Talitha knelt beside her and put an arm tenderly around the thin, bowed shoulders.

“Put your things right back, Gincy,” she said, “you’re going to stay after all. I’ve just seen Mrs. Donnelly.”

Gincy looked up in astonishment that at first was too great for words. “You don’t mean hit?” she gasped at last, clutching her friend’s arm.

“Sure I do,” Talitha nodded with a smile. Her own burden lightened wonderfully at the sight of Gincy’s radiant face and suddenly dried tears. She left the girl putting her belongings back in drawers and closet with a joyful haste. Gincy had not even inquired how this transformation had been wrought; it was enough for her to know that she was not to be sent home.

Talitha’s next duty was to find Martin and make known her resolution. After a long search he was discovered in the library with a pile of reference books before him. He looked up with shining eyes. She knew how he rejoiced in the opportunity for another year’s work. It would take away half his pleasure to learn that she would not be there to share it, still she was confident that he would see the wisdom of her resolve. At a sign from her he followed wonderingly out back of the building to a seat under one of the large trees of the campus where they would be unnoticed.

“How’s Gincy coming on? She isn’t getting homesick a’ready, is she?” he inquired.

“Gincy! Not much; she’s pleased as can be with everything here. That’s what I came to see you about.” Talitha paused and looked down at her folded hands, while Martin sat staring at her in bewilderment. “Mrs. Donnelly came to see me this morning,” she went on presently. “She told me that Gincy must go home, that there is no place for her. So many girls have come this fall the rooms are crowded.”

“Go home!” repeated Martin indignantly. “Oh, we can’t let her; she mustn’t.”

“Of course not. She’s been crying till she’s ’most beat out, but I’ve been thinking it over and Gincy’s going to stay. I’ve just seen Mrs. Donnelly again—”

“Well, I’m mighty glad!” Martin gave a long breath of relief. “How did you manage it, Tally?”

“I’m going home instead,” she answered calmly.

“You!” Her brother sprang up excitedly. “Tally, I won’t hear to it!”

“Yes, you will. Sit down, Mart, you’d do the same thing if you were in my place, you know you would. I’m not going to be selfish. Gincy’s never had any chance and I’ve had a whole year here. Maybe I can come back again some time, but if I knew I couldn’t I should go just the same.”

“But you can’t go home alone,” Martin objected.

“Yes, I can. I’ll take the train to the Gap and I’m not afraid to walk the rest of the way.”

“Well, Tally, I suppose you’re right,” her brother said at last, “but it’ll take the sunshine out of the whole year for me, to know that you’re missing all this. And I’d counted so on the good times we’d have together.”

“Now, Mart, don’t you worry about me one minute. I reckon it’s all for the best. Maybe there’s something special in the mountains for me to do; I’m going to try to think so anyway.”

“What reason are you going to give the folks for going home?”

“I’m going to tell them the truth that there wasn’t room for so many girls. I shan’t say a word about Gincy only that she’s well and having a fine time.”

That afternoon while Gincy was out of the room, Talitha removed the tiny wardrobe she had brought, to make room for Urilla’s. Long before light the next morning, while Gincy slept soundly, all unaware of her friend’s sacrifice, Talitha boarded the train which could only take her so short a distance toward home. She sank into a seat timidly. She had never travelled alone before, and when she reached the Gap the loneliest part was yet to come.

As the train pulled out she tried to wave a cheerful good-bye to Martin, who stood disconsolately outside in the darkness. The coach was full of people who had evidently travelled all night, for they were in all sorts of positions trying to get a little sleep. Talitha’s eyes were sleepless, although she had hardly closed them that night. It was disagreeably warm and stuffy. She longed to open the window, but the girl beside her was propped comfortably in the corner of the seat, oblivious to her surroundings.

Talitha looked at her curiously. She was a mountain girl, that was evident, but not from Goose Creek nor the Settlement—possibly from Redbird. She might be kin to the Twilligers, there were legions of them scattered through the mountains, and she favoured them wonderfully, now Talitha thought of it.

Suddenly the girl opened her eyes and stared at Talitha. “I reckon I must hev been asleep,” she said with a wide yawn. “Whar did you git on?”

“At Bentville.”

“Bentville! What kind of a place is hit? I come purty nigh goin’ thar onct and then I changed my mind. I couldn’t pin myself down ter book larnin’ nohow.”

Talitha viewed the speaker with astonishment. “What’s your name?” she inquired coldly.

“Piny Twilliger.”

“Did you know that Gincy Gooch is going to school at Bentville?” asked Talitha.

“Law me, why Gincy’s my cousin. Whatever put hit into her head? I wouldn’t hev thought hit of her.”

“Then you don’t know Gincy,” was the retort. “She’s as ambitious as can be and loves to study. She’s going to be somebody, I tell you. Abner’s at school too, and their folks are so proud of them.”

“Law me,” said the girl again. “I never heerd of any kin ter the Twilligers takin’ ter larnin’ afore,” and she relapsed into silent amazement. She had not recovered speech when the small station at the Gap was reached.

“Ter think I never asked her name!” murmured Gincy’s cousin in sudden dismay as Talitha left the car.

IV
THE STORM

When Talitha alighted from the train the sun had not yet risen, but the rosy banners which heralded its coming floated wide across the eastern sky. It was on a morning like this that she and Martin had started homeward with such elation of spirits, such hopes for the coming year. But then summer was just begun; now it had gone and her hopes with it.

She started across the foothills and up the long mountain trail, the old elasticity gone from her step, the hardness of her lot weighting her down. It seemed as though her feet could never carry her the long, weary way home. Upon a jutting crag she stopped and looked back. Far in the distance, cradled among the foothills of the Cumberlands, it lay, the place of her heart’s desire. Would she ever see it again?

Talitha looked at the sky. The breakfast bell would be ringing by this time, and happy, laughing faces gathered around the long tables. Her head bowed as though she could hear the fervent grace, and a sob rose in her throat. Suddenly the petition of a young leader at prayers, the night before, came to her: “Wilt Thou give us strength and courage to meet bravely the trials and temptations of each day.” How full of meaning they were to the one who uttered them Talitha well knew. Owen Calfee’s face showed with what high courage he was meeting the hardships which had beset his path from early youth.

Talitha fiercely blinked back the tears. “I’m plumb spoilin’ everythin’ by my foolishness,” she thought aloud, unconsciously relapsing into the speech of the mountains. “I reckon hit ain’t pleasin’ ter the Lord—my thinkin’ sech sorry thoughts. I’ve clean forgotten that I’d ought ter be thankful that Martin could stay and that Gincy’s havin’ a chance. My, but if she isn’t the happiest child!” Talitha rose reluctantly. “I shouldn’t like to be caught in the dark, and that’s what I’m bound to be if I stop here any longer.” She stretched out her hands toward the valley with a wistful gesture of parting. “I’m so glad you’re there, Gincy,” she whispered. “I wouldn’t have you home for nothing.”

Through the long forenoon’s weary climb up the mountain’s interminable slope and over its craggy crest to the other side, she resolutely laid aside all thoughts of her disappointment and began making plans to be put into execution as soon as possible after reaching home.

At noon she was almost thankful that she had not reached the creek where the little party had lunched so happily two days before. Now she spread her simple fare upon a smooth ledge and watched the varied light and shadow across the fast changing foliage as she ate. The birds fluttered and sang in the pines above her head. Now and then one grew bold enough to fly down for the crumbs she scattered upon the ground. Over the opposite edge of the flinty table a pair of bright eyes peered longingly. Talitha laughed as she flung the bushy-tailed visitor her last morsel, and rose to resume her journey.

She planned to reach home by supper time, but it had not been so easy to travel without the aid of a strong arm over the roughest places. No thought of fear had entered her mind until that moment; now the prospect of being alone at night on those wooded heights where the darkness was dense under the thick branching trees made her shrink.

The afternoon was half gone when Talitha dropped down at the foot of a pine, tired and footsore. She was not yet rested from the journey of the two days previous, and it seemed as though her aching feet could never carry her home that night. She sat debating with herself as to the possibility of finding a nearby shelter. Not a cabin was in sight. She looked around anxiously, shading her eyes with her hand, to peer along the ridges. A broad shaft of sunlight lay across the leafage of the opposite mountain. How vividly it brought out the autumn tints which flecked the green like rich tapestry. Then, with a frightened gasp of dismay, she noticed for the first time the pile of threatening clouds in the west, and the long, deep shadows which lay in the hollows of those great hills.

Over the highest peak of the ridge beyond, they were coming—the slim, mist-coloured lances of the storm. Down the mountain-side they marched, legion after legion. A swift line of fire zigzagged above their heads, and suddenly the sky seemed filled with the rattle of musketry.

Talitha fled, at the first sign of approach, to the shelter of a thick cluster of oaks. She reached it trembling and breathless only to see a cabin a few rods beyond. Without waiting to speculate who its occupants might be, she ran to it, the storm at her back, the wind contesting each step over the rough slope. Her little bundle was a cumbrous weight upon her shoulders.

At the door the girl knocked hurriedly. Her heart was beating fast. It was twilight around her, and the voice of the storm came up with a terrible roar. There was no answer from within the cabin and the door did not open, but in her great stress Talitha entered timidly.

The wind closed the door violently behind her before she realized that the place was not empty. The feeble flame in the fireplace left the one room mostly in shadow, but it revealed the occupant, a weazened old man, wrapped in a faded quilt, sitting before the hearth. Talitha felt a sudden relief that she was not alone while such a storm raged outside. A man sick and perhaps in need of care was not to her an object of fear even though a stranger.

“I declar’ if hit ain’t Tally Coyle!” came in wheezy tones from the depths of the bed-quilt. “I ’lowed you war off ter the valley school long ’fore this.”

Talitha could hardly find her voice so great was her astonishment. She had gone farther out of her way than she knew to stumble upon her old teacher’s cabin. “Why, howdy, Mr. Quinn, you aren’t sick, are you?” she said, throwing down her bundle and shaking the raindrops from her moist skirts.

“Jest ailin’ a leetle mite. I hevn’t been what you mought call robustious the hull summer, and last week I was took with a mis’ry in my chist. I’ve been honin’ the hull day ter see some one and here you’ve come. I reckon the Lord sent you.” The old man broke into a wheezing cough which left him panting.

Talitha went to the fireplace and piled on fresh wood with a lavish hand. There was a brisk crackling as the flames shot upward merrily. “I’m going right to get supper,” she declared, forgetful of her weariness.

Si Quinn spread his hands before the blaze with a sigh of content, and watched the girl as she bustled about the cabin. There was much to do before even a simple meal could be prepared, for the schoolmaster’s housekeeping even in health was sadly at variance with the methods Talitha had learned at school the past year.

She brushed the floor as best she could with the stubby old broom, and then attacked the pile of soiled dishes energetically. Outside, the storm raged with fury, and a little rivulet trickled from under the door across the rough boards of the floor. Later the corn pone was set to baking, while the girl fried a platter of bacon and a dish of potatoes. In a corner of the fireplace, on a few coals among the hot ashes, the coffee pot sent forth an odour delightful to the nostrils of a half-famished man. Si Quinn sniffed it eagerly.

“I hain’t set down ter sech a meal o’ vittles sence I war ter your house,” he remarked gleefully as he drew his chair to the table and helped himself liberally to the homely fare. “A squar’ meal will do me a heap more good’n medsun. If I war reel sodden in selfishness, I’d wish you hadn’t any kin and could stay right along here with me. But I ain’t, I’m thankful you’ve got a better place’n this ol’ shack.”

Talitha looked at him curiously. She had never seen her old schoolmaster in such a kindly, paternal mood. In her younger days, the lean, spectacled face had inspired her with awe and a kind of terror. But since her return from Bentville she thought of him with pity, not unmingled with contempt, at his ignorance and dogged belief in the strange theories which still prevailed in the isolated portions of the mountains. She looked at the haggard old face that showed unmistakable signs of past suffering, with a troubled conscience.

At last Si Quinn leaned back with a long sigh of satisfaction. “I reckon you’ve ’bout saved my life, Tally. I war beginnin’ ter feel hit warn’t much use ter hold on ter this world when thar warn’t nobody seemin’ ter care speshul. Then you came along jest as though you’d been blowed acrost the mountings. I’m mighty cur’us ’bout hit, Tally. Only a couple o’ days ago, Dan Gooch looked in and said you-uns, and Ab and Gincy, hed started fer school. Did the folks down thar reckon you’d hed ’nough larnin’ and send you back?”

Talitha hesitated. She wisely felt the need of being very cautious as to the report which would go abroad. “We did go,” she acknowledged, “but the Girls’ Hall was full—just running over, the dean said—and the folks around had taken all they could. There wasn’t another one could be squeezed in, so I came—back,” she concluded, a renewed sense of her disappointment nearly overwhelming her.

“Whar’s Gincy?” demanded the old man keenly.

“Oh, she stayed. She hasn’t ever had a chance, you know. She’d have been terribly disappointed to have had to come home, and so would her father; he’s been lottin’ on it all summer. I’m so glad they let her stay,” Talitha added, fervently hoping that her secret had not slipped out unaware.

“Hit’s cur’us, mighty cur’us,” mused Si Quinn, looking off into the fire as though he had not heard a word Talitha had been saying. “Here I’d been askin’ and askin’ the Lord ter send you here, then Dan Gooch comes ’long and ’lows I won’t set eyes on you agin till next summer and here you be. Ain’t hit cur’us?”

“I never heard you were sick,” faltered the girl. “I’d have come before if I’d only known.”

“That wan’t hit,” rejoined the schoolmaster. “I’ve allers done fer myself, sick or well. I hain’t ever been used ter bein’ coddled afore, that ain’t what’s on my mind, Tally. I wanted ter tell you thet I’ve been a sorry teacher, but I never sensed hit till you-uns came back from Bentville. I never had no sech chance ter git larnin’, and hit seems a turrible pity you couldn’t hev stayed, but I know ’thout your tellin’ me that you-uns came back ter give Gincy a chanct—”

“Oh, you mustn’t tell,” implored Talitha. “Father’d be so angry.”

“Hit shan’t git no further, but hit war jest like Tally Coyle ter do hit, and mebbe the Lord had a hand in hit, too. I cal’late He knew jest how much the Goose Creek school needed a teacher, fer I ain’t ever goin’ back thar agin, Tally. My teachin’ days air over, but my heart hones fer those pore lambs that’s so set on gittin’ larnin’. I want you ter take ’em and teach ’em all you kin. Mebbe next year you-uns kin go back ter Bentville. Hit seems queer they couldn’t hev put up some kind of a shack fer the gals ter stay in. A lot of strong, young fellers like Mart, now, could hev taken holt.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” agreed Talitha, “but it would take money to make it comfortable, and the Bentville folks haven’t any to spare.”

The old man nodded thoughtfully. “Hit’s mighty strange when I’ve heerd thar’s folks livin’ in cities that’s more money’n they can anyways spend. And here’s the mounting boys and gals a-thirstin’ fer the larnin’ they can’t git.” The girl crouched before the fire puzzled over this new problem, while Si Quinn creaked back and forth in the old rocker.

Suddenly it stopped. “I wish you’d git the Book, Tally, over on the chist, and read a spell; you do hit so easy-like.”

Outside, in the wild night, the wind wailed loudly along the wooded ridges of the great hills and hurled itself in angry gusts against the little cabin unnoticed, as Talitha read chapter after chapter in clear, unfaltering tones. The old man looked fondly down at her with a paternal pride. His heart was at peace, for he had bequeathed his life work to younger, more capable hands, and he rested content.

V
AN UNEXPECTED RIVAL

The consternation at the Coyle cabin was great indeed when midway of the next afternoon Talitha appeared, after making the old schoolmaster as comfortable as possible. Although Sam Coyle had given but a grudging assent to his daughter’s return to Bentville, he now loudly bewailed the necessity which prevented her from “gittin’ more larnin’.”

His wrath cooled, however, when he learned that Si Quinn, who was highly esteemed by the dwellers around Red Mountain, had abdicated his place in the Goose Creek school in Talitha’s favour. It was an unprecedented honour, as “gal” teachers were not looked upon favourably among the mountaineers. It being the prevailing opinion that only a man could fill the position with the requisite dignity and severity.

Remembering the tradition, the beginning was an ordeal from which the girl inwardly shrank. She had never felt so helplessly ignorant in all her life, although she had so often smiled with her brother over Si Quinn’s incompetency.

It was soon rumoured that the old man had sent for Talitha Coyle to come home and finish the remaining school months. In the mountains, school begins the first of July and ends the last of December; when the heavy rains and snows make travel well-nigh impossible. For a week the little flock of pupils had been teacher-less, and Talitha was admonished to make all haste to pass the required examination and begin her duties. The county seat was twenty-five miles away, and she made preparations to start for it the very next morning, her father accompanying her. Fortunately, that night Dan Gooch brought word to the Coyle cabin that Mr. Breel, head of the board of examiners, was at the Settlement and would willingly give Talitha an examination if she could be on hand the next morning.

With fear and trembling she set forth at dawn the next day to return at night in triumph. It had not proved so terrible an ordeal as she had imagined. Mr. Breel had been very kind and wished her success in her undertaking.

Before Monday morning came, which should see Talitha installed as mistress of the little school, complications arose in the shape of Jake Simcox, a tall, fiery-headed, raw-boned youth. Noting the old schoolmaster’s growing infirmities the past year, he had resolved to secure the place. That it was about to be wrested from him by a “gal” proved too much for human endurance. Laboriously he travelled from one mountain home to another pleading his cause. But unfortunately for him, his first call on Dan Gooch made an implacable enemy, for he thoughtlessly mentioned the Bentville school in terms of derision, further adding that “Si Quinn, the smartest man in Goose Creek, didn’t need ter chase off ter git larnin’.”

But Jake departed, feeling that he had failed miserably in making the desired impression. He would have felt still more convinced that the fates were against him could he have known that Dan Gooch immediately mounted his horse and set out with all possible haste to thwart the new candidate’s efforts.

Dan secretly surmised the sacrifice Talitha had made that Gincy should have her chance, and his gratitude gave him a ready tongue in the former’s behalf. It was late that night when he and his jaded steed returned victorious, for every member of the board and a number of patrons of the school had been surprised at the Settlement store, and there Jake Simcox’s cause was lost, it being the opinion of the trustees that the old schoolmaster had a right to name a substitute for the remainder of the term.

Jake Simcox did not take his defeat kindly, and to be beaten by a “gal” was the bitterest drop in his cup. He had a brief pleasure in knowing that when Talitha began school a number of children whose parents were his adherents would be absent.

The young teacher was gathering her courage to meet the conditions to which she had been accustomed all her life; suddenly they appalled her. How could she make that bare and desolate place cheerful and inviting to her pupils?

Early that Monday morning, long before the time for her scholars to arrive, she started for the schoolhouse. Halfway up the slope she paused to consider it—a small log cabin set in the midst of blackberry vines and tall, brown weeds which reached to the eaves. A narrow, worn path led through the tangle to the low, front door. Talitha hurried on breathlessly and opened it. The shutter over the one glassless window at the rear was also thrown back to let a draught of fresh air through the damp, musty place. In one corner was a rusty sheet-iron stove, near it a number of plank benches without backs; while on the opposite side a rude desk and a single chair completed the furnishings. There were no blackboards, no maps. The walls were as bare and uninteresting as when Si Quinn sat in the seat of authority and ruled his little flock—she the most timid and shrinking of them all—with a rod of iron.

She sat for a long time thinking until a certain project entered her mind. It was something to be carefully considered. She sprang up and filled a tin can with water for the flowers and reddening vines she had gathered on the way, and placed it on her desk. Next, a large picture calendar was pinned to the wall and several pictures from a newspaper supplement—a part of her possessions acquired at Bentville.

A stream of sunlight through the open window lighted the gay colours on walls and desk. The children hovered about the door in amazement until they were bidden to enter. They were all small but Billy Gooch, the eldest, who was short and stocky for his fourteen years and quite prepared to be his young teacher’s most zealous champion.

The feeling of timidity with which Talitha began her duties vanished before the morning was over; and in its place was a great anxiety to help her pupils and make more attractive the cheerless place which only a wide stretch of the imagination could call a schoolhouse. The latter seemed an impossibility, but when she reached the creek path that night on her way home, she found Dan Gooch waiting for her, eager for the earliest news of the day’s proceedings. To this sympathetic listener she told her needs and plans. He heard her to the end with a silent gravity which gave little sign of encouragement, but at dawn the next morning, Dan was in the saddle wending his way to the Settlement store. The flitch of bacon in his saddlebag had been secretly purloined from the family’s scanty store to be bartered for a few lengths of sawed timber and a small quantity of black paint. Dan correctly surmising that the storekeeper, being a patron of the school, would add his own contribution in the way of generous measure beside the nails and loan of a hammer.

A few days later when Talitha entered the schoolroom, two large blackboards nailed securely to the rough walls met her astonished eyes. Si Quinn had never been able to evoke the interest which had so suddenly been aroused in the Goose Creek school.

The secret which the young teacher had so patiently guarded for weeks was at last revealed in the shape of maps and several much needed books. A bundle of papers and magazines from the Bentville school was a welcome addition to Talitha’s slender stock of material. A lump rose in Dan Gooch’s throat as he helped her unpack the box from the city publishing house and hang the maps where the best light from the window would fall upon them. No words were needed to tell him that a large part of the money, hoarded so carefully for Talitha’s expenses at Bentville, had been spent in their purchase, and three of his children would be benefited by them. Mentally he resolved that it should all be returned to her some day in good measure.

Si Quinn was not ignorant of his former pupil’s successes. As often as his health permitted he hobbled up the winding path and sat contentedly, like a happy child, listening to the young teacher explaining things of which he had never heard. At times he would shake his head in bewilderment, but he never disputed her word, even when his most cherished theory—that the earth was square—was disproved. His dulled brain failed to grasp the explanation, but the bigoted faith in his own meagre stock of knowledge died pitifully away.

Jake Simcox also was not unmindful of his rival’s success as a teacher. With increasing anger he heard her praises sounded. Already his friends had yielded to their children’s entreaties and sent them to school. Jake kept aloof from the place until one day, wandering idly across the foothills, he came suddenly in full view of the schoolhouse perched on the side of Red Mountain. Its worn, weather-beaten logs looked ancient enough against the autumn-tinted foliage. As he looked, the scowl on his face deepened. He hesitated a moment, then took the trail toward it. The place would be deserted for it was long past school time; there was not a house in sight, still he approached it cautiously with sly, furtive glances around.

Before he reached the building he could see that the weeds and blackberry bushes had been exterminated, and in their places were broad-leaved ferns planted close to the rough sides, and a healthy ivy that in another year would give both grace and beauty to the walls. Jake eyed these changes with a sneer. He tried the door; it was locked, an unheard-of thing which he also resented. After much effort he unfastened the shutter, threw it back, and sprang into the room.

The light of the setting sun streamed in broad shafts over the crest of the mountain straight into the schoolhouse and illumined it to the farthest corner. The autumn flowers and vines on the desk glowed crimson. The blackboards, maps, and pictures had transformed the place; it was bare no longer. A pail of water on a box, with a basin, towel, and soap, was another innovation.

Secretly, Jake Simcox felt himself dwindle and grow small before such superior knowledge, yet it only served to rouse him to greater indignation that a “gal” should be better qualified to teach than he. Striding to the desk he turned the leaves of the text-books Talitha cherished so carefully, with a rough hand, shaking his head over the bewildering pages. Naturally impetuous, his fiery temper once thoroughly aroused swept him away in unreasoning wrath. At last he dropped upon a bench, moodily taking note of every object around him until they seemed seared into his memory.

The sun sank behind the mountain’s crest and the long shadows deepened down the slopes. They crept silently in at the open window and filled the room with gloom, and still he huddled there frowning until only a faint, grey light struggled at the square opening. Then Jake moved slightly. Two forces were wrestling within him—one very feebly, now worn out with the unequal conflict. He sprang up, and, listening at every step, closed the shutter cautiously and struck a match. There was a basket of pine cones and crisp leaves behind the stove. He lifted the lid and thrust them in. Another match and the mass was ablaze. Recklessly the wood from a generous box full was thrown upon it, and then in the midst of this furnace of flame hastily, as though his conscience would smite him in the act, he caught the books from the desk and threw them upon the pile. The pictures from the walls followed, the maps—what he could tear off in great clinging shreds—were also added to the holocaust.

The stove was red hot by this time and roaring like a young volcano. The miscreant burned his fingers putting on the cover, and then it glowered at him like a red monster as he watched it. Already his rage was somewhat cooled; the provocation which had led to such a deed began to look miserably small. He looked around at the bared walls and wished he could put everything back as he found it.

But instead of dying down the fire seemed to wax hotter; there was a snapping and crackling in the short length of pipe. A strange smell suddenly pervaded the place which the frightened Jake knew was the mud and stick chimney. It was afire, and while he stared in consternation, he heard it crumble and fall.

For a moment the young fellow stood rooted to the spot. In his thirst for revenge he had committed a most serious offence, for which the mountaineers—a law unto themselves—would not hesitate to mete out a swift punishment. The cabin was doomed. The flames had leaped to the roof; the stovepipe reeled and hung tipsily, ready to drop in a moment.

Terror stricken, Jake Simcox flung back the shutter and leaped out into the darkness. Like some wild thing of the mountains he fled down the slope, on and on, only looking back once to see forked tongues of light against the sky reaching higher and higher, until a swift, illumining flash told that the great pine behind the little schoolhouse had caught fire, and like a signal torch was blazing his shameful deed to all the mountains. Where could he go to escape the consequences?

He turned toward a thicket of young trees to aid his escape, but as he reached it a lumbering body emerged and proceeded leisurely toward the creek, the measured jingle of a bell marking every step.

VI
HUNTING A VARMINT

Supper was late at the Gooch cabin. Brindled Bess, who daily supplied a large portion of the evening meal, had strayed farther away than usual. For more than an hour Billy and his sister had been searching the mountain-side.

From his doorstep Dan looked gloomily forth into the fast gathering night. If the animal, suddenly startled at the brink of a ledge, had leaped over, it would be a sore calamity to the family. Dan listened to the clatter of dishes inside the cabin until hunger and suspense overcame him. He started up and with rapid strides disappeared across the mountain in a haste entirely foreign to his habits.

Both eye and ear were keenly alert. There was a strange, coppery glow on the eastern horizon. It reached far above the treetops, lurid and threatening against the soft blue of the evening sky.

“Some foolish feller’s let his bresh fire git away from him, I reckon,” commented Dan. But he went on without hearing a sound save those of the night.

Suddenly, there was a crackling of bushes above the creek path, the thud of hurried, stumbling steps. They came nearer until he could hear panting breaths, and Sudie was flying past him white-faced, wild-eyed, her hair streaming out like a frightened dryad of the mountains.

Dan caught roughly at her arm, and but for his grip she would have fallen in terror. “What’s the matter? Whar’s thet cow critter?” he demanded.

Sudie struggled with her sobs. “Oh, pappy, the schoolhouse is afire! Hit’s all-burnin’-up!” she gasped.

“What!” ejaculated her father in amazement.

“Hit shore is,” asseverated Billy, coming up red-faced and panting. “We war a-headin’ the cow critter this way when we seen the fire a-bustin’ out’n the roof. Hit’s—” But Dan had not waited to hear more. He was sprinting in the direction of the schoolhouse like a boy. His children watched him for a moment in open-mouthed astonishment at such unheard-of alacrity on their father’s part, then followed.

A good quarter of a mile brought him in plain sight of the burning building, where he could plainly see the futility of further effort. The little schoolhouse was a mass of flame, but the old, well-seasoned logs would burn for hours yet. Fortunately the heavy shower of the morning prevented the flames from spreading, the weeds and bushes had been so thoroughly cleared away. Only the sentinel pine at the back of the cabin was doomed.

Sudie clung to her father, sobbing wildly. “What’ll Tally say? We can’t never go to school no more,” she wailed.

“Hesh, honey, hit don’t do no good ter take on thet a-way,” urged Dan. “Somebody must hev been mighty keerless with matches or the like ter hev fired hit. I reckoned Tally’d hed more sense.”

“Hit warn’t her,” Billy burst out, anxious to vindicate his teacher. “Hit war thet Jake Simcox, I’ll be boun’. Jest as we hove in sight of the place I seen him a-scootin’ fer the pines like a painter war after him.”

“The low-down, sneakin’ varmint! Thet’s jest who did hit, and he ’lowed not ter git ketched in the night time. He’ll git larned better. The dark’ll kiver a heap o’ things, but no sech deed as this.” All the fierceness that lies smouldering in the nature of the average mountain man leaped into as fierce a flame as that consuming the little schoolhouse. His younger children’s opportunities had been snatched from them by this miscreant. He should not escape—a swift, deserved punishment should be meted out to this offender as only mountain men could measure it.

“Run home, Sudie, and tell your mammy she’ll hev ter tend ter the cow critter ter-night, me and Billy won’t be back fer a spell. Thar’s a heap ter be done before mornin’.”

His father’s ominous tone startled Billy. It brought to memory stories he had heard of the Twilliger and Amyx feuds—his mother was a Twilliger. He trembled.

“Son,” said Dan as Sudie disappeared, “do you ’low you can make the Coyle place ter-night?”

“I reckon so,” answered Billy, bravely trying to forget that it was long past his supper time. Mountain justice never waited on hunger.

“Clip up thar and back as soon as you kin, and tell Sam Coyle fer me, thet we shall expect ter see him at the Forks ter-morrow mornin’ by light, ter hunt varmints. They may hev left the kentry, but we’ll smoke ’em out if they’re ter be found. Kin you remember?”

“Yes, Pappy”

“Well, I’m goin’ ter the Twilligers. I kin git the boys ter push on to the Settlemint, and then the news’ll carry fast enough, I reckon,” and father and son parted.

At daybreak the Forks was the scene of an assembling of the clans. Old scores were forgotten. They were meeting in a common cause which had suddenly endeared itself to all. Not one of the older men but had children among Tally’s flock, and they had begun to realize what the school had meant to them.

Nearly all of the company were horseback, but every member carried a “shooting iron,” a fact which had its own significance.

“If we could hev took after thet varmint last night, I reckon we could hev treed him,” said Eli Twilliger. “But he’d be a plumb fool if he warn’t out of the kentry by this time. Hit’s a mighty good thing he hasn’t any kin in these parts.”

“Them long legs of his’n could take him cornsiderable fur, but he hasn’t any hoss critter ter save his strength. I reckon he ain’t out of reach yit. He never war no great hand ter exert hisself, Jake warn’t,” drawled the blacksmith.

“Well, he’s gittin’ further off while we’re argefyin’,” objected Dan Gooch testily. “I ’low hit’s time we war gittin’ down ter bizness. Some of you fellers take the trails ’tween you, and Sam and I’ll go ’long the creek. We’ll meet whar the old schoolhouse war, and if you’ve run down any game you kin bring hit along.”

At nine o’clock the party straggled in from different directions empty-handed. Eli Twilliger was the last one. His had been a hard, rough climb. Thin and wiry, sure of foot as a wild cat, and as ready to pounce upon the object of his search, not a man knew so well the hiding places those mighty hills afforded. His shirt was torn, his hands and face bore scratches received in a careful search through the narrow subterranean passages which honeycombed the cliffs. Tired and hungry, he was in an ugly mood as with long strides he made toward the group gathered at the edge of the pine thicket.

Dan Gooch turned toward him with a warning finger which he resented. “What’s do-in’?” he growled. “Hev you caged the varmint and air makin’ a show of him?” He peered curiously over the intervening shoulders and was suddenly silenced.

In sight of the charred, smouldering ruins from which still issued little puffs of smoke, Talitha, nothing daunted by her ill fortune, had gathered her little flock. Smiles had begun to cover their tear-stained faces. It was a delightful novelty to sit on that mossy, sun-flecked bank and prepare the day’s lessons. Billy Gooch shared his large slate with the youngest of the Twilligers, and two small girls bent industriously over the same book.

The eyes of the rough mountaineers moistened, their hands tightened upon their rifles ominously. There was a stir among the foremost, and Si Quinn faced them. His face was like a thunder cloud. One crutch waved so threateningly that those nearest shrank back. “What air you goin’ ter do ’bout hit? Thet’s what I want ter ask. You might hev knowed you couldn’t ketch that feller; he wan’t brung up in the mountings fer nothin’. Hit was as big a piece of devilment as I ever heerd of, but mebbe hit won’t be the worst thing could hev happened, except fer the leetle gal losin’ the money she put inter hit. Let’s go ter work and put up somethin’ thet won’t shame us. You-all know thet old shack warn’t no way fitten fer a schoolhouse. I can’t help you ter cut a stick of timber much as I’d give fer the strength ter do hit, but I’ll give ’nough ter make up fer all Tally lost—”

“Sho now, Si, we ain’t goin’ ter let you do hit,” interrupted the blacksmith. “We’ll jest count your advice wuth thet much, and I reckon hit air. If we ain’t robustious ’nough ter put up another schoolhouse and git what Tally needs for our young-uns, I ’low we’re a sorry lot—”

“How you do go on, Enoch,” jibed Eli Twilliger, pushing his way to the front. “Air you intendin’ ter take the stump fer the next ’lection? Let’s git down ter bizness. Thar ain’t nothin’ I can see ter hinder us from startin’ ter-morrow mornin’, and if the weather is fair Tally shall hev her schoolhouse in two weeks. Ain’t thet so, boys?”

For answer, a shout went up that started the echoes from their hiding-places in the hills. Talitha and her flock looked up at them wonderingly. She was too far away to comprehend what good fortune was to be hers, but she could rejoice that something had restored the men to good humour. Greater than sorrow at the frustrating of her plans and the loss in which her small savings had been invested, was her horror at the revival of the old feud spirit. She had learned at the Bentville school the terribleness of it. In agony she had watched her father the previous night as he cleaned and loaded his rifle. Jake Simcox had done a despicable, cowardly thing, but she could not wish him dealt with according to the code of mountain justice.

At noon she sent the children home and walked slowly beside the schoolmaster. There were many questions she wished to ask him, but she kept silent, knowing that he would speak of his own accord or not at all.

“Hit war jest as I ’lowed,” he said at last. “Jake took time by the forelock and mighty well he did.”

“Oh, I’m so glad they didn’t find him!” exclaimed Talitha in a tone that struck the schoolmaster oddly.

“What’s thet, leetle gal! Mighty queer talk fer the gran’darter of a Bills.” The faded eyes twinkled.

“I can’t help it, it isn’t right; and it’s a terrible thing for folks to remember all their lives!”

“Pore leetle gal,” the old man nodded understandingly. “You warn’t bigger’n Sudie, I reckon, time o’ the Amyx shootin’. ’Twar a shame ter saddle you with sech mem’ries. I never did hev much use fer sech doin’s, and I said so, but hit warn’t a grain o’ use. You might jest as well talk ter a passel of hounds arter a Bushy tail. But chirk up, you won’t see Jake in these parts agin. What we’re most consarned ’bout now is whar you’re goin’ ter keep school when the ugly weather comes on.”

They had come to the parting of the ways, and here Talitha left the old man hobbling painfully toward his cabin.

Si Quinn’s progress homeward was slow. He stopped now and then to regain his breath and chuckle feebly to himself. “I reckon she thinks I’ve a heart of stun ter take hit so ca’m, but I ’low Jake Simcox didn’t do sech a bad thing. Hit war worse fer hisself than fer Goose Creek. Law, what’ll the gal say when she hears of hit! I reckon I’d better be sendin’ fer them school fixin’s ter-morrow.” He had reached the cabin door, and now he shuffled inside, closing it carefully. Shadowed by pines, the place was always gloomy enough even at mid-day with the shutters thrown wide. Now he uncovered the coals on the hearth, laid on a few small sticks, and swung the battered old tea kettle over the blaze. Then he drew up his chair cosily before it, and thrusting his hand into his trousers’ pocket brought forth a small leather bag. From it he counted a number of bills, smoothing each one tenderly across his knee.

“She shall hev ’em,” he said aloud. “I’ll do without somehow, and hit won’t be fer long. The old man’s nearin’ the end of the trail—” He glanced around uneasily, with a vague consciousness of something—he knew not what. In the far corner of the cabin a pair of eyes, bloodshot and wild, glared at him from under a thatch of red hair.

The old man grasped the money. It disappeared in his shirt as he staggered to his feet and faced the intruder.

“You needn’t be afeard, I ain’t goin’ ter tech hit.” The figure issued from the corner lamely. In the light it was still more forbidding. A bruise on the forehead made a disfiguring, parti-coloured lump on his otherwise pale, drawn face. “I ain’t teched a thing, not even a crumb, tho’ I’m ’most famished,” he growled.

“Hush, you crazy loon!” Si Quinn raised a warning finger.

“Aw, yes, I know,” sneered the young fellow recklessly. “The dogs air arter the wolf and they kin hev him.” He threw up his arms wildly.

“Set down in thet cheer and be still,” commanded the old man.

Jake dropped obediently into a seat.

“I ’lowed you war out’n the kentry. Why didn’t you make tracks when you had a chanct?”

“I did aim ter,” answered Jake Simcox, “but I fell, crawlin’ over thet ledge by the Gulch, and I didn’t know nothin’ till this mornin’. I could hear the men thrashin’ the bushes all ’round me, but I was jest out of sight of ’em. I wish fer the land they’d tuk me then and thar and done with hit.”

“The way of a transgressor is shorely hard,” exclaimed the old man pityingly.

“I didn’t go fer ter fire the place, Si, I shore didn’t. I jest thought ter burn the books and sech. Oh, I don’t know what made me do hit, ’less I was plumb crazy!” Jake bowed his head in his hands and groaned in agony.

The schoolmaster set the coffee pot upon the coals, where it simmered gently. “Sho now, Jake,” he said kindly, “you’re all beat out. Draw up and hev a bite; hit ain’t much but hit’ll put some heart in you. I don’t cornsider thet jest burnin’ thet old shack war sech a turrible sin; hit war the sperit you done hit in. You did ’low to burn all thet pore gal spent most of her savin’s on, and thet was the meanest part of the hull bizness. I allers said thet temper of yours would bring you ter grief. Hit’s like a skeery hoss critter; when hit gits loose you never can cal’late on all the didos hit’s goin’ ter cut up. Do you think thet if you hed another chanct you hev got grit ’nough ter turn ’round in your tracks?”

Jake reached a hand over the table and grasped the hard, shrivelled one. “Oh, I shore would if I could only hev hit,” he answered humbly. “I shore would, but hit’s too late.”

“Hit ain’t,” contradicted the old man cheerfully. “So long as you see the error of your ways, I’ll see thet you git out of this bizness hopin’ hit’s a lesson you won’t forgit.”

Until Jake Simcox was able both mentally and physically to make the journey, he remained in the schoolmaster’s cabin, hiding away in the little loft at the least sign of danger.