She came to the door as we were about to ride away and looked over the sweaty horses. "Sakes alive," she said, "you little whelps ride like Jehu. You"ll git them horses ga"nted before you know it."
"You can"t ga"nt a horse if he sweats good," said Ump; "but if he don"t sweat, you can ga"nt him into fiddle strings."
"They"re pretty critters," said the old woman, running her eyes over the three horses. "Be they Mister Ward"s?"
"We all be Mister Ward"s," answered Ump, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g his mouth to one side and imitating the old carpet-weaver"s voice.
"Bless my life," said the old woman, looking us up and down, "Mister Ward has a fine chance of scalawags."
We laughed and the old woman"s face wrinkled into smiles. Then she turned to me. "Which way did you come, Quiller?" she asked.
"Over the bridge," said I. Now there was no other way to come, and the old carpet-weaver turned the counter with shrewd good-nature.
"Maybe you know how the bridge got there," she said.
"I"ve heard that the Dwarfs built it," said I, "but I reckon it"s talk."
"Well, it ain"t talk," said the old woman. "A long time ago, folks lived on the other side of the river, and the Dwarfs lived on this side, an"
the folks tried to git acrost, but they couldn"t, an" they talked to the Dwarfs over the river, an" asked them to build a bridge, an" the Dwarfs said they couldn"t build it unless the river devils was bought off. Then the folks |asked how to buy off them river devils, an" the Dwarfs said to throw in a thimble full of human blood an" spit in the river. So, one night the folks done it, an" next morning them logs was acrost."
The spectacles of the old woman were fastened around her head with a shoestring. She removed them by lifting the shoestring over her head, polished them for a moment on her linsey dress and set them back on her nose.
"Then," she went on, "the devilment was done. Just like it allers is when people gits smarter than the blessed G.o.d. The Dwarfs crost over an"
rid the horses in the night an" sucked the cows, an" made faces at the women so the children was cross-eyed. An" the folks tried to throw down the bridge an" couldn"t do it because the Dwarfs had put a spell on them logs."
She stopped and jerked her thumb toward the river. "Did you ever hear tell of old Jimmy Radcliff?" she asked.
We had heard of the old-time millwright, and said so.
"Well," she went on, "they was a-layin" a floor in that bridge oncet, an" old Jimmy got tight on b"iled cider, an" "low"d he"d turn one of them logs over. So he chucked a crowbar under one of "em an" begun a-pryin", an" all at oncet that crowbar flew out of his hand an" old Jimmy fell through, an" the men cotched him by his wampus an" it took four of "em to pull him up, because, they said, it felt like somethin"
was a-holdin" his legs."
"I reckon," said Ump, "it was the cider in Jimmy"s legs. If there had been anything holdin", they could have seen it."
""Tain"t so certain," said Aunt Peggy, wagging her head, ""tain"t so certain. There"s many a thing a-holdin" in the world that you can"t see." And she turned around in the door and went stumping back to her loom.
We rode south in no light-hearted mood. Again we had met the far-sighted cunning of Hawk Rufe, in a trap baited by a master, and had slipped from under it by no skill of ours. Had we missed those last words of Patsy, flung back like an angry taunt, I should have believed the tale about my brother and hurried north, if all the cattle in the Hills had gone to the devil. It was a master move, that lie, and I began to see the capacity of these dangerous men. This was merely an outpost strategy, laid as they pa.s.sed along. What would it be when we came to the serious business of the struggle?
And how came that girl on Thornberg"s Hill? Cynthia was shoulder to shoulder with Woodford. We had seen that with our own eyes. Had Patsy turned traitor to Cynthia?
I looked over at Ump. "What did that little girl mean?" I said.
"I give it up," said he.
"I don"t understand women," said I.
"If you did," said he, "they"d have you in a side-show."
CHAPTER VIII
SOME REMARKS OF SAINT PAUL
A great student of men has written somewhere about the fear that hovers at the threshold of events. And a great essayist, in a dozen lines, as clean-cut as the work of a gem engraver, marks the idleness of that fear when above the trembling one are only the G.o.ds,--he alone, with them alone.
The first great man is seeing right, we know. The other may be also seeing right, but few of us are tall enough to see with him, though we stand a-tiptoe. We sleep when we have looked upon the face of the threatening, but we sleep not when it crouches in the closet of the to-morrow. Men run away before the battle opens, who would charge first under its booming, and men faint before the surgeon begins to cut, who never whimper after the knife has gone through the epidermis. It is the fear of the dark.
It sat with me on the crupper as we rode into Roy"s tavern. Marks and Peppers and the club-footed Malan were all moving somewhere in our front. Hawk Rufe was not intending to watch six hundred black cattle filing into his pasture with thirty dollars lost on every one of their curly heads. Fortune had helped him hugely, or he had helped himself hugely, and this was all a part of the structure of his plan. Ward out of the way first! Accident it might have been, design I believed it was.
Yet, upon my life, with my prejudice against him I could not say.
That we could not tell the whims of chance from the plans of Woodford was the best testimonial to this man"s genius. One moved a master when he used the hands of Providence to lift his pieces. The accident to Ward was clear accident, to hear it told. At the lower falls of the Gauley, the road home runs close to the river and is rough and narrow. On the opposite side the deep laurel thickets reach from the hill-top to the water. Here, in the roar of the falls, the Black Abbot had fallen suddenly, throwing Ward down the embankment. It was a thing that might occur any day in the Hills. The Black Abbot was a bad horse, and the prediction was common that he would kill Ward some day. But there was something about this accident that was not clear. Mean as his fame put him, the Black Abbot had never been known to fall in all of his vicious life. On his right knee there was a great furrow, long as a man"s finger and torn at one corner. It was scarcely the sort of wound that the edge of a stone would make on a falling horse.
Ump and Jud and old Jourdan examined this wound for half a night, and finally declared that the horse had been shot. They pointed out that this was the furrow of a bullet, because hair was carried into the wound, and nothing but a bullet carries the hair with it. The fibres of the torn muscle were all forced one way, a characteristic of the track of a bullet, and the edge of the wound on the inside of the horse"s knee was torn. This was the point from which a bullet, if fired from the opposite side of the river, would emerge; and it is well known that a bullet tears as it comes out. At least this is always true with a muzzle-loading rifle. Ward expressed no opinion. He only drew down his dark eyebrows when the three experts went in to tell him, and directed them to swing Black Abbot in his stall, and bandage the knee. But I talked with Ump about it, and in the light of these after events it was tolerably clear.
At this point of the road, the roar of the falls would entirely drown the report of a rifle, and the face of any convenient rock would cover the flash. The graze of a bullet on the knee would cause any horse to fall, and if he fell here, the rider was almost certain to sustain some serious injury if he were not killed. True, it was a piece of good shooting at fifty yards, but both Peppers and Malan could "bark" a squirrel at that distance.
If this were the first move in Woodford"s elaborate plan, then there was trouble ahead, and plenty of trouble. The horses came to a walk at a little stream below Roy"s tavern, and we rode up slowly.
The tavern was a long, low house with a great porch, standing back in a well-sodded yard. We dismounted, tied the horses to the fence, and crossed the path to the house. As I approached, I heard a voice say, "If the other gives "em up, old Nicholas won"t." Then I lifted the latch and flung the door open.
I stopped with my foot on the threshold. At the table sat Lem Marks, his long, thin legs stretched out, and his hat over his eyes. On the other side was Malan and, sitting on the corner of the table, drinking cider from a stone pitcher, was Parson Peppers,--the full brood.
The Parson replaced the pitcher and wiped his dripping mouth on his sleeve. Then he burst out in a loud guffaw. "I quote Saint Paul," he cried. "Do thyself no harm, for we are all here."
Marks straightened in his chair like a cat, and the little eyes of Malan slipped around in his head. For a moment, I was undecided, but Ump pushed through and I followed him into the room.
There was surprise and annoyance in Marks"s face for a moment. Then it vanished like a shadow and he smiled pleasantly. "You"re late to dinner," he said; "perhaps you were not expected."
"I think," said I, "that we were not expected, but we have come."
"I see," said Marks.
Peppers broke into a hoa.r.s.e laugh and clapped his hand on Marks"s shoulder. "You see, do you?" he roared; "you see now, my laddie. Didn"t I tell you that you couldn"t stop runnin" water with talk?"
The suggestion was dangerously broad, and Marks turned it. "I recall,"
he said, "no conversation with you about running water. That cider must be up in your hair."
"Lemuel, my boy," said the jovial Peppers, "the Lord killed Ananias for lyin" an" you don"t look strong."
"I"m strong enough to keep my mouth shut," snapped Marks.
"Fiddle-de-dee," said Peppers, "the Lord has sometimes opened an a.s.s"s mouth when He wanted to."
"He didn"t have to open it in your case," said Marks.