The hunchback rubbed his chin. "Quiller," he said, "don"t the Bible tell about a man that met an angel when he was a goin" somewhere?"
"Yes," I laughed.
"What was that man"s name?" said he.
"Balaam," said I.
"Well," said he, "that man Balaam was the second a.s.s that saw an angel, an" you"re the third one."
CHAPTER VII
THE MASTER BUILDERS
The road running into the south lands crosses the Valley River at two places,--at the foot of Thornberg"s Hill and twenty miles farther on at Horton"s Ferry. At the first crossing, the river bed is piled with boulders, and the river boils through, running like a millrace, a swift, roaring water without a ford. At Horton"s Ferry the river runs smooth and wide and deep, a shining sheet of clear water, making a mighty bend, still ford-less, but placid enough to be crossed by a ferry, running with a heavy current when swollen by the rains, except in the elbow of the bend where it swings into a tremendous eddy.
Over the river, where the road meets it first, is a huge wooden bridge with one span. It is giant work, the stone abutment built out a hundred feet on either side into the bed of the plunging water, neither rail nor wall flanking this stone causeway, but the bare unguarded width of the road-bed leading up into the bridge.
On the lips of the abutment, the builders set two stone blocks, smooth and wide, and cut places in them for the bridge timbers. It was a piece of excellent judgment, since the great stones could not be broken from the abutment, and they were mighty enough to bear the weight of a mountain. The bridge rests on three sills, each a log that, unhewn, must have taken a dozen oxen to drag it. I have often wondered at the magnitude of this labour; how these logs were thrown across the boiling water by any engines known to the early man. It was a work for Pharaoh.
On these three giant sleepers the big floor was laid, the walls raised, and the whole roofed, so that it was a covered road over the Valley.
The shingle roof and the boarded sides protected the timber framework from the beating of the elements. Dry, save for the occasional splash of the hissing water far below, the great bones of this bridge hardened and lasted like sills of granite. The shingle roof curled, cracked, and dropped off into the water; the floor broke through, the sides rotted, and were all replaced again and again. But the powerful grandsires who had come down from the Hills to lay a floor over the Valley were not intending to do that work again, and went about their labour like the giants of old times.
Indeed, a legend runs that these sills were not laid by men at all, but by the Dwarfs. As evidence of this folklore tale, it is pointed out that these logs have the mark of a rough turtle burned on their under surface like the turtle cut on the great stones in the mountains. And men differ about what wood they are of, some declaring them to be oak and others sugar, and still others a strange wood of which the stumps only are now found in the Hills. It is true that no mark of axe can be found on them, but this is no great wonder since the bark was evidently removed by burning, an ancient method of preserving the wood from rot.
We swung down Thornberg"s Hill in a long trot, and on to the bridge. The river was swollen, a whirling ma.s.s of yellow water that surged and pounded and howled under the timber floor as though the mad spirits of the river still resented the work of the Dwarfs. It was the Valley"s business to divide the land, and it had done it well, leaving the sons of Eve to bite their fingers until, on a night, the crooked people came stumbling down to take a hand in the matter.
We clattered through, and down a long abutment. It almost made one dizzy to look over. A rail or a tree limb would ride down into this devil"s maw, or a log would come swimming, its back bobbing in the muddy water, and then strike the smooth nose of a boulder and go to splinters.
Beyond the mad river the mild morning world was a land of lazy quiet.
The sky was as blue as a woman"s eye, and the sun rose clear in his flaming cart. Along the roadside the little purple flowers of autumn peeped about under the green briers. The fields were s.h.a.ggy with ragweed and dead whitetop and yellow sedge. The walnut and the apple trees were bare, and the tall sycamore stood naked in its white skin. Sometimes a heron flapped across the land, taking a short cut to a lower water, or a woodp.e.c.k.e.r dived from the tall timber, or there boomed from the distant wooded hollow the drum of some pheasant lover, keeping a forgotten tryst.
It was now two hours of midday, and the October sun was warm. Tiny streaks of dampness were beginning to appear on the sleek necks of the Cardinal and El Mahdi, and the Bay Eagle was swinging her head, a clear sign that the good mare was not entirely comfortable.
I turned to Ump. "There"s something wrong with that bridle," I said.
"Either the brow-band or the throat-latch. The mare"s fidgety."
He looked at me in astonishment, like a man charged suddenly with a crime, and slid his long hand out under her slim throat, and over her silk foretop; then he growled. "You don"t know your A, B, C"s, Quiller.
She wants water; that"s all."
Jud grinned like a bronzed Bacchus. "The queen might wear Spanish needles in her shirt," he said, "an" be d.a.m.ned. But the Bay Eagle will never wear a tight throat-latch or a pinchin" brow-band, or a rough bit, or a short headstall, while old Mr. Ump warms the saddle seat."
The hunchback was squirming around, craning his long neck. If the Bay Eagle were dry, water must be had, and no delay about it. Love for this mare was Ump"s religion. I laughed and pointed down the road. "We are almost at Aunt Peggy"s house. Don"t stop to dig a well." And we broke into a gallop.
Aunt Peggy was one of the ancients, a carpet-weaver, pious as Martin Luther, but a trifle liberal with her idioms. The tongue in her head wagged like a bell-clapper. Whatever was whispered in the Hills got somehow into Aunt Peggy"s ears, and once there it went to the world like the secret of Midas.
If one wished to publish a bit of gossip, he told Aunt Peggy, swore her to secrecy, and rode away. But as there is often a point of honour about the thief and a whim of the Puritan about the immoral, Aunt Peggy could never be brought to say who it was that told her. One could inquire as one pleased. The old woman ran no farther than "Them as knows." And there it ended and you might be d.a.m.ned.
The house was a log cottage covered with shingles and whitewash, set by the roadside under a great chestnut tree, its door always open in the daytime. As we drew rein by this open door, the old woman dropped her shuttle, tossed her ball of carpet rags over into the weaving frame, and came stumbling to the threshold in her long linsey dress that fell straight from her neck to the floor.
She pulled her square-rimmed spectacles down on her nose and squinted up at us. When she saw me, she started back and dropped her hands. "Great fathers!" she e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, "I hope I may go to the blessed G.o.d if it ain"t Quiller gaddin" over the country, an" Mister Ward a-dyin"."
It seemed to me that the earth lurched as it swung, and every joint in my body went limber as a rag. I caught at El Mahdi"s mane, then I felt Jud"s arm go round me, and heard Ump talking at my ear. But they were a long distance away. I heard instead the bees droning, and Ward"s merry laugh, as he carried me on his shoulder a babbling youngster in a little white kilt. It was only an instant, but in it all the good days when I was little and Ward was father and mother and Providence, raced by.
Then I heard Ump. "It"s a lie, Quiller, a d.a.m.n lie. Don"t you remember what Patsy said? Not to believe anything you hear? Do you think she ran that horse to death for nothin"? It was to tell you, to git to you first before Woodford"s lie got to you. Don"t you see? Oh, d.a.m.n Woodford!
Don"t you see the trick, boy?"
Then I saw. My heart gave a great thump. The sunlight poured in and I was back in the road by the old carpet-weaver"s cottage.
The old woman was alarmed, but her curiosity held like a cable.
"What"s he sayin"," she piped; "what"s he sayin"?"
"That it"s all a lie, Aunt Peggy," replied Jud.
She turned her squint eyes on him. "Who told you so?" she said.
"Who told you?" growled Ump.
"Them as knows," she said. And the curiosity piped in her voice. "Did they lie?"
"They did," said Ump; "Mister Ward"s hurt, but he ain"t dangerous."
"Bless my life," cried the old woman, "an" they lied, did they? I think a liar is the meanest thing the Saviour died for. They said Mister Ward was took sudden with blood poison last night, an" a-dyin", the scalawags! I"ll dress "em down when I git my eyes on "em."
"Who were they, Aunt Peggy?" I ventured.
She made a funny gesture with her elbows, and then shook her finger at me. "You know I can"t tell that, Quiller," she piped, "but the blessed G.o.d knows, an" I hope He"ll tan their hides for "em."
"I know, too," said Ump.
The old woman leaned out of the door. "Hey?" she said; "what"s that? You know? Then maybe you"ll tell why they come a-lyin"."
"Can you keep a secret?" said Ump, leaning down from his saddle.
The old woman"s face lighted. She put her hand to her ear and craned her neck like a turtle. "Yes," she said, "I can that."
"So can I," said Ump.
The old carpet-weaver snorted. "Humph," she said, "when you git dry behind the ears you won"t be so peart." Then she waved her hand to me.
"Light off," she said, "an" rest your critters, an" git a tin of drinkin" water."
After this invitation she went back to her half-woven carpet with its green chain and its copperas-coloured widths, and we presently heard the hum of the wooden shuttle and the bang of the loom frame. We rode a few steps farther to the well, and Jud dismounted to draw the water. The appliance for lifting the bucket was of the most primitive type. A post with a forked top stood planted in the ground. In this fork rested a long, slender sapling with a heavy b.u.t.t, and from the small end, high in the air, hung a slim pole, to the lower end of which the bucket was tied.
Jud grasped the pole and lowered the bucket into the well, and then, while one watched by the door, the others watered the horses in the old carpet-weaver"s bucket. It was the only thing to drink from, and if Aunt Peggy had caught us with the "critters"" noses in it we should doubtless have come in for a large share of that "dressing down" which she was reserving for Lemuel Marks.