Part 13 (1/2)
The big man's muscles tightened. ”Dad told us about his stoppin'
at the ranch the other night. Wash Gibbs better keep his hands off Mr. Howitt.”
”I ain't told n.o.body about this, Grant, and you can do as you like about tellin' your father, and the old man. But if anything happens, get word to me, quick.”
Before more could be said, Sammy appeared in the doorway, and soon the two young people were riding on their way. Long after they had pa.s.sed from sight in the depth of the forest, the dark mountaineer stood at the big gate, looking in the direction they had gone.
Young Matt was like a captive, tugging at his bonds. Mr. Lane's words had stirred the fire, and the girl's presence by his side added fuel to the flame. He could not speak. He dared not even look at her, but rode with his eyes fixed upon the ground, where the sunlight fell in long bars of gold. Sammy, too, was silent.
She felt something that was strangely like fear, when she found herself alone with her big neighbor. Now and then she glanced timidly up at him and tried to find some word with which to break the silence. She half wished that she had not come. So they rode together through the lights and shadows down into the valley, the only creatures in all the free life of the forest who were not free.
At last the girl spoke, ”It's mighty good of you to take me over to Mandy's to-night. There ain't no one else I could o' gone with.” There was no reply, and Sammy, seeming not to notice, continued talking in a matter-of-fact tone that soon--for such is the way of a woman--won him from his mood, and the two chatted away like the good comrades they had always been.
Just after they had crossed Fall Creek at Slick Rock Ford, some two miles below the mill, Young Matt leaned from his saddle, and for a little way studied the ground carefully. When he sat erect again, he remarked, with the air of one who had reached a conclusion, ”Wouldn't wonder but there'll be doin's at Ford's to- night, sure enough.”
”There's sure to be,” returned the girl; ”everybody'll be there.
Mandy's folks from over on Long Creek are comin', and some from the mouth of the James. Mandy wanted Daddy to play for 'em, but he says he can't play for parties no more, and they got that old fiddlin' Jake from the Flag neighborhood, I guess.”
”There'll be somethin' a heap more excitin' than fiddlin' and dancin', accordin' to my guess,” returned Young Matt.
”What do you mean?” asked Sammy.
Her escort pointed to the print of a mule's shoe in the soft soil of the low bottom land. ”That there's Wash Gibbs's dun mule, and he's headed down the creek for Jennings's still. Wash'll meet a lot of his gang from over on the river, and like's not they'll go from there to the party. I wish your dad was goin' to do the playin' to-night.”
It was full dark before they reached the Ford clearing. The faint, far away sound of a violin, seeming strange and out of place in the gloomy solitude of the great woods, first told them that other guests had already arrived. Then as they drew nearer and the tones of the instrument grew louder, they could hear the rhythmic swing and beat of heavily shod feet upon the rough board floors, with the shrill cries of the caller, and the half savage, half pathetic sing-song of the backwoods dancers, singing, ”Missouri Gal.”
Reaching the edge of the clearing, they involuntarily checked their horses, stopping just within the shadow of the timber. Here the sound of the squeaking fiddle, the shouting caller, the stamping feet, and the swinging dancers came with full force; and, through the open door and windows of the log house, they could see the wheeling, swaying figures of coatless men and calico gowned women, while the light, streaming out, opened long lanes in the dusk. About them in the forest's edge, standing in groups under the trees, were the shadowy forms of saddle horses and mules, tied by their bridle reins to the lower branches; and nearer to the cabin, two or three teams, tied to the rail-fence, stood hitched to big wagons in which were splint-bottom chairs for extra seats.
During the evening, the men tried in their rough, good natured way, to joke Young Matt about taking advantage of Ollie Stewart's absence, but they very soon learned that, while the big fellow was ready to enter heartily into all the fun of the occasion, he would not receive as a jest any allusion to his relation to the girl, whom he had escorted to the party. Sammy, too, when her big companion was not near, suffered from the crude wit of her friends.
”Ollie Stewart don't own me yet,” she declared with a toss of the head, when someone threatened to write her absent lover.
”No,” replied one of her tormentors, ”but you ain't aimin' to miss your chance o' goin' t' th' city t' live with them big-bugs.”
In the laugh that followed, Sammy was claimed by a tall woodsman for the next dance, and escaped to take her place on the floor.
”Well, Ollie'll sure make a good man for her,” remarked another joker; ”if he don't walk th' chalk, she can take him 'cross her knee an' wallop him.”
”She'll surely marry him, alright,” said the first, ”'cause he's got th' money, but she's goin' t' have a heap o' fun makin' Young Matt play th' fool before she leaves th' woods. He ain't took his eyes off her t'night. Everybody's laughin' at him.”
”I notice they take mighty good care t' laugh behind his back,”
flashed little black-eyed Annie Brooke from the Cove neighborhood.
Young Matt, who had been dancing with Mandy Ford, came up behind the group just in time to hear their remarks. Two or three who saw him within hearing tried to warn the speakers, but while everybody around them saw the situation, the two men caught the frantic signals of their friends too late. The music suddenly stopped. The dancers were still. By instinct every eye in the room was fixed upon the little group, as the jokers turned to face the object of their jests.
The big mountaineer took one long step toward the two who had spoken, his brow dark with rage, his huge fists clenched. But, even as his powerful muscles contracted for the expected blow, the giant came to a dead stop. Slowly his arm relaxed. His hand dropped to his side. Then, turning deliberately, he walked to the door, the silent crowd parting to give him way.
As the big man stepped from the room, a gasp of astonishment escaped from the company, and the two jokers, with frightened faces, broke into a shrill, nervous laughter. Then a buzz of talk went round; the fiddlers struck up again; the callers shouted; the dancers stamped, and bowed, and swung their partners as they sang.
And out in the night under the trees, at the edge of the gloomy forest, the strongest man in the hills was saying over and over to the big, white faced sorrel, ”I don't dare do it. I don't dare.
Dad Howitt wouldn't. He sure wouldn't.”