Part 21 (2/2)
a doin' all I kin fer to make it safe fer you to stay, but it won't never be real safe. You see, there's them up here in the high mountings what's suspicious like. They don't want to take no risks. They're always a lookin' out fer tricks, an' they won't believe but what you fellers mout be up to some trick. Anyhow they say 'men that ain't up in the mountings can't tell what's a goin' on up in the mountings,' an' some of 'em says, says they, 'men that's dead don't tell nothin' to the revenue officers.'”
”Nevertheless we're not going to be driven out, as you know,” said Tom.
”So now let's get to business.”
”All right, Tom. Ef there's anythin' in this world I kin do fer you without hangin' fer it, I'll do it.”
”Well,” said Tom, ”I came up here at risk of my life to look for you. I thought I might find your cabin or more probably find you standing guard over some still somewhere, and so I've been looking out for stills.”
”Now, that's curious,” said the man, ”very curious. Fer that's edzactly what you found me a doin'. You see, they's a still near here an' it's about as snugly tucked away as any still ever was in all these mountings. You'd never find it in the world, though you ain't at this minute more'n two hundred yards away from it. Still the folks what runs it don't feel overly safe in spite of their hidin' of the still. So they've give me a job like to climb about over the cliffs an' look out fer spies. That's how I come to find you, Tom.”
”Well, I'm glad you did find me,” said Tom, ”for in all probability I never should have found you, and I stood a good chance of getting myself shot in trying. You said just now that you would do anything you could for me.”
”Yes, an' I will!” answered the man, with emphasis. ”Jest you try me, Tom, an' see ef I don't.”
”Very well,” said Tom. ”I believe you. Now, what I want isn't much. We boys down there in Camp Venture ran out of something to eat the other day, and we nearly starved for a time. Finally, by good luck, we got a bear, and we have more than half of it left, and of course, now that the snow storm has pa.s.sed away, I can get more game as we need it. But we haven't had any bread for more than a week, and we're hungry. So I have come out here to look for you, to see if you can't get me a bag of ground-up corn or rye from one of the stills. I have money with me with which to pay for it.”
”But you can't pay fer it, Tom,” said the man solemnly. ”They ain't any body around the still now, 'cause it's knocked off runnin' fer the next week er so, but they's plenty of ground corn an' rye there, an' I'll bring you all you kin carry of it, ef you'll wait here fer fifteen minutes, an' not a cent to pay.”
”But it doesn't belong to you?” said Tom.
”No, in course not. I don't own no still. I wish I was rich enough.”
”Then of course I can't let you give me the meal. I must pay full price for it or I'll go without it.”
”But say, Tom, that stuff ain't never measured up or weighed up, an'
n.o.body'd ever miss a bagful or two. Why, I carry a small bagful of it to my cabin every mornin', jest as a sort o' safeguard like fer the little gal till blackberry time comes. I'll bring you a bagful an' I tell you it shan't cost you a cent.”
”And I tell you,” said Tom, ”that I won't take an ounce of it on any such terms. That meal belongs to other people. I want some of it--just as much as I can carry to Camp Venture with me--but I must pay for every ounce of it or I won't take any of it. I never steal, and I don't intend to let you steal for me.”
”Oh, it ain't stealin' like,” answered the man; ”you see people never care fer what they lose ef they don't know that they loses it.”
”I don't suppose I can make you understand,” said Tom, realizing the utter inability of the mountaineer's mind to grasp an ethical principle, even of the simplest kind, ”but I tell you plainly that I want this bagful of corn meal if you'll let me pay honestly for it, and otherwise I don't want it at all, and won't take it. I would rather see every boy in Camp Venture starve than do a dishonest thing.”
”Well, you see, you people from down the mounting draw these things a good deal finer than us folks up here in the mountings kin. I'm a member of the church an' I tries to behave accordin'. You never heard me swear an' you never will. You've done me the greatest favor any body ever done me, an' like an honest man I want to repay it a little, but you won't let me.”
Tom saw that there was no use in trying to enlighten the mountaineer's perverted ethical sense and so he gave up the effort and simply said:
”Will you let me have the meal and let me pay for it, or will you not?”
”In course I will,” said the mountaineer. ”How many bags is you got?”
”Only this one,” said Tom. ”I couldn't carry more than that. It will hold a hundred pounds of meal.”
”Yes, but I kin carry some,” said the man, ”and I'm a goin' to. I tell you you done me the biggest turn any body ever done me, when you put me on pay-roll, an' I'm bound to get even with you ef I kin. So I'm a goin'
to fill your bag an' one that I've got down there of my own, an' I'm a goin' to tote one of 'em while you tote the other. I know easier paths than you do about these mountings an' I'm a goin' to show 'em to you. In some places we kin slide the meal bags down a incline fer a quarter of a mile at a time, jest on the ice, without no totin' at all. So we'll git two big bags o' meal to your camp betwixt this an' mornin'.”
”But why not wait for daylight?” asked Tom.
”'Cause then the fellers would lynch me fer carryin' food to the enemy.
You see it won't do fer me even to go into yer camp. I'll tote my bag to the top o' that bluff like, that rises this side o' the camp. Then I'll git out quick an' afterwards you kin slip the bag over the bluff like an' I'll git into no trouble.”
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