Part 1 (1/2)
The Last Stetson.
by John Fox Jr.
I.
A MIDSUMMER freshet was running over old Gabe Bunch's water-wheel into the c.u.mberland. Inside the mill Steve Marc.u.m lay in one dark corner with a slouched hat over his face. The boy Isom was emptying a sack of corn into the hopper. Old Gabe was speaking his mind.
Always the miller had been a man of peace; and there was one time when he thought the old Stetson-Lewallen feud was done. That was when Rome Stetson, the last but one of his name, and Jasper Lewallen, the last but one of his, put their guns down and fought with bare fists on a high ledge above old Gabe's mill one morning at daybreak. The man who was beaten was to leave the mountains; the other was to stay at home and have peace. Steve Marc.u.m, a Stetson, heard the sworn terms and saw the fight. Jasper was fairly whipped; and when Rome let him up he proved treacherous and ran for his gun. Rome ran too, but stumbled and fell.
Jasper whirled with his Winchester and was about to kill Rome where he lay, when a bullet came from somewhere and dropped him back to the ledge again. Both Steve Marc.u.m and Rome Stetson said they had not fired the shot; neither would say who had. Some thought one man was lying, some thought the other was, and Jasper's death lay between the two. State troops came then, under the Governor's order, from the Blue Gra.s.s, and Rome had to drift down the river one night in old Gabe's canoe and on Out of the mountains for good. Martha Lewallen, who, though Jasper's sister, and the last of the name, loved and believed Rome, went with him. Marc.u.ms and Braytons who had taken sides in the fight hid in the bushes around Hazlan, or climbed over into Virginia. A railroad started up the c.u.mberland. ”Furriners came in to buy wild lands and get out timber.” Civilization began to press over the mountains and down on Hazlan, as it had pressed in on Breathitt, the seat of another feud, in another county. In Breathitt the feud was long past, and with good reason old Gabe thought that it was done in Hazlan.
But that autumn a panic started over from England. It stopped the railroad far down the c.u.mberland; it sent the ”furriners” home, and drove civilization back. Marc.u.ms and Braytons came in from hiding, and drifted one by one to the old fighting-ground. In time they took up the old quarrel, and with Steve Marc.u.m and Steve Brayton as leaders, the old Stetson-Lewallen feud went on, though but one soul was left in the mountains of either name. That was Isom, a pale little fellow whom Rome had left in old Gabe's care; and he, though a Stetson and a half-brother to Rome, was not counted, because he was only a boy and a foundling, and because his ways were queer.
There was no open rupture, no organized division--that might happen no more. The mischief was individual now, and ambus.h.i.+ng was more common.
Certain men were looking for each other, and it was a question of ”draw-in' quick 'n' shootin' quick” when the two met by accident, or of getting the advantage ”from the bresh.”
In time Steve Marc.u.m had come face to face with old Steve Brayton in Hazlan, and the two Steves, as they were known, drew promptly. Marc.u.m was in the dust when the smoke cleared away; and now, after three months in bed, he was just out again. He had come down to the mill to see Isom.
This was the miller's first chance for remonstrance, and, as usual, he began to lay it down that every man who had taken a human life must sooner or later pay for it with his own. It was an old story to Isom, and, with a shake of impatience, he turned out the door of the mill, and left old Gabe droning on under his dusty hat to Steve, who, being heavy with ”moons.h.i.+ne,” dropped asleep.
Outside the sun was warm, the flood was calling from the dam, and the boy's petulance was gone at once. For a moment he stood on the rude platform watching the tide; then he let one bare foot into the water, and, with a s.h.i.+ver of delight, dropped from the boards. In a moment his clothes were on the ground behind a laurel thicket, and his slim white body was flas.h.i.+ng like a faun through the reeds and bushes up stream.
A hundred yards away the creek made a great loop about a wet thicket of pine and rhododendron, and he turned across the bushy neck. Creeping through the gnarled bodies of rhododendron, he dropped suddenly behind the pine, and lay flat in the black earth. Ten yards through the dusk before him was the half-bent figure of a man letting an old army haversack slip from one shoulder; and Isom watched him hide it with a rifle under a bush, and go noiselessly on towards the road. It was Crump, Eli Crump, who had been a spy for the Lewallens in the old feud and who was spying now for old Steve Brayton. It was the second time Isom had seen him lurking about, and the boy's impulse was to hurry back to the mill. But it was still peace, and without his gun Crump was not dangerous; so Isom rose and ran on, and, splas.h.i.+ng into the angry little stream, shot away like a roll of birch bark through the tawny crest of a big wave. He had done the feat a hundred times; he knew every rock and eddy in flood-time, and he floated through them and slipped like an eel into the mill-pond. Old Gabe was waiting for him.
”Whut ye mean, boy,” he said, sharply, ”reskin' the fever an' ager this way? No wonder folks thinks ye air half crazy. Git inter them clothes now 'n' come in hyeh. You'll ketch yer death o' cold swimmin' this way atter a fresh.”
The boy was s.h.i.+vering when he took his seat at the funnel, but he did not mind that; some day he meant to swim over that dam. Steve still lay motionless in the corner near him, and Isom lifted the slouched hat and began tickling his lips with a straw. Steve was beyond the point of tickling, and Isom dropped the hat back and turned to tell the miller what he had seen in the thicket. The dim interior darkened just then, and Crump stood in the door. Old Gabe stared hard at him without a word of welcome, but Crump shuffled to a chair unasked, and sat like a toad astride it, with his knees close up under his arms, and his wizened face in his hands.
Meeting Isom's angry glance, he s.h.i.+fted his own uneasily.
”Seed the new preacher comm' 'long today?” he asked. Drawing one dirty finger across his forehead, ”Got a long scar 'cross hyeh.”
The miller shook his head.
”Well, he's a-comm'. I've been waitin' fer him up the road, but I reckon I got to git 'cross the river purty soon now.”
Crump had been living over in Breathitt since the old feud. He had been ”convicted” over there by Sherd Raines, a preacher from the Jellico Hills, and he had grown pious. Indeed, he had been trailing after Raines from place to place, and he was following the circuit-rider now to the scene of his own deviltry--Hazlan.
”Reckon you folks don't know I got the cirkit-rider to come over hyeh, do ye?” he went on. ”Ef he can't preach! Well, I'd tell a man! He kin jus' draw the heart out'n a holler log! He 'convicted' me fust night, over thar in Breathitt. He come up thar, ye know, to stop the feud, he said; 'n' thar was laughin' from one eendo' Breathitt to t'other; but thar was the whoppinest crowd thar I ever see when he did come. The meetin'-house wasn't big enough to hold 'em, so he goes out on the aidge o' town, n' climbs on to a stump. He hed a woman with him from the settlemints--she's a-waitin' at Hazlan fer him now-'n' she had a cur'us little box, 'n' he put her 'n' the box on a big rock, 'n' started in a callin' 'em his bretherin' 'n' sisteren, 'n' folks seed mighty soon thet he meant it, too. He's always mighty easylike, tell he gits to the blood-penalty.”
At the word, Crump's listeners paid sudden heed. Old Gabe's knife stopped short in the heart of the stick he was whittling; the boy looked sharply up from the running meal into Crump's face and sat still.
Well, he jes prayed to the Almighty as though he was a-talkin' to him face to face, 'n' then the woman put her hands on that box, 'n' the sweetes' sound anybody thar ever heerd come outen it. Then she got to singin'. Hit wusn't nuthin' anybody thar'd ever heerd; but some o' the women folks was a snifflin' 'fore she got through. He pitched right into the feud, as he calls. .h.i.t, 'n' the sin o' sheddin' human blood, I tell ye; 'n' 'twixt him and the soldiers I reckon thar won't be no more fightin' in Breathitt. He says, 'n' he always says it mighty loud --Crump raised his own voice--”thet the man as kills his feller-critter hev some day got ter give up his own blood, sartin 'n' sh.o.r.e.”
It was old Gabe's pet theory, and he was nodding approval. The boy's parted lips shook with a spasm of fear, and were as quickly shut tight with suspicion. Steve raised his head as though he too had heard the voice, and looked stupidly about him.
”I tol' him,” Crump went on, ”thet things was already a-gettin' kind o'
frolicsome round hyeh agin; thet the Marc.u.ms 'n' Braytons was a-takin'
up the ole war, 'n' would be a-plunkin' one 'nother every time they got together, 'n' a-gittin' the whole country in fear 'n' tremblin'--now thet Steve Marc.u.m had come back.”
Steve began to scowl and a vixenish smile hovered at Isom's lips.
”He knows mighty well--fer I tol' him--thet thar hain't a wuss man in all these mountains than thet very Steve--” The name ended in a gasp, and the wizened gossip was caught by the throat and tossed, chair and all, into a corner of the mill.