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<p align="center">&nbsp;</p>


<h1>A Cumberland Vendetta</h1>

<h4>by</h4>

<h1>John Fox, Jr.</h1>

<h3>TO MINERVA AND ELIZABETH</h3>

<hr align="center" width="50%">
<p><b>CONTENTS</b></p>

<p><a href="#ai">I</a><br>
<a href="#aii">II</a><br>
<a href="#aiii">III</a><br>
<a href="#aiv">IV</a><br>
<a href="#av">V</a><br>
<a href="#avi">VI</a><br>
<a href="#avii">VII</a><br>
<a href="#aviii">VIII.</a><br>
<a href="#aix">IX</a><br>
<a href="#ax">X</a><br>
<a href="#axi">XI</a><br>
<a href="#axii">XII</a><br>
<a href="#axiii">XIII</a><br>
<a href="#axiv">XIV</a><br>
<a href="#axv">XV</a><br>
</p>

<h3><a name="ai">I</a></h3>

<p>THE cave had been their hiding-place as children; it was a secret
refuge now against hunger or darkness when they were hunting in the
woods. The primitive meal was finished; ashes were raked over the red
coals; the slice of bacon and the little bag of meal were hung high
against the rock wall; and the two stepped from the cavern into a thicket
of rhododendrons.</p>

<p>Parting the bushes toward the dim light, they stood on a massive
shoulder of the mountain, the river girding it far below, and the
afternoon shadows at their feet. Both carried guns-the tall mountaineer,
a Winchester; the boy, a squirrel rifle longer than himself. Climbing
about the rocky spur, they kept the same level over log and bowlder and
through bushy ravine to the north. In half an hour, they ran into a path
that led up home from the river, and they stopped to rest on a cliff that
sank in a solid black wall straight under them. The sharp edge of a steep
corn-field ran near, and, stripped of blade and tassel, the stalks and
hooded ears looked in the coming dusk a little like monks at prayer. In
the sunlight across the river the corn stood thin and frail. Over there a
drought was on it; and when drifting thistle-plumes marked the noontide
of the year, each yellow stalk had withered blades and an empty sheath.
Every-where a look of vague trouble lay upon the face of the mountains,
and when the wind blew, the silver of the leaves showed ashen. Autumn was
at hand.</p>

<p>There was no physical sign of kinship between the two, half-brothers
though they were. The tall one was dark; the boy, a foundling, had flaxen
hair, and was stunted and ~lender. He was a dreamy~looking little fellow,
and one may easily find his like throughout the Cumberland -paler than
his fellows, from staying much indoors, with half-haunted face, and eyes
that are deeply pathetic when not cunning; ignorantly credited with
idiocy and uncanny powers; treated with much forbearance, some awe, and a
little contempt; and suffered to do his pleasure-nothing, or much that is
strange-without comment.</p>

<p>"I tell ye, Rome," he said, taking up the thread of talk that was
broken at the cave, "when Uncle Gabe says he's afeard thar's trouble
comm', hit's a-comm'; 'n' I want you to git me a Winchester. I'm
a-gittin' big enough now. I kin shoot might' nigh as good as you, 'n'
whut am I fit fer with this hyeh old pawpaw pop-gun?"</p>

<p>"I don't want you fightin', boy, I've told ye. Y'u air too little 'n'
puny, 'n' I want ye to stay home 'n' take keer o' mam 'n' the cattle-ef
fightin' does come, I reckon thar won't be triuch."</p>

<p>Don't ye? " cried the boy, with sharp contempt-" with ole Jas Lewallen
a-devilin' Uncle Rufe, 'n' that blackheaded young Jas a-climbin' on
stumps over thar 'cross the river, n' crowin' n' sayin' out open in
Hazlan that ye air afeard o him? Yes; 'n' he called me a idgit." The
boy's voice broke into a whimper of rage.</p>

<p>"Shet up, Isom! Don't you go gittin' mad now. You'll be sick ag'in.
I'll tend to him when the time comes." Rome spoke with rough kindness,
but ugly lines had gathered at his mouth and forehead. The boy's tears
came and went easily. He drew his sleeve across his eyes, and looked up
the river. Beyond the bend, three huge birds rose into the sunlight and
floated toward them. Close at hand, they swerved side-wise.</p>

<p>"They hain't buzzards," he said, standing up, his anger gone; "look at
them straight wings!</p>

<p>Again the eagles swerved, and two shot across the river. The third
dropped with shut wings to the bare crest of a gaunt old poplar under
them.</p>

<p>"Hit's a young un, Rome Y" said the boy, excitedly. "He's goin' to
wait thar tell the old uns come back. Gimme that gun!</p>

<p>Catching up the Winchester, he slipped over the ledge; and Rome leaned
suddenly forward, looking down at the river.</p>

<p>A group of horsemen had ridden around the bend, and were coming at a
walk down the other shore. Every man carried something across his
saddle-bow. There was a gray horse among them - young Jasper's - and an
evil shadow came into Rome's face, and quickly passed. Near a strip of
woods the gray turned up the mountain from the party, and on its back he
saw the red glint of a woman's dress. With a half-smile he watched the
scarlet figure ride from the woods, and climb slowly up through the sunny
corn. On the spur above and full in the rich yellow light, she halted,
half turning in her saddle. He rose to his feet, to his full height, his
head bare, and thrown far back between his big shoulders, and, still as
statues, the man and the woman looked at each other across the gulf of
darkening air. A full minute the woman sat motionless, then rode on. At
the edge of the woods she stopped and turned again.</p>

<p>The eagle under Rome leaped one stroke in the air, and dropped like a
clod into the sea of leaves. The report of the gun and a faint cry of
triumph rose from below. It was good marksmanship, but on the cliff Rome
did not heed it. Something had fluttered in the air above the girl's
head, and he laughed aloud. She was waving her bonnet at him.</p>

<h3><a name="aii">II</a></h3>

<p>JUST where young Stetson stood, the mountains racing along each bank
of the Cumberland had sent out against each other, by mutual impulse, two
great spurs. At the river's brink they stopped sheer, with crests
uplifted, as though some hand at the last moment had hurled them apart,
and had led the water through the breach to keep them at peace. To-day
the crags looked seamed by thwarted passion; and, sullen with firs, they
made fit symbols of the human hate about the base of each.</p>

<p>When the feud began, no one knew. Even the original cause was
forgotten. Both families had come as friends from Virginia long ago, and
had lived as enemies nearly half a century. There was hostility before
the war, but, until then, little bloodshed. Through the hatred of change,
characteristic of the mountaineer the world over, the Lewallens were for
the Union. The Stetsons owned a few slaves, and they fought for them.
Peace found both still neighbors and worse foes. The war armed them, and
brought back an ancestral contempt for human life; it left them a
heritage of lawlessness that for mutual protection made necessary the
very means used by their feudal forefathers; personal hatred supplanted
its dead issues, and with them the war went on. The Stetsons had a good
strain of Anglo-Saxon blood, and owned valley-lands; the Lewallens kept
store and made "moonshine"; so kindred and debtors and kindred and
tenants were arrayed with one or the other leader, and gradually the
retainers of both settled on one or the other side of the river. In time
of hostility the Cumberland came to be the boundary between life and
death for the dwellers on each shore. It was feudalism born again.</p>

<p>Above one of the spurs each family had its home; the Stetsons, under
the seared face of Thunderstruck Knob; the Lewallens, just beneath the
wooded rim of Wolf's Head. The eaves and chimney of each cabin were
faintly visible from the porch of the other. The first light touched the
house of the Stetsons; the last, the Lewallen cabin. So there were times
when the one could not turn to the sunrise nor the other to the sunset
but with a curse in his heart, for his eye must fall on the home of his
enemy.</p>

<p>For years there had been peace. The death of Rome Stetson's father
from ambush, and the fight in the court-house square, had forced it.
After that fight only four were left-old Jasper Lewallen and young
Jasper, the boy Rome and his uncle, Rufe Stetson. Then Rufe fled to the
West, and the Stetsons were helpless. For three years no word was heard
of him, but the hatred burned in the heart of Rome's mother, and was
traced deep in her grim old face while she patiently waited the day of
retribution. It smouldered, too, in the hearts of the women of both clans
who had lost husbands or sons or lovers; and the friends and kin of each
had little to do with one another, and met and passed with watchful eyes.
Indeed, it would take so little to turn peace to war that the wonder was
that peace had lived so long. Now trouble was at hand. Rufe Stetson had
come back at last, a few months since, and had quietly opened store at
the county-seat, Hazlan-a little town five miles up the river, where
Troubled Fork runs seething into the Cumberland-a point of neutrality for
the factions, and consequently a battIe-ground. Old Jasper's store was at
the other end of the town, and the old man had never been known to brook
competition. He had driven three men from Hazlan during the last term of
peace for this offence, and everybody knew that the fourth must leave or
fight. Already Rufe Stetson had been warned not to appear outside his
door after dusk. Once or twice his wife had seen skulking shadows under
the trees across the road, and a tremor of anticipation ran along both
banks of the Cumberland.</p>

<h3><a name="aiii">III</a></h3>

<p>A FORTNIGHT later, court came. Rome was going to Hazlan, and the
feeble old Stetson mother limped across the porch from the kitchen,
trailing a Winchester behind her. Usually he went unarmed, but he took
the gun now, as she gave it, in silence.</p>

<p>The boy Isom was not well, and Rome had told him to ride the horse.
But the lad had gone on afoot to his duties at old Gabe Bunch's mill, and
Rome himself rode down Thunderstruck Knob through the mist and dew of the
early morning. The sun was coming up over Virginia, and through a dip in
Black Mountain the foot-hills beyond washed in blue waves against its
white disk. A little way down the mountain, the rays shot through the gap
upon him, and, lancing the mist into tatters, and lighting the dew-drops,
set the birds singing. Rome rode, heedless of it all, under primeval oak
and poplar, and along rain-clear brooks and happy waterfalls, shut in by
laurel and rhododendron, and singing past mossy stones and lacelike ferns
that brushed his stirrup. On the brow of every cliff he would stop to
look over the trees and the river to the other shore, where the gray line
of a path ran aslant Wolf's Head, and was lost in woods above and
below.</p>

<p>At the river he rode up-stream, looking still across it. Old Gabe
Bunch halloed to him from the doorway of the mill, as he splashed through
the creek, and Isom's thin face peered through a breach in the logs. At
the ford beyond, he checked his horse with a short oath of pleased
surprise. Across the water, a scarlet dress was moving slowly past a
brown field of corn. The figure was bonneted, but he knew the girl's walk
and the poise of her head that far away. Just who she was, however, he
did not know, and he sat irresolute. He had seen her first a month since,
paddling along the other shore, erect, and with bonnet off and hair down;
she had taken the Lewallen path up the mountain. Afterward, he saw her
going at a gallop on young Jasper's gray horse, bareheaded again, and
with her hair loose to the wind, and he knew she was one of his enemies.
He thought her the girl people said young Jasper was going to marry, and
he had watched her the more closely. From the canoe she seemed never to
notice him; but he guessed, from the quickened sweep of her paddle, that
she knew he was looking at her, and once, when he halted on his way home
up the mountain, she half turned in her saddle and looked across at him.
This happened again, and then she waved her bonnet at him. It was bad
enough, any Stetson seeking any Lewallen for a wife, and for him to court
young Jasper's sweetheart-it was a thought to laugh at. But the mischief
was done. The gesture thrilled him, whether it meant defiance or
good-will, and the mere deviltry of such a courtship made him long for it
at every sight of her with the river between them. At once he began to
plan how he should get near her, but, through some freak, she had paid no
further heed to him. He saw her less often-for a week, in-deed, he had
not seen her at all till this day-and the forces that hindrance generates
in an imperious nature had been at work within him. The chance now was
one of gold, and with his life in his hand he turned into the stream.
Across, he could see something white on her shoulder-an empty bag. It was
grinding~day, and she was going to the mill-the Lewallen mill. She
stopped as he galloped up, and turned, pushing back her bonnet with one
hand; and he drew rein. But the friendly, expectant light in her face
kindled to such a blaze of anger in her eyes that he struck his horse
violently, as though the beast had stopped of its own accord, and,
cursing himself, kept on. A little farther, he halted again. Three
horsemen, armed with Winchesters, were jogging along toward town ahead of
him, and he wheeled about sharply. The girl, climbing rapidly toward
Steve Bray-ton's cabin, was out of the way, but he was too late to reach
the ford again. Down the road two more Lewallens with guns were in sight,
and he lashed his horse into the stream where the water was deep. Old
Gabe, looking from the door of his mill, quit laughing to himself; and
under cover of the woods, the girl watched man and horse fighting the
tide. Twice young Stetson turned his head. But his enemies apparently had
not seen him, and horse and rider scrambled up the steep bank and under
shelter of the trees. The girl had evidently learned who he was. Her
sudden anger was significant, as was the sight of the Lewallens going
armed to court, and Rome rode on, uneasy.</p>

<p>When he reached Troubled Fork, in sight of Hazlan, he threw a
cartridge into place and shifted the slide to see that it was ready for
use. Passing old Jasper's store on the edge of the town, he saw the old
man's bushy head through the open door, and Lewallens and Braytons
crowded out on the steps and looked after him. All were armed. Twenty
paces farther he met young Jasper on his gray, and the look on his
enemy's face made him grip his rifle. With a flashing cross-fire from eye
to eye, the two passed, each with his thumb on the hammer of his
Winchester. The groups on the court-house steps stopped talking as he
rode by, and turned to look at him. He saw none of his own friends, and
he went on at a gallop to Rufe Stetson's store. His uncle was not in
sight. Steve Marcum and old Sam Day stood in the porch, and inside a
woman was crying. Several Stetsons were near, and all with grave faces
gathered about him.</p>

<p>He knew what the matter was before Steve spoke. His uncle had been
driven from town. A last warning had come to him on the day before. The
hand of a friend was in the caution, and Rufe rode away at dusk. That
night his house was searched by men masked and armed. The Lewallens were
in town, and were ready to fight. The crisis had come.</p>

<h3><a name="aiv">IV</a></h3>

<p>BACK at the mill old Gabe was troubled. Usually he sat in a
cane-bottomed chair near the hopper, whittling, while the lad tended the
mill, and took pay in an oaken toll-dish smooth with the use of half a
century. But the incident across the river that morning had made the old
man uneasy, and he moved restlessly from his chair to the door, and back
again, while the boy watched him, wondering what the matter was, but
asking no questions. At noon an old mountaineer rode by, and the miller
hailed him.</p>

<p>"Any news in town?" he asked.</p>

<p>"Hain't been to town. Reckon fightin' 's goin' on thar from whut I
heerd." The careless, high-pitched answer brought the boy with wide eyes
to the door.</p>

<p>Whut d'ye hear? " asked Gabe. Jes heerd fightin' 's goin' on!</p>

<p>Then every man who came for his meal brought a wild rumor from town,
and the old miller moved his chair to the door, and sat there whittling
fast, and looking anxiously toward Hazlan. The boy was in a fever of
unrest, and old Gabe could hardly keep him in the mill. In the middle of
the afternoon the report of a rifle came down the river, breaking into
echoes against the cliffs below, and Isom ran out the door, and stood
listening for another, with an odd contradiction of fear and delight on
his eager face. In a few moments Rome Stetson galloped into sight, and,
with a shrill cry of relief, the boy ran down the road to meet him, and
ran back, holding by a stirrup. Young Stetson's face was black with
passion, and his eyes were heavy with drink. At the door of the mill he
swung from his horse, and for a moment was hardly able to speak from
rage. There had been no fight. The Stetsons were few and unprepared. They
had neither the guns nor, without Rufe, the means to open the war, and
they believed Rufe had gone for arms. So they had chafed in the store all
day, and all day Lewallens on horseback and on foot were in sight; and
each was a taunt to every Stetson, and, few as they were, the young and
hot-headed wanted to go out and fight. In the afternoon a tale-bearer had
brought some of Jasper's boasts to Rome, and, made reckless by moonshine
and much brooding, he sprang up to lead them. Steve Marcum, too, caught
up his gun, but old Sam's counsel checked him, and the two by force held
Rome back. A little later the Lewallens left town. The Stetsons, too,
disbanded, and on the way home a last drop of gall ran Rome's cup of
bitterness over. Opposite Steve Brayton's cabin a jet of smoke puffed
from the bushes across the river, and a bullet furrowed the road in front
of him. That was the shot they had heard at the mill. Somebody was
drawing a dead-line," and Rome wheeled his horse at the brink of it. A
mocking yell came over the river, and a gray horse flashed past an open
space in the bushes. Rome knew the horse and knew the yell; young Jasper
was "bantering" him. Nothing maddens the mountaineer like this childish
method of insult; and telling of it, Rome sat in a corner, and loosed a
torrent of curses against young Lewallen and his clan.</p>

<p>Old Gabe had listened without a word, and the strain in his face was
eased. Always the old man had stood for peace. He believed it had come
after the court-house fight, and he had hoped against hope, even when
Rufe came back to trade against old Jasper; for Rufe was big and
good-natured, and unsuspected of resolute purpose, and the Lewallens'
power had weakened. So, now that Rufe was gone again, the old miller half
believed he was gone for good. Nobody was hurt; there was a chance yet
for peace, and with a rebuke on his tongue and relief in his face, the
old man sat back in his chair and went on whittling. The boy turned
eagerly to a crevice in the logs and, trembling with excitement, searched
the other bank for Jasper's gray horse, going home.</p>

<p>He called me a idgit," he said to himself, with a threatening shake of
his head. "Jes wouldn't I like to hev a chance at him! Rome ull git him!
Rome ull git him!"</p>

<p>There was no moving point of white on the broad face of the mountains
nor along the river road. Jasper was yet to come and, with ears alert to
every word behind him, the lad fixed his eyes where he should see him
first.</p>

<p>"Oh, he didn't mean to hit me. Not that he ain't mean enough to shoot
from the bresh," Rome broke out savagely. "That's jes whut I'm afeard he
will do. Thar was too much daylight fer him. Ef he jes don't come
a-sneakin' over hyeh, 'n' waitin' in the lorrel atter dark fer me, it's
all I axe."</p>

<p>Waitin' in the lorrel! " Old Gabe could hold back no longer. "Hit's a
shame, a burn-in' shame! I don' know whut things air comm' to! 'Pears
like all you young folks think about is killin' somebody. Folks usen to
talk about how fer they could kill a deer; now it's how fer they kin kill
a man. I hev knowed the time when a man would 'a' been druv out o' the
county fer drawin' a knife ur a pistol; 'n' ef a feller was ever killed,
it was kinder accidental, by a Barlow. I reckon folks got use' to weepons
'n' killin' 'n' bushwhackin' in the war. Looks like it's been gittin'
wuss ever sence, 'n' now hit's dirk 'n' Winchester, 'n' shootin' from the
bushes all the time. Hit's wuss 'n stealin' money to take a
feller-creetur' s life that way!</p>

<p>The old miller's indignation sprang from memories of a better youth.
For the courtesies of the code went on to the Blue Grass, and before the
war the mountaineer fought with English fairness and his fists. It was a
disgrace to use a deadly weapon in those days; it was a disgrace now not
to use it.</p>

<p>Oh, I know all the excuses folks make," he went on: " hit's fa'r fer
one as 'tis fer t'other; y'u can't fight a man fa'r 'n' squar' who'll
shoot you in the back; a pore man can't fight money in the couhts; 'n'
thar hain't no witnesses in the lorrel but leaves; 'n' dead men don't hev
much to say. I know it all. Hit's cur'us, but it act'-ally looks like
lots o' decent young folks hev got usen to the idee-thar's so much of it
goin' on, 'n' thar's so much talk 'bout killin' 'n' layin' out in the
lorrel. Reckon folks 'll git to pesterm' women n' strangers bimeby, 'n'
robbin' 'n' thievin'. Hit's bad enough thar's so leetle law thet folks
hev to take it in their own hands oncet in a while, but this shootin'
from the bresh-hit's p'int'ly a sin 'n' shame! Why," he concluded,
pointing his remonstrance as he always did, "I seed your grandad and
young Jas's fight up thar in Hazlan full two hours 'fore the war-fist and
skull-'n' your grandad was whooped. They got up and shuk hands. I don't
see why folks can't fight that way now. I wish Rufe 'n' old Jas 'n' you
'n' young Jas could have it out fist and skull, 'n' stop this killin' o'
people like hogs. Thar's nobody left but you four. But thar's no chance
o' that, I reckon."</p>

<p>"I'll fight him anyway, 'n' I reckon ef he don't die till I lay out in
the lorrel fer him, he'll live a long time. Ef a Stetson ever done sech
meanness as that I never heerd it."</p>

<p>Nother hev I," said the old man, with quick justice. " You air a
over-bearin' race, all o' ye, but I never knowed ye to be that mean.
Hit's all the wus fer ye thet ye air in sech doin's. I tell ye,
Rome--</p>

<p>A faint cry rose above the drone of the millstones, and old Gabe
stopped with open lips to listen. The boy's face was pressed close to the
logs. A wet paddle had flashed into the sunlight from out the bushes
across the river. He could just see a canoe in the shadows under them,
and with quick suspicion his brain pictured Jasper's horse hitched in the
bushes, and Jasper stealing across the river to waylay Rome. But the
canoe moved slowly out of sight downstream and toward the deep water, the
paddler unseen, and the boy looked around with a weak smile. Neither
seemed to have heard him. Rome was brooding, with his sullen face in his
hands; the old miller was busy with his own thoughts; and the boy turned
again to his watch.</p>

<p>Jasper did not come. Isom's eyes began to ache from the steady gaze,
and now and then he would drop them to the water swirling beneath. A slow
wind swayed the overhanging branches at the mouth of the stream, and
under them was an eddy. Escaping this, the froth and bubbles raced out to
the gleams beating the air from the sunlit river. He saw one tiny fleet
caught; a mass of yellow scum bore down and, sweeping through bubbles and
eddy, was itself struck into fragments by something afloat. A tremulous
shadow shot through a space of sunlight into the gloom cast by a thicket
of rhododendrons, and the boy caught his breath sharply. A moment more,
and the shape of a boat and a human figure quivered on the water running
under him. The stern of a Lewallen canoe swung into the basin, and he
sprang to his feet.</p>

<p>"Rome!" The cry cut sharply through the drowsy air. " Thar he is!
Hit's Jas"</p>

<p>The old miller rose to his feet. The boy threw himself behind the
sacks of grain. Rome wheeled for his rifle, and stood rigid before the
door. There was a light step without, the click of a gun-lock within; a
shadow fell across the doorway, and a girl stood at the threshold with an
empty bag in her hand.</p>

<h3><a name="av">V</a></h3>

<p>WITH a little cry she shrank back a step. Her face paled and her lips
trembled, and for a moment she could not speak. But her eyes swept the
group, and were fixed in two points of fire on Rome.</p>

<p>"Why don't ye shoot! "she asked, scornfully.</p>

<p>"I hev heerd that the Stetsons have got to makin war on women-folks,
but I never believed it afore." Then she turned to the miller.</p>

<p>Kin I git some more meal hyeh? " she asked. " Or have ye stopped
sellin' to folks on t'other side? " she added, in a tone that sought no
favor.</p>

<p>"You kin have all ye want," said old Gabe, quietly.</p>

<p>"The mill on Dead Crick is broke ag'in," she continued, " 'n' co'n is
skeerce on our side. We'll have to begin buyin' purty soon, so I thought
I'd save totin' the co'n down hyeh." She handed old Gabe the empty
bag.</p>

<p>Well,'' said he, '' as it air gittin' late, 'n' ye have to climb the
mountain ag'in, I'll let ye have that comm' out o' the hopper now. Take a
cheer."</p>

<p>The girl sat down in the low chair, and, loos ening the strings of her
bonnet, pushed it back from her head. An old-fashioned horn comb dropped
to the floor, and when she stooped to pick it up she let her hair fall in
a head about her shoulders. Thrusting one hand under it, she calmly
tossed the whole mass of chestnut and gold over the back of the chair,
where it fell rippling like water through a bar of sunlight. With head
thrown back and throat bared, she shook it from side to side, and, slowly
coiling it, pierced it with the coarse comb. Then passing her hands
across her forehead and temples, as women do, she folded them in her lap,
and sat motionless. The boy, crouched near, held upon her the mesmeric
look of a serpent. Old Gabe was peering covertly from under the brim of
his hat, with a chuckle at his lips. Rome had fallen back to a corner of
the mill, sobered, speechless, his rifle in a nerveless hand. The passion
that fired him at the boy's warning had as swiftly gone down at sight of
the girl, and her cutting rebuke made him hot again with shame. He was
angry, too-more than angry-because he felt so helpless, a sensation that
was new and stifling. The scorn of her face, as he remembered it that
morning, hurt him again while he looked at her. A spirit of contempt was
still in her eyes, and quivering about her thin lips and nostrils. She
had put him beneath further notice, and yet every toss of her head, every
movement of her hands, seemed meant for him, to irritate him. And once,
while she combed her hair, his brain whirled with an impulse to catch the
shining stuff in one hand and to pinion both her wrists with the other,
Just to show her that he was master, and still would harm her not at all.
But he shut his teeth, and watched her. Among mountain women the girl was
more than pretty; elsewhere only her hair, perhaps, would have caught the
casual eye. She wore red homespun and coarse shoes; her hands were brown
and hardened. Her arms and shoulders looked muscular, her waist was
rather large-being as nature meant it-and her face in repose had a heavy
look. But the poise of her head suggested native pride and dignity; her
eyes were deep, and full of changing lights; the scarlet dress, loose as
it was, showed rich curves in her figure, and her movements had a certain
childlike grace. Her brow was low, and her mouth had character; the chin
was firm, the upper lip short, and the teeth were even and white.</p>

<p>"I reckon thar's enough to fill the sack, Isom," said the old miller,
breaking the strained silence of the group. The girl rose and handed him
a few pieces of silver.</p>

<p>I reckon I'd better pay fer it all," she said. I s'pose I won't be
over hyeh ag'in."</p>

<p>Old Gabe gave some of the coins back.</p>

<p>"Y'u know whut my price al'ays is," he said.</p>

<p>I'm obleeged," answered the girl, flushing.</p>

<p>"Co'n hev riz on our side. I thought mebbe you charged folks over thar
more, anyways."</p>

<p>"I sells fer the same, ef co'n is high ur low," was the answer. "This
side or t'other makes no diff'unce to me. I hev frien's on both sides,
'n' I take no part in sech doin's as air a shame to the mountains."</p>

<p>There was a quick light of protest in the girl's dark eyes; but the
old miller was honored by both factions, and without a word she turned to
the boy, who was tying the sack.</p>

<p>The boat's loose! " he called out, with. the string between his teeth;
and she turned again and ran out. Rome stood still.</p>

<p>Kerry the sack out, boy, 'n' holp the gal." Old Gabe's voice was
stern, and the young mountaineer doggedly swung the bag to his shoulders.
The girl had caught the rope, and drawn the rude dugout along the
shore.</p>

<p>"Who axed ye to do that?" she asked, angrily.</p>

<p>Rome dropped the bag into the boat, and merely looked her in the
face.</p>

<p>"Look hyeh, Rome Stetson"-the sound of his name from her lips almost
startled him-"I'll hev ye understan' that I don't want to be bounden to
you, nor none o' yer kin."</p>

<p>Turning, she gave an impatient sweep with her paddle. The prow of the
canoe dipped and was motionless. Rome had caught the stern, and the girl
wheeled in hot anger. Her impulse to strike may have been for the moment
and no longer, or she may have read swiftly no unkindness in the
mountaineer's steady look; for the uplifted oar was stayed in the air, as
though at least she would hear him.</p>

<p>"I've got nothin' ag'in' you," he said, slowly, Jas Lewallen hev been
threatenin' me, 'n' I thought it was him, 'n' I was ready fer him, when
you come into the mill. I wouldn't hurt you nur no other woman. Y'u ought
to know it, 'n' ye do know it."</p>

<p>The words were masterful, but said in a way that vaguely soothed the
girl's pride, and the oar was let slowly into the water.</p>

<p>"I reckon y'u air a friend o' his," he added, still quietly. "I've
seed ye goin' up thar, but I've got nothin' ag'in' ye, whoever ye
be."</p>

<p>She turned on him a sharp look of suspicion. "I reckon I do be a
friend o' hisn," she said, deliberately; and then she saw that he was in
earnest. A queer little smile went like a ray of light from her eyes to
her lips, and she gave a quick stroke with her paddle. The boat shot into
the current, and was carried swiftly toward the Cumberland. The girl
stood erect, swaying through light and shadow like a great scarlet flower
blowing in the wind; and Rome watched her till she touched the other
bank. Swinging the sack out, she stepped lightly after it, and, without
looking behind her, disappeared in the bushes.</p>

<p>The boy Isom was riding away when Rome, turned, and old Gabe was
watching from the door of the mill.</p>

<p>Who is that gal? " he asked, slowly. It seemed somehow that he had
known her a long while ago. A puzzled frown overlay his face, and the old
miller laughed.</p>

<p>"You a-axin' who she be, 'n' she a-axin who you be, 'n' both o' ye
a-knowin' one 'nother sence ye was knee-high. Why, boy, hit's old
Jasper's gal-Marthy!</p>

<h3><a name="avi">VI</a></h3>

<p>IN a flash of memory Rome saw the girl as vividly as when he last saw
her years ago. They had met at the mill, he with his father, she with
hers. There was a quarrel, and the two men were held apart. But the old
sore as usual was opened, and a week later Rome's father was killed from
the brush. He remembered his mother's rage and grief, her calls for
vcngeance, the uprising, the fights, plots, and ambushes. He remembered
the look the girl had given him that long ago, and her look that day was
little changed.</p>

<p>When fighting began, she had been sent for safety to the sister of her
dead mother in another county. When peace came, old Jasper married again
and the girl refused to come home. Lately the step-mother, too, had
passed away, and then she came back to live. All this the old miller told
in answer to Rome's questions as the two walked away in the twilight.
This was why he had not recognized her, and why her face yet seemed
familiar even when he crossed the river that morning.</p>

<p>"Uncle Gabe, how do you reckon the gal knowed who I was?"</p>

<p>"She axed me."</p>

<p>"She axed you! Whar?"</p>

<p>Over thar in the mill." The miller was watching the young mountaineer
closely. The manner of the girl was significant when she asked who Rome
was, and the miller knew but one reason possible for his foolhardiness
that morning.</p>

<p>"Do you mean to say she have been over hyeh afore?"</p>

<p>"Why, yes, come to think about it, three or four times while Isom was
sick, and whut she come fer I can't make out. The mill over thar wasn't
broke long, 'n' why she didn't go thar or bring more co'n at a time, to
save her the trouble o' so many trips, I can't see to save me.</p>

<p>Young Stetson was listening eagerly. Again the miller cast his
bait.</p>

<p>Mebbe she's spyin'."</p>

<p>Rome faced him, alert with suspicion; but old Gabe was laughing
silently.</p>

<p>"Don't you be a fool, Rome. The gal comes and goes in that boat, 'n'
she couldn't see a soul without my knowin' it. She seed ye ridin' by one
day, 'n' she looked mighty cur'us when I tole her who ye was."</p>

<p>Old Gabe stopped his teasing, Rome's face was so troubled, and himself
grew serious.</p>

<p>"Rome," he said, earnestly, "I wish to the good Lord ye wasn't in sech
doin's. Ef that had been young Jas 'stid o' Marthy, I reckon ye would 'a'
killed him right thar."</p>

<p>"I wasn't going to let him kill me," was the sullen answer.</p>

<p>The two had stopped at a rickety gate swinging open on the road. The
young mountaineer was pushing a stone about with the toe of his boot. He
had never before listened to remonstrance with such patience, and old
Gabe grew bold.</p>

<p>"You've been drinkin' ag'in, Rome," he said, sharply, " 'n' I know it.
Hit's been moonshine that's whooped you Stetsons, not the Lewallens, long
as I kin rickollect, 'n' it ull be moonshine ag'in ef ye don't let it
alone."</p>

<p>Rome made no denial, no defence. "Uncle Gabe," he said slowly, still
busied with the stone, " hev that gal been over hyeh sence y'u tol' her
who I was?"</p>

<p>The old man was waiting for the pledge that seemed on his lips, but he
did not lose his temper.</p>

<p>Not till to-day," he said, quietly.</p>

<p>Rome turned abruptly, and the two separated with no word of parting.
For a moment the miller watched the young fellow striding away under his
rifle.</p>

<p>"I have been atter peace a good while," he said to himself, " but I
reckon thar's a bigger hand a-workin' now than mine." Then he lifted his
voice. "Ef Isom's too sick to come down to the mill to-morrer, I wish
you'd come 'n' holp me."</p>

<p>Rome nodded back over his shoulder, and went on, with head bent, along
the river road. Passing a clump of pines at the next curve, he pulled a
bottle from his pocket.</p>

<p>"Uncle Gabe's about right, I reckon," he said, half aloud; and he
raised it above his head to hurl it away, but checked it in mid-air. For
a moment he looked at the colorless liquid, then, with quick nervousness,
pulled the cork of sassafras leaves, gulped down the pale moonshine, and
dashed the bottle against the trunk of a beech. The fiery stuff does its
work in a hurry. He was thirsty when he reached the mouth of a brook that
tumbled down the mountain along the pathway that would lead him home, and
he stooped to drink where the water sparkled in a rift of dim light from
overhead. Then he sat upright on a stone, with his wide hat-brim curved
in a crescent over his forehead, his hands caught about his knees, and
his eyes on the empty air.</p>

<p>He was scarcely over his surprise that the girl was young Lewallen's
sister, and the discovery had wrought a curious change. The piquant
impulse of rivalry was gone, and something deeper was taking its place.
He was confused and a good deal troubled, thinking it all over. He tried
to make out what the girl meant by looking at him from the mountain-side,
by waving her bonnet at him, and by coming to old Gabe's mill when she
could have gone to her own. To be sure, she did not know then who he was,
and she had stopped coming when she learned; but why had she crossed
again that day? Perhaps she too was bantering him, and he was at once
angry and drawn to her; for her mettlesome spirit touched his own love of
daring, even when his humiliation was most bitter-when she told him he
warred on women; when he held out to her the branch of peace and she
swept it aside with a stroke of her oar. But Rome was little conscious of
the weight of subtle facts like these. His unseeing eyes went back to her
as she combed her hair. He saw the color in her cheeks, the quick light
in her eyes, the naked, full throat once more, and the wavering forces of
his unsteady brain centred in a stubborn resolution-to see it all again.
He would make Isom stay at home, if need be, and he would take the boy's
place at the mill. If she came there no more, he would cross the river
again. Come peace or war, be she friend or enemy, he would see her. His
thirst was fierce again, and, with this half-drunken determination in his
heart, he stooped once more to drink from the cheerful little stream. As
he rose, a loud curse smote the air. The river, pressed between two
projecting cliffs, was narrow at that point, and the oath came across the
water. An instant later a man led a lamed horse from behind a bowlder,
and stooped to examine its leg. The dusk was thickening, but Rome knew
the huge frame and gray beard of old Jasper Lewallen. The blood beat in a
sudden tide at his temples, and, half by instinct, he knelt behind a
rock, and, thrusting his rifle through a crevice, cocked it softly.</p>

<p>Again the curse of impatience came over the still water, and old
Jasper rose and turned toward him. The glistening sight caught in the
centre of his beard. That would take him in the throat; it might miss,
and he let the sight fall till the bullet would cut the fringe of gray
hair into the heart. Old Jasper, so people said, had killed his father in
just this way; he had driven his uncle from the mountains; he was trying
now to revive the feud. He was the father of young Jasper, who had
threatened his life, and the father of the girl whose contempt had cut
him to the quick twice that day. Again her taunt leaped through his
heated brain, and his boast to the old miller followed it. His finger
trembled at the trigger.</p>

<p>"No; by--, no! "he breathed between his teeth; and old Jasper passed
on, unharmed.</p>

<h3><a name="avii">VII</a></h3>

<p>NEXT day the news of Rufe Stetson's flight went down the river on the
wind, and before nightfall the spirit of murder was loosed on both shores
of the Cumberland. The more cautious warned old Jasper. The Stetsons were
gaining strength again, they said; so were their feudsmen, the Marcums,
enemies of the Braytons, old Jasper's kinspeople. Keeping store, Rufe had
made money in the West, and money and friends right and left through the
mountains. With all his good-nature, he was a persistent hater, and he
was shrewd. He had waited the chance to put himself on the side of the
law, and now the law was with him. But old Jasper laughed contemptuously.
Rufe Stetson was gone again, he said, as he had gone before, and this
time for good. Rufe had tried to do what nobody had done, or could do,
while he was alive. Anyway, he was reckless, and he cared little if war
did come again. Still, the old man prepared for a fight, and Steve Marcum
on the other shore made ready for Rufe's return.</p>

<p>It was like the breaking of peace in feudal days. The close kin of
each leader were already about him, and now the close friends of each
took sides. Each leader trading in Hazlan had debtors scattered through
the mountains, and these rallied to aid the man who had befriended them.
There was no grudge but served a pretext for partisanship in the coming
war. Political rivalry had wedged apart two strong families, the Marcums
and Braytons; a boundary line in dispute was a chain of bitterness; a
suit in a country court had sown seeds of hatred. Sometimes it was a
horse-trade, a fence left down, or a gate left open, and the trespassing
of cattle; in one instance, through spite, a neighbor had docked the tail
of a neighbor's horse-had " muled his critter," as the owner phrased the
outrage. There was no old sore that was not opened by the crafty leaders,
no slumbering bitterness that they did not wake to life. " Help us to
revenge, and we will he!p you," was the whispered promise. So, had one
man a grudge against another, he could set his foot on one or the other
shore, sure that his enemy would be fighting for the other.</p>

<p>Others there were, friends of neither leader, who, under stress of
poverty or hatred of work, would fight with either for food and clothes;
and others still, the ne'er-do-wells and outlaws, who fought by the day
or month for hire. Even these were secured by one or the other faction,
for Steve and old Jasper left no resource untried, knowing well that the
fight, if there was one, would be fought to a quick and decisive end. The
day for the leisurely feud, for patient planning, and the slow picking
off of men from one side or the other, was gone. The people in the Blue
Grass, who had no feuds in their own country, were trying to stop them in
the mountain. Over in Breathitt, as everybody knew, soldiers had come
from the " settlemints," had arrested the leaders, and had taken them to
the Blue Grass for the feared and hated ordeal of trial by a jury of
"bigoted furriners." On the heels of the soldiers came a young preacher
up from the Jellico hills, half " citizen," half furriner," with long
black hair and a scar across his forehead, who was stirring up the
people, it was said, " as though Satan was atter them." Over there the
spirit of the feud was broken, and a good effect was already perceptible
around Hazlan. In past days every pair of lips was sealed with fear, and
the non-combatants left crops and homes, and moved down the river, when
trouble began. Now only the timid considered this way of escape. Steve
and old Jasper found a few men who refused to enter the fight. Several,
indeed, talked openly against the renewal of the feud, and somebody, it
was said, had dared to hint that he would send to the Governor for aid if
it should break out again. But these were rumors touching few people.</p>

<p>For once again, as time and time again before, one bank of the
Cumberland was arrayed with mortal enmity against the other, and old Gabe
sat, with shaken faith, in the door of his mill. For years he had worked
and prayed for peace, and for a little while the Almighty seemed lending
aid. Now the friendly grasp was loosening, and yet the miller did all he
could. He begged Steve Marcum to urge Rufe to seek aid from the law when
the latter came back; and Steve laughed, and asked what justice was
possible for a Stetson, with a Lewallen for a judge and Braytons for a
jury. The miller pleaded with old Jasper, and old Jasper pointed to the
successes of his own life.</p>

<p>"I hev triumphed ag'in' my enemies time 'n' ag'in," he said. "The Lord
air on my side, 'n' I gits a better Christian ever' year." The old man
spoke with the sincerity of a barbarism that has survived the dark ages,
and, holding the same faith, the miller had no answer. It was old Gabe
indeed who had threatened to send to the Governor for soldiers, and this
he would have done, perhaps, had there not been one hope left, and only
one. A week had gone, and there was no word from Rufe Stetson. Up on
Thunderstruck Knob the old Stetson mother was growing pitiably eager and
restless. Every day she slipped like a ghost through the leafless woods
and in and out the cabin, kindling hatred. At every dawn or dusk she was
on her porch peering through the dim light for Rufe Stetson. Steve Marcum
was ill at ease. Rome Stetson alone seemed unconcerned, and his name was
on every gossiping tongue.</p>

<p>He took little interest and no hand in getting ready for the war. He
forbade the firing of a gun till Rufe came back, else Steve should fight
his fight alone. He grew sullen and morose. His old mother's look was a
thorn in his soul, and he stayed little at home. He hung about the mill,
and when Isom became bedfast, the big mountaineer, who had never handled
anything but a horse, a plough, or a rifle, settled him-self, to the
bewilderment of the Stetsons, into the boy's duties, and nobody dared
question him. Even old Gabe jested no longer. The matter was too
serious.</p>

<p>Meanwhile the winter threw off the last slumbrous mood of autumn, as a
sleeper starts from a dream. A fortnight was gone, and still no message
came from the absent leader. One shore was restive, uneasy; the other
confident, mocking. Between the two, Rome Stetson waited his chance at
the mill.</p>

<h3><a name="aviii">VIII.</a></h3>

<p>DAY was whitening on the Stetson shore. Across the river the air was
still sharp with the chill of dawn, and the mists lay like flocks of
sheep under shelter of rock and crag. A peculiar cry radiated from the
Lewallen cabin with singular resonance on the crisp air-the mountain cry
for straying cattle. A soft low came from a distant patch of laurel, and
old Jasper's girl, Martha, folded. her hands like a conch at her mouth,
and the shrill cry again startled the air.</p>

<p>Ye better come, ye pieded cow-brute." Picking up a cedar piggin, she
stepped from the porch toward the meek voice that had answered her.
Temper and exertion had brought the quick blood to her face. Her head was
bare, her thick hair was loosely coiled, and her brown arms were naked
almost to the shoulder. At the stable a young mountaineer was overhauling
his riding-gear.</p>

<p>Air you goin' to ride the hoss to-day, Jas?" she asked,
querulously.</p>

<p>"That's jes whut I was aimin' to do. I'm a-goin' to town."</p>

<p>Well, I 'lowed I was goin' to mill to-day. The co'n is 'mos'
gone."</p>

<p>"Well, y'u 'lowed wrong," he answered, imperturbably.</p>

<p>Y'u're mean, Jas Lewallen," she cried, hotly; " that's whut ye air,
mean-dog-mean!</p>

<p>The young mountaineer looked up, whistled softly, and laughed. But
when he brought his horse to the door an hour later there was a bag of
corn across the saddle.</p>

<p>"As ye air so powerful sot on goin' to mill, whether or no, I'll leave
this hyeh sack at the bend O' the road, 'n' ye kin git it thar. I'll
bring the meal back ef ye puts it in the same place. I hates to see
women-folks a-ridin' this horse. Hit spiles him."</p>

<p>The horse was a dapple-gray of unusual beauty, and as the girl reached
out her hand to stroke his throat, he turned to nibble at her arm.</p>

<p>"I reckon he'd jes as lieve have me ride him as you, Jas," she said. "
Me 'n' him have got to be great friends. Ye orter n't to be so
stingy."</p>

<p>Well, he ain't no hoss to be left out'n the bresh now, 'n' I hain't
goin' to 'low it."</p>

<p>Old Jasper had lounged out of the kitchen door, and stood with his
huge bulk against a shrinking pillar of the porch. The two men were much
alike. Both had the same black, threatening brows meeting over the bridge
of the nose. A kind of grim humor lurked about the old man's mouth, which
time might trace about young Jasper's. The girl's face had no humor; the
same square brows, apart and clearly marked, gave it a strong, serious
cast, and while she had the Lewallen fire, she favored her mother enough,
so the neighbors said, "to have a mighty mild, takin' way about her ef
she wanted."</p>

<p>You're right, Jas," the old mountaineer said; "the hoss air a sin 'n'
temptation. Hit do me good ever' time I look at him. Thar air no sech
hoss, I tell ye, this side o' the settlements."</p>

<p>The boy started away, and the old man followed, and halted him out of
the girl's hearing.</p>

<p>"Tell Eli Crump 'n' Jim Stover to watch the Breathitt road close now,"
he said, in a low voice. " See all them citizens I tol' ye, 'n' tell 'em
to be ready when I says the word. Thar's no tellin' whut's goin' to
happen."</p>

<p>Young Jasper nodded his head, and struck his horse into a gallop. The
old man lighted his pipe, and turned back to the house. The girl, bonnet
in hand, was starting for the valley.</p>

<p>"Thar ain't no use goin' to Gabe Bunch's fer yer grist," he said. "
The mill on Dead Crick's a-runnin' ag'in, 'n' I don't want ye over thar
axin favors, specially jes now."</p>

<p>"I lef' somethin' fer ye to eat, dad," she replied, " ef ye gits
hungry before I git back."</p>

<p>You heerd me? " he called after her, knitting his brows.</p>

<p>Yes, dad; I heerd ye," she answered, adding to herself, " But I don't
heed ye." In truth, the girl heeded nobody. It was not her way to ask
consent, even her own, nor to follow advice. At the bend of the road she
found the bag, and for an instant she stood wavering. An impulse turned
her to the river, and she loosed the boat, and headed it across the
swift, shallow water from the ford and straight toward the mill. At every
stroke of her paddle the water rose above the prow of the boat, and,
blown into spray, flew back and drenched her; the wind loosed her hair,
and, tugging at her skirts, draped her like a statue; and she fought
them, wind and water, with mouth set and a smile in her eyes. One sharp
struggle still, where the creek leaped into freedom; the mouth grew a
little firmer, the eyes laughed more, the keel grated on pebbles, and the
boat ran its nose into the withered sedge on the Stetson shore.</p>

<p>A tall gray figure was pouring grain into the hopper when she reached
the door of the mill. She stopped abruptly, Rome Stetson turned, and
again the two were face to face. No greeting passed. The girl lifted her
head with a little toss that deepened the set look about the
mountaineer's mouth; her lax figure grew tense as though strung suddenly
against some coming harm, and her eyes searched the shadows without once
resting on him.</p>

<p>Whar's Uncle Gabe? " She spoke shortly, and as to a stranger.</p>

<p>Gone to town," said Rome, composedly. He had schooled himself for this
meeting.</p>

<p>When's he comm' back?</p>

<p>Not 'fore night, I reckon."</p>

<p>Whar's Isom?</p>

<p>Isom's sick."</p>

<p>Well, who's tendin' this mill?</p>

<p>For answer he tossed the empty bag into the corner and, without
looking at her, picked up another bag.</p>

<p>"I reckon ye see me, don't ye? " he asked, coolly. " Hev a cheer, and
rest a spell. Hit's a purty long climb whar you come from."</p>

<p>The girl was confused. She stayed in the doorway, a little helpless
and suspicious. What was Rome Stetson doing here? His mastery of the
situation, his easy confidence, puzzled and irritated her. Should she
leave? The mountaineer was a Stetson, a worm to tread on if it crawled
across the path. It would be like backing down before an enemy. He might
laugh at her after she was gone, and, at that thought, she sat down in
the chair with composed face, looking through the door at the tumbling
water, which broke with a thousand tints under the sun, but able still to
see Rome, sidewise, as he moved about the hopper, whistling softly.</p>

<p>Once she looked around, fancying she saw a smile on his sober face.
Their eyes came near meeting, and she turned quite away.</p>

<p>Ever seed a body out'n his head?</p>

<p>The girl's eyes rounded with a start of surprise.</p>

<p>Well, it's plumb cur'us. Isom's been that way lately. Isom's sick, ye
know. Uncle Gabe's got the rheumatiz, 'n' Isom's mighty fond o' Uncle
Gabe, 'n' the boy pestered me till I come down to he'p him. Hit p'int'ly
air strange to hear him talkin'. He's jes a-ravin' 'bout hell 'n' heaven,
'n' the sin o' killin' folks. You'd ha' thought he hed been convicted,
though none o' our fambly hev been much atter religion. He says as how