DOWN THE RAVINE BY CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK.

CHAPTER I.

The new moon, a gleaming scimitar, cleft the gauzy mists above a rugged spur of the Cumberland Mountains.  The sky, still crimson and amber, stretched vast and lonely above the vast and lonely landscape.  A fox was barking in the laurel.

This was an imprudent proceeding on the part of the fox, considering the value of his head-gear.  A young mountaineer down the ravine was reminded, by the sharp, abrupt sound, of a premium offered by the State of Tennessee for the scalp and ears of the pestiferous red fox.

All unconscious of the legislation of extermination, the animal sped nimbly along the ledge of a cliff, becoming visible from the ravine below, a tawny streak against the gray rock.  Swift though he was, a jet of red light flashing out in the dusk was yet swifter.  The echoing crags clamored with the report of a rifle.  The tawny streak was suddenly still.  Three boys appeared in the depths of the ravine and looked up.

“Thar now!  Ye can’t git him off’n that thar ledge, Birt,” said Tim Griggs.  “The contrairy beastis couldn’t hev fund a more ill-convenient spot ter die of he hed sarched the mounting.”

“I ain’t goin’ ter leave him thar, though,” stoutly declared the boy who still held the rifle.  “That thar fox’s scalp an’ his two ears air wuth one whole dollar.”

Tim remonstrated.  “Look-a-hyar, Birt; ef ye try ter climb up this hyar bluff, ye’ll git yer neck bruk, sure.”

Birt Dicey looked up critically.  It was a rugged ascent of forty feet or more to the narrow ledge where the red fox lay.  Although the face of the cliff was jagged, the rock greatly splintered and fissured, with many ledges, and here and there a tuft of weeds or a stunted bush growing in a niche, it was very steep, and would afford precarious foothold.  The sunset was fading.  The uncertain light would multiply the dangers of the attempt.  But to leave a dollar lying there on the fox’s head, that the wolf and the buzzard might dine expensively to-morrow!

“An’ me so tried for money!” he exclaimed, thinking aloud.

Nate Griggs, who had not before spoken, gave a sudden laugh, - a dry, jeering laugh.

“Ef all the foxes on the mounting war ter hold a pertracted meet’n, jes’ ter pleasure you-uns, thar wouldn’t be enough scalps an’ ears ’mongst ’em ter make up the money ye hanker fur ter buy a horse.”

To buy a horse was the height of Birt’s ambition.  His mother was a widow; and as an instance of the fact that misfortunes seldom come singly, the horse on which the family depended to till their scanty acres died shortly after his owner.  And so, whenever the spring opened and the ploughs all over the countryside were starting, their one chance to cultivate a crop was to hire a mule from their nearest neighbor, the tanner.  Birt was the eldest son, and his mother had only his work to offer in payment.  The proposition always took the tanner in what he called a “jubious time.”  Spring is the season for stripping the trees of their bark, which is richer in tannin when the sap flows most freely, and the mule was needed to haul up the piles of bark from out the depths of the woods to the tanyard.  Then, too, Jubal Perkins had his own crops to put in.  As he often remarked in the course of the negotiation, “I don’t eat tan bark - nor yit raw hides.”  Although the mule was a multifarious animal, and ploughed and worked in the bark-mill, and hauled from the woods, and went long journeys in the wagon or under the saddle, he was not ubiquitous, and it was impossible for him to be in the several places in which he was urgently needed at the same time.  Therefore, to hire him out on these terms seemed hardly an advantage to his master.  Nevertheless, this bargain was annually struck.  The poverty-stricken widow always congratulated herself upon its conclusion, and it never occurred to her that the amount of work that Birt did in the tanyard was a disproportionately large return for the few days that the tanner’s mule ploughed their little fields.

Birt, however, was beginning to see that a boy to drive that mule around the bark-mill was as essential as the mule himself.  As Providence had failed to furnish the tanner with a son for this purpose - his family consisting of several small daughters - Birt supplied a long-felt want.

The boy appreciated that his simple mother was over-reached, yet he could not see that she could do otherwise.  He sighed for independence, for a larger opportunity.  As he drove the mule round the limited circuit, his mind was far away.  He anxiously canvassed the future.  He cherished fiery, ambitious schemes, - often scorched, poor fellow, by their futility.  With his time thus mortgaged, he thought his help to his mother was far less than it might be.  But until he could have a horse of his own, there was no hope - no progress.  And for this he planned, and dreamed, and saved.

Partly these considerations, partly the love of adventure, and partly the jeer in Nate’s laugh determined him not to relinquish the price set upon the fox’s head.  He took off his coat and flung it on the ground beside his rifle.  Then he began to clamber up the cliff.

The two brothers, their hands in the pockets of their brown jeans trousers, stood watching his ascent.  Nate had sandy hair, small gray eyes, set much too close together, and a sharp, pale, freckled face.  Tim seemed only a mild repetition of him, as if Nature had tried to illustrate what Nate would be with a better temper and less sly intelligence.

Birt was climbing slowly.  It was a difficult matter.  Here was a crevice that would hardly admit his eager fingers, and again a projection so narrow that it seemed to grudge him foothold.  Some of the ledges, however, were wider, and occasionally a dwarfed huckleberry bush, nourished in a fissure, lifted him up like a helping hand.  He quaked as he heard the roots strain and creak, for he was a pretty heavy fellow for sixteen years of age.  They did not give way, however, and up and up he went, every moment increasing the depth below him and the danger.  His breath was short; his strength flagged, he slipped more than once, giving himself a great fright; and when he reached the ledge where the dead fox lay, he thought, “The varmint don’t wuth it.”

Nevertheless he whooped out his triumph to Nate and Tim in a stentorian halloo, for they had already started homeward, and presently their voices died in the distance.  Birt faced about and sat down on the ledge to rest, his feet dangling over the depths beneath.

It was a lonely spot, walled in by the mountains, and frequented only by the deer that were wont to come to lick salt from the briny margin of a great salt spring far down the ravine.  Their hoofs had worn a deep excavation around it in the countless years and generations that they had herded here.  The “lick,” as such places are called in Tennessee, was nearly two acres in extent, and in the centre of the depression the brackish water stood to the depth of six feet or more.  Birt looked down at it, thinking of the old times when, according to tradition, it was the stamping ground of buffalo as well as deer.  The dusk deepened.  The shadows were skulking in and out of the wild ravine as the wind rose and fell.  They took to his fancy the form of herds of the banished bison, revisiting in this impalpable guise the sylvan shades where they are but a memory now.

Presently he began the rugged descent, considerably hampered by the fox, which he carried by the tail.  He stopped to rest whenever he found a ledge that would serve as a seat.  Looking up, high above the jagged summit of the cliff that sharply serrated the zenith, he saw the earliest star, glorious in the crimson and amber sky.  Below, a point of silver light quivered, reflected in the crimson and amber waters of the “lick.”  The fire-flies were flickering among the ferns; he saw about him their errant gleam.  The shadowy herds trooped down the mountain side.

Now and then his weight uprooted a bush in his hands, and the clods fell.  He missed his footing as he neared the base, and came down with a thump.  It was a gravelly spot where he had fallen, and he saw in a moment that it was the summer-dried channel of a mountain rill.  As he pulled himself up on one elbow, he suddenly paused with dilated eyes.  The evening light fell upon a burnished glimmer; - a bit of stone - was it stone? - shining with a metallic lustre.

He looked at it for a moment, his eyes glowing in the contemplation of a splendid possibility.

What were those old stories that his father used to tell of the gold excitement in Tennessee in 1831, when the rich earth flung largess from its hidden wealth along the romantic banks of Coca Creek!  Gold had been found in Tennessee - why not here?  And once - why not again?

The idea so possessed him that while he was skinning the fox his sharp knife almost sacrificed one of the

ears imperatively required by the statute, in order that the wily hunter may not be tempted to present one ear at a time, thus multiplying red foxes and premiums therefor like Falstaff’s “rogues in buckram.”

He took his way homeward through the darkening woods, carrying the pelt in his hand.  It was not long before he could hear the dogs barking, and as he came suddenly upon a little clearing in the midst of the dense, encompassing wilderness, he saw them all trooping down from the unenclosed passage between the two log-rooms which constituted the house.  An old hound had half climbed the fence, but as he laid his fore-paw on the topmost rail, his deep-mouthed bay was hushed, - he was recognizing the approaching step of his master.  The yellow curs were still insisting upon a marauder theory.  One of them barked defiance as he thrust his head between the rails of the fence.  There was another head thrust through too, about on a level with Towser’s, but it was not a dog’s head.  As Birt caught a glimpse of it, he called out hastily, “Stand back thar, Tennessee!”  And then it was lost to view, for at the sound of his voice all the dogs came huddling over the bars, shrilly yelping a tumultuous welcome.

When Birt had vaulted over the fence, the little object withdrew its head from between the rails and came trotting along beside him, holding up its hand to clasp his.

His mother, standing in the passage, her tall, thin figure distinct in the firelight that came flickering out through the open door, soliloquized querulously: -

“Ef that thar child don’t quit that fool way o’ stickin’ her head a-twixt the rails ter watch fur her brother, she’ll git cotched thar some day like a peeg in a pen, an’ git her neck bruk.”

Birt overheard her.  “Tennessee air too peart ter git herself hurt,” he said, a trifle ashamed of his ready championship of his little sister, as a big rough boy is apt to be of gentler emotions.

If ever infancy can be deemed uncouth, she was an uncouth little atom of humanity.  Her blue checked homespun dress, graced with big horn buttons, descended almost to her feet.  Her straight, awkwardly cropped hair was of a nondescript shade pleasantly called “tow.”  As she came into the light of the fire, she lifted wide black eyes deprecatingly to her mother.

“She ain’t pretty, I know, but she air powerful peart,” Birt used to say so often that the phrase became a formula with him.

If she were “powerful peart,” it was a fact readily apparent only to him, for she was a silent child, with the single marked characteristic of great affection for her eldest brother and a singular pertinacity in following him about.

“I dunno ’bout Tennie’s peartness,” his mother sarcastically rejoined.  “‘Pears ter me like the chile hain’t never hed good sense; afore she could walk she’d crawl along the floor arter ye, an’ holler like a squeech-ow

ef ye went off an’ lef’ her.  An’ ye air plumb teched in the head too, Birt, ter set sech store by Tennie.  I look ter see her killed, or stunted, some day, in them travels o’ hern.”

For when Birt Dicey went “yerrands” on the mule through the woods to the Settlement, Tennessee often rode on the pommel of his saddle.  She followed in the furrow when he ploughed.  She was as familiar an object at the tanyard as the bark-mill itself.  When he wielded the axe, she perched on one end of the woodpile.  But so far, she had passed safely through her varied adventures, and gratifying evidences of her growth were registered on the door.  “Stand back thar, Tennessee!” in a loud, boyish halloo, was a command when danger was ahead, which she obeyed with the readiness of a veteran.

Sometimes, however, this incongruous companionship became irksome to him.  Her trusting, insistent affection made her a clog upon him, and he grew impatient of it.

Ah, little Sister! he learned its value one day.

The great wood fire was all aflare in the deep chimney-place.  Savory odors came from the gridiron and the skillet and the hoe, on the live coals drawn out on the broad hearth.  The tow-headed children grew noisy as they assembled around the bare pine table, and began to clash their knives and forks.

Birt, unmindful, crouched by the hearth, silently turning his precious specimens about, that he might examine them by the firelight.  Tennessee, her chuffy hand on his shoulder, for she could reach it as he knelt, held her head close to his, and looked at them too with wide black eyes.  His mother placed the supper on the table, and twice she called to him to come, but he did not hear.  She turned and looked down at him, then broke out sharply in indignant surprise.

“Air ye bereft o’ reason, Birt Dicey!  Ye set thar nosin’ a handful o’ rocks ez ef they war fitten ter eat!  An’ now look at the boy - a stuffin’ ’em in his pockets ter sag ’em down and tear ’em out fur me ter sew in ag’in.  Waal, waal!  Sol’mon say ef ye spare the rod ye spile the child - mos’ ennybody could hev fund that out from thar own ’sperience; but the wisest man that ever lived lef’ no receipt how ter keep a boy’s pockets whole in his breeches.”

CHAPTER II.

Birt Dicey lay awake deep into the night, pondering and planning.  But despite this unwonted vigil the old bark-mill was early astir, and he went alertly about his work.  He felt eager, strong, capable.  The spirit of progress was upon him.

The tanyard lay in the midst of a forest so dense that, except at the verge of the clearing, it showed hardly a trace of its gradual despoliation by the industry that nestled in its heart like a worm in the bud.  There were many stumps about the margin of the woods, the felled trees, stripped of their bark, often lying among them still, for the supply of timber exceeded the need.  In penetrating the wilderness you might mark, too, here and there, a vacant space, where the chestnut-oak, prized for its tannin, had once grown on the slope.

A little log house was in the midst of the clearing.  It had, properly speaking, only one room, but there was a shed-room attached, for the purpose of storage, and also a large open shed at one side.  The rail fence inclosed the space of an acre, perhaps, which was covered with spent bark.  Across the pits planks were laid, with heavy stones upon them to hold them in place.  A rude roof sheltered the bark-mill from the weather, and there was the patient mule, with Birt and a whip to make sure that he did not fall into reflective pauses according to his meditative wont.  And there, too, was Tennessee, perched on the lower edge of a great pile of bark, and gravely watching Birt.

He deprecated the attention she attracted.  He was sometimes ashamed to have the persistent little sister seen following at his heels like a midday shadow.  He could not know that the men who stopped and spoke to him and to her, and laughed at the infirmities of the infant tongue when she replied unintelligibly, thought better of him for his manifestation of strong fraternal affection.  They said to each other that he was a “peart boy an’ powerful good ter the t’other chill’en, an’ holped the fambly along ez well ez a man - better’n thar dad ever done;” for Birt’s father had been characterized always as “slack-twisted an’ onlucky.”

The shadows dwindled on the tan.  The winds had furled their wings.  White clouds rose, dazzling, opaque, up to the blue zenith.  The querulous cicada complained in the laurel.  Birt heard the call of a jay from the woods.  And then, as he once more urged the old mule on, the busy bark-mill kept up such a whir that he could hear nothing else.  He was not aware of an approach till the new-comer was close upon him; in fact, the first he knew of Nate Griggs’s proximity was the sight of him.  Nate was glancing about with his usual air of questioning disparagement, and cracking a long lash at the spent bark on the ground.

“Hello, Nate!” Birt cried out, eagerly.  “I’m powerful glad ye happened ter kem hyar, fur I hev a word ter say ter ye.”

“I dunno ez I’m minded ter bide,” Nate said cavalierly.  “I hates to waste time an’ burn daylight a-jowin’.”

He was still cracking his lash at the ground.  There was a sudden, half-articulate remonstrance.

Birt, who had turned away to the bark-mill, whirled back in a rising passion.

“Did ye hit Tennessee?” he asked, with a dangerous light in his eyes.

“No - I never!” Nate protested.  “I hain’t seen her till this minute.  She war standin’ a-hint ye.”

“Waal, ye skeered her, then,” said Birt, hardly appeased.  “Quit snappin’ that lash.  ’Pears-like ter me ez ye makes yerself powerful free round this hyar tanyard.”

“Tennie air a-growin’ wonderful fast,” the sly Nathan remarked pleasantly.

Birt softened instantly.  “She air a haffen inch higher ’n she war las’ March, ’cordin’ ter the mark on the door,” he declared, pridefully.  “She ain’t pretty, I know, but she air powerful peart.”

“What war the word ez ye war layin’ off ter say ter me?” Nate asked, curiosity vividly expressed in his face.

Birt leaned back against the pile of bark and hesitated.  Last night he had thought Nate the most desirable person to whom he could confide his secret whose aid he could secure.  There were many circumstances that made this seem wise.  But when the disclosure was imminent, something in those small, bead-like eyes, unpleasantly close together, something in the expression of the thin, pale face, something in Nate’s voice and manner repelled confidence.

“Nate,” said Birt, at last, speaking with that subacute conviction, so strong yet so ill-defined, which vividly warns the ill-judged and yet cannot stop the tongue constrained by its own folly, “what d’ye s’pose I fund in the woods yestiddy?”

The two small eyes, set close together, seemed merged in one, so concentrated was their gaze.  Again their expression struck Birt’s attention.  He hesitated once more.  “Ef I tell ye, will ye promise never ter tell enny livin’ human critter?”

“I hope I may drap stone dead ef I ever tell!” Nate exclaimed.

“I fund a strange metal in the woods yestiddy.  What d’ye s’pose ’t war?”

Nate shook his head.  His breath was quick and he could not control the keen anxiety in his face.  A strong flush rose to the roots of his sandy hair, his lips quivered, and his small eyes glittered with greedy expectation.  His tongue refused to frame a word.

“

!” cried Birt, triumphantly.

“Whar be it?” exclaimed Nate.  He was about to start in full run for the spot.

“I ain’t agoin’ ter tell ye, without we-uns kin strike a trade.”

“Waal,” said Nate, with difficulty repressing his impatience, “what air you-uns aimin’ ter do?”

“Ye knows ez I hev ter bide hyar with the bark-mill mos’ly, jes’ now,” said Birt, beginning to expound the series of ideas which he had carefully worked out in his midnight vigil, “‘kase they hev got ter hev a heap o’ tan ter fill them thar vats ag’in.  Ef I war ter leave an’ go a-gold huntin’, the men on the mounting would find out what I war arter, an’ they’d come a-grabblin’ thar too, an’ mebbe git it all, ’kase I dunno how much or how leetle thar be.  I wants ter make sure of enough ter buy a horse, or a mule, or su’thin’, ef I kin, ’fore I tells ennybody else.  An’ I ’lowed ez ye an’ me would go pardners.  Ye’d take my place hyar at the tanyard one day, whilst I dug, an’ I’d bide in the tanyard nex’ day.  An’ we would divide fair an’ even all we fund.”

Nate did not reply.  He was absorbed in a project that had come into his head as his friend talked, and the two dissimilar trains of thought combined in a mental mosaic that would have amazed Birt Dicey.

“Ye see,” Birt presently continued, “I dunno when I kin git shet o’ the tanyard this year.  Old Jube Perkins ’lows ez he air mighty busy ’bout’n them hides an’ sech, an’ he wants me ter holp around ginerally.  He say ef I do mo’ work’n I owes him, he’ll make that straight with my mother.  An’ he declares fur true ef I don’t holp him at this junctry, when he needs me, he won’t hire his mule to my mother nex’ spring; an’ ye know it won’t do fur we-uns ter resk the corn-crap an’ gyarden truck with sech a pack o’ chill’n ter vittle ez we-uns hev got at our house.”

Nate deduced an unexpected conclusion.  “Ye oughter gin me more’n haffen the make,” he said.  “‘Kase ef ’twarn’t fur me, ye couldn’t git none.  An’ ef ye don’t say two thurds, I’ll tell every critter on the mounting an’ they’ll be grabblin’ in yer gold mine d’rec’ly.”

“Ye dunno whar it is,” said Birt, quietly.

If a sudden jet from the cold mountain torrent, that rioted through the wilderness down the ravine hard by, had been dashed into Nate’s thin, sharp face, he could not have cooled more abruptly.  The change almost took his breath away.

“I don’t mean

, nuther,” he gasped with politic penitence, “kase I hev promised not ter tell.  I dunno whether I kin holp nohow.  I hev got ter do my sheer o’ work at home; we ain’t through pullin’ fodder off’n our late corn yit.”

Birt looked at him in silent surprise.

Nate was older than his friend by several years.  He was of an unruly and insubordinate temper, and did as little work as he pleased at home.  He often remarked that he would like to see who could make him do what he had no mind to do.

“Mebbe old Jube wouldn’t want me round ’bout,” he suggested.

“Waal,” said Birt, eager again to detail his plans, “he ’lowed when I axed him this mornin’ ez he’d be willin’ ef I could trade with another boy ter take my place wunst in a while.”

Nate affected to meditate on this view of the question.  “But it will be toler’ble fur away fur me ter go prowlin’ in the woods, a-huntin’ fur gold, an’ our fodder jes’ a-sufferin’ ter be pulled.  Ef the spot air fur off, I can’t come an’ I won’t, not fur haffen the make.”

“‘T ain’t fur off at all - scant haffen mile,” replied unwary Birt, anxious to convince.  “It air jes’ yander nigh that thar salt lick down the ravine.  I marks the spot by a bowlder - biggest bowlder I ever see - on the slope o’ the mounting.”

The instant this revelation passed his lips, regret seized him.  “But ye ain’t ter go thar ’thout me, ye onderstand, till we begins our work.”

“I ain’t wantin’ ter go,” Nate protested.  “I ain’t sati’fied in my mind whether I’ll ondertake ter holp or no.  That pullin’ fodder ez I hev got ter do sets mighty heavy on my stomach.”

“Tim an’ yer dad

pulls the fodder an’ sech - I knows ez that air a true word,” said Birt, bluntly.  “An’ I can’t git away from the tanyard at all ef ye won’t holp me, ’kase old Jube ’lowed he wouldn’t let me swop with a smaller boy ter work hyar; an’ all them my size, an’ bigger, air made ter work with thar dads, ’ceptin’ you-uns.”

Nate heard, but he hardly looked as if he did, so busily absorbed was he in fitting this fragment of fact into his mental mosaic.  It had begun to assume the proportions of a distinct design.

He suddenly asked a question of apparent irrelevancy.

“This hyar land down the ravine don’t b’long ter yer folkses - who do it b’long ter?”

“Don’t b’long ter nobody, ye weasel!” Birt retorted, in rising wrath.  “D’ye s’pose I’d be a-stealin’ of gold off’n somebody else’s land?”

Nate’s sly, thin face lighted up wonderfully.  He seemed in a fever of haste to terminate the conference and get away.  He agreed to his friend’s proposition and promised to be at the bark-mill bright and early in the morning.  As he trudged off, Birt Dicey stood watching the receding figure.  His eyes were perplexed, his mind full of anxious foreboding.  He hardly knew what he feared.  He had only a vague sense of mischief in the air, as slight but as unmistakable as the harbinger of storm on a sunshiny summer day.

“I wisht I hedn’t tole him nuthin’,” he said, as he wended his way home that night.  “Ef my mother hed knowed bout’n it all, I wouldn’t hev been ’lowed ter tell him.  She

spises the very sight o’ this hyar Nate Griggs - an’ yit she say she dunno why.”

After supper he sat gloomy and taciturn in the uninclosed passage between the two rooms, watching alternately the fire-flies, as they instarred the dark woods with ever-shifting gold sparks, and the broad, pale flashes of heat lightning which from time to time illumined the horizon.  There was no motion in the heavy black foliage, but it was filled with the shrill droning of the summer insects, and high in the branches a screech-owl pierced the air with its keen, quavering scream.

“Tennessee!” exclaimed Birt, as the unwelcome sound fell upon his ear - ”Tennessee! run an’ put the shovel in the fire!”

Whether the shovel, becoming hot among the live coals, burned the owl that was high in the tree-top outside, according to the countryside superstition, or whether by a singular coincidence, he discovered that he had business elsewhere, he was soon gone, and the night was left to the chorusing katydids and tree-toads and to the weird, fitful illuminations of the noiseless heat lightning.

Birt Dicey rose suddenly and walked away silently into the dense, dark woods.

“Stop, Tennessee! ye can’t go too!” exclaimed Mrs. Dicey, appearing in the doorway just in time to intercept the juvenile excursionist.  “Ketch her, Rufus!  Ef she wouldn’t hev followed Birt right off in the pitch dark!  She ain’t afeared o’ nothin’ when Birt is thar.  Git that pomegranate she hed an’ gin it ter her ter keep her from hollerin’, Rufe; I hed a sight ruther hear the squeech-ow