A Knight of the Cumberland by Jr. John Fox (speld decodable readers .TXT) 📕

“I reckon you made a leetle mistake thar. Them two fellers’ daddy died in the penitentiary last spring.” The Hon. Sam whistled mournfully, but he looked game enough when his opponent rose to speak —Uncle Josh Barton, who had short, thick, upright hair, little sharp eyes, and a rasping voice. Uncle Josh wasted no time:

“Feller-citizens,” he shouted, “this man is a lawyer—he’s a corporation lawyer”; the fearful name—pronounced “lie-yer”—rang through the crowd like a trumpet, and like lightning the Hon. Sam was on his feet.

“The man who says that is a liar,” he said calmly, “ and I demand your authority for the statement. If you won’t give it—I shall hold you personally responsible, sir.”

It was a strike home, and under the flashing eyes that stared unwaveringly, through the big goggles, Uncle Josh halted and stammered and admitted that he might have been misinformed.

“Then I advise you to be more careful,” cautioned the Hon. Samuel sharply.

“Feller-citizens,” said Uncle Josh, “if he ain’t a corporation lawyer—who is this man? Where did he come from? I have been born and raised among you. You all know me—do you know him? Whut’s he a-doin’ now? He’s a fine-haired furriner, an’ he’s come down hyeh from the settlemints to tell ye that you hain’t got no man in yo’ own deestrict that’s fittin’ to represent ye in the legislatur’. Look at him— look at him! He’s got FOUR eyes! Look at his hair—hit’s PARTED IN THE MIDDLE!” There was a storm of laughter—Uncle Josh had made good—and if the Hon. Samuel could straightway have turned bald-headed and sightless, he would have been a happy man. He looked sick with hopelessness, but Uncle Tommie Hendricks, his mentor, was vigorously whispering something in his ear, and gradually his face cleared. Indeed, the Hon. Samuel was smilingly confident when he rose.

Like his rival, he stood in the open road, and the sun beat down on his parted yellow hair, so that the eyes of all could see, and the laughter was still running round.

“Who is your Uncle Josh?” he asked with threatening mildness. “I know I was not born here, but, my friends, I couldn’t help that. And just as soon as I could get away from where I was born, I came here and,” he paused with lips parted and long finger outstretched, “ and—I—came —because—I WANTED—to come—and NOT because I HAD TO.”

Now it seems that Uncle Josh, too, was not a native and that he had left home early in life for his State’s good and for his own. Uncle Tommie had whispered this, and the Hon. Samuel raised himself high on both toes while the expectant crowd, on the verge of a roar, waited—as did Uncle Joshua, with a sickly smile.

“Why did your Uncle Josh come among you? Because he was hoop-poled away from home.” Then came the roar— and the Hon. Samuel had to quell it with uplifted hand.

“And did your Uncle Joshua marry a mountain wife? No I He didn’t think any of your mountain women were good enough for him, so he slips down into the settlemints and STEALS one. And now, fellow-citizens, that is just what I’m here for —I’m looking for a nice mountain girl, and I’m going to have her.” Again the Hon. Samuel had to still the roar, and then he went on quietly to show how they must lose the Court-House site if they did not send him to the legislature, and how, while they might not get it if they did send him, it was their only hope to send only him. The crowd had grown somewhat hostile again, and it was after one telling period, when the Hon. Samuel stopped to mop his brow, that a gigantic mountaineer rose in the rear of the crowd:

“Talk on, stranger; you’re talking sense. I’ll trust ye. You’ve got big ears!”

Now the Hon. Samuel possessed a primordial talent that is rather rare in these physically degenerate days. He said nothing, but stood quietly in the middle of the road. The eyes of the crowd on either side of the road began to bulge, the lips of all opened with wonder, and a simultaneous burst of laughter rose around the Hon. Samuel Budd. A dozen men sprang to their feet and rushed up to him—looking at those remarkable ears, as they gravely wagged to and fro. That settled things, and as we left, the Hon. Sam was having things his own way, and on the edge of the crowd Uncle Tommie Hendricks was shaking his head:

“I tell ye, boys, he ain’t no jackass even if he can flop his ears.”

At the river we started upstream, and some impulse made me turn in my saddle and look back. All the time I had had an eye open for the young mountaineer whose interest in us seemed to be so keen. And now I saw, standing at the head of a gray horse, on the edge of the crowd, a tall figure with his hands on his hips and looking after us. I couldn’t be sure, but it looked like the Wild Dog.

Two hours up the river we struck Buck. Buck was sitting on the fence by the roadside, barefooted and hatless.

“How-dye-do?” I said.

“Purty well,” said Buck.

“Any fish in this river?”

“Several,” said Buck. Now in mountain speech, “several” means simply “a good many.”

“Any minnows in these branches?”

“I seed several in the branch back o’ our house.”

“How far away do you live?”

“Oh, ‘bout one whoop an’ a holler.” If he had spoken Greek the Blight could not have been more puzzled. He meant he lived as far as a man’s voice would carry with one yell and a holla.

“Will you help me catch some?” Buck nodded.

“All right,” I said, turning my horse up to the fence. “Get on behind.” The horse shied his hind quarters away, and I pulled him back.

“Now, you can get on, if you’ll be quick.” Buck sat still.

“Yes,” he said imperturbably; “but I ain’t quick.” The two girls laughed aloud, and Buck looked surprised.

Around a curving cornfield we went, and through a meadow which Buck said was a “nigh cut.” From the limb of a tree that we passed hung a piece of wire with an iron ring swinging at its upturned end. A little farther was another tree and another ring, and farther on another and another.

“For heaven’s sake, Buck, what are these things?”

“Mart’s a-gittin’ ready fer a tourneyment.”

“A what?”

“That’s whut Mart calls hit. He was over to the Gap last Fourth o’ July, an’ he says fellers over thar fix up like Kuklux and go a-chargin’ on hosses and takin’ off them rings with a ash-stick—`spear,’ Mart calls hit. He come back an’ he says he’s a-goin’ to win that ar tourneyment next Fourth o’ July. He’s got the best hoss up this river, and on Sundays him an’ Dave Branham goes a-chargin’ along here a-picking off these rings jus’ a-flyin’; an’ Mart can do hit, I’m tellin’ ye. Dave’s mighty good hisself, but he ain’t nowhar ‘longside o’ Mart.”

This was strange. I had told the Blight about our Fourth of July, and how on the Virginia side the ancient custom of the tournament still survived. It was on the last Fourth of July that she had meant to come to the Gap. Truly civilization was spreading throughout the hills.

“Who’s Mart?”

“Mart’s my brother,” said little Buck.

“He was over to the Gap not long ago, an’ he come back mad as hops—” He stopped suddenly, and in such a way that I turned my head, knowing that caution had caught Buck.

“What about?”

“Oh, nothin’,” said Buck carelessly; “only he’s been quar ever since. My sisters says he’s got a gal over thar, an’ he’s a-pickin’ off these rings more’n ever now. He’s going to win or bust a belly-band.”

“Well, who’s Dave Branham?”

Buck grinned. “You jes axe my sister Mollie. Thar she is.”

Before us was a white-framed house of logs in the porch of which stood two stalwart, good-looking girls. Could we stay all night? We could—there was no hesitation—and straight in we rode.

“Where’s your father?” Both girls giggled, and one said, with frank unembarrassment:

“Pap’s tight!” That did not look promising, but we had to stay just the same. Buck helped me to unhitch the mules, helped me also to catch minnows, and in half an hour we started down the river to try fishing before dark came. Buck trotted along.

“Have you got a wagon, Buck?”

“What fer?”

“To bring the fish back.” Buck was not to be caught napping.

“We got that sled thar, but hit won’t be big enough,” he said gravely. “An’ our two-hoss wagon’s out in the cornfield. We’ll have to string the fish, leave ‘em in the river and go fer ‘em in the mornin’.”

“All right, Buck.” The Blight was greatly amused at Buck.

Two hundred yards down the road stood his sisters over the figure of a man outstretched in the road. Unashamed, they smiled at us. The man in the road was “pap”—tight—and they were trying to get him home.

We cast into a dark pool farther down and fished most patiently; not a bite—not a nibble.

“Are there any fish in here, Buck?”

“Dunno—used ter be.” The shadows deepened; we must go back to the house.

“Is there a dam below here, Buck?”

“Yes, thar’s a dam about a half-mile down the river.”

I was disgusted. No wonder there were no bass in that pool.

“Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

“You never axed me,” said Buck placidly.

I began winding in my line.

“Ain’t no bottom to that pool,” said Buck.

Now I never saw any rural community where there was not a bottomless pool, and I suddenly determined to shake one tradition in at least one community. So I took an extra fish-line, tied a stone to it, and climbed into a canoe, Buck watching me, but not asking a word.

“Get in, Buck.”

Silently he got in and I pushed off—to the centre.

“This the deepest part, Buck?”

“I reckon so.”

I dropped in the stone and the line reeled out some fifty feet and began to coil on the surface of the water.

“I guess that’s on the bottom, isn’t it, Buck?”

Buck looked genuinely distressed; but presently he brightened.

“Yes,” he said, “ ef hit ain’t on a turtle’s back.”

Literally I threw up both hands and back we trailed—fishless.

“Reckon you won’t need that two-hoss wagon,” said Buck. “No, Buck, I think not.” Buck looked at the Blight and gave himself the pleasure of his first chuckle. A big crackling, cheerful fire awaited us. Through the door I could see, outstretched on a bed in the next room, the limp figure of “pap” in alcoholic sleep. The old mother, big, kind-faced, explained—and there was a heaven of kindness and charity in her drawling voice.

“Dad didn’ often git that a-way,” she said; “but he’d been out a-huntin’ hawgs that mornin’ and had met up with some teamsters and gone to a political speakin’ and had tuk a dram or two of their mean whiskey, and not havin’ nothin’ on his stummick, hit had all gone to his head. No, `pap’ didn’t git that a-way often, and he’d be all right jes’ as soon as he slept it off a while.” The old woman moved about with a cane