Down the Ravine

Down the Ravine


60 pages
Le téléchargement nécessite un accès à la bibliothèque YouScribe
Tout savoir sur nos offres


Down the Ravine, by Charles Egbert Craddock (real name: Murfree, Mary Noailles)
Title: Down the Ravine Author: Charles Egbert Craddock (real name: Murfree, Mary Noailles) Release Date: March, 2004 [EBook #5306] [Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on June 25, 2002] [Most recently updated: June 25, 2002] Edition: 10 Language: English Character set encoding: ASCII
This Etext was produced by Les Bowler, St. Ives, Dorset.



Publié par
Publié le 08 décembre 2010
Nombre de lectures 24
Langue English
Signaler un problème
The Project Gutenberg EBook of Down the Ravine, by Charles Egbert Craddock (#1 in our series by Charles Egbert Craddock)
Title: Down the Ravine
Edition: 10
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
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 oun mountaineer down the ravine was reminded, b the shar , abru t sound, of a remium
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 bo a reciated that his sim le mother was over-reached, et 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 old 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 thetwostatute, in order that the wily hunter may not beears imperatively required by the 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-owel ye air plumb teched in the head too, Birt, ter An’ef ye went off an’ lef’ her. 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 obe ed 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.”
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, dazzlin , o a ue, u to the blue zenith. The uerulous cicada com lained 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.
Gold!” cried Birt, triumphantly.
“Whar be it?” exclaimed Nate. He was about to start in full run for the s
“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 meanthat Iwith politic penitence, “kase I hev promised not ter tell., nuther,” he gasped 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’ ander ni h that thar salt lick down the ravine. I marks the s ot b a bowlder - bi est 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 dadalwaysez that air a true word,” said Birt,pulls the fodder an’ sech - I knows 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. Shedespises 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-owel.”
Tennessee, overpowered by disappointment, sobbed herself to sleep upon the floor, and then ensued an interval of quiet. Rufe, a towheaded boy of ten, dressed in an unbleached cotton shirt and blue-checked homespun trousers, concluded that this moment was the accepted time to count the balls in his brother’s shot-pouch. This he proceeded to do, with the aid of the sullen glare from the embers within and the fluctuating gleams of the lightning without. There was no pretense of utility in Rufe’s performance; only the love of handling lead could explain it.
“Ye hed better mind,” his mother admonished him. “Birt war powerful tried the t’other day ter think what hed gone with his bullets. He’ll nose ye out afore long ” .
“They hev got sech a fool way o’ slippin’ through the chinks in the floor,” said the boy in exasperation. “I never seen the beat! An’ thar’s no gittin’ them out, nuther. I snaked under the house yestiddy an’ sarched, an’ sarched! - an’ I never fund but two. An’ Towse, he dragged hisself under thar, too - jes’ a-growlin’ an’ a-snappin’. I thought fur sartin every minit he’d bite my foot off.”
He resumed his self-imposed task of counting the rifle balls, and now and then a sharp click told that another was consigned to that limbo guarded by Towse. Mrs. Dicey stood in silence for a time, gazing upon the unutterably gloomy forest, the distant, throbbing stars, and the broad, wan flashes at long intervals gleaming through the sky.
“It puts me in a mighty tucker ter hev yer brother a-settin’ out through the woods this hyar way, an’ a-leavin’ of we-uns hyar, all by ourselves sech a dark night. I’m always afeared thar mought be a bar a-prowlin’ round. An’ the cornfield air close ter the house, too.”
“Pete Thompson - him ez war yander ter the tanyard day ’fore yestiddy with his dad,” said the boy, “he tole it ter me ez how he seen a bar las’ Wednesday a-climbin’ over the fence ter thar cornfield, with a haffen dozen roastin’-ears under his arm an’ a watermillion on his head. Butwar it a haffen dozen? I furgits now ef Pete said it war a haffen dozen or nine ears of corn the bar hed;” and he paused to reflect in the midst of his important occupation.
“I’ll be bound Pete never stopped ter count ’em,” said Mrs. Dicey. “Pick that chile up an’ come in. I’m goin’ ter bar up the door.”
Birt Dicey plodded away through the deep woods and the dense darkness down the ravine. Although he could not now distinguish one stone from another, he had an uncontrollable impulse to visit again the treasure he had discovered. The murmur of the gently bubbling water warned him of the proximity of the deep salt spring almost at the base of the mountain, and, guiding himself partly by the sound, he made his way along the slope to the great bowlder beneath the cliffs that served to mark the spot. As he laid his hand on the bowlder, he experienced a wonderful exhilaration of spirit. Once more he canvassed his scheme. This was the one great opportunity of his restricted life. Visions of future possibilities were opening wide their fascinating vistas. He might make enough to buy a horse, and this expressed his idea of wealth. “But ef I live ter git a cent out’n it,” he said to himself, “I’ll take the very fust money I kin call my own an’ buy Tennessee a chany cup an’ sarcer, an’ a string o’ blue beads an’ a caliky coat - ef I die fur it.” His pleased reverie was broken by a sudden discovery. He was not standing among stones about the great bowlder; no - his foot had sunk deep in the sand! He stooped down in the darkness and felt about him. The spot was not now as he had left it yesterday afternoon. He was sure of this, even before a fleet, wan flash of the heat lightning showed him at his feet the unmistakable signs of a recent excavation. It was not deep, it was not broad; but it was fresh and it betrayed a prying hand. Again the heat lightning illumined the wide, vague sky. He saw the solemn dark forests; he saw the steely glimmer of the lick; the distant mountains flickered against the pallid horizon; and once more - densest gloom.
It was Nate who had been here, - Birt felt sure of that; Nate, who had promised he would not come.
Convinced that his friend was playing a false part, Birt went at once to the bark-mill in the morning, confident that he would not find Nate at work in the tanyard according to their agreement.
It was later than usual, and Jubal Perkins swore at Birt for his tardiness. He hardly heard; and as the old bark-mill ground and ground the bark, and the mule jogged around and around, and the hot sun shone, and the voices of the men handling the hides at the tanpit were loud on the air, all his thoughts were of the cool, dark, sequestered ravine, holding in its cloven heart the secret he had discovered.
Rufus happened to come to the tanyard today. Birt seized the opportunity.
“Rufe,” he said, “ye see I can’t git away from the mill, ’kase I’m ’bleeged ter stay hyar whilst the old mule grinds. But ef ye’ll go over yander ter Nate Griggs’s house an’ tell him ter come over hyar, bein’ ez I want to see him partic’lar, I’ll fix ye a squir’l-trap before long ez the peartest old Bushy-tail on the mounting ain’t got the gumption ter git out’n. An’ let me know ef Nate ain’t thar.”
Rufe was disposed to parley. He stood first on one foot, then on the other. He cast calculating eyes at the bark-mill and out upon the deep forest. The exact date on which this promise was to be fulfilled had to be fixed before he announced his willingness to set out.
Ten to one, he would have gone without the bribe, had none been suggested, for he loved the woods better than the woodpile, and a five-mile tramp through its tangles wearied his bones not so much as picking up a single basketful of chips. Some boys’ bones are constituted thus, strange as it may seem.
So he went his way in his somewhat eccentric gait, compounded of a hop, and a skip, and a dawdle. He had made about half a mile when the path curved to the mountain’s brink. He paused and parted the glossy leaves of the dense laurel that he might look out over the precipice at the distant heights. How blue - how softly blue they were! - the endless ranges about the horizon. What a golden haze melted on those nearer at hand, bravely green in the sunshine! From among the beetling crags, the first red leaf was whirling away against the azure sky. Even a buzzard had its picturesque aspects, circling high above the mountains in its strong, majestic flight. To breathe the balsamic, sunlit air was luxury, happiness; it was a wonder that Rufe got on as fast as he did. How fragrant and cool and dark was the shadowy valley! A silver cloud lay deep in the waters of the “lick.” Why Rufe made up his mind to go down there, he could hardly have said - sheer curiosity, perhaps. He knew he had plenty of time to get to Nate’s house and back before dark. People who sent Rufe on errands usually reckoned for two hours’ waste in each direction. He had no idea of descending the cliffs as Birt had done. He stolidly retraced his way until he was nearly home; then scrambling down rocky slopes he came presently upon a deer-path. All at once, he noticed the footprint of a man in a dank, marshy spot. He stopped and looked hard at it, for he had naturally supposed this path was used only by the woodland gentry.
“Some deer-hunter, I reckon,” he said. And so he went on.
With his characteristic curiosity, he peered all around the “lick” when he was at last there. He even applied his tongue, calf-like, to the briny earth; it did not taste so salty as he had expected. As he rolled over luxuriously on his back among the fragrant summer weeds, he caught sight of something in the branches of an oak tree. He sat up and stared. It looked like a rude platform. After a moment, he divined that it was the remnant of a scaffold from which some earl settler of
Tennessee had been wont to fire upon the deer or the buffalo at the “lick,” below. Such relics, some of them a century old, are to be seen to this day in sequestered nooks of the Cumberland Mountains. Rufe had heard of these old scaffolds, but he had never known of the existence of this one down by the “lick.” He sprang up, a flush of excitement contending with the dirt on his countenance; he set his squirrel teeth resolutely together; he applied his sturdy fingers and his nimble legs to the bark of the tree, and up he went like a cat.
He climbed to the lower branches easily enough, but he caused much commotion and swaying among them as he struggled through the foliage. An owl, with great remonstrant eyes, suddenly looked out of a hollow, higher still, with an inarticulate mutter of mingled reproach, and warning, and anxiety. Rufe settled himself on the platform, his bare feet dangling about jocosely. Then, beating his hands on either thigh to mark the time he sang in a loud, shrill soprano, prone now and then to be flat, and yet, impartially, prone now and then to be sharp: -
 Thar war two sun-dogs in the red day-dawn,  An’ the wind war laid - ’t war prime fur game.  I went ter the woods betimes that morn,  An’ tuk my flint-lock, “Nancy,” by name;  An’ thar I see, in the crotch of a tree,  A great big catamount grinnin’ at me.  A-kee! he! he! An’ a-ho! ho! he!  A pop-eyed catamount laffin’ at me!
And, as Rufe sang, the anger and remonstrance in the owl’s demeanor increased every moment. For the owl was a vocalist, too!
 Bein’ made game of by a brute beastis,  War su’thin’ I could in no ways allow.  I jes’ spoke up, for my dander hed riz,  “Cat - take in the slack o’ yer jaw!”  He bowed his back - Nance sighted him gran’,  Then the blamed old gal jes’ flashed in the pan!  A-kee! he! he! An’ a-ho! ho! he!  With a outraged catamount rebukin’ of me!
As Rufe finished this with a mightycrescendo, he was obliged to pause for breath. He stared about, gaspily. The afternoon was waning. The mountains close at hand were a darker green. The distant ranges had assumed a rosy amethystine tint, like nothing earthly - like the mountains of a dream, perhaps. The buzzard had alighted in the top of a tree not far down the slope, a tree long ago lightning-scathed, but still rising, gaunt and scarred, above all the forest, and stretching dead stark arms to heaven. Somehow Rufe did not like the looks of it. He was aware of a revulsion of feeling, of the ebbing away of his merry spirit before he saw more.
As he tried to sing: -
 I war the mightiest hunter that ever ye see  Till that thar catamount tuk arter me! -
his tongue clove suddenly to the roof of his mouth.
He could see something under that tree which no one else could see, not even from the summit of the crags, for the tree was beyond a projecting slope, and out of the range of vision thence.
Rufe could not make out distinctly what the object was, but it was evidently foreign to the place. He possessed the universal human weakness of regarding everything with a personal a lication. It now seemed stran e to him that he should have come here at all; stran er still,