 Inscriptions and Chapter 1 of The Shepherd of the Hills. Francis, my wife, in memory of that beautiful summer in the Ozark Hills, when so often we followed the old trail around the rise of Mutton Hollow, the trail that is nobody knows how old, and from Sammy's lookout watched the day go over the western ridges. That all with one consent praise newborn gods, though they are made and molded of things passed, and give to dust that is a little guilt, more laud than guilt or dusted. Troilus and Cressida Act 3, Scene 3. Chapter 1 The Stranger. It was corn planting time when the stranger followed the old trail into the Mutton Hollow neighborhood. All day a fine rain had fallen steadily, and the mists hung heavy over the valley. The lower hills were wrapped as in a winding sheet, dank and cold. The trees were dripping with moisture. The stranger looked tired and wet. By his dress the man was from the world beyond the ridges, and his carefully tailored clothing looked strangely out of place in the mountain wilderness. His form stooped a little in the shoulders, perhaps with weariness, but he carried himself with the unconscious air of one long used to a position of conspicuous power and influence. And while his well-kept hair and beard were strongly touched with white, the brown, clear-lighted eyes that looked from under their shaggy brows told of an intellect unclouded by the shadows of many years. It was a face marked deeply by pride, pride of birth, of intellect, of culture, the face of a scholar and poet. But it was more. It was the countenance of one fairly staggering under a burden of disappointment and grief. As the stranger walked he looked searchingly into the mists on every hand, and paused frequently as if questioning the proper course. Suddenly he stepped quickly forward. His ear had caught the sharp ring of a horse's shoe on a flint rock somewhere in the mists on the mountainside above. It was Jed Holland coming down the trail with a week's supply of cornmeal in a sack across his horse's back. As the figure of the traveller emerged from the mists, the native checked his horse to greet the newcomer with the customary salutation of the back woods. Howdy! The man returned Jed's greeting cordially, and, resting his satchel on a rock beside the narrow path, added, I am very glad to meet you, I fear that I am lost. The voice was marvelously pure, deep, and musical, and, like the brown eyes, betrayed the real strength of the man, denied by his gray hair and bent form. The tones were as different from the high-keyed slurring speech of the back woods, as the gentleman himself was unlike any man Jed had ever met. The boy looked at the speaker in wide-eyed wonder. He had a queer feeling that he was in the presence of a superior being. Throwing one thin leg over the old mare's neck, and waving a long arm up the hill, and to the left Jed drawled, that there's Dewey Ball, down Yonder's mutton holler, then turning a little to the right and pointing into the mists with the other hand he continued. Compton Ridge is over there. Where was you trying to get to, mister? Where am I trying to get to? As the man repeated Jed's question, he drew his hand wearily across his brow. I—it doesn't much matter, boy. I suppose I must find some place where I can stay tonight. Do you live near here? Nope, Jed answered. It's a right smart piece to where I live. This here's Grindenday, and I've been to Mill over on Fall Creek—the Matthews mill it is. It'll be plum-darky and I get home. I loud you as a stranger in these parts soon as I catch sight of you. What might your name be, mister? The other, looking back over the way he had come, seemed not to hear Jed's question, and the native continued, Mines Holland, Papp and Mam, they come from Tennessee. Papp he's down the back now and ain't right part, but he'll be round a little, I reckon. Preachin' Bill, he allows it's good for a feller to be down the back once in a while. Says if it weren't for that we'd get to stand and so darn proud and straight we'd go plum over backwards. A bitter smile crossed the face of the older man. He evidently applied the native's philosophy in a way unguessed by Jed. Very true. Very true indeed, he mused. Then he turned to Jed and asked, Is there a house near here? Jim Lane lives up the trail about half a quarter. Ever hear tell a Jim? No, I've never been in these mountains before. A loud maybe you'd heard tell a Jim or Sammy. There's them that loud Jim knows a heap more about old man Dewey's cave than he lets on, his place being so nigh. Reckon you know about Colonel Dewey, him the ball up there's named for? Maybe you come to look for the big mine they say is in the cave. I'll help you hunt it if you want me to, mister. No, said the other. I'm not looking for mines of lead or zinc. There is greater wealth in these hills and forests, young man. Law you don't say. Jim Wilson all is loud there must be gold in these here mountains, because their so dad burned rough. Let me help you, mister. I'd like mighty well to get some clothes like them. I do not speak of gold, my boy, the stranger answered kindly. But I must not keep you longer or darkness will overtake us. Do you think this Mr. Lane would entertain me? Jed pushed a hand up under his tattered old hat and scratched a while before he answered. Don't know about the entertaining, mister, but most anybody would take you in. He turned and looked thoughtfully up the trail. I don't guess Jim's to home, though, because I see Sammy affixing to go over to the Matthews when I come past. You know the Matthews, I reckon? There was a hint of impatience now in the deep voice. No, I told you I had never been in these mountains before. Will Mr. Matthews keep me, do you think? Jed, who was still looking up the trail, suddenly leaned forward and pointing into the timber to the left of the path, said in an exciting whisper, Look at that, mister! Yonder there by that big rock! The stranger looking thought he saw a form, weird and ghost-like in the mist, flitting from tree to tree, but even as he looked it vanished among the hundreds of fantastic shapes in the gray forest. What is it? he asked. The native shook his head. Dern'd if I know, mister, he can't tell. There's mighty strange things stirring on this here mountain and in the holler down yonder. Say, mister, did you ever see a hint? The gentleman did not understand. A hint? a ghost some calls him, explained Jed. But Wilson he sure seed old Matts, the other interrupted. Really young man, I must go, it is already late and you know I have yet to find a place to stay for the night. Ah, that's all right, mister, replied Jed. Ain't no call to worry. Stay anywhere. Where do you live when you're to home? Again Jed's question was ignored. You think, then, that Mr. Matthews will keep me? Ah, yes, they'll take anybody in. I know they're to home because they was affixin' to leave the mill when I left about an hour ago. Was the river up much when you come across? As the native spoke he was still peering uneasily into the woods. I did not cross the river. How far is it to this Matthews place and how do I go? Just follow this old trail. It'll take you right there. Good road all the way. About three mile, I'd say. Did you come from Springfield or St. Louis, maybe? The man lifted his satchel from the rock as he answered. No, I do not live in either Springfield or St. Louis. Thank you very much for your assistance. I will go on now for I must hurry or night will overtake me and I shall not be able to find the path. Oh, it's a heap ladder when you get up on the hill above the fog, said Jed, lowering his leg from the horse's neck, and settling the meal sack, preparatory to moving. But out of heap rather it was you than me going up on doing to-night. He was still looking up the trail. Reckon you must be from Kansas City or Chicago. I heard tell there mighty big towns. The stranger's only answer was a curt, goodbye, as his form vanished in the mist. Jed turned and dug his heels vigorously in the old mare's flanks as he ejaculated softly. Well, I'll be dead, Dern. Must be from New York, sure. Slowly the old man toiled up the mountain, up from the mists of the lower ground to the ridge above. And as he climbed, unseen by him, a shadowy form flitted from tree to tree in the dim, dripping forest. As the stranger came in sight of the lane cabin, a young woman on a brown pony rode out of the gate and up the trail before him. And when the man reached the open ground on the mountain above and rounded the shoulder of the hill, he saw the pony far ahead, loping easily along the little path. A moment he watched and horse and rider passed from sight. The clouds were drifting far away. The western sky was clear with the sun still above the hills. In an old tree that leaned far out over the valley, a crow shook the wet from his plumage and dried himself in the warm light. While far below the mists rolled, and on the surface of that gray sea, the traveler saw a company of buzzards, wheeling and circling above some dead thing hidden in its depth. Wearily the man followed the old trail toward the Matthew's place. And always as he went, in the edge of the gloomy forest, flitted that shadowy form. End of Chapter 1. Chapters 2 and 3 of The Shepherd of the Hills. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Emily Jomard. The Shepherd of the Hills by Harold Bell Wright. Chapter 2. Sammy Lane. Preachin' Bill says, it's a plum shame there ain't more men in the world built like old man Matthews and that they're boyahisen. Men like them ought to be as common as the other kind, and would be, too, if folks cared half as much about breeding folks as they do about raising hogs and horses. Mr. Matthews was a giant, fully six feet four inches in height, with big bones, broad shoulders, and mighty muscles. At log-rollings and chopping-bees, in the field or at the mill, or in any of the games in which the back woodsman tries his strength, no one had ever successfully contested his place as the strongest man in the Hills. And still, throughout the countryside, the old folks tell with pride tales of the marvelous feats of strength performed in the days when old Matt was young. Of the sun, young Matt, the people called him, it is enough to say that he seemed made of the same metal and cast in the same mold as the father, a mighty frame, softened yet by young manhood's grace, a powerful neck, and well-poised head with wavy red-brown hair, and blue eyes that had in them the calm of summer skies or the glint of battle-steel. It was a countenance fearless and frank, but gentle and kind, and the eyes were honest eyes. Anyone meeting the pair, as they walked with the long-swinging stride of the mountaineer up the steep mill road that gray afternoon would have turned for a second look, such men are seldom seen. When they reached the big log-house that looks down upon the hollow, the boy went at once with his axe to the wood-pile, while the older man busied himself with the milking and other chores about the barn. Young Matt had not been chopping long when he heard, coming up the hill, the sound of a horse's feet on the old trail. The horse stopped at the house and a voice that stirred the blood in the young man's veins, called, Howdy, Aunt Molly? Mrs. Matthews appeared in the doorway. By her frank countenance and kindly look, anyone would have known her at a glance as the boy's mother. Land-sakes, if it ain't Sammy Lane, how are you, honey? I'm all right, answered the voice. I've come over to stop with you tonight. Dad's away again. Mandy Ford stayed with me last night, but she had to go home this evening. The big fellow at the wood-pile drove his axe deeper into the log. It's about time you was a coming over, replied the woman in the doorway. I was a-telling the men-folks this morning that you hadn't been nigh the whole blessed week. Mr. Matthews loud may be you was sick. The other returned with a gay laugh. I was never sick a minute in my life that anybody ever heard tell. I'm powerful hungry, though. You'd better put in another pan of cornbread. She turned her pony's head toward the barn. Seems like you are always hungry, laughed the older woman in return. We'll just go on out to the barn and the men will take your horse. Then come right in and Almighty soon have something to fill you up. Operations at the wood-pile suddenly ceased and young Matt was first at the barnyard gate. Miss Sammy Lane was one of those rare young women whose appearance is not to be described. One can, of course, put it down that she was tall, beautifully tall, with the trimness of a young pine, deep bosomed, with limbs full-rounded, fairly tingling with the life and strength of perfect womanhood. And it may be said that her face was a face to go with one through the years and to live still in one's dreams when the sap of life is gone and withered and old once it's shaking before the fire. A generous, loving mouth, red-lipped, full-arched with the corners tucked in and perfect teeth between. A womanly chin and nose, with character enough to save them from being pretty. Hair dark, showing a touch of gold with umber in the shadows. A brow full broad, set over brown eyes that had never been taught to hide behind their fringed veils, but looked always square out at you with a healthy look of good comradeship, a gleam of mirth, or a sudden wide questioning gaze that revealed depth of soul within. But what is the use? When all this is written, those who knew Sammy will say, to his but a poor picture for she is something more than all this. Uncle Ike, the postmaster at the Forks, did it much better when he said to preach and bill the night of the doons at the Cove School. Bah-thunders, that gal at Jim Lane's just plum fills the whole house. What? And when she comes a-riding up to the office on that brown pony of hern, I'll be dad-burned if she don't pretty not fill the whole outdoors, bah-thunders. What? And the little shriveled-up old Hillsman, who keeps the fairy, removed his cob pipe long enough to reply, with all the emphasis possible to his squeaky voice. She sure do, Ike, she sure do. I've often thought it didn't look just fair for God Almighty to make such a woman thou'ry man to match her. Makes me feel plum-shamed to myself to stand round the same country with her. It sure do, Ike. Greeting the girl, the young man opened the gate for her to pass. I've been a-looking for you over, said Sammy, a teasing light in her eyes. Didn't she know that Mandy was stopping with me? She's been a-dying to see you. I'm mighty sorry, he replied, fastening the gate and coming to the pony side. Why didn't you tell me before? I reckon she'll get over it all right, though, he added with a smile as he raised his arms to assist the girl to dismount. The teasing light vanished as the young woman placed her hands on the powerful shoulders of the giant, and as she felt the play of the swelling muscles that swung her to the ground so easily, her face flushed with admiration. For the fraction of a minute she stood facing him, her hand still on his arms, her lips parted as if to speak. Then she turned quickly away and without a word walked toward the house, while the boy pretending to busy himself with the pony's bridle watched her as she went. When the girl was gone, the big fellow led the horse away to the stable where he crossed his arms upon the saddle and hid his face from the light. Mr. Matthews coming quietly to the door a few minutes later saw the boy standing there and the rugged face of the big mountaineer softened at the sight. Quietly he withdrew to the other side of the barn to return later when the saddle and bridle had been removed and the young man stood stroking the pony as the little horse munched his generous feed of corn. The elder man laid his hand on the broad shoulder of the lad so like him and looked full into the clear eyes. Is it all right, son? He asked gruffly and the boy answered as he returned his father's look. It's all right, dad. Then let's go to the house mother called supper some time ago. Just as the little company were seating themselves at the table, the dog in the yard barked loudly. Young Matt went to the door. The stranger whom Jed had met on the old trail stood at the gate. Chapter three, the voice from out to the mists. While young Matt was gone to the corral in the valley to see that the sheep were safely folded for the night and the two women were busy in the house with their after supper work, Mr. Matthews and his guest sat on the front porch. My name is Howett, Daniel Howett, the man said in answer to the host's question, but as he spoke there was in his manner a touch of embarrassment and he continued quickly as if to prevent further question. You have two remarkable children, sir. That boy is the finest specimen of manhood I have ever seen. And the girl is remarkable, remarkable, sir. You will pardon me, I'm sure, but I am an enthusiastic lover of my kind and I certainly have never seen such a pair. The grim face of the elder Matthews showed both pleasure and amusement. You're mistaken, Mr. The boy's mine all right and he's all that you say and more I reckon. I doubt if there's a man in the hills can match him today. Not accepting wash-gibs and he's a mighty good boy too, but the girl is a daughter of a neighbor and no kin at all. Indeed, exclaimed the other. You have only one child then? The amused smile left the face of the old mountaineer as he answered slowly. There was six boys, sir. This one Grant is the youngest. The others lie over there. He pointed with his pipe to where a clump of pines, not far from the house, showed dark and tall against the last red glow in the sky. The stranger glanced at the big man's face in quick sympathy. I had only two, a boy and a girl, he said softly. The girl and her mother have been gone these 20 years. The boy grew to be a man and now he has left me. The deep voice faltered. Pardon me, sir, for speaking of this, but my lad was so like your boy there. He was all I had and now, now I am very lonely, sir. There is a bond of fellowship in sorrow that knows no conventionalities. As the two men sat in the hush of the coming night, their faces turned toward the somber group of trees. They felt strongly drawn to one another. The mountaineer's companion spoke again half to himself. I wish that my dear ones had a resting place like that. In the crowded city cemetery, the ground is always shaken by the tramping of funeral processions. He buried his face in his hands. For some time the stranger sat thus while his host spoke no word. Then, lifting his head, the man looked away over the ridges, just touched with the lingering light and the valley below wrapped in the shadowy mists. I came away from it all because they said I must and because I was hungry for this. He waved his hand toward the glowing sky and the forest-clad hills. This is good for me. It somehow seems to help me know how big God is. One could find peace here. Surely, sir, one could find it here. Peace and strength. The mountaineer puffed hard at his pipe for a while, then said gruffly. Seems that way, mister, to them that don't know. But many's the time I've wished to God I'd never seen these heroes' arcs. I used to feel like you do, but I can't know more. They mine me now of him that blackened my life. He used to take on powerful about the beauty of the country and all the time he was a-turning it into a hell for them that had to stay here after he was gone. As he spoke, anger and hatred grew dark in the giant's face and the stranger saw the big hand's clench and the huge frame grow tense with passion. Then, as if striving to be not ungracious, the woodsman said in a somewhat softer tone. You can't see much of it this evening, though. Count the mists. Little fare up by morning, I reckon. You can see a long way from here of a clear day, mister. Yes, indeed, replied Mr. Howatt in an odd tone. One could see far from here, I am sure. We who live in the cities see but a little farther than across the street. We spend our days looking at the work of our own and our neighbor's hands. Small wonder our lives have so little of God in them when we come in touch with so little that God has made. You live in the city, then, when you are at home? Asked Mr. Matthews, looking curiously at his guest. I did, when I had a home. I cannot say that I live anywhere now. Old Matt leaned forward in his chair as if to speak again, then paused. Someone was coming up the hill and soon they distinguished the stalwart form of the sun. Sammy, coming from the house with an empty bucket, met the young man at the gate and the two went toward the spring together. In silence the men on the porch watched the moon as she slowly pushed her way up through the leafy screen on the mountain wall. Higher and higher she climbed until her rays fell into the valley below and the drifting mists from ridge to ridge became a sea of ghostly light. It was a weird scene, almost supernatural in its beauty. Then from down at the spring a young girl's laugh rose clearly and the big mountaineer said in a low tone, Mr. Howit, you've got education. It's easy to see that. I've always wanted to ask somebody like you. Do you believe in hints? Do you reckon folks ever come back once they're dead and gone? The man from the city saw that his big host was terribly in earnest and answered quietly. No, I do not believe in such things, Mr. Matthews. But if it should be true, I do not see why we should fear the dead. The other shook his head. I don't know. I don't know, sir. I always said I didn't believe, but some things is mighty queer. He seemed to be shaping his thought for further speech when again the girl's laugh rang clear along the mountainside. The young people were returning from the spring. The mountaineer relighted his pipe while young Matt and Sammy seated themselves on the step and Mrs. Matthews coming from the house joined the group. We've just naturally got to find somebody to stay with them sheep, dad, said the son. There ain't nobody there tonight and as near as I can make out there's three youths in their lambs missing. There ain't a bit of youths in us trying to depend on Pete. I'll ride over on Bear Creek tomorrow and see if I can get that fellow buck told us about, returned the father. You find it hard to get help on the ranch, inquired the stranger. Yes, sir, we do, answered old Matt. We had a good enough man till about a month ago. Since then we've been getting along the best we could but with some of us staying out on the range and not coming in and the wolves are getting into the corral at night we'll lose mighty nigh all the profits this year. The worst of it is there ain't much show to get a man unless that one over on Bear Creek will come. I reckon though he'll be like the rest. He sat staring gloomily into the night. Is the work so difficult, Mr. Howe asked. Difficult, no, there ain't nothing to do but tend into the sheep. The man has to stay at the ranch of nights though. Mr. Howe was wondering what staying at the ranch nights could have to do with the difficulty. When up from the valley below, from out the darkness and the mists, came a strange sound. A sound as if someone were singing a song without words. So wild and weird was the melody, so passionately sweet the voice. It seemed impossible that the music should come from human lips. It was more as though some genie of the forest clad hills wandered through the mists, singing as he went with the joy of his possessions. Mrs. Matthews came close to her husband's side and placed her hand upon his shoulder as he half rose from his chair, his pipe fallen to the floor. Young Matt rose to his feet and moved closer to the girl who was also standing. The stranger alone kept his seat and he noted the agitation of the others in wonder. For some moments the sound continued. Now soft and low with the sweet sadness of the wind and the pines. Then clear and ringing, it echoed and re-echoed along the mountain. Now pleading as though a soul in darkness prayed a gleam of light. Again rising, swelling exultingly as in glad triumph. Only to die away once more to that moaning wail, seeming at last to lose itself in the mists. Slowly old Matt sank back into his seat and the stranger heard his mutter. Poor boy, poor boy. Aunt Molly was weeping. Suddenly Sammy sprang from the steps and running down the walk to the gate sent a clear piercing call over the valley. Oh, Pete! The group on the porch listened intently. Again the girl called and yet again. Oh, Pete! But there was no answer. It's no use, honey, said Mrs. Matthews, breaking the silence. It just ain't no use. And the young girl came slowly back to the porch. End of chapters two and three. Chapters four and five of the Shepherd of the Hills. This Libber Vox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Emily Jean-Marne. The Shepherd of the Hills by Harold Bell Wright. Chapter four, a chat with Aunt Molly. When the stranger looked from his window the next morning, the valley was still wrapped in its gray blanket. But when he and his host came from the house after breakfast, the sun had climbed well above the ridge and save a long, loosely twisted rope of fog that hung above the distant river, the mists were gone. The city-man exclaimed with delight at the beauty of the scene. As they stood watching the sheep, white specks in the distance, climbing out of the valley where the long shadows still lay to the higher, sunlit pastures, Mr. Matthews said. We've all been a-talking about you this morning, Mr. Howet, and we'd like mighty well to have you stop with us for a spell. If I understood right, you're just out for your health, anyway, and you'll go a long way, sir, before you find a healthier place than this right here. We ain't got much such as you're used to, I know, but what we have is yarn, and we'd be proud to have you make yourself to home for as long as you'd like to stay. You see, it's been a good while since we met up with anybody like you, and we counted a real favor to have you. Mr. Howet accepted the invitation with evident pleasure, and soon after, the mountaineer rode away to Bear Creek on his quest for a man to herd sheep. Young Matt had already gone with his team to the field on the hillside west of the house, and the brown pony stood at the gate, ready for Sammy Lane to return to her home on Dewey Bald. I'd like the best in the world to stay, Aunt Molly, she said in answer to Mrs. Matthews' protest. But you know there is no one to feed the stock, and besides, Mandy Ford will be back some time today. The older woman's arm was around the girl as they went down the walk. You must come over real often now, honey. You know it won't be long till you'll be leaving us for good. How do you reckon you'll like being a fine lady and living in the city with them big folks? The girls' face flushed, and her eyes had that wide questioning look as she answered slowly. I don't know, Aunt Molly. I ain't never seen a sure enough fine lady. I reckon them city folks are a heap different from us. But I reckon they're just as human. It would be nice to have lots of money in pritties, but somehow I feel like there's a heap more than that to think about. Anyhow, she added brightly, I ain't going for quite a spell yet, and you know Preach and Bill says there ain't no use to worry about the chop until the dogs has treed the coon. I'll sure come over every day. Mrs. Matthews kissed the girl and then standing at the gate, watched until the pony and rider had disappeared in the forest. Later Aunt Molly, with a woman's fondness for a quiet chat, brought the potatoes she was preparing for dinner to sit with Mr. Howard on the porch. I declare I don't know what we'll do without Sammy, she said. I just can't bear to think of her going away. The guest, feeling that some sort of a reply was expected, asked. Is the family moving from the neighborhood? No sir, there ain't no family to move. Just Sammy and her paw, and Jim Lane won't never leave this country again. You see Ollie Stewart's uncle, his father's brother it is, ain't got no children of his own and he wrote for Ollie to come and live with him in the city. He's to go to school and learn the business, foundry and machine shops or something like that it is. And if the boy does what's right, he's to get it all some day. Ollie and Sammy has been promised ever since the talk first began about his going, but they'll wait now until he gets through schoolin'. It'll be mighty nice for Sammy, Mary and Ollie, but we'll miss her awful. The whole country will miss her too. She's just the life of the neighborhood and everybody allows there never was another girl like her. Poor child, she ain't had no mother since she was a little trick and she has always come to me for everything like, us being such close neighbors and all. But law, sir, I ain't a blame in her a mite for goin', with her daddy a runnin' with that ordinary wash Gibbs the way he does. Again the man felt called upon to express his interest. Is Mr. Lane in business with this man, Gibbs? Law, no, that is, don't nobody know about any business. I reckon it's all on account of those old ball-knobbers. They used to hold their meetings on top of Dewey yonder and folks do say a man was burned there once because he told some of their secrets. Well, Jim and Wash's daddy and Wash all belong though Wash himself wasn't much more than a boy then and when the government broke up the gang old man Gibbs was killed and Jim went to Texas. It was there that Sammy's Ma died. When Jim come back it wasn't long before he was mighty thick again with Wash and his crowd down on the river and he's been that way ever since. There's then that says it's the same old gang what's left of them and some thinks too that Jim and Wash knows about the old Dewey mine. Mr. Howitt, remembering his conversation with Jed Holland, asked encouragingly, is this mine a very rich one? Don't nobody rightly know about that, sir, answered Aunt Molly. This is how it was. Away back when the engines was making trouble because the government was moving them west to the territory. This old man Dewey lived up there somewhere on that mountain. He was a mighty queer old fellow, didn't mix up with the settlers at all. Except Uncle Josh Hensley's boy, who wasn't right smart and didn't nobody know where he come from nor nothing. But all the same was him that won the settlers of the trouble and helped them all through it, scouting and such. And one time when they was about out of bullets and didn't have nothing to make more out of, Colonel Dewey took a couple of men and some yules up on that mountain yonder in the night. And when they got back they was just loaded down with lead. But he wouldn't tell nobody where he got it. And as long as he was with them, the men didn't dare tell. Well, sir, them two men was killed soon after by the engines. And when the trouble was finally over, Old Dewey disappeared and ain't never been heard tell of since. They say the mine is somewheres in a big cave, but nobody ain't never found it. Though there's them that says the Baldenobbers used the cave to hide their stuff in. And that's how Jim Lane in Wash Gibbs knows where it is. It's all mighty queer. You can see for yourself that Lost Creek down yonder just sinks clean out of sight all at once. There must be a big hole in there somewhere. Aunt Molly pointed with her knife to the little stream that winds like a thread of light down into the hollow. I tell you, sir, these hills is pretty to look at, but there ain't much here for a girl like Sammy. And I don't blame her a mite for wanting to leave. It's a mighty hard place to live, Mr. Howet, and dangerous, too, sometimes. The city has its hardships and its dangers, too, Mrs. Matthews. Life there demands almost too much at times. I often wonder if it is worth the struggle. I guess that's so, replied Aunt Molly. But it don't seem like it could be so hard as it is here. I tell Mr. Matthews we've clean-forgot the ways of civilized folks. All together, though, I suppose we've done as well as most, we had not to complain. The old scholar looked at the sturdy figure in its plain Calico dress, at the worn hands busy with their homely task, and the patient kindly face across which time had plowed many a furrow in which to plant the seeds of character and worth. He thought of other women who had sat with him on hotel verandas at fashionable watering-places. Women gowned in silks and laces. Women whose soft hands knew no heavier task than the filmy fancy work they toyed with, and whose greatest care, seemingly, was that time should leave upon their faces no record of the passing years. And this is the stuff, said he to himself, that makes possible the civilization that produces them. Allowed, he said. Do you ever talk of going back to your old home? No, sir, not now. She rested her wet hands idly on the edge of the pan of potatoes, and turned her face toward the clump of pines. We used to think we'd go back some time. Seemed like at first I couldn't stand it. Then the children come. And every time we laid one of them over there, I thought less about leaving. Until now we never talk about it no more. Then there was our girl too, Mr. Howitt. No, sir, we won't never leave these hills now. Oh, you had a daughter too? I understood from Mr. Matthews that your children were all boys. Aunt Molly worked a few moments longer in silence, then arose and turned toward the house. Yes, sir, there was a girl. She's buried under that biggest pine you see off there, a little to one side. We—we—don't never talk about her. Mr. Matthews can't stand it. Seems like he ain't never been the same since— since it happened. Taint natural for him to be so rough and short. He's just as good and kind inside as any man ever was or could be. He's real taken with you, Mr. Howitt. And I'm mighty glad you're going to stop a spell, for it will do him good. If it hadn't been for Sammy Lane running in every day or two, I don't guess he could have stood it at all. I sure don't know what we'll do now that she's going away. Then there's—there's that at the ranch in Mutton Hollow. But I guess I'd better not try to tell you about that. I wish Mr. Matthews would, though. Maybe he will. You know so much more than us. I know most you could help us or tell us about things. Chapter 5. Just Nobody. After the midday meal, while walking about the place, Mr. Howitt found a well-worn path. It led him to the group of pines not far from the house, where five of rough headstones marked the five mounds placed side by side. A little apart from these was another mound, alone. Beneath the pines, the needles made a carpet, firm and smooth, figured by the wild woodbine that clambered over the graves. Moss had gathered on the headstones, and the wind in the dark branches above moaned ceaselessly. About the little plot of ground, a rustic fence of poles was built, and the path led to a style by which one might enter the enclosure. The stranger seated himself upon the rude steps. Below and far away he saw the low hills, rolling ridge on ridge like the waves of a great sea, until in the blue distance they were so lost in the sky that he could not say which was mountain and which was cloud. His poet heart was stirred at the sight of the vast reaches of the forest, all shifting light and shadows. The cool depths of the nearby woods with the sunlight filtering through the leafy arches in streaks and patches of gold on green, and the wide, wide sky with fleets of cloud ships sailing to unseen ports below the hills. The man sat very still, and as he looked the worn face changed. Once as if at some pleasing memory he smiled. A gray squirrel with bright eyes full of curious regard peeped over the limb of an oak. A red bird hopping from bush to bush whistled to his mate, and a Bob White's quick call came from a nearby thicket. The dreamer was aroused at last by the musical tinkle of a bell. He turned his face toward the sound but could see nothing. The bell was coming nearer, it came nearer still. Then he saw here and there through the trees small moving patches of white. An old you followed by two lambs came from behind a clump of bushes, and the moving patches of white shaped themselves into other sheep feeding in the timber. Mr. Howett sat quite still, and while the old you paused to look at him, the lambs took advantage of the opportunity, until their mother was satisfied with her inspection, and by moving on upset them. Soon the whole flock surrounded him and after the first lingering look of inquiry paid no heed to his presence. Then from somewhere among the trees came the quick low bark of a dog. The man looked carefully in every direction. He could see nothing but the sheep, yet he felt himself observed. Again came the short bark, and this time a voice, a girl's voice Mr. Howett thought, said, It's all right, brave, go on, brother. And from behind a big rock not far away a shepherd dog appeared, followed by a youth of some fifteen years. He was a lightly built boy, a bit tall for his age, perhaps, but perfectly erect, and his every movement was one of indescribable grace. While he managed somehow to wear his rough backwards garments, with an air of distinction as remarkable as it was charming, the face was finally molded, almost girlish, with a large gray eyes, and its frame of yellow golden hair. It was a sad face when in repose, yet wonderfully responsive to every passing thought and mood. But the eyes, with their strange expression and shifting light, proclaimed the lad's mental condition. As the boy came forward in a shy, hesitating way, an expression of amazement and wonder crept into the stranger's face. He left his seat and started forward. Howard, he said. Howard, that ain't his name, Mr. His name's Pete, returned the youth in low, soft tones. In the voice and manner of the lad, no less than in his face and eyes, Mr. Howard read his story. Unconsciously, he echoed the words of Mr. Matthews. Poor Pete. The dog lifted his head and looked into the man's face, while his tail wagged a joyful greeting, and as the man stooped to pat the animal and speak a few kind words, a beautiful smile broke over the delicate features of the youth. Throwing himself upon the ground, he cried. Come here, brave. And taking the dog's face between his hands, said in confidential tones, ignoring Mr. Howard's presence. He's a good man, ain't he, brother? The dog answered with wagging tail. We sure like him, don't we? The dog gave a low bark. Listen, brave, listen. He lifted his face to the treetops, then turned his ear to the ground, while the dog, too, seemed to hearken. Again that strange smile illuminated his face. Yes, yes, brave, we sure like him. And the tree-things like him, too, brother. And the flowers, the little flower-things that know everything. They're all a-singin' to Pete, cause he's come. Did you see the flower-things in his eyes? And hear the tree-things a-talkin' in his voice, brave? And see, brother, the sheep like him, too. Pointing toward the stranger, he laughed aloud. The old you had come quite close to the man, and one of the lambs was nibbling at his trouser's leg. Mr. Howard seated himself on the stile again, and the dog, released by the youth, came to lie down at his feet, while the boy seemed to forget his companions, and appeared to be listening to voices unheard by them, now and then nodding his head and moving his lips in answer. The old man looked long and thoughtfully at the youth, his own face revealing a troubled mind. This then was Pete, poor Pete, Howard, whispered the man, the perfect image. Then again he said, half-allowed. Howard, the boy turned his face and smiled. That ain't his name, mister, his name's Pete. Pete seen you yesterday over on Dewey, and Pete, he heard the big hills and the woods is singin' when you talked. But Jed, he didn't hear. Jed, he don't hear nothin' but himself, he can't. But Pete, he heard and all Pete's people, too, and the gray mist things come out and danced along the mountain, because they was so glad you come, and Pete went with you along the old trail. Course, though, you didn't know. Do you like Pete's people, mister? He waved his hands to include the forest, the mountains, and the sky, and there was a note of anxiety in the sweet voice as he asked again. Do you like Pete's friends? Yes, indeed, I like your friends, replied mister Howard heartily. And I would like to be your friend, too, if you will let me. What is your other name? The boy shook his head. Not me. Not me, he said. Do you like Pete? The man was puzzled. Are you not Pete? He asked. The delicate face grew sad. No, no, no, he said in a low moaning tone. I'm not Pete. Pete, he lives in here. He touched himself on the breast. I am. I am. A look of hopeless bewilderment crept into his eyes. I don't know who I am. I'm just nobody. Nobody can't have no name, can he? He stood with downcast head. Then suddenly he raised his face and the shadows lifted as he said. But Pete, he knows, mister, ask Pete. A sudden thought came to mister Howard. Who is your father, my boy? Instantly the brightness vanished. Again the words were a puzzled moon. I ain't got no father, mister. I ain't me. Nobody can't have no father, can he? The other spoke quickly. But Pete had a father who was Pete's father. Instantly the gloom was gone and the face was bright again. Sure, mister, Pete's got a father, don't you know? Everybody knows that. Look, he pointed upward to a break in the trees, to a large cumulus cloud that had assumed a fantastic shape. He lives in them white hills up there. See him, mister? Sometimes he takes Pete with him up through the sky and course I go along. We sail and sail and sail with the big bird things up there while the sky things sing. And sometimes we play with the cloud things all day in them white hills. Pete says he'll take me away up there where the star things live someday and we won't never come back again. And I won't be nobody no more. And Aunt Molly says she reckons Pete knows. Course I'd hate mighty much to go away from Uncle Matt and Aunt Molly and Matt and Sammy because they're mighty good to me. But I just got to go where Pete goes, you see. Because I ain't nobody and nobody can't be nothing, can he? The stranger was fascinated by the wonderful charm of the boy's manner and words. As the lad's sensitive face glowed or was clouded by each wayward thought and the music of his sweet voice rose and fell, Mr. Howett told himself that one might easily fancy the child some wandering spirit of the woods and hills. Allowed he asked, has Pete a mother, too? The youth nodded toward the big pine that grew to one side of the group and lowering his voice replied, that's Pete's mother. Mr. Howett pointed to the grave. You mean she sleeps there? No, no, not there, there. He pointed up to the big tree itself. She never sleeps, don't you hear her? He paused. The wind moaned through the branches of the pine, drawing closer to the stranger's side the boy whispered. She always talks that away, always. And it makes Pete feel bad. She wants somebody. Hear her calling, calling, calling? He'll sure come some day, Mr. He sure will. Say, do you know where he is? The stranger startled drew back. No, no, my boy, certainly not. What do you mean? Who are you? Like the moaning of the pines came the reply. Nothing, Mr. Nobody can't mean nothing, can they? I'm just nobody. But Pete lives in here, ask Pete. Is Pete watching the sheep? Ask Mr. Howett, anxious to divert the boy's mind to other channels. Yes, we're attending him now, but they can't trust us, you know. When they call Pete, he just goes and, of course, I've got to go long. Who is it calls Pete? Why they, don't you know? I loud you knowed about things. They called Pete last night. The moonlight things was out in all the shadow things. Didn't you see them, Mr.? The moonlight things, the wind, the stars, the shadow things and all the rest played with Pete in the shiny mists. And, of course, I was along. Didn't you hear singing? Pete, he always sings that away when the moonlight things is out. Seems like he just can't help it. But what becomes of the sheep when Pete goes away? The boy shook his head sadly. Sometimes they get so lost that young Matt can't never find him. Sometimes wolves get him. It's too bad, Mr., it sure is. Then, laughing aloud, he clapped his hands. There was a feller at the ranch to keep him, but he didn't stay. Ha ha, he didn't stay, you bet he didn't. Pete didn't like him. Brave didn't like him, nothing didn't like him. The trees wouldn't talk when he was around. The flowers died when he looked at him. And the birds all stopped singing and went away over the mountains. He didn't stay, though. Again, he laughed. You bet he didn't stay. Pete knows. Why did the man go? Asked Mr. Howatt, thinking to solve a part of the mystery, at least. But the only answer he could draw from the boy was. Pete knows. Pete knows. Later, when the stranger returned to the house, Pete went with him. At the big gate they met Mr. Matthews, returning unsuccessful from his trip. Hello, boy, said the big man. How's Pete today? The lad went with glad face to the giant mountaineer. It was clear that the two were the warmest friends. Pete's mighty glad today, because he's come, he pointed to Mr. Howatt. Does Pete like him? The boy nodded. All Pete's people like him. Ask him to keep the sheep, Uncle Matt. He won't be scared at the shadow things in the night. Mr. Matthews smiled as he turned to his guest. Pete never makes a mistake in his judgment of men, Mr. Howatt. He's different from us ordinary folks, as you can see. But in some things he knows a heat more. I'm mighty glad he's took up with you, sir. All day I've been thinking I'd tell you about some things I don't like to talk about. I feel after last night like you'd understand, maybe, and might help me, you having education. But still I've been a little afraid, us being such strangers. I know I'm right now, because Pete says so. If you weren't the kind of a man I think you are, he'd never took to you like he has. That night the mountaineer told the stranger from the city, the story that I have put down in the next chapter. End of chapters four and five. Chapters six and seven of The Shepherd of the Hills. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Emily Jaumard. The Shepherd of the Hills by Harold Bell Wright. Chapter six, The Story. Slowly the big mountaineer filled his cob pipe with strong homegrown tobacco. Watching his guest keenly the while from under heavy brows. Behind the dark pines the sky was blood red and below mutton hollow was fast being lost in the gathering gloom. When his pipe was lighted, old Matt said, well, sir, I reckon you think some things you've seen and heard since you come last night are mighty queer. I ain't sayin' neither, but what you got reasons for thinkin' so. Mr. Howett made no reply. And after puffing a few moments in silence, the other continued. If it weren't for what you said last night makin' me feel like I wanted to talk to you. And Pete had taken up with you the way he has. I wouldn't be a tellin' you what I am goin' to now. There's some trails, Mr. Howett, that ain't pleasant to go back over. I didn't allow to ever go over this one again. Did you and Pete talk much this afternoon? In a few words, Mr. Howett told of his meeting with a strange boy and their conversation. When he had finished, the big man smoked in silence. It was as if he found it hard to begin. From a tree on the mountain side below, a screech owl sent up his long, quavering call. A bat darted past in the dusk and away over on Compton Ridge, a hound bade. The mountaineer spoke. That Sam Wilson's dog, Ranger, musta started a fox. The sound died away in the distance. Old Matt began his story. Our folks all live back in Illinois. And if I do say so, they're as good a stock as you'll find anywhere. But there was a lot of us and I always had a notion to settle in a new country where there was more room-like and land wasn't so dear. So when wife and I was married, we'd come out here. I recollect we camped at the spring below Jim Lane's cabin on yon side of Old Dewey there. That was before Jim was married and a wild young buck he was, too, as ever you see. The next day, wife and I rode along the old trail till we struck the scap and here we've been ever since. We've had our ups and downs like most folks, sir. And sometimes it looked like there was mostly downs. But we got along and last fall, I bought in the ranch down there in Mutton Hollow. The boy was just 18 and we thought then that he'd be making his home there some day. I don't know how that'll be now, but there was another reason, too, why we wanted the place, as you'll see when I get to it. There was five other boys, as I told you last night. The oldest two would have been men now. The girl, his voice broke. The girl, she come third. She was 20 when we buried her over there. That was 15 year ago come the middle of next month. Everybody loud she was a mighty pretty baby and being the only girl, I reckon we made more of her than we did of the boys. She growed up into a mighty fine young woman, too, strong and full of fire and go, like Sammy Lane. Seems to wife in me when Sammy's round that it's our own girl come back and we've always hoped that she and Grant would take the ranch down yonder. But I reckon that's all over now that Ollie Stewart has come into such a fine thing in the city. Anyway, it ain't got nothing to do with this that I'm telling you. She didn't seem to care nothing at all for none of the neighbor boys like most girls do. She'd go with them and have a good time all right, but that was all. Peered like she'd rather be with her brothers or her mother or me. Well, one day when we was out on the range, we were riding for stock. She'd often go with me that way. We met a stranger over there at the deer lick in the big, low gap coming along the old trail. He was as fine a looking man as you ever see, sir, big and grand-like with lightish hair, kind of wavy and a big mustache like his hair and fine white teeth showing when he smiled. He was sure good looking, damn him. And with his fine store clothes and a smooth, easy way of talking and acting he had, taint no wonder she took up with him. We all did. I used to think God never made a finer body for a man. I know now that hell don't hold a meaner heart than the one in that same fine body. And that's something that bothers me a heap, Mr. Howit. As I say, our girl was built like Sammy Lane and so far as looks go she was his dead match. I used to wonder when I'd look at them together if there ever was such another fine-looking pair. I ain't a going to tell you his name. There ain't no call to, as I can see. There might be some decent man named the same. But he was one of these here artist fellows and had come into the hills to paint, he said. A smothered exclamation burst from the listener. Mr. Matthew's not noticing continued. He sure did make a lot of pictures and they seemed mighty nice to us. Though, of course, we didn't know nothing about such things. There was one big one he made of Maggie that was as natural as life. He was always drawn of her in one way or another and had a lot of little pictures that didn't amount to much and that he didn't never finish. But this big one he worked at often on all summer. It was sure fine with her standing by the ranch spring, holding out a cup of water and smiling like she was offering you a drink. It was well that the night had fallen. At old Matt's words the stranger shrank back in his chair. His hand raised as if to ward off a deadly blow. He made a sound in his throat as if he would cry out but could not from horror or fear. But the darkness hit his face and the mountaineer with mind intent upon his story did not heed. He took an old cabin at the foot of the hill near where the sheep corral is now and fixed it up to work in. The shack had been built first by old man Dewey, him that the mountains named after. It was down there he painted the big picture of her, a stand in by the big spring. We never thought nothing about her being with him so much. Country folks is that way, Mr. Howet. Though we ought to know better, we sure ought to know better. The old giant paused and for some time sat with his head bowed, his forgotten pipe on the floor. Well, he began again. He stopped with us all that summer and then one day he went out as usual and didn't come back. We hunted the hills out for signs, thinking maybe he met up with some trouble. He'd sent all his pictures away the week before, Jim Lane hauling them to the settlement for him. The girl was nigh about wild and rode with me all during the hunt. And once when we saw some buzzards circling she gave a little cry and turned so white that I suspicion maybe she got to think in more of him than we knew. Then one afternoon, when we were down yonder in the hollow, she says, all of a sudden like, Daddy, it ain't no use to ride no more. He ain't met up with no trouble. He's left all the trouble with us. She looked so peaked and her eyes were so big and staring that it come over me in a flash what she meant. She saw in a minute that I sensed it and just hung her head and we come home. She just kept getting worse and worse, Mr. Howett, peered to fade away like, like I watched them big-laid lilies do when the hot weather comes. About the only time she would show any life at all was when someone would go for the mail, when she'd always be at the gate, awaiting for us. Then one day a letter come. I brung it myself. She'd give a little cry when I handed it to her and run into the house almost like her old self. I went on out to the barn to put up my horse, thinking maybe it was going to be all right after all. But pretty soon I heard a scream and then a laugh. For God, sir, that laughs are ringing in my ears yet. She was raving mad when I got to her, a laughin' and a screechin' and tryin' to hurt herself, all the while callin' for him to come. Then I read the letter afterwards. It told over and over how he loved her and how no woman could ever be to him what she was. Said they was made for each other and all that. And then it went on to say how he couldn't never see her again. And told about what a grand old family his was and how his father was so proud and expected such great things from him that he didn't dare tell them to be in the last of this here old family and her bein' a backwoods girl without any schoolin' or nothin'. My God, oh my God, faltered the stranger's voice in the darkness. Old Matt talked on in a hard, easy tone. Of course it was all rode out nice and smooth like he talked, but that's the sense of it. He finished it by sayin' that he would be on his way to the old country when the letter reached her and that it wouldn't be no use to try to find him. The girl quieted down after a spell, but her mind never come back. She wasn't just to say plum crazy, but she seemed kinda dazed and lost like and wouldn't take no notice of nobody. Acted all the time like she was expecting him to come. And she'd stand out there by the gate for hours at a time watchin' the old trail and talkin' low to herself. Pete is her boy, Mr. Howett, and as you've seen, he ain't just right. Seems like he was marked some way in his mind like you've seen other folks marked in their bodies. We've done our best by the boy, sir, but I don't guess he'll ever be any better. Once for a spell, we tried keepin' him to home, but he got right sick and would've died sure if we hadn't let him go. It was pitiful to see him. Everybody lous there won't nothin' in the woods hurt him know-how, so we let him come and go as he likes, and he just stops with the neighbors wherever he happens in. Folks are all as good to him as they can be cause everybody knows how it is. You see, sir, people here don't think nothing of a woods cult know-how, but we was raised different. As wife says, we've most forgot civilized ways, but I guess there's some things a man that's been raised right can't never forget. She died when Pete was born, and the last thing she said was, he'll come, daddy, he'll sure come. Pete says the wind singin' in that big pine over her grave is her a callin' for him yet. It's mighty queer how the boy got that notion, but you see that's the way it is with him. And that ain't all, sir. The big man moved his chair nearer the other and lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. Folks say she's come back. There's them that swears they've seen around the old cabin where they used to meet when he painted her picture. The big one, you know. Just before I bought the ranch it was first, and that's why we can't get no one to stay with the sheep. I don't know, Mr. Howett. I don't know. I've thought a heap about it. I ain't never seen it myself, and it appears to me that if she could come back at all, she'd sure come to her old daddy. Then again I figure it that Beyn took the way she was, part of her dead, so to speak, from the time she got that letter, and her mind so set on his comin' back that maybe somehow, you see, that maybe she is sorta waitin' for him there. Many's the time I have prayed all night that God would let me meet him again just once. Or that proud father a-hisen. Just once, sir. I'd glad go to hell if I could only meet them first. If she is waitin' for him down there, he'll come, he'll sure come. Hell couldn't hold him against such as that, and when he comes, unconsciously, as he spoke the last sentences, the giant's voice took a tone of terrible meaning, and he slowly rose from his seat. When he uttered the last word, he was standing erect, his muscles tense, his powerful frame shaken with passion. There was an inarticulate cry of horror as the mountaineer's guest started to his feet. A moment he stood, then sank back into his chair, a cowering, shivering heap. Long into the night, the stranger walked the floor of his little room under the roof, his face drawn in white, whispering half-aloud things that would have startled his unsuspecting host. My boy, my boy, mine, to do such a thing as that. Howard, Howard, oh Christ, that I should live to be glad that you are dead, and that picture, his masterpiece, the picture that made his fame, the picture he would never part with, and that we could never find. I see it all now, just God, what a thing to carry on one's soul, once he paused to stand at the window, looking down upon the valley. The moon had climbed high above the mountain, but beneath the flood of silver light, the shadows lay dark and deep and mutton hollow. Then, as he stood there, from out the shadowy gloom came the wild, weird song they had heard the evening before. The man at the window groaned. The song sank to a low, moaning wail, and he seemed to hear again the wind in the pine above the grave of the murdered girl. She was calling, calling. Would he come back? Back from the grave, could he come? The words of the giant mountaineer seemed burned into the father's brain. Hell couldn't hold him against such as that. Then the man with a proud face, the face of a scholar and poet, drew back from the window, shaking with a fear he could not control. He crept into a corner and crouched upon the floor, with wide eyes he stared into the dark. He prayed. And this is how it came about that the stranger who followed the old trail along the higher, sunlit ground followed also the other trail down into the valley where the gloomy shadows are, there to live at the ranch near the haunted cabin, the shepherd of Mutton Hollow. Chapter seven. What is love? Sammy Lane rode very slowly on her way home from the Matthews place that morning after the stranger had arrived. She started out at her usual reckless gate, but that was because she knew that young Matt was watching her. Once in the timber the brown pony was pulled to a walk, and by the time they came out into the open again, the little horse, unrabuked by his mistress, was snatching mouthfuls of grass as he strolled along the trail. Sammy was thinking, thinking very seriously. Aunt Molly's parting question had stirred the girl deeply. Sammy had seen few people who did not belong to the backwoods. The strangers she had met were hunters or cattlemen, and these had all been, in dress and manner, not unlike the natives themselves. This man, who had come so unexpectedly out of the mists the night before, was unlike anyone the young woman had ever known. Like Jed Holland, she felt somehow as if he were a superior being. The Matthews family were different in many ways from those born and raised in the hills, and Sammy's father too was different. But this stranger, it was quite as though he belonged to another world. Coming to the big, low gap, the girl looked far away to the blue line of hills, miles and miles away. The stranger had come from over these, she thought, and then she fell to wondering what that world beyond the farthest cloud-like ridge was like. Of all the people Sammy had ever known, young Stuart was the only one who had seen even the edge of that world to tell her about it. Her father and his friends, the Matthews, never talked of the old days. She had known Ollie from a child. With young Matt, they had gone to and from the log-school house along the same road. Once before Mr. Stuart's death, the boy had gone with his father for a day's visit to the city, and ever after had been a hero to his backwood schoolmates. It was this distinction, really, that first won Sammy's admiration, and made them sweethearts before the girl's skirts had touched the tops of her shoes. Before the woman in her was fairly awake, she had promised to be his wife, and they were going away now to live in that enchanted land. Spying an extra choice bunch of grass a few steps to one side of the path, Brownie turned suddenly toward the valley, and the girl's eyes left the distant ridge for the little cabin and the sheep corral in Mutton Hollow. Sammy always spoke of that cabin as young Matt's house, and all unbidden now, the thought came, who would live with the big fellow down there in the valley when she had gone far away to make her home with Ollie and his people in the city? An impatient tug at the reins informed Brownie that his mistress was aware of his existence, and for a time the pony was obliged to pass many a luscious bunch of grass. But soon the reins fell slack again. The little horse moved slowly, and still more slowly, until by the relaxed figure of his rider, he knew it was safe to again browse on the grass along the path. So, wondering, dreaming, Sammy Lane rode down the trail that morning. The trail that is nobody knows how old, and on the hill back of the Matthew's house, a team was standing idle in the middle of the field. At the big rock on the mountain side, where the trail seems to pause a moment before starting down to the valley, the girl slipped from her saddle and, leaving Brownie to wander at will, climbed to her favorite seat. Half reclining in the warm sunshine, she watched the sheep feeding near, and laughed aloud as she saw the lambs with wagging tails, greedily suckling at their mother's sides. Nearby, in a black hawbush, a mother bird sat on her nest. A gray mare with a weak old colt following on unsteady legs came over the ridge, and not far away a mother sow with 10 squealing pigs came out of the timber. Keeping very still, the young woman watched until they disappeared around the mountain. Then, lifting her arms above her head, she stretched her lithe form out upon the warm rocky couch with the freedom and grace of a wild thing of the woods. Sammy Lane knew nothing of the laws and customs of the so-called best society. Her splendid young womanhood was not the product of those social traditions and rules that kill the instinct of her kind before it is fairly born. She was as free and as physically perfect as any of the free creatures that lived in the hills. And keenly alive to the life that throbbed and surged about her, her woman's heart and soul responded to the spirit of the season, the droning of the bees and the blossoms that grew in a cranny of the rock, the tinkle, tinkle of the sheep bells as the flock moved slowly in their feeding, and the soft breathing of mother earth was in her ears. While the gentle breeze that stirred her hair came heavy with the smell of growing things, lying so, she looked far up into the blue sky where a buzzard floated on lazy wings. If she were up there, she perhaps could see that world beyond the hills. Then suddenly a voice came to her, Aunt Molly's voice. How do you reckon you like being a fine lady, Sammy? And a livin' in the city with the big folks? The girl turned on her side and rising on one elbow looked again at Mutton Hollow with its little cabin half hidden in the timber. And as she looked, slowly her rich red life colored cheek and neck and brow. With a gesture of impatience, Sammy turned away to her own home on the southern slope of the mountain. Just in time to see a young woman ride into the clearing and dismount before the cabin door. It was her friend, Mandy Ford. The girl on the rock whistled to her pony and mounting made her way down the hill. All that day the strange guest at the Matthews place was the one topic of conversation between the two girls. Shuck said, Mandy, when Sammy had finished a very minute description of Mr. Howatt, he's just some revenue like Snot. Sammy tossed her head. Revenue, you ought to see him. Revenues don't come in no such clothes as them and they don't talk like him neither. Can't tell about revenues, retorted the other. Don't you mind how that enfooled everybody over on the bend last year? He was just as common as common and folks all loud, he was just one of them. But this one ain't like anybody we ever met up with and that's just it, returned Sammy. Mandy shook her head. You say he ain't hunting? He sure ain't buying cattle this time of year and he ain't wanting to locate a coming in on foot. What else can he be but a revenue? To which Sammy replied with an unanswerable argument. Look a here, Mandy Ford, you just tell me. Would a lowdown revenue ask a blessing like Parson Bigelow does? At this, Mandy gave up the case saying in despair. Well, what is he doing here then? Taint likely he's done come into the woods for nothing. He told old Matt that he was sick and tired of it all, answered the other. Did he look like he was ailing? Sammy replied slowly. I don't reckon it's that kind of sickness he meant and when you look right close into his eyes he does appear kinda used up like. In connection with this discussion it was easy to speak of Miss Lane's fairy prospects for was not the stranger from the city and was not Sammy going to live in that land of wonders? The two girls were preparing for the night when Sammy who was seated on the edge of the bed paused with one shoe off to ask thoughtfully. Mandy, what is love anyhow? Mandy looked surprised. I reckon you ought to know, she said with a laugh. Ollie's been hanging around you ever since I can remember. Sammy was struggling with a knot in the other shoelace. Yes, she admitted slowly. I reckon I had ought to know. But what do you say it is, Mandy? Why, it's just a caring for somebody more and for everyone else in the whole world. Is that all? The knot was still stubborn. No, it ain't all. It's a going to live with somebody and a letting him take care of you, steadier folks. Sammy was still struggling with the knot. And it's a cookin' and a scrubbin' and a mendin' for him and sometimes it's a splitin' wood and a doin' chores, too. And I reckon that's all. Just here the knot came undone and the shoe dropped to the floor with a thud. Sammy sat upright. No, it ain't, Mandy. It's a heap more in that. It's a nurse and babies and a takin' care of them till they're grown up. And then when they're big enough to take care of themselves and you're old and in the way, like Grandma Bowles, it's a lookin' back over it all and bein' glad you done married the man you did. It's a heap more in livin' with a man, Mandy. It's a doin' all that without ever once wishin' he was somebody else. This was too much for Mandy. She blushed and giggled, then remarked as she gazed admiringly at her friend. You'll look mighty fine, Sammy. When you get fixed up with all them pretties you'll have when you and Ollie get married. I wish my hair was bright and shiny like yarn. How do you reckon you like bein' a fine lady anyhow? Here it was again. Sammy turned upon her helpless friend with, how do I know if I would like it or not? What is bein' a fine lady anyhow? Why, bein' a fine lady is, is livin' in a big house with carpets on the floor and lookin' glasses and not havin' no work to do and wearin' pretty clothes with lots of rings and things and, and she paused, then finished in triumph. And a ridin' in a carriage, that wide questionin' look was in Sammy's eyes as she returned. It's a heap more in that, Mandy. I don't just sense what it is, but I know taint all them things that make a show enough lady. Taint the clothes he wears that makes Mr. Howatt different from the folks we know. He don't wear no rings and he walks. He's just different, cause he's different and would be no matter what he had on or where he was. This, too, was beyond Mandy. Sammy continued as she finished her preparations for retiring. This here house is plenty big enough for me, least wise it would be if it had one more room like the cabin in Mutton Hollow. Carpets would be mighty dirty and unhandy to clean when the men folks come trampin' in with their muddy boots. I wouldn't want to wear no dresses so fine I couldn't knock round in the bush with them and it would be awful to have nothin' to do. As for a carriage, I wouldn't swap brownie for a whole city full of carriages. She slipped into bed and stretched out luxuriously. Do you reckon I could be a fine lady and be as I am now, a livein' here in the hills? The next day Mandy went back to her home on Jake Creek and in the evening Sammy's father with Wash Gibbs returned, both men and horses showing the effects of a long hard ride. End of chapter six and seven. Chapters eight and nine of The Shepherd of the Hills. This Libber Vox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Emily Jommard. The Shepherd of the Hills by Harold Bell Wright. Chapter eight. Why we got no folks? Preachin' Bill says there's a heap of difference in most men but Jim Lane now he's more different than airy man you ever see'd. Ain't no better neighbor in Jim anywhere. Ride out of his way any time to do you a favor. But you bet there ain't airy man lives can ask Jim any fool questions while Jim's a lookin' at him. Tried it once myself. Jim was a waitin' at the ferry for Wash Gibbs and we was a talkin' long right part about crops and the weather and such. When I says, says I like a dumb old fool. How do you like it down in Texas, Jim, when you was there that time? I got his. His jaw shut with a click like he'd cocked a pistol. And that look a-hizin' like he was a sea and plum through you come in his eyes. And he says, says he quiet like. Do you reckon that rain over on James yesterday raised the river much? And for I note it, I was a tellin' him how that old red bull of mine treed the Perkins boys when they was a possum huttin'. Many stories of the Baldnobber days when the law of the land was the law of rifle and rope were drifting about the countryside and always when these tales were recited. The name of Jim Lane was whispered while the bolder ones wondered beneath their breath where Jim went so much with that Wash Gibbs whose daddy was killed by the government. Mr. Lane was a tall man, well set up with something in his face and bearing that told of good breathing. Southern blood one would say by the dark skin and the eyes, hair and drooping mustache of black. His companion, Wash Gibbs, was a gigantic man, taller and heavier even than the elder Matthews, but more loosely put together than old Matt with coarse, heavy features. And as Grandma Bull said, the look of a sheep-killin' dog. Grandma, being very near her journey's end, could tell the truth even about Wash Gibbs. But others spoke of the giant only in whispers, save when they spoke in admiration of his physical powers. As the two men swung stiffly from their saddles, Sammy came running to greet her father with a kiss of welcome. This little exhibition of affection between parent and child was one of the many things that marked the lanes as different from the natives of that region. Your true back woodsman carefully hides every sign of his love for either family or friends. Wash Gibbs stood looking on with an expression upon his brutal face that had very little of the human in it. Releasing his daughter, Mr. Lane said, got anything to eat, honey? We're powerful, hungry. Wash Lab would better tie up at the river, but I knew you'd be watchin' for me. The horses are plum-beat. And Gibbs broke in with a coarse laugh. I wouldn't mind killin' a horse neither if I was to get what you do at the end of the ride. To this, Jim made no reply. But began loosening the saddle girths while Sammy only said as she turned toward the house. I'll have supper ready for you directly, daddy. While the host was busy caring for his tired horse, the big man who did not remove the saddle from his mount followed the girl into the cabin. Can't you ever tell a feller howdy? He exclaimed as he entered the kitchen. I did tell you howdy, replied the girl sharply, stirring up the fire. Appears like you might've been a grain warmer about it. Growed the other, seating himself where he could watch her. If I'd been young, Matt, or that skinny Olly Stuart, you'd have been keen enough. Sammy turned and faced him with angry eyes. Looky here, Wash Gibbs, I done told you last Thursday when you come for daddy, that you'd better let me alone. I don't like you, and I don't aim ever to have anything to do with you. You done fixed yourself with me that time at the Cove picnic. I'll tell daddy about that if you don't mind. I don't want to make no trouble, but you just got to quit pestering me. The big fellow sneered. I allowed you might change your mind about that some day. Jim ain't going to say nothing to me. And if he did, words don't break no bones. I'm a heap the best man in this neck of the woods and your pa knows it. You know it too. Under his look the blood rushed to the girl's face in a burning blush. In spite of her anger she dropped her eyes and without attempting a reply turned to her work. A moment later Mr. Lane entered the room, a single glance at his daughter's face, a quick look at Wash Gibbs as the bully sat following with wolfish eyes every movement of the girl and Jim stepped quietly in front of his guest. At the same moment Sammy left the house for a bucket of water and Wash turned toward his host with a start to find the dark-faced man gazing at him with a look that few men could face with composure. Without a word Jim's right hand crept stealthily inside his hickory shirt where a button was missing. For a moment Gibbs tried to return the look. He failed. Something he read in the dark face before him, some meaning light in those black eyes, made him tremble and he felt rather than saw Jim's hand resting quietly now inside the hickory shirt near his left armpit. The big man's face went white beneath the tan. His eyes wavered and shifted. He hung his head and shuffled his feet uneasily like an overgrown schoolboy brought sharply to task by the master. Then Jim, his hand still inside his shirt, drawled softly but with a queer metallic ring in his voice. Do you reckon it's a going to storm again? At the commonplace question, the bully drew a long breath and looked around. We might have a spell of weather, he muttered, but I don't guess it'll be tonight. Then Sammy returned and they had supper. Next to his daughter, Jim Lane loved his violin and with good reason, for the instrument had once belonged to his great-grandfather, who tradition says was a musician of no mean ability. Preachin' Bill, loud there was a heap of difference between a play and a violin and just fiddlin', he wouldn't know some fellas was a makin' music if he didn't see him a pat in their foot. But it ain't that way with Jim Lane. He sure do make music, real music. As no one ever questioned Bill's judgment, it is safe to conclude that Mr. Lane inherited something of his great-grandfather's ability, along with his treasured instrument. When supper was over and Wash Gibbs had gone on his way, Jim took the violin from its peg above the fireplace and tucking it lovingly under his chin gave himself up to his favorite pastime. While Sammy moved busily about the cabin, putting things right for the night. When her evening tasks were finished, the girl came and stood before her father. At once the music ceased and the violin was laid carefully aside. Sammy seated herself on her father's knee. "'Law, child, but you're sure growin' up,' said Jim, with a mock groan at her weight. "'Yes, daddy, I reckon I'm about groad. "'I'll be 19 come Christmas.' "'Ah, shucks, ejaculated the man. "'It wasn't mourn last week that you was washed "'in doll clothes down by the spring.' "'The young woman laughed. "'I didn't wash no doll clothes last week,' she said. "'Then her voice changed, and that wide, questioning look, "'the look that made one think so of her father, "'came into her eyes. "'There's something I want to ask you, daddy, Jim. "'You, you know, Ollie's goin' away, "'and, and, and I was thinkin' about it all day yesterday. "'And, daddy, why ain't we got no folks?' "'Mr. Lane stirred uneasily,' Sammy continued. "'There's the math uses. "'They've got kin back in Illinois. "'Mandy Ford's got uncles and aunts over online Creek. "'Jed Holland's got a granddad and ma'am "'and even preachin' Bill talks about a pack of kin folks "'over in Arkansas. "'Why ain't we got no folks, daddy?' "'The man gazed long and thoughtfully "'at the fresh young face of his child, "'and the black eyes looked into the brown eyes keenly "'as he answered her question with another question. "'Do you reckon you love him, right, smart honey? "'Are you sure? "'Dead sure you ain't thinkin' "'of what he's got, instead of what he is. "'I know it'll be mighty nice for you "'to be one of the fine folks, "'and there are big reasons why you ought. "'But it's going to take a mighty good man to match you, "'a mighty good man, "'and it's the man you've got to live with, not his money. "'Ali's good, daddy,' she returned in a low voice, "'her eyes fixed upon the floor. "'I know,' I know, replied Jim. "'He wouldn't do nobody no harm. "'He's good enough that way, "'but I ain't a fault in him. "'But you ought to have a man, a sure enough good man. "'But tell me, daddy, why ain't we got no folks?' "'The faintest glimmer of a smile came into the dark face. "'You're sure grow'd up, girl. "'You're sure grow'd up. "'Girl, you sure are. "'And I reckon you might as well know,' then he told her. "'Chapter nine, Sammy Lane's folks.' "'It began on a big southern plantation, "'where there were several brothers and sisters, "'with a gentleman father of no little pride, "'and a lady mother of equal pride and great beauty. "'With much care for detail, "'Jim drew a picture of the big mansion with its wide lawns, "'flower gardens, and tree-bordered walks, "'with its wealth of culture, "'its servants, and distinguished guests. "'Four,' said he. "'When you get to be a fine lady, "'you ought to know that you got as good blood "'as the best of the third-breds.' "'And Sammy, interrupting his speech with a kiss, "'bade him go on with his story. "'Then he told how the one black sheep "'of that proud southern flock had been cast forth "'from the beautiful home while still hardly grown. "'And how, with his horse, gun, and violin, "'the wanderer had come into the heart "'of the Ozark wilderness, "'when the print of moccasin feet "'was still warm on the old trail.' "'Jim sketched broadly here, "'and for some reason did not fully explain "'the cause of his banishment. "'Neither did he comment in any way "'upon its justice or injustice. "'Time passed, and a strong, clear-eyed, clean-limbed, "'deep-buzzomed mountain lass, "'with all the mastering passion of her kind, "'mated the free, half-wild young hunter, "'and they settled in the cabin by the spring "'on the southern slope of Dewey. "'Then the little one came, and in her veins "'there was mingled the blue blood of the proud southerners, "'and the warm red life of her wilderness mother. "'Again, Jim's story grew rich in detail, "'holding his daughter at arm's length, "'and looking at her through half-closed eyes,' he said. "'You're like her, honey, you're mighty like her. "'Same eyes, same hair, same mouth, same build, "'same way of movin', strong, but smooth and free-like. "'She could run clean to the top of Dewey "'or sit a horse all day. "'Do you ever get tired, girl?' "'Sammy laughed and shook her head. "'I've run from here to the signal-tree "'lots of times, daddy. "'You're like the old folks, too,' mused Jim. "'Like them in what you think and say.' "'Tell me more,' said the girl. "'Seems like I remember bein' in a big wagon, "'and there was a woman there, too. "'Was she my mother?' "'Jim nodded, and unconsciously lowered his voice, as he said. "'It was in the old bald-knobber time. "'Things happened in them days, honey. "'Many's the night I've seen the top of old Dewey "'yonder black with men. "'It was when things was broke up that, "'that your mother and me thought we could do better "'in Texas. "'So we went.' "'Jim was again sketching broadly. "'Your mother left us there, girl. "'Seemed like she couldn't stand it, "'bein' away from the hills or somethin', "'and she'd just give up. "'I never did rightly know how it was. "'We buried her out there, way out on the big plains. "'I remember her a little,' whispered Sammy. "'Jim continued. "'Then after a time you and me come back to the old place. "'Your mother named you Samantha, girl. "'But being as there wasn't no boy, I always called you Sammy. "'It seems right enough that way now, "'for you've sure been more in a son to me "'since we've been alone. "'And that's one reason why I learned you to ride "'and shoot with the best of them. "'There's them that says I ain't done right by you, "'bringing you up without airy woman about the place. "'And I don't know as I have. "'But somehow I couldn't never think of no woman as I ought "'after living with your mother. "'And then there was Aunt Molly to learn you how to cook "'and do things about the house. "'I counted a good bit, too, on the old stock, "'and it sure showed up, right? "'You're like the old folks, girl, in the way you think. "'But you're like your mother in the way you look. "'Sami's arms went around her father's neck. "'You're a good man, Daddy Jim, "'the best daddy a girl ever had. "'And if I ain't all bad, it's on account of you. "'There was a queer look on the man's dark face. "'He had sketched some parts of his tail "'with a broad hand, indeed. "'The girl raised her head again. "'But Daddy, I wish he'd do something for me. "'I... I don't like Wash Gibbs to be a come in here. "'I wish he'd quit riding with him, Daddy. "'I'm... I'm a-feared of him, he looks at me so. "'He's a sure bad one, I know he is, Daddy.' "'Jim laughed, and again there was that odd metallic note "'in his voice. "'I've known him a long time, honey. "'Me and his Daddy was... "'Was together when he died. "'And you used to sit on Wash's knee "'when he was a little tad. "'Not that he's so mighty much older than you. "'But he was a man-size at fifteen. "'You don't understand, girl, "'but I've got to go with him sometimes. "'But don't you fret. "'Wash Gibbs ain't going to hurt me, "'and he won't come here more, and I can help, either.' "'Then he changed the subject abruptly. "'Tell me what you've been doing while I was away.' "'Sammy told of her visit to their friends "'at the Matthew's place, "'and of the stranger who had come into the neighborhood. "'As the girl talked, her father questioned her carefully, "'and several times the metallic note crept "'into his soft, drawing speech, "'while into his eyes came that peculiar searching look, "'as if he would draw from his daughter "'even more than she knew of the incident. "'Once he rose, and going to the door, "'stood looking out into the night. "'Sammy finished with her answer "'to Mandy Ford's opinion of the stranger. "'You don't reckon a revenue would ask a blessing, "'do you, Daddy? "'Seems like he just naturally wouldn't nest. "'God would make the victual stick in his throat "'and choke him, sure.' "'Jim laughed, as he replied. "'I don't know, girl. "'I never heard of a revenues doing such, "'but a feller can't tell.' "'When Sammy left him to retire for the night, "'her father picked up the violin again, "'and placed it beneath his chin as if to play. "'But he did not touch the strings, "'and soon hung the instrument in its place above the mantle. "'Then, going to the doorway, he lighted his pipe, "'and for a full hour sat, "'looking up the old trail toward the Matthew's place, "'his right hand thrust into the bosom of his hickory shirt, "'where the button was missing. "'End of chapters eight and nine.'