 31 Before dawn, Hale and the Doctor and the Old Miller had reached the pine, and their Hale stopped. Any farther, the old man told him, he would go only at the risk of his life from Dave or Bub, or even from any Fallon who happened to be hanging around in the bushes. For Hale was hated equally by both factions now. "'I'll wait up here until new Uncle Billy,' said Hale, and ask her, for God's sake to come up here and see me. All right, I'll ask, sir.' But the Old Miller shook his head. Breakfast list, except for the munching of a piece of chocolate, Hale waited all the morning with his black horse in the bushes, some thirty yards from the lonesome pine. Every now and then he would go to the tree and look down the path, and once he slipped far down the trail and aside to a spur once he could see the cabin in the cove. Once his hungry eyes caught sight of a woman's figure walking through the little garden, and for an hour after it disappeared into the house he watched for it to come out again. But nothing more was visible, and he turned back to the trail to see Uncle Billy, laboriously climbing up the slope. Hale waited and ran down to meet him, his face and eyes eager and his lips trembling, but again Uncle Billy was shaking his head. "'No use, John,' he said sadly. I got her out on the porch and axed her, but she won't come. She won't come at all?' "'John, when one of them tollevers gets white about the mouth, and their eyes gets to blazin', and they keeps quiet, their plum outreach of the Almighty himself. June scared me. But you mustn't blame her, just now. You see, you got up that guard. You catched Roof and hung him, and she caught up thinking if you hadn't done that her old daddy wouldn't be in there on his back night to death. You mustn't blame her, John. She's most out of her head now." All right, Uncle Billy, good-bye. Hale turned, climbed sadly back to his horse, and sadly dropped down the other side of the mountain and on through the rocky gap home. A week later he learned from the doctor that the chances were even that old Judd would get well, but the days went by with no word of June. Through those days June wrestled with her love for Hale and her loyalty to her father, who, sick as he was, seemed to have a vague sense of the trouble within her, and shrewdly fought it by making her daily promise that she would never leave him. For as old Judd got better, June's fierceness against Hale melted, and her love came out the stronger, because of the passing injustice that she had done him. Many times she was on the point of sending him word that she would meet him at the pine, but she was afraid of her own strength if she could see him face to face, and she feared she would be risking his life if she allowed him to come. There were times when she would have gone to him herself, had her father been well and strong, but he was old, beaten, and helpless, and she had given her sacred word that she would never leave him. So once more she grew calmer, gentler still, and more determined to follow her own way with her own kin, though that way led through a breaking heart. She never mentioned Hale's name, she never spoke of going west, and in time Dave began to wonder not only if she had not gotten over her feeling for Hale, but if that feeling had not turned into a permanent hate. To him, June was kinder than ever, because she understood him better, and because she was sorry for the hunted, hounded life he led, not knowing when on his trips to see her, or to do some service for her father, he might be picked off by some falon from the bushes. So Dave stopped his sneering remarks against Hale, and began to dream his old dreams, though he never opened his lips to June, and she was unconscious of what was going on within him. By and by, as old Judd began to mend, overtures of peace came, singularly enough, from the falons, and while the old man snorted with contemptuous disbelief at them as a pretense to throw him off his guard, Dave began to actually believe that they were sincere, and straight away forged a plan of his own, even if the Tolavers did persist in going west. So one morning, as he mounted his horse at old Judd's gate, he called to June in the garden. I'm going over the gap. June paled, but Dave was not looking at her. What for, she asked, studying her voice. Business, he answered, and he laughed curiously, and still without looking at her, he rode away. Hale sat in the porch of his little office that morning, and the honorary Sam Budd, who had arisen to leave, stood with his hands deep in his pockets. His hat tilted far over his big Googles, looking down at the dead leaves that floated like lost hopes on the placid mill pond. Hale had agreed to go to England once more, on the sole chance left him before he went back to chain and compass, the old land deal that had come to life, and between them they had about enough money for the trip. You'll keep an eye on things over there, said Hale, with a backward motion of his head toward Lonesome Cove, and the honorable Sam nodded his head. All I can. Those big trunks of hers are still here, the honorable Sam smiled. She won't need them. I'll keep an eye on them, and she can come over and get what she wants, every year or two. He added grimly, and Hale groaned. Stop it, Sam. All right. You ain't going to try to see her before you leave. And then at the look, on Hale's face, he said hurriedly, All right, all right. And with the toss of his hands turned away, while Hale sat thinking where he was. Riftoliver had been quite right as to the Red Fox. Nobody would risk his life for him. There was no one to attempt a rescue, and but a few of the guards were on hand this time to carry out the law. On the last day he had appeared in his white suit of tablecloth. The little old woman in black had made even the cap that was to be drawn over his face, and that too she had made of white. Moreover, she would have his body kept unburied for three days, because the Red Fox said that on the third day he would arise and go about preaching. So that even in death the Red Fox was consistently inconsistent, and how he reconciled such a dual life at one in the same time over and under the stars was, except to his twisted brain, never known. He walked firmly up the scaffold steps and stood there blinking in the sunlight. With one hand he tested the rope. For a moment he looked at the sky and the trees with a face that was white and absolutely expressionless. Then he sang one hymn of two verses and quietly dropped into that world in which he believed so firmly and toward which he had trod so strange away on earth. As he wished, the little old woman in black had the body kept unburied for three days, but Red Fox never rose. With his passing, law and order had become supreme. Neither Tulliver nor Fallon came on the Virginia side for mischief, and the desperados of two sister states whose skirts are stitched together with pine and pin oak along the crest of the Cumberland can find their devil trees with great care to place as long distant from the gap. John Hale had done a great work, but the limit of his activities was that state line and the Fallons, ever threatening that they would not leave a Tulliver alive, could carry out those threats, and Hale not be able to lift a hand. It was his helplessness that was making him writhe now. Old Judd had often said he meant to leave the mountains. Why didn't he go now and take June for whose safety his heart was always in his mouth? As an officer he was now helpless where he was, and if he went away he could give no personal aid, he would not even know what was happening, and he had promised Bud to go. An open letter was clutched in his hand, and again he read it. His coal company had accepted his last proposition. They would take his stock, worthless as they thought it, and surrender the cabin and two hundred acres of field and woodland and lonesome cove. That much at least would be intact. But if he failed in his last project now it would be subject to judgments against him that were sure to come. So there was one thing more to do for June before he left for the final effort in England to give back her home to her, and as he rose to do it now somebody shouted at his gate, Hello! Hale stopped short at the head of the steps. His right hand shot like a shaft of light to the butt of his pistol, stayed there, and he stood astounded. It was Dave Tulliver on horseback, and Dave's right hand had kept hold of his bridal reins. Hold on! he said, lifting the other with a wide gesture of peace. I want to talk with you a bit. Still, Hale watched him closely as he swung from his horse. Come in, won't you? The mountaineer hitched his horse and slouched within the gate. Have a seat. Dave dropped to the steps. I'll sit here, he said, and there was an embarrassed silence for a while between the two. Hale studied young Dave Tulliver's face from narrowed eyes. He knew all the threats that Tulliver had made against him, the bitter enmity that he felt, and that it would last until one or the other was dead. This was a queer move. The mountaineer took off his slouched hat and ran one hand through his thick black hair. I reckon you've heard as how all our folks are selling out over the mountains. No, said Hale quickly. Well, there, and all of them are going west, Uncle Jug, Lordy, and June, and all our kin folks. He didn't know that? No, repeated Hale. Well, they ain't closed all the trades yet, he said, and they might not go maybe a four spring. The phalons say they are done now. Uncle Judd don't believe him, but I do, and I'm thinking I won't go. I've got a little money, and I want to know if I can't buy back Uncle Judd's house and a little ground around it. Our folks is tired of fighting, and I couldn't live on the other side of the mountain after they are gone and keep as healthy as on this side. So I thought I'd see if I couldn't buy back June's old home, maybe, and live there. Hale watched him keenly, wondering what his game was, and he went on. I know the house and land ain't worth much to your company, and as the Colvane has petered out I reckon they might not ask much for it. It was all out now, and he stopped without looking at Hale. I ain't asking any favours, at least not at you, and I thought my share of moss farm might be enough to get me that house and some of the other land. You mean to live there yourself? Yes. Alone? Dave frowns. I reckon that's my business. So it is, excuse me. Hale lighted his pipe, and the mountaineer waited. He was a little swollen now. While the company has parted with the land, Dave started. Sold it? In a way, yes. Well, would you mind telling me who bought it? Maybe I can get it from him. It's mine now, said Hale quietly. Yorn? The mountaineer looked incredulous, and then he let loose a scornful laugh. You going to live there? Maybe. Alone? That's my business. The mountaineer's face darkened, and his fingers begin to twitch. Well, if you're talking about June, it's my business. It's always been, and it's always will be. Well, if I was talking about June, I wouldn't consult you. No, but I'd consult you like Hale. I wish you had the chance, said Hale coolly. But I wasn't talking about June. Again, Dave laughed harshly, and for a moment his angry eyes rested on the quiet mill-pond. He went backward suddenly. He went over there and loaned some with your high notions and your slick tongue, and you took June away from me. But she wasn't good enough for you then. So you filled her up with your fool notions and sent her away to get her pool little head filled with fur in ways so she could be fit to marry you. You took her away from her daddy, her family, her kinfolks, and her home, and you took her away from me. And now she's been over there eating her heart out, just as she edit out over here when she first left home. And in the end she got so highfalutin' that she wouldn't marry you. He laughed again, and Hale went stunder the laughed, and the lashing words. And I know you are eating your heart out, too, because you can't get June, and I'm hoping you'll suffer the torment, O Hale, as long as you live. God, she hates you now. Think you're all knowin' the world and women and books? He spoke with vindictive and insulting slowness. You, bein' such a fool. That may all be true, but I think you can talk better outside that gate. The mountaineer deceived by Hale's convoise sprang to his feet in a fury, but he was too late. Hale's hand was on the butt of his revolver, his blue eyes were glittering, and a dangerous smile was at his lips. Silently he sat, and silently he pointed his other hand at the gate. Dave laughed. Do you think I'd fight you here? If you killed me, you'd be like the county judge. If I killed you, what chance would I have of gettin' away? I'd swing for it. He was outside the gate now, and unhitching his horse. He started to turn the beast, but Hale stopped him. Get on from this side, please. With one foot in the stirrup, Dave turned savagely. Why don't you go up in the gap with me now, and fight it out like a man? I don't trust you. I'd get you over in the mountains some day. I've no doubt you will, if you have the chance from the bush. Hale was getting roused now. Look here, he said suddenly. You've been threatening me for a long time now. I've never had any feeling against you. I've never done anything to you that I hadn't to do. But you've gone a little too far now, and I'm tired. If you can't get over your grudge against me, suppose we go across the river outside the town limits, put our guns down and fight it out, fist and skull. I'm your man, said Dave eagerly, looking across the street. Hale saw two men on the porch. Come on, he said. The two men were Bud and the new town sergeant. Sam, he said, this gentleman and I are going across the river to have a little friendly bout, and I wish you come along, and you too, Bill, to see that Dave here gets fair play. The sergeant spoke to Dave, you don't need nobody to see that you get fair play with them, too, but I'll go along just the same. Hardly a word was said as the four walked across the bridge and toward the thicket to the right. Neither Bud nor the sergeant asked the nature of the trouble, for either could have guessed what it was. Dave tied his horse, and, like Hale, stripped off his coat. The sergeant took charge of Dave's pistol and Bud of Hale's. All you've got to do is keep him away from you, said Bud. If he gets his hands on you, you're gone. You know how they fight rough and tumble. Hale nodded. He knew all that himself, and when he looked at Dave's sturdy neck and gigantic shoulders he knew further that if the mountaineer got him in his grasp he would have to gasp enough in a hurry or be saved by Bud from being throttled to death. Are you ready? Again, Hale nodded. Go ahead, Dave, grout the sergeant, for the job was not to his liking. Dave did not plunge toward Hale as the three others expected. On the contrary, he assumed the conventional attitude of the boxer and advanced warily, using his head as a diagnostician for Hale's points, and Hale remembered suddenly that Dave had been away at school for a year. Dave knew something of the game, and the Honorable Sam straight away was anxious. When the mountaineer ducked and swung his left, Bud's heart thumped and he almost shrank himself from the terrific sweep of the big fist. God! he muttered, for had the fist caught Hale's head it must it seemed have crushed like an egg shell. Hale coolly withdrew his head not more than an inch. It seemed to Bud's practised eye, and jabbed his right with a lightning uppercut into Dave's jaw. That made the mountaineer reel backward with a grunt of rage and pain, and when he followed it up with a swing of his left on Dave's right eye and another terrific jolt with his right on the left jaw, and Bud saw the crazy rage in the mountaineer's face. He felt easy. In that rage Dave forgot his science as the Honorable Sam expected, and with a bellow he started at Hale like a cave dweller to bite, tear, and throttle. But the lithe figure before him swayed this way and that like a shadow, and with every sidestep a fist crushed on the mountaineer's nose, chin, or jaw, until blinded with blood and fury, Dave staggered aside toward the sergeant with a cry of a madman. Give me my gun. I'll kill him. Give me my gun. And when the sergeant sprang forward and caught in the mountaineer, he dropped a weeping with rage and shame to the ground. You two just go back to town, said the sergeant. I'll take care of him quick. And he shook his head as Hale advanced. He ain't going to shake hands with you. And the two turned back across the bridge, and Hale went on to Bud's office to do what he was setting out to do, when young Dave came. There he had the lawyer make out a deed in which the cabin in Lonesome Cove, and the acres about it were conveyed in fee simple to June. Her heirs and assigns forever. But the girl must not know until, Hale said, her father dies or I die, or she marries. When he came out, the sergeant was passing the door. Ain't no use fighting with one of them fellas that way, he said, shaking his head. If he whoops you, he'll crow over you as long as he lives. And if you whoop him, he'll kill you first chance he gets. You'll have to watch that fella as long as you live, especially when he's drinking. He'll remember that licking and want revenge for it till the grave. One of you has got to die some day. Sure. And the sergeant was right. Dave was going through the gap at that moment, cursing, swaying like a drunken man, firing his pistol and shouting his revenge to the echoing gray walls that took up his cries and sent them shrieking on the wind up every dark ravine. All the way up the mountain he was cursing. Under the gentle voice of the big pine he was cursing still. And when his lips stopped, his heart was beating curses as he dropped down the other side of the mountain. When he reached the river, he got off his horse and bathed his mouth and his eyes again. And he cursed afresh when the blood started afresh at his lips again. For a while he sat there in his black mood, undecided whether he should go to his uncle's cabin or go on home. But he had seen a woman's figure in the garden as he came down the spur. And the thought of June drew him to the cabin in spite of his shame and the questions that were sure to be asked. When he passed around the clump of road addendrons at the creek, June was in the garden still. She was pruning a rose-bush with Bub's pen-knife, and when she heard him coming she wheeled, quivering. She had been waiting for him all day, and like an angry goddess she swept fiercely toward him. Dave pretended not to see her, but when he swung from his horse and lifted his soul in eyes, he shrank as though she had lashed him across them with a whip. Her eyes blazed with murderous fire from her white face. The pen-knife in her hand was clenched as though for a deadly purpose, and on her trembling lips was the same question that she had asked him at the mill. Have you done it this time? She whispered, and then she saw his swollen mouth and his battered eyes. Her fingers relaxed about the handle of the knife. The fire in her eyes went swiftly down, and with a smile that was half pity, half contempt, she turned away. She could not have told the whole truth better in words, even to Dave, as he looked after his every pulse-beat was a new curse, and if at that minute he could have had Hale's heart he would have eaten it like a savage, raw. For a minute he hesitated, with reins in hands, as to whether he should turn now and go back to the gap to settle with Hale, and then he threw the reins over a post. He could bite his time yet a little longer, for a crafty purpose suddenly entered into his brain. Bub met him at the door of the cabin, and his eyes opened. What's the matter, Dave? Oh, nothing, he said carelessly. My horse stumbled coming down the mountain, and I went clean over his head. He raised one hand to his mouth, and still Bub was suspicious. Looks like you've been in a fight. The boy began to laugh, but Dave ignored him and went into the cabin. Within he sat where he could see through the open door. Where you been, Dave? asked old Judd from the corner. Just then he saw June coming, and pretended to draw on his pipe. He waited until she sat down with an ear shot on the edge of the porch. Who do you reckon owns this house, and two hundred acres of land roundabouts? The girl's heart waited apprehensively, and she heard her father's deep voice. The company owns it. Dave laughed harshly. Not much, John Hale. The heart out on the porch leapt with gladness now. He bought it from the company. It's just as well you're going away, Uncle Judd. He'd put you out. I reckon not. I got writing from the company, which allows me to stay here two year or more if I want to. I don't know. He's a slick one. I heared him say, put him bub stoutly, that he see we stayed here just as long as we pleased. Well, settled Judd shortly. If we stay here by his favor, we won't stay long. There was a silence for a while. Then Dave spoke again for the listening years outside, maliciously. I went over to the gap to see if I couldn't get the place myself from the company. I believe the phalance ain't going to bother us, and I ain't hankering to go west. But I told him that you all was going to leave the mountains, and going out there for good. There was another silence. He never said a word. Nobody had asked the question. But he was answering the unspoken one in the heart of June. And that heart sank like a stone. He's going away himself, going to Maro, going to that same place he went before. England, some fellow called it. Dave had done his work well. June rose unsteadily, and with one hand on her heart, and the other clutching the railing of the porch, she crept noiselessly along it, staggered like a wounded thing around the chimney, through the garden and on, still clutching her heart to the woods, there to sob it out on the breast of the only mother she had ever known. Dave was gone when she came back from the woods, calm, dry-eyed, pale. Her stepmother had kept her dinner for her, and when she said she wanted nothing to eat, the old woman answered something quarrelous to which June made no answer, but went quietly to cleaning away the dishes. For a while she sat on the porch, and presently she went into her room, and for a few moments she rocked quietly at her window. Hail was going away the next day, and when he came back she would be gone, and she would never see him again. A dry sob shook her body of a sudden. She pulled both hands to her head, and with wild eyes she sprang to her feet, and catching up her bonnet slipped noiselessly out the back door. With hands clenched tight she forced herself to walk slowly across the footbridge, but when the bushes hid her she broke into a run as though she were crazed in escaping a madhouse. At the foot of the spur she turned swiftly up the mountain, and climbed madly with one hand tight against the little cross at her throat. He was going away, and she must tell him. She must tell him. What? Behind her a voice was calling, the voice that pleaded all one night for her not to leave him, that had made that plea a daily prayer, and that had come from an old man wounded, broken in health and heart, and her father. Hail's face was before her, but that voice was behind her, and as she climbed the face she was nearing grew fainter, the voice she was leaving sounded the louder in her ears, and when she reached the big pine she dropped helplessly at the base of it, sobbing. With her tears the madness slowly left her, the old determination came back, and at last the old sad peace. The sunlight was slanting at a low angle when she rose to her feet and stood on the cliff overlooking the valley. Her lips parted as when she stood there first, and the tiny drops drying along the roots of her dull gold hair, and being there for the last time she thought of that time when she was first there ages ago. The great glare of light that she looked for then had come and gone. There was the smoky monster rushing into the valley and sending echoing shrieks through the hills, but there was no booted stranger and no horse issuing from the covert of Maple where the path disappeared. A long time she stood there, with a wandering look of farewell to every familiar thing before her, but not a tear came now. Only as she turned away at last her breast heaved and fell with one long breath, and that was all. Passing the pine slowly she stopped and turned back to it, unclasping the necklace from her throat. With trembling fingers she detached it from the little luck piece that Hale had given her, the tear of a fairy that had turned into a tiny cross of stone when a strange messenger brought to the Virginia Valley the story of the crucifixion. The penknife was still in her pocket, and, opening it, she went behind the pine and dug a niche as high and as deep as she could towards its soft heart. In there she thrust the tiny symbol, whispering, I want all the luck you could ever give me, little cross, for him. Then she pulled the fibers down to cover it from sight, and, crossing her hands over the opening, she put her forehead against them and touched her lips to the tree, keep it safe old pine. Then she lifted her face looking upward along its trunk to the blue sky, and bless him, dear God, and guard him ever more. She clutched her heart as she turned, and she was clutching it when she passed into the shadows below, leaving the old pine to whisper when he passed her love. Next day the word went around to the clan that the Tolaverse would start in a body one week later for the West. At daybreak that morning Uncle Billy and his wife mounted the old gray horse and rode up the river to say goodbye. They found the cabin in the Lonesome Cove deserted. Many things were left piled in the porch. The Tolaverse had left, apparently, in a great hurry, and the two old people were much mystified. Not until noon did they learn what the matter was. Only the night before a Tolaverse had shot a Fallon, and the Fallons had gathered to get revenge on Jud that night. The warning word had been brought to the Lonesome Cove by Loretta Tolaverse, and it had come straight from young Buck Fallon himself. So June and old Jud and Bub had fled in the night. At that hour they were on their way to the railroad. Old Jud at the head of his clan, his right arm still bound to his side, his bushy beard low on his breast. June and Bub on horseback behind him. The rest strung out behind them, and in a wagon at the end, with all of her household effects, the little old woman in black who would wait no longer for the red fox to arise from the dead. Loretta alone was missing. She was on her way with young Buck Fallon to the railroad on the other side of the mountains. Between them, not a living soul disturbed the dead stillness of Lonesome Cove. CHAPTER 32 All winter the cabin in Lonesome Cove slept through the rain, and sleet, and snow, and no foot past its threshold. Winter broke, floods came, and warm sunshine. A pale green light stole through the trees, shy, erythral, and so like a mist that it seemed at any moment on the point of floating upward. Color came with the wild flowers and song with the woodthrush. Squirrels played on the tree trunks like mischievous children. The brooks sang like happy human voices through the tremulous underworld, and woodpeckers hammered out the joy of spring. But the awakening only made the desolate cabin lonelier still. After three warm days in March, Uncle Billy, the miller, rode up the creek with a hoe over his shoulder. He had promised this to Hale for his labor of love in June's garden. Weeping April past, May came with a rosy face uplifted, and with the birth of June the laurel emptied its pink flecked cup, and the rhododendron blazed the way for summers coming with white stars. Back to the hills came Hale then, and with all their rich beauty they were as desolate as when he left them bare with winter. For his mission had miserably failed. His train creaked and twisted around the benches of the mountains, and up and down ravines, into the hills. The smoke rolled in as usual through the windows and doors. There was the same crowd of children, slantnerly women, and tobacco-spitting men in the dirty daycoaches, and Hale sat among them, for a poleman was no longer attached to the train that ran to the gap. As he neared the bulk of Powell's mountain, and ran along its mighty flank, he passed the ore mines. At each one the commissary was closed, the cheap, dingy little houses stood empty on the hillsides, and every now and then he would see a tipple, and an empty car, left as it was after dumping its last load of red ore. On the right, as he approached the station, the big furnaces stood, like a dead giant, still and smokeless, and the piles of pig-iron were red with rust. The same little dummy wheezed him into the dead little town, even the face of the gap was a little changed by the gray scar that man had slashed across its mouth, getting limestone for the groaning monster of a furnace that was now at peace. The streets were deserted. A new face fronted him at the desk of the hotel, and the eyes of the clerk showed no knowledge of him when he wrote his name. His supper was coarse, greasy, and miserable. His room was cold, steam-heat, it seemed, had been given up. The sheets were ill-smelling, the mouth of the pitcher was broken, and the one towel had seen much previous use. But the water was the same, as was the cool, pungent night air, both blessed of God, and they were the sole comforts that were his that night. The next day it was as though he were arranging his own funeral, but with little hope of a resurrection. The tax collector met him when he came downstairs, having seen his name on the register. You know, he said, I'll have to add five percent next month. Hale smiled. That won't be much more, he said, and the collector, a new one, laughed good-naturedly and with understanding turned away. Mechanically he walked to the club, but there was no club, then to the office of the progress, the paper that was the boast of the town. The progress was defunct, and the brilliant editor had left the hills. A boy with an ink-smeared face was setting type, and a pallet gentleman with glasses was languidly working a hand-press. A pile of fresh-melling papers lay on a table, and after a question or two he picked up one. Two of its four pages were covered with announcement of suits and sails to satisfy judgments, the printing of which was the raison d'etre of the noble sheet. Down the column his eye caught John Hale at all, John Hale at all, and he wondered why the others should be so persistently anonymous. There was a cloud of them, thicker than the smoke of coke-ovens. He had breathed that thickness for a long time, but he got a fresh sense of suffocation now. Towards the post office he moved. Around the corner he came upon one of the two brothers whom he remembered as carpenters. He recalled his inability once to get that gentleman to hang a door for him. He was a carpenter again now, and he carried a saw and a plane. There was a grim humor in the situation. The carpenter's brother had gone, and he himself could hardly get enough work, he said, to support his family. Going to start that house of yours? I think not, said Hale. Well, I'd like to get a contract for a chicken coop just to keep my hand in. There was more. A two-horse wagon was coming with two cottage organs aboard. In the mouth of the slouch-hat, unshaven driver, was a corn cob pipe. He pulled him when he saw Hale. Hello! he shouted, grinning. Good heavens! Was that uncouth figure the valuable, buoyant, flashy magnet of the old days? It was. Sell in organs again, he said briefly. And teach and sing in school? The dethroned king of finance grinned. Sure! What you doing? Nothing. Going to stay long? No. Well, see you again. So long. Get up. Wheel spoke's word in the air, and he saw a buggy, with the top down, rattling down another streak, in a cloud of dust. It was the same buggy in which he had first seen the black-bearded senator seven years before. It was the same horse, too, and the Arab-like face and the bushy black whiskers, save for the streaks of gray, were the same. This was the man who used to buy watches and pianos by the dozen, who, one Christmas, gave a present to every living man, woman, and child in the town, and under whose colossal schemes the pillars of the church throughout the state stood as supports. That far away the eagle-nose face looked haggard, haunted, and all but spent, and even now he struck Hale as being driven downward, like a madman, by the same relentless energy that once had driven him upward. It was the same story everywhere. Nearly everybody who could get away was gone. Some of these were young enough to profit by the lesson and take sure a route elsewhere. Other were too old for transplanting, and of them would be heard no more. Others stayed for the reason that getting away was impossible. These were living, visible tragedies, still hopeful, pathetically unaware of the leading parts they were playing, and still weekly waiting for a better day, or sinking, as by gravity, back to the old trades they have practiced before the boom. A few sturdy souls, the fittest, survived, undismayed. Logan was there, lawyer for the railroad and the coal company. McPhylum was a judge, and two or three others, two, had come through unscathed in spirit and undaunted in resolution. But gone were the young Blue Grass Kentuckians, the young Tidewater Virginians, the New England school teachers, the bankers, real estate agents, engineers. Gone the gamblers, the wily Jews, and the vagrant women that fringe the incoming tide of new prosperity. Gone. All gone. Beyond the post office, he turned toward the red brick house that sat above the mill pond. Eagerly, he looked for the old mill, and he stopped in physical pain. The dam had been torn away. The old wheel was gone, and a caved-in roof, and supporting walls, drunkenly a slant, where the only remnants left. A red-haired child stood at the gate before the red brick house, and Hale asked her a question. The little girl had never heard of the widow crane. Then he walked toward his old office and bedroom. There was a voice inside his old office when he approached. A tall figure filled the doorway. A pair of great Googles beamed on him, like beacon lights in a storm, and the honorable Sam Budd's hand and his were clasped over the gate. It's all over, Sam. Don't you worry. Come on in. The two sat on the porch. Below it, the dimpled river shone through the road of dendrons, and with his eyes fixed on it, the honorable Sam slowly approached the thought of each. The old cabin and lonesome cove is just as the Tollivers left it. None of them ever came back? Budd shook his head. No, but one's coming. Dave. Dave. Yes, and you know what for? I suppose so. Said Hale carelessly. Did you send old Jed the deed? Sure. Along with that fool condition of yours that June shouldn't know until he was dead, or she married. I never heard a word. Do you suppose he'll stick to the condition? He has stuck, said the honorable Sam shortly. Otherwise you would have heard from June. I'm not going to be here long, said Hale. Where are you going? I don't know. Budd puffed his pipe. Well, while you are here, you want to keep your eye peeled for Dave Tolliver? I told you that the Mountaineer hates as long as he remembers, and that he never forgets. Do you know that Dave Tolliver sent his horse back to the stable here to be hired out for his keep, and told it right and left, that when you came back he was coming too, and he was going to straddle that horse until he found you, and then one of you had to die? How he found out you were coming about this time, I don't know. But he has sent word that he'll be here. Looks like he hasn't made much headway with June. I'm not worried. Well, you better be, said Budd sharply. Did Uncle Billy plant the garden? Flowers and all, just as June always had him. He's always had the idea that June would come back. Maybe she will. Not on your life, she might if you went out there for her. Hale looked up quickly, and slowly shook his head. Look here, Jack. You're seeing things wrong. You can't blame that girl for losing her head after you spoiled and pampered her the way you did, and with all her sense it was mighty hard for her to understand you being arrayed against her flesh and blood, law or no law. That mountain's nature, pure and simple, and it comes mighty near being human nature, the world over. You never gave her a square chance. You know what Uncle Billy said? Yes, and I know Uncle Billy changed his mind. Go after her. No, said Hale firmly. It'll take me ten years to get out of debt. I wouldn't now if I could, on her account. Nonsense. Hale rose. I'm going over to take a look around and get some things I left at Uncle Billy's, and then me for the wide, wide world again. The Honorable Sam took off his spectacles to wipe them, but when Hale's back was turned, his handkerchief went to his eyes. Don't you worry, Jack. All right, Sam. An hour later, Hale was at the livery stable for a horse to ride to lonesome cove. For he had sold his big black to help out expenses for the trip to England. Old Dan Harris, the stableman, stood in the door and silently pointed to a gray horse in the barnyard. You know that horse? Yes. You know what he's here for? I've heard. Well, I'm looking for Dave every day now. Well, maybe I'd better ride Dave's horse now, said Hale chastingly. I wish you would, said old Dan. No, said Hale. If he's coming, I'll leave the horse so they can get to me as quickly as possible. You might send me word, Uncle Dan, ahead, so that he can't waylay me. I'll do that very thing, said the old man seriously. I was joking, Uncle Dan. But I ain't. The matter was out of Hale's head before he got through the great gap. How the memories thronged of June, June, June. You didn't give her a chance! That was what Butted said. Well, had he given her a chance? Why shouldn't he go to her and give her the chance now? He shook his shoulders at the thought and laughed with some bitterness. He hadn't the car fare for half way across the continent. And even if he had, he was a promising candidate for matrimony. And again he shook his shoulders and settled his soul for his purpose. He would get his things together and leave those hills forever. How lonely had been his trip. How lonely was the god-forsaken little town behind him. How lonely the road and hills and the little white clouds and the zeniths straight above him. And how unspeakably lonely the green dome of the great pine that shot into view from the north as he turned a clump of rhododendron with uplifted eyes. Not a breath of air moved. The green expanse about him swept upward like a wave, but unflecked, motionless, except for the big pine which, that far away, looked like a bit of green spray sprouting on its very crest. Old man he muttered, you know, you know, and as to a brother he climbed toward it. No wonder they called you lonesome, he said as he went upward into the bright stillness. And when he dropped into the dark stillness of a shadow and forest gloom on the other side he said again, my god, no wonder they called you lonesome, and still the memories of June thronged at the brook, at the river, and when he saw the smokeless chimney of the old cabin he all but groaned aloud. But he turned away from it, unable to look again, and went down the river toward Uncle Billy's mill. Old hun threw arms around him and kissed him. John said, Uncle Billy, I've got three hundred dollars in an old yarn sock under one of them hearthstones, and it's yawn. Old hun says so too. Hail choked. I want you to go to June. Dave'll worry her down, and good her if you don't go. And if you don't worry her down he'll come back here and try to kill ya. I've always thought one of you would have to die for that gal. And I want it to be Dave. You two have got to fight it out someday, and you might as well meet him out there as here. You didn't give that little gal a fair chance, John, and I want you to go to June. No. I can't take your money, Uncle Billy. God bless you, an old hun. I'm going. I don't know where. And I'm going now. End Chapter 32 Chapter 33 of The Trail of the Lonesome Pine This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Cole McKinnon. The Trail of the Lonesome Pine by John Fox Jr. Chapter 33 Clouts were gathering as Hale rode up the river after telling old hun and Uncle Billy goodbye. He had meant not to go to the cabin in Lonesome Cove, but when he reached the forks of the road, he stopped his horse and sat in indecision with his hands folded on the pommel of his saddle and his eyes on the smokeless chimney. The memories tugging at his heart drew him irresistibly on, for it was the last time. At a slow walk he went noiselessly through the deep sand around the clump of road to Dendron. The creek was clear as crystal once more, but no geese cackled and no dog barked. The door of the spring house gaped wide, the barn door sagged on its hinges, the yard fence swayed drunkenly, and the cabin was still as a gravestone. But the garden was alive, and he swung from his horse at the gate, and with his hands clasped behind his back walked slowly through it, June's garden. The garden he had planned and planted for June, that they had tended together, and apart, and that, thanks to the old miller's care, was the one thing saved the sky above, left in spirit unchanged. The periwinkles, pink and white, were almost gone. The flags were at half-mast and sinking fast. The annunication lilies were bending their white foreheads to the near kiss of death, but the pinks were fragrant. The poppies were poised on slender stalks, like brilliant butterflies at rest. The hollyhock shook soundless pink bells to the wind. Roses, as scarlet as June's lips bloomed everywhere, and the richness of mid-summer was at hand. Quietly Hale walked the pass, taking a last farewell of plant and flower, and only the sudden patter of raindrops made him lift his eyes to the angry sky. The storm was coming now in earnest, and he had hardly time to lead his horse to the barn and dash to the porch when the very heavens, with a crash of thunder, broke loose. Sheet after sheet swept down the mountains, like wind-driven clouds of mist, thickening into water as they came. The shingles rattled, as though with the heavy slapping of hands. The pines creaked, and the sudden dusk outside made the cabin, when he pushed the door open, as dark as night. Kindling a fire, he lit his pipe and waited. The room was damp and musty, but the presence of June almost smothered him. Once he turned his face. June's door was ajar, and the key was in the lock. He rose to go to it, and look within, and then dropped heavily back into his chair. He was anxious to get away now, to get to work. Several times he rose restlessly, and looked out the window. Once he went outside, and crept along the wall of the cabin to the east and the west. But there was no break of light in the murky sky, and he went back to pipe and fire. By and by the wind died, and the rain steadied into a dogged downpour. He knew what that meant. There would be no letting up now in the storm, and for another night he was a prisoner. So he went to his saddle-pockets, and pulled out a cake of chocolate, a can of potted ham, and some crackers. Munched his supper, went to bed, and lay there with sleepless eyes, while the lights and shadows from the wind's swayed fire flickered about him. After a while his body dozed, but his wracked brain went seething on in endless march of fantastic dreams, in which June was the central figure always, until of a sudden young Dave leapt into the center stage in the dream tragedy forming in his brain. They were meeting face-to-face at last, and the place was the big pine. Dave's pistol flashed, and his own stuck in the holster as he tried to draw. There was a crash room poor, and he sprang upright in bed, but it was a crash of thunder that wakened him, and that, in that swift instant perhaps, had caused his dream. The wind had come again, and was driving the rain, like soft bullets against the wall of the cabin, next which he lay. He got up, threw another stick of wood on the fire, and sat before the leaping blaze, curiously disturbed, but not by the dream. Somehow he was again in doubt. Was he going to stick it out in the mountains after all? And if he should, was not the reason deep down in his soul the foolish hope that June would come back again? No, he thought, searching himself fiercely. That was not the reason. He honestly did not know what his duty to her was. What even was his inmost wish, and almost with a groan he paced the floor to and fro. Meantime the store raged. A tree crashed on the mountain side, and the lightning that smoot it winked into the cabin, so like a mocking, malignant eye that he stopped in his tracks, threw open the door and stepped outside, as though to face an enemy. The storm was majestic, and his soul went into the mighty conflict of earth and air whose beginning and end were in eternity. The very mountaintops were rimmed with a zigzag fire which shot upwards, splitting a sky that was black, as another world, and under it the gray trees swayed like willows under rolling clouds of gray rain. One fiery streak lit up for an instant, the big pine, and it seemed to dart straight down upon its proud, tossing crest. For a moment the beat of the watcher's heart, and the flight of his soul stopped still. A thunderous crash came slowly to his waiting years. Another flash came, and hail stumbled with a sob back into the cabin. God's finger was pointing the way now. The big pine was no more. The trail of the lonesome pine by John Fox Jr. Chapter 34 Big pine was gone. He had seen a first one morning at Daybreak, when the valley on the other side was a sea of mist that threw soft clinging spray to the very mountaintops. For even above the mist that morning its mighty head arose sole visible proof that the earth still slept beneath. He had seen it at noon, but little less majestic among the oaks had stood about it. He had seen it catching the last light at sunset, clean cut against the afterglow, and like a dark silent mysterious sentinel guarding the mountain pass under the moon. He had seen it giving place with somber dignity to the passing burst of spring. Had seen it green among dying autumn leaves, green in the gray of winter trees, and still green in the shroud of snow. A changeless promise that the earth must wake to life again. It had been the beacon that had led him into Lonesome Cove, the beacon that led June to the outer world. From it her flying feet had carried her into his life, past it the same feet had carried her out again. It had been their trusting place. Had kept their secrets like a faithful friend, and had stood to him as the changeless symbol of their love. It had stood a mute but sympathetic witness of his hopes, his despairs and the struggles that lay between them. In dark hours it had been a silent comforter, and in the last year it had almost come to symbolize his better self as to that self he came slowly back. And in the darkest hour it was the last friend to whom he had meant to say good-bye. Now it was gone. Always he had lifted his eyes to it every morning when he rose, but now, next morning, he hung back consciously as one might shrink from looking at the face of a dead friend. And when at last he raised his head to look upward to it, an impemerable shout of mist lay between them, and he was glad. And still he could not leave the little creek was a lashing torrent and his horse heavily laden as he must be. Could hardly swim with his weight to across so swift a stream. But non-streams were like June's temper up quickly, quickly down. So it was noon before he plunged into the tide with his saddle pockets over one shoulder and his heavy tranchet under one arm. Even then his snorting horse had to swim a few yards, and he reached the other bank's soak to his waistline. But the warm sun came out just as he entered the woods, and as he climbed the mist broke about him and scuttled upward like white sails before driving wind. Once he looked back from a fire scald in the woods at the lonely cabin in the cove, but it gave him so keen a pain that he would not look again. The trail was slippery and several times he had to stop to let his horse rest and to slow the beating of his own heart. But the sunlight leaped gladly from wet leaf to wet leaf until the trees looked decked out for unseen ferries, and the birds sang as though there was nothing on earth but joy for all its creatures. And the blue sky smiled above as though it had never bred a lightning flash or storm. He old dreaded the last spur before the little gap was visible, but he hurried up the steep and when he lifted his apprehensive eyes the gladness of the earth was as nothing to the sudden joy in his own heart. The big pine stood majestic, still unscathed, as full of divinity and hope to him as a rainbow in the eastern sky. He'll drop his reins, lifted one hand to his dizzy head, let his tranche it to the ground, and started for it on a run across the path lay a great oak with a white wound running the length of its mighty body, from crest to shattered trunk, and overt he leaped, and like a child caught his old friend in both arms. After all, he was not alone. One friend would be with him till death on that borderline between the world in which he was born, and the world he had tried to make his own, and he could face now the old one again with a stouter heart. There it lay before him, with its smoke and fire and noise, and simmering activities, just awakening to life again. He lifted his clenched fist toward it. You got me once, he muttered, but this time I'll get you. He turned quickly and decisively there would be no more delay, and he went back and climbed over the big oak that instead of his friend had fallen victim to the lightning's kindly whim, and led his horse out into the underbrush. As he approached within ten yards of the path the metallic note rang faintly on the still air on the other side of the pine, and down the mountain something was coming up the path. So he swiftly knotted his bridal reins around a sapling, stepped noiselessly into the path, and noiselessly slipped past the big tree, where he dropped to his knees, crawled forward, and lay flat, peering over the cliff and down the winding trail. He had not longed to wait. A rider of his horse filled the opening in the cover of trees that swallowed up the path. It was gray, and he knew it as he knew the saddle as his old enemies dave. David kept his promise. He had come back. The dream was coming true, and they were to meet at last face to face. One of them was to strike a trail more lonesome than the trail of the lonesome pine. And that man would not be John Hale. One detail of the dream was going to be left out, he thought grimly, and very quietly he drew his pistol, cocked it, sighted it on the opening. It was an easy shot, and waited. He would give that enemy no more chance than he would a mad dog, or would he? A horse stopped to browse. He waited so long that he began to suspect a trap. He withdrew his head and looked about him on either side and behind, listening intently for the crackling of a twig or a football. He was about to push backward to avoid possible attack from the rear when a shadow shot from the opening. His face paled and looked sick of a sudden. His clenched fingers relaxed about the handle of his pistol. He drew it back, still cocked. Turned on his knees, walked past the pine. And by the fallen oak stood upright, waiting. He heard a low whistle calling to the horses below, and a shutter ran through him. He heard the horse coming up the path. He clenched his pistol convulsively, and his eyes lit by an unearthly fire and fixed on the edge of the boulder, around which they must come, burned an instant, later on June. At the cry she gave he flashed a haunted look. Right and left, stepped swiftly to one side, and stared past her, still at the boulder. She had dropped the reins and started toward him, but at the pine she stopped short. Where is he? Her lips opened to answer, but no sound came. Hail pointed at the horse behind her. That's his. He sent me word. He'd left that horse in the valley to ride over here when he came back to kill me. Are you with him? For a moment she thought from his wild face that he had gone crazy, and she stared silently. Then she seemed to understand, and with a moan she covered her face with her hands and sank weeping in a heap at the foot of the pine. The forgotten pistol dropped, full cocked to the soft earth, and hail with bewildered eyes went slowly to her. Don't cry, he said gently, starting to call her name. Don't cry, he repeated, and he waited helplessly. He's dead. Dave was shot out west, she thought. I told him I was going back, he gave me his horse. How could you? Why did you come back, he asked, and she shrank as though he had struck her, but her sobs stopped and she rose to her feet. Wait, she said, and she turned from him to wipe her eyes with her handkerchief. Then she faced him. When Dad died I learned everything. You made him swear never to tell me, and he kept his word until he was on his deathbed. You did everything for me, it was your money. You gave me back the old cabin in the cold. It was always you, you, you, and there was never anybody else but you. She stopped, her hails face was as though graven from stone. And you came back to tell me that? Yes. You could have written that. Yes, she faltered. But I had to tell you face to face. Is that all? Again the tears were in her eyes. No, she said tremously. Then I'll say the rest for you. You wanted to come to tell me of the shame you felt when you knew. She nodded violently, but you could have written that too, and I could have written that you mustn't feel that way then. You spoke slowly. You mustn't rob me of the dearest happiness I ever do in my whole life. You knew you'd say that? She said like a submissive child. The sternness left his face and he was smiling now. And you wanted to say that the only return you could make was to come back and be my wife. Yes. She faltered again. I did feel that I did. You could have written that too, but you thought you had to prove it by coming back yourself. This time she nodded no ascent and her eyes were screaming. He turned away stretching out his arms to the woods. God, not that. No, no. Listen, Jack. As suddenly his arms dropped, she controlled her tears, but her lips were quivering. Oh, Jack, not that. Thank God I came because I wanted to come. She said steadily, I loved you when I went away. I loved you every minute since. Her arms were stealing about his neck, her face was upturned to his, and her eyes, moist with gladness, were looking into his wondering eyes. And I love you now, Jack. June. The leaves about him caught his cry and quivered with the joy of it, and above their heads the old pine breathed its blessing with the name June, June, June. End of Chapter 34 Chapter 35 of the Trail of the Lonesome Pine This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Mike Vendetti. The Trail of the Lonesome Pine by John Fox Jr. Chapter 35 With a mystified smile but with no question Hale silently handed his pen knife to June. And when smiling but without a word she walked behind the old pine he followed her. There he saw her reach up and dig the point of the knife into the trunk. And when, as he wonderingly watched her, she gave a sudden cry. Hale sprang twitter. In the hole she was digging he saw the gleam of gold and then her trembling fingers brought out before his astonished eyes, the little fairy stone, that he had given her long ago. She had left it there for him, she said. Through tears and through his own tears Hale pointed to the stricken oak. It saved the pine, he said. And you, said June. And you, repeated Hale solemnly. And while he looked long at her, her arms dropped slowly to her sides and he said simply, Come. Leading the horses they walked noiselessly through the deep sand around the clump of Rhododendron and there sat the little cabin of blonesome cove. The holy hush of a cathedral seemed to shut it in from the world so still it was below the great trees that stood like sentinels on eternal guard. Both stopped. And June laid her head on Hale's shoulder and they simply looked in silence. Dear old home, she said with a little sob and Hale still silent drew her to him. You were never coming back again? I was never coming back again. She clutched his arm fiercely as though even now something might spirit him away and she clung to him while he hitched the horses and they walked up the path. Why, the garden is just as I left it. The very same flowers and the very same places? Hale smiled. Why not? I had Uncle Billy do that. Oh, dear you dear. Her little room was shuttered tight as it always had been when she was away and, as usual, the front door was simply chained on the outside. The girl turned with a happy sigh and looked about at the knotting flowers and the woods and the gleaming pool of the river below and up the shimmering mountain to the big pine, topping it with somber majesty. Dear old pine, she murmured and almost unconsciously she unchained the door as she had so often done before, stepped into the dark room pulling Hale with one hand after her, and almost unconsciously reaching upward with the other to the right of the door. Then she cried aloud, My Key! My Key is there! That was in case you should come back some day. Oh, I might. I might. And think if I had come too late, think if I hadn't come now. Again her voice broke and still holding Hale's arm. She moved to her own door. She had to use both hands there, but before she let go, she said almost hysterically, It's so dark! You won't leave me here if I let you go. For answer Hale locked his arms around her and when the door opened, he went ahead of her and pushed open the shutters. The low sun flooded the room and when Hale turned, June was looking with wild eyes from one thing to another in the room. Her rocking chair had a window, her sewing close by, a book on the table, her bed made up in the corner, her wash stand, a curly maple, the pitcher full of water and clean towels hanging from the rack. Hale had gotten out the thing she had packed away and the room was just as she had always kept it. She rushed to him, weeping. It would have killed me, she saw. It would have killed me. She strained him tightly to her wet face against his cheek. Think. Think if I hadn't come now. Then, loosening herself, she went all about the room with a caressing touch to everything. As though it were live, the book was the volume of kits he had given her, which had been loaned to Roretta before June went away. Oh, I wrote for it and wrote for it, she said. I found it in the post office, said Hale. And I understood. She went over to the bed. Oh, she said with a happy laugh, you've got one slip inside out. And she whipped the pillow from its place, changed it, and turned down the edge of the covers in a triangle. That's the way I used to leave it. She said shyly. Hale smiled. I never noticed that. She turned the bureau end, pulled up on a drawer, and there were white things with frills and blue ribbons. And she flushed. Oh, she said, these haven't even been touched. Again, Hale smiled. But he said nothing. One glance had told him. There were things in that drawer too sacred for his big hands. I'm so happy, so happy. Suddenly, she looked him over from head to foot, his rough riding boots, old riding breeches, and blue flannel shirt. I am pretty rough, he said. She flushed, shook her head, and looked down at her smart cloth suit of black. Oh, you're all right. But you must go out now, just for a little while. What are you up to, little girl? How I love to hear that again. Aren't you afraid I'll run away, you said at the door? I'm not afraid of anything else in this world anymore. Well, I won't. You heard him moving around as he sat planning on the porch. Tomorrow, he thought, and then an idea struck him that made him dizzy. From within, June cried. Here I am. And out she ran in the last crimson gown of her young girlhood. Her sleeves rolled up and her hair braided down her back as she used to wear it. You've made up my bed, and I'm going to make yours. I'm going to cook your supper. What's the matter? Hale's face was radiant with the heaven-born idea that lighted it. And he seemed hardly to notice the change she had made. He came over and took her in his arms. Oh, sweetheart, my sweetheart. The spathem of anxiety tightened her throat. But he laughed from sheer delight. Never you mind, it's a secret. And he stood back to look at her. She blushed as his eyes went downward to her perfect ankles. It was too short, she said. No, no, not for me. You're mine now, little girl mine. Do you understand that? Yes. She whispered her mouth trembling. Again he laughed joyously. Come on, he cried. And he went into the kitchen and brought out an axe. Look at wood for you. She followed him out to the wood pile, and then she turned and went into the house. Presently the sound of his axe rang through the woods. And as he stopped to gather up the wood, he heard a creaking sound. June was drawing water at the well. And he rushed toward her. He mustn't do that. She flashed a happy smile at him. You just go back and get that wood, I reckon. She used the word purposely. I've done this before. Her strong bare arms were pulling the leaking moss-covered old bucket swiftly up hand under hand. So he got the wood while she emptied the bucket into a pail, and together they went lapping into the kitchen. And while he built a fire, June got out the coffee grinder in the mill to mix, and settled herself with the grinder and on her lap. Oh, isn't that fun? She stopped grinding suddenly. What would the neighbors say? We haven't any. But if we had? Terrible, said Hale, with mock solemn dignity. I wonder if Uncle Billy is at home. Hale trembled at his luck. That's a good idea. I'll write down for him while you're getting supper. No, you won't, said June. I can't spare you. Is that no horn here yet? Hale brought it out from behind the cupboard. I can get him if he is at home. Hale followed her out to the porch where she put her red mouth to the old trumpet. One long mellow hoot rang down the river and up the hills. Then there were three short ones and a single long blast again. That's the old signal, she said. And he'll know I want him back. Then she laughed. You may think he's dreaming, so I'll blow for him again. And she did. There now. She said, he'll come. It was well she did blow again, for the old miller was not at home, and old hun down at the cabin dropped her iron when she heard the horn and walked to the door, dazed and listening. Even when it came again she could hardly believe her ears, and but for her rheumatism she would have herself have started at once for lonesome coal. As it was, she ironed no more, but sat in the doorway almost beside herself with anxiety and bewilderment, looking down the road for the old miller to come home. Back the two went into the kitchen and Hale sat at the door, watching June as he fixed the table, and made the coffee and cornbread. Once only he disappeared, and that was when suddenly a hand cackled and with a shout of laughter, he ran out to come back with a fresh egg. Now, my lord, said June, her hair falling over her eyes and her face flushed from the heat. No, said Hale, I'm going to wait on you. For the last time, she pleaded, and to please her he did sit down, and every time she came to his side with something he bent to kiss the hand that served him. You're nothing but a big nice boy, she said. Hale held out a lock of his hair near the temples, and with one finger silently followed the track of wrinkles in his face. That's premature, she said, and I love every one of them. And she stopped to kiss him on the hair. And those are nothing but trouble. I'm going to smooth every one of them away. If they're troubles, they'll go away now, said Hale. All the time they talked of what they would do with Lonesome Cove. Even if we were to go away, we'll come back once a year, said Hale. Yes, not a June, once a year. I'll tear down those mining shacks, float them down the river and sell them as lumber, yes. And I'll stock the river with bass again, yes. And I'll plant young populars to cover the sight of every bit of up-torn earth along the mountain there. I'll bury every bottle and tin can in the Cove. I'll take away every sign of civilization, every sign of the outside world. And leave home Mother Nature to cover up the scars, said June. So that Lonesome Cove will be just as it was. Just as it was in the beginning, echoed June. And shall be to the end, said Hale. And there will never be anybody here but you. And you, said June. While she cleared the table and washed the dishes, Hale fed the horses and cut more wood. And it was dusk when he came to the porch. Through the door he saw that she had made his bed in one corner, and through her door he saw one of the white things that had lain untouched in her drawer, now stretched out on her bed. The stars were pipping through the blue spaces of a white clouded sky and the moon would be coming by and by. In the garden the flowers were dim, quiet and restful. Kingfisher screamed from the river, now hooded in the woods, and crickets chirped about them. But every passing sound seemed only to accentuate the stillness in which they were engulfed. Close together they sat on the old porch and she made him tell of everything that had happened since she left the mountains. And she told him of her flight from the mountains and her life in the West, of her father's death in the homesickness of the ones who still were there. Pup is cowboy and wouldn't come back for the world, but I could never have been happy there, she said. Even if it hadn't been for you here. I'm just a plain civil engineer now, said Hale. An engineer without even a job, his face darkened. It's a shame, sweetheart, for you. She put one hand over his lips and, with the other, turned his face so that she could look into his eyes, in the mood of bitterness. They did show warn, hollow, and sad, and round them the wrinkles were deep. Silly, she said, tracing them gently with her fingertips, and loved every one of them, too. And she leaned over and kissed them. We're going to be happy each and every day and all day long. We'll live at the gap and winter and I'll teach. No, you won't. And I'll teach you to be patient and how little I care for anything else in the world while I've got you. And I'll teach you to care for nothing else while you've got me. You'll have me, dear. For ever and ever. I'm in, said Hale. Something rang out in the darkness, far down the river, and both sprang to their feet. It's Uncle Billy, right, June? And she lifted the old horn to her lips. With the first blare of it, a cheery hello answered, and a moment later they could see a gray horse coming up the road, coming at a gallop. And they went down to the gate and waited. Hello, Uncle Billy, right, June? The old man answered with a fox-hunting yell, and Hale stepped behind a bush. Jumping, gee, horse of bad, it is you, June. You all right? Yes, Uncle Billy. The old man climbed off his horse with a groan. Lordy, lordy, lordy, but I was scared he's had his hands on June's shoulder and was looking at her with a bewildered face. What are you doing here alone, baby? June's eyes shone. Not Uncle Billy. Hale stepped into the site. Oh, I see you back, and he ain't gone. Well, bless my soul if this ain't the beatnest. He looked from one to the other and his kind old face beamed with a joy that was but little less than their own. You come back to stay? June nodded. My, where's that horn? I want it right now. Oh, hun down there is a thinking she's gone crazy, I thought she shortly was when she said she heard you blow that horn, and she told me the minute I got here, if it was you, to blow three times. And straight away three blasts rang down the river. Now she's all right if she don't die of curiosity before I get back and tell her why you come. Why did you come back, baby? Give me a drink of water, son. I reckon me and the old horse ain't traveled such a gate in five years. June was whispering something to the old man when Hale came back, and what it was the old man's face told plainly. Yes, Uncle Billy, right away, said Hale. Just as soon as you don't get your license, Hale nodded. And June says I'm going to do it. Yes, said Hale, right away. Again June had to tell the story to Uncle Billy, that she had told to Hale and to answer his questions, and it was an hour before the old Miller rose to go. Hale called them into June's room and showed him a piece of paper. Is it good now? he asked. The old man put on his spectacles, looked at it in a chuckle. Just as good as the day you got it. Well, can't you... Right now? Does June know? Not yet. I'm going to tell her now. June? Well, yes, dear. Uncle Billy moved her to the door. You just wait till I get out of here. He met June in the outer room. Going, Uncle Billy? Come on, baby, you said hurrying by her. I'll be back in a minute. She stopped in the doorway, her eyes wide again, with sudden anxiety, but Hale was smiling. You remember what you said at the pine-deer? The girl nodded and she was smiling. Now when with sweet seriousness she said again, Your least wish is now law to me, my lord. Well, I'm going to test it now. I've laid a trap for you. She shook her head. And you've walked right into it. I'm glad. She noticed now the crumpled piece of paper in his hand, and she thought it was some sort of business. Oh, she said reportfully, You aren't going to bother with anything of that kind now. Yes, he said. I want you to look over this. Very well, she said, residingly. He was holding the paper out to her, and she took it and held it to the light of the candle, but face-flamed and she turned remorseful eyes upon him. And you've kept that to you? You've had it when you were wiser maybe than you are now. God saved me from ever being such a fool again. Tears started in her eyes. You haven't forgiven me, she cried. Uncle Billy says it's as good now as it was then. He was looking at her queerly now, and his smile was gone. Slowly his meaning came to her like a flash that spread over face and throat. She drew one long, quivering breath and with parted lips, and her great shining eyes wide she looked at him. Now? She whispered. Now, he said. Her eyes dropped to the coarse gown. She lifted both hands for a moment to her hair, and unconsciously she began to roll one Christmas leaf down her round white arm. Noah said to him, just as you are. She went to him then, put her arms about his neck, and with head thrown back she looked at him long with steady eyes. Yes, she breathed out, just as you are in now. Uncle Billy was waiting for them on the porch, and when they came out he rose to his feet, and they faced him hand in hand. The moon had risen. The big pine stood guard on high against the outer world. Nature was their church, and the stars were the candles. And as if to give them even a better light, the moon had sent a luminous sheen down the dark mountain side, to the very garden in which the flowers whispered like waiting, happy friends. Uncle Billy lifted his hand, and a hush of expectancies seemed to come. Even from the farther star.