VI
THE LAST OF THE MORANS
On my right rose a jagged wall of rock, hundreds of feet high and bareof vegetation save for a few dwarfed and wind-swept pines. On my leftgaped the wide mouth of what seemed to be a bottomless ravine. Betweenthe two was a ledge not more than six feet wide, along which "Jef'sonDavis," my mountain horse, was slowly and thoughtfully making hisdifficult way. Occasionally from the pit's depths a hawk orturkey-buzzard rose, startling me with the flapping of its strongwings, and several times the feet of Jef'son Davis dislodged a bit ofrock which rattled across the ledge, slipped over the side, andstarted on a downward journey whose distance I dared not estimate.
For more than an hour I had not met a human being. I had not seen amountain cabin or even a nodding plume of smoke. I had not heard thebark of a dog, the tinkle of a cow-bell, nor any other reassuring andhomely testimony that I was in a world of men. Yet I knew thatsomewhere around me must be lurking figures and watchful eyes, for Iwas in the stronghold of the Morans and the Tyrrells, and the Moransand Tyrrells were on the war-path, and therefore incessantly on guard.
This journey through the Virginia mountains to "write up family feuds"was the result of an inspiration recently experienced by ColonelCartwell, our editor-in-chief. He was sure I could uncover "gooddramatic stuff."
"They're potting at each other every minute down there," he explainedto me when he sent me off on the assignment. "Give their time to it.Morans and Tyrrells are the worst. Tyrrell has killed six Morans. Gethis story before the Morans get him. See? And find out what it's allabout, anyway."
According to the map I had made that morning under the direction ofthe postmaster of Jayne's Crossroads, I knew I must be even now withina mile of the cabin of the Morans.
"'Tain't healthy travelin' fo' men," that gentleman had volunteeredlanguidly, "but I reckon a lady's safe 'nuff, 'specially ef yo' leavethe jou'ney to the hawse. Jef'son Davis, he knows ev'ry inch of thatthar trail. All yo' got t' do is t' give Jef'son his haid."
Jef'son Davis was having his head, and he had thus far been true tohis trust. At a certain point on the trail I was to look for hugeboulders in a strange position, with a big and lonely cedar standingguard near them. At the right of this cedar was an almost hiddentrail, which, followed for twenty minutes, would lead me to the Morancabin. I was not to be alarmed if a bullet whispered its sinistermessage in my ear. To kill women was no part of the Moran traditions,and a fatality to me would be a regrettable incident, due wholly, ifit occurred at all, to the impulsive nature of Samuel Tyrrell, who hadformed the careless habit of firing at moving objects without pausingto discover what they were. It was because of this eccentricity, Igathered, that the sympathy of the mountain people lay largely withMoran--who, moreover, though both men were the last of theirrespective lines, was a boy of twenty-two, while Tyrrell was well onin middle life.
I rode slowly along the trail, which, clear in the high lights of thenoonday sun, was now widening and turning to the right. The ravineappeared to be growing more shallow. Flashes of red haw and scarletdogwood began to leap out at me from the edges. Presently, beyond theturn, I discovered the boulders, silhouetted sharply against the softOctober sky. Near them was the lonely cedar, and after twice passingit I found the side-trail, and rode peacefully down its dim corridor.
There was nothing to mark the Moran home, and that, too, I almostpassed before I noticed it, a strongly built log cabin, backed againstthe side of a hill, and commanding from its three barred windows theapproaches on every side. As I rode up, the door opened and an oldwoman in a homespun dress stood before me. Her shoulders sagged underthe burden of seventy-five years, but the flame of an unconquerablespirit burned in the keen black eyes set bead-like in her witheredlittle brown face. This, I knew, was Betsy Moran, who had helped tobury her husband, four sons, and a grandson, all killed by theTyrrells, and who was said finally to have seized a gun herself andadded at least one Tyrrell to the row in the family burial-lot.
"How do you do?" I asked, cheerfully. "May I come in and rest for afew moments?"
Her face did not soften, nor did she speak, but there was neithersuspicion nor fear in her steady regard; it held merely adispassionate curiosity. I slipped from the back of Jef'son Davis andhesitated, looking around for a post or tree to tie him to, and theold woman, stirred to a quick instinct of hospitality, lookeduncertainly behind her into the cabin. At the same instant a younggiant appeared behind her, pushed her lightly to one side, and strodetoward me with a nod of greeting. Then, taking the bridle-rein from myhand, and still in silence, he led the horse away. Evidently theMorans were not a talkative family.
Wholly forgetting the old woman, I stared after him. Here, obviously,was young "Shep," the last of the Morans; and from the top of hiscurly black hair to the boot-soles six feet two inches below it, helooked extremely well able to take care of himself. He was powerfullybuilt, and he moved with the natural grace of the superb young animalhe was. He wore a rough homespun blue shirt, open at the neck, and apair of corduroy trousers tucked into high boots. From the swing ofhis back as he strode off with Jef'son Davis I should hardly have beensurprised to see him throw that weary animal across his mightyshoulders.
When he had disappeared I walked thoughtfully to the cabin door,meeting again the level gaze of my hostess. A sudden gleam in her eyesand a quick lift of her white head showed me she had caught myunconscious tribute to the strength and beauty of the young man, whowas not only the last of her line, but, according to mountaintraditions, the "apple of her eye."
"Come 'long in," she said, quietly; and she added as I crossed herthreshold, "Ef yo' rid 'crost th' Gap, yo' mus' be mi-i-ghty ti'ed."
IT WAS YOUNG "SHEP," THE LAST OF THE MORANS]
She pushed a chair in front of the great fireplace which filled oneside of the cabin, and I dropped gladly into it and took off my hat,while she bustled about with hospitable enterprise, heating water andrattling tea-cups. Suddenly she disappeared, and in another instant Iheard the despairing, final squawk of an unfortunate hen. I knew thatwithin the hour it would be served to me in a strange dish in whichthe flavors of burnt feathers and of tough, unseasoned meat wouldstruggle for recognition, and I sighed. But the great logs burning inthe old fireplace were good to watch, and their warmth wascomforting, for the sun had suddenly gone behind a cloud and an autumnwind had begun to whine around the cabin and in the big chimney.
There were only five pieces of furniture in the room--a narrow,home-made wooden bed occupying one corner, a large spinning-wheel, apine table, a rough log settle, and the chair in which I sat. At theright of the fireplace a ladder led to a trap-door which evidentlyopened into a low attic--young Moran's quarters, I assumed. Justoutside the open door stood a low, flat-topped tree-trunk, holding atin basin full of water; a homespun towel on a nail below it testifiedmutely to its past usefulness. While I was regarding these, the masterof the house reappeared, plunged his black head into the basin, flungthe water in a spray over his face and hands, wiped them on the towel,and entered the cabin, ready for dinner. His immediate impulse was toattend to the fire, and as he approached it he cast a side glance atme, as shy and curious as that of some half-tamed creature of theopen. When he had put on another log he spoke without looking at me,his brown cheeks flushing with the effort.
"Done fed th' critter," he announced, laconically.
I thanked him, and mercifully kept my eyes on the fire. For a time heremained there, too, with occasional darting glances at me, whichfinally, as I seemed unaware of them, settled into a steady and closeinspection. I realized what a strange, new type I presented to him--ayoung woman from New York, wearing a riding-habit and riding-boots,trim and slim and tailor-made. His glance lingered a long time on myhair and my hands. There was nothing offensive about it. At firstmerely curious, it had finally become reflective and friendly. At lastI began to talk to him, and after several false starts he was able torespond, sprawling opposite me on the big settle, his hands claspedbehind his cur
ly head, his legs extended toward the fire, while I toldhim of New York and answered his extraordinary questions.
It had seemed somehow fitting that the sun should go behind a cloudwhen I entered this tragic home; but for a long time there was nointimation in our talk of the other shadows that lay over the cabin,of the bloody trail that led to it, of the tragic row of graves on thehill beside it, or of the bullets that had whispered the failure oftheir mission in this boy's ears. We were a fairly cheerful company aswe drew up to the pine table when the old woman announced dinner, andeven the stoic calm of her face relaxed over the story of some of myexperiences on the trail with Jef'son Davis. She did the honors of herhouse a little stiffly, but with dignity; and always, except when shewas thus engaged, her black eyes focused on the face of her grandsonand clung there, fixed. Her contribution to our talk consisted of twoeloquent sentences:
"Sometimes we got but'r," she remarked, as we sat down, "sometimes wehain't. T'day we hain't."
We had, however, the expected chicken, with corn bread and tea, and inthe perfect flowering of his hospitality, young Shep Moran heapedthese high upon my plate, and mourned when I refused to devour theentire repast. He was chatting now with much self-possession, whileunder his talk and his occasional shy but brilliant smile hisgrandmother expanded like a thirsty plant receiving water. He had, hetold me proudly, learned to read, and he owned two books--the Bibleand some poems by a man named Whittier. He knew most of the poems "byhea't." He had never ridden on a railroad-train, but he could ride anyanimal that traveled on four legs, and he had heard a fiddle playedupon during his one expedition out into the great world--his solitaryvisit to Jayne's Crossroads, two years before.
When dinner was over he smoked a clay pipe before the fire, andgradually his talk grew more intimate. He and his grandmother weregoing to leave the cabin, he said, and live on the other side of themountain. A man had offered him a job in some coal-mines that werebeing opened up. But he could not go yet--there was something he hadto do first. The shadow over the cabin seemed to deepen as he spoke. Iknew what he had to do--he had to kill Samuel Tyrrell, who had killedhis father. His uncles, his brother, and Samuel Tyrrell's sons hadkilled one another. There were only himself and Samuel Tyrrell left.
He turned and looked at me. His whole expression had changed--his browwas somber, his eyes brooding, his lips drawn back from his teeth inan odd, unconscious snarl. Quite naturally he took it for granted thatI knew of him and his feud.
"Sam Tyrrell, he'd--" he hesitated, then added under his breath, as heglanced at the old woman moving toward the cupboard with herdishes--"he'd even shoot at gran ef he ketched 'er on the trail."
I rose and put on my hat. Before my eyes my mountain demigod hadsuddenly been transformed into a young beast, lusting for blood. Ifelt that I must get away from the oppression of the place. He made nocomment, but picked up his hat and went for my horse. When he returnedhe was leading Jef'son Davis and riding his own horse, a rough-coatedmountain animal which, powerful though it was, seemed hardly up to thehuge bulk astride it. With a jerk of his head, he checked my protestand the little cry that broke from his grandmother's lips.
"I'm jes' gwine ter th' bend," he told her, "t' p'int aout th' trailt' Clapham's. She's gwine t' stay all night thar. Look fo' me home'fore sundown."
The grandmother cast a quick glance at me, then dropped her eyes. Thefire seemed to have flickered and died out. Her steps dragged. In aninstant she had become a feeble, apprehensive old woman.
"Don't you take Shep no furder 'n th' bend," she quavered. "Will yuh?"
I met her look squarely. "You may be sure I will not," I promised, andwe rode away.
Young Moran's horse proved better than he looked. With the greatestease and lightness he carried his rider along the trail, a little inadvance of me where it was narrow, and close beside me when it widenedout. As we rode, the young man became all boy again. He knew everymountain tree and shrub, every late plant that had raised a brave headabove the pall of autumn leaves, every bird whose note sounded near usor which winged its flight above us. He pointed out the bright yellowblossoms of the evening primrose, the bursting pods of the milkweed,the "purty look" of asters, gentian, and white everlasting against thesomber background of the hills. He was delighted when we flushed acovey of quail, and at one point he stopped abruptly to show me theold swimming-hole which he and his brother had used, and on the banksof which, he added grimly, his brother had been killed by Tyrrell'seldest son. At this memory the shadow fell upon him again, and it waswhile we were riding on in a silence broken only by the paddedhoof-beats of the horses that we heard a shot. Something from theunderbrush at our right went humming past me, clipped a leaf from anoverhanging bough above my companion's head, and sped onward to itsharmless finish. Moran's horse, jerked back on its haunches by therider's powerful grip on the bridle, stopped, trembling. Jef'son Davisshied violently, only to be caught and steadied by the instantaneousgrasp of Moran's right hand. In the same second the young man himselfwas transformed from the simple, gentle nature-lover of the trail to ahalf-human spirit of hatred and revenge.
"The polecat!" he hissed. "I know whar he is. I'll _git_ him thistime!" With a quick swing he turned his horse. "Thar's your trail," hecalled back over his shoulder. "Straight on tuh th' bend--then goleft."
He put his horse at a low but sharp incline on the right, and theanimal scrambled up it with straining muscles and tearing hoofs thatsent back a shower of stones and earth. In another moment horse andrider were out of sight.
It had all happened so suddenly that I had felt no fear. Now, leftalone, it seemed incredible that it should have happened at all.Outwardly, everything was as it had been a moment before. The softhaze of the October atmosphere still lay over the silent hills; thereassuring whir of crickets was in the air. Jef'son Davis, happy inthe comfort of a lax bridle, was eagerly cropping the leaves from anoverhanging tree-branch. Yet within pistol-shot of this spot anassassin had crouched. Even now he and his enemy were perhaps havingtheir last struggle.
With a deep breath, I gathered up the bridle and rode back at fullspeed along the trail over which I had come. When I drew near theMoran cabin I checked Jef'son Davis's pace and proceeded at a gentlecanter. I did not wish to alarm Betsy Moran, but the door flew openwhile I was still some distance away, and the old woman hurried tomeet me. Almost as soon as I had jumped from the saddle she was besideme, her eyes staring into mine with the question she dared not ask.
"Nothing serious has happened," I said, quickly, "but--" As Ihesitated, she finished the sentence.
"They're arfter each othe'?" she said, dully. "They're shootin'?"
I nodded. Without another word, she turned and entered the cabin. Itethered my horse to a tree and followed her. There was nothing ofhelpless age about her now. Instead there was something horrible inher silence, something appalling in the preparations she at once beganto make. She had gone through it all before--many, many times. She wasready to go through it again whenever the hour struck, and she haddeveloped a terrible efficiency.
She filled the great kettle with water. She turned down the covers ofthe bed. From a closet in the wall she brought out linen and bandages,a few bottles, and several bundles of herbs, of which she began tomake some sort of brew. At last she came and sat by the fire, crouchedover it, waiting and listening. Occasionally she rose, went to thedoor, and looked out. Once or twice she whimpered a little, but shedid not speak.
Darkness came. Several times I rose and put fresh logs on the fire. Ifound and lit a candle, to help out the firelight. It had becomeimpossible to sit longer in that dim room, with its shadows and itsmemories, watching the terrible patience of the mountain woman andpicturing a dead man, or a wounded one, lying helpless near the trail.
"Can't I ride somewhere and get some one?" I suggested once.
"No," the old woman answered, curtly. Half an hour later she added,more gently, and as if there had been no interval between her words:"They ain't no doctor in thirty miles. Ef
Shep gits home, I kin tendt' him."
It was after ten o'clock before we heard a sound outside. I jumped tomy feet, but the old woman was before me. Hurrying to the door, sheflung it wide, and, shielding the candle with her hand, peered outinto the blackness. Then, with a little cry, she handed the candle tome and ran forward. In the darkness something was crawling toward us,something that stumbled and rose and stumbled again. It collapsed justas it reached us, and fell near the threshold.
Someway, together, we dragged the last of the Morans into his home,and closed the door between him and his mountain world. His great bodyseemed to fill the cabin as it lay upon the floor, the arms and legssprawling in incredible helplessness, the boots and trousers coveredwith mud, the blue shirt torn and blood-stained. Seizing one of herbottles, the old woman forced some of its contents between the boy'steeth, and as she did so he opened his eyes. For a moment he stared ather, at me, and around the cabin, dim in the flickering light of logsand candle. Then a gleam lit up his black eyes. His lips drew backover his teeth in a hideous, wolflike grin.
"He's done daid, gran," he choked out. "I got 'im!"
The old woman, who had been bending above him, dropped the bottle andsat back suddenly, flinging her lean arms above her head in a movementof wild exultation. A high cackle of joy broke from her. Then,remembering his need, she bent over him again and tried to force himto take more of the liquor; but he frowned it away, his stiff tongueseeking to form words.
"I--watched--him--die," he finally articulated,"'fo'--ever--I--tho't--o'--home!"
He closed his eyes and lapsed into unconsciousness. The old womanrocked above him.
"He's daid," she crooned. "He's daid, daid, daid!"
For a moment I thought it was her grandson she meant, but I saw thatshe was continuing her ministrations, accompanying them with thisreassurance to those deaf ears. For a long time the hideous lullabywent on, while she washed the wound in the boy's breast and checkedits flow of blood, bandaging it as skilfully as any surgeon could havedone the work. She let me help her now--keeping cold compresses onhis hot head, for he was moaning with pain and fever, and giving himfrom time to time the medicine she had brewed. We could not move hisgreat body, but we made him as comfortable as we could on the floor,and worked over him there while the night wore on, and the cries ofprowling animals came to us from the mountainside.
Toward dawn the fever subsided. The boy's high color faded, and hehardly seemed to breathe. In my inexperience I was not sure whetherthese were good or bad signs, and I had no indication from BetsyMoran, whose face never changed as she hung above him. At sunrise sherose and went to the door, motioning to me to accompany her. There,following the direction indicated by her pointing, shaking old finger,I saw on the side of the hill, at the left of the cabin, six lowmounds marked by six great boulders. For a long time the mountainwoman looked at them in silence. Then she turned to me.
"He's daid," she whispered, with a kind of fierce delight. "_Tyrrell'sdaid._ Here's the e-end."
She leaned against the jamb of the door, staring up at the row ofmounds defined against the desolate mountain by the first clear raysof the sun. A light breeze lifted the loose locks of her white hairand blew them about her face. In her eyes shone the wild exultationthat had burned there the night before, when her boy had gasped outhis message.
"Mrs. Moran," I asked, quietly, "how many Tyrrell graves are there?"She answered me somberly, almost absently. "Five," she said. Then, ona sudden memory, her shriveled arm went up in a gesture of triumph."_Six!_" she corrected herself, exultantly. "Be six in th' Tyrrell lott'-morrer."
Six in the Tyrrell lot to-morrow. Six in the Moran lot to-day--perhapsseven there to-morrow. And why? Unconsciously I uttered the wordaloud, and the hills seemed to fling back the ironic question. Besideme the old woman stirred, thinking I was speaking to her. As if thewords had touched a hidden spring, her confidence gushed forth, and asshe talked she lifted her hands and began to twist into the tiny knobof hair at the back of her head the white locks that blew about hereyes.
"'Twas fo'ty yeahs back," she said, at last, almost to herself. "ComeChristmas, hit's fo'ty yeahs back. Er yearlin' o' ourn had tooken upwith neighbor cattle, an' Tyrrell, he done claimed hit. They wasalways polecats, th' Tyrrells. Words come o' that, an' licks folleredclost. At las' Tyrrell, he shot Amos--my man. 'Twa'n't long fo' Jep,my oldest, Shep's father, he killed Tyrrell. That's th' sta't of it.Now we've come t' th' e-end," she finished, and drew a long breath."He's daid--Tyrrell's daid. Shep, he seen 'um die."
She led the way back into the cabin, and stopped at the foot of theladder. "Go up thar," she said, almost gently. "Git some sleep. Ireckon ye're perished fo' it."
I protested, but in vain. It finally became plain that for some reasonshe wished to be rid of me. She brought me a cup of some dark liquidand urged me to drink it. It was not tempting in appearance or flavor,but I drank it down. Then, as she still waited, I ascended the ladderand found myself in Shep's room--a tiny attic, its rafters hung withdrying herbs, its pallet on the floor surprisingly clean, its onenarrow window covering the Tyrrell trail. I had not expected to sleep,but I did--slept while the day mounted to high noon and waned to agorgeous autumnal sunset.
I was awakened by the sound of hoof-beats, of men's voices, of manysteps on the floor of the room below. For an instant I lay in puzzledsilence, staring at the rafters above my head. Then, as memoryawakened in its turn, I rose hurriedly and began to dress, my fingersshaking with excitement and nervousness. I understood the meaning ofthose pawing hoofs, of those heavy steps and rough voices, and as Idressed I listened. But all I caught was the tramp of feet, the scrapeof furniture dragged across the floor, the whinnying of horses,impatient in the rising evening wind. Once I heard the old woman'svoice, but I could distinguish only the word "sheriff." Soon I heardthe heavy steps pass out of the house, and the creak and rattle ofsaddles and bridles as the visitors mounted their horses and rodeaway. They went slowly. They had arranged, I assumed, some sort oflitter for the wounded man. In the room below there was absolutely nosound.
For a moment I hesitated. How could I go down and face that strickenold creature to whom life had just given this final turn of itsrelentless screw? Then, very slowly, I descended the ladder, my backto the room, afraid to move my eyes for fear of the scene they mightrest upon. It was not until I stood on the cabin floor that I dared tolook around me.
The living-room was swept and in perfect order. The last reflection ofthe setting sun lay in a brilliant line across its immaculate floor.The door was open, affording a view of the long trail, along which thehorsemen could be seen, riding slowly in single file. The kettle hungon the crane, the table was set for supper, and in the center of thispeaceful scene my hostess sat alone, knitting a blue yarn sock.
Slowly she looked up at me. "Ef yo' slep' well," she said, quietly,"mou't be yer ready t' eat?"
She rose, laid down the blue sock, and began to move about the room.Speechless, I stared at her. I had thought the night before that,coming from her, no evidence of self-control could surprise me. Butthis uncanny poise filled me with a sort of awe. I dared not even aska question. She had erected between us the barrier of her primitivedignity, her terrible courage. I could no more pass it than I couldhave broken through the thick walls of her cabin.
She placed the chair at the table, and in silence I sat down. Shepoured tea for me, and cut a wedge of corn bread, but I could not eat.After a few moments I gave up the effort, rose, and took my hat fromthe nail on which it hung. She watched me as I drew on my gloves. Theaction seemed to recall something to her.
"Shep," she said, casually, "he had t' borry yo' critter. Ye'll git itback soon's he kin send it."
"Oh!" I exclaimed, startled. "But--but was he able to ride--with hiswound?"
She looked at me, her eyes showing the scorn of the primitive womanfor such softness. "Lordy! Hawseback's same's a cradle to Shep," shemuttered.
I drew a deep breath.
"They rode very
slowly," I said. "I hope it won't hurt him. Good-by,"and I held out my hand. "I'll walk to Clapham's. I know the way."
She put her hand in mine. In her eyes danced a sudden light, halfmocking, half ecstatic. "Shep, he got off 'bout sun-up," she drawled."Fo'ty mile along he wuz 'fo' ever sheriff come a-nigh this place!"
I could not speak, but something, I know, flashed in my face and wasreflected in hers. For a moment longer her wrinkled old hand lay stillin mine. She seemed loath to withdraw it, anxious to say more. Perhapsshe was recalling the long vigil of the night, when we two had workedtogether over the unconscious form of the last of the Morans. But hervocabulary offered her nothing with which to clothe those naked hours.
"Good-by," she repeated. And she ended primly: "I wish yo' well, miss.I sho'ly hev inj'yed yo' comp'ny!"