BEST SHORT STORIES

Otago Witness, Issue 4032, 23 June 1931, Page 8

BEST SHORT STORIES

XIIL—DOMAIN.

By

FISWOODE TARLETON.

(Copyright.—For the Otago Witness.)

The old spyglass shows Tait Allen the two wild hogs coming out the high beechwoods atop the gap, the only movement in the wild and primitive landscape. He turns the glass on the gap itself, -the only inlet to his domain, the domain of the Allens. Grim, forbidding land. Pretty soon he looks around at his two boys; watches them feed the fire under the still. Corn going into liquor and Tait on the lookout for folks coming through the gap, his sharp memory and quick hunter’s eyes ready to size up strangers or hillmen belonging to his own Meddlesome Creek country.

Everybody coming through the gap stands out plain to Tait Allen. Hillmen astride mules loaded with sacks of grain, grain-corn bound for a secluded mountain still. Sometimes a dry-land sled drawn by two mules and loaded with fire coal from a high mountain mine. Hillmen afoot, armed with rifles, out to hunt squirrels. Folks returning from Milk Sick Cove, or Pennyroyal settlement farther down on Meddlesome. Hill boys trailed by lean hounds with tight bellies. Wandering cows and steers, and sows with their young. And as figures appear Tait Allen says to himself more than to his boys:

“ Hit’s Matt Meadows fotchen’ shoats. Mose Morgan air right smart steppin’. Kid O’Gowd’s boy air fotchin’ ca’tridges from Pennyrile, I reckon.” When their pappy speaks the boys, Anse and Abe, pay no attention, but continue feeding the fire mechanically. Chips of the old block, new editions of their pappy, they sometimes rise to stretch, move their Winchester rifles a little nearer them, and then go on with their duties. Anse, the older of the boys, the image of his pappy, sometimes rises and steps over for a peep through the old glass, then sits down in silence. Like his pappy, Anse knows every isolated soul in his district. Knows everybody who comes through the gap by sight. Knows peace officers from Pennyroyal settlement, from Leestop, the country seat—even from Anathoth, the railroad town far beyond, across a score of mountains. The sticks under the still continue to crackle while Tait Allen rests his spyglass in the fork of a sapling and watches. Old spyglass handed down by his great grand-pappy, old seaglass that landed at Jamestown with his forbears chows him the expression on every face pushing ahead through the gap; shows him almost the hairs on every mule and wild hog. The gap, the narrow defile dividing two great ridges, is the only gateway to the Allens, the only approach that needs watching. On all other sides precipices, laurel hills laced with the tearing, merciless greenbrier. Perpendicular fields sowed in corn and beans. Cold spring water flowing endlessly from the rocks ten paces from his cabin door. Power strengthened by fire generations since Dan Boone’s time. Independence. A monarchy in which Tait Allen rules. Master of his soul and the souls of his woman and boys and girl. The wildest hinterland in Appalachia. A fortress built by nature. Tait Allen’s domain. When Tait looks through the glass again he sees a wild boar-hog with white shining tushes coming through the gap. Thin like a deer. Braver than a bear. More vicious and dangerous than a < mount. A menace to hillmen. Menace even to armed hillmen because they do not dare kill the wild boar of the Allens. Men and boys climb trees and pull themselves up the ledges when they meet this boar in the gap. Some hang their legs out of reach for hours, waiting for the boar to wander off.

Tait Allen with the eyesight of an eagle, the hearing of a dog, the instinct of a wild beast knows that his woman is approaching now from the cabin beyond the still. Knows she’s coming down trail, not with the axe this time to get firewood, not with the hoe to work the corn, not with the buckets to get water, but empty handed. Coming special. Tait keeps his eyes to the old spyglass. Keeps her waiting as she approaches and stands silently back of him, waiting his pleasure to speak. She’s observing a ritual. A ritual enforced by Tait’s pappy and grandpappy, and great-grandpappy before him. Custom of kings. So that Tait’s authority shall be maintained and respect held strong continues to look through the glass for some minutes. His eyes sweep the high ridges and the gap over and over again while his woman waits.

He is conscious of his two boys looking at him, waiting for him to speak to their maw. When he lowers his glass he puts it under his arm. He breaks off a piece of twist tobacco and fills his mountain clay pipe. “ Wai,” he says, looking around at his woman.

She folds her hands across uer stomach and looks at her boys as she answers her man.

“ Barbara air gone.”

Tait loads his pipe and shows no change of expression. The boys glance at him, wait again for him to speak Like their maw, they wait on him. When he gets his pipe going Tait takes another look through the spyglass

—-watches a hillman coming through the gap, sees the hillman turn sharply and go back as he sights the wild boar. “ How Barbara git away ? ” Tait asks at last, with a brittle, hard stare at his woman. She tells him that their girl, Barbara, got aw’ay by stuffing her cot-bed full of mule harness and quilts. Built up the bed to look as if she were sleeping in it. Never went to bed, though, but sneaked away under cover of night while her pappy and brothers and maw slept. Tait’s ■woman tells him these things in the slow, unemotional voice of the hills. And she tells him almost in a whisper that their gal took along her “ tafferter " dress and her shoes and stockings. Tait, his woman, and his two boys glance at one another. The woman stands immovable. The boys, seeking escape from their pappy’s hard , eyes, begin to feed the fire again. Tait rolls the old spyglass over and over in his hand. Casualness and unconcern work into their faces, but, way down in them all something stirs and pricks and tosses and struggles to rise—struggles vainly to disturb their poise, their dignity, their pride. A strange heat is mounting to the head of Tait Allen as he sees that what they all have feared has really come tc pass. His girl Barbara. Barbara Allen

named after the old song, proud girl oi his name, running away to hitch with a foreigner, an outsider, a man out of her district. All his objections to Bud Falloway stand out clear in Tait’s mind, seem to pass before him in dreadful review. The Falloway habit of trying to run the whole Cumberland country, their growing power, their refusal to sell their grain to those who make liquor; their heavy endowments to settlement schools in the mountains, and their bringing in of lowland—foreign—teachers.

On top of all these things, thickening like scum, is the galling thought that his gal is lost to him. Folks are going to say in the settlement and from the backs of their mules as they pass in the creek-bed road that his, Tait Allen’s power, is weakening; that a Falloway took his gal from under his nose. Knowing the steep trails, the dangerous cliffs and ledges, she stole away at night; left him for an outsider, an enemy to all hill traditions.

Tait sees a weakening of his power, his domain. Sees absolute disgrace if he allows the girl to stay with the Falloways in their foreign land—the Falloways who are trying to build a road through the hinterland, trying to enforce taxes on hillmen who want only to be left alone. Falloways who bring in the railroads, who go to the Legislature and try to make lowland laws for the highlands. As he glances at. his boys he seems to be trying to read what is in their minds. He knows that if he lets this disgraces of his gal running away pass without notice it may not be long be-

fore his boys feel the weakening of their pappy’s power. Little by little they will slip away. With the hard brown eyes of the Cumberlander he seems to pinion his boys. They twitch and low’er their eyes to feed the fire.

“ Anse,” he says sharply, “ you-un kin fotch back Barbara.”

The older boy of Tait Allen rises slowly, eyed by his brother and his maw. He picks up his Winchester rifle and saunters away amid silence. He enters the mouth of the trail that meanders through the tight laurel and rhododendron, then dips steep and rough to the foot of the ridge and the approach to the gap. Before he disappears from view he turns and has a glimpse of his pappy looking through the old spyglass, his maw brushing her hair from her eyes, his brother feeding the fire.

In the long, regular, springy stride of the hillman he moves on and loses sight of his people. Stopping only once to whip a copperhead snake to death with a branch from a sapling when it defies him on the trail, he reaches the thick timber, close growing beeches that make a curtain to hide his pappyls domain. Tight beedh forest that stands like an outer fortification. As he.walks, his eyes and ears -are alert, sensitive to

every movement, knowing instantly w’hat every sound, every movement means. Wild hogs grunt away. Some stop cracking nuts and rooting to stare at him. Some draw their bodies back. Some follow him for a few steps. He goes around a sow with young ones rather than make her charge. He would have to shoot her if she charged, or have to climb a tree.

Responsibility is upon his shoulders. He is on a hunt for bigger things than hogs. He is empowered with orders from his pappy. Given a command by his pappy, who is king of Meddlesome. He is going to bring back his pappy’s gal; going into enemy country.

Leaving the beech woods, he enters the sycamores, another concealment. Then he comes into the open, the exposed approach to the gap from the Allen side. He maintains his pace until he reaches the gap itself, thep slows up and half turns to look back and up. He waveg a hand. Gesture that he is gone. He knows exactly whore his pappy stands. Were his pappy an enemy, were his brother an enemy, he could train his rifle right on their heads, so well does he know the position of his pappy’s look-out, high above —above the laurel and the beeches.

.When Anse passes through the gap without conflict with his pappy’s mad boar-hog, he turns to the left, descends the steep - trail that leads down, way down to the narrow valley, to the slow moving waters of Meddlesome. He begins to hear the faint hum of waters pretty soon, then suddenly above it, the

splashing of a mule in the creek-bed road. When he leaves the mouth of the trail and stands on the bank of Meddlesome he looks up and downl Then he sets out, southward, in long strides over the gravel banks, gravel piled down into the ravine by mountain freshets. Rounding a bend, he catches sight of a hillman ahead of him, hillman astride a mule. Mule hanging his head in strange brut"! dreams. The hillman is bound for Pennyroyal settlement, keeping his eyes on the tops of the sycamores as he rides. On the lookout for squirrels, gathering his supper as he rides to the settlement and back.

Anse lengthens his stride still more as he recognises Hard Meadowes. Hard, who is never without a rifle, who is always vanquished, though, by Anse at the matches, who is always practising rifle fire along Meddlesome. It has been a long time since Anse attended these Sunday morning shootings. It has been a long time since the Milk Sick Cove men have seen him. He has had to lie low for a long time. Drives by the prohibition and revenue men kepi the Allens bottled up for months, bottled up until he, Anse, lost the habit of the matches.

And now, as he takes up the gap between him and the hillman he feels the need of making another show of his prowess, fresh evidence that Allen genius for sure shooting has not lessened during the months. In this land where a man-child is born to the rifle, where men decapitate turkeys at a hundred yards, the Meddlesome Creek Allens have always carried off honours. But now—-now his blood sister, his pappy’s gal, has left her people, gone at a stranger’s bidding. There is a weakening in the power of the Allens which Anse feels. ■. Hefeels something has to be strengthened. He sees the first step as he approaches the hillman on the mule. ' *

As Anse forges ahead of Hard Meadowes he keeps his eyes on the tree limbs. Pretty soon - the corner of his eye is whipped by a grey streak in a sycamore. ’■ The throw of the rifle to his shoulder, the report, the thud as the squirrel strikes the ground, are too usual for a hillman to notice. But Anse sees the white mark on the limb where his shot displaced the bark, sees slivers of the bark flutter to earth. He knows without looking back that Hard Meadowes sees and reads. He hears the footfalls of the mule stop and knows that Hard Meadowes is looking at the tree branch in wonderment. Anse knows that to bark a squirrel so. quickly, so neatly, hillmen have worked" a lifetime. Killing a squirrel without making a bruise on its body. Shocking it to death.

Pretty soon Anse passes hill children who are hunting for crawfish under the rocks in Meddlesome. The boys stare at the big bore Winchester, the girls glance up while they feel under the rocks. Anse’s eyes fill for an instant with boys and girls moving their heads together. He knows what they are whispering. They are whispering that he is Tait Alien’s boy. Tait Alien’s boy! The thought seems to impose a freshening courage. In the hills if a boy’s pappy is respected, powerful, feared, his way is made easier. Men bid for his friendship, unless they nurse a deep grudge, unless their own people are equally powerful. The low laurel along the banks of Meddlesome gives way to the spreading cucumber trees, then to the tulip and dogwood. As Anse turns another bend and is forced to walk in the water, follow the path of the mules, he sees beyond the forms of four hillmen lying on the opposite bank, under a clump of sycamores. As he approaches he hears the voice of one of them speaking loudly, boasting. In a land where men are slow to boast or brag, where they are cautious about voicing their prowess, the voice of the one who brags under the sycamores seems like a discord, a false note in the hills. The talk nettles Anse before he can make it all out, before he has a good look at the owner.

Walking slowly so he can hear, and leaving the water for the bank, he passes the four with a nod.

“ I shore flung-fotched ’at baby ter earth. I’m a-tellin’ yer. When it comes ter throw-fightin’ I haint a-takin’ off my hat ter any man. I heerd ’at Pennyrile billy jes’ cain’t move his ol’ bone-jints since this-un bang-throwed him. Huh. Ef yer want ter see wrestlefightin’ yer' oughter jine navy. ’At’s whar yer kin see wrestlin’. On fightin’ ship. Men cain’t find peace lessen he fight-throw ever ? -man on ship. Geeamightyl ” Anse throws a quick glanee at the spouting hillman. Recognises him. Ked, one of the Ferris boys from across the big mountain, from Duckhead Creek district. First cousin to the three Taney boys who lie with him under the sycamores. Ked Ferris, who has been coming over to Pennyroyal settlement on. Saturday evenings and throwing men under the porticos; Ked, who breaks up Baptist praver meetings on Wednesday evenings. Ked Ferris rises to his elbows and looks Anse over.

"Don’t yer git scairt,” he says to Anse. “Hain’t a-goin’ hurt yuh none.” The Taney boys poke Ked with their boot toes, try to silence him, as Anse hesitates some feet away. Ked’s kin shown concern in their eyes and squirm. But from the lips of the hillman who joined the navy come more words. Corn liquor is talking in him, flaying the Pennvroval and the Milk Sick Cove men. Big talk about winning bouts in the navy, and over at the coal mines on

the railroad. Ked brags about never being “ throwed,” and about tossing niggers into the sea right and left as quick as he saw them on the docks at Suez, wlych is a place the Meddlesome Creek men never even heard of. Anse takes a step onward. He is oa a mission for his pappy and cannot afford to waste time here. But coming over him suddenly is the disturbing thought that if he goes on, if he seems: to be walking away from trouble, this Ked Ferris will spread around the report that he, the boy of Tait Allen, was afraid of him. His pappy’s power and prestige needs to be bolstered up, not weakened. So Anse stops and looks around again at the Duckhead ex-sailor. “By doggies!” says Ked. "Ef he jes* haint a-courtiri’ trouble!” Leaning his rifle up against a sycamore Anse waits for the Duckhead man to rise and come for him. Ho watches the ex-sailor go through the antics and motions of professional wrestlers; Anse’s arms, though hanging by his sides, are ready as Ked crouches and stoops and makes feints for his body. When Ked suddenly gets a hold on Anse’s waist and his hands slide under his armpits for a neck-breaking hold, Anse comes to life. His knee strikes Ked’s belly like a ram, doubles up the Duckhead man, jackknifes his body. The power in a leg that takes an Allen over a high mountain as easily as on the level creek-bed road would double up Samson himself, let alone a man whose wind is sapped by corn liquor. Ked Ferris, a showman; Ked, w’hose imported tactics to use against hillmen born to, rough and tumble fighting and wrestling, yells foul. Yells between intakes of breaths that Anse would be mobbed in the navy. But the cry of foul in the hills is the cry of defeat and fear. Tri a land where give and take as things come, where all may gouge and kick, as well as hit, the excuse of Ked Ferris makes Anse smile. “ Huh,” says Anse, picking up his rifle. He walks off, continues on down Meddlesome. No trace of emotion, no thrill in his senses, no inclination to strut or show effects of victory attend him as he travels in his long strides along the creek bed road. A severely simple satisfaction, a cold, passionless realisation that he has kept up the prestige of the Allens, and is equal to emergencies, possesses him for a minute, then is suddenly checked. He downs the pride he is feeling. Way down in the highland soul there Ts a spot where the highlander shuts out, locks up, his pride. A spot way down in him where affection, pride, even hate have become inarticulate through repression. Anse moves on bravely, determinedly to a goal, conscious of power, conscious of his pappy’s domain back there resting on a trust, a trust that he, Anse, the boy of Tait, will bring back the runaway girl, the only girl of the Meddlesome Creek Allens. Oddly, as he leaves the creek-bed and cuts over a low hill to save a quarter of a mile, he thinks of the depth of. his grandpappy. It is brought to his mind by a certain lay of the land, a certain spot cleared around some laurel, just like the place where his grandP a PPy was plugged by a revenue man. while he, Anse, a child, was forced to look on. And thinking about his grandP a PPy brings Anse’s mind to a book, one of the three books, mildewed and torn and yellow, that lie on the shelf in his pappy’s house. One of his grandpappy’s three books there were brought over by his pappy or grandpappy, brought over from some far country across the sea, brought over by Anse’s ancestors who had to leave the far country long ago. A king turned the screws tight on Anse’s people way back in time, tax burdened them to death almost, and so they had to leave. Anse recalls carrying the book to the school teacher at Milk Sick Cove one time. The school teacher, a highlander with great learning, said: “ Way back in time, way back when rifles wer e unknown and families had to set up walls around their homes, way baek when right was might and power was virtue, the chiefs had to fight all their lives to keep their domains secure, men carried off women that took their fancy. Chiefs captured the women of other domains and brought them to their feudal castles. This book,” the school teacher went on, “is about a girl that was carried off. Her people tried to get her, but they couldn’t. In those days virtue was power, you see.” Over the low hill, and meeting Meddlesome again as he goes down the other side, Anse, the boy of Tait Allen, experiences, thus, a lapse of mind. Through the thick, laurel-covered trail that follows the creek bed, he moves mechanically. The baying of a hound brings his mind back to the present, detaches it from the hazy land across the sea, where men ride hazily with women slung across their saddles. ..

It had been' a long time since Anse was in Pennyroyal settlement. His settlement is Milk Sick Cove. His pappy’s stronghold is nearer the cove than Pennyroyal. Seems to him now that the country grows meaner and less attractive as the valley widens and the hills draw back, ugly and bare with their timber cuts, and bristling with stumps. He begins to meet hillmen riding mules. After a while he passes the mail wagon pulled over the rough creekbed road by two mules. The mail boy and two passengers wave at him, then suddenly clutch the sides of the seats as the wagon strikes a boulder and almost upsets. -

Anse glances up at the sun. Sees that the morning is going fast and again increases his stride. Far beyond Pennyroyal is the home, the land of the Falloways. Anse’e mind is puzzled over his sister getting away, but is still more puzzled over how she happened to make up with a Falloway. This is the mystery that fills his mind. Where there are good men in her own district, when her own cousin, the school teacher, Noah Allen, wanted to hitch with Anse’s sister, why did she make up with a foreigner? His sister begins to stand out more and more as a traitor to the Allen clan. And Anse’s resolve to bring her back becomes stronger as he leaves the creek-bed and climbs the bank and finds himself at the end of Pennyroyal’s main street. Slowing down, Anse’s eyes sweep the town as he walks down the mud road to the business stores. Before he reaches the porticos his eyes have placed every hillman and hill woman who sits under the porticoes or leans against the 'business store walls and hitching racks. Anse draws eyes as he steps under the first portico and leans against its post.

He sees that his presence makes whisperings. Men shift and watch him from under their W’ide-bririftned hats. Some speak. Some nod. One waves feebly from across the road. Anse w’atches him saunter slowly up to the harness shop, then cross the road, whistling to himself. Anse feels rather than sees the young hillman approaching him. Without looking Anse knows the hillman is leaning against a post near him and whittling nonchalantly. He is. not surprised when the hillman steps over to him and says in a whisper: “ Hain’t yer Tait Alien’s boy?” Anse turns his face for a look at him. Sees he is one of the Farrel boys from Duckhead Creek. “ Reckon I air,” says Anse, and looks across the mud road again. He waits for the man to go on. “ Wai,” says the Duckhead man at length, “this mawnin’ I war fotchin’ shoat uptrail an’ seed your pappy’s girl mulin’ hit with Bud Falloway through Pennyrile. Seed em’- from yander hilltop. 01’ fire-ball jes’ a-comin’ up when this-un seed ’em.” While the informer whittles and glances at Anse now and then out of the corner of his eye, while men whisper under the porticoes and business store come to their doorways to watch, Tait Alien’s boy senses that every man in town, every woman, every boy under the porticoes knows what it up. Bud Falloway, from the land of the Falloways across mountains, has defied Anse’s pappy; his own gal has defied him. The news hag already spread in the settlement and along Meddlesome. Folks have something to wonder and think about. Anse knows that some are privately gloating over his pappy being tricked and beaten. Satisfaction in the souls of some. Anse sees more than one young hillman who hag tried to make up with Barbara, his sister; more than one who has felt her disdain and her pappy’s. The sting of a hurt pride grows sharper to Anse. That his sister would hitch with a man outside her district, a man from another world, a man who is trying to eoax in the railroad, a man who said at a Fourth of July speechmaking that the day ig coming soon when automobiles will line the street in Pennyroyal and every other hill town, instead of mules and dryland sleds. All these things mean just one thing: The Falloways have once more come out on top. And being a hillman, Anse knows that the boy of the Duckhead Farrels who just said that he saw Barbara Allen and Bud Falloway, was carrying out a subtle revenge for those, who, like himself, were ignored by Tait’s gal. This Farrel boy was letting Anse know that folks knew the disgrace his, Anse’s people, had fallen into. It was the same as if the Farrel boy had said that - the folks under the porticoes knew that the Allen structure was beginning to weaken. Those who are staring and whispering under the porticoes, and looking up from under wide-brimmed hats, are conscious of a crumbling of power. Anse knows that a little gap in the hills will gradually wear down to a big one. In his mind there seems to' be the need of repairing something, something he vaguely sees as a gap in his pappy’s domain. It is a mythical thing, this break, this weakening. Anse sweeps the town with his eyes as if. searching for a means to repair a break, a way to strengthen a name. It is as if he is looking for a tool to repair a sudden break in his pappy’s cabin or in the corn crib. Oddly, his mind seems to think only of a tool to repair the Allen name. ' It has been a long time since he was in Pennyroyal settlement. Months have passed since he came down Meddlesome this far with his mule to buy a new saddle. Always, whenever he comes to Pennyroyal, there seems to be a duty to fulfil that touches his pappy’s domain. There is always the need of leaving this settlement with the show that the Allens are still powerful, still to be feared. He thinks of the last time when he settled a dispute with Moses Valentine, another of the Duckhead Creek boys; settled something in short ’order, almost on the spot where he now stands. The same faces looked out from under the porticoes on that morning. Even Luke Foraker, the deputy sheriff, stood in the same spot where Anse sees him now. Anse sees that the law, in the person pf Luke, is looking at him.

• Apathy that hangs in the air and -stands out on the. dark faces under the ’porticoes gives way slowly. There is something in the sudden shifting of bodies and the quick glances down the mud road that gets Anse’s attention. He sees Luke Foraker, the deputy sheriff, move off; move off in slow strides as he looks at papers taken from his hip pocket. Then down the road, just below the narrow bridge over Meddlesome, he sees a hillman, stride a mule, approaching town. Jabe Morgan, the Duckhead champion of Saturday evening fist fights, comes up the road and slides off the mule in front of the bank with a significance that misses few, a significance that is borne to Anse quick. Quick, because the sight of the newcomer opens an old sore. With the never failing memory for details of a wrong, peculiar to the hill mind, Anse thinks of a year old grievance. It begins to rankle in his blood.

Just about a year ago in Pennyroyal settlement when Jabe Morgan, in view of the same men and sons of men who sit under the porticoes, laughed at Anse. Laughed and made a gesture which Anse did not sea at the time. It was a long time after it happened when Anse finally learned about it—about the gesture. One day when he was toting yellow corn and met Carr O’Gowd on the creek-bed road, he learned about the gesture. “ Effen yer hain’t a-goin’ tell, hits me a-tellin’ yer,” Carr had said, “ ’at Jabe Morgan fotched his thumb to his nose at you-un. This-un seed him.”

A year ago since Jabe had thus saluted Anse behind his back. The two are meeting by chance the first time in a year. The incident has travelled far in a year. The slur and the insult to the older boy of Tait Allen is remembered by them all under the porticoes. With a sure instinct for trouble even when signs have not actually developed, men become more tense and watchful. They look at Jabe Morgan, who is looking in the bank window, then they look at Anse, who is leaning against a post. Anse watches the Duckhead fighter, sees him turn around at last. Observes that Jabe Morgan throws him a glance, then looks beyond. No surprise, no recognition, no signs on his face that he has seen the boy of Tait Allen. Yet Anse knows that behind the mask of apathy and unconcern the thoughts of Jabe are taken up with him. Behind that sphinx-like face a hill mind is busy with strategy, with plans, with schemes for meeting the approaching emergency. The eyes of Jabe Morgan rest on the end of the road, where it joins Meddlesome, so he can think and plot. As the two men—an Allen from Meddlesome and a Morgan from Duckhead—stand immovable on opposite sides of the street, and appear unconscious of each other’s presence, the score of hillmen and town men under the porticoesincrease to two score. Swelled by the keepers of the business stores and the loafers inside the restaurant, the crowd knits together in groups. Anse knows the first move is his. His is the grievance. And he knows that the Allen name is on trial. The recovery of his pappy’s gal, his own sister, Barbara, is his mission; but there is the pressing need now of first showing Pennyroyal that a man who trifles with an Allen has to pay. He knows when a mountain family loses power, allows the respect of folks to wane, trouble comes piling on top of trouble. One defeat begets another. The punishment of a

Duckhead Morgan means more than the avenging of a private wrong. Secretly Anse seizes the chance to offset the moral defeat of his pappy and his family when they lose Barbara Allen to a Falloway. Maybe way down in Anse there is the call of. his own blood for a fresh example of his courage and confidence. a test he puts to himself. He knows better than to put a chip on his shoulder, even figuratively, amf to walk up to Jabe Morgan; and he knows better than to expect Jabe to put a chip on his shoulder. The move, first move, is Anse’s. But he wants his act, his plan for revdnge, to be effective as Jabe’s insult a year ago. He watches the hogs wallowing in the mud for two or three minutes. Then he glances up and down.the road, and at last glances back of him. He sees a potlicker bitch hound suckling her puppies as she lies under the porticoes, in front of a business store. While men under the porticoes watch and Jabe Morgan leans up against a post in front of the bank building, Anse steps over to the hound mother suckling her puppies. He leans his rifle gun up against the wall of the building and bending down, picks up one of the puppies. Holds it in his arms and strokes it. Slowly straightening up he looks across the road, directly at Jabe Morgan. The Duckhead fighter throws him a glance. His glance lasts long enough to see Anse point with his thumb at the potlieker hound and her puppies and grin. The meaning is sharp. Men

under the porticoes grasp the idea quickly. Pantomime stronger than a curse. A piece of damnation that makes men under the porticoes open their mouths and stare at Jabe Morgan, while only the grunting of the hogs in the road and the bellowing of a cow for her calf break the silence of five tense, uncertain minutes.

Maybe because Jabe Morgan is a highlander and knows that a show of temper would seem ungainly after the sublety of Anse Allen, he- casually stretches and gives a hitch to his jean pants. Then he looks up and down the road. His eyes at last seem to search the hilltop and then drop slowly to look at Anse again, who sets the* potlicker puppy down on the boardwalk and again leans against the. post. Jabe Morgan comes, comes in a slow saunter, his hands deep in his pockets. Comes through the mud road with his eyes now on the Meddlesome Creek man, the oldest boy of Tait Allen. He takes his hands from his pockets when he is five feet from Anse and hooks his thumbs on his galluses. Throwing his head back he spits in the Meddlesome Creek man’s face.

Anse’s form, sagging against the post under the porticoes makes a quick spring, and the impact of the two carries them to the ground, where they lock and gouge and roll in the mud. The wallowing hogs retreat and the cows turn their heads to watch, dull eyed. The men under the porticoes and in the doorways of the business stores watch silently. Grim faces, dark under wide brimmed hats, say nothing. The man from Meddlesome and the man from Duckhead, both big boned and hard muscled, both endowed with genius for gouging, are struggling to free an arm or a leg, trying tonmwind a single foot or arm to get an advantage. Rolling over and over, each man awaiting a chance. Somehow Jabe Morgan frees an arm and hits Anse at close range. They loosen holds and rise.

There is a minute when fists fly and the crashes of muscle against bone and bone against muscle follow each other quickly. First blood is drawn from the nose of Jabe Morgan and he clinches. A fight conducted without rules. Not a Saturday evening fight but a war in which anything is fair. No rules. Highland rough and tumble strategy executed, by masters, glorified by mud. From different districts, from hinterlands separated by many mountains, these two, however, are of the same traditions. Punishment, torture, mean nothing. One of them must go home carrying the stigma of defeat, suffer a collapse of local power, showing the wounds of pride more than the wounds of body. Pride is stronger than pain. There is a little difference in the strength of the two men. Jabe Morgan seems a bit fresher, a bit quicker to revive after hammerings and thumb pokes. There is a little difference in their ages. Jabe is several years older, and hag the benefit of more experience He has been in more conflicts, certain muscles are better developed. He is quicker to see an opening. Anse. locking again with Jabe to save himself from a series of jabs in the face, cannot, however, seem to ward of an uppercut on the jaw that sends him to the ground. The world reels before him. The dark faces of men under the porticoes draw away strangely, the figure of Jabe Morgan seems terribly big. Anse dimly sees two hillmen rise from their

seats on the boardwalk and stretch. A sign that they do not believe he is going to rise. Meaning, too, in the way othet hillmen glance at each other. And all the time Anse is struggling to adjust his body to a rocking earth and pull his feet under him to rise. His feet trying to get a hold slip in the mud, but they keep trying. He knows that as long as he tries to get up he is not defeated. No ring rules here. A man is not beaten in the hills until his body is laid down As one in a fever which transforms things into grotesque shapes, Anse’s mind struggling to grasp the situation clearly, trying to reason why he is fighting the man who stands towering near him, he thinks suddenly of his sister, his pappy’s gal, who ran off with a Falloway. His pappy told him to bring her back.

“Anse, yuh kin fotch Barbara back,' his pappy’s voice seems to be saying. A glimmer of light that comes to him through the moment of nightmare. His pappy’s words seem to solidify, seem to get under him, seem to pry him loose from the mud and lift him to his feet. He rises, clinging to a handful of mud. and, reason returning, he lets it fly at the eyes of Jabe Morgan. With an accuracy developed by all Meddlesome Creek men in rock throwing, with a sureness of aim equal to a rifle, and which has cut off the head of more than one highland moccasin snake, Anse’s throw in the case is perfect. His eyes, mud spattered, is sight blotted out, Jabe cannot avoid the rush of Anse’s body, the swing of the Meddlesome Creek man’s arm that lays him down.

For half a minute Anse watches his enemy stretched out in the mud. Then seeing the men under the porticoes rise to stretch or climb on their mules hitched to the racks he walks under the porticoes for his rifle. Mud covered, bleeding, limping, Anse moves down the boardwalk, crosses the narrow bridge over the branch flow-

ing into Meddlesome and disappears from view of those who continue to sit under the porticoes and whisper. Anse walks on down the left bank of Meddlesome, follows a well worn trail made by mules and men trafficking between Pennyroyal and the wider, more fertile valleys tapped by the railroad. His legs feel heavy. He tries to overcome his limping, tries not to reveal the injury done him by Jabe Morgan, as he passes hillmen on the trail who are bound for Pennyroyal. Understanding suddenly why men stare at him and women and hill girls shy off the trail as he approaches, he washes his face in the creek waters and scrapes the drying mud from his shirt and jean pants. The trail leaves the creek-bed after a while and rises steep and straight to the top of a bald hill. From the summit Anse can see only the peaks of other hills. Below him the trail forks and he hesitates. He has reached the end of familiar land. Beyond the spot upon which he stands he has never ventured. He scratches his head for several minutes and ponders. Then he hears a faint footfall of somebody coming up the hill. He sits down and with his rifle beside him waits. Forces unconcern, apathy to his face. With hill habit he relaxes his body and face. As the footfalls grow louder and he hears the crackling of the brush he lies on his back with his hands under his head and half closes his eyes. Pretty soon he sees the tall body of a hillman stepping out of the mouth of the right fork of the trail, bending low under the branches of the pines. He does not see Anse until he is almost upon him. The buckles of his galluses shine, flash in a ray of sun. He has a Bible in his hand, and is talking to himself. When he sees Anse he stops abruptly. Tait Alien’s boy affects to wake up from a sleep, rubs his eyes and nods.

The stranger wipes his face with a large blue handkerchief ,while he talks about the steepness of the trail, the heat, and the chiggers that try the religion of men. A birthmark on the man’s face holds Anse’s eyes. Long and red on a freshly shaven cheek, it sends Anse’s mind hunting. Back some months ago he saw this face over a stand in Milk Sick Cove, way down on Meddlesome in his own district. He remembers that the revival brought the preacher nothing, because the. Allens and the Allen kin down to fourth cousins are not religious. He remembers how the man before him left town, railing and muttering at the sin in the district; this man before him threatening the wrath of God, this burying, preaching, marrying man of God. “Air you a-goin’ downtrail?” The preacher asks.

“ Reckon I air.” “ Yer hain’t a Falloway, air yer? ” “ Hain’t,” says Anse, whipping some dry mud off his jean pants. “ Huh. Reckoned yuh war a' Falloway late fer the hitchin ’.” The preacher runs his thumbs through his galluses. “ Falloway air shore a lan’ o’ milk an’ honey. Jes’ like Canaan in Scripture. Never seed sech doin’s. Three fiddlers. Et a whole roast shoat.”

The preacher thumbs his Bible. Anse sees a money bill between the-leaves. “ Falloways air princes,” says the preacher. “ Jes’like in Geod Book. Ten dollars fer hitchin’ a Falloway. Maybe eight bits fer hitchin’ other folks. Maybe only victuals. Hillbilly in Pennyrile once gave this-un sick shoat fer hitchin’ him. Shoat died in this-un’s hands afore he could git him home. Huh.”

“ Who Falloway hitch ter? ” asks Anse. “Allen gal, from ongodly Meddlesome.”

“ I heerd on her. I shore heerd on her,” says Anse. Anse listens to the preacher’s Ion" discourse about the Allen gal meeting Bud Falloway on the creek-bed road near Pennyroyal. The wordy preachertells about the way the Falloway boy lifted Barbara Allen and her mule out of the mud, rescuing her after a heavy rain, when she and her mule were caught in a slide of mud down the mountain. He tells about Falloway and her making up right away, and about Falloway trying for weeks to get word to her to meet him and hitch.

While he listens to the preacher give details about his sister’s escape and the hitching, he keeps hi s eyes down so they will not betray his anger.

“ When a gal and man makes up hit hain’t ary use a-tryin’ ter stop ’em,” says the preacher, with a slap of his hand on the Bible. “ Wai, ’at Allen gal air shore a-settin’ purty.” The preacher adjusts his galluses again.

Reckon this-un better be a-hustlin’. Weddin’ this mawnin. Fun’ral preachin’ purty ■ soon in Duckhead. Revival this evenin’ in Pennyrile. Lord’s business air a-rushin’. Air you-un a-goin’ ter Falloway settlement?” Anse nods.

“ An’ yer hain’t a Falloway ? ” Tait Allen’s boy looks up at the preacher now. Maybe the look in his eyes tells the preacher something. Mayb e Anse’s eyes speak before his lips, because the preacher, gathering his tailcoat, steps away.

" I air Tait Allen’s boy,” says Anse. The preacher is near a laurel thicket, and, with a frightened look and leap, he disappears. Anse fires his rifle blindly toward the thicket, then listens to the pounding of the preacher’s feet as they take him down the hill.

Anse moves down the right fork of the trail, the fork the preacher issued from.

At the foot of the trail he meets a creek branch and follows its banks for several miles. When he comes to a road made by dry-land sleds he pauses. Looks around until he sees a cabin under the sycamores. He calls to the woman sitting in the doorway. Tells her he is looking for the Falloways. The woman, old woman, stroking her shins, lifts her hands to her mouth, speaks through them. “ Across mountain,” she says. " Effen yuh cross mountain an’ foller creek-bed an’ keep a-goin’ agin ol’ fire-ball, yuh cain’t miss hit. Cain’t miss Falloways. Lan’ o’ milk an’ honey. Right smart folks air Falloways. Heerd ol’ man Falloway. air smartestdest speecher in all hill country. He shore air progressiondest lawmaker. My boy been way over mountain ter Falloway lan’. My boy says roads air a-goin’ ter be fotched hyar. An’ when hit comes we-uns air a-goin’ git rich often fire-coal an’ white oak timber. We-uns got whole mountain o’ coal. My boy he air a-goin’ ter be rich some day. Maybe won’ come in my time. Afore long I lay this ol’ body daown. Been laid daown long time ago effen ol’ man Falloway didn’t foteh tooth-dentist daown hyar fer fixin’ up this-un’s ol’ pizened mouth-gums. Reckon you-un heerd on my.boy. Name's Noah Hathaway. Hathaways been hyar fer more’n a hundred year. Kilt Shawnee Injuns along this branch. Air yer a Falloway ? ” “ Hain’t,” says Anse. taking, a step, then stopping again. He stops so that the desire way down in him to say who he is might rise to his throat. “ I air Tait Allen’s boy,” he says at last.

The woman who is Hathaway scratches her head. Her mouth opens a little. Her brows draw together. She shows that she is looking way back into the past, searching for a link, straining her memory. Anse waiting, watching her puzzled face,.sees her at last shake her head.

“ Cain’t recollec’ ’at name. Maybe heerd on hit sometime. Air you-un from Duckhead ? ” “ We-uns air Meddlesome Crick folks.” “ I heerd on Meddlesome. Hit’s a fightin’ lan’, hain’t hit ? ” Anse takes another step, wondering at the ignorance of folks who never heard of his people. “ Effen yuh see my boy Noah, jes’ say you-un seed his maw. He war ter be hyar this mawnin’. Reckon maybe sence he been away he got himself up as a gal maybe.” Her voice strings away as Anse begins the climb up the steep trail. Through the thinned pines and the short laurel he walks with his even stride, noting with quick eyes of the hunter every movement. He is on strange land, in a strange country, and the thought makes him cautious. Instinct guides him while some of the things the mountain woman said return to his mind and repeat themselves. He wanted to say a lot of things. If it were a man instead of a woman who talked to him about blood, about warfare against Shawnees, about power of a family, why, he would have had something to say* In a way he feels a deep disgust for the ignorance of folks. To get over the edge of his own familiar Meddlesome Creek country surprises him. It is one of those long mountains he climbs. A circling road seems to wander to no purpose through thin beech Woods, past cliff edges again and again, level itself for miles, and then shoot upward at last to a bald summit. From here the land below unfolds and stretches out into a level valley; wide, long valley cut by a river, dotted with blue and white houses, marked off in varying shades of green. He sees the roads, white and straight, and black dots that move mysteriously along them. He thinks of the words of the preacher, the preacher calling this the land of Canaan. Again he moves on, begins the descent. Loses view of the valley from time to time as the trail doubles and dips to laurel and rhododendron thickets or meanders between knobs crested with

wind whipped pines. And from time to time, with surprising suddenness, the valley bursts into view, making him pause and ponder. He meets a branch and follows the trail that borders it. He begins to feel hungry. Hunger gnaws in him and he stoops to* drink of the cold, swift waters. When without warning the valley, springs into view again he is at the mouth of the branch and on the bank of the river. He can make out the things that looked to him just like black dots. Above him he sees a machine drawn by six mules, sees men following with shovels and picks. Sees the carts dumping their loads along the river banks.

He walks now towards a lane that leads away from the road builders. Follows the lane until it turns sharply and becomes a road, a street. Here he halts, surprised at the scene before him, the brick business stores, the automobiles, the folks in store clothes. He looks in vain for mules and dryland sleds. The bustle in Falloway settlement makes him hesitate to walk up its busy main street, yet he finally moves on; spurred by hunger, he looks for a restaurant. When he is halfway up the street he leans against a post in front of a store and studies the fronts of the buildings. One question will do to find his way to the Falloway home, one question put to any of the passers-by. Yet, he waits, never feeling sure of the way to ask. A strangeness grips him, an insecurity. The corners of his eyes see men glancing at him. Some smile or wink at a companion. When he turns around once he sees the keeper of a business store

staring at him. Wherever he looks he sees the name of Falloway. On the bank, the general store, the long building before which men are staring into the innards of an automobile. The name of Falloway seems to flaunt itself before him. Anse, after a while, feels a tap on his shoulder and turns around slowly, his eyes showing astonishment at the familiarity’. He frowns and shifts his legs as a man in blue uniform looks him over; sharp eyed man sizing him up from his hat to his boots.

“What you doing here?” The uniformed one folds his arms and bores Anse with steady eyes. “ Hain’t a-doin’ nothin’! Who air yuh ? ” s Anse’s hard highland eyes look squarely into the stranger’s. Conflict of eyes in which neither man gives in. The uniformed man once more sizes up Anse, raises his eyes just long enough to look at his hat. “ You can’t do nothin’ in this tow’n. No vagrancy in this town. Wjjy you toting that cannon? You’re talking to the town marshal. Now, why you toting that cannon ? ” A fight goes on within Anse. The rebellion of the mountaineer against being questioned, his hatred of airing his business to strangers, his age-old suspicion, heat his blood. He could resort to the hill habit of silence. He could refuse to answer. Could walk off. But he is here to get his pappy’s gal, his own sister, and there is something in the eyes •of the town marshal that speaks resolve. Anse does not want to be run out of town. He will fail in his mission. “ Why you toting that cannon ? ” repeats the marshal. “ Fer squirrels.” “ Huh. Squirrels. I wonder what you’d have if you shot a squirrel with that gun. Where you from, anyway?” “ I air from Meddlesome.” “Huh. Blockadin’ country!” Anse sees folks stop, or walk slowly past so they’ can hear. Sees more curious ones form a little knot near the marshal. Sees girls pause to look at him, and hears their giggles. Girls with their hair whacked off at the ears and their legs exposed below their knees. Strange land, he thinks, strange land where women cling to children’s dresses and wear their hair like men.

“Look at your hat! Full of holes.” The marshal says it with a jerk of his head upward. The folks standing around stare at Anse’s hat. “ Bullet holes,” says a voice. “Of course, bullet holes,” says the marshal. “What’s vour name?-.” “ Allen.” Another conflict going on way down in Anse. He is about to say he is Tait Allen’s boy. About to fling at the marshal and the smiling men in store clothes a name that works magic wherever he goes. A name that men fear, a name that is more powerful in the Meddlesome country than the sheriff. Yet word might, travel of Tait Allen’s boy being in town, might tip off Bud Falloway; might interfere with Anse’s reaching his sister. On the other hand, there was the danger of his being jugged and held if he did not give some account of him self. He sees the impatience on the town marshal's face; sees him bite his moustache and glance at the group of men back of him. “ I air Tait Allen’s boy,” Anse says. The marshal wrinkles his brow. Seems to ponder over the name, then shakes h:s head.

“ Never heard o’ this Tait Allen. Who’s he?” The spectators glance at one another, then back at the marshal. A man in riding pants and shiny boots takes the marshal by the sleeve and whispers in his ear. Anse -watches the face that is whispering. Seems to him he has seen this moon-shaped face before, with its button-like nose and small ears. Somewhere he has seen the short, squatty body. The hillman’s mind goes back to his pappy’s look-out on Porky Ridge. The background of the gap suddenly slides in behind the man who is whispering to the marshal. Half a year since Anse saw this face

through the old spyglass, since this moon poked itself through the gap, through the door of * Anse’s pappy's domain, and peered up the forested slope. Long time since this squatty body led men up the trail to his pappy’s still and was stopped by a shot from his pappy's hog rifle, that took off the prohibition man’s hat. Anse remembers the weeks- and weeks that he and his pappy and brother were hemmed in by this Federal man and his gang that loafed in Milk Sick Cove settlement waiting for the Allens to come out; waiting for the chance to nab Anse’s people when they had to come out for provisions, not knowing that the Allens can stand siege of ten years if necessary.

Now the whispering stops. The Government man steps forward with the marshal, stands in front of Anse with the town officer and looks the hillman over, sizes him up from head to foot. “So you are Tait Allen’s boy,” says the Federal man. “ Guess you’re running your dad’s corn juice into this town.” The Federal man turns to the marshal and the bystanders. . “ This Tait Allen’s notorious. Bet all the liquor we’ve had in this part of the country lately has come from that Meddlesome Creek district. Leads right back to that crowd, this billy’s pappy. What do you think, marshal? Went into that country with my men and you’d, think the sheriff and them tvould

give me some help. I guess not! The minute the sheriff heard I was coming he proceeds to get sick abed. All his deputies too. Seemed to lie a eppydemick of something that just touched county officers. Sick abed and told me and my men just to walk up that trail from the gap and take Tait Allen, easy as pie. Wouldn’t be anything to it. Hell, no! Sent us right up to get shot.” Hooking his thumbs in his belt, weighted down with his .45 gun, the Federal man looks hard at Anse for half a minute. Scowls at him and lowers the corner of his mouth.

“Never thought I’d lay eyes on you We’re going to look you over. If there’s not a stir in this country, I’m another. Hand over that blunderbuss.”

“ Got a moonshiner,” says a voice in the crowd. “ Six bullet holes in his old hat. Count ’em! ” says another. When a hillman is hard pressed he ■thinks quickly. He is a strategist born. He can seem dumb, but his eyes are as quick as a fox’s. When the Federal man’s hand reaches forth to receive the rifle, the big bore Winchester, a voice in the crowd says—- “ Those fellows can cut off a turkey’s head at a hundred yards.” “ Come on, hand ’er over! ” says the Government man.

Both the prohibition man and the marshal step back as Anse throws up the muzzle of the Winchester and covers him. The marshal tries to edge step by step toward the street, makes a movement toward his hip, but is stopped by Anse’s sudden throw of the gun- on a line with the town officer’s abdomen.

As if from the onslaught of a wave the crowd moves hack into two parts, leaving an opening in front of a business store door. From the corner of his eye Anse sees the storekeeper start to close the door, and makes a bound for it. readies the door, and turns once moist to send the hands of the marshal and the Federal man up. Several others in the crowd throw up their arms. Backing now, and holding the two officers outside, Anse reaches a rear window? He sees the storekeeper behind the counter, his eyes looking over a bolt of dry-goods; sees the faces of the two officers heyond the door, and the unmoving life on the sidewalk and the street, the crowd frozen. During the seconds that it takes to back to the window these things fill his eyes. As he throws a leg backward over the window sill he sees the marshal and the Federal man reach for guns. And he sees another man running forward from the other side of the street carrying a rifle. He can see the holt, knows the rifle is one of those far-reaching Mausers. He fires once, bringing down the lamp over the door and sending hands up. The deputy running across the street stops. The drop from the sill of the back window -to the ground is only two feet, and Anse, out of the building now and running down a lane, makes for a thicket in front of a house where a woman washes clothes and children play. He gains the far side of the house as the officers®; come out of the store window and as the crowd peers out of back doors or windows of other store buildings. He crosses the road in front of the house and runs for an elm grove as shouts come. When he reaches the heart of the woods he ducks behind a tree anil looks back. Sees the arms of the children and the woman, still pointing in his direction as the officers and the more venturesome of the crowd gather together and ta?k. From tree to tree Anse retreats. Sighted by th e officers, who open fire, he increases his speed. He hears weak thuds of revolver bullets as they strike the trees in his vicinity. When the Mauser begins to crack he becomes more cautious. The bullets from it strike near. One, whistling past his ear, makes him pause behind a large elm tree. Now he sees the posse spreading, making a wide circle around the woods, throwing a cordon. Anse can see the edge of the woods beyond, and in the centre of a grove a large blue and white house; big house with porches. Beyond the house the land dips. The tops of the sycamores tell him there is a creek back of the house. There is laurel and there is rhododendron; there is greenbrier. There is cover, and the cover is in the direction of Pennyroyal, in the direction of the Meddlesome country, Milk Sick Cove. Home. Swiftly he thinks of the consequences if he is caught. He has heard of the third degree methods of Federal men. Heard of prisons and of the long terms given liquor blockaders. He recalls hillmen coming home, shamefaced after their sentences were served. Shamefaced because they had allowed themselves to be taken by outsiders and sent up. These thoughts seem to dwarf the dangers of trying to gain the creek bottom beyond. The crossing of the fifty yards of clearing between the woods and one of the outbuildings of the big blue and white house seem as nothing compared to going to prison and having to come back some time, a shamed, a defeated man. In his own country capture would be different. The name of Allen means something. The strangeness of this land in which he is now a fugitive grows upon him. A longing grows within him. The fifty yards to the outbuilding is so much nearer home. Anse, glancing in all directions, sees the* cordon -swinging around, getting ahead of him. Pretty soon he will be cut off from the creek, from the fastness of the laurel. Once there he has a chance. A hillman in the tight laurel is secure. Thus the boy of Tait Allen

makes a run for it. He hears revolver and rifle fire, hears the revolver bullets strike short of their mark in the turf. Hears the singing of the Mauser and getting nearer all the time. Through the open gate of the picket fence he runs. Changes his course suddenly, swerves quickly and makes for the front door of the big blue and white house. During the seconds that it takes to make the porch it comes to him that the door was not open when he left the woods. He intended running behind the big house, putting the house between himself and the edges of the cordon of men and gaining the tight laurel by the creek beyond. The door was closed against him like everything else in this unfriendly town, but now it is open. Without knowing why he leaps the steps to the door, drawing rifle and revolver fire. Short range Colt guns thud in the yard behind him, but the Mauser finds his shoulder.

A numbness creeps to his neck, his head. The hallway seems dim and long and the face of his sister Barbara, his P a PPy’s g al , is a picture that lasts only a second before it is blotted out. Semi-darkness surrounds him. A light flickers beyond him on a table. He watches it. It blinks at him like an eye. He tries to move, but is stopped by sharp pains in his shoulder and neck. There is mystery in the corner of the strange room where he lies, a figure in mystery, too, which cannot attach itself to a past. Through half-closed eyes he sees the pictures dimly outlined on the walls around him, the knick-knacks on a table near the lamp, the mirror framed against the wall, the curtains before the windows. It is like the scenes in the picture-papers and books sent his sister and’maw by the ‘■'cheerful letter” folks up north. The posts of the bed shooting up, the white “ kiver ” covering him, are like‘the pictures. He raises his head a little, bringing pain to his shoulder again; breaking up the mystery in the corner, the figure that stirs from a big chair ami comes toward him now, swiftly. “ Air hit a-hurtin’?”

It is his sister, his pappy's gal who speaks, speaks close to him. Barbara, who looks different somehow. Not her shoes and stockings and “ tafferter,” maybe, that make her look different. Nor her hair, which is brought up and tied with a ribbon. The difference lies in her face, in her eyes. Again she asks him if it hurts, this bullet in his shoulder.

“ Hain’t a hurtin',” he says in a whisper. She looks at him as she re-arranges the bed-cover. “ Hain’t ary bullet in year now. Doctor dug hit out. Dug hit out las’ evenin’. ’At crazy-simple deputy plugged yuh. Wai, Bud, my man, air a-goin’ ter have him fire-booted outten cilice. ‘ Cain’t shoot up my woman's kin,’ says Bud. You-un air a-goin’ be all. right, Anse. A-goin’ ter be walkin’ in a jiffy.” Anse watches her blow out the lamp and- raise the shades. The room fills with light. He sees the valley, the big green valley cut with fences and lanes, and the rugged hills beyond. Sees the first burst of the sun over a hilltop. Everywhere are men and mules working. The machine is cutting wide swaths in the black earth, the fertile bottom land.

“ Yander air Bud,” says Barbara. “ Bud air bossin’ men out yander. Road’s a-goin’ ter be in Pennyrile arter a while. A-goin’ down Meddlesome. Folks kin spin along on hit clar ter Milk Sick and beyond. Bud’s pappv air shore right smart ter git these things from lowland lawmakers.”

. He is going to be up in a jiffy, his sister said. But where is he going when he is up and around? He cannot take bis sister, his pappy’s gal, back. Cannot take her away from these things she is now looking at with pride, the things on her walls, the knick-knacks on the table, the fertile valley beyond, her man who is bossing the road gang. He cannot go home without her. Defiance of his pappy is useless when he is home. He would not be taking her back as she was anyway, even if he could trick the Falloways, which is not possible. He could not trick her, or force her, if he wanted to.

What is she trying to say to him now? She has opened her mouth several times to speak, has jerked her eyes away from the pictures on the waif several" times and looked at him. I air a-wonderin’,” she says. “ I air a-wonderin’ effen you-un want a workjob. Right smart money in hit. My man Bud kin git you-un up a workjob.”

She knows why he came. Why he cannot go back home. His sister, his pappv’s gal, is throwing out a line for him "to catch. He looks out of the window again. Sees the machine cutting its wide swath in the earth, the mules and men moving about, down in the valley. He makes a mind picture of the road; he lays it out in his mind from Fallowav

to Milk Sick Cove, to his pappy’s domain. The road narrows to a thread in his mind. Its ends tie themselves around his pappy and his sister Barbara. “ ‘ Roads jine folks,’ Bud’s pappy savs. ‘ Roads air a-goin’ ter jine hills ter United States,’ says Bud’s pappy.” “She knew what I was thinking,” says Anse to himself. His lips are dry. He moistens them with his tongue. His face is hot. He tells her that he wants to work on the road, that he wants to tie one end of the thread around his pappy’s cabin and the other end around her big blue and white house.

“Yo’re fever-burnin’,” she says, and gives him a glass of water. He hears her say that he will be up in a quick jiffy to help her man Bud. His mind clutches the image again, the thread that now seems to knit through the hills, wrapping one of its ends around his pappy’s cabin and the other end around a big blue and white house down m the valley.