A Cumberland Vendetta

V

WITH a little cry she shrank back a step. Her face paled and her lips trembled, and for a moment she could not speak. But her eyes swept the group, and were fixed in two points of fire on Rome.

“Why don't ye shoot!” she asked, scornfully.

“I hev heerd that the Stetsons have got to makin war on women-folks, but I never believed it afore.” Then she turned to the miller.

“Kin I git some more meal hyeh?” she asked. “Or have ye stopped sellin' to folks on t'other side?” she added, in a tone that sought no favor.

“You kin have all ye want,” said old Gabe, quietly.

“The mill on Dead Crick is broke ag'in,” she continued, “'n' co'n is skeerce on our side. We'll have to begin buyin' purty soon, so I thought I'd save totin' the co'n down hyeh.” She handed old Gabe the empty bag.

“Well,” said he, “as it air gittin' late, 'n' ye have to climb the mountain ag'in, I'll let ye have that comm' out o' the hopper now. Take a cheer.”

The girl sat down in the low chair, and, loosening the strings of her bonnet, pushed it back from her head. An old-fashioned horn comb dropped to the floor, and when she stooped to pick it up she let her hair fall in a head about her shoulders. Thrusting one hand under it, she calmly tossed the whole mass of chestnut and gold over the back of the chair, where it fell rippling like water through a bar of sunlight. With head thrown back and throat bared, she shook it from side to side, and, slowly coiling it, pierced it with the coarse comb. Then passing her hands across her forehead and temples, as women do, she folded them in her lap, and sat motionless. The boy, crouched near, held upon her the mesmeric look of a serpent. Old Gabe was peering covertly from under the brim of his hat, with a chuckle at his lips. Rome had fallen back to a corner of the mill, sobered, speechless, his rifle in a nerveless hand. The passion that fired him at the boy's warning had as swiftly gone down at sight of the girl, and her cutting rebuke made him hot again with shame. He was angry, too-more than angry-because he felt so helpless, a sensation that was new and stifling. The scorn of her face, as he remembered it that morning, hurt him again while he looked at her. A spirit of contempt was still in her eyes, and quivering about her thin lips and nostrils. She had put him beneath further notice, and yet every toss of her head, every movement of her hands, seemed meant for him, to irritate him. And once, while she combed her hair, his brain whirled with an impulse to catch the shining stuff in one hand and to pinion both her wrists with the other, Just to show her that he was master, and still would harm her not at all. But he shut his teeth, and watched her. Among mountain women the girl was more than pretty; elsewhere only her hair, perhaps, would have caught the casual eye. She wore red homespun and coarse shoes; her hands were brown and hardened. Her arms and shoulders looked muscular, her waist was rather large-being as nature meant it-and her face in repose had a heavy look. But the poise of her head suggested native pride and dignity; her eyes were deep, and full of changing lights; the scarlet dress, loose as it was, showed rich curves in her figure, and her movements had a certain childlike grace. Her brow was low, and her mouth had character; the chin was firm, the upper lip short, and the teeth were even and white.

“I reckon thar's enough to fill the sack, Isom,” said the old miller, breaking the strained silence of the group. The girl rose and handed him a few pieces of silver.

“I reckon I'd better pay fer it all,” she said. “I s'pose I won't be over hyeh ag'in.”

Old Gabe gave some of the coins back.

“Y'u know whut my price al'ays is,” he said.

“I'm obleeged,” answered the girl, flushing.

“Co'n hev riz on our side. I thought mebbe you charged folks over thar more, anyways.”

“I sells fer the same, ef co'n is high ur low,” was the answer. “This side or t'other makes no diff'unce to me. I hev frien's on both sides, 'n' I take no part in sech doin's as air a shame to the mountains.”

There was a quick light of protest in the girl's dark eyes; but the old miller was honored by both factions, and without a word she turned to the boy, who was tying the sack.

“The boat's loose!” he called out, with the string between his teeth; and she turned again and ran out. Rome stood still.

“Kerry the sack out, boy, 'n' holp the gal.” Old Gabe's voice was stern, and the young mountaineer doggedly swung the bag to his shoulders. The girl had caught the rope, and drawn the rude dugout along the shore.

“Who axed ye to do that?” she asked, angrily.

Rome dropped the bag into the boat, and merely looked her in the face.

“Look hyeh, Rome Stetson”—the sound of his name from her lips almost startled him—“I'll hev ye understan' that I don't want to be bounden to you, nor none o' yer kin.”

Turning, she gave an impatient sweep with her paddle. The prow of the canoe dipped and was motionless. Rome had caught the stern, and the girl wheeled in hot anger. Her impulse to strike may have been for the moment and no longer, or she may have read swiftly no unkindness in the mountaineer's steady look; for the uplifted oar was stayed in the air, as though at least she would hear him.

“I've got nothin' ag'in' you,” he said, slowly, “Jas Lewallen hev been threatenin' me, 'n' I thought it was him, 'n' I was ready fer him, when you come into the mill. I wouldn't hurt you nur no other woman. Y'u ought to know it, 'n' ye do know it.”

The words were masterful, but said in a way that vaguely soothed the girl's pride, and the oar was let slowly into the water.

“I reckon y'u air a friend o' his,” he added, still quietly. “I've seed ye goin' up thar, but I've got nothin' ag'in' ye, whoever ye be.”

She turned on him a sharp look of suspicion. “I reckon I do be a friend o' hisn,” she said, deliberately; and then she saw that he was in earnest. A queer little smile went like a ray of light from her eyes to her lips, and she gave a quick stroke with her paddle. The boat shot into the current, and was carried swiftly toward the Cumberland. The girl stood erect, swaying through light and shadow like a great scarlet flower blowing in the wind; and Rome watched her till she touched the other bank. Swinging the sack out, she stepped lightly after it, and, without looking behind her, disappeared in the bushes.

The boy Isom was riding away when Rome, turned, and old Gabe was watching from the door of the mill.

“Who is that gal?” he asked, slowly. It seemed somehow that he had known her a long while ago. A puzzled frown overlay his face, and the old miller laughed.

“You a-axin' who she be, 'n' she a-axin who you be, 'n' both o' ye a-knowin' one 'nother sence ye was knee-high. Why, boy, hit's old Jasper's gal—Marthy!”