A FORTNIGHT later Clayton,rifle in hand,took the same path.It was late in May.The 'leafage was luxuriant,and the mountains,wooded to the tops,seemed overspread with great,shaggy rugs of green.The woods were resonant with song-birds,and the dew dripped and sparkled wherever a shaft of sunlight pierced the thick leaves.
Late violets hid shyly under canopies of May-apple;bunches of blue and of white anemone nodded from under fallen trees,and water ran like hidden music everywhere.Slowly the valley and the sound of its life-the lowing of cattle,the clatter at the mines,the songs of the negroes at work-sank beneath him.The chorus of birds dwindled until only the cool,flute-like notes of a wood-thrush rose faintly from below.Up he went,winding around great oaks,fallen trunks,loose bowlders,and threatening cliffs until light glimmered whitely between the boles of the trees.From a gap where he paused to rest,a fire-scald "was visible close to the'crest of the adjoining mountain.It was filled with the charred,ghost-like trunks of trees that had been burned standing.Easter's home must be near that,Clayton thought,and he turned toward it by a path that ran along the top of the mountain.After a few hundred yards the path swerved sharply through a dense thicket,and Clayton stopped in wonder.
Some natural agent had hollowed the mountain,leaving a level plateau of several acres.The earth had fallen away from a great sombre cliff of solid rock,and clinging like a swallow's nest in a cleft of this was the usual rude cabin of a mountaineer.The face of the rock was dark with vines,and the cabin was protected as by a fortress.But one way of approach was possible,and that straight to the porch.From the cliff the vines had crept to roof and chimney,and were waving their tendrils about a thin blue spiral of smoke.
The cabin was gray and tottering with age.Above the porch on the branches of an apple-tree hung leaves that matched in richness of tint the thick moss on the rough shingles.Under it an old woman sat spinning,and a hound lay asleep at her feet.Easter was nowhere to be seen,but her voice came from below him in a loud tone of command;and presently she appeared from behind a knoll,above which the thatched roof of a stable was visible,and slowly ascended the path to the house.She had evidently just finished work,for a plough stood in the last furrow of the field,and the fragrance of freshly turned earth was in the air.On the porch she sank wearily into a low chair,and,folding her hands,looked away to the mountains.
Clayton climbed the crumbling fence.A dead twig snapped,and,startled by the sound,the girl began to rise;but,giving him one quick,sharp look,dropped her eyes to her hands,and remained motionless.
"Good morning,"said Clayton,lifting his hat.The girl did not raise her face.The wheel stopped,and the spinner turned her head.
How air ye?"she said,with ready hospitality."Come in an'hev a cheer.""No,thank you,"he answered,a little embarrassed by Easter's odd behavior."May I get some water?
"Sartinly,"said the old woman,looking him over curiously."Easter,go git some fresh."The girl started to rise,but Clayton,picking up the bucket,said,quickly:
"Oh no;I won't trouble you.I see the spring,"he added,noticing a tiny stream that trickled from a fissure at the base of the cliff.
Who air that feller,Easter?"the mother asked,in a low voice,when Clayton was out of hearing.
"One o'them furriners who hev come into Injun Creek,"was the indifferent reply.
That's splendid water,"said Clayton,returning."May I give you some?"The old woman shook her head.Easter's eyes were still on the mountains,and apparently she had not heard him.
"Hit air good water,"said the mother.
"That spring never does go dry.You better come in and rest a spell.I suppose ye air from the mines?"she added,as she turned to resume spinning.
Yes,"answered Clayton."There is good hunting around here,isn't there?"he went on,feeling that some explanation was due for his sudden arrival away up in that lone spot.
There was no answer.Easter did not look toward him,and the spinning stopped.
"Whut d'you say?"asked the old woman.
Clayton repeated his question.
"Thar used to be prime huntin'in these parts when my dad cleared off this spot more'n fifty year ago,but the varmints hev mostly been killed out.But Easter kin tell you better'n I kin,for she does all our huntin','n'she kin outshoot 'mos'any man in the mountains."Yes;I saw her shoot at the match the other day down at the mines."Did ye?"-a smile of pleasure broke over the old woman's face-"whar she beat Sherd Raines?Sherd wanted to mortify her,but she mortified him,I reckon."The girl did not join in her mother's laugh,though the corners of her mouth twitched faintly.
I like shooting,myself,"said Clayton."I would go into a match,but I'm afraid I wouldn't have much chance.""I reckon not,with that short thing?"said the old woman,pointing at his repeating-rifle."Would ye shoot with that?"Oh,yes,"answered Clayton,smiling;"it shoots very well.""How fer?""Oh,a long way."A huge shadow swept over the house,thrown by a buzzard sailing with magnificent ease high above them.Thinking that he might disturb its flight,Clayton rose and cocked his rifle.
"Ye're not going to shoot at that?"said the old woman,grinning.
The girl had looked toward him at last,with a smile of faint dension.
Clayton took aim quickly and fired.The huge bird sank as though hit,curved downward,and with one flap of his great wings sailed on.
"Well,ef I didn't think ye had hit him!"said the old woman,in amazement."You kin shoot,fer a fac'."Easter's attention was gained at last.For the first time she looked straight at him,and her little smile of derision had given way to a look of mingled curiosity and respect.
"I expected only to scare him,"said Clayton.
The gun will carry twice that far."
