Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1903-09-05

the dusk as she stood in the doorway OF
the log cabin and called to the girl, VINO
came slowly down the winding path. Inc
silence of the mountains is bred into the
bone of their people, and there was noun
Ing said as the girl took her place at the
supper table. Once or twice the mother
opened her lips as II to speak, then closed
them mutely, but old Silas Turner gave
her one look from under his bushy brows,
noting the droop of the blue eyes and the
telltale flush that dyed cheek and brow
through her tan. He turned to his Wife:
"Whar's Bess been traipsin, mother. She
looks some meachin'?"
Down ter Their settlement dom little
tradin',' the listless voice responded, but
her KEEN dark eyes dwelt anxiously on
the face of the girl, who avoided her
glance.
Silas Turner stepped to the rack above
the door and lifted down his Winchester
Tapping the lock significantly he said:
"BeSS, there's talk on the mountain as
how you has been a sparkin along with
Haskins' Jack over yander on Their ridge.
That Their ridge hain't so mighty wide, en-
Their smoke from Haskins cabin comes
over when Their wind Is blowin' this er
way, but hits about hundred miles for
my gal ter travel, en- right heah, en- now,
I'm say1n' to you, eff you strike that trail
heahs sumpin that can travel faster than
any gal a-seekin' a man, en- Its hunted Has
kirs' blood fore you wuz thought about
You got your warnin, en- you know Their
meanin of them graves, en- who made en-
en- what we Turner's owes ter the Haskins,
en-. by the eternal Gawd, I'll see yer don
forgit."
The girl began to cry, softly at first, then
broke into wild sobbing. Old Silas hesi-
tated. then put the rifle back on it's rack,
slowly crossed the room and laid his hand
on the red curls. There, little pap didn
mean ter skeer you. Gawd knows this
thing hain't none of my making. There
haint no mans blood on my hands yet, but
there's never any telling how soon twill
~ Ia To-
kins' daddy shot mine, en- my Uncle Abe
killed Jim Haskins en- then both families
shot on sight fer spell. Theirs a grave
yard on Haskins' side Of Their ridge en-
theirs one on mine, en- ther good Gawd only
knows who'll be Their next He fell to
brooding. with eyes fixed in the flames, and
Bess nestled down, the red curls against
his knee.
Over the ridge the full moon swung up
the sky above world of silent sound. of
wild fragrance that poured from secret
hooks In the cliffs and the ripple of springs
that sprang from their base to trickle away
to the river far down in the valley. The
Peter bird sent a sleepy call to waken the
owl, who bugled the night alarm to the
frogs in the still pool on the crest of the
ridge. Silent, yet awake in the mightiest
of all Senses the mountains brooded above
their children. Little white clouds drifted
over the face of the moon, shadows that
quivered through glades of laurel and rho
dodendron. peopled with the white trunks
of dead poplars and Shiver with a rustic
of falling leaves that the early frost had
doomed.
Turner's Bess' crept along in the shad-
ow of the fence, with swift bare feet that
made no sound, to the turn of the road
where the old white mule stood so long in
the sunset glow. There was no more doubt
of the force that was drawing her on; old
Silas had settled that. She had always
known of the blood feud that stood like
wall on the crest of the ridge, but she could
see yet the grim face bent above the rifle
see. too she had once, when little
child, shuddered away from the bleeding
body of young Hank Riddle, Jack Haskins,
her man. his face white In the sunlight, and
the pleading eyes closed forever. Some in
stinct, like that of a hurt animal had
driven her through the night to this one