Books: The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come
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John Fox, Jr. >> The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come
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"Don't let me hear you speak that way again Mammy," said Mrs. Dean, so sternly
that the old woman swept out of the room in high dudgeon And yet she told her
husband of Mammy's charge;
"I am rather surprised at Major Buford."
"Perhaps he doesn't know," said the General. "Perhaps it isn't true."
"Nobody knows anything about the boy."
"Well, I cannot have my children associating with a waif."
"He seems like a nice boy."
"He uses extraordinary language. I cannot have him teaching my children
mischief. Why I believe Margaret is really fond of him. I know Harry and Dan
are." The General looked thoughtful.
"I will speak to Major Buford about him," he said, and he did--no little to
that gentleman's confusion--though he defended Chad staunchly--and the two
friends parted with some heat.
Thereafter, the world changed for Chad, for is there any older and truer story
than that Evil has wings, while Good goes a plodding way? Chad felt the
change, in the negroes, in the sneering overseer, and could not understand.
The rumor reached Miss Lucy's ears and she and the Major had a spirited
discussion that rather staggered Chad's kind-hearted companion. It reached the
school, and a black-haired youngster, named Georgie Forbes, who had long been
one of Margaret's abject slaves, and who hated Chad, brought out the terrible
charge in the presence of a dozen school-children at noon-recess one day. It
had been no insult in the mountains, but Chad, dazed though he was, knew it
was meant for an insult, and his hard fist shot out promptly, landing in his
enemy's chin and bringing him bawling to the earth. Others gave out the cry
then, and the boy fought right and left like a demon. Dan stood sullenly near,
taking no part, and Harry, while he stopped the unequal fight, turned away
from Chad coldly, calling Margaret, who had run up toward them, away at the
same time, and Chad's three friends turned from him then and there, while the
boy, forgetting all else, stood watching them with dumb wonder and pain. The
school-bell clanged, but Chad stood still--with his heart well nigh breaking.
In a few minutes the last pupil had disappeared through the school-room door,
and Chad stood under a great elm--alone. But only a moment, for he turned
quickly away, the tears starting to his eyes, walked rapidly through the
woods, climbed the worm fence beyond, and dropped, sobbing, in the thick
bluegrass.
An hour later he was walking swiftly through the fields toward the old brick
house that had sheltered him. He was very quiet at supper that night, and
after Miss Lucy had gone to bed and he and the Major were seated before the
fire, he was so quiet that the Major looked at him anxiously.
"What's the matter Chad? Are you sick?"
"Nothin'--no, sir."
But the Major was uneasy, and when he rose to go to bed, he went over and put
his hand on the boy's head.
"Chad," he said, "if you hear of people saying mean things about you, you
mustn't pay any attention to them."
"No, sir."
"You're a good boy, and I want you to live here with me. Good-night, Chad," he
added, affectionately. Chad nearly broke down, but he steadied himself.
"Good-by, Major," he said, brokenly. "I'm obleeged to you."
"Good-by?" repeated the Major. "Why?"
"Good-night, I mean," stammered Chad.
The Major stood inside his own door, listening to the boy's slow steps up the
second flight. "I'm gettin' to love that boy," he said, wonderingly-- "An' I'm
damned if people who talk about him don't have me to reckon with"--and the
Major shook his head from side to side. Several times he thought he could hear
the boy moving around in the room above him, and while he was wondering why
the lad did not go to bed, he fell asleep.
Chad was moving around. First, by the light of a candle, he laboriously dug
out a short letter to the Major--scalding it with tears. Then he took off his
clothes and got his old mountain-suit out of the closet--moccasins and
all--and put them on. Very carefully he folded the pretty clothes he had taken
off--just as Miss Lucy had taught him--and laid them on the bed. Then he
picked up his old rifle in one hand and his old coonskin cap in the other,
blew out the candle, slipped noiselessly down the stairs in his moccasined
feet, out the unbolted door and into the starlit night. From the pike fence he
turned once to look back to the dark, silent house amid the dark trees. Then
he sprang down and started through the fields--his face set toward the
mountains.
It so happened that mischance led General Dean to go over to see Major Buford
about Chad next morning. The Major listened patiently--or tried ineffectively
to listen--and when the General was through, he burst out with a vehemence
that shocked and amazed his old friend.
"Damn those niggers!" he cried, in a tone that seemed to include the General
in his condemnation, "that boy is the best boy I ever knew. I believe he is my
own blood, he looks a little like that picture there"--pointing to the old
portrait--"and if he is what I believe he is, by --, sir, he gets this farm
and all I have. Do you understand that?"
"I believe he told you what he was."
"He did--but I don't believe he knows, and, anyhow, whatever he is, he shall
have a home under this roof as long as he lives."
The General rose suddenly--stiffly.
"He must never darken my door again."
"Very well." The Major made a gesture which plainly said, "In that event, you
are darkening mine too long," and the General rose, slowly descended the steps
of the portico, and turned:
"Do you really mean, that you are going to let a little brat that you picked
up in the road only yesterday stand between you and me?"
The Major softened.
"Look here," he said, whisking a sheet of paper from his coat-pocket. While
the General read Chad's scrawl, the Major watched his face.
"He's gone, by --. A hint was enough for him. If he isn't the son of a
gentleman, then I'm not, nor you."
"Cal," said the General, holding out his hand, "we'll talk this over again."
The bees buzzed around the honeysuckles that clambered over the porch. A crow
flew overhead. The sound of a crying child came around the corner of the house
from the quarters, and the General's footsteps died on the gravel-walk, but
the Major heard them not. Mechanically he watched the General mount his black
horse and canter toward the pike gate. The overseer called to him from the
stable, but the Major dropped his eyes to the scrawl in his hand, and when
Miss Lucy came out he silently handed it to her.
"I reckon you know what folks is a-sayin' about me. I tol' you myself. But I
didn't know hit wus any harm, and anyways hit ain't my fault, I reckon, an' I
don't see how folks can blame me. But I don' want nobody who don' want me. An'
I'm leavin' 'cause I don't want to bother you. I never bring nothing but
trouble nohow an' I'm goin' back to the mountains. Tell Miss Lucy good-by. She
was mighty good to me, but I know she didn't like me. I left the hoss for you.
If you don't have no use fer the saddle, I wish you'd give hit to Harry,
'cause he tuk up fer me at school when I was fightin', though he wouldn't
speak to me no more. I'm mighty sorry to leave you. I'm obleeged to you cause
you wus so good to me an' I'm goin' to see you agin some day, if I can.
Good-by."
"Left that damned old mare to pay for his clothes and his board and his
schooling," muttered the Major. "By the gods"--he rose suddenly and strode
away--"I beg your pardon, Lucy."
A tear was running down each of Miss Lucy's faded cheeks.
Dawn that morning found Chad springing from a bed in a haystack--ten miles
from Lexington. By dusk that day, he was on the edge of the Bluegrass and that
night he stayed at a farm-house, going in boldly, for he had learned now that
the wayfarer was as welcome in a Bluegrass farm-house as in a log-cabin in the
mountains. Higher and higher grew the green swelling slopes, until, climbing
one about noon next day, he saw the blue foothills of the Cumberland through
the clear air--and he stopped and looked long, breathing hard from pure
ecstasy. The plain-dweller never knows the fierce home hunger that the
mountain-born have for hills.
Besides, beyond those blue summits were the Turners and the school-master and
Jack, waiting for him, and he forgot hunger and weariness as he trod on
eagerly toward them. That night, he stayed in a mountain-cabin, and while the
contrast of the dark room, the crowding children, the slovenly dress, and the
coarse food was strangely disagreeable, along with the strange new shock came
the thrill that all this meant hills and home. It was about three o'clock of
the fourth day that, tramping up the Kentucky River, he came upon a long, even
stretch of smooth water, from the upper end of which two black boulders were
thrust out of the stream, and with a keener thrill he realized that he was
nearing home. He recalled seeing those rocks as the raft swept down the river,
and the old Squire had said that they were named after oxen--"Billy and Buck."
Opposite the rocks he met a mountaineer.
"How fer is it to Uncle Joel Turner's?"
"A leetle the rise o' six miles, I reckon."
The boy was faint with weariness, and those six miles seemed a dozen. Idea of
distance is vague among the mountaineers, and two hours of weary travel
followed, yet nothing that he recognized was in sight. Once a bend of the
river looked familiar, but when he neared it, the road turned steeply from the
river and over a high bluff, and the boy started up with a groan. He meant to
reach the summit before he stopped to rest, but in sheer pain, he dropped a
dozen paces from the top and lay with his tongue, like a dog's, between his
lips.
The top was warm, but a chill was rising from the fast-darkening shadows below
him. The rim of the sun was about to brush the green tip of a mountain across
the river, and the boy rose in a minute, dragged himself on to the point
where, rounding a big rock, he dropped again with a thumping heart and a
reeling brain. There it was--old Joel's cabin in the pretty valley below--old
Joel's cabin--home! Smoke was rising from the chimney, and that far away it
seemed that Chad could smell frying bacon. There was the old barn and he could
make out one of the boys feeding stock and another chopping wood--was that the
school-master? There was the huge form of old Joel at the fence talking with a
neighbor. He was gesticulating as though angry, and the old mother came to the
door as the neighbor moved away with a shuffling gait that the boy knew
belonged to the Dillon breed. Where was Jack? Jack! Chad sprang to his feet
and went down the hill on a run. He climbed the orchard fence, breaking the
top rail in his eagerness, and as he neared the house, he gave a shrill yell.
A scarlet figure flashed like a flame out of the door, with an answering cry,
and the Turners followed:
"Why, boy," roared old Joel. "Mammy, hit's Chad!"
Dolph dropped an armful of feed. The man with the axe left it stuck in a log,
and each man shouted:
"Chad!"
The mountaineers are an undemonstrative race, but Mother Turner took the boy
in her arms and the rest crowded around, slapping him on the back and all
asking questions at once. Dolph and Rube and Tom. Yes, and there was the
school-master--every face was almost tender with love for the boy. But where
was Jack?
"Where's--where's Jack?" said Chad.
Old Joel changed face--looking angry; the rest were grave. Only the old mother
spoke:
"Jack's all right."
"Oh," said Chad, but he looked anxious.
Melissa inside heard. He had not asked for HER, and with the sudden choking of
a nameless fear she sprang out the door to be caught by the school-master, who
had gone around the corner to look for her.
"Lemme go," she said, fiercely, breaking his hold and darting away, but
stopping, when she saw Chad in the doorway, looking at her with a shy smile.
"Howdye, Melissa!"
The girl stared at him mildly and made no answer, and a wave of shame and
confusion swept over the boy as his thoughts flashed back to a little girl in
a black cap and on a black pony, and he stood reddening and helpless. There
was a halloo at the gate. It was old Squire Middleton and the circuit-rider,
and old Joel went toward them with a darkening face.
"Why, hello, Chad," the Squire said. "You back again?"
He turned to Joel.
"Look hyeh, Joel. Thar hain't no use o' your buckin' agin yo' neighbors and
harborin' a sheep-killin' dog." Chad started and looked from one face to
another--slowly but surely making out the truth.
"You never seed the dawg afore last spring. You don't know that he hain't a
sheep-killer."
"It's a lie--a lie," Chad cried, hotly, but the school-master stopped him.
"Hush, Chad," he said, and he took the boy inside and told him Jack was in
trouble. A Dillon sheep had been found dead on a hill-side. Daws Dillon had
come upon Jack leaping out of the pasture, and Jack had come home with his
muzzle bloody. Even with this overwhelming evidence, old Joel stanchly refused
to believe the dog was guilty and ordered old man Dillon off the place. A
neighbor had come over, then another, and an other, until old Joel got livid
with rage.
"That dawg mought eat a dead sheep but he never would kill a live one, and if
you kill him, by , you've got to kill me fust."
Now there is no more unneighborly or unchristian act for a farmer than to
harbor a sheep-killing dog. So the old Squire and the circuit-rider had come
over to show Joel the grievous error of his selfish, obstinate course, and, so
far, old Joel had refused to be shown. All of his sons sturdily upheld him and
little Melissa fiercely--the old mother and the school-master alone remaining
quiet and taking no part in the dissension.
"Have they got Jack?"
"No, Chad," said the school-master. "He's safe--tied up in the stable." Chad
started out, and no one followed but Melissa. A joyous bark that was almost
human came from the stable as Chad approached, for the dog must have known the
sound of his master's footsteps, and when Chad drew open the door, Jack sprang
the length of his tether to meet him and was jerked to his back. Again and
again he sprang, barking, as though beside himself, while Chad stood at the
door, looking sorrowfully at him.
"Down, Jack!" he said sternly, and Jack dropped obediently, looking straight
at his master with honest eyes and whimpering like a child.
"Jack," said Chad, "did you kill that sheep?" This was all strange conduct for
his little master, and Jack looked wondering and dazed, but his eyes never
wavered or blinked. Chad could not long stand those honest eyes.
"No," he said, fiercely--"no, little doggie, no--no!" And Chad dropped on his
knees and took Jack in his arms and hugged him to his breast.
CHAPTER 13. ON TRIAL FOR HIS LIFE
By degrees the whole story was told Chad that night. Now and then the Turners
would ask him about his stay in the Bluegrass, but the boy would answer as
briefly as possible and come back to Jack. Before going to bed, Chad said he
would bring Jack into the house:
"Somebody might pizen him," he explained, and when he came back, he startled
the circle about the fire:
"Whar's Whizzer?" he asked, sharply. "Who's seen Whizzer?"
Then it developed that no one had seen the Dillon dog--since the day before
the sheep was found dead near a ravine at the foot of the mountain in a back
pasture. Late that afternoon Melissa had found Whizzer in that very pasture
when she was driving old Betsy, the brindle, home at milking-time. Since
then, no one of the Turners had seen the Dillon dog. That, however, did not
prove that Whizzer was not at home. And yet,
"I'd like to know whar Whizzer is now!" said Chad, and, after, at old Joel's
command, he had tied Jack to a bedpost--an outrage that puzzled the dog
sorely--the boy threshed his bed for an hour--trying to think out a defence
for Jack and wondering if Whizzer might not have been concerned in the death
of the sheep.
It is hardly possible that what happened, next day, could happen anywhere
except among simple people of the hills. Briefly, the old Squire and the
circuit-rider had brought old Joel to the point of saying, the night before,
that he would give Jack up to be killed, if he could be proven guilty. But
the old hunter cried with an oath:
"You've got to prove him guilty." And thereupon the Squire said he would give
Jack every chance that he would give a man--HE WOULD TRY HIM; each side could
bring in witnesses; old Joel could have a lawyer if he wished, and Jack's
case would go before a jury. If pronounced innocent, Jack should go free: if
guilty--then the dog should be handed over to the sheriff, to be shot at
sundown. Joel agreed.
It was a strange procession that left the gate of the Turner cabin next
morning. Old Joel led the way, mounted, with "ole Sal," his rifle, across his
saddle-bow. Behind him came Mother Turner and Melissa on foot and Chad with
his rifle over his left shoulder, and leading Jack by a string with his right
hand. Behind them slouched Tall Tom with his rifle and Dolph and Rube, each
with a huge old-fashioned horse-pistol swinging from his right hip. Last
strode the school-master. The cabin was left deserted--the hospitable door
held closed by a deer-skin latch caught to a wooden pin outside.
It was a strange humiliation to Jack thus to be led along the highway, like a
criminal going to the gallows. There was no power on earth that could have
moved him from Chad's side, other than the boy's own command--but old Joel
had sworn that he would keep the dog tied and the old hunter always kept his
word. He had sworn, too, that Jack should have a fair trial. Therefore, the
guns--and the school-master walked with his hands behind him and his eyes on
the ground: he feared trouble.
Half a mile up the river and to one side of the road, a space of some thirty
feet square had been cut into a patch of rhododendron and filled with rude
benches of slabs--in front of which was a rough platform on which sat a
home-made, cane-bottomed chair. Except for the opening from the road, the
space was walled with a circle of living green through which the sun dappled
the benches with quivering disks of yellow light--and, high above, great
poplars and oaks arched their mighty heads. It was an open-air
"meeting-house" where the circuit-rider preached during his summer circuit
and there the trial was to take place.
Already a crowd was idling, whittling, gossiping in the road, when the Turner
cavalcade came in sight--and for ten miles up and down the river people were
coming in for the trial
"Mornin', gentlemen," said old Joel, gravely.
"Mornin'," answered several, among whom was the Squire, who eyed Joel's gun
and the guns coming up the road.
"Squirrel-huntin'?" he asked and, as the old hunter did not answer, he added,
sharply:
"Air you afeerd, Joel Turner, that you ain't a-goin' to git justice from ME?"
"I don't keer whar it comes from," said Joel, grimly--"but I'm a-goin' to
HAVE it."
It was plain that the old man not only was making no plea for sympathy, but
was alienating the little he had: and what he had was very little, for who but
a lover of dogs can give full sympathy to his kind? And, then, Jack was
believed to be guilty. It was curious to see how each Dillon shrank
unconsciously as the Turners gathered--all but Jerry, one of the giant twins.
He always stood his ground--fearing nor man, nor dog--nor devil.
Ten minutes later, the Squire took his seat on the platform, while the
circuit-rider squatted down beside him. The crowd, men and women and
children, took the rough benches. To one side sat and stood the Dillons, old
Tad and little Tad, Daws, Nance, and others of the tribe. Straight in front
of the Squire gathered the Turners about Melissa and Chad--and Jack as a
centre--with Jack squatted on his hanches foremost of all, facing the Squire
with grave dignity and looking at none else save, occasionally, the old
hunter or his little master.
To the right stood the sheriff with his rifle, and on the outskirts hung the
school-master. Quickly the old Squire chose a jury--giving old Joel the
opportunity to object as he called each man's name. Old Joel objected to
none, for every man called, he knew, was more friendly to him than to the
Dillons: and old Tad Dillon raised no word of protest, for he knew his case
was clear. Then began the trial, and any soul that was there would have
shuddered could he have known how that trial was to divide neighbor against
neighbor, and mean death and bloodshed for half a century after the trial
itself was long forgotten.
The first witness, old Tad--long, lean, stooping, crafty--had seen the sheep
rushing wildly up the hill-side "'bout crack o' day," he said, and had sent
Daws up to see what the matter was. Daws had shouted back:
"That damned Turner dog has killed one o' our sheep. Thar he comes now. Kill
him!" And old Tad had rushed in-doors for his rifle and had taken a shot at
Jack as he leaped into the road and loped for home. Just then a stern, thick
little voice rose from behind Jack:
"Hit was a God's blessin' fer you that you didn't hit him."
The Squire glared down at the boy and old Joel said, kindly:
"Hush, Chad."
Old Dillon had then gone down to the Turners and asked them to kill the dog,
but old Joel had refused.
"Whar was Whizzer?" Chad asked, sharply.
"You can't axe that question," said the Squire. "Hit's er-er-irrelevant."
Daws came next. When he reached the fence upon the hill-side he could see the
sheep lying still on the ground. As he was climbing over, the Turner dog
jumped the fence and Daws saw blood on his muzzle.
"How close was you to him?" asked the Squire.
"'Bout twenty feet," said Daws.
"Humph!" said old Joel.
"Whar was Whizzer?" Again the old Squire glared down at Chad.
"Don't you axe that question again, boy. Didn't I tell you hit was
irrelevant?"
"What's irrelevant?" the boy asked, bluntly.
The Squire hesitated. "Why--why, hit ain't got nothin' to do with the case."
"Hit ain't?" shouted Chad.
"Joel," said the Squire, testily, "ef you don't keep that boy still, I'll
fine him fer contempt o' court."
Joel laughed, but he put his heavy hand on the boy's shoulder. Little Tad
Dillon and Nance and the Dillon mother had all seen Jack running down the
road. There was no doubt but that it was the Turner dog. And with this clear
case against poor Jack, the Dillons rested. And what else could the Turners
do but establish Jack's character and put in a plea of mercy--a useless plea,
old Joel knew --for a first offence? Jack was the best dog old Joel had ever
known, and the old man told wonderful tales of the dog's intelligence and
kindness and how one night Jack had guarded a stray lamb that had broken its
leg--until daybreak--and he had been led to the dog and the sheep by Jack's
barking for help. The Turner boys confirmed this story, though it was
received with incredulity.
How could a dog that would guard one lone helpless lamb all night long take
the life of another?
There was no witness that had aught but kind words to say of the dog or aught
but wonder that he should have done this thing--even back to the
cattle-dealer who had given him to Chad. For at that time the dealer said--so
testified Chad, no objection being raised to hearsay evidence--that Jack was
the best dog he ever knew. That was all the Turners or anybody could do or
say, and the old Squire was about to turn the case over to the jury when Chad
rose:
"Squire," he said and his voice trembled, "Jack's my dog. I lived with him
night an' day for 'bout three years an' I want to axe some questions."
He turned to Daws:
"I want to axe you ef thar was any blood around that sheep."
"Thar was a great big pool o' blood," said Daws, indignantly. Chad looked at
the Squire.
"Well, a sheep-killin' dog don't leave no great big pool o' blood, Squire,
with the FUST one he kills! He SUCKS it!" Several men nodded their heads.
"Squire! The fust time I come over these mountains, the fust people I seed
was these Dillons--an' Whizzer. They sicked Whizzer on Jack hyeh and Jack
whooped him. Then Tad thar jumped me and I whooped him." (The Turner boys
were nodding confirmation.) "Sence that time they've hated Jack an' they've
hated me and they hate the Turners partly fer takin' keer o' me. Now you said
somethin' I axed just now was irrelevant, but I tell you, Squire, I know a
sheep-killin' dawg, and jes' as I know Jack AIN'T, I know the Dillon dawg
naturely is, and I tell you, if the Dillons' dawg killed that sheep and they
could put it on Jack--they'd do it. They'd do it--Squire, an' I tell you,
you--ortern't--to let--that sheriff--thar--shoot my--dog--until the Dillons
answers what I axed--" the boy's passionate cry rang against the green walls
and out the opening and across the river--
"WHAR'S WHIZZER?"
The boy startled the crowd and the old Squire himself, who turned quickly to
the Dillons.
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