BEAR CAT STACY

Thames Star, Volume LXIII, Issue 17663, 14 August 1929, Page 3

BEAR CAT STACY

Bv CHARLES NE VILLE BUCK. (Author of “The Call of the Cumberlands, etc.)

CHAPTER VI

“I presume ye means on account of ther blockade iicker,” replied the host, “but thet don’t touch the root of the matter. How erbout ther fields thet stand on end ; fields thet kain’t be ploughed ain’ thet rain ther brings down on yore head, leavin’ nuthin’ thar but rock?”

Henderson liad the power of convincing words, abetted .by a •persuasive quality of voice. As a mountain man he preached his faith in the future of the hills. He spoke of the vineyards of Madeira where slopes as incorrigibly steep as these were redeemed by terracing. He talked of other lands that were being exhausted of resources and turning greedy eyes upon the untapped wealth of the Cumberlands. He painted the picture glowingly and fervently. and Turner Stacy, listening, bent forward .with a new fire in his eyes; a fire which Kinnard Towers did not fail to mark.

“When tlier railroad taps us,” interpolated Lone Stacv, in a pause, “mebbe we kin manage to live. Some says ther road aims ter cross Cedar Mounting.” “Don’t deceive yourself with false hopes,” warned the visitor. “This change must he brought about from inside—not outside. The coming of the railroad lies a decade or two away. I'Ve investigated that question pretty thoroughly and I know. The coalfields are so large that railroads can still, for a long time to come, choose the less expensive routes. Cedar Mountain balks them for the present. It wi’A probably balk them for the rest of our lives—but thi s country can progress without waiting for that.” “So ye thinks thet even without no railroad this God-forsaken land kin prosper somehow?” inquired the host skeptically, and the visitor answered promptly:

“I do: I am so convinced of it that I’m here to buy property—to invest all I have and all my mother and sisters have. I think that by introducing modern methods of intensive fanning, I can make it pay a fair return in my own time—and when I die I’ll leave property that will ultimately enrich the younger generations. I don’t think it can make me rich in my lifetime—hut some day it’s a certainty of millions.”

“Why don’t ye huv yoreself propert whar tlier railroad will come in yore own day. then ? Wouldn’t thet pay ye better?” The suggestion was the first contribution to the conversation that had ecme from, Kinnard Towersj, (and it was proffered in a voice almost urbane of tone. Henderson turned toward him.

“That’s a straight question and I”1 answer it straight. To buy as much property as I want along a possible railway line would cost- too much money. I’m gambling, not on the present, but on the future. I come here because I knew the railroad is

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not coming and for that reason prices will be moderate.” As. he made this explanation the newcomer was watching the face of bus questioner almost eagerly. AY hat lit. read there might spell the success or failure of his plans. Any enterpi ise across which Kinnard Towers stamped the word “prohibited” was an enterprise, doomer to great vicissitude in a land where his word was often above the law.

But the blond and florid man granted him the satisfaction of no reply. Be gazed pensively at the logs crackling on the hearth, and his features were -as inscrutably blank as those of the Sphinx. After a moment Towers did speak, but it" was. to his host on another topic.

“Lone,” he said, “thet firewood of yourn’s right green an’ sappy, hain’t it s Hit pops like ther forth of July.” Brother Fulker.on spoke refle tivolv: “We needs two more things than we’ve got in these hills—an’ one thing less than we’ve got. We wants roads an’ schools: —and the end of nrakin’ white iicker.”

Henderson saw Blossom slip from the bed and Hit shadow-like through the door, and a few minutes later lie missed, too, the eagerly attentive presence of the hoyw Blossom had escaped from.the reek of tobacco inside, to the soft cadences of the niglrt-song and the silver wrtsm of the moonlight. Turner Stacy found her sitting, with her face between her palms, under a great oak that leaned out across the trickle of the creek, and when he spoke her name, she raised eyes glistening with tears. “Blossom,” he began in a contrite voice, “ye’re mad at me, at ye? Ye’ve done lieeied about—about last night.” Then lie added with moody self-accusa-tion, “God knows I don’t, blame ye none.”

She turned her head away and did not at once answer. Suddenly her throat choired and she broke it*to sobs that shook her with their violence. The young man stood rigid, his face drawn with self-hatred and at last she looked up at him. “Somehow, Turner,” she said unsteadily, “hit wouldn’t of been jest ther same if Lit had been any other time. Yestiddy—up tbar on that ridge —ye promised me thet ye’d he heedful with licker.” “I knows I did,” he declared bitterly. “Ye’ve got a right to plumb hate me.”

“Ef I’d a-hated ye.” she reminded him simply, “I wouldn't scarcely have watched ther road all day.” Then irrelevantly she demanded, “How did ye git yore shoulder hurt?” The wish to defend himself with the palliations of last night’s desperate fatigue and the chill in his wound was a strong temptation, but he repressed it. Knowledge of liis encounter with Ratler Webb would only alarm her and conjure up fears of unforgiving vengeance. “Hit war just a gun thet went off accidental-like ,” lie prevaricated. “I wasn’t harmed none. Blossom.” Then in a tense voice he continued: “I only aimed ter drink a leetle—not too much —an’ then somehow I didn’t seem ter hev the power ter quit.” He feH the lameness of that plea and broke off. “I’ve been studyin’ about what you said on ther ridge,” she told him falteringly, and the tremor of her voice

electrified him. Again the mountains o.i their ancient foundations grew unsteady before his eyes. “Does ye mean thet—thet despite last night—ye kers fer me?” He bent forward,i lips parted and heart pounding—and her reply was an unsteady whisper. “I hain’t plumb dead s art in, yit, Turner, but —but this mornin' I couldn’t think of nothin’ else but you.” . “Blossom!” exclaimed the boy, his voice ringing with a solemn earnestness. “I don’t want thet ye shall hey ter feel shame fer me—but ”

Oncje again the words refused to oome. The girl had risen now and stood slender in tbe silver light, her lashes wet with tears. With that picture in lxis eyes it became impossible to balance the other problems of liis life. So he straightened himself stiffly and turned his gaze away from her. He was seeing instead a picture of tlie squat shanty where the copper worm was at work in the shadow, arid for him it was., a picture of bondage. So she waited, feeling some hint of realization for the struggle his eyes mirrored.

(To he continued.)