Last Three Soldiers — How The Bear Distinguished Himself; Which Gives A Nearer View Of The Neighbor Called 'Shifless'

CHAPTER XIII HOW THE BEAR DISTINGUISHED HIMSELF

If the old man of the mountain was not in his grave, where was he?

He had certainly not gone back to the world and left the buried treasure behind him.

If the grave had been empty, the soldiers might have suspected foul play.

Josiah Woodring, who had been his agent and provider, had already been five years in his own grave at the time they had arrived on the mountain.

As long as they believed that the bones of the old man were quietly at rest under the oak slab in the garden spot, the condition of the hut, neglected and going to decay, was sufficient evidence that he had died there, and that no one had occupied it for more than five years before.

With almost his last breath Josiah had announced his death to the doctor from the settlement; and under such solemn circumstances it was impossible to believe that he had stated anything but the truth.

He had not mentioned, it is true, the precise time when the old man died.

After the night when the treasure was found, the three soldiers, to thoroughly satisfy themselves, had cleared away the earth down to the bed-rock.

Indeed, the cask itself was evidence enough that the bones of the old man were not below it, for he himself must have buried that.

If Josiah had known of its existence, it would certainly have traveled down through the settlement in his two-steer cart, like any other honest cask, and neither cattle nor driver would have ever come back.

After taking such a load to market, Josiah would have established himself in luxury in his ignorant way, and probably cut a great splurge in the "low country," with no end of pomp and vulgarity.

The three soldiers studied this problem with much care, weighing all the evidence for and against.

They even hit upon a plan of determining when the old man came limping through the settlement of Cashiers behind Josiah's cart, covered with dust, and staggering under the weight of his leathern knapsack.

They emptied out the little keg of gold on the earthen floor a second time, and began a search for the latest date on the coins.

Some were remarkably old and badly worn.

A few of the guinea pieces bore the heads of the old Georges and "Dei gratia Rex," and 17-- this and 17-- that, and some of the figures were as smooth as the pate, and as blind as the eyes, of the king on the coin.

The newest double-eagles--and there were quite a number of them--bore the date 1833, so it must have been in that year or the year following that the old man without a name had given up the world and become a hermit on the mountain.

They decided that he must have had his own ideas about the vanity of riches, and that after doling out his gold, or, more likely, his small silver pieces, with exceeding stinginess to Josiah for the small services rendered him, when he saw his end approaching, he had buried the cask of treasure, and set up the slab above it, trusting to the superstition with which the mountain people regarded the desecration of a grave to protect the gold for all time.

It would certainly have protected it from any examination by the soldiers but for the strange behavior of the bear, who had no delicate scruples.

The old man had probably told Josiah, with a cunning leer in his eyes, that the empty grave was a blind to deceive any one who might climb to the top of the mountain, as the hunters had done long before, and very likely he had given him a great big silver half-dollar to wink at this little plan.

When death did really come at last to claim its own, it was evident that Josiah, faithful to the old man's request, had either taken his remains down the mountain or buried them somewhere on the plateau without mound or slab to reveal the place, and, as likely as not, he had found enough small change in the old miser's pockets to pay him for his trouble.

Thus the mystery of the old man of the mountain was settled by the three soldiers, after much discussion, and the cask of gold was trundled back into the dark corner of the house, where they threw their waste, and such guineas and double-eagles as had joggled out upon the floor were kicked after it.

Directly after the lost envelop had turned up in the pool of lye, Lieutenant Coleman had made his arrangements for the manufacture of blank paper for the diary.

The Blue Book was his personal property, but before commencing its destruction he counseled with Bromley, who, as a man of letters, he felt, under the circumstances, had an equal interest with himself in the fate of one half of their common library.

Bromley, seated on the bank alongside the leach, was engaged at the time in making a birch broom, and as he threw down the bunch of twigs a shade of disappointment overspread his handsome face.

He said that he had never thoroughly appreciated the work of the learned board of compilers until his present exile, and that it contained flights of eloquence and scraps of poetry--if you read between the lines.

"But, putting all joking aside," said Bromley, "begin with a single leaf by way of experiment, and let us see first what will be the effect on the fiber of the paper; and then, if everything works well, we will first sacrifice the index and the extracts from the Acts of that renegade Congress whose imbecility has blotted a great nation from the map of the world."

Lieutenant Coleman had more confidence in the result of the experiment they were about to make than had Bromley, for the increased length of his entry in the diary shows that he was no longer economizing paper: "April 26, 1865. Wednesday.

We have cut out ten leaves of the index of the Blue Book, which we scattered loosely on the surface of the lye in the cavity of the rock.

After twenty minutes I removed a leaf which had undergone no perceptible change in appearance, and washed it thoroughly in running water.

While so doing I was pleased to find that with the lightest touch of my fingers the ink dissolved, leaving underneath only a faint trace of the letters, which would in no way interfere with my writing.

It required much patience to cleanse the paper of the slimy deposit of potash.

"Thursday, April 27, 1865. Of the leaves prepared yesterday, two, which were less carefully washed than the others, are somewhat yellowed by the potash and show signs of brittleness.

"April 30. We have continued our paper-making experiments, and find that a longer bath in a weaker solution of lye has the same effect on the ink, and is less injurious to the fiber of the paper.

Philip has burned a lot of holes in one of the cracker-boxes, in which we place the leaves, leaving them to soak in the running water."

Thus it turned out that the dangerous envelop, by a freak of the sportive wind, was made to play an important part in the economy of the exiles, while the cask of gold stood neglected in the corner, and the summer of 1865 began with no lack of paper on which to record its events.

Both Philip and the bear had been in temporary disgrace, the one for losing the tell-tale envelop, and the other for disturbing the sacred quiet of a grave.

Both cases of misbehavior had resulted in important discoveries, but the mishap of Philip had produced such superior benefits that the bear was fairly distanced in the race.

This may have been the reason that prompted Tumbler to try his hand, or rather his paw, again, for he was a much cleverer bear than you would think to look at his small eyes and flat skull.

At any rate, one hot morning in July he put his foot in it once more, and very handsomely, too, for the benefit of his masters.

It was Philip who caught the first view of him well up on the trunk of the tallest chestnut on the plateau, which, growing in a sheltered place under the northwest hill, had not been dwarfed and twisted by the winds like its fellows higher up.

At the moment he was discovered, he was licking his paw in the most peaceful and contented way, while the air about his head was thick with a small cloud of angry bees, darting furiously among the limbs and thrusting their hot stings into his shaggy coat, seeming to disturb him no more than one small gnat can disturb an ox.

The soldiers had been deprived of sweets since the last of the sugar had been used, in the early winter, and a supply of honey would just fit the cravings of their educated taste.

Share and share alike, bear and man, was the unwritten law of Sherman Territory, and so, while Philip shouted for the ax, he began to throw clubs at Tumbler, which were so much larger and more persuasive than the stings of the bees that the bear began promptly to back his way down the trunk of the tree.

Coleman and Bromley appeared in a jiffy, casting off their jackets and rolling up their sleeves as they came.

When the chips began to fly, Tumbler sat down to watch, evidently feeling that some superior intelligence was at work for his benefit, while the stupid bees kept swarming about the hole above, except a few stray ones who had not yet got tired of burrowing into the shaggy coat of the bear, and these now turned their attention to the men and were promptly knocked down by wisps of grass in the hands of Coleman and Philip, while Bromley plied the ax.

If only they had had a supply of sulphur, by waiting until the bees were settled at night, they could have burned some in the opening made by the ax, and with the noxious fumes destroyed the last bee in the tree.

Then, too, if they had been in less of a hurry they might have waited until a frosty morning in November had benumbed the bees;

but in that case Tumbler would have eaten all the honey he could reach with his paws.

As it was, the swarm extended so low that, as soon as the ax opened the first view into the hollow trunk, the bees began to appear, and the opening had to be stuffed with grass, and a bucket of water which Philip brought did not come amiss before the chopping was done.

All this time Tumbler licked his jaws, and kept his beady eyes fixed on the top of the tree, like a good coon dog, and never stirred his stumps until, with the last blow of the ax, the old tree creaked, and swayed at the top, and fell with a great crash down the hill.

The three soldiers ran off to a safe distance as soon as the tree began to fall, while Tumbler, after regarding their flight with a look of disgust, walked deliberately into the thick of the battle, and began to crunch the dripping comb as coolly as a pig eats corn.

The brittle trunk of the old tree had split open as it fell, and for twenty feet of its length the mass of yellow honey lay exposed to the gaze of the men, while the infuriated bees darkened the air above it, and made a misty halo about the head of the happy bear.

The happiness of Tumbler was not altogether uninterrupted, for the soldiers drove him off now and again with sticks and stones; but however far he retired from the tree, he was surrounded and defended by such an army of bees that it was quite out of the question to capture him.

There was no end of the honey; but the worst of it was, the bear was eating the whitest and newest of the combs, and when at last his greedy appetite was satisfied, and he came of his own accord to the house, he brought such disagreeable company with him that the soldiers got out through the door and windows as best they could, leaving him in undisputed possession--very much as his lamented mother had held the fort on that night when her little cub, Tumbler, had slept in the ashes the year before.

[Illustration: "THEY DROVE HIM OFF WITH STICKS AND STONES."

] There was nothing else to be done but to walk about for the rest of the day; for until nightfall there was a line of bees from the house to the tree.

The soldiers secured the bear by closing the door and windows, but it was not yet clear how they could obtain the honey.

Coleman and Bromley were city-bred, but Philip had been brought up in the country, and he had received some other things from his uncle besides kicks and cuffs and a knowledge of how to run a mill.

He remembered the row of hives under the cherry-trees beyond the race, and how the new swarms had come out, and been sawed off with the limbs in great bunches, or called out of the air by drumming on tin pans, and how at last they had been enticed into a hive sprinkled inside with sweetened water.

So, under Philip's directions, a section of a hollow log was prepared, covered at the top and notched at the bottom, and pierced with cross-sticks to support the comb.

As a temporary bench for it to rest upon, they blocked up against the back wall of the house the oak slab, which they no longer respected as a gravestone.

After it became quite dark, the bees had so far settled that a few broken pieces of honeycomb, which had been tossed off into the grass from the falling tree, were secured to sweeten the new hive, and it was finally propped up on the rubber poncho in front of the thickest bunch of bees.

Tumbler was kept a close prisoner in the house, and early the next morning the bees began crowding after their queen into their new house, and by the afternoon they were carrying in the honey and wax on their legs.

So it was the second night after cutting the bee-tree before the soldiers removed the hive, wrapped about with a blanket, to the bench behind the house, and got access to the honey in the broken log.

There was so much of it that, after filling every dish they could spare, they were forced to empty the gold on to the earthen floor, and fill the cask with some of the finest of the combs.

What remained was given up to the bear and the bees, who got on more pleasantly together than you can think; and in time they cleaned out the old log and scoured the wood as if they had been so many housemaids.

During the remainder of the summer the gold lay neglected in the corner together with certain wilted potatoes and fat pine-knots and the sweepings of the floor.

If a shining coin turned up now and then in some unexpected place, it doubtless served to remind Coleman how handy these small tokens of exchange might be if there were any other person in all their world of whom they could buy an iron pot or an onion; or it may have suggested to the clever brain of Bromley some scheme of utilizing the pile as raw material.

Worthless as the gold was in its present form, in the hands of the soldiers so fertile of resource and so clever in devices to accomplish their ends, it was not possible for so much good metal to remain altogether useless.

They soon saw that, if they had the appliances of a forge, they could tip their wooden spades with gold, and make many dishes and household goods.

So after the harvest they set to work in good earnest to build a smithy, and equip it in all respects as well as their ingenuity and limited resources would permit.

The first thing they did was to dig a charcoal pit, into which they piled several cords of dry chestnut wood, setting the sticks on end in a conical heap.

Over this they placed a layer of turf and a thick outer covering of earth, leaving an opening at the top.

Several holes for air were pierced about the base of the heap, and then some fat pine-knots which had been laid in about the upper opening, or chimney, were set on fire.

These burned briskly at first, and then died down to a wreath of smoke, which was left to sweat the wood for three days, after which the holes at the base were stopped and others made half-way up the pile.

Late in November the dry, warm earth about the charcoal pit was a favorite resort of Tumbler, and he tried several times to dig into the smoldering mass, with results more amusing to the soldiers and less satisfactory to himself than those of any digging he had ever tried before.

When the smoke ceased to come out of these holes at the sides, they were closed up and others pierced lower down, and so on until the process was complete.

While this slow combustion was going on, a pen was built about the fireplace of the old hut and filled in with earth to a convenient height for the forge.

The flue was narrowed down to a small opening for the proper draft, and a practical pumping-bellows, made of two pointed slabs of wood and the last rubber blanket, was hung in place.

Besides nailing, the edges were made air-tight with a mixture of pitch and tarry sediment from the bottom of the charcoal pit, and the first nozzle of the bellows was a stick of elder, which was very soon replaced by a neat casting of gold.

Bromley was the smith, and his first pincers were rather weak contrivances of platted wire; but after half the barrel of one of the carbines had with the head of the hatchet been hammered out on a smooth stone into a steel plate to cover their small anvil-block, it was possible to make of the iron that remained a few serviceable tools.

[Illustration: MAKING A HUNDRED-DOLLAR CASTER.

] While they now had good reason to be sorry that the gold was not iron, they were thankful for their providential supply of the softer metal, and Bromley toiled and smelted and hammered and welded and riveted, in the smoke of the forge and the steam of the water-vat, and turned out little golden conveniences that would have made a barbaric king or a modern millionaire green with envy.

So it came about that, poor as they were, the three exiled soldiers, without friends or country they could call their own, sat on three-legged stools shod with hundred-dollar casters, and drank spring-water from massy golden cups fit for the dainty lips of a princess.

CHAPTER XIV WHICH GIVES A NEARER VIEW OF THE NEIGHBOR CALLED "SHIFLESS"

With the events which closed the last chapter the three soldiers had been more than a year on the mountain.

They had become thoroughly settled in their delusion, and more contented in their way of living than they would have thought it possible, in the beginning, ever to become.

The long war had come to an end in a way of its own, and without any regard for the messages flagged from Upper Bald.

The soldiers of both armies had been disbanded, and the good news had found its way into the mountain settlements at about the time the bear had discovered the bee-tree.

Far and near the Union outliers had come in from their hiding-places among the rocks, and were gradually settling their differences with their Confederate neighbors, in which delicate process there was just enough shooting to prevent peace from settling too abruptly among the mountains.

In Cashiers valley there was scarcely any difference of opinion, and the old postmaster in the Cove, who had attended strictly to his duties and never spied on his neighbors, was not molested under the new order of things, or even deprived of his office.

On the very evening when the fires were first lighted under the charcoal pit, it happened that two men were driving along a stony road which led into the valley over a spur of Little Terrapin.

All day the rain had been falling steadily, and the team showed unmistakable signs of weariness, the sodden ears of the mule flapping dejectedly outward, and the steer halting to rest on every shelf of the descent, as the light wagon creaked and splashed down the mountain in full view of the wooded face of old Whiteside, now relieved boldly against a twilight sky which showed signs of clearing.

The two men sat crouched on the wet seat, with a border of sodden bedquilt showing under their rubber coats, their wool hats dripping down their shining backs, and the barrels of their guns pointing to right and left out of the dry embrace in which the locks rested.

As they mounted the next ridge, the major was getting a little comfort out of a spluttering pipe, and Sandy was looking hopefully between the horns of the steer at the patch of clearing sky.

"There's some humans a-outlyin' on old Whiteside to-night," said Sandy.

"I 'lowed them critters had all come in."

"What yer talkin' 'bout?"

growled the major.

"I'm a-sayin'," said the other, "that there's somebody campin' on the mountain.

It 'pears to be gone now, but I certainly seen a light up thar."

The major only grunted as if the matter were of no consequence, and then both relapse into silence as the creaking wheels jolt over the rocks and grind down the mountain behind the bracing cattle.

The form of the steer grows whiter in the gathering darkness.

The men are evidently familiar with the country, for presently they turn off the big road into a cart-track, the sides of the wagon brushing against the dripping bushes as they push through the darkness with the fewest possible words.

Now and then they see a light in the settlement, glimmering damply through the trees, and dancing and disappearing before them, as the wagon lurches and rolls upon the weary animals struggling for a foothold on the shelving rocks.

At last they trot out on a sandy level and pass a log barn, where a group of men are playing cards by a fire.

A little farther on a low line of lights becomes a row of windows casting a ruddy glow under the dripping trees, and shining out upon the very wood-pile where, according to Philip, the man he had named "Shifless" was wont to sit and watch the milking.

"Hello, inside!"

cried the major, hailing the house.

"Is Elder Long to home?"

"Well, he ain't fur off," replied a tall woman in a calico sunbonnet and a homespun gown, who came out on the side porch, shading her eyes with her hand.

"Jest light out o' yer hack an' come in to the fire, an' I'll carry the critters round to the stable."

Sandy and the major clambered out of the wagon upon the chip dirt, with a polite inquiry after the news, to which the woman, as she seated herself on the bedquilt and gathered up the reins, replied that "the best news she knowed of was that the war was done ended."

The travelers walked stiffly into the house, carrying their guns, besides which the major held a cow-skin knapsack by the straps, which he dropped on the floor inside the door.

Both men said "Howdy" as they stalked over to the fireplace, peering from under their hats at the shadowy forms of a number of women sitting in the uncertain light, who answered "Howdy" in return; and then, while the men took off their rubber coats, one woman, bolder than the others, stirred the fire and thrust a pine-knot behind the backlog.

Presently the ruddy flames leaped up in the stone chimney and picked out the brass buttons on two butternut-and-gray uniforms, and revealed the faces of the women, evidently not over-pleased at what they saw.

There was an awkward silence in the room for a moment, and then a tall man entered, followed by two others, and then a party of three.

Each man carried his gun, and each said "Howdy," to which the strangers responded; but the conversation showed no signs of being general until the elder came in, unarmed, as became his peaceful calling.

His gun and powder-horn, however, were handy in a rack over the door, and as soon as his benevolent face appeared in the firelight the man Sandy advanced from the corner behind the chimney and held out his hand.

"Ye may have disremembered me, elder, in three years' time," said Sandy, rather sheepishly.

"I hain't forgot ye," said the elder, gravely, stepping back a pace and crossing his hands behind his back.

"I hain't forgot ye.

Been in the Confederate army, I reckon,"--at which remark there was a rustle among the elder's friends and a murmur from the women.

"Jes so," said Sandy, not at all disturbed by his cold reception; "an' likewise my friend the major--Major McKinney."

"Sir to you," said the major, with a wave of his hand.

"We're a-studyin'," said Sandy, "'bout campin' down in this yer valley--" "We're all o' one mind here, Sandy Marsh," exclaimed.

Mrs. Long, who had come in from the stable.

"We're Union to a man."

"That's what we be in Cashiers," snapped one of the neighbors, who was fondling his gun; and then there followed a little movement of boots and rifle-stocks on the floor, which caused the major to get upon his feet with the intention of making an explanation.

There was a hostile flash in his eye, however, which Elder Long observed, and stretching out his long arm, he pointed to the major's chair.

"Now set down, comrade, do," said the elder, and then, to the others: "These two men are my guests to-night.

They'll have the best that the house affords, an' ye'd better be layin' the supper-table, mother.

We'll feed them an' their critters, an' welcome, an' when day comes they'll move on.

Like mother put hit, we're of one way of thinkin' in Cashiers.

No offense, gentlemen, but hit's plumb certain we shouldn't agree."

Under the advice of the elder, the men stacked their weapons together, the long rifles with the army guns; and after supper was over the whole party returned to the fire in an amiable and talkative mood, but with a perfect understanding that the two Confederates would move on in the morning.

This point having been settled, the travelers were listened to with the interest the stranger always receives in remote settlements where new faces and new ideas seldom come; and the men of the valley, who had been sullen and suspicious before they had broken bread, now laughed at the droll adventures of the major and vied with him in story-telling on their own account.

The women had mostly been silent listeners up to the time when Sandy mentioned the light he had seen on the crest of Whiteside Mountain, as they came over Little Terrapin.

The major hastened to express a doubt of his companion having seen anything of the kind, which the other as stoutly contended he had seen with his eyes open, and that the light was not lightning or a stray star among the trees, but real fire.

"Ye needn't waste time studyin' 'bout that light, Sandy Marsh," said Mrs. Long, throwing the last stick on the fire, which was only a heap of glowing embers.

"'T ain't worth the candle, since everybody in Cashiers knows that mountain is harnted."

"And has been ever since the little old man died up thar all by hisself," chimed in little Miss Bennett.

"I ain't a great believer in harnts," said the elder, "but if you viewed anything like fire up thar, hit certainly wa'n't built by human hands, for there ain't no possible way for a human to git there."

"There's the bridge Josiah Woodring built," Sandy ventured to say.

"I crossed over to hit myself once afore the war-time."

"Hit fell into the gorge of its own weight an' rottenness, more 'n a year back," said the elder, "an' hit's certain that no man has set foot on the top of Whiteside since."

The fresh stick, which was only a branch, burned up and threw a flickering light on the grave faces about the shadowy room, in the midst of a general silence which was broken by the harsh voice of the mistress of the house.

"Hit's obleeged to be the harnts, an' comes 'long o' the bones o' the little old man not havin' had Christian burial up yonder."

"You see," said the elder, "his takin' off wa'n't regular, bein' altogether unbeknownst, otherwise I'd 'a' seen he had gospel service said over him that would 'a' left him layin' easy in his grave."

"Which hit stands to reason he can't do now," put in Mrs. Long, "under that heathen inscription they do say is writ on his headstone.

If he really wanted to be forgot, he'd better left word with Jo-siah to bury him without so much as markin' the place; an' everybody knows that unmarked graves holds uneasy spirits."

"Accordin' to that doctrine, Mis' Long," said the major, "whole regiments of harnts 'u'd be marchin' an' counter-marchin' over some battle-fields I know."

"'T ain't them that has plenty o' company that gits lonely an' uneasy," replied the woman, very promptly, "but such as lays by themselves on the tops of the mountains or anywheres in the unknown kentry."

"Old Whiteside hain't never brought luck to anybody that owned hit," said a piping voice from a niche behind the fireplace, where Granny White sat in her accustomed rocker.

The old woman was the mother of the mistress of the house, and an authority far and near on all things supernatural.

Her white frilled cap was just visible behind the stones of the jamb, and even the strangers listened with respect to what she had to say, in the ghostly silence and in the half-light of the dying embers.

"I've lived in the shadder of hit for eighty year, an' ther' ain't many that's been atop o' old Whiteside.

Arter Josiah built the bridge, the Hooper horned critters lay across the gorge one summer, an' two o' the best cows lost their calves.

That must 'a' been in '50. Hay, Larkin, son--'50, wa'n't hit?"

"That's true, Aunt Lucy," said the elder; "an' a great mystery hit was at the time.

Some suspicioned that the little old man might 'a' killed 'em for meat, but such of us as went up found his cabin empty, an' we could no more find him than if he had been a harnt hisself."

This statement was received in silence, which was presently broken by the garrulous voice of the old woman.

"Woe!

woe!

unto them that ventures onto the dangerous mountains.

The last man knowed to have set foot on Whiteside was Hiram Kitchen, an' let me tell ye the harnts had a hand in burnin' Hiram Kitchen's cabin on Christmas day an' totin' him off along with his prisoners.

Hit was a plain judgment ag'in' disbelief.

Hay, Larkin, son?

You're l'arned in Scripture."

The elder only gazed at the feathery embers.

"Wherever the old man o' the mountain is a-layin'," continued granny, "he ain't restin' easy, an' ther' might be a reason for hit, too.

He had plenty o' silver--plenty o' silver."

Her voice sank to a husky whisper.

"An' hit's a monstrous lonely place up yonder--somebody might 'a' murdered him.

Hay, Larkin, son?

Somebody might 'a' done that."

The old woman's words had a powerful effect on the simple crowd assembled in the shadowy room.

They were prone to superstitious beliefs; and if the two strangers, who had seen more of the world and had fought in real battles, were less impressed than the others, they kept a discreet silence, in which the elder rose to his feet and uttered the evening prayer, not forgetting to ask that they might be guarded from unseen enemies and from invisible dangers.

In the morning, after the two Confederates had driven away with their mule-and-ox team in search of a more congenial neighborhood, the elder seated himself on the woodpile to smoke his morning pipe and watch the milking.

"Mother," said he, after a while, when his wife came forward between the well-filled pails, "I don't believe in harnts burnin' houses, but thar must 'a' been some spirit information pre-ju-dicial to Hiram Kitchen that I never could git through my head.

The last thing I did afore I rode off to preach Granny Taylor's funeral sermon was to go up on the hill yonder an' satisfy myself that everything was quiet around Hiram's. I never let on to the postmaster that there was any Yankee prisoners around, an' if he knew of hit, he kept hit to hisself.

Hit certainly looks, mother, as if the spirits had a hand in hit, an' a bad business hit was."

"That's hit, Larkin, son," said Aunt Lucy, who leaned on her staff by the fence among the great purple cabbage-heads.

"When there's mischief goin' on ye can depend on hit the harnts has a hand in hit.

An' hit's a fair mountain, too," she continued, shading her eyes with her hand and gazing up at the wooded mass of Whiteside, behind which the sun was rising.

"Hit's fair to view, an' innocent-appearin', but there's few has set foot on the top o' hit."

The mountain, which harbored no spirits other than the guileless souls of the three deluded soldiers, was indeed fair to look upon, towering above its fellows and above the sweet valley of Cashiers.

A curtain of purple haze softened the rich greens of the forest which clothed the mountain on the valley side, and now, after the rain, white clouds of vapor were beginning to puff out as if huge concealed boilers were generating steam behind the trees.