The Young Mountaineers | Page 6

more shrill.
Several minutes elapsed before Si recognized something peculiarly
familiar in the ghost's wiry nimbleness--before he realized that the
shadow of the cliff on which he stood reached across the ravine to the
base of the opposite cliff, and that the figure which had caused so much
alarm was only his own shadow cast upon its perpendicular surface.
He stopped short in those antics which had been induced by mortal
terror; of course, his shadow, too, was still instantly. It stood upon the
brink of the precipice which seems the sill of Old Daddy's Window,
and showed distinctly on the smooth face of the cliff opposite to him.
He understood, after a moment's reflection, how it was that as he had
climbed up on the ledge in the full moonlight his shadow had seemed
to rise gradually from the vague depths below the insurmountable
precipice.
He sprang nimbly upward to seize the vines that shielded him from the
observation of the ghost-seers on the cabin porch, and as he caught
them and swung himself suddenly from the moonlit ledge into the
gloomy shade, he noticed that his shadow seemed to fling its arms
wildly above its head, and disappeared upward.
"That air jes' what dad seen las' night when I war down hyar afore,
a-figurin' ter ketch that thar leetle owel," he said to himself when he
had reached the tree and sat in a crotch, panting and excited.
After a moment, regardless of the coveted owl, he swung down from
branch to branch, dropped easily from the lowest upon the ground,
picked up his hat, and prepared to skulk along the "short cut," strike the
road, and come home by that route as if he had just returned from the
settlement.
"'Kase," he argued sagely, "ef them skeered-ter-death grown folks war
ter find out ez I war the harnt--I mean ez the harnt war me--ennyhow,"
he concluded desperately, "I'd KETCH it--sure!"

So impressed was he with this idea that he discreetly held his tongue.
And from that day to this, Jonas Creyshaw and his friends have been
unable to solve the mystery of Old Daddy's Window.

'WAY DOWN IN POOR VALLEY
CHAPTER I
There was the grim Big Injun Mountain to the right, with its bare,
beetling sandstone crags. There was the long line of cherty hills to the
left, covered by a dark growth of stunted pines. Between lay that
melancholy stretch of sterility known as Poor Valley,--the poorest of
the several valleys in Tennessee thus piteously denominated, because
of the sorry contrast which they present to the rich coves and fertile
vales so usual among the mountains of the State.
How poor the soil was, Ike Hooden might bitterly testify; for ever since
he could hold a plough he had, year after year, followed the old
"bull-tongue" through the furrows of the sandy fields which lay around
the log cabin at the base of the mountain. In the intervals of "crappin'"
he worked at the forge with his stepfather, for close at hand, in the
shadow of a great jutting cliff, lurked a dark little shanty of unhewn
logs that was a blacksmith's shop.
When he first began this labor, he was, perhaps, the youngest striker
that ever wielded a sledge. Now, at eighteen, he had become expert at
the trade, and his muscles were admirably developed. He was tall and
robust, and he had never an ache nor an ill, except in his aching heart.
But his heart was sore, for in the shop he found oaths and harsh
treatment, and even at home these pursued him; while outside,
desolation was set like a seal on Poor Valley.
One drear autumnal afternoon, when the sky was dull, a dense white
mist overspread the valley. As Ike plodded up the steep mountain side,
the vapor followed him, creeping silently along the deep ravines and

chasms, till at length it overtook and enveloped him. Then only a few
feet of the familiar path remained visible.
Suddenly he stopped short and stared. A dim, distorted something was
peering at him from over the top of a big boulder. It was moving--it
nodded at him. Then he indistinctly recognized it as a tall, conical hat.
There seemed a sort of featureless face below it.
A thrill of fear crept through him. His hands grew cold and shook in his
pockets. He leaned forward, gazing intently into the thick fog.
An odd distortion crossed the vague, featureless face--like a leer,
perhaps. Once more the tall, conical hat nodded fantastically.
"Ef ye do that agin," cried Ike, in sudden anger, all his pluck coming
back with a rush, "I'll gin ye a lick ez will weld yer head an' the boulder
together!"
He lifted his clenched fist and shook it.
"Haw! haw!