The Young Mountaineers | Page 8

he reached a dark little log house, above which towered a flaring
yellow hickory tree.
Within, ranged on benches, were homespun-clad mountain children. A
high-shouldered, elderly man sat at a table near the deep fireplace,
where a huge backlog was smouldering. Through the cobwebbed
window-panes the mists looked in.
Ike did not speak as he stood on the threshold, but his greedy glance at
the scholars' books enlightened the pedagogue. "Do you want to come
to school?" he asked.
Then the boy's long-cherished grievance burst forth. "They hev tole me
ez how it air agin the law, bein' ez I lives out'n the deestric'."
The teacher elevated his grizzled eyebrows, and Ike said, "I kem hyar
ter ax ye ef that be a true word. I 'lowed ez mebbe my dad tole me that
word jes' ter hender me, an' keep me at the forge. It riles me powerful
ter hev ter be an ignorunt all my days."
To a stranger, this reflection on his "dad" seemed unbecoming. The
teacher's sympathy ebbed. He looked severely at the boy's pale, anxious
face, as he coldly said that he could teach no pupils who resided outside
his school district, except out of regular school hours, and with a charge
for tuition.
Ike Hooden had no money. He nodded suddenly in farewell, the door
closed, and when the schoolmaster, in returning compassion, opened it
after him, and peered out into the impenetrable mist, the boy was
nowhere to be seen. He had taken his despair by the hand, and together
they went down, down into the depths of Poor Valley.
He stood so sorely in need of a little kindness that he felt grateful for

the friendly aspect of his stepbrother, whom he met just before he
reached the shop.
"'Pears like ye air toler'ble late a-gittin' home, Ike," said Jube. "I done
ye the favior ter feed the critters. I 'lowed ez ye would do ez much fur
me some day. I'll feed 'em agin in the mornin', ef ye'll forge me three
lenks ter my trace-chain ter-night, arter dad hev gone home."
Now this broad-faced, sandy-haired, undersized boy, who was two or
three years younger than Ike, and not strong enough for work at the
anvil, was a great tactician. It was his habit, in doing a favor, rigorously
to exact a set-off, and that night when the blacksmith had left the shop,
Jube slouched in.
The flare of the forge-fire illumined with a fitful flicker the dark
interior, showing the rod across the corner with its jingling weight of
horseshoes, a ploughshare on the ground, the barrel of water, the low
window, and casting upon the wall a grotesque shadow of Jube's
dodging figure as he began to ply the bellows.
Presently he left off, the panting roar ceased, the hot iron was laid on
the anvil, and his dodging image on the wall was replaced by an
immense shadow of Ike's big right arm as he raised it. The blows fell
fast; the sparks showered about. All the air was ajar with the resonant
clamor of the hammer, and the anvil sang and sang, shrill and clear.
When the iron was hammered cold, Jube broke the momentary silence.
"I hev got," he droned, as if he were reciting something made familiar
by repetition, "two roosters, 'leven hens, an' three pullets."
There was a long pause, and then he chanted, "One o' the roosters air a
Dominicky."
He walked over to the anvil and struck it with a small bit of metal
which he held concealed in his hand.
"I hev got two shoats, a bag o' dried peaches, two geese, an' I'm tradin'
with mam fur a gayn-der."

He quietly slipped the small bit of shining metal in his pocket.
"I hev got," he droned, waxing very impressive, "a red heifer."
Ike paused meditatively, his hammer in his hand. A new hope was
dawning within him. He knew what was meant by Jube, who often
recited the list of his possessions, seeking to rouse enough envy to
induce Ike to exchange for the "lay out" his interest in a certain gray
mare.
Now the mare really belonged to Ike, having come to him from his
paternal grandfather. This was all of value that the old man had left; for
the deserted log hut, rotting on another bleak waste farther down in
Poor Valley, was worth only a sigh for the home that it once
was,--worth, too, perhaps, the thanks of those it sheltered now, the rat
and the owl.
The mare had worked for Pearce Tallam in the plough, under the saddle,
and in the wagon all the years since. But one day, when the boy fell
into a rage,--for he, too, had a difficult temper,--and declared that he
would sell