The Crossing [29]
He made a vicious dash at me that boded no good, but I slipped behind the hominy block; and Polly Ann, who was like a panther on her feet, dashed at him and gave him a buffet in the cheek that sent him reeling again.
After that we were more devoted friends than ever.
We travelled slowly, day by day, until I saw the mountains lift blue against the western sky, and the sight of them was like home once more. I loved them; and though I thought with sadness of my father, I was on the whole happier with Polly Ann than I had been in the lonely cabin on the Yadkin. Her spirits flagged a little as she drew near home, but old Mr. Ripley's rose.
``There's Burr's,'' he would say, ``and O'Hara's and Williamson's,'' marking the cabins set amongst the stump- dotted corn-fields. ``And thar,'' sweeping his hand at a blackened heap of logs lying on the stones, ``thar's whar Nell Tyler and her baby was sculped.''
``Poor Nell,'' said Polly Ann, the tears coming into her eyes as she turned away.
``And Jim Tyler was killed gittin' to the fort. He can't say I didn't warn him.''
``I reckon he'll never say nuthin', now,'' said Polly Ann.
It was in truth a dismal sight,--the shapeless timbers, the corn, planted with such care, choked with weeds, and the poor utensils of the little family scattered and broken before the door-sill. These same Indians had killed my father; and there surged up in my breast that hatred of the painted race felt by every backwoods boy in my time.
Towards the end of the day the trace led into a beautiful green valley, and in the middle of it was a stream shining in the afternoon sun. Then Polly Ann fell entirely silent. And presently, as the shadows grew purple, we came to a cabin set under some spreading trees on a knoll where a woman sat spinning at the door, three children playing at her feet. She stared at us so earnestly that I looked at Polly Ann, and saw her redden and pale. The children were the first to come shouting at us, and then the woman dropped her wool and ran down the slope straight into Polly Ann's arms. Mr. Ripley halted the horses with a grunt.
The two women drew off and looked into each other's faces. Then Polly Ann dropped her eyes.
``Have ye--?'' she said, and stopped.
``No, Polly Ann, not one word sence Tom and his Pa went. What do folks say in the settlements?''
Polly Ann turned up her nose.
``They don't know nuthin' in the settlements,'' she replied.
``I wrote to Tom and told him you was gone,'' said the older woman. ``I knowed he'd wanter hear.''
And she looked meaningly at Polly Ann, who said nothing. The children had been pulling at the girl's skirts, and suddenly she made a dash at them. They scattered, screaming with delight, and she after them.
``Howdy, Mr. Ripley?'' said the woman, smiling a little.
``Howdy, Mis' McChesney?'' said the old man, shortly.
So this was the mother of Tom, of whom I had heard so much. She was, in truth, a motherly-looking person, her fleshy face creased with strong character.
``Who hev ye brought with ye?'' she asked, glancing at me.
``A lad Polly Ann took a shine to in the settlements,'' said the old man. ``Polly Ann! Polly Ann!'' he cried sharply, ``we'll hev to be gittin' home.'' And then, as though an afterthought (which it really was not), he added, ``How be ye for salt, Mis' McChesney?''
``So-so,'' said she.
``Wal, I reckon a little might come handy,'' said he. And to the girl who stood panting beside him, ``Polly, give Mis' McChesney some salt.''
Polly Ann did, and generously,--the salt they had carried with so much labor threescore and ten miles from the settlements. Then we took our departure, the girl turning for one last look at Tom's mother, and at the cabin where he had dwelt. We were all silent the rest of the way, climbing the slender trail through the forest over the gap into the next valley. For I was jealous of Tom. I am not ashamed to own it now.
In the smoky haze that rises just before night lets her curtain fall, we descended the farther slope, and
After that we were more devoted friends than ever.
We travelled slowly, day by day, until I saw the mountains lift blue against the western sky, and the sight of them was like home once more. I loved them; and though I thought with sadness of my father, I was on the whole happier with Polly Ann than I had been in the lonely cabin on the Yadkin. Her spirits flagged a little as she drew near home, but old Mr. Ripley's rose.
``There's Burr's,'' he would say, ``and O'Hara's and Williamson's,'' marking the cabins set amongst the stump- dotted corn-fields. ``And thar,'' sweeping his hand at a blackened heap of logs lying on the stones, ``thar's whar Nell Tyler and her baby was sculped.''
``Poor Nell,'' said Polly Ann, the tears coming into her eyes as she turned away.
``And Jim Tyler was killed gittin' to the fort. He can't say I didn't warn him.''
``I reckon he'll never say nuthin', now,'' said Polly Ann.
It was in truth a dismal sight,--the shapeless timbers, the corn, planted with such care, choked with weeds, and the poor utensils of the little family scattered and broken before the door-sill. These same Indians had killed my father; and there surged up in my breast that hatred of the painted race felt by every backwoods boy in my time.
Towards the end of the day the trace led into a beautiful green valley, and in the middle of it was a stream shining in the afternoon sun. Then Polly Ann fell entirely silent. And presently, as the shadows grew purple, we came to a cabin set under some spreading trees on a knoll where a woman sat spinning at the door, three children playing at her feet. She stared at us so earnestly that I looked at Polly Ann, and saw her redden and pale. The children were the first to come shouting at us, and then the woman dropped her wool and ran down the slope straight into Polly Ann's arms. Mr. Ripley halted the horses with a grunt.
The two women drew off and looked into each other's faces. Then Polly Ann dropped her eyes.
``Have ye--?'' she said, and stopped.
``No, Polly Ann, not one word sence Tom and his Pa went. What do folks say in the settlements?''
Polly Ann turned up her nose.
``They don't know nuthin' in the settlements,'' she replied.
``I wrote to Tom and told him you was gone,'' said the older woman. ``I knowed he'd wanter hear.''
And she looked meaningly at Polly Ann, who said nothing. The children had been pulling at the girl's skirts, and suddenly she made a dash at them. They scattered, screaming with delight, and she after them.
``Howdy, Mr. Ripley?'' said the woman, smiling a little.
``Howdy, Mis' McChesney?'' said the old man, shortly.
So this was the mother of Tom, of whom I had heard so much. She was, in truth, a motherly-looking person, her fleshy face creased with strong character.
``Who hev ye brought with ye?'' she asked, glancing at me.
``A lad Polly Ann took a shine to in the settlements,'' said the old man. ``Polly Ann! Polly Ann!'' he cried sharply, ``we'll hev to be gittin' home.'' And then, as though an afterthought (which it really was not), he added, ``How be ye for salt, Mis' McChesney?''
``So-so,'' said she.
``Wal, I reckon a little might come handy,'' said he. And to the girl who stood panting beside him, ``Polly, give Mis' McChesney some salt.''
Polly Ann did, and generously,--the salt they had carried with so much labor threescore and ten miles from the settlements. Then we took our departure, the girl turning for one last look at Tom's mother, and at the cabin where he had dwelt. We were all silent the rest of the way, climbing the slender trail through the forest over the gap into the next valley. For I was jealous of Tom. I am not ashamed to own it now.
In the smoky haze that rises just before night lets her curtain fall, we descended the farther slope, and