A Pagan of the Hills | Page 2

other's
face and since comment seemed expected he conceded, "There seems
to be a germ of reason in that."
"Then ther boy commenced growin' up, lazy-like an' shiftless,"
enlightened the parson. "Ther old man 'lowed thet hit wouldn't hardly
be no fallacy ter name him Lizzie or Lake Erie, but he swore on a hull
stack of Bibles thet he aimed ter make a man of ther gal."
Suddenly the speaker broke off and his brow clouded. Following the
apprehensive direction of the frowning eyes as one might follow a
dotted line the man from the city saw a young mountaineer
surreptitiously tilting a flask to his lips in the lee of a huge boulder.
Palpably the drinker believed himself screened from view, and when he
had wiped the neck of the flask with the palm of his hand and stowed it
away again in his breast pocket he looked furtively about him--and that
furtiveness was unusual enough to elicit surprise in this land where

men drank openly and made moonshine whiskey and even gave it to
their small children.
"Since ther time of corn drappin' an' kiverin'," said the Parson, slowly,
"Bud Sellers hain't teched a dram afore now. Hit don't pleasure me
none ter see him startin' in afresh."
"He's been working hard," suggested the timber buyer tolerantly. "I've
watched him and he never seems to tire. Maybe he felt the need of a
stimulant."
But Acup growled. "When Bud leaves licker alone thar hain't no better
boy nowhars. When he follers drinking he gits p'izen mean right down
to ther marrer in his insidest bone. Folks calls him ther mad-dog then.
Ef these men finds out he's drinkin', they'll quit work an' scatter like
pa'tridges does when they sees a hawk flutterin' overhead."
The loose-jointed giant turned on his heel and left Brent standing alone.
Snow after snow had fallen this winter and frozen tight, heaped high by
blizzard after blizzard until all the legendary "old fashioned winters"
had been outdone and put to shame. Then without warning had come
some warm breath across the peaks bringing January rains on the heels
of zero frigidity and thaws of unprecedented swiftness. While the
"spring-tide" was to have been an agency of safe delivery for the felled
timber this premature flood threatened to be a lawless one of
devastation. Brent had rushed up here from the city driven by anxiety
as to the logs he had contracted to buy--logs which the oncoming flood
threatened to ravish into scattered and racing drift. He had found old
man McGivins toiling without sleep or rest; racing against the
gathering cohorts of a Nature turned vandal, and into the fight and
stress he had thrown himself and all his energies.
That there was even the slimmest of chances to save the poplar, was a
fact due to a peculiar conformation of the levels there, and to
exceptional circumstances.
"Gin'rally we just rolls ther logs down hill when we cuts 'em an' lets
'em lay thar whar they falls in ther creek beds," McGivins had

explained. "Afore ther spring tide comes on with ther thaws an' rains,
we builds a splash dam back of 'em an' when we're ready we blows her
out an' lets 'em float on down ter ther nighest boom fer raftin'. Ef a
flood like this comes on they gits scattered, an' we jest kisses 'em
good-bye. Thet's happenin' right now all along these numerous small
creeks."
But McGivins had cut his timber near a river that could float not only
loose logs but rafts, and in a small lake-like basin hemmed in by cliffs
and separated by a gorge from the river he had gathered them and
bound them into three large rafts. Only such a stage as came with the
"tide" would convert the gorge into a water-way out, and only then wen
the great dam built across it had been dynamited.
Now came this flood, infinitely more powerful than the ordinary rise of
spring. The dam was threatened and must be strengthened and raised
higher. If it gave way, he too must "kiss his logs good-bye."
As the city man speculated on the odds against him Old Man McGivins
himself materialized at his elbow. His lips were tight-set and his brow
was furrowed. For him the situation savored of impending tragedy.
These trees had been reluctantly felled from a virgin tract of forest
heretofore unscarred by the axe, and they had been his long-hoarded
treasure. He had held on to them much as a miser holds to his savings
because he loved them. Even when Brent had offered a good price,
running well into thousands, he had wrestled with himself. When the
axes had rung and the saws whined through the scarlet and golden
autumn, it had almost seemed