The Heart of the Hills | Page 3

spur. In time her mother had died, and in time her father, Steve, had
begun slouching over the spur to court the widow--his cousin's widow,
Martha Hawn. Straightway the fact had caused no little gossip up and
down both creeks, good-natured gossip at first, but, now that the
relations between the two clans were once more strained, there was
open censure, and on that day when all the men of both factions had
gone to the county-seat, the boy knew that Steve Hawn had stayed at
home for no other reason than to make his visit that day secret; and the
lad's brain, as he strode ahead of his silent little companion, was busy
with the significance of what was sure to come.
At the mouth of the branch, the two came upon a road that also ran
down to the river, but they kept on close to the bank of the stream
which widened as they travelled--the boy striding ahead without
looking back, the girl following like a shadow. Still again they crossed
the road, where it ran over the foot of the spur and turned down into a
deep bowl filled to the brim with bush and tree, and there, where a wide
pool lay asleep in thick shadow, the lad pulled forth the ball of earth
and worms from his pocket, dropped them with the fishing-pole to the
ground, and turned ungallantly to his bow and arrow. By the time he
had strung it, and had tied one end of the string to the shaft of the arrow
and the other about his wrist, the girl had unwound the coarse
fishing-line, had baited her own hook, and, squatted on her heels, was
watching her cork with eager eyes; but when the primitive little hunter
crept to the lower end of the pool, and was peering with Indian caution
into the depths, her eyes turned to him.
"Watch out thar!" he called, sharply.
Her cork bobbed, sank, and when, with closed eyes, she jerked with all
her might, a big shining chub rose from the water and landed on the
bank beside her. She gave a subdued squeal of joy, but the boy's face
was calm as a star. Minnows like that were all right for a girl to catch
and even for him to eat, but he was after game for a man. A moment

later he heard another jerk and another fish was flopping on the bank,
and this time she made no sound, but only flashed her triumphant eyes
upon him. At the third fish, she turned her eyes for approval--and got
none; and at the fourth, she did not look up at all, for he was walking
toward her.
"You air skeerin' the big uns," he said shortly, and as he passed he
pulled his Barlow knife from his pocket and dropped it at her feet. She
rose obediently, and with no sign of protest began gathering an
apronful of twigs and piling them for a fire. Then she began scraping
one of the fish, and when it was cleaned she lighted the fire. The blaze
crackled merrily, the blue smoke rose like some joyous spirit loosed for
upward flight, and by the time the fourth fish was cleaned, a little bed
of winking coals was ready and soon a gentle sizzling assailed the boy's
ears, and a scent made his nostrils quiver and set his stomach
a-hungering. But still he gave no sign of interest--even when the little
girl spoke at last:
"Dinner's ready."
He did not look around, for he had crouched, his body taut from head to
foot, and he might have been turned suddenly to stone for all the sign
of life he gave, and the little girl too was just as motionless. Then she
saw the little statue come slowly back to quivering life. She saw the
bow bend, the shaft of the arrow drawing close to the boy's paling
cheek, there was a rushing hiss through the air, a burning hiss in the
water, a mighty bass leaped from the convulsed surface and shot to the
depths again, leaving the headless arrow afloat. The boy gave one sharp
cry and lapsed into his stolid calm again.
The little girl said nothing, for there is no balm for the tragedy of the
big fish that gets away. Slowly he untied the string from his reddened
wrist and pulled the arrow in. Slowly he turned and gazed indifferently
at the four crisp fish on four dry twigs with four pieces of corn pone
lying on the grass near them, and the little girl squatting meekly and
waiting, as the woman should for her working lord. With his Barlow
knife he slowly speared a corn pone, picking up a fish with the