Round Anvil Rock A Romance

V

ON THE WILDER­NESS ROAD

The pony fell back al­most to his haunch­es be­fore the boy could draw the reins. The two hors­es re­coiled with equal sud­den­ness and vi­olence. An un­ex­pect­ed en­counter with the un­known in the dark­ness filled even the dumb brutes with alarm, and brute and hu­man alike had rea­son to be alarmed; for this time and this place--stamped in blood on his­to­ry--marked the very height and cen­tre of the reign of ter­ror on the Wilder­ness Road.

The boy strained his ter­ri­fied gaze through the dark, but he could see noth­ing ex­cept those vague, black forms of two horse­men, loom­ing large and threat­en­ing against the lurid glow of the fur­nace fires which faint­ly lit the for­est. The men and their hors­es looked like mon­strous crea­tures, half hu­man and half beast, both as silent and mo­tion­less as him­self. He felt that they al­so were lis­ten­ing and watch­ing in tense wait­ing as he wait­ed and watched, hear­ing on­ly the fright­ened pant­ing of the hors­es and the faint rus­tle of the sable leaves over­head. And so all held for an in­stant, which seemed end­less, till a sud­den gust of wind swung the boughs and sent the glare of the fur­nace flames far and high through the for­est. The vivid flash came and went like light­ning, but it last­ed long enough for the boy to rec­og­nize one of the black shapes.

“Fa­ther!” he cried. “Fa­ther Orin!”

“Bless my soul--it's young David!” ex­claimed the priest.

There was as much re­lief in his tone as in the boy's, and he turned hasti­ly to the horse­man at his side.

“Doc­tor, this is a young friend of mine--a mem­ber of Judge Knox's fam­ily. You have heard of the judge. And, David, this is Doc­tor Col­bert. You, no doubt, have heard of him.”

David mur­mured some­thing. He had nev­er be­fore been in­tro­duced to any one; and had nev­er be­fore been so acute­ly con­scious that he had no sur­name. The doc­tor sent his horse for­ward, com­ing close to the pony's side. He held out his hand--as David felt rather than saw--and he took the boy's hand in a warm, kind clasp. It was the first time that a man had giv­en David his hand as one frank, earnest, fear­less man gives it to an­oth­er--but nev­er to a wom­an, and rarely to a boy. David did not know what it was that he felt as their hands met in the dark­ness, but he knew that the touch was like balm to his bruised pride, which had been aching so sore­ly through­out the lone­ly ride. Fa­ther Orin now rode near­er on the oth­er side, and al­though no more than the dimmest out­line of any ob­ject could be seen, the boy saw that the priest con­tin­ued to turn his head and cast back­ward glances in­to the dark for­est. When he spoke, it was in a low tone, strange­ly guard­ed and se­ri­ous for him, who was al­ways as out­spo­ken and light-​heart­ed as though his hard life of toil and self-​sac­ri­fice had been the most thought­less and hap­pi­est play.

“But how does it hap­pen that you are here, my son?” he asked, al­most in a whis­per. “I can't un­der­stand the judge's al­low­ing it. Can it be pos­si­ble that he has sent you--on busi­ness? Why--! A man isn't safe on this part of the Wilder­ness Road at night, and hard­ly at mid­day, alone. For a child like you--”

There it was again, like a blow on a bruise! The boy in­stant­ly sat high­er in the sad­dle, try­ing to look as tall as he could, and for­get­ting that no one could see. And re­ply­ing hasti­ly in his deep­est, most man­ly voice, he said scorn­ful­ly, that there was noth­ing to be afraid of with his ri­fle across the sad­dle-​bow, declar­ing proud­ly that he knew how to deal with wild beasts, should any cross his path. As for the In­di­ans, he scoffed at the idea; there were none in that coun­try, and nev­er had been any there­abouts, ex­cept as they came and went over the Shawnee Cross­ing.

“But you are mis­tak­en; the Meek boys--James and Charles--were killed on­ly a few weeks ago, just across the riv­er,” said the priest. “And they were bet­ter able to take care of them­selves than you are, my child. Come, you must turn back with us. We can­not go with you, and we must not al­low you to go on alone.”

Say­ing this, Fa­ther Orin turned his horse and moved for­ward. David made no move­ment to fol­low. Tight­en­ing the reins on the pony's neck, he did not try to turn him. Some­thing in the stiff lines of the boy's dark fig­ure told the doc­tor part of the truth. He broke in quick­ly, speak­ing not as a man speaks to a child, but as one man to an­oth­er.

“There are worse things than wild beasts or In­di­ans to be met on the Wilder­ness Road,” he said. “And the strongest and the bravest are help­less against a stab in the back, or a trap in the dark.”

David felt a sud­den wish to see the speak­er's face. He longed to see how a man looked who had a voice like that. It stirred him, and yet soothed him at the same time. Ev­ery tone of it rang clear and true, like a bell of purest met­al. All who heard it felt the strength that it sound­ed--strength of body and mind and heart and spir­it.

David fell un­der its in­flu­ence at once. He was turn­ing the pony's head when Fa­ther Orin in his anx­iety erred again.

“I am sur­prised at the judge,” the priest said. “This isn't like him--for­get­ful as he is about most things. And what are you here for, my son? Where were you go­ing?”

“The judge has noth­ing to do with my com­ing to-​night. He mere­ly told me to take this mon­ey--”

“Hush! Hush!” cried the two men in a breath. At the in­stant they pressed clos­er to the boy's side, as if the same in­stinct of pro­tec­tion moved them both at the same mo­ment. “Come on! Let's ride faster,” they said to­geth­er. “It is not so dark or so dan­ger­ous in the buf­fa­lo track.”

The pony, turn­ing sud­den­ly, pressed for­ward with the oth­er hors­es, more of his own ac­cord than with his rid­er's con­sent, and gal­lant­ly kept his place be­tween them, al­though they were soon go­ing at the top of their speed. Noth­ing more was said for sev­er­al min­utes, and then the doc­tor spoke to the boy.

“You will give us the plea­sure of your com­pa­ny all the way, I trust, sir,” he said cer­emo­ni­ous­ly, and as no one ev­er had spo­ken to David. “It is a long, lone­some ride, and my home is still far­ther off than yours.”

David mur­mured a pleased, bash­ful as­sent. They had now reached the buf­fa­lo track, which was not wide enough for the three to ride abreast. It was there­fore nec­es­sary for them to fall in­to sin­gle file, and David man­aged to get the lead. This made him feel bet­ter, and more of a man, for the dark­ness was still deep, and the black boughs over­head still hung low and heavy. Nei­ther of the horse­men spoke again for a long time af­ter en­ter­ing up­on the buf­fa­lo track. Once more the on­ly sound was the steady, muf­fled beat­ing of the hors­es' swift­ly mov­ing feet. The two men were buried in their own thoughts of du­ties and aims far be­yond the boy's un­der­stand­ing, and he was not think­ing of these silent com­pan­ions by his side--he was scarce­ly think­ing at all; he was mere­ly feel­ing. He was held un­der a spell, dumb and breath­less, en­chant­ed by the mys­tery of the wilder­ness at night.

It was so black, so beau­ti­ful, so ter­ri­ble, so sound­less, so mo­tion­less, so un­fath­omable. There was no moon. The few pale stars glim­mered dim­ly far above the dark arch­es of the trees. No bird moved among the sable branch­es, or even twit­tered in its sleep as if dis­turbed by the light, swift pass­ing of the shad­owy horse­men. No wild an­imal stirred in his un­easy rest or even breathed less deeply in his hunt­ing dreams, at the flit­ting of the shad­ows across his hid­den lair.

The mys­tery, the beau­ty, and the ter­ror went be­yond the black bor­der of the for­est. Out in the open and over the clear­ing, the mists from the swamp min­gling with the dark­ness gave ev­ery­thing a look of fan­tas­tic un­re­al­ity yet wilder than it had worn ear­li­er in the night. Dense earth-​clouds were thus massed about the base of Anvil Rock. Its black­ened peak loomed through the clouds,--a strange, wild sight, ap­par­ent­ly be­long­ing nei­ther to earth or to heav­en. But far be­yond and above was a stranger, wilder sight still; the strangest and wildest of all; one of the strangest and wildest, sure­ly, that hu­man eyes ev­er rest­ed up­on.

There across the north­ern sky sped the great comet. Come, none ev­er knew whence, and speed­ing none ev­er knew whith­er, it reached on that night--on this fif­teenth of Oc­to­ber--the sum­mit of its swift, aw­ful, arch­ing flight. It was now at the great­est of its ter­ri­ble splen­dor and ap­palling beau­ty. It was now at the very height of its bound­less in­flu­ence over the hopes and fears of the su­per­sti­tious, ro­man­tic, emo­tion­al, po­et­ic race which was strug­gling to peo­ple the wilder­ness. As it thus burst up­on the vi­sion of the three horse­men, each felt its pow­er in his own way,--the man of faith, the man of sci­ence, and the fan­ci­ful boy,--each was dif­fer­ent­ly but deeply moved. The men looked at the comet as the wise and learned of the earth look at the mar­vels of an­oth­er world. The boy gazed quiv­er­ing­ly, like a harp struck by a pow­er­ful hand. He strove to cast his fan­cies aside, and to re­mem­ber what he had heard be­fore the comet had be­come vis­ible to this coun­try. He tried vain­ly to re­call the talk about it--not the idle and fool­ish su­per­sti­tions which Miss Pene­lope had men­tioned, and which all the com­mon peo­ple be­lieved--but the sci­en­tif­ic facts so far as they were known. Yet even his imag­ina­tion failed to re­al­ize that this flam­ing head, with its strange ha­lo of dark­ness, and its hor­ri­ble hair of livid green light, was four mil­lion times greater than the earth; or that its lu­mi­nous veil--wo­ven of star-​dust so fine that oth­er stars shone through--streamed across one hun­dred mil­lion of miles, thick strewn with oth­er stars.

“Lis­ten!” cried the doc­tor. “Hear that!” A dis­tant roar­ing, like the on­com­ing of a sud­den storm, rolled up­ward from the mists and dark­ness ly­ing thick­er around the swamp.

“There it is again!” Doc­tor Col­bert went on, as if he had been wait­ing and lis­ten­ing for the sound. “There must be great ex­cite­ment at the camp-​meet­ing on this last night. Does it still in­ter­est you, Fa­ther? It does me, in­tense­ly. This is not the usu­al pe­cu­liar ex­cite­ment which seems to be­long to a crowd, though that, too, is al­ways cu­ri­ous, mys­te­ri­ous, and in­ter­est­ing. We all know well enough that for some un­known rea­son a crowd will do wild, strange, and fool­ish things, which the in­di­vid­uals com­pos­ing it would nev­er be guilty of alone. But this is some­thing en­tire­ly dif­fer­ent and still more cu­ri­ous and mys­te­ri­ous. Those peo­ple down yon­der keep this up by them­selves when they are alone--it at­tacks some of them be­fore they have ev­er seen one of the meet­ings. It is cer­tain­ly the strangest phe­nomenon of its kind that the world ev­er saw. It nev­er los­es its painful fas­ci­na­tion for me. I can't pass it by. How is it with you?”

The priest hes­itat­ed be­fore re­ply­ing. “Any form of faith--the crud­est, the most ab­surd that any soul ev­er staked its sal­va­tion up­on--must al­ways be the most in­ter­est­ing sub­ject in the world to ev­ery think­ing mind.”

“It seems so to me,” the doc­tor replied. “And I as­sure you that there is no ir­rev­er­ence in the sci­en­tif­ic cu­rios­ity which I feel in this ex­traor­di­nary epi­dem­ic of re­li­gious fren­zy; for it is cer­tain­ly some­thing of that sort. It is un­mis­tak­ably con­ta­gious. I have be­come more and more cer­tain of that as I have watched the poor wretch­es who are shriek­ing down yon­der. It is a men­tal and moral epi­dem­ic, and so high­ly con­ta­gious that it has swept the whole state, till it now sweeps the re­motest cor­ner of the wilder­ness. And it seems to have orig­inat­ed in Ken­tucky. It is some­thing pe­cu­liar­ly our own.”

“Yes,” said Fa­ther Orin, “Ken­tucky is the pi­oneer in re­li­gion, as well as pol­itics, for the whole West. But my church came first,” he added with a chuck­le. “Re­mem­ber that! The Catholics al­ways lead the way and clear up the brush, with the Methodists fol­low­ing close be­hind. I got a lit­tle the start of broth­er Pe­ter Cartwright; but that was my good luck, and not any lack of zeal on his part. And I've got to stir my stumps to keep ahead of him, I can tell you.”

“He is down there at the meet­ing to-​night, no doubt. He is its lead­ing spir­it. I should like to know what he re­al­ly thinks of it all. He is by na­ture a won­der­ful­ly in­tel­li­gent young fel­low. And what do you re­al­ly think of it, Fa­ther?” the doc­tor pressed. “Is this the same thing that has come down the ages? Is it the same that we find in the Bible--mak­ing great men and wise ones do such wild things? Is it the same that made a dig­ni­fied gen­tle­man, like David, dance--as those fa­nat­ics are do­ing down there--till he be­came a laugh­ing-​stock? Is it the same that made a sen­si­ble man like Saul join his faith to a witch and be­lieve that he saw vi­sions? And then, just re­mem­ber the scan­dalous ca­pers--even worse than the oth­ers--that the de­cent Jeremi­ah cut.”

“Tut! Tut! Tut!” ex­claimed the priest, in a voice that be­trayed a smile. “Those were holy men, my young friend. I can­not al­low them to be laughed at.”

“Oh, come now, Fa­ther, be hon­est,” said the doc­tor, laugh­ing aloud, but adding quick­ly in a se­ri­ous tone: “I am quite in earnest. What do you make of it all? I should great­ly like to have your opin­ion. Is there any­thing in the sci­ence of your pro­fes­sion to ex­plain it? There isn't in mine. The more of it I see, and the longer I study it, the far­ther I am from find­ing its source, its cause, and its re­al char­ac­ter. There! Just hear that!”

“Well, well,” said Fa­ther Orin, with a sigh of eva­sion, “if you are go­ing on to the camp-​meet­ing, To­by and I will have to leave you here. We have a sick call 'way over on the Ea­gle Creek flats. And it's a tick­lish busi­ness, go­ing over there in the dark, isn't it, old man?” he said, pat­ting his big gray horse. “The last time we went in the night the limb of a tree, that I couldn't see, dragged me from the sad­dle.” He laughed as if this were a joke on To­by or him­self, or both. “But To­by is a bet­ter swim­mer than I am. He's bet­ter at a good many things. He got me out all right that time and a good many oth­er times. He al­ways does his part of our du­ty, and nev­er lets me shirk mine, if he can help it. Well, then, we must be mov­ing along, To­by, old man.” He turned sud­den­ly to the boy. “Will you go with me, David? My way pass­es close to Cedar House.”

“Per­haps, sir, you would like to go on to the meet­ing,” said the doc­tor to David. “It would give me plea­sure to have you with me--if you pre­fer to go with me. Af­ter­ward we can ride home to­geth­er. My cab­in is not far be­yond Cedar House.”

Af­ter a lit­tle more talk it was de­cid­ed that the boy should go with the doc­tor, and the priest bade them both a cheer­ful good night.

“Now, To­by, we must be putting in our best licks. If you don't look out, old man, we will be get­ting in­to idle ways. Keep us up to the mark--right up to the mark, old man!”

And so, talk­ing to To­by, and chuck­ling as if To­by made telling replies, the good man and his good horse van­ished in the earth-​clouds round Anvil Rock. But the doc­tor and the boy sat their hors­es in mo­tion­less si­lence, lis­ten­ing to the kind, mer­ry voice and the faith­ful beat, beat, of the steady feet, till both grad­ual­ly died away be­hind the night's heavy black cur­tain.