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Frank Merriwell Down South, a novel by Burt L. Standish |
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Chapter 38. In The Mountains Again |
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_ CHAPTER XXXVIII. IN THE MOUNTAINS AGAIN Leaving their friends in Florida, Frank, Barney and the professor next moved northward toward Tennessee, Frank wishing to see some of the battlegrounds of the Civil War. The boys planned a brief tour afoot and were soon on their way among the Great Smoky Mountains. Professor Scotch had no heart for a "tour afoot" through the mountains, and so he had stopped at Knoxville, where the boys were to join him again in two or three weeks, by the end of which period he was quite sure they would have enough of tramping. Frank and Barney were making the journey from Gibson's Gap to Cranston's Cove, which was said to be a distance of twelve miles, but they were willing to admit that those mountain miles were most disgustingly long. They had paused to rest, midway in the afternoon, where the road curved around a spur of the mountain. Below them opened a vista of valleys and "coves," hemmed in by wild, turbulent-appearing masses of mountains, some of which were barren and bleak, seamed with black chasms, above which threateningly hung grimly beetling crags, and some of which were robed in dense wildernesses of pine, veiling their faces, keeping them thus forever a changeless mystery. From their eyrie position it seemed that they could toss a pebble into Lost Creek, which wound through the valley below, meandered for miles amid the ranges, tunneling an unknown channel beneath the rock-ribbed mountains, and came out again--where? Both boys had been silent and awe-stricken, gazing wonderingly on the impressive scene and thinking of their adventures in New Orleans and in Florida, when a faint cry seemed to float upward from the depths of the valley. "Help!" They listened, and some moments passed in silence, save for the peeping cry of a bird in a thicket near at hand. "Begorra! Oi belave it wur imagination, Frankie," said the Irish lad, at last. "I do not think so," declared Frank, with a shake of his head. "It was a human voice, and if we were to shout it might be---- There it is again!" There could be no doubt this time, for they both heard the cry distinctly. "It comes from below," said Frank, quickly. "Roight, me lad," nodded Barney. "Some wan is in difficulty down there, and' it's mesilf thot don't moind givin' thim a lift." Getting a firm hold on a scrub bush, Frank leaned out over the verge and looked down into the valley. "I can see her!" he cried. "Look, Barney--look down there amid those rocks just below the little waterfall." "Oi see, Frankie." "See the flutter of a dress?" "Oi do." "She is waving something at us." "Sure, me b'y." "She has seen us, and is signaling for us to come down." "And we'll go." "Instanter, as they say out West." The boys were soon hurrying down the mountain road, a bend of which quickly carried them beyond view of the person near the waterfall. It was nearly an hour later when Frank and Barney approached the little waterfall, having left the road and followed the course of the stream. "Is she there, Frankie?" anxiously asked Barney, who was behind. "Can't tell yet," was the reply. "Will be able to see in a minute, and then---- She is there, sure as fate!" In another moment they came out in full view of a girl of eighteen or nineteen, who was standing facing the waterfall, her back toward a great rock, a home-made fishing pole at her feet. The girl was dressed in homespun, the skirt being short and reaching but a little below the knees, and a calico sunbonnet was thrust half off her head. Frank paused, with a low exclamation of admiration, for the girl made a most strikingly beautiful picture, and Frank had an eye for beauty. Nearly all the mountain girls the boys had seen were stolid and flat-appearing, some were tall and lank, but this girl possessed a figure that seemed perfect in every detail. Her hair was bright auburn, brilliant and rich in tint, the shade that is highly esteemed in civilization, but is considered a defect by the mountain folk. Frank thought it the most beautiful hair he had ever seen. Her eyes were brown and luminous, and the color of health showed through the tan upon her cheeks. Her parted lips showed white, even teeth, and the mouth was most delicately shaped. "Hivvins!" gasped Barney, at Frank's shoulder. "Phwat have we struck, Oi dunno?" Then the girl cried, her voice full of impatience: "You-uns has shorely been long enough in gittin' har!" Frank staggered a bit, for he had scarcely expected to hear the uncouth mountain dialect from such lips as those but he quickly recovered, lifted his hat with the greatest gallantry, and said: "I assure you, miss, that we came as swiftly as we could." "Ye're strangers. Ef you-uns had been maounting boys, you'd been har in less'n half ther time." "I presume that is true; but, you see, we did not know the shortest way, and we were not sure you wanted us." "Wal, what did you 'low I whooped at ye fur ef I didn't want ye? I nighly split my throat a-hollerin' at ye before ye h'ard me at all." Frank was growing more and more dismayed, for he had never before met a strange girl who was quite like this, and he knew not what to say. "Now that we have arrived," he bowed, "we shall be happy to be of any possible service to you." "Dunno ez I want ye now," she returned, with a toss of her head. "Howly shmoke!" gurgled Barney, at Frank's ear. "It's a doaisy she is, me b'y!" Frank resolved to take another tack, and so he advanced, saying boldly and resolutely: "Now that you have called us down here, I don't see how you are going to get rid of us. You want something of us, and we'll not leave you till we find out what it is." The girl did not appear in the least alarmed. Instead of that, she laughed, and that laugh was like the ripple of falling water. "Wal, now you're talkin'!" she cried, with something like a flash of admiration. "Mebbe you-uns has got some backbone arter all. I like backbone." "I have not looked at mine for so long that I am not sure what condition it is in, but I know I have one." "An' muscle?" "A little." "Then move this rock har that hez caught my foot an' holds it. That's what I wanted o' you-uns." She lifted her skirt a bit, and, for the first time, they saw that her ankle had been caught between two large rocks, where she was held fast. "Kinder slomped in thar when I war fishin'," she explained, "an' ther big rock dropped over thar an' cotched me fast when I tried ter pull out. That war nigh two hour ago, 'cordin' ter ther sun." "And you have been standing like that ever since?" cried Frank, in dismay. "Lively, Barney--get hold here! Great Scott! we must have her out of that in a hurry!" "Thot's phwat we will, ur we'll turrun th' ould mountain over!" shouted the Irish lad, as he flew to the aid of his friend. The girl looked surprised and pleased, and then she said: "You-uns ain't goin' ter move that rock so easy, fer it's hefty." "But your ankle--it must have crushed your ankle." "I 'low not. Ye see it couldn't pinch harder ef it tried, fer them rocks ain't built so they kin git nigher together; but it's jest made a reg'ler trap so I can't pull my foot out." It was no easy thing for the boys to get hold of the rock in a way to exert their strength, but they finally succeeded, and then Frank gave the word, and they strained to move it. It started reluctantly, as if loath to give up its fair captive, but they moved it more and more, and she was able to draw her foot out. Then, when she was free, they let go, and the rock fell back with a grating crash against the other. "You-uns have done purty fair fer boys," said the girl, with a saucy twinkle in her brown eyes. "S'pose I'll have ter thank ye, fer I mought a stood har consider'bul longer ef 'tadn't bin fer ye. Who be ye, anyhow? an' whar be ye goin'?" Frank introduced himself, and then presented Barney, after which he explained how they happened to be in the Great Smoky Mountains. She watched him closely as he spoke, noting every expression, as if a sudden suspicion had come upon her, and she was trying to settle a doubt in her mind. When Frank had finished, the girl said: "Never heard o' two boys from ther big cities 'way off yander comin' har ter tromp through ther maountings jest fer ther fun o' seein' ther scenery an' ther folks. I s'pose we're kinder curi's 'pearin' critters ter city folks, an' you-uns may be har ter cotch one o' us an' put us in a cage fer exhibition." She uttered the words in a way that brought a flush to Frank's cheeks, and he hastened to protest, halting in confusion when he tried to speak her name, which he did not know as yet. A ripple of sunshine seemed to break over her face, and she laughed outright, swiftly saying: "Don't you-uns mind me. I'm p'izen rough, but I don't mean half I say. I kin see you is honest an' squar, though somebody else mought think by yer way that ye warn't. My name's Kate Kenyon, an' I live down toward ther cove. I don't feel like fishin' arter this, an' ef you-uns is goin' that way, I'll go 'long with ye." She picked up her pole, hooked up the line, and prepared to accompany them. They were pleased to have her as a companion. Indeed, Frank was more than pleased, for he saw in this girl a singular character. Illiterate though she seemed, she was pretty, vivacious, and so bright that it was plain education and refinement would make her most fascinating and brilliant. _ |
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