  “Uncle Billie, has the whipsawed house an attic?” Florence asked the question eagerly as she met her venerable friend on the creek road next day. “Sure enough! Now has it? I most forgit.” The old man scratched his head. “It hasn’t a stairway, nor an opening for a ladder, but there must be space up there, and if there’s space there must be something there.” “Shore there are. Cobwebs, dust, an’—an’” the old man, startled with a sudden thought, almost lost his balance and fell over, “an’ of course that ar Confederate gold. Shore enough. Whar else could it be?” “You come over at five this afternoon and we’ll explore that place,” smiled Florence. “That is, if Mrs. McAlpin will permit us.” “I’ll shore be thar at the apinted hour—sun time,” Uncle Billie beamed like an excited child. “Plum quare gold it were,” he added as Florence hurried away to school. At sight of the old log schoolhouse, all thoughts of the fabled gold were driven from her mind. The responsibilities of the day came flooding in upon her. What had been the results of yesterday’s affair? She had asked Marion to visit Ballard Skidmore in his home and get his story of the quarrel with Bud Wax. She did not doubt but that Bud had been entirely in the wrong, and hoped Ballard would return to school. Bud, of course, she would never see in her school room again. Somewhat to her surprise, she found herself regretting this. There was much good in the boy. She had grown rather fond of the sight of his restless blue eyes. “If only he did not belong, body and soul, to Black Blevens,” she told herself, “one might make something of him.” Again her mind went to work on the problems directly before her. How had Black Blevens taken the affair yesterday? Had he been the silent watcher on Lookout Rock? What had this setting of a watch meant? What would his next move be? And what of the coming election? Would there be enough voters to enable them to win? Ransom Turner had promised to make a canvas of the community and tell her how matters stood. Her trial? Her heart sank at thought of it! To be tried by a jury with all the mountain people looking on! “But it’s all for them, for the little ones,” she whispered, and was comforted. Imagine her surprise when, upon entering the school yard, she saw Bud Wax with the larger boys, pitching rocks at a stump. “I—I didn’t think he’d come back,” she whispered to Marion. “Neither did I.” “Is Ballard coming back?” “Yes.” “Will they fight again?” Florence’s heart was in her throat. She felt that another day such as yesterday would prove her undoing. “Ballard said he’d do his best. Bud had been teasing him for a long time. He called him a name that no mountain man or boy will allow himself to be called. Then Ballard struck him in the face.” For a time Florence pondered the problem of further punishment for Bud. In the end she concluded that any punishment after the destruction of his pistol would be anticlimax. “We’ll let bygones be bygones,” she told Marion. “But keep your eyes open for further trouble. Why did he come back anyway?” “Who knows?” That day Bud was a model pupil. Quiet, far too quiet for comfort, he studied hard and recited perfectly. The day passed as a model in the history of the school. Florence went home more puzzled than ever. On the doorstep of the whipsawed house she found Uncle Billie Gibson. He was smiling his brightest smile and glancing up at the eaves as if he expected a shower of gold to come rattling down from the shingles. A moment later two breathless young ladies were eagerly begging Mrs. McAlpin for permission to remove a board from the ceiling of their room that they might explore the attic of that venerable house. Consent of the good lady was readily obtained and in a twinkle, armed with a wood chisel and hammer, they were at the job. Have you never entered an old house whose attic has remained unexplored for years? Then you have never enjoyed the exciting dreams that come with thoughts of treasures that may be found there. Chests filled with curios from many lands; ancient trunks packed with rare old laces; a grandfather’s clock; rare old books worth a fortune; period furniture that a millionaire might covet. Indeed, who knows what rare treasures may be hidden there? As for the two girls and Uncle Billie, they were looking for but one treasure—a stack of yellow gold. As Florence inserted the chisel in a crack and gave it a pull there came such a screech from the ancient hand-hammered nails as brought a scream of fright from Marion. The next moment the board gave way with a suddenness that all but knocked Florence from the chair upon which she was perched and showered her with an accumulation of aged dust. With a shrill cry she leaped to the floor. Over their heads, as they regained composure, they saw a broad, black, gaping hole. “Dark up there,” said Marion with a little shudder. “Have to use a flashlight.” Florence dug down into her trunk. “Here it is.” “But it won’t work.” “Battery’s dead. Have to use a candle.” A candle was brought. Then while Marion sat on the chair, Florence climbed the back of it and thrust her head and shoulders through the hole. “See anything?” Marion asked breathlessly. “No, not a—yes, there’s something, a black bulk over there in the corner. It’s a—” “A chest, of course!” Marion was quite beside herself with excitement. Without thinking she sprang to her feet. The next instant the chair toppled over and Florence, lighted candle and all, came crashing down upon it. “Wha—what did you do that for?” she demanded, once she had regained the breath that had been knocked from her by the fall. “I—I forgot!” said Marion. “Truly I’m sorry. Let’s try again.” “Not that way,” said Florence, rubbing her bruises. “The bed will be better. Come on, let’s push it over.” The bed was soon under the hole and a moment later the two girls, closely followed by an agile old man, were creeping from beam to beam toward the bulk in the dark. “I know it’s the chest of gold,” whispered Marion. “I—I—someway it don’t look right.” “Phoo-ee!” chuckled Uncle Billie. “That ain’t no chest. That’s a poundin’ mill. What hit’s doin’ stored up here is more’n I know.” “A pounding mill? What’s that?” demanded Florence as she held her candle above a great cylindrical block of wood on which there rested a similar block of smaller dimensions. “A poundin’ mill’s used for poundin’ out corn meal. They ain’t used now on account o’ water wheels, but they was a powerful help in their day. You all never seed ’em work? Well, hit’s this way.” Uncle Billie lifted the smaller cylinder and dropped it into a hole in the larger block, which was some three feet high and four feet across. “You put your corn in that there holler, then you tie this block to a saplin’ to help you teeter hit up an’ down, an’ you pound your corn until it are meal. That’s all there are to hit.” “That’s a powerful heavy block!” he exclaimed, trying to tip it. “Must be made out o’ first growth hickory, as sizeable as hit is.” “But where’s our gold?” asked Marion. Her voice dropped off into a little disappointed wail. “Peers to me like we’d been barkin’ up the wrong tree,” said Uncle Billie with a sad shake of his head. “Might be hidden around somewhere among the rafters,” said Florence. “Let’s have a good look.” They explored the attic thoroughly. Not a pile of dust but was disturbed that day. Their only reward was a rusty Civil War canteen that, as Uncle Billie expressed it, was “as empty as a bear after a winter’s sleep.” Just as they were preparing to descend, Marion made an interesting find. Having noticed a circular spot on the dust covered boards that might have been a knot, she put out a hand to pick up a circular disk. “What’s this?” she exclaimed excitedly. “How heavy it is! It—why, it must be gold!” “Hit shore are!” exclaimed Uncle Billie, taking it from her and rubbing it clean on his ragged trousers’ leg. “Hit sure are. Hit’s one of them are pieces of Confederate gold.” “But it doesn’t say Confederate,” whispered Florence after examining it closely. “It says on one side ‘Georgia gold’, and on the other—let’s see.” With a trembling finger she rubbed away the last vestige of dust. “It says: ‘T-e-m-p-l-e R-e-i-d. Temple Reid, Ten Dollars’.” “Georgia Gold. Temple Reid. Ten Dollars!” exclaimed Marion. “What nonsense! How could a man coin money? Money is made by nations, not by men.” “But that’s what it says,” insisted Florence. “Well, anyway, it isn’t Confederate gold,” said Marion, disappointment creeping into her tone. There had been a glamor of romance in her hope of finding some coins struck by that long since dissolved government. “You can’t most always tell,” said Uncle Billie with a wise shake of his head. “That ar’s Georgia gold. But hit’s jest one. There were a hundred, mebby four-five hundred. Stands to reason some was Confederate, fer hadn’t Jeff Middelton come from right down thar whar that sort of money were made?” Uncle Billie’s logic seemed weak, but, that they might not hurt the feelings of the good old man, the girls let it pass. They all adjourned to the rooms below. Dust and dirt were scrubbed off, the hole was nailed up, and there the matter stood, closed for the time being. One thing was decided upon. The strange gold piece was to be sent to a curator of Field Museum, who was a friend of Marion. He would be able to tell them the origin of the piece, and its value. “That one coin may be of considerable value,” said Marion. “There are coins worth hundreds of dollars.” “Yes, and it may be worth just exactly its weight in gold,” laughed Florence. “But send it along. It will do no harm.” That night the bit of gold went North in the registered mail pouch, and the girls, forgetting their disappointment as quickly as possible, set about two important tasks that lay just before them; the winning of the school election and preparation for Florence’s trial. It was five days later. It was evening, but there was no sunset. Dull, gray clouds had hung low on the mountains all day. Dull clouds of disappointment and defeat hung heavily on Florence’s spirits. She had taken a long, long walk up Laurel Branch. Her hopes that this walk would revive her drooping spirits had proven vain. Each leaden mile had found her head drooping more and more. “It’s lost!” she murmured as she marched stolidly on. It was true; at least Ransom Turner had assured her it was. The school election was lost. Each side had begun work early. The canvass had been taken; the line-up, in so far as anyone could tell, was completed, and at the present Black Blevens and his choice for teacher, Al Finely, were eight votes ahead. “Eight votes!” she had said to Ransom. “How can we overcome that?” “Hit can’t be done,” Ransom had said. “Hit’s a fact. That Black Blevens is the election fightenest man I most ever seed. We’re jest as good as licked right now.” “And yet,” Florence said to herself as, undecided whether to pause for rest or to wander aimlessly on, she paused beside a great flat rock, “it does seem that there is a way to win if only we knew it.” Just as if in answer to her worrying problem, the fog lifted, revealing before her in startling clearness the natural gateway that led to the horseshoe valley at the head of Laurel Branch. “The gate,” she breathed. “The gateway to that mysterious valley where strange people live without visiting the outside world, the valley from which men do not return!” Her heart was all a-tremble. Her shaking knees obliged her to drop suddenly upon an inviting rock. At once her keen mind was at work. She had come farther than she thought and she should turn back at once. Then, too, that gateway held for her an irresistible fascination. Did she hope from this point of vantage to catch some glimpse of the life of those strange beings who lived beyond the gate? Was some good angel whispering to her soul some of the hidden things of the future? Who can say? Enough that she sat there alone while the dull shadows deepened. It did not seem strange to her that her thoughts at this moment should turn to the little girl, Hallie, who had been so mysteriously thrust into the life that centered in the old whipsawed house. Indeed, she had often enough associated her with this same stone gateway and had wondered if after all she had been brought through this very portal to the outside world. Wherever she may have come from, Hallie had grown to be the life of that old brown cabin. She had come to them dressed in a water-soaked scarlet dress and a mud smeared tam that shone bright even in their terrible disarray. The bright colors had suited her so well that they had dressed her so ever since. Closing her eyes, Florence could see her now. “Like a scarlet bird fluttering from branch to branch of an old tree,” she mused as she saw her moving from room to room. “How we’d miss her if someone came for her!” Imagine her surprise when upon opening her eyes she saw, not twenty yards before her, down the creek, the very person of whom she had been thinking. Suppressing a cry of surprise, she waited and watched. Walking slowly, as if in a trance, Hallie passed within four feet of her without seeing her, then marched straight on toward the rocky gateway that lay between her and the hidden valley. At once Florence’s mind was in a whirl. Her lips parted to call the child back, but no sound came forth. What should she do? Evidently something had happened to the child. She was in a daze again. Perhaps the old fever that had wiped out her memory had returned. Had memory accompanied it? Was she now groping her way back to her own home? “Home!” Florence spoke the word softly. Home had meant so much to her. Like a moving panorama she saw before her twilight scenes at home by the fireplace, bed time and prayer beside her bed with her mother bending over, joyous mornings and sunny afternoons. Home! Ah, yes, home! And perhaps this little girl was going home. Could she stop her? And yet, could she allow her to wander alone in the gathering darkness through those forbidding portals? The answer came quickly. She dropped down into the path, turned toward the stone gateway, then marched steadily forward until both she and the child were lost to view beyond the rocky pillars. Had Florence chanced to look behind she might have caught sight of a person following at a distance. A skulking figure it was that moved by quick starts and stops from shadow to shadow. And, had her backward glance been rightly timed, had it come as a sudden last feeble burst of sunlight illumined his face, she would have seen that this person was Bud Wax. Had she seen him her heart would doubtless have been filled with misgivings and wild questions. Why was the boy following her? Was this a trap? What did he know about little Hallie? What of the land beyond the forbidden gateway? Since she did not look behind her, but walked straight on, she asked herself no such questions. So the three passed into the mysterious beyond, the child as in a dream, the teacher sturdily on duty bound, the boy skulking from shadow to shadow. Hardly had they disappeared when sudden night came down to close the gate with a curtain of darkness. |
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