Out of the Burning

By Ivy Williams Stone

(Previous chapter)

Chapter Six

While Pamela gratified old Granny Turner’s last wish, Judge Harrison laid careful plans for enticing this lost daughter to her rightful home. Judging from the standards which Portia had set, money would be the great lure. He consulted the county surveyor in order to establish proper boundary lines. He inspected the recorder’s files, to |make doubly sure there was no flaw in his title to the Turner farm in Crow’s Nest. He wrote to a capitalist who, he knew, was looking around for a good investment. He engaged the services of a geologist who would estimate the extent of the coal field. And lastly, he wrote an eminent mining engineer. He would need to know the character of the coal and the cost of marketing it. Satisfied with his plans, he mailed all the letters himself as he sauntered home. He visioned a quick bonanza, a veritable El Dorado. Fortunately, the full cars of coal would have a down hill grade; that would be a real factor in cheaper production.

He figured he might have to resort to extreme measures of law, if the former owner refused to move peaceably. Those indolent mountaineers had queer notions about their old homes, anyway. But the time had arrived to assert his ownership. He had not paid the taxes upon that land for nearly twenty years without a purpose. Pamela would be awed by the sudden wealth of her father! He could now offer her all the expensive luxuries which modern youth seemed to demand. He visioned black, lustrous coal changing into autos, beautiful clothes, country clubs, with Pamela and Portia the center, of all attractions. A girl who knew her history and literature like this young lady was worthy of all the consideration he could show. Eunice would have to give her up. Echo would be glad to accept her. Portia must recognize her sister.

The lost Pamela was coming into her birthright. How brilliant she was! What a lawyer she would make! Thus, day dreaming, the judge turned into his own walk, up his own steps as one in a trance. He would have walked past the porch swing where Portia and Spike Reeves lounged, had that young man not called familiarly,

“How many bootleggers did you send up today, Judge?”

“Benjamin,” said Judge Harrison sternly. “Kindly respect my office, if not me. Young man,” he continued, “how do you support yourself? Do you perform any gainful labor?”

It was bad enough to be called Harold, as his teachers insisted, but Benjamin was too intolerable! Spike Reeves flushed, hitched up his plus-fours and answered flippantly,

“I work my Governer, Judge. He works twenty hours a day and I work to separate him from the necessary dough.”

“Portia,” added Judge Harrison resignedly, “did you digest that chapter of Blackstone I assigned you?”

“Gladstone, Blackstone, Krestone,” drawled Portia provokingly. “Gladstone made an empire, Blackstone made stupid laws, but Firestone makes lovely tires that whiz you into new worlds! I did not read any of those old whereases and aforesaids, Dad; I’m fed up on presupposes and preambles!”

Judge Harrison passed into the house without comment. After dinner he broke a time-honored custom and shaved before retiring. He announced to Portia that he would skip her lesson the next morning. If the mountain would not come to Mohammed, Mohammed must go to the mountain.

Not since he had followed his father to the cemetery, had James Harrison entered his boyhood home. Hence his early morning visit was actuated by conflicting emotions. Stubborn pride held him back; paternal pride urged him on. The once scorned girl was now much desired. If she would not claim to be his child, he must prove he was her father.

Miss Eunice made his visit easy. The old leather chair which had belonged to the father was drawn up; the two precious sets of baby clothing were laid out upon the old mahogany secretary that had graced the library in by-gone days. Miss Eunice was gracious and kind. Pamela was deferential, beautiful and mild.

The two sets of identical baby clothes, the two lockets and the battered tin box were carefully exhibited and explained. The judge saw the similar engraving, the mildew on the tiny coat, the bungled French knots where Echo had tried to decorate the dresses, and the knotted silk thread on the lockets, where Echo had marked them with different colors. Miss Eunice described the coming of Pamela, the dyed hair, the emaciated body. She rehearsed the details he had once rejected.

“Echo knew her instantly,” concluded Miss Eunice. “She has been marvelous all these years. A real mother. She has provided clothes and necessary money. She made musical education possible. The child was under-nourished, insufficiently clothed, poorly educated.”

“I am convinced,” Judge Harrison announced his decision as though the lives of the two women hung in the balance. “I will take Pamela to my heart and home now; at once.” He rose and walked over to Pamela’s chair. He stooped and kissed the golden curls.

“A daughter to be proud of,” he admitted. “Intelligent and beautiful. What a lawyer you will make!” He raised her face toward his and kissed her reverently. “Your first kiss from your father,” he added. “Up to the time of your disappearance I had not kissed either you or Portia. My disappointment over your sex had been too keen. Come with me now, daughter.”

With this sweeping gesture he felt he had atoned for all previous neglect. He rose as though the interview were ended, but Miss Eunice played her trump card.

“You cannot take Pamela so, James. I have cared for her for four years. She came in answer to prayer. The duty has been a joy. But you cannot have her unless you deed me that farm in Crow’s Nest. I am willing to pay for it, or you can give it in exchange for services and care rendered your child.”

“I’m going to be a nurse,” this first remark of Pamela’s was indeed sort of a thunderbolt. “I shall enter Dr. Locke’s hospital in September for three years’ training.”

“No child of mine shall carry bathtubs and trays for a mere pittance.” The voice was again that of the judge, accustomed to obedience. “And Eunice, I cannot grant your request. It is mere sentimentality with you. I have already contracted for the immediate development of my coal field. Pamela shall enter a life of ease and luxury. Her days of toil are over.”

“I’m going in training to be a nurse,” reiterated Pamela, her manner a replica of her father’s calm dignity.

We have overlooked one item,” added the judge, choosing to ignore Pamela’s announcement. “Who is it that dared to keep my child until it suited his convenience to return her? Who kept her out of school, poorly clothed, under-fed, overworked? Do you know Eunice?”

“Yes,” replied Miss Eunice, shooting a quick glance of warning toward Pamela, “I know where Pamela was living all the time.”

“Well,” added the judge, “I want to know. I shall punish —”

“You will never know until you deed, me the Crow’s Nest land.”

“It’s worth a half million!” cried Judge Harrison thoroughly exasperated. “You think father stole it, or at least acquired it unfairly. He was within the law!”

“It wasn’t fair,” persisted Miss Eunice. “Poor illiterate mountain folks. Some of them can’t read, and others can’t count beyond ten!”

“You are actuated by sentimental sob stuff. I suppose you would re- deed it to those shiftless people who wouldn’t even bother to pay the taxes!”

“I want it,” persisted Miss Eunice with a determination that showed she also was a Harrison. ‘You could well afford to
gratify that one whim of mine, James. The taxes you have paid on that forlorn spot are negligible. And you are getting in exchange a wonderful daughter, for whom you have never even purchased a pair of shoes!”

“Pamela,” Judge Harrison turned from his sister to his daughter, “who kept you incarcerated for thirteen years? Where did you live?”

“If you will deed Aunt Eunice,” began Pamela, but her father interrupted vehemently,

“Prearranged intrigue! Blackmail!” This man who had never been crossed, who was accustomed to fawning bailiffs, to obsequious clerks, who instructed juries as if they were puppets, found his plans thwarted by two mere women. The experience was not gratifying. He mustered all his dignity and prepared to leave.

“I fancy,” he smiled enigmatically, “that deeds or no deeds, Pamela will come to me when dividends roll in from coal sales. I will send her to the best law college in America, and give her every advantage.”

“I’m going to be a nurse,” added Pamela evenly. She stood watching her parent until the erect figure turned a corner. “Poor father!” she muttered. “He can’t understand why twenty years of different standards cannot be wiped away just because he wills it!”

“We are the first people in twenty years who have dared to contradict him,” added Miss Eunice. “I simply can’t let him turn Cassie Turner out of her home. And that forlorn Millie too.”

“I’m glad poor old Granny will never know,” added Pamela. “She used to tell Pap, I mean Mr. Turner, never to give up the farm. And he kept a gun especially for that purpose. Always clean and loaded. It makes me shiver.”

“We’ll have to divert James from exploiting that theory of coal,” Miss Eunice looked worried. “No coal field, however large, is worth human life.”

Miss Eunice studied and planned, trying to devise means of preventing a clash between the judge and the mountaineer. But while she worried and lost her appetite, more powerful forces formed the solution.

The capitalist came, large, florid, highbrow and overdressed. The geologist wore khaki and puttees and spoke in strange, unintelligible terms. The mining engineer tramped over the hills, measuring and figuring. Finally the five men set out for Crow’s Nest in the judge’s car, the surveyor’s tools strapped on the side.

Judge Harrison had never been in this remote section before. He had been content to punish such of its people as digressed from the set ritual of law foreign to the valley. He did not know that the bleak, rain-marred building on a hillside was the place where his daughter had learned to read. He had no suspicion that her bare feet had been bruised as she trailed the family cow. He did not dream that she had slept in the windowless lean-to of Steve Turner’s cabin, and dropped corn in the long hillside rows.

While the geologist dug up samples of surface coal, examined them, broke them, burned them, the capitalist wandered about hunting huckleberries and dusting his clothes. The surveyor sought to locate a “place of beginning” corner. The mining engineer studied slopes and grades and inspected the scrub timber growth for its possibilities.

All their movements were carefully observed. Bud Turner had been reared on a diet of hatred for the “jedge” who had stolen their birthright. Steve had trained the boy to know that someday the judge would attempt to turn the entire family out. Bud knew the value of coal. So he watched the varied movements of the party from the screen of a thick mountain mahogany. His own gun rested against his shoulder. Bud knew the dreaded moment had come; that the tall man, wearing a silk hat and carnation, was the despised judge. Bud also knew he was the father of Curly, whom he intended to marry.

From his bench beside the cellar house, Abe Walters espied the approaching car. This was a diversion! A funeral and two visiting cars within a month. He stopped whittling and the rollicking song died on his lips. Suddenly he jumped up, sensing the purport of the visit, and started off in search of Steve.

A puff from the big mahogany tree, and a bullet stirred the earth in front of him. Abe stopped abruptly, then turned to retrace his course. Another puff and more scattered earth. Knowing the accuracy of Bud’s aim, Abe stood still until Bud approached.

“Whar youns goin?” demanded Bud.

“I’m a goin’ ter find Steve. Thet thar jedge air hyar! Five of ’em, Bud. Them air a takin’ the coal, them air. I knows ’bout et. They’ll make weuns go way. Ets hisn, et is.”

“Youns set,” admonished Bud. “Pap needn’t ter know, ef they don’t stay. He air a huntin’ out yonder. I wouldn’t feel proud ef my Pap killed my gal’s Pa.”

From their point of vantage, the two young men watched the visitors. The judge moved about, talking with first one, then another. One dug for coal, examined samples, cast them aside, moved on to other places. He seemed worried and tried out many specimens. Bud and Abe smiled at his seemingly unnecessary labors.

“Weuns ain’t nary dug coal yet,” commented Bud. “Jest had ter pick et off’n the ground.”

The surveyor tramped about, stepping off distances, setting up his tripod. Finally they all gathered around the car and listened attentively while the geologist talked. His explanations were technical, but his conclusions definite. There was no tangible vein of coal; no buried treasure; no mine to develop. The jutting points or outbursts of surface coal were all superficial. The lower strata was lava or slag. Due to intense violent eruptions in earlier periods, and faults in the earth’s crust, small deposits of superficial coal had been evident. They followed into no traceable vein. There was nothing worth mining.

“And so Judge Harrison,” continued the geologist in exasperating calm, “that’s that. I would advise against the expenditure of more money here. It will merit no return upon the investment.”

“Am I to understand,” gasped James Harrison, “that 1 and my father before me, have paid taxes on this land for nearly thirty years, only to find it worthless?”

“It contains no coal deposit worth mining,” reiterated the geologist, trying to be patient. “I do not know how long you have owned it, but it is not a coal field.”

“And let me add.” said the engineer, “that it would be expensive to market it, even if you had plenty of coal. These hills are so steep you’d have to put in a cog wheel track.”

James Harrison gazed out over his lands. Stunted native walnut trees, scrub mountain mahogany, sickly huckleberries and small vines. No fertility; no animation; no prosperity. The corn in the makeshift garden looked pale, the squash vines were puny. The creek was sluggish and shallow. Even the sunflowers by the house drooped listlessly. One hundred sixty acres of barrenness; thirty years of wasted taxes!

The capitalist waved a plump, ringed hand toward the hills. “If you could guarantee deer back in those hills and trout in the stream, I’d buy it for a hunting lodge. It’s quaint and rather unique.” He beamed benevolently upon them all. He had lost nothing. He could afford to be affable.

The geologist dusted his sleeves and climbed into the car. The surveyor gathered up his tools. “Some one gave my father a false tip,” explained Judge Harrison. “We thought we had a sure fortune here!”

“Others have had the same disappointment,” added the geologist, meaning to be kind. “These superficial deposits of coal are very deceptive.”

“Mighty glad you only lost taxes, Judge,” the surveyor was optimistic. “You could have buried a lot of expensive machinery up here. Taxes on that forlorn hole can’t have been much.”

The watchers on the hillside breathed more freely as the car drove away. They had been unable to hear the conversation, but the judge’s dejected bearing, the abrupt departure of all the party, the surveyor’s failure to drive stakes, all told the observant Bud much that he wished to know. The judge had not approached the house, so the women did not know of the visit.

“Thet thar jedge ain’t so proud ’bout that thar coal,” mused Bud. “He nary found what he war a lookin’ fur. Mebbe thar warn’t so much as he wanted.”

“Et ain’t deep,” added Abe. “I hed ter bring Millie a hunk onct,” he admitted reluctantly, “an’ et rolled out like a rock. Warn’t none under et.”

“Youns say nuthin’ ter Pap,” admonished Bud in a tone that Abe well knew how to obey. “Weuns don’t want nary shootin’s. I mind thet thar jedge ain’t a comin’ back no more.”

Who had misled the old judge into buying the tax sale deed? Was some person still living to laugh last when the joke became known? Who had kidnaped the infant Pamela? Would Pamela ever feel an urge to come to his home now there was no fortune in sight? All these thoughts raced through the judge’s, brain, while the geologist and the engineer discussed various kinds of coal. Through all the conflicting emotions, there was only one comforting thought. He would now humor Eunice. He would deed her the farm, thus avoiding future taxes. No use sending good money after bad. In that way he would get the whole story of Pamela’s abduction, and punish the offenders. This would be some compensation. No one could get by Judge Harrison with such a heinous crime!

All these plans were reassuring and nearly reestablished his good humor. But through them an unpleasant vision of Pamela in nurse’s uniform persisted in marring the picture. He wanted to imagine her only in the cap and gown of a law college.

Judge Harrison did not ask Pamela and Eunice to come to his office again. As soon as he felt collected, he prepared a deed conveying the Crow’s Nest holdings to Eunice Harrison. She could now gratify any sentimental whim she chose. He washed his hands of the whole affair. What a people! Shiftless, ignorant, lazy, indolent! The old farm fitted them to a nicety.

He sent Eunice the deed, together with a brief note, explaining he had met her terms, and asking for the history of his daughter’s youth. He was rewarded with a summons to come to her home one week hence, when full explanations would be made.

Accordingly two men of marked contrast met in the cheerful sunny library of Harrison Home. The judge was conscious of perfectly fitting tailored clothes. Steve Turner’s tall, lank figure was ill at ease in the store suit Miss Eunice had provided.

The judge and the mountaineer faced each other on similar ground; both guests in a lady’s home. The judge was robbed of the dignity of his office; the mountaineer lacked the sense of security which his gun always ‘ gave. Man to man they faced eached other, both ignorant of the other’s part in the little drama.

“James,” said Miss Eunice sweetly, “this is Mr. Turner. He has always felt you were rather high-handed when you bought his father’s farm for taxes. Now that a deed is in his pocket, from me to him, however, he feels differently. It’s a warranty deed, Mr. Turner. The farm is really yours again.”

“I was strictly within the law,” defended James Harrison. “I gave you the land voluntarily, Eunice. I was not cowed.”

“And Mr. Turner,” continued Eunice, ignoring her brother’s outburst, “my brother is most anxious to know more of the early life of his daughter Pamela, often called Curly.”

Steve Turner recrossed his legs, felt of the bulky envelope in his pocket. Thus assured he started to talk in a drawling monotone.

“Curly lived in my house ’til she war ’bout thirteen. Granny sent her hyar, cause she war too purty. Abe wanted ter marry Curly, ‘stead o’ my Millie. Weuns nary told nobody she warn’t weuns least one, ’til she left. Even my old woman, Cassie, thought Curly war ourn!”

“You stole my baby!” James Harrison was no longer a dignified judge. Paternal rage was uppermost.

“Youns stole my land,” came the calm rejoinder of Steve.

“You kept her there in Crow’s Nest! In your dilapidated unsanitary home, among slatterns, leading a bedraggled existence, eating poor foods, working her in the fields! You kept her thirteen years!”

“Youns hed my land ten years ‘fore weuns hed youns least one.” Weuns sent Curly back four years gone by, but youns, wouldn’t hev her then. I come ter town ter kill youns, fur stealin’ my home. Cassie war most dead from her dead baby. I aimed ter shoot you, the day youns sent Si Hoggan ter jail. Thar war two babies in a buggy, under a big bush. No one ter watch ’em. Stead o’ shootin’ you, I jest took a least one back ter Cassie. No one knowed, but me an’ Granny!”

“You stole a child for revenge!”

“You stole a farm ter get rich!”

“You’ll go to the pen yourself,” cried James. “I’ll see you get the limit. You’ll die there. Your farm will do you no good now. I repeat, you’ll die there!”

Pamela had been a silent and intensely interested listener. She could keep still no longer. She jumped up, indignant over her youthful sense of justice. “You won’t send him to prison!” she flashed. “You mustn’t; you can’t. It would kill him. I won’t let you. Can’t you understand his training, father? ‘An eye for an eye’ is the creed of the mountain folks. They kept me, but they were kind as they saw life. I shared all they had. Cassie nursed me; loved me; mourned my going. I learned the strength which comes only from privation. Because I went barefoot, I learned the luxury of shoes. Because I was denied schooling, I learned the value of an education. I have been hungry and cold; so also have they. I knew privation; now I know appreciation. They are my friends; you cannot punish them. They righted one wrong with another; it is their law.”

“He has broken a higher law, and must be punished,” commented the judge sternly.

“If you send him to jail I will never enter your home!” Pamela rose to her full height and faced her father defiantly, unflinchingly. Her voice was ominously calm.

“You must obey,” began the judge and stopped. Something in the voice and eye of the girl before him showed she would keep her word. His daughter! So near, yet so perilously far away. She had Harrison determination too!

James Harrison leaned across the old mahogany desk and extended his hand to the lean mountaineer.

“Mr. Turner,” he said gravely, “I have returned your farm. It is yours forever. Go in peace. But remember to pay your taxes!”

“Jedge,” Steve Turner returned the grip with interest, “weuns gev you back your gal. She’s purty and she’s got larnin’ ways. I sure am proud I didn’t shoot you thet day!”

Again feeling to make sure the precious document was safe in his pocket, Steve Turner put on his hat and stalked out, head erect, shoulders squared; a landholder once more.

Pamela immediately lost her defiance. She threw her arms around her father impulsively. “I am so proud of you, father,” she half sobbed and half laughed. “I never could have enjoyed my new life, knowing Mr. Turner was in prison. Aunt Eunice, my only regret in going home with father will be leaving you.”

(To be continued)