Democratic Sentinel, Volume 13, Number 49, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 27 December 1889 — AT THE OPEN WINDOW. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

AT THE OPEN WINDOW.

BY WILL HUBRARD KERNAN.

b ALLING WATER is —J the name of the most picturesque spot in * tV> . tlieCnmberland country of Tennessee. It , ~* 3 situated a few miles south of Cookeville, I and is one of 4he first places visited by tourwho venture up p to that highland vil-

o lage. Caney Fork, a tributary of the Cumberland ltiver, rises in the mountains, and surges over the rocky ledges a fall hundred feet into the sequestered valley below. And it is this cataract that is known as Falling Water. The surrounding country is wild, lonely, and romantic, and was a favorite resort of the moonshiners, until the United States revenue officers swept down upon them, shooting a few of them dead and sending many of them to the penitentiary. Not far from Falling Water is a deep, precipitous ravine, the sides of which are covered with pines and an impenetrable undergrowth of vines and shrubbery. The density of the foliage hides" the bottom of the ravine from view, but if you follow a dim bridle-path trending from the road, you Avill find that it leads to the door of an old cabin surrounded by a stake-and-rider fence, half hidden by blackberry bushes, sassafras, and weeds. This cabin was the home of old Melton, a moonshiner, and his family, until the spring of 1879. The still was located within a stone’s throw of the house, between two gigantic bowlders, and so cleverly was it hidden by the rocky Avails that towered up on three sides of it, and so curtained in Avas it on the remaining side by the vines that fell in green festoons from the gray ledges of free-stone above, that the old moonshiner felt himself perfectly safe from the prying eyes of both officers and informers. One evening about dark,as old Melton sat in the gallery of his cabin, draAving consolation alternately from a stone jug and a corn-cob pipe, he was saluted by a young man on horseback, who had ridden up from the right and whose face betrayed an expression of keen annoyance. “Hello!” cried the horseman, drawing rein, “can you tell me how far it is to Cookeville?” “ ’Bout fo’ miles, stranger,” replied Melton, rising to his feet and slouching forward. “Hev yo’ lost yer bearin’s ?” • “Yes; went down to old Davenant’s to collect a bill this morning and ” “Long Jack Davenant’s, stranger?” “Yes; up at the head of Caney Fork, and ” “Why didn’t yo’ turn to the left when yo’ came to Squar Mills’ place ?” “I did; but I took the wrong road out in that confounded flat Avoods.” “Jesso, jesso! Been thar myself! ’Tis a puzzle to a stranger. An’ Avhat shell I call yer name ?” “Wilford —Harry Wilford.” “Any relation t’ the Wilforda down t’ Smith’s Fork?” “No; my home is in Nashville Am a professional man there. Had to look after a farm of mine down in DeKalb County, and so I concluded to ride up here and collect a bill from old Davenant before I went back to Lebanon. The old man wasn’t at home, though. By the way, could I find a place here or hereabout to stay all night ? It will rain long before I can reach Cooke ville.”

“I dunno. PVaps Henry Q. could keep to’.” “Who is Henry Q., and where does he reside ?” “Henry Q. Clark, yo’ know. Lives ’bout a quarter out on tho Cookeville road yander,” pointing to the left. “Henry Q.’s rich—Henry Q. is. His house must ’a’ cost a cool five hundred. Jest foller thet ” A blinding Hash, a thunder-peal and a driving torrent of rain interrupted the speaker. “Wall, I say, Mr. Wilford, if thet are’s ther way ther weather’s er-gwine ter act, I ’low yo’d better ‘stay with we’uns. We liaint much t’offer, but sech ez we liev yo’re welcome to.” Wilford leaped from his saddle, threw the reins ov<*r a sapling bough, and bounded gracefully over the grass into the cabin. He was a tall, slender, handsome young fellow, with blonde hair, a beardless face, and lai’ge, blue, winning eyes, that sparkled with humor or scintillated with wrath according to his varying moods. Mrs. Melton was sitting before the huge fire-place, industriously dipping snuff. She was a lank and angular woman of forty, barefooted and dressed in homespun. She rose as Wilford came in, responding to his bow with a queer little bob of her head, and then withdrew into the kitchen. The room in which Wilford found himself was large and trimly kept. A bedstead stood in one corner, while a row of rush-bottom chairs, a table and a spinning-wheel completed the stock of furniture. On the log walls of the cabin were tacked a few unframed photographs of family relations, while on the mantel was a little mirror in a pine-cone frame. Mrs. Melton returned presently, and began to spread the table for supper. While bringing in the last dishes, a large, bony, and sallow girl ran into the room, her garments dripping with rain and clinging close to her stalwart frame. “Wlioop-ee! but wusn’fc I skeered!” Tho lightenin' struck a tree not ”• She stopped short on seeing Wilford. her eyes flashed with anger, and she ran out of the room as unceremoniously as she had come into it.

“Thet tliar’s my darter Nance,” remarked old Melton; “an’ she’s the smartest gal in these hyar mountings. She avus sorter set back when she seed yo’, but she’ll come in arter erAvlrile an’ play us a chune on the organette. Nance is a pow’ful hand at the organette, Nance i-s.” “Supper’s ready,” Aouchsafed Mrs. Melton, in a high, cracked voice. “Sit thar, stranger, an’ reach fer yo’self.” Old Melton bowed his head, said grace with all the gravity of a minister, and then plunged headlong into a discussion of religion. “I b’long to the Baptisses, I do. Tilda —thet’s my Avife thar—she b’longs to the Hardshell Baptisses, the no-

’countest church in these hyar mountings. Nance thav’s been a threatnin’ ter jine the Metliodisses, but if she do I’ll drub her till she caiu’t holler.” The wife made no reply to the fling at her faith, but Nance glared at her father, and then, bringing her list down on the table so fiercely that the dishes danced, she cried : “I’ll jine—l’ll jine—l’ll jine—I’ll be damned es I don’t jine!” and turning over her chair she fled the room, banging the door behind her as,she went. Old Melton said nothing, but he clinched his teeth with an ominous significance. Supper over and the table cleared off, the old man went to the kitchen door and called for Nance. “What do to’ want?” inquired the girl. “I want yo’ to come an’ play us a chune on the organette. ” “I wont.”

“IV will.” “I tell you, pop, I wont.” “Yo’ wutlilesß wench! 11l lam y« who’s boss. 11l beat you till the blood runs down yer legs, so lie’p me !* Running to a distant corner of the main room he caught up a gnarled hickory cane and hastened back to tht kitchen. “Where’s Nance?” he demanded ol his wife. “She done pnt ont while vo’ wns lookin’ fer yer stick,” was the answer. “The slut! I’ll find her an’wallop her like I would a dog.” “Stay, sir!” cried Wilford, as Melton opened the door. “Stay, sir! Surely yon wouldn’t strike a woman ?” “I wouldn’t, eh ? I’ll whip her like a dog, I tell yo’. Stand back!” and tearing himself loose from the grasp of his guest, he rushed out into the darkness and was swallowed up in the night. Suddenly a wild scream rang high over the roaring of the wind in the pines—a scream so pitiful that Wilford rushed off in the direction from whence it came. “Help! help! help!” It was a woman’s voice—Nance’s voice—and Wilford hurried forward through the blinding rain and darkness of the wretched night, till he stood in front of the towering boulders that sfiut in the still. “Damn ) o’!” he heard Melton pant, “yo’ll disgrace yo’self an’ yo’ famblv afore strangers agin, will yo’? Yo’ll jine the Methodisses, will yo’?” and with that he struck his daughter a fearful blow, causing her to reel forward at the feet of the voung man. “Dog!” cried Wilford; “devil! Take that!” and throttling Melton, he dashed him against the rocky wall and struck him between the eves. Melton drew a revolver, but, before he could use it, Wilford wrested it from his hand, and knocked him headlong into the shelter of the still. “Ha!” cried Wilford, as a vivid flash of lightning revealed the character ol his surroundings. “A moonshiner, I see. I thought as much,” and, taking a pair of handcuffs from his pocket, he clasped them on the wrists of the prostrate man.

“You will come Avith me,” he continued, dragging his prisoner into, the open air. “You Avill come with me. I have been looking for this still of yours since last December, but I Avouldn’t have found it if you hadn’t been the brute that you are.” Stunned, confused, the old man staggered to his feet. “What is hit, daddy? Why don’t yo’ speak?” It was the daughter Avho spoke—it was the bruised and bleeding daughter Avho now flung her apron around the old man, and kissed his wrinkled face. “Hit’s all up Avith Ave’uns, Nance,” answered the old man in a husky voice. “Hit’s all up Avith Ave’uns. This feller’s a detective.” “I knowed hit, daddy—l knoAved hit. He’s been prowlin’ ’round hyar all day. I’d a-told yo’, but I seed he hadn’t disltivered the still, an’ I didn’t want his blood on yo’ hands. But,” and she hissed the Avoids through her set teeth, “I’d a Avarned yo’ Avhen I went home es I'd a knowed hit’d come ter this.” The party Avent back to the cabin, and at daybreak Wilford prepared to start with his prisoner for Cookeville. They had proceeded less than twenty yards from the door, when the sharp report of a lisle Avas heard, and Wilford reeled from his saddle—dead. At the same moment the Avhite, tense desperate face of Nance vanished from the open windoAV.

"THROTTLING MELTON, HE DASHED HIM AGAINST THE ROCKY WALL.”

“CAN YOU TELL ME HOW FAR IT IS TO COOKEVILLE?”