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And now Bert noted that the force of the flood was abating. It had reached the lowest part of the valley, and, ahead of him, the ground began to rise. With every foot of that ascent the torrent would lose its impetus, until finally it would reach its limit.
But there a new danger threatened. There would be a tremendous backwash as the current receded, and in the meeting of the two opposing forces a terrific whirlpool would be generated, in which nothing human could live. In some way he must reach the shore before the flood turned back.
There was not an instant to lose, and he acted with characteristic decision. The torrent was slackening, and he no longer felt so helpless in its grasp. He could not swim at right angles to it and thus approach the shore directly, but must try gradually to pull to the left, in a long diagonal sweep. Inch by inch, he drew away from the center of the stream and slowly neared the bank. Twice he had to dive, to avoid tree trunks that dashed over the spot where he had been a moment before. Once he barely escaped being caught between two houses. But his quick eye and quicker mind stood him in good stead, at this hour of his greatest need. His lungs were laboring ready to burst and his muscles were strained almost to the breaking point. But his long powerful strokes brought him steadily nearer to the eastern bank and he steered straight for a huge tree, that stood on the edge of the rushing waters. He missed it by a foot, but was just able to grasp a trailing branch as he was swept beneath it. A desperate clutch, a quick swing upward and the ravening waters had been cheated of a victim. Slowly he made his way over the bough to the trunk of the tree, and fell, rather than dropped, to the ground. Utterly exhausted, he crumpled into a heap and lay there gasping.
He had escaped death by the narrowest of margins. Even while he lay there, bereft of strength and worn out with struggle, the flood reached its limit, paused a moment and then rushed back. The receding current met the other still advancing. Like giant wrestlers, they locked in a fierce embrace, and the waves shot up for thirty feet. Great logs flew out of the waves and fell back with a resounding crash. Had Bert been in the center of that seething maelstrom, nothing could have saved him from instant death.
But he was safe. He had gone into the very jaws of death and come out alive. Spent and wrenched and bruised he was, and weary beyond all telling. Each arm and leg felt as though it weighed a ton. But he had never incurred pain or danger in a worthier cause, and he rejoiced at the chance that had impelled him to take up his quarters in the deserted hut the night before. The rain had assuredly been a “blessing in disguise,” bitterly as he had regretted it at the time.
A full hour elapsed before he was able to get on his feet. Had it not been for his splendid physical condition, he would have utterly collapsed under the strain. But soon his heart resumed its normal rhythm, the blood coursed more strongly through his veins, and he struggled up from his recumbent posture and began to take note of his surroundings.
How far he had been carried in that wild ride, he had no means of knowing. But he judged that he must be fully six miles from the site of the town. There had been several turnings in the valley and from where he stood looking back, he could not see more than a mile before a bend in the road cut off his view. But the stream itself was sufficient guide as he retraced his steps, and he knew that all too soon he would reach the sad and stricken crowd that would be camped on the banks, bewailing the calamity that had come upon them with the swiftness of a lightning stroke.
He looked at his watch. It had stopped at ten minutes to five, probably just at the second that the mountain of water swooped down upon him. He threw a glance at the sun which was only a little above the horizon, and concluded that it was not much more than six o’clock. Scarcely more than an hour had passed, but it seemed to him as though ages had elapsed since the moment when he had been startled by that first premonition of danger.
How lucky that he had heeded it! Had he obeyed his first impulse and disregarded it, he would have been compelled to stand by, a helpless spectator, and see a whole community wiped out of existence. And the bitter memory of that neglected opportunity would have cast its shadow over him as long as he lived.
His thoughts went now to the gallant machine that had carried him so swiftly to the work of rescue. Good old “Blue Streak!” Once more it had proved a tried and trusty comrade, responding to every call he made upon it. How quickly the miles would fall away behind him if he only bestrode it now.
The wish had scarcely been formed before a substitute appeared. He heard the sound of wheels, and a team came up behind him. The man who was driving told Bert to jump in, and whipped up his horses as he hurried on to the scene of the disaster.
Soon they came upon the homeless throng, huddled upon the slope that overlooked what had been home. Some were weeping and running about, half crazed with anguish. Others were dry-eyed and dumb, moving as though in a dream, their minds paralyzed by the shock. They needed everything, food and tents and medicines and doctors and nurses. The telegraph and telephone service was out of commission and the offices had been swept away. The outside world knew nothing, as yet, of the frightful visitation that had come to the little town, nestling in the West Virginia hills.
Bert’s resolution was taken on the instant. There was nothing more that he could do here. Little, in fact, could be done until the flood subsided, and there were plenty of hands only too willing to dull their heartache in work that would keep them from brooding too much on the disaster. But no horse could get to the world without as quickly as he on his motorcycle. He waited only long enough to learn the shortest route to the next town of any size. Then he rushed to the thicket on the hillside where he had left his wheel, and was rejoiced to find it safe. Fortunately, it had been beyond the high water mark of the flood. He dragged it out, mounted, and, with one last look at the waters that had so nearly been his grave, threw in the clutch and started up the valley.
The sun was much higher now and the roads, while still muddy, were rapidly drying out. He cleared the summit of the hills and could see far off the buildings and spires of the town he sought. Like a meteor, he shot down the slope, and in a few minutes was the center of an excited group in the telegraph office, to which he at once repaired. Soon the wires were humming, and within a short time the entire country, from Maine to California, was stirred to the depths by the news of the calamity. Doctors and supplies were rushed from the points nearest to the stricken town and from Washington the Federal Government sent a squad of Red Cross nurses and a detachment of troops to take charge of the work of rescue and reconstruction.
Only one thing was omitted from Bert’s graphic recital of the story. He said not a word of his wild ride in the early dawn. Others, later on, when they had regained something of composure and could recall events preceding the catastrophe, remembered a rider rushing along the country roads and calling upon them to flee for their lives. They told of the siren, shrieking like a soul in pain, that had roused them from their sleep with its dreadful warning. The reporters, avid of sensation, listened eagerly, and embroidered upon the story some fanciful embellishments of their own. They did their utmost to discover the name of the rider who had come racing through the mists of that early morning, but failed. The only one who could tell the truth about it never did. Except to a few of his intimates, and that under the pledge of secrecy, Bert locked the story in his own breast and threw away the key. It was enough for him that he had been able at a critical juncture to do, and do successfully, the work that stood ready to his hand. The deed carried its own compensation, and he rejoiced that he was able to keep it from public view. But, somewhere in West Virginia, a crippled boy remembered him gratefully, and two little youngsters were taught to mention a nameless stranger in their prayers.
And now that nothing was left to do in behalf of others, Bert’s thoughts reverted to his own affairs. The day was still young, despite the events that had been crowded into it. Up to this moment he had not thought of food, but now he was conscious that he was ravenously hungry. As soon as he could shake himself loose from the crowd that had listened breathlessly to his story, he went to the hotel and ordered an abundant breakfast. When he had finished, he was once more his normal self. He replenished his gasoline supply, consulted his map, jumped into the saddle and was off. Before long he reached the road that he had been traveling the previous day; and, bending low over the handlebars, he called upon the “Blue Streak” to make up for lost time.
The scenery flew past as in a panorama. Up hill and down he went at railroad speed, only slackened within the limits of a town. In this thinly settled country, these were few and far between, and he chuckled as he saw his speedometer swiftly climbing. The roads were drying out, and, though still a little heavy, had lost their clinging quality. In a few hours, he flashed into Charleston, where his ears were greeted by the cries of the newsboys, calling out the extras issued on account of the flood. Staying only long enough to report his time and get a meal, he resumed his trip, and, before night, had left the worst part of the hills behind him and had crossed the border line into Kentucky, the land of swift horses and fair women, of Davy Crockett and Daniel Boone, the “dark and bloody ground” of the Revolution.
It was a tired rider who almost fell from his saddle that night, after having covered three hundred miles. A fierce determination had buoyed him up and the most daring kind of rough riding had carried him through. Now the reaction had set in. An immense weariness weighed him down and every separate muscle had its own distinctive ache. But his mind was at peace. He had fought a good fight. A supreme emergency had challenged him, and he had met it squarely. And no twinges of conscience for duty unperformed came to disturb the sleep of utter exhaustion into which he fell as soon as his head touched the pillow.
CHAPTER VII
A Kentucky Feud
The following morning he arose early, his abounding vitality having enabled him to recuperate entirely from the exciting events of the day before. He was soon in the saddle, bowling along at a good clip through the “Blue Grass” State. He found widely varied road conditions confronting him. At times he would strike short stretches of “pike” that afforded fairly good going. As a rule, however, the roads were sandy, and consequently, very bad for motorcycle travel.
At times, the sand was so deep that he felt lucky if he averaged fifteen or twenty miles an hour. Often the only way he could get along at all was to ride in one of the ruts worn by the wheels of carriages and buggies. These were usually very deep, so deep, in fact, that with both wheels in them the footboards barely cleared the surface of the road. Of course, this made riding very dangerous, as the slightest turn of the front wheel meant a bad fall.
It was only by skilful balancing that Bert managed to make any progress at all. As every one knows, a bicycle or motorcycle is kept erect by moving the front wheel to one side or the other, thus maintaining the proper center of gravity. Riding in a rut, however, this method became impracticable, so Bert was forced to keep his equilibrium by swaying his body from side to side, as necessity dictated.
He found that the faster he traveled through these ruts the easier it was to keep his balance. Of course, if he had a tumble going at that speed he was much more apt to be badly hurt, but he had no time to think of that. If he didn’t go fast, he couldn’t win the race, and to him that was reason enough to “hit it up” regardless of possible consequences.
Sometimes he met a carriage, and then there was nothing for it but to dismount and wait for it to pass, that is, if he thought the driver had not seen him. But if he was on a long stretch of road and the driver had ample time to get out of the way, – well, there was no stopping then. The driver, seeing a blue streak approaching him at close to a mile a minute clip would hastily draw to one side of the road and then descend and hold his horse’s head; and usually none too soon. There would come a rattle and roar, and Bert would be a speck in the distance, leaving a cloud of dust to settle slowly behind him.
The driver, after quieting his horse – all the horses in this part of the country were unused to motor vehicles of any kind – would resume his journey, muttering curses on them “pesky gasoline critters.” But taken altogether, Bert found his first day in Kentucky one of the most strenuous he had ever experienced.
Night found him in a rather unlooked for situation. He was a little ahead of his schedule, and he had reached the town at which he had planned to stay several hours short of sundown.
“No use losing three or four precious hours of daylight,” he thought. “I might as well push forward and take a chance of getting shelter at some village along the way.”
This he did, following directions given him in the town in which he had originally intended to stay. As usual, however, the directions proved to be wrong, and the village failed to materialize. To add to his troubles as darkness came on, he took a wrong fork in the road, and before long found himself in a road that was absolutely impassable on account of sand.
“Well,” thought he, “it begins to look like a night in the open for me, and that won’t be much fun. I want to get a good night’s sleep to-night. Heaven knows I need it.”
But when he had just about resigned himself to this, he was relieved to see a light spring up, some distance away. “That’s good,” he thought, “I’ll see if all I’ve heard about Kentucky hospitality is fact or just mere talk.”
Accordingly he started the motor and threw in the clutch on low speed. He made no attempt to mount, however, but contented himself with walking beside the machine, guiding it through the deep sand.
He had no need to announce his arrival. The unmuffled exhaust did that for him. As he approached the cabin from which the light emanated, he could see the whole family grouped on the doorstep, peering into the night, for by now it was quite dark.
The head of the house was a little in advance of the others, and as Bert and the “Blue Streak” approached the door he stepped forward.
“Wall, stranger, what kind of a contraption do you-all reckon to have thar?” he drawled, gazing curiously at the palpitating motorcycle.
Bert shut off the motor before he replied.
“Why,” he said, “that’s my motorcycle, and it’s one of the best friends I have. I took the wrong road a way back, I guess, and I was just going to camp out over night, when I saw the light from your window. If you can put me up for the night you’ll be doing me a big favor.”
“Not another word, son,” replied the big mountaineer, “come right in an’ set down. You look nigh dead beat.”
“I am about all in,” confessed Bert. “I’ll leave my machine right here, I guess.”
“Shore, shore,” said the big Kentuckian, “I reckin thar ain’t nobuddy within a hundred miles hereabouts that could make off with the blamed machine ef he had a mind to. Hosses is considerable more common in these parts. The pump’s around the side of the house ef you ’low to wash up,” he continued, as an afterthought.
“All right, thanks,” replied Bert, “I’ll be with you in no time.” He disappeared in the direction indicated, and soon returned, much refreshed by a thorough sousing under the pump.
As he entered the cabin, a tired-looking but motherly woman bustled forward. “Jest you set over there to the right of paw,” she said, indicating Bert’s place at the table, “an’ make yourself comfortable. We ain’t got much to offer you, but sech as it is, you’r welcome.”
There was not much variety to the viands, it must be confessed, but there was plenty of “corn pone” and bacon, and rich milk with which to wash it down. After his strenuous day in the open he ate ravenously. The mountaineer uttered hardly a word during the meal, and indeed none of the family seemed very talkative.
The children, of whom there were six, gazed round-eyed at the unexpected guest, and seemed, if one were to judge from their looks, to regard him as a being from another world.
After the meal was dispatched, the mountaineer produced a blackened old pipe, and, filling it from a shabby leather pouch, lit it. “Do you smoke, son?” he asked, holding the pouch out to Bert, “ef you do, help yourself.”
“No, thanks,” said Bert, declining the hospitable offer with a smile.
“Don’t smoke, eh?” commented the other. “Wall, ye’d ought to. There’s a heap of comfort in baccy, let me tell you.”
“I don’t doubt it,” replied Bert, “but I’ve been in training so long for one thing or another that I’ve never had a chance to form the habit. Everybody that smokes seems to get a lot of fun out of it though, so I suppose it must be a great pleasure.”
“It shore is,” affirmed the big Kentuckian. “But it’s hot in here. What do you say we light out and take a squint at that machine of yourn? I ain’t never got a good look at one close up. They’re ginerally travelin’ too fast to make out details,” with a grin.
“Well, they’re not the slowest things in the world, that’s certain,” laughed Bert, “but come ahead out and I’ll be glad to explain it to you.”
They went outside together, the Kentuckian carrying a lantern, and followed by the children, who gazed wide-eyed at the strange machine. Bert explained the simpler points of the mechanism to the mountaineer, who seemed much interested.
“I kin see it’s a mighty neat contraption,” he admitted, at length. “But I’d rether ride quietlike behind a good bit o’ hoss flesh. You can’t make me believe that thet machine has got the strength o’ seven hosses in it, nohow. It ain’t reasonable.”
Bert saw that he might argue for a week, and still fail to shake the obstinacy of his host, so he wisely forbore to make the attempt. Instead he guided the conversation around to the conditions and pursuits of the surrounding country, and here the Kentuckian was on firm ground. He discoursed on local politics with considerable shrewdness and good sense, and proved himself well up on such topics.
They talked on this subject quite a while, and then the conversation in some way shifted to the feuds a few years back that had aroused such widespread criticism. “Although I haven’t seen any sign of them since I’ve been in Kentucky,” confessed Bert, with a smile.
“No,” said his host, with a ruminative look in his eyes, “they’re dyin’ out, an’ a good thing it is fer the country, too. They never did do the least mite o’ good, an’ they often did a sight o’ harm.
“Why, it warn’t such a long time back that the Judsons an’ the Berkeleys were at it hammer an’ tongs, right in this country roundabout. One was layin’ fer ’tother all the time, an’ the folks thet wasn’t in the fracas was afraid to go huntin’ even, fer fear o’ bein’ picked off by mistake. They wasn’t none too particular about makin’ sure o’ their man, neither, before they pulled trigger. They’d shoot fust, an’ ef they found they’d bagged the wrong man they might be peeved, but thet’s all. More’n once I’ve had a close shave myself.”
“But what started the feud in the first place?” asked Bert. “It must have been a pretty big thing to have set people to shooting each other up like that, I should think.”
“Not so’s you could notice it,” was the answer. “Blamed ef I rightly remember just what it was. Seems to me, now I come to think of it, that ole Seth Judson an’ Adam Berkeley got mixed up in the fust place over cuttin’ down a tree thet was smack on the line ’atween their farms. Ole Seth he swore he’d cut thet tree down, an’ Adam he ’lowed as how it would be a mighty unhealthy thing fer any man as how even took a chip out of it.
“Wall, a couple o’ days later Adam went to town on one errand or another, and when he got back the cussed ole tree had been cut down an’ carted away. When Adam saw nothin’ but the stump left, he never said a word, good or bad, but turned around and went back to his house an’ got his gun. He tracks over to Seth Judson’s house an’ calls him by name. Seth, he walks out large as life, an’ Adam pumps a bullet clean through his heart. Them two men had been friends off an’ on fer over thirty year, an’ I allow thet ef Adam hed took time to think an’ cool off a little, he’d never a’ done what he did.
“Howsomever, there’s no bringin’ the dead back to life, an’ Adam tromps off home, leavin’ Seth lyin’ there on his front porch.
“’Twasn’t more’n a week later, I reckon, when we all heard thet Seth’s son, Jed, had up an’ killed Adam, shootin’ at him from behind a fence.
“Waal, thet’s the way it started, an’ it seemed as though it war never goin’ to end. Young Adam, he ’lowed as how no man could shoot his daddy an’ live, so he laid fer Jed as he was goin’ to the village, an’ shot him ’atween the eyes as neat as could be. Then the younger sons, thet were still not much more than boys, as you might say, they took to lyin’ in wait fer each other in the woods an’ behind fences. Pretty soon their relatives took to backin’ them up, and jined in on their own account. O’ course, most o’ the folks hereabouts is related to one another in some way.
“I wasn’t a native o’ these parts myself, an’ so managed to keep clear o’ the trouble. It was a hard thing for me to set by an’ see my neighbors killin’ each other off like a passel o’ mad dogs, though, an’ all the more because I knew there wasn’t any real call fer it in the first place.
“Howsumever, they’ve stopped fightin’ now, an’ it’s none too soon, nuther. Another year, an’ I reckon there wouldn’t a been a Berkeley or a Judson left alive in the hull State.”
The farmer stopped speaking, and gazed reflectively into the night.
“But what put an end to it finally,” inquired Bert, who had listened to this narrative with absorbed interest.
“Waal, there was considerable romance consarned in it, as you might say,” said his host. “Young Buck Judson, he met one o’ ole Berkeley’s daughters somewhere, an’ those two young fools hed to go an’ fall in love with each other. O’ course, their families were dead sot agin’ it, but nothin’ would do the critters short o’ gettin’ hitched up, an’ at last they talked their families into a peace meetin’, as you might say. All the neighbors was invited, an’ o’ course we-all went. An’, believe me, those people reminded me of a room full o’ tom cats, all wantin’ to start a shindy, but all hatin’ to be the fust to begin.
“But all we-’uns thet wanted to stop such goin’s on did our best to keep peace in the family. To make a long story short, everythin’ went off quiet an’ easy like, an’ Buck an’ his gal was hitched up all proper. The hard feelin’ gradually calmed down, an’ now the two families is tolerable good friends, considerin’ everything. But that cost a heap of more or less valable lives while it lasted, I can tell you.”
After a short pause, he continued, “But there was some turrible strong feelin’s on both sides while it lasted, son. Why, people was afraid to get ’atween a light an’ a winder, for fear of a bullet comin’ through and puttin’ a sudden an’ onpleasant end to them. Ole Sam Judson, as how always had a streak o’ yaller in him at the best o’ times, got so at last thet he wouldn’t stir out o’ the house without he toted his little gran’darter, Mary, along with him. O’ course, he figured thet with the baby in his arms nobuddy’d take a chanst on wingin’ him and mebbe killin’ the kid, an’ he was right. He never even got scratched the hull time. An’ I could tell you a hundred other things o’ the same kind, only you’d probably get tired listenin’ to them.”
“It certainly was a bad state of things,” said Bert at last, after a thoughtful silence, “but couldn’t the authorities do something to stop such wholesale killing?”
“Not much,” replied the mountaineer, “it would ’a taken every constable in Kentucky to cover this part o’ the country, an’ even then I reckon there wouldn’t ’a been anywhere near enough. They must ’a realized that,” he added drily, “’cause they didn’t try very hard, leastways, not as fur as I could see.”
“I’m glad it’s over now, at any rate,” commented Bert. “A needless waste of life like that is a terrible thing.”
“It shore is,” agreed his host, and puffed meditatively at his pipe. At last he knocked the ashes from it and rose to his feet.
“It’s gettin’ late, son,” he said, “an’ I reckon you-all must be might tuckered out after a day on that there fire spoutin’ motorbike o’ yourn. The ole lady’s got a bunk fixed up fer you, I reckon, an’ you can turn in any time you feel like it.”
“I am tired out, for a fact,” acknowledged Bert, “and I don’t care how soon I tumble in.”
“Come along, then,” said Anderson, as his host was named, “come on inside, an’ we’ll put you up.”
So saying, he entered the cabin, followed by Bert.
Mrs. Anderson had fixed a bed for him in a little loft over the main room, reached by a ladder. After bidding his host and hostess good night, Bert climbed the rungs and ten minutes later was sleeping soundly.
When he was awakened by a call from the farmer, he jumped up much refreshed, and, dressing quickly, descended the ladder to the living room, where the entire family was already assembled. After exchanging greetings, he took his place at the table and made a substantial meal from plain but hearty fare.
This over, he bade a cordial farewell to the kind farmer and his wife, who refused pointblank to accept the slightest payment for the hospitality they had extended him. Bert thanked them again and again, and then shook hands and left them, first being told of a short cut that would save him several miles and land him on a good road.
The good old “Blue Streak” was in fine shape, and after a few minor adjustments he started the motor. The whole family had followed him out, and were grouped in an interested semicircle about him. At last he was ready to start, and threw one leg over the saddle.
“Good-bye,” he called, waving his hand, “and thanks once more.”
“Good-bye, good luck,” they cried in chorus, and Bert moved off slowly, on low gear.
At first the going was atrocious, and he was forced to pick his way with great caution. The road steadily improved, however, and in a short time a sudden turn brought him out on an exceptionally good turnpike, the one of which his host of the night before had told him.
“All right,” he thought to himself, “here goes to make speed while the road lasts,” and he grinned at this paraphrase of a well-worn saying. He opened up more and more, and his motor took up its familiar deep-toned road song. Mile after mile raced back from the spinning wheels. The indicator on the speedometer reached the fifty mark, and stayed there hour after hour. At times the road ran more to sand, but then he simply opened the throttle a trifle wider, and kept to the same speed.
The air was like wine, and riding was a keen pleasure. The trees and bushes waving in the early morning breeze – the beautiful green country spread out on every side – the steady, exhilarating speed – all made life seem a very fine thing indeed, and Bert sang snatches of wild, meaningless songs as he flew along. For three hours he never slackened speed, and then only pulled up in a fair-sized town to replenish his oil and gasoline. Then he was off again. The road became worse after he had gone ten or fifteen miles, but still he contrived to make fair time, and about noon he rode into Louisville.
His arrival there was eagerly awaited, and he was warmly received at the local agency. While his machine was being cleaned and oiled, he took the opportunity of reporting to the proper authorities. Upon his return the “Blue Streak” was turned over to him, shining and polished, and he once more took the road. Several motorcyclists accompanied him to the outskirts of the city. He experienced varying road conditions, and was twice delayed by punctures. But the rattling work of the early morning made up for the afternoon’s delays, and dusk found him two hundred and eighty miles nearer the goal of his ambition.
