Prepared by David Reed haradda@aol.com or davidr@inconnect.com
A Mountain Europa
By John Fox, Jr.
As Clayton rose to his feet in the still air, the tree-tops began totremble in the gap below him, and a rippling ran through theleaves up the mountain-side. Drawing off his hat he stretched outhis arms to meet it, and his eyes closed as the cool wind struck histhroat and face and lifted the hair from his forehead. About himthe mountains lay like a tumultuous sea-the Jellico Spur, stilledgradually on every side into vague, purple shapes against thebroken rim of the sky, and Pine Mountain and the CumberlandRange racing in like breakers from the north. Under him layJellico Valley, and just visible in a wooded cove, whence IndianCreek crept into sight, was a mining-camp-a cluster of whitecabins-from which he had climbed that afternoon. At that distancethe wagon-road narrowed to a bridle-path, and the figure movingslowly along it and entering the forest at the base of the mountainwas shrunk to a toy. For a moment Clayton stood with his face tothe west, drinking in the air; then tightening his belt, he caught thepliant body of a sapling and swung loose from the rock. As thetree flew back, his dog sprang after him. The descent was sharp. Attimes he was forced to cling to the birch-tops till they lay flat onthe mountain-side.
Breathless, he reached at last a bowlder from which the path waseasy to the valley below, and he leaned quivering against the softrug of moss and lichens that covered it. The shadows had creptfrom the foot of the mountains, darkening the valley, and lifting upthe mountain-side beneath him a long, wavering line in which metthe cool, deep green of the shade and the shining bronze where thesunlight still lay. Lazily following this line, his eye caught twomoving shadows that darted jagged shapes into the sunlight and asquickly withdrew them. As the road wound up toward him, twofigures were soon visible through the undergrowth. Presently ahead bonneted in blue rose above the bushes, and Clayton'shalf-shut eyes opened wide and were fixed with a look of amusedexpectancy where a turn of the path must bring rider and beast intoplain sight. Apparently some mountain girl, wearied by the climbor in a spirit of fun, had mounted her cow while driving it home;and with a smile at the thought of the confusion he would causeher, Clayton stepped around the bowlder and waited. With theslow, easy swing of climbing cattle, the beast brought its rider intoview. A bag of meal lay across its shoulders, and behind this thegirl-for she was plainly young-sat sidewise, with her bare feetdangling against its flank. Her face was turned toward the valleybelow, and her loosened bonnet half disclosed a head of brightyellow hair.
Catching sight of Clayton, the beast stopped and lifted its head, notthe meek, patient face he expected to see, but a head that waswrinkled and vicious-the head of a bull. Only the suddenremembrance of a dead mountain custom saved him from utteramazement. He had heard that when beasts of burden were scarce,cows, and especially bulls, were worked in ploughs and ridden bythe mountaineers, even by the women. But this had become atradition, the humor of which greater prosperity and contact with anew civilization had taught even the mountain people toappreciate. The necessities of this girl were evidently as great asher fear of ridicule seemed small. When the brute stopped, shebegan striking him in the flank with her bare heel, without lookingaround, and as he paid no attention to such painless goading, sheturned with sudden impatience and lifted a switch above hisshoulders. The stick was arre