Crestlands: A Centennial Story of Cane RidgeBayne, Mary Addams
History
Crestlands: A Centennial Story of Cane Ridge
Bayne, Mary Addams
Kentucky -- History -- 19th century -- Fiction
The spirit of Indian Summer, enveloped in a delicate bluish haze,
pervaded the Kentucky forest. Through the treetops sounded a sighing
minor melody as now and then a leaf bade adieu to the companions of its
summer revels, and sought its winter's rest on the ground beneath. On a
fallen log a redbird sang with jubilant note. What cared he for the
lament of the leaves? True, he must soon depart from this summer home;
but only to wing his way to brighter skies, and then return when
mating-time should come again. Near a group of hickory-trees a colony
of squirrels gathered their winter store of nuts; and a flock of wild
turkeys led by a pompous, bearded gobbler picked through the
underbrush. At a wayside puddle a deer bent his head to slake his
thirst, but scarcely had his lips touched the water when his head was
reared again. For an instant he listened, limbs quivering, nostrils
dilating, a startled light in his soft eyes; then with a bound he was
away into the depths of the forest. The turkeys, heeding the tocsin of
alarm from their leader, sought the shelter of the deeper undergrowth;
the squirrels dropped their nuts and found refuge in the topmost
branches of the tree which they had just pilfered; but the redbird,
undisturbed, went on with his caroling, too confident in his own beauty
and the charm of his song to fear any intruder.
The cause of alarm was a horseman whose approach had been proclaimed by
the crackling of dried twigs in the bridle-path he was traversing. He
was an erect, broad-shouldered, dark-eyed young man with ruddy
complexion, clear-cut features, and a well-formed chin. A rifle lay
across his saddle-bow, and behind him was a pair of bulky saddle-bags.
He wore neither the uncouth garb of the hunter nor the plain homespun
of the settler, but rather the dress of the Virginian cavalier of the
period, although his hair, instead of being tied in a queue, was short,
and curled loosely about his finely shaped head. The broad brim of his
black hat was cocked in front by a silver boss; the gray traveler's
cape, thrown back, revealed a coat of dark blue, a waistcoat ornamented
with brass buttons, and breeches of the same color as the coat,
reaching to the knees, and terminating in a black cloth band with
silver buckles.
He rode rapidly along the well-defined bridle-way, and soon emerged
into a broader thoroughfare. Presently he heard the high-pitched,
quavering notes of a negro melody, faint at first and seeming as much a
part of nature as the russet glint of the setting sun through the
trees. The song grew louder as he advanced, until, emerging into an
open space, he came upon the singer, a gray-haired negro trudging
sturdily along with a stout hickory stick in his hand. The negro doffed
his cap and bowed humbly.
"Marstah, hez you seed anythin' ob a spotted heifer wid one horn broke
off, anywhars on de road? She's pushed down de bars an' jes' skipped
off somewhars."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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