THE CODE OF THE MOUNTAINS
BY CHARLES NEVILLE BUCK
AUTHOR OF THE CALL OF THE CUMBERLANDS, THE BATTLE CRY, Etc.
ILLUSTRATIONS BY
G. W. GAGE
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1915, by
W. J. WATT & COMPANY
Published May
OTHER BOOKS BY
CHARLES NEVILLE BUCK
THE LIGHTED MATCH
THE PORTAL OF DREAMS
THE CALL OF THE CUMBERLANDS
THE BATTLE CRY
"Newty," she said softly, "why don't you shake the dirtof this place offen your feet?"
THE CODE OF THE MOUNTAINS
CHAPTER I
This morning the boy from the forks of Troublesome Creek had back hisname once more. It was not a distinguished name, nor one to be flauntedin pride of race or achievement. On the contrary, it was a synonym forviolent law-breaking and in the homely parlance of the Cumberlandridges, where certain infractions are condoned, it stood for "pizenmeanness." Generations of Spooners before him had taken up the surnameand carried it like runners in a relay race—often into evil ways. Manyhad laid down their lives and name with abruptness and violence.
When the pioneers first set their feet into the Wilderness trail out ofVirginia, some left because the vague hinterland west of the ridgesplaced them "beyond the law's pursuing."
Tradition said that of the latter class were the Spooners, but NewtSpooner had no occasion to probe the remote past for a record ofturpitude. It lay before him inscribed in a round clerical hand on theledger which the warden of the Frankfort Penitentiary was just closing.Though the Governor's clemency had expunged the red charge of murderset against his name at the tender age of eighteen, there was anotherrecord which the Governor could not erase. A sunken grave bore testimonyin a steep mountainside burial-ground back in "Bloody Breathitt," wheredead weed stalks rattled and tangled ropes of fox-grapes bore theirfruit in due season.
However, even the name of Newt Spooner is a better thing than the Number813, which for two years had been his designation within those gray andfortressed walls along whose tops sentry-boxes punctuated the angles.
This morning he wore a suit of black clothes, the gift of thecommonwealth, and his eyes were fixed rather avidly on a five-dollarnote which the warden held tightly between his thumb and forefinger.Newt knew that the bill, too, was to be his. Yet the warden seemedneedlessly deliberate in making the presentation. That functionaryintended first to have something to say; something meant in allkindliness, but as Newt waited, shifting his bulk uneasily from foot tofoot, his narrowed eyes traveled with restlessness, and his thin lipsclamped themselves into a line indicative of neither gratitude norpenitence. The convict's thoughts for two years had been circling withuncomplicated directness about one focus. Newt Spooner had a fixed idea.
The office of the warden was not a cheery place. Its walls and desk andkey-racks spoke suggestively of the business administered there. Thewarden tilted back in his swi