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194 pages

English

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One of the most important novels of the early twentieth century, John Fox Jr.'s The Trail of the Lonesome Pine is a sweeping historical epic that is much more than the sum of its many parts. At once a simple love story and a social history of the cultural forces that shaped the south, this novel is a must-read for those who like engaging historical fiction with heft and significance. If you like The Trail of the Lonesome Pine, be sure to read the next two volumes in the trilogy, The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come and The Heart of the Hills.

Sujets

Westerns

Western (genre)

Western

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Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 octobre 2012
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781775560661
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

THE TRAIL OF THE LONESOME PINE
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JOHN FOX JR.

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The Trail of the Lonesome Pine First published in 1908 ISBN 978-1-77556-066-1 © 2012 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII XIII XIV XV XVI XVII XVIII XIX XX XXI XXII XXIII XXIV XXV XXVI XXVII XXVIII XXIX XXX XXXI XXXII XXXIII XXXIV XXXV
I
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She sat at the base of the big tree—her little sunbonnet pushed back,her arms locked about her knees, her bare feet gathered under hercrimson gown and her deep eyes fixed on the smoke in the valley below.Her breath was still coming fast between her parted lips. There weretiny drops along the roots of her shining hair, for the climb had beensteep, and now the shadow of disappointment darkened her eyes. Themountains ran in limitless blue waves towards the mounting sun—but atbirth her eyes had opened on them as on the white mists trailing up thesteeps below her. Beyond them was a gap in the next mountain chain anddown in the little valley, just visible through it, were trailing bluemists as well, and she knew that they were smoke. Where was the greatglare of yellow light that the "circuit rider" had told about—andthe leaping tongues of fire? Where was the shrieking monster that ranwithout horses like the wind and tossed back rolling black plumes allstreaked with fire? For many days now she had heard stories of the"furriners" who had come into those hills and were doing strange thingsdown there, and so at last she had climbed up through the dewy morningfrom the cove on the other side to see the wonders for herself. She hadnever been up there before. She had no business there now, and, if shewere found out when she got back, she would get a scolding and maybesomething worse from her step-mother—and all that trouble and riskfor nothing but smoke. So, she lay back and rested—her little mouthtightening fiercely. It was a big world, though, that was spread beforeher and a vague awe of it seized her straightway and held her motionlessand dreaming. Beyond those white mists trailing up the hills, beyond theblue smoke drifting in the valley, those limitless blue waves must rununder the sun on and on to the end of the world! Her dead sister hadgone into that far silence and had brought back wonderful stories ofthat outer world: and she began to wonder more than ever before whethershe would ever go into it and see for herself what was there. With thethought, she rose slowly to her feet, moved slowly to the cliff thatdropped sheer ten feet aside from the trail, and stood there like agreat scarlet flower in still air. There was the way at her feet—thatpath that coiled under the cliff and ran down loop by loop throughmajestic oak and poplar and masses of rhododendron. She drew a longbreath and stirred uneasily—she'd better go home now—but the path hada snake-like charm for her and still she stood, following it as far downas she could with her eyes. Down it went, writhing this way and thatto a spur that had been swept bare by forest fires. Along this spur ittravelled straight for a while and, as her eyes eagerly followed itto where it sank sharply into a covert of maples, the little creaturedropped of a sudden to the ground and, like something wild, lay flat.
A human figure had filled the leafy mouth that swallowed up the trailand it was coming towards her. With a thumping heart she pushed slowlyforward through the brush until her face, fox-like with cunning andscreened by a blueberry bush, hung just over the edge of the cliff, andthere she lay, like a crouched panther-cub, looking down. For a moment,all that was human seemed gone from her eyes, but, as she watched, allthat was lost came back to them, and something more. She had seen thatit was a man, but she had dropped so quickly that she did not see thebig, black horse that, unled, was following him. Now both man and horsehad stopped. The stranger had taken off his gray slouched hat and he waswiping his face with something white. Something blue was tied looselyabout his throat. She had never seen a man like that before. His facewas smooth and looked different, as did his throat and his hands. Hisbreeches were tight and on his feet were strange boots that were thecolour of his saddle, which was deep in seat, high both in front andbehind and had strange long-hooded stirrups. Starting to mount, the manstopped with one foot in the stirrup and raised his eyes towards herso suddenly that she shrank back again with a quicker throbbing at herheart and pressed closer to the earth. Still, seen or not seen, flightwas easy for her, so she could not forbear to look again. Apparently, hehad seen nothing—only that the next turn of the trail was too steep toride, and so he started walking again, and his walk, as he strode alongthe path, was new to her, as was the erect way with which he held hishead and his shoulders.
In her wonder over him, she almost forgot herself, forgot to wonderwhere he was going and why he was coming into those lonely hills until,as his horse turned a bend of the trail, she saw hanging from theother side of the saddle something that looked like a gun. He was a"raider"—that man: so, cautiously and swiftly then, she pushed herselfback from the edge of the cliff, sprang to her feet, dashed past the bigtree and, winged with fear, sped down the mountain—leaving in a spot ofsunlight at the base of the pine the print of one bare foot in the blackearth.
II
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He had seen the big pine when he first came to those hills—one morning,at daybreak, when the valley was a sea of mist that threw soft clingingspray to the very mountain tops: for even above the mists, that morning,its mighty head arose—sole visible proof that the earth still sleptbeneath. Straightway, he wondered how it had ever got there, so farabove the few of its kind that haunted the green dark ravines far below.Some whirlwind, doubtless, had sent a tiny cone circling heavenward anddropped it there. It had sent others, too, no doubt, but how had thistree faced wind and storm alone and alone lived to defy both so proudly?Some day he would learn. Thereafter, he had seen it, at noon—but littleless majestic among the oaks that stood about it; had seen it catchingthe last light at sunset, clean-cut against the after-glow, and like adark, silent, mysterious sentinel guarding the mountain pass under themoon. He had seen it giving place with sombre dignity to the passingburst of spring—had seen it green among dying autumn leaves, greenin the gray of winter trees and still green in a shroud of snow—achangeless promise that the earth must wake to life again. The LonesomePine, the mountaineers called it, and the Lonesome Pine it always lookedto be. From the beginning it had a curious fascination for him, andstraightway within him—half exile that he was—there sprang up asympathy for it as for something that was human and a brother. And nowhe was on the trail of it at last. From every point that morning it hadseemed almost to nod down to him as he climbed and, when he reached theledge that gave him sight of it from base to crown, the winds murmuredamong its needles like a welcoming voice. At once, he saw the secret ofits life. On each side rose a cliff that had sheltered it from stormsuntil its trunk had shot upwards so far and so straight and so strongthat its green crown could lift itself on and on and bend—blow whatmight—as proudly and securely as a lily on its stalk in a morningbreeze. Dropping his bridle rein he put one hand against it as though onthe shoulder of a friend.
"Old Man," he said, "You must be pretty lonesome up here, and I'm gladto meet you."
For a while he sat against it—resting. He had no particular purposethat day—no particular destination. His saddle-bags were across thecantle of his cow-boy saddle. His fishing rod was tied under one flap.He was young and his own master. Time was hanging heavy on his handsthat day and he loved the woods and the nooks and crannies of themwhere his own kind rarely made its way. Beyond, the cove looked dark,forbidding, mysterious, and what was beyond he did not know. So downthere he would go. As he bent his head forward to rise, his eye caughtthe spot of sunlight, and he leaned over it with a smile. In the blackearth was a human foot-print—too small and slender for the foot ofa man, a boy or a woman. Beyond, the same prints were visible—widerapart—and he smiled again. A girl had been there. She was the crimsonflash that he saw as he started up the steep and mistook for a flamingbush of sumach. She had seen him coming and she had fled. Still smiling,he rose to his feet.
III
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On one side he had left the earth yellow with the coming noon, but itwas still morning as he went down on the other side. The laurel andrhododendron still reeked with dew in the deep, ever-shaded ravine.The ferns drenched his stirrups, as he brushed through them, and eachdripping tree-top broke the sunlight and let it drop in tent-like beamsthrough the shimmering undermist. A bird flashed here and there throughthe green gloom, but there was no sound in the air but the footfalls ofhis horse and the easy creaking of leather under him, the drip of dewoverhead and the running of water below. Now and then he could see thesame slender foot-prints in the rich loam and he saw them in the sandwhere the first tiny brook tinkled across the path from a gloomy ravine.There the little creature had taken a flying leap across