His cabin was small but rightly made, of straight poles with neat-notched corner joints, whitewash on the clay chinking. There was glass in the windows to each side of the split-slab door. He led me into a square room with a stone fireplace and two chairs and a table. Three-four books on a shelf. The bed had a blazing-star quilt. Over the fire bubbled an iron pot with what smelled like stewing deer meat.
"Yes, I live here, and the neighborhood folks make me welcome," he said when we sat down. "I knew that spring had holy power. I watch over it and let others heal their ills with it."
"It was just a place I scooped out," I reminded him. "We had to have water for you, so I did it."
"It's cured hundreds of sick folks." he said. "I carried some to the Fleming family when they had flu, then others heard tell of it and came here. They come all the time. I don't take pay. I tell them, 'Kneel down before you drink, the way John did while he was a-digging. And pray before you drink, and give thanks afterwards.' "
"You shouldn't ought to give me such credit, Zeb."
"John," he said, "that's healing water. It washes away air bad thing whatsoever. It helps mend up broken bones even. Why, I've known folks drink it and settle family quarrels and lawsuits. It's a miracle, and you did it."
I wouldn't have that. I said, "Likely the power was in the water before you and I came here. I just cleaned the mud out."
"I know better, and so do you," Zeb grinned at me.
Outside, a sweet voice: "Hello, the house," it spoke. "Hello, Zeb, might could I take some water?"
He jumped up and went out like as if he expected to see angels. I followed him out, and I reckon it was an angel he figured he saw.
She was a slim girl, but not right small. In her straight blue dress and canvas shoes, with her yellow curls water-falled down her back, she was pretty to see. In one hand she toted a two-gallon bucket. She smiled, and that smile made Zeb's knees buck.
"Tilda" he said her name like a song "you don't have to ask for water, just dip it. Somebody in your family ailing?"
"No, not exactly." Then her blue eyes saw me and she waited.
"This is my friend John, Tilda," said Zeb. "He dug the spring. John, this is Tilda Fleming. Her folks neighbor with me just round the trail bend."
"Proud to be known to you, ma'am," I made my manners, but she was a-looking at Zeb, half nervous, half happy.
"Who's the water for, then?" he inquired her.
"Why," she said, shy with every word, "that's why I wondered if you'd let me have it. You see, our chickens" and she stopped again, like as if she felt shamed to tell it.
"Ailing chickens should ought to have whatever will help them, Zeb." I put in a word.
"That's a fact," said Zeb, "and a many a fresh egg your folks have given me, Tilda. So take water for them, please."
She dropped down on her knees and bowed her head above the spring. She was a pretty sight, a-doing that. I could tell that Zeb thought so.
But somebody else watched. I saw a stir beyond some laurel, and looked hard thataway.
It was another girl, older than Tilda, taller. Her hair was blacker than storm, and her pointy-chinned, pale face was lovely. She looked at Tilda a-kneeling by the spring and she sneered, and it showed her teeth as bright as glass beads.
Zeb didn't see her. He bent over Tilda where she knelt, was near about ready to kneel with her. I walked through the yard toward the laurel. That tall, black-haired girl moved into the open and waited for me.
She wore a long dress of tawny, silky stuff, hardly what you'd look for in the mountains. It hung down to her feet, but it held to her figure, and the figure was fine. She looked at me, impudent-faced. "I declare," she said in a sugary-deep voice, "this is the John we hear so much about. A fine-looking man, no doubt in the world about that. But that's a common name."
"I always reckoned it's been borne by a many a good man," I said. "How come you to know me?"
"I heard you and Zeb Gossett a-talking. I can hear at a considerable distance." Her wide, dark eyes crawled over me like spiders. "My name's Craye Sawtelle, John. You and I might could be profitable acquaintances to each other."
"I'm proud to be on good terms with most folks," I said. "You come to visit with Zeb, yonder?"
"Maybe, when that little snip trots her water bucket home." Craye Sawtelle looked at Tilda a-filling the pail, and for a second those bright teeth showed. "I have business to talk with Zeb. Maybe he'll find the wit to hark to it."
Zeb walked Tilda to the trail. Craye Sawtelle had come into the yard with me, and when Tilda walked on and Zeb turned back, Craye said. "Good day to you, Zeb Gossett," and he jumped like as if he'd been stuck with a pin.
"What can I do for you, Miss Craye?" he said.
She ran her eyes over him, too. "You know the answer to that. I'll make you a good offer for this house and this spring."
He shook his head till his young beard flicked in the air. "You know the place isn't for sale, and the spring water's free to all."
"Only if they kneel and pray by it." She smiled a chilly smile. "I'm not a praying sort, Zeb."
"Nobody's heart to kneel before God," said Zeb.
"I don't kneel to your God," she said.
"What god do you kneel to?" I inquired her, and her black eyes blazed round to me.
"You make what educated folks call an educated guess," she said to me. "If you know so much, why should I answer you?"
She turned back to Zeb. "What if I told you there's a question about your title here, that I could gain possession?"
"I'd say, let's go to the court house and find out."
"You're impossible," she shrilled at him. "But I'm reasonable. I'll give you time to think it over. Like sundown tomorrow."
Then she went off away, the other direction from Tilda. In that tawny dress, air line of her swayed.
Just then, the sun looked murkier over us. Here and there amongst the trees, the leaves showed their pale undersides, like before a storm comes.
"Let's go in and have something to eat," Zeb said to me.
It was a good deer-meat stew, with cornmeal dumplings. I had two helps. Zeb said he'd put in onions and garlic and thyme and bay leaf, with a dollop of wine from a bottle he kept for that. We finished up and drank black coffee. While we sipped, a sort of lonesome whinnying sound rose outside.
"That's an owl," said Zeb. "Bad luck this time of day."
"I figured this was the sort of place where owls hoot in the daytime and they have possums for yard dogs." I tried to crack the old joke, but Zeb didn't laugh.
"Let me say what's been here," he said. "The trouble's with that witch-girl, Craye Sawtelle. She makes profit by this and that says strings of words supposed to make your crops grow, allows she can turn your cows or pigs sick unless you pay her. What she wants is this spring, this holy spring. Naturally, she figures it would make her rich."
"And you won't give it over."
"It's not mine to give, John. I reckon it saved my life I'd have died without you knelt to scoop it clear for me. So I owe it to folks to let them cure themselves with it. Oh, Craye's tried everything. You've seen what sort she is. First off, she wanted us to be partners in the spring and other things. That didn't work with me, and she got ugly. I'll banter you she's done things to the Flemings, like those sick chickens you heard tell of from Tilda. And she told me she'd put a curse on my corn patch. Things don't go right well there just now."
I picked my guitar. "Hark at this," I said: