Tom Jarret was a hermit.

At least, that is how the few people that knew of his existence thought of him. He thought nothing of the kind, because he never thought about it. He knew who he was and that was sufficient.

He had grown up an aloof child, having no friends to speak of, which didn't bother him in the least. He was raised by a dispassionate father who never offered any feelings of affection but did, however, provide him with sustenance, clothing and the other material things he needed to mature. His mother had died in his infancy.

In school he was considered to be a poor student, as he didn't care much about grades, so was negligent about homework and tests. In truth, he soaked up knowledge like a sponge, and would have completely shocked his teachers with his comprehension of the subjects, if any had ever investigated.

In social matters he was a cipher, not seeking companionship or offering it. This led to the inevitable hazing by his fellow students, which he never responded to and really didn't care about. But if it escalated to physical abuse he showed a fierce facet of himself that even the largest of the bullies left alone, as they learned he never quit until either unconscious or pulled off his opponent.

Upon his majority he decided he didn't need anyone but himself to be content, so he packed his possessions and went up the mountain. It took more than a few trips to carry everything he wanted up the steep slope but he persevered and finally became self sufficient.

He had a rifle but the few cartridges he had turned green with age as he did all his hunting with a bow he made from a length of Osage orange he'd found. He harvested the countryside for roots and tubers and had planted a garden where he kept the seeds from one year to the next.

From his lofty perch he could see the whole surrounding countryside, even the town he'd left, miles in the distance. At the foot of the mountain he could see the road that led from his old town to another somewhere. With its curves and many switchbacks it took quite a while to travel around the mountain. This gave Tom the opportunity to intercept the occasional merchant or peddler he saw on the road.

He would barter his furs, and the beautiful carvings he had made in the evenings of the animals he was so familiar with, for the few things he would like to have from civilization. Canvas was one, which he would sew into clothing or use to cover his firewood instead of the bark slabs he used when he had none.

He was there for quite a few years, content with his solitary existence.

One Fall afternoon, while out to check the weather, he glanced down at the road to see a wagon traveling. He didn't give it much thought until he saw two horsemen come out of the woods and approach it. As they rode up to the front he saw a small figure drop off the back and scurry into some bushes. Soon he heard gunshots echo in the air and saw the gun smoke emitted from the riders' pistols.

Tom, knowing that he could have no effect on the outcome, just watched as the men ransacked the wagon, throwing on the road whatever they wanted. They then unharnessed the horses and loaded their booty on them. Their last act, before they rode away, was to push the wagon over the edge of the road, thinking it would disappear forever, and no one would know of the crime. However, it only rolled a short distance and became lodged against a tree.

Checking the sky, he realized he would have time to scavenge what he could from the wagon before the blizzard he knew was coming would hit. When he reached it, precariously balanced on the tree, he found, for him, a fortune of things he could use. He thoroughly stripped it, even the canvas top, which he cut off with his belt knife. Knowing he wouldn't be able to tote it all home before the storm he cached it across the road in a small cave to be retrieved later, covering it with the canvas.

He also took the two bodies, he assumed were husband and wife, to a ravine and buried them by collapsing the bank over them.

He then went to investigate the small figure he had seen escape. He had no difficulty finding his target when he heard some soft sobbing from the bushes. Pushing them aside he encountered a young girl he judged to be perhaps in her early teens or even younger.

She looked up at this quite large man, dressed in a canvas shirt, leather pants and over his shoulders a thick fur cape, possibly bear skin. He had long dark hair, tied with a leather string in a tail that curled down his back. His face had no expression whatsoever. He made a gesture for her to come with him, and the girl, not seeing any other option, did so.

Tom knew the storm was upon them when the snow started pelting down. Seeing no other option for the girl either, he crouched and motioned for her to climb upon his back. He then reached down and picked up a pack he'd made and started up the steep slope.

Upon reaching his cabin, Tom started a fire in the fireplace and put some water on to heat. Noticing the frost bitten girl too close to the raging blaze he indicated she should move away so as not to burn her unfeeling fingers. Neither of them had yet to utter a word, her silence from fear and his from not using his voice for over a year.

When the water was steaming he made some herb tea and handed her a fired clay mug of it. She surrounded the warm vessel with both chilled hands, and looking up at him, whispered, “Thank you, sir,” which elicited the only expression he had made, a small lifting of one side of his mouth.

In the morning Tom emerged from the cabin to find the blizzard had dumped at least six feet of snow and he could see that another storm was imminent. There was not going to be any attempt of leaving yet. The frequent storms and no chinooks kept them confined pretty tightly as the snow accumulated more and more. One day the girl did approach Tom and say, “My name is Linda,” to which he responded only with a nod.

After a few days Linda started doing some of the small things she had observed Tom doing. She would fetch a pail of snow to melt before the coals, or bring in armfuls of wood from the large stack aside the cabin, and other little chores she could see needed doing. Weather permitting, Tom would put on his snow shoes and either hunt or garner the edibles that were still available.

One day, he took a bucket and ax with him. He had found a bee tree and knowing the inhabitants would be quite docile in the chilly air, harvested a full bucket of comb, hopefully leaving enough for the bees to survive on for the next season. Upon arriving home he opened the door and stopped dead.

The cabin was neat, and even more surprising, cleaner. Not anywhere near sanitary, but cleaner. Tom just stood there for a while, looking around, then set the bucket down and started returning certain items back to where they belonged in his estimation. His pipe he took from the shelf and put on his chair side table. He shot a questioning glance at Linda and she pointed to an old tin can that held his squaw tobacco which he also put on the table. A few other things were returned, but not many. All in all, he was quite pleased, and it must have shown in his actions if not in his face, as Linda stood in the corner wearing a slight self satisfied smirk.

The days drifted into weeks, the weeks into months as the ever increasing snow burden kept them from trying to return Linda to civilization. Their evenings were spent beside the fire with Linda reading one the many hoarded books Tom had.

One thing from society that Tom would not do without was books, as he loved reading and would trade way over their value to obtain them. Tom would spend some evenings reading or rereading his treasured volumes, even a ten year old almanac he had. Other evenings he would be carving his figurines, scraping, chipping and carving small bits from the tough roots he used for them.

One evening Linda started read aloud from the book she held. This startled Tom quite a bit as he wasn't used to hearing the spoken word. All these weeks Linda had refrained from breaking Tom's longing for silence. He soon learned that same almost memorized words he knew from his books gave a different meaning when read with the inflections and emotions of another person. It was almost the equivalent of gaining another library. From then on many of their evenings were spent in this fashion.

One morning as he emerged from the cabin he felt a warm breeze caress his face and saw the dripping from the icicles hanging from the overhanging branches and realized the time had come. He returned to the cabin and dug out the town clothing he had kept all these years and brushed it clean of the accumulated dust. Linda, upon seeing this, started gathering the few possessions she had acquired these last months.

Two days later they started down the mountain. When they reached the road Tom pulled out of the cave the things he had stored there. Linda was able to find town clothes of her own to replace the furs and leathers she had become used to wearing this past period and they both made a pack of things to carry.

Tom showed Linda where her folks were buried and stuck in the ground the crude cross he'd made to mark the spot. They then started the walk to town.

Upon arriving late in the day they proceeded to the church and the preacher's house where the preacher, a Mr. Lane, was very surprised to see Linda, who he thought had settled with her parents farther west. As they walked across the floor Linda, not knowing what to expect, sought reassurance by reaching for Tom's gnarled hand and wrapped hers around two of his fingers, all she could hold. This was a shock to Tom as he hadn't been touched by another hand for many years. But soon his fingers curled to hold her hand. Mr. Lane regarded Tom with a jaundiced eye, as he didn't look like the type for young Linda to be in the company of, but warmed more to him as Linda related her tale.

Tom stayed just long enough the next day to see Linda warmly welcomed by a couple who had lost their own daughter and with whom Linda went to live. He left without word to anyone. He settled into his usual routine and tried to not realize that a part of him was now in that distant town.

The months past but there were very few days when Tom wouldn't stop for a while and gaze across the miles to that distant town, or the evenings when he would lay his book down and, unseeing, just stare across the room with an unaccustomed small smile on his face. For the most part though, Tom was contented.

There came a day in the early fall than Tom had a strange feeling, as if a storm was coming or something was going to happen. He had started paying attention to them, so he looked around and did see someone climbing the slope. Looking closer, he saw it was Linda with a small pack on her back.

He waited, and soon she crested the hill and stood on the plateau. She said in a questioning tone, “Am I welcome, Tom?” and at his welcoming nod came forward, removing her pack. She had grown some in the few months they'd been apart but was still a little girl to Tom. They entered the cabin where she looked around to find it almost as neat as when she left.

She opened the pack to reveal a few things she'd brought that Tom might need or enjoy. Of course there was two books, not new but in good shape, that she knew he didn't have. There was a pack of needles and thread. There was a set of carving knives, again not new but in fine condition, as she knew his pocket knife had been sharpened to just a sliver. There was also a packet of tea.

He looked at these things and the few others and cleared his throat to get a little moisture to be able to say, “Why?” in his flinty voice.

She didn't smile while she replied, “Because I owe you and I want to, that's all.” He shook his head no but put some water on to heat. While Tom made the tea Linda picked up a few things and put them away, earning her a frown from Tom.

They then sat, sipping their tea, until Linda picked up one the books she'd brought and started to read. They sat like that for quite some time until Linda, having reached the end of a chapter, laid the book down, rose, went to Tom and leaning down to him in his chair, kissed him on the cheek. She then turned and went down the mountain. Tom sat, unmoving, for quite some time.

It became a ritual of sort, twice a year, Spring and Fall, Linda would ride a small horse to the foot of the mountain, tie the horse where he could graze and climb to Tom's cabin, bringing small, but needful things. Then they would sit, sipping tea, and Linda would read for a while, give Tom a small kiss and leave. Tom, in return, upon her leaving would give her one or two of his finest miniatures he'd carved just for her.

As the years past Tom watched Linda grow into a beautiful young woman, as Linda watched Tom grow craggier and more stooped with age. Tom got to watching for her when the time was about right. Then, on one visit, there was another person with her, a young man.

Tom stood at the edge of the flat and when they had reached a couple hundred feet away he held up his hand to stop them. He pointed at Linda and gestured her forward, then pointed at the young man and motioned for him to sit. He gave Linda his pack and she carried both to the top where Tom relieved her of one.

Their visit went as usual except Linda said the young man was going to be her husband and wanted Tom to meet him. He shook his head no and there was no other discussion on the matter. But when she rose to leave, with the carvings, Tom put in her hand a small leather pouch and then put his finger to his mouth signifying a secret. She nodded her head in assent and put the heavy pouch in her pocket and left.

From then on there was always a small heavy leather pouch with the carvings. Of course Linda knew it must be gold, it was so heavy for its size, but she never opened one but hid them securely. The pile of pouches grew quite large in its secure hiding place as the years went by.

Over time the visits were almost in set form, but the next Spring visit was different. She brought her son with her. When she reached the point where her husband had sat she had him sit and proceeded alone.

When she reached the top she told Tom who he was and wanted him to know Tom. He thought for a moment and nodded his approval. Linda beckoned to the boy and he came up and silently stood there as Tom appraised him. Then he turned and led them into the cabin. The boy sat quietly, sipping his tea, until quite some time into Linda's reading, he started squirming, as boys do. Tom motioned for Linda to stop, rose and went to his books and took something from one, then motioning for Linda to stay, led the boy outside and around the cabin.

When he crouched down he held out a folded piece of heavy paper, sealed with some candle wax, worked up some moisture in his mouth and said more words at one time than he had for almost forty years, “Boy, when you get home give this to your mother, until then hide it, now repeat what I said.” The boy repeated it and stuck the paper in his pocket and Tom led him back in the cabin.

When it was time to leave Linda asked Tom, “I've never opened any of the pouches Tom, but I have to ask if I may now. My children need things that we haven't the money for.” Tom thought and then nodded his consent. As they left, Linda looked back and was startled to see how old Tom looked. Although still looking somewhat robust he was completely gray and his shoulders were very stooped and much less broad.

When they reached home the boy, Tod was his name, gave his mother the package. She read the scrawled writing on it, “Do not open until you know I'm dead.” She, of course, following Tom's instructions, put it securely away.

When gold started appearing in town it didn't take long for people to know who was using it to purchase school books, clothing, shoes, and medicine for her children. It also didn't take long for eyes to be looking up the mountain for it was no secret where Linda had been going twice a year.

And then the drought hit. The spring rains were sparse and as it led into Summer they were even smaller and further apart and then stopped altogether. Soon the cattle were continuously lowing as the pasturage quit growing and died. The dried grasses caught fire from the smallest spark. One afternoon the wind was very strong and a grass fire started.

By the time the men could get near it was already out of control and it roared directly at town. The people frantically wet down whatever they could but there wasn't a building in town that didn't have damage, and many were completely destroyed. That was when Linda opened the second pouch and had the railroad ship in lumber, food, hay for the animals and whatever else was needed. Pouch after pouch was opened and quickly used up, but she couldn't let the town and its people die.

Then the rains returned, not in time to stop the disaster, but in time for the pastures to turn green and what cattle were left to start hiding their ribs. The town was hurt but saved by Linda's pouches. People started talking and speculating about how much gold Linda had spent, and again eyes were directed toward the mountain. They didn't stop to think that it had accumulated over many years, little by little. Some visualized a veritable bonanza of riches.

It was not much later when some hunters found Tom's body, battered and bloody from having fallen almost to the road. It was not so damaged that the bullet hole in his chest couldn't be seen. The sheriff and a few men made the climb to Tom's cabin to find it completely ransacked. There had been little of real value to be taken. The type of person who would commit such an act wouldn't want to carry it down anyway as it was mainly tools and books, lots of books. If there had been any gold, it was gone.

There was a hearing about the murder and it drew quite a crowd. Murder was almost unknown in the town and only the oldest residents could remember the last one. The sheriff and the mayor presided over it. Everyone who wanted to could give an opinion. It started with the mayor giving a speech about how he was appalled that such a thing could happen and went on and on. You'd think he was running for office.

Then the sheriff rose and gave what facts were known or speculated, but concluded with his opinion that it would never be solved. Then the residents were given their chance to speak, which many did, but the consensus of their comments was that Tom Jarret wasn't really a resident of the town, and although his death was tragic, it really wasn't any of their business.

Then Linda rose and said, “I would like to make a statement for the record. I knew Tom Jarret better than anyone, probably the only one. Yes, he was a hermit, so what. Did he hurt anyone? Did he make anyone's life worse by what he was? He was a strange man who couldn't or didn't want to associate with other people. Did that make him any less of a human being, or worthy of our concern over his death?"

Then she really hit her stride, “I've sat here and listened to a bunch of mealy mouthed people say that it's not our business. If not ours, then who's? Don't you people realize that this man's generosity saved this town? I knew when he gave me that gold over the years that it wasn't just mine to spend as I saw it on just me and mine. He didn't say it in words, I probably didn't hear more than a hundred words from him in all the time I knew him. I heard it in what he was, and how he acted.”

The mayor interrupted, “Linda, you can't call the good citizens names, that's uncalled for.”

Now Linda was angry, “Sit down, you old windbag, I have a right to say what I want and you won't stop me.” She received a smattering of applause for her statement and also some dirty looks.

Then she continued, “I want to read you a letter he left me, it might explain better than I can,” and she unfolded the letter and read his tiny scrawled script.

“Dear Linda,

“If you're following my directions, I'm dead as you read this and I know that you did. I don't get along with people. I don't know why, but I never have, that's how God made me, I guess. That doesn't mean I hate them. When I gave you the gold I knew that you would know how to use it to help people. There's not much of it in that little pocket I found but I don't need it and don't want it. You use it where you think best.”

Then Linda stated, “There's more, but it's personal between me and Tom, and that's certainly not any of your business. Now, does someone want to try to tell me his murder is not our business?” 

Messages were sent to all the other towns in the area to be on the lookout for people spending gold. The killers were caught spending gold two towns over. It was still in the familiar leather pouch. They were tried and hanged. The whole town came to Tom's funeral.