to dance by, no way you can fix it; and, o' course, the boys seed at
onc't the'r fun was gone ef they could n't git him on another
tune.--And they 'd coax and beg and plead with him, and maybe git him
started on "The Wind Blows over the Barley," and 'bout the time they'd
git to knockin' it down agin purty lively, he'd go to sawin' away on
"Barbary Allan"--and I'll-be-switched-to-death ef that feller didn't
set there and play hisse'f sound asleep on "Barbary Allan," and we had
to wake him up afore he'd quit! Now, that's jes' a plum' facts. And
ther' wasn't a better fiddler nowheres than Wash Lowry, when he was at
hisse'f. I've heerd a good many fiddlers in my day, and I never heerd
one yit 'at could play my style o' fiddlin' ekal to Wash Lowry. You
see, Wash didn't play none o' this-here newfangled music--nothin' but
the old tunes, you understand, "The Forkéd Deer," and "Old Fat Gal,"
and "Gray Eagle," and the like. Now, them's music! Used to like to
hear Wash play "Gray Eagle." He could come as nigh a-makin' that old
tune talk as ever you heerd! Used to think a heap o' his fiddle--and
he had a good one, shore. I've heard him say, time and time agin, 'at
a five-dollar gold-piece wouldn't buy it, and I knowed him my-se'f to
refuse a calf far it onc't--yessir, a yearland calf--and the feller
offered him a double-bar'l'd pistol to boot, and blame ef he'd take
it; said he'd ruther part with anything else he owned than his
fiddle.--But here I am, clean out o' the furry agin. Oh, yes; I was
a-tellin' about little Bob, with that old hat; and he had on a
swaller-tail coat and a lot o' fixin's, a-actin' like he was 'squire;
and he had him a great long beard made out o' corn-silks, and you
wouldn't a-knowed him ef it wasn't far his voice. Well, he was
a-p'tendin' he was a 'squire a-tryin' some kind o' law-suit, you see;
and John Wesley he was the defendunt, and Joney Wiles, I believe it
was, played like he was the plaintive. And they'd had a fallin' out
'bout some land, and was a-lawin' far p'session, you understand. Well,
Bob he made out it was a mighty bad case when John-Wes comes to
consult him about it, and tells _him_ ef a little p'int o' law was
left out he thought he could git the land far him. And then John-Wes
bribes him, you understand, to leave out the p'int o' law, and the
'squire says he'll do all he kin, and so John-Wes goes out a feelin'
purty good. Then _Wiles_ comes in to consult the 'squire don't you
see. And the 'squire tells _him_ the same tale he told _John Wesley_.
So _Wiles_ bribes him to leave out the p'int o' law in _his_ favor,
don't you know. So when the case is tried he decides in favor o'
John-Wes, a-tellin' Wiles some cock-and-bull story 'bout havin' to
manage it thataway so 's to git the case mixed so's he could git it
far him shore; and posts him to sue far change of venue er
somepin',--anyway, Wiles gits a new trial, and then the 'squire
decides in _his_ favor, and tells John-Wes another trial will fix it
in _his_ favor, and so on.--And so it goes on tel, anyway, he gits
holt o' the land hisse'f and all ther money besides, and leaves them
to hold the bag! Wellsir, it was purty well got up; and they said it
was John-Wes's doin's, and I 'low it was--he was a good hand at
anything o' that sort, and knowed how to make fun.--But I've be'n a
tellin' you purty much ever'thing but what I started out with, and
I'll try and hurry through, 'cause I know you're tired.
'Long 'bout the beginin' o' summer, things had got back to purty much
the old way. The boys round was a-gittin' devilish, and o' nights
'specially ther' was a sight o' meanness a-goin' on. The mill-hands,
most of'em, was mixed up in it--Coke and Morris, and them 'at had
jined meetin' 'long in the winter, had all backslid, and was
a-drinkin' and carousin' 'round worse 'n ever.
People perdicted 'at Bills would backslide, but he helt on faithful,
to all appearance; said he liked to see a feller when he made up his
mind to do right, he liked to see him do it, and not go back on his
word; and even went so far as to tell Ezry ef they didn't put a stop
to it he'd quit the neighberhood and go some'rs else. And Bills was
Ezry's head man then, and he couldn't a-got along 'thout him; and I
b'lieve ef Bills had a-said the word old Ezry would a-turned off ever'
hand he had. He got so he jist left ever'thing to Bills. Ben Carter
was turned off far somepin', and nobody ever knowed what. Bills and
him had never got along jist right sence the fight.
Ben was with this set I was a-tellin' you 'bout, and they'd got him to
drinkin' and in trouble, o' course. I'd knowed Ben well enough to know
he wouldn't do nothin' onry ef he wasn't agged on, and ef he ever was
mixed up in anything o' the kind Wes Morris and John Coke was at the
bottom of it, and I take notice they wasn't turned off when Ben was.
One night the crowd was out, and Ben amongst 'em, o' course.--Sence
he'd be'n turned off he'd be'n a-drinkin',--and I never blamed him
much; he was so good-hearted like and easy led off, and I allus
b'lieved it wasn't his own doin's.
Well, this night they cut up awful, and ef ther was one fight ther was
a dozend; and when all the devilment was done they _could_ do, they
started on a stealin' expedition, and stold a lot o' chickens and tuck
'em to the mill to roast'em; and, to make a long story short, that
night the mill burnt clean to the ground. And the whole pack of 'em
cologued together aginst Carter to saddle it onto him; claimed 'at
they left Ben there at the mill 'bout twelve o'clock--which was a
fact, far he was dead drunk and couldn't git away. Steve stumbled over
him while the mill was a-burnin' and drug him out afore he knowed what
was a-goin' on, and it was all plain enough to Steve 'at Ben didn't
have no hand in the firm' of it. But I'll tell you he sobered up
mighty suddent when he seed what was a-goin' on, and heerd the
neighbors a-hollerin', and a-threatenin', and a-goin' on!--far it
seemed to be the ginerl idee 'at the buildin' was fired a-purpose. And
says Ben to Steve, says he, "I expect I'll have to say good-bye to
you, far they've got me in a ticklish place! I kin see through it all
now, when it's too late!" And jist then Wesley Morris hollers out,
"Where's Ben Carter?" and started to'rds where me and Ben and Steve
was a-standin'; and Ben says, wild like, "Don't you two fellers ever
think it was my doin's," and whispers "Good-bye," and started off, and
when we turned, Wesley Morris was a-layin' flat of his back, and we
heerd Carter yell to the crowd 'at "that man"--meanin' Morris--"
needed lookin' after worse than _he_ did," and another minute he
plunged into the river and swum acrost; and we all stood and watched
him in the flickerin' light tel he clum out on t'other bank; and 'at
was last anybody ever seed o' Ben Carter!
It must a-be'n about three o'clock in the mornin' by this time, and
the mill then was jist a-smoulderin' to ashes--far it was as dry as
tinder and burnt like a flash--and jist as a party was a-talkin' o'
organizin' and follerin' Carter, we heerd a yell 'at I'll never fergit
ef I'd live tel another flood. Old Ezry, it was, as white as a corpse,
and with the blood a-streamin' out of a gash in his forehead, and his
clothes half on, come a-rushin' into the crowd and a-hollerin' fire
and murder ever' jump. "My house is a-burnin', and my folks is all
a-bein' murdered while you 're a-standin' here! And Bills done it!
Bills done it!" he hollered, as he headed the crowd and started back
far home. "Bills done it! I caught him at it; and he would a-murdered
me in cold blood ef it had n't a-be'n far his woman. He knocked me
down, and had me tied to a bed-post in the kitchen afore I come to.
And his woman cut me loose and told me to run far he'p; and says I,
'Where's Bills?' and she says, 'He's after me by this time.' And jist
then we heerd Bills holler, and we looked, and he was a-standin' out
in the clearin' in front o' the house, with little Annie in his arms;
and he hollered wouldn't she like to kiss the baby good-bye."
"And she hollered My God! far me to save little Annie, and fainted
clean dead away. And I heerd the roof a-crackin', and grabbed her up
and packed her out jist in time. And when I looked up, Bills hollered
out agin, and says, 'Ezry,' he says, 'You kin begin to kind a' git an
idee o' what a good feller I am! And ef you hadn't a-caught me you 'd
a-never a-knowed it, and 'Brother Williams' wouldn't a-be'n called
away to another app'intment like he is.' And says he, 'Now, ef you
foller me I'll finish you shore!--You're safe now, far I hain't got
time to waste on you furder.' And jist then his woman kind o' come to
her senses agin and hollered far little Annie, and the child heerd her
and helt out its little arms to go to her, and hollered 'Mother!
Mother!' And Bills says, Dam your mother! ef it hadn't a-be'n far
_her_ I'd a-be'n all right. And dam you too!' he says to me,--'This'll
pay you far that lick you struck me; and far you a-startin' reports
when I first come 'at more 'n likely I'd done somepin' mean over east
and come out west to reform! And I wonder ef I _didn't_ do somepin'
mean afore I come here?' he went on; 'kill somebody er somepin'? And I
wonder ef I ain't reformed enough to go back? Good-bye, Annie!' he
hollered; 'and you needn't fret about your baby, I 'll be the same
indulgent father to it I 've allus be'n!' And the baby was a-cryin'
and a-reachin' out its little arms to'rds its mother, when Bills he
turned and struck oft' in the dark to'rds the river."
This was about the tale 'at Ezry told us, as nigh as I can ricollect,
and by the time he finished, I never want to see jist sich another
crowd o' men as was a-swarmin' there. Ain't it awful when sich a crowd
gits together? I tell you it makes my flesh creep to think about it!
As Bills had gone in the direction of the river, we wasn't long in
makin' our minds up 'at he'd have to cross it, and ef he done _that_
he'd have to use the boat 'at was down below the mill, er wade it at
the ford, a mild er more down. So we divided in three sections,
like--one to go and look after the folks at the house, and another to
the boat, and another to the ford. And Steve and me and Ezry was in
the crowd 'at struck far the boat, and we made time a-gittin' there!
It was awful dark, and the sky was a-cloudin'up like a storm; but we
wasn't long a-gittin' to the p'int where the boat was allus tied; but
ther' wasn't no boat there! Steve kind o' tuck the lead, and we all
talked in whispers. And Steve said to kind o' lay low and maybe we
could hear somepin', and some feller said he thought he heerd somepin'
strange like, but the wind was kind o' raisin' and kep' up sich a
moanin' through the trees along the bank 't we couldn't make out
nothin'. "Listen!" says Steve, suddent like, "I hear somepin!" We was
all still again--and we all heerd a moanin' 'at was sadder 'n the
wind--sounded mournfuller to me 'cause I knowed it in a minute, and I
whispered, "Little Annie." And 'way out acrost the river we could hear
the little thing a-sobbin', and we all was still 's death; and we
heerd a voice we knowd was Bills's say, "Dam ye! Keep still, or I'll
drownd ye!" And the wind kind o' moaned agin and we could hear the
trees a-screechin' together in the dark, and the leaves a-rustlin';
and when it kind o' lulled agin, we heerd Bills make a kind o' splash
with the oars; and jist then Steve whispered far to lay low and be
ready--he was a-goin' to riconnitre; and he tuck his coat and shoes
off, and slid over the bank and down into the worter as slick as a'
eel. Then ever'thing was still agin, 'cept the moanin' o' the child,
which kep' a-gittin' louder and louder; and then a voice whispered to
us, "He's a-comin' back; the crowd below has sent scouts up, and
they're on t' other side. Now watch clos't, and he's our meat." We
could hear Bills, by the moanin' o' the baby, a-comin' nearder and
nearder, tel suddently he made a sort o' miss-lick with the oar, I
reckon, and must a splashed the baby, far she set up a loud cryin; and
jist then old Ezry, who was a-leanin' over the bank, kind o' lost his
grip some way o' nuther, and fell kersplash in the worter like a' old
chunk. "Hello!" says Bills, through the dark, "you're there, too, air
ye?" as old Ezry splashed up the bank agin. And "Cuss you!" he says
then, to the baby--"ef it hadn't be'n far your infernal squawkin' I'd
a-be'n all right; but you've brought the whole neighberhood out, and,
dam you, I'll jist let you swim out to 'em!" And we heerd a splash,
then a kind o' gurglin', and then Steve's voice a-hollerin', "Close in
on him, boys; I've got the baby!" And about a dozend of us bobbed off
the bank like so many bull-frogs, and I'll tell you the worter b'iled!
We could jist make out the shape o' the boat, and Bills a-standin'
with a' oar drawed back to smash the first head 'at come in range. It
was a mean place to git at him. We knowed he was despert, and far a
minute we kind o' helt back. Fifteen foot o' worter 's a mighty
onhandy place to git hit over the head in! And Bills says, "You hain't
afeard, I reckon--twenty men agin one!" "You'd better give your se'f
up!" hollered Ezry from the shore. "No, Brother Sturgiss," says Bills,
"I can't say 'at I'm at all anxious 'bout bein' borned agin, jist yit
awhile," he says; "I see you kind o' 'pear to go in far babtism; guess
you'd better go home and git some dry clothes on; and, speakin' o'
home, you'd ort 'o be there by all means--your house might catch afire
and burn up while you're gone!" And jist then the boat give a suddent
shove under him--some feller'd div under and tilted it--and far a
minute it throwed him off his guard and the boys closed in. Still he
had the advantage, bein' in the boat, and as fast as a feller would
climb in he'd git a whack o' the oar, tel finally they got to pilin'
in a little too fast far him to manage, and he hollered then 'at we'd
have to come to the bottom ef we got him, and with that he div out o'
the end o' the boat, and we lost sight of him; and I'll be blame ef he
didn't give us the slip after all.
Wellsir, we watched far him, and some o' the boys swum on down stream,
expectin' he'd raise, but couldn't find hide ner hair of him; so we
left the boat a-driftin' off down stream and swum ashore, a-thinkin'
he'd jist drownded hisse'f a-purpose. But ther' was more su'prise
waitin' far us yit,--for lo-and-behold-you, when we got ashore ther'
wasn't no trace o' Steve er the baby to be found. Ezry said he seed
Steve when he fetched little Annie ashore, and she was all right on'y
she was purt nigh past cryin'; and he said Steve had lapped his coat
around her and give her to him to take charge of, and he got so
excited over the fight he laid her down betwixt a couple o' logs and
kind o' forget about her tel the thing was over, and he went to look
far her, and she was gone. Couldn't a-be'n 'at she'd a-wundered off
her-own-se'f; and it couldn't a-be'n 'at Steve'd take her, 'thout
a-lettin us know it. It was a mighty aggervatin' conclusion to come
to, but we had to do it, and that was, Bills must a got ashore
unbeknownst to us and packed her off. Sich a thing wasn't hardly
probable, yit it was a thing 'at might be; and after a-talkin' it over
we had to admit 'at it must a-be'n the way of it. But where was Steve?
W'y, we argied, he'd discivvered she was gone, and had put out on
track of her 'thout losin' time to stop and explain the thing. The
next question was, what did Bills want with her agin? He'd tried to
drownd her onc't. We could ast questions enough, but c'rect answers
was mighty skearce, and we jist concluded 'at the best thing to do was
to put out far the ford, far that was the nighdest place Bills could
cross 'thout a boat, and ef it was him tuck the child he was still on
our side o' the river, o' course. So we struck out far the ford,
a-leav-in' a couple o' men to search up the river. A drizzlin' sort o'
rain had set in by this time, and with that and the darkness and the
moanin' of the wind, it made 'bout as lonesome a prospect as a feller
ever wants to go through agin.
It was jist a-gittin' a little gray-like in the mornin' by the time we
reached the ford, but you couldn't hardly see two rods afore you far
the mist and the fog 'at had settled along the river. We looked far
tracks, but couldn't make out nuthin'. Thereckly old Ezry punched me
and p'inted out acrost the river. "What's that?" he whispers. Jist
'bout half way acrost was somepin' white-like in the worter--couldn't
make out what--perfeckly still it was. And I whispered back and told
him I guess it wasn't nothin' but a sycamore snag. "Listen!" says he;
"Sycamore snags don't make no noise like that!" And, shore enough, it
was the same moanin' noise we'd heerd the baby makin' when we first
got on the track. Sobbin' she was, as though nigh about dead. "Well,
ef that's Bills," says I--"and I reckon ther' hain't no doubt but it
is--what in the name o' all that's good and bad's the feller
a-standin' there far?" And a-creep-in' clos'ter, we could make him out
plainer and plainer. It was him; and there he stood breast-high in the
worter, a-holdin' the baby on his shoulder like, and a lookin' up
stream, and a-waitin'.
"What do you make out of it?" says Ezry. "What's he waitin' far?"
And a strainin' my eyes in the direction he was a-lookin' I seed
somepin' a-movin' down the river, and a minute later I'd made out the
old boat a-driftin' down stream; and then of course ever'thing was
plain enough: He was waitin' far the boat, and ef he got _that_ he'd
have the same advantage on us he had afore.
"Boys," says I, "he mustn't git that boat agin! Foller me, and don't
let him git to the shore alive." And in we plunged. He seed us, but he
never budged, on'y to grab the baby by its little legs, and swing it
out at arms-len'th. "Stop, there," he hollered. "Stop jist where you
air! Move another inch and I'll drownd this dam young-un afore your
eyes!" he says.--And he 'd a done it. "Boys," says I, "he's got us.
Don't move! This thing'll have to rest with a higher power 'n our 'n!
Ef any of you kin pray," says I, "now's a good time to do it!"
Jist then the boat swung up, and Bills grabbed it and rech 'round and
set the baby in it, never a-takin' his eye off o' us, though, far a
minute. "Now," says he, with a sort o' snarlin' laugh, "I've on'y got
a little while to stay with you, and I want to say a few words afore I
go. I want to tell you fellers, in the first place, 'at you've be'n
_fooled_ in me: I _hain't_ a good feller, now, honest! And ef you're a
little the worse far findin' it out so late in the day, you hain't
none the worse far losin' me so soon--far I'm a-goin' away now, and
any interference with my arrangements 'll on'y give you more trouble;
so it's better all around to let me go peaceable and jist while I'm in
the notion. I expect it'll be a disapp'intment to some o' you that my
name hain't 'Williams,' but it hain't. And maybe you won't think nigh
as much o' me when I tell you furder 'at I was obleeged to 'dopt the
name o' 'Williams' onc't to keep from bein' strung up to a lamp-post,
but sich is the facts. I was so extremely unfortunit onc't as to kill
a p'ticular friend o' mine, and he forgive me with his dyin' breath,
and told me to run while I could, and be a better man. But he'd
spotted me with a' ugly mark 'at made it kind o' onhandy to git away,
but I did at last; and jist as I was a-gittin' reformed-like, you
fellers had to kick in the traces, and I've made up my mind to hunt
out a more moraler community, where they don't make sich a fuss about
trifles. And havin' nothin' more to say, on'y to send Annie word 'at
I'll still be a father to her youngun here, I'll bid you all
good-bye." And with that he turned and clum in the boat--or ruther
fell in,--far somepin' black-like had riz up in it, with a' awful
lick--my--God!--and, a minute later, boat and baggage was a-gratin' on
the shore, and a crowd come thrashin' 'crost from tother side to jine
us, and 'peared like wasn't a _second_ longer tel a feller was
a-swingin' by his neck to the limb of a scrub-oak, his feet clean off
the ground, and his legs a-jerkin' up and down like a limber-jack's.
And Steve it was a-layin' in the boat, and he'd rid a mild or more
'thout knowin' of it. Bills had struck and stunt him as he clum in
while the rumpus was a-goin' on, and he'd on'y come to in time to hear
Bills's farewell address to us there at the ford.
Steve tuck charge o' little Annie agin, and ef she'd a-be'n his own
child he wouldn't a-went on more over her than he did; and said nobody
but her mother would git her out o' his hands agin. And he was as good
as his word; and ef you could a-seed him a half hour after that, when
he _did_ give her to her mother--all lapped up in his coat and as
drippin'-wet as a little drownded angel--it would a-made you wish't
you was him to see that little woman a caperin' round him, and
a-thankin' him, and a-cryin' and a-laughin', and almost a-huggin' him,
she was so tickled,--Well, I thought in my soul she'd die! And Steve
blushed like a girl to see her a-taking' on, and a-thankin' him, and
a-cryin', and a-kissin' little Annie, and a-goin' on. And when she
inquired 'bout Bills, which she did all suddent like, with a burst o'
tears, we jist didn't have the heart to tell her--on'y we said he'd
crossed the river and got away. And he had!
And now comes a part o' this thing 'at 'll more 'n like tax you to
believe it: Williams and her wasn't man and wife--and you needn't look
su'prised, nuther, and I'll tell you far why--They was own brother and
sister; and that brings me to _her_ part of the story, which you'll
have to admit beats anything 'at you ever read about in books.
* * * * *
Her and Williams--that _wasn't_ his name, like he acknowledged,
hisse'f, you ricollect--ner she didn't want to tell his right name;
and we forgive her far that. Her and 'Williams' was own brother and
sister, and the'r parents lived in Ohio some'ers. The'r mother had
be'n dead five year' and better--grieved to death over her onnachurl
brother's recklessness, which Annie hinted had broke her father up in
some way, in tryin' to shield him from the law. And the secret of her
bein' with him was this: She had married a man o' the name of Curtis
or Custer, I don't mind which, adzackly--but no matter; she'd married
a well-to-do young feller 'at her brother helt a' old grudge agin, she
never knowed what; and sence her marriage her brother had went on from
bad to worse tel finally her father jist give him up and told him to
go it his own way--he'd killed his mother and ruined him, and he'd
jist give up all hopes. But Annie--you know how a sister is--she still
clung to him and done ever'thing far him, tel finally, one night about
three years after she was married she got word some way that he was in
trouble agin, and sent her husband to he'p him; and a half hour after
he'd gone, her brother come in, all excited and bloody, and told her
to git the baby and come with him, 'at her husband had got in a
quarrel with a friend o' his and was bad hurt. And she went with him,
of course, and he tuck her in a buggy, and lit out with her as tight
as he could go all night; and then told her 'at _he_ was the feller
'at had quarreled with her husband, and the officers was after him and
he was obleeged to leave the country, and far fear he hadn't made
shore work o' him, he was a-takin' her along to make shore of his
gittin' his revenge; and he swore he'd kill her and the baby too ef
she dared to whimper. And so it was, through a hunderd hardships he'd
made his way at last to our section o' the country, givin' out 'at
they was man and wife, and keepin' her from denyin' of it by threats,
and promises of the time a-comin' when he'd send her home to her man
agin in case he hadn't killed him. And so it run on tel you'd a-cried
to hear her tell it, and still see her sister's love far the feller
a-breakin' out by a-declarin' how kind he was to her _at times_, and
how he wasn't railly bad at heart, on'y far his ungov'nable temper.
But I couldn't he'p but notice, when she was a tellin' of her hist'ry,
what a quiet sort o' look o' satisfaction settled on the face o' Steve
and the rest of 'em, don't you understand.
And now ther' was on'y one thing she wanted to ast, she said; and that
was, could she still make her home with us tel she could git word to
her friends?--and there she broke down agin, not knowin', of course,
whether _they_ was dead er alive; far time and time agin she said
somepin' told her she'd never see her husband agin on this airth; and
then the women-folks would cry with her and console her, and the boys
would speak hopeful--all but Steve; some way o' nuther Steve was never
like hisse'f from that time on.