Beneath the dark waves where the dead go down,
There are gulfs of night more deep;
But little they care, whom the waves once drown,
How far from the litght they sleep.
And dark though Sorrow's fearful billows be,
They have caverns darker still.
O God! that Sorrow's waves were like the sea,
Whose topmost waters kill.
-Anonymous.
It was nearly noon when Harry awoke. The awakening came slowly
and with pain. In all his previous experiences he had had no hint
even of such mental and bodily exhaustion as now oppressed him.
Every muscle and tendon was aching a bitter complaint against the
strain it had been subjected to the day before. Dull, pulseless
pain smoldered in some; in others it was the keen throb of the
toothache. Continued lying in one position was unendurable; changing
it, a thrill of anguish; and the new posture as intolerable as the
first. His brain galled and twinged as did his body. To think was
as acute pain as to use his sinews. Yet he could not help thinking
any more than he could help turning in the bed, though to turn was
torture.
Every organ of thought was bruised and sore. The fearful events of
the day before would continue to thrust themselves upon his mind.
To put them out required painful effort; to recall and comprehend
them was even worse. Reflecting upon them now, with unstrung
nerves, made them seem a hundred-fold more terrible than when they
were the spontaneous offspring of hot blood. With the reflection
came the thoguhts that this was but a prelude--an introduction--to
an infinitely horrible saturnalia of violence and blood, through
which he was to be hurried until released by his own destruction.
This became a nightmare that threatened to stagnate the blood in
his veins. He gasped, turned his back to the wall with an effort
that thrilled him with pain, and opened his eyes.
Naught that he saw reminded him of the preceding day. Sunny peace
and contentment reigned. The door stood wide open, and as it
faced the south, the noonday sun pushed in--clear to the opposite
wall--a broad band of mellow light, vividly telling of the glory
he was shedding where roof nor shade checked his genial glow. On
the smooth, hard, ashen floor, in the center of this bright zone,
sat a matronly cat, giving with tongue and paw dainty finishing
touches to her morning toilet, and watching with maternal pride
a kittenish game of hide-and-seek on the front step. Through the
open doorway came the self-complacent cackling of hens, celebrating
their latest additions to their nests, and the exultant call of
a cock to his feathered harem to come, admire and partake of some
especially fat worm, which he had just unearthed. Farther away
speckled Guinea chickens were clamoring their satisfaction at the
improvement in the weather. Still farther, gentle tinklings hinted
of peacfully-browsing sheep.
Inside the house, bunches of sweet-smelling medicinal herbs, hanging
agains the walls to dry, made the air heavy with their odors. Aunt
Debby was at work near the bright zone of sun-rays, spinning yarn
with a “big wheel.” She held in one hand a long slender roll of
carded wool, and in the other a short stick, with which she turned
the wheel. Setting it to whirling with a long sweep of the stick
against a spoke, she would walk backward while the roll was twisted
out into a long, thin thread, and then walk forward as they yarn
was wound upon the spindle. When she walked backward, the spindle
hummed sharply; when she came forward it droned. There was a stately
rhythm in both, to which her footsteps and graceful sway of body
kept time, and all blended harmoniously with the camp-meeting melody
she was softly singing:
“Jesus, I my cross have taken,
All to leave and follow Thee;
Naked, poor, despised, forsaken,
Thou from hence my all shalt be.
Perish every fond ambition--
All I've sought, or hoped, or known;
Yet how rich is my condition--
God and Heaven still my own.”
A world of memories of a joyous past, unflecked by a single one of
the miseries of the present, crowded in upon Harry on the wings of
this well-remembered tune. It was a favorite hymn at the Methodist
church in Sardis, and the last time he had heard it was when he
had accompanied Rachel to the church to attend services conducted
by a noted evangelist.
Ah, Rachel!--what of her?
He had not thought of her since a swift recollection of her words
at the parting scene on the piazza had come to spur up his faltering
resolution, as the regiment advanced up the side of Wildcat. Now
one bitter thought of how useless all that he had gone through
with the day before was to rehabilitate himself in her good opinion
was speedily chased from his mind by the still bitterer one of the
contempt she must feel for him, did she but know of his present
abject prostration.
After all, might not the occurrences of yesterday be but the memories
of a nightmare? They seemed too unreal for probability. Perhaps
he was just recovering consciousness after the delirium of a fever.
The walnut sticks in the fireplace popped as sharply as pistols,
and he trembled from head to foot.
“Heavens, I'm a bigger coward than ever,” he said bitterly, and
turning himself painfully in bed, he fixed his eyes upon the wall.
“I was led to believe,” he continued, “that after I had once been
under fire, I would cease to dread it. Now, it seems to me more
dreadful than I ever imagined it to be.”
Aunt Debby's wheel hummed and droned still louder, but her pleasant
tones rode on the cadences like an Aeolian harp in a rising wind:
“Man may trouble and distress me,
'T will but drive me to Thy breast;
Life with trials hard may press me;
Heaven will bring me sweeter rest.
O, 'tis not in grief to harm me,
While Thy love is left to me.
O, 'twere not in joy to charm me,
Were that joy unmixed with Thee.”
He wondered weakly why ther were no monasteries in this land and
age, to serve as harbors or refuge for those who shrank from the
fearfulness of war.
He turned over again wearily, and Aunt Debby, looking toward him,
encountered his wide-open eyes.
“Yer awake, air ye?” she said kindly. “Hope I didn't disturb you.
I wuz tryin' ter make ez little noise ez possible.”
“No, you didn't rouse me. It's hard for me to sleep in daylight,
even when fatigued, as I am.”
“Ef ye want ter git up now,” she said, stopping the whell by pressing
the stick against a spoke, and laying the “roll” in her hand upon
the wheel-head, “I'll hev some breakfast fur ye in a jiffy. Ye
kin rise an' dress while I run down ter the spring arter a fresh
bucket o' water.”
She covered her head with a “slat sun-bonnet,” which she took from
a peg in the wall, lifted a cedar waterpail from a shelf supported
by other long pegs, poured its contents into a large cast-iron
teakettle swinging over the fire, and whisked out of the door.
Presently the notes of her hymn mingled in plaintive harmony with
the sparkling but no sweeter song of a robin redbreast, twittering
his delight in the warm sunshine amid the crimson apples of the
tree that overhung the spring.
“Will ye hev a fresh drink?” she asked Harry, on her return.
He took the gourdful of clear, cool water, which she offered him,
and drank heartily.
“Thet hez the name o' bein' the best spring in these parts,” she
said, pleased with his appreciation.
“An' hit's a never-failin' spring, too. We've plenty o' water the
dryest times, when everybody else's goes dry.”
“That IS delicious water,” said Harry.
“An' now I'll git ye yor breakfast in a minnit. The teakittle's
a-bilin', the coffee's ground, the pone's done, an' when I fry a
little ham, everything will be ready.”
As her culinary methods and utensils differed wholly from anything
Harry had ever seen, he studied them with great interest sharpened
not a little by a growing appetite for breakfast.
The clumsy iron teakettle swung on a hook at the end of a chain
fastened somewhere in the throat of the chimney. On the rough stones
forming the hearth were a half-dozen “ovens” and “skillets”--circular,
cast-iron vessels standing on legs, high enough to allow a layer
of live coals to be placed beneath them. They were covered by a
lid with a ledge around it, to retain the mass of coals heaped on
top. The cook's scepter was a wooden hook, with which she moved
the kettles and ovens and lifted lids, while the restless fire
scorched her amrs and face ruddier than cherry.
It was a primitive way, and so wasteful of wood that it required
a tree to furnish fuel enough to prepare breakfast; but under the
hands of a skillful woman those ovens and skillets turned out viands
with a flavor that no modern appliance can equal.
The joists of the house were thickly hung with the small delicious
hams of the country--hams made from young and tender hogs, which
had lived and fattened upon the acorns, fragrant hickory-nuts and
dainty beechnuts of the abundant “mast” of the forest, until the
were saturated with their delicate, nutty flavor. This was farther
enriched by a piquancy gained from the smoke of the burning hickory
and oak, with which they were cured, and the absorption of odors
from the scented herbs in the rooms where they were drying. Many
have sung the praises of Kentucky's horses, whisy and women, but
no poet has tuned his lyre to the more fruitful theme of Kentucky's
mast-fed, smoke-cured, herb-scented hams. For such a man waits a
crown of enduring bays.
Slices of this savory ham, fried in a skillet--the truth of history
forces the reluctant confession that the march of progress had not
yet brought the grid-iron and its virtues to the mountains--a hot
pone of golden-yellow meal, whose steaming sweetness had not been
allowed to distill off, but had been forced back into the loaf by
the hot oven-lid; coffee as black and strong as the virile infusions
which cheer the hearts of the true believers in the tents of the Turk,
and cream from cows that cropped the odorous and juicy grasses of
mountain meadows, made a breakfast that could not have been more
appetizing if composed by a French CHEF, and garnished by a polyglot
bill-of-fare.
Moved thereto by the hospitable urgings of Aunt Debby, and his own
appetite, Harry ate heartily. Under the influence of the comfortable
meal, the cheerful sunshine, and the rousing of the energies that
follow a change from a recumbent to an erect posture, his spirits
rose to a manlier pitch. As he could not walk without pain he
took his seat in a slat-bottomed chair by the side of the hearth,
and Aunt Debby, knitting in hand, occupied a low rocker nearly
opposite.
“Where's Mr. Fortner?” asked Harry.
“Jim got up, arly, an' arter eatin' a snac said he'd go out an'
take a look around--mebbe he mout go ez fur ez the Ford.”
As if to accompany Harry's instinctie tremor over the possibilities
attending the resumption of Fortner's prowling around the flanks
of Zollicoffer's army, the fire shot off a whole volley of sharp
little explosions.
Harry sprang two or three inches above his chair, then reddened
violently, and essayed to conceal his confusion by assiduous
attention with the poker to the wants of the fire.
Aunt Debby regarded him with gentle compassion.
“Yer all shuck up by the happenin's yesterday,” she said with such
tactful sympathy that his sensitive mettle was not offended. “'Tis
nateral ye should be. Hit's allers so. Folks kin say what they
please, but fouten's terrible tryin' to the narves, no matter who
does hit. My husband wuz in the Mexican War, an' he's offen tole
me thet fur weeks arter the battle o' Buner Visty he couldn't heah
a twig snap withouten his heart poppin' right up inter his mouth,
an' hit wuz so with everybody else, much ez they tried ter play
off unconsarned like.”
“Ah, really?” said Henry, deeply interested in all the concerned
this woman, whose remarkable qualities were impressing themselves
upon his recognition. “What part of the army did your husband
belong to?”
“He wuz in the Kentucky rigimint commanded by Kunnel Henry Clay,
son o' the great Henry Clay, who wuz killed thar. My husband was
promoted to a Leftenant fur his brav'ry in the battle.”
“Then this is not your first experience with war?”
“No, indeed,” said she, with just a trace of pride swelling in the
temple's delicate network of blue veins. “The Fortners an' the
Brills air soljer families, an' ther young men hev shouldered ther
guns whenever the country needed fouten-men. Great gran'fathers
Brill an' Fortner come inter the State along with Dan'l boone nigh
onter a hundred years ago, and sence then them an' ther descendents
hev fit Injuns, Brittishers an' Mexikins evr'y time an inimy raised
a sword agin the country.”
“Many of them lose their lives?”
“Yes, ev'ry war hez cost the families some member. Gran'fathes
Brill an' Fortner war both on 'em killed at the Injun ambush at
Blue Licks. I wuz on'y a baby when my father wuz killed at the
massacre of Winchester's men at the River Raisin. My brother---”
“father of the man I was with yesterday?”
“No; HIS father wuz my oldest brother. My youngest brother--the
'baby' o' the family--wuz mortally wounded by a copper ball in the
charge on the Bishop's Palace at the takin' o' Monterey.”
“And your husband--he went through the war safely, did he?”
The pleasant, mobile lines upon the woman's face congealed into stony
hardness. At the moment of Harry's question she was beginning to
count the stitches in her work for some feminine mystery of “narrowing”
or “turning.” She stopped, and hands and knittng dropped into her
lap.
“My husband,” she said slowly and bitterly, “wuz spared by the
Mexikins thet he fit, but not by his own countrymen an' neighbors,
amongst whom he wuz brung up. His blood wuz not poured out on
the soil he invaded, but wuz drunk by the land his forefathers an'
kinsmen hed died fur. The godless Greasers on the River Grande
war kinder ter him nor the CHRISTIAN gentlemen on the Rockassel.”
The intensity and bitterness of the utterance revealed a long
conning of the expression of bitter truths.
“He lost his life, then,” said Harry, partially comprehending, “in
some of the troubles around here?”
“He wuz killed, bekase he wouldn't help brek down what hit hed cost
so much ter build up. He wuz killed, bekase he thot a pore man's
life wuth mo'en a rich man's nigger. He wuz killed, bekase he
b'lieved this whole country belonged ter the men who'd fit fur hit
an' made hit what hit is, an' thet hit wuzn't a plantation fur a
passel o' slave-drivers ter boss an' divide up jess ez hit suited
'em.”
“Why, I thought all you Kentuckians were strongly in favor of
keeping the negores in slavery,” said Harry in amazement.
“Keepin the niggers ez slaves ain't the question at all. We folks
air ez fur from bein' Abolitionists ez ennybody. Hit's a battle
now with a lot uv 'ristocrats who'd take our rights away.”
“I don't quite understand your position,” said Harry.
“Hit's bekase ye don't understand the country. The people down
heah air divided into three classes. Fust thar's the few very rich
fam'lies that hev big farms over in the Blue Grass with lots o'
niggers ter work 'em. Then thar's the middle class--like the Fortners
an' the Brills--thet hev small farms in the creek vallies, an'
wharever thar's good land on the mounting sides; who hev no niggers,
an' who try ter lead God-fearin', hard-workin' lives, an' support
ther fam'lies decently. Lastly thar's the pore white trash, thet
lives 'way up in the hollers an' on the wuthless lands about the
headwaters. They've little patches o' corn ter make ther breadstuff,
an' depend on huntin', fishin', an' stealin' fur the rest o' their
vittles. They've half-a-dozen guns in every cabin, but nary a hoe;
they've more yaller dogs then the rest o' us hev sheep, an they
find hit a good deal handier ter kill other folks's hogs than ter
raise ther own pork.”
“Hardly desirable neighbors, I should think,” ventured Harry.
“Hit's war all the time between our kind o' people, and them other
kinds. Both on 'em hates us like pizen, an' on our side--well, we
air Christians, but we recken thet when Christ tole us ter love our
inimies, an' do good ter them ez despitefully used us, he couldn't
hev hed no idee how mean people would git ter be long arter he left
the airth.”
Harry could not help smiling at this new adaptation of Scriptural
mandate.
“The low-down white hates us bekase we ain't mean an' ornery ez they
air, an' hold ourselves above 'em. The big-bugs hates us bekase
we won't knuckle down ter 'em, ez ther niggers an' the pore whites
do. So hit's cat-an'-dog all the time. We don't belong ter the
same parties, we don't jine the same churches, an' thar's more or
less trouble a-gwine on batween us an' them continnerly.”
“Then when the war broke out you took different sides as usual?”
“Of course! of course! The big nigger-owners an' the ornery whites
who air just ez much ther slaves ez ef they'd been bot an' paid fur
with ther own money, became red-hot Secessioners, while our people
stuck ter the Union. The very old Satan hisself seemed ter take
possession ov 'em, and stir 'em up ter do all manner o' cruelty
ter conquer us inter jinin' in with 'em. The Brills an' Fortners
hed allers been leaders agin the other people,an' now the Rebels
hissed their white slaves onter our men, ez one sets dogs onter steers
in the corn. The chief man among 'em wuz Kunnel Bill Pennington.”
Harry looked up with a start.
“Yes, the same one who got his reward yesterd,” she continued,
interpreting the expression of his eyes. “The Penningtons air
the richest family this side o' Danville. They an' the Brills an'
Fortners hev allers been mortal enemies. Thar's bin blood shed
in ev'ry gineration. Kunnel Bill's father limpt ter his grae on
'count of a bullet in his hip, which wuz lodged thar soon arter
I'd flung on the floor a ten dollar gold piece he'd crowded inter
my hand at a dance, where he'd come 'ithout ary invite. The bullet
wuz from teh rifle ov a young man named David Brill, thet I married
the next day, jest ez he wuz startin' fur Mexico. He volunteered
a little airlier then he'd intended, fur his father's wheat wuz
not nearly all harvested, but hit wuz thot best ter git himself out
o' the way o' the Penningtons, who wuz a mouty revengeful family,
an' besides they then hed the law on ther side. Ez soon ez he come
back from teh war Ole Kunnel Bill, an' Young Kunnel Bill, an' all
the rest o' the Pennington clan an' connection begun watchin' fur
a chance ter git even with him. The Ole Kunnel used ter vow an'
swar thet he'd never leave the airth ontil Dave Brill wuz under
the clods o' the valley. But he hed ter go last year, spite o'
hisself, an' leave David Brill 'live an' well an' becomin' more an'
more lookt up ter ev'ry day by the people, while the Penningtons
war gittin' wuss and wuss hated. We hed a son, too, the very apple
of our eyes, who wuz growin' up jest like his father---”
The quaver of an ill-repressed sob blurred her tones. She closed
her eyes firmly, as if to choke back the brimming tears, and then
rising from her seat, busied herself brushing the coals and ashes
back into the fire.
“Thet walnut pops so awfully,” she said, “thet a body hez to sweep
nearly ev'ry minnit ter keep the harth at all clean.”
“The death of his father made no change in the younger Col.
Pennington? He kept up the quarrel the same as ever, did he?”
asked Harry, deeply interested in teh narrative.
“Wussen ever! Wussen ever! He got bitterer ev'ry day. He laid
his defeat when he wuz runnin' fur the Legislatur at our door. He
hired bullies ter git inter a quarrel with David, at public getherin's,
an' kill him in sech a way ez ter have a plea o' self-defense ter
cla'r themselves on, but David tuck too good keer o' hisself ter
git ketched that a-way, an' he hurt one o' the bullies so bad thet
he niver quite got over hit. He an' Kunnel Pennington leveled ther
weepons on each other at a barbecue near London last Fall, but the
bystanders interfered, an' prevented bloodshed fur a time.”
“When the war broke out, we never believed hit would reach us. Thar
mout be trouble in Louisville and Cincinnati--some even thought
hit likely that thar would be fouten' in Lexington--but way up in
the mountings we'd be peaceable an' safe allers. Our young men
formed theirselves inter a company o' Home Gyards, an' elected my
husband their Capting. Kunnel Pennington gathered together 'bout
a hundred o' the poorest, orneriest shakes on the headwaters, an'
tuck them off ter jine Sidney Johnson, an' drive the Yankees 'way
from Louisville. Everybody said hit wuz the best riddance o' bad
rubbish the country 'd ever knowed, and when they wuz gone our
chances fur peace seemed better'n ever.
“All the flurry made by ther gwine 'way hed died down, an' ez we
heered nothin' from 'em, or the war, people's minds got quiet ag'in,
an' they sot 'bout hurryin' up their Spring work.
“One bright, sweet mornin' in May, I wuz at my work in the yard
with Fortner--thet wuz my son's name--fixin' up the kittles ter dye
some yarn fur a coat fur him. Husband 'd went ter the other side
o' the hill, whar the new terbacker ground wuz, ter cut out some
trees that shaded the plants. The skies wuz ez bright an' fa'r ez
the good Lord ever made 'em. I could heah the ringin' o' David's
ax, ez he chopped away, an'h hit seemed ter be sayin' ter me
cheefully all the time: 'Heah I am--hard at work.' The smoke from
some brush-piles that he'd sot afire riz up slowly an' gently, fur
thar wuz no wind a-stirring. The birds sung gayly 'bout their work
o' nest-buildin', an' I couldn't help singin' about mine. I left
the kittles fur a minnit ter run down the gyardin walk, ter see
how my bed o' pinks wuz comin' out, an' I sung ez I run.
“Jest then a passel o' men come stringin' up the road ter the
bars. They looked like some o' them that Kunnel Pennington tuck
'way with him, but they rid better critters then any o' them ever
hed, an' they were dressed in a sorter soljer-cloze, an' all o'
'em toted guns.
“Something sent a chill ter my very heart the moment I laid eyes on
'em. Hit a'most stopped beatin' when I see Kunnel Bill Pennington
a little ways behind 'em, with a feather in his hat, an' sword an'
pistols in his belt. When they waited at the bars fur him ter come
up, I knowed instantly what they were arter.
“'Fortner,' I said ter my son, tryin' ter speak ez low ez possible;
'Fortner, honey, slip back through the bushes ez quick ez the
Lord'll let ye, an tell yer daddy that Bill Pennington an' his gang
air heah arter him. Sneak away, but when ye air out o' sight, run
fur yer life, honey.'
“He turned ter go, but tat that minnit Bill Pennington shouted out:
“'Stop thar! Don't ye send thet boy away! Ef he moves a step, I'll
put a bullet through his brain!' Fortner would've run in spite o'
him, but I wuz so skeered for him thet I jumped ter his side an'
ketched his arm.
“'Keep quiet, honey,' I said. 'Likely they won't find yer daddy
at all.'
“Vain hope! Ez I spoke, the sound o' David's ax rung out clearly
and steadily. The cannons at Wildcat, yesterday, didn't sound
no louder ter me. I could even tell that he wuz choppin' a beech
tree. The licks was ex a-sharp an' ringin' ez ef the ax struck
iron.
“Bill Pennington lit offen his beast, an' walked toward me, with
his sword a-clatterin' an' his spurs a-jinglin'.
“'Whar's that Yankeefied scalawag of a husband o' your'n? Whar's
Dave Brill?' he said savagely.
“Hit seemed ter me that every stroke from over the hill said ez
plainly ez tongue could utter words: 'Heah I am. Come over heah!'
I tried ter gain time ter think o' something.
“'He started this mornin' on Roan Molly fer Mt. Vernon, to 'tend
court,' I said, knowin' thet I didn't dare hesitate ter make up a
story.
“'Kunnel, thet air's a lie,' said Jake Johnson, who knowed us.
'Thar's Dave Brill's Roan Molly over thar, in the pasture.'
“'An' this hain't court-day in Mt. Vernon, neither,' said another.
“'I know your husband's on the place, I wuz tole so this mornin','
said Kunnel Bill. 'Hit'll be much better fur ye, ef ye tell me
whar he is. Hit'll at least save yer house from bein' sot afire.'
“Ring! ring! went David's ax, ez ef hit war a trumpet, shoutin'
ter the whole world: 'Heah I am. Come over heah!'
“'Ye kin burn our house ef yer that big a villain,' I said; 'but
I can't tell ye no different.'
“'Kunnel, thet's him a-choppin' over thar,' said Jake Johnson.
'I know he's cl'ared some new ground fur terbacker on thet air
hill-side.'
“'I believe hit is,' said Kunnel Bill, listenin' a minnit. 'Parker,
ye an' Haygood go over thar an' git him, while some o' the rest o'
ye look 'bout the stable an' fodder-stack thar. Mind my orders,
an' see thet they are carried out.'
“His manner made me fear everything. A thought flashed inter
my mind. Thar wuz thet horn thar.”--Harry followed her eyes with
his, and saw hanging on hooks against the wall one of the long tin
horns, used in the South to call the men-folks of the farms to their
meals. It was crushed and battered to uselessness.--“I thought I'd
blow hit an' attract his attention. He mout then see them a-comin'
an' git away. I ran inter the house an' snatched the horn down,
but afore I could put hit ter my lips, Bill Pennington jerked hit
'way from me, an' stamped on hit.
“'Deb Brill,' said he, with a mortally hateful look, 'yer peart an'
sassy an' bold, an' hev allers been so, an' so 's yer Yankeefied
husband. Ye've hed yer own way offen--too offen. Now I'll heve
mine, an' wipe out some long-standin' scores. Dave Brill hez capped
a lifetime o' plague an' disturbance ter his betters, by becomin'
a trator to his country, an' inducin' others ter be traitors. He
must be quieted. come out an' listen.'
“He pulled me out inter the yard. Dave wuz still choppin' away.
Fur nearly every day fur night thirty years, the sound o' his ax
hed been music in my ears. I had larned to know hit, even afore we
wuz lovers, fur his father's land jined my father's, an' hit seems
ter me that I could tell he note o' his ax from thet o' everybody
else, a'most ez airly ez I could tell a robin's song from a
blackbird's. Girl, woman, wife an' mother, I hed listened to hit
while I knit, wove, or spun, every stroke minglin' with the sounds
o' my wheel or loom an' the song o' the birds, an' tellin' me whar
he wuz, an' thet he wuz toilin' cheefully fur me an' mine.
“Now, fur the fust time in all these years, hits steady strong beat
brought mis'ry ter my ears. Hit wuz ez the tollin' of bell fur
some one not yit dead. My heart o'ny beat ez fast ez he chopped.
Hit would give a great jump when the sound o' the blow reached me,
an' then stand still until the next one came.
“At last came a long--O, so long pause.
“'They've got thar,' said Bill Pennington, cranin' forward his
head ter ketch the fust sound. 'He's seed 'em, an' is tryin' ter
git 'way. But he kin never do hit. I know the men I sent ter do
the job.'
“Two rifle shots sounded a'most together, an' then immediately
arter wuz a couple o' boastful Injun-like yells.
“'Thar, Deb, heah thet? Ye'r a widder now. Be thankful thet I
let ye off so easy. I ought by rights ter burn yer house, an' put
thet boy o' your'n whar he'll do no harm. but this'll do fur an
example ter these mounting traitors. They've lost their leader,
an' ther hain't no one ter take his place. They'll know now thet
we're in dead airnest. Boys, go inter the house an' git all the
guns thar is thar, an' what vittles an' blankets ye want; but make
haste, fur we must git away from heah in a hurry.'
“I run ez fast ez my feet'd carry me to whar David lay stone
dead. Fortner saddled his colt an' galloped off ter his cousin
Jim Fortner's, ter rouse the Home Gyard. The colt reached Jim's
house, bekase hits mammy wuz thar; but my son never did. In takin'
the shortest road, he hed ter cross the dangerousest ford on the
Rockassel. The young beast wuz skeered nigh ter death, an' hits
rider wuz drowned.”