Colonel Sterett's War Record.
It had been dark and overcast as to skies; the weather, however, was
found serene and balmy enough. As I climbed the steps after my
afternoon canter, I encountered the Old Cattleman. He was re-
locating one of the big veranda chairs more to his comfort, and the
better to enjoy his tobacco. He gave me a glance as I came up.
"Them's mighty puny spurs," he observed with an eye of half
commiseration, half disdain; "them's shore reedic'lous. Which they'd
destroy your standin' with a cow pony, utter. He'd fill up with
contempt for you like a water-hole in April. Shore! it's the rowels;
they oughter be about the size an' shape of a mornin' star, them
rowels had. Then a gent might hope for action. An' whyever don't
you-all wear leather chapps that a-way, instead of them jimcrow
boots an' trousers? They're plumb amoosin', them garments be. No, I
onderstands; you don't go chargin' about in the bresh an' don't need
chapps, but still you oughter don 'em for the looks. Thar's a wrong
an' a right way to do; an' chapps is right. Thar's Johnny Cook of
the Turkey Track; he's like you; he contemns chapps. Johnny charges
into a wire fence one midnight, sort o' sidles into said boundary
full surge; after that Johnny wears chapps all right. Does it hurt
him? Son, them wires t'ars enough hide off Johnny, from some'ers
about the hock, to make a saddle cover, an' he loses blood
sufficient to paint a house. He comes mighty near goin' shy a laig
on the deal. It's a lesson on c'rrect costumes that Johnny don't
soon forget.
"No, I never rides a hoss none now. These yere Eastern saddles ain't
the right model. Which they's a heap too low in the cantle an' too
low in the horn. An' them stirrup leathers is too short, an' two
inches too far for'ard. I never does grade over-high for ridin' a
hoss, even at my best. No, I don't get pitched off more'n is comin'
to me; still, I ain't p'inted out to tenderfeet as no 'Centaur' as
Doc Peets calls'em. I gets along without buckin' straps, an' my
friends don't have to tie no roll of blankets across my saddle-horn,
an' that's about the best I can report.
"Texas Thompson most likely is the chief equestr'an of Wolfville.
One time Texas makes a wager of a gallon of licker with Jack Moore,
an' son! yere's what Texas does. I sees him with these eyes. Texas
takes his rope an' ties down a bronco; one the record whereof is
that he's that toomultuous no one can ride him. Most gents would
have ducked at the name of this yere steed, the same bein'
'Dynamite.' But Texas makes the bet I mentions, an' lays for this
onrooly cayouse with all the confidence of virgin gold that a-way.
"Texas ropes an' ties him down an' cinches the saddle onto him while
he's layin' thar; Tutt kneelin' on his locoed head doorin' the
ceremony. Then Tutt throws him loose; an' when he gets up he
nacherally rises with Texas Thompson on his back.
"First, that bronco stands in a daze, an' Texas takes advantage of
his trance to lay two silver dollars on the saddle, one onder each
of his laigs. An' final, you should shorely have beheld that bronco
put his nose between his laigs an' arch himse'f an' buck! Reg'lar
worm-fence buckin' it is; an' when he ain't hittin' the ground, he's
shore abundant in that atmosphere a lot.
"In the midst of these yere flights, which the same is enough to
stim'late the imagination of a Apache, Texas, as ca'm an' onmoved as
the Spanish Peaks, rolls an' lights a cigarette. Then he picks up
the bridle an' gives that roysterin' bronco jest enough of the
Mexican bit to fill his mouth with blood an' his mind with doubts,
an' stops him. When Texas swings to the ground, them two silver
dollars comes jinglin' along; which he holds 'em to the saddle that
a-way throughout them exercises. It's them dollars an' the cigarette
that raises the licker issue between Jack an' Texas; an' of course,
Texas quits winner for the nose-paint."
I had settled by this time into a chair convenient to my reminiscent
companion, and relishing the restful ease after a twenty-mile run,
decided to prolong the talk. Feeling for subjects, I became
tentatively curious concerning politics.
"Cow people," said my friend, "never saveys pol'tics. I wouldn't
give a Mexican sheep--which is the thing of lowest valyoo I knows of
except Mexicans themse'fs--or the views of any cow-puncher on them
questions of state. You can gamble an' make the roof the limit, them
opinions, when you-all once gets 'em rounded up, would be shore
loodicrous, not to say footile.
"Now, we-all wolves of Wolfville used to let Colonel Sterett do our
polit'cal yelpin' for us; sort o' took his word for p'sition an'
stood pat tharon. It's in the Red Light the very evenin' when Texas
subdoos that bronco, an' lets the whey outen Jack Moore to the
extent of said jug of Valley Tan, that Colonel Sterett goes off at a
round road-gait on this yere very topic of pol'tics, an' winds up by
tellin' us of his attitood, personal, doorin' the civil war, an' the
debt he owes some Gen'ral named Wheeler for savin' of his life.
"'Pol'tics,' remarks Colonel Sterett on that o'casion, re-fillin'
his glass for the severaleth time, 'jest nacherally oozes from a
editor, as you-all who reads reg'larly the Coyote b'ars witness;
he's saturated with pol'tics same as Huggins is with whiskey. As for
myse'f, aside from my vocations of them tripods, pol'tics is inborn
in me. I gets 'em from my grandfather, as tall a sport an' as high-
rollin' a statesman as ever packs a bowie or wins the beef at a
shootin' match in old Kaintucky. Yes, sir,' says the Colonel, an
thar's a pensive look in his eyes like he's countin' up that
ancestor's merits in his mem'ry; 'pol'tics with me that-away is
shore congenital.'
"'Congenital!' says Dan Boggs, an' his tones is a heap satisfact'ry;
'an' thar's a word that's good enough for a dog. I reckons I'll tie
it down an' brand it into my bunch right yere.'
"'My grandfather,' goes on the Colonel, 'is a Jackson man; from the
top of the deck plumb down to the hock kyard, he's nothin' but
Jackson. This yere attitood of my grandsire, an' him camped in the
swarmin' midst of a Henry Clay country, is frootful of adventures
an' calls for plenty nerve. But the old Spartan goes through.
"'Often as a child, that old gent has done took me on his knee an'
told me how he meets up first with Gen'ral Jackson. He's goin' down
the river in one of them little old steamboats of that day, an' the
boat is shore crowded. My grandfather has to sleep on the floor, as
any more in the bunks would mean a struggle for life an' death.
Thar's plenty of bunkless gents, however, besides him, an' as he
sinks into them sound an' dreamless slumbers which is the her'tage
of folks whose consciences run trop, he hears 'em drinkin' an'
talkin' an' barterin' mendacity, an' argyfyin' pol'tics on all
sides.
"'My grandfather sleeps on for hours, an' is only aroused from them
torpors, final, by some sport chunkin' him a thump in the back. The
old lion is sleepin' on his face, that a-way, an' when he gets
mauled like I relates, he wakes up an' goes to struggle to his feet.
"'"Bars an' buffaloes!" says my grandfather; "whatever's that?"
"'"Lay still, stranger," says the party who smites him; "I've only
got two to go."
"'That's what it is. It's a couple of gents playin' seven-up; an'
bein' crowded, they yootilizes my grandfather for a table. This
sport is swingin' the ace for the opp'site party's jack, an' he
boards his kyard with that enthoosiasm it comes mighty clost to
dislocatin' my old gent's shoulder. But he's the last Kaintuckian to
go interfcrin' with the reecreations of others, so he lays thar
still an' prone till the hand's played out.
"'"High, jack, game!" says the stranger, countin' up; "that puts me
out an' one over for lannyap."
"'This yere seven-up gent turns out to be Gen'ral Jackson, an' him
an' my grandfather camps down in a corner, drinks up the quart of
Cincinnati Rectified which is the stakes, an' becomes mootually
acquainted. An', gents, I says it with pride, the hero of the Hoss-
shoe, an' the walloper of them English at New Orleans takes to my
grandfather like a honeysuckle to a front porch.
"'My grandfather comes plenty near forfeitin' then good opinions of
the Gen'ral, though. It's the next day, an' that ancestor of mine
an' the Gen'ral is recoverin' themse'fs from the conversation of the
night before with a glass or two of tanzy bitters, when a lady, who
descends on the boat at Madison, comes bulgin' into the gents'
cabin. The captain an' two or three of the boat's folks tries to
herd her into the women's cabin; but she withers 'em with a look,
breshes 'em aside, an' stampedes along in among the men-people like
I explains. About forty of 'em's smokin'; an' as tobacco is a
fav'rite weakness of the tribe of Sterett, my grandfather is smokin'
too.
"'"I wants you-all to make these yere miscreants stop smokin'," says
the lady to the captain, who follows along thinkin' mebby he gets
her headed right after she's had her run out an' tires down some.
"You're the captain of this tub," says the lady, "an' I demands my
rights. Make these barb'rous miscreants stop smokin', or I leaves
the boat ag'in right yere."
"'The lady's plumb fierce, an' her face, which is stern an' heroic,
carries a capac'ty for trouble lurkin' 'round in it, same as one of
them bald hornet's nests on a beech limb. Nacherally my
grandfather's gaze gets riveted on this lady a whole lot, his pipe
hangin' forgetful from his lips. The lady's eyes all at once comes
down on my grandfather, partic'lar an' personal, like a milk-crock
from a high shelf.
"'"An' I means you speshul," says the lady, p'intin' the finger of
scorn at my grandfather. "The idee of you standin' thar smokin' in
my very face, an' me a totterin' invalid. It shorely shows you ain't
nothin' but a brute. If I was your wife I'd give you p'isen."
"'"Which if you was my wife, I'd shore take it," says my
grandfather; for them epithets spurs him on the raw, an' he forgets
he's a gent, that a-way, an' lets fly this yere retort before he can
give himse'f the curb.
"'The moment my grandfather makes them observations, the lady
catches her face--which as I tells you is a cross between a gridiron
an' a steel trap--with both her hands, shakes her ha'r down her
back, an' cuts loose a scream which, like a b'ar in a hawg-pen,
carries all before it. Then she falls into the captain's arms an'
orders him to pack her out on deck where she can faint.
"'"Whatever be you-all insultin' this yere lady for?" says a
passenger, turnin' on my grandfather like a crate of wildcats.
"Which I'm the Roarin' Wolverine of Smoky Bottoms, an' I waits for a
reply."
"'My grandfather is standin' thar some confoosed an' wrought up, an'
as warm as a wolf, thinkin' how ornery he's been by gettin' acrid
with that lady. The way he feels, this yere Roarin' Wolverine party
comes for'ard as a boon. The old gent simply falls upon him, jaw an'
claw, an' goes to smashin' furniture an' fixin's with him.
"'The Roarin' Wolverine allows after, when him an' my grandfather
drinks a toddy an' compares notes, while a jack-laig doctor who's
aboard sews the Roarin' Wolverine's y'ear back on, that he thinks at
the time it's the boat blowin' up.
"'"She's shore the vividest skrimmage I ever partic'pates in," says
the Roarin' Wolverine; "an' the busiest. I wouldn't have missed it
for a small clay farm."
"'But Gen'ral Jackson when he comes back from offerin' condolences
to the lady, looks dignified an' shakes his head a heap grave.
"'"Them contoomelious remarks to the lady," he says to my
grandfather, "lowers you in my esteem a lot. An' while the way you
breaks up that settee with the Roarin' Wolverine goes some towards
reestablishin' you, still I shall not look on you as the gent I
takes you for, ontil you seeks this yere injured female an'
crawfishes on that p'isen-takin' bluff."
"'So my grandfather goes out on deck where the lady is still sobbin'
an' hangin' on the captain's neck like the loop of a rope, an'
apol'gizes. Then the lady takes a brace, accepts them contritions,
an' puts it up for her part that she can see my grandfather's a
shore-enough gent an' a son of chivalry; an' with that the riot
winds up plumb pleasant all 'round.'
"'If I may come romancin' in yere,' says Doc Peets, sort o' breakin'
into the play at this p'int, 'with a interruption, I wants to say
that I regyards this as a very pretty narratif, an' requests the
drinks onct to the Colonel's grandfather.' We drinks accordin', an'
the Colonel resoomes.
"'My grandfather comes back from this yere expedition down the Ohio
a most voylent Jackson man. An' he's troo to his faith as a adherent
to Jackson through times when the Clay folks gets that intemp'rate
they hunts 'em with dogs. The old gent was wont, as I su'gests, to
regale my childish y'ears with the story of what he suffers, He
tells how he goes pirootin' off among the farmers in the back
counties; sleepin' on husk beds, till the bed-ropes cuts plumb
through an' marks out a checker-board on his frame that would stay
for months. Once he's sleepin' in a loft, an' all of a sudden about
daybreak the old gent hears a squall that mighty near locoes him,
it's so clost an' turrible. He boils out on the floor an' begins to
claw on his duds, allowin', bein' he's only half awake that a-way,
that it's a passel of them murderin' Clay Whigs who's come to crawl
his hump for shore. But she's a false alarm. It's only a Dom'nick
rooster who's been perched all night on my grandfather's wrist where
his arm sticks outen bed, an' who's done crowed a whole lot, as is
his habit when he glints the comin' day. It's them sort o' things
that sends a shudder through you, an' shows what that old patriot
suffers for his faith.
"'But my grandfather keeps on prevailin' along in them views ontil
he jest conquers his county an' carries her for Jackson. Shore! he
has trouble at the polls, an' trouble in the conventions. But he
persists; an' he's that domineerin' an' dogmatic they at last not
only gives him his way, but comes rackin' along with him. In the
last convention, he nacherally herds things into a corner, an'
thar's only forty votes ag'in him at the finish. My grandfather
allers says when relatin' of it to me long afterwards:
"'"An' grandson Willyum, five gallons more of rum would have made
that convention yoonanimous.
"'But what he'ps the old gent most towards the last, is a j'int
debate he has with Spence Witherspoon, which begins with
reecrim'nations an' winds up with the guns. Also, it leaves this
yere aggravatin' Witherspoon less a whole lot.
"'"Wasn't you-all for nullification, an' ain't you now for Jackson
an' the union?" asks this yere insultin' Witherspoon. "Didn't you
make a Calhoun speech over on Mink Run two years ago, an' ain't you
at this barbecue, to-day, consoomin' burgoo an' shoutin' for Old
Hickory?"
"'"What you-all states is troo," says my grandfather. "But my party
turns, an' I turns with it. You-all can't lose Jack Sterett. He can
turn so quick the heels of his moccasins will be in front."
"'"Which them talents of yours for change," says Witherspoon,
"reminds me a powerful lot of the story of how Jedge Chinn gives
Bill Hatfield, the blacksmith, that Berkshire suckin' pig.
'"An' whatever is that story?" asks my grandfather, beginnin' to
loosen his bowie-knife in its sheath.
"'"Take your paws off that old butcher of your'n," returns this
pesterin' Witherspoon, "an' I'll tell the story. But you've got to
quit triflin' with that 'leven-inch knife ontil I'm plumb through,
or I'll fool you up a lot an' jest won't tell it."
"'Tharupon my grandfather takes his hand offen the knife-haft, an'
Witherspoon branches forth:
"'"When I recalls how this oncompromisin' outlaw," p'intin' to my
grandfather, "talks for Calhoun an' nullification over on Mink Run,
an' today is yere shoutin' in a rum-sodden way for the union an'
Andy Jackson, as I observes yeretofore, it shore reminds me of the
story of how Jedge Chinn give Bill Hatfield that Berkshire shoat.
'Send over one of your niggers with a basket an' let him get one,
Bill,' says Jedge Chinn, who's been tellin' Hatfield about the pigs.
Neyt day, Bill mounts his nigger boy, Dick, on a mule, with a basket
on his arm, an' Dick lines out for Jedge Chinn's for to fetch away
that little hawg. Dick puts him in the basket, climbs onto his mule,
an' goes teeterin' out for home. On the way back, Dick stops at
Hickman's tavern. While he's pourin' in a gill of corn jooce, a wag
who's present subtracts the pig an' puts in one of old Hickman's
black Noofoundland pups. When Dick gets home to Bill Hatfield's,
Bill takes one look at the pup, breaks the big rasp on Dick's head,
throws the forehammer at him, an' bids him go back to Jedge Chinn
an' tell him that he, Bill, will sally over the first dull day an'
p'isen his cattle an' burn his barns. Dick takes the basket full of
dog on his arm, an' goes p'intin' for Jedge Chinn. Nacherally, Dick
stops at Hickman's tavern so as to mollify his feelin's with that
red-eye. This yere wag gets in ag'in on the play, subtracts the pup
an' restores the little hawg a whole lot. When Dick gets to Jedge
Chinn, he onfolds to the Jedge touchin' them transformations from
pig to pup. 'Pshaw!' says the Jedge, who's one of them pos'tive
sharps that no ghost tales is goin' to shake; 'pshaw! Bill
Hatfield's gettin' to be a loonatic. I tells him the last time I has
my hoss shod that if he keeps on pourin' down that Hickman whiskey,
he'll shorely die, an' begin by dyin' at the top. These yere
illoosions of his shows I drives the center.' Then the Jedge
oncovers the basket an' turns out the little hawg. When nigger Dick
sees him, he falls on his knees. 'I'm a chu'ch member, Marse Jedge,'
says Dick, 'an' you-all believes what I says. That anamile's
conjured, Jedge. I sees him yere an' I sees him thar; an', Jedge,
he's either pig or pup, whichever way he likes.'
"'"An', ladies an' gents," concloodes this Witherspoon, makin' a
incriminatin' gesture so's to incloode my grandfather that a-way;
"when I reflects on this onblushin' turncoat, Jack Sterett, as I
states prior, it makes me think of how Jedge Chinn lavishes that
Berkshire shoat on blacksmith Bill Hatfield. Confessin' that
aforetime he's a nullification pig on Mink Run, he sets yere at this
barbecue an' without color of shame declar's himse'f a union pup.
Mister Cha'rman, all I can say is, it shore beats squinch owls!"
"'As the story is finished, the trooce which binds my grandfather
ends, an' he pulls his bowie-knife an' chases this Witherspoon from
the rostrum. He'd had his detractor's skelp right thar, but the
cha'rman an' other leadin' sperits interferes, an' insists on them
resentments of my grandfather's findin' the usual channel in their
expression. Witherspoon, who's got on a new blanket coat, allows he
won't fight none with knives as they cuts an' sp'iles your clothes;
he says he prefers rifles an' fifty paces for his. My grandfather,
who's the easiest gent to get along with in matters of mere detail,
is agree'ble; an' as neither him nor Witherspoon has brought their
weepons, the two vice pres'dents, who's goin' to act as seconds--the
pres'dent by mootual consent dealin' the game as referee--rummages
about air' borrys a brace of Looeyville rifles from members of the
Black B'ar Glee Club--they're the barytone an' tenor--an' my
grandfather an' the scandal-mongerin' Witherspoon is stood up.
"'"Gents," says the pres'dent, "the words will be, 'Fire-one-two-
three-stop.' It's incumbent on you-all to blaze away anywhere
between the words 'Fire' an' 'Stop'. My partin' injunctions is, 'May
heaven defend the right,' an' be shore an' see your hindsights as
you onhooks your guns."
"'At the word, my grandfather an' Witherspoon responds prompt an'
gay. Witherspoon overshoots, while my grandfather plants his lead in
among Witherspoon's idees, an' that racontoor quits Kaintucky for
the other world without a murmur.
"'"I regyards this event as a vict'ry for Jackson an' principle,"
says my grandfather, as he's called on to proceed with his oration,
"an' I'd like to say in that connection, if Henry Clay will count
his spoons when he next comes sneakin' home from Washin'ton, he'll
find he's short Spence Witherspoon."'
"'Your grandfather's a troo humorist,' says Texas Thompson, as
Colonel Sterett pauses in them recitals of his to reach the bottle;
'I looks on that last witticism of his as plumb apt.'
"'My grandfather,' resoomes Colonel Sterett, after bein' refreshed,
'is as full of fun as money-musk, an' when that audience gets onto
the joke in its completeness, the merriment is wide an yooniversal.
It's the hit of the barbecue; an' in this way, little by little, my
grandfather wins his neighbors to his beliefs, ontil he's got the
commoonity all stretched an' hawgtied, an' brands her triumphant for
Gen'ral Jackson.'
"'An' does your own pap follow in the footprints of his old gent, as
a convincin' an' determined statesman that a-way?' asks Doc Peets.
'No,' says Colonel Sterett, 'my own personal parent simmers down a
whole lot compared to my grandfather. He don't take his pol'tics so
much to heart; his democracy ain't so virulent an' don't strike in.
His only firm stand on questions of state, as I relates the other
day, is when he insists on bein' nootral doorin' the late war. I
explains how he talks federal an' thinks reb, an' manages, that a-
way, to promote a decent average.
"'His nootrality, however, don't incloode the fam'ly none. My
brother Jeff--an' I never beholds a haughtier sperit-goes
squanderin' off with Morgan at the first boogle call,' "'That raid
of Morgan's,' says Enright, his eye brightenin', 'is plumb full of
dash an' fire.' "'Shore,' says the Colonel, 'plumb full of dash an'
fire. But Jeff tells me of it later, foot by foot, from the time
they crosses the river into Injeanny, till they comes squatterin'
across at Blennerhasset's Island into Kaintucky ag'in, all' I sadly,
though frankly, admits it looks like it possesses some elements of a
chicken-stealin' expedition also. Jeff says he never sees so many
folks sincere, an' with their minds made up, as him all' Morgan an'
the rest of the Bloo Grass chivalry encounters oil that croosade.
Thar's an uprisin' of the peasantry, Jeff says, whereever they goes;
an' then clods pursoocs Jeff an' the others, from start to finish,
with hoes an' rakes an' mattocks an' clothes-poles an' puddin'-
sticks an' other barbarous an' obsolete arms, an' never lets up
ontil Jeff an' Morgan all' their gallant comrades is ag'in safe in
the arms of their Kaintucky brethren.
Their stay in any given spot is trooly brief.
That town of Cincinnati makes up a bundle of money big enough to
choke a cow to give 'em as a ransom; but Jeff an' Morgan never do
hear of it for years. They goes by so plumb swift they don't get
notice; an' they fades away in the distance so fast they keeps ahead
of the news. However, they gets back to Kaintucky safe an' covered
with dust an' glory in even parts; an' as for Jeff speshul, as the
harvest of his valor, he reports himse'f the owner of a one-sixth
interest in a sleigh which him an' five of his indomitable
companions has done drug across the river on their return. But they
don't linger over this trophy; dooty calls 'em, so they stores the
sleigh in a barn an' rides away to further honors.
"'We never do hear of Jeff none all through that war but once. After
he's j'ined Stonewall Jackson, I recalls how he sends home six
hundred dollars in confed'rate money with a letter to my father. It
runs like this:
In camp with Stonewall Jackson.
Respected Sir:
The slave who bears this will give you from me a treasure of six
hundred dollars. I desire that you pay the tavern and whatever
creditors of mine you find. To owe debts does not comport with the
honor of a cavalier, and I propose to silence all base clamors on
that head. I remain, most venerated sir, Yours to command,
Jefferson Sterett.
"'That's the last we-all hears of my sens'tive an' high-sperited
brother ontil after Mister Lee surrenders. It's one mornin' when
Jeff comes home, an' the manner of his return shorely displays his
nobility of soul, that a-way, as ondiscouraged an' ondimmed. No
one's lookin' for Jeff partic'lar, when I hears a steamboat whistle
for our landin'. I, bein' as I am full of the ontamed cur'osity of
yooth, goes curvin' out to see what's up. I hears the pilot give the
engineer the bells to set her back. on the sta'board wheel, an' then
on both. The boat comes driftin' in. A stagin' is let down, an with
the tread of a conqueror who should come ashore but my brother Jeff!
Thar's nothin' in his hands; he ain't got nothin' with him that he
ain't wearin'. An' all he has on is a old wool hat, a hick'ry shirt,
gray trousers, an' a pair of copper-rivet shoes as red as a bay
hoss. As he strikes the bank, Jeff turns an' sweeps the scene with
the eye of a eagle. Then takin' a bogus silver watch outen his
pocket, he w'irls her over his head by the leather string an' lets
her go out into the river, ker-chunk!
"'"Which I enters into this yere rebellion," says Jeff, flashin' a
proud, high glance on me where I stands wonderin', "without nothin',
an' I proposes to return with honor ontarnished, an' as pore as I
goes in."
"'As me an' Jeff reepairs up to the house, I notes the most
renegade-lookin' nigger followin' behind.
"'"Whoever's dis yere nigger?" I asks.
"'"He's my valet," says Jeff.
"'My arm's a heap too slight,' goes on Colonel Sterett, followin' a
small libation, 'to strike a blow for the confed'racy, but my soul
is shorely in the cause. I does try to j'ine, final, an' is only
saved tharfrom, an' from what would, ondoubted, have been my certain
death, by a reb gen'ral named Wheeler. He don't mean to do it; she's
inadvertent so far as he's concerned; but he saves me jest the same.
An' settin' yere as I be, enjoyin' the friendship an' esteem of you-
all citizens of Wolfville, I feels more an' more the debt of
gratitoode I owes that gallant officer an' man.'
"'However does this Gen'ral Wheeler save you?' asks Dan Boggs.
'Which I'm shore eager to hear.'
"'The tale is simple,' responds the Colonel, 'an' it's a triboote to
that brave commander which I'm allers ready to pay. It's in the
middle years of the war, an' I'm goin' to school in a village which
lies back from the river, an' is about twenty miles from my
ancestral home. Thar's a stockade in the place which some invadin'
Yanks has built, an' thar's about twenty of 'em inside, sort o'
givin' orders to the village an' makin' its patriotic inhabitants
either march or mark time, whichever chances to be their Yankee
caprices.
"'As a troo Southern yooth, who feels for his strugglin' country, I
loathes them Yankees to the limit, an' has no more use for 'em than
Huggins has for a temp'rance lecturer.
"'One day a troop of reb cavalry jumps into the village, an'
stampedes these yere invaders plumb off the scene. We gets the news
up to the school, an' adjourns in a bunch to come down town an'
cel'brate the success of the Southern arms. As I arrives at the
field of carnage, a reb cavalryman is swingin' outen the saddle. He
throws the bridle of his hoss to me.
"'" See yere, Bud," he says, "hold my hoss a minute while I sees if
I can't burn this stockade."
"'I stands thar while the reb fusses away with some pine splinters
an' lightwood, strugglin' to inaug'rate a holycaust. He can't make
the landin'; them timbers is too green, that a-way.
"'While I'm standin' thar, lendin' myse'f to this yere conflagratory
enterprise, I happens to cast my eyes over on the hills a mile back
from the village, an' I'm shocked a whole lot to observe them
eminences an' summits is bloo with Yankees comin'. Now I'm a mighty
careful boy, an' I don't allow none to let a ragin' clanjamfrey of
them Lincoln hirelings caper up on me while I'm holdin' a reb boss.
So I calls to this yere incendiary trooper where he's blowin' an'
experimentin' an' still failin' with them flames.
"'" Secesh!" I shouts; "oh, you-all secesh! You'd a mighty sight
better come get your hoss, or them Yanks who's bulgin' along over
yonder'll spread your hide on the fence."
"'This reb takes a look at the Yanks, an' then comes an' gets his
hoss. As he gathers up the bridle rein an' swings into the saddle, a
mad thirst to fight, die an' bleed for my country seizes me, an' I
grabs the reb's hoss by the bits an' detains him.
"'"Say, Mister," I pleads, "why can't you-all take me with you?"
"'" Which you're a lot too young, son," says the reb, takin' another
size-up of the Yanks.
"'" I ain't so young as I looks," I argues; "I'm jest small of my
age."
"'" Now, I reckons that's so," says the reb, beamin' on me
approvin', "an' you're likewise mighty peart. But I'll tell you,
Bud, you ain't got no hoss."
"'"That's nothin'," I responds; "which if you-all will only get me a
gun, I can steal a hoss, that a-way, in the first mile."
"'Seein' me so ready with them argyments, an' so dead pertinacious
to go, this yere trooper begins to act oneasy, like his resolootion
gets shook some. At last he gridds his teeth together like his
mind's made up.
"'" Look yere, boy," he says, "do you know who our Gen'ral is?"
"'"No," I says, "I don't."
"'"Well," says the reb, as he shoves his feet deep in the stirrups,
an' settles in his saddle like he's goin' to make some time; "well,
he's a ragin' an' onfettered maverick, named Wheeler; an' from the
way he goes skallyhootin' 'round, he's goin' to get us all killed or
captured before ever we gets back, an' I don't want no chil'en on my
hands." "'With that this yere soldier yanks the bridle outen my
grasp, claps the steel into his hoss's flanks, an' leaves me like a
bullet from a gun. For my part, I stands thar saved; saved, as I
says, by that Gen'ral Wheeler's repootation with his men.'"