EMMIGRATION is a much more serious matter than revolution. Virtually,
it is obliteration. Thus, Gerard Petit, landing upon the coast of South
Carolina in the days of French confusion--a period covering too many
dates for a romancer to be at all choice in the matter--gave his wife
and children over to the oblivion of a fatal fever. Turning his face
westward, he pushed his way to the mountains. He had begun his journey
fired with the despair of an exile, and he ended it with something of
the energy and enterprise of a pioneer. In the foot-hills of the
mountains he came to the small stream of English colonists that was
then trickling slowly southward through the wonderful valleys that
stretch from Pennsylvania to Georgia, between the foot-hills of the
Blue Ridge and the great Cumberland Range. Here, perhaps for the first
time, the _je, vous, nous_ of France met in conflict the "ah yi," the
"we uns" and the "you uns" of the English-Pennsylvania-Georgians. The
conflict was brief. There was but one Gerard Petit, and, although he
might multiply the _je, vous, nous_ by the thousands and hundreds of
thousands, as he undoubtedly did, yet, in the very nature of things,
the perpetual volley of "you uns" and "we uns" must carry the day. They
belonged to the time, and the climate suited them. By degrees they
fitted themselves to Gerard Petit; they carried him from the mountains
of South Carolina to the mountains of North Georgia, and there they
helped him to build a mill and found a family. But their hospitality
did not end there. With the new mill and the new family, they gave him
a new name. Gerard Petit, presumably with his hand upon his heart, as
became his race, made one last low bow to genealogy. In his place stood
Jerd Poteet, "you uns" to the left of him, "we uns" to the right of
him. He made such protest as he might. He brought his patriotism to
bear upon the emergency, and named his eldest son Huguenin Petit. How
long this contest between hospitality on the one hand and family pride
and patriotism on the other was kept up it is unnecessary to inquire.
It is enough to say that the Huguenin of one generation, left Hugue
Poteet as his son and heir; Hugue left Hague, and this Hague, or a
succeeding one, by some mysterious development of fate, left Teague
Poteet.
Meanwhile the restless stream of English-Pennsylvania-Georgians, with
its "you uns" and its "we uns," trickled over into Alabama, where some
of the Petits who were carried with it became Pettys and Pettises. The
Georgia settlements, however, had been reinforced by Virginians, South
Carolinians, and Georgians. The gold excitement brought some; while
others, set adrift by the exigencies of the plantation system, found it
easier and cheaper to get to North Georgia than to reach Louisiana or
Mississippi. Thus, in 1859, Teague Poteet, a young man of thirty or
thereabouts, was tilling, in a half-serious, half-jocular way, a small
farm on Hog Mountain, in full view of Gullettsville. That is to say,
Poteet could see the whole of Gullettsville, but Gullettsville could
not, by any means, see the whole, nor even the half, of Poteet's
fifty-acre farm. Gullettsville could see what appeared to be a grey notch
on the side of the mountain, from which a thin stream of blue smoke flowed
upward and melted into the blue of the sky, and this was about all that
could be seen. Gullettsville had the advantage in this, that it was the
county-seat. A country-road, straggling in from the woods, straggled
around a barn-like structure called the court-house, and then straggled
off to some other remote and lonely settlement.
Upon rare occasions Teague made his appearance on this straggling
street, and bought his dram and paid his thrip for it; but, in a
general way, if Gullettsville wanted to see him, it had to search
elsewhere than on the straggling street. By knocking the sheriff of the
county over the head with a chair, and putting a bullet through a
saloon-keeper who bullied everybody, Poteet won the reputation of being
a man of marked shrewdness and common sense, and Gullettsville was
proud of him, in a measure. But he never liked Gullettsville. He wore a
wool hat, a homespun shirt, jeans pantaloons, and cotton suspenders,
and he never could bring himself into thorough harmony with the young
men who wore ready-made clothes, starched shirts, and beaver hats; nor
was his ideal of feminine beauty reached by the village belles, with
their roach-combs, their red and yellow ribbons, and their enormous
flounces. In the mountains, he was to the manner born; in the village,
he was keenly alive to the presence and pressure of the exclusiveness
that is the basis of all society, good, bad, or indifferent; and it
stirred his venom. His revolt was less pronounced and less important
than that of his ancestors; but it was a revolt. Gerard Petit left
France, and Teague Poteet remained away from Gullettsville. Otherwise
there was scarcely a trace of his lineage about him, and it is a
question whether he inherited this trait from France or from the
Euphrates--from Gerard or from Adam.
But he did not become a hermit by any means. The young men of
Gullettsville made Sunday excursions to his farm, and he was pleased to
treat them with great deference. Moreover, he began to go upon little
journeys of his own across Sugar Valley. He made no mystery of his
intentions; but one day there was considerable astonishment when he
rode into Gullettsville on horseback, with Puss Pringle behind him, and
informed the proper authorities of his desire to make her Mrs. Puss
Poteet. Miss Pringle was not a handsome woman, but she was a fair
representative of that portion of the race that has poisoned whole
generations by improving the frying-pan and perpetuating "fatty bread."
The impression she made upon those who saw her for the first time was
one of lank flatness--to convey a vivid idea rather clumsily. But she
was neither lank nor flat. The total absence of all attempts at
artificial ornamentation gave the future Mrs. Poteet an appearance of
forlorn shiftlessness that was not even slightly justified by the
facts. She was a woman past the heyday of youth, but of considerable
energy, and possessed of keen powers of observation. Whatever was
feminine about her was of that plaintive variety which may be depended
upon to tell the story of whole generations of narrow, toilsome, and
unprofitable lives.
There was one incident connected with Miss Pringle's antenuptial ride
that rather intensified the contempt which the Mountain entertained for
the Valley. As she jogged down the street, clinging confidently, if not
comfortably, to Teague Poteet's suspenders, two young ladies of
Gullettsville chanced to be passing along. They walked slowly, their
arms twined about each other's waists. They wore white muslin dresses,
and straw hats with wide and jaunty brims, and the loose ends of gay
ribbons fluttered about them. These young ladies, fresh from school,
and no doubt full of vainglory, greeted the bridal procession with a
little explosion of giggles, and when Puss Pringle pushed back her
gingham sun-bonnet and innocently gazed upon them, they turned up their
noses, sniffed the air scornfully, and made such demonstrations as no
feminine mind, however ignorant in other directions, could fail to
interpret.
Miss Pringle had not learned the art of tossing her head and sniffing
the air, but she half closed her eyes and gave the young ladies a look
that meant something more than scorn. She said nothing to Teague, for
she was in hopes he had not observed the tantrums of the school-girls.
As for Teague, he saw the whole affair, and was out to the quick. In
addition to the latent pride of his class, he inherited the
sensitiveness of his ancestors, but, turning his eyes neither to the
right nor to the left, he jogged along to the wedding. He carried his
wife home, and thereafter avoided Gullettsville. When he was compelled
to buy coffee and sugar, or other necessary luxuries, he rode forty
miles across the mountain to Villa Bay.
He had been married a year or more when, one afternoon, he was
compelled to ride down to Gullettsville under whip and spur for a
doctor. There was a good deal of confused activity in the town. Old men
and young boys were stirring around with blue cockades in their hats,
and the women wore blue rosettes on their bosoms. Three negroes in
uniform--a contribution from the nearest railroad town--were parading
up and down the straggling street with fife and drums, and a number of
men were planting a flag-pole in front of the court-house.
No conscientious historian can afford to ignore a coincidence, and it
so happened that upon the very day that league Poteet's wife presented
him with the puzzle of a daughter, Fate presented his countrymen with
the problem of war. That night, sitting in the door of his house and
smoking his pipe, Teague witnessed other developments of the
coincidence. In the next room the baby-girl squalled most persistently;
down in the valley the premonitions of war made themselves heard
through the narrow throat of a small cannon which, until then, had been
used only to celebrate the Fourth of July.
The noise of a horse's hoofs roused Teague's hounds, and some one
called out from the road--
"Hello, Poteet!"
"Ah-yi!"
"You hearn the racket?"
"My gal-baby keeps up sich a hollerin' I can't hear my own years."
"_Oh!_"
"You better b'lieve! Nine hours ole, an' mighty peart. What's them
Restercrats in the valley cuttin' up the'r scollops fer?"
"Whoopin' up se_say_sion. Sou' Ca'liny done plum gone out, an' Georgy
a-gwine."
Teague Poteet blew a long, thin cloud of home-made tobacco-smoke
heavenward, leaned back heavily in his chair, and replied--
"Them air Restercrats kin go wher' they dang please; I'm a-gwine to
stay right slambang in the United States."
There was a little pause, as if the man on horseback was considering
the matter. Then the response came--
"Here's at you!"
"Can't you 'light?" asked Poteet.
"Not now," said the other; "I'll git on furder."
The man on horseback rode on across the mountain to his home. Another
mountaineer, seeing the rockets and hearing the sound of the cannon,
came down to Poteet's for information. He leaned over the brush-fence.
"What's up, Teague?"
"Gal-baby; reg'lar surbinder."
"_Shoo!_ won't my ole 'oman holler! What's up down yan?"
"Them dad-blasted Restercrats a secedin' out'n the United States."
"They say theyer airter savin' of the'r niggers," said the man at the
fence.
"Well, I hain't got none, and I hain't a wantin' none; an' it hain't
been ten minnits sence I ups an' says to Dave Hightower, s' I, 'The
United States is big enough for me.'"
"Now you er makin' the bark fly," said the man at the fence.
During the night other men came down the mountain as far as Poteet's,
and always with the same result.
The night broadened into day, and other days and nights followed. In
the valley the people had their problem of war, and on the mountain
Teague Poteet had the puzzle of his daughter. One was full of doubt and
terror, and death, and the other full of the pleasures of peace. As the
tide of war surged nearer and nearer, and the demand for recruits
became clamorous, the people of the valley bethought them of the gaunt
but sturdy men who lived on the mountain. A conscript officer,
representing the necessities of a new government, made a journey
thither--a little excursion full of authority and consequence. As he
failed to return, another officer, similarly equipped and commissioned,
rode forth and disappeared, and then another and another; and it was
not until a little search expedition had been fitted out that the
Confederates discovered that the fastnesses of Hog Mountain concealed a
strong and dangerous organisation of Union men. There was a good deal
of indignation in the valley when this state of affairs became known,
and there was some talk of organising a force for the purpose of
driving the mountaineers away from their homes. But somehow the Valley
never made up its mind to attack the Mountain, and, upon such
comfortable terms as these, the Mountain was very glad to let the
Valley alone.
After a while the Valley had larger troubles to contend with.
Gullettsville became in some measure a strategic point, and the left
wing of one army and the right wing of the other manoeuvred for
possession. The left wing finally gave way, and the right wing marched
in and camped round about, introducing to the distracted inhabitants
General Tecumseh Sherman and some of his lieutenants. The right wing
had learned that a number of Union men were concealed on the mountain,
and one or two little excursion parties were made up for the purpose of
forming their acquaintance. These excursions were successful to this
extent, that some of the members thereof returned to the friendly
shelter of the right wing with bullet-holes in them, justly feeling
that they had been outraged. The truth is, the Poteets, and the
Pringles, and the Hightowers of Hog Mountain had their own notions of
what constituted Union men. They desired to stay in the United States
on their own terms. If nobody pestered them, they pestered nobody.
Meanwhile league Poteet's baby had grown to be a thumping girl, and
hardly a day passed that she did not accompany her father in his
excursions. When the contending armies came in sight, Teague and his
comrades spent a good deal of their time in watching them. Each force
passed around an elbow of the mountain, covering a distance of nearly
sixty miles, and thus for days and weeks this portentous panorama was
spread out before these silent watchers. Surely never before did a
little girl have two armies for her playthings. The child saw the
movements of the soldiers, the glitter of the array, and the waving of
the banners; she heard the dull thunder of the cannon, and the sharp
rattle of the musketry. When the sun went down, and the camp-fire shone
out, it seemed that ten thousand stars had fallen at her feet, and
sometimes sweet strains of music stole upward on the wings of the
night, and slipped heavenward through the sighing pines.
The grey columns swung right and left, and slowly fell back; the blue
columns swayed right and left, and slowly pressed forward--sometimes
beneath clouds of sulphurous smoke, sometimes beneath heavy mists of
rain, sometimes in the bright sunshine. They swung and swayed slowly
out of sight, and Hog Mountain and Gullettsville were left at peace.
The child grew and thrived. In the midst of a gaunt and sallow
generation she shone radiantly beautiful. In some mysterious way she
inherited the beauty, and grace, and refinement of a Frenchwoman.
Merely as a phenomenon, she ought to have reminded league of his name
and lineage; but Teague had other matters to think of. "Sis ain't no
dirt-eater," he used to say, and to this extent only would he commit
himself, his surroundings having developed in him that curious excess
of caution and reserve which characterises his class.
As for Puss Poteet, she sat and rocked herself and rubbed snuff, and
regarded her daughter as one of the profound mysteries. She was in a
state of perpetual bewilderment and surprise, equalled only by her
apparent indifference. She allowed herself to be hustled around by Sis
without serious protest, and submitted, as Teague did, to the new order
of things as quietly as possible.
Meanwhile the people in the valley were engaged in adjusting themselves
to the changed condition of affairs. The war was over, but it had left
some deep scars here and there, and those who had engaged in it gave
their attention to healing these--a troublesome and interminable task,
be it said, which by no means kept pace with the impatience of the
victors, whipped into fury by the subtle but ignoble art of the
politician. There was no lack of despair in the valley, but out of it
all prosperity grew, and the promise of a most remarkable future.
Behind the confusion of politics, of one sort and another, the spirit
of Progress rose and shook her ambitious wings.
Something of all this must have made itself felt on the mountain, for
one day Teague Poteet pushed his wide-brimmed wool hat from over his
eyes, with an air of astonishment. Puss had just touched upon a very
important matter.
"I reckon in reason," she said, "we oughter pack Sis off to school
some'rs. She'll thes nat'ally spile here."
"Hain't you larnt her how to read an' write an' cipher?" asked Teague.
"I started in," said Mrs. Poteet, "but, Lord! I hain't more'n opened a
book tell she know'd mor'n I dast to know ef I wuz gwine to die fer it.
Hit'll take somebody lots smarter'n' stronger'n me."
Teague laughed, and then relapsed into seriousness. After a while he
called Sis. The girl came running in, her dark eyes flashing, her black
hair bewitchingly tangled, and her cheeks flushing with a colour
hitherto unknown to the mountain.
"What now, pap?"
"I wuz thes a-thinkin' ef maybe you oughtn't to bresh up an' start to
school down in Gullettsville."
"O pap!" the girl exclaimed, clapping her hands with delight. She was
about to spring upon Teague and give him a severe hugging, when
suddenly her arms dropped to her side, the flush died out of her face,
and she flopped herself down upon a chair. Teague paid no attention to
this.
"Yes, siree," he continued, as if pursuing a well-developed line of
argument; "when a gal gits ez big ez you is, she hain't got no business
to be a-gwine a-whoopin' an' a-hollerin' an' a-rantin' an' a-rompin'
acrost the face er the yeth. The time's done come when they oughter be
tuck up an' made a lady out'n; an' the nighest way is to sen' 'em to
school. That's whar you a-gwine--down to Gullettsville to school."
"I shan't, an' I won't--I won't, I won't, I _won't!_" exclaimed Sis,
clenching her hands and stamping her feet. "I'll die first."
Teague had never seen her so excited,
"Why, what's the matter, Sis?" he asked with unfeigned concern.
Sis gave him a withering look.
"Pap, do you reckon I'm fool enough to traipse down to Gullettsville
an' mix with them people, wearin' cloze like these? Do you reckon I'm
fool enough to make myself the laughin'-stock for them folks?"
Teague Poteet was not a learned man, but he was shrewd enough to see
that the Mountain had a new problem to solve. He took down his rifle,
whistled up his dogs, and tramped skyward. As he passed out through his
horse-lot, a cap and worm of a whisky-still lying in the corner of the
fence attracted his attention. He paused, and turned the apparatus over
with his foot. It was old and somewhat battered.
"I'll thes about take you," said Teague, with a chuckle, "an' set up a
calico-factory. I'll heat you up an' make you spin silk an' split it
into ribbens."
It was a case of civilisation or no civilisation, and there is nothing
more notorious in history--nothing more mysterious--than the fact that
civilisation is not over-nice in the choice of her handmaidens. One day
it is war, another it is slavery. Every step in the advancement of the
human race has a paradox of some kind as a basis. In the case of Sis
Poteet, it was whisky.
Teague got his still together and planted it in a nice cool place,
where it could be reached only by a narrow footpath. He had set up a
still immediately after the war, but it had been promptly broken up by
the revenue officers. Upon this occasion, therefore, he made elaborate
preparations to guard against surprise and detection, and these
preparations bore considerable fruit in the way of illicit whisky; the
ultimate result of which was that Sis went to school in Gullettsville,
and became the belle of the town.
The breath of the mountain was heavily charged with whisky, and the
Government got a whiff of it. Word went to Washington, and there was
much writing and consulting by mail, and some telegraphing. The
officials--marshal, deputy-marshals, and collector--were mostly men
from a distance, brought hither on the tide of war, who had no personal
interest in judging the situation. Naturally enough, the power with
which they were invested was neither discreetly nor sympathetically
exercised. They represented the Government, which, they were taught to
believe by the small men above them, was still at war with every
condition and belief in Georgia.
Down in the valley they domineered with impunity, and one fine morning
a posse, armed with carbines, rode up the mountain, laughing, talking,
and rattling their gear as gaily as a detachment of cuirassiers
parading under the protection of friendly guns. The mountain was
inhospitable, for when they rode down again, a few hours afterward,
three saddles were empty, and the survivors had a terrible story to
tell of an attack from an unseen foe.
By the time the story of this fight with the illicit distillers reached
Washington, the details were considerably enlarged. The commissioner
was informed by the marshal that a detail of deputy-marshals had
attempted to seize a still, and were driven back by an overpowering
force. The correspondents at the Capital still further enlarged the
details, and the affair finally went into history as "A New Phase of
the Rebellion." This was the natural outgrowth of the confusion of that
period; for how should the careless deputy-marshals, thinking only of
the sectionalism that lit up the smouldering ruins of war, know that
the Moonshiners were Union men and Republicans?
While the Government was endeavouring to invent some plan for the
capture of the Moonshiners, Sis Poteet was growing lovelier every day.
She was a great favourite with the teachers of the academy and with
everybody. As a general thing, she avoided the public square when
riding to and from the school, but it was hats off with all the men
when she did go clattering down the street, and some of the romantic
dry-goods clerks sent their sighs after her. Sighs are frequently very
effective with school-girls, but those that followed Sis Poteet fell
short and were wasted on the air; and she continued to ride from the
mountain to the valley and from the valley to the mountain in profound
ignorance of the daily sensation she created among the young men of
Gullettsville, to whom her fine figure, her graceful ways, and her
thrillingly beautiful face were the various manifestations of a
wonderful revelation.
Naturally enough, the Government took no account of Sis Poteet. The
commissioner at Washington conferred with the marshal for Georgia by
mail, and begged him to exert himself to the utmost to break up the
business of illicit distilling in the Hog Mountain Range. In view of an
important election about to be held in some doubtful State in the North
or West, the worthy commissioner at Washington even suggested the
propriety of another armed raid, to be made up of deputy-marshals and a
detachment of men from the Atlanta garrison. But the marshal for
Georgia did not fall in with this suggestion. He was of the opinion
that if a raid was to be made at all it should not be made blindly, and
he fortified his opinion with such an array of facts and arguments that
the Bureau finally left the whole matter to his discretion.
Early one morning, in the summer of 1879, a stranger on horseback rode
up the straggling red road that formed the principal business
thoroughfare of Gullettsville, and made his way toward the
establishment known as the Gullettsville Hotel. The chief advertisement
of the hotel was the lack of one. A tall worm-eaten post stood in front
of the building, but the frame in which the sign had swung was empty.
This post, with its empty frame, was as significant as the art of
blazonry could have made it. At any rate, the stranger on horseback--a
young man--pressed forward without hesitation. The proprietor himself,
Squire Lemuel Pleasants, was standing upon the low piazza as the young
man rode up. The squire wore neither coat nor hat. His thumbs were
caught behind his suspenders, giving him an air of ease or of defiance,
as one might choose to interpret, and his jaws were engaged in mashing
into shape the first quid of the morning.
As the young man reined up his horse at the door, Squire Pleasants
stepped briskly inside and pulled a string which communicated with a
bell somewhere in the backyard.
"This is the Gullettsville Hotel, is it not?" the young man asked.
"Well, sir," responded the squire, rubbing his hands together, "sence
you push me so clos't, I'll not deny that this here's the tavern. Some
calls it the hotel, some calls it the Pleasants House, some one thing,
an' some another, but as for me, I says to all, says I, 'Boys, it's a
plain tavern.' In Fergeenia, sir, in my young days, they wa'n't nothin'
better than a tavern. 'Light, sir, 'light," continued the hospitable
squire, as a tow-headed stable-boy tumbled out at the door in response
to the bell; "drap right down an' come in."
The young man followed the landlord into a bare little office, where he
was given to understand in plain terms that people who stopped with
Squire Pleasants were expected to make themselves completely at home.
With a pen upon which the ink had been dry for many a day the young man
inscribed his name on a thin and dirty register--"Philip Woodward,
Clinton, Georgia;" whereupon the squire, with unnecessary and laborious
formality, assigned Mr. Woodward to a room.
Judging from appearance, the United States Marshal for Georgia had not
gone astray in selecting Woodward to carry out the delicate mission of
arranging for a successful raid upon Hog Mountain. Lacking any
distinguishing trait of refinement or culture, his composure suggested
the possession of that necessary information which is the result of
contact with the world and its inhabitants. He had that large air of
ease and tranquillity which is born of association, and which
represents one of the prime elements of the curious quality we call
personal magnetism. He was ready-witted, and full of the spirit of
adventure. He was the owner of the title to a land-lot somewhere in the
neighbourhood of Hog Mountain, and this land-lot was all that remained
of an inheritance that had been swept away by the war. There was a
tradition--perhaps only a rumour--among the Woodwards that the Hog
Mountain land-lot covered a vein of gold, and to investigate this was a
part of the young man's business in Gullettsville; entirely
subordinate, however, to his desire to earn the salary attached to his
position.
The presence of a stranger at the hospitable tavern of Squire Pleasants
attracted the attention of the old and young men of leisure, and the
most of them gathered upon the long narrow piazza to discuss the
matter. Uncle Jimmy Wright, the sage of the village, had inspected the
name in the register and approved of it. He had heard of it before, and
he proceeded to give a long and rambling account of whole generations
of Woodwards. Jake Cohen, a pedlar, who with marevelous tact had fitted
himself to the conditions of life and society in the moutains, and who
was supposed to have some sort of connection with the traffice in
"blockade" whisky, gravely inquired of Squire Pleasants if the
new-comer had left any message for him.
Doubtless the squire, or some one else, would have attempted a
facetious reply to Mr. Watson; but just then a tall, gaunt,
grey-haired, grizzly-bearded man stepped upon the piazza, and saluted the
little gathering with an awkward wave of the hand. The not unkindly
expression of his face was curiously heightened (or deepened) by the
alertness of his eyes, which had the quizzical restlessness we
sometimes see in the eyes of birds or animals. It was Teague Poteet,
and the greetings he received were of the most effusive character.
"Howdy, boys, howdy!" he said in response to the chorus. "They hain't
airy one er you gents kin split up a twenty-dollar chunk er greenbacks,
is they?"
Tip Watson made a pretence of falling in a chair and fainting, but he
immediately recovered, and said in a sepulchral whisper--
"Ef you find anybody dead, an' they ain't got no twenty-dollar bill on
their person, don't come a-knockin' at my door. Lord!" he continued,
"look at Cohen's upper lip a-trimblin'. He wants to take that bill out
somewheres an' hang it on a clothesline."
"Ow!" exclaimed Cohen, "yoost lizzen at date man! Date Teep Vatsen, he
so foony as allt tern utter peoples put tergetter. Vait, Teague, vait!
I chanche date pill right avay, terreckerly."
But Teague was absorbed in some information which Squire Pleasants was
giving him.
"He don't favour the gang," the squire was saying with emphasis, "an'
I'll be boun' he ain't much mixed up wi' 'em. He's another cut. Oh,
they ain't a-foolin' me this season of the year," he continued, as
Teague Poteet shook his head doubtfully; "he ain't mustered out'n my
mind yit, not by a dad-blamed sight. I'm jest a-tellin' of you; he
looks spry, an' he ain't no sneak--I'll swar to that on the stan'."
"Well, I tell you, square," responded Teague, dryly, "I hain't never
seed people too flirty to pester yuther folks; an' I reckon you ain't
nuther, is you?"
"No," said Squire Pleasants, his experience appealed to instead of his
judgment; "no, I ain't, that's a fact; but some folks youer bleege to
take on trus'."
Further comment on the part of Poteet and the others was arrested by
the appearance of Woodward, who came out of his room, walked rapidly
down the narrow hallway, and out upon the piazza. He was bare-headed,
his bands were full of papers, and he had the air of a man of business.
The younger men who had gathered around Squire Pleasants and Teague
Poteet fell back loungingly as Woodward came forward with just the
faintest perplexed smile.
"Judge Pleasants," he said, "I'm terribly mixed up, and I'll have to
ask you to unmix me."
The squire cleared his throat, adjusted his spectacles, and
straightened himself in his chair. The title of Judge, and the easy air
of deference with which it was bestowed, gave him an entirely new idea
of his own importance. He frowned judicially as he laid his hand upon
the papers.
"Well, sir," said he, "I'm gittin' ole, an' I reckon I ain't much
nohow; I'm sorter like the grey colt that tried to climb in the
shuck-pen--I'm weak, but willin'. Ef you'll jest whirl in an' make
indication whar'in I can he'p, I'll do the best I kin."
"I've come up here to look after a lot of land," said Woodward. "It is
described here as lot No. 18, 376th district, Georgia Militia, part of
land lot No. 11, in Tugaloo, formerly Towaliga County. Here is a plat
of Hog Mountain, but somehow I can't locate the lot."
The squire took the papers and began to examine them with painful
particularity.
"That 'ar lot," said Teague Poteet, after a while, "is the ole Mathis
lot. The line runs right acrost my simblin' patch, an' backs up ag'in'
my hoss-stable."
"Tooby shore--tooby shore!" exclaimed the squire. "Tut-tut! What am I
doin'? My mind is drappin' loose like seed-ticks from a shumake bush.
Tooby shore, it's the Mathis lot. Mr. Wooderd, Mr. Poteet--Mr. Poteet,
Mr. Wooderd; lem me make you interduced, gents."
Mr. Woodward shook hands gracefully and cordially--Poteet awkwardly and
a trifle suspiciously.
"It seems to me, Mr. Poteet," said Woodward, "that I have teen your
name in the papers somewhere."
"Likely," replied Poteet; "they uv bin a mighty sight er printin' gwino
on sence the war, so I've heern tell. Ef you'd a drappod in at Atlanty,
you mought er seed my name mixt up in a warrant."
"How is that?" Woodward asked.
"Bekaze I bin a-bossin' my own affa'rs."
Poteet had straightened himself up, and he looked at Woodward with a
steadiness which the other did not misunderstand. It was a look which
said, "If you've got that warrant in your pocket, it won't be safe to
pull it out in these diggm's."
Squire Pleasants recognised the challenge that made itself heard in
Teague Poteet's voice.
"Yes, yes," he said, in a cheerful tone, "our folks is seen some mighty
quare doin's sence the war; but times is a-gittin' a long ways better
now."
"Better, hell!" exclaimed Sid Parmalee.
What he would have said further no one can know, for the voluminous
voice of Cohen broke in--
"Tlook ow-ut, t'ere, Sid! tlook ow-ut! t'at pad man kedge you!"
This remarkable admonition was received with a shout of laughter.
Good-humour was restored, and it was increased when Woodward, shortly
afterward, drinking with the boys at Nix's saloon, called for three
fingers of Mountain Dew, and washed it down with the statement that it
tasted just as nice as liquor that had been stamped by the Government.
In short, Woodward displayed such tact, and entered with such
heartiness into the spirit of the people around him, that he disarmed
the trained suspicions of a naturally suspicious community. Perhaps
this statement should be qualified. Undoubtedly the marshal, could he
have made a personal inspection of Woodward and his surroundings, would
have praised his subordinate's tact. The truth is, while he had
disarmed their suspicions, he had failed utterly to gain their
confidence.
With a general as well as a particular interest in the direction of Hog
Mountain, it was natural that Deputy-Marshal Woodward should meet or
overtake Miss Poteet as she rode back and forth between Gullettsville
and the grey notch in the mountain known as Poteet's. It was natural,
too, that he should take advantage of the social informalities of the
section and make her acquaintance. It was an acquaintance in which
Woodward, and, presumably, the young lady herself, became very much
interested; so that the spectacle of this attractive couple galloping
along together over the red road that connected the valley with the
mountain came to be a familiar one. And its effect upon those who
paused to take note of it was not greatly different from the effect of
such spectacles in other sections. Some looked wise and shook their
heads sorrowfully; some smiled and looked kindly, and sent all manner
of good wishes after the young people. But whether they galloped down
the mountain in the fresh hours of the morning, or rambled up its dark
slope in the dusk of the evening, neither Woodward nor Sis Poteet gave
a thought to the predictions of spite, or to the prophecies of
friendliness.
The mountain girl was a surprise to Woodward. She had improved her few
opportunities to the utmost. Such information as the Gullettsville
Academy afforded she relished and absorbed, so that her education was
thorough as far as it went. Neither her conversation nor her manners
would have attracted special attention in a company of fairly bright
young girls, but she formed a refreshing contrast to the social
destitution of the mountain region.
Beyond this, her personality was certainly more attractive than that of
most women, being based upon an independence which knew absolutely
nothing of the thousand and one vexatious little aspirations that are
essential to what is called social success. Unlike the typical American
girl, whose sweetly severe portraits smile serenely at us from the
canvas of contemporary fiction, Miss Poteet would have been far from
equal to the task of meeting all the requirements of perfectly
organised society; but she could scarcely have been placed in a
position in which her natural brightness and vivacity would not have
attracted attention.
At any rate, the indefinable charm of her presence, her piquancy, and
her beauty, was a perpetual challenge to the admiration of
Deputy-Marshal Woodward. It pursued him in his dreams, and made him
uncomfortable in his waking hours, so much so, indeed, that his duties
as a revenue officer, perplexing at best, became a burden to him.
In point of fact, this lively young lady was the unforeseen quantity in
the problem which Woodward had been employed to solve; and, between his
relations to the Government and his interest in Sis Poteet, he found
himself involved in an awkward predicament. Perhaps the main features
of this predicament, baldly presented, would have been more puzzling to
the authorities at Washington than they were to Woodward; but it is
fair to the young man to say that he did not mistake the fact that the
Moonshiner had a daughter for an argument in favour of illicit
distilling, albeit the temptation to do so gave him considerable
anxiety.
In the midst of his perplexity, Deputy-Marshal Woodward concluded that
it would be better for the Government, and better for his own peace of
mind, if he allowed Sis Poteet to ride home without an escort; and for
several days he left her severely alone, while he attended to his
duties, as became a young fellow of fair business habits.
But one afternoon, as he sat on the piazza of the hotel nursing his
confusion and discontent, Sis Poteet rode by. It was a tantalising
vision, though a fleeting one. It seemed to be merely the flash of a
red feather, the wave of a white hand, to which Woodward lifted his
hat; but these were sufficient. The red feather nodded gaily to him,
the white hand invited. His horse stood near, and in a few moments he
was galloping toward the mountain with the Moonshiner's daughter.
When the night fell at Teague Poteet's on this particular evening, it
found a fiddle going. The boys and girls of the mountain, to the number
of a dozen or more, had gathered for a frolic--a frolic that shook the
foundations of Poteet's castle, and aroused echoes familiar enough to
the good souls who are fond of the cotillon in its primitive shape. The
old folks who had accompanied the youngsters sat in the kitchen with
Teague and his wife, and here Woodward also sat, listening with
interest to the gossip of what seemed to be a remote era--the war and
the period preceding it.
The activity of Sis Poteet found ample scope, and, whether lingering
for a moment at her father's side like a bird poised in flight, or
moving lightly through the figures of the cotillon, she never appeared
to better advantage.
Toward midnight, when the frolic was at its height, an unexpected
visitor announced himself. It was Uncle Jake Norris, who lived on the
far side of the mountain. The fiddler waved his bow at Uncle Jake, and
the boys and girls cried "Howdy," as the visitor stood beaming and
smiling in the doorway. To these demonstrations Uncle Jake, "a chunk
of a white man with a whole heart," as he described himself, made
cordial response, and passed on into the kitchen. The good-humour of
Mr. Norris was as prominent as his rotundity. When he was not laughing,
he was ready to laugh. He seated himself, looked around at the company,
and smiled.
"It's a long pull betwixt this an' Atlanty," he said after a while; "it
is that, certain an' shore, an' I hain't smelt of the jug sence I lef
ther'. Pull 'er out, Teague, pull 'er out."
The jug was forthcoming.
"Now, then," continued Uncle Jake, removing the corn-cob stopper, "this
looks like home, sweet home, ez I may say. It does, certain an' shore.
None to jine me? Well, well! Times change an' change, but the jug is
company for one. So be it. Ez St. Paul says, cleave nigh unto that
which is good. I'm foreswore not to feel lonesome tell I go to the
gallows. Friends! you uv got my good wishes, one an' all!"
"What's a-gwine on?" asked Poteet.
"The same," responded Uncle Jake, after swallowing his dram. "Allers
the same. Wickedness pervails wellnigh unto hit's own jestiflcation. I
uv seed sights! You all know the divers besettings wher'by Jackson
Ricks wuz took off this season gone--murdered I may say, in the teeth
of the law an' good govunment. Sirs! I sot by an' seed his besetters go
scotch-free."
"Ah!"
The exclamation came from Teague Poteet.
"Yes, sirs! yes, friends!" continued Uncle Jake, closing his eyes and
tilting his chair back. "Even so. Nuther does I boast ez becometh the
fibble-minded. They hurried an' skurried me forth an' hence, to mount
upon the witness stan' an' relate the deed. No deniance did I make. Ez
St. Paul says, sin, takin' occasion by the commandment, worked in me
all manner of conspicuessence. I told 'em what these here eyes had
seed.
"They errayed me before jedge an' jury," Uncle Jake went on, patting
the jug affectionately, "an' I bowed my howdies. 'Gen-termun friends,'
s' I, 'foller me close't, bekaze I'm a-givin' you but the truth,
stupendous though it be. Ef you thes but name the word,' s' I, 'I'll
take an' lay my han' upon the men that done this unrighteousness, for
they stan' no furder than yon piller,' s' I. 'Them men,' s' I,
'surroundered the house of Jackson Ricks, gentermun friends, he bein' a
member of Friendship Church, an' called 'im forth wi' the ashoreance of
Satan an' the intents of evil,' s' I; 'an' ole en decrippled ez he wuz,
they shot 'im down--them men at yon piller,' s' I, 'ere he could but
raise his trimblin' han' in supplication; an' the boldest of 'em dast
not to face me here an' say nay,' s' I."
"An' they uv cler'd the men what kilt pore Jackson Ricks!" said Teague,
rubbing his grizzled chin.
"Ez clean an' ez cle'r ez the pa'm er my han'," replied Uncle Jake,
with emphasis.
The fiddle in the next room screamed forth a jig, and the tireless feet
of the dancers kept time, but there was profound silence among those in
the kitchen. Uncle Jake took advantage of this pause to renew his
acquaintance with the jug.
Deputy-Marshal Woodward knew of the killing of Jackson Ricks; that is
to say, he was familiar with the version of the affair which had been
depended upon to relieve the revenue officers of the responsibility of
downright murder; but he was convinced that the story told by Uncle
Jake Norris was nearer the truth.
As the young man rode down the mountain, leaving the fiddle and the
dancers to carry the frolic into the grey dawn, he pictured to himself
the results of the raid that he would be expected to lead against Hog
Mountain--the rush upon Poteet's, the shooting of the old Moonshiner,
and the spectacle of the daughter wringing her hands and weeping
wildly. He rode down the mountain, and, before the sun rose, he had
written and mailed his resignation. In a private note to the marshal,
enclosed with this document, he briefly but clearly set forth the fact
that, while illicit distilling was as unlawful as ever, the man who
loved a Moonshiner's daughter was not a proper instrument to aid in its
suppression.
But his letter failed to have the effect he desired, and in a few weeks
he received a communication from Atlanta setting forth the fact that a
raid had been determined upon.
Meantime, while events were developing, some of the old women of the
Hog Mountain Range had begun to manifest a sort of motherly interest in
the affairs of Woodward and Sis Poteet. These women, living miles apart
on the mountain and its spurs, had a habit of "picking up their work"
and spending the day with each other. Upon one occasion it chanced that
Mrs. Sue Parmalee and Mrs. Puritha Hightower rode ten miles to visit
Mrs. Puss Poteet.
"Don't lay the blame of it onter me, Puss," exclaimed Mrs.
Hightower,--her shrill, thin voice in queer contrast with her fat and
jovial appearance; "don't you lay the blame onter me. Dave, he's been
a-complainin' bekaze they wa'n't no salsody in the house, an' I rid over
to Sue's to borry some. Airter I got ther', Sue sez, se' she; 'Yess us
pick up an' go an' light in on Puss,' se' she, 'an' fine out sump'n'
nuther that's a-gwine on 'mongst folks,' se' she."
"Yes, lay it all onter me," said Mrs. Parmalee, looking over her
spectacles at Mrs. Poteet; "I sez to Purithy, s' I, 'Purithy, yess go
down an' see Puss,' s' I; 'maybe we'll git a glimpse er that air new
chap with the slick ha'r. Sid'll be a-peggin' out airter a while,' s'
I, 'an' ef the new chap's ez purty ez I hear tell, maybe I'll set my
cap fer 'im,' s' I."
At this fat Mrs. Puritha Hightower was compelled to lean on frail Mrs.
Puss Poteet, so heartily did she laugh.
"I declar'," she exclaimed, "ef Sue hain't a sight! I'm mighty nigh
outdone. She's thes bin a-gwine on that a-way all the time, an' I bin
that tickled tell a little more an' I'd a drapped on the groun'. How's
all?"
"My goodness!" exclaimed Mrs. Poteet, "I hope you all know _me_ too
well to be a-stan'in' out there makin' excuse. Come right along in, an'
take off your things, an' ketch your win'. Sis is home to-day."
"Well, I'm monstus glad," said Mrs. Hightower. "Sis use to think the
world an' all er me when she was a slip of a gal, but I reckon she's
took on town ways, hain't she? Hit ain't nothin' but natchul."
"Sis is proud enough for to hoi' 'er head high," Mrs. Parmalee
explained, "but she hain't a bit stuck up."
"Well, I let you know," exclaimed Mrs. Hightower, untying her bonnet
and taking off her shawl, "I let you know, here's what wouldn't be sot
back by nothin' ef she had Sis's chances. In about the las' word pore
maw spoke on 'er dying bed, she call me to 'er an' sez, se' she,
'Purithy Emma,' se' she, 'you hol' your head high; don't you bat your
eyes for to please none of 'em,' se' she."
"I reckon in reason I oughter be thankful that Sis ain't no wuss," said
Mrs. Poteet, walking around with aimless hospitality; "yit that chile's
temper is powerful tryin', an' Teague ackshully an' candidly b'leeves
she's made out'n pyo'gol'. [Footnote: Pure gold] I wish I may die ef he
don't."
After a while Sis made her appearance, buoyant and blooming. Her eyes
sparkled, her cheeks glowed, and her smiles showed beautiful teeth--a
most uncommon sight in the mountains, where the girls were in the habit
of rubbing snuff or smoking. The visitors greeted her with the effusive
constraint and awkwardness that made so large a part of their lives,
but after a while Mrs. Hightower laid her fat motherly hand on the
girl's shoulder, and looked kindly but keenly into her eyes.
"Ah, honey!" she said, "you hain't sp'ilt yit, but you wa'n't made to
fit thish here hill--_that_ you wa'n't, _that_ you wa'n't!"
Women are not hypocrites. Their little thrills arid nerve-convulsions
are genuine while they last. Fortunately for the women themselves, they
do not last, but are succeeded by others of various moods, tenses, and
genders. These nerve-convulsions are so genuine and so apt that they
are known as intuitions, and under this name they have achieved
importance. Mrs. Hightower, with all her lack of experience, was
capable of feeling that Sis Poteet needed the by no means unsubstantial
encouragement that lies in one little note of sympathy, and she was not
at all astonished when Sis responded to her intention by giving her a
smart little hug.
Presently Mrs. Parmalee, who had stationed herself near the door,
lifted her thin right arm and let it fall upon her lap.
"Well, sir!" she exclaimed, "ef yander ain't Sis's bo!"
Sis ran to the door, saw Woodward coming up the road, and blushed
furiously--a feat which Mrs. Hightower and Mrs. Parmalee, with all
their experience, had rarely seen performed in that region.
Woodward greeted Mrs. Poteet's visitors with a gentle deference and an
easy courtesy that attracted their favour in spite of themselves.
Classing him with the "Restercrats," these women took keen and
suspicious note of every word he uttered, and every movement he made,
holding themselves in readiness to become mortally offended at a curl
of the lip or the lifting of an eyebrow; but he was equal to the
occasion. He humoured their whims and eccentricities to the utmost, and
he was so thoroughly sympathetic, so genial, so sunny, and so handsome
withal, that he stirred most powerfully the maternal instincts of those
weather-beaten bosoms, and made them his friends and defenders. He told
them wonderful stories of life in the great world that lay far beyond
Hog Mountain, its spurs and its foot-hills. He lighted their pipes, and
even filled them out of his own tobacco-pouch, a proceeding which
caused Mrs. Parmalee to remark that she "would like mannyfac'
[Footnote: "Manufactured" tobacco, in contradistinction to the natural
leaf.] mighty well ef 'twer'n't so powerful weak."
Mrs. Hightower found early opportunity to deliver her verdict in Sis's
ear, whereupon the latter gave her a little hug, and whispered: "Oh, I
just think he's adorable!" It was very queer, however, that as soon as
Sis was left to entertain Mr. Woodward (the women making an excuse of
helping Puss about dinner), she lost her blushing enthusiasm, and
became quite cold and reserved. The truth is, Sis had convinced herself
some days before that she had the right to be very angry with this
young man, and she began her quarrel, as lovely woman generally does,
by assuming an air of tremendous unconcern. Her disinterestedness was
really provoking.
"How did you like Sue Fraley's new bonnet last Sunday?" she asked, with
an innocent smile.
"Sue Fraley's new bonnet!" exclaimed Woodward, surprised in the midst
of some serious reflections; "why, I didn't know she had a new bonnet."
"Oh! you _didn't_? You were right _opposite_. I should think _anybody_
could see she had a new bonnet by the way she tossed her head."
"Well, I didn't notice it, for one. Was it one of these sky-scrapers? I
was looking at something else."
"_Oh!_"
Woodward had intended to convey a very delicately veiled compliment,
but this young woman's tone rather embarrassed him. He saw in a moment
that she was beyond the reach of the playful and ingenious banter which
he had contrived to make the basis of their relations.
"Yes," he said, "I was looking at something else. I had other things to
think about."
"Well, she _did_ have a new bonnet, with yellow ribbons. She looked
handsome. I hear she's going to get married soon."
"I'm glad to hear it. She's none too young," said Woodward.
At another time Sis would have laughed at the suggestion implied in
this remark, but now she only tapped the floor gently with her foot,
and looked serious.
"I hope you answered her note," she said presently.
"What note?" he asked, with some astonishment,
Sis was the picture of innocence.
"Oh, I didn't think!" she exclaimed. "I reckon it's a great _secret_. I
mean the note she handed you when she came out of church. It's none of
_my_ business."
"Nor of mine either," said Woodward, with a relieved air. "The note was
for Tip Watson."
This statement, which was not only plausible but true, gave a new
direction to Sis's anger.
"Well, I don't see how anybody that thinks anything of himself could be
a mail-carrier for _Sue Fraley!_" she exclaimed scornfully; whereupon
she flounced out, leaving Woodward in a state of bewilderment.
He had not made love to the girl, principally because her moods were
elusive and her methods unique. She was dangerously like other women of
his acquaintance, and dangerously unlike them. The principal of the
academy in Gullettsville--a scholarly old gentleman from Middle
Georgia, who had been driven to teaching by dire necessity--had once
loftily informed Woodward that Miss Poteet was superior to her books,
and the young man had verified the statement to his own discomfiture.
She possessed that feminine gift which is of more importance to a woman
in this world than scholarly acquirements--aptitude. Even her
frankness--perfectly discreet--charmed and puzzled Woodward; but the
most attractive of her traits were such as mark the difference between
the bird that sings in the tree and the bird that sings in the
cage--delightful, but indescribable.
When Sis Poteet began to question him about Sue Fraley, the thought
that she was moved by jealousy gave him a thrill that was new to his
experience; but when she flounced angrily out of the room because he
had confessed to carrying a note from Miss Fraley to Tip Watson, it
occurred to him that he might be mistaken. Indeed, so cunning does
masculine stupidity become when it is played upon by a woman, that he
frightened himself with the suggestion that perhaps, after all, this
perfectly original young lady was in love with Tip Watson.
During the rest of the day Woodward had ample time to nurse and develop
his new theory, and the more he thought it over the more plausible it
seemed to be. It was a great blow to his vanity; but the more
uncomfortable it made him the more earnestly he clung to it.
Without appearing to avoid him, Sis managed to make the presence of
Mrs. Parmalee and Mrs. Hightower an excuse for neglecting him. She
entertained these worthy ladies with such eager hospitality that when
they aroused themselves to the necessity of going home, they found to
their dismay that it would be impossible, in the language of Mrs.
Poteet, to "git half way acrost Pullium's Summit 'fore night 'ud ketch
'em." Sis was so delighted, apparently, that she became almost
hilarious; and her gaiety affected all around her except Woodward, who
barely managed to conceal his disgust.
After supper, however, Mrs. Poteet and her two guests betook themselves
to the kitchen, where they rubbed snuff and smoked their pipes, and
gossiped, and related reminiscences of that good time which, with old
people, is always in the past. Thus Woodward had ample opportunity to
talk with Sis. He endeavoured, by the exercise of every art of manner
and conversation of which he was master, to place their relations upon
the old familiar footing, but he failed most signally. He found it
impossible to fathom the gentle dignity with which he was constantly
repulsed. In the midst of his perplexity, which would have been either
pathetic or ridiculous if it had not been so artfully concealed, he
managed for the first time to measure the depth of his love for this
exasperating but charming creature whom he had been patronising. She
was no longer amusing; and Woodward, with the savage inconsistency of a
man moved by a genuine passion, felt a tragic desire to humble himself
before her.
"I'm going home to-morrow, Miss Sis," he said finally, in sheer
desperation.
"Well, you've had a heap of fun--I mean," she added, "that you have had
a nice time."
"I have been a fool!" he exclaimed bitterly. Seeing that she made no
response, he continued: "I've been a terrible fool all through. I came
here to hunt up blockade whisky----"
"_What!_"
Sis's voice was sharp and eager, full of doubt, surprise, and
consternation.
"I came to Gullettsville," he went on, "to hunt up blockade whisky, and
failed, and three weeks ago I sent in my resignation. I thought I might
find a gold mine on my land-lot, but I have failed, and now I am going
to sell it. I have failed in everything."
Gloating over his alleged misfortunes, Woodward, without looking at Sis
Poteet, drew from his pocket a formidable-looking envelope, unfolded
its contents leisurely, and continued--
"Even my resignation was a failure. Hog Mountain will be raided
to-morrow or next day."
Sis rose from her chair, pale and furious, and advanced toward him as
if to annihilate him with her blazing eyes. Such rage, such contempt,
he had never before beheld in a woman's face. He sat transfixed. With a
gesture almost tragic in its vehemence, the girl struck the papers from
his hands.
"O you mean, sneaking wretch! You----"
And then, as if realising the weakness of mere words, she turned and
passed swiftly from the room. Woodward was thoroughly aroused. He was
not used to the spectacle of a woman controlled by violent emotions,
and he recognised, with a mixture of surprise and alarm, the great gulf
that lay between the rage of Sis Poteet and the little platitudes and
pretences of anger which he had seen the other women of his
acquaintance manage with such pretty daintiness.
As the girl passed through the kitchen, she seized a horn that hung
upon the wall, and went out into the darkness. The old women continued
their smoking, their snuff-rubbing, and their gossiping. Mrs.
High-tower was giving the details of a local legend showing how and why
Edny Favers had "conjured" Tabithy Cozby, when suddenly Mrs. Poteet raised
her hands--
"_Sh-h-h!_"
The notes of a horn--short, sharp, and strenuous--broke in upon the
stillness of the night. Once, twice, thrice! once, twice, thrice! once,
twice, thrice! It was an alarm that did not need to be interpreted to
the sensitive ear of Hog Mountain. The faces of the old women became
curiously impassive. The firelight carried their shadows from the floor
to the rafters, where they seemed to engage in a wild dance,--whirling,
bowing, jumping, quivering; but the women themselves sat as still as
statues. They were evidently waiting for something. They did not wait
long. In a little while the sharp notes of the horn made themselves
heard again--once, twice, thrice! once, twice, thrice! once, twice,
thrice!
Then the old women arose from their low chairs, shook out their frocks,
and filed into the room where Mr. Philip Woodward, late of the revenue
service, was sitting. There would have been a good deal of constraint
on both sides, but before there could be any manifestation of this
sort, Sis came in. She seemed to be crushed and helpless, nay, even
humiliated.
"Why, my goodness, Sis!" exclaimed Mrs. Hightower, "you look natchully
fagged out. A body 'ud think you'd bin an' taken a run up the mountain.
We all 'lowed you wuz in here lookin' airter your comp'ny. Wher'd you
git the news?"
"From this gentleman here," Sis replied, indicating Woodward without
looking at him. She was pale as death, and her voice was low and
gentle.
Woodward would have explained, but the apparent unconcern of the women
gave him no opportunity.
"I declare, Sis," exclaimed her mother, with a fond, apologetic little
laugh; "ef you hain't a plum sight, I hain't never seed none."
"She's thes es much like her Gran'pap Poteet," said Mrs. Hightower, "ez
ef he'd 'a' spit'er right out'n his mouth--that she is."
This led to a series of reminiscences more or less entertaining, until
after a while, Sis, who had been growing more and more restless, rose
and said--
"Good night, folks; I'm tired and sleepy. The clock has struck
eleven."
"Yes," said Mrs. Poteet, "an' the clock's too fast, bekaze it hain't
skacely bin more'u a minnit sence the chickens crowed for ten."
This remark contained the essence of hospitality, for it was intended
to convey to Mrs. Poteet's guests the information that if they were not
ready to retire, she was prepared to discredit her clock in their
interests. But there was not much delay on the part of the guests. The
women were dying to question Sis, and Woodward was anxious to be alone;
and so they said "Good night," the earnestness and quaint simplicity of
the old women carrying Woodward back to the days of his childhood, when
his grandmother leaned tenderly over his little bed, and whispered:
"Good night, dear heart, and pleasant dreams."
Shortly afterward the lights were put out, and, presumably, those under
Teague Poteet's roof addressed themselves to slumber. But what of the
news that Sis had given to the winds? There was no slumber for it until
it had fulfilled its mission. Where did it go, and what was its burden?
Three sharp blasts upon a horn, thrice repeated; then an interval; then
three more thrice repeated. Up, up the mountain the signal climbed; now
faltering, now falling, but always climbing; sending echoes before it,
and leaving echoes behind it, but climbing, climbing; now fainting and
dying away, but climbing, climbing, until it reached Pullium's Summit,
the smallest thread of sound. Two men were sitting talking in front of
a cabin. The eldest placed one hand upon the shoulder of his companion,
and flung the other to his ear. Faint and far, but clear and strenuous,
came the signal. The men listened even after it had died away. The
leaves of the tall chestnuts whipped each other gently, and the breeze
that had borne the signal seemed to stay in the tops of the mountain
pines as if awaiting further orders; and it had not long to wait.
The man who had held his hand to his ear slapped his companion on the
back, and cried, "Poteet's!" and that was news enough for the other,
who rose, stretched himself lazily, and passed into the cabin. He came
out with a horn--an exaggerated trumpet made of tin,--and with this to
his lips he repeated to the waiting breeze, and to the echoes that were
glad to be aroused, the news that had come from Poteet's. Across the
broad plateau of Pullium's Summit the wild tidings flew, until,
reaching the western verge of the mountain, they dived down into
Prather's Mill Road--a vast gorge which takes its name from the freak
of a drunken mountaineer, who declared he would follow the stream that
rushed through it until he found a mill, and was never heard of again.
The news from Poteet's was not so easily lost. It dropped over the
sheer walls of the chasm, three hundred feet down, and refused to be
drowned out by the rush and roar of the waters, as they leaped over the
boulders, until it had accomplished its mission. For here in Prather's
Mill Road burned the slow fires that kept the Government officials in
Atlanta at a white heat. They were burning now. If one of the officials
could have crawled to the edge of the gorge, where everything seemed
dwarfed by the towering walls of rook and the black abyss from which
they sprang, he would have seen small fitful sparks of flame glowing at
intervals upon the bosom of the deeper and blacker night below. These
were the fires that all the power and ingenuity of the Government
failed to smother, but they were now blown out one after another by the
blasts from Sis Poteet's horn.
The news that was wafted down into the depths of Prather's Mill Road
upon the wings of the wind was not at all alarming. On the contrary, it
was received by the grimy watchers at the stills with considerable
hilarity. To the most of them it merely furnished an excuse for a
week's holiday, including trips to both Gullettsville and Villa Ray.
Freely interpreted, it ran thus: "Friends and fellow-citizens: this is
to inform you that Hog Mountain is to be raided by the revenue men by
way of Teague Poteet's. Let us hear from you at once." There was
neither alarm nor hurry, but the fires were put out quickly, because
that was the first thing to be done.
Teague Poteet owned and managed two stills. He was looking after some
"doublings" when the notes of the horn dropped down into the gorge. He
paused, and listened, and smiled. Uncle Jake Norris, who had come to
have his jug filled, was in the act of taking a dram, but he waited,
balancing the tin cup in the palm of his hand. Tip Watson was telling
one of his stories to the two little boys who accompanied Uncle Jake,
but he never ended it.
"Sis talks right out in meetin'," said Teague, after waiting to be sure
there was no postscript to the message.
"What's the row, Teague?" asked Uncle Jake, swallowing his dram.
"'Nother raid comin' right in front er my door," Teague explained, "an'
I reckon in reason I oughter be home when they go past. They use to be
a kinder coolness betweenst me an' them revenue fellers, but we went to
work an' patched it up."