forms of a cotillon dance, imitating a fiddle, calling the figures, and
giving his hand to imaginary partners. The boys fairly screamed with
laughter at this exhibition, and Uncle Jake was so overcome that he
felt called upon to take another dram--a contingency that was renewed
when Tip swung from the measure of a cotillon to that of a breakdown,
singing--
"I hain't bin a-wantin' no mo' wines--mo' wines--
Sence daddy got drunk on low wines--low wines."
"Come, Tip," said Teague, "yess shet up shop. Ef Sis ain't a caution,"
he said, after a while, as he moved around putting things to rights.
"Ef Sis ain't a caution, you kin shoot me. They hain't no mo' tellin'
wher' Sis picked up 'bout thish 'ere raid than nothin' in the worl'.
Dang me ef I don't b'lieve the gal's glad when a raid's a-comin'. Wi'
Sis, hit's move_ment_, move_ment_, day in an' day out. They hain't
nobody knows that gal less'n it's me. She knows how to keep things
a-gwine. Sometimes she runs an' meets me, an' says, se' she: 'Pap,
mammy's in the dumps; yess you an' me make out we er quollin'. Hit'll
sorter stir 'er up;' an' then Sis, she'll light in, an' by the time we
git in the house, she's a-scoldin' an' a-sassin' an' I'm a-cussin', en'
airter a while hit gits so hot an' natchul-like that I thes has ter
drag Sis out behin' the chimbly and buss 'er for to make certain an'
shore that she ain't accidentally flew off the han'le. Bliss your soul
an' body! she's a caution!"
"An' what's 'er maw a-doin' all that time?" inquired Uncle Jake, as he
took another dram with an indifferent air.
Teague laughed aloud as he packed the fresh earth over his fire.
"Oh, Puss! Puss, she thes sets thar a-chawin' away at 'er snuff, an'
a-knittin' away at 'er socks tell she thinks I'm a-pushin' Sis too
clost, an' then she blazes out an' blows me up. Airter that," Teague
continued, "things gits more homelike. Ef 'twan't fer me an' Sis, I
reckon Puss 'nd teetotally fret 'erself away."
"St. Paul," said Uncle Jake, looking confidentially at another dram
which he had poured into the tin cup,--"St. Paul says ther' er divers
an' many wimmin, an' I reckon he know'd. Ther' er some you kin fret an
some you can't. Ther's my ole 'oman: the livin' human bein' that stirs
_her_ up'll have ter frail 'er out, er she'll frail _him_."
"Well," said Teague, by way of condolence, "the man what's stabbed by a
pitchfork hain't much better off 'n the man that walks bar'footed in a
treadsaft patch."
The suggestion in regard to Mistress Norris seemed to remind Uncle Jake
of something important. He called to his boys, took another modest
dram, and disappeared in the undergrowth. Teague Poteet and his friends
were soon ready to follow this worthy example, so that in another hour
Prather's Mill Road was a very dull and uninteresting place from a
revenue point of view.
Woodward was aroused during the night by the loud barking of dogs, the
tramp of horses, and the confused murmur of suppressed conversation.
Looking from the window, he judged by the position of the stars that it
was three or four o'clock in the morning. He sat upon the side of the
bed, and sought, by listening intently, to penetrate the mystery of
this untimely commotion. He thought he recognised the voice of Tip
Watson, and he was sure he heard Sid Parmalee's peculiar cough and
chuckle. The conversation soon lifted itself out of the apparent
confusion, and became comparatively distinct. The voices were those of
Teague and Sis.
"Come now, pap, you must promise."
"Why, Sis, how _kin_ I?"
"You shall, you shall, you _shall!_"
"Why, Sis, hon, he mought be a spy. Sid Pannalee he 'lows that the
whole dad-blamed business is a put-up job. He wants to bet right now
that we'll all be in jail in Atlanty 'fore the moon changes. I lay they
don't none of 'em fool Sid."
"You don't love me any more," said Sis, taking a new tack.
"Good Lord, Sis! Why, honey, what put that idee in your head?"
"I know you don't--I know it! Its always Dave Hightower this, and Sid
Par-malee that, and old drunken Jake Norris the other. I just _know_
you don't love me."
Teague also took a new tack, but there was a quiver in his voice born
of deadly earnestness.
"I tell you, Sis, they er houndin' airter us; they er runnin' us down;
they er closin' in on us; they er hemmin' us up. Airter they git your
pore ole pappy an' slam 'im in jail, an' chain 'im down, who's
a-gwineter promise to take keer er _him?_ Hain't ole man Joshway
Blasingame bin sent away off to Al_benny?_ Hain't ole man Cajy Shannon
a-sarvin' out his time, humpback an' cripple ez he is? Who took keer
_them_? Who ast anybody to let up on 'em? But don't you fret, honey; ef
they hain't no trap sot, nobody ain't a-gwineter pester _him_."
"I wouldn't trust that Sid Parmalee out of my sight!" exclaimed Sis,
beginning to cry. "I know him, and I know all of you."
"But ef they is a trap sot," continued Teague, ignoring Sis's tears,
"_ef_ they is, I tell you, honey, a thousau' folks like me can't hol'
the boys down. The time 'a done come when they er teetotally wore out
with thish 'ere sneakin' aroun' an' hidin'-out bizness."
This appeared to end the conversation, but it left Woodward
considerably puzzled. Shortly afterward he heard a rap at his door, and
before he could respond to the summons by inquiry or invitation, Teague
Poteet entered with a lighted candle in his hand.
"I 'lowed the stirrin' 'roun' mought 'a' sorter rousted you," said
Teague, by way of apology, as he placed the light on a small table and
seated himself on a wooden chest.
"Yes. What's up?" Woodward inquired.
"Oh, the boys--thes the boys," Teague replied, chuckling and rubbing
his chin with an embarrassed air; "hit's thes the boys cuttin' up some
er ther capers. They er mighty quare, the boys is," he continued, his
embarrassment evidently increasing, "mighty quare. They uv up'd an' tuk
a notion for to go on a little frolic, an' they uv come by airter me,
an' nothin' won't do 'em but I mus' fetch you. S' I, 'Genter_men_, they
hain't no manners in astin' a man on a marchin' frolic this time er
night,' s' I; but Sid Parmalee, he chipped in an' 'lowed that you wuz
ez high up for fun ez the next man."
Woodward thought he understood the drift of things, but he was
desperately uncertain. He reflected a moment, and then faced the
situation squarely.
"If you were in my place, Mr. Poteet, what would you do?" he asked.
This seemed to relieve Teague, His embarrassment disappeared. His eyes,
which had been wandering uneasily around the room, sought Woodward's
face and rested there. He took off his wide-brimmed wool hat, placed it
carefully upon the floor, and ran his fingers through his iron-grey
hair.
"I don't mind sayin'," he remarked grimly, "that I uv seed the time
when I'd uv ast you to drap out'n that winder an' make for the bushes,
knowin' that you'd tote a han'ful er bullets in thar wi' you. But on
account er me an' Sis, I'm willin' to extracise my bes' judg_ment_. It
mayn't be satisfactual, but me an' Sis is mighty long-headed when we
pulls tergether. Ef I was you, I'd thes slip on my duds, an' I'd go out
thar whar the boys is, an' I'd be high up for the'r frolic, an' I'd
jine in wi' 'em, an' I'd raise any chune they give out."
With this Poteet gravely bowed himself out, and in a very few minutes
Woodward was dressed and ready for adventure. He was young and bold,
but he felt strangely ill at ease. He realised that, with all his
address, he had never been able to gain the confidence of these
mountaineers, and he felt sure they connected him with the revenue raid
that was about to be made, and of which they had received information.
He appreciated to the fullest extent the fact that the situation called
for the display of all the courage and coolness and nerve he could
command; but, in the midst of it all, he longed for an opportunity to
show Sis Poteet the difference between a real man and a feebleminded,
jocular rascal like Tip Watson.
His spirits rose as he stepped from the low piazza into the darkness
and made his way to where he heard the rattle of stirrups and spurs.
Some one hailed him--
"Hello, Cap!"
"Ah-yi!" he responded. "It's here we go, gals, to the wedding."
"I knowed we could count on 'im," said the voice of Tip Watson.
"Yes," said Sid Parmalee, "I knowed it so well that I fotch a extry
hoss."
"Where are we going?" Woodward asked.
"Well," said Parmalee, "the boys laid off for to have some fun, an'
it's done got so these times that when a feller wants fun he's got to
git furder up the mounting."
If the words were evasive, the tone was far more so, but Woodward paid
little attention to either. He had the air of a man accustomed to being
called up in the early hours of the morning to go forth on mysterious
expeditions.
A bright fire was blazing in Poteet's kitchen, and the light, streaming
through the wide doorway, illuminated the tops of the trees on the edge
of the clearing. Upon this background the shadows of the women, black
and vast--Titanic indeed,--were projected as they passed to and fro.
From within there came a sound as of the escape of steam from some huge
engine; but the men waiting on the outside knew that the frying-pan was
doing its perfect work.
The meat sizzled and fried; the shadows in the tops of the trees kept
up what seemed to be a perpetual promenade, and the men outside waited
patiently and silently. This silence oppressed Woodward. He knew that
but for his presence the mountaineers would be consulting together and
cracking their dry jokes. In spite of the fact that he recognised in
the curious impassiveness of these people the fundamental qualities of
courage and endurance, he resented it as a barrier which he had never
been able to break down. He would have preferred violence of some sort.
He could meet rage with rage, and give blow for blow, but how was he to
deal with the reserve by which he was surrounded? He was not physically
helpless, by any means, but the fact that he had no remedy against the
attitude of the men of Hog Mountain chafed him almost beyond endurance.
He was emphatically a man of action--full of the enterprises usually
set in motion by a bright mind, a quick temper, and ready courage; but,
measured by the impassiveness which these men had apparently borrowed
from the vast aggressive silences that give strength and grandeur to
their mountains, how trivial, how contemptible all his activities
seemed to be!
But the frying was over after a while. The Titanic shadows went to
roost in the tops of the trees, and Teague Poteet and his friends,
including ex-Deputy Woodward, took themselves and their fried meat off
up the mountain, and the raid followed shortly after. It was a
carefully-planned raid, and deserved to be called a formidable one.
Like many another similar enterprise it was a failure, so far as the
purposes of the Government were concerned, but fate or circumstance
made it famous in the political annals of that period. Fifteen men,
armed with carbines, rode up the mountain. They were full of the spirit
of adventure. They felt the strong arm of the law behind them. They
knew they were depended upon to make some sort of demonstration, and
this, together with a dram too much here and there, made them a trifle
reckless and noisy. They had been taught to believe that they were in
search of outlaws. They caught from the officers who organised them
something of the irritation which was the natural result of so many
fruitless attempts to bring Hog Mountain to terms. They betrayed a sad
lack of discretion. They brandished their weapons in the frightened
faces of women and children, and made many foolish mistakes which need
not be detailed here.
They rode noisily over the mountain, making a circle of Pullium's
Summit, and found nothing. They peered over the precipitous verge of
Prather's Mill Road, and saw nothing. They paused occasionally to
listen, and heard nothing. They pounced upon a lonely pedlar who was
toiling across the mountain with his pack upon his back, and plied him
with questions concerning the Moonshiners. This pedlar appeared to be a
very ignorant fellow indeed. He knew his name was Jake Cohen, and that
was about all. He had never crossed Hog Mountain before, and, so help
his gracious, he would never cross it again. The roads were all rough
and the ladies were all queer. As for the latter--well, great Jingo!
they would scarcely look at his most beautiful collection of shawls and
ribbons and laces, let alone buy them. In Villa Bay (or, as Cohen
called it, "Feel Hooray") he had heard that Teague Poteet had been
arrested and carried to Atlanta by a man named Woodward. No one had
told him this, but he heard people talking about it wherever he went in
Villa Ray, and there seemed to be a good deal of excitement in the
settlement.
Cohen was a droll customer, the revenue officers thought, and the
longer they chatted with him the droller he became. First and last they
drew from him what they considered to be some very important
information. But most important of all was the report of the arrest of
Teague Poteet. The deputies congratulated themselves. They understood
the situation thoroughly, and their course was perfectly plain. Poteet,
in endeavouring to escape from them, had fallen into the clutches of
Woodward, and their best plan was to overtake the latter before he
reached Atlanta with his prize, and thus share in the honour of the
capture. With this purpose in view, they took a dram all round and
turned their horses' heads down the mountain.
Cohen certainly was a droll fellow. He stood in the road until the
revenue men had disappeared. Then he unbuckled the straps of his pack,
dropped it upon the ground, and sat down upon a boulder. With his head
between his hands, he appeared to be lost in thought, but he was only
listening. He remained listening until after the sounds of the horses'
feet had died away.
Then he carried his precious pack a little distance from the roadside,
covered it with leaves, listened a moment to be sure that the deputies
were not returning, and then proceeded to a. little ravine in the side
of the mountain where the Moonshiners lay. He had been waiting nearly
two days where the revenue men found him, and his story of the capture
of Teague Poteet was concocted for the purpose of sending the posse
back down the mountain the way they came. If they had gone on a mile
further they would have discovered signs of the Moonshiners, and this
discovery would have led to a bloody encounter, if not to the capture
of the leaders.
The deputies rode down the mountain in the best of spirits. They had
accomplished more than any other posse; they had frightened the
Moonshiners of Hog Mountain to their hiding-places, and not a deputy
had been killed, or even wounded. The clatter they made as they
journeyed along attracted the attention of Ab Bonder, a boy about
fifteen, who happened to be squirrel-hunting, and he stepped into the
road to get a good view of them. He was well grown for his age, and his
single-barrelled shot-gun looked like a rifle. The revenue men halted
at once. They suspected an ambuscade. Experience had taught them that
the Moonshiners would fight when the necessity arose, and they held a
council of war. The great gawky boy, with the curiosity of youth and
ignorance combined, stood in the road and watched them. When they
proceeded toward him in a compact body, he passed on across the road.
Hearing a command to halt, he broke into a run, and endeavoured to make
his way across a small clearing that bordered the road. Several of the
deputies fired their guns in the air, but one, more reckless than the
rest, aimed directly at the fugitive, and Ab Bonner fell, shot through
and through.
Viewed in its relations to all the unfortunate events that have marked
the efforts of the Government officials to deal with the violators of
the revenue laws from a political point of view, the shooting of this
ignorant boy was insignificant enough. But it was important to Hog
Mountain. For a moment the deputy-marshals were stunned and horrified
at the result of their thoughtlessness. Then they dismounted and bore
the boy to the roadside again and placed him under the shade of a tree.
His blood shone upon the leaves, and his sallow, shrunken face told a
pitiful tale of terror, pain, and death.
The deputy-marshals mounted their horses and rode steadily and swiftly
down the mountain, and by nightfall they were far away. But there was
no need of any special haste. The winds that stirred the trees could
carry no messages. The crows flying over, though they made a great
outcry, could tell no tales. Once the boy raised his hand and cried
"Mammy!" but there was no one to hear him. And though ten thousand ears
should listen, the keenest could hear him no more He became a part of
the silence--the awful, mysterious silence--that sits upon the hills
and shrouds the mountains.
This incident in the tumultuous experience of Hog Mountain--the killing
of Ab Bonner was merely an incident--had a decisive effect upon the
movements of ex-Deputy Woodward. When Jake Cohen succeeded in turning
the revenue officials back, the mountaineers made themselves easy for
the day and night, and next morning prepared to go to their homes. Some
of them lived on one side of Hog Mountain, and some on the other. They
called themselves neighbours, and yet they lived miles apart, and it so
happened that, with few exceptions, each went in a different direction.
Teague Poteet gave the signal--
"Come, Cap," he said to Woodward, "yess be a-traipsiu'. Puss'll be
a-puttin' on biskits for supper before we git thar if we don't push on.
Be good to yourse'f, boys, an' don't raise no fracas."
Poteet and Woodward rode off together. That afternoon, half a mile from
Poteet's, they met a woman running in the road, crying and wringing her
hands wildly. She moved like one distracted. She rushed past them,
crying--
"They uv killed little Ab! They uv killed him. Oh, Lordy! they uv
killed little Ab!"
She ran up the road a little distance and then came running back; she
had evidently recognised Poteet. As she paused in the road near them,
her faded calico sun-bonnet hanging upon her shoulders, her grey hair
falling about her face, her wrinkled arms writhing in response to a
grief too terrible to contemplate, she seemed related in some vague way
to the prophets of old who were assailed by fierce sorrows. Here was
something more real and more awful than death itself. Woodward felt in
his soul that the figure, the attitude, the misery of this poor old
woman were all Biblical.
"Oh, Teague," she cried, "they uv killed him! They uv done killed my
little Ab! Oh, Lordy! that mortal hain't a-livin' that he ever done any
harm. What did they kill him for?" Then she turned to Woodward: "Oh,
Mister, Mister! _please_ tell me what he done. _I'm_ the one that made
the liquor, _I'm_ the one. Oh, Lordy! what did they kill little Ab
for?"
Teague Poteet dismounted from his horse, took the woman firmly but
gently by the arm, and made her sit down by the side of the road. Then,
when she was more composed, she told the story of finding her son's
body. It was a terrible story to hear from the lips of the mother, but
she grew quieter after telling it, and presently went on her way. The
two men watched her out of sight.
"I'll tell you what, Cap," said Teague, as he flung himself into the
saddle, "they er houndin' airter us. They er 'buzin' the wimmin an'
killin' the childern; stidder carryin' out the law, they er gwine about
a-shootin' an' a-murderin'. So _fur, so good_. Well, now, lemme tell
you: the hawk 'a done lit once too much in the chicken-lot. This is a
free country. I hain't a-layin' no blame on you. Me an' Sis stood by
you when the boys s'ore they wuz a-gwine to rattle you up. We made 'em
behave the'rse'ves, an' I hain't a-blamin' you, but they er houndin'
airter us, an' ef I wuz you I wouldn't stay on this hill nary 'nuther
minnit longer than it 'ud take me to git offn it. When the boys git
wind er this ongodly bizness, they ull be mighty hard to hol'. I reckon
maybe you'll be a-gwine down about Atlanty. Well, you thes watch an'
see what stan' the Govern_ment's_ gwineter take 'bout Ab Bonner, an' ef
hit don't take no stan', you thes drap in thar an' tell 'em how you
seed er ole man name Teague Poteet, an' _he_ 'lowed that the revenue
fellers better not git too clost ter Hog Mountain, bekaze the
hidin'-out bizness is done played. The law what's good enough fer pore
little Ab Bonner is good enough fer the men what shot 'im."
They rode on until they came to Poteet's house.
"We'll thes go in an' git a snack," said Teague, "an' airter that your
best gait is a gallop."
But Woodward declined. He was dazed as well as humiliated, and he had
no desire to face Sis Poteet. He pictured to himself the scorn and
bitterness with which she would connect his presence on the Mountain
with the murder of Ab Bonner, and he concluded to ride on to
Gullettsville. He took Teague Poteet by the hand.
"Good-bye, old man," he said; "I shall remember you. Tell Miss
Sis--well, tell Miss Sis good-bye." With that he wheeled his horse and rode
rapidly toward Gullettsville.
It was a fortunate ride for him, perhaps. The wrath of Hog Mountain was
mightily stirred when it heard of the killing of Ab Bonner, and
Woodward would have fared badly at its hands. The wrath of others was
stirred also. The unfortunate affair took the shape of a political
issue, and thus the hands of justice were tied. But all this is a
matter of history, and need not be dwelt upon.
In the meantime, as the days passed, Teague Poteet became dimly and
uncomfortably conscious that a great change had come over Sis. One day
she would be as bright and as gay as the birds in the trees; the next,
she would be quiet, taciturn, and apparently depressed. As Teague
expressed, "One minnit hit's Sis, an' the nex' hit's some un else."
Gradually the fits of depression grew more and more frequent and lasted
longer. She was abstracted and thoughtful, and her petulance
disappeared altogether. The contrast resulting from this change was so
marked that it would have attracted the attention of a person of far
less intelligence than Teague Poteet. He endeavoured to discuss the
matter with his wife, but Puss Poteet was not the woman to commit
herself. She was a Mountain Sphinx.
"I'm afeard Sis is ailin'," said Teague, upon one occasion.
"Well," replied Puss, "she ain't complainin'."
"That's hit," Teague persisted; "she hain't complainin'. That's what
pesters me. She looks lonesome, an' she's got one er them kinder
fur-away looks in her eyes that gives me the all-overs." The Sphinx rubbed
its snuff and swung in its rocking-chair. "Some days she looks holp up,
an' then ag'in she looks cas' down. I 'low'd maybe you mought know what
ailed her."
"Men folks," said Puss, manipulating her snuff-swab slowly and
deliberately, "won't never have no sense while the worl' stan's. Ef a
'oman ain't gwine hether an' yan', rippity-clippity, day in an' day
out, an' half the night, they er on the'r heads. Wimmen hain't men."
"That's so," replied league gravely, "they hain't. Ef they wuz, the men
'ud be in a mighty nice fix."
"They'd have some sense," said Puss.
"Likely so. Yit 'oman er man kin sliet one eye an' tell that Sis looks
droopy, an' when Sis looks droopy, I know in reason sump'n' nuther ails
her."
"Well, goodness knows; I wish in my soul somebody'd shet one eye an'
look at me," exclaimed Puss, with a touch of jealousy in her tone. "I
traipse 'roun' this hill ontell I'm that wore out I kin skacely drag
one foot alrter t'other, an' I don't never hear nobody up an' ast what
ails me. It's Sis, Sis, Sis, all the time, an' eternally. Ef the calf's
fat, the ole cow ain't got much choice betwixt the quogmire an' the
tan-vat."
"Lord, how you do run on," said the iron-grey giant, rubbing his
knuckles together sheepishly. "You don't know Sis ef you go on that
away. Many's the time that chile 'ud foller me up an' say, 'Pap, ef you
see my shawl a-haugin' out on the fence, Puss'll be asleep, an' don't
you come a-lumberin' in an' wake her up, nuther.' An' many's the time
she'd come out an' meet me, an' up an' say, 'Pap, Puss has takin' an'
bin a-mopin' all day long; yess you an' me go in an' fetch her up.' An'
bless your life," Teague continued, addressing some imaginary person on
the other side of the fireplace, "when me an' Sis sets our heads for to
fetch anybody up, they er thes natchully erbleeged ter come."
Puss rubbed her snuff and swayed to and fro in her rocking-chair,
disdaining to make any reply to this array of facts and arguments; and
Teague was as ignorant as ever of the cause of the queer change in his
daughter. Perhaps, as becomes a dutiful husband, he should have
retorted upon his complaining wife with complaints of his own; but his
interests and his isolation had made him thoughtful and forbearing. He
had the trait of gentleness which frequently sweetens and equalises
large natures. He remembered that behind whatever complaints--
reasonable or unreasonable--Puss might make, there existed a stronghold
of affection and tenderness; he remembered that her whole life had been
made up of a series of small sacrifices; he knew that she was ready,
whenever occasion made it necessary, to cast aside her snuff-swab and
her complaints, and go to the rack without a murmur.
But Teague was by no means satisfied with the condition of affairs, so
far as Sis was concerned. He said no more to his wife, but he kept his
eyes open. The situation was baffling to the point of irritation, but
Teague betrayed neither uneasiness nor restlessness. He hung about the
house more, and he would frequently walk in quietly when the women
thought he was miles away.
There were times when Sis ignored his presence altogether, but as a
general thing she appeared to relish his companionship. Sometimes at
night, after her mother had gone to bed, she would bring her chair
close to Teague's, and rest her head upon his shoulder, while he smoked
his pipe and gazed in the fire. Teague enjoyed these occasions to the
utmost, and humoured his daughter's slightest wish, responding to her
every mood and fancy. If she talked, he talked; if she was silent, he
said nothing. Once she dropped asleep with her head on his arm, and
Teague sat holding her thus half the night. When she did awake she
upbraided herself so earnestly for imposing on her old pappy (as she
called him) that Teague yawned, and stretched himself, and rubbed his
eyes, and pretended that he, too, had been asleep.
"Lordy, honey! I wuz that gone tell I didn't know whe'er I 'uz rolled
up in a haystack er stretched out in a feather-bed. I reckon ef you'd
'a' listened right clost you'd 'a' heern me sno'. I thes laid back an'
howled at the rafters, an' once-t er twice-t I wuz afeard I mought
waken up Puss."
Sis's response to this transparent fib was an infectious peal of
laughter, and a kiss which amply repaid Teague for any discomfort to
which he may have been subjected.
Once, after Sis had nestled up against Teague, she asked somewhat
irrelevantly--
"Pap, do you reckon Mr. Woodward was a revenue spy after all?"
"Well, not to'rds the last. He drapped that business airter he once
seed its which-aways. What makes you ast?"
"Because I hate and despise revenue spies."
"Well, they hain't been a-botherin' roun lately, an' we hain't got no
call to hate 'em tell they gits in sight. Hatin' is a mighty ha'sh
disease. When Puss's preacher comes along, he talks ag'in it over the
Bible, an' when you call 'im in to dinner, he talks ag'in it over the
chicken-bones. I reckon hit's mighty bad--mighty bad."
"Did you like him?"
"Who? Puss's preacher?"
"Now, you know I don't mean _him_, pap."
"_Oh!_ Cap'n Woodward. Well, I tell you what, he had mighty takin'
ways. Look in his eye, an' you wouldn't see no muddy water; an' he had
grit. They hain't no two ways about that. When I ast 'im out with us
that night, he went like a man that had a stool to a quiltin'-bee; an'
when Duke Dawson an' Sid Parmalee flung out some er the'r slurs, he
thes snapt his fingers in the'r face, an' ups an' says, says he,
'Gents, ef youer up for a frolic, I'm your man, an' ef youer in for a
fight, thes count me in,' says he. The boys wuz a little drinky," said
Teague, apologetically.
Sis squeezed up a little closer against her father's shoulder.
"Did they fight, pap?"
"Lord bless you, no. I thes taken am' flung my han' in Duke's collar
an' fetched 'im a shake er two, an put 'im in a good humour thereckly;
an' then airterwerds Tip Watson sot 'em all right when he read out the
letter you foun' on the floor."
"Oh, pap!" Sis exclaimed in a horrified tone, "I _slapped_ that letter
out of Mr. Woodward's _hand!_"
Teague laughed exultantly.
"What'd he say?"
"He didn't say _anything_. He looked like he expected the floor to open
and swallow him. I never was so ashamed in my life. I've cried about it
a thousand times."
"Why, honey, I wouldn't take an' _cry_ 'bout it ef I wuz you."
"Yes you would, pap, if--if--you were me. I don't know what came over
me; I don't know how I could be so hateful. No _lady_ would ever do
such a thing as that."
Sis gave her opinion with great emphasis. Teague took his pipe out of
his mouth.
"Well, I tell you what, honey, they mought er done wuss. I let you
know, when folks is got to be a-runnin' here an' a-hidin' yander, hit's
thes about time for the gals for to lose the'r manners. Nobody wouldn't
a-blamed you much ef you'd a-fetched the Cap'n a clip stidder the
letter; leastways, I wouldn't."
The girl shivered and caught her breath.
"If I had hit _him_," she exclaimed vehemently, "I should have gone off
and killed myself."
"_Shoo!_" said Teague in a tone intended to be at once contemptuous and
reassuring, but it was neither the one nor the other.
This conversation gave Teague fresh cause for anxiety. From his point
of view, Sis's newly-developed humility was absolutely alarming, and it
added to his uneasiness. He recognised in her tone a certain shyness
which seemed to appeal to him for protection, and he was profoundly
stirred by it without at all understanding it. With a tact that might
be traced to either instinct or accident, he refrained from questioning
her as to her troubles. He was confused, but watchful. He kept his own
counsel, and had no more conferences with Puss. Perhaps Puss was also
something of a mystery; if so, she was old enough to take care of her
own affairs.
Teague had other talks with Sis--some general, some
half-confidential,--and he finally became aware of the fact that every
subject led to Woodward. He humoured this, awkwardly but earnestly, and
thought he had a clew, but it was a clew that pestered him more than ever.
He turned it round in his mind and brooded over it. Woodward was a man
of fine appearance and winning manners, and Sis, with all the
advantages--comparative advantages merely--that the Gullettsville
Academy had given her, was only a country girl after all. What if----?
Teague turned away from the suspicion in terror. It was a horrible one;
but as often as he put it aside, so often he returned to it. It haunted
him. Turn where he might, go where he would, it pursued him night and
day.
One mild afternoon in the early spring, Mr. Philip Woodward, ex-deputy
marshal, leaned against the railing of Broad Street bridge in the city
of Atlanta, and looked northward to where Kennesaw Mountain rises like
a huge blue billow out of the horizon and lends picturesqueness to the
view. Mr. Woodward was in excellent humour. He had just made up his
mind in regard to a matter that had given him no little trouble. A
wandering prospector, the agent of a company of Boston capitalists, had
told him a few hours before that he would be offered twenty thousand
dollars for his land-lot on Hog Mountain. This was very important, but
it was not of the highest importance. He nodded familiarly to Kennesaw,
and thought: "I'll slip by you to-morrow and make another raid on Hog
Mountain, and compel that high-tempered girl to tell me what she means
by troubling me so."
A train of cars ran puffing and roaring under the bridge, and as
Woodward turned to follow it with his eye he saw standing upon the
other side a tall, gaunt, powerful-looking man, whom he instantly
recognised as Teague Poteet. Teague wore the air of awkward,
recklessly-helpless independence which so often deceives those who
strike the mountain men for a trade. Swiftly crossing the bridge,
Woodward seized Teague and greeted him with a cordiality that amounted
to enthusiasm.
"Well, of all the world, old man, you are the one I most wanted to
see." Teague's thoughts ran with grim directness to a reward that had
been offered for a certain grey old Moonshiner who had made his
headquarters on Hog Mountain. "How are all at home?" Woodward went on,
"and what is the news?"
"The folks is porely and puny," Teague replied, "an' the news won't
skacely b'ar relatin'. I hain't a-denyin'," he continued, rubbing his
chin and looking keenly at the other, "I hain't a-denyin' but what I'm
a-huntin' airter you, an' the business I come on hain't got much
howdyin' in it. Ef you uv got some place er nuther wher' ever'body
hain't a-cockin' up the'r years at us, I'd like to pass some words wi'
you."
"Why, of course," exclaimed Woodward, hooking his arm in Teague's.
"We'll go to my room. Come! And after we get through, if you don't say
that my business with you is more important than your business with me,
then I'll agree to carry you to Hog Mountain on my back. Now that's a
fair and reasonable proposition. What do you say?"
Woodward spoke with unusual warmth, and there was a glow of boyish
frankness in his tone and manners that Teague found it hard to resist.
"Well, they's thes this much about it," he said; "my business is mighty
troublesome, an' yit hit's got to be settled up."
He had put a revolver in his pocket on account of this troublesome
business.
"So is mine troublesome," responded Woodward, laughing, and then
growing serious. "It has nearly worried me to death."
Presently they reached Woodward's room, which was up a flight of stairs
near the corner of Broad and Alabama Streets. It was a very plain
apartment, but comfortably furnished, and kept with scrupulous
neatness.
"Now, then," said Woodward, when Teague had seated himself, "I'll
settle my business, and then you can settle yours." He had seated
himself in a chair, but he got up, shook himself, and walked around the
room nervously. The lithograph of a popular burlesque actress stared
brazenly at him from the mantelpiece. He took this remarkable work of
art, folded it across the middle, and threw it into the grate. "I've
had more trouble than enough," he went on, "and if I hadn't met you
to-day I intended to hunt you up to-morrow."
"In Atlanty?"
"No; on Hog Mountain. Oh, I know the risk," Woodward exclaimed,
misinterpreting Teague's look of surprise. "I know all about that, but
I was going just the same. Has Miss Sis ever married?" he asked,
stopping before Teague and blushing like a girl. "Not less'n it
happened sence last We'n'sday, an' that hain't noways likely," replied
the other, with more interest than he had yet shown. Woodward's
embarrassment was more impressive than his words.
"I hardly know how to say it," he continued, "but what I wanted to ask
you was this: Suppose I should go up to Hog Mountain some fine morning,
and call on you, and say, as the fellow did in the song, 'Old man, old
man, give me your daughter,' and you should reply, 'Go upstairs and
take her if you want to,' what do you suppose the daughter would say?"
Woodward tried in vain to give an air of banter to his words. Teague
leaned forward with his hands upon his knees.
"Do you mean, would Sis marry you?" he asked.
"That is just exactly what I mean," Woodward replied.
The old mountaineer rose and stretched himself, and drew a deep sigh of
relief. His horrible suspicion had no foundation. He need not fly to
the mountains with Woodward's blood upon his hands.
"Lemme tell you the honest truth, Cap," he said, placing his hand
kindly on the young man's shoulder. "I might 'low she would, an' I
might 'low she wouldn't; but I'm erbleege to tell you that I dunno
nothin' 'bout that chil' no more'n ef I hadn't a-never seed 'er. Wimmin
is mighty kuse."
"Yes," said Woodward, "they are curious."
"Some days they er gwine rippitin' aroun' like the woods wuz afire, an'
then ag'in they er mopin' an' a-moonin' like ever' minnit wuz a-gwine
to be the nex'. I bin a-studyin' Sis sence she wan't no bigger'n a
skinned rabbit, an' yit I hain't got to A, B, C, let alone _a_-b ab,
_u_-b ub. When a man lays off for to keep up wi' the wimmiu folks, he
kin thes make up his min' that he'll have to git in a dark corner an'
scratch his head many a time when he oughter be a-diggin' for his
livin'. They'll addle 'im thereckly."
"Well," said Woodward, with an air of determination, "I'm going back
with you and hear what Miss Sis has to say. Sit down. Didn't you say
you wanted to see me on business?"
"I did start out wi' that idee," said Teague, slipping into a chair and
smiling curiously, "but I disremember mostly what 'twuz about.
Ever'thing is been a-pesterin' me lately, an' a man that's hard-headed
an' long-legged picks up all sorts er foolish notions. I wish you'd
take keer this pickle-bottle, Cap," he continued, drawing a revolver
from his coat-tail pocket and placing it on the table. "I uv bin afeard
ever sence I started out that the blamed thing 'ud go off an' far my
jacket wrong-sud-outerds. Gimme a gun, an' you'll gener'lly fin' me
somewheres aroun'; but them ar cliokety-cluckers is got mos' too many
holes in 'em for to suit my eyesight."
Usually, it is a far cry from Atlanta to Hog Mountain, but Teague
Poteet and Woodward lacked the disposition of loiterers. They shortened
the distance considerably by striking through the country, the old
mountaineer remarking that if the big road would take care of itself he
would try and take care of himself.
They reached Poteet's one afternoon, creating a great stir among the
dogs and geese that were sunning themselves outside the yard. Sis had
evidently seen them coming, and was in a measure prepared; but she
blushed painfully when Woodward took her hand, and she ran into her
father's arms with a little hysterical sob.
"Sis didn't know a blessed word 'bout my gwine off to Atlanty," said
Teague awkwardly but gleefully. "Did you, honey?"
Sis looked from one to the other for an explanation. Woodward was
smiling the broad, unembarrassed smile of the typical American lover,
and Teague was laughing. Suddenly it occurred to her that her father,
divining her secret--her sweet, her bitter, her well-guarded secret--
had sought Woodward out and begged him to return. The thought filled
her with such shame and indignation as only a woman can experience. She
seized Teague by the arm--
"Pap, have you been to Atlanta?"
"Yes, honey, an' I made 'as'e to come back."
"Oh, how could you? How _dare_ you do such a thing!" she exclaimed
passionately. "I will never forgive you as long as I live--never!"
"Why, honey----"
But she was gone, and neither Teague nor her mother could get a word of
explanation from her. Teague coaxed, and wheedled, and threatened, and
Puss cried and quarrelled; but Sis was obdurate. She shut herself in
her room and remained there. Woodward was thoroughly miserable. He felt
that he was an interloper in some measure, and yet he was convinced
that he was the victim of a combination of circumstances for which he
was in nowise responsible. He had never made any special study of the
female mind, because, like most young men of sanguine temperament, he
was convinced that he thoroughly understood it; but he had not the
remotest conception of the tragic element which, in spite of social
training or the lack of it, controls and gives strength and potency to
feminine emotions. Knowing nothing of this, Woodward knew nothing of
women.
The next morning he was stirring early, but he saw nothing of Sis. He
saw nothing of her during the morning, and at last, in the bitterness
of his disappointment, he saddled his horse, and made preparations to
go down the mountain.
"I reckon it hain't no use to ast you to make out your visit," said
Teague gloomily. "That's what I says to Puss. I'm a free nigger ef Sis
don't beat my time. You'll be erbleege to stop in Gullettsville
to-night, an' in case er accidents you thes better tie this on your
coat."
The old mountaineer produced a small piece of red woollen string, and
looped it in Woodward's button-hole.
"Ef any er the boys run up wi' you an' begin to git limber-jawed,"
league continued, "thes hang your thum' in that kinder keerless like,
an' they'll sw'ar by you thereekly. Ef any of 'em asts the news, thes
say they's a leak in Sugar Creek. Well, well, well!" he exclaimed,
after a little pause; "hit's thes like I tell you. Wimmin folks is
mighty kuse."
When Woodward bade Puss good-bye, she looked at him sympathetically and
said--
"Sometime when youer passin' by, I'd be mighty thankful ef you 'ud
fetch me some maccaboy snuff."
The young man, unhappy as he was, was almost ready to accuse Mrs.
Poteet of humour, and he rode off with a sort of grim desire to laugh
at himself and the rest of the world. The repose of the mountain
fretted him; the vague blue mists that seemed to lift the valleys into
prominence and carry the hills further away, tantalised him; and the
spirit of spring, just touching the great woods with a faint suggestion
of green, was a mockery. There was a purpose--a decisiveness--in the
stride of his horse that he envied, and yet he was inclined to resent
the swift amiability with which the animal moved away.
But it was a wise steed, for when it came upon Sis Poteet standing by
the side of the road, it threw up its head and stopped. Woodward lifted
his hat, and held it in his hand. She gave him one little glance, and
then her eyes drooped.
"I wanted to ask you something," she said, pulling a dead leaf to
pieces. Her air of humility was charming. She hesitated a moment, but
Woodward was too much astonished to make any reply. "Are you very mad?"
she asked with bewitching inconsequence.
"Why should _I_ be mad, Miss Sis? I am glad you have given me the
opportunity to ask your pardon for coming up here to worry you."
"I wanted to ask you if pap--I mean, if father went to Atlanta to see
you," she said, her eyes still bent upon the ground.
"He said he wanted to see me on business," Woodward replied.
"Did he say anything about me?"
"Not that I remember. He never said anything about his business even,"
Woodward went on. "I told him about some of my little troubles, and
when he found I was coming back here, he seemed to forget all about his
own business. I suppose he saw that I wouldn't be much interested in
anybody else's business but my own just then." Sis lifted her head and
looked steadily at Woodward. A little flush appeared in her cheeks, and
mounted to her forehead, and then died away.
"Pap doesn't understand--I mean he doesn't understand everything, and I
was afraid he had----Why do you look at me so?" she exclaimed, stopping
short, and blushing furiously.
"I ask your pardon," said the young man; "I was trying to catch your
meaning. You say you were afraid your father----"
"Oh, I am not afraid now. Don't you think the weather is nice?"
Woodward was a little puzzled, but he was not embarrassed. He swung
himself off his horse and stood beside her.
"I told your father," he said, drawing very near to the puzzling
creature that had so wilfully eluded him--"I told your father that I
was coming up here to ask his daughter to marry me. What does the
daughter say?"
She looked up in his face. The earnestness she saw there dazzled and
conquered her. Her head drooped lower, and she clasped her hands
together. He changed his tactics.
"Is it really true, then, that you hate me?"
"Oh! if you only knew!" she cried, and with that Woodward caught her in
his arms.
An hour afterwards, Teague Poteet, sitting in his low piazza, cleaning
and oiling his rifle, heard the sound of voices coming from the
direction of the Gullettsville road. Presently Sis and Woodward came in
sight. They walked slowly along in the warm sunshine, wholly absorbed
in each other. Woodward was leading his horse, and that intelligent
animal improved the opportunity to nip the fragrant sassafras buds just
appearing on the bushes. Teague looked at the two young people from
under the brim of his hat and chuckled, but when Sis caught sight of
him, a little while after, he was rubbing his rifle vigorously, and
seemed to be oblivious to the fact that two young people were making
love to each other in full view. But Sis blushed all the same, and the
blushes increased as she approached the house, until Woodward thought
in his soul that her rosy shyness was the rarest manifestation of
loveliness to be seen in all the wide world. As she hovered a moment at
the gate, blushing and smiling, the old mountaineer turned the brim of
his hat back from his eyes and called out with a great pretence of
formal hospitality--
"Walk in an' rest yourselves; thes walk right in! Hit's lots too soon
in the season for the dogs to bite. Looks to me, Cap, like you hain't
so mighty tender wi' that 'ar hoss er your'n. Ef you uv rid 'im down to
Gullettsville an' back sence a while ago, he'll be a-needin' feed
thereckly. Thes come right in an' make yourselves at home."
Woodward laughed sheepishly, but Sis rushed across the yard, flung her
arms around Teague's neck, and fell to crying with a vehemence that
would have done credit to the most broken-hearted of damsels. The
grizzled old mountaineer gathered the girl to his bosom and stroked her
hair gently, as he had done a thousand times before. He looked at
Woodward with glistening eyes.
"Don't min' Sis, Cap. Sis hain't nothin' but a little bit of a slip of
a gal, an' sence the day she could toddle 'roun' an' holler--good news
or bad, mad er glad--she's bin a-runnin' an' havin' it out wi' her ole
pappy. Wimmen an' gals hain't like we all, Cap; they er mighty kuse.
She never pestered wi' Puss much," continued league, as his wife came
upon the scene, armed with the plaintive air of slouchiness, which is
at once the weapon and shield of women who believe that they are
martyrs--"she never pestered wi' Puss much, but, cry or laugh, fight or
frolic, she allers tuck it out on her ole pappy."
Puss asked no questions. She went and stood by Teague, and toyed gently
with one of Sis's curls.
"Sis don't take airter none er the Pringles," she said after a while,
by way of explanation. "They hain't never bin a day when I couldn't
look at Teague 'thout battin' my eyes, an' ma use to say she 'uz thes
that away 'bout pap. I never know'd what the all-overs wuz tell thes
about a hour before me an' Teague wuz married. We 'uz thes about ready
for to go an' face the preacher, when ma comes a-rushin' in--an' she
won't never be no paler when she's laid out than she wuz right that
minnit. 'In the name er the Lord, ma, is you seed a ghost?' s' I.
'Puss!' se' she, 'the cake hain't riz!' I thes tell you what, folks, I
like to a-went through the floor--that I did!"
At this Sis looked up and laughed, and they all laughed except Puss,
who eyed Woodward with an air of faint curiosity, and dryly remarked--
"I reckon you hain't brung me my maccaboy snuff. I lay me an' my snuff
wan't in your min'. 'Let the old hen cluck,' ez the sparrer-hawk said
when he courted the pullet. Well," she continued, smiling with genuine
satisfaction as she saw that Woodward no more than half-relished the
comparison, "I better be seein' about dinner. Ol' folks like me can't
live on love."
The days that followed were very happy ones for the two young people--
and for the two old people for that matter. Teague enjoyed the
situation immensely. He would watch the young lovers from afar, and
then go off by himself and laugh heartily at his own conceits. He was
very proud that Sis was going to marry Somebody--a very broad term, as
the old mountaineer employed it. At night when they all sat around the
fire (spring on Hog Mountain bore no resemblance to summer) Teague gave
eager attention to Woodward's stories, and laughed delightedly at his
silliest jokes.
If Teague was delighted with Woodward, he was astounded at Sis. She was
no longer the girl that her surroundings seemed to call for. She was a
woman, and a very delightful one. From the old scholar, whom fate or
circumstance had sent to preside over the Gullettsville Academy, she
had caught something of the flavour and grace of cultivation--a gentle
dignity, leaning always to artlessness, and a quick appreciation, which
was in itself a rare accomplishment.
The day for the wedding was set, and Woodward went his way to Atlanta.
He had urged that the ceremony be a very quiet one, but Teague had
different views, and he beat down all opposition.
"Why, good Lord, Cap'." he exclaimed, "what 'ud the boys say?--Poteet's
gal married an' no stools [Footnote: Invitations] give out! No, siree!
Not much. We hain't that stripe up here, Cap. We hain't got no quality
ways, but we allers puts on the pot when comp'ny comes. Me an' Sis an'
Puss hain't had many weddin's 'mongst us, an' we're thes a-gwine to
try an' put the bes' foot foremos'. Oh no, Cap! You fetch your frien's
an' we'll fetch our'n, an' ef the house hain't roomy enough, bless you,
the woods is."
When Hog Mountain heard the news, which it did by special messenger,
sent from house to house with little pink missives written by Sis, it
was as proud as Teague himself. Fat Mrs. Hightower laid aside her
spectacles when the invitation was translated to her, and remarked--
"They hain't nobody on the face er the yeth good enough fer Sis, but
that air feller's got the looks an' the spunk. I'll set in this very
day an' hour, an' I'll bake Sis a cake that'll make the'r eyes water."
And so it went. Everybody on Hog Mountain had some small contributions
to make.
The wedding, however, was not as boisterous as the boys proposed to
make it. They had their frolic, to be sure, as Sid Parmalee or Tip
Watson will tell you, but an incident occurred which took the edge off
their enjoyment, and gave them the cue of soberness.
Two of Woodward's friends--young men from Atlanta--bore him company to
Hog Mountain. At Gullettsville they fell in with Uncle Jake Norris, at
all times a jovial and companionable figure.
"Roundabout man, roundabout way," remarked Uncle Jake, by way of
explaining his presence in Gullettsville. "My house is away an' beyan'
frum Poteet's, but I says to myself, s' I, in obejunce to the naked
demands of the law I'll go this day an' git me a jug er licker that's
bin stomped by the Govunment, an' hide it an' my wickedness, ez you may
say, in league's hoss-stable. Yes, frien's, them wuz the words. 'Let
the licker be stomped by the Govunment for the sakes of the young
chap,' s' I, 'an' I'll hide the jug along er my wickedness in Teague's
hoss-stable.' So then, frien's, yess be a sojourneyin', an' ef you feel
the needance er somethin' quick an' strong for to brace you for
endurance, make your way to the lot, an' feel behin' the stable-door--
an' watch out for the kickin' mule! I give you my intentionals cle'r
an' clean. What does St. Paul say?--'Ef you can't do good by slippance,
do it by stealth.'"
They journeyed along as rapidly as the nature of the mountain road
would permit, but before they reached Poteet's the shadows of twilight
began to deepen. The road, like most mountain roads, wound itself
painfully about. At one point they were within a short half-mile of
Poteet's, but a towering wall of rock barred their approach. The road,
accommodating itself to circumstances, allowed the towering wall to
drive it three miles out of the way. Uncle Jake Norris, turning readily
to reminiscences, connected the precipitous shelf with many of the
mysterious disappearances that had at various times occurred in army
and revenue circles.
"Natur' built it," he said lightly, "an' a jaybird showed it to the
boys. Teague, up thar, he 'lowed that a man wi' grey eyes an' a nimble
han' could git on that rock an' lay flat of his belly an' disembowel a
whole army. Them wuz his words--disembowel a whole army."
While Uncle Jake was speaking, the travellers had passed beyond the
wall, but the declivity on their left was still too steep to
accommodate the highway, and so they rode along with the shadows of
night on one side of them and pale symptoms of the day on the other.
Suddenly a thin stream of fire, accompanied by the sharp crack of a
rifle, shot out of the side of the mountain straight at Woodward, and
seemed, as one of his companions said afterwards, to pass through him.
His horse shied with a tremendous lurch, and Woodward fell to the
ground.
"He is shot!" cried one of the young men.
"What devil's work is this?" exclaimed Uucle Jake. "Cap, you ain't
hurt, is you?"
Receiving no reply, for Woodward was stunned into semi-unconsciousness,
Uncle Jake addressed himself to the bushes--
"Come forth," he cried. "Jestify this deed!"
There was a moment's silence, but not a moment's inaction. Uncle Jake
leaped from his horse, and, telling the frightened yoxing men to look
after Woodward, ran up the mountain-side a quarter of a mile, placed
his hands to his mouth, and hallooed three times in rapid succession.
Then he heard Poteet's dogs bark, and he hallooed again. This time he
was answered from above, and he turned and ran back to where he left
Woodward.
When he got there he beheld a sight and heard words that made his blood
run cold. Woodward was still lying upon the ground, but by his side was
kneeling a gaunt and hollow-eyed woman. Her thin grey hair hung loose
upon her shoulders and about her eyes, and the ragged sleeves of her
gown fluttered wildly as she flung her bony arms in the air. She was
uttering loud cries.
"Oh, Lordy! it's little Ab! I uv done killed little Ab over ag'in! Oh,
my little Ab! It's your pore ole mammy, honey! Oh, Mister! make little
Ab wake up an' look at his pore ole mammy!"
The two young men from Atlanta were paralysed with horror. When Uncle
Jake Norris ran up the mountain to alarm Poteet, the witch-like figure
of the woman sprang from the bushes and fell upon Woodward with a loud
outcry. The whole occurrence, so strange, so unnatural, and so
unexpected, stripped the young men of their power of reasoning; and if
the rocks had opened and fiery flames issued forth, their astonishment
and perplexity and terror could have been no greater.
But if they had been acquainted with the history of this wild-eyed
woman,--if they had known that for weeks she had been wandering over
the mountain bereft of reason, and seeking an opportunity to avenge
with her own hands the murder of Ab Bonner, her son,--they would have
been overcome by pity. Uncle Jake Norris understood at once that Ab
Bonner's mother had shot Woodward, and he forgot to be merciful.
"Woe unto you, woman, ef you have done this deed! Woe unto you an'
your'n, Rachel Bonner, ef you have murdered this innocent!"
"That he wuz innocent!" exclaimed the woman, swaying back and forth and
waving her hands wildly. "The unborn babe wan't no innocenter than
little Ab!"
"Woe unto you, Sister Bonner!" Uncle Jake went on, examining Woodward
and speaking more calmly when he found him breathing regularly. "Woe
unto you, and shame upon you, Sister Bonner, to do this deed of
onjestifiable homicide, ez I may say. Let flesh an' min' rankle, but
shed no blood."
"Oh, my little Ab! I uv kilt 'im ag'in!"
"You may well sesso, Sister Rachel Bonner," said Uncle Jake, turning
Woodward over and examining him with the crude skill of an old soldier;
"you may well sesso. Drap down where you is, an' call on the Lord not
to give you over to a reprobate min' for to do the things that were
unconvenient, ez St. Paul says. Let tribulation work patience, lest you
git forsook of hope, Sister Jane Bonner. Come, Cap," he went on,
addressing himself to Woodward, "Teague'll be a drappin' on us,
thereckly, an' it twon't never do in the roun' worl' for to be a-makin'
faces at 'im frum the groun'. Roust up, roust up."
Woodward did rouse up. In fact his unconsciousness was only momentary,
but he had been making a vain effort to trace his surroundings,
disordered as they were by the wild cribs of the woman, to a reasonable
basis.
By the time he had been helped to his feet, and had discovered that the
bullet from Mrs. Bonner's rifle had merely grazed the fleshy part of
his shoulder, Teague and a number of his friends had arrived upon the
scene. There was nothing to be said, nothing to be done, except to move
up the mountain to Poteet's.
"Ah, pore woman!" exclaimed Uncle Jake. "Pore mizerbul creetur! Come
wi' us, Sister Jane Bonner, come wi' us. Ther's a warm place at
Teague's h'a'th fer sech ez you."
The woman followed readily, keeping close to Woodward. To her
distracted eyes he took the shape of her murdered son. Poteet was
strangely reticent. His tremendous stride carried him ahead of the
horses, and he walked with his head held down, as if reflecting. Once
he turned and spoke to Parmalee--
"Oh, Sid!"
"Ah-yi?"
'S'posen it had thes a bin a man?'
"Good-bye, Mr. Man!"
It is not necessary to describe the marriage of Sis and Woodward, or to
recite here the beautiful folk-songs that served for the wedding music.
As Mrs. Poteet remarked after it was all over, "They wer'n't a bobble
frum beginnin' to en';" and when the wedding party started down the
mountain in the early hours of the morning to take conveyances at
Gullettsville for the railroad station, thirty miles away, Uncle Jake
Norris was sober enough to stand squarely on his feet as he held Sis's
hand.
"Ez St. Paul says, I prophesy in perportion to my faith. You all is
obleege to be happy. Take keer of thish 'ere gal, Cap!"
Teague Poteet went down the mountain a little way, and returned after a
while like a man in a dream. He paused at a point that overlooked the
valley and took off his hat. The morning breeze, roused from its sleep,
stirred his hair. The world, plunging swiftly and steadily through its
shadow, could not rid itself of a star that burned and quivered in the
east. It seemed to be another world toward which Sis was going.
An old woman, grey-haired, haggard, and sallow, who had been drawn from
the neighbourhood of Hog Mountain by the managers of the Atlanta Cotton
Exposition to aid in illustrating the startling contrasts that the
energy and progress of man have produced, had but one vivid remembrance
of that remarkable display. She had but one story to tell, and, after
the Exposition was over, she rode forty miles on horseback, in the mud
and rain, to tell it at Teague Poteet's.
"I wish I may die," she exclaimed, flinging the corners of her shawl
back over her shoulders and dipping her clay pipe in the glowing
embers--"I wish I may die ef I ever see sech gangs, an' gangs, an'
_gangs_ of folks, an' ef I git the racket out'n my head by next
Chris'mas, I'll be _mighty_ lucky. They sot me over ag'in the biggest
fuss they could pick out, an' gimme a pa'r er cotton kyards. Here's
what kin kyard when she gits her han' in, an' I b'leeve'n my soul I
kyarded 'nuff bats to thicken all the quilts betwix' this an'
Californy. The folks, they 'ud come an' stan', an' star', an' then they
'ud go some'rs else; an' then new folks 'ud come an' stan', an' star',
an' go some'rs else. They wuz jewlarkers thar frum ever'wheres, an'
they lookt like they wuz too brazen to live skacely. Not that _I_
keer'd. No, bless you! Not when folks is a plumpin' down the cash
money. Not me! No, siree! I wuz a-settin' thar one day a-kyardin' away,
a-kyardin' away, when all of a sudden some un retched down' an' grabbed
me 'roun' the neck, an' bussed me right here on the jaw. Now, I hain't
a-tellin' you no lie, I like to 'a' fainted. I lookt up, an' who do you
reckon it wuz?"
"I bet a hoss," said Teague dryly, "that Sis wa'n't fur from thar when
that bussin' wuz a-gwine on."
"Who should it be _but_ Sis!" exclaimed the old woman, leaning forward
eagerly as she spoke. "Who else but Sis wuz a-gwine to grab me an'
gimme a buss right here on the jaw, a-frontin' of all them jewlarkers?
When I lookt up an' seen it twuz Sis, I thought in my soul she 'uz the
purtiest creetur I ever laid eyes on. 'Well, the Lord love you, Sis,'
s' I; 'whar on the face er the yeth did you drap frum?' s' I. I ketched
'er by the arm an' belt 'er off, an' s' I, 'Ef I don't have a tale to
tell when I git home, no 'oman never had none,' s' I. She took an'
buss'd me right frontin' of all them jewlarkers, an' airter she 'uz
gone I sot down an' had a good cry. That I did. I sot right whar I wuz,
an' had a good cry."
And then the old woman fell to crying softly at the remembrance of it,
and those who had listened to her story cried with her. And narrow as
their lives were, the memory of the girl seemed to sweeten and inspire
all who sat around the wide hearth that night at Teague Poteet's.