"Oh, no, I mean 'he'. I can remember how his hair waved, though I wasn't but sixteen at the time; and the day when he hitched my hoss for me, all the girls looked down-trod. It was more than fifty year ago."
"Of course I am a much younger woman," replied Sister Starbuck, "and I can't look back an' see no man but J--J--Jasper."
They returned to their silent weeping, and after a time a cup of coffee was suggested. Sister Barker objected. Her mind was so full of the past that she had no heart to swallow the devices of the present, but upon persuasion she yielded; and when the coffee was drunk, pipes were lighted and comfortably back they sat and talked about the neighbors.
After a while an old carryall wobbled up to the gate and out got Mrs.
Spencer. By the time she reached the door-step fresh tears were falling.
"Come right in," said Margaret. "I am so glad to see you at this time."
"And what do you want with me--to set down an' help you cry? Wall, I ain't of the cryin' sort. I put my cryin' aside when I got outen the cradle." She sat down and with a palm-leaf fanned herself. "It's a plum outrage," she said. "An' what's the matter with you, Miz Barker? Ain't lost a cow, have you? Why, yo' face looks like a old rock atter a heavy dew."
Mrs. Barker--they were not sisters now--wiped away her yellowish tears.
"I have the right to cry if I feel like it," she replied. "I was a thinkin' of he."
"A thinkin' of the cat's foot," the old "heroic" snapped. "You mean that journeyman hatter that you've talked about so much? He was drunk half the time an' wan't worth the attention it would take to shove him into the river. Conscience alive, you have shed enough tears over him to drown him. Now quit it an' let's talk business. They've got our folks in jail an' they air goin' to keep 'em there the Lord knows how long. An'
if the law didn't have some little jestice on its side I'd take an axe an' go down there an' break down that jail door. But you know that Jasper _has_ laid himse'f liable an' so has my boy, for knowin' of the fact--an' so have we all, for that matter. Hah, I was jest a thinkin'
when Spencer had the fight at Pettigrew's mill. Them Sarver boys--ez triflin' a lot ez ever lived--had him down when I rid up on a hoss. An'
the fust thing they know'd I stobbed one of 'em between the shoulder blades--an' they thought he never would git well."
"An' they killed Spencer right there," said Margaret.
"That's true enough, but they'd a killed him quicker if I hadn't got there. Ah, laws a massy, the meanness of this world. An' what did they try to do with me? Hauled me up befo' cou't, an' thar I went with little Laz in my arms, an' they tried me fur--'sault, I think them fetch-taked lawyers called it. An' I says 'salt or sugar, I'm here, an' what air you goin' to do about it?' They fotch money again' me, an' the lawyers they jawed an' they palarvered; an' finally I got a chance to speak to that weak-kneed jedge, I did, an' I says, 'Look here, I've a longer knife, an' if you tell this jury to convict me, I'll put about a foot an' a half of it under yo' rusty ribs.' An' you better believe he smiled on me. Margaret, there ain't no use to set around here an' grieve. In this here world grief never counted fur nuthin' yit. Stir about an' take care of yo' stock an' you'll feel better. Miz Barker, I seed you a comin' an'
I know'd you'd make things worse, so I come to off-set you. An' now, if we air goin' to be good friends, let's talk of somethin' pleasant.
Anybody dead over yo' way, Miz Barker--I mean anybody that ought to be?"
This interested Mrs. Barker, and upon the head she tapped into sloth her rising resentment. "Nobody dead," she said, with a smack of the mouth, "but Liza Pruitt ain't expected to git well."
"Oh, is that the one they had the talk about consarnin' of the preacher?"
"Yes, Brother Lane."
"Brother Fool. But atter all, not half as big a fool as she was. I do think of all the fools in the world the woman that gives the opportunity for 'em to hitch up her name with a preacher's--she's the biggest. Why, don't a woman know that everybody is a watchin' of a preacher? But he feels himself safer than any man in the world. Befo' I was married there was a preacher named Collier used to come to see me. I 'lowed he was a single man, an' when I found he wan't I handed him his hat an' I says, I does, 'Here, put this on an' see if it'll fit you.' He declared that it was a past'ral call, an' I says, 'Well, then, go out in the pasture.'
Now let's put things in order for I'm goin' to stay all night."
She was imperious, but not without generosity, for she granted to Margaret the right to look sad. But she would brook no demonstration, and when Mrs. Barker sought to lead Margaret back for a hiccoughey stroll along the dew-dripping path, she turned upon her with a snap.
"Miz Barker, putty soon you'll force me to wring you an' hang you out to dry."
And what were the antecedents of this crankish old woman? Her grandfather was hanged, one of John A. Murrell's robbers; and when she was a girl, her father fortified his log house and fought the law that strove to oust him for lack of title. She had moulded bullets; and when both her father and mother had been wounded, she thrust a blunderbuss through the window and with buck-shot swept a bloody road. But her generous heart had kept her poor, and her back was bending with years made heavy by loss of sleep, sitting up, nursing the sick.
While she was stirring about, making ready for supper, Margaret, giving to herself a sudden straightening, stepped forward and remarked:
"Now, Miz Spencer, you air mistaken if you think you air any gamer than I am. Why, if necessity demanded, I could load a shot-gun with tears an'
scald a enemy to death. I don't know quite as much about my folks as you do yourn, but I kin ricolleck a red puddle on the doorstep. So now, we air standin' on equal ground. Miz Barker, I reckon it's yo' nature to cry, so jest pitch in an' cry all you want to while we air gittin'
supper; an' then in the night, I'll change yo' pillow every time it gits too wet fur you."
"Gracious me, I don't want to cry that bad," Mrs. Barker replied.
"There's a time for all things, an' I'm from a fightin' fam'ly, too, I'll give you to understand. Have you got any right young pigs? If you have, suppose we kill one an' roast it--'twon't take long."
This suggestion met with approval, and with the help of Kintchin, helloaed out of a nap behind the smoke-house, a pig was slaughtered and barbecued. In Old Jasper's house that night there was a feast--a strange picture, three old women at table and an old negro, with watery mouth, standing in the door.
With the coming of daylight Margaret arose while yet the others slept, and breakfast was ready with the rising of the sun.
"You must be plannin' a big day's work," said Mrs. Spencer, and Margaret replied: "Yes, for I can't see the end of it. Kintchin, ketch the gray mare an' put the side saddle on her. An' now, you folks kin stay here jest as long as you please."
"Why, where air you goin'?" Mrs. Barker inquired; and Margaret, putting a pistol in the pocket of her dress, dropped a courtesy and said:
"To the jail."
CHAPTER XXIII.
A TRIP NOT WITHOUT INCIDENT.
With a few silver dollars in her pocket, chinking against the steel of her pistol, Margaret jogged along the road. In observation the mountaineer is always minute; each day is a volume unto itself, and in this book abound many pictures. In a thorn-bush the old woman saw a mocking-bird feeding her young; in the dust she saw where a snake had smoothed his way across the road. She halted to look at a bare-legged boy, who with his straw hat was seining a rivulet.
Telling the time by the sun, she dismounted at noon and in the shade of a wild plum thicket, ate her luncheon, while the mare cropped the sweet road-side grass. But it was not intended that her journey should be without event. Along toward four o'clock she came to a bridge across a small stream. The planks were worn with heavy hauling--the whole thing dangerous, and into a hole the mare's foot sank. She floundered, fell, and when Margaret, unhurt, arose out of the dust, she saw with horror that the poor creature's leg was broken. The mare floundered to the road-side and then in misery sank upon the ground.
"Poor old friend," said the woman, with sorrow in her voice, tears streaming from her eyes, but in her hand was the pistol. "Good-bye, an'
don't hold this ag'in me fur it's all I can do." Close to the horse's head she held the barrel of the pistol--fired, and without looking, resumed on foot her solitary way. A few miles further on she halted at a tavern, hoping that by spending the night, morning might bring along a friendly wagon, going her road; and she waited until the sun was high, and then set out on foot. But along toward ten o'clock she was overtaken by a huckster in a cart. She asked him to let her ride and he drew up, but looked suspiciously at her.
"I asked you to let me ride, if you please. I had to kill my po' mare 'way back yander--broke her leg in a bridge."
"What sort of a mare?"
"Gray--one of the best old nags I ever saw."
"Well, where air you goin'?"
"To Nashville. Will you let me ride?"
"Got business down there, I take it."
"Yes, or I wouldn't want to go."
"I don't know about that. Women folks goes a good many places where they hain't got no business. Ain't a runnin' away from yo' old man, air you?"
"No, I'm goin' to him."
"Huh, he run away frum you. Is that it?"
"No, they tuck him away. Air you goin' to let me ride?"
"Tuck him away for what?"
"They have accused him of makin' wild-cat licker."