Chapter V: Part 5

“I'm no fool, Jim. And I'll hold this jail, me and Doty, as long as possible, and you drive like hell! You see?”

“I didn't know you really _wanted_ to save the nigger,” his brother remonstrated; “nobody b'lieves that”

“I don't, as a nigger. But you go on now, and I'll send Doty with the telegram, and make time by talkin' to Mr. Morris. I don't think they've found anything; if they had, they'd have come a-galloping, and the devil himself couldn't have stopped 'em. Gosh, but it's awful! Who knows what that nigger's done When I look at Mr. Morris, I wish you fellers had overpowered me last night and had fixed things.”

He let his brother out at the back, then went round to the front gate, where he met the man whom he called Doty Buxton.

“Go telegraph Judge More the facts of the case,” he said, “an' ask him to come. I don't believe I'll need any men if he'll come; and besides, he and Mr. Morris are friends.”

As the man turned away, one of the horsemen rode up to the sheriff.

“We demand that negro,” he said.

“I supposed that was what you'd come for, Mr. Mitchell,” the sheriff answered; “but you know, sir, that as much as I'd like to oblige you, I'm bound to protect the man. He swears that he's never touched Mrs. Morris.”

“Great God, sheriff! how can you mention the thing quietly? You know--”

“Yes, I know; and I know that I'll never do the dirty work of a sheriff a day after my term's up. But we haven't any proof against this nigger except that he ran away--”

“Isn't that enough when the lady can't be found, nor a trace of her?”

“I found the hatchet.”

“And--!”

“It was clean, thank God!”

Mr. Mitchell jerked the reins so violently that his horse, tired as he was, reared and plunged.

“Mr. Morris declines to speak with you,” he went on, when the horse had quieted down, “but he's determined that the negro shall not escape, and the whole county'll back him.”

“I know that,” the sheriff answered, patiently, “and in his place I'd do the same thing; but in my place I must do my official duty. I'll not let the nigger escape, you may be sure of that, and I've telegraphed for Judge More to come out here. I've telegraphed the whole case. Surely Mr. Morris'll trust Judge More?”

Mitchell dragged at his mustache. “Poor Morris is nearly dead,” he said.

“Of course; won't he go and eat and rest till Judge More comes? Every house in the town'll be open to him.”

“No; he'll not wait nor rest; and we're determined to hang that negro.”

“It'll be mighty hard to shed our blood--friends and neighbors,” remonstrated the sheriff--“and all over a worthless nigger.”

“That's your lookout,” Mr. Mitchell answered. “A trial and a big funeral is glory for a negro, and the penitentiary means nothing to them but free board and clothes. I tell you, sheriff, lynching is the only thing that affects them.”

“You won't wait even until I get an answer from Judge More?”

“Well, to please you, I'll ask.” And Mitchell rode back to his companions.

The conference between the leaders was longer than the sheriff had hoped, and before he was again approached Doty Buxton had returned, saying that Judge More's answer would be sent to the jail just as soon as it came.

“You'll stand by me, Doty?” the sheriff asked.

“'Cause I like you, Mr. Partin,” Doty answered, slowly; “not 'cause I want to save the nigger. I b'lieve in my soul he's done drowned the po' lady's body.”

“All right; you go inside and be ready to chain the gate if I am run in.” Then he waited for the return of the envoy.

John Morris sat on his horse quite apart even from his own friends, and after a few words with him, Mitchell had gone to the group of horsemen about whom the townsmen were gathered. The sheriff did not know what this portended, but he waited patiently, leaning against the wall of the jail and whittling a stick. He knew quite well that all these men were friendly to him; that they understood his position perfectly, and that they expected him to pretend to do his duty to a reasonable extent, and so far their good-nature would last; but he knew equally well that in their eyes the negro had put himself beyond the pale of the law; that they were determined to hang him and would do it at any cost; and that the only mercy which the culprit could expect from this upper class to which Mr. Morris belonged was that his death would be quick and quiet. He knew also that if they found out that he was in earnest in defending the prisoner he himself would be in danger not only from Mr. Morris and his friends, but from the townsmen as well. Of course all this could be avoided by showing them that the jail was empty; but to do this would be at this stage to insure the fugitive's capture and death. To save the negro he must hold the jail as long as possible, and if he had to shoot, shoot into the ground. All this was quite clear to him; what was not clear was what these men would do when they found that he had saved the negro, and they had stormed an empty jail.

He was an old soldier, and had been in many battles; he had fought hardest when he knew that things were most hopeless; he had risked his life recklessly, and death had been as nothing to him when he had thought that he would die for his country. But now--now to risk his life for a negro, for a worthless creature who he thought deserved hanging--was this his duty? Why not say, “I have sent the negro to the city”? How quickly those fierce horsemen would dash away down the road! Well, why not? He drew himself up. He was not going to turn coward at this late day. His duty lay very plain before him, and he would not flinch. And he fixed his eyes once more on the little stick he was cutting, and waited.

Presently he saw a movement in the crowd, and the thought flashed across him that they might capture him suddenly while he stood there alone and unarmed. He stepped quickly to the gate, where Doty Buxton waited, and standing in the opening, asked the crowd to stand back, and to send Mr. Mitchell to tell him what the decision was. There was a moment's pause; then Mitchell rode forward.

“Mr. Morris says that Judge More cannot help matters. The negro must die, and at once. We don't want to hurt you, and we don't want to destroy public property, but we are going to have that wretch if we have to burn the jail down. Will you stop all this by delivering the prisoner to us?”

The sheriff shook his head. “I can't do that, sir. But one thing I do ask, that you'll give me warning before you set fire to the jail.”

“If that'll make you give up, we'll set fire now.”

“I didn't say it'd make me surrender, but only that I'd like to throw a few things out--like Doty Buxton, for instance,” smiling a little.

“All right; when we stop trying to break in, we'll be making ready to smoke you out. The jail's empty but for this negro, I hear.”

“Yes, the jail's empty; but don't you think you oughter give me a little time to weigh matters?”

“Is there any chance of your surrendering?”

“To be perfectly honest,” the sheriff answered, “there isn't.” Then, seeing the crowd approaching, he slipped inside the heavy gate, and Doty Buxton chained it. “Now, Doty,” he said, “we'll peep through these auger-holes and watch 'em; and when you see' em coming near, you must shoot through these lower holes. Shoot into the ground just in front of 'em. It's nasty to have the dirt jumpin' up right where you've got to walk. I know how it feels. I always wanted to hold up both feet at once. I reckon they've gone to get a log to batter down the gate. They can do it, but I'll make 'em take as long as I can. We musn't hurt anybody, Doty, but we must protect the State property as far as we're able. Here they come! Keep the dirt dancin', Doty. See that? They don't like it. I told you they'd want to take up both feet at once. When bullets are flying round your head, you can't help yourself, but it's hard to put your feet down right where the nasty little things are peckin' about. Here they come again! Keep it up, Doty. See that? They've stopped again. They ain't real mad with me, yet, the boys ain't; only Mr. Morris and his friends are mad. The boys think I'm just pretending to do my duty for the looks of it; but I ain't. Gosh! Now they've fixed it! With Mr. Morris at the front end of that log, there's no hope of scare. He'd walk over dynamite to get that nigger. Poor feller! Here they come at a run! Don't hurt anybody, Doty. Bang! Wait; I'll call a halt by knocking on the gate; it'll gain us a little more time.”

“What do you want?” came in answer to the sheriff's taps.

“I'll arrest every man of you for destroying State property,” the sheriff answered.

“All right; come do it quick,” was the response. “We're waitin', but we won't wait long.”

“I reckon we'll have to go inside, Doty,” the sheriff said; then to the attacking party, “If you'll wait till Judge More comes, I promise you the nigger'll hang.”

For answer there was another blow on the gate.

“Remember, I've warned you!” the sheriff called.

“Hush that rot,” was the answer, followed by a third blow.

The sheriff and Doty retreated to the jail, and the attack went on. It was a two-story building of wood, but very strongly built, and unless they tried fire the sheriff hoped to keep the besiegers at bay for a little while yet. He stationed Doty at one window, and himself took position at another, each with loaded pistols, which were only to be used as before--to make “the dirt jump.”

“To tell you the truth, Doty,” the sheriff said, “if you boys had had any sense, you'd have overpowered me last night, and we'd not have had all this trouble.”

“We wanted to,” Doty answered, “but you're new at the business, an' you talked so big we didn't like to make you feel little.”

“Here they come!” the sheriff went on, as the stout gate swayed inwards. “One more good lick an' it's down. That's it. Now keep the dirt dancin', Doty, but don't hurt anybody.”

Mr. Morris was in the lead, and apparently did not see the “dancin' dirt,” for he approached the jail at a run.

“It's no use, Doty,” the sheriff said; “all we can do is to wait till they get in, for I'm not going to shoot anybody. It may be wrong to lynch, but in a case like this it's the rightest wrong that ever was.” So the sheriff sat there thinking, while Doty watched the attack from the window.

According to his calculations of time and distance, the sheriff thought that the prisoner was now so far on his way as to be almost out of danger by pursuit, and his mind was busy with the other question as to what would happen when the jail was found to be empty. He had not heard from Judge More, but the answer could not have reached him after the attack began. He felt sure that the judge would come, and come by the earliest train, which was now nearly due.

“The old man'll come if he can,” he said to himself, “and he'll help me if he comes; and I wish the train would hurry.”

He felt glad when he remembered that he had given the keys of the cells to his brother, for though he would try to save further destruction of property by telling the mob that the jail was empty, he felt quite sure that they would not believe him, and in default of keys, would break open every door in the building; which obstinacy would grant him more time in which to hope for Judge More and arbitration. That it was possible for him to slip out once the besiegers had broken in never occurred to him; his only thought was to stay where he was until the end came, whatever that might be. They were taking longer than he had expected, and every moment was a gain.

Doty Buxton came in from the hall, where he had gone to watch operations. “The do' is givin',” he said; “what'll you do?”

“Nothin',” the sheriff answered, slowly.

“Won't you give 'em the keys?”

“I haven't got 'em.”

“Gosh!” and Doty's eyes got big as saucers.

Very soon the outer door was down, and the crowd came trooping in, all save John Morris, who stopped in the hallway. He seemed to be unable even to look at the sheriff, and the sheriff felt the averted face more than he would have felt a blow. “We want the keys,” Mitchell said.

The sheriff, who had risen, stood with his hands in his pockets, and his eyes, filled with sympathy, fastened on Mr. Morris, standing looking blankly down the empty hall.

“I haven't got the keys, Mr. Mitchell,” he answered.

“Oh, come off!” cried one of the townsmen. “Rocky!” cried another. “Yo' granny's hat!” came from a third; while Doty Buxton said, gravely, “Give up, Partin; we've humored this duty business long enough.”

“Do I understand you to say that you won't give up the keys?” Mitchell demanded, scornfully.

“No,” the sheriff retorted, a little hotly, “you don't understand anything of the kind. I said that I didn't have the keys; and further,” he added, after a moment's pause, “I say that this jail is empty.”

There was silence for a moment, while the men looked at one another incredulously; then the jeering began again.

“There is nothing to do but to break open the cells,” Morris said, sharply, but without turning his head. “We trusted the sheriff last night, and he outwitted us; we must not trust him again.”

The sheriff's eyes flashed, and the blood sprang to his face. The crowd stood eagerly silent; but after a second the sheriff answered, quietly,

“You may say what you please to me, Mr. Morris, and I'll not resent it under these circumstances, but I'll swear the jail's empty.”

For answer Morris drove an axe furiously against the nearest cell door, and the crowd followed suit. There were not many cells, and as he looked from a window the sheriff counted the doors as they fell in, and listened for the whistle of the train that he hoped would bring Judge More. The doors were going down rapidly, and as each yielded the sheriff could hear cries and demonstrations. What would they do when the last one fell?

Presently Doty Buxton, who had been making observations, came in, pale and excited. “You'd better git yo' pistols,” he said, “an' I'll git mine, for they're gittin' madder an' madder every time he ain't there.”

“Well,” the sheriff answered, “I want you to witness that I ain't armed. My pistols are over there on the table, unloaded. Thank the good Lord!” he exclaimed, suddenly; “there's the train, an' Judge More! I hope he'll come right along.”

“An' there goes the last do'!” said Doty, as, after a crash and a momentary silence, oaths and ejaculations filled the air. He drew near the sheriff, but the sheriff moved away.

“Stand back,” he said; “you've got little children.”

In an instant the crowd rushed in, headed by Morris, whose burning eyes seemed to be starting from his drawn white face. Like a flash Doty sprang forward and wrenched an axe from the infuriated man, crying out, “Partin ain't armed!”

For answer a blow from Morris's fist dropped the sheriff like a dead man. A sudden silence fell, and Morris, standing over his fallen foe, looked about him as if dazed. For an instant he stood so, then with a violent movement he pushed back the crowding men, and lifting the sheriff, dragged him toward the open window.

“Give him air,” he ordered, “and go for the doctor, and for cold water!” He laid Partin flat and dragged open his collar. “He's not dead--see there; I struck him on the temple; under the ear would have killed him, but not this, not this! Give me that water, and plenty of it, and move back. He's not dead, no; and I didn't mean to kill him; but he has worked against me all night, and I didn't think a white man would do it.”

“He's comin' round, Mr. Morris,” said Doty, who knelt on the other side of the sheriff; “an' he didn't bear no malice against you--don't fret; but it's a good thing I jerked that axe outer yo' hand! See, he's ketchin' his breath; it's all right,” as Partin opened his eyes slowly and looked about him.

A sound like a sigh came from the crowd, then a voice said, “Here comes Judge More.”

Morris was still holding his wet handkerchief on the sheriff's head when the old judge came in.

“My dear boy!” he said, laying his hand on John Morris's shoulder. But Morris shook his head.

“Let's talk business, Judge More,” he said, “and let's get Partin into a chair where he can rest; I've just knocked him over.”

Then Morris left the room, and Mitchell with him, going to the far side of the jail-yard, where they walked up and down in silence. It was not long before Judge More and the sheriff joined them.

“The evidence was too slight for lynching,” the judge said, looking straight into John Morris's eyes.

“Great God!” Morris cried, and struck his hands together.

“What more do you want?” Mitchell demanded, angrily. “His wife has disappeared, and the negro ran away.”

“True, and I'll see to the case myself; but I'm glad that you did not hang the negro.”

A boy came up with a telegram.

“From Jim, I reckon,” the sheriff said, taking it. “No; it's for you, Mr. Morris.”

It was torn open hastily; then Morris looked from one to the other with a blank, scared face, while the paper fluttered from his hold.

Mitchell caught it, and read aloud slowly, as if he did not believe his eyes:

“'Am safe. Will be out on the ten o'clock train. ELEANOR.'”

Morris stood there, shaking, and sobbing hard, dry sobs.

“It'll kill him!” the sheriff said. “Quick, some whiskey!”

A flask was forced between the blue, trembling lips.

“Drink, old fellow,” and Mitchell put his arm about Morris's shoulders. “It's all right now, thank God!”

Morris was leaning against his friend, sobbing like a woman. The sheriff drew his coat-sleeve across his eyes, and shook his head.

“What made the nigger run away?” he said, slowly--adding, as if to himself, “God help us!”

A vehicle was borrowed, and the judge and the sheriff drove with John Morris over to the station to meet the ten-o'clock train. The sheriff and the judge remained in the little carriage, and the station agent did his best to leave the whole platform to John Morris. As the moments went by the look of anxious agony grew deeper on the face of the waiting man. The sheriff's ominous words, falling like a pall over the first flash of his happiness, had filled his mind with wordless terrors. He could scarcely breathe or move, and could not speak when his wife stepped off and put her hands in his. She looked up, and without a query, without a word of explanation, answered the anguished questioning of his eyes, whispering,

“He did not touch me.”

Morris staggered a little, then drawing her hand through his arm, he led her to the carriage. She shrank back when she saw the judge and the sheriff on the front seat; but Morris saying, “They must hear your story, dear,” she stepped in.

“We are very thankful to see you, Mrs. Morris,” the judge said, without turning his head, when the sheriff had touched up the horse and they moved away; “and if you feel able to tell us how it all happened, it'll save time and ease your mind. This is Mr. Partin, the sheriff.”

Mrs. Morris looked at the backs of the men in front of her; at their heads that were so studiously held in position that they could not even have glanced at each other; then up at her husband, appealingly.

“Tell it,” he said, quietly, and laid his hand on hers that were wrung together in her lap. “You sent Aggie to catch the chickens, and the dog went with her?”

“Yes,” fixing her eyes on his; “and I sent”--she stopped with a shiver, and her husband said, “Abram”--“to cut some bushes to make a broom,” she went on. “I had been for a walk to the old house, and as I came back I laid my gloves and a bit of vine on the steps, intending to return at once; but I wished to see if the boat was safe, for the water was rising so rapidly.” She paused, as if to catch her breath, then, with her eyes still fixed on her husband, she went on, “I did not think that it was safe, and I untied the rope and picked up the paddle that was lying on the dam, intending to drag the boat farther up and tie it to a tree.” She stopped again. Her husband put his arm about her.

“And then?” he said.

“And then--something, I don't know what; not a sound, but something--something made me turn, and I saw him--saw him coming--saw him stealing up behind me--with the hatchet in his hand, and a look--a look”--closing her eyes as if in horror--“such an awful, awful look! And everybody gone. Oh, John!” she gasped, and clinging to her husband, she broke into hysterical sobs, while the judge gripped his walking-stick and cleared his throat, and the sheriff swore fiercely under his breath.

“I was paralyzed,” she went on, recovering herself, “and when he saw me looking he stopped. The next moment he threw the hatchet at me, and began to run toward me. The hatchet struck my foot, and the blow roused me, and I sprang into the boat. There were no trees just there, and jumping in, I pushed the boat off into the deep water. He picked up the hatchet and shook it at me, but the water was too deep for him to reach me, and he ran back along the dam and turned toward the railroad embankment. I was so terrified I could scarcely breathe; I pushed frantically in and out between the trees, farther and farther into the swamp. I was afraid that he would go round to the bridge and come down the bank to where the outlet from the swamp is and catch me there, but in a little while I saw where the rising water had broken the dam, and the current was rushing through and out to the river. The current caught the boat and swept it through the break. Oh, I was so glad! I'm so afraid of water, but not then. I used the paddle as a rudder, and to push floating timber away. My foot was hurting me, and I looked at last and saw that it was cut.”

A groan came from the judge, and the sheriff's head drooped.

“All day I drifted, and all night. I was so thirsty, and I grew so weak. At daylight this morning I found myself in a wide sheet of water, with marshes all round, and I saw a steamboat coming. I tied my handkerchief to the paddle and waved it, and they picked me up. And, John, I did not tell them anything except that the freshet had swept me away. They were kind to me, and a friendly woman bound up my foot. We got to town this morning early, and the captain lent me five dollars, John--Captain Meakin--so I telegraphed you, and took a carriage to the station and came out. Have--have you caught him? And, oh--but I am afraid--afraid!” And again she broke into hysterical sobs.

She asked no explanation. The negro's guilt was so burned in on her mind, that she was sure that all knew it as well as she.

“You need have no further fears,” her husband comforted. And the judge shook his head, and the sheriff swore again.

* * * * *

A white-haired woman in rusty black stood talking to a negro convict. It was in a stockade prison camp in the hill country. She had been a slave-owner once, long ago, and now for her mission-work taught on Sundays in the stockade, trying to better the negroes penned there.

This was a new prisoner, and she was asking him of himself.

“How long are you in for?” she asked.

“Fuhrebber, ma'm; fuh des es long es I lib,” the negro answered, looking down to where he was making marks on the ground with his toes.

“And how did you get such a dreadful sentence?”

“I ent do much, ma'm; I des scare a white lady.”

A wave of revulsion swept over the teacher, and involuntarily she stepped back. The negro looked up and grinned.

“De hatchet des cut 'e foot a little bit; but I trow de hatchet. I ent tech um; no, ma'm. Den atterwards 'e baby daid; den dey say I muss stay yer fuhrebber. I ent sorry, 'kase I know say I hab to wuck anywheys I is; if I stay yer, if I go 'way, I hab to wuck. En I know say if I git outer dis place Mr. Morris'll kill me sho--des sho. So I like fuh stay yer berry well.”

And the teacher went away, wondering if her work--if _any_ work--would avail; and what answer the future would have for this awful problem.

A Snipe-Hunt

A Story of Jim-Ned Creek

BY M. E. M. DAVIS

“I ain't sayin' nothin' ag'inst the women o' Jim--Ned Creek _ez women_,” said Mr. Pinson; “an' what's more, I'll spit on my hands an' lay out any man ez'll dassen to sass 'em. But _ez wives_ the women o' Jim-Ned air the outbeatenes' critters in creation!”

These remarks, uttered in an oracular tone, were received with grave approbation by the half a dozen idlers gathered about the mesquite fire in Bishop's store. Old Bishop himself, sorting over some trace-chains behind the counter, nodded grimly, and then smiled, his wintry face grown suddenly tender.

“You've shore struck it, Newt,” assented Joe Trimble. “You never kin tell how ary one of 'em 'll ack under any succumstances.”

Jack Carter and Sid Northcutt, the only bachelors present, grinned and winked slyly at each other.

“You boys neenter to be so brash,” drawled Mr. Pinson's son-in-law, Sam Leggett, from his perch on a barrel of pecans; “jest you wait ontell Minty Cullum an' Loo Slater gits a tight holt! Them gals is ez meek ez lambs--now. But so was Mis' Pinson an' Mis' Trimble in their day an' time, I reckon. I know Becky Leggett was.”

“The studdies'-goin' woman on Jim-Ned,” continued Mr. Pinson, ignoring these interruptions, “is Mis' Cullum. An' yit, Tobe Cullum ain't no safeter than anybody else--considerin' of Sissy Cullum ez a wife!”

Mr. Trimble opened his lips to speak, but shut them again hastily, looking a little scared, and an awkward silence fell on the group.

For the shadow of Mrs. Cullum herself had advanced through the wide door-way, and lay athwart the puncheon floor; and that lady, a large, comfortable-looking, middle-aged person, with a motherly face and a kindly smile, after a momentary survey of the scene before her, walked briskly in. She shook hands across the counter with the storekeeper, and passed the time of day all around.

But Hines, the new clerk, shuffled forward eagerly to wait on her. Bud was a sallow-faced, thin-chested, gawky youth from the States, who had wandered into these parts in search of health and employment. He was not yet used to the somewhat drastic ways of Jim-Ned, and there was a homesick look in his watery blue eyes; he smiled bashfully at her while he measured off calico and weighed sugar, and he followed her out to the horse-block when she had concluded her lengthy spell of shopping.

“You better put on a thicker coat, Bud,” she said, pushing back her sunbonnet and looking down at him from the saddle before she moved off. “You've got a rackety cough. I reckon I'll have to make you some mullein surrup.”

“Oh, Mis' Cullum, don't trouble yourself about me,” Mr. Hines cried, gratefully, a lump rising in his throat as he watched her ride away.

The loungers in the store had strolled out on the porch. “Mis' Cullum cert'n'y is a sister in Zion,” remarked Mr. Trimble, gazing admiringly at her retreating figure.

“M-m-m--y-e-e-s,” admitted Mr. Pinson. “But,” he added, darkly, after a meditative pause, “Sissy Cullum is a wife, an' the women o' Jim-Nez, _ez wives_, air liable to conniptions.”

Mrs. Cullum jogged slowly along the brown, wheel-rifted road which followed the windings of the creek. It was late in November. A brisk little norther was blowing, and the nuts dropping from the pecan-trees in the hollows filled the dusky stillness with a continuous rattling sound. There was a sprinkling of belated cotton-bolls on the stubbly fields to the right of the road; a few ragged sunflowers were still abloom in the fence corners, where the pokeberries were red-ripe on their tall stalks.

“I must lay in some poke-root for Tobe's knee-j'ints,” mused Mrs. Cullum, as she turned into the lane which led to her own door-yard. “Pore Tobe! them j'ints o' his'n is mighty uncertain. Why, Tobe!” she exclaimed, aloud, as her nag stopped and neighed a friendly greeting to the object of her own solicitude, “where air you bound for?”

Mr. Cullum laid an arm across the horse's neck. He was a big, loose-jointed man, with iron-gray hair, square jaws, and keen, steady, dark eyes. “Well, ma,” he said, with a touch of reluctance in his dragging tones, “there's a lodge meetin' at Ebenezer Church to-night, an' I got Mintry to give me my supper early, so's I could go. I--”

“All right, Tobe,” interrupted his wife, cheerfully; “a passel of men prancin' around with a goat oncet a month ain't much harm, I reckon. You go 'long, honey; I'll set up for you.”

“Sissy is that soft an' innercent an' mild,” muttered Mr. Cullum, striding away in the gathering twilight, “that a suckin' baby could wrop her aroun' its finger--much lessen me!”

About ten o'clock the same night Granny Carnes, peeping through a chink in the wall beside her bed, saw a squad of men hurrying afoot down the road from the direction of Ebenezer Church. “Them boys is up to some devil_mint_, Uncle Dick,” she remarked, placidly, to her rheumatic old husband.

Uncle Dick laughed, a soft, toothless laugh. “I ain't begrudgin' 'em the fun,” he sighed, turning on his pillow, “but I wisht to the Lord I was along!”

The “boys” crossed the creek below Bishop's and entered the shinn-oak prairie on the farther side.

“Nance ast mighty particular about the lodge meetin',” observed Newt Pinson to Mr. Cullum, who headed the nocturnal expedition; “she know'd it wa'n't the regular night, an' she suspicioned sompn, Nance did.”

“Sissy didn't,” laughed Tobe, complacently. “Sissy is that soft an' innercent an' mild that a suckin' baby could wrop her aroun' its finger--much lessen me!”

Bud Hines, in the rear with the others, was in a quiver of excitement. He stumbled along, shifting Sid Northcutt's rifle from one shoulder to the other, and listening open-mouthed to Jack Carter's directions. “You know, Bud,” said that young gentleman, gravely, “it ain't every man that gets a chance to go on a snipe-hunt. And if you've got any grit--”

“I've got plenty of it,” interrupted Mr. Hines, vaingloriously. He was, indeed, inwardly--and outwardly--bursting with pride. “I thought they tuk me for a plumb fool,” he kept saying over and over to himself. “They ain't never noticed me before 'cepn to make fun of me; an' all at oncet Mr. Tobe Cullum an' Mr. Newt Pinson ups an' asts me to go on a snipe-hunt, an' even p'oposes to give me the best place in it. An' I've got Mr. Sid's rifle, an' Mr. Jack is tellin' of me how! Lord, I wouldn't of believed it of I wa'n't right here! Won't ma be proud when I write her about it!”

“You've got to whistle all the time,” Jack continued, breaking in upon these blissful reflections; “if you don't, they won't come.”

“Oh, I'll whistle,” declared Bud, jauntily.

Sam Leggett's snigger was dexterously turned into a cough by a punch in his ribs from Mr. Trimble's elbow, and they trudged on in silence until they reached Buck Snort Gully, a deep ravine running from the prairie into a stretch of heavy timber beyond, known as The Rough.

Here they stopped, and Sid Northcutt produced a coarse bag, whose mouth was held open by a barrel hoop, and a tallow candle, which he lighted and handed to the elate hunter. “Now, Bud,” Mr. Cullum said, when the bag was set on the edge of the gully, with its mouth towards the prairie, “you jest scrooch down behind this here sack an' hold the candle. You kin lay the rifle back of you, in case a wild-cat or a cougar prowls up. An' you whistle jest as hard an' as continual as you can, whilse the balance of us beats aroun' an' drives in the snipe. They'll run fer the candle ever' time. An' the minit that sack is full of snipe, all you've got to do is to pull out the prop, an' they're yourn.”

“All right, Mr. Tobe,” responded Bud, squatting down and clutching the candle, his face radiant with expectation.

The crowd scattered, and for a few moments made a noisy pretence of beating the shinn-oak thickets for imaginary snipe.

“Keep a-whisslin', Bud!” Mr. Cullum shouted, from the far edge of the prairie. A prolonged whistle, with trills and flourishes, was the response; and the conspirators, bursting with restrained laughter, plunged into the ford and separated, making each for his own fireside.

Mrs. Cullum was nodding over the hearth-stone when her husband came in. The six girls, from Minty--Jack Carter's buxom sweetheart--to Little Sis, the baby, were long abed. The hands of the wooden clock on the high mantel-shelf pointed to half-past twelve. “Well, pa,” Sissy said, good-humoredly, reaching out for the shovel and beginning to cover up the fire, “you've cavorted pretty late this time! What's the matter?” she added, suspiciously; “you ack like you've been drinkin'!”

For Tobe was rolling about the room in an ecstasy of uproarious mirth.

“I 'ain't teched nary drop, Sissy,” Mr. Cullum returned, “but ever' time I think about that fool Bud Mines a-settin' out yander at Buck Snort, holdin' of a candle, and whisslin' fer snipe to run into that coffee-sack, I--oh Lord!”

He stopped to slap his thighs and roar again. Finally, wiping the tears of enjoyment from his eyes, he related the story of the night's adventure.

“Air you tellin' me, Tobe Cullum,” his wife said, when she had heard him to the end--“air you p'intedly tellin' me that you've took Bud Hines _snipin'_? An' that you've left that sickly, consumpted young man a-settin' out there by hisse'f to catch his death of cold; or maybe git his blood sucked out by a catamount!”

“Shucks, Sissy!” replied Tobe; “nothin' ain't goin' to hurt him. He's sech a derned fool that a catamount wouldn't tech him with a ten-foot pole! An' him a-whisslin' fer them snipe--oh Lord!”

“Tobe Cullum,” said Mrs. Cullum, sternly, “you go saddle Buster this minit and ride out to Buck Snort after Bud Hines.”

“Why, honey--” remonstrated Tobe.

“Don't you honey me,” she interrupted, wrathfully. “You saddle that horse this minit an' fetch that consumpted boy home.”

Tobe ceased to laugh. His big jaws set themselves suddenly square. “I'll do no such fool thing,” he declared, doggedly, “an' have the len'th an' brea'th o' Jim-Ned makin' fun o' me.”

“Very well,” said his wife, with equal determination, “ef you don't go, I will. But I give you fair warnin', Tobe Cullum, that ef you don't go, I'll never speak to you again whilse my head is hot.”

Tobe snorted incredulously; but he sneaked out to the stable after her, and when she had saddled and mounted Buster, he followed her on foot, running noiselessly some distance behind her, keeping her well in sight, and dodging into the deeper shadows when she chanced to look around.

“I didn't know Sissy had so much spunk,” he muttered, panting in her wake at last across the shinn-oak prairie. “Lord, how blazin' mad she is! But shucks! she'll git over it by mornin'.”

Mr. Hines was shivering with cold. He still whistled mechanically, but the hand that held the sputtering candle shook to the trip-hammer thumping of his heart. “The balance of 'em must of got lost,” he thought, listening to the lonesome howl of the wind across the prairie. “It's too c-cold for snipe, I reckon. I wisht I'd staid at home. I c-can't w-whistle any longer,” he whimpered aloud, dropping the candle-end, the last spark of courage oozing out of his nerveless fingers. He stood up, straining his eyes down the black gully and across the dreary waste around him. “Mr. T-o-o-be!” he called, feebly, and the wavering echoes of his voice came back to him mingled with an ominous sound. “Oh, Lordy! what is that?” he stammered. He sank to the ground, grabbing wildly for his gun. “It's a cougar! I hear him trompin' up from the creek! It's a c-cougar! He's c-comin' closter! Oh, Lordy!”

“Hello, Bud,” called Mrs. Cullum, cheerily. She slipped from the saddle as she spoke and caught the half-fainting snipe-hunter in her motherly arms.

“Ain't you 'shamed of yourse'f to let a passel o' no-'count men fool you this-a-way?” she demanded, sternly, when he had somewhat recovered himself. “Get up behind me. I'm goin' to take you to Mis' Bishop's, where you belong. No, don't you dassen to tech any o' that trash!”

Mr. Hines, feeling very humble and abashed, climbed up behind her, and they rode away, leaving the snipe--hunting gear, including Sid Northcutt's valuable rifle, on the edge of the gully.

She left him at Bishop's, charging him to swallow before going to bed a “dost” of the home-brewed chill medicine from a squat bottle she handed him.

“He cert'n'y is weaker'n stump-water,” she murmured, as she turned her horse's head; “but he's sickly an' consumpted, an' he's jest about the age my Bud would of been if he'd lived.”

And thinking of her first-born and only son, who died in babyhood, she rode homeward in the dim chill starlight. Tobe, spent and foot-sore, followed warily, carrying the abandoned rifle.

II

Consternation reigned the “len'th an' brea'th” of Jim-Ned. Mrs. Cullum--placid and easy-going Mrs. Tobe--under the same roof with him, actually had not spoken to her lawful and wedded husband since the snipe-hunt ten days ago come Monday!

“It's plumb scan'lous!” Mrs. Pinson exclaimed, at her daughter's quilting. “I never would of thought sech a thing of Sissy--never!”

“As of the boys of Jim-Ned couldn't have a little innercent fun without Mis' Cullum settin' in jedgment on 'em!” sniffed Mrs. Leggett.

“Shot up, Becky Leggett,” said her mother, severely. “By time you've put up with a man's capers for twenty-five years, like Sissy Cullum have, you'll have the right to talk, an' not before.”

“They say Tobe is wellnigh out'n his mind,” remarked Mrs. Trimble. “Ez for that soft-headed Bud Mines, he have fair fattened on that snipe-hunt. He's gittin' ez sassy an' mischeevous ez Jack Carter hisse'f.”

This last statement was literally true. The victim of Tobe Cullum's disastrous practical joke had become on a sudden case-hardened, as it were. The consumptive pallor had miraculously disappeared from his cheeks and the homesick look from his eyes. He bore the merciless chaffing at Bishop's with devil-may-care good-nature, and he besought Mrs. Cullum, almost with tears in his eyes, to “let up on Mr. Tobe.”

“I was sech a dern fool, Mis' Cullum,” he candidly confessed, “that I don't blame Mr. Tobe for puttin' up a job on me. Besides,” he added, his eyes twinkling shrewdly, “I'm goin' to git even. I'm layin' off to take Jim Belcher, that biggetty drummer from Waco, a-snipin' out Buck Snort next Sat'day night. He's a bigger idjit than I ever was.”

“You ten' to your own business, Bud, an' I'll ten' to mine,” Mrs. Cullum returned, not unkindly. Which business on her part apparently was to make Mr. Cullum miserable by taking no notice of him whatever. The house under her supervision was, as it had always been, a model of neatness; the meals were cooked by her own hands and served with an especial eye to Tobe's comfort; his clothes were washed and ironed, and his white shirt laid out on Sunday mornings, with the accustomed care and regularity. But with these details Mrs. Cullum's wifely attentions ended. She remained absolutely deaf to any remark addressed to her by her husband, looking through and beyond him when he was present with a steady, unseeing gaze, which was, to say the least, exasperating. All necessary communication with him was carried on by means of the children. “Minty,” she would say at the breakfast-table, “ask your pa if he wants another cup of coffee”; or at night, “Temp'unce, tell your pa that Buster has shed a shoe”; or, “Sue, does your pa know where them well-grabs is?” et caetera, et caetera.

The demoralized household huddled, so to speak, between the opposing camps, frightened and unhappy, and things were altogether in a bad way.

To make matters worse, Miss Minty Cullum, following her mother's example, took high and mighty ground with Jack Carter, dismissing that gentleman with a promptness and coolness which left him wellnigh dumb with amazement.

“Lord, Minty!” he gasped. “Why, I was taken snipe-hunting myself not more'n five years ago. I--”

“I didn't know you were such a fool, Jack Carter,” interrupted his sweetheart, with a toss of her pretty head; “that settles it!” and she slammed the door in his face.

Matters were at such a pass finally that Mr. Skaggs, the circuit-rider, when he came to preach, the third Sunday in the month, at Ebenezer Church, deemed it his duty to remonstrate and pray with Sister Cullum at her own house. She listened to his exhortations in grim silence, and knelt without a word when he summoned her to wrestle before the Throne of Grace. “Lord,” he concluded, after a long and powerful summing up of the erring sister's misdeeds, “Thou knowest that she is travelling the broad and flowery road to destruction. Show her the evil of her ways, and warn her to flee from the wrath to come.”

He arose from his knees with a look of satisfaction on his face, which changed to one of chagrin when he saw Sister Cullum's chair empty, and Sister Cullum herself out in the backyard tranquilly and silently feeding her hens.

“She shore did flee from the wrath to come, Sissy did,” chuckled Granny Carnes, when this episode reached her ears.

As for Tobe, he bore himself in the early days of his affliction in a jaunty debonair fashion, affecting a sprightliness which did not deceive his cronies at Bishop's. In time, however, finding all his attempts at reconciliation with Sissy vain, he became uneasy, and almost as silent as herself, then morose and irritable, and finally black and thunderous.

“He's that wore upon that nobody dassent to go anigh him,” said Mrs. Pinson, solemnly. “An' no wonder! Fer of all the conniptions that ever struck the women o' Jim-Ned, _ez wives_, Sissy Cullum's conniptions air the outbeatenes'.”

But human endurance has its limits. Mr. Cullum's reached his at the supper-table one night about three weeks after the beginning of his discipline. He had been ploughing all day, and brooding, presumably, over his tribulations, and there was a techy look in his dark eyes as he seated himself at the foot of the well-spread table, presided over by Mrs. Cullum, impassive and dumb as usual. The six girls were ranged on either side.

“Well, ma,” began Tobe, with assumed gayety, turning up his plate, “what for a day have you had?”

Sissy looked through and beyond him with fixed, unresponsive gaze, and said never a word.

Then, as Mr. Cullum afterward said, “Ole Satan swep' an' garnish_eed_ him an' tuk possession of him.” He seized the heavy teacup in front of him and hurled it at his unsuspecting spouse; she gasped, paling slightly, and dodged. The missile, striking the brick chimney-jamb behind her, crashed and fell shivering into fragments on the hearth. The saucer followed. Then, Tobe's spirits rising, plate after plate hurtled across the table; the air fairly bristled with flying crockery. Mrs. Cullum, after the first shock of surprise, continued calmly to eat her supper, moving her head from right to left or ducking to avoid an unusually well-aimed projectile.

Little Sis scrambled down from her high chair at the first hint of hostilities, and dived, screaming, under the table; the others remained in their places, half paralyzed with terror.

In less time than it takes to tell it, Mr. Cullum, reaching out his long arms, had cleared half the board of its stone and glass ware. Finally he laid a savage hand upon a small, old-fashioned blue pitcher left standing alone in a wide waste of table-cloth.

At this Sissy surrendered unconditionally. “Oh, Tobe, fer Gawd's sake!” she cried, throwing out her hands and quivering from head to foot. “I give in! I give in! _Don't_ break the little blue-chiny pitcher! You fetched it to me the day little Bud was born! An' he drunk out'n it jest afore he died! Fer Gawd's sake, Tobe, honey! I give in!”

Tobe set down the pitcher as gingerly as if it had been a soap-bubble. Then, with a whoop which fairly lifted the roof from the cabin, he cleared the intervening space between them and caught his wife in his arms.

Minty, with ready tact, dragged Little Sis from under the table, and driving the rest of the flock before her, fled the room and shut the door behind her. On the dark porch she ran plump upon Jack Carter.

“Why, Jack!” she cried, with her tear-wet face tucked before she knew it against his breast, “what are you doing here?”

“Oh, just hanging around,” grinned Mr. Carter.

“Gawd be praised!” roared Tobe, inside the house.

“Amen!” responded Jack, outside.

“An' Tobe Cullum,” announced Joe Trimble at Bishop's the next day, “have ordered up the fines' set o' shiny in Waco fer Sissy.”

“It beats _me_,” said Newt Pinson; “but I allers did say that the women o' Jim-Ned, _ez wives_, air the outbeatenes' critters in creation!”

The Courtship of Colonel Bill

BY J. J. EAKINS

It was early morning in the Bluegrass. The triumphant sun was driving the white mist before it from wood and rolling meadow-land, rousing the drowsy cattle from their tranquil dreams and quickening into fuller life all the inhabitants of that favored region, from the warlike woodpecker with his head of flame high up in the naked tree-top to the timid ground-squirrel flitting along the graystone fences. It glorified with splendid impartiality the apple blossoms in the orchards and the vagabond blackberry bushes blooming by the roadside; and then, with many a mile of smiling pastures in its victorious wake, it burst over the low rampart of stable roofs encircling the old Lexington race-course, and, after a hasty glimpse at the horses speeding around the track and the black boys singing and slouching from stall to stall with buckets of water on their heads, it rushed impetuously into an old-fashioned, deep-waisted family barouche beside one of the stables, and shone full upon a slender, girlish figure within. It wasted no time upon a purple-faced old gentleman beside her, nor upon two young gentlemen on the seat opposite, but rested with bold and ardent admiration upon the young girl's face, touching her cheeks with a color as delicate as the apple blossoms in the orchards, and weaving into her rich brown hair the red gold of its own beams.

The picture was so dazzling and altogether so unprecedented that Colonel Bill Jarvis, the young owner of the stable, who had come swinging around the corner, whistling a lively tune, his hat thrown back on his head, and who had almost run plump into the carriage, stopped abruptly and stood staring. He was roused to a realizing sense of his position by Major Cicero Johnson, editor of the Lexington _Chronicle_ and president of the association, who was standing beside the barouche, saying, with that courtliness of manner and amplitude of rhetoric which made him a fixture in the legislative halls at Frankfort: “Colonel Bill, I want to present you to General Thomas Anderson Braxton, the hero of two wars, of whom as a Kentuckian you must be proud, and his sons Matt and Jack, and his daughter, Miss Sue, the Flower of the Blue-grass. Ladies and gentlemen,” he continued, with an oratorical wave of his hand towards the Colonel, who had bowed gravely to each person in turn to whom he was introduced, “this is my friend Colonel Bill Jarvis, the finest horseman and the most gallant young turfman between the Ohio River and the Gulf of Mexico.”

While the Major was speaking, Colonel Bill's eyes wandered from the two young gentlemen on the front seat to the purple-faced old General on the rear seat, and then rested on Miss Braxton. Her eyes met his, and she smiled. It was such a pleasant, gracious, encouraging smile, and there was so much kindliness in the depths of the soft brown eyes, that the Colonel was reassured at once.

“We have come to disturb you at this unearthly hour,” said Miss Braxton, apologetically, “because I wanted to see the horses at their work, and father and my brothers were good enough to come with me.”

Colonel Bill explained that his horses had finished their morning exercise, but that it would afford him great pleasure to show them in their stalls. Miss Braxton was sure that they were putting him to a great deal of trouble, and she was also convinced that to see horses in their stalls must be delightful; so presently the party was marching along under the shed, looking at the calm-eyed thoroughbreds in their narrow little homes, the Colonel and Miss Braxton leading the way.

With the wisdom of her sex, Miss Braxton concealed her lack of special knowledge by a generous general enthusiasm which captivated her simple-hearted host.

“And that is really Beau Brummel!” she cried, with sparkling eyes, pointing to a splendid deep-chested animal, who was regarding them with mild curiosity. “And that is Queen of Sheba next to him! What lovely heads they have, and how very proud you must be to own them!” One would have thought her days and nights had been given to a study of these two thoroughbreds.

“They are the best long-distance horses in the country,” said the Colonel, flushing with pleasure. And then, in reply to her eager questioning, he gave their pedigrees and performances, all their battles and victories, in detail--a list as long and glorious as the triumphs of Napoleon, and perhaps as useful. At each stall she had fresh questions to ask. Her brothers, with an eye to the coming meeting, listened eagerly to the Colonel's answers, while the Major and the General, lagging behind, discussed affairs of state. At last the horses were all seen; everybody shook hands with the Colonel and thanked him, the General with great pompousness, and Miss Braxton with a smile, and a hope that she might see him during the meeting; and the old barouche went lumbering away down the road, until it presently buried itself, like a monstrous cuttlefish, in a cloud of its own making.

Colonel Bill looked after it with a pleased expression on his face, and pulling his tawny mustache reflectively, muttered to himself with true masculine acuteness, “She knew as much about my horses as I did myself.”

* * * * *

The great Lexington meeting was in the full tide of its success. Peach-cheeked, bright-eyed Blue-grass girls, and their big-boned, deep-chested admirers, riding and driving in couples and parties, filled all the white, dusty tumpikes leading to the race-course, and made gay the quaint old Lexington streets. The grand-stand echoed with their merriment, and they cheered home the horses with an enthusiasm seen nowhere else in the world.