"You are a wise man," said the commanding officer as the wagon toiled along. "You don't begin to plead your innocence."
"Maybe I haven't any. What is your name?"
"Foster."
"It may come my way to do you a favor, Mr. Foster. You have been kind to me. But why do we turn up here?"
"To pick up one Laz Spencer, witness."
"One Laz Spencer," mused the old man. "It would be a tug of nature to have two. But I'm sorry you are goin' to take him. Let him go and I'll agree to deliver the testimony expected of him."
"No, that can't be. We have our orders."
Out by the fence and with laborious stroke Laz was cutting wood. Leaving off his work as the wagon drew near he gazed with hand-shaded eye, and recognizing Jasper, threw down his axe and began to scramble over the fence, but one of the men fired a shot to scare him and he dropped back,took off his hat, scratched his head and remarked: "Sorter 'pears like you got me. Helloa, Jasper. Didn't know folks war a comin' around a takin' you a ridin'."
"Get up into the wagon," Foster commanded.
"Yes, that's what I 'lowed I'd do. But let me go into the house an' put on some more duds if you air goin' to take me down into society."
"Go with him, Nick," said Foster, and the deputy leaped to the ground.
Old Mrs. Spencer came to the door and with her tangish tongue larrupped the men, called them cowards, dogs; and appealing to Jasper asked why he didn't kill them as his forefathers would have done. She swore that all spirit had gone out of the country.
"I've moulded bullets to kill better men than you," she exclaimed. "Not one of you is worth an ounce of lead; an' you tell them government fellers down there that thinks themselves so smart that if they tetch a hair on my boy's head, I'll come down there and murder the whole kit an' b'ilin' of them. Go on now, Laz, an' show 'em that you ain't afeared."
"Got rid of her easy," said Foster, when the old woman turned back into the house; and Laz, overhearing him as he climbed into the wagon drawled out a reply:
"Don't take long for anybody to git rid of her."
She waved him a good-bye from the window, and humped upon a seat beside Jasper, Laz was silent for some time, and then he inquired if there were any news stirring.
"No. Anythin' goin' on round here?"
"Nothin' wu'th dividin' 'cept Mose Blake fell into the river yistidy an' was drownded."
"What, you don't tell me so?" the old man exclaimed.
"Yes, couldn't swim a lick atter he struck the water an thar wan't no use in tryin' befo' he struck."
"Powerful sorry to hear it," said Jasper. "Good feller—worst habit of his was always tryin' to talk when he couldn't."
"Yep. But he ain't tryin' of it now."
"I am also sorry he's dead," said Foster. "We were going to take him down to town with us."
"No use to take him now," Laz replied; and asilence fell, broken only when they turned back into the highway, when the lout of a driver, impressed in the neighborhood, remarked to Laz:
"I reckon you air as about as big a liar as they kin set up. Here comes Mose Blake now."
"Hah!" exclaimed Foster. "A good backwoods trick. Round him up, boys."
The stutterer was dressed in his best, on his way to pay stammering court to a girl. He strove to explain that he couldn't go with them, but the officers laughed at his attempts to talk, compelled him to get in, and drove on.
At night they camped near a spring, beneath a walnut tree, the officers standing turn about while the prisoners slept; and early the next morning they resumed their rumbling journey.
As they were now out of the neighborhood range of the two boys, everything began to possess a keen interest for them, the houses, cattle and even the dogs that ran along the yard fences to bark at the wagon. Just before sunset they saw from afar the capitol dome, the mausoleum of Stricklin, who built many state houses, constructing in each one a tombfor himself. Years had passed since Jasper, a battle-smoked and bleeding soldier, had trod up to that lofty pile of rock to receive his discharge from the ranks; and desolate, with no drum and no fife to march back to his wretched home. To him the scene was heart-heavy with memories, but to the boys it was the first glimpse of that great and mysterious life lying far beyond their native hills.
"I reckon the man that lives in thar could go to a sale up whar we live an' buy every wagin an' team on the place," said Laz, pointing toward the fading state-house, and Mose replied:
"Reckon h—h—h—he could t—t—t—talk all day without a h—h—hitch."
"Whar do we sleep to-night, with some of the neighbors?" Laz inquired, and Foster laughed.
"You sleep," said he, with an old joke, "in a house that will keep the dogs from coming in and biting you."
"You mean the jail?"
"Yes, that's what I mean. We'll have to keep you close till we get through with you."
"Is that the law?"
"Yes, as we understand it."
"Wall, then, I may not have to shoot you the fust time I meet you in the big road. Got a good artickle of pie thar in the kitchin?"
"You shall have all the pie you want."
Then Mose began: "Ef t—t—t—that's the case you m—m—m—mout drive a l—l—little faster. An' p—p—p—pound cake?"
"Yes, you may have some of that, too."
"Then I'm g—g—g—glad I c—c—come. Never had as m—m—much p—p—pound cake as I co—could eat b—b—but once, an' then I staid all night with a feller w—w—w—when his mammy w—w—wan't at home."
"Am I to be locked up?" the old man asked.
"Yes, Mr. Starbuck."
The old fellow groaned and in the dusk shrank down, little in his humiliation.
"Sometimes," he said, "folks have to stay in there a good while before they air fotch to trial. Do you think you kin fix it so they kin have it over with my case as soon as possible?"
"Yes, we'll try to rush you through."
"Through to where—to where?" the old man muttered to himself.
They passed a theatre as the audience was pouring out, from under the Hamlet spell of Booth, and Laz remarked: "Feller that preached in thar to-night must be as long-winded as our man Fetterson; but I'll bet Old Fetter could outswop him in a hoss trade."
"That's a theatre," Foster informed him, and after musing for a time he said:
"Place whar they swollow knives, I reckon. Seed a feller do that at a school-house one night, an' I thought he'd killed hisse'f, but he spit it out jest like a stick of molasses candy. Wall, suh, I never seed as many lanterns hung up befo'. An' I want to tell you they've got good roads through this place. What's that feller doin' over thar with that crowd about him?"
"Preaching," Foster answered.
"Wall, he couldn't call up mourners—the wagins would run over 'em. What do you think of all this, Jasper?"
"Who, me?" the old man replied as if startled out of a dream, "I wasn't thinkin' of it—didn't see it."
"I don't reckon," said Laz, "that all these folks knows we air goin' to jail."
Old Jasper shook as if with a chill. "We know it, an' that's enough," he replied.
The wagon, directed by Foster, turned into a darker street, into an alley, and drew up in front of a building black in the dusk. The old man's legs were so stiffened that they had to help him out and rheumatically he walked through the portals of stone-walled disgrace. Into a cell they turned him, and when the bolt grated, he leaped from the rock beneath his feet, leaped as he had when he struck Peters; and then into a corner he sank with a groan.
The two boys were given the liberty of a long corridor, and up and down they walked, light of foot, in reverence for the dejected man behind the bars.
Old Mrs. Barker, true to instinct, hastened to put on her saddest bonnet, kept in an old chest at the demand of funerals, and with all speed set out for the afflicted home. Margaret was feeding the chickens when this consoling stimulator of grief arrived, and what little sun was left, immediately went down.
Beneath the mantle-piece there was no blaze, the weather being hot, so they could not sit down "and weep the fire out," but they could hover over old ashes and weep them wet. The real griefs in old Mrs. Barker's life had been but few. It was a mercy-shaft that had shot Old Barker down; rheumatic cripple, he had beaten her with his crutch, and at his death she could not from her rebellious eye wring out a tear. No offspring had she over whose death to mourn, and now she was put to for a companion piece to sorrow. But her mind flew back to a time when there died a man whom she could have loved, and her tears came full with thememory of a blissful morning when at church he had tied her horse and walked with her to the door. She had forgotten his name, if indeed she had ever been possessed of it, but she spoke of him as "he" as fast as her tears were falling.
"Ah, Lord, Sister Starbuck, I don't want to question the ways of Providence, but it do appear that we have staid here too long. I ought to have been taken when he left."
"You mean Barker, Sister?"
"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 taketo 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 Jasperhaslaid 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 mefur—'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, puttysoon 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, weair 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 graymare 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."
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 whenMargaret, 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."
"Here, give me yo' hand an' I'll help you up. Wait, I'll make the seat soft with this coat. Now we're all right. An' I've got a baked turkey leg an' some mighty fine blackberry cordial—your'n."
She thanked him, and when she had eaten and drunk, he began to apologize for his slowness in permitting her to ride with him.
"Ma'm, I didn't know but you mout be one these here women preachers. One of 'em come up intomy neighborhood an' it seemed that befo' she come nature was a smilin' like she was waitin' fur her sweetheart. Well, me an' my wife went to hear her preach, an' she talked right well—never hearn a woman talk better—an' she cotch the folks. Worse than that, she cotch my wife an' turned my home into a hell, an' nature shut her eyes an' all war dark fur me. Nothin' would do my wife, but she must go out an' preach too. I begged her—told her that I loved her better than I did forty gospels, an' I did; but she would go. I told her not to come back—but one night about three months atterward, when it was a pourin' down rain, an' my little child was a cryin', there come a knock on the door, an'—an' I know'd. I opened it an' there she was an' as I was a huggin' of her, she says, 'Jeff, I b'l'eve a woman's duty is at home. Christ was a man.' Ma'm, I kin haul you all the way down there. I know where the jail is—I've been in there—an' I'll take you right straight to it."
"What did they take you there for?"
"It war a funny thing. I went up in the hill country, fur up from my home, an' the man what Istopped with was a maker of licker—an' atter dark I went with him to his still an' helped him fetch some wood for the fire; an' jest as I flung down a turn, bang, bang, an' here was the government men. Well, they tuck us down, an' of course I know'd I'd git outen it for I hadn't made no licker, but, bless you, the jedge sent me to the penitentiary for a year; an' ever sense then my wife she 'lows that I'm afeared to fetch up enough wood at home. Ain't a cryin', air you' ma'm?"
"They air goin' to hang Jasper," she moaned.
"You don't mean Jasper Starbuck. Well, I'll be blamed," he added, reading her answer in her tear-streaming eyes. "I hope not, ma'm. Did you ever hear him say anythin' about Jeff Waters? Mebby not, fur he never ricollecks sich things. But he toted me off the field at Shiloh when the bullets was like a swarm of bees. That's how I come to have this," he said, and raising his left leg, hit it a resounding whack with the hickory staff of his whip. "Timber, ma'm."
That night they were given shelter at a farmer's house, and were on their journey again by the rising of the sun, but shortly afterward the cart ran into a rut and one of the wheels was broken. Margaret petulantly wondered if the Lord were trying to keep her from reaching Nashville, and Jeff Waters replied:
"Well, if He tries right hard, He'll hold you back all right."
In the woods he cut a pole, braced his axletree, and dragged the cart four miles to a blacksmith's shop, and two hours afterward, having lost much time precious to the woman, they were again jogging along the road. They put up at a tavern at night, Jeff sleeping in his cart under a shed, explaining that he was now close enough to town to warrant such precaution against thievery.
"I don't know why there air mo' thieves in town than in the country," he said, and Margaret challenged his admiration and aroused his surprise by remarking:
"I reckon it's because there air mo' folks in town."
He told her that she was gifted with fine reason and that the one saying alone was more than enough to pay her passage.
As they drew nearer to town she began to grow nervous, but, with her woman's tact, exhibited no astonishment at what she saw; nor did she, after entering a busy street, show that she had ever been accustomed to a scene less lively. They drove straightway to the jail, and when tremulously she inquired for Jasper, they told her that he was not there.
In the mountains Tom and Lou were sojourning in a little town, when by chance they heard of the old man's arrest. At first Lou was overcome with alarm and grief, but her husband charmed her back to enthusiasm and to smiles.
"Why," said he, "they will take him before my father, and as soon as I get there the governor will turn him loose—be tickled to do it."
"But they will take him to jail, won't they?"
"Mebby, if they don't take him up home. By this time they've found out all about him. We'll drive across the country, get on a railroad train and be there in a jiffy."
Upon the case of the illicit distiller Judge Elliott had ever sat with utmost severity. As a colonel of cavalry he had distinguished himself. His left sleeve was empty. Lukewarm friends said that he was harsh and unforgiving. His intimates pointed to the fact that children were fond of him.
One morning he came into the chambers adjoining the court-room and for a long time sat musing at his desk. Capt. Johnson, U. S. Marshal, and Foster, deputy, came in shortly afterward, the captain taking a seat at his desk and Foster standing like a sentinel at the closed door. The captain, after examining a number of papers, glancing round from time to time as if to note whether or not the Judge had come out of his abstraction, remarked to Foster:
"How's your barometer? Or should I call it thermometer?"
"Both, I guess," Foster replied. "I have two."
He meant old wounds, foretellers of weather whims.
"Are we going to have rain, Foster?"
"Don't know—I feel fair weather."
"My instrument may be a little acuter than yours. Mine says rain."
The Judge looked up. "Rain by all means," said he; and then after a time the Captain remarked:
"Doesn't appear that you are going to have much of a vacation, Judge."
"That's a fact, and to one I had been looking forward. I am tired of this everlasting hum-drum, listening to false statements and prying into the criminal weaknesses of other men. The Lord knows that we have weaknesses enough of our own. But I don't see any immediate relief. The criminal docket precludes any adjournment. And I have a civil case under advisement. My son Tom is married. And so is my sister."
"What!" exclaimed the Marshal. "When did all this occur?"
From his pocket the Judge took a letter. "Tom and my sister went up into the mountains and—this letter tells all I know about it, and it is little enough:
'Dear Father: I have married a mountain girl and auntie has married her cousin, a preacher, but a good fellow all the same. I called it a double stroke of lightning, but auntie said it was perfume stealing down from the wild vines. For me it wasn't anything that came stealing—but with a jump. As soon as I saw her I said to myself, 'wow, I'm gone.' You have always chided me for being what you called too brazen with girls, but this girl scared me in a minute. It's a fact, but I said to myself, 'Old fellow, what's the matter with your knees?' I made up my mind to win her if I could, but she kept me cowed, not by what she said, for she didn't say much, but by what she looked. Auntie's husband's preaching knocks anything I ever heard—that is, I hear it does, for he hasn't preached for us yet. I would have written to you sooner, but the creek rose suddenly and the mail couldn't get over. When I come home I will offer my wife as a plea for pardon, and if you don't grant it I will appeal from your decision. To-day we go on higher up the mountains where we can stand on tip-toe (auntie's idea) and touch the honey-moon. She and Jim ain't with us at present, having gone over to his preaching grounds, fifteen miles from here. We are in a little town that looks like stage scenery. Haven't seen but one fellow that looked like he could box. If my wife don't object, I may try him a few rounds. If I can get within range I may draw on you, as I am about broke. Yours, Tom.'"
'Dear Father: I have married a mountain girl and auntie has married her cousin, a preacher, but a good fellow all the same. I called it a double stroke of lightning, but auntie said it was perfume stealing down from the wild vines. For me it wasn't anything that came stealing—but with a jump. As soon as I saw her I said to myself, 'wow, I'm gone.' You have always chided me for being what you called too brazen with girls, but this girl scared me in a minute. It's a fact, but I said to myself, 'Old fellow, what's the matter with your knees?' I made up my mind to win her if I could, but she kept me cowed, not by what she said, for she didn't say much, but by what she looked. Auntie's husband's preaching knocks anything I ever heard—that is, I hear it does, for he hasn't preached for us yet. I would have written to you sooner, but the creek rose suddenly and the mail couldn't get over. When I come home I will offer my wife as a plea for pardon, and if you don't grant it I will appeal from your decision. To-day we go on higher up the mountains where we can stand on tip-toe (auntie's idea) and touch the honey-moon. She and Jim ain't with us at present, having gone over to his preaching grounds, fifteen miles from here. We are in a little town that looks like stage scenery. Haven't seen but one fellow that looked like he could box. If my wife don't object, I may try him a few rounds. If I can get within range I may draw on you, as I am about broke. Yours, Tom.'"
The Judge slowly folded the letter, and putting it into his pocket, remarked: "The rascal doesn't even tell her name."
"Well," smilingly replied the Marshal, "her name is Elliott now, you know."
"Yes," the Judge mused, "so it would seem. Draw on me if he gets within range. Oh, he'llget the range all right. I have never known him to fail."
"By the way, Judge, have you decided to take up the case of that old man Starbuck to-day? He is in there, ready."
"Yes. I have heard that he was a gallant soldier in the Union army, and I have decided to examine him here in chambers. I wish to save him every possible humiliation. And I don't know but it might be well to examine those witnesses here, informally. Mr. Foster, bring in those witnesses."
Foster opened the door, stepped out into the corridor, and with a motion of his hand, commanded: "This way, you two."
And into the room came Laz and Mose. The Judge, who at the time was looking over a paper, paid no attention to them as they entered. Laz took off his hat and stood near the desk, staring at him. Nearer the Marshal stood Mose, with his hat on. The Marshal motioned for Mose to take off his hat and the stammerer made similar motions at the Marshal, as if answering a flirtation. The Marshal made a sign to Foster, who, while Mose was looking in another direction, advanced and took off his hat. Mose wheeled about, snatched his hat, and, recognizing Foster, shook hands with him. Then he shook hands with the Marshal, turned and walked over toward the Judge, who was still absorbed in his paper.
"Judge," said the Marshal, "these are the witnesses."
Mose stretched forth his hand, and with a sharp pencil rap upon the desk, the Judge commanded: "Stand where you are."
"IF YOU AIR THE JEDGE, I AM SORTER DISERP'INTED IN YOU.""IF YOU AIR THE JEDGE, I AM SORTER DISERP'INTED IN YOU."
"If you air the Jedge," said Laz, gazing intently, "I am sorter diserp'inted in you. I thought a United States Jedge must be about eight feet high."
"Well, never mind what you thought. You are here to tell what you know. Here, you," he added, speaking to Mose, "what is your name?"
"M—M—M—M—M—M—"
"Well, never mind. Where do you live?"
"Well, if y—y—y—y—you don't know a feller's n—n—n—name it don't m—m—m—make no d—d—d—diffunce whar he lives, d—d—d—does it?"
Laz struck in. "He won't tell you a lie, Jedge. He won't have time."
Rap, rap, at Laz.
"Never mind, sir. I will attend to you presently. You," he said, speaking to Mose. "Did you ever see Mr. Starbuck make whiskey?"
"Well, I've seed him m—m—m—m—make l—l—l—lasses."
The Judge grew impatient. "Do you know why you are here?"
"B—b—b—b—because they c—c—c—c—cotch me."
"No nonsense, sir."
"P—p—p—p—pap he 'lows I ain't g—g—g—got no sense of any s—s—s—sort, much."
The Judge sighed. "When you go into the court-room, do you think you can understand the nature of an oath?"
"W—w—w—well, I ought to. I've b—b—b—been c—c—cussed enough."
And Laz broke in: "He don't cuss hisse'f, Jedge, but he knows good cussin' when he hears it."
The Judge turned upon him. "Will you please keep quiet? I am striving to deal kindly with you, and I hope you will not lose sight of that fact." Hespoke to Mose: "How far do you live from Mr. Starbuck's place?"
"W—w—w—well, you can't tell h—h—how far it is, the r—r—road's so crooked."
"Captain," said the Judge, "this boy should not have been brought down here. Let him stand aside. Over here," he said to Laz, motioning; and Laz stepped forward as if measuring the distance.
"About here, Jedge?"
Rap, rap!
"Have you ever seen Mr. Starbuck make whisky?"
"I've seed him grind co'n."
"And haven't you seen him boil the corn after it was ground into meal?"
"Yes, suh. They cook it up that way for the hounds. Thar's a feller up our way that's got mo' than a hundred hounds. They call him hound poor."
Rap, rap, rap!
"Let me tell you about this feller, Jedge. It may have some bearin's on the matter in hand. This here feller goes down to the store, kep' by the post-master, once a week an' swops off a hound for a pint o' licker. One day he tuck down the biggest houndyou ever seed an' when the store-keeper had give him the pint of licker this here feller looks at his hound an' says, 'What! don't I git nothin' back—no change?' An' the store-keeper give him back a rat tarrier an' a bull pup."
In spite of himself the Judge ducked his head and laughed, and the Marshal shook his sides. But the outburst of merriment was soon over. "That is all very interesting as a character study, but we are not here to study characters, but to get at facts."
Mose had moved around and was standing near the corner of the Judge's desk. "I w—w—w—wish I could talk t—t—t—thatter way."
"Mr. Foster, take this boy out."
Foster came forward and Mose seized his hand as if meeting an old acquaintance after the lapse of many years.
The Judge spoke to Laz: "When you go in under oath you'll have to be more careful. Your drollery might send you to jail. You may go now."
As Laz turned to go he spied on the Judge's desk a fancifully wrought ink-stand. Slowly moving toward the desk and craning his neck he took up theink-stand, stroked it and said: "Jedge, I'd like to borry this thing. Fetch it back in a month or so."
"Put it down and get out. Wait a moment."
"Told me to get out."
Rap, rap!
"Hold yourself in readiness to appear before the court. Now you may go."
But he hesitated. "Hope you ain't miffed at me, Jedge, for sayin' I war sorter diserpp'inted in you. I didn't mean no harm; an' say' Jedge, you ask Old Jasper an' he'll tell you whuther he's made licker. He ain't one of the sort that tells a lie, Jedge, an' I hope you'll do the best you kin fur him; an' if you have to send him to the penitentiary I hope you'll let me take half the time. I'd like to do that much fur him. As fur me, Jedge, it don't make much diffunce whuther I'm locked up or not. An' say, if it ain't stretchin' a p'int, I'll take it all, but don't let him know how it come about."
The Judge looked at him and his eye was not hard. "Go on, young man. You don't know where you got that spirit of self-sacrifice—you can never know; but I appreciate it. Go on, young man."
"The old man may tell the truth," said the Judge. "Mr. Foster, have him brought in."
Foster stepped to a side door, opened it, looked in and beckoned. He stood aside and old Jasper walked into the room.
"Judge," said the Marshal, "this is the prisoner."
"Where is the Jedge?" Jasper inquired, looking about.
"This is Judge Elliott," the Marshal answered, motioning.
"Jedge Elliott!"
"Yes, I am Judge Elliott."
He stood looking straight at the Judge. "Then, suh, I can't say that I'm glad to meet you."
"Nor I to meet you, under such circumstances, Mr. Starbuck. I am indeed sorry to see so venerable a looking man brought here on a charge so serious. And I request from you a straightforward statement."
Old Jasper turned toward Foster. "I can't talk while he's in here, Jedge. He seed me in jail and I can't talk befo' no man that has seed me there."
"You needn't hesitate to speak within his hearing, Mr. Starbuck. He was a soldier, too."
"What, all soldiers? Then I have been tuck into camp."
"But not into the camp of your enemies. At a time when your state took up arms against the Federal government, you stepped forth to fight for the Union, and it is in consideration of this fact that I grant to you an examination here in chambers, to save you every possible humiliation. And now I ask you—"
"Jedge, I didn't come here to beg."
"I understand that. I simply request a straightforward statement."
"If you will let me give it in my own way, Jedge, you shall have it."
"In your own way, Mr. Starbuck. Proceed."
"Well, then, I'll begin at the beginnin'. Jedge, I live away up in the hills. My grandaddy settled there an' cleared off his field on a hill-side wherethe sun struck it a slantin' an' raised his co'n an' made his licker an' the gover'ment never said a word. One day him an' his two sons was a workin' in the field an' all of a suddent they heard a drum and fife over in the road. The boys looked with big eyes an' the old man clim' up on the fence and shouted, 'whut's the matter here?' and a man with red, white an' blue ribbons on his arm cried out, 'Old Andy Jackson needs soldiers to go to New Orleans.' An' my grandaddy he turns roun' to the youngsters an' says, 'Come on boys.' They went, suh, an' one of them boys he didn't come back. Wall, the years passed an' my daddy an' my oldest brother was a workin' in that same field, a raisin' of his co'n an' a makin' of his licker—an' mind you the gover'ment never had opened its chops, fur it was good licker—an' all at once jest like years befo' there came a beatin' of drums an' a blowin' of fifes over in the road. An' my daddy clim' up on the fence an' says, 'Whut's the matter now?' An' a man tuck a fife outen his mouth an' shouts, 'Mexico has trod on us an' we need soldiers.' An' my daddy turns, he does, an'says to my brother, 'Come on Bob.' They went, Jedge, an' Bob he didn't come back. Am I a makin' it too long?"
"No, Mr. Starbuck, proceed."
"Do it sound like I'm a beggin'?"
"No" said the Judge, "it is the rude epic of my country. Go on."
"I thank you, suh. Well, finally, my time come. I married a game little woman an' we had two of as fine boys as the world ever seen. I raised my co'n on that same hill-side an' made my licker an' the government never said a word. An' when me an' them boys was a workin' up there we could hear that little woman a singin' down at the house—a singin' the songs of glory she had hearn the old soldiers sing. Well, one day me an' them boys—twin boys, Jedge,—was a hoein' the co'n in the field. I ricolleck it jest as well as if it was yistidy. An' atter all these years I can hear that song a comin' up from the house. An' then—then come that same thrillin' noise, the beatin' of drums an' a blowin' of fifes. We clim' up on the fence, jest like my granddaddy an' my daddy had done, an' I criedout, 'Whut's the trouble now?' The drums stopped, an' one of the men raised his flag up high an' shouted, 'The country is a splittin' up an' the Union needs soldiers.' An' I says, 'Come on, boys.' I can look back now, Jedge, an' see that little woman a standin' under a tree a wavin' us a good-bye with an old flag. I can see her yit. Jedge, we went down into the fiery furnace. We seed the flag droop an' fall, an' then—then rise in victory. Yes, I seed it. But my boys—my boys that was like picturs in the book—they was left at Gettysberg. An' when that po' little woman hearn that they wan't comin' back, she pined away an' died—an' when I come home a bleedin', there was a grave under the tree where we had seed her a standin' jest befo' we went down beyant the hill. I—"
"Mr. Starbuck—"
"Wait a minit, Jedge, I ain't through yit. What did I know how to do when I got back to work? What had my grandaddy an' my daddy done? I went to raisin' of my co'n an' a makin' of my licker, an' still the gover'ment never said a word. But atter a while I hearn it was ag'in the law, an' I says,'me an' all my folks have been a sheddin' of our blood for our country, an' some of them fellers that makes the laws never done that.' But I stopped sellin' the licker. I made it whenever I wanted to, somehow jest for a old time's sake, an' I sent it to sick folks—sent some of it to our ripresentative in Congress, right into the heart of the gover'ment an' not a word was said."
"Old man—"
"I ain't quite through yit, Jedge. The neighbors knowd that I made licker when I wanted to an' they never said nuthin', but lately a scoundrel took it into his head to give me trouble. Fust he wanted to marry my daughter an' then he threatened that unless I'd give him a thousand dollars—but, Jedge, I'd seen him in hell fust!"
"You must not use such language, Mr. Starbuck. You are before the law."
"Excuse me, suh, excuse me. Wall, an' they brought me down here, an' here I am. That's all, Jedge."
The Judge arose. "Old man, you are a patriot,from a race of patriots, and in my heart, I can hardly—"
There came a rap at the door. Foster opened it and Margaret rushed into the room.
"Jasper!" she cried, running to him.
He put his arm about her. "Margaret, how did you get away down here?"
"Mr. Starbuck," the Judge began, but with a pleading gesture the old man cut him off. "Please don't say nothin' mo' while she's in here."