Tales of the Home Folks in Peace and War/The Cause of the Difficulty
THE CAUSE OF THE DIFFICULTY
If you are a reader of the newspapers you saw the account they printed the other day in regard to the murder of a young woman by Toog Parmalee, in the neighborhood of "Hatcher's Ford." You could n't have missed it. The night editors dished it up as a great sensation, spreading it out under startling black headlines.
The account said that two young ladies—sisters—were walking along the road, when they saw Toog Parmalee come out of the bushes with a pistol in his hand. He had been courting one of them for two or three years, and when she now saw him coming she turned and fled in the opposite direction, while the other sister, not knowing what to think or how to act, stood still. In this way she probably saved her own life, for Toog passed her by in pursuit of the flying girl, who was overtaken and shot in cold blood. These harrowing details were spread out with great particularity in the newspapers, and the verdict, made up by those who furnished the details, was that Parmalee was stark crazy.
The only fact given in the account was that Parmalee had killed his sweetheart, and this could have been made clear in much less space than a column of reading matter occupies, for Hatcher's Ford is fifty miles from the settlement where the affair occurred. That settlement is known as Hatch's Clearing, because, as Mrs. Pruett says, nobody by the name of Hatch ever lived there, or on any clearing on that side of Tray Mountain, and as for the other side—well, that was in another part of the county altogether.
So much for the first mistake; and now for the second. Was Toog Parmalee crazy? There 's no need for you to take the word of an outsider on that subject, but before you make up your mind go and ask Mrs. Pruett. It is a tiresome journey, to be sure, but it is always worth the trouble to find out the truth. You may go to Clarksville from Atlanta, but at Clarksville you 'll have to hire a buggy, and, although the road is a long one, it is very interesting. It would be well to take a companion with you, if your horse is skittish, for it will be necessary to open a great many big gates as you go along. All the farms are under fence in this particular region, and the gates are a necessity.
Though the road to Hatch's Clearing is a long and winding one, you can't miss your way. You turn into it suddenly and unexpectedly twelve miles from Clarksville, and after that there is no need of making inquiries, for there are no cross-roads and no "forks" to embarrass you. There 's only one trouble about it. You ascend the mountain by such a gentle grade that when you reach the top you refuse to believe you are on the summit at all. This lack of belief is helped mightily by the fact that the mountain itself is such a big affair.
Presently you will hear a cowbell jingling somewhere in the distance, and ten to one you will meet a ten-year-old boy in the road, his breeches hanging by one suspender and an old wool hat flopping on the back of his head. The boy will conduct you cheerfully if not gayly along the road, and in a little while you will hear the hens cackling in Mrs. Pruett's horse lot. This will give the lad an excuse to run on ahead of you. He will exclaim, with as much energy as his plaintive voice can command:—
"Oh, Lordy! them plegged dogs is done run the ole dominicker hen off'n the nest."
Whereupon he will start to running and pretend to go to the horse lot. But it is all a pretense, for when you come in sight of the house you will see three or four, maybe a half-dozen, white-headed children on the fence watching for you, and if you have said a kind word to the boy who volunteered to be your guide, Mrs. Pruett herself will be standing on the porch, the right arm stretched across her ample bosom, so that the hand may serve as a rest for the elbow of the left arm, which is bent so that the reed stem of her beloved pipe may be held on a level with her good-humored mouth. You will have time to notice, as your horse ascends the incline that leads to the big gate, that the house is a very comfortable one for the mountains, neatly weather-boarded and compactly built, with four rooms and a "shed," which serves as a dining-room and a kitchen. Two boxwood plants stand sentinel inside the gate, and are, perhaps, the largest you have ever seen. There is also a ragged hedge of privet, which seems to lack thrift.
Mrs. Pruett will turn first to the right and then to the left. Seeing no one but the children, she will call out, in a penetrating, but not unpleasant, voice:—
"Where on the face of the yeth is Sary's Tom?" Forth from the house will come the boy you met on the road. "Can't you move?" Mrs. Pruett will say. "Yander 's the stranger a-wonderin' an' a-reck'nin' what kind of a place he 's come to, an' here 's ever' body a-standin' aroun' an' a-star-gazin' an'a-suckin' the'r thumbs. Will you stir 'roun', Tom, er shill I go out an' take the stranger's hoss? Ax 'im to come right in—an', here! you, Mirandy! fetch out that big rockin'-cheer!"
It is safe to say that you will enjoy everything that is set before you; you will not complain even if the meat is fried, for the atmosphere of the mountain fits the appetite to the fare. If Mrs. Pruett likes your looks you will catch her in an attitude of listening for something. Finally, you will hear a shuffling sound in one of the rooms, as if a man were moving about, and then, if it is Mrs. Pruett's "old man"—and she well knows by the sound—she 'll lift her voice and call out: "Jerd! what on the face of the yeth air you doin' in there? You 'll stumble an' break some er them things in there thereckly. Why don't you come out an' show yourse'f? You hain't afeard er nothin' ner nobody, I hope."
Whereupon Mr. Pruett will come out—a giant in height, with a slight stoop in his shoulders and a pleasant smile on his face. And he will give you a hearty greeting, and his mild blue eyes will regard you so steadfastly that you will wonder why Mrs. Pruett asked him if he was afraid of anybody. Later, you will discover that this inquiry is a standing joke with his wife, for Jerd Pruett is renowned in all that region as the most dangerous man in the mountains when his temper is aroused. Fortunately for him and his neighbors, he has the patience of Job.
You will find on closer acquaintance with Jerd Pruett that he is a man of considerable information in a great many directions, and that he is possessed of a large fund of common sense. Naturally the talk will drift to the murder of the young woman by Toog Parmalee. If you don't mention it, Mrs. Pruett will, for she has her own ideas in regard to the tragedy.
"What 's bred in the bone will come out in the blood," she will say. "Crazy! why Toog Parmalee wer n't no more crazy when he killt Sally Williams than Jerd there—an' much he looks like bein' crazy!"
And then Mrs. Pruett will hark back to old times, and tell a story that has some curious points of interest. It is a long story the way she tells it, but it will bear condensation.
It was in the sixties, as time goes, when noxious influences had culminated in war in this vast nursery of manhood, the American republic. Some of us have already forgotten what the bother was about, never having had very clear ideas as to the occasion of so much desperation. Nevertheless it will be a long time before some of the details and developments are wiped from our memories. As good luck would have it, Tray Mountain was out of the line of march, so to speak. The great trouble encircled it, to be sure, but the noxious vapors were thinner here than elsewhere, so that Tray elbowed his way skyward in perfect peace and security and would hardly have known that the war was going on but for one event which came like an explosion on the quiet neighborhood. The echo of the explosion, Mrs. Pruett claims, was not heard until Toog Parmalee's pistol went off close to his sweetheart's bosom—and that was only the other day.
Now, the war began gently enough and went along easily enough so far as Tray Mountain was concerned. Its sunsets were not more golden nor its wonderful dawns rosier on that account. The thunders that shook Manassas, and Malvern Hill, and Gettysburg, gave forth no sounds in the crags of Tray. If the truth must be told, there are no crags nearer than those of Yonah, or those which lift up and form the chasm of Tallulah, for Tray is a commonplace, drowsy old mountain, and it does nothing but sit warming its sway-back in the sun or cooling it in the rain.
But Tray Mountain had one attraction, if no other, and the name of this attraction was Loorany Parmalee. In a moment of high good humor, Mrs. Pruett remarked that "ef Jerd had any fault in the world it was in bein' too good." Paraphrase this tender tribute, and it would fit Loorany Parmalee to a T. If she had any fault it was in being too handsome. But beauty, it must be borne in mind, is a relative term when you employ it in a descriptive sense. No doubt Loorany would have cut a very unfashionable figure in a group of beautiful girls dressed according to the demands of fashion. She lacked the high color and the lines that are produced by contact with refining influences; but on the mountain, in her own neighborhood, she was a cut or a cut and a half above any of the rest of the girls. Her eyes were black as coals, and latent heat sparkled in their depths. Her features were regular, and yet a little hard, her under-lip being a trifle too thin, but she had the sweetest smile and the whitest teeth ever seen on Tray Mountain. Her figure—well, her figure was what nature made it, and that wise old lady knows how to fashion things when she 's let alone and has the right kind of material to work on. She had the leisure as well as the material in Loorany's case, and the result was that in form and in grace the girl belonged to the age that we see in some of the Grecian marbles.
In the right light, and in the foreground of a boulder, with a roguish streak of sunshine whipping across her black hair, her sunbonnet hanging between her shoulders, her right hand lifted as if listening, her lips half parted, and a saucy smile dancing in her eyes, no artist in our day and time has ever conceived a lovelier picture than Loorany Parmalee made. To find its counterpart, you will have to hark back to the romantic rascals who laid on the color in old times.
Anyhow, Loorany's beauty was known far beyond the cloud-skirted heights of Tray Mountain. Nacoochee, the Vale of the Evening Star, had heard about it, and was curious, and far away on the banks of the Chattahoochee, in the county of Hall, a young man knew of it, and became "restless in the mind," as Mrs. Pruett would say. This young man's name was Hildreth; Hildreth of Hall, he was called, because there was a Hildreth in Habersham.
Now, it would have been better in the end for Hildreth of Hall if he had never heard of Loorany Parmalee, but small blame should be laid at his door on account of his ignorance; the future was a sealed book to him, as it is to all of us. It was what he knew and what he did that he is to be blamed for, if a dead man can be blamed for anything.
It happened in the summer of 1863 that Hildreth of Hall was visiting Hildreth of Habersham,—there was some matter of relationship between them,—and they both concluded to attend the camp-meeting that was held every year on Taylor's Range, a small spur that seemed to have been sent down by Tray to inform the Vale of the Evening Star that it could spread out no farther in that direction. Nacoochee was polite and agreeable, and went wandering off westward, where it stands to-day, the loveliest valley in all the world. But Taylor's Range so far caught the infection from the valley as to permit its top to spread out as level as a table, and on this table the Christians pitched their rude tents and built them a rough tabernacle, and here they held their yearly campmeeting.
To this meeting in 1863 came Hildreth of Hall and his kinsmen. Hither also came a number of people from Hatch's Clearing, and among them Loorany Parmalee. The old people had come to pray, but the youngsters had come to frolic, and the gayest of all was Loorany Parmalee. There were girls from the villages round about, as well as girls from the valley, and some of these made believe to laugh at Loorany, but the laugh was against them when they saw the boys and young men flocking after her. Mrs. Pruett had more than half promised to keep an eye on Loorany, and she did her best, but how can a pious, maimed lady keep up with a good-looking girl who is at an age when she is less a woman and feels more like one than at any other stage of her existence? Mrs. Pruett tried good-humoredly to put a curb on Loorany, but the lass laughed and shook the bridle off, and no wonder, considering the weakness of human nature. She was beginning to taste the sweets of her first real conquest, for here was Hildreth of Hall, the finest young fellow of the lot, following her about like a dog, and running hither and yon to please her whims and fancies.
It is true that John Wesley Millirons had been casting sheep's eyes at her for several years, hanging around the house on Sunday afternoons and riding with her to church on Sundays; but what of that? Was n't John Wesley almost the same as home folks? And did he ever see the day that he was as polite, or as quick to fetch and carry, or as nimble with his tongue as Hildreth of Hall?
Go along with your talk about solid qualities! Girls must enjoy themselves and have fun, and how can you have the heart to ask them to sit for hours with a chap that mopes or is too bashful to talk fluently, or who looks like he is frightened to death all the time? It is too much to ask. Girls must have a chance, and if you don't give it to them they will take it.
So Mrs. Pruett watched Loorany gallanting around with Hildreth of Hall, and all the other chaps ready to take his place, except John Wesley Millirons, who sat in the shade and made marks in the sand with a twig. Mrs. Pruett watched all this, and gravely shook her head. And yet the head-shaking was good-humored and lenient. If Mrs. Pruett had been asked at the time why she shook her head she could n't have told. She said afterwards that she knew why she shook her head, and she was inclined to plume herself on her foresight. But you know how people are. If matters had gone on smoothly, or even if Loorany had been like other girls, Mrs. Pruett would have forgotten all about the fact that she shook her head when she saw the lass gallanting around with Hildreth of Hall.
Mrs. Pruett had a "tent" on the camp-ground, a small cabin, roughly, but very comfortably, fixed up, and she stayed the week out. So did Loorany. So did Hildreth of Hall. But along about Wednesday the meeting had begun on Sunday, John Wesley Millirons flung his saddle on his mule and made for home. Loorany Parmalee and Hildreth of Hall were sitting in a buggy under a big umbrella, and very close together, when John Wesley went trotting by, his long legs flapping against the sides of the mule. He bowed gravely as he passed, but never turned his head.
"Don't he look it?" laughed Loorany, as he passed out of sight up the road that led to Tray.
II
As may be supposed, John Wesley Millirons was n't feeling very well when he rode off, leaving Loorany sitting close to Hildreth of Hall, under the big umbrella. And yet he was n't feeling very much out of sorts, either. His patience was of that remarkable kind that mountain life breeds,—the kind that belongs to the everlasting hills, the overhanging sky.
So John Wesley Millirons, as he rode home, laughed to himself at the thought that he was the mountain and Loorany the weather. It was an uncouth thought that could n't be worked out logically, but it pleased John Wesley to hug the idea to his bosom, logic or no logic. And so he carried it home with him and nursed it long and patiently, as an invalid woman in a poorhouse nurses a sick geranium.
After the camp-meeting Hildreth of Hall became a familiar figure on Tray Mountain, especially in the neighborhood of Hatch's Clearing. As the year 1863 was a period of war, you will wonder how such a strapping young fellow as Hildreth of Hall kept out of the Confederate army, since there was such a strenuous demand for food for the guns, big and little. The truth is, it was a puzzle to a good many people about that time, but there was no secret at all about it. The Hildreths, both of Hall and Habersham, had a good deal of political influence. If you think war shuts out politics and politicians you are very much mistaken. On the contrary, it widens their field of operations and thus sharpens their wits. In the confusion and uproar their increased activity escapes attention. Thus it happened that Hildreth of Hall was a commissary. He had a horse and buggy at the expense of the government, and the taxpayers of the country had to pay him well for every trip he made to Tray Mountain.
Under these circumstances, you understand, courting was not only easy and pleasant, but profitable as well, and Hildreth of Hall took due advantage of the situation. He would have made his headquarters at Mrs. Pruett's, but somehow that lady, who was thirty-odd years younger then than she is now, had no fancy for the young man. She politely rejected his overtures, and so he made arrangements to put up at old man Millirons'—of all places in the world. It was such a queer come-off that John Wesley used to go behind the corn-crib and chuckle over it by the hour, especially on Sundays, when he had nothing else to do.
It was plain to everybody, except John Wesley Millirons, that Loorany was perfectly crazy about Hildreth of Hall, but a good many, impressed by Mrs. Pruett's prejudice against the young man, had their doubts as to whether he was crazy about Loorany. On the other hand, there were just as many, including the majority of the young people, who were certain, as they said, that Hildreth of Hall loved Loorany Parmalee every bit and grain as hard as Loorany loved him. Between the two friendly factions you could hear all the facts in regard to the case and still never get at the rights of it.
Once Mrs. Pruett took John Wesley to task in a kindly fashion. "I never know'd you was so clever, John Wesley, tell I seed you give the road to Hild'eth o' Hall—an' Loorany a-standin' right spang in the middle watin' to see which un 'ud git to 'er fust. Oh, yes, John Wesley, you er e'en about the cleverest feller in the worl'."
"How come, Mis Pruett?" he inquired blandly.
"Why, bekaze you was so quick to give way to that chap from below."
"Shucks! that feller hain't a-botherin' me," exclaimed John Wesley.
"Oh, I hope not," said Mrs. Pruett; "the Lord knows I do. Fer ef he ain't a-botherin' you, I know mighty well he ain't a-botherin' Loorany. Ef you could 'a' seed 'em a-swingin' in the bullace vine, as I did yistiddy, you would n't 'a thought Loorany was bothered much. Well, not much!" Mrs. Pruett added, sarcastically.
"I seed 'em," remarked John Wesley, chuckling.
"You did?" cried Mrs. Pruett. She was both surprised and indignant.
"Lor', yassum! I thess sot up an' laughed. S' I: 'The feller thinks bekaze he 's got his arm 'roun' Loorany that she 's done his'n!' I laughed so I was afeared they 'd hear me."
Mrs. Pruett said afterwards that her heart jumped into her throat when she heard John Wesley talking in such a strain, for the idea flashed in her mind that he was distracted—and it so impressed her that for one, brief moment she was overtaken by fear.
"Well," she said, trying to turn the matter off lightly, "when you see a feller wi' his arm aroun' a gal an' she not doin' any squealin' to speak of, you may know it 's not so mighty long tell the weddin'."
"Yassum," responded John Wesley, still chuckling, "it may be so wi' some folks, but not when the gal is Loorany Parmalee. No, ma'am! You thess wait."
"Oh, it hain't no trouble to me to wait," said Mrs. Pruett; "but what 'd I do ef I was a-standin' in your shoes?"
"You 'd make yourse'f comfortuble, thess like I 'm a-doin'," remarked John Wesley.
Mrs. Pruett was so much disturbed that she told her husband about it, and suggested that he look into the matter to the extent of making such inquiries as a man can make. But Jerd shook his head and snapped his big fingers.
"Oh, come now, mother," he said, "it 's uther too soon er it 's too late. An' that hain't all, mother; by the time I git done tendin' to my own business an' yourn, I feel like drappin' off ter sleep."
Matters went on in this way until late in 1863, and then there came a time when Hildreth of Hall ceased to visit Hatch's Clearing. Some said he had been "conscripted into the war," as they called it, and some said he had been appointed to another office that took up his time and attention. But, whatever the cause of his absence was, Loorany seemed to be satisfied. She went about as gay as a lark and as spry as a ground squirrel. John Wesley, too, continued to take things easy. He made no show of elation over the absence of Hildreth of Hall, and never inquired about it. He had never ceased his visits to the Parmalees, but he went no oftener, now that his rival had disappeared from the field, than he had gone before. As Mrs. Pruett remarked, he was the same old John Wesley in fair weather as he was in foul. Patient and willing, and good-humored, for all his seriousness, he went along attending to his own business and helping everybody else who needed help. Thus, in a way, he was very popular, but somehow those who liked him least had a pity for him that was almost contemptuous. John Wesley paid no attention to such things. He just rocked along, as Mrs. Pruett said.
It was the same when, one day in the spring of 1864, Hildreth of Hall came riding up the mountain driving a pair of handsome horses to a top buggy. He wore a gray uniform, and the coat had a long tail to it,—a sure sign he was an officer of some kind, for Jerd Pruett had seen just such coats worn by the officers in the village below. To be sure, there ought to have been some kind of a mark on the sleeves or shoulders; but no matter about that; nobody but officers could wear long-tailed coats. That point was settled without much argument.
And the buggy was new or had been newly varnished, for the spokes shone in the sun, and the sides of the body glistened like glass. What of that? Well, a good deal, you may be sure; for some people can put two and two together as well as other people, and the folks on the mountain had n't been living for nothing. What of that, indeed! Two fine horses and a shiny top-buggy meant only one thing, and that was a wedding.
Everybody was sure of it but John Wesley Millirons. When Mrs. Pruett twitted him with this overwhelming evidence he had the same old answer ready: "You-all thess wait."
"Well, we hain't got long to wait," said Mrs. Pruett.
"You reckon?" exclaimed John Wesley, with pretended astonishment. Then he chuckled and went on his way, apparently happy and unconcerned.
Hildreth of Hall remained in the neighborhood about a week, and was with Loorany Parmalee pretty much all the time, except when he was asleep. They took long buggy rides together, and everything seemed to be getting along swimmingly. But one morning early Hildreth of Hall harnessed up his horses with his own hands and went off down the road leading to Clarksville.
It was noticed after that that Loorany was not as gay and as spry as she had been. In fact, the women folks could see that she was not the same girl at all. She used to go and sit in Mrs. Pruett's porch and watch the road, and sometimes her mind would be so far away that she would have to be asked the same question twice before she 'd make any reply. And she had a way of sighing that Mrs. Pruett did n't like at all. You know how peculiar some people are when they are fond of anybody. Well, that was the way with Mrs. Pruett.
III
Nearly two months after Hildreth of Hall went away with his two fine horses and his shiny top-buggy, Tray Mountain got wind of some strange news. The word was that conscript-officers were coming up after some of the men, both old and young, who were of the lawful age. The news was brought by a son of Widow Purvis, Jerd Pruett's sister, who lived within a mile of Clarksville. She had gone to town with butter and eggs to exchange for some factory thread—"spun truck"—Mrs. Pruett called it and she heard it from old man Hathaway, who was a particular friend of Jerd Pruett's.
Word reached the mountain just in time, too, for within thirty-six hours four horsemen came riding along the road and stopped at Mrs. Pruett's. And who should be leading them but Hildreth of Hall! Mrs. Pruett saw this much when she peeped through a crack in the door, and she was so taken aback that you might have knocked her down with a feather. But in an instant she was as mad as fire.
"Hello, Mrs. Pruett!" says Hildreth of Hall. "Where's Jerd?"
"And who may Jerd be?" inquired Mrs. Pruett placidly.
The young man's face fell at this, but he said with a bold voice:—
"Why, don't you know me, Mrs. Pruett?"
"I mought 'a' seed you before, but folks is constant a-comin' an' a-gwine. They pass up the road an' down the road an' then they pass out'n my mind."
"Well, you have n't forgotten me, I know; I 'm Hildreth of Hall."
"Is that so, now?" remarked Mrs. Pruett, with just the faintest show of interest. "It 'pears to me we hyearn you was dead. What 's your will and pleasure wi' me, Mr. Hall?"
The unconscious air with which Mrs. Pruett miscalled the young man's name was as effectual as a blow. He lost his composure, and turned almost helplessly to his companions. If he expected sympathy he missed it. One of them laughed loudly and cried out to the others: "We 'll have to call him Blowhard. Why, he declared by everything good and bad that he was just as chummy with these folks as their own kin. And now, right at the beginning, they don't even know his name."
"Where's your husband?" inquired Hildreth of Hall. "If he don't know me he will before the day 's over."
"He may know you better 'n I do," said Mrs. Pruett, "but I hardly reckon he does, bekaze I 'd mos' likely 'a' hyearn on it."
"Where is he?" insisted the young man.
"Who? my ole man? Oh, him an' a whole passel of the boys took their guns an' went off to'ards Hillman's spur bright an' early this mornin'. They said signs of a b'ar had been seed thar, but I allowed to myse'f that they was thess a-gwine on a frolic."
Mrs. Pruett took off her spectacles, wiped them on her apron, and readjusted them to her head, smiling serenely all the while.
"We may as well go to the Millirons'," remarked Hildreth of Hall.
"I don't care where you go, so you don't lead us into a trap," remarked one of the men.
They turned away from Mrs. Pruett's and rode farther into the settlement. But they soon discovered that Tray Mountain had practically closed its gates against them. The women they saw were as grim and as silent as the mountain. Hildreth of Hall had been telling his companions what a lively place (considering all the circumstances) Hatch's Clearing was, and this added to his embarrassment and increased his irritation. So that you may well believe he was neither gay nor good-humored when, after passing several houses, he came to Millirons', where he had been in the habit of making himself free and familiar.
Everything was as grim and silent as the grave, and John Wesley sat on the fence as grim and as silent as any of the surroundings.
"There 's one man, anyway," remarked one of Hildreth's companions. "Be blanked if I don't feel like going up and shaking hands with him—that is, if he 's alive." For John Wesley neither turned his head nor stirred.
"How are you, Millirons?" said Hildreth of Hall curtly.
"Purty well," replied John Wesley, without moving.
"We are going to put our horses under the shed yonder and give them a handful of fodder," Hildreth of Hall declared. John Wesley made no reply to this. "Did you hear what I said?" asked the young man, somewhat petulantly.
"I hyearn you," answered John Wesley.
Whereupon Hildreth of Hall spurred his horse through the open lot gate, followed by his companions. They took off saddles and bridles, made some halters out of plough lines, and gave their horses a heavy feed of fodder. Then they returned to the house, and found John Wesley sitting where they had left him, and in precisely the same position.
"Can we get dinner?" asked Hildreth of Hall.
"I reckon not," replied John Wesley.
"Why?"
"Nobody at home but me an' the tomcat, an' we 're locked out. Maybe you can git dinner at Parmalee's when the time comes. They 're all at home. But it hain't nigh dinner time yit." John Wesley slowly straightened himself out and came off the fence with an apologetic smile on his face. "Ef these gentermen here don't mind, I 'd like to have a word wi' you, sorter private like." He looked at Hildreth of Hall, still smiling.
For answer, Hildreth of Hall walked to a mountain oak a hundred feet away, followed by John Wesley. "What do you want?"
"I s'pose you 've come up to marry the gal?" suggested John Wesley.
"I have not," replied Hildreth of Hall.
"I mean Loorany Parmalee," said John Wesley, pulling a small piece of bark from the tree.
"It matters not to me who you mean," remarked Hildreth.
"I just wanted to find out," John Wesley went on, fitting the piece of bark between thumb and forefinger as if it were a marble. "I allers allowed you was a d dog." The bark flew into the face of Hildreth of Hall and left a stinging red mark there, as John Wesley, with a contemptuous gesture, turned away.
Hildreth's hand flew to his hip pocket.
"Watch out there!" cried one of his companions in a warning tone. "He 'll shoot!"
"I reckon not," said John Wesley, without turning his head. "The fact of the business is, gentermen, they won't narry one on you shoot. A bulldog 'll fight, but you let him foller a sheep-killin' houn' to the pastur, an' a bench-legged fice can run 'im. You-all may n't believe it, but it 's the fact-truth."
But John Wesley would have been shot all the same if the thought had n't flashed on Hildreth's mind that the house was full of armed mountaineers. This stayed his hand—not only stayed his hand, but, apparently, put him in a good humor. He followed John Wesley and said:—
"As you are so brash about it, we 'll go and see the young lady. Come on, boys."
"What about the horses?" asked one of the men.
"Come on," said Hildreth of Hall in a low voice. "The horses are all right. These chaps don't steal. Come on; that house is full of men."
"I told you you were leading us into a trap," growled one of his companions; "and here we are."
When they were out of sight, John Wesley went into the lot and looked at the horses. He was so much interested in their comfort that he loosed their halters. Then he cast a glance upwards and chuckled. A wasps' nest as big as a man's hat was hanging between two of the rafters, teeming with these irritable insects. John Wesley went outside, climbed up to the top of the shed, counted the clapboards both ways, planted himself above the wasps' nest, and with one quick stamp of the foot knocked a hole in the rotten plank. The noise startled the horses, the wasps swarmed down on them, and the next instant they were going down the road the way they had come, squealing, whickering, kicking, and running like mad.
When they were out of hearing John Wesley went into the house by a back door, got his rifle, and went off through the woods.
Hildreth of Hall and his companions must have had a cool reception at Parmalee's, for in about an hour they came back in some haste. If they were alarmed, that feeling was increased tenfold at finding their horses gone. Their saddles and bridles were where they had left them, but the horses were gone. They held a hurried consultation in the lot, climbed the fence instead of coming out near the house, skirted through the woods, and entered the road near Mrs. Pruett's, moving as rapidly as men can who are not running. A half-mile farther down, the road turned to the left and led through a ravine.
On one bank, hid by the bushes, John Wesley sat with his rifle across his lap, lost in meditation. Occasionally he plucked a rotten twig and crumbled it in his fingers. After a while he heard voices. He raised himself on his right knee and placed his left foot forward as an additional support. Then he raised his gun, struck the stock lightly with the palm of his hand to shake the powder down, and held himself in readiness. When the men came in sight Hildreth of Hall was slightly in advance of the others.
John Wesley slowly raised his rifle and was about to bring the barrel to a level with his eyes when he saw a flash of fire on the opposite bank, and heard the sharp crack of a rifle. He was so taken by surprise that he raised himself in the bushes and looked about him. Hildreth of Hall had tumbled forward in a heap at the flash, and the other men jumped over his body and ran like rabbits. Before the hatful of smoke had lifted to the level of the tree-tops they were out of hearing.
John Wesley crossed the road and went to the other side. There he saw Loorany Parmalee leaning against a tree, breathing hard. At her feet lay a rifle.
"You sp'iled my game," he remarked.
"Is he dead?" she asked.
"E'en about," he replied. She threw her head back and breathed hard. John Wesley picked up the rifle and examined it.
"Was you gwine to kill him?" Loorany asked.
"Well, sorter that away, I reckon."
"Did you have the notion that I 'd marry you atterwards?"
"I wa'n't a-gwine to ax you," said John Wesley.
"Will you take me now, jest as I am?"
"Why, I reckon," he replied, in a matter-of-fact tone.
So they went home and left other people to look after Hildreth of Hall.
In course of time a boy was born to Loorany Millirons, and the event made her husband a widower, but the child was never known by any other name than that of Toog Parmalee—and Toog was the chap that shot his sweetheart.
All these things, as Mrs. Pruett said, were the cause of the difficulty you read about in the newspapers the other day. "Thribble the generations," she added, "an' sin's arm is long enough to retch through 'em all."