“We have just had a man shot, by one of you skulking mountaineers. Do you know of any one likely to do such a deed? Tell the truth, or it will be the worse for you.”
The old man shook his head. “The men be all gone in one army or de other,” he answered.
“Are you Union or Confederate?” asked Calhoun.
“The wah is nuthin’ to we-uns,” he drawled; “we-uns own no niggers.”
“That’s no answer,” fiercely replied Calhoun, “I have a mind to hang you up like a dog. A little stretching of the neck might loosen your tongue.”
At the word “hang” a strange look came into the old man’s eyes, a look as of mortal hatred, but it was gone in a moment, and the drawling answer came, “We-uns knows nuthin’; thar may be strange men hidin’ in the mountin. We-uns don’t know.”
“Have you a family?”
“A gal.”
“Where is she?”
“Done gone over the mountin to see the Jimson gals.”