The bushwhackers & other stories

by Charles Egbert Craddock

“Hain’t you-uns hearn ’bout the sermon ez the preacher hev done preached agin that thar still?—he called it a den o’ ’niquity.”

“I hearn tell ’bout’n it yander ter the still,” replied Mark, calmly. “They ’lowed thar ez they hed a mind ter pull him down out’n the pulpit fur his outdaciousness, ’kase they war all thar ter the meetin’-house, an’ he seen ’em, an’ said what he said fur them ter hear.” He paused, a trifle uncomfortable at the suggestion of violence. Then reassuring himself by a moment’s reflection, he went on in an off-hand way, “I reckon they ain’t a-goin’ ter do nuthin’ agin him, but he hed better take keer how he jows at them still folks. They air a hard-mouthed generation, like the Bible says, an’ they hev laid off ter stop that thar talk o’ his’n.”

“Did ye hear ’em sayin’ what they war a-aimin’ ter do?” asked Ruggles, keenly inquisitive.

“’Tain’t fer me ter tell what I hearn whilst visitin’ in other folkses’ houses,” responded the young fellow, tartly. “But I never hearn ’em say nuthin’ ’ceptin’ they war a-goin’ ter try ter stop his talk,” he added. “I tells ye that much ’kase ye’ll be a-thinkin’ I hearn worse ef I don’t. That air all I hearn ’em say ’bout’n it. An’ I reckon they don’t mean nuthin’, but air talkin’ big whilst mad ’bout’n it. They air ’bleeged ter know thar goin’s-on ain’t fitten fur church members.”

“An’ ye a-jowin’ ’bout’n a hard-mouthed generation,” interposed his mother, indignantly. “Ye’re one of ’em yerself. Thar hain’t been a bite of wild meat in this hyar house fur a month an’ better. Mark hev’ mighty nigh tucken ter live at the still; an’ when he kin git hisself up to the p’int o’ goin’ a-huntin’, ’pears like he can’t find nuthin’ ter shoot. I hev hearn a sayin’ ez thar is a use fur every livin’ thing, an’ it ’pears ter me ez Mark’s use air mos’ly ter waste powder an’ lead.”

Mark received these sarcasms with an imperturbability which might in some degree account for their virulence and, indeed, Mrs. Yates often averred that, say what she might, she could not “move that thar boy no more’n the mounting.”

He shifted his position a trifle, still leaning, however, upon the rifle, with his clasped hands over the muzzle and his chin resting on his hands. The quiet radiance of a smile was beginning to dawn in his clear eyes as he looked at his interlocutors, and he spoke with a confidential intonation:

“The las’ meetin’ but two ez they hev hed up yander ter the church they summonsed them thar Brices ter ’count fur runnin’ of a still, an’ a-gittin’ drunk, an’ sech, an’ the Brices never come, nor tuk no notice nor nuthin’. An’ then the nex’ meetin’ they tuk an’ turned ’em out’n the church. An’ when they hearn ’bout that at the still, them Brices—the whole lay-out—war pipin’ hot ’bout’n it. Thar warn’t nare member what voted fur a-keepin’ of ’em in; an’ that stuck in ’em, too—all thar old frien’s a-goin’ agin ’em! I s’pose ’twar right ter turn ’em out,” he added, after a reflective pause, “though thar is them ez war a-votin’ agin them Brices ez hev drunk a powerful lot o’ whisky an’ sech in thar lifetime.”

“Thar will be a sight less whisky drunk about hyar ef that small-sized preacher-man kin keep up the holt he hev tuk on temperance sermons,” said Mrs. Yates a trifle triumphantly. Then with a clouding brow: “I could wish he war bigger. I ain’t faultin’ the ways o’ Providence in nowise, but it do ’pear ter me ez one David and G’liath war enough fur the tales o’ religion ’thout hevin’ our own skimpy leetle shepherd and the big Philistines of the distillers at loggerheads—whenst flat peebles from the brook would be a mighty pore dependence agin a breech-loading rifle. G’liath’s gun war more’n apt ter hev been jes’ a old muzzle-loader, fur them war the times afore the war fur the Union; but these hyar moonshiners always hev the best an’ newest shootin’-irons that Satan kin devise—not knowin’ when some o’ the raiders o’ the revenue force will kem down on ’em—an’ that makes a man keen ter be among the accepted few in the new quirks o’ firearms. A mighty small man the preacher-man ’pears ter be! If it war the will o’ Providence I could wish fur a few more pounds o’ Christian pastor, considering the size an’ weight ez hev been lavished on them distillers.”