“Ye needn’t sorrow fur Aaron,” said Panther Brice, with a sneer that showed his teeth much as a snarl might have done, “nor fur the t’other boys nuther. We kin sell all the whisky ez we kin make ter Joe Gilligan, an’ the folks yander ter—ter—no matter whar—” he broke off with a sudden look of caution as if he had caught himself in an imminent disclosure. “We kin sell it ’thout losin’ nare cent, fur we hev always axed the same price by the gallon ez by the bar’l. So Aaron ain’t a needin’ of yer sorrow.”
“Ye air the spitefullest little painter ez ever seen this hyar worl’,” exclaimed Moses Carter, exasperated by the symmetry of his enemy’s financial scheme. “Waal—waal, prayer may bring ye light. Prayer is a powerful tool. The pa’son b’lieves in its power. He is right now up yander in the church-house, fur I seen the light, an’ I hearn his voice lifted in prayer ez I kem by.”
The four brothers glanced at one another with hot, wild eyes. They had reason to suspect that they were themselves the subject of the parson’s supplications, and they resented this as a liberty. They had prized their standing in the church not because they were religious, in the proper sense of the word, but from a realization of its social value. In these primitive regions the sustaining of a reputation for special piety is a sort of social distinction and a guarantee of a certain position. The moonshiners neither knew nor cared what true religion might be. To obey its precepts or to inconvenience themselves with its restraints, was alike far from their intention. They had received with boundless amazement the first intimation that the personal and practical religion which the “skimpy saint” had brought into the gorge might consistently interfere with the liquor trade, the illicit distilling of whisky, and the unlimited imbibing thereof by themselves and the sottish company that frequented the still-house. They had laughed at his temperance sermons and ridiculing his warnings had treated the whole onslaught as a trifle, a matter of polemical theory, in the nature of things transitory, and had expected it to wear out as similar spasms of righteousness often do—more’s the pity! Then they would settle down to continue to furnish spirituous comfort to the congregation, while the “skimpy saint” ministered to their spiritual needs. The warlike little parson, however, had steadily advanced his parallels, and from time to time had driven the distillers from one subterfuge to another, till at last, although they were well off in this world’s goods—rich men, according to the appraisement of the gorge—they were literally turned out of the church, and had become a public example, and they felt that they had experienced the most unexpected and disastrous catastrophe possible in nature.
They were stunned that so small a man had done this thing, a man, so poor, so weak, so dependent for his bread, his position, his every worldly need, on the favor of the influential members of his scattered congregations. It had placed them in their true position before their compeers. It had reduced their bluster and boastfulness. It had made them seem very small to themselves, and still smaller, they feared, in the estimation of others.
Moses Carter—himself no shining light, indeed a very feebly glimmering luminary in the congregation—looked from one to the other of their aghast indignant faces with a ready relish of the situation, and said, with a grin:
“I reckon, Painter, ef the truth war plain, ye’d ruther hev all the gorge ter know ez the pa’son war a-spreadin’ the fac’s about this hyar still afore a United States marshal than afore the throne o’ grace, like he be a-doin’ of right now.”
The Panther rose with a quick, lithe motion, stretched out his hand to the head of a barrel near by, and the thread of light from the closed furnace door showed the glitter of steel. He came forward a few steps, walking with a certain sinewy grace and brandishing a heavy knife, his furious eyes gleaming with a strange green brilliance, all the more distinct in the half-darkened room. Then he paused, as with a new thought. “I won’t tech ye now,” he said, with a snarl, “but arter a while I’ll jes’ make ye ’low ez that thar church o’ yourn air safer with me in it nor it air with me out’n it. An’ then we’ll count it even.” He ceased speaking suddenly; cooler now, and with an expression of vexation upon his sharp features—perhaps he repented his hasty threat and his self-betrayal. After a moment he went on, but with less virulence of manner than before. “Ye kin take that thar empty jug o’ yourn an’ kerry it away empty. An’ ye kin take yer great hulking stack o’ bones along with it, an’ thank yer stars ez none of ’em air bruken. Ye air the fust man ever turned empty out’n this hyar still-house, an’ I pray God ez ye may be the las’, ’kase I don’t want no sech wuthless cattle a-hangin’ round hyar.”
“I ain’t a-quarrelin’ with hevin’ ter go,” retorted Carter, with asperity. “I never sot much store by comin’ hyar nohow, ’ceptin’ Aaron an’ me, we war toler’ble frien’ly fur a good many year. This hyar still-house always reminded me sorter o’ hell, anyhow—whar the worm dieth not an’ the fire is not quenched.”
With this Parthian dart he left the room, closing the door after him, and presently the dull thud of his horse’s hoofs was borne to the ears of the party within, again seated in a semicircle about the furnace.