The “skimpy saint” now hardly seemed to care to glance at the work. He still stood with his hand on the boy’s shoulder, looking down at him with eyes in which Mark perceived new meanings.
“You can sense, then, the worth of hevin’ all things of a piece with the best. See ter it, Mark, that ye keep yer life all of a piece with this good work—with the best that’s in ye.”
So Mark understood. But nowadays he hardly felt all of a piece with the good work he had done on the church walls, against so many discouragements, laboring early and late, seeking earnestly some means that might be within his limited power. Oftentimes, after the church was finished, he went and stood and gazed at it, realizing its stanch validity, without shortcomings, without distortions—all substantial and regular, with none of the discrepancies and inadequacies of his moral structure.
While silently and meditatively recalling all these facts as he sat this night of early spring among the widely unrelated surroundings of the still, the shadowy group of moonshiners about him, Mark Yates looked hard at Panther Brice’s sharp features, showing, in the thread of white light from the closed door of the furnace, with startling distinctness against the darkness, like some curiously carved cameo. He never understood the rush of feeling that constrained him to speak, and afterward, when he thought of it, his temerity surprised him.
“Painter,” he said, “I hev been a-comin’ hyar ter this hyar still-house along of ye an’ the t’other boys right smart time, an’ I hev been mighty well treated; an’ I ain’t one o’ the sort ez kin buy much liquor, nuther. I hev hed a many a free drink hyar, an’ a sight o’ laughin’ an’ talkin’ along o’ ye an’ the t’other boys. An’ ’twarn’t the whisky as brung me, nuther—’twar mos’ly ter hear them yarns o’ yourn ’bout bar-huntin’ an’ sech, fur ye air the talkin’est one o’ the lot. But ef ye air a-goin’ ter take it out’n the preacher or the church-house—I hain’t got the rights o’ what ye air a-layin’ off ter do, an’ I don’t want ter know, nuther—jes’ ’kase ye an’ the t’other boys war turned out’n the church, I hev hed my fill o’ associatin’ with ye. I ain’t a-goin’ ter hev nuthin’ ter do with men-folks ez would fight a pore critter of a preacher, what hev got ez much right ter jow ez ef he war a woman. Sass is what they both war made fur, it ’pears like ter me, an’ ’twar toler’ble spunky sure in him ter speak his mind so plain, knowing what a fighter ye be an’ the t’others, too—no other men hev got the name of sech tremenjious fighters! I allow he seen his jewty plain in what he done, seem’ he tuk sech risks. An’ ef ye air a-goin’ ter raise a ’sturbance ter the church-house, or whatever ye air a-layin’ off ter do ter it, I ain’t a-goin’ ter hev no hand-shakin’ with sech folks. Payin’ ’em back ain’t a-goin’ ter patch up the matter nohow—ye’re done turned out the church now, an’ that ain’t a-goin’ ter put ye back. It ’pears mighty cur’ous ter me ez a man ez kin claw with a bar same ez with a little purp, kin git so riled ez he’ll take up with fightin’ of that thar pore little preacher what ain’t got a ounce o’ muscle ter save his life. I wouldn’t mind his jowin’ at me no more’n I mind my mother’s jowin’—an’ she air always at it.”
There was a silence for a few moments—only the sound of the trickling liquor from the worm and the whir inside the still. That white face, illumined by the thread of light, was so motionless that it might have seemed petrified but for the intense green glare of the widely open eyes. The lips suddenly parted in a snarl, showing two rows of sharp white teeth, and the high shrill voice struck the air with a shiver.
“Ye’re the cussedest purp in this hyar gorge!” the Panther exclaimed. “Ye sit thar an’ tell how well ye hev been treated hyar ter this hyar still-house, an’ then let on ez how ye think ye’ re too good ter come a-visitin’ hyar any more. Ye air like all the rest o’ these folks round hyar—ye take all ye wants, an’ then the fust breath of a word agin a body ye turns agin ’em too. Ye kin clar out’n this. Ye ain’t wanted hyar. I ain’t a-goin’ ter let none o’ yer church brethren nor thar fr’en’s nuther—fur ye ain’t even a perfessin’ member—come five mile a-nigh hyar arter this. We air a-goin’ ter turn ’em out’n the still-house, an’ that thar will hurt ’em worse’n turnin’ ’em out’n the church. They go an’ turn us out’n the church fur runnin’ of a still, an’ before the Lord, we kin hardly drive ’em away from hyar along of we-uns. I’m a-goin’ ter git the skin o’ one o’ these hyar brethren an’ nail it ter the door like a mink’s skin ter a hen house, an’ I’ll see ef that can’t skeer ’em off. An’ ef ye don’t git out’n hyar mighty quick now, Mark Yates, like ez not the fust skin nailed ter the door will be that thar big, loose hide o’ yourn.”
“I ain’t the man ter stay when I’m axed ter go,” said young Yates, rising, “an’ so I’ll light out right now. But what I war a-aimin’ ter tell ye, Painter, war ez how I hev sot too much store by ye and the t’other boys ter want ter see ye a-cuttin’ cur’ous shines ’bout the church-house an’ that leetle mite of a preacher an’ sech.”
Once more that mental reservation touching “the strength of righteousness” recurred to him. Was the little preacher altogether a weakling? His courage was a stanch endowment. He had been warned of the gathering antagonisms a hundred times, and by friend as well as foe. But obstinately, resolutely, he kept on the path he had chosen to tread.
“An’ I’ll let ye know ez I kin be frien’ly with a man ez fights bars an’ fightin’-men,” Mark resumed, “but I kin abide no man ez gits ter huntin’ down little scraps of preachers what hain’t got no call ter fight, nor no muscle nuther.”