Electioneering topics were not suspended even while the younger men were saddling and bridling their horses for the proposed festivity. As Micajah Green strolled across the clearing and joined a group of elderly spectators who in their chairs sat tilted against the walls of the store, which began to afford some shade, he found that his own prospects were under discussion.
'They tell me, 'Cajah,' said Nathan Hoodendin, who had hardly budged that day, his conversational activity, however, atoning for his physical inertia, 'ez ye air bound ter eend this 'lection with yer finger in yer mouth.'
'Don't know why,' said Micajah Green, with a sharp, sudden effect as of an angry bark, and lapsing from the smiling mien which he was wont to conserve as a candidate.
'Waal, word hev been brung hyar ter the Settlemint ez this prophet o' ourn in the Big Smoky, he say ye ain't goin' ter be re'lected.'
The sheriff laughed scornfully, snapping his fingers as he stood before the group, and whirled airily on his boot-heel.
Nevertheless, he was visibly annoyed. He knew the strength of a fantastic superstition among ignorant people, and their disposition to verify rather than to disprove. There were voters in the Big Smoky liable to be controlled by a morbid impulse to make the prophet's word true. It was an unexpected and unmeasured adverse influence, and he chafed under the realization.
'An' what sets Pa'son Kelsey agin me?' he demanded.
'He ain't in no ways sot agin you-uns ez I knows on,' discriminated Nathan Hoodendin, studious impartiality expressed among the graven wrinkles of his face. 'Not ez it war sot agin ye; but ye jes' 'lows ez that air the fac'. Ye ain't goin' ter be 'lected agin.'
'The pa'son hev got a gredge agin the old man, hyar,' said the deputy. He was a stalwart fellow of about twenty-five years of age. He had sandy hair and moustache, a broad freckled face, light grey eyes, and a thin-lipped, defiant mouth. He bore himself with an air of bravado which conveyed as many degrees of insult as one felt disposed to take up. 'He lit out on me fust—I war with Amos Jeemes thar,—an' the pa'son put us out'n the meet'n'-house. He did! He don't want no sorter sher'ff's in the Big Smoky. An' he called Gid Fletcher, the blacksmith, "Judas" fur arrestin' that lot o' bacon yander in the shop, when he kem hyar ter the Settlemint fur powder, ter keep him able to resis' the law! Who sold Rick Tyler that powder, Mister Hoodendin?' he added, turning his eyes on the proprietor of the store.
Old Hoodendin hesitated. 'Jer'miah,' he wheezed feebly.