“Over in yander house,” she said, nodding her sunbonnet in the direction indicated, “is a woman lives that’s got six sons, ary one of ‘em over six foot two inch tall. An’ not one of ‘em nuvver had a father. Old times, folks that lived fer back in couldn’t always git a preacher noways. Shouldn’t wonder if they got merried some day even yit, now the railroad’s come. But sakes! me a-talkin’ that way! I reckon I’d better wet my finger an’ touch the top of my left air. Ye see, Ma’am, if ye wet yore finger an’ rub the top of yore left air, that makes folks bite their tongue when they talk about ye. Didn’t ye know that? Ye furrin wimmern certainly is plumb ignorant, hain’t ye?”
“Go on,” said Marcia Haddon, chuckling to herself. “Tell me some more, Granny.”
“Not much to tell about these mountings, Ma’am—nothin’ ever did happen here much. Hit’s a settled sort of country. Now, over thar ye see that pile of logs, like? That’s whar Old Man Stallings used to hev a barn. He never did git no roof on the barn, nohow, though fer thirty year he was a-plannin’ about it. He used to set right thar on that log jest below the ridge, an’ look at that barn, an’ wish thar was a roof on it. He done that fer thirty year, an’ then he died. So that’s how come the barn to rot down that way.
“Now, over yander on the creek is whar Preacher Bonnell’s pa used to live. He was about the fightin’est preacher we ever did have in here—always used to ride with a Bible an’ a pistol an’ a bottle of liquor in his saddlebags when he was out a-preachin’. One day he rid twenty mile over the mountings to Newfound jest to shoot a man. The co’te finded him fifty dollars. That’s too much to fine a preacher. We all allowed twenty dollars’d been plenty.
“Preacher Bonnell, he used to have a nigger man a-workin’ fer him—onliest nigger ever was in these hills, I reckon. We used to have ‘em here along atter the war, but one time, come ‘lection, when they was a-sellin’ their votes fer two dollars each, the folks paid ‘em off in counterfeit money. That riled the niggers, an’ they done left.
“Speakin’ of old Preacher Bonnell, Ma’am,” she went on reminiscently, “he was a odd sort of man. Onct in a while he’d sort of take spells, like. He didn’t speak to his wife fer nigh about five year, one time. He used to shoot at a mark, and drink liquor like all the other men folks. One time he bet eighty-four twists of tobacco, agin a new wagon, that he could beat Tomp Frame shootin’ at a mark. Tomp, when Preacher Bonnell wasn’t lookin’, he cut his bullet in two so he couldn’t hit nothin’. That’s how come him to kill Tomp later, and git finded fifty dollars. Hit made him so mad he couldn’t talk—he jest played deef an’ dumb fer a long time. One day he set in a game of keerds, an’ luck came his way, an’ he said right out, afore he thought, ‘High, low, Jack an’ game, by God!’ Ye see, he wasn’t always a preacher. He wasn’t called ontel he was nigh about fifty year old, I reckon.”
Her auditor turned away her face, so that her own amusement might not be seen, and the old lady rambled on, chewing at her pipe stem as she rode.
“Nothin’ nuvver happens in these hills, ye see, Ma’am,” said she. “I hear tell, Outside, of picturs that moves jest like they was alive. O’ course, that’s a lie. But hain’t it funny how many things folks thinks up? Now, we nuvver had no sich things as that when I was young. Fact is, I kain’t say as I ever had but jest two kinds of amusement. One was to hear the preacher tell about hell fire—he painted it up like a lake of red, with yellow around the aidge. Other was a picture a temper’nce preacher had all done in colors, showin’ how a drunkard’s stomach looked. Hit was red, too, like hell. I kin recollect even now about them things—hell fire an’ the drunkard’s stomach. We never had no other amusements but jest them. When Old Man Bonnell got to a-depictin’ hell fire, and shakin’ folks out over that, time them folks come forewerge!
“Over yander is whar Old Mammy Pierce lives——“ pointing to a small cabin by the wayside. “She’s a granny womern—we call ‘em granny wimmern that he’ps folks when childrens comes, ye know. Her husband was a sort of doctor, too. He didn’t give nothin’ but nux vomic very much. He says nux vomic would fotch arything every time. He done killed ummage of the stomach with nux vomic, an’ even tonsils.
“Now, jest beyant whar Mammy Pierce lives is whar used to be Bill Coates’ house—ye kin see whar it burned down. Me an’ my man was a-ridin’ right along here when the house was a-burnin’, an’, well, sir! Bill Coates was a-settin’ thar watchin’ it burn. ‘Sakes alive, man!’ says I to him, ‘why don’t ye put it out?’ ‘Well,’ says he, ‘I sont my gal hafe a mile up the creek to git a pail of water, an’ she hain’t come back yit. That was more’n hafe a hour ago,’ ‘Pears like the gal stopped to talk with some of the neighbors up thar about how the house was a-burnin’ down, an’ time she got back it was too late.