“Here she be, but I’m mighty onnerved. Kindly pass out the jug afore I drop. I feel like the devil’s been taggin’ every one of my steps. Ugh!”
“Just a minute,” mumbled Polcher, ducking from Jackson’s view in bending close to the light.
“I tell ye I need some licker now,” insisted Thatch. “I feel dretful sick. I can see all sorts of critters right beside me.”
“Hush, you fool!” gritted Polcher, raising his head. “Here, I’ll hold it. Drink!” There came a protracted gurgling, followed by a deep sigh of content.
“Reckon now I’m game to face all the devils atween the Watauga an’ the Cumberland,” declared Thatch. “Gim’me my jug.”
“Not so fast,” muttered Polcher. “Stand close to the window. I’m going to lift the light long enough to see you ain’t covered with blood. That would give the whole game away.”
“There ain’t a speck on me,” proudly assured Thatch, leaning against the sill.
Polcher lifted the candle for a moment and briefly examined the head and shoulders of the old man, then dropped to the floor again.
“Ye’re a —— of a long time payin’ over that jug,” grumbled Thatch. “I want to be gittin’ back to my cabin. Goin’ to make a night of it. Reg’lar old blue devil comes out an’ grins at me—lives in the fireplace. Keeps yappin’ for me to make the fire hotter’n hotter. That is, he does when I have ’nough whisky.”
Polcher reappeared above the sill and seized Thatch by the arm and hoarsely accused: