A mile and a half farther on, I came to another log-house, and stopped to inquire my way of an old man standing by the gate. His countenance was hard and stern, and he eyed me, as I thought, with a sinister expression.
“You are a stranger in this country?” I told him I was. “I allow you’re from the North?”—eying me still more suspiciously.
“Yes,” I replied; “I am from New England.”
“I’m glad to see ye. Alight. It’s a right cool morning: come into the house and warm.”
I confess to a strong feeling of distrust, as I looked at him. I resolved, however, to accept his invitation. He showed me into a room, which appeared to be the kitchen and sleeping-room of a large family. Two young women and several children were crowded around the fireplace, while the door of the house was left wide open, after the fashion of doors in the South country. There was something stewing in a skillet on the hearth; which I noticed, because the old man, as he sat and talked with me, spat his tobacco-juice over it (not always with accuracy) at the back-log. I remarked that the country appeared very quiet.
“Quiet, to what it was,” said the old man, with a wicked twinkle of the eye. “You’ve probably heard of some of the murders and robberies through here.”
I said I had heard of some such irregularities.
“I’ve been robbed time and again. I’ve had nine horses and mules stole.”
“By whom?”
“The bushwhackers. They’ve been here to kill me three or four times; but, as it happened, the killing was on t’ other side.”