“I know mighty well, suh, dat I ain’t no hard-hearted nigger—anybody what know me will tell you dat—but when dat man drapt, I ain’t keer no mo’ dan ef he’d ’a’ been a mad dog. Dat’s de Lord’s trufe, ef I ever tol’ it. I ain’t know wharbouts de ball hit ’im, an’ I wa’n’t keerin’. Marse Bolivar ain’t move out’n he tracks. He stood dar, he did, an’ bresh de cap off’n de bairl what shot, an’ fix it fer ter shoot ag’in. ’Twuz one er deze yer ervolvers, suh, what move up a notch er two when you pull de trigger.
“You’ll settle dis wid me.”
“Well, suh, time de pistol went off, folks come runnin’ fum eve’ywhars. Salem Birch, he come runnin’ ’cross de public squar’, bekaze he had de idee dat sump’n done happen. Marse Bolivar, he see Salem Birch a-comin’, an’ he walk out fum de crowd ter meet ’im. Dat make me feel sorter quare, kaze hit look like he wuz gwine ter shoot de man down. But Salem Birch seed ’im, an’ he stop an’ say, ‘Colonel, what de name er God is de matter?’ Marse Bolivar make answer, ‘Salem, I had ter shoot yo’ bre’r.’ Salem Birch say, ‘Is he dead?’ Marse Bolivar ’spon’, ‘He ain’t nigh dead. I put de ball ’twix’ de hip an’ de knee-j’int. He’ll be up in a week.’ Salem Birch say, ‘Colonel, I thank you fer dat. Will you shake han’s?’ Marse Bolivar say dey ain’t nothin’ suit ’im better, bekaze he ain’t got a thing ag’in’ de Birches.
“An’ ’twuz des like Marse Bolivar say. Bill-Tom Birch wuz wuss skeer’d dan hurt, an’ ’twa’n’t long ’fo’ he wuz well. Salem Birch, he went off ter Texas, an’ dem what been dar an’ come back, say dat he’s one er deze yer ervival preachers, gwine ’bout doin’ good an’ takin’ up big collections. Dat what dey say, an’ I hope it’s des dat way. I don’t begrudge nobody de money dey makes preachin’ ter sinners, bekaze hit’s des natchally w’arin’ ter de flesh.”
At this juncture Aunt Minervy Ann called to Hamp and informed him, in autocratic tones, that it was time to cut wood with which to cook dinner.
“I don’t keer ef you is been ter de legislatur’,” she added, “you better cut dat wood, an’ cut it quick.”
I suggested that she had started to tell me about Paul Conant’s shoulder, but had neglected to do so.
“Ain’t I tell you ’bout dat? Well, ef dat don’t bang my time! Hamp, you hear dat? You better go an’ make ’rangements fer ter have me put in de as’lum, bekaze I sho’ I’s gittin’ light-headed. Well, suh, dat beats all! But I’ll tell you ’bout it ’fo’ you go back.”