“The operator at Jackson gave that to me, Seth,” said Todd. “He knew I sorta attended to matters there in town for you and that I’d see you got it. It came just after dark yesterday, and I’ve been riding ever since to bring it to you—and break the news.”
Seth scratched his mustache with a calloused forefinger, turning the yellow envelope over and over and looking at it with curiosity.
“What is hit?” he asked. “Ye know—ye know, lawyer, readin’ ain’t one o’ my strong p’ints, and these here printed things don’t mean nothin’ to me. What’s hit all about?”
“It’s a telegram, Seth, a telegram—about Jim.”
“About Jim—my Jim?” The old man groped for a moment. “Why, lawyer, Jim knows his pa can’t neither read or write. What’d Jim send me a teleygram fer?”
“Jim didn’t send it. It came through the Canadian War Department, at Ottawa.” Todd braced himself in his saddle. “Seth, when Jim went away, did you ever reckon you mightn’t see him again?”
The old man’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t reckon much about hit a-tall,” he said. “Fact is, Jim went withouten my lief and agin my best jedgment.” He paused, but as the lawyer made no reply, went on:
“Ye see, Jim ’as plumb crazy to go to war, soon as he heard hit had broke loose over yan. But I says, says I, ‘Jim, this ain’t none o’ our war; hit’s a-happenin’ way outside o’ these mountings whar we ain’t got no business. I’m a ole man and I’ve come to love peace. Ten year ago, after we’d fought and fought and finally whopped the Allens, over on South Fork, I swore thar’d be no more war if I could help hit. And I’ve purty well kept my word. Now, Jim,’ says I, ‘this feller Keeser and his Germins ain’t hurt we’uns. I ain’t got nothin’ agin ’em. And, what’s more, I don’t want we or no other Brannon o’ the name to be startin’ trouble with sech people.’
“‘Pa,’ says Jim, ‘I ain’t a-goin’ to start trouble. Keeser’s already started hit. He and his Germins done sunk a lot o’ ships and kilt a whole mess o’ wimmen and chil’ren, some of ’em Amerikin wimmen and chil’ren too. The English and the French been a-fightin’ him over thar fer nigh on two year. Now hit looks like this country’s a-goin’ to take a hand. The army men at Washington says thar jest ain’t no way o’ our gittin’ ’round fightin’ Keeser; either we got to help lick him over yan in Eurip or he’ll lick us over here.’
“‘Then let him come on over and try hit,’ says I. ‘I ain’t shot skunks and Allens and wildcats all my life fer nothin’,’ says I. ‘The same ole rifle-gun my granddaddy brung up from North Calliney and kilt Injuns with ain’t so rusty and no ’count that I can’t shoot a few shoots at this Keeser feller and his Germins.