But little time elapsed after Lawyer Todd left old Seth at the stile, before the Brannons and their kinsmen began to gather at the cabin of their chief. They straggled in by ones and twos and threes, some mounted and some on foot. Among them were grandfathers, with stooped shoulders and snowy beards; others were mere boys.
Most of the men bore modern rifles and revolvers; a few had shotguns. One, on whom the hookworm had set its blight, had been able to muster only a pitchfork. Another was armed with a kitchen knife and a hickory club. Besides their weapons all the equipment the men carried was a bundle of food, done up in a greasy paper, consisting of chunks of corn bread, a bit of salt and several strips of bacon.
Some of the “neighbor wimmen” had come to Seth’s cabin to tender their services and sympathies to the bereaved mother. Old Seth himself sat alone on the edge of the weather-warped porch, brooding. His rifle lay across his knees, and while one hairy hand stroked the polished stock, his eyes were fastened on the horizon above the eastern hills. The only hint of emotion in his face was the dumbness of an emotion too deep for expression.
The men stood about the yard in little groups. Out in the barn lot several of the younger men pitched horseshoes. Others played mumble-peg near the stile block, or lounged against the rail fence, whittling. The patriarchs of the clan squatted at a respectful distance from their chief, waiting to be called to council.
And upon them all poured the warming rays of the afternoon sun. The pine-fringed mountains, green with the fresh, soft green of spring, closed in grim but kindly embrace about the little army in the valley below. A dove cooed plaintively from a near-by hollow; beneath the cabin porch the cur whined and howled with a sense of approaching crisis.
After a while old Seth arose, steadying himself against the corner of the porch. And silently his followers gathered about him.
“Boys,” he said, “I reckon ye all know why I sent fer ye. Jim’s been kilt. Him that was o’ my flesh and blood, and o’ yer flesh and blood, is dead. Keeser and his Germins kilt him, boys. Nothin’ on this airth that me or ye can do will bring him back to life.
“When Jim went to war, he went withouten my lief. I’d fought a lot in my time and I wanted him to keep outen sech trouble. But he went; he got the notion he ought to go, and all I could say wouldn’t stop him. Jim says that Keeser and his Germins ’as killin’ wimmen and chil’ren over yan. He says this country’d soon be at war and that we folks o’ Breathitt ought to git ready and fight same as the rest o’ the people. I studied on hit a heap then—and today I’ve studied on hit some more.
“As Jim ’lowed hit’d be, boys, this here country’s at war. I don’t understand all about hit myself, about this de-mocracy we’re a-fightin’ fer or what we’re goin’ to do with the thing after we gits hit. Lawyer Todd says hit’s jest another name fer freedom and liberty. Maybe hit is. Anyway, boys, since I’ve thought hit over, thar ain’t been a war yet when us fellers o’ the hills ain’t took a hand. Some fought fer the Union, some fer the South. Some fought in Cuby, and some o’ our kin helped whop them sassy niggers in the Fillerpines.
“Whenever we’ve fought, boys, we’ve had a reason fer hit, a mighty good reason. Do ye remember back thar, several year ago, when Bulger Allen plugged Hal Brannon in the heart as Hal ’as comin’ home from meetin’ with his gal? Do ye recollect how hit riled us and how we got our rifle-guns and went after them Allens? They’d kilt one o’ our folks, they’d broke the peace. But afore we got through with ’em, they seen hit ’as healthiest to leave our folks alone and keep their lead to themselves!”