Next morning “the boys” from Boston and De Kalb—a couple of border villages—after a glory gathering about annexation, determined to storm “Old Single,” and “rout” him. They accordingly, en masse à-la-regulator, started off for his cabin, and on arriving near it, a consultation was held, and it was determined that bloodshed was useless—as it was certain to occur if violence was resorted to—and that a flag of truce should be sent into the fortress, offering terms.
The old man was found in a gloomy mood, with a pack strapped to his back, in woodsman style. “Old Centresplit,” his friend of thirty years’ standing, his rifle, his favourite, his all, was laid across his knees, and he in deep thought, his eyes resting on vacancy. As the delegation entered, he looked up:
“Well, boys, the time is cum, and Texas and you is annixated; but I ain’t, and I ain’t a gwoin’ to be nuther!—so take care how you raise my dander; I can shoot sum yet!”
The party explained, and it was agreed the old fellow should take up the march upon the line for the nearest point on Red River, the party escorting him at twenty paces distant on either side—that the last mile should be run—that if he struck the water’s edge first, he should go free—if otherwise, he was to be taken and rendered up a victim to the offended dignity of the laws.
“Agreed,” said Old Single, “it’s a bargain. Boys, tha is a gallon in that barrel, let’s finish it in a friendly way, and then travel.”
The thing was done, the travel accomplished, and the race, fast and furious, was being done. The old fellow led the crowd, hallooing at his topmost voice as he gained the river:
“Hoopee!—Hurrah!—I ain’t annixated!—I’m off—I ain’t no whar—nuther in the States nor Texas, but in Arkansaw!” swam to the opposite shore, fired a volley, gave three cheers, and retired victorious.
| [15] | By the late Robert Patterson. |