"Wai, they is! Thar' 's nary night but thair' 's lots o' sech doin's. Ye see, thar' ha'n't more 'n a corporal's-guard o' white men in the hull place, so the nigs they hes the'r own way, and ye'd better b'lieve they raise the Devil, and break things, ginerally."
"I've seen no other able-bodied soldier about town; how is it that you are here?"
"I ha'n't able-bodied," he replied, holding up the stump of his left arm, from which the sleeve was dangling. "I lost thet more 'n a y'ar ago. I b'long ter the calvary,—Fust Alabama,—and bein' as I carn't manage a nag now, they 's detailed me fur provost-duty."
"First Alabama? I know Captains Webb and Finnan of that regiment."
"Ye does? What! old man Webb, as lives down on Coosa?"
"Yes, at Gadsden, in Cherokee County. Streight burnt his house, and both of his mills', on his big raid, and the old man has lost both of his sons in the war. It has wellnigh done him up."
"I reckon. Stands ter natur' it sh'u'd. The Yankees is all-fired fiends. The old man use' ter hate 'em loike——. I reckon he hates 'em wuss 'n ever now."
"No, he don't. His troubles seem to have softened him. When he told me of them, he cried like a child. He reckoned the Lord had brought them on him because he'd fought against the Union."
"Wal, I doan't know. This war's a bad business, anyhow. When d'ye see old Webb last?"
"About a year ago,—down in Tennessee, nigh to Tullahoma."