Part 8

“With that Jim gits on the roan, and tetched him in the flank with the heel that was on t’other side from the stranger, and the horse bein’ naterally playful, you see, went to kickin’ up and rearin’ and squealin’; Jim holdin’ on to the mane, and the Yanky hollerin’ ‘wo! wo!’ Presently Jim come to the ground, ca-whop! And with that he riz from the ground, complainin’ mightly ’bout his side, and ’lowed he wouldn’t have the horse on no terms—that ef the Injuns was to come on us of a sudden, we shouldn’t have but one horse that could be rid; and then he axed me ef I had enny opydildock in the wagin box, that he could rub his side with! he! he! Jim is a rascal, that’s a fac, but I can’t tell whar he got it from, onless it’s a judge_ment_ on his mammy for bein’ so cussed ugly! yah! yah!

“Seein’ the stranger was aggravated ’bout the Injuns, I draps in then, myself, and tells him I’d give him ‘old Coon,’ even drag, for the roan; and we made the trade mighty quick, for he had the Injun ager ’twell his eyes was big as sassers! Well, we changed saddles and bridles, and while I was gearin’ up Fiddler Bill, he couldn’t—but, Squire, what _do_ you reckon it was he couldn’t do?”

“Can’t guess,” we replied.

“Well, bust me wide open, _ef he knowed how to put the bridle on his horse_! I’ve seen men that was ig’nant before, but he was the wust off with it I _ever_ seed. He didn’t know whether the bits went behind the years, or into the mouth—blamed ef he did!

“Finally, at last, he got mounted, and jogged off—you remember what I told you ’bout the saw-mill gate—well that’s the way old Cuss rattled his buttons. He was the most _lonesome-lookin’_ critter, a-settin’ on that old horse, with his new saddle and bridle, that ever I seed! As soon as he got cleverly out o’ sight, Jim gin two or three Injun whoops, and people did say in Dudleyville, whar he stopped that night, that he got thar in mighty reasonable good time! So that’s the way, Squire, I come by Fiddler Bill . . . . . ain’t it, Bill?” whereupon Fiddler pricked up his ears, but said nothing.

About this time, we arrived at a mean-looking shanty, and calling, were answered by a man who came out to us. It was Jim Blake.

“Here’s the _sensis_-taker,” said Uncle Kit.

“Hang the _sensis_-taker,” was the blunt reply.

“Don’t say that, Jim,” returned Uncle Kit; “he’s a good little Union Squire Mr. Van Buren’s sent round to take ’count of the cloth and chickens, jist to see ef the wimmin’s sprightly.”

“I don’t care a dried apple for him nor Mr. Van Buren nother,” said Mr. Blake; “Mr. Van Buren is gittin’ too cussed smart, enny way—my opinion is, he’s a _measly hog_!”

“Son! son!” exclaimed old Kit, deprecatingly, “don’t talk that way. Van Buren’s the _Union_ President, and old Hickory says he’ll do!”

“I don’t care who says he’ll do—I’m gwine to vote for Harrison—see ef I don’t!”

Uncle Kit was struck dumb, and after obtaining a list of the family with much difficulty, we rode away.

“Squire,” said the old man, after a long silence, “that fellow’s talk goes to my heart. _A little more_, and _he’d a cussed old Hickory!_ and ef he _had_, I’d a tore his liver out!”

Old Kit was highly excited—he continued:

“To think that a boy I’ve raised in a manner, that I’ve told all about old Hickory, and the Union, and New Orleens, and the Horse-Shoe, should ’a turned round and come to be a _Nullifier_! Ain’t thar no way,” he asked, as if musing, “we could fix to git that poor fool boy straight agin?”

We soon got into the thickest of the Union Creek settlement, and from house to house, through the Smiths, the Hearns, the Folsoms, the Narons, the Dabbses and the Rollinses, Uncle Kit carried us with a speed that was most gratifying. He joked the old women, kissed the girls and fondled the children; and where the slightest indisposition was manifested to give the desired information, he settled the difficulty at once, by the magic words, “Union—old Hickory.”

“It’s a blessed thing, Squire,” he said, “to have a man’s friends all of the right sort. Here’s my people that I brought from Georgy—confound that boy Blake, I’ll give him a reg’lar talk next Sunday; and ef that don’t do I’ll make his wife quit him—all my people, as I was sayin’, love the Union and vote like one man! I tell you, it’s old Union Crick that keeps the Nullifiers down in Tallapoosy!”

As old Kit was indulging in these pleasant reflections and remarks, we reached the ford of the creek, where we were to cross to get into the river settlement.

“Right here,” said the old man, as we reached the middle of the stream, “was where Becky Kent ketched it; but she lives right up thar, a piece, and I’ll see ef I can’t devil her into tellin’ you ’bout it. She’s as old and as ugly—mighty nigh—as yer Aunt Hetty; but she has a mighty notion of courtin’, and ef you’ll sidle up to her, it’ll please her so well, her tongue will git to goin’, and she couldn’t hold that story back ef she wanted to.”

A very few minutes brought us to the residence of Mr. James Kent, the brother of the spinster Becky. Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately for our heart—the presiding goddess was not at home; and having made the proper entries on our books, from information furnished by Mr. Kent, we again mounted and pursued our way.

“Did you see,” asked Uncle Kit, “that old snuff-bottle and them nasty breshes, stickin’ in the cracks of the logs? Well, it’s on the ’count of sich, that Becky got in the crick, that time. I’ll tell you ’bout it myself, ’long as we didn’t see her.

“See, I had allers ’cused Becky of snuff, but the lyin’ heifer never would own to it. So one day, as I was ridin’ ’long the road, t’other side of the crick, I hearn a noise betwixt the bray of the jack and the squeal of the pea-fowl, and in a minit I knowed it was somebody in distress—so I hurried on. When I got to the crick, what should it be but scrawny Becky Kent, settin’ on a bag o’ corn, on her old blind horse, and him a standin’ stock-still in the middle of the ford.”

“‘Becky,’ ses I, ‘what in natur are you doin’ thar? Why don’t you come along out?’

“Ses she, ‘_I can’t_—don’t you see how I’m fixed?’

“Then I looked more pertickler, and seed how ’twas. The horse had stopped to drink, and Becky had let go the bridle, and when she tried to git it agin, the bag slipped furder over to the side she _warn’t_ a settin’ on—so when I got thar, she had let all go _but the bag_, and she was a settin’ on one eend o’ that, leanin’ forward, and with her hands behind her, one to each side o’ the bag, a pullin’ agin the weight of the big eend, ’twell her face was as red as a gobbler’s snout. ’Twas a reg’lar _dead strain_—the weight of Beck and the _little_ eend of the bag, agin the _big_ eend—and, I tell you, she had to lean _well_ forward to keep from goin’ over backwards!

“I bulged into the crick and got purty close to Becky; but it was so funny, I couldn’t fetch myself to help her, but tho’t I’d devil hur a little, as she set. So ses I, making a fine bow:

“‘My honey, my love, My turkle-dove, Will you take it amiss, Ef I give you a kiss?’

“But I hadn’t no idee of kissin’ of her—but only wanted to devil her a little. At last, I seen an old mustard-bottle stickin’ from out her bosom; and ses I, Miss Becky, will you give your Uncle Kit a pinch of snuff?’ Ses she, ‘help me for the Lord’s sake—I’m mighty nigh gin out’—and Squire, she _was_ on a _tremenjus_ strain! But I tho’t I’d plague her some: and after cutting of some few shines, I made a motion to snatch at the bottle o’ snuff! She gin a little jerk back!—the _big eend_ got a start!—still she hilt her grip with both hands!—and the next thing, _somethin’ riz in the air, like a small cloud of calico and dry corn-stalks_! and the durndest _ca-slosh_ on t’other side o’ the horse, that ever you heerd! A—WAUGH! _What sloshin’!_”

“‘Horraw, Becky! rise gall! I was lookin’ t’other way!’ ses I, _for I knowed she was ’shamed!_! I laughed, however, and she _mighty nigh_ cussed!

“‘Oh! you’re a sweet little _mare-maid_ now,’ ses I.

“‘You’re a drotted old hog,’ ses she.

“‘My honey, my love, my turkle-dove; don’t git mad with yer Uncle Kit,’ ses I; but it all wouldn’t do, and the heiffer never got in a good humour with me ’twell I met her in the road one Sunday, and persuaded her I was goin’ to send Jim to see her.”

“Did you send him?”

“Yes, and the fust thing the fool said to her was: _he’d a gin his years to ’a seen her somerset that time, in the crick!_ he! he! yah! yah! That busted things to pieces again, and me and Becky ain’t more’n half friendly now!”

After going through the entire settlement, with great ease and celerity—thanks to Uncle Kit’s assistance—we took the back-track to Mr. Kuncker’s. It was quite dark when we arrived. As Uncle Kit threw down our saddles in his porch, said he: “Come in, and we’ll take a sip of _branch-water_. Hello! old woman—is yer face swelled _enny better_ yet?—Here’s the Squire—the little blessed Union Squire—come to see you! Ef you can’t git out’n bed to come yerself, make one of the gals fetch yer _old bonnet_ out—_that_’ll be _some_ amuse_ment_! Walk in, Squire, and take a seat in yer old Union Uncle’s house!”

XII. SETH WILLET: THE ELK COUNTY WITNESS.

In the spring of 1845, after the close of a long, tiresome session of the Pennsylvania Legislature, the writer was invited by Colonel A——, then Clerk of the House of Representatives, to accompany him to his home in the backwoods of Elk—a new county, that had been partitioned off from Jefferson, Clearfield, and McRean, that session. The object of the visit was twofold; first, to enjoy the fine trout fishing of that prolific region; and secondly, to assist the Colonel in getting the seat of justice where he wanted it.

The Colonel owned a mill and store at Caledonia, on one edge of the county, and a very fine mill at Ridgeway, but was not inclined to pay anything for it, as Mr. John Ridgeway, a millionaire of Philadelphia, owned nearly all the land about it, and the county seat would greatly increase its value. My friend’s plan was to put in strong for Caledonia; and he did. He offered to build the court-house and gaol, and gave bonds therefore, if Caledonia should be chosen.

Ridgeway became frightened, and made a similar proposition, for his town; which was of course accepted by the commissioners, who were all personal friends of the Colonel.

It was long before the _ruse_ was discovered, and Ridgeway found he was sold.

One day, the Colonel and myself rode over to Caledonia, to see how things flourished there, and eat some of Aunt Sally Warner’s pumpkin pies, and venison steaks; and on arriving at the store, found a justice’s court in full blast. The suit grew out of a lumber speculation; and as near as I could tell by the testimony of the witnesses generally, the matter stood about six for one, a half-dozen for the other. One of the parties was a man of considerable ready cash, while the other was not worth a continental dime. Harris, the man of means, had not been long in these parts, and little was known of him except what had dropped from Seth Willet one night at Warner’s store. He was rather in for it at the time; but enough was said to make the good people of Elk form a bad opinion of Harris.

As the time of the trial drew nigh, some who were in the store when Seth was “blowing” about Harris, began to try to recollect what he said, and the other party in the case was informed that he had a first-rate witness in the green lumberman, as Seth was generally called.

Seth was forthwith waited upon, and pumped by a young man named Winslow, who acted as attorney for the prosecutor. All the information he possessed of Harris was freely and unsuspectingly given, and Winslow noted it down as correctly as he could.

The day previous to the trial, the prosecutor and Harris met at the store.

“Well, you’re goin’ on with the law-suit, I s’pose?” asked Harris.

“Tu be sure I am; and I’ll make you smell cotton.”

“Bah!” said Harris; “you can’t touch bottom.”

“Tech bottom? Ca—ant hey? Jest you wait till I git Seth Willet on the stand, an’ swore on the Bible, and see if I ca—ant. P’raps I ha’nt heer’d nothin’ about them sheep over to Tiog county, and the robbin’ of Jenkinse’s store, down tu Painted Post, hey?”

“What are you talking about?” asked Harris, apparently perfectly in a fog as to the purport of the language he had heard.

“I know, an’ that’s ’nuff;” said the plaintiff, “but let’s licker, anyheow.”

Harris lost no time in finding out Seth.

“Did you ever live in Tioga county?”

“Anything abeout sheep—?”

“No, no, I mean Painted Post.”

“Oh! Jenkinse’s store!” said Seth, with great gravity.

“Two hundred wouldn’t be a bad pile, Seth, here in Elk?”

“No—o, t’wouldn’t, that’s a fact. Get that amount tu lend on a slow note?”

“Well, I might scrape it up—could give you a hundred down and the rest after the Court’s adjourned.”

Harris counted out the hundred, and rolling it up, held it temptingly in his hand. Seth’s eyes stuck out like peeled onions, and his mouth fairly watered at the display. It was more money than he had ever owned in his life.

“Have you ever heard that I steal sheep in Tioga county, Seth?”

“Not’s I know on.”

“You’re sure? mind you’ll have to swear in Court.”

Seth looked at Harris, and then at the bills.

“_Sure_—p_a_rfectly sure.”

“Nor anything about my being implicated in the robbery of Jenkins’s store?” Still holding the roll of bills in his hand, and turning over the ends, exhibiting the V’s and X’s most tantalizingly.

“No; I’ll swear I never heeard nobody say you had anything to do with it.”

“You’re an honest man, Seth; here’s a hundred on account. The other hundred you shall have after the Court.”

The Court had been in session some time, when the Colonel and myself arrived, and Seth had just been sworn. He was to destroy the character of Harris, by testifying in regard to the sheep-stealing, and the robbery at Painted Post.

“Han’t no knowledge on the pint.”

“Have you never heard, while living at Painted Post, that he was suspected of being engaged in the robbery?”

“I do-no. I never take no notice about what people say _suspiciously_ about their neighbours.”

“Really you’re a very singular witness. Let me jog your memory a little. Do you remember having said anything about Harris’s connection with the Tioga sheep-stealing, and the Jenkins’s store robbery, while you were at Gillis’s store one night last April?”

“As fer’s my reck’lection serves, I ha—ant.”

“Were you at Gillis’s store on the night of the 17th of April?”

“I do-no for sartin.”

“Were you in Ridgeway at all on the 17th of April?”

“Yeeas, I was.”

“How do you fix the time? Proceed, and tell the justice, (we shall get at the truth of this story yet,” aside to the plaintiff.) “Come Sir, proceed Sir.”

“Wall, on the mornin’ of the 17th, Dickson says he to me, says he, ‘Seth, go down to Mr. Dill’s, and get the nails clenched in the brown mare’s off-hind foot.’ So I jist put a halter on an’, cantered down to Ridgeway, and stopt tu Gileses’ store, an’ bort some thread an’ needles for Ant Jerusha, an’ Gilleses’ clark ast me ef I wouldn’t like to taste sum new rum he had jest got up from Bellefonte, an’ I said, ‘Yis,’ an’ he poured out abeout have a tumbler, an’ I drinkt it right deown.”

“Well, Sir, go on.”

“Well, then I led the brown mare over tu Dill’s, an ast Miss Dill—”

“You mean Mrs. Dill, his wife?”

“Yeas, Miss Dill. I ast Miss Dill ef Mr. Dill was tu hum, an’ she sed,

“‘No, he’s deown tu the lick b’low Andrewses’ mill, arter deer. What you want?’ says she.

“‘I want to get the nails clenched to the mare’s off-hind foot,’ sez I.

“‘Wal,’ sez she, ‘can’t yeu du it yerself?’

“‘Wal,’ says I, ‘I guess I can.’

“So she showed me whar the horse-nails war, an’ giv’ me the hammer, an’ I put on Dill’s leather apron, an’ at it I went. I got in three nails right snug, and clenched them, an’ was drivin’ deown the third, when the mare shied at suthen, and shoved her foot a-one side, an’ the hammer cum deown caslap! right on this there thumb-nail. You see” (holding it up) “it’s not growed eout yit.”

“But what has that to do with the talk at Gillis’s store?”

“I’m goin’ on tu tell you. Lor! heow I did yel! you’d a thought thar was fifty painters abeout. Miss Dill, she cum a-runnin’ out, an’ ast what was the matter.

“‘Look here,’ sez I, holdin’ up my thumb, which was bleedin’ like all Jehu. ‘What shall I do?’ sez I.

“‘I’ll tell you what,’ says Miss Dill, an’ she run an’ got a leaf of live-for-ever, an’ sez she, ‘peel off the skin, an’ put the peth on.’

“‘Peel it yerself,’ sez I, a-cryin’ with the exhuberant pain.

“So she peeled it and tied it on, an’ in tu days thar wan’t a bit of soreness in it; but the nail cum off.”

“But come to Gillis’s store. What did you say about Harris that night?”

“Wal, all I recollect is, that Thompson an’ a lot of fellers was thar; an’ Thompson and I shot at a mark for whiskey, an’ Thompson he win, and we drinkt at my expense. Then Bill Gallager and Dill they shot, an’ Dill beat Bill, an’ we drinkt at his expense. Then Charley Gillis he shot agin Frank Souther, an’ Frank win; and we drinkt at Charley’s expense; an’ then Frank he sung a song, an’ then Thompson he sung a song; and the next I recollect was—”

“Well, Sir, was what?”

“Why, I waked up next mornin’ on Gillis’ counter the sickest critter yeu ever see. I didn’t get over that spree for tu long weeks.”

“Well, is that all you have to say?”

“All I recollect at present. If I think of any more, I’ll come in an’ tell ye.”

“You may go, Sir.”

Harris won the suit.

XIII. THE TWO FAT SALS.[11]

If every man were to relate the little romances of love in which he becomes involved, at some time or other of his life, novelists or farce-writers would be supplied with plots and incidents enough to supply publishers and managers with a continual run of novelties for all times.

In the story of the “Two Fat Sals” is recorded the experience of one man only, but it affords a very useful lesson on the evils of a mind divided in the matter of love, and another illustrious example of the truth of the aphorism, that “the course of true love never did run smooth.”

“There was two Sals livin’ in our town—Sal Stebbins and Sal Babit; real corn-fed gals, I swow. Sal Stebbins would lift a barrel of cyder out of the eend of a cart as quick as any other feller, and drink it tew. Sal Babit, she was so fat, she’d roll one way jest as easy as t’other, and if anything, a little _easier_. Well, there was a corn-husking, and I went along with Sal Stebbins: there was all the gals and boys settin’ reound, and I got sot down so near Sal Babit, that I’ll be darned if I didn’t kiss her afore I know’d what I was abeout. Sal Stebbins, she blushed: the blood rushed right up into her hair: she was the best _red_ critter I ever did see. I thought it was all up with me, and sure enough it was, for when I asked her if she would go hum with me, she said:

“‘No; you needn’t trouble yourself nothin’ ’tall ’bout it.’

“‘Well, if you’re mind to get spunky, I guess I can git a gal that will let me see her hum. Sal Babit, shall I go hum with you?’

“‘Well,’ says she, ‘I don’t mind if you dew.’

“Arter that, Sal Stebbins married a feller in our town, by the name of _Post_,—blind in one eye, and deaf in one ear,—jest to spite me, nothin’ else: so I thought if she was a mind to take a feller that couldn’t see or hear any tew well, I’d better let her slide: so I went away from hum, and was gone about three—four—five years?—yes, jest about five years, ’cause I know when I got back she had four little _Posts_. I went to see how she got along. She asked me to come in and set down; so I tuck a cheer and squatted; then she tuck another cheer and squatted; and we both squatted there together. Her young ones was all runnin’ reound on the floor: she pinted to them, and said, in a sort of bragging way,

“‘You see them, don’t you?’

“‘Yes,’ says I, squintin’ up one eye, ‘I see, they’re all jest like their daddy, blind in one eye.’

“She was bilin’ dumplings at the time, and as soon as she see me shut up one eye, she out with a hot dumplin’, and let me have it in t’other, which made me shut it up a darn’d sight quicker than I ever did afore, and I haint been in love since that time.”

[11] By G. H. Hill.

XIV. WAR’S YURE HOSS?

Some years since, when the State of Missouri was considered “Far West,” there lived on the bank of the river of the same name of the State, a substantial farmer, who, by years of toil, had accumulated a tolerable pretty pile of castings; owing, as he said, principally to the fact that he didn’t raise much taters and unyuns, but rite smart of corn. This farmer, hearing that good land was much cheaper farther south, concluded to move there. Accordingly, he provided his eldest son with a good horse, and a sufficiency of the needful to defray his travelling and contingent expenses, and instructed him to purchase two hundred acres of good land, at the lowest possible price, and return immediately home. The next day Jeems started for Arkansas, and after an absence of some six weeks, returned home.

“Well, Jeems,” said the old man, “how’d you find land in Arkensaw?”

“Tolerable cheap, dad.”

“You didn’t buy mor’n two hundred acres, did yu, Jeems?”

“No, dad, not _over_ tu hundred, _I reckon_.”

“How much money hev yu got left?”

“Nary red, dad; cleaned rite out!”

“Why, I had no idee travellin’ was so ’spensive in them parts, Jeems.”

“Wal, just you try it wonst, an’ you’ll find out, I reckon.”

“Wal, never mind that, let’s hear ’bout the land, an’—_but war’s yure hoss?_”

“Why, yu see, dad, I was a goin’ along one day—”

“But _war’s yure hoss_?”

“Yu hole on, dad, an’ I’ll tell yu all ’bout it. Yu see, I was agoin’ along one day, an’ I met a feller as said he was goin’ my way tu—”

“But _war’s yure hoss_?”

“Dod darn mi hide, ef yu don’t shut up, dad, I’ll never git tu the hoss. Wal, as we was both goin’ the same way, me an’ this feller jined cumpenny, an’ ’bout noon, we hitched our critters, an’ set down aside uv a branch, and went to eatin’ a snack. Arter we’d got thru, this feller sez tu me, ‘Try a drap uv this ere red-eye, stranger.’ ‘Wal, I don’t mind,’ sez I—”

“But _war’s yure hoss_?”

“Kummin’ tu him bime-by, dad. So me an’ this feller sot thar, sorter torkin’ an’ drinkin’, an’ then he sez, ‘Stranger, let’s play a leetle game uv Seven-up,’ a takin’ out uv his pocket a greasy, roun’-cornered deck uv _kerds_. ‘Don’r keer ef I du,’ sez I. So we sot up side uv a stump, and kummenced tu bet a quorter up, an’ I was a _slayin’ him orful_—”

“But _war’s yure hoss_?”

“Kummin’ tu him, dad. Bimeby, luck changed, an’ he got tu winnin’, an’ pretty sune I hadn’t not nary nuther doller. Then sez he, ‘Stranger, I’ll gin yu a chance to git even, an’ play yu one more game.’ Wal, we both plaid rite tite that game, I sware, an’ we was both six an’ six, an’—”

“_War’s yure hoss?_”

“Kummin’ tu him, dad. We was six an’ six, dad, an’ ’twas his deal—”

“Will yu tell me _war’s yure hoss_?” said, the old man, getting riled.

“Yes, we was six an’ six, an’ _he turned up the Jack_!”

“_War’s yure hoss?_”

“The stranger won him, _a-turnin’ that Jack_!”

XV. BOB LEE. A TALE.