"But the peddler just starred at me and shivered on the limb like a sparrow bird freezin' of a winter time in the snow. 'I'll tend to Buck!' I promised him. 'Come on down!' And to put his mind at ease I up with my rifle-gun, shot the quart tin cups offen Buck's horns and the washpans offen his front hoofs. 'Now get back to the barn where you belong and behave yourself!' I sez to Buck and he scampered back up the hill as frolicsome as a lamb, pickin' his way careful like as a Jenny Wren through that scattermint of tinware.
"The peddler was still shiverin' on the tree limb overhead and his eyes buggin' out worser'n Buck's had when he ketched first sight of the feller's red shirt and the shiny tinware. 'Buck's gone,' I sez to him coaxin' like. 'You don't need to be skeert of him no more!' 'T-t-tain't B-b-buck!' the feller's teeth chattered. 'It's you, D-d-evil A-a-nse!' With that he drapped off the limb down to the ground at my feet. Swoonded dead away!"
Devil Anse Hatfield chuckled heartily. "'T-t-ain't Buck! B-b-uck,' sez he when he ketched his wind and revived up. 'It's you--D-d-evil Anse!'"
The rest of the story Captain Anderson himself would never tell but Aunt Levicy told me how he packed the tin peddler back up the hill to the house on his shoulder and had her cook him a big dinner of fried chicken and cornbread; how he gave the peddler a couple greenbacks that made him plum paralyzed with pleasure and surprise; and how he had Jonse take the peddler back to the county seat, the peddler riding behind Jonse on Queen, where he bought a new supply of tinware and went on his way.
Except for such interludes of pranking, doubtless Aunt Levicy and old Randall's wife, Sarah McCoy, could never have survived the ordeal of the Hatfield-McCoy feud.
The women of both households lived days of torture, ever watchful of the approaching enemy. They spent sleepless nights of anguish, knowing too well the sound of gunshot, the cry of terror that meant another outbreak of the clans. And when the cross grew too heavy even for their stoic shoulders to bear they ventured unbeknownst to their menfolks to the Good Shepherd of the Hills to beg his intercession, his prayers for peace.
Autumn had painted the wooded hillside bright scarlet, golden brown, vivid orange, and yellow that shone in the late September sunlight like a giant canvas beyond the rambling farmhouse at the head of Garrett's Fork of Big Creek where dwelt the Good Shepherd of the Hills, William Dyke Garrett and his gentle wife. Here in Logan County in the heart of the rugged West Virginia country, Uncle Dyke and Aunt Sallie lived in the selfsame place for all of seventy years. Sallie Smith, she was, of Crawley's Creek, a few miles away, before she wed the young rebel of the Logan Wildcats. That was away back in 1867, February 19th, to be exact. He was twenty, she in her teens. He had been born and grew to young manhood in a cabin only a stone's throw from where he and Miss Sallie, as he always called her, went to housekeeping. As for their neighbors, there wasn't a person in the whole countryside that didn't love Sallie Garrett, nor one that didn't revere the kindly Apostle of the Book. So long had Dyke Garrett traveled up and down the valley comforting the sick, praying with the dying, funeralizing the dead.