ILL, you take the old preacher a ham. Tom, you take the old preacher a bushel o’ shelled cawn with the nubbins throwed out, and be shore ye give him Methodist measure. George, you take the old preacher a bushel o’ ’taters, and you give him Methodist measure, too. I’ll find out whuther ye done it or not, and it’ll shore go hard wi’ ye ef ye don’t do it! Now git! Git! Show me yore heels!”
Thus spake the Law in Little Egypt, which is a settlement lying along Caney River, in the Big Bald Mountain country, considerably less than a thousand miles from the Tennessee-North Carolina State line. And having spoken, the Law crept back into the riotously blooming laurels and disappeared without even the sound of a breaking twig; and the three mountaineers it had halted and spoken to continued on their way homeward, and as they went they said nothing to one another.
They knew that it were far better to obey without question. Other men had dared to disobey, and some of them had been horse-whipped; while another of them had returned to the dust whence he came, and still another now lay on the flat of his back with a blue-lipped hole, through which swift lead had passed, in his left lung.
The correct name for the Law in Little Egypt was Sarah Harrison—but please don’t draw a conclusion here. It may be that you’ll be surprised inside of three minutes.
Sarah Harrison stole through the blooming laurels and to a dim old trail, followed it silently half a mile through the woodland, stopped at the upper edge of a little clearing, and called sharply:
“Jim!”
A tall and lanky figure with a squirrel rifle in its hands came to a doorway of the log cabin below.
“Put down that gun,” ordered the Law, “and come up here.”
Jim put his rifle down on the door-step, frowned, and went slowly up through the growing corn and to the snake fence. The other addressed him:
“You owe John Simmons a dollar and a half for one o’ old Sade the ’coon-dawg’s puppies. When’re ye a-goin’ to pay him?”
“I’m a-goin’ to pay him right now,” answered Jim.
“All right; go and do it,” said the Law, with twinkling eyes; and Jim went toward the cabin of the man who owned old Sade, the ’coon-dog.
Then Sarah Harrison walked another half-mile through the green woodland, stopped at the upper edge of another little clearing, and called sharply:
“Henry!”
In a doorway of a dilapidated log hut below appeared a little, slender man with mouse-colored hair, the face of a weasel, and fishy blue eyes.
“Come here!” ordered Sarah.
Henry came. He was one of those fellows who will corner you on the day that your mortgages are due, and pick sundry hairs off your coat-collar while he tells you his family secrets. Only Henry had no family. He lived a hand-to-mouth life, with only dogs for company; he hunted fur-bearing game in season, and he dug ginseng and fished. Man’s only true friend was a dog, he said; so, in order that he might have many friends, he had many dogs. Mongrels, they were, every one of them, but he loved them none the less for that.
“You tried to gi’ me away to Shuriff Connard yeste’day,” said the Law. “I’ll hoss-whup ye, ef ye try to deny it. Ef ye wasn’t so danged little, I’d hosswhup ye anyhow. Better not talk to Connard any more. Go back to the house!”
Henry went.
Sarah Harrison disappeared in a way that was almost uncanny, went up on the mountainside, sat down on the leaves and waited patiently for night to come.
When it was quite dark, Sarah Harrison stole down into the settlement, stole up to the back door of an old and rambling and honeysuckle-covered log cabin of three rooms, and rapped lightly and peculiarly—three raps and two, three and two. A candle within was suddenly put out, a meal-bag window-curtain was drawn, and the door creaked open on its wooden hinges. The Law entered, the door creaked back shut and a bar was dropped into place, and the candle was lighted again.
“Bub!” softly cried a glad feminine voice, and a pair of fine brown eyes shone with welcome.
ARAH HARRISON was not a woman. Sarah Harrison had been named too soon. His mother had had five boys, and she had wanted a girl; and when she was disappointed, she wouldn’t change the name because she feared it would bring bad luck. They had soon nicknamed him “Bub,” and Bub was now the biggest and the strongest and the finest-looking young man anywhere in the Big Bald Mountain country.