Balaam and His Master, and Other Sketches and Stories. Joel Chandler Harris
the wind, and these were such comfortable intervals that Mr. Chadwick ceased his complaints and rode along good-humoredly.
The two horsemen had gone about a mile, measuring the mountain road, though they were not more than a quarter of a mile from the foot, when they came suddenly on an old man sitting in a sheltered place by the side of the road. They came on the stranger so suddenly that their horses betrayed alarm, and it was all they could do to keep the animals from slipping and rolling into the gorge at their left. The old man was dressed in a suit of gray jeans, and wore a wool hat, which, although it showed the signs of constant use, had somehow managed to retain its original shape. His head was large and covered with a profusion of iron-gray hair, which was neatly combed. His face was round, but the lines of character obliterated all suggestions of chubbiness. The full beard that he wore failed to hide evidences of firmness and determination; but around his mouth a serene smile lingered, and humor sparkled in his small brown eyes.
“Howdy, boys, howdy!” he exclaimed. “Tired as they look to be, you er straddlin’ right peart creeturs. A flirt or two more an’ they’d ’a’ flung you down the hill, an’ ’a’ follered along atter you, headstall an’ stirrup. They done like they weren’t expectin’ company in an’ around here.”
The sonorous voice and deliberate utterance of the old man bespoke his calling. He was evidently a minister of the gospel. This gave a clew to Captain Moseley’s memory.
“This must be Uncle Billy Powers,” said the captain. “I have heard you preach many a time when I was a boy.”
“That’s my name,” said Uncle Billy; “an’ in my feeble way I’ve been a-preachin’ the Word as it was given to me forty year, lackin’ one. Ef I ever saw you, the circumstance has slipped from me.”
“My name is Moseley,” said the captain.
“I useter know Jeremiah Moseley in my younger days,” said Uncle Billy, gazing reflectively at the piece of pine bark he was whittling. “Yes, yes! I knowed Brother Moseley well. He was a God-fearin’ man.”
“He was my father,” said the captain.
“Well, well, well!” exclaimed Uncle Billy, in a tone that seemed to combine reflection with astonishment. “Jerry Moseley’s son; I disremember the day when Brother Moseley came into my mind, an’ yit, now that I hear his name bandied about up here on the hill, it carries me back to ole times. He weren’t much of a preacher on his own hook, but let ’im foller along for to clench the sermon, an’ his match couldn’t be foun’ in them days. Yit, Jerry was a man of peace, an’ here’s his son a-gwine about with guns an’ pistols, an’ what not, a-tryin’ to give peaceable folks a smell of war.”
“Oh, no!” said Captain Moseley, laughing; “we are just hunting up some old acquaintances—some friends of ours that we’d like to see.”
“Well,” said Uncle Billy, sinking his knife deep into the soft pine bark, “it’s bad weather for a frolic, an’ it ain’t much better for a straight-out, eve’y-day call. Speshually up here on the hill, where the ground is so wet and slipperyfied. It looks like you’ve come a mighty long ways for to pay a friendly call. An’ yit,” the old man continued, looking up at the captain with a smile that well became his patriarchal face, “thar ain’t a cabin on the hill whar you won’t be more than welcome. Yes, sir; wheresomever you find a h’a’thstone, thar you’ll find a place to rest.”
“So I have heard,” said the captain. “But maybe you can cut our journey short. We have a message for Israel Spurlock.”
Immediately Captain Moseley knew that the placid and kindly face of Uncle Billy Powers had led him into making a mistake. He knew that he had mentioned Israel Spurlock’s name to the wrong man at the wrong time. There was a scarcely perceptible frown on Uncle Billy’s face as he raised it from his piece of pine bark, which was now assuming the shape of a horseman’s pistol, and he looked at the captain through half-closed eyelids.
“Come, now,” he exclaimed, “ain’t Israel Spurlock in the war? Didn’t a posse ketch ’im down yander in Jasper an’ take an’ cornscrip’ ’im into the army? Run it over in your mind now! Ain’t Israel Spurlock crippled some’r’s, an’ ain’t your message for his poor ole mammy?”
“No, no,” said the captain, laughing, and trying to hide his inward irritation.
“Not so?” exclaimed Uncle Billy. “Well, sir, you must be shore an’ set me right when I go wrong; but I’ll tell you right pine blank, I’ve had Israel Spurlock in my min’ off an’ on’ ev’ry since they run him down an’ kotch him an’ drug ’im off to war. He was weakly like from the time he was a boy, an’ when I heard you call forth his name, I allowed to myself, says I, ‘Israel Spurlock is sick, an’ they’ve come atter his ole mammy to go an’ nuss him.’ That’s the idee that riz up in my min’.”
A man more shrewd than Captain Moseley would have been deceived by the bland simplicity of Uncle Billy’s tone.
“No,” said he; “Spurlock is not sick. He is a sounder man than I am. He was conscripted in Jasper and carried to Adairsville, and after he got used to the camp he concluded that he would come home and tell his folks good-by.”
“Now that’s jes like Israel,” said Uncle Billy, closing his eyes and compressing his lips—“jes like him for the world. He knowed that he was drug off right spang at the time he wanted to be getherin’ in his craps, an’ savin’ his ruffage, an’ one thing an’ another bekaze his ole mammy didn’t have a soul to help her but ’im. I reckon he’s been a-housin’ his corn an’ sich like. The ole ’oman tuck on might’ly when Israel was snatched into the army.”
“How far is it to shelter?” inquired Captain Moseley.
“Not so mighty fur,” responded Uncle Billy, whittling the pine bark more cautiously. “Jes keep in the middle of the road an’ you’ll soon come to it. Ef I ain’t thar before you, jes holler for Aunt Crissy an’ tell her that you saw Uncle Billy some’r’s in the woods an’ he told you to wait for ’im.”
With that, Captain Moseley and Private Chadwick spurred their horses up the mountain road, leaving Uncle Billy whittling.
“Well, dang my buttons!” exclaimed Chadwick, when they were out of hearing.
“What now?” asked the captain, turning in his saddle. Private Chadwick had stopped his horse and was looking back down the mountain as if he expected to be pursued.
“I wish I may die,” he went on, giving his horse the rein, “if we ain’t walked right square into it with our eyes wide open.”
“Into what?” asked the captain, curtly.
“Into trouble,” said Chadwick. “Oh,” he exclaimed, looking at his companion seriously, “you may grin behind your beard, but you just wait till the fun begins—all the grins you can muster will be mighty dry grins. Why, Cap., I could read that old chap as if he was a newspaper. Whilst he was a-watchin’ you I was a-watchin’ him, an’ if he ain’t got a war map printed on his face I ain’t never saw none in the ‘Charleston Mercury.’ ”
“The old man is a preacher,” said Captain Moseley in a tone that seemed to dispose of the matter.
“Well, the Lord help us!” exclaimed Chadwick. “In about the wuss whippin’ I ever got was from a young feller that was preachin’ an’ courtin’ in my neighborhood. I sorter sassed him about a gal he was flyin’ around, an’ he upped an’ frailed me out, an’ got the gal to boot. Don’t tell me about no preachers. Why, that chap flew at me like a Stonefence rooster, an’ he fluttered twice to my once.”
“And have you been running from preachers ever since?” dryly inquired the captain.
“Not as you may say, constantly a-runnin’,” replied Chadwick; “yit I ain’t been a-flingin’ no sass at ’em; an’ my reason tells me for to