Judith of the Cumberlands. MacGowan Alice
every worthless feller in the district; most o’ the foolishness in this country goes on around ’em when the boys gits filled up. I let every man choose his callin’, but I don’t choose to be no moonshiner, and ef you boys is wise you’ll say the same.”
As Blatchley came up now and caught sight of the animals tethered at the fence he began irritably:
“What in the name of common sense did Andy and Jeff leave they’ mules here for? I can’t haul any corn till I get the team and the waggon together.”
“Looks like you’ve hauled too many loads of corn that nobody knows the use of,” broke out the irrepressible Nancy. “Andy and Jeff’s in jail, and some fool has tuck my little Pone along with the others.”
Blatch flung a swift look at his uncle; but whatever his private conviction, to dishonour a member of his tribe in the face of the enemy, on the heels of defeat, was not what Jephthah Turrentine would do.
“The boys is likely held for witnesses, Jude allows,” the elder explained briefly. “You take one mule and I’ll ride ’tother,” he added. “I’ll he’p ye with the corn.”
This was a great concession, and as such Blatchley accepted it.
“All right,” he returned. “Much obliged.”
Then he glanced unconcernedly at Judith, and, instead of making that haste toward the corn-hauling activities which his manner had suggested, moved loungingly up the steps. Beezy, from her sanctuary in Judith’s lap, viewed him with contemptuous disfavour. Her brother, not so safely situated, made to pass the intruder, going wide like a shying colt.
With a sudden movement Blatchley caught the child by the shoulders. There was a pantherlike quickness in the pounce that was somehow daunting from an individual of this man’s size and impassivity.
“Hold on thar, young feller,” the newcomer remarked. “Whar you a-goin’ to, all in sech haste?”
“You turn me a-loose,” panted the child. “I’m a-goin’ over to my Jude.”
“Oh, she’s yo’ Jude, is she? Well they’s some other folks around here thinks she’s their Jude—what you goin’ to do about it?”
All this time he held the small, dignified atom of humanity in a merciless grip that made Little Buck ridiculous before his beloved, and fired his childish soul to a very ecstasy of helpless rage.
“I’ll—kill—you when I git to be a man!” the child gasped, between tears and terror. “I’ll thest kill you—and I’ll wed Jude. You turn me a-loose—that’s what you do.”
Blatch laughed tauntingly and raised the little fellow high in air.
“Ef I was to turn you a-loose now hit’d bust ye,” he drawled.
“I don’t keer. I——”
Around the corner of the cabin drifted Nicodemus, the wooden-legged rooster, stumping gravely with his dot-and-carry-one gait.
“Lord, Nancy, thar comes the one patient ye ever cured!” chuckled old Jephthah. “I don’t wonder yo’re proud enough of him to roof him and affectionate him for the balance of his life.”
“I reckon you’d do the same, ef so be ye should ever cure one,” snapped Nancy, rising instantly to the bait, and turning her back on the others. “As ’t is, ef they hilt the buryin’ from the house of the feller that killed the patient I reckon Jude wouldn’t have nothin’ to do but git up funeral dinners.”
Little Buck, despairing of granny’s interference, began to cry. At the sound Judith came suddenly out of a revery to spring up and catch him away from the hateful restraining hands.
“I don’t know what the Lord’s a-thinkin’ about to let sech men as you live, Blatch Turrentine!” she said almost mechanically. “Ef I was a-tendin’ to matters I’d ’a’ had you dead long ago. Ef you’re good for anything on this earth I don’t know what it is.”
“Oh, yes you do,” Blatchley returned as the old man started down the steps. “I’d make the best husband for you of any feller in the two Turkey Tracks—and you’ll find it out one of these days.”
The girl answered only with a contemptuous glance.
“Come again—when you ain’t got so long to stay,” Nancy sped them sourly. “Jude, you’d better set awhile and get your skirts dry.” She looked after Blatch as he moved up the road, then at little Buck, so ashamed of his trembling lip. Her face darkened angrily. She turned slowly to Judith.
“What you gwine to do with that feller, Jude?” she queried significantly.
“Do? Why, nothin’. He ain’t nothin’ to me,” responded the girl indifferently.
“He ain’t, hey? Well, he’s bound to marry ye, honey,” said the older woman.
“Huh, he ain’t the first—and won’t be the last, I reckon,” assented Judith easily.
“Ye’d better watch out fer that man, Jude,” persisted Nancy, after a moment’s silence. “He’ll git ye, yet. I know his kind. He ain’t a-keerin’ fer yo’ ruthers—whether you want him or no. He jest aims to have you.”
“Well, I reckon he’ll about have to aim over agin,” observed the unmoved Judith.
“An’ Elder Drane? Air ye gwine to take him?—I know he’s done axed ye,” pursued Nancy hesitantly.
“ ’Bout ’leven times,” agreed Judith with perfect seriousness. “No—I wouldn’t have the man, not ef he’s made of pure gold.” She added with a sudden little smile and a catch of the breath: “Them’s awful nice chaps o’ his; I’d most take him to git them. The baby now—hit’s the sweetest thing!” And she tumbled Beezy tumultuously in her lap, then suddenly inquired, apparently without any volition of her own, “Aunt Nancy, did you know Creed Bonbright’s folks?”
“Good Lord, yes!” returned old Nancy. “But come on inside and set, Jude. This sun ain’t a-goin’ to dry yo’ skirt. Come in to the fire. Don’t take that thar cheer, the behime legs is broke, an’ it’s apt to lay you sprawling. I’ve knowed Creed Bonbright sence he wasn’t knee-high to a turkey, and I knowed his daddy afore him, and his grand-daddy, for the matter of that.”
Avoiding the treacherous piece of furniture against which she had been warned, Judith slipped out of her wet riding-skirt and arranged it in front of the fire to dry, turning then and seating herself on the broad hearth at Nancy’s knee, where she prompted feverishly,
“And is all the Bonbrights moved out of the neighbourhood?”
The old woman drew a few meditative whiffs on her pipe.
“All gone,” she nodded; “some of ’em killed up in the big feud, and some moved away—mostly to Texas.” Presently she added:
“That there Bonbright tribe is a curious nation of folks. They’re always after great things, and barkin’ their shins against rocks in the way. Creed’s mammy—she was Judge Gillenwaters’s sister, down in Hepzibah—died when he was no bigger’n Little Buck, and his pappy never wedded again. We used to name him and Creed Big ’Fraid and Little ’Fraid; they was always round together, like a man and his shadder. Then the feuds broke out mighty bad, and the Blackshearses got Esher Bonbright one night in a mistake for some of my kin—or so it was thort. Anyhow, the man was dead, and Creed lived with me fer a spell till his uncle down in Hepzibah wanted him to come and learn to be a lawyer.”
“Lived right here—in this house?” inquired Judith, looking around her, as she rose and turned the riding-skirt.
“Lord, yes—why not? You would a-knowed all about it, only your folks never moved in from the Fur Cove neighbourhood till the year Creed went down to the settlement.”