Sut Lovingood yarns spun by a "nat'ral born durn'd fool ; warped and wove for public wear |
TRAPPING A SHERIFF. |
 | TRAPPING A SHERIFF. Sut Lovingood |  |
TRAPPING A SHERIFF.
“When Doltin got his hed cooper'd up arter that cavin
in hit got frum the venerson laig, so he cud think up
sarcumstances a littil, he sent fur me. You see Jim
Dunkin, the ornary devil, foreswore hissef, an's now a
parjurd man; he tole Doltin that I hilt his note tu
Mary, an' he wer arter hit hot. Well, I tuck aboard
enuf wood tu run me a few miles, an' over I went; but
fus' gin the note tu Wirt Staples, tu keep, fur fear the
ole bull-dorg mout skeer hit outen me.
“Thar lay Doltin on a low one-hoss bedstid, wif 'bout
three wet towils tied roun' his head, an' cabbige leaves
a-peepin out all roun' frum onder em. 'Bout half ove
a doctor's shop wer sittin ontu a tabil.
“Thar sot the sheriff's wife, in a rocking cheer. She
wer boney an' pale. A drunk Injun cud a-red a Dutch
almanac thru her nose, and ther wer a new moon ove
indigo onder her eyes, away back intu them, fifty foot
or so. I seed her tear wells; thar windlass wer broke,
the buckits in staves, an' the waters all gone; an' away
above 'jis 'afore thar settin. Her wais wer flat, an' the
finger cords on her han's wer mos' as high, an' look'd
es tight, and show'd es clar thru the skin, es the strings
ove a fiddil. The han' hitsef wer white, not like snow,
but like paint, and the forkid blue veins made hit look
like a new map ove the lan' ove death. She wer a
coughin wif her han' on her hart, like she hed no more
spittil nur she hed tears, an' not much louder nor a
crickit chirpin in a flute; yit in spite ove all this, a
sweet smile kiver'd her feeters, like a patch ove winter
sunshine on the slope ove a mountin, an' hit staid thar
es steddy an' bright es the culler dus tu the rose. I
'speck that smile will go back up wif her when she
starts home, whar hit mus' a-cum frum. She must onst
been mons'us temtin tu men tu look at, an' now she's loved
by the angils, fur the seal ove thar king is stamp'd in
gold on her forrid. Her shoulder blades, as they show'd
thru her dress, made me think they wer wings a sproutin
fur her flight tu that cumfort and peace she desarves so
well. She's a dealin wif death now. Her shroud's in
the house, an' sum ove the nex' grass will grow on her
grave, an' she's willin fur the spring tu cum. She is
ready, an' I raly wish she hed started. As I look fus'
at him, an' then at her, I'd swore tu a herearter. Yes,
two herearters, by golly: one way up behint that ar
black cloud wif the white bindin fur sich as her; the
tuther herearter needs no wings nor laigs ither tu reach;
yu jes' draps in. An' way down in the souf corner
ove hit thar's a hole, what the devil prides hissef on, fur
hit is jis' sixteen thousin times hotter nur a weldin heat,
an' plum intu the center ove hit, wifout tetchin wall ur
rafter, sum fine arternoon Doltin'll drap head fus' an'
dive deeper nur a poun' plum bob kin fall in nine
months. Wouldn't you like to be in a safe place to
see him when he plouts in, wif a `whish' intu that ar
orful strong smellin, melted mixtry ove seleck damnashun.
He'll sizzil like a wet cat flung intu a kittil ove
bilin fat, an' he'll slosh hit up agin the walls so high
that hit will be a week tricklin down agin, an' sen' the
blazin draps so high, that they'll light on yeath an' be
mistakened fur shootin stars.
“Well, he ris up ontu his elber, and sez he, mighty
saft like, `Mister Lovingood, you holes a note ove
mine fur ten dullers. I wants tu pay hit,' a holding out
a bank ove Tennessee X, an' a winkin prudins' an'
silence at me frum onder the aidge ove a cabbige leaf
monsus strong.
“Sez I, `Mr. Doltin, I'se powerful sorry, but the fac'
is, I'se dun traded yer note.'
“`Oh, dear me! I hopes not, hu did did you trade
hit tu?'
“I look'd strait intu the center spot ove the eye wif the
cabbige leaf curtin, es innersent es a lam, an' sed, slow
an' sorry like, `Wirt Staples, Wat Mastin's cuzzin.'
“He jerk'd his elber frum onder him like springin the
triggers ove a bar-trap, an fell back, pulled down the
cabbige leaf low, and sez he, low atwixt his teef, tu
keep his wife frum hearin hit, `You've play'd hell.'
“`Folks generlly sez that's my trade,' sez I.
“`What did yu say yer trade wer sir?' sed she, es
saft an' sweet es a well-played flute.
“`Tradin notes ove hand mum,' sez I.
“`Oh! I hopes you don't take usury, sir.'
“`No mam,' sez I, `by no means; I takes venerson
fur em.'
“`Go tu yure room,' growled the durned ole sore-headed
bar, I wants tu talk tu this pusson.'
“Dam 'im, he call'd me a pusson.
“Arter she lef, sez he, `Yu git that paper back, an'
fetch hit tu me, an' ef yu don't, I'll put yu in jail,
'bout that nigger meetin business, an' thar yu'll stay.
Dus yer onderstan' me? I'll gin yer venerson,' a-grittin
his teeth, an' shakin his finger at me like a snake's
tongue, `don't yu fool wif me, yu infernel grasshopper
ove hell.'
“Sez I, `I'll try,' a-backing fur the door.
“Sez he `Stop,' an' I stopt, but wif the door leaf hilt
sorter atwixt us, an' all ove my laigs outside.
“`Yu stole that paper frum Missis Mastin. Now yu
git hit imejuntly, if not sooner, ur yu'll lay in jail till—'
“`Thar's enuf white fros' in hell tu bite snap-beans,'
sez I, a-mockin his bull voice.
“He jis' rar'd back agin, an' let his hans' fall on the
floor each side the cot, es I shot the door ahine me. I
hearn a hoss snort sumwhar. He mus' a been sorter
flustrated at me, fur the cabbidge leaves wer wilted
wif sweat.
“I tole Wirt Staples what hed been sed an' dun over
tu the sheriff's hous'. So him an' me an his wife an'
Wat Mastin, a few days arter, hilt a rale no-nothin convenshun,
tu oursefs, at Wirt's hous'. We bilt a trap,
an' baited hit. Now, what du yu reckon we used fur
bait? Nuffin but Mary Mastin hersef; an' by golly we
cotch Doltin the fus' pass. Wirt's wife did the planin,
an' ef she aint smart fur an' 'oman, I aint a nat'ral born
durned fool. She aint one ove yure she-cat wimmin,
allers spittin an' groanin, an' swellin thar tails 'bout thar
vartu. She never talks a word about hit, no more nor
if she didn't hev eny; an' she hes es true a heart es
ever beat agin a shiff hem, ur a husban's shut. But
she am full ove fun, an' I mout add as purty es a
hen canary, an' I swar I don't b'l'eve the 'oman knows
hit. She cum intu our boat jis' caze Wirt wer in hit,
and she seed lots of fun a-plantin, an' she wanted
tu be at the reapin of the crap.
“Well, the fust thing did wer tu make her she-nigger
overlay the road fur Doltin, an' tell him that Mary Mastin
hed sarch'd my pockits when I wer asleep, an' foun'
a note ove his'n, an' that she wanted him tu meet up
wif her nex arternoon, jis' arter dark, back ove the
billy-goat jis' sot in tu lickin his lips and roachin his
back, like he wer a-tas'in the farwell ove ole brandy.
He ris in his stirrups an' swore he'd be thar, ef hit
rain'd red hot railroad spikes, an' bilin tar.
“Wirt's wife got yearly supper, a rale suckit-rider's
supper, whar the 'oman ove the hous' wer a rich b'lever.
Thar wer chickens cut up, an' fried in butter, brown,
white, flakey, light, hot biskit, made wif cream, scrambil'd
aigs, yaller butter, fried ham, in slices es big es
yure han, pickil'd beets, an' cowcumbers, roas'in ears,
shaved down an' fried, sweet taters, baked, a stack ove
buckwheat cakes, as full ove holes es a sifter, an' a
bowl ove strained honey, tu fill the holes. I likes tu
sock a fork intu the aidge of one of them spongy things
'bout es big es a hat crown, put a spoonful ove honey
onder hit, an' a spoonful ove honey atop ove hit, an'
roll hit up ontu the fork like a big segar, an' start hit
down my froat aind fus', an' then jis' sen' nine more
after hit, tu hole hit down. Nex tu speerits, they goes
down the bes'. I kin tas'e em es low down es the bottim
ove my trowsis pokits. Fur drinks, she hed coffee,
hot, clar an' brown, an' sweet milk es cold es a rich
man's heart. Ontu the dresser sot a sorter lookin pot-bellied
bottil, half full ove peach brandy, watchin a
tumbler, a spoon, an' a sugar bowl. Oh! massy,
massy, George! fur the sake ove yure soul's 'tarnil wellfar,
don't yu es long es yu live ever be temtid by money,
mersheen kisses, tu marry ur cum ni marryin eny gal
a-top this livin green yeath, onless yu hes seed her
yursef cook jis' sich feedin as that wer. Durnashun, I
kin tas'e hit now, jis' es plain es I tas'e that ar festergut,
in that ar jug, an' I swar I tasis hit plain. I gets
dorg hongry every time I sees Wirt's wife, ur even
her side-saddil, ur her frocks a-hangin on the closeline.
“Es we sot down, the las' glimmers ove the sun crep
thru the histed winder, an' flutter'd on the white tabilcloth
an' play'd a silver shine on her smoof black har,
es she sot at the head ove the tabil, a-pourin out the
coffee, wif her sleeves push'd tight back on her white
roun' arm, her full throbbin neck wer bar to the swell
ove her shoulders, an' the steam ove the coffee made
a movin vail afore her face, es she slowly brush'd hit
away wif hur lef han', a-smilin an' a-flashin hur talkin
eyes lovinly at her hansum husbun. I thot ef I wer
a picter-maker, I cud jis' take that ar supper an' that
ar 'oman down on clean white paper, an' make more
men hongry, an' hot tu marry, a-lookin at hit in one
week, nor ever ole Whitfield convarted in his hole life;
back-sliders, hippercrits, an' all, I don't keer a durn.
“Well, arter the supper things wer put away, an' the
cows milkt, I hilt the calves off by the tail, tu make
mysef useful; Wirt an' me by golly, an' Wirt's wife,
an' Wat Mastin went over tu the blackberry patch, tu inishiate
The moon wer 'bout four days old; yu cud
scarcely tell a man frum a stump, sixty yards off han',
arter night farly sot in; jis' the kine ove a night fur
sly meetins ur stealin, fur the yeath.
“We'd scasely got things fix'd an oursefs hid seperit
when we hearn his ole hosses huffs soundin on the hard
road. That soun' stopt, an' torreckly we hearn a
low, partridge whistil, `Whee-chee,' `Whee-chee,' `Bob
White,' tuther side ove the patch.
“`Oh! the durn'd ole fool,' said Wirt tu his wife.
`partridges don't whistil arter night.'
“Sez she, `The whippoorwill wud be better,' an' she
whistil'd `whip-poor-will' in her froat sumhow, so like
that I thot I seed the spot onder one's wings.
“Ole Doltin tuck hit up an' answered, cummin nigher
`whippoorwill.' Purty soon we seed him, loomin big
up agin the sky. He'd whistil an' listen, an' cum a
littil, steppin saft es a cat. `Whee-chee,' `whee-chee,'
`wee-chee,' whistled Missis Staples, so low an' sweet yu
jis' cud hear hit. The tone of that whistil sed `cum
lov,' `cum lov,' so plain I cud scarcely sit still myself.
I swear, I thot I hearn his heart a-beatin. I jis' know'd
mine wud a been a-poundin like the devil a-beatin tan-bark,
ef I'd been a-spcetin what he wer.”
“Stop a moment, Mr. Lovingood,” said an old batchelor,
an old field schoolmaster, who was one of Sut's
auditory, “allow me to interrupt you, that I may more
Dalton in expectation of?”
Sut looked up at the overhanging elm boughs, and
said carelessly, “Oh, nuffin but his note, I speck. Say
yu thar mister a-b ab, is the fool-killer in the parts yu
cum frum, duin his juty, ur is he ded?”
“I never saw such a personage.”
“I thot so, by the jinglin Jehosephat.”
The old gentleman turned to me and asked in a confidential
whisper, “Is not that person slightly deranged?”
“Oh, no, not at all, he is only troubled at times with
violent attacks of durn'd fool.”
“He is laboring under one now, is he not?”
I nodded my head. “Go on, Sut.”
“When ole Doltin got wifin ten steps, Missis Staples
stept forrid outen the briars, wif her bonnet sorter over
her face. He jis' gin a low, gurglin sort ove bray, an'
sprung squar at her. He grabbed her in his arms
a-dartin his ole pouch'd out mouf at her face, like a
blue crane sen's his bill arter minners; she a-dodgin so
that every dip hit the bonnet. Sez he, `My dear Margaret,
what makes you so skittish, tu-night. Don't
be—'
“Wat Mastin hed closed his paw on tu the knot ove
his neck hanketcher, an' comenc'd a-twis'in hit hard.
“`Yu infurnel ole scoundril, I'se cotch yu at las.'
What's yu a-duin wif my wife?'
“`Nuf—nufin. Yer—yer wife, got her coatail tangled
her.'
“`Yas,' sez Wat, `an' dam ef I don't ontangle yu, in
in a neighborly way. Say the shortes' an' mos' sarchin
pray'r yu knows, fur yure season's over.'
“Jis' then Missis Staples spoke up, like she wer vishusly
mad, `Don't yu git too smart, Wat Mastin, 'bout
yer sorril-top wife. I aint her, by a frock full. Jis' go
home tu Mary, an' simmer down cool; yu hev no bisniss
yere.'
“Wat 'tended tu be stonish'd. Sez he, `I begs pardon,'
an' step'd back frum Doltin. The ole cuss wer
pow'fly 'stonish'd hissef, an' glad all over too, fur hit spilt
Wat's title tu choke him tu death.
“Hu in the devil kin she be, an' hu wer she 'spectin
tu meet? wer now Doltin's tho'ts, an' he aiged up tu
her agin, when Wirt at one spring lit atwix' em.
“`Susan—Doltin, by— I wants tu know what
this means?' Doltin tho't ove the venerson laig, an'
he sed in a houn' whimper, `I never tetched her,' an'
broke tu run. In two jumps Wirt cotch 'im and fotch
'im back by his coat collar.
“Sez Missis Staples, `Han' me the shawl yu promis'd
me, (she said this sorter low, and pitiful like,) afore yu
desarts me.'
“`Shawl! shawl!' shouted Wirt. `Oh! yu preshus
pair ove dain furnitur-takers.'
“I now stept forth jis' so, 'bout seving foot. Sez I,
Mastin,' in a seckrit sort ove whisper.
“`Never mine hit now, Mister Lovingood, never
mine, I'se pow'fl busy jis' now; sum uther time'll du.'
“Sez I, `Yu mus' take hit now. Yu talked ove jugin
me 'bout the durn'd thing. Yere hit is, an' I reach'd
hit forrid, an' Wat grabbed hit. Ole Doltin groan'd.
“Sez Wat, a-rubbin hit onder Doltin's snout, `that's
testermony ontu yu, yu dam ole raskil.'
“`Yas,' sez Wirt, a-pintin tu Susan, `an thar stans' one
hundred and twenty poun's more testermony.'
“She purtended to cry, an' she sed, `Oh, Mister Doltin,
what made yu use me so?'
“`I wish I may drap dead ef ever I used yu at all,'
sed Doltin, right quick.
“`Yu hes ruinated me, Mister Doltin.'
“`I never,' said Doltin.
“`An' yu never fotch me—no—no—sh-sh-all arter
all, hu, hu, hu;' an' she wiped her eyes.
“`I don't owe you no shawl; wish I may drap dead
in a minut ef I dus.'
“`Hu, hu, hu,' sez she, `yu never gin me a thing yet,
yu dratted stingy hog, yu.'
“I swar he wer the wust befoozeled man I ever saw;
he rub'd his eyes wif his fis,' an' batted em a few times,
then he looked wide open owl fashun, fus' at wun an
then at tuther, like he'd been dreamin a orful night-mar,
an' wurn't sure whether he wer awake yet. Susan, still
tellin Missis Doltin, killin hersef, an' I dono what all.
A gran' tho't now struck im, an' he jis' roar'd, `I is the
high sheriff ove this county, an' I cumands the peace.'
“Wurn't that a smashin lick?
“Sez Wirt, `Strip, high sheriff ove this county; I'se
gwine tu hang yu dorg fashun. Wat, han' me that rope.'
The blusterin ole bell wether jis' wilted down' an'
sot in tu strippin slow, an' a-beggin, an' a-promisin, an'
a-makin money offers, we helpin him tu du his shuckin.
I foun' a par ove wimin's shoes, his buckskin gloves an'
a smellin bottil in his coat pockit. Missis Staples slipt
off tu the hous', when the strippin begun, an' I don't
blame her.
“Well, when we got all off but his shut an' shoes,'
Wirt slipp'd the noose in wun aind ove the rope over
his head, an' thar wer tied tu tuther aind a ball ove
tow soaked in tupentine es big es a half bushel, wifout
his seein hit. I'd fotch a par ove wile, vigrus, skeer'd
tom-cats in each aind ove a bag, wif leather cullars, an
a big fish-hook sowed tu each cullar by a foot ove
strap. While Wirt wer fixin the noose, so es not tu
choke, I slipp'd up ahine him, an' hooked a cat tu each
corner ove his shutail, a-holden em off; he wer so
trimblin an' skeered he didn't feel me. While I wer
duin this, Wat struck a match an' lit the tupentine,
sayin:
“`I means tu toas' yu es yu swings, yu dam maleafactory.'
year—
“ `Bulge squar fur the briars, they won't foller in thar.'
“By the great golly, when he hearn that sentimint,
cuppled es hit wer wif Wat's toastin idear, he jis made a
rale hoss lunge, an' I drap't the cats. Wun tuck up his
bar back, a-haulin up arter him the noth corner ove the
shutail onder-handid, an' tuther wun tuck down his
thigh, a-haulin the souf corner ove the shutail arter him.
They pulled agin each uther like ontu two wile steers
in a yaller-jackids nes'. The cat a-gwine up hill, made
the ole feller tote that side, an' shoulder sorter ahead
over tuther, like he wer leanin frum a hot fire. The
cat gwine down hill, made him lift that laig like a
spring-halted hoss, only a heap faster, while the briars
hookin him everywhar, made him dodge all over, every
way at onst. Frum his moshuns, he mout a-been
pussessed wif the devil, pow'fully. Yu never seed sich
lap-sided, high up, low down, windin about, jerkin,
oneven runnin in the world, but every durned step ove
hit wer strait away frum whar we wer, squar thru the
briar patch. The tupentine lit up a bright road ahine
him, kivered wif broke down an' tore up briars, an' his
white shut, an' the cats' eyes 'zembled a flag ove truce,
kivered wif litnin-bugs. I think I never seed es meny
cat's-eyes in es many places afore, tu be no more cats
than thar wer; tails too, wer ruther numerous, an' sorter
swelled, an' claws a plenty. The noise he made,
chain-lightnin, a-cuttin thru a dry cane brake on a big
bet. An' thar wer wif the noise a ondercurrent ove
soun, like tarin starched muslin; this, I speck wer the
briars an' cats a-breakin holts. `Ha, ha!' sez Wirt,
`wudn't he be great in a new country tu open out roads,
ur tote news ove the cumin ove the Injuns? Hell!
how he travils! listen, jis' listen. Don't he make
things roar?' I run tu his hoss, an' mounted, an' tuck
thru tu Wat's afore he got roun that far. I jump't off
in the thicket, an' crept up tu the road, furnint Wat's
door, tu see him tar apas'. Yere he cum; I seed his
lite a-shinin, long afore I seed him, way abuy the trees;
hit warn't hid onder no bushel. Wirt wer openin on
his trail, makin the mountains ring wif yells an' dreadful
threats. Doltin toted his lite pow'ful irregular;
sumtimes hit wer trailin on the yeath, an' sumtimes hit
warn't, by 'bout fifteen foot. Hit wer a-lightin on, an'
a-flyin off the fence, on bof sides ove the lane, an' yu
cud a-seed tu a-pick'd strawberries, an' hit roar'd like a
storm; the moshuns ove that lite, I speck, wer govern'd
by the workin ove the cats. I seed the activ bulge ove
one cat onder his shut, a-tryin hits durndes tu pull hits
corner ove the shutail up onder the collar, at the back
ove his naik; the tuther cat wer a-dividin hits time,
'bout ekal, a-jumpin at the weeds, an' a-tryin tu run
furder down his big laig, an' they swap't work
now an' then: the down-hill cat wud go up onder
in tuther cat cumin down a spell. While they wer bof
up thar atwixt Doltin an' his shut, he look'd pow'ful
hump-back'd, an' lordamity! how low he'd run then.
Sweet Margery! jis' think ove two agravated onsantified
he cats at yearnis' war, makin yer bar-back thar
battil groun, an' pendin on yer hide fur all thar foot-holts.
I swar hits a rale red-pepper waknin idear, jis' tu
think ove, wifout a cat in a mile—jewillekins! The
eyes an' tails wer dreadful tu behole, an' thar groanin
an' spittin beat cats when they'se courtin, wus nur they
dus city folks at the same work.
“Mary hed hearn the noise, an' seed the lite, so she
cum tu the gate, jis' es the ole exhited fernomenon tore
apas'. She fotch a scream.
“ `Dear bless us! what's all that? Oh, mammy, run
out yere quick, an' see the devil a-chasin whippwills.'
“When she sed that, Doltin tho't ove the whipporwill
he'd hearn at the briar-patch, an' b'leved Mary wer
mixed up wif the thing, an' he sobbed out—
“ `Oh yu dam 'saitful b—h, this is yure work.
“ `Oh, mammy, mammy, that's poor Mister Doltin's
voice, as sure as yu ar born'd! the poor dear man's ded,
an' that's him. Ole Smutty's arter, wif a torch ove
hell-fire. I dus wonder what he's been duin?'
“She sed this sorter whifflin. I put my han roun
my mouf, an' bellered thru em in the mos' doleful way
yu ever hearn, frum the thicket—
“`Margarit Mastin, the lawfal wife ove Watson Mastin,
the blacksmith, prepar tu go down whar thar's no
sly courtin, nur rar ripe garden-seed. Margarit, thar's
rath tu cum, yer crap's laid by, prepar,' an' I groaned.
“She arched her naik, an' tuck a wild blazin look
over at the thicket, like she wer studyin 'bout sumthin,
an' sez she, short an' vigrus—
“`Durn my soul ef I go a step,' an' jis' busted thru
the standin corn like a runaway hoss. Thinks I, that
ar blade will never git religun frum a skeer. The ole
'oman got tu the door, jis' in time tu hear the las'
words, an' the soun Mary made a-tarin thru the corn.
She wer a-pinnin up her frock-bussum. Sez I, doleful—
“`Peggy Jane, my b'loved wife, I'se in hell, a-sufferin
fur robbin the peddler; yu made me du hit!' Sez
she—
“Sammy, I didn't; I only tole yu we needed his
truck.' Sez I—
“`Fetch me sum warter, fur my tung's parch'd wif
fervent heat.' Sez she—
“Thar's a spring back ove the ridge thar,' (that wer
a cussed lie.) Sez I—
“`I'm a-cummin fur a gourd.' Sez she—
“`Thar's nara gourd yere.' Dam ef she didn't hist
all her coats, haf a foot abuv her knees, an' tuck thru
the co'n too.
“I went intu the cabin, drawed one ove Doltin's
gloves ontu littil Rar Ripe's head, fur a night-cap. Hits
roun hits forrid; tuther glove I put in Wat's overcoat
pockid, a-hangin on the wall, mounted the hoss, an'
tuck acrost the ridge tu head off Doltin at the ferry.
The ferryman's ole whipporwill wife hearn the noise
ove his cumin, an' seed the lite shinin fru the winder.
So she bounced outen bed in her shiftail, an' run tu the
door. Sez she—
“`Laws a massy! ole man, git up quick, an' set em
over; make haste, ur they'll swim. The big show's
a-cumin in a hurry, fur yere's the rhionoserenus aready,
an' lots ove monkeys clost ahine him, an' the big Barnum
Bengal lite arter them. Good lordy! what tails!
grashus me, what a noise! marcyful hevings, what a
belly! an'— Oh, lord a massy on my poor soul!
sakes alive!'
“She pernounced these las' words like she wer pow'ful
shamed, an' I speck the fool wer, fur she pulled up
what she tuck tu be her aprun, an' kivered her face,
an' shet the door wif a snap, an' lef hersef on the outside.
I holler'd `Higher—yer forrid ain't kivered yet.' She
run roun the chimley outen sight, still holdin up her
aprun.
“Doltin flew apas', shot down the bank, run thru the
ferryboat an' plouted off the fur aind head fust intu
the river. When he got farly tu swimin, hit wer cumfurtin
an' nice tu look at frum a high pint. He swum
breas' high fur tuther bank, and the durn'd cats, contrary
up, an' leanin frum each uther. This straiched his
shutail flat ove the warter, an' the lite wer a-bouncin
over the waves on Doltin's wake, aidgin em all wif
gold. He look'd like a big high preshur snapin turkil,
wif a dark head, white shell, an' the cats answered fur
a par ove activ, brindil hine laigs. The river wer
trubbil'd pow'ful, a-slushin high up the banks, an'
a-slappin up agin the rake ove the ferry-boat, fur he
wer a-stirrin hit plum tu the mud. Every now an'
then he'd snort like a hoss, an' look back over his
shoulder; his eyes wer es big es a bull's, an' blazed like
ontu two furnace-doors; that mine ove his'n mus'
a-been pow'ful active jis 'bout then. Cats—ropes—
mad husbuns—an' a orful hell perdominatin amung
loose tho'ts ove wimen an' thar onsartinty as he riz
tuther bank, wif the limber cats danglin roun his laigs.
I holler'd over:
“`Say thar, rar ripe cat 'tachmints am wus in law
nur sashararas, ain't they?'
“He never sed a word, but crawled tired like intu the
paw-paw thicket, drownded cats, rope, wet tow, an' all.
When he got home he tole his wife a doleful tale.
How the Democrats, jis' caze he wudn't tell the nonuthings'
seckrit, hed tied him tu a wile hoss's tail,
an' turned hit loose, an' then started a passenger injine
ontu his trail tu skeer the hoss. He knowed they did,
fur he seed the head-lite clost arter 'im, the hole way,
George, by golly! nuffin but cats.) What a thundrin
liar that man mus' be; but lyin's born'd wif sum folks,
jis like squint-eyes. While his wife wer ilin ove his
torn hide, an' a checkerin his back wif stripes ove
court-plarster, she axed him how so much fur cum tu
be stickin tu his wouns. He sed the hoss run thru a
hatter's shop wif 'im. Warn't that right down shifty?
“Then sez she, `Yer shut an' yu bof smell sorter catty,
strong like. When she hinted at cats, he rar'd up on
aind, lookin wild roun the room; sez he, `Whar's eny
cats?'
“George, them ar tom-cats mus' a-scratched intu his
conshuns afore they died, fur he jined chuch jis' es soon
he got abil tu walk thar. Hits strange, haint hit? In
ole times I hearn tell they hed cities whar fellers run
tu, an' wer safe arter they'd dun sum pow'ful devilmint.”
“Yes, Sut; cities of refuge.”
“Well, durn my rags ef gittin ove religun ain't the
city ove rayfuge now-a-days; yu jis' let a raskil git
hissef cotch, an' maul'd, fur his dam meanness, an' he
jines chuch jis' es soon es he kin straitch his
face long enuf tu fill the pius standard, an' that's
eighteen inches fur lean peopil, an' fourteen fur fat
ones. I hes a city ove rayfuge myself, what I allers
keeps along wif me,” and Sut looked down proudly
and fondly at his legs.
“I furgot tu menshun a day ur two arter the catrace,
I met up wif Wat Mastin at the store. He moshuned
me roun back ove the hous'. Sez he—
“`Sut, hell's tu pay at our hous'. Mary's been hid
out sumwhar till this mornin. She cum up draggil'd
an' hungry, an' won't say a durn'd word. An' ole
Missis McKildrin's plum gone.' Sez I—
“`Ain't yu glad?'
“He stretched his mouf intu the wides' smile yu
ever seed, an' slappin me on the back, sez he—
“`I is, by golly!'
“Then he lookt serious wif his head down. Sez
he—
“`Doltin mus' be a pow'ful parseverin man when he
sets his head fur enything.' Sez I—
“`Why?'
“`Caze don't yu think, wif them cats, an' that skeer,
an' that hurtin, an' us arter 'im, tu hang 'im es he tho't,
he tuck time tu stop an' see Mary!' Sez I—
“`Oh no!'
“`Yes he did, fur I foun one ove his gloves in my
overcoat pockid, an' he'd gin tuther one tu the baby,
fur a night-cap.'
“George, Wat Mastin hes a right thick streak ove
durn'd fool in him, sure es yu are born'd.
“Bout three days arter seein Wat I meets up wif
Mary on the road. She wer swingin her sun-bonnit
afore her by the strings, walkin fas' an' lookin down at
the groun. Sez I—
“`Mornin! Missis Mastin; I hes lost two pow'ful
fine cats, hes yu seed enything ove 'em roun yere?'
Sez she, an' her eyes blazed—
“`I hope they ar in hell, whar yu ought tu be, yu
infunel mischief-make yu!'
“The 'oman sartinly hes got sumfin agin me. I
wonders what hit kin be?”
| TRAPPING A SHERIFF. Sut Lovingood | |