COL. GRANGERFORD was a gentleman,
you see. He was a gentleman all
over; and so was his family.
He was well born, as the saying
is, and that's worth as much
in a man as it is in a horse,
so the Widow Douglas said, and
nobody ever denied that she was
of the first aristocracy in our
town; and pap he always said
it, too, though he warn't no
more quality than a mudcat himself.
Col. Grangerford was very tall
and very slim, and had a darkish-paly
complexion, not a sign of red
in it anywheres; he was clean
shaved every morning all over
his thin face, and he had the
thinnest kind of lips, and the
thinnest kind of nostrils, and
a high nose, and heavy eyebrows,
and the blackest kind of eyes,
sunk so deep back that they seemed
like they was looking out of
caverns at you, as you may say.
His forehead was high, and his
hair was black and straight and
hung to his shoulders. His hands
was long and thin, and every
day of his life he put on a clean
shirt and a full suit from head
to foot made out of linen so
white it hurt your eyes to look
at it; and on Sundays he wore
a blue tail-coat with brass buttons
on it. He carried a mahogany
cane with a silver head to it.
There warn't no frivolishness
about him, not a bit, and he
warn't ever loud. He was as kind
as he could be -- you could feel
that, you know, and so you had
confidence. Sometimes he smiled,
and it was good to see; but when
he straightened himself up like
a liberty-pole, and the lightning
begun to flicker out from under
his eyebrows, you wanted to climb
a tree first, and find out what
the matter was afterwards. He
didn't ever have to tell anybody
to mind their manners -- everybody
was always goodmannered where
he was. Everybody loved to have
him around, too; he was sunshine
most always -- I mean he made
it seem like good weather. When
he turned into a cloudbank it
was awful dark for half a minute,
and that was enough; there wouldn't
nothing go wrong again for a
week.
When him and
the old lady come down in the
morning all the family
got up out of their chairs and
give them good-day, and didn't
set down again till they had
set down. Then Tom and Bob went
to the sideboard where the decanter
was, and mixed a glass of bitters
and handed it to him, and he
held it in his hand and waited
till Tom's and Bob's was mixed,
and then they bowed and said, "Our
duty to you, sir, and madam;" and
THEY bowed the least bit in the
world and said thank you, and
so they drank, all three, and
Bob and Tom poured a spoonful
of water on the sugar and the
mite of whisky or apple brandy
in the bottom of their tumblers,
and give it to me and Buck, and
we drank to the old people too.
Bob was the oldest and Tom
next -- tall, beautiful men with
very broad shoulders and brown
faces, and long black hair and
black eyes. They dressed in white
linen from head to foot, like
the old gentleman, and wore broad
Panama hats.
Then there was Miss Charlotte;
she was twentyfive, and tall
and proud and grand, but as good
as she could be when she warn't
stirred up; but when she was
she had a look that would make
you wilt in your tracks, like
her father. She was beautiful.
So was her sister, Miss Sophia,
but it was a different kind.
She was gentle and sweet like
a dove, and she was only twenty.
Each person had their own nigger
to wait on them -- Buck too.
My nigger had a monstrous easy
time, because I warn't used to
having anybody do anything for
me, but Buck's was on the jump
most of the time.
This was all there was of the
family now, but there used to
be more -- three sons; they got
killed; and Emmeline that died.
The old gentleman owned a lot
of farms and over a hundred niggers.
Sometimes a stack of people would
come there, horseback, from ten
or fifteen mile around, and stay
five or six days, and have such
junketings round about and on
the river, and dances and picnics
in the woods daytimes, and balls
at the house nights. These people
was mostly kinfolks of the family.
The men brought their guns with
them. It was a handsome lot of
quality, I tell you.
There was another clan of aristocracy
around there -- five or six families
-- mostly of the name of Shepherdson.
They was as high-toned and well
born and rich and grand as the
tribe of Grangerfords. The Shepherdsons
and Grangerfords used the same
steamboat landing, which was
about two mile above our house;
so sometimes when I went up there
with a lot of our folks I used
to see a lot of the Shepherdsons
there on their fine horses.
One day Buck and me was away
out in the woods hunting, and
heard a horse coming. We was
crossing the road. Buck says:
"Quick! Jump
for the woods!"
We done it, and then peeped
down the woods through the leaves.
Pretty soon a splendid young
man come galloping down the road,
setting his horse easy and looking
like a soldier. He had his gun
across his pommel. I had seen
him before. It was young Harney
Shepherdson. I heard Buck's gun
go off at my ear, and Harney's
hat tumbled off from his head.
He grabbed his gun and rode straight
to the place where we was hid.
But we didn't wait. We started
through the woods on a run. The
woods warn't thick, so I looked
over my shoulder to dodge the
bullet, and twice I seen Harney
cover Buck with his gun; and
then he rode away the way he
come -- to get his hat, I reckon,
but I couldn't see. We never
stopped running till we got home.
The old gentleman's eyes blazed
a minute -- 'twas pleasure, mainly,
I judged -- then his face sort
of smoothed down, and he says,
kind of gentle:
"I don't like
that shooting from behind a
bush. Why didn't
you step into the road, my boy?"
"The Shepherdsons
don't, father. They always
take advantage."
Miss Charlotte she held her
head up like a queen while Buck
was telling his tale, and her
nostrils spread and her eyes
snapped. The two young men looked
dark, but never said nothing.
Miss Sophia she turned pale,
but the color come back when
she found the man warn't hurt.
Soon as I could get Buck down
by the corn-cribs under the trees
by ourselves, I says:
"Did you want
to kill him, Buck?"
"Well, I bet
I did."
"What did he
do to you?"
"Him? He never
done nothing to me."
"Well, then,
what did you want to kill him
for?"
"Why, nothing
-- only it's on account of
the feud."
"What's a feud?"
"Why, where
was you raised? Don't you know
what a feud is?"
"Never heard
of it before -- tell me about
it."
"Well," says Buck, "a
feud is this way: A man has
a quarrel
with another man, and kills him;
then that other man's brother
kills HIM; then the other brothers,
on both sides, goes for one another;
then the COUSINS chip in -- and
by and by everybody's killed
off, and there ain't no more
feud. But it's kind of slow,
and takes a long time."
"Has this one
been going on long, Buck?"
"Well, I should
RECKON! It started thirty year
ago, or som'ers
along there. There was trouble
'bout something, and then a lawsuit
to settle it; and the suit went
agin one of the men, and so he
up and shot the man that won
the suit -- which he would naturally
do, of course. Anybody would."
"What was the
trouble about, Buck? -- land?"
"I reckon maybe
-- I don't know."
"Well, who
done the shooting? Was it a
Grangerford or a Shepherdson?"
"Laws, how
do I know? It was so long ago."
"Don't anybody
know?"
"Oh, yes, pa
knows, I reckon, and some of
the other old people;
but they don't know now what
the row was about in the first
place."
"Has there
been many killed, Buck?"
"Yes; right
smart chance of funerals. But
they don't always
kill. Pa's got a few buckshot
in him; but he don't mind it
'cuz he don't weigh much, anyway.
Bob's been carved up some with
a bowie, and Tom's been hurt
once or twice."
"Has anybody
been killed this year, Buck?"
"Yes; we got
one and they got one. 'Bout
three months ago my
cousin Bud, fourteen year old,
was riding through the woods
on t'other side of the river,
and didn't have no weapon with
him, which was blame' foolishness,
and in a lonesome place he hears
a horse a-coming behind him,
and sees old Baldy Shepherdson
a-linkin' after him with his
gun in his hand and his white
hair a-flying in the wind; and
'stead of jumping off and taking
to the brush, Bud 'lowed he could
outrun him; so they had it, nip
and tuck, for five mile or more,
the old man a-gaining all the
time; so at last Bud seen it
warn't any use, so he stopped
and faced around so as to have
the bullet holes in front, you
know, and the old man he rode
up and shot him down. But he
didn't git much chance to enjoy
his luck, for inside of a week
our folks laid HIM out."
"I reckon that
old man was a coward, Buck."
"I reckon he
WARN'T a coward. Not by a blame'
sight. There
ain't a coward amongst them Shepherdsons
-- not a one. And there ain't
no cowards amongst the Grangerfords
either. Why, that old man kep'
up his end in a fight one day
for half an hour against three
Grangerfords, and come out winner.
They was all a-horseback; he
lit off of his horse and got
behind a little woodpile, and
kep' his horse before him to
stop the bullets; but the Grangerfords
stayed on their horses and capered
around the old man, and peppered
away at him, and he peppered
away at them. Him and his horse
both went home pretty leaky and
crippled, but the Grangerfords
had to be FETCHED home -- and
one of 'em was dead, and another
died the next day. No, sir; if
a body's out hunting for cowards
he don't want to fool away any
time amongst them Shepherdsons,
becuz they don't breed any of
that KIND."
Next Sunday we all went to
church, about three mile, everybody
a-horseback. The men took their
guns along, so did Buck, and
kept them between their knees
or stood them handy against the
wall. The Shepherdsons done the
same. It was pretty ornery preaching
-- all about brotherly love,
and such-like tiresomeness; but
everybody said it was a good
sermon, and they all talked it
over going home, and had such
a powerful lot to say about faith
and good works and free grace
and preforeordestination, and
I don't know what all, that it
did seem to me to be one of the
roughest Sundays I had run across
yet.
About an hour after dinner
everybody was dozing around,
some in their chairs and some
in their rooms, and it got to
be pretty dull. Buck and a dog
was stretched out on the grass
in the sun sound asleep. I went
up to our room, and judged I
would take a nap myself. I found
that sweet Miss Sophia standing
in her door, which was next to
ours, and she took me in her
room and shut the door very soft,
and asked me if I liked her,
and I said I did; and she asked
me if I would do something for
her and not tell anybody, and
I said I would. Then she said
she'd forgot her Testament, and
left it in the seat at church
between two other books, and
would I slip out quiet and go
there and fetch it to her, and
not say nothing to nobody. I
said I would. So I slid out and
slipped off up the road, and
there warn't anybody at the church,
except maybe a hog or two, for
there warn't any lock on the
door, and hogs likes a puncheon
floor in summer-time because
it's cool. If you notice, most
folks don't go to church only
when they've got to; but a hog
is different.
Says I to myself,
something's up; it ain't natural
for a girl
to be in such a sweat about a
Testament. So I give it a shake,
and out drops a little piece
of paper with "HALF-PAST TWO" wrote
on it with a pencil. I ransacked
it, but couldn't find anything
else. I couldn't make anything
out of that, so I put the paper
in the book again, and when I
got home and upstairs there was
Miss Sophia in her door waiting
for me. She pulled me in and
shut the door; then she looked
in the Testament till she found
the paper, and as soon as she
read it she looked glad; and
before a body could think she
grabbed me and give me a squeeze,
and said I was the best boy in
the world, and not to tell anybody.
She was mighty red in the face
for a minute, and her eyes lighted
up, and it made her powerful
pretty. I was a good deal astonished,
but when I got my breath I asked
her what the paper was about,
and she asked me if I had read
it, and I said no, and she asked
me if I could read writing, and
I told her "no, only coarse-hand," and
then she said the paper warn't
anything but a book-mark to keep
her place, and I might go and
play now.
I went off down to the river,
studying over this thing, and
pretty soon I noticed that my
nigger was following along behind.
When we was out of sight of the
house he looked back and around
a second, and then comes a-running,
and says:
"Mars Jawge,
if you'll come down into de
swamp I'll show
you a whole stack o' water-moccasins."
Thinks I, that's mighty curious;
he said that yesterday. He oughter
know a body don't love watermoccasins
enough to go around hunting for
them. What is he up to, anyway?
So I says:
"All right;
trot ahead."
I followed a half a mile; then
he struck out over the swamp,
and waded ankle deep as much
as another half-mile. We come
to a little flat piece of land
which was dry and very thick
with trees and bushes and vines,
and he says:
"You shove
right in dah jist a few steps,
Mars Jawge; dah's
whah dey is. I's seed 'm befo';
I don't k'yer to see 'em no mo'."
Then he slopped right along
and went away, and pretty soon
the trees hid him. I poked into
the place a-ways and come to
a little open patch as big as
a bedroom all hung around with
vines, and found a man laying
there asleep -- and, by jings,
it was my old Jim!
I waked him up, and I reckoned
it was going to be a grand surprise
to him to see me again, but it
warn't. He nearly cried he was
so glad, but he warn't surprised.
Said he swum along behind me
that night, and heard me yell
every time, but dasn't answer,
because he didn't want nobody
to pick HIM up and take him into
slavery again. Says he:
"I got hurt
a little, en couldn't swim
fas', so I wuz a considable
ways behine you towards de las';
when you landed I reck'ned I
could ketch up wid you on de
lan' 'dout havin' to shout at
you, but when I see dat house
I begin to go slow. I 'uz off
too fur to hear what dey say
to you -- I wuz 'fraid o' de
dogs; but when it 'uz all quiet
agin I knowed you's in de house,
so I struck out for de woods
to wait for day. Early in de
mawnin' some er de niggers come
along, gwyne to de fields, en
dey tuk me en showed me dis place,
whah de dogs can't track me on
accounts o' de water, en dey
brings me truck to eat every
night, en tells me how you's
a-gitt'n along."
"Why didn't
you tell my Jack to fetch me
here sooner, Jim?"
"Well, 'twarn't
no use to 'sturb you, Huck,
tell we could do sumfn
-- but we's all right now. I
ben abuyin' pots en pans en vittles,
as I got a chanst, en apatchin'
up de raf' nights when --"
"WHAT raft,
Jim?"
"Our ole raf'."
"You mean to
say our old raft warn't smashed
all to flinders?"
"No, she warn't.
She was tore up a good deal
-- one en' of
her was; but dey warn't no great
harm done, on'y our traps was
mos' all los'. Ef we hadn' dive'
so deep en swum so fur under
water, en de night hadn' ben
so dark, en we warn't so sk'yerd,
en ben sich punkin-heads, as
de sayin' is, we'd a seed de
raf'. But it's jis' as well we
didn't, 'kase now she's all fixed
up agin mos' as good as new,
en we's got a new lot o' stuff,
in de place o' what 'uz los'."
"Why, how did
you get hold of the raft again,
Jim -- did
you catch her?"
"How I gwyne
to ketch her en I out in de
woods? No; some er
de niggers foun' her ketched
on a snag along heah in de ben',
en dey hid her in a crick 'mongst
de willows, en dey wuz so much
jawin' 'bout which un 'um she
b'long to de mos' dat I come
to heah 'bout it pooty soon,
so I ups en settles de trouble
by tellin' 'um she don't b'long
to none uv um, but to you en
me; en I ast 'm if dey gwyne
to grab a young white genlman's
propaty, en git a hid'n for it?
Den I gin 'm ten cents apiece,
en dey 'uz mighty well satisfied,
en wisht some mo' raf's 'ud come
along en make 'm rich agin. Dey's
mighty good to me, dese niggers
is, en whatever I wants 'm to
do fur me I doan' have to ast
'm twice, honey. Dat Jack's a
good nigger, en pooty smart."
"Yes, he is.
He ain't ever told me you was
here; told me
to come, and he'd show me a lot
of watermoccasins. If anything
happens HE ain't mixed up in
it. He can say he never seen
us together, and it 'll be the
truth."
I don't want to talk much about
the next day. I reckon I'll cut
it pretty short. I waked up about
dawn, and was a-going to turn
over and go to sleep again when
I noticed how still it was --
didn't seem to be anybody stirring.
That warn't usual. Next I noticed
that Buck was up and gone. Well,
I gets up, a-wondering, and goes
down stairs -- nobody around;
everything as still as a mouse.
Just the same outside. Thinks
I, what does it mean? Down by
the woodpile I comes across my
Jack, and says:
"What's it
all about?"
Says he:
"Don't you
know, Mars Jawge?"
"No," says I, "I
don't."
"Well, den,
Miss Sophia's run off! 'deed
she has. She run off
in de night some time -- nobody
don't know jis' when; run off
to get married to dat young Harney
Shepherdson, you know -- leastways,
so dey 'spec. De fambly foun'
it out 'bout half an hour ago
-- maybe a little mo' -- en'
I TELL you dey warn't no time
los'. Sich another hurryin' up
guns en hosses YOU never see!
De women folks has gone for to
stir up de relations, en ole
Mars Saul en de boys tuck dey
guns en rode up de river road
for to try to ketch dat young
man en kill him 'fo' he kin git
acrost de river wid Miss Sophia.
I reck'n dey's gwyne to be mighty
rough times."
"Buck went
off 'thout waking me up."
"Well, I reck'n
he DID! Dey warn't gwyne to
mix you up in
it. Mars Buck he loaded up his
gun en 'lowed he's gwyne to fetch
home a Shepherdson or bust. Well,
dey'll be plenty un 'm dah, I
reck'n, en you bet you he'll
fetch one ef he gits a chanst."
I took up the river road as
hard as I could put. By and by
I begin to hear guns a good ways
off. When I came in sight of
the log store and the woodpile
where the steamboats lands I
worked along under the trees
and brush till I got to a good
place, and then I clumb up into
the forks of a cottonwood that
was out of reach, and watched.
There was a wood-rank four foot
high a little ways in front of
the tree, and first I was going
to hide behind that; but maybe
it was luckier I didn't.
There was four or five men
cavorting around on their horses
in the open place before the
log store, cussing and yelling,
and trying to get at a couple
of young chaps that was behind
the wood-rank alongside of the
steamboat landing; but they couldn't
come it. Every time one of them
showed himself on the river side
of the woodpile he got shot at.
The two boys was squatting back
to back behind the pile, so they
could watch both ways.
By and by the men stopped cavorting
around and yelling. They started
riding towards the store; then
up gets one of the boys, draws
a steady bead over the wood-rank,
and drops one of them out of
his saddle. All the men jumped
off of their horses and grabbed
the hurt one and started to carry
him to the store; and that minute
the two boys started on the run.
They got half way to the tree
I was in before the men noticed.
Then the men see them, and jumped
on their horses and took out
after them. They gained on the
boys, but it didn't do no good,
the boys had too good a start;
they got to the woodpile that
was in front of my tree, and
slipped in behind it, and so
they had the bulge on the men
again. One of the boys was Buck,
and the other was a slim young
chap about nineteen years old.
The men ripped around awhile,
and then rode away. As soon as
they was out of sight I sung
out to Buck and told him. He
didn't know what to make of my
voice coming out of the tree
at first. He was awful surprised.
He told me to watch out sharp
and let him know when the men
come in sight again; said they
was up to some devilment or other
-- wouldn't be gone long. I wished
I was out of that tree, but I
dasn't come down. Buck begun
to cry and rip, and 'lowed that
him and his cousin Joe (that
was the other young chap) would
make up for this day yet. He
said his father and his two brothers
was killed, and two or three
of the enemy. Said the Shepherdsons
laid for them in ambush. Buck
said his father and brothers
ought to waited for their relations
-- the Shepherdsons was too strong
for them. I asked him what was
become of young Harney and Miss
Sophia. He said they'd got across
the river and was safe. I was
glad of that; but the way Buck
did take on because he didn't
manage to kill Harney that day
he shot at him -- I hain't ever
heard anything like it.
All of a sudden,
bang! bang! bang! goes three
or four guns
-- the men had slipped around
through the woods and come in
from behind without their horses!
The boys jumped for the river
-- both of them hurt -- and as
they swum down the current the
men run along the bank shooting
at them and singing out, "Kill
them, kill them!" It made me
so sick I most fell out of the
tree. I ain't a-going to tell
ALL that happened -- it would
make me sick again if I was to
do that. I wished I hadn't ever
come ashore that night to see
such things. I ain't ever going
to get shut of them -- lots of
times I dream about them.
I stayed in the tree till it
begun to get dark, afraid to
come down. Sometimes I heard
guns away off in the woods; and
twice I seen little gangs of
men gallop past the log store
with guns; so I reckoned the
trouble was still a-going on.
I was mighty downhearted; so
I made up my mind I wouldn't
ever go anear that house again,
because I reckoned I was to blame,
somehow. I judged that that piece
of paper meant that Miss Sophia
was to meet Harney somewheres
at half-past two and run off;
and I judged I ought to told
her father about that paper and
the curious way she acted, and
then maybe he would a locked
her up, and this awful mess wouldn't
ever happened.
When I got down out of the
tree I crept along down the river
bank a piece, and found the two
bodies laying in the edge of
the water, and tugged at them
till I got them ashore; then
I covered up their faces, and
got away as quick as I could.
I cried a little when I was covering
up Buck's face, for he was mighty
good to me.
It was just dark now. I never
went near the house, but struck
through the woods and made for
the swamp. Jim warn't on his
island, so I tramped off in a
hurry for the crick, and crowded
through the willows, red-hot
to jump aboard and get out of
that awful country. The raft
was gone! My souls, but I was
scared! I couldn't get my breath
for most a minute. Then I raised
a yell. A voice not twenty-five
foot from me says:
"Good lan'!
is dat you, honey? Doan' make
no noise."
It was Jim's voice -- nothing
ever sounded so good before.
I run along the bank a piece
and got aboard, and Jim he grabbed
me and hugged me, he was so glad
to see me. He says:
"Laws bless
you, chile, I 'uz right down
sho' you's dead agin.
Jack's been heah; he say he reck'n
you's ben shot, kase you didn'
come home no mo'; so I's jes'
dis minute a startin' de raf'
down towards de mouf er de crick,
so's to be all ready for to shove
out en leave soon as Jack comes
agin en tells me for certain
you IS dead. Lawsy, I's mighty
glad to git you back again, honey.
I says:
"All right
-- that's mighty good; they
won't find me, and
they'll think I've been killed,
and floated down the river --
there's something up there that
'll help them think so -- so
don't you lose no time, Jim,
but just shove off for the big
water as fast as ever you can."
I never felt easy till the
raft was two mile below there
and out in the middle of the
Mississippi. Then we hung up
our signal lantern, and judged
that we was free and safe once
more. I hadn't had a bite to
eat since yesterday, so Jim he
got out some corn-dodgers and
buttermilk, and pork and cabbage
and greens -- there ain't nothing
in the world so good when it's
cooked right -- and whilst I
eat my supper we talked and had
a good time. I was powerful glad
to get away from the feuds, and
so was Jim to get away from the
swamp. We said there warn't no
home like a raft, after all.
Other places do seem so cramped
up and smothery, but a raft don't.
You feel mighty free and easy
and comfortable on a raft. |