Argosy All-Story Weekly, June 13, 1925 — page 32: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

504 around a screen of brush carrying a basket of ‘“‘salat peas,” and behind her, as she swung along, trooped a cue of three children, all dirty, all tow-headed and all staring of eve. The woman came across the stile and up to the porch. To the man, she nodded. At the stranger of her own sex, she looked with searching, non-committal eyes. “This gal,” Wade Murrell made haste to inform her, “ is farin’ over ter Kaintuck an’ I’m kinderly lookin’ atter her. She goes by ther name of Cynthy Stokes.” Tom Ike Quillen’s woman nodded with a grim set to her jaw. It was evident that here was a specimen new to her experience, and one which every instinct of her own stood ready to condemn, but it was equally evident that she would have regarded it as an affront to Murrell to question his judg- ment of character. Her only comment was addressed to her daughter. ‘Ring ther bell fer yore pappy, Ivy. Thet’s ther belatedest man-person thet ever drawed ther breath of life. He hain’t nuver been timely fer a meal sence his mammy weaned him.” But when the farm bell had sent out its brazen voice, Tom Ike was prompt to re- spond, and with him came two younger men—his sons. The head of the family stood looking at Cynthia with drawn brows and stiff lips, and he acknowledged her introduction only with the grimmest and scantest of nods. In his eyes was a positive bleakness of un- welcome, and as he stalked morosely into the house with Wade Murrell following him, Cynthia heard him demanding angrily: ‘Whar does she fare from--Sodom or Gomorry?” Murrell’s reply was low-pitched and grave. Its tone could be heard on the porch, but its words were lost. Yet five minutes later the two men re- appeared both smiling. Murrell, who carried a bottle and a glass, came over to Cynthia. “ Mebby a Jeetle toddy mout frisk yore sperits atter yore journey, ma’am,” he said. ‘ Tom Ike, he lowed he wouldn’t proffer hit ter ye fer a hundred dollars lest hit insult ve, but I told him ye couldn’t do nothin’ ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. but refuse hit nohow. Hit war jest a kinderly charitable offer.” Cynthia wondered whether she was ex- pected to accept or refuse, and decided to accept. Instantly the sullen reserve of Tom Tke melted. He took the bottle and shook it meditatively, watching bubbles form and dance in the colorless liquid. ‘“f reckon ye’ve done heered tell of moonshine?” he questioned _ jovially. ‘““ That’s honest liquor. I knows because I made hit myself. Thar hain’t nuthin’ in hit save good corn an’ sunshine an’ water outen 3. live spring branch.” “Granny,” bleated the smallest and the shyest of the children, conquering his diffidence for the first time. “ Granny, I wants a toddy, too. Granny, gimme a little- bitty sup!” “La! I lowed ther cat had yore tongue,” crawled the woman good humoredly. “ Ack | like a gentleman an’ I'll give ye a lettle.”’ From the door Ivy’s voice interrupted the convivialities. “Come in an’ eat,” she gave summons. ‘La! Wade Murrell, he’s a quare body,” Tom Ike’s wife informed Cynthia while Ivy was clearing up the dinner dishes and when the “ men folks ” were all out about the barn. The hostess sat with a cob pipe between her teeth, and she was feeding the pet lamb with a nursing bottle devised from a whisky flask. ‘“‘ We-all was raised up ’longside his folks over thar in Old Kaintuck afore we moved acrost hyar inter Cyar’liny. Everybody lows thet thar’s jest one of two-three things kin happen ter Wade.” “What are they?” inquired the visitor with a dutiful semblance of interest. “Either he’ll die on ther gallers fer killin’ somebody without no alibi, or he’ll drap in a creek bed with a bullet hole drilled straight through him, or else he'll wind up preachin’ ther gospel an’ fotchin’ in sinners ter salvation. But which of them three places he fotches up at, I’d reckon hit’d take ther prophet Isaiah ter foretell.” Casual chatter about the gallows was strongly distasteful to Cynthia, but she felt the obligation of carrying her end of the conversation. connicloooks