"Thar ain't no call to keep watch at the loopholes," said their host as the alarmed lads' glances kept wandering towards the dark openings. "The dogs will tell we-alls if anyone tries to come near the cabin." He leaned back in his chair in silence for a few minutes gazing into the heart of the fire whose flickering rays lit up his bronzed, thoughtful, kindly face.
"Hit all began years ago when I warn't but a little bit of a shaver," he began, quietly. "Judson was a right-prosperous, happy, contented, little place, then. Thar was mighty nigh a hundred people living in the town, an' in the woods nigh about hyar. Each family had hit's own little cabin an' farm an' raised all hit's own living of meat, corn, taters, an' sugar cane, an' each family had hit's patch of cotton with which they bought what things they needed that they didn't raise themselves. We had a right tidy little schoolhouse. I went to hit two terms when I was a little shaver," he said with evident pride, "an' I learned how to read an' write pretty well—the reading's been a heap of company to me during the years since then. Each family had a plenty to eat an' wear, an' thar warn't none that you could call real poor people like I hearn tell you-alls have in the North. We used to have dances and barbecues, an' picnics an' a right sociable time. The town was started by two families, the Turners an' the Wrights—I'm a Turner,—an' all the people about was kin to one or the other family, which made everybody friendly and sociable with each other. Hit was jis' a little Eden on earth, this place, 'till the serpent came twisting an' crawlin' in. The devil must have sho' had a hand in making some of the men folks believe that the Good Lord intended the honest corn they raised for anything but food for man an' beast. Yes, I reckon, hit sho' must have been ole Satan that made a few of the Turners an' Wrights get together an' start a little whiskey still over thar in the woods yonder. The womin folks was again hit from the start, as, bless their hearts, they've always been again the cursed stuff. Hit was Christmas week that the still was started goin', an' Christmas Eve the ones running hit gave a big barbecue at the still to celebrate it. Most everyone went, as they always did to doin's in the neighborhood. Even my daddy an' two brothers, Ben an' Abe, went to see the fun as they called hit, but mammy she was a good, religious woman, she staid at home an' kept me with her. She would have liked to keep the other boys with her too, but they had grown out of her control as boys sometimes do." His bronzed face grew sadly thoughtful, as he continued, "I recollect, I cried because I couldn't go too, but mother sang to me an' tole me stories—mother was a powerful hand at telling the kind of stories boys like an' I soon quit cryin' an' went to sleep quiet an' happy with mother singing to me. Hit was the last time I ever heard mammy sing. I reckon hit was 'bout midnight when a noise woke me up. The door had been flung open—hit was never locked in them days—an' father an' Abe came rushin' in. Father's face was white as a sheet an' I'll never forget the look on mammy's face. Hit seemed as if she knowed without a word from daddy what had happened. Thar was a curious tremble in her voice as she asked, 'Whar's Ben?' At the sound of her voice father broke down an' sobbed like a child. 'He's dead,' he cried. 'They've killed my boy Ben. Those Wrights have killed my boy Ben.'"
The man paused as the recollection of that terrible scene crowded his mind, while the two lads looked at each other with sympathetic horror.
"No one seemed to know just how the trouble started," went on their host, quietly. "All hands had taken a little too much liquor, there had been a few hot words, a blow, an' Ben had keeled over with a knife in his side. Then the fightin' started between the kin of both families, an' daddy an' Abe had run home to git their guns. Sore at heart as mammy was, she begged 'em not to shed no more blood but to leave it to the cotes, for mammy, as I have said, was a religious woman. But both Wrights and Turners came first from the mountains of Kentucky whar man don't go to law again' man but settles his quarrels with his rifle, An' so the blood-feud began. Thar was more than Ben killed that night,—Wrights as well as Turners. When all had sobered up from the liquor thar came a kind of lull or truce, but war always bruk out again when either families got to drinkin'. They got Abe the followin' year, but not 'fore he had shot a couple of Wrights. Hit was three years afore they got father. Mother, she pined away an' died soon after they got him. I think she was kinder glad to go, such things are wearin' on a woman. An' so the killin's been goin' on ever since by spells when the liquor gets to flowin'. I am the only Turner alive, now, though thar's a few of my kin still scattered around hyar. I've been shot at a powerful lot of times, but, I reckon, I've been lucky. Then too, they ain't none of them hunted me so powerful hard, for I ain't took no part in any of the killin's. I've shot a couple of times to scare them away but not to kill. My own kin 'lows that I'm poor-spirited, but somehow or other, I can't forget the look on mammy's face the night Ben was killed. I don't want to be the cause of puttin' no such look on any woman's face. I've knowed all these years though that my time must come sooner or later. I heard to-day that the Wrights have got in a lot of liquor from Tarpon Springs an' they are sayin' that the last Turner has got to be wiped out of Judson. So, I got me in a store of water an' grub an' fixed to lay low for awhile. I may be able to hold out until their liquor is gone an' the danger is past, but I reckon hit doan' make so powerful much of difference. They air plum' sho' to get me sooner or later. Wall, that's the story, young fellows, hit's been a right smart relief to have someone sympathetic to tell hit to. Don't you worry none though. As soon as comes mornin' I'll hist a flag of truce an' arrange to have you fellows let out peaceful. You can take my boat an' go after your captain an' that little nigger, but I sho' advise you not to stop hyar on youah way back. Keep right on to Tarpon Springs. Some of my kin folks kin bring the sloop back from thar."
"You are very good," Charley exclaimed. "But tell me why you have never left this awful place. There are hundreds of places where you could have made as good a living and been free from dread and worry."
"Mammy's grave is out thar among them pines," said the man, simply, "an' daddy's, an' Ben's, an' Abe's, then, atter all, this place is home, no other place could be that."
"I see," said Charley, much abashed.
"I am proud to have met you, Mr. Turner," declared Walter, warmly. "I think you are a noble man."
"No? I sho' reckon you is mistaken," said the man in surprise. "Me noble? I reckon not. My own kin 'lows I'm mighty poor-spirited 'cause I won't take no hand in the killin'."
"I don't care a cent what your kin says," began Walter, hotly, but he was interrupted by the crack of a rifle, the whistle of a bullet, and the howl of a dog outside.
His host winced as if the bullet had struck his own body. "They've killed Bet," he cried. "Bet, what I raised from a little bit of puppy. They hadn't ought to go an' shoot a poor defenceless, dumb animal, hit ain't right. My God, be they goin' to kill all my poor faithful dawgs," he cried, as another shot rang out followed by another pitiless howl.
Rifle shot followed rifle shot while the man stood trembling with eyes flashing as he listened to the whining of the animals outside. At last, heedless of the bullets pattering against the logs, he flung the door wide open and called to the hounds. They came crowding in, a whining, mangy, ill-looking pack, but disreputable as they were, they had been the man's only friends through his lonely years and the two lads respected him for his act.
As soon as he had bolted the door again, he rummaged in a corner and brought out three rifles. He handed one to each of the boys. "I reckon, we'll have to watch at the loopholes now the dawgs air inside," he said quietly. "You-alls can take the ones at the ends, I'll tend to the sides. Be right careful 'bout standin' in front of 'em, a bullet might pass through. An' don't shoot to kill if you can help it."
"An' his kin people call that man poor-spirited," whispered Walter in wonder to his chum as they took up their positions.
