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"An' they uv cler'd the men what kilt pore Jackson Ricks!" said Teague, rubbing his grizzled chin. "Ez clean an' ez cle'r ez the pa'm er my han'," replied Uncle Jake, with emphasis. The fiddle in the next room screamed forth a jig, and the tireless feet of the dancers kept time, but there was profound silence among those in the kitchen.
Teague Poteet gave the signal "Come, Cap," he said to Woodward, "yess be a-traipsiu'. Puss'll be a-puttin' on biskits for supper before we git thar if we don't push on. Be good to yourse'f, boys, an' don't raise no fracas." Poteet and Woodward rode off together. That afternoon, half a mile from Poteet's, they met a woman running in the road, crying and wringing her hands wildly.
His tale of Teague Poteet, of some years ago, was contemporaneous with the list of striking mountain stories from that strong and highly gifted Tennesseean, Miss Murfree, or "Charles Egbert Craddock." In the dialectic spirit her stories charm and hold us.
I thought the lake had begun to work, like eastern lakes during dog days. It did not look propitious for fishing, but Teague reassured us. The outlet of this lake was the head of White River. We tried the outlet first, but trout were not rising there. Then we began wading and casting along a shallow bar of the lake.
Shortly afterward he heard a rap at his door, and before he could respond to the summons by inquiry or invitation, Teague Poteet entered with a lighted candle in his hand. "I 'lowed the stirrin' 'roun' mought 'a' sorter rousted you," said Teague, by way of apology, as he placed the light on a small table and seated himself on a wooden chest. "Yes. What's up?" Woodward inquired.
I'm the one that made the liquor, I'm the one. Oh, Lordy! what did they kill little Ab for?" Teague Poteet dismounted from his horse, took the woman firmly but gently by the arm, and made her sit down by the side of the road. Then, when she was more composed, she told the story of finding her son's body.
"Those are good wines," said Turlough when they sat at meat that evening, the men eating below in the courtyard around fires. "But I do not like that ship-master." So far Brian had said nothing of how the galley had been taken, save that they had chanced on it at sea and had heard from Teague that the Dark Master might be on them in another day.
He pictured to himself the scorn and bitterness with which she would connect his presence on the Mountain with the murder of Ab Bonner, and he concluded to ride on to Gullettsville. He took Teague Poteet by the hand. "Good-bye, old man," he said; "I shall remember you. Tell Miss Sis well, tell Miss Sis good-bye." With that he wheeled his horse and rode rapidly toward Gullettsville.
At any rate, a man might as well get a kick from a horse as a stroke from either of them. "Little Jemmy Teague, I remimber, struck a cousin of the Slip's a very smart blow, that made him dance about the room, and blow his fingers for ten minutes after it. Jemmy, himself, was a tight, smart fellow.
"Pap, do you reckon I'm fool enough to traipse down to Gullettsville an' mix with them people, wearin' cloze like these? Do you reckon I'm fool enough to make myself the laughin'-stock for them folks?" Teague Poteet was not a learned man, but he was shrewd enough to see that the Mountain had a new problem to solve. He took down his rifle, whistled up his dogs, and tramped skyward.
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