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Hit's jest killin' 'em by inches, by takin' away their coffee an' quinine. I'm a Union man, an' allers have bin." "You haint got any whisky in that wagon, have you?" asked Si. "O, Lord, no! nary mite. You don't think I'd try t' take whisky into camp, do you? I'm not sich a bad man as that. Besides, whar'd I git whisky? The war's broke up all the 'stilleries in the country.
"Haven't you got something to drink?" Jack asked of his companions. "Nope. Whar'd we git it?" replied Jim. Belllounds evidently forgot, for presently he repeated the query. The cowboys shook their heads. Wade knew they were lying, for they did have liquor in the cabin. It occurred to him, then, to offer to go to his own cabin for some, just to see what this young man would say. But he refrained.
"Whar'd yo' come from, Brad?" repeated Shorty as the newcomer made his way up the narrow, stony path. "Jest from the Yankee camps," answered the newcomer. "Me an' Jim Wyatt's bin over thar by that Hoosier camp tryin' to git the drop on their Kurnel as he was gwine t' Brigade Headquarters. We a'most had him when a company o' Yankees that'd bin out in the country for something a'most run over us.
He manage ter git it down; he say it tas'e like whiskey wid sump'n bitter in it. She 'lowed dat 'ud keep de goopher off'n him tel de spring; but w'en de sap begin ter rise in de grapevimes he ha' ter come en see her agin, en she tell him w'at e's ter do. "Nex' spring, w'en de sap commence' ter rise in de scuppernon' vime, Henry tuk a ham one night. Whar'd he git de ham?
"Hit's me Brad Tingle. Don't yo' know my voice? Call off yer dogs. They'll eat me up." "Hullo, Brad; is that yo'? Whar'd yo' come from? Git out, thar, Watch! Lay down, Tige! Begone, Bones! Come on up, Brad." Shorty's imitations of Mrs. Bolster's voice and manner were so good as to deceive even the dogs, who changed their attitude of shrill defiance to one of fawning welcome.
Geary stepped down and peered into the back seat of the Rockaway. "Who in creation is that?" "I don't know," returned her husband. "Ye don't know! I swan, Zeb Geary, you must be plumb crazy! Whar'd ye get her?" "Thar, thar, now, Sary, don't be askin' questions, but take the pore lamb in, an' cuddle her up some. She's plumb beat out!"
The morbidly sensitive spirit of the mountaineer in him was hurt, the chasm yawned instead of closing, and all he said shortly was: "Whar'd you git them new-fangled things?" "Marjorie give 'em to me. She said fer you to bring yo' hoss in hit's more fun than I ever knowed in my life up here." "Hit is?" he half-sneered.
"Wal, I'll go to hell, Ben Bolt, if it ain't ol' Calico!" he ejaculated, in amaze and pleasure. "Kid, whar'd you ever git him?" "Dad made a trade," replied Pan. "Kid, look a heah. Don't ever tie that hoss to a stake pin. He's the best cow hoss I ever slung a leg over. The puncher who broke him an' reached him all he knows was my pard, long ago. An' he's daid.
Whar'd I get friends?" he demanded, complainingly. "Dey ain't no friends for boys like me up Norf yere." "Oh! What a story!" exclaimed Aunt Jo. "I know people must be just as kind in Boston as they are in the South." "Mebbe dey is, lady," said the colored boy, looking somewhat frightened because of Aunt Jo's vigorous speech. "Mebbe dey is; but dey hides it better yere.
He manage ter git it down; he say it tas'e like whiskey wid sump'n bitter in it. She 'lowed dat 'ud keep de goopher off'n him tel de spring; but w'en de sap begin ter rise in de grapevimes he ha' ter come en see her ag'in, en she tell him w'at e's ter do. "Nex' spring, w'en de sap commence' ter rise in de scuppernon' vime, Henry tuk a ham one night. Whar'd he git de ham?
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