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Y'u don't know what it is, 'n' y'u'll never know; but I'll give yer a chance now fer yer life ef y'u'll sw'ar on a stack o' Bibles as high as that tree thar that y'u'll leave these mount'ins ef I whoops ye, 'n' nuver come back ag'in as long as you live. I'll leave, ef ye whoops me. Now whut do ye say? Will ye sw'ar? "I reckon I will, seem' as I've got to," was the surly answer.
"I'se 83 Y'ars ole en wuz bawn a slave. Mah mammy b'longed ter de Bosley's en mah daddy b'longed ter de Scales." "W'en Miss Jane Boxley ma'ried Marster Jerry Scales, me en mah mammy, br'er en sistah wuz gib ter Miss Jane." "Durin' de war mah Missis tuk mah mammy en us chilluns wid her ter de mount'ins 'till de war wuz gon'. Did'nt see no soldiers.
The gov'ner out thar in the settlements says as how he'll give five hundred dollars fer me, livin' or dead. He'll nuver git me livin' I've swore that 'n' as I hev done nothin' sech as folks on both sides hev done who air walkin' roun' free, I hain't goin' to give up. Hit's purty hard to leave these mount'ins. Reckon I'll nuver see 'em ag'in. Been livin' like a catamount over thar on the knob.
"He's heavy, Johnny that sort of heaviness that don't stand up well in the mount'ins; whisky-flesh, I call it. Culver Rann don't weigh much more'n half as much, but he's like iron. Quade may be a drag. An' Joanne, Lord bless her! she's facing the music like an' 'ero, Johnny!" "And the journey is almost half over." "This is the fourth day.
An' if you ain't, I'd leave these mount'ins to-night an' never look in her sweet face again as long as I lived." "You'd take her along?" demanded Aldous eagerly. "I would. I've been thinkin' it over to-night. An' something seemed to tell me we mustn't dare leave her here alone. There's just two things to do, Johnny. You've got to stay with her an' let me go on alone or you've got to take her."
"It's the warning still," said Reinfelter. "It's the warning of death." "What is it made by?" "A ghost. It goes up there in the mount'ins an' calls, an' the one it calls is soon in the graveyard already. It's called the mother, or Rena, or me, this night." "Maybe I was the one it meant." "No; it only calls the Reinfelters still. It's been so ever since the Injun massacree, a long time ago."
Steve says he didn't do it, 'n' he wouldn't say you didn't. Looks to me like Steve did the killn', 'n' was lyin' a leetle. He hain't goin' to confess hit to save your neck; 'n' he can't no way, fer he hev lit out o' these mount'ins long ago." If Steve was out of danger, suspicion could not harm him, and Rome said nothing. "Isom's got the lingerin' fever ag'in, 'n' he's outin his head.
He was dyin' as he talked. It came out sort o' slobberingly, Johnny. He thought they'd found 'im out. He changed his name, an' sent out the report that Mortimer FitzHugh had died in the mount'ins. But Johnny, he died afore I could ask him about the grave!" There was a final note of disappointment in old Donald's voice that was almost pathetic. "It was such a cur'ous grave," he said.
"I've whooped ye, Jas," Rome said, at last; "I've whooped ye in a fa'r fight, 'n' I've got nothin' now to say 'bout yer tall talk, 'n' I reckon you hevn't nuther. Now, hit's understood, hain't it, that y'u'll leave these mount'ins? "Y'u kin go West," he continued, as the Lewallen did not answer. "Uncle Rufe used to say thar's a good deal to do out thar, 'n' nobody axes questions.
It's lonesome enough fur to live in the mount'ins when a man and a woman keers fur one another. But when she's a-spittin' like a wildcat or a-sullenin' like a hoot-owl in the cabin, a man ain't got no call to live with her."
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