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Updated: June 12, 2025
"It's a michty howkin!" said Malcolm; "but for a' that it wadna haud ye frae the grip o' thae scoonrels: wharever ye ran they cud rin efter ye." "I think we cud sort them," said Phemy. But the hole's sae sma' at the laird has ill gettin' his puir hack throu' 't." "I couldna help won'erin' hoo he wan throu' at the tap there," said Malcolm.
"Listen to me, you dog: I know I'm headin' straight fur hell, an' I ain't skeered to go, neither. But I ain't goin' to stay there. I'm comin' back fur you! I'm comin' back this very night to git you an' take your old, withered, black soul back down to hell with me. No need fur you to try to hide. Wharever you hide I'll seek you out. You can't git away frum me.
But, Colonel, I'll tell ye something: the Frenchies is etarnal afeard of the Long Knives. My God! they've got the notion that if you ketch 'em you'll burn and scalp 'em same as the Red Sticks." "Good," was all that Clark answered. "I reckon I don't know much about what the Rebels is fighting for," said John Duff; "but I like your looks, Colonel, and wharever you're going there'll be a fight.
Fust thar's the few very rich fam'lies that hev big farms over in the Blue Grass with lots o' niggers ter work 'em. Then thar's the middle class like the Fortners an' the Brills thet hev small farms in the creek vallies, an' wharever thar's good land on the mounting sides; who hev no niggers, an' who try ter lead God-fearin', hard-workin' lives, an' support ther fam'lies decently.
The mountaineer started, and cast an apprehensive glance about him. The girl laughed, with a deeply bitter note, then she went on: "Oh, you can't see him, Tam'rack. Ye mout hunt all night, but wharever I be, Samson's thar, too. I hain't nothin' but a part of Samson an' I'm mighty nigh ter killin' ye this minute he'd do hit, I reckon." "Come on now, Sally," urged the man, ingratiatingly.
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