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Updated: May 28, 2025
Their hands clasped in the brief, tight greeting of the West that is death to the hand-shake microbe. "You old fat rascal!" continued Wide-Brim, with a wrinkled brown smile; "it's been five years since I seen you. I been in this town a week, but you can't find nobody in such a place. Well, you dinged old married man, how are they coming?"
Suddenly the dog stopped. A tall, brown, long-coated, wide-brimmed man stood like a Colossus blocking the sidewalk and declaring: "Well, I'm a son of a gun!" "Jim Berry!" breathed the dogman, with exclamation points in his voice. "Sam Telfair," cried Wide-Brim again, "you ding-basted old willy-walloo, give us your hoof!"
Their rendezvous was a cave near the top of a hill about one mile back from the Cumberland River. A motley company of about a dozen men they were, dressed in cheap trousers supported by "galluses," coarse shirts, and wide-brim straw hats. Sam Wiles was leader of this band. As these pages are often to be burdened with his name, we shall now take his measure.
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