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CHAPTER II. THE DEACON ATTEMPTED RESTITUTION
TRIED TO RETURN THE HORSE TO HIS OWNER
SI AND SHORTY were on the anxious lookout for the Deacon when he arrived, and not a little worried lest something might have befallen him.
Si's weakness made him peevish and fretful, and Shorty was not a great deal better.
"It's an awful risk to have an old man and a civilian come down here into camp," Si complained. "And he oughtn't to go about alone. He's always been used to mingling with the quiet, honest, respectable people. Up home the people are as honest as the day is long. They're religious and peaceable, and Pap's never knowed no other kind. He wouldn't harm nobody for the world, and none o' them'd harm him. He's only a child among these toughs down here. I wisht one of us was able to be with him all the time."
"That father o' yours is certainly quite an innocent old party," Shorty answered, consolingly, "and the things he don't know about army life'd make more'n a pamphlet. But he has a way of wakin' up to the situation that is sometimes very surprisin'. I wisht I was able to go about with him, but I think he's fully able to take care o' himself around in camp. There's always somebody about who won't see an old man and a citizen imposed on. But what I'm afraid of is that he's wandered out in the country, huntin' for somethin' for us to eat, and the guerrillas've got him."
And he and Si shuddered at the thought of that good old man in the hands of the merciless scoundrels who infested the mountains and woods beyond the camps.
"Yes," mourned Si, "Pap's likely to mosey out into the country, jest like he would on Bean Blossom Crick, and stop at the first house he come to, and set down with 'em on the porch, and talk about the weather, and the crops, and the measles in the neighborhood, and the revivals, and the price o' pork and corn, and whether they'd better hold their wheat till Spring, and who was comin' up for office, and all the time the bushwhackers'd be sneakin' up on him, an' him know no more 'bout it than where the blackbirds was roostin'. He's jest that innocent and unsuspiciouslike."
"If they've ketched him," said Shorty fiercely, "we'll find out about it, and when we git able, we'll go out there and kill and burn everything for five miles around. I'll do it, if I have to spend the rest o' my life at hard labor on the Dry Tortugas."
They heard the rattle of light wheels on the frozen ground outside, and the hoof-beats of a quickly-moving horse.
"Buggy or spring-wagon," muttered Si with a farmer boy's instinctive interpretation of such sounds. "What's it doin' in camp? Strange horse. In better condition than any around here."
The vehicle stopped in front of the corn-crib at the Deacon's command, "Whoa!"
"Gracious—there's Pap now," ejaculated Si, with whom memory went in a bound to the many times he had listened for his father's coming and heard that order.
"Hello, boys," called out the Deacon. "How are you? Shorty, come out here."
Shorty sprang up with something of his old-time alacrity, and Si made an effort to rise, but was too weak.
"Throw a piece o' that fat pine on the fire. Shorty," said the Deacon, "and let's see what I've got."
By the light of the blazing pine, the Deacon pulled off the cedar boughs and developed his store. The boughs had kept in the heat, so that the food was not yet quite cold, though it had a resinous flavor, from its covering. The Deacon broke one of the cornpones in two and gave half of it to Shorty, with as much as he thought he should have of the meat and vegetables. Then he fed Si, who relished the new diet almost as much as he had relished the chicken broth. The Deacon made a hearty supper himself, and then stored away the rest in his "cellar" under the crib, rolling up some more large stones as an additional precaution.
"Well, you beat me," said Shorty admiringly, as he studied over the Deacon's booty. "I used to think I was as slick a forager as there was in the army, but I simply ain't in the same class with a man that kin go out in this Sahara Desert o' starvation and bring in a four-year-old horse and a wagon-load o' cooked vittles. I'd never even see the distance pole runnin' with him. Gen. Rosecrans ought to know you. He'd appoint you Commissary-General o' the army at once. When I get a little stronger I want you to take me out and learn me the ABC's o' foragin'. To think that me and Si wuz grievin' about your being ketched by the guerrillas. What fools we wuz. It wuz lucky for the guerrillas that you didn't run acrost 'em, for you'd a ketched 'em, instid o' 'em you."
"That's what I come purty nigh doin'," chuckled the Deacon. "But what in the world 'm I goin' to do with that hoss and buckboard? I must hunt around and find that poor beast some corn for tonight. He's bin driven purty sharp, and he needs his supper jest as bad as I did mine, and I won't feel right unless he has it. Then I must try to git him back to his owner termorrer."
"If he's here to-morrer," said Shorty, looking at the animal carefully, "it'll be a miracle. That's too good a hoss to be kept in this camp by anybody lower'n a Brigadier-General. The boys'll steal him, the Captains take him, the Colonels seize him, and the Brigadier-Generals appropriate him for the Government's service. They'll call it by different names, but the horse goes all the same. I don't see how you're goin' to keep him till mornin'. You can't put him in your cellar. If they don't steal him, it's because it's too dark to see him. I'm sorry to say there's an awful lot o' thieves in the Army o' the Cumberland."
And Shorty looked very grieved over the deplorable lack of regard in the army for the rights of property. He seemed to mourn this way for several minutes, and then broke out with:
"Say, Mr. Klegg, I've an idee. That Quartermaster o' the Maumee Muskrats is a sport from way back. He'd give his vary eyes for a good hoss—one that kin beat everybody else's. The way the horses are run down now this one kin carry a heavy handicap, and beat any one in camp. I'll bet I kin take this hoss over to him and git $150 in greenbacks for him, for he kin win a bushel o' money with him the very first day."
"Shorty," said the Deacon, in a tone that made that worthy start, "necessity and the stress o' circumstances may force me to do many things which are agin my conscience, and for which I shall repent in sackcloth and ashes, if needs be, but I hain't yit bin reduced to sellin' stolen property. The Lord save me from that. That hoss and wagon's got to go back to the owner, if I risk my life in takin' 'em."
Shorty wisely kept his reply to himself, but he thought how absurd it was to have men about the army who were too old and set in their ideas to learn army ways. He muttered to himself:
"If he succeeds in gittin' that hoss outen camp agin, I'll expect to see the back o' my neck, or something else quite as wonderful."
The Deacon finally succeeded in getting a couple of ears of corn and a handful of fodder for the horse's supper, and it was decided that Shorty should watch him the first part of the night, and the Deacon from thence till morning.
As the Deacon pondered over the matter in the early morning hours, he saw that his only chance of getting the horse back was to start with him before daylight revealed him to the men in camp.
"I'll drive him well outside our lines, and as near to the house as I think it prudent to go, and then turn him loose," he said to himself. "If he's got the sense o' the horses up North he'll go straight home, and then my conscience will be clear. If he don't, I'll have done all I could. The Lord don't ask unreasonable things of us, even in atonement."
So he cooked as good a breakfast for the boys as he could prepare from his materials, woke up Shorty and put him in charge, and an hour before daybreak turned the horse's head toward the pontoon bridge, and started him on a lively trot.
He had only fairly started when a stern voice called out to him from a large tent:
"Here, you, stop that trotting. What do you mean? Don't you know that it's strictly against orders to trot horses in their present condition?"
"Excuse me. Captain," said the Deacon. "I"
"Blank your Captain," roared the voice; "I'm no Captain."
"Major," said the Deacon deprecatingly.
"To thunder with your Majors, you ignorant fool. You"
"I beg your pardon, Colonel. I was"
"What's the matter with you, you ignoramus?" roared the voice, more indignantly than ever. "Don't you know Brigade Headquarters when you see them? Don't you know your own officers when you hear their voices?"
"Rayly, General," said the Deacon, much disturbed, "I didn't mean to insult you. I'm only a citizen, and a stranger in the camp, and—"
"A citizen and a stranger," echoed the voice. "What are you doing in here, anyway? Orderly, bring that man in here till I see him."
The Orderly started to obey, when a regiment which had been ordered to report at Headquarters came up at quick step, halted, and ordered arms with much clatter. The frightened horse bounded off down the road, with the Deacon sawing on the lines and trying to stop him.
He only slowed down when he came up near a corral of other horses, to which he turned for companionship and sympathy.
"Frosty mornin' makes that hoss purty frisky," said the Deacon, as he readjusted his hat, and got himself in shape after his jolting. "Lucky, though. I didn't like that old General's voice. I'm afraid he had it in for me, and would 've made me trouble for lowerin' his dignity by callin' him Captain. Big officers are awfully tetchy."
"Here, who are you? And what are you doin' out there?" came the stem inquiry from the dark depths of one of the sheds.
"Excuse me. General," answered the Deacon hastily, "I"
"General? Who are you callin' General, you fool? Don't try to be funny with me. You know I'm no General."
"I meant Colonel," the Deacon started to explain.
"The blazes you did. You expect Colonels to run hoss-corrals, and manage mule boarding-houses, do you? stop your blimmed nonsense and answer my questions."
"Major, I was tryin' to say"
"I'll Major you when I git my boots on and git out there. Don't think to shut my eye up callin' me big titles."
"But, Captain."
"I'm no Captain, neither. I'm plain Jim Crimmins, Quartermaster-Sergeant, in charge o' this corral, that you're stealin' around. I'm comin' out there to break every bone in your body. You infernal sneaks 've pestered the life out o' me stealin' my corn and my mules, even. I've bin watchin' you piroutin' around in the dark for a long time. I'm goin' to stop this business if I've got to kill every thievin' varmint in the Army o' the Cumberland. Don't you dare move till I come out, or I'll put a bullet through you. Do you hear?"
"I don't believe I've got any more time to waste on that bellerin' bull-calf," said the Deacon to himself. He gathered up the lines, turned the horse's head toward the road, and gave him a lick with a switch, and he dashed off, followed by a couple of shots from Mr. Crimmins, to give color and confirmation to the story that worthy related later in the day of a particularly audacious attempt on the part of sneak thieves to get away with his mules and corn, and which was frustrated by his vigilance and daring.
As the horse slowed down to a walk again a Sergeant of the Guard at the head of a squad stepped out and took him by the reins.
"Here, who are you, and where are you going so early in the morning?" he inquired.
"My name's Josiah Klegg, sir," said the Deacon, prudently ignoring titles. "I'm from Injianny, and am down here 'tendin' to my son, who belongs to Co. Q, 200th Injianny Volunteers, and who was shot at Chickamaugy. I borryed this hoss and wagon from a man out in the country to bring in some vittles for him and his pardner, and some boughs for 'em to sleep on, and I'm takin' 'em back to him."
"Well, that story may be true, and it mayn't. Probably it ain't. Men don't get up before daybreak to take back borrowed horses. You're up to some devilment; probably taking information or contraband out to the rebels. I haven't time now to investigate. I'll put you under guard until I have. As for the horse, we've got use for him. McCook's Cavalry needs about a thousand such as he. We're out lookin' for horses now. Unhitch him, boys."
The Deacon started to make an earnest protest, but at that moment the rebels on Lookout Mountain made their usual daylight salute to the camp. The size of the squad had attracted their attention, and a shell shrieked over and struck quite near. This was too much for the nervous horse. He made a convulsive leap, which scattered the guards around him and almost threw the Deacon out of the seat. When the latter recovered himself, and got the horse under control again the guards were far away, and he was at the approach to the pontoon bridge.
"I'll be plagued," mused the Deacon, as the horse moved over the bridge at a slow walk, and gave him time to think, "the army's a terrible place. I had no sort o' trouble when I was doin' something that mebbe I oughtn't to have done, but the minute I start out to do a right thing I meet no end o' difficulties. But these are the obstacles that Satan always puts in the way of the righteous. I'm goin' to git this boss 'back to its owner, or know the reason why. Git up, there."
He soon came to a piece of the road which was in full view of the rebels on Lookout Mountain. They had been preparing the day before to stop all travel by that route, and the Deacon's was the first vehicle that had appeared since they had got their guns planted. They waited until he was fairly out into the open, and sent a shell which struck a panel of the fence off to the left, burst with a crash, and sent rails, chunks, stones and pieces of brush flying through the air. The horse became frantic, and tore up the hill at such a rate the buckboard and harness speedily went to pieces, and the Deacon was flung in the ditch, while the horse galloped wildly over the hill.
The Union artillerymen on Moccasin Point had evidently anticipated just such an attempt on the part of the rebels. Instantly a score of guns which had been placed to cover that spot thundered out, and their shells could be seen striking and tearing up the ground all around where the shot came from. Other rebel guns came to the assistance of the first one; the Union batteries within reach started in to help their side, and in a minute the whole country was shaking with the uproar.
"Well, I'll be dumbed," muttered the Deacon, crawling out of the ditch, shaking himself together again, cleaning off the mud, and trying to comprehend what was happening. "Did anybody ever see sich a commotion kicked up over one four-year-old hoss, and not a particularly good hoss at that? 't'd take a mighty smart man to git as much as $100 for him up in Posey County. Nobody but a Methodist Elder could do it. I've sold a better hoss than that for $80, and got all he was worth."
He stood for a few minutes and looked at the grand display until the Union batteries, satisfied that they had finally quashed the impudent rebel, ceased firing, and then he looked around.
"Well, that buckboard's done for. I can't take it back. It's only good for kindlin' wood now. But I may ketch the hoss and take him back."
He went up on top of the hill, and saw the horse standing under a tree, apparently pondering over what had happened, and wondering whether he should run farther or remain where he was.
The horse gave him a glad whinney of recognition, as if congratulating him on escaping from the crash of matter.
"Yes, you beast," snorted the Deacon; "I'm safe, but no thanks to you. You done your best to kick my brains out. Twice your condemned heels jest grazed my eyebrows. All the thanks I git for tryin' to save you from being starved to death there in Chattanoogy, and git you back home. But you go back home all the same."
He led the horse to a rock, mounted him, and started up the road. He reached the point where the road to the house turned off, and was debating whether he should go farther or turn the horse loose there, when he saw a company of cavalry coming up the main road from the other direction—that toward Bridgeport. Though they wore blue overcoats, he had learned enough about army life to not trust this implicitly, so he prudently rode into the woods to watch them until he could make sure. The company came up to where the roads parted, and he overheard a man who rode by the Captain at the head, and who wore a semi-soldier costume and seemed to be a scout or guide, tell the Captain:
"Their camp's right over there on that ridge (pointing to the crest on which the Deacon had seen the smoke). They're probably on the lookout for us, and we'll have to be very careful if we get near enough to jump them. I thought I saw one of their lookouts about here when we came up. Yes, there he is in there."
The Deacon had started to ride boldly toward them when he was sure they were Union troops, and a couple of the men, who in their dealings with bushwhackers had learned that it is best to shoot first and ask questions afterward, had promptly fired, and cut twigs uncomfortably near the Deacon's head. His horse plunged, but he kept him in hand and called out:
"Hold on! Hello! Don't do that. I'm a friend. I'm from Injianny."
"You're a devil of a way from home, and in a bad neighborhood," said one of the men who had fired, as he slipped another cartridge into his Sharpe's.
The Captain interrogated him as to who he was and what he was doing out there, while the scout fidgeted in his saddle over the time that was being wasted.
"Captain," said the scout finally, "we must hustle if we're going to strike those fellers before dark. We can't go down here, but' ll have to make a long circuit around, so they won't see us."
"That's so," said the Captain, adjusting himself to start.
"Captain," said one of the men, "my horse can't go any farther. He's been in bad shape, and he fell and broke his knee coming up the hill."
"Well, here, take that citizen's horse. Old man, get off, and let this man have that horse."
The Deacon started to protest, but the man was in a hurry, and almost pulled him off, and slapped his own saddle on in a flash.
"But what am I do to?" asked the Deacon bewildered.
"Do? Do as you please," laughed the Captain. "You are as well off here as anywhere. When a man's away from home one place's the same's another to him. Here, I'll tell you what you can do. See that cow back there? The boys have been trailing her along, in hopes to get her into Chattanooga and make beef of her. We've got to leave her now, for we are going on the jump. We'll make you a present of her and this broken-down horse. That'll start you in business. A horse and a cow's a big start for any man. Good-by. Attention, company! Forward, head of column right—March!"
"Well, I've done all I could," said the Deacon, going back and picking up the rope which was tied to the cow's horns. "The Lord knows I've tried hard enough to git that hoss back. The cow looks as if she's a good milker. A little milk'll do the boys good. Then, they kin have fresh beef. Come along, Bos."
Late at night he tied the cow to the corn-crib and went to his weary bed.
CHAPTER III. A COW IN CAMP
THE DEACON HAS SOME EXPERIENCES WITH THE QUADRUPED
IT DID not seem that so many dangers beset the possession of a cow as of a horse, yet the Deacon prudently rose while it was yet dark to look after the animal.
He was none too soon, for there were getting to be thousands of very hungry men in Chattanooga who remembered the axiom about the early bird catching the worm, and thought the best time for "snatching" something was in the dark just before reveille. If they could find nothing better, and too often they did not, they would rob the mules of their scanty rations of corn, and soon a mule's feed-box had to be as carefully guarded as the commissary tent of the Headquarters mess.
These morning prowlers were as cunning as rats in finding their prey, and the only security that a man had of keeping his rations till morning was to eat them up before he went to bed. Their sharp eyes had not failed to notice the signs of unusual plenty about the Deacon's corn-crib, and they gave it earnest attention.
The Deacon had slipped out very quietly, and taken a little turn around the end of the crib, to see that his other provisions had not been disturbed, before he approached the cow. As he did so he saw a figure squatted beside her, and heard a low voice say:
"So, Bos! H'ist, Lady! H'ist up, you measly heifer!"
"Well, I declare to goodness," gasped the Deacon. "How could they've found her out so soon?"
He walked quietly up to the milker, and remarked:
"Purty early in the mornin' to do your milkin'. Didn't used to git up so early when you was at home, did you?"
"Sh—sh—sh!" whispered the other. "Don't speak so loud. You'll wake up that old galoot inside. Keep quiet till I fill my cup, and then I'll let you have a chance. There'll be plenty for you."
"Purty good milker, is she?" inquired the Deacon with interest.
"Naw!" whispered the other. "She's got her bag full, but she won't give down worth a cent."
"Better let me try my hand," said the Deacon. "You've bin away from the farm for so long you've probably lost the knack. I'm a famous milker."
"You'll play fair?" said the milker doubtfully.
"Yes; just hold her till I go inside and git my bucket, and I'll milk your cup clean full," answered the Deacon, starting inside the corn-crib.
"Well, you're a cool one," gasped the milker, realizing the situation. "But I'll hold you to your bargain, and I'll play fair with you."
The Deacon came back with his bucket, and after filling the man's cup as full as it would hold, handed it to him, and then began drawing the rest into his own bucket.
Careful milker that he was, he did not stop until he had stripped the last drop, and the cow, knowing at once that a master hand was at her udder, willingly yielded all her store.
"There," said the Deacon, "if anybody gits any more out o' her till evenin' he's welcome to it."
Two or three other men had come up in the meanwhile with their cups, and they started, without so much as asking, to dip their cups in.
"Hold on!" commanded the first-comer sternly. "Stop that! This old man's a friend o' mine, and I won't see him imposed on. Go somewhere else and git your milk."
A wordy war ensued, but the first-comer was stalwart and determined. The row waked up Shorty, who appeared with an ax.
"All right," said one of the men, looking at the ax; "keep your durned old milk, if you're so stingy toward hungry soldiers. It'll give you milk-sick, anyway. There's lots o' milk-sick 'round here. All the cows have it. That cow has it bad. I kin tell by her looks. We had lots o' milk-sick in our neighborhood, and I got real well-acquainted with it. I kin tell a milk-sick cow as fur as I kin see her, and if that cow hasn't it, no one ever had it."
He made a furtive attempt to kick the bucket over, which was frustrated by the Deacon's watchfulness.
"Better do something with that cow right off," advised the first-comer, as he walked off. "You can't keep her in camp all day. Somebody'll git her away from you if they have to take her by main force."
"Are you willin' to risk the milk-sick?" asked the Deacon, handing Shorty a cupful of the milk, together with a piece of cornpone.
"Yum—yum, I should say so," mumbled that longlegged gentleman. "I'll make the milk sicker'in it kin me, you bet. Jest bring along all the milk-sick you've got on hand, and I'll keep it from hurtin' anybody else. That's the kind of a philanthropist I am."
"I see you've got a cow here," said a large man wearing a dingy blue coat with a Captain's faded shoulder-straps. "I'm a Commissary, and it's my duty to take her."
He walked over and in a businesslike way began unfastening the rope. The Deacon shuddered, for he had too much respect for shoulder-straps to think of resisting. Shorty looked up from his breakfast, scanned the newcomer, and said:
"Look here. Bill Wiggins, you go back and take off that Captain's coat as quick as you kin, or I'll have you arrested for playin' officer. None o' you Maumee Muskrats kin play that little game on the 200th Injianny. We know you too well. And let me advise you, Mr. Wiggins, the next time you go out masqueradin' to make up clean through. That private's cap and pantaloons burned around the back, and them Government cow-hides give you dead away, if your mug didn't. If they wuz givin' commissions away you wouldn't be a brevet Corporal. Skip out, now, for here comes the Provost-Guard, and you'd better not let him catch you wearin' an officer's coat unless you want to put in some extra time on the breastworks."
Mr. Wiggins made off at once, but he had scarcely gotten out of sight when a mounted officer, attracted by the strange sight of a cow in camp, rode up and inquired whence she came and to whom she belonged.
The Deacon was inside the crib taking care of Si, and the burden of the conversation fell upon Shorty.
"Me any my pardner sent out into the country and bought that cow," he said, "with three $10 gold pieces we've bin savin' up ever since we've bin in the service. We wouldn't give 'em for anything else in the world. But we wuz jest starved for a drink o' fresh milk. Never felt so hungry for anything else in our lives. Felt that if we could jest git a fillin' o' fresh milk it'd make us well agin."
"Paid $30 in gold for her," said the officer, examining the cow critically. "Pretty high price for that kind of a cow."
"Well, I don't know about that," answered Shorty argumentatively, and scenting a possible purchaser. "Good fresh cows are mighty scarce anywhere at this time o' year, and particularly in this region. Next Spring they'll be much cheaper. But not this, one. That's no ordinary cow. If you'll look carefully at her you'll see that she's a thoroughbred. I'm a boss judge o' stock myself, and I know. Look at her horns, her bag, and her lines. She's full three-quarters Jersey."
"What's the other quarter," asked the officer, much amused.
"Jest—jest—jest—cow," answered Shorty, momentarily stumped for once in his volubility. And then he went on more garrulously than ever, to make amends. "She's as gentle as a lamb, will live on two ears o' corn and a kind word a day, and give two gallons o' milk, nearly all cream. Me and my pardner wouldn't take $10.0 in gold for that cow. We're goin' to send her up home as soon as the lines are open, to start our stock-farm with."
"Where did you say you got her?" said the officer, getting off his horse and going up closer to examine the animal.
"O, we bought her from a man named Wilson over in the Sequatchie Valley. You must've heard of him. We've knowed him a long time—before he moved down here from Injianny. Runs a fine stockfarm. Cried like a baby when he parted with his cow. Wouldn't have done it, but he had to have the money to buy provisions for his family."
"Let me see," said the officer, looking at him. "Seems to me I ought to know you. Where do you belong?"
"Co. Q, 200th Injianny Volunteers."
"I thought so. I do know you. You are Shorty. I don't want to say anything against your honesty or your veracity, but if Gen, Rosecrans was to order me to get him the smartest forager and smoothest liar in the Army of the Cumberland, I think I should order you to report at Headquarters."
"You do me proud," said Shorty with a grin, but an inward feeling that trouble was impending.
"Now, tell me the truth. Where did you get that cow?"
"I have bin tellin' you the truth," protested Shorty with an injured air. "Why should I tell you a lie about a little thing like a cow?"
"You are not within a mile of the truth. I know it. Look here: I believe that is Gen. Rosecrans's own cow. She's gone, and I got an order to look around for her. I've never seen her, but from the description given me I believe that's she. Who brought her here?"
"Great Jehosephat, he's after the Deacon," thought Shorty with a shudder. "I mustn't let him git him." Then he spoke out boldly:
"I brung her here."
"Shorty," said the officer with a smile, "I admire your talents for prevarication more than I can express. As a good, off-hand, free-going, single-gaited liar you have few equals and no superiors. Your lies usually have so much probability in them that they seem better than the truth—for your purposes. But this has no probability whatever in it. I doubt if you are able to walk to Headquarters. If you were well and strong, I should believe you quite capable not only of stealing the cow from Army Headquarters, but President Lincoln's cow from his back-door of the White House. But you are good now because you haven't strength enough to be up to any devilment. Now, tell me, who brought that cow here?"
"I brung her here myself, I tell you. I felt unusually peart last night. Felt that I had to snatch something jest to keep my hand in, like. Couldn't find nothin' else on four legs worth takin', and couldn't take nothin' that couldn't walk. So I took her. You kin send me to the guard-house if you want to. I expect I deserve it."
And Shorty tried to look contrite and penitent.
"Yes; you're in nice shape to send to the guardhouse. I'd sent you there quick enough if you were well, for telling me such a preposterous lie. You've usually paid more respect to my intelligence by telling me stories that I could believe if I wanted to, as I usually wanted do; but this is too much."
As the conversation began the Deacon had passed out with a bucket to go to the creek for water for the cow. He now came back, set the bucket down in front of the cow, and began, from force of long habit in caring for his stock, to pick off some burs, and otherwise groom her.
"Say, my friend," said the officer, "who brought that cow in?"
Shorty had been frantically trying to catch the Deacon's eye, and was making all manner of winks and warning gestures without avail, for the Deacon answered frankly:
