Blue Ridge Mountains -- Fiction; Mountain life -- Fiction
Uncle Dick, meantime, was busy with sterner thoughts, and his task was
harmonious to his musings, for he was cleaning and oiling his rifle
with punctilious care. He did not hasten over-much at either the
thinking or the work. The shades of night were drawing down when,
finally, he hung the immaculate weapon on its hooks. He ate in
solitary silence, served by Alvira, who ventured no intrusion on this
mood of remoteness with which she was familiar from experience. The
old man had determined to go forth and seize, and deliver to the
custody of the law, the person of Dan Hodges. At the best, he would
surprise the outlaw, and the achievement would be simple enough; at
the worst, there would be a duel. Uncle Dick had no fear over the
outcome. He believed himself quicker and surer with the rifle than
this scoundrel of half his years. At grips, of course he would have no
chance. But the affair would not come to grips. He would see to that.
He went to bed contentedly, and slept the peaceful sleep of wholesome
age, undisturbed by any bickerings of conscience.
It was while he was dressing, next morning, that a measure of prudence
occurred to Uncle Dick. During the period of his absence, it would be
well for Plutina to avoid risk by keeping in the cabin, with her rifle
at hand. There was no telling how audacious the moonshiner might
become in his rage over the ignominy to which the girl had subjected
him.
At the breakfast-table, he spoke sharply to Alvira, as she placed the
plate of fried ham and eggs before him.
"Tell Tiny, I'm a-wantin' her."
"Tiny hain't hyar yit," was the answer. "Hit's time she was."
"Whar's she gone!" Uncle Dick demanded, gruffly. He detested any
interruption of his plans.
"Tiny stayed over to the Widder Higgins's las' night," Alvira
explained. "Hit's time she come back."
Uncle Dick snorted with indignation.
"She didn't say nothin' to me 'bout stayin' over thar," he said
crossly.
"Nor to me, nuther," Alvira declared. "She never does beforehand. When
the Widder Higgins kind o' hangs on, Tiny jest stays, an' comes back
in the mornin'. She orter been 'ere afore now."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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