The despot of Broomsedge CoveCraddock, Charles Egbert
General
The despot of Broomsedge Cove
Craddock, Charles Egbert
Mountain life -- Fiction; Tennessee -- Fiction
There was no cloud now upon the paternal brow. But Eli Strobe affected
doubt or ignorance. “No countin’ on gals; no way ter find ’em out. They
will ter-day, an’ they won’t ter-morrer, like the wind blows. Yes, sir.”
He rose ponderously from his chair. “Waal, Teck,” he continued, “I be
powerful sorry ye won’t bide along o’ we-uns ter-night. I never done ye
this-a-way, whenst I war on the mounting.”
For Jepson had declined his hospitality, and had expected to ride up
the mountain before dark. He hesitated now, and glanced toward the gray
little cabin, with its background of a roseate sky and an amethystine
mountain. A flutter among the vines,—a flitting blue dress, was it? How
the grudging distance denied him!
“Ax me agin!” he exclaimed, letting his hand fall heavily on his host’s
arm. And so they strolled toward the cabin together.
Clement Sanders, moodily loitering along the river bank, followed them
with anxious eyes.
“All them cussed critters a-waitin’ on Marcelly! She’ll take a notion
ter some o’ ’em, whilst I’m bein’ lured by Satan. I reckon I ain’t been
doin’ right; them kyerds hed a snare in ’em surely. I never won nuthin’
sca’cely, nohow, an’ it’ll go powerful hard with me ter lose Marcelly at
sech a game.”
Everything spoke of approaching night. The long, low nocturnal susurrus
of the woods was already on the air. A bat came noiselessly flitting
past. The color was fading out of the west. A whip-poor-will plained
in the dense foliage hard by. A wind, willful wanderer, had sprung up
somewhere, and was abroad in the slopes. The forge fire had not been
kindled that day, and the ashes were gray on the hearth. He went within,
despite some secret perturbation, and with the care characteristic of
a good workman saw that his tools were in place; he closed the doors,
fastened the shutters, and betook himself homeward. He paused when he
had nearly reached home and looked back. How lonely was the dark little
shanty, with the looming mountain beetling above,—how far from any other
building! Anything might happen there.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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