CHAPTER XVIII.

AT THE WAGON-MAKER'S SHOP.

Sawyer drove rapidly toward Spring Hill, about eight miles distant from Old Ebenezer. The land was uneven, with oak ridges, beech slopes and shell-bark hickory flats, but the road was smooth, and for the two trotting horses the buggy was merely a plaything. He drew up at a wagon-maker's shop, the end of his journey, and threw the lines to a negro who came forward to meet him.

"You needn't feed them," he said. "Take the harness off and let them run about the lot. They've been shut up till they're frisky."

A large man, in his shirt sleeves, and with collar unbuttoned, met him at the door.

"Helloa, Mr. Zeb."

"Helloa, Steve, where's Bob?"

"Come in. He's about, somewhere."

Sawyer entered and sat down on a large block of wood, his feet half hidden in a pile of chips. A hand-saw, hanging on the wall, caught a shaft of light from the sun, and threw it into his eyes. He turned slightly and spoke to the wagon-maker.

"How's business with you?"

"Bad enough. People can buy wagons a good deal cheaper than I can afford to make 'em. They tell me that up north a man can go into a place and they'll make him a wagon while he waits, ironed and all ready for the road, and for a third less than I can do it. I can't buck against anything like that. I've got to get my timber out of the woods and season it, and take care of it like it was a lame leg, and all that sort of thing, to say nothin' of the work after I get down to it. Just before the election," said the wagon-maker, sitting down upon an unfinished hub, taking up an oak splinter and putting one end of it into his mouth, "a man come around here and 'lowed, he did, that if we could get a majority of farmers into the legislature, the condition of affairs would be changed. He 'lowed that they'd make it a point to put a tax on wagons not made in the state. Well, they got in, and about all they did was to fight the railroads, tear the digest to pieces and tinker with the marriage law, as some of you folks in Old Ebenezer have good cause to know. Why, if you read the papers at the time, you recollect that one old feller from Blaxon county said that marriage license was an outrage—'lowed, he did, that there wa'n't no license writ out for Adam. Yes, and he said that down in his neighborhood several young fellers held off from marryin' because they couldn't afford to pay for the license. He said it was a sin and a shame to put a tax on a man that was tryin' to do somethin' for his country."

"Do you think Bob will be back pretty soon?" Sawyer asked, working his feet deep down among the chips.

"Yes, he ought to be here now. If he don't come pretty soon I'll send the nigger to look for him. How's that marriage of McElwin's daughter gettin' along?"

"Not at all. It's just the same."

"Feller still there?"

"Yes; he's running the paper."

"Don't 'pear to mind it, I reckon. I wonder McElwin don't hire him to pull out. Well, down in this neighborhood we've got a way of settlin' such things. We tell a feller to go and if he refuses, why, we see that he goes. We've got a mighty lively set of young fellers."

"And your brother Bob is one of the liveliest," said Sawyer.

"Well, Bob ain't slow. The other night they took out a feller over on Caney Fork, feller that had dropped into the habit of whippin' his wife—and they hit him about forty-five, with a promise of more; and they say now that he's as sweet to his home folks as a June apple-pie. Oh, it do have a powerful sweetenin' effect on a sour citizen. Any sour citizens up your way?"

"One," Sawyer answered.

"Don't know why, but I sorter thought so. It's dangerous in town, ain't it?"

"Not when you fix everything."

"Well, then, go ahead, but keep outer the way of the law. Here's Bob now."

A tall, gaunt young fellow stepped into the shop. He was a type of the southern ruralist, broad, flapping straw hat, home-woven shirt, cottonade trousers, one suspender. He grinned upon seeing Sawyer, and said, "Hi."

"Ho, Bob. Busy tonight?"

"Ain't rushed. Anything blowing in the wind?"

"A little fun, that's all."

"Then let her blow my way. Steve, here, 'lows he's gettin' so old that he don't care for fun any more, but I have to have it—bread and blackberry jam to me."

"Well, you shall have it. How are the boys, the White Caps?"

"Finer'n silk split three times."

"Can you call them together for tonight?"

"By howlin' like a wolf. Do you want 'em?"

"Yes. Will twenty dollars pay the way?"

"We'll whip the governor of the state for that much."

Sawyer unfolded his plan. The boys were to be in front of old Jasper's house at midnight.

"Don't let nobody take a gun with him," said Steve. "If you do there mout be serious trouble. And there won't be no need of it, as you say everything will be fixed. I know what I'm talkin' about. Give one of them boys a pop and he'll use it whether occasion warrants or not. I know 'em."

"Well, they needn't put themselves to the trouble of firing off a gun to scare that chap. He ain't one of the sort that scares," Sawyer was gracious enough to admit. "He don't tote a pistol and I'll manage to slip into his room and see if he has one there, and if he has, I'll hook it. I have also hatched out a plan to get the women folks away. I've got my mother, and of course she knows nothing about the affair, to send a message by me asking them to come over to our house. If I can get the old man to go, too, so much the better. But he don't care to go out much at night, and I reckon my only course will be to get him drunk."

"Say," said Bob, "you 'lowed your man wa'n't easy to skeer, and if that's the case, what's the use of takin' him a mile or two to the woods? Men that don't skeer don't holler. Why not put it to him right then and there, out in the yard, over a barrel?"

Before Sawyer could reply, the philosophic mind of Steve saw the practical sense of his brother's suggestion. "I reckon he's got the right idee, Mr. Sawyer. He's done so much of this sort of work lately that now it comes to him somewhat in the natur' of a trade. You can tell him a good deal about mules that I reckon he don't know, but he knows the fine p'ints in men like a hungry feller knows the fine p'ints of a fried chicken. Better let him have his way."

"I am more than willing," said Sawyer. "The sooner it's over with the better it will suit me. It's results I'm after. There's a rain-water barrel at the corner of the house," he went on, reflectively. "We can pour the water out and roll the barrel around where we'll have plenty of room. Do you think he'll be willing to go away, Bob?"

Bob stood leaning back, with his elbows on the vise bench. "Well," he drawled, "an examination of the books of my firm will show that none ain't never failed yet. I have know'd them to argy and object, but I'll jest tell you that a hickory sprout laid on right, can soon make a man lose sight of the p'int in his own discussion. Why, when we get through with a man, and tell him what we want him to do, he thanks us, as if we had given him the opportunity of his life."

"All right," Sawyer laughed, getting up. "Be there on time is all I ask."