lame himself for talking when he was drinking.

The woman handed the cup to Si, who feared that the liquor might be
poisoned or drugged. He made a pretense of drinking, and then handed the
cup back, making motions that his throat was so sore that he could not
drink much. Mrs. Bolster looked at him suspiciously, but the clamor of
the guerillas distracted her attention, and she turned to supply them.

"No, Jeff Hackberry," she said firmly, "yo' can't have more'n two
fingers. I know yo' of old, an' jest how much yo' orter tote. Two
fingers'll make yo' comfortable an' sociable; three'll raise the devil
in yo,' an' four'll make yo' dancin' drunk, when yo'll have t' be held
down. Yo'll have jest two fingers, an' not a drap more."

"Jest another finger, 'Frony. Remember, yo've bin orful rough on me, an'
I need more. I'll promise t' be good," pleaded Hackberry.

"No, not a drap more'n two fingers now. If yo' behave yo'self I'll give
yo' another two fingers by-an'-by."

"Hackberry swallowed his portion at a thirsty gulp and sat down on the
door-sill to let it do its invigorating work. The other two guerrillas
were{212} given each two fingers, and the man whom Si knocked down
had his moanings rewarded by three fingers and a liberal application in
addition to the wound on his head, which he declared was much relieved
by it.

"Set your guns up agin the wall an' ack nacherul," commanded Mrs.
Bolster. "Nobody's a-gwine to hurt yo'. The 'Squire'll be here soon,
we'll git spliced, an' have a good time all around."

The noisy barking of the dogs announced the approach of someone.

"Lord, I hope that's 'Squire Corson," said Mrs. Bolster, running eagerly
to the door. "If hit's him, we kin go right ahead with the weddin'."

"If that's the 'Squire," said Shorty, in a low whisper, without turning
his head, "we'll grab our guns and fight to the death. We may clean out
this gang."

Si's attention had been in the meanwhile attracted to some boxes
concealed under the beds, and his curiosity was aroused as to what such
unusual things in a cabin might contain.

"No; hit's Capt. Sol. Simmons," said she in a tone of disappointment
mixed with active displeasure. "Now, he'll be cavortin' and tearin'
around, and wantin' t' kill somebody. I wish he wuz whar hit's a good
deal hotter."

She came over to where the boys were sitting, and said in a low tone:

"This man's allers makin' trouble, an' he's bad from his boots up.
Keep a stiff upper