in' done things, and I hain't fergot it nuther, an' what's more, I
hain't never a-goin ter fergit. I hain't that sort--ther fergit'n kind.
An' ye'll find that out 'afore ye air hyar in this kintry much longer.
Ef a man treats Peter Judson all right, he's a-goin' ter git treated all
right back again. Ef he treats me mean, why, he's gotter look out fer
his head, that's all. I kin remember onct away back yonder--I was on
t'other side then--an' was as peaceful a man as lived, when I was a
plowin' in my field an' up comes a feller as fast as he could ride a
hoss, an' says, sayse: 'Peter Judson, yer gotter git out o' this kintry,
an' that putty quick. Ef yer don't, yer neck'll be stretched.' 'Well, I
won't,' says I, 'not till I git good'n ready, an' ef you ner anybody
else thinks as how they kin make me git out afore I want to, let's see
ther color o' his hair. An' I takes ther lines from my shoulders an'
drops 'em down over ther plow handle an' squares myself, thinkin' maybe
he'd want some of it right then an' thar. But no, what'd he do? He up
an' put spurs to his hoss an' digs out down ther road lip-i-ty-clip, an'
I seed nuthin' o' him no more."

The old man paused to let out a great stream of tobacco juice.

Wade threw his left leg over his right knee by way of change, and asked,
"Was there any special reason, Mr. Judson, that this man should have
requested you to leave the country?"

"None. None 'tall, but I left."

"Oh, you did?"

"Yes, siree. I left putty quick after a while. You see, I hain't told
you all of it yet. Them durn fellers come back one night, but I gits
wind of it somehow, an' sends ther family away an' takes everything out
an' puts ther stock in ther pasture,--nuthin's never hid from Peter
Judson,--an' I lays out in ther bushes in a dark spot an' waits
patiently. Long 'bout a little after midnight here they comes, 'bout a
half-dozen strong, an' shot fire into my house an' barns so fast that
afore I know'd what'd happened ther whole business was a flame o' fire.
Seein' as how I couldn't do nuthin' ter save ther things, I jest waited
till they gits through with their cussedness, an' then--what'd ye think?
Afore they know'd what'd struck 'em I sent ther bullets from my
Winchester a-flyin' after them like hot cakes, an' four o' them fell in
their tracks, while ther two got away, an' all their hosses lit out down
ther road, without riders, like lead shot out o' a cannon on ther field
o' war."

The old ma