Hell-Fer-Sartain [8]
with it and with everybody else went the Senator. Slowly he got dusty, ragged, long of hair. He looked tortured and ever-restless. You never saw him still; always he swept by you, flapping his legs on his lean horse or his arms in his rickety buggy here, there, everywhere-- turning, twisting, fighting his way back to freedom--and not a murmur. Still was every man his brother, and if some forgot his once open hand, he forgot it no more completely than did the Senator. He went very far to pay his debts. He felt honor bound, indeed, to ask his sister to give back the farm that he had given her, which, very properly people said, she declined to do. Nothing could kill hope in the Senator's breast; he would hand back the farm in another year, he said; but the sister was firm, and without a word still, the Senator went other ways and schemed through the nights, and worked and rode and walked and traded through the days, until now, when the light was beginning to glimmer, his end was come.
This was the Senator's last trade, and in sight, down in a Kentucky valley, was home. Strangely enough, the Senator did not care at all, and he had just enough sanity left to wonder why, and to be worried. It was the ``walking typhoid'' that had caught up with him, and he was listless, and he made strange gestures and did foolish things as he stumbled down the mountain. He was going over a little knoll now, and he could see the creek that ran around his house, but he was not touched. He would just as soon have lain down right where he was, or have turned around and gone back, except that it was hot and he wanted to get to the water. He remembered that it was nigh Christmas; he saw the snow about him and the cakes of ice in the creek. He knew that he ought not to be hot, and yet he was--so hot that he refused to reason with himself even a minute, and hurried on. It was odd that it should be so, but just about that time, over in Virginia, a cattle dealer, nearing home, stopped to tell a neighbor how he had tricked some black-whiskered fool up in the mountains. It may have been just when he was laughing aloud over there, that the Senator, over here, tore his woollen shirt from his great hairy chest and rushed into the icy stream, clapping his arms to his burning sides and shouting in his frenzy.
``If he had lived a little longer,'' said a constituent, ``he would have lost the next election. He hadn't the money, you know.''
``If he had lived a little longer,'' said the mountain preacher high up on Yellow Creek, ``I'd have got that trade I had on hand with him through. Not that I wanted him to die, but if he had to--why--''
``If he had lived a little longer,'' said the Senator's lawyer, ``he would have cleaned off the score against him.''
``If he had lived a little longer,'' said the Senator's sister, not meaning to be unkind, ``he would have got all I have.''
That was what life held for the Senator. Death was more kind.
PREACHIN' ON KINGDOM-COME
I've told ye, stranger, that Hell fer Sartain empties, as it oughter, of co'se, into Kingdom-Come. You can ketch the devil 'most any day in the week on Hell fer Sartain, an' sometimes you can git Glory everlastin' on Kingdom-Come. Hit's the only meetin'-house thar in twenty miles aroun'.
Well, the reg'lar rider, ole Jim Skaggs, was dead, an' the bretherin was a-lookin' aroun' fer somebody to step into ole Jim's shoes. Thar'd been one young feller up thar from the settlemints, a- cavortin' aroun', an' they was studyin' 'bout gittin' him.
``Bretherin' an' sisteren,'' I says, atter the leetle chap was gone, ``he's got the fortitood to speak an' he shorely is well favored. He's got a mighty good hawk eye fer spyin' out evil--an' the gals; he can outholler ole Jim; an' IF,'' I says, ``any IDEES ever comes to him, he'll be a hell-rouser shore--but they ain't comin'!'' An', so sayin', I takes my foot in my hand an' steps fer home.
Stranger, them fellers over thar hain't seed much o' this world. Lots of 'em nuver seed the cyars; some of 'em nuver seed
This was the Senator's last trade, and in sight, down in a Kentucky valley, was home. Strangely enough, the Senator did not care at all, and he had just enough sanity left to wonder why, and to be worried. It was the ``walking typhoid'' that had caught up with him, and he was listless, and he made strange gestures and did foolish things as he stumbled down the mountain. He was going over a little knoll now, and he could see the creek that ran around his house, but he was not touched. He would just as soon have lain down right where he was, or have turned around and gone back, except that it was hot and he wanted to get to the water. He remembered that it was nigh Christmas; he saw the snow about him and the cakes of ice in the creek. He knew that he ought not to be hot, and yet he was--so hot that he refused to reason with himself even a minute, and hurried on. It was odd that it should be so, but just about that time, over in Virginia, a cattle dealer, nearing home, stopped to tell a neighbor how he had tricked some black-whiskered fool up in the mountains. It may have been just when he was laughing aloud over there, that the Senator, over here, tore his woollen shirt from his great hairy chest and rushed into the icy stream, clapping his arms to his burning sides and shouting in his frenzy.
``If he had lived a little longer,'' said a constituent, ``he would have lost the next election. He hadn't the money, you know.''
``If he had lived a little longer,'' said the mountain preacher high up on Yellow Creek, ``I'd have got that trade I had on hand with him through. Not that I wanted him to die, but if he had to--why--''
``If he had lived a little longer,'' said the Senator's lawyer, ``he would have cleaned off the score against him.''
``If he had lived a little longer,'' said the Senator's sister, not meaning to be unkind, ``he would have got all I have.''
That was what life held for the Senator. Death was more kind.
PREACHIN' ON KINGDOM-COME
I've told ye, stranger, that Hell fer Sartain empties, as it oughter, of co'se, into Kingdom-Come. You can ketch the devil 'most any day in the week on Hell fer Sartain, an' sometimes you can git Glory everlastin' on Kingdom-Come. Hit's the only meetin'-house thar in twenty miles aroun'.
Well, the reg'lar rider, ole Jim Skaggs, was dead, an' the bretherin was a-lookin' aroun' fer somebody to step into ole Jim's shoes. Thar'd been one young feller up thar from the settlemints, a- cavortin' aroun', an' they was studyin' 'bout gittin' him.
``Bretherin' an' sisteren,'' I says, atter the leetle chap was gone, ``he's got the fortitood to speak an' he shorely is well favored. He's got a mighty good hawk eye fer spyin' out evil--an' the gals; he can outholler ole Jim; an' IF,'' I says, ``any IDEES ever comes to him, he'll be a hell-rouser shore--but they ain't comin'!'' An', so sayin', I takes my foot in my hand an' steps fer home.
Stranger, them fellers over thar hain't seed much o' this world. Lots of 'em nuver seed the cyars; some of 'em nuver seed