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By Root 1686 0

or a Kentucky long rifle or some kind of knife to hand at all times. And these men were everlastingly loud and always talking about themselves: "No man ever throwed me! I’d like to see the one who’d try! I’ll whip two if I have to! Haw—if I get to! Ask me! I like to give a good whipping, I do!" I said to Thomas that "I" seemed to be their favorite word. Thomas stood out among them like a church steeple among chimneys, with his neat black trousers and his well-trimmed red beard and his shirt collar. They looked at him, too. At the time, I thought the contrast between them and him was all to our advantage. I must say, also, that their respect for me was exaggerated. Someone was always stepping into the mud so that I could pass, or touching his hat, or nodding at me, or offering to show me the hotel or some fine wagons or a good mule. These men would look at Thomas, then talk to me. I thought that this was just a quirk of the Missouri men, but later I realized that it attested to the depth of hostilities. Conflicts between strangers weren’t open yet, but the Border Ruffians were ready for them to be.

It was under the eyes of these men that the black stevedores unloaded our "harness" and the rest of our belongings, and it was these men who shouted out, "There’s a heavy box, an’t there? Can’t hardly lift that one, Joe, now can you? Got some books in there, don’t he?" The beating of my heart actually quivered the tucks in the bodice of my dress. "There are books in there," said Thomas, as if impressed by the talkers’ perspicacity. "There’s a very fine set of leather-bound sermons in there." Thomas never even removed his hat or his coat, though it was as hot a day as I had ever endured.

We asked around for a hotel and were directed to the Humphry House. It was nearly dusk, maybe just about time for our supper, but by the time we had walked from the landing to the door of the Humphry House and had climbed the plank ramp that served for steps, we could see no sign of anything like supper. The proprietor, his wife, some children, and two or three others were sitting between the doorway and an open window. "There’s a bit of a breeze," said the woman as we walked in. "I felt it."

"I felt it," said the proprietor. "A good breeze."

"Yes, ma’am," said one of the others.

"Yes, ma’am," said another, with such conviction that I expected someone to roundly disagree. If anyone had done so, it might have been me, for I felt no breeze at all.

"You’re too late for supper," said the wife, looking at us. "If you’re hungry, you can go on up to bed and sleep on it. That’s the best way." Her tone was friendly, as if full of good advice and entirely disinterested.

"Hot up there, though," said the proprietor.

Thomas said, "Perhaps you could show us the accommodations."

"Well, I could," said the proprietor, leaning back in his chair until it screeched, "but you can see them for yourself, up that staircase."

As we climbed the steep, railless steps, the wife called out, "Them beds is for the ones who’s down with the shakes. If you’re okay, you got to sleep on the floor!"

The sleeping room did for everyone and ran the whole length and width of the building, maybe twenty feet by thirty. They had laid out blankets on the floor. The beds were taken already by a full complement of sick people, and a small, dark-haired woman who didn’t look all that well herself was turning from one bed to another bed, a couple of spoons and a large cup in her hand. She glanced at us as we came up the stairs but looked too exhausted to say anything.

There were four beds, three holding one person each and the largest holding two men. The woman leaned over one of these and gave him a sip of water. He groaned, a deep, manly, and agonized groan.

"He’s bad," she said, as if to no one. "He an’t going to make it." The man was struggling mightily with his fever, throwing himself about and kicking out at his bed companion, but that one was so thoroughly asleep that he lay there moveless and inert under the blows.

I said, "You’re good to nurse him."

"He’s my husband, you