AprJl 12, 1902,3 
> 3 a 
"Kind o' makes a feller's mouth water for fresh meat, 
don't it ?" asked Josh. 
"Sure, it does," said the judge. 
"D'jevver ye eat smoked ven'son?" 
"Never did," said the judge, flicking out his brown 
hackle. 
"Walsir, it eats about as spankin' good as Anything in 
the meat line that ye'll ever strike. One year a deer 
broke his laig — broke his laig, ye understand — in the 
woods back of my camp. 'Twas in close time, but it 
was a marcy to the deer to shoot him. I done it. Bein' in 
the warm spell, 'course the meat wouldn't keep no time 
fresh, and as it was a pity to throw it away, 1 fixed up a 
leetle birch bark smok' haouse and I smoked it. Wals'r. 
naow it did go mighty fine. Some sports come in later 
and bought . up the whole of it. Said it was the best 
stuff they ever tasted to sarve with crackers and beer. 
Understand, it made quite a furore daown in the city 
amongst them club fellers." 
The judge pictured himself setting his friends down to 
such an al fresco lunch, and telling them the right story 
to go with it. 
Josh allowed the matter to soak in a few moments. 
Then he said: "There's been sech a call for smoked 
ven'son sence then that I've sort of helped the fellers that 
I like to take home a leetle of the stuff." 
"I'd like to get hold of some of it. mighty well," said 
the judge. 
"I hain't got a bit 'round me naow," said Josh, regret- 
fully, "and I'm sorry, 'cause I like ye mighty well." 
"How did you help those other fellows you liked, when 
they wanted to carry out' a little of the meat?" 
Josh hesitated a moment, then he said: "You under- 
stand that I hain't the kind of man to break laws. I'm 
a keerful, law-abidin' man. But I swow, I do relish 
it if I kin help my friends. Now, I s'pose ye'd like some 
of that smoked ven'son, and ye'd be willin' to have an 
attack of buck fever — sort of forget jest how ye got the 
deer, eh?" 
"T think I would," said «the judge, knowingly. 
"P'raps I kin help ye. The only trouble is to fool the 
wardens. They're round pretty thick here, and that 
Frank Fountaine down to Norcross he's got ears like a 
Chessy cat. 'Tain't safe to spin a thread till we've got 
him located. But ye jest leave it all to me. We'll see 
what we kin do." 
Old Josh's cabin is located well up on the side of Joe 
Mary Mountain. That afternoon when the judge and 
Josh returned to camp. Josh deposited the duffle in the 
dingle and said: "Wal, jedge, I reckin I'll Avopse a 
while." 
"Wopse a while?" 
"Yas, it's sort of first steps in gittin' that smoked 
ven'son we was talkin' of. Ye hain't got to do nothin' — 
ye watch me." 
From the edge of the little plateau, on which Josh's 
camp is built, a huge pine shoots up. Josh gruntingly 
climbed into its branches, pulling after him a long sapling,, 
to the end of which he had tied by its sleeves a red flan- 
nel undershirt. He perched himself on a pitchy limb 
commanding a view of the slope of Tumble-dick Moun- 
tain. His legs, curved like a sparrow's, he twisted around 
the limb for security. Then supporting the end of the 
pole against his breast he swatted and switched and . 
swung and snapped the flaming shirt tail banner, squinting 
p.ll the while toward the distant mountain. 
At last he paused in his wig-wagging and closely re- 
garded some distant object. Then he mumbled out an 
anathema, and with a new assortment of grunts climbed 
down off his perch. 
"Can't git one to-day. 'Tain't safe, jedge," he reported. 
"In the name of the bloody shirt and the wireless tele- 
graph, will you tell me what all that means?" demanded 
the animated interrogation point at the foot of the tree. 
"Wal, ye see it's this way," explained the chief of the 
Joe Mary signal bureau, "over yender on Tumble-dick is 
Zibe Watkins' camp. Zibe and me kind o' watch out for 
each other. Zibe can see to here and on t'other side he- 
kin look down into Norcross. That Frank Fountaine. 
the warden, lives in Norcross. Mighty cute, spry feller 
that warden is. Have to look out for him. now I kin 
Ttell ye. 
"Now. here's how we work it. I want to know where 
;the warden is. So I gits up the tree and wopses the 
! signal like ye see me doin'. That tells Zibe that I want 
vn formation. I watches the top of a saplin' that grows 
in front of Zibe's cabin. He has a rope hitched to the 
saplin'. 
"If he switches her down to the right that means that 
the warden has started out and has gone east. If down 
'she wopses to the left, the warden has gone west. If the 
saplin' jest keeps up a devil of a wigglin' all-a-which way 
that means look out. Warden out for blood. Took camp- 
in' kit and makin' gen'ral skirmish. 
"That saplin' was all of a wiggle to-day. I don't dast 
to stir a peg. Warden's likely to pop up anywhere if a 
shot is fired." 
"How in time does this Zibe, whatever his name is. 
know anything about the matter?" 
"Hist! They's a feller down in Norcross who hain't 
known in the matter. But he's in with us. Zibe keeps an 
eye on that feller's clothes line. Nothin' on it means 
'warden's to home.' One sheet means 'gone east.' Two 
sheets means 'gone west.' And a red shirt means "danger, 
he's skirmishiu'.' 
"So ye see it hain't safe to burn paowder round here 
*.to-day." 
In the morning the wireless telegraph was set in opera- 
tion again. Still the wiggling was reported from the 
observer's station. 
"Let's go fishin'," said Josh. Fishing they went. For 
five days the thing was repeated. The judge decided that 
Warden Fountaine ought to have his pay raised. East, 
west and all round he was reported as scooting. On the 
sixth morning the judge insisted on climbing the tree 
himself in order to view the operation of the shirt- tailo- 
gram, Josh protested strenuously that outsiders weren't 
allowed in the operating room, but when the judge voiced 
his suspicions and insisted on the thing being shown to 
him, Josh refused and took the shirt off the pole. He 
asserted that he was afraid the judge might hurt his eyes 
straining them and then he would be suing Josh for dam- 
ages, because he couldn't see to read up the law. 
So the fudge paid his extra six days of board and guid- 
ing and came away. But he has the soulful satisfaction of 
knowing that he hasn't been the only one who has been 
buncoed out of money and important business engage- 
ments by a doublcd-over old hunter with a whine in his 
voice and legs like spectacle bows, and who lives in 
forty miles from nowhere. Hot.man F. Day. 
A Walk Down South.— XXIV. 
Ace Jones lives down a little run in a narrow gully 
where there are a number of other houses beside his-^ 
low, two-roomed affairs for the most part. The place 
located, I crossed a footlog over the run, and at the fence 
bailed. It is always best to hail from the fence in the 
South. 'Way down on the Tennessee I heard a man 
say: 
"I always tell my wife that if a man comes up to the 
door and knocks, and hasn't manhood enough to hail from 
the road like he ought to, she must pour hot lead through 
the door." It is the general custom in rural Southern 
communities to hail from the road, and as one learns 
sooner or later, it is safest to follow local customs. 
A woman came to the porch, smiling. It was a charm- 
ing smile, and she was good looking, buxom style. Be- 
tween thoughts of Ace Jones and the pretty woman, 1 
was confused. I misspoke myself and asked if Tip 
Jones lived there. Of course he didn't. But I got my 
wits and learned that it was really Ace's boarding place. 
Ace was up to the store and would be back soon. Would 
I go in and warm? I explained my mission. The lady 
chuckled, a hand on each knee and her clear, smooth,, 
round cheeks quivering — not boisterously, but gently. Her 
nnme is Mrs. Berry. Her first husband was killed, it is 
said, by her second husband (Thomas Berry), and Ace 
Jones was cleared by trial of the charge of killing Berry 
out by the spring house, fifty yards from the house 
where Ace boards now, Berry having been killed mys- 
teriously in the days when Ace was hiding out, with a 
reward on his head, for sundry shootings at certain of 
the Greens. 
Then Ace appeared, lean-limbed, broad-shouldered, 
erect, seemingly taller than he was, his gray chin whiskers 
and mustache contrasting with his smooth-shaven brown 
and wrinkled cheeks. A black coat, with a cape, a black, 
broad-brimmed hat just perceptibly aslant on his head, 
he looked almost ideally a man-killer. In only one re- 
spect did he fail to meet the general notion — his eyes were 
thrusting rather than piercing — a little — not shifty — but 
black and indirect. The widow explained my mission, and . 
then Ace turned on me with the look that suspects and' 
demands exact information — he wanted to know the kind 
of chap I was, too. It was a scrutiny the like of which 
1 never had experienced. 
Passing muster, Ace told the story of the feud — the 
dispute about lumber; how his son, Jimmy Jones, dogged 
Dick Green's hogs; how Dick tried to whip Jim and 
got whipped ; how Jim was shot and killed, and then the 
declaration of "war" ; of the purchase of a dozen Win- 
chesters, some .56-caliber Springfields, and "a bushel of 
cartridges." Details followed of a battle on the river 
ridgesj of another at Hamp Green's house, and then of 
the "scouting on the mountains" while sheriff's posses 
searched for the Jones — accompanied by gleams of ferocity 
in the eyes of the narrator when he told of the boy's 
death, of genuine pleasure when he told how one of the 
Greens hit it down a hollow with bullets whizzing round, 
and of fox-cunning when he spoke of his life on the 
mountains while a fugitive from the Hancock county 
officials. He stiffened with real pride when he told of his 
surrender to stand trial on the charge of murdering Berry. 
The feud gone over, the widow said roguishly: 
"Tell him 'bout that big nigger you shot." 
Ace leaned back with a laugh. The feud had been 
serious business. He was relieved now to tell something 
cheerful. He crossed his legs and leaned 'way back, 
reminiscently,' his hands in his trousers' pockets. 
"One of my neighbors caught a nigger stealing grain 
once, and the nigger had the man promise not to tell 
what he would tell-. The neighbor promised. Then the 
nigger said I put him up to stealing the corn, fruit and 
Other stuff he'd taken. That made the neighbor mad at 
me, and he told 'round what the nigger said. Hit got 
warm for me till I heard what 'twas. Then I got brother 
Tip and we went to the nigger s house, called him out and 
took him to the neighbor's. The nigger was pretty badly 
scared. He said, 'De Debbil made me tell it. He did 
shore.' Well, Tip and me cut a lot of switches, but the 
nigger runs, so I shot him easy in the hams with a pistol. 
I asked the nigger if we'd be good friends after this. He 
said 'Yes.' The nigger was pretty sick for a while, but 
got over it." 
Ace summed matters up by saying: "I've done things 
that if a man had come out of the grave and sat on his 
coffin to say I'd do them, I'd said he lied. When I got 
into trouble I didn't know which friend would stand and 
which would cut and run. But I knowed that if I got 
the best main springs put into my gun and pistol, those 
friends I could trust." While he was talking the three 
dogs barked. Ace approached the window from the right 
side and peeked out with one eye. 
Among others, Ace tried to get Jim Wright to help hunt 
Dick Green. But "Tim was peaceable." He didn't want 
to go out of his own country to hunt for anybody, but, of 
course, if Dick got up into his country "Jim would kill 
him just to accommodate" Ace, who was known as a good 
and peaceable citizen. Of Wright there is more to tell 
further on. 
In the morning, after a sumptuous meal of fruits, pies, 
biscuit, meats and coffee, I was ready to go on to Sneed- 
ville to see the Greens. Ace asked me: 
"You don't know any old man up your way. kind of 
lame, and sick and 'most blind, do you?" 
I was puzzled; then Ace explained: 
"She's looking for a man, you know," speaking of the 
widow. The widow tossed her head and turned up her 
nose. 
Following directions, I went down the road a couple 
of miles, 'below the second mill," crossed the foot- 
bridge, went up the hollow, through two gates and crossed 
a ridge, down into another hollow, near woods, cornfields, 
a vacant house, "through a barn," bore 'round to the 
right of a hill I "could see"; then up a run to Mahon 
Settlement, down the road to Church Post Office. It was 
a lonely walk through a country where "killings" ate 
done from ambush, but it was not so bad as the ten miles 
to Tip Jones' from Rogersville. At Clinch Post Office 
the postmaster was in the volunteer soldiers' uniform. I 
told him who I was and heard that the Lawson brothers 
w ere to be on trial at Sneedville court Monday. They 
were accused of the murder of Clint Legere, owing to a 
dispute over some land which had already caused two 
other deaths. I asked about the boys-. They were kept 
at Knoxville jail for safe keeping, but were to be brought 
back for trial. I wanted to know how, when and where 
they would be taken on the way from Knoxville to Sneed- 
ville. I got some misinformation, and the sheriff at 
Sneedville next day said he'd heard I was coming. After 
dinner I went on northwest to the Clinch River, crossed it 
in a hand ferry, walked down to the gap through the 
hills, and then, half a mile back from the river, saw 
Sneedville, a collection of wooden shanties and houses on 
a hill sloping toward the Clinch Valley. The road took 
a circle half-way round, then went in as the main and 
only street, with painted wooden houses and stores on 
both sides of the way to the number of thirty-odd. The 
mud in the road was blackish red. Nearly all the build- 
ings had fine brick chimneys of local make. • 
I went to the Royston House, kept by Jesse Nichols 
and his wife, the widow of Royston. A man with a halt 
to his gait and an arm in a sling passed up the jail alley 
lo the street. "There's Enoch Gillam, the man Jim 
Wright shot," Mrs, Nichols said. This .was late on 
Saturday afternoon. 
The court house loomed diagonally across the street, 
two stories high, a red brick building with large white 
pillars in fropt, a porch both upstairs and down, the stairs 
leading from porch to porch, for the crowd to go up to 
the court on. The sun went down in a snowy lead-colored 
atmosphere. The gloom of the place was thick — thick- 
ened by a double-barreled 12-gauge shotgun in the far 
corner of the sitting room, and an old, rusty Smith & 
Wesson on the dresser before the looking glass. But 
later the shotgun was cheerful. 
After a plentiful supper of biscuit, pot roast beef, po- 
tatoes, honey, fruits, etc., .1 sat down before the fireplace 
in the sitting room and drew long breaths from time to 
time. It was Saturday, Jan. 19. There was little stirring 
around. A cold rain began to fall, and then a man drove 
into town on a mule, a banjo tied across his back. 
"Looks like court, don't it?" Nichols remarked. Then 
quiet resumed. 
I, Some time after dark two horsemen went past at a 
jgallop. Nichols' left ear turned up to catch the sound. 
J Mrs. Nichols looked toward the door. Then the drops 
• fell loudly on the stillness again. A few minutes later a 
I man came in and sat down at the fire. 
"Wet!" he said. 
"Yes," was reply. 
"Who was that went down the road?" Nichols added. 
"Sheriff and Joe Cloud." 
"Yes?" 
"Yes. Word just come that there's been shooting down 
the road." 
"Yes?" 
"Yes." 
"Who?" 
"Somebody tried to get Marion Legere." "Somebody" 
was accented in marked fashion, though the voice was 
low. Marion Legere was pressing the case against the 
two Lawson boys for the murder of his brother Clint. 
Standing a few yards from his house, three men had 
fired on him, just at dusk. Marion reached the house 
by the time eight shots were fired. As he entered a man 
went out the far side of the building and was mistaken 
for Marion. Thirty-odd shots were fired at him. "You'd 
ought to have seen him go itp that holler," Marion said 
on Monday, with a laugh at the memory — a laugh cut off 
with a bite of his teeth. 
In the morning I was up early. It was clear, the ground 
frozen, the sun shining. Enoch Gillam, whom Wright 
shot, was in the street when I looked out. He had been 
a friend of Wright's, but the $550 reward on Wright was 
too much for him. Last November he went to Marion 
Legere, who offered part of the reward, and offered to 
betray the fugitive. Marion loaned Gillam a new Win- 
chester rifle and to Enoch's brother a Krag-Jorgensen, 
which a soldier nephew of Rev. John Trent got in the 
Philippines, and had loaned him. With these rifles the Gil- 
lams went hunting Wright. Wright and his partner, John 
Templcton, also a "scouter," hid in a barn and fired on 
the Gillams with a double-barreled shotgun. Enoch's 
arm was broken; two buckshot entered his thigh. Both 
the Gillams fled. Wright and Templeton ran out of the 
barn, picked up the Winchester and Krag-Jorgensen and 
opened fire with them on the runners. The Gillams gone, 
the two desperadoes went to a store near by and got two 
pairs of shoes from the willing merchant, and gleefully 
exhibited their new weapons. Thef now carry a Marlin 
.38, a double-barreled shotgun, a Winchester and a Krag- 
Jorgensen, beside revolvers. 
On Sunday afternoon the gathering of the court crowd 
thickened and livened the street. Men came in oh horse- 
back, or muleback. with black, broad-brimmed hats, 
hooted, and usually a single spur. Goateed, whiskered or 
shaven, the local county men presented two peculiarities. 
Some had jaws that fitted like stone; the others had chins 
a-tremble. All had eyes that glanced and gleamed. 
Whether blue, gray or black, they stuck out of their 
sockets and seemed constantly watching back over the 
shoulders. The rattle of a fence, the suck of a horse's 
foot in the mud, the click of a shoe on the stone or board 
walk turned every eye of a standing group that way in- 
stantly. 
In the hotel sitting room the click of my camera as I 
opened it, made nearly a dozen men cringe. I recalled 
that when Tip Jones sat down by the window the night I 
talked to him, he pulled down the window curtain. 
The nomination of some officers and judges was near 
at hand. Politicians were in town, following the court, 
because at court one can meet the county's men. They 
came in buggies behind small mud-streaked loping teams. 
They were most of them men used to commanding re- 
spect. One man in particular, looking to be a judge, 
worked determinedly on the familiar lines, "I always find 
the brightest people away from the railroads," he said. 
(Sneedville is more than twenty miles beyond the ridges 
from the railroad.) He told good stories/ To one man 
