FOREST AND STREAM 
611 
With 
IGE, when I first saw him, loomed bare- 
B footed out of the dusk, set his rifle careful¬ 
ly against the corner of the crossroads 
grocery-trading-post, and, biting off a huge chew 
of “natural,” “’lowed hit war a right reason’ble 
evenin’.” 
The nearest railroad was twenty miles away, 
and “first out ’o town” generally brought the 
mail—when there was any. Down in Dismal a 
pair of wildcat Toms were mixed up in an ar¬ 
gument over a complacent Tabby that was wash¬ 
ing her face with one suffragette-like paw. 
On the slopes of the hills whippoorwills were 
calling their incessant demands to some un¬ 
seen woodland pedagogue to get busy and chas¬ 
tise the poor and recalcitrant Bill. The big moon 
sailed along as unconcerned as a “painted ship 
upon a painted ocean.” The smell of burning 
wood drifted to one’s nostrils from the open 
fireplace where the homespun-clad women had 
been “leaching” during the day. In the lean-tos 
down by the portable saw mill, the Swedes were 
singing. Overhead, the stars, undimmed by the 
smoke and soot of commercialism, blinked sleepily. 
“Queer about them stars,” said ’Lige, with a 
soft drawl. ’Lige stood six feet two in his cal¬ 
loused au naturals; but his voice was as soft 
as a woman’s. Continuing, he remarked, “A 
feller came down yere las’ year; an’ he lowed 
the stars do move; an’ this yere earth went 
round like a nut rollin’ down a hill. But, shucks, 
I sot stakes an’ sighted at the north star one 
hull night, an’ by gum, she never moved a mite. 
No sir, she didn’t!” 
“Gettin’ along all right with y’r co’ting, ’Lige?” 
queried a chopper of the big fellow. 
“Now you all jest shet up!” said ’Lige, blush¬ 
ing through his goodly coat of tan. Then, bid¬ 
ding the bunch “good evenin’,” he shouldered 
his long muzzle loader with easy grace, and dis¬ 
appeared in the direction of his cabin in a clear¬ 
ing over the hill. 
It seems that ’Lige was, to use a slang term, 
“stuck” on a pretty bit of mountain “calico” 
who lived with her folks down the South 
branch, but could never get up enough courage 
to propound the momentous question. One shy 
look from those brown eyes would hit the big 
fellow a crack in the solar plexus of his affec¬ 
tions, and he would go down and out for the 
count. Later an aunt on the maternal side did 
the proposal stunt, and I heard, after I had left 
that country, that a ’squire had made the twain 
one. That has nothing in particular to do with 
this story—which is true. 
Down the left fork apiece (that country was 
mostly “forks” and “branches”), was an old 
clearing. During the war of ’6i-’6s, a Federal 
cavalry troop out on a scout had torn down 
the rail fences for fire wood. The owner had 
never come back to fix the fences again, and the 
land was covered with second growth of all 
kinds. It was a great place for quail, and also 
’Lige And The Swedes 
By Will C. Parmons. 
for snakes. That’s the kind of a country ’Lige 
lived in; and he went bare-footed, at that! 
Jake and myself were down there on a vaca¬ 
tion, having arrived some days before on mule 
back over a trail that had never met Mr. Ma¬ 
cadam or Colonel Log-drag. We put up at the 
grocery-trading post at the forks of the road, 
because that was the only place to put up “at.” 
The domicile was a log cabin affair, with one 
story in front, a puncheon floor down stairs, 
and a pole “floor” in the loft. The house, by 
virtue of a double VV sort of ravine, was open 
at the sides, and was a story and a loft high 
in the rear. The dining room (heaven save the 
mark) and the kitchen were one, and had no 
sides. How they managed in the winter, I never 
asked. Dish washing was handy, for a spring 
was conducted right along the puncheon floor 
in a rough log trough. 
A big wood burning stove furnished the public 
utilities, and under this stove was a good place 
for blue racers to come in o’ nights, crawl under, 
and get warm. I discovered this early one 
morning on my way to the horse trough for 
a bath. There was considerable disturbance upon 
that occasion, as I remember the details and— 
it was a long distance to the nearest crockery 
shop. Table legs and such bric-a-brac are easily 
repaired in the back woods, but crockery not so! 
The grocery-traders post contained most any 
simple thing demanded in such a locality, from 
calico to side combs, and traded for pelts, nuts, 
tobacco, wild honey and the like. A skunk skin 
or two had no effect on the cake of toilet soap 
that reposed pink and blushing beside a box of 
“two f’rs.’ 
The eating depended upon what the rod and 
gun made it, plus what staples “Ah Bane” the 
female blonde from Stockholm, could dig up from 
mill and post. 
The mill hands—all green Swedes—Jake (my 
companion), and myself, bunked in the loft—that 
is, when the pole “floor” didn’t get gay and let 
a leg or two down into the busy (?) mart below. 
One of the mill men was a deserter from the 
Swedish navy, and carried an ugly looking knife 
on a lanyard. My companion discovered this 
fact after his “holt” had let go as he was “skin¬ 
ning the cat” for exercise on one of the pole 
rafters above the drowsy blue-jacket. I think 
Jake slept out in the brush for the next two 
nights, for down came Swede, Jake, the floor 
and most of the counter downstairs. Oh, “them 
wuz happy days!” 
Another of the bunch of mill men had a 36 
calibre pin-fire revolver lying ’round loose, and 
loaded to the muzzle. This weapon was about 
as sociable as a skin-shed side-winder, and was 
ready to shoot just before, or just after, you 
were. By the irony of fate that darned hammer 
was always on a cap, and whoever kicked the 
fool gun in prowling round at night, set it off. 
Luckily no one was killed, and during the ex¬ 
citement of the boiler explosion (the patient 
reader will come to that later on) the pistol dis¬ 
appeared. I think the river might know some¬ 
thing about the relic. 
Then there was a coy and happy couple living 
in a little two-by-twice slab shack near the mill, 
who were saving every penny, so that when they 
got money enough, they could be really married! 
Jake and I had sure struck a “back to nature” 
territory that vacation! 
The trader owned a Kentucky rifle, one of those 
set-trigger affairs that can be adjusted so that 
a gnat’s cough will set it off. It had a German 
silver front sight, filed sharp; and a home¬ 
grown rear sight that suited the owner all right. 
And, believe me, he could shoot that rifle some, 
too! It was of smaller calibre than a “32,” but 
the round ball (and he had “slugs,” too) got 
the bacon when old C. C. sighted her. Jake 
got the pernicious habit of toting that fool hair- 
trigger affair about wherever he went. He 
never could tell whether the gun was on the “set” 
or not. After he had shot a hole in my “pants” 
during a walk and one of his spells of “didn’t 
know,” I shook him and took up with ’Lige. 
Nearly all the men I met toted a gun of 
some brand, but the calibre most in demand 
seemed the forty-four. I think this was from 
the fact that nearly any town store carried the 
cartridges in stock. Some of the men were 
splendid shots, but there were some (and gen¬ 
erally when “lit up” with moonshine) who could 
not have hit the ground with their hats. 
The first Sunday we spent in that region I 
was sitting on a log out in a clearing, with a 
very uncommunicative native, who solemnly 
pared a splinter with the wickedest looking 
pocket knife I ever saw outside of a museum of 
Mafia relics. Over “t’other” side of the clearing 
I saw a man stealthily approaching, and he was 
toting a gun in his right hand. I glanced at 
my silent friend. He still whittled, but his eyes 
had glimpsed the man and he followed him with 
the steadiness of the stare of an opera glass on 
a debutante’s entrance at the assembly ball. 
“Better move, mister!” said my silent friend. 
“Thar’s goin’ ter be somethin’.” 
Whack! A jet of smoke darted from the 
fingers of the approaching man, and a bullet 
smacked into the log between humble me and the 
whittler. A moment later and I was just a 
faint mirage at nine o’clock. The oncomer fired 
five times and missed. My silent friend, cover¬ 
ing his heart with his left arm, didn’t miss. He 
didn’t have to get any windage on his knife, and 
he made about as thorough a job as I have ever 
seen, and I have seen a few! 
The trouble that culminated at the log had its 
inception in a measly old hen with busy feet, and 
her industry in about three square feet of garden. 
The women started hostilities, the children took 
it up, and the menfolks came in on the last deal. 
When I left, the homicide trial was still going 
on. Deceased had used a cap and ball pistol. 
But he used powder aplenty, as the ball in the 
