Argosy All-Story Weekly, June 27, 1925 — page 67: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

FLIGHT TO “ Thet’s Cynthy Stokes,” was the calm reply. ‘She's tarryin’ hyar a spell with my ma. Cynthy, this hyar man follers hoss- doctorin’ sometimes. an’ he follers preachin’ ther Gospel sometimes—an’ folks tells hit thet he follers moonshinin’ mighty nigh all times. He goes by ther name of Brother Ezry Harley.” The veterinary-preacher seemed unoffend- ed by the introduction in spite of the mar- gin by which it fell short of eulogy. He turned his eyes on Cynthia again, and de- manded with the bluntness of a cross-ex- aminer: “ Gal, what mout yore business be hyar- erbouts?”’ The girl winced and felt her knees weak- en as the interrogating eyes glared at her. She began to stammer: “ Why—wby—”’ but with a quietly lifted hand and an in- cisive voice Wade Murrell cut in. ‘Hold on, ma’am. I’ll answer that.” He turned to his guest. ‘This woman's dwell- in’ under our roof, Ezry. We don’t hold ourselves beholdin’ ter answer no idle ques- tions erbout her.’ Harley turned on Wade and raised both hands above his head in a ludicrous sem- blance of pontifical authority. ‘When a woman thet don’t favor no handmaiden of ther Lord God comes among us,” he thundered, “ folks craves ter know ther which an’ whether of hit—an’ folks aims ter know.” The several other guests who lounged about the door, gave excited little exclama- tions and followed with relish a situation that broke the drab crust of monotony. Wade's voice pitched to a soft quiet broke the ensuing silence with a brief ques- tion. ‘What folks, Ezry? Ther Skidmores?” ‘‘ All folks,” the answer was boomed out with-orotund unction. “I s’arves ther Al- mighty an’ ter me all godly folk air sheep an’ all sinners air goats. Thet’s what ther Bible-book says an’ hit’s God’s own word.” Wade took a step forward and a danger- ous scowl stiffened his lips, but it was Aunt Erie’s voice that spoke first, and it spoke with a cheery equanimity that seemed to clear the atmosphere. “ Brother Ezry,” she said. “ Ther char- acter of gospellin’ ye follers, hit hain’t our brand an’ we don’t crave none of hit—but I reckon mebby ye does know somethin’. erbout hoss doctorin’.” She paused, and her eyes held a shimmering of repressed mirth. “ Do yore exhortin’ somewhere else, Brother Ezry; ye’re in ther wrong meetin’ house hyar—but thar’s a mule out im the barn thet right sensibly needs salvation. Wade, he rid him clar from Cyar'liny with- out no irons on his feet an—”’ With the capriciousness of his queerly disorganized mind, the old man dropped his heavy solemnity. He relaxed abruptly out of his attitude of a pontiff hurling a curse and a new interest tinged his voice -with eagerness. ‘“‘ Whar’s ther critter at?” he demanded. “ Hit’s fer cash. I don’t foller doctorin’ mule-critters save only fer cash.” Then he turned to follow Aunt Erie toward the barn. Wade nodded his head to Cynthia. “ Ezry’s kinderly fittified,” he offered brief explanation. “ But yit he’s got a mas- ter follerin’ among some folks—Murrells an’ Skidmores alike.” The evening meal was over and the sun- set fanfare of color was deadening into night. The stars were as yet pale, too, because though the upflung heights had darkened into indigo, the sky over them still held a ghostly aftermath of light. As the peaks thickened into somber night shapes, they had the seeming of drawing closer and huddling together with a sense of suffocat- ing massiveness. Yet the air between them was thin and clear and sweet, and in mid- sky rode a young moon. After the full-colored brilliancy of day came the softer, sweeter colors of night fash- ioned of moon mists, of silvers and blues. From the blackly curtained forest sounded the calls of the whippoorwill, and from the creek bed rose the chorus of frogs. In tilted chairs about the dog run sat those neighbors who had tarried on, and those who had freshly come. Wade Mur- rell’s pipe glowed from the doorstep, and two youths with a banjo and a “ dulcl- more” picked a plaintive accompaniment as their voices droned out strange “ song ballads” that were survivals of the days COnniEaoo () SS Co