Hell Fer Sartain | Page 9

might' nigh splittin' right thar an' a-sp'ilin' the fun, fer
she knowed what a skeery fool Jeb was. An' when the ole folks goes to
bed, Nance lays thar under a quilt a-watchin' an' a-listenin'. Well, Jeb
knowed the premises, ef he couldn't talk, an' purty soon Nance heerd
Jeb's cheer creak a leetle, an' she says, Jeb's a- comin', and Jeb was; an'
Polly Ann 'lowed Jeb was jes a leetle TOO resolute an' quick-like, an'
she got her hand ready to give him one lick anyways fer bein' so brigaty.
I don't know as she'd 'a' hit him more'n ONCE. Jeb had a farm, an'

Polly Ann--well, Polly Ann was a-gittin' along. But Polly Ann sot thar
jes as though she didn't know Jeb was a-comin', an' Jeb stopped once
an' says,
``You hain't got nothin' agin me, has ye?''
An' Polly Ann says, sorter quick,
``Naw; ef I had, I'd push it.''
Well, Jeb mos' fell off his cheer, when, ef he hadn't been sech a skeery
idgit, he'd 'a' knowed that Polly Ann was plain open an' shet a-biddin'
fer him. But he sot thar like a knot on a log fer haffen hour, an' then he
rickollected, I reckon, that Abe had tol' him Polly Ann was peppery an'
he mustn't mind, fer Jeb begun a-movin' ag'in till he was slam-bang
agin Polly Ann's cheer. An' thar he sot like a punkin, not sayin' a word
nur doin' nothin'. An' while Polly Ann was a-wonderin' ef he was gone
plumb crazy, blame me ef that durned fool didn't turn roun' to that
peppery gal an' say,
``Booh, Polly Ann!''
Well, Nance had to stuff the bedquilt in her mouth right thar to keep
from hollerin' out loud, fer Polly Ann's hand was a-hangin' down by the
cheer, jes a-waitin' fer a job, and Nance seed the fingers a-twitchin'. An'
Jeb waits another haffen hour an' Jeb says,
``Ortern't I be killed?''
``Whut fer?'' says Polly Ann, sorter sharp.
An' Jeb says, ``Fer bein' so devilish.''
Well, brother, Nance snorted right out thar, an' Polly Ann Sturgill's
hand riz up jes once; an' I've heerd Jeb Somers say the next time he
jumps out o' the Fryin' Pan he's a-goin' to take hell- fire 'stid o' Cutshin
fer a place to light.

THE MESSAGE IN THE SAND
Stranger, you furriners don't nuver seem to consider that a woman has
always got the devil to fight in two people at once! Hit's two agin one, I
tell ye, an' hit hain't fa'r.
That's what I said more'n two year ago, when Rosie Branham was
a-layin' up thar at Dave Hall's, white an' mos' dead. An', GOD, boys, I
says, that leetle thing in thar by her shorely can't be to blame.
Thar hain't been a word agin Rosie sence; an', stranger, I reckon thar
nuver will be. Fer, while the gal hain't got hide o' kith or kin, thar air
two fellers up hyeh sorter lookin' atter Rosie; an' one of 'em is the
shootin'es' man on this crick, I reckon, 'cept one; an', stranger, that's
t'other.
Rosie kep' her mouth shet fer a long while; an' I reckon as how the
feller 'lowed she wasn't goin' to tell. Co'se the woman folks got hit out'n
her--they al'ays gits whut they want, as you know --an' thar the sorry
cuss was--a-livin' up thar in the Bend, jes aroun' that bluff o' lorrel
yander, a-lookin' pious, an' a-singin', an' a-sayin' Amen louder 'n
anybody when thar was meetin'.
Well, my boy Jim an' a lot o' fellers jes went up fer him right away. I
don't know as the boys would 'a' killed him EXACTLY ef they had
kotched him, though they mought; but they got Abe Shivers, as tol' the
feller they was a-comin'-- you've heard tell o' Abe-an' they mos' beat
Abraham Shivers to death. Stranger, the sorry cuss was Dave. Rosie
hadn't no daddy an' no mammy; an' she was jes a-workin' at Dave's fer
her victuals an' clo'es. 'Pears like the pore gal was jes tricked into evil.
Looked like she was sorter 'witched--an' anyways, stranger, she was a
fightin' Satan in HERSELF, as well as in Dave. Hit was two agin one, I
tell ye, an' hit wasn't fa'r.
Co'se they turned Rosie right out in the road I hain't got a word to say
agin Dave's wife fer that; an' atter a while the boys lets Dave come back,
to take keer o' his ole mammy, of co'se, but I tell ye Dave's a-playin' a
purty lonesome tune. He keeps purty shy YIT. He don't nuver sa'nter

down this way. 'Pears like he don't seem to think hit's healthy fer him
down hyeh, an' I reckon Dave's right.
Rosie? Oh, well, I sorter tuk Rosie