. The answer seemed to be favorable to murder and
robbery. "Set down an' make yourselves at home. I'll git yo' out suthin'
t' wet yer whistles," said Mrs. Bolster, wreathing as much graciousness
as she could into her weathered-wood countenance. She apparently kicked
at the same instant a stool toward them with her left foot, and a dog
out of the way with her right, a performance that excited Shorty's
admiration.

"When I see a woman kick in different directions with both feet at the
same time, I understood how dangerous her trip would be in a rastle," he
said afterward.{210}

Si and Shorty shoved two of the stools so that they could sit with their
backs to the wall, still holding their guns.

The guerrillas came filing in, with an expectant look on their faces.
Even Jeff Hackberry looked more thirstily longing than wrathful. The man
who had fallen under Si's gunbarrel had gotten able to walk, was
rubbing his head and moaning with the design of attracting attention and
sympathy.

Mrs. Bolster produced a key from her pocket. The others understood what
this meant. They lifted aside some sacks of meal and shelled corn, and
revealed a puncheon which had been cut in two, and the short piece was
garnished by rude iron hinges and hasp, all probably taken from some
burned barn. The hasp was locked into the staple by one of the heavy
padlocks customary on the plantations, and this Mr. Bolster proceeded
to open with her key. When the puncheon was turned up it revealed a pit
beneath, from which she lifted a large jug of whisky. She poured some
out in a tin cup and handed it to Shorty.

"Take a big swig," she said; "hit's mouty good stuff--ole Jeff
Thompson's brewin' from yaller corn raised on rich bottom land."

Si trembled as he saw his partner take the cup. Shorty smelled it
appreciatively. "That is good stuff," he said. "Roses ain't nowhere
alongside."

He put the cup to his lips and took a sip.

"Tastes as good as it smells," he said, heartily, while the mouths of
the guerrillas were watering. He put the cup again to his lips, as if
to take a deep draft. Then came a short cough and a tremendous{211}
sputter, followed by more painful coughing and strangling.

"Jest my infernal luck," gasped Shorty. "I would talk, an' I got some
down the wrong way.

"Lord, it's burnin' my lights out. Gi' me a drink o' water, somebody."

One of the children handed him a gourdful of water, while he continued
to cough and sputter and b