t aout. But I tell yeow, naow, he hain't made much by goin'! Thet
Injun he murdered 'll foller him night 'n' day, till he dies, 'n' long
arter; he'll wish he wuz dead afore he doos die, I allow he will, naow.
He'll be jest like a man I knowed back in Tennessee. I wa'n't but a
mite then, but I never forgot it. 'Tis a great country fur gourds, East
Tennessee is, whar I wuz raised; 'n' thar wuz two houses, 'n' a fence
between 'em, 'n' these gourds a runnin' all over the fence; 'n' one o'
ther childun picked one o' them gourds, an' they fit abaout it; 'n' then
the women took it up,--ther childun's mothers, yer know,--'n' they got
fightin' abaout it; 'n' then 't the last the men took it up, 'n' they
fit; 'n' Rowell he got his butcher-knife, 'n' he ground it up, 'n' he
picked a querril with Claiborne, 'n' he cut him inter pieces. They hed
him up for 't, 'n' somehow they clared him. I don't see how they ever
did, but they put 't off, 'n' put 't off, 'n' 't last they got him free;
'n' he lived on thar a spell, but he couldn't stan' it; 'peared like
he never hed no peace; 'n' he came over ter our 'us, 'n' sed he,
'Jake,'--they allers called daddy 'Jake,' or 'Uncle Jake,'--'Jake,' sed
he, 'I can't stan' it, livin' hyar.' 'Why,' sez daddy, 'the law o' the
country's clar'd ye.' 'Yes,' sez he, 'but the law o' God hain't; 'n'
I've got Claiborne allers with me. Thar ain't any path so narrer, but
he's a walkin' in it, by my side, all day; 'n' come night, I sleep with
him ter one side, 'n' my wife 't other; 'n' I can't stan' it.' Them's
ther very words I heered him say, 'n' I wuzn't ennythin' but a mite, but
I didn't furgit it. Wall, sir, he went West, way aout hyar to Californy,
'n' he couldn't stay thar nuther, 'n' he came back hum agin; 'n' I wuz
bigger then, a gal grown, 'n' daddy sez to him,--I heern him,--'Wal,'
sez he, 'did Claiborne foller yer?' 'Yes,' sez he, 'he follered me. I'll
never git shet o' him in this world. He's allers clost to me everywhar.'
Yer see, 'twas jest his conscience er whippin' him. Thet's all 't wuz.
'T least, thet's all I think 't wuz; though thar wuz those thet said
't wuz Claiborne's ghost. 'N' thet'll be the way 't 'll be with this
miser'ble Farrar. He'll live ter wish he'd let hisself be hanged er
shot, er erry which way, ter git out er his misery."

Young Merrill listened with unwonted gravity to Aunt Ri's earnest words.
They reached a depth in his nature which had been long untouched; a
stratum, so t