on the other. They
called themselves neighbours, and yet they lived miles apart, and it so
happened that, with few exceptions, each went in a different direction.
Teague Poteet gave the signal--

"Come, Cap," he said to Woodward, "yess be a-traipsiu'. Puss'll be
a-puttin' on biskits for supper before we git thar if we don't push on.
Be good to yourse'f, boys, an' don't raise no fracas."

Poteet and Woodward rode off together. That afternoon, half a mile from
Poteet's, they met a woman running in the road, crying and wringing her
hands wildly. She moved like one distracted. She rushed past them,
crying--

"They uv killed little Ab! They uv killed him. Oh, Lordy! they uv
killed little Ab!"

She ran up the road a little distance and then came running back; she
had evidently recognised Poteet. As she paused in the road near them,
her faded calico sun-bonnet hanging upon her shoulders, her grey hair
falling about her face, her wrinkled arms writhing in response to a
grief too terrible to contemplate, she seemed related in some vague way
to the prophets of old who were assailed by fierce sorrows. Here was
something more real and more awful than death itself. Woodward felt in
his soul that the figure, the attitude, the misery of this poor old
woman were all Biblical.

"Oh, Teague," she cried, "they uv killed him! They uv done killed my
little Ab! Oh, Lordy! that mortal hain't a-livin' that he ever done any
harm. What did they kill him for?" Then she turned to Woodward: "Oh,
Mister, Mister! _please_ tell me what he done. _I'm_ the one that made
the liquor, _I'm_ the one. Oh, Lordy! what did they kill little Ab
for?"

Teague Poteet dismounted from his horse, took the woman firmly but
gently by the arm, and made her sit down by the side of the road. Then,
when she was more composed, she told the story of finding her son's
body. It was a terrible story to hear from the lips of the mother, but
she grew quieter after telling it, and presently went on her way. The
two men watched her out of sight.

"I'll tell you what, Cap," said Teague, as he flung himself into the
saddle, "they er houndin' airter us. They er 'buzin' the wimmin an'
killin' the childern; stidder carryin' out the law, they er gwine about
a-shootin' an' a-murderin'. So _fur, so good_. Well, now, lemme tell
you: the hawk 'a done lit once too much in the chicken-lot. This is a
free country. I hain't a-layin' no blame on you. Me an' Sis stood by
you when the bo