Rich seed him a-gapin' like a chicken,
an' in he walked, stumblin' might' nigh agin the bed whar Nance was
a-layin', listenin' an' not sayin' a word.

Stranger, them two fellers slept together plum frien'ly, an' they et
together plum frien'ly next mornin', an' they sa'ntered down to the
grocery plum frien'ly. An' Rich says, "Harve," says he, "let's have a
drink." "All right, Rich," says Harve. An' Rich says, "Harve," says
he, "you go out'n that door an' I'll go out'n this door." "All right,
Rich," says Harve, an' out they walked, steady, an' thar was two shoots
shot, an' Rich an' Harve both drapped, an' in ten minutes they was
stretched out on Nance's bed an' Nance was a-lopin' away fer the yarb
doctor.

The gal nussed 'em both plum faithful. Rich didn't hev much to say,
an' Harve didn't hev much to say. Nance was sorter quiet, an' Nance's
mammy, ole Nance, jes grinned. Folks come in to ax atter 'em right
peart. Abe Shivers come cl'ar 'cross the river--powerful frien'ly--an'
ever' time Nance ud walk out to the fence with him. One time she
didn't come back, an' ole Nance fotched the boys thar dinner, an' ole
Nance fotched thar supper, an' then Rich he axed whut was the matter
with young Nance. An' ole Nance jes snorted. Atter a while Rich says:
"Harve," says he, "who tol' you that I said that word agin you an'
Nance?" "Abe Shivers," says Harve. "An' who tol' you," says Harve,
"that I said that word agin Nance an' YOU?" "Abe Shivers," says Rich.
An' both says, "Well, damn me!" An' Rich tu'ned right over an' begun
pullin' straws out'n the bed. He got two out, an' he bit one off, an'
he says: "Harve," says he, "I reckon we better draw fer him. The
shortes' gits him." An' they drawed. Well, nobody ever knowed which
got the shortes' straw, stranger, but--

Thar'll be a dancin'-party comin' Christmas night on "Hell fer
Sartain." Rich Harp 'll be thar from the head-waters. Harve Hall's
a-goin' to tote the Widder Shivers clean across the Cumberlan'. Fust
one 'll swing Nance, an' then t'other. Then they'll take a pull out'n
the same bottle o' moonshine, an'--fust one an' then t'other--they'll
swing her agin, jes the same. ABE won't be thar. He's a-settin' by a
bigger fire, I reckon (ef he ain't in it), a-bitin' his thumbs!

THROUGH THE GAP

When thistles go adrift, the sun sets down the valley between the
hills; when snow comes, it goes down behind the Cumberland and streams
through a great