Breaking up A bad rebel nest is no Picnic.

When physical exhaustion called a halt in the fracas, Mrs. Bolster was seated on Jeff Hackberry’s breast with her sinewy hands clutching his long hair, and her thumb, with a cruel, long nail, pressing the ball of his one good eye.  Shorty was holding down one of the guerrillas who had tried to climb on his back when he was grappling with Hackberry.  Si had knocked one guerrilla senseless with his gun-barrel, and now came to a breathless standstill in a struggle with another for the possession of his gun.  The children and dogs had broken up into several smaller stormcenters, in each of which a vicious fight was going on.  In some it was dog and dog; in some child and child, and in others dogs and children mixed.

Then they all halted to observe the outcome of the discussion between Mrs. Bolster and Jeff Hackberry.

“Holler ’nuff, Jeff, or out goes yer last light,” commanded Mrs. Bolster, emphasizing her words by rising a little, and then settling down on Jeff’s breast with a force that drove near every spoonful of breath out of him.

“‘Frony, lé’ me up,” he begged in gasps.

“Mrs. Bolster,” she reminded him, with another jounce upon his chest.

“Mrs. Bolster, lé’ me up.  I’d ‘a’ got away with that ‘ere Yank ef ye’ hedn’t tripped me with them long legs o’ your’n.”

“I’m right smart on the trip, aint I,” she grinned.  “I never seed a man yit that I couldn’t throw in any sort of a rastle.”

“Le’ me up, Mrs. Bolster, an le’s begin over agin, an’ yo’ keep out,” begged Hackberry.

“Not much I won’t.  I ain’t that kind of a chicken,” she asserted with another jounce.  “When I down a man I down him fer good, an’ he never gits up agin ‘till he caves entirely.  If I let yo’ up, will yo’ swar to quite down peaceable as a lamb, an’ make the rest do the same?”

“Never,” asserted Hackberry.  “I’m ergwine to have it out with that Yank.”

“No you haint,” she replied with a still more emphatic jounce that made Hackberry use all the breath left him to groan.

“I’ll quit,” he said, with his next instalment of atmosphere.

“Will yo’ agree t’ let me marry this Yank, an’ t’ give me away as my oldest friend, nearest o’ kin, an’ best man?” she inquired, rising sufficiently to let him take in a full breath and give a free, unforced answer.

“Nary a time,” he shrieked.  “I’ll die fust, afore I’ll ‘low yo’ t’ marry ary other man but me.”

“Then you’ll lose yor blinker, yo’ pigheaded, likker-guzzling’, ornery, no-account sand-hill crane,” she said, viciously coming down on his chest with her full weight and sticking the point of hei nail against his eye.  “I wouldn’t marry yo’ if ye wuz the last nubbin’ in the Lord A’mighty’s crib, and thar’d never be another crap o’ men.  Ye’ll never git no chance to make me yer slave, and beat me and starve me t’ death as yo’ did Nance Brill.  I ain’t gwine t’ fool with yer pervarsity nary a minnit longer.  Say this instant whether yo’ll do as I say with a freewill and good heart, or out goes yer peeper.”  “I promise,” groaned Jeff.

“Yo’ sw’ar hit?” she demanded.

“Yes, I sw’ar hit,” answered Jeff.

Mrs. Bolster rose, and confirmed the contract by giving him a kick in the side with her heavy brogan.

“That’s jest a lovetap,” she remarked, “‘t let yo’ know t’ lé’ me alone hereafter.  Now, le’s straighten things around here fer a pleasant time.”

She initiated her proposed era of good feeling by a sounding kick in the ribs of the most obstreperous of the dogs, and a slap on the face of a 12-year-old girl, who was the noisest and most pugnacious of the lot.  Each of these set up a howl, but there was a general acquiescence in her assertion of authority.

Jeff Hackberry sat up, scratched and rubbed himself, seemed to be trying to once more get a full supply of air in his lungs, and turned a one-eyed glare on his surroundings.  The guerrilla whom Si had knocked down began to show signs of returning consciousness, but no one paid any attention to him.  One of the other two pulled out a piece of tobacco, split it in two, put the bigger half in his mouth and handed the remainder to his partner.  Both began chewing meditatively and looking with vacant eyes for the next act in the drama.  Shorty regained his gun, and he and Si looked inquiringly at one another and the mistress of the ranch.

“Come on up t’ the house,” she said, starting in that direction.  The rest followed, with Si and Shorty in the lead.

The boys gazed around them with strong curiosity.  The interior was like that of the other log cabins they had seen-a rough puncheon floor for the single room, a fireplace as big as a barn door, built of rough stones, with a hearth of undressed flat stones, upon which sat a few clumsy cooking utensils of heavy cast-iron, three-legged stools for chairs, a table of rough whip-sawed boards held together by wooden pins.  In two of the corners were beds made of a layer of poles resting upon a stick supported at one end upon a log in the wall and at the other end a forked stick driven between the puncheons into the ground below.  Upon this was a pile of beech leaves doing duty as a mattress.  The bed-clothes were a mass of ragged fabrics, sheepskins, etc., used in the daytime for saddle-blankets and at night upon the bed.  There had been added to them, however, looking particularly good and rich in contrast with their squalor, several blankets with “U.  S.” marked upon them.  Around the room were canteens, shoes, and other soldier belongings.

“Have they killed and robbed the men to whom these belonged, or merely traded whisky for them?” was the thought that instantly flashed through Si’s and Shorty’s minds.  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.

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-olé 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 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 blame himself for talking when he was drinking.

The woman handed the cup to Si, who feared that the liquor might be poisoned or drugged.  He made a pretense of drinking, and then handed the cup back, making motions that his throat was so sore that he could not drink much.  Mrs. Bolster looked at him suspiciously, but the clamor of the guérillas distracted her attention, and she turned to supply them.

“No, Jeff Hackberry,” she said firmly, “yo’ can’t have more’n two fingers.  I know yo’ of old, an’ jest how much yo’ orter tote.  Two fingers’ll make yo’ comfortable an’ sociable; three’ll raise the devil in yo,’ an’ four’ll make yo’ dancin’ drunk, when yo’ll have t’ be held down.  Yo’ll have jest two fingers, an’ not a drap more.”

“Jest another finger, ‘Frony.  Remember, yo’ve bin orful rough on me, an’ I need more.  I’ll promise t’ be good,” pleaded Hackberry.

“No, not a drap more’n two fingers now.  If yo’ behave yo’self I’ll give yo’ another two fingers by-an’-by.”

“Hackberry swallowed his portion at a thirsty gulp and sat down on the door-sill to let it do its invigorating work.  The other two guerrillas were given each two fingers, and the man whom Si knocked down had his moanings rewarded by three fingers and a liberal application in addition to the wound on his head, which he declared was much relieved by it.

“Set your guns up agin the wall an’ ack nacherul,” commanded Mrs. Bolster.  “Nobody’s a-gwine to hurt yo’.  The ’Squire’ll be here soon, we’ll git spliced, an’ have a good time all around.”

The noisy barking of the dogs announced the approach of someone.

“Lord, I hope that’s ’Squire Corson,” said Mrs. Bolster, running eagerly to the door.  “If hit’s him, we kin go right ahead with the weddin’.”

“If that’s the ’Squire,” said Shorty, in a low whisper, without turning his head, “we’ll grab our guns and fight to the death.  We may clean out this gang.”

Si’s attention had been in the meanwhile attracted to some boxes concealed under the beds, and his curiosity was aroused as to what such unusual things in a cabin might contain.

“No; hit’s Capt.  Sol.  Simmons,” said she in a tone of disappointment mixed with active displeasure.  “Now, he’ll be cavortin’ and tearin’ around, and wantin’ t’ kill somebody.  I wish he wuz whar hit’s a good deal hotter.”

She came over to where the boys were sitting, and said in a low tone: 

“This man’s allers makin’ trouble, an’ he’s bad from his boots up.  Keep a stiff upper lip, both on yo’, an’ we’ll try t’ manage him.  Don’t weaken.  Hit’ll do no good.  He’ll be wuss’n ever then."

Si and Shorty instinctively felt for the revolvers in their pockets.

The newcomer tied his horse to a sapling and strode into the house.  The guerrillas seemed rather more fearful than otherwise to see him, but met him with manners that were ranged from respectful by Jeff Hackberry to absolute servility by the others.  He was a burly, black-bearded man, wearing a fairly-good uniform of a rebel Captain.  His face showed that he was a bully, and a cruel one.

He acknowledged in an overbearing way the greetings of the others, and called out imperiously: 

“‘Frony, gi’ me a stiff dram o’ yer best at wunst.  My throat’s drier’n a lime-kiln.  Bin ridin’ all mornin’.”

“Folks wantin’ likker don’t say must t’ me, but will yo’, an’ please,” she answered sulkily.

“‘Must,’ ‘please,’ yo’ hag,” he said savagely.  “Talk that a-way to me.  I’ll ‘please’ yo’.  I’ve killed two Yankees this mornin’, an’ I’m not in the humor to fool around with an old pennyroyal huzzy like yo’.  Gi’ me some whisky at wunst, or I’ll baste yo’.”

If ever Mrs. Bolster had been favorably disposed to him, she could not endure to have him treat her this way before Shorty.  She would assert herself before him if ever.

She put her arms akimbo and retorted vigorously: 

“Nary drap o’ likker yo’ll git from me, Sol.  Simmons.  Go and git yer likker whar y’re welcome.  Y’re not welcome here.  I don’t keer if yo’ have killed two Yankees or 20 Yankees.  Y’re allers talkin’ about killin’ Yankees, but nobody never sees none that y’ve killed.  I’m a better Confederit than yo’ ever dared be.  I’m doin’ more for the Southern Confedrisy.  Y’re allers a-blowin’ while I’m allers adoin.’  Everybody knows that.  Talk about the two Yankees y’ve killed, an’ which nobody’s seed, here I’ve brung two Yankees right outen their camps, an’ have ’em to show.  More’n that, they’re gwine to jine we’uns.”

She indicated the two boys with a wave of her hand.  Simmons seemed to see them for the first time.

“Yankees here, an’ yo’ haint killed ’em,” he yelled.  He put his hand to his revolver and stepped forward.  The two boys jumped up and snatched their guns, but before another move could be made Mrs. Bolster’s unfailing trip brought Simmons heavily to the floor, with his revolver half out the holster.  In an instant she sat down heavily upon him, and laid her brawny hand upon his pistol.  The dogs and children gathered around in joyous expectation of a renewal of general hostilities.  But the dogs broke away at the scent or sight of someone approaching.

“Mebbe that’s ‘Squire Corson,’” said Mrs. Bolster with a renewed flush of pleasant anticipation.

Instead, a rather, good-looking young rebel officer wearing a Major’s silver stars dismounted from his horse and, followed by two men, entered the cabin.

“Hello, Simmons,” said the Major in a tone of strong rebuke as soon as he entered.  “What in the world are you doing here?  Is this the way you carry out the General’s orders?  You’re at your old tricks again.  You were sent out here early this morning, to capture or drive away that Yankee picket at Raccoon Ford, so as to let Capt.  Gillen come through with his pack-mules.  I expected to meet him here and go on with him.  Your men have been waiting at the crossroads for you since daylight, while you’ve been loitering around the rear.  I ought to have you shot, and you would be if I reported this to the General.  You skulking whelp, you ought to be shot.  But I’ll give you one more chance.  It may not be too late yet.  Break for your place as fast as you can, and take these whelps with you.  I’ll wait here till sundown for you.  If you don’t report back to me by that time you’d better make your will.  Jump now.”

Mrs. Bolster had let go of Simmons as this exordium proceeded, as she felt that he was in good hands.

As they disappeared the Major turned to Mrs. Bolster and inquired: 

“Did Capt.  Gillen get through with that quinine and guncaps?”

“They’re thar,” she said, pointing to the boxes under the beds.

“Very good.  I’ve brought some men to take them away.  We need them very badly.  Who are these men?”

Mrs. Bolster told her story about how they were tired of the Abolition war, and had yielded to her persuasions to join the Southern army.

The Major looked them over sharply, and began a close cross-questioning as to where they were born, what regiment they belonged to, how long they had been in the service, what battles they had been engaged in and on what part of the field, where their regiment now was, its brigade, division and corps, commanders, etc., etc.

As Shorty did not see any present occasion for lying, he had no trouble in telling a convincing straightforward story.  Si successfully worked the loss-of-voice racket, and left the burden of conversation to his partner.

The Major seemed satisfied, and said at the conclusion: 

“Very good.  I’ll take you back with me when I return, and place you in a good regiment.”

This was a new and startling prospect, which was almost too much for Shorty’s self-control.  For a minute he had wild thoughts of assassinating the Major then and there, and making a run for life.  But he decided to wait a little longer and see what would develop.

If Mrs. Bolster’s hue had permitted she would have turned pale at this threatened loss of a husband and upsetting of all her plans.  She merely gulped down a lump in her throat and seemed to be thinking.

She became very attentive to the Major, and brought for his edification a private bottle of fine old whisky.  She set about preparing something for them to eat.

Again the dogs barked, and in walked a man dressed in the fatigue uniform of a Union soldier with the chevrons of a Sergeant.  The boys gave a start of surprise, and a great one when they saw on his cap: 

           A
     200 Ind.  Vols.

Si would have sprung up to greet him, but Shorty laid a restraining hand, and whispered:

“He don’t belong to our regiment.”

A second glance satisfied Si of this.  While it is hardly possibly for a man to know every other man in his regiment, yet in a little while there comes something which enables him to know whether any man he meets does or does not belong to his regiment.

The Major and Mrs. Bolster instantly recognized the newcomer.

“Awful glad to see you, Tuggers,” said the Major, rising and shaking his hand.  “Did you get through without any trouble?”

“Not a bit o’ trouble, thanks to you and Mrs. Bolster here.  She got me this uniform and this cap,” said Tuggers, taking off the latter article and scanning the lettering.  “Rather more brass than I’m in the habit of carrying on top of my head, no matter how much I have in my face.  I got your not giving me the positions of the Yankee regiments, for which I suppose we must also thank Mrs. Bolster.  I found them all correct.  As the 200th Ind. was the farthest out, I had no difficulty getting through the rest of them by saying that I was on my way to my regiment.  Of course, I didn’t come through the camp of the 200th Ind., but modestly sought a byroad which Mrs. Bolster had put me onto.  I’ve got a lot of important letters from the mail in Nashville, among which are some letters for the General, which I am told are highly important.  I’m mighty glad to be able to place them in your hands, and relieve myself of the responsibility.  Here they are.  Thanks, I don’t care if I do, since you press me so hard," said he, without change of voice, as he handed over the letters and picked up the bottle and tin cup.

“Excuse me, Tuggers, for not asking you before,” said the Major.  “I was so interested in you and your letters I forgot for the moment that you might be thirsty.  Help yourself.”

“I didn’t forget it,” said Tuggers, pouring out a liberal dram.  “Here’s to our deserving selves and our glorious Cause.”

A shy girl of about eight had responded to Si’s persistent encouragement, and sidled up to him, examining his buttons and accouterments.  Si gave her some buttons he had in his pocket, and showed her his knife and other trinkets in his pockets.  The other children began to gather around, much interested in the elaborate dumb show he was making of his inability to speak.

Again the dogs barked.  Mrs. Bolster ran to the door.  “Hit’s ’Squire Corson,” she exclaimed joyously, and hustled around to make extra preparations for his entertainment.

The ’Squire entered, mopping his face with his bandana, and moving with the deliberation and dignity consistent with his official position.

He looked at the boys with a severe, judicial eye, and gave the ominous little cough with which he was wont to precede sentences.  But he recognized the Major and Tuggers, and immediately his attention was centered in them.  They were connected with Army Headquarters; they were repositories of news which he could spread among his constituents.  He greeted them effusively, and was only too glad to accept their invitation to sit down and drink.  But he suggested, with official prudence, that they go out in front and sit under a tree where they could converse wore at liberty.

“Afore you go out, ’Squire,” said Mrs. Bolster, with an attempt at coyness, “I want yo’ t’ do a little job fer me.”

Shorty’s hair tried to stand on end.

“Jest wait a little, my good woman,” said the ’Squire patronizingly.  “I want to talk to these gentlemen first; I kin ’tend to your matter any time.”

They lighted their pipes, and talked and talked, while Mrs. Bolster fidgeted around in growing anxiety.  Finally, as the sun was going down, she could stand it no longer, and approached the group.

“‘Squire,” she said, “I’m orferly anxious to have a little job o’ mine done.  ‘Twon’t take yo’ five minits.  Please ’tend to it right away.”

“What is it she wants?” inquired the Major.

“I think she wants me to marry her to a Yankee deserter in there.  She whispered suthin’ o’ that kind to me awhile ago.”

“That reminds me,” said the Major; “I want you to swear those two men into the service of the Southern Confederacy.  You might as well do it now, if you please, for I want to take them back with me and put them into a regiment.”

“That won’t give much of a honeymoon to Mrs. Bolster,” grinned the ’Squire.

“Well, we’ve all got to make sacrifices for the Cause,” said the Major; “her honeymoon’ll be the sweeter for being postponed.  I’ve had to postpone mine.”

“Well, bring the men out,” said the ’Squire, pouring himself out another drink.

Si and Shorty had moved to the front door when Mrs. Bolster went out, and could hear the whole conversation.  They looked at one another.  Their faces were whiter than they had ever been on the field of battle.

“Take the oath of allegiance to the Southern Confederacy?  Die right here a hundred times,” surged through both their hearts.

Si pulled the bunches of firecrackers from his pocket, undid them before the children’s wondering eyes.  He went through a pantomime to tell them to take a coal from the fire, run out back with them, and touch it to the fuses.

“Take a coal, run back, and tech it to them strings,” said Shorty, forgetting himself in his excitement.  “It’ll be the greatest fun ye ever saw.”

“What’s that y’re sayin’?” said Mrs. Bolster.

“Jest talkin’ to the children,” said Shorty, seeing with relief the children bolt out of the back door.  He slipped his hand on his revolver, determined to kill the ’Squire, the Major, and the other three men before he would take a syllable of the oath.

“Come out here, men,” said the Major authoritatively.  Si slipped his hand into his pocket, grasped his revolver, and walked forward very slowly.

“Ahem,” said the ’Squire, with an official cough.  “Raise yer right hands, and repeat these words after me, givin’ your own names.”

The other rebels took off their hats.

The dogs raised a clamor, which directed all eyes to the road.  Sol Simmons and the rest could be seen coming on a dead run.

“What does that mean?” said the Major anxiously.

At the same instant there was a series of crashes behind the house; the firecrackers were going off like a volley of rifle-shots.  The Major whirled around to see what that meant, and looked into the muzzle of Shorty’s revolver.

“Surrender, or I’ll kill you,” shouted Shorty desperately.  “Don’t stop a minit.  Throw up your hands, I tell you.”

Si was making a similar demand on Tuggers, while the ’Squire was standing, open-mouthed, with the first word of the oath apparently still on his tongue.

The Major sprang at Shorty, whose bullet cut his hair.  The next bullet caught the officer in the shoulder, and he reeled and went down.  Si was not so fortunate with Tuggers, who succeeded in grappling him.  Simmons dashed by and struck Si, in passing, with his fist, which sent him to the ground, with Tuggers on top.

The next minute the ’Squire, who was the only one who had any opportunity to look, saw Yankees pop out of the brush and jump the fences in a long, irregular line which immediately surrounded the house.  Capt.  McGillicuddy cut down Simmons with his sword, and the rest incontinently surrendered.

“We had got tired of waiting, and were on the point of dashing in, anyhow, when we heard the firecrackers,” said Capt.  McGillicuddy, after the prisoners had been secured and things quieted down.  “That feller that I cut down was out there with a squad and caught sight of us, and started back this way, and I concluded to follow him up and jump the house.  Neither of you hurt, are you?"

“Not hurt a mite,” answered Shorty cheerfully, “but it’s the closest squeak I ever had.  Wouldn’t go through it agin for a pile o’ greenbacks big as a cornshock.  Say, Cap., you’ve made a ten-strike today that ought to make you a Major.  That house’s plum full o’ contraband, and there’s a lot o’ important letters there.  But, say, Cap., I want you to either kill that ’Squire or git him as fur away as possible.  I ain’t safe a minnit as long as him and that woman’s a-nigh me.”