MY LADY OF THE SOUTH
"Who? Big Jem Donald? Sure; 'h ain't ye never heard o' him?"
I shook my head, hoping thus to lead him on to his story, but the natural taciturnity of the mountaineer restricted him to a few brief sentences.
"Wal, ye will if ye 're long in this kintry. I 've heern as how Jem hed a commish from ther Confeds, an' was runnin' a sorter independent command. Anyhow he's got quite a parcel o' men, mainly deserters an' sich truck, thet he hes ther bossin' of, an' jist 'bout controls all that kintry thar east o' ther ridge." He swung his hand in a half-circle over the landscape in front. "I reckon, Leftenant, it would be a mighty good thing fer ther Union if some o' us could ketch thet cuss an' hang him to ther first tree."
His peculiar voice was so intense with passion, that I could not forbear saying,
"What is the special trouble between you and this Big Donald, Daniels?"
"Darn if I know whar it started," he acknowledged, as though the thought came to him almost as a surprise. "It was 'fore my dad's time, I reckon, an' seems ter me it was over a lot o' hawgs thet got rootin' up some corn down on Rock Crick. Thet's whar ther Danielses an' Donalt's lived in them days, but blame if I know which one owned ther com, an' which owned ther hawgs. Hell, it don't make no difference, fer ther whole kit an' caboodle are dead long ago. Ther Donalds were well off in them days; hed a fine plantation, with a big house on it, an' maybe a hundred slaves. Ther Danielses was allers pore,
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