I could not stand this--the poor harmless
old coot!--and I ran up and struck McGill's arm.
"What in hell," he yelled, for some of the tar went on him, "do you
mean!"
"Don't tar and feather 'em," I begged. "I know these folks. They are a
poor wandering family, without money enough to buy land away from
any one."
"We jist thought we'd kind o' settle down," said Old Man Fewkes
whimperingly; "and I've got the money promised me to buy this land. So
it's all right and straight!"
The silly old leatherhead didn't know he was doing anything against
public sentiment; and told the very thing that made a case against him.
I have found out since who the man was that promised him the money and
was going to take the land; but that was just one circumstance in the
land craze, and the man himself was wounded at Fort Donelson, and died
in hospital--so I won't tell his name. The point is, that the old man
had turned the jury against me just as I had finished my plea.
"You have got the money promised you, have you?" repeated McGill. "Grab
him, boys!"
All this time I was wondering where Rowena could be. I recollected how
she had always seemed to be mortified by her slack-twisted family, and
I could see her as she meeched off across the prairie hack along the Old
Ridge Road, as if she belonged to another outfit; and yet, I knew how
much of a Fewkes she was, as she joined in the conversation when they
planned their great estates in the mythical state of Negosha, or in
Texas, or even in California.
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