Most of the quality folks in the
mountains hev 'em. The Settles and the Goforths, the Rankins and the
Boyds, the Silers and the Galloways, hev all been cyarin' on feuds
f'om twenty to a hundred year. The last man to drap was when yo'
uncle, Jedge Paisley Goree, 'journed co't and shot Len Coltrane f'om
the bench. Missis Garvey and me, we come f'om the po' white trash.
Nobody wouldn't pick a feud with we 'uns, no mo'n with a fam'ly of
tree-toads. Quality people everywhar, says Missis Garvey, has feuds.
We 'uns ain't quality, but we're buyin' into it as fur as we can.
'Take the money, then,' says Missis Garvey, 'and buy Mr. Goree's feud,
fa'r and squar'.'"
The squirrel hunter straightened a leg half across the room, drew a
roll of bills from his pocket, and threw them on the table.
"Thar's two hundred dollars, Mr. Goree; what you would call a fa'r
price for a feud that's been 'lowed to run down like yourn hev.
Thar's only you left to cyar' on yo' side of it, and you'd make mighty
po' killin'. I'll take it off yo' hands, and it'll set me and Missis
Garvey up among the quality. Thar's the money."
The little roll of currency on the table slowly untwisted itself,
writhing and jumping as its folds relaxed. In the silence that
followed Garvey's last speech the rattling of the poker chips in the
court-house could be plainly heard.
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