'Tain't so much in my line as t'other,
but she wanted partic'lar that I should inquire, and ef you was
willin', 'pay fur it,' she says, 'fa'r and squar'.' Thar's a buryin'
groun', as you know, Mr. Goree, in the yard of yo' old place, under
the cedars. Them that lies thar is yo' folks what was killed by the
Coltranes. The monyments has the names on 'em. Missis Garvey says a
fam'ly buryin' groun' is a sho' sign of quality. She says ef we git
the feud, thar's somethin' else ought to go with it. The names on
them monyments is 'Goree,' but they can be changed to ourn by--"
"Go! Go!" screamed Goree, his face turning purple. He stretched out
both hands toward the mountaineer, his fingers hooked and shaking.
"Go, you ghoul! Even a Ch-Chinaman protects the g-graves of his
ancestors--go!"
The squirrel hunter slouched out of the door to his carryall. While
he was climbing over the wheel Goree was collecting, with feverish
celerity, the money that had fallen from his hand to the floor. As
the vehicle slowly turned about, the sheep, with a coat of newly
grown wool, was hurrying, in indecent haste, along the path to the
court-house.
At three o'clock in the morning they brought him back to his office,
shorn and unconscious. The sheriff, the sportive deputy, the county
clerk, and the gay attorney carried him, the chalk-faced man "from the
valley" acting as escort.
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