He wiped his brow and upon a stone he sat down. The law had come
with its torch, and for a long time his face was hard and grim. An hour
must have passed, and then with an air of gentleness as one resigned to
punishment, he went to a rock, the rock under which the spirit boy had
dwelt, and reaching beneath it drew forth a Winchester rifle.
"I'll pump out these here brass temptations," he said, throwing out the
cartridges and slowly, one by one, dropped them into the rivulet. Then,
breaking the gun across the rock, he slowly started toward home.
Reaching the road, he stood looking up and down the rugged highway over
which Old Jackson's carriage had bumped and rattled, over which long
before the days of the railroad dry-goods and hardware had been
transported from Philadelphia to Nashville. He did not stand there long
alone. From the bushes came a loud command--"Throw up your hands"--and
the government's guns were pointed at his breast. He obeyed and three
men came forward to search him, and just then came the roar of Peters.
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