Hesden, he had his father's notions, of course, but he was pluck.
He couldn't have been a Le Moyne, or a Richards either, without
that. I remember, not long after the war begun--perhaps in the
second year, before the conscription came on, anyhow--he came into
town riding of a black colt that he had raised. I don't think it
had been backed more than a few times, and it was just as fine as
a fiddle. I've had some fine horses myself, and believe I know what
goes to make up a good nag, but I've never seen one that suited my
notion as well as that black. Le Moyne had taken a heap of pains
with him. A lot of folks gathered 'round and was admiring the
beast, and asking questions about his pedigree and the like, when
all at once a big, lubberly fellow named Timlow--Jay Timlow--said
it was a great pity that such a fine nag should belong to a Union
man an' a traitor to his country. You know, captain, that's what
we called Union men in them days. He hadn't more'n got the words
out of his mouth afore Hesden hit him. I'd no idea he could
strike such a blow. Timlow was forty pounds heavier than he, but
it staggered him back four or five steps, and Le Moyne follered
him up, hitting just about as fast as he could straighten his arm,
till he dropped. The queerest thing about it was that the horse
follered right along, and when Timlow come down with his face all
battered up, and Le Moyne wheeled about and started over to the
Court House, the horse kept on follerin' him up to the very steps.
Le Moyne went into the Court House and stayed about ten minutes.
Then he came out and walked straight across the square to where
the crowd was around Timlow, who had been washing the blood off
his face at the pump. Le Moyne was as white as a sheet, and Timlow
was jest a-cussing his level best about what he would do when he
sot eyes on him again. I thought there might be more trouble, and
I told Timlow to hush his mouth--I was a deputy then--and then I