POLE BAKER decided to give the young people of the neighborhood a “corn-shucking.” He had about fifty bushels of the grain which he said had been mellowing and sweetening in the husk all the winter, and, as the market-price had advanced from sixty to seventy-five cents, he decided to sell.
Pole's corn-shuckings were most enjoyable festivities. Mrs. Baker usually had some good refreshments and the young people came for miles around. The only drawback about the affairs was that Pole seldom had much corn to husk, and the fun was over too soon. The evening chosen for the present gathering was favored with clear moonlight and delightfully balmy weather, and when Nelson Floyd walked over after working an hour on his books at the store, he found a merry group in Pole's front-yard.
“Yo're jest in time,” Pole called out to him, as he threw the frail gate open for the guest to pass through. “I was afeared thar was a few more petticoats than pants to string around my pile o' corn, an' you'll help even up. Come on, all of you, let's mosey on down to the barn. Sally,” he called out to his wife, a sweet-faced woman on the porch, “put them childern to sleep an' come on.”
With merry laughter the young men and girls made a rush in the direction of the barn. Nelson Floyd, with a sudden throbbing of the heart, had noticed Cynthia Porter in the group, and as he and Baker fell in behind he asked: “Who came with Cynthia Porter, Pole?”
“Nobody,” said Baker. “She come over jest 'fore dark by the short-cut through the meadow. I'll bet a hoss you are thinkin' o' galavantin' 'er back home.”
“That's what I came for,” said Floyd, with a smile.
“Well, I'm sorry, fer this once,” said Pole; “but I cayn't alter my plans fer friend or foe. I don't have but one shuckin' a year, an' on that occasion I'm a-goin' to be plumb fair to all that accept my invite. You may git what you want, but you'll have to stand yore chance with the balance. I'll announce my rules in a minute, an' then you'll understand what I mean.”
They had now reached the great cone of com heaped up at the door of the barn, and the merrymakers were dancing around it in the moonlight, clapping their hands and singing.
“Halt one minute!” Pole called out peremptorily, and there was silence. “Now,” he continued, “all of you set down on the straw an' listen to my new rules. I've been studyin' these out ever since my last shuckin', an' these will beat all. Now listen! Time is a great improver, an' we all don't have to-shuck corn jest like our granddaddies did. I want to make this thing interest you, fer that pile o' corn has to be shucked an' throwed into the barn 'fore you leave yore places.”
“Well, I wouldn't preach a sermon fust,” laughed Mrs. Baker, as she appeared suddenly. “Boys an' gals that git together fer a good time don't want to listen to an old married man talk.”
“But one married man likes to listen tothat womantalk, folks,” Pole broke in, “fer her voice makes sweet music to his ear. That's a fact, gentlemen an' ladies; here's one individual that could set an' listen to that sweet woman's patient voice from dark to sun-up, an' then pray fer more dark, an' more talk. I hain't the right sort of a man to yoke to, but she is the right sort of a woman. They hain't all that way, though, boys, an' I'd advise you that are worthy of a good helpmate to think an' look before you plunge into matrimony. Matrimony is like a sheet of ice, which, until you bust it, may cover pure, runnin' water or a stagnant mud-hole. Before marriage a woman will say yes an' no, as meek as that entire bunch of females. Sugar wouldn't melt in 'er mouth, but when she hooks her fish she'll do her best to make a sucker out'n it ef it's a brook trout at the start. I mean a certainkindof a woman, now; but thank the Lord, He made the other sort, too, an' the other sort, boys, is what you ort to look fer. I heard a desperate old bach say once that he believed he'd stand a better chance o' gittin' a good female nature under a homely exterior than under a pretty one, an' he was on the rampage fer a snaggle tooth; but I don't know. A nature that's made jest by a face won't endure one way or another long. Thar's my little neighbor over thar, ef she don't combine both a purty face an' a sweet, patient nature I'm no judge.”
“Hush, Pole, Cynthia don't want you to single her out in public that away,” protested Mrs. Baker.
“He's simply bent on flattering more work out of me,” responded Cynthia, quite adroitly, Floyd thought, as he noted her blushes in the moonlight. “We are waiting for your rules, Mr. Baker.”
“Yes,” spoke up Floyd, “give us the rules, and let us go to work, and then you can talk all you want to.”
“All right, here goes. Well, you are all settin' about the same distance from the pile, an' you've got an equal chance. Now, the fust man or woman who finds a red ear of corn must choose a partner to work with, an', furthermore, it shall be the duty o' the man to escort the girl home, an' in addition to that the winnin' man shall be entitled to kiss any girl in the crowd, an' she hereby pledges herself to submit graceful. It's a bang-up good rule, fer them that want to be kissed kin take a peep at the ear 'fore it's shucked, an' throw it to any man they like, an' them that don't kin hope fer escape by blind luck from sech an awful fate.”
“I think, myself, that it would be an awful fate to be kissed by a man you didn't care for,” laughed Mrs. Baker. “Pole has made his rules to suit the men better than the women.”
“The second rule is this,” added Pole, with a smile, “an' that is, that whoever finds a red ear, man or woman, I git to kiss my wife.”
“Good, that's all right!” exclaimed Floyd, and everybody laughed as they set to work. Pole sat down near Floyd, and filled and lighted his pipe. “I used to think everything was fair in a game whar gals was concerned,” he said in an undertone. “I went to a shuckin' once whar they had these rules an' I got on to exactly what I see you are on to.”
“Me? What do you mean?” asked Floyd. “Why, you sly old dog, you are not shuckin' more than one ear in every three you pick up. You are lookin' to see ef the silk is dark. You have found out that a red ear always has dark silk.” Floyd laughed. “Don't give me away, Pole. I learned that when old man Scott used to send me out on a frosty morning to feed the cattle.”
“Well, I won't say nothin',” Pole promised. “Ef money was at stake, it 'ud be different, but they say all's fair whar wine an' women is concerned. Besides, the sharper a man is the better he'll provide fer the wife he gits, an' a man ought to be allowed to profit by his own experience. You go ahead; ef you root a red ear out o' that pile, old hog, I'll count you in.” Pole rose and went round the other side of the stack. There was a soft rustling sound as the husks were torn away and swept in rising billows behind the workers, and the steady thumping of the ears as they fell inside the barn.
It was not a fair game he was playing, and yet Nelson Floyd cared little for that. Even as it was, it was growing monotonous. He had come there to see Cynthia, and Pole's new rule was not what he had counted on. There was a lull in the merriment and general rustle, and Floyd heard Hattie Mayhew say in a clear tone: “I know why Cynthia is so quiet. It's because there wasn't somebody here to open with prayer.”
Floyd was watching Cynthia's face, and he saw it cloud over for a moment. She made some forced reply which he could not hear. It was Kitty Welborn's voice that came to him on her merry laugh.
“Oh, yes, Cynthia has us all beaten badly!” said that little blonde. “We worked our fingers to the bones fixing up his room. Cynthia didn't lay her hand to it, and yet he never looks at any one else while he is preaching, and as soon as the sermon is over he rushes for her. They say Mr. Porter thinks Mr. Hillhouse is watching him, and has quit going to sleep.”
“That's a fact,” said Fred Denslow, as he aimed a naked ear of corn at the barn-door and threw it. “The boys say Hillhouse will even let 'em cuss before him, just so they will listen to what he says about Miss Cynthia.”
“That isn't fair to Miss Cynthia,” Nelson Floyd observed, suddenly. “I'm afraid you are making it pretty hot for her on that side, so I'm going to invite her over here. You see I have found the first red ear of corn, and it's big enough to count double.”
There was a general shout and clapping of hands as Floyd held it up to view in the moonlight. He put it into the pocket of his coat, as he rose and moved round towards Cynthia. Bending down to her, he said: “Come on, you've got to obey the rules of the game, you know.”
She allowed him to draw her to her feet.
“Now fer the fust act?” Pole Baker cried out. “I hain't a-goin' to have no bashful corn-shuckers. Ef you balk or kick over a trace, I'll leave you out next time, shore.”
“You didn't make a thoroughly fair rule, Pole,” said Floyd. “The days of woman slavery are past. I shall not take advantage of the situation, for I know Miss Cynthia is praying for mercy right now.” Everybody laughed as Floyd led the girl round to his place and raked up a pile of shucks for her to sit on.
“Well, there ought to have been another rule,” laughed Fred Denslow, “an' to the effect that if the winning man, through sickness, lack of backbone, or sudden death, was prevented from takin' the prize, somebody else ought to have had a chance. Here I've been workin' like a corn-field negro to win, and now see the feller Heaven has smiled on throwin' that sort of a flower away. Good gracious, what's the world comin' to?”
“Well, I'll havemine, anyway,” Pole Baker was heard to say, and he took his little wife in his arms and kissed her tenderly.
REFRESHMENTS had been served, the last ear of com husked and thrown into the bam, and they had all risen to depart, when Hillhouse hurried down the path from the cottage. He was panting audibly, and had evidently been walking fast. He shook hands perfunctorily with Pole and his wife, and then turned to Cynthia.
“I'm just from your house,” he said, “and I promised your mother to come over after you. I was afraid I'd be late. The distance round by the road is longer than I thought.”
“I'm afraid youaretoo late,” said Floyd, with a polite smile. “I was lucky enough to find the first red ear of corn, and the reward was that I might take home any one I asked. I assure you I'll see that Miss Cynthia is well taken care of.”
“Oh! I—I see.” The preacher seemed stunned by the disappointment. “I didn't know; I thought—”
“Yes, Floyd has won fast enough,” said Pole. “An' he's acted the part of the gentleman all through.” Pole explained what Floyd had done in excusing Miss Cynthia from the principal forfeit he had won.
But Hillhouse seemed unable to reply. The young people were moving towards the cottage, and he fell behind Floyd and his partner, walking along with the others and saying nothing.
It was a lonely, shaded road which Floyd and his companion traversed to reach her home.
“My luck turned just in the nick of time,” he said, exultantly. “I went there, Cynthia, especially to talk with you, and I was mad enough to fight when I saw how Pole had arranged everything. Then, by good-fortune and cheating, I found that red ear; and, well, here we are. You have no idea how pretty you look, with your hair—”
“Stop, don't begin that!” Cynthia suddenly commanded, and she turned her eyes upon him steadily.
“Stop? Why do you say that?”
“Because you talk that way to all the girls, and I don't want to hear it.”
Floyd laughed. “I declare you are a strange little creature. You simply won't let me be nice to you.”
“Well, I'm sure I don't like you when you speak that way,” the girl said, seriously. “It sounds insincere—it makes me doubt you more than anything else.”
“Then some things about medon'tmake you doubt me,” he said, with tentative eagerness.
She was silent for a moment, then she nodded her head. “I'll admit that some things I hear of you make me rather admire you, in a way.”
“Please tell me what they are,” he said, with a laugh.
“I've heard, for one thing, of your being very good and kind to poor people—people who Mr. Mayhew would have turned out of their homes for debt if you hadn't interfered.”
“Oh, that was only business, Cynthia,” Floyd laughed. “I simply can see farther than the old man can—that's all. He thought those customers never would be able to pay, but I knew they would some day, and, moreover, that they would come up with the back interest.”
“I don't believe it,” the girl said, firmly. “Those things make me rather like you, while the others make—they make me—doubt.”
“Doubt? Oh, you odd little woman!” They had reached a spring which flowed from a great bed of rocks in the side of a rugged hill. He pointed to a flat stone quite near it. “Do you remember, Cynthia, the first time I ever had a talk with you? It was while we were seated on this very rock.”
She recalled it, but only nodded her head.
“It was a year ago,” he pursued. “You had on a pink dress and wore your hair like a little girl in a plait down your back. Cynthia, you were the prettiest creature I had ever seen. I could hardly talk to you for wondering over your dazzling beauty. You are even more beautiful now; you have ripened; you are the most graceful woman I ever saw, and your mouth!—Cynthia, I'll swear you have the most maddening mouth God ever made out of flesh, blood and—soul!” He caught her hand impulsively and sat down on the stone, drawing her steadily towards him.
She hesitated, looking back towards Baker's cottage.
“Sit down, little girl,” he entreated, “I'm tired. I've worked hard all day at the store, and that corn-shucking wasn't the best thing to taper off on.” She hesitated an instant longer, and then allowed him to draw her down beside him. “There, now,” he said. “That is more like it.” He still held her hand; it lay warm, pulsating and helpless in his strong, feverish grasp.
“Do you know why I did not kiss you back there?” he asked, suddenly.
“I don't know why you didn't, but it was good of you,” she answered.
“No, it wasn't,” he laughed. “I won't take credit for what I don't deserve. I simply put it off, Cynthia—put it off. I knew we would be alone on our way home, and that you would not refuse me.”
“But I shall!” she said, with a start. “I'm not going to let you kiss me here in—in this way.”
“Then you'll not pay the forfeit you owe,” he said, fondling her hand. “I've always considered you fair in everything, and, Cynthia, you don't know how much I want to kiss you. No, you won't refuse me—you can't.” His left arm was behind her, and it encircled her waist. She made an effort to draw herself erect, but he drew her closer to him. Her head sank upon his shoulder and lay there while he pressed his lips to hers.
Then she sat up, and firmly pushed his arm down from her waist.
“I'm sorry I let you do it,” she said, under her breath.
“But why, darling?”
“Because I've said a thousand times that I would not, but I have—Ihave, and I shall hate myself always.”
“When you have made me the happiest fellow in the state?” Floyd said, passionately. “Don't go,” he urged, for she had risen and drawn her hand from his and turned towards her home. He rose and stood beside her, suiting his step to hers.
“Do you remember the night we sat and talked in the grape-arbor behind your house?” he asked. “Well, you never knew it, but I've been there three nights within the last month, hoping that I'd get to see you by some chance or other. I always work late on my accounts, and when I am through, and the weather is fine, I walk to your house, climb over the fence, slip through the orchard, and sit in that arbor, trying to imagine you are there with me. I often see a light in your room, and the last time I became so desperate that I actually whistled for you. This way—” He put his thumb and little finger between his lips and made an imitation of a whippoorwill's call. “You see, no one could tell that from the real thing. If you ever hear that sound again in the direction of the grape-arbor you'll know I need you, little girl, and you must not disappoint me.”
“I'd never respond to it,” Cynthia said, firmly. “The idea of such a thing!”
“But you know I can't go to your house often with your mother opposing my visits as she does, and when I'm there she never leaves us alone. No, I must have you to myself once in a while, little woman, and you must help me. Remember, if I call you, I'll want you badly.” He whistled again, and the echo came back on the still air from a nearby hill-side. They were passing a log-cabin which stood a few yards from the road-side.
“Budd Crow moved there to-day,” Cynthia said, as if desirous of changing the subject. “He rented twenty acres from my father. The 'White Caps' whipped him a week ago, for being lazy and not working for his family. His wife came over and told me all about it. She said it really had brought him to his senses, but that it had broken her heart. She cried while she was talking to me. Why does God afflict some women with men of that kind, and make others the wives of governors and presidents?”
“Ah, there you are beyond my philosophic depth, Cynthia. You mustn't bother your pretty head about those things. I sometimes rail against my fate for giving me the ambition of a king while I do not even know who—but I think you know what I mean?”
“Yes, I think I do,” said the girl, sympathetically, “and some day I believe all that will be cleared up. Some coarse natures wouldn't care a straw about it, but youdocare, and it is the things we want and can't get that count.”
“It is strange,” he said, thoughtfully, “but of late I always think of my mother as having been young and beautiful. I think of her, too, as a well-bred, educated woman with well-to-do relatives. I think all those things without any proof even as to what her maiden name was or where she came from. Are you still unhappy at home, Cynthia?”
“Nearly all the time,” the girl sighed. “As she grows older my mother gets more fault-finding and suspicious than ever. Then she has set her mind on my marrying Mr. Hillhouse. They seem to be working together to that end, and it is very tiresome to me.”
“Well, I'm glad you don't love him,” Floyd said. “I don't think he could make any one of your nature happy.”
The girl stared into his eyes. They had reached the gate of the farm-house and he opened it for her. “Now, good-night,” he said, pressing her hand. “Remember, if you ever hear a lonely whippoorwill calling, that he is longing for companionship.”
She leaned over the gate, drawing it towards her till the iron latch clicked in its catch. With a shudder she recalled the hot kiss he had pressed upon her lips, and wondered what he might later think about it.
“I'll never meet you there at night,” she said, firmly. “My mother doesn't treat me right, but I shall not act that way when she is asleep. You may come to see me here now and then, but it will go no further than that.”
“Well, I shall sit alone in the arbor,” he returned with a low laugh, “and I hope your hard heart will keep you awake. I wouldn't treat a hound-dog that way, little girl.”
“Well, I shall treat a strong man that way,” she said, and she went into the house.
She opened the front-door, which was never locked, and went into her room on the right of the little hall. The night was very still, and down the road she heard Floyd's whippoorwill call growing fainter and fainter as he strode away. She found a match and lighted the lamp on her bureau and looked at her reflection in the little oval-shaped mirror. Remembering his embrace, she shuddered and wiped her lips with her hand.
“He'll despise me,” she muttered. “He'll think I am weak, like those other girls, but I am not. Iam not. I'll show him that he can't, and yet”—her head sank to her hands, which were folded on the top of the bureau—“I couldn't help it. My God! I couldn't help it. I must have actually wanted him to—no, I didn't. I didn't; he held me. I had no idea his arm was behind me till he—”
There was a soft step in the hall. The door of her room creaked like the low scream of a cat. A gaunt figure in white stood on the threshold. It was Mrs. Porter in her night-dress, her feet bare, her iron-gray hair hanging loose upon her shoulders.
“I couldn't go to sleep, Cynthia,” she said, “till I knew you were safe at home.”
“Well, I'm here all right, mother, so go back to bed and don't catch your death of cold.”
The old woman moved across the room to Cynthia's bed and sat down on it. “I heard you coming down the road and went to the front window. I had sent Brother Hillhouse for you, but it was Nelson Floyd who brought you home. Didn't Brother Hillhouse get there before you left?”
“Yes, but I had already promised Mr. Floyd.” The old woman met her daughter's glance steadily. “I suppose all I'll do or say won't do a bit o' good. Cynthia, you know what I'm afraid of.”
The girl stood straight, her face set and firm, her great, dreamy eyes flashing.
“Yes, and that's the insult of it. Mother, you almost make me think you are judging my nature by your own, when you were at my age. I tell you you will drive me too far. A girl at a certain time of her life wants a mother's love and sympathy; she doesn't want threats, fears, and disgraceful suspicions.”
Mrs. Porter covered her face with her bony hands and groaned aloud.
“You are confessing,” she said, “that you are tied an' bound to him by the heart and that there isn't anything left for you but the crumbs he lets fall from his profligate table. You confess that you are lyin' at his feet, greedily lappin' up what he deigns to drop to you and the rest of those—”
“Stop!” Cynthia sprang to her mother and laid her small hand heavily on the thin shoulder. “Stop, you know you are telling a deliberate—” She paused, turned, and went slowly back to the bureau. “God forgive me! God help me remember my duty to her as my mother. She's old; she's out of her head.”
“There, you said something then!” The old woman had drawn herself erect and sat staring at her daughter, her hands on her sharp knees. “That reminds me of something else. You know my sister Martha got to worryin' when she was along about my age over her law-suit matters, and kept it up till her brain gave way. Folks always said she and I were alike. Dr. Strong has told me time after time to guard against worry or I'd go out and kill myself as she did. I haven't mentioned this before, but I do now. I can't keep down my fears and suspicions, while the very air is full of that man's conduct. He's a devil, I tell you—a devil in human shape. Your pretty face has caught his fancy, and your holding him off, so far, has made him determined to crush you like a plucked flower. Why don't he go to the Duncans and the Prices and lay his plans? Because those men shoot at the drop of a hat. He knows your pa is not of that stamp and that you haven't any men kin to defend our family honor. He hasn't any of his own; nobody knows who or what he is. My opinion is that he's a nobody and knows it, and out of pure spite is trying to pull everybody else down to his level.”
“Mother—” Cynthia's tone had softened. Her face was filling with sudden pity for the quivering creature on the bed. “Mother, will you not have faith in me? If I promise you honestly to take care of myself, and make him understand what and who I am, won't that satisfy you? Even men with bad reputations have a good side to their natures, and they often reach a point at which they reform. A man like that interests a woman. I don't dispute that, but there are strong women and weak women. Mother, I'm not a weak woman; as God is my judge, I'm able to take care of myself. It pains me to say this, for you ought to know it; you ought tofeelit. You ought to see it in my eye and hear it in my voice. Now go to bed, and sleep. I'm really afraid you may lose your mind since you told me about Aunt Martha.”
The face of the old woman changed. It lighted up with sudden hope.
“Somehow, I believe what you say,” she said, with a faint smile. “Anyway, I'll try not to worry any more.” She rose and went to the door. “Yes, I'll try not to worry any more,” she repeated. “It may all come out right.”
When she found herself alone Cynthia turned and looked at her reflection in the glass.
“He didn't once tell me plainly that he loved me,” she said. “He has never used that word. He has never said that he meant or wanted to mar—” She broke off, staring into the depths of her own great, troubled eyes—“and yet I let him hold me in his arms and kiss me—me!” A hot flush filled her neck and face and spread to the roots of her hair. Then suddenly she blew out the light and crept to her bed.
ON the following Saturday morning there was, as usual, a considerable gathering of farmers at Springtown. A heavy fall of rain during the night had rendered the soil unfit for ploughing, and it was a sort of enforced holiday. Many of them stood around Mayhew & Floyd's store. Several women and children were seated between the two long counters, on boxes and the few available chairs. Nelson Floyd was at the high desk in the rear, occupied with business letters, when Pole Baker came in at the back-door and stood near the writer, furtively scanning the long room.
“Where's the old man?” he asked, when Floyd looked up and saw him.
“Not down yet. Dry up, Pole; I was making a calculation, and you knocked it hell west and crooked.”
“Well, I reckon that kin wait. I've got a note fer you.” Pole was taking it from his coat-pocket.
“Miss Cynthia?” Floyd asked, eagerly.
“Not by a long shot,” said Pole. “I reckon maybe you'll wish it was.” He threw the missive on the desk, and went on in quite a portentous tone. “I come by Jeff Wade's house, Nelson, on my way back from the mill. He was inside with his wife and childern, an' as I was passin' one of the little boys run out to the fence and called me in to whar he was. He's a devil of a fellow! He's expectin' his wife to be confined, an' I saw he was try'in' to keep her in the dark. What you reckon he said?”
“How do I know?” The young merchant, with a serious expression of face, had tom open the envelope, but had not yet unfolded the sheet of cheap, blue-lined writing-paper.
“Why, he jest set thar in his chair before the fire, an' as he handed the note up to me he sorter looked knowin' an' said, said he: 'Pole, I'm owin' Mayhew & Floyd a little balance on my account, an' they seem uneasy. I wish you'd take this letter to young Floyd. He's always stood to me, sorter, an' I believe he'll git old Mayhew to wait on me a little while.”
“Did he say that, Pole?” Floyd had opened the note, but was looking straight into Baker's eyes.
“Yes, he said them very words, Nelson, although he knowed I was on hand that day when he paid off his bill in full. I couldn't chip in thar before his wife, an' the Lord knows I couldn't tell him I had an idea what was in the note, so I rid on as fast as I could. I had a turn o' meal under me, an' I tuck it off an' hid it in the thicket t'other side o' Duncan's big spring. I wasn't goin' to carry a secret war-message a-straddle o' two bushels o' meal warm from the mill-rocks. An' I'd bet my hat that sheet o' paper hain't no flag o' truce.”
Floyd read the note. There was scarcely a change in the expression of his face or a flicker of his eyelashes as he folded it with steady fingers and held it in his hand.
“Yes, he says he has got the whole story, Pole,” Floyd said. “He gives me fair warning as a man of honor to arm myself. He will be here at twelve o'clock to the minute.”
“Great God!” Pole ejaculated. “You hain't one chance in a million to escape with yore life. You seed how he shot t'other day. He was excited then—he was as ca'm as a rock mountain when I seed him awhile ago, an' his ride to town will steady 'im more. He sorter drawed down his mouth at one corner an' cocked up his eye, same as to say, 'You understand; thar hain't no use in upsettin' women folks over a necessary matter o' this sort.' Looky' here, Nelson, old pard, some'n has got to be done, an' it's got to be done in a damn big hurry.”
“It will have to be done at twelve 'clock, anyway,” Floyd said, calmly, a grim smile almost rising to his face. “That's the hour he's appointed.”
“Do you mean to tell me you are a-goin' to set here like a knot on a log an' 'low that keen-eyed mountain sharp-shooter to step up in that door an' pin you to that stool?”
“No, I don't mean that, exactly, Pole,” Floyd smiled, coldly. “A man ought not to insult even his antagonist that way. You see, that would be making the offended party liable for wilful, coldblooded murder before the law. No, I've got my gun here in the drawer, and we'll make a pretence at fighting a duel, even if he downs me in the first round.”
“You are a fool, that's what you are!” Pole was angry, without knowing why. “Do you mean to tell me you are a-goin' to put yore life up like that to gratify a man o' Jeff Wade's stamp?”
“He's got his rights, Pole, and I intend to respect them,” Floyd responded with firmness. “I've hurt his family pride, and I'd deserve to be kicked off the face of the earth if I turned tail and ran. He seems to think I may light out; I judge that by his setting the time a couple of hours ahead, but I'll give him satisfaction. I'm built that way, Pole. There is no use arguing about it.”
The farmer stepped forward and laid a heavy-hand on Floyd's shoulder, and stared at him from beneath his lowering brows.
“You know, as well as I do, that you wasn't the only man that—that dabbled in that dirty business,” he said, sharply, “an' it's derned foolish fer you to—”
“I'm the only one he's charging with it,” broke in the merchant, “and that settles it. I'm not an overgrown baby, Pole. Right now you are trying to get me to act in a way that would make you heartily ashamed of me. You might as well dry up. I'm not going to run. I'm going to meet Jeff Wade, fair and square, as a man—as I'd want him to meet me under like circumstances.”
“My God! my God!” Pole said under his breath. “Hush! thar comes Mayhew. I reckon you don't want him to know about it.”
“No, he'd be in for swearing out a peace-warrant. For all you do, Pole, don't let him onto it. I've got to write a letter or two before Wade comes; don't let the old man interrupt me.”
“I'll feel like I'm dancin' on yore scaffold,” the farmer growled. “I want my mind free to—to study. Thar! he's stopped to speak to Joe Peters. Say, Nelson, I see Mel Jones down thar talkin' to a squad in front o' the door; they've got the'r heads packed together as close as sardines. I see through it now. My Lord, I see throughthat.”
“What is it you see through, Pole?” Floyd looked up from Wade's note, his brow furrowed.
“Why, Mel's Jeff Wade's fust cousin; he's onto what's up, an' he's confidin' it to a few; it will be all over this town in five minutes, an' the women an' childem will hide out to keep from bein' hit. Thar they come in at the front now, an' they are around the old man like red ants over the body of a black one. He'll be onto it in a minute. Thar, see? What did I tell you? He's comin' this way. You can tell by the old duck's waddle that he is excited.” Floyd muttered something that escaped Pole's ears, and began writing. Mayhew came on rapidly, tapping his heavy cane on the floor, his eyes glued on the placid profile of his young partner.
“What's this I hear?” he panted. “Has Jeff Wade sent you word that he is comin' here to shoot you?”
Pole laughed out merrily, and, stepping forward, he slapped the old merchant familiarly on the arm. “It's a joke, Mr. Mayhew,” he said. “I put it up on Mel Jones as me'n him rid in town; he's always makin' fun o' women fer tattlin', an' said I to myse'f, said I, 'I'll see how deep that's rooted under yore hide, old chap,' an' so I made that up out o' whole cloth. I was jest tellin' Nelson, here, that I'd bet a hoss to a ginger-cake that Mel 'ud not be able to keep it, an' he hain't. Nelson, by George, the triflin' skunk let it out inside o' ten minutes, although he swore to me he'd keep his mouth shet. I'll make 'im set up the drinks on that.”
“Well, I don't like such jokes,” Mayhew fumed. “Jokes like that and what's at the bottom of them don't do a reputable house any good. And I don't want any more of them. Do you understand, sir?”
“Oh yes, I won't do it ag'in,” answered Pole, in an almost absent-minded tone. His eyes were now on Floyd, and, despite his assumed lightness of manner, the real condition of things was bearing heavily on him. Just then a rough-looking farmer, in a suit of home-made jeans, straw hat, and shoes worn through at the bottom, came back to them. He held in his hand the point of a plough, and looked nervously about him.
“Everybody's busy down in front,” he said, “an' I want to git a quarter's wuth o' coffee.” His glance, full of curiosity, was on Floyd's face. “I want to stay till Wade comes,myself, but my old woman's almost got a spasm. She says she seed, enough bloodshed an' carnage durin' the war to do her, an' then she always liked Mr. Floyd. She says she'd mighty nigh as soon see an own brother laid out as him. Mr. Floyd sorter done us a favor two year back when he stood fer us on our corn crop, an', as fer me, why, of course, I—”
“Look here, Bill Champ,” Pole burst out in a spontaneous laugh, “I thought you had more sense than to swallow a joke like that. Go tell yore old woman that I started that tale jest fer pure fun. Nelson here an' Wade is good friends.”
“Oh, well, ef that's it, I'm sold,” the farmer said, sheepishly. “But from the way Mel Jones an' some more talked down thar a body would think you fellers was back here takin' Mr. Floyd's measure fer his box. I'll go quiet my wife. She couldn't talk of a thing all the way here this mornin' but a new dress she was goin' to git, an' now she's fer hurryin' back without even pickin' out the cloth.”
“No, I don't like this sort o' thing,” old Mayhew growled as the customer moved away. “An' I want you to remember that, Baker.”
“Oh, you dry up, old man!” Pole retorted, with sudden impatience. “You'd live longer an' enjoy life better ef you'd joke more. Ef the marrow o' my bones was as sour as yore'n is I'd cut my throat or go into the vinegar business.”
At this juncture Captain Duncan came in the store and walked back to the trio.
“Good-morning,” he said, cheerily. “Say, Floyd, I've heard the news, and thought if you wanted to borrow a pair of real good, old-fashioned duelling pistols, why, I've got some my father owned. They were once used by General—”
“It's all a joke, captain,” Pole broke in, winking at the planter, and casting a look of warning at the now unobservant Mayhew.
“Oh, isthatit?” Duncan was quick of perception.
“To tell you the truth, I thought so, boys. Yes, yes—” He was studying Floyd's calm face admiringly. “Yes, it sounded to me like a prank somebody was playing. Well, I thought I'd go fishing this evening, and came in to get some hooks and lines. Fine weather, isn't it? but the river's muddy. I'll go down and pick out some tackle.”
He had just gone when an old woman, wearing a cheap breakfast shawl over her gray head, a dress of dingy solid-black calico, and a pair of old, heavy shoes, approached from the door in the rear.
“I got yore summons, Mr. Mayhew,” she said, in a thin, shaky voice. “Peter, my husband, was so down-hearted that he wouldn't come to town, an' so I had to do it. So you are goin' to foreclose on us? The mule an' cow is all on earth we've got to make the crop on, and when they are gone we will be plumb ruined.”
The face of the old merchant was like carved stone.
“You got the goods, didn't you, Mrs. Stark?” he asked, harshly.
“Oh yes, we hain't disputin' the account,” she answered, plaintively.
“And you agreed faithfully if you didn't pay this spring that the mule and cow would be our property?”
“Oh yes, of course. As I say, Mr. Mayhew, I'm not blamin' you-uns. Thar hain't a thing for me an' Peter to do but thrust ourselves on my daughter and son-in-law over in Fannin', but I'd rather die than go. We won't be welcome; they are loaded down with childern too young to work. So it's settled, Mr. Mayhew—I mean, ef we drive over the mule an' cow, thar won't be no lawsuit?”
“No, there won't be any suit. I'd let this pass and give you more time, Mrs. Stark, but a thing like that can't be kept quiet through the country, an' there are fifty customers of ours over your way who'd be runnin' here with some cock-and-bull story, and we'd be left high and dry, with goods to pay for in market and nothing to show for it. We make our rules, Mrs. Stark, and they are clearly understood at the time the papers are signed.”
“Never you mind, Mrs. Stark, I'll fix that all right.” It was Nelson Floyd who was speaking, and with a face full of pity and tenderness he had stepped forward and was offering to shake hands.
The little woman, her lips twitching and drawn, gave him her hand, her eyes wide open in groping wonder.
“I don't understand, Nelson—Mr. Floyd—you mean—”
“I mean that I'll have your entire account charged to me and you can take your time about paying it—next fall, or the next, or any time it suits you. I'll not press you fer it, if you never pay it. I passed your place the other day and your crop looks very promising. You are sure to get out of debt this coming fall.”
“Oh, Nelson—I—I don't know what to do about it. You see Mr. Mayhew says—”
“But I say it's all right,” Floyd broke in, as he laid his hand softly on her shoulder. “Go down in front and buy what you need to run on. I'll assume the risk, if there is any.”
Mayhew turned suddenly; his face wore a fierce frown and his thick lip shook.
“Do you mean to say, Nelson, that you are going to step in and—”
“Step in nothing!” Floyd said, calmly. “I hope I won't have to remind you, sir, of our clearly written agreement of partnership, in which it is plainly stated that I may use my judgment in regard to customers whenever I wish.”
“You'll ruin us—you'll break us all to smash, if you do this sort of thing,” Mayhew panted. “It will upset our whole system.”
“I don't agree with you, sir,” Floyd answered, tartly, “but we won't argue about it. If you don't intend to abide by our agreement, then say so and we will part company.”
Mayhew stared in alarm for a moment, then he said:
“There's no use talking about parting. I only want to kind of hold you in check. You get your sympathies stirred up and make plunges sometimes when you ought to act with a clear, impartial head. You say the crop looks well; then it's all right. Go ahead, Mrs. Stark. Anything Nelson does is agreeable to me.”
“Well, it's mighty good of you both,” the old woman said, wiping tears of joy from her eyes. “But I won't buy anything to-day. I'll ride out to the farm as quick as I can and tell Peter the good news. He's mighty nigh out of his senses about it.”
Mayhew followed her down into the store. It was as if he were ashamed to meet the quizzical look which Pole Baker had fixed upon him. He had no sooner turned his back than Pole faced Floyd, his heavy brows drawn together, his every feature working under stress of deep emotion.
“They say the Almighty is a just and a good God,” Pole said. “But I'll deny it all the rest o' my life ef He lets Jeff Wade shoot down sech a specimen o' manhood as you are fer jest that one slip, after—after, I say, after fillin' you with the fire of youth an' puttin' right in yore track a gal like that Minnie Wade, with a pair o' dare-devil eyes an' a shape that ud make a Presbyterian preacher—”
“Dry up, Pole!” Floyd cried, suddenly. “Don't forget yourself in your worry about me. A man is always more to blame than a woman, and it's only the cowards that shirk the consequences.”
“Well, you have it yore way, an' I'll have it mine,” Pole snorted. “What both of us think hain't got a damn thing to do with the time o' day. How does she stand by your ticker?”
Floyd looked at his watch. “It's a quarter-past eleven,” he said.
“The hell it is!” Pole went to the back-door and looked out at the dreary stable-yard and barn. He stood there for several minutes in deep thought, then he seemed to make up his mind on something that was troubling him, for he suddenly thrust his hand into his hip-pocket, turned his back on Floyd, drew out a revolver, and rapidly twirled the cylinder with his heavy thumb.
“Yes, I 'lowed I'd swore off from shootin'-scrapes,” he mused; “but I shore have to git in this un. I'd never look Sally an' the childern in the face ag'in ef I was to stand still an' let that dead-shot kill the best friend me an' them ever had. No, Poley, old boy, you've got to enlist this mornin', an' thar hain't no two ways about it. I'd take a drink on it, but a feller's aim ain't wuth a dang when he sees double.”
His attention was suddenly attracted to Floyd, who had left his stool and was putting a revolver into the pocket of his sack-coat. Pole shoved his own cautiously back into his pocket and went to his friend's side.
“What you goin' to do now?” he asked.
“I have just thought of something that ought to be attended to,” was the young merchant's answer. “Is Mel Jones still down there?”
“Yes, I see 'im now through the left-hand window,” said Pole. “Do you want to speak to 'im?”
“Yes.” Floyd moved in the direction indicated, and Pole wonderingly followed. Outside on the pavement, at the corner of the store, Jones stood talking to a group of eager listeners. He stopped when he saw Floyd and looked in the opposite direction, but in a calm voice the young merchant called him.
“Mel, may I see you a minute?”
“Certainly.” The face of the gaunt farmer fell as he came forward, his eyes shifting uneasily.
“I got a message from Jeff Wade just now,” said Floyd.
“Oh, did you?—is that so?” the fellow exclaimed.
“Yes, he says he has a private matter to settle with me, and says he'll be here at the store at twelve. Now, as you see, Mel, there are a good many people standing around—women and children—and somebody might get hurt or frightened. You know where Price's spring is, down behind the old brick-yard?”
“Oh yes, I know where it is, Floyd.”
“Well, you will do me a favor if you will ride out to Wade's and tell him I'll meet him there. He could reach it without coming through town, and we'd escape a lot of prying people who would only be in the way.”
“That's a good idea,” said Jones, his strong face lighting up. “Yes, I'll go tell 'im. I'm glad to see that you are a man o' backbone, Floyd. Some 'lowed that you'd throw up the sponge an' leave fer parts unknown, but Jeff's got to tackle the rale stuff. I kin see that, Floyd. Minnie's raised a lots o' devilment, an' my wife says she don't blame you one bit, but Jeff cayn't be expected to see it through a woman's eyes. I wish you was goin' to meet a man that wasn't sech a dead-shot. I seed Jeff knock a squirrel out of a high tree with his six-shooter that three men had missed with rifles.”
“I'll try to take care of myself, Mel. But you'd better hurry up and get to him before he starts to town.”
“Oh, I'll git 'im all right,” said the farmer, and he went out to the hitching-rack, mounted his horse, and galloped away.
The group Jones had been talking to now drew near.
“It's all off, boys!” Pole said, with one of his inscrutable laughs. “Explanations an' apologies has been exchanged—no gore to-day. Big mistake, anyway, all round. Big, big blunder.”
This version soon spread, and a sigh of relief went up from all sides. Fifteen minutes passed. Pole was standing in the front-door of the store, cautiously watching Floyd, who had gone back to his desk to write a letter. Suddenly the farmer missed him from his place.
“He's tryin' to give me the slip,” Pole said. “He's gone out at the back-door and has made fer the spring. Well, he kinthinkhe's throwed old Pole off, but he hain't by a jugful. I know now which road Jeff Wade will come by, an' I'll see 'im fust ur no prayers hain't answered.”
He went out to the hitching-rack, mounted, and, waving his hand to the few bystanders who were eying him curiously, he rode away, his long legs swinging back and forth from the flanks of his horse. A quarter of a mile outside of the village he came to a portion of the road leading to Jeff Wade's house that was densely shaded, and there he drew rein and dismounted.
“Thar hain't no other way fer 'im to come,” he said, “an' I'm his meat or he is mine—that is, unless the dem fool kin be fetched to reason.”