"Dorothy," said her husband, "I reckon ye heered enough ter know what brought these men hyar. They norates thet ther Doanes holds me accountable fer whatever ther Harpers does—good or evil—because I stands as heir ter yore gran'pap. They tells me likewise thet ther Harpers hain't got no settled leader, an' only two things hinders me from claimin' thet job myself: Fust place, I don't crave ter mingle in thar ructions, and second place they won't hev none of me. Seems like I'm ther gryste betwixt two mill-stones ... an' bein' es ye're my wife, thet's a state of things thet consarnsyoues well es me."
A Valkyrie fire glowed in the dark eyes of the young woman and her hands clenched themselves tautly. The colour that had gone out of her cheeks came back with a rush of vividness which seemed to transform her as a lighted wick transforms a candle.
"When my gran'pap war a-strivin' aginst all manner of odds fer peace," she said, disdainfully, "thar was them thet kept hamperin' him by whoopin' on ther troublemakers—an' I've done heered him say thet one turrible hard man ter reason with bore ther name of Aaron Capper."
The elderly spokesman of the delegation flushed brick-red and his heavy lashes gathered close in a menacing scowl.
"No man didn't love Caleb Harper no better'n me," he protested, indignantly, "but ef we've got ter fight hit profits us ter hit fust—an' hit hard."
"Now, I've got somethin' ter tell ye," went on Parish, and though they did not know just when or how the change had been wrought, each of the three visitors began to realize that a subtle shifting of places had come over their relations to their host.
At first they had spoken categorically and he had listened passively. Now when he spoke they felt the compulsion of hearkening to him as to one whose words carried authority. Personalities had been measured as are foils in the hands of fencers, and Parish Thornton was being recognized to hold the longest and keenest blade.
"I've done sought ter show ye, outen yore own mouths," he said, soberly, "thet at one an' ther same time ye was demandin' ter know what I aimed ter do an' tellin' me I couldn't do nothin'. Now I tells ye thar's one thing I jedgmaticallyhain'ta-goin' ter do, an' thet is ter stand by an' suffer them two mill-stones ter grind me ter no powder."
He paused, and the girl had moved forward until she stood at his side with her outstretched hand resting against the bark of the old tree in a reverent touch of caress. She ignored the others and spoke to her husband.
"Back thar in ther beginnin's, Cal," she said, clinging to the name by which she had first known him, "our foreparents planted this tree—an' founded this country—an' held hit erginst ther Injuns. They was leaders then—afore any man hed ever heered of Cappers an' Squireses an' ther like. I reckon ef men needs a leader now, hit runs in yore blood ter be one ... but a leader fer betterment—an' one thet gives orders 'stid of takin' 'em."
She turned then, and with her chin regally high, she left them, and a brief silence held after her going.
"I reckon I couldn't hardly hev said hit thet well, myself," announced Parish Thornton, quietly, "but yit hit erbout sums up my answer ter ye."
"Whatever ye says from now on, erbout takin' me er leavin' me, therenemy'sdone picked me out es ther head man of ther Harpers—an' what they'd love best wouldbe ter see ye all cavillin' amongst yoreselves. Caleb Harper picked me out, too. Now I aims ter stand by his choosin'—an' I aims ter be heeded when I talks."
Aaron and Parish stood eye to eye, searching and measuring each other with gazes that sought to penetrate the surface of words and reach the core of character. The older man, angry, and insulted though he felt himself, began to realize about his heart the glow of that unwilling admiration which comes of compulsion in the presence of human mastery and pays tribute to inherent power. The quiet assurance of this self-announced chieftain carried conviction that made argument idle—and above all else the Thorntons needed an unchallengeable leader.
"Afore God," he murmured, "I believes ye're aman!" Then after a pause he added: "But nobody don't know ye well enough—an' afore a man kin be trusted ter give orders he's got ter prove hisself."
Parish Thornton laughed.
"Prove yoreself, then, Aaron," he challenged, "ye talks erbout yore hunger ter avenge yore dead boys—albeit they fell in a pitch-battle an' ye don't know who deadened 'em—an' ther fire of thet wrath's been coolin' fer a full score of ya'rs. Why did ye let hit simmer so long?"
"Because I was pledged ter peace an' I wasn't no truce-buster. I sought ter remain steadfast and bide my time."
"All right. Then ef fresh war-farin' kin be carcumvented, ye still stands beholden by thet pledge, don't ye?"
"Ef hit kin be, yes—but how kin hit be?"
"Thet's what I aims ter show ye. Ye talks erbout yore grievance. Now listen ter mine. Ther bullit wound hyar in my shoulder hain't healed yit—an' thar hain't no hotter fire in hell then my own hate fer whoevercaused hit. So when ye talks ter me about grievances, ye talks a language I kin onderstand without no lingster ter construe hit."
He paused a moment, unconscious that his term for an interpreter was one that Englishmen had used in Chaucer's day, and, save here, not since a long-gone time. Then he swept on, and Sim Squires listening to this man whom for hire he had waylaid felt an unmanning creep of terror along his spine; a fear such as he had not felt for any human being before. The sweat on his face grew clammy, but with a mighty effort he held his features mask-like.
"But atter you an' me hed evened our scores—what then? Air ye willin' ter burn down a dwellin' house over ther heads of them inside hit, jest ter scorch out a feisty dog that's done molested ye? Is thet leadin' men forwards—or jest backwards like a crawfish?"
"Ye talks," said Aaron Capper, sharply, "like es if I'd stirred up an' provoked tribulation. Them fellers air a-plottin' tergither right now over at old Hump Doane's house—an' hell's broth air a-brewin' thar."
The younger man's head came back with a snap.
"Ye says they're holdin' a council over thar at Hump Doane's?" he demanded.
"Yes—an' hit's a war conf'rence. I've hed men find thet out—they're right sim'lar ter a swarm of hornets."
Parish Thornton took a step forward.
"Will ther Harpers stand to what ther two of us agrees on tergither in full accord—an' leave cavillin' an' wranglin' amongst ourselves fer a more seemly time?"
Aaron nodded his head. "So long as us two stands agreed we kin handle 'em, I reckon."
The young man nodded his head in a gesture of swift decision.
"All right then! I'm goin' over thar ter Hump Doane's house—an' reason with them hotheads. I'mgoin' ter advocate peace as strong es any man kin—but I'm goin' ter tell 'em, too, thet ther Harpers kin give 'em unshirted hell ef they disdains peace. I'm goin' ter pledge ourselves ter holp diskiver an' penitenshery ther man thet shot at old Jim Rowlett. Does thet suit ye?"
Aaron stood looking at Parish Thornton with eyes blankly dumfounded, and the other two faces mirrored his bewilderment, then the spokesman broke into bitterly derisive laughter, and his followers parroted his mirthless ridicule.
"Hitmoutsuit me," he finally replied, "save only hit denotes thet ye're either p'intedly wishful ter throw yore life away—or else plum bereft of reason."
"Thet's asecretmeetin' over thar," interposed Lincoln Thornton, grimly, "with rifles in ther la'rel ter take keer of trespassers. They'd stretch ye dead afore ye got nigh enough ter shout out—much less reason with 'em. Some things is practical an' others is jest damn foolery."
"I took thought of them chances," replied Parish, quietly, "afore I made my proffer."
This time there was no laughter but Aaron shook his head decisively. "No," he declared, "hit won't do. Hit's a right bold idee but hit would be sartain death. Ye're ther man they're cussin' an' damnin' over an' above all others, over thar—right now."
"All right then," asserted Thornton, crisply, "ef I kin stop 'em from cussin' an' damnin' me, mebby they mout quiet down again an listen ter reason. Anyhow, ef ye agrees ter let me bind ye by my words, I'm a-goin' over thar."
After that the talk was such a discussion of ways and means as takes place between allies in complete harmony of agreement.
"Afore God in Heaven," exclaimed the old clansmanat its end, "yeaira man thet's cut out ter lead! Hev ye got yore pistol handy?"
"Hit's handy enough," answered Parish, "but I don't aim ter go over thar armed—ef they kills me like ye foretells they will, they've got ter murder me coldblooded—so all men kin see wh'ar ther fault lays at."
Parish Thorntonand Aaron Capper stood for a few moments watching the departure of the two other horsemen, one of whom was a spy and a traitor—for Aaron himself meant to wait here until he could ride home with some knowledge of the outcome of his new ally's mad project.
But Parish could not wait long, for the summer afternoon was already half spent and his depleted strength would make travelling slow.
The thought that now oppressed him with the poignancy of an immediate ordeal was the need of saying good-bye to Dorothy, and neither of them would fail to understand that it might be a last good-bye. There was no room for equivocation in this crisis, and as he gazed up into the full and peaceful shade over his head, a flood of little memories, bound tendril-like by sounds, sights, and fragrances to his heart, swept him with disconcerting violence.
He steadied himself against that assaulting and went resolutely into the room where Dorothy was standing with her back half turned so that she did not at once see him.
She stood deep in thought—artlessly posed in lance-like straightness, and on the smooth whiteness of her neck a breath of breeze stirred wisps of bronzed and crisply curling hair. The swing of her shoulders was gallant and the man thanked God for that. She would want her courage now.
"Dorothy," he said, softly, standing close at her side, "I've got ter do somethin' thet ye're goin' ter hate terhev me ter ondertake—an' yet I knows ye'll want me ter do hit, too."
She wheeled at the tenseness of his voice and he wondered whether some premonition had already foreshadowed his announcement, for her cheeks were pale as she raised her hands and locked her fingers behind his head, standing off at arms' length so that she might look into his face.
He felt the hands tighten and tremble as he explained his mission, and saw the lids close over the eyes as if to shut out pictures of terror-stricken foreboding, while the lips parted stiffly in the pain of repressed and tidal emotions. Dorothy swayed uncertainly on her feet, then recovered self-command.
With a passionate impulse of holding him for herself, her arms closed more rigidly about him and her soft body clung against his own, but no sound of sobbing came from her lips and after a little she threw back her head and spoke rapidly, tensely, with the molten fierceness of one mountain-bred:
"I hain't seekin' ter dissuade ye ... I reckon I kinderly egged ye on out thar under ther tree ... but ef any harm comes ter ye, Cal ... over yon ... then afore God, even ef I'm only a woman ... I'll kill ther man thet causes hit!"
It was Dorothy who saddled and bridled the easy-paced mule for the man with the bandaged arm to mount, and who gave him directions for reaching his destination. As he turned in his saddle he summoned the spirit to flash upon her his old smile in farewell and she waved as though she were speeding him on some errand of festival. Then while old Aaron paced the dooryard with a grim face of pessimism bowed low over his chest, she turned into the house and, beside the bed where her lover had so long lain, dropped to her knees and clasped her hands in prayer.
Parish Thornton had told Aaron that he meant to go unarmed to that meeting, but so many thoughts had crowded upon him that only when he settled back against the high cantle of his saddle was he reminded, by its angular hardness, of the pistol which bulged in his pocket.
He drew rein to take it back, then shook his head and rode on again.
"Goin' over an' comin' back," he told himself, "I'd jest as lieve be armed, anyhow. Afore I gits thar I'll climb down an' hide ther thing in some holler log."
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Hump Doane's house was larger than many of those lying scattered about it, but between its long walls hung that smoky air of the rudely mediæval that made a fit setting for so grim a conclave as that of to-day. About the empty hearth of its main room men, uncouthly dressed and unbarbered, sat, and the smoke from their pipes hung stale and heavy. A door at the back and one at the front stood wide, but there were no windows and along the blackened rafters went strings of peppers and "hands" of home-grown tobacco. A dull glint here and there against the walls proclaimed leaning rifles.
On the threshold of the back door sat Bas Rowlett gazing outward, and his physical position, beyond the margin of the group proper, seemed to typify a mental attitude of detachment from those mounting tides of passion that held sway within.
"I'm ther feller thet got shot at, men," declared old Jim, rising unsteadily from his chair and sweeping them all with his keen and sagacious old eyes, "an' until terday ye've all stud willin' ter hearken ter my counsel. Now ef ye disregards me an' casts loose afresh all them old hates an' passions, I'd a heap ruther be dead then alive."
"Afore God, what fer do we waste good time hyar cavillin' an' backbitin' like a passel of old granny-women?" demanded Sam Opdyke whose face was already liquor-flushed, as he came tumultuously to his feet, overturning his chair and lifting clenched fists above his head.
"When this hyar unknowed man come from Virginny ter start things up whar old Burrell Thornton left 'em off at, he brung ther war with him. Thet troublemaker's got ter die—an' when he's dead hit's time ter parley erbout a new truce."
A low growl of approval ran in the throats of the hearers, but Hump Doane rose and spoke with his great head and misshapen shoulders reaching only a little way above the table top, and his thin voice cutting sharp and stridently.
"I've always stood staunch by Jim Rowlett's counsel," he announced, soberly, "but we kain't handily refuse ter see what our own eyes shows us. Ef ther Harpers hed any survigrous leader thet hed come out strong fer peace, I'd still sanction givin' him a chanst, but who hev they got? I talked solemn with this new man, Parish Thornton, an' I didn't git no satisfaction outen hem."
From the door Bas Rowlett raised an even voice of hypocrisy:
"I knows ther new man better then any of ye, I reckon ... an' I believes him when he says he wants a quiet life ... but I don't skeercely deem ther Harpers hev any notion of heedin' him."
"Men," old Jim, who felt his power slipping from him, and who was too old to seize it back with the vigour of twenty years ago, rose again and in his attitude was the pathos of decayed influence and bitter failure at life's end.
"Men," he implored, "I beseeches ye ter hearken terme one time more. A man thet's got ter be kilt kin always be kilt, but one thet's dead kain't be fotched back ter life. Hold off this bloodshed fer a spell yit.... Suffer me ter counsel with two or three Harpers an' Thorntons afore ye goes too fur!"
So long had this man's voice held a wizardry of influence that even now, though the spirit of reconciliation had faint life in that meeting, a silence of respect and veneration followed on his words, and while it endured he gazed beseechingly around the group to meet eyes that were all obdurately grim and adverse.
It was Hump Doane who broke the pause.
"Save fer a miracle of luck, Jim, ye'd be a dead man now—an' whilst we tarries fer ye ter parley, you an' me an' others besides us air like ter die. Over-hastiness is a sorry fault—but dilitariness is oftentimes sorrier."
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Back in the house that had grown around the nucleus of a revolutionary cabin sat the woman who had been for such a short time a wife—and who might so soon be a widow.
She had risen from her knees at last after agonized praying, but even through her prayers came horrible and persistent pictures of what might be happening to the man who had smiled as he rode away.
The insupportable dread chilled and tortured her that the brief happiness of her marriage had been only a scrap and sample, which would leave all the rest of life and widowhood bleaker for its memory and loss.
Dorothy sat by the window with a face ghost-pallid and fingers that wound in and out of spasmodic clutchings.
She closed her eyes in an effort to forget her nightmare imaginings and saw only more fantastic visions ofa body sliding from its saddle and lying still in the creek bed trail.
She rose at last and paced the room, but outside in the road her gaze fell on old Aaron who was uneasily pacing, too, and in his drooping shoulders and grimly set face she read no encouragement to hope. That morose and pessimistic figure held her gaze with a fascination of terror and she watched it until its pacing finally carried it around a twist of the road. Then she went out and stood under the tree which in its wordlessness was still a more sympathetic confidant than human beings.
She dropped on her knees there in the long grass at the roots of the straight-stemmed walnut and for the first time some spark of hope crept into her bruised soul. She began catching at straws of solace and had she known it, placing faith and reliance in the source of all the danger, yet she found a vestige of comfort in the process—and that was something.
"I'd done fergot," she exclaimed as she rose from her knees. "Most like Bas Rowlett's thar—so he'll hev one friend thet men won't skeercely das't ter defy. Bas'll stand by him—like he done afore."
Ridingwith the weariness of a long convalescence, Parish Thornton passed the house where for two days only he had made his abode, and turned into an upward-climbing trail, gloomily forested, where the tangle brushed his stirrups as he rode. On a "bald-knob" the capriciousness of nature had left the lookout of an untimbered summit, and there he drew rein and gazed down into the basin of a narrow creek-valley a mile distant, where, in a cleared square of farm land, a lazy thread of smoke rose from a low roof.
That house was his objective, and from here on he must drop downward through woods which the eye could penetrate for only a few paces in any direction; where the poison ivy and sumac grew rank and the laurel and rhododendron made entanglements that would have disconcerted a bear. He realized that it was a zone picketed with unseen riflemen, and advisers, who were by no means alarmists, had told him that he could not pass through it alive. Yet he believed there was the possibility, and upon it he was staking everything, that so long as he rode openly and with the audacity of seemingly nickel-plated self-confidence, these watchers by the way would, in sheer curiosity, pass him on to those superiors within the house from whom they took their orders.
His life hung on the correctness of that assumption, but the hazard was a part of the game. He thrust his pistol into a broken oak where a woodpecker had nested, then flapped his reins and clucked to his mule.For the sake of a bold appearance he raised his voice in a spirited and cheerful ballad, but from time to time he broke off since he had stern need for acute listening.
The mule carried him into—and through—a gorge where day-long a shadowy gloom hung among the fern-fringed rocks, and where the austere wildness of dripping cliffs and forbidding woods seemed a stage set for dark and tragic happenings.
He passed not one but several rifles as he went—he even caught the glint of one muzzle among the waxen rhododendron leaves but pretended not to see it, and though on him every barrel was trained, not a trigger was pressed.
The coming of a Harper clansman whom some men called a leader to the conclave of the Doane chieftains was so astounding a phenomenon that it would be a pity to cut it short until its intent was made manifest. So the sentinels along the way held their breath—and their fire.
But Thornton came at last to the place where the forest ran out into more open woods and the "trace" widened to a sledge-trail. He drew his horse to a standstill and hallooed loudly, for he knew that at this point all policy of experiment must end. The showdown could no longer be delayed. From near by in the laurel came a prompt voice of response though the speaker remained unseen.
"Halt whar ye're at," it commanded, gruffly. "What does ye want over hyar?"
"I aimed ter hev speech with Hump Doane," answered Thornton, unruffled, counterfeiting a tranquil ease, and from the thicket drifted the unintelligible mingling of two low voices in consultation. Then a second voice spoke:
"Wait right whar ye stands at an' don't aim ter move till I tells ye ye kin."
Punctiliously, Parish Thornton obeyed that injunction, sitting quietly in his saddle with a meditative gaze fixed on the twitching of his mule's ears, until after so long a time a stir in the thicket announced the return of the messenger and a command came succinctly from an invisible speaker.
"Hitch yore critter an' light down. Hump 'lows he'll see ye."
The door at the front of the house was closed now but when Thornton had dismounted and knocked, it opened, and straining his eyes at the darkness of the interior he found himself in a room cloudy with tobacco smoke and crowded with unoccupied chairs—yet empty of any humanity save for himself and the hunchback who stood inhospitably bulking just beyond the threshold.
The trap to the cock-loft was open, though, and the ladder was drawn up so Thornton knew that this seeming of vacancy was specious and that in alllikelihoodgun barrels were trained from above.
"I've done come," he said, steadily, and he raised his voice so that it would also carry to those unseen individuals whom he believed to be concealed near by, "ter see kin us two carcumvent bloodshed. I bears due authority from ther Thorntons and ther Harpers. We seeks ter aid ye in diskiverin' an' punishin' ther man thet sought ter kill Jim Rowlett—if so be ye'll meet us halfway."
For a moment there was silence in the room, then with a skeptical note of ridicule and challenge the hunchback demanded: "Why didn't ye go ter Jim Rowlett hisself?"
Though he had not been invited to enter Parish Thornton took a forward step into the room, and a bold effrontery proclaimed itself in both the words and the manner of his response.
"I've done come ter both of ye. I knows full well I'm speakin' right now in ther hearin' of numerous men hyar—albeit they're hidin' out from me."
Again there was silence, then Parish Thornton turned his eyes, following the cripple's gaze, toward the open door and found himself gazing into the muzzles of two rifles presented toward his breast. He laughed shortly and commented, "I thought so," then glancing at the cock-loft he saw other muzzles and in the back door which swung silently open at the same moment yet others gave back a dull glint of iron from the sunlight, so that he stood ringed about with levelled guns.
Hump Doane's piercing eyes bored into the face of the intruder during a long and uneasy silence. Then when his scrutiny had satisfied itself he asserted with a blunt directness:
"Ye hain't skeercely got no means of knowin' who's inside my house without ye come by thet knowledge through spyin' on me."
From the darkness of the cock-loft came a passionate voice of such rabid truculence as sounds in the throat of a dog straining at its leash.
"Jest say one word, Hump ... jest say one word an' he won't know nothin' a minute hence!... My trigger finger's itchin' right now!"
"Hold yore cacklin' tongue, Sam Opdyke, an' lay aside thet gun," the cripple barked back with the crack of a mule whip in his voice, and silence again prevailed up there and fell upon the room below.
Again the householder paused and after that he decided to throw aside futile pretence.
"Come on back in hyar, men," he gave curt order. "Thar hain't no need of our askin' no man's lieve ter meet an' talk nohow."
Slowly and somewhat shamefacedly, if the truth must be told, the room refilled itself and the men whotrooped heavily back through the two doors, or slid down the lowered ladder, came rifle and pistol armed.
Parish Thornton had no trouble in identifying, by the malevolence on one face, the man who had pleaded for permission to kill him, but the last to saunter in—and he still stood apart at the far threshold with an air of casual detachment—was Bas Rowlett.
"Now," began Hump Doane in the overbearing tone of an inquisitor, "we don't owe ye no explanations as ter which ner whether. We've gathered tergether, as we hev full right ter do, because you Harpers seems hell bent on forcin' warfare down our throats—an' we aims ter carcumvent ye." He paused, and a murmur of general approbation gave force to his announcement, then he added, "But hit's right p'intedly seemly feryouter give us a reason why ye comes oninvited ter my house—at sich a time as this."
It was to old Jim Rowlett that Parish Thornton turned now, ignoring the spokesman who had addressed him, and his voice was clear and even:
"When I come hyar from Virginny," he declared, "I didn't never seek no leadership—an' ther Thorntons in gin'ral didn't never press me ter take over none—but thar was men hyar thet wouldn't look on me in no other guise, an them men waryou Doanes."
"Us Doanes," broke out the red-eyed Opdyke, explosively, "what hev we got ter do with yore feisty lot?"'
"Yes, you Doanes," Thornton shot back at him with a stiffening jaw. "When ther Harpers didn't want me, and I didn't want them,youmen plum fo'ced me on 'em by seekin' ter hold me accountable fer all thar doin's. Ef I'm goin' ter be accountable, I'm likewise goin' ter be accountedto! Now we've done got tergither over thar an' they've despatched me hyar ter give ye our message an' take back yore answer."
"Thet is ter say," amended the firebrand with significant irony, "providin'weconcludes ter let ye take backanymessageatall."
Thornton did not turn his head but held with his eyes the faces of old Jim and Hump Doane and it was still to them that he addressed himself.
"I'm licensed ter bind ther Harpers an' Thorntons by my words—an' my words air plain ones. We proffers ye peace or war, whichever ye chooses: full peace or war ter ther hinges of hell! But peace air what we wants with all our hearts an' cravin's, an' peace hit'll be onlessen ye denies us." He paused for a moment only, then in altered voice he reminded them: "Ef Idon'tgo back, my death'll be all the answer they'll need over thar—but ther guilt fer bloodshed an' what follers hit will rest on ther Doanes henceforth. We've done our damnedest."
"We're wastin' time an' breath. Kill ther damn moon-calf an' eend hit," clamoured the noisy agitator with the bloodshot eyes. "They only seeks ter beguile us with a passel of fair-seemin' lies."
"No, we hain't wastin' breath, men!" Old Jim Rowlett was on his feet again with the faded misery of defeat gone out of his eyes and a new light of contest kindled in them.
"Every man hyar, save a couple of clamorous fools, hes declared hisself thet ef ther Thorntons hed a trustworthy leader, he favoured dealin' with him. This man says they've got tergither. Let's hear him out."
A muttering chorus of dissent sounded inarticulate protest that needed only a spokesman and Hump Doane raised his hand.
"I've done already hed speech with Mr. Thornton—who come over hyar by another name—an' he refused ter give me any enjoyment. I misdoubts ef he kin do much better now. Nonetheless"—he stepped forwardand turned as he spoke, swinging his glance with compelling vigour about the rough circle of humanity—"Nonetheless he's done come, an' claims he's been sent. Stand over thar, Mr. Thornton, in front of the chimbley—an' I aims ter see thet ye gits yore say!"
So Parish Thornton took his place before the hearth and began an argument that he knew to be adversely prejudged.
"Thar's grievances festerin' amongst ther men of yore crowd an' mine alike, but warfare won't ease 'em none," he said at the end; "I've got a grievance myself thet calls fer avengin'—but hit hain't no Harper-Doane matter. I hadn't dwelt hyar amongst ye three days afore I was laywayed—an' I hadn't give just offence ter no man so fur es I knows of."
"But sence ye've done tuck up preachin' a gospel of peace," came the sneering suggestion from the fringe of the crowd, "I reckon ye're willin' ter lay thet grudge by like a good Christian an' turn t'other cheek, hain't ye?"
Thornton wheeled, and his eyes flamed.
"No," he exclaimed in a voice that filled the room. "I'd be a damn hypocrite ef I claimed thet. I swore thet night, whilst I lay thar, thet thet man belonged ter me ter kill, an' I hain't altered thet resolve no fashion, degree ner whipstitch. But thet's a thing thet's separate an' apart from ther war...."
He paused, realizing the difficulty of making clear so complicated and paradoxical a position, while an outburst of derisive laughter fell on the pause as he reached his period. Then someone made ironic comment: "Hit's all beginnin' ter come out now. Ye aims ter hev everybody else fergive thar enemies an' lay down like lambs tergither—atter ye gits teetotally done with yore own shootin' an avengin'."
But Hump Doane seized the hickory staff thatleaned against old Jim's chair and pounded with it on the table.
"Silence!" he roared; "suffer ther feller ter git through!"
"I don't aim ter bushwack ner layway nobody," went on Thornton, obdurately. "Hit wouldn't content me ef I wasn't facin' my enemy when I sottled with him—an' hit's a private business—but this other matter te'ches everybody. Hit denotes y'ars of blood-spillin' an' murder—of women an' children sufferin' fer causes thet hain't no wise th'ar fault ner doin'."
The cripple still stood regarding the man by the hearth with a brow knit in absorption, and so tense was his expression that it seemed to bind the others to a brief, waiting silence until Hump himself slowly broke the tension.
"I said I aimed ter give ye a chanst ter hev yore say out.... Hev ye got fur enough ter let me ask ye a question?"
The nodded head of assent gave permission and Doane inquired briefly:
"Does I onderstand ye ter plead fer ther Harpers an' ther Doanes ter 'bide by ther old truce—an' yit ter seek ter stand free yore own self an' kill yore own enemy?"
Old Jim Rowlett leaned forward gripping his staff head with eyes of incredulity, and from the chest of the others sounded long-drawn breaths, inarticulate yet eloquent of scorn and sneering repudiation.
But Parish Thornton retained the earnest and resolute poise with which he had spoken before as he made his answer.
"I means thet I don't aim ter suffer no craven betrayal an' not hit back. I means thet ther feller thet sought my murder ismy man ter kill, but I aims ter kill him in f'ar combat. Hit jest lays between him an' me an' hit hain't no Harper-Doane affair, nohow."
Hump Doane shook his head and there was in the gesture both decisiveness and disappointment.
"What commenced ter look like a mighty hopeful chanst falls flat right hyar an' now," he announced. "I'd begun ter hope thet atter all a leader hed done riz up amongst us, but I sees when ye talks erbout peace ye means a peace fer other folks thet don't bind ner hamper yoreself. Thar hain't nuthin' but folly in seekin' ter build on a quicksand like thet."
"I told ye fust-off thet we war a-wastin' time an' breath," broke out Opdyke, furiously. "A man only courts trouble when he seeks ter gentle a rattlesnake—ther seemly thing ter do air ter kill hit."
Parish Thornton turned his eyes and studiously appraised the hare-brained advocate of violence, then he said, again addressing Hump Doane:
"An' yit hit's a pity, Mr. Doane, ef you an' me kain't some fashion git tergither in accord. We've got ther same cravin's in our hearts, us two."
"I come ter ye onc't afore, Mr. Thornton," the cripple reminded him, "an' I asked ye a question thet ye didn't see fit ter answer. Now I asks ye ter lay by one grudge, when ye calls on us ter lay by many—an' hit happens ergin thet ye don't see fit ter yield no p'int. Mebby me an' youhavegot cravin's fer betterment in common betwixt us—but hit 'pears like thar's always one diff'rence risin' up thet balks everything else."
Eventhe peppery Opdyke did not venture to break heatedly in on the pause that followed those regretful words. Into the minds of the majority stole a sense, vague and indefinable it is true, that a tragic impasse was closing on a situation over which had flashed a rainbow gleam of possible solution. Ahead lay the future with its sinister shadows—darker because of the alternative they had glimpsed in its passing.
Old Jim Rowlett came to his feet, and drew his thin shoulders back—shoulders that had been broad and strong enough to support heavy burdens through trying years.
"Mr. Thornton," he said, and the aged voice held a quaver of emotion which men were not accustomed to hearing it carry, "I wants ter talk with ye with ther severe freedom of an' old man counsellin' a young 'un—an' hit hain't ergoin' ter be in ther manner of a Doane argyfyin' with a Harper so much es of a father advisin' with a son."
The young Thornton met those eyes so full of eagle boldness yet so tempered with kindness, and to his own expression came a responsive flash of that winning boyishness which these men had not seen on his face before.
"Mr. Rowlett," he made answer in a low and reverent voice, "I hain't got no remembrance of my pappy, but I'd love ter think he favoured ye right smart."
Slowly the low-pitched voice of the Nestor began todominate the place, cloudy with its pipe-smoke and redolent with the stale fumes of fires long dead. Like some Hogarth picture against a sombre background the ungainly figures of men stood out of shadow and melted into it: men unkempt and tribal in their fierceness of aspect.
Old Jim made to blaze again before their eyes, with a rude and vigorous eloquence, all the ruthless bane of the toll-taking years before the truce. He stripped naked every specious claim of honour and courage with which its votaries sought to hallow the vicious system of the vendetta. He told in words of simple force how he and Caleb Harper had striven to set up and maintain a sounder substitute, and how for the permanence of that life-work they had prayed.
"Caleb an' me," he said at last, "we didn't never succeed without we put by what we asked others ter forego. Yore wife's father was kilt most foully—an' Caleb looked over hit. My own boy fell in like fashion, an' my blood wasn't no tamer then thet in other veins—but yit I held my hand. Ye comes ter us now, frettin' under ther sting of a wrong done ter ye—an' I don't say yore wrath hain't righteous, but ye've done been vouchsafed sich a chanst as God don't proffer ter many, an' God calls fer sacrifices from them elected ter sarve him."
He paused there for a moment and passed his knotted hand over the parchment-like skin of his gaunt temples, then he went on: "Isaac offered up Jacob—or leastways he stud ready ter do hit. Ye calls on us ter trust ye an' stand with ye, an' we calls onyouin turn fer a pledge of faith. Fer God's sake, boy, be big enough ter bide yore time twell ther Harpers an' Doanes hev done come outen this distemper of passion. I tells ye ye kain't do no less an' hold yore self-esteem."
He paused, then came forward with his old hand extended and trembling in a palsy of eagerness, anddespite the turmoil of a few minutes before, such a taut silence prevailed that the asthmatic rustiness of the old man's breath was an audible wheezing through the room.
The young messenger had only to lift his hand then and grasp that outheld one—and peace would have been established—yet his one free arm seemed to him more difficult to lift in a gesture of compliance than that which was bandaged down.
His own voice broke and he answered with difficulty: "Give me a leetle spell ter ponder—I kain't answer ye off-hand."
Thornton's eyes went over, and in the lighted doorway fell upon Bas Rowlett sitting with his features schooled to a masked and unctuous hypocrisy, but back of that disguise the wounded man fancied he could read the satisfaction of one whose plans march toward success. His own teeth clicked together and the sweat started on his temples. He had to look away—or forget every consideration other than his own sense of outrage and the oath he had sworn to avenge it.
But the features of old Jim were like the solace of a reef-light in a tempest; old Jim whose son had fallen and who had forgiven without weakness.
If what Parish knew to be duty prevailed over the passionate tide that ran high in temptation, what then? Would he live to serve as shepherd when his undertaking under the private compact had been waived and the other man stood free to indulge his perfidy?
Finally he laid his hand on the shoulder of the veteran.
"Mr. Rowlett," he declared, steadily, "I've got ter ask ye ter give me full twenty-four hours afore I kin answer ye fer sartain. Will yore men agree ter hold matters es they stands twell this time termorrer?"
Jim Rowlett glanced at Hump Doane and the cripplenodded an energetic affirmation. He was hard to convince but when convinced he was done with doubt.
"I'd ruther heer Mr. Thornton talk thetaway," he declared, crisply, "then ter hev him answer up heedless an' over-hasty."
With his knee brushing against that of old Jim Rowlett, Parish Thornton rode away from that meeting, and from the sentinels in the laurel he heard no hint of sound.
When he had come to the place where his pistol lay hidden he withdrew it and replaced it in his pocket, and a little farther on where the creek wound its way through a shimmering glade and two trails branched, the veteran drew rein.
"I reckon we parts company hyar," he said, "but I feels like we've done accomplished a right good day's work. Termorrow Hump an' me'll fare over ter yore house and git yore answer."
"I'm obleeged," responded the new chief of the Thorntons, but when he was left alone he did not ride on to the house in the river bend. Instead he went to the other house upon whose door his first letter of threat had been posted, and hitching his horse in its dilapidated shed he set out on foot for the near-by place where Bas Rowlett dwelt alone.
Twenty-four hours had been all he could ask in reaching a decision on such an issue, yet before he could make answer much remained to be determined, and in that determination he must rely largely on chances which he could not hope to regulate or force into a pattern of success.
He had, for example, no way of guessing how long it would be before Bas returned to his farm or whether, when he came, he would be alone—and to-morrow's answer depended upon an unwitnessed interview between them.
But he had arrived on foot and taken up his place of concealment at the back of the log structure with only a half-hour of waiting when the other man appeared, riding in leisurely unconcern and unaccompanied.
Thornton loosed his pistol and drew back into the lee of the square stone chimney where he remained safe from discovery until the other had passed into the stable and begun to ungirth his saddle.
The house stood remote from any neighbouring habitation, and the road at its front was an infrequently used sledge trail. The stable was at its side, while back of the buildings themselves, angling off behind the screening shoulder of a steep spur of hillside, stretched a small orchard where only gnarled apple trees and a few "bee-gums" broke a small and level amphitheatre into which the possible passerby could not see.
The lord of this manor stood bent, his fingers wrestling with the stubbornness of a rusted buckle, when he heard at his back, low of tone but startlingly staccato in its quality of imperativeness, the single syllable, "Bas!"
Rowlett wheeled, leaping back with a hand sweeping instinctively to his holster—but he arrested that belligerent gesture with a sudden paralysis of caution because of the look in the eyes of the surprise visitor who stood poised with forward-bending readiness of body, and a revolver levelled in a hand of bronze steadiness.
"I'm on my feet now, Bas," came a quiet voice that chilled the hearer with an inexplicable rigour, "I reckon ye hain't fergot my promise."
Rowlett gave way backward until the wall obstructed his retreat, and in obedience to the unspoken command in the eyes of his visitor, he extended both arms high above his head, but while he stood unmoving, his adroit mind was racing.
He knew what he would do if the situation were reversed,and he believed that the other was waiting only to punish him with a castigation of vengeful words before he shot him down and left him lying in the trampled straw and manure of that unclean stable.
Now he had to brace himself against the tortures of a physical fear from which he had believed himself immune. So he stood breathing unevenly and waiting, and while he waited the temper of his nerves was being drawn as it is drawn from over-heated steel.
"Come on with me," commanded Thornton.
The surprised man obeyed sullenly, casting an anxious eye about in the slender hope of interruption, and when they reached the orchard where even that chance ended Parish Thornton spoke again:
"When us two tuck oath ter sottle matters betwixt ourselves—I didn't skeercely foresee what was comin' ter pass. Now I kain't seek ter make ther compact hold over till a fairer time, ner seek ter change hit's terms, nuther, without ye're willin'."
"Suppose I hain't willin'?"
For answer Parish Thornton sheathed his weapon.
"Now," he said with a deadly quiet, "we're on even terms. Either you an' me draws our pistols an' fights twell one of us draps dead or else——"
He paused, and saw the face of his enemy go green and pasty as Rowlett licked his lips yet left his hands hanging at his sides. At length the intriguer demanded, "Or else—what?"
Thornton knew then beyond doubt what he already believed. This man was quailing and had no stomach for the fair combat of duel yet he would never relinquish his determination to glut his hatred by subterfuge.
"Or else ye've got ter enter inter anewcompact."
"What's thet?" A ring of hope sounded in the question, since in any fresh deal lies the possibility of better fortune.
"Ter go on holdin' yore hand twell this feud business blows over—an' I sarves notice on ye thet our own private war's opened up ergin."
"I reckon," said Rowlett, seeking to masquerade his relief under the semblance of responsible self-effacement, "common decency ter other folks lays thet need on both of us alike."
"I'm offerin' ye a free choice," warned Thornton, "but onless ye're ready ter fight hyar an' now ye've p'int-blank got ter walk in thar an' set down in handwrite, with yore name signed at ther bottom, a full confession thet ye hired me shot thet night."
"Like hell I will!" Bas roared out his rejection of that alternative with his swarthy cheekbones flaming redly, and into his rapidly and shiftily working mind came the comfort of a realization which in that first surprise and terror had escaped him. It was not to his enemy's first interest to goad him into a mortal clash, since that would make it impossible to give a favourable answer to the leaders to-morrow—and incidentally it would be almost certain to mean Thornton's own death.
Now he straightened up with a ghost of renewed bravado and shook his head while an enigmatical grin twisted his lips.
"S'posin'," he made insolent suggestion, "I don't see fit ter do nuther one ner t'other? S'posin' I jest tells ye ter go ter hell?"
Parish had anticipated that question and was prepared, if he were forced so far, to back threat with execution.
"I aims termakeye fight—or agree—either one," he answered, evenly, and when Bas laughed at him he stepped forward and, with lightning quickness, struck the other squarely across the face.
Though the blow fell open-handed it brought bloodfrom the nose and spurts of insane fury from the eyes.
Rowlett still kept his arms down, but he lunged and sought to drive his knee to his adversary's groin, meaning to draw and fire during the moment of paralyzing pain that must ensue.
As it happened, though, Parish had also anticipated some such manœuvre of foul fighting, and he sprung aside in time to let the unbalanced Rowlett pitch stumblingly forward. When he straightened he was again looking into the muzzle of a drawn pistol.
Rowlett had been drawing his own weapon as he lunged, but now he dropped it as if it had scalded his fingers, and once more hastily raised his hands above his head.
The whole byplay was swift to such timing as belongs to sleight-of-hand, but the split-second quickness of the left-hander was as conclusively victorious as if the matter had been deliberate, and now he had margin to realize that he need not fire—for the present.
"Ef ye'd been jest a mite quicker in drawin', Bas," he declared, ironically, "or jest a mite tardier in throwin' down thet gun—I'd hev hed ter kill ye. Now we kin talk some more."
The conflict of wills was over and Rowlett's voice changed to a whine as he asked beseechingly: "What proof hev I got ye won't show ther paper ter some outsider afore we fights hit out?"
"Ye've got my pledge," answered Thornton, disdainfully, "an' albeit ye knows ye don't keep 'em yoreself, ye knows thet I don't nuver break 'em. Ye've got ther knowledge, moreover, thet I hain't a-goin' ter be content save ter sottle this business with ye fust handed—man ter man." He paused there, and his tone altered when he continued: "Thet paper'll lay whar no man won't nuver see hit save myself—unless ye breaks yoreword. Ef I gits murdered, one man'll know whar thet paper's at—but not what's in hit. He'll give hit over ter ther Harpers an' they'll straightway hunt ye down an' kill ye like a mad dog. What does ye say?"
The other stood with face demoniacally impassioned, yet fading into the pasty gray of fear—the fear that was the more unmanageable because it was a new emotion which had never risen to confront him before.
"I knows when I've got ter knock under," he made sullen admission, at last, "an' thet time's done come now. But I hain't ther only enemy ye've got. S'pose atter all ther war breaks out afresh an' ye gits slain in battle—or in some fray with other men. Then I'd hev ter die jest ther same, albeit I didn't hev no hand in ther matter."
Thornton laughed.
"I hain't seekin' ter make ye gorryntee my long life, Bas. Ef I falls in any pitch-battle or gits kilt in a fashion thet's p'intedly an outside matter, ye hain't a-goin' ter suffer fer hit."
As the long-drawn breath went out between the parted lips of Bas Rowlett he wilted into a spectacle of abject surrender, then turning he led the way to the house, found pencil and paper, and wrote laboriously as the other dictated. At the end he signed his name.
Then Parish Thornton said, "Now I aims ter hev ye walk along with me till I gits my horse an' starts home. I don't 'low ter trust ye till this paper's put in a safe place, an' should we meet up with anybody don't forgit—I won't fail ter shoot ef ye boggles!"
Thesun, dropping into a western sea of amber and opal, seemed to grow in diameter. Then it dipped until only a naming segment showed and the barriers darkened against the afterglow.
Still Parish Thornton had not come home and Dorothy standing back of the open window pressed both hands over eyes that burned ember hot in their sockets.
Old Aaron Capper had mounted his horse a half-hour ago and ridden away somewhere—and she knew that he, too, had begun to fret against this insupportable waiting, and had set out on the unpromising mission of searching for the ambassador—who might already be dead.
A nervous chill shook the girl and she started up from the seat into which she had collapsed; frightened at the incoherent lack of sanity that sounded from her own throat.
She went again to the door and looked out into a world that the shadows had taken, save where the horizon glowed with a pallid green at the edge of darkness. Leaning limply against the uprights of the frame and clasping her hands to her bosom, she distrusted her senses when she fancied she heard voices and saw two horsemen draw up at the stile and swing down from their saddles. Then she crumpled slowly down, and when Aaron and Parish Thornton reached the house they found her lying there insensible.
They carried her to the four-poster bed and chafedher wrists and poured white whiskey between her pale lips until she opened her eyes in the glow of the lighted lamp.
"Did they hearken ter ye?" she whispered, and the man nodded his head.
"I compassed what I aimed at," he told her, brokenly, "but when I seed ye layin' thar, I feared me hit hed done cost too dear."
"I'm all right now," she declared five minutes later; "I war jest terrified about ye. I had nervous treemors."
The stars were hanging low and softly magnified when Aaron Capper mounted to ride away, and at the stile he leaned in his saddle and spoke in a melancholy vein.
"I seeks ter be a true Christian," he said, "an' I ought ter be down on my marrow-bones right now givin' praise an' thanksgivin' ter ther Blessed Lord, who's done held back ther tormints of tribulation, but—" he broke off there and his voice trailed off into something like an internal sob—"but yit hit seems ter me like es ef my three boys air sleepin' res'less an' oneasy-like in th'ar graves ternight."
Parish Thornton laid a hand on the horseman's knee.
"Aaron," he admitted, "I was called on ter give a pledge of faith over yon—an' I promised ter bide my time, too. I reckon I kin feel fer ye."
Informal and seemingly loose of organization was that meeting of the next afternoon when three Harpers and three Doanes met where the shade of the walnut tree fell across dooryard and roadway. The sun burned scorchingly down, and waves of heat trembled vaporously along the valley, while over the dusty highway small flocks of white and lemon butterflies hung drifting on lazy wings. From the deep stillness of the forest came the plaintive mourning of a dove.
Jim Rowlett, Hump Doane, and another came as representatives of the Doanes, and Parish Thornton, Aaron Capper, and Lincoln Thornton met them as plenipotentiaries of the Harpers.
When commonplaces of greeting had ended, Jim Rowlett turned to Aaron Capper as the senior of his group:
"Aaron," he said, "this land's hurtin' fer peace an' human charity. We craves hit, an' Mr. Thornton hyar saysyouwants hit no less. We've come ter git yore answer now."
"Jim," responded Aaron, gravely, "from now on, I reckon when ye comes ter ther Harpers on any sich matter as thet Parish Thornton's ther man ter see. He stands in Caleb Harper's shoes."
That was the simple coronation ceremony which raised the young man from Virginia to the position of responsibility for which he had had no wish and from which he now had no escape. It was his acknowledgment by both clans, and to him again turned Jim Rowlett, with an inexpressible anxiety of questioning in his aged eyes.
Then Parish Thornton held out his hand.
"I'm ready," he said, "ter give ye my pledge an' ter take your'n."
The two palms met and the fingers clasped, and into six unemotional faces flashed an unaccustomed fire.
"Thar's jest one thing more yit," suggested the practical minded hunchback. "Some few wild fellers on both sides of ther line air apt ter try out how strong we be ter enfo'ce our compact. Hit's kinderly like young colts plungin' ergainst a new hand on ther bridle-rein—we've got ter keep cool-headed an' patient an' ack tergether when a feller like thet shows up."
Parish Thornton nodded, and Hump Doane took off his hat and ran his hand through his bristling hair.
"An' now," he announced, "we'll ride on home an' pass ther word along thet matters stands es they stud in old Caleb's day an' time." He paused then, noting the weariness on the face of Jim Rowlett, added tentatively: "All of us, thet is ter say, save Old Jim. He's sorely tuckered out, an' I reckon ef ye invited him ter stay ther night with ye, Mr. Thornton, hit would be a kinderly charitable act."
"He's mighty welcome," declared the host, heartily.
"Dorothy'll look atter him like his own daughter an' see that he gits enjoyed."
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
At Jake Crabbott's store the loungers were in full attendance on the morning after Parish Thornton's ride to Hump Doane's house, and the rumours that found currency there were varied and for the most part inaccurate. But the fact that Parish Thornton had ridden through picketed woods, promulgated some sort of ultimatum and come away unharmed, had leaked through and endowed him with a fabulous sort of interest.
Young Pete Doane was there, and since he was the son of the man under whose roof the stirring drama had been staged, he assumed a magnified importance and affected a sphinx-like silence of discretion to mask his actual ignorance. Hump Doane did not confide everything he knew to this son whom he at once loved and disdained.
Young Doane stood indulging in rustic repartee with bright-eyed Elviry Prooner, a deep-bosomed Diana, who, next to Dorothy Thornton, was accounted the "comeliest gal along siv'ral creeks."
When Bas Rowlett joined the group, however, interest fell promptly away from Pete and centred around this more legitimate pole. But Bas turned onthem all a sullenly uncommunicative face, and the idlers were quick to recognize and respect his unapproachable mood and to stand wide of his temper.
After he had bought twist tobacco and lard and salt and chocolate drops, Bas summoned Pete away from his temporary inamorata with an imperative jerk of his head and the youthful hillsman responded with the promptness of a lieutenant receiving instructions from his colonel. When the two were mounted, the son of the hunchback gained a more intimate knowledge of actual conditions than he had been able to glean at home.
"Ther upshot of ther matter's this, Pete," declared Bas, earnestly. "Sam Opdyke lef' thet meetin' yestidday with his mind made up ter slay this man Thornton—an' ther way things hev shaped up now, hit won't no fashion do. He's got ter be halted—an' I kain't afford ter be knowd in ther matter one way ner t'other. Go see him an' tell him he'll incense everybody an' bring on hell's own mischief ef he don't hold his hand. Tell him his chanst'll come afore long but right now, I say he's got terquit hit."
An hour later the fiery-tempered fellow, still smarting because his advice had been spurned yesterday, straightened up from the place outside his stable door where he was mending a saddle girth and listened while the envoy from Bas Rowlett preached patience.
But it was Bas himself who had coached Sam Opdyke with the incitement and inflammatory counsel which he had voiced the day before. Now the man had taken fire from the flames of his own kindling—and that fire was not easy to quench. He had been, at first, a disciple but he had converted himself and had been contemptuously treated into the bargain. The grievance he paraded had become his own, and the nature Bashad picked for such a purpose was not an April spirit to smile in sunlight twenty-four hours after it had fulminated in storm.
Opdyke gazed glumly at his visitor, as he listened, then he lied fluently in response.
"All right. I had my say yestidday an' now I'm done. Next time ther circuit-rider holds big meetin' I'm comin' through ter ther mourners' bench an' howl out sanctimony so loud I'll bust everybody's eardrums," and the big man laughed sneeringly.
Yet an hour later Opdyke was greasing and loading his squirrel gun.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
When the supper dishes had been cleared away that night, Old Jim and Parish Thornton sat for a long while in the front room, and because it was a sultry night and peace had been pledged, both door and window stood open.
Dorothy sat listening while they talked, and the theme which occupied them was the joint effort that must be made on either side the old feud line for the firm enforcement of the new treaty. They discussed plans for catching in time and throttling by joint action any sporadic insurgencies by which the experimentally minded might endeavour to test their strength of leadership.
"Now thet we stands in accord," mused Old Jim, "jestice kin come back ter ther cote-house ergin—an' ther jedge won't be terrified ter dispense hit, with me sittin' on one side of him an' you on t'other. Men hev mistrusted ther law so long es one crowd held all hits power."
Outside along the roadside margin of deep shadow crept the figure of a man with a rifle in his hand. It was a starlit night with a sickle of new moon, neitherbright nor yet densely dark, so that shapes were opaquely visible but not clear-cut or shadow-casting.
The man with the long-barrelled rifle none the less avoided the open road and edged along the protecting growth of heavy weed stalk and wild rose thicket until he came to a point where the heavier shadow of the big walnut tree blotted all shapes into blackness. There he cautiously climbed the fence, taking due account of the possible creaking-of unsteady rails.
"I'd love ter see men enabled ter confidence ther co'te ergin," said Parish Thornton, answering his old guest after a long and meditative silence. "Hit would ease a heap of torment. Up ter now they've hed ter trust tha'r rifle-guns."
As he spoke his eyes went to the wall by the door where during these weeks of disuse his own rifle had stood leaning, and his wife smiled as her glance followed his. She was thinking that soon both his arms would be strong enough to use it again, and she was happy that he would need it only for hunting.
The man outside had by this time gained the dooryard and stood beside the tree trunk where the shadow was deepest. He raised his long barrel and steadied it against the bark, not knowing that as coincidence would have it the metal rested against those initials which had been carved there generations before, making of the tree itself a monument to the dead.
Through the raised window he could see two heads in the lamplight; those of Parish Thornton and his wife, and it was easy to draw his sights upon the point just below the left shoulder blade of the man's back. Old Man Rowlett sat too far to one side to be visible.
High in the top of the walnut a shattered branch had hung in a hair balance since the great storm had stricken it. High winds had more than once threatened to bring this dead wood down, yet it had remainedthere, out of reach and almost out of sight but still precariously lodged.
The wind to-night was light and capricious, yet it was just as the man, who was using that tree as an ambush, established touch between finger and trigger, that the splintered piece of timber broke away from its support and ripped its way noisily downward until a crotch caught and held it. Startled by that unexpected alarm from above, given as though the tree had been a living sentinel, the rifleman jerked his gun upward as he fired.
The bullet passed through the window to bury itself with a spiteful thud in the wall above the hearth. Both men and the woman came to their feet with astonished faces turned toward the window.
Parish Thornton reached for the pistol which he had laid on the mantel, but before he had gained the door he saw Dorothy flash past him, seizing his rifle as she went, and a few seconds later he heard the clean-lipped snap of its voice in a double report.
"I got him," panted the young woman, as her husband reached her side. "Git down low on ther ground!" She did likewise as she added in a guarded whisper, "I shot at his legs, so he's still got his rifle an' both hands. He drapped right thar by ther fence."
They went back into the house and old Jim Rowlett said grimly: "Now let me give an order or two. Thornton, you fotch yore pistol. Gal, you bring thet rifle-gun an' give me a lantern. Then come out ther back door an' do what I tells ye."
A few minutes later the voice of the old Doane was raised from the darkness:
"Whoever ye be over yon," it challenged, "lift up both yore hands. I'm a-goin' ter light a lantern now an' come straight to'rds ye—but thar's a rifle-gun ter ther right of ye an' a pistol ter ther left ofye—an' ef ye makes a false move both of 'em'll begin shootin'."
Out there by the fence a voice answered sullenly in recognition of the speaker—and realization of failure: "I hain't ergoin' ter shoot no more. I gives up."