The cornfields had grown to their full height and turned from green to yellow. The stalks, stripped of their tops and blades, were bent by the weight of their ears. There was a whispering of breezes in the sedge-fields, in the long rows of brown-bolled cotton plants, among the fodder-stacks, and in the forest that stretched from the main road up the mountain-side. It was the season in which the rugged landscape appeared most brilliant; when the kalmia bloomed, the gentian, the primrose, the yellow daisy, the woodbine, and the golden-disked aster still lingered in sunny spots. It was the season in which the leaves of the maple were as red as blood.
John Westerfelt was leaving home, to take up his abode in the adjoining county over the mountain. As he sat upon his horse and slowly rode along, one who had known him six months before would scarcely have recognized him, so great had been the change in his appearance. His face was thinner; at the temples his hair had turned slightly gray, and an ineffable expression of restless discontent lay about his eyes. A sum of money had come to him from his father's estate, and with it he had purchased a livery-stable at the village of Cartwright. Ever since Sally Dawson's death, he had wanted an excuse to get away from the spot where the tragedy had occurred, and his leaving his farm to the management of his uncle now caused no particular comment among his neighbors.
Reaching the highest point of the mountain, the village in question lay in the valley below. Here he paused and looked behind him.
"God being my helper, I'm going to try to begin a new life over here," he said, almost aloud. "Surely, I have repented sorely enough, and this is not shirking my just punishment. A man ought to make something of himself, and I never could, in my frame of mind, with that poor, silent old woman constantly before my eyes, and knowing that she will never forgive my offence, and is perhaps constantly praying for some calamity to strike me down."
At the first house in the outskirts of the village he dismounted. A woman hearing his approach announced by a couple of lean dogs, which sprang from under the porch, came to the door. She smiled and spoke, but her voice was drowned in the yelping of the dogs, which were trying to climb over the fence to get at the stranger.
There was something admirable, if slightly discourteous, in the fearless manner in which Westerfelt leaned over the fence and, with the butt of his riding-whip, struck the animals squarely in the face, coolly laughing as he did so.
"You, Tige! you, Pomp!" cried the woman, running to them and picking up sticks and stones and hurling them at the animals, "down thar, I say!"
"They have forgotten me," said Westerfelt, with a laugh, as the dogs retreated behind the house, and he reached over the ramshackle gate to shake hands.
"But I hain't, John," she replied, cordially. "I wasn't lookin' fer you quite so soon, though. I reckon you must 'a' rid purty peert."
"Generally do," he made answer, "though I started early this morning, and lost half an hour at Long's shop, where I got my horse shod."
"Put up yore animal," she said. "That's the stable thar, an' you know better how to feed 'im 'an I do. Luke's gone down to the livery-stable to look atter things fer you, but he'll be back 'fore supper-time."
Westerfelt led his horse into the yard, and to the well near the door.
He pushed the bucket into the opening, and allowed the wooden windlass to fly round of its own accord till the bucket struck the water.
"Thirsty?" she asked. "I'll git the gourd."
He nodded. "And I want to water my horse; every branch and creek is bridged for the last ten miles."
While she was in the house he wound up the bucket, swearing at the horse for continually touching an inquisitive nose to his moving elbow. She returned with a great gourd dipper. He rinsed it out, and, filling it, drank long and deeply. Then he refilled the gourd and offered it to her.
"I beg your pardon," he said. "I forgot my politeness."
"I ain't dry," she said. "I was jest a-lookin' at you, John; you look so much older an' different-like."
"Oh, I reckon I'm all right," he said. "How's Luke?" emptying the bucket into the trough and watching the horse drink.
"As well as common; me an' him wus both bound fer you to git the livery-stable, an' we are glad the trade's closed. It will seem like ol' times to have a body from Fannin over heer. As soon as you writ the price you wus willin' to give in a lumpin' sum, Luke set to scheming. He ain't no fool, if I do say it. Horton an' Webb had the'r eyes on the stable, an' Luke thinks they'd a-raised his bid, but they 'lowed he wus biddin' fur himself, an' knowed he couldn't raise the money. Mis' Thorp wus in heer this mornin', an' she said Jasper Webb swore like rips when the administrator tol' 'im the trade wus closed with Luke as yore agent. You orter do well with the investment; you got it cheap; you know how to keep up stock, an' the hack-line will pay with the mail it carries an' the passenger travel twixt heer an' Darley."
"I'm satisfied," he said, and he took the saddle and bridle from his horse and turned the animal into the little log stable.
"Hain't you goin' to feed 'im?" she asked, hospitably, as he was closing the door; "the's some fodder overhead, an' the corn is in re'ch through the crack above the trough."
"Not yet," he returned; "I fed him some shelled corn at the shop. I'll give him a few ears at supper-time."
The slanting rays of the sun streamed from a saffron sky in the west and blazed in the red, yellow, and pink foliage on the mountain-side. The light brought into clearer outline the brown peaks and beetling crags that rose bleak and bare above the wealth of color, beyond the dark, evergreen stretches of pines and mountain cedars. The gorgeous tail of a peacock spread and gleamed under the cherry-trees in the back yard. A sleek calf was running back and forth in a little lot, and a brindled cow was bellowing mellowly, her head thrown up as she cantered down the road, her heavy bag swinging under her.
At the sight of the woman a flock of ducks, chickens, and geese gathered round her. She shooed the fowls away with her apron. "They want the'r supper," she said, as she led her guest back to the front yard. She went to the gate and looked down the road. "I see Luke at the branch," she added, coming back to him; "he'd be on faster ef he knowed you wus heer."
Luke Bradley was about fifty years of age. He had blue eyes, a long body, long arms, and long legs. His hair was reddish brown and his face florid and freckled. He walked with a shambling gait, stooped considerably, and swung his arms. He seldom wore a coat, and on days as mild as this his shirt-sleeves were always rolled up. He presented a striking contrast to John Westerfelt, who, by the people of that remote section, might have been considered something of a swell.
"How are you, ol' hoss?" Bradley laughed, as he swung the sagging gate open and grasped his friend's hand. "Glad to see you; I've done nothin' but fight tongue battles fer you all day. Webb has been cussin' me black an' blue fer biddin' agin 'im fer a stranger, but thar's one consolation—we've got 'im on the hip."
Westerfelt laughed pleasantly as he followed his host into the sitting-room. "Much obliged to you, Luke. I'm glad I took your advice about the investment."
"Me'n Marthy wus both dead set on gettin' you over heer," Luke said, as he placed a chair for Westerfelt in front of the fire. "Both of us 'low a change will do you good."
Mrs. Bradley sat down in a corner and spread out her ample homespun skirt and began to run the hem of her apron through her fat, red fingers.
"Me'n Luke's been talkin' it over," she said, with some embarrassment; "we 'lowed you mought mebby be willin' to put up with us; we've got a spare room, an' you know about how we live. You've lied unmercifully ef you don't like my cookin'," she concluded, with an awkward little laugh.
"I never lie," he retorted, smiling. "It's been a year since I ate at your house, but I can taste your slice-potato pie yet, and your egg-bread and biscuits, ugh!"
She laughed. "You'll stay, then?"
"I'm afraid not. I've packed up some pieces of furniture—a bed and one thing or other—and I calculated that I'd occupy the room over the stable. I'd like to be near my business. I reckon I can get my meals down at the hotel. I'll stay with you to-night, though; the wagon won't come till to-morrow."
"Well, I'm disappointed, shore 'nough," said Mrs. Bradley. "I had clean forgot the room at the stable, an' I ought to 'a' knowed, too, that Saunders' boys bunked thar. Well, I won't raise no objections; Mis' Boyd, a widow woman, is keepin' the hotel now, and folks say she feeds well an' cheap enough. She's from Tennessee, an's got a good-lookin', sprightly daughter. Nobody knows a thing about 'em; they don't talk much about the'rse'ves. They tuk the hotel when Rick Martin sold out last fall, an' they've been thar ever sence."
Supper was served in the room adjoining the kitchen. After it was over, Westerfelt and his host went back to the sitting-room. Alf, a colored farm-hand, was heaping logs on the old-fashioned dog-irons in the wide fireplace, and a mass of fat pine burning under the wood lighted the room with a soft red glow.
Westerfelt looked round him in surprise. While they were at supper the carpet had been taken up, the floor swept clean, and a number of chairs placed against the wall round the room.
"Marthy's doin's," Bradley explained, sheepishly; "don't hold me accountable; she's arranged to give you a shindig to introduce you to the young folks round about."
Just then Mrs. Bradley came in.
"Sweep the hearth, Alf," she said, pointing to a live coal that had popped out on the floor. "Didn't I tell you never to put on them chestnut logs? Do you want to burn the roof over our heads? Give it to me!" She snatched the unwieldy bundle of broomstraw from him. "Go tell Mis' Snow I'm much obleeged fer the cheers, an' ef I need any more I'll send fer um after 'while. Tell 'er ef she don't let Mary an' Ella come I'll never set foot in her house agin."
"What's all this for?" asked Westerfelt.
"You." She slapped him familiarly on the arm. "I'm goin' to give you a mount'in welcome. This settlement is full o' nice gals, an' you hain't the least idee how much excitement thar's been sence the report went out that you are gwine to live amongst us. I'm the most popular woman in Cartwright, jest beca'se I know you. I tell you I've been blowin' yore horn. I've talked a sight about you, an' you must do yore best an' look yore purtiest. Oh, yore clothes is all right!" (seeing that he was looking doubtfully at his boots and trousers). "They hain't a dressy set over heer." Her husband was leaving the room, and she waited till he had closed the door after him. "I want to talk to you like a mother, John," she said, sitting down near him and holding the bundle of broom between her knees. "The truth is, I've had a sight o' worry over you. I often lie awake at night thinkin' about you, an' wonderin' ef yore ma wouldn't blame me ef she wus alive fer not lookin' atter you more. I've heerd what a solitary life you've been livin' sence she died. God knows she wus a big loss, an' it does bring a great change to part with sech a friend, but, from what I heer, you let 'er death bother you most too much. Why, folks tell me you hain't at all like you used to be, an' that you jest stayed at home an' never went about with the young folks any more. You don't look as well as you did the last time I seed you, nuther. I reckon it's yore way o' living but you jest sha'n't do that away over heer. You've got to be natural like other young folks, an' you jest shall, ef I have anything to say in the matter. John, yore mamma was the best friend I ever had, an'—"
She paused. Luke was hallooing to some one down the road, and Westerfelt heard the rumble of wheels over a distant bridge. Mrs. Bradley went to the door and went out.
"They are comin', the whole caboodle of 'em!" she cried, excitedly. "I declare, I believe I enjoy a party as much as any gal that ever lived, an' at my age, too—it's shameful. I'd be talked about in some places." She laid her hands on the shoulders of her guest, her face beaming. "Now, ef you want to primp up a little an' bresh that hoss-hair off'n yore pants, go in yore room. It's at the end o' the back porch. Alf's already tuck yore saddle-bags thar."
His room was a small one. It had a sloping ceiling, and a little six-paned window. A small, oblong stove stood far enough back in the capacious fireplace to allow its single joint of pipe to stand upright in the chimney. There was a high-posted bed, a wash-stand, a mirror, and a split-bottomed chair.
He sat down in the chair, rested his elbows on his knees, and leaned forward. Despite his determination to begin life anew, he was thinking of Sally Dawson's death and burial—the old woman who was leading the life of a recluse, and hating all her kind, him in particular. He put his hand in his coat-pocket and drew out a thick envelope containing the dead girl's letter, and read it as he had done almost every day since it came to him. It was part of the punishment he was inflicting on himself. He had been tempted a thousand times to destroy the letter, but had never done so. He forgot that a gay party of young people were assembling in the next room; he was oblivious of the noise of moving chairs, the creaking floor, loud laughter, and the hum of voices. Fate had set him aside from the rest of the world, he told himself; he was living two lives, one in the present, the other in the past.
Westerfelt was suddenly reminded of where he was by the sound of some one tuning a fiddle in the sitting-room. He put the letter into his pocket, rose, and brushed his hair before the mirror. There was a clatter of heavy boots in the entry opposite his door; four or five young men had come out to wash their hands in the pans on the long shelf; they were passing jokes, laughing loudly, and playfully striking at one another. Two of them clinched arms and began to wrestle. Westerfelt heard them panting and grunting as they swayed back and forth, till the struggle was ended by one of them shoving the other violently against the wall; Westerfelt opened the door. A stout, muscular young giant was pinning a small man to the weather-boarding and making a pretence at choking him.
"Lord, H'ram, stop!" gasped the victim; "yore sp'ilin' my necktie an' collar."
"'Gin the rules to wear 'em," was the laughing reply. "Heer, Joe, you sprinkle 'im while I hold 'im!"
This command was about to be obeyed, when Mrs. Bradley suddenly appeared.
"Boys, boys, behave!" she cried, and as the wrestlers separated she continued, apologetically, "I clean forgot thar wusn't a sign of a towel on the roller; I wonder what you intended to wipe on; here, take this one, an' hang it up when you're through." Then she turned to Westerfelt's door and looked into his room.
"Are you ready, young man?" she asked.
"Yes," he replied, coming out.
"Gentlemen," she said, "quit thar a minute! This is John Westerfelt, my old friend. Mind you look atter yore intrusts. The boys over in Fannin know how to please the gals. Ef you don't watch sharp he'll cut you every one out."
The two men holding the towel between them gave him their moist hands, and those at the basins nodded. Mrs. Bradley drew him into the sitting-room. The buzz of conversation ceased as she introduced him. They all rose, bowed, and sat down again, but no one spoke. He tried to detain his hostess, but she would not stay.
"I've got to look atter the rest," she said. "You must talk to some o' these folks. They didn't come here jest to look at you. Here, Jennie Wynn, turn yore face round, an' give Frank a chance to talk to Lou." She whisked off into another room, and Westerfelt found himself facing a blushing maiden with a round face, dark hair and eyes.
"Excuse my back," she said over her shoulder to Frank Hansard.
"Ithain'tas purty as yore face, ef youhavegot on a new dress," he replied, laughing.
"Hush, Frank; hain't you got no manners?" She meant that he was showing discourtesy by continuing to talk to her when she had just been introduced to a stranger.
"You ought not to be hard on him," said Westerfelt; "he must have meant what he said."
"You are jest like all the rest, I reckon," she said; "men think girls don't care for nothin' but sweet talk."
Just then the old negro fiddler moved into the chimney-corner and raked his violin with his bow. Jennie Wynn knew that he was about to ask the couples to take their places for the first dance. She did not want Westerfelt to feel obliged to ask her to be his partner, so she pretended to be interested in the talk of a couple on her left.
"Do they dance the lancers?" asked Westerfelt.
"No, jest the reg'lar square dance. Only one or two know the lancers, an' they make a botch of it whenever they try to teach the rest. Uncle Mack cayn't play the music for it, anyway, though he swears he can."
She glanced across the room at a pretty little girl with short curly hair, slender body, and small feet, and added, significantly, "Sarah Wambush is our brag dancer."
He understood what she meant. "Too short for a fellow as tall as I am, though," he said.
"Git yo' pahtners fer de quadrille!" cried the fiddler, in a sing-song voice, quite in harmony with his music. Westerfelt did not want to dance. He had ridden hard that day, and was tired and miserable, but he saw no way of escape. The party had been given in his honor, and he must show appreciation of it.
"Will you dance it with me?" he asked the girl at his side. "I am not a good dancer, and I am stiff from riding to-day."
"Old Mack will soon take that out of you," she laughed, as she gladly nodded her acceptance. She put out her hand to his. "Quick!" she cried; "let's git that place near the door—it's head, and we can be opposite Sarah and Nelse Baker." He followed her across the room. He felt as undignified as if he were romping with a child. The room was not large enough for two sets, so only one of four couples was formed. Old Mack noticed that three couples were left sitting, and cried out, autocratically, "Double on de sides!" Two couples sprang eagerly forward and took places, leaving one couple alone in a corner. The girl remaining with her partner attracted Westerfelt's attention. She had rich brown hair, deep gray eyes, a small, well-shaped mouth, and a rather sad but decidedly pretty face. There was something very graceful and attractive in the general contour of her body—her small waist, her broad shoulders and rounding chest, her well-formed head, and the artistic arrangement of her abundant hair. There was something, too, in the tasteful simplicity of her gray tailor-made gown that reminded Westerfelt of the dress of young ladies he had seen on short visits to the larger towns in the State.
Her companion was the most conspicuous person in the room. He was above medium height, and had a splendid physique—broad shoulders, muscular limbs, light brown eyes, short brown beard, and long curling hair. He wore a navy-blue sack-coat, large checked trousers tucked in the tops of his boots, a gray woollen shirt, and a broad leather belt. He was the only man in the room who had not taken off his hat. It was very broad, the brim was pinned up on one side by a little brass ornament, and he wore it on the back of his head.
Westerfelt caught the eye of his partner, and asked: "Who is the fellow with the hat on?"
"Don't you know him?" she asked, in surprise. "Why, that's Toot Wambush, Sarah's brother."
"Why don't he take off his hat?"
"For want of better sense, I reckon." Then she laughed, impulsively. "I'll tell you why he always keeps it on in the house. He was at a party over at Sand Bank last spring, an'—"
"Han's to yo' pahtners!" cried out Uncle Mack, as he drew his bow across three or four strings at once, producing a harmony of bass, alto, and treble sounds. "Salute de lady on yo' right!"
Whack!
The bridge of the fiddle had fallen. Everybody laughed over Uncle Mack's discomfiture, as he rubbed the rosin out of his eyes and grunted, half amused, half vexed at the accident. He held the violin between his knees and proceeded to adjust the bridge.
"You were telling me why that fellow keeps on his hat," Westerfelt reminded his partner.
"Oh yes!" laughed the girl, "that's so. Toot's never satisfied if he ain't in a row o' some sort. He will always manage to pick a quarrel out of something. He's mighty troublesome, especially when he's drinkin'. He was pretty full over there that night, an' kept dancin' with his hat on. Mis' Lumpkin, who give the dance, asked 'im quietly to take it off an' behave like a gentleman. That made 'im mad, an' he swore he'd die first. Then some o' the boys tuk Mis' Lumpkin's part, an' tol' 'im the hat would come off ur he'd go out. It 'ud be a treat to see Toot Wambush mad if you could feel sure you wouldn't get hit. He clamped his hands together behind 'im an' yelled to Uncle Mack to stop fiddlin'; then he 'lowed ef any man thar tried to oust 'im he'd put windows in 'im. Frank Hansard, Lum Evans, and Andy Treadwell made signs at one another an' closed in on 'im. They didn't fully realize who they had to deal with, though. I hain't got much use for Toot, but he'll fight a circular saw bare-handed. He backed into a corner over a pile o' split pine-knots an' grabbed one that Thad Muntford declared wuz shaped like the jaw-bone o' Samson's ass. It had a long handle an' weighed about fifteen pounds. On my word, it seemed to me he slugged Frank and Andy at exactly the same time. You could 'a' heerd the'r skulls pop to the gate. They both fell kerflop in front of 'im. That left jest Lum Evans facin' 'im 'thout a thing in his hands. He dodged Toot's pine-knot when he swung it at 'im an' then Toot laughed an' thowed it down and shook his fists at 'im, an' tol' 'im to come on for a fair fisticuff. Jest then Frank come to an' started to rise, but Toot sent 'im back with a kick in the face, an' helt 'im down with 'is boot on 'is neck. Andy backed out of the door, an' then Toot ordered Uncle Mack to play, an' tried to get the girls to dance with 'im, but nobody would, so he danced by 'isse'f, while Doc White an' Mis' Lumpkin worked on the wounded men in the next room. Since then Toot has al'ays wore his hat at dances. He swore he never would go to one unless he did."
Westerfelt laughed. "Who's the young lady?" he asked.
"Harriet Floyd. Her mother keeps the hotel. They 'ain't been here so mighty long; they're Tennessee folks."
"Sweethearts?"
"Don't know. He's 'er very shadder. I reckon she likes that sort of a man; she's peculiar, anyway."
"How do you mean?"
"I don't know, but she is." Jennie shrugged her shoulders. "She don't git on with us. In a crowd o' girls she never has much to say; it always seemed to me she was afraid somebody would find out some'n' about 'er. She never mentions Tennessee. But she's a great favorite with all the boys. They'd be a string o' 'em round 'er now, but they don't want to make Toot mad."
"Right han' ter yo' pahtners," called out Uncle Mack, rapping on the back of his fiddle with his bow. "Salute yo' pahtners; balance all!" and the dance began. "Swing corners! Fust fo' for'ards, en back agin!"
"Faster, Unc' Mack!" cried Sarah Wambush, as she swung past the old negro. "That hain't the right time!"
"Wait till he gets limbered up," cried Frank Hansard across to her. "He hain't drawed a bow in two weeks, an' has been ploughin' a two-hoss turnover."
Louder and louder grew the music and the clatter of shoes and boots. The air was filled with dust; old Mack's fiddle could hardly be heard above his shouts and the laughter of the dancers. Luke and Mrs. Bradley stood in the open door leading to the kitchen, both smiling. Mrs. Bradley seemed pleased with the ease with which Westerfelt appeared to be adapting himself to the company.
"Git the straws, Luke!" urged Frank Hansard, as the "grand chain" brought him near Bradley. "Give it to us lively."
"I can't beat straws," said Luke.
Hearing this, old Mack uttered a contradictory guffaw, and shook his gray wool in high amusement.
"Go on, Luke," said his wife, as she pushed him towards the fiddler; "you kin, you know you kin."
Luke edged round between the dancers and the fire, and took two smooth sour-wood sticks from Mack's coat-pocket. The old negro laughed and sang all the louder as he held his head to one side and Luke began to thrum the strings in time to the music.
"Whoo-ee!" shouted Frank, and the dance waxed faster and more noisy, till the exhausted fiddler brought it to an end by crying out:
"Seat yo' pahtners."
Jennie sat down in a row of girls against the wall, and Mrs. Bradley came to Westerfelt.
"You must stir round," she said; "I want you to git acquainted. Come over here an' talk to Sarah Wambush." He followed her across the room. Sarah was seated next to Harriet Floyd. As he sat down near Sarah, he fancied that Harriet, whose profile was towards him, gave him a glance out of the corner of her eye, but she turned her head and continued talking to Toot Wambush. There was something he liked in the ease of her position as she sat, balling her handkerchief in a hand hidden half in the pocket of her jacket. He thought her easily the prettiest girl in the room, and he vaguely resented the fact that she was receiving marked attention from a man of Wambush's character.
He wanted to knock the fellow's hat off, and tell him that a new man had come into the settlement who could not, and would not, stand such nonsense in the presence of ladies.
He listened to Sarah's prattle with only half an ear, adding a word now and then to keep her tongue going, till another dance was called. Nelse Baker asked Sarah to be his partner, and she rose. Finding himself alone, Westerfelt got up. As he did so, he caught another glance from the corner of Harriet Floyd's eye, but she looked away quickly. She thought he was going to ask her to dance with him when he turned towards her, but he had decided to invite a little plain girl who sat next the wall, hemmed in by the crossed legs of Wambush. The girl flushed over the unexpected attention and rose at once.
"That couple don't seem to be dancing," Westerfelt remarked, with a glance at Wambush and Harriet, as he and his partner took a place in front of the fire.
"No," she answered. "Toot sorter sprained his foot at a log-rollin' to-day."
"And she won't dance without him, is that it?"
"She would, but none o' the boys won't ask her when Toot's on hand."
"Ah, I see—engaged?"
"No. I reckon not; but Toot sorter lays claim to 'er though."
"And she don't object?"
She looked up and laughed. "It don't look much like it, does it?"
"I don't know; I never saw them together before."
"Oh, I see; well, he's her regular stand-by; he takes 'er to all the frolics, an' the picnics, an' to meetin'. He lives out at his father's, a mile or so from town, but he gets meals mighty often at the hotel."
As the dance began Westerfelt glanced again at Harriet Floyd. He could not explain the interest he had in her. She was looking straight into his eyes, as if she had divined that he was talking about her. He was almost certain that she colored slightly as she glanced on to Mrs. Bradley.
Mrs. Bradley smiled and moved towards her, between the wall and the flying heels of the revolving circle. Westerfelt, in turning his "lady on the right," came near them as Mrs. Bradley was saying:
"I want you to get acquainted with my Fannin young man, Harriet. He's mighty nice."
At that moment Harriet caught Westerfelt's eye again, and knew that he had heard the remark.
She nodded, and said, evasively, "You are having a nice dance, Mrs. Bradley; they all seem to be enjoying it very much."
Westerfelt had not heard her voice before, and he liked it. He noticed that she did not leave off her final g's, and that she spoke more clearly and correctly than the others. He concluded that she must have received a better education than the average young lady in that section. The dance was nearly ended when Westerfelt saw Wambush bend over and whisper something to her. She nodded, drew her white shawl round her shoulders, rose, and followed him out through the kitchen.
"Gone to try the moonlight," remarked the little gossip at Westerfelt's side, with a knowing smile.
"All promenade!" shouted the fiddler, the dance being over. The couples went outside. They passed Wambush and Harriet on the porch, leaning against the banisters in the moonlight. Her head was covered with her shawl, and her companion was very near her.
"Never mind; we won't bother you," called out Sarah Wambush, who, with Nelson Baker, led the promenaders. "We're goin' down the walk; you needn't run off on our account."
All the others laughed, and Sarah, thinking she had said something bright, added: "Harriet's got a bad cold, an' Buddy's sprained his foot; they're takin' the'r medicine."
This evoked another laugh, but neither Wambush nor his companion heeded it. Westerfelt observed that they turned their backs to the promenaders and seemed to be talking earnestly.
"It's cool out here," said Westerfelt's partner as they were returning from the walk under the arbor of grape-vines. "They are all goin' inside."
At about twelve o'clock the guests began to leave. Harriet Floyd, followed by Wambush, came in hurriedly after most of the others had gone. Westerfelt was near Mrs. Bradley when she came to say good-night. He heard her say she had enjoyed herself very much, but she spoke hurriedly, as if she did not want to be the last to leave. Westerfelt watched them go through the gate, but he turned away when Wambush put his arm round her waist and lifted her lightly into his buggy.
He was sure he would never like the fellow.
Just before Westerfelt went to bed, Bradley looked into his room.
"I 'lowed I'd better take a peep at that stove o' yore'n, an' see that thar ain't any danger o' fire while we are asleep," he said. "How'd you make out to-night?"
"First rate."
"I 'lowed you wus gittin' on well enough—talked to most all the gals, I reckon."
"All but one, I think—that Miss Floyd."
"Ah, Toot's gal; mortgaged property, I reckon, or soon will be; she's as purty as red shoes, though, an' as peert as a cricket."
Westerfelt sat down on the side of his bed and drew off his boots.
"What sort of a man is he, Luke?"
"Bad—bad; no wuss in seven States."
"Fighting man?"
"Yes; an' whiskey an' moonshinin' an' what not; ain't but one good p'int in 'im, an' that hain't wuth much in time o' peace. I reckon ef yo're through with it, I'd better take yore candle; sometimes I have to strike a light 'fore day."
"All right." Westerfelt got into the bed and drew the covers up to his chin. There was a thumping on the floor beneath the house.
"It's the dogs," explained Luke, at the door. "They are a-flirtin' the'r tails about. They'll settle down terrectly. What time do you want to rise in the mornin'?"
"When you do. I'm no hand to lie in bed."
"You'll have to crawl out with the chickens then."
"Luke!"
Bradley turned at the door. "What is it, John?"
"I don't like Wambush's looks."
Bradley laughed, with his hand over his mouth. "Nobody else does to hurt."
"Do you think he would trifle with the affections of a young girl?"
"Would he?" Again Bradley laughed.
"Well, I reckon he would; he is a bad man, I tell you. We'd never 'low him to enter our house, ef we could help it, but he'd raise the very devil ef he was slighted. We'd never heer the end of it. Ef we'd left 'im out to-night I'd 'a' had 'im to fight out thar in the front yard while the party was goin' on. I wouldn't mind it much, but my wife never wanted me in a row."
"This girl he was with to-night, has she father or brothers?"
"No, the's jest her an' 'er mother."
"Isn't it pretty risky for her to go with him so much?"
"Oh, I reckon she kin take care o' herse'f; she has that look to me; besides, she's been warned; my wife an' among 'em has talked to her plenty o' times. I reckon she knows what he is well enough. Do you know I had my eye on you an' her to-night?"
"What do you mean, Luke?" Westerfelt managed to avoid meeting the eye of his host as he put the question. He could not remember ever having waited for a reply with more concern.
"Oh, I don't know," smiled Bradley, knowingly; "but somehow you an' her seemed to me to be head an' shoulders above the rest o' that silly crowd. The idee just popped into my head that you'd make a spankin' team, an' then ag'in" (Bradley laughed) "I tuck notice that you never went up to 'er an' talked to her free-like, as you did to most o' the rest, an' I remembered I wus jest that big a fool when I fust met Marthy. But you wus a-watchin' of her, though. I'll bet ef you looked at 'er once you did forty times. As for her, I happen to know some'n funny. You see, I heerd her an' Wambush a-talkin' on the back porch when I went out thar to draw up a bucket o' water. The rope had got tangled somehow, an' I had to fix it, an' while I was doin' of it I couldn't help heerin' what they said, beca'se Toot wus as mad as a wet hen, an' didn't keer a dern who heerd 'im."
"Mad—at her?" ejaculated Westerfelt.
"Yes; it seemed that he had bantered her to say what she thought about you, an' she'd up an' told him you wus about the best-lookin' man she'd ever seed, an' that you looked like a born gentleman, an' one thing anuther. I couldn't heer all that passed betwixt 'em, but he wus as nigh a' explosion as I ever seed 'im git without goin' off. You'd better look out. He won't do to meddle with. He's a bad egg—an' tricky."
When Bradley had gone, leaving his guest in the dark, Westerfelt found himself unable to sleep for thinking of what Luke had said.
"I wonder, really," he mused, "why I didn't talk to her as I did to the others, for I certainly wanted to bad enough."
Westerfelt's room at the stable was at the head of a flight of steps leading up from the office. It had only a single window, but it commanded a partial view of several roads leading into the village, and a sparse row of houses on the opposite side of the street. In front of the stable stood a blacksmith shop, and next to it, on the right, the only store in the village. The store building had two rooms, the front being used for dry-goods, groceries, and country produce, the one in the rear as the residence of the storekeeper. Next to the store, in a sort of lean-to, whitewashed shed with green shutters, was a bar-room. Farther on in this row, opposite the jail of the place, and partially hidden by the thinning foliage of sycamore, chestnut, and mulberry trees, was the hotel. It was the only two-storied building in the village. It had dormer windows in the roof and a long veranda in front.
Somehow this building interested Westerfelt more than any of the others. He told himself it was because he intended to get his meals there. Finally he decided, as he was not to dine that day with the Bradleys, that he ought to go over at once and speak to the landlady about his board. As he arranged his cravat before the little walnut-framed mirror, which the stable-boys in placing his furniture had hung on the wall, together with a hairbrush and a comb tied to strings, he wondered, with no little pleasurable excitement, if Harriet Floyd had anything to do with the management of the house, and if he would be apt to meet her that morning.
Descending to the office on his way out, he found a young man writing at a desk. It was William Washburn, the book-keeper for the former owners of the livery-stable, whom Westerfelt had retained on Bradley's recommendation. Washburn was copying accounts from a ledger on to sheets of paper.
"How are they running?" asked Westerfelt, looking over the young man's shoulder.
"Lots of 'em hain't wuth the paper they are on," replied Washburn. "The old firm knowed everybody in creation, an' never could refuse a soul. When you bought the accounts you didn't buy gold dollars."
"I know that, but Bradley said he thought I might collect a good many of them."
"Oh yes; maybe a half, or tharabouts."
"Well," said Westerfelt, indifferently, "we'll do the best we can."
"Thar's a big un that's no good." Washburn pointed to an account he had just copied.
"Who's it on?"
"Toot Wambush."
"How much?"
"Seventy-eight dollars an' fifty cents. It's been runnin' on fer two yeer, an' thar hain't a single credit on it. He never was knowed to pay a cent to nobody."
"Don't let anything out to him till the account is paid."
Washburn looked up with a dubious smile. "He'll raise a' awful row. He never wants to go anywhar tell he's drinkin', an' then he's as ill as a snake an' will fight at the drop of a hat. Nobody in Cartwright dares to refuse 'im credit."
"I will, if he doesn't pay up."
"D' y' ever see 'im?"
"Yes, last night."
"I'd be cautious if I wus you; he's a dangerous man, an' takes offence at the slightest thing."
"If he gets mad at me for refusing to let him drive my horses when he owes a bill like that, and won't pay it, he can do so. I obey the law myself, and I will not let drunkards run my business to suit themselves."
"He's talking 'bout goin' out to his father's this morning, an' wants to drive the same rig he had last night."
"I did not know he had my turnout last night."
"Yes, you wusn't heer, an' I knowed he'd make trouble if I refused him."
"That's all right, but don't let him get in any deeper till the old debt is settled. I'm going over to the hotel a minute."
It was a warm day for October, and the veranda of the hotel was crowded with loungers, homely men in jeans, slouched hats, and coarse brogans. Some of them sat on the benches, supported by the square columns, at the end of the veranda; a few had tilted their chairs against the wall, and others stood in groups and talked county politics.
They all eyed Westerfelt curiously, and some of them nodded and said "Howdy do" as he passed. He entered the parlor on the right of the long hall which ran through the centre of the main wing. A slovenly negro girl was sweeping the hearth. She leaned her broom against the cottage organ and went to call her mistress.
A sombre rag carpet was on the floor, and a rug made of brilliant red and blue scraps of silk lay in front of the fire. On a centre-table, covered with a red flannel cloth, stood a china vase, filled with colored leaves and grasses, and lying near it was a plush photograph album. The rest of the furniture consisted of an ancient hair-cloth sofa, an old rocking-chair, the arms of which had been tied on with twine, and a sewing-machine. The windows had cheap lace curtains, stiff enough to stand alone, and green shades with tinselled decorations. The plastered walls were whitewashed and the ceiling was faded sky-blue.
He heard a door close somewhere in the rear, and then with a light step Harriet Floyd entered.
"Good-morning," she said, slightly embarrassed. "Mother was busy, and so she asked me to come in."
"I believe we were introduced, in a general way, last night," he said. "I hope you remember."
"Oh yes, indeed," she made answer.
He thought she was even prettier in the daylight in her simple calico dress and white apron than she had appeared the evening before, and he was conscious that the sharp realization of this fact was causing him to pause unnecessarily long before speaking in his turn. But he simply could not help it; he experienced a subtle pleasure he could not explain in watching her warm, slightly flushed face. Her eyes held a wonderful charm for him. There seemed to be a strange union of forces between her long lashes and the pupils of her eyes, the like of which he believed he had never met before.
"I've come to see if I can get my meals here," he said. "It is near my place of business, and I've heard a lot of good things about your mother's table."
"We always have plenty of room," she answered, simply. "Mother will be glad to have you. Won't you take a seat?" She sat down on the sofa and he took a chair opposite her.
"I suppose you enjoyed the party last night," he said, tentatively.
He fancied she raised her brows a little and glanced at him rather steadily, but she looked down when she replied.
"Yes; Mrs. Bradley always gives us a good time."
"But you were not dancing."
"No, I don't care much for it, and Toot—Mr. Wambush—had sprained his foot and said he'd rather not dance."
"That was very kind of you. Not many girls would be so considerate of a fellow's feelings."
She looked down at a brindled cat that came into the room and rubbed its side against her skirt.
"I don't think girls care enough about the feelings of men," she answered, after a little pause. "If they would treat them nicer they would be better."
"You think women can reform men then?"
"Yes, I do; though a man that drinks is mighty hard to manage. Sometimes they can't help it, and they drink more when women show that they have lost confidence in them."
He liked what she had said, notwithstanding its being an indirect defence of Wambush, but was prevented from answering by hearing his name angrily called in the street. This was followed by heavy footsteps on the veranda.
"Whar is that d——d livery man?" The voice was now in the hall.
"It's Toot Wambush!" cried the girl, rising quickly and turning to the door. "I am afraid he—" Just then the young ruffian entered. His red face and unsteady walk showed that he had been drinking.
"Say, Miss Harriet, have you seed—oh, heer you are!"—he broke off as he noticed Westerfelt. "You are the one man in the United Kingdom that I want to see jest at this present moment. Bill Washburn 'lowed he had orders from you not to let me have anything out'n yore shebang; is that so?"
"I'd rather not talk business here," replied Westerfelt. He rose and coolly looked Wambush in the face. "If you say so, we'll walk across to the stable."
"No," sneered Wambush, "this heer's good enough fur me; I hain't got no secrets frum them mount'in men out thar nur this young lady. I jest want ter know now—rightnow, by Glory! ef you ever give sech orders."
"Do you think this is a proper place to settle such a matter?" calmly asked Westerfelt.
"D——d you; you are a coward; you are afeerd to say so!"
Harriet Floyd, with a white, startled face, tried to slip between the two men, but Wambush roughly pushed her aside.
"Youareafeerd!" he repeated, shaking his fist in Westerfelt's face.
"No, I'm not," replied Westerfelt. The corners of his mouth were drawn down and his chin was puckered. "I have fought some in my life, and sometimes I get as mad as the next one, but I still try to be decent before ladies. This is no place to settle a difficulty."
"Will you do it outside, then?" sneered Wambush.
Westerfelt hesitated, and looked at the crowd that filled the door and stood peering in at the window. Mrs. Floyd was running up and down in the hall, excitedly calling for Harriet, but the crowd was too anxious to hear Westerfelt's reply to notice her.
"If nothing else will suit you, yes," answered Westerfelt, calmly. "I don't think human beings ought to spill blood over a matter of business, and I don't like to fight a man that's drinking, but since you have behaved so in this lady's presence, I'm really kinder in the notion."
"Come on, then," blustered Wambush. "I'm either yore meat or you are mine." He turned to the door and pushed the crowd before him as he stamped out of the hall into the street.
Harriet ran between Westerfelt and the door. She put her hands on his shoulders and looked at him beseechingly. "Don't go out there," she pleaded; "stay here and let him cool off; he is drinking! He's a dangerous man."
He took her hands and held them for an instant and then dropped them. "I'm afraid he's been humored too much," he smiled. "I'd never have any respect for myself if I was to back down now. I've known his kind to be cured by a good, sound thrashing, when nothing else would do any good."
She raised her hands again, but he avoided her gently and went out into the street. Wambush stood on the sidewalk a few yards from the door, one booted foot on the curbstone, the other on the ground. He had thrown his broad-brimmed hat on the ground, and tossed his long hair back over his shoulders. His left hand rested on his raised knee, his right was in the pocket of his short coat.
"Come on, if you ain't too weak-kneed," he jeered, as Westerfelt appeared on the veranda.
Westerfelt advanced towards Wambush, but when he was within a few feet of him, Wambush suddenly drew a revolver, cocked it, and deliberately raised it. Westerfelt stopped and looked straight into Wambush's eyes.
"I'm unarmed," said he; "I never carry a pistol; is that the way you do your fighting?"
"That's yore lookout, not mine, d——n you!"
Just then Luke Bradley ran up the sidewalk and out on the veranda near Westerfelt. He had a warning on his lips, but seeing the critical situation he said nothing. A white, tigerish look came into the face of Westerfelt. The cords of his neck tightened as he leaned slowly towards Wambush. He was about to spring.
"Don't be a fool, John," cautioned Bradley. "Be ashamed o' yorese'f, Toot! Drap that gun, an' fight like a man ur not at all!"
Wambush's eye ran along the revolver, following every movement of Westerfelt's with the caution of a panther watching dangerous prey.
"One more inch and you are a dead man!" he said, slowly.
Mrs. Floyd, who was on the veranda, cried out and threw her arms round Harriet, who seemed ready to run between the two men. No one quite saw how it happened, but Westerfelt suddenly bent near the earth and sprang forward. Wambush's revolver went off over his head, and before he could cock it again, Westerfelt, with a swift sweep of his arm, had sent it spinning through a window-pane in the hotel.
"Ah!" escaped somebody's lips in the silent crowd, and the two men, closely on the alert, faced each other.
"Part 'em, men; what are you about?" cried Mrs. Floyd.
"Yes, part 'em," laughed a man on the edge of the crowd; "somebody 'll get his beauty spiled; Toot kin claw like a pant'er; I don't know what t'other man kin do, but he looks game."
"No, let 'em fight it out fa'r an' squar'," suggested red-faced Buck Hillhouse, the bar-keeper, in the autocratic tone he used in conducting cock-fights in his back yard.
The blood had left Westerfelt's face. Wambush's eyes gleamed desperately; disarmed, he looked less a man than an infuriated beast. Westerfelt was waiting for him to make the attack, but, unlike his antagonist, was growing calmer every second. All at once Wambush sent his right arm towards Westerfelt's face so quickly that the spectators scarcely saw it leave his side, but it was not quicker than Westerfelt's left, which skilfully parried the thrust. Then, before Toot could shield himself, Westerfelt struck him with the force of a battering-ram squarely in the mouth.
Wambush whined in pain, spat blood from gashed lips, and shook his head like a lion wounded in the mouth. He ran backward a few feet to recover himself, and then, with a mad cry, rushed at Westerfelt and caught him by the throat. Westerfelt tried to shake him off, but he was unsuccessful. He attempted to strike him in the face, but Wambush either dodged the thrusts or caught them in his thick hair. It seemed that Westerfelt's only chance now was to throw his assailant down, but his strength had left him, Wambush's claws had sunk into his neck like prongs of steel. He could not breathe.
"Hit 'im in the bread-basket, John!" cried Luke Bradley.
It was a happy suggestion. Westerfelt struck Wambush in the stomach. With a gasp and an oath, Wambush doubled up and released Westerfelt's throat. The two men now clinched breast to breast, and, with arms round each other's bodies, each began to try to throw the other down. They swung back and forth and from side to side, but they were well mated.
Westerfelt suddenly threw his left leg behind Wambush's heels and began to force him backward. In an instant Wambush would have gone down, but seeing his danger he wriggled out of Westerfelt's grasp, drew something from his coat pocket, and sprang towards him.
"Knife! knife! knife!" cried Luke Bradley in alarm. "Part 'em!"
"Yes, part 'em!" echoed the bar-keeper with an oath, as if the edge of his pleasure had been taken off by the more serious turn of affairs. Several men ran towards Wambush, but they were not quick enough. He had stabbed Westerfelt once in the breast and drawn back his arm for another thrust, when Luke Bradley caught his wrist. Wambush struck at Bradley with his left hand, but the bar-keeper caught it, and between him and Bradley, Wambush was overpowered.
"The sheriff's coming!" a voice exclaimed, as a big man rode up quickly and dismounted.
"Hello!" he cried, "I summon you, Buck Hillhouse, and Luke Bradley, in the name o' the law to 'rest Wambush. Take that knife from 'im!"
"Arrest the devil!" came from Wambush's bloody lips. He made a violent effort to free himself, but the two men held him.
"I'll he'p yer, whether you deputize me or not!" grunted Bradley, as he hung to the hand which still held the knife, "I'll he'p yer cut 'is d——d throat, the cowardly whelp!"
"I've got nothin' 'gin nuther party," said the bar-keeper, "but I reckon I'll have to obey the law."
"He's attempted deliberate murder on a unarmed man," Bradley informed the sheriff; "fust with a gun an' then with a knife. Ef you don't jail 'im, Bale Warlick, you'll never hold office in Cohutta Valley agin."
The sheriff stepped up to Wambush.
"Drap that knife!" he ordered. "Drap it!"
"Go to h——!" Toot ceased his struggling and glared defiantly into the face of the sheriff.
"Drap that knife!" The sheriff was becoming angered. He grasped Wambush's hand and tried to take the knife away, but Toot's fingers were like coils of wire.
"I'll see you damned fust!" grunted Wambush, and, powerless to do anything else, he spat in the sheriff's face.
"d——n you, I'll kill you!" roared Warlick, and he struck Wambush on the jaw. Wambush tried to kick him in the stomach, but Bradley prevented it by jerking him backward. It now became a struggle between three men and one, and that one really seemed equal in strength to the other three.
"Drap the knife!" yelled Warlick again, and he drew a big revolver, and with the butt of it began to hammer Toot's clinched fingers. As he did this, Bradley and Hillhouse drew Wambush backward and down to the ground.
"I'll pay you for this, Bale Warlick," he groaned in pain, but he still held to the knife.
"Let go that knife," thundered the sheriff. "Let it a-loose, I tell you, or I'll mash your skull!"
"Not while I hold 'im, Bale," said the bar-keeper, sullenly. "Law or no law, I won't he'p beat no man 'at's down!"
"Let go that knife!" The sheriff spoke the last word almost in a scream, and he beat Wambush's knuckles so furiously that the knife fell to the ground.
He then pinned Toot's legs to the earth with his knees, and held the knife up to a man in the crowd.
"Keep it jest like it is fur evidence," he panted. "Don't shet it up or tetch the blade."
Disarmed, Wambush seemed suddenly overcome with fear. He allowed the sheriff to jerk him to his feet, and walked passively between the three men across the street to the stone jail.
Westerfelt stood alone on the sidewalk. Everybody went to see Wambush locked up except Harriet and her mother. They instantly came out to Westerfelt. Harriet picked up a folded piece of letter paper.
"Did you drop this?" she asked.
He did not reply, but took the paper absently and thrust it into his coat pocket. It had fallen from Wambush's pocket. He was very white and leaned heavily against a sycamore-tree.
"Oh, he's cut your coat; look!" Harriet cried.
Still he did not speak. He looked down at the slit in the cloth and raised his hand towards it, but his arm fell limply and he swayed from side to side.
"Are you hurt?" asked Mrs. Floyd, anxiously.
"I think not," he said; "but maybe I am, a little."
Harriet opened his coat and screamed, "Oh, mother, he's cut! Look at the blood!"
He tried to button his coat, but could not use his fingers. "Only a scratch," he said.
"But your clothes are wet with blood," Harriet insisted, as she pointed to his trousers.
He stooped and felt them. They were damp and heavy. Then he raised his heel in his right boot, and let it down again.
"It's full," he said, with a sickly smile. "I reckon Ihavelost some blood. Why—why, I didn't feel it."
Martin Worthy, the storekeeper, ran across from the jail ahead of the others. Hearing Westerfelt's remark, he cried:
"My Lord! you must go inside an' lie down; fix a place, Miss Harriet, an' send fer a doctor, quick!"
Harriet ran into the house, and Mrs. Floyd and Worthy supported Westerfelt between them into a room adjoining the parlor. They made him lie on a bed, and Worthy opened his waistcoat and shirt.
"Good gracious, it's runnin' like a wet-weather spring," he said. "Have you sent fer a doctor?" he asked as Harriet came in.
"Yes; Dr. Lash, but he may not be at his office."
"Send for Dr. Wells," he ordered a man at the door. "That's right," he added to Harriet, who had knelt by the bed and was holding the lips of the wound together, "keep the cut closed as well as you kin! I'll go tell 'im to use my hoss."
As he went out there was a clatter of feet on the veranda. The people were returning from the jail. Westerfelt opened his eyes and looked towards the door.
"They'll crowd in here," said Harriet to her mother. "Shut the door; don't let anybody in except Mr. Bradley."
Mrs. Floyd closed the door in the face of the crowd, asking them to go outside, but they remained in the hall, silent and awed, waiting for news of the wounded man. Mrs. Floyd admitted Luke Bradley.
"My heavens, John, I had no idea he got such a clean sweep at you!" he said, as he approached the bed. "Ef I'd a-knowed this I'd 'a' killed the dirty scamp!"
"I'm all right," replied Westerfelt; "just a little loss of blood." But his voice was faint and his eyelids drooped despite his effort to keep them open. Worthy rapped at the door and was admitted.
"Doc Lash has rid out to Widow Treadwell's," he announced. "He's been sent fer, an' ort ter git heer before long. It'll take a hour to git Wells, even ef he's at home."
Harriet Floyd glanced at her mother when she heard this. Her knees ached and her fingers felt stiff and numb, but she dared not stir.
Once Westerfelt opened his eyes and looked down at her.
"Do I hurt you?" she asked, softly.
"Not a bit." He smiled, and his eyes lingered on her face till their lids dropped over them.