"By George!" exclaimed Bradley, as they drove away, "you certainly lit on your feet when you struck that house. It looks like it 'ud pay you to git stabbed every day in the week; it's paid the community, the Lord knows, fer it is shet of the biggest dare-devil that wus ever in it. The ol' lady seems to have about as bad a case on you as the gal. I've been thar a time or two to ax about you, an' I never seed the like o' stirrin' round fixin' things they 'lowed would suit yore taste."
"They have been mighty good to me, indeed," answered the young man, simply. "I don't think I could have had such thoughtful attention, even at home."
"I don't like fer anything to puzzle me," said Luke, with a little laugh, "an' I'll swear Miss Harriet's a riddle. I would a-swore on the stand a week ago that she wus as big a fool about Wambush as a woman kin git to be, but now—well, I reckon she's jest like the rest. Let the feller they keer fer git a black eye an' have bad luck, an' they'll sidle up to the fust good-lookin' cuss they come across. A man that reads novels to git his marryin' knowledge frum is in pore business; besides the book hain't writ that could explain a woman unless it is the Great Book, an' it wouldn't fit no woman o' this day an' time."
"You think, then, Luke," said Westerfelt, "that a good woman—a real good woman—could love twice in—in a short space of time?"
"Gewhillikins! What a question; they kin love a hundred times before you kin say Jack Robinson with yore mouth open. When you git married, John, you must make up your mind that yo're marryin' fer some'n else besides dern foolishness. The Bible says the prime intention of the business wus to increase an' multiply; ef you an' yore wife ever git to multiplyin', you an' her won't find much time to suck thumbs an' talk love an' pick flowers an' press 'em in books an' the like. Folks may say what they damn please about women lovin' the most; it's the feller mighty nigh ever' whack that acts the fool. I was plumb crazy about Marthy, an' used to be afeerd she wus so fur gone on me that she wouldn't take a sufficient supply o' victuals to keep up 'er strength. That wus when I was courtin' of 'er an' losin' sleep, an' one thing or other. After we wus married, though, me an' 'er mother come to words one day about a shoat pig she claimed had her mark on its yeer an' was penned up with mine, an' she up an' told me out o' spite that the very night before me 'n' Marthy got married, Ward Billingsley wus thar at the house tryin' to get 'er to run off with him, an' that Marthy come as nigh as pease a-doin' of it. Her maw said she'd a-gone as shore as preachin' ef she'd a-had a dress fitten to take the trip on the train in. I reckon it wus every word the truth, fer to this day Marthy won't deny it; but it don't make a bit of difference to me now. Marthy would a-done as well by Ward as she did by me, I reckon. When women once git married they come down to hard-pan like a kickin' mule when it gits broke to traces."
Westerfelt drew the blankets closer about him. The road had taken a sharp turn round the side of a little hill, and the breeze from the wide reach of level valley lands was keen and piercing. Bradley's volubility jarred on him. It brought an obnoxious person back, and roughly, into the warm memory of Harriet Floyd's presence, and gentle, selfless tenderness. He ground his teeth in agony. He had just been debating in his mind the possibility of his being, in consideration of his own mistakes, able to take the girl, in her new love, into his heart and hold her there forever, but if she loved Wambush, as, of course, she once did, might she not later love some other man—or might she not even think—remember—Wambush?
"Great God!" He uttered the words aloud, and Bradley turned upon him in surprise.
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing," said Westerfelt; "my wound twinged just a little, that is all."
"I was driving too fast over these rocks anyway," said Bradley, solicitously.
The horse stopped at a clear mountain stream that leaped in a succession of waterfalls down the sheer hill-side into the valley. Bradley got out to loosen the bridle to allow the animal to drink, and stood with one foot on the shore and the other on a brown stone in the water. Try as he would, Westerfelt could not banish Harriet from his mind. Her sweet personality seemed to be trying to defend itself against the unworthy thoughts which fought for supremacy in his mind. He thought of her wonderful care of him in his illness; her unfailing tenderness and sympathy when he was suffering; her tears—yes, he was sure he had detected tears in her eyes one day when the doctor was giving him unusual pain in dressing his wound. Ah, how sweet that was to remember! and yet the same creature had loved a man no higher than Wambush; had even sobbed out a confession of her love in the arms of his father. Such was the woman, but he loved her with the first real love of his life.
The next day but one, Westerfelt, feeling sufficiently strong, was driven by Washburn down to the livery-stable, where he sat in the warm sunshine against the side of the house. While sitting there watching the roads which led down to the village from the mountains, he was surprised to see Peter Slogan ride up on his bony bay horse and alight.
"Howdy' do, John?" he said. "I wus jest passin' on my way home an' thought I'd halt an' ax about that cut o' yore'n."
"Oh, I'm doing pretty well, Peter," answered Westerfelt, as he extended his hand without rising. "But I didn't know that you ever got this far from home."
"Hain't once before, since I went to fight the Yanks," grinned Slogan. "Seems to me I've rid four hundred an' forty-two miles on that churndasher thar. My legs is one solid sore streak from my heels up, an' now it's beginnin' to attact my spine-bone. I'm too ol' an' stiff to bear down right in the stirrups, I reckon."
"What has brought you over here?" asked Westerfelt, with a smile.
Slogan took out his clay pipe with its cane stem and knocked it on the heel of his boot, then he put it into his mouth and blew through it till the liquid nicotine cracked audibly. "I've been huntin'," he said, dryly. "In my day an' time I've been on all sorts o' hunts, from bear an' deer down to yaller-hammers, but I waited till I wus in my sixty-fifth year—goin' on sixty-six—'fore I started out huntin' fer a dad-blasted woman."
"A woman!" exclaimed the listener.
"You could guess who it wus ef you'd make a stab ur two at it," Slogan made answer, as he scratched a match and began to smoke. "Day before yesterday Clariss' went out in the yard to rake up a apron o' chips, an' happened to take notice that thar wusn't a sign o' smoke comin' out o' the old woman's chimney. It was cold enough to freeze hard boiled eggs, an' she 'lowed some'n had gone wrong down at the cabin, so she run in whar I wus, skeerd into kinniptions. 'Mr. Slogan,' sez she, 'I believe sister's friz in 'er bed, ur dropped off sudden, fer as shore as yore a-smokin' in that cheer, thar ain't a speck o' fire in 'er chimney.' Well, I wus in my stockin' feet, like I ginerally am when I want to take it easy before a fire on a cold day, an' I slid my feet into my shoes as quick as I could an' went out an' took a look. Shore enough, thar wusn't a bit o' smoke about the cabin. So I tol' Clariss' to run down an' see what wus wrong, but she wouldn't budge out o' her tracks. You see, she ain't never felt right about the way she used to do the old woman, an' I reckon she wus afeerd her dead body would do a sight more accusin'—I dunno, she wouldn't go a step fer some reason ur other, but she stood thar twistin' 'er hands an' cryin' an' beggin' me to do her duty. I tol' 'er the last time I wus thar the ol' huzzy wouldn't so much as notice me, an' that I'd had 'nough trouble lookin' atter my own pore kin without galivantin' about atter my kin by a' unfortunate marriage, but nothin' would do 'er but fer me to go, so I did, an' found the old woman had run clean off. Well, when I told Clariss' that, she mighty nigh had a fit. She swore she had driv her sister desperate by her conduct in the past an' that 'er body would be found as stiff as a bar o' iron in the woods some'rs whar she wus tryin' to keep warm. So the long an' short of it wus that me 'n' my hoss had to start out."
"And you have found her?" asked the young man, now thoroughly concerned.
"You bet I did, after scourin' the entire face of creation. I traced 'er frum one old acquaintance to another, till last night I run up on 'er over at Bill Wyman's, ten miles down the valley. It was ten o'clock when I got thar, an' as cold as a cake o' ice in the small o' yore back. I called Bill out in his shift on the porch. I was mighty nigh friz, an' I reckon he soon got that away, fer he kept dancin' about fust on one foot an' then on another, while we talked. He admitted she wus thar, but he wouldn't let me stay all night, although I offered to plank down the usual price fer man an' beast. She'd been talkin' to him, I could see that, fer he up an' said some'n about folks bein' churched in his settlement fer the mistreatment o' widows, but he'd admit, he said, that he wusn't posted on the manners an' customs uv all the places over beyant the mount'in; he reckoned the nigher people got to the railroad the furder they wus from the cross. I tried to reason with 'im, but he said ef I wanted to argue my case, I'd better come round in the summer.
"Thar wusn't any other house nigher'n six miles, an' so I made me a fire in a little cove by the road, an' set over it an' thought, mostly about women, all night. I've heerd preachers say a man oughtn't to think too much about women anyway, but I reckon I backslid last night, fer I thought hard about mighty nigh ever' woman I ever seed or heerd of."
"How has Mrs. Dawson been getting on since I left?" ventured Westerfelt.
"Just about as bad as she knowed how, I reckon, John. After you left, she seemed to take 'er spite out on Lizzie Lithicum. Liz never could pass anywhar nigh 'er without havin' the old cat laugh out loud at 'er. Liz has been goin' with that cock-eyed Joe Webb a good deal—you know he's jest about the porest ketch anywhars about, an' that seemed to tickle Mis' Dawson mightily. I reckon somebody told 'er some'n Liz said away back when you fust started to fly around 'er. I axed Clem Dill ef he knowed anything about it, an' Clem 'lowed Liz had kind o' made fun o' Sally about you gittin' tired uv 'er, an' one thing ur other. I dunno; I cayn't keep up with sech things. I jest try to find 'em out once in awhile because Clariss' is sech a hand to want to know. When she gits to rantin' about anythin' I've done—ur hain't done—all I got to do to shet 'er up is to start to tell 'er some'n somebody's has said about somebody else, an' she gits 'er cheer. So I try to keep a stock o' things on hand. Clem Dill's afeerd o' Mis' Dawson now. I was in the store one day about a week ago, an' she come in to swap a pair o' wool socks she had knit fer coffee, an' Clem 'lowed, jest to pass the time, while he wus at the scales, he'd ax 'er what ailed her an' Lizzie, anyway. But I reckon Clem has quit axin' fool questions, fer she turned on 'im like a tiger-cat. Sez she:
"'Liz Lithicum dared to say my child made a fool o' herse'f about John Westerfelt. That's exactly what Liz an' other folks sez about yore wife. I don't see what right you have to ax me sech a question.' Well, sir, Clem was so much set back 'at he couldn't hardly speak, an' he spilled a scoop o' coffee on the counter 'fore he could get it into the old woman's poke. After she had gone out, laughin' in her sneakin' way, Clem come back whar I wus at by the stove an' set down an' spit about two dozen times. Arter 'while he axed me ef I'd ever heerd the talk about his wife, an' I eased him all I could, but, lawsy me, you ort ter see 'im hop up an' bow an' scrape when old Sue comes in the store now. Clem ain't a jealous man—I reckon he's been married too long for that. In my courtin' days I used to be jealous actually of Clariss's own daddy, but now I make a habit o' invitin' the preacher to our house every third Sunday so I kin git a decent meal an' set an' smoke in the kitchen. John, you don't seem to be any nigher marryin' now than you wus awhile back."
Westerfelt smiled, but made no reply.
"Well, you'd better keep on a-thinkin' it over," counselled Slogan, as he took the saddle and blanket from his horse and examined a rubbed spot on the animal's back; "thar's a heap more fun marryin' in a body's mind than before a preacher; the law don't allow a feller but one sort of a wife, but a single man kin live alone, an' fancy he's got any kind he wants, an' then she won't be eternally a-yellin' to 'im to fetch in fire-wood. A young feller kin make a woman a sight more perfect than the Creator ever did, an' He's had a sight o' practice. I reckon the Lord made 'em like they are to keep men humble and contrite an' to show up to advantage His best work on t'other shore. But so long, John, I must be goin'."
It was a dark night two weeks later. Westerfelt, quite recovered from his illness, was returning from a long ride through the mountains, where he had been in search of a horse that had strayed from the stable.
The road along the mountain-side was narrow and difficult to follow. At times he was obliged to ascend places so steep that he had to hold to the mane of his horse to keep from falling off.
At the foot of a mountain about two miles from Cartwright, he heard voices ahead of him. He stopped, peered through the foliage, and, a few paces farther on, saw a wagon containing a couple of barrels. Near it stood two men in slouched hats and jeans clothing.
"Thought shore I heerd some'n," said one of them.
"Which away?" asked the other.
"Sounded to me like a hoss up on the mount'in."
There was a silence for a moment, then the first voice said:
"No, not that away. Listen! It's somebody comin' up the road on foot. I reckon it's a friend, but I don't take no resks."
The two men stepped quickly to the wagon and took out a couple of rifles. Then they stood motionless behind the wagon and horse. Westerfelt heard the regular step of some one coming up the road.
"Hello thar!" cried one of the men at the wagon.
"Hello!" was the answer.
"Stand in yore tracks! What's the password?"
"Joe Dill's good 'nough pass-word fer me; I don't try to keep up with all the pop-doodle you fellers git up."
"Joe Dill will do in this case, bein' as yore a good liquor customer. What'll you have, Joseph?"
"A gallon o' mash—this jug jest holds that amount up to the neck. Gi'me a swallow in a cup, I'm as dry as powder. What do you-uns mean by bein' in the business ef you cayn't send out a load oftener'n this? I'll start to 'stillin' myse'f. I know how the dang truck's made; nothin' but corn-meal an' water left standin' till it rots, an'—"
"Revenue men's as thick through heer as flies in summer-time," broke in the man at the faucet. "Sh! what's that?"
Westerfelt's horse had stepped on a dry twig. There was silence for a moment, then Dill laughed softly.
"Nothin' but a acorn drappin'. You fellers is afeerd o' yore shadders; what does the gang mean by sendin' out sech white-livered chaps?" The only sound for a moment was the gurgling of the whiskey as it ran into the jug. "How's Toot like his isolation?" concluded Dill, grunting as he lifted the jug down from the wagon.
"It's made a wuss devil 'n ever out'n 'im," was the answer. "He don't do a blessed thing now but plot an' plan fer revenge. He's beginnin' to think that hotel gal's gone back on 'im an' tuk to likin' the feller he fit that day. My Lord, that man'll see the day he'll wish he'd never laid eyes on Wambush."
"I hain't in entire sympathy with Toot." It was Dill's voice. "That is to say, not entire!"
"Well, don't say so, ef you know what's good fer you."
"Oh, it's a free country, I reckon."
"Don't you believe it!"
"What's Toot gwine to do?"
"I don't know, but he'll hatch out some'n."
Westerfelt's horse had been standing on the side of a little slope, and the soft earth suddenly gave way beneath his hind feet, and in regaining a firm footing he made a considerable noise. There was nothing now for Westerfelt to do but to put a bold face on the matter.
"Get up," he said, guiding his horse down towards the men.
"Halt!" commanded one of the moonshiners. All three of them were now huddled behind the wagon.
"Hello!" answered Westerfelt, drawing rein; "I'm lookin' for an iron gray, flea-bitten horse that strayed away from the livery-stable this morning; have you fellows seen anything of him?"
"No, I hain't." This in a dogged tone from a slouched hat just above a whiskey barrel.
There was a pause.
"I don't think anybody could have taken him," continued Westerfelt, pleasantly.
"Hain't seed 'im." The speaker struck the wagon-bed with his rifle as he was trying to put it down behind the barrels without being seen.
"The left hand road leads to town, I believe?" said Westerfelt, riding away.
"Yes, but take the right at the next fork."
About half a mile farther on he saw two horsemen, approaching. When quite near they stopped.
"Howdy' do?" said one, eying Westerfelt suspiciously.
"How are you?" answered Westerfelt.
"We are revenue men; we're after a couple o' men and a wagon loaded with whiskey. Seen anything of them?"
Westerfelt was silent. The revenue officer who had spoken rested his elbow on his thigh and leaned towards him.
"Looky' here," he said, deliberately; "we don't know one another, but there may be no harm in tellin' you if you try to throw us off the track you lay yoreself liable to complicity. We've had about as much o' that sort o' treatment round heer as we are going to put up with."
"I'm not on the witness-stand," said Westerfelt, pleasantly; "I'm only looking for a stray horse."
"Let's go on," said the other Officer to his companion. "We are on the right road; he's seed 'em ur he'd a-denied it. Let's not lose time."
"I'm with you," was the reply; then to Westerfelt: "You are right, you hain't on the witness-stand, but ef we wanted to we could mighty easy arrest you on suspicion and march you back to jail to be questioned by the inspectors."
Westerfelt smiled, "You'd have to feed me at the expense of the government, and I'm as hungry as a bear; I've been out all day, and haven't had a bite since breakfast."
The revenue men laughed. "We know who you are," said the one that had spoken first, "an' we know our business, too; so long!"
Two hours later, as Westerfelt was about to go to bed in his room over the stable, he heard a voice calling down-stairs. He went to the window and looked out. Below he saw four men, two saddle horses, and a horse and wagon. He heard Washburn open the office door and ask:
"What do you folks want?"
"Want to put up our beasts an' this hoss an' wagon," was the reply. "We've got some gentlemen heer we're gwine to jail till mornin'."
"All right. I'll slide open the doors as soon as I git my shoes on. I wus in bed."
"We'll have to leave these barrels o' rotgut with you."
"All right. Plenty o' room." Westerfelt came down-stairs just as Washburn opened the big doors.
"Hello!" said the revenue officer who had addressed him on the mountain; "you see we made quick time; we found 'em right whar you left 'em."
"I see."
Washburn, who was under the skirt of a saddle unbuckling a girth, glanced at Westerfelt in surprise as he lifted the saddle from the horse and carried it into the stable. The two moonshiners exchanged quick glances and sullenly muttered something to each other. Westerfelt, intent on getting the business over that he might go to bed, failed to observe these proceedings. When the officers had taken their prisoners on towards the jail, Washburn, who, with a lantern, was putting the horses into stalls, turned to Westerfelt.
"My Lord! Mr. Westerfelt," he said, "I hope you didn't give them fellers away."
"Never dreamt of such a thing. What do you mean?"
"I 'lowed you had by what that feller said just now."
"What did he say?"
"Why, he said they'd ketched the men right whar you left 'em, an'—"
"Well, what of that?" Westerfelt spoke impatiently. "I did pass the whiskey wagon. The revenue men asked me if I'd seen them, and I simply refused to answer. They didn't get anything out of me."
"That's just what I'd 'a' done, but I wish you'd 'a' set yorese'f right jest now, fer them fellers certainly think you give 'em away, an' they'll tell the gang about it."
"Well, I didn't, so what does it matter?"
Washburn took out the bowl of his lantern and extinguished the light as they entered the office.
"It makes a man mighty unpopular in the Cohutta Valley to interfere with the moonshiners," he answered. "Whiskey-makin' is agin the law, but many a family gits its livin' out o' the stuff, an' a few good citizens keep the'r eyes shet to it. You see, Mr. Westerfelt, the gang may be a little down on you anyway sence your difficulty with Wambush. Did you know that he wus a sort of a ring-leader amongst 'em?"
"Yes."
"Well, you mark my word, that feller'd swear his chances of heaven away to turn them mount'in men agin you."
"Most of them are good-hearted fellows" replied Westerfelt. "They won't harm me."
Washburn sat down on his bed, pulled off his shoes, and dropped them on the puncheon floor.
"But he's got the'r ear, an' you hain't, Mr. Westerfelt. He'd grab at a chance like this an' you'd never be able to disprove anything. Toot's got some unprincipled friends that 'ud go any length to help him in rascality."
The next morning before the revenue men had left with their prisoners and the confiscated whiskey for the town where the trial before an inspector was to take place, a number of mountaineers had gathered in the village. They stood about the streets in mysterious groups and spoke in undertones, and now and then a man would go to the jail window and confer with the prisoners through the bars. Several men had been summoned to attend the trial as witnesses, and others went out of curiosity or friendship for the accused.
That evening, as John Westerfelt was passing through the hall of the hotel to the dining-room, he met Harriet Floyd. She started when she saw him, and he thought she acted as if she wanted to speak to him, but just then some other boarders entered, and she turned from him abruptly. She sat opposite him at the table a few moments later, but she did not look in his direction.
On his return to the stable after supper, Washburn gave him a letter. He recognized Sue Dawson's handwriting on the envelope.
"Is it a order?" asked Washburn, thinking it concerned the business.
"No, no; from a—a friend." Westerfelt lighted a candle at the wick of Washburn's lantern and went up to his room. He put the candle on a little table and sat down by it.
"I'll never read another line from that woman," he said. "I can't. She'll run me crazy! I've suffered enough."
He threw the letter unopened on the table, and clasped his hands over his knee and sat motionless for several minutes. Then he picked up the letter and held one corner of it in the candle-flame. It ignited, and the blue blaze began to spread over the envelope. Suddenly he blew it out and tore the letter open. The margin of the paper was charred, but the contents were intact. It ran:
"JOHN WESTERFELT,—I heard you Come Nigh meeting yore Death. The Lord let you live to make you Suffer. The worst pain is not in the body But in the Soul. You will likely live a long time and never git over yore guilty suffering. The Report has gone out that some gal over thar tuk care of you while you wus down in Bed. Well, it would be jest like you to try yore skill on her. God Help her. I dont know her, nor nothin about her, but she ort ter be warned. Ef she loved you with all Her soul you would pick a Flaw somehow. Mark my words. You will live to See Awful Shapes when nobody else does. Yore Hell Has begun. It will Go on for everlastin and everlastin.
He put the letter into his pocket and went to the window and drew down the shade. Then he locked the door and placed the candle on the mantel-piece and stood an open book before it, so that his bed was in the shadow. He listened to hear if Washburn was moving below, then knelt by the bed and covered his face with his hands. He tried to pray, but could think of no words to express his desires. He had never been so sorely tried. Even if he could school himself to forgetting Harriet's old love and the act of deceitfulness into which her love had drawn her, could he ever escape Mrs. Dawson's persecutions? Would she not, even if he won and married Harriet, pursue and taunt him with the girl's old love, as she had Clem Dill? And how could he stand that—he, whose ideal of woman and woman's constancy had always been so high?
He rose, sat on the edge of the bed, and clasped his hands between his knees. The room was in darkness except the spot of light on the wall behind the book. Below he heard the horses crunching their corn and hay. He took from his pocket Sue Dawson's letters and the one from Sally and wrapped them in a piece of paper. Then he looked about for a place to hide them. In a corner overhead he saw a jutting rafter, and behind it a dark niche where the shingles sloped to the wall. It was too high for him to reach from the floor, so he placed the table beneath the spot, and, mounting it, pushed the packet tightly into the corner. Then he stepped down and removed the table, cautiously, that Washburn might not hear him, and sat on the bed again. He remained there motionless for twenty minutes. Suddenly a rat ran across the floor with a scrap of paper in its mouth. He stared at the place where the rat had disappeared as if bewildered, then rose, placed the table back against the wall, secured the packet, and put it into his pocket.
Westerfelt knew he could not sleep, and, seeing the moonlight shining through his window, he decided to take a walk. He went below. Washburn sat in a little circle of candle-light mending a piece of harness.
"Has the hack come in yet?" asked Westerfelt, remembering that he had paid little attention to business that day.
"Yes," answered Washburn; "it's down at the store unloadin' the mail."
"I thought I heard it turn the corner. Any passengers?"
"No; Buck said a family, one woman and five children, wus ready to start by the Cohutta road to Royleston, but the report about the Whitecaps t'other night skeerd 'em out of it, so they went by train to Wilks, an' through that way. This outlawin' will ruin the country ef it hain't stopped; nobody'll want to settle heer."
"I'll be back soon," said Westerfelt, and he went out.
The November air was dry and keen as he walked briskly towards the mountains. The road ran through groves of stunted persimmon and sassafras bushes, across swift-bounding mountain streams, and under natural arbors of wild grapes and muscadine vines. In a few minutes Westerfelt reached the meeting-house on a little rise near the roadside.
It had never been painted, but age and the weather had given it the usual grayish color. Behind it, enclosed by a rail fence, was the graveyard. The mounds had sunk, the stones leaned earthward, and the decaying trellises had been pulled down by the vines which clambered over them.
It was a strange thing for Westerfelt to do, but, seeing the door open, he went into the church. Two windows on each side let in the moonlight. The benches were unpainted, and many of them had no backs.
Westerfelt stood before the little pulpit for a moment and then turned away. Outside, the road gleamed in the moonlight as it stretched on to the village. A glimpse of the graveyard through the window made him shudder. It reminded him of a grave he had never seen save in his mind. It was past midnight. He would go back to his bed, though he felt no inclination to sleep.
As he approached the stable, walking in the shadow of the trees on the side of the street, he saw a woman come out of the blacksmith's shop opposite the stable. For a moment she paused, her face raised towards the window of his room, and then retreated into the shop.
It was Harriet Floyd. He stepped behind a tree and watched the door of the shop. In a moment she reappeared and looked up towards his window again. He thought she might be waiting to see him, so he moved out into the moonlight and advanced towards her.
"Oh, it's you!" she exclaimed, excitedly. "I've been waiting to see you. I—I must tell you something, but it won't do to stand here; somebody will see us. Can't we?—come in the shop a minute."
Without speaking, and full of wonder, he followed her into the dark building. She led him past piles of old iron, wagon-tires, ploughshares, tubs of black water, anvils, and sledges to the forge and bellows at the back of the shop. She waited for a moment for him to speak, but he only looked at her questioningly, having almost steeled his heart against her.
"I come to warn you," she began, awkwardly, her eyes raised to his. "Toot Wambush has prejudiced the Whitecaps against you. He has convinced them that you reported the moonshiners. They are coming to-night to take you out. The others don't mean to kill you; they say it's just to whip you, and tar and feather you, and drive you out of the place, but he—Toot Wambush—will kill you if he can. He would not let you get away alive. He has promised the others not to use violence, but he will; he hates you, and he wants revenge. He'll do it and make the others share the responsibility with him—that's his plan."
He put his hand on the bellows-pole; the great leather bag rattled and gasped, and a puff of ashes rose from the forge.
"How do you happen to know this?" he asked, coldly. She shrank from him, and stared at him in silence.
"How do you know it?" he repeated, his tone growing fierce.
She drew the shawl with which she had covered her head more closely about her shoulders.
"Toot hinted at it himself," she said, slowly.
"When?"
"About an hour ago."
"You met him?"
"Yes."
"Are you a member of his gang?"
"Mr. Westerfelt," shrinking from him, "do—do you mean to insult me?"
"Would he have told you if he had thought you would give him away?"
"I reckon not—why, no."
"Then he considers you in sympathy with his murderous plans."
"I don't know, but I want you to keep out of his way. You must—oh, Mr. Westerfelt, you must go! Don't stand here; they are coming down the Hawkbill road directly. You could ride off towards Dartsmouth and easily get away, if you will hurry."
"I see," he answered, with a steady stare of condemnation; "you want to keep him from committing another crime—a more serious one."
She looked at him an instant as if puzzled, and then said:
"I want to keep him from killing you."
"Do you think he would take advantage of a helpless man?"
"I know it, Mr. Westerfelt; oh, I know he would!"
"Then you acknowledge he is a coward, and yet you—my God, what sort of a creatureareyou?"
She continued to stare at him wonderingly, as if half afraid. She moved suddenly into a moonbeam that streamed through a broken shingle in the roof. Her face was like white marble. In its terrified lines and angles he read nothing but the imprint of past weakness where he should have seen only pleading purity—the purity of a child cowed and awed by the object of a love so powerful, so self-sacrificing that she made no attempt to understand it. She had always felt her inferiority to others, and now that she loved her ideal of superiority she seemed to expect ill-treatment—even contempt—at his hands.
He looked away from her. The begrimed handle of the bellows creaked and swung as he leaned on it. He turned suddenly and impulsively grasped her hands.
"You are a good girl," he cried; "you have been the best friend I ever had. If I don't treat you better, it is on account of my awful nature. I can't control it when I think of that villain."
"Hehastreated you very badly," she said, slowly, in a voice that faltered.
"Where did you meet him and when?" he asked, under his breath. "God knows I thought you were done with him."
"He came right to the house just after dark," returned Harriet. "Mother let him come in; she wanted to talk to him."
"Did he come to get you to go away with him, Harriet?"
"Yes, Mr. Westerfelt."
"And why didn't you go?"
"Oh, howcanyou ask such a question," she asked, "when youknow—" She broke off suddenly, and then, seeing that he was silent, she added: "Mr. Westerfelt, sometimes I am afraid, really afraid, your sickness has affected your mind, you speak so strange and harsh to me. Surely I do not deserve such cruelty. I am just a woman, and a weak one at that; a woman driven nearly crazy through troubling about you." She raised a corner of her shawl to her eyes.
He saw her shoulders rise with a sob, then he caught her hands. "Don't—don't cry, little girl. I'd give my life to help you. Oh yes,dolet me hold your hands, just this once; it won't make any difference."
She did not attempt to withdraw her hands from his passionate, reckless clasp, and, now more trustingly, raised her eyes to his.
"Sometimes I think you really love me," she faltered. "You have made me think so several times."
"I'm not ashamed of it," he said. "I've had fancies for women, but I have never felt this way before. It seems to me if I was to live a thousand years I'd never, never feel that you was like other women. Maybe you love me real deep, and maybe you just fancy me, but I'll never want any other human being like I want you. I have been a bad man—a careless, thoughtless man. Ever since I was a boy I have played with love. I was playing with fire—the fire of hell, Harriet—and I got burnt. In consequence of what I've done I suffer as no mortal ever suffered. Repentance brings contentment to some men, but they are not built like me. I don't do anything from morning to night but brood and brood over my past life."
"I thought you had had some trouble," she returned, sympathetically.
"Why did you think so?" he asked.
"You talked when you were out of your head. That's why I first took pity on you. I never saw a man suffer in mind as you did. You rolled and tumbled the first two or three nights and begged for forgiveness; often you spoke so loud I was afraid others in the house would hear."
He opened his palms before her. "These hands are soaked in human blood—innocent human blood," he said, tragically. "I don't deny it; if it would do a particle of good I'd tell every soul on earth. I won a good girl's love, and when I got tired of her and left her she killed herself to escape the misery I put her in. I was unworthy of her, but she didn't know it, or want to know it. Nobody knows she took her own life except me and her mother, and it has ruined her life—taken away her only comfort in old age and made her my mortal enemy. She never gives me a minute's rest—she reminds me constantly that I'll never get forgiveness and never be happily married, and she is right—I never shall. My wicked nature demands too much of a woman. I can love, and do love, with all my soul, but my pride cannot be subdued. I—"
"I understand, Mr. Westerfelt" she broke in, quickly. "Don't bring up that subject again. What you said when I last saw you was enough. It almost kept me from coming to-night, but it was my duty; but you do not have to say any more about that." She took a step backward and stood staring at him in mute misery. She had never felt that she was worthy of him, in a way, but his cold reference—as she understood it—to her misfortune released a spring of resentment she hardly knew was wound in her breast.
"Forgive me," he pleaded, trying to regain her hands. "I'll never mention it again. I promise you that—never again."
"It's all right," she answered, softening under his passionate gaze. "But it would be kind of you to avoid mentioning what I cannot help."
He was about to reply, but there was a sound of barking dogs from the mountain. "Go quick!" She caught her breath. "Don't wait! That may be them now. Don't let them kill you."
He did not stir. "You'd better go home," he said, calmly. "I don't care a straw what becomes of me. I've had enough of the whole business. I have got as much right to live as anybody else, and I will not be driven from pillar to post by a gang of outlaws, headed by a coward." He drew a revolver, and, half cocking it, carelessly twirled the cylinder with his thumb. "I've got five thirty-two-caliber shots here, and I think I can put some of them where they ought to go."
She pushed the revolver down with her hand. "No, no!" she cried, "you must not be reckless."
"I am a pretty good shot," he went on, bitterly, "and Toot Wambush shall be my first target, if I can pick him out. Then the rest may do what they like with me. You go home. It will do you no good to be seen with me."
She caught his arm. "If you don't go, I'll stay right here with you. Hush! Listen! What was—? Great Heavens, they are coming. Go! Go!"
She glided swiftly to the door, and he followed her. Coming along the Hawkbill road, about an eighth of a mile distant, they saw a body of horsemen, their heads and shoulders dressed in white. His revolver slipped from his fingers and rang on a fallen anvil. He picked it up mechanically, still staring into the moonlight. Again he wondered if he were afraid, as he was that night at the hotel.
"Run! get out a horse," she cried. "Mr. Washburn is there; he will help you! Go quick, for God's sake! I shall kill myself if they harm you." He stared at her an instant, then he put his revolver into his belt.
"All right, then, to oblige you; but you must hurry home!" He hastened across the street and rapped on the office door.
"Who's thar?" called out Washburn from his bed.
"Me—Westerfelt."
There was a sound of bare feet on the floor inside and the door opened.
"What's up?" asked Washburn, sleepily.
"I want my horse; there's a gang of Whitecaps coming down the Hawkbill, and it looks like they are after me."
"My God!" Washburn began fumbling along the wall. "Where's the matches? Here's one!" He scratched it and lighted his lantern. "I'll git yore hoss. Stand heer, Mr. Westerfelt, an' ef I ain't quick enough make a dash on foot fer that strip o' woods over thar in the field. The fences would keep 'em from followin', an' you might dodge 'em."
When Washburn had gone into the stable, Westerfelt looked towards Harriet. She had walked only a few yards down the street and stood under the trees. He stepped out into the moonlight and signalled her to go on, but she refused to move. He heard Washburn swearing inside the stable, and asked what the matter was.
"I've got the bridles all tangled to hell," he answered.
"Hurry; anything will do!"
The Whitecaps had left the mountain-side and were now in sight on the level road. A minute more and Westerfelt would be a captive. He might get across the street unnoticed and hide himself in the blacksmith's shop, but they would be sure to look for him there. If he tried to go through the fields they would see him and shoot him down like a rabbit.
"Heer you are; which door, back or front?" cried Washburn.
"Front, quick! I've got to run for it! I'm a good mind to stand and make a fight of it."
"Oh no; hell, no! Mr. Westerfelt."
Washburn slid the big door open and kicked the horse in the stomach as he led him out.
"Git up, quick! They are at the branch. Blast it, they heerd the door—they've broke into a gallop!"
As Westerfelt put his foot into the stirrup he saw Harriet Floyd glide out of sight into the blacksmith's shop. She had determined not to desert him. As he sprang up, the girth snapped, and the saddle and blanket fell under his feet.
"God, they are on us!" gasped Washburn. One of the gang raised a shout, and they came on with increased speed.
"Up! Up!" cried Washburn, kicking the saddle out of his way. "Quick! What's the matter?" Westerfelt felt a twinge in his old wound as he tried to mount. Washburn caught one of his legs and lifted him on his horse.
Westerfelt spurred the horse furiously, but the animal plunged, stumbled, and came to his knees—the bridle-rein had caught his foot. The foremost of the gang was now within twenty yards of him.
"Halt thar!" he yelled.
Westerfelt drew his horse up and continued to lash him with his bridle-rein.
"Shoot his hoss, but don't tetch him!" was the next command.
Several revolvers went off. Westerfelt's horse swayed at the rump and then ran sideways across the street and fell against a rail fence. Westerfelt alighted on his feet. He turned and drew his revolver, but just then his horse rolled over against his legs and knocked the weapon from his hand. It struck the belly of the horse and bounded into the middle of the street.
"Ha, we've got ye!" jeered the leader, as he and two or three others covered Westerfelt with their revolvers.