The gang formed a semi-circle round Westerfelt and his horse. In their white caps and sheets they appeared ghostly and hideous, as they looked down at him through the eye-holes of their masks. One of them held a coil of new rope and tantalizingly swung it back and forth before his face.
"You must go with us up the Hawkbill fer a little moonlight picnic," he jeered. "We've picked out a tree up thar that leans spank over a cliff five hundred feet from the bottom. Ef the rope broke, ur yore noggin slipped through the noose, you'd never know how come you so."
"He's got to have some'n to ride," suggested another muffled voice; "we have done his horse up."
"Well, he's got a-plenty, an' he won't need 'em atter our ja'nt," jested the man with the rope. "You uns back thar, that hain't doin' nothin' but lookin' purty, go in the stable and trot out some'n fer 'im to ride; doggoned ef I want 'im straddled behind me. His ha'nt 'ud ride with me every time I passed over the Hawkbill."
"Bill Washburn's in thar," said a man in the edge of the crowd. "I seed 'im run in as we rid up."
The leader, who sat on a restive horse near Westerfelt, called out:
"Hello in thar, Bill Washburn; git out some'n to put yore man on. Hurry up, ur we'll take you along to see the fun."
Washburn opened the office door and came out slowly.
"What doyousay, Mr. Westerfelt? It's yore property. I won't move a peg agin the man that I work fer ef eve'y dam Whitecap in Christendom orders it."
"Careful, careful, young man; none o' your lip!" said the leader, half admiringly.
"Give 'em the lot!" It was the first time Westerfelt had spoken.
Washburn made no reply, but went slowly back into the stable.
Westerfelt's dying horse raised his head and groaned. A man near the animal dismounted and drew his revolver.
"What d' you say?" said he to Westerfelt. "Hadn't I better put 'im out o' his misery?"
"I'd be much obliged if you would." Westerfelt turned his face away. There was a moment's pause. The man waited for the horse's head to become still. Then he fired.
"Thanks," said Westerfelt. He looked round at the crowd, wondering which of the men could be Toot Wambush. He had an idea that he had not yet spoken, and was not among those nearest to him. Through the open door he could see Washburn's lantern moving about in the stable.
"Hurry up in thar," cried a tall figure. "Do you think we're gwine to—" He began to cough.
"How do you like to chaw cotton, Number Six?" a man near him asked.
"The blamed lint gits down my throat," was the reply. "I'd ruther be knowed by my voice'n to choke to death on sech truck."
From far and near on all sides came the dismal barking of dogs, but the villagers, if they suspected what was being enacted, dared not show their faces. Washburn led a horse through the crowd and gave the bridle to Westerfelt. He hesitated, as if about to speak, and then silently withdrew. Westerfelt mounted. The leader gave the order, and the gang moved back towards the mountain. Two horsemen went before Westerfelt and two fell behind. As they passed the shop, dimly he saw the form of a woman lying on the ground just out of the moonlight that fell in at the door. Harriet had swooned. When they had gone past the shop, Westerfelt reined in his horse and called over his shoulder to Washburn, who stood in front of the stable. He would not leave her lying there if he could help it, and yet he did not want Wambush to know she had warned him. The gang stopped, and Washburn came to them.
"Any directions you want to give?" he asked of Westerfelt.
"I saw you looking for the account-book," answered Westerfelt, staring significantly into his eyes. "I was in the blacksmith's shop to-day and left it on the forge."
Washburn stared blankly at him for an instant, then he said, slowly, "All right."
"You'd better get it to-night," added Westerfelt.
"All right, sir. I'll attend to everything."
"Cool as a cucumber," laughed a man. "Next thing you know he'll give orders 'bout whar he wants to be buried, an' what to have cut on his grave-rock."
The whole gang laughed at this witticism, and started on again. When they had gone about a hundred yards Westerfelt glanced back. He saw Washburn cross the road and enter the blacksmith's shop, and the next instant the shop was hidden by a sudden turn in the road. They passed the meeting-house and began to ascend the mountain. Here and there along the dark range shone the red fires of chestnut harvesters. The blue smoke hung among the pines, and the air was filled with the odor of burning leaves. They passed a camp—a white-covered wagon, filled with bags of chestnuts, two mules tethered to saplings, and three or four forms in dusky blankets lying round a log fire. As the weird procession passed, the mules drew back on their halters and threw their ears forward, but the bodies at the fire did not stir.
In about twenty minutes the band reached a plateau covered with a matting of heather. They went across it to the edge of a high precipice. It was as perpendicular as a wall. Below lay the valley, its forests of pines and cedars looking like a black lake in the clear moonlight.
"Git down, men, an' let's 'tend to business an' go back home," commanded the leader. "I have a hankerin' atter a hot breakfast."
Everybody alighted except Westerfelt. The leader touched him with his whip. "Will you git down, or do you want to be drug off like a saddle?"
"May I ask what you intend to do with me?" asked Westerfelt, indifferently.
The leader laughed. "Put some turkey red calico stripes on that broad back o' yorn, an' rub in some salt and pepper to cuore it up. We are a-gwine to l'arn you that new settlers cayn't run this community an' coolly turn the bluecoats agin us mount'in folks."
Westerfelt looked down on the masks upturned to him. Only one of the band showed a revolver. Westerfelt believed him to be Toot Wambush. He had not spoken a word, but was one of the two that had ridden close behind him up the mountain. One of the white figures unstrapped a pillow from the back part of his saddle. He held it between his knees and gashed it with a knife.
"By hunkey! they're white uns," he grunted, as he took out a handful. "I 'lowed they wus mixed; ef my ole woman knowed I'd tuck a poke uv 'er best goose feathers ter dab on a man she'd get a divorce."
Two or three laughed behind their masks. Another laugh went round as a short figure returned from the bushes with a bucket of tar which had been left near the road-side.
"Heer's yore gumstickum." He dipped a paddle in it and flourished it before Westerfelt, who was still on his horse. "Say, mister, you don't seem inclined to say anything fer yorese'f; the last man we dressed out fer his weddin' begged like a whipped child, an' made no end o' promises uv good behavior."
Westerfelt got down from his horse. "I'm completely in your power," he replied. "I won't beg any man nor gang of men living to give me my rights. I suppose I am accused of having reported those fellows to the revenue men. I have simply to say that it is a lie!"
"Uh, uh!" said the leader; "careful!careful! Don't be reckless. We uns ain't the lyin' sort."
"I say it's a lie!" Westerfelt stared straight into the mask of Toot Wambush. The wearer of it started and half raised his revolver, but quickly concealed it under the sheet that hung below his waist. Everybody was silent, as if they expected a reply from Wambush, but he made none.
"Them pore Cohutta men lyin' in the Atlanta jail said so, anyway," returned the leader. "They ain't heer to speak fer the'rse'ves; it's a easy thing to give them the lie behind the'r backs."
"They were mistaken, that's all," said Westerfelt. "Nobody but the revenue men themselves could tell the whole truth about it. I did pass the wagon—"
"An' eavedropped on our two men. Oh, we know you did, kase they heerd a sound, an' then as you didn't come for'ard, they 'lowed they had made a mistake, but when you finally did pass they knowed it wus you, an' that you'd been listenin'."
"That's the truth," admitted Westerfelt. "I had been warned that it would be dangerous for me to go about in the mountains alone. I heard the men talking, and stopped to find out who they were. I did not want to run into an ambush. As soon as I found out who they were I spoke to them and passed."
"At the stable, though, young man," reminded the leader—"at the stable, when the bluecoats fetched the prisoners an' the plunder in, they told you that they'd found them right whar you said they wus."
"You bet he did. What's the use a-jabberin' any longer?" The voice was unmistakably Wambush's, and his angry tones seemed to fire the impatience of the others. Westerfelt started to speak, but his words were drowned in a tumult of voices.
"Go ahead!" cried several.
"Go ahead! Are you gwine to hold a court an' try 'im by law?" asked Wambush, hotly. "I 'lowed that point was done settled."
Westerfelt calmly folded his arms. "I've no more to say. I see I'm not going to be heard. You are a gang of cold-blooded murderers."
The words seemed to anger the leader.
"Shuck off that coat an' shirt!" was his order.
Westerfelt did not move. "I'm glad to say I'm not afraid of you," he said. "If you have got human hearts in you, though, you'll kill me, and not let me live after the degradation you are going to inflict. I know who's led you to this. It is a cowardly dog who never had a thing against me till I refused to let him have credit at my stable, when he owes an account that's been running for two years. He tried to kill me with a pistol and a knife when I was unarmed. He failed, and had to get you to help him. You are not a bit better than he is. I'm no coward. I've got fighting blood in me. Some of you'd acknowledge it if I was to tell you who my father was. I have reason to believe there are men here to-night who fought side by side with him in the war, and were with him when he was shot down tryin' to hold up the flag at the battle of Chickamauga. One of the dirty cowards he once carried off the field when the whelp could hardly walk with a bullet in his leg!"
"What company wus that?" came from the edge of the crowd. The voice was quivering.
"Forty-second Georgia."
For a moment no one spoke, then the same voice asked:
"Who wus your pa, young man?"
"Captain Alfred Stone Westerfelt, under Colonel Mills."
The tall slender figure of the questioner leaned forward breathlessly and then pushed into the ring. Without a word he stood near Westerfelt, unpinned the sheet that was round him, and slowly took off his mask. Then he put a long forefinger into his mouth, pried a wad of cotton out of each cheek, and threw them on the ground.
It was old Jim Hunter. He cleared his throat, spat twice, wiped his mouth with his hand, and slowly swept the circle with his eyes.
"I'm the feller he toted out," he said. He cleared his throat again, and went on:
"Boys, if thar's to be any whippin', ur tarrin' an' featherin' in this case, I'm agin it tooth an' toe-nail. Cap Westerfelt's boy sha'n't have a hair o' his head fetched on sech flimsy evidenceas we've had while I'm alive. You kin think what you please o' me. I've got too much faith in the Westerfelt stock to believe that a branch of it 'u'd spy ur sneak. This is Jim Hunter a-talkin'."
Two others pushed forward, taking off their sheets and masks. They were Joe Longfield and Weston Burks.
"We are t'other two," said Longfield, dryly. "The Yanks killed off too blame many o' that breed o' men fer us to begin to abuse one at this late day. Ef Westerfelt's harmed, it will be over my dead body, an' I bet I'm as hard to kill as a eel."
"Joe's a-talkin' fer me," said Burks, simply, and he put his hand on his revolver.
"We've been too hasty," began Jim Hunter again. "We've 'lowed Toot to inflame our minds agin this man, an' now I'll bet my hat he's innocent. I'd resk a hoss on it."
"Thar's a gal in it, I'm a-thinkin'," opined Weston Burks, dryly.
"Men," cried the leader, "thar's a serious disagreement; we've always listened to Jim Hunter; what must we do about the matter under dispute?"
"Send the man back to town," cried a voice in the edge of the crowd. "He's the right sort to the marrow; I'll give 'im my paw an' wish 'im well."
"That's the ticket!" chimed in the man with the rope, as he tossed it over the horn of his saddle.
"I 'low myself we've been a leetle bit hasty," admitted the leader.
"Put down that gun! Drap it!" cried Jim Hunter, turning suddenly on Toot Wambush. "Ef you dare to cock a gun in this crowd, you'll never live to hear it bang!"
Wambush started to raise his revolver again, but Hunter knocked it from his hand. Wambush stooped to pick it up, but the old man kicked it out of his reach.
"You don't work that trick on this party," he said, hotly.
"I wasn't tryin' to draw it," muttered Wambush.
"You lie!" Then Hunter turned to the leader: "What d'ye think ortter be done with a man like that? Ef I hadn't a-been so quick he'd a shot Westerfelt, an' before the law we'd all a-been accomplices in murderin' a innocent man."
"I move we give the whelp six hours to git out'n the county," said Joe Longfield. "You all know I've been agin Toot."
"That would be too merciful," said Burks.
"Boys," the leader cried, "Wambush has broke a rule in tryin' this thing on us. You've heerd the motion; is thar a second?"
"I second it," said Jim Hunter.
"It's been moved and seconded that Wambush be 'lowed six hours to git clean out o' the county; all in favor say yes."
There was almost a general roar.
"All opposed say no."
No one spoke for a moment, then Wambush muttered something, but no one understood what it was. He turned his horse round and started to mount. He had his left foot in the stirrup, and had grasped the mane of the animal with his right hand, when the leader yelled:
"Hold on thar! Not so quick, sonny. We don't let nobody as sneakin' as you are ride off with a gun in his hip pocket. S'arch 'im, boys; he's jest the sort to fire back on us an' make a dash fer it."
Hunter and Burks closed in on him. Wambush drew back and put his hand behind him.
"Damn you! don't you touch me!" he threatened.
The two men sprang at him like tigers and grasped his arms. Wambush struggled and kicked, but they held him.
"Wait thar a minute," cried the leader; "he don't know when to let well enough alone. You white sperits out thar with the tar an' feathers come for'ard. Wambush ain't satisfied with the garb he's got on."
A general laugh went round. With an oath Wambush threw his revolver on the ground and then his knife. This done, Hunter and Burks allowed him to mount.
"Don't let him go yet," commanded the leader; "look in his saddle-bags."
Wambush's horse suddenly snorted, kicked up his heels, and tried to plunge forward, but Burks clung to the reins and held him.
"He dug his spur into his hoss on this side like thunder," said a man in the crowd. "It's a wonder he didn't rip 'im open."
"S'arch them bags," ordered the leader, "an' ef he makes anuther budge before it's done, or opens his mouth fer a whisper, drag 'im right down an' give 'im 'is deserts."
Wambush offered no further resistance. Hunter fumbled in the bags. He held up a quart flask of corn whiskey over his head, shook it in the moonlight, and then restored it. "I hain't the heart to deprive 'im of that," he said, as he walked round the horse; "he won't find any better in his travels." On the other side he found a forty-four-caliber revolver.
"That 'u'd be a ugly customer to meet on a dark road," he said, holding it up for the others to see. "By hunky! it 'u'd dig a tunnel through a rock mountain. Say, Westerfelt, ef he'd 'a' got a whack at yer with this yore fragments 'u'd never a-come together on the day o' jedgment."
Westerfelt made no reply.
"Now, let 'im go," said the leader. "Ef he dares to be seed anywhar in the Cohutta section six hours frum now he knows what will come uv 'im. We refuse to shelter 'im any longer, an' the officers of the law will take 'im in tow."
The ring of men and horses opened for Wambush to pass out. He said nothing, and did not turn his head as he rode down the mountain into the mysterious haze that hung over the valley.
"What do you say, boys?" proposed Jim Hunter to Longfield and Burks. "Let's ride down the road a piece with Westerfelt."
"All right," both of them said. There was a general scramble of the band to get mounted. Westerfelt got on his horse and started back towards the village, accompanied by the three men. When they had ridden about a hundred yards, Westerfelt said:
"I'm taking you out of your way, gentlemen, and I think I'd rather go alone."
"Well, all right," said Hunter; "but you've got to take my gun. That whelp would resk his salvation to get even with you."
"I know it," said Westerfelt, putting the revolver into his pocket; "but he'll not try it to-night."
"No, I think he's gone fer good," said Longfield. "I guess he'll make fer Texas."
At a point where two roads crossed a few yards ahead of them, Westerfelt parted with the three men. They went back up the mountain, and he rode slowly homeward.
When he was in sight of the stable, he saw Washburn coming towards him on horseback.
"Hello! Did they hurt you, Mr. Westerfelt?" he asked.
"They never touched me."
"My Lord! how was that?"
"I told them I had nothing to do with the arrest; three of them were old friends of my father's, and they believed me. Did you find her—did you find Miss Harriet?"
"Yes; I couldn't make out what you meant 'bout the account-book at first, but I went over to the shop as soon as you all left. She wus lyin' thar on the ground in a dead faint. It took hard work to bring her to."
"You took her home?"
"Not right away; I couldn't do a thing with 'er. She acted like a crazy woman. She screamed an' raged an' tore about an' begged fer a hoss to ride atter you all. She wasn't in no fix to go; she didn't know what she wus about, an' that scamp would a-shot 'er. I believe on my soul he would."
They had reached the stable and dismounted, but neither moved to go in.
"I reckon you ought to know the truth, Washburn, since you saw her there so late at night," said Westerfelt, hesitatingly. "The fact is, she came to warn me. I suppose she knew Wambush would try to kill me, and she didn't want to—"
"She don't keer a snap for Wambush, ef that's what you mean," said Washburn, when he saw that Westerfelt was going no farther. "I know it's been the talk, an' she no doubt did like him a little at one time, but the' ain't but one man livin' she keers fer now. It ain't none o' my business—I'm no hand to meddle, but I know women! She kep' cryin' an' sayin' that they'd murder you, an' ef they did she'd kill Toot Wambush ur die in the attempt. I'm tellin' you a straight tale."
Westerfelt sat down in a chair at the side of the door. Washburn led the horse into the stable and put him into a stall. Then he came back. Westerfelt's hands were over his face, but he took them down when he heard Washburn's step.
"Did—did she hurt herself when she fell?" he asked.
"No, she's all right." Washburn hesitated a moment, then he added: "Mr. Westerfelt, you ought to go up to yore room an' try to rest some; this night's been purty rough on you atter bein' down in bed so long."
Westerfelt rose silently and went through the office and up the stairs.
The dawn was breaking when Harriet Floyd stole up to her room under the slant of the roof. She had no idea of trying to sleep. She sat down on the side of the bed, shivering with cold. Through the small-paned dormer window the gray light fell, bringing into vague relief the different objects in the room. Down in the back yard the chickens were flapping their wings and crowing lustily. Through the dingy glass she could see the cow-lot, the sagging roof of the wagon-shed, the barn, the ricks of hay, and the bare branches of the apple-trees still holding a few late apples. Her shoes were wet with dew and her dress and shawl hung limply about her.
There was a sudden step in the hall; a hand touched the latch; the door opened cautiously.
"Harriet!"
"Yes, mother."
Mrs. Floyd glided across the floor, sat down on the bed by her daughter, and stared at her in wonder.
"Where on earth have you been? I have been watching for you all night. Oh, my child, what is the matter? What has gone wrong?"
"I have been out trying to save Mr. Westerfelt. Toot led the Regulators down an' they took him out. I warned him, but he would not go in time and they took him to the mountain."
"Good Heavens! what did they intend to do with him?"
"Most of them meant only to frighten him and to whip him, but Toot Wambush will kill him if he gets a chance."
"I don't believe they'll harm him," said Mrs. Floyd, consolingly. "Anyway, we can't do anything; get in bed and let me cover you up; you are damp to the skin and all of a quiver; you'll catch your death sitting here."
Mrs. Floyd put her hand round Harriet, but she sprang up and pulled down a heavy cloak from a hook on the wall.
"I did not come here to go to bed!" she cried. She put the garment on and strode past her mother to the window. Mrs. Floyd followed her movements with an anxious glance. At the window Harriet turned and stamped her foot. "Do you think I'm going to bed when I don't know—oh, my God, I can't bear it! I can't bear it!" She suddenly approached her bewildered mother, put her hands on her shoulders, and turned her face to the light. "You hear me, mother? As God in Heaven is my witness, if a hair of that man's head is harmed to-night, I'll kill Toot Wambush on sight. I'll kill him, if I hang for it! I swear it before God! Do you hear? I swear it—no power on earth shall stop me! I'lldoit!"
Her body swayed. She made a step towards the door and sank down in a swoon. Mrs. Floyd sprang for a pitcher of water and sprinkled her face. The girl revived a little, and her mother raised her in her arms, put her on the bed, and drew the covers over her. Harriet closed her eyes drowsily. She did not seem wholly conscious. Mrs. Floyd went down-stairs and lighted a fire in the kitchen stove, and put on some water to heat. Then she went to the cook's room off the back porch and shook the door.
"Get up quick, Em', Harriet is sick!" she cried; then she ran up to her own room, opposite Harriet's, and finished dressing herself. As she was crossing the hall she saw a man on horseback in the street. She went out on the veranda and called to him. At first she did not recognize him, but when he came nearer she saw that it was Washburn.
"Are you going to help Mr. Westerfelt?" she asked, in a low tone, as she leaned over the railing.
"I've done all that kin be done," he said. "I've been round among the citizens. They all say we'd be fools to try to do anything, Mrs. Floyd. Some are skeerd to death, an' others pretend they don't think Mr. Westerfelt's in danger."
She did not answer, fearing her voice would rouse Harriet, and after he had ridden away, she went back to the girl's room. Harriet was asleep, so she left her. A few hours later the barkeeper's wife came into the kitchen and told Mrs. Floyd the latest news. She dropped the pan she was cleaning and eagerly ran up to Harriet.
The noise of the opening door roused the girl. She sat up, stared in a dazed way at her mother an instant, then threw off the coverings and sprang out of bed.
"I've been asleep; Mr. Westerfelt! Oh, mother, why did you let me—"
"He's all right!" interrupted Mrs. Floyd. "They didn't touch a hair of his head." Harriet stared open-mouthed.
"He's back safe and sound," went on Mrs. Floyd; "he proved himself innocent and they let 'im go."
"Oh, mother, mother!" Harriet put her arms round the old woman's neck and clung to her. "Thank God! Oh, mother, thank God—thank God!" Then she sat down in a chair and began hastily to put on her shoes.
"What are you going to do?"
"Going to see him."
"Not now; why—"
"Iwillsee him. Let me alone; don't try to stop me!"
"You surely would not go to the stable! He—"
"I'd go anywhere to see him. I don't care what people say; I'm going to see him."
As Harriet bent to fasten her shoes, Mrs. Floyd touched her.
"Daughter, are you engaged to Mr. Westerfelt?"
Harriet did not look up. She still bent over her shoes, but the strings lay motionless in her fingers.
"No, he intimated he couldn't marry me, on—on account of my misfortune. Oh, don't let's talk about it. He and I understand each other. He loves me, but we're not engaged."
Mrs. Floyd leaned against the mantel-piece. Her face had become hard and stern. Harriet started to leave the room, but Mrs. Floyd suddenly stepped between her and the door.
"He intimated thatthatwould keep him from marrying you? My Lord—the coward!"
"Mother, don't—don't say that!"
"I thought he was aman! Why, he is lower than a brute."
Harriet disengaged herself from her mother's grasp, and passed on to the door. She turned on the threshold.
"I have no time to quarrel with you about him," she said, with a sigh; "you can have your opinion, nothing on earth will change mine. He loves me. I am going to see him now, and nothing you can say or do will prevent me."
Her shoes rattled loosely on the bare floor and on the stairs as she went down to the street.
During the night the sycamore-trees had strewn the ground with half-green, half-yellow leaves, and the tops of the fences were white with frost. Martin Worthy was taking down the shutters at the store and calling through the window to his wife, who was unscrewing them on the inside. A farmer had left his team in front of the bar, and she saw him taking his morning drink at the counter and heard Buck Hillhouse giving him an exaggerated report of the visit of the Whitecaps. The eastern sky was yellowing, and a peak of the tallest mountain cut a brown gash in the coming sunlight. At the fence in front of Bufford Webb's cottage a cow stood lowing for admittance, and a milking-pail hung on the gate.
As Harriet passed, Mrs. Webb came out with a bucket of "slop" for the pig in a pen near the fence. She rested it on the top rail to speak to Harriet, but the hungry animal made such a noise that she hastened first to empty the vessel into the trough.
"Good-morning," she said, going quickly to the gate and wiping her hands on her apron; "did you-uns heer the racket last night?"
"Yes," answered Harriet.
"I didn't sleep a wink. We could see 'em frum the kitchen winder. It's a outrage, but I'm glad they did no rail harm."
The girl passed on. She found Washburn in front of the stable oiling a buggy. He had placed a notched plank under an axle and was rapidly twirling a wheel.
"Where is Mr. Westerfelt?" she asked.
He raised his eyes to the window in the attic. "Up thar lyin' down. He's not in bed. He jest threw hisself down without undressing."
"Is he asleep?"
"I don't know, Miss Harriet, but I think not."
"Did they hurt him last night, Mr. Washburn?"
"Why, no, Miss Harriet, not a single bit."
She caught her breath in relief. "I thought maybe they had, and that he was not going to acknowledge it. Are—are you sure?"
"As sure as I could be of anything, Miss Harriet; I believe he is a truthful man, an' he told me they didn't lay the weight of a finger on 'im. You kin go up an' ax 'im. He ain't asleep; he looked too worried to sleep when he got back. He walked the floor the balance o' the night. Seems to me he's been through with enough to lay out six common men."
Harriet did not answer. She turned into the office and went up the stairs to Westerfelt's room. Round her was a dark, partially floored space containing hay, fodder, boxes of shelled corn, piles of corn in the husk, and bales of cotton-seed meal. She rapped on the door-facing, and, as she received no response, she called out:
"Mr. Westerfelt, come out a minute."
She heard him rise from his bed, and in a moment he stood in the doorway.
"Oh, it's you!" he cried, in a glad voice. "I was afraid you were not well. I—"
"I am all right," she assured him. "But I simply couldn't rest till I saw you with my own eyes. When I heard they let you off I was afraid it was a false report. Sometimes, when those men do a bad thing they try to cover it up. Oh, Mr. Westerfelt, I am so—so miserable!"
He caught her hands and tried to draw her into his room out of the draught which came up the stairs, but she would not go farther than the door.
"No, I must hurry back home" she said. "Mother did not want me to come anyway; she didn't think it looked right, but I was so—so worried."
"I understand." He was feasting his eyes on hers; it was as if their hunger could never be appeased. "Oh, I'm so glad you come I've had you on my mind—"
But she interrupted him suddenly. Looking round at the bleak room and its scant furniture, she said: "I—I thought may be I could persuade you now to come back to your room at the hotel, where mother and I could wait on you. You do not look as well as you did, Mr. Westerfelt."
He smiled and shook his head.
"It's mighty good of you to ask me," he returned, "but this is good enough for me, and I don't want to be such a bother. The Lord knows I was enough trouble when I was there."
A look of sharp pain came upon her sensitive face for an instant, then she said; "I wish you wouldn't talk that way; you weren't one bit of trouble."
He looked away from her. He was, indeed, not at his best. His beard had grown out on his usually clean-shaven face and his cheeks looked sallow and sunken. He was tingling all over with a raging desire to throw his arms about her and tell her how he loved her and longed to make her his wife, but suddenly a mind-picture of Toot Wambush rose before him. He saw her deliberately lying to the officers to save him from arrest, and—worse than all—he saw her in the arms of the outlaw's father sobbing out a confession of her love. He told himself then, almost in abject terror of some punishment held over him by God Himself, that Mrs. Dawson's prayers would be answered—if—if he gave way. "No," he commanded himself, "I shall stand firm. She's not for me, though she may love me—though she does love me now and would wipe out the past with her life. A woman as changeable as that would change again." Then a jealous rage flared up within him, and he laid a threatening hand on either of her shoulders and glared into her eyes.
"I told you last night I'd never bring up a certain subject again, but—"
"Then you'd better not," she said, so firmly, so vindictively, that his tongue was stilled. "I came here out of kindness; don't you dare—don't you insult me again, Mr. Westerfelt."
"Oh, do forgive me! I—" But she had shaken off his hands and moved nearer the stairway.
"You made a promise last night," she reminded him, "and I did not dream you had so little respect for me as to break it so soon."
He moved towards her, his hands outstretched imploringly, but a sound from below checked him. Some one was speaking to Washburn in the office. Then footsteps were heard on the stairs, and Mrs. Bradley, followed by Luke, waddled laboriously up the steps. She was wiping her eyes, which were red from weeping. She glanced in cold surprise at Harriet, and passing her with only a nod, went to Westerfelt and threw her arms around his neck. Then with her head on his breast she burst into fresh tears.
"You pore, motherless, unprotected boy," she sobbed. "I can't bear it a bit longer. Me 'n' Luke wus the cause o' yore comin' to this oncivilized place anyway, an' you've been treated wuss 'an a dog. Ef Luke had one speck o' manhood left in him, he'd—"
Bradley advanced from the door, and drew his wife away from Westerfelt.
"Don't act so daddratted foolish," he said. "No harm hain't been done yet—noseriousharm." Still holding her hand, he turned to Westerfelt; "They've tried to do you dirt, John, I know, but them boys will be the best friends on earth to you now. Ef you ever want to run fer office all you got to do is to announce yorese'f. Old Hunter wus down at Bill Stone's this mornin' as we passed buyin' his fine hoss to replace yore'n."
"I reckon they've run Toot Wambush clean off," put in Mrs. Bradley, looking significantly at Harriet. She expected the girl to reply, but Harriet only avoided her glance. Mrs. Bradley rubbed her eyes again, put her handkerchief into her pocket, and critically surveyed the damp, bedraggled dress of the girl.
"It's mighty good of you to come down to see 'im all by yourself so early," she said; "some gals wouldn't do sech a thing. The report is out that you notified John of what the band intended to do."
Harriet nodded, and looked as if she wanted to get away.
"It wus mighty good of you, especially as you an' Toot are sech firm friends," went on Mrs. Bradley; "but it's a pity you wusn't a little sooner with yore information."
"She told me in plenty of time," corrected Westerfelt. "It was my fault that I didn't get away. I didn't go when Miss Harriet told me to."
His reply did not please Mrs. Bradley, as she showed by her next remark. "I'd think you'd be afeerd o' makin' Toot madder at you 'n he already is," she said to Harriet.
The girl did not look at her. She was watching Westerfelt, who had suddenly moved to the bed and sat down. When she spoke she directed her explanation to Bradley rather than to his wife.
"Mother and I thought Mr. Westerfelt ought not to stay here alone, and that we'd get him to come over to the room he had in the hotel; so we—"
"You an' yore mother hain't knowed 'im sence he wus knee-high like me an' Luke has," jealously retorted Mrs. Bradley. "I reckon it's time we wus givin' the boy a little attention. We've got the buggy down thar waitin', John, an' a hot breakfast ready at home. I won't stand no refusal. You jest got to come with us; you needn't make no excuse."
"I'm not sick," answered Westerfelt, with a faint smile. He glanced at Harriet. With an unsteady step she was moving away. He wanted to call to her, but the presence of the others sealed his lips. She turned out into the semi-darkness of the loft, and then they heard her descending the stairs.
The sun was rising as she went back to the hotel. No one was in the parlor. She entered it and closed the door after her. She drew up the window-shade and looked down the street till she saw Mrs. Bradley and Westerfelt pass in a buggy. Then she went into the dining-room, where a servant was laying a cloth on a long table, took down a stack of plates from a shelf, and began to put them in their places.
When breakfast was over that morning Westerfelt went back to the stable. While sitting in the office. Long Jim Hunter came to the door leading a fine bay horse, a horse that Westerfelt recognized at a glance as one he had seen and admired before.
"Oh, Mr. Westerfelt," he called out over Washburn's shoulder, who had gone to him. "I wish you'd step heer a minute. I know you don't do the rough work round heer, but I like to have my dealings with the head of a shebang. Wash, heer, never did have much more sense 'n a chinch, nohow."
"What can I do for you, Mr. Hunter?" asked the man addressed, coming out.
There was a decidedly sheepish look in the old man's face, and he swung the halter of the horse awkwardly to and fro.
"Well, you see, it's jest this way, Westerfelt," he began, with an effort. "I've bought this blamed hoss frum Bill Stone an' I want to leave 'im heer with you. I want you to put 'im through any sort o' work you see fit; he's too blam' fat an' frisky anyhow."
Westerfelt comprehended the whole situation, but he did not want to accept the horse. "Why, Mr. Hunter, really—" he began.
"Oh, we'll take yore hoss," laughed Washburn. "We kin take the kinks out'n his mane an' tail an' make 'im wish he never wus born. Oh, Lordy, yes, we want 'im, an' ef you've got a good saddle an' bridle ur a buggy hustle 'em around."
"Well, you'd better 'tend to 'im." Hunter tossed the halter to Washburn. "I'll be blamed ef I want 'im." And he turned and without another word walked away.
"It's wuth three o' the one they shot," was Washburn's laconic observation. He looked the animal over admiringly and slapped him so vigorously under the belly that the horse grunted and humped his back.
Cartwright, like nearly every other Georgian village, had its lawyer. Bascom Bates was a young man of not more than thirty, but he was accounted shrewd by many older legal heads, who had been said to have advised him to move to a larger place. When business did not come to his office, Bates sometimes went after it. If a woman lost a husband in a railway wreck or was knocked off the track where he had no right to be, Bates called as early as possible and offered to direct a suit against the corporation for damages at half the usual price—that is, as Bill Stone once put it, the widow got half and Bates half, which nobody seemed to think exorbitant, because it cost a lawyer a good deal to get his education, and court convened but twice a year. He was among the first to call on Westerfelt that morning, and with a mysterious nod and crooking of his fingers in the air he induced the young man to follow him into one of the vacant stalls in the back part of the long building.
"Thar's something that has jest struck me, Westerfelt," he began, in the low voice of an electioneering candidate, and he possessed himself of one of Westerfelt's lapels and began to rub his thick, red fingers over it. "I wouldn't have you mention me in the matter, for really I hain't got a thing ag'in any of these mountain men, but I thought I'd say to you as a friend that this is a damageable case. Them men could be handled for what they done last night, and made to sweat for it—sweat hard cash, as the feller said."
Westerfelt stared at him in surprise.
"Oh," he said, "I never thought of that. I—"
"Well, there ain't no harm in looking at the thing from all sides," broke in the lawyer, as deliberately as his professional eagerness would permit. "A good price could be made out of the ring-leaders anyway. Old Jim Hunter's got two hundred acres o' bottom land as black as that back yard out thar, an' it's well stocked, an' I know all the rest o' the gang an' their ability to plank up. Maybe it wouldn't even get as far as court. Them fellers would pay up rather than be published all over creation as—"
Westerfelt drew back, smiling. He did not really dislike Bates, and he attributed his present proposition to the desire to advance in his profession, but he was far from falling into the present proposal.
"I haven't the slightest intention of prosecuting, Mr. Bates," he declared, firmly. "In fact, nothing could persuade me to take a single step in that direction."
The face of the lawyer fell.
"Oh, that's the way you feel. Well," scratching his chin, "I don't know as it makes much difference one way or the other, but I hope, Mr. Westerfelt, that you won't mention what I said. These fellers are the very devil about boycottin' people."
"It shall go no further," answered Westerfelt, and together they walked to the front. A few minutes after Bates had gone across the street to his office, old Hunter slouched into the stable and stood before Westerfelt. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder in Bates's direction and grinned uneasily. Then he spat, and delivered himself of this:
"I'll bet I kin make a powerful good guess at what that feller wanted to see you about."
Westerfelt smiled good-naturedly. He felt irresistibly drawn towards the old man.
"Do you think you could, Mr. Hunter?"
"I'd bet a ten-acre lot agin a ginger-cake. An' I'll bet some'n else; I'll bet ten dollars 'gin a nickel that Cap. Westerfelt's boy ain't a-gwine to harbor no ill-will agin one o' his daddy's old friends that wus actin' the damn fool 'fore he knowed who he wus monkeyin' with."
"You'd win on that bet, Mr. Hunter," and Westerfelt gave the old man his hand.
Hunter's shook as with palsy as he grasped and held it. Tears rose in his eyes. "Lord, Lord A'mighty!" he said, "when I reecolect that the young chap 'at stood up thar so spunky all by hisse'f last night, in that moonlight an' sassed all of us to our teeth was Cap. Westerfelt's boy—by God, I jest want some hound dog to come an' take my place on God's earth—so I do. I want some able-bodied cornfield nigger to wear a hickory-withe out on my bare back." Then he dropped Westerfelt's hand and strode away.