For years no man had heard McAllister Falkins speak except in the smooth
and cultivated parlance of the lowlands. In Congress he had been
accounted silver-tongued, yet now, by some stress of excitement, when
the white-haired patriarch lifted up his voice, words came tumbling from
his lips, not in measured phrases but in the crude cascading force of
vernacular.
Henry Falkins had felt instinctively that the greater danger for his
father lay toward the guns of the Spooners, since it was hardly likely,
even in so impassioned a crisis, that a Falkins rifle would turn on a
Falkins breast. Acting in response to that belief, he had stepped
between the old man and Red Newton, and the two men stood back to back,
while the tableau held, each of them unarmed.
And as old McAllister raised his clenched hands and roared out in a
voice that carried, "Stop hit, ye damn' fools!" he found his snapping
eyes gazing into a pair that looked down into his own, though he stood
an even six feet in his socks. The eyes of the protagonist were not
snapping like his own, but smoldering dangerously with hatred and
resolve. The entire face was black and rigid, from its unkempt locks of
jet to its high outstanding cheekbones and clamped under jaw. The right
hand that had raised the pistol still held it, but instead of pressing
it to the breast of his enemy, young Jake now found it trained on the
venerated man whom he must not injure, and with slow unwillingness the
muzzle drooped.
"What deviltry air this?" thundered McAllister Falkins, addressing
himself to the young ringleader. "What hes happened to the breed of
Falkinses thet a man what gave his hand in contract breaks his bond? Air
the Falkinses turned liars and pledge-busters?"
"Why hain't ye a-talkin' ter them other fellers, too?" demanded young
Jake with that nasal shrillness which excitement brings to the mountain
tongue. "Does ye see any more guns over hyar then amongst them
murderers?"
At the epithet, a murmur ran ominously along the opposite side of the
path, but there were men there to quiet it at the raising of Henry
Falkins' hand; men representing the Deacon, whose influence, though
unseen, was powerful enough to hold his people leashed.
"Never mind why I don't talk to them." The resonant voice of Old Mack
rang like a bell, and, now that the first death-freighted instant had
passed, he spoke again without dialect. "I'm talking to you now. You-all
gave me your pledge that you would hear me out without a breach of
peace. You tried to break that pledge. You drew first. I saw you. I am
talking to you now, and I speak as the oldest man in the county who
bears the name of Falkins. I speak as the man who has the right, if he
chooses, to be the head of the Falkins family, and I am talking to you
who are a young cub of a boy and whose name is not even Falkins--and by
God, sir, I mean to be listened to!"
Sentence mounted on sentence with growing stress of passionate force,
and then came a new silence as the old man stood there, weaponless and
rigid, glaring into the face of the younger, who, with pistol
half-raised, burned slowly from the nape of his sinewy neck to the top
of his forehead in an angry wave of color. But suddenly at his back
young Jake felt, rather than heard, a low murmur, and he knew, as it
grew and traveled among his clansmen, that at a word from this
gray-beard, his people would repudiate the young pretender and follow
the aged and rightful leader into war, or--which was a more stressful
test--into peace.
While this question of family supremacy was argued on the Falkins' side
of the path, the Spooners stood silent, intruding no evidence of
interest. They simply waited.
"You have assumed to be the leader of the Falkinses," went on the old
man. "By what authority? Tell me that!"
"My pap war the head of our kith an' kin," retorted Jake hotly; "an' I'm
his son. He's done been murdered, an' I hain't the sort of a Falkins
that sets still an' lets them things go on."
And so capricious is the spirit of a mob that at that statement, as
though they had been momentarily misled, a new murmur of concurrence in
the sentiment rose from the Falkins side and one or two voices--well in
the protected rear--shouted, "No, and we hain't nuther!"
"Silence!" roared old McAllister again. "Let's talk about one thing at a
time. You gave me your hand to wait until I had had my say, and you
tried to break your bond. When I have had my say, you men can talk about
what you are going to do. If you make a move before I've uttered my
final word--either you men over there--" with a wave of the hand to the
right, "or you over there--" with a wave to the left--"you stamp both
crowds with the brand of perjury. And, when I talk, the first thing I
shall demand is that the Falkinses either change their names or get a
grown man with brains in his head to lead them."
The speaker paused, and the crowd waited, tense and breathless, but now
the rifles again hung at their bearers' sides, or rested with grounded
stocks. Then young Jake inquired in a sneering drawl:
"Wall, why don't ye begin yore speech?"
"I'm going to, but first I'm going to ask your uncle, Job Falerin, and
Jim Falerin and Mark McDonald to come out here."
Slowly three men worked their way to the front of the crowd.
"Men," instructed McAllister Falkins, with the decisiveness of a general
officer who has no doubt of instant obedience for his commands, "take
that boy's gun away from him until I'm through." For a moment they
hesitated, and the boy himself tightened his grip on his weapon until
his knuckles showed in white spots.
McAllister Falkins caught the wrist and held it; without a word the
three elder kinsmen surrounded and disarmed the young insurgent.
Instantly, McAllister Falkins wheeled to face the Spooners.
"Jim Spooner, Joe Belmear, Jerry Sparvin!" He ripped out the names
rapidly and crisply. "Do you do likewise with Red Newton and Buddy
Spooner."
But the two defendants had been reading the signs, and, as their kinsmen
came forward, they voluntarily surrendered their weapons.
"Now," went on the old man, "I'm going to ask you boys on both sides of
the road to show me one more evidence of good faith. Let all the men in
the front of this crowd carry back their guns and stack them at the
rear. Then let them come forward again. Don't let us have any rifles or
pistols at the front."
Rather wondering at their ready compliance, yet under the force of
something like a spell and also with a sense of immense relief, the
crowd began shifting and jostling, and when it again fell quiet not a
barrel or stock was visible.
Slowly old McAllister ascended the court-house steps and stood looking
down.
"Now," he announced quietly, "I want those same three Falkins men and
those same three Spooners, still armed, to come up here and stand on
either side of me. I wish to have the honor of their services as my
escort and body guard."
As he spoke the last words the old orator smiled, and through the crowd,
humorless and grim as it was, ran a murmur of responsive laughter at the
ludicrous jest of this old lion asking personal protection. Yet he had
drawn impartially from both elements, and the men named stepped to their
places with alacrity.
Then the old man began to speak.
The mountaineer has few pleasures, and except for feudal warfare, few
excitements. He loves the fulminations of public speaking and the
stirring influences of the forensic. McAllister Falkins they believed to
be the greatest of all orators, and no interrupting sound broke the
thread of his speech. He praised the good in both factions and denounced
their mutual lawlessness. He pleaded with the Falkinses, as with members
of his own family, to await patiently the process of law in the trials
of Red Newton and Buddy Spooner. If they were guilty, they should be
hanged. If they had acted in self-defense, they had the right to Spooner
forgiveness as well as vindication at the hands of the jury. He hazarded
no opinion as to the facts. He only begged all men to wait and see, and
while they waited that their leaders should shake hands and maintain as
a sacred thing the truce so plighted. But it was the fashion of his
saying these things which in the end availed, for he knew his hearers
and played on their emotions as a pianist plays on the keys of a
familiar instrument.
"Why," he cried at last, "in the good days when we all came, Spooners
and Falkinses alike, out of the mother state, facing our common enemies
in the wilderness, we came as comrades and as friends. When we
quarreled, we settled it in the honest way of men with fist and skull.
Then we shot from cover only upon wild beast and Indian, never upon our
neighbor. We lived the lives of men, and died God-fearing deaths."
He paused. He had been heard with a rapt attention, but he knew that the
difficult part of his speech lay yet ahead, and, as he wiped his
forehead with his handkerchief, the voice of young Jake Falerin flung
challengingly up at him the first interruption.
"We can't be friends with Black Pete Spooner a-stirrin' up strife in
these mountings." And after that came cries of "Where is Black Pete?"
and "Tell us about the Deacon!"
"Black Pete Spooner is in the mountains, and he is here in town,"
replied the orator quietly, though he found it difficult to make so
portentous an announcement calmly. "But he declares he is here in the
interests of peace, and is willing to let you, not only Spooners, but
Spooners and Falkinses alike, judge whether or not he can stay. If you
decide against him he is ready to go. He asks only that you hear him
out, and I ask only that every man of you give me his hand on it, that
until he has spoken no one will attack him. I have never had dealings
with the Deacon. I have never trusted him, but now I ask you as a
personal favor to hear him; holding your hands and paroling him in the
interval to my care and in my custody."
There was no immediate response. A moody silence settled over the
Falkins men, as though the favorite patriarch had asked too much, but
McAllister Falkins turned questioningly to Job and Jim Falerin and Mark
McDonald, standing at his side. These three ambassadors looked out over
the sea of upturned faces with the scrutiny of weather-prophets studying
the clouds. After that, for a moment they whispered together, and at
last Job, as the senior, stepped forward and declared in a clear voice:
"The Falkins boys is willin' ter hear what the Deacon's got ter say.
They're willin' to give their hands thet if they thinks he's a-lyin', as
he gene'lly is, they'll hold him safe twell the train leaves fer
Winchester termorrow mornin'--provided the Spooners keep faith."
"That's all I ask," assented McAllister Falkins, and he held out his
hand. Slowly and solemnly, in the order of their ages, Job, Jim and Mark
shook it, pledging their kinsmen. The whole proceeding, so medieval and
rude, yet so characteristic, struck young Henry Falkins with a grip of
the dramatic.
But that moment of drama was to be followed by another and tenser one,
for the elderly speaker turned toward the court-house door at his back,
and raised his hand; and in response to the signal the tall and
dignified figure of the Deacon appeared for a moment framed there, and
came forward to take his place at the side of his sponsor.
They knew he was coming, were expecting him; had agreed to hear him
speak, and yet, when they actually saw him, it was with something like a
shock to the Falkins element, so that, despite the bondage of their
pledge, a low chorused growl ran from throat to throat. Many of their
younger clansmen had never seen this man of whom such black tales were
told. None of the older men had seen him in recent years.
His name and his repute stood as a title of ruthless power, of guile and
murder. It was a name with which children were frightened into obedience
in log-cabins, up and down the creeks where Falkinses and Falerins
dwelt.
And for a space Black Pete said nothing. He stood looking down, his
broad shoulders drawn back, his hat at the familiar forward tilt, his
long chin raised, and in his steady eyes the contemplative half-dreamy
look of a pastor gazing down on his flock. Perhaps he was thinking of
that other scene when another man had stood, just as he did now, on an
elevation at the front of a court-house. That man had fallen at his
order. The Deacon knew that to one-half of his auditors he was a man
"marked down" and a truce-breaker, but his face mirrored no such
recognition, no apprehension, and, when he began to speak, his voice
went out to the far edge of the crowd, though it went in such soft
modulation that it did not seem loud to those who stood nearest.
He declared that he was not attempting to defend his past. His present
mission was reparation. He told with a homely and convincing force, yet
with modesty and humbleness, of his experiences and conversion. He had
come back only to ask permission to stay; and, if permitted to do so,
his influences would hereafter be for peace.
McAllister and Henry Falkins would testify that it was at his suggestion
that these speeches had been made. He had talked with the Spooner
leaders, and could also speak for them. He was ready to establish a
truce of two years' duration, and he hoped at the end of that time it
might be made permanent. He did not hope to be believed without proof.
He therefore offered himself as a hostage, and hereby placed himself in
the custody of the three Falkinses, who stood upon the court-house
steps. He would go unarmed to their houses as often as required, and
keep in touch with them--as a probationer. He took all the chances that
such a course involved--and took them willingly, he said, since, if he
could bring peace to men who should live as neighbors and friends, his
own life was a little thing. It was a masterful bit of hypocritical
eloquence, of _argumentum ad hominem_; but it was made to simple and
illiterate hearers. At its end, he turned dramatically, drew from its
holster his heavy-calibered revolver, and presented it, grip foremost,
to Job Falerin. An almost awed silence fell on the audience. Across the
street, windows began to open cautiously and female heads to peer out.
The long, unbroken quiet had reassured the town. Curiosity was
overcoming caution. From the hotel, a short distance away, two traveling
salesmen, who had heretofore remained indoors, ventured to take a walk
of investigation. Then with an audacity that only a born leader would
have risked, the Deacon made a suggestion to his custodians and with
them went down the stairs, not among the Spooners, but among the
Falkinses. He walked like a revival convert being accepted into
fellowship. He offered his hand to young Jake with the declaration:
"Jake, I aims to see that the trials for your pappy's killin' are on the
dead square."
After a moment of hesitation and to the astonishment of everyone, the
young feudist accepted and shook the proffered hand, which, though he
did not know it, had directed the assassination of his sire. In about
ten minutes, the three Falkins men and their hostage returned to the
steps, where McAllister and Henry still waited, and in final ceremony
the three Spooners gravely shook hands with the three Falkinses. Upon
that signal, the clear space of the pathway overflowed, and the men on
both sides mingled. Flasks appeared, and enemy drank with enemy. The
truce was signed. Henry Falkins heard one old man from far back in the
hills say to another, equally old, to whom he had not spoken in years:
"Jesse, you damned old sinner, why hain't ye nuver come over ter buy
them hawgs offen me thet ye traded fer ten year back?"
And the other man laughed shrilly, and retorted:
"Why you dod-gasted ol' rascal, I knew too durn well ye'd swindle me."
And then with loud guffaws of laughter they passed and tilted the flask,
and hobbled away arm-in-arm.
From the window of a house on Main Street, commanding the rutty
thoroughfare which glared in the yellow July sun, Minerva looked out at
the scene of reconciliation, and her heart beat with relief. A day of
bloodshed had been averted, and the man she had ridden a dangerous road
to warn walked in safety with his shoulders drawn back and his face
smiling. For a moment, the girl wished that he might know how, since
that day when he handed her the medal, she had carried his image in her
heart--but, of course, if he remembered her at all, it must be only as
one of the children of the old benighted order who were availing
themselves of the light from the torch of which he had so eloquently
spoken.
But in all this peace-making one man saw only defeat. Newt Spooner with
heavy heart had left the crowd, and mounted his horse. Despair had
settled on his soul, for now to kill Henry Falkins would be an
impossibility. But as he rode into Main Street, crowded with
indiscriminately mingled factions, he saw McAllister Falkins a
half-block away and his son Henry, walking side by side.
Then, suddenly, Newt Spooner saw all things through a fog of crimson.
The blood leaped to his temples and pounded there. He had made no truce,
had signed no pledge, was bound by no man's bond. He would kill Henry
Falkins here and now, and then go down like a mad mullah, satisfied to
pay the penalty with his own life. He cocked the rifle and swung
sidewise in his saddle, supporting his weight on one leg, so that he
might face the better to the side. Then he kicked both heels into the
sides of the old nag, and went yelling and careening down the street, to
overtake his victim and defy both clans.
Still gazing from the window, Minerva Rawlins saw that, too, and stood
breathless with her hands against her breast, as the wild-eyed,
liquor-inflamed boy came dashing along through the crowd. The town was
small, and here, on the little strip of Main Street, all its activities
centered. She looked on as one may watch a stage from a box, and her
fingers clutched at her calico dress, as she stood in an agony of
suspense.