A KENTUCKY FEUD
The following morning he arose early, his abounding vitality having
enabled him to recuperate entirely from the exciting events of the
day before. He was soon in the saddle, bowling along at a good clip
through the "Blue Grass" State. He found widely varied road conditions
confronting him. At times he would strike short stretches of "pike" that
afforded fairly good going. As a rule, however, the roads were sandy,
and consequently, very bad for motorcycle travel.
At times, the sand was so deep that he felt lucky if he averaged fifteen
or twenty miles an hour. Often the only way he could get along at all
was to ride in one of the ruts worn by the wheels of carriages and
buggies. These were usually very deep, so deep, in fact, that with both
wheels in them the footboards barely cleared the surface of the road. Of
course, this made riding very dangerous, as the slightest turn of the
front wheel meant a bad fall.
It was only by skilful balancing that Bert managed to make any progress
at all. As every one knows, a bicycle or motorcycle is kept erect by
moving the front wheel to one side or the other, thus maintaining the
proper center of gravity. Riding in a rut, however, this method became
impracticable, so Bert was forced to keep his equilibrium by swaying his
body from side to side, as necessity dictated.
He found that the faster he traveled through these ruts the easier it
was to keep his balance. Of course, if he had a tumble going at that
speed he was much more apt to be badly hurt, but he had no time to think
of that. If he didn't go fast, he couldn't win the race, and to him that
was reason enough to "hit it up" regardless of possible consequences.
Sometimes he met a carriage, and then there was nothing for it but to
dismount and wait for it to pass, that is, if he thought the driver had
not seen him. But if he was on a long stretch of road and the driver had
ample time to get out of the way,--well, there was no stopping then. The
driver, seeing a blue streak approaching him at close to a mile a minute
clip would hastily draw to one side of the road and then descend and
hold his horse's head; and usually none too soon. There would come a
rattle and roar, and Bert would be a speck in the distance, leaving a
cloud of dust to settle slowly behind him.
The driver, after quieting his horse--all the horses in this part of the
country were unused to motor vehicles of any kind--would resume his
journey, muttering curses on them "pesky gasoline critters." But taken
altogether, Bert found his first day in Kentucky one of the most
strenuous he had ever experienced.
Night found him in a rather unlooked for situation. He was a little
ahead of his schedule, and he had reached the town at which he had
planned to stay several hours short of sundown.
"No use losing three or four precious hours of daylight," he thought. "I
might as well push forward and take a chance of getting shelter at some
village along the way."
This he did, following directions given him in the town in which he had
originally intended to stay. As usual, however, the directions proved to
be wrong, and the village failed to materialize. To add to his troubles
as darkness came on, he took a wrong fork in the road, and before long
found himself in a road that was absolutely impassable on account of
sand.
"Well," thought he, "it begins to look like a night in the open for me,
and that won't be much fun. I want to get a good night's sleep to-night.
Heaven knows I need it."
But when he had just about resigned himself to this, he was relieved to
see a light spring up, some distance away. "That's good," he thought,
"I'll see if all I've heard about Kentucky hospitality is fact or just
mere talk."
Accordingly he started the motor and threw in the clutch on low speed.
He made no attempt to mount, however, but contented himself with walking
beside the machine, guiding it through the deep sand.
He had no need to announce his arrival. The unmuffled exhaust did that
for him. As he approached the cabin from which the light emanated, he
could see the whole family grouped on the doorstep, peering into the
night, for by now it was quite dark.
The head of the house was a little in advance of the others, and as Bert
and the "Blue Streak" approached the door he stepped forward.
"Wall, stranger, what kind of a contraption do you-all reckon to have
thar?" he drawled, gazing curiously at the palpitating motorcycle.
Bert shut off the motor before he replied.
"Why," he said, "that's my motorcycle, and it's one of the best friends
I have. I took the wrong road a way back, I guess, and I was just going
to camp out over night, when I saw the light from your window. If you
can put me up for the night you'll be doing me a big favor."
"Not another word, son," replied the big mountaineer, "come right in an'
set down. You look nigh dead beat."
"I am about all in," confessed Bert. "I'll leave my machine right here,
I guess."
"Shore, shore," said the big Kentuckian, "I reckin thar ain't nobuddy
within a hundred miles hereabouts that could make off with the blamed
machine ef he had a mind to. Hosses is considerable more common in these
parts. The pump's around the side of the house ef you 'low to wash up,"
he continued, as an afterthought.
"All right, thanks," replied Bert, "I'll be with you in no time."
He disappeared in the direction indicated, and soon returned, much
refreshed by a thorough sousing under the pump.
As he entered the cabin, a tired-looking but motherly woman bustled
forward. "Jest you set over there to the right of paw," she said,
indicating Bert's place at the table, "an' make yourself comfortable.
We ain't got much to offer you, but sech as it is, you'r welcome."
There was not much variety to the viands, it must be confessed, but
there was plenty of "corn pone" and bacon, and rich milk with which to
wash it down. After his strenuous day in the open he ate ravenously. The
mountaineer uttered hardly a word during the meal, and indeed none of
the family seemed very talkative.
The children, of whom there were six, gazed round-eyed at the unexpected
guest, and seemed, if one were to judge from their looks, to regard him
as a being from another world.
After the meal was dispatched, the mountaineer produced a blackened old
pipe, and, filling it from a shabby leather pouch, lit it. "Do you
smoke, son?" he asked, holding the pouch out to Bert, "ef you do, help
yourself."
"No, thanks," said Bert, declining the hospitable offer with a smile.
"Don't smoke, eh?" commented the other. "Wall, ye'd ought to. There's a
heap of comfort in baccy, let me tell you."
"I don't doubt it," replied Bert, "but I've been in training so long for
one thing or another that I've never had a chance to form the habit.
Everybody that smokes seems to get a lot of fun out of it though, so I
suppose it must be a great pleasure."
"It shore is," affirmed the big Kentuckian. "But it's hot in here. What
do you say we light out and take a squint at that machine of yourn? I
ain't never got a good look at one close up. They're ginerally travelin'
too fast to make out details," with a grin.
"Well, they're not the slowest things in the world, that's certain,"
laughed Bert, "but come ahead out and I'll be glad to explain it to
you."
They went outside together, the Kentuckian carrying a lantern, and
followed by the children, who gazed wide-eyed at the strange machine.
Bert explained the simpler points of the mechanism to the mountaineer,
who seemed much interested.
"I kin see it's a mighty neat contraption," he admitted, at length. "But
I'd rether ride quietlike behind a good bit o' hoss flesh. You can't
make me believe that thet machine has got the strength o' seven hosses
in it, nohow. It ain't reasonable."
Bert saw that he might argue for a week, and still fail to shake the
obstinacy of his host, so he wisely forbore to make the attempt. Instead
he guided the conversation around to the conditions and pursuits of the
surrounding country, and here the Kentuckian was on firm ground. He
discoursed on local politics with considerable shrewdness and good
sense, and proved himself well up on such topics.
They talked on this subject quite a while, and then the conversation in
some way shifted to the feuds a few years back that had aroused such
widespread criticism. "Although I haven't seen any sign of them since
I've been in Kentucky," confessed Bert, with a smile.
"No," said his host, with a ruminative look in his eyes, "they're dyin'
out, an' a good thing it is fer the country, too. They never did do the
least mite o' good, an' they often did a sight o' harm.
"Why, it warn't such a long time back that the Judsons an' the Berkeleys
were at it hammer an' tongs, right in this country roundabout. One was
layin' fer 'tother all the time, an' the folks thet wasn't in the fracas
was afraid to go huntin' even, fer fear o' bein' picked off by mistake.
They wasn't none too particular about makin' sure o' their man, neither,
before they pulled trigger. They'd shoot fust, an' ef they found they'd
bagged the wrong man they might be peeved, but thet's all. More'n once
I've had a close shave myself."
"But what started the feud in the first place?" asked Bert. "It must
have been a pretty big thing to have set people to shooting each other
up like that, I should think."
"Not so's you could notice it," was the answer. "Blamed ef I rightly
remember just what it was. Seems to me, now I come to think of it, that
ole Seth Judson an' Adam Berkeley got mixed up in the fust place over
cuttin' down a tree thet was smack on the line 'atween their farms. Ole
Seth he swore he'd cut thet tree down, an' Adam he 'lowed as how it
would be a mighty unhealthy thing fer any man as how even took a chip
out of it.
"Wall, a couple o' days later Adam went to town on one errand or
another, and when he got back the cussed ole tree had been cut down an'
carted away. When Adam saw nothin' but the stump left, he never said a
word, good or bad, but turned around and went back to his house an' got
his gun. He tracks over to Seth Judson's house an' calls him by name.
Seth, he walks out large as life, an' Adam pumps a bullet clean through
his heart. Them two men had been friends off an' on fer over thirty
year, an' I allow thet ef Adam hed took time to think an' cool off a
little, he'd never a' done what he did.
"Howsomever, there's no bringin' the dead back to life, an' Adam tromps
off home, leavin' Seth lyin' there on his front porch.
"'Twasn't more'n a week later, I reckon, when we all heard thet Seth's
son, Jed, had up an' killed Adam, shootin' at him from behind a fence.
"Waal, thet's the way it started, an' it seemed as though it war never
goin' to end. Young Adam, he 'lowed as how no man could shoot his daddy
an' live, so he laid fer Jed as he was goin' to the village, an' shot
him 'atween the eyes as neat as could be. Then the younger sons, thet
were still not much more than boys, as you might say, they took to lyin'
in wait fer each other in the woods an' behind fences. Pretty soon their
relatives took to backin' them up, and jined in on their own account. O'
course, most o' the folks hereabouts is related to one another in some
way.
"I wasn't a native o' these parts myself, an' so managed to keep clear o'
the trouble. It was a hard thing for me to set by an' see my neighbors
killin' each other off like a passel o' mad dogs, though, an' all the
more because I knew there wasn't any real call fer it in the first place.
"Howsumever, they've stopped fightin' now, an' it's none too soon,
nuther. Another year, an' I reckon there wouldn't a been a Berkeley
or a Judson left alive in the hull State."
The farmer stopped speaking, and gazed reflectively into the night.
"But what put an end to it finally," inquired Bert, who had listened to
this narrative with absorbed interest.
"Waal, there was considerable romance consarned in it, as you might
say," said his host. "Young Buck Judson, he met one o' ole Berkeley's
daughters somewhere, an' those two young fools hed to go an' fall in
love with each other. O' course, their families were dead sot agin' it,
but nothin' would do the critters short o' gettin' hitched up, an' at
last they talked their families into a peace meetin', as you might say.
All the neighbors was invited, an' o' course we-all went. An', believe
me, those people reminded me of a room full o' tom cats, all wantin' to
start a shindy, but all hatin' to be the fust to begin.
"But all we-'uns thet wanted to stop such goin's on did our best to keep
peace in the family. To make a long story short, everythin' went off
quiet an' easy like, an' Buck an' his gal was hitched up all proper.
The hard feelin' gradually calmed down, an' now the two families is
tolerable good friends, considerin' everything. But that cost a heap of
more or less valable lives while it lasted, I can tell you."
After a short pause, he continued, "But there was some turrible strong
feelin's on both sides while it lasted, son. Why, people was afraid to
get 'atween a light an' a winder, for fear of a bullet comin' through
and puttin' a sudden an' onpleasant end to them. Ole Sam Judson, as how
always had a streak o' yaller in him at the best o' times, got so at
last thet he wouldn't stir out o' the house without he toted his little
gran'darter, Mary, along with him. O' course, he figured thet with the
baby in his arms nobuddy'd take a chanst on wingin' him and mebbe
killin' the kid, an' he was right. He never even got scratched the hull
time. An' I could tell you a hundred other things o' the same kind, only
you'd probably get tired listenin' to them."
"It certainly was a bad state of things," said Bert at last, after a
thoughtful silence, "but couldn't the authorities do something to stop
such wholesale killing?"
"Not much," replied the mountaineer, "it would 'a taken every constable
in Kentucky to cover this part o' the country, an' even then I reckon
there wouldn't 'a been anywhere near enough. They must 'a realized
that," he added drily, "'cause they didn't try very hard, leastways,
not as fur as I could see."
"I'm glad it's over now, at any rate," commented Bert. "A needless waste
of life like that is a terrible thing."
"It shore is," agreed his host, and puffed meditatively at his pipe. At
last he knocked the ashes from it and rose to his feet.
"It's gettin' late, son," he said, "an' I reckon you-all must be might
tuckered out after a day on that there fire spoutin' motorbike o' yourn.
The ole lady's got a bunk fixed up fer you, I reckon, an' you can turn
in any time you feel like it."
"I am tired out, for a fact," acknowledged Bert, "and I don't care how
soon I tumble in."
"Come along, then," said Anderson, as his host was named, "come on
inside, an' we'll put you up."
So saying, he entered the cabin, followed by Bert.
Mrs. Anderson had fixed a bed for him in a little loft over the main
room, reached by a ladder. After bidding his host and hostess good
night, Bert climbed the rungs and ten minutes later was sleeping
soundly.
When he was awakened by a call from the farmer, he jumped up much
refreshed, and, dressing quickly, descended the ladder to the living
room, where the entire family was already assembled. After exchanging
greetings, he took his place at the table and made a substantial meal
from plain but hearty fare.
This over, he bade a cordial farewell to the kind farmer and his
wife, who refused pointblank to accept the slightest payment for the
hospitality they had extended him. Bert thanked them again and again,
and then shook hands and left them, first being told of a short cut that
would save him several miles and land him on a good road.
The good old "Blue Streak" was in fine shape, and after a few minor
adjustments he started the motor. The whole family had followed him out,
and were grouped in an interested semicircle about him. At last he was
ready to start, and threw one leg over the saddle.
"Good-bye," he called, waving his hand, "and thanks once more."
"Good-bye, good luck," they cried in chorus, and Bert moved off slowly,
on low gear.
At first the going was atrocious, and he was forced to pick his way with
great caution. The road steadily improved, however, and in a short time
a sudden turn brought him out on an exceptionally good turnpike, the one
of which his host of the night before had told him.
"All right," he thought to himself, "here goes to make speed while the
road lasts," and he grinned at this paraphrase of a well-worn saying.
He opened up more and more, and his motor took up its familiar
deep-toned road song. Mile after mile raced back from the spinning
wheels. The indicator on the speedometer reached the fifty mark, and
stayed there hour after hour. At times the road ran more to sand, but
then he simply opened the throttle a trifle wider, and kept to the same
speed.
The air was like wine, and riding was a keen pleasure. The trees and
bushes waving in the early morning breeze--the beautiful green country
spread out on every side--the steady, exhilarating speed--all made
life seem a very fine thing indeed, and Bert sang snatches of wild,
meaningless songs as he flew along. For three hours he never slackened
speed, and then only pulled up in a fair-sized town to replenish his oil
and gasoline. Then he was off again. The road became worse after he had
gone ten or fifteen miles, but still he contrived to make fair time, and
about noon he rode into Louisville.
His arrival there was eagerly awaited, and he was warmly received at the
local agency. While his machine was being cleaned and oiled, he took the
opportunity of reporting to the proper authorities. Upon his return the
"Blue Streak" was turned over to him, shining and polished, and he once
more took the road. Several motorcyclists accompanied him to the
outskirts of the city. He experienced varying road conditions, and was
twice delayed by punctures. But the rattling work of the early morning
made up for the afternoon's delays, and dusk found him two hundred and
eighty miles nearer the goal of his ambition.