The old Thornton house on Defeated Creek had for almost two decades
stood vacant save for an occasional and temporary tenant. A long time
back a formal truce had been declared in the feud that had split in
sharp and bitter cleavage the family connections of the Harpers and the
Doanes. Back into the limbo of tradition and vagueness went the origin
of that "war".
The one unclouded certainty was that the hatred had grown until even in
this land of vendetta its levy of violent deaths had been appalling
beyond those of other enmities.
Yet, paradoxically enough, the Harpers in the later feud stages had
followed a man named Thornton and the Doanes had fought at the behest of
a Rowlett. Now on the same night that Dorothy read in her attic smoke
rose from the chimney of the long-empty house and a stranger, whose
right of possession no one questioned, was to be its occupant. He sat
now, in the moonlight, on the broken mill-stone that served his house as
a doorstep--and as yet he had not slept under the rotting roof. About
him was a dooryard gone to a weed-jungle and a farm that must be
reclaimed from utter wildness. His square jaw was grimly set and the
hands that rested on his knees were tensely clenched. His eyes held a
far-away and haunted fixity, for they were seeing again the cabin he had
left in Virginia with its ugly picture of sudden and violent death and
the body of a man he hated lying on the blood-stained floor.
The hysteria-shaken figure of the woman he had left alone with that
grisly companionship refused, too, to soften the troubling vividness of
its remembered misery.
He himself had not escaped his pursuers by too wide a margin, but he
_had_ escaped. He had come by a circuitous course to this place where he
hoped to find quiet under his assumed name of Maggard, nor was his
choice of refuge haphazard.
A distantly related branch of his own family had once lived here, and
the property had passed down to him, but the Thornton who had first
owned the place he had never known.
The Kentucky history of his blood was as unfamiliar to him as
genealogies on Mars, and while the night voices sounded in tempered
cadences about him and the hills stood up in their spectral majesty of
moonlight, he sat with a drawn brow. Yet, because the vitality of his
youth was strong and resilient, other and less grim influences gradually
stole over him and he rose after a while with the scowl clearing from
his face.
Into the field of his thoughts, like sunlight into a storm sky, came a
new image: the image of a girl in a red dress looking at him from an
attic window. The tight lips loosened, softened, and parted in a smile.
"Afore God," he declared in a low voice, "she war a comely gal!"
Kenneth Thornton--now self rechristened Cal Maggard, was up and his
coffee pot was steaming on the live coals long before the next morning's
sun had pierced its shafts into the gray opaqueness that cloaked the
valleys. He squatted on his heels before the fire, honing the ancient
blade of the scythe that he had found in the cock loft, and that blade
was swinging against the stubborn resistance of weed and briar-trailer
before the drench of the dew had begun to dry.
He did not stop often to rest, and before noon he straightened and stood
breathing deep but rhythmically to survey a levelled space where he had
encountered an impenetrable thicket.
Then Cal Maggard leaned his scythe and axe against a young hickory and
went over to the corner of the yard where a spring poured with a crystal
flow into a natural basin under the gnarled roots of a sycamore.
Kneeling there, stripped to the waist, he began laving his chest and
shoulders and dipping his face deep into the cold water.
So intent was he that he failed to hear the light thud of hoofs along
the sand-cushioned and half-obliterated road which skirted his
dilapidated fence line, and he straightened up at length to see a
horseman who had drawn rein there and who now sat sidewise gazing at him
with one leg thrown across his pommel.
The horseman, tall and knit for tremendous strength, was clad in jeans
overalls and a blue cotton shirt. His unshaven face was swarthy and high
of cheekbone and his black hat, though shapeless and weather-stained,
sat on his head with a jauntiness that seemed almost a challenge. Eyes,
both shrewd and determined, gave the impression of missing nothing, but
his voice was pleasant as he introduced himself.
"My name's Bas Rowlett, an' I reckon _you're_ Cal Maggard, hain't ye?
I've done heered ye 'lowed ter dwell amongst us."
Maggard nodded. "Come inside an' set ye a cheer," he invited, and the
horseman vaulted to the ground as lightly as though he carried no
weight, flinging his bridle rein over a picket of the fence.
For a short space when the host had donned his shirt and provided his
guest with a chair by the door the conversation ran laggingly between
these two newly met sons of a taciturn race, yet beneath their almost
morose paucity of words lay an itch of curiosity. They were gauging,
measuring, estimating each other under wary mantles of indifference.
Rowlett set down in his appraisement, with a touch of scorn, the
clean-shaven face and general neatness of the other, but as against this
effeminacy he offset the steady-eyed fearlessness of gaze and the smooth
power of shoulders and torso that he had seen stripped.
Maggard's rifle stood leaning against the chinked log wall near to the
visitor's hand and lazily he lifted and inspected it, setting its
heel-plate to his shoulder and sighting the weapon here and there.
"Thet rifle-gun balances up right nice," he approved, then seeing a red
squirrel that sat chattering on a walnut tree far beyond the road he
squinted over the sights and questioned musingly, "I wonder now, could I
knock thet boomer outen thet thar tree over yon."
"Not skeercely, I reckon. Hit's a kinderly long, onhandy shot," answered
Maggard, "but ye mout try, though."
Rowlett had hoped for such an invitation. He knew that it was more than
an "unhandy" shot. It was indeed a spectacularly difficult one--but he
knew also that he could do it twice out of three times, and he was not
averse to demonstrating his master-skill.
The rifle barked and the squirrel dropped, shot through the head, but
Maggard said nothing and Rowlett only spat and set the gun down.
After that he relighted his pipe. Had this newcomer from across the
Virginia border been his peer in marksmanship, he reasoned, he would not
have let the exploit rest there without contest, and his own competitive
spirit prompted him to goad the obviously inferior stranger.
"Thar's an old cock-of-the woods hammerin' away atter grubs up yon," he
suggested. "Why don't ye try yore own hand at him--jest fer ther fun of
ther thing?"
He pointed to a dead tree-top perhaps ten yards more distant than his
own target had been, where hung one of those great ivory-billed
woodpeckers that are near extinction now except in the solitudes of
these wild hills.
Maggard smiled again, as he shook his head noncommittally--yet he
reached for the rifle. That silent smile of his was beginning to become
provocative to his companion, as though in it dwelt something of quiet
self-superiority.
The weapon came to the stranger's shoulder with a cat-like quickness of
motion and cracked with seemingly no interval of aim-taking, and the
bird fell as the squirrel had done.
Rowlett flushed to his high cheekbones. This was a country of riflemen
where skill was the rule and its lack the exception, yet even here few
men could duplicate that achievement, or, without seeing it, believe it
possible. It had been characterized, too, by the incredible swiftness of
a sleight-of-hand performance.
"Hell's red hole," came the visitor's eruptive outburst of amazement.
"Ef ther man-person thet used ter dwell in this hyar house, and his
kinfolks, hed of shot thet fashion, I reckon mebby ther Rowletts
wouldn't never hev run old Burrell Thornton outen these mountings."
"Did they run him out?"
Rowlett studied his companion much as he might have studied someone who
calmly admits a stultifying ignorance.
"Hain't ye nuver heered tell of ther Harper-Doane war?" he demanded and
Maggard shook an unabashed head.
"I hain't nuver heered no jedgmatic details," he amended, "I knowed
thar was sich-like warfare goin' on here one time. My folks used ter
dwell in Kaintuck onc't but hit war afore my own day."
"Come on over hyar," prompted Rowlett, and he led the way to the back of
the house where half-buried in the tangle that had overrun the place
stood the ruins of a heavy and rotting log stockade.
"Old Burrell Thornton dwelt hyar in ther old days," he vouchsafed, "an'
old Burrell bore ther repute of being ther meanest man in these parts.
He dastn't walk in his own backyard withouten he kept thet log wall
betwixt hisself an' ther mounting-side. So long as him an' old Mose
Rowlett both lived thar warn't no peace feasible nohow. Cuss-fights an'
shootin's an' laywayin's went on without no eend, twell finely hit come
on ter be sich a hell-fired mommick thet ther two outfits met up an' fit
a master battle in Claytown. Hit lasted nigh on ter two days."
"What war ther upcome of ther matter?" inquired the householder, and the
narrator went on:
"Ther Harpers an' Thorntons went inside ther co'te house an' made a
pint-blank fort outen hit, an' ther Rowletts tuck up _thar_ stand in
ther stores an' streets. They frayed on, thet fashion, twell ther Doanes
wearied of hit an' sot ther co'te house afire. Some score of fellers war
shot, countin' men an' boys, and old Mose Rowlett, thet was headin' ther
Doanes, war kilt dead. Then--when both sides war plum frazzled ragged
they patched up a truce betwixt 'em an' ther gist of ther matter war
that old Burrell Thornton agreed ter leave Kaintuck an' not never ter
come back no more. He war too pizen mean fer folks ter abide him, an'
his goin' away balanced up ther deadenin' of Mose Rowlett."
"Ye sez thet old hellion used ter dwell in this hyar house onc't?"
"Yes, sir, thet's what I'm noratin' ter ye. Atter he put out his fire
an' called his dawgs an' went away Caleb Harper tuck over ther leadin'
of ther Harpers and my uncle Jim Rowlett did likewise fer ther Doanes.
Both on 'em war men thet loved law-abidin' right good an' when they
struck hands an' pledged a peace they aimed ter see thet hit
endured--an' hit did. But till word come thet old Burrell Thornton war
dead an' buried, folks didn't skeercely breathe easy nohow. They used
ter keep hearin' thet he aimed ter come back an' they knowed ef he
did----"
There the speaker broke off and shrugged his powerful shoulders.
A brief silence fell, and through the sunflecks and the deep woodland
shadows came the little voices that were all of peace, but into
Rowlett's eyes flashed a sudden-born ghost of suspicion.
"How come _you_ ter git possession of ther place hyar?" he demanded. "Ye
didn't heir hit from Old Burrell Thornton's folks, did ye?"
The new occupant was prepared for this line of interrogation and he
laughed easily.
"Long erbout a year back," he said, "a feller named Thornton thet dwelt
over thar in Virginny got inter debt ter me an' couldn't pay out. He
give me a lease on this hyar place, but I didn't hev no chanst ter come
over hyar an' look at hit afore now."
Rowlett nodded a reassured head and declared heartily:
"I'm right glad ye hain't one of thet thar sorry brood. Nobody couldn't
confidence _them_."
Rowlett, as he rekindled the pipe that had died in the ardour of his
narration, studied the other through eyes studiously narrowed against
the flare of his match.
The newcomer himself, lost in thought, was oblivious of this scrutiny,
and it was as one speaking from revery that he launched his next
inquiry.
"Ther gal thet dwells with old man Harper.... She hain't his wife, air
she?"
The questioner missed the sudden tensely challenged interest that
flashed in the other's eyes and the hot wave of brick-red that surged
over the cheeks and neck of his visitor.
But Bas Rowlett was too adroit to betray by more than a single unguarded
flash his jealous reaction to mention of the girl and he responded
quietly and unemotionally enough.
"She hain't no man's wife ... yit. Old Caleb's her grandpap."
"I've done seed some powerful comely gals in my day an' time," mused
Maggard, abstractedly, "but I hain't nuver seed ther like of _her_
afore."
Bas thoughtfully fingered his pipe, and when he spoke his words came
soberly.
"Seein' es how ye're a stranger hyarabouts," he suggested, "I reckon hit
hain't no more then plain charity ter forewarn ye. She's got a lavish of
lovers an' thar's some several amongst 'em that's pizen mean--mean
enough ter prove up vi'lent and murderous ter any new man thet comes
trespassin'."
"Oh, pshaw, thet's always liable ter happen. Anyhow, I reckon I don't
have ter worrit myself 'bout thet yit."
"Suit yoreself." This time the native spoke dryly. "But what ye says
sounds unthoughted ter me. Ef a man's mean enough ter foller murderin'
somebody over a gal, he's more like ter do hit afore ther feller gits
his holt on her then a'tterwards. When did ye see ther gal?"
Maggard shook himself like a dog roused from contented sleep and sat up
straight.
"I hain't nuver seed her but jest one time, an' I hain't nuver passed no
word of speech with her," he replied. "When I come by ther house an'
tarried ter make my manners with ther old man, she was a-standin' in an
upstairs winder lookin' out an' I seed her thar through ther branches of
that big old walnuck tree. She hed on a dress thet made me think of a
red-bird, an' her checks minded me right shrewdly of ivy blooms."
"Does ye aim ter name hit ter her thet she puts ye in mind of--them
things?"
"I kinderly hed hit in head ter tell her." Suddenly Maggard's frank
laugh broke out disconcertingly as he added an inquiry so direct that it
caused the other to flush.
"Rowlett, be ye one of these hyar lavish of lovers ye jest told me
erbout?"
The mountaineer is, by nature, secretive to furtiveness, and under so
outright a questioning the visitor stiffened with affront. But at once
his expression cleared of displeasure and he met frankness with a show
of equal candour.
"I'm one of ther fellers thet's seekin' ter wed with her, ef thet's what
ye means, albeit hit's my own business, I reckon," he said, evenly. "But
I hain't one of them I warned ye erginst on account of meanness. Myself
I believes in every person havin' a fair chanst an' ther best man
winnin'."
The other nodded gravely.
"I didn't aim at no offense," he hastened to declare. "I hain't nuver
met ther gal an' like as not she wouldn't favour me with no second look
nohow."
"I loves ter see a man talk out-right," avowed the Kentuckian with
cordial responsiveness. "Es fer me, I've done made me some sev'ral right
hateful enemies, myself, because I seeks ter wed with her, an' I 'lowed
ter warn ye in good time thet ye mout run foul of like perils."
"I'm beholden ter ye fer forewarnin' me," came Maggard's grave
response. "Ther old man hes done invited me ter sa'nter over thar an'
sot me a cheer some time, though--an' I reckon I'll go."
Rowlett rose and with a good-humoured grin stretched his giant body. In
the gesture was all the lazy power of a great cat.
"I hain't got no license ter dissuade ye, ner ter fault ye," he
declared, "but I hopes ter Goddlemighty she hain't got no time of day
fer ye."
That afternoon Maggard sat before the doorstep of Old Caleb Harper's
house when the setting sun was splashing from a gorgeous palette above
the ragged crests of the ridges. It was colour that changed and grew in
splendour with ash of rose and purpled cloud border and glowing orange
streamer. Against those fires the great tree stood with druid dignity,
keeping vigil over the roof it sheltered.
At length Maggard heard a rustle and turned his head to see the girl
standing in the doorway.
He was a mountain man and mountain men are not schooled in the etiquette
of rising when a woman presents herself. Yet now he came to his feet,
responding to no dictate of courtesy but lifted as by some nameless
exaltation at the sight of her--some impulse entirely new to him and
inexplicable.
She stood there a little shyly at first, as slender and as gracefully
upright as a birch, and her dark hair caught the fire of the sinking sun
with a bronze glow like that of the turkey's wing. Her eyes, over which
heavy lashes drooped diffidently, were bafflingly deep, as with rich
colour drowned in duskiness.
"This hyar's my gal, Dorothy," announced the old man and then she
disappeared.
That night Maggard walked home with a chest rounded to the deep draughts
of night air which he was drinking, and a heady elation in the currents
of his veins. She had slipped in and out of the room as he had talked
with the patriarch, after supper, flitting like some illusive shadow of
shyness. He had had hardly a score of words with her, but the future
would plentifully mend that famine.
In the brilliant moonlight he vaulted the picket fence of his own place
and saw the front of the cube-like house, standing before him, streaked
with the dark of the logs and the white of the chinking. About it was
the patch of scythe-cleared ground as blue as cobalt in the bright
night, and back of it the inky rampart of the mountainside.
But as he approached the door of the cabin the silver bath of light
picked out and emphasized a white patch at its centre, and he made out
that a sheet of paper was pinned there.
"I reckon Rowlett's done left me some message or other," he reflected as
he took the missive down and went inside to light his lantern and build
a fire on the hearth--since even the summer nights were shrewdly
chilling here in the hills.
When the logs were snapping and he had kicked off his heavy boots and
kindled his pipe, he sprawled luxuriously in a back-tilted chair and
held his paper to the flare of the blaze to read it.
At first he laughed derisively, then his brows gathered in a frown of
perplexity and finally his jaw stiffened into grimness.
The note was set down in crudely printed characters, as though to evade
the identifying quality of handwriting, and this was its truculent
message:
No trespassin'. The gal ain't fer _you_. Once more of goin' over
yon and they'll find you stretched dead in a creek bed. This is
writ with God in Heaven bearin' witness that it's true.