The sun, dropping into a western sea of amber and opal, seemed to grow
in diameter. Then it dipped until only a naming segment showed and the
barriers darkened against the afterglow.
Still Parish Thornton had not come home and Dorothy standing back of the
open window pressed both hands over eyes that burned ember hot in their
sockets.
Old Aaron Capper had mounted his horse a half-hour ago and ridden away
somewhere--and she knew that he, too, had begun to fret against this
insupportable waiting, and had set out on the unpromising mission of
searching for the ambassador--who might already be dead.
A nervous chill shook the girl and she started up from the seat into
which she had collapsed; frightened at the incoherent lack of sanity
that sounded from her own throat.
She went again to the door and looked out into a world that the shadows
had taken, save where the horizon glowed with a pallid green at the edge
of darkness. Leaning limply against the uprights of the frame and
clasping her hands to her bosom, she distrusted her senses when she
fancied she heard voices and saw two horsemen draw up at the stile and
swing down from their saddles. Then she crumpled slowly down, and when
Aaron and Parish Thornton reached the house they found her lying there
insensible.
They carried her to the four-poster bed and chafed her wrists and
poured white whiskey between her pale lips until she opened her eyes in
the glow of the lighted lamp.
"Did they hearken ter ye?" she whispered, and the man nodded his head.
"I compassed what I aimed at," he told her, brokenly, "but when I seed
ye layin' thar, I feared me hit hed done cost too dear."
"I'm all right now," she declared five minutes later; "I war jest
terrified about ye. I had nervous treemors."
The stars were hanging low and softly magnified when Aaron Capper
mounted to ride away, and at the stile he leaned in his saddle and spoke
in a melancholy vein.
"I seeks ter be a true Christian," he said, "an' I ought ter be down on
my marrow-bones right now givin' praise an' thanksgivin' ter ther
Blessed Lord, who's done held back ther tormints of tribulation, but--"
he broke off there and his voice trailed off into something like an
internal sob--"but yit hit seems ter me like es ef my three boys air
sleepin' res'less an' oneasy-like in th'ar graves ternight."
Parish Thornton laid a hand on the horseman's knee.
"Aaron," he admitted, "I was called on ter give a pledge of faith over
yon--an' I promised ter bide my time, too. I reckon I kin feel fer ye."
Informal and seemingly loose of organization was that meeting of the
next afternoon when three Harpers and three Doanes met where the shade
of the walnut tree fell across dooryard and roadway. The sun burned
scorchingly down, and waves of heat trembled vaporously along the
valley, while over the dusty highway small flocks of white and lemon
butterflies hung drifting on lazy wings. From the deep stillness of the
forest came the plaintive mourning of a dove.
Jim Rowlett, Hump Doane, and another came as representatives of the
Doanes, and Parish Thornton, Aaron Capper, and Lincoln Thornton met them
as plenipotentiaries of the Harpers.
When commonplaces of greeting had ended, Jim Rowlett turned to Aaron
Capper as the senior of his group:
"Aaron," he said, "this land's hurtin' fer peace an' human charity. We
craves hit, an' Mr. Thornton hyar says _you_ wants hit no less. We've
come ter git yore answer now."
"Jim," responded Aaron, gravely, "from now on, I reckon when ye comes
ter ther Harpers on any sich matter as thet Parish Thornton's ther man
ter see. He stands in Caleb Harper's shoes."
That was the simple coronation ceremony which raised the young man from
Virginia to the position of responsibility for which he had had no wish
and from which he now had no escape. It was his acknowledgment by both
clans, and to him again turned Jim Rowlett, with an inexpressible
anxiety of questioning in his aged eyes.
Then Parish Thornton held out his hand.
"I'm ready," he said, "ter give ye my pledge an' ter take your'n."
The two palms met and the fingers clasped, and into six unemotional
faces flashed an unaccustomed fire.
"Thar's jest one thing more yit," suggested the practical minded
hunchback. "Some few wild fellers on both sides of ther line air apt ter
try out how strong we be ter enfo'ce our compact. Hit's kinderly like
young colts plungin' ergainst a new hand on ther bridle-rein--we've got
ter keep cool-headed an' patient an' ack tergether when a feller like
thet shows up."
Parish Thornton nodded, and Hump Doane took off his hat and ran his hand
through his bristling hair.
"An' now," he announced, "we'll ride on home an' pass ther word along
thet matters stands es they stud in old Caleb's day an' time." He paused
then, noting the weariness on the face of Jim Rowlett, added
tentatively: "All of us, thet is ter say, save Old Jim. He's sorely
tuckered out, an' I reckon ef ye invited him ter stay ther night with
ye, Mr. Thornton, hit would be a kinderly charitable act."
"He's mighty welcome," declared the host, heartily.
"Dorothy'll look atter him like his own daughter an' see that he gits
enjoyed."
* * * * *
At Jake Crabbott's store the loungers were in full attendance on the
morning after Parish Thornton's ride to Hump Doane's house, and the
rumours that found currency there were varied and for the most part
inaccurate. But the fact that Parish Thornton had ridden through
picketed woods, promulgated some sort of ultimatum and come away
unharmed, had leaked through and endowed him with a fabulous sort of
interest.
Young Pete Doane was there, and since he was the son of the man under
whose roof the stirring drama had been staged, he assumed a magnified
importance and affected a sphinx-like silence of discretion to mask his
actual ignorance. Hump Doane did not confide everything he knew to this
son whom he at once loved and disdained.
Young Doane stood indulging in rustic repartee with bright-eyed Elviry
Prooner, a deep-bosomed Diana, who, next to Dorothy Thornton, was
accounted the "comeliest gal along siv'ral creeks."
When Bas Rowlett joined the group, however, interest fell promptly away
from Pete and centred around this more legitimate pole. But Bas turned
on them all a sullenly uncommunicative face, and the idlers were quick
to recognize and respect his unapproachable mood and to stand wide of
his temper.
After he had bought twist tobacco and lard and salt and chocolate drops,
Bas summoned Pete away from his temporary inamorata with an imperative
jerk of his head and the youthful hillsman responded with the promptness
of a lieutenant receiving instructions from his colonel. When the two
were mounted, the son of the hunchback gained a more intimate knowledge
of actual conditions than he had been able to glean at home.
"Ther upshot of ther matter's this, Pete," declared Bas, earnestly. "Sam
Opdyke lef' thet meetin' yestidday with his mind made up ter slay this
man Thornton--an' ther way things hev shaped up now, hit won't no
fashion do. He's got ter be halted--an' I kain't afford ter be knowd in
ther matter one way ner t'other. Go see him an' tell him he'll incense
everybody an' bring on hell's own mischief ef he don't hold his hand.
Tell him his chanst'll come afore long but right now, I say he's got ter
_quit hit_."
An hour later the fiery-tempered fellow, still smarting because his
advice had been spurned yesterday, straightened up from the place
outside his stable door where he was mending a saddle girth and listened
while the envoy from Bas Rowlett preached patience.
But it was Bas himself who had coached Sam Opdyke with the incitement
and inflammatory counsel which he had voiced the day before. Now the man
had taken fire from the flames of his own kindling--and that fire was
not easy to quench. He had been, at first, a disciple but he had
converted himself and had been contemptuously treated into the bargain.
The grievance he paraded had become his own, and the nature Bas had
picked for such a purpose was not an April spirit to smile in sunlight
twenty-four hours after it had fulminated in storm.
Opdyke gazed glumly at his visitor, as he listened, then he lied
fluently in response.
"All right. I had my say yestidday an' now I'm done. Next time ther
circuit-rider holds big meetin' I'm comin' through ter ther mourners'
bench an' howl out sanctimony so loud I'll bust everybody's eardrums,"
and the big man laughed sneeringly.
Yet an hour later Opdyke was greasing and loading his squirrel gun.
* * * * *
When the supper dishes had been cleared away that night, Old Jim and
Parish Thornton sat for a long while in the front room, and because it
was a sultry night and peace had been pledged, both door and window
stood open.
Dorothy sat listening while they talked, and the theme which occupied
them was the joint effort that must be made on either side the old feud
line for the firm enforcement of the new treaty. They discussed plans
for catching in time and throttling by joint action any sporadic
insurgencies by which the experimentally minded might endeavour to test
their strength of leadership.
"Now thet we stands in accord," mused Old Jim, "jestice kin come back
ter ther cote-house ergin--an' ther jedge won't be terrified ter
dispense hit, with me sittin' on one side of him an' you on t'other. Men
hev mistrusted ther law so long es one crowd held all hits power."
Outside along the roadside margin of deep shadow crept the figure of a
man with a rifle in his hand. It was a starlit night with a sickle of
new moon, neither bright nor yet densely dark, so that shapes were
opaquely visible but not clear-cut or shadow-casting.
The man with the long-barrelled rifle none the less avoided the open
road and edged along the protecting growth of heavy weed stalk and wild
rose thicket until he came to a point where the heavier shadow of the
big walnut tree blotted all shapes into blackness. There he cautiously
climbed the fence, taking due account of the possible creaking-of
unsteady rails.
"I'd love ter see men enabled ter confidence ther co'te ergin," said
Parish Thornton, answering his old guest after a long and meditative
silence. "Hit would ease a heap of torment. Up ter now they've hed ter
trust tha'r rifle-guns."
As he spoke his eyes went to the wall by the door where during these
weeks of disuse his own rifle had stood leaning, and his wife smiled as
her glance followed his. She was thinking that soon both his arms would
be strong enough to use it again, and she was happy that he would need
it only for hunting.
The man outside had by this time gained the dooryard and stood beside
the tree trunk where the shadow was deepest. He raised his long barrel
and steadied it against the bark, not knowing that as coincidence would
have it the metal rested against those initials which had been carved
there generations before, making of the tree itself a monument to the
dead.
Through the raised window he could see two heads in the lamplight; those
of Parish Thornton and his wife, and it was easy to draw his sights upon
the point just below the left shoulder blade of the man's back. Old Man
Rowlett sat too far to one side to be visible.
High in the top of the walnut a shattered branch had hung in a hair
balance since the great storm had stricken it. High winds had more than
once threatened to bring this dead wood down, yet it had remained
there, out of reach and almost out of sight but still precariously
lodged.
The wind to-night was light and capricious, yet it was just as the man,
who was using that tree as an ambush, established touch between finger
and trigger, that the splintered piece of timber broke away from its
support and ripped its way noisily downward until a crotch caught and
held it. Startled by that unexpected alarm from above, given as though
the tree had been a living sentinel, the rifleman jerked his gun upward
as he fired.
The bullet passed through the window to bury itself with a spiteful thud
in the wall above the hearth. Both men and the woman came to their feet
with astonished faces turned toward the window.
Parish Thornton reached for the pistol which he had laid on the mantel,
but before he had gained the door he saw Dorothy flash past him, seizing
his rifle as she went, and a few seconds later he heard the clean-lipped
snap of its voice in a double report.
"I got him," panted the young woman, as her husband reached her side.
"Git down low on ther ground!" She did likewise as she added in a
guarded whisper, "I shot at his legs, so he's still got his rifle an'
both hands. He drapped right thar by ther fence."
They went back into the house and old Jim Rowlett said grimly: "Now let
me give an order or two. Thornton, you fotch yore pistol. Gal, you bring
thet rifle-gun an' give me a lantern. Then come out ther back door an'
do what I tells ye."
A few minutes later the voice of the old Doane was raised from the
darkness:
"Whoever ye be over yon," it challenged, "lift up both yore hands. I'm
a-goin' ter light a lantern now an' come straight to'rds ye--but thar's
a rifle-gun ter ther right of ye an' a pistol ter ther left of ye--an'
ef ye makes a false move both of 'em'll begin shootin'."
Out there by the fence a voice answered sullenly in recognition of the
speaker--and realization of failure: "I hain't ergoin' ter shoot no
more. I gives up."