Westerfelt's room at the stable was at the head of a flight of steps
leading up from the office. It had only a single window, but it
commanded a partial view of several roads leading into the village, and
a sparse row of houses on the opposite side of the street. In front of
the stable stood a blacksmith shop, and next to it, on the right, the
only store in the village. The store building had two rooms, the front
being used for dry-goods, groceries, and country produce, the one in
the rear as the residence of the storekeeper. Next to the store, in a
sort of lean-to, whitewashed shed with green shutters, was a bar-room.
Farther on in this row, opposite the jail of the place, and partially
hidden by the thinning foliage of sycamore, chestnut, and mulberry
trees, was the hotel. It was the only two-storied building in the
village. It had dormer windows in the roof and a long veranda in front.
Somehow this building interested Westerfelt more than any of the
others. He told himself it was because he intended to get his meals
there. Finally he decided, as he was not to dine that day with the
Bradleys, that he ought to go over at once and speak to the landlady
about his board. As he arranged his cravat before the little
walnut-framed mirror, which the stable-boys in placing his furniture
had hung on the wall, together with a hairbrush and a comb tied to
strings, he wondered, with no little pleasurable excitement, if Harriet
Floyd had anything to do with the management of the house, and if he
would be apt to meet her that morning.
Descending to the office on his way out, he found a young man writing
at a desk. It was William Washburn, the book-keeper for the former
owners of the livery-stable, whom Westerfelt had retained on Bradley's
recommendation. Washburn was copying accounts from a ledger on to
sheets of paper.
"How are they running?" asked Westerfelt, looking over the young man's
shoulder.
"Lots of 'em hain't wuth the paper they are on," replied Washburn.
"The old firm knowed everybody in creation, an' never could refuse a
soul. When you bought the accounts you didn't buy gold dollars."
"I know that, but Bradley said he thought I might collect a good many
of them."
"Oh yes; maybe a half, or tharabouts."
"Well," said Westerfelt, indifferently, "we'll do the best we can."
"Thar's a big un that's no good." Washburn pointed to an account he
had just copied.
"Who's it on?"
"Toot Wambush."
"How much?"
"Seventy-eight dollars an' fifty cents. It's been runnin' on fer two
yeer, an' thar hain't a single credit on it. He never was knowed to
pay a cent to nobody."
"Don't let anything out to him till the account is paid."
Washburn looked up with a dubious smile. "He'll raise a' awful row.
He never wants to go anywhar tell he's drinkin', an' then he's as ill
as a snake an' will fight at the drop of a hat. Nobody in Cartwright
dares to refuse 'im credit."
"I will, if he doesn't pay up."
"D' y' ever see 'im?"
"Yes, last night."
"I'd be cautious if I wus you; he's a dangerous man, an' takes offence
at the slightest thing."
"If he gets mad at me for refusing to let him drive my horses when he
owes a bill like that, and won't pay it, he can do so. I obey the law
myself, and I will not let drunkards run my business to suit
themselves."
"He's talking 'bout goin' out to his father's this morning, an' wants
to drive the same rig he had last night."
"I did not know he had my turnout last night."
"Yes, you wusn't heer, an' I knowed he'd make trouble if I refused him."
"That's all right, but don't let him get in any deeper till the old
debt is settled. I'm going over to the hotel a minute."
It was a warm day for October, and the veranda of the hotel was crowded
with loungers, homely men in jeans, slouched hats, and coarse brogans.
Some of them sat on the benches, supported by the square columns, at
the end of the veranda; a few had tilted their chairs against the wall,
and others stood in groups and talked county politics.
They all eyed Westerfelt curiously, and some of them nodded and said
"Howdy do" as he passed. He entered the parlor on the right of the
long hall which ran through the centre of the main wing. A slovenly
negro girl was sweeping the hearth. She leaned her broom against the
cottage organ and went to call her mistress.
A sombre rag carpet was on the floor, and a rug made of brilliant red
and blue scraps of silk lay in front of the fire. On a centre-table,
covered with a red flannel cloth, stood a china vase, filled with
colored leaves and grasses, and lying near it was a plush photograph
album. The rest of the furniture consisted of an ancient hair-cloth
sofa, an old rocking-chair, the arms of which had been tied on with
twine, and a sewing-machine. The windows had cheap lace curtains,
stiff enough to stand alone, and green shades with tinselled
decorations. The plastered walls were whitewashed and the ceiling was
faded sky-blue.
He heard a door close somewhere in the rear, and then with a light step
Harriet Floyd entered.
"Good-morning," she said, slightly embarrassed. "Mother was busy, and
so she asked me to come in."
"I believe we were introduced, in a general way, last night," he said.
"I hope you remember."
"Oh yes, indeed," she made answer.
He thought she was even prettier in the daylight in her simple calico
dress and white apron than she had appeared the evening before, and he
was conscious that the sharp realization of this fact was causing him
to pause unnecessarily long before speaking in his turn. But he simply
could not help it; he experienced a subtle pleasure he could not
explain in watching her warm, slightly flushed face. Her eyes held a
wonderful charm for him. There seemed to be a strange union of forces
between her long lashes and the pupils of her eyes, the like of which
he believed he had never met before.
"I've come to see if I can get my meals here," he said. "It is near my
place of business, and I've heard a lot of good things about your
mother's table."
"We always have plenty of room," she answered, simply. "Mother will be
glad to have you. Won't you take a seat?" She sat down on the sofa
and he took a chair opposite her.
"I suppose you enjoyed the party last night," he said, tentatively.
He fancied she raised her brows a little and glanced at him rather
steadily, but she looked down when she replied.
"Yes; Mrs. Bradley always gives us a good time."
"But you were not dancing."
"No, I don't care much for it, and Toot--Mr. Wambush--had sprained his
foot and said he'd rather not dance."
"That was very kind of you. Not many girls would be so considerate of
a fellow's feelings."
She looked down at a brindled cat that came into the room and rubbed
its side against her skirt.
"I don't think girls care enough about the feelings of men," she
answered, after a little pause. "If they would treat them nicer they
would be better."
"You think women can reform men then?"
"Yes, I do; though a man that drinks is mighty hard to manage.
Sometimes they can't help it, and they drink more when women show that
they have lost confidence in them."
He liked what she had said, notwithstanding its being an indirect
defence of Wambush, but was prevented from answering by hearing his
name angrily called in the street. This was followed by heavy
footsteps on the veranda.
"Whar is that d----d livery man?" The voice was now in the hall.
"It's Toot Wambush!" cried the girl, rising quickly and turning to the
door. "I am afraid he--" Just then the young ruffian entered. His
red face and unsteady walk showed that he had been drinking.
"Say, Miss Harriet, have you seed--oh, heer you are!"--he broke off as
he noticed Westerfelt. "You are the one man in the United Kingdom that
I want to see jest at this present moment. Bill Washburn 'lowed he had
orders from you not to let me have anything out'n yore shebang; is that
so?"
"I'd rather not talk business here," replied Westerfelt. He rose and
coolly looked Wambush in the face. "If you say so, we'll walk across
to the stable."
"No," sneered Wambush, "this heer's good enough fur me; I hain't got no
secrets frum them mount'in men out thar nur this young lady. I jest
want ter know now--right _now_, by Glory! ef you ever give sech orders."
"Do you think this is a proper place to settle such a matter?" calmly
asked Westerfelt.
"D----d you; you are a coward; you are afeerd to say so!"
Harriet Floyd, with a white, startled face, tried to slip between the
two men, but Wambush roughly pushed her aside.
"You _are_ afeerd!" he repeated, shaking his fist in Westerfelt's face.
"No, I'm not," replied Westerfelt. The corners of his mouth were drawn
down and his chin was puckered. "I have fought some in my life, and
sometimes I get as mad as the next one, but I still try to be decent
before ladies. This is no place to settle a difficulty."
"Will you do it outside, then?" sneered Wambush.
Westerfelt hesitated, and looked at the crowd that filled the door and
stood peering in at the window. Mrs. Floyd was running up and down in
the hall, excitedly calling for Harriet, but the crowd was too anxious
to hear Westerfelt's reply to notice her.
"If nothing else will suit you, yes," answered Westerfelt, calmly. "I
don't think human beings ought to spill blood over a matter of
business, and I don't like to fight a man that's drinking, but since
you have behaved so in this lady's presence, I'm really kinder in the
notion."
"Come on, then," blustered Wambush. "I'm either yore meat or you are
mine." He turned to the door and pushed the crowd before him as he
stamped out of the hall into the street.
Harriet ran between Westerfelt and the door. She put her hands on his
shoulders and looked at him beseechingly. "Don't go out there," she
pleaded; "stay here and let him cool off; he is drinking! He's a
dangerous man."
He took her hands and held them for an instant and then dropped them.
"I'm afraid he's been humored too much," he smiled. "I'd never have
any respect for myself if I was to back down now. I've known his kind
to be cured by a good, sound thrashing, when nothing else would do any
good."
She raised her hands again, but he avoided her gently and went out into
the street. Wambush stood on the sidewalk a few yards from the door,
one booted foot on the curbstone, the other on the ground. He had
thrown his broad-brimmed hat on the ground, and tossed his long hair
back over his shoulders. His left hand rested on his raised knee, his
right was in the pocket of his short coat.
"Come on, if you ain't too weak-kneed," he jeered, as Westerfelt
appeared on the veranda.
Westerfelt advanced towards Wambush, but when he was within a few feet
of him, Wambush suddenly drew a revolver, cocked it, and deliberately
raised it. Westerfelt stopped and looked straight into Wambush's eyes.
"I'm unarmed," said he; "I never carry a pistol; is that the way you do
your fighting?"
"That's yore lookout, not mine, d----n you!"
Just then Luke Bradley ran up the sidewalk and out on the veranda near
Westerfelt. He had a warning on his lips, but seeing the critical
situation he said nothing. A white, tigerish look came into the face
of Westerfelt. The cords of his neck tightened as he leaned slowly
towards Wambush. He was about to spring.
"Don't be a fool, John," cautioned Bradley. "Be ashamed o' yorese'f,
Toot! Drap that gun, an' fight like a man ur not at all!"
Wambush's eye ran along the revolver, following every movement of
Westerfelt's with the caution of a panther watching dangerous prey.
"One more inch and you are a dead man!" he said, slowly.
Mrs. Floyd, who was on the veranda, cried out and threw her arms round
Harriet, who seemed ready to run between the two men. No one quite saw
how it happened, but Westerfelt suddenly bent near the earth and sprang
forward. Wambush's revolver went off over his head, and before he
could cock it again, Westerfelt, with a swift sweep of his arm, had
sent it spinning through a window-pane in the hotel.
"Ah!" escaped somebody's lips in the silent crowd, and the two men,
closely on the alert, faced each other.
"Part 'em, men; what are you about?" cried Mrs. Floyd.
"Yes, part 'em," laughed a man on the edge of the crowd; "somebody 'll
get his beauty spiled; Toot kin claw like a pant'er; I don't know what
t'other man kin do, but he looks game."
"No, let 'em fight it out fa'r an' squar'," suggested red-faced Buck
Hillhouse, the bar-keeper, in the autocratic tone he used in conducting
cock-fights in his back yard.
The blood had left Westerfelt's face. Wambush's eyes gleamed
desperately; disarmed, he looked less a man than an infuriated beast.
Westerfelt was waiting for him to make the attack, but, unlike his
antagonist, was growing calmer every second. All at once Wambush sent
his right arm towards Westerfelt's face so quickly that the spectators
scarcely saw it leave his side, but it was not quicker than
Westerfelt's left, which skilfully parried the thrust. Then, before
Toot could shield himself, Westerfelt struck him with the force of a
battering-ram squarely in the mouth.
Wambush whined in pain, spat blood from gashed lips, and shook his head
like a lion wounded in the mouth. He ran backward a few feet to
recover himself, and then, with a mad cry, rushed at Westerfelt and
caught him by the throat. Westerfelt tried to shake him off, but he
was unsuccessful. He attempted to strike him in the face, but Wambush
either dodged the thrusts or caught them in his thick hair. It seemed
that Westerfelt's only chance now was to throw his assailant down, but
his strength had left him, Wambush's claws had sunk into his neck like
prongs of steel. He could not breathe.
"Hit 'im in the bread-basket, John!" cried Luke Bradley.
It was a happy suggestion. Westerfelt struck Wambush in the stomach.
With a gasp and an oath, Wambush doubled up and released Westerfelt's
throat. The two men now clinched breast to breast, and, with arms
round each other's bodies, each began to try to throw the other down.
They swung back and forth and from side to side, but they were well
mated.
Westerfelt suddenly threw his left leg behind Wambush's heels and began
to force him backward. In an instant Wambush would have gone down, but
seeing his danger he wriggled out of Westerfelt's grasp, drew something
from his coat pocket, and sprang towards him.
"Knife! knife! knife!" cried Luke Bradley in alarm. "Part 'em!"
"Yes, part 'em!" echoed the bar-keeper with an oath, as if the edge of
his pleasure had been taken off by the more serious turn of affairs.
Several men ran towards Wambush, but they were not quick enough. He
had stabbed Westerfelt once in the breast and drawn back his arm for
another thrust, when Luke Bradley caught his wrist. Wambush struck at
Bradley with his left hand, but the bar-keeper caught it, and between
him and Bradley, Wambush was overpowered.
"The sheriff's coming!" a voice exclaimed, as a big man rode up quickly
and dismounted.
"Hello!" he cried, "I summon you, Buck Hillhouse, and Luke Bradley, in
the name o' the law to 'rest Wambush. Take that knife from 'im!"
"Arrest the devil!" came from Wambush's bloody lips. He made a violent
effort to free himself, but the two men held him.
"I'll he'p yer, whether you deputize me or not!" grunted Bradley, as he
hung to the hand which still held the knife, "I'll he'p yer cut 'is
d----d throat, the cowardly whelp!"
"I've got nothin' 'gin nuther party," said the bar-keeper, "but I
reckon I'll have to obey the law."
"He's attempted deliberate murder on a unarmed man," Bradley informed
the sheriff; "fust with a gun an' then with a knife. Ef you don't jail
'im, Bale Warlick, you'll never hold office in Cohutta Valley agin."
The sheriff stepped up to Wambush.
"Drap that knife!" he ordered. "Drap it!"
"Go to h----!" Toot ceased his struggling and glared defiantly into the
face of the sheriff.
"Drap that knife!" The sheriff was becoming angered. He grasped
Wambush's hand and tried to take the knife away, but Toot's fingers
were like coils of wire.
"I'll see you damned fust!" grunted Wambush, and, powerless to do
anything else, he spat in the sheriff's face.
"d----n you, I'll kill you!" roared Warlick, and he struck Wambush on the
jaw. Wambush tried to kick him in the stomach, but Bradley prevented
it by jerking him backward. It now became a struggle between three men
and one, and that one really seemed equal in strength to the other
three.
"Drap the knife!" yelled Warlick again, and he drew a big revolver, and
with the butt of it began to hammer Toot's clinched fingers. As he did
this, Bradley and Hillhouse drew Wambush backward and down to the
ground.
"I'll pay you for this, Bale Warlick," he groaned in pain, but he still
held to the knife.
"Let go that knife," thundered the sheriff. "Let it a-loose, I tell
you, or I'll mash your skull!"
"Not while I hold 'im, Bale," said the bar-keeper, sullenly. "Law or
no law, I won't he'p beat no man 'at's down!"
"Let go that knife!" The sheriff spoke the last word almost in a
scream, and he beat Wambush's knuckles so furiously that the knife fell
to the ground.
He then pinned Toot's legs to the earth with his knees, and held the
knife up to a man in the crowd.
"Keep it jest like it is fur evidence," he panted. "Don't shet it up
or tetch the blade."
Disarmed, Wambush seemed suddenly overcome with fear. He allowed the
sheriff to jerk him to his feet, and walked passively between the three
men across the street to the stone jail.
Westerfelt stood alone on the sidewalk. Everybody went to see Wambush
locked up except Harriet and her mother. They instantly came out to
Westerfelt. Harriet picked up a folded piece of letter paper.
"Did you drop this?" she asked.
He did not reply, but took the paper absently and thrust it into his
coat pocket. It had fallen from Wambush's pocket. He was very white
and leaned heavily against a sycamore-tree.
"Oh, he's cut your coat; look!" Harriet cried.
Still he did not speak. He looked down at the slit in the cloth and
raised his hand towards it, but his arm fell limply and he swayed from
side to side.
"Are you hurt?" asked Mrs. Floyd, anxiously.
"I think not," he said; "but maybe I am, a little."
Harriet opened his coat and screamed, "Oh, mother, he's cut! Look at
the blood!"
He tried to button his coat, but could not use his fingers. "Only a
scratch," he said.
"But your clothes are wet with blood," Harriet insisted, as she pointed
to his trousers.
He stooped and felt them. They were damp and heavy. Then he raised
his heel in his right boot, and let it down again.
"It's full," he said, with a sickly smile. "I reckon I _have_ lost
some blood. Why--why, I didn't feel it."
Martin Worthy, the storekeeper, ran across from the jail ahead of the
others. Hearing Westerfelt's remark, he cried:
"My Lord! you must go inside an' lie down; fix a place, Miss Harriet,
an' send fer a doctor, quick!"
Harriet ran into the house, and Mrs. Floyd and Worthy supported
Westerfelt between them into a room adjoining the parlor. They made
him lie on a bed, and Worthy opened his waistcoat and shirt.
"Good gracious, it's runnin' like a wet-weather spring," he said.
"Have you sent fer a doctor?" he asked as Harriet came in.
"Yes; Dr. Lash, but he may not be at his office."
"Send for Dr. Wells," he ordered a man at the door. "That's right," he
added to Harriet, who had knelt by the bed and was holding the lips of
the wound together, "keep the cut closed as well as you kin! I'll go
tell 'im to use my hoss."
As he went out there was a clatter of feet on the veranda. The people
were returning from the jail. Westerfelt opened his eyes and looked
towards the door.
"They'll crowd in here," said Harriet to her mother. "Shut the door;
don't let anybody in except Mr. Bradley."
Mrs. Floyd closed the door in the face of the crowd, asking them to go
outside, but they remained in the hall, silent and awed, waiting for
news of the wounded man. Mrs. Floyd admitted Luke Bradley.
"My heavens, John, I had no idea he got such a clean sweep at you!" he
said, as he approached the bed. "Ef I'd a-knowed this I'd 'a' killed
the dirty scamp!"
"I'm all right," replied Westerfelt; "just a little loss of blood."
But his voice was faint and his eyelids drooped despite his effort to
keep them open. Worthy rapped at the door and was admitted.
"Doc Lash has rid out to Widow Treadwell's," he announced. "He's been
sent fer, an' ort ter git heer before long. It'll take a hour to git
Wells, even ef he's at home."
Harriet Floyd glanced at her mother when she heard this. Her knees
ached and her fingers felt stiff and numb, but she dared not stir.
Once Westerfelt opened his eyes and looked down at her.
"Do I hurt you?" she asked, softly.
"Not a bit." He smiled, and his eyes lingered on her face till their
lids dropped over them.