"And in your opinion, that was right?"
Barr said fiercely, "A body don't stop to think should he tromp on its
haid does he find a pizen snake on his h'arthstone!"
Jeff lapsed into silence. His life story he had offered in jest, but he
understood Barr's. His ancestors had been among the first to come to
America, and they had come because there wasn't room enough for them in
Europe. But neither had there been room enough in America's scattered
colonies for people so fierce, reckless and proud. They had either left
the settlements of their own accord or been driven out. They had wanted
above all to live by their own personal inclinations and not by rules
which they had little part in making. Always they had sought the wildest
and most inaccessible places because only there could they live as they
must.
Barr Whitney typified this wild independence, which couldn't possibly
endure. Sooner or later even the hill clans must submit to the forward
march of civilization and Jeff hoped that the advancing juggernaut would
not crush them completely. The spirit they represented always had been
and always would be necessary to free people. Probably the older ones
would go down fighting; certainly they would never learn that they must
bend themselves to others. Perhaps their children, or their children's
children, would.
Jeff shrugged. That was to come. This was now, and neither civilization
nor anything else had as yet tamed Barr Whitney. Jeff rubbed a hand on
his trousers.
"You ail?" Barr asked.
"My hand's twitching."
"The oil of shunk an' the grease of b'ar, mixed two of one to one of the
other, an' cooked on a hick'ry fire when the moon's near horn points to
water, will drive out ary itch."
Jeff grinned. "Can't wait for the moon's near horn to point to water,
and besides I don't want a cure. When my hand twitches, I'm lucky."
Pete moved so swiftly that he seemed in one split second to be sitting
on his chair and then, magically, to be standing with his rifle at half
raise. But quick as he was, Barr was quicker. His rifle cracked, a lock
of hair detached itself from Pete's head to float softly to the floor,
and before the sound died Barr had levered another cartridge into the
chamber. He spoke as casually as though he had just shot at a squirrel.
"Next'un's goin' through your haid, Pete. Si' down."
Pete sat. Barr grinned. Jeff dared let himself think of the prospect
that awaited.
Tomorrow morning, side by side and at exactly the same time, Jeff and
Pete would be allowed to leave the cabin. Jeff pulled his stomach in, as
though he could already feel Pete's slug ripping through it. Again he
pondered escaping, but all he could think of was what he had already
considered.
If he ran, one of the waiting Whitneys would shoot him down when he came
off the ridge. There was little chance of doing anything tonight; Barr
was along to see that he didn't. He couldn't protect himself with paper
bullets. Jeff had a wild notion of whirling as they stepped out the
door, smashing Pete over the head with the muzzle of his shotgun, and
trying to claim him as prisoner. But that was a very wild plan which had
almost no chance of success. Pete was far too quick and far too expert a
rifleman.
Jeff put such thoughts behind him. No man could do anything well if he
tried to do more than one thing at a time, and first things must be
first. He shivered.
"How about a fire, Barr?"
"Lay a blaze if'n ye want. Thar's wood in the box."
Jeff laid a fire, lighted it and stood with his back to the fireplace as
flames crackled. He looked at a darkened window and had a curious
thought that this night would never end. It should, he decided, have
passed long ago. But when he looked at his watch, it was only half past
nine.
He should be hungry but he wasn't. They'd eaten in Johnny Blazer's
cabin, and now he was too nervous to eat. After a very long interval, he
looked again at his watch.
It was a quarter to ten.
Jeff glanced at his pack and created mental images of the goods it
contained. There were knives, fishing tackle, a half dozen new mouth
organs, fiddle strings, gay ribbons, scissors, needles--He had bought
only what the hill people wanted, and among all of it he could not think
of a single article that would help him now.
Jeff set his jaw. Maybe, if there was something to do, time would not
drag so slowly and, besides, he could think better when he was busy.
"Play cards?" he invited.
"No." Barr shook his head.
"Oh, come on!"
Barr tipped his head toward Pete, who sat motionless, with his rifle
across his lap. Unmoving, he missed nothing and was ready at a split
second notice to take advantage of anything that offered.
"Take his rifle away," Jeff urged. "You can still watch him."
"A body has the right to keep his rifle."
"He sure is nursing it." Jeff felt reckless. "How about sitting in,
Pete? We don't have to shoot each other before morning."
Pete refused to answer. Jeff pulled his chair to the table and tried to
entertain himself with solitaire. But he was too tense and strained to
concentrate, and when he found himself adding the four of hearts to the
seven of spades, he shoved the cards across the table and let them lay
there. Restlessly he threw another chunk of wood on the fire and turned
to Barr.
With no noise, and almost without effort, Barr rose. His eyes were alert
and his face was intent. He backed, so that while continuing to command
the cabin and the two in it, he could control the door, too. There was a
rasping scratch on the door and Barr said softly, "See what's thar. See
who's a'visitin'."
Jeff opened the door and Pal panted in. His ears were flat and his tail
hang-dog as, giving Barr a wide berth and glancing suspiciously at Pete,
he went to the far end of the cabin and stood. Not knowing whether or
not he was to be punished for leaving Granny's, he looked expectantly at
his master. Jeff laughed and twitched his fingers.
"Come here, you old flea cage."
Grinning happily, Pal came at once and Jeff brushed his shaggy head with
an affectionate hand. He was less tense and, strangely, his anxiety
lessened. The great dog wagged an ecstatic tail while Jeff continued to
pat his head.
For a short space, delighted to be near each other once more, neither
had paid attention to anything else. Pal licked Jeff's face with a big,
sloppy tongue and wagged everything from his muzzle to the tip of his
tail. He turned to growl at Barr and Pete, and Barr flicked his rifle.
"I wouldn't leave him try it."
"I won't," Jeff promised.
He slipped two fingers beneath Pal's collar, led him over to the table
and sat down. Bending over Pal, as though continuing to caress him, he
hoped Barr could not hear his pounding heart, and was glad his eyes were
hidden. After a moment, Jeff raised his head.
He looked too casually at the candle that flickered a foot from his
hand. Trying to appear disinterested, he gauged Pete's exact distance
and Barr's position. He moistened dry lips with his tongue and reviewed
his suddenly-formed plan.
Even though he risked a burned hand doing it, he was positive that he
could snuff the candle out before Barr could shoot. Then he'd tip the
table over and fight his way out. Jeff nibbled his lower lip and looked
doubtfully at Pal. Barr was supple as an eel and strong as an ox; Jeff
might need help and could he count on Pal?