THE time for the duel was an hour before sunrise the following day, and
to Caleb Trench, the Quaker, it was a gross absurdity. He had knocked
down Jacob Eaton as he would have knocked down any man who insulted
him, and he would have fought Jacob with his fists, but to shoot
him down in cold blood was another matter; not that Trench was over
merciful toward a man like Eaton, nor that he lacked the rancor, for an
insult lingers in the blood like slow poison.
Eaton had selected two young men from the city, and the cartel had
been delivered with all the care and joy of an unusual entertainment.
To Aaron Todd, the farmer, it was a matter as ridiculous as it was to
Trench, though he could understand two men drawing their weapons on
each other in a moment of disagreement. But Peter Mahan loved it as
dearly as did Willis Broughton, a grand-nephew, by the way, of old
Judge Hollis. The place chosen was Little Neck Meadow, and the seconds
made their arrangements without any personal qualms. A fight, after
all, in that broad southwestern country was like the salt on a man’s
meat.
Meanwhile the news that Caleb Trench had taken in Jean Bartlett’s
child dropped like a stone in a still pool, sending the ripples of
gossip eddying into wider circles until the edges of the puddle broke
in muddy waves, for no one had ever really known who was the father of
Jean’s boy. So, before Caleb rose at daybreak, to go to Little Neck
Meadow, his adoption of Sammy was as famous as his Cresset speech, and
as likely to bear unexpected fruits.
Old Judge Hollis had remonstrated against both the child and the duel,
but not so warmly against the last as the first, and when he went away
there was a new look in his eyes. After all, what manner of man was
the shopkeeping lawyer of the Cross-Roads? The judge shook his head,
wondering; wondering, also, that he loved him, for he did. The power of
Caleb Trench lay deeper than the judge’s plummet, and, perhaps, it was
that which lent the sudden sweetness to his rare smile.
But there was no smile on Caleb’s face when he went out, in the white
mist of the morning, to fight Jacob Eaton with pistols. He took the
woodland road on foot, alone, for he had sent his strangely assorted
seconds ahead of him. As he walked he was chiefly aware of the soft
beauty of the morning under the trees, and he caught the keen glint of
light on the slender stem of a silver birch that stood at the head of
the path, and he heard the chirp of a song-sparrow. A scarlet hooded
woodpecker was climbing the trunk of the tall hickory as he passed, and
a ground squirrel dashed across the trail. Caleb walked on, thinking
a little of the possibility of death, and a great deal of the gross
incongruity of his act with his life and his parentage. Through the
soft light he seemed to see his mother’s face, and the miracle of her
love touched him again. At heart he was simple, as all great natures
are, and tender; he could not have left Jean Bartlett’s child in the
woodbox. Yet he had no mind to show that side of his nature, for he was
shy in his feelings, and he had borne the hurt of solitude and neglect
long and in silence; silence is a habit, too, and bears fruit.
He walked slowly, looking through the trees at the river which, now
before sunrise, was the color of lead, with a few ghostly lily-pads
floating at its edges. Beyond, he saw the high swamp grass that fringed
the edge of the delta; below lay Little Neck Meadow. The other thought
that haunted him, the picture of Diana in the old leather chair beside
his own hearthstone, with the kindling glow of the wood fire on her
face, he thrust resolutely aside. After all, he was nothing to Diana
but the petty tradesman of Eshcol, and now--if she knew--the intending
murderer of her kinsman. Yet it was Diana who walked before him along
the narrowing path. Thus do our emotions play us tricks to our undoing,
even in life’s most vital moments.
But to the group waiting in the meadow, Caleb Trench appeared as
unmoved as stone. He was prompt to the moment and accepted their
arrangements without a question.
Afterwards Aaron Todd told the story of the duel at the tavern. Eaton
and his seconds were in faultless attire and eager for the fray. At the
last moment Todd had sent for Dr. Cheyney; his early arrival meant an
explosion against dueling, and no one thought of waiting for him except
Peter Mahan.
It ended in the two taking their places just as the whole eastern
sky ran into molten gold; it lacked but a few moments, therefore, of
sunrise, and there was still a light mist.
Jacob Eaton, who was a noted shot, had been drinking the night before,
against the best efforts of his friends. Trench stood like a pillar of
stone. The word was given, and both men raised their weapons. Jacob
fired and missed, then Caleb very deliberately fired in the air. He had
never even glanced at his challenger. It was at this that Jacob Eaton
lost his temper and his wits and fired again, deliberately attempting
to shoot down his enemy. The bullet went through Caleb’s left arm,
missing his heart, and Willis Broughton threw himself upon Eaton and
disarmed him.
When Dr. Cheyney came, Caleb had tied up his own arm with Todd’s help,
and was the calmest person there. Eaton was hustled off the field by
his seconds, and the story--told a hundred ways--was thrown into the
campaign.
Old Dr. Cheyney drove Caleb home. “I reckon the fool killer wasn’t out
this morning,” he remarked dryly, as he set him down before the office
door, “or else he only winged you out of compassion. Caleb Trench, for
a man of common horse sense, you can be the biggest fool west of the
Mississippi. Adopted Sammy, I suppose?” he added, cocking an eyebrow
aggressively.
Trench smiled. “Might as well,” he said.
“Precisely,” said the doctor, “if you want anything more, let me know.
I’ve got one old rooster and a gobbler, that’s tough enough to be
Job’s. G’long, Henk!”