The Raid
Earlier that same Saturday evening, while Judith Barrier was fighting out
her battle, and trying to tire down the restless spirit that wrung and
punished her, Nancy Card, mindful of earlier experiences in feud times,
was getting her cabin in a state of defence.
"You know in reason them thar Turrentines ain't a-goin' to hold off
long," she told Creed. "They're pizen fighters, and they allus aim to hit
fust. No, you don't stay out in that thar office," as Creed made this
proffer, stating that it would leave her and her family safer. "I say
stay in the office! Why, them Turrentines would ask no better than one
feller for the lot of 'em to jump on--they could make their brags about
it the longest day they live of how they done him up."
So it came to pass that Creed was sitting in the big kitchen of the Nancy
Card cabin while Judith wrought at her fruitless labours in her own home.
Despite the time of year, Nancy insisted on shutting the doors and
closing the battened shutters at the windows.
"A body gets a lot of good air by the chimney drawin' up when ye have a
bit of fire smokin'," she said. "I'd ruther be smothered as to be shot,
anyhow."
Little Buck and Beezy, infected by the excitement of their elders,
refused peremptorily to go to bed. "Let me take the baby," said Creed
holding out his arms. "She's always good with me. She can go to sleep in
my lap."
"Beezy won't go to sleep in _nobody's_ lap," that young lady announced
with great finality. "Beezy never go to sleep _no_ time--_nowhere_."
"All right," agreed the young fellow easily, cutting short a futile
argument upon the grandmother's part. "You needn't go to sleep if you can
stay awake, honey. You sit right here in Creed's lap and stay awake till
morning and keep him good company, won't you?"
The red head nodded till its flying frazzles quivered like tongues of
flame. Then it snuggled down on the broad breast, that moved rhythmically
under it, and very soon the long lashes drooped to the flushed cheeks and
Beezy was asleep.
Aunt Nancy had picked up Little Buck, but that young man had the
limitations of his virtues. Being silent by nature he had not so much to
keep him awake as the loquacious Beezy, and by the time his father on the
other side of the hearth had dropped asleep and nearly fallen into the
fire a couple of times, been sternly admonished by the grandmother, and
gone to fling himself face down upon a bed in the corner, Little Buck was
sounder asleep than his sister.
The old woman got up and carried her grandson to the bed, laid him down
upon it and, taking basin and towel, proceeded to wipe the dusty small
feet before she took off his minimum of clothing and pushed him in
between the sheets.
"Minds me of a foot-washin' at Little Shiloh," she ruminated. "Here's me
jest like the preacher and here's Little Buck gettin' all the sins of the
day washed off at once."
She completed her task, and was taking Beezy from Creed's arms to lay her
beside her brother on the bed, when a tap--tap--tapping, apparently upon
the window shutter, brought them both to their feet, staring at each
other with pale faces.
"What's that?" breathed Nancy. "Hush--hit'll come again. Don't you answer
for your life, Creed. Ef anybody speaks, let it be me."
Again the measured rap--rap--rap!
"You let my Nick in," murmured Beezy sleepily, and Creed laughed out in
sudden relief. It was the wooden-legged rooster, coming across the little
side porch and making his plea for admission as he stepped.
Something in the incident brought the situation of affairs home to Creed
Bonbright as it had not been before.
"Aunt Nancy," he said resolutely, "I'm going to leave right now and walk
down to the settlement. I've got no business to be here putting you and
the children in danger. It's a case of fool pride. They told me down at
Hepzibah that I'd be run out of the Turkey Tracks inside of three months
if I tried to set up a justice's office here. I felt sort of ashamed to
go back and face them and own up that they were right--that I had been
run out. I ought to have been too much of a man to feel that way. It
makes no difference what they say--the only thing that counts is that I
have failed."
"You let me catch you openin' that do' or steppin' yo' foot on the road
to-night!" snorted Nancy belligerently. "Why, you fool boy, don't you
know all the roads has been guarded by the Turrentines ever since they
fell out with ye? They 'lowed ye would run of course, and they aimed to
layway ye as ye went. I could have told 'em ye wasn't the runnin' kind;
but thar, what do they know about----"
She broke off suddenly, her mouth open, and stood staring with
fear-dilated eyes at Creed.
"Hello!" came the hail from outside.
Nancy let the baby slip from her arms to the floor, and the little thing
stood whimpering and rubbing her eyes, clinging to her grandmother's
skirts.
"Hush--hush!" cautioned the old woman, barely above her breath.
"Hello! Hello in thar! You better answer--we see yo' light. Hello in
thar!"
"Whose--voice--is that?" breathed old Nancy.
"It sounded like Blatch Turrentine's," Creed whispered back as softly.
"Hit do," she agreed with conviction.
Suddenly a shot rang out, and Doss Provine sat up on the edge of the bed
with a gurgle of terror. Little Buck wakened at the same instant, and ran
to his grandmother.
"I ain't scared, Granny," he asseverated, "I kin fight fer ye."
"Hush--hush!" cautioned Nancy, bending to gather in the sun-burned tow
head at her knee.
Another shot followed, and after it a voice crying,
"You've got Creed Bonbright in thar. You let him come out and talk to us,
or we'll batter yo' do' in."
"You Andy--you Jeff!" shouted the old woman in sudden rage. "Ef you want
Creed Bonbright you know whar to find him. You go away and let my do'
alone."
"You quit callin' out names, Nancy Cyard," responded the first, menacing
voice out of the darkness. "We know Bonbright's in thar, and we aim to
have him out--or burn yo' house--accordin' to yo' ruthers."
Creed had parted his lips to answer them, when old Nancy sprang at him
and set her hand over his open mouth.
"You hush--and keep hushed!" she whispered urgently.
"I just wanted to call to the boys and tell them I'm here," Creed
whispered to her. "Aunt Nancy, I'm bound to go out there and talk to them
fellows. I cain't stay in here and let you and the children suffer for
it."
"Aw, big-mouthed, big-talkin' brood--what do I keer for them?" demanded
Nancy, tossing her head with a characteristic motion to get the grey
curls away from her fearless blue eyes; whereupon the tucking comb
slipped down and had to be replaced, "You ain't a-goin' out thar," she
whispered vehemently from under her raised arm, as she redded back the
straying locks with it. Nancy had the reckless, dare-devil courage those
blue eyes bespoke. Presuming a bit, perhaps, on her age and sex, she yet
ran risks that many men would have shunned without deeming themselves
cowards. "You ain't a-goin' out thar, I tell ye," she reiterated. "I
wouldn't let ye ef they burnt the house down over our heads. Pony'll be
along pretty shortly from Hepzibah, and when he sees 'em I reckon he's
got sense enough to git behind a bush and fire at 'em--that'll scatter
'em."
As if inspired to destroy this one slender hope, the voice outside spoke
again, tauntingly.
"Nancy Cyard, we've got yo' son Pony here--picked him up on the road--an'
ef yo'r a mind to trade Creed Bonbright for him, we'll trade even. Better
dicker with us. Somepin' bad might happen this young 'un."
At the words, Creed wheeled and made for the door, Nancy gripping him
frantically but mutely.
"Creed--boy--honey!"--she breathed at last, "they's mo' than one kind o'
courage. This is jest fool courage--to go an' git yo'se'f killed up. Them
Turrentines won't hurt Pone. But you--oh, my Lord!"
"I reckon ye better let him go, maw," Doss Provine chattered from the
bed's edge where he still crouched. "Hit's best that it should be one,
ruther than all of us."
Old Nancy flung him a glance of wordless contempt. Beezy ran and tangled
herself in the tall young fellow's legs, halting him.
"Creed," the old woman urged, still below her breath, holding to his arm.
"Creed, honey, as soon as you open that do' and stand in the light, yo'r
no better than a dead man. Listen!"
All caution had been thrown aside by the besiegers. Hoarse voices
questioned and answered outside, sounds of stumbling footsteps surrounded
the house.
"Boys," called Creed in that clear, ringing voice of his that held
neither fear nor great excitement, "I'm coming out to talk to you. Aunt
Nancy, take the children away. You've got it to do."
"Well, come on," replied the voice without. "Talk--that's all we want.
You'll be as safe outside as in--and a damn' sight safer."
Nancy gathered up her youngsters, flung them in a heap into their
father's lap, and, overturning and putting out the candle as she went,
sprang to the hearth to quench a small flame which had risen among the
embers there.
"Ye might have some sense!" she panted angrily. "The idea of walkin'
yo'se'f into a lighted doorway for them fellers to shoot at! For God's
sake don't open that do' till I get the lights out!"
But Creed was not listening. He had pulled the big pine bar that held the
battened door in place, and now flung it wide, stepping to the threshold
and beginning again,
"Boys----"
He uttered no further word. A rifle spoke, a bullet sang, passed through
the cabin and buried itself in the old-fashioned chimneypiece. Creed fell
where he stood. As he went down across the threshold, Nancy whirling
around to the door, bent over his prostrate form.
Outside, the ruddy, shaken shine from a couple of lightwood torches which
stood alone, where they had been thrust deep into the garden mould made
strange gouts and blotches of colour on Nancy's flower beds. A group of
men halted, drawn together, muttering, just beyond the palings. Each had
a handkerchief tied across the lower part of his face, a simple but
effectual disguise.
Her groping hand came away from the prostrate man, red with blood; she
dashed it across her brow to clear her eyes of blowing hair. At the
moment a figure burst through the grove of saplings by the roadside, a
tall old man whose long black beard blew across his mighty chest that
laboured as he ran. His hat was off in his hand, his face raised; he had
no weapon. With a gasp of relief Nancy recognised him, yet rage mounted
in her, too.
"Yes--come a-runnin'," she muttered fiercely. "Come look at what you and
yo'rn have done!"
As he leaped into the clearing the old man's great black eyes, full of
sombre fire, swept the scene. They took in the prone figure across the
threshold, the blood upon the doorstone, and on Nancy's brow and hair.
"Air ye hurt? Nancy, air ye hurt?" he cried, in such a tone as none there
had ever heard from him.
"Am I hurt?--No!" choked the old woman, trying to get a hold on Creed's
broad shoulders and drag him back into the room. "I ain't hurt, but it's
no credit to them wolves that you call sons of yo'rn. They've got Pone
out thar, ef they hain't shot him yit. And they've killed the best man
that ever come on this here mountain. Oh, Creed--my pore boy! You Doss
Provine! Come here an' he'p me lift him." She reared herself on her knees
and glared at the group by the gate. "He had no better sense than to take
ye for men--to trust the word ye give, that he was safe when he opened
the do'. Don't you come a step nearer, Jep Turrentine," she railed out at
him suddenly, as the old man drew toward the gate. "I've had a plenty o'
you an' yo' sons this night. They're jest about good enough to shoot me
while I'm a-tryin' to git this po' dead boy drug in the house, an' then
burn the roof down over me an' my baby chil'en. You Doss Provine, walk
yo'se'f here an' he'p me."
Doss, who found the presence of Jephthah Turrentine reassuring, whatever
his mother-in-law might say, slouched forward, and between them they
lifted the limp figure.
"God knows I don't blame ye, Nancy," muttered the old man in his beard,
as the heavy door was dragged shut, and the bar dropped into place. Then
he advanced upon the men at the palings.
At Jephthah's first appearance the tallest of these had dropped swiftly
back into the shadows on the other side of the road and was gone.
Unsupported, the four or five who were left shuffled uneasily, beneath
the old man's fierce eye.
"Where's Pone Cyard?" he demanded.
"We hain't tetched him, pap. We never seed him. We said that to draw
'em."
"Huh!" ejaculated Jephthah, as though further comment were beyond him.
"Git yo' ridin' critters," he gave the short, sharp order. "Fetch Pete to
me." And he whirled his back, and stalked out into the main road.
A hundred yards or so up, there was a sound of hoofs and tearing bushes,
as the boys came through the greenery with their mules. Pete was led up
and the bridle-rein presented in meek silence. By the dim, presaging
light of the little waning moon, delaying somewhere down below the
shoulder of Big Turkey Track, old Jephthah took it, set foot in stirrup,
and made ready to swing to saddle. Then he slowly withdrew the foot and
turned back.
"Take them cussed rags off o' yo' faces!" he burst out in a fury of
contempt. "Now. Who laid out this night's work? Well, speak up--how come
it?"
Dead silence answered. Of the three who faced him not one--lacking the
leader who had skulked away at Jephthah's approach--could have explained
just why he was there. And none of them would betray the man who had led
them there and left them to answer as best they might for their actions
to the head of the tribe.
"Uh-huh, I thort so," nodded the old man bitterly, as they yet stood
mute. "Ain't got a word to say for yo'selves. No, and they ain't a word
to be said. Yo' sons in my house. I was thar--I was standin' with ye
about this business. Why couldn't this be named to me? What call had ye
to sneak around me--to make a fool o' me, an' shame me?"
He waited. Receiving no response, he concluded as he got to the mule's
back,
"You do me thisaway once mo'--jest once mo'--and hit will be a plenty."
With that he gave Pete the rein, and the mule's receding heels flung dust
in the dismayed countenances he left behind him.