McCalloway's house had been chinked and sealed within a few weeks and
now he was living under its roof. Boone had been out there often, and
one day when he went on to Asa Gregory's cabin his mind was unsettled
with the ferment of conflicting standards. Heretofore Asa had been his
sole and sufficient hero. Now there were two, and it was dawning upon
him, with a travail of dilemma, that between the essentials of their
creeds lay an irreconcilable divergence.
As the boy reached his kinsman's doorstep in the lengthening shadows of
late afternoon, Asa's "woman" came out and hung a freshly scoured
dish-pan on a peg. In her cheeks bloomed a colour and maturity somewhat
too full-blown for her twenty years. Asa had married the "purtiest gal"
on five creeks, but the gipsy charm of her dark, provocative eyes would
die. Her lithe curves would flatten to angularity and the lustre fade
out of her hair's burnished masses with a few seasons of drudgery and
child-bearing.
"Howdy, Booney," she said in greeting, and, without removing his hat, he
demanded curtly, "Whar's Asa at?"
"He ain't come in yit." A suggestion of anxiety sounded through the
voice of Araminta Gregory. It was an apprehension which experience
failed to mitigate. She had married Asa while he stood charged with
homicide. The threat of lurking enemies had shadowed the celebration of
wedding and infare. She had borne his child while he sat in the
prisoner's dock. Now she was weaning it while he went abroad under bond.
One at least knew when the High Court sat, but one could neither gauge
nor calculate the less formal menace that lurked always in the
laurel--so one could only wait and endeavour to remain clear eyed.
It was twilight before the man himself came in, and he slipped so
quietly across the threshold into the uncertain light of the room that
Boone, who sat hunched before the unkindled hearth, did not hear his
entrance. But in the door-frame of the shed kitchen the wife's taut
sense of waiting relaxed in a sigh of relief. Until tomorrow at least
the silent fear was leashed.
An hour later, with the heavy doors protectingly barred, the man and the
boy who considered himself a man took their seats at the rough table in
the lean-to kitchen, but Araminta Gregory did not sit down to meat with
them. She would take her place at table when the lordlier sex had risen
from it, satisfied, since she was only a woman. She did not even know
that the custom whose decree she followed lacked universal sanction,
and, not knowing it, she suffered no discontent.
From the hearth where the woman bent over crane and frying-pan, her face
hot and crimson, the red and yellow light spilled out into the primitive
room, catching, here, the bright colour of drying pepper-pods strung
along the rafters--there the duller glint of the house-holder's rifle
leaning not far from his hand. With the flare, the shadows of the
corners played a wavering hide-and-seek.
Asa ate in abstracted silence, intent upon his side-meat and
"shucky-beans," but the boy, who was ordinarily ravenous, only dallied
with his food and his freckled face wore the set of a preternatural
solemnity.
"Don't ye love these hyar molasses no more, Booney?" inquired Araminta,
to whose mind such an unaccustomed abstinence required explanation, and
the boy started with the shock of a broken revery and shook his head.
"I don't crave no more of 'em," he replied shortly. Once again his
thoughts enveloped him in a silence which he finally broke with a
vehement interrogation.
"Asa, did ye ever heer anybody norrate thet hit's cowardly ter shoot an
enemy from ther bresh?"
Asa paused, his laden knife suspended midway twixt platter and mouth.
For an instant his clear-chiseled features pictured only surprise for
the unexpected question--then they hardened as Athenian faces hardened
when Plato "corrupted the youth with the raising up of new gods."
"Who's been a'talkin' blamed nonsense ter ye, Boone?" he demanded in a
terse manner tinctured with sharpness.
The boy felt his cheeks grow suddenly hot with a quandary of
embarrassment. To McCalloway he stood pledged to keep inviolate the
confidence of their conversations, and it was only after an awkward
pause that he replied with a halting lameness:
"Hit hain't jist p'intedly what nobody's been a'tellin' me. I ... I seed
in a book whar hit said somethin' ter thet amount." Suddenly with an
inspirational light of augmented authority, he added, "The Circuit-rider
hisself read outen ther Scriptures suthin' 'bout not doin' no murder."
Asa carried the knife up to his lips and emptied its blade. Having done
so, he spoke with a deliberate and humourless sincerity.
"Murder's a right ugly word, Boone, an' one a feller ought ter be
kinderly heedful erbout usin'. Barrin' ther Carrs an' Blairs an'
sich-like, I don't know nobody mean enough ter foller murderin'.
Sometimes a man's p'intedly fo'ced into a _killin'_, but thar's a heap
of differ betwixt them two things."
The grave face of the boy was still clouded with his new-born
misgivings, and reading that perplexity, his kinsman went on:
"Myself I've done been obleeged ter kill some sev'ral men. I plum
deplores hit. I wouldn't hold no high notion of anybody thet tuck ther
life of a feller-bein' without he _was_ plum obleeged ter do hit--ner of
no man thet _didn't_ ef hit war his cl'ar duty. Hit's done been ther
rise of fifty y'ars now since ther war first started up betwixt us an'
ther Carrs. Hit warn't none of my doin', but ever since then--off an'
on--my kinsfolk an' yourn hes done been shot down from ther la'rel--an'
we've done hit back an' sought ter hold ther score even--or a leetle
mite better. I've got my choice atween bein' run away from ther land
whar I was born at or else"--he let his hand drop back with a simple
gesture of rude eloquence until its fingers rested on the leaning
rifle--"or else I hev need ter give my enemies ther only style of
fightin' thet will avail. Seems like ter me hit'd be right cowardly ter
run away."
To the boy these principles had never before needed defence. They had
been axioms, yet now he parried with a faltering demurrer:
"Ther books says that, down below, when fellers fights, they does hit in
ther open."
"Alright. Thet's ther best way so long as _both_ of 'em air in ther
open. But ef one stands out in ther highway an' tother lays back in ther
timber, how long does ye reckon ther fight's a'goin' ter last? A man may
love ter be above-board--but he's _got_ ter be practical."
It was the man now who sat forgetful of his food, relapsing into a
meditative silence. The leaping fire threw dashes of orange high-lights
on his temple and jaw angle and in neither pattern of feature nor
quality of eye was there that degenerate vacuity which one associates
with barbarous cruelty.
His wife, turning just then from the hearth, saw his abstraction--and
understood. She knew what tides of anxious thought and bitter
reminiscence had been loosed by the boy's questioning, and her own face
too stiffened. Asa was thinking of the malign warp and woof which had
been woven into the destiny of his blood and of the uncertain tenure it
imposed upon his own life-span. He was meditating perhaps upon the
wrinkled crone who had been his mother; "fittified" and mumbling
inarticulate and unlovely vagaries over her widowed hearth.
But Araminta herself thought of Asa: of the dual menace of assassination
and the gallows, and a wave of nauseating terror assailed her. She shook
the hair resolutely out of her eyes and spoke casually:
"La! Asa, ye're lettin' yore vittles git plum cold whilst ye sets thar
in a brown study." Inwardly she added with a white-hot ferocity of
passion, "Ef they lay-ways him, or hangs him, thank God his baby's a
man-child--an' I'll know how ter raise hit up ter take a full
accountin'!"
But as the man's face relaxed and he reached toward the biscuit plate
his posture froze into an unmoving one--for just an instant. From the
darkness outside came a long-drawn halloo, and the poised hand swept
smoothly sidewise until it had grasped the rifle and swung it clear of
the floor. The eye could hardly have followed Asa's rise from his chair.
It seemed only that one moment found him seated and the next standing
with his body warily inclined and his eyes fixed on the door, while his
voice demanded:
"Who's out thar?"
"Hit's me--Saul Fulton. I wants ter have speech with ye."
As the householder stepped forward, Araminta blocked his way, and spoke
in hurried syllables, with her hands on his two shoulders. "Hit hain't
sca'cely heedful fer ye ter show yoreself in no lighted doorway in ther
night time, Asa. Thet's how yore uncle died! I'll open hit an' hev a
look, first, my own self."
The husband nodded and stood with the cocked rifle extended, while the
wife let down the bar and ushered in a visitor who entered with
something of a swagger and the air of one endowed with a worldly wisdom
beyond the ordinary.
In raw-boned wiriness and in feature, Saul Fulton was typically a
mountaineer, but in dress and affectation of manner he was a nondescript
aping the tawdrily and cheaply urban. His dusty hat sat with an impudent
tilt on crisp curls glossed with pomade and his stale cigar-butt tipped
upward, under a rakish moustache.
Fulton was the sort of mountaineer by whom the outer world misjudges
and condemns his race. He had left the backwoods to dwell among
"furriners" as a tobacco-raising tenant on a Bluegrass farm, and there
he had been mongrelized until he was neither wolf nor house-dog but a
thing characterized by the vices of each and the virtues of neither. In
him highland shrewdness had deteriorated into furtive cunning, and
mountain self-respect had tarnished into the dull discontent of class
hatred. But when he came to the hills, clad in shoddy finery to visit
men in honest homespun, he bore himself with a cocksure dare-deviltry
and malapert condescension. Saul was Asa Gregory's cousin, and since
Asa's family still held to the innate courtesies of the barbarian, they
received him unquestioningly, fed him, and bade him "Set ye a cheer in
front of the chimley-place."
"I heer tell," suggested Asa with casual interest, "thet politics is
waxin' middlin' hot down thar in ther settlemints."
After the mountain fashion the host and Boone had kicked off their heavy
shoes and spread their bare toes to the warmth of the blaze. Saul, as a
man of the world, refrained from this gaucherie.
"Hell's red fire an' Hell's black smoke--hit hain't only ter say
politics this time." The response came with oracular impressiveness
while the speaker twirled his black moustache. "Hit savours a damn sight
more of civil war!"
"I heered ther Democrat candidate speak at Marlin Town," contributed
Asa with tepid interest. "I 'lowed he hed a right hateful
countenance--cruel-like, thet is ter say."
Here spoke the estimate of partisanship, but Saul straightened in his
chair and his eyes took on a sinister glitter.
"Thet's ther identical thing thet brought me hyar ter ther hills. I come
ter bear tidin's ter upstandin' men like you. We're goin' ter need ye,
an' onlessen we all acts tergether our rights air goin' ter be
everlastin'ly trompled in ther dust."
Gregory crumpled a handful of "natural leaf" and filled his pipe-bowl.
His gesture was as lazy and easy as that of a purring cat. "Oh, pshaw,
Saul," he deprecated, "I don't take no master interest in politics
nohow. I always votes ther Republican ticket because I was raised up ter
do thet--like most everybody else in these mountings."
"But I'm a'tellin' ye this time thet hain't agoin' ter be enough ter
do!" The visitor leaned forward and spoke with impassioned tenseness.
"I've been dwellin' down thar amongst rich folks in ther flat Bluegrass
country an' I _knows_ what I'm sayin'. Ther Democrat air es smart es
Satan's circuit-rider. Y'ars back he jammed a crooked law through ther
legislater jest a'lookin' forward ter this time an' day. Now he's cocked
an' primed ter steal ther office, like he stole ther nomination, an'
human freedom will be dead an' buried for all time in ther State of old
Kaintuck."
Into Gregory's eyes as he listened stole an awakening light of interest
and indignation. Up here among the eyries of eagles the threat of
tyranny is hateful beyond words, and its invocation is a conjure spell
of incitement. But at once Asa's face cleared to an amused smile as he
inquired, "How does he aim ter compass all thet deviltry--ef ther people
votes in ther other feller?"
The momentum of his own philippics had brought Saul Fulton to his feet.
Down there where one party had been split in twain and the other had
slipped all leash of decorum's restraint, he had been virulently
inoculated with the virus of hate, and now, since his memory was
tenacious, he swept, without crediting quotations, into a freshet of
argument that echoed every accusation and exaggerated every warning of
that merciless campaign.
For a half hour he talked, with the fiery volubility of a prophet
inciting fanatics to a holy war, while his simple audience listened,
yielding by subconscious stages to his bitter text. At last he came to
the point toward which he had been progressing.
"Down thar ther purse-proud Demmycrats calls us folks blood-thirsty
barbarians. Ter th'ar high-falutin' fashion o' thinkin' we're meaner
than ther very dirt under th'ar feet. Even ther niggers scorns us an'
calls us 'pore white trash.' When this man once gits in power he aims
ter make us feel ther weight of his disgust an' ter rule us henceforth
with bayonets an' milishy muskets. Afore this matter ends up thar's
liable ter be some shovellin' of graveyard dirt."
"Looks right smart like hit mout be needful," acquiesced Gregory; and
Saul knew that he had won a convert to action.
The insidious force of the visitor's appeal to mountain passion had
stolen into the veins of his hearers until it was not strange that their
eyes narrowed and their lips compressed into lines of ominous
straightness.
"Now this air what I come hyar ter name ter ye, Asa." Saul reseated
himself and waved his cigar stub impressively. "Troublesome days air
a'comin' on an' us mountain men hev need ter lay by our own private
grievances an' stand tergether fer a spell."
Asa's face darkened, with the air of a man who has discovered the catch
in an outwardly fair proposition.
"What air ye a'drivin' at?" he demanded shortly, and his visitor
hastened to explain.
"I wants thet all ther good Republicans in this deestrict shell send a
telegram ter our candi_date_ thet we've done made a truce to our
enmities hyar at home, an' thet we all stands shoulder ter shoulder,
Gregories an' Carrs, Fultons an' Blairs alike, ter defend our rights es
freemen."
Asa Gregory rose slowly and stood on his hearth with his feet wide apart
and his head thrown back. From straight shoulders to straight legs he
was as unmoving, for a space, as bronze, but when he spoke his voice
came out of his deep chest with the resonance of low and far-reaching
thunder.
"Saul," he began, with a guarded deliberation, "I stands indicted before
ther High Co'te fer ther killin' of old man Carr. Ther full four seasons
of ther year hain't rolled round yit sence I buried my daddy out thar
with a Carr bullet drilled through his heart. Ther last time any man
preached a truce ter us Gregorys we agreed ter hit--an' my daddy was
lay-wayed an' shot ter death whilest we war still a'keepin' hit plum
faithful. Ther man thet seeks ter beguile me _now_ with thet same
fashion of talk comes askin' me ter trust my life an' ther welfare of my
woman an' child ter ther faithless word of liars!"
His voice leaped suddenly out of its difficult timbre of restraint and
rang echoing against the chinked timbers of the walls.
"I've done suffered grievously enough already by trustin' ter infamy.
From now on I'll watch them enemies thet's nighest me fust--an' them
thet's further off atterwards. My God A'mighty, ef ye warn't my own
blood kin, I couldn't hardly suffer ye ter tarry under my roof atter
ye'd give voice ter sich a proffer!"
Araminta Gregory had listened from the kitchen door but now she swept to
her husband's side and turned upon her visitor the wrath of blazing eyes
and a heaving bosom.
"We hain't askin' no odds of nobody," she flared in a panting transport
of fury. "Asa kin safeguard his own so long es he hain't misled with
lyin' an' false pledges."
"Don't fret yoreself none, Araminty," said the man, reassuring her with
a brusque but not ungentle hand on her trembling arm. Then he turned
with regained composure to Saul, as he inquired: "Does ther Carrs
proffer ter drap tha'r hell-bent detarmination ter penitenshery me or
hang met?"
Somewhat dubiously Fulton shook his head in negation.
"I reckon they 'low ye'd only mistrust 'em ef they proffered _thet_. All
they proposes is thet ontil this election's over an' sottled--not jest
at ther polls, but sottled fer good an' all--thar won't be no hand
raised erginst you ner yourn. I reckon ye kin bide yore time thet long,
an' when this racket's over ye'll be plum free ter settle yore own
scores." He paused, then added insinuatingly, "Every week a trial's put
off hit gits harder fer ther prosecution. Witnesses gits scattered like
an' men kinderly disremembers things."
Asa Gregory, confronted with a new and complicated problem, sank back
into his seat and his attitude became one of deep meditation. He glanced
at the bowl of his dead pipe, leaned forward and drew a burning fagot
from the fire for its relighting; then, at length, he spoke with a
judicial deliberation.
"This hyar's a solid Republican deestrick. We don't need no truce ter
make us vote ther ticket."
The messenger from the outer world shook a dubious head. "Votin' ther
ticket hain't enough. Thar's ergoin' ter be a heap of fancy mathematics
in tallyin' thet vote all over ther State. Up hyar we've got ter make up
fer any deefault down below. We kain't do thet without we all stands
solid. Ef thar's any bickerin' them crooks'll turn hit ter account, but
ef we elects our man he hain't ergoin' ter fergit us."
"So fur es thet goes," mused Asa, "I hain't a'seekin' no favours from
ther Governor."
"Why hain't ye?" Saul lowered his voice a little for added effect. "Ye
faces a murder trial, don't ye? I reckon a Republican Governor, next
time, mout be right willin' ter grant ye a pardon ef ye laid by yore own
grievances fer ther good of ther party--hit wouldn't be no more'n fa'r
jestice."
"What guaranty does these enemies of mine offer me?" inquired Asa
coolly. "Does they aim ter meet me half way?"
"Hit's like this," Saul spoke now with undisguised excitement: "Ther
boys air holdin' a rally ternight over at ther incline.... A big lawyer
from Loueyville is makin' a speech thar.... They wants thet I shell
fotch ye back along with me--an' thet ye shan't tote no rifle-gun ner no
weepin' of airy sort. Tom Carr'll be thar too--unarmed."
At the name Asa Gregory flinched as if he had been smitten in the face,
but the messenger went persuasively on:
"Thar'll be es many of our folks thar es his'n. They'll be consortin'
tergither plum peaceable--twell ye walks inter ther room. Them Gregories
an' them Carrs air all armed. Hit's jest you an' Tom thet hain't. When
we comes inter ther place, Tom'll start down ther aisle to'rds ye--an'
you'll start up to'rds Tom." The speaker paused, and Asa prompted in a
low, restrained voice, though his face was chalky pale with smothered
emotion:
"Go on! I'm hearkenin'."
Saul shrugged his shoulders. "Wa'al, thet's all. Ye knows ther rest es
well es I does. Them fellers on both sides air trustin' their lives ter
ther two of ye. Ef you an' Tom shakes hands they'll all ride home quiet
as turtle-doves--an' take off th'ar coats ter beat this man fer
Governor. Ef you an' Tom _don't_ shake hands--or ef one or t'other of ye
makes a single fightin' move, every gun under thet roof'll start poppin'
an ther place'll be a slaughter house. They all knows thet full well.
Ther lawyer knows hit, too--an' he's a'riskin' hit fer ther sake of his
party."
The indicted man took a step forward. "Stand up hyar an' look me in ther
eyes," he commanded shortly, and, when Fulton rose, they stood, face to
face, so close that each could feel the breath of the other's lips.
The steady brown eyes bored into the shiftier pupils of greenish-gray
with an implacable searching, and Asa's voice came in an uncompromising
hardness:
"Saul, ye're askin' me ter trust ye right far. I hain't got nothin' but
yore word fer hit thet thar'll be airy man over thar at thet meetin' but
them thet seeks my life. This may be what ye says hit is or hit may be a
trap--but ye're a kinsman of mine, an' I've got a license ter believe
ye--oncet. Ef ye're lyin' ter me, ye're mighty apt ter hev ter pay fer
hit."
"Ef I'm lyin' ter ye, Asa," came the prompt response, "I'm ready ter pay
fer hit."
Gregory drew on his coarse socks and heavy shoes. "Alright," he acceded
curtly, "I'm a'goin' along with ye now, an' I reckon we'd better
hasten."
"Don't go, Asa," pleaded Araminta. "Don't take no sich chanst." But as
her husband looked into her eyes she slowly nodded her head. "Ye're
right," she said falteringly. "I was jest skeered because I'm so
worrited. Of course ye've _got_ ter go. Hit's fer yore country."
When the door had closed the woman dropped limply into a chair. Her
pupils were distended and her fingers twisted in aimless gropings. After
a while she looked about a little wildly for Boone Wellver. It was
something to have his companionship during the hours of suspense--but
the boy's chair, too, was empty. His rifle was missing from its corner.
She know now what had happened. Boone had slipped uninvited and secretly
out into the night. He had said nothing, but he meant to follow the pair
unseen, and if he found his hero threatened, there would be one armed
follower at his back.
From the crib in one corner rose an uneasy whimper and Araminta went to
soothe her baby at her breast.