HOPWOOD
While the old man and the child were pledging their everlasting hatred
to the Waits, Scott Burton, with puzzled frown, was slowly climbing the
mountain road to their cabin. He did not know the location of old Jarred
Morgan’s cabin, and probably would have avoided it if he had, for he
wanted to think this feud business over before he talked to any of them.
Ignorant of how close he was to them, he turned into the woods less than
a quarter of a mile below them and sat down with his back against the
trunk of a great, wide-spreading beech tree. He was out of sight of the
road, and he had purposely chosen the spot in the deep woods to be free
from interruption.
So this was the simple little job which the Service had given him to
complete before he went back to his old home in the southwest? Why did
they always pick him out to unravel some mess? He had never had a job
where he could really show what he could do. Always there had been some
complication, something outside of the regular line of duty that had
taken his whole time and attention. Never had he found himself in a
position where he could devote himself to his technical work and show
what he knew. Even when he had logged his own land he had found his
operations hindered by the bully of the country who had tried to ruin
him. His first impulse now was to write to the Service that he did not
care to mix up in this mess at all. If they wanted him to go back to his
old post, all right; otherwise, he would resign. He had made enough to
live on out of his own logging operations, and he could make more the
same way. He did not have to worry over these miserable feuds. Two men
had already lost their reputations on this job and been run out of the
country and....
Right there Scott lost all interest in that line of thought. Was he
going to let them run him out of the country? His jaw set at the mere
thought of it, and he knew that he would never leave till he had been
completely beaten or was carried out in a wooden box. He dropped all
idea of giving up the job and settled down to look it squarely in the
face.
Just what was this problem anyway? The government owned a big tract of
land here, and there was timber on it that was ready to be cut, and it
was up to him as supervisor to sell it. It was located on both sides of
the valley, part in Wait territory and part in Morgan. Two other men had
already tried it, and had failed utterly before they had ever started
because they had become involved in this everlasting feud between the
Waits and the Morgans.
When he really thought about it, it did not seem to be such an
impossible task. Why should he mix up in this feud at all? It looked as
though old Foster Wait was to blame for starting it years ago, but it
did not matter now who was originally to blame, they were both equally
to blame for keeping it up all these years. He would put it up to them
squarely that they had to forget the feud, and come together or he would
have nothing to do with either of them. Just what could they have to do
with it in any event? He did not think, from what he had seen of the
country people there, that either family could scrape together enough
money to buy the timber on a single acre. He did not see how they could
influence the sale one way or the other, and he was not going to let
them do it if they could.
When Scott had come to that somewhat Irish decision he felt better. It
seemed almost as if the problem had been solved and he began to look
about him. His eyes had been fixed absently on the ground all the time
and his first upward glance revealed a sight that sent a cold shiver up
his back.
A man was sitting on a log not six feet from him, and was staring at him
with bright blue eyes. It was startling enough to find any one sitting
so close to him when he had thought himself entirely alone, but it was
really alarming when the man had a gun in his hand and a large piece of
sheet iron on top of his head. At first Scott thought that he must be
dreaming, and he blinked his eyes two or three times to try to dispel
the illusion, but it would not dispel.
This was really a man. He looked much as other men save for a queer,
dreamy look in his eyes, and he was dressed like other men except for
his strange head gear. Instead of a hat he was wearing a strange
contraption of wood and iron. On the bottom of a sheet of heavy iron
about eighteen inches long and a foot wide he had nailed four pieces of
wood in the form of a square. This he was wearing on his head like a
senior’s mortar board.
All during Scott’s astonished examination, the newcomer sat staring at
him without the slightest expression on his weather-beaten face. He was
so still that he might have been a statue and his unwavering pose added
to Scott’s feeling of his unreality. He finally, after several minutes
of astonished silence, recovered sufficiently from the spell to exclaim
“Hello.” He said it in a rather startled tone. It did not sound in the
least like a friendly greeting, but it seemed to be altogether
satisfactory to his visitor. The man’s face relaxed, and a friendly
smile lighted it up. Scott was in hopes that he would remove the iron
hat, but he did not.
“So you are the new supervisor,” the stranger remarked in a low,
pleasing voice.
“Yes,” Scott replied a little stiffly, for he had not entirely recovered
from his astonishment, and could not keep his eyes off the iron hat,
“I’m the new supervisor. And who may you be?”
“I might be almost anybody,” the man smiled, “but I happen to be
Hopwood.”
“Well, I’m sure I don’t know where you came from, Mr. Hopwood. You just
seemed to appear on that log as if by magic, but I am glad to know you,
all the same.”
“Not Mr. Hopwood,” the man said solemnly, “just Hopwood. Hopwood Wait.”
Scott looked at him with a new interest. So this was one of the Waits,
the first one he had seen, and he wondered if the iron hat were a part
of the family armor. It might have protected him from an airplane
attack, but would have been of little use for anything else. He had
understood that the Waits did not come over on this side of the valley.
Could this man be scouting in enemy territory or had he come in hope of
getting a pot shot at a Morgan? He decided to risk a question.
“Aren’t you in dangerous territory here?”
Hopwood shook his head slowly. “No, they all think I am crazy, but I
have more sense than anybody else in the family. I can eat lunch with
Jarred Morgan and supper with Foster Wait, and that’s more than anybody
else can do,” he replied proudly.
“Then you don’t believe in this family feud?” Scott inquired eagerly.
Again Hopwood shook his head. “Why should I? They will all be killed if
they keep it up. The cemetery is full of them now.”
“Do you think that they would give it up if they had a good chance?”
Hopwood nodded.
“What makes you think so?” This man might be able to give him some
useful information even if he was crazy.
“Because they are scared,” Hopwood answered promptly. “Every one of them
is scared except old Jarred and Vic. They don’t pay any attention to me
and I hear them talk.”
“Then why don’t they give it up?”
“Because they are more scared to quit than they are to go on. If they
should quit, old Jarred would kill them all, both Morgans and Waits.”
Scott thought for a moment. Old Jarred Morgan seemed to be the key to
the situation if this man knew what he was talking about.
“Where could I find you if I should need you some time?” Scott asked. He
thought he could see how this man might be very useful to him.
“Almost anywhere,” was Hopwood’s unsatisfactory answer.
Scott looked thoughtfully off through the woods a moment wondering what
other useful information he could get out of this man, and when he
looked back the man was gone.