THE BLOW
He never finished the word. A whirlwind was upon him. Before he
could raise a hand to defend himself, Kenneth Gwynne's brawny fist
smote him squarely between the eyes. He went down as though struck
by a sledge-hammer, crashing to the ground full six feet from where
he stood. Behind that clumsy blow was the weight of a thirteen
stone body, hurled as from a mighty catapult.
He never knew how long afterward it was that he heard a voice
speaking to him. The words, jumbled and unintelligible, seemed to
come from a great distance. He attempted to rise, gave it up, and
fell back dizzily. His vision was slow in clearing. What he finally
saw, through blurred, uncertain eyes, was the face of Kenneth
Gwynne, far above him,--and it was a long time before it stopped
whirling and became fixed in one place. Then he realized that it
was the voice of Gwynne that was speaking to him, and he made out
the words. Something warm and wet crept along the sides of his
mouth, over his chin, down his neck. His throat was full of a hot
nauseous fluid. He raised himself on one elbow and spat.
"Get up! Get up, you filthy whelp! I'm not going to hit you again.
Get up, I say!"
He struggled to his knees and then to his feet, sagging limply
against the fence, to which he clung for support. He felt for his
nose, filled with a horrid, sickening dread that it was no longer
on his face.
"I ought to kill you," he heard Gwynne saying. "You black-hearted,
lying scoundrel. Get out of my sight!"
He succeeded in straightening up and looked about him through a mist
of tears. He tried to speak, but could only wheeze and sputter. He
cleared his throat raucously and spat again.
"Where--where is she?" he managed to say at last.
"Shut up! You've dealt her the foulest--"
He broke off abruptly, struck by the other's expression: Lapelle
was staring past him in the direction of the house and there was
the look of a frightened, trapped animal in his glassy eyes.
"My God!" fell from his lips, and then suddenly he sprang forward,
placing Kenneth's body between him and the object of his terror.
"Stop her! For God's sake, Gwynne,--stop her!"
For the first time since Barry went crashing to earth and lay as one
dead, Gwynne raised his eyes from the blood-smeared face. Vaguely
he remembered the swift rush of Viola's feet as she sped past
him,--but that was long ago and he had not looked to see whither
she fled.
She was now coming down the steps of the porch, a half-raised rifle
in her hands. He was never to forget her white, set face, nor the
menacing look in her eyes as she advanced to the killing of Barry
Lapelle,--for there was no mistaking her purpose.
"Drop down!" he shouted to Lapelle. As Barry sank cowering behind
him, he cried out sharply to the girl: "Viola! Drop that gun! Do
you hear me? Good God, have you lost your senses?"
She came on slowly, her head a little to one side the better to
see the partially obscured figure of the crouching man.
"It won't do you any good to hide, Barry," she said, in a voice
that neither of the men recognized.
"Don't be a fool, Viola!" cried Kenneth. "Leave him to me. Go back
to the house. I will attend to him."
She stopped and lifted her eyes to stare at the speaker in sheer
wonder and astonishment.
"Why,--you heard what he said. You heard what he called my mother.
Stand away from him, Kenneth."
"I can't allow you to shoot him, Viola. You will have to shoot me
first. My God, child,--do you want to have a man's life-blood on
your hands?"
"He said she ran away with your father," she cried, a spasm of pain
crossing her face. "He said I was born before they were married.
I have a right to kill him. Do you hear? I have a right to--"
"Don't you know it would be murder? Cold-blooded murder? No! You
will have to kill me first. Do you understand? I shall not move
an inch. I am not going to let you do something you will regret to
the end of your life. Put it down! Drop that gun, I say! If there
is to be any killing, I will do it,--not you!"
She closed her eyes. Her tense body relaxed. The two men, watching
her with bated breath and vastly different emotions, could almost
visualize the struggle that was going on within her. At last the
long rifle barrel was lowered; as the muzzle touched the ground
she opened her eyes. Slowly they went from Kenneth to the man who
crouched behind him. She gazed at the bloody face as if seeing it
for the first time.
The woman in her revolted at the spectacle. After a moment of
indecision, she turned with a shudder and walked toward the house,
dragging the rifle by the stock. As she was about to mount the
steps she paused to send a swift glance over her shoulder and then,
obeying the appeal in Kenneth's eyes, reluctantly, even carefully,
leaned the gun against a post and disappeared through the door.
"Stand up!" ordered Gwynne, turning to Lapelle. "I ought to kill
you myself. It's in my heart to do so. Do you know what you've done
to her?"
Barry drew himself up, his fast swelling, bloodshot eyes filled
with a deadly hatred. His voice was thick and unsteady.
"You'd better kill me while you have the chance," he said. "Because,
so help me God, I'm going to kill you for this."
"Go!" thundered the other, his hands twitching. "If you don't, I'll
strangle the life out of you."
Lapelle drew back, quailing before the look in Kenneth's eyes. He
saw murder in them.
"You didn't give me a chance, damn you," he snarled. "You hit me
before I had a chance to--"
"I wish to God I had hit you sooner,--and that I had killed you,"
grated Kenneth.
"You will wish that with all your soul before I am through with
you," snarled Barry. "Oh, I'm not afraid of you! I know the whole
beastly story about your father and that--"
"Stop!" cried Kenneth, taking a step forward, his arm drawn back.
"Not another word, Lapelle! You've said enough! I know where you
got your information,--and I can tell you, here and now, that the
man lied to you. I'm going to give you twenty-four hours to get out
of this town for good. And if I hear that you have repeated a word
of what you said to her I'll see to it that you are strung up by
the neck and your miserable carcass filled with bullets. Oh, you
needn't sputter! It will be your word against mine. I guess you
know which of us the men of this town will believe. And you needn't
expect to be supported by your friend Jasper Suggs or the gentle
Mr. Hawk,--Aha, THAT got under your pelt, didn't it? If either of
them is still alive at this minute, it's because he surrendered
without a fight and not because God took care of him. Your beautiful
game is spoiled, Lapelle,--and you'll be lucky to get off with
a whole skin. I'm giving you a chance. Get out of this town,--and
stay out!"
Barry, recovering quickly from the shock, made a fair show of
bravado.
"What are you talking about? What the devil have I got to do with--"
"That's enough! You know what I'm talking about. Take my advice.
Get out of town before you are a day older. You will save yourself
a ride on a rail and a rawhiding that you'll not forget to your
dying day."
"I will leave this town when I feel like it, Gwynne," said Lapelle,
drawing himself up. "I don't take orders from you. You will hear
from me later. You've got the upper hand now,--with that nigger of
yours standing over there holding an axe in his hands, ready to
kill me if I make a move. We'll settle this in the regular way,
Gwynne,--with pistols. You may expect a friend of mine to call on
you shortly."
"As you like," retorted the other, bowing stiffly. "You may name
the time and place."
Lapelle bowed and then cast an eye about in quest of his hat. It
was lying in the road some distance away. He strode over and picked
it up. Quite naturally, perhaps unconsciously, he resorted to the
habit of years: he cocked it slightly at just the right angle over
his eye. Then, without a glance behind, he crossed the road and
plunged into the thicket.
Kenneth watched him till he disappeared from view. Suddenly aware
of a pain in his hand, he held it out before him and was astonished
to find that the knuckles were already beginning to puff. He winced
when he tried to clench his fist. A rueful smile twitched at the
corners of his mouth.
"Mighty slim chance I'll have," he said to himself. "Won't be able
to pull a trigger to save my life."
He hurried up the path and, without knocking, opened the door and
entered the house. Hattie was coming down the stairs, her eyes as
round as saucers.
"Where is Miss Viola?"
"She done gone up stairs, suh. Lan' sakes, Mistah Gwynne, what fo'
yo' do dat to Mistah Barry? He her beau. Didn't yo'all know dat? Ah
close mah eyes when she tooken dat gun out dar. Sez Ah, she gwine
to shoot Mistah Gwynne--"
"Tell her I'm here, Hattie. I must see her at once. It's all right.
She isn't angry with me."
The girl hesitated. "She look mighty white an' sick, suh. She never
say a word. Jes' go right up stairs, she did. Ah follers, 'ca'se
Ah was skeert about de way she look. She shutten de do' an' drop
de bolt,--yas, suh, dat's what she do. Lordy, Ah wonder why her ma
don't come home an' look after--"
"See here," he broke in, "don't disturb her now. I will come back
in a little while. If she wants me for anything you will find me
out at the gate. Do you understand? Don't fail to call me. I am
going out there to wait for her mother."
It suddenly had occurred to him that he ought to intercept Rachel
Carter before she reached the house, not only to prepare her for
the shock that awaited her but to devise between them some means
of undoing the harm that already had been done. They would have
to stand together in denouncing Barry, they would have to swear to
Viola that the story was false. He realized what this would mean
to him: an almost profane espousal of his enemy's cause, involving
not only the betrayal of his own conscience, but the deliberate
repudiation of the debt he owed his mother and her people. He would
have to go before Viola and proclaim the innocence of the woman
who had robbed and murdered his own mother. The unthinkable, the
unbelievable confronted him.
A cold sweat broke out all over him as he stood down by the gate,
torn between hatred for one woman and love for another: Rachel and
Minda Carter. He could not spare one without sparing the other;
lying to one of them meant lying for the other. But there was no
alternative. The memory of the look in Viola's eyes as she shrank
away from Lapelle, the thought of the cruel shock she must have
suffered, the picture of her as she came down the path to kill--no,
there could be no alternative!
And so, as he leaned rigidly against the gate, sick at heart but
clear of head, waiting for Rachel Carter, he came to think that,
after all, a duel with Barry Lapelle might prove to be the easiest
and noblest way out of his difficulties.