Bad Man's Gulch (4 page)

“An' this man is your adopted son, John?” asked McLane.

“I'm goin' to town today to bury one son,” said Conover, “and then I'm goin' to the courthouse to get another son in the eyes of the law.”

McLane strode to Lazy Purdue and caught his hand in a great grasp. “I reckon you're goin' to bring
more blood into this feud,” he said, “for you've looked considerable on death, I'm thinkin'. But here's a man's hand. It's the last time you'll ever take it in friendship.”

He turned back to Conover. “But I'm tellin' you, John, blood will never end this here feud. It ain't in the power of guns to make justice and quiet.”

“Aye,” said Conover, “but there's a tolerable old law that ain't in any book. Blood calls for blood, an' new blood may not wash out old blood, but it'll go a long way to cover it up. It covers a heap o' things, Tom McLane.”

“So be it,” said Tom McLane. “I reckon we ride armed from now on. But I'm supposin' that on the day o' the fair, there won't be no fightin', leastways up till midnight o' the dance. Am I right?”

“I reckon that's the custom,” said Conover.

“Good mornin', suh,” said McLane. “Good mornin', madam.” He strode to the place where Marion Conover stood by her chair and he tilted back her face between his rough palms. “An' I hope to God that this here feud don't bring no more trouble to your face, my sweet girl,” he said, and, as he went to the door, he turned and paused again. “Oh, folks, I'm fearful sick at heart over this night's work!”

He left the room, and the heavy beat of his feet passed from the house and left a waiting silence.

That day Lazy Purdue and John Conover rode to the town, with the two women, behind the wagon that bore the coffin to the churchyard, and when the burial was completed, the men rode on to the courthouse, and, when they came out, Lazy Purdue bore the legal name of George Conover.

“An' here I am,” mused Lazy, as they walked arm
in arm down the steps of the courthouse, “an' I've sure come home at last, and here I am in the wrong house.”

Indeed, he felt a perpetual strangeness about the place, for he knew that he had been taken into that home as a killer of men, and all his heart revolted against the work that lay before him.

The days passed calmly enough, but there was no doubt that the storm would break sooner or later.

A little interim of Arcadian quiet came to Lazy Purdue. The duty that he had taken upon his shoulders rested lightly there. He was with Marion constantly until he came to be half bodyguard and half escort to her, riding with her or walking over the mountain paths.

But all that while the shadow of trouble followed them, even when they knew it not, as the hawk circles high in the air above the barnyard, a real danger although flying out of sight. It was Henry McLane who lurked about the mountains with his rifle, alert, soft-footed, dangerous as a stalking panther, and as silent. A dozen times he had seen them walking or riding together at a distance, but only once did he come close enough to stalk them effectively.

He had seen them walking at some distance away from them, and he hurried after them as fast as he could through the brush at the side of the road. Once or twice twigs crackled under his feet and made the pair halt to listen, but they went on again. He could hear them talking and laughing, and it infuriated him.

When he came within close range at last, they had paused at the edge of a small stream that foamed about the shoulder of a hill and went on noisily down the valley. They were considering some method of getting across the water without wetting
Marion. Lazy Purdue had proposed to carry her across, but she demurred. The faintness of her demurral angered Henry McLane. They were standing well apart. He was in no danger of striking Marion with his shot. So he knelt upon a log and carried his rifle to his shoulder for a careful aim. But the log, which was rotten save for the outside shell, crushed under his sudden weight.

At the sound, Lazy Purdue swung Marion into his left arm and whipped out his revolver, keeping it leveled at the place where McLane crouched unseen. In this manner he backed across the stream and disappeared around the bushes on the farther side.

They could guess at the cause of the sound, but they had seen nothing. The hawk had crossed their path unseen.

From the Negroes, who form the wireless news agencies of the Southern states, the Conovers heard tales of the actions of the McLanes. They were preparing for the worst. The boys practiced with their guns incessantly, and, whenever they appeared on the roads, the three men rode together. So it was when the day of the fair came and Lazy Purdue announced in the morning at the breakfast table that he was going to the town to take part in the sports.

“I hear there ain't no fightin' of the old feuds on fair days,” he said.

“There never was in the past,” agreed John Conover.

“That's not sayin' there won't be none now,” interjected Mary Conover. “Boy, don't be foolish. There's no trustin' the McLane boys. If they'll fight from behind trees, do ye think they will respect the old laws of the feud?”

Lazy Purdue ticked the spoon lightly against his
coffee cup. “I'm powerful curious to see the folks of this here town,” he stated, “an' I think I'll be goin' there today. Besides” he continued, “ain't Marion goin' to be queen o' the fair?”

“Aye,” said Mary Conover, and she flushed slightly with pride as she spoke. “She had to start for town early before breakfast because she has to see how they fix up her throne and see that all is all right an' that her court is already in their costumes, an' all of them silly, pretty ways they have at the fair.”

“Aye,” said Conover, “this is the first time there won't be a Conover to shoot for the queen of the fair.”

“Shoot for the queen?” exclaimed Lazy Purdue. Then he remembered. He remembered far back to his childhood when he had seen these fairs that made the month of May the wished-for time by every mountaineer within thirty miles of the town. The fair itself consisted of exhibitions of riding and cattle and horse shows and sports, and at the end of the day the youths of the gathering were privileged to shoot for the queen of the fair. Having won her, the successful man claimed her for his partner at the dance that closed the festivities of the day.

The singular part of the shooting was the nature of the mark at which the men fired. It consisted of ten strings suspended from a crossbar and kept taut with pebbles tied in the end of the strings. The idea was to fire at the strings, and the man who, out of ten shots, cut the most of the ten strings received the queen of the fair as his partner.

“Well,” said Lazy Purdue, “I reckon we can all go. I reckon they don't think men shouldn't follow where a woman is brave enough to lead in these parts, do they?”

Old Conover laughed to himself. “You're right,” he said. “An' I'm thinkin' I'd like to go down an' watch, myself, jus' to point out the sights an' the people to you, George.”

It was late in the morning before they reached the fairgrounds, a large meadow near the town. People had evidently driven from miles around to see the events of the day. For at every post and tree near the grounds were hitched carriages and wagons of all descriptions. Framing the open square of ground where the exhibitions and games were held stood a line of flag-bedecked tents and booths where girls displayed all manner of edibles and wearables.

It was unquestionably the event of the year, this May Day fair. The young gallants strutted slowly around in the unaccustomed splendor of tight-fitting trousers and high-crowned hats and brilliant neckties. The girls flaunted, in the main, homemade dresses cut after nearly Parisian patterns, and here and there one of the more adventurous appeared in elbow gloves twirling a gay-colored parasol behind her head.

It was very garish, but there was no jarring note for Lazy Purdue. After the sun-burnt girls of Texas, these blooming cheeks were dreams of beauty to him, and the whole picture came to him as being
colorful, richly satisfying, and astir with the pulse of young life.

Old Conover took his arm and they strolled from place to place to watch the various sports and exhibits.

Everywhere people gave way a little before them, and Lazy Purdue was conscious of many a whisper running about them and many a steady stare, but, when one has met the eye of gambling cowboys in Texas saloons, even the boldness of the Tennessee backwoodsman has no terrors. He returned their stares with manifest indifference, measuring the men with lackluster eyes, and letting his glance linger with its natural careless caress when he found a pretty face among the girls.

“They're talkin' fast enough about you,” old Conover commented, chuckling, “but I reckon the new Conover will stand 'em off pretty well.”

He had, in truth, grown into an almost parental pride over his new boy. From the corner of his eye he considered and approved the lean figure by his side, suggestive at once of alertness and strength. Lazy's clothes sat well on him, and the carefully wrapped cravat lent a touch of distinction.

He urged him to take part in the various sports, but Lazy Purdue replied that he wished to learn the habits of that part first. When it came to the horseback riding, he was stirred a trifle, but he relapsed into his accustomed silence. A lean, black stallion pitched off two riders before the third mastered him amid loud plaudits.

“In my part of the country,” drawled Lazy Purdue, “a ten-year-old boy would be ashamed of that sort of ridin'.”

The time came for the shooting, and the crowd surged forward across the field, fighting for places
and leaving only a dangerously narrow lane for the shots. From a crossbar, ten pellets of rock were suspended by white strings that hung glimmering and almost invisible at a short distance. Opposite the crossbar stood the bunting-covered throne of the queen of the fair. She sat, smiling and chatting with the girls who stood grouped about her tinsel throne. Her dress was light blue, and a parasol of the same color shaded her bare head, save when the sudden sunlight touched her hair to fiery gold. She appeared to Lazy Purdue regally indifferent to the hungry eyes that now and then fastened upon her from the crowd of upturned faces.

“Somehow,” muttered Lazy, “that don't seem to be Marion Conover.”

Old Conover shook his head and smiled. “Aye,” he answered, “she's a right pretty girl. Put any woman on a throne an' she commences to look different. But look, now. Here starts the shootin'.”

A group of young men had gathered in front of the throne and faced toward the dangling strings.

“That big fellow with the short, black mustache, he's Henry McLane, Tom McLane's son,” muttered Conover, “an' the smaller chap with the smooth-shaven face beside him is his brother Luke.” His hand closed on Lazy Purdue's arm. “Henry McLane won the shootin' last year,” he said, “by cuttin' six strings, which is more'n anyone ever cut since I seen the shootin'. I reckon he'll dance with Marion tonight.” He turned his face up to Lazy Purdue with a faint appeal. “Unless you shoot, my boy.”

Lazy shook his head and smiled. At the moment, his eyes were otherwise occupied than with shooting. In fact, his eyes were fixed in one direction so steadily that finally the queen turned her face and returned his gaze. It seemed to trouble her. He had
watched her scan the mob of many eyes without a tremor, but, as her glance crossed his, it shocked to a pause and held there for a moment, and he thought he saw the beginning of a flush as she turned her head again.

In all the days that had passed since he went into the Conover home as a part of it, he had seen her, of course, every day many times, but the thing that is near us is ever the thing that we fail to prize. And so it came that after that first vision of white and gold that startled upon him from the curve of the staircase that first night, she had grown back into his thoughts. He took her for granted, just as he imagined she had come to take him for granted. But now that she was sitting so near to him, he still felt as though the consciously expressed admiration of all these hundreds of men had set a barrier between them.

Once more her head turned and her glance crossed his. Lazy's heart jumped in his breast. After all, it was going to be a good game.

He raised his hat as if in acknowledgment of the unspoken greeting, and smiled slyly up to her. He could see her bite her lips to keep back the smile, and then her head turned, but not with the slowness of absolute self-possession.

In the meantime, the shooting had commenced. One after another the men took a position on the ground and told off their shots slowly. One cut four strings and there was applause. Another cut five and received an ovation. Still another, toward the close, cut six and the crowd shouted with excitement.

“You're tied, Henry McLane!” shouted a man in the crowd, as the tall figure of Henry McLane strode out to take his position in front of the target.

“That was what I did last year,” he answered
scornfully as he dropped to the ground and poised his rifle. “Watch this year's score.”

“Aw, I reckon you was only a boy a year ago!” yelled a humorist. “Waal, you got a full man-sized job on your hands today, Henry boy.”

A loud guffaw greeted this remark.

“George,” said Conover, “do you think you could hit them there strings? It ain't any usual mark, an' I know the boys around here practice it all year, get-tin' ready for this one day. Do you think you could hit any of them? Just one hit wouldn't be any disgrace, an' there's always been a Conover at these here shootin's before.”

“I don't know,” said Lazy Purdue. “I'm not interested in the strings, not a bit.”

The old man turned away with a sigh.

Henry McLane had commenced to shoot. He cut five strings in as many shots, and the crowd stood rapt over such unprecedented marksmanship. On the next two tries he missed, but his eighth shot cut the sixth string and tied the highest mark of the day. He waited until the cheering had died away before he shot again and missed, but on his last trial he cut the seventh string.