Bad Man's Gulch (7 page)

“I propose that we end this here feud,” went on Lazy Purdue, “but I propose that we end it in a man's way. I'm goin' to stand up here at this end of this here room, and one of your sons, preferably Henry, is goin' to stand at the other end of this here room, and we're each goin' to have a revolver in our hands, and you're goin' to stand in the middle of the room against the wall there and you're goin' to have another revolver in your hand. An' then you're goin' to count up to ten, slow and deliberate-like, and, when you reach ten, we're goin' to raise our guns and shoot, and the quickest shot is the man what's goin' to live. But if one of us raises his gun and shoots before ten is reached, you, Tom McLane, are goin' to shoot that man down, even if he's your own son. Is this fair an' square? An' then if I'm done for, I reckon there's a pile of people won't care a lot. An' if Henry's done for, I reckon the feud will be called square. Blood covers up blood, don't it, Tom McLane?” He stopped, breathing somewhat heavily from his own oration.

Tom McLane turned on his son. “Well,” he said, “what do you say to this? Does the game suit you?”

“No” burst out Henry, his lips twitching while he
spoke. “This here game is murder, that's what it is, an' it doesn't give a man a fair chance, it . . .”

“Silence,” roared Tom McLane, “are ye a son of mine? By God, I say the game suits me! What? Will ye turn down a fair an' square gamblin' chance, an' you the best shot in these parts, Henry McLane? Stand up at that end of the room, I say, an' get out your gun, and, if you make a stir to shoot before I count ten, I'll shoot and shoot straight if you were ten times my son. Get over there! This here feud has raised hell with two fine families long enough. I lost an uncle an' two cousins. It's goin' to stop, an' there ain't no better way than the way that's put up to you now. Stan' over there!”

With reluctant feet and backward glancing eyes, as if the spot he had just left were the only safe one in the room, Henry McLane took up his position and looked toward the calmly smiling face of Lazy Purdue. The sight seemed to infuriate him suddenly beyond all self-control. “Sure I'll play the game,” he cried through tense lips, “an', by God, I'll blow your head offen you, George Conover, jus' as I blowed the head off the other George Conover! You ain't no spirit come back with another man's name. I reckon you're flesh an' blood. Pa, you c'n begin to count.”

He stood leaning forward as if poised to run, with the pistol clenched so tightly in his hand that his fingers went white about the knuckles. His eyes ate hungrily into the face of Lazy Purdue, who stood opposite, quite at his ease and hardly glancing at his opponent. His eyes bore the casual caress, which was their customary expression.

“One, two, three . . . ,” began Tom McLane, his pistol moving to keep time to the slow measure of his count.

“Four, five, six,” he went on, still in the same calm voice with the heart-breaking pauses between every count.

The whole frame of Henry McLane seemed to wince and grow weak, but he ground his teeth and remained steadfast on his mark with his eyes narrowing.

“Seven, eight,” continued the steely voice.

Henry McLane moistened his lips with his tongue, and his eyes wavered sidewise.

“Nine!”

The revolver of Henry McLane exploded into the floor, and he shrank back suddenly against the wall.

“Begin . . . begin over again,” he cried uncertainly. “I . . . I . . . my finger moved.”

“Henry McLane,” pronounced the hollow voice of his father, “I'm beginnin' to doubt whether or not ye're my true son. If that pistol had been pointin' a bit higher, God might've had mercy on you, but I wouldn't!”

Henry braced himself again to the mark as his father recommenced the counting. His eyes were held as if by a fascination to the sinister and mocking smile that curved Lazy Purdue's lips.

“One . . . two . . . three!”

A strange wavering began throughout young McLane's figure as he stood crouched on the mark, and a noticeable pallor crossed his face.

“Four . . . five . . . six!”

His lips were working now, and his eyes shifted from point to point on Lazy Purdue's confident figure as if he were uncertain where to take his aim.

“Seven . . . eight . . . nine . . .”

Henry McLane dropped in a huddled mass upon the floor, and the revolver went spinning out of his hand.

“For God's sake don't shoot!” he screamed. “This is murder! Don't shoot! I . . . I . . .”

It seemed to Lazy Purdue that he would rather have taken a bullet in his heart a thousand times over than have looked once upon the sudden horror that came upon old McLane's face.

“My God,” he was saying over and over as if to himself, “
this
ain't what I'm seein'! This is some damned dream.
This
ain't no son of mine.
This
ain't what I reared an' packed in my arms when he was sick, and loved before he was half a man . . . oh, my God, this ain't real!”

Henry McLane rose shudderingly and cowered against the wall. His large form seemed to have shrunk strangely in size. Lazy Purdue replaced his revolver in his hip pocket.

“Harken ye to me,” said Tom McLane, “ye've showed me my own son with new eyes, but I reckon ye ain't goin' to live a tolerable long time to talk o' it, or I ain't goin' to live a powerful long time to hear o' it. Do they give ye a warnin' down in yo' part o' the country? Then take my warnin' now.”

“Don' go runnin' away with yourself,” protested Lazy Purdue. “I reckon me an' your family have had quite a little doin's lately all between us. An' what do ye say now to a little sort o' truce between us? This here is the fourth of June, an' on the ninth o' this month me an' Marion Conover is goin' to get married. After that there marriage, you c'n go ahead with your little game. I'll meet you halfway.”

“Good,” said Tom McLane. “They's peace between us till the tenth. Then get all your Conovers together, for on the tenth the McLanes are goin' to be in Willoughby Hollow, the whole tribe o' them,
an' they're goin' to start for the Conover house to wipe this feud out once for all, an' you along with the rest of 'em, my frien'. When midnight o' the ninth passes, you c'n be ready for us with all your tribe behind you, fo' they's goin' to be mo' rifle play that night than they's been since this heah feud started.”

It was a fair enough warnin' and a man-to-man speech, yet Lazy Purdue made no report of it to the Conover family.

The next day the Negroes of the household brought word that the McLanes were gathering from all directions, a score of them at least. Old John Conover was deeply alarmed and proposed half a dozen times a day that they send for their blood relations to meet this formidable preparation, but Lazy Purdue laughed these thoughts aside. He had taken complete command of the situation and relegated John Conover far into the background.

More than this, the household was too busy during those few days with preparations for the marriage to pay much attention to the outside world. If Marion objected that it was too soon after the death of her brother for her to marry, she was overborne by the quiet insistence of Lazy Purdue, and in this he had the backing of the two old people. They had seen enough of trouble; they saw in this marriage the chance to perpetuate the old Conover name, and they rallied behind Purdue when he declared for an early marriage.

It was decided to make the wedding a strictly family affair with no outsiders to surround the event with the noisy rejoicing that generally characterized the backwoods' marriages.

One thing bothered Lazy Purdue. As the days went on, he came to notice on Marion's face, when
she sat watching him and thought herself unobserved, a peculiarly mocking smile. He knew it could not be mockery, but it was something so akin to it that he was deeply worried. He questioned her about it one afternoon, but she broke into laughter and refused to answer.

They were married late on the evening of the ninth, and, after the minister had left, the family sat a long while on the verandah, silent for the most part, listening to the vague noises of the night with the stir and rustle of the warm June air about them. The old folks went off to bed in time, and Lazy Purdue sat with Marion, talking little and thinking deeply.

He knew that this was the crisis of his life. As he looked at the pale profile of his wife's face and to the vague smile that altered her lips, he commenced to wish profoundly that he had gathered the Conovers around him to fight this last battle in the night. But in a moment the thought left him. Blood ties are strong in the backwoods, and they lay strong in the heart of Lazy Purdue.

A
clatter
of hoofs came up the path, a horseman halted on sliding hoofs before the verandah. The horseman leaned far to one side and peered into the face of Lazy Purdue in the clear moonlight.

“You're the man what calls himself George Conover?”

“I am.”

“Then here's a note from Tom McLane.” He tossed a little white pellet to Purdue and galloped off, clattering into the night.

Purdue unfolded the note and read:

 

This'll reach you about midnight. We're down in Willoughby Hollow an' we start for the
Conover house when the tenth begins. Is this a warning?

 

Lazy Purdue pulled out his watch. It was five minutes before twelve. He rose and stretched himself and yawned. “Marion,” he said, “I'm goin' into the house for a minute, an' then I'm goin' to leave you for a little while.”

She made no answer as he went into the house, but, when he returned onto the verandah, he found her standing and waiting for him, and saw her eyes calmly noting his two holsters and the double belt of cartridges that ran about his waist.

“You're goin' down to fight them in the night?” she asked quietly.

“No,” he said, “I reckon it won't get to fightin'. I'm merely goin' down to talk to 'em. I got something to say that ought to end this here feud. If they won't listen, then we'll have some gun play . . . something of a kind they never dreamed of before.”

She remained passive while he kissed her. “Honey,” she said, “I reckon I know what you're going to tell them. Can't you . . . can't you jus' send 'em a messenger to tell 'em what you've got to say?”

He laughed shortly. “No,” he said. “You don't even dream what I've got to say, an' I've got to take this here message myself.”

“They'll be twenty to one,” she said slowly, “if it comes to fightin'.”

“Twenty rabbits don't scare one dog,” he stated, and laughed gaily back to her as he strode down the path.

Willoughby Hollow lay nearly a mile away from the house, and he commenced to run as soon as he was
out of hearing of the house. He feared that he was too late and that the McLanes would start their move on the house before he could reach them to parley.

But when he reached the Hollow, he heard not a sound. In the middle of the Hollow, there was a long and narrow clearing between the wooded slopes that ran up on either side, and Purdue paused at his side of the clearing to watch. It was not long before he noticed a shadowy figure behind a tree, and then another, and another farther away. The McLanes had evidently delayed their advance, perhaps because some of their clan had arrived late on the scene.

“Tom McLane!” shouted Lazy Purdue, “a truce! I got something to say to you.”

“There ain't no more truce!” called the voice of Tom McLane. “Have you got your men behind you, George Conover?”

“Aye,” said Lazy Purdue, “I've got my men behind me, an' they're enough to wipe all the McLanes that ever were off the map. But listen to me. Tom McLane, I got something to say which you an' all the McLanes ought to hear. There won't be any more feud when you hear it.”

“Damn you an' your words!” shouted Tom McLane. “I've heard too many of 'em before. The time has come for rifles to talk. I've got a bead on you now, George Conover, an' I'll give you twenty seconds to get back into cover with your men!”

Purdue realized the significance of McLane's tone. They were out for blood, and they meant to taste it. He leaped back into the shelter of the tree trunks, and in a moment more than half a dozen rifles exploded in swift succession and a volley of
singing messengers of death whirred around him or splintered against the branches.

They were not long unanswered. Lazy Purdue commenced to fall back up the hillside, but in long and slow zigzags from side to side. The McLanes, believing that the Conovers were out in force, advanced slowly, firing at every shadow. Purdue, picking his shots, landed man after man.

The odds were not so much against him as would have seemed. The riflemen required a long time, comparatively, to get their sights set and draw their bead on their target. Moreover, they could not secure a fair aim at the shadowy figure that fled softly from tree to tree. The light of the moon, never very good for rifle shooting, was almost impossible in the patchy and uncertain light of the woods.

But it hardly bothered Lazy Purdue. As he moved rapidly from tree to tree, he fired at every flash of steel and at every exposure of a figure. Quite accustomed to firing by simply pointing his revolver and without any effort at drawing a bead through the sights, the dimness of the woods hardly bothered him. By the time one of the McLanes had drawn a bead on his moving figure, he was already in shelter behind a tree trunk and taking pot shots at the flashes of rifle fire.

Such was the rapidity of his lateral movement and so slowly did he draw back up the hillside that it must have seemed to the McLanes that they were opposed by an almost equal number of fighters, and every one a dead shot.