by Max Brand
She drew away to arm’s length, her hands still resting on his arms, her eyes meeting his in flashes and falling away as quickly in confusion, and the smile playing furtively about her lips: “There was something else you was about to tell me a little while ago, before . . . before . . . can you tell me now, dear? You was talkin’ so funny and sort of broken about the McLanes and the Conovers, and having something to say which you wanted to say and yet was afraid to. Can you say it now?”
His face altered swiftly, and his lips moved as if to speak. Then he shook his head. “I can’t say it yet, honey,” he answered, “an’ I won’t say it till the preacher has done all that anyone c’n do to make you mine forever. An’ then I’ll tell you, an’, when I say it, I reckon this ol’ feud’ll go off an’ hide its head an’ laugh itself to death.”
The dull, slow clanging of a bell broke in upon them, and at the sound she grew pale and still.
“Listen,” she said. “It’s midnight. An’ the truce for the feud has ended now, an’ we are not home. An’ Pa’ll think that you have taken me home, and he’ll go home an’ find we’re not there, an’ go mad for thinkin’ things. Oh, honey, how’ll we get back? The McLanes’ll be waitin’ for us sure along the road, an’ . . . an’ . . .”
He laughed softly. “If they’s any McLanes waitin’ in the road for me,” he said at last, “I reckon it’ll be about the last waitin’ they’ll do for anyone. Why, honey, these McLanes an’ the rest of these people around here don’t know no more about gun play than women! They ain’t never been up against the real thing, an’ they’re sure goin’ to have some fun if they tackle me in the night. An’ with a clear moon like this!”
He loosened a pistol in his hip pocket as he spoke, and she, remembering the shooting at the fair that day, was silent, half in dread and half in content.
VI
TO END THE FEUD
They found their horses in the long line hitched in front of the dance hall, and started home at a sharp gallop. It was a typical backwoods road, winding helter-skelter up- and downhill and around many a sharp curve. If there were any lying in wait, they would have found a dozen places to secrete them in every half mile.
But they had come within two miles of the Conover house before it happened. The spirit of the backwoods is one spirit, and she had guessed their plans accurately.
As they swung around a sharp bend, two shots rang out in close succession. The first clipped past the hair at Lazy Purdue’s forehead. The second knocked off his hat.
His return fire came like a flash on the heels of the second report. Firing a revolver from the saddle does not lead to accuracy or results, but Lazy Purdue had lived all his life on a horse, and, while he checked hard on the bridle, he whirled in his saddle, saw a shadowy horseman in the shade of a tree, and fired at the flash of steel in the horseman’s hand.
The answering clang of metal told that he had shot the pistol out of the waylayer’s hand, and the next moment the other was spurring hard down the road, bent far over the pommel of his saddle.
“Shoot!” screamed Marion Conover. “Shoot! Shoot! Oh, the coward, the yellow-hearted cur! Oh, you’ve lost him! Why didn’t you shoot?”
For Lazy Purdue sat his saddle with his horse half turned on the road and the pistol poised in his hand. But his face was drawn and bitter.
“An’ that is what the McLanes have sunk to,” said Lazy Purdue. “My God, they ain’t men . . . they’re varmints!”
“Why didn’t you shoot?” she pleaded, shaking his arm in her excitement as she rode up to him. “You could have killed him six times while he was riding the first twenty yards.”
He slipped the pistol back into his pocket and looked at her for a long moment before he replied. “My pistol jammed, I reckon,” he said. “I simply couldn’t pull the trigger.”
“Did you see his face?” she continued.
“No,” he answered, “I didn’t see his face very clear. I reckon he must have been a McLane.”
“You reckon?” She laughed bitterly. “I tell you, I seen him as clear as day, an’ I’d swear it before God. That was Luke McLane, an’ he was tryin’ to get even with you for beatin’ his brother at the shootin’!”
Lazy Purdue dismounted and picked up the revolver that he had shot from McLane’s hand.
“At least,” he said, smiling slowly as he examined the battered weapon, “Luke McLane won’t be pulling the trigger with his right hand for quite some time.”
He refused to speak of the affair again on the way home, and, when he kissed her good night, he seemed to have forgotten the incident. But the next morning he ordered his horse saddled, and rode out without giving a destination. He rode north from the house, so that anyone watching him might not suspect his destination, but, as soon as he was out of sight, he took the first crossroad and cut straight south. He had never ridden that way before, but he seemed to know the roads by instinct, and took every turn certainly.
His mind was busy as he rode, and it was busy with the feud. There was some way out. He felt for the six-shooter in his pocket and smiled. He thought of another thing and frowned. Then an inspiration came to him. It was a desperate thing to attempt, and a dangerous one, but he had seen it work once in a barroom in southwestern Texas, and he was confident that, if it worked there, it would work here. He checked his horse for a moment, and emptied his gun’s chambers at the side of the road.
In ten minutes more he was before the McLane verandah, his horse tethered to the hitching post, and was knocking at the door of the house. A Negro opened it, and then half closed it when he saw the visitor.
“I wish to see Tom McLane,” said Lazy Purdue.
The Negro bobbed his head hastily and disappeared down the hall. A moment later Tom McLane appeared, followed by the hulking figure of his son Henry.
“Suh,” said Tom McLane gravely, “will you do me the honor of entering my house?” He bowed the way in with clumsy but careful courtesy.
In a moment more the three men were alone in a room. It was plain that Henry McLane carried his suspicions of this visit, for he lurked at a distance with his hand ever near to his hip pocket. But his father was a different type, or a better judge of men.
“I don’t want to be irritatin’,” began Lazy Purdue in his usual drawl, “but I’m powerful curious to know how Luke’s trigger hand is this mornin’.”
Henry McLane cursed softly, and his father stiffened and turned somewhat pale, but his eyes held steadily to Purdue’s face.
“That was a dog’s trick my boy tried to play on ye,” he stated. “An’ I’m glad out o’ my heart that ye shot the gun out o’ his hand. He won’t use a gun for many a day, suh . . . an’, when he does, he’ll know enough to use it in a man’s way.”
Lazy Purdue smiled gently upon him. “Down my way,” he murmured, “if a man tried a thing like that an’ didn’t pull the trick, the boys would be laughing yet. They’d be laughin’ so hard, suh, that they wouldn’t hardly have the strength to string him up to the nearest tree and shoot him full of holes. I’m askin’ you to look at the funny side of it, suh. Heah’s a man an’ a harmless girl a-ridin’ down a road, an’ heah’s another man waitin’ under a tree, with his gun ready an’ everything, set to shoot this first man full o’ holes. An’ then the first man comes ’round the bend, an’ the second man shoots twice . . . an’ misses . . . an’ then gets his gun shot out o’ his hand. Yes, suh, it was very funny!”
“Suh,” said old McLane earnestly, “I dunno jus’ how I can tell you how ashamed I am o’ that boy, but I’m not ashamed o’ the way he missed you. I’m only powerful glad he didn’t have black murder on him after that night. An’ one thing more, suh. When that boy had his gun shot out of his hand and rode on down the road like hell was behind him, why didn’t you shoot ag’in, suh? He was your meat then, an’ no one could’ve blamed you for drilling him through the back.”
The caressing chuckle was still in Lazy Purdue’s laugh as he answered. “That’s where yo
u show you ain’t highly developed on your humorous side, Mister McLane,” he asserted. “Why, suh, I was so busy laughin’, an’ my arm was shakin’ so with that laughter, that I simply didn’t dare fire at him, suh. I might’ve hit the girl what was ridin’ with me, suh.”
For a moment McLane frowned, and then his face cleared suddenly. “Conover,” he said, “for I reckon you’ve got a right to that name now, there’s somethin’ about you that strikes me mighty familiar. I dunno what it is. Seems as if I seen you somewhere a long time ago.”
A faint flush appeared on the face of Lazy Purdue. “I got somethin’ to say about that,” he answered, “but it’s somethin’ I can’t say now . . . an’, when I do say it, I reckon it’s goin’ to have a powerful lot to do with this here feud. But what I’ve got to say now is that they’s a powerful lot to settle between the Conovers an’ the McLanes jus’ now, an’ I come here to suggest a way o’ doin’ it.
“Now, down my way o’ the country, when a man is a bit angry with another man, he don’t lay for him behin’ trees an’ shoot at him like he was a yowlin’ cat in an alley. He jus’ sends him a word that he’s goin’ to get him the next time they meet face to face, an’, when they do meet, they pulls an’ shoots, an’ they’s an end o’ the thing without endangerin’ any girls that can’t use guns.”
He drew his revolver from his hip pocket and at the movement the two men started, but he stepped to one end of the room with the revolver hanging quietly by his side.
“Now,” he went on, “I’m talkin’ to you as man talks to man in my part of the country. I reckon you’re pretty much of a man’s man, Tom McLane. I know what people say about you in this here part of the country, and I reckon you’d feel pretty much at home in my part. This here is my proposition.” He was speaking slowly and carefully as if he had to feel for his words. “Sir,” he said, “what you call a feud here is what they gen’rally call murder where I come from. Down there, they shoot at a man while he’s a-lookin’ at the man that shoots, an’ they don’t wait for him behind a tree.
“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!”
VII
FOREWARNED
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.