Bad Man's Gulch (3 page)

It seemed to him that the boy had come back to life and was moving about the room with him as he made ready for bed. He could imagine the topics of the conversation from girls to hunting, and all in the whimsical drawl of the mountaineers, a remembered and delightful music to the ear of Lazy Purdue.

The soothing touch of the warm water of the bath drew the ache from his body, and afterwards he sat a while near the window wrapped in a dressing gown and alive with thought. Then came a light tapping on the door. He opened the door cautiously and peeked out. Marion stood in the hallway. She was dressed in the robe still, and he glimpsed the white of her feet in their bedroom slippers.

“I must speak to you,” she entreated. “Father and Mother have gone to bed, an' I must speak with you for just a little minute. Will you let me in?”

He opened the door silently, and she slipped past
him. When he turned slowly from the closing of the door, he found her standing in the center of the room, facing him, her eyes wide with resolve and fear. They faced each other silently for a long moment; he with a certain sadness and she with a peculiar eagerness.

“I have come on a strange errand,” she said somewhat breathlessly.

He made no answer.

“I have come on a strange errand,” she repeated, gathering courage and determination as she went on. “An' when you hear what I ask, I'm only a-hopin' that you won't laugh. Oh, I
know
you won't, for when I leaned over the rail o' that stairs and looked down and met your eyes, I knew they was a man's eyes, an', when I went down an' spoke to you, they was no waver in them and they looked through an' through me. Will you-all hear me now?”

He clenched his hand as the note of pleading came into her voice, and a shock of premonition as to the nature of her request made his forehead cold.

“Go on,” he said somewhat hoarsely, “I'll listen to the end.”

“Stranger,” she said, “you brought a death into this here house, an' the blood o' that death was on your shoulders when you carried the body in. Stranger, it ain't a common murder in your life. It ain't something you c'n shake away from your mind after you leave this here part of the country. I know by the way you-all look that you been many places and you've seen many strange things, but there ain't nothin' that'll ever stay with you the way this night will.”

With an instinct for protection against the steady searching of her eyes, he dropped into a chair and covered his face with his hands. “Go on,” he whispered, “I'm hearin' it all.”

“Stranger,” she said evenly, “you done heard my father say that he c'n hardly shoot a rifle from a rest. Stranger, I reck'n
you
don't need no rest for a rifle.”

He heard the slip of her feet on the carpet as she went to him rapidly. Her hand fell lightly on his shoulder.

“Will you-all take the place of the boy you done carried into his home dead? Will you-all be a brother to me till this here death is washed out in blood? Oh, suh, you're a man, an' a man's man, an' I c'n ask this thing of you, an' I know you'll say yes to me!”

He rose and turned half away from her. She went grave with wonder, seeing the agony on his face, but, when her eyes ran down to the tight-clenched hands, her thoughts changed and she stepped a little away from him. “You ain' afraid?” she breathed. “Oh,
don'
say that you're afraid!”

“God help me,” he said, keeping his eyes away from her face by a great effort of will, “there don't seem no way I c'n help myself. Oh, if you could only dream jus' how many reasons I've got for not doin' this thing, you wouldn't talk o' fear.”

She stepped to him again and drew him facing her with a soft pressure of her hand upon his shoulder, and he could feel the light touch of her body against his, so intent was her pleading.

“You're goin' to do it?” she begged. “Oh, I know you will! It's a terrible lot to ask o' a man, an' you may have lots o' reasons for not doin' it, but, when I've lef' you to yourself an' you get to thinkin' it over, you'll see the dead boy again an' you'll make up your mind. Oh, he was such a nice boy, suh, an' so gentle to me, an' clean in his mind and clean o' heart! Suh,
he
would never have killed a man by layin' in wait for him an' shooting him down with no warnin'! Even a snake makes a noise before it
strikes. I ask you, stranger, are these McLanes as good as snakes? Think o' that and answer me in the mornin'. Good night, an' . . . an' God bless you.”

He heard the door close behind her, and suddenly the room seemed cramped and small to him. He went to the window and threw it up and leaned out into the cool, fresh air. By degrees the little noises of the night floated in upon his consciousness as if the silence grew into a nearer reality—the hushed whisper of the stirring trees about the house, the distant
hoot
of a far-away prowling owl, and the light incessant
chirping
of the crickets.

He turned away and stood a long moment leaning against the wall with closed eyes, for he saw her clearly then as she had stood at the bend of the stairway with the tide of golden hair running by her throat, and the deep question of her eyes.

“There's one thing thicker than blood,” he groaned to himself, “an' this is it, Lazy Purdue.” He opened his eyes and clenched his hands and made a great step into the center of the room. “An' what do I owe to
them?
Didn't they do me dirt when I was a kid an' never hurt none of them? An' I comin' back to them after they turned me out?”

He went to bed with his resolve, and, when he woke the next morning, his mind was clear with purpose and he felt even a return to his usual spirit of careless gaiety. He rose early and went downstairs dressed carefully in his new clothes, store clothes of far more luxurious material than any he had ever worn.

He found Conover on the front verandah and went to him immediately. He had determined to speak the thing out while his mind was made up.

“It ain't easy for me to talk much,” he began, after they had exchanged their good mornings, “but last
night I got to thinkin' about the boy that's lyin' dead in the room, there. He died in my arms as I was carryin' him through this here door, sir.” He paused a moment and swallowed hard. “I don't mind sayin',” he went on, “that I have killed men myself. But I never killed a man that wasn't looking me straight in the eye and doin' his damnedest to kill me. I never shot a man from behind a tree.”

He started to walk uneasily up and down the verandah. Old man Conover watched him with an emotionless face.

“Well, sir,” said Lazy Purdue, “I heard you say that you could hardly shoot a rifle from a rest. I don't need no rest, Mister Conover. Will you use me like one of your own family to fight them McLanes?”

The old man eyed him without changing a muscle of his face. “I reckon you said my boy died in your arms while you were bringin' him through the door?” he queried.

Lazy Purdue clenched his hands and opened them slowly. “Yes,” he said.

“An' you c'n shoot straight?”

The shadow of a smile touched Lazy Purdue's mouth. “It's the only thing I can do well,” he said.

“The McLanes shoot powerful straight,” said the old man dreamily.

“If you have a hammer an' some nails an' a revolver,” said Lazy Purdue, “I'll show you what they call shootin' in my part of the country.”

“They's a post there, just off the verandah, wher' you c'n drive them,” said Conover slowly, “an' I'll get you a hammer an' nails, an' here”—he reached to his hip pocket as he spoke—“is a gun.”

In an old hitching post a few yards away Lazy Purdue drove six nails, one below the other. Then he
took the revolver, tried the action with a smile of content, and whirled the chambers.

“I'm goin' to walk away from this here post,” he stated, “an', when you holler fire, I'm goin' to turn and shoot. You see I haven't my hand on the gun. You watch that bunch o' nails.” He commenced to walk rapidly away from the post, his arms swinging carelessly and the revolver bulging slightly in his hip pocket.

“Fire!” called Conover.

Lazy Purdue whirled, and, as he whirled, the six shots rang out, one report blending with the other.

Conover walked to the hitching post. He examined the post carefully. “The first shot was a hair's breadth to the left,” he said, and, as he turned, he sighed heavily. “I don't know what part of the country you come from, my frien', but, oh, I wish to God that my boy had been raised there.”

As they crossed the verandah, old Mrs. Conover met them at the door, her face somewhat paler than before. “John,” she queried, “what was that shootin'? Has there been some more devil's work this mornin'?”

The old man laid his hands on his wife's shoulders. “Mary,” he said, “I c'n hardly shoot a rifle from a rest. But here's a man who don't need no rest. Mary, our boy died in this man's arms, an' he wants to make that death good on the McLanes.”

She eyed Purdue coldly, and once more he straightened as if about to receive an order. “That death can't be made good by anyone but a Conover,” she stated. “Have you forgotten that, John?”

Old Conover turned almost fiercely on Lazy Purdue. “Will you change your name to George Conover?” he asked.

“My first name hasn't ever been anything but Lazy,” said Purdue, “an' my last name . . . well, I reckon I have pretty strong reason for wanting to change that name right now, or leastwise forget it. I reckon George is a lot better name than Lazy, an' I don't know any better other name than Conover.”

As they walked into the breakfast room, Marion Conover entered. One glance at the faces of the three evidently told her all that she wanted to know. She walked to Lazy Purdue and shook hands with him silently, but the brightness of her eyes left him ill at ease as they sat down at the table.

There was no restraint among the other three. With that fine instinct of hospitality that always enables them to put a guest at ease, they forgot their own great sorrow and commenced to talk casually of casual things. But they had not sat long before a Negress appeared in great agitation at the door.

“Marse Conover,” she said in a shaken voice, “they's a visitor heah! His name is McLane. Oh, my Lor', it's Marse Tom McLane!”

Old Conover rose. “Send Mister McLane right in,” he said calmly.

She stared at him for a moment with wide eyes of wonder before she turned to do his bidding.

A moment later, Lazy Purdue saw a great, broad-shouldered man standing in the doorway. He must have been close to sixty, but from his square-toed
riding boots to the top of his iron-gray head he appeared one of those rock-like men who defy time. His rough black beard was untouched with silver. He seemed to fill the door in which he stood, and he towered even above Lazy Purdue when the latter rose at that sight.

“Will you sit down an' have some breakfas' with us?” said Conover in a soft voice. “They's some tol'able good bacon this mornin'.”

Tom McLane made a step farther into the room. “I can't eat in your house now, John Conover,” he said. “I've come to find out if you're goin' to call in the law.”

“Aye,” said Conover, “the same law that there has always been between the Conovers and the McLanes.”

McLane passed a blunt-fingered hand across his forehead. “I knew that would be your way,” he said, and his rough voice shook, echoing through the room like a chorus, “but time ain't been too gentle with you, John Conover. You're an old man, John, and you ain't nowise fit to fight with the guns, an' I'm still strong, an' my boys are tolerable strong, and now you're alone ag'in' us. Harken ye to me, John Conover, an' you, Mary Conover. I know the thing that's happened last night. I know that a man of the McLanes killed George Conover, but what man that was I c'n tell no more'n ye can tell. But another man's death won't bring the first dead man back to life, and blood ain't never washed out blood. Oh, I know it wasn't a fair fight, an' it makes my heart's blood cold to think o' the waylayin' by the night. Things wasn't that way when you and I was boys. But you ain't in a way to hit back at us now, John. Tell me some way to make up to you for your loss, an' I swear I'll do it.”

“I c'n answer that,” said Mary Conover fiercely. “Oh, I c'n tell you what you c'n do to make up for the loss we have, Tom McLane. You c'n take out o' my heart the longin' for a man-child. You can take out o' my memory the pain an' the woe o' bearin' that child. You can take away the thought o' the first time I looked on him, pink an' red and helpless. You c'n take out o' my ears his first cry o' life, an' the thought o' the years an' the years o' care an' trouble an' love, an' the nursin' through sickness, an' the singin' to sleep, an' . . . oh, all the glory o' givin' a fine, clean strong man to a man's world. That's all you got to do, Tom McLane. C'n you make up that loss, Tom?”

John Conover dropped a tremulous hand on his wife's shoulder. “You was always a man,” he said, “you was always a man, Tom McLane, an', supposin' I was as naked o' help as you're thinkin', I might listen to ye now. But I ain't naked yet. My boy George lies in the next room smilin' so's I can't forget how he looked when he was a little sniper. When my boy George died, he was carried home by this here man, an' his blood was on this man's forehead an' over this man's heart, an' so now he has taken this here blood debt on his hands and he is my son. Look him over. Do you reckon he's worthy o' the guns o' your tribe, Tom?”

There was a long pause while Lazy Purdue braced himself to the shock of McLane's stare.