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Updated: June 16, 2025
"It's been moved and seconded that Wambush be 'lowed six hours to git clean out o' the county; all in favor say yes." There was almost a general roar. "All opposed say no." No one spoke for a moment, then Wambush muttered something, but no one understood what it was. He turned his horse round and started to mount.
A moment later the door leading to the veranda on the floor above opened with a creak, and she appeared over the heads of the band. "Toot! Toot Wambush!" she called out in a clear, steady voice. "I want to speak to you!" Wambush, in a spirit of bravado, had just ridden on to the veranda, and could hear nothing above the thunderous clatter of his horse's hoofs on the floor.
"Thar's a big un that's no good." Washburn pointed to an account he had just copied. "Who's it on?" "Toot Wambush." "How much?" "Seventy-eight dollars an' fifty cents. It's been runnin' on fer two yeer, an' thar hain't a single credit on it. He never was knowed to pay a cent to nobody." "Don't let anything out to him till the account is paid." Washburn looked up with a dubious smile.
She nodded, drew her white shawl round her shoulders, rose, and followed him out through the kitchen. "Gone to try the moonlight," remarked the little gossip at Westerfelt's side, with a knowing smile. "All promenade!" shouted the fiddler, the dance being over. The couples went outside. They passed Wambush and Harriet on the porch, leaning against the banisters in the moonlight.
Sarah was seated next to Harriet Floyd. As he sat down near Sarah, he fancied that Harriet, whose profile was towards him, gave him a glance out of the corner of her eye, but she turned her head and continued talking to Toot Wambush. There was something he liked in the ease of her position as she sat, balling her handkerchief in a hand hidden half in the pocket of her jacket.
The wearer of it started and half raised his revolver, but quickly concealed it under the sheet that hung below his waist. Everybody was silent, as if they expected a reply from Wambush, but he made none. "Them pore Cohutta men lyin' in the Atlanta jail said so, anyway," returned the leader. "They ain't heer to speak fer the'rse'ves; it's a easy thing to give them the lie behind the'r backs."
"She hain't in love with him." "How do you know?" "How do I know? Because she is silly enough to be gone on a man that don't care a snap for her." "Wambush?" "No," scornfully; "you, that's who." Westerfelt was silent for a moment, then he said: "How do you know I don't care for her?" "You don't show it; you always stay away from her.
I jest want ter know now right now, by Glory! ef you ever give sech orders." "Do you think this is a proper place to settle such a matter?" calmly asked Westerfelt. "D d you; you are a coward; you are afeerd to say so!" Harriet Floyd, with a white, startled face, tried to slip between the two men, but Wambush roughly pushed her aside.
It seemed to Westerfelt that she hesitated before speaking, and at that moment a realization of what she had become to him and what she doubtless was to Wambush came upon him with such stunning force that he forgot even his peril in contemplating what seemed almost as bad as death. "This is no time nor place to speak of such things," he heard the girl say, finally.
"How do you do, Hettie?" said Harriet, as she came down the steps. "Come into the parlor; you look cold." The girl hesitated, but finally followed Harriet into the warm room. They sat down before the fire, and there was an awkward silence for several minutes, then the visitor suddenly pushed back her bonnet and said, in a hard, desperate tone: "Where is Toot Wambush, Harriet?"
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