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"No, let 'em fight it out fa'r an' squar'," suggested red-faced Buck Hillhouse, the bar-keeper, in the autocratic tone he used in conducting cock-fights in his back yard. The blood had left Westerfelt's face. Wambush's eyes gleamed desperately; disarmed, he looked less a man than an infuriated beast.
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.
Westerfelt's horse had been standing on the side of a little slope, and the soft earth suddenly gave way beneath his hind feet, and in regaining a firm footing he made a considerable noise. There was nothing now for Westerfelt to do but to put a bold face on the matter. "Get up," he said, guiding his horse down towards the men. "Halt!" commanded one of the moonshiners.
Washburn made no reply, but went slowly back into the stable. Westerfelt's dying horse raised his head and groaned. A man near the animal dismounted and drew his revolver. "What d' you say?" said he to Westerfelt. "Hadn't I better put 'im out o' his misery?" "I'd be much obliged if you would." Westerfelt turned his face away. There was a moment's pause.
The boy was an unpractised hand, and the strokes were irregular, sometimes too slow and sometimes too rapid. It was a signal for the procession to leave the house. Westerfelt's eyes were glued to the one-horse wagon at the gate, for it contained the coffin, and was moving like a thing alive. Behind it walked six men, swinging their hats in their hands.
Then he dropped Westerfelt's hand and strode away. Westerfelt accepted the urgent invitation of the Bradleys to live in their house awhile. For the first week his wound gave him pain and his appetite failed him, which was due as much, perhaps, to mental as bodily trouble, for Harriet Floyd was on his mind constantly.
"You are afeerd!" he repeated, shaking his fist in Westerfelt's face. "No, I'm not," replied Westerfelt. The corners of his mouth were drawn down and his chin was puckered. "I have fought some in my life, and sometimes I get as mad as the next one, but I still try to be decent before ladies. This is no place to settle a difficulty." "Will you do it outside, then?" sneered Wambush.
Westerfelt's horse had stepped on a dry twig. There was silence for a moment, then Dill laughed softly. "Nothin' but a acorn drappin'. You fellers is afeerd o' yore shadders; what does the gang mean by sendin' out sech white-livered chaps?" The only sound for a moment was the gurgling of the whiskey as it ran into the jug.
"Lord, Lord A'mighty!" he said, "when I reecolect that the young chap 'at stood up thar so spunky all by hisse'f last night, in that moonlight an' sassed all of us to our teeth was Cap. Westerfelt's boy by God, I jest want some hound dog to come an' take my place on God's earth so I do. I want some able-bodied cornfield nigger to wear a hickory-withe out on my bare back."
I don't know why I think so, but if thar is any understanding between you two I'd take it as a great favor if you'd let me know it, right now at the start. I'll wish you well but I'd like to know it. It's a powerful big thing to me, Westerfelt the biggest thing I ever tackled yet." Westerfelt's face was hard and expressionless.
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