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Updated: August 15, 2024
Their descent upon Laurel had been coincident with Yancey Goree's feverish desire to convert property into cash, and they bought the old Goree homestead, paying four thousand dollars ready money into the spendthrift's shaking hands.
Goree's eyelids puckered as he strained his blurred sight toward this visitor, and then he smiled serenely. "Have you brought Stella and Lucy over to play?" he said calmly. "Do you know me, Yancey?" asked Coltrane. "Of course I do. You brought me a whip with a whistle in the end." So he had twenty-four years ago; when Yancey's father was his best friend. Goree's eyes wandered about the room.
A little breeze wafted the cloud to one side, and a new, brightly painted carryall, drawn by a slothful gray horse, became visible. The vehicle deflected from the middle of the street as it neared Goree's office, and stopped in the gutter directly in front of his door. On the front seat sat a gaunt, tall man, dressed in black broadcloth, his rigid hands incarcerated in yellow kid gloves.
He put on Goree's disreputable old flax coat and faded slouch hat. "Now," said Goree, taking up the reins, "I'm all right. I want you to ride about ten feet in the rear as we go by, Colonel, so that they can get a good look at me. They'll see I'm no back number yet, by any means. I guess I'll show up pretty well to them once more, anyhow. Let's ride on."
'Take the money, then, says she, 'and buy it fa'r and squar'." "Out with it," said Goree, his racked nerves growing impatient. Garvey threw his slouch hat upon the table, and leaned forward, fixing his unblinking eyes upon Goree's. "There's a old feud," he said distinctly and slowly, "'tween you 'uns and the Coltranes." Goree frowned ominously.
In the silence that followed Garvey's last speech the rattling of the poker chips in the court-house could be plainly heard. Goree knew that the sheriff had just won a pot, for the subdued whoop with which he always greeted a victory floated across the square upon the crinkly heat waves. Beads of moisture stood on Goree's brow.
The soul of the man showed itself for a moment like an evil face in the window of a reputable house. "He will settle at one eighty-five," said Dodson. "Bolivar cannot carry double." The most disreputable thing in Yancey Goree's law office was Goree himself, sprawled in his creaky old arm-chair.
The mountaineer took the glass Goree handed him, and drank the whisky without a tremor of the lids of his staring eyes. The lawyer applauded the feat by a look of envious admiration. He poured his own drink, and took it like a drunkard, by gulps, and with shudders at the smell and taste. "Two hundred," repeated Garvey. "Thar's the money." A sudden passion flared up in Goree's brain.
Quality people everywhar, says Missis Garvey, has feuds. We 'uns ain't quality, but we're buyin' into it as fur as we can. 'Take the money, then, says Missis Garvey, 'and buy Mr. Goree's feud, fa'r and squar'." The squirrel hunter straightened a leg half across the room, drew a roll of bills from his pocket, and threw them on the table. "Thar's two hundred dollars, Mr.
To the Coltranes, also, but one male supporter was left Colonel Abner Coltrane, a man of substance and standing, a member of the State Legislature, and a contemporary with Goree's father. The feud had been a typical one of the region; it had left a red record of hate, wrong and slaughter. But Yancey Goree was not thinking of feuds.
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