Guinea and Chyd, old Lim and his wife went to church the next day, leaving Alf and me alone. Alf held himself in reasonable restraint until the old people were gone, and then he broke out so violently that I really feared for his reason. And it was mainly my fault for I read him a passionate poem, the outcry of a maddened soul, and he swore that it had been written for him, that it was his, and I caught his spirit and fancied that he might have written it, for I believed then, as I believe now, that great things do not come from a quiet heart, that quiet hearts may criticise, but that they do not create, that genius is a condition, an agony, a tortured John Bunyan.

I went to the spring to get a bucket of fresh water, and when I returned Alf was nowhere to be found. I went out and shouted his name, but no answer came back. I went out into the woods, walked up and down the road, but could see nothing of him. The shadows fell short and the old people and Guinea and Chyd returned from church, and the noon-tide meal was spread, but Alf came not. But save with me there was no anxiety, as he was wont to poke about alone they said. Evening, bed-time came. Chyd went home, and I went up to my room. I heard the old man locking the smoke-house door—heard his wife singing a hymn, heard Guinea's faint foot-steps as she returned from the gate, whither she went to bid her lover good-night, and her little feet fell not upon the path, but upon my heart. I went to bed, leaving the lamp burning low, and was almost asleep when I heard Alf on the stairs. He ran into the room with both hands pressed against his head. I sprang up. He ran to me and dropped upon his knees at the bed-side, dropped and clutched the covering and buried his face in it. I put my arm about him, knelt beside him, heard his smothered muttering, and put my face against his. "Bill!" he gasped in a shivering whisper, "Bill, I have killed him!"

"Merciful God!" I cried, springing back. He reached round, as if to draw me down beside him. "Hush, don't let them hear down stairs. Come here, Bill."

I lifted him to his feet, turned him round so that I could see his face. It was horror-stricken. "I have killed Dan Stuart."

He stood with both hands on my shoulders looking into my eyes.

"Wait a minute and I'll tell you. It wasn't altogether my fault. He ought to be dead. He tried to kill me. I left here without any thought of seeing him; didn't want to see him. I went away over yonder into the woods. I heard you calling me. Later in the day I came out near the wagon-maker's shop, and several fellows were sitting there, and I stopped to answer a question somebody asked me, and pretty soon here came Stuart. He grinned at me, but this didn't make me want to kill him. Do they hear me down stairs?"

"Go on, for God's sake!" I urged. "Why did you kill him? Didn't you know——"

"I knew everything, Bill. But I didn't want to kill him. I turned away, and walked up the road, and he came along after me on his horse. And when we were some distance away he made a slighting remark about Millie. I wheeled around and he snatched out a pistol and pointed it at me. I hadn't a thing, and there he was on a horse and with a pistol pointed at me. There was not a stone, nothing within reach. I was cool, I had sense, and I told him that he might have his fun, but that I would see him again. And when he had cursed me and abused me as much as he liked he rode away, leaving me standing there. I ran over to Parker's and told him that I wanted a pistol to shoot a dog with, and he gave it to me. Then I went back to the road and waited. He had gone over to the General's, I thought, and I knew that he would come back that way. I would make him swallow his words—I knew that he didn't mean what he said about Millie—knew that he simply wanted to stir me up and have an excuse to kill me. So I waited in the road not far from Doc Etheredge's, waited a long time and at last I heard some one coming on a horse. I didn't hide; I stood in the middle of the road. A man came up, but it wasn't him; it was Etheredge. He spoke to me, asked me good-naturedly why I was standing there, and I told him that I was waiting for a dog that I wanted to kill. He turned into his gate, a short distance off, and I stood there. After a while I heard another horse, and I knew his gait—single-foot. It was Stuart. He was singing and he didn't appear to see me until he was almost on me. His horse shied. 'Who is that?' he asked, and I told him. 'And you are going to take back what you said,' I remarked as quietly as I could, 'or I'm going to kill you right here.' He didn't say a word—he snatched at his pistol and then I fired, and he fell forward on his horse's neck. The horse jumped and I sprang forward and caught the body and eased it to the ground—stretched it in the road and left it. But I went up to Etheredge's house and hallooed, and when he answered I told him that the dog had come and that his name was Dan Stuart, and that he would find him lying in the road. I heard him shout something, but I didn't wait for him to come out, but went into the woods and came on home. And now I've got to go."

"Go where?" I asked, facing him round as he strove to turn from me.

"To town to give myself up. Don't tell the old folks to-night. Tell them in the morning—tell them that they'll find me in jail."

I strove to restrain him; I could scarcely believe what he had told me. I asked him if he had not been dreaming. He shook his head, pulling away from me. "If you are my friend, Bill, do as I tell you. It's all over with me now, and all I can do is to answer to the law." He caught up his hat. "Tell them at morning; make it as soft as you can—tell them how I love that girl—tell them that I am crazy. Don't hold me, Bill. I must go. God bless you."

He pulled away from me and went down stairs so easily that he made scarcely a sound. I followed him, begged him to let me go with him, but, creeping back half way up the stairs, he said: "You can be of more service to me here. Tell them and to-morrow you can see me in jail. I don't want them to come and take me there. Do as I tell you, Bill. Don't let the folks see me in jail. Go on back."

I went back to the room and sat there all night, and at morning I heard the old man unlock the smoke-house, heard his wife singing a hymn. I knew that they expected me at early breakfast, so that I could reach the school-house in time, for my new session was to begin that morning. So the sun was not risen when I went down stairs. But nature held up a pink rose in the east, and the hilltops were glowing, while the valleys were yet dark. Guinea came out of the sitting-room, and seeing me in the passage, walking as if I were afraid of disturbing some one, laughed at me. "Why, what makes you slip along that way? You act as if you were the first one up. Why, I have already gathered you some flowers to take to school. And you won't even thank me. Why, Mr. Hawes, what on earth is the matter?"

I held up my hand. "There will be no school to-day," I said. "Don't say a word, please.""But what's the matter?" she asked, with a look of fright.

"Come out here under the tree. Will you promise not to scream if I tell you something?"

"But what can you tell me to make me scream? Oh——"

"I'm not going to speak of myself," I broke in, fearing that she might think that I was going to tell her of my love. "Come out here, please."

She followed me to the bench under the tree and she stood there nervously gazing at me as I sat down, waiting for me to speak and yet afraid to hear me.

"What is it, please? But don't tell me anything bad—I don't want to hear anything bad."

"But you must hear this. Alf—Alf has had a quarrel with Dan Stuart. It was worse than a quarrel, and has——"

"Killed him?" she said, gazing at me. "Don't tell me anything."

She sat down beside me and hid her face. "Alf has gone to town to give himself up, and we must tell your father and mother. It wasn't murder—it was self-defence. You go and tell your mother, tell her as quietly as you can. I see your father out yonder. I will tell him. Tell her that they got into a quarrel last night."

She went away without looking back at me, without letting me see her face, and as I passed the corner of the house I heard her talking and before I reached the old man I heard a cry from that poor old woman.Old Lim was at the door of his "stockade," oiling the lock. "Devilish thing don't work well," he said. "A padlock is generally the best lock or the worst; you never can tell which. If I could jest git a drap of the grease into the key-hole I'd soon fix it. But it won't go in, you see. By jings, the devil has his own way about half the time, and his influence is mighty powerful the other half. Now, we're gittin' at it. I reckon we'd better go on to breakfast, though. I almost forgot that you had to go to your school. Why, man, what the deuce is the matter with you this mornin'?"

He dropped the chain to which the lock was fastened and looked steadily at me. "What's gone wrong, man?"

"I'm not going to school to-day," I answered, endeavoring to be calm.

"What's the matter? House burnt down again?"

"Worse than that, Mr. Jucklin. Alf——"

"What about him?" he broke in, nervously grabbing the chain.

"Did you know that he was in love with Millie Lundsford?" I asked, now determined to be calm.

"Well, what of it? Young folks are in and out of love with each other mighty nigh every day in this neighborhood. Is that Susan callin' me? Be there in a minute!" he shouted. "Hasn't had a row with the old General, has he?"

"No, but with Dan Stuart. They quarreled last night and fought and Dan was killed."His shoulders drooped; he spoke not, but he jerked the chain, the gate flew open and he stepped inside and shut it with a slam; and I heard him fumbling with the fastening that held the door of the coop. I strode away as fast as I could, went to the school-house to dismiss the children and to tell them that I knew not when the session would be resumed. And when I returned everything was quiet. The old man was slowly walking up and down the spring-house path, evidently waiting for me.

"Tell me all about it," he said, when I came up; "tell me from beginnin' to end."

And I told him just as Alf had told me. He listened with his mouth half open, rolling up his shirt-sleeves and then rolling them down again, as if he knew not what to do with himself.

"Well," he said, when I was done, "I don't know that I can blame him, poor feller, but they'll hang him."

"Do you think so?" I cried, with a start, for I had not dwelt upon that possibility; it had not occurred to me, so wrapt had I been in thinking of his own mental distress and the heart-breaking grief of his mother. "Do you really think so?"

"I know it—just as clear to me as that sunshine. Stuart's kin folks have got money and they'll spend every cent of it to put Alf on the gallows. Etheredge don't like Alf and will spend every cent he's got; and here we are without money. Yes, they'll hang him."

"But General Lundsford—won't he stand as Alf's friend?"

The old man shook his head. "He can't, and I don't know that he would if he could. I mean that he can't and still be true to himself. Ever since our agreement, the one I told you about, he has been putty open in talkin' to me, and I know that he wanted Millie to marry Stuart. No, he's too proud to help us."

"But can he for family reasons afford not to help us? His son——"

"Don't speak of that now, if you please, sir. Are you goin' to the house?"

"I don't know. I am almost afraid to meet his mother."

"Don't be afraid of that. She won't reproach you; she knows that you had nothing to do with it—knows that he never would have killed him if he had asked your advice and followed it."

"I don't mean that—I mean that I cannot bear to look upon her grief."

"She is a Christian, sir. She is praying to her God, and whatever comes she will trust in Him. The stock that she is from has stood at the stake, sir."

We were slowly walking toward the house. Suddenly he clutched my arm with a grip that reminded me of Alf, and in a voice betraying more emotion than I had known him to show, asked whether I intended to leave him. I put my arm about him and pressed him to me, just as if he were Alf telling me of the love-trouble that lay upon his heart."I understand you, God bless you," he said. "Don't say a word; I understand you. Git on the mare and go to town and find out all you can. I won't go jest now—can't stand to see my son in jail. But don't say a word, for I understand you. I reckon the neighborhood is pretty well alive over it by this time. See if they'll let him go about on bail, but I don't reckon they will, even if he did give himself up. They'll think that he done it because he must have knowed that they were bound to catch him. Go on and do whatever your jedgment tells you, and I know it will be all right."

Over the road I went, toward Purdy, and the people who had come out of their houses to speak words of encouragement to Alf and me when we were on our way to see the Aimes boys tried, now stood about their doors, gazing stupidly. At the wagon-maker's shop a crowd was gathered, and I was recognized as I drew near by young men who had met me at the General's house the night before—now so long ago, it seemed—and they came out into the road and urged me to tell them all I knew. I felt that Etheredge had already stirred in his own coloring, but I told the story of the tragedy just as I had told it to the old man; and I had gathered rein to resume my journey when a man rode up. "I'm going back to town!" he shouted, waving his hand to a man who stood in the door of the wagon-maker's shop. I rode on and he came up beside me.

"Are you Mr. Hawes?" he asked, and when I had answered him he said: "I am Dr. Etheredge."

I bowed and he nodded with distinct coolness. He was not of happy appearance; he was lean and angular, gray beyond the demand of his years, and it struck me that he must be given to drink, not because he was gray, but because there were puffs under his eyes and broken veins where his skin was stretched over his high cheek-bones.

"A devil of an affair, this," he said. "Man met in the public highway and murdered."

"Don't put it that way," I spoke up, "for perhaps you are not yet acquainted with the causes that led to it."

"No cause, sir, should lead to murder."

"I agree with you there, but many a man has been compelled to kill in order to save his own life."

He sneered at me. "But has many a man been compelled to stand for hours in a public road, and in order to save his own life shoot down an innocent person? I always held that Alf Jucklin was a dangerous and a desperate man, and everybody knows that he comes of that breed. I never did like him; and he took a dislike to me without cause. Stood near a church in a crowd of men one day when I seemed to be under discussion and declared that a man to be a doctor ought to be smart and to be smart a man must say something to prove the thought within him; and then he asked if any one had ever heard me say anything worth remembering."

I felt that he wanted to quarrel with me, and I was in the humor to gratify him. "And did anyone ever hear you say a thing worth remembering?" I asked.

"Sir!" he snarled.

"You heard what I said. And I take a degree of cool pleasure in telling you before we go further that you can't ride a high horse over me."

"A pedagogue's pedantry," he muttered.

"A man's truth," I replied. "And by the way," I added, "you appear to be well horsed. Suppose you ride on ahead."

"Does this road belong to you, sir?" he demanded, turning a severe brow upon me.

"A part of it does, and I am going to ride over that part without annoyance. Do you understand?"

"Sir, I can understand impudence even if I can't say a thing worth remembering. But rather than have words with you I will ride on, not to accommodate you, but to preserve my own dignity and self-respect."

"Good!" I mockingly cried, "and if you continue to improve in expression I shall after a while be forced to believe that Alf's estimate of you was placed too low."

"I thank you, sir, for giving me the opportunity to say that a jury's estimate will hereafter most influence your friend, and that he will be placed high enough."

"You continue to improve, Doctor, and I believe that your last remark is worth remembering. At least, I shall remember it, and when this trouble is over, no matter what the result may be, I will hold you to account for it. And to prove that I am in earnest I'll lend you the weight of this." And with that I cut at his face with a switch. His horse shied and the apple tree sprout whistled in the air. He said something about hoping to meet me again and rode off at a brisk canter. I knew that I had acted unwisely, felt it even while the impulse was rising fresh and strong within me, but I was in no humor to bear with him. I rode along more slowly than I was disposed, to let him pass out of my sight, for every time I looked up and saw him I felt a new anger. And I was relieved when a turn in the road placed him beyond my view. I heard a galloping behind, and, looking round, I saw the old General coming with a cavalryman's recklessness. He dashed up and did not draw rein until he was almost upon me.

"Whoa! I have been trying to overtake you, Hawes. What did I tell you? Didn't I say that the country was gone? I'll swear I don't know what we are coming to when a man is shot down in the road like that."

"General, did you overtake me to ride to town with me?"

"I did; yes, sir."

"Then you mustn't talk that way."

"I beg your pardon, sir. Perhaps I should not have expressed myself in that manner. Let us ride along and discuss it quietly. Tell me what you know."

"It were better, General——"

"Never mind about your grammar and your bookish phrasing. Tell me what led up to it."

"Must I tell you that your daughter is——""By G——, sir, what do you mean?"

"You needn't turn on me, sir."

"Surely not. Pardon me. What about it?"

"I don't know that I ought to tell you—a man of more judgment wouldn't—but I suppose I must now that I have gone so far. Alf is in love with your daughter, and on that account Stuart insulted him, abused him at the point of a pistol."

Then I told him all that I could, all but the fact that Stuart had spoken slightingly of the girl, for I knew that this would only enrage him and, indeed, set him harder against Alf, as he would doubtless believe that my friend had simply forged a mean excuse. For some distance after I had told him the story, he rode along in silence, troubled of countenance and with his head hanging low. But just before we came into the town he looked up and said: "Poor fool, I can't help him."

"But you can see that justice is done."

"Mr. Hawes, in this instance we may take different views of justice. Pardon me, but your friendship—and, indeed, I can but honor you for it—your friendship may cry out against justice."

"I admit, General, that my friendship is strong, although I have known the young man but a short time, yet I think that I respect justice."

"We all think so until justice pinches us," he replied, placing himself in firm opposition to me, yet doing it kindly. "I am more concerned in this, Mr. Hawes, than you can well conceive. I can say this, but I cannot follow it up with an explanation. But the fact that he stood waiting there in the road is what will tell most against him. Had he met him at another time, under almost any other conditions, it would have been different, would have taken away the aspect of calculated murder. Yes, I am deeply concerned and on two accounts. But I cannot mention them. Dan Stuart was near to me; I had known him all his life and he was a young man of promise, was popular throughout the community—more popular than Alf, and this will have its effect."

"But wasn't he more popular because he had more money?" I asked, and the old General gave me a look of reproof.

"Money does not make so much difference in the South, sir. You have been filling your head with Northern books. It is refinement, sir, real worth that weighs in the South."

"I hope not to antagonize you, General, but I am of the South and I have cause to hold an opposite opinion. Have I not seen the most vulgar of men held in high favor because they were rich? The mere existence of a state line does not change human nature. Man is not changed even by the lines drawn about empires."

"I admit, sir, that the South has undergone a change, but in my day a man was measured according to his real worth, not in gold, but in honorable qualities."

"It is but natural to look back with the prejudiced eye of affection, General, and it is respectful that I should not argue with you. I turn here to the livery-stable. Good-morning."

"I honor you for your consideration, sir," he replied, bowing. "Let us hope for the best, but I must stand by justice."

When I had put up my horse I went directly to the jail. A crowd hung about the doors, eager to see the prisoner. When I told the jailer who I was he admitted me without a word. Alf sprang from a bench, seeing me enter the corridor, and came forward to the bars of his cell.

"Not much room for shaking hands here, Bill," he said, smiling sadly. "It is already an age since I left home. How are you, old man? Tell me how they took it. No, don't. I know. Well, I gave myself up and the sheriff wouldn't believe me at first, but he got it through his head after a while. He was very kind and when he had locked me in here he went to see whether I could be let out on bail, but I understand that I can't. It's all right; I might as well be in here. Bill, I have tried to feel sorry for killing him, but I can't. I reckon I must be about as mean as they make them. And it will all come out pretty soon, for court is still in session and all they've got to do is to rig up their jury after the inquest and go ahead. I'm going to make the best of it. The worst feature is the disgrace and suffering at home, and, of course, that almost tears my heart out when I let it. But to tell you the truth, I'd rather be hanged than to be on the grid-iron all the time. Who's that?"

Etheredge came into the corridor. He leered at Alf and Alf sneered at him. "I suppose you found the dog that I told you was lying in the road—the dog that tried to bite me," said Alf, with a cold smile.

"Jucklin, I didn't come in here to be insulted."

"All right, there's the door. Say, there, jailer, you have just let in a gray rat and I wish you'd come and drive him out."

I turned to Etheredge and pointed to the door. "I must respect your wish," he said, speaking to me. "I've an engagement with you—you are to be my guest," and without another word he strode away.

I remained with Alf as long as the jailer thought it prudent to let me stay, and then I went about the town to gather its sentiment. And I was grieved to find that every one declared it to be cold-blooded murder. My heart was heavy as I rode toward home, for the old people were looking to me for encouragement. Guinea met me at the gate. She tried to smile, but failed.

"Don't try to look pleased at seeing me," I said. "It is too much of an effort." And if she could not smile she could give me a look of gratitude. She went with me to the stable, saying not a word; and when I had turned the horse loose she followed me to the sitting-room. At the door I faltered, but Mrs. Jucklin's voice bade me enter. She was sitting in a rocking-chair, with the Bible in her lap, and placing her hand upon the book, she thus spoke to me: "Don't hesitate to talk, for His rod and His staff shall comfort me."

I had not noticed the old man, so bent were my eyes upon his wife, but now he arose into view, and, coming to me, he whispered: "From the stock that stood at the stake."

I told them all I knew, which was not much; and then knelt down and prayed with them.