Part 28 (1/2)
That was an unshakeable determination, and when, in obedience to the edict, Boone had not come back for a week, Cyrus asked his daughter briefly:
”When do you an' Boone aim ter be wedded?”
The girl flinched again, but her voice was steady as she replied:
”We--don't--never aim to be.”
The old fellow's features stiffened into the stern indignation of an affronted Indian chief. He took the pipe from between his teeth as he set his shoulders, and that baleful light, that had come rarely in a life-span, returned to his eyes.
”Ef he don't aim ter wed with ye,” came the slow p.r.o.nouncement, ”thar hain't no fas.h.i.+on he kin escape an accountin' with me.”
For a moment Happy did not speak. It seemed to her that the raising of such an issue was the one thing which she lacked present strength to face; but after a little she replied, with a resolution no less iron-strong because the voice was gentle:
”Unless ye wants ter break my heart fer all time--ye must give me your pledge to--keep hands off.”
After a moment she added, almost in a whisper:
”He's asked me--and I've refused to marry him.”
”You--refused him?” The voice was incredulous. ”Why, gal, everybody knows ye've always thought he was a piece of the moon.”
”I still think so,” she made gallant response. ”But I wants ye to--jest trust me--an' not ask any more questions.”
The father sat there stiffly gazing off to the far ridges, and his eyes were those of a man grief-stricken. Once or twice his raggedly bearded lips stirred in inarticulate movements, but finally he rose and laid a hand on her shoulder.
”Little gal,” he said in a broken voice, ”I reckon I've got ter suffer ye ter decide fer yoreself--hit's yore business most of all--but I don't never want him ter speak ter me ergin.”
So Boone went out upon the hustings with none of the eager zest of his antic.i.p.ations. That district was so solidly one-sided in political complexion that the November elections were nothing more than formalities, and the real conflict came to issue in the August primaries.
But with Boone's announcement as candidate for circuit clerk, old animosities that had lain long dormant stirred into restive mutterings.
The personnel of the ”high court” had been to a considerable extent dominated by the power of the Carrs and Blairs.
Now with the news that Boone Wellver, a young and ”wishful” member of the Gregory house, meant to seek a place under the teetering clock tower of the court house, anxieties began to simmer. Into his candidacy the Carrs read an effort to enhance Gregory power--and they rose in resistance. Jim Blair, a cousin of Tom Carr, threw down his gauntlet of challenge and announced himself as a contestant, so that the race began to a.s.sume the old-time cleavage of the feud.
On muleback and on foot, Boone followed up many a narrowing creek bed to sources where dwelt the ”branch-water folk.” Here, in animal-like want and squalor, the crudest of all the uncouth race lived and begot offspring and died. Here where vacuous-eyed children of an inbred strain stared out from the doors of crumbling and windowless shacks, or fled from a strange face, he campaigned among the illiterate elders and oftentimes he sickened at what he saw.
Yet these people of yesterday were his people--and they offered him of their pitiful best even when their ignorance was so incredible that the name of the divinity was to them only ”somethin' a feller cusses with”--and he felt that his campaign was prospering.
One day, however, when he returned to his own neighbourhood after an absence across the mountain, he seemed to discover an insidious and discouraging change in the tide--a s.h.i.+fting of sentiment to an almost sullen reserve. An intangible resentment against him was in the air.
It was Araminta Gregory who construed the mystery for him. She had heard all the gossip of the ”grannies,” which naturally did not come to his own ears.
”I'm atellin' ye this, Boone, because _somebody_ ought ter forewarn ye,”
she explained. ”Thar's a story goin' round about, an' I reckon hit's hurtin' ye. Somebody hes done spread ther norration thet ye hain't loyal ter yore own blood no more.--They're tellin' hit abroad thet ye've done turned yore back on a mountain gal--atter lettin' her 'low ye aimed ter wed with her.” She paused there, but added a moment later: ”I reckon ye wouldn't thank me ter name no names--an', anyhow, ye knows who I means.”
”I know,” he said, in a very quiet and deliberate voice. ”Please go on--and, as you say, it ain't needful to call no names.”
”These witch-tongued busybodies,” concluded the woman, her eyes flaring into indignation, ”is spreadin' hit broadcast thet ye plumb abandoned thet gal fer a furrin' woman--thet wouldn't skeercely wipe her feet on ye--ef ye laid down in ther road in front of her!”
Boone's posture grew taut as he listened, and it remained so during the long-ensuing silence. He could feel a furious hammering in his temples, and for a little time blood-red spots swam before his eyes. But when at length he spoke, it was to say only, ”I'm beholden to you, Araminty. A man has need to know what his enemies are sayin'.”