Part 32 (1/2)

”For G.o.d's sake, at least be honest!” retorted Morgan pa.s.sionately.

”Whatever barbarities mountain men have, they are presumed to be outspoken and direct of speech.”

”We generally aim to be. I'm asking _you_ to be the same.”

”Very well. I mean to marry Anne, who is my cousin--and whose social equal I am. It doesn't please me to have you confuse my father's welcome with the idea of free and easy liberty. Is that clear?”

Morgan was glaring up into Boone's eyes, since Boone stood several inches the taller, and Boone's fingers ached to take him by the neck and shake him as a terrier does a rat. The need of remembering whose son he was became a trying obligation.

”Does Anne--whose social equal you are--know--that you're going to marry her?” he inquired, with a quiet which should have warned Morgan had he just then been able to recognize warnings.

”Perhaps,” was the curt rejoinder, and Boone laughed.

”No, Mr. Wallifarro,” he said. ”No--even that 'perhaps' is a lie. She doesn't so much as suspect it. As for me, I know you are _not_ going to marry her.”

Morgan had turned and walked around behind his desk, and as Boone added his paralyzing announcement, he threw open the drawer. ”I aim to marry her myself--when I've made good--if she'll have me.”

Morgan halted, half bent over, and his eyes burned madly.

”You!” he exclaimed, with a boiling over of contemptuous rage. ”You d.a.m.ned baboon!”

The words had sent Wellver, like the force of uncoiled springs, vaulting over the table, and his face had gone paste-white. Yet as he landed on the far side he halted and drew himself rigidly straight, though to keep his arms inactive at his sides he had to tense every sinew from wrist to shoulder, until each fibre ached with the cramp of repression. He had caught himself on the brink of murder l.u.s.t, with the murder fog in his eyes. He had caught himself and now he held himself with a desperate sense of need, though he saw Morgan's fingers close over the stock of a heavy revolver. He even smiled briefly as he noted that it was a gun with an elegant pearl grip.

”If any other man of G.o.d's earth had fathered you,” he said, each word coming separately like the drippings from an icicle, ”I'd prove that I wasn't only a baboon but a gorilla--and I'd prove it by pulling the sn.o.bbish head off of your d.a.m.ned, tailor-made shoulders. People don't generally say things like that to me and go free.”

Morgan too was pallid with anger, and in neither of them was any tragedy-averting possibility of faltering courage. Wallifarro held the pistol before him, and gave back a step--only one, and that one not in retreat but in order that he might have a chance to speak before he was forced to fire.

”I realize perfectly,” he said, ”that physically I'd be helpless in your hands. I'm as much your inferior in brute strength as--as mentally and socially--you are--mine. I don't want to take any advantage of you--it seems that we have to fight.--I'm waiting for you to draw.”

He paused there, breathing heavily, and Boone stood unmoving, his hands still at his sides.

”I'm not armed,” he said, and now he had recovered a less strained composure. ”Why should I come with a gun on me when a gentleman of high social standing invites me to his office?”

”You're quibbling,” Morgan burst out with a fresh access of fury.

”You've given me the right to demand satisfaction. You've got a pistol in your desk there, haven't you?”

”Maybe so. Why do you ask? Isn't one gun enough for you when your man's unarmed?”

”Great G.o.d,” shouted the Colonel's son, ”are you trying to goad me into insanity? _You_ are going to need one sorely in a moment. I give you fair warning. I'm tired of waiting. Will you arm yourself?”

Boone shook his head.

”I told you when I came in here why I wouldn't fight you. I can't fight your father's son. You know as d.a.m.ned well as you know you're living that no other man on earth could say the things you've said and go unpunished--and you know just that d.a.m.ned well, too, why I'm holding my hand.”

As he paused, both were breathing as heavily as though their battle had been violently physical instead of only verbal, and it was Boone who spoke next.

”Put away that gun,” he ordered curtly. ”Unless you're still bent on doing murder.”

He stepped forward until his chest came in contact with the muzzle, his own hands still unlifted.

”Get back!” barked Morgan, who stood with his back against the desk. ”If you crowd me I _will_ shoot.”