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Will N. Harben - Westerfelt

W >> Will N. Harben >> Westerfelt




"Well, I'm disappointed, shore 'nough," said Mrs. Bradley. "I had
clean forgot the room at the stable, an' I ought to 'a' knowed, too,
that Saunders' boys bunked thar. Well, I won't raise no objections;
Mis' Boyd, a widow woman, is keepin' the hotel now, and folks say she
feeds well an' cheap enough. She's from Tennessee, an's got a
good-lookin', sprightly daughter. Nobody knows a thing about 'em; they
don't talk much about the'rse'ves. They tuk the hotel when Rick Martin
sold out last fall, an' they've been thar ever sence."


Supper was served in the room adjoining the kitchen. After it was
over, Westerfelt and his host went back to the sitting-room. Alf, a
colored farm-hand, was heaping logs on the old-fashioned dog-irons in
the wide fireplace, and a mass of fat pine burning under the wood
lighted the room with a soft red glow.

Westerfelt looked round him in surprise. While they were at supper the
carpet had been taken up, the floor swept clean, and a number of chairs
placed against the wall round the room.

"Marthy's doin's," Bradley explained, sheepishly; "don't hold me
accountable; she's arranged to give you a shindig to introduce you to
the young folks round about."

Just then Mrs. Bradley came in.

"Sweep the hearth, Alf," she said, pointing to a live coal that had
popped out on the floor. "Didn't I tell you never to put on them
chestnut logs? Do you want to burn the roof over our heads? Give it
to me!" She snatched the unwieldy bundle of broomstraw from him. "Go
tell Mis' Snow I'm much obleeged fer the cheers, an' ef I need any more
I'll send fer um after 'while. Tell 'er ef she don't let Mary an' Ella
come I'll never set foot in her house agin."

"What's all this for?" asked Westerfelt.

"_You_." She slapped him familiarly on the arm. "I'm goin' to give
you a mount'in welcome. This settlement is full o' nice gals, an' you
hain't the least idee how much excitement thar's been sence the report
went out that you are gwine to live amongst us. I'm the most popular
woman in Cartwright, jest beca'se I know you. I tell you I've been
blowin' yore horn. I've talked a sight about you, an' you must do yore
best an' look yore purtiest. Oh, yore clothes is all right!" (seeing
that he was looking doubtfully at his boots and trousers). "They
hain't a dressy set over heer." Her husband was leaving the room, and
she waited till he had closed the door after him. "I want to talk to
you like a mother, John," she said, sitting down near him and holding
the bundle of broom between her knees. "The truth is, I've had a sight
o' worry over you. I often lie awake at night thinkin' about you, an'
wonderin' ef yore ma wouldn't blame me ef she wus alive fer not lookin'
atter you more. I've heerd what a solitary life you've been livin'
sence she died. God knows she wus a big loss, an' it does bring a
great change to part with sech a friend, but, from what I heer, you let
'er death bother you most too much. Why, folks tell me you hain't at
all like you used to be, an' that you jest stayed at home an' never
went about with the young folks any more. You don't look as well as
you did the last time I seed you, nuther. I reckon it's yore way o'
living but you jest sha'n't do that away over heer. You've got to be
natural like other young folks, an' you jest shall, ef I have anything
to say in the matter. John, yore mamma was the best friend I ever had,
an'--"

She paused. Luke was hallooing to some one down the road, and
Westerfelt heard the rumble of wheels over a distant bridge. Mrs.
Bradley went to the door and went out.

"They are comin', the whole caboodle of 'em!" she cried, excitedly. "I
declare, I believe I enjoy a party as much as any gal that ever lived,
an' at my age, too--it's shameful. I'd be talked about in some
places." She laid her hands on the shoulders of her guest, her face
beaming. "Now, ef you want to primp up a little an' bresh that
hoss-hair off'n yore pants, go in yore room. It's at the end o' the
back porch. Alf's already tuck yore saddle-bags thar."




Chapter V

His room was a small one. It had a sloping ceiling, and a little
six-paned window. A small, oblong stove stood far enough back in the
capacious fireplace to allow its single joint of pipe to stand upright
in the chimney. There was a high-posted bed, a wash-stand, a mirror,
and a split-bottomed chair.

He sat down in the chair, rested his elbows on his knees, and leaned
forward. Despite his determination to begin life anew, he was thinking
of Sally Dawson's death and burial--the old woman who was leading the
life of a recluse, and hating all her kind, him in particular. He put
his hand in his coat-pocket and drew out a thick envelope containing
the dead girl's letter, and read it as he had done almost every day
since it came to him. It was part of the punishment he was inflicting
on himself. He had been tempted a thousand times to destroy the
letter, but had never done so. He forgot that a gay party of young
people were assembling in the next room; he was oblivious of the noise
of moving chairs, the creaking floor, loud laughter, and the hum of
voices. Fate had set him aside from the rest of the world, he told
himself; he was living two lives, one in the present, the other in the
past.

Westerfelt was suddenly reminded of where he was by the sound of some
one tuning a fiddle in the sitting-room. He put the letter into his
pocket, rose, and brushed his hair before the mirror. There was a
clatter of heavy boots in the entry opposite his door; four or five
young men had come out to wash their hands in the pans on the long
shelf; they were passing jokes, laughing loudly, and playfully striking
at one another. Two of them clinched arms and began to wrestle.
Westerfelt heard them panting and grunting as they swayed back and
forth, till the struggle was ended by one of them shoving the other
violently against the wall; Westerfelt opened the door. A stout,
muscular young giant was pinning a small man to the weather-boarding
and making a pretence at choking him.

"Lord, H'ram, stop!" gasped the victim; "yore sp'ilin' my necktie an'
collar."

"'Gin the rules to wear 'em," was the laughing reply. "Heer, Joe, you
sprinkle 'im while I hold 'im!"

This command was about to be obeyed, when Mrs. Bradley suddenly
appeared.

"Boys, boys, behave!" she cried, and as the wrestlers separated she
continued, apologetically, "I clean forgot thar wusn't a sign of a
towel on the roller; I wonder what you intended to wipe on; here, take
this one, an' hang it up when you're through." Then she turned to
Westerfelt's door and looked into his room.

"Are you ready, young man?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied, coming out.

"Gentlemen," she said, "quit thar a minute! This is John Westerfelt,
my old friend. Mind you look atter yore intrusts. The boys over in
Fannin know how to please the gals. Ef you don't watch sharp he'll cut
you every one out."

The two men holding the towel between them gave him their moist hands,
and those at the basins nodded. Mrs. Bradley drew him into the
sitting-room. The buzz of conversation ceased as she introduced him.
They all rose, bowed, and sat down again, but no one spoke. He tried
to detain his hostess, but she would not stay.

"I've got to look atter the rest," she said. "You must talk to some o'
these folks. They didn't come here jest to look at you. Here, Jennie
Wynn, turn yore face round, an' give Frank a chance to talk to Lou."
She whisked off into another room, and Westerfelt found himself facing
a blushing maiden with a round face, dark hair and eyes.

"Excuse my back," she said over her shoulder to Frank Hansard.

"It _hain't_ as purty as yore face, ef you _have_ got on a new dress,"
he replied, laughing.

"Hush, Frank; hain't you got no manners?" She meant that he was
showing discourtesy by continuing to talk to her when she had just been
introduced to a stranger.

"You ought not to be hard on him," said Westerfelt; "he must have meant
what he said."

"You are jest like all the rest, I reckon," she said; "men think girls
don't care for nothin' but sweet talk."

Just then the old negro fiddler moved into the chimney-corner and raked
his violin with his bow. Jennie Wynn knew that he was about to ask the
couples to take their places for the first dance. She did not want
Westerfelt to feel obliged to ask her to be his partner, so she
pretended to be interested in the talk of a couple on her left.

"Do they dance the lancers?" asked Westerfelt.

"No, jest the reg'lar square dance. Only one or two know the lancers,
an' they make a botch of it whenever they try to teach the rest. Uncle
Mack cayn't play the music for it, anyway, though he swears he can."

She glanced across the room at a pretty little girl with short curly
hair, slender body, and small feet, and added, significantly, "Sarah
Wambush is our brag dancer."

He understood what she meant. "Too short for a fellow as tall as I am,
though," he said.

"Git yo' pahtners fer de quadrille!" cried the fiddler, in a sing-song
voice, quite in harmony with his music. Westerfelt did not want to
dance. He had ridden hard that day, and was tired and miserable, but
he saw no way of escape. The party had been given in his honor, and he
must show appreciation of it.

"Will you dance it with me?" he asked the girl at his side. "I am not
a good dancer, and I am stiff from riding to-day."

"Old Mack will soon take that out of you," she laughed, as she gladly
nodded her acceptance. She put out her hand to his. "Quick!" she
cried; "let's git that place near the door--it's head, and we can be
opposite Sarah and Nelse Baker." He followed her across the room. He
felt as undignified as if he were romping with a child. The room was
not large enough for two sets, so only one of four couples was formed.
Old Mack noticed that three couples were left sitting, and cried out,
autocratically, "Double on de sides!" Two couples sprang eagerly
forward and took places, leaving one couple alone in a corner. The
girl remaining with her partner attracted Westerfelt's attention. She
had rich brown hair, deep gray eyes, a small, well-shaped mouth, and a
rather sad but decidedly pretty face. There was something very
graceful and attractive in the general contour of her body--her small
waist, her broad shoulders and rounding chest, her well-formed head,
and the artistic arrangement of her abundant hair. There was
something, too, in the tasteful simplicity of her gray tailor-made gown
that reminded Westerfelt of the dress of young ladies he had seen on
short visits to the larger towns in the State.

Her companion was the most conspicuous person in the room. He was
above medium height, and had a splendid physique--broad shoulders,
muscular limbs, light brown eyes, short brown beard, and long curling
hair. He wore a navy-blue sack-coat, large checked trousers tucked in
the tops of his boots, a gray woollen shirt, and a broad leather belt.
He was the only man in the room who had not taken off his hat. It was
very broad, the brim was pinned up on one side by a little brass
ornament, and he wore it on the back of his head.

Westerfelt caught the eye of his partner, and asked: "Who is the fellow
with the hat on?"

"Don't you know him?" she asked, in surprise. "Why, that's Toot
Wambush, Sarah's brother."

"Why don't he take off his hat?"

"For want of better sense, I reckon." Then she laughed, impulsively.
"I'll tell you why he always keeps it on in the house. He was at a
party over at Sand Bank last spring, an'--"

"Han's to yo' pahtners!" cried out Uncle Mack, as he drew his bow
across three or four strings at once, producing a harmony of bass,
alto, and treble sounds. "Salute de lady on yo' right!"

Whack!

The bridge of the fiddle had fallen. Everybody laughed over Uncle
Mack's discomfiture, as he rubbed the rosin out of his eyes and
grunted, half amused, half vexed at the accident. He held the violin
between his knees and proceeded to adjust the bridge.

"You were telling me why that fellow keeps on his hat," Westerfelt
reminded his partner.

"Oh yes!" laughed the girl, "that's so. Toot's never satisfied if he
ain't in a row o' some sort. He will always manage to pick a quarrel
out of something. He's mighty troublesome, especially when he's
drinkin'. He was pretty full over there that night, an' kept dancin'
with his hat on. Mis' Lumpkin, who give the dance, asked 'im quietly
to take it off an' behave like a gentleman. That made 'im mad, an' he
swore he'd die first. Then some o' the boys tuk Mis' Lumpkin's part,
an' tol' 'im the hat would come off ur he'd go out. It 'ud be a treat
to see Toot Wambush mad if you could feel sure you wouldn't get hit.
He clamped his hands together behind 'im an' yelled to Uncle Mack to
stop fiddlin'; then he 'lowed ef any man thar tried to oust 'im he'd
put windows in 'im. Frank Hansard, Lum Evans, and Andy Treadwell made
signs at one another an' closed in on 'im. They didn't fully realize
who they had to deal with, though. I hain't got much use for Toot, but
he'll fight a circular saw bare-handed. He backed into a corner over a
pile o' split pine-knots an' grabbed one that Thad Muntford declared
wuz shaped like the jaw-bone o' Samson's ass. It had a long handle an'
weighed about fifteen pounds. On my word, it seemed to me he slugged
Frank and Andy at exactly the same time. You could 'a' heerd the'r
skulls pop to the gate. They both fell kerflop in front of 'im. That
left jest Lum Evans facin' 'im 'thout a thing in his hands. He dodged
Toot's pine-knot when he swung it at 'im an' then Toot laughed an'
thowed it down and shook his fists at 'im, an' tol' 'im to come on for
a fair fisticuff. Jest then Frank come to an' started to rise, but
Toot sent 'im back with a kick in the face, an' helt 'im down with 'is
boot on 'is neck. Andy backed out of the door, an' then Toot ordered
Uncle Mack to play, an' tried to get the girls to dance with 'im, but
nobody would, so he danced by 'isse'f, while Doc White an' Mis' Lumpkin
worked on the wounded men in the next room. Since then Toot has al'ays
wore his hat at dances. He swore he never would go to one unless he
did."

Westerfelt laughed. "Who's the young lady?" he asked.

"Harriet Floyd. Her mother keeps the hotel. They 'ain't been here so
mighty long; they're Tennessee folks."

"Sweethearts?"

"Don't know. He's 'er very shadder. I reckon she likes that sort of a
man; she's peculiar, anyway."

"How do you mean?"

"I don't know, but she is." Jennie shrugged her shoulders. "She don't
git on with us. In a crowd o' girls she never has much to say; it
always seemed to me she was afraid somebody would find out some'n'
about 'er. She never mentions Tennessee. But she's a great favorite
with all the boys. They'd be a string o' 'em round 'er now, but they
don't want to make Toot mad."

"Right han' ter yo' pahtners," called out Uncle Mack, rapping on the
back of his fiddle with his bow. "Salute yo' pahtners; balance all!"
and the dance began. "Swing corners! Fust fo' for'ards, en back agin!"

"Faster, Unc' Mack!" cried Sarah Wambush, as she swung past the old
negro. "That hain't the right time!"

"Wait till he gets limbered up," cried Frank Hansard across to her.
"He hain't drawed a bow in two weeks, an' has been ploughin' a two-hoss
turnover."

Louder and louder grew the music and the clatter of shoes and boots.
The air was filled with dust; old Mack's fiddle could hardly be heard
above his shouts and the laughter of the dancers. Luke and Mrs.
Bradley stood in the open door leading to the kitchen, both smiling.
Mrs. Bradley seemed pleased with the ease with which Westerfelt
appeared to be adapting himself to the company.

"Git the straws, Luke!" urged Frank Hansard, as the "grand chain"
brought him near Bradley. "Give it to us lively."

"I can't beat straws," said Luke.

Hearing this, old Mack uttered a contradictory guffaw, and shook his
gray wool in high amusement.

"Go on, Luke," said his wife, as she pushed him towards the fiddler;
"you kin, you know you kin."

Luke edged round between the dancers and the fire, and took two smooth
sour-wood sticks from Mack's coat-pocket. The old negro laughed and
sang all the louder as he held his head to one side and Luke began to
thrum the strings in time to the music.

"Whoo-ee!" shouted Frank, and the dance waxed faster and more noisy,
till the exhausted fiddler brought it to an end by crying out:

"Seat yo' pahtners."

Jennie sat down in a row of girls against the wall, and Mrs. Bradley
came to Westerfelt.

"You must stir round," she said; "I want you to git acquainted. Come
over here an' talk to Sarah Wambush." He followed her across the room.
Sarah was seated next to Harriet Floyd. As he sat down near Sarah, he
fancied that Harriet, whose profile was towards him, gave him a glance
out of the corner of her eye, but she turned her head and continued
talking to Toot Wambush. There was something he liked in the ease of
her position as she sat, balling her handkerchief in a hand hidden half
in the pocket of her jacket. He thought her easily the prettiest girl
in the room, and he vaguely resented the fact that she was receiving
marked attention from a man of Wambush's character.

He wanted to knock the fellow's hat off, and tell him that a new man
had come into the settlement who could not, and would not, stand such
nonsense in the presence of ladies.

He listened to Sarah's prattle with only half an ear, adding a word now
and then to keep her tongue going, till another dance was called.
Nelse Baker asked Sarah to be his partner, and she rose. Finding
himself alone, Westerfelt got up. As he did so, he caught another
glance from the corner of Harriet Floyd's eye, but she looked away
quickly. She thought he was going to ask her to dance with him when he
turned towards her, but he had decided to invite a little plain girl
who sat next the wall, hemmed in by the crossed legs of Wambush. The
girl flushed over the unexpected attention and rose at once.

"That couple don't seem to be dancing," Westerfelt remarked, with a
glance at Wambush and Harriet, as he and his partner took a place in
front of the fire.

"No," she answered. "Toot sorter sprained his foot at a log-rollin'
to-day."

"And she won't dance without him, is that it?"

"She would, but none o' the boys won't ask her when Toot's on hand."

"Ah, I see--engaged?"

"No. I reckon not; but Toot sorter lays claim to 'er though."

"And she don't object?"

She looked up and laughed. "It don't look much like it, does it?"

"I don't know; I never saw them together before."

"Oh, I see; well, he's her regular stand-by; he takes 'er to all the
frolics, an' the picnics, an' to meetin'. He lives out at his
father's, a mile or so from town, but he gets meals mighty often at the
hotel."

As the dance began Westerfelt glanced again at Harriet Floyd. He could
not explain the interest he had in her. She was looking straight into
his eyes, as if she had divined that he was talking about her. He was
almost certain that she colored slightly as she glanced on to Mrs.
Bradley.

Mrs. Bradley smiled and moved towards her, between the wall and the
flying heels of the revolving circle. Westerfelt, in turning his "lady
on the right," came near them as Mrs. Bradley was saying:

"I want you to get acquainted with my Fannin young man, Harriet. He's
mighty nice."

At that moment Harriet caught Westerfelt's eye again, and knew that he
had heard the remark.

She nodded, and said, evasively, "You are having a nice dance, Mrs.
Bradley; they all seem to be enjoying it very much."

Westerfelt had not heard her voice before, and he liked it. He noticed
that she did not leave off her final g's, and that she spoke more
clearly and correctly than the others. He concluded that she must have
received a better education than the average young lady in that
section. The dance was nearly ended when Westerfelt saw Wambush bend
over and whisper something to her. 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. Her head was covered
with her shawl, and her companion was very near her.

"Never mind; we won't bother you," called out Sarah Wambush, who, with
Nelson Baker, led the promenaders. "We're goin' down the walk; you
needn't run off on our account."

All the others laughed, and Sarah, thinking she had said something
bright, added: "Harriet's got a bad cold, an' Buddy's sprained his
foot; they're takin' the'r medicine."

This evoked another laugh, but neither Wambush nor his companion heeded
it. Westerfelt observed that they turned their backs to the
promenaders and seemed to be talking earnestly.

"It's cool out here," said Westerfelt's partner as they were returning
from the walk under the arbor of grape-vines. "They are all goin'
inside."

At about twelve o'clock the guests began to leave. Harriet Floyd,
followed by Wambush, came in hurriedly after most of the others had
gone. Westerfelt was near Mrs. Bradley when she came to say
good-night. He heard her say she had enjoyed herself very much, but
she spoke hurriedly, as if she did not want to be the last to leave.
Westerfelt watched them go through the gate, but he turned away when
Wambush put his arm round her waist and lifted her lightly into his
buggy.

He was sure he would never like the fellow.


Just before Westerfelt went to bed, Bradley looked into his room.

"I 'lowed I'd better take a peep at that stove o' yore'n, an' see that
thar ain't any danger o' fire while we are asleep," he said. "How'd
you make out to-night?"

"First rate."

"I 'lowed you wus gittin' on well enough--talked to most all the gals,
I reckon."

"All but one, I think--that Miss Floyd."

"Ah, Toot's gal; mortgaged property, I reckon, or soon will be; she's
as purty as red shoes, though, an' as peert as a cricket."

Westerfelt sat down on the side of his bed and drew off his boots.

"What sort of a man is he, Luke?"

"Bad--bad; no wuss in seven States."

"Fighting man?"

"Yes; an' whiskey an' moonshinin' an' what not; ain't but one good
p'int in 'im, an' that hain't wuth much in time o' peace. I reckon ef
yo're through with it, I'd better take yore candle; sometimes I have to
strike a light 'fore day."

"All right." Westerfelt got into the bed and drew the covers up to his
chin. There was a thumping on the floor beneath the house.

"It's the dogs," explained Luke, at the door. "They are a-flirtin'
the'r tails about. They'll settle down terrectly. What time do you
want to rise in the mornin'?"

"When you do. I'm no hand to lie in bed."

"You'll have to crawl out with the chickens then."

"Luke!"

Bradley turned at the door. "What is it, John?"

"I don't like Wambush's looks."

Bradley laughed, with his hand over his mouth. "Nobody else does to
hurt."

"Do you think he would trifle with the affections of a young girl?"

"Would he?" Again Bradley laughed.

"Well, I reckon he would; he is a bad man, I tell you. We'd never 'low
him to enter our house, ef we could help it, but he'd raise the very
devil ef he was slighted. We'd never heer the end of it. Ef we'd left
'im out to-night I'd 'a' had 'im to fight out thar in the front yard
while the party was goin' on. I wouldn't mind it much, but my wife
never wanted me in a row."

"This girl he was with to-night, has she father or brothers?"

"No, the's jest her an' 'er mother."

"Isn't it pretty risky for her to go with him so much?"

"Oh, I reckon she kin take care o' herse'f; she has that look to me;
besides, she's been warned; my wife an' among 'em has talked to her
plenty o' times. I reckon she knows what he is well enough. Do you
know I had my eye on you an' her to-night?"

"What do you mean, Luke?" Westerfelt managed to avoid meeting the eye
of his host as he put the question. He could not remember ever having
waited for a reply with more concern.

"Oh, I don't know," smiled Bradley, knowingly; "but somehow you an' her
seemed to me to be head an' shoulders above the rest o' that silly
crowd. The idee just popped into my head that you'd make a spankin'
team, an' then ag'in" (Bradley laughed) "I tuck notice that you never
went up to 'er an' talked to her free-like, as you did to most o' the
rest, an' I remembered I wus jest that big a fool when I fust met
Marthy. But you wus a-watchin' of her, though. I'll bet ef you looked
at 'er once you did forty times. As for her, I happen to know some'n
funny. You see, I heerd her an' Wambush a-talkin' on the back porch
when I went out thar to draw up a bucket o' water. The rope had got
tangled somehow, an' I had to fix it, an' while I was doin' of it I
couldn't help heerin' what they said, beca'se Toot wus as mad as a wet
hen, an' didn't keer a dern who heerd 'im."

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