Will N. Harben - Westerfelt

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"You'll have to feed me," he said, opening his mouth. "I'm too blamed
weak to sit up without propping with my hands, and they don't seem very
good supports. Look how that one is wobbling."

She sat down on the edge of the bed, and without a word placed the bowl
in her lap and her arm round him. Then neither spoke as she filled the
spoon and held it to his lips. She felt him trying to steady his arms
to keep his weight from her.

"It's really good," he said, as she filled the spoon the second time,
"I had no idea I was so hungry; you say you made it?"

"Yes; there now, I'll have to wipe your chin; you ought not to talk
when you are eating."

For several minutes neither spoke. He finished the bowl of gruel and
lay down again.

"I feel as mean as a dog," he said, as she rose and drew the cover over
him; "here I am being nursed by the very fellow's sweetheart I tried my
level best to do up."

She turned and placed the bowl on the table, and then went to the fire.

"I heard you were his girl last night," he went on. "Well, I'm glad I
didn't kill him. I wouldn't have tried in anything but self-defence,
for even if he did use a gun and knife, when I had none, he's got
bulldog pluck, and plenty of it. Do you know, I felt like mashing the
head of that sheriff for beating him like he did."

She sat down before the fire, but soon rose again. "If I stay here,"
she said, abruptly, and rather sharply, "you'll keep talking, and not
sleep at all. I'm going into the next room--the parlor. If you want
anything, call me and I'll come."

A few minutes after she left him he fell asleep. She put a piece of
wood on the fire in the next room and sat down before it. She had left
the door of his room ajar, and a ray of light from his lamp fell across
the dark carpet and dimly illuminated the room. The hours passed
slowly. No one in the house was astir. No sound came from the outside
save the dismal barking of a dog down the road. She was fatigued and
almost asleep, when she was suddenly roused by a far-off shout.

"Whoopee! Whoopee!"

It seemed to come from the road leading down from the loftiest mountain
peak. She held her breath and listened.

"Whoopee! Whoopee!" It was nearer. Then she heard the steady tramp
of horses' hoofs. She rose and went to the window, moving softly, that
her ear might not lose any of the sounds. She raised the window
cautiously and looked out. The moon was shining brightly, and down the
street beyond the livery-stable she saw a body of horsemen.

"Great Heavens!" she exclaimed; "it's the 'Whitecaps'!"

She drew back behind the curtains as the horsemen rode up to the hotel
and stopped. There were twenty or more, and each wore a white cap, a
white mask, and a white sheet over the body.

"Thar's whar the scrimmage tuck place," explained some one in a muffled
voice, and a white figure pointed to the spot where Westerfelt and
Wambush had fought. "We must hurry an' take 'im out, an' have it over."

Harriet Floyd heard some one breathing behind her. It was Westerfelt.
His elbow touched her as he leaned towards the window and peered out.
"Oh, it's you!" she cried. "Go back to bed, you--"

He did not seem to hear her. The moonlight fell on his face. It was
ghastly pale. He suddenly drew back beside her to keep from being
observed by the men outside. His lips moved, but they made no sound.

"Go back to bed," she repeated. She put out her hand and touched him,
but she did not look at him, being unable to resist the fascination of
the sight in the street.

"What do they want?" he whispered. He put his hand on an old-fashioned
what-not behind him, and the shells and ornaments on it began to rattle.

"I don't know," she said; "don't let 'em see you; you couldn't do
anything against so many. They are a band sworn to protect one
another."

"His friends?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Ah, I see." He glanced at the two doors, one opening into the hall,
the other into his room, and then he swayed and clutched the curtain.

She caught his arm and braced him up. "Oh, you _must_ go lie down;
you'll--"

A noise outside drew her back to the window. The band was crossing the
street to the jail.

"What are they going to do?" He steadied himself, resting his hand on
her shoulder, and looked through a pane above her head.

"To take Toot out."

"An' then he'll lead them, won't he?"

"I don't know! I reckon so--oh, I can't tell!" She faced him for an
instant, a look of helpless indecision in her eyes; then she turned
again to the window.

"I'll go slip on my coat," he said. "I--I'm cold. I'd better get
ready. You see, he may want to--call me out. I wish I had a gun--or
something."

She made no answer, and he went into his room. He turned up the lamp,
but quickly lowered it again. He found his coat on a chair and put it
on. He wondered if he were actually afraid. Surely he had never felt
so before; perhaps his mind was not right--his wound and all his mental
trouble had affected his nerves, and then a genuine thrill of horror
went over him. Might not this be the particular form of punishment
Providence had singled out for the murderer of Sally Dawson--might it
not be the grewsome, belated answer to her mother's prayer?

Just then Harriet entered the room softly and turned his light down
still lower.

"Stay back here," she said, her tone almost a command.

"Why?"

"If they get Toot out, it would be just like him to try to-- You--you
are not strong enough to get out of their way. Oh, I don't know what
to do!" She went back to the window in the next room. He followed her,
and stood by her side.

The white figures had dismounted at the jail. They paused at the gate
a moment, then filed into the yard and stood at the door. The leader
rapped on it loudly.

"Hello in thar, Tarpley Brown, show yorese'f!" he cried.

There was a silence for a moment. In the moonlight the body of men
looked like a snowdrift against the jail. The same voice spoke again:

"Don't you keep us waitin' long, nuther, Tarp. You kin know what sort
we are by our grave-clothes ef you'll take the trouble to peep out o'
the winder."

"What do you-uns want?" It was the quavering voice of the jailer, from
the wing of the house occupied by him and his family.

His voice roused a sleeping infant, and it began to cry. The cry was
smothered by some one's hand over the child's mouth.

"You know what we-uns want," answered the leader. "We come after Toot
Wambush; turn 'im out, ef you know what's good fer you."

"Gentlemen, I'm a sworn officer of the law, I--"

"Drap that! Open that cell door, ur we'll put daylight through you."

This was followed by the low, pleading voice of the jailer's wife,
begging her husband to comply with the demand, and the wailing of two
or three children.

"Wait, then!" yielded the jailer. Westerfelt heard a door slam and
chains clank and rattle on the wooden floor; a bolt was slid back, the
front door opened, and the white drift parted to receive a dark form.

"Whar's my hoss?" doggedly asked Toot Wambush.

"Out thar hitched to the fence," answered the leader.

"You-uns was a hell of a time comin'," retorted Wambush.

"Had to git together; most uv us never even heerd uv yore capture tell
a hour by sun. Huh, you'd better thank yore stars we re'ched you when
we did."

The band filed out of the gate and mounted their horses. Toot Wambush
was a little in advance of the others. He suddenly turned his horse
towards the hotel.

Westerfelt instinctively drew back behind the curtain, Harriet caught
his arm and clung to it.

"Go to your room!" she whispered. "You'd better; you must not stay
here." He seemed not to hear; he leaned forward and peered again
through the window. The leader and Wambush had just reined their
horses in at the edge of the sidewalk.

"Come on, Toot; whar you gwine?" asked the leader.

"I want to take that feller with us; I'll never budge 'thout him, you
kin bet your bottom dollar on that."

"He's bad hurt--'bout ter die; don't be a fool!"

"Huh! Doc Lash sent me word he was safe. I didn't hurt 'im; but he
did me; he damaged my feelings, and I want to pay 'im fer it. Are you
fellers goin' back on me?"

"Not this chicken," a voice muttered, and a white form whipped his
horse over to Wambush's. "I'm with you," said another. Then there was
a clamor of voices, and all the gang gathered round Wambush. He
chuckled and swore softly. "That's the stuff!" he said. "Them's
Cohutta men a-talkin'; you kin bet yore sweet life."

Harriet turned to Westerfelt. "They are drinking," she said. "Haven't
you got a pistol?"

"No."

"You stay here then; don't let them see you; I'm going up-stairs and
speak to Toot from the veranda. It's the only chance. Sh!"

She did not wait for a reply, but opened the door noiselessly and went
out into the hall. He heard the rustle of her skirts as she went up
the stairs. A moment later the door leading to the veranda on the
floor above opened with a creak, and she appeared over the heads of the
band.

"Toot! Toot Wambush!" she called out in a clear, steady voice. "I
want to speak to you!"

Wambush, in a spirit of bravado, had just ridden on to the veranda, and
could hear nothing above the thunderous clatter of his horse's hoofs on
the floor.

"Here, thar, you jail-bird, yore wanted!" cried out the leader. "Stop
that infernal racket!"

"What is it?" asked Wambush, riding back among his fellows.

"Toot Wambush!" Harriet repeated.

He looked up at her. "What do you want?" he asked, doggedly, after
gazing up at her steadily for a moment.

"Get away as fast as you can," she replied. "His wound has broke
again. He's bleeding to death!"

"Well, that's certainly good news!" Wambush did not move.

"You'd better go," she urged. "It will be wilful murder. You made the
attack. He was unarmed, and you used a pistol and a knife. Do you
want to be hung?"

He sat on his horse silent and motionless, his face upraised in the
full moonlight. There was no sound except the champing of bits, the
creaking of saddles.

"Come on, Toot," urged the leader in a low tone. "You've settled yore
man's hash; what more do you want? We've got you out o' jail, now let
us put you whar you'll be safe from the law."

Wambush had not taken his eyes from the girl. He now spoke as if his
words were meant for her only.

"If I go," he said, "will you come? Will you follow me? You know I'm
not a-goin' to leave 'thout you, Harriet."

It seemed to Westerfelt that she hesitated before speaking, and at that
moment a realization of what she had become to him and what she
doubtless was to Wambush came upon him with such stunning force that he
forgot even his peril in contemplating what seemed almost as bad as
death.

"This is no time nor place to speak of such things," he heard the girl
say, finally. "Go this minute and save yourself while you can."

"Hold on, Harriet!" Wambush cried out, as she was moving away.
Westerfelt could no longer see her, and then he heard her close the
door and start down-stairs.

"Come on, Toot"--the leader whipped his horse up against that of
Wambush.

Some of the others had already started away.

Toot did not move. He was still looking at the spot where Harriet
Floyd had stood.

"It simply means the halter, you blamed fool!"

Wambush stared into the mask of the speaker, and then reluctantly rode
away.

Chapter VIII

When Harriet returned she found Westerfelt lying face downward on the
floor. In his fall he had unconsciously clutched and torn down the
curtain, and like a shroud it lay over him. She was trying to raise
him, when the door opened and her mother appeared.

"What's the matter, Harriet?"

"He has fainted--I don't know, he may be dead. Look, mother!"

Mrs. Floyd raised Westerfelt's head and turned his face upward.

"No, he's still breathing." She opened his shirt hastily. "His wound
has not broken; we must get him to bed again. How did he happen to be
here?"

"He got up as soon as the Whitecaps came; I couldn't persuade him to go
back."

"We must carry him to the bed," said Mrs. Floyd. As they started to
raise him, Westerfelt opened his eyes, took a long breath, and sat up.
Without a word he rose to his feet, and between them was supported back
to his bed.

"His feet are like ice," said Mrs. Floyd, as she tucked the blankets
round him. "Why did you let him stand there?"

"It wasn't her fault, Mrs. Floyd," explained Westerfelt, with
chattering teeth. "I knew they meant trouble, and thought I ought to
be ready."

"You ought to have stayed in bed." Her eyes followed Harriet to the
fireplace. "No, daughter," she said, "go lie down; I'll stay here."

"I'd rather neither of you would sit up on my account," protested
Westerfelt; "I'm all right; I'll sleep like a log till breakfast. I
don't want to be such a bother."

"You ain't a bit of trouble," replied Mrs. Floyd, in a tone that was
almost tender. "We are only glad to be able to help. When I saw that
cowardly scamp draw his pistol and knife on you, I could 'a' killed
him. I've often told Harriet--"

"Mother, Mr. Westerfelt doesn't care to hear anything about him."
Harriet turned from the fire and abruptly left the room. Mrs. Floyd
did not finish what she had started to say. Westerfelt looked at her
questioningly and then closed his eyes. She went to the fireplace and
laid a stick of wood across the andirons, and then sat down and hooded
her head with a shawl.

When Westerfelt awoke it was early dawn. The outlines of the room and
the different objects in it were indistinct. At the foot of his bed he
noticed something which resembled a heap of clothing on a chair. He
looked at it steadily, wondering if it could be part of the strange
dreams which had beset him in sleep. As the room gradually became
lighter, he saw that it was a woman. Mrs. Floyd, he thought--but no,
the figure was slighter. It was Harriet. She had taken her mother's
place just before daybreak. Her head hung down, but she was not
asleep. Presently she looked up, and catching his eyes, rose and came
to him.

"How do you feel now?" She touched his forehead with her soft, cool
hand.

"I'm all right; I'll be up to breakfast."

"No, you won't; you must not; it would kill you."

"Pshaw! That pin-scratch?" He playfully struck his breast near the
wound. "He'd have to cut deeper and rip wider to do me up."

She stifled a cry and caught his hand.

"You must not be so foolish." She started to turn away, but his
fingers closed over hers.

"I'm sorry. I'll mind what you say, because you've been so good to me.
It seems mighty queer--Toot Wambush's girl takin' care of the very man
he tried to wipe off of the face of creation. No wonder he--"

She twisted her hand from his clasp. "Why do you say _I'm his girl_?"

"Because they all do, I reckon; ain't you? Last night I heard him ask
you to follow him."

"You never heard me say I would, did you?"

"No, but--"

"Well, then!" She went to the fireplace. He could not see her, but
heard her stirring the fire with a poker, and wondered if her movement
was that of anger or agitation, For several minutes neither of them
spoke; then she came to him suddenly.

"I forgot," she said; "here's a newspaper and a letter. Will Washburn
left them for you." She gave them to him and went to the window and
raised the shade, flooding the room with the soft yellowing light from
the east. Then she resumed her seat at the fire.

He opened his letter. The handwriting was very crude, and he did not
remember having seen it before. Looking at the bottom of the last
page, he saw that it was signed by Sue Dawson--Sally Dawson's mother.
It was not dated, and began without heading of any kind. It ran thus:

"So you left this place fur new pastures. But I Will be sworn you went
off cause you could not see the sun ashinin on my Childs grave nor meet
her old broke down mother face to face. I have wanted to meet you ever
since she died, but I helt in. The reason I sent you word not to come
to the Funeral was cause I knowed ef I saw you thar I would jump right
up before the people and drag you with yore yaller Pumpkin face full of
gilt right up to her Box an make you look at yore work. It was not out
of respect fur yore feelings that I did not, nuther, fur I dont respect
you as much as I do a decent egg-suckin dog, but I was afraid folks
would suspicion the pore Child's secret, the secret that me an you an
nobody else knows, that she took her own life to git out of the misery
you put her in. She did not want them to know, an they shall not;
besides, thar are Folks in this cussed Settlement mean enough to
begrudge her the grave Lot she has becase of what she was driv to.

"Thar is one thing I want you to stop. I dont want you to hire Peter
Slogan with Blood money, nur nobody else, to haul wood fur me. I
knowed you did send a load, fur he is too lazy to think of anybody but
hisself without thar was money in it. I accused him of it after I had
toted the last Stick back to yore land whar he got it. He tried to
deny it, but I saw the lie in his face an shamed it. Dont you bother
about me. I will live a powerful sight longer than you want me to
before I am through with You. You will never forgit how Sally died, ef
you did not look at her pore little face in death nur help the
neighbors fill her grave up.

"John Westerfelt, you killed my Child as deliberately as ef you had
choked the life out of her with yore Bare hands. You hung after her
night and Day, even after she had been cautioned that you was fickle,
an then when you got her whole soul an hart you deliberately left her
an begun flyin around Liz Lithicum. I know yore sort. It is the
runnin after a thing that amuses you, an as soon as you get it you turn
agin it an spurn it under foot an laugh at it when it strugles in pain.
Lawsy me. God Almighty dont inflict good men with that Disease, but
you will have it nawin at yore Hart tel you run across some huzzy that
will rule you her way. Beware, John Westerfelt, you will want to marry
before long; you are a lonely, selfish Man, an you will want a wife an
childern to keep you company an make you forget yore evil ways, but it
is my constant prayer that you will never git one that loves you. I am
prayin for that very thing and I believe it will come. John
Westerfelt, I am yore Enemy--I am that ef it drags me into the Scorchin
flames of hell.

"SUE DAWSON."

He refolded the letter, put it with quivering fingers back into its
envelope, and then opened the newspaper and held it before his eyes.
There was a clatter of dishes and pans in the back part of the house.
A negro woman was out in the wood-yard, picking up chips and singing a
low camp-meeting hymn. Now and then some one would tramp over the
resounding floor, through the hall to the dining-room.

Harriet went to the door and closed it. Then she turned to him. The
paper had slipped from his fingers and lay across his breast.

"What shall I get for your breakfast?" she asked. She moved round on
the other side of the bed, wondering if it was the yellow morning light
or his physical weakness that gave his face such a depressed, ghastly
look.

"What did you say?" He stared at her absently.

"What would you like for breakfast?"

He looked towards his coat that hung on the foot of his bed.

"Don't bother about me; I'm going to get up."

"No, you must not." She caught his wrist. "Look how you are
quivering; you ought not to have tried to read."

He raised the paper again, but it shook so that its rustling might have
been heard across the room. She took it from him, and laid it on a
chair by the bed. She looked away; the corners of his mouth were drawn
down piteously and his lips were twitching.

"Please hand me my coat," he said.

"You are not going to get up?" She sat down on the bed and put her
hand on his brow. Her face was soft and pleading. It held a
sweetness, a womanly strength he longed to lean upon.

He caught her hand and held it nervously.

"I don't believe I've got a single friend on earth," he said. "I don't
deserve any; I'm a bad man."

"Don't talk that way," she replied. There was something in his
plaintive tone that seemed to touch her deeply, for she took his hand
in both of hers and pressed it.

"I don't want to die, for your sake," he said, "for if I was to go
under, it would be awkward for your--your friend. He might really have
to swing for it."

She released his hand suddenly, a pained look in her face. "Did you
want to put your letter in your coat pocket?" she asked.

"Yes."

She took the coat from a chair, gave it to him, and then went back to
the fireplace. He thrust his hand into the pocket and took out Sally
Dawson's last letter, and put it and her mother's into the same
envelope. As he was putting them away he found in the same pocket a
folded sheet of paper. He opened it. It was a letter from John
Wambush to his son Toot. Then Westerfelt remembered the paper Harriet
had picked up and given him in the street after the fight. Hardly
knowing why he did so, he read it. It was as follows:

"DEAR TOOT,--Me an yore mother is miserable about you. We have prayed
for yore reform day and night, but the Lord seems to have turned a deef
ear to our petitions. We hardly ever see you now an we are afraid you
are goin to git into serious trouble. We want you to give up
moonshinin, quit drinkin an settle down. We both think if you would
jest git you a good wife you would act better. I wish you would go an
marry that girl at the hotel--you know who I mean. I am as sorry for
her as I ever was for anybody, for she dont think you love her much.
She told me all about it the night the revenue men give you sech a
close shave. I was standin on the hotel porch when you driv the wagon
up with the whiskey barrel on it an I heerd them a-lopin along the road
after you. I thought it was all up with you for I knowed they could go
faster than you. Then I seed her run out on the back porch an help you
roll the whiskey in the kitchen an close the door. An when the
officers com up you was a-settin on the empty wagon talkin to her as if
nothin had happened. I heard all the lies she told em about seein
another wagon go whizzin down the road an I thought it was a great pity
for her to do it, but she was doin it for a man she loved an I wouldent
hold that agin her. A woman that loves as hard as she does would do a
sight wuss than that if it was necessary. After you loaded the whiskey
back on the wagon and got away to the woods, I went round an told her
what I had seed an she bust out cryin an throwed her arms round my neck
an said she loved you better than she did her own life an that she
never would love any other man as long as breeth was in her body. Son,
that night she come as nigh beggin me to git you to marry her as a
proud girl could, an when I left I promised her I would talk to you
about it. She's a good girl, Toot, and it would make a man of you to
marry her. I like her mighty well an so does yore mother. Please do
come out home soon. It looks like a pity for you to be away so much
when it worries yore ma like it does.

"Yore affectionate father,

"JOHN WAMBUSH."

Westerfelt folded the letter deliberately, and then in a sudden spasm
of jealous despair he crumpled it in his hand. He turned his head on
the side and pressed down his pillow that he might see Harriet as she
sat by the fire. The red firelight shone in her face. She looked
tired and troubled.

"Poor girl!" he murmured. "Poor girl! Oh, God, have mercy on me! She
loves him--she loves him!"

She looked up and caught his eyes. "Did you want anything?" she asked.

He gave the letter to her. "Burn it, please. I wish I had not read
it."

She took it to the fire. The light of the blazing paper flashed on the
walls, and then went out.

He remained so silent that she thought he was sleeping, but when she
rose to leave the room she caught his glance, so full of dumb misery
that her heart sank. She went to her mother in the kitchen. Mrs.
Floyd was polishing a pile of knives and forks, and did not look up
until Harriet spoke.

"Mother," she said, "I am afraid something has gone wrong with Mr.
Westerfelt."

"What do you mean?" asked the old lady in alarm.

"I don't know, but he got a letter this morning, and after he read it
he seemed changed and out of heart. He gave it to me to burn, and I
never saw such a desperate look on a human face. I know it was the
letter, because before he read it he was so--so different."

"Well," said Mrs. Floyd, "it may be only some business matter that's
troubling him. Men have all sorts of things to worry about. As for
me, I've made a discovery, Harriet, at least I think I have."

"Why, mother!"

Mrs. Floyd put the knives and forks into the knife-box.

"Hettie Fergusson was here just now," she said.

"This early!" exclaimed Harriet, incredulously. "Why, mother, where
did she spend the night?"

"At home; that's the curious part about it; she has walked all that
three miles since daylight, if she didn't get up before and start
through the dark. I never could understand that girl. All the time
she was working here she puzzled me. She was so absent-minded, and
would jump and scream almost when the door would open. I am glad we
didn't need her help any longer. Sometimes I wish she had never come
to the hotel."

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