"Who air th' head o' th' people—who air Cap'in heah in Moon?"
While Johnse was gathering response with slow deliberation, the boy held his ground with unswerving eyes, the while tapping his own little thin chest with his finger tips, and with an emphasis that boded no denial.
Hatfield perceived that to argue with him now would be like taking a bone from a starved dog.
"Why, Buddy!" placated Johnse, "ded I ever 'low yo' warn't?"
"But yo' don't think I'm fittin'—yo' don't—yo' don't think I'm fittin'!" he shouted hotly.
Mentally Johnse told himself that it was time to launch what he held in reserve and end Buddy's turbulent tirade, which was carrying the boy to the verge of distress. Hatfield's attachment to old Cap Lutts had been fused with a ligature of fealty little short of blind idolization, and it did his soul good to watch this outburst of virility and aggression that flamed up in the boy, reflecting the blood and stamina of the old man. And Hatfield loved this little human tiger that had come to-day to arraign him with the iron gusto of a born ruler and all the plenipotent fire of a vice king and despot.
"I hain't fittin'—I hain't fittin'—be I?" he reiterated vociferously.
"Shore, yo're fittin', Buddy. Course yo're a little feller yet,—shore yo're fittin'—ef ary hillbilly says yo' hain't—why, I'll turn his face down out o' these mountains, I will—yo' never heard me say yo' wusn't fittin', Buddy, eh?"
"Naw, but leastways yo' ac' hit Johnse Hatfield—yo' ac' hit—yo' do. You won't listen t' me."
"I alers listen t' yo', boy," contradicted Johnse quickly.
"Well, yo' listen, but yo' don't heed—yo' don't," he stormed.
"Whut do yo'-all want me to do?" petitioned Johnse naïvely.
"Tear em up—tear em up—tear em up!" he cried, with an arm stretched toward the south. "Hain't I begged yo' t' tear em up—hain't I begged yo' fo' a yeer t' tear em up—hain't I prayed t' yo' t' wade in an' make em pay fer killin' Lem? Gawd'll Mighty——"
Here the boy's fury broke all bounds of self-restraint and he tore up and down and across the puncheon floor, bandishing his two fists, distraught and choked with an avalanche of impassioned, inarticulate words. After a minute he went on.
"Th' men won't foller me 'cause I air a boy—an' I hev begged yo' t' git em fo' killin' pore Lem. Don't I know they kilt Lem—don't I know they kilt Lem an' tuk em across Hellsfork an' made a hole fo' em in Southpaw? Efen yo' wus afeered I'd know whut t' do—but yo' hain't askeert, yo' hain't. Ef th' ole Scratch wus t' cum in thet door now t' git yo', Johnse Hatfield, yo'd smack em over and wring his neck—yo' hain't askeert—yo' got some tuther reason ahidin' out—yo' air—an' I don't 'low t' swoller hit no longer! Whut ud my pore daid pap say—an' maw—an' pore Lem, whut Sap McGill kilt an' hid away?—we cyan't keech th' revenure—he's gone—but we kin keech Sap—Johnse Hatfield—efen yo' don't heed me now—so he'p me Gawd—I'll fire yo'—I'll fire yo'—karnsarn yo', I will—I'm a tellin' yo'—I hates t' do hit,—but I'll pay yo' anything I owes yo'—an' I'll fire yo' shor'n hell."
The boy pulled his eyes slowly off Johnse's face and, sagging with passion, backed against the wall and turned his quivering face to the logs. Hatfield stood up and pulling his Colt gun twirled it lovingly and laughed like a man who had won something.
Buddy started and twisted a look over his shoulder. Then he turned about and fairly crept back upon the man, and looked searchingly up into his face. There was a timbre in Johnse's laugh that told the boy something. There was a note in that laugh that mated with a solitary hope in his own heart. It sounded like a knock for which he had been listening for ages.
"Whut—Johnse—whut?" The boy's whisper trembled and he laid two pleading hands on Johnse's sleeves and peered eagerly up into the man's eyes.
Hatfield grabbed Buddy's wrist and dragged him outside the cabin. Still holding him, he pointed the gun down across Hellsfork and over to where the balmy, warm sunshine made soft, dreamful pictures in black and white amid the tinted spurs and ridges of Southpaw.
"Buddy," he said, with profound, succinct accents, "yo' 'lowed I wus layin' back—but I wusn't, little Cap—I bin busy all th' time—an' now I got th' gates o' hell open fo' em—an' Tuesday when co't meets down at th' Junction, we'll drive em in with th' ole Scratch."
Overwhelmed, Buddy stared open-mouthed at Johnse, but he could not mistake. He knew that Johnse spoke true, and not waiting for further details, he broke loose and capered in a circle. He tossed his hat up in an abandonment of joy and kicked it about when it came down. He grasped a big rock in his exuberance, and tossed it several feet, astounding Johnse with his strength, and he rung Johnse's hand, too overjoyed for words.
Johnse returned to the kitchen, lighted a fire, and while the corn bread was warming he busied himself slicing the pork.
"Ded yo' say yo'd hev a pinch o' breakfast, Buddy?" he invited.
"Shore," answered Buddy. "I didn't 'low I was so hungry—lemme he'p yo' git th' snack, Johnse—I cud eat a bilt owl."
When the corn bread and the cane-molasses and the pork and black coffee were all on the table, the two sat down to the repast together, and Johnse proceeded to take Buddy into his confidence.
"Yo' hain't t' open yore haid, Buddy—nary a word, yo' heah?"
With his mouth full, Bud nodded understandingly. "Yo' seed thet feller whut went out o' heah? Thet's Plunkett—he's bin a spyin' down at th' Junction fo' me, goin' on fo' months now. I brought em up from Hazard jest fo' thet purpose. I tol' em to git a job at Hank Eversole's store ef he hed to work fo' nothin'. Well—Eversole doddled along with em fo' two weeks—then th' old sore-eyed dog offered Plunkett twenty dollars a month an' Plunkett tuk hit, yo' bet—he'd a tuk ten dollars, 'cause I bin a payin' em twenty-five a month out o' my proceeds from thes works, Buddy. I'm a goin' t' tell yo' all frum th' start, an' 'fore I finish yo'll be surprised. Yo' see, Bud—I alers knowed thet some skunk traitor led th' revenure on to yore pap, an' I alers hed a mind who hit wus, but I never said nothin'. I wus so shore I wus right thet three times I hed my gun on em—then somethin' told me maybe I wus mistaken—an' I let em go—but I learnt this mornin' thet I'm right——"
Buddy gulped, dropped his tin cup of coffee, and strained forward over the table.
"Who—who, Johnse—who?" he blurted, straining his ears as though a river separated him from the answer.
"Jest yo' set down an' eat yo' meal—yo' jest wait til I git to thet—I'm aimin' t' tell hit all as hit comes along—eat yo' breakfast'—I learnt thes mornin' thet I wus right," Johnse went on evenly. "Thet was Plunkett heah thes mornin'—I saved his life down at Hazard one night ten years ago, an' Plunkett 'ud take a message to hell fo' me an' git an answer—besides, I pay em—an' I don't want yo' to shoot em—he air apt to slip up here any time now, day or night—I give em the countersign and to' th' men to let em up—an' I want yo' to look sharp 'fore yo' go t' pullin'—yo' mought slide th' pork thes way, Buddy. Plunkett air worth all I pay em, an' more too—an' I'd starve myse'f fo' ten years jes t' git th' information he's brung me."
Buddy had suspended eating, and, conscious that he dare not interrupt Hatfield now, he sat tight-lipped and listened like an image, with one hand gripping the other and holding it down under the table.
Johnse proceeded with his recital with a deliberation that grated insufferably on the boy's nerves and made him shiver with impatience and excitement.
"Maybe yo' rec'lect Buddy, when Don Perry wus laywayed on Pigeon Creek two months arter yo' pap wus kilt? Sap McGill an' Pete an' Stump Allen done thet job. An' now we cum t' th' main louse, Buddy. It was Jutt Orlick that led th' revenure t' th' church when yo' dad wus kilt, an' last night down at th' Junction, jest as Mart Harper started home, Sap McGill stepped out o' old Eversole's store an' Jutt Orlick out o' th' blacksmith shop opposite an' fired on Mart an' kilt him 'fore he could wink two eyes. An' down at old Eversole's Post-office ther's a passell of letters writ to Lem—old Eversole an' Sap an' Orlick tore th' letters open an' read 'em, an' Orlick hid 'em in th' store. Thet's bin mor'n three months ago. Plunkett learned that fo' sho', but hain't never heard one word 'bout Lem. Maybe McGill didn't git Lem, maybe Orlick done hit—but we'll charge 'em with hit, anyway; besides, hits more'n time to collect fo' their other divilment. Now yo' jest keep yo' haid shut—don't even peep, Buddy, 'cause ef th' men heer all thes news they won't wait—they'll bust out an' spile my plans. Jest keep quiet an' leave hit t' me, an' Mistah Hatfield 'll show yo', Buddy, whut cums o' laywayers an' traitors—an' yo'll hev a chanct t' see with yore own eyes how sich sinners crowds up t' git their crimes washed away with their own blood. I never kilt a man in my life lessen hit wus t' save my own life er some tuther body's life—I kilt 'em a fighten'—I never laywayed—thet's 'bout all I got t' say on th' subject—damn nigh enough, hain't hit?"
Johnse pushed his tin plate away, settled back and wiped his mouth on the corner of a blue handkerchief he had knotted around his neck. He lifted his eyes to Buddy's chair, but the boy had left the table. Johnse looked around and beheld a solemn pantomime that he well understood and which he did not interrupt. Buddy had slipped noiselessly into the adjoining room, where he occupied the center of the floor. He stood there swaying, his lips moving mutely, and his two invoking hands lifted upward.