I
A new settlement in a new country: no contemporary mind can conceive the possibilities of future greatness that lie in the fulfilment of its prophecy.
A long, irregular quadrangle has been hewn from the woods bordering the north bank of the Ohio River. Scattered through the clearing are rude houses, built of the forest logs. Bounding the space upon three sides, and so close that its storm music sounds plain in every ear, is the forest itself. On the fourth side flows the wide river, covered now, firm and silent, with a thick ice blanket. Across the river on the Kentucky shore, softened by the blue haze of distance, another forest crowds down to the very water’s edge.
It is night, and of the cabins in the clearing each reflects, in one way or another, the 310 character of its builder. Here a broad pencil of light writes “Careless!” on the black sheet of the forest; there a mere thread escaping tells of patient carpentry.
At one end of the clearing, so near the forest that the top of a falling tree would have touched it, stood a cabin, individual in its complete darkness except for a dull ruddy glow at one end, where a window extended as high as the eaves. An open fire within gnawed at the half-green logs, sending smoke and steam up the cavernous chimney, and casting about the room an uncertain, fitful light––now bright, again shadowy.
It was a bare room that the flickering firelight revealed, bare alike as to its furnishings and the freshness of its peeled logs, the spaces between which had been “chinked” with clay from the river-bank. Scarcely a thing built of man was in sight which had not been designed to kill; scarcely a product of Nature which had not been gathered at cost of animal life. Guns of English make, stretched horizontally along the walls upon pegs driven into the logs; in the end opposite the wide fireplace, home-made 311 cooking utensils dangled from the end of a rough table, itself a product of the same factory. In front of the fire, just beyond the blaze and the coals and ashes, were heaped the pelts of various animals; black bear and cinnamon rested side by side with the rough, shaggy fur of the buffalo, brought by Indians from the far western land of the Dakotas.
Upon the heap, dressed in the picturesque utility garb of buckskin, homespun, and “hickory” which stamped the pioneer of his day, a big man lay at full length: a large man even here, where the law of the fittest reigned supreme. A stubbly growth of beard covered his face, giving it the heavy expression common to those accustomed to silent places, and dim forest trails.
Aside from his size, there was nothing striking or handsome about this backwoods giant, neither of face nor of form; yet, sleeping or waking, working or at leisure, he would be noticed––and remembered. In his every feature, every action, was the absolute unconsciousness of self, which cannot be mistaken; whether active or passive, there was about him 312 an insinuation of reserve force, subtly felt, of a strong, determined character, impossible to sway or bend. He lay, now, motionless, staring with wide-open eyes into the fire and breathing slowly, deeply, like one in sleep.
There was a hammering upon the door; another, louder; then a rattling that made the walls vibrate.
“Come!” called the man, rousing and rolling away from the fire.
A heavy shoulder struck the door hard, and the screaming wooden hinges covered the sound of the entering footfall.
He who came was also of the type: homespun and buckskin, hair long and face unshaven. He straightened from a passage which was not low, then turning pushed the unwieldy door shut. It closed reluctantly, with a loud shrilling of its frost-bound hinges and frame. In a moment he dropped his hands and impatiently kicked the stubborn offender home, the suction drawing a puff of smoke from the fireplace into the room, and sending the ashes spinning in miniature whirlwinds upon the hearth.
The man on the floor contemplated the entry 313 with indifference; but a new light entered his eyes as he recognized his visitor, though his face held like wood.
“Evenin’, Clayton,” he greeted, nodding toward a stool by the hearth. “Come over ’n sit down to the entertainment.” A whimsical smile struggled through the heavy whiskers. “I’ve been seeing all sorts of things in there”––a thoughtful nod toward the fire. “Guess, though, a fellow generally does see what he’s looking for in this world.”
“See here, Bud,” the visitor bluntly broke in, coming into the light and slurring a dialect of no nationality pure, “y’ can’t stop me thataway. There ain’t no use talkin’ about the weather, neither.” A motion of impatience; then swifter, with a shade of menace:
“You know what I came over fer. It’s actin’ the fool, I know, we few families out here weeks away from ev’rybody, but this clearin’ can’t hold us both.”
The menace suddenly left the voice, unconsciously giving place to a note of tenderness and of vague self-fear.
“I love that girl better ’n you er life er anything 314 else, Bud; I tell ye this square to yer face. I can’t stand it. I followed ye last night clean home from the party––an’ I had a knife. I jest couldn’t help it. Every time I know nex’ time it’ll happen. I don’t ask ye to give her up, Bud, but to settle it with me now, fair an’ open, ’fore I do something I can’t help.”
He strode swiftly to and fro across the room as he spoke, his skin-shod feet tapping muffled upon the bare floor, like the pads of an animal. The fur of his leggings, rubbing together as he walked, generated static sparks which snapped audibly. He halted presently by the fireplace, and looked down at the man lying there.
“It’s ’tween us, Bud,” he said, passion quivering in his voice.
Minutes passed before Bud Ellis spoke, then he shifted his head, quickly, and for the first time squarely met Clayton’s eyes.
“You say it’s between you and me,” he initiated slowly: “how do you propose to settle it?”
The other man hesitated, then his face grew red.
“Ye make it hard for me, Bud, ’s though I 315 was a boy talkin’ to ye big here; but it’s true, as I told ye: I ain’t myself when I see ye settin’ close to ’Liz’beth, er dancin’ with your arm touchin’ hern. I ain’t no coward, Bud; an’ I can’t give her up––to you ner nobody else.
“I hate it. We’ve always been like brothers afore, an’ it ’pears kinder dreamy ’n foolish ’n unnatural us settin’ here talkin’ ’bout it; but there ain’t no other way I can see. I give ye yer choice, Bud: I’ll fight ye fair any way y’ want.”
Ellis’s attitude remained unchanged: one big hand supported his chin while he gazed silently into the fire. Clayton stood contemplating him a moment, then sat down.
By and by Ellis’s head moved a little, a very little, and their eyes again met. A minute passed, and in those seconds the civilization of each man moved back generations.
The strain was beyond Clayton; he bounded to his feet with a motion that sent the stool spinning.
“God A’mighty! Are y’ wood er are y’ a coward? Y’ seem to think I’m practisin’ speech-makin’. D’ye know what it means fer 316 me to come up here like this to you?” He waited, but there was no response.
“I tell ye fer the last time, I love that girl, an’ if it warn’t fer you––fer you, Bud Ellis––she’d marry me. Can ye understand that? Now will ye fight?––or won’t ye?”
A movement, swift and easy, like a released spring, the unconscious trick of a born athlete, and Ellis was upon his feet. Involuntarily, Clayton squared himself, as if an attack were imminent.
“No, I won’t fight you,” said the big man, slowly. Without the least hesitation, he advanced and laid a hand upon the other man’s shoulder, facing him at arm’s length and speaking deliberately.
“It isn’t that I’m afraid of you, either, Bert Clayton; you know it. You say you love her; I believe you. I love her, too. And Elizabeth––you have tried, and I have tried––and she told us both the same.
“God, man! I know how you feel. I’ve expected something like this a long time.” He drew his hand across his eyes, and turned away. “I’ve had murder in my heart when I saw 317 you, and hated myself. It’s only in such places as this, where nothing happens to divert one’s mind, that people get like you and me, Bert. We brood and brood, and it’s love and insanity and a good deal of the animal mixed. Yes, you’re right. It’s between you and me, Bert,––but not to fight. One of us has got to leave––”
“It won’t be me,” Clayton quickly broke in. “I tell ye, I’d rather die, than leave.”
For a full minute Ellis steadily returned the other man’s fiery look, then went on as though there had been no interruption:
“––and the sooner we go the better. How do you want to settle it––shall we draw straws?”
“No, we’ll not draw straws. Go ef you’re afraid; but I won’t stir a step. I came to warn ye, or to fight ye if y’ wanted. Seein’ y’ won’t––good-night.”
Ellis stepped quickly in front of the door, and with the motion Clayton’s hand went to his knife.
“Sit down, man,” demanded Ellis, sternly. “We’re not savages. Let’s settle this matter in civilized fashion.” 318
They confronted each other for a moment, the muscles of Clayton’s face twitching an accompaniment to the nervous fingering of the buckhorn hilt; then he stepped up until they could have touched.
“What d’ y’ mean anyway?” he blazed. “Get out o’ my road.”
Ellis leaned against the door-bar without a word. The fire had burned down, and in the shadow his face had again the same expression of heaviness. The breathing of Clayton, swift and short, like one who struggles physically, painfully intensified the silence of that dimly lighted, log-bound room.
With his right hand Clayton drew his knife; he laid his left on the broad half-circle of wood that answered as a door handle.
“Open that door,” he demanded huskily, “or by God, I’ll stab ye!”
In the half-light the men faced each other, so near their breaths mingled. Twice Clayton tried to strike. The eyes of the other man held him powerless, and to save his life––even to satisfy a new, fierce hate––he could not stir. He stood a moment thus, then an animal-like 319 frenzy, irresistible but impotent, seized him. He darted his head forward and spat in the heavy face so close to his own.
The unspeakable contempt of the insult shattered Bud Ellis’s self-control. Prompted by blind fury, the great fist of the man shot out, hammer-like, and Clayton crumpled at his feet. It was a blow that would have felled the proverbial ox; it was the counterpart of many other blows, plus berserker rage, that had split pine boards for sheer joy in the ability to do so. These thoughts came sluggishly to the inflamed brain, and Ellis all at once dropped to his knees beside the limp, prostrate figure.
He bent over Clayton, he who had once been his friend. He was scarcely apprehensive at first, and he called his name brusquely; then, as grim conviction grew, his appeals became frantic.
At last Ellis shrank away from the Thing upon the floor. He stared until his eyeballs burnt like fire. It would never, while time lasted, move again.