But all her griefs were bewept on the crag, that there might be no tears to distress the tenderhearted Absalom when she should return to the house.
The election of Squire Quimbey was a sad blow to the arrogant spirit of the Kittredges. They had easily accustomed themselves to ascendency, and they hotly resented the fact that fate had forborne the opportunity to hit Joel Quimbey when he was down. They had used their utmost influence to defeat him in the race, and had openly avowed their desire to see him bite the dust. The inimical feeling between the families culminated one rainy autumnal day in the town where the quarterly county court was in session.
A fire had been kindled in the great rusty stove, and crackled away with grudging merriment inside, imparting no sentiment of cheer to the gaunt bare room, with its dusty window-panes streaked with rain, its shutters drearily flapping in the wind, and the floor bearing the imprint of many boots burdened with the red clay of the region. The sound of slow strolling feet in the brick-paved hall was monotonous and somnolent.
Squire Quimbey sat in his place among the justices. Despite his pride of office, he had not the heart for business that might formerly have been his. More than once his attention wandered. He looked absently out of the nearest window at the neighboring dwelling—a little frame-house with a green yard; a well-sweep was defined against the gray sky, and about the curb a file of geese followed with swaying gait the wise old gander. “What a hand for fow-els Eveliny war!” he muttered to himself; “an' she hed luck with sech critters.” He used the obituary tense, for Evelina had in some sort passed away.
He rubbed his hand across his corrugated brow, and suddenly he became aware that her husband was in the room, speaking to the chairman of the county court, and claiming a certificate in the sum of two dollars each for the scalps of one wolf, “an' one painter,” he continued, laying the small furry repulsive objects upon the desk, “an' one dollar fur the skelp of one wild-cat.” He was ready to take his oath that these animals were killed by him running at large in this county.
He had stooped a little in making the transfer. He came suddenly to his full height, and stood with one hand in his leather belt, the other shouldering his rifle. The old man scanned him curiously. The crude light from the long windows was full upon his tall slim figure; his yellow hair curled down upon the collar of his blue jeans coat; his great miry boots were drawn high over the trousers to the knee; his pensive deer-like eyes brightened with a touch of arrogance and enmity as, turning slowly to see who was present, his glance encountered his father-in-law's fiery gaze.
“Mr. Cheerman! Mr. Cheerman!” exclaimed the old man, tremulously, “lemme examinate that thar wild-cat skelp. Thanky, sir; thanky, sir; I wanter see ef hain't off'n the head o' some old tame tomcat. An' this air a painter's “—affecting to scan it by the window—“two ears 'cordin' to law; yes, sir, two; and this”—his keen old face had all the white light of the sad gray day on its bleaching hair and its many lines, and his eager old hands trembled with the excitement of the significant satire he enacted—“an' this air a wolf's, ye say? Yes; it's a Kittredge's; same thing, Mr. Cheerman, by a diff'ent name; nuthin' in the code 'bout'n a premium fur a Kittredge's skelp; but same natur'; coward, bully, thief—thief!”
The words in the high cracked voice rang from the bare walls and bare floors as he tossed the scalps from him, and sat down, laughing silently in painful, mirthless fashion, his toothless jaw quivering, and his shaking hands groping for the arms of his chair.
“Who says a Kittredge air a thief says a lie!” cried out the young man, recovering from his tense surprise. “I don't keer how old he be,” he stipulated—for he had not thought to see her father so aged—“he lies.”
The old man fixed him with a steady gaze and a sudden alternation of calmness. “Ye air a Kittredge; ye stole my daughter from me.”