He walked slowly, looking through the trees at the river which, now before sunrise, was the color of lead, with a few ghostly lily-pads floating at its edges. Beyond, he saw the high swamp grass that fringed the edge of the delta; below lay Little Neck Meadow. The other thought that haunted him, the picture of Diana in the old leather chair beside his own hearthstone, with the kindling glow of the wood fire on her face, he thrust resolutely aside. After all, he was nothing to Diana but the petty tradesman of Eshcol, and now—if she knew—the intending murderer of her kinsman. Yet it was Diana who walked before him along the narrowing path. Thus do our emotions play us tricks to our undoing, even in life’s most vital moments.
But to the group waiting in the meadow, Caleb Trench appeared as unmoved as stone. He was prompt to the moment and accepted their arrangements without a question.
Afterwards Aaron Todd told the story of the duel at the tavern. Eaton and his seconds were in faultless attire and eager for the fray. At the last moment Todd had sent for Dr. Cheyney; his early arrival meant an explosion against dueling, and no one thought of waiting for him except Peter Mahan.
It ended in the two taking their places just as the whole eastern sky ran into molten gold; it lacked but a few moments, therefore, of sunrise, and there was still a light mist.
Jacob Eaton, who was a noted shot, had been drinking the night before, against the best efforts of his friends. Trench stood like a pillar of stone. The word was given, and both men raised their weapons. Jacob fired and missed, then Caleb very deliberately fired in the air. He had never even glanced at his challenger. It was at this that Jacob Eaton lost his temper and his wits and fired again, deliberately attempting to shoot down his enemy. The bullet went through Caleb’s left arm, missing his heart, and Willis Broughton threw himself upon Eaton and disarmed him.
When Dr. Cheyney came, Caleb had tied up his own arm with Todd’s help, and was the calmest person there. Eaton was hustled off the field by his seconds, and the story—told a hundred ways—was thrown into the campaign.
Old Dr. Cheyney drove Caleb home. “I reckon the fool killer wasn’t out this morning,� he remarked dryly, as he set him down before the office door, “or else he only winged you out of compassion. Caleb Trench, for a man of common horse sense, you can be the biggest fool west of the Mississippi. Adopted Sammy, I suppose?� he added, cocking an eyebrow aggressively.
Trench smiled. “Might as well,� he said.
“Precisely,� said the doctor, “if you want anything more, let me know. I’ve got one old rooster and a gobbler, that’s tough enough to be Job’s. G’long, Henk!�