“I was jest startin’ to tell you,” said Porter, diving into his capacious trousers pocket for his knife and slowly opening the blade with his long thumbnail. “You see, Jeff Wade has at last got wind o’ all that gab about Minnie an’ Nelson Floyd, an’ he sent a war-cry by Pole Baker on hossback as fast as Pole could clip it to tell Floyd to arm an’ be ready at exactly twelve o’clock sharp.”
“I knew it would come,” said Mrs. Porter, a combination of finality and resignation in her harsh voice. “I knew Jeff Wade wasn’t going to allow that talk to go on.” She was looking at her daughter, who, white and wide-eyed, stood motionless behind Hattie Mayhew’s chair. For a moment no one spoke, though instinctively the general glance went to Cynthia, who, feeling it, turned to the window looking out upon the porch, and stood with her back to the room. Mrs. Porter broke the silence, her words directed to her daughter.
“Jeff Wade will kill that man if he was fool enough to wait and meet him. Do you think Floyd waited, Nathan?”
“No, he didn’t wait,” was Porter’s answer. “The plucky chap went ’im one better; he sent word by Mel Jones to tell Wade that it would be indecent to have a rumpus like that in town on a Saturday, when so many women an’ childern was settin’ round in bullet-range, an’ so, if it was agreeable he’d ruther have it in the open place at Price’s spring. Mel passed me as he was goin’ to Jeff with that word. It’s nearly one o’clock now, an’ it’s my candid opinion publicly expressed that Nelson Floyd has gone to meet a higher Power. I didn’t want to be hauled up at court as a witness, an’ so, as I say, I hit the grit. I’ve been tied up in other folks’s matters before this, an’ the court don’t allow enough fer witness fees to tempt me to set an’ listen to them long-winded lawyers talk fer a whole week on a stretch.”
“Poor fellow!” exclaimed Hattie Mayhew. “I’m right sorry for him. He was so handsome and sweet-natured. He had faults, but they may have been due to the hard life he had when he was a child. I must say I have always been sorry for him; he had the saddest look out of the eyes of any human being I ever saw.”
“And he knew how to use his eyes, too,” was the sting Mrs. Porter added to this charitable comment as her sharp gaze still rested on her daughter.
There was a sound at the window. Cynthia, with unsteady hands, was trying to raise the sash. She finally succeeded in doing this and placing the wooden prop under it. There was a steely look in her eyes and her features were set, her face pale.
“It’s very warm in here!” they heard her say. “There isn’t a bit of draught in the room. It’s that hot cook stove, mother; I will—I——”
She had turned and walked from the room.
Mrs. Porter sighed as she looked after the departing form.