Paul said nothing. He tried to feel grateful for the praise he had received, but he was too tired in body and mind to care for anything. Throughout the long day he had constantly deliberated over the thought that it would now be impossible for him to continue the life he was leading. With the death of his father his heart and soul seemed to have died.
Hoag joined him as he walked homeward, the gun under his arm.
“I could see the graveyard from the hill yesterday,” he remarked, “an' I picked you out in the bunch. You looked powerfully lonely, an' the thought struck me that you was about the only real mourner. Women don't grieve for any but their own babies, an' them two from your house would have acted about the same at any other funeral. I was sorry for your daddy, Paul. He never made much headway in the world, but he deserved a better shake o' the dice. In his last days he toted an awful load. He used to talk purty free to me—just like a child would at times. He talked purty plain to me, I reckon, because he knowed I hain't a speck o' use for the damn snake-in-the-grass that was takin' sech a low, underhanded advantage of him behind his back. You needn't repeat this; I'm tellin' it just to you in private. If—you see, Paul—if it ever does come to words betwixt me an' Jeff Warren, I'll have to shoot 'im as I would a dog, an' a thing like that is troublesome, especially when I look on 'im as mud under my feet. I'd hate to have to stand trial for killin' a puppy, an' the law would demand some form-o' settlement.. Your pa would have killed 'im if he lived. I was lookin' for it every day; he was lyin' low for his chance. Preachers, slobberin' revivalists, an' fools like old Tye will talk to you about turnin' the other cheek; but the great, all-important first law of life is to fight for what you git, hold on to it when you git it, an' mash hell out of everything that tries to run over you. That's been my rule, an' it works like a charm. If I'd been your daddy I'd have shot that dirty whelp two months ago.”
They had reached the point where their ways parted. The gray twilight was thickening. Hoag's big white house gleamed through the trees surrounding it. There were lights in the kitchen and diningroom. All Nature seemed preparing for sleep. The tinkling of sheep and cow bells came drowsily to the ear; the church-bell, a creaking, cast-iron affair, was ringing for the singing-class to meet.
“Well, so long,” Hoag finished, with a wave of his fat hand in the dusk. “Set in bright an' early in the momin' an' let's see how many yards you'll wipe out before sundown.”
Paul walked on, so weary now that the gun he was carrying almost slipped from his inert arm. Presently his own home came into view, beyond the field of corn. Ralph Rundel had planted and hoed so feebly. Paul's heart sank into the very ooze of despair. How incongruous was the thought that his father would not be at the gate to meet him, as had been his habit for so many years! The boy stopped in a corner of the rail fence at the roadside and leaned on his gun. An indescribable pain, which was at once physical and mental, had his whole young being in a crushing grasp. The kitchen door was open, and the red logs of an open fire shone out on the sward about the house. Tree-frogs were snarling, fireflies were flashing here and there over the dewy meadows like tiny, short-lived meteors. Paul heaved a sigh, stifled a groan, bit his lip, and trudged on.
As he got nearer to the house, he suddenly became aware of the fact that two figures, that of a man and a woman, were standing at the bars of the barnyard. He recognized the white-clad form on the inside as his mother's. The tall, slender man with the broad hat and square shoulders was Jeff Warren—that would have been plain even if his voice in some indistinct utterance had not been heard. The blood of fury, goaded to the point of insanity, raged within the youth. He felt its close, hot pressure above his eyes, and a red veil fell before his sight. Hoag's recent words rang in his ears. Revenge, revenge! Yes, that was the only thing worth having. Paul bent lower. His gun trailed the ground like the gun of a pioneer hunter. He crept silently forward, keeping the fence between him and the pair, till he was close enough to overhear the colloquy. It was Jeff Warren's voice and his suave, daredevil tone.
“Oh, I know the boy hates me. I've seed it in the little scamp's face many a time. Rafe must 'a' put 'im up to it when his mind was so flighty; but we'll straighten him out between us when we git things runnin' smooth. He'll think I'm a rip-snortin' stepdaddy when I git through with 'im.”
The hot pressure on Paul's brain increased. Pausing in a corner of the fence, he grasped his gun in both hands and cocked it with tense, determined fingers. His father's dead face rose before him. It seemed to smile approvingly. Hoag's words came to him like the advice of an oracle. He strained his ears to hear what his mother was saying, but her low utterance failed to reach him. Jeff Warren was turning away, his broad hat gallantly swung toward the ground.
“Well, I'll see you ag'in 'fore long,” he said merrily. “I know how you feel, but all that will soon wear off. We kin wait a decent time, but I'm in the race, I tell you. I'll talk all them notions out o' your purty head.”