CHAPTER VII

A KENTUCKY FEUD

The following morning he arose early, his abounding vitality having enabled him to recuperate entirely from the exciting events of the day before. He was soon in the saddle, bowling along at a good clip through the "Blue Gra.s.s" State. He found widely varied road conditions confronting him. At times he would strike short stretches of "pike" that afforded fairly good going. As a rule, however, the roads were sandy, and consequently, very bad for motorcycle travel.

At times, the sand was so deep that he felt lucky if he averaged fifteen or twenty miles an hour. Often the only way he could get along at all was to ride in one of the ruts worn by the wheels of carriages and buggies. These were usually very deep, so deep, in fact, that with both wheels in them the footboards barely cleared the surface of the road. Of course, this made riding very dangerous, as the slightest turn of the front wheel meant a bad fall.

It was only by skilful balancing that Bert managed to make any progress at all. As every one knows, a bicycle or motorcycle is kept erect by moving the front wheel to one side or the other, thus maintaining the proper center of gravity. Riding in a rut, however, this method became impracticable, so Bert was forced to keep his equilibrium by swaying his body from side to side, as necessity dictated.

He found that the faster he traveled through these ruts the easier it was to keep his balance. Of course, if he had a tumble going at that speed he was much more apt to be badly hurt, but he had no time to think of that. If he didn't go fast, he couldn't win the race, and to him that was reason enough to "hit it up" regardless of possible consequences.

Sometimes he met a carriage, and then there was nothing for it but to dismount and wait for it to pa.s.s, that is, if he thought the driver had not seen him. But if he was on a long stretch of road and the driver had ample time to get out of the way,--well, there was no stopping then. The driver, seeing a blue streak approaching him at close to a mile a minute clip would hastily draw to one side of the road and then descend and hold his horse's head; and usually none too soon. There would come a rattle and roar, and Bert would be a speck in the distance, leaving a cloud of dust to settle slowly behind him.

The driver, after quieting his horse--all the horses in this part of the country were unused to motor vehicles of any kind--would resume his journey, muttering curses on them "pesky gasoline critters." But taken altogether, Bert found his first day in Kentucky one of the most strenuous he had ever experienced.

Night found him in a rather unlooked for situation. He was a little ahead of his schedule, and he had reached the town at which he had planned to stay several hours short of sundown.

"No use losing three or four precious hours of daylight," he thought. "I might as well push forward and take a chance of getting shelter at some village along the way."

This he did, following directions given him in the town in which he had originally intended to stay. As usual, however, the directions proved to be wrong, and the village failed to materialize. To add to his troubles as darkness came on, he took a wrong fork in the road, and before long found himself in a road that was absolutely impa.s.sable on account of sand.

"Well," thought he, "it begins to look like a night in the open for me, and that won't be much fun. I want to get a good night's sleep to-night.

Heaven knows I need it."

But when he had just about resigned himself to this, he was relieved to see a light spring up, some distance away. "That's good," he thought, "I'll see if all I've heard about Kentucky hospitality is fact or just mere talk."

Accordingly he started the motor and threw in the clutch on low speed.

He made no attempt to mount, however, but contented himself with walking beside the machine, guiding it through the deep sand.

He had no need to announce his arrival. The unm.u.f.fled exhaust did that for him. As he approached the cabin from which the light emanated, he could see the whole family grouped on the doorstep, peering into the night, for by now it was quite dark.

The head of the house was a little in advance of the others, and as Bert and the "Blue Streak" approached the door he stepped forward.

"Wall, stranger, what kind of a contraption do you-all reckon to have thar?" he drawled, gazing curiously at the palpitating motorcycle.

Bert shut off the motor before he replied.

"Why," he said, "that's my motorcycle, and it's one of the best friends I have. I took the wrong road a way back, I guess, and I was just going to camp out over night, when I saw the light from your window. If you can put me up for the night you'll be doing me a big favor."

"Not another word, son," replied the big mountaineer, "come right in an'

set down. You look nigh dead beat."

"I am about all in," confessed Bert. "I'll leave my machine right here, I guess."

"Sh.o.r.e, sh.o.r.e," said the big Kentuckian, "I reckin thar ain't n.o.buddy within a hundred miles hereabouts that could make off with the blamed machine ef he had a mind to. Hosses is considerable more common in these parts. The pump's around the side of the house ef you 'low to wash up,"

he continued, as an afterthought.

"All right, thanks," replied Bert, "I'll be with you in no time."

He disappeared in the direction indicated, and soon returned, much refreshed by a thorough sousing under the pump.

As he entered the cabin, a tired-looking but motherly woman bustled forward. "Jest you set over there to the right of paw," she said, indicating Bert's place at the table, "an' make yourself comfortable.

We ain't got much to offer you, but sech as it is, you'r welcome."

There was not much variety to the viands, it must be confessed, but there was plenty of "corn pone" and bacon, and rich milk with which to wash it down. After his strenuous day in the open he ate ravenously. The mountaineer uttered hardly a word during the meal, and indeed none of the family seemed very talkative.

The children, of whom there were six, gazed round-eyed at the unexpected guest, and seemed, if one were to judge from their looks, to regard him as a being from another world.

After the meal was dispatched, the mountaineer produced a blackened old pipe, and, filling it from a shabby leather pouch, lit it. "Do you smoke, son?" he asked, holding the pouch out to Bert, "ef you do, help yourself."

"No, thanks," said Bert, declining the hospitable offer with a smile.

"Don't smoke, eh?" commented the other. "Wall, ye'd ought to. There's a heap of comfort in baccy, let me tell you."

"I don't doubt it," replied Bert, "but I've been in training so long for one thing or another that I've never had a chance to form the habit.

Everybody that smokes seems to get a lot of fun out of it though, so I suppose it must be a great pleasure."

"It sh.o.r.e is," affirmed the big Kentuckian. "But it's hot in here. What do you say we light out and take a squint at that machine of yourn? I ain't never got a good look at one close up. They're ginerally travelin'

too fast to make out details," with a grin.

"Well, they're not the slowest things in the world, that's certain,"

laughed Bert, "but come ahead out and I'll be glad to explain it to you."

They went outside together, the Kentuckian carrying a lantern, and followed by the children, who gazed wide-eyed at the strange machine.

Bert explained the simpler points of the mechanism to the mountaineer, who seemed much interested.

"I kin see it's a mighty neat contraption," he admitted, at length. "But I'd rether ride quietlike behind a good bit o' hoss flesh. You can't make me believe that thet machine has got the strength o' seven hosses in it, nohow. It ain't reasonable."

Bert saw that he might argue for a week, and still fail to shake the obstinacy of his host, so he wisely forbore to make the attempt. Instead he guided the conversation around to the conditions and pursuits of the surrounding country, and here the Kentuckian was on firm ground. He discoursed on local politics with considerable shrewdness and good sense, and proved himself well up on such topics.

They talked on this subject quite a while, and then the conversation in some way shifted to the feuds a few years back that had aroused such widespread criticism. "Although I haven't seen any sign of them since I've been in Kentucky," confessed Bert, with a smile.

"No," said his host, with a ruminative look in his eyes, "they're dyin'

out, an' a good thing it is fer the country, too. They never did do the least mite o' good, an' they often did a sight o' harm.

"Why, it warn't such a long time back that the Judsons an' the Berkeleys were at it hammer an' tongs, right in this country roundabout. One was layin' fer 'tother all the time, an' the folks thet wasn't in the fracas was afraid to go huntin' even, fer fear o' bein' picked off by mistake.

They wasn't none too particular about makin' sure o' their man, neither, before they pulled trigger. They'd shoot fust, an' ef they found they'd bagged the wrong man they might be peeved, but thet's all. More'n once I've had a close shave myself."

"But what started the feud in the first place?" asked Bert. "It must have been a pretty big thing to have set people to shooting each other up like that, I should think."

"Not so's you could notice it," was the answer. "Blamed ef I rightly remember just what it was. Seems to me, now I come to think of it, that ole Seth Judson an' Adam Berkeley got mixed up in the fust place over cuttin' down a tree thet was smack on the line 'atween their farms. Ole Seth he swore he'd cut thet tree down, an' Adam he 'lowed as how it would be a mighty unhealthy thing fer any man as how even took a chip out of it.

"Wall, a couple o' days later Adam went to town on one errand or another, and when he got back the cussed ole tree had been cut down an'

carted away. When Adam saw nothin' but the stump left, he never said a word, good or bad, but turned around and went back to his house an' got his gun. He tracks over to Seth Judson's house an' calls him by name.

Seth, he walks out large as life, an' Adam pumps a bullet clean through his heart. Them two men had been friends off an' on fer over thirty year, an' I allow thet ef Adam hed took time to think an' cool off a little, he'd never a' done what he did.

"Howsomever, there's no bringin' the dead back to life, an' Adam tromps off home, leavin' Seth lyin' there on his front porch.