"'Twasn't more'n a week later, I reckon, when we all heard thet Seth's son, Jed, had up an' killed Adam, shootin' at him from behind a fence.

"Waal, thet's the way it started, an' it seemed as though it war never goin' to end. Young Adam, he 'lowed as how no man could shoot his daddy an' live, so he laid fer Jed as he was goin' to the village, an' shot him 'atween the eyes as neat as could be. Then the younger sons, thet were still not much more than boys, as you might say, they took to lyin'

in wait fer each other in the woods an' behind fences. Pretty soon their relatives took to backin' them up, and jined in on their own account. O'

course, most o' the folks hereabouts is related to one another in some way.

"I wasn't a native o' these parts myself, an' so managed to keep clear o'

the trouble. It was a hard thing for me to set by an' see my neighbors killin' each other off like a pa.s.sel o' mad dogs, though, an' all the more because I knew there wasn't any real call fer it in the first place.

"Howsumever, they've stopped fightin' now, an' it's none too soon, nuther. Another year, an' I reckon there wouldn't a been a Berkeley or a Judson left alive in the hull State."

The farmer stopped speaking, and gazed reflectively into the night.

"But what put an end to it finally," inquired Bert, who had listened to this narrative with absorbed interest.

"Waal, there was considerable romance consarned in it, as you might say," said his host. "Young Buck Judson, he met one o' ole Berkeley's daughters somewhere, an' those two young fools hed to go an' fall in love with each other. O' course, their families were dead sot agin' it, but nothin' would do the critters short o' gettin' hitched up, an' at last they talked their families into a peace meetin', as you might say.

All the neighbors was invited, an' o' course we-all went. An', believe me, those people reminded me of a room full o' tom cats, all wantin' to start a shindy, but all hatin' to be the fust to begin.

"But all we-'uns thet wanted to stop such goin's on did our best to keep peace in the family. To make a long story short, everythin' went off quiet an' easy like, an' Buck an' his gal was. .h.i.tched up all proper.

The hard feelin' gradually calmed down, an' now the two families is tolerable good friends, considerin' everything. But that cost a heap of more or less valable lives while it lasted, I can tell you."

After a short pause, he continued, "But there was some turrible strong feelin's on both sides while it lasted, son. Why, people was afraid to get 'atween a light an' a winder, for fear of a bullet comin' through and puttin' a sudden an' onpleasant end to them. Ole Sam Judson, as how always had a streak o' yaller in him at the best o' times, got so at last thet he wouldn't stir out o' the house without he toted his little gran'darter, Mary, along with him. O' course, he figured thet with the baby in his arms n.o.buddy'd take a chanst on wingin' him and mebbe killin' the kid, an' he was right. He never even got scratched the hull time. An' I could tell you a hundred other things o' the same kind, only you'd probably get tired listenin' to them."

"It certainly was a bad state of things," said Bert at last, after a thoughtful silence, "but couldn't the authorities do something to stop such wholesale killing?"

"Not much," replied the mountaineer, "it would 'a taken every constable in Kentucky to cover this part o' the country, an' even then I reckon there wouldn't 'a been anywhere near enough. They must 'a realized that," he added drily, "'cause they didn't try very hard, leastways, not as fur as I could see."

"I'm glad it's over now, at any rate," commented Bert. "A needless waste of life like that is a terrible thing."

"It sh.o.r.e is," agreed his host, and puffed meditatively at his pipe. At last he knocked the ashes from it and rose to his feet.

"It's gettin' late, son," he said, "an' I reckon you-all must be might tuckered out after a day on that there fire spoutin' motorbike o' yourn.

The ole lady's got a bunk fixed up fer you, I reckon, an' you can turn in any time you feel like it."

"I am tired out, for a fact," acknowledged Bert, "and I don't care how soon I tumble in."

"Come along, then," said Anderson, as his host was named, "come on inside, an' we'll put you up."

So saying, he entered the cabin, followed by Bert.

Mrs. Anderson had fixed a bed for him in a little loft over the main room, reached by a ladder. After bidding his host and hostess good night, Bert climbed the rungs and ten minutes later was sleeping soundly.

When he was awakened by a call from the farmer, he jumped up much refreshed, and, dressing quickly, descended the ladder to the living room, where the entire family was already a.s.sembled. After exchanging greetings, he took his place at the table and made a substantial meal from plain but hearty fare.

This over, he bade a cordial farewell to the kind farmer and his wife, who refused pointblank to accept the slightest payment for the hospitality they had extended him. Bert thanked them again and again, and then shook hands and left them, first being told of a short cut that would save him several miles and land him on a good road.

The good old "Blue Streak" was in fine shape, and after a few minor adjustments he started the motor. The whole family had followed him out, and were grouped in an interested semicircle about him. At last he was ready to start, and threw one leg over the saddle.

"Good-bye," he called, waving his hand, "and thanks once more."

"Good-bye, good luck," they cried in chorus, and Bert moved off slowly, on low gear.

At first the going was atrocious, and he was forced to pick his way with great caution. The road steadily improved, however, and in a short time a sudden turn brought him out on an exceptionally good turnpike, the one of which his host of the night before had told him.

"All right," he thought to himself, "here goes to make speed while the road lasts," and he grinned at this paraphrase of a well-worn saying.

He opened up more and more, and his motor took up its familiar deep-toned road song. Mile after mile raced back from the spinning wheels. The indicator on the speedometer reached the fifty mark, and stayed there hour after hour. At times the road ran more to sand, but then he simply opened the throttle a trifle wider, and kept to the same speed.

The air was like wine, and riding was a keen pleasure. The trees and bushes waving in the early morning breeze--the beautiful green country spread out on every side--the steady, exhilarating speed--all made life seem a very fine thing indeed, and Bert sang s.n.a.t.c.hes of wild, meaningless songs as he flew along. For three hours he never slackened speed, and then only pulled up in a fair-sized town to replenish his oil and gasoline. Then he was off again. The road became worse after he had gone ten or fifteen miles, but still he contrived to make fair time, and about noon he rode into Louisville.

His arrival there was eagerly awaited, and he was warmly received at the local agency. While his machine was being cleaned and oiled, he took the opportunity of reporting to the proper authorities. Upon his return the "Blue Streak" was turned over to him, shining and polished, and he once more took the road. Several motorcyclists accompanied him to the outskirts of the city. He experienced varying road conditions, and was twice delayed by punctures. But the rattling work of the early morning made up for the afternoon's delays, and dusk found him two hundred and eighty miles nearer the goal of his ambition.

CHAPTER VIII

THE FORGED TELEGRAM

Bert's stay in Louisville was brief, and all the more so, because neither Tom nor d.i.c.k was there to meet him, as they had planned. Bert took it for granted that something out of the ordinary had happened, however, and bore his disappointment as philosophically as he could.

"No doubt they've been delayed," he thought, "and will meet me in the next town. That will be a spur to me to go faster so that I can see them sooner."

He had a refreshing sleep, and was up early, resolved to make a profitable day of it. After he had eaten breakfast, he paid his bill, and was just going out the door when the clerk stopped him. "Just a minute, sir," he said. "Here's a telegram for you. I almost forgot to give it to you."

"When did it come?" asked Bert, as he took the yellow envelope and prepared to open it.

"Oh, just about an hour ago," replied the clerk, "no bad news I hope?"

This question was occasioned no doubt by the expression of Bert's face.

"Come quick," the telegram read, "Tom very sick; may die. We are in Maysville. d.i.c.k."

Bert's voice shook as he addressed the hotel clerk. "One of my friends is very sick," he said. "He's in Maysville. How long will it take me to get there?"

"Well, it's a matter of close on two hundred miles," replied the clerk, in a sympathetic voice, "but the roads are fair, and you can make pretty fast time with that machine of yours."

Bert whipped out his map of Kentucky, and the clerk pointed out to him the little dot marked Maysville.

"All right, thanks," said Bert, briefly, "good-bye."

"Good-bye," said the other, "I hope your friend isn't as bad as you fear."

But before he finished speaking Bert was on the "Blue Streak," and was flying down the street. In a moment his mind had grasped every angle of the catastrophe. If he went to Tom, it would very likely mean the loss of the race, for a matter of four hundred miles out of his road would be a fearful handicap. But what was the race compared to dear old Tom, Tom, who at this very moment might be calling for him? Every other consideration wiped from his mind, Bert leaned over and fairly flew along the dusty road. Fences, trees, houses, streaked past him, and still he rode faster and faster, recklessly, taking chances that he would have shunned had he been bound on any other errand. He shot around sharp bends in the road at breakneck speed, sometimes escaping running into the ditch by a margin of an inch or so. Fast as the "Blue Streak"

was, it was all too slow to keep pace with his feverish impatience, and Bert fumed at the long miles that lay between him and his friend.

Now a steep hill loomed up in front of him, and he rushed it at breakneck speed. Slowly the motorcycle lost speed under the awful drag of the steep ascent, and at last Bert was forced to change to low gear. The "Blue Streak" toiled upward, and at last reached the top. A wonderful view lay spread out before him, but Bert had no eye just now for the beauties of nature. All he saw was a road that dipped and curved below him until it was lost in the green shades of a valley. Bert saw he would have no need of his motor in making that descent, so threw out the clutch and coasted.

Faster and faster he flew, gaining speed with every revolution of the wheels. With the engine stopped, the motorcycle swept along in absolute silence, save for the slight hissing noise made by the contact of the tires with the road. The speed augmented until he was traveling almost with the speed of a cannon ball. At this speed, brakes were useless, even had he been inclined to use them, which he was not. Two-thirds of the way down he flashed past a wagon, that was negotiating the descent with one wheel chained, so steep was it. Had the slightest thing gone wrong then; had a nut worked loose, a tire punctured, a chain broken or jumped the sprockets, Bert would have been hurled through the air like a stone from a catapult. Fortunately for him, everything held, and now he was nearing the bottom of the hill. Ten seconds later, and he was sweeping up the opposite slope at a speed that it seemed could never slacken. But gradually gravitation slowed him down to a safer pace, and at last he slipped in the clutch and started the motor. In the wild descent his cap had flown off, but he hardly noticed it.

"I'll soon be there at this rate," he thought, glancing at the speedometer. "I've come over a hundred and fifty miles now, so Maysville can't be much further." And, indeed, less than an hour's additional riding brought him to the town of that name.