The words of the last sentence came hard as lead bullets against Marston's ears, and frightened him. The face of his caller had suddenly grown white and fierce. Glenning's knotted fists were writhing under his folded arms. Marston knew he had better speak, and speak the truth.

"She came to see me of her own free will. I invited her in, and she drew her pistol on me. I knocked it out of her hand to keep from getting shot."

"A likely tale, and the skeleton of truth alone, I daresay. What did _she_ want with _you_?"

A smile of triumph lit the dark features of the hybrid.

"Something _you_ could not give her, but _I_ could!--Julia Dudley came for a favour to _me_!"

"Keep her name out of it, d.a.m.n you!"

Glenning, white hot, drew two steps nearer, though still holding himself in check.

"We can talk without the use of names. What favour did she want?"

"She came to ask me to have the bank dividend declared, or they would starve!"

"That was no favour. The money is Major Dudley's. You have stolen it from them by withholding it. She came to demand her own, and her own was denied her, no need to tell me that."

Marston thought of the price he had put upon the dividend, and, while he longed to goad and torture his enemy to the utmost, he feared to tell him of that part of their conversation.

"No, she didn't get it!" he answered, roughly.

"Look at me, Mr. Marston!"

Little as he liked the command, Marston centered his ever shifting eyes upon Glenning's. But they would not stay, despite his will.

"You've been to Jericho," went on the even voice. "You came back last night. What did you go for?"

"What in h.e.l.l do you mean?" he flared out, with a bl.u.s.ter. "I went on business."

"_Your_ business, or _my_ business?"

This time Marston coloured perceptibly, and shrugged his shoulders. He did not answer.

"See here!" resumed Glenning. "I know why you went to Jericho. Now listen. If you begin spreading lies about me in this community you shall suffer. Tell the truth--the whole truth--and I'll not say a word. But you don't know the whole truth, nor any part of it. You didn't go to get the truth, but all the low, indecent scandal and gossip you could sc.r.a.pe together. Usually that side is not as hard to get as the other. It is not my fault that we have been enemies from the night I came to Macon. I would not have you for a friend, believe me, but we might at least have been civil. You've heard a great deal of stuff while you were away that your informants wouldn't repeat to my face. And I tell you they are all lies! Did you voice any of them to Miss--to her?"

Again Marston felt the truth dragged from him. But a sardonic smile of malicious pleasure spread over his face as he answered--

"I told her a little about my trip, and how a certain friend of hers had another sweetheart back up there, but she broke away before I could tell her all--"

"_Broke_ away!--Devil! Did you hold her?"

Restraint for the moment was cast aside.

Glenning's long hands grasped each of Marston's arms just below the shoulders, and so he held him motionless.

"I didn't touch her!" was the snarling answer. "I held the d.a.m.ned colt by the bridle until she drew on me--"

John flung him backward with an oath.

"_Strip!_"

He hissed out the word with sibilant wrath, and threw off his light coat. Then, trembling the least bit while fighting inwardly for calm, he began rolling back his sleeves. He ceased these preparations long enough to toss his hat upon his coat and discard tie and collar. Marston cast another hungry look at the revolver, while making no move to comply with the order he had received. Glenning came towards him.

"Are you going to fight, or must I slap your face, you dog?"

The concluding word gave Marston a happy thought, and he quickly pursed his heavy lips, and whistled shrilly. He had no mind for an encounter with the young man where the weapons employed would be fists alone. He was probably stronger, but he secretly felt that he would be punished severely should they come to blows. He had much rather that his boar-hound fight for him, so he issued the summons.

"No more of that!" said John, sternly. "Make another sound and I strike you, whether you are prepared or not. Are you coming, or shall I break a switch from one of your bushes, and lay you across my knee?"

This taunt was more than flesh and blood could bear. It pierced even Marston's seared sensibilities, and stung like something hot. He got out of his coat with one lightning-like movement, and at once a.s.sumed the offensive. This was what Glenning wished. It would have been degrading to knock down and batter about some one who made no resistance. The men presented an interesting contrast as they stood on guard. Glenning wore a white negligee shirt, and gray trousers, neatly creased. He was clean shaven and his straight black hair fell over his forehead as he leaned forward, alert and vigilant. One could see now the broad expanse of his back and his wonderful breadth of shoulders. Marston at home was not the Marston in town. He wore a sort of gray flannel shirt, carelessly b.u.t.toned, shapeless corduroy trousers and rusty shoes. His thick neck was corded and hairy, and there were dry, red veins in his cheeks caused by the excessive use of liquor. He came at his opponent carefully, in spite of his anger, and delivered his first blow so swiftly that Glenning only partially succeeded in parrying it. The big fist slid off his arm and caught him on the shoulder, turning him half way around. He responded at once with a side swing, which Marston avoided. He was remarkably quick on his feet for so heavy a man. Then they circled, warily. Suddenly Glenning let drive from the shoulder. It was an unexpected move, and caught Marston unprepared. A row of hard knuckles lodged against his chin and sent him reeling. The trunk of a cedar tree intervened, and he did not fall. His face was awful as he came on again; enough to unnerve the strongest man. But Glenning had found himself. He was calm now, and confident, Marston was raging, blind mad. He struck out wildly, trusting to brute strength. Again Glenning's long arm straightened, and for a moment the breath left the chest of his antagonist. He staggered, and dropped his guard, but Glenning did not follow up. Marston, with an inarticulate cry of rage, sought to close.

He no longer attempted to fight as boxers do, but came with outstretched hands, feeling blindly for his foe. There was no mercy in the heart of the iron-faced man fronting him. A third time Glenning struck, and his fist caught Marston over the eye, crumpling him on the gra.s.s like a thing of reed. He did not move. John knelt and leaned over him. His eyes were shut, but he was breathing, spasmodically. Glenning arose.

"This is for the pain you caused her, and for the lies you told on me!"

he muttered. He walked to the spot where he had thrown his clothing and put the various articles on. As he finished this he saw a negro in the side yard. "Come here!" he called.

The negro obeyed.

"There's your master. He's hurt, but not badly. Carry him in and pour water on his face and give him some whiskey."

Glenning wheeled, picked up the pearl-handled revolver as he pa.s.sed, and went on towards the road.

CHAPTER XIII

During the week which followed a number of things happened. First, d.i.n.k Scribbens took a wonderful and sudden turn for the better. The fact that none of his family had become infected was a matter for marvel throughout the county, and the credit for their miraculous escape was of course given to the attending physician. Uncle Billy Hoonover would not pa.s.s the hovel guarded awfully and mutely with a tiny yellow flag tacked to one corner of it--an emblem with more power to repel than a legion of soldiers--and he could not stay away from town. Unless the lamp-post where he invariably hitched renewed acquaintance with his gray nag every morning, Uncle Billy almost felt it would walk away in indignation and disappointment. Then, too, munic.i.p.al, county and national affairs needed his attention every day in front of the county clerk's office. He occupied a chair there as regularly as he did at home, and his word was final. By this I do not mean that it was always accepted, but it surely was always the last spoken. Provided he secured the last word, he felt that his opinion was the correct one. During these days Mr. Hoonover "drove through." That is to say he made a more or less direct route for town through his own and one of his neighbour's farms; a trip attended with much discomfort and some peril, for the way led over ground tilled and untilled, across unexpected gullies and into gra.s.s-hidden sinkholes.

One morning, a week after John's encounter with Marston at the latter's home, the usual gathering began to a.s.semble in the shade before the door of the county clerk's office. Some were smoking pipes; some were chewing tobacco. The use of the weed in some form was universal. Conversation was desultory and spiritless for a time. The morning was extremely hot, and one would have thought that fact responsible for the listlessness which pervaded the group. The truth was, however, that their ringleader had not arrived.

"Uncle Billy must be sick," drawled big Joe Colver, tilting his chair onto its two rear legs and leaning his weight forward on his knees.

"More like he's fell in a ditch 'n' broke his laig!" chimed in old Tim Mellowby. Old Tim was the town drunkard, a privileged, harmless character, whom every one tolerated. He remained in a perpetual state of comfortable inebriety; was inoffensive; in former years had been a boot and shoe maker, and during that period of his life had acc.u.mulated enough money to support himself in drunken idleness the rest of his days. His favourite haunt was the spot he now sat. He loved to listen, and also to express himself from time to time. A general laugh greeted Tim's sally.

"Mr. Hoonover will arrive, never fear!" piped a third voice.

It came from against the wall, and the speaker was Colonel Whitley. He was an old, dried-up little man, with keen eyes, bushy brows, hawk nose and fuzzy gray side whiskers. He was the learned one of the group--quite a scholar indeed. He had been "abroad" in his day, too, and this fact invested him with an added dignity in the eyes of his stay-at-home townspeople. His profession had formerly been the practice of law, but he had retired several years before. Nevertheless he always came up to the courthouse yard every morning to read his paper, and occasionally to let his voice be heard.

"Possess your souls in patience," he added, "and presently you will witness the fulfillment of my prediction."

His head went down behind the paper. His hearers were accustomed to his bombastic style of speech, and admired him too much even to smile at the fulness of his rhetoric.

A figure came thumping hurriedly across the yard, a black medicine case in its hand, its vest secured by a single b.u.t.ton at the bottom, wearing a white shirt streaked with ambier, and a derby hat much too large.

"Hullo, doc!" greeted Judge Colver, as the new-comer halted and glared around as though expecting some hostile move. "The small-pox didn't spread, did it?"