Caleb Harper bent forward with a quick gesture of expostulation.

"Ef ye does thet, boy," he pleaded, "ye won't skeercely be wedded afore ther officers will come atter ye from over thar in Virginny."

"Then they kin come," the voice was obdurate. "I don't aim ter give Almighty G.o.d no false name in my weddin' vows."

Uncle Jase, to whom this was all an inexplicable riddle, glanced perplexedly at old Caleb and Caleb stood for the moment irresolute, then with a sigh of relief, as though for discovery of a solution, he demanded:

"Did ye ever make use of yore middle name--over thar in Virginny?"

"No. I reckon n.o.body don't skeercely know I've got one."

"All right--hit belongs ter ye jist as rightfully as ther other given name. Write hit down Parish Thornton in thet paper, Jase. Thet don't give no undue holt ter yore enemies, boy, an' es fer ther last name hit's thicker then hops in these parts, anyhow."

In all the numbers of the crowd that stood about the dooryard that day waiting for the wedding party to come through the door one absence was recognized and felt.

"Old Jim Hewlett didn't come," murmured one observant guest, and the announcement ran in a whisper through the gathering to find an echo that trailed after it. "I reckon he didn't aim ter countenance ther matter, atter all."

Then the door opened and Dorothy came out, with a sweet pride in her eyes and her head high. At her side walked the man whose face they had been curiously waiting to see.

They acknowledged at a glance that it was an uncommon face from which one gained feeling of a certain power and mastery--yet of candour, too, and fearless good nature.

But the crowd, hungry for interest and gossip, breathed deep in a sort of chorused gasp at the dramatic circ.u.mstance of the bridegroom leaning heavily on the arm of Bas Rowlett, the defeated lover. Already Uncle Jase stood with his back to the broad, straight column whose canopy of leaf.a.ge spread a green roof between the tall, waving gra.s.s that served as a carpet and the blue of a smiling sky.

Through branches, themselves as heavy and stalwart as young trees, and through the myriads of arrow-pointed leaves that rustled as they sifted and shifted the gold flakes of sunlight, sounded the low, mysterious harping of wind-fingers as light and yet as profound as those of some dreaming organist.

The girl, with her eyes fixed on that living emblem of strength and tranquillity, felt as though instead of leaving a house, she were entering a cathedral--though of man-built cathedrals she knew nothing.

It was the spirit which hallows cathedrals that brought to her deep young eyes a serenity and thanksgiving that made her face seem ethereal in its happiness--the spirit of benediction, of the presence of G.o.d and of human sanctuary.

So she went as if she were treading clouds to the waiting figure of the man who was to perform the ceremony.

When the clear voice of the justice of the peace sounded out as the pair--or rather the trio--stood before him at the foot of the great walnut, the astonishment which had been simmering in the crowd broke into audible being again and with a rising tempo.

The tone with which old Jase read the service was full and sonorous and the responses were clear as bell metal. On the fringe of the gathering an old woman's whispered words carried to those about her:

"Did ye heer thet? Jase called him Parish Thornton--I thought he give ther name of Cal Maggard!"

Even Bas Rowlett, whose nerves were keyed for an ordeal, started and almost let the leaning bridegroom fall.

The loft of old Caleb's barn had been cleared for that day, and through the afternoon the fiddles whined there, alternating with the tw.a.n.g of banjo and "dulcimore." Old Spike Crooch, who dwelt far up at the headwaters of Little Tribulation, where the "trails jest wiggle an'

wingle about," and who bore the repute of a master violinist, had vowed that he "meant ter fiddle at one more shin-dig afore he laid him down an' died"--and he had journeyed the long way to carry out his pledge.

He had come like a ghost from the antique past, with his old bones straddling neither horse nor mule, but seated sidewise on a brindle bull, and to reach the place where he was to discourse music he had made a "soon start" yesterday morning and had slept lying by the roadside over night.

Now on an improvised platform he sat enthroned, with his eyes ecstatically closed, the violin pressed to his stubbled chin, and his broganned feet--with ankles innocent of socks--patting the spirited time of his dancing measure.

Outside in the yard certain young folk who had been reared to hold dancing unG.o.dly indulged in those various "plays" as they called the games less frowned upon by the strait-laced. But while the thoughtless rollicked, their elders gathered in small clumps here and there and talked in grave undertones, and through these groups old Caleb circulated. He knew how mysterious and possibly significant to these news-hungry folk had seemed the strange circ.u.mstance of the bridegroom's answering, in the marriage service, to a name he had not previously worn and he sought to draw, by his own strong influence, the sting of suspicion from their questioning minds.

But Bas Rowlett did not remain through the day, and when he was ready to leave, old Caleb followed him around the turn of the road to a point where they could be alone, and laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

"Bas," he said, feelingly, "I'd hate ter hev ye think I hain't a-feelin'

fer ye terday. I knows right well ye're sore-hearted, boy, an' thar hain't many men thet could hev took a bitter dose like ye've done."

Rowlett looked gloomily away.

"I hain't complainin' none, Caleb," he said.

"No. But I hain't got master long ter live--an' when Jim an' me both pa.s.ses on, I fears me thar'll be stressful times ahead. I wants ye ter give me yore hand thet ye'll go on standin' by my leetle gal an' her fam'ly, Bas. Else I kain't die satisfied."

Bas Rowlett stood rigidly and tensely straight, his eyes fixed to the front, his forehead drawn into furrows. Then he thrust out his hand.

"Ye've done confidenced me until now," he said simply, "ye kin go on doin' hit. I gives ye my pledge."

CHAPTER XIV

Among the men who danced at that party were Sim Squires and Pete Doane, but when they saddled and mounted at sunset, they rode divergent ways.

Each of the two was acting under orders that day, and each was spreading an infection whose virus sought to stir into rebirth the war which the truce had so long held in merciful abeyance.

Aaron Capper, who was as narrow yet as religious as an Inquisition priest, had always believed the Thorntons to be G.o.d's chosen and the Doanes to be children of Satan. The bonds of enforced peace had galled him heavily. Three sons had been killed in the battle at Claytown and he felt that any truce made before he had evened his score left him wronged and abandoned by his kinsmen.

Now Sim Squires, mounted on a swift pacing mare, fell in beside Aaron, his knee rubbing the knee of the grizzled wayfarer, and Sim said impressively:

"Hit looks right bodaciously like es ef ther war's goin' ter bust loose ergin, Aaron."

The other turned level eyes upon his informant and swept him up and down with a searching gaze.

"Who give ye them tidin's, son? I hain't heered nothin' of hit, an' I reckon ef ther Harpers war holdin' any council they wouldn't skeercely pa.s.s me by."

"I don't reckon they would, Aaron." Sim now spoke with a flattery intended to placate ruffled pride. "Ther boys thet's gittin' restive air kinderly lookin' ter _you_ ter call thet council. Caleb Harper hain't long fer this life--an' who's goin' ter take up his leadership--onless. .h.i.t be you?"

Aaron laughed, but there was a grim complaisance in the tone that argued secret receptiveness for the idea.

"'Peared like hit war give out ter us terday thet this hyar young stranger war denoted ter heir thet job."

"Cal Maggard!" Sim Squires spat out the name contemptuously and laughed with a short hyena bark of derision. "Thet woods-colt from G.o.d-knows-whar? Him thet goes hand in glove with Bas Rowlett an' leans on his arm ter git married? h.e.l.l!"

Aaron took refuge in studied silence, but into his eyes had come a new and dangerously smouldering darkness.

"I'll ponder hit," he made guarded answer--then added with humourless sincerity, "I'll ponder--an' pray fer G.o.d's guidin'."

And as Sim talked with Aaron that afternoon, so he talked to others, even less conservative of tendency, and Pete Doane carried a like gospel of disquiet to those whose allegiance lay on the other side of the feud's cleavage--yet both talked much alike. In houses remote and widely scattered the security of the longstanding peace was being insidiously undermined and shaken and guns were taken furtively out and oiled.

But in a deserted cabin where once two shadowy figures had met to arrange the a.s.sa.s.sination of Cal Maggard three figures came separately now on a night when the moon was dark, and having a.s.sured themselves that they had not been seen gathering there, they indulged themselves in the pallid light of a single lantern for their deliberations.

Bas Rowlett was the first to arrive, and he sat for a time alone smoking his pipe, with a face impatiently scowling yet not altogether indicative of despair.