A municipal feud
upright gent who has always got a sensible word danglin’ on his
tongue. Rise up, Phil Layton, an’ pour a little oil.”
* * * * *
The designated personage looked as if somebody had caught him in the
act of stealing sheep. He said something like, “I’ll be gug-gug----”
in a strangled voice. But the eyes of the multitude were upon him and
so he stood up, a slab-sided fellow with a hatchet jaw and no amount
of fraternal cheer on his leather jowls. He opened his mouth, closed
it, picked a knife from the table and ran it across his coat sleeve.
“Well, I dunno,” said he. “Mebbe we-all have been sorter careless.
Not that I’m apologizin’ for Jingle Bell y’unnerstan’; ner condemnin’
Big Elk. Anybody’s apt to shoot off a few poisonous remarks. It’s
possible both sides was rash. Seems to me the side which is biggest
was the most rash--which might be natural. Of course all this how-do
started thirty-one years ago, come July, when the county seat was
boldly stole----”
At this point a remark seeped out of some gentleman on the Big Elk
side. It had no precise meaning, but its intent was distinctly ribald,
distinctly challenging. It sounded like “Rats,” though, of course,
there were no rats in that room. A noticeable livening of interest
passed along the festive board. Every man but one stopped eating, the
exception being Indigo, who was doggedly determined to fill up before
trouble started. Joe Breedlove hastily interposed. “You was sayin’,
wasn’t you, Phil, that it was time we sh’d quit fightin’?”
Phil Layton grimly faced the serene Joe. “Yeh,” he grunted. “Them was my
words--if I said ’em.”
This might have saved the evening and the general meeting of minds might
have gone on undisturbed had not another skeptic on the Big Elk side
muttered, “Huh!” in a very suspicious manner. Phil Layton swung angrily.
“What was yuh gruntin’ about, yuh moon faced sheepeater?”
The Big Elk partisan was not reluctant about entering the parley. “I
was wonderin’ how many extra men Jingle Bell has got hid over by the
poplars.”
“Oh, is that bitin’ yuh?” snapped Layton. “Well, prob’ly we ain’t got
half so many as you boys have cached out behind the barns.”
“Who said we had any fellows hidin’ behind the corrals?” countered
the Big Elk gentleman. “It’s a dam’ lie. And even if it ain’t a lie,
we knowed blamed well you fellas would try a stunt like that.”
“Like I was sayin’--” interposed Joe Breedlove; but the tide rushed
in and bore him out of the scene. Indigo tilted his head toward the
ceiling, appearing to see nothing, hear nothing. Yet he saw and heard
everything; and his relaxed attitude was only a mask. He was ready to
jump.
* * * * *
Phil Layton hammered the table, his words smacked the air resoundingly.
“If they’s any rannies pulled around here it’ll be on the Big Elk side.
Yuh couldn’t no more help bein’ crooked than a snake could help crawl.
Yuh stole the county seat--yuh’d steal offen yore own grand folks,
providin’ yuh had any, which I doubt. I don’t want to git personal none,
but I will observe somethin’ in this room smells an’ it comes from yore
side o’ the table!”
Forthwith a Big Elk stalwart rose to his feet. “The atmosphere is some
tainted all right. But the breeze is blowin’ from yore direction. Jingle
Bell has been dead thirty years--an’ it ain’t been buried yet.”
Chairs flew back; up rose the assembled gentlemen. Indigo sighed and
shrugged his thin shoulders. “Jes’ a minute,” pleaded Joe. “They’s a
mistake----”
“You bet they’s a mistake!” bellowed Phil Layton. “The mistake is tryin’
to get sixteen mutton lovers to eat beef! I ain’t a proud man, but my
ears shore do burn to think what a disgraceful night this is for me.”
“Nothin’ ever comes from Jingle Bell but dust,” jeered another Big Elk
partisan. “Dust an’ hot air!”
“Yeh? Well, they’s plenty o’ Big Elk boys that’s proud o’ Jingle Bell
when yore tinhorn sheriff gets busy.”
“Aw, go home to yore cemetery!”
“Cemetery? I’m sayin’ Big Elk’s cemetery will do some business before
this meetin’s adjourned!”
“Yeh?”
“Yeah!”
“Yuh lie!”
“Who lies--yuh liar!”
* * * * *
Up rose the long table, borne by thirty-odd pairs of contesting arms;
up and over with a rending and a crashing of dishes. Down went the
lamps. The spilling kerosene flamed a bright blue, reared and whipped
out. In the darkness words were flailing back and forth across the
table and then a moment of deceptive silence descended, in which
Indigo could be heard muttering, “Awful. Somebody’s goin’ to get hurt
yet. I wish I’d held on to that dish o’ hominy.”
He said something else, but it was lost in the roar of a gun. That shot
was a signal. Instantly the place was aquiver with the blasting report
of guns as sundry unarmed men discovered weapons from queer sources. A
torrent of poisonous epithets, rocketing yells--and the Three Pines
ranch-house shivered with the shock of bodies hurling toward the exit.
Window panes jingled and the firing dropped off. Some thirty men had
arrived at the doorway about the same time; and the grunting and the
heaving--with all its by-products--was something fearful to hear. It
seemed as if the whole wall was about to burst asunder. From the
outside came the crackling of other guns in other hands, appearing to
rise out of two distinct places, the corrals and the poplars. And it
continued until the contending factions had fought out of the door.
Hoofs drummed around and around the house, there were other bludgeoning
words and a further spattering of bullets as the two parties withdrew
and raced in opposite directions. Silence reigned in the house.
But not for long. After a decent interval someone swore placidly. A
match flared, revealing Indigo’s gloomy countenance down behind a pile
of chairs. And from an opposite corner rose the familiar drawl of Joe
Breedlove. “Well, Indigo.”
“Well, Joe.”
One of the Three Pines women ventured in, bearing a lamp. The yellow
rays gleamed on utter ruin. More than that, they gleamed on a pocket
pistol in Indigo’s fist. Joe challenged him then and there. “Didn’t
you know this was to be an affair o’ peace, Indigo?”
“Uhuh,” said Indigo, a little sheepishly. “But, you see, I wouldn’t of
had it, if it’d been a peaceful affair.”
This reasoning seemed to be both devious and open to certain errors of
logic. But Joe let it pass. “Let’s smoke,” said he.
“I wish I’d kept aholt of that bowl o’ hominy,” grieved Indigo.
“You got any further business in Jingle Bell, Indigo?”
“No, sir. I’m a singed cat an’ I got to grow my whiskers before I go
smellin’ any more trouble.”
“That’s my identic idee,” said Joe, casually. “I think you’n me had
better get our hosses an’ sift.”
“Where to, Joe?”
“South.”
“It sounds reasonable,” muttered Indigo. They rose and went outside.
Starlight had come and the bosom of the prairie was filled with peace.
“Human nature,” said Joe Breedlove, sadly, “is plumb immutable.”
“I could say it in shorter words,” replied Indigo, “but they couldn’t
sound no worse. Le’s ride.”
[Transcriber’s note: This story appeared in the May 10, 1928 issue
of _Short Stories_ magazine.]