The Code of the Mountains - Charles Buck

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breach of the truce, and in accordance with that theory the Deacon had come home. At least, he had come this far. In the meanwhile, the Honorable Cale Floyd, commonwealth's attorney, had reaped the gratitude of his constituency. Because he had waged relentless war on lawlessness and had begun to show incipient symptoms of victory, he was defeated for reëlection. Sick of the futility of such endeavor, he had closed the bare law-office before which his shingle had swung in Jackson, and had come to Winchester, where the field was larger and where men were more appreciative of the qualities and principles for which he stood. He was the man who had put stripes on Newt, and who, had he remained in office long enough, would have made the pattern a family apparel for other Spooners.

      "That's how things stands, Newt," summarized Red, turning to the new arrival, "an' that's what I 'lowed ye'd better know about afore ye went back home."

      "An' them damned fellers, Jake Falerin an' Cale Floyd, is a settin' over thar somewhars in this-hyar town right now, a-brewin' of more deviltry," enlightened old Jason Dode in a hiccupy voice, "an' because they hain't in the mountings, they 'lows they kin go right on with hit. We don't 'low they kin."

      The "Deacon" turned from the window, and strolled toward the table. Newt, having appeased his hunger, was wiping his mouth on the spotted tablecloth. The dark giant fixed him with thoughtful eyes. When he spoke, his voice was in contrast with those of his fellows, for his life in the West had almost freed it from drawl and vernacular, and he spoke with a quiet graveness.

      "Son, this Cale Floyd is the same lawyer that sent you to prison."

      Newt's eyes flashed.

      "I reckon I hain't fergot thet," he said shortly.

      Black Pete nodded sympathetically, and went on with the same grave intonation.

      "I reckon you wouldn't mind much if he got his dues?"

      "He's ergwine ter git his'n," asserted old Jason, his bloodshot eyes wickedly aflare. "He's ergwine ter git his'n this day afore sundown. An' Jake Falerin's ergwine ter git his'n, too. Them two fellers'll be in hell ternight."

      "Shut the old fool up," suggested the Deacon passively; "he'll be shouting that out in the street after one more swig of liquor." Then he turned to Newt again.

      "If Floyd isn't taken care of, son, the next commonwealth's attorney will follow right after him. We've got to give a lesson an' a warning. Do you understand?"

      "I reckon I do," replied the ex-convict, but he spoke without ardor.

      "This evenin' about half-past four o'clock," proceeded Black Pete, "Mister Lawyer Floyd is going to make a speech in front of the court-house. There'll be a crowd, and we figure that Falerin will be there, too. Our boys will get up close. Some of them will start a fight amongst themselves, and I reckon they'll pull guns. Mr. Floyd an' Mr. Falerin are apt to get accidentally shot."

      Newt Spooner rose, and stretched his arms. His food and rest had refreshed him, and the red spots had gone out of his cheeks.

      "What for," he inquired coolly, "air ye a-tellin' me all this-hyar business?"

      The Deacon's grave eyes clouded, but otherwise his expression did not change.

      "We figured you'd be interested, son. You were the first Spooner they ever put behind penitentiary bars. This man did it. We figured that when we came to punish these fellers – " He broke off with a shrug of his shoulders.

      "Ye 'lowed ye mout git me ter kill 'em?" Newt spoke with absolutely no betrayal of interest.

      "Jest the lawyer, Newt," interpolated Red Newton ingratiatingly. "He's your'n. Hit's yore right ter punish him."

      The late convict wheeled on the speaker, and his face blackened and lowered.

      "The hell hit is!" he screamed. "I hain't aholden nothin' 'g'inst ther lawyer. He didn't do nothin' but what he had a license ter do. I knows who I'm atter. You folks wants two men killed, an' you wants me ter be ther feller ter go ter the penitentiary fer doin' hit. What the hell did any of ye do fer me last time? What the hell do I owe any of ye, wuth goin' back thar fer?"

      For a moment, a general silence of dazed astonishment followed the outburst. It was the Deacon who broke it at last.

      "All right, son," he said almost gently. "Every man accordin' to his lights. I reckon you ain't goin' to tell anybody what you've heard?"

      Newt snorted contemptuously.

      "I reckon ye knows thar hain't no danger of thet." "Hit 'pears like," interposed Red Newton with an apologetic shrug to the others, "hit 'pears like the penitenshery hes done broke ther boy's sperit. Some folks is thet-away, but hit don't hardly seem like no Spooner."

      Newt wheeled on him.

      "Thet's a low-down lie," he stormed. "Nothin' hain't broke my sperit. I hain't scairt of them, ner of you, ner of hell! I knows what I'm atter. Thar's a feller I'm ergwine ter kill, but hit hain't this one. I'm tendin' ter my own business? – not your'n. You-all got me inter one killin', an' not a blame one of ye stood by me atterwards. Now all of ye kin go ter hell!"

      He glared around the group for a moment and left the house, and no one made an effort to stop him. Newt meant to take up his journey within an hour or two. He, too, had a vengeance planned, but the man he sought was back there in the mountains, and there was no use in "foolin' away time an' money here."

      Yet an hour later he walked past the court-house and the large hotel just beyond it, and abruptly, opposite the hotel door, he halted. He had seen a buggy drive up and stop, and in the buggy was the girl who had brought him to town. He had forgotten her, but now he paused across the street and stood gazing. He gazed simply because she was the first living soul who had ever been kind or gracious to him, and, precisely as the blind man may feel the sunlight and know that it is pleasant, he glowed dumbly under the remembrance of her smile.

      Then as he stood looking, a young man came out of the hotel with his hat lifted and his face smiling. In his eyes was an expression easy to read, an eager, glad welcome as he crossed the pavement with extended hand and climbed into the buggy beside the girl. The young man was well dressed and bore himself like a gentleman, yet he was a mountaineer by parentage and birth.

      Newt's posture stiffened into rigidity. The color left his face and his eyes began to burn balefully… He had just recognized Henry Falkins.

      For an instant, the erstwhile convict stood paralyzed with astonishment, then the blood in his arteries began pounding a fanfare of triumph. Wheeling, he went rapidly toward the restaurant of Mr. Cawsler. There he would find some of the clansmen, and one of them could lend him a pistol. If they refused, he would ravish a weapon from them with his bare hands. After that, if they let him have ten minutes for his own, he would join them in any schemes, conspiracies or crimes that interested them. For him, ten minutes would be sufficient. His walk broke into a trot at which the passers-by laughed. A yokel in a hurry is always amusing.

      CHAPTER IV

      A group of shabby men lounging in front of Fult Cawsler's restaurant paid scant attention to a wild-eyed youth who came down the street at a run and dashed into the door. Newt found the dining-room on the main floor empty save for a weary and untidy woman who was clearing away the china of the mid-day trade, and Fult Cawsler himself, whose bulky figure was just then disappearing up the stairs. The boy stood for a moment anxiously gazing about the place with its oil-cloth table-covers and its gaudy wall calendars, then dashed pell-mell after the climbing restaurateur. The woman called to him in high-pitched and raucous prohibition, but Newt Spooner went heedlessly on his way. At the head of the stairs in the murky hallway Cawsler turned, and without at once recognizing the on-rushing invader wheeled belligerently to face him.

      The plans which had been hatched in his place that day were not such as would enhance his reputation as a law-abiding tradesman should they come to general knowledge. As the proprietor blocked the way, his voice carried the ring of asperity.

      "What in hell air ye makin' such a furss about?"

      "Hit's me, hit's Newt Spooner," volleyed the unarmed avenger. "Whar's Red? Whar's the Deacon? I hain't got no time ter fool round. I'm in hell's own haste!"

      "They've done gone

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