EVERED EVERED BY BEN AMES WILLIAMS NEW YORK E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 681 FIFTH AVENUE Copyright, 1921, By E. P. Dutton & Company _All Rights Reserved_ PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA EVERED I There is romance in the very look of the land of which I write. Beauty beyond belief, of a sort to make your breath come more quickly; and drama--comedy or tragedy according to the eye and the mood of the seer. Loneliness and comradeship, peace and conflict, friendship and enmity, gayety and somberness, laughter and tears. The bold hills, little cousins to the mountains, crowd close round each village; the clear brooks thread wood and meadow; the birches and scrub hardwood are taking back the abandoned farms. When the sun drops low in the west there is a strange and moving purple tinge upon the slopes; and the shadows are as blue as blue can be. When the sun is high there is a greenery about this northern land which is almost tropical in its richness and variety. The little villages lie for the most part in sheltered valley spots. Not all of them. Liberty, for example, climbs up along a steep hill road on your way to St. Georgeâs Pond, or over the Sheepscot Ridge, for trout. No spot lovelier anywhere. But you will come upon other little house clusters, a white church steeple topping every one, at unsuspected crossroads, with some meadowland round and about, and a brook running through the village itself, and perhaps a mill sprawled busily across the brook. It is natural that the villages should thus seek shelter; for when the winter snows come down this is a harsh land, and bitter cold. So is it all the more strange that the outlying farms are so often set high upon the hills, bare to the bleak gales. And the roads, too, like to seek and keep the heights. From Fraternity itself, for example, there is a ten-mile ridge southwest to Union, and a road along the whole length of the ridgeâs crest, from which you may look for miles on either side. This is not a land of bold emprises; neither is it one of those localities which are said to be happy because they have no history. There is history in the very names of the villages hereabouts. Liberty, and Union, and Freedom; Equality, and Fraternity. And men will tell you how their fathersâ fathers came here in the train of General Knox, when that warrior, for Revolutionary services rendered, was given title to all the countryside; and how he sub-granted to his followers; and how they cleared farms, and tilled the soil, and lumbered out the forests, and exterminated deer and moose and bear. Seventy years ago, they will tell you, there was no big game hereabouts; but since then many farms, deserted, have been overrun by the forests; and the bear are coming back, and there are deer tracks along every stream, and moose in the swamps, and wildcats scream in the night. Twenty or thirty or forty miles to the north the big woods of Maine begin; so that this land is an outpost of the wilderness, thrust southward among the closer dwellings of man. The people of these towns are of ancient stock. The grandfathers of many of them came in with General Knox; most of them have been here for fifty years or more, they or their forbears. A few Frenchmen have drifted down from Quebec; a few Scotch and Irish have come in here as they come everywhere. Half a dozen British seamen escaped, once upon a time, from a man-of-war in Penobscot Bay, and fled inland, and were hidden away until their ship was gone. Whereupon they married and became part and parcel of the land, and their stock survives. By the mere reading of the names of these folk upon the R. F. D. boxes at their doors you may know their antecedents. Bubier and Saladine, Varney and Motley, McCorrison and MacLure, Thomas and Davis, Sohier and Brine--a five-breed blend of French and English, Scotch and Welsh and Irish; in short, as clear a strain of good Yankee blood as you are like to come upon. Sturdy folk, and hardy workers. You will find few idlers; and by the same token you will find few slavish toilers, lacking soul to whip a trout brook now and then or shoot a woodcock or a deer. Most men hereabouts would rather catch a trout than plant a potato; most men would rather shoot a partridge than cut a cord of wood. And they act upon their inclinations in these matters. The result is that the farms are perhaps a thought neglected; and no one is very rich in worldly goods; and a man who inherits a thousand dollars has come into money. Yet have they all that any man wisely may desire; for they have food and drink and shelter, and good comradeship, and the woods to take their sport in, and what books they choose to read, and time for solid thinking, and beauty ever before their eyes. Whether you envy or scorn them is in some measure an acid test of your own soul. Best hesitate before deciding. Gregarious folk, these, like most people who dwell much alone. So there are grange halls here and there; and the churches are white-painted and in good repair; and now and then along the roads you will come to a picnic grove or a dancing pavilion, set far from any town. Save in haymaking time the men work solitary in the fields; but in the evening, when cows have been milked and pigs fed and wood prepared against the morning, they take their lanterns and tramp or drive half a mile or twice as far, and drop in at Will Bissellâs store for the mail and for an hour round Willâs stove. You will hear tales there, tales worth the hearing, and on the whole surprisingly true. There is some talk of the price of hay or of feed or of apples; but there is more likely to be some story of the woods--of a bull moose seen along the Liberty road or a buck deer in Luke Hillsâ pasture or a big catch of trout in the Ruffingham Meadow streams. Now and then, just about mail time in the evening, fishermen will stop at the store to weigh their catches; and then everyone crowds round to see and remark upon the matter. The store is a clearing-house for local news; and this must be so, for there is no newspaper in Fraternity. Whatever has happened within a six-mile radius during the day is fairly sure to be told there before Will locks up for the night; and there is always something happening in Fraternity. In which respect it is very much like certain villages of a larger growth, and better advertised. There is about the intimacy of life in a little village something that suggests the intimacy of life upon the sea. There is not the primitive social organization; the captain as lord of all he surveys. But there is the same close rubbing of shoulders, the same nakedness of impulse and passion and longing and sorrow and desire. You may know your neighbor well enough in the city, but before you lend him money, take him for a camping trip in the woods or go with him to sea. Thereafter you will know the man inside and out; and you may, if you choose, make your loan with a knowledge of what you are about. It is hard to keep a secret in a little village; and Fraternity is a little village--that and nothing more. On weekday nights, as has been said, Will Bissellâs store is the social center of Fraternity. Men begin to gather soon after supper; they begin to leave when the stage has come up from Union with the mail. For Willâs store is post office as well as market-place. The honeycomb of mail boxes occupies a place just inside the door, next to the candy counter. Will knows his business. A man less wise might put his candies back among the farming tools, and his tobacco and pipes and cigars in the north wing, with the ginghams, but Will puts them by the mail boxes, because everyone gets mail or hopes for it, and anyone may be moved to buy a bit of candy while he waits for the mail to come. This was an evening in early June. Willâs stove had not been lighted for two weeks or more; but to-night there was for the first time the warm breath of summer in the air. So those who usually clustered inside were outside now, upon the high flight of steps which led up from the road. Perhaps a dozen men, a dog or two, half a dozen boys. Luke Hills had just come and gone with the seasonâs best catch of trout--ten of them; and when they were laid head to tail they covered the length of a ten-foot board. The men spoke of these trout now, and Judd, who was no fisherman, suggested that Luke must have snared them; and Jim Saladine, the best deer hunter in Fraternity and a fair and square man, told Judd he was witless and unfair. Judd protested, grinning meanly; and Jean Bubier, the Frenchman from the head of the pond, laughed and exclaimed: âNow you, mâsieuâ, you could never snare those trout if you come upon them in the road, eh?â They were laughing in their slow dry way at Juddâs discomfiture when the hoofs of a horse sounded on the bridge below the store; and every man looked that way. It was Lee Motley who said, âItâs Evered.â The effect was curious. The men no longer laughed. They sat quite still, as though under a half-fearful restraint, and pretended not to see the man who was approaching. II There were two men in the buggy which came up the little ascent from the bridge and stopped before the store. The men were Evered, and Everedâs son, John. Evered lived on a farm that overlooked the Whitcher Swamp on the farther side. He was a man of some property, a successful farmer. He was also a butcher; and his services were called in at hog-killing time as regularly as the services of Doctor Crapo in times of sickness. He knew his trade; and he knew the anatomy of a steer or a calf or a sheep as well as Doctor Crapo knew the anatomy of a man. He was an efficient man; a brutally efficient man. His orchard was regularly trimmed and grafted and sprayed; his hay was re-seeded year by year; his garden never knew the blight of weeds; his house was clean, in good repair, white-painted. A man in whom dwelt power and strength; and a man whom other men disliked and feared. He was a short man, broad of shoulder, with a thick neck and a square, well-shaped head, a heavy brow and a steady burning eye. A somber man, he never laughed; never was known to laugh. There was a blighting something in his gaze which discouraged laughter in others. He was known to have a fierce and ruthless temper; in short, a fearsome man, hard to understand. He puzzled his neighbors and baffled them; they let him well alone. He was driving this evening. His horse, like everything which was his, was well-groomed and in perfect condition. It pranced a little as it came up to the store, not from high spirits, but from nervousness. So much might be known by the white glint of its eye. The nervousness of a mettled creature too much restrained. It pranced a little, and Everedâs hand tightened on the rein so harshly that the horseâs lower jaw was pulled far back against its neck, and the creature was abruptly still, trembling, and sweating faintly for no cause at all. Evered paid no more heed to the horse. He looked toward the group of men upon the steps, and some met his eye, and some looked away. He looked at them, one by one; and he asked Lee Motley: âIs the mail come?â Motley shook his head. He was a farmer of means, a strong man, moved by no fear of Evered. âNo,â he said. Evered passed the reins to his son. âHold him still,â he told the young man, and stepped out over the wheel to the ground, dropping lightly as a cat. The horse gave a half leap forward and was caught by John Everedâs steady hand; and the young man spoke gently to the beast to quiet it. Evered from the ground looked up at his son and said harshly, âI bade you hold him still.â The other answered, âI will.â âYouâd best,â said Evered, and turned and strode up the steps into the store. The incident had brought out vividly enough the difference between Evered and his son. They were two characters sharply contrasting; for where Evered was harsh, John was gentle of speech; and where Evered was abrupt, John was slow; and where Everedâs eye was hard and angry, Johnâs was mild. They contrasted physically. The son was tall, well-formed and fair; the father was short, almost squat in his broad strength, and black of hair and eye. Nevertheless, it was plain to the seeing eye that there was strength in John as there was strength in Evered--strength of body and soul. When Evered had gone into the store Motley said to the son, âItâs warm.â The young man nodded in a wistfully friendly way. âYes,â he agreed. âSo warm itâs brought up our peas this day.â âThat south slope of yours is good garden land,â Motley told him, and John said: âYes. As good as I ever see.â Everyone liked John Evered; and someone asked now: âBeen fishing any, over at Wilsonâs?â John shook his head. âToo busy,â he explained. âBut I hear how theyâre catching some good strings there.â âLuke Hills brought in ten to-night that was ten feet long,â Jim Saladine offered. âGot âem at Ruffingham.â The young man in the buggy smiled delightedly, his eyes shining. âGolly, what a catch!â he exclaimed. Then Evered came to the door of the store and looked out, and silence fell upon them all once more. The mail was coming down the hill; the stage, a rattling, rusted, do-or-die automobile of ancient vintage, squeaked to a shrill stop before the very nose of Everedâs horse. John spoke to the horse, and it was still. The stage driver took the mail sacks in, and Evered left the doorway. The others all got up and turned toward the door. Motley said to Saladine, âDid you mark the horse? It was scared of the stage, but it was still at his word, and he did not tighten rein.â âI saw,â Saladine agreed. âThe boy handles it fine.â âItâs feared of Evered; but the beast loves the boy.â âThereâs others in that same way oâ thinking,â said Saladine. Inside the store Will Bissell and Andy Wattles, his lank and loyal clerk, were stamping and sorting the mail. No great matter, for few letters come to Fraternity. While this was under way Evered gathered up the purchases he had made since he came into the store, and took them out and stowed them under the seat of the buggy. He did not speak to his son. John sat still in his place, moving his feet out of the otherâs way. When the bundles were all bestowed Evered went back up the steps and Will gave him his daily paper and a letter addressed to his wife, and Evered took them without thanks, and left the store without farewell to any man, and climbed into the buggy and took the reins. He turned the horse sharply and they moved down the hill, and the bridge sounded for a moment beneath their passing. In the still evening air the pound of the horseâs hoofs and the light whirring of the wheels persisted for long moments before they died down to blend with the hum and murmur of tiny sounds that filled the whispering dusk. As they drove away one or two men came to the door to watch them go; and Judd, a man with a singular capacity for mean and tawdry malice, said loudly, âThat boyâll break Evered, some day, across his knee.â There was a momentâs silence; then Jean Bubier said cheerfully that he would like to see the thing done. âBut that Evered, he is one leetle fighter,â he reminded Judd. Judd laughed unpleasantly and said Evered had the town bluffed. âThatâs all he is,â he told them. âA black scowl and some cussing. Nothing else. Youâll see.â Motley shook his head soberly. âEveredâs no bluff,â he said. âYouâre forgetting that matter of the knife, Judd.â Motleyâs reminder put a momentary silence upon them all. The story of the knife was well enough known; the knife they had all seen. The thing had happened fifteen or twenty years before, and was one of the tales many times told about Willâs stove. One Dave Riggs, drunken and worthless, farming in a small way in North Fraternity, sent for Evered to kill a pig. Evered went to Riggsâ farm. Riggs had been drinking; he was quarrelsome; he sought to interfere with Everedâs procedure. Motley, a neighbor of Riggs, had been there at the time, and used to tell the story. âRiggs wanted him to tie up the pig,â he would explain. âYou know Evered does not do that. He says they will not bleed properly, tied. He did not argue with the man, but Riggs persisted in his drunken way, and cursed Evered to his face, till I could see the blood mounting in the butcherâs cheeks. He is a bad-tempered man, always was. âHe turned on Riggs and told the man to hush; and Riggs damned him. Evered knocked him flat with a single fist stroke; and while Riggs was still on the ground Evered turned and got the pig by the ears and slipped the knife into its throat, in that smooth way he has. When he drew it out the blood came after; and Evered turned to Riggs, just getting on his feet. ââThereâs your pig,â said Evered. âButchered right. Now, man, be still.â âWell, Riggs took a look at the pig and another at Evered. He was standing by the chopping block, and his hand fell on the ax stuck there. Before I could stir he had lifted it, whirling it, and was sweeping down on Evered. âIt was all over quick, youâll mind. Riggs rushing, with the ax whistling in the air. Then Evered stepped inside its swing, and drove at Riggsâ head. I think he forgot he had the knife in his hand. But it was there; his hand drove it with the cunning that it knew--at the forehead of the other man. âI mind how Riggs looked, after he had dropped. On his back he was, the knife sticking straight up from his head. And it still smeared with the pigâs blood, dripping down on the dead manâs face. Oh, aye, he was dead. Dead as the pig, when it quit its walking round in a little, and laid down, and stopped its squeal.â Someone asked him once, when he had told the tale: âWhere was Riggsâ wife? Married, waânât he?â âIn the house,â said Motley. âThe boy was there, though. Heâd come to see the pig stuck, and when he saw the blood come out of its throat he yelled and run. So he didnât have to see the rest--the knife in his fatherâs head.â There had been no prosecution of Evered for that ancient tragedy. Motleyâs story was clear enough; it had been self-defense at the worst, and half accident besides. Riggsâ wife went away and took her son, and Fraternity knew them no more. They conned over this ancient tale of Evered in Willâs store that night; and some blamed him, and some found him not to blame. And when they were done with that story they told others; how when he was called to butcher sheep he had a trick of breaking their necks across his knee with a twist and a jerk of his hands. There was no doubt of the manâs strength nor of his temper. A West Fraternity man came in while they were talking; one Zeke Pitkin, a mild man, and timid. He listened to their words, and asked at last, âEvered?â They nodded; and Pitkin laughed in an awkward way. âHe killed my bull to-day,â he said. Will Bissell asked quickly, âKilled your bull? You have him do it?â Pitkin nodded, gulping at his Adamâs apple. âGetting ugly, the bull was,â he said. âI didnât like to handle him. Decided to beef him. So I sent for Evered, and he came over.â He looked round at them, laughed uneasily. âHe scared me,â he said. Motley asked slowly. âWhat happened, Zeke?â Pitkin rubbed one hand nervously along his leg. âWe-ell,â he explained. âIâm nervous like. Git excited easy. So when he come I told him the bull was ugly. Told him to look out for it. âHe just only looked at me in that hard way of his. I had the bull in the barn; and he went in where it was and fetched it out in the barn floor. Left the bull standing there and begun to fix his tackle to hâist it up. âI didnât want to stay in there with the bull. I was scared of it--it loose there, nothing to hold it. And Evered kept working round it, back to the beast half the time. Nothing to stop it tossing him. I didnât like to get out, but I didnât want to stay. And I guess I talked too much. Kept telling him to hurry, and asking him why he didnât kill it and all. Got him mad, I guess.â The man shivered a little, his eyes dim with the memory of the moment. He took off his hat and rubbed his hand across his head, and Motley said, âHe did kill it?â Pitkin nodded uneasily. âYeah,â he said. âEvered turned round to me by and by; and he looked at me under them black eyebrows of his, and he says: âWant I should kill this bull, do you?â I âlows that I did. âWant him killed now, do you?â he says, and I told him I did. And I did too. I was scared of that bull, I say. But not the way he did kill it.â He shuddered openly; and Motley asked again, âWhat did he do?â âStepped up aside the bull,â said Pitkin hurriedly. âYanked out that knife of his--that same knife--out of his sheath. Up with it, and down, so quick I never see what he did. Down with the knife right behind the bullâs horns. Right into the neck bone. And that bull oâ mine went down like a ton oâ brick. Like two ton oâ brick. Stone dead.â Will Bissell echoed, âStabbed it in the neck?â âRight through the neck bone. With that damned heavy knife oâ his.â He wiped his forehead again. âWe had a hell of a time hâisting that bull, too,â he said weakly. âA hell of a time.â No one spoke for a moment. They were digesting this tale of Evered. Then Judd said: âIâd like to see that red bull of his git after that man.â One or two nodded, caught themselves, looked sheepishly round to discover whether they had been seen. Everedâs red bull was as well and unfavorably known as the man himself. A huge brute, shoulder high to a tall man, ugly of disposition, forever bellowing challenges across the hills from Everedâs barn, frightening womenfolk in their homes a mile away. A creature of terror, ruthlessly curbed and goaded by Evered. It was known that the butcher took delight in mastering the bull, torturing the beast with ingenious twists of the nose ring, with blows on the leg joints, and nose, and the knobs where horns should have been. The red bull was of a hornless breed. The great head of it was like a buffaloâs head, like a huge malicious battering ram. It was impossible to look at the beast without a tremor of alarm. âItâs ugly business to see Evered handle that bull,â Will Belter said, half to himself. And after a little silence Jean Bubier echoed: âAlmost as ugly as to see the man with his wife. When I have see that, sometime, I have think I might take his own knife to him.â Judd, the malicious, laughed in an ugly way; and he said, âGuess Evered would treat her worse if he got an eye on her and that man Semler.â It was Jim Saladineâs steady voice which put an end to that. âDonât put your foul mouth on her, Judd,â he said quietly. âNot if you want to walk home.â Judd started to speak, caught Saladineâs quiet eye and was abruptly still. III Evered and his son drove home together through the clotting dusk in a silence that was habitual with them. The buggy was a light vehicle, the horse was swift and powerful, and they made good time. Evered, driving, used the whip now and then; and at each red-hot touch of the light lash the horse leaped like a stricken thing; and at each whiplash John Everedâs lips pressed firmly each against the other, as though to hold back the word he would have said. No good in speaking, he knew. It would only rouse the lightly slumbering anger in his father, only lead to more hurts for the horse, and a black scowl or an oath to himself. There were times when John Evered longed to put his strength against his fatherâs; when he was hungry for the feel of flesh beneath his smashing fists. But these moments were few. He understood the older man; there was a blood sympathy between them. He knew his fatherâs heart as no other did or could; and in the last analysis he loved his father loyally. Thus had he learned long patience and restraint. It is very easy to damn and hate a man like Evered, hot and fierce and ruthlessly overbearing. But John Evered, his son, who had suffered more from Evered than any other man, neither damned nor hated him. They drove home together in silence. Evered sat still in his seat, but there was no relaxation in his attitude. He was still as a tiger is still before the charge and the leap. John at his side could feel the otherâs shoulder muscles tensing. His father was always so, always a boiling vessel of emotions. You might call him a powerful man, a masterful man. John Evered knew him for a slave, for the slave of his own hot and angry pulse beats. And he loved and pitied him. Out of Fraternity they took the Liberty road, and came presently to a turning which led them to the right, and so to the way to Everedâs farm, a narrow road, leading nowhere except into the farmyard, and traveled by few men who had no business there. When they came into the farmyard it was almost dark. Yet there was still light enough to see, beyond the shadow of the barn, the sloping hillside that led down to Whitcher Swamp; and the swamp itself, brooding beneath its gray mists in the thickening night. The farm buildings were set on a jutting shoulder of the hill, looking out across the valley where the swamp lay, to Fraternity, and off toward Moody Mountain beyond the town. By day there was a glory in this valley that was spread below them; by night it was a place of dark and mystery. Sounds used to come up the hill from the swamp; the sounds of thrashing brush where the moose fed, or perhaps the clash of ponderous antlers in the fall, or the wicked scream of a marauding cat, or the harsh cries of night-hawks, or the tremolo hoot of an owl. Built against the barn on the side away from the house there was a stout roofed stall; and opening from this stall a pen with board walls higher than a manâs head and cedar posts as thick as a manâs leg, set every four feet to support the planking of the walls. As the horse stopped in the farmyard and Evered and his son alighted, a sound came from this stall--a low, inhuman, monstrous sound, like the rumbling of a storm, like the complaint of a hungry beast, like the promise of evil things too dreadful for describing; the muffled roaring of Everedâs great red bull, disturbed by the sound of the horse. John Evered stood still for an instant, listening. It was impossible for most men to hear that sound without an appalling tremor of the heart. But Evered himself gave no heed to it. He spoke to the horse. He said âHush, now. Still.â The horse was as still as stone, yet it trembled as it had trembled at Willâs store. Evered gathered parcels from beneath the seat; and John filled his arms with what remained. They turned toward the house together, the son a little behind the father. There was a light in the kitchen of the farmhouse; and a woman had come to the open door and was looking out toward them. She was silhouetted blackly by the light behind her. It revealed her figure as slim and pleasantly graven. The lampâs rays turned her hair into an iridescent halo about her head. She rested one hand against the frame of the door; and her lifted arm guided her body into graceful lines. She called to them in a low voice, âDo you need light?â Evered answered. âIf you were out of the door thereâd be light enough,â he said. The woman lifted her hand to her lips in a hurt little gesture; and she stepped aside with no further word. She still stood thus, at one side of the door, when they came in. The lamplight fell full upon her, full upon her countenance. The womanâs face, the face of this woman whose body still bore youthful lines, was shocking. There were weary contours in it; there were shadows of pain beneath the eyes; there was anguish in the mobile lips. The hair which had seemed like a halo showed now like a white garland; snow white, though it still lay heavy and glossy as a girlâs. She was like a statue of sorrow; the figure of a sad and tortured life. The woman was Everedâs second wife; Everedâs wife, Mary Evered. His wife, whom he had won in a courtship that was like red flowers in spring; whom he had made to suffer interminably, day by day, till suffering became routine and death would have been happiness; and whom--believe it or no--Evered had always and would forever love with a love that was like torment. There is set perversely in man and woman alike an impulse to tease and hurt and distress those whom we love. It is, of this stuff that loversâ quarrels are made; it is from this that the heartbreaks of the honeymoon are born. The men and women of the fairy tales, who marry and live happily ever after, are fairy tales themselves; or else they never loved. For loving, which is sacrifice and service and kindness and devotion, is also misunderstanding and distortion and perversity and unhappiness most profound. It is a part of love to quarrel; the making-up is often so sweet it justifies the anguish of the conflict. Mary Evered knew this. But Evered had a stiff pride in him which would not let him yield; be he ever so deeply wrong he held his ground; and Mary was sick with much yielding. Annie Paisley, who lived at the next farm on the North Fraternity road, had given Mary Evered something to think about when Paisley died, the year before. For over Paisleyâs very coffin Annie had said in a thoughtful, reminiscent way: âYes, Mary; Jim âuz a good husband to me for nigh on thirty year. A good pervider, and a kind man, and a good father. He never drunk, nor ever wasted what little money we got; and we always had plenty to do with; and the children liked him. Kind to me, he was. Gentle.â Her eyes had narrowed thoughtfully. âBut Mary,â she said, âyou know I never liked him.â Mary Evered had been a girl of spirit and strength; and if she had not loved Evered she would never have stayed with him a year. Loving him she had stayed; and the bitter years rolled over her; stayed because she loved him, and because she--like her son--understood the heart of the man, and knew that through all his ruthless strength and hard purpose, with all his might he loved her. She said now in the kitchen: âYou got the salt pork?â âOf course I got the salt pork,â Evered told her in a level tone that was like a whip across her shoulders. He dumped his parcels on the table, pointed to one; and she took it up in a hurried furtive way and turned to the stove. John laid down his bundles, and Evered said to him: âPut the horse away.â The young man nodded, and went out into the farmyard. The horse still stood where Evered had bade it stand. John went to the creatureâs head and laid his hand lightly on the velvety nose, and spoke softly; and after a moment the horse mouthed his hand with its lips. He took the bridle and led it toward the stable. There was a lantern hanging by the door, but he did not light it. The young man loved the still darkness of the night; there was some quality in the damp cool air which was like wine to him. And he needed no light for what he had to do; he knew every wooden peg in the barnâs stout frame, blindfolded; for the barn and the farm had been his world for more than twenty years. Outside the stable door he stopped the horse and loosed the traces and led it out of the thills, which he lowered carefully to the ground. The horse turned, as of habit, to a tub full of water which stood beside the barn door; and while the creature drank John backed the buggy into the carriage shed and propped up the thills with a plank. When he came to the stable door again the horse was waiting for him; and he heard its breath whir in a soundless whinny of greeting. He stripped away the harness expertly, hanging it on pegs against the wall, and adjusted the halter. Once, while he worked, the red bull in its closed stall on the farther side of the barn bellowed softly; and the young man called to the beast in a tone that was at once strong and kindly. He put the horse in its stall, tied the halter rope, and stepped out into the open floor of the barn to pull down hay for the beast. It was when he did so that he became conscious that someone was near. He could not have told how he knew; but there was, of a sudden, a warmth and a friendliness in the very air about him, so that his breath came a little more quickly. He stood very still for a moment; and then he looked toward the stable door. His eyes, accustomed to the dark, discovered her. She had come inside the barn and was standing against the wall, watching him. He could see the dim white blur of her face in the darkness; he could almost see the glow that lay always in her eyes for him. He said quietly, âHello, Ruth.â And she answered him, âHello, John.â âIâve got to pull down a little hay,â he said. It was as though he apologized for not coming at once to her side. âYes,â she told him, and stood there while he finished tending the horse. When he had done he went toward her slowly and stood before her, and she moved a little nearer to him, so that he put his arms awkwardly round her shoulders and kissed her. He felt her lips move against his; felt her womanly and strong. There was no passion in their caress; only an awkward tenderness on his part, a deep affection on hers. âIâm glad you came out,â he said; and she nodded against his shoulder. They went into the barnyard, and his arm was about her waist. âItâs warm to-night,â she told him. âSummerâs about here.â He nodded. âWeâll have green peas by the Fourth if we donât git a frost.â Neither of them wanted to get at once to the house. There was youth in them; the house was no place for youth. She was Ruth MacLure, Mary Everedâs sister. Not, by that token, John Everedâs aunt; for John Everedâs mother was dead many years gone, before Evered took Mary MacLure for wife. A year ago old Bill MacLure had died and Ruth had come to live with her sister. John had never known her till then; since then he found it impossible to understand how he had ever lived without knowing her. She was years younger than her sister, three years younger than John Evered himself; and he loved her. They crossed the barnyard to the fence and looked down into the shadowy pit of blackness where the swamp lay, half a mile below them. They rested their elbows on the top bar of the fence. Once or twice the bull muttered in his stall a few rods away. They could hear the champ of the horseâs teeth as the beast fed before sleeping; they could hear Everedâs cows stirring in their tie-up. The night was very still and warm, as though heaven brooded like a mother over the earth. The girl said at last, âSemler was here while you were gone.â The young man asked slowly, âWhat fetched him here?â âHe was on his way home from fishing, down in the swamp stream.â âDid he do anything down there?â âHad seventeen. One of them was thirteen inches long. He wanted to leave some, but Mary wouldnât let him.â They were silent for a moment, then John Evered said, âBest not tell my father.â The girl cried under her breath, with an impatient gesture of her hand, âIâm not going to. But I hate it. It isnât fair. Mary wants him to keep away. He bothers her.â âI can keep him away.â âYou did tell him not to come.â âI can make him not come,â said John Evered; and the girl fell silent, and said at last, âHeâs writing to her. Oh, John, what can she do? More than she has done?â âIâll see toât he stays away,â the young man promised; and the girlâs hand fell on his arm. âPlease do,â she said. âHeâs so unfair to Mary.â A little later, when they turned at last toward the house, John said half to himself, âIf my father ever heard, heâd bust that man.â âI wish he would,â the girl said hotly. âBut--Iâm afraid heâd find some way to blame Mary. He mustnât know.â âIâll see Dane Semler,â John promised. On the doorstep they kissed again. Then they went into the house together. Evered sitting by the lamp with his paper looked up at them bleakly, but said no word. Mary Evered smiled at her sister, smiled at John. She loved her husbandâs son, had loved him like a mother since she came to the house and found him, a boy not four years old, helping with the chores as a grown man might have done. She had found something pitiful in the strength and the reserve of the little fellow; and she had mothered out of him some moments of softness and affection that would have surprised his father. There was a certain measure of reassurance in his eyes as he returned her smile. But when he had sat down across the table from his father, where she could not see his face, he became sober and very thoughtful. He was considering the matter of Dane Semler. IV First word of the tragedy came to Will Bissellâs store at seven oâclock in the evening of the next day but one; and the manner of the coming was this: The day had been lowering and sultry; such a day as Fraternity was accustomed to expect in mid-August, when the sun was heavy on the land and the air was murky with sea fogs blown in from the bay. A day when there seemed to be a malignant spirit in the very earth itself; a day when to work was torment, and merely to move about was sore discomfort. A day when dogs snarled at their masters, and masters cursed at their dogs; when sullen passions boiled easily to the surface, and tempers were frayed to the last splitting strand. No breath of air was stirring as the evening came down. The sun had scarce shown itself all day; the coming of night was indicated only by a growing obscurity, by a thickening of the murky shadows in the valleys and the gray clouds that hid the hills. Men slighted their evening chores, did them hurriedly or not at all, and made haste to get into the open air. From the houses of the village they moved toward Willâs store; and some of them stopped on the bridge above the brook, as though the sound of running water below them had some cooling power; and some climbed the little slope and sat on the high steps of the store. They talked little or none, spoke in monosyllables when they spoke at all. They were too hot and weary and uncomfortable for talking. No one seemed to be in any hurry. The men moved slowly; the occasional wagon or buggy that drove into town came at a walk; even the automobiles seemed to move with a sullen reluctance. So it was not surprising that the sound of a horseâs running feet coming along the Liberty road should quickly attract their ears. They heard it first when the horse topped the rise above the mill, almost a mile away. The horse was galloping. The sounds were hushed while the creature dipped into a hollow, and rang more loudly when it climbed a nearer knoll and came on across the level meadow road toward the town. The beat of its hoofs was plainly audible; and men asked each other whose horse it was, and what the hurry might be; and one or two, more energetic than the rest, stood up to get a glimpse of the road by which the beast was coming. Just before it came into their sight they heard it stop galloping and come on at a trot; and a moment later horse and rider came in sight, and every man saw who it was. Jean Bubier exclaimed, âIt is Mâsieuâ Semler.â And Judd echoed, âDane Semler. In a hell of a hurry, too.â Then the man pulled his horse to a stand at the foot of the store steps and swung off. He had been riding bareback; and he was in the garments which he was accustomed to wear when he went fishing along the brooks. They all knew him; for though he was a man of the cities he had been accustomed to come to Fraternity in June for a good many years. They knew him, but did not particularly like him. There was always something of patronage in his attitude, and they knew this and resented it. Nevertheless, one or two of them answered his greeting. For the rest, they studied him with an acute and painful curiosity. There was some warrant for their curiosity. Semler, usually an immaculate man, was hot and dusty and disordered; his face was white; his eyes were red and shifting, and there was an agonized haste in his bearing which he was unable to hide. He asked, almost as his foot touched ground, âAnyone here got a car?â Two or three of the men had come in automobiles; and one, George Tower, answered, âSure.â Tower was a middle-aged man of the sort that remains perpetually young; and he had recently acquired a swift and powerful roadster of which he was mightily proud. It was pride in this car, more than a desire to help Dane Semler, that prompted his answer. Semler took a step toward him and lowered his voice a little. âIâve had bad news,â he said. âHow long will it take you to get me to town?â That was a drive of ten or a dozen miles, over roads none too good. Tower answered promptly: âLand you there in twenty minutes.â âIâll give you a dollar for every minute you do it under half an hour,â said Semler swiftly; and Tower got to his feet. âWhereâs your grip?â he asked. Semler shook his head. âIâm having that sent on. Canât wait. Iâm ready to start now.â He looked toward the men on the steps. âSome of you take care of the horse,â he said quickly. âGarvey will send for it.â Garvey was the farmer at whose house Semler had been staying. Will Bissell took the horseâs bridle and promised to stable the beast till Garvey should come. Tower was already in his car; Semler jumped in beside him. They were down the hill and across the bridge in a diminuendo roar of noise as the roadster, muffler cut out, rocketed away toward town. Two or three of the men got to their feet to watch them go, sat down again when they were out of sight. There was a momentâs thoughtful silence before someone said, âWhat do you make oâ that? Semler in some hurry, Iâd say.â Jean Bubier laughed a little. âOne damâ hurry,â he agreed. âLike something was after him--or he was after someone.â Judd the mean cackled to himself. âBy Gad,â he cried, âIâll bet Everedâs got on to him. Iâll bet Everedâs after that man. No wonder he run.â The other men looked at Judd, and they shifted uncomfortably. Will Bissell had gone round to stable the horse; Lee Motley had not yet come to the store, nor had Jim Saladine. Lacking these three there was no one to silence Judd, and the man might have gone on to uglier speech. But he was silenced, and silenced by so inconsiderable a person as Zeke Pitkin. Zeke drove up just then, drove hurriedly; and they saw before he stopped his horse that he was shaking with excitement. He cried out, âHainât you heard?â Judd answered, âHeard what? What ails you, Zeke?â Pitkin scarce heard him, he was so intent on crying out his dreadful news. It came in a stumbling burst of half a dozen words. âEveredâs red bullâs killed Misâ Evered,â he stammered. V Everedâs red bull was a notorious and dangerous figure in the countryside. It was like some primordial monster of the forests, and full as fierce of temper. Evered had bought it two years before, and two men on horseback, with ropes about the creatureâs neck, brought it from town to his farm. Evered himself, there to receive it, scowled at their precautions. There was a ring in the monstrous beastâs nose; and to this ring Evered snapped a six-foot stick of ash, seasoned and strong. Holding the end of this stick he was able to control the bull; and he set himself to teach it fear. That he succeeded was well enough attested. The bull did fear him, and with reason. Nevertheless, Evered took no chances with the brute, and never entered its stall without first snapping his ash stick fast to the nose ring. Those who watched at such times said that the bullâs red eyes burned red and redder so long as Evered was near; and those who saw were apt to warn the man to take care. But Evered paid no heed to their warnings; or seemed to pay no heed. The bull had never harmed a human being, because it had never found the opportunity. Men and women and children shunned it, kept well away from its stout-fenced pasture, its high-boarded pen and its stall. The creature was forever roaring and bellowing; and when the air was still its clamor carried far across the countryside and frightened children and women, and made even men pause to
{'title': 'Evered by Ben Ames Williams', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}