The Prodigal Judge
CHAPTER XXXIV
THE DUEL
It had been with no little reluctance that Solomon Mahaffy accompanied Yancy
and Cavendish to Belle Plain; he would have preferred to remain in Raleigh in
attendance upon judge Price. Intimately acquainted with the judge's mental
processes, he could follow all the devious workings of that magnificent mind; he
could fathom the simply hellish ingenuity he was capable of putting forth to
accomplish temporary benefits. Permitting his thoughts to dwell upon the mingled
strength and weakness which was so curiously blended in Slocum Price's
character, he had horrid visions of that great soul, freed from the trammels of
restraint, confiding his melancholy history to Mr. Pegloe in the hope of
bolstering his fallen credit at the City Tavern.
Always where the judge was concerned he fluctuated between extremes of doubt
and confidence. He felt that under the urgent spur of occasion his friend could
rise to any emergency, while a sustained activity made demands which he could
not satisfy; then his efforts were discounted by his insane desire to realize at
once on his opportunities; in his haste he was for ever plucking unripe fruit;
and though he might keep one eye on the main chance the other was fixed just as
resolutely on the nearest tavern.
With the great stake which fate had suddenly introduced into their losing
game, he wished earnestly to believe that the judge would stay quietly in his
office and complete the task he had set himself; that with this off his hands
the promise of excitement at Belle Plain would compel his presence there, when
he would pass somewhat under the restraining influence which he was determined
to exert; in short, to Solomon, life embraced just the one vital consideration,
which was to maintain the judge in a state of sobriety until after his meeting
with Fentress.
The purple of twilight was stealing over the land when he and his two
companions reached Belle Plain. They learned that Tom Ware had returned from
Memphis, that the bayou had been dragged but without results, and that as yet
nothing had been heard from Carrington or the dogs he had gone for.
Presently Cavendish and Yancy set off across the fields. They were going on
to the raft, to Polly and the six little Cavendishes, whom they had not seen
since early morning; but they promised to be back at Belle Plain within an hour.
By very nature an alien, Mahaffy sought out a dark corner on the wide porch
that overlooked the river to await their return. The house had been thrown open,
and supper was being served to whoever cared to stay and partake of it. The
murmur of idle purposeless talk drifted out to him; he was irritated and
offended by it. There was something garish in this indiscriminate hospitality in
the very home of tragedy. As the moments slipped by his sense of displeasure
increased, with mankind in general, with himself, and with the judge—principally
with the judge—who was to make a foolish target of himself in the morning. He
was going to give the man who had wrecked his life a chance to take it as well.
Mahaffy's cold logic dealt cynically with the preposterous situation his friend
had created.
In the midst of his angry meditations he heard a clock strike in the hall and
counted the strokes. It was nine o'clock. Surely Yancy and Cavendish had been
gone their hour! He quitted his seat and strolled restlessly about the house. He
felt deeply indignant with everybody and everything. Human intelligence seemed
but a pitiable advance on brute instinct. A whole day had passed and what had
been accomplished? Carrington, the judge, Yancy, Cavendish—the four men who
might have worked together to some purpose had widely separated themselves; and
here was the duel, the very climax of absurdity. He resumed his dark corner and
waited another hour. Still no Carrington, and Yancy and Cavendish had not come
up from the raft.
"Fools!" thought Mahaffy bitterly. "All of them fools!"
At last he decided to go back to the judge; and a moment later was hurrying
down the lane in the direction of the highroad, but, jaded as he was by the
effort he had already put forth that day, the walk to Raleigh made tremendous
demands on him, and it was midnight when he entered the little town.
It can not be said that he was altogether surprised when he found their
cottage dark and apparently deserted. He had half expected this. Entering, and
not stopping to secure a candle, he groped his way up-stairs to the room on the
second floor which he and the judge shared.
"Price!" he called, but this gained him no response, and he cursed softly
under his breath.
He hastily descended to the kitchen, lighted a candle, and stepped into the
adjoining room. On the table was a neat pile of papers, and topping the pile was
the president's letter. Being burdened by no false scruples, and thinking it
might afford some clue to the judge's whereabouts, Mahaffy took it up and read
it. Having mastered its contents he instantly glanced in the direction of the
City Tavern, but it was wrapped in darkness.
"Price is drunk somewhere," was his definite conclusion. "But he'll be at
Boggs' the first thing in the morning—most likely so far gone he can hardly
stand!" The letter, with its striking news, made little or no impression on him
just then; it merely furnished the clue he had sought. The judge was off
somewhere marketing his prospects.
After a time Mahaffy went up-stairs, and, without removing his clothes, threw
himself on the bed. He was worn down to the point of exhaustion, yet he could
not sleep, though the deep silence warned him that day was not far off. What
if—but he would not let the thought shape itself in his mind. He had witnessed
the judge's skill with the pistol, and he had even a certain irrational faith in
that gentleman's destiny. He prayed God that Fentress might die quickly and
decently with the judge's bullet through his brain. Over and over in savage
supplication he muttered his prayer that Fentress might die.
He began to watch for the coming of the dawn, but before the darkness lifted
he had risen from the bed and gone downstairs, where he made himself a cup of
wretched coffee. Then he blew out his candle and watched the gray light spread.
He was impatient now to be off, and fully an hour before the sun, set out for
Boggs', a tall, gaunt figure in the shadowy uncertainty of that October morning.
He was the first to reach the place of meeting, but he had scarcely entered the
meadow when Fentress rode up, attended by Tom Ware. They dismounted, and the
colonel lifted his hat. Mahaffy barely acknowledged the salute; he was in no
mood for courtesies that meant nothing. Ware was clearly of the same mind.
There was an awkward pause, then Fentress and Ware spoke together in a low
tone. The planter's speech was broken and hoarse, and his heavy, bloodshot eyes
were the eyes of a haunted man; this was all a part of Fentress' scheme to face
the world, and Ware still believed that the fires Hicks had kindled had served
his desperate need.
When the first long shadows stole out from the edge of the woods Fentress
turned to Mahaffy, whose glance was directed toward the distant corner of the
field, where he knew his friend must first appear.
"Why are we waiting, sir?" he demanded, his tone cold and formal.
"Something has occurred to detain Price," answered Mahaffy.
The colonel and Ware exchanged looks. Again they spoke together, while
Mahaffy watched the road. Ten minutes slipped by in this manner, and once more
Fentress addressed Mahaffy.
"Do you know what could have detained him?" he inquired, the ghost of a smile
curling his thin lips.
"I don't," said Mahaffy, and relapsed into a moody and anxious silence. He
held dueling in very proper abhorrence, and only his feeling of intense but
never-declared loyalty to his friend had brought him there.
Another interval of waiting succeeded.
"I have about reached the end of my patience; I shall wait just ten minutes
longer," said Fentress, and drew out his watch.
"Something has happened—" began Mahaffy.
"I have kept my engagement; he should have kept his," Fentress continued,
addressing Ware. "I am sorry to have brought you here for nothing, Tom."
"Wait!" said Mahaffy, planting himself squarely before Fentress.
"I consider this comic episode at an end," and Fentress pocketed his watch.
"Scarcely!" rejoined Mahaffy. His long arm shot out and the open palm of his
hand descended on the colonel's face. "I am here for my friend," he said grimly.
The colonel's face paled and colored by turns.
"Have you a weapon?" he asked, when he could command his voice. Mahaffy
exhibited the pistol he had carried to Belle Plain the day before.
"Step off the ground, Tom." Fentress spoke quietly. When Ware had done as he
requested, the colonel spoke again. "You are my witness that I was the victim of
an unprovoked attack."
Mr. Ware accepted this statement with equanimity, not to say indifference.
"Are you ready?" he asked; he glanced at Mahaffy, who by a slight inclination
of the head signified that he was. "I reckon you're a green hand at this sort of
thing?" commented Tom evilly.
"Yes," said Mahaffy tersely.
"Well, listen: I shall count, one, two, three; at the word three you will
fire. Now take your positions."
Mahaffy and the colonel stood facing each other, a distance of twelve paces
separating them. Mahaffy was pale but dogged, he eyed Fentress unflinchingly.
Quick on the word Fentress fired, an instant later Mahaffy's pistol exploded;
apparently neither bullet had taken effect, the two men maintained the rigid
attitude they had assumed; then Mahaffy was seen to turn on his heels, next his
arm dropped to his side and the pistol slipped from his fingers, a look of
astonishment passed over his face and left it vacant and staring while his right
hand stole up toward his heart; he raised it slowly, with difficulty, as though
it were held down by some invisible weight.
A hush spread across the field. It was like one of nature's invisible
transitions. Along the edge of the woods the song of birds was stricken into
silence. Ware, heavy-eyed Fentress, his lips twisted by a tortured smile,
watched Mahaffy as he panted for breath, with his hand clenched against his
chest. That dead oppressive silence lasted but a moment, from out of it came a
cry that smote on the wounded man's ears and reached his consciousness.
"It's Price—" he gasped, his words bathed in blood, and he pitched forward on
his face.
Ware and Fentress had heard the cry, too, and running to their horses threw
themselves into the saddle and galloped off. The judge midway of the meadow
roared out a furious protest but the mounted men turned into the highroad and
vanished from sight, and the judge's shaking legs bore him swiftly in the
direction of the gaunt figure on the ground.
Mahaffy struggled to rise, for he was hearing his friend's voice now, the
voice of utter anguish, calling his name. At last painful effort brought him to
his knees. He saw the judge, clothed principally in a gaily colored bed-quilt,
hatless and shoeless, his face sodden and bleary from his night's debauch.
Mahaffy stood erect and staggered toward him, his hand over his wound, his
features drawn and livid, then with a cry he dropped at his friend's feet.
"Solomon! Solomon!" And the judge knelt beside him.
"It's all right, Price; I kept your appointment," whispered Mahaffy; a bloody
spume was gathering on his lips, and he stared up at his friend with glassy
eyes.
In very shame the judge hid his face in his hands, while sobs shook him.
"Solomon—Solomon, why did you do this?" he cried miserably.
The harsh lines on the dying man's face erased themselves.
"You're the only friend I've known in twenty years of loneliness, Price. I've
loved you like a brother," he panted, with a pause between each word.
Again the judge buried his face in his hands.
"I know it, Solomon—I know it!" he moaned wretchedly.
"Price, you are still a man to be reckoned with. There's the boy; take your
place for his sake and keep it—you can."
"I will—by God, I will!" gasped the judge. "You hear me? You hear me,
Solomon? By God's good help, I will!"
"You have the president's letter—I saw it," said Mahaffy in a whisper.
"Yes!" cried the judge. "Solomon, the world is changing for us!"
"For me most of all," murmured Mahaffy, and there was a bleak instant when
the judge's ashen countenance held the full pathos of age and failure. "Remember
your oath, Price," gasped the dying man. A moment of silence succeeded.
Mahaffy's eyes closed, then the heavy lids slid back. He looked up at the judge
while the harsh lines of his sour old face softened wonderfully. "Kiss me,
Price," he whispered, and as the judge bent to touch him on the brow, the
softened lines fixed themselves in death, while on his lips lingered a smile
that was neither bitter nor sneering.