The Gentleman from Indiana - Page 93/212

"That ain't nothin'," Homer Tibbs broke in. "You'd ort to've saw old Miz

Hathaway, that widder woman next door to us, when she heard it. He had

helped her to git her pension; and she tuck on worse 'n' anything I ever

hear--lot worse 'n' when Hathaway died."

"I reckon there ain't many crazier than them two Bowlders, father and

son," said the postmaster, wiping the drops from his beard as he set his

glass on the bar. "They rid into town like a couple of wild Indians, the

old man beatin' that gray mare o' theirn till she was one big welt, and he

ain't natcherly no cruel man, either. I reckon Lige Willetts better keep

out of Hartley's way."

"I keep out of no man's way," cried a voice behind him. Turning, they saw

Lige standing on the threshold of the door that led to the street. In his

hand he held the bridle of the horse he had ridden across the sidewalk,

and that now stood panting, with lowered head, half through the doorway,

beside his master. Lige was hatless, splashed with mud from head to foot;

his jaw was set, his teeth ground together; his eyes burned under red

lids, and his hair lay tossed and damp on his brow. "I keep out of no

man's way," he repeated, hoarsely.

"I heard you, Mr. Tibbs, but I've got too much to do, while you loaf and

gas and drink over Lum Landis's bar--I've got other business than keeping

out of Hartley Bowlder's way. I'm looking for John Harkless. He was the

best man we had in this ornery hole, and he was too good for us, and so

we've maybe let him get killed, and maybe I'm to blame. But I'm going to

find him, and if he's hurt--damn me! I'm going to have a hand on the

rope that lifts the men that did it, if I have to go to Rouen to put it

there! After that I'll answer for my fault, not before!"

He threw himself on his horse and was gone. Soon the room was emptied, as

the patrons of the bar returned to the search, and only Mr. Wilkerson and

the landlord remained, the bar being the professional office, so to speak,

of both.

Wilkerson had a chair in a corner, where he sat chanting a funeral march

in a sepulchral murmur, allowing a parenthetical hic to punctuate the

dirge in place of the drum. Whenever a batch of newcomers entered, he rose

to drink with them; and, at such times, after pouring off his liquor with

a rich melancholy, shedding tears after every swallow, he would make an

exploring tour of the room on his way back to his corner, stopping to look

under each chair inquiringly and ejaculate: "Why, where kin he be!" Then,

shaking his head, he would observe sadly: "Fine young man, he was, too;

fine young man. Pore fellow! I reckon we hain't a-goin' to git him."