Hoss fer a Errant i wunt be bak your Lovin Husban. C. Shinalt."

"Law me!" said Polly Ann, "he mought hev come in, anyhow. An' the dinner's plum spiled." She was wretched over the morning's work, but she did not feel alarmed, having no belief in Lum's courage; and when she discovered that the gun was gone, she merely thought that he meant to shoot squirrels.

But Lum was seeking other game. His errand was to kill Whitsun Harp. The smoldering jealousy and resentment of weeks had burst into a flame that was shriveling his heart. He had been beaten before his wife, his wife who valued strength and bravery beyond everything. And Whitsun, whom she praised because he was so strong and brave, had beaten him. How many times had she praised Whitsun to his face. Like enough she had wanted the regulator all along, and had only taken up with Lum because Whitsun didn't speak -girls did such things Lum knew from the songs. Here was the secret of her being so quiet and sad and of that queer way she had with her that made him feel farther away, in the same room, than he did thinking of her, miles off, in the bottom.

"I never cud much her like I cud t'other gells," thought Lum; "I allus hed ter study on't afore I cud putt my arm 'reoun' her waist. Reckon I sorter s'picioned, inside, thet it pestered her. Pore Polly Ann!"

It was like Lum to feel no anger, only compassion, for his wife.

"Hit's bad fer her too- turrible bad," he pondered; "ef it's me gits killed up she caynt hev no mo' truck wi' him, an' ef it's him she'll natchally hate the sight er me! Wa'al, she won' be pestered with it; I'll go off on the cotton-boat afore sundown. All through this wide worl' I'll wandern, my love," said Lum, his thoughts unaffectedly shaping themselves in the words of his songs. They did not cause him to waver in his purpose; he knew Polly Ann's notions of manly honor too well. Old Man Gooden shot a

man once.

"Paw hed ter shoot him," Polly Ann explained; "he spatted paw en the face."

"An' ef a feller spatted me, wud I hev ter shoot him?" Lum had asked, amused by her earnestness, for this was before he passed the careless stage of his marriage.

"Wudn't ye waynt fer ter shoot 'im?" said Polly Ann, fixing her beautiful grave eyes on his smiling face.

"Wa'al, I shudn't crave it," said Lum. "But ye wud, Lum, ye wud shoot him!" "Mabbe-ef I cudn't run away," answered Lum, and he had laughed at her face over that speech.

He did not laugh now, riding with his bruised throat and aching shoulders, and the gun slung across his saddle-peak.

"Him or me," groaned Lum; "hit's him or me- one! Thar ain't no tother way!"

He was riding through the bottom lands above the mill. The entire bottom was like an innocent jungle with its waving green un

BUD BOAS.

dergrowth of cane. Pigs were rooting under the trees, and the heads of cattle rose above the cane, turning peaceful eyes of satisfied appetite upon Lum's reckless speed.

There was no reason for haste, really, outside the relief which motion gives to a perturbed soul, for Lum knew that Whitsun was buying a horse of a farmer up on the bayou, and would have to return by the same road. But he did not slacken his pace until he came on a man riding more leisurely. The man hailed him, and he saw Boas.

"W'y, I wuz at yo' heouse," said Lum, "an' Mis' Boas 'lowed ye wuz en bed."

"So I war," said Boas in a weak, high voice, "but I got up - I got up!"

"Toby shore, toby shore," said Lum soothingly.

He saw the man could barely keep in his saddle for trembling and that his features were ghastly; but Lum had the humblest Southerner's innate politeness; it was not deemed good manners in Clover Bend to take notice of anything singular in Boas's appearance or conduct; there was one unhappy explanation always ready.

Lum, through his daze of anguish, felt a prick of pity for this miserable being who had done many a kindness to Lum's mother in his unhaunted days. He stretched out his arm and supported Boas by the elbow. "Oh, I'm peart enough," said Boas; "I waynter tell ye suthin', Lum."

The younger man resigned himself with inward impatience to a slower gait.

"This yere's a sightly kentry, Lum, ain't it?" said Boas, gazing about him, "but I ain't repinin' ter leave it."

66

Be ye gwine ter Texas?"

"Farder'n Texas, boy. Dr. Vinson was over an' he tole me naw, Lum, ye don' need ter say yo' sorry, I know ye ar'. Ye be'n like a son ter me sence ever ye wuz a little trick an' played with my boys. Ye wuz the least little trick er all. Ye 'member 'em, Lum, sich peart, likely boys they wuz, an' they all died up an' nary un ter home, peaceable like; Mat an'Tobe drownded, an' Mark throwed from his hoss. All on 'em ayfter-ye know w'atall three en one year, ev'ry chile we'd got, Ora an' me. Hit war hard ter endure, Lum, turrible hard."

"It war so," said Lum.

"Wa'al, they're all on 'em gone. An' I'll be gone, too, afore long. I ain't repinin'. Lum, ye never heerd me talk on't; I cudn't b'ar ter speak; but, somehow, 'pears like 'twud ease my min' a bit ter tell ye suthin' er my feelin's, Lum; ef I hedn't er be'n so mortal skeered er meetin' up with Grundy, I'd a killed myse'f a long spell back, I wud so. I'm wore out. Boy, ef so be yo' tempted ter fight, 'mind yo'se'f er me! I killed Grundy Wild, killed 'im fair too; but, Lord ferguv me, I done went enter thet ar fight aimin' ter kill. I 'low thet war how he got 'is holt on me. Fer he's never lef' me sence. Fust I wudn't guv in. Be thet ar all the harntin' ye kin mek out?' sez I. But hit kep' a comin' an' a comin', never no differ. tell hit crazied me, Lum!

"Nur thet warn't the wust on it. The wust war bein' skeered the hull w'ile, 'spectin' an' dreadin' never no tell.

"Did ye never hev a door a squeakin,' Lum? A squeakin' door ar' a mighty little trick; 'tain't nuthin', ye may say; but ye'll be a settin' an' thet thar door'll squeak an' stop, an' then it'll squeak agin, an' then not, an' then squeak an' squeak an' squeak tell ye git up, sw'arin' mad, an' shet the door. Lum, I cudn't shet the door! I taken ter drinkin', but I cudn't git so drunk thet I'd not feel thet thar cole han' er his'n a flap flabbin' on my face. Hit's wore me out. Atlas' I jes give up; an', my Lord! 'peared like his soul fa'rly enjyed trompin' on me, r'arin' an' chargin' like twuz a wil' hog! Oh, my Lord!

"BE YE ON HIS SIDE?

my Lord!" The man shook in his saddle with the horror of his recollections. But he controlled himself enough to go on, though the sentences came in pants. "Then I 'membered thet thar tex'-an eye fer an eye an' a tooth fer a tooth. Hit come ter me- cud I on'y swap a life with the Lord fer Grundy's-then it mought be he wud tek Grundy offen me an' - let me die en peace. I don' ax no mo'." He stopped, gasping and coughing while Lum held him. Lum was deeply touched; he was not a whit moved from his intention; but he was touched, and he felt a somber sense of comradeship, thinking, "Mabbe I'll know how ye feel, termorrer.' "Boas continued:

"An', Lum, w'ile I war studyin' an' prayin', Lord, let thy pore sinful sarvint wipe the blood-guiltiniss offen his soul an' not hev ter die

skeered!' Lum, I heerd them Case boys frum the hills talkin' outside. They wuz come ter borry my bateau. They wuz ayfter Whitsun Harp, bekase he'd prommused the big un, Ike, a lickin' fer beatin' Öle Man Bryce outen 'is cotton. They wuz'lowin' ter pick a fight wi' him an' kill him. I peeked outer a crack an' seen 'em. Two hed guns, an' all three hed knives. So I tole Ora ter tell 'em we 'lowed ter use our own boat. But they got a bateau farder down, an' I seen 'em en the river, so I hed Ora row me over an' I borried Looney's hoss, it bein' so easy- an' I'm agwine ter warn 'im. The river twists so, an' thar's a right smart er groun' 'tween Young Canes whar he ar' an' the water, I kin' git thar fust, easy- Say, little tricks, w'at ye bellerin' fer?" The road had passed a little clearing, made in Arkansas fashion by burning down the trees. The cabin in the center had no window, and the door was open, showing three particularly dirty children who were all crying together. The oldest stuck a shaggy white head out to say, "Hit's fer maw?”

"Whar's yer maw done gone?" "She's done gone 'ith Mr. Harp fer ter see Aunt Milly Thorn, kase Uncle Tobe Thorn done lick er hide offen er," said the child, evidently repeating an older tongue's story. "I sended three men ayfter er, but she ain't come back, an' we uns is hungry. Oh dear, maw! maw!"

"Hush, hush, honey," said Boas, trembling, "whar did the men come from?"

"They come from a boat, an' they axed fer Mr. Harp, an' they said they wud fotch maw back in the boat. Will ye fotch maw?"

"Ter Tobe Thorn's," screamed Boas, clutching Lum's arm; "d'ye onnerstan', Lum? Thet's 'cross the big bayou, the heouse on the bank; they kin cut 'cross en the bateau, an' the road goes 'way off t'other side. I cayn't do hit, Lum, the Lord don' mean ter parden me! An' pore Whitsun" shaking Lum's arm in his uncontrollable agitation—" Lum, mabbe its 'tended fer you ter save 'im! Yo' hoss never makes a blunder. Ye knaw the bottom, an' ye kin ride through the brake fast fast!"

Lum turned a dull, deep red; he felt himself suffocating with passion; he saw his revenge lost, and with it everything else. Yet he could not wrench his last hope from this hunted, desperate, dying creature. And Boas had been kind to his mother.

"Lum, ye will do hit," pleaded Boas, “I knaw ye don' bear no good will ter Harp, but, God A'mighty, he's a human critter, ye won' see 'im murdered w'en ye kin save 'is life! Ye cayn't be so hard-hearted! Oh, Lum, do it ter save me, ter holp me outen the hell I be'n en fer five year!"

"Yes," said Lum, "I'll go fer you, Boas."

VOL. XXXIV.-18.

His face was as white as Boas's, but Boas could not see; he pushed his helper by the shoulder to hurry him, panting, "Go 'long, then, fast, fer God's sake! God bless ye, boy, ye'll save two men stidden one. How he rides, an' I useter ride thet way-" The children cried, and he went to them; Lum was out of sight in the high cane.

The young fellow rode furiously. Beneath that pleasant green sea lay pronged roots and logs and ugly holes. Thorn-trees stretched out their spiked limbs, wild grape-vines flung their beautiful treacherous lassos on the breeze, and pawpaw saplings, stout enough to trip a horse, were ambushed in the cane. Through them all crashed the brave gray, leaping, dodging, beating down the cane with his broad chest, and never slackening his speed. It looked like a frantic race through the wilderness, but, with the woodman's instinct, the rider, leaving the perils below to the beast's sure eyes, was really guiding him on an invisible course.

At last Lum drew rein before another clearing. He could see Thorn's cabin and women in the "gallery," and, riding along the shore, nearer and more distinct, the figure of a man on horseback, plainly Whitsun Harp. Lum galloped up to him.

The regulator carried pistols in the holsters of his old cavalry saddle; the barrel of one flashed out as Lum approached.

"Ye ain't no call ter be skeered er me!" shouted Lum. "Not this time. Look out fer the Case boys-thar, on the bateau! They're a comin'!

"Shucks!" said Whitsun. He gave Lum a long and keen glance which apparently satisfied him, for he addressed himself at once to the more imperative danger. In fact, the Case boys were landing. Ike, the tallest, he to whom the "lickin"" had been promised, stood up in the boat, as the keel grated on the sand, and hailed Lum:

"Say, Lum Shinault, moosey outer yere, we hain't no gredge agin you!

"W'at mought ye hev come fer then?" said Lum sarcastically.

"Ter guv thet thar regerlater a show ter lick Ïke, ef he darst," called the second brother.

"I darst," Whitsun replied with his usual composure; "jes come on over!" The brothers consulted; then Lum was hailed again:

"Lum Shinault, git outen the road!" "The road's free," said Lum. "Yo' mighty brash orderin' folks outen the road!"

"Dad burn ye, be ye on his side?" "Looks like," replied Lum indifferently; "onyhow, ef ye waynt a fight ye kin hev hit!" "They all won' fight," said Whitsun. Nor did they. The third Case boy (while

the others were bending to their oars) yelled: "A man so mean 's you, Whit Harp, hed orter be shot 'twixt the cross er the gallowses, an' we'll do hit yit!" And the big Ike informed Lum that he was "let off" on account of the women in the cabin; but not one of them lifted his gun. Safe out in the river, they threw back a shower of threats and oaths, but nothing more solid.

"They're pusillanimous cusses," remarked Harp. Then he drew nearer Lum, looking actually embarrassed. "I cayn't mek you out rightly, nohow, Columbus Shinault," said he.

"Naw," said Lum scornfully, "nor I cayn't mek myself out. Look a yere, Whit Harp, I come enter this yere bottom ter kill you."

Whitsun nodded gravely, making a little affirmative noise in his throat, exactly as he might have done to a remark about the weather.

"An' I wud hev killed ye or be'n killed up myself-one, ef I hedn't met up with Bud Boas. 'Tain't no differ how he stopped me; he done hit, he sent me on his errant ter ye -ter warn ye; an' w'at's mo', so longer 's he lives ye ain't nuthin' ter fear from me. But w'en he's done gone-look out!" He would have wheeled his horse, but Harp caught the rein, saying "Stop! w'at sorter trick's all this? W'at fer did ye stop fer Bud Boas? Did he -did he skeer ye with his ghost?"

Lum laughed harshly, in sheer bitterness of soul: "A dozen ghosts wudn't a stopped me. I don' hole by ghosts nohow."

"Then w'y did ye go?"

None of us are above wishing to be justified, and there is a peculiar zest in overturning our enemies' false notions of us. Lum never would have proffered an explanation, but there may have been a grim comfort in letting Whitsun see his real self. He replied quietly, "I come ter holp Boas."

"How'd thet holp 'im ?"

"Kase he war purportin' ter warn ye hisself. He 'lowed ef he cud jes save some un's life —a sorter swap like fer the one he taken, thet ar ghos' w'at harnts 'im mought quit."

"Did the ghost say so?"

"I don' hole by ghosts, I tell ye. Naw, it's jes a idy. So's the ghost a idy, ter my min'. But hit's plum fixed in 'is head jes strong's scripter. An' I reckon t'wull be like he 'lows t'will be-so. He 'lowed ef he cud save ye from bein' killed up er hev me, then the ghost 'ud let up an' he cud die in peace."

Toby shore. An' hit war thet away? An' thet thar's w'y ye won' fight me. -kase the life won' be saved then an' the sperrit mought cum back ?"

Lum shrugged his shoulders: "I guess." Whitsun's stolid face worked as he cried:

"Blame my skin ef I kin mek ye out onyhow! Ye ain't no sich feller like I wuz 'ceountin' ye ter be!" The blood rushed to Lum's forehead with a sudden sense of the uselessness of this late recognition, a sudden fury of pain. “Ye hev foun' hit out too late, Whitsun Harp," he cried; "ye shamed me afore Polly Ann, an' ye shamed her too, lickin' her husband jes bekase ye wuz the bigges' an' stronges', an' ye wuz too dumb ter see thet thar triflin' critter, Savannah, war jes sick with a chill, an' I wuz guvin' on her w'isky."

"An' wuz them lies 'beout you an' her?" "Ax her, " said Lum, overcome by irritation; "I don' want no mo' truck 'ith ye, Whit Harp, w'ile Boas is 'live. Let go!"

"Jes er minute mo', Lum. I ain't agoin' ter fight with ye ayfter this ev'nin'. An' ef I done ye wrong I'll ondo hit yit."

The hand on Lum's bridle dropped, and the gray leaped forward; Lum's farewell words hurled behind: "Ye cayn't ondo hit ; all ye kin do ar' ter fight me, an' ye shell!"

"Ef I mistaken him," muttered Whitsun, who hardly seemed to hear, so absorbed was he in his own train of thought, " ef- how cud hit a be'n― me bein' called?"

Boas was waiting at the cabin. He thanked and blessed Lum, but the poor fellow's heart was too sore to be thus eased. He must go back to Polly Ann, who despised him. It never occurred to him to try to lift himself a little in his wife's opinion by telling the story of the afternoon; he felt too sure that Polly Ann would not believe in any real intention of his to fight Harp, and would think that he welcomed any excuse. If only the Case boys had fought, if somebody's blood, no matter whose, had been spilled! "Gells is allus a cravin' fer folks ter be killin' each other," mused Lum. "Polly Ann wud feel a heap pearter ef I hed a fust-rate title ter a ghost er my own. But now I never'll hev no show, not the leas' bit on earth!"

Polly Ann received him with great kindness, saying nothing of the spoiled dinner or the delayed supper and twice-made coffee. After supper she herself brought him the violin. But he put it aside, saying: "Tek hit 'way, I don' feel like fiddlin'!" He had scarcely touched his supper. "Ye feelin' puny, Lum?" said Polly Ann timidly. He only shook his head and went out, forgetting his hat. Her kindness jarred on his sick soul; this morning he had yearned for it because this morning he had a conviction that she would not despise him long or grudge him, afterward, a last caress. But now "I'm so low down en her min' she cayn't holp pityin' me," thought Lum. Degraded in his own eyes and in hers, and uncertain how long before Savannah's giddy tongue might be released from

the fear that tied it and make his humiliation the latest joke for the store, Lum's whole nature seemed to collapse. He shunned the Clover Bend people; he even shunned his wife, spending days in the woods shooting, or picking cotton, and taking a lunch into the field. At night, supper over, he would go out and be gone until late. Many a night did Polly Ann pretend to be sleeping when Lum stepped softly across the floor. He never had been drinking; and he did not cross the river, for Polly Ann, always watching at the window, could see that the boats were not moved. One night she followed him. All that he did was to wander restlessly among the hills. She saw him make wild gestures; once she heard a groan. Then she crept back to bed and cried, poor woman, whether for him or for herself, who knows?

She began to be frightened. She saw Harp at a distance, and once he crossed the river and paid a long call on Boas; so that she did not connect any possible remorse with her husband's gloom. How could she imagine that he was ceaselessly and poignantly regretting his not being a murderer ?

The only place where Lum was anything like his old self was in Boas's cabin. Boas was dying, but very peacefully. The visions which had tortured his life away were gone. He had no more dread of them. Thanks to Lum, he told his wife. He told her nothing else, but that was enough to arouse her gratitude. She would not pain him with questions, but she thought no harm of questioning Polly Ann. "D'ye 'low Lum done seen Grundy an' druv him 'way?" she asked in tones of awe. "Law me, Mis' Shinault, but he mus' hev grit!" Grit ?-poor Lum! But Polly Ann, who was superstitious, did have a vague and appalling theory that in some way Boas might have transferred Grundy to Lum. Yet, were she right, it was not natural for Lum to take such evident comfort in Boas's society, going there every day, and taking his violin, although he never lifted the bow at home.

Boas had little to say; what he had was about the time when his lost boys were children. He would lie for hours, quite patient, quite content, watching his wife at her simple tasks or hearing Lum play. He often smiled. It was a pathetic sight to see how this man, who had not known peace for so long, seemed actually to revel in mere immunity from dread. "'Pears like I cudn't git enough er jes restin'," he would say. He suffered very little physically. "It isn't so much that his lungs are gone," the doctor had said; "all his organs seem used up. It's more a death from exhaustion than anything else."

November passed. Early in December Boas

Hit

died. Lum saw him only a few hours before the event. He had never alluded to the past horror, but to-day he said: "Lum, I be'n havin' a cur'is dream. 'Peared like I war haulin' logs alonger Grundy Wild, like we useter. An' we uns war hevin' sich a pleasan' time. war purty weather, an' we uns didn't 'pear ter hev no bad feelin's 'twixt us, an' Grundy he war a laffin' an' pokin' fun, an' me, I war laffin', too, kase ye know them tricks er his'n an' quar contraptions, an' nary un 'membered nuthin' er thet ar bad time. I war a laffin' w'en I waked up. Lum, we uns war right good frien's wunst, an' hits quar but I ar' a feelin' them ole frien'ly feelin's now agin. Hit's like the res' war jes a bad dream. I ain't skeered no mo' er meetin' up with Grundy, Lum."

Not long afterward he fell asleep, and he may have wakened with Grundy, for he did not waken in this world. There was a great gathering at the funeral. To this day the widow talks about it with doleful pride: "Twar the vurry bigges' an' the gran'es' buryin' the Bend ever seen. A hun'erd an' sixty-two, big an' little, looked at the co'pse. I ceounted."

Whitsun Harp came to the funeral. It so happened that when Lum first saw him they were both standing at the grave. The open grave was between them. Polly Ann saw Lum's moody countenance brightened by a fierce light. Harp did not seem to see Lum or any one; his composed and melancholy gaze went past their heads over the forlorn little field with its rail fence and high gray grass waving above the unmarked mounds. The services ended, the people slowly walked down the path which their own footsteps had made through the grass. Polly Ann kept close to Lum. He edged himself up to Whitsun. They spoke together in a low tone, but Polly Ann had the ears of an Indian; she caught two fragments of Lum's sentences: "Nuthin' now ter hender," and "Down en th' bottom, by the little bayou."

There were people with the Shinaults as far as the ferry, and afterward there were the widow and two cousins to escort home. One of the cousins, intent on having a comfortable gossip about the dead man with some one not too near him for free discussion, returned with Lum. So she gave Polly Ann no chance to see her husband alone, and was still rocking and talking in the black and gilt rockingchair when he came in and took down his gun. "I'm goin' fer a shoot, Polly Ann," said he. He had crossed the threshold, but he came back and kissed his wife on both cheeks, before the cousin. The cousin giggled; but Polly Ann remembered that he had not kissed her before in three weeks. I fear that her visitor found her an ungracious hostess. The instant