Part 7

“Aw, go home to yore cemetery!”

“Cemetery? I’m sayin’ Big Elk’s cemetery will do some business before this meetin’s adjourned!”

“Yeh?”

“Yeah!”

“Yuh lie!”

“Who lies--yuh liar!”

* * * * *

Up rose the long table, borne by thirty-odd pairs of contesting arms; up and over with a rending and a crashing of dishes. Down went the lamps. The spilling kerosene flamed a bright blue, reared and whipped out. In the darkness words were flailing back and forth across the table and then a moment of deceptive silence descended, in which Indigo could be heard muttering, “Awful. Somebody’s goin’ to get hurt yet. I wish I’d held on to that dish o’ hominy.”

He said something else, but it was lost in the roar of a gun. That shot was a signal. Instantly the place was aquiver with the blasting report of guns as sundry unarmed men discovered weapons from queer sources. A torrent of poisonous epithets, rocketing yells--and the Three Pines ranch-house shivered with the shock of bodies hurling toward the exit. Window panes jingled and the firing dropped off. Some thirty men had arrived at the doorway about the same time; and the grunting and the heaving--with all its by-products--was something fearful to hear. It seemed as if the whole wall was about to burst asunder. From the outside came the crackling of other guns in other hands, appearing to rise out of two distinct places, the corrals and the poplars. And it continued until the contending factions had fought out of the door. Hoofs drummed around and around the house, there were other bludgeoning words and a further spattering of bullets as the two parties withdrew and raced in opposite directions. Silence reigned in the house.

But not for long. After a decent interval someone swore placidly. A match flared, revealing Indigo’s gloomy countenance down behind a pile of chairs. And from an opposite corner rose the familiar drawl of Joe Breedlove. “Well, Indigo.”

“Well, Joe.”

One of the Three Pines women ventured in, bearing a lamp. The yellow rays gleamed on utter ruin. More than that, they gleamed on a pocket pistol in Indigo’s fist. Joe challenged him then and there. “Didn’t you know this was to be an affair o’ peace, Indigo?”

“Uhuh,” said Indigo, a little sheepishly. “But, you see, I wouldn’t of had it, if it’d been a peaceful affair.”

This reasoning seemed to be both devious and open to certain errors of logic. But Joe let it pass. “Let’s smoke,” said he.

“I wish I’d kept aholt of that bowl o’ hominy,” grieved Indigo.

“You got any further business in Jingle Bell, Indigo?”

“No, sir. I’m a singed cat an’ I got to grow my whiskers before I go smellin’ any more trouble.”

“That’s my identic idee,” said Joe, casually. “I think you’n me had better get our hosses an’ sift.”

“Where to, Joe?”

“South.”

“It sounds reasonable,” muttered Indigo. They rose and went outside. Starlight had come and the bosom of the prairie was filled with peace. “Human nature,” said Joe Breedlove, sadly, “is plumb immutable.”

“I could say it in shorter words,” replied Indigo, “but they couldn’t sound no worse. Le’s ride.”