For ten minutes the two talked in whispers--Rufe bent
forward with one elbow on the withers of his horse but lifting his
eyes every now and then to the stranger seated in the porch--and
then the horseman turned with an oath and galloped into the
darkness whence he came, while the Red Fox slouched back to the
porch and dropped silently into his seat.
"Who was that?" asked Hale.
"Bad Rufe Tolliver."
"I've heard of him."
"Most everybody in these mountains has. He's the feller that's
always causin' trouble. Him and Joe Falin agreed to go West last
fall to end the war. Joe was killed out thar, and now Rufe claims
Joe don't count now an' he's got the right to come back. Soon's he
comes back, things git frolicksome agin. He swore he wouldn't go
back unless another Falin goes too. Wirt Falin agreed, and that's
how they made peace to-day. Now Rufe says he won't go at all--
truce or no truce. My wife in thar is a Tolliver, but both sides
comes to me and I keeps peace with both of 'em."
No doubt he did, Hale thought, keep peace or mischief with or
against anybody with that face of his. That was a common type of
the bad man, that horseman who had galloped away from the gate--
but this old man with his dual face, who preached the Word on
Sundays and on other days was a walking arsenal; who dreamed
dreams and had visions and slipped through the hills in his
mysterious moccasins on errands of mercy or chasing men from
vanity, personal enmity or for fun, and still appeared so sane--he
was a type that confounded.
Pages:
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84