University of Virginia Library

31. CHAPTER XXXI.

It must be remembered that Randolph
Armitage had passed several days on the
verge of delirium tremens, either caring nothing
for the exodus of his wife and children,
or anaware of it.

But on recovering his wits he wanted
his Israel back, as is apt to be the case
with abandoned Pharaohs of our household
Egypts, however vicious and unloving they
may be. It is such a disgrace to be deserted,
and involves such a diminution of
sweet authority, besides loss of domestic
comforts!

Conceited, confident in himself, passionately
wilful and headlong, he soon determined
to go in pursuit of Nellie, believing
that at the sight of him she would fall under
the old fascination and return to her
wifely allegiance. Bentley objected, but
only a little; for not only was he afraid of
his brother, but he was in love with Kate;
and loving Kate, he could not desire that
Armitages and Beaumonts should be separated
forever.

Sober when he left home, Randolph was
quiet in demeanor and even somewhat anxious
in spirit. He feared lest his wife or her
sister might have told tales on him; and, if
that were the case, he would probably have
to listen to a remonstrance from “old man
Beaumont”; and he knew that when that
gentleman did remonstrate, it was in the style
of a tornado. But with the fatuity of a shallow
soul, incapable of appreciating its own
scoundrelism, or of putting itself fairly in
the place of another, he trusted that he
could easily turn wrath into favor by a week
of sobriety and of the superfine deportment

which he prided himself on being able to
assume.

At Brownville he heard for the first time
that Frank had met Nellie there and gone
on with her to Hartland. The news was
angering; the man, being a McAlister, had
no right to travel with his family; moreover,
it looked as if he had helped the woman to
run away. Randolph took a drink and then
several drinks. By the time the train
started (it was early in the morning, observe)
he was in a state to go on drinking.
He treated himself at every station, and he
accepted treats from fellow-passengers who
carried bottles in their wayfarings, as is the
genial habit of certain Southerners. Long
before he reached Hartland he was fit to
shoot an enemy on sight, and to see an
enemy in the first man who stared at him.
He forgot that the object of his journey was
to wheedle back his wife to her married
wretchedness. His inflamed brain settled
down upon the idea that it was his duty as
a gentleman to chastise Frank McAlister
for abetting Nellie's elopement, and for
daring to associate himself to Beaumonts.
Clenching his first and muttering, he carried
on imaginary conversations with that criminal,
reproving him for his impertinence and
threatening punishment.

“You 've no call to speak to a Beaumont,”
he babbled, identifying himself with
the famous family feud, for which when
sober he did not care a picayune. “My
wife is a Beaumont, sir. She 's above you,
sir. My people have nothing to do with
your people. I 'm a Beaumont — by kinsmanship.
You sha' n't travel with my wife,
sir. You sha' n't go in the same car with
her. You sha' n't lead her away from her
home and her husband. We 'll settle this
matter, sir. We 'll settle it now, sir.” And
so on.

At the Hartland station his first inquiry
was for Mr. Frank McAlister. “Never saw
him in my life,” he explained. “Don't
know him from Adam. But he 's a tall fellow.
He 's a scoundrel. I 'm after him,
I 'm on his trail. Seen anything of him?”

Frank's person was more exactly described
to him by a little, red-eyed, seedy
old gentleman, who seemed to be doing
“the dignified standing round” in the grocery
attached to the station, and in whom
we may no doubt recognize General Johnson.
The General, smelling an affair of
honor, and always willing to give chivalry
a lift, made prompt inquiries as to the
whereabouts of young McAlister, and presently
brought word that he had been seen
only half an hour before riding in the direction
of the Beaumont territories.

“Gone to attack my relatives!” muttered
the drunkard, honestly believing at the
moment that he loved the Beaumonts.
“I 'll be there. I 'm on his trail. I 'll be
there.”

He was as mad as Don Quixote. He was
in a state to succor people who did not want
to be succored, and to right wrongs which
had never been given, and to see a caitiff in
every chance comer. He was one of those
knight-errants who are created by the accolade
of a bottle.

Reaching the castle which he meant to
save, just as Frank, Beaumont, and Kershaw
came out of it, he had no difficulty in
recognizing his proposed victim. The obvious
amicableness of the interview did not
in the least enlighten this lunatic. In the
smiling and happy young man, who was
shaking hands with the master of the house,
he could only see a villain who had deeply
injured himself, and who was now assaulting
or insulting his wife's relatives. Clapping
his hand on the but of his revolver,
he strode, or rather staggered, towards
Frank, scarcely observing Beaumont and
Kershaw.

It was a singular scene. Frank McAlister,
who did not know Armitage by sight,
and did not at all suspect danger to himself,
towered calmly like a colossal statue, his
grave blue eyes just glancing at this menacing
apparition, and then turning a look
of inquiry upon Beaumont. The white-haired
Kershaw, nearly as tall as Frank,
was gazing blandly into the face of the
young man, unconscious that anything
strange was happening, his whole air full
of benignity and satisfaction. Beaumont,
the only one of the three who both saw and
recognized the intruder, had turned squarely
to face him, eyes flaming, eyebrows bristling,
and hands clenched. It must be
remembered that he hated Armitage as a
man who had filled Nellie's life with wretchedness.
At the first glimpse of his insolent
approach and air of menace he had been
filled with such rage, that if he had had a
pistol he would perhaps have shot him instantly.
In a certain sense he would have
been pardonable for such action, for he supposed
that the drunkard's charge was directed
against himself. There he stood, undismayed
and savage; all the more defiant,
because the odds were against him; all the
grimmer because he was unarmed, gouty,
and in no case for battle; as heroic an old
Tartar as ever scowled in the face of death.
When the reeling desperado was within six
feet of him he thundered out, “You scoundrel!”

Armitage made no answer to Beaumont,
and merely stared at him with an indescribably
stupid leer, not unlike the stolid, savage
grin of an angry baboon. Then, lurching
a little to one side, he passed him and
pushed straight towards Frank, at the same
time drawing his revolver. Halting with

difficulty, he looked up in the astonished
face of the young giant, and demanded in
a sort of yell, “What y' here for?”

“I don't understand you, sir,” replied
Frank. “I don't know you.”

“What does this mean?” exclaimed
Beaumont, suddenly realizing that his
guest's life was threatened, and trying to
step between him and Armitage.

“Let me alone,” screamed the drunkard.
“He 's run away with my wife.”

The coarse suspicion thus flung upon
Nellie inflamed her father to fury. Without
a word he seized his son-in-law, pushed
him toward the low steps which led down
from the varanda, and sent him rolling
upon the gravelled walk at their base.

Frank had no weapons. He had come
unarmed into the house of the hereditary
enemies of his house. He had resolved to
put it beyond his power to do battle, even
in self-defence, under the roof of Kate's
father. But he now stepped forward hastily,
calling, “This is my affair, Mr. Beaumont.”

Kershaw stopped him, placing both hands
on his arms, and saying, “You are our
guest. I do not understand this quarrel.
But we are responsible for your safety.”

At the same moment Beaumont hastened
to the door and shouted, “Tom! Vincent!
Nellie! Here, somebody! Bring me my
pistols!”

Then he turned to look, for a shot had
been fired. The overthrown maniac, even
while struggling to rise, had discharged one
barrel of his revolver, aiming, however, as a
drunken man would naturally aim, and
missing his mark. Kershaw let go of Frank,
stepped a little aside and sat down in a
rustic chair, as if overcome by the excitement
of the scene, or by the weakness of
age. Thus freed for action, the youngster
plunged towards his unknown and incomprehensible
enemy, with the intention of
disarming him. Two more shots missed
him, and then there was a struggle. Of
course it was brief; the inebriate went
down almost instantly; his pistol was
wrenched out of his hand and flung away;
then a heavy knee was on his breast and a
hard fist in his neckcloth.

At this moment the younger Beaumonts,
aroused by the firing and by the call of
their father, swarmed out upon the veranda,
every one with his cocked pistol. Seeing
their brother-in-law (of whose domestic misconduct
they knew nothing) under the hostile
hands of a McAlister, they naturally
inferred that here was a fresh outbreak of
the feud, and rushed forward to rescue
their relative.

“Stop, gentlemen,” called Kershaw, but
he was not heard.

“Boys! boys!” shouted Beaumont, limp
ing after them down the steps. “You don't
understand it, boys.”

All might have been explained, and further
trouble avoided, but at this moment
there arrived a rescue for Frank, a rescue
which comprehended nothing, and so did
harm. It seems that Bruce and Wallace
McAlister, learning from their mother what
mission their brother had gone upon, and
having little confidence in the sense or
temper or good faith of their ancient foes,
had decided to mount and follow up the adventure.
When Armitage's first pistol-shot
resounded, they were in ambush behind a
grove not three hundred yards distant. A
few seconds more saw them dashing up to
the gate which fronted the veranda, and
blazing away with their revolvers at the
Beaumonts, who were hurrying towards
Frank. A sharp exclamation from Tom
told that one bullet had taken effect.

“Come here, brother!” shouted Wallace.
“Run for your horse.”

Frank sprang to his feet and stared about
him in bewilderment. He saw Tom handling
his wounded arm; he saw Vincent and
Poinsett aiming towards the road; turning
his head, he saw Bruce and Wallace, also
aiming. It was the feud once more; the
two families were slaughtering each other;
all hope of peace was perishing in blood.
At the top of his speed he ran towards his
brothers, calling, “You are mistaken. Stop,
stop!”

Vincent fired after him. Poinsett, pacific
as he was, discharged several barrels, but
rather at the men on horseback than at
Frank. Tom picked up his pistol with his
sound arm and joined in the skirmish. The
two McAlisters in the highway, sitting
calmly on their plunging horses, returned
bullet for bullet. At least thirty shots were
exchanged in as many seconds. That amateur
of ferocities, chivalrous old General
Johnson, ought to have been there to cure
his sore eyes with the spectacle. Never before
had there been such a general battle
between the rival families as was this hasty,
unforeseen, unpremeditated combat, the
result of a misunderstanding growing naturally
out of lifelong hostility. Peyton Beaumont
alone, knowing that the mêlée was one
huge blunder, took no part in it, and indeed
tried hard to stop it, calling, “Gentlemen,
gentlemen! Hear me one instant.”

When Frank reached his brothers there
was a streak of blood down his cheek from
a pistol-shot scratch across his temple.
Moreover, he was in peril of further harm,
for Randolph Armitage had regained his
feet, and followed him, and was now reeling
through the gate with a drawn bowie-knife.

“For God's sake, stop!” implored
Frank, unaware both of his wound and

[ILLUSTRATION]

The inebriate went down almost instantly.—Page 133.

[Description: 456EAF. Image of two men fighting outside of a saloon. There are men milling in the background watching, as one man sits dejectedly on a horse post. The fighting men are on the ground, with the upper man holding the arms of the other.]

his danger. “It was not the Beaumonts
who attacked me. It was some drunken
brute!”

Wallace made no reply except to spur
past his brother upon the pursuing Armitage
and knock him senseless with a pistolbut
blow over the head.

“Mount your horse,” shouted Bruce.
“They are reloading. Mount your horse.”

“I must go and explain,” cried Frank,
turning back. “I forbid you to fire,” he
added in a terrible voice. “Don't you see
her?”

His dilated eyes were fixed upon Kate
Beanmont, who, with the aid of a negro,
was leading Kershaw into the house. When
she had disappeared and he believed that
she was in safety, he lifted his clasped
hands toward heaven, and reeled as if he
would have fallen.

“Come, Frank,” begged Wallace, throwing
his broken pistol at him in his desperation.
“Do you want us all shot here?
Mount your horse.”

In his confusion and anguish of soul, just
understanding that his brothers would not
leave him, and that he must ride with them
to save their lives, the young man sprang
into his saddle and galloped away.

“I ought to go back,” he said, after he
had traversed a few rods. “I must know
if anything has happened to them.”

“This is the second time that you have
barely escaped being assassinated by those
savages,” replied Bruce, sternly. “If you
are not a maniac, you will come with us.”

“O, it was a horrible mistake,” groaned
Frank. “You meant well, but you were
mistaken. The Beaumonts did not attack
me. It was that madman.”

“That was Randolph Arnitage,” said
Wallace. “Do you mean the fellow that I
knocked down? That was Peyt Beaumont's
son-in-law. He is another of the
murdering tribe. They are all of a piece.”

Perplexed as well as wretched, Frank
made no reply, and dashed on after his
brothers. The retreat was a rapid one,
although two of the horses were wounded,
and Bruce had received a shot in the thigh
which made riding painful. As there was
now only one pistol among the McAlisters,
and as their enemies were well armed and
had fast steeds within easy call, it was well
to distance pursuit.

But the Beaumonts did not think of giving
chase; they were paralyzed by the
shock of an immense calamity.

At the firing of the first shot Kate was
sitting by a window of her own bedroom,
looking out upon the yard through a loop
in the curtain. We may guess that her
object was to get an unobserved glance at
Frank McAlister when he should remount
his horse and ride away. She had so much
confidence in her grandfather's influence,
that she did not expect serious trouble.

The explosion of the pistol surprised her
into a violent fright. To her imagination
the feud was always at hand; it was a
prophet of evil uttering incessant menaces;
it was an assassin ever ready for slaughter.
Her instantaneous thought was that the old
quarrel had broken out in a deadly combat
between her pugnacious brothers and the
man of whom she knew full well at the moment
she loved him. She could not see the
veranda from her window, and she hurried
down stairs into the front-entry hall. There
she heard her father's voice calling for pistols,
and beheld her sister running one way
and her brothers another. In her palpitating
anxiety to learn all that this turmoil meant
she stepped into the veranda, and there
discovered Frank McAlister holding down
Randolph Armitage. Next she heard a
faint voice, — a voice familiar to her and
yet somehow strange, — saying earnestly,
“My dear, go in; you will be hurt.”

Turning her head, she beheld her grandfather
in the rustic chair, motioning her
back. Had she looked at him closely, she
would have perceived that he was very
pale, and that he had the air of a man
grievously ill or injured. But she was in
no condition to see clearly; the hurry and
fright of the occasion made everything
vague to her; she recognized outlines and
little more. Accustomed to obey her venerable
relative's slightest wish, she sprang
into the house and shielded herself behind a
doorpost. Then came the sally of her
brothers; then the trampling of horses
arriving at full speed, and the calling of
strange voices from the road; then a cracking
of pistol-shots, a hissing of bullets, and
a shouting of combatants. She was in an
agony of terror, or rather of anxiety, believing
that all those men out there were being
killed, and screaming convulsively in response
to the discharges. Without knowing
it, she was struggling to get into the
veranda; and without knowing it, she was
being held back by her sister.

Next followed a lull. Nellie leaped
through the doorway, and Kate at once
leaped after her. There were her father
and her brothers; they were staring after
Frank McAlister and his brothers; these
last were already turning away. She did
not see Tom's bleeding arm, nor the prostrate
Randolph Armitage. Her impression
was that every one had escaped harm, and
she uttered a shriek of hysterical joy.

But when she turned to look for her
grandfather, she was paralyzed with horror.
His face was of a dusky or ashy pallor, and
he seemed to be sinking from his seat. For
a moment she could not go to him; she
stood staring at him with outstretched arms;

her whole life seemed to be centred in her
dilated eyes. Then seeing black Cato step
out of a window and approach the old man
with an air of alarm, she also ran forward
and threw herself on her knees before him,
with the simple cry of “O grandpapa!”

He was so faint with the shock of his
wound and the loss of blood, that he could
not answer her and probably could not see
her. He sat there inert and apparently
unconscious, his grand old head drooping
upon his chest, and his long silver hair falling
around his face.

Of a sudden Kate, who had been on the
point of fainting, was endowed with immense
strength. Aided only by the negro
boy, who trembled and whimpered, “O
Mars Kershaw! Mars Kershaw!” she lifted
the ponderous frame of her grandfather, and
led him reeling into the house.