A Man Four-Square | Page 3

legs of the girl moved rhythmically and her arms
swung like pendulums. Life in the open had given her the litheness and
the grace of a woodland creature. The mountain woman is cheated of
her youth almost before she has learned to enjoy it. But 'Lindy was still
under eighteen. Her warm vitality still denied the coming of a day
when she would be a sallow, angular snuff-chewer.
Within sight of the log cabin the girl lingered for a moment by the
sassafras bushes near the spring. Some deep craving for sympathy
moved her to alien speech. She turned upon him with an imperious,
fierce tenderness in her eyes.
"You'll never forgit me, Bud? No matter what happens, you'll--you'll
not hate me?"
Her unusual emotion embarrassed and a little alarmed him. "Oh, shucks!
They ain't anything goin' to happen, sis. What's ailin' you?"
"But if anything does. You'll not hate me--you'll remember I allus
thought a heap of you, Jimmie?" she insisted.
"Doggone it, if you're still thinkin' of that scalawag Dave Roush--" He
broke off, moved by some touch of prescient tragedy in her young face.
"'Course I ain't ever a-goin' to forgit you none, sis. Hit ain't likely, is
it?"
It was a comfort to him afterward to recall that he submitted to her
impulsive caress without any visible irritability.
'Lindy busied herself preparing supper for her father and brother. Ever
since her mother died when the child was eleven she had been the
family housekeeper.

At dusk Clay Clanton came in and stood his rifle in a corner of the
room. His daughter recognized ill-humor in the grim eyes of the old
man. He was of a tall, gaunt figure, strongly built, a notable fighter
with his fists in the brawling days before he "got religion" at a camp
meeting. Now his Calvinism was of the sternest. Dancing he held to be
of the devil. Card-playing was a sin. If he still drank freely, his drinking
was within bounds. But he did not let his piety interfere with the feud.
Within the year, pillar of the church though he was, he had been carried
home riddled with bullets. Of the four men who had waylaid him two
had been buried next day and a third had kept his bed for months.
He ate for a time in dour silence before he turned harshly on 'Lindy.
"You ain't havin' no truck with Dave Roush are you? Not meetin' up
with him on the sly?" he demanded, his deep-set eyes full of menace
under the heavy, grizzled brows.
"No, I ain't," retorted the girl, and her voice was sullen and defiant.
"See you don't, lessen yo' want me to tickle yore back with the bud
again. I don't allow to put up with no foolishness." He turned in
explanation to the boy. "Brad Nickson seen him this side of the river
to-day. He says this ain't the fustest time Roush has been seen hangin'
'round the cove."
The boy's wooden face betrayed nothing. He did not look at his sister.
But suspicions began to troop through his mind. He thought again of
the voices he had heard by the river and he remembered that it had
become a habit of the girl to disappear for hours in the afternoon.
'Lindy went to her room early. She nursed against her father not only
resentment, but a strong feeling of injustice. He would not let her attend
the frolics of the neighborhood because of his scruples against dancing.
Yet she had heard him tell how he used to dance till daybreak when he
was a young man. What right had he to cut her off from the things that
made life tolerable?
She was the heritor of lawless, self-willed, passionate ancestors. Their

turbulent blood beat in her veins. All the safeguards that should have
hedged her were gone. A wise mother, an understanding father, could
have saved her from the tragedy waiting to engulf her. But she had
neither of these. Instead, her father's inhibitions pushed her toward that
doom to which she was moving blindfold.
Before her cracked mirror the girl dressed herself bravely in her cheap
best. She had no joy in the thing she was going to do. Of her love she
was not sure and of her lover very unsure. A bell of warning rang
faintly in her heart as she waited for the hours to slip away.
A very little would have turned the tide. But she nursed her anger
against her father, fed her resentment with the memory of all his
wrongs to her. When at last she crept through the window to the dark
porch trellised with wild cucumbers, she persuaded herself that she was
going only to tell Dave Roush that she would not join