The Guns of Bull Run | Page 7

the veil of antagonism was still between them, thrust out his hand
suddenly and said:
"Whatever happens, Dick, you and I must not quarrel over it. Let's
pledge our word here and now that, being of the same blood and having
grown up together, we will always be friends."
The color in the cheeks of the other boy deepened. A slight moisture
appeared in his eyes. He was, on the whole, more reserved than Harry,
but he, too, was stirred. He took the outstretched hand and gave it a
strong clasp.
"Always, Harry," he replied. "We don't think alike, maybe, about the
things that are coming, but you and I can't quarrel."
He released the hand quickly, because he hated any show of emotion,
and hurried down a side street to his home. Harry walked on into the
heart of the town, as he lived farther away on the other side. He soon
had plenty of evidence that the news of South Carolina's secession had
preceded him here. There had been no such stir in Pendleton since they

heard of Buena Vista, where fifty of her sons fought and half of them
fell.
Despite the snow, the streets about the central square were full of
people. Many of the men were reading newspapers. It was fifteen miles
to the nearest railroad station, and the mail had come in at noon,
bringing the first printed accounts of South Carolina's action. In this
border state, which was a divided house from first to last, men still
guarded their speech. They had grown up together, and they were all of
blood kin, near or remote.
"What will it mean?" said Harry to old Judge Kendrick.
"War, perhaps, my son," replied the old man sadly. "The violence of
New England in speech and the violence of South Carolina in action
may start a flood. But Kentucky must keep out of it. I shall raise my
voice against the fury of both factions, and thank God, our people have
never refused to hear me."
He spoke in a somewhat rhetorical fashion, natural to time and place,
but he was in great earnest. Harry went on, and entered the office of the
Pendleton News, the little weekly newspaper which dispensed the news,
mostly personal, within a radius of fifty miles. He knew that the News
would appear on the following day, and he was anxious to learn what
Mr. Gardner, the editor, a friend of his, would have to say in his
columns.
He walked up the dusty stairway and entered the room, where the editor
sat amid piles of newspapers. Mr. Gardner was a youngish man,
high-colored and with longish hair. He was absorbed so deeply in a
copy of the Louisville Journal that he did not hear Harry's step or notice
his coming until the boy stood beside him. Then he looked up and said
dryly:
"Too many sparks make a blaze at last. If people keep on quarreling
there's bound to be a fight some time or other. I suppose you've heard
that South Carolina has seceded."

"Dr. Russell announced it at the school. Are you telling, Mr. Gardner,
what the News will have to say about it?"
"I don't mind," replied the editor, who was fond of Harry, and who
liked his alert mind. "If it comes to a breach, I'm going with my people.
It's hard to tell what's right or wrong, but my ancestors belonged to the
South and so do I."
"That's just the way I feel!" exclaimed Harry vehemently.
The editor smiled.
"But I don't intend to say so in the News tomorrow," he continued. "I
shall try to pour oil upon the waters, although I won't be able to hide
my Southern leanings. The Colonel, your father, Harry, will not seek to
conceal his."
"No," said Harry. "He will not. What was that?"
The sound of a shot came from the street. The two ran hurriedly down
the stairway. Three men were holding a fourth who struggled with them
violently. One had wrenched from his hand a pistol still smoking at the
muzzle. About twenty feet away was another man standing between
two who held him tightly, although he made no effort to release
himself.
Harry looked at the two captives. They made a striking contrast. The
one who fought was of powerful build, and dressed roughly. His whole
appearance indicated the primitive human being, and Harry knew
immediately that he was one of the mountaineers who came long
distances to trade or carouse in Pendleton.
The man who faced the mountaineer, standing quietly between those
who held him, was young and slender, though tall. His longish black
hair was brushed carefully. The natural dead whiteness of his face was
accentuated by his black mustache, which turned up at