Part 2

“Don’t you know what yore fightin’ for?” demanded Joe.

“Oh,” said Indigo, waving an arm vaguely, “it looked ’sif they needed help.”

“Listen,” drawled Joe, grinding his cigarette into the earth. “Thirty years ago, Big Elk took the county seat away from Jingle Bell----”

“A blamed outrage!” broke in Indigo.

“--and the towns have been scrappin’ ever since. But lately it’d have died down if certain parties hadn’t sorter fed the flames to keep it goin’. Savee? Well, the sheriff is naturally a Big Elk gent. His life wouldn’t be worth a plugged dime in Jingle Bell. So every time any son-of-a-gun wants to escape the wrath o’ justice he hides out in Jingle Bell. These certain parties know that. They need this kind o’ protection.”

“What parties--what for?”

“Rustlin’,” murmured Joe. “They’s two jaspers at the top o’ the heap. One is a fella by name o’ Sweeny, from Big Elk. The other holes up at Jingle Bell. Monicker’s Gabe Wales.”

“That hop-toad!” snorted Indigo. “Allus shootin’ off his face about Big Elk.”

“Shore. Pays him to.”

* * * * *

Now Indigo was a forthright soul. Having once discovered an error in the universe, he was all for righting it. So naturally enough his first suggestion was for action. “Why not get these gents?”

“It would’ve been difficult--up to this mornin’,” answered Joe. “Only a few folks knew about it. I got good friends, which is how I knew. But this mornin’ Mister Sweeny made the mistake o’ venturin’ into Trent county an’ the sheriff nails him on an old charge. Before Sweeny dies he makes a complete statement of what it’s all about. Namin’ Gabe Wales. Of course, Jingle Bell wouldn’t believe the yarn if a Big Elk sheriff happened to tell it--so the Trent county sheriff is moseyin’ over to Jingle Bell to explain. Prob’ly there now.”

“So that caused all this ruckus,” murmured Indigo. “Well, it’s over now. I ain’t sorry. I’m sorter fatigued with fightin’.”

But Joe Breedlove was not finished. Whereas Indigo always wanted to wind up a matter as abruptly as possible, Joe loved to hemstitch a few artistic posies into human relations. Said he, “Yeah, it’s over. Now we’ll get both towns together at some place, have a banquet and formally bury the hatchet.”

Indigo looked coldly at his partner. “It won’t do. Nossir, it won’t do.”

“Why not?”

“I dunno why not,” said Indigo, not given to analysis. “But it won’t do.”

Joe, however, was set on his point. “It’ll be an experiment in the mutability o’ human nature.”

“I don’t reco’nize the word,” grumbled Indigo, “but it shore sounds harsh.”

Joe got up. “Of course, if you ain’t with me on the idea----”

“Who said I wasn’t with you?” barked Indigo--testily. “I only said it was an awful idee. If yore so daggone bound up in it, all right, I’m in. But you bet I’ll be ready to duck.”

They parted, each going to his horse and riding off. On the solitary trip to Jingle Bell, Indigo shook his head more than once. “Sometimes it seems to me Joe gets unnecessarily sentimental. It’ll be an awful bust.”

* * * * *

It was sunset when Indigo reached town. And before he could get off his horse, Petey and Ort came up to explain their retreat. “We figgered mebbe them Big Elk boys was tryin’ to run a whizzer on us. So we dusted for town. Didn’t know what had happened to you, anyhow. Say, heard the news? Gabe Wales is in jail, complicated with rustlin’.”

“Sad--very sad,” said Indigo, though he seemed to bear up well under the news.

“Sad?” snorted Petey. “Huh! You know what he an’ Sweeny of Big Elk was a-doin’? A-fomentin’ trouble between the two towns, so’s their crew o’ rustlers could have a safe harbor in time o’ trouble! Ain’t that sweet, now?”

Indigo nodded and went to the restaurant. After that he repaired to the saloon where a royal greeting awaited him. He took the acclaim with due modesty--tinged somewhat with gloom. For he heard the sacred precincts of the Geyser echo with sentiments hitherto alien. Men were discussing the town that for thirty odd years had been poison and plague to them; and they were admitting, with a magnanimous show of impartiality, that perhaps Jingle Bell had harbored unjust suspicions. The feeling seemed to be that although Big Elk had practically stolen the county seat and would likewise steal anything else that wasn’t riveted to the landscape, yet there might be a few decent people over thereabouts. Anyhow, this fighting business had gone on too long; it was time to quit--to live and let live. Thus the spirit of fraternal concord rose from the ashes and became a pale and fluttering ray, which in time and with careful nursing might actually generate heat and energy. Indigo shook his head. It looked as if a banquet was inevitable.

“It’ll be awful!” said he, to himself.

* * * * *

Big Elk’s formal invitation to the banquet reached Jingle Bell the next day, borne by Joe Breedlove and three others. An equal number of Jingle Bell dignitaries was hastily got together and the two parties convened at the Geyser where a judicious amount of liquid was imbibed to remove vocal impediments. Observations were made as to the weather and the state of the beef stock; after that Joe Breedlove, unmistakably the guiding spirit of his delegation, rehearsed a little past history and proposed the banquet. The Jingle Bell committee returned adequate compliments, promised to consider the matter and referred to that remark made by the governor of North Carolina to the governor of South Carolina. Immediately upon the departure of the Big Elk delegation a convention of the citizens was summoned.

There were certain benighted gentlemen who saw no good in the proposition, but the forces of progress gradually won. After all, it wouldn’t be seemly for Jingle Bell to back down from any proposition Big Elk made and the meeting got down to particulars. Obviously, the affair couldn’t be held in either town--that would give one party too great a bulge on the other. It was also suggested that the number of each side should be the same, to wit, fifteen. Phil Layton, a veteran of the country, set this number; and it is to be believed that he did so after calculating the number of good shots available.

That was the sense of the convention. In due time it was conveyed to Big Elk with congratulations, best regards, and all good wishes. Big Elk thereupon called another convention and discussed Jingle Bell’s amendments at ample length. Every comma, period and ink spot was scrutinized for possible double-meaning and guile. But no colored man was found in the woodpile. Presently it was decided that the Three Pines ranch-house would make a suitable point at which to hold the banquet, being situated midway between towns. It was further decided that if Jingle Bell was so suspicious as to limit the number, then fifteen tried and true stalwarts only should plant their boots under the table on each side. And this was transmitted back to Jingle Bell with felicitations, the greeting of the season, and happy sentiments.

* * * * *

Immediately Jingle Bell, in convention assembled, tore the latest proposals quite apart, suspected trickery but could not find it, and reluctantly assented; adding the further proviso that all guns should be checked outside the door and that there should be one extra man from each town to guard these weapons. Nor were there to be any other kind of death-dealing instruments to be carried inside the house. Pocket knives, it was agreed after considerable debate, would not be considered as weapons. At this point Indigo left the Geyser and studied the stars. “Civic harmony? It sounds like trouble hell-bent around the corner to me. Somebody’s goin’ to get shot yet.”

* * * * *

After that a kind of grim silence settled over the county for thirty-six hours. On each side, fifteen men and a gun guard were chosen. Certain other arrangements, not exactly in the compact and somewhat shrouded by obscurity, were made. And at exactly seven o’clock, as twilight fell, the two parties met, dismounted together, gave up their guns together and passed inside the Three Pines ranch-house. Stoic gravity marbled each swart face; and the feast of amity began in silence, with potato soup. Indigo had chosen the seat nearest the door; but observing Joe Breedlove watching him from the remote end of the room, he sighed gently and moved on down until he was across from his partner. There was a hitch right at the beginning. It was discovered that an extra plate had been laid, on each side of the table. The assembled gentry of Jingle Bell looked gravely at the assembled Big Elk partisans. Joe Breedlove rose up and said, “I reckon they misjudged the number we wanted. Let it slide. No harm done.”

But a Big Elk man murmured, “Jes’ a minute,” and went outside. A soft whistle cleft the darkness; the gentleman presently returned with a recruit who took the empty plate on Big Elk’s side. At this Joe Breedlove frowned upon his own townsmen, but nobody returned his glance. A Jingle Bell cohort vanished into the shadows with equal promptitude and had the same measure of success in finding another man. A certain reserve contaminated the atmosphere, a certain regrettable chill came at each wary eye. Indigo drank his soup dourly. It may have been that there was an ironic flicker in his green orbs when he looked to his partner; it may have been that Joe Breedlove dropped a lid in reply. At any rate the tall partner rose, his silver hair gleaming in the lamplight and a mellow smile on his bronzed and handsome face. The very sight of him there was enough to thaw the atmosphere; it was a rare time when Joe could not bend men with the charm of his genial assurance, the quizzical humor of his eyes. He looked from man to man and waved his arm across their heads as if in benediction.

“Boys,” said he, drawling each syllable, “it does me good to see this. They was some carping critics that maintained no good would ever come of it. They was some gents that misdoubted these two nice, upstandin’ little cities could ever meet in polite palaver. Those fellows had the beam in their eyes.” He looked cheerfully at Indigo and appeared not to see the leer of doubt upon his partner’s wizened features. “Yeah, the beam in their eyes. Now me, I’m a son of Big Elk. But I set a great store by the prosperity o’ the county. It has shorely grieved me two such fine cities couldn’t abide in peace an’ put the civic shoulders to the wheel o’ the progress. After all, it was the work of gents who wanted trouble for their own ends. It’s settled now. We want to bury the bone o’ contention so deep that old Nick’s own dog Nero won’t ever scratch it up. Now, I see a man over on the Jingle Bell side that I used to punch cows for. A square, upright gent who has always got a sensible word danglin’ on his tongue. Rise up, Phil Layton, an’ pour a little oil.”

* * * * *

The designated personage looked as if somebody had caught him in the act of stealing sheep. He said something like, “I’ll be gug-gug----” in a strangled voice. But the eyes of the multitude were upon him and so he stood up, a slab-sided fellow with a hatchet jaw and no amount of fraternal cheer on his leather jowls. He opened his mouth, closed it, picked a knife from the table and ran it across his coat sleeve. “Well, I dunno,” said he. “Mebbe we-all have been sorter careless. Not that I’m apologizin’ for Jingle Bell y’unnerstan’; ner condemnin’ Big Elk. Anybody’s apt to shoot off a few poisonous remarks. It’s possible both sides was rash. Seems to me the side which is biggest was the most rash--which might be natural. Of course all this how-do started thirty-one years ago, come July, when the county seat was boldly stole----”

At this point a remark seeped out of some gentleman on the Big Elk side. It had no precise meaning, but its intent was distinctly ribald, distinctly challenging. It sounded like “Rats,” though, of course, there were no rats in that room. A noticeable livening of interest passed along the festive board. Every man but one stopped eating, the exception being Indigo, who was doggedly determined to fill up before trouble started. Joe Breedlove hastily interposed. “You was sayin’, wasn’t you, Phil, that it was time we sh’d quit fightin’?”

Phil Layton grimly faced the serene Joe. “Yeh,” he grunted. “Them was my words--if I said ’em.”

This might have saved the evening and the general meeting of minds might have gone on undisturbed had not another skeptic on the Big Elk side muttered, “Huh!” in a very suspicious manner. Phil Layton swung angrily. “What was yuh gruntin’ about, yuh moon faced sheepeater?”

The Big Elk partisan was not reluctant about entering the parley. “I was wonderin’ how many extra men Jingle Bell has got hid over by the poplars.”

“Oh, is that bitin’ yuh?” snapped Layton. “Well, prob’ly we ain’t got half so many as you boys have cached out behind the barns.”

“Who said we had any fellows hidin’ behind the corrals?” countered the Big Elk gentleman. “It’s a dam’ lie. And even if it ain’t a lie, we knowed blamed well you fellas would try a stunt like that.”

“Like I was sayin’--” interposed Joe Breedlove; but the tide rushed in and bore him out of the scene. Indigo tilted his head toward the ceiling, appearing to see nothing, hear nothing. Yet he saw and heard everything; and his relaxed attitude was only a mask. He was ready to jump.

* * * * *

Phil Layton hammered the table, his words smacked the air resoundingly. “If they’s any rannies pulled around here it’ll be on the Big Elk side. Yuh couldn’t no more help bein’ crooked than a snake could help crawl. Yuh stole the county seat--yuh’d steal offen yore own grand folks, providin’ yuh had any, which I doubt. I don’t want to git personal none, but I will observe somethin’ in this room smells an’ it comes from yore side o’ the table!”

Forthwith a Big Elk stalwart rose to his feet. “The atmosphere is some tainted all right. But the breeze is blowin’ from yore direction. Jingle Bell has been dead thirty years--an’ it ain’t been buried yet.”

Chairs flew back; up rose the assembled gentlemen. Indigo sighed and shrugged his thin shoulders. “Jes’ a minute,” pleaded Joe. “They’s a mistake----”

“You bet they’s a mistake!” bellowed Phil Layton. “The mistake is tryin’ to get sixteen mutton lovers to eat beef! I ain’t a proud man, but my ears shore do burn to think what a disgraceful night this is for me.”

“Nothin’ ever comes from Jingle Bell but dust,” jeered another Big Elk partisan. “Dust an’ hot air!”

“Yeh? Well, they’s plenty o’ Big Elk boys that’s proud o’ Jingle Bell when yore tinhorn sheriff gets busy.”

“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.”

[Transcriber’s note: This story appeared in the May 10, 1928 issue of _Short Stories_ magazine.]