The Feud

The Feud

By Elsie C. Carroll

For a month Short Creek Valley had been baking in a fierce

drought. The July sun beat down upon the scorched earth piti-

lessly. The bare rocks upon the hillsides reflected the heat in a

dancing haze. The tall sunflower stalks drooped their heavy

heads. Even the leaves of the sage brush and desert-grass hung

wilted on their steins and the spiny clumps of yucca and cactus

had taken on a paler hue. Here and there a gray lizard ven-

tured from beneath a boulder to lie panting a moment in the

sun and glide on to another shelter. Shrill rasping notes from

restless cicadas cut the lifeless air.

Down in the valley small groups of bony cattle dozed in the

meager shade of scrubby cedars, or drank thirstily from the

dwindling waters of Short Creek at points where its precious

supply was being taken out into irrigating ditches and carried

to the small farms skirting the foothills.

On the vine-shaded porch of a small weather-beaten house,

tucked in the far corner of one of these farms, sat Millie Harrison

industriously working the dash of an old-time churn. Her

brown hair was parted in the middle and hung in a long braid

down her back. An out-of-door life showed in the rich coloring

of her cheeks and lips and in the round suppleness of her form

and limbs. Her hazel eyes were bright with the buoyancy of

youth, but deep with the thoughts which years of responsibility

had given them. Just now, also, they held that dreamy glint

which comes to all young eyes when first they are opened to the

paradise of love's fantastic dreams.

,This dreaminess gave way, however, to genuine filial con-

cern as a tall angular man came around the corner of the house.

He was clad in blue overalls, a checked cotton shirt, unbuttoned

and turned back at the throat, a broad brimmed straw hat and

a pair of heavy boots. He was somewhat stooped and carried

a shovel over his shoulders.

"You're 'bout melted, ain't ye, Dad?" the girl asked solic-

itously.

"Wall, it is tole'able hot out in the sun," he replied, shoving

the battered hat back on his thin, grey locks and mopping his

perspiring face with a red bandanna handkerchief.

"Sit down a spell can't ye, till the butter comes an' I'll fetch

THE FEUD 299

ye a cup o' butermilk to cool ye off. It sounds like it's most

done." The dash was pounded up and down with renewed vigor.

But the old man replied:

"No. It's 'bout time t' take the water. The stuff's purt nigh

burnt out this week. 'George! If it 'ud only rain!" The pale

blue eyes scanned the unpromising heavens hopelessly.

The girl noticed the deep anxiety on the wrinkled face.

"Dad's gittin' old," she told herself with a little sigh. "He hadn't

ort t' hev t' work so hard an' worry so much." But aloud she

said:

"Why, it ain't three o'clock yet, is it? I believe you'd hev

time to rest a bit an' hev a drink o' buttermilk."

"It takes quite a spell t' walk up t' the head-gates," the old

man protested as he drew a big silver watch from his pocket.

"Guess I'd as well start." He shuffled off toward the field, mut-

tering, "If it 'ud only rain! If it 'ud only rain!"

In the neighboring field Tom Bradford was busy with his

shovel distributing the water from the irrigating ditch evenly

into the crusted furrows between the rows of drooping corn and

withering potato vines. With a feeling almost of sympathy he

watched the dry ground greedily absorb the cool flow. Now

and then he stooped to move a clod or a bunch of dry weeds that

the water might run nearer a thirsty plant.

His young, bronzed face was covered with beads of per-

spiration. A lock of black hair hung in a damp strand over his

high forehead almost to the lashes of his keen black eyes. But

in spite of the intense glare of the sun the young man wore an

expression of contented satisfaction.

When he had the water well over the land he sat down

cross-legged on the foot-ditch at the botom of the field to rest.

He half closed his eyes and watched the tiny streams creeping

slowly toward him, leaving ribbons of refreshing dampness be-

hind. He began to whistle softly as he recalled the conversation

be had had with his uncle that morning.

"If you kin save the crop on that south field this year, I'll

give the land t' ye. I expect it won't be long 'fore you'd be

wantin' something o' your own any way an' there's a good place

t' build a house when ye git ready fer one down by the knoll."

Those were the very words his uncle had used and Tom had been

wondering all day if the old man had really guessed his feelings

for Millie and if after all "the scene" he had been sure he must

face when he made it known to his uncle that he wanted to

marry Jim Harrison's daughter, was to be averted.

The bitter hatred existing between Thomas Perkins and

James Harrison was a matter of tradition in Short Creek Valley,

although it is doubtful if any one, put to the test, could really

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tell what had been the cause of the feud. Some claimed it had

originated in a horse trade between the grandfathers of the two

men years ago before they both had sought homes as western

pioneers. Still others asserted that the trouble began right

there in Short Creek Valley in the early settlement of the coun-

try when they had both tried to take up the same land. A few

«ven declared that the origin was still more recent, and dated

back only to a leap-year dance twenty years before, there in

Short Creek Valley when Mildred Stanton who had been "keep-

in' company" with Tom Perkins invited bashful Jim Harrison to

go to the ball with her and a few years later became Millie Har-

rison's mother.

Whatever the cause of the trouble, the two men, valley

neighbors, never spoke unless a situation compelled them to.

Young Tom Bradford had naturally heard all these rumors

during the years, since his mother's death, that he had been liv-

ing with his uncle here in Short Creek Valley where every one

knew and talked about every one else's affairs. And yet they

had seemed of little consequence to him until two months before

when on a May-day picnic with the young people of Short Creek

he had suddenly become tumultuously aware of the luring depths

of Millie Harrison's thoughtful hazel eyes, of the soft warm

sweetness of her rounded cheek and neck, and the fascinating

slenderness of her lithe young body.

A short time after this momentous discovery he had, in a

carefully studied, unstudied manner, referred to this feud in a

conversation with his uncle, hoping to be enlightened upon a

point which had suddenly become of great importance to his

future happiness. His uncle's noncommitting dismissal of the

subject left no doubt in the nephew's mind that the topic was

to be tabooed in the future if felicitious relations were to con-

tinue between the two. Since that time young Bradford had

dwelt in a paradise of bliss when thinking of Millie, but in a

dungeon of dread when he realized that sometime, sooner or

later, he must meet a trying issue with his uncle.

No wonder he had grasped hopefully at his uncle's words.

A very great deal depended upon the outcome of the situation,

for the youth was penniless, while old Thomas Perkins, the

richest farmer in Short Creek Valley, had no nearer kin than

his young nephew. There had naturallv been but one conclu-

sion to draw from these facts until that May-day picnic over in

Oasis Grove. But since that time the wise old gossips of Short

Creek had been shaking their heads doubtfully.

Old Jim Harrison made his tedious way along the head-ditch

at the top of his parched field. He did not heed the fiery shafts

of heat that seemed to burn into his stooped shoulders, for his

THE FEUD 301

eyes were upon the stretches of stunted, yellowing wheat stalks,

the long rows of seared corn, and dried up potato vines, before

him. The look in the faded blue eyes was almost of paternal

anxiety as he beheld the suffering of these children of his toil.

He loved his crops not only for the sustenance they gave to him

and Millie, but because they were live plant things to be suc-

cored and watched and marveled over from the time the dry

seeds were put into the brown earth in the spring, until the

miracle of their fruition in the fall. It was a household expres-

sion in the Valley that "Jim Harrison might hev been a good

farmer if he hed farmed with sense instid o' feelin'." He stopped

before each division of the field and looked pityingly at the

wilting crops.

"Yer plumb burned t' death, ain't ye?" he spoke compas-

sionately to a long strip of dejected looking flint corn which had

been his pride earlier in the season. "Yer plumb choked t'

death an' I can't give ye a drink fer a hull hour yet." He had

taken out the ponderous watch again. Then he looked up at

the dry head-ditch leading through patches of sage brush and

around huge boulders to the clearing which indicated his neigh-

bor's farm.

"A hull hour," he repeated slowly. "Then it'll take another

hour fer the stream t' soak down through the baked crust o' that

ditch." The pale eyes were still on the glaring cracked clay

bottom of the head-ditch, but a change of expression was coming

over the time-battered face.

"It 'tain't fair!" He addressed the nearest crack in the dry

head-ditch. "He gits the water onto his farm ten minutes after

his turn starts. 'Tain't fair, he should keep it the full time when

it takes it so long t' run down here." Again his glance turned

wistfully to the seared crops. He dropped the shovel from his

bent shoulders and leaned upon the handle as the blade rested

upon the hard ground.

"'Tain't fair! 'George, 'tain't!" He repeated again in a

more certain tone. The scorched field seemed to hold out

accusing, pleading arms to him. He started to lift the shovel

to his shoulder. He hesitated, wavered, looked up the ditch,

down toward the vine-covered house, and finally once more at

the suffering crop. A strange new look of daring determination

came into his old face as he flung the shovel on up and strode

purposefully up the ditch-bank.

Tom Bradford suddenly awoke from a delicious day-dream

to the realization that something was wrong with his water. The

tiny brown streams which had been creeping so evenly toward

him, had suddenly ended in irregular brown points.

He sprang to his feet. What could be the matter? His

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turn was not up for a half hour yet. He started toward the

head of the field when he saw his uncle who had been working

over in the north field, hurrying with irate strides down the head-

ditch. Tom wondered what could be the matter and hastened

his steps to overtake the older man.

"It's that Harrison!" Tom heard his uncle hiss

between his teeth. A sickening premonition clutched the boy's

heart as suddenly the terrible truth flashed before him. Had

Mr. Harrison been mistaken in the hour he was to take the

water? Had his watch been wrong? He could not think for

one second that Millie's father was a water-thief, and yet he

knew his uncle would give no credence to those other possible

solutions to the situation, which presented themselves to his

mind.

He leaped the fence bounding the field and sprinted after

the disappearing form of his uncle. He must be there when the

two men faced each other. A little bend in the sage-brush trail

revealed the stooped form of Mr. Harrison with his shovel, fol-

lowing the stream down to his fields. Thomas Perkins was only

a few rods behind. The boy could see that his uncle's hands

were clenched. With a sense of nausea he recalled the tragedy

over in Spring Canyon the summer before when Brig Daniels

had shot and killed Pete Williams in a quarrel over irrigating

water. He sped on, seeing in the old man ahead of them, not

the life-long enemy of his uncle and a possible breaker of the

law, but the father of the girl he loved.

There was another bend in the trail which hid both men

from him. He speeded around it with quickening pulses. The

two were about to face each other, and there a half dozen rods

to the right of them Millie Harrison was emerging from a clump

of willows with a stone pitcher and a cup in her hands. For

one terrible instant the boy's head reeled. He must save Millie's

feelings at any cost. He reached the two men first. Old man

Harrison had straightened his bent shoulders defensively, though

evidently no word had been spoken. Neither had seen the ap-

proaching young people.

"You — you thief!" bellowed Thomas Perkins. At

that instant his nephew grabbed his shoulder and wheeled him

about. He was breathing hard but his face was calm and tone

commanding. "Uncle Thomas, what are you saying? I turned

the stream into Mr. Harrison's ditch because I noticed last night

when I was passing how bad his crops needed water. They get

the glare from them ledges and really need more water and — "

Millie had joined them. He felt that he really must not stop

talking for fear someone else would speak, but he couldn't think

of another word to say for the girl's sweet hazel eyes were smil-

THE FEUD 303

ing into his. Then Mr. Harrison's surprised expression came to

itself and he opened his lips to speak. Thomas Perkins was

staring first from the girl's sweet, flushed face to that of his eager

excited nephew.

"There now, Mr. Harrison, don't you say a thing about it,

not a word," and Tom gave the old man a look of mingled warn-

ing and entreaty with a glance in Millie's direction that made

his meaning clear.

Thomas Perkins stood with his hands thrust into his pockets,

still dumb with the perplexities of the situation as they had sud-

denly revealed themselves to him.

Millie looked with anxious concern at her father, with shy

tenderness at Tom, and uncertain questioning at Mr. Perkins.

"Is anything the matter?" she asked wonderingly, trying to

understand the tell-tale atmosphere. No one answered her for

an instant, so she poured from the stone pitcher a thick white

liquid into the shining cup and extended it shyly toward Thomas

Perkins.

"I brought Dad a drink o' buttermilk," she explained.

Won't you have some, Mr. Perkins?"

Thomas Perkins reached for the brimming cup. In the

sweet face of the girl who offered it he saw the lovely vision of

that other Millie who once had filled his heart with dreams of

the golden days to be. His glance turned to the eloquent face

of his nephew and he fully understood.

"Thank you, Millie," he said, and his eyes turned to the

face of her father.

"By Jove, Jim," he spoke as carelessly as the queer catch

in his voice would permit, "how much your little gal looks like

her ma used to."

The pale blue eyes of James Harrison looked searchingly

into the eyes of his enemy ; instinctively his hand went out, for

he knew, as well as did Tom Bradford, that the feud was ended.