--- title: Improvement Era description: Monthly periodical of the Mormon church, 1897 onward. This library holds the issues of November 1897 to December 1930. authors: - Elsie C. Carroll collections: - periodicals tags: - magazine - improvement-era periodical: Improvement Era volume: 21 number: 4 published: 1918-02 publisher: Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations publisher_place: Salt Lake City language: en type: magazine reference: "Elsie C. Carroll, “The Feud,” *Improvement Era* 21, no. 4 (February 1918): 298–303." source: url: https://archive.org/details/improvementera2104unse transcription: Transcribed from the Internet Archive scan of each issue (the item for each issue is named in the issue's own source); unnumbered advertising leaves are omitted, printed page numbers are kept as page markers. identifier: improvementera2104unse start_page: 298 end_page: 303 rights: status: public-domain basis: US publication 1930 or earlier (published 1918-02) source: https://archive.org/details/improvementera2104unse publication_year: 1918 note: The Internet Archive item metadata carries a blanket "© Copyright by Intellectual Reserve, Inc." notice. The library owner judged it inapplicable because this issue was published in 1918, before 1931; a scan-level notice does not restore copyright. --- # 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 300 IMPROVEMENT ERA 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 302 IMPROVEMENT ERA 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.