My Lady of the South/Chapter 30
CHAPTER XXX
DANIELS AND DONALD MEET
I COULD scarcely realize the truth—that this grim mountaineer, savage in cruel instinct, utterly devoid of human tenderness, responsive only to the demands of the blood feud, was yet at heart a real man, his heart wrung by sorrow, and weak as a child in suffering. The strain upon him had been too great, and with the reaction, he had broken down, his gaunt form shaken by sobs, his face hidden between his hands. Even before I grasped the full meaning of this unexpected weakness, the girl understood, and the woman responded. All fear, dislike, hesitancy vanished, and she stepped past me to rest her hand on his shoulder.
"I am so glad I can assure you of this, Mr. Daniels," she said softly. "I—I never saw your wife except that once; but she was kind to me when I needed kindness, and I have never felt the same bitterness since. Surely between you and me there is no quarrel. I would rather help than injure you. Will you not take my hand?"
The man raised his head, staring at her in astonishment. He had expected bitterness, reviling, but not this, and for the moment the honesty of her purpose failed to impress him.
"Yer mean. Miss, we are ter be friends?"
"Certainly; why should we remain enemies?"
His lips trembled under the beard, his eyes full of bewilderment.
"I—I don't understand," he stammered. "Ther feud; ther years of fightin'; don't yer suppose I know who yer be?"
"Yes, of course, you know," her slender form straightening, but her hand still outstretched. "Yet if I can forget and forgive, so can you. No one of us can tell how this feud started. For generations our families have fought without knowing what they were fighting for. Both sides in this senseless quarrel have killed, burned, and destroyed. We have been born to an inheritance of hate. For one, I am sick and tired of it all; I am ashamed of my part in it. I want to act and feel like a woman, not a fiend. I don't hate you, Bill Daniels; I don't hate your wife or your children; I would rather do you good than evil. Can't you understand that? Can't you forget who I am, and accept my hand in the same spirit with which I offer it?"
As God is my witness, there were actually tears shining in the man's cold gray eyes, but I thought he would never move, never answer. He appeared paralyzed, stricken motionless and speechless. Then his hand, which had been convulsively gripping the arm of the chair, seemed to steal forth without volition, touched hers and clung to it in pitiful uncertainty. I could hear the beating of my own heart, the heavy, rapid breathing of both the others; and suddenly the girl sank to her knees, her head bowed on the arm of the chair, her fingers yet clasping the man's nerveless hand. She may have prayed in the silence—I do not know. There was no movement, no sound, Daniels staring at the bowed head like one in a dream. Then she lifted her face, and looked at him.
"I am glad you came," she said simply, her voice trembling slightly. "I—I have wanted to talk with you alone, for three years—ever since I began to be a woman. But I have been afraid of you; ever since I was a child I have been taught that, and it is hard to break away." Her lips smiled. "But I am not afraid any more; I don't believe you are a bad man; you love your wife and children, you are only like the rest of us—like Colonel Donald, like Judge Dunn—you were born into this feud, and have fought and hated because you knew nothing else. Is n't that so?"
"I—I suppose it is, Miss," the acknowledgment barely audible even in that silence. "I never remember back ter whar I felt diff'rent."
"I cannot blame you, yet it is an awful thing for neighbors to be hereditary enemies, to hunt and kill one another. It seemed natural enough to me once—before I went North to school, and came into a different environment; but now it is a savage horror. I want you to see this as I do; you have to think of me as a friend; I want you to feel the same toward my friends."
"Who do yer mean, Miss?"
"Those you have fought all your life—Jem Donald—"
"Not in a thousan' years!" he interrupted hotly, dropping her hand as if it were a coal of fire, and raising his gaunt form from the chair "Ye're a woman, an' somehow yer came at me jist right; but it's goin' ter take fightin', an' plenty of it, afore Jem Donald an' me settle our trouble. Thar's too many dead folks an' burned houses atween us fer any sich foolishness."
"I know there are," her voice and face exhibiting earnestness. "But, Daniels, this has not all been one-sided, this hundred years of feud over some silly quarrel. You have killed and burned, as well as those on our side. The one party has suffered almost equally with the other. And what has either gained?"
He stood looking at her, his deep-set eyes gloomy, defiant, stubborn. He could see and feel but one fact, and her appeal never really reached him.
"Maybe if all thet was true I might be soft 'nough ter be led by ye, Miss," he said, at last, gravely. "But yer've took a pore time fer ter plead peace with Bill Daniels. Maybe ef things was comin' my way I'd see it diff'rent, see it ther way you-uns do; but I ain't ther sort ter knuckle down 'cause I'm gittin' ther worst of it. Thet's whin I fight like hell."
"What is it you mean?"
"Oh, I reckon you-all know well enough. Ye've got us about wiped out; what was left afore ther war has been finished by these yere damn guerillas Jem Donald has turned loose in ther hills. I come back yere, an' everywhar I go it's a dead Daniels; an' yer ask me ter be peaceful!" He straightened up, his eyes hard. "I tell ye, I want my wife an' kids first. I ain't got nuthin' special agin you, Miss Jean. I reckon 'tain't your fault ye're what yer are; but fer Jem Donald, an' thet young calf of a Dunn, I'm layin' till I either git 'em, er they git me."
"But, Daniels, Jem Donald never destroyed your home; never drove away your wife or children. He would help you hunt them; I know he would."
The face of the old mountaineer had hardened into its usual expression of grimness, and I thought he already felt ashamed of his slight display of feeling.
"The hell he would! I reckon you an' I don't know ther same Donald."
"No, I don't think we do. I ask you to give the one I know a trial."
He shook his head stubbornly. "It's no use; soft words won't never settle our score." His eyes shifted from her face to mine. "Leftenant, I'm a-goin' ter git out o' yere; I feel like I was caught in a trap."
"Do you mean to insinuate that we are treating you unfairly?" I asked hotly.
"No; 'tain't you ner ther gal. You two are square 'nough. But this yere is ol' Jedge Dunn's house, under guard o' Confeds, an' 't ain't no place fer Bill Daniels ter be."
He took one step toward the door, then leaped backward, the knife out, and gleaming in his hand. Standing with back to the entrance, I neither saw nor heard anything, hut Jean's face went instantly white, and her fingers convulsively gripped the dresser. Then the knife dropped to the floor, and Daniels's arms were elevated.
"I reckon yer got me," he said, the words sounding odd in the silence. Donald stood in the doorway, his face like that of a statue, the black muzzle of a revolver covering the mountaineer. It was all so swift, so unexpected, that, for the instant, we stood there rigid, actually gasping for breath. I recall the intense hatred in Daniels's eyes, actually turning them black with passion; Jean's attitude of startled amazement; and the almost expressionless countenance of the guerilla chief. He alone seemed cool, self-possessed, and capable of action. His lips smiled.
"I hardly understand the nature of this little gathering," he said slowly, "and it may be I am not welcome, but I am glad to see you. Bill Daniels, and I advise you to keep those hands up until I say otherwise. Jean, what are you doing here? What is the meaning of all this?"
These questions aroused her instantly, the color flooding back into her cheeks. Her first feeling was evidently that of indignation.
"I refuse to answer," she exclaimed, standing erect before him, "until you lower that revolver. Daniels is unarmed, and here to meet me upon a mission of peace."
Donald's face pictured his surprise, but he made no attempt to question her word. I saw his eyes wander from her face to that of the mountaineer; then he shoved the gun back into his belt, and leaned his shoulder against the door.
"Very well, little girl," his tone carelessly good humored. "I have n't exactly the same degree of evidence in this party, but if you hold hit parole, it goes with me. You can drop your hands, Daniels, only I advise you not to reach for the knife. Now, Jean, do you mind explaining the meaning of all this?"
That Daniels would have run for it if he dared was plainly evident. I saw him glance toward the windows, and then into Donald's face, his feet moving nervously. But the chance was too small, and his eyes fell to the carpet in dogged helplessness. I moved back, leaving the girl standing next to him.
"Then first answer me one question: Did you know Daniels's cabin on Long Creek had been destroyed?"
The Colonel's face sobered.
"I did not."
"Have any of your men been that way lately?"
"Not for several weeks under any orders from me. There may have been foraging parties covering that territory, but no report has reached me of any trouble."
"You have heard nothing regarding the disappearance of this man's wife and children? "
"I certainly have not, Jean," now replying with the earnestness of conviction. "Surely you do not suspect me of making war on the helpless?"
"No," gravely, "but our mountain feuds are heartless, and mercy has never been part of the code. Knowing what I do of the past, I cannot blame Daniels for his suspicions. Now listen, and I will explain this situation. Daniels discovered last night that his home had been burned to the ground, and could gain no information relative to the whereabouts of his wife and children. 
"Which shall it be, Daniel, peace or war?"
Donald stepped aside, leaving the door partially open and unguarded; his eyes were no longer on the mountaineer, but upon the face of the girl.
"I respect his purpose, and your implied pledge," he said gravely. "Was the woman Mrs. Daniels?"
"No," her eyes falling before his gaze, and the whole expression of her face softening. "It was a face I had never seen before."
For a long moment no one of us spoke, the silence impressive, the very air seemingly charged with possibilities of evil. I could perceive the doubt in Daniels's face, the vague suspicion of treachery. Before he could move, however, the girl, excited under the strain, broke forth impulsively.
"I—I don't want this to go on! There has been blood enough shed in these mountains over a forgotten quarrel. Won't you men stop it? For the sake of that woman, those children, homeless, won't you forget the past, and unite together in one cause? I ask it as a woman."
The thought was utterly beyond Daniels. I could see this in the steely glint of the eyes fastened on Donald; but the latter saw only the girl pleading, his face reflecting her mood.
"I am not a brute, Jean," he said finally, "and I have fought because I was born into it, rather than from choice. If Daniels will meet me half way, it shall be truce between us."
He turned his head to look at the other standing gaunt and grim, a bit of sunshine touching the grizzled hair.
"What shall it be, Daniels, peace or war?"
The silence of the mountaineer burst under the stress of pent-up passion, as if some dam had given way, his words tumbling over one another in torrent.
"Ye want me ter lie down now, do ye? Well, damn ye, I won't; maybe if I was on top like you-uns I'd talk 'bout peace, an' fergiveness, an' thet sorter thing. Thet's easy 'nough when everything goes yer way. But look at my side! You've got ther cinch since this yere war come; yer damn courts drove me out, an' yer guerillas hev raised hell from end ter end o' this region. A Daniels can't live yere any more; yer hell hounds hev burned an' killed an' stole till thar's nobody left ter fight ye. Thet ain't no time ter ask me ter quit. I did n't come yere ter talk ter ye, Jem Donald. I'll fight ye any day ye ever saw, but I'm goin' ter die hatin' ye. I don't want ter be no friend. I come yere ter ask ther gal a question, an' now I'm goin'. I reckon yer kin kill me first if yer want ter, fer I ain't got a weapon on me, but I'm sure goin' out thet door dead or alive."
I saw Donald take one step backward, his lips compressed, his hand falling to the butt of his revolver. Jean swept between us, her fingers clasping his arm, and then Daniels walked out, not a muscle of his grim face acknowledging our presence.