The Greatest Westerns of Ernest Haycox. Ernest Haycox

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      MURDER AND MUSIC

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      The Copperhead school was tonight the rendezvous for every able-bodied man, woman, and child within forty miles. Sounds of revelry emerged from every opening and floated across frosty air; lights gleamed through every opening, and the brisk melody of guitar and fiddle made lively rhythm. Men whooped cheerfully, women laughed; and the movement of the crowd never stopped, for Yellow Hill believed in playing with energy.

      Copperhead school itself never could have held them all, but there was no need of that. The school was only a minor appendage built on to Casper Flood's enormous hay barn. Tonight the floor was cleared, cleaned, and waxed, and if the footing was sometimes rough nobody cared. All around the walls sat the matrons who no longer found comfort in the actual struggle, the patriarchs who secretly cherished a desire to shine as dancers and were restrained by family opinion, and the children—many of whom were sound asleep on improvised beds.

      Midnight long since had passed, yet the dance went buoyantly on. Carriages departed, riders came in. Out under a tree men foregathered between dances to partake of cheer; and just inside the door a clump of punchers formed the inevitable stag line. In another corner of the barn stretched a mammoth table which earlier in the evening had groaned under vast mounds of sandwiches, fat hams, haunches of beef and cakes by the dozen. At present it resembled the devastated field of a great battle. Yet the folks still trooped to it, the hot coffee still steamed out of the enormous blackened pots, and from somewhere food still was fetched. And the music went on, and the dancers swirled under the gleaming lights.

      "The best dance," sighed Mrs. Casper Flood, "I ever remember. Don't Dave and the Monterey girl look well? Seems like they fit."

      "Ha," said Mrs. Jim Coldfoot, who had been eyeing a dark corner of the barn. "They had ought to fit. Been chasin' together long enough. Who's he goin' to marry, I want to know? I notice he pays his attention pretty evenly between the Monterey woman and Eve. Why didn't he bring Eve to this dance 'stead of Lola Monterey?"

      "Why don't you ask Dave?" inquired Mrs. Casper Flood ironically.

      "Would if I thought he'd tell," said Mrs. Jim, in no manner abashed. "All I got to say is if Eve Leverage likes him and is put out by his goin' with that other girl, then she keeps it well hid, the little devil."

      The music stopped with a flourish and couples began circling for seats. By degrees intimate friends collected in small knots. Presently Denver and Steele and Steers, with their partners, gathered at the table. Niland came up and joined; and lastly the Englishman arrived with one of the Fee girls. The Englishman, alone of all that assemblage, was dressed in full evening habit. His ruddy face was a burnished crimson above the utter whiteness of a stiff shirt. He bowed and he bent with a scrupulous nicety. He was urbanity and polish personified.

      It was a tribute to Almaric St. Jennifer Crèvecoeur Nightingale that the circle at the table opened readily to admit him; and it was a still greater tribute that this circle began to cast humorous comment on his get-up. For when cattleland abandons formality toward a man, that man is accepted.

      "What I wish to know," demanded Niland, indicating the full dress, "is do you pin it on or buckle it on?"

      "Let's widen the inquiry," added Denver. "Do you step into it, climb into it, or roll into it?"

      "One acquires the knowledge by degrees," said Nightingale gravely. "It takes ten years to learn the proper angle at which to wear a top hat. Why, dear fellas, every curve and cut is prescribed by tradition, hallowed by memory. What you see before you is the cumulative sartorial wisdom of ten gen'rations of Nightingales, most painfully acquired. Why, my great-great-great- grandfather on the Jennifer side earned the Garter for no less a service than showing His Majesty how to be seated in a chair without wrinkling his tails. At Culloden, where one of my ancestors commanded, the battle order was delayed ten hours till swift couriers could find a daisy for this said revered ancestor to wear in his buttonhole durin' the battle. And, mind you, the enemy was so versed in etiquette it refused to attack us until my sire had found the daisy."

      "Ah!" sniffed Steve Steers suspiciously.

      "Upon my word," stated the Englishman, grave as a hanging judge.

      "Don't let them kid you, Nighty," broke in Steele. "I sported one of those in the bygone years. It was a pleasure—as most things were to me, then."

      "I reckon you acquire a taste for it," reflected Denver, "like olives or eggplant."

      Mrs. Jim Coldfoot was discovered on the edge of the circle, aimlessly stabbing at food. It was apparent she meant to miss no word exchanged by these people.

      "I like to see men in dress suits," said Lola.

      "I could think of nothing more charming," added Eve.

      "Now, there!" exploded Niland. "Right there's the insidious influence of the get-up. Nighty wears it, the women fall for it, and pretty soon we'll all have to follow in line. I consider this grave enough for the vigilantes."

      "Supposing," suggested Denver, "we excuse ourselves for a smoke and consider the state of affairs at mature length?"

      "Is it just a smoke you want?" was Debbie Lunt's malicious question. She looked at Steve, and he joined the departing men uneasily, while the rest of the women laughed.

      Out in the yard they assembled. There was a slight gurgle. "What was that the Governor of South Ca'lina said to the Governor of North Ca'lina?" asked Steve. "Personally I despise strong drink, but my feet's hurtin' me awful."

      "Don't see why they should," retorted Denver. "You been ridin' around all evenin' on somebody else's feet."

      "I'd kill any other man for that," growled Steve, and began to cough. "Whoosh! Somebody hit me on the back 'afore I strangle. Who kicked me in the stummick?"

      The Englishman, not yet quite up to the group, was suddenly plucked on the sleeve. A pair of shadows said "Shush!" in unison and drew him away. "It's us, Meems and Wango. Yore a stranger in the country and had ought to be introduced to somethin' nice. Come right over here. By this wagon. Lean agin it while I get the bottle. Don't want nobody else to see or they'd jest swamp us."

      "But—" began Nightingale and was pushed against the wagon's side with cordial insistence.

      "That's all right. Don't let yore gen'rosity get the best of you. Wango and me believe we owe it to a stranger once, anyhow. Here it is, the finest whisky money can buy. Take a drink. Take a big drink. Hell, take two-three drinks and see if we ain't got the best—"

      "Oh, very well," agreed Nightingale and accepted the bottle. The partners crowded beside him, patted him on the back. Nightingale lowered the bottle. "Is this what you are proud of?"

      "Ain't it the doggonedest, bestest—"

      The Englishman belched magnificently. "I think your trust in nature is jolly well misplaced. Thanks for the disinfectant, and excuse me while I join my friends."

      Meems and Wango waited until Nightingale had crossed the yard, then turned toward their horses. "After that," said Meems, "I think we better take our leave. Never know what a furriner will do."

      "Yeah," agreed Wango. Together they swung to saddle and aimed for the maw of Copperhead bridge. Wango spoke doubtfully. СКАЧАТЬ