He had witnessed the
judge's skill with the pistol, and he had even a certain
irrational faith in that gentleman's destiny. He prayed God that
Fentress might die quickly and decently with the judge's bullet
through his brain. Over and over in savage supplication he
muttered his prayer that Fentress might die.
He began to watch for the coming of the dawn, but before the
darkness lifted he had risen from the bed and gone downstairs,
where he made himself a cup of wretched coffee. Then he blew out
his candle and watched the gray light spread. He was impatient
now to be off, and fully an hour before the sun, set out for
Boggs', a tall, gaunt figure in the shadowy uncertainty of that
October morning. He was the first to reach the place of meeting,
but he had scarcely entered the meadow when Fentress rode up,
attended by Tom Ware. They dismounted, and the colonel lifted
his hat. Mahaffy barely acknowledged the salute; he was in no
mood for courtesies that meant nothing. Ware was clearly of the
same mind.
There was an awkward pause, then Fentress and Ware spoke together
in a low tone. The planter's speech was broken and hoarse, and
his heavy, bloodshot eyes were the eyes of a haunted man; this
was all a part of Fentress' scheme to face the world, and Ware
still believed that the fires Hicks had kindled had served his
desperate need.
When the first long shadows stole out from the edge of the woods
Fentress turned to Mahaffy, whose glance was directed toward the
distant corner of the field, where he knew his friend must first
appear.
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