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At last the work was done, a terribly hard day’s work. The machines and utensils were piled in separate places, the cattle separated, and the grain measured. As they were about to leave, the Deacon said finally:–

“If there’s any complaint to make, let’s have it right now. I want this settlement to be a settlement. Is everybody satisfied?”

“I am,” said Emmy. “Ain’t you, Serry?”

“Why, of course,” said Sarah, who was a little slower of speech. “I think the Deacon has done first rate. I ain’t a word of fault to find, have you, Bill?”

“Nope, not an ioty,” said Bill, readily.

Jim did not agree in so many words, but, as he said nothing, the Deacon ended:–

“Well, that settles it. It ain’t goin’ to rain, so you can leave these things right here till Monday. I guess I’ll be gettin’ out for home. Good evening, everybody.”

Emma drove away down the road with Jim, but Sarah remained to straighten up the house. Harkey’s hired hand went home with Dade Walker who considered that walk the pleasant finish to a very interesting day’s work. She sympathized for the time with the Harkey faction.

Sunday forenoon, when Bill and Sarah drove up to the farm to put things in order in the house, they found Ike Harkey walking around with that queer side glance he had, studying the piles of furniture, and mentally weighing the pigs.

He greeted them smoothly: “Yes, yes, I’m purrfickly satisfied, purrfickly! Not a word to say–better’n I expected,” he added.

Bill was not quite keen enough to perceive the insult which lay in that final clause, and Sarah dared not inform him for fear of trouble.

As Harkey drove away, however, Bill had a dim feeling of dissatisfaction with him.

“He’s too gol-dang polite, that feller is; I don’t like such butter-mouth chaps–they’d steal the cents off’n a dead nigger’s eyes.”

III

The second Sunday after the partition of goods the entire Coolly turned out to church in spite of the muddy road. The men, after driving up to the door of the little white church and helping the women to alight, drove out to the sheds along the fence and gathered in knots beside their wagons in the warm spring sun. It was very pleasant there, and the men leaned with relaxed muscles upon the wagon-wheels, or sat on the fence with jack-knives in hand. The horses, weary with six days seeding, slept with closed eyes and drooping lips. Generally the talk was upon spring work, each man bragging of the number of acres he had sown during the week, but this morning the talk was all about the division which had come between the nieces of “deceased Williams.” They discussed it slowly as one might eat a choice pudding in order to extract the flavor from each spoonful.

“What is it all about, anyhow?” asked Jim Cranby. “I ain’t heard nothing about it.” He had stood in open-mouthed perplexity trying to catch a clew. Coming late, he found it baffling.

“That shows where he lives; a man might as well live in a well as up in Molasses Gap,” said one of the younger men, pointing up to the Coolly. “Why, Ike Harkey is kicking about the six shotes the Deacon put off on him.”

“No, it wasn’t the shotes, it was a farrer cow,” put in Clint Stone.

“Well, I heard it was a shote.”

“So did I,” said another.

“Well, Bill Gray told Jinks Ike had stole a cow-bell that belonged to the black farrer cow,” said another late comer.

“Stole a cow-bell,” and they all drew closer together. This was really worth while!

“Yes, sir; Jinks told me he heard Bill say so yesterday. That’s the way I heard it.”

“Well, I’ll be cussed, if that ain’t small business for Ike Harkey!”

“How did it happen?” asked Cranby, with sharpened appetite.

“Well, I didn’t hear no p’rtic’lars, but it seems the bell was hangin’ on a peg in the barn, and when they got home from church it was gone, hide an’ hair. Bill is dead sure Ike took it.”