Acres of Unrest by Max Brand Page A

ingenious men have learned before him, that even to be able to lie well really requires a certain amount of genius.
    Another thought came to Ross Hale, and the longer he observed his son, the more certain he was that Peter knew all the humiliation and disappointment that his homecoming had produced, and yet he refused to allow this knowledge to influence his actions. He remained as calmly aloof as ever—and as cheerful.
    The tension increased every moment, until it seemed to Ross Hale that he could not endure it. Finally he decided to make his escape. The instant supper was ended—such as it was—he accepted Peter’s offer to do the dishes and went out to walk up and down in the darkness of the night.
    Behind him, in the kitchen of the house, he could hear Peter’s voice raised in a song that boomed and echoed through the old house. But the father knew there was only a pretended cheer behind that singing. The soul of Peter, in reality, was burdened under a greater weight of sorrow than Ross Hale himself could feel.
    The dishwashing and drying proceeded rapidly. When all was accomplished Peter took himself to his own consolation. He could hear the slight creaking as his father’s heels ground the pebbles in the front of the house. He himself loved walking, and many an hour, striding back and forth, had once brought peace and good will back to his troubled brain. That pleasure, simple as it was, was now gone from him. He sat back in the big corner armchair in the kitchen, remembering when his grandfather had spent his hours in that same chair, and he took out an ancient black pipe, caked and crusted with tobacco. This he packed with care.
    It seemed to Peter that smoking helped him to realize more dearly what his father had done forhis sake. It had been a sort of crucifixion. Not only the body of Ross Hale had paid the penalty, but his soul had shrunk and wasted under the weight of his great effort. That task being accomplished, what a reward was this for the crucified man. He awakened and found himself in no heaven—only the father of a man who might never be self-supporting.
    Peter, in his agony of mind, took his pipe from his teeth and closed his eyes and his hands. There was a sharp, cracking sound, a sting on the palm of his hand and the ball of his thumb. He had broken his favorite and only pipe into a thousand pieces. He did not curse, but, looking at the fuming little ruin that had fallen on the floor, he wondered what other man’s hand could have crushed the stout brier root in that pipe as he had done with thumb and forefinger. Feeling a sudden need for the open air, he went toward the kitchen door. As he did so, he saw the glint of his father’s revolvers, where Ross Hale had left them on the kitchen table. Peter stopped and picked them up. They were good guns. In the Hale family, the men had always been proud of their weapons. And these fitted neatly against the heel of Peter’s palm. He slipped them into his coat and went on.

Chapter Ten
    Not even a cat, no doubt, could have covered the distance to the side gate without making some noise among the cinders that lined the path, to keep down dust in summer and mud in winter. But Peter moved on crutches shod with broad, air cushioned feet of rubber. These made not so much as a whisper as he reached the gate. He passed through it with care. Then he swung himself off into the darkness of the corral. His mind was fairly clear as to the purpose before him. If only he could do the thing and be back again before his father got into the house and missed the guns.
    In the barn, he took the better of the two horses—at least it was the one that appeared toughest and most able to bear Peter’s crushing weight. He saddled and bridled this cartoon of a horse. Since his accident he had spent many an hour in the saddle, and therefore he knew just how to manage everything. He knew the whole trick of mounting and he knew just how to manage himself, once he climbed into the