"_Sheriff of Brenting County, Brentingville_.
"Proceed with execution of Prior. No reprieve will be sent. Reply if
you understand this message.
"JOHN DAY, _Governor_."
It is a pity it cannot be written that Bowen felt some compunction at
what he was doing. We like to think that, when a man deliberately
commits a crime, he should hesitate and pay enough deference to the
proprieties as to feel at least a temporary regret, even if he goes on
with his crime afterward. Bowen's thoughts were upon the dead girl, not
on the living man. He roused the dozing telegraph messenger.
"Here," he said, "take this to the gaol and find the sheriff. If he is
not there, go to his residence. If he is asleep, wake him up. Tell him
this wants an answer. Give him a blank, and when he has filled it up,
bring it to me; give the message to no one else, mind."
The boy said "Yes, sir," and departed into the night. He returned so
quickly that Bowen knew without asking that he had found the sleepless
sheriff at the gaol. The message to the governor, written in a
trembling hand by the sheriff, was: "I understand that the execution is
to take place. If you should change your mind, for God's sake telegraph
as soon as possible. I shall delay execution until last moment allowed
by law."
Bowen did not send that message, but another. He laughed--and then
checked himself in alarm, for his laugh sounded strange. "I wonder if I
am quite sane," he said to himself. "I doubt it."
The night wore slowly on. A man representing a Press association came
in after twelve and sent a long dispatch. Bowen telegraphed it, taking
the chances that the receiver would not communicate with the sender of
the reprieve at the capital. He knew how mechanically news of the
greatest importance was taken off the wire by men who have
automatically been doing that for years. Anyhow all the copper and zinc
in the world could not get a message into Brentingville, except through
him, until the day operator came on, and then it would be too late.
The newspaper man, lingering, asked if there would be only one
telegrapher on hand after the execution.
"I shall have a lot of stuff to send over and I want it rushed. Some of
the papers may get out specials. I would have brought an operator with
me but we thought there was going to be a reprieve--although the
sheriff didn't seem to think so," he added.
"The day operator will be here at six, I will return as soon as I have
had a cup of coffee, and we'll handle all you can write," answered
Bowen, without looking up from his instrument.
"Thanks. Grim business, isn't it?"
"It is."
"I thought the governor would cave; didn't you?"
"I didn't know."
"He's a shrewd old villain. He'd have lost next election if he'd
reprieved this man. People don't want to see lynching introduced, and a
weak-kneed governor is Judge Lynch's friend. Well, good-night, see you
in the morning."
"Good-night," said Bowen.
Daylight gradually dimmed the lamps in the telegraph room, and Bowen
started and caught his breath as the church bell began to toll.
It was ten minutes after six when Bowen's partner, the day man, came
in.
"Well, they've hanged him," he said.
Bowen was fumbling among some papers on his table. He folded two of
them and put them in his inside pocket. Then he spoke:
"There will be a newspaper man here in a few moments with a good deal
of copy to telegraph. Rush it off as fast as you can and I'll be back
to help before you are tired."
As Bowen walked towards the gaol he met the scattered group of those
who had been privileged to see the execution. They were discussing
capital punishment, and some were yawningly complaining about the
unearthly hour chosen for the function they had just beheld. Between
the outside gate and the gaol door Bowen met the sheriff, who was
looking ghastly and sallow in the fresh morning light.
"I have come to give myself up," said Bowen, before the official could
greet him.
"To give yourself up? What for?"
"For murder, I suppose."
"This is no time for joking, young man," said the sheriff, severely.
"Do I look like a humourist? Read that."
First incredulity, then horror, overspread the haggard face of the
sheriff as he read and re-read the dispatch. He staggered back against
the wall, putting up his arm to keep himself from falling.
"Bowen," he gasped: "Do you--do you mean to--to tell me--that this
message came for me last night?"
"I do."
"And you--you suppressed it?"
"I did--and sent you a false one."
"And I have hanged--a reprieved man?"
"You have hanged a murderer--yes."
"My God! My God!" cried the sheriff. He turned his face on his arm
against the wall and wept. His nerves were gone. He had been up all
night and had never hanged a man before.
Bowen stood there until the spasm was over. The sheriff turned
indignantly to him, trying to hide the feeling of shame he felt at
giving way, in anger at the witness of it.
"And you come to me, you villain, because I said I would help you if
you ever got into a tight place?"
"Damn your tight place," cried the young man, "I come to you to give
myself up. I stand by what I do. I don't squeal. There will be no
petitions got up for _me_. What are you going to do with me?"
"I don't know, Bowen, I don't know," faltered the official, on the
point of breaking down again. He did not wish to have to hang another
man, and a friend at that. "I'll have to see the governor. I'll leave
by the first train. I don't suppose you'll try to escape."
"I'll be here when you want me."
So Bowen went back to help the day operator, and the sheriff left by
the first train for the capital.
Now a strange thing happened. For the first time within human
recollection the newspapers were unanimous in commending the conduct of
the head of the State, the organs of the governor's own party lavishly
praising him; the opposition sheets grudgingly admitting that he had
more backbone than they had given him credit for. Public opinion, like
the cat of the simile, had jumped, and that unmistakably.
"In the name of all that's wonderful, sheriff," said the bewildered
governor, "who signed all those petitions? If the papers wanted the man
hanged, why, in the fiend's name, did they not say so before, and save
me all this worry? Now how many know of this suppressed dispatch?"
"Well, there's you and your subordinates here and----"
"_We'll_ say nothing about it."
"And then there is me and Bowen in Brentingville. That's all."
"Well, Bowen will keep quiet for his own sake, and you won't mention
it."
"Certainly not."
"Then let's _all_ keep quiet. The thing's safe if some of those
newspaper fellows don't get after it. It's not on record in the books,
and I'll burn all the documents."
And thus it was. Public opinion was once more vindicated. The governor
was triumphantly re-elected as a man with some stamina about him.