THE FIGHT BY THE RIVER SIDE
Deep in the forest on the home path, Dic looked at the ring, and quite
forgot Billy Little, while he anticipated the pleasure he would take in
giving the golden token to Rita. He did not intend to be selfish, but
selfishness was a part of his condition. A great love is, and should be,
narrowing.
That evening Dic walked down the river path to Bays's and, as usual, sat
on the porch with the family. Twenty-four hours earlier sitting on the
porch with the family would have seemed a delightful privilege, and the
moments would have been pleasure-winged. But now Mrs. Bays's profound
and frequently religious philosophizing was dull compared to what might
be said on the log down by the river bank.
Tom, of course, talked a good deal. Among other things he remarked to
Dic:--
"I 'lowed you'd never come back here again after the way Rita treated
you last night." Of course he did not know how exceedingly well Rita had
treated Dic last night.
"Oh, that was nothing," returned Dic. "Rita was right. I hope she will
always--always--" The sentence was hard to finish.
"You hope she'll always treat you that-a-way?" asked Tom, derisively. "I
bet if you had her alone she wouldn't be so hard to manage--would you,
Rita?" Tom thought himself a rare wit, and a mistake of that sort makes
one very disagreeable. Rita's face burned scarlet at Tom's witticism,
and Mrs. Bays promptly demanded of her daughter:--
"What on earth are you talking about?" Poor Rita had not been talking at
all, and therefore made no answer. The demand was then made of Tom, but
in a much softer tone of voice:--
"Tell me, Tom," his mother asked.
"I'll not tell you. Rita and Dic may, but I'll not. I'm no tell-tale."
No, not he!
The Chief Justice turned upon Rita, looked sternly over her glasses, and
again insisted:--
"What have you been doing, girl? Tell me at once. I command you by the
duty you owe your mother."
"I can't tell you, mother. Please don't ask," replied Rita, hanging her
head.
"You can tell me, and you shall," cried the fond mother.
"I can't tell you, mother, and I won't. Please don't ask."
"Do my ears deceive me? You refuse to obey your parents? 'Obey thy
father and thy mother that thy days may be long'--"
Tom interrupted her: "Oh, mother, for goodness' sake, quit firing that
quotation at Rita. I'm sick of it. If it's true, I ought to have died
long ago. I don't mind you. Never did. Never will."
"Yes, you do, Tom," answered his mother, meekly. "And this disobedient
girl shall mind me, too." Rita had never in all her life disobeyed a
command from either father or mother. She was obedient from habit and
inclination, and in her guileless, affectionate heart believed that a
terrific natural cataclysm of some sort would surely occur should she
even think of disobeying.
With ostentatious deliberation Mrs. Bays folded her knitting and placed
it on the floor beside her; took off her spectacles, put them in the
case, and put the case in her pocket. Rita knew her mother was clearing
the decks for action and that Justice was coldly arranging to have its
own. So great was the girl's love and fear for this hard woman that she
trembled as if in peril.
"Now, Margarita Fisher Bays," the Chief Justice began, glaring at the
trembling girl. When on the bench she addressed her daughter by her full
name in long-drawn syllables, and Rita's full name upon her mother's
lips meant trouble. But at the moment Mrs. Bays began her address from
the bench Billy Little came around the corner of the house and stopped
in front of the porch.
Tom said, "Hello, Billy Little," Mr. Bays said, "Howdy," and Mrs. Bays
said majestically: "Good evening, Mr. Little. You have come just in time
to see the ungratefullest creature the world can produce--a disobedient
daughter."
"I can't believe that you have one," smiled Billy.
Rita's eyes flashed a look of gratitude upon her friend. Dic might not
be able to understand the language of those eyes, but Billy knew their
vocabulary from the smallest to the greatest word.
"I wouldn't believe it either," said Mrs. Bays, "if I had not just heard
her say it with my own ears."
"Did she say it with your own ears?" interrupted Tom.
"Now, Tom, please don't interrupt, my son," said Mrs. Bays. "She said to
her own mother, Mr. Little, 'I won't;' said it to her own mother who has
toiled and suffered and endured for her sake all her life long; to her
own mother who has nursed her and watched over her and tried to do her
duty according to the poor light that God has vouchsafed--and--and I've
been troubled with my heart all day."
Rita, poor girl, had been troubled with her heart many days.
"Yes, with my heart," continued the dutiful mother. "Dr. Kennedy says I
may drop any moment." (Billy secretly wished that Kennedy had fixed the
moment.) "And when I asked her to tell me what she did last night at the
social, she answered, 'I can't and won't.' I should have known better
than to let her go. She hasn't sense enough to be let out of my sight.
She lied to me about the social, too. She pretended that she did not
want to go, and she did want to go." That was the real cause of Mrs.
Margarita's anger. She suspected she had been duped into consenting, and
the thought had rankled in her heart all day.
"You did want to go, didn't you?" snapped out the old woman.
"Yes, mother, I did want to go," replied Rita.
"There, you hear for yourself, Mr. Little. She lied to me, and now is
brazen enough to own up to it."
Tom thought the scene very funny and laughed boisterously. Had Tom been
scolded, Rita would have wept.
"Go it, mother," said Tom. "This is better than a jury trial."
"Oh, Tom, be still, son!" said Mrs. Bays, and then turning to Rita: "Now
you've got to tell me what happened at Scott's social. Out with it!"
Rita and Dic were sitting near each other on the edge of the porch. Mr.
Bays and Tom occupied rocking-chairs, and Billy Little was standing on
the ground, hat in hand.
"Tell me this instant," cried Mrs. Bays, rising from her chair and going
over to the girl, who shrank from her in fear. "Tell me, or
I'll--I'll--"
"I can't, mother," the girl answered tremblingly. "I can't tell you
before all these--these folks. I'll tell you in the house."
"You went into the kissing game. That's what you did," cried Mrs. Bays,
"and your punishment shall be to confess it before Mr. Little." Rita
began to weep, and answered gently:--
"Yes, mother, I did, but I did not--did not--" A just and injured wrath
gathered on the face of Justice.
"Didn't I command you not?"
"I'll tell you all about it, Mrs. Bays," interrupted Dic. "I coaxed her
to go in." (Rita's heart thanked him for the lie.) "The others all
insisted. One of the boys dragged her to the centre of the room and she
just had to go into the game. She only remained a short time, and what
Tom referred to is this: she would not allow any one to--to kiss her,
and she quit the game when she--she refused me."
"She quit the game when it quit, I 'low. Isn't that right?" asked the
inquisitor.
"The game stopped when she went out--"
"I thought as much," replied Mrs. Bays, straightening up for the purpose
of delivering judgment. "Now go to bed at once, you disobedient,
indecent girl! I'm ashamed of you, and blush that Mr. Little should know
your wickedness."
"Oh, please let me stay," sobbed Rita, but Mrs. Bays pointed to the door
and Rita rose, gave one glance to Dic, and went weeping to her room. Mr.
Bays said mildly:--
"Margarita, you should not have been so hard on the girl."
"Now, Tom Bays," responded the strenuous spouse, "I'll thank you not to
meddle with my children. I know my duty, and I'll do it. Lord knows I
wish I could shirk it as some people do, but I can't. I must do my duty
when the Lord is good enough to point it out, or my conscience will
smite me. There's many a person with my heart would sit by and let her
child just grow up in the wilderness like underbrush; but I _must_ do
my duty, Mr. Little, in the humble sphere in which Providence has placed
me. Give every man his just dues, and do my duty. That's all I know, Mr.
Little. 'Justice to all and punishment for sinners;' that's my motto and
my husband will tell you I live up to it." She looked for confirmation
to her spouse, who said regretfully:--
"Yes, I must say that's true."
"There," cried triumphant Justice. "You see, I don't boast. I despise
boasting." She took up her knitting, put on her glasses, closed her
lips, and thus announced that court was also closed.
Poor Rita, meantime, was sobbing, upstairs at her window.
After a long, awkward silence, Billy Little addressed Dic. "I came up to
spend the night with you, and if you are going home, I'll walk and lead
my horse. I suppose you walked down?"
"Yes," answered Dic; "I'll go with you."
"I'm sorry to carry off your company, Mrs. Bays," said Billy, "but I
want to--"
"Oh, Dic's no company; he's always here. I don't know where he finds
time to work. I'd think he'd go to see the girls sometimes."
"Rita's a girl, isn't she?" asked Billy, glancing toward Dic.
"Rita's only a child, and a disobedient one at that," replied Mrs. Bays,
but Billy's words put a new thought into her head that was almost sure
to cause trouble for Rita.
When Billy and Dic went around the house to fetch Billy's horse, Rita
was sitting at the window upstairs. She smiled through her tears and
tossed a note to Dic, which he deciphered by the light of the moon. It
was brief, "Please meet me to-morrow at the step-off--three o'clock."
The step-off was a deep hole in the river halfway between Bays's and
Bright's.
Dic and Billy walked up the river path a little time in silence. Billy
was first to speak.
"I consider," said he, "that profane swearing is vulgar, but I must say
damn that woman. What an inquisitor she would make. I hope Kennedy is
right about her heart. Think of her as your mother-in-law!"
"When Rita is my wife," replied Dic, "I'll protect her, if I have
to--to--"
"What will you do, Dic?" asked Billy. "Such a woman is utterly
unmanageable. You see, the trouble is, that she believes in herself and
is honest by a species of artificial sincerity. Show me a stern, hard
woman who is bent on doing her duty, her whole duty, and nothing but her
duty, and I'll show you a misery breeder. Did you give Rita the ring?"
"I haven't had the chance," answered Dic. "I'll do it to-morrow. Billy
Little, I want to thank you--you must let me tell you what I think, or
I'll burst."
"Burst, then," returned Billy. "I'd rather be kicked than thanked. I
knew how Rita and you would feel, or I should not have given you the
ring. Do you suppose I would have parted with it because of a small
motive? Have you told the Chief Justice?"
"No; she will learn when she sees the ring on Rita's finger."
Silence then ensued, which was broken after a few minutes by Billy
Little humming under his breath, "Maxwelton's braes are bonny." Dic soon
joined in the sweet refrain, and, each encouraging the other, they
swelled their voices and allowed the tender melody to pour forth. I can
almost see them as they walked up the river path, now in the black
shadow of the forest, and again near the gurgling water's edge, in the
yellow light of the moon. The warm, delicious air was laden with the
odor of trees and sweetbrier, and to the song the breath of the south
wind played an accompaniment of exquisite cadence upon the leaves. I
seem to hear them singing,--Billy's piping treble, plaintive, quaint,
and almost sweet, carrying the tenor to Dic's bass. There was no
soprano. The concert was all tenor and bass, south wind, and rustling
leaves. The song helped Dic to express his happiness, and enabled Billy
to throw off the remnants of his heartache. Music is a surer antidote to
disappointment, past, present, and future, than the philosophy of all
the Stoics that ever lived; and if all who know the truth of that
statement were to read these pages, Billy Little would have many
millions of sympathizers.
Dic did not neglect Rita's note, but read it many times after he had
lighted the candle in the loft where he and Billy were to sleep. Long
after Billy had gone to bed Dic sat up, thinking of Rita, and anon
replenishing his store of ecstasy from the full fountain of her note.
After an unreasonable period of waiting Billy said:--
"If you intend to sit there all night, I wish you would smother the
candle. It's filling the room with bugs. Here is a straddle-bug of some
sort that's been trying to saw my foot off."
"In a moment, Billy Little," answered Dic. The moment stretched into
many minutes, until Billy, growing restive, threw his shoe at the candle
and felled it in darkness to the floor. Dic laughed and went to bed, and
Billy fell into so great a fit of laughter that he could hardly check
it. Neither slept much, and by sun-up Billy was riding homeward.
That he might be sure to be on time, Dic was at the step-off by
half-past two, and five minutes later Rita appeared. The step-off was at
a deep bend in the river where the low-hanging water-elm, the redbud,
and the dogwood, springing in vast luxuriance from the rich bottom
soil, were covered by a thick foliage of wild grape-vines.
"The river path," used only as a "horse road" and by pedestrians, left
the river at the upper bend, crossing the narrow peninsula formed by the
winding stream, and did not intrude upon the shady nook of raised ground
at the point of the peninsula next the water's edge. There was, however,
a horse path--wagon roads were few and far apart--on the opposite side
of the river. This path was little used, save by hunters, the west side
of the river being government land, and at that time a vast stretch of
unbroken forest. Rita had chosen the step-off for her trysting-place
because of its seclusion, and partly, perhaps, for the sake of its
beauty. She and Dic could be seen only from the opposite side of the
river, and she thought no one would be hunting at that time of the year.
The pelts of fur-giving animals taken then were unfit for market.
Venison was soft, and pheasants and turkeys were sitting. There would be
nothing she would wish to conceal in meeting Dic; but the instinct of
all animate nature is to do its love-making in secret.
"Oh, Dic," said the girl, after they were seated on a low, rocky bench
under a vine-covered redbud, "oh, Dic, I did so long to speak to you
last night. After what happened night before last--it seems ages ago--I
have lived in a dream, and I wanted to talk to you and assure myself
that it is all true and real."
"It is as real as you and I, Rita, and I have brought you something that
will always make you know it is real."
"Isn't it wonderful, Dic?" said the girl, looking up to him with a
childish wistfulness of expression that would always remain in her eyes.
"Isn't it wonderful that this good fortune has come to me? I can hardly
realize that it is true."
"Oh, but I am the one to whom the good fortune has really come,"
replied Dic. "You are so generous that you give me yourself, and that is
the richest present on earth."
"Ah, but you are so generous that you take me. I cannot understand it
all yet; I suppose I shall in time. But what have you brought that will
make me know it is all real?"
Dic then brought forth the ivory box and held it behind him.
"Oh, what is it?" cried the girl, eagerly.
"Give me your hand," commanded Dic. The hand was promptly surrendered.
"Now close your eyes," he continued. The eyes were closed, very, very
honestly. Rita knew no other way of doing anything, and never so much as
thought of peeping. Then Dic lifted the soft little hand to his lips,
and slipped the gold band on the third finger.
"Oh, I know what it is now," she cried delightedly, but she would not
look till Dic should say "open." "Open" was said, and the girl
exclaimed:--
"Oh, Dic, where did you get it?"
Bear this fact in mind: If you live among the trees, the wild flowers,
and the birds, you will always remain a child. Rita was little more than
a child in years, and I know you will love Dic better because within his
man's heart was still the heart of his childhood. The great oak of the
forest year by year takes on its encircling layer of wood, but the
layers of a century still enclose the heart of a sprig that burst forth
upon a spring morning from its mother acorn.
For a moment after Rita asked Dic where he got the ring he regretted he
had not bought it, but he said:--
"Billy Little gave it to me that I might give it to you; so it really is
his present."
A shade of disappointment spread over her face, but it lasted only a
moment.
"But you give it to me," she said. "It was really yours, and you give it
to me. I am almost glad it comes from Billy Little. He has been so much
to me. You are by nature different from other men, but the best
difference we owe to Billy Little." The pronoun "we" was significant. It
meant that she also was Billy Little's debtor for the good he had
brought to Dic, since now that wonderful young man belonged to her.
"I wonder where he got it?" asked the girl.
"I don't know," replied Dic. "He said he valued it above all else he
possessed, and told me it had brought him his sweetest joy and his
bitterest grief. I think he gave it to a sweetheart long years ago, and
she was compelled to return it and to marry another man. I am only
guessing. I don't know."
"Perhaps we had better not keep it," returned the girl, with a touch of
her forest-life superstition. "It might bring the same fate to us. I
could not bear it, Dic, now. I should die. Before you spoke to
me--before that night of Scott's social--it would have been hard enough
for me to--to--but now, Dic, I couldn't bear to lose you, nor to marry
another. I could not; indeed, I could not. Let us not keep the ring."
Dic's ardor concerning the ring was dampened, but he said:--
"Nonsense, Rita, you surprise me. Nothing can come between us."
"I fear others have thought the same way. Perhaps Billy Little and his
sweetheart"--she was almost ready for tears.
"Yes, but what can come between us? Your parents, I hope, won't object.
Mine won't, and we don't--do we?" said Dic, argumentatively.
"Ah," answered Rita with her lips, but her eyes, whose language Dic was
beginning to comprehend, said a great deal more than can be expressed in
mere words.
"Then what save death can separate us?" asked Dic. "We would offend
Billy Little by returning the ring, and it looks pretty on your finger.
Don't you like it, Rita?"
"Y-e-s," she responded, her head bent doubtingly to one side, as she
glanced down at the ring.
"You don't feel superstitious about it, do you?" he asked.
"N-o-o."
"Then we'll keep it, won't we?"
"Y-e-s."
He drew the girl toward him and she turned her face upward.
He would have kissed her had he not been startled by a call from the
opposite side of the river.
"Here, here, stop that. That'll never do. Too fine-haired and modest for
a kissing game, but mighty willin' when all alone. We'll come over and
get into the game ourselves."
Dic and Rita looked up quickly and saw the huge figure of Doug Hill
standing on the opposite bank with a gun over his shoulder and a bottle
of whiskey in his uplifted hand. By his side was his henchman, Patsy
Clark. The situation was a trying one for Dic. He could not fight the
ruffian in Rita's presence, and he had no right to tell him to move on.
So he paid no attention to Doug's hail, and in a moment that worthy
Nimrod passed up the river. Dic and Rita were greatly frightened, and
when Doug passed out of sight into the forest they started home. They
soon reached the path and were walking slowly down toward Bays's, when
they were again startled by the disagreeable voice of the Douglas. This
time the voice came from immediately back of them, and Dic placed
himself behind Rita.
"I've come to get my kiss," said Doug, laughing boisterously. He was
what he called "full"; not drunk, but "comfortable," which meant
uncomfortable for those who happened to be near him. "I've come for my
kiss," he cried again.
[Illustration: "'I'VE COME TO GET MY KISS,' SAID DOUG."]
"You'll not get it," answered Rita, who was brave when Dic was between
her and her foe. Dic, wishing to avoid trouble, simply said, "I guess
not."
"Oh, you guess not?" said Doug, apparently much amused. "You guess not?
Well, we'll see, Mr. Fine-hair; we'll see." Thereupon, he rested his gun
against a tree, stepped quickly past Dic, and seized Rita around the
waist. He was drawing her head backward to help himself when Dic knocked
him down. Patsy Clark then sprang upon Dic, and, in imitation of his
chief, fell to the ground. Doug and Patsy at once rose to their feet and
rushed toward Dic. Rita screamed, as of course any right-minded woman
would have done, and, clasping her hands in terror, looked on fascinated
and almost paralyzed. Patsy came first and again took a fall. This time,
from necessity or inclination,--probably the latter,--he did not rise,
but left the drunken Douglas to face Dic single-handed and alone. Though
tall and strong, Dic was by no means the equal of Doug in the matter of
bulk, and in a grappling match Doug could soon have killed him. Dic
fully understood this, and, being more active than his huge foe,
endeavored to keep him at arm's length. In this he was successful for a
time; but at last the grapple came, and both men fell to the
ground--Doug Hill on top. Poor Rita was in a frenzy of terror. She could
not even scream. She could only press her hands to her heart and look.
When Dic and Doug fell to the ground, Patsy Clark, believing himself
safe, rose to a sitting posture, and Doug cried out to him:--
"Give me your knife, Patsy, give me your knife." Patsy at once responded
by placing his hunting-knife in Doug's left hand. Dic saw his imminent
danger and with his right hand clasped Doug's left wrist in a grasp
that could not be loosened. After several futile attempts to free his
wrist, Doug tossed the knife over to his right side. It fell a few
inches beyond his reach, and he tried to grasp it. Rita saw that very
soon he would reach the knife, and Dic's peril brought back her presence
of mind. Doug put forth terrific efforts to reach the knife, and,
despite Dic's resistance, soon had it in his grasp. In getting the
knife, however, Doug gave Dic an opportunity to throw him off, and he
did so, quickly springing to his feet. Doug was on his feet in a
twinkling, and rushed upon Dic with uplifted knife. Dic knew that he
could not withstand the rush, and thought his hour had come; but the
sharp crack of a rifle broke the forest silence, and the knife fell from
Doug's nerveless hand, his knees shook under him, his form quivered
spasmodically for a moment, and he plunged forward on his face. Dic
turned and saw Rita standing back of him, holding Doug's rifle to her
shoulder, a tiny curl of blue smoke issuing from the barrel. The girl's
face turned pale, the gun fell from her hands, her eyes closed, and she
would have fallen had not Dic caught her in his arms. He did not so much
as glance at Doug, but at once carried the unconscious Rita home with
all the speed he could make.
"Now for goodness' sake, what has she been doing?" cried Mrs. Bays, as
Dic entered the front door with his almost lifeless burden. "That girl
will be the death of me yet."
"She has fainted," replied Dic, "and I fear she's dead."
With a wild scream Mrs. Bays snatched Rita from Dic's arms in a frenzy
of grief that bore a touch of jealousy. In health and happiness Rita for
her own good must bow beneath the rod; but in sickness or in death Rita
was her child, and no strange hand should minister to her. A blessed
philosopher's stone had for once transmuted her hard, barren sense of
justice to glowing love. She carried the girl into the house and applied
restoratives. After a little time Rita breathed a sigh and opened her
eyes. Her first word was "Dic!"
"Here I am, Rita," he softly answered, stepping to her bedside and
taking her hand. Mrs. Bays, after her first inquiry, had asked no
questions, and Dic had given no information. After Rita's return to
consciousness tears began to trickle down her mother's furrowed cheek,
and, ashamed of her weakness, she left the room. Dic knelt by Rita's bed
and kissed her hands, her eyes, her lips. His caresses were the best of
all restoratives, and when Mrs. Bays returned, Rita was sitting on the
edge of the bed, Dic's arm supporting her and her head resting on his
shoulder. Mrs. Bays came slowly toward them. The girl's habitual fear of
her mother returned, and lifting her head she tried to move away from
Dic, but he held her. Mrs. Bays reached the bedside and stood facing
them in silence. The court of love had adjourned. The court of justice
was again in session. She snatched up Rita's hand and pointed to the
ring.
"What is that?" she asked sternly.
"That is our engagement ring," answered Dic. "Rita has promised to be my
wife."
"Never!" cried the old woman, out of the spirit of pure antagonism.
"Never!" she repeated, closing her lips in a spasm of supposed duty.
Rita's heart sank, and Dic's seemed heavier by many pounds than a few
moments before, though he did not fear the apostle of justice and duty
as did Rita. He hoped to marry Rita at once with her mother's consent;
but if he could not have that, he would wait until the girl was
eighteen, when she could legally choose for herself. Out of his
confidence came calmness, and he asked,
"Why shall not Rita be my wife? She shall want for nothing, and I will
try to make her happy. Why do you object?"
"Because--because I do," returned Mrs. Bays.
"In so important a matter as this, Mrs. Bays, 'because' is not a
sufficient reason."
"I don't have to give you a reason," she answered sharply.
"You are a good woman, Mrs. Bays," continued Dic, with a deliberate and
base intent to flatter. "No man or woman has ever had injustice at your
hands, and I, who am almost your son, ask that justice which you would
not refuse to the meanest person on Blue."
The attack was unfair. Is it ever fair to gain our point by flattering
another's weakness? Dic's statement of the case was hard to evade, so
Mrs. Margarita answered:--
"The girl's too young to marry. I'll never consent. I'll have nothing of
the sort going on, for a while at any rate; give him back the ring."
Rita slipped the ring from her finger and placed it in Dic's hand.
"Now tell me," Mrs. Bays demanded, "how this came about? How came Rita
to faint?"
Rita hung her head and began to weep convulsively.
"Rita and I," answered Dic, "were walking home down the river path. We
had been sitting near the step-off. Doug Hill and Patsy Clark came up
behind us, and Doug tried to kiss Rita. I interfered, and we fought. He
was about to kill me with Patsy's hunting-knife when--when--when I shot
him. Then Rita fainted, and I feared she was dead, so I brought her home
and left Doug lying on his face, with Patsy Clark standing over him."
Rita so far recovered herself as to be able to say:--
"No, mother, I killed him."
"You," shrieked Mrs. Bays, "you?"
"Yes," the girl replied.
"Yes," replied Dic to Mrs. Bays's incredulous look, "that was the way of
it, but I was the cause, and I shall take the blame. You had better not
speak of this matter to any one till we have consulted Billy Little. I
can bear the blame much better than Rita can. When the trial comes, you
and Rita say nothing. I will plead guilty to having killed Doug Hill,
and no questions will be asked."
"If you will do it, Dic, if you will do it," wailed Mrs. Bays.
"I certainly will," returned Dic.
"No, you shall not," said Rita.
"You must be guided by your mother and me," replied Dic. "I know what is
best, and if you will do as we direct, all may turn out better than we
now hope. He was about to kill me, and I had a right to kill him. I do
not know the law certainly, but I fear you had no right to kill him in
my defence. I have read in the law books that a man may take another's
life in the defence of one whom he is bound to protect. I fear you had
no right to kill Doug Hill for my sake."
"I had, oh, I had!" sobbed Rita.
"But you will be guided by your mother and me, will you not, Rita?"
Despite fears of her mother, the girl buried her face on Dic's breast,
and entwining her arms about his neck whispered:--
"I will be guided by you."
Dic then arose and said: "It may be that Doug is not dead. I will take
one of your horses, Mrs. Bays, and ride to town for Dr. Kennedy."
Within ten minutes Dic was with Billy Little, telling him the story.
"I'm going for Kennedy," said Dic. "Saddle your horse quickly and ride
up with us."
Five minutes later, Dic, Kennedy, and Billy Little were galloping
furiously up the river to the scene of battle. When they reached it,
Doug, much to Dic's joy, was seated leaning against a tree. His shirt
had been torn away, and Patsy was washing the bullet wound in the breast
and back, for the bullet had passed entirely through Doug's body.
"Well, he's not dead yet," cried Kennedy. "So far, so good. Now we'll
see if I can keep from killing him."
While the doctor was at work Dic took Billy to one side. "I told Mrs.
Bays and Rita not to speak about this affair," he said. "I will say upon
the trial that I fired the shot."
"Why, Dic, that will never do."
"Yes, it will; it must. You see, I had a good right to kill him, but
Rita had not. At any rate, don't you know that they might as well kill
Rita at once as to try her? She couldn't live through a trial for
murder. It would kill her or drive her insane. I'll plead guilty. That
will stop all questioning."
"Yes," replied Billy, deep in revery, and stroking his chin; "perhaps
you are right. But how about Hill and Clark? They will testify that Rita
did the shooting."
"No one will have the chance to testify if I plead guilty," said Dic.
"And if Doug should die, you may hang or go to prison for life on a mere
unexplained plea of guilty. That shall never happen with my consent."
"Billy Little, you can't prevent it. I'll make a plea of guilty,"
responded Dic, sharply; "and if you try to interfere, I'll never speak
your name again, as God is my help."
Billy winced. "No wonder she loves you," he said. "I'll not interfere.
But take this advice: say nothing till we have consulted Switzer. Don't
enter a plea of guilty. You must be tried. I believe I have a plan that
may help us."
"What is it, Billy Little?" asked Dic, eagerly.
"I'll not tell you now. Trust me for a time without questions, Dic. I am
good for something, I hope."
"You are good for everything concerning me, Billy Little," said Dic. "I
will trust you and ask no questions."
"Little," said Kennedy, "if you will make a stretcher of boughs we will
carry Hill up to Bright's house and take him home in a wagon. I think he
may live." Accordingly, a rude litter was constructed, and the four men
carried the wounded Douglas to Dic's house, where he was placed upon a
couch of hay in a wagon, and taken to his home, two or three miles
eastward.
On the road over, Billy Little asked Dr. Kennedy to lead his horse while
he talked to Patsy Clark, who was driving in the wagon.
"How did Dic happen to shoot him?" asked Billy when he was seated beside
Patsy.
"D-Dic d-di-didn't shoot him. Ri-ta did," stuttered Doug's henchman.
"No, Patsy, it was Dic," said Billy Little.
"I-I re-reckon I or-orter know," stammered Patsy. "I-I was there and
s-saw it. You wasn't."
"You're wrong, Patsy," insisted Billy.
"B-by Ned, I re-reckon I know," he returned.
"Now listen to me, Patsy," said Billy, impressively. "I say you are
wrong, and--by the way, Patsy, I want you to do a few little odd jobs
about the store for the next month or so. I'll not need you frequently,
but I should like to have you available at any time. If you will come
down to the store, I will pay you twenty dollars wages in advance, and
later on I will give you another twenty. You are a good fellow, and I
want to help you; but I am sure you are wrong in this case. I know it
was Dic who fired the shot. Now, think for a moment. Wasn't it Dic?"
"We-well, c-come to think a-a-about it, I believe you're right. Damned
if I don't. He t-tuk the gun and jes' b-b-blazed away."
"I knew that was the way of it," said Billy, quietly.
"B-betch yur life it was jes' that-a-way. H-how the h----did you know?"
"Dic told me," answered Billy.
"Well, that-a-a-a-way was the way it was, sure as you're alive."
"You're sure of it now, Patsy, are you?"
"D-dead sure. Wa-wa-wasn't I there and d-d-didn't I see it all? Yes,
sir, d-d-dead sure. And the tw-twenty dollars? I'll g-get it to-morrow,
you say?"
"Yes."
"A-and the other t-t-twenty? I'll get it later, eh?"
"You can trust me, can't you, Patsy?" queried Billy.
"B-betch yur life I can. E-e-e-everybody does. B-but how much later?"
"When it is all over," answered Billy.
"A-all right," responded his stuttering friend.
"But," asked Billy, "if Doug recovers, and should think as you did at
first, that Rita fired the shot?"
"Sa-sa-say, B-Billy Little, you couldn't make it another t-t-twenty
later on for that ere job about the st-store, could ye?"
"I think I can," returned Billy.
"Well, then, Doug'll g-get it straight--never you f-f-fear. He was crazy
drunk and ha-ha-half blind with blood where Dic knocked him, and he
didn't know who f-f-fired the shot."
"But suppose he should know?"
"B-but he won't know, I-I tell ye. I-I t-trust you; c-can't you trust
Patsy? I-I'm not as big a f-fool as I look. I-I let p-people think I'm a
fool because when p-people think you're a f-fool, it's lots easier
t-t-to work 'em. See?"
* * * * *
Billy left Doug hovering between life and death, and hurried back to
Dic. "Patsy says you took the gun from where it was leaning against the
tree and shot Hill. I suppose he doesn't know exactly how it did
happen. I told him you said that was the way of it, and he assents. He
says Doug doesn't know who fired the shot. We shall be able to leave
Rita entirely out of the case, and you may, with perfect safety, enter a
plea of self-defence."
Dic breathed a sigh of relief and longed to thank Billy, but dared not,
and the old friend rode homeward unthanked but highly satisfied.
On the way home Billy fell into deep thought, and the thoughts grew into
mutterings: "Billy Little, you are coming to great things. A briber, a
suborner of perjury, a liar. I expect soon to hear of you stealing.
Burglary is a profitable and honorable occupation. Go it, Billy
Little.--And for this you came like a wise man out of the East to leaven
the loaf of the West--all for the sake of a girl, a mere child, whom you
are foolish enough to--nonsense--and for the sake of the man she is to
marry." Then the grief of his life seemed to come back to him in a
flood, and he continued almost bitterly: "I don't believe I have led an
evil life. I don't want to feel like a Pharisee; but I don't recollect
having injured any man or woman in the whole course of my miserable
existence, yet I have missed all that is best in life. Even when I have
not suffered, my life has been a pale, tasteless blank with nothing but
a little poor music and worse philosophy to break the monotony. The
little pleasure I have had from any source has been enjoyed alone, and
no joy is complete unless one may give at least a part of it to another.
If one has a pleasure all to himself, he is apt to hate it at times, and
this is one of the times. Billy Little, you must be suffering for the
sins of an ancestor. I wonder what he did, damn him."
This mood was unusual for Billy. In his youth he had been baptized with
the chrism of sorrow and was safe from the devil of discontent. He was
by nature an apostle of sunshine; but when we consider all the facts, I
know you will agree with me that he had upon this occasion good right
to be a little cloudy.
That evening Dic was arrested and held in jail pending Doug Hill's
recovery or death. Should Douglas die, Dic would be held for murder and
would not be entitled to bail. In case of conviction for premeditated
murder, death or imprisonment for life would be his doom. If Doug should
recover, the charge against Dic would be assault and battery, with
intent to commit murder, conviction for which would mean imprisonment
for a term of years. If self-defence could be established--and owing to
the fact that neither Dic nor Rita was to testify, that would be
difficult to accomplish--Dic would go free. These enormous "ifs"
complicated the case, and Dic was detained in jail till Doug's fate
should be known.
THE TRIAL