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HE big, square court-room was filled to overflowing when at the last
moment Carson and Garner arrived. Just inside the door they found old
Dwight standing, his battered silk hat in his hand, and with an air of
unwonted humility upon him, patiently awaiting their coming.
“Is everything all right?” he anxiously whispered to Garner, as he
reached out and caught his son's hand and held on to it.
“Yes, all right, Mr. Dwight,” Garner replied; “and is--is your wife--”
“Yes, we are safe on that score,” the old man said, encouragingly, to
Carson. “I only slipped away for a minute. I won't wait here, but will
hurry back and stand guard. God bless you, my boy.” When Dwight had
turned towards the door and was moving away, Carson glanced over the
crowded room. All eyes were fixed, it seemed to him, anxiously and
sympathetically on his face. As he passed through the central aisle
to reach the railed-in enclosure where, at his elevated desk, the
magistrate sat, gravely consulting with the State solicitor, Carson's
mind was gloomily active with the numerous instances in which, to
his knowledge, innocent men had been convicted by the complication
of circumstantial evidence, in a chair which Braider was solicitously
placing near that of Garner, the young man's glance again swept the big
room. On the last row of benches sat Linda, Uncle Lewis, and Pete in
the company of other negro friends of his. Their fixed and awed facial
expressions added to his gloom. Near the railing sat “the gang”--Gordon,
Tingle, and Bob Smith--their faces long-drawn. Behind them sat Helen and
her father, with Ida Tarpley. Catching Helen's anxious glance, Carson
tried to smile lightly as he responded to her bow, but there was
something in his act which seemed to him to be empty pretence and rather
unworthy of one in his position. Guilty or innocent in the eyes of the
law, he told himself he was there to rid his character of the
gravest charge that could be made against a human being, and from the
indications, as seen by the shrewd Garner, he was not likely to leave
the room a free man. He shuddered as he grimly pictured Braider--the
feeling, sympathetic Braider--coming to him there before all those eyes
and formally placing him under arrest at the order of the court. He sank
to the lowest ebb of despair as he pictured his mother's hearing of
the news. Almost in a daze Carson sat dumb and blind to the formal
proceedings. Like a child, he felt a soothing comfort in the knowledge
that he was leaning on such a skilled friend as that of the hardened
young lawyer at his side, and yet for the first time in his life he was
pitying himself. Things had really gone hard with him. He had tried his
best to do the right thing of late, but fate had at last overpowered
him. He was losing faith in the impulses which had led him, blind under
the blaze of youthful enthusiasm, to that seat here under the cold,
accusing eye of the law.
He was drawn out of his lethargy by the clear, ringing, confident voice
of the solicitor. It was a strong, an utterly heartless speech, “the
gang” thought. Duty to the State and public protection was its key-note.
Personally, Mayhew had nothing but the kindliest feeling and strongest
admiration for the defendant. He belonged to one of the best and oldest
families in the South, and was a man of undaunted courage and remarkable
brains. But with all that, Mayhew believed, as he tugged at his heavy
mustache and stared with confident eyes at the magistrate, he could show
that lurking under the creditable and refined exterior of the defendant
was a keenly vindictive nature--a nature that was maddened beyond
forbearance by opposition. The solicitor promised to show by competent
witnesses, when the matter was brought to trial, that Carson Dwight
believed--mark the word _believed_--without an iota of proof, that Dan
Willis had fired upon him in the mob that was attempting to lynch Pete
Warren. Believing this, your honor, I say, with no sort of proof, I
think the State will have no trouble in establishing the fact
that Dwight had sufficient _motive_ for what was done, and that he
deliberately and with aforethought went armed with no other intent than
to kill Willis. Furthermore, Mayhew could show, he declared, that Dwight
had carefully concealed the deed, letting it go out to the world that
the finding of the coroner's jury was correct, and making no statement
to the contrary till he was driven to it by the encroachments of
verifiable rumor and the certainty of adverse action by the grand jury.
That being the status of the case, the solicitor could only urge upon
the court its duty to hold Carson Dwight on the charge of murder in the
first degree.
Deep in his slough of depression, Dwight, looking over the breathless
audience, noticed the serious faces he knew and loved. Helen was deathly
pale, and her father sat with bowed head, fingering his gold-headed
ebony cane. Keith Gordon's face was as full of reproach for what the
solicitor had said as that of a grief-stricken woman. Wade Tingle sat
flushed with rebellious anger, and Bob Smith, not grasping the full
import of the high-sounding words, stared from under his neatly
plastered hair like a wondering child at a funeral. It was Mam' Linda's
almost savage glare that more firmly fixed Carson's wandering glance.
She sat there, her visage full of half-savage passion, her large lip
hanging low and quivering, her breast heaving, her eyes gleaming.
Carson had not the heart to follow Garner's weak and inadequate plea as
the lawyer stood, his small hands clutched and bloodless behind him. He
had not been able, he said, to reach the witnesses he had expected to
produce, who would swear that Dan Willis, time after time, had pursued
the defendant and made threats against his life, but he felt that a calm
statement of Carson Dwight's would be believed, and that--
Here there was a commotion in the room. The bailiff at the door was
talking loudly to some one. The magistrate rapped vigorously for order,
and in the pause that ensued Pole Baker came striding down the aisle,
leading a little woman wearing a black cotton sun-bonnet and dress of
the same material. Leaving her standing, Baker approached Garner and
whispered in his ear. Then, with a suddenly kindling face, the lawyer
turned and whispered to the woman. A moment later he drew himself up to
his full height and said, in a clear, confident voice that reached all
parts of the room: “Your honor, I have a witness here that I want to
have sworn.”
The district-attorney stood up and stared curiously at the woman. “If
I'm not mistaken that's Dan Willis's mother,” he said, with a smile.
“She is a witness I'm looking for myself.”
“Well, you are welcome to what she'll testify,” Garner dryly retorted.
A moment later the little woman was on the stand, holding her bonnet in
her hand, her small, wizened face as colorless as parchment, her black
hair brushed as smoothly as patent leather down over her brow and tied in
a small, tight knot behind her head.
“Now, Mrs. Willis,” Garner went on, casting a significant glance at
Carson, who was gazing at him in growing wonder, “just tell the court
in your own way what happened at your house the day your son met his
death.”
The room was very still when she began in a low, quivering voice which,
gradually steadied itself as she continued.
“Well,” she said, “Mr. Wiggin come to the fence while we-all was eatin'
our breakfast, an' called Danny out an' they had a talk near the
cow-lot. I don't know what was said, but I was sorry they got together
for Mr. Wiggin always upset Danny an' started 'im to drinkin' and
rantin' agin Mr. Dwight here in town.”
She paused a moment, and then Garner, leaning easily on the back of his
chair, said, encouragingly: “All right, Mrs. Willis, you are doing very
well. Now, just go ahead and tell the court all that took place to the
best of your recollection.”
“Well, thar wasn't much to recollect that happened right thar _at
home_,” the witness went on, plaintively; “of course, the shootin' tuck
place about a mile from thar on the--”
“Pardon me, Mrs. Willis,” Garner interrupted. “You are getting the cart
before the horse. I want you to tell his honor how your son acted when
he came into the house after his talk with Mr. Wiggin.”
“Why, when Danny fust come in, Mr. Garner, he went to the bureau drawyer
and tuck out his revolver an' loaded it thar before us, cussin' at every
breath agin Mr. Dwight. I tried to calm 'im down, an' so did my brother
George, but he was as nigh crazy as I ever saw any human bein' in my
life. He said he was goin' straight to Darley an' kill Carson Dwight, if
he had to go to his daddy's house an' drag 'im out of his bed. He said
he'd tried it once an' slipped up, but that if he missed again he'd kill
hisse'f in disgust.”
“I see, I see,” Garner said, in the pause that ensued. He stroked his
smooth chin with his tapering fingers and opened and shut his mouth,
and he kept his eyes on the ceiling as if the witness had made the most
ordinary sort of statement. He leaned again on the back of his chair,
and then lowering his glance to the face of the witness, he asked: “Did
you gather from Dan's talk that morning, Mrs. Willis, when it was that
he made the _first_ attempt on the life of Carson Dwight?”
“Well, I don't know as I did _then_,” the woman answered; “but he told
us about it the day after he fired the shot.”
“Oh, he did!” Garner's face was still a study of guileless indifference,
and he stroked his chin again, his eyes now on the floor, his arms
folded across his breast. “What day was that, Mrs. Willis?”
“Why, the day after Mr. Dwight kept the mob from hangin' old Lindy
Warren's boy.”
Profound astonishment was now visible on every countenance except that
of Garner. “I never knew positively before _who_ fired that shot,” he
said, carelessly, “though, of course, I had an idea who did it. So Dan
admitted that?”
“Yes, he told us about that, and about tryin' to git at Mr. Dwight
several other times.”
“I reckon you are satisfied in your own mind that if Mr. Dwight hadn't
defended himself Dan would have killed him?” Garner pursued, adroitly.
“I know he would, Mr. Garner, an' when I heard the report that Danny had
shot hisse'f by accident, while he was practisin' with his pistol, I
was reconciled to it. I didn't think Mr. Dwight was to blame. I always
thought he was doin' the best he could, an' that politics caused the bad
blood. I always liked 'im, to tell the truth. I'd heard that he was a
friend to the pore an' humble, even to pore old niggers, an' somehow
I felt relieved when I heard he'd escaped my boy. I knowed Danny meant
murder an' that no good could come of it. I'd a sight ruther know a
child of mine was dead an' in the hands of his Maker than tied up in
jail waitin' to be publicly hung in the end. No, it is better like it
is, though if I may be allowed to say so, I can't for the life of me,
understand what you-all have got Mr. Dwight hauled up here like this,
when his mother is in sech a delicate condition. Good Lord, he hain't
done nothin' to be tried for!”
“That will do, Mrs. Willis,” Garner was heard to say, his voice harshly
stirring the emotion-packed stillness of the room; “that will do, unless
my brother Mayhew wants to ask you some questions.”
“The State has no case, your honor,” Mayhew said, with a sickly smile.
“The truth is, I think we've all been imbibing too freely of politics.
I confess I've listened to Wiggin myself. It looks like, failing to get
Dan Willis to kill Dwight, he's set about trying to have it done by law.
Your honor, the State is out of the case.”
There was a pause of astonishment and then the truth burst upon the
audience. Realizing that Carson Dwight was more than a free man,
vindicated, restored to them, “the gang” rose as a man and yelled. Led
by Pole Baker and the enthusiastic Braider, they pressed around him,
climbing over the railing and crushing chairs to splinters. Then, amid
the shouts and glad tears of the spectators, the most popular man in the
county was raised perforce upon the stout shoulders of Baker and Braider
and borne down the aisle towards the door.
Above the heads of all, Carson, flushed with confusion, glanced over the
room. Immediately in front of him stood Helen. She was looking straight
and eagerly at him, her face aglow, her eyes filled with tears. She
paused with her father just outside the door, and as “the gang” bore
their struggling and protesting hero past, she raised her hand to him.
Blushing in fresh embarrassment, he took it, only to have it torn from
him the next instant.
“Let me down, Pole!” he cried.
“No, sir, we don't let you down!” Pole shouted. “We've got it in for
you. We are goin' to lynch you!”
The crowd, appreciating the joke, thereupon raised the queerest cry that
ever burst from breasts surcharged with joy.
“Lynch him!” they yelled. “Lynch him!”
Half an hour afterwards Carson went home. His father was at the fence
looking for him. He had heard the news and his old face was beaming with
joy as he opened the gate for his son and took him into his arms.
“How's mother?” was Carson's first inquiry.
“She's all right and she knows, too?”
“She knows!” Carson exclaimed, aghast.
“Yes, old Mrs. Parsons was the first to bring me the news, and she
assured me she could impart it to your mother in such a way as not to
shock her at all.”
“And you let her?” Carson said, anxiously.
“Yes, and she did the slickest piece of work I ever heard of. I knew she
was considered a wonderful woman, but she's the smoothest article I ever
met. I laughed till I cried. I was in the mood for laughing, anyway.
Mrs. Parsons began by adroitly working your mother up to such a pitch
of fury against Willis for his nagging pursuit of you that your mother
could have shot him herself, and then, in an off-hand way, Mrs. Parsons
led on to the meeting between you. Willis had his gun in your face, and
was about to pull the trigger, when your pistol went off and saved
your life. She went on to say that Dan's mother had just been to the
court-house testifying that her son had tried to murder you, and that
she didn't blame you in the slightest. I declare, Mrs. Parsons actually
made it appear that Willis was on trial instead of you. Anyway, it's all
right. We've got nothing to fear now.”