“Hannibal!” the judge's voice and manner were rather stern. “Hannibal, a
man rode by here last night on a big bay horse. He said he was looking
for a boy about ten years old--a boy with a bundle and rifle.” There was
an awful pause. Hannibal's heart stood still for a brief instant, then
it began to beat with terrific thumps against his ribs. “Who was that
man, Hannibal?”
“I--please, I don't know--” gasped the child.
“Hannibal, who was that man?” repeated the judge.
“It were Captain Murrell.” The judge regarded him with a look of great
steadiness. He saw his small face go white, he saw the look of abject
terror in his eyes. The judge raised his fist and brought it down with
a great crash on the table, so that the breakfast dishes leaped and
rattled. “We don't know any boy ten years old with a rifle and bundle!”
he said.
“Please--you won't let him take me away, judge I want to stop with you!”
cried Hannibal. He slipped from his chair, and passing about the table,
seized the judge by the hand. The judge was visibly affected.
“No!” he roared, with a great oath. “He shan't have you--I'll see him in
the farthest corner of hell first! Is he kin to you?”
“No,” said Hannibal.
“Took you to raise, did he--and abused you--infernal hypocrite!” cried
the judge with righteous wrath.
“He tried to get me away from my Uncle Bob. He's been following us since
we crossed the mountains.”
“Where is your Uncle Bob?”
“He's dead.” And the child began to weep bitterly. Much puzzled, the
judge regarded him in silence for a moment, then bent and lifted him
into his lap.
“There, my son--” he said soothingly. “Now you tell me when he died, and
all about it.”
“He were killed. It were only yesterday, and I can't forget him! I don't
want to--but it hurts--it hurts terrible!” Hannibal buried his head in
the judge's shoulder and sobbed aloud. Presently his small hands stole
about the judge's neck, and that gentleman experienced a strange thrill
of pleasure.
“Tell me how he died, Hannibal,” he urged gently. In a voice broken by
sobs the child began the story of their flight, a confused narrative,
which the judge followed with many a puzzled shake of the head. But as
he reached his climax--that cry he had heard at the tavern, the men in
the lane with their burden--he became more and more coherent and his
ideas clothed themselves in words of dreadful simplicity and directness.
The judge shuddered. “Can such things be?” he murmured at last.
“You won't let him take me?”
“I never unsay my words,” said the judge grandly. “With God's help
I'll be the instrument for their destruction.” He frowned with a
preternatural severity. Eh--if he could turn a trick like that, it would
pull him up! There would be no more jeers and laughter.
What credit and standing it would give him! His thoughts slipped
along this fresh channel. What a prosecution he would conduct--what a
whirlwind of eloquence he would loose! He began to breathe hard. His
name should go from end to end of the state! No man could be great
without opportunity--for years he had known this--but here was
opportunity at last! Then he remembered what Mahaffy had told him of the
man on the raft. This Slosson's tavern was probably on the upper waters
of the Elk. Yancy had been thrown in the river and had been picked up in
a dying condition. “Hannibal,” he said, “Solomon Mahaffy, who was here
last night, told me he saw down at the river landing, a man who had been
fished up out of the Elk--a man who had been roughly handled.”
“Were it my Uncle Bob?” cried Hannibal, lifting a swollen face to his.
“Dear lad, I don't know,” said the judge sympathetically. “Some people
on a raft had picked him up out of the river. He was unconscious and no
one knew him. He was apparently a stranger in these parts.”
“It were Uncle Bob! It were Uncle Bob--I know it were my Uncle Bob! I
must go find him!” and Hannibal slipped from the judge's lap and ran for
his rifle and bundle.
“Stop a bit!” cried the judge. “He was taken on past here, and he was
badly injured. Now, if it was your Uncle Bob, he'll come back the moment
he is able to travel. Meantime, you must remain under my protection
while we investigate this man Slosson.”
But alas--that thoroughfare which is supposed to be paved exclusively
with good resolutions, had benefited greatly by Slocum Price's labors in
the past, and he was destined to toil still in its up-keep. He borrowed
the child's money and spent it, and if any sense of shame smote his
torpid conscience, he hid it manfully. Not so Mr. Mahaffy; for while
he profited by his friend's act, he told that gentleman just what
he thought of him with insulting candor. On the eighth day there was
sobriety for the pair. Deep gloom visited Mr. Mahaffy, and the judge was
a prey to melancholy.
It was Saturday, and in Pleasantville a jail-raising was in progress.
During all the years of its corporate dignity the village had never
boasted any building where the evil-doer could be placed under
restraint; hence had arisen its peculiar habit of dealing with crime;
but a leading citizen had donated half an acre of ground lying midway
between the town and the river landing as a site for the proposed
structure, and the scattered population of the region had assembled for
the raising. Nor was Pleasantville unprepared to make immediate use of
the jail, since the sheriff had in custody a free negro who had knifed
another free negro and was awaiting trial at the next term of court.
“We don't want to get there too early,” explained the judge, as they
quitted the cabin. “We want to miss the work, but be on hand for the
celebration.”
“I suppose we may confidently look to you to favor us with a few
eloquent words?” said Mr. Mahaffy.
“And why not, Solomon?” asked the judge.
“Why not, indeed!” echoed Mr. Mahaffy.
The opportunity he craved was not denied him. The crowd was like most
southwestern crowds of the period, and no sooner did the judge appear
than there were clamorous demands for a speech. He cast a glance of
triumph at Mahaffy, and nimbly mounted a convenient stump. He extolled
the climate of middle Tennessee, the unsurpassed fertility of the soil;
he touched on the future that awaited Pleasantville; he apostrophized
the jail; this simple structure of logs in the shadow of the primeval
woods was significant of their love of justice and order; it was a
suitable place for the detention of a citizen of a great republic; it
was no mediaeval dungeon, but a forest-embowered retreat where, barring
mosquitoes and malaria, the party under restraint would be put to no
needless hardship; he would have the occasional companionship of the
gentlemanly sheriff; his friends, with such wise and proper restrictions
as the law saw fit to impose, could come and impart the news of the day
to him through the chinks of the logs.
“I understand you have dealt in a hasty fashion with one or two
horse-thieves,” he continued. “Also with a gambler who was put ashore
here from a river packet and subsequently became involved in a dispute
with a late citizen of this place touching the number of aces in a pack
of cards. It is not for me to criticize! What I may term the spontaneous
love of justice is the brightest heritage of a free people. It is this
same commendable ability to acquit ourselves of our obligations that is
making us the wonder of the world! But don't let us forget the law--of
which it is an axiom, that it is not the severity of punishment, but the
certainty of it, that holds the wrong-doer in check! With this safe
and commodious asylum the plow line can remain the exclusive aid to
agriculture. If a man murders, curb your natural impulse! Give him
a fair trial, with eminent counsel!” The judge tried not to look
self-conscious when he said this. “If he is found guilty, I still say,
don't lynch him! Why? Because by your hasty act you deny the public
the elevating and improving spectacle of a legal execution!” When the
applause had died out, a lank countryman craning his neck for a sight of
the sheriff, bawled out over the heads of the crowd:
“Where's your nigger? We want to put him in here!”
“I reckon he's gone fishin'. I never seen the beat of that nigger to go
fishin',” said the sheriff.
“Whoop! Ain't you goin' to put him in here?” yelled the countryman.
“It's a mighty lonely spot for a nigger,” said the sheriff doubtingly.
“Lonely? Well, suppose he ups and lopes out of this?”
“You don't know that nigger,” rejoined the sheriff warmly. “He ain't
missed a meal since I had him in custody. Just as regular as the clock
strikes he's at the back door. Good habits--why, that darky is a lesson
to most white folks!”
“I don't care a cuss about that nigger, but what's the use of building a
jail if a body ain't goin' to use it?”
“Well, there's some sense in that,” agreed the sheriff.
“There's a whole heap of sense in it!”
“I suggest”--the speaker was a young lawyer from the next county--“I
suggest that a committee be appointed to wait on the nigger at
the steamboat landing and acquaint him with the fact that with his
assistance we wish completely to furnish the jail.”
“I protest--” cried the judge. “I protest--” he repeated vigorously.
“Pride of race forbids that I should be a party to the degradation of
the best of civilization! Is your jail to be christened to its high
office by a nigger? Is this to be the law's apotheosis? No, sir! No
nigger is worthy the honor of being the first prisoner here!” This was
a new and striking idea. The crowd regarded the judge admiringly.
Certainly here was a man of refined feeling.
“That's just the way I feel about it,” said the sheriff. “If I'd
athought there was any call for him I wouldn't have let him go fishing,
I'd have kept him about.”
“Oh, let the nigger fish--he has powerful luck. What's he usin',
Sheriff; worms or minnies?”
“Worms,” said the sheriff shortly.
Presently the crowd drifted away in the direction of the tavern.
Hannibal meantime had gone down to the river. He haunted its banks as
though he expected to see his Uncle Bob appear any moment. The judge and
Mahaffy had mingled with the others in the hope of free drinks, but in
this hope there lurked the germ of a bitter disappointment. There was
plenty of drinking, but they were not invited to join in this pleasing
rite, and after a period of great mental anguish Mahaffy parted with
the last stray coin in the pocket of his respectable black trousers, and
while his flask was being filled the judge indulged in certain winsome
gallantries with the fat landlady.
“La, Judge Price, how you do run on!” she said with a coquettish toss of
her curls.
“That's the charm of you, ma'am,” said the judge. He leaned across
the bar and, sinking his voice to a husky whisper, asked, “Would it be
perfectly convenient for you to extend me a limited credit?”
“Now, Judge Price, you know a heap better than to ask me that!” she
answered, shaking her head.
“No offense, ma'am,” said the judge, hiding his disappointment, and with
Mahaffy he quitted the bar.
“Why don't you marry the old girl? You could drink yourself to death in
six months,” said Mahaffy. “That would be a speculation worth while--and
while you live you could fondle those curls!”
“Maybe I'll be forced to it yet,” responded the judge with gloomy
pessimism.
With the filling of Mahaffy's flask the important event of the day
was past, and both knew it was likely to retain its preeminence for a
terrible and indefinite period; a thought that enriched their thirst
as it increased their gravity while they were traversing the stretch of
dusty road that lay between the cavern and the judge's shanty. When they
had settled themselves in their chairs before the door, Mahaffy, who was
notably jealous of his privileges, drew the cork from the flask and
took the first pull at its contents. The judge counted the swallows
as registered by that useful portion of Mahaffy's anatomy known as his
Adam's apple. After a breathless interval, Mahaffy detached himself
from the flask and civilly passing the cuff of his coat about its neck,
handed it over to the judge. In the unbroken silence that succeeded the
flask passed swiftly from hand to hand, at length Mahaffy held it up to
the light. It was two-thirds empty, and a sigh stole from between his
thin lips. The judge reached out a tremulous hand. He was only too
familiar with his friend's distressing peculiarities.
“Not yet!” he begged thickly.
“Why not?” demanded Mahaffy fiercely. “Is it your liquor or mine?” He
quitted his chair end stalked to the well where he filled the flask with
water. Infinitely disgusted, the judge watched the sacrilege. Mahaffy
resumed his chair and again the flask went its rounds.
“It ain't so bad,” said the judge after a time, but with a noticeable
lack of enthusiasm.
“Were you in shape to put anything better than water into it, Mr.
Price?” The judge winced. He always winced at that “Mr.”
“Well, I wouldn't serve myself such a trick as that,” he said with
decision. “When I take liquor, it's one thing; and when I want water,
it's another.”
“It is, indeed,” agreed Mahaffy.
“I drink as much clear water as is good for a man of my constitution,”
said the judge combatively. “My talents are wasted here,” he resumed,
after a little pause. “I've brought them the blessings of the law, but
what does it signify!”
“Why did you ever come here?” Mahaffy spoke sharply.
“I might ask the same question of you, and in the same offensive tone,”
said the judge.
“May I ask, not wishing to take a liberty, were you always the same old
pauper you've been since I've known you?” inquired Mahaffy. The judge
maintained a stony silence.
The heat deepened in the heart of the afternoon. The sun, a ball of
fire, slipped back of the tree-tops. Thick shadows stole across the
stretch of dusty road. Off in the distance there was the sound of
cowbell. Slowly these came nearer and nearer--as the golden light
slanted, sifting deeper and deeper into the woods.
They could see the crowd that came and went about the tavern, they
caught the distant echo of its mirth.
“Common--quite common,” said the judge with somber melancholy.
“I didn't see anything common,” said Mahaffy sourly. “The drinks weren't
common by a long sight.”
“I referred to the gathering in its social aspect, Solomon,” explained
the judge; “the illiberal spirit that prevailed, which, I observe, did
not escape you.”
“Skunks!” said Mahaffy.
“Not a man present had the public spirit to set 'em up,” lamented the
judge. “They drank in pairs, and I'd blistered my throat at their damn
jail-raising! What sort of a fizzle would it have been if I hadn't been
on hand to impart distinction to the occasion?”
“I don't begrudge 'em their liquor,” said Mahaffy with acid dignity.
“I do,” interrupted the judge. “I hope it's poison to 'em.
“It will be in the long run, if it's any comfort to you to know it.”
“It's no comfort, it's not near quick enough,” said the judge
relentlessly. The sudden noisy clamor of many voices, highpitched and
excited, floated out to them under the hot sky. “I wonder--” began the
judge, and paused as he saw the crowd stream into the road before the
tavern. Then a cloud of dust enveloped it, a cloud of dust that came
from the trampling of many pairs of feet, and that swept toward them,
thick and impenetrable, and no higher than a tall man's head in the
lifeless air. “I wonder if we missed anything,” continued the judge,
finishing what he had started to say.
The score or more of men were quite near, and the judge and Mahaffy made
out the tall figure of the sheriff in the lead. And then the crowd, very
excited, very dusty, very noisy and very hot, flowed into the judge's
front yard. For a brief moment that gentleman fancied Pleasantville had
awakened to a fitting sense of its obligation to him and that it was
about to make amends for its churlish lack of hospitality. He rose from
his chair, and with a splendid florid gesture, swept off his hat.
“It's the pussy fellow!” cried a voice.
“Oh, shut up--don't you think I know him?” retorted the sheriff tartly.
“Gentlemen--” began the judge blandly.
“Get the well-rope!”
The judge was rather at loss properly to interpret these varied remarks.
He was not long left in doubt. The sheriff stepped to his side and
dropped a heavy hand on his shoulder.
“Mr. Slocum Price, or whatever your name is, your little game is up!”
“Get the well-rope! Oh, hell--won't some one get the well-rope?” The
voice rose into a wail of entreaty.
The judge's eyes, rather startled, slid around in their sockets. Clearly
something was wrong--but what--what?
“Ain't he bold?” it was a woman's voice this time, and the fat landlady,
her curls awry and her plump breast heaving tumultuously, gained a place
in the forefront of the crowd.
“Dear madam, this is an unexpected pleasure!” said the judge, with his
hand upon his heart.
“Don't you make your wicked old sheep's eyes at me, you brazen thing!”
cried the lady.
“You're wanted,” said the sheriff grimly, still keeping his hand on the
judge's shoulder.
“For what?” demanded the judge thickly. The sheriff had no time in which
to answer.
“I want my money!” shrieked the landlady.
“Your money--Mrs. Walker, you amaze me!” The judge drew himself up
haughtily, in genuine astonishment.
“I want my money!” repeated Mrs. Walker in even more piercing tones.
“I am not aware that I owe you anything, madam. Thank God, I hold
your receipted bill of recent date,” answered the judge with chilling
dignity.
“Good money--not this worthless trash!” she shook a bill under his nose.
The judge recognized it as the one of which he had despoiled Hannibal.
“You have been catched passing counterfeit,” said the sheriff. A light
broke on the judge, a light that dazzled and stunned. An officious and
impatient gentleman tossed a looped end of the well-rope about his neck
and the crowd yelled excitedly. This was something like--it had a taste
for the man-hunt! The sheriff snatched away the rope and dealt the
officious gentleman a savage blow on the chin that sent him staggering
backward into the arms of his friends.
“Now, see here, now--I'm going to arrest this old faller! I am going to
put him in jail, and I ain't going to have no nonsense--do you hear me?”
he expostulated.
“I can explain--” cried the judge.
“Make him give me my money!” wailed Mrs Walker.
“Jezebel!” roared the judge, in a passion of rage.
“Ca'm's the word, or you'll get 'em started!” whispered the sheriff.
The judge looked fearfully around. At his side stood Mahaffy, a yellow
pallor splotching his thin cheeks. He seemed to be holding himself there
by an effort.
“Speak to them, Solomon--speak to them--you know how I came by the
money! Speak to them--you know I am innocent!” cried the judge,
clutching his friend by the arm. Mahaffy opened his thin lips, but the
crowd drowned his voice in a roar.
“He's his partner--”
“There's no evidence against him,” said the sheriff.
A tall fellow, in a fringed hunting-shirt, shook a long finger under
Mahaffy's aquiline nose.
“You scoot--that's what--you make tracks! And if we ever see your ugly
face about here again, we'll--”
“You'll what?” inquired Mahaffy.
“We'll fix you out with feathers that won't molt, that's what!”
Mr. Mahaffy seemed to hesitate. His lean hands opened and closed, and he
met the eyes of the crowd with a bitter, venomous stare. Some one gave
him a shove and he staggered forward a step, snapping out a curse.
Before he could recover himself the shove was repeated.
“Lope on out of here!” yelled the tall fellow, who had first challenged
his right to remain in Pleasantville or its environs. As the crowd fell
apart to make way for him, willing hands were extended to give him the
needed impetus, and without special volition of his own.
Mahaffy was hurried toward the road. His hat was knocked flat on his
head--he turned with an angry snarl, the very embodiment of hate--but
again he was thrust forward. And then, somehow, his walk became a run
and the crowd started after him with delighted whoopings. Once more,
and for the last time, he faced about, giving the judge a hopeless,
despairing glance. His tormentors were snatching up sods and stones and
he had no choice. He turned, his long strides taking him swiftly over
the ground, with the air full of missiles at his back.
Before he had gone a hundred yards he abandoned the road and, turning
off across an unfenced field, ran toward the woods and swampy bottom.
Twenty men were in chase behind him. The judge was the sheriff's
prisoner--that official had settled that point--but Mr. Mahaffy was
common property, it was his cruel privilege to furnish excitement; his
keen rage was almost equal to the fear that urged him on. Then the woods
closed about him. His long legs, working tirelessly, carried him over
fallen logs and through tall tangled thickets, the voices behind him
growing more and more distant as he ran.