When Newt Spooner had begun his search for Henry Falkins that afternoon
he had not been so unobserved as he thought himself. Not very far behind
him had walked Red Newton. He had not left Cawsler's with any intention
of spying upon the boy and had seen him only by chance, yet when the
latter halted in front of the hotel and stood there with the telltale
expression which the recognition of Falkins brought to his face, Red
Newton observed it and slipped silently into the door of a convenient
store. When Newt went running excitedly back to Cawsler's place, the
brain of the older clansman began to work rapidly. To his memory
recurred the tirade that had broken so tempestuously from the boy's
lips.
"I knows what I'm atter. I knows who I'm ergwine ter git. Thar's a
feller I'm ergwine ter kill." The unforgiving malice in the boy's eyes,
the rigid posture of his whole body as he stood contemplating his enemy,
told Red Newton the whole story. This, then, was the man Newt meant to
kill. It was logical enough. This was the witness who had riddled the
alibi.
At first, Red Newton shrugged his shoulders in the fashion of one who
has no call to meddle in the affairs of others, but as fresh aspects of
the matter presented themselves to his consideration, a very real danger
to all his family arose to confront him.
If Newt should shoot Henry Falkins on the streets of Winchester before
the speaking of this afternoon, it would stir into action such a tidal
wave of public indignation against the mountaineers that the more vital
conspiracy would be thwarted. He surmised that Newt was rushing back to
Cawsler's place to arm himself, and his first instinct was to follow.
Then he remembered that the place was now empty save for the drunken
Dode, and Cawsler himself, whose discretion could be trusted. So, he
took no action, and, when later the same buggy passed the court-house
and within a few moments Newt went swinging along after it on foot, the
disappointed face of the boy told the other that he had failed. Red
Newton rubbed his stubbled chin reflectively, bit off a large chew of
tobacco and withdrew into his inner consciousness for reflection. As the
result of those cogitations he strolled over to the hitching rack where
he found a lowland farmer with whom he had spent a part of the morning
talking cattle.
"Stranger," he suggested, "I 'lowed I'd love to ride out the road a
piece, an' I figgered I'd ask ye ter lend me yore horse fer about a
half-hour. I hain't ergwine fur, an' I won't ride him hard. I'll do es
much fer you when you come up my way."
With ready assent, the farmer went over and untied his plug, and Red
Newton swung himself to the saddle. Then he rode slowly and casually
after the boy. He did not try to overtake him, satisfying himself with
keeping him in sight, while he himself remained too far back to be
recognizable. But Red Newton had affairs of consequence in town, so, as
soon as he was satisfied that Newt had lost sight of the buggy, he
turned back. He intended to mention the circumstance to Black Pete, but
Black Pete was keeping discreetly out of sight, and so he found no
opportunity for speech with him.
Meanwhile, the throng about the court-house was thickening, and Red
Newton caught sight of Jake Falerin making his way to a place near the
stand. That was his own cue for action, so, forgetting minor things, and
keeping as inconspicuous as possible, he began edging toward a position
of proximity in Falerin's rear. He signaled with a nod to one of his
kinsmen, who was standing silently, but alertly, a little way off, and
who at once began working forward in answer to the sign. The plan worked
with well-oiled smoothness. Red Newton came so close that he almost
brushed shoulders with his intended victim, and even when he stood at
Jake Falerin's back, chewing his tobacco with as little expression as a
cow chewing its cud, Falerin did not turn around or suspect his
presence.
As the speaking went forward, Red Newton cast his eyes about, and placed
those of his kinsmen who were present. It had not been deemed advisable
to have the clan largely represented, and it gave him pleasure to
recognize that Falerins largely out-numbered Spooners. Later, when the
question of self-defense and placing the responsibility arose, it would
appear that the Falkins element had come en masse, and from this
circumstance would arise a presumption of malice aforethought on their
part. That would materially strengthen the Spooner defense. In dividing
the mountain men into the two factions of Spooner and Falkins, Red
followed the classification of the feud. The Falerins and Hulburts and
their kindred were "Falkinses," though they bore other names, just as he
himself, though a Newton, was nevertheless a Spooner.
At the psychological moment, Red Newton stepped forward and violently
dug his elbow into Jake Falerin's midriff. Falerin wheeled to see who
was crowding him, and the eyes of the two mountaineers met in a glance
which escaped the generality of upturned faces. So well did each
understand what a quarrel between them must mean that Jake did not hedge
an inch nor attempt to evade the issue. He planted his left fist on Red
Newton's jaw, while he drew with his right. But Red Newton was the more
prepared, though, as he reeled back under the blow, he would have
fallen, had there been room to fall. As it was he leaned against the
crowd, and fired from that position, just a fraction of a second before
Falerin's weapon came free of the holster. It was only those directly at
Red's back who saw the swift play, and to their eyes it bore the seeming
of self-defense. In the same instant, the kinsman at Red Newton's
shoulder fired on the attorney so suddenly that it looked as if he too
were aiming at Falerin's head, instead of just to its side.
Later in the afternoon, Black Pete, whose name had been mentioned to the
commonwealth attorney by several of the Falerins, walked voluntarily
into the office of that functionary. His demeanor was quiet and deeply
grieved. Moreover, it was characterized by a show of frankness that was
disarming. He said he would be glad to submit to a search--that he never
went armed. He feared that in an indirect way, though entirely without
his intent, he had been instrumental in bringing on the afternoon's
deplorable tragedy. The commonwealth's attorney was astounded at this
unsolicited statement, verging so closely on a confession, and felt
impelled to warn the Deacon that he might yet find himself a defendant,
and that whatever he said would be used against him. Had the Deacon been
addicted to smiling he would have smiled then. As it was, he only nodded
his head gravely, half sadly, as he stood there, his hands in his
pockets, and his steady gray eyes unwaveringly holding those of his
inquisitor.
"I reckon that's right, an' I'm obliged to you," he answered
respectfully, "but I find as I go 'long that a man gets just as far by
tellin' the full truth."
"Just as you like. What part did you have in this affair?" demanded the
state prosecutor--a little too eagerly.
"Maybe you'd better let me tell it my own way," suggested Black Pete
imperturbably. "I haven't got much education and I may ramble a little,
but I'll do my best. You know all about the feud, I reckon? I went West
years ago, and out there I got to see that these things are foolish. A
sort of truce was patched up finally, and it was agreed that I must stay
West, and Jake Falerin must leave the mountains, too. I got a little
money saved up, and sent word that I was comin' home to settle up a
mortgage on my sister's farm, and attend to some other family business.
I didn't aim to stay, and I haven't been any closer to the mountains
than right here. I wasn't goin' any closer till everybody agreed to it.
I didn't think these fellers would fight right here in Winchester."
The Deacon stood with the regretful air of one who has been disappointed
in his confidence as to the worthiness of others. At last, he continued
in a conscience-stricken tone:
"I've been studyin' about it considerable since it happened. I'm afraid
the Falerins saw me, and figured I'd broke the truce by comin' back,
and, when Jake met Red in the crowd, they both got panicky, and begun to
shoot."
That was all the Deacon had to state except his promise to remain in
Winchester, subject to the call of the commonwealth. He knew that no
one, save a handful whom he could trust, could implicate him in the
conspiracy, which he had devised and engineered. His claws and fangs
were well-tucked under his sheep's hide of innocence. While he was in
the law-office, the jailer arrived with news that Red Newton and his
other prisoner had asked to see Black Pete Spooner, with a view to
employing counsel for their defense. The Deacon turned to the
commonwealth's attorney.
"What do you think?" he said. "I reckon these boys have that privilege,
haven't they? I want to be fair all round. If they did shoot in
self-defense, I want them to have their rights, but I'll be here if you
need me."
So, late in the afternoon, in the privacy of the cell which the two
mountaineers complacently shared, the Deacon heard from Red how the boy,
Newt, fresh from the penitentiary, was already on the trail of a
"marked-down" victim. It was news that disconcerted the master assassin
to a degree which he would not have cared to admit. These men depended
upon making a case of self-defense, and looked to him to see them
through. The gravest element that confronted them was the violent
dislike of the bluegrass, where they must face trial, for the murderous
tendencies of the mountains. If there should occur on the heels of the
first tragedy a second, traceable to a mountain man, the fat would be in
the fire. At all costs, young Newt must for the present hold his hand.
Above all else, that was imperative. Black Pete questioned the prisoner
searchingly and learned that Newt had gone out Main Street, and Red had
followed him for some distance. Therefore, that was the road young Newt
would watch, and the road upon which young Newt must be watched. Cawsler
later reported the manner in which the boy had come demanding arms, and
the Deacon bitterly regretted having surrendered to him his own pistol.
And Newt had disappeared. Of each Spooner he met, the Deacon demanded
news of his whereabouts. Finally, near the court-house, he met a man who
had seen the sought-for one sauntering slowly out the road near the edge
of town. Since it was only a few minutes before, he could not have gone
far.
The Deacon hurried forward, and from a party of incoming negroes he
learned of the dance, which explained the procession of buggies and gave
him a clew. Probably, Newt had learned that his intended victim would be
there. At least, it would be worth investigating. But of Newt himself he
saw nothing, for when he reached the spot where the boy had climbed the
fence to kill time behind the hedge, he unwittingly passed him by. At
the beginning of the stone fence, where he caught first the music and
the light of the festivities, his eye took in the growth of locusts and
his mountain mind reckoned by swift processes. Here was such natural
cover as a man would be likely to seek in working his way
surreptitiously rearward. He had begun to fear he might be too late, in
which event his coming at all would be more fatal than staying away.
That haste prevented his using the most exhaustive caution, and so he
did not explore to the far side of the woodland, but crossed the fence
at the nearest corner and went swiftly back, skulking in the shadow. In
point of fact, instead of being later than the boy, he arrived first,
but on the opposite side of the broad lawn. When he had gone back as far
as the house level, his painstaking search commenced. He was not only
endeavoring to remain concealed, important as that was, but also to
penetrate the shadows and find the other hidden man. It was a thing that
would have been sheer impossibility but for his splendid wood-craft and
the catlike focus of his eyes in the night. So, when he had exhausted
the possibilities on that side of the house to his full satisfaction, he
recognized his mistake, and knew that he had wasted precious time. He
should be on the far side, and, taking a long detour which carried him
far to the rear of the barns and led him behind the fence line of the
paddock lots, he worked his way up again to the front until he reached
the edge of the lilac bushes, and could see the summer-house. To that
spot he began crawling noiselessly, and, led by a sure instinct, and
while still some fifty yards away, his trained eye caught a stealthy
shadow also hitching forward at his front. There still lay between him
and Newt Spooner the matter of some thirty yards, and, even if he rose
to his feet and ran for it, he would overtake the boy so close to the
vine-covered retreat that any sound of interference would result in the
discovery of both. He did not personally know that the summer-house was
occupied, but he argued it from the movements of the other skulker. Newt
was so engrossed in his hate that at this particular moment he had eyes
and ears only for the front. Between the lilac thicket where Black Pete
crouched and the vine shadows where Newt knelt, lay an open space of
flooding radiance, but it was directly behind the summer-house, and,
unless Newt saw him crossing it, no one was apt to see. The Deacon rose
to his feet and ran for it.
As Newt thrust the revolver behind him to cock it, Black Pete's hand
closed silently around his, and Black Pete's thumb was jammed between
the back-drawn hammer and the firing-pin.
[Illustration: Black Pete's thumb was jammed between the back-drawn
hammer and the firing pin]