The town marshal at Jackson was Micah French, and he was town marshal
because his temperament was not one to be depressed by the quick step of
stressful events. The arrival in town of men a-gallop and inflamed by
liquor was not in those days unusual, and was regarded with a certain
tolerance. The law was accustomed to let youth have its fling and later,
under circumstances more auspicious, to serve a writ on the offender and
hale him in a spirit of contrition before the magistrate.
This, however, was no ordinary day. Had Newt Spooner timed his
demonstration for forty-five minutes earlier, his coming would have set
such a large storm thundering that no peace-maker could have averted
battle. Newt had waited, hoping to placate the Deacon, and had failed.
Now, in desperation, he was running amuck. For a moment, Micah French,
loitering at the curb in front of the court-house, failed to grasp the
significance of the matter. He followed the course of usage, and allowed
Newt to pass by.
But the Deacon, standing in a doorway which McAllister and Henry Falkins
were just then approaching, recognized the full threat of the episode.
He was accompanied by the six men of both clans, who had undertaken to
act as the personal guard for Old Mack. As the two peace-makers came
abreast, the Deacon, laying a hand on the arm of each, halted them and
gave a signal to the others to close around. Then, as the two men, so
suddenly swallowed in a human cordon, still questioned without
comprehension, they were borne back into the doorway of the small shack
store, and the Deacon with his three Spooner kinsmen ran again to the
street.
The Falkins guardsmen had taken in the whole situation at a glance, and
they remained indoors with the men whose safeguarding had suddenly
become something more than an honorary task. The thing had been abrupt,
but they needed no explanation. A Spooner had "bust loose," and to the
Spooners belonged the first duty of handling their own law-breakers. If
the Spooners failed, then they could themselves act later.
So, Newt, aflame with rage and the liquor which during all the forenoon
he had been drinking, jerked his horse to its flanks, and looked wildly
about. He had been riding in the approved fashion of the mountain bad
man with his reins in his teeth and both hands dedicated to his
firearms. His feet had been flying like flails because the old nag was
unresponsive to his belligerent ardor and lent itself grudgingly to this
mad career. But, spurring and shouting through his clenched teeth with
his body swung sidewise for the broadside, Newt suddenly saw his victim
surrounded and spirited into a place of safety. Then, with a howl of
anger, he took one hand from his rifle to drag at his horse's mouth. He
was going into that house, if he had to fight his way over every man in
Jackson. By-standers scattered, not because they feared a drunken boy
with a gun, but because just now they stood on their good behavior, and
hesitated to shoot.
"Let me git at Henry Falkins! Git outen my road!" screamed the boy. His
whole appearance was that of a maniac, and, as he spoke, the Deacon and
his three henchmen came hurrying from the door into the street. Newt did
not see them because his mad course had carried him a few yards beyond
the shack which was his objective, but Black Pete and his allies were
losing no time. As the boy swung himself from his saddle on the far side
of his nag, his eyes still turned inward, he flung himself straight into
the bear-like hug of the Deacon. Before he could struggle free, he was
pinioned by three other pairs of arms, and was a prisoner. Kicking,
biting and bellowing, he was disarmed and carried unceremoniously out
into the street.
Someone asked contemptuously, "Who is that fool kid?" for Newt had not
been much seen in Jackson since they had taken him down to the state
prison, and to many persons he was still a stranger.
The boy himself tried to answer, but was silenced by a hand clapped
roughly over his mouth; so he only gurgled and choked.
"It's only Little Newt Spooner," enlightened the Deacon commiseratingly.
"He's just got drunk, an' ain't hardly responsible. Where's Micah
French?"
"What air ye 'lowin' ter do with him?" asked a Falkins man, who expected
the lad's kinsmen to make excuses for him, and carry him back to his own
cabin. The Deacon looked up with a glance of grave reproach, as though
the question grieved him.
"What can we do with him, except put him in the jail-house? He was
breakin' the law, wasn't he? He was threatenin' the peace and quiet, an'
endangerin' human life, wasn't he?"
It was a timely and popular play. The Deacon had offered to prove his
conversion by his works, and here within the hour was an opportunity
ready to his hand. It was a thing almost unheard of in feud usage, this
turning a relative over to Falkins officers. And yet as greatly as it
strengthened him in the eyes of the public, it carried a tremendous
danger. He could now expect no loyalty from Newt. Newt, if he came to
trial, might be stung into telling what he knew of the Deacon's part in
the murder of old Jake. Still, it was a case for quick decision, and he
did not hesitate. Moreover, Newt in jail would be more amenable to
persuasion than Newt out of jail.
Falkins men gravely declared that Black Pete was standing up to his
contract, and, since none of the Spooners cared much for "little Newt,"
he had small sympathy among his own kindred.
To the left of Jackson's court-house sits Jackson's "jail-house"--for
the mountaineer would as readily call a court-house a court as a
jail-house a jail. It is a small building of home-baked bricks, and its
windows are low and iron-barred. Just now, it was empty--save for Newt
Spooner. The solitary inmate was not to be released until the Deacon
spoke the word, but there was no intention of bringing him to trial. It
was merely a case of "sobering up" explained the peace-maker, as he
rejoined the street crowd.
Not until the next day did the Deacon go to the boy there, and when he
went, he went alone.
"Son," he said sadly, as he looked down on the seated figure, which did
not rise to receive him, "I hated to do you that way worse than I can
tell you. You know why I had to do it, don't you?"
"I knows," accused the boy bitterly, "that ye gits ever'body kilt thet
ye wants kilt, an' I knows thet ye lied ter me an' fooled me. I knows
thet ye've done been a damned traitor."
"I reckon it does look right smart that way to you, son," acceded the
other. "It can't hardly help seemin' that way--an' yet I was tryin' to
save your life, an' I did save it."
"I hain't none beholden ter ye fer thet," snorted Newt. "I didn't ask ye
ter save my life. I'd a heap ruther ye'd quit a-meddlin' so damn' much
in my business."
"But listen, son. A man can afford to look ahead an' bide his time. Just
now, we've got to lay low an' keep quiet. All the Spooners except you
have agreed to do that. You're a young feller with your life ahead of
you, and waitin' a little won't hurt you. You've got to let this Falkins
boy alone for a year. When I talked to you at Winchester, I didn't
rightly know how things stood down here. Give me your hand on that, an'
I'll get you out of here."
"I won't do hit," snapped the boy, defiantly.
"Then I guess you'd better stay here a while." The Deacon's voice was
regretful.
"Ye means thet I kin lie in this jail-house tell I promises ye not ter
hurt Henry Falkins?"
"Till you promise not to hurt him for a year," amended the other.
"An' I tells ye you kin everlastin'ly go ter hell!" shouted Newt, his
face working spasmodically under his wrath.
It would have brought a ray of comfort to Newt, had he known that
Minerva had fought back her disgust for the wild and lawless picture he
had made, and had asked permission to visit him in the jail. She had
wanted to plead with him, as the Deacon had pleaded, though it was not
for a year, but for always, that she would have begged him to bury his
enmity. Perhaps, she thought, if in this hour he felt the hand-clasp of
friendship, he might realize that there are better things than hatred
and the blind service of hatred. But the Deacon thought it best that no
one save himself should talk with Newt. He might tell too much.
"I'm right sorry," he said, and his eyes were gravely sympathetic; "but
the boy's been drinkin' right smart, an' I reckon it wouldn't hardly be
best for you to see him. No, it wouldn't hardly be wise."
Three days the Deacon left him there, but on each day he argued at
length and kindly, pointing out that his action was the hard course of
one who could not permit his sympathies to swerve him. Meanwhile, the
prisoner was practically in solitary confinement, for the Falkins jailer
followed the Deacon's directions, and allowed no one else to talk with
him.
On the third day, Newt capitulated, and, though his promise of twelve
months of forbearance was given under duress, and the Deacon knew he had
incurred an enmity which would be lifelong, he knew, too, that the
promise would be kept. That night Newt rode sullenly to the cabin on
Troublesome, and stabled and fed the nag, and, when he had taken his
place in front of the fire, he sat moodily and in unbroken silence for a
half-hour, and then he looked up, and said shortly,
"Clem, I reckon I'm a-ready to do my sheer of work on the place. I'll
feed the hawgs in ther mornin'."
A cold drizzle had come with nightfall; a fire had been built. One by
one, the family "lay down," and from the four corners of the room came
the heavy breathing of their slumber. But Minerva did not at once fall
asleep, and so she knew that far into the night Newt sat gazing into the
dying embers, and she covertly and shyly watched his face, very drawn
and miserable.
At last, she slipped from the covers, and, coming over, laid a hand on
his shoulder.
"Newt," she said in a low voice, "you're in trouble, boy--and I'm
sorry."
"Thet's all right, Minervy," he answered, without moving, but into the
surliness of his voice crept a trace of breaking.
Some day, of course, she must tell him exactly how responsible she had
been for his failure, but just now she could not. He was wretched
because he had not succeeded in repeating the infamy and the crime which
had at first wrecked his life. By every theory of morals and every form
of right-thinking he was beyond the pale of sympathy--and yet--Minerva
Rawlins had in her veins enough of vendetta blood to understand that his
suffering was genuine and that from his one view-point he had defaulted
a debt of honor.
It was a thing of her doing, a thing which, if need be, she would do
again; but that did not prevent her seeing in the thin, haggard-faced
boy, who watched the embers die to ashes, a creature for whom she could
feel sorrow--even sympathy. Perhaps it was a sympathy too wide in its
scope; but, if so, it was a criticism for which Christ, Lord of broad
sympathies, might, possibly, have felt a leniency.
* * * * *
In the months that followed, Henry Falkins organized and drilled into
some semblance of military form a company of militiamen. His men were
enlisted from Falkins and Falerin territory, and, though he invited the
Spooners to join them, the distance made it impracticable. Henry
believed that by military training these people might be weaned from
lawless intolerance to a rudimentary acceptance of discipline.
One day, Newt Spooner, having ridden over to Jackson, saw these raw
amateurs going through their manual of arms, and he stood at the side
and sneered contemptuously as he watched. But the Deacon, who watched,
too, did not sneer. With a constant diplomacy Black Pete had
rehabilitated his reputation, and, if any of the Falkins clan still
disbelieved in his sincerity, he was lonely in his scepticism. Men on
both sides ceased to speak of the "truce," and called it by the more
permanent name of "peace." But, reflected the far-sighted Deacon, there
might come an outbreak some day, and then it would be no advantage to
the Spooners to have a hundred Falkinses take to the brush with the
high-power military rifles. It would be just as well, if this militia
idea were a good one, to carry it further. The county should have not
one company--but two. Over in the section where the Spooners held
dominance, the second should be mustered. So, in the course of time, the
Spooner platoons were duly organized and taken into the state guard. The
Deacon himself consented only to become a sergeant. Yet, from the
inception, it was the sergeant, rather than the captain or lieutenant,
who dictated every matter of importance.
The feeling between the erstwhile enemies had become outwardly so
cordial that a challenge was given and accepted for a competitive drill,
and Newt, who had at first scoffed and then yielded to the lure of the
military, marched with his comrades the little matter of twenty miles to
Jackson, bearing a Springfield rifle and wearing a state uniform.
He had seen Henry Falkins only once since that Fourth of July, and it
was now October. The hills were ablaze with gold and burgundy and
scarlet. Newt knew that Captain Falkins would not command his company
that day: that he was in fact "down below." Had he not been assured of
this, he would have stayed at home and sulked in the woods.
He was biding his time. He had neither forgotten nor forgiven.
And yet, in spite of the black shadows of a life which exalted the
vindictive and scowled on every gracious thing, Newt Spooner felt to-day
the stirring of a new emotion. In this novel game of playing soldier, he
found, rather against his will, an interest that threatened to become an
enthusiasm. For the first time in his lonely life, he began to taste,
with a tang of relish, the pleasures of companionship. These men with
whom he hiked accorded him a rough fellowship. At first, he had been
suspicious and surly, but now, when they called him the "tough kid of
Troublesome," he grinned sheepishly and without resentment. Newt was
waking out of a sleep that had lasted since babyhood and that had been
all nightmare.
The flaming hills with their veils of violet haze across the distances;
the cheerful rustle of crisp leaves under foot; the whole autumnal gamut
of color and fragrance and spice was softening the world, even to its
hard men of the mountains. They swung their rifles and kits with a
tramp-like slouchiness, and when the noon grew warm they insisted on
hiking with their shirt-tails outside their trousers; but in their
swinging gait was a tireless energy that could walk armory-trained men
off their feet, and then, if called on, go fresh into battle.
They swung down Jay-bird Creek, and passed the mouth of Fist-fight, and
there, lying above its saw-mill, came to view a bit of landscape as much
out of the picture as though it had been torn from another page of the
geography and pasted there by mistake. At the edge of a town, so
sprawling and ragged that one did not see it until he stumbled upon it
out of a creek-bed gulch, spread the smooth campus of the college.
But, before they reached that point, the commanding officer halted his
command.
"Boys," was his informal suggestion, "we're about to pass thet-there
new-fangled college. I reckon we mout es well give them folks a treat.
Let's fall in an' march by there like shore-'nough soldiers."
Newt Spooner happened to be the file of his four, and as they trailed by
the cheering little group of students, the ex-convict saw "Clem's gal"
leaning on the palings, and though he did not know why, he felt
something akin to pride and excitement, and straightened his shoulders,
and bore his rifle more jauntily. Minerva leaned forward, waving her
sun-bonnet, and called out, "Newt, I hope you boys win," and the lad
marched on, strangely pleased.
In that picture of men marching in ordered ranks, and wearing the
uniform which denoted service, she thought she saw a long step toward
conversion, and an approach to a better standard, and Minerva, too, felt
a flutter of pleasure as she watched the column disappear around the
curve of the road with its yellow dust-cloud clinging in its wake.
The militia officer from the bluegrass, who had come to act as umpire,
masked his smile as he judged that contest. Then the amusement died, and
he remembered Napoleon's criterion: "The best soldier is he who can
bivouac shelterless, throughout the year."
A temporary rifle-range had been established, and in the improvised pit,
with a fifty-year-old sergeant acting as target-marker, sat the officer
from "down below." The mountaineer squatted like a clay effigy on his
heels, and smoked a cob pipe.
"Sergeant," suggested the officer in a pause, during the overhead
shrieking of rifle-bullets, "in case trouble started down here in the
hills--I mean if soldiers were called out--what do you think these men
would do? Could they be relied on?"
The mountaineer drew a long puff from his pipe, and smiled grimly.
"Wall, now, _lew_-tenant," he drawled thoughtfully, "I'll jest tell ye
ther truth. Ef thar was ter be trouble _somewhars else_ these-here
fellers would be all right; but jest right round hyar--well, I hain't so
plumb shore."
"Then you think--?" The officer left the question unfinished, and the
target-marker again grinned.
"I hain't thinkin' nothin' much, but ye kin jedge yerself, _lew_-tenant,
thet ef a couple of hundred fellers with these-hyar fur-shootin' guns
was ter take ter the brush, thar mout be some hell ter pay fer a spell.
I kinder reckon," he added gravely, "thet, ef things bust loose
hyar-abouts, hit mout be a right-good idee ter take all these fellers up
to Loueyville and lock 'em up in the jail-house thar. It mout be a
right-good idea."