AFTER THE BATTLE.
Nothing can be more demoralizing in the long run than lynch law. And yet
lynch law often originates in a burst of generous indignation which is
not willing to suffer a bold oppressor to escape by means of corrupt and
cowardly courts. It is oftener born of fear. Both motives powerfully
agitated the people of the region round about Clifty as night drew on
after Ralph's acquittal. They were justly indignant that Ralph had been
made the victim of such a conspiracy, and they were frightened at the
unseen danger to the community from such a band as that of Small's. It
was certain that they did not know the full extent of the danger as yet.
And what Small might do with a jury, or what Pete Jones might do with a
sheriff, was a question. I must not detain the reader to tell how the
mob rose. Nobody knows how such things come about. Their origin is as
inexplicable as that of an earthquake. But, at any rate, a rope was
twice put round Small's neck during that night, and both times Small
was saved only by the nerve and address of Ralph, who had learned how
unjust mob law may be. As for Small, he neither trembled when they were
ready to hang him, nor looked relieved when he was saved, nor showed the
slightest flush of penitence or gratitude. He bore himself in a quiet,
gentlemanly way throughout, like the admirable villain that he was.
He waived a preliminary examination the next day; his father went his
bail, and he forfeited bail and disappeared from the county and from the
horizon of my story. Two reports concerning Small have been in
circulation--one that he was running a faro-bank in San Francisco, the
other that he was curing consumption in New York by some quack process.
If this latter were true, it would leave it an open question whether
Ralph did well to save him from the gallows. Pete Jones and Bill, as
usually happens to the rougher villains, went to prison, and when their
terms had expired moved to Pike County, Missouri.
But it is about Hannah that you wish to hear, and that I wish to tell.
She went straight from the court room to Flat Creek, climbed to her
chamber, packed in a handkerchief all her earthly goods, consisting
chiefly of a few family relics, and turned her back on the house of
Means forever. At the gate she met the old woman, who shook her fist in
the girl's face and gave her a parting benediction in the words: "You
mis'able, ongrateful critter you, go 'long. I'm glad to be shed of you!"
At the barn she met Bud, and he told her good-by with a little huskiness
in his voice, while a tear glistened in her eyes. Bud had been a friend
in need, and such a friend one does not leave without a pang.
"Where are you going? Can I--"
"No, no!" And with that she hastened on, afraid that Bud would offer to
hitch up the roan colt. And she did not want to add to his domestic
unhappiness by compromising him in that way.
It was dusk and was raining when she left. The hours were long, the road
was lonely, and after the revelations of that day it did not seem wholly
safe. But from the moment that she found herself free, her heart had
been ready to break with an impatient homesickness. What though there
might be robbers in the woods? What though there were ten rough miles to
travel? What though the rain was in her face? What though she had not
tasted food since the morning of that exciting day? Flat Creek and
bondage were behind; freedom, mother, Shocky, and home were before her,
and her feet grew lighter with the thought. And if she needed any other
joy, it was to know that the master was clear. And he would come? And
so she traversed the weary distance, and so she inquired and found the
house, the beautiful, homely old house of beautiful, homely old Nancy
Sawyer, and knocked, and was admitted, and fell down, faint and weary,
at her blind mother's feet, and laid her tired head in her mother's lap
and wept and wept like a child, and said, "O mother! I'm free! I'm
free!" while the mother's tears baptized her face, and the mother's
trembling fingers combed out her tresses. And Shocky stood by her and
cried: "I knowed God wouldn't forget you, Hanner!"
Hannah was ready now to do anything by which she could support her
mother and Shocky. She was strong, and inured to toil. She was willing
and cheerful, and she would gladly have gone to service if by that means
she could have supported the family. And, for that matter her mother was
already able nearly to support herself by her knitting. But Hannah had
been carefully educated when young, and at that moment the old public
schools were being organized into a graded school, and the good
minister, who shall be nameless, because he is, perhaps, still
living in Indiana, and who in Methodist parlance was called "the
preacher-in-charge of Lewisburg Station"--this good minister and Miss
Nancy Sawyer got Hannah a place as teacher in the primary department.
And then a little house with four rooms was rented, and a little, a very
little furniture was put into it, and the old sweet home was established
again. The father was gone, never to come back again. But the rest were
here. And somehow Hannah kept waiting for somebody else to come.