The thought of Jud now took him up the back trail of Andrew Lanning. He
leaned far over with the lantern, studying with intense interest every
place where the wounds of the injured man might have left telltale
stains on the rocks or the grass. When he had apparently satisfied
himself of this, he turned and ran at full speed back to the house and
went up the ladder to Andrew. There he took the boots--they were
terribly stained, he saw--and drew them on.
The loose boots and the unaccustomed weights tangled his feet sadly, as
he went on down the ladder, but he said not a word to his grandfather,
who was far too dignified to make a comment on the borrowed footgear.
Again outside with his lantern, the boy took out his pocket-knife and
felt the small blade. It was of a razor keenness. Then he went through
the yard behind the house to the big henhouse, where the chickens sat
perched in dense rows. He raised his lantern; at once scores of tiny,
bright eyes flashed back at him.
But Jud, with a twisted face of determination, kept on with his survey
until he saw the red comb and the arched tail plumes of a large Plymouth
Rock rooster.
It was a familiar sight to Jud. Of all the chickens on the place this
was his peculiar property. And now he had determined to sacrifice this
dearest of pets.
The old rooster was so accustomed to his master, indeed, that he allowed
himself to be taken from the perch without a single squawk, and the boy
took his captive beyond the pen. Once, when the big rooster canted his
head and looked into his face, the boy had to wink away the tears; but
he thought of the man so near death in the attic, he felt the clumsy
boots on his feet, and his heart grew strong again.
He went around to the front of the house and by the steps he fastened on
the long neck of his prisoner a grasp strong enough to keep him silent
for a moment. Then he cut the rooster's breast deeply, shuddering as he
felt the knife take hold.
Something trickled warmly over his hands. Dropping his knife in his
pocket, Jud started, walked with steps as long as he could make them. He
went, with the spurs chinking to keep time for each stride, straight
toward a cliff some hundreds of yards from the house. The blood ran
freely. The old rooster, feeling himself sicken, sank weakly against the
breast of the boy, and Jud thought that his heart would break. He
reached the sharp edge of the cliff and heard the rush of the little
river far below him. At the same time his captive gave one final flutter
of the wings, one feeble crow, and was dead.
Jud waited until the tears had cleared from his eyes. Then he took off
the boots, and, in bare feet that would leave no trace on the rocks, he
skirted swiftly back to the house, put the dead body back in the chicken
yard, and returned to his grandfather.
There was one great satisfaction for him that evening, one reward for
the great sacrifice, and it came immediately. While the old man stood
trembling before him, Jud told his story.
It was a rich feast indeed to see the relief, the astonishment, the
pride come in swift turns upon that grim old face.
And yet in the end Pop was able to muster a fairly good imitation of a
frown.
"And here you come back with a shirt and a pair of trousers plumb
spoiled by all your gallivantin'," he said, "not speakin' of a perfectly
good chicken killed. Ain't you never goin' to get grown up, Jud?"
"He was mine, the chicken I killed," said Jud, choking.
It brought a pause upon the talk. The other was forced to wink both eyes
at once and sigh.
"The big speckled feller?" he asked more gently.
"The Plymouth Rock," said Jud fiercely. "He wasn't no speckled feller!
He was the finest rooster and the gamest--"
"Have it your own way," said the old man. "You got your grandma's tongue
when it comes to arguin' fine points. Now go and skin out of them
clothes and come back and see that you've got all that--that stuff of'n
your face and hands."
Jud obeyed, and presently reappeared in a ragged outfit, his face and
hands red from scrubbing.
"I guess maybe it's all right," declared the old man. "Only, they's
risks in it. Know what's apt to happen if they was to find that you'd
helped to get a outlaw off free?"
"What would it be?" asked the boy.
"Oh, nothin' much. Maybe they'd try you and maybe they wouldn't.
Anyways, they'd sure wind up by hangin' you by the neck till you was as
dead as the speckled rooster."
"The Plymouth Rock," insisted Jud hotly.
"All right, I don't argue none. But you just done a dangerous thing,
Jud. And there'll be a consid'able pile of men here in the mornin', most
like, to ask you how and why."
He was astonished to hear Jud break into laughter.
"Hush up," said Pop. "You'll be wakin' him up with all that noise.
Besides, what d'you mean by laughin' at the law?" "Why, granddad," said
Jud, "don't I know you wouldn't never let no posse take me from you?
Don't I know maybe you'd clean 'em all up?"
"Pshaw!" said Pop, and flushed with delight. "You was always a fool kid,
Jud. Now you run along to bed."