The hall was still. It was as if, by some necromancy of words, Carmel
had turned to stone the town meeting of Gibeon. She looked down into
faces which seemed to her white and strained. The faces waited. She
had caught them by her words; gripped them. Something was about to
happen. Every man in the room felt the imminence of grave events. The
very air tingled with it as if waves of some vital force agitated the
air and discharged themselves with such force as to be felt by physical
touch.... It was Carmel Lee’s first public appearance, yet she was not
frightened. Rather she was eager; words jostled with one another for
the privilege of being uttered first. She paused, staring down into
those faces.
“Men of Gibeon,” she said, and her little fist, clenched with knuckles
showing white, lifted from her side and extended itself toward them,
“Men of Gibeon, I have found the body of Sheriff Churchill.... He was
murdered!...”
The faces seemed to move in unison as if they were painted upon a
single canvas and the canvas had been suddenly jerked by an unseen
hand. They became audible by an intake of the breath.
“I found him,” Carmel said, “close by the Lakeside Hotel.... Since
yesterday I have been a prisoner in the Lakeside Hotel, I and Evan
Pell.... I went to find him. I found Sheriff Churchill; I saw five
great trucks unload in the hotel yard, and those trucks were carrying
whisky from the other side of the border.... It was whisky, men
of Gibeon, which killed Sheriff Churchill. It was the men who are
trafficking in liquor who murdered him.... I know their names. I have
seen them and been their prisoner.... At this moment Evan Pell, locked
in a room of that unspeakable place, is in danger of his life. He is
injured, cannot escape nor defend himself. Yet he made it possible for
me to escape and to come to you for help....” Again she paused.
“I could not go to the law because the law does not belong to the
people of Gibeon. It has been bought and paid for. It is owned by
criminals and by murderers.... We have a new sheriff.... That man’s
hands are red with the blood of the man whose place he fills.... So I
have come to you, for there is no other law in Gibeon to-night than
yourselves.”
There had been no movement, no sound, only that tense, fateful silence.
“Will you permit this thing? Will you continue to allow your town
and your county to rest under this dreadful thing? You can stop it
to-night. You can wipe it out forever.... Let me tell you what I know.”
She spoke rapidly, eloquently. In that moment she was no longer a young
woman, but a leader, a prophet, one sent to deliver a message, and she
delivered it fittingly. Her words descended upon those upturned faces,
compelling belief. There could be no doubt.... She described the plot
against herself as Bangs had recited it tauntingly--how she was to have
been made a thing to scorn and to turn aside from; how that part of
her which was more valuable to her than life itself was to have been
murdered. At the recital the faces moved again, became audible again in
a murmur which held kinship with a snarl.... Gibeon was awakening.
Point by point, fact by fact, she drove home to them the conditions
among which they had been living, but one name she withheld until the
moment should come for its utterance.... She described the activities
of the whisky smugglers, the workings of their organization, its
power--the intelligence which directed it.
“Will you endure this, men of Gibeon?... No time may be lost. At this
instant a man stands under the shadow of death! What are you going to
do? Will you let him die?”
In the hall a man arose. “What is the name of this man--the man who is
to blame for all this?” he demanded.
“His name,” said Carmel, “is Abner Fownes!”
It was as if they had expected it; there was no demonstration, no
confusion. The men of Gibeon were strangely unmoved, strangely silent,
strangely stern. It was as if they were moved by a common impulse, a
common determination. They were not many individuals, but a single
entity.... They had been molded into solidity--and that solidity was
Gibeon.
The faces were faces no longer, but human beings, men standing erect as
if waiting for a signal.... Among them Carmel saw Jared Whitefield. His
eyes encountered hers, and he nodded....
“Will you come with me?” she cried. “Will you follow me?... Those who
will follow--come!...”
She descended from the platform and a lane opened before her; she
reached the door and turned.... The men of Gibeon were behind her,
and as if they were a company marching behind its commander they
followed her down the stairs. There was no shouting, no confusion, no
unsightly mob spirit.... Along the street stood waiting cars, the cars
of the farmers of the town, and men crowded into them beyond their
capacity.... It was a crusade, the crusade of Gibeon, and Carmel had
preached it.
They started quietly, grimly, an orderly procession. It moved through
the streets, across the bridge, and out the road toward the Lakeside
Hotel.... A hundred men bent upon purging their community of a thing
which had debauched it.... On and on, urgent, inexorable, moved the
line of cars.... Then a sudden stop. The road was barricaded, and men
with rifles stood behind to block the way.
“What’s this here?” bellowed a voice out of the darkness. “What kind of
goin’s on is this here?” It was Sheriff Jenney.
There was no answer. “I order ye to disperse and git to your homes
quietly,” he said. “We hain’t goin’ to have no mobbin’ in Gibeon.”
The cars emptied and men crowded forward. “Out of the way, Jenney,” a
voice commanded. “We’re in no humor to be meddled with to-night.”
“Don’t go resistin’ an officer,” Jenney roared. “Disperse like I told
ye.”
Then Jared Whitefield forced his way to the front, and on either side
of him were strangers to Gibeon. They leaped the barricade before
Jenney, taken by surprise, could move his hand. Whitefield dropped a
heavy hand on Jenney’s shoulder.
“Jenney,” he said, “drop that gun. You’re under arrest.”
“Arrest!... Me? Who kin arrest the sheriff of a county.” He laughed
loudly.
“I can,” said Whitefield. “Drop that gun.”
Jenney twisted in Whitefield’s grip, but the huge man held him as in a
vise.
“You’ve gone ag’in’ somethin’ bigger than a township or a county,
Jenney, or even a state.... It’s the United States of America that’s
puttin’ you under arrest, Jenney, through me, its duly appointed
marshal.... _Drop that gun!_”
The United States of America! The Federal authorities had taken a hand.
That explained Whitefield’s absence.... The United States!... Carmel
sobbed. In this thing she had the might of America behind her! The
authority of a nation!
“Put him in a car,” Whitefield directed his companions; and it was
done.
“Whitefield,” called a voice, “you hain’t goin’ to interfere? You
hain’t goin’ to stop us?”
“I got nothin’ to do with you,” Whitefield said. “I got what I come
for.”
The cars filled again, the obstruction was removed, and once again the
men of Gibeon moved toward their objective. They reached it, surrounded
it, men burst in its doors and laid hands upon whomever they found....
Carmel, well escorted, ran up the stairs.
“That’s the door,” she cried, and powerful shoulders thrust it from its
hinges.
“Evan!...” she cried. “Evan!...”
He lay upon the floor, motionless. Carmel knelt beside him, frantic at
the sight of his motionlessness. She lifted his head to her lap, peered
into his white face, stared at his closed eyes.
“They’ve killed him,” she said, in a dull, dead voice. “We’ve come too
late.”
Mr. Hopper, of the Gibeon bank, thrust his hand inside Evan’s shirt to
feel for the beating of his heart.... It was distinguishable, faint but
distinguishable.
“He’s not dead,” said Hopper, “but somebody’s beat hell out of him.”
They lifted him gently and carried him down the stairs. Carmel walked
by his side, silent, stunned.... He was not dead, but he was horribly
injured. He would die.... She knew she would never again see his eyes
looking into hers. They placed him in a car, and she sat, supporting
his weight, her arm about him, his head heavy upon her breast....
“Everybody out?” roared a voice.
“Everybody’s out!”
Carmel saw a light appear inside the hotel, a light cast by no lamp
or lantern.... It increased, leaped, flamed. Room after room was
touched by the illumination. It climbed the stairs, roared outward
through windows, spreading, crackling, hissing, devouring.... In a
dozen minutes the Lakeside Hotel was wrapped in flame--a beacon light
in Gibeon’s history. High and higher mounted the flames until the
countryside for miles about was lighted by it, notified by it that a
thing was happening, that Gibeon was being purified by fire.
“Is there no doctor here?” Carmel cried.
“Doc Stewart’s some’eres.... I’ll git him.”
The doctor was found and came. He examined Evan as best he could.
“Better get him to town. Can’t tell much now.... Depends on whether
there’s concussion.... I’ll go along with you.”
“Before you go, Miss Lee--where--is the sheriff? Sheriff Churchill?”
“Follow the shore--that way. You’ll find him--on the edge.”
“We got Peewee Bangs--he was hidin’ in a boat-house.”
“I--I’m glad,” said Carmel.
The car moved away, bearing Carmel, Evan, and the doctor. Somehow
it seemed like the end of the world to her--a definite stopping
place of things. The lurid flames making a ghastly forest, black
figures flitting about from shadow to shadow, the confusion of her
thoughts, the piling up for days of event upon event and emotion upon
emotion--all this seemed to be a climax--a finality. There was an
unreality about it all, an unnatural crowding of events, a hustling
and jostling, as if she were in an overwrought throng of occurrences,
adventures, events, crises which pushed and shoved and harried her,
striving ever to thrust her out of their way that they might march
unimpeded. There rested upon her now a curious listlessness, a
lifelessness, as if they had succeeded, as if they had elbowed her off
the road of life, upon which she could never regain a footing.
Gibeon was aroused; Gibeon was crusading! The thought awakened no
thrill. She was safe; never again would she be threatened by the
forces which she had challenged. She was free to pursue her way--but
the knowledge came as dead knowledge. She did not care. She cared for
nothing--because she knew, she was positive, Evan Pell had gone from
her forever....
The car stopped before the doctor’s house and Evan was carried up to a
bedroom, unconscious still.... Doctor Stewart tried to exclude her from
the room, but she would not be excluded. This was all she had left;
all life held for her--that faint, irregular beating of Evan Pell’s
heart.... She knew those heartbeats were her own, would be her own so
long as they persisted.... She would remain would sit by him watching,
watching, waiting. This scarcely perceptible life was all she would
ever have of him, and she dared lose no instant of it.
Doctor Stewart worked over the bed. Carmel thought him calm, terribly
indifferent, businesslike. He was a tradesman working at a trade when
she would have had him a god performing a miracle.... After a time he
turned to her.
“I cannot tell,” he said. “Some concussion is present. There seems to
be no fracture of the skull.... What internal injuries he may have
suffered--it is impossible to say.... In the morning....”
“He will be dead,” said Carmel.
The doctor shook his head. “I do not think so. I hope--in such cases
one cannot be sure--but----”
“He will be dead,” said Carmel.
“It is in God’s hand,” said the doctor.
“They have killed him--because he was brave, because he loved
me--because---- Oh, Doctor, that is the awful thought--he is dead for
me. He gave his life for me.”
His hand rested upon her shoulder with the gentle touch which some men
learn by a life of service--and Doctor Stewart, country physician,
unrecognized, unsung, had lived such a life. “My dear,” he said, “how
better could a man die?”
“_He_ killed him--Abner Fownes killed him.”
“Abner Fownes has run his course,” said the doctor.
“It is not enough--not enough. The law can do nothing to him which will
make him pay.”
“The punishment of the law,” said the doctor, “is a puny thing beside
the punishment of God.”
Carmel stood up; she bent over the bed and kissed Evan upon the cold
lips.... Something possessed her, controlled her, a power stronger than
herself, an impulse more urgent than she had ever known. It moved her
as if she were an automaton, a puppet ordered and regulated by strings
in the hands of its fabricator. She moved toward the door.
“Where are you going?” asked the doctor.
“I have a thing to do,” she said.
He peered into her face and saw there that which shocked him, startled
him. He would have stayed her. “Wait----” he commanded. She eluded his
outstretched hand and hurried down the stairs. There was no indecision
in her step or in her manner. There was no indecision in her soul. She
knew where she was going, and why she was going.... She was on her way
to find Abner Fownes!