THE DEPUTY MARSHAL.
As soon as Job Parshall heard the sound of firearms outside the Whipple
cabin, he darted to the nearer of the front windows, scratched away
some of the thick frost from one of its panes, and put his eye to the
aperture.
A horse and cutter had come to a halt on the road, a few rods short of
the house. The animal had been frightened by the firing, and was still
showing signs of excitement, with lifted ears and stiffened forelegs.
The man, whom Job understood to be Moak, stood at the horse's head,
holding the bridle tightly, but looking intently the other way across
the fields in the direction of his companion, the redoubtable deputy
marshal, who was not in sight.
The boy stole to the other end of the room, and cautiously opened the
shed door by as much as the width of his face. Here he could cover at a
glance the flat, gently sloping waste of snow which stretched unbroken
backward from the house to the gray fringe of woods that marked the
edge of the ravine. Beyond that belt of timbered horizon, with its
shadows silvery soft in the brilliant morning sunlight, lay sunken in
its hollow the ice-bound brook.
If Mose passed this stream there was before him the real forest--and
safety.
The black figures of two running men moved upon this broad and
dazzlingly white landscape. The farther of the two was now so far away
that he seemed a mere dark speck, like the object seen from the
gun-line of a turkey shoot. Perhaps this simile was suggested to Job by
the fact that the other, pausing now for a moment in his race,
straightened an arm and sent five more shots flashing after the
fugitive.
Tenfold that number of echoes came rolling in upon one another's heels
through the nipping air as the second man started again to run. He
seemed not to be catching up with his prey--yes! now Mose was lost to
sight in the woods, and his pursuer was not half-way there. Yes! and
now the marshal had stopped, hesitated, and turned about.
The deputy marshal retraced his steps over the broken crust slowly, and
with an air of dejection. He hung his head as he walked, and it took
him a long time to reach the house. When he came into the yard he
seemed not to look toward the house at all, but made his way straight
past as if bound for the road, with his attention still steadfastly
fixed on the snow in front of him.
But just as Job had jumped to the conclusion that he had not been
observed, the deputy marshal called in a loud, peremptory aside over
his shoulder:--
"Come along out here, boy!"
The lad had no course but to obey. He stole a quick, backward glance to
where old Asa still sat motionless with bowed head near the stove. Then
noiselessly shutting the shed door behind him, he followed out into the
road.
"It'll be all right," the deputy marshal was saying to his companion as
Job came up. "He can't take a step on this crust without leavin' a
mark, 'specially now that it's goin' to melt a little. I'll land him in
the stone jug before night, or you can call me a Dutchman!"
Norman Hazzard, the deputy marshal, was a thin, lithe, active man,
somewhere in the thirties, with a long, sun-browned face and a square
jaw. Although his keen eyes were of a light, bluish gray, one thought
of him as a dark-complexioned person.
Ever since Job could remember, this man had been arresting people,
first as a sheriff's officer, then as an army detective. Looking
furtively at him now as he stood at the horse's head, with his sharp
glance roving the distant landscape and his under lip nursing the ends
of his sparse moustache in meditation, the boy felt that that was what
nature intended that Norm Hazzard should be.
The whole country knew him by sight, and talked about the risky things
he had done in the line of his duty, and the stern, cold-blooded pluck
with which he had done them.
As the deputy marshal stood thus pondering the situation, he rattled
together with his hand some heavy metallic objects in one of his
overcoat pockets. The clanking sound they gave forth fascinated the
boy.
"I s'pose them's handcuffs you've got there in your pocket?" he found
himself suddenly impelled to remark. It was only after the words were
out that he realized the boldness of speaking in this fierce presence
without having been spoken to.
Hazzard turned his head obliquely downward, and regarded Job with a
sort of ironical scowl.
"They ain't for you, anyway," he remarked. "I guess the horsewhip'll
about suit _your_ complaint."
"No, you don't!" replied Job. "You dassent lay a finger on me unless
I've done something--I know that much."
The deputy marshal emitted a chuckle of amused contempt.
"Why, you blamed little runt, you!" he said. "You've done mischief
enough this mornin' to git thrashed for it within an inch o' your life,
and go to state's prison into the bargain. You mind your p's and q's
now mighty sharp, or it'll be the end o' you!"
"I don't see, myself," put in Moak, a bearded, thickset, middle-aged
man, who drawled his words lazily, but looked as if he might be a tough
customer in a fight, "I don't jest make out how you're goin' to catch
up with him, even if he does leave tracks. He's got a big start, and
has pretty good reasons for humpin' himself, and if he can keep ahead
till dark, he knows the woods in the night-time a plaguy sight better'n
any of us do."
Hazzard curled his lips in a faint, momentary grin of superiority.
"Can't we get snow-shoes?" he asked.
The word had an evil sound to Job's ears. They would run Mose down,
sure enough, with those terrible aids to the pursuit.
"The only question is," the deputy marshal ruminated aloud, "where'll
be the nearest place to git the shoes. We'll hitch the horse here to
the fence, and take a look at the house. Did you ever see such a
tumble-down place in all your life? Here, you boy, mog along there in
front o' me, and watch what you do! Or no, wait a minute!"
The deputy marshal had led the horse off the roadway toward the
sprawling remains of a rail fence at the side. He paused now, communed
with himself for an instant, then brought the horse and cutter back
again, and tossed the blanket he had taken out upon the seat once more.
"No," he said briefly to Moak, "you jump in and drive to Juno Mills as
fast as you can, and git two pairs of snow-shoes somewhere,--you're
bound to find plenty of 'em; the hotel-keeper'll know who's got
'em,--and race back here again. Don't whisper a word to anybody--and
we'll have him out in no time."
So it happened that as the cutter with its jingling bells receded from
vision and hearing down the road, Job Parshall found himself marching
back in embarrassed state toward the front door of the Whipple house,
with the firm tread of the deputy marshal crunching on the snow close
at his heels.
He could catch the sinister rattle of those handcuffs in Hazzard's
pocket at every stride the man took. He tried not to dwell upon it in
his mind, but it was a fact that Norm Hazzard had killed two men, one
of them a member of a famous local gang of horse-thieves, whom he had
shot where he was ambushed behind the grain bags in his barn, the other
a wife-murderer, who had escaped from jail to the woods.
How was it, Job wondered, that he had missed all ten of his shots at
Mose? Perhaps they were not all misses. Men did run sometimes, it was
said, after they had been struck by a bullet. What if Mose, after all,
was lying there, somewhere in the woods, wounded and helpless in the
bitter cold!
The manacles behind him ground together with a cruel, rasping noise as
this picture rose in his brain.
He pushed the door wide open and went in, closely followed by the
other.
Old Asa sat where he had left him, his tall frame settled down supinely
in the armchair, his head bent on his breast, motionless and apparently
asleep.
"Here's somebody to see you, Asa," Job said, as he heard the door close
behind him; but the old man did not stir.
The deputy marshal walked forward, brusquely pushing the lad aside, and
laid a heavy hand on Asa Whipple's shoulder. He paused then, as if
puzzled by what his grasp felt. Then he put his other hand, not so
ungently, into the old man's beard and lifted his head up.
"Say! I wasn't figurin' on this!" was his bewildered exclamation.
"Here, quick, you! run and bring some water. Maybe it's only a faint."
This indeed it turned out to be--a deep swoon, the result of long
privation and weakness, accented by the sudden relief and the
subsequent strain of excitement.
Hazzard could not rouse the old man from his comatose lethargy, with
all his rubbing and slapping of hands, and liberal use of snow upon the
temple and lips. But he did satisfy himself that there was no imminent
danger, and he went to work to spread out the bed again behind the
stove, loosen old Asa's clothes, and stretch him out to sleep at his
ease, comfortably tucked in with Hazzard's own overcoat, which the
marshal had stripped off for the purpose, quite as if his mission in
life had been to nurse rather than arrest people.
He had taken out of the overcoat pocket, before spreading it across the
bed, a big navy revolver, a parcel or two, presumably of ammunition,
and a couple of curious steel wristlets, linked together with a chain;
Job looked at these latter, as they lay on the table, with profound
interest.
Job had never seen handcuffs so near, and he longed to ask the great
man to show him how they worked. Finally, after he had obeyed his curt
instruction to put more wood on the fire, and the deputy marshal had
seated himself by the stove with his feet balanced on a stick just
inside the oven door, and a pipe in his mouth, Job ventured to lift the
manacles from the table and inspect them.
As this passed without protest he went to the length of opening one of
the bands on its hinge, and then shutting it about his wrist. The two
parts went together with a clicking snap, and the boy, after a few
fruitless efforts to open them or to slip his hand through, began to
guess that he would have to ask the help of the deputy marshal to
release him.
He would not humble himself thus, however, before it was a matter of
sheer necessity; and he tugged away at the lock in dogged silence,
until his wrist was red and sore. The consciousness that the official
was grinning at him only made the thing worse.
"If I'd had the sense to do that myself," remarked Hazzard after a
time, "when I first laid eyes on you this morning, and then nailed the
chain up to the barn door-post, I'd have saved myself a heap of
trouble. Leave it alone, or you'll swell your wrist out o' shape. I'll
unlock it bimeby--maybe."
He smoked silently for a minute, dividing his ruminative gaze between
the steaming leather in the oven, and the rueful countenance of the boy
in the handcuffs.
"You're Hank Parshall's boy, ain't you?" he asked at last.
Job nodded and held his imprisoned hand forth to hint, without saying,
that he had had enough of the handcuff.
The other paid no heed to the gesture. "What's the matter with the old
man, here?" he inquired with a downward nod.
"He ain't had enough to eat," said Job, bluntly. "That's what's the
matter with him. He told me himself he laid down there last night to
starve to death."
Mr. Hazzard pointed a thumb to the greasy frying-pan, and the remains
of the chicken on the table beside Job.
"People don't go to work that way to starve," he commented dryly.
"Mose brought him that--I guess I know pretty well where he got it,
too. The old man allowed that that was what saved his life. They hadn't
been a soul near him before since the snowfall--and he laid up. Oh,
that reminds me!" Job finished by taking the two slices of bread from
his pocket, and putting them on the table.
"Bring that for the old man?" queried the deputy marshal.
Job shook his head.
"No, it's my own breakfast. I was goin' to give it to Mose," he replied
stoutly. "Say, take this thing off, won't you?"
Norm Hazzard laughed outright. "No!" he said. "Guess after that I'll
have to put the other one onto you, too." His tone lapsed to
seriousness as he went on: "Maybe you know somethin' about it--didn't I
hear that this Mose Whipple went to the war as substitute for your
man--Teachout?"
"Yes, sir, he did--and Teachout didn't give him not a dollar, but jest
let it go on to the mortgage, and he promised to look out for old Asa
here, and he didn't--and he'd begrudge him this bread here, if he knew
it."
The deputy marshal nodded comprehendingly, and blew the smoke through
his pipe.
"Charged me and Moak thirty-five cents apiece for our breakfasts this
mornin', and twenty cents for the horse," he said, in a musing tone.
"Reckon he's about the tightest old skinflint on the whole
turnpike--and that's sayin' a good deal. So he got drafted, did he?
Should 'a' thought he was too old."
"He ain't as old as he looks," explained Job. "He's a good deal meaner,
though. I'm glad o' one thing, anyway. I ain't goin' back there any
more, except to git my clothes and my money. I'm goin' to live in here
with the old man, and kind o' look after him. I promised----"
"Promised Mose, eh?" broke in the deputy marshal.
"Yes--if you want to know--I did promise Mose! You can't touch me for
that!"
"Why, that's skinnin' alive, that is--jest for that alone," said
Hazzard, with portentous gravity, "to say nothin' of scootin' over here
to give warnin', and bringin' that bread there in your pocket, and so
on. Why, it'll puzzle a Philadelphy lawyer to find punishments bad
enough for you."
Job looked him searchingly in the eye for a full minute, then held up
the fettered hand again.
"Say, unlock this, will you?" he said, unabashed. "I knew you was
foolin' all the time," he added, as the other produced the key from his
pocket and turned the lock. "I could tell it right from the start."
"Me? me foolin'?" asked Hazzard, with simulated surprise. "Why, you're
crazy, boy!"
"No, I spotted it right off," Job replied, eager to put into words the
idea that had suddenly come to him. "Why, anybody could tell that. A
sure-enough dead shot like you wouldn't fire ten shots at a man and not
hit him once, if he wasn't foolin'. It was as plain as the nose on your
face--you didn't really want to catch poor Mose. That's what made me
take a shine to you, right off."
Norman Hazzard blew more smoke through his pipe, and grinned to
himself, and even gave an abrupt little laugh aloud, shifting on the
instant to an air of grave imperturbability.
"You mustn't talk like that--that is, outside," he said. "It might give
folks wrong notions. Besides, I tell you you're mistaken. I never fired
more to kill in all my life. But of course--the old man here--p'r'aps
that does make it a little different."
He looked down as he spoke to where old Asa lay, under the overcoat,
and Job felt sure that there was a change on his face--a change toward
kindliness.
"Well, anyway," the boy persisted, "you wouldn't fire to kill now, if
you was to catch up to Mose, and what's more, I don't believe you're
goin' to try to catch up to him, neither."
"I ain't, eh?" broke in the deputy marshal. "You wait till Moak gets
back with the snow-shoes. We'll run him down in no time. He ain't got
no more chance than a lame mud-turtle."
The words sounded savage enough, and Job, scanning the lean, tanned
face of the speaker, found his mind conjuring up again visions of those
two other wrong-doers whom this hunter of men had shot down.
And yet, somehow, there seemed to be a sort of relenting twinkle in
those sharp, cold, gray eyes of his.