"Take a cheer an' sit down, an' light a pipe--unless ye've got a
cigar." The invitation came from the Honorable William Renshaw, circuit
judge, seated in the same small chamber adjoining the court-room in
Marlin Town, from which Kinnard Towers had issued orders on that
afternoon of Big-meetin' time.
"Co'te don't meet till two o'clock--an' I'm always glad to have the
chance to chat with distinguished counsel from down below--I don't get
down thar oftentimes myself."
The man to whom Judge Renshaw spoke seemed conspicuously out of his own
environment in this musty place of unwashed windows, cob-webbed walls
and cracking plaster.
His dress bespoke the skill of a good tailor and his fingers were
manicured. He drew out a cigar case and proffered a perfecto to his
honor, then deliberately snipped the end from his own. Evidently he had
something embarrassing to say.
"Judge," he began briefly, "I've been here now for upwards of a week,
trying to get this business under way. You know what the results have
been--or rather have not been. I've encountered total failure."
"Hasn't the prosecutin' attorney afforded you every facility, Mr.
Sidney?" The inquiry was put in a tone of the utmost solicitude.
"That's not the difficulty," objected the visiting lawyer. "Mr.
Hurlburt has shown me every courtesy--in precisely the way you have.
Your instructions to the grand jurors were admirable. The prosecutor
consented at once that I should participate in getting the evidence
before them, and in assisting him to punish the guilty when indicted.
It is now February. Jerry Henderson was murdered before the first snow
flew. Those subpoenas which we have sent out have for the most part
come back--unserved. What witnesses we have secured might as well be
mutes. The thing is inexplicable. Surely the judge can do something to
energize the machinery of his court out of utter lethargy. I appeal to
you, sir. We all know that Henderson was murdered ... we all suspect
who had it done, yet we make no progress."
Judge Renshaw nodded his head affirmatively.
"It looks right considerably that way." Then seeing the impatient
expression on the other face, he spoke again--in a different voice,
leaning forward. "Mr. Sidney, I reckon I know what's in your mind.
You're thinkin' that both me and the prosecutin' attorney ain't much
better than tools of Kinnard Towers.... Maybe there's a grain of truth
in it. I'm judge of a district that takes in several county seats and I
ride the circuit. Before I was elected to the bench I was a backwoods
lawyer that sometimes knew the pinch of hunger. You say Kinnard Towers
is dishonest--and worse. If I said it, I _might_ hold office till the
next election--but more likely I wouldn't live that long."
As the notable attorney from the city sought to disarm his smile of its
satirical barb, the other proceeded: "That strikes you as a thing
that's exaggerated--and a thing that a man ought to be ashamed to admit
even if it was true. All right. Do you know that when you took the
Henderson matter to the grand jury, nine men on the panel sought to be
excused from service in fear of their lives? Do you know that on every
day they did serve all twelve got anonymous letters threatenin' them
with death? They know it anyhow--and you see they haven't brought in
any true bills an' I predict that no matter what evidence you put
before them--they won't."
"Why were those letters not presented to the Court? You have power to
protect your panels with every company of militia in the state if need
be."
"So I told 'em." The reply was laconic, and it was supplemented in a
slow drawl. "But you see they've known militia protection before--and
that guarantee didn't satisfy them. They figure that the soldiers go
away after awhile--but there's other forces that stay on all the
time--and those other forces can wait months or years without
forgetting or forgiving."
"And this terrorization paralyzes your courts of justice?"
"Well, no. It lets 'em run along in a fashion--as you've seen."
Mr. Sidney strove to repress his choler, but his manner was icy as he
remarked: "That's a strange utterance for a judge on the bench."
"Is it?" Renshaw's quiet eyes showed just a glint of repressed anger.
"Doesn't it work the same way in your district--or materially the same?
Are your judges free from the coercion of strong interests? Are your
jurors all willing to die for their duty?" After a brief silence he
added: "Why, Mr. Sidney, you came here yourself ostensibly in the
interest of friends and relatives who were unwilling to let this murder
go 'unwhipped of justice'--them were your words. Yet we all know that
you're the chief lawyer for a railroad that hasn't ever been famed for
altruism."
The visitor flushed.
"While you were working up this evidence," inquired his honor, "did you
go out and try to talk to Bear Cat Stacy?"
"Certainly not. He's an outlaw--whom your deputies failed to bring in
when I had a subpoena issued. My life wouldn't be worth tuppence if I
tried to get to him."
Judge Renshaw smiled somewhat grimly.
"Yes, they call him an outlaw--but he swings a power right now that
this high court doesn't pretend to have. He's the one man that Kinnard
fears--and maybe he'd help you if the two of you could get together."
"A lawyer should not have to be his own process-server," was the retort
of offended dignity.
"No--neither ought a judge." Renshaw took the cigar from his mouth and
studied it. Then he spoke slowly:
"Mr. Sidney, there's nothing further I can do, but--put it on whatever
ground you like--I'll make a suggestion. I'm beginning to doubt if
Kinnard Towers is going to remain supreme here much longer. I think his
power is on the wane. If you will make a motion to swear me off the
bench for the duration of these proceedin's--and can persuade the
governor to send a special judge and prosecutor here--I'll gladly
vacate. Then you can bring your soldier boys and see what that will
effect. That's the best satisfaction I can give you--but if I were you,
since you have no patience with men that consider personal risks--I'd
talk with this Stacy first. Of course, Kinnard Towers won't like that."
Mr. Sidney rose, piqued at the suggestion of timidity, into a sudden
announcement. "Very well," he said, "I'll ride over there to Little
Slippery to-night--to hell with this bugaboo Towers!"
"If I lived as far away as you do," suggested the judge, "I might allow
myself to say, Amen to that sentiment."
Mr. Sidney did not, in point of fact, go that night, but he did a few
days later. Had he known it, he was safe enough. Kinnard Towers had no
wish just then to hurl a challenge into the teeth of the whole state by
harming a distinguished member of the metropolitan bar, but before
George Sidney started out, the Quarterhouse leader had knowledge of his
mission, and surmised that he would be sheltered at the house of Joel
Fulkerson.
When the lawyer arrived the old preacher was standing by the gate of
his yard with a letter in his hand, that had arrived a little while
before. It was from an anonymous writer and its message was this: "If
you aid the lawyer from Louisville, in any fashion whatsoever, or take
him into your house, it will cost you your life."
Brother Fulkerson had been wondering whether to confide to any one the
receipt of that threat. Heretofore factional bitterness had always
passed him by. Now he decided to dismiss the matter without alarming
his friends with its mention.
As he strode forward to welcome the stranger, he absently tore the
crumpled sheet of paper to bits and consigned it to the winds.
"I am George Sidney," announced the man who was sliding from his
saddle, stiff-limbed from a long ride. "I'm trying to effect the
punishment of your son-in-law's murder, and I've come to your house."
"Ye're welcome," said the evangelist simply, and there was no riffle of
visible misgiving in his eyes. "Come right in an' set ye a cheer."
Two days later Mr. Sidney rode away again, but in an altered frame of
mind. He had met Bear Cat Stacy and was disposed to talk less
slightingly of outlaws. He had even seen a thing that had made the
flesh creep on his scalp and given to his pulses such a wild thrill as
they had not known since boyhood. He had watched a long line of black
horsemen, masked and riding single-file with flambeaux along a narrow
road between encompassing shadows. He had heard the next day of a
"blind tiger" raided, and of an undesirable citizen who had been
sentenced to exile--though related by blood ties to the leader of the
vigilance committee.
It was sitting in the lounging-room of his Louisville Club a week later
that he unfolded his morning paper and read the following item--and the
paper dropped from his hand which had become suddenly nerveless.
"Joel Fulkerson," he read, after the first shock of the head-lines, "a
mountain evangelist, whose work had brought him into prominence even
beyond the hills of Marlin County, was shot to death yesterday while
riding on a mission of mercy through a thickly wooded territory. Since,
even in the bitterest feud days, Fulkerson was regarded as the friend
of all men and all factions, it is presumed that the unknown assassin
mistook him for some one other than himself."
George Sidney took an early train to Frankfort, and that same day sat
in conference with the governor.
"It's a strange story," said the chief executive at length, "and the
remedy you suggest is even stranger--but this far I will go. If you
swear Renshaw off the bench, I will name a temporary judge and set a
special term of court, to convene at once. The rest comes later, and we
will take it up as we reach it."
* * * * *
Once more, just after that, Bear Cat Stacy stood again with Blossom by
a new-made grave, but this time he came openly. Those kinsmen who saw
him there were of one mind, and had he spoken the word, they would have
followed him through blood to vengeance. But Stacy, with the hardest
effort of his life, held them in check. It would mar the peaceful sleep
of that gentle soul whom they were laying to rest, he thought, to
punish bloody violence with other bloody violence--and in his mind a
more effective plan was incubating.
All that he would tell the grim men who met in conclave that night,
ready to don their masks and fare forth, was that this was, above all
others, an occasion for biding their time. "But I pledges ye faithful,"
he declared in a voice that shook with solemn feeling, "ye won't hev
need ter grow wearied with waitin'...."
No Towers watchmen came in these days to Turner's house. They contented
themselves with keeping a vindictive vigil along the creeks and
tributaries where they were numerically stronger. Each day Turner came
to watch over Blossom with the quiet fidelity of a great dog. There was
little enough that he could do, but he came and looked at her with
hungry eyes out of a hungry heart, speaking no word of his own love,
but listening as she talked of her father. He sought in a hundred small
ways to divert her thoughts from the grim thing that had twice scarred
her life and taken the light out of her eyes. As he trudged back to his
house, where he had again taken up his residence, after these visits,
he walked with a set jaw and registered oaths of reprisal to take a
form new to the hills.
As the days passed it was reported that on the motion of the
commonwealth, alleging bias and prejudice, Judge Renshaw had vacated
the bench, and that the governor had named a pro-tem. successor from
another district--and called a special term of court, to sit at Marlin
Town.
Kinnard Towers heard that news with a smile of derision. "Let 'em bring
on thar jedges an' soldiers," he said complacently. "Ther law still
fo'ces 'em ter put native names in ther jury wheel an' I reckon no
grand jury thet dwells hyar-abouts won't hardly indict me ner no petty
jury convict me."
So it was something of a shock to his confidence when he heard that he,
Black Tom Carmichael and Sam Carlyle had been indicted for conspiracy
to commit murder. Even that he regarded as merely an annoyance, for as
one of the grand jurors had hastened to assure him: "Hit war jest a
sort of a formality, Kinnard. We knowed ther little jury would cl'ar
you-all an' hit looked more legal-like ter let hit come up fer trial."
But the bringing of those indictments was really a tribute to the
dawning power of Kinnard's enemies. The thing was intended as a
compromise by which the grand jury should satisfy the Stacys and the
petit jury should mollify Towers by acquitting him later.
Kinnard knew that Sam Carlyle had gone to Oklahoma, and that without
him any prosecution must fail--but he did not know that the prosecution
had already located him there and taken steps to extradite him.
Then one day, Bear Cat received a summons by mail to meet George Sidney
in Frankfort, and since secrecy was the essence of the plan they had
already discussed in embryo, he went in a roundabout way through
Virginia and came back into Kentucky at Hagen. He was absent for a week
and toward its end he found himself, under the escort of the Louisville
lawyer, standing in the private office of the chief executive himself.
Turner had never seen a city before. He had never met a man of such
consequence, but the governor himself brought to the interview a
dignity no more unabashed.
"This is the young man of whom I spoke, governor," said Sidney. "He has
given his community the nearest approach it has known to placing
sobriety and humanity above lawlessness. There are two men down there
who run things. Towers owns the courts and--maintains feudalism. This
young man heads an organization of night-riders--and challenges Towers.
It's the young against the old: the modern spirit against the ancient
habit."
The governor subjected Bear Cat Stacy to an inquisitorial
scrutiny--which was met with a glance as undeviating.
"I am told that it has been impossible in your country," he began, "to
enforce the attendance of witnesses and even of defendants at court. I
am also told that you believe you can alter this."
Turner nodded gravely. "I kin fetch 'em in--dead or alive," he said
with bold directness. "All I needs air ter be told who ter git."
"Dead witnesses," remarked the chief executive, "are very little use to
any tribunal. If these men are your avowed enemies and in your power,
why have you held your hand?"
Bear Cat flushed and though he spoke quietly there was the bell-like
ring of ardor in his voice. "My power hain't ther law," he said. "I
aims fer sich betterment as kain't come save by law: a betterment that
kin last when I'm dead an' gone."
"This is the case, governor," interposed the lawyer. "The courts there
are a bitter jest. Kinnard Towers operates a stronghold which is a
pest-spot and breeding-nest of crime and debauchery. There is one
agency only that can drag him out of it. That agency this man
represents--and heads."
"Then if you are sent out, during this session of court," inquired the
executive, "you agree to bring in whatever men are called to
attendance?"
"Dead or alive--yes," reiterated Stacy with inflexible persistency.
"Unfortunately," smiled the great man, "the legislature, in its wisdom,
has vested in me no power to instruct any citizen to deprive other
citizens, however undesirable, of their lives. Whoever undertakes such
an enterprise must do so on his own responsibility--and, despite the
worthiness of his motive, he faces a strong chance of the death
penalty."
There was a brief pause, as the lawyer and his protege rose to depart,
and the governor shook Bear Cat's hand. "You are a picturesque person,
Mr. Stacy. I hope to hear more of you." Then as a quizzical twinkle
wrinkled the corner of his eyes he added: "I almost think it is a pity
that I have no power to authorize your wading in free-handed--but it's
not within my official scope."
Bear Cat was standing straight and looking with searching gravity into
the face of the governor. There seemed an odd variance between the
words and the spirit back of the words, and then he saw the tall man
with the distinguished face engage his glance with something intangibly
subtle--and he saw one dignified eye deliberately close leaving its
mate open. The governor of the commonwealth had winked at him--and he
understood the perplexing variance between words and spirit.
Outside, in a corridor of the state building, Bear Cat laid a hand on
Sidney's arm.
"When ther time comes," he said shortly, "I'll be ready. I wants thet
ye should hev hit give out in Marlin Town, thet ye sought ter persuade
me, but that I wouldn't hev nuthin' more ter do with aidin' state
co'tes then I would with revenuers." And that was the message that
percolated through the hills.
When Turner returned home he went first to Blossom's cabin, his heart
full of thoughts of her and sympathy for her loneliness. Old days there
swarmed into memory, and just to see her, even now that he counted for
so little, meant a great deal to him. But in the road, at first sight
of the house, he halted in astonishment--for the chimney was
smokeless--and when he hurried forward his dismay grew into something
like panic as he found the windows blankly shuttered and the door
nailed up.
Hastening to his own house, he demanded in a strained voice of fright.
"Whar air she, maw? Whar's Blossom at?"
The old woman rose and took from the mantel-shelf a folded sheet of
paper which she handed him without a word of explanation, and with
shaking fingers he opened and read it.
"Dear Turney," she said, and her round chirography had run wild as
weeds with the disturbed mood of that composition, "I can't bear it
here any longer. I'm going away--for always. Jerry left a little money
and the lawyers have paid it to me. It's not much, but it's enough.
These mountains are beautiful--but they are full of misery--and
memories that haunt me day and night. You have been more than good to
me and I'll always pray for you. I don't know yet where I'll go. With
love, Blossom."
Turner sagged into a chair by the hearth-stone and the paper dropped
from his inert fingers. His face became very drawn and he silently
licked lips which burned with a dry feverishness.
* * * * *
The special session of court convened in Marlin Town with a quiet that
lacked any tang of genuine interest. These fiascos had come before and
passed without result. Since Bear Cat Stacy had permitted it to be
understood that he would hold aloof, no strength would challenge the
sway of Kinnard Towers, save a "fotched on" judge and a few white-faced
lawyers who wore stiff collars. They had not even brought tin soldiers
this time nor dignified the occasion with a Gatling gun.
Towers himself remained comfortably at the Quarterhouse, and if he had
about him a small army of men its protection of rifle-muzzles pointed
toward Little Slippery rather than Marlin Town. A posse would come, of
course, since even his own courts must follow the forms and pretenses
of the statutes made and provided, but their coming, too, would be a
formality.
Outside a late winter storm had turned into a blizzard and though he
did not often spend his evenings at the bar, Kinnard was to-night
leaning with his elbow on its high counter. His blond face was suave
and his manner full of friendliness, because men who were anxious to
display their solicitude were coming in to denounce the farce of the
trial inagurated by "furriners" and to proclaim their sympathy. It was
all incense to his undiminished dominance, thought Towers, and it
pleased him to meet such amenities with graciousness.
"Any time now--any time at all," he laughed, "them turrible deputy
sheriffs air liable ter come bustin' through thet door, and drag me off
ter ther jail-house." As he uttered this pleasantry, the assembled
cohorts shouted their laughter. It was as diverting as to hear a
battle-scarred tom-cat express panic over a mouse. "Howsoever, I hain't
a shettin' no doors. They all stands open," added Kinnard.
Then, even as he spoke, the telephone jangled. It was a neighborhood
wire which connected only a few houses in a narrow radius, but the
voice that sounded through the receiver was excited. The proprietor of
the lawless stronghold listened and made some unruffled reply, then
turned to his audience a smiling face on which was written amusement.
"Well, boys," he genially inquired, "what did I tell ye? Thar's a scant
handful of deputy sheriffs a-ridin' over hyar right now. They're within
a measured mile of this place at ther present minute."
A low hum of voices rose in apprehensive notes, but Kinnard lifted his
hand.
"You men needn't feel no oneasiness, I don't reckon," he assured them.
"They hain't got nothin' erginst ther balance of ye. Hit's jest me they
aims ter drag off ter ther calaboose--an' es I said afore, I'm leavin'
my doors wide open."
As an indication of his confidence he ordered his bartender to fill all
glasses, and beamed benignly on the recipients of his hospitality,
while he awaited the minions of the law.
"They hed ought ter be hyar by now, them turrible fellers," he
suggested at length, and as if in answer to his speech a sound of heavy
steps sounded just outside the door.
A small posse stamped into the room, and the excellent jest of the
entire situation became more pointed as men noted with what a
shamefaced bearing they presented themselves.
"Kinnard," began the chief-deputy in an embarrassment which almost
choked him, "I've got ter put ye under arrest. You an' Tom Carmichael
thar, both. Ye're charged with murder."
The crowd wanted to laugh again, but because of their curiosity they
desisted. Towers himself stepped back two paces.
"Gentlemen," he said blandly, "ye'll hev ter git papers fust from ther
governor of Virginny." He swept his hand toward the white line on the
floor. "Ye hain't hardly got no license ter foller me outen old
Kaintuck. Thar's ther leetle matter of a state line lyin' atween us."
They had all known that Towers would handle the situation with a
triumph of resource, and a subdued murmur of applause and adulation
rose from many bewhiskered lips, as the posse withdrew slowly to the
threshold over which it had entered.
Then they became deadly quiet, for a voice had spoken from the Virginia
door. "Hold on!"
They wheeled and saw a single figure there, unarmed, and hands began
going to holsters.
"Virginny and Kaintuck looks right-smart alike ter me," said Bear Cat
Stacy with the level voice of one who has long waited his moment and
finds it at hand. "Will ye all lay down yore arms, and surrender ther
men we wants--or will ye stand siege an' have this pest-house burnt
down over yore heads? I'll wait outside for an answer."
The amazement of the moment had held them gripped in tableau as he
spoke, but when he stepped swiftly back, a dozen pistols spat and
barked at him, and then, louder than the firing, they heard a circle of
song--compassing the stockaded building on all sides--a giant chorus
that swelled in the frosty air: "Mine Eyes have seen the Glory of the
Coming of the Lord."
Kinnard Towers' self-assurance fell away from him. His hand was
unsteady as he raised it and said huskily; "Boys, we needs must fight."