The black-whiskered stranger had been overtaken by his pursuers about
ten miles beyond Brine’s Rip, sleeping away the heat of the day under a
spreading birch tree a few paces off the road. He was sleeping
soundly—too soundly indeed, as thought the experienced constable, for a
man with murder on his soul.
But when he was roughly aroused and seized, he seemed so terrified that
his captors were all the more convinced of his guilt. He made no
resistance as he was being hurried along the road, only clinging firmly
to his black leather case, and glancing with wild eyes from side to side
as if nerving himself to a desperate dash for liberty.
When he had gathered, however, a notion of what he was wanted for, to
the astonishment of his captors, his terror seemed to subside—a fact
which the constable noted narrowly. He steadied his voice enough to ask
several questions about the murder—questions to which reply was curtly
refused. Then he walked on in a stolid silence, the ruddy colour
gradually returning to his face.
A couple of miles before reaching Brine’s Rip, the second search party
came in sight, the Deputy Sheriff at the head of it and the shaggy black
form of Jim close at his heels. With a savage curse Hawker sprang
forward, and about half the party with him, as if to snatch the prisoner
from his captors and take instant vengeance upon him.
But Blackstock was too quick for them. The swiftest sprinter in the
county, he got to the other party ahead of the mob and whipped around to
face them, with one hand on the big revolver at his hip and Jim showing
his teeth beside him. The constable and his party, hugely astonished,
but confident that Blackstock’s side was the right one to be on, closed
protectingly around the prisoner, whose eyes now almost bulged from his
head.
“You keep right back, boys,” commanded the Deputy in a voice of steel.
“The law will look after this here prisoner, if he’s the guilty one.”
“Fur as we kin see, there ain’t no ‘if’ about it,” shouted Hawker,
almost frothing at the mouth. “That’s the man as done it, an’ we’re
agoin’ to string ’im up fer it right now, for fear he might git off some
way atween the jedges an’ the lawyers. You keep out of it now, Tug.”
About half the crowd surged forward with Hawker in front. Up came
Blackstock’s gun.
“Ye know me, boys,” said he. “Keep back.”
They kept back. They all _fell_ back, indeed, some paces, except Hawker,
who held his ground, half crouching, his lips distorted in a snarl of
rage.
“Aw now, quit it, Sam,” urged one of his followers. “’Tain’t worth it.
An’ Tug’s right, anyways. The law’s good enough, with Tug to the back of
it.” And putting forth a long arm he dragged Hawker back into the crowd.
“Put away yer gun, Tug,” expostulated another. “Seein’s ye feel that way
about it, we won’t interfere.”
Blackstock stuck the revolver back into his belt with a grin.
“Glad ye’ve come back to yer senses, boys,” said he, perceiving that the
crisis was over. “But keep an eye on Hawker for a bit yet. Seems to ’ave
gone clean off his head.”
“Don’t fret, Tug. We’ll look after him,” agreed several of his comrades
from the mill, laying firmly persuasive hands upon the excited man, who
cursed them for cowards till they began to chaff him roughly.
“What’s makin’ you so sore, Sam?” demanded one. “Did the book agent try
to make up to Sis Hopkins?”
“No, it’s Tug that Sis is making eyes at now,” suggested another.
“That’s what’s puttin’ Sam so off his nut.”
“Leave the lady’s name out of it, boys,” interrupted Blackstock, in a
tone that carried conviction.
“Quit that jaw now, Sam,” interposed another, changing the subject, “an’
tell us what ye’ve done with that fancy belt o’ yourn ’at ye’re so proud
of. We hain’t never seen ye without it afore.”
“That’s so,” chimed in the constable. “That accounts for his
foolishness. Sam _ain’t_ himself without that fancy belt.”
Hawker stopped his cursing and pulled himself together with an effort,
as if only now realizing that his followers had gone over completely to
the side of the law and Tug Blackstock.
“Busted the buckle,” he explained quickly. “Mend it when I git time.”
“Now, boys,” said Blackstock presently, “we’ll git right back along to
where poor Jake’s still layin’, and there we’ll ask this here stranger
what _he_ knows about it. It’s there, if anywheres, where we’re most
likely to git some light on the subject. I’ve sent over to the Ridge fer
the coroner, an’ poor Jake can’t be moved till he comes.”
The book agent, his confidence apparently restored by the attitude of
Blackstock, now let loose a torrent of eloquence to explain how glad he
would be to tell all he knew, and how sorry he was that he knew nothing,
having merely had a brief conversation with poor Mr. Sanderson on the
morning of the previous day.
“Ye’ll hev lots o’ time to tell us all that when we’re askin’ ye,”
answered Blackstock. “Now, take my advice an’ keep yer mouth shet.”
As Blackstock was speaking, Jim slipped in alongside the prisoner and
rubbed against him with a friendly wag of the tail as if to say:
“Sorry to see you in such a hole, old chap.”
Some of the men laughed, and one who was more or less a friend of
Hawker’s, remarked sarcastically:
“Jim don’t seem quite so discriminatin’ as usual, Tug.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” replied the Deputy drily, noting the dog’s attitude
with evident interest. “Time will show. Ye must remember a man ain’t
_necessarily_ a murderer jest because he wears black side-lights an’
tries to sell ye a book that ain’t no good.”
“No good!” burst out the prisoner, reddening with indignation. “You show
me another book that’s half as good, at double the price, an’ I’ll give
you—”
“Shet up, you!” ordered the Deputy, with a curious look. “This ain’t no
picnic ye’re on, remember.”
Then some one, as if for the first time, thought of the money for which
Sanderson had been murdered.
“Why don’t ye search him, Tug?” he demanded. “Let’s hev a look in that
there black knapsack.”
“Ye bloomin’ fool,” shouted Hawker, again growing excited, “ye don’t
s’pose he’d be carryin’ it on him, do ye? He’d hev it buried somewheres
in the woods, where he could git it later.”
“Right ye are, Sam,” agreed the Deputy. “The man as done the deed ain’t
likely to carry the evidence around on him. But all the same we’ll
search the prisoner bime-by.”
By the time the strange procession had got back to the scene of the
tragedy it had been swelled by half the population of the village. At
Blackstock’s request, Zeb Smith, the proprietor of the store, who was
also a magistrate, swore in a score of special constables to keep back
the crowd while awaiting the arrival of the coroner. Under the
magistrate’s orders—which satisfied Blackstock’s demand for strict
formality of procedure—the prisoner was searched, and could not refrain
from showing a childish triumph when nothing was found upon him.
Passing from abject terror to a ridiculous over-confidence, he with
difficulty restrained himself from seizing the opportunity to harangue
the crowd on the merits of “Mother, Home, and Heaven.” His face was
wreathed in fatuous smiles as he saw the precious book snatched from its
case and passed around mockingly from hand to hand. He certainly did not
look like a murderer, and several of the crowd, including Stephens, the
game-warden, began to wonder if they had not been barking up the wrong
tree.
“I’ve got the idee,” remarked Stephens, “it’d take a baker’s dozen o’
that chap to do in Jake Sanderson that way. The skate as killed Jake was
some man, anyways.”
“I’d like to know,” sneered Hawker, “how ye’re going to account for that
piece o’ paper, the book-agent’s paper, ’at Tug Blackstock found there
under the body.”
“Aw, shucks!” answered the game-warden, “that’s easy. He’s been a-sowin’
’em round the country so’s anybody could git hold of ’em, same’s you er
me, Sam!”
This harmless, if ill-timed pleasantry appeared to Hawker, in his
excitement, a wanton insult. His lean face went black as thunder, and
his lips worked with some savage retort that would not out. But at that
instant came a strange diversion. The dog Jim, who under Blackstock’s
direction had been sniffing long and minutely at the clothes of the
murdered man, at the rifled leather bag, and at the ground all about,
came suddenly up to Hawker and stood staring at him with a deep,
menacing growl, while the thick hair rose stiffly along his back.
For a moment there was dead silence save for that strange accusing
growl. Hawker’s face went white to the lips. Then, in a blaze of fury he
yelled:
“Git out o’ that! I’ll teach ye to come showin’ yer teeth at me!” And he
launched a savage kick at the animal.
“JIM!! Come here!” rapped out the command of Tug Blackstock, sharp as a
rifle shot. And Jim, who had eluded the kick, trotted back, still
growling, to his master.
“Whatever ye been doin’ to Jim, Sam?” demanded one of the mill hands. “I
ain’t never seen him act like that afore.”
“He’s _always_ had a grudge agin me,” panted Hawker, “coz I had to give
him a lickin’ once.”
“Now ye’re lyin’, Sam Hawker,” said Blackstock quietly. “Ye know right
well as how you an’ Jim were good friends only yesterday at the store,
where I saw ye feedin’ him. An’ I don’t think likely ye’ve ever given
Jim a lickin’. It don’t _sound_ probable.”
“Seems to me there’s a lot of us has gone a bit off their nut over this
thing, an’ not much wonder, neither,” commented the game-warden. “Looks
like Sam Hawker has gone plumb crazy. An’ now there’s Jim, the
sensiblest dog in the world, with lots more brains than most men-kind,
foolin’ away his time like a year-old pup a-tryin’ to dig out a darn old
woodchuck hole.”
Such, in fact, seemed to be Jim’s object. He was digging furiously with
both forepaws beneath the big white stone on the opposite side of the
pool.
“He’s bit me. I’ll kill him,” screamed Hawker, his face distorted and
foam at the corners of his lips. He plucked his hunting-knife from its
sheath, and leapt forward wildly, with the evident intention of darting
around the pool and knifing the dog.
But Blackstock, who had been watching him intently, was too quick for
him.
“No, ye don’t, Sam!” he snapped, catching him by the wrist with such a
wrench that the bright blade fell to the ground. With a scream, Hawker
struck at his face, but Blackstock parried the blow, tripped him neatly,
and fell on him.
“Hold him fast, boys,” he ordered. “Seems like he’s gone mad. Don’t let
him hurt himself.”
In five seconds the raving man was trussed up helpless as a chicken, his
hands tied behind his back, his legs lashed together at the knees, so
that he could neither run nor kick. Then he was lifted to his feet, and
held thus, inexorably but with commiseration.
“Sorry to be rough with ye, Sam,” said one of the constables, “but ye’ve
gone crazy as a bed-bug.”
“Never knowed Sam was such a friend o’ Jake’s!” muttered another, with
deepest pity.
But Blackstock stood close beside the body of the murdered man, and
watched with a face of granite the efforts of Jim to dig under the big
white stone. His absorption in such an apparently frivolous matter
attracted the notice of the crowd. A hush fell upon them all, broken
only by the hoarse, half-smothered ravings of Sam Hawker.
“’Tain’t no woodchuck Jim’s diggin’ for, you see!” muttered one of the
constables to the puzzled Stephens.
“Tug don’t seem to think so, neither,” agreed Stephens.
“Angus,” said Blackstock in a low, strained voice to the constable who
had just spoken, “would ye mind stepping round an’ givin’ Jim a lift
with that there stone!”
The constable hastened to obey. As he approached, Jim looked up, his
face covered thickly with earth, wagged his tail in greeting, then fell
to work again with redoubled energy.
The constable set both hands under the stone, and with a huge heave
turned it over. With a yelp of delight Jim plunged his head into the
hole, grabbed something in his mouth, and tore around the pool with it.
The something was long and whitish, and trailed as he ran. He laid it at
Blackstock’s feet.
Blackstock held it up so that all might see it. It was a painted Indian
belt, and it was stained and smeared with blood. The constable picked
out of the hole a package of bills.
For some moments no one spoke, and even the ravings of Hawker were
stilled.
Then Tug Blackstock spoke, while every one, as if with one consent,
turned his eyes away from the face of Sam Hawker, unwilling to see a
comrade’s shame and horror.
“This is a matter now for jedge and jury, boys,” said he in a voice that
was grave and stern. “But I think you’ll all agree that we hain’t no
call to detain this gentleman, who’s been put to so much inconvenience
all on account of our little mistake.”
“Don’t mention it, don’t mention it,” protested the book agent, as his
guards, with profuse apologies, released him. “That’s a mighty
intelligent dawg o’ yours, Mr. Blackstock.”
“He’s sure done _you_ a good turn this day, mister,” replied the Deputy
grimly.