A CHAT WITH A DICTATOR.
Inside Judge Garvin's store we came upon a group of slovenly loungers.
Had my mind been free enough of its own troubling thoughts to spare a
remnant of interest, I should have found this new and strange scheme of
things engrossing. I was in a scrap of America which the onrushing tide
of world advancement had left stranded and forgotten. Here a people of
unmixed British stock lived primitive lives, fought feudal wars, and
shrined every virtue high except regard for human life.
These four narrow walls in part epitomised that life. The shelves back
of the counters displayed what things they held essentials: rough
crockery, coarse calicoes, canned goods, barrels of brown sugar,
brogans, stick candy and ammunition.
About a small stove loafed some eight or ten men and several
"hound-dogs." The shoulders of these men slouched; their hands were
chapped and coarse; their clothes muddied, but when they walked it was
with something of the catamount's softness, and their eyes were alert.
Behind the counter stood a man of fifty. I knew, without waiting for
Weighborne's greeting, that this must be Garvin. There was something
pronounced yet hard to define which gave him the outstanding prominence
of a master among minions.
He was a large man and inclined to stoutness. His hair and moustache
were sandy and his florid face was marked with a purplish tracery of
veins in which the blood appeared to bank and stand currentless. His
neck was grossly heavy and bovine, but his forehead was broad and his
eyes disarmingly frank and blue. His mouth, too, fell into the kindly
lines of a perpetual smile.
His clothing was rough and his neck collarless, but one forgot this and
noted only the suavity of his bearing and the ingratiating quality of
his voice. Such was the man who should have gone long ago to death or
imprisonment for the orders he had issued to his assassins.
"Judge Garvin," said my companion, "my name's Weighborne. I met you once
in the court-house. You probably don't remember me."
The gigantic reprobate smiled affably.
"Sure, I remember you," he affirmed. "I mighty seldom forget a man." He
came out from his place of office behind the counter and proffered his
hand. It was not, like those of his henchmen, a calloused hand.
I had leisure to glance about the faces of the group as this colloquy
occurred. They had been stolidly silent, gazing at us with unconcealed
curiosity. When Weighborne introduced himself there was no overt display
of interest, and yet unless I was allowing my imagination to run away
with me I sensed from that moment forward that the lazy indolence of the
atmosphere was electrified. The men lounged about in unchanged attitudes
and from time to time spat on the hot stove, yet each of them was
carefully appraising us.
"I reckon you gentlemen came up to look over this here coal and timber
project?" Garvin's voice seemed to hold only a politely simulated
interest in our affairs.
Weighborne nodded.
"Do you think, Judge, as a man in good position to gauge the sentiment
of the people, that we shall have their sympathy in our efforts?"
I studied Garvin's face closely, but if there was a spark of interest in
his eyes, my eyes could not detect it. He smiled noncommittally and
shook his head.
"Well, now, as to that," he replied judicially, "I couldn't hardly say."
"We want to develop the coal and timber interests of the section,"
summarized Weighborne briefly. "It will mean railroad facilities, better
schools and fuller enforcement of the law."
Garvin nodded in a fashion of reserved approval. There was no betrayed
hint of his perfect understanding that it meant other things as well: an
end of "Garvinism," a period to his baronial powers; the imminent danger
which lurked for him in courts no longer afraid to try, and witnesses no
longer terrified into perjury.
"That sounds purty promisin'," he agreed. "It sounds purty good."
"Then why would the people not cooeperate?"
Garvin gave the question deliberate consideration.
"Well, now," he finally said, "that ain't such an easy question to
answer just right off. The people hereabouts have been livin' purty much
the same way fer nigh onto a hundred years. They're satisfied."
"Are they satisfied with a reign of terror?" Weighborne was treading the
thin ice of local conditions. I fancied he was trying to force Garvin
into committing himself, but it was a dangerous experiment.
"What's anybody terrified about?" inquired the Judge with entire
blindness.
Weighborne, totally checkmated by this childlike query, changed ground
and laughed.
"Oh, we hear a good deal of talk down below," he explained, "about the
shot from the laurel and all that sort of thing."
Judge Garvin laughed heartily.
"Oh, pshaw!" he exclaimed in high good-humor. "There ain't nothin' in
all that. Them newspapers down below's jest obliged to have somethin' to
talk about. We're all neighbors up here. We're simple sort of folks.
Sometimes we has our little arguments, but--" the lips still smiled
genially; he paused and his voice was like a benediction as he went
on--"but I hope we ain't got in no such serious fix that we needs
regulatin' from outside. They do say that most of them fellers that got
killed needed killin' pretty bad. I've lost two brothers, but I ain't
kickin'."
Weighborne saw that a withdrawal from debate would be advisable, but
that this withdrawal must not seem precipitate.
"However, as a matter of argument," he suggested, "is any man competent
to decide that his enemy needs killing?"
The judge went into his trousers-pocket and produced a twist of tobacco
into which he bit generously before replying.
"Well," he drawled, "your enemy's the man that's goin' to decide whether
you need killin'. Why don't it work both ways?"
Weighborne made no reply. One cannot argue with a set opinion. The
loungers were saying nothing, but their eyes dwelt admiringly on their
spokesman. At last Garvin smilingly inquired:
"You'd have to condemn rights-of-way, I reckon?"
"Only where we couldn't make individual trades," answered my companion.
"That procedure ain't apt to be no ways popular," reflected Judge
Garvin.
"You gentlemen understand I ain't criticisin'," he assured us when we
made no reply. "If condemnation suits are brought in my co'te I ain't
got no personal interests to serve. I'm jest namin' it to you, because
you asked about the people's notions, that's all."
"At least," fenced Weighborne, "you yourself see the advantages of
development?"
It was putting a question which was almost a challenge to this leader of
the old, lawless order whose baronial power we threatened. He answered
it with no flicker of visible interest in his pleasant drawl.
"Well, as to that, what little property I've got would be benefited, but
as an officer of the law, I reckon it wouldn't hardly be proper for me
to take no sides." A moment later he hospitably added, "If there's any
courtesy I can show you gentlemen just call on me. Where are you goin'
to stop at?"
I gazed on this lord of lies with compelled fascination. Under a crude
exterior and a suavity which gave the impression of stupid good-nature
he was masking bitter and intense feeling. Here was a tyrant talking
with men who represented the new order and he knew as well as we that if
we succeeded his carefully built scheme must topple. Our success and his
could not both have life. One must perish. The power that had enriched
him, a power built on murder and stealth, must go from him, leaving him
only the contempt of his fellows--or he must thwart our designs. One
might have expected such dissimulation in a polished diplomat moving the
strategic pieces of the chessboard of some European power, but here it
seemed inconceivable.
"We are on our way over to the Calloway Marcus place," explained my
companion in a casual voice.
There was no change of expression on the face of the storekeeper, though
the name was one he venomously hated. One or two of the more unguarded
loungers scowled in silence.
"How did you calc'late to git thar?" asked Garvin. "It's all of two
miles an' they're rough miles--mostly straight up an' down."
"I suppose we shall have to walk," said Weighborne.
"I'd like to take you over thar," said the judge thoughtfully, "I sure
would, but the fact is me and Cal Marcus ain't got much in common
an'--well, you understand how it is?"
We thanked him for his solicitude and at the same moment one of the
henchmen drew him aside and spoke in a low voice. Garvin came back and
addressed us again.
"Curt Dawson says Cal Marcus went past here this mornin', goin' to'rds
town. It's an hour by sun now--he'd ought to be comin' back this way
before long."
I have spoken at length of Garvin and have given only collective notice
to the group of mountaineers who loafed about the dingy store, because
aside from their more savage qualities they were much like the indolent
loungers one may see in any cross-roads grocery. Even viewed as
feudists, and I was so new to the country that I was inclined to
discount the somber and murderous stories of their ways, they were still
merely the members of a human wolf pack and much alike. Only this shrewd
leader stood out in personal relief.
But to this generalizing there must be one exception, and that was to be
found in the person of Curt Dawson. Until he came forward and drew his
chief aside, I had not noticed him and he had not emerged from his seat
in a darkened corner while we had chatted. When he did come forth it was
with a step at once indolent and suggestive of power. His movements were
all unhurried, even graceful, but every flexing and tensing of his
muscles carried a hint of potential swiftness and power. His face was
unshaven and dissolute, but it retained a keen and instinctive
intelligence. His gray eyes had a light in them that seemed to come from
some inner source.
Curt Dawson could hardly have been more than thirty and was in the full
prime of his youthful strength, hard as hickory and in the same rough
fashion as the pines among which he had grown, commanding in appearance
and pungent in personality. I found my eyes dwelling on him, and later
on this scrutiny bore results. No one who had once seen this young
desperado could fail to recognize him on second meeting. His manner of
addressing the judge carried the assurance of the confidential man, and
a certain arrogance of demeanor.
We had left our bags outside and I took up a position near the door
where I could watch the twisting ruts of the drab road. We talked, as we
waited, of the outside world and Garvin astonished me by his grasp on
general affairs.
At last Marcus arrived and his coming made a strange picture which
dwells still in my mind. The western sky was all ash of rose and the
higher clouds were dark masses edged with gold. The hills were gray and
frowning ramparts with bristling crests. Against this setting, around
the shoulder of the mountain, appeared a grotesque cortege.
A half-score of rough men mounted on unkempt horses came slowly and
gloomily into view. They maintained, as they rode, the slovenly
formation of a hollow square and across their pommels lay repeating
rifles. The battered rims of their felt hats drooped over sharp-featured
faces.
The only unarmed member of the group rode at the center of the square.
He was tall and unspeakably gaunt. One looked at his worn and rugged
face and thought of the earlier portraits of Abraham Lincoln; the
portraits of lean and battling days. The collar of his threadbare
overcoat was upturned, but at the opening one had the glimpse of a
narrow black necktie slipped askew. The clean-shaven line of his mouth
was set in relentless determination.
The bodyguard rode with hanging reins, and each right hand lay in
counterfeited carelessness on the lock of its rifle.
"Thar he comes now," commented Garvin. "You must excuse me if I don't go
out to introduce you. He's a bitter kind of feller. You understand how
it is."
At Weighborne's signal his attorney halted and the men of the bodyguard
drew rein, keeping their places about him. We walked out to the middle
of the road, and while we talked to the rawboned, life-battered man in
the center of the hollow square, his attendants shouted greetings to the
loungers on the porch of the store. These greetings partook of the
nature of pleasantries and the only note of frank hostility came from
the throats of the hounds. They bristled and growled with an instinct
which was softened by no artificial code of hypocrisy. Still, so long as
the halt lasted, the two parties kept their eyes alertly fixed on each
other. It needed little penetration to discover that the geniality was
shallow and temporary, like that between the outposts of hostile armies
lying close-camped, across an interval soon to be closed in battle.
"You made a very unfortunate mistake in stopping here," said Marcus to
Weighborne, in a low voice. He nodded to two mountaineers who rode on
the far side of the cavalcade. They slipped from their saddles and
allowed us to mount in their stead while they trudged alongside,
carrying our bags.
As we started forward, Weighborne answered.
"I didn't halt at Garvin's place from choice. The wagon could go no
further. I don't suppose there was any actual danger, and after all I
wanted to see how he would talk."
Marcus nodded and drew his mouth tighter.
"It turns out all right," he said, "but don't do it again."
After a moment's silence he burst out bitterly.
"No danger! My God, man, do you suppose I ride like this--surrounded by
armed men, because it pleases my pride?" He swept his talon-like hand
around him in a circle. "Look at them! Do you reckon I do that for pomp
and display? Do you suppose any man likes to say good-bye to his
children when he leaves home with the thought in his mind that it may be
a last good-bye?"
"Is it as bad as that?" I questioned with the stranger's incredulity.
He turned his hunted eyes on me. "Worse," he said briefly. "I dare not
go unguarded from my house to my barn, sir. Keithley used to carry his
two-year-old child into court in his arms. Even they would not shoot a
baby. One day he went without the child. That day he died."
I looked at the face which was turned toward me. It was a face from
which had been whipped the knowledge of how to smile. We rode for a
half-mile in silence with only the cuppy thud of hoofs on the soft
earth, the creaking of stirrup leather and the clink of bit rings.
"Why," I asked at last, "don't you leave such a country and establish
yourself where you can have security?"
His angular chin came up with a jerk. His eyes flashed.
"Go away?" he repeated. "Do you think a man wants to be driven from the
country where he and his parents and his children were born? Besides,
sir, my mother belongs to the old order. I was the first to be educated.
She still smokes her pipe in the chimney-corner. She is of the
mountains. She must stay here." He paused, then his words began again
dispassionately, and gathered, as he talked, the fiery resonance of the
instinctive orator.
"If the men who love war, leave lawless countries, who in God's name is
to do the work? The order is changing. What does Kipling say about the
men who blaze trails?
"'On the sand-drift, on the veldt-side, in the fern-scrub we lay,
That our sons might follow after by the bones on the way.'
"These men have made a mockery of the law. It is my desire to punish
them with the law. It is my purpose to do so unless they kill me first.
Why am I representing your company? For the fee? No, sir!... God knows I
need the fee, but I shall also have a bigger compensation. When the new
order comes I shall see Garvin's power crumple. I shall send him to the
gallows or to the penitentiary. That will be my reward." His voice was
again passionate. "The filthy assassin realizes my motive and he sees in
you my allies. Watch him, and safeguard your steps."