"What? You mean to say that Gaspar hadn't told you he loved you?"
"Never! But now that John's in this trouble, I don't care if the whole
world knows it! I love John Gaspar!"
What a voice! What a lighted face, as she turned to the prisoner. But,
instead of a flush of happiness, John Gaspar rose and shrank away from
the outstretched hands of the girl. And he was pale--pale with sorrow,
and even with pity, it seemed to Sinclair.
"No, no," said the soft voice of Gaspar. "Not that, Sally. Not that!"
Decidedly it would not do to let this scene progress. "Take away the
witness, Montana."
Montana drew her arm into his, and she went away as one stunned,
staring at John Gaspar as if she could not yet understand the extent of
the calamity which had befallen her. She had been worse than scorned.
She had been rejected with pity!
As she disappeared into the door of her house, Sinclair looked at the
bowed head of John Gaspar.
"Denver!" he called suddenly.
"Yes, your honor."
"The prisoner's hands are tied. Wipe the sweat off'n his face, will
you?"
"Sure!"
With a large and brilliant bandanna Montana obeyed. Then he paused in
the midst of his operation.
"Your honor."
"Well?"
"It ain't sweat. It's tears!"
"Tears!" Riley Sinclair started up, then slumped back on his stump with
a groan. "Tears!" he echoed, with a voice that was a groan. "John
Gaspar, what kind of a man are you?"
He turned back to the court with a frown.
"Mr. Jury," he said, "look at this prisoner we got. Look him over
considerable. I say, did you ever see a man like that? A man that ain't
able to love a girl like Sally Bent when she just about throws herself
at his head? Is he worth keeping alive? Look at him, and then listen to
me. I see the whole of it, Mr. Jury."
Buck Mason leaned forward with interest, glowering upon John Gaspar.
"This skunk of a John Gaspar gets Sally all tied up with his sappy
talk. Gets her all excited because he's something brand new and
different. Quade gets sore, nacherallike. Then he comes to Gaspar and
says: 'Cut out this soft talk to Sally, or I'll bust your head.' Gaspar
don't love Sally, but he's afraid of Quade. He goes and gets a gun. He
goes to Quade's house and tries to be friends. Quade kicks him out.
Gaspar climbs back on his hoss and, while he's sitting there, pulls out
a gun and shoots poor Quade dead. Don't that sound nacheral? He
wouldn't marry Sally, but he didn't want another man to have her. And
he wouldn't give up his soft berth in the house of Sally's brother. He
knew Quade would never suspect him of having the nerve to fight. So he
takes Quade unready and plugs him, while Quade ain't looking. Is that
clear?"
"It sure sounds straight to me," said Buck Mason.
"All right! Stand up."
Mason rose.
"Take off your hat."
The sombrero was withdrawn with a flourish.
"God's up yonder higher'n that hawk, but seeing you clear, Buck. Tell
us straight. Is Gaspar guilty or not?"
"Guilty as hell, your honor!"
A sigh from the prisoner. The last of life seemed to go from him, and
Sinclair braced himself to meet a hysterical appeal. But there was only
that slight drooping of the shoulders and declining of the head.
It was an appalling thing for Sinclair to watch. He was used to power
in men and beasts. He understood it. A cunning devil of a fighting
outlaw horse was his choice for a ride. "The meaner they are, the
longer they last," he used to say. He respected men of evil as long as
they were men of action. He was perfectly at home and contented among
men, where one's purse and life were at constant hazard, where a turned
back might mean destruction.
To him this meek surrender of hope was incomprehensibly despicable. If
he had hesitated before, his hard soul was firm now in the decision
that John Gaspar must die, and so leave Sinclair's own road free. With
all suspicion of a connection between him and Quade's death gone, Riley
could play a free hand against Sandersen. He turned a face of iron upon
the prisoner.
"Sandersen and Denver Jim, bring the prisoner before me."
They obeyed. But when they reached down their hands to Gaspar's
shoulders to drag him to his feet, he avoided them with a shudder and
of his own free will rose and walked between them.
"John Irving Gaspar," said Sinclair sternly, "alias Jig, alias Cold
Feet--which is a fitting and proper name for you--have you got anything
to say that won't take too long before I pronounce sentence on you?"
He had to set his teeth. The sad eyes of John Gaspar had risen from the
ground and fixed steadily, darkly upon the eyes of his judge. There was
infinite understanding, infinite patience in that look, the patience of
the weak man, schooled in enduring buffets. For the moment Sinclair
almost felt that the man was pitying him!
"I have only a little to say," said John Gaspar.
"Speak up then. Who d'you want to give the messages to?"
"To no living man," said John Gaspar.
"All right then, Gaspar. Blaze away with the talk, but make it short."
John Gaspar raised his head until he was looking through the stalwart
branches of the cottonwood tree, into the haze of light above.
"Our Father in Heaven," said John Gaspar, "forgive them as I forgive
them!"
Riley Sinclair, quivering under those words, looked around him upon the
stunned faces of the rest of the court; then back to the calm of
Gaspar. Strength seemed to have flooded the coward. At the moment when
he lost all hope, he became glorious. His voice was soft, never rising,
and the great, dark eyes were steadfast. A sudden consciousness came to
Riley Sinclair that God must indeed be above them, higher than the
flight of the hawk, robed in the maze of that lofty cloud, seeing all,
hearing all. And every word that Gaspar spoke was damning him, dragging
him to hell.
But Riley Sinclair was not a religious man. Luck was his divinity. He
left God and heaven and hell inside the pages of the Bible,
undisturbed. The music of the schoolteacher's voice reminded him of the
purling of some tiny waterfall in the midst of a mountain wilderness.
"I have no will to fight for life. For that sin, forgive me, and for
whatever else I have done wrong. Let no knowledge of the crime they are
committing come to these men. Fierce men, fighters, toilers, full of
hate, full of despair, full of rage, how can they be other than blind?
Forgive them, as I forgive them without malice. And most of all, Lord
God, forgive this most unjust judge."
"Louder!" whispered Sinclair, his hand cupped behind his ear.
"Amen," said John Gaspar, as his head bowed again. The fascinated posse
seemed frozen, each man in his place, each in his attitude.
"John Gaspar," said his honor, "here's your sentence: You're to be
hanged by the neck till you're dead."
John Gaspar closed his eyes and opened them again. Otherwise he made no
move of protest.
"But not," continued Sinclair, "from this cottonwood tree."
A faint sigh, indubitably of relief, came from the posse.
Riley Sinclair arose. "Gents," he said, "I been thinking this over.
They ain't any doubt that the prisoner is guilty, and they ain't any
doubt that John Gaspar is no good, anyway you look at him. But a gent
that can put the words together like he can, ought to get a chance to
talk in front of a regular jury. I figure we'd better send for the
sheriff to come over from Woodville and take the prisoner back there.
One of you gents can slide over there today, and the sheriff'll be here
tomorrow, mostlike."
"But who'll take charge of Gaspar?"
"Who? Why me, of course! Unless somebody else would like the job more?
I'll keep him right here in the Bent cabin."
"Sinclair," protested Buck Mason, "you're a pretty capable sort. They
ain't no doubt of that. But what if Jerry Bent comes home, which he's
sure to do before night? There'd be a mess, because Jerry'd fight for
Gaspar, I know!"
"Partner," said Riley Sinclair dryly, "if it come to that, then I guess
I'd have to fight back."
It was foolish to question the power in that grave, sardonic face. The
other men gave way, nodding one by one. Secretly each man, now that the
excitement was gone, was glad that they had not proceeded to the last
extremity. In five minutes they were drifting away, and all this time
Sinclair watched the face of John Gaspar, as the sorrow changed to
wonder, and the wonder to the vague beginnings of happiness.
Suddenly he felt that he had the clue to the mystery of Cold Feet. As a
matter of fact John Gaspar had never grown up. He was still a weak,
dreamy boy.
10
The posse had hardly thrown its masks to the wind and galloped down the
road when Sally Bent came running from the house.
"I knew they couldn't," she cried to John Gaspar. "I knew they wouldn't
dare. The cowards! I'll remember every one of them!"
"Hush!" murmured Gaspar. His faint smile was for Riley Sinclair. "One
of them is still here, you see!"
With wrath flushing her face, the girl looked at Riley.
"How do you dare to stay here and face me--after the things you said!"
"Lady," replied Sinclair, "you mean after the things I made you say."
"Just wait till Jerry comes," exclaimed Sally.
At this Sinclair grew more sober.
"Honey," he said dryly, "when your brother drops in, you just calm him
down, will you? Because if him and Gaspar together was to start in
raising trouble--well, they'd be more action than you ever seen in that
cabin before. And, after it was all over, they'd have a dead Gaspar to
cart over to Woodville. You can lay to that!"
It took Sally somewhat aback, this confident ferociousness.
"Them that brag ain't always the ones that do things," she declared.
"But why are you staying here?"
"To keep Gaspar till the sheriff comes for him."
Sally grew white.
"Don't you see that there's nothing to be afraid of?" asked John
Gaspar. "See how close I came to death, and yet I was saved. Why, God
doesn't let innocent men be killed, Sally."
For a moment the girl stared at the schoolteacher with tears in her
eyes; then she flashed at Riley a glance of utter scorn, as if inviting
him to see what an angel upon the earth he was persecuting. But
Sinclair remained unmoved.
He informed them of the conditions of his stay. He must be allowed to
keep John Gaspar in sight at all times. Only suspicious moves he would
resent with violence. Sally Bent heard all of this with openly
expressed hatred and contempt. John Gaspar showed no emotion whatever.
"By heaven," declared Sinclair, when the girl had gone about some
housework, "I'd actually think you believed that God was on your side.
You talk about Him so familiar--like you and Him was partners."
John Gaspar smiled one of his rare smiles. He had a way of looking for
a long moment at another before he spoke. All that he was about to say
was first registered in his face. It was easy to understand how Sally
Bent had been entrapped by the classic regularity of those features and
the strange manner of the schoolteacher. She lived in a country where
masculine men were a drug on the market. John Gaspar was the pleasant
exception.
"You see," explained Gaspar, "I had to cheer Sally by saying something
like that. Women like to have such things said. She'll be absolutely
confident now, because she thinks I'm not disturbed. Very odd, but very
true."
"And it seems to me," said Sinclair, frowning, "that you're not much
disturbed, Gaspar. How does that come?"
"What can I do?"
"Maybe you'd be man enough to try to break away."
"From you? Tush! I know it is impossible. I'd as soon try to hide
myself in an open field from that hawk. No, no! I'll give you my
parole, my word of honor that I'll make no escape."
But Sinclair struck in with: "I don't want your parole. Hang it, man,
just do your best, and I'll do mine. You try to give me the slip, and
I'll try to keep you from it. That's square all around."
Gaspar observed him with what seemed to be a characteristic air of
judicious reserve, very much as if he suspected a trap. A great many
words came up into the throat of Riley Sinclair, but he refrained from
speech.
In a way he was beginning to detest John Gaspar as he had never
detested any human being before or since. To him no sin was so great as
the sin of weakness in a man, and certainly Gaspar was superlatively
weak. He had something in place of courage, but just what that thing
was, Sinclair could not tell.
Curiosity drew him toward the fellow; and these weaknesses repulsed
him. No wonder that he stared at him now in a quandary. One certainty
was growing upon him. He wished Gaspar to escape. It would bring him
shame in Sour Creek, but for the opinion of these men he had not the
slightest respect. Let them think as they pleased.
It came home to Riley that this was a man whose like he had never known
before, and whom he must not, therefore, judge as if he knew him. He
softened his voice. "Gaspar," he said, "keep your head up. Make up
your mind that you'll fight to the last gasp. Why, it makes me plumb
sick to see a grown man give up like you do!"
His scorn rang in his voice, and Gaspar looked at him in wonder.
"You'd ought to be packing yourself full of courage," went on Sinclair.
"Here's your pal, Jerry Bent, coming back. Two agin' one, you'll be.
Ain't that a chance, I ask you?"
But Gaspar shook his head. He seemed even a little amused.
"Not against a man like you, Sinclair. You love fighting, you see.
You're made for fighting. You make me think of that hawk. All beak and
talons, made to tear, remorseless, crafty."
"That's overrating me a pile," muttered Riley, greatly pleased by this
tribute, as he felt it to be. "If you tried, maybe you could do a lot
yourself. You're full of nerves, and a gent that's full of nerves makes
a first-class fighting man, once he finds out what he can do. With them
fingers of yours you could learn to handle a gun like a flash. Start in
and learn to be a man, Gaspar!"
Sinclair stretched a friendly hand toward the shoulder of the smaller
man. The hand passed through thin air. Gaspar had slipped away. He
stood at a greater distance. On his face there was a strong expression
of displeasure.