the law forces of the Sovereign State of Pennsylvania.
In the earlier times they had tried to arrest him. Once the attempt
succeeded and Israel went to the Penitentiary for a term. But he emerged
a better and wilier bandit than before, to embark upon a career that
made his former life seem tame. Sheriffs and constables now proved
powerless against him, whatever they essayed.
Then came a grand, determined effort when the Sheriff, supported by
fifteen deputies, all heavily armed, actually surrounded Drake's house.
But the master-outlaw, alone and at ease at an upper window, his
Winchester repeating-rifle in his hand and a smile of still content on
his face, coolly stood the whole army off until, weary of empty danger,
it gave up the siege and went home.
This disastrous expedition ended the attempts of the local authorities
to capture Israel Drake. Thenceforth he pursued his natural course
without pretense of let or hindrance. At the time when this story
begins, no fewer than fourteen warrants were out for his apprehension,
issued on charges ranging from burglary and highway robbery through a
long list of felonies. But the warrants, slowly accumulating, lay in the
bottom of official drawers, apprehending nothing but dust. No one
undertook to serve them. Life was too sweet--too short.
Then came a turn of fate. Israel chanced to bethink himself of a certain
aged farmer living with his old wife near a spot called Lee's
Cross-Road. The two dwelt by themselves, without companions on their
farm, and without neighbors. And they were reputed to have money.
The money might not be much--might be exceedingly little. But, even so,
Israel could use it, and in any event there would be the fun of the
trick. So Israel summoned one Carey Morrison, a gifted mate and
subordinate, with whom he proceeded to act.
At dead of night the two broke into the farmhouse--crept into the
chamber of the old pair--crept softly, softly, lest the farmer might
keep a shotgun by his side. Sneaking to the foot of the bed, Israel
suddenly flashed his lantern full upon the pillows--upon the two pale,
deep-seamed faces crowned with silver hair.
The woman sat up with a piercing scream. The farmer clutched at his
gun. But Israel, bringing the glinting barrel of his revolver into the
lantern's shaft of light, ordered both to lie down. Carey, slouching at
hand, awaited orders.
"Where is your money?" demanded Israel, indicating the farmer by the
point of his gun.
"I have no money, you coward!"
"It's no use your lying to me. _Where's the money?_"
"I have no money, I tell you."
"Carey," observed Israel, "hunt a candle."
While Carey looked for the candle, Israel surveyed his victims with a
cheerful, anticipatory grin.
The candle came; was lighted.
"Carey," Israel spoke again, "you pin the old woman down. Pull the quilt
off. Clamp her feet together. So!"
Then he thrust the candle-flame against the soles of those gnarled old
feet--thrust it close, while the flame bent upward, and the melting
tallow poured upon the bed.
The woman screamed again, this time in pain. The farmer half rose, with
a quivering cry of rage, but Israel's gun stared him between the eyes.
The woman screamed without interval. There was a smell of burning flesh.
"Now we'll change about," remarked Israel, beaming. "I'll hold the old
feller. You take the candle, Carey. You don't reely need your gun--now,
do ye, boy?"
And so they began afresh.
It was not a game to last long. Before dawn the two were back in their
own place, bearing the little all of value that the rifled house had
contained.
When the news of the matter spread abroad, it seemed, somehow, just a
straw too much. The District Attorney of the County of Cumberland blazed
into white heat. But he was powerless, he found. Not an officer within
his entire jurisdiction expressed any willingness even to attempt an
arrest.
"Then we shall see," said District Attorney Rhey, "what the State will
do for us, since we cannot help ourselves!" And he rushed off a
telegram, confirmed by post, to the Superintendent of the Department of
State Police.
The Superintendent of the Department of State Police promptly referred
the matter to the Captain of "C" Troop, with orders to act. For
Cumberland County, being within the southeastern quarter of the
Commonwealth, lies under "C" Troop's special care.
It was Adams, in those days, who held that command--Lynn G. Adams, now
Captain of "A" Troop, although for the duration of the war serving in
the regular army, even as his fathers before him have served in our
every war, including that which put the country on the map. Truer
soldier, finer officer, braver or straighter or surer dealer with men
and things need not be sought. His victories leave no needless scar
behind, and his command would die by inches rather than fail him
anywhere.
The Captain of "C" Troop, then, choosing with judgment, picked his
man--picked Trooper Edward Hallisey, a Boston Irishman, square of jaw,
shrewd of eye, quick of wit, strong of wind and limb. And he ordered
Private Hallisey to proceed at once to Carlisle, county seat of
Cumberland, and report to the District Attorney for service toward
effecting the apprehension of Israel Drake.
Three days later--it was the 28th of September, to be exact--Private
Edward Hallisey sent in his report to his Troop Commander. He had made
all necessary observations, he said, and was ready to arrest the
criminal. In this he would like to have the assistance of two Troopers,
who should join him at Carlisle.
The report came in the morning mail. First Sergeant Price detailed two
men from the Barracks reserve. They were Privates H. K. Merryfield and
Harvey J. Smith. Their orders were simply to proceed at once, in
civilian clothes, to Carlisle, where they would meet Private Hallisey
and assist him in effecting the arrest of Israel Drake.
Privates Merryfield and Smith, carrying in addition to their service
revolvers the 44-caliber Springfield carbine which is the Force's heavy
weapon, left by the next train.
On the Carlisle station platform, as the two Troopers debarked, some
hundred persons were gathered in pursuance of various and centrifugal
designs. But one impulse they appeared unanimously to share--the impulse
to give as wide a berth as possible to a peculiarly horrible tramp.
Why should a being like that intrude himself upon a passenger platform
in a respectable country town? Not to board a coach, surely, for such as
he pay no fares. To spy out the land? To steal luggage? Or simply to
make himself hateful to decent folk?
He carried his head with a hangdog lurch--his heavy jaw was rough with
stubble beard. His coat and trousers fluttered rags and his toes stuck
out of his boots. Women snatched back their skirts as he slouched near,
and men muttered and scowled at him for a contaminating beast.
Merryfield and Smith, drifting near this scum of the earth, caught the
words "Four-thirty train" and the name of a station.
"Right," murmured Merryfield.
Then he went and bought tickets.
In the shelter of an ancient, grimy day-coach, the scum muttered again,
as Smith brushed past him in the aisle.
"Charlie Stover's farm," said he.
"M'm," said Smith.
At a scrap of a station, in the foothills of ascending heights the tramp
and the Troopers separately detrained. In the early evening all three
strayed together once more in the shadow of the lilacs by Charlie
Stover's gate.
Over the supper-table Hallisey gave the news. "Drake is somewhere on the
mountain to-night," said he. "His cabin is way up high, on a ridge
called Huckleberry Patch. He is practically sure to go home in the
course of the evening. Then is our chance. First, of course, you fellows
will change your clothes. I've got some old things ready for you."
Farmer Stover, like every other denizen of the rural county, had lived
for years in terror and hatred of Israel Drake. Willingly he had aided
Hallisey to the full extent of his power. He had told all that he knew
of the bandit's habits and mates. He had indicated the mountain trails
and he had given the Trooper such little shelter and food as the latter
had stopped to take during his rapid work of investigation. But now he
was asked to perform a service that he would gladly have refused; he was
asked to hitch up a horse and wagon and to drive the three Troopers to
the very vicinity of Israel Drake's house.
"Oh, come on, Mr. Stover," they urged. "You're a public-spirited man, as
you've shown. Do it for your neighbors' sake if not for your own. You
want the county rid of this pest."
Very reluctantly the farmer began the trip. With every turn of the
ever-mounting forest road his reluctance grew. Grisly memories, grisly
pictures, flooded his mind. It was night, and the trees in the darkness
whispered like evil men. The bushes huddled like crouching figures. And
what was it, moving stealthily over there, that crackled twigs? At last
he could bear it no more.
"Here's where _I_ turn 'round," he muttered hoarsely. "If you fellers
are going farther you'll go alone. I got a use for _my_ life!"
"All right, then," said Hallisey. "You've done well by us already.
Good-night."
It was a fine moonlight night and Hallisey now knew those woods as well
as did his late host. He led his two comrades up another stiff mile of
steady climbing. Then he struck off, by an almost invisible trail, into
the dense timber. Silently the three men moved, threading the fragrant,
silver-flecked blackness with practised woodsmen's skill. At last their
file-leader stopped and beckoned his mates.
Over his shoulder the two studied the scene before them: A clearing
chopped out of the dense tall timber. In the midst of the clearing a log
cabin, a story and a half high. On two sides of the cabin a straggling
orchard of peach and apple trees. In the cabin window a dim light.
It was then about eleven o'clock. The three Troopers, effacing
themselves in the shadows, laid final plans.
The cabin had two rooms on the top floor and one below, said Hallisey,
beneath his breath. The first-floor room had a door and two windows on
the north, and the same on the south, just opposite. Under the west end
was a cellar, with an outside door. Before the main door to the north
was a little porch. This, by day, commanded the sweep of the
mountain-side; and here, when Drake was "hiding out" in some neighboring
eyrie, expecting pursuit, his wife was wont to signal him concerning the
movements of intruders.
Her code was written in dish-water. A panful thrown to the east meant
danger in the west, and _vice versa_; this Hallisey himself had seen and
now recalled in case of need.
Up to the present moment each officer had carried his carbine, taken
apart and wrapped in a bundle, to avoid the remark of chance observers
by the way. Now each put his weapon together, ready for use. They
compared their watches, setting them to the second. They discarded their
coats and hats.
The moon was flooding the clearing with high, pale light, adding greatly
to the difficulty of their task. Accordingly, they plotted carefully.
Each Trooper took a door--Hallisey that to the north, Merryfield that to
the south, Smith that of the cellar. It was agreed that each should
creep to a point opposite the door on which he was to advance, ten
minutes being allowed for all to reach their initial positions; that at
exactly five minutes to midnight the advance should be started, slowly,
through the tall grass of the clearing toward the cabin; that in case of
any unusual noise or alarm, each man should lie low exactly five minutes
before resuming this advance; and that from a point fifty yards from the
cabin a rush should be made upon the doors.
According to the request of the District Attorney, Drake was to be taken
"dead or alive," but according to an adamantine principle of the Force,
he must be taken not only alive, but unscathed if that were humanly
possible. This meant that he must not be given an opportunity to run and
so render shooting necessary. If, however, he should break away, his
chance of escape would be small, as each Trooper was a dead shot with
the weapons he was carrying.
The scheme concerted, the three officers separated, heading apart to
their several starting-points. At five minutes before midnight, to the
tick of their synchronized watches, each began to glide through the tall
grass. But it was late September. The grass was dry. Old briar-veins
dragged at brittle stalks. Shimmering whispers of withered leaves echoed
to the smallest touch; and when the men were still some two hundred
yards from the cabin the sharp ears of a dog caught the rumor of all
these tiny sounds,--and the dog barked.
Every man stopped short--moved not a finger again till five minutes had
passed. Then once more each began to creep--reached the fifty-yard
point--stood up, with a long breath, and dashed for his door.
At one and the same moment, practically, the three stood in the cabin,
viewing a scene of domestic peace. A short, square, swarthy woman, black
of eye, high of cheek bone, stood by a stove calmly stirring a pot. On
the table besides her, on the floor around her, clustered many jars of
peaches--jars freshly filled, steaming hot, awaiting their tops. In a
corner three little children, huddled together on a low bench, stared at
the strangers with sleepy eyes. Three chairs; a cupboard with dishes;
bunches of corn hanging from the rafters by their husks; festoons of
onions; tassels of dried herbs--all this made visible by the dull light
of a small kerosene lamp whose dirty chimney was streaked with smoke.
All this and nothing more.
Two of the men, jumping for the stairs, searched the upper half-story
thoroughly, but without profit.
"Mrs. Drake," said Hallisey, as they returned, "we are officers of the
State Police, come to arrest your husband. Where is he?"
In silence, in utter calm the woman still stirred her pot, not missing
the rhythm of a stroke.
"The dog warned them. He's just got away," said each officer to himself.
"She's _too_ calm."
She scooped up a spoonful of the fruit, peered at it critically,
splashed it back into the bubbling pot. From her manner it appeared the
most natural thing in the world to be canning peaches at midnight on the
top of South Mountain in the presence of officers of the State Police.
"My husband's gone to Baltimore," she vouchsafed at her easy leisure.
"Let's have a look in the cellar," said Merryfield, and dropped down the
cellar stairs with Hallisey at his heels. Together they ransacked the
little cave to a conclusion. During the process, Merryfield conceived an
idea.
"Hallisey," he murmured, "what would you think of my staying down here,
while you and Smith go off talking as though we were all together? She
might say something to the children, when she believes we're gone, and I
could hear every word through that thin floor."
"We'll do it!" Hallisey answered, beneath his voice. Then, shouting:--
"Come on, Smith! Let's get away from this; no use wasting time here!"
And in another moment Smith and Hallisey were crashing up the
mountain-side, calling out: "Hi, there! Merryfield--Oh! Merryfield,
wait for us!"--as if their comrade had outstripped them on the trail.
Merryfield had made use of the noise of their departure to establish
himself in a tenable position under the widest crack in the floor. Now
he held himself motionless, subduing even his breath.
One--two--three minutes of dead silence. Then came the timorous
half-whisper of a frightened child:
"Will them men kill father if they find him?"
"S-sh!"
"Mother!" faintly ventured another little voice, "will them men kill
father if they find him?"
"S-sh! S-sh! I tell ye!"
"Ma-ma! Will they kill my father?" This was the wail, insistent,
uncontrolled, of the smallest child of all.
The crackling tramp of the officers, mounting the trail, had wholly died
away. The woman evidently believed all immediate danger past.
"No!" she exclaimed vehemently, "they ain't goin' to lay eyes on yo'
father, hair nor hide of him. Quit yer frettin'!"
In a moment she spoke again: "You keep still, now, like good children,
while I go out and empty these peach-stones. I'll be back in a minute.
See you keep still just where you are!"
Stealing noiselessly to the cellar door as the woman left the house,
Merryfield saw her making for the woods, a basket on her arm. He watched
her till the shadows engulfed her. Then he drew back to his own place
and resumed his silent vigil.
Moments passed, without a sound from the room above. Then came soft
little thuds on the floor, a whimper or two, small sighs, and a slither
of bare legs on bare boards.
"Poor little kiddies!" thought Merryfield, "they're coiling down to
sleep!"
Back in the days when the Force was started, the Major had said to each
recruit of them all:--
"I expect you to treat women and children at all times with every
consideration."
From that hour forth the principle has been grafted into the lives of
the men. It is instinct now--self-acting, deep, and unconscious. No
tried Trooper deliberately remembers it. It is an integral part of him,
like the drawing of his breath.
"I wish I could manage to spare those babies and their mother in what's
to come!" Merryfield pondered as he lurked in the mould-scented dark.
A quarter of an hour went by. Five minutes more. Footsteps nearing the
cabin from the direction of the woods. Low voices--very low.
Indistinguishable words. Then the back door opened. Two persons entered,
and all that they now uttered was clear.
"It was them that the dog heard," said a man's voice. "Get me my rifle
and all my ammunition. I'll go to Maryland. I'll get a job on that stone
quarry near Westminster. I'll send some money as soon as I'm paid."
"But you won't start _to-night_!" exclaimed the wife.
"Yes, to-night--this minute. Quick! I wouldn't budge an inch for the
County folks. But with the State Troopers after me, that's another
thing. If I stay around here now they'll get me dead sure--and send me
up too. My gun, I say!"
"Oh, daddy, daddy, don't go away!" "_Don't_ go away off and leave me,
daddy!" "_Don't go, don't go!_" came the children's plaintive wails,
hoarse with fatigue and fright.
Merryfield stealthily crept from the cellar's outside door, hugging the
wall of the cabin, moving toward the rear. As he reached the corner, and
was about to make the turn toward the back, he drew his six-shooter and
laid his carbine down in the grass. For the next step, he knew, would
bring him into plain sight. If Drake offered any resistance, the
ensuing action would be at short range or hand to hand.
He rounded the corner. Drake was standing just outside the door, a rifle
in his left hand, his right hand hidden in the pocket of his overcoat.
In the doorway stood the wife, with the three little children crowding
before her. It was the last moment. They were saying good-bye.
Merryfield covered the bandit with his revolver.
"Put up your hands! You are under arrest," he commanded.
"Who the hell are you!" Drake flung back. As he spoke he thrust his
rifle into the grasp of the woman and snatched his right hand from its
concealment. In its grip glistened the barrel of a nickel-plated
revolver.
Merryfield could have easily shot him then and there--would have been
amply warranted in doing so. But he had heard the children's voices. Now
he saw their innocent, terrified eyes.
"Poor--little--kiddies!" he thought again.
Drake stood six feet two inches high, and weighed some two hundred
pounds, all brawn. Furthermore, he was desperate. Merryfield is merely
of medium build.
"Nevertheless, I'll take a chance," he said to himself, returning his
six-shooter to its holster. And just as the outlaw threw up his own
weapon to fire, the Trooper, in a running jump, plunged into him with
all fours, exactly as, when a boy, he had plunged off a springboard into
the old mill-dam of a hot July afternoon.
Too amazed even to pull his trigger, Drake gave backward a step into the
doorway. Merryfield's clutch toward his right hand missed the gun,
fastening instead on the sleeve of his heavy coat. Swearing wildly while
the woman and children screamed behind him, the bandit struggled to
break the Trooper's hold--tore and pulled until the sleeve, where
Merryfield held it, worked down over the gun in his own grip. So
Merryfield, twisting the sleeve, caught a lock-hold on hand and gun
together.
Drake, standing on the doorsill, had now some eight inches advantage of
height. The door opened inward, from right to left. With a tremendous
effort Drake forced his assailant to his knees, stepped back into the
room, seized the door with his left hand and with the whole weight on
his shoulder slammed it to, on the Trooper's wrist.
The pain was excruciating--but it did not break that lock-hold on the
outlaw's hand and gun. Shooting from his knees like a projectile,
Merryfield flung his whole weight at the door. Big as Drake was, he
could not hold it. It gave, and once more the two men hung at grips,
this time within the room.
Drake's one purpose was to turn the muzzle of his imprisoned revolver
upon Merryfield. Merryfield, with his left still clinching that deadly
hand caught in its sleeve, now grabbed the revolver in his own right
hand, with a twist dragged it free, and flung it out of the door.
But, as he dropped his right defense, taking both hands to the gun, the
outlaw's powerful left grip closed on Merryfield's throat with a
strangle-hold.
With that great thumb closing his windpipe, with the world turning red
and black, "Guess I can't put it over, after all!" the Trooper said to
himself.
Reaching for his own revolver, he shoved the muzzle against the bandit's
breast.
"Damn you, _shoot_!" cried the other, believing his end was come.
But in that same instant Merryfield once more caught a glimpse of the
fear-stricken faces of the babies, huddled together beyond.
"Hallisey and Smith must be here soon," he thought. "I won't shoot yet."
Again he dropped his revolver back into the holster, seizing the wrist
of the outlaw to release that terrible clamp on his throat. As he did
so, Drake with a lightning twist, reached around to the Trooper's belt
and possessed himself of the gun. As he fired Merryfield had barely time
and space to throw back his head. The flash blinded him--scorched his
face hairless. The bullet grooved his body under the upflung arm still
wrenching at the clutch that was shutting off his breath.
Perhaps, with the shot, the outlaw insensibly somewhat relaxed that
choking arm. Merryfield tore loose. Half-blinded and gasping though he
was, he flung himself again at his adversary and landed a blow in his
face. Drake, giving backward, kicked over a row of peach jars, slipped
on the slimy stream that poured over the bare floor, and dropped the
gun.
Pursuing his advantage, Merryfield delivered blow after blow on the
outlaw's face and body, backing him around the room, while both men
slipped and slid, fell and recovered, on the jam-coated floor. The table
crashed over, carrying with it the solitary lamp, whose flame died
harmlessly, smothered in tepid mush. Now only the moonlight illuminated
the scene.
Drake was manoeuvring always to recover the gun. His hand touched the
back of a chair. He picked the chair up, swung it high, and was about to
smash it down on his adversary's head when Merryfield seized it in the
air.
At this moment the woman, who had been crouching against the wall
nursing the rifle that her husband had put into her charge, rushed
forward clutching the barrel of the gun, swung it at full arm's length
as she would have swung an axe, and brought the stock down on the
Trooper's right hand.
That vital hand dropped--fractured, done. But in the same second Drake
gave a shriek of pain as a shot rang out and his own right arm fell
powerless.
In the door stood Hallisey, smoking revolver in hand, smiling grimly in
the moonlight at the neatness of his own aim. What is the use of killing
a man, when you can wing him as trigly as that?
Private Smith, who had entered by the other door, was taking the rifle
out of the woman's grasp--partly because she had prodded him viciously
with the muzzle. He examined the chambers.
"Do you know this thing is loaded?" he asked her in a mild, detached
voice.