VIA DOLOROSA.
"I tell you he'll come! Don't say that about my boy! It was an
accident--he said so--I heard him! He can explain it all. He saw it!
He'll come!" were the words Job heard Andrew Malden saying as he rode
up to Pine Tree Ranch in the dim light of early morning. The sheriff
and his deputy had come for Job; and, maddened to find him gone, were
cursing the old man and the one they sought.
Andrew Malden, quivering with excitement, tortured by a thousand
fears, wondering if he would come, was defending as best he could the
young man whom he loved, in this awful hour, more than ever before.
Job was close beside them before they saw him. Hitching Bess, he
walked up to the door, saluted the sheriff, and calmly asked:
"Were you looking for me?"
The sight of that pale, manly face for a moment stilled the bluster of
the rough officer of the law, and he almost apologized as he told Job
he was under the painful necessity of taking him to the county jail to
answer to the charge of homicide--the murder of a girl named Jane
Reed. Job winced under the sting of the words. For a moment he felt
like striking the man a blow for mentioning that sacred name; then he
bit his lip, sent up a silent prayer, and said:
"Very well, sir; I will mount my horse and follow you. I know the way
well."
In a flash the burly sheriff whipped the hand-cuffs upon his wrists,
and said:
"Ride! Well, I guess not! You'll play none of your games on me! You
will ride between me and my deputy, Mr. Dean!" And then Job discovered
for the first time that Marshall Dean was eying him with a malicious
grin of satisfaction.
In a moment, seated in the buckboard between the two men, with only
time for a good-by to Bess, a shake of the old man's hand, and never a
moment to explain that the accident he had mentioned had befallen
himself, not Jane, Job Malden rode down over the Pine Tree road,
handcuffed, on his way to the county jail at Gold City.
Past the Miners' Home and the Palace Hotel they drove at last. Bitter
faces glared into the prisoner's, friends of other days met him with
silence, and here and there a voice cried, "Lynch him!" Up past the
old church where he and Jane had gone and come together; up to the
door of the quaint white court house with square tower and green
blinds they drove, and Job passed through the rear door, and into the
narrow, dark dungeon, with only, high up, a little iron-barred window
to let in light and air--a prisoner of Grizzly county, to answer for
the killing of Jane Reed.
Only when he heard the sound of the bolt in the door, heard the crowd
outside cheering the sheriff for his bravery in capturing the outlaw,
and, seated on the narrow cot, looked around the cheerless cell with
no other furniture, did a sense of what it all meant rush over him.
Then the hot tears came, his head sank between his hands, and he felt
that he had taken the first step up Calvary. Like a far-off murmur
there came to him the words he had said in his heart on that long-ago
Communion Sunday:
"Where He leads me I will follow,
I'll go with Him all the way."
All the way? Ah, he was beginning to know what that meant! Then there
came that other verse--how it soothed his troubled heart!
"He will give me grace and glory,
And go with me all the way."
Just then the sun stole in at the little cell window, and the
perpendicular and horizontal bars made the shadow of a cross on the
floor, all surrounded by a flood of light. A great peace came into Job
Malden's heart, as the Master whispered, "I will never leave thee nor
forsake thee."
* * * * *
All Gold City was stirred to its depths. Nothing had happened in forty
years to so move the hearts of men. Business was forgotten, groups of
men met and talked long on the street corners, the mining camp was
deserted. There was but one theme--the tragedy of Inspiration Point.
Up at the Yellow Jacket a great shadow rested over office, church and
the miners' shanties. On the lowest levels of the mines, grimy men
looked into each other's faces and talked in an undertone of the awful
fear which they would not have the rocks and the secret places of the
earth know; that "the parson" was in a murderer's cell, and the storm
clouds were gathering fast about him, and the worst was, he was
guilty--it must be so!
The superintendent drove his team on a run to the court house, and
offered any amount of bail. This was refused, and he was denied even a
look at Job. Up at the ranch, Andrew Malden neither ate nor slept. A
terrible nightmare hung over him. His boy was innocent, of course he
was. But oh, it was awful! The saloons were crowded, and a furtive
chuckle passed around the bars. He was caged now, the one they hated,
and the evil element were in high glee. O'Donnell and Dan Dean, Col.
Dick and the sheriff, were the center of crowds who hung on their
words, as they told the story of the crime over and over with a new
force and new aspect that showed the utter hypocrisy, treachery and
sin of Job.
The church was crowded. The preacher could not believe Job guilty, but
he dared not say so. Tom Reed, wild with grief, pleaded with men to
break open the jail and let him slay the murderer, slay him and avenge
his Jane--his black-eyed, great-hearted Jane. The city reporters were
busy, and the papers glowed with accounts and photographs of "the
awful wretch who was safely held behind the bars of the Gold City
jail." So the storm surged to and fro, so the days passed, to that
dark ninth of August when the trial was to begin.
Of all the throng of men in the mountains in those days, he alone who
sat in the silence of a dungeon in the old court house, was unmoved
and at peace. Through the long hours he sat recalling memories of past
years, living again the scenes of yesterday, which seemed to belong to
another world and another life now gone forever. From his pocket he
drew again and again the little Testament still fragrant with a
mother's dying kiss, and felt himself as much a homeless, motherless
boy as upon that long-ago night when he first saw Gold City and fell
asleep on the "Palace" doorsteps. He read it over and over. It was of
Gethsemane, the Last Supper and Calvary he read most. He knew now what
they meant. Then he turned to the words, "What shall separate us from
the love of God?" and the consciousness that God was left, that Jesus
was his, was like a mighty arm bearing him up.
They asked him for his defense. He said he had none, except the fact
that he knew nothing about the deed. They scorned that, and asked whom
he wished for a lawyer. He had no choice--cared for none. The judge
sent him a young infidel attorney, the sheriff refused him the
privilege of seeing anyone, the iron gate was double-barred, and
closer and closer the web of evidence was drawn about him ready for
the day of the trial.
He asked for Andrew Malden, but was refused. He begged them to send
for Indian Bill; they made a pretense of doing so, but the trapper was
far from human reach, far up in the wilderness beyond El Capitan. All
Job could do was to pray and wait, little caring what the outcome
might be, little caring what might be the verdict of the world of Gold
City; knowing only two things--that Jane was dead and life could never
be the same to him; and that the God who looked down in tender
compassion on his child shut in between those dark stone walls, knew
all about it. Job had read how one like unto an angel walked in the
furnace of old with God's saints; he felt, now, that the Christ came
and sat by his side in those lonely prison hours.
* * * * *
It was Monday, the ninth of August. The sun's rays beat down on the
dusty streets of Gold City and glared from the white walls of the
court house. At ten o'clock the trial would commence--the great trial
of "The State vs. Job Teale Malden." The streets were thronged with
vehicles; it was like one of the old-time Sunday picnics, only saint
as well as sinner was here. The Yellow Jacket had closed down by
common consent of all, and hundreds of workingmen were pouring into
town in stages and buckboards, on horseback and on foot. The old court
house was packed to its utmost capacity; the gallery and stairs were
one mass of writhing humanity. Outside, they stood like a great
encampment, stretching away, filling the whole square. Still they came
from Mormon Bar and Wawona--the greatest throng in the history of
Grizzly county; men, women, and children in arms--all to see Job
Malden tried for his life.
Through this crowd, Andrew Malden, leaning on his cane, passed in at
the great door by Tony's side. The crowd was silent as he passed. Some
muttered under their breath; some lifted their hats. That worn, gaunt
face startled them all. It was through this same crowd that Tom Reed,
with darkened brow, and Dan Dean, limping on his crutches, passed in
together.
The clock in the tower struck ten. Job in his cell heard it above the
din of innumerable feet passing over his head; heard it and knelt in
an earnest prayer for grace to bear whatever might come; to suffer and
be still as his Master did of old. He had gone all over it again and
again; they knew his story of the walk down the canyon trail with
Indian Bill, but even the lawyer doubted it. If they knew of Glacier
Point and the betrothal, they might believe him. Should he tell it?
All night he had paced the cell wondering if he ought--if he could. As
he knelt in that hour, he resolved that, though it would save his
life, no human ear should ever hear that sacred secret. That hour on
Glacier Point should be unveiled to no human eye, but remain locked in
the chambers of his soul, known only to God and her who waited yonder
for his coming.
It was near noon when the judge ascended the bench. The hubbub of
voices ceased, the case was called, the rear door opened, and, led in
by the sheriff, handcuffed and guarded, with calm, white face, yet
never faltering in step or look, Job Malden walked across the floor to
the prisoner's seat, while the crowd gazed in curiosity, that soon
changed to awe and reverence, at that grave face, so deeply marked
with scars of grief.
It was a strange scene that met Job's gaze. All the familiar faces
were there--Aunty Perkins and Tim's father; Dean and O'Donnell glaring
at him; poor old Andrew Malden leaning on his cane; Tony and Hans and
Tom Reed and--oh, no! Jane was not there, but gone forever from Gold
City and its strange, hard life. A tear stole down the prisoner's
cheek--he wiped it away. His enemies saw it and winked. Tim's father
saw it and moaned aloud. The clock struck twelve in the high tower,
and proceedings began.
It was two days before the trial was well under way. The quibbling of
the lawyers, the choosing of a jury, the hearing of the witnesses who
had found the wounded, silent form of Jane Reed on the rocks beneath
the famous Point, filled the hours. Morning after morning, the scenes
of that first day were repeated in the court room; the great crowds,
the intense excitement, the friends and enemies intently listening to
every word and watching every movement of the prisoner. And calm and
still, with never a sign of fear or shame on his face, Job Malden sat
in that court room hour after hour, and One unseen stood at his side.
On the third day the prosecution began to weave its web of
circumstantial evidence about Job. How shrewd it was! How carefully
each suspicious incident was told and retold! How meanly everything
bad in his life was emphasized, everything good forgotten! They
brought the tales of long-ago years when he was a mere boy. They
proved that the passionate blood of a gambler was in his veins; that
his father before him had shot a companion. The story of the
horse-race and escapades of the reckless days of old were rehearsed by
hosts of witnesses. It was proved, by an intricate line of
cross-questions, that once before, on a bitter winter's night, young
Malden had pursued this girl and Dan Dean with the avowed intention of
harming them. The hot blood came to Job's face--he well remembered
that night. Then he seemed to hear the distant voice of Indian Bill
saying by the roaring Merced, "Bill forgive Mono Indian;" and, sitting
there with this tale pouring into the ears of the throng who looked
more and more askance at him, Job said deep in his soul, "Forgive us
our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. Father, I
forgive, I forgive!"
Closer and closer they drew the web. They made Andrew Malden--poor old
man!--confess that he had heard Job say, "It was an accident," then
showed that he had denied knowing aught of Jane's death until he
reached home. Then Tom Reed took the stand. He testified that all
Jane's preference was for Dan; that she went to him when he and Job
were both so ill; that she wrote to Dan and never wrote to Job. The
old man fairly shook with rage as on the witness-stand he took every
chance to denounce the "hypocrite and 'ristocrat." Minutely he
pictured Job's coming to the valley, the heated arguments he was sure
the two had had, and how upon that awful day when Jane left him
forever, she had walked away by the side of Job Malden.
Daniel Dean was the next witness. The crowd hung breathless on his
words. Stumping up on his crutches, Dan took the chance of a lifetime
to vent his hatred of Job. Keen, shrewd, too wise to speak out
plainly, but wise enough to know the blighting influence of
suggestion, Dan talked, insinuated and lied till the nails were driven
one by one into poor Job's heart and the pain was almost more than he
could bear. Insidiously, indirectly, he gave them all to understand
that Jane Reed loved him and again and again by her actions had shown
preference for himself. Then down the aisle he passed, while the crowd
looked at him in pity, and Job felt as if he must rise and tell of the
night at Glacier Point, must vindicate the memory of Jane Reed. But
no! God knew all. Some things are too sacred to tell to any ear but
his. He must suffer and be still.
When Job went back to his lonely cell that night a boy was whistling
on the street, "I'll go with Him all the way," and Job Malden took up
the words and said them with a meaning he had never known before.