Back to the passing of Boone and the landing of Columbus no man, in that
region, had ever been hanged. And as old Judd said, no Tolliver had ever
been sentenced and no jury of mountain men, he well knew, could be
found who would convict a Tolliver, for there were no twelve men in
the mountains who would dare. And so the Tollivers decided to await the
outcome of the trial and rest easy. But they did not count on the mettle
and intelligence of the grim young “furriners” who were a flying wedge
of civilization at the Gap. Straightway, they gave up the practice of
law and banking and trading and store-keeping and cut port-holes in the
brick walls of the Court House and guarded town and jail night and day.
They brought their own fearless judge, their own fearless jury and
their own fearless guard. Such an abstract regard for law and order the
mountaineer finds a hard thing to understand. It looked as though the
motive of the Guard was vindictive and personal, and old Judd was almost
stifled by the volcanic rage that daily grew within him as the toils
daily tightened about Rufe Tolliver.
Every happening the old man learned through the Red Fox, who, with his
huge pistols, was one of the men who escorted Rufe to and from Court
House and jail--a volunteer, Hale supposed, because he hated Rufe;
and, as the Tollivers supposed, so that he could keep them advised of
everything that went on, which he did with secrecy and his own peculiar
faith. And steadily and to the growing uneasiness of the Tollivers, the
law went its way. Rufe had proven that he was at the Gap all day and had
taken no part in the trouble. He produced a witness--the mountain lout
whom Hale remembered--who admitted that he had blown the whistle, given
the yell, and fired the pistol shot. When asked his reason, the witness,
who was stupid, had none ready, looked helplessly at Rufe and finally
mumbled--“fer fun.” But it was plain from the questions that Rufe
had put to Hale only a few minutes before the shooting, and from the
hesitation of the witness, that Rufe had used him for a tool. So the
testimony of the latter that Mockaby without even summoning Rufe to
surrender had fired first, carried no conviction. And yet Rufe had
no trouble making it almost sure that he had never seen the dead man
before--so what was his motive? It was then that word reached the ear
of the prosecuting attorney of the only testimony that could establish a
motive and make the crime a hanging offence, and Court was adjourned for
a day, while he sent for the witness who could give it. That afternoon
one of the Falins, who had grown bolder, and in twos and threes were
always at the trial, shot at a Tolliver on the edge of town and there
was an immediate turmoil between the factions that the Red Fox had been
waiting for and that suited his dark purposes well.
That very night, with his big rifle, he slipped through the woods to a
turn of the road, over which old Dave Tolliver was to pass next morning,
and built a “blind” behind some rocks and lay there smoking peacefully
and dreaming his Swedenborgian dreams. And when a wagon came round the
turn, driven by a boy, and with the gaunt frame of old Dave Tolliver
lying on straw in the bed of it, his big rifle thundered and the
frightened horses dashed on with the Red Fox's last enemy, lifeless.
Coolly he slipped back to the woods, threw the shell from his gun,
tirelessly he went by short cuts through the hills, and at noon,
benevolent and smiling, he was on guard again.
The little Court Room was crowded for the afternoon session. Inside the
railing sat Rufe Tolliver, white and defiant--manacled. Leaning on the
railing, to one side, was the Red Fox with his big pistols, his good
profile calm, dreamy, kind--to the other, similarly armed, was Hale.
At each of the gaping port-holes, and on each side of the door, stood
a guard with a Winchester, and around the railing outside were several
more. In spite of window and port-hole the air was close and heavy with
the smell of tobacco and the sweat of men. Here and there in the crowd
was a red Falin, but not a Tolliver was in sight, and Rufe Tolliver sat
alone. The clerk called the Court to order after the fashion since the
days before Edward the Confessor--except that he asked God to save a
commonwealth instead of a king--and the prosecuting attorney rose:
“Next witness, may it please your Honour”: and as the clerk got to
his feet with a slip of paper in his hand and bawled out a name, Hale
wheeled with a thumping heart. The crowd vibrated, turned heads, gave
way, and through the human aisle walked June Tolliver with the sheriff
following meekly behind. At the railing-gate she stopped, head uplifted,
face pale and indignant; and her eyes swept past Hale as if he were
no more than a wooden image, and were fixed with proud inquiry on the
Judge's face. She was bare-headed, her bronze hair was drawn low over
her white brow, her gown was of purple home-spun, and her right hand was
clenched tight about the chased silver handle of a riding whip, and
in eyes, mouth, and in every line of her tense figure was the mute
question: “Why have you brought _me_ here?”
[Illustration: “Why have you brought me here?”, 0342]
“Here, please,” said the Judge gently, as though he were about to answer
that question, and as she passed Hale she seemed to swerve her skirts
aside that they might not touch him.
“Swear her.”
June lifted her right hand, put her lips to the soiled, old, black Bible
and faced the jury and Hale and Bad Rufe Tolliver whose black eyes never
left her face.
“What is your name?” asked a deep voice that struck her ears as
familiar, and before she answered she swiftly recalled that she had
heard that voice speaking when she entered the door.
“June Tolliver.”
“Your age?”
“Eighteen.”
“You live--”
“In Lonesome Cove.”
“You are the daughter of--”
“Judd Tolliver.”
“Do you know the prisoner?”
“He is my foster-uncle.”
“Were you at home on the night of August the tenth?”
“I was.”
“Have you ever heard the prisoner express any enmity against this
volunteer Police Guard?” He waved his hand toward the men at the
portholes and about the railing--unconsciously leaving his hand directly
pointed at Hale. June hesitated and Rufe leaned one elbow on the table,
and the light in his eyes beat with fierce intensity into the girl's
eyes into which came a curious frightened look that Hale remembered--the
same look she had shown long ago when Rufe's name was mentioned in the
old miller's cabin, and when going up the river road she had put her
childish trust in him to see that her bad uncle bothered her no more.
Hale had never forgot that, and if it had not been absurd he would have
stopped the prisoner from staring at her now. An anxious look had come
into Rufe's eyes--would she lie for him?
“Never,” said June. Ah, she would--she was a Tolliver and Rufe took a
breath of deep content.
“You never heard him express any enmity toward the Police Guard--before
that night?”
“I have answered that question,” said June with dignity and Rufe's
lawyer was on his feet.
“Your Honour, I object,” he said indignantly.
“I apologize,” said the deep voice--“sincerely,” and he bowed to June.
Then very quietly:
“What was the last thing you heard the prisoner say that afternoon when
he left your father's house?”
It had come--how well she remembered just what he had said and how, that
night, even when she was asleep, Rufe's words had clanged like a bell in
her brain--what her awakening terror was when she knew that the deed was
done and the stifling fear that the victim might be Hale. Swiftly her
mind worked--somebody had blabbed, her step-mother, perhaps, and what
Rufe had said had reached a Falin ear and come to the relentless man in
front of her. She remembered, too, now, what the deep voice was saying
as she came into the door:
“There must be deliberation, a malicious purpose proven to make the
prisoner's crime a capital offence--I admit that, of course, your
Honour. Very well, we propose to prove that now,” and then she had
heard her name called. The proof that was to send Rufe Tolliver to the
scaffold was to come from her--that was why she was there. Her lips
opened and Rufe's eyes, like a snake's, caught her own again and held
them.
“He said he was going over to the Gap--”
There was a commotion at the door, again the crowd parted, and in
towered giant Judd Tolliver, pushing people aside as though they were
straws, his bushy hair wild and his great frame shaking from head to
foot with rage.
“You went to my house,” he rumbled hoarsely--glaring at Hale--“an' took
my gal thar when I wasn't at home--you--”
“Order in the Court,” said the Judge sternly, but already at a signal
from Hale several guards were pushing through the crowd and old Judd
saw them coming and saw the Falins about him and the Winchesters at the
port-holes, and he stopped with a hard gulp and stood looking at June.
“Repeat his exact words,” said the deep voice again as calmly as though
nothing had happened.
“He said, 'I'm goin' over to the Gap--'” and still Rufe's black eyes
held her with mesmeric power--would she lie for him--would she lie for
him?
It was a terrible struggle for June. Her father was there, her uncle
Dave was dead, her foster-uncle's life hung on her next words and she
was a Tolliver. Yet she had given her oath, she had kissed the sacred
Book in which she believed from cover to cover with her whole heart,
and she could feel upon her the blue eyes of a man for whom a lie was
impossible and to whom she had never stained her white soul with a word
of untruth.
“Yes,” encouraged the deep voice kindly.
Not a soul in the room knew where the struggle lay--not even the
girl--for it lay between the black eyes of Rufe Tolliver and the blue
eyes of John Hale.
“Yes,” repeated the deep voice again. Again, with her eyes on Rufe, she
repeated:
“'I'm goin' over to the Gap--'” her face turned deadly white, she
shivered, her dark eyes swerved suddenly full on Hale and she said
slowly and distinctly, yet hardly above a whisper:
“'TO KILL ME A POLICEMAN.'”
“That will do,” said the deep voice gently, and Hale started toward
her--she looked so deadly sick and she trembled so when she tried to
rise; but she saw him, her mouth steadied, she rose, and without looking
at him, passed by his outstretched hand and walked slowly out of the
Court Room.