kissed him; he could not remember when before she had taken such a
liberty. Mr. Montgomery believed in a reasonable display of affection,
but kissing seemed to him a singularly frivolous practice.
"Oh, my man!" sobbed Nellie.
"Oh, cheese it, and let me loose--I don't like this to-do! Can't a
married man come home without all this fuss?"
"Dear Joe, you've come back to me and your babies!" And the tears
streamed down her cheeks.
"I don't need you to tell me that--I got plenty sense enough to know
when I'm home!" said Montgomery, not without bitterness.
"I mourned you like you was passed away, until your letter come!" said
Nellie, and the memory of her sufferings set her sobbing afresh.
"Oh, great hell!" exclaimed Joe dejectedly. "Why can't you act
cheerful? What's the good of takin' on, anyhow--I don't like tombstone
talk."
"It was just the shock of seein' you standin' there in the door like I
seen you so often!" said Nellie weakly.
"If that ain't a woman for you, miserable because she's happy. Say, stop
chokin' me; I won't stand for much more of this nonsense, you might know
I don't like these to-dos!"
"You don't know what I've suffered, Joe!"
"That's a woman for you every time--always thinkin' of herself! To hear
you talk any one would think I'd been to a church picnic; I look like
I'd been to a picnic, don't I? Yes, I do--like hell!"
"They said you would never come back to me," moaned Nellie.
"Who said that?" asked Mr. Montgomery aggressively.
"Everybody--the neighbors--Shrimplin--they all said it!"
"Ain't I told you never to listen to gossip, and ain't I always done
what's right?" interrogated the handy-man severely.
"Yes, always, Joe," said Nellie.
"Then you might know'd I'd come back when I got plenty good and ready. I
fooled 'em all, and I'm here to stay--that is if you keep your hands off
me!"
"You mean it, Joe?" asked Nellie.
"What? About your keepin' your hands off me? Yes, you bet I do!"
And Montgomery by a not ungentle effort released himself from his wife's
embrace. This act so restored his self-respect that he grinned
pleasantly at her.
"I don't know when I been so happy, Joe--it's awful nice to have you
back!" said Nellie, wiping her eyes on the corner of her apron.
"There's some sense in your sayin' that," said the handy-man, shaking
his head. "You ought to feel happy."
"You don't ask after your children, Joe.--"
"Don't I? Well, maybe you don't give me no time to!" said Mr.
Montgomery, but without any special enthusiasm, since the truth was that
his interest in his numerous offspring was most casual.
"They're all well, and the littlest, Tom--the one you never seen--has
got his first tooth!" said Nellie.
Joe grunted at this information.
"He'll have more by and by, won't he?" he said.
"How you talk, of course he will!"
"He'd have a devil of a time chewin' his food if he didn't," observed,
the handy-man with a throaty chuckle.
"And, Joe, I got the twenty dollars you sent!"
"Is any of it left?" inquired Mr. Montgomery, with sudden interest.
"The rent and things took it all. That was the noblest act you ever
done, Joe; it made me certain you was thinkin' of us, and from the
moment I got that money I was sure you would come back no matter what
people said!"
"Humph!" said Joe. "Is there anything in the house fit to eat? Because
if there is, I'll feed my face right now!"
"Do set down, Joe; I'll have something for you in a minute--why didn't
you tell me you was hungry?"
She was already rattling plates and knives at the cupboard, and Joe took
the chair she had quitted when he entered the house, stretching his legs
under his own table with a sense of deep satisfaction. He had not
considered it worth his while to visit the kitchen sink, although his
mode of life, as well as his mode of travel for days past, had covered
him with dust and grime; nor did he take off his ragged cap. It had
always been his custom to wear it in the privacy of his own home, it was
one of the last things he removed before going to bed at night; at all
other times it reposed on the top of his curly red head as the only safe
place for a cap to be.
"I was real worried about Arthur along in March," said Mrs. Montgomery,
as such odds and ends as had survived the appetites of all the little
Montgomerys began to assemble themselves on the table.
"What's he been a-doin'?" inquired Arthur's father.
"It was his chest," explained Nellie.
Joe grunted. By this time his two elbows were planted on the edge of the
table and his mouth was brought to within six scant inches of his plate.
The handy-man's table manners were not his strong point.
"Oh, I guess his chest is all right!" he paused to say.
"I thought it was best to be on the safe side, so I took him up-town and
had his health examined by a doctor. He had to take off his shirt so he
could hear Arthur's lungs."
"Well, I'm damned,--what did he do that for?" cried Joe, profoundly
astonished.
"It was a mercy I'd washed him first," added Nellie, not comprehending
the reason of her husband's sudden show of interest though gratified by
it.
"Lord, I thought you meant the doctor had took off his shirt!" said Joe.
"He's all right now, ain't he?"
"Yes, but he did have such an alarmin' cough; it hung on and hung on, it
seemed to me like it was on his chest, but the doctor said no, and I was
that relieved! I used some of the twenty dollars to pay him and to get
medicine from the drug store."
Joe was cramming his mouth full of cold meat and bread, and for the
moment could not speak; when at length he could and did, it was to say:
"I hear Andy Gilmore's left town?"
"Yes, all of a sudden, and no one knows where he's gone!"
"I guess he's had enough of Mount Hope, and I guess Mount Hope's had
enough of him!" remarked Joe.
"They say the police was goin' to stop the gamblin' in his rooms if he
hadn't gone when he did."
"Well, I hope he'll catch hell wherever he is!" said Joe, with a sullen
drop to his voice.
"For a while after you left, Joe, they didn't give me no peace at
all--the police and detectives, I mean--they was here every day! And
Shrimplin told me they was puttin' advertisements in the papers all over
the country."
"What for?" inquired Montgomery uneasily.
"They wanted to find out where you'd gone; it seemed like they was
determined to get you back as a witness for the trial," explained
Nellie.
Montgomery's uneasiness increased. He began to wonder fearfully if he
was in any danger, vague forebodings assailed him. Suppose he was
pinched and sent up. His face blanched and his small blue eyes slid
around in their sockets. Nellie was evidently unaware of the feeling of
terror her words had inspired, for she continued:
"But it didn't make no difference in the end that you wasn't here, for
everybody says it was you that hanged John North; you get all the credit
for that!"
Montgomery's hands fell at his side.
"Me hanged John North! _Me hanged John North!_" he repeated. "But he
ain't hanged--God A'mighty, he ain't hanged yet!"
His voice shot up into a wail of horrified protest. Nellie regarded him
with a look of astonishment. She had been rather sorry for young John
North, but she had also felt a certain wifely pride in Joe's connection
with the case.
"No, he ain't hanged yet but he will be in the morning!" she said.
The handy-man sprang to his feet, knocking over the chair in which he
had been seated.
"What's that?" he roared.
"Why, haven't you heard? He's to be hung in the morning."
Joe glared at her with starting eyes.
"What will they do that for--hang him--hang John North!" He tore off his
ragged cap and dashed it to the floor at his feet. "To hell with Andy
Gilmore and to hell with Marsh Langham--that's why they drove me out of
town--to hell with 'em both!" he shouted, and his great chest seemed
bursting with pent-up fury.
"Why, whatever do you mean, Joe?" cried Nellie.
"He never done it--you hear me--and they _know_ it! You sure you got the
straight of this--they are goin' to hang young John North?" He seized
her roughly by the shoulders.
"Yes--how you take on, Joe--"
"Take on!" he shouted. "You'd take on too if you stood in my place.
You're sure you know what you're talkin' about?"
"I seen the fence around the jail yard where they're goin' to hang him;
I went over on purpose yesterday with one of the neighbors and took
Arthur; I thought it would be improvin', but he'd seen it before. There
ain't much he don't see--for all I can do he just runs the streets."
Joe's resolution had been formed while she was speaking, and now he
snatched his ragged cap from the floor.
"You stay right here till I get back!" he said gruffly.
It was not his habit to discuss affairs of any moment with Mrs.
Montgomery, since in a general way he doubted the clearness of the
feminine judgment, and in the present instance he had no intention of
taking her into his confidence. The great problem by which he was
confronted he would settle in his own fashion.
"You ain't in any trouble, Joe?" and Nellie's eyes widened with the
birth of sudden fear.
The handy-man was standing by the door, and she went to his side.
"Me? No, I guess not; but I got an everlastin' dose of it for the other
fellow!" and he reached for the knob.
"Was it what I said about the police wantin' you?" his wife asked
timidly.
She knew that his dealings with the police had never been of an
especially fortunate nature. He shook off the hand she had placed on his
arm.
"You keep your mouth shut till I get back!" he said, and pushing open
the door, passed out.
The night had cleared since he crossed the bridge, and from the great
blue arch of heaven the new moon gave her radiance to a sleeping world.
But Montgomery was aware only of his purpose as he slouched along the
path toward the railroad track. The horror of North's fate had fixed his
determination, nothing of terror or fear that he had ever known was
comparable to the emotion he was experiencing now. He did not even
speculate on the consequences to himself of the act he had decided on.
They said that he had hanged John North--he got the credit for
that--well, John North wasn't hanged yet! He tossed his arms aloft. "My
God, I didn't mean to do that!" he muttered.
He had gained the railroad tracks and was running toward the bridge, the
very seconds seemed of infinite value to him, for suppose he should have
difficulty in finding Moxlow? And if he found the prosecuting attorney,
would he believe his story? A shudder passed through him. He was quite
near the bridge when suddenly he paused and a whispered curse slipped
from between his parted lips. A man was standing at the entrance to the
bridge and though it was impossible to distinguish more than the shadowy
outline of his figure, Montgomery was certain that it was Marshall
Langham. His first impulse was to turn back and go into town by the
wagon road and the wooden bridge, but as he hesitated the figure came
toward him, and Langham spoke.
"Is that you, Joe?" he asked.
"Damn him, he knows I won't stand for hangin' North!" the handy-man told
himself under his breath. He added aloud as he shuffled forward, "Yes,
it's me, boss!"
"Couldn't you make it right with Nellie?" asked Langham.
"Oh, it isn't that--the old woman's all right--but the baby's sick and
I'm out huntin' a doctor."
He did not expect Langham to believe him, but on the spur of the moment
he could think of nothing better.
"I am sorry to hear that!" said Langham.
An evil wolfish light stole into his eyes and the lines of his weak
debauched face hardened.
"What's the matter with you, boss; couldn't you get across?" asked Joe.
"No, the bridge is too much for me. Like a fool I stopped here to smoke
a cigar after you left me; I hoped it would clear off a bit so I could
see the ties, but it's worse now that I can. I had about made up my mind
to come and get you to help me back into town."
"Come along, boss, I'm in a terrible hurry!" said Joe eagerly.
But Langham was a pace or two in advance of him when they stepped out
on the bridge. Never once did he glance in the handy-man's direction.
Had he done so, Montgomery must have been aware that his face showed
bloodless in the moonlight, while his sunken eyes blazed with an
unaccustomed fire.
"I can't walk these ties, Joe--give me your hand--" he managed to say.
Joe did as he desired, and as the lawyer's slim fingers closed about his
great fist he was conscious that a cold moisture covered them. He could
only think of a dead man's hand.
"What's wrong with the baby, Joe?" Langham asked.
"Seems like it's got a croup," said Joe promptly.
"That's too bad--"
"Yes, it's a hell of a pity," agreed Montgomery.
He was furtively watching Langham out of the corners of his beady blue
eyes; his inner sense of things told him it was well to do this. They
took half a dozen steps and Langham released Joe's hand.
"I wonder if I can manage this alone!" he said. But apparently the
attempt was a failure, for he quickly rested his hand on his companion's
massive shoulder.
They had reached the second of the bridge's three spans. Below them in
the darkness the yellow flood poured in noisy volume. As Langham knew,
here the stream was at its deepest and its current the swiftest. He knew
also that his chance had come; but he dared not make use of it. The
breath whistled from his lips and the moisture came from every pore. He
sought frantically to nerve himself for the supreme moment; but suppose
he slipped, or suppose Joe became aware of his purpose one second too
soon!
"Keep over a bit, boss!" said the handy-man suddenly. "You are crowding
me off the bridge!"
"Oh, all right; is that better?"
And Langham moved a step aside.
"A whole lot," responded Joe gruffly. But his little blue eyes, alert
with cunning, were never withdrawn from the lawyer for an instant.
They walked forward in silence for a moment or two, and were approaching
the end of the center span, when the lawyer glanced about him wildly; he
realized that he was letting slip his one great opportunity. Again Joe
spoke:
"Keep over, boss!" And then all in the same breath, "What the hell are
you up to, anyway?"
It must be now or it would be never; and Langham, turning swiftly,
hurled himself on his companion, and his slim fingers with their
death-like chill gripped Joe's hairy throat. In the suddenness of the
attack he was forced toward the edge of the bridge. The rush of the
noisy waters sounded with fearful distinctness in his ears.
"Here, damn you, let go!" panted Montgomery.
[Illustration: "Here, let go!" panted Montgomery.]
He felt Langham's hot breath on his cheek, he read murder by the wolfish
light in his eyes. He wrenched himself free of the other's desperate
clutch, but as he did so his foot caught against one of the rails and he
slipped and fell to his knees. In the intervals of his own labored
breathing, he heard the flow of the river, a dull ceaseless roar, and
saw the flashing silver of the moon's rays as they touched the water's
turgid surface. Langham no longer sought to force him from the bridge,
but bent every effort to thrust him down between the ties to a swift and
certain death.
"You want to kill me, too!" panted Montgomery, as by a mighty effort
that brought the veins on neck and forehead to the point of bursting, he
regained his footing on the ties.
But his antagonist was grimly silent, and Joe, roused to action by fear,
and by a sullen rage at what he deemed the lawyer's perfidy, turned and
grappled with him. Once he smashed his great fist full into Langham's
face, and though the blow sent the lawyer staggering across the bridge,
he recovered himself quickly and rushed back to renew the fight.
Montgomery greeted him with an oath, and they grappled again.
Langham had known in his calmer moments when he planned Joe's death,
that his only hope of success lay in the suddenness of his attack. Now
as they swayed on the very edge of the bridge the handy-man put forth
all his strength and lifted the lawyer clear of the ties, then with a
mighty heave of his great shoulders he tossed him out into space.
There was a scarcely audible splash and Joe, looking fearfully down, saw
the muddy drops turn limpid in the soft white light. A moment later some
dark object came to the surface and a white face seemed to look up into
his, but only for a second, and then the restless flood bore it swiftly
away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CUSTER'S IDOL FALLS
Early that same night Mr. Shrimplin, taking Custer with him, had driven
out into the country. Their destination was a spot far down the river
where catfish were supposed to abound, for Izaak Walton's gentle art was
the little lamplighter's favorite recreation. After leaving Mount Hope
they jogged along the dusty country road for some two miles, then
turning from it into a little-traveled lane they soon came out upon a
great sweeping bend of the stream.
"I don't know about this, Custer," said Mr. Shrimplin, with a doubtful
shake of the head, as he drew rein. "She's way up. I had no idea she was
way up like this; I guess though we can't do no better than to chance
it, catfish is a muddy-water fish, anyhow."
He tied wild Bill to a blasted sycamore, and then, while he cut poles
from the willow bushes that grew along the bank, Custer built a huge
bonfire, by the light of which they presently angled with varying
fortunes.
"I reckon not many people but me knows about this fishing-hole!" said
Shrimplin, as he cast his baited hook into the water.
"Where did you learn to fish?" asked Custer, thirsting for that wisdom
his father was so ready to impart.
"I guess you'd call it a natural gift in my case, son," said the little
lamplighter modestly. "I don't know as I deserve no credit; it's like
playing the organ or walking on a tight rope, the instinct's got to be
there or you'll only lay yourself open to ridicule."
But truth to tell, fishing was no very subtle art as practised by Mr.
Shrimplin, he merely spat on his bait before he dropped it into the
water. Even Custer knew that every intelligent fisherman did this, you
couldn't reasonably hope to catch anything unless you did; yet there
seemed to him, when he now thought of it, such a gap between cause and
effect that he asked as he warily watched his cork:
"What good does it do to spit on your hook?"
"I've forgot the science of it, Custer," admitted his father after a
moment's thought. "But I've always heard old fishermen say you couldn't
catch nothing unless you did."
"Did you ever try to?"
"I can't say as I ever did. What would be the use when you know better?"
said Mr. Shrimplin, who was strictly orthodox. His cork went under and
he landed a flopping shiner on the bank; this he took from his hook and
tossed back into the water. "It's a funny thing about shiners!" he
said.
"What is?" inquired Custer.
"Why, you always catch 'em when you ain't fishing for 'em. You fish for
catfish or sun-dabs, or bass even, if you're using worms, and you catch
shiners; mainly, I suppose, because they are no manner of use to you. I
reckon if you fished for shiners you wouldn't catch anything,--you
couldn't--because there is no more worthless fish that swims! That's why
fishing is like life; in fact, you can't do nothing that ain't like
life; but I don't know but what catching shiners ain't just a little bit
more like life than anything else! You think you're going to make a lot
of money out of some job you've got, but it shaves itself down to half
by the time it reaches you; or you've got to cough up double what you
counted on when it's the other way about; so it works out the same
always; you get soaked whether you buy or sell, from the cradle to the
grave you're always catching shiners!" While Mr. Shrimplin was still
philosophizing big drops of warm spring rain began to splash and patter
on the long reach of still water before them. He scrambled to his feet.
"We are going to have some weather, Custer!" he said, and they had
scarcely time in which to drive Bill under the shelter of a disused hay
barracks in an adjacent field, when the storm broke with all its fury.
Here they spent the better part of an hour, and when at last the rain
ceased they climbed into the cart and turned Bill's head in the
direction of home.
"I hope, Custer, that your ma won't be scared; it's getting mighty
late," said the senior Shrimplin, and he shook his head as if in pity of
a human weakness which his mind grasped, though he could not share in
it. "Seems to be that people give way more and more to their fear than
they used to; or maybe it is that I ask too much, being naturally nervy
myself and not having no nerves, as I may say."
Half an hour later, off in the distance, the lights of Mount Hope became
visible to Custer and his father.
"I'd give a good deal for a glass of suds and a cracker right now!" said
Mr. Shrimplin, speaking after a long silence. He tilted his head and
took a comprehensive survey of the heavens. "Well, we're going to have a
fine day for the hanging," he observed, with the manner of a
connoisseur.
"Why won't they let no one see it?" demanded Custer.
"It's to be strictly private. I don't know but what that's best; it's
some different though from the hangings I'm used to." And Mr. Shrimplin
shook his head dubiously as if he wished Custer to understand that after
all perhaps he was not so sure it was for the best.
"How were they different?" inquired Custer, sensible that his parent was
falling into a reminiscent mood.
"Well, they were more gay for one thing; folks drove in from miles about
and brought their lunches and et fried chicken. Sometimes there was
hoss racing in the morning, and maybe a shooting scrape or two; fact is,
we usually knowed who was to be the next to stretch hemp before the day
was over,--it gave you something to look forward to! But pshaw! What can
you expect here? Mount Hope ain't educated up to the sort of thing I'm
used to! A feller gets his face punched down at Mike Lonigan's or out at
the Dutchman's by the tracks, and the whole town talks of it, but no one
ever draws a gun; the feller that gets his face punched spits out his
teeth and goes on about his business, and that's the end of it except
for the talk; but where I've been there'd be murder in about the time it
takes to shift a quid!"
And Mr. Shrimplin shifted his own quid to illustrate the uncertainty of
human life in those highly favored regions.
"Don't you suppose they'd let you into the jail yard to-morrow if you
asked?" said Custer, to whom the hanging on the morrow was a matter of
vital and very present interest.
"Well, son, I ain't _asked!_" rejoined the little lamplighter in a
rather startled tone.
"Well, don't you think they'd ought to, seeing that you was one of the
witnesses, and found old Mr. McBride before anybody else did?" persisted
the boy.
"I won't say but what you might think they'd want me present; but
Conklin ain't even suggested it, and if he don't think of it I can't say
as I'll have any hard feelings," concluded Mr. Shrimplin magnanimously.
They were about to enter Mount Hope now; to their right they could
distinguish the brick slaughter-house which stood on the river bank, and
which served conveniently to mark the town's corporate limits on the
east. The little lamplighter spoke persuasively to Bill, and the
lateness of the hour together with the nearness to his own stable,
conspired to make that sagacious beast shuffle forward over the stony
road at a very respectable rate of speed. They were fairly abreast of
the slaughter-house when Custer suddenly placed his hand on his father's
arm.
"Hark!" said the boy.
Mr. Shrimplin drew rein.
"Well, what is it, Custer?" he asked, with all that bland indulgence of
manner which was habitual to him in his intercourse with his son.
"Didn't you hear, it sounded like a cry!" said Custer, in an excited
whisper.
And instantly a shiver traversed the region of Mr. Shrimplin's spine.
"I guess you was mistaken, son!" he answered rather nervously.
"No, don't you hear it--from down by the crick bank?" cried the boy in
the same excited whisper. His father was conscious of the wish that he
would select a more normal tone.
"There!" cried Custer.
As he spoke, a cry, faint and wavering, reached Mr. Shrimplin's ears.
"I do seem to hear something--" he admitted.
"What do you suppose it is?" asked the boy, peering off into the gloom.
"I don't know, Custer, and not wishing to be short with you, I don't
care a damn!" rejoined Mr. Shrimplin, endeavoring to meet the situation
with an air of pleasant raillery.
He gathered up his lines as he spoke.
"Why, what are you thinking of?" demanded Custer.