THE ARREST.
A lance of sunshine, piercing a crack in the old barn, struck squarely
into Ben Stone’s eyes and awoke him. For a few moments he lay still
without comprehending, the odor of the haymow in his nostrils; his head
alone was uncovered by the hay into which the fugitives had burrowed.
High up in the peak of the barn the morning light streamed in through a
broken, dusty, cobwebby window; with the passing of the night the storm
had passed also, and the new day was bright and fair.
Ben turned his head slowly, softly, and saw his brother sleeping beside
him, which sight brought back with a rush the memories of recent events
leading up to and including the flight by night from Oakdale. They were
fugitives, he and Jerry—fugitives and wanderers upon the face of the
earth.
Jerry awoke; the sightless eyes unclosed and a faint smile crept over
his face. “Ben,” he called, moving a hand to touch the lad at his
side—“Ben, is it you?”
“Yes, Jerry. Did I wake you up? I didn’t mean to do so.”
“Oh, I’m glad you did; I’m glad to know we’re together again. It is
morning.”
“Yes, it is morning; the sun is shining.”
“I’m warm and dry and comfortable now. I was so wet and cold when we
found this place last night!”
“It was a mean old night. If it hadn’t stormed, we’d got a much bigger
start—we’d be lots further away from Oakdale now.”
“We’d better stay here all day long, Ben, for anyone won’t be likely to
find us. That’s the way I did at first—hid in the daytime and traveled
at night.”
“But we brought no food, and we must have something to eat. I’m afraid
you’re hungry now, Jerry.”
“Oh, not a bit,” was the assurance. “It ain’t so hard for a feller to
go all day without eating if he only tries; I know, for haven’t I done
it lots of times! Perhaps when night comes again we’ll be able to find
something to eat somehow.”
“I have money,” said Ben. “I can buy food.”
“But if you try it now somebody who sees you may send word back to
Oakdale. Please don’t try it now, Ben, for truly I’m not hungry.
Where’s Pilot?”
For the first time they thought of the little dog, and, to their
surprise and dismay, he was gone. Ben, however, was far more concerned
than Jerry over this.
“He’ll come back,” declared the blind boy. “He’s gone to hunt for his
breakfast, and I know he’ll come back; he always does.”
They lay there for some time, talking of the past and planning for the
future. The ray of sunshine that had aroused Ben crept on across the
mow, leaving them in shadow, and presently Jerry once more betrayed
tokens of drowsiness, slumber again claiming him at last.
“Poor little chap!” murmured Ben with infinite tenderness. “You’ve had
a hard time of it, but I’m going to stick by you now and take care of
you always. I can do it, and I will.”
The silence in the barn was so profound that he could hear crickets
fiddling in the thickets of brown, rain-washed grass outside. With a
clatter of hoofs and a rumble of wheels, a horse and carriage passed on
the road near by. Ben listened till the sounds died out in the
distance, and then after a time he likewise slept once more.
It was the barking of Pilot that next aroused the brothers, and the
little dog came scrambling up onto the low mow and sniffed around them,
whining strangely. He barked again, a short, sharp note, whereupon
Jerry clutched his brother with both hands, whispering excitedly:
“Danger, Ben—danger! Pilot is trying to tell us.”
Even as these words were uttered they heard the voices of men and the
tramp of heavy feet. One of Jerry’s hands found Pilot’s collar, and
beneath that touch the dog crouched upon the hay and was still.
There seemed to be two men. “The critter sartainly come right in here,”
said one of them. “Mebbe ’tain’t the same dorg, but he answers the
deescription the Widder Jones give; and it’s mighty queer a dorg should
be hookin’ it round here, where there ain’t no houses nigher than a
quarter of a mile.”
“Where’s the beast dodged to, sheriff?” questioned the other man. “I
heared him bark arter he skipped in through the open door.”
Sheriff! Ben Stone’s heart leaped into his throat at that word, and a
shuddering sickness overcame him. He felt Jerry trembling violently at
his side. Both lay perfectly still, scarcely breathing, but unable to
repress the heavy beatings of their hearts. The men searched below, and
after a time one of them climbed upon the mow. In a few moments he
nearly trod upon them, halting to utter a shout:
“Here they be!”
As the other man came scrambling to the mow, Ben threw aside the hay
and sat up.
“What do you want?” he asked huskily.
One man, tall and thin, with a bunch of tobacco-stained whiskers on his
chin, answered immediately:
“We want you, and, by hokey, we’ve got ye!”
“Oh, Ben!” sobbed Jerry, likewise sitting up. “Oh, Ben!”
In a moment Pilot bristled and barked savagely at the men, who,
however, betrayed no shade of alarm over this demonstration.
“If I hadn’t spied that yaller cur,” said the shorter man of the two,
“we might never located them to-day. Nobody we questioned ’round here
had seen anything of ’em. You’ve got to give me the credit, sheriff.”
“That’s all right, Hubbard; you’ll git all the credit that’s comin’ to
ye, don’t worry.”
Ben had seen both men in Oakdale. The taller was William Pickle, a
deputy sheriff; the other Abel Hubbard, a constable. The deputy stooped
and fastened a strong hand on Ben’s shoulder.
“Come on,” he ordered. “You took a long walk last night; we’ll give ye
a ride to-day.”
“What are you going to do with me?”
“Goin’ to take ye back to Oakdale, of course.”
“What for? What have I done?”
“I ruther guess you know. You’re a slippery rascal, and you’ve left a
record behind ye everywhere you’ve been. Gimme the irons, Hubbard.”
There was a clanking, rattling sound as the constable brought forth a
pair of handcuffs, at sight of which all the resentment in Ben Stone’s
outraged soul rose.
“Don’t you put those things on me!” he shouted furiously. “I haven’t
done anything.”
Both men held him, and, in spite of his struggles, the manacles were
snapped upon his wrists; while Jerry, still sitting on the mow, pleaded
and sobbed and wrung his hands, the little dog vainly seeking to soothe
him by trying to lick his face.
“He’s a desp’rate character, sheriff,” said the constable. “’Twouldn’t
be safe not to iron him.”
“I ain’t takin’ no chances,” declared William Pickle grimly. “I had one
prisoner break away once, and that learnt me a lesson. Now it’s no use
to raise sech a fuss, young feller; you might jest as well take your
medicine quiet. You ought to know what alwus comes to them that plays
the tricks you’ve been up to.”
“I haven’t done anything to be arrested,” protested Ben wildly. “I have
a right to take care of my own brother, for he’s blind and can’t look
out for himself.”
“Purty good bluffer,” grinned Abel Hubbard.
“That’s all right; ’twon’t do him no good,” returned the deputy
sheriff. “Course he’s got sense enough to know anything he owns up to
may be used as evidence against him.”
Again and again Ben protested that he knew not why he had been placed
under arrest. “Why don’t you tell me?” he cried. “What’s the charge?”
“Robbery,” said Pickle; “and there’s sartainly evidence enough to put
ye behind the bars. You might jest as well come along quiet, for it
won’t do ye no good resistin’. We’d better be movin’, Hubbard.”
They dragged him down from the mow, Jerry following, dumb with anguish.
At a distance from the barn a horse, attached to a carriage, was
hitched beneath a roadside tree, and toward this conveyance the
manacled prisoner was marched between the two officers. His brain was
in a whirl, for he could not understand the meaning of this hideous
accusation against him.
“Unhitch the hoss, Hubbard,” directed the deputy sheriff. “I’ll put
this feller inter the wagon.”
“Take me with my brother!” pleaded Jerry, who had followed to the spot.
“We ain’t got no orders to take only jest him,” said William Pickle.
“The wagon ain’t roomy enough to carry you, too, and so we can’t bother
with ye. Mebbe ’twas an oversight we wa’n’t give’ orders to fetch ye,
for you might serve as a witness against him; but, having neither
authority nor room, we won’t cumber ourselves with ye.”
With the captive between himself and Hubbard, William Pickle took the
reins and turned the horse toward Oakdale. Looking back, the manacled
lad saw Jerry standing there, his face hidden in his hands, the yellow
dog gazing up sympathetically at him, a spectacle never to be
forgotten; and the frightful injustice of fate seemed to crush and
smother the last spark of hope and strength in Ben’s soul.
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