out of the door, while Magill pushed forward toward the coroner. For
Magill the people made way as best they could, supposing that the clerk
was one of the functionaries without whom the performance could not
proceed. The coroner had acceded to Markham's proposition and was
contriving to protract the session. Magill called Sheriff Plunkett to
him and made that worthy stand in unimportant conversation with him, so
that they two covered from all observers first Markham's descent and
then Tom's. The deputy sheriff and then his prisoner had to climb over a
hay-rack and thence down to the ground. The cow-stable was beneath that
end of the barn which jutted over a hill-side descending to a brook. As
nothing was to be seen from this stable, there was nobody in it but a
few boys.
When Mason came to say that he was ready, Markham passed out with his
prisoner and down the hill-side to the bed of the brook, where Mason had
brought the deputy's horse and old Blaze. Tom had been brought to the
inquest in a wagon; but as it was necessary to avoid the main road,
Mason had unharnessed Blaze for Tom to ride. As the hoofs of the horses
clattered down over the stones in the bed of the stream, Tom felt as a
man might who had but just eluded the coils of a boa-constrictor. In a
little while the two were galloping over the open prairie toward Moscow
by by-roads.
The prisoner's absence was observed; but, as the sheriff remained, it
was not at first suspected that he had got entirely away. People looked
for him and inquired of one another where "they had put him." At length
the testimony was all in, and the case was given to the jury. These
"good men and true," as the old English law supposes them to be, retired
for consultation; that is, they changed places with the coroner and
stood with their faces toward the wall in the corner and their backs
toward the crowd, which now buzzed like a nest of indignant
bumble-bees. After a few minutes, the jury turned and their foreman read
the verdict:
"We find that George Lockwood came to his death by being shot with
buckshot, fired from a pistol by Thomas Grayson, Junior, and we
recommend that the said Thomas Grayson be committed to answer to the
charge of murder."
When this formal condemnation had been read, the passions of the crowd
broke over all bounds, and the words of the coroner, formally ordering
the commitment of the prisoner, were not heard. Cries of "Hang him! Hang
him to the first tree!" mingled with curses, broke forth. Men swung
themselves down from the high beams and there was a rush from the mows,
while the women among the wheat-sheaves drew back in terror as they
might have done in a rising hurricane. The crowd surged hither and
thither about the outside of the barn, and surrounded the sheriff and
the coroner, demanding the prisoner. It was more than five minutes after
the verdict was in before it was believed that Tom had been taken away,
and then the mob were bewildered by the certainty that nobody had seen
him taken down the Moscow road. Foiled in their purpose, they fell away,
and the tide of passion began to ebb. But the more determined rallied
about Hogan, and agreed to meet him at the Broad Run grocery after dark,
to make arrangements for a trip to the county-seat during the night.
XVII
A COUNCIL OF WAR
As soon as Zeke had eaten the frugal supper of mush and milk that Mrs.
Britton set out for him, he sought the dilapidated little Broad Run
grocery. The building was of logs, and had a pair of deer's antlers over
the door for a sign that it was in one sense a public house. The low
door, with its threshold on the level of the ground, the one square,
dingy little window, and the shabby stick chimney, in the chinks of
which the clay plaster was cleaving, gave the place a run-down
expression. In looking at the building, one got a notion that it would
like to slink away if it could. Zeke found nobody in but the proprietor,
a boozy-headed looking man, with his hands usually in his trousers'
pockets, and his swollen eye-lids never wide open. The stock of
groceries was small; two barrels of corn-whisky and one of molasses were
the dominant elements; a quart cup and some glasses stood on a dirty
unpainted poplar counter, beside a pair of scales. The whole interior
had a harmonious air of sloth, stupidity, and malpropriety; and its
compound odors were as characteristic as indescribable. Zeke waited
about awhile, wondering that no one should have come to the rendezvous.
"Where's Jake Hogan?" he enquired of the "grocery-keeper."
"I dunno."
Zeke had anticipated this answer. The man never did know anything but
the price of his liquors. It was the safest way for one who kept such a
resort and heard so many confidences, and it was a way of answering
questions that required the least exertion.
"But I wuz to meet him here."
"Oh, you wuz!" Then, after awhile, he asked, "Been over to his house?"
"No."
The grocery-keeper did not say any more, but Zeke conjectured that the
meeting had adjourned to Jake Hogan's cabin for greater privacy. Zeke
made his way over there with much stumbling, for the night was rather a
dark one in the woods. The cabin which was now owned and occupied by
Hogan was, like most of the Broad Run dwellings, built of round logs
with the bark on; that is to say, the bark had been left on when the
house was built, but years of rain and sun had peeled off about half of
it, and left the house spotted and ragged. There was but one room, and
one might enter this without ceremony, for the door stood wide open,
though not on account of hospitality. This door was made of heavy
puncheons and had originally hung on wooden hinges, but the uppermost
hinge had come off six months before, and though Jake had "'lowed to
fix it" nearly every day since, it had not been repaired, for Hogan was
a public-spirited citizen, deeply interested in politics, and in
reformatory movements like the present one for hanging Tom Grayson; and
it was not to be expected that such a man could, in the nature of
things, spare time to put a paltry hinge on a door, when grave questions
were always likely to be mooted at the grocery. So every morning the
clumsy door was lifted aside; at bed-time it was with difficulty partly
hoisted and partly shoved back into its place. If the night was very
warm, the ceremony of closing the door was omitted. Locks were not
necessary in a neighborhood like Broad Run, where honesty was hardly a
virtue, there being so little temptation to theft. Jake's house
contained a rude home-made bedstead of poles, and two or three stools of
the householder's own manufacture. Hogan "'lowed" some day to make one
or two more stools and a table. At present, he and his wife patiently
ate from skillet and pot, until the table should be made. It was
something to have conceived the notion of a table, and with that Jake
rested. There was a large fire-place built of sticks and clay; it had
stones for andirons and was further furnished with a pot, not to mention
a skillet, which stood on two legs and a stone and had lost its handle.
Jake always 'lowed he'd get a new skillet; but he postponed it until he
should have more money than was absolutely needful to buy indispensable
clothes and whisky with. There was also a hoe, on which Mrs. Jake baked
cold water hoe-cakes when she had company to supper. For shovel, a rived
clapboard had been whittled into a handle at one end. Some previous
owner had been rich enough and extravagant enough to have the four-light
window glazed, but all the panes were now broken. An old hat, too shabby
even for Jake to wear, filled the place of one of the squares of glass;
the rest of the sash was left open for light and ventilation.
Secure as Jake and his party felt from legal interference, they had
chosen to retire to this cabin instead of remaining at the grocery. This
secrecy was rather an involuntary tribute of respect for the law than an
act of caution. Mrs. Hogan, whose household duties were of the lightest,
had been sent away, and into Jake's cabin a party of twenty had crowded,
so far as was possible for them to get in. Some stood outside of the
door, and Zeke had to find a place at the broken window in order to hear
what was going on. This was a muster of the leaders and the center of
the party; one of the "boys" had been sent to the camp-ground to seek
recruits who were not to be trusted in this council of war. The recruits
were notified to assemble at the cross-roads "'twix midnight un
moon-up."
The first that Zeke made out was that Jake was relieving his mind in a
little speech:
"D' yeh know they've gone un set up the k-yards onto us, boys? Soon's
Uncle Lazar h-yer tole me't Bob McCord ud come over h-yer a-huntin', I
know'd he wuz arter sumpin' ur nother besides b'ars. Bob's purty
tol'able cute, but he a'n't the on'y cute feller in the worl'. Me'n'
Uncle Lazar jes laid fer 'im. Ketch Jake Hogan asleep, won' cheh! Uncle
Lazar, thar, when he seen Bob a-comin' down the run weth a b'ar on 'is
shoulder, he jes' soaks 'im weth whisky, un then 'im un S'manthy worms
it out 'v 'm what he wuz a-loafin' over yer fer un not at the eenques'.
He would n' noways tell Uncle Lazar, but he's kind-uh fond uv S'manthy,
un she's smart, S'manthy is. She jes' kind-uh saf-sawdered 'im un coaxed
'im up, tell he could n' keep it in no longer, bein' a leetle meller, un
he tole 'er 't 'e wuz a-spying aroun' so's to let the shurruff know 'f
we'd got wind uv 'is plans, un 't 'e expected to have the larf on Jake
to-morry. But Uncle Lazar 'n' me 've got that fixed up, un Bob wuzn't
more'n out-uh sight afore Uncle Lazar wuz a trit-trottin' 'n 'is way,
yeh know, fer Jake Hogan's. Bob's a-comin' over to-morry to fetch back
Uncle Lazar's mar' un have the larf onto us. But he took jes' one too
many pulls at Lazar's jug." Here Jake paused to vent a laugh of
self-complacency and exultation.
"Thunder 'n' light'in', Jake," called out one of the party who stood
outside of the door, beyond the light of the flickering blaze on the
hearth, "what did Bob tell S'manthy? Why don' choo tell us, anyways?
You're a long time a-gittin' to the p'int. The business afore this yer
meetin' is to hang Tom Grayson to a short meter toon. Now you tell me,
what's Uncle Lazar's whisky-jug got to do weth that? What's the
needcessity uv so much jaw?"
"Don' choo fret the cattle now," said Jake. "You want to know what Bob
tole S'manthy? W'y ut the shurruff was a-sendin' Tom Grayson f'om the
eenques' over to Perrysburg jail to git him out-uh your way. I 'low
that's got sumpin' to do weth the business afore the meetin' hain't it?"
"Maybe he wuz a-foolin' S'manthy," said the interlocutor, in a voice a
little subdued.
"Maybe he _wuzn't_," retorted Jake.
"He wuz drunk ez a fool," piped up Uncle Lazar in a quivering treble.
"He mus' 'a' tuck 'most a quart out-uh my jug, un he could n' stan'
straight w'en 'e went away. He tuck keer never to say Perrysburg to me,
but he talked about shootin' you-all down at Moscow, jes zif
shootin'-irons wuz a-goin' to skeer sech a devilish passel uv fellers ez
you-all. I could n' git nuthin' more out 'v 'm. But I seed all the time
't they wuz sumpin' kinday kep' in, like. He on'y let on to S'manthy
arter I'd gone outay doors, un when he wuz thes chock full un one over.
Un he tied S'manthy up so orful tight about it, she kinday hated to tell
me, un I had to thes tell 'er 't she mus'."
"Jes y'all look at the case," said Jake, with a clumsy oratorical
gesture. "Tom's uncle's one uv them ar rich men what always gets the'r
own way, somehow ur nuther. That's what we're up fer. Ef we don't settle
this yer business by a short cut acrost the woods, they'll be a pack uv
lawyers a-provin' that black's white, un that killin' hain't no murder
noways, un Tom'll git off 'cause he's got kin what kin pay fer the law,
un buy up the jury liker'n not. A pore man don' stan' no kind uv a
chance in this yer dodrotted country. Down in North Kerliny, whar I come
from, 't wuz different. Now I say sass fer the goose is--"
"Aw, well, what's sass got to do weth the question, Jake? We're all in
favor uv the pore man, cause that's us," said his opponent, from outside
the door.
"Well," retorted Jake, "what would ole Tom do for young Tom 't this
time? Ainh? Jes you screw up yer thinkin' machine, ef you've got ary
one, un tell me that. Wouldn' he jes nat'rally get the shurruff to put
out to Perrysburg weth 'im, un then git a change uv venoo, un then buy
up a jury un a passel uv dodrotted lawyers un git 'im off; ur else hire
some feller to break open the jail un sen' the young scamp to t' other
side of the Mississip'? It stan's to nater 't Tom Grayson's in
Perrysburg jail to-night."
"Un it stan's to nater," said one of the company, "that Broad Run's
a-goin' to make a frien'ly visit to the nex' county to-night. Un it
stan's to nater we're goin' to settle Hank Plunkett's hash at the next
'lection fer shurruff."
"Now yer a-talkin' sense," cried another of the crowd.
As soon as it was clear that the meeting was in favor of going to
Perrysburg, the gathering began to break up, some of the men feeling by
this time a strong gravitation towards the grocery. Zeke went to Jake
Hogan and explained that he "mus' be a-goin'."
"You know," he added, "I've ruther got to steal my hoss. The ole man
Britton mout lemme have one ef the ole woman'd let _him_. But I know she
jest nat'rally won't. So I'd better go back un git to bed, then when the
folks is asleep I'll crawl out."
XVIII
ZEKE
Two things lay heavy on Zeke Tucker's mind as he hastened toward
Britton's. For the life of him he could not tell whether Perrysburg was
the destination to which Bob wished to send Jake, or whether Jake might
not be right in supposing that Bob had incautiously betrayed his own
secret. But this was Bob's affair; what troubled him most was to devise
a way by which he could get possession of a piece of candle. Mrs.
Britton would not allow a hired man to have a light. "Any man that could
n' feel 'is way into bed mus' be simple," she said.
Zeke found the old people out of bed later than usual. Mrs. Britton had
been churning, and the butter "took a con_tra_ry streak," as she
expressed it, and refused to come until she and the old man had churned
alternately for two hours. She was working the butter when Zeke came in
and sat down. Watching his chance, he managed to snatch a tiny bit of
candle-end that had been carefully laid up on the mantel-piece. But when
Mrs. Britton's lighted candle flickered in its socket, she went to get
the piece that was already in Zeke's pocket.
"I declare to goodness," she said, as she fumbled among the bits of
string and other trumpery on the shelf, "where's that piece of candle
gone to? Do you know, Cyrus?"
[Illustration: "WHERE'S THAT PIECE OF CANDLE GONE TO?"]
This question was addressed to her husband, who never did know where
anything she wanted "had gone to." But she always gave vent to her
feelings by asking him, and he always answered, as he did now, with an
impassive "No."
"Zeke, d' you see that short piece of candle that was here on the
shelf?"
Zeke rose and affected to look for it.
"I don't see nothin' uv it," he said at length.
"Well, if the rats ain't a-gittin' no better fast. Who'd a' believed
they'd 'a' got up on the shelf?" So saying, she reluctantly lighted a
fresh candle to take her butter to the spring.
By the time she was well out of the back door, Zeke, with one eye on the
lethargic Britton, who was now a-doze in his chair, raked a hot coal
from the ashes, and blowing it to a flame lighted his bit of candle with
it. Then he quickly climbed to the loft, and opening the window-shutter
put the candle in the glassless window on the side of the chimney toward
Perrysburg. He was shivering for fear the old woman would see the light,
though she was at the other end of the house, and he was yet more afraid
that Bob would not see it before it should burn out. Hearing, at length,
the crack of Bob's rifle, he extinguished the expiring wick and slipped
down the ladder without arousing the slumbering old man.
"I expect they's another man shot," said Mrs. Britton, when she came
back. If she had ever been a planter's wife her pronunciation had
probably degenerated, though her archaic speech was perhaps a shade
better than the "low down" language of Broad Run.
"Why?" asked Zeke.
"Oh! I heerd a gun go off, un guns ain't common at 9 o'clock at night.
An' I thought I saw a flicker uv light in our loft jus' now, but it went
out as soon as the gun went off. It made me feel creepy, like the house
was ha'nted." And she again began to look on the mantel-piece for the
lost bit of candle which she was loath to give up.
"I'm a-goin' to bed," said Zeke, "ghos's ur no ghos's"; and he again
mounted the ladder. After he had lain on the bed with his clothes on for
an hour, keeping himself awake with difficulty, he felt sure that the
old couple below stairs must be sound asleep. He softly opened the
square window, the wooden shutter of which made no sound, as it swung on
hinges of leather cut from an ancient boot-top. Then he climbed out on
the projecting ends of the sticks which composed the chimney, and
cautiously descended to the ground.
"Cyrus!" said Mrs. Britton to her husband; "didn't you hear that noise?"
"What noise?"
"That scratchin' kind-uh noise inside of the chimbley."
"No, I don't hear nothin'"; and the old man made haste to resume his
sleep where he had left off.
"I do believe this house is ha'nted," sighed Mrs. Britton to herself.
The next morning when she woke up she called out, according to her wont,
to the hired man in the loft: "Zeke! Zeke! O Zeke!"
She got no reply. Vexed of all things that a hired man should lose a
minute of time, she called again in vain. A minute later she was about
to get up and go to the ladder so as to be better heard, when there came
to her the sound of Zeke chopping wood at the back door.
"Well, ef the world ain't a-comin' to 'n end, when Zeke Tucker gits up
an' goes to choppin' of 'is own accord!"
When Zeke came in to breakfast, she said: "You're out bright and airly
this mornin."
"Yes; I could n' sleep."
"D' you hear that scratchin' in the chimbley?"
"Ya-as," said Zeke, with hesitation. He was relieved that the
conversation should be broken at this point by the entrance of the old
man from the stable.
"Zeke," said Britton, as he drew his chair to the table, "what's the
matter with ole Gray?"
"I never noticed nothin' when I gin him 'is oats. But 't wuzn't fa'rly
light then."
"He's been rode. They's sweat marks onto him, un the saddle's wet yet."
The old woman put down her knife and fork. "That's witch-work," she
said. "First, the butter wouldn't come, then I lost that piece of
candle; un it's tee-totally gone too. Now rats don't never git up onto
that shelf. Then I see a flicker of light in the loft while I was
puttin' away the butter, an' you 'n' Zeke a-settin' h-yer by the fire.
Then I wuz waked up by that scritch-scratchin' soun' in the chimbley,
fer all the world like somebody a-climbin' down into the room, though
they wa'n't nobody clum down, fer I listened. It kep' Zeke awake all
night an roused 'im out airly this mornin'. Th' ain't nothin' short of
witch-work gits Zeke up an' sets him to choppin' wood 'thout callin'.
An' it's been a-ridin' ole Gray. Maybe the ghost of that feller that wuz
shot over 't the camp-meetin' 's a-ha'ntin' roun' the country, like. I
don' b'lieve it'll ever be quiet tell the feller that shot 'im's hung."
The old man was very taciturn, and Zeke could not divine whether he was
impressed by his wife's mysterious "it," or whether, suspecting the
truth about old Gray, he thought best to say nothing. For if anything
should set Mrs. Britton going she would not stop scolding for days, and
Britton knew well that Zeke would not be the chief sufferer in such a
tempest.
As soon as he had eaten his breakfast Zeke went out to dig early
potatoes in Britton's farther field. About 9 o'clock a clod of earth
came flying past his legs and broke upon his hoe. He turned to look, and
saw another one thrown from the corn-field near by ascending in a
hyperbolic curve and then coming down so near to his head that he moved
out of the way. He laid down his hoe and climbed the fence into the
corn-field, which at this time of the year was a dense forest of green
stalks higher than a man's head. Bob McCord was here awaiting Zeke. He
had left Lazar Brown's horse tied in a neighboring papaw patch.
"Did you go to Perrysburg?" began Bob.
"Yes," said Zeke. "You played it onto 'em good. I wuz ruther more 'n
half fooled myself. I 'lowed sometimes ut maybe S'manthy _had_ come it
over you."
Bob laughed all through his large frame.
"When we got to Perrysburg un come to wake up the shurruff he wuz
skeered, un ast what 't wuz we wuz arter.
"'That murderer,' says Jake Hogan, like a ghos' fum behin' his
false-face.
"'What murderer?' says the shurruff. 'They hain't no murderer in the
jail.'
"'They hain't, sonny?' says Jake, weth _sech_ a swing. 'You ketch us
with yer dodrotted foolin',' says he; 'we hain't the kind to be fooled.
We know what we're about afore we begin, we do. We hain't the sort to be
tuck in by lawyers nur nobody else,' says he.
"'I tell you they hain't no murderer h-yer,' says the shurruff, says he.
"'Tie 's han's, boys,' says Jake, in Jake's way, yeh know, like as if he
wuz king uv all creation."
"Weth Eelenoys throwed in like a spool uv thread, to make the bargain
good," suggested Bob, losing all prudence and giving way to a long,
unrestrained peal of laughter.
"Jes' so," said Zeke. "When we come to the jail un got the door open
they wuzn't nobody thar but Sam Byfiel', the half-crazy feller that wuz
through h-yer last ye'r a-playin' his fool tricks, un a man name'
Simmons, as had stole half a cord uh wood. Simmons was _that_ skeered
when we come in, 't 'e got down on 'is knees un begged, un whined, un
sniffled, un says, 'Boys,' says he, 'I hain't noways purpared to die.
Don't hang me, un I won't never steal nothin' ag'in,' says he."
"I'll bet Byfiel' wuzn't skeered," said Bob.
"Not _him_. He'd been a-playin' the angel Gaberl about Perrysburg weth a
long tin horn, blowin' it into people's winders at midnight, just to
skeer 'em un hear 'em howl, un the watchman had jugged him. Jake says,
says he, 'Sam Byfiel', tell us whar that air murderer is.' Jake put 'is
voice away down in 'is boots,--it sounded like a mad bull a-bellerin'.
But Sam jest lif's Jake's false-face, this away, un peeps under, un
says, 'Jake Hogan,' says 'e, 'I knowed it mus' be you by yer big-feelin'
ways. It's mighty hard fer a man that's a nateral born to make a fool uv
hisself; but, Jake, I'll be derned ef you hain't gone un done it this
time.'
"'Hain't Tom Grayson h-yer?' says Jake.
"'No,' says Byfiel'. 'Somebody's been a-greenin' on you, Jake; Tom
hain't never been h-yer,' says he.
"'Aw, you're a lunatic, Sam,' says Jake.
"'Ditto, brother,' says Byfiel'.
"The shurruff's folks had run out, un 'bout this time they'd began to
raise the neighbors, un somebody run to the Prisbaterian church un
commenced to pull away on the new church bell, 't a man Down East sent
'em. We thought we'd better be a-lightin' out mighty soon. But time we
wuz in our saddles crack went a gun fum behin' the court-house. I s'pose
't wuz shot into the air to skeer us; but Jake, like a fool, out weth
his pistol un shot back. The Perrysburg people wuz like a bee-gum that's
been upsot. The people was now a-runnin', some one way un some t'other,
un more guns wuz fired off fum summers,--we never stopped to eenquire
fum whar, tell we'd got safe acrost the county line. One uv them guns
must 'a' been a rifle, un it must 'a' been shot in bloody yarnest, fer I
heerd the bullet whiz."
"You never stopped to say good-bye!" said Bob.
"Not me! Ole Gray wuz the very fust hoss that pulled hisself acrost the
corporation line. I didn' seem to feel no interest in stayin', noways."
"What's Jake goin' to do nex' thing?" asked Bob, not yet recovered from
his merriment.
"Wal, about half the fellers rode straight on home un wouldn't talk to
Jake at all, 'cept maybe to cuss 'im now un then fer a fool, on'y fit to
hole a snipe-bag fer Bob McCord. They swore they wuz done go'n' under
sech as _him_. But Jake ain't the kind to gin it up; he says 'f 'e kin
get a dozen he's boun' to go a Sunday night when they'll be lots of
fellers about the camp-meetin', un some uh them'll go too, maybe."
"We'll have to see about that," said Bob, getting up. "But you stick to
Jake, closte ez a cuckle-burr."
"All right," said Zeke, remembering his potato patch and looking
ruefully at the ascending sun as he hurried back to his work.
Bob went on his way and returned the horse to Lazar Brown's house; but
Uncle Lazar was nowhere to be seen, and S'manthy was evidently out of
humor.