IT was the first Monday of July, and the grand inquisitors of the
county of McDowell were in laborious session. It was hot in Welch,--so
hot that the sheriff had purchased a linen coat and departed for
Atlantic City on a ten-dollar excursion, leaving the deputy, Salathiel
Jenkins, to swelter with the grand jury. So hot that J. E. B. Huron,
prosecuting attorney by selection of the Commonwealth, resorted to
expressions not quite profane but nipping close to the border. So hot
that the foreman from Charity Fork made continual odious reference
to that historic locality over which Lazarus passed in the bosom of
Abraham.
The grand jury was a body mightily out of harmony with its inquisitorial
affairs, especially on this sweltering Monday when the mercury was
mounting heavenward. The members of the grand jury had removed their
coats, they had unbuttoned their shirts, they had rolled up their
sleeves to the limit over their great brown arms. It was hot--this grand
jury. But it was jovial and good-natured, sixteen freeholders of the
bailiwick turning aside for a day to bolster up the peace and dignity of
the State. The characteristic apparel of the farmer, the hunter, and the
miner was on this grand jury, but there were no collars; not even the
“biled shirt” of notorious report. If one had spoken of a haberdasher or
essayed to enumerate his wares in the land south of Tug River, he would
have been regarded as a purveyor of “green furrin jabber,” or been
pitied as a hopeless victim of idiot mutterings.
Thus do men hoot the customs of their fellows when in conflict with
their own. One looking at this grand jury as an exhibit would have gone
away regretting that the chief fad of Delilah had not been handed down
in the county of McDowell, just as the jury would have wondered why the
funny little man divided his hair in the middle like a woman and wore a
tight band around his neck and a stiff breastplate of cloth and starch
over his ribs, when he could dress like a Christian, and be comfortable.
At two o'clock the sage body had concluded its inquisition, and was
resting ponderously while the foreman. Abe Collister, of Charity
Fork, was slowly and with infinite pain affixing his signature to the
indictments. It was no small labor for one whose fingers were thick and
broad and accustomed to implements little slighter in proportion than
the handle of an axe or the stock of a Winchester.
The facial contortions of this good freeholder as he strove in a
clerical capacity would have won for him applause and fortune and wide
repute in the cast of a comedy. It was Fate's way, better than genius
could imitate, but no audience to see.
It is the function of bodies of this sort to be severe, and it is their
way to be most amiable. The prosecuting attorney, it was maintained,
ought to know what he wanted. He was paid to know. It was his business.
If he thought it wise to send in witnesses charging one with a crime,
then the charge should be found. This conclusion was a splendid working
hypothesis, pregnant with expedition, but not quite in accord with the
ideal _jus_.
So the grand jury rested as the afternoon grew apace, while the
scripturian from Charity Fork toiled, and the prosecuting attorney
went down to his office in order to “see if there was anything else he
wanted.” It was at this hour of lull, that a nervous little man hurried
into the office presided over by the industrious daughter of the house
of McFadden, and inquired for Mr. Huron. The red genius replied that he
was busy. According to this oracle, young Mr. Huron was always busy. His
continual status was one of tireless toil,--as continuous as a mortgage,
and as tireless as a gas meter.
Just then the prosecuting attorney came out on his way to the grand jury
room. The little man rushed up and demanded an immediate audience. The
two returned to the private office and closed the door. Here the little
man looked at his watch and announced that things would have to
be rushed, and launched into the subject. He explained with almost
breathless rapidity that he was a detective from New York, representing
Loomey's Agency. As he talked, he threw back his coat revealing a
badge which Mr. Huron did not stop to examine. He said that he had been
working on the case of Brown Hirst; that he had finally discovered
that Hirst had been murdered, foully murdered by one Robert Gilmore,
president of the Octagon Coal Company; that he had the case tightened
around Gilmore beyond the remotest shadow of probability; that Gilmore,
it seemed, had by some means learned of the damning evidence gathering
against him, and was attempting to fly from the country; that he had
left Philadelphia disguised as a cattle drover, and would pass through
Chares-ton, West Virginia, at midnight on the Chesapeake and Ohio
Railroad, and if he was not then arrested, he would probably escape
entirely, or, at the least, subject his trailer to the expense and the
tedium of an extradition; hence the detective had hurried to Welch in
order to secure an indictment at once and return to Charleston in a
position to arrest the man and hold him under a legal warrant that would
be valid and unquestioned.
He explained that he must leave at three o'clock in order to reach the
Chesapeake and Ohio Railroad in time, and requested that he be permitted
to go at once before the grand-jury, which he had learned was now in
session.
The prosecuting attorney listened in astonishment, but he was a man
familiar with the startling surprises of criminal investigation, and
he set himself to act with the expedition which the matter required. He
went at once to the grand jury with the detective, and explained that he
had just received information tending to the conclusion that Brown
Hirst had been murdered; that the witness with him was John Bartlett, a
detective from New York, who had worked up the case and would give full
information concerning the facts of the crime. He then added that as Mr.
Bartlett would be compelled to leave within the hour, he would return
to his office and prepare an indictment for murder. In the meantime the
grand jury could determine whether the information was sufficient to
sustain the charge, and, if so, the indictment would be ready and Mr.
Bartlett could return to Charleston without unnecessary delay.
Then he withdrew, and the grand jury of McDowell, braced by the gust of
sudden sensation, straightway forgot how very warm it was and began to
put itself into a state of ponderous bovine expectancy.
The witness Bartlett sat down by the table, took out his watch, looked
at it anxiously, then snapped the case and returned it to his pocket.
The foreman put down his pen very carefully, mopped his wet face with
a great red cotton cloth, and strove to assume the gravity of his
position.
“Your name's Bartlett, stranger?” said the scripturian, feeling that
it was becoming for him to set the wheels of judicial investigation in
motion, but not quite certain of the method. “You are a detective man:
and I 'low you know all about this here little trouble?”
The latter part of the query was a stock question with the foreman. All
day long, every crime, from homicide to assault and battery, had been
dubbed by this arch inquisitor as “this here little trouble.” If there
was any big trouble south of Tug River, it was not deemed to be within
the purlieus of the _lex scripta_ or the _lex non scripta_ of the county
of McDowell.
The detective saw the open opportunity to thrust in his testimony as a
narrative, and seized it. He leaned over on the table, assured himself
of the attention of the jury, and began to talk.
He told how he had trailed this matter down; how the Octagon Coal
Company was financially on the verge of ruin, and it was his theory that
Gilmore, as president, had been stealing largely from the company;
that Hirst had finally suspected this theft and had summoned Gilmore to
McDowell; how the dangerous man had obeyed the summons, had quarrelled
with Hirst in the office, finally killed him, and in order to cover the
crime had carried the body to the bridge and thrown it over, arranging
the evidence to appear like a suicide. He painted in lurid colors the
desperate character of this man Gilmore; he pointed out how fearful of
arrest the murderer of Hirst was, at that very hour hurrying westward in
order, as he believed, to put himself beyond the reach of the law.
The witness talked on glib and shrewdly, and while he talked, the jury,
unfamiliar with the rules of evidence, grew indignant and bitter, and
fired with a sense of the gigantic outrage.
Presently the door opened and the prosecuting attorney entered with the
indictment.
“Are you ready to vote on the matter, gentlemen?” he asked.
The foreman nodded slowly. “I guess we are, Jeb,” he answered.
“Then,” responded the prosecuting attorney, “Mr. Bartlett and myself
will withdraw.”
The witness arose and followed Mr Huron out of the jury room.
When the door had closed, the chief inquisitor from Charity Fork picked
up the indictment., turned it over curiously in his ponderous hand, and
then laid it down on the table with the back up. Then he took up his
pen and jabbed it down into the ink pot.
“Boys,” he observed, cheerily, “the Good Book says, 'None shall escape,
no not one.' What about this here one?”
“I reckon,” drawled Uriah Coburn, sage and philosopher, and most
venerable member from Injun Run, “I reckon the Good Book air right, I
reckon we better flop him.”
“Flop” was an accurate idiom in McDowell, and, being translated, meant,
“to throw heavily.”
To this the grand jury agreed with many and various methods of assent.
So the member from Charity Fork took a new grip on his pen, thrust his
tongue out of the corner of his mouth, and slowly and with great labor
inscribed on the back of the indictment this legend, big with the
injured dignity of the Commonwealth: “A True Bill. Abraham Collister,
Foreman.”
V
AT high noon on the following day Salathiel Jenkins, chief deputy of
the absent Carter, was a voluble factor in McDowell. He explained with
many a dash of color just how “me and Bartlett” had taken the fleeing
Gilmore from a midnight train and transported him to the jail at Welch,
where he now languished. How brave they had been, how expeditious, and
how marvellously successful in each of their desperate moves. Salathiel
Jenkins was a young person who considered himself of huge importance to
the economy of nature,--an opinion with which the world at large failed
to concur. The conservative Carter had expressed it all long ago when he
remarked with immense gravity that Salathiel Jenkins was not wise. But
the deputy's potential was high, and he talked. He explained that
the prisoner had employed legal counsel, with whom he had been in
consultation since his arrival in the town. He explained that Mr.
Bartlett had advised the prosecuting attorney to force the case to a
trial at once in order to avoid an application for bail, and in order
to prevent the prisoner from being unduly assisted by any accomplice he
might have in the East.
He explained that the evidence against Gilmore was overpowering, that
there were witnesses who knew something of the matter, and he had the
subpoenas in his pocket.
He explained that John Bartlett was the greatest detective in the
Republic, and that the days on earth of Robert Gilmore were growing
lamentably short. The self-importance of young Mr. Jenkins gushed
and bubbled and expanded until it threatened to bulge his anatomical
proportions, and he talked and he talked. He descanted with acrimonious
criticism upon the fact that Mr. Huron had asked for time in which to
examine the evidence, and that he and the great Bartlett had labored to
convince him that the case should be put to trial at once, and that they
had had a lot of trouble, but that it was all right now, and when court
convened in the morning the case would be called and pushed, and
he gloried in the fact that he and Bartlett had assumed large
responsibility for this splendid expedition.
It thus came about that the court-room was so crowded on the following
morning that the judge as he came down to his bench had literally
to elbow his way through. The details of this morning's procedure
demonstrated that while the deputy Jenkins had talked he had been
telling the truth. After the docket was called, the prosecuting attorney
arose and requested that a jury be empanelled for the trial of the case
of the State vs. Gilmore.
The judge expressed some surprise at this unusual haste, and intimated
that if an objection was urged he would continue the case to a later day
of the term. To his surprise, however, counsel for Gilmore replied that
he was quite ready for trial.
Whereupon a jury was had and the case ordered to proceed. The opening
statement of the prosecuting attorney was frank. It gave the history of
the case as he had heard it from Bartlett, admitting freely that he
had been unable to investigate the matter personally, but upon his
information he was convinced that the prisoner was guilty.
To this the counsel for Gilmore replied that the State was laboring
under a stupendous delusion; that Mr. Gilmore was a gentleman of
standing, and that it would quickly appear that there was no cause for
subjecting his client to the odium of a criminal prosecution.
The spectators were not a little disgusted with the tame proceedings.
They had expected a keen and spirited struggle with the startling
thrusts and parries of a bitter legal affair. They had hoped to hear the
steel grate, and to see the blades dart forward and bend and fly back,
as the champion of the State and its enemy strove for some master
vantage. They hoped for the fierce interests and the quick sharp thrills
incident to the grim fight of a desperate criminal for his liberty and
his life, and they were disgusted.
Their strong pugnacious spirit sympathized with Gilmore and damned his
counsel. In the picturesque speech of an auditor from “Dog Skin,” “The
lawyer was a quitter.”
The case progressed with almost exasperating insipidity.
The prosecuting attorney proceeded with great deliberation, and with the
air of one who maintains a thunderbolt in reserve. He proved the death
of Brown Hirst by the coroner and others; he introduced the books of the
company showing its financial standing; and put in such other matters of
unimportant evidence as were easily at hand. To all this the counsel for
Gilmore made no objection. To the observer, he was stupidly indifferent.
The prosecuting attorney then placed the detective John Bartlett on the
stand. Bartlett explained with great volubility that he was a member of
Latency's Detective Agency; that he had learned of the mysterious death
of Brown Hirst, and hoping to obtain the reward offered by Hirst's
widow, had gone to her and requested permission to investigate the case.
He explained that he had learned that the Octagon Coal Company was in
desperate financial straits; that the president, Robert Gilmore, who
resided in the city of Philadelphia, had been in the county of McDowell
on the night of Hirst's death, and from these data he had formulated his
theory to the effect that Gilmore had been stealing from the company;
that this fact had been discovered by Hirst, and that they had come
together in McDowell for the purpose of discussing this matter; that
there the two men had quarrelled, and the result was that Hirst had been
killed and his body thrown into the river, and the evidence of suicide
manufactured by Robert Gilmore.
The detective explained further that being advised that Robert Gilmore
intended to leave Philadelphia for St. Louis, and fearing that it was
an attempt on the part of the president of the Octagon Coal Company
to escape from the country, he had hurried to McDowell and secured an
indictment.
Upon cross-examination it at once appeared that this detective had no
knowledge of any fact whatever, but was merely speaking from certain
conclusions which he was pleased to call his theory. The attorney for
the defense moved to strike out the evidence of this witness, which was
accordingly done, much to the chagrin of John Bartlett, detective, and
Salathiel Jenkins, deputy-in-extraordinary to the sheriff of McDowell.
The prosecuting attorney then proceeded to spring his sensation.
He announced to the court that during the night Gilmore had made a
confession to Mr. Jenkins, the deputy, and that he desired to have
Mr. Jenkins sworn and his testimony introduced. Accordingly the
irrepressible Jenkins, by virtue of an oath properly administered, was
transformed into a witness for the State of West Virginia.
Before the witness was permitted to launch into his marvellous story of
the self-condemnation of Robert Gilmore, the attorney for the defense
arose and demanded permission to inquire into the circumstances under
which the alleged confession had been obtained. The judge replied that
such inquiry was entirely proper, and the attorney for the defense
began.
The ways of Providence are without premonition. At the first onslaught
of the attorney for Gilmore, the importance of the testimony of
Salathiel Jenkins vanished like a New Year's resolution. Yes, he had
gone to the prisoner together with John Bartlett; he had explained
that he was the deputy sheriff of the county of McDowell; that he was a
person of influence; that the prisoner was in grave peril; and that, if
a full confession were made, he, Jenkins, would induce the authorities
of the law to deal leniently with the prisoner. He was a person of
importance, he said, and, in the absence of the sheriff, the first
guardian of all the law and order in the county of McDowell; if the
prisoner would confess, he, Salathiel Jenkins, could save him from the
hangman, and he would do it.
These were the conditions under which the alleged confession was made.
At this point in his narrative, the attorney for the prisoner stopped
the witness, and objected to the introduction of the confession as
having been improperly obtained. The court very promptly sustained the
objection, and directed the witness to stand aside.
The prosecuting attorney arose and asked the court to _nolle_ the
indictment and permit the case to be dismissed. The judge reminded him
that the case was at trial, and that such action could not now be taken;
that the request should have been made before a jury was called; it was
now too late, since the control of the cause had passed from the hands
of the State.
Young Mr. Huron, prosecuting attorney of the county of McDowell, was
lost, rudderless, upon an unknown sea. He arose and explained that he
had not had an opportunity to investigate the evidence; that he had not
spoken with the witnesses; that he had depended upon John Bartlett
and the confession made to Salathiel Jenkins in order to convict the
prisoner, and that, failing with these, he had no further evidence to
introduce.
The court interrupted this speech of explanation, and reminded the
attorney that the State could not urge such excuses; that the prisoner,
having been put to the hazard of a defense, was entitled to have his
cause legally determined; a _nolle prosequi_ could not now be entered,
and the case must proceed.
To this the young attorney, having recovered his composure, replied that
the State had nothing more to offer, and resumed his seat.
The counsel for Gilmore at once moved the court to direct a verdict of
not guilty, which was accordingly done and the prisoner discharged.
Mystic, and varied, and without premonition are the ways of Providence.
When the negro miner went down into the sunless temples of the earth on
this Wednesday of July, Salathiel Jenkins was a person of high estate,
crowding mightily the orbit of his employer. And when the negro miner
came up at evening, this same Salathiel Jenkins was a crestfallen
underling, shrinking like a rotten value. The ordeal was frightful. The
pride of young Mr. Jenkins had gone through a process of sublimation
most excruciating. And yet how abominably indifferent nature was. The
books in the office of the sheriff were the same. The trees, the river,
and indeed the entire outside world were quite as large as they had
been. Only the importance of the deputy had shrunk, and was shrinking.
Master of folly! Would it stop short of microscopic? The vice of his
yesterday loomed clear-cut like the angles of a wall. He had talked,
talked. It was the deadliest error. In the name of that notorious Simon
of infantile record, was there no God to save the witless from himself?
The crowd passed out of the court-room, and, sauntering down by the
office of the miserable deputy, paused to harpoon him as it drifted
by. The weather was fine for scaffold building, it observed. Would the
deputy spring the trap in the absence of his chief? it was interested
to know. Could he tie a hangman's knot? Would he be pleased to have the
gracious assistance of his fellows? And more ingenious proddings, while
the weary Jenkins perspired and shrunk, but was silent. This he had
learned: like as the great lessons of life by hap learned too late.
And that same night John Bartlett and Robert Gilmore hurrying eastward
in a Pullman car on the Chesapeake and Ohio Railroad remarked with large
favorable comment that the ancient doctrine of _lex vigilantibus non
dormientums subvenit_ was marvellously true in this practical time.