THE TRIUMPH OF SMALLBONES
Peter had been talking. Now he paused listening. Jake and Gay turned
their eyes toward the swing doors. Silas Rocket, who had availed
himself of the respite to wipe a few glasses, paused in his work. He,
too, was listening. But the almost mechanical process of cleaning
glasses was resumed at once. Not even life or death could long
interfere with his scheme of money-making. He had seen too much of the
forceful side of his customers in his time to let such a thing as a
simple murder interfere with his long established routine.
It was Jim who now spoke. He was the calmest of those present, except
perhaps Silas Rocket. He appeared to have no fear of the consequences
of this affair to himself. Perhaps it was the confidence of innocence.
Perhaps it was the great courage of a brave man for whom death--even a
disgraceful death--has no terrors. Perhaps it was the knowledge of
what he was saving the woman he loved, which served to inspire him.
His eyes were even smiling as he looked into Peter's.
"They're coming along," he said, with one ear turned toward the door.
Peter nodded.
"It's them, sure," he said.
"I ken hear the buckboard. It's movin' slow," said Gay solemnly.
"Which means they got him," added Jake conclusively.
"We'll have a drink first," said Jim. Then he added whimsically,
"Maybe we'll need it."
The silent acceptance of his invitation was due to the significance of
their host's position. And afterward the glasses were set down empty
upon the counter, without a word. Then Jim turned to Peter, and his
manner was a trifle regretful. But that was all. An invincible purpose
shone in his dark eyes.
"They'll be here in a minute, Peter," he said, with a shadowy smile.
"I've got a word to say before they get around. We've been good
friends, and now, at the last, I'd hate you to get a wrong notion of
things. I call God to witness that I did not kill Will Henderson. It's
because we're friends I tell you this, now. It's because these folk
are going to hang me. You can stake your last cent on that being the
truth, and if you don't get paid in this world, I sure guess you will
in the next. Well--here they are."
As he finished speaking the doors were pushed open and men began to
stream in. It was a curiously silent crowd. For these men a death,
even a murder, had little awe. They understood too well the forceful
methods of the back countries, where the laws of civilization had
difficulty in reaching. They had too long governed their own social
affairs without appeal to the parent government. What could Washington
know of their requirements? What could a judge of the circuit know of
the conditions in which they lived? They preferred their own methods,
drastic as they were and often wrong in their judgments. Yet, on the
whole, they were efficacious and salutary. Life and death were small
enough matters to them, but the career of a criminal, and its swift
termination, short, sharp and violent, was of paramount importance. It
was the thought that they believed there was justice, their own
justice, to be dealt out to a criminal that night, that now depressed
them to an awed silence.
Three or four men placed several of the small tables together, forming
them into a sort of bier. Then they stood by while others pushed their
way in through the swing doors. Finally, two men stood just inside,
holding the doors open, while two of the ranchmen carried in their
ominous, silent burden. Doc Crombie was the last but one to enter. The
man who came last was the evil-minded hardware dealer. His eyes were
sparkling, and his thin lips were tightly compressed. Now he had an
added score to pay off. Nor was he particular to whom he paid it.
The body of the murdered man was laid upon the tables, and Silas
Rocket provided a shroud.
Jim Thorpe watched these proceedings with the keenest interest. Never
for a moment did he remove his eyes from the dead man, until the dirty
white tablecloth had been carelessly thrown over him. He had in his
mind many things during those moments. At first he had looked for his
own telltale knife. But evidently it had been removed. There was no
sign of its hideous projecting handle as he had last seen it. Neither
had he noticed any one bearing his blood-stained handkerchiefs. He
thought that Doc Crombie had possessed himself of these things, and
expected he would produce them at the proper moment.
Somehow he felt a curious regret that Will was dead. It was not a
mawkish sentimentality; he made no pretension, even to himself, that
the regard that had once been his for Will still existed. But he was
sorry. Sorry that the man's road had carried him to such disaster. He
remembered Peter's definition of the one-way trail. Will's path had
certainly been a hard one, and he had traveled every inch of it
with--well, he had traveled it.
Then came the thought, the ironical thought, that after all their
paths were not so very wide apart now. They had grown up together, and
now, at the end, in spite of everything, death was bringing them very
near together again.
But his reflections were cut short by the sharp voice of the doctor.
His authority was once more undisputed. He stood out in the centre of
the room, a lean, harsh figure. His eagle face, with its luminous
eyes, was full of power, full of a stern purpose.
"Folks," he began, "murder has been done--sheer, bloody murder. When
fellers gits busy with guns, an' each has his chance, an' one of 'em
gits it bad, we call that killing. Fair, square killing, an' I guess
we treat it accordin'. But this is low-down murder. We was told it was
a stabbing, but I've cast my eyes over the body, an' I seem to see a
different story. Judging by what I found, I'd say Will Henderson was
hit a smashin' blow by something heavy, which must sure 'a' knocked
him senseless, an' then the lousy skunk did the rest of his work with
a knife. Gents, I allow this murder was the work of a dirty, cowardly,
mean-spirited skunk who hadn't the grit to face his enemy decently
with a gun, and who doesn't need a heap of mercy when we get him.
That's how I read the case. All of you have seen the body, so I need
say no more on this."
Then he turned his keen eyes on Jim Thorpe, who had listened closely.
"You, Jim Thorpe, brought us word of this doing. An' in the interests
of justice to his widow, to your feller citizens, your duty's clear.
You got to tell us right here everything you know about Will
Henderson's death."
There was an ominous pause when the doctor finished speaking, while
all eyes were focused upon Jim's face. There was no doubt but that the
majority were looking for signs of that guilt which in their hearts
they believed to be his.
But they were doomed to disappointment. They certainly saw a change of
expression, for Jim was puzzled. Why had Doc Crombie not produced the
knife and the handkerchiefs? But perhaps he wanted his story first,
and then would confront him with the evidence against him. Yet his
manner was purely judicial. It in no way suggested that he possessed
damning evidence.
He looked fearlessly around, and his gaze finally settled upon the
doctor's face.
"I'm puzzled, Doc," he said quietly. "There's certainly something I
can't make out. I told you all I had to tell," he went on. "I was out
on the south side of that bluff, for reasons which I told Anthony
Smallbones were my own business, when I found Will Henderson lying
dead in the grass, a few feet from some bushes. I did not at first
realize he was dead. I saw the wound on his jaw, and, touching it,
discovered the bone was broken. Then I discovered that his clothes
were torn open, his chest bare, and a large knife, such as any
prairie man carries in his belt, was sticking in his chest, plunged
right up to the hilt." There was a stir, and a murmur of astonishment
went round the room. "Wait a moment," he continued, holding up his
hand for silence. "I discovered more than that. I found two
handkerchiefs, a white one, ripped into a rough bandage, and a silk
neck scarf, such as many of us wear, was folded up into a sort of pad.
Both were blood-stained, and looked as though they had been used as
bandages for his face. They were lying a yard away from the body. Have
you got those things, because, if so, they ought to be a handsome clue
for sure?"
But by the expression of blank astonishment, even incredulity on the
doctor's face, and a similar response from most of the onlookers, it
was obvious that this was all news to them.
Doc shook his head.
"Ther' was no knife--no scarves. But say," he asked sharply, "why
didn't you speak of 'em before?"
"It didn't occur to me. I thought you'd sure find 'em. So--I guess
they've been removed since. Probably the murderer thought them
incriminating----"
"A hell of a fine yarn." It was Smallbones' voice that now made itself
heard. "Say, don't you'se fellows see his drift? It's a yarn to put
you off, an' make you think the murderer's been around while he's been
in here. Guess him an' his friend Peter's made it up while I----"
"After I threw you out of here," interjected Peter coldly. "Keep your
tongue easy, or I'll have to handle you again."
But Smallbones' fury got the better of him, and he meant to annoy
Peter all he could.
"Yes, I dessay you would. But you can't blind us like a lot of gophers
with a dogone child's yarn like that. If those things had been there
they'd ha' been there when Will was found by Doc---- Say," he cried,
turning with inspiration upon Jim, "wher's your knife? You mostly
carry one. I see your sheath, but ther' ain't no knife in it."
He pointed at the back of Jim's waist, which was turned toward him.
Every eye that could see the sheath followed the direction of the
accusing finger, and a profound sensation stirred those who beheld.
The sheath was empty.
Smallbones' triumph urged him on.
"Say, an' where's your neck-scarf? You allus wear one, sure. An' mebbe
you ain't got your dandy white han'k'chief. I 'lows you're 'bout the
on'y man in these parts 'cep' Abe Horsley as fancies hisself enough to
wear one. Wher's them things, I ask you? Say," he went on after a
moment's pause, during which Jim still remained silent, "I accuse this
lousy skunk publicly of murderin' Will Henderson. He's convicted
hisself out o' his own mouth, an' he's got the man's blood on his
hands. Jim Thorpe, you killed Will Henderson!"
The little man's fervor, his boldness, his shrewd argument carried his
audience with him, as he stood pointing dramatically at the accused
but unflinching man. Doc Crombie was carried along with the rest even
against his own judgment. Peter Blunt and Angel Gay, with Jake Wilkes,
were the only men present who were left unconvinced. Peter's eyes were
sternly fixed on the beady eyes of Smallbones. Gay, too, in his slow
way, was furious. But Jake would not have believed Jim had committed
the murder even if he had seen him do it, he detested Smallbones so
much.
But everybody was waiting for Jim's reply to the challenge. And it
came amidst a deathly silence. It came with a straightforwardness that
carried conviction to three of his hearers at least, and set the
redoubtable doctor wondering if he were dreaming.
"You're quite right I usually wear all those things you say, but I
haven't got them with me now, because"--he smiled into the little
man's eyes, "the particular articles I spoke of were all mine, and,
apparently, now they've been stolen."
"Guilty, by Gad!" roared Smallbones.
And some one near him added--
"Lynch him! Lynch him!"
How that cry might have been taken up and acted upon, it needs little
imagination to guess. But quick as thought Doc Crombie came to Jim's
rescue. He silenced the crowd with a roar like some infuriated lion.
"The first man that moves I'll shoot!" he cried, behind the brace of
leveled pistols he was now holding at arm's length.
He stood for a few seconds thus till order was restored, then he
quietly returned one of his guns to its holster, while the other he
retained in his hand. He turned at once to Jim.
"You're accused of the murder of Will Henderson by Smallbones," he
said simply. "You've got more of this story back of your head. You've
now got your chance of ladlin' it out to clear yourself. You'd best
speak. An' the quicker the better. You say the knife that killed him
was yours. Yes?"
The man's honest intention was obvious. He wanted to give Jim a
chance. He was doing his utmost. But he knew the temper of these men,
and he knew that they were not to be played with. It was up to the
accused man to clear himself.
Peter Blunt anxiously watched Jim's face. There was something like
despair in his honest eyes. But he could do nothing without the
other's help.
Jim looked straight into the doctor's eyes. There was no defiance in
his look, neither was there anything of the guilty man in it. It was
simply honest.
"I've told you all I have to tell," he said. "The knife that killed
Will Henderson was my knife. But I swear before God that I am innocent
of his death!"
The doctor turned from him with an oath. And curiously enough his oath
was purely at the man's obstinacy.
"Fellers," he said, addressing the assembly, "I've been your leader
for a goodish bit, an' I don't guess I'm goin' back on you now. We got
a code of laws right here in Barnriff with which we handle sech cases
as this. Those laws'll take their course. We'll try the case right
here an' now. You, Smallbones, will establish your case." Then he
turned to Jim. "If there's any feller you'd like----"
"I'll stand by Jim Thorpe," cried Peter Blunt, in a voice that echoed
throughout the building.
Doc Crombie nodded.
"Gentlemen, the court is open."