When Abner Pickett took down his gun from its hooks that Saturday
night, and examined it, he had already determined what he should do
if any attempt were made to grade the bed for a railroad through his
graveyard; and his determination was in no way changed as he thought
over the situation in his calmer moments on Sunday.
Monday was the first day of October. The rain had washed the air and
left it clear and invigorating. The autumn foliage was in the height of
its beauty. It was a day in which to live out of doors and be thankful
for life; a day in which to immerse one’s self in the enjoyment of the
riches of nature. But for Dannie Pickett there was no pleasure. He
did not see the glorious coloring on the hills; he did not feel the
exhilaration of the draughts of pure air that went into his lungs. He
was too deeply absorbed in the consideration of the situation which his
rash folly had brought about, to see or hear or feel anything else in
his environment. If he had not removed that line of stakes, the second
survey would not have been made; his grandfather would not have been
deceived into selling, for a song, property rights worth many hundreds
of dollars; the rival railroad companies would not have begun the
battle for the gap, and, finally, the county jail would not have been
staring him in the face, as it had been during the last four days and
nights. For, as he saw and appreciated more and more the far-reaching
and disastrous consequences of his unpardonable act, leading every
day to deeper complications and graver troubles, he realized more and
more deeply how serious his offence had been, he became more and more
apprehensive of the punishment he would have to face if his crime
should become known. He spent his days in misery and his nights in
dread, starting at every footfall, losing his breath at every sudden
sound, awaiting, with awful expectancy, the next development in the
situation which had become, for him, a tragedy.
It was with welcome ears, therefore, that he heard his grandfather say
that he need not go to school that Monday morning. He felt that he
would be stifled in the schoolroom, that he must be in the open air,
that he must be on the ground ready for any emergency.
After breakfast the old man strapped on his powder-horn and pouch,
took down his gun, loaded it, and invited Dannie to accompany him.
Aunt Martha watched them from the kitchen window, as they went down
the path, her eyes filled with tears and her breast with dreadful
apprehension. But she knew that it was of as little use to attempt to
turn Abner Pickett from a purpose once formed as it was to try to send
the Delaware River flowing back northward in its bed. As Dannie and
his grandfather walked down the road, they came upon Gabriel who stood
watching the engineers at their work--the same engineers who had made
their survey that fateful afternoon. They had relocated their line and
replaced their stakes up through the gap and across the graveyard, and
were now working between the road and the brook. Abner Pickett paid
little heed to them as he passed by.
“Come along, you fool!” he said to Gabriel, and the three walked on
down the road. When they reached the entrance to the graveyard they
opened the gate and went in. A fresh stake had been planted on the
knoll in the very spot from which Dannie had removed one on that
eventful night. It caught Abner Pickett’s eye at once. He strode to it,
tore it from its fastening in the soil, and, with a mighty sweep of his
arm, sent it whirling into the brook. Dannie looked on in wide-eyed
amazement, but he said not a word. While all three knew that the object
of the visit to the graveyard was to prevent, if possible, the entry
into the lot of the workmen who were expected that morning to begin the
grading of the railroad, not one of them mentioned it. Abner Pickett
was not in a mood to talk, and the others dared not speak of it. Even
as they stood there, the contractor, with his foreman and his gang of
laborers, came up through the glen in wagons, with their carts, mules,
tools, and appliances for grading. Between the mouth of the gap and
the east wall of the graveyard, they halted and began to unload their
things, while the contractor and foreman made a hasty examination of
the stakes that had already been marked for grade. Abner Pickett walked
deliberately to the east wall and seated himself on it, his gun resting
carelessly in his lap. Dannie and Gabriel followed him, and took
similar positions at his side.
“We’ll have to begin in the graveyard,” said McDonough, the contractor,
“and cut down that knoll and carry it east here for this
fill.”
“Then the first thing to do,” replied the foreman, “is to tear away
that wall, about where them fellows are sitting on it.”
“Exactly. There’s where the line is. Bring your men up and let ’em go
at it. Come, gentlemen, you’ll have to vacate your seats up there; we
want those stones you’re sitting on.”
This last remark was addressed to Abner Pickett and the man and boy who
kept him company.
“I’m quite comfortable here,” replied the old man; “I don’t think I
shall move for the present. Besides, these stones belong to me; an’ so
does the graveyard an’ the graves, and I don’t intend you shall touch
any of ’em.”
McDonough looked up at him in unfeigned surprise.
“Are you Abner Pickett?” he asked.
“That’s my name.”
“I don’t understand what you mean by this conduct, Mr. Pickett. I have
your agreement of sale here, conveying a right of way through the
graveyard to this company. It was duly signed, sealed, and delivered. I
don’t know that you have any right whatever to interfere with us now.”
“There are several things about this business that I reckon you don’t
know,” replied the old man. “For instance, you don’t know that that
agreement was got from me by deception and fraud, and ain’t worth the
paper it’s written on. I repeat that I intend to hold possession of
this lot.”
McDonough continued to protest.
“I cannot help any misunderstanding between you and the company, Mr.
Pickett. If they’ve done you any damage, they’re good for it. I’ve
taken this section to grade, and I’ve got to begin there in that
graveyard; so you might as well clear the way for us. We intend to
proceed.”
“And I intend you shan’t.”
The old man laid his hand significantly on the barrel of his gun as he
spoke.
“Do you mean to say you would shoot?”
“Ay! an’ kill to save this holy place from desecration.”
“Don’t you know I could have you arrested for threats? Don’t you know
what the penalty is for murder?”
“Keep your distance and there’ll be no murder. Come ten foot closer
an’ there’ll be blood spilt just as sure as the sun shines above you.”
The red flush had mounted again into Abner Pickett’s face and neck.
He raised his gun from his lap, and held it threateningly in his
hands. Dannie, frightened at the tragic outlook, moved closer to his
grandfather, but held his tongue. He knew that it would be worse than
useless for him to speak. The contractor, too, had his blood up. He
was not easily cowed. His experience in railroad building had been too
extended to permit him to yield readily to an obstacle of this kind.
He turned aside to consult with his foreman. Nicholson, the engineer,
observing the situation from a distance, hurried back with his men. The
laborers had already congregated about their employer. Abner Pickett,
with grim determination stamped upon every line of his face and
every muscle of his body, still sat upon the wall holding his gun in
readiness for action. Dannie, white faced and fearful, but with never
a thought of desertion, sat beside his grandfather, while Gabriel,
standing near by, gripped two cobblestones tightly in his hands.
[Illustration: “Abner Pickett sat upon the wall, holding his gun in
readiness for action.”]
The consultation between Nicholson and McDonough was short but
animated, and the decision reached was evidently concurred in by the
foreman and his men. McDonough advanced a step and said:--
“Mr. Pickett, we intend to enforce our right to take possession of
that lot and begin our work. If you interfere with us, you will be
responsible for the consequences.”
To all of which Abner Pickett made no reply. He simply held his gun
with a firmer grasp, and the lines of determination about his mouth
grew more noticeably distinct.
After waiting a moment in vain for an answer the opposing forces held
another brief consultation to decide upon the best plan of action.
Then they divided into three groups led respectively by Nicholson,
McDonough, and the foreman. It was evident that they intended to storm
the graveyard from three sides. But, before they could move to their
respective positions, a two-horse buggy, containing two men, dashed
down the road and drew up at the corner of the graveyard. One of the
men leaped from the wagon and approached McDonough.
“Are you the contractor having in charge the grading of this section of
the Delaware Valley and Eastern Railroad?” he inquired.
“That’s what I’m here for,” responded McDonough, “though I don’t seem
to be getting to work very fast.”
The man turned to Nicholson.
“And are you the engineer having in charge the fixing of permanent
location and grades?”
“That’s about it,” replied Nicholson.
“Then, gentlemen, permit me to introduce myself to you as the sheriff
of Meredith County, and to serve on each of you this writ.”
He bowed and handed to each of them a document bearing an official seal.
“It is a writ of injunction,” he continued, “from the court of Meredith
County, issued at the instance of the Tidewater and Western Railroad
Company, commanding and enjoining the Delaware and Eastern Railroad
Company, its agents, employees, contractors, and engineers, and all and
every of you, that you do from henceforth altogether absolutely desist
from locating, staking out, grading, or building a line of railroad
through Pickett’s Gap in said county, or along or upon the approaches
thereto; which gap and approaches have been duly appropriated,
condemned, and acquired for railroad purposes by the said Tidewater and
Western Railroad Company.”
The sheriff rolled out the words of the injunction with solemn and
imposing voice and manner, then he folded his own copy of the writ and
returned it to his pocket.
“I believe I have performed my duty, gentlemen,” he said politely, “and
I wish you both a very good day!”
Then he went up to where Abner Pickett was still seated on the wall
and shook the old man’s hand with hearty vigor. He had taken in the
situation at a glance.
“Don’t blame you one bit, Mr. Pickett,” he said. “I’d ’a’ done the same
thing in your place.”
“Thank you,” responded the old man, quietly, “I’m simply doing my duty
by the dead.”
When the writs of injunction were handed to McDonough and Nicholson,
they stared at each other blankly for a moment; then the contractor,
who had been through similar experiences before, remarked quietly that
it looked as if the game was up.
“I don’t mind a little thing like an old man with a gun,” he said to
Nicholson, when the sheriff had finished reading the injunction, “but
when I run up against a writ like this, I’m through so long as the writ
is in force. I undertook to disobey one once up on the Susquehanna
road, and it cost me fifteen hundred dollars before I got through with
the job. We learn by experience.”
Nicholson was thoroughly annoyed and upset. He did not understand why
the service of a paper like that, on a contractor and engineer, should
have the effect of blocking a railroad; and he said so in no very
polite language. McDonough smiled, and began to give orders to his men
about loading up the tools again.
“I don’t propose to get into a controversy with the court,” he said;
“we might as well take our things back to the river. Judging from past
experiences we won’t be able to resume work here before snow flies,
anyway.”
He started back toward the mouth of the gap. The sheriff, having just
entered his wagon and turned his horses’ noses westward, bowed politely
as the contractor passed.
Nicholson was still standing where the sheriff found him, studying
angrily the contents of the writ. After a minute or two, he folded the
paper savagely, thrust it into his pocket, and started back up the road.
When Gabriel, who had stood for fifteen minutes in complete readiness
to do his employer’s will, saw the backs of their enemies turned to
them and in retreat, he could not repress some outward manifestation
of his inward exultation; whereupon he drew his faithful horn from his
pocket, and blew on it a blast that sent the echoes tumbling through
the glen.
“Put up that fool’s plaything!” commanded the old man.
Ten minutes later Dannie and his grandfather walked back up the road
with far lighter hearts than when they came down. The graveyard had
been saved, at least for the present, from despoliation, and Abner
Pickett felt confident that through the medium of the law and its
peaceful operation, he could defeat any future plans of aggression by
the railroad companies. But, after the stirring events of the first day
of October, there was no attempt on the part of either company to begin
the construction of a railroad, or to take possession of any property
along the line of survey. All parties were quietly awaiting the
determination of the equity suit begun by the injunction proceedings.
And that suit could not come on for trial before the December term of
court.
But for Dannie the situation remained practically as complicated and as
harassing as ever. The service of the injunction and the frustration
of the attempt to tear up the soil of the graveyard had given him only
temporary relief. The main issue was yet to be determined; and his
responsibility for the whole dreadful state of things, and his daily
liability to be called to account for his unaccountable conduct, rested
an ever increasing burden on his mind. It was with him daytime and
night-time. Never, not even for a moment, could he shake it off. Many a
night he awoke from some dreadful dream of incarceration in the county
jail, or, still worse, of fierce denunciation from his grandfather,
or, bitterest of all, of sorrowing reproof from the engineer who had
been his companion on the night walk up the glen. Many a night, in his
wakeful hours, he determined that when morning broke he would go to his
grandfather, to Aunt Martha, to the engineer, to somebody, and make
a clean breast of the whole wretched business. But when day dawned,
and people were about their usual avocations, and things wore such a
different complexion, his resolution always failed him, and the secret
remained still in his breast. He plied himself constantly, too, with
good reasons and excuses for keeping it. If his conduct should become
known, then there would be no further question about the prior right
of the D. V. & E. company to the location through the gap. Nicholson
would be triumphant. His friend, the engineer of the night survey,
would be made the subject of jest and ridicule. His grandfather would
most likely be held to his agreement to sell a right of way through the
graveyard, and sooner or later the soil of that sacred place would be
torn and trampled with the ploughs and picks and spades of a score of
swarthy and unfeeling workmen. And then, after it was known, to meet
the looks and words of those who had known and loved him,--Gran’pap,
Aunt Martha, the engineer, Gabriel, even Max, the dog. That would be
terrible. And always, as he pondered, there was before him, sharply or
dimly, a vision of the gray and forbidding front of the county jail
with its stone-paved corridor and its iron-barred cells. It cannot be
denied that personal fear was a prime factor in his mind. He was but
human and a boy.
Yet his conscience urged him always to confess. There was one phase
of the situation, indeed, against which his conscience constantly
rebelled. The D. V. & E. people were not now claiming the last line
of stakes as their own, but they were alleging, by inference, if not
directly, that the stakes set by Nicholson were removed in the night
by the engineer of the T. & W. before he replaced them with his own.
To meet this charge there was only the declaration of the members of
the corps that made the night survey that there were no stakes in
the gap when they went through. And against their contention was the
impossibility of explaining in any other way how the evidences of
Nicholson’s work could have so completely vanished between six o’clock
and midnight of the same evening.
It cut Dannie to the heart to hear this charge made and reiterated
against the man who, in the short space of an hour, in the gray of
one morning, had taken so powerful a hold upon his fancy, his boyish
admiration, his heart-deep affection. Try as he would he could not rid
himself of the vision of those clear blue eyes looking him through in
sorrowful reproof. And yet--and yet he could not bring himself to an
acknowledgment of his fault. Oh, those were wretched, dreadful autumn
days.
Now and again Aunt Martha tried to comfort him. She saw plainly enough
that something was preying on his mind, and in her gentle, unobtrusive
way she gave him opportunity to confide in her, but thus far she had
not been gratified by the first whisper of his trouble.
Abner Pickett, too, saw that the boy was suffering, but he imagined
that it was from some physical disorder; and one day, when Dr. Chubbuck
was driving by, he insisted that Dannie should submit to an examination
by this old and trusted physician. The doctor, being unable to make a
diagnosis of any physical trouble, left a prescription for some simple
tonic, and promised to call again when he passed that way.
So the autumn days went by and winter came. It came early and promised
to be severe. Snow fell before Thanksgiving, and by the first of
December sleighing was general throughout the country.
The trial of the equity suit was set down for the second Monday of
December, and many witnesses had been subpœnaed from the vicinity of
Pickett’s Gap. Early on Monday morning they had started, two loads
of them, including Abner Pickett and Gabriel, for Mooreville, the
county-seat. Dannie had not been subpœnaed. He smiled grimly as he
saw the others depart, and thought how much more he could do toward
clearing up the situation than the entire dozen who had been called.
It was a lonely day for him after they were gone, a dull, cold day,
with occasional flakes of snow in the air, and he was glad when night
came, and the chores were all done, and the supper ended, and he and
Aunt Martha could watch the blaze of logs in the sitting-room fireplace
for the usual half hour before retiring. It was a quiet half hour this
night, for neither of them seemed to be in the mood for conversation.
And yet Dannie’s mind was in a tumult. The departure of the witnesses,
the nearness of the trial, the impossibility of his knowing what would
occur at Mooreville, the increasing dread that for lack of testimony
which he alone could give, some terrible injustice would be done; these
things, weighing on his mind with accumulating power, forced him into
a state of nervous apprehension and distress more painful than any
physical hurt from which he had ever suffered.
Aunt Martha saw that he was laboring under intense excitement or
was stirred by some deep emotion. She knew that it was not wise to
question him, but gently and soothingly she placed her hand on his
forehead and began to smooth back his hair. Somehow she felt that the
crisis which had been impending for many weeks had at last been reached.
And it had. Lashes on his bare back would never have drawn a confession
from this boy. Neither commands nor threats would ever have induced him
to give up his secret against his will. Yet the influence of this quiet
hour, this mellow firelight, the soothing presence of this gentle woman
who had always been to him so loving, so loyal, so truly motherlike,
began to draw with irresistible force from his heart to his lips the
whole story of his offence and his suffering. At last, unable to
repress his emotion, he dropped to the floor at the good woman’s feet
and buried his head in her lap.
“Oh, Aunt Martha!” he cried, “I can’t keep it to myself any longer; I
can’t! I can’t! it’ll kill me!”
Still smoothing back his hair she laid a loving hand across his
shoulder.
“Tell me, dearie, tell me what it is. I know I can help you.”
Thus encouraged he poured out to her the whole miserable story, all of
it; without reservation or excuse, or any attempt to blame others or to
shield himself.
“What shall I do, Aunt Martha?” he wailed at last. “What shall I do?
Oh! what shall I do?”
[Illustration: “‘What shall I do, Aunt Martha?’”]
With her handkerchief she was alternately wiping the perspiration from
his forehead and the tears from her own eyes.
“There’s but one thing to do, Dannie. Go to those who have been harmed or
prejudiced by what you have done and tell them everything--everything.”
“And the punishment?”
“Take it like a man, whatever it may be. But they will not punish you
cruelly; have no fear of that.”
“And then, when it’s known and settled that the D. V. & E. was first in
the gap, they’ll build their railroad; they’ll cut a way through the
graveyard, and we can’t stop ’em.”
“Don’t try to foresee the evil that may spring from doing what is
right. Your duty is to act in the present. God will look out for the
future.”
In this wise she counseled him, aided him, soothed him, until at the
last, he rose to his feet resolved, no matter what the consequences
to himself, to tell the whole story to all those who ought to know it.
“To-morrow morning,” he said, “I will go to Mooreville. I will get
there before court opens, and if the case was not decided to-day-- Oh,
Aunt Martha! suppose they are through with it; suppose it’s all over,
and some one else is suffering for what I did! I must go to-night. I
must go at once. I mustn’t wait a moment.”
“No, dearie, no. It will be time enough to-morrow morning for you to
start. You could accomplish nothing to-night even if you could get
there. Go to bed, now, and try to sleep. You will be stronger in the
morning.”
He yielded at once to her wish. And, notwithstanding the dread task
before him on the morrow, he lay down with a lighter heart than he had
known for many weeks, and slept more sweetly and soundly than he had
slept before since the night of the survey.
Very early the next morning he shaded his eyes with his hand and looked
from his window into the darkness outside, and saw that it was snowing.
Aunt Martha compelled him, much against his inclination, to eat a
hearty breakfast and to bundle himself well against the storm. When,
at last, they heard the muffled jingling of the bells that announced
the approach of the Mooreville stage, she put her arms around the boy’s
neck and kissed him.
“Keep up courage, Dannie,” she said cheerily. “It won’t be hard when
you get there. You’ve done the hardest part of it already.”
“I’m not afraid any more, Aunt Martha,” he replied. “Nothing on earth
can keep me from doing what I ought to, the way I feel about it now. I
only hope and pray that I won’t be too late. There’s the stage at the
gate. Good-by!”
“Good-by, Dannie! God bless you and comfort you!”
He went down the path by the light of the lamp held in the kitchen
doorway, knocking aside the loose snow as he walked. At the invitation
of the stage driver he climbed up to the front seat with him, and
started on his fifteen-mile journey to Mooreville, the county-seat.
It was still very dark, and the snow was falling steadily, though it
was not yet so deep but that the horses could trot along at their
usual monotonous gait until they reached the foot of the long hill
that leads to Oak Ridge. Here the driver stopped to extinguish the
light in his lantern, for it was now daybreak. But, with the coming of
day, the snow fell faster, the wind arose, and long before the stage
and its occupants had reached the summit of Oak Ridge the horses were
plunging now and again through drifts that reached to their knees.
At High Rock post-office they stopped for ten minutes to receive and
deliver mail. From there to Lawrence’s the road was mostly through the
woods and was not badly drifted. Then came the two-mile drive down the
northwest face of the hill range to the poor-house. It was a tedious,
toilsome, terrible journey. They were obliged to break down fences and
go through fields to avoid deep drifts in the roadway. Many a time it
seemed as though the horses, exhausted by their efforts, would never
be able to break through the huge banks of snow that enveloped them.
And constantly, driving into their faces, blinding their eyes, chilling
them to the bone, the storm beat down upon the travellers. When, at
last, they drove up to the poor-house gate, the stage driver gave a
great sigh of relief.
“Them horses don’t go no further to-day,” he declared.
“But,” exclaimed Dannie, while his teeth chattered with the cold,
“I’ve got to get to Mooreville, you know. I’ve simply got to get there.”
He felt that he could not afford to entertain for a moment the idea of
delay.
“Well,” was the response, “if you’ve got to go, you an’ me can try to
foot it for the next stretch; mebbe we can get along, but them horses
has got to stay here. I can’t afford to lose ’em jest yet.”
He unhitched the team and drove it into shelter. Then, in spite of
protests from the occupants of the house, he and Dannie started out
to face the storm on foot; the one with the mail-bag flung over
his shoulder, the other bearing no burden save the ever present,
ever growing fear that he would reach Mooreville too late to fully
accomplish his still resolute and unyielding purpose. Had it not been a
self-imposed task, it would have been a cruel one for either man or boy.
Hour by hour the storm grew fiercer, the drifts deeper, the journey
more desperate. Now and again the travellers dragged themselves along
by the rails of the roadside fences, and many a time they searched in
vain for well-known landmarks to guide them on their way. There was
but one relieving feature in the situation,--it was not severely cold.
Had it been, both man and boy would surely have perished.
When they reached Keene’s, the stage driver gave up the task.
“I won’t go no further,” he declared, “Uncle Sam or no Uncle Sam. Me
an’ this mail-bag stays here till it’s fit for man an’ beast to be out.
Come on into the house.”
Dannie followed him in.
“I’ll go in for a few minutes an’ get warm,” he said, “then I’ll push
ahead. Oh! it’s no use,” as the driver began to protest, “I’ve got to
get there, whether or no. It’s only four miles farther, an’ there are
plenty of houses on the way.”
When old Ezra Keene heard that Dannie intended to continue the journey
to Mooreville, he shook his head vigorously.
“Can’t be done,” he said. “Never see sech a storm sence I’ve been here,
an’ that’s nigh on to forty year.”
Still Dannie insisted.
“I’ve got to go,” he said. “I’ve got to get there. If I don’t get
there, something terrible may happen.”
“An’ ef ye start out in this storm, suthin’ turrible’s sure to
happen--so there ye air.”
The old man smiled, hobbled to the window and looked out. He came back
to the stove, shaking his head more vigorously than before. But Dannie
was already buttoning up his great-coat, and pulling his cap down over
his ears. Then the stage driver, who had been crouching over the fire,
arose and added his protest in no delicate or uncertain terms.
“No one but a born fool,” he concluded, “would think of undertaking
sech a thing. Fer Heaven’s sake be decent an’ sensible, an’ stay where
you’re well off.”
But Dannie was not to be deterred nor swayed from his purpose. Neither
abuse nor ridicule nor the power of the storm was sufficient to alter
his determination to do all that lay in his power to right the wrong he
felt he had committed, before it should be forever too late.
He opened the farmhouse door and started out into the tempest. The
stage driver rammed his hands deep into his trousers pockets and
turned away in disgust at what appeared to him to be the inexcusable
foolhardiness of the boy. Old Ezra Keene, looking from a window, saw
the lad struggle through a huge drift at the roadside, and then
disappear in a whirling cloud of snow. He threw up his hands and
dropped his head, as much as to say that it was all over, and came back
and sat down by the stove.
Ten minutes later the stage driver, unable to repress his grim
forebodings and the natural impulse of his kind heart, yet with words
of anger on his lips, flung himself into his great-coat, cap, and
mittens, and started out to drag the boy back from what seemed certain
death. A farmhand from Keene’s accompanied him, and, together, they
faced the storm and buffeted the drifts for hours without success. At
dusk, they returned to the house, and reported that they had found no
trace, whatever, of the missing lad.