Belinda Himes was still in hiding in the cave on the river-bank where
she had taken refuge at the first. She found it a doleful abode, but
scarcely dared venture from it except under cover of the night, when
with the owl and the bat she sallied forth from her lair to prowl about
the country in search of food. The supply she had taken with her from
the raft had long since become exhausted, and she was on the verge of
starvation.
Thus pressed by hunger, she visited fields, gardens, and hen-roosts by
night, appropriating to her own use such eggs, vegetables, and fruits
as she could lay hands upon and carry away—sometimes even going so far
as to abstract a young chicken.
Fortunately there were fish in the river, and having found rod, line,
and a hook or two on the raft, she was able occasionally to catch one.
So she managed to keep soul and body together, yet not very much more
than that.
It was a dreadful life she led—a life filled with terror, remorse, and
despair. Afraid to be seen by mortal eye, she crouched in her dark,
damp, unwholesome den through the long, bright summer days, shut away
from all the beauty and fragrance that gladdened the hearts and lives
of those whom sin and crime did not compel to hide from the light of
the sun, and away from the companionship of their kind.
Oh, how wearily the days and nights dragged along! Life under such
conditions seemed little worth, yet death a thing to shrink from in
wild affright.
She saw no one and knew nothing of passing events. She supposed her
husband was still living, and wondered if, when he should be able to be
about again, he would make an effort to find her, and have her brought
to trial for the crime of which he had accused her.
She thought much of Phelim, and longed to see and talk with him; but it
did not seem likely they would ever meet again; if convicted, he would
doubtless be given a long term in the penitentiary; perhaps it would be
a life sentence. She was glad it could be nothing worse; hanging was,
to her way of thinking, far more to be dreaded.
She would have gone to Prairieville and to the jail, seeking an
interview with him, could she have done so with safety to herself; but
she dared not, lest she should be made to share his imprisonment, both
there and in the State prison.
One day—the same on which Captain Charlton carried to Miriam the news
that Himes had made a will in her favor—Belinda, lying asleep in her
cave, was awakened by the sound of voices at the foot of the bank. She
started with affright, a cold perspiration bursting out all over her,
and her heart beating wildly. She thought they were climbing up to her
retreat; perhaps had dogged her steps as she returned to it some hours
before, and had come to arrest her.
But after listening intently for a few minutes, she decided that they
were stationary; probably seated near the water’s edge and engaged in
fishing, which was indeed the case.
Then she lay down again with her ear close to the overhanging vines,
that she might catch every word of their talk.
They were speaking of Mr. Himes, and as she listened with breathless
interest, she presently learned of the second and successful attempt
upon his life. She drew a breath of relief, as she remembered that he
would have been the principal witness against Phelim.
But what were they saying now? That Phelim was suspected of having
instigated the murder, and that there was talk of lynching him, as
Bangs had been lynched only the day before for shooting Barney Nolan
down dead.
Horrible! horrible! She was almost wild with terror on Phelim’s
account. Oh, if she could only warn him! if she could only help him to
escape from the jail before the lynchers got there!
Alas! that was impossible; but perhaps there would be no attempt to
harm him, and if she were in that neighborhood she might go near to the
jail in the night, when his keepers would be asleep, and in some way
attract his attention, so that he would come to his cell window and
speak to her. She would venture a good deal even to hear his voice.
She fell asleep while thinking of it, for she was weary with the
wanderings of the past night, and must wait for the sheltering wing of
darkness before setting out upon the contemplated journey; and she had
no preparation to make in the way of packing, except to gather together
her few possessions into a small bundle that she could carry in her
hand.
She rested through the remainder of the day, and when the sunset glow
had faded from the sky, and darkness began creeping over the landscape,
crawled from her hiding-place and started upon her toilsome tramp,
following the course of the river, which she knew would finally bring
her to her destination.
There was a more direct route, but she was not acquainted with it, and
dared not make inquiries.
Feeble from mental suffering and lack of sufficient nourishment, she
could not travel fast. Two nights of journeying, lying by during the
days, brought her at last to the vicinity of Prairieville.
Day was breaking when she arrived. She lay concealed in the woods
through that day and evening, till nearly every light in the town was
extinguished, excepting the street lamps, then made her way cautiously
to the jail, which stood upon the outskirts, partly surrounded by a
grove of trees.
All was darkness and silence there; probably keeper and prisoners were
asleep.
Slowly she made the circuit of the building, gazing up at the grated
windows and trying to conjecture which was the one belonging to
Phelim’s cell.
She possessed no clew to it, and even could she decide which it was,
how was she to attract his attention without betraying her vicinity to
others?
Suddenly she remembered that she could imitate very closely the note of
the katydid, and that Phelim had once heard her doing so, and
complimented her on the accomplishment. She tried it now, stationing
herself opposite a cell window, which, as it happened, was the one she
sought.
She had repeated the note several times, when at last it was answered
in kind; then a voice, speaking in suppressed tones, asked, “Is it
yersilf, me darlint?”
“Yes, it’s me, Phalim,” she replied, in a joyous whisper, stepping
close under the window as she spoke. “Oh, if I could only help you out
o’ that!”
“Who knows but mabbe ye kin in toime, me jewel,” he said. “We’ll set
our wits to wurruk, me darlint. If I had a file now, to hilp me to git
rid o’ wan or two o’ these bars, it’s not so hard ’twud be to break
jail. Thin we’d fly the counthry together, an’ lave throuble behind us.”
“I’d risk anything to help you,” she responded, “but how or where I
could get a file I don’t see, for I daren’t venture to show myself to a
livin’ soul.”
“Is that so, me jewel? But what fer darsen’t ye?”
“Because he swore I’d a hand in robbin’ an’ murderin’ him.”
“Who? that ould divil Himes? Well, he’s out o’ the way now.”
“Yes; but maybe they’ll arrest me an’ try me fer it, anyhow.”
“Bangs’ll git ye off if they do,” he said, with a low chuckle. “He’s
promised to bring me off wid flyin’ colors.”
“But—but—he—he’s dead—Bangs is; they’ve lynched him, don’t ye know?”
“Niver heard a wurrud o’ it. Whan?”
“Four days ago.”
“An’ that’s the fuss they wuz makin’ down the strate whan I heerd ’em
shoutin’ an’ yellin’, loike so manny divils! I axed the jailor what all
the noise wuz about, but he answered me niver a wurrud—jist walked
away wid his head up an’ his mouth toight shut. An’ here I’ve been a
wonderin’ an’ scoldin’ bekase Bangs didn’t show hisself an’ lat me know
how the bizniss was progressin’; how fast he wuz gittin’ ready to prove
till the coort an’ jury that Phalim O’Rourke wuz as innercent o’ that
attimpt on the ould man’s loife as an unborn babby.”
“But he’s dead, and who’ll clear ye now?” she asked, mournfully.
“I’ll have to break jail, an’ ye must help me, B’lindy.”
“If I only could,” she said, and her voice was weak and trembling; “but
I’m half dead now; I can hardly stand fer weakness. I’ve been hidin’ in
a damp, dark, dirty cave—the one you told me of—an’ I’m nearly
starved; haven’t had enough to eat since—since that night on the raft.
If ’twas light enough for you to see me, you’d never know me; I’m
wasted to skin an’ bone, an’ my clo’es are all rags an’ dirt.”
“Did I iver hear the loike!” he exclaimed. “Well, niver moind, me
jewel; whan I’m a free man agin I’ll soon have ye a wearin’ yer foine
silks an’ satins an’ goold ornamints, an’ drivin’ in yer kerridge,
mabbe, loike anny lady in the land.”
She sighed despairingly. “But you’ll never be able to break out o’
this; an’ there’s nobody now to defend ye on yer trial. They say ’twas
some o’ your band that finished Himes; they say ’twas by your orderin’.
Is that so?”
“Mabbe,” he chuckled; “the byes knowed me moind on that p’int; an’ they
knowed the ould divil wad be the wan to swear away me liberty, if he’d
a chance; but dead men tells no tales.”
“I wisht they’d let him live,” she sighed; “’twould have been better
fer you.”
Then she went on to tell him what she had overheard the men at the
river say about the probability of an attempt to lynch him.
While this talk was going on at the jail window, a wagon filled with
masked and armed men was driving toward the town from the direction of
Fairfield, another along the road leading from Frederic, a third coming
from Riverside, while a fourth waited at the bridge over the river at
Prairieville, where the other three presently joined it. Then falling
into line, they drove up the street that led to the jail.
As they neared the building the creaking of their wheels struck upon
Belinda’s ear.
“Oh, what’s that?” she cried, in startled tones, though half under her
breath. “Wagons—one, two, three, four—and stoppin’ right out there,
every one of ’em!”
“So they are, an’ all’s up wid me!” cried Phelim, hoarsely, adding a
volley of oaths, as he grasped the bars and shook them fiercely in the
frantic but vain effort to wrench them off.
The men were already alighting and pouring into the jail yard; then
came a thundering knock upon the outer door, accompanied by a demand
for instant admittance.
The trembling pair at the cell window were still listening, Phelim
clinging to the bars, Belinda leaning heavily against the outer wall,
while her heart beat almost to suffocation and her breath came
gaspingly. They heard a second-story window raised and the jailor’s
voice in parley with the would-be intruders.
“What is wanted, gentlemen?” he asked.
“Admittance; come down and open the door,” answered the spokesman of
the party.
“We don’t admit visitors at this time o’ night,” said the jailor.
“Come down and open the door, or we’ll break it in,” was the response,
in a tone of fierce determination.
“Who are you?” asked the jailor.
“Himes’s avengers. Give the murderer into our hands, and we ask nothing
more.”
“Can’t do it, gentlemen. He’s been committed to my care by the officers
of the law, and I’ve no right to give him up to any one else.”
“We don’t offer you any choice in the matter; you’ll open to us and
give him up, or we’ll break in and take him in spite of you.”
Again the jailor refused to accede to their demand; then thundering
blows of axes and hammers wielded by strong arms fell fast and thick on
the door, the noise resounding through the building and striking terror
to every hearer within its walls.
At length the door gave way, the assailants poured into the hall and
seized the jailor, who had come down, lamp in hand, and would have
tried to persuade them to resign their purpose; but they would not hear
a word from him. As he refused to give up his keys, they bound him hand
and foot and took forcible possession of them, then hastened to the
cell wherein their intended victim was confined.
The noise of the struggle with the jailor, the tramp of heavy feet
traversing the corridors, the fitting of the key in the lock of the
cell door, all reached the ears of Phelim and Belinda, causing both
their hearts to quake with terror. Belinda held her breath to listen,
while trembling so that she could scarce keep from falling to the
ground.
The heavy door of the cell swung back, and for a moment the little
apartment was flooded with light from a lamp held high in the hand of
one of the masked intruders.
He stood aside while four or five of his company filed rapidly in, and
laid hold of the prisoner with no gentle hands.
Phelim saw at a glance that resistance was useless. With a face pale as
death, eyes almost ready to start from their sockets, quivering lips,
and in a tone that he vainly endeavored to make steady and defiant,
“What are yees afther, sors?” he demanded. “Yees haven’t anny roight to
be comin’ in here, fer I’m undher the pertection o’ the law.”
But even while he spoke they had pinioned his arms, and now surrounding
him, they led him out through the corridors, the outer door, the
jail-yard, and into the grove, where they halted with him under a large
oak-tree.
A man was seated on its largest branch with a rope in his hand, one end
of which he had already attached to the limb; at the other was a noose,
which was quickly adjusted about Phelim’s neck; then he was forced to
mount into a wagon that had been driven up under the tree.
He kicked, cursed, and swore fearful oaths, but found resistance vain;
strong hands pulled, pushed, and lifted him into the vehicle and held
him there.
“Now,” said a stern voice, “you have but five minutes to live; better
stop cursing and spend your breath in prayer.”
“Yees are murtherin’ me; ye’re goin’ further nor the law o’ the State,
black-hearted scoundrels that ye are!” he cried, fiercely.
“You are receiving the due reward of your deeds,” answered the voice.
“The minutes are going; better spend your last breath in an effort to
save your soul.”
The curses died on the lips of the ruffian; he looked up at the starlit
sky, down and around on the crowd of dark figures and masked faces.
“Gintlemen, hain’t none o’ yees got no pity fer the ould mither and
fayther that hasn’t niver a sowl to wurruk fer ’em an’ suppoort ’em in
their fable ould age, barrin’ their only son as stands here wid a rope
round his neck?” he asked.
“A son who has supported them by robbery and murder!” cried the same
stern voice that had spoken before. “The time is up. Your blood be on
your own head!” it added, and at a signal the wagon moved from under
the culprit, and left him dangling high in air, the noose tightening
about his neck.
The stern executioners stood watching him by the light of their
lanterns till fully satisfied that life was extinct, then crowded into
their wagons and drove away as they had come.
At the moment of their entrance into the cell Belinda staggered back
into the shadow of a tree, at some little distance from the one they
had selected as a gallows, from which, in an agony of woe, she
witnessed the whole dreadful scene. She was in terror for herself, lest
she might be made to share Phelim’s fate, yet that fear was almost
swallowed up for the time in the anguish of grief for him that wrung
her heart, as she looked upon the tragedy that ended the earthly life
of the man she still loved, deeply dyed villain though she knew him to
be.
She clung to the tree for support, while eye and ear were intent to
catch every expression of his countenance and tone of his voice. But
the flickering light of the lanterns gave her only fitful glimpses of
his features, and the oaths and curses that fell from his lips were not
such words as even she would desire to treasure up in her memory, for
they inspired her with no hope that he was going to a better and
happier world.
When she saw the wagon driven from under him, and knew that the deed
was accomplished, she fell in a heap at the foot of the tree to
which she had been clinging, and knew nothing more till roused to
consciousness by the sound of the wheels of the departing vehicles.
Feebly she raised herself to a sitting posture, then glanced fearfully
around till fully convinced that the self-constituted executioners were
gone not to return; then, getting upon her feet like one who had scarce
strength to move, she dragged herself to the other tree, where the body
was hanging.
It was swaying slowly in the night wind.
“Phelim!” she cried, hoarsely—“Phelim, speak to me! Oh, it can’t be
that ye’ll never speak again! Yes, he’s dead; they’d never leave him
till they was sure o’ that! Oh, me heart’s broke! I ain’t got nothin’
to live fer no more! I might’s well a let ’em hang me, too!” and
weeping, shuddering, tottering with weakness, she crept away to her
hiding-place in the woods.
She had no bed but the ground, no covering save the starry canopy of
heaven; she had no earthly friend, and had never cared to seek the
friendship of that One “who sticketh closer than a brother.”
How utterly lonely and desolate she felt as she lay moaning and
groaning upon her hard couch, weeping as if she would weep her very
life away, longing to lay down the burdens and sorrows of life, yet
shrinking in unspeakable terror from the thought of death.
Some words that she had heard, she knew not when or where, kept
sounding in her ears, “The way of transgressors is hard.” “The wages of
sin is death.” How the truth of those inspired declarations had been
verified in Bangs’s case, in Phelim’s, and in her own!