LYNCH-LAW.
Union Mills was full of people, mostly men, and Phillipps’ Store, which
was the only shop in the place, as well as being the Post-Office, was
crowded to suffocation. Those who couldn’t get inside stood around the
door talking loudly as they chewed their tobacco. Inside the talking and
tobacco-chewing were carried on likewise. A ring of men were sitting on
barrels and nail-kegs and coils of rope and extemporized chairs of all
kinds. Of these, twelve arranged together at one side formed the jury,
and the rest were witnesses and spectators. In their midst stood
Cotterell. He was not bound or specially guarded in any way, but he was
unarmed, while pistols hung at the belts of all the other men there.
Cotterell held his head erect, his eyes looked clear, and his lips were
firm. A careful observer might have noticed that his nostrils sometimes
twitched, but his hands were perfectly steady. Yet he was on trial for
his life, without appeal and without a friend in “the court.” Several of
the men had asked him questions which he had answered, shortly and
sharply perhaps, but with a perfectly steady voice.
“I dunno what we’re gwine on talkin’ for,” said a jury man with a twang
that bespoke Arkansas. “Hain’t it clar this hyar feller, what was wanted
for the shootin’ o’ Ole Mills’ boy, he’s the same cuss as stole the mare
from them damned fools up to ’Fection City? He’s got ter be hanged,
anyhow. I want ter go home. I hain’t a-gwine to stick hyar all day, by
Gosh!”
“I did not steal the mare,” said Cotterell, his nostrils dilating.
“You hear that,” said the foreman, who sat on a sugar-barrel.
“You was ridin’ her when we come up t’yer,” said one who had been out on
the hunt.
“I was.”
“How’d yer git her then ’cept by stealin’?”
“She was lent to me by one of the members of the Community,” said
Cotterell.
“They’s damn fools, I know, but I reckon they hain’t such all-fired damn
fools as ter give their best hoss ter you,” said the man from Arkansas.
Cotterell’s lips curled with contempt, but he did not speak.
“Look hyar, fellow jury-men,” said one of them who prided himself on the
accuracy of his language on all occasions. “I’d axe leave ter make a few
remarks. We were informed by the gentlemen what caught the prisoner that
they were notified o’ the stealing by one o’ them Perfection City
fellers. If the horse was lent how is it the owner didn’t know about the
lending?”
“Yes,” said one of the gentlemen referred to, “ole man Wright, he come
and tol’ me ’bout the stealin’ o’ the hoss, an’ he ’lowed, on’y it was
agin his principles, he’d like ter hev been out with the boys. It don’t
’pear ter my min’ as there was much len’ing ’bout it.”
“This trial, gen’lemen, is all fair and square an’ ’cordin’ to law.
We’ll settle this p’int ’fore we go further,” said the foreman. “You say
the horse was lent to you?”
“I do say so emphatically,” replied the prisoner.
“Wal, we’ve got one o’ them ’Fection City fellers to say the hoss was
stolen, he’ll swear to that, an’ I reckon by their idees he was
part-owner of it anyhow. Now, that’s the witness agin yer. Who have you
got to swear yer was lent the horse fair and square?”
“I have had no chance of getting any witness, as you very well know,”
replied Cotterell.
“Wal, I reckon yo’ hev bin kep’ purty toler’ble close. Anyhow, it shan’t
be said as we hain’t gi’en yer a good chance. Now, which might be yer
witness to the len’ing? There hain’t such a damn sight o’ folks up to
’Fection City as ’ud make yer forget so ready as all that.”
Cotterell hesitated.
“Hain’t yo’ got no tongue? Who lent yer the hoss, I say?” repeated the
foreman.
“Mrs. Weston,” said Cotterell at last.
“That’s a lie, anyhow,” burst out one of the bystanders.
“It is not a lie, it is the truth,” said Cotterell hotly.
“Wal, now, see hyar. I was over to ole man Weston’s, an’ I seed Mis’
Weston myself, an’ she tole me she hadn’t sot eyes on yer. Now then?”
It was Owen who spoke, he had been out, as we know, on the first
hunting-party and was now present as a spectator. He would have been on
the jury, only it was considered more delicate for him to stand aside,
considering that he had been out to catch Cotterell, and prairie men are
punctilious in the observance of all those forms of etiquette with which
they are familiar. Although not on the jury, Owen was quite free to
intervene in the trial, he was one of the foremost settlers on the
prairie. Cotterell looked hard at him as he spoke.
“Did she tell you that herself?” he asked, drawing his eyebrows tightly
together.
“Yes, she tole me herself,” replied Owen.
“Then I have nothing further to say,” said Cotterell, setting his teeth
grimly under his moustache. He realised very clearly what he was doing,
he was throwing away his last chance of life; but his resolution never
wavered for a moment. The thought flashed through his mind that most
people would think him a fool to act as he did, risk the certainty of
death for the sake of a fantastic loyalty to a woman who could never be
to him anything but the distant friend another man’s wife should be.
Then came the recollection that no one, not even she for whom he was
sacrificing his life, would ever know what he had done. There was
something fantastic surely in all this. Their whole acquaintance had
been fantastic in a sense: Mr. Perseus was a fancy, but how dangerously
sweet it had been while it lasted. And now it was over, he would never
hear the sound of her voice again nor feel the touch of her little hand.
Poor child! He could well imagine, with that jealous husband of hers,
how she might have been driven to save herself from his anger by
declaring she had never seen him. Jealousy was a monster surely, if
there ever was a monster on this earth. Cotterell almost smiled to
himself as he thought how once again he would act the part of Perseus to
the unhappy one and save her by his silence from the monster’s fangs.
Thoughts such as these swept through his mind as he stood facing the
jury, while they were somewhat nonplussed as to their future proceedings
owing to his determination not to say anything further. It appeared
almost indecent to hang a man who would not argue out the points with
them: they had never met such a one before.
“There’s a gal hyar a-wantin’ ter come in,” said one of the men who was
standing just outside the door.
“Keep her hout,” said one of the jury. “We hain’t agoin’ ter hev any
women a screech-owlin’ hyar. It’s one o’ his gals as he’s lef’ to die
maybe of a broken heart ’thout the satisfaction o’ bein’ a widder.”
“Let me pass, please,” said an imperious little voice that thrilled
Cotterell to the heart. “I am one of the witnesses in this trial. I have
important evidence to give.”
The men fell back and left the passage free. Western men, even armed
ones, can’t do anything against a woman.
Olive came into the crowded room, Olive dirty, dishevelled,
travel-stained, her face begrimed with prairie dust, her hair unkempt,
her dress crumpled and with many a rent in it. Cotterell hardly knew
her.
“Who mought yer be, miss?” inquired one of the jury.
“I am Mrs. Weston.”
“Whar’s yer husband? Yer hadn’t oughter be hyar a follerin’ this feller
roun’ the prairie. Tain’t——”
“Shut yer mouth or I’ll send a bullet down yer gullet,” roared the
foreman, putting his hand to his revolver. “Take a cheer,” he added,
gallantly offering Olive the sugar-barrel upon which he had been sitting
in his official capacity.
“No, thank you,” said Olive. “I will stand.” She took her place beside
Cotterell, but without looking at him or addressing a single word to
him.
“What are you trying this man for?” she asked, facing the jury
dauntlessly.
“Wal, mos’ly fur stealin’ yer hoss,” said one of them.
“He didn’t steal it. I myself lent him the horse. It belongs to us,” was
the reply.
“By Gosh!” exclaimed Owen, “you tole me yerself yer hadn’t sot n’ary an
eye on him.”
“So I hadn’t when you were there, he did not come until the next day.”
The jury whistled collectively and incredulously.
“Silence!” said the foreman.
“I can now explain,” said Cotterell. “I didn’t go to Mrs. Weston’s house
until two days after—after Mills’ death——”
“A’ter yer killed him,” corrected Owen.
“And you were there the next day,” concluded Cotterell, not taking any
notice of the interruption.
“Yes, that is it. Mr. Cotterell came the next evening but one after the
prairie fire, and I gave him the mare to go away on, because his colt
broke loose from the bars in the dark.” Olive spoke quite quietly, with
no trace of excitement beyond a knitting of her pretty eyebrows.
“Wal, I reckon we hain’t got nuthin’ more to do then,” said one of the
jury-men, getting up from his nail-keg and strapping up his holster.
“There’s the murder too,” objected one, “not as I put it fust noways,
on’y we might go inter it now, seein’ there hain’t nuthin’ ter be got
outer the hoss-stealin’ business.”
“Yer hain’t got evidence for the murder case too, has yer?” sneered the
man who had been so peremptorily silenced by the foreman on his first
objection to Olive’s presence.
“Only this. You are not non-resistants, are you?”
“We hain’t such blasted fools,” observed the Arkansas man genially.
“Well, then, when this poor Jake Mills in his drunken fury came up and
fired at Mr. Cotterell, was he or was he not to fire in self-defence,
according to your ideas and practice?”
“Of course he was,” said the jury in unison.
“Then that is what he did. Jake Mills fired first.”
“Two shots,” said Cotterell in a low voice, but every man in the room
heard him distinctly.
“That coloured man we saw yesterday swore that Cotterell lay in wait for
Mills, and fired from under cover as he came up to the house,” said a
man from Illinois who had not spoken hitherto.
“Wal now,” said the Arkansas man, “I didn’t say nuthin’ ’bout that
yesterday. Long as it was hoss-stealin’ we knowed whar we was an’ what
we hed ter do, ’cause we hed the hoss. But this hyar shootin’ business
hain’t noways the same. Any gen’leman hyar might hev a difference with
any other gen’leman, an’ ’s long as it were done fair, I don’t see as
how anyone hes any business to say they shouldn’t settle it with pistols
or bowie-knives accordin’ to taste. We are all for freedom in this
country I reckon, an’ that’s how it hes been done in Arkansas often an’
satisfact’ry.”
“This ain’t Arkansas, an’ we are determined to put a stop to this
shootin’ round every day,” said the Illinois man firmly. “It ain’t
respectable and it stops quiet settlers from coming here to take farms.
We are going to stop it.”
“Then you should have stopped Jake Mills when he went to Mr. Cotterell’s
and fired at him first,” said Olive quickly.
“There’s somethin’ in that,” said the foreman, whose native gallantry
led him to side with a pretty woman. “In a trial we hev to consider all
the p’ints o’ the case. I consider that as for the horse-stealin’, that
hes mostly broke down under evidence. We must now go into the other
charge, which is shootin’ Jake Mills, an’ a damned scoundrel he was
too.”
The jury laughed pleasantly at this sally from the bench, or to speak
more accurately from the sugar-barrel. Even Cotterell seemed a trifle
amused, only Olive did not unknit her eyebrows, nor did the hard lines
around her mouth in the least relax.
“We are in consider’ble difficulty ’bout this here shootin’ case,”
continued the foreman when the mirth had subsided, “and if I had knowed
as that was all we was up for tryin’, I don’t reckon we ’ud all on us
ha’ been here as is now collected together to maintain the rights an’
freedom o’ our country.”
The jury murmured applause, upon recognising well-known Fourth of July
phrases, which have perennial power to stir the American breast.
“Why ain’t we agoin’ on with this blamed trial?” asked an impatient jury
man. “We hev purty nigh lost a whole day’s work a’ready an’ hain’t
finished nothin’ yit. When we strung up ole Howard for hoss-stealin’ we
hed the job done clar up afore noon, an’ we could go home to dinner
comfor’ble.”
Olive gave a faint inarticulate cry and put her hands up to her ears, or
was it perchance to her neck? Cotterell turned anxiously towards her as
if she was going to faint, and he would catch her before she fell. She
steadied herself in an instant and again faced the jury like a tiny
lioness, small in body but with unconquerable courage.
“Well, gen’lemen, I’m agreeable to proceed with the evidence,” said the
foreman graciously.
“I was told we had evidence o’ deliberate murder,” said the Illinois
juror.
“We most on us hearn what the nigger said,” remarked another carelessly,
“some on us fooled roun’ with that yesterday an’ lost a fair half day’s
work.”
“Wal, gen’lemen, you could ha’ had the nigger again here to-day, on’y it
was not considered necessary, as we was mostly of opinion to fin’ a true
bill on the horse-stealin’ count. We can send for the nigger. He’s mos’
likely sneakin’ roun’ here. Them niggers is jes’ like buzzards, they can
scent out where there’s a hangin’,—ahem, gen’lemen, we’ll proceed,” said
the foreman, suddenly recollecting himself and Olive’s presence barely
in time.
“I vote for sending for the coloured man,” said the Illinois juror
firmly. “We’ll confront him with the prisoner.”
“Nigger be damned!” roared the Arkansas man jumping violently off his
nail-keg. “Yo’ reckon I’m agoin’ ter sit hyar an’ see a white man hanged
on nigger evidence. No, sir. I won’t stan’ such a insult to my race as
that. There be some things a man o’ honour won’t stan’ an’ that’s one o’
them. Thar hain’t no man spryer to light out an’ catch a hoss-thief nor
I be, an’ I’ll do my dooty in the hangin’ too, an’ hol’ the rope as
tight as ony o’ yo’all. But I’ll bust up afore I’ll take nigger evidence
’gin a white man. I reckon there hain’t none o’ yo’ gen’lemen as is
pertikler sot on that nigger, be yer?”
Olive’s heart gave a bound of joy as the Arkansas juror poured forth his
torrent of protest. Alas, poor Olive and her high-flown love of the
black race! She was bound to confess that her best hope for effecting
the end she was struggling for, lay in the blind race-prejudice of this
ignorant Southerner.
“I guess we ought to take all the evidence, white or black, that bears
on the case,” observed he of Illinois.
“If that thar nigger comes inter this hyar room to conten’ with this
hyar jury an’ give his evidence, I’ll shoot him, ’fore he gits over that
door-sill, so I will, by God, an’ no man as knows me ever said I went
back o’ my word in shootin’.”
The Arkansas juror faced them with his black eyes ablaze and his dark
visage twitching with suppressed fury. He was quivering under the sting
of what was to him an intolerable insult, and there was nothing he would
not do to wipe out that insult.
Olive looked at Cotterell for the first time, and as their eyes met he
was horrified to see the white, drawn expression on her face. He
attributed it to the very natural womanly fear that she might be
involved in a promiscuous shooting affray in that crowded room.
“Don’t be alarmed, they will not bring the negro in here,” he said
soothingly.
“I am not afraid for myself,” she answered, simply and truthfully.
“Wal, gen’lemen,” said the foreman pleasantly. “I reckon we hev finished
for this spell anyhow. I consider the prisoner hes hed as fair a trial
as ony man could wish, and I hev on’y ter thank yer all for yer help
upon this occasion in maintain’ the laws and freedom of our beloved
country, as belongs to the duty of free-born citizens.”
“Hurrah!” said the jury, with another relapse into Fourth of Julyism.
“We’ve purty nigh lost two whole days’ work ’long o’ this hyar foolin’,”
observed the Arkansas man angrily. “Them coons up to ’Fection City is
nat’ral born fools anyhow. Fust they blaze roun’ an’ set us on ter run
down a hoss-thief fur ’em. Soon as we’ve done cotch him, they sen’ roun’
a woman to say the hoss was lent. If the blamed critters come to me
again, reckon I’ll stick to my plough-handles. I’ll not light out for
them, you bet.” And he immediately walked out of the store followed by
the entire jury and the foreman.
When the Court broke up, Olive and Cotterell were left alone in the
store along with Phillipps, the storekeeper. The latter handed Cotterell
his revolver, which the jury had considerately left for him.
“I suppose I’m a free man,” said Cotterell, with more sign of emotion in
his manner than he had yet shown.
“Thanks to Mrs. Weston you are free,” said Phillipps.
He turned to Olive, who seemed in a daze, and said, “Shall we go now?”
“Yes,” she answered, and they left the store together.
The crowd in the road before the door was already fast dispersing. The
exciting climax for which they had waited was not to come off, so there
remained no further inducement to stay. Some straggled into the smithy,
some went towards the mills, but most of the men were getting their
horses, putting on saddles, and settling halters and reins. The Arkansas
man had a waggon and was hitching his horses to it, as Olive, riding on
Rebel, and Cotterell on Queen Katharine, passed by.
“Be yo’ gwine with him?” asked the Arkansas man, pointing to Olive.
“Yes,” said Olive shortly.
“Wish we’d hanged the damned cuss ’fore she come in,” said the Arkansas
man regretfully to his companion, who had also been present at the
trial. “She’s gwine ter ’lope with him, an’ ole man Weston he on’y jes’
married her las’ spring.”
“Reckon she don’t like ’Fection City idees. Gals mos’ allers likes a
fightin’ man best, an’ this hyar one is reg’lar downright handsome too.”
“If we’d on’y hed a-hanged him she couldn’t hev run off with the coon,”
repeated the Arkansas man with conviction, shaking his head sorrowfully
as he watched the two disappearing among the trees on the South Fork.