"Oh, can I doubt the Power that leads
You safe from zone to zone,
Is mindful of the man He made
In image of His own;
That though we blindly breast the gale,
Or skirt the shores of Time,
Our Pilot knows the track we take,
And guides from clime to clime?"
_The Empire Builders._
Burton sprang to his feet.
"When does the next train go east?" he demanded.
Wilfred produced a railway time-table, and after some study he found the
page. "There's one at midnight," he said.
Burton glanced at his watch. It was a quarter to twelve.
"Good-bye, old man," he said, seizing the hand of the Barnardo boy.
"Wot, you ain't goin' to-night, are you?" said the boy. "You'll lose
your 'omestead, hafter----"
"I'll lose more if I don't go. And I would have lost it, lost it all, if
it had not been for you. God bless you, London! Stay and file on your
homestead. I'll not be wanting one at present. I'm thinking I will be
unable to perform the residence duties for a while," he added, with a
bitter little laugh.
"But stay," he continued. "Have you selected your land?"
"No."
"Just going it blind?"
"Yep. Just takin' my chance with the rest o' them. Hi've a list of the
hopen lands 'ere, an' Hi reckon to strike somethink----"
"Yes, you'll strike a sand bed or an alkali mine. Here's a list of four
quarters I have looked over personally. They appear in the order of my
preference. Take it, you're welcome to it."
There was a look of gratitude in the boy's eyes which could find no
expression in words. The two friends held each other's hand a moment in
a firm grasp, and then Burton hurried toward the station. He reached it
just in time to buy a ticket and board his train.
Once in a car and seated, the lights of the city died out of view, and
Burton was left to collect his thoughts. His sudden resolution to go to
his trial regardless of consequences had left him bereft of any plan of
campaign or any definite course of action. For months he had studied how
he might evade the law, but now his only fear was that he might not
reach Plainville in time to appear before the Court and receive his
sentence. That he would be found guilty he took as a matter of course.
He did not deceive himself with any hope of acquittal on any ground
whatever. He was not going back to match himself against his fate; he
was going back to accept his fate. He wondered how long his sentence
would be. It might be one year, it might be five; it might be ten. That
he supposed would depend in some degree upon the digestion of the judge,
and whether his lordship might decide to make an example of him for the
benefit of other evil-doers.
But he felt only a casual interest in these matters. To his great
surprise neither judge, jury nor jail had any terror for him. He
regarded them with an impersonal feeling of unconcern, except a desire
to be done with all of them. He wondered if they would let him wear his
own shirts in jail.
He consulted a time-table, and found that if he made all connections he
should reach Plainville in the early morning of the first day of the
assizes. He supposed there would be a short session of the grand jury
first, but did not know whether his absence then would affect his trial.
He wondered if they would call his case first and immediately require
Gardiner to forfeit his bail, and if they would return the bail when he
appeared and gave himself up.
For twenty-four hours the train drilled steadily eastward, running
without incident. Darkness had again settled down and the hour of
midnight was approaching when suddenly the emergency brakes were applied
with a force that threw the passengers forward in their seats. The train
came to a stop in a moment, and the young men and a few of the older
ones who had not gone to bed in the sleeping cars crowded out to see the
cause of the delay. A dull glow shone down the track from ahead, and a
whiff of wood smoke blew in their nostrils. Aside from that and the
subdued lights in the cars all was darkness, darkness intense and
illimitable, walled in only by the brooding silence of the great
prairies.
A couple of trainmen with lanterns were seen walking on the track, and
Burton hurried to overtake them. As he advanced the glow of light became
brighter and the smell of smoke more noticeable. In a few minutes he had
come up with them, and together they reached a wooden trestle which
spanned a ravine where a little stream trickled at the bottom during the
summer, but was now dried by the long period of rainless weather. The
bridge was on fire; most of the timbers had already given way, and the
hot rails hung in two shining streaks from bank to bank.
From the conversation of the trainmen Burton gathered that the fire was
probably due to a falling coal from a passing engine lighting the
woodwork. He ventured to ask how long it would delay the train.
"Well, that's hard to say," was the answer. "It'll take at least twelve
hours to throw a temporary bridge in there after the work train arrives,
and they won't likely be here before morning. The company knows nothing
about it yet, so we'll likely have to pull back to the last station to
give information."
And the assize court at Plainville sat the next morning!
Burton walked back to the train and consulted his time-table. He was
about seventy-five miles from Plainville and on another line of railway.
Mechanically he started to read the names of the stations which lay
ahead of him, but at the second name his heart gave a bound. That was
the town where Dr. Millar lived. That, he estimated, was about fourteen
miles away. It was now midnight. He could be there by four o'clock, and
the doctor's automobile would place him in Plainville by eight easily.
He still had a chance to save his honour by appearing in court when his
name was called.
Without further delay he started out at a brisk walk along the railway
track. He scrambled through the dry ravine, and regained the railway on
the other side. He was unhampered by luggage of any kind, and although
walking on the ties in the darkness was rather uncertain he had no doubt
he would be standing in the doctor's office within five hours. The light
wind was balmy and refreshing, but very soon it began to carry scattered
drops of rain. These gradually grew thicker until a steady shower was
falling. The moisture soon soaked through his clothing, but the exercise
kept him warm and he felt little discomfort. And at ten minutes to four,
warm, wet and footsore, he rang the bell at Dr. Millar's door.
The doctor answered the ring in person. At first glance he did not
recognise his visitor, but a very few words of explanation sufficed. Dr.
Millar was a master of the art of grasping essentials by intuition.
He looked at his watch, and then he looked out at the black, wet night.
The rain was now falling heavily, and the street lay white with water
where the light from the open door cut its wedge-shaped path across it.
"It'll be a hard drive, Burton," he said, "but it must be made, and the
sooner we start the better. I will be dressed in a few minutes, and I
always leave my car ready to pull out at a moment's notice. But you are
wet. You must have some dry clothing."
Burton protested that he was quite comfortable, that he did not feel the
dampness at all, but the doctor would not listen to him.
"You are warm now, because you have been walking hard, but a few minutes
in the automobile will set your teeth chattering. Besides, I think I
have some clothes belonging to you around here somewhere, and I want you
to take them away, this very night. Now get in there and hustle them
on," and suiting the action to the word the doctor shoved Burton into
his private office. There was nothing to do but obey.
A little later an automobile pulled out from Dr. Millar's gate and
started to plough its path through sixty miles of mud and water.
The holding of the first assize court at Plainville was an event of no
small importance to the people of that obscure but ambitious town.
Plainville had been fortunate enough at the last election to place its
sympathies with the winning side, and the first evidence of appreciation
was a handsome court-house, built on a block of lots which had been held
for a dozen years by Perkins, the lawyer, without a chance of sale, but
was now turned over to the Government at a handsome profit. Mr. Perkins'
allegiance to the party of purity and justice had been further rewarded
by his appointment to the office of crown prosecutor at the assizes. It
was a little disappointing, to be sure, that the crop of criminals had
so far been distressingly small, the most serious case on the docket
being the theft of two thousand dollars which were afterwards recovered,
but neither Plainville nor Perkins were discouraged. The judicial
district was young, and would improve with the passage of time. Who knew
but that some public spirited criminal might yet commit a real murder,
and so bring the name of Plainville into prominence in all the papers of
the province?
The jurors and witnesses had assembled, over-taxing the hotel
accommodation of the town, which the thoughtful lawyers and officials
had reserved for themselves a safe period in advance. A number of minor
offices were filled by Plainville citizens, and this rewarding of the
faithful restored the credit of several shiftless Plainville families at
the grocers' and butchers'. The hotels were full, the bars were busy,
even the temperance houses had more trade than they could accommodate,
and many a thrifty housewife was ekeing out the price of a new bonnet by
placing the spare room at the disposal of the strangers. Mrs. Goode
found the demands upon her lodgings and her table more than she could
supply, but had boldly met the situation by pitching a number of tents
in her back yard, where her cadaverous husband could be employed without
menace to the business coming in at the front door. Plainville was
prosperous, excited and happy.
After the great fact of the assize itself interest centred mainly in the
case of _King_ v. _Burton_, and the hot discussions in the pool-rooms
and the lobby of the post office over the young man's guilt or innocence
had given rise to two opposing factions. The first of these held that
Burton was innocent, and would appear to stand his trial at the proper
time; the second declared that he was guilty, and had "skipped the
country for good." And it was interesting to note how the townspeople
and country people lined up on the two sides of the controversy. It was
a virtual dividing of the sheep and the goats. Those who held high views
of life and embraced all humanity in a kindly sympathy were assured that
Burton would be back to face his trial, and even that his innocence
would be established; while that other class of people who find it
easier and more to their tastes to believe evil than good were equally
certain that the young man had disappeared from Plainville for ever. And
among those who held the latter belief it must be said were a few who
would have preferred to believe otherwise, but whose judgment had forced
them to the unpleasant conclusion. There was Mr. Sempter, of the Sempter
Trading Company, who secretly held Burton in high regard; there were the
Grant boys, who openly--and especially before their cousin--avowed their
confidence in Burton, but who in their hearts were at a loss to
understand his disappearance; and there was Gardiner, who at first had
stoutly maintained the innocence of his former employee, but had at last
admitted that he could no longer believe him guiltless. There, too, was
a third faction which explained Burton's absence on the theory that some
mishap which had not yet come to light had befallen him. This was a
comfortable position for those who did not wish to antagonise either of
the other parties, as it left the question of Burton's innocence or
guilt out of the discussion. This was the belief espoused by the local
newspaper, the church organisations, and such other institutions as felt
that it would be bad business to give offence to any section of the
community.
The great day of the opening of the assizes at last arrived. During the
night it rained heavily, and the streets and roads were deep with mud,
but the clouds scattered about nine o'clock and the sun looked through
on the crowds filing down to the court house. The judge read his charge
to the grand jury, and the grand jury at once proceeded to find in
accordance with the thinly-veiled wishes expressed in the charge. The
Court then adjourned to resume its sitting at two o'clock that
afternoon.
As the hour drew near the spirits of those who had to the last hoped for
Burton's reappearance in the nick of time fell under the depression of a
conviction which for months they had been trying to fight off. John
Burton's Scotch pride had at last given away to paternal attachment, and
he engaged Bradshaw, the lawyer, to appear in defence of his son. The
lawyer's office had become the gathering place of the steadily
diminishing group who were still hoping against hope, but as the minutes
wore by the hope changed to despondency. In Burton's absence they could
read only an admission of his guilt--an admission which cut loyal hearts
deeper than any sentence which might have been pronounced over his
protestations of innocence.
The court house was packed long before the afternoon session commenced;
and when the judge had taken his seat on the bench and the first case,
_King_ v. _Burton_, was called an intensity of excitement prevailed in
the room which seemed even to reach the officers of the law. It was not
that the crime charged was so exceptional, but the reluctance of many
good people to believe in Burton's guilt and the mystery of his sudden
and complete disappearance had pitched public interest to its highest
key. Many rumours had been in circulation within the last few hours;
rumours that Burton had returned during the night, that he had been in
the custody of the police since July and would be produced at the proper
moment, that he had been drowned in the lake, that he had been seen in a
far western town--all of these and more were flying about in the air and
adding to the confusion of the public mind. But at last the moment had
come; something definite was to be done, or said, or ascertained, and as
many of the townspeople, with a sprinkling of interested ones from the
country, as could crowd into the building were agog to know whatever
could be known.
Down in the little box where the lawyers sat someone was speaking in a
low tone which reached only to the officials of the court. Then the deep
voice of the judge filled the room.
"So the accused has not appeared for trial? Let him be called three
times."
The court crier cleared his throat and shouted in a raucous voice,
"Raymond Burton! Raymond Burton! Raymond Burton!"
A hush that could be felt fell over the assembled people. For a full
minute there was absolute silence.
It was the judge who spoke again. "Bonds were no doubt given for the
appearance of this Burton at trial?"
An official answered, "Yes, my lord."
Gardiner stood up from the front seat of the audience. "I am his----" he
managed to say, but was instantly silenced.
"That will do," said the judge; "an order will----"
At this moment a commotion was heard among the crowd who had not been
able to gain admittance, and all eyes were turned toward the door. In
another instant a young man, flushed, dishevelled and mud-bespattered,
forced his way into the room, glanced about the interior for an instant
to get his bearings, and walked straight to the prisoner's box where
Bill Hagan, the town constable, now promoted to the position of a court
official, stood with as much dignity as his years spent in leaning over
a bar made possible.
"Well, Bill, were you waiting for me?" was the question he addressed the
constable.
It was not until they heard him speak that the crowd seemed to realise
that Raymond Burton in the flesh stood in the prisoner's box. When they
grasped that fact an huzzah broke out from a few enthusiasts, which was
immediately seized by others and grew in volume until it threatened to
raise the roof.
Order was quickly restored, when the judge scolded the people soundly,
threatening that he would have the court room cleared if there were any
further demonstrations.
Then turning to Burton he asked, "Are you the Raymond Burton named in
the indictment?"
"I did not hear the indictment, my lord, but I am Raymond Burton."
"You have," continued the judge, "by your absence delayed the operation
of this Court and the machinery of justice. I may say to you frankly,
that I was given to understand that you had evaded the police and would
not appear for trial, and at the moment of your entry I was about to
make an order distraining the bail given for your appearance. Can you
give an explanation of your conduct?"
"I can, my lord. I was in the West, where I intended to enter for a
homestead. I was, in fact, in line before the door of the Land Office
when I discovered that if I were to reach Plainville in time for my
trial I must leave at once. I would have been here early this morning if
my train had come through on time, but a bridge was burned out last
night, and we were delayed. I walked fourteen miles along the track,
when a friend provided me with an automobile, but the roads were so bad,
and we had a number of mishaps, that I have only now reached the town. I
am very sorry, my lord, that you have been delayed."
The judge listened patiently through this explanation, and it was
evident that he was impressed with the sincere, straight-forward manner
in which it was given. He appeared to accept Burton's statement as the
truth, without question. The effect on the audience of the boy's
appearance and the quiet words he addressed to the Court was electrical,
and they were again on the point of bursting into a cheer when they were
restrained by a peremptory "Silence in the court." Burton glanced again
about the room, and to his astonishment saw tears of emotion glistening
in many eyes. Old Dick Matheson's face was radiant as he confided in a
whisper to a neighbour that he "knew his father on the Muddywaski";
Alice Goode, who had stolen away from the dinner dishes, was fairly
dancing on her chair; the Grant boys shot at him looks electrified with
enthusiasm; and to the breast of his own father the Scotch pride had
returned as he turned about in his seat and looked with defiance upon
the assembled crowd. There were only two black faces in the house; Hiram
Riles, of whom Burton expected nothing better; and Gardiner, whom he did
not understand. One would have thought that Gardiner would have been
delighted at the saving of his bond, but the merchant chewed his lip in
vexation. He had been playing for greater stakes.
And yet Burton knew that he stood under the shadow of certain
conviction; that from that court house he would march to jail. But he
had played the part of a man; he had justified the loyalty of his
friends, and now nothing else seemed to matter.
"Your failure to appear here on time," said the judge, again addressing
Burton, "appears to have been due to causes which you could not foresee
and over which you had no control. The Court has been inconvenienced,
but the Court has no grievance in such a case. I will allow you fifteen
minutes to consult with your solicitor, after which your trial will
proceed. If it should appear later that you are entitled to be remanded
to permit of calling witnesses in your defence, reasonable opportunity
will be afforded you to do so."