The grewsome cavalcade wended its way townward. Moll Hawk sat between the sheriff and Cyrus Allen on the springless board that served as a seat atop the lofty sideboards of the wagon. The crude wooden wheels rumbled and creaked and jarred along the deep-rutted road, jouncing the occupants of the vehicle from side to side with unseemly playfulness. Back in the bed of the wagon, under a gaily coloured Indian blanket, lay the outstretched body of Jasper Suggs, seemingly alive and responsive to the jolts and twists and turns of the road. The rear end gate had been removed and three men sat with their heels dangling outside, their backs to the sinister, unnoticed traveller who shared accommodations with them. The central figure was Martin Hawk, grim, saturnine, silent, his feet and hands secured with leather thongs. Trotting along under his heels, so to speak, were his three dogs,—their tongues hanging out, their tails drooping, their eyes turning neither to right nor left. They were his only friends.
Some distance behind rode three horsemen, leading as many riderless steeds. On ahead was another group of riders. Rachel Carter rode alongside the wagon.
Moll had firmly refused to wear the older woman's cape. She had on a coat belonging to one of the men and wore a flimsy, deep-hooded bonnet that once had been azure blue. Her shoulders sagged wearily, her back was bent, her arms lay limply upon her knees. She was staring bleakly before her over the horses' ears, at the road ahead. The reaction had come. She had told the story of the night, haltingly but with a graphic integrity that left nothing to be desired.
Martin Hawk had spent a black and unhappy hour. He was obliged to listen to his daughter's story and, much to his discontent, was not permitted to contradict her in any particular. Two or three mournful attempts to reproach her for lying about her own,—and, he always added, her ONLY—father, met with increasingly violent adjurations to "shut up," the last one being so emphatic that he gave vent to a sharp howl of pain and began feeling with his tongue to see if all his teeth were there.
Luckily for him, he was impervious to the scorn of his fellow-man, else he would have shrivelled under the looks he received from time to time. Especially distressing to him was that part of her recital touching upon his unholy greed; he could not help feeling, with deep parental bitterness, that no man alive ever had a more heartless, undutiful daughter than he,—a conviction that for the time being at least caused him to lament the countless opportunities he had had to beat her to death instead of merely raising a few perishable welts on her back. If he had done that, say a month ago, how different everything would be now!
This part of her story may suffice:
"Pap never wanted anything so bad in all his life as that powder horn an' shot flask. They wuz all fixed up with gold an' silver trimmin's an' I guess there wuz rubies an' di'monds too. Fer three days Pap dickered with him, tryin' to make some kind of a swap. Jasper he wouldn't trade 'em er sell 'em nuther. He said they wuz wuth more'n a thousand dollars. Some big Injun Chief made him a present of 'em, years ago,—fer savin' his life, he said. First Pap tried to swap his hounds fer 'em, 'nen said he'd throw in one of the hosses. Jasper he jest laughed at him. Yesterday I heerd Pap tell him he would swap him both hosses, seven hogs, the wagon an' two boats, but Jasper he jest laughed. They wuz still talkin' about it when they got home from town last night, jest ahead of the storm. I could hear 'em arguin' out in the room. They wuz drinkin' an' talkin' so loud I couldn't sleep.
"Purty soon Pap said he'd trade him our cabin an' ever'thing else fer that pouch an' flask. It wuz rainin' so hard by this time I couldn't hear all they said but when it slacked up a little I cotch my own name. They wuz talkin' about me. I heerd Jasper tell Pap he'd give him the things ef he'd promise to go away an' leave him an' me alone in the cabin. That kind o' surprised me. But all Pap sez wuz that he hated to go out in the rain. So Jasper he said fer him to wait till hit stopped rainin'. Pap said all right, he would, an' fer Jasper to hand over the pouch and flask. Jasper cussed an' said he'd give 'em to him three hours after sunrise the nex' morning' an' not a minute sooner, an' he wuz to stay away from the house all that time or he wouldn't give 'em to him at all. Well, they argued fer some time about that an' finally Pap said he'd go out to the hoss shed an' sleep if Jasper would hand over the shot pouch then an' there an' hold back the powder flask till mornin'. Jasper he said all right, he would. I never guess what wuz back of all this. So when Pap went out an' shut the door behind him, I wuz kind o' thankful, ca'se all the arguin' an' jawin' would stop an' I could go to sleep ag'in. Jasper he let down the bolt inside the door."
It was after eight o'clock when the wagon and its escort entered the outskirts of the town. Grim, imperturbable old dames sitting on their porches smoking their clay or corncob pipes regarded the strange procession with mild curiosity; toilers in gardens and barnyards merely remarked to themselves that "some'pin must'a happened some'eres" and called out to housewife or offspring not to let them forget to "mosey up to the square" later in the day for particulars, if any. The presence of the sheriff was more or less informing; it was obvious even to the least sprightly intelligence that somebody had been arrested. But the appearance of Mrs. Gwyn on horseback, riding slowly beside the wagon, was not so easily accounted for. That circumstance alone made it absolutely worth while to "mosey up to the square" a little later on.
Martin Hawk was lodged in the recently completed brick jail adjoining the courthouse. He complained bitterly of the injustice that permitted his daughter, a confessed murderess, to enjoy the hospitality of the sheriff's home whilst he, accused of nothing more heinous than sheep-stealing, was flung into jail and subjected to the further indignity of being audibly described as a fit subject for the whipping post, an institution that still prevailed despite a general movement to abolish it throughout the state.
It galled him to hear the fuss that was being made over Moll. Everybody seemed to be taking her part. Why, that Gwyn woman not only went so far as to say she would be responsible for Moll's appearance in court, but actually arranged to buy her a lot of new clothes. And the sheriff patted her on the shoulder and loudly declared that the only thing any judge or jury could possibly find her guilty of was criminal negligence in only half-doing the job. This was supplemented by a look that left no doubt in Martin's mind as to just what he considered to be the neglected part of the job. He bethought himself of the one powerful friend he had in town,—Barry Lapelle. So he sent this message by word of mouth to the suspected dandy:
"I'm in jail. I want you to come and see me right off. I mean business."
Needless to say, this message,—conveying a far from subtle threat,—was a long time in reaching Mr. Lapelle, who had gone into temporary retirement at Jack Trentman's shanty, having arrived at that unsavoury retreat by a roundabout, circuitous route which allowed him to spend some time on the bank of a sequestered brook.
Meanwhile Rachel Carter approached her own home, afoot and weary. As she turned the bend she was surprised and not a little disturbed by the sight of Kenneth Gwynne standing at her front gate. He hurried up the road to meet her.
"The worst has come to pass," he announced, stopping in front of her. "Before you go in I must tell you just what happened here this morning. Come in here among the trees where we can't be seen from the house."
She listened impassively to his story. Only the expression in her steady, unswerving eyes betrayed her inward concern and agitation. Not once did she interrupt him. Her shoulders, he observed, drooped a little and her arms hung limply at her side, mute evidence of a sinking heart and the resignation that comes with defeat.
"I am ready and willing," he assured her at the end, "to do anything, to say anything you wish. It is possible for us to convince her that there is no truth in what he said. We can lie—"
She held up her hand, shaking her head almost angrily. "No! Not that, Kenneth. I cannot permit you to lie for ME. That would be unspeakable. I am not wholly without honour. There is nothing you can do for her,—for either of us at present. Thank you for preparing me,—and for your offer, Kenneth. Stay away from us until you have had time to think it all over. Then you will realize that this generous impulse of yours would do more harm than good. Let her think what she will of me, she must not lose her faith in you, my boy."
"But—what of her?" he expostulated. "What are you going to say to her when she asks you—"
"I don't know," she interrupted, lifelessly. "I am not a good liar, Kenneth Gwynne. Whatever else you may say or think of me, I—I have never wilfully lied."
She started away, but after a few steps turned back to him. "Jasper Suggs is dead. Moll Hawk killed him last night. She has been arrested. There is nothing you can do for Viola at present, but you may be able to help that poor, unfortunate girl. Suggs told her about me. She will keep the secret. Go and see the sheriff at once. He will tell you all that has happened."
Then she strode off without another word. He watched the tall, black figure until it turned in at the gate and was lost to view, a sort of stupefaction gripping him. Presently he aroused himself and walked slowly homeward. As he passed through his own gate he looked over at the window of the room in which Viola had sought seclusion. The curtains hung limp and motionless. He wondered what was taking place inside the four walls of that room.
Out of the maze into which his thoughts had been plunged by the swift procession of events groped the new and disturbing turn in the affairs of Rachel Carter. What was back of the untold story of the slaying of Jasper Suggs? What were the circumstances? Why had Moll Hawk killed the man? Had Rachel Carter figured directly or indirectly in the tragedy? He recalled her significant allusion to Isaac Stain the night before and his own rather startling inference,—and now she was asking him to help Moll Hawk in her hour of tribulation. A cold perspiration started out all over him. The question persisted: What was back of the slaying of Jasper Suggs?
He gave explicit and peremptory directions to Zachariah in case Mrs. Gwyn asked for him, and then set out briskly for the courthouse.
By this time the news of the murder had spread over the town. A crowd had gathered in front of Scudder's undertaking establishment. Knots of men and women, disregarding traffic, stood in the streets adjoining the public square, listening to some qualified narrator's account of the night's expedition and the tragedy at Martin Hawk's.
Kenneth hurried past these crowds and made his way straight to the office of the sheriff. Farther down the street a group of people stood in front of the sheriff's house, while in the vicinity of the little jail an ever-increasing mob was collecting.
"Judge" Billings espied him. Disengaging himself from a group of men at the corner of the square, the defendant in the case of Kenwright vs. Billings made a bee-line for his young attorney.
"I've been over to your office twice, young man," he announced as he came up. "Where the devil have you been keepin' yourself? Mrs. Gwyn left word for you to come right up to her house. She wants you to take charge of the Hawk girl's case. Maybe you don't know it, but you've been engaged to defend her. You better make tracks up to Mrs. Gwyn's and—"
"I have seen Mrs. Gwyn," interrupted Kenneth. "She sent me to the sheriff. Where is he?"
"Over yonder talkin' to that crowd in front of the tavern. He's sort o' pickin' out a jury in advance,—makin' sure that the right men get on it. He got me for one. He don't make any bones about it. Just tells you how it all happened an' then asks you whether you'd be such a skunk as to even think of convictin' the girl for what she did. Then you up an' blaspheme considerable about what you'd like to do to her dodgasted father, an' before you git anywhere's near through, he holds up his hand an' says, 'Now, I've only got to git three more (or whatever it is), an' then the jury's complete!' We're figgerin' on havin' the trial to-morrow mornin' between nine an' ten o'clock. The judge says it's all right, far as he's concerned. We'd have it to-day, only Moll's got to have a new dress an' bonnet an' such-like before she can appear in court. All you'll have to do, Kenny, is jest to set back,—look wise an' let her tell her story. 'Cordin' to law, she's got to stand trial fer murder an' she's got to have counsel. Nobody's goin' to object to you makin' a speech to the jury,—bringin' tears to our eyes, as the sayin' is,—only don't make it too long. I've got to meet a man at half-past ten in regards to a hoss trade, an' I happen to know that Tom Rank's clerk is sick an' he don't want to keep his store locked up fer more than an hour. I'm jest tellin' you this so's you won't have to waste time to-morrow askin' the jurymen whether they have formed an opinion or not, or whether they feel they can give the prisoner a fair an' impartial trial or not. The sheriff's already asked us that an' we've all said yes,—so don't delay matters by askin' ridiculous questions."
The "Judge" interrupted himself to look at his watch.
"Well, I've got to be movin' along. I'm on the coroner's jury too, and we're goin' up to Matt's right away to view the remains. The verdict will probable be: 'Come to his death on account of Moll Hawk's self-defense,' or somethin' like that. 'Never put off till to-morrow what you can do to-day,' as the sayin' goes. Wouldn't surprise me a bit if he was buried before three o'clock to-day. Then we won't have him on our minds to-morrow. Well, see you later—if not sooner."
An hour later Kenneth accompanied the sheriff to the latter's home for an interview with his client. He had promptly consented to act as her counsel after hearing the story of the crime from the sheriff.
"Mrs. Gwyn told my wife to go out and get some new clothes for the girl," said the sheriff as they strode down the street, "and she'd step into the store some time to-day and settle for them. By thunder, you could have knocked me over with a feather, Kenneth. If your stepmother was a man we'd describe her as a skinflint. She's as stingy and unfeeling as they make 'em. Hard as nails and about as kind-hearted as a tombstone. What other woman on this here earth would have gone out to Martin Hawk's last night just for the satisfaction of seein' him arrested? We didn't want her,—not by a long shot,—but she made up her mind to go, and, by gosh, she went. I guess maybe she thought we'd make a botch of it, and so she took that long ride just to make sure she'd git her money's worth. 'Cause, you see, I had to pay each of the men a dollar and a half and mileage before they'd run the risk of bein' shot by Hawk and his crowd. Hard as nails, I said, but doggone it, the minute she saw that girl out there she turned as soft as butter and there is nothin' she won't do for her. It beats me, by gosh,—it certainly beats me."
"Women are very strange creatures," observed Kenneth.
"Yep," agreed the other. "You can most always tell what a man's goin' to do, but I'm derned if you can even GUESS what a woman's up to. Take my wife, for instance. Why, I've been livin' with that woman for seventeen years and I swear to Guinea she's still got me puzzled. Course I know what she's talking about most of the time, but, by gosh, I never know what she's thinkin' about. Women are like cats. A cat is the thoughtfulest animal there is. It's always thinkin'. It thinks when it's asleep,—and most of the time when you think it's asleep it ain't asleep at all. Well, here we are. I guess Moll's out in the kitchen with my wife. I told Ma to roll that old dress of Moll's up and save it for the jury to see. It's the best bit of evidence she's got. All you'll have to do is to hold it up in front of the jury and start your speech somethin' like this: 'Gentlemen of the jury, I ask you to gaze upon this here dress, all tattered and torn,—' and that's as far as you'll get, 'cause this jury is goin' to be composed of gentlemen and they'll probably stand up right then and there and say 'Not guilty.' Come right in, Mr. Gwynne."
After considerable persuasion on the part of the sheriff and his kindly wife, Moll repeated her story to Gwynne. She was abashed before this elegant young man. A shyness and confusion that had been totally lacking in her manner toward the other and older men took possession of her now, and it was with difficulty that she was induced to give him the complete details of all that took place in her father's cabin.
When he shook hands with her as he was about to take his departure, she suddenly found courage to say:
"Kin I see you alone fer a couple of minutes, Mr. Gwynne?"
"Certainly, Miss Hawk," he replied, gravely courteous. "I am sure Mr. and Mrs.—"
"Come right in the sitting-room, Mr. Gwynne," interrupted the housewife, bustling over to open the door.
Moll stared blankly at her counsel. No one had ever called her Miss Hawk before. She was not quite sure that she had heard aright. Could it be possible that this grand young gentleman had called her Miss Hawk? Still wondering, she followed him out of the kitchen, sublimely unconscious of the ridiculous figure she cut in the garments of the older woman.
"Shut the door," she said, as her keen, wood-wary eyes swept the room. She crossed swiftly to the window and looked out. Her lips curled a little. "Most of them people has been standin' out yonder sence nine o'clock, tryin' to see what sort of lookin' animile I am, Mr. Gwynne. Hain't nohody got any work to do?"
"Vulgar curiosity, nothing more," said he, joining her at the window.
"'Tain't ever' day they get a chance to see a murderer, is it?" she said, lowering her head suddenly and putting a hand to her quivering chin. For the first time she seemed on the point of breaking down.
He made haste to exclaim, "You are not a murderer. You must not think or say such things, Miss Hawk."
She kept her head down. A scarlet wave crept over her face. "I—I wish you wouldn't call me that, Mr. Gwynne. Hit—hit makes me feel kind o'—kind o' lonesome-like. Jest as—ef I didn't have no friends. Call me Moll. That's all I am."
He studied for a moment the half-averted face of this girl of the forest. He could not help contrasting it with the clear-cut, delicate, beautifully modelled face of another girl of the dark frontier,—Viola Gwyn. And out of this swift estimate grew a new pity for poor Moll Hawk, the pity one feels for the vanquished.
"You will be surprised to find how many friends you have, Moll," he said gently.
There was no indication that she was impressed one way or the other by this remark. She drew back from the window and faced him, her eyes keen and searching.
"Do you reckon anybody is listenin'?" she asked.
"I think not,—in fact, I am sure we are quite alone."
"Well, this is somethin' I don't keer to have the shurreff know, or anybody else, Mr. Gwynne. Hit's about Mr. Lapelle."
"Yes?" he said, as she paused warily.
"Mrs. Gwyn she tole me this mornin' that whatever I said to my lawyer would be sacred an' wouldn't ever be let out to anybody, no matter whut it wuz. She said it wuz ag'inst the code er somethin'. Wuz she right?"
"In a sense, yes. Of course, you must understand, Moll, that no honest lawyer will obligate himself to shield a criminal or a fugitive from justice, or—I may as well say to you now that if you expect that of me I must warn you not to tell me anything. You would force me to withdraw as your counsel. For, you see, Moll, I am an honest lawyer."
She looked at him in a sort of mute wonder for a moment, and then muttered: "Why, Pap,—Pap he sez there ain't no setch thing as a honest lawyer." An embarrassed little smile twisted her lips. "I guess that must ha' been one of Pap's lies."
"It is possible he may never have come in contact with one," he observed drily.
"Well, I guess ef you're a honest lawyer," she said, knitting her brows, "I'd better keep my mouth shut. I wuz only thinkin' mebby you could see your way to do somethin' I wuz goin' to ask. I jest wanted to git some word to Mr. Lapelle."
"Mr. Lapelle and I are not friends, Moll."
"Is it beca'se of whut I asked Ike Stain to tell ye?"
"Partly."
"I mean about stealin' Miss Violy Gwyn an' takin' her away with him?"
"I want to thank you, Moll, for sending me the warning. It was splendid of you."
"Oh, I didn't do it beca'se—" she began, somewhat defiantly, and then closed her lips tightly. The sullen look came back into her eyes.
"I understand. You—you like him yourself."
"Well,—whut ef I do?" she burst out. "Hit's my look-out, ain't it?"
"Certainly. I am not blaming you."
"I guess there ain't no use talkin' any more," she said flatly. "You wouldn't do whut I want ye to do anyhow, so what's the sense of askin' you. We better go back to the kitchen."
"It may console you to hear that I have already told Mr. Lapelle that he must get out of this town before to-morrow morning," said he deliberately. "And stay out!"
She leaned forward, her face brightening. "You tole him to git away to-night?" she half-whispered, eagerly. "I thought you said you wuzn't a friend o' his'n."
"That is what I said."
"Then, whut did you warn him to git away fer?"
He was thinking rapidly. "I did it on account of Miss Gwyn, Moll," he replied, evasively.
"Do you think he'll go?" she asked, a fierce note of anxiety in her voice.
"That remains to be seen." Then he hazarded: "I think he will when he finds out that your father has been arrested."
"He's been a good friend to me, Mr. Gwynne, Mr. Lapelle has," said she, a little huskily. She waited a moment and then went on earnestly and with a garrulousness that amazed him: "I don't keer whut he's done that ain't right, er whut people is goin' to say about him, he's allus been nice to me. I guess mebby you air a-wonderin' why I tole Ike Stain about him figgerin' on carryin' Miss Gwyn away. That don't look very friendly, I guess. Hit wuzn't beca'se I thought I might git him fer myself some time,—no, hit wuzn't that, Mr. Gwynne. I ain't setch a fool as to think he could ever want to be sparkin' me. I reckon Ike Stain tole ye I wuz jealous. Well, I wuzn't, I declare to goodness I wuzn't. Hit wuz beca'se I jest couldn't 'low her to git married to him, knowin' whut I do. I wuz tryin' to make up my mind to go an' see her some time an' tell her not to marry him, but I jest couldn't seem to git the spunk to do it. She used to come to see me when I wuz sick last winter an' she wuz mighty nice to me.
"First thing I know, him an' Pap begin to fix up this plan to carry her off. So I started up to town to tell her. I got as fer as Ike's when I figgered I better let him do it, him bein' a man, so I drapped in at his cabin an' tole him. I didn't know whut else to do. I had to stop 'em from doin' it somehow. Hit wouldn't do no good fer me to beg Pap to drap it, er to rare up on my hind-legs an' make threats ag'inst 'em,—ca'se they'd soon put a stop to that. Course I had it all figgered out whut I wuz goin' to do when thet pack o' rascals got caught tryin' to steal her,—some of 'em shot, like as not,—and I didn't much keer whuther my Pap wuz one of 'em er not.
"I knowed where Mr. Lapelle wuz to meet 'em down the river acrosst from Le Grange, so I was figgerin' on findin' him there an' tellin' him whut had happened an' fer him to make his escape down the river while he had setch a good start. I wuzn't goin' to let him be ketched an' at the same time I wuzn't goin' to let anything happen to Miss Violy Gwyn ef I could help it. I—I sort of figgered it out as a good way to help both o' my friends, Mr. Gwynne, an'—an' then this here thing happened. I want Mr. Lapelle to git away safe,—ca'se I know whut Pap's goin' to do. He's goin' to blat out a lot o' things. He says he's sure Mr. Lapelle put Mrs. Gwyn up to havin' him arrested."
"I think you may rest easy, Moll," said he, a trifle grimly. "Mr. Lapelle had an engagement with me for to-morrow morning, but I'll stake my life he will not be here to keep it."
"All right," she said, satisfied. "Ef you say so, Mr. Gwynne, I'll believe it. Whut do you think they'll do to Pap?"
"He will probably get a dose of the whipping-post, for one thing."
She grinned. "Gosh, I wish I could be some'eres about so's I could see it," she cried.
Kenneth could hardly contain himself until the time came for him to go home for his noon-day meal. Try as he would, he could not divorce his thoughts from the trouble that had come to Viola. The sinister tragedy in Martin Hawk's cabin was as nothing compared to the calamity that had befallen the girl he loved, for Moll Hawk's troubles would pass like a whiff of the wind while Viola's would endure to the end of time,—always a shadow hanging over her brightest day, a cloud that would not vanish. Out of the silence had come a murmur more desolating than the thunderbolt with all its bombastic fury; out of the silence had come a voice that would go on forever whispering into her ear an unlovely story.
A crowd still hung about the jail and small, ever-shifting groups held sober discourse in front of business places. He hurried by them and struck off up the road, his mind so intent upon what lay ahead of him that he failed to notice that Jack Trentman had detached himself from the group in front of the undertaker's and was following swiftly after him. He was nearly half-way home when he turned, in response to a call from behind, and beheld the gambler.
"I'd like a word with you, Mr. Gwynne," drawled Jack.
"I am in somewhat of a hurry, Mr.—"
"I'll walk along with you, if you don't mind," said the other, coming up beside him. "I'm not in the habit of beating about the bush. When I've got anything to do, I do it without much fiddling. Barry Lapelle is down at my place. He has asked me to represent him in a little controversy that seems to call for physical adjudication. How will day after to-morrow at five in the morning suit you?"
"Perfectly," replied Kenneth stiffly. "Convey my compliments to Mr. Lapelle and say to him that I overlook the irregularity and will be glad to meet him at any time and any place."
"I know it's irregular," admitted Mr. Trentman, with an apologetic wave of the hand, "but he was in some doubt as to who might have the honour to act for you, Mr. Gwynne, so he suggested that I come to you direct. If you will oblige me with the name of the friend who is to act as your second, I will make a point of apologizing for having accosted you in this manner, and also perfect the details with him."
"I haven't given the matter a moment's thought," said Kenneth, frowning. "Day after to-morrow morning, you say?"
"Yes, sir."
"Can't you arrange it for to-morrow morning?"
Mr. Trentman spread out his hands in a deprecatory manner. "In view of the fact that you are expected to appear in court at nine to-morrow morning to defend an unfortunate girl, Mr. Lapelle feels that he would be doing your client a very grave injustice if he killed her lawyer—er—a trifle prematurely, you might say. He has confided to me that he is the young woman's friend and can't bear the thought of having her chances jeopardized by—"
"Pardon me, Mr. Trentman," interrupted Kenneth shortly. "Both of you are uncommonly thoughtful and considerate. Now that I am reminded of my pleasant little encounter with Mr. Lapelle this morning, I am constrained to remark that I have had all the satisfaction I desire. You may say to him that I am a gentleman and not in the habit of fighting duels with horse-thieves."
Mr. Trentman started. His vaunted aplomb sustained a sharp spasm that left him with a slightly fallen jaw.
"Am I to understand, sir, that you are referring to my friend as a horse-thief?" he demanded, bridling.
"I merely asked you to take that message to him," said Kenneth coolly. "I might add cattle-thief, sheep-stealer, hog-thief or—"
"Why, good God, sir," gasped Mr. Trentman, "he'd shoot you down like a dog if I—"
"You may also tell Mr. Lapelle that his bosom friend Martin Hawk is in jail."
"Well, what of it?"
"Does Lapelle know that Martin is in jail?"
"Certainly,—and he says he ought to be hung. That's what he thinks of Hawk. A man that would sell his own—"
"Hawk is in jail for stock-stealing, Mr. Trentman."
"What's that got to do with the case? What's that got to do with your calling my friend a horse-thief?"
"A whole lot, sir. You will probably find out before the day is over that you are harbouring and concealing a thief down there in your shanty, and you may thank Martin Hawk for the information in case you prefer not to accept the word of a gentleman. If you were to come to me as a client seeking counsel, I should not hesitate to advise you,—as your lawyer,—that there is a law against harbouring criminals and that you are laying yourself open to prosecution."
Trentman dubiously felt of his chin.
"Being well versed in the law," he said, "I suppose you realize that Mr. Lapelle can recover heavy damages against you in case what you have said to me isn't true."
"Perfectly. Therefore, I repeat to you that I cannot engage in an affair of honour with a thief. I knocked him down this morning, but that was in the heat of righteous anger. For fear that your report to him may lead Mr. Lapelle to construe my refusal to meet him day after to-morrow morning as cowardice on my part, permit me to make this request of you. Please say to him that I shall arm myself with a pistol as soon as I have reached my house, and that I expect to be going about the streets of Lafayette as usual."
"I see," said Mr. Trentman, after a moment. "You mean you'll be ready for him in case he hunts you up."
"Exactly."
"By the way, Mr. Gwynne, have you ever fought a duel?"
"No."
"Would it interest you to know that Mr. Lapelle has engaged in several, with disastrous results to his adversaries?"
"I think he has already mentioned something of the kind to me."
"I'd sooner be your friend than your enemy, Mr. Gwynne," said the gambler earnestly. "I am a permanent citizen of this town and I have no quarrel with you. As your friend, I am obliged to inform you that Barry Lapelle is a dead shot and as quick as lightning with a pistol. I hope you will take this in the same spirit that it is given."
"I thank you, sir," said Kenneth, courteously. "By the way, do you happen to have a pistol with you at present, Mr. Trentman?"
The other looked at him keenly for a few seconds before answering. "I have. I seldom go without one."
"If you will do me the kindness to walk with me up to the woods beyond the lake and will grant me the loan of your weapon for half a minute, I think I may be able to demonstrate to you that Mr. Lapelle is not the only dead shot in the world. I was brought up with a pistol in my hand, so to speak. Have you ever tried to shoot a ground squirrel at twenty paces? You have to be pretty quick to do that, you know."
Trentman shook his head. "There's a lot of difference between shooting a ground squirrel and blazing away at a man who is blazing away at you at the same time. I'll take your word for the ground squirrel business, Mr. Gwynne, and bid you good day."
"My regrets to your principal and my apologies to you, Mr. Trentman," said Kenneth, lifting his hat.
The gambler raised his own hat. A close observer would have noticed a troubled, anxious gleam in his eye as he turned to retrace his steps in the direction of the square. It was his custom to saunter slowly when traversing the streets of the town, as one who produces his own importance and enjoys it leisurely. He never hurried. He loitered rather more gracefully when walking than when standing still. But now he strode along briskly,—in fact, with such lively decision that for once in his life he appeared actually to be going somewhere. As he rounded the corner and came in sight of the jail, he directed a fixed, consuming glare upon the barred windows; a quite noticeable scowl settled upon his ordinarily unruffled brow,—the scowl of one searching intently, even apprehensively.
He was troubled. His composure was sadly disturbed. Kenneth Gwynne had given him something to think about,—and the more he thought about it the faster he walked. He was perspiring quite freely and he was a little short of breath when he flung open the door and entered his "den of iniquity" down by the river. He took in at a glance the three men seated at a table in a corner of the somewhat commodious "card-room." One of them was dealing "cold hands" to his companions. A fourth man, his dealer, was leaning against the window frame, gazing pensively down upon the slow-moving river. Two of the men at the table were newcomers in town. They had come up on theRevereand they had already established themselves in his estimation as "skeletons"; that is, they had been picked pretty clean by "buzzards" in other climes before gravitating to his "boneyard." He considered himself a good judge of men, and he did not like the looks of this ill-favoured pair. He had made up his mind that he did not want them hanging around the "shanty"; men of that stripe were just the sort to give the place a bad name! One of them had recalled himself to Barry Lapelle the night before; said he used to work for a trader down south or somewhere.
Without the ceremony of a knock on the door, Mr. Trentman entered a room at the end of the shanty, and there he found Lapelle reclining on a cot. Two narrow slits in a puffed expanse of purple grading off to a greenish yellow indicated the position of Barry's eyes. The once resplendent dandy was now a sorry sight.
"Say," began Trentman, after he had closed the door, "I want to know just how things stand with you and Martin Hawk. No beating about the bush, Barry. I want the truth and nothing else."
Barry raised himself on one elbow and peered at his host. "What are you driving at, Jack?" he demanded, throatily.
"Are you mixed up with him in this stock-running business?"
"Well, that's a hell of a question to ask a—"
"It's easy to answer. Are you?"
"Certainly not,—and I ought to put a bullet through you for asking such an insulting question."
"He's in jail, charged with stealing sheep and calves, and he's started to talk. Now, look here, Lapelle, I'm your friend, but if you are mixed up in this business the sooner you get out of here the better it will suit me. Wait a minute! I've got more to say. I know you're planning to go down on the boat to-morrow, but I don't believe it's soon enough. I've seen Gwynne. He says in plain English that he won't fight a duel with a horse-thief. He must have some reason for saying that. He has been employed as Moll Hawk's lawyer. She's probably been talking, too. I've been thinking pretty hard the last ten minutes or so, and I'm beginning to understand why you wanted me to arrange the duel for day after to-morrow when you knew you were leaving town on theReverein the morning. You were trying to throw Gwynne off the track. I thought at first it was because you were afraid to fight him, but now I see things differently. I'll be obliged to you if you'll come straight out and tell me what's in the air. I'm a square man and I like to know whether I'm dealing with square men or not."
Lapelle sat up suddenly on the edge of the bed. Somehow, it seemed to Trentman, the greenish yellow had spread lightly over the rest of his face.
"You say Martin's in jail for stealing?" he asked, gripping the corn-husk bedtick with tense, nervous fingers, "and not in connection with the killing of Suggs?"
"Yep. And I sort of guess you'll be with him before you're much older, if Gwynne knows what he's—"
"I've got to get out of this town to-night, Jack," cried the younger man, starting to his feet. "Understand, I'm not saying I am mixed up in any way with Hawk and his crowd, but—but I've got important business in Attica early to-morrow morning. That's all you can get me to say. I'll sneak up the back road to the tavern and pack my saddle-bags this afternoon, and I'll leave money with you to settle with Johnson. I may have to ask you to fetch my horse down here—"
"Just a minute," broke in Trentman, who had been regarding him with hard, calculating eyes. "If it's as bad as all this, I guess you'd better not wait till to-night. It may be too late,—and besides I don't want the sheriff coming down here and jerking you out of my place. You don't need to tell me anything more about your relations with Hawk. I'm no fool, Barry. I know now that you are mixed up in this stock-stealing business that's been going on for months. It don't take a very smart brain to grasp the situation. You've probably been making a pretty good thing out of moving this stuff down the river on your boats, and—Now, don't get up on your ear, my friend! No use trying to bamboozle me. You're scared stiff,—and that's enough for me. And you've got a right to be. This will put an end to your company's boats coming up here for traffic,—it will kill you deader'n a doornail so far as business is concerned. So you'd better get out at once. I never liked you very much anyhow and now I've got no use for you at all. Just to save my own skin and my own reputation as a law-abiding citizen, I'll help you to get away. Now, here's what I'll do. I'll send up and get your horse and have him down here inside of fifteen minutes. There's so darned much excitement up in town about this murder that nobody's going to notice you for the time being. And besides a lot of farmers from over west are coming in, scared half to death about Black Hawk's Indians. They'll be out looking for you before long, your lordship, and it won't be for the purpose of inviting you to have a drink. They'll probably bring a rail along with 'em, so's you'll at least have the consolation of riding up to the calaboose. You'll—"
"Oh, for God's sake!" grated Barry, furiously. "Don't try to be comical, Trentman. This is no time to joke,—or preach either. Give me a swig of—"
"Nope! No whiskey, my friend," said the gambler firmly. "Whiskey always puts false courage into a man, and I don't want you to be doing anything foolish. I'll have your mare Fancy down here in fifteen minutes, saddled and everything, and you will hop on her and ride up the street, right past the court house, just as if you're out for an hour's canter for your health. You will not have any saddle-bags or traps. You'll ride light, my friend. That will throw 'em off the track. But what I want you to do as soon as you get out the other side of the tanyard is to turn in your saddle and wave a last farewell to the Star City. You might throw a kiss at it, too, while you're about it. Because you've got a long journey ahead of you and you're not coming back,—that is, unless they overtake you. There's some pretty fast horses in this town, as you may happen to remember. So I'd advise you to get a good long start,—and keep it."
If Lapelle heard all of this he gave no sign, for he had sidled over to the little window and was peering obliquely through the trees toward the road that led from the "shanty" toward the town. Suddenly he turned upon the gambler, a savage oath on his lips.
"You bet I'll come back! And when I do, I'll give this town something to talk about. I'll make tracks now. It's the only thing to do. But I'm not licked—not by a long shot, Jack Trentman. I'll be back inside of—"
"I'll make you a present of a couple of pistols a fellow left with me for a debt a month or so ago. You may need 'em," said Trentman blandly. "Better get ready to start. I'll have the horse here in no time."
"You're damned cold-blooded," growled Barry, pettishly.
"Yep," agreed the other. "But I'm kind-hearted."
He went out, slamming the door behind him. Twenty minutes later, Barry emerged from the "shanty" and mounted his sleek, restless thoroughbred. Having recovered, for purposes of deception, his lordly, cock-o'-the-walk attitude toward the world, he rode off jauntily in the direction of the town, according Trentman the scant courtesy of a careless wave of the hand at parting. He had counted his money, examined the borrowed pistols, and at the last moment had hurriedly dashed off a brief letter to Kenneth Gwynne, to be posted the following day by the avid though obliging Mr. Trentman.
Stifling his rancour and coercing his vanity at the same time, he cantered boldly past the Tavern, bitterly aware of the protracted look of amazement that interrupted the conversation of some of the most influential citizens of the place as at least a score of eyes fell upon his battered visage. Pride and rage got the better of him. He whirled Fancy about with a savage jerk and rode back to the group.
"Take a good look, gentlemen," he snapped out, his eyes gleaming for all the world like two thin little slivers of red-hot iron. "The coward who hit me before I had a chance to defend myself has just denied me the satisfaction of a duel. I sent him a challenge to fight it out with pistols day after to-morrow morning. He is afraid to meet me. The challenge still stands. If you should see Mr. Gwynne, gentlemen, between now and Friday morning, do me the favour to say to him that I will be the happiest man on earth if he can muster up sufficient courage to change his mind. Good day, gentlemen."
With this vainglorious though vicarious challenge to an absent enemy, he touched the gad to Fancy's flank and rode away, his head erect, his back as stiff as a ramrod, leaving behind him a staring group whose astonishment did not give way to levity until he was nearing the corner of the square. He cursed softly under his breath at the sound of the first guffaw; he subdued with difficulty a wild, reckless impulse to turn in the saddle and send a shot or two at them. But this was no time for folly,—no time to lose his head.
Out of the corner of his eye he took in the jail and the group of citizens on the court house steps. Something seemed to tell him that these men were saying, "There he goes,—stop him! He's getting away!" They were looking at him; of that he was subtly conscious, although he managed to keep his eyes set straight ahead. Only the most determined effort of the will kept him from suddenly putting spur to the mare. Afterwards he complimented himself on his remarkable self-control, and laughed as he likened his present alarm to that of a boy passing a graveyard at night. Nevertheless, he was now filled with an acute, very real sense of anxiety and apprehension; every nerve was on edge.
It was all very well for Jack Trentman to say that this was the safest, most sensible way to go about it, but had Jack ever been through it himself? At any moment Martin Hawk might catch a glimpse of him through the barred window of the jail and let out a shout of warning; at any moment the sheriff himself might dash out of the court house with a warrant in his hand,—and then what? He had the chill, uneasy feeling that they would be piling out after him before he could reach the corner of the friendly thickets at the lower end of the street.
A pressing weight seemed to slide off his shoulders and neck as Fancy swung smartly around the bend into the narrow wagon-road that stretched its aimless way through the scrubby bottom-lands and over the ridge to the open sweep of the plains beyond. Presently he urged the mare to a rhythmic lope, and all the while his ears were alert for the thud of galloping horses behind. It was not until he reached the table-land to the south that he drove the rowels into the flanks of the swift four-year-old and leaned forward in the saddle to meet the rush of the wind. Full well he knew that given the start of an hour no horse in the county could catch his darling Fancy!
And so it was that Barry Lapelle rode out of the town of Lafayette, never to return again.