It was characteristic of Rachel Carter that she should draw the window curtains aside in Viola's bedroom, allowing the pitiless light of day to fall upon her face as she seated herself to make confession. She had come to the hour when nothing was to be hidden from her daughter, least of all the cheek that was to be smitten.
The girl sat on the edge of the bed, her elbow on the footboard, her cheek resting upon her hand. Not once did she take her eyes from the grey, emotionless face of the woman who sat in the light.
In course of time, Rachel Carter came to the end of her story. She had made no attempt to justify herself, had uttered no word of regret, no signal of repentance, no plea for forgiveness. The cold, unfaltering truth, without a single mitigating alloy in the shape of sentiment, had issued from her tired but unconquered soul. She went through to the end without being interrupted by the girl, whose silence was eloquent of a strength and courage unsurpassed even by this woman from whom she had, after all, inherited both. She did not flinch, she did not cringe as the twenty-year-old truth was laid bare before her. She was made of the same staunch fibre as her mother, she possessed the indomitable spirit that stiffens and remains unyielding in the face of calamity.
"Now you know everything," said Rachel Carter wearily. "I have tried to keep it from you. But the truth will out. It is God's law. I would have spared you if I could. You are of my flesh and blood, you are a part of me. There has never been an instant in all these hard, trying years when I have not loved and cherished you as the gift that no woman, honest or dishonest, can despise. You will know what that means when you have a child of your own, and you will never know it until that has come to pass. You may cast me out of your heart, Viola, but you cannot tear yourself out of mine. So! I have spoken. There is no more."
She turned her head to look out of the window. Viola did not move. Presently the older woman spoke again. "Your name is Minda Carter. You will be twenty-two years old next September. You have no right to the name of Gwynne. The boy who lives in that house over yonder is the only one who has a right to it. But his birthright is no cleaner than yours. You can look him in the face without shame to yourself, because your father was an honest man and your mother was his loyal, faithful wife,—and Kenneth Gwynne can say no more than that."
"Nor as much," burst from the girl's lips with a fervour that startled her mother. "His father was not a loyal, faithful husband, nor was he an honest man or he would have married you."
She was on her feet now, her body bent slightly, forward, her smouldering eyes fixed intently upon her; mother's face.
Rachel Carter stared incredulously. Something in Viola's eyes, in the ring of her voice caused her heart to leap.
"I was his wife in the eyes of God," she began, but something rushed up into her throat and seemed to choke her.
"And you have told Kenneth all this?" cried Viola, a light as of understanding flooding her eyes. "He knows? How long has he known?"
"I—I can't remember. Some of it for weeks, some of it only since last night."
"Ah!" There was a world of meaning in the cry. Even as she uttered it she seemed to feel his arms about her and the strange thrill that had charged through her body from head to foot. She sat down again on the edge of the bed; a dark wave of colour surging to her cheek and brow.
"I am waiting," said her mother, after a moment. Her voice was steady. "It is your turn to speak, my child."
Viola came to her side.
"Mother," she began, a deep, full note in her voice, "I want you to let me sit in your lap, with your arms around me. Like when I was a little girl."
Rachel lifted her eyes; and as the girl looked down into them the hardness of years melted away and they grew wondrous soft and gentle.
"Is this your verdict?" she asked solemnly.
"Yes," was the simple response.
"You do not cast me out of your heart? Remember, in the sight of man, I am an evil woman."
"You are my mother. You did not desert me. You would not leave me behind. You have loved me since the day I was born. You will never be an evil woman in my eyes. Hold me in your lap, mother dear. I shall always feel safe then."
Rachel's lips and chin quivered.... A long time afterward the girl gently disengaged herself from the strong, tense embrace and rose to her feet.
"You say that Kenneth hates you," she said, "and you say that you do not blame him. Is it right and fair that he should hate you any more than I should hate his father?" "Yes," replied Rachel Carter, "it is right and fair. I was his mother's best friend. His father did not betray his best friend as I did, for my husband was dead. There is a difference, my child."
Viola shook her head stubbornly. "I don't see why the woman must always be crucified and the man allowed to go his way—"
"It is no use, Viola," interrupted Rachel, rising. Her face had hardened again. "We cannot change the ways of the world." She crossed the room, but stopped with her hand on the door-latch. Turning to her daughter, she said: "Whatever Kenneth may think of me, he has the greatest respect and admiration for you. He bears no grudge against Minda Carter. On the contrary, he has shown that he would lay down his life for you. You must bear no grudge against him. You and he are children who have walked in darkness for twenty years, but now you have come to a place where there is light. See to it, Viola, that you are as fair to him as you would have him be to you. You stand on common ground with the light of understanding all about you. Do not turn your backs upon each other. Face one another. It is the only way."
Viola's eyes flashed. She lifted her chin.
"I am not ashamed to look Kenneth Gwynne in the face," said she, a certain crispness in her voice. Then, with a quick change to tenderness, "You are so tired, mother. Won't you lie down and sleep awhile?"
"After I have eaten something. Come downstairs. I want to hear what happened here this morning. Kenneth told me very little and you have done nothing but ask questions of me."
"Did he tell you that he struck Barry Lapelle?"
"No."
"Or how near I came to shooting him?"
"Merciful heaven!" "Well, I guess Barry won't rest till he has told the whole town what we are,—and then we'll have to face something cruel, mother. But we will face it together."
She put her arm about her mother's shoulders and they went down the narrow staircase together.
"It will not cost me a single friend, Viola," remarked Rachel grimly. "I have none to lose. But with you it will be different."
"We don't have to stay in the old town," said Viola bravely. "The world is large. We can move on. Just as we used to before we came here to live. Always moving on, we were."
Rachel shook her head. They were at the bottom of the stairs.
"I will not move on. This is where I intend to live and die. The man I lived for is up yonder in the graveyard. I will not go away and leave him now,—not after all these years. But you, my child, you must move on. You have something else to live for. I have nothing. But I can hold my head up, even here. You will not find it so easy. You will—"
"It will be as easy for me as it will for Kenneth Gwynne," broke in the girl. "Wait and see which one of us runs away first. It won't be me."
"He will not go away and leave you," said Rachel Carter.
Viola gave her a quick, startled look. They were in the kitchen, however, before she spoke. Then it was to say:
"Now I understand why I have never been able to think of him as my brother." That, and nothing more; there was an odd, almost frightened expression in her eyes.
She got breakfast for her mother, Hattie having been sent down into the town by her mistress immediately upon her return home, ostensibly to make a few purchases but actually for the purpose of getting rid of her. Viola, in relating the story of the morning's events, was careful to avoid using the harshest of Barry's terms, but earnestly embellished the account of Kenny's interference with some rather formidable expressions of her own, putting them glibly into the mouth of her champion. Once her mother interrupted her to inquire:
"Did Kenneth actually use those words, Viola? 'Pusillanimous varlet,'—and 'mendacious scalawag'? It does not sound like Kenneth."
Viola had the grace to blush guiltily. "No, he didn't. He swore harder than anybody I've ever—"
"That's better," said Rachel, somewhat sternly.
Later on they sat on the little front porch, where the older woman, with scant recourse to the graphic, narrated the story of Moll Hawk. Pain and horror dwelt in Viola's wide, lovely eyes.
"Oh, poor, poor Moll," she murmured at the end of the wretched tale. "She has never known a mother's love, or a mother's care. She has never had a chance."
Then Rachel Carter said a strange thing. "When all this is over and she is free, I intend to offer her a home here with me."
The girl stared, open-mouthed. "With you? Here with us?"
"You will not always be here with me," said her mother. "How can you say such a thing?" with honest indignation. Then quickly: "I know I planned to run off and leave you a little while ago, but that was before I came to know how much you need me."
Rachel experienced one of her rare smiles. "And before you came to know Kenneth Gwynne," she said. "No, my dear, the time is not far off when you will not need a mother. Moll Hawk needs one now. I shall try to be a mother to that hapless girl."
Viola looked at her, the little line of perplexity deepening between her eyes.
"Somehow it seems to me that I am just beginning to know my own mother," she said.
A bluejay, sweeping gracefully out over the tree-tops, came to rest upon a lofty bough in the grove across the road. They sat for a long time without speaking, these two women, watching him preen and prink, a bit of lively blue against the newborn green. Then he flew away. He "moved on,"—a passing symbol.
How simple, how easy it was for this bright, gay vagabond to return to the silence from which he had come.
Viola was alone on the porch when Kenneth came into view at the bend in the road. He had chuckled more than once after parting from the gambler; a mental vision of the inwardly agitated though outwardly bland Mr. Trentman making tracks as fast as his legs would carry him to warn Lapelle of his peril afforded him no small amount of satisfaction. If he knew his man,—and he thought he did,—Barry would lose no time in shaking the dust of Lafayette from his feet. The thought of that had sent his spirits up. He went even farther in his reflections and found himself hoping that Barry's flight might be so precipitous that he would not have the opportunity to disclose his newfound information concerning Rachel Carter.
He was nearing his own gate before he saw Viola, seated on the porch. Involuntarily he slackened his pace. A sort of panic seized him. Was she waiting there to question him? He experienced a sudden overwhelming dismay. What was he to say to her? How was he to face the unhappy, stricken,—but even as he contemplated a cowardly retreat, she arose and came swiftly down the path. He groaned inwardly. There was no escape.
Now, as he hesitated uncertainly at his own gate, his heart in his boots, she serenely beckoned to him.
"I want to see you, Kenny," she called out.
This was no stricken, unhappy creature who approached him. Her figure was proudly erect; she walked briskly; there was no trace of shame or humiliation in her face; if anything, she was far more at ease than he.
"I want to thank you," she said calmly, "for what you did this morning. Not only for what you did to him but for keeping me from shooting him." She held out her hand, but lowered it instantly when she saw that his own was rather significantly hidden inside the breast of his coat. A look of pain fluttered across her eyes.
"Where is your mother?" he asked lamely.
She seemed to read his thoughts. "Mother and I have talked it all over, Kenneth. She has told me everything."
"Oh, you poor darling!" he cried.
"Don't waste any sympathy on me," she retorted, coldly. "I don't want it. Not from Robert Gwynne's son at any rate."
He was now looking at her steadily. "I see. You don't care for the breed, is that it?"
"Kenny," she began, a solemn note in her voice, "there is no reason why you and I should hurt each other. If I hurt you just now I am sorry. But I meant what I said. I do not want the pity of Robert Gwynne's son any more than you want to be pitied by the daughter of Rachel Carter. We stand on even terms. I just want you to know that my heart is as stout as yours and that my pride is as strong."
He bowed his head. "All my life I have thought of my father as a Samson who was betrayed by a Delilah. I have never allowed myself to think of him as anything but great and strong and good. I grew to man's estate still believing him to be the victim of an evil woman. I am not in the ordinary sense a fool and yet I have been utterly without the power to reason. My eyes have been opened, Viola. I am seeing with a new vision. I have more to overlook, more to forgive in my father than you have in your mother. I speak plainly, because I hope this is to be the last time we ever touch upon the subject. You, at least, have grown up to know the enduring love of a mother. She did not leave you behind. She was not altogether heartless. That is all I can say, all I shall ever say, even to you, about my father."
He spoke with such deep feeling and yet so simply that her heart was touched. A wistful look came into her eyes.
"I am still bewildered by it all, Kenny," she said. "In the wink of an eye, everything is altered. I am not Viola Gwyn. I am Minda Carter. I am not your half-sister. You seem suddenly to have gone very far away from me. It hurts me to feel that we can never be the same toward each other that we were even this morning. I had come to care for you as a brother. Now you are a stranger. I—I loved being your sister and—and treating you as if you were my brother. Now all that is over." She sighed deeply.
"Yes," he said gently, "all that is over for you, Viola. But I have known for many weeks that you are not my sister."
"I bear no grudge against you," she said, meeting his gaze steadily. "My heart is bitter toward the man I have always looked upon as my father. But it does not contain one drop of bitterness toward you. What matters if I have walked in darkness and you in the light? We were treading the same path all the time. Now we meet and know each other for what we really are. The path is not wide enough for us to walk beside each other without our garments touching. Are we to turn back and walk the other way so that our unclean garments may not touch?"
"For heaven's sake, Viola," he cried in pain, "what can have put such a thought into your head? Have I ever said or done anything to cause you to think I—"
"You must not forget that you can walk by yourself, Kenny. Your father is dead. The world is kind enough to let the dead rest in peace. But it gives no quarter to the living. My mother walks with me, Kenneth Gwynne. The world, when it knows, will throw stones at her. That means it will have to throw stones at me. She did not abandon me. I shall not abandon her. She sinned,"—here her lip trembled,—"and she has been left to pay the penalty alone. It may sound strange to you, but my mother was also deserted by your father. God let him die, but I can't help feeling that it wasn't fair, it wasn't right for him to die and leave her to face this all alone."
"And you want to know where I stand in the matter?"
"It makes no difference, Kenny. I only want you to understand. I don't want to lose you as a friend,—I would like to have you stand up and take your share of the—"
"And that is just what I intend to do," he broke in. "We occupy strange positions, Viola. We are,—shall I say birds of a feather? This had to come. Now that it has come and you know all that I know, are we to turn against each other because of what happened when we were babies? We have done no wrong. I love you, Viola,—I began loving you before I found out you were not my half-sister. I will love you all my life. Now you know where I stand."
She looked straight into his eyes for a long time; in her own there was something that seemed to search his soul, something of wonder, something groping and intense as if her own soul was asking a grave, perplexing question. A faint, slow surge of colour stole into her face. "I must go in the house now," she said, a queer little flutter in her voice. "After dinner I am going down with mother to see Moll Hawk. If—if you mean all that you have just said, Kenny, why did you refuse to shake hands with me?"
He withdrew his bruised right hand from its hiding-place. "It is an ugly thing to look at but I am proud of it," he said. "I would give it for you a thousand times over."
"Oh, I'm—I'm sorry I misjudged you—" she cried out. Then both of her hands closed on the unsightly member and pressed it gently, tenderly. There was that in the touch of her firm, strong fingers that sent an ecstatic shock racing into every fibre in his body. "I will never question that hand again, Kenny," she said, and then, releasing it, she turned and walked rapidly away.
He stood watching her until she ran nimbly up the porch steps and disappeared inside the house. Whereupon he lifted the swollen but now blessed knuckles to his lips and sighed profoundly.
"Something tells me she still loves Barry, in spite of everything," he muttered, suddenly immersed in gloom. "Women stick through thick and thin. If they once love a man they never—"
"Dinner's ready, Marse Kenneth," announced Zachariah from the door-step.
Now, Martin Hawk was not a patient man. He waited till mid-afternoon for some word from Barry Lapelle in response to his message, and, receiving none,—(for the very good reason that it was never delivered),—fell to blaspheming mightily, and before he was through with it revealed enough to bring about an ultimate though fruitless search for the departed "go-between."
He was, however, careful to omit any mention of thePaul Revere'scaptain, remembering just in time that hardy riverman's promise to blow his brains out if he even so much as breathed his name in connection with certain nefarious transactions,—and something told him that Cephas Redberry would put a short, sharp stop to any breathing at all on his part the instant he laid eyes on him. He was not afraid of Barry Lapelle but he was in deadly terror of Redberry. The more he thought of Ceph being landed in the same jail with him, the longer the goose feathers grew on his shrinking spine. So he left the Captain out of it altogether,—indeed, he gave him a perfectly clean bill of health.
Along about dusk that evening a crowd began to collect in the neighbourhood of the jail. Martin, peering from behind a barred window, was not long in grasping the significance of this ominous gathering. He was the only inmate of the "calaboose"; therefore, he was in no doubt as to the identity of the person to whom so many different terms of opprobrium were being applied by certain loud-voiced citizens in the crowd. He also gathered from remarks coming up to the window that the person referred to stood in grave danger of being "skinned alive," "swung to a limb," "horsewhipped till he can't stand," "rode on a rail," "ham-strung," "drownded," "hung up by the thumbs," "dogged out o' town," "peppered with bird-shot," "filled with buckshot," and numerous other unpleasant alternatives, no one of which was conducive to the peace of mind.
As the evening wore on, Martin became more and more convinced that his life wasn't worth a pinch of salt, and so began to pray loudly and lustily. The crowd had increased to alarming proportions. In the light of torches and bonfires he recognized men from far-off Grand Prairie, up to the northwest of town. Wagons rumbled past the jail and court house and were lost in the darkness of the streets beyond. He was astonished to see that most of these vehicles contained women and children, and many of them were loaded high with household goods. This, thought Martin, was the apex of attention. People were coming from the four corners of the world to witness his execution! Evidently it was to be an affair that every householder thought his women-folk and the children ought to see. Some men might have been gratified by all this interest, but not Martin. He began to increase the fervor of his prayers by inserting, here and there, hair-raising oaths,—not bravely or with the courage of the defiant, but because all other words failed him in his extremity.
He had no means of knowing, of course, that he was dividing the honours, so to speak, with another and far more imposing rascal,—the terrible Black Hawk. How was he to know, locked up in jail, that all evening long panic-stricken people from the distant and thinly-settled prairies were piling into town because of the report that bands of Black Hawk's warriors had been seen by reputable settlers along the upper edge of the Prairie?
Like reports had been filtering into town for several days, but not much credence had been given them. Indian scares were not uncommon, and for the most part people had scoffed at them. But now there was an actual threat from the powerful Black Hawk, whose headquarters were up along the Rock River, in the northern part of Illinois. The chieftain had at last thrown down the gauntlet; he had refused to recognize the transfer of lands and rights as laid down by the Government, and had openly announced his intention to fight. Already troops from the forts were on the move, and there was talk of the State militia being called out. Some of the leading spirits in Lafayette had been moved to organize a local company.
Naturally, Martin Hawk knew nothing of all this. He knew, through Simon Braley, that Indian troubles were bound to come, but how was he to know that red-skins in warpaint had been seen on the Grand Prairie, or that he was not the only subject of conversation? All he knew was that if the Lord didn't take a hand pretty soon he would be—Well, it was useless to fix his mind on any particular form of destruction, so many and so varied were the kinds being disputatiously considered by the people in the street.
Suddenly the sound of fife and drum smote upon his ear, coming from somewhere up the street. He huddled down in a corner and began to moan. He knew the meaning of that signal-call. They were organizing for a rush upon the jail,—an irresistible, overwhelming charge that would sweep all opposition before it. Then he heard the shuffling of many feet, loud exclamations and an occasional cheer. Finally he screwed up the courage for another cautious peep through the bars. The crowd was moving off up the street. A small group remained undecided near a bonfire in the court house yard. One of these men held a long rope in his hand, and seemed argumentative.
Martin listened with all ears, trying to catch what was being said. What an infernal noise that fife and drum were making! At last the little knot of men moved away from the fire, coming toward the window. Martin, being a wary rascal, promptly ducked his head, but kept his ears open.
"It's a trick, that's what it is," he heard some one growl. "A trick to get us away from the jail. They know we'll get him, sure as God made little apples, so they've fixed this up to—"
"Well, what if it is a trick?" broke in another. "It ain't going to work. The crowd'll be back here again inside of ten minutes an' all the sheriffs an' constables in the State can't stop us from taking him out an' stringin' him up."
"We might as well go and see what's up," said another. "I guess he's where he'll keep. He'll be here when we come back, Bill. He can't get out till we open the door, so what's the use cussin' about ten or fifteen minutes' delay? Come on! I don't take any stock in this talk about Indians, but, great snakes, if they want to get up a company to go out and—"
The rest of the remark was lost to Martin when the group turned the corner of the jail.
"Ten or fifteen minutes," he groaned. In ten or fifteen minutes the whole town would be out there, breaking down the door—the work of a few seconds. He remembered hearing people laugh and joke about the new jail. No less a person than Cap' Redberry had said, after a casual inspection of the calaboose, that if THAT was what they called a jail he'd hate to be inside of it if a woodpecker started to peckin' at it, 'cause if such a thing happened the whole blamed she-bang would cave in and like as not hurt him considerable. And Cap' was not the only one who spoke derisively of the new jail. Ed Bloker declared he had quit walkin' past it on his way home from the grocery because he was in mortal terror of staggerin' up against it and knockin' it all to smash. Of course, Martin knew that it was not as bad as all that, but, even so, it could not hold out for more than a minute if some one began pounding at the door with a sledge-hammer.
There were two rooms, or compartments, to the jail; a little ante-room and the twelve-by-sixteen foot "cage," of which he was the sole occupant. A single cornhusk mattress had been put in for him that afternoon. He never seemed quite able to fix its position in his mind, a circumstance that caused him to stumble over it time and again as he tramped restlessly about the place in the darkness.
Suddenly he stopped as if shot. A tremendous idea struck him, and for a moment his head spun dizzily. If it was so blamed easy to break into the jail, why should it be so all-fired difficult to break out of it? Why, he hadn't even tried the door, or the bars in the window; now that he thought of it, the grate in the south window had appeared to be a little shaky. Inspired by a wild, alluring hope, he sprang over to the window and gripped the thin iron bars; with all his might and main he jerked, bracing his feet against the wall. No use! It would come just so far and no farther. He tried the other window, with even less encouraging results. In eight or ten minutes now, the crowd would be,—he leaped to the barred door. It, too, resisted his crazy strength. The huge padlock on the other side clattered tauntingly against the grating, but that was all. All the while he was grunting and whining: "If I ever get out of this, it'll take a streak o' greased lightnin' to ketch me. Oh, Lordy! That drum's gettin' closer! They're comin'! If I ever get out of this, nobody'll ever see me closer'n a hundred mile o' this here town,—never as long as I live. Gimme a half hour's start an'—Jehosophat!"
He had shoved a trembling hand between the bars and was fumbling with the padlock. His ejaculation was due to a most incredible discovery. Some one had forgotten to take the key out of the padlock! He laughed shrilly, witlessly. Twenty seconds later he was out in the little anteroom or vestibule, panting and still chortling. The outer door opened readily to the lifting of the latch. He peeped out cautiously, warily. The square was deserted save for a few men hurrying along the street toward the drill ground up beyond Horton's tanyard,—where the drum and fife were playing and men were shouting loudly.
Thereupon Martin Hawk did the incomprehensible thing. He squared his brawny shoulders, set his hat rakishly over one ear, and sauntered out of the jail, calmly stopping to latch the door—and even to rattle it to make sure that it had caught!
He was far too cunning to dart around the corner and bolt for safety. That would have been the worst kind of folly. Instead, he strode briskly off in the direction from whence came the strains of martial music! So much for the benefit of watchful, suspicious eyes. But as he turned the corner of Baker's store his whole demeanour changed. He was off like a frightened rabbit, and as soft-footedly. He ran as the huntsman or the Indian runs,—almost soundlessly, like the wind breezing over dead leaves or through the tops of reeds. Three men stepped out from behind a wagon on the far side of the square. The flare of a bonfire reached dimly to the corner around which the fugitive had scurried. One of the men gave vent to a subdued snort and then spat hurriedly and copiously.
"We'll never see hide nor hair of him again," quoth he. "He won't stop running till daybreak. I guess you'd better wait about ten minutes, Jake, and then fire a few shots. That'll put new life into him. Course, a lot of blamed fools will cuss the daylights out of me for letting him get away right under my nose, and all that, but let 'em talk. He's gone for good, you can bet on that,—and the county's lucky to get rid of him so cheaply."
"I guess you're right, Sheriff," agreed one of his companions. "From all I hear, Mrs. Gwyn would have a hard time provin' it was him as stole her—"
"Supposin' she did prove it, what then?" broke in the high sheriff of the bailiwick. "The county would have to feed him for a couple of months or so and then turn him loose again to go right back to stealing, same as before. The best way to punish a thief, accordin' to my notion, is to keep him everlastingly on the jump, scared to death to show his face anywheres and always hatin' to go to sleep for fear he'll wake up and find somebody pointin' a pistol at him and sayin,' 'Well, I got you at last, dang ye.' Besides, lockin' Mart up isn't going to bring back Mrs. Gwyn's sheep, is it?"
"When that gal of his tells her story in court to-morrow," advanced the third member of the group, "there'll be plenty of people in this town that won't be put off a second time by any fife and drum shinanigan."
"Anyhow," said the sheriff, "I didn't want to have the blamed skunk on my mind while we're organizin' the company. It's bad enough havin' to go out and fight Indians without worryin' all the time I'm away about whether anybody back here has had sense enough to keep Martin from starvin' to death. I guess we'd better mosey along up to the drill ground, boys. Martin's got into the bushes by this time, and if I'm any kind of a guesser he ain't dawdlin' along smellin' every spring flower he comes across."
"Don't you think you'd better go over an' take a look around the jail first?"
"What for? There ain't anybody in it."
"No, but like as not the dog-gasted whelp run off with that padlock, an' we'd ought to know it before he gets too big a start. Padlocks cost money," explained the other, with a dry chuckle and a dig in the sheriff's ribs.
"So do prisoners," was the rejoinder of this remarkable sheriff.
And thus it came to pass that between the sheriff and Kenneth Gwynne and Moll Hawk, the county got rid of three iniquitous individuals. One rode forth in broad daylight on a matchless thoroughbred; another stole off like a weasel in the night, and the third took passage on the Ship that Never Returns.
The trial of Moll Hawk was a brief one. "Judge" Billings, as foreman of the jury, asked permission of the Court to make a few remarks before the taking of testimony began.
"Your honour, this here jury got together last night and sort of talked things over while Mr. Benbridge and other patriotic citizens of Lafayette were engaged in organizing a number of noble and brave-hearted gentlemen into a company of soldiers to give battle to the bloodthirsty red man who is about to swoop down upon us, with tommyhawk and knife and rifle, to ravage our lands and pillage our women—er—I mean pillage our lands and—er—so forth. As I was saying, your honour, we talked it over and seeing as how we have all enlisted in Mr. Benbridge's troop and he sort of thought we'd better begin drilling as soon as possible, and also seeing as how this here trial is attractin' a good deal of attention at a time when we ought to be thinkin' of the safety of our wives and children,—if we have any,—we came to the conclusion to address you, sir, with all respect, and suggest that you instruct the counsel on both sides to be as lenient as possible with the jury.
"This here innocent girl's father broke out of jail and got away. As far as this here jury knows he ain't likely ever to come back, so, for the time being at least, there don't seem to be anybody we can hang for the crime with which the prisoner at the bar is charged. This jury was picked with a great deal of care by the sheriff and is, I am reliably informed, entirely satisfactory to both sides of the case.
"In view of the fact that Black Hawk's warriors are reported to have been seen within twenty miles of our beautiful little city, and also in view of the additional fact that Mrs. Rachel Gwyn, one of our foremost citizens and taxpayers, has recently informed me,—and your honour also, I believe, in my presence,—that she intends to give this poor girl a home as soon as she is lawfully discharged by the jury as not guilty, we, the jury, implore your honour to keep an eye on the clock. As we understand the case, there were only two witnesses to the killing of the villain against whom this young woman fought so desperately in self-defence. One of 'em is here in this courtroom. The other is dead and buried. It is now ten minutes past nine. We, the jury, would like for you to inform the counsel on both sides that at precisely ten o'clock we are going to render a verdict, because at a quarter-past ten the majority of us have to attend a company drill. The lawyer for the prisoner enlisted last night as a private in our company, and so did the prosecuting attorney."
"This is a most unusual and unprecedented action on the part of a jury," said the Court gravely. "However, in view of the extraordinary circumstances, I feel that we should be as expeditious as possible in disposing of the case on trial. Gentlemen, you have heard the remarks of the foreman of the jury. Have either of you any reason for objecting to the suggestion he has made? Very well, then; we will proceed with the trial of Mary Hawk, charged with murder in the first degree. Call your first witness, Mr. Prosecutor."
The little courtroom was jammed to its capacity. Hundreds, unable to gain admission, crowded about the entrance and filled the square. The town was in the throes of a vast excitement, what with the trial, the Indian uprising in the north, the escape of Martin Hawk and the flight of Barry Lapelle, hitherto regarded as a rake but not even suspected of actual dishonesty. The Paul Revere, with Captain Redberry in charge, had got away at daybreak, loaded to the rails with foot-loose individuals who suddenly had decided to try their fortunes elsewhere rather than remain in a district likely to be overrun by savages.
Moll Hawk sat in front of the judge's table and at her side was Kenneth Gwynne. Mrs. Gwyn and Viola occupied seats on a bench near one of the windows, facing the jury. The prisoner was frightened. She was stiff and uncomfortable in the new dress the sheriff's wife had selected for her. Her black hair was neatly brushed and coiled in two thick lobs which hung down over her ears. Her deep-set eyes darted restlessly, even warily about her as she sat there in the midst of this throng of strange, stern-faced men. Now and then they went appealingly to Mrs. Gwyn or Viola or to the sheriff's wife, and always they seemed to be asking: "What are they going to do to me?"
The prosecuting attorney, a young man of slender experience but chivalrous instincts, solemnly announced that he had but two witnesses to examine and then he was through. He called the undertaker to the stand.
"In as few words as possible, tell the jury who it was that you buried yesterday afternoon."
"Jasper Suggs."
"Was he dead?"
"He was."
"That's all, your honour."
"Any questions, Mr. Gwynne?" inquired the judge.
"None, your honour."
"Call your next witness, Mr. Prosecutor."
"Mr. Sheriff, will you take the stand for a moment? Did you see the defendant along about four o'clock yesterday morning?"
"I did."
"State where."
"At her father's cabin."
"State what had happened there prior to your arrival, if you know."
"This defendant had had a little difficulty with the corpse, and he was dead on the floor when we got there."
"From a knife wound?"
"Yes, sir."
"Who inflicted that wound, if you know?"
"Miss Mary Hawk."
"You are sure about that, Mr. Sheriff?"
"Pos-i-tively."
"How can you be sure of that, sir, if you did not witness the deed with your own eyes?"
The Court rapped on the table.
"This is your own witness, Mr. Prosecutor. Are you trying to cross-examine him, or to discredit his testimony?"
"I beg your honour's pardon."
Kenneth arose. "We will admit that Jasper Suggs came to his death at the hands of the defendant."
"In that case," said his gentlemanly adversary, "the State rests."
"Judge" Billings was heard audibly to remark: "Give 'em an inch and they take a mile."
"Order in the court! Call your first witness, Mr. Gwynne."
"Take this chair, if you please, Miss Hawk. Hold up your right hand and be sworn. Now, be good enough to answer the questions I put to you, clearly and distinctly, so that the jury may hear."
After a few preliminary questions he said: "Now tell the Court and the jury exactly what happened, beginning with the return of your father and Jasper Suggs from a trip to town. Don't be afraid, Miss—er—Moll. Tell the jury, in your own words, just what took place between the time you first heard Suggs and your father talking in the cabin and the arrival of the sheriff and his men."
It lacked just three minutes of ten o'clock when she finished her story. It had been delivered haltingly and with visible signs of embarrassment at times, but it was a straightforward, honest recital of facts.
"Any questions, Mr. Prosecutor?"
"None, your honour. The State does not desire to present argument. It is content to submit its case to the jury without argument, asking only that a verdict be rendered fairly and squarely upon the evidence as introduced. All we ask is justice."
"Any argument, Mr. Gwynne?"
"None, your honour. The defence is satisfied to leave its case entirely in the hands of the jury."
"Gentlemen of the jury," said the Court, glancing at the clock, "the Court will omit its instructions to you, merely advising you that if you find the prisoner guilty as charged your verdict must be murder in the first degree, the penalty for which is death."
"Judge" Billings leaned over and picked up his hat from the floor. Then he arose and announced:
"We, the jury, find the defendant not guilty."
"Prisoner discharged," said the Court, arising. "The Court desires to thank the jurors for the close attention you have paid to the evidence in this case and for the prompt and just verdict you have returned. Court stands adjourned."
Later on Moll Hawk walked up the hill with Mrs. Gwyn and Viola. Very few words had passed between them since they left the curious but friendly crowd in the public square. Finally Moll's dubious thoughts found expression in words, breaking in upon the detached reflections of her two companions.
"I don't see why they let me off like that, Mis' Gwyn. I killed him, didn't I?"
"Yes, Moll,—but the law does not convict a person who kills in self-defence. Didn't you understand that?" "But supposin' I wuz starvin' to death an' I stole a ham like Bud Gridley did last fall when his pa an' ma wuz sick, wouldn't that be self-defence? They put him in jail fer two months, jest fer stealin' a ham when he hadn't had nothin' to eat fer three days,—bein' crippled an' couldn't work. Wuz that fair?"
"Don't forget, Moll," said Rachel ironically, "that Henry Butts valued his ham at seventy-five cents."
"Anyhow, hit don't seem right an' fair," said Moll. "I didn't have to kill Jasper to save my life. I could ha' saved it without killin' him."
"You did perfectly right in killing him, Moll," broke in Viola warmly. "I would have done the same thing if I had been in your place."
Moll thought over this for a few seconds. "Well, maybe you might have had to do it, Miss Violy, if them fellers had got away with you as they wuz plannin' to do," she said.
Silence fell between them again, broken after a while by Moll. "They'll never ketch Pap," she said. "I guess I'll never lay eyes on him ag'in. I wuz jest wonderin' what's goin' to become of his dogs. Do you suppose anybody'll take the trouble to feed 'em?"
Toby Moxler, Jack Trentman's dealer, accosted Kenneth Gwynne at the conclusion of the first drill.
"Jack found this here letter down at the shanty this morning, Mr. Gwynne. It's addressed to you, so he asked me to hand it to you when I saw you."
Kenneth knew at once who the letter was from. He stuck it into his coat pocket, unopened.
"Tell Jack that I am very much obliged to him," he said, and walked away.
When he was safely out of hearing distance, Toby turned to the man at his side and remarked:
"If what Barry Lapelle told me and Jack Trentman yesterday morning is true, there'll be the doggonedest scandal this town ever heard of."
"What did he tell you?" inquired his neighbour eagerly.
"It's against my principles to talk about women," snapped Toby, glaring at the man as if deeply insulted. Seeing the disappointment in the other's face, he softened a little: "'Specially about widders," he went so far as to explain. "You keep your shirt on, Elmer, and wait. And when itdoescome out, you'll be the most surprised man in town."
Kenneth did not open Barry's letter until he reached his office. His face darkened as he read but cleared almost instantly. He even smiled disdainfully as he tore the sheet into small pieces and stuffed them into his pocket against the time when he could consign them to the fire in his kitchen stove.
"Kenneth Gwynne, Esquire.
"Sir: Upon receipt of your discurtious and cowardly reply to my challenge I realized the futility of expecting on your part an honourable and gentlemanly settlement of our difficulties. My natural inclination was to seek you out and force you to fight but advice of friends prevailed. I have decided to make it my business to verify the story which has come to my ears regarding the Gwynne and Carter families. In pursuit of this intention I am starting immediately for your old home town in Kentucky where I am convinced there still remain a number of people who will be able to give me all the facts. If I was misled into making statements that were untrue in my last meeting with your sister I shall most humbly apologize to her. If on the contrary I find that what I said to her was true I will make it my business to bring all the facts to the notice of the people of Lafayette and let them decide what to do in the matter. In any case I shall return in about a month or six weeks at which time I shall renew my challenge to you with the sincere hope that you may accept it and that I may have the belated pleasure of putting a bullet through your cowardly heart. I must however in the meantime refuse to sign myself
"Yours respectfully