Part 11

“I know,” replied Caleb, “he was the only one seen at the window.”

“Yes,” assented Judge Hollis, “but, by the Lord Harry, I’d give something handsome to know--who was behind Juniper!”

XX

IT was almost morning when Caleb Trench reached home, and the low building where he had his office--he had closed his shop a month before--was dark and cheerless.

The news of the shooting of Yarnall, and the subsequent rioting, had traveled and multiplied like a reed blown upon the winds of heaven. Aunt Charity had heard it and forgotten her charge. Shot was on guard before the dead ashes in the kitchen stove, and Sammy lay asleep in his little bed in the adjoining room. Fortunately the child seemed to have slept through the hours that had elapsed since the old woman’s departure. Caleb found some cold supper set out for him, in a cheerless fashion, and shared it with Shot, strangely beset, all the while, with the thought of the charm and comfort of Broad Acres, as it had been revealed to him in his infrequent visits.

Diana’s presence in the basement of the court-house had changed his day for him, and he recalled every expression of her charming face, the swift shyness of her glance, when his own must have been too eloquent, and every gesture and movement during their interview. At the same time he reflected that nothing could have been more unusual than her presence there in the prisoner’s cage, as it was called, and he was aware of a feeling of relief that no one had found them there together at a time when his smallest action was likely to be a matter of common public interest.

But predominant, even over these thoughts, was the new aspect of affairs. Yarnall was dead, and as a factor in the gubernatorial fight he was personally removed, but his tragic death was likely to be as potent as his presence. He had already proved to the satisfaction of one jury that his defeat in the convention was due solely to Aylett’s fraud and to Eaton’s hatred, and it was improbable that, even in a violently partisan community, justice should not be done at last. Besides, the frightful manner of his taking off called aloud for expiation. The tumult at the court-house testified to the passions that were stirred; the old feud between the Eatons and the Yarnalls awoke, and men remembered, and related, how Yarnall’s father had shot Jacob Eaton’s father. A shiver of apprehension ran through the herded humanity in squares and alleys; superstition stirred. Was this the requital? The old doctrine, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth,--how it still appeals to the savage in men’s blood. The crowd pressed in around the court-house where Yarnall’s body lay in state, and outside, in a stiff cordon, stood sentries; the setting sun flashed upon their bayonets as the long tense day wore to its close.

In the court-house Caleb Trench had worked tediously through the evening with Judge Ladd and Judge Hollis. A thousand matters came up, a thousand details had to be disposed of, and when he returned home at midnight he was too exhausted physically and mentally to grapple long with a problem at once tiresome and apparently insoluble. He dispatched his supper, therefore, and putting out the light went to his own room. But, before he could undress, Shot uttered a sharp warning bark, and Caleb went back to the kitchen carrying a light, for the dog was perfectly trained and not given to false alarms.

His master found him with his nose to the crack of the outer door, and the slow but friendly movement of his tail that announced an acquaintance. At the same time there was a low knock at the door.

“Who is there?” Caleb demanded, setting his light on the table and, at the same time, preparing to unfasten the lock.

“Fo’ de Lawd, Marse Trench, let me in!” cried a muffled voice from the outside, and, as Caleb opened the door, Juniper nearly fell across the room.

“Shet de doah, massa,” he cried, “lock it; dey’s after me!”

It was intensely dark, being just about half an hour before dawn, and the scent of morning was in the air. It seemed to Caleb, as he glanced out, that the darkness had a softly dense effect, almost as if it actually had a substance; he could not see ten yards from the threshold and the silence was ominous. He shut the door and locked it and drew down the shade over the kitchen window; afterwards he remembered this and wondered if it were some impulse of secretiveness that prompted a movement that he had not considered.

Meanwhile Juniper had fallen together in a miserable huddled heap by the stove. His head was buried in his arms and he was sobbing in terror, long-drawn shivering sobs that seemed to tear his very heart out. Trench stood looking at him, knowing fully what suspicions were against the black, and the terrible threats that had filled the town, seething as it was with excitement and a natural hatred of the race. That Juniper had plotted Yarnall’s death was an absurdity to Trench’s mind; that he might have been the tool of another was barely possible. On the other hand, his chances of justice from the mob were too small to be considered. His very presence under any man’s roof was a danger as poignant as pestilence. This last thought, however, had no weight with Caleb Trench. The stray dog guarded his hearth, the nameless child lay asleep in the next room, and now the hunted negro cowered before him. It was characteristic of the man that the personal side of it, the interpretation that might be put upon his conduct, never entered his calculations. Instead, he looked long and sternly at the negro.

“Juniper,” he said, “you were the only person seen in the window of the court-house before the assassination of Mr. Yarnall. Were you alone there?”

Juniper cowered lower in his seat. “Fo’ de Lawd, Marse Trench, I can’t tell you!” he sobbed.

“Who was in the room with you?” asked Trench sharply.

“I can’t tell!” the negro whimpered; “I don’ know.”

“Yes, you do,” said Caleb, “and you will be forced to tell it in court. Probably, before you go to court, if the people catch you,” he added cold-bloodedly.

Juniper fell on his knees; it seemed as if his face had turned lead color instead of brown, and his teeth chattered. “Dey’s gwine ter lynch me!” he sobbed, “an’ fo’ de Lawd, massa, I ain’t done it!”

Caleb looked at him unmoved. “If you know who did it, and do not tell, you are what they call in law an accessory after the fact, and you can be punished.”

Juniper shook from head to foot. “Marse Caleb,” he said, with sudden solemnity, “de Lawd made us both, de white an’ de black, I ain’t gwine ter b’lieb dat He’ll ferget me bekase I’se black! I ain’t murdered no one.”

Caleb regarded him in silence; the force and eloquence of Juniper’s simple plea carried its own conviction. Yet, he knew that the negro could name the murderer and was afraid to. There was a tense moment, then far off a sound, awful in the darkness of early morning,--the swift galloping of horses on the hard highroad.

“Dey’s comin’,” said Juniper in a dry whisper, his lips twisting; “dey’s comin’ ter kill me--de Lawd hab mercy on my soul!”

Nearer drew the sound of horses’ feet, nearer the swift and awful death. Caleb Trench blew out his light; through the window crevices showed faint gray streaks. Shot was standing up now, growling. Caleb sent him into the room with little Sammy, and shut the door on them. Then he took the almost senseless negro by the collar and dragged him to the stairs.

“Go up!” he ordered sternly; “go to the attic and drag up the ladder after you.”

Juniper clung to him. “Save me!” he sobbed, “I ain’t dun it; I ain’t murdered him!”

“Go!” ordered Caleb sharply.

Already there was a summons at his door, and he heard the trample of the horses. Juniper went crawling up the stairs and disappeared into the darkness above. Caleb went to his desk and took down the telephone receiver, got a reply and sent a brief message; then he quietly put his pistol in his pocket and went deliberately to the front door and threw it open. As he did it some one cut the telephone connection, but it was too late. In the brief interval since he had admitted the fugitive, day had dawned in the far East, and the first light seemed to touch the world with the whiteness of wood ashes; even the cottonwoods showed weirdly across the road. All around the house were mounted men, and nearly every man wore a black mask. The sight was gruesome, but it stirred something like wrath in Caleb’s heart; how many men were here to murder one poor frightened creature, with the intellect of a child and the soul of a savage!

Caleb’s large figure seemed to fill the door, as he stood with folded arms and looked out into the gray morning, unmoved as he would look some day into the Valley of the Shadow. Of physical cowardice he knew nothing, of moral weakness still less; he had the heroic obstinacy of an isolated soul. It cost him nothing to be courageous, because he had never known fear. Unconsciously, he was a born fighter; the scent of battle was breath to his nostrils. He looked over the masked faces with kindling eyes; here and there he recognized a man and named him, to the mask’s infinite dismay.

“Your visit is a little early, gentlemen,” he said quietly, “but I am at home.”

“Look here, Trench, we want that nigger!” they yelled back.

“You mean Juniper?” said Caleb coolly. “Well, you won’t get him from me.”

“We know he’s about here!” was the angry retort, “and we’ll have him, d’ye hear?”

“I hear,” said Caleb, slipping his hand into his pocket. “You can search the woods; there are about three miles of them behind me, besides the highroad to Paradise Ridge.”

“We’re going to search your house,” replied the leader; “that’s what we’re going to do.”

“Are you?” said Caleb, in his usual tone, his eyes traveling over their heads, through the ghostly outlines of the cottonwoods, past the tallest pine to the brightening eastern sky.

Something in his aspect, something which is always present in supreme courage,--that impalpable but strenuous thing which quells the hearts of men before a leader,--quenched their fury.

“Look here, Caleb Trench, you were Yarnall’s lawyer; you ain’t in the damned Eaton mess. Where’s that Eaton nigger?”

Caleb’s hand closed on the handle of his revolver in his pocket. “Gentlemen,” he said quietly, “I happen to know that the negro, Juniper, did not shoot Mr. Yarnall, and if I know where he is now I will not tell you.”

“By God, you shall!” yelled the nearest rioter, swinging forward with uplifted fist.

He swung almost on the muzzle of Caleb’s revolver.

“One step farther and you’re a dead man,” Trench said.

The would-be lyncher lurched backward. In the white light of dawn Caleb’s gaunt figure loomed, his stern face showed its harshest lines, and there was fire in his eyes. A stone flew and struck him a little below the shoulder, another rattled on the shingles beside the door; there was a low ominous roar from the mob; right and left men were dismounting, and horses plunged and neighed.

“Give up that damned nigger or die yourself!” was the cry, taken up and echoed.

Within the house Shot began to bark furiously, and there was suddenly the shrill crying of a child.

“Jean Bartlett!” some one shouted.

“Ay, let’s hang him, too--for her sake!”

There were cheers and hisses. Caleb neither moved nor shut the door.

“Give us that nigger!” they howled, crowding up.

By a miracle, as it seemed, he had kept them about three yards from the entrance in a semicircle, and here they thronged now. From the first they had surrounded the house, and the possibility of an entrance being forced in the rear flashed upon Caleb. But he counted a little on the curiosity that kept them hanging on his movements, watching the leaders. He saw at a glance that there was no real organization, that a motley crowd had fallen in with the one popular idea of lynching the negro offender, and that a breath of real fear would dissolve them like the mists which were rolling along the river bottoms.

“Where’s that nigger?” came the cry again, and then: “It’s time you remembered Jean Bartlett!”

One of the leaders, a big man whom Caleb failed to recognize, was still mounted. He rose in his stirrups. “Hell!” he said, “he’s got the child; if he hadn’t, I’d burn him out.”

“Gentlemen,” said Caleb coolly, raising his hand to command attention, “I will give the child to your leader’s care if you wish to fire my house. I do not want to be protected by the boy, nor by any false impression that I am expiating an offense against Jean Bartlett.”

There was a moment of silence again, then a solitary cheer amid a storm of hisses. A tumult of shoutings and blasphemies drowned all coherent speech. Men struggled forward and stopped speechless, staring at the unmoved figure in the door, and the grim muzzle of his six-shooter. It was full day now, and murder and riot by daylight are tremendous things; they make the soul of the coward quake. There were men here and there in the crowd who shivered, and some never forgot it until their dying day.

“Give us the nigger!”

Caleb made no reply; his finger was on the trigger. There was a wild shout and, as they broke and rushed, Caleb fired. One man went down, another fell back, the mob closed in, pandemonium reigned. Then there was a warning cry from the rear, the clear note of a bugle, the thunder of more horses’ hoofs, the flash of bayonets, and a file of troopers charged down the long lane; there was a volley, a flash of fire and smoke. Men mounted and rode for life, and others fell beneath the clubbed bayonets into the trampled dust.

In the doorway Caleb Trench stood, white and disheveled, with blood on his forehead, but still unharmed.

XXI

COLONEL ROYALL was reading an extra edition of the morning paper; it contained a full account of the attempted lynching, and the timely arrival of the militia. The colonel was smoking a big cigar and the lines of his face were more placid than they had been for a week, but his brow clouded a little as he looked down the broad driveway and saw Jacob Eaton approaching. Jacob, of late, had been somewhat in the nature of a stormy petrel. Nor did the colonel feel unlimited confidence in the younger man’s judgment; he was beginning to feel uneasy about certain large transactions which he had trusted to Jacob’s management.

The situation, however, was uppermost in the colonel’s mind? He dropped the paper across his knee and knocked the ashes out of his cigar. Jacob’s smooth good looks had never been more apparent and he was dressed with his usual elaborate care. Nothing could have sat on him more lightly than the recent verdict, and the fact that he was out on bail. Colonel Royall, who was mortified by it, looked at him with a feeling of exasperation.

“Been in town?” he asked, after the exchange of greetings, as Jacob ascended the piazza steps.

“All the morning,” he replied, sitting down on the low balustrade and regarding the colonel from under heavy eyelids.

“How is it? Quiet?” The colonel was always sneakingly conscious of a despicable feeling of panic when Jacob regarded him with that drooping but stony stare.

“Militia is still out,” said Jacob calmly, “and if the disturbances continue the governor threatens to call on Colonel Ross for a company of regulars.”

“He’s nervous,” commented the colonel reflectively. “I don’t wonder. How in the mischief did Aylett happen to be near Yarnall?”

Jacob looked pensive. “I don’t know,” he said; “I was in the rear corridor by the State’s Attorney’s room. They say Aylett was crossing the quadrangle just in front of Yarnall.”

The colonel smoked for a few moments in silence, then he took his cigar from between his teeth. “What were you doing in the corridor?” he asked pointedly.

Jacob took a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it. “I was going to Colonel Coad’s office, and I was the first to try to locate the shots outside the court-house.”

“I was in Judge Ladd’s room,” said Colonel Royall deliberately, “and I reckon that was as near as I want to be. I see by this”--he touched the paper with his finger--“that Caleb Trench induced Juniper to surrender to the authorities, and he says that he’s sure he can prove the negro’s innocence.”

Jacob laughed, showing his teeth unpleasantly. “Probably he can,” he remarked; “he’s under arrest himself.”

The colonel swung around in his chair. “Caleb Trench? What for?”

“For the assassination of Yarnall.”

“By gum!” said the colonel in honest wrath, “what rotten nonsense!”

Jacob said nothing; he continued to smoke his cigarette.

The colonel slapped the paper down on his knee. “When men’s blood is heated, they run wild,” he said. “Why, Trench was Yarnall’s counsel; he’d won the case for him--he--”

“Just so,” replied Jacob coolly; “you forget that Aylett had insulted Trench twice in court, that he despised him as heartily as I do and that Aylett was almost beside Yarnall!”

The colonel pushed his hat back on his head and thought. He knew that Eaton hated Trench, but his mind did not embrace the enormity of a hatred that could revel in such an accusation. “The charge then must be that he meant to hit Aylett,” he said, after a long moment, “and that makes him take big risks. These Yankees aren’t good shots, half of ’em.”

Jacob laughed unpleasantly. “Well, I reckon he wasn’t,” he remarked, and as his thoughts went back to a certain gray morning in Little Neck Meadow, his face reddened.

The colonel wriggled uncomfortably in his chair. “What did he want to shoot Aylett for?” he demanded.

“You’ve forgotten, I suppose, that Aylett called him a liar twice in court,” said Jacob dryly.

“He didn’t shoot you for a greater provocation,” retorted the colonel bluntly.

“He was the only man found in the court-room with the smoking weapon,” said Jacob. “Juniper ran away, and he’s been protecting Juniper,--buying him off from testifying, I reckon.”

“I can’t understand why either he or Juniper was in the court-room,” declared the colonel, frowning.

“Had good reason to be,” replied Jacob tartly, tossing his cigarette over the rail.

“See here, Jacob,” said the colonel solemnly, “I’m an old man and your relation, and I feel free to give you advice. You keep your oar out of it.”

Jacob laughed. “I’ve got to testify,” he drawled.

“Good Lord!” exclaimed the colonel.

Then followed several moments of intense silence.

“Where’s Diana?” asked the young man at last, rising and flipping some ashes off his coat.

“In the flower garden,” replied her father thoughtfully, “she’s seeing to some plants for winter; I reckon she won’t want you around.”

Jacob looked more agreeable. “I think I’ll go all the same,” he said, strolling away.

The colonel leaned forward in his chair and called after him. “Jacob, how about these stocks? I wanted to sell out at eight and three quarter cents.”

Eaton paused reluctantly, his hands in his pockets. “You can next week,” he said; “the market’s slumped this. You’d better let me handle that deal right through, Cousin David.”

“You’ve been doing it straight along,” said the colonel. “I reckon I’d better wake up and remember that I used to know something. I’m equal to strong meats yet, Jacob, and you’ve been putting me on pap.”

“Oh, it’s all right!” said Jacob. “I’ll sell the shares out for you,” and he departed.

The colonel sat watching him. The old thought that he would probably marry Diana no longer had any attractions for him; he had lost confidence in Jacob’s sleek complacence, and the recent testimony in court had shaken it still more. Besides, he had a fine pride of family, and the verdict against Jacob had irritated and mortified him. Nothing was too good for Diana, and the fact that there was the shadow of a great sorrow upon her made her even dearer to her father. He had never thought that she had more than a passing fancy for Jacob, and lately he had suspected that she disliked him. The colonel ruminated, strumming on the piazza balustrade with absent fingers. Before him the long slope of the lawn was still as green as summer, but the horse-chestnut burs were open and the glossy nuts fell with every light breeze. Across the road a single gum tree waved a branch of flame.

He was still sitting there when Kingdom-Come brought out a mint julep and arranged it on the table at his elbow.

The colonel glanced up, conscious that the negro lingered. “What’s the matter, King?” he asked good-humoredly.

“News from town, suh,” the black replied, flicking some dust off the table with his napkin. “Dey’s tried ter storm de jail, suh. De militia charged, an’ deyer’s been right smart shootin’.”

Colonel Royall looked out apprehensively over the slope to the south which showed in the distance the spires and roofs of the city. A blue fog of smoke hung low over it and the horizon beyond had the haze of autumn. “Bad news,” said he, shaking his head.

“It suttinly am, suh,” agreed Kingdom-Come, “an’ dey do say dat Aunt Charity ez gwine ter leave Juniper now fo’ sho.”

“She’s left him at intervals for forty years,” said the colonel, tasting his julep; “I reckon he can stand it, King.”

The negro grinned. “I reckon so, suh,” he assented. “Juniper dun said once dat he’d gib her her fare ef she’d go by rail an’ stay away!”

Just then Miss Kitty Broughton stopped her pony cart at the gate and came across the lawn. The colonel rose ceremoniously and greeted her, hat in hand.

“Where’s Diana?” Kitty asked eagerly.

“In the rose garden with Jacob, my dear,” said the colonel.

Kitty made a grimace. “_Noblesse oblige_,” she said; “I suppose I must stay here. Colonel, isn’t it all dreadful? Grandfather can’t keep from swearing, he isn’t respectable, and Aunt Sally has Sammy.” Kitty blushed suddenly. “I took Shot, the dog, you know; they won’t let Mr. Trench have bail.”

“It’s the most inexplicable thing I know of,” said the colonel, stroking his white moustache. “Why Caleb Trench should shoot his own client--”

Kitty stared. “Why, Colonel, you know, don’t you, that the arrest was made on Jacob Eaton’s affidavit?”

Colonel Royall leaned back in his chair, and Kitty found his expression inexplicable. “How long have you known this?” he asked.

“Since morning,” said Kitty promptly. “Grandpa told us; he’s furious, but he says it’s a good case. It seems Mr. Eaton saw Mr. Trench first in the court-room. The two shots were fired, you know, in quick succession. Juniper was seen by some one at the window just before; no one saw who fired the shots, but Mr. Eaton met Caleb Trench leaving the room. No one else was there, and Mr. Trench says that Juniper did not fire the shots. Juniper is half dead with fright, and in the jail hospital; he went out of his head this morning when the mob tried to rush the jail. It’s awful; they say six people were killed and three wounded.”

“Caleb Trench wounded two last night,” said the colonel. He had the air of a man in a dream.

“They won’t die,” replied Kitty, cold-bloodedly, “and it’s a good thing to stop these lynchers. Wasn’t Mr. Trench grand? I’m dying to go and see him and tell him how I admired the account of him facing the mob. What does Di think?”

“She hasn’t said,” replied the colonel, suddenly remembering that Diana’s silence was unusual. He looked apprehensively toward the rose garden and saw the flutter of a white dress through an opening in the box hedge. “Kitty,” he added abruptly, “you go over there and see Diana and ask her yourself.”

“While Mr. Eaton’s there?” Kitty giggled. “I couldn’t, Colonel Royall; he’d hate me.”

The colonel looked reflectively at the young girl sitting in the big chair opposite. She was very pretty and her smile was charming. “I don’t think he’d hate you, my dear,” he remarked dryly, “and I know Diana wants to see you.”

Kitty hesitated. “I don’t like to interrupt,” she demurred.

“You won’t,” said the colonel, a little viciously.