The One-Way Trail: A story of the cattle country

He was thoroughly alarmed now. Eve was still anxiously awaiting news of her brother. The thing was quite inexplicable. He could never have attempted to walk home. Why should he? Finally he decided that he must have strolled into the bush and sat down, and–

His glance fell upon the man lying at his feet. How still he lay. How– Hello, what was this? He had left him lying on his side. Now his pale face was turned directly up at the sky. And–he dropped on his knees at his side–his bandage had been removed. He glanced about. There it was, a yard away in the grass. In wondering astonishment his eyes came back to the ghastly face of the unconscious man. Somehow it looked different, yet–

A glance at his body drew an exclamation of horror from his lips. For a moment every drop of blood seemed to recede from his brain, leaving him cold. A clammy moisture broke out upon his forehead at what he beheld. The man’s clothing had been torn open leaving his chest bare, and he now beheld his own knife plunged to the hilt in the white flesh. Will Henderson was dead–stabbed through the heart by–

He sprang to his feet with a cry of horror, and his eyes flashed right and left as though in search of the murderer. Who had done this thing? Who–? As though in answer to his thought, Elia’s voice reached him from out of the bushes.

“He’s sure dead. I hate him.”

Then followed a rustling of the brushwood, as though the boy had taken himself off.

Jim made no attempt to follow him. He remained staring into the black woods whence that voice had proceeded. He was petrified with the horror of the boy’s deed.

He stood for some minutes thus. Then thought became active once more. And curiously enough it was cool, calm, and debating. The possibilities that had so suddenly opened up were tremendous. Tremendous and–hideous. Yet they stirred him far less than might have been expected. Black, foul murder had been committed, and in a way that threw the entire blame on himself.

He saw it all in a flash. It needed but the smallest intelligence to do so. There was no mind in Barnriff but would inevitably fix on his guilt–even his friend Peter. How could it be otherwise? There was his knife. There were his handkerchiefs. The white one had his name on it. The knife had his initials branded on its handle. His last words to Eve had been a threat to kill her husband.

And Elia had done this hideous thing. A weak, sickly boy. It was terrible, and he shuddered. What hatred he must have had for the dead man. He found himself almost sympathizing with the lad’s feelings. Yes, Will had certainly brought this thing upon himself. He–deserved his fate. Yet Elia–the thought revolted him.

But suddenly a fresh significance came to him. He had missed it before. What would this mean to Eve? Elia’s guilt. What would Will’s death mean to her? But now his thoughts ran faster. Elia’s guilt? Eve would never believe it. Besides, if she did it would break her heart. The boy was something like a passion to her. He was almost as though he were part of herself. She loved him as though he were flesh of her own flesh.

No, even if it were possible to convince her, she must never be told. His crime must be covered up someway. But how?

The man stood lost in thought for nearly half an hour. They were the thoughts of a man who at last sees the end of all things earthly looming heavily upon his horizon. There was no cowardly shrinking, there was very little regret. What he must do he felt was being forced upon him by an invincible fate, but the sting of it was far less poignant than would have been the case a few months ago. In fact the sting was hardly there at all.

At all costs Eve must be protected. She must never know the truth. It was bad enough that her husband was dead. He wondered vaguely how far her love had survived the man’s outrages. Yes, she loved him still. He could never forget her the night he had volunteered to carry the warning to Will. Strange, he thought, how a woman will cling to the man who has once possessed her love.

Ah, well, he had never known the possession of such a priceless jewel as a good woman’s love. And now he was never likely to have the chance, he admitted with a simple regret. It seemed pretty hard. And yet–he almost smiled–it would be all the same after a few painful moments.

And only a brief hour ago he had been yearning to fight, with his back to the wall, against the suspicion and feeling against him in the village. He smiled with a shadow of bitterness and shook his head. Useless–quite useless. The one-way trail was well marked for him, and he had traveled it as best he knew how. As Peter said, there were no side paths. Just a narrow road, and the obstructions and perils on the way were set there for each to face. Well, he would face this last one with a “stiff upper-lip.”

One thing he was irrevocably determined upon, never by word or action would he add to Eve’s unhappiness. And, if the cruel fate that had always dogged him demanded this final sacrifice, he would at least have the trifling satisfaction of knowing, as he went out of the world, that her future had been rendered the smoother by the blow that had removed Will from his sphere of crime.

He walked briskly back to his horse and leaped upon its back. Then, turning its head, he sat for a moment thinking. There was still a way out. Still a means of escape without Eve’s learning the truth. But it was a coward’s way, it was the way of the guilty. It was quite simple, too. He only had to go back and withdraw the knife from the man’s body, and gather up the two handkerchiefs, and–ride away. It sounded easy; it was easy. A new country. A fresh people who did not know him. Another start in life. There was hope in the thought. Yes, a little, but not much. The accusing finger would follow him pointing, the shadow of the rope would haunt him wherever he went in spite of his innocence.

“Psha! No!” he exclaimed, and rode away toward the village.

CHAPTER XXXI

THE DISCOMFITURE OF SMALLBONES

Never in all his recollection had Silas Rocket had such a profitable night. From sundown on, his saloon was packed almost to suffocation, and he scarcely had time to wipe a single glass between drinks, so rapidly were the orders shouted across his bar. All the male portion of Barnriff were present, with the addition of nearly thirty men from the outlying ranges. It was a sort of mass meeting summoned by Doc Crombie, who had finally, but reluctantly, been driven to yield to the public cry against Jim Thorpe.

The doctor understood his people, and knew just how far his authority would carry him. He had exerted that authority to the breaking point to protect a man, whom, in his heart, he believed to be innocent of the charges laid at his door. But now the popular voice was too strong for him, and he yielded with an ill-grace.

Smallbones was the man responsible for this rebellion against a long-recognized authority. He was at the bottom of the campaign against Jim Thorpe. Whether he was himself convinced of the man’s guilt it would have been difficult to say. For some reason, which was scarcely apparent, he meant to hang him. And, with all the persistence of a venomous nature, he shouted his denunciation, until at last his arguments gained credence, and his charges found echo in the deep throats of men who originally had little or nothing to say in the matter.

The meeting was in full swing, tempers were roused in proportion to the arguments flung about at haphazard, and the quantities of liquor consumed in the process of the debate. At first the centre of the floor had been kept clear for the speakers, and the audience was lined up around the walls, but as the discussion warmed there was less order, and Doc Crombie, in spite of his sternest language, was powerless to keep the judicial atmosphere necessary to treat the matter in a dignified manner. Smallbones kept up a fiery run of comment and spleenful argument on every individual who backed the doctor in his demand for moderation. He ridiculed, he cursed, he showered personal abuse, until he had everybody by the ears, and by the sheer power of his venom herded the majority to side with him.

One of the men he could not influence was Peter Blunt. He did his utmost to provoke the big man to a personal attack upon himself that he might turn loose personalities against him, and charge him with complicity in some of Jim’s doings, however absurdly untrue they might be. He had all a demagogue’s gift for carrying an audience with him. He never failed to seize upon an opportunity to launch a poisonous shaft, or sneer at the class to which Jim and such men as Peter belonged. Before he left that saloon he meant to obtain a verdict against his man.

Doc Crombie’s anger was hot against the hardware dealer. He meant ruling against him in the end, but he was not quite sure how that ruling would be generally received. He was now listening to a final appeal from Peter in the hopes of gleaning something that might help him when he finally set his foot on the neck of Smallbones’ charges.

“See here, fellers,” Peter said, with a quiet directness of manner, but in a voice that rose above the hum of general talk, and at once silenced it, “you’ve heard a whole heap of ‘tosh’ from Smallbones and his gang. I tell you that feller’s got a mind as big as a pea, and with just about as much wind in it. You’ve heard him accuse Jim Thorpe of cattle stealing on evidence which we all know, and which wouldn’t convince a kid of ten, by reason of its absurd simplicity. Do I need to ask sensible men such as you if any sane rustler is going to do the things which you’re trying to say Jim Thorpe did? Is any sane rustler going to use his own brand, and run stolen cattle with his legitimate stock, in a place where folks can always see ’em? Sure, sure you don’t need to ask yourselves even. Jim Thorpe’s been a straight man all his days in Barnriff. ‘Honest Jim Thorpe’ you’ve all many a time called him. I tell you this thing is a put-up job. Some dirty, mean skunk has set out to ruin him for some reason unknown. There are mean folks,” he went on, with his keen eyes fixed on Smallbones, “here in Barnriff. They’re mean enough to do this if they only hated Jim enough. I’d hate to cast reflections, but I believe from the bottom of my heart that Smallbones, if he hated enough, would do such a trick. I–”

“Are you accusin’ me, you durned hulk?” shrieked the hardware dealer fiercely.

“I wasn’t,” remarked Peter, calmly. “But if you like, I will. I’m not a heap particular. And there’d be just about as much sense in doing so as there is in your accusations against Jim.”

“Hark at him, fellers,” cried the furious Smallbones, pointing at the big man. “He’s his friend–he’d sell his stinkin’ soul for him. He’d–”

“I’d sell my soul for no man,” Peter replied, cutting him short. “But I’d like to keep it as decently clean as such folks as you will let me. Now listen to me. You’ve no right to condemn this man in the way you’re trying to. I don’t know what your ultimate intentions are about him. I dare say some of you would like to hang him, but there’s too many sane men who’d stop such as Smallbones at tricks like that. But you’ve no right to banish him out of the district, or even censure him. He’s done nothing–”

“What about the Henderson woman?” cried Smallbones.

“Yes, yes,” cried several voices, standing near their little leader.

Peter’s eyes lit.

“Don’t you dare to mention her name in here, Smallbones,” he cried, with a sudden fierceness, “or, small as you are, I’ll smash you to a pulp, and kick you from here to your store. In your wretched gossip, and in your scandal-loving hearts you must say and think what you please, but don’t do it here, for I won’t stand for it.”

A murmur applauded him from Doc Crombie’s direction, and even Smallbones was silenced for the moment. Peter went on.

“See here, I’m known to everybody. I’m known in most places where the grass of the prairie grows, and my name’s mostly good. Well, I want to say right here, on my oath, Jim Thorpe’s no cattle-thief, and, as God is my judge, I know that to be true. Jim Thorpe hasn’t an evil thought in his–”

“Hold on,” cried Doc Crombie, excitedly, as the swing doors were pushed suddenly open. “Here’s some one who’ll mebbe have a word to say fer himself. You’re jest in time to say a word or two, Jim Thorpe,” he smiled, as the man’s pale face appeared in their midst.

“Here he is,” cried Smallbones, his wicked eyes sparkling. “Here he is, fellers. Here is the man I accuse right here of bein’ a low-down cattle-thief. That’s your charge, Jim Thorpe. An’ don’t ferget we hang cattle–”

“Shut your rotten face, you worm!” cried Jim, contemptuously. He was standing in the centre of the room. Everybody had made way for him, and now he confronted a circle of accusing faces. He glanced swiftly round till his dark eyes rested on the hawk-like visage of the doctor.

“Say, Will Henderson’s dead,” he said, in a quiet, solemn voice. “He’s been murdered. He’s lying up there on the south side of the eastern bluff. Guess you’d best send up and–see to him.”

His words produced a sudden and deathly silence. Every eye was upon his pale face in excited, incredulous wonderment. Will Henderson dead? Their questioning eyes asked plainly for more information, while their tongues were silent with something like awe. Smallbones reached his glass from the counter and drank its contents at a gulp, but his eyes never left Jim’s face. His astonishment didn’t interfere with the rapid working of his mean brain. To him Jim looked a sick man. There was something defiant in the dark eyes. The man, to his swift imagination, was unduly perturbed. He glanced down at his clothes, and his eyes fixed themselves greedily upon the fingers of the hand nearest to him. A flash of triumph shot into his eyes as he heard Doc Crombie’s voice suddenly break the silence.

“How’d it happen? Who did it?” he asked sharply.

Jim’s answer came promptly.

“He’s up there stabbed to death. Stabbed through the heart. As to who did it, that’s to be found out.” He shrugged. His eyes were on the doctor without shrinking.

But he turned swiftly as Smallbones’ harsh tones drew every one’s attention.

“Say, hold up your left hand, Jim Thorpe,” he cried gleefully. “Hold it right up an’ tell us what that red is on it. Say, I don’t guess we’ll need to puzzle a heap over how Will Henderson come by his death.”

Jim raised his hand. There was nothing else to be done. For a second he gazed at it ruefully. But it was only the sight of the murdered man’s blood on it that disturbed him, and not any thought of the consequences of its discovery.

“It’s Will Henderson’s blood,” he said frankly. “It was necessary for me to touch him.”

The frankness of his admission was not without its effect upon those who did not belong to Smallbones’ extremist party, but to them it passed as a mere subterfuge. They promptly gave voice to an ominous murmur which momentarily threatened to break out into violence. But Smallbones saw fresh possibilities. He suddenly changed his frenzied tactics, and entirely moderated his tone.

“You’ve come straight in?” he inquired.

“Yep.” Jim’s face wore something approaching a smile. He knew exactly what to expect before the night was out, and Smallbones’ questions had no terrors for him. He had nothing to gain, and nothing to lose, except that which he had already made up his mind to lose–if necessary.

“What wer’ you doin’ out by that bluff?” Smallbones demanded.

“That’s my business.”

The little man snarled furiously. All eyes were set curiously upon Jim’s face, but there were several smiles at the manner of the snub. Peter Blunt standing beside Angel Gay was hopelessly wondering at the sudden turn of events.

But now Doc Crombie once more took the lead.

“We’ll send up six boys and bring him in. I’ll go myself.” He turned and gave his orders. Then his luminous eyes settled themselves steadily upon Jim’s face. “We want the rights o’ this, sure. Do you know anything more?”

But Jim was tired of the questioning. He shrugged his shoulders.

“I’ve told all I’ve got to tell you. For Heaven’s sake, go and fetch in the man’s body. It’ll maybe tell you more than it told me.”

He turned to the bar and called for a drink, which he devoured thirstily.

But Doc Crombie was not to be dealt with in so cavalier a fashion.

“You’ll come along up an’ show us just wher’ Henderson is,” he said sharply. “It’ll make it easier findin’.” He stepped up to him, and tapped him on the shoulder. “Do you get me? Ther’s been murder done, an’–”

“I’ll stay right here,” said Jim, flashing round on him. “I’ve seen all I want to see up there. You’ll have no difficulty locating him. He’s on the south side.”

“You’ll come–” Doc began.

But Smallbones, still smarting under his snub, could no longer keep silent.

“Take him prisoner,” he demanded. “Get him now. Are you goin’ to let him get away? Once he’s on his horse he’ll– Say, he’s got blood on his hands, and he’s the on’y man with reason to wish Will Henderson dead. Gee, get his guns away an’ strap him fast.”

But the doctor ignored the interruption.

“You’re coming out there, Jim Thorpe,” he said deliberately, “or you’ll hand over your guns, and–”

“Consider myself under your arrest, eh?” Jim promptly removed both of his guns from their holsters, and handed them, butt first, to the doctor. “Guess I’ll stay right here,” he said easily. “And I’m glad to hand you those; it’ll save me using them on Smallbones.”

The furious hardware dealer now bristled up, and his mean face was thrust up so that he stared into Jim’s with all the cruelty of his hatred laid bare in his eyes.

“Yes, you ken stay right here an’ we’ll look after you, me an’ a few o’ the boys. You’re a prisoner, Jim Thorpe, and if you attempt to escape, we’ll blow you to bits. We’ll look after you, sure. You shan’t escape, don’t you mistake. It ’ud do me good to hand you a little lead pizenin’.”

“I’ve no doubt,” was all the answer Jim vouchsafed.

But before Smallbones could retort, Peter Blunt, followed by Jake Wilkes and Angel Gay, approached.

“We’ll stay here too, Doc,” he said. “Guess Smallbones’ll need help. You see he isn’t much of a man to look after a prisoner. Anyway, Jim Thorpe’s a friend of ours.”

“Right, Peter, an’ you two fellers,” cried the relieved doctor. “I ken hear the buckboard I sent over for comin’ along. I’ll start right out.” Then he added pointedly, “I guess I’ll leave him in your charge.”

The doctor passed out and was followed at once by most of Rocket’s customers, all eager to investigate the murder for their own morbid satisfaction. And thus only the three friends of Jim Thorpe, with Smallbones and two others, were left with the prisoner.

The moment the doors had swung to behind the last of the departures, Peter Blunt suddenly strode across the room to where Smallbones stood, staring at his intended victim with snapping eyes. So sudden was his approach that the little man was taken quite unawares. He seized him by the collar with one hand, and with the other deprived him of the guns with which he was still armed, as a result of his service on the vigilance committee, and, though he struggled and cursed violently, he carried him bodily to the door and deliberately flung him outside.

“If you attempt to get in here again till Doc returns I’ll throw you out just the same again, if I have to do it twenty times,” Peter declared. Then he turned back to the men at the bar.

“I feel mean havin’ to do it,” he said, almost shamefacedly. “Only I guess things’ll be more comfortable all round now.”

“Thanks, Peter,” said Jim simply, holding out his hand.

Peter took it and wrung it.

“You see he wants to–hang you, Jim,” he said by way of explanation.

“And he’ll do it.”

Jim’s words came so solemnly that the men beside him were startled.

“But–but you didn’t–kill him?” Peter stammered.

Jim shook his head.

“No,” he said decidedly. “But–he’ll hang me–sure.”

“Will he?” cried Peter emphatically. “We’ll see.”

And the startled look in his eyes was again replaced by the shrewd, kindly expression Jim knew so well.

CHAPTER XXXII

THE TRIUMPH OF SMALLBONES

Peter had been talking. Now he paused listening. Jake and Gay turned their eyes toward the swing doors. Silas Rocket, who had availed himself of the respite to wipe a few glasses, paused in his work. He, too, was listening. But the almost mechanical process of cleaning glasses was resumed at once. Not even life or death could long interfere with his scheme of money-making. He had seen too much of the forceful side of his customers in his time to let such a thing as a simple murder interfere with his long established routine.

It was Jim who now spoke. He was the calmest of those present, except perhaps Silas Rocket. He appeared to have no fear of the consequences of this affair to himself. Perhaps it was the confidence of innocence. Perhaps it was the great courage of a brave man for whom death–even a disgraceful death–has no terrors. Perhaps it was the knowledge of what he was saving the woman he loved, which served to inspire him. His eyes were even smiling as he looked into Peter’s.

“They’re coming along,” he said, with one ear turned toward the door.

Peter nodded.

“It’s them, sure,” he said.

“I ken hear the buckboard. It’s movin’ slow,” said Gay solemnly.

“Which means they got him,” added Jake conclusively.

“We’ll have a drink first,” said Jim. Then he added whimsically, “Maybe we’ll need it.”

The silent acceptance of his invitation was due to the significance of their host’s position. And afterward the glasses were set down empty upon the counter, without a word. Then Jim turned to Peter, and his manner was a trifle regretful. But that was all. An invincible purpose shone in his dark eyes.

“They’ll be here in a minute, Peter,” he said, with a shadowy smile. “I’ve got a word to say before they get around. We’ve been good friends, and now, at the last, I’d hate you to get a wrong notion of things. I call God to witness that I did not kill Will Henderson. It’s because we’re friends I tell you this, now. It’s because these folk are going to hang me. You can stake your last cent on that being the truth, and if you don’t get paid in this world, I sure guess you will in the next. Well–here they are.”

As he finished speaking the doors were pushed open and men began to stream in. It was a curiously silent crowd. For these men a death, even a murder, had little awe. They understood too well the forceful methods of the back countries, where the laws of civilization had difficulty in reaching. They had too long governed their own social affairs without appeal to the parent government. What could Washington know of their requirements? What could a judge of the circuit know of the conditions in which they lived? They preferred their own methods, drastic as they were and often wrong in their judgments. Yet, on the whole, they were efficacious and salutary. Life and death were small enough matters to them, but the career of a criminal, and its swift termination, short, sharp and violent, was of paramount importance. It was the thought that they believed there was justice, their own justice, to be dealt out to a criminal that night, that now depressed them to an awed silence.

Three or four men placed several of the small tables together, forming them into a sort of bier. Then they stood by while others pushed their way in through the swing doors. Finally, two men stood just inside, holding the doors open, while two of the ranchmen carried in their ominous, silent burden. Doc Crombie was the last but one to enter. The man who came last was the evil-minded hardware dealer. His eyes were sparkling, and his thin lips were tightly compressed. Now he had an added score to pay off. Nor was he particular to whom he paid it.

The body of the murdered man was laid upon the tables, and Silas Rocket provided a shroud.

Jim Thorpe watched these proceedings with the keenest interest. Never for a moment did he remove his eyes from the dead man, until the dirty white tablecloth had been carelessly thrown over him. He had in his mind many things during those moments. At first he had looked for his own telltale knife. But evidently it had been removed. There was no sign of its hideous projecting handle as he had last seen it. Neither had he noticed any one bearing his blood-stained handkerchiefs. He thought that Doc Crombie had possessed himself of these things, and expected he would produce them at the proper moment.