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

Somehow he felt a curious regret that Will was dead. It was not a mawkish sentimentality; he made no pretension, even to himself, that the regard that had once been his for Will still existed. But he was sorry. Sorry that the man’s road had carried him to such disaster. He remembered Peter’s definition of the one-way trail. Will’s path had certainly been a hard one, and he had traveled every inch of it with–well, he had traveled it.

Then came the thought, the ironical thought, that after all their paths were not so very wide apart now. They had grown up together, and now, at the end, in spite of everything, death was bringing them very near together again.

But his reflections were cut short by the sharp voice of the doctor. His authority was once more undisputed. He stood out in the centre of the room, a lean, harsh figure. His eagle face, with its luminous eyes, was full of power, full of a stern purpose.

“Folks,” he began, “murder has been done–sheer, bloody murder. When fellers gits busy with guns, an’ each has his chance, an’ one of ’em gits it bad, we call that killing. Fair, square killing, an’ I guess we treat it accordin’. But this is low-down murder. We was told it was a stabbing, but I’ve cast my eyes over the body, an’ I seem to see a different story. Judging by what I found, I’d say Will Henderson was hit a smashin’ blow by something heavy, which must sure ’a’ knocked him senseless, an’ then the lousy skunk did the rest of his work with a knife. Gents, I allow this murder was the work of a dirty, cowardly, mean-spirited skunk who hadn’t the grit to face his enemy decently with a gun, and who doesn’t need a heap of mercy when we get him. That’s how I read the case. All of you have seen the body, so I need say no more on this.”

Then he turned his keen eyes on Jim Thorpe, who had listened closely.

“You, Jim Thorpe, brought us word of this doing. An’ in the interests of justice to his widow, to your feller citizens, your duty’s clear. You got to tell us right here everything you know about Will Henderson’s death.”

There was an ominous pause when the doctor finished speaking, while all eyes were focused upon Jim’s face. There was no doubt but that the majority were looking for signs of that guilt which in their hearts they believed to be his.

But they were doomed to disappointment. They certainly saw a change of expression, for Jim was puzzled. Why had Doc Crombie not produced the knife and the handkerchiefs? But perhaps he wanted his story first, and then would confront him with the evidence against him. Yet his manner was purely judicial. It in no way suggested that he possessed damning evidence.

He looked fearlessly around, and his gaze finally settled upon the doctor’s face.

“I’m puzzled, Doc,” he said quietly. “There’s certainly something I can’t make out. I told you all I had to tell,” he went on. “I was out on the south side of that bluff, for reasons which I told Anthony Smallbones were my own business, when I found Will Henderson lying dead in the grass, a few feet from some bushes. I did not at first realize he was dead. I saw the wound on his jaw, and, touching it, discovered the bone was broken. Then I discovered that his clothes were torn open, his chest bare, and a large knife, such as any prairie man carries in his belt, was sticking in his chest, plunged right up to the hilt.” There was a stir, and a murmur of astonishment went round the room. “Wait a moment,” he continued, holding up his hand for silence. “I discovered more than that. I found two handkerchiefs, a white one, ripped into a rough bandage, and a silk neck scarf, such as many of us wear, was folded up into a sort of pad. Both were blood-stained, and looked as though they had been used as bandages for his face. They were lying a yard away from the body. Have you got those things, because, if so, they ought to be a handsome clue for sure?”

But by the expression of blank astonishment, even incredulity on the doctor’s face, and a similar response from most of the onlookers, it was obvious that this was all news to them.

Doc shook his head.

“Ther’ was no knife–no scarves. But say,” he asked sharply, “why didn’t you speak of ’em before?”

“It didn’t occur to me. I thought you’d sure find ’em. So–I guess they’ve been removed since. Probably the murderer thought them incriminating–”

“A hell of a fine yarn.” It was Smallbones’ voice that now made itself heard. “Say, don’t you’se fellows see his drift? It’s a yarn to put you off, an’ make you think the murderer’s been around while he’s been in here. Guess him an’ his friend Peter’s made it up while I–”

“After I threw you out of here,” interjected Peter coldly. “Keep your tongue easy, or I’ll have to handle you again.”

But Smallbones’ fury got the better of him, and he meant to annoy Peter all he could.

“Yes, I dessay you would. But you can’t blind us like a lot of gophers with a dogone child’s yarn like that. If those things had been there they’d ha’ been there when Will was found by Doc– Say,” he cried, turning with inspiration upon Jim, “wher’s your knife? You mostly carry one. I see your sheath, but ther’ ain’t no knife in it.”

He pointed at the back of Jim’s waist, which was turned toward him. Every eye that could see the sheath followed the direction of the accusing finger, and a profound sensation stirred those who beheld. The sheath was empty.

Smallbones’ triumph urged him on.

“Say, an’ where’s your neck-scarf? You allus wear one, sure. An’ mebbe you ain’t got your dandy white han’k’chief. I ’lows you’re ’bout the on’y man in these parts ’cep’ Abe Horsley as fancies hisself enough to wear one. Wher’s them things, I ask you? Say,” he went on after a moment’s pause, during which Jim still remained silent, “I accuse this lousy skunk publicly of murderin’ Will Henderson. He’s convicted hisself out o’ his own mouth, an’ he’s got the man’s blood on his hands. Jim Thorpe, you killed Will Henderson!”

The little man’s fervor, his boldness, his shrewd argument carried his audience with him, as he stood pointing dramatically at the accused but unflinching man. Doc Crombie was carried along with the rest even against his own judgment. Peter Blunt and Angel Gay, with Jake Wilkes, were the only men present who were left unconvinced. Peter’s eyes were sternly fixed on the beady eyes of Smallbones. Gay, too, in his slow way, was furious. But Jake would not have believed Jim had committed the murder even if he had seen him do it, he detested Smallbones so much.

But everybody was waiting for Jim’s reply to the challenge. And it came amidst a deathly silence. It came with a straightforwardness that carried conviction to three of his hearers at least, and set the redoubtable doctor wondering if he were dreaming.

“You’re quite right I usually wear all those things you say, but I haven’t got them with me now, because”–he smiled into the little man’s eyes, “the particular articles I spoke of were all mine, and, apparently, now they’ve been stolen.”

“Guilty, by Gad!” roared Smallbones.

And some one near him added–

“Lynch him! Lynch him!”

How that cry might have been taken up and acted upon, it needs little imagination to guess. But quick as thought Doc Crombie came to Jim’s rescue. He silenced the crowd with a roar like some infuriated lion.

“The first man that moves I’ll shoot!” he cried, behind the brace of leveled pistols he was now holding at arm’s length.

He stood for a few seconds thus till order was restored, then he quietly returned one of his guns to its holster, while the other he retained in his hand. He turned at once to Jim.

“You’re accused of the murder of Will Henderson by Smallbones,” he said simply. “You’ve got more of this story back of your head. You’ve now got your chance of ladlin’ it out to clear yourself. You’d best speak. An’ the quicker the better. You say the knife that killed him was yours. Yes?”

The man’s honest intention was obvious. He wanted to give Jim a chance. He was doing his utmost. But he knew the temper of these men, and he knew that they were not to be played with. It was up to the accused man to clear himself.

Peter Blunt anxiously watched Jim’s face. There was something like despair in his honest eyes. But he could do nothing without the other’s help.

Jim looked straight into the doctor’s eyes. There was no defiance in his look, neither was there anything of the guilty man in it. It was simply honest.

“I’ve told you all I have to tell,” he said. “The knife that killed Will Henderson was my knife. But I swear before God that I am innocent of his death!”

The doctor turned from him with an oath. And curiously enough his oath was purely at the man’s obstinacy.

“Fellers,” he said, addressing the assembly, “I’ve been your leader for a goodish bit, an’ I don’t guess I’m goin’ back on you now. We got a code of laws right here in Barnriff with which we handle sech cases as this. Those laws’ll take their course. We’ll try the case right here an’ now. You, Smallbones, will establish your case.” Then he turned to Jim. “If there’s any feller you’d like–”

“I’ll stand by Jim Thorpe,” cried Peter Blunt, in a voice that echoed throughout the building.

Doc Crombie nodded.

“Gentlemen, the court is open.”

CHAPTER XXXIII

AFTER THE VERDICT

Peter Blunt stared helplessly up at the eastern sky. His brain was whirling, and he stared without being conscious of the reason.

He breathed heavily, like a man saturating his lungs with pure air after long confinement in a foul atmosphere. Then it almost seemed as if his great frame shrank in stature, and became suddenly a wreck of itself. As if age and decay had suddenly come upon him. As if the weight of his body had become too heavy for him, and set his great limbs tottering under it as he walked.

The excitement, the straining of thought and nerve had passed, leaving him hopelessly oppressed, twenty years older.

The din and clamor of the final scenes in the saloon were still ringing in his ears. It was all over. The farce of Jim Thorpe’s trial had been played out. But the shouts of men, hungering for the life of a fellow man, still haunted him. The voice of the accuser was still shrieking through his brain. The memory of the stern condemnation of Doc Crombie left his great heart crushed and helpless.

His brain was still whirling with all the strain he had gone through, his pulses were still hammering with the consuming anger which had raged in him as he stood beside his friend defending him to the last. And it had all proved useless. Jim Thorpe had been condemned by the ballot of his fellow citizens. Death–a hideous, disgraceful death was to be his, at the moment when the gray dawn should first lift the eastern corner of the pall of night.

The saloon was behind Peter now. Its lights were still burning. For the condemned man was to remain there with his guards until the appointed time.

Peter remembered Jim’s look when he finally bade him leave him. Could he ever forget it? He had seen death in many forms in his time. He had seen many men face it, each in his own way. But never in his life had he seen such calmness, such apparent indifference as Jim Thorpe had displayed.

When the ballot was taken and the doctor pronounced sentence, there was never a tremor of an eyelid. There was not even one quick-drawn breath. Nor was there a suggestion of any emotion–save that of indifference.

Then when the doctor had named the manner of his death–a rawhide rope on the bough of a tree–Jim had turned with a smile to Peter.

“I’d prefer to be shot,” he said quietly. “But there, I s’pose this thing must proceed by custom.”

So Jim received the pronouncement of the final penalty for a crime of which Peter was convinced he was innocent.

It had suddenly set his loyal heart longing with a mad, passionate longing to have his great hands about the mean throat of the man Smallbones. It had set him wild with rebellion against the merciless customs which permitted such an outrage upon justice. He had even challenged the doctor in his fury, on his right to administer justice and accept the condemnation of the men gathered there for the purpose.

In his desire to serve his friend he passed beyond the bounds of all discretion, of all safety for himself. He threatened that he would move the whole world to bring just retribution upon those who had participated in that night’s work. And his threats and violence had been received with a tolerant laughter. A derision more stinging and ominous than the most furious outbreak.

The work would go on. The death penalty would be carried out. He knew it. He knew it.

Then when it was all over, and the prisoner’s guards had been appointed, Jim had begged him to leave him.

“Thanks, Peter, old friend,” he said. And then added with a whimsical touch: “I’m tired to death of hearing your dear old voice. You’ve said such a heap to-night. Get along. I don’t want you any more. You see you’re too big, and you sure take up too much room–in my heart. So long.”

So he had been driven from his friend’s side, and out into the blackest night he had ever known.

Yes, it was an old, old man that now lurched his way across the market-place toward his hut. He was weary, so weary in mind and spirit. There was nothing now left for him to do but to go home and–and sit there till the dawn. Was there no hope, none? There was none. No earthly force could save Jim now. It wanted less than an hour to dawn, and, between now and then–

And yet he believed Jim could have saved himself. There was not a man in that room, from Doc Crombie downward, but knew that Jim was holding back something. What was it? And why did he not speak? Peter had asked him while the farce of a trial was at its height. He had begged and implored him to speak out, but the answer he received was the same as had been given to the doctor. Jim had told all he had to tell. Oh, the whole thing was madness–madness.

But there was no madness in Jim, he admitted. Once when his importunities tried him Jim had shown him just one brief glimpse of the heart which no death penalty had the power to reveal.

Peter remembered his words now; they would live in his memory to his dying day.

“You sure make me angry, Peter,” he had said. “Even to you, old friend, I have nothing more to say of this killing than I have said to Doc, and the rest of ’em. I’ve done many a fool trick in my time, and maybe I’m doing another now. But I’m doing it with my eyes wide open. There’s the rope ahead, a nasty, ugly, curly rope; maybe plaited by a half-breed with dirty hands. But what’s the odds? Perhaps there’s a stray bit of comfort in that rope, in the thought of it. You know the old prairie saw: ‘It isn’t always the sunniest day makes the best picnic.’ Which means, I take it, choose your company of girls and boys well, and, rain or shine, you’ll have a bully time. Maybe there’s a deal I could say if I so chose, but, in the meantime, I kind of believe there’s worse things in the world than–a rawhide rope.”

It was just a glimpse of the man behind his mask of indifference, and Peter wondered.

But there was no key to the riddle in his words, no key at all. Somehow, in a vague sort of way, it seemed to him that Eve Henderson was in a measure the influence behind Jim. But he could not see how. He was well aware of Jim’s love for her, and he believed that she was less indifferent to him now than when Will had been running straight. But for the life of him he could see no definite connection between such a matter and the murder. It was all so obscure–so obscure.

And now there was nothing left but to wait for the hideous end. He lurched into his hut, and, without even troubling to light his lamp, flung himself upon his bed.

CHAPTER XXXIV

THE TRUTH

The moment Peter Blunt left the saloon, a lurking figure stole out from the shadow of one of the side walls, where it had been standing close under a window, listening to all that passed within the building. It followed on a few yards behind the preoccupied man with a stealthy but clumsy gait. Peter heard nothing and saw nothing. His mind and heart were too full to care in the least for anything that was going on about him now.

So it was that Elia, for it was he, laboriously followed him up until he saw the man’s burly figure disappear into his hut. Then he turned away with something of relief, and hobbled in the direction of his own house. He had been anxious lest Peter should be on his way to carry the news to Eve. He had very definite reasons for wishing to give her the news himself. He felt that Peter was too convinced of Jim’s innocence, judging by his defense of him in the saloon, to be a safe person to carry Eve the news. He was thinking of his own safety, and his distorted mind was at work gauging Peter from his own standpoint. He felt he must avoid Peter for the present. Peter was too shrewd. Peter might–yes, he must certainly avoid him until after–dawn. Then it would not matter.

Sick in body as well as in mind after the evening’s events, the low, cruel cunning which possessed him was still hard at work scheming to fulfil both his vicious desires and to hedge himself round in safety.

This was the first time he had been near home since he had returned from the bluff. He had painfully followed Jim into the village and shadowed him down to the saloon. He was in an extremity of terror the whole time, from the moment he realized Jim’s intention to notify the villagers of what had happened until the end of the trial, when he heard the sentence passed. Then, curiously enough, his terror only abated the slightest degree.

But he was very sick, nearly dropping with fatigue and bodily suffering. Something was wrong in his chest, and the pain of it was excruciating. There were moments when the shooting pains in his poor curved spine set him almost shrieking. Will’s blows had done their work on his weakly frame, and it felt to him to be all broken up.

When he reached his sister’s gate, he stood for some moments leaning on it gasping for breath. His strength was well-nigh expended, leaving him faint and dizzy. Slowly his breathing eased, and he glanced at the windows. The lamps were still burning inside. Evidently Eve was waiting for something. Had she heard? He wondered. Was she now waiting for the verdict? Perhaps she was only waiting for his own return.

And while he considered a flash of the devil, that was always busy within him, stirred once more. He had come to tell her of it all. And the thought pleased him. For the moment he forgot something of his bodily sufferings in the joy of the thought of the pain he was about to inflict upon her. He groped his hand in his jacket pocket. Yes, they were all there, the knife and the handkerchief that had so puzzled the doctor and those others.

He stealthily opened the gate and walked up the path. At the door he stood listening. Some one was stirring within. Hark! That sounded like Eve sobbing. Now she was speaking. Was she speaking to herself–or to some one else? He listened acutely. He could only hear the murmur of her voice. There was no other sound within.

Suddenly he drew back from the door. He heard her footsteps approaching. Wondering what she was going to do he withdrew out of sight. The door opened, and Eve stood leaning against the casing. He could only see her outline against the lamplight behind her, for her face was lost in the shadow. It seemed to him that she was staring out at the saloon. Maybe she was waiting till the lights were put out, and so she would know the trial was over. Maybe, even, she was contemplating going down there in search of the news she was so fearfully awaiting. These suggestions occurred to Elia, for he had a tremendously shrewd knowledge of his sister, as he had of most people with whom he came into contact.

It occurred to him now that it was time he showed himself. The grinding pains in his body would no longer be denied. He must get inside and rest.

“Sis,” he called in a low voice. “Ho, sis!”

The woman started as the boy hobbled out into the light.

“Elia!” she cried. And the next moment she would have clasped him in her arms, and hugged him to her bosom. But he drew back. He feared her embraces. Nor was he in the mood to submit to them.

“Don’t be a fule, sis. I’m tired–dog tired. I’m sick, too. I believe somethin’s broken inside me.”

He pushed her on one side and hurried into the room.

“Come in an’ shut that gol-durned door,” he cried, without turning, as he made his way to the rocking-chair. He dropped into it, his face contorting hideously with the awful pain the process caused him.

But the spasm passed after a few moments, and when he looked up Eve was standing before him. He eyed her silently for some time. He was wondering just how much she knew.

There was little doubt in his mind that she knew a great deal. Horror and suffering were so deeply lined upon her young face, and in her beautiful eyes was such a wild, hunted look, that there was very little doubt in his mind that she knew what most of the village knew by this time. But she didn’t know all he knew, not by a lot. And she wasn’t going to know it all. Only some of it. She was suffering. So was he–in a different way. He would help her to suffer more yet. It was good to see other folks suffering.

“Who’s bin here, sis?” he demanded.

“Only Annie. But, Elia, tell me you–you didn’t meet Will?”

The boy chuckled without any visible sign. Even the pain of his body could not rob him of his cruel love of inflicting pain. He ignored her question for the moment.

“Annie?” he responded. “Did she tell you, sis? Did she tell you your Will was dead? Eh?” He leaned forward, his eyes sparkling. “I’m glad–real glad. He was sure bad, an’ no use to you. She told you?”

But suddenly the poor woman buried her face in her hands, as though to shut out the hideous thoughts his words brought back to her.

“Yes, yes,” she cried, “I know he’s dead, and they’re trying Jim for it. Oh, God, it’s awful! They say he did it. But he didn’t, I know he didn’t. He only said he’d do it if Will had killed you. He didn’t kill you, so Jim didn’t do it. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. And I sent him out there to the bluff. And if they hang him it’s my doing. Oh, Jim, Jim!” She fell to moaning and rocking herself as she stood. “But they mustn’t kill him. They won’t. Will they? Say they won’t, Elia. Oh, Jim, Jim! I want you so badly. I–I–”

“You’re sweet on him, sis?” Elia said, with a gleam of fiendish satisfaction in his wonderful eyes.

“I sent him,” reiterated the woman, ignoring his question, and lost in her own misery. “Oh, Jim, Jim!”

For a time at least the boy had quite forgotten his bodily sufferings. His enjoyment was monstrous, unholy.

“Say, sis,” he went on, “the trial’s over. I’ve just come from there.”

Eve looked up, startled. Every nerve in her body was quivering with a sudden tension.

“Yes, yes?” she cried.

“Yes, it’s sure over,” the boy added, prolonging his sister’s agony.

“Well? They–they acquitted him?” There was something absolutely imploring in her manner. It might well have moved a heart of stone.

But Elia’s heart, if he possessed such an organ, bore the brand of the fiend. He nodded first. Then, as he saw the joy leap to his sister’s eyes he shook his head vigorously, and the result pleased him.

“He’s got to die,” he said.

The woman suddenly reeled, and fell on her knees at the table, with her face buried on her outstretched arms. Elia watched her for some moments. He felt that here was some recompense for what he had gone through.

“You was kind o’ sweet on him, sis,” he said presently. “That’s why I tried to help him some. I kind o’ like him, too. I feel sort o’ queer Jim’s goin’ to get hanged–hanged, sis, at dawn.” He paused, but beyond the racking sobs that shook the woman’s frame she made no movement. “I sure feel queer about it, tho’. Y’see he came right up when Will had nigh kicked the life out o’ me, an’ he hit Will a smash that knocked him cold. Gee, it was a smash! Jim hurt Will bad, an’ it was for me. Say, that’s why I feel queer they’re goin’ to–hang him at dawn. Somehow, it don’t seem good stretchin’ Jim’s neck. I don’t seem to feel I’d like to see Jim hurted. Must be because he hurted Will fer me. Will ’ud ’a’ killed me, sure, but fer Jim.”

His words had become a sort of soliloquy. He had forgotten his sister for the moment. But now, as she looked up, he remembered.