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

“You tried to–to save him?” she demanded. “You told them what Will was doing? You told them how–how it all happened?”

The boy shook his head, and again his eyes lit with malice.

“I ain’t been inside the saloon. I–I was scared. Y’see Will wasn’t killed by the blow Jim give him. Guess that on’y jest knocked him out. Y’see he was killed with Jim’s knife–after. Y’see Jim’s a fule. After he’d hit him he fixed his face up with his han’k’chiefs, an’ after he was good an’ dead he went fer to leave his knife stickin’ in his chest. That’s wher’ I helped him some. I took that knife out–an’ them rags. Here they are, right here.”

He suddenly produced the blood-stained knife and the handkerchiefs, and held them out toward her. But the woman shrank away from them.

“I guessed if I took ’em right away no one ’ud know how he come by his death, an’ who did it. Y’see Jim had helped me some.”

But Eve was not heeding the explanation.

“Then he did–kill him?” Her question was a low, horrified whisper.

“Ye–es.”

“After he had–struck him senseless?”

“Ye–yes.”

“I don’t believe it. You are lying to me, Elia.” The woman’s voice was strident, even harsh.

Elia understood. It was her desire to convince herself of Jim’s innocence that set her accusing him. It was not that she really disbelieved. Had it been otherwise he would have been afraid. As it was he gloated over her suffering instead.

“Yes, he’s a fule, an’ he’s sure got to hang,” he said mildly. “Guess it’ll be dawn come half an hour. Then they’re goin’ to take him right out ther’ wher’ he killed your Will–an’ hang him. Smallbones is goin’ out to find the tree. Say, sis, Smallbones is goin’ to get busy pullin’ the rope. I wish it wa’n’t Jim, sure I do. I’d sooner it was Peter, on’y he’s goin’ to give me that gold. Guess it wouldn’t matter if–”

“They shan’t hang him! I don’t believe it. I can’t believe it. I don’t believe you. Oh, God, this is awful! Elia, say it isn’t so; say you are only–”

“Don’t be a fule, sis,” the boy cried, brutally. “Guess if you can’t b’lieve me go an’ ast Peter. He’s in his hut. He helped defend Jim, an’ said a heap o’ fule things ’bout gettin’ the law on Doc. Ast him if you don’t b’lieve me.”

But whereas he had only intended to force her belief by his challenge, Eve took him literally. She snatched at his words, and he suddenly became afraid. She picked up the knife and the rags, which before she had refused to touch, and grasped him by one wrist.

“Yes, yes, we’ll go over to Peter, and I’ll have the truth from him. I can’t trust you, Elia. You were there when Will was murdered; you’ve been down to the saloon, outside it. You must have seen the killing, and you’ve not said one word in his defense, not one word as to the reason of Will’s death. Jim did it in your defense, and you’re letting him hang without a word to help him. You shall tell Peter what you’ve told me, and maybe it isn’t too late to do something yet. Come along.”

But the boy tried to drag free. His guilty conscience made him fear Peter, and in a frenzy he struggled to release himself.

But Eve was no longer the gentle, indulgent woman he had always known. She was fighting for a life perhaps dearer to her than Elia’s. She saw a barely possible chance that through Elia she might yet save Jim. Will’s brutal attack upon a cripple had met with perhaps something more than its deserts, but these men were men, and maybe the extenuation of the provocation might at least save Jim the rope.

Elia quickly gave up the struggle. His bodily hurts had robbed him of what little physical strength he possessed at the best of times; and Eve, for all her slightness, was by no means a weak woman. She literally forced him to go, half dragging him, and never for a moment relaxing her hold upon him.

And so they came to Peter’s hut. She knocked loudly at the door, and called to him, fearing, because she saw no light, that the man had gone out again. But Peter was there, and his astonished voice answered her summons at once.

“Eve?” he cried, in something like consternation, for he was thinking of the news he must now give her. Then he appeared in the doorway.

“Quick, light a lamp,” the woman cried. “Elia has told me all about it. He says Jim is to die at–dawn.” She glanced involuntarily at the eastern horizon, and to her horror beheld the first pale reflection of morning light, hovering, an almost milky lightening, where all else was still jet black.

Peter had no words with which to answer her. He had dreaded seeing her, and now–she knew. He lit the lamp, and Eve dragged the unwilling boy in with her; and as she passed him over to Peter’s bed he fell back on it groaning.

“Peter,” she cried now, speaking with a rush, since dawn was so near. “Can’t something be done? Surely, surely, there is extenuation! He did it all to defend Elia. Will was killing him out there at the bluff. Look at him! Can’t you see his suffering? That’s why Jim killed him. Elia’s just told me so. He even took these things from–from the body after–thinking it might save Jim. He brought them to me just now; and he says he’s been down at the saloon, and never said a word to help Jim. He said he was frightened to go in. Did Jim tell them it was to save Elia? Oh, surely they can be made to understand it was not wilful–wilful murder! They can’t hang him. It’s–it’s–horrible!”

But as the astonished Peter listened to her words, words which told him a side of the story he had never even dreamed of before, his eyes drifted and fixed themselves on the now ghastly face of the boy. He compelled the terror-stricken eyes and held them with his own. And when Eve ceased speaking he answered her without turning. He was reading, reading through the insane mind of the boy, right down into his very soul. In the long days he had had Elia working with him he had studied him closely. And he had learned the twists and warps of his nature as no one else understood them.

“Jim said nothing at all!” Peter said slowly.

“Nothing? What do you mean? He–he must have told them of–of Elia?”

Suddenly Peter’s eyes shot in the direction of the door. A faint, distant sound reached them. It was a sound of bustle from the direction of the saloon. Eve heard too. They both understood.

“Oh, God!” she cried.

But Peter’s eyes were on Elia’s face once more. They were stern, and a curious light was in them.

“I seem to see it now,” he said slowly. “Jim denied his guilt because he was innocent. But he admitted that the knife which killed Will was his, although no knife was found. He spoke the truth the whole time. He would not stoop to a lie, because he was innocent. Eve, that man was shielding the real culprit. Do you know any one that Jim would be likely to give his life for? I do.” Suddenly he swung round on Elia, and, with an arm outstretched, and a great finger pointing, he cried, “Why did you kill Will Henderson?”

Inspiration had come. A great light of hope shone in his eyes. His demand was irresistible to the suffering, demented boy. Elia’s eyes gleamed with a sudden cruel frenzy. There was the light of madness in them, a vicious, furious madness in them. Hatred of Will surged through his fevered brain, a furious triumph at the thought of having paid Will for all his cruelties to him swept away any guilty fears as he blurted out his reply.

“Because I hate him. Because he’s kicked me till I’m nigh dead. Because–I–I hate him.”

It was a tremendous moment, and fraught with such possibilities as a few minutes ago would have seemed impossible. There was a silence of horror in the room. The shock had left Eve staggered. Peter was calculating what seemed almost impossible chances. Elia–Elia was in the agonies of realizing what he had done, and battling with an overwhelming physical weakness.

The sounds of commotion at the saloon were more decided. There was the ominous galloping of horses, and the rattle of the wheels of a buckboard. Peter glanced at the window. The sky outside was lightening. Suddenly he shivered.

“You killed him. How? How?” His voice was tense and harsh, though he strove to soften it.

But Elia had turned sullen. A fierce resentment held him silent, resentment and fear.

And in that moment of waiting for his answer Peter heard again the movements of the cavalcade at the saloon. It seemed to be under way for–the bluff.

Now he leaned toward the boy, and his great honest brow was sweating with apprehension.

“Elia,” he said. “If I go and tell them they’ll hang you, too. Do you understand? I’m not going to bluff you. This is just fact. They’ll hang you if I tell them. And I’m going to tell them, sure, if you don’t do as I say. If you do as I say they won’t touch you. You’ve got to come along with me and tell them you killed Will, and just why. They’re men, those fellers, and they’ll be real sorry for you. You’ve got to tell the whole truth just as it happened, and I give you my word they won’t touch you. You’ll save Jim’s life. Jim who was always good to you. Jim who went out to the bluff to save you from Will. You needn’t to be scared,” as signs of fresh terror broke out upon the boy’s face, “you needn’t to be scared any. I’ll be there with you–”

“And so will I,” cried Eve, her eyes suddenly lighting with hope.

“Will you come, boy? You’ll save Jim, who never did you anything but good. Will you come?”

But there was no answer.

“Say, laddie,” Peter went on, his eyes straining with fear, “they’re moving now. Can you hear them? That’s the men who’re taking Jim out to kill him–and when they’ve killed him they’ll kill you, because I shall tell them ’bout you. Will you help us save Jim–Jim who was always good to you, or will you let them kill him–an’ then you? Hark, they’re crossing toward us now. Soon, and they’ll be gone, and then it’ll be too late. They’ll then have to come back for you, and–you won’t be able to get that gold I promised you.”

Eve sat breathlessly watching. Peter’s steady persistence was something to marvel at. She wanted to shriek out and seize the suffering cripple, and shake what little life there yet remained out of him. The suspense was dreadful. She looked for a sign of the lightening of that cloud of horror and suffering on the boy’s face. She looked for that sign of yielding they both hoped and prayed for.

But Peter went on, and it seemed to the woman he must win out.

“Come, speak up, laddie,” he said gently. “Play the man. They shan’t hurt you, I swear it. Ther’s all that gold waiting. You’ve seen it on the reef in the cutting, right here in Barnriff. It’s yours when you’ve done this thing, but you won’t be here to get it if you don’t. Will you come?”

“They won’t–won’t hang me?” the boy whispered, in dreadful fear.

The death party were quite near now. Peter heard them. He felt that they were nearly across the market-place. He glanced out of the window. Yes, there they were. Jim was sitting in the buckboard beside Doc Crombie. The rest of the crowd were in the saddle.

“I swear it, laddie,” he cried in a fear.

“An’–an’–you got that gold?” The boy’s face was suddenly contorted with fierce bodily pain.

“Yes, yes, and it’s yours when we come back.”

Another glance showed the hanging party on the outskirts of the village. They were passing slowly. Peter knew they would travel faster when the last house was passed. Eve saw them, too, and her hands writhed in silent agony as they clasped each other in her lap. She turned again to stare helplessly at Elia. She must leave him to Peter. Instinctively she knew that one word from her might spoil all.

“Wher’ are they now?” asked the boy, his ghastly face cold as marble after his seizure of pain.

“They’re gettin’ out of the village. We’ll be too late in a minute.”

Then of a sudden the boy cried out. His voice was shrill with a desperate fear, but there was a note of determination in it.

“I’ll tell ’em–I’ll tell ’em. Come on, I ken walk. But it’s only for Jim, an’–an’ I don’t want that gold.” And for the first time in her life Eve saw the boy’s eyes flood with tears, which promptly streamed down his ghastly cheeks.

Peter’s eyes glowed. There was just time, he believed. But he was thinking of the boy. At last–at last. It was for Jim Elia was doing it. For Jim, and not for the gold. He had delved and delved until at last he had struck the real color, where the soil had long been given up as barren.

“Come, laddie.” He stepped up to the boy with a great kindness, and, stretching out his herculean arms, he lifted him bodily from the bed. “You can’t walk, you’re too ill. I’ll jest carry you.”

And he bore him out of the house.

CHAPTER XXXV

IN THE SHADOW OF THE GALLOWS TREE

The creak of a saddle; the shuffling and rustle of horses moving at a walk through the long prairie grass; the sudden jolt of a wheel as it dropped from a tufty wad to the barren sand intersecting the clumps of grass of which the prairie is largely made up; the half-hearted neigh of a horse, as though it were striving to break from under the spell of gloomy depression which seemed to weigh heavily upon the very atmosphere; these were the only sounds which broke the gray stillness of dawn.

No one seemed to have words to offer. No one seemed to have sufficient lightness even to smoke a morning pipe. There were few amongst those riding out from Barnriff who would not far sooner have remained in their beds, amidst the easy dreams of healthy, tired nature, now that the last moments of a man’s life were at hand. There were few, now that the heat and excitement of accusation were past, but would far rather have had the easy thought that they had been on the other side of the ballot. But this was mere human sentimentality at the thought of the passing of one man’s life. This thing was necessary, necessary for example and precept. A man had slain another. He was guilty; he must die. The argument was as old as the world.

Yet life is very precious. It is so precious that these men could not rid themselves of the haunting ghost of self-consciousness. They placed themselves in the position of the condemned, and at once depression wrapped them in its pall, and, shrinking within themselves, all buoyancy left them. A man had to die, and each man felt he was instrumental in wresting from him that which of all the world must be most prized. And in many the thought was painful.

The gray world looked grayer for their mission. The daylight seemed to grow far more slowly than was its wont. Where was the ruddy splendor of the day’s awakening, where the glory of dawning hope? Lost, lost. For the minds of these men could not grasp that which lay beyond the object of their journey.

The long-drawn howl of the prairie scavenger broke the stillness. It was answered by its kind. It was a fitting chorus for the situation. But ears were deaf to such things, for they were too closely in harmony with the doings of the moment. The gray owls fluttered by, weary with their night’s vigil, but with appetites amply satisfied after the long chase, seeking their daylight repose in sparse and distant woodland hidings. But there were no eyes for them. Eyes were on the distant bluff to the exclusion of all else.

Six men rode ahead of the buckboard. Smallbones was on the lead. It was his place, and he triumphantly held it. His was the office. Jim Thorpe had reached the end of the one-way trail. And it was his to speed him on–beyond. The rope hung coiled over the horn of his saddle. It was a good rope, a strong, well-seasoned rope. He had seen to that, for he had selected it himself from a number of others. The men with him were those who would act under his orders, men whose senses were quite deadened to the finer emotions of life.

Those behind the buckboard were there to witness the administration of the sentence passed upon the prisoner by his fellow townsmen.

Doc Crombie drove the buckboard. And he watched the condemned man beside him out of the tail of his eye. Jim’s attitude gave him relief, but it made him feel regret.

They had passed the limits of the village when his prisoner suddenly pointed with his bound hands at a pile of soil rising amidst the level of the prairie grass.

“Peter Blunt’s cutting,” he said, with curious interest. “He’s tracked the gold ledge from the head waters down to here.” His tone was half musing. It almost seemed as though he had no concern with the object of their journey.

“Peter’s crazy on that gold,” said the doctor. “He guesses too much.”

Jim shook his head. And for some moments there was silence. Finally his answer came with a smile of understanding.

“He’s not crazy. You fellers are all wrong. Peter’s got the gold all right.”

“He’s welcome, sure.”

The doctor had no sympathy with any gold find at that moment, and presently he looked round at his prisoner. The man’s indifference almost staggered him. He chewed his wad of tobacco viciously. At that moment he hated himself, he hated Jim, he hated everybody–but most of all he hated Smallbones.

After a while he spoke, and though his manner was sharp he meant kindly–

“You ain’t told what, I’m guessin’, you could tell, Jim,” he said. Then he added significantly, “We’ve nigh a mile to go.”

But Jim was gazing out at the great arc of rosy light growing in the eastern sky, and the doctor stirred impatiently. At last the condemned man turned to him with a grave smile–

“Guess there’s nothing so beautiful in nature as a perfect summer dawn,” he said. “It makes a man feel strong, and–good. I’m glad it’s dawn,” he added, with a sigh.

The doctor spat out his tobacco, and his lean hands clenched tight on the reins.

“Maybe it makes you fool-headed, too.”

“Maybe it does,” Jim agreed, thoughtfully. “Maybe it’s good to be fool-headed once in a while. The fool’s generally a happy man.” Then his eyes looked away in the direction of Peter’s cutting. “And happiness, like Peter’s gold, takes a heap of finding,” he continued a moment later. “Guess the wiser you are the harder things hit you. And as you grow older it’s so easy to be wise, and so hard to be fool-headed. That bluff we’re riding to. Maybe it’s foolish me riding to it. That’s what you’re thinking–because you’re wise. It makes me glad I’m fool-headed.”

The doctor unnecessarily slashed the horses with his whip. But he was careful not to increase the pace.

Jim went on after a moment’s pause, while he watched the hawk-like mould of his companion’s profile.

“Peter’s a good friend,” he said. “Last night, if I’d said the word, he’d have fought for me. He’d have fought for me till the boys shot him down in his tracks. And he’d have thought no more of giving his life for me than–than Smallbones would think of taking mine. And some of the gold he’s looking for would–have come his way.”

The doctor looked round sharply. He began to wonder if Jim were getting light-headed.

“You’re talkin’ foolish,” he said.

But the other shook his head.

“You see, I don’t guess you know Peter as I do–now. I didn’t quite know him–before. I do now. Life’s so mighty full of–well, the things we don’t want, that it’s well to get out and look for something that don’t seem to be lying around. And every time you find one of those things, it seems to set the things life wants you to have farther and farther away. That’s what Peter’s doing.” He smiled ever so gently. “He’s looking for what he calls gold. Guess I’ll find some of Peter’s gold–in yonder bluff.”

The doctor’s eyes were staring out at their destination. He had no answer. He caught something of Jim’s meaning, but his hard mind had not the proper power of assimilation.

“If that bluff was a thousand miles off, Doc, I still shouldn’t have anything in my fool-head to tell. Seems to me a bit chilly. Couldn’t we drive faster?”

“No. By Gad, we couldn’t!”

The driver’s words came with a sudden outburst of passion. If half the silent curses he was hurling at the head of the venomous Smallbones at that moment took effect, the man would surely have then and there been blotted out of the history of Barnriff.

Jim had no more to say, and the other had no power to frame the thoughts which filled his mind. And so a silence fell upon them as they approached the woods.

Through the perfect fretwork of the upper branches the eastern light shone cold and pure; in the lower depths the gray gloom had not yet lifted. The dark aisles between the trees offered a gloomy welcome. They suggested just such an ending as was intended for their journey.

The leaders had passed round the southern limits, and were no longer in view. The doctor headed his horses upon their course. Something of the eagle light had gone out of his eyes. He stared just ahead of his horses, but no farther. As they came to the bend, where Barnriff would be shut off from their view, Jim turned in his seat, and who can tell what was in his mind at the moment? He knew it was his last glimpse of the place, which for him had held so many disappointments, so many heartaches. Yet–he wanted to see it.

But his eyes never reached the village. They encountered two objects upon the prairie, and fastened themselves upon them, startled, even horrified. A large man was running, bearing in his arms a strange burden, and behind him, trailing wearily, but still running, was a woman. He could have cried out at the sight, and his cry would have been one of horror. Instead, he turned to his companion.

“No reasonable request is denied a–dying man, Doc,” he said, eagerly. “Drive faster.”

Without a word the other touched his horses with the whip, and they broke from their amble into a brisk trot.

In half a minute they drew up in the shadow of a great overhanging tree.

Jim was promptly assisted to the ground by the waiting men, for he was bound hand and foot. Now his bonds were removed, and immediately he stepped forward to where Smallbones had just succeeded in throwing his rope into position overhead, and was testing it with his own weight.

As the prisoner came up he turned, and a malicious sparkle shone in his eyes as he confronted the calm face.

“It’ll bear my weight?” Jim inquired, coldly. “It wouldn’t be pleasant to go through it twice.” He glanced up at the tree as though interested.

“It’s built fer ropin’ ‘outlaws,’” Smallbones grinned. “I sure don’t guess a low-down skunk of a murderer’ll–”

But the man never finished his sentence. Doc Crombie had him by the throat in a clutch that threatened to add another and more welcome crime to the records.

“Another word from your lousy tongue an’ I’ll strangle you!” roared the doctor, venting at last all the pent-up wrath gathered on the journey out.

But Jim was impatient. He remembered those two toiling figures behind.

“Let up, Doc,” he said sharply. “His words don’t hurt. Let’s finish things.”

The doctor’s hand fell from the man’s throat and he drew back.

“Fix the ropes,” he said shortly.

In silence four of the men advanced, while the evil eyes of Smallbones savagely glowered at the doctor. In a few moments Jim’s arms were pinioned, and his ankles bound fast. Then the rope was loosely thrown about his neck. And after that a man advanced with a large silk handkerchief, already folded, and with which to blindfold him.

But suddenly the doctor bethought him of something.

“Wait!” he cried. Then he addressed himself directly to the condemned man. “Jim Thorpe, you sure got friends present. You sure got friends ready to hear anything you got to tell. You’re goin’ out o’ this world right now, actin’ a lie if not speakin’ one. Ther’ are folks among us dead sure, or I wouldn’t say it. Mebbe you ain’t thought that if this thing is done, an’ what I suspicion is true, you’re makin’ murderers of us all–an’ in pertickler Smallbones. Say, you got your chance. Speak.”

The men round the tree stood hushed in awe, waiting. There was not a sound to break the stillness except the soft rustle of the trees in the morning breeze.

“I have told you all, I am innocent,” Jim said firmly. Then he shrugged. “Guess you must take your own chances what you are when this is done. We don’t need to wait any longer.”

For answer the doctor signed to the man with the handkerchief. The prisoner’s face was pale, but his eyes were steady and his lips firm. There was no weakness in him, and the wondering crowd were troubled. Most of them had seen hangings in their time, but they had never seen a man face death in cold blood quite like this.

Suddenly, while the bandage was being secured, one of the younger men in the front rank threw up his arm as though to ward off a blow. He covered his eyes, and fled precipitately behind his comrades, where he could no longer see. Several others turned their backs deliberately. The whole thing was too terrible. It was hideous.