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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.

Doc Crombie stood with folded arms within two yards of the prisoner. Behind the prisoner Smallbones and the rest of his men stood, their hands grasping the plaited rope. They were only awaiting the silent signal from the doctor.

When the handkerchief had been adjusted the man fell in beside his comrades on the rope. The awful moment had arrived when the signal must be given. The tension amongst the onlookers was breathless, and the agony of the man about to die must have been appalling, in spite of his apparent calm.

The moments passed. It almost seemed as though the hardened nerve of the doctor needed support. At last he stiffened. He raised his head, and looked squarely at the pinioned man.

“Jim Thorpe,” he cried, in a harsh, unyielding voice. “You are condemned to die by the ballot of your fellow citizens, for the murder of Will–”

“Ho! Ho, Doc! Hold on! For God’s sake, hold your hand, Doc!”

A great hoarse voice split the deathly stillness with a roar that suddenly electrified the assembly. Everybody swung round in the direction whence it came. That is, everybody but the doctor. He had recognized the voice, and he had caught Smallbones’ gleaming eye. With a spring he was at Jim’s side, and threw the noose clear of his neck. He had no idea of the reason of the interruption, but he had caught Smallbones’ eye.

He turned about in time to see Peter Blunt break through the crowd bearing in his arms the crippled brother of Eve Henderson. Following close upon his heels was Eve herself, gasping and almost fainting with her exertion.

CHAPTER XXXVI
THE PASSING OF ELIA

Peter Blunt paused, staggered, then with a great effort pulled himself together. Mighty man as he was, he had reached the limits of his strength, for he had run nearly a mile, carrying Elia in his arms. Eve now clung to his great arm for support.

Peter set the boy on his feet and supported him. A great fear was in him that a perverse fate would yet rob them of justice. Elia was dying, and he knew it. He needed no examination to tell him so. It was there, written in the glazing eyes, in the hideous blue pallor stealing over the lad’s face.

“We’re in time, laddie,” he said hoarsely, with his mouth close to Elia’s ear. “Speak up and say the truth.”

Then he looked up to encounter the keen eyes of the doctor.

“What’s all this?” the latter demanded harshly. But there was a sudden light of hope in his fierce eyes.

“It’s him. He’s got something to say. It’s the truth about the killing.” Peter indicated the boy. “Speak up, laddie, they’re all friends. Speak up–for Jim’s sake.” Eve looked on with hands clasped. She was still breathing painfully from her exertions.

The crowd gathered round. All but Smallbones, who never for a moment removed his eyes from Jim’s face. It was a bitter moment for him. He felt he was about to be robbed of his prey, and he resented it with all that was mean in him. But Elia did not speak. His eyes were half closed, and a terrible helplessness seemed to have suddenly seized hold of him.

Peter urged him again with a sinking heart.

“Aren’t you going to tell them, laddie? Aren’t you going to tell them all you’ve told me–and save Jim?”

It was Jim’s voice that answered him.

“Don’t bother the lad,” he said. He could not see, but instinctively he knew that Elia was in a bad way.

Peter caught at his words.

“Do you hear, laddie? That’s Jim talking. You’ve come to tell the truth and save him. They’ve got him all bound up, and the rope’s hanging over him. Eh? I didn’t rightly hear.”

He had seen the boy’s lips move, and he strove by every means in his power to encourage him to a dying effort.

But in the pause that followed Smallbones’ mean voice was suddenly heard.

“This ain’t no sort o’ justice. Wot’s these folks buttin’ in fer? They’ve stuffed him full o’ lies ’cause he’s sick an’ dying. I tell yer it’s a trick, an’ when he speaks it’ll be to tell his usual lies–”

“It ain’t lies, I tell yer it ain’t lies.” It was Elia speaking, suddenly roused from his stupor by the vicious charge. His words came in a high, shrill voice. “I don’t need to tell no lies. I killed Will Henderson. I killed him! I killed him! He’s kicked me to death, an’ I killed him with Jim’s knife. It was lyin’ ther’ wher’ he’d left it after he’d fixed them rags on his face. I killed him, I tell yer. An’ I’m glad. ’Cos I–I–hate him, an’–he’s–killed–me.”

The boy’s voice had risen to a shriek, and then died suddenly away to a whisper as he fell back into Peter’s arms. It was the final effort, which Peter had been unable to rouse him to, but which, to his own chagrin, Smallbones had achieved.

The boy was dead. The one honest action of his life had been performed with his last breath. Such was the overmastering cruelty of his nature that, in comparative health, and with all his faculties alert, the one spark of good, somewhere deep down in his heart, had had no power to shine. The flesh had been too strong for him–and now, now perhaps he had fulfilled his mission, and that one little step forward would carry him beyond the jaws of evil which had been so tightly shut about his poor, weakly spirit. Peter laid him gently upon the ground.

Then he stood up about to speak. There were tears in his eyes, and without shame he dashed them away with the back of his hand. But Eve stayed him with a gesture. She took a step forward. Her eyes were shining as she glanced round upon the familiar faces. Her mind was made up. There was no shrinking now at the disgrace she had in her cowardice so feared before. Jim had shown her the way to a loyal courage. She understood now why he had gone to his death shielding the real murderer. He had done it to save her, he had done it as once before he had sought to help her. She loved him, and no longer feared to tread the path he had so willingly, so readily trodden for her sake.

“I want to tell you all the things that I should have told you long ago,” she began, in clear ringing tones, “but I couldn’t, because–because he was my husband.”

A startled sound went round the listeners. The doctor’s eyes flashed suddenly in Jim’s direction. But before she could continue, the latter suddenly urged her to silence.

“There’s no need to speak of him, Eve,” he cried. “Leave it to me, and I’ll tell them how Will came by his death–now.”

But the doctor interfered. He signed to one of the men to release the prisoner.

“We’ll have Mrs. Henderson’s story first,” he said decidedly. “You’ll please get right ahead, ma’am.”

There was just the briefest possible hesitation. For a second Eve’s eyes wandered over the faces now gathered so closely about. It was not that she was any longer afraid. It was merely that she looked for one friendly glance. She found it in the round face of Angel Gay. He was smiling on her. And at once she plunged into her story.

“Will Henderson–my husband, was the cattle-thief,” she said. And for a moment she could go no further. Had she desired to create a sensation, she amply succeeded. The doctor had to call for silence so that she might proceed.

Having made the plunge, her story came clearly and concisely. She told everything without sparing either herself or her husband. She began from the time when Will had been ordered out of Barnriff, and told all the pitiful, sordid details, right down to his final return after escaping from the doctor’s men at the Little Bluff River. Everything she told as she knew it, except the part Jim had played in his actual escape. This she could not bring herself to speak of.

The story took some time in the telling, but there was not a man amongst those assembled that did not hungrily take in every detail of it. And as it unrolled, to the final scene of Will’s return, when again he ill-used her and departed in search of Elia to kill him, and his final promise to return later and kill her, a fierce light of understanding grew on the swarthy, rough faces, and muttered imprecations flew from lip to lip. All bitterness for Jim had passed from their thoughts, all except, perhaps, from the thoughts of Smallbones.

And Jim remained silent all the time. He, too, was listening. He, too, shared again in the thoughts which now assailed the others. The hideous brutality, as it appeared, told in Eve’s simple words, set his blood boiling afresh against the dead man. Though he knew it all only too well, it still had power to rouse the worst side of his nature.

At the conclusion, Doc Crombie suddenly turned to Jim. He offered no comment, no sympathy.

“Now, I guess, you’ll talk some,” he said, in his usual harsh tone. But somehow his words seemed to contain a smile.

“The boy has told you who killed Will Henderson,” Jim answered at once. “I can’t, because I didn’t see him killed. I’ll tell you the part I had in the affair. It’s not pretty.” He paused, but went on almost at once. “I happened along to Mrs. Henderson’s house directly I came in to town. I had news for her. You know the news. Will had escaped.”

“Yes,” cried Smallbones, unable to keep silent longer, “because you helped him, an’ bluffed the Doc. Oh, I’m wise to you.”

“You look wise to a good deal,” retorted Jim, with a cold smile. Then without further concern he went on with his story. “I came to her house and found her bound and gagged. Will had not long left her. She told me what had happened, that he had gone off to kill Elia, and I rode out at once to the bluff. I found Will kicking the life out of the poor boy. I jumped from my horse and hit him with my fist. I frankly admit I desired to kill him, and my whole intent was in that blow. He fell to the ground with his jaw badly smashed, and–and I was glad. I left him there and looked to Elia. He was in a pretty bad way, but he did not seem so bad as I now realize he must have been. However, when I saw that I had been in time to save him, my anger began to pass, and I felt I could not leave the wretched man lying there with his wound dripping, and–well, I thought I’d better do what I could for him. So I sent Elia over to my horse–I intended that he should ride home–while I fixed Will’s face up some.

“Well, I had nothing much to do it with except my handkerchiefs,” he went on, “so I knelt down beside him, took out my sheath-knife and ripped up my white handkerchief into a bandage and folded my neck-scarf into a pad, and bound it on his broken jaw. Then I got up, and now I know I must have left my knife on the ground beside him. I didn’t know it at the time. Anyway, I left him and went back to my horse expecting to find Elia. But he was not there. I was alarmed at once, and began to search round for him, calling at the same time. You see, I thought he’d maybe collapsed somewhere near by. But I got no answer, and so circling round and round I again came to where Will Henderson was lying. At first I didn’t notice anything, it was fairly dark; then, of a sudden, I saw he was lying on his back, where before he had been on his side. The next thing was that I realized the bandages were off his face. Then, as I knelt down beside him again, I found that–other. My knife was sticking up in his chest. Then I knew the reason of Elia’s absence, and–what he had done.”

Jim ceased speaking, and presently his eyes sought Eve’s face with a look of trouble in their dark depths. He had wanted to spare her all this, and now–

The doctor’s voice was questioning him.

“And you come right into the village, wher’ your flavor was mighty strong, to tell us he was dead?” he asked almost incredulously.

Jim shrugged. All eyes were upon him, silently echoing their leader’s question.

“Why not?” he said. “I hadn’t killed him. Besides, what else was there to do? The evidence was damning anyway. And I sure couldn’t run away. I guessed I’d best trust to circumstances. Y’see my last words to Mrs. Henderson were a threat to kill her husband–if he’d killed Elia.”

The doctor shook his head.

“Them things sure may have influenced you, but–”

“I think I can tell you.”

Doc Crombie turned at the interruption. It was Eve who spoke. Her eyes were shining, and she looked fearlessly into his face.

“Yes,” she cried, with rising emotion, “I think I can see the rest. It was to shield Elia, and, shielding him, to save me from pain and the disgrace which he knew I was too cowardly to face. He did it as he did that other thing, when he set out to carry a warning to Will, simply to help me, and save me from my troubles. Oh, doctor, haven’t you heard and seen sufficient? Must you stand here demanding all the inmost secrets and motives of two people’s lives? Let us go. Let Jim go. I have yet to bury my dead.”

The woman suddenly turned to Peter and buried her face against his rough flannel shirt, while the long-pent tears at last broke forth, and her body shook with sobs. Peter put his arm about her shoulders and patted her gently with his great rough hand.

“This thing is played right out, Doc,” he said. “You’ve got the facts. Let them be sufficient.” He turned to the boys, and his great kindly face was lit with something like a derisive smile. “Do you want a hanging, lads?” he asked them. “Because, out of all this racket, it seems to me there’s only one needs the rope, an’ that’s Smallbones.”

He needed no other answer than the harsh laugh which greeted his words. He had done it purposely. He meant to clip Smallbones’ wings for him, and, at the same time, put an end to the scene for Eve and his friend.

His success was ample. Doc Crombie walked straight up to Jim Thorpe and held out his hand.

“I’m sorry for things, Jim,” he said, “but you can’t rightly blame us. Not even Smallbones.”

Jim wrung his hand cordially, but silently. His eyes were still on Eve at Peter’s side. The doctor saw his look and understood.

“Guess I’m gettin’ right back to the city,” he said. “And,” he added, authoritatively, “I guess all you’se folks had best git busy that way, too.” Then he turned sharply and walked over to his buckboard. “Smallbones,” he said, as he mounted to his seat, “you’ll come right along in with me–an’ bring that rope.”