Gabriel Tolliver Part 44

Thus, long before he became impatient enough to walk the streets, or seek consolation on the court-house steps, which he called his liquor-post, Mr. Sanders had made all the arrangements necessary to the success of his scheme. He had sent a suit of clothes to a friend in Malvern, he had shipped three bales of cotton to the firm of Vardeman & Stark, who had been informed of the use to which Mr. Sanders desired to put it; he had hired an ox-cart, and made a covered waggon of it; and the yoke of oxen he proposed to use had been driven through the country and were now at Malvern.

In short, no matter how deeply Mr. Sanders might ponder over the matter, there was nothing he could think of to add to the details of the arrangement that he had already made.

One morning, while Nan, who was on her way to borrow a book from Eugenia Claiborne, was leaning on the court-house fence talking to Mr. Sanders, Tasma Tid cried out, "Yonner dee come! yonner dee come!" The African, who had heard the rumour that the Yankees were after Mr. Sanders, concluded that this was the advance guard, and she therefore sounded the alarm. But only a solitary rider was in sight, and he was coming as fast as a tired horse could fetch him. By the time this rider had reached the public square, Mr. Sanders had mounted the Racking Roan, and was awaiting him. The rider was no other than Colonel Blasengame, who had insisted on bringing the message himself.

He was the bearer of a telegram addressed to Major Perdue. "Consignment will be shipped to-morrow night. Reach Malvern next morning. Invoice by mail." This was signed by the firm of factors with whom Meriwether Clopton had had dealings for many years. It was the form of announcement that had been agreed on, and to Mr. Sanders the message read, "The prisoners will go to Atlanta to-morrow night, and they will reach Malvern the next morning. This information can be relied on."

"It's a joy to see you, Colonel," cried Mr. Sanders. "One more day of waitin' would 'a' pulled the rivets out. You know Miss Nan Dorrington, don't you, Colonel Blasengame? I lay you used to dandle her on your knee when she was a baby."

The Colonel bowed lower to Nan than if she had been a queen. "You are not to go to the tavern," remarked Mr. Sanders. "Meriwether Clopton wants the messenger to go straight to his house, an' he'll be all the gladder bekaze it's you. Gus Tidwell will drive you home in his buggy in the cool of the evenin', an' you can leave your hoss at Clopton's for a day or two. Ef you see Tidwell, Nan, please tell him that the Colonel is at Clopton's. I reckon you'll be willin' to buss me, honey, the next time you see me."

"If you have earned it, Mr. Sanders," said Nan, trying to smile.

Thereupon, Mr. Sanders waved his hand miscellaneously, as he would have described it, and moved away at a clipping gait, stirring up quite a cloud of dust as he went. He reached Halcyondale, and at once sought out Major Tomlin Perdue, and found that a telegram had already been sent to Captain Buck Sanford, whose prompt reply over the wire had been. "All skue vee," which was as satisfactory as any other form of reply would have been--more so, perhaps, for it showed that the Captain was in high good-humour.

Mr. Tidwell and Colonel Blasengame arrived in time to eat a late supper, and the next morning found them all ready to take the train for Malvern. Major Perdue and Mr. Sanders were in high feather. Somehow their spirits always rose when a doubtful issue was to be faced. On the other hand, Colonel Blasengame and Mr. Tidwell were somewhat thoughtful--the Colonel because he had an idea that they were trying to "crowd him into a back seat," as he expressed it, and Mr. Tidwell because it had occurred to him that his presence might tend to jeopardise the case of his son. They were not gloomy; on the contrary they were cheerful; but their spirits failed to run as high as those of Mr. Sanders and Major Perdue, who were engaged all the way to Malvern in relating anecdotes and narrating humourous stories. It seemed that everything either one of them said reminded the other of a story or a humourous incident, and they kept the car in a roar until Malvern was reached.

Mr. Sanders did not go at once to the hotel, but turned his attention to the various details which he had arranged for. Mr. Tidwell went to the hotel opposite the railway station, while Major Perdue and Colonel Blasengame, for obvious reasons, went to the rival hotel. There they found Captain Buck Sanford lounging about with a Winchester rifle slung across his shoulder. A great many people were interested when this pale and weary-looking little man appeared in public with a gun in his hands, and he was compelled to answer many questions in regard to the event. To all he made the same reply, namely, that he had been out practising at a target.

"I'm getting so I can't miss," he said to Major Perdue. "I wasted twenty-four cartridges trying to miss the bull's eye, but I couldn't do it. I don't know what to make of it," he complained. "There must be something wrong with me. That kind of shooting don't look reasonable.

I'm afraid something is going to happen to me. It may be a sign that I'm going to fall over a cellar-door and break my neck, or tumble downstairs and injure my spine."

Then he left his gun with a clerk in the hotel, and, taking Major Perdue by the arm, went into a corner and discussed the scheme which Mr.

Sanders had mapped out. They were joined presently by Colonel Blasengame; and as they sat there, whispering together, and making many emphatic gestures, they were the centre of observation, and word went around that some personal difficulty, in which these noted men were to act together, was imminent.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

_Malvern Has a Holiday_

Very early the next morning Malvern aroused itself to the fact that the firemen and the police, and a very large crowd of the rag, tag and bobtail that hangs on the edge of all holiday occasions, were out for a frolic. A band was playing, and the old-fashioned apparatus with which fire departments were provided in that day and time, was showing the amazed and amused crowd how to put out an imaginary conflagration. And it succeeded, too. Worked as it was by hand-power, it sent a famously strong stream into the very midst of the imaginary conflagration; and when the fire raged no longer, the gallant firemen turned the stream on the rag, tag and bobtail, and such screams and such a scattering as ensued has no parallel in the history of Malvern, which is a long and varied one.

But what did it all mean? It was some kind of a celebration, of course, but why then did the _Malvern Recorder_, one of the most enterprising newspapers in the State, as its editors and proprietors were willing to admit, why, then, did the _Recorder_ fail to have an appropriate announcement of an event so interesting and important? Was our public press, the palladium of our liberties, losing its prestige and influence? Certainly it seemed so, when such an affair as this could be devised and carried out without an adequate announcement in the organ of public opinion.

After awhile there was a lull in the display. The Chief, who was stationed near the depot, received authoritative information that the train from Savannah was approaching. He waved his trumpet, and the firemen formed themselves into a procession, and pa.s.sed twice in review before their Chief, and then halted, with their hose reels, and their hook and ladder waggons almost completely blocking up the entrance to the station. The crowd had followed them, but the police managed to keep the street clear, so that vehicles might effect a pa.s.sage.

It was well that the officers of the law had been thus thoughtful in the matter, otherwise a countryman who chanced to be coming along just then would have found it difficult to drive his team even half way through the jam. He was a typical Georgia farmer in his appearance. He wore a wide straw hat to preserve his complexion, a homespun shirt and jeans trousers, the latter being held in place by a dirty pair of home-made suspenders. He drove what is called a spike-team, two oxen at the wheels, and a mule in the lead. The day was warm, but he was warmer. The crowd had flurried him, and he was perspiring more profusely than usual.

He was also inclined to use heated language, as those nearest him had no difficulty in discovering. In fact, he was willing to make a speech, as the crowd into which he was wedging his team grew denser and denser. It was observed that when the crowd really impeded the movements of his team, he had a way of touching the mule in the flank with the long whip he carried. This was invariably the signal for such gyrations on the part of the mule as were calculated to make the spectators pay due respect to the animal's heels.

"I don't see," said the countryman, "why you fellers don't get out some'rs an' go to work. They's enough men in this crowd to make a crop big enough to feed a whole county, ef they'd git out in the field an'

buckle down to it stidder loafin' roun' watchin' 'em spurt water at nothin'. It's a dad-blamed shame that the courts don't take a han' in the matter. Ef you lived in my county, you'd have to work or go to the poor-house. Whoa, Beck! Gee, Buck! Why don't you gee, contrive your hide!"

At a touch from the whip, the rearing, plunging, and kicking of the mule were renewed, and the team managed to fight its way to a point opposite where the chief officials of the Police and Fire Department were standing. The waggon to which the team was attached was a ramshackle affair apparently, but was strong enough, nevertheless, to sustain the weight of three bales of cotton, one of the bales being somewhat larger than the others.

"My friend," said the Chief of Police, elevating his voice so that the countryman could hear him distinctly, "this is not a warehouse. If you want to sell your cotton, carry it around the corner yonder, and there you'll find the warehouse of Vardeman & Stark."

"If I want to sell my cotton? Well, you don't reckon I want to give it away, do you? Way over yander in the fur eend of town, they told me that the cotton warehouse was down here some'rs, an' that it was made of brick. This shebang is down yander, an' it's made of brick. How fur is t'other place?"

"Right around the corner," said one in the crowd.

"Humph--yes; that's the way wi' ever'thing in this blamed town; it's uther down yander, or right around the corner. But ef it was right here, how could I git to it? Deliver me from places whar they celebrate Christmas in the hottest part of June! Ef I ever git out'n the town you'll never ketch me here ag'in--I'll promise you that."

"Oh, Mister, please don't say that!" wailed some humourist in the crowd.

"There's hundreds of us that couldn't live without you."

"Oh, is that you?" cried the countryman. "Tell your sister Molly that I'll be down as soon as I sell my cotton." This set the crowd in a roar, for though the humourist had no sister Molly, the retort was accepted as a very neat method of putting an end to impertinence.

Inside the station another scene was in the full swing of action.

Certain well-known citizens of Halcyondale had been pacing up and down the planked floor of the station apparently awaiting with some impatience for the moment to come when the train for Atlanta would be ready to leave. But the train itself seemed to be in no particular hurry. The locomotive was not panting and snorting with suppressed energy, as the moguls do in our day, but stood in its place with the blue smoke curling peacefully from its black chimney. Presently an access of energy among the employees of the station gave notice to those who were familiar with their movements that the train from Savannah was crossing the "Y."

Mr. Tidwell, of Shady Dale, who was also among those who were apparently anxious to take the train for Atlanta, ceased his restless walking, and stood leaning against one of the brick pillars supporting the rear end of the structure. Major Tomlin Perdue, on the other hand, leaned confidently on the counter of the little restaurant, where a weary traveller could get a cup of hasty and very nasty coffee for a dime. The Major was acquainted with the vendor of these luxuries, and he informed the man confidentially that he was simply waiting a fair opportunity to put a few lead plugs into the carca.s.s of the person at the far end of the station, who was no other than Mr. Tidwell.

"Is that so?" asked the clerk breathlessly. "Well, I don't mind telling you that he has been having some of the same kind of talk about you, and you'd better keep your eye on him. They say he's 'most as handy with his pistol as Buck Sanford."

Slowly the Savannah train backed in, and slowly and carelessly Major Perdue sauntered along the raised floor. They had decided that the prisoners would most likely be in the second-cla.s.s coach, and they purposed to make that coach the scene of their sham duel. It was a very delicate matter to decide just when to begin operations. A moment too soon or too late would be decisive. When this point was referred to Mr.

Sanders, he settled it at once. "What's your mouth for, Gus? Shoot wi'

that tell the time comes to use your gun. And the Major has got about as much mouth as you. Talk over the rough places, an' talk loud. Don't whisper; rip out a few d.a.m.ns an' then cut your caper. This is about the only chance you'll have to cuss the Major out wi'out gittin' hurt. I wisht I was in your shoes; I'd rake him up one side an' down the other.

You can stand to be cussed out in a good cause, I reckon, Major."

"Yes--oh, yes! It'll make my flesh crawl, but I'll stand it like a baby."

"Don't narry one on you try to be too polite," said Mr. Sanders, and this was his parting injunction.

The two men were the length of the car apart when the Savannah train came to a standstill. "Perdue! they tell me that you have been hunting for me all over the city," said Mr. Tidwell. He was a trained speaker, and his voice had great carrying power. The firemen of both trains heard it distinctly, caught the note of pa.s.sion in it and looked curiously out of their cabs.

"Yes, I've been hunting you, and now that I've found you you'll not get away until you apologise to me for the language you have used about me,"

cried Major Perdue. He was not as loud a talker as Mr. Tidwell, but his voice penetrated to every part of the building.

"What I've said I'll stand to," declared Mr. Tidwell, "and if you think I have been trying to keep out of your way, you will find out differently, you bl.u.s.tering blackguard!" (The Major insisted afterward that Tidwell took advantage of the occasion to give his real views.)

"Are you ready, you cowardly h.e.l.lian?" cried the Major, apparently in a rage.

"As ready as you will ever be," replied Tidwell hotly. He was the better actor of the two.

And then just as the prisoners were coming out of the coach--as soon as Gabriel, lean and haggard, had reached the floor of the station, Major Perdue whipped out his pistol and a shot rang out, clear and distinct, and it was immediately reproduced from the further end of the car by Mr.

Tidwell, and then the shooting became a regular fusillade. There was a wild scattering on the part of the crowd a.s.sembled in the station, a scuffling, scurrying panic, and in the midst of it all Gabriel ducked his head, and made a rush with the rest. He had been handcuffed, but his wrist was nearly as large as his hand, and he had found early in his experience with these bracelets that by placing his thumb in the palm of his hand, he would have no difficulty in freeing himself from the irons.

This he had accomplished without much trouble, as soon as he started out of the car, and when he ducked his head and ran, he had nothing to impede his movements.

And Gabriel was always swift of foot, as Cephas will tell you. On the present occasion, he brought all his strength, and energy, and will to bear on his efforts to escape. Running half-bent, he was afraid the crowd which he saw all about him, pushing and shoving, and apparently making frantic efforts to escape, would give him some trouble. But strangely enough, this struggling crowd seemed to help him along. He saw men all around him with uniforms on, and wearing queerly shaped hats.

They opened a way before him and closed in behind him. He heard a sharp cry, "Prisoner escaped!" and he heard the energetic commands of the officer in charge, but still the crowd opened a way in front of him, and closed up behind him. This pathway, formed of struggling firemen, led Gabriel away from the main entrance, and conducted him to the side, where there was an opening between the pillars. Not twenty feet away was the countryman with his queer-looking team. He was still complaining of the way he had been taken in by the town fellers who had told him that the station was a cotton warehouse.

Gabriel recognised the voice and ran toward it, jumped into the waggon, and crawled under the cover. "Now here--now here!" cried the countryman, "you kin rob me of my money, an' make a fool out'n me about your cotton warehouses, but be jigged ef I'll let you take my waggin an' team. I dunner what you're up to, but you'll have to git out'n my waggin." With that he stripped the cover from the top, and, lo! there was no one there!

He turned to the astonished crowd with open mouth. "Wher' in the nation did he go?" he cried. There was no answer to this, for the spectators were as much astonished as Mr. Sanders professed to be. The man who had crawled under the waggon-cover had disappeared.

He turned to the astonished crowd with a face on which amazement was depicted, crying out, "Now, you see, gentlemen, what honest men have to endyore when they come to your blame town. Whoever he is, an' wharsoever he may be, that chap ain't up to no good." Then he looked under the waggon and between the bales of cotton, and, finally, took the cover and shook it out, as if it might be possible for one of the "slick city fellers" to hide in any impossible place.