Shawn Of Skarrow Part 9

"Where was you when the lie pa.s.sed?"

"On my way to Doctor Hissong."

"State to the jury what you know about this case."

"Ya.s.sir, genelmun, hit remine me uv de time when Kernel Poindexter an'

Mistah Fontaine had a quarrel ovah a fox-chase down in Baton-Rouge--"

"Confine yourself to the case," said Budlong.

"Ya.s.sir, thankee, Jedge, en Kernel Poindexter he 'low dat his dawg, Watercress wuz in de lead, full yelp at de crossin' 'buv de bayou--"

"I don't care nothin' about that fox-chase," shouted Budlong, "You tell the court what you know about this case."

"Ya.s.sir, I'm tryin' to, Ma.r.s.e Jim--en Mistah Brandon Fontaine, you know, he want one er de ole quality in dat naberhood, he sorter drap in dar, en pick up a lot er money by sorter tradin' en watchin' 'roun' de edges, en a kine uv cotton swapper, en wo' fine duds en' de bigges' watch-chain yo' ever see--"

"Judge, will you pull that old n.i.g.g.e.r back to this case?" said Budlong.

"In due time, sah, in due time," said the police-Judge, who wanted to hear the outcome of Brad's story.

"Ya.s.sir, en Mistah Brandon Fontaine en Kernel Poindexter, dey met in front uv de post-office, en Mistah Brandon Fontaine he smokin' a long, black seegar, en one foot crossed on tuther, en when Kernel Poindexter come up, Mistah Fontaine say, 'Yo' dawg cut thru en got in de lead,' en Kernel Poindexter, he look jes ez cool ez a cabbage-leaf, en he say, 'Hit's a scan'lous lie, frum low trash!' Kernel Poindexter done turned white en his eye wuz all glitter--"

"I told you, for the last time, to tell what you know about this case!"

"Ya.s.sir, easy, Ma.r.s.e Jim. Gimme a chanst. En Mr. Brandon Fontaine kinder thode hi han' behine him, en' Kernel Poindexter crac' erway at him en bust a bottle uv whiskey inside his pocket en dis hyar Mistah Fontaine, he showed de _yaller_ jes' lak Mr. Freeman did yestiddy, en he rin so fas' dat yo' could play checkers on his coat-tail!"

"Stand aside," roared Budlong.

The case went to the jury. That august body retired to deliberate. The stragglers near the window heard hot words and wrangling in the jury-room. In the course of an hour, the door opened and the jury filed in.

"Have you reached a verdict, gentlemen?"

"We have," said the foreman.

"What is it?"

"We don't find no evidence to convict n.o.body."

"So help me, Caesar!" said Budlong.

CHAPTER XVI

John Burney was clearing away the wreck of a coal-barge that had drifted under the lower edge of the wharfboat. The water had fallen, leaving part of the barge on sh.o.r.e. Burney had used every known method in trying to remove the wreckage. Old Pence Oiler came by and walked up to the heavy ma.s.s of timbers and called to Burney, "John, she's too wet to burn, and there ain't but one way to git her off, an' that's to lay a stick of dynamite under the front end, give her a slow fuse and blow her out."

Burney called to Shawn, who was on the bank, and asked him to go down to Bennett's mill and get a stick of dynamite, and Shawn, desirous of seeing the blast, hastened on the errand.

"Be careful how you handle that goods," said Bennett, "I knowed a feller once who left some of it layin' around, and a hog et it, and the man kicked the hog and lost a leg!"

Shawn helped Burney to place the stick, unmindful of one of Coaly's never-failing traits. Shawn had taught him, as a young dog, to carry things from the boat in his mouth, and faithful Coaly could be sent back for his glove or any small article left behind. The little dog stood watching Shawn and Burney as they placed the stick and touched the fire to the fuse.

"Run, Shawn!" yelled Burney.

Old man Oiler backed his boat out into the stream, and Shawn and Burney ran up the sh.o.r.e.

Horror of horrors! When Burney turned to look back toward the wreckage, he saw Coaly coming after them with the dynamite stick in his mouth, the fire slowly creeping up the fuse.

"Go back, Coaly! Go back!" yelled Burney. He threw a boulder at the little dog, but he came on. Burney ran for the willows under the bank as Coaly quickened his pace. Shawn had taken refuge in an old saw-mill and peered out, wringing his hands in an agony of suspense. Burney was breaking down the dry willows and yelling, "Go back, Coaly!"

Suddenly, there was a loud report that shook the earth. The ground was torn up and bark and driftwood were scattered everywhere. Shawn and Burney ran up, but there were no signs of Coaly, not even a trace of bone, hide nor hair. Coaly had returned to the original atoms of atmosphere and nothingness.

Shawn sat upon a log and wept. Pence Oiler came up, cut a piece of tobacco from his plug and said, "There's nothin' to bury--not even a tooth."

CHAPTER XVII

THE STATES AND THE AMERICA

The winter days had come again, and the year was fast drawing to its close. Doctor Hissong had been elected to the Legislature, and was making arrangements to leave for Frankfort the first of January. Shawn was in school, growing into a handsome and athletic young man of eighteen years, with the light of health glowing in his eyes, and with an honest purpose in his heart.

One morning Mrs. Alden sent word to him to call at her home after the school hour. Shawn went up there in the afternoon. The good woman greeted him with a smile and bade him be seated by the library fire.

"Shawn, I have sent for you, purposely, to ask a great favor."

The black eyes beamed the sincere impulse of his heart, as he turned to her and said, "Mrs. Alden, it would make me happy to do something for you."

"I am going to Cincinnati on the boat to-night, Shawn. I am going there to see a great specialist, and I would like very much for you to go with me."

"It will give me pleasure to go," said Shawn.

Shawn met Mrs. Alden's carriage at the wharfboat, and exerted himself to make her as comfortable as possible until the arrival of the up-stream boat. At 8.30 o'clock the wharfmaster came into the little waiting-room and said, "The America will soon be here."

In a short time the great steamer drew up to the wharf, and Shawn, supporting Mrs. Alden's frail form with his strong arms, went up the steps and into the cabin. The chambermaid placed Mrs. Alden's chair in the ladies' cabin, and Shawn went off to select a convenient and comfortable stateroom.

The cabin presented a scene of merriment. Under the gleaming lights were a hundred happy couples, dancing away the gladsome hours. The strains of music swelled and floated far out into the night, and the joyous voices mingled with the changing melodies.

Shawn sat near Mrs. Alden, and together they gazed upon the gay throng and enjoyed the inspiriting music. Far below, in the engine-room, the lights glimmered over the polished machinery. The engineer glanced occasionally at his steam-gauge and water-c.o.c.ks. The negro firemen were singing a plantation melody as they heaved shovels of coal into the glaring furnace under the boilers. Roustabouts and deck-hands were catching short rounds of sleep in their bunks back of the engine-room.

Sitting on either side of the boiler, were "deck pa.s.sengers," those too poor to engage pa.s.sage in the cabin, and here and there, tired children lay asleep across their mothers' knees.

In the pilot-house, Napolean Jenkins, the head pilot, stood with his hand on the spokes of the wheel, gazing with the eyes of a night-bird on the outlines of sh.o.r.e and hill. Mann Turpin, his steersman, stood at the right of the wheel. Jenkins knocked the ashes from his cigar, and the glow from the deep red circle of tobacco fire momentarily radiated the gloom of the pilot-house. The night was serene and clear, the full moon shining and shedding her dreamy light over the sleeping, snow-clad valley, and the silvery rays filtered through the cl.u.s.tering branches of the towering trees. As the great boat swung along past a farm-house, Jenkins heard the shrill, alarming cry of a peac.o.c.k. Strains of music came floating upward from the cabin. The grim, black smoke-stacks were breathing heavily, and the timbers of the Texas trembled as the boat came up under the high pressure of steam.

The lights of Wansaw were just around the bend. Jenkins blew a long blast for the little town. The sound echoed and re-echoed among the wooded hills. The farmer in his bed on the silent sh.o.r.e turned on his pillow as the deep, sonorous sound fell upon his ear--the sweet, weird music of the stream.