The Bishop of Cottontown Part 18

"But now, suppose," said the old man, "I'd tell you about somethin'

you had never seed--that, for instance, sence you've been an outcast from society an' a livin' in this cave, I've seed men talk to each other a hundred miles apart, with nothin' but a wire betwix' 'em."

"That's mighty hard to believe," said the outlaw grimly.

"But I've seed it done," said the Bishop.

"Do you mean it?" asked the other.

"As I live, I have," said the Bishop.

"Then it's so," said Jack.

"Now that's faith, Jack--an' common sense, too. We know what'll be the earthly end of the liar, an' the thief, an' the murderer, an' him that's impure--because we see 'em come to thar end all the time. It don't lie when it tells you the good are happy, an' the hones' are elevated an' the mem'ry of the just shall not perish, because them things we see come so. Now, if after tellin' you all that, that's true, it axes you to believe when it says there is another life--a spiritual life, which we can't conceive of, an' there we shall live forever, can't you believe that, too, sence it ain't never lied about what you can see, by your own senses? Why ever' star that shines, an'

ever' beam of sunlight fallin' on the earth, an' ever' beat of yo'

own heart by some force that we know not of, all of them is mo'

wonderful than the telegraph, an' the livin' agin of the spirit ain't any mo' wonderful than the law that holds the stars in their places.

You'll see little Jack agin as sho' as G.o.d lives an' holds the worl'

in His hand."

The outlaw sat mute and motionless, and a great light of joy swept over his face.

"By G.o.d's help I'll do it"--and he bowed his head in prayer--the first he had uttered since he was a boy.

It was wonderful to see the happy and reconciled change when he arose and tenderly lifted the dead child in his arms. His face was transformed with a peace the old man had never seen before in any human being.

Strong men are always strong--in crime--in sin. When they reform it is the reformation of strength. Such a change came over Jack Bracken, the outlaw.

He carried his dead child to the next room: "I've got his grave already chiseled out of the rocks. I'll bury him here--right under the columns he called Mary and little Jesus, that he loved to talk of so much."

"It's fitten"--said the old man tenderly--"it's fitten an' beautiful.

The fust burial we know of in the Bible is where Abraham bought the cave of Machpelah for to bury Sarah, his wife. And as Abraham bought it of Ephron, the Hitt.i.te, and offered it to Abraham for to bury his dead out of his sight, so I give this cave to you, Jack Bracken, forever to be the restin' place of little Jack."

And so, tenderly and with many kisses did they bury little Jack, sinless and innocent, deep in the pure white rock, covered as he was with purity and looking ever upwards toward the statue above, wherein Nature's chisel had carved out a Madonna and her child.

CHAPTER XII

JACK BRACKEN

Jack Bracken was comfortably fixed in his underground home. There was every comfort for living. It was warm in winter and cool in summer, and in another apartment adjoining his living room was what he called a kitchen in which a spring of pure water, trickling down from rock to rock, formed in a natural basin of whitest rock below.

"Jack," said the old man, "won't you tell me about yo'self an' how you ever got down to this? I knowed you as a boy, up to the time you went into the army, an' if I do say it to yo' face, you were a brave hon'rble boy that never forgot a frien' nor--"

"A foe," put in Jack quickly. "Bishop, if I cu'd only forgive my foes--that's been the ruin of me."

The old man was thoughtful a while: "Jack, that's a terrible thing in the human heart--unforgiveness. It's to life what a drought is to Nature--an' it spiles mo' people than any other weakness. But that don't make yo' no wuss than the rest of us, nor does robbery nor even murder. So there's a chance for you yet, Jack--a mighty fine chance, too, sence yo' heart is changed."

"Many a time, Jack, many a time when the paper 'ud be full of yo'

holdin' up a train or shootin' a shar'ff, or robbin' or killin', I'd tell 'em what a good boy you had been, brave an' game but revengeful when aroused. I'd tell 'em how you dared the bullets of our own men, after the battle of Shiloh, to cut down an' carry off a measley little Yankee they'd hung up as a spy 'cause he had onct saved yo'

father's life. You shot two of our boys then, Jack."

"They was a shootin' me, too," he said quietly. "I caught two bullets savin' that Yankee. But he was no spy; he was caught in a Yankee uniform an'--an' he saved my father, as you said--that settled it with me."

"It turned our boys agin you, Jack."

"Yes, an' the Yankees were agin me already--that made all the worl'

agin me, an' it's been agin me ever since--they made me an outlaw."

The old man softened: "How was it, Jack? I knowed you was driven to it."

"They shot my father--waylaid and killed him--some home-made Yankee bush-whackers that infested these hills--as you know."

The Bishop nodded. "I know--I know--it was awful. 'But vengeance is mine--I will repay'--saith the Lord."

"Well, I was young, an' my father--you know how I loved him. Befo' I c'ud get home they had burned our house, killed my sick mother from exposure and insulted my sisters."

"Jack," said the old man hotly--"a home-made Yankee is a 'bomination to the Lord. He's a twin brother to the Copperhead up north."

"My little brother--they might have spared him," went on the outlaw--"they might have spared him. He tried to defen' his mother an' sisters an' they shot him down in col' blood."

"'Vengeance is mine,' saith the Lord," replied the old man sadly.

"Well, I acted as His agent that time,"--his eyes were hot with a bright glitter. "I put on their uniform an' went after 'em. I j'ined 'em--the devils! An' they had a n.i.g.g.e.r sarjent an' ten of their twenty-seven was n.i.g.g.e.rs, wearin' a Yankee uniform. I j'ined 'em--yes,--for wasn't I the agent of the Lord?" He laughed bitterly.

"An' didn't He say: 'He that killeth with the sword must be killed with the sword.' One by one they come up missin', till I had killed all but seven. These got panicky--followed by an unknown doom an'

they c'udn't see it, for it come like a thief at midnight an' agin like a pesterlence it wasted 'em at noonday. They separated--they tried to fly--they hid--but I followed 'em 'an I got all but one. He fled to California."

"It was awful, Jack--awful--G.o.d he'p you."

"Then a price was put on my head. I was Jack Bracken, the spy and the outlaw. I was not to be captured, but shot and hung. Then I cut down that Yankee an' you all turned agin me. I was hunted and hounded. I shot--they shot. I killed an' they tried to. I was shot down three times. I've got bullets in me now.

"After the war I tried to surrender. I wanted to quit and live a decent life. But no, they put a bigger price on my head. I came home like other soldiers an' went to tillin' my farm. They ran me away--they hunted an' hounded me. Civilization turned ag'in me.

Society was my foe. I was up ag'in the fust law of Nature. It is the law of the survival--the wild beast that, cowered, fights for his life. Society turned on me--I turned on Society."

"But there was one thing that happen'd that put the steel in me wuss than all. All through them times was one star I loved and hoped for.

I was to marry her when the war closed. She an' her sister--the pretty one--they lived up yander on the mountain side. The pretty one died. But when I lost faith in Margaret Adams, I lost it in mankind.

I'd ruther a seen her dead. It staggered me--killed the soul in me--to think that an angel like her could fall an' be false."

"I don't blame you," said the old man. "I've never understood it yet."

"I was to marry Margaret. I love her yet," he added simply. "When I found she was false I went out--and--well, you know the rest."

He took a turn around the room, picked up one of little Jack's shoes, and cried over it.

"So I married his mother--little Jack's mother, a mountain la.s.s that hid me and befriended me. She died when the boy was born. His granny kep' him while I was on my raids--n.o.body knowed it was my son. His granny died two years ago. This has been our home ever sence, an' not once, sence little Jack has been with me, have I done a wrong deed.

Often an' often we've slipt up to hear you preach--what you've said went home to me."