The One-Way Trail Part 50

"We'll stay here too, Doc," he said. "Guess Smallbones'll need help.

You see he isn't much of a man to look after a prisoner. Anyway, Jim Thorpe's a friend of ours."

"Right, Peter, an' you two fellers," cried the relieved doctor. "I ken hear the buckboard I sent over for comin' along. I'll start right out." Then he added pointedly, "I guess I'll leave him in your charge."

The doctor pa.s.sed out and was followed at once by most of Rocket's customers, all eager to investigate the murder for their own morbid satisfaction. And thus only the three friends of Jim Thorpe, with Smallbones and two others, were left with the prisoner.

The moment the doors had swung to behind the last of the departures, Peter Blunt suddenly strode across the room to where Smallbones stood, staring at his intended victim with snapping eyes. So sudden was his approach that the little man was taken quite unawares. He seized him by the collar with one hand, and with the other deprived him of the guns with which he was still armed, as a result of his service on the vigilance committee, and, though he struggled and cursed violently, he carried him bodily to the door and deliberately flung him outside.

"If you attempt to get in here again till Doc returns I'll throw you out just the same again, if I have to do it twenty times," Peter declared. Then he turned back to the men at the bar.

"I feel mean havin' to do it," he said, almost shamefacedly. "Only I guess things'll be more comfortable all round now."

"Thanks, Peter," said Jim simply, holding out his hand.

Peter took it and wrung it.

"You see he wants to--hang you, Jim," he said by way of explanation.

"And he'll do it."

Jim's words came so solemnly that the men beside him were startled.

"But--but you didn't--kill him?" Peter stammered.

Jim shook his head.

"No," he said decidedly. "But--he'll hang me--sure."

"Will he?" cried Peter emphatically. "We'll see."

And the startled look in his eyes was again replaced by the shrewd, kindly expression Jim knew so well.

CHAPTER x.x.xII

THE TRIUMPH OF SMALLBONES

Peter had been talking. Now he paused listening. Jake and Gay turned their eyes toward the swing doors. Silas Rocket, who had availed himself of the respite to wipe a few gla.s.ses, paused in his work. He, too, was listening. But the almost mechanical process of cleaning gla.s.ses was resumed at once. Not even life or death could long interfere with his scheme of money-making. He had seen too much of the forceful side of his customers in his time to let such a thing as a simple murder interfere with his long established routine.

It was Jim who now spoke. He was the calmest of those present, except perhaps Silas Rocket. He appeared to have no fear of the consequences of this affair to himself. Perhaps it was the confidence of innocence.

Perhaps it was the great courage of a brave man for whom death--even a disgraceful death--has no terrors. Perhaps it was the knowledge of what he was saving the woman he loved, which served to inspire him.

His eyes were even smiling as he looked into Peter's.

"They're coming along," he said, with one ear turned toward the door.

Peter nodded.

"It's them, sure," he said.

"I ken hear the buckboard. It's movin' slow," said Gay solemnly.

"Which means they got him," added Jake conclusively.

"We'll have a drink first," said Jim. Then he added whimsically, "Maybe we'll need it."

The silent acceptance of his invitation was due to the significance of their host's position. And afterward the gla.s.ses were set down empty upon the counter, without a word. Then Jim turned to Peter, and his manner was a trifle regretful. But that was all. An invincible purpose shone in his dark eyes.

"They'll be here in a minute, Peter," he said, with a shadowy smile.

"I've got a word to say before they get around. We've been good friends, and now, at the last, I'd hate you to get a wrong notion of things. I call G.o.d to witness that I did not kill Will Henderson. It's because we're friends I tell you this, now. It's because these folk are going to hang me. You can stake your last cent on that being the truth, and if you don't get paid in this world, I sure guess you will in the next. Well--here they are."

As he finished speaking the doors were pushed open and men began to stream in. It was a curiously silent crowd. For these men a death, even a murder, had little awe. They understood too well the forceful methods of the back countries, where the laws of civilization had difficulty in reaching. They had too long governed their own social affairs without appeal to the parent government. What could Washington know of their requirements? What could a judge of the circuit know of the conditions in which they lived? They preferred their own methods, drastic as they were and often wrong in their judgments. Yet, on the whole, they were efficacious and salutary. Life and death were small enough matters to them, but the career of a criminal, and its swift termination, short, sharp and violent, was of paramount importance. It was the thought that they believed there was justice, their own justice, to be dealt out to a criminal that night, that now depressed them to an awed silence.

Three or four men placed several of the small tables together, forming them into a sort of bier. Then they stood by while others pushed their way in through the swing doors. Finally, two men stood just inside, holding the doors open, while two of the ranchmen carried in their ominous, silent burden. Doc Crombie was the last but one to enter. The man who came last was the evil-minded hardware dealer. His eyes were sparkling, and his thin lips were tightly compressed. Now he had an added score to pay off. Nor was he particular to whom he paid it.

The body of the murdered man was laid upon the tables, and Silas Rocket provided a shroud.

Jim Thorpe watched these proceedings with the keenest interest. Never for a moment did he remove his eyes from the dead man, until the dirty white tablecloth had been carelessly thrown over him. He had in his mind many things during those moments. At first he had looked for his own telltale knife. But evidently it had been removed. There was no sign of its hideous projecting handle as he had last seen it. Neither had he noticed any one bearing his blood-stained handkerchiefs. He thought that Doc Crombie had possessed himself of these things, and expected he would produce them at the proper moment.

Somehow he felt a curious regret that Will was dead. It was not a mawkish sentimentality; he made no pretension, even to himself, that the regard that had once been his for Will still existed. But he was sorry. Sorry that the man's road had carried him to such disaster. He remembered Peter's definition of the one-way trail. Will's path had certainly been a hard one, and he had traveled every inch of it with--well, he had traveled it.

Then came the thought, the ironical thought, that after all their paths were not so very wide apart now. They had grown up together, and now, at the end, in spite of everything, death was bringing them very near together again.

But his reflections were cut short by the sharp voice of the doctor.

His authority was once more undisputed. He stood out in the centre of the room, a lean, harsh figure. His eagle face, with its luminous eyes, was full of power, full of a stern purpose.

"Folks," he began, "murder has been done--sheer, b.l.o.o.d.y murder. When fellers gits busy with guns, an' each has his chance, an' one of 'em gits it bad, we call that killing. Fair, square killing, an' I guess we treat it accordin'. But this is low-down murder. We was told it was a stabbing, but I've cast my eyes over the body, an' I seem to see a different story. Judging by what I found, I'd say Will Henderson was. .h.i.t a smashin' blow by something heavy, which must sure 'a' knocked him senseless, an' then the lousy skunk did the rest of his work with a knife. Gents, I allow this murder was the work of a dirty, cowardly, mean-spirited skunk who hadn't the grit to face his enemy decently with a gun, and who doesn't need a heap of mercy when we get him.

That's how I read the case. All of you have seen the body, so I need say no more on this."

Then he turned his keen eyes on Jim Thorpe, who had listened closely.

"You, Jim Thorpe, brought us word of this doing. An' in the interests of justice to his widow, to your feller citizens, your duty's clear.

You got to tell us right here everything you know about Will Henderson's death."

There was an ominous pause when the doctor finished speaking, while all eyes were focused upon Jim's face. There was no doubt but that the majority were looking for signs of that guilt which in their hearts they believed to be his.

But they were doomed to disappointment. They certainly saw a change of expression, for Jim was puzzled. Why had Doc Crombie not produced the knife and the handkerchiefs? But perhaps he wanted his story first, and then would confront him with the evidence against him. Yet his manner was purely judicial. It in no way suggested that he possessed d.a.m.ning evidence.

He looked fearlessly around, and his gaze finally settled upon the doctor's face.

"I'm puzzled, Doc," he said quietly. "There's certainly something I can't make out. I told you all I had to tell," he went on. "I was out on the south side of that bluff, for reasons which I told Anthony Smallbones were my own business, when I found Will Henderson lying dead in the gra.s.s, a few feet from some bushes. I did not at first realize he was dead. I saw the wound on his jaw, and, touching it, discovered the bone was broken. Then I discovered that his clothes were torn open, his chest bare, and a large knife, such as any prairie man carries in his belt, was sticking in his chest, plunged right up to the hilt." There was a stir, and a murmur of astonishment went round the room. "Wait a moment," he continued, holding up his hand for silence. "I discovered more than that. I found two handkerchiefs, a white one, ripped into a rough bandage, and a silk neck scarf, such as many of us wear, was folded up into a sort of pad.

Both were blood-stained, and looked as though they had been used as bandages for his face. They were lying a yard away from the body. Have you got those things, because, if so, they ought to be a handsome clue for sure?"

But by the expression of blank astonishment, even incredulity on the doctor's face, and a similar response from most of the onlookers, it was obvious that this was all news to them.

Doc shook his head.