Viola Gwyn Part 48

"Don't waste any sympathy on me," she retorted, coldly. "I don't want it. Not from Robert Gwynne's son at any rate."

He was now looking at her steadily. "I see. You don't care for the breed, is that it?"

"Kenny," she began, a solemn note in her voice, "there is no reason why you and I should hurt each other. If I hurt you just now I am sorry. But I meant what I said. I do not want the pity of Robert Gwynne's son any more than you want to be pitied by the daughter of Rachel Carter. We stand on even terms. I just want you to know that my heart is as stout as yours and that my pride is as strong."

He bowed his head. "All my life I have thought of my father as a Samson who was betrayed by a Delilah. I have never allowed myself to think of him as anything but great and strong and good. I grew to man's estate still believing him to be the victim of an evil woman. I am not in the ordinary sense a fool and yet I have been utterly without the power to reason. My eyes have been opened, Viola. I am seeing with a new vision. I have more to overlook, more to forgive in my father than you have in your mother. I speak plainly, because I hope this is to be the last time we ever touch upon the subject. You, at least, have grown up to know the enduring love of a mother. She did not leave you behind. She was not altogether heartless. That is all I can say, all I shall ever say, even to you, about my father."

He spoke with such deep feeling and yet so simply that her heart was touched. A wistful look came into her eyes.

"I am still bewildered by it all, Kenny," she said. "In the wink of an eye, everything is altered. I am not Viola Gwyn. I am Minda Carter. I am not your half-sister. You seem suddenly to have gone very far away from me. It hurts me to feel that we can never be the same toward each other that we were even this morning. I had come to care for you as a brother. Now you are a stranger. I--I loved being your sister and--and treating you as if you were my brother.

Now all that is over." She sighed deeply.

"Yes," he said gently, "all that is over for you, Viola. But I have known for many weeks that you are not my sister."

"I bear no grudge against you," she said, meeting his gaze steadily.

"My heart is bitter toward the man I have always looked upon as my father. But it does not contain one drop of bitterness toward you.

What matters if I have walked in darkness and you in the light?

We were treading the same path all the time. Now we meet and know each other for what we really are. The path is not wide enough for us to walk beside each other without our garments touching. Are we to turn back and walk the other way so that our unclean garments may not touch?"

"For heaven's sake, Viola," he cried in pain, "what can have put such a thought into your head? Have I ever said or done anything to cause you to think I--"

"You must not forget that you can walk by yourself, Kenny. Your father is dead. The world is kind enough to let the dead rest in peace. But it gives no quarter to the living. My mother walks with me, Kenneth Gwynne. The world, when it knows, will throw stones at her. That means it will have to throw stones at me. She did not abandon me. I shall not abandon her. She sinned,"--here her lip trembled,--"and she has been left to pay the penalty alone. It may sound strange to you, but my mother was also deserted by your father. G.o.d let him die, but I can't help feeling that it wasn't fair, it wasn't right for him to die and leave her to face this all alone."

"And you want to know where I stand in the matter?"

"It makes no difference, Kenny. I only want you to understand. I don't want to lose you as a friend,--I would like to have you stand up and take your share of the--"

"And that is just what I intend to do," he broke in. "We occupy strange positions, Viola. We are,--shall I say birds of a feather?

This had to come. Now that it has come and you know all that I know, are we to turn against each other because of what happened when we were babies? We have done no wrong. I love you, Viola,--I began loving you before I found out you were not my half-sister.

I will love you all my life. Now you know where I stand."

She looked straight into his eyes for a long time; in her own there was something that seemed to search his soul, something of wonder, something groping and intense as if her own soul was asking a grave, perplexing question. A faint, slow surge of colour stole into her face. "I must go in the house now," she said, a queer little flutter in her voice. "After dinner I am going down with mother to see Moll Hawk. If--if you mean all that you have just said, Kenny, why did you refuse to shake hands with me?"

He withdrew his bruised right hand from its hiding-place. "It is an ugly thing to look at but I am proud of it," he said. "I would give it for you a thousand times over."

"Oh, I'm--I'm sorry I misjudged you--" she cried out. Then both of her hands closed on the unsightly member and pressed it gently, tenderly. There was that in the touch of her firm, strong fingers that sent an ecstatic shock racing into every fibre in his body.

"I will never question that hand again, Kenny," she said, and then, releasing it, she turned and walked rapidly away.

He stood watching her until she ran nimbly up the porch steps and disappeared inside the house. Whereupon he lifted the swollen but now blessed knuckles to his lips and sighed profoundly.

"Something tells me she still loves Barry, in spite of everything,"

he muttered, suddenly immersed in gloom. "Women stick through thick and thin. If they once love a man they never--"

"Dinner's ready, Ma.r.s.e Kenneth," announced Zachariah from the door-step.

CHAPTER XXVI

THE FLIGHT OF MARTIN HAWK

Now, Martin Hawk was not a patient man. He waited till mid-afternoon for some word from Barry Lapelle in response to his message, and, receiving none,--(for the very good reason that it was never delivered),--fell to blaspheming mightily, and before he was through with it revealed enough to bring about an ultimate though fruitless search for the departed "go-between."

He was, however, careful to omit any mention of the _Paul Revere's_ captain, remembering just in time that hardy riverman's promise to blow his brains out if he even so much as breathed his name in connection with certain nefarious transactions,--and something told him that Cephas Redberry would put a short, sharp stop to any breathing at all on his part the instant he laid eyes on him.

He was not afraid of Barry Lapelle but he was in deadly terror of Redberry. The more he thought of Ceph being landed in the same jail with him, the longer the goose feathers grew on his shrinking spine. So he left the Captain out of it altogether,--indeed, he gave him a perfectly clean bill of health.

Along about dusk that evening a crowd began to collect in the neighbourhood of the jail. Martin, peering from behind a barred window, was not long in grasping the significance of this ominous gathering. He was the only inmate of the "calaboose"; therefore, he was in no doubt as to the ident.i.ty of the person to whom so many different terms of opprobrium were being applied by certain loud-voiced citizens in the crowd. He also gathered from remarks coming up to the window that the person referred to stood in grave danger of being "skinned alive," "swung to a limb," "horsewhipped till he can't stand," "rode on a rail," "ham-strung," "drownded,"

"hung up by the thumbs," "dogged out o' town," "peppered with bird-shot," "filled with buckshot," and numerous other unpleasant alternatives, no one of which was conducive to the peace of mind.

As the evening wore on, Martin became more and more convinced that his life wasn't worth a pinch of salt, and so began to pray loudly and l.u.s.tily. The crowd had increased to alarming proportions. In the light of torches and bonfires he recognized men from far-off Grand Prairie, up to the northwest of town. Wagons rumbled past the jail and court house and were lost in the darkness of the streets beyond. He was astonished to see that most of these vehicles contained women and children, and many of them were loaded high with household goods. This, thought Martin, was the apex of attention.

People were coming from the four corners of the world to witness his execution! Evidently it was to be an affair that every householder thought his women-folk and the children ought to see. Some men might have been gratified by all this interest, but not Martin. He began to increase the fervor of his prayers by inserting, here and there, hair-raising oaths,--not bravely or with the courage of the defiant, but because all other words failed him in his extremity.

He had no means of knowing, of course, that he was dividing the honours, so to speak, with another and far more imposing rascal,--the terrible Black Hawk. How was he to know, locked up in jail, that all evening long panic-stricken people from the distant and thinly-settled prairies were piling into town because of the report that bands of Black Hawk's warriors had been seen by reputable settlers along the upper edge of the Prairie?

Like reports had been filtering into town for several days, but not much credence had been given them. Indian scares were not uncommon, and for the most part people had scoffed at them. But now there was an actual threat from the powerful Black Hawk, whose headquarters were up along the Rock River, in the northern part of Illinois.

The chieftain had at last thrown down the gauntlet; he had refused to recognize the transfer of lands and rights as laid down by the Government, and had openly announced his intention to fight. Already troops from the forts were on the move, and there was talk of the State militia being called out. Some of the leading spirits in Lafayette had been moved to organize a local company.

Naturally, Martin Hawk knew nothing of all this. He knew, through Simon Braley, that Indian troubles were bound to come, but how was he to know that red-skins in warpaint had been seen on the Grand Prairie, or that he was not the only subject of conversation? All he knew was that if the Lord didn't take a hand pretty soon he would be--Well, it was useless to fix his mind on any particular form of destruction, so many and so varied were the kinds being disputatiously considered by the people in the street.

Suddenly the sound of fife and drum smote upon his ear, coming from somewhere up the street. He huddled down in a corner and began to moan. He knew the meaning of that signal-call. They were organizing for a rush upon the jail,--an irresistible, overwhelming charge that would sweep all opposition before it. Then he heard the shuffling of many feet, loud exclamations and an occasional cheer. Finally he screwed up the courage for another cautious peep through the bars. The crowd was moving off up the street. A small group remained undecided near a bonfire in the court house yard. One of these men held a long rope in his hand, and seemed argumentative.

Martin listened with all ears, trying to catch what was being said. What an infernal noise that fife and drum were making! At last the little knot of men moved away from the fire, coming toward the window. Martin, being a wary rascal, promptly ducked his head, but kept his ears open.

"It's a trick, that's what it is," he heard some one growl. "A trick to get us away from the jail. They know we'll get him, sure as G.o.d made little apples, so they've fixed this up to--"

"Well, what if it is a trick?" broke in another. "It ain't going to work. The crowd'll be back here again inside of ten minutes an'

all the sheriffs an' constables in the State can't stop us from taking him out an' stringin' him up."

"We might as well go and see what's up," said another. "I guess he's where he'll keep. He'll be here when we come back, Bill. He can't get out till we open the door, so what's the use cussin' about ten or fifteen minutes' delay? Come on! I don't take any stock in this talk about Indians, but, great snakes, if they want to get up a company to go out and--"

The rest of the remark was lost to Martin when the group turned the corner of the jail.

"Ten or fifteen minutes," he groaned. In ten or fifteen minutes the whole town would be out there, breaking down the door--the work of a few seconds. He remembered hearing people laugh and joke about the new jail. No less a person than Cap' Redberry had said, after a casual inspection of the calaboose, that if THAT was what they called a jail he'd hate to be inside of it if a woodp.e.c.k.e.r started to peckin' at it, 'cause if such a thing happened the whole blamed she-bang would cave in and like as not hurt him considerable. And Cap' was not the only one who spoke derisively of the new jail. Ed Bloker declared he had quit walkin' past it on his way home from the grocery because he was in mortal terror of staggerin' up against it and knockin' it all to smash. Of course, Martin knew that it was not as bad as all that, but, even so, it could not hold out for more than a minute if some one began pounding at the door with a sledge-hammer.

There were two rooms, or compartments, to the jail; a little ante-room and the twelve-by-sixteen foot "cage," of which he was the sole occupant. A single cornhusk mattress had been put in for him that afternoon. He never seemed quite able to fix its position in his mind, a circ.u.mstance that caused him to stumble over it time and again as he tramped restlessly about the place in the darkness.

Suddenly he stopped as if shot. A tremendous idea struck him, and for a moment his head spun dizzily. If it was so blamed easy to break into the jail, why should it be so all-fired difficult to break out of it? Why, he hadn't even tried the door, or the bars in the window; now that he thought of it, the grate in the south window had appeared to be a little shaky. Inspired by a wild, alluring hope, he sprang over to the window and gripped the thin iron bars; with all his might and main he jerked, bracing his feet against the wall. No use! It would come just so far and no farther.

He tried the other window, with even less encouraging results. In eight or ten minutes now, the crowd would be,--he leaped to the barred door. It, too, resisted his crazy strength. The huge padlock on the other side clattered tauntingly against the grating, but that was all. All the while he was grunting and whining: "If I ever get out of this, it'll take a streak o' greased lightnin' to ketch me.

Oh, Lordy! That drum's gettin' closer! They're comin'! If I ever get out of this, n.o.body'll ever see me closer'n a hundred mile o' this here town,--never as long as I live. Gimme a half hour's start an'--Jehosophat!"

He had shoved a trembling hand between the bars and was fumbling with the padlock. His e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n was due to a most incredible discovery. Some one had forgotten to take the key out of the padlock!

He laughed shrilly, witlessly. Twenty seconds later he was out in the little anteroom or vestibule, panting and still chortling. The outer door opened readily to the lifting of the latch. He peeped out cautiously, warily. The square was deserted save for a few men hurrying along the street toward the drill ground up beyond Horton's tanyard,--where the drum and fife were playing and men were shouting loudly.

Thereupon Martin Hawk did the incomprehensible thing. He squared his brawny shoulders, set his hat rakishly over one ear, and sauntered out of the jail, calmly stopping to latch the door--and even to rattle it to make sure that it had caught!

He was far too cunning to dart around the corner and bolt for safety. That would have been the worst kind of folly. Instead, he strode briskly off in the direction from whence came the strains of martial music! So much for the benefit of watchful, suspicious eyes. But as he turned the corner of Baker's store his whole demeanour changed. He was off like a frightened rabbit, and as soft-footedly.