With Hoops of Steel Part 4

"I understand," he said quietly, "that you want to lynch me. Well, I'm here!"

A sudden, bellowing voice roared through the room: "Stop in your tracks, you cowards!"

Judge Harlin, having guessed where Mead had gone, had just plunged through the door and was shouldering his way up the aisle, his robust, broad-backed frame, big head and bull neck dominating the crowd.

Behind him came Tom Tuttle and Nick Ellhorn, their guns in their hands. A young Mexican, who was with them, leaped to the back of a seat, and on light toes raced by Harlin's side from seat to seat, interpreting into Spanish as he ran.

"A nice lot you are!" shouted Judge Harlin. "A nice lot to prate about law and order, and ready to do murder yourselves! That is what you are preparing to do! Murder! As cold-blooded a murder as ever man did!"

He mounted the platform and faced Delarue, while Tuttle and Ellhorn, with revolvers drawn, stood beside Mead.

"Better put your guns away, boys," whispered Mead.

"Not much!" Ellhorn replied. "We can't draw as quick as you can!"

"Let's go for 'em!" pleaded Tuttle in a whisper. "You and Nick and me can down half of 'em before they know what's happened, and the other half before they could shoot."

"No, Tommy; it wouldn't do."

"It would be the best thing that could happen to the town," he grumbled back. "Say, Emerson, we'd better go for 'em before they make a rush."

"No, no, Tom; better not shoot. I tell you it wouldn't do!"

"Well, if you say so, as long as they don't begin it. But they shan't touch you while there's a cartridge left in my belt."

The crowd, arrested and controlled, first by the spectacle of Mead's audacity and then by the compelling roar of Judge Harlin's denunciation, listened quietly, still subdued by its amazement, while Harlin went on, standing beside Delarue and shaking at him an admonishing finger.

"Pierre Delarue, I am astonished that a good citizen like you should be here inciting to murder! You have not one jot of evidence that Emerson Mead killed Will Whittaker! You do not even know that Whittaker is dead!"

The crowd shuffled and muttered angrily at this defiance of its conviction. It was returning to its former frame of mind, and was beginning to feel incensed at the irruption into the meeting.

"We do know it!" a man in the front row flamed out, his face working with the violent back-rush of recent pa.s.sion. "And we know Mead did it!" another one yelled. Murmurs of "Lynch him! Lynch him!" quickly followed. Tuttle and Ellhorn were white with suppressed rage, and their eyes were wide and blazing. Tuttle was nervously fingering his trigger guard. "Then bring your evidence into a court of law and let unprejudiced men judge its value," Judge Harlin roared back. "Accusers who have the right on their side are not afraid to face the law!"

Mead caught the angry eye of a brutal-faced man directly in front of him, and saw that the man's revolver was at full c.o.c.k and his hand on the trigger. In the flash that went from eye to eye he saw with surety what would happen in another moment. And he knew what the sequence of one shot would be.

"Neighbors!" he shouted. "Jim Halliday has a warrant for my arrest.

I protest that it has been illegally issued, because there is no evidence upon which it can be based. But to avoid any further trouble, here and now, I will submit to having it served. I will not be disarmed, and I warn you that any attempt of that sort will make trouble. But I give you my word, for both myself and my friends, that otherwise there shall be no disturbance."

Judge Harlin shot at Mead a surprised look, hesitated an instant, and then nodded approval. Tuttle and Ellhorn looked at him in open-mouthed, open-eyed amazement for a moment, then dropped their pistols to their holsters and stepped back. A sudden hush fell over the crowd, which waited expectantly, no one moving.

"I think Jim Halliday is here," Mead said quietly. "He has my word. He can come and take me and there shall be no trouble, if he don't try to take my gun."

A stout, red-haired young man worked his way forward through the crowded aisle to the platform and took a paper from his pocket. Mead glanced at it, said "All right," and the two walked away together. The crowd in the hall quickly poured out after them. Tuttle, his lips white and trembling, looked after Mead's retreating figure and his huge chest began to heave and his big blue eyes to fill with tears. He turned to Ellhorn, his voice choking with sobs:

"Emerson Mead goin' off to jail with Jim Halliday! Nick, why didn't he let us shoot? He needn't have been arrested! Here was a good chance to clean up more'n half his enemies, and he wouldn't let us do it!" He looked at Ellhorn in angry, regretful grief, and the tears dropped over his tanned cheeks. "Say, Nick," he went on, lowering his voice to a hoa.r.s.e whisper, "you-all don't think he was afraid, do you?"

"Sure, and I don't," Ellhorn replied promptly. "I reckon Emerson Mead never was afraid of anybody or anything."

"Well, I'm glad you don't," Tom replied, his voice still shaking with sobs. "I couldn't help thinkin' when he kept tellin' us not to shoot, that maybe he was afraid, with all those guns in front and only us four against 'em, and I said to myself, 'Good Lord, have I been runnin' alongside a coward all these years!' And I was sure sick for a minute. But I guess it was just his judgment that there'd better not be any shootin' just now."

Ellhorn looked over the empty hall with one eye shut. "Well, I reckon there would have been a heap o' dead folks in this room by now if we-all had turned loose."

"About as many as we-all had cartridges," and Tuttle glanced at their well-filled belts. He was silent a moment, while he wiped his eyes and blew his nose, and his sobs gradually ceased. "No, Emerson couldn't have been afraid. Though I sure thought for a minute I'd have to quit him. But you're right, Nick. Emerson ain't afraid of anything, livin'

or dead. It was just his judgment. And Emerson's got powerful good judgment, too. I ought to have known better than to think anything else. But, Lord! I did hate to see that measly crowd sneakin' out of here alive!"

CHAPTER V

The next morning there were only faint traces of the excitement of the day before. Men began to cross Main street from one side to the other, at first with cautious, apprehensive glances that swept the hostile territory and penetrated open doors and windows, but, as the day wore quietly on, with increasing confidence and unconcern. At noon Colonel Whittaker and Pierre Delarue walked over to the Palmleaf saloon, and while they clinked the ice in their mint juleps, good-natured and smiling, they leaned on the bar and chatted with the two or three Democrats who were in the room. An hour or so later, Judge Harlin strolled across to the White Horse saloon and called for a whisky straight. Then all Las Plumas knew that the war was over and went about its usual affairs as amiably as if the day before had never been.

At the breakfast table Pierre Delarue told his daughter about the ma.s.s-meeting, its balked determination to lynch Emerson Mead, and Mead's subsequent arrest.

"But, Father, how could they be so sure that Mr. Mead killed him? Did they have any evidence?"

"Ah," he replied, shrugging his shoulders protestingly, "you women never understand such things! Because Mead is a handsome young man and looks good-natured, you think he can't possibly be a murderer. But it is well known that he had killed more than one man before he murdered poor Whittaker, and he is notorious as one of the worst cattle thieves in the southwest."

"Father! These are dreadful things! Do you know them to be true?"

She looked across the table at him with horror in her face and eyes.

Delarue considered her indulgently.

"Everybody knows them to be true. There is plenty of proof."

"Then why hasn't he been arrested and tried and--punished?"

"That is what many are saying now--why has he not been punished long before this? People have been lenient with him for a long time, but he has at last reached the end of his career. They are now determined that a stop shall be put to his crimes and that he shall suffer the punishment he has so long deserved."

Marguerite was accustomed to having the remnants of her father's down-town speeches served up at home, and her cooler judgment had learned not to put much dependence upon them. She gave a perfunctory a.s.sent and made another effort to reach facts.

"Yes, Father, it is certainly very dreadful that such things should be allowed to go unpunished. But did any one see him stealing the Fillmore Company's cattle, and do they really know that he killed Mr.

Whittaker?"

"The proof is as clear as any unprejudiced person need want. Will Whittaker and some of his men caught Mead in the very act of driving into his own herd a steer plainly marked with their brand. They stopped him, and he foolishly tried to crawl out of his predicament by accusing them of driving the branded steer into his herd. A most absurd story! They had a quarrel, and Mead threatened to kill Whittaker. Immediately after that Will disappeared and has not been seen since. Evidently, he has been killed, and there is no one except Mead, who had threatened to kill him, who could possibly have had any motive for murdering him. The evidence may be circ.u.mstantial, but it is conclusive. Besides, if Mead had not known that the case against him was complete, he would not have given himself up last night as he did. And if he had not done so he would certainly have been lynched.

The people were thoroughly aroused, and it was impossible to control their indignation."

A little shiver ran through Marguerite's frame and she turned away, looking much disturbed. Her father patted her head indulgently.

"There, there, my dear child, these things do not concern you in the least. Don't trouble yourself about public affairs."

He hurried down-town and she sat alone, a little frown on her forehead and her mouth drooping, as she thought: "I can not believe he is a thief and a murderer, without more evidence than this. And still--how can it be that so many men are so sure of his guilt that--and he is in jail now--Oh, a thief and a murderer!"

She hurried from the room calling, "Paul! Paul!" The boy ran in from the veranda and she caught him in her arms and pressed him to her bosom, kissing him over and over again and calling him her darling, her treasure, and all the dear names with which womankind voices its love, and at last, sobbing, buried her face in his flaxen curls. The child put his arms about her head and patted her cheek and said, "Poor sister! Poor Daisy!" until, frightened by her emotion, he too began to cry. The necessity of soothing and comforting him gave her that distraction which has been woman's chief comfort since woman first had trouble. But her face was still sad and anxious when Wellesly appeared on the veranda in the late afternoon.

Albert Wellesly, who lived in Denver, disliked very much the occasional visits to Las Plumas which his financial interests made necessary. He was still on the under side of thirty, but his business a.s.sociates declared that he possessed a shrewdness and a capacity that would have done credit to a man of twice his years. Possibly people not infatuated with commercial success might have said that his ability was nothing more than an unscrupulous determination to grab everything in sight. Whatever it was, it had made him remarkably successful. The saying was common among those who knew him that everything he touched turned to gold. They also prophesied that in twenty years he would be one of the financial giants of the country.

Las Plumas bored him to desperation, but on this occasion he thought it would be the part of wisdom to stay longer than had been his first intention. As long as the town was feverish with excitement he found it endurable. But when the dullness of peace settled over the streets again he walked about listlessly, wondering how he could manage to get through the day. At last he thought of Miss Delarue.

"That's so!" he inwardly exclaimed. "I can go and find out if the English girl is in love with this handsome big fellow who has been stealing my cattle. I suppose it will be necessary for me to drink a cup of tea, but she will amuse me for an hour."