The One-Way Trail: A story of the cattle country

by Ridgwell Cullum

  CHAPTER XXXII

  THE TRIUMPH OF SMALLBONES

  Peter had been talking. Now he paused listening. Jake and Gay turnedtheir eyes toward the swing doors. Silas Rocket, who had availedhimself of the respite to wipe a few glasses, paused in his work. He,too, was listening. But the almost mechanical process of cleaningglasses was resumed at once. Not even life or death could longinterfere with his scheme of money-making. He had seen too much of theforceful side of his customers in his time to let such a thing as asimple murder interfere with his long established routine.

  It was Jim who now spoke. He was the calmest of those present, exceptperhaps Silas Rocket. He appeared to have no fear of the consequencesof 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 adisgraceful death--has no terrors. Perhaps it was the knowledge ofwhat 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 oftheir host's position. And afterward the glasses were set down emptyupon the counter, without a word. Then Jim turned to Peter, and hismanner was a trifle regretful. But that was all. An invincible purposeshone 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 goodfriends, and now, at the last, I'd hate you to get a wrong notion ofthings. I call God to witness that I did not kill Will Henderson. It'sbecause we're friends I tell you this, now. It's because these folkare going to hang me. You can stake your last cent on that being thetruth, and if you don't get paid in this world, I sure guess you willin the next. Well--here they are."

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

  Three or four men placed several of the small tables together, formingthem into a sort of bier. Then they stood by while others pushed theirway in through the swing doors. Finally, two men stood just inside,holding the doors open, while two of the ranchmen carried in theirominous, silent burden. Doc Crombie was the last but one to enter. Theman who came last was the evil-minded hardware dealer. His eyes weresparkling, and his thin lips were tightly compressed. Now he had anadded 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 SilasRocket provided a shroud.

  Jim Thorpe watched these proceedings with the keenest interest. Neverfor a moment did he remove his eyes from the dead man, until the dirtywhite tablecloth had been carelessly thrown over him. He had in hismind many things during those moments. At first he had looked for hisown telltale knife. But evidently it had been removed. There was nosign of its hideous projecting handle as he had last seen it. Neitherhad he noticed any one bearing his blood-stained handkerchiefs. Hethought that Doc Crombie had possessed himself of these things, andexpected he would produce them at the proper moment.

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

  Then came the thought, the ironical thought, that after all theirpaths were not so very wide apart now. They had grown up together, andnow, at the end, in spite of everything, death was bringing them verynear 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 ofthe room, a lean, harsh figure. His eagle face, with its luminouseyes, was full of power, full of a stern purpose.

  "Folks," he began, "murder has been done--sheer, bloody murder. Whenfellers gits busy with guns, an' each has his chance, an' one of 'emgits it bad, we call that killing. Fair, square killing, an' I guesswe treat it accordin'. But this is low-down murder. We was told it wasa stabbing, but I've cast my eyes over the body, an' I seem to see adifferent story. Judging by what I found, I'd say Will Henderson washit a smashin' blow by something heavy, which must sure 'a' knockedhim senseless, an' then the lousy skunk did the rest of his work witha 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 decentlywith 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 needsay 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 interestsof justice to his widow, to your feller citizens, your duty's clear.You got to tell us right here everything you know about WillHenderson's death."

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

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

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

  "I'm puzzled, Doc," he said quietly. "There's certainly something Ican't make out. I told you all I had to tell," he went on. "I was outon the south side of that bluff, for reasons which I told AnthonySmallbones were my own business, when I found Will Henderson lyingdead in the grass, a few feet from some bushes. I did not at firstrealize he was dead. I saw the wound on his jaw, and, touching it,discovered the bone was broken. Then I discovered that his clotheswere torn open, his chest bare, and a large knife, such as anyprairie man carries in his belt, was sticking in his chest, plungedright up to the hilt." There was a stir, and a murmur of astonishmentwent round the room. "Wait a moment," he continued, holding up hishand for silence. "I discovered more than that. I found twohandkerchiefs, a white one, ripped into a rough bandage, and a silkneck 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 asbandages for his face. They were lying a yard away from the body. Haveyou got those things, because, if so, they ought to be a handsome cluefor sure?"

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

  Doc shook his head.

  "Ther' was no knife--no scarves. But say," he ask
ed sharply, "whydidn't you speak of 'em before?"

  "It didn't occur to me. I thought you'd sure find 'em. So--I guessthey've been removed since. Probably the murderer thought themincriminating----"

  "A hell of a fine yarn." It was Smallbones' voice that now made itselfheard. "Say, don't you'se fellows see his drift? It's a yarn to putyou off, an' make you think the murderer's been around while he's beenin here. Guess him an' his friend Peter's made it up while I----"

  "After I threw you out of here," interjected Peter coldly. "Keep yourtongue easy, or I'll have to handle you again."

  But Smallbones' fury got the better of him, and he meant to annoyPeter all he could.

  "Yes, I dessay you would. But you can't blind us like a lot of gopherswith a dogone child's yarn like that. If those things had been therethey'd ha' been there when Will was found by Doc---- Say," he cried,turning with inspiration upon Jim, "wher's your knife? You mostlycarry one. I see your sheath, but ther' ain't no knife in it."

  He pointed at the back of Jim's waist, which was turned toward him.Every eye that could see the sheath followed the direction of theaccusing finger, and a profound sensation stirred those who beheld.The sheath was empty.

  Smallbones' triumph urged him on.

  "Say, an' where's your neck-scarf? You allus wear one, sure. An' mebbeyou ain't got your dandy white han'k'chief. I 'lows you're 'bout theon'y man in these parts 'cep' Abe Horsley as fancies hisself enough towear one. Wher's them things, I ask you? Say," he went on after amoment's pause, during which Jim still remained silent, "I accuse thislousy skunk publicly of murderin' Will Henderson. He's convictedhisself out o' his own mouth, an' he's got the man's blood on hishands. Jim Thorpe, you killed Will Henderson!"

  The little man's fervor, his boldness, his shrewd argument carried hisaudience with him, as he stood pointing dramatically at the accusedbut unflinching man. Doc Crombie was carried along with the rest evenagainst his own judgment. Peter Blunt and Angel Gay, with Jake Wilkes,were the only men present who were left unconvinced. Peter's eyes weresternly fixed on the beady eyes of Smallbones. Gay, too, in his slowway, was furious. But Jake would not have believed Jim had committedthe murder even if he had seen him do it, he detested Smallbones somuch.

  But everybody was waiting for Jim's reply to the challenge. And itcame amidst a deathly silence. It came with a straightforwardness thatcarried conviction to three of his hearers at least, and set theredoubtable doctor wondering if he were dreaming.

  "You're quite right I usually wear all those things you say, but Ihaven't got them with me now, because"--he smiled into the littleman's eyes, "the particular articles I spoke of were all mine, and,apparently, now they've been stolen."

  "Guilty, by Gad!" roared Smallbones.

  And some one near him added--

  "Lynch him! Lynch him!"

  How that cry might have been taken up and acted upon, it needs littleimagination to guess. But quick as thought Doc Crombie came to Jim'srescue. He silenced the crowd with a roar like some infuriated lion.

  "The first man that moves I'll shoot!" he cried, behind the brace ofleveled pistols he was now holding at arm's length.

  He stood for a few seconds thus till order was restored, then hequietly returned one of his guns to its holster, while the other heretained in his hand. He turned at once to Jim.

  "You're accused of the murder of Will Henderson by Smallbones," hesaid simply. "You've got more of this story back of your head. You'venow got your chance of ladlin' it out to clear yourself. You'd bestspeak. An' the quicker the better. You say the knife that killed himwas yours. Yes?"

  The man's honest intention was obvious. He wanted to give Jim achance. He was doing his utmost. But he knew the temper of these men,and he knew that they were not to be played with. It was up to theaccused man to clear himself.

  Peter Blunt anxiously watched Jim's face. There was something likedespair in his honest eyes. But he could do nothing without theother's help.

  Jim looked straight into the doctor's eyes. There was no defiance inhis look, neither was there anything of the guilty man in it. It wassimply honest.

  "I've told you all I have to tell," he said. "The knife that killedWill Henderson was my knife. But I swear before God that I am innocentof his death!"

  The doctor turned from him with an oath. And curiously enough his oathwas purely at the man's obstinacy.

  "Fellers," he said, addressing the assembly, "I've been your leaderfor a goodish bit, an' I don't guess I'm goin' back on you now. We gota code of laws right here in Barnriff with which we handle sech casesas this. Those laws'll take their course. We'll try the case righthere an' now. You, Smallbones, will establish your case." Then heturned to Jim. "If there's any feller you'd like----"

  "I'll stand by Jim Thorpe," cried Peter Blunt, in a voice that echoedthroughout the building.

  Doc Crombie nodded.

  "Gentlemen, the court is open."