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

by Ridgwell Cullum

  CHAPTER XXXIII

  AFTER THE VERDICT

  Peter Blunt stared helplessly up at the eastern sky. His brain waswhirling, and he stared without being conscious of the reason.

  He breathed heavily, like a man saturating his lungs with pure airafter long confinement in a foul atmosphere. Then it almost seemed asif his great frame shrank in stature, and became suddenly a wreck ofitself. As if age and decay had suddenly come upon him. As if theweight of his body had become too heavy for him, and set his greatlimbs tottering under it as he walked.

  The excitement, the straining of thought and nerve had passed, leavinghim hopelessly oppressed, twenty years older.

  The din and clamor of the final scenes in the saloon were stillringing in his ears. It was all over. The farce of Jim Thorpe's trialhad been played out. But the shouts of men, hungering for the life ofa fellow man, still haunted him. The voice of the accuser was stillshrieking through his brain. The memory of the stern condemnation ofDoc Crombie left his great heart crushed and helpless.

  His brain was still whirling with all the strain he had gone through,his pulses were still hammering with the consuming anger which hadraged in him as he stood beside his friend defending him to the last.And it had all proved useless. Jim Thorpe had been condemned by theballot of his fellow citizens. Death--a hideous, disgraceful death wasto be his, at the moment when the gray dawn should first lift theeastern corner of the pall of night.

  The saloon was behind Peter now. Its lights were still burning. Forthe condemned man was to remain there with his guards until theappointed time.

  Peter remembered Jim's look when he finally bade him leave him. Couldhe ever forget it? He had seen death in many forms in his time. He hadseen many men face it, each in his own way. But never in his life hadhe seen such calmness, such apparent indifference as Jim Thorpe haddisplayed.

  When the ballot was taken and the doctor pronounced sentence, therewas never a tremor of an eyelid. There was not even one quick-drawnbreath. Nor was there a suggestion of any emotion--save that ofindifference.

  Then when the doctor had named the manner of his death--a rawhide ropeon the bough of a tree--Jim had turned with a smile to Peter.

  "I'd prefer to be shot," he said quietly. "But there, I s'pose thisthing must proceed by custom."

  So Jim received the pronouncement of the final penalty for a crime ofwhich Peter was convinced he was innocent.

  It had suddenly set his loyal heart longing with a mad, passionatelonging to have his great hands about the mean throat of the manSmallbones. It had set him wild with rebellion against the mercilesscustoms which permitted such an outrage upon justice. He had evenchallenged the doctor in his fury, on his right to administer justiceand accept the condemnation of the men gathered there for thepurpose.

  In his desire to serve his friend he passed beyond the bounds of alldiscretion, of all safety for himself. He threatened that he wouldmove the whole world to bring just retribution upon those who hadparticipated in that night's work. And his threats and violence hadbeen received with a tolerant laughter. A derision more stinging andominous than the most furious outbreak.

  The work would go on. The death penalty would be carried out. He knewit. He knew it.

  Then when it was all over, and the prisoner's guards had beenappointed, Jim had begged him to leave him.

  "Thanks, Peter, old friend," he said. And then added with a whimsicaltouch: "I'm tired to death of hearing your dear old voice. You've saidsuch a heap to-night. Get along. I don't want you any more. You seeyou're too big, and you sure take up too much room--in my heart. Solong."

  So he had been driven from his friend's side, and out into theblackest night he had ever known.

  Yes, it was an old, old man that now lurched his way across themarket-place toward his hut. He was weary, so weary in mind andspirit. There was nothing now left for him to do but to go homeand--and sit there till the dawn. Was there no hope, none? There wasnone. No earthly force could save Jim now. It wanted less than an hourto dawn, and, between now and then----

  And yet he believed Jim could have saved himself. There was not a manin that room, from Doc Crombie downward, but knew that Jim was holdingback something. What was it? And why did he not speak? Peter hadasked him while the farce of a trial was at its height. He had beggedand implored him to speak out, but the answer he received was the sameas had been given to the doctor. Jim had told all he had to tell. Oh,the whole thing was madness--madness.

  But there was no madness in Jim, he admitted. Once when hisimportunities tried him Jim had shown him just one brief glimpse ofthe heart which no death penalty had the power to reveal.

  Peter remembered his words now; they would live in his memory to hisdying day.

  "You sure make me angry, Peter," he had said. "Even to you, oldfriend, I have nothing more to say of this killing than I have said toDoc, and the rest of 'em. I've done many a fool trick in my time, andmaybe I'm doing another now. But I'm doing it with my eyes wide open.There's the rope ahead, a nasty, ugly, curly rope; maybe plaited by ahalf-breed with dirty hands. But what's the odds? Perhaps there's astray bit of comfort in that rope, in the thought of it. You know theold prairie saw: 'It isn't always the sunniest day makes the bestpicnic.' Which means, I take it, choose your company of girls and boyswell, and, rain or shine, you'll have a bully time. Maybe there's adeal I could say if I so chose, but, in the meantime, I kind ofbelieve there's worse things in the world than--a rawhide rope."

  It was just a glimpse of the man behind his mask of indifference, andPeter wondered.

  But there was no key to the riddle in his words, no key at all.Somehow, in a vague sort of way, it seemed to him that Eve Hendersonwas in a measure the influence behind Jim. But he could not see how.He was well aware of Jim's love for her, and he believed that she wasless indifferent to him now than when Will had been running straight.But for the life of him he could see no definite connection betweensuch a matter and the murder. It was all so obscure--so obscure.

  And now there was nothing left but to wait for the hideous end. Helurched into his hut, and, without even troubling to light his lamp,flung himself upon his bed.