Books: The Trail of the Lonesome Pine
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John Fox, Jr. >> The Trail of the Lonesome Pine
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"He done it," said the lout in a frightened way; "but I don't know
who he was."
Within half an hour ten horsemen were clattering after the
murderer, headed by Hale, Logan, and the Infant of the Guard.
Where the road forked, a woman with a child in her arms said she
had seen a tall, black-eyed man with a black moustache gallop up
the right fork. She no more knew who he was than any of the
pursuers. Three miles up that fork they came upon a red-headed man
leading his horse from a mountaineer's yard,
"He went up the mountain," the red-haired man said, pointing to
the trail of the Lonesome Pine. "He's gone over the line. Whut's
he done--killed somebody?"
"Yes," said Hale shortly, starting up his horse.
"I wish I'd a-knowed you was atter him. I'm sheriff over thar."
Now they were without warrant or requisition, and Hale, pulling
in, said sharply:
"We want that fellow. He killed a man at the Gap. If we catch him
over the line, we want you to hold him for us. Come along!" The
red-headed sheriff sprang on his horse and grinned eagerly:
"I'm your man."
"Who was that fellow?" asked Hale as they galloped. The sheriff
denied knowledge with a shake of his head.
"What's your name?" The sheriff looked sharply at him for the
effect of his answer.
"Jim Falin." And Hale looked sharply back at him. He was one of
the Falins who long, long ago had gone to the Gap for young Dave
Tolliver, and now the Falin grinned at Hale.
"I know you--all right." No wonder the Falin chuckled at this
Heaven-born chance to get a Tolliver into trouble.
At the Lonesome Pine the traces of the fugitive's horse swerved
along the mountain top--the shoe of the right forefoot being
broken in half. That swerve was a blind and the sheriff knew it,
but he knew where Rufe Tolliver would go and that there would be
plenty of time to get him. Moreover, he had a purpose of his own
and a secret fear that it might be thwarted, so, without a word,
he followed the trail till darkness hid it and they had to wait
until the moon rose. Then as they started again, the sheriff said:
"Wait a minute," and plunged down the mountain side on foot. A few
minutes later he hallooed for Hale, and down there showed him the
tracks doubling backward along a foot-path.
"Regular rabbit, ain't he?" chuckled the sheriff, and back they
went to the trail again on which two hundred yards below the Pine
they saw the tracks pointing again to Lonesome Cove.
On down the trail they went, and at the top of the spur that
overlooked Lonesome Cove, the Falin sheriff pulled in suddenly and
got off his horse. There the tracks swerved again into the bushes.
"He's goin' to wait till daylight, fer fear somebody's follered
him. He'll come in back o' Devil Judd's."
"How do you know he's going to Devil Judd's?" asked Hale.
"Whar else would he go?" asked the Falin with a sweep of his arm
toward the moonlit wilderness. "Thar ain't but one house that way
fer ten miles--and nobody lives thar."
"How do you know that he's going to any house?" asked Hale
impatiently. "He may be getting out of the mountains."
"D'you ever know a feller to leave these mountains jus' because
he'd killed a man? How'd you foller him at night? How'd you ever
ketch him with his start? What'd he turn that way fer, if he
wasn't goin' to Judd's--why d'n't he keep on down the river? If
he's gone, he's gone. If he ain't, he'll be at Devil Judd's at
daybreak if he ain't thar now."
"What do you want to do?"
"Go on down with the hosses, hide 'em in the bushes an' wait."
"Maybe he's already heard us coming down the mountain."
"That's the only thing I'm afeerd of," said the Falin calmly. "But
whut I'm tellin' you's our only chance."
"How do you know he won't hear us going down? Why not leave the
horses?"
"We might need the hosses, and hit's mud and sand all the way--you
ought to know that."
Hale did know that; so on they went quietly and hid their horses
aside from the road near the place where Hale had fished when he
first went to Lonesome Cove. There the Falin disappeared on foot.
"Do you trust him?" asked Hale, turning to Budd, and Budd laughed.
"I reckon you can trust a Falin against a friend of a Tolliver, or
t'other way round--any time." Within half an hour the Falin came
back with the news that there were no signs that the fugitive had
yet come in.
"No use surrounding the house now," he said, "he might see one of
us first when he comes in an' git away. We'll do that atter
daylight."
And at daylight they saw the fugitive ride out of the woods at the
back of the house and boldly around to the front of the house,
where he left his horse in the yard and disappeared.
"Now send three men to ketch him if he runs out the back way--
quick!" said the Falin. "Hit'll take 'em twenty minutes to git
thar through the woods. Soon's they git thar, let one of 'em shoot
his pistol off an' that'll be the signal fer us."
The three men started swiftly, but the pistol shot came before
they had gone a hundred yards, for one of the three--a new man and
unaccustomed to the use of fire-arms, stumbled over a root while
he was seeing that his pistol was in order and let it go off
accidentally.
"No time to waste now," the Falin called sharply. "Git on yo'
hosses and git!" Then the rush was made and when they gave up the
chase at noon that day, the sheriff looked Hale squarely in the
eye when Hale sharply asked him a question:
"Why didn't you tell me who that man was?"
"Because I was afeerd you wouldn't go to Devil Judd's atter him. I
know better now," and he shook his head, for he did not
understand. And so Hale at the head of the disappointed Guard went
back to the Gap, and when, next day, they laid Mockaby away in the
thinly populated little graveyard that rested in the hollow of the
river's arm, the spirit of law and order in the heart of every
guard gave way to the spirit of revenge, and the grass would grow
under the feet of none until Rufe Tolliver was caught and the
death-debt of the law was paid with death.
That purpose was no less firm in the heart of Hale, and he turned
away from the grave, sick with the trick that Fate had lost no
time in playing him; for he was a Falin now in the eyes of both
factions and an enemy--even to June.
The weeks dragged slowly along, and June sank slowly toward the
depths with every fresh realization of the trap of circumstance
into which she had fallen. She had dim memories of just such a
state of affairs when she was a child, for the feud was on now and
the three things that governed the life of the cabin in Lonesome
Cove were hate, caution, and fear.
Bub and her father worked in the fields with their Winchesters
close at hand, and June was never easy if they were outside the
house. If somebody shouted "hello"--that universal hail of friend
or enemy in the mountains--from the gate after dark, one or the
other would go out the back door and answer from the shelter of
the corner of the house. Neither sat by the light of the fire
where he could be seen through the window nor carried a candle
from one room to the other. And when either rode down the river,
June must ride behind him to prevent ambush from the bushes, for
no Kentucky mountaineer, even to kill his worst enemy, will risk
harming a woman. Sometimes Loretta would come and spend the day,
and she seemed little less distressed than June. Dave was
constantly in and out, and several times June had seen the Red Fox
hanging around. Always the talk was of the feud. The killing of
this Tolliver and of that long ago was rehearsed over and over;
all the wrongs the family had suffered at the hands of the Falins
were retold, and in spite of herself June felt the old hatred of
her childhood reawakening against them so fiercely that she was
startled: and she knew that if she were a man she would be as
ready now to take up a Winchester against the Falins as though she
had known no other life.
Loretta got no comfort from her in her tentative efforts to talk
of Buck Falin, and once, indeed, June gave her a scathing rebuke.
With every day her feeling for her father and Bub was knit a
little more closely, and toward Dave grew a little more kindly.
She had her moods even against Hale, but they always ended in a
storm of helpless tears. Her father said little of Hale, but that
little was enough. Young Dave was openly exultant when he heard of
the favouritism shown a Falin by the Guard at the Gap, the effort
Hale had made to catch Rufe Tolliver and his well-known purpose
yet to capture him; for the Guard maintained a fund for the arrest
and prosecution of criminals, and the reward it offered for Rufe,
dead or alive, was known by everybody on both sides of the State
line. For nearly a week no word was heard of the fugitive, and
then one night, after supper, while June was sitting at the fire,
the back door was opened, Rufe slid like a snake within, and when
June sprang to her feet with a sharp cry of terror, he gave his
brutal laugh:
"Don't take much to skeer you--does it?" Shuddering she felt his
evil eyes sweep her from head to foot, for the beast within was
always unleashed and ever ready to spring, and she dropped back
into her seat, speechless. Young Dave, entering from the kitchen,
saw Rufe's look and the hostile lightning of his own eyes flashed
at his foster-uncle, who knew straightway that he must not for his
own safety strain the boy's jealousy too far.
"You oughtn't to 'a' done it, Rufe," said old Judd a little later,
and he shook his head. Again Rufe laughed:
"No--" he said with a quick pacificatory look to young Dave, "not
to HIM!" The swift gritting of Dave's teeth showed that he knew
what was meant, and without warning the instinct of a protecting
tigress leaped within June. She had seen and had been grateful for
the look Dave gave the outlaw, but without a word she rose new and
went to her own room. While she sat at her window, her step-mother
came out the back door and left it open for a moment. Through it
June could hear the talk:
"No," said her father, "she ain't goin' to marry him." Dave
grunted and Rufe's voice came again:
"Ain't no danger, I reckon, of her tellin' on me?"
"No," said her father gruffly, and the door banged.
No, thought June, she wouldn't, even without her father's trust,
though she loathed the man, and he was the only thing on earth of
which she was afraid--that was the miracle of it and June
wondered. She was a Tolliver and the clan loyalty of a century
forbade--that was all. As she rose she saw a figure skulking past
the edge of the woods. She called Bub in and told him about it,
and Rufe stayed at the cabin all night, but June did not see him
next morning, and she kept out of his way whenever he came again.
A few nights later the Red Fox slouched up to the cabin with some
herbs for the step-mother. Old Judd eyed him askance.
"Lookin' fer that reward, Red?" The old man had no time for the
meek reply that was on his lips, for the old woman spoke up
sharply:
"You let Red alone, Judd--I tol' him to come." And the Red Fox
stayed to supper, and when Rufe left the cabin that night, a bent
figure with a big rifle and in moccasins sneaked after him.
The next night there was a tap on Hale's window just at his
bedside, and when he looked out he saw the Red Fox's big rifle,
telescope, moccasins and all in the moonlight. The Red Fox had
discovered the whereabouts of Rufe Tolliver, and that very night
he guided Hale and six of the guard to the edge of a little
clearing where the Red Fox pointed to a one-roomed cabin, quiet in
the moonlight. Hale had his requisition now.
"Ain't no trouble ketchin' Rufe, if you bait him with a woman," he
snarled. "There mought be several Tollivers in thar. Wait till
daybreak and git the drap on him, when he comes out." And then he
disappeared.
Surrounding the cabin, Hale waited, and on top of the mountain,
above Lonesome Cove, the Red Fox sat waiting and watching through
his big telescope. Through it he saw Bad Rufe step outside the
door at daybreak and stretch his arms with a yawn, and he saw
three men spring with levelled Winchesters from behind a clump of
bushes. The woman shot from the door behind Rufe with a pistol in
each hand, but Rufe kept his hands in the air and turned his head
to the woman who lowered the half-raised weapons slowly. When he
saw the cavalcade start for the county seat with Rufe manacled in
the midst of them, he dropped swiftly down into Lonesome Cove to
tell Judd that Rufe was a prisoner and to retake him on the way to
jail. And, as the Red Fox well knew would happen, old Judd and
young Dave and two other Tollivers who were at the cabin galloped
into the county seat to find Rufe in jail, and that jail guarded
by seven grim young men armed with Winchesters and shot-guns.
Hale faced the old man quietly--eye to eye.
"It's no use, Judd," he said, "you'd better let the law take its
course." The old man was scornful.
"Thar's never been a Tolliver convicted of killin' nobody, much
less hung--an' thar ain't goin' to be."
"I'm glad you warned me," said Hale still quietly, "though it
wasn't necessary. But if he's convicted, he'll hang."
The giant's face worked in convulsive helplessness and he turned
away.
"You hold the cyards now, but my deal is comin'."
"All right, Judd--you're getting a square one from me."
Back rode the Tollivers and Devil Judd never opened his lips again
until he was at home in Lonesome Cove. June was sitting on the
porch when he walked heavy-headed through the gate.
"They've ketched Rufe," he said, and after a moment he added
gruffly:
"Thar's goin' to be sure enough trouble now. The Falins'll think
all them police fellers air on their side now. This ain't no place
fer you--you must git away."
June shook her head and her eyes turned to the flowers at the edge
of the garden:
"I'm not goin' away, Dad," she said.
XXVI
Back to the passing of Boone and the landing of Columbus no man,
in that region, had ever been hanged. And as old Judd said, no
Tolliver had ever been sentenced and no jury of mountain men, he
well knew, could be found who would convict a Tolliver, for there
were no twelve men in the mountains who would dare. And so the
Tollivers decided to await the outcome of the trial and rest easy.
But they did not count on the mettle and intelligence of the grim
young "furriners" who were a flying wedge of civilization at the
Gap. Straightway, they gave up the practice of law and banking and
trading and store-keeping and cut port-holes in the brick walls of
the Court House and guarded town and jail night and day. They
brought their own fearless judge, their own fearless jury and
their own fearless guard. Such an abstract regard for law and
order the mountaineer finds a hard thing to understand. It looked
as though the motive of the Guard was vindictive and personal, and
old Judd was almost stifled by the volcanic rage that daily grew
within him as the toils daily tightened about Rufe Tolliver.
Every happening the old man learned through the Red Fox, who, with
his huge pistols, was one of the men who escorted Rufe to and from
Court House and jail--a volunteer, Hale supposed, because he hated
Rufe; and, as the Tollivers supposed, so that he could keep them
advised of everything that went on, which he did with secrecy and
his own peculiar faith. And steadily and to the growing uneasiness
of the Tollivers, the law went its way. Rufe had proven that he
was at the Gap all day and had taken no part in the trouble. He
produced a witness--the mountain lout whom Hale remembered--who
admitted that he had blown the whistle, given the yell, and fired
the pistol shot. When asked his reason, the witness, who was
stupid, had none ready, looked helplessly at Rufe and finally
mumbled--"fer fun." But it was plain from the questions that Rufe
had put to Hale only a few minutes before the shooting, and from
the hesitation of the witness, that Rufe had used him for a tool.
So the testimony of the latter that Mockaby without even summoning
Rufe to surrender had fired first, carried no conviction. And yet
Rufe had no trouble making it almost sure that he had never seen
the dead man before--so what was his motive? It was then that word
reached the ear of the prosecuting attorney of the only testimony
that could establish a motive and make the crime a hanging
offence, and Court was adjourned for a day, while he sent for the
witness who could give it. That afternoon one of the Falins, who
had grown bolder, and in twos and threes were always at the trial,
shot at a Tolliver on the edge of town and there was an immediate
turmoil between the factions that the Red Fox had been waiting for
and that suited his dark purposes well.
That very night, with his big rifle, he slipped through the woods
to a turn of the road, over which old Dave Tolliver was to pass
next morning, and built a "blind" behind some rocks and lay there
smoking peacefully and dreaming his Swedenborgian dreams. And when
a wagon came round the turn, driven by a boy, and with the gaunt
frame of old Dave Tolliver lying on straw in the bed of it, his
big rifle thundered and the frightened horses dashed on with the
Red Fox's last enemy, lifeless. Coolly he slipped back to the
woods, threw the shell from his gun, tirelessly he went by short
cuts through the hills, and at noon, benevolent and smiling, he
was on guard again.
The little Court Room was crowded for the afternoon session.
Inside the railing sat Rufe Tolliver, white and defiant--manacled.
Leaning on the railing, to one side, was the Red Fox with his big
pistols, his good profile calm, dreamy, kind--to the other,
similarly armed, was Hale. At each of the gaping port-holes, and
on each side of the door, stood a guard with a Winchester, and
around the railing outside were several more. In spite of window
and port-hole the air was close and heavy with the smell of
tobacco and the sweat of men. Here and there in the crowd was a
red Falin, but not a Tolliver was in sight, and Rufe Tolliver sat
alone. The clerk called the Court to order after the fashion since
the days before Edward the Confessor--except that he asked God to
save a commonwealth instead of a king--and the prosecuting
attorney rose:
"Next witness, may it please your Honour": and as the clerk got to
his feet with a slip of paper in his hand and bawled out a name,
Hale wheeled with a thumping heart. The crowd vibrated, turned
heads, gave way, and through the human aisle walked June Tolliver
with the sheriff following meekly behind. At the railing-gate she
stopped, head uplifted, face pale and indignant; and her eyes
swept past Hale as if he were no more than a wooden image, and
were fixed with proud inquiry on the Judge's face. She was bare-
headed, her bronze hair was drawn low over her white brow, her
gown was of purple home-spun, and her right hand was clenched
tight about the chased silver handle of a riding whip, and in
eyes, mouth, and in every line of her tense figure was the mute
question: "Why have you brought ME here?"
"Here, please," said the Judge gently, as though he were about to
answer that question, and as she passed Hale she seemed to swerve
her skirts aside that they might not touch him.
"Swear her."
June lifted her right hand, put her lips to the soiled, old, black
Bible and faced the jury and Hale and Bad Rufe Tolliver whose
black eyes never left her face.
"What is your name?" asked a deep voice that struck her ears as
familiar, and before she answered she swiftly recalled that she
had heard that voice speaking when she entered the door.
"June Tolliver."
"Your age?"
"Eighteen."
"You live--"
"In Lonesome Cove."
"You are the daughter of--"
"Judd Tolliver."
"Do you know the prisoner?"
"He is my foster-uncle."
"Were you at home on the night of August the tenth?"
"I was."
"Have you ever heard the prisoner express any enmity against this
volunteer Police Guard?" He waved his hand toward the men at the
portholes and about the railing--unconsciously leaving his hand
directly pointed at Hale. June hesitated and Rufe leaned one elbow
on the table, and the light in his eyes beat with fierce intensity
into the girl's eyes into which came a curious frightened look
that Hale remembered--the same look she had shown long ago when
Rufe's name was mentioned in the old miller's cabin, and when
going up the river road she had put her childish trust in him to
see that her bad uncle bothered her no more. Hale had never forgot
that, and if it had not been absurd he would have stopped the
prisoner from staring at her now. An anxious look had come into
Rufe's eyes--would she lie for him?
"Never," said June. Ah, she would--she was a Tolliver and Rufe
took a breath of deep content.
"You never heard him express any enmity toward the Police Guard--
before that night?"
"I have answered that question," said June with dignity and Rufe's
lawyer was on his feet.
"Your Honour, I object," he said indignantly.
"I apologize," said the deep voice--"sincerely," and he bowed to
June. Then very quietly:
"What was the last thing you heard the prisoner say that afternoon
when he left your father's house?"
It had come--how well she remembered just what he had said and
how, that night, even when she was asleep, Rufe's words had
clanged like a bell in her brain--what her awakening terror was
when she knew that the deed was done and the stifling fear that
the victim might be Hale. Swiftly her mind worked--somebody had
blabbed, her step-mother, perhaps, and what Rufe had said had
reached a Falin ear and come to the relentless man in front of
her. She remembered, too, now, what the deep voice was saying as
she came into the door:
"There must be deliberation, a malicious purpose proven to make
the prisoner's crime a capital offence--I admit that, of course,
your Honour. Very well, we propose to prove that now," and then
she had heard her name called. The proof that was to send Rufe
Tolliver to the scaffold was to come from her--that was why she
was there. Her lips opened and Rufe's eyes, like a snake's, caught
her own again and held them.
"He said he was going over to the Gap--"
There was a commotion at the door, again the crowd parted, and in
towered giant Judd Tolliver, pushing people aside as though they
were straws, his bushy hair wild and his great frame shaking from
head to foot with rage.
"You went to my house," he rumbled hoarsely--glaring at Hale--"an'
took my gal thar when I wasn't at home--you--"
"Order in the Court," said the Judge sternly, but already at a
signal from Hale several guards were pushing through the crowd and
old Judd saw them coming and saw the Falins about him and the
Winchesters at the port-holes, and he stopped with a hard gulp and
stood looking at June.
"Repeat his exact words," said the deep voice again as calmly as
though nothing had happened.
"He said, 'I'm goin' over to the Gap--'" and still Rufe's black
eyes held her with mesmeric power--would she lie for him--would
she lie for him?
It was a terrible struggle for June. Her father was there, her
uncle Dave was dead, her foster-uncle's life hung on her next
words and she was a Tolliver. Yet she had given her oath, she had
kissed the sacred Book in which she believed from cover to cover
with her whole heart, and she could feel upon her the blue eyes of
a man for whom a lie was impossible and to whom she had never
stained her white soul with a word of untruth.
"Yes," encouraged the deep voice kindly.
Not a soul in the room knew where the struggle lay--not even the
girl--for it lay between the black eyes of Rufe Tolliver and the
blue eyes of John Hale.
"Yes," repeated the deep voice again. Again, with her eyes on
Rufe, she repeated:
"'I'm goin' over to the Gap--'" her face turned deadly white, she
shivered, her dark eyes swerved suddenly full on Hale and she said
slowly and distinctly, yet hardly above a whisper:
"'TO KILL ME A POLICEMAN.'"
"That will do," said the deep voice gently, and Hale started
toward her--she looked so deadly sick and she trembled so when she
tried to rise; but she saw him, her mouth steadied, she rose, and
without looking at him, passed by his outstretched hand and walked
slowly out of the Court Room.
XXVII
The miracle had happened. The Tollivers, following the Red Fox's
advice to make no attempt at rescue just then, had waited,
expecting the old immunity from the law and getting instead the
swift sentence that Rufe Tolliver should be hanged by the neck
until he was dead. Astounding and convincing though the news was,
no mountaineer believed he would ever hang, and Rufe himself faced
the sentence defiant. He laughed when he was led back to his cell:
"I'll never hang," he said scornfully. They were the first words
that came from his lips, and the first words that came from old
Judd's when the news reached him in Lonesome Cove, and that night
old Judd gathered his clan for the rescue--to learn next morning
that during the night Rufe had been spirited away to the capital
for safekeeping until the fatal day. And so there was quiet for a
while--old Judd making ready for the day when Rufe should be
brought back, and trying to find out who it was that had slain his
brother Dave. The Falins denied the deed, but old Judd never
questioned that one of them was the murderer, and he came out
openly now and made no secret of the fact that he meant to have
revenge. And so the two factions went armed, watchful and wary--
especially the Falins, who were lying low and waiting to fulfil a
deadly purpose of their own. They well knew that old Judd would
not open hostilities on them until Rufe Tolliver was dead or at
liberty. They knew that the old man meant to try to rescue Rufe
when he was brought back to jail or taken from it to the scaffold,
and when either day came they themselves would take a hand, thus
giving the Tollivers at one and the same time two sets of foes.
And so through the golden September days the two clans waited, and
June Tolliver went with dull determination back to her old life,
for Uncle Billy's sister had left the house in fear and she could
get no help--milking cows at cold dawns, helping in the kitchen,
spinning flax and wool, and weaving them into rough garments for
her father and step-mother and Bub, and in time, she thought
grimly--for herself: for not another cent for her maintenance
could now come from John Hale, even though he claimed it was hers-
-even though it was in truth her own. Never, but once, had Hale's
name been mentioned in the cabin--never, but once, had her father
referred to the testimony that she had given against Rufe
Tolliver, for the old man put upon Hale the fact that the sheriff
had sneaked into his house when he was away and had taken June to
Court, and that was the crowning touch of bitterness in his
growing hatred for the captain of the guard of whom he had once
been so fond.
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