Part 5 (1/2)
Leaning half out of his saddle, the mounted man listened, believed--and acted. Leaving Ca.s.sidy behind, he spurred his bay to a walloping gallop, aiming for the northern confines of the park, and as he travelled, he spread the alarm, gathering up for the man-chase such recruits as two park labourers and a park woodchopper and an automobile party of young men, so that presently there was quite a good-sized search party abroad in the woodland.
As for Judson Green, he played his hand out alone. Dripping wet with rain and his own sweat, he emerged from a mile-long thicket upon an asphalted drive that wound interminably under the shouldering ledges of big gray rocks and among tall elms and oaks. Already he had lost his sense of direction, but he ran along the deserted road doggedly, pausing occasionally to peer among the tree trunks for a sight of his man. He thought, once, he heard a shot, but couldn't be sure, the sound seemed so m.u.f.fled and so far away.
On a venture he left the road, taking to the woods again. He was working through a small green tangle when something caught at his right foot and he was spun about so that he faced the opposite direction from the one in which he had been travelling, and went down upon his hands and knees, almost touching with his head a big licheny boulder, half buried in vines and gra.s.s. Glancing back, he saw what had twisted him off his course and thrown him down--it was an upward-aimed tree-root, stubby and pointed, which had thrust itself through his right shoe lacing. The low shoe had been pulled half-way off his foot, and, under the strain, the silken lace had broken short off.
In the act of raising himself upright, he had straightened to a half-crouch when, just beyond the big green-masked boulder, he saw that which held him petrified in his pose. There, in a huddle among the shrubs, where he would never have seen it except for the chance s.h.i.+fting-about of his gaze, was the body of a man lying face downward the head hidden under the upturned skirts of the coat.
He went to it and turned it over. It was the body of the man he sought--Maxwell--and there was a revolver in Maxwell's right hand and a hole in Maxwell's right temple, and Maxwell was dead.
Judson Green stood up and waited for the other pursuers. He had won a hundred-dollar bet and Ca.s.sidy had lost a thousand-dollar reward.
CHAPTER III
BOYS WILL BE BOYS
When Judge Priest, on this particular morning, came puffing into his chambers at the courthouse, looking, with his broad beam and in his costume of flappy, loose white ducks, a good deal like an old-fas.h.i.+oned full-rigger with all sails set, his black shadow, Jeff Poindexter, had already finished the job of putting the quarters to rights for the day.
The cedar water bucket had been properly replenished; the upper f.l.a.n.g.e of a fifteen-cent chunk of ice protruded above the rim of the bucket; and alongside, on the appointed nail, hung the gourd dipper that the master always used. The floor had been swept, except, of course, in the corners and underneath things; there were evidences, in streaky scrolls of fine grit particles upon various flat surfaces, that a dusting brush had been more or less sparingly employed. A spray of trumpet flowers, plucked from the vine that grew outside the window, had been draped over the framed steel engraving of President Davis and his Cabinet upon the wall; and on the top of the big square desk in the middle of the room, where a small section of cleared green-blotter s.p.a.ce formed an oasis in a dry and arid desert of cluttered law journals and dusty doc.u.ments, the morning's mail rested in a little heap.
Having placed his old cotton umbrella in a corner, having removed his coat and hung it upon a peg behind the hall door, and having seen to it that a palm-leaf fan was in arm's reach should he require it, the Judge, in his billowy white s.h.i.+rt, sat down at his desk and gave his attention to his letters. There was an invitation from the Hylan B. Gracey Camp of Confederate Veterans of Eddyburg, asking him to deliver the chief oration at the annual reunion, to be held at Mineral Springs on the twelfth day of the following month; an official notice from the clerk of the Court of Appeals concerning the affirmation of a judgment that had been handed down by Judge Priest at the preceding term of his own court; a bill for five pounds of a special brand of smoking tobacco; a notice of a lodge meeting--altogether quite a sizable batch of mail.
At the bottom of the pile he came upon a long envelope addressed to him by his t.i.tle, instead of by his name, and bearing on its upper right-hand corner several foreign-looking stamps; they were British stamps, he saw, on closer examination.
To the best of his recollection it had been a good long time since Judge Priest had had a communication by post from overseas. He adjusted his steel-bowed spectacles, ripped the wrapper with care and shook out the contents. There appeared to be several inclosures; in fact, there were several--a sheaf of printed forms, a doc.u.ment with seals attached, and a letter that covered two sheets of paper with typewritten lines. To the letter the recipient gave consideration first. Before he reached the end of the opening paragraph he uttered a profound grunt of surprise; his reading of the rest was frequently punctuated by small exclamations, his face meantime puckering up in interested lines. At the conclusion, when he came to the signature, he indulged himself in a soft low whistle. He read the letter all through again, and after that he examined the forms and the doc.u.ment which had accompanied it.
Chuckling under his breath, he wriggled himself free from the snug embrace of his chair arms and waddled out of his own office and down the long bare empty hall to the office of Sheriff Giles Birdsong. Within, that competent functionary, Deputy Sheriff Breck Quarles, sat at ease in his s.h.i.+rt sleeves, engaged, with the smaller blade of his pocketknife, in performing upon his finger nails an operation that combined the fine deftness of the manicure with the less delicate art of the farrier. At the sight of the Judge in the open doorway he hastily withdrew from a tabletop, where they rested, a pair of long thin legs, and rose.
”Mornin', Breck,” said Judge Priest to the other's salutation. ”No, thank you, son, I won't come in; but I've got a little job fur you. I wisht, ef you ain't too busy, that you'd step down the street and see ef you can't find Peep O'Day fur me and fetch him back here with you. It won't take you long, will it?”
”No, suh--not very.” Mr. Quarles reached for his hat and snuggled his shoulder holster back inside his unb.u.t.toned waistcoat. ”He'll most likely be down round Gafford's stable. Whut's Old Peep been doin', Judge--gettin' himself in contempt of court or somethin'?” He grinned, asking the question with the air of one making a little joke.
”No,” vouchsafed the Judge; ”he ain't done nothin'. But he's about to have somethin' of a highly onusual nature done to him. You jest tell him I'm wishful to see him right away--that'll be sufficient, I reckin.”
Without making further explanation, Judge Priest returned to his chambers and for the third time read the letter from foreign parts.
Court was not in session, and the hour was early and the weather was hot; n.o.body interrupted him. Perhaps fifteen minutes pa.s.sed. Mr. Quarles poked his head in at the door.
”I found him, suh,” the deputy stated. ”He's outside here in the hall.”
”Much obliged to you, son,” said Judge Priest. ”Send him on in, will you, please?”
The head was withdrawn; its owner lingered out of sight of His Honour, but within earshot. It was hard to figure the presiding judge of the First Judicial District of the state of Kentucky as having business with Peep O'Day; and, though Mr. Quarles was no eavesdropper, still he felt a pardonable curiosity in whatsoever might transpire. As he feigned an absorbed interest in a tax notice, which was pasted on a blackboard just outside the office door, there entered the presence of the Judge a man who seemingly was but a few years younger than the Judge himself--a man who looked to be somewhere between sixty-five and seventy. There is a look that you may have seen in the eyes of ownerless but well-intentioned dogs--dogs that, expecting kicks as their daily portion, are humbly grateful for kind words and stray bones; dogs that are fairly yearning to be adopted by somebody--by anybody--being prepared to give to such a benefactor a most faithful doglike devotion in return.
This look, which is fairly common among masterless and homeless dogs, is rare among humans; still, once in a while you do find it there too. The man who now timidly shuffled himself across the threshold of Judge Priest's office had such a look out of his eyes. He had a long, simple face, partly inclosed in grey whiskers. Four dollars would have been a sufficient price to pay for the garments he stood in, including the wrecked hat he held in his hands and the broken, misshaped shoes on his feet. A purchaser who gave more than four dollars for the whole in its present state of decrepitude would have been but a poor hand at bargaining.
The man who wore this outfit coughed in an embarra.s.sed fas.h.i.+on and halted, fumbling his ruinous hat in his hands.
”Howdy do?” said Judge Priest heartily. ”Come in!”
The other diffidently advanced himself a yard or two.