The Prodigal Judge
CHAPTER XXVII
PRISONERS
In the face of Betty's indignant protest Slosson and the man named Bunker
climbed into the carriage.
"Don't you be scared, ma'am," said the tavernkeeper, who smelt strongly of
whisky. "I wouldn't lift my hand ag'in no good looking female except in
kindness."
"How dare you stop my carriage?" cried Betty, with a very genuine anger which
for the moment dominated all her other emotions. She struggled to her feet, but
Slosson put out a heavy hand and thrust her back.
"There now," he urged soothingly. "Why make a fuss? We ain't going to harm
you; we wouldn't for no sum of money. Drive on, Jim—drive like hell!" This last
was addressed to the man who had taken George's place on the box, where a fourth
member of Slosson's band had forced the coachman down into the narrow space
between the seat and dashboard, and was holding a pistol to his head while he
sternly enjoined silence.
With a word to the horses Jim swung about and the carriage rolled off through
the night at a breakneck' pace. Betty's shaking hands drew Hannibal closer to
her side as she felt the surge of her terrors rise within her. Who were these
men—where could they be taking her—and for what purpose? The events of the past
weeks linked themselves in tragic sequence in her mind.
What was it she had to fear? Was it Tom who had inspired Norton's murder? Was
it Tom for whom these men were acting? Tom who would profit greatly by her
disappearance or death.
They swept past the entrance at Belle Plain, past a break in the wall of the
forest where the pale light of stars showed Betty the corn-field she and
Hannibal had but lately crossed, and then on into pitchy darkness again. She
clung to the desperate hope that they might meet some one on the road, when she
could cry out and give the alarm. She held herself in readiness for this, but
there was only the steady pounding of the big bays as Jim with voice and whip
urged them forward. At last he abruptly checked them, and Bunker and Slosson
sprang from their seats.
"Get down, ma'am!" said the latter.
"Where are you taking me?" asked Betty, in a voice that shook in spite of her
efforts to control it.
"You must hurry, ma'am," urged Slosson impatiently.
"I won't move until I know where you intend taking me!" said Betty, "If I am
to die—"
Mr. Slosson laughed loudly and indulgently.
"You ain't. If you don't want to walk, I'm man enough fo' to tote you. We
ain't far to go, and I've tackled jobs I'd a heap less heart fo' in my time," he
concluded gallantly. From the opposite side of the carriage Bunker swore
nervously. He desired to know if they were to stand there talking all night.
"Shut your filthy mouth, Bunker, and see you keep tight hold of that young
rip-staver," said Slosson. "He's a perfect eel—I've had dealings with him
afore!"
"You tried to kill my Uncle Bob—at the tavern, you and Captain Murrell. I
heard you, and I seen you drag him to the river!" cried Hannibal.
Slosson gave a start of astonishment at this.
"Why, ain't he hateful?" he exclaimed aghast. "See here, young feller, that's
no kind of a way fo' you to talk to a man who has riz his ten children!"
Again Bunker swore, while Jim told Slosson to make haste. This popular clamor
served to recall the tavernkeeper to a sense of duty.
"Ma'am, like I should tote you, or will you walk?" he inquired, and reaching
out his hand took hold of Betty.
"I'll walk," said the girl quickly, shrinking from the contact.
"Keep close at my heels. Bunker, you tuck along after her with the boy."
"What about this nigger?" asked the fourth man.
"Fetch him along with us," said Slosson. They turned from the road while he
was speaking and entered a narrow path that led off through the woods,
apparently in the direction of the river. A moment later Betty heard the
carriage drive away. They went onward in silence for a little time, then Slosson
spoke over his shoulder.
"Yes, ma'am, I've riz ten children but none of 'em was like him—I trained 'em
up to the minute!" Mr. Slosson seemed to have passed completely under the spell
of his domestic recollections, for he continued with just a touch of reminiscent
sadness in his tone. "There was all told four Mrs. Slossons: two of 'em was
South Carolinians, one was from Georgia, and the last was a widow lady out of
east Tennessee. She'd buried three husbands and I figured we could start
perfectly even."
The intrinsic fairness of this start made its strong appeal. Mr. Slosson
dwelt upon it with satisfaction. "She had three to her credit, I had three to
mine; neither could crow none over the other."
As they stumbled forward through the thick obscurity he continued his
personal revelations, the present enterprise having roused whatever there was of
sentiment slumbering in his soul. At last they came out on a wide bayou; a white
mist hung above it, and on the low shore leaf and branch were dripping with the
night dews. Keeping close to the water's edge Slosson led the way to a point
where a skiff was drawn up on the bank.
"Step in, ma'am," he said, when he had launched it.
"I will go no farther!" said Betty in desperation. She felt an overmastering
fear, the full horror of the unknown lay hold of her, and she gave a piercing
cry for help. Slosson swung about on his heel and seized her. For a moment she
struggled to escape, but the man's big hands pinioned her.
"No more of that!" he warned, then he recovered himself and laughed. "You
could yell till you was black in the face, ma'am, and there'd be no one to hear
you."
"Where are you taking me?" and Betty's voice faltered between the sudden sobs
that choked her.
"Just across to George Hicks's."
"For what purpose?"
"You'll know in plenty of time." And Slosson leered at her through the
darkness.
"Hannibal is to go with me?" asked Betty tremulously.
"Sure!" agreed Slosson affably. "Your nigger, too—quite a party."
Betty stepped into the skiff. She felt her hopes quicken—she was thinking of
Bess; whatever the girl's motives, she had wished her to escape. She would wish
it now more than ever since the very thing she had striven to prevent had
happened. Slosson seated himself and took up the oars, Bunker followed with
Hannibal and they pushed off. No word was spoken until they disembarked on the
opposite shore, when Slosson addressed Bunker. "I reckon I can manage that young
rip-staver, you go back after Sherrod and the nigger," he said.
He conducted his captives up the bank and they entered a clearing. Looking
across this Betty saw where a cabin window framed a single square of light. They
advanced toward this and presently the dark outline of the cabin itself became
distinguishable. A moment later Slosson paused, a door yielded to his hand, and
Betty and the boy were thrust into the room where Murrell had held his
conference with Fentress and Ware. The two women were now its only occupants and
the mother, gross and shapeless, turned an expressionless face on the intruders;
but the daughter shrank into the shadow, her burning glance fixed on Betty.
"Here's yo' guests, old lady!" said Mr. Slosson. Mrs. Hicks rose from the
three-legged stool on which she was sitting.
"Hand me the candle, Bess," she ordered.
At one side of the room was a steep flight of stairs which gave access to the
loft overhead. Mrs. Hicks, by a gesture, signified that Betty and Hannibal were
to ascend these stairs; they did so and found themselves on a narrow landing
inclosed by a partition of rough planks, this partition was pierced by a low
door. Mrs. Hicks, who had followed close at their heels, handed the candle to
Betty.
"In yonder!" she said briefly, nodding toward the door.
"Wait!" cried Betty in a whisper.
"No," said the woman with an almost masculine surliness of tone. "I got
nothing to say." She pushed them into the attic, and, closing the door, fastened
it with a stout wooden bar.
Beyond that door, which seemed to have closed on every hope, Betty held the
tallow dip aloft, and by its uncertain and flickering light surveyed her prison.
The briefest glance sufficed. The room contained two shakedown beds and a stool,
there was a window in the gable, but a piece of heavy plank was spiked before
it.
"Miss Betty, don't you be scared," whispered Hannibal. "When the judge hears
we're gone, him and Mr. Mahaffy will try to find us. They'll go right off to
Belle Plain—the judge is always wanting to do that, only Mr. Mahaffy never lets
him but now he won't be able to stop him."
"Oh, Hannibal, Hannibal, what can he do there—what can any one do there?" And
a dead pallor overspread the girl's face. To speak of the blind groping of her
friends but served to fix the horror of their situation in her mind.
"I don't know, Miss Betty, but the judge is always thinking of things to do;
seems like they was mostly things no one else would ever think of."
Betty had placed the candle on the stool and seated herself on one of the
beds. There was the murmur of voices in the room below; she wondered if her fate
was under consideration and what that fate was to be. Hannibal, who had been
examining the window, returned to her side.
"Miss Betty, if we could just get out of this loft we could steal their skiff
and row down to the river; I reckon they got just the one boat; the only way
they could get to us would be to swim out, and if they done that we could pound
'em over the head with the oars the least little thing sinks you when you're in
the water." But this murderous fancy of his failed to interest Betty.
Presently they heard Sherrod and Bunker come up from the shore with George.
Slosson joined them and there was a brief discussion, then an interval of
silence, and the sound of voices again as the three white men moved back across
the field in the direction of the bayou. There succeeded a period of utter
stillness, both in the cabin and in the clearing, a somber hush that plunged
Betty yet deeper in despair. Wild thoughts assailed her, thoughts against which
she struggled with all the strength of her will.
In that hour of stress Hannibal was sustained by his faith in the judge. He
saw his patron's powerful and picturesque intelligence applied to solving the
mystery of their disappearance from Belle Plain; it was inconceivable that this
could prove otherwise than disastrous to Mr. Slosson and he endeavored to share
the confidence he was feeling with Betty, but there was something so forced and
unnatural in the girl's voice and manner when she discussed his conjectures that
he quickly fell into an awed silence. At last, and it must have been some time
after midnight, troubled slumbers claimed him. No moment of forgetfulness came
to Betty. She was waiting for what—she did not know! The candle burnt lower and
lower and finally went out and she was left in darkness, but again she was
conscious of sounds from the room below. At first it was only a word or a
sentence, then the guarded speech became a steady monotone that ran deep into
the night; eventually this ceased and Betty fancied she heard sobs.
At length points of light began to show through chinks in the logs. Hannibal
roused and sat up, rubbing his eyes with the backs of his hands.
"Wasn't you able to sleep none?" he inquired. Betty shook her head. He looked
at her with an expression of troubled concern. "How soon do you reckon the judge
will know?" he asked.
"Very soon now, dear." Hannibal was greatly consoled by this opinion.
"Miss Betty, he will love to find us—"
"Hark! What was that?" for Betty had caught the distant splash of oars.
Hannibal found a chink in the logs through which by dint of much squinting he
secured a partial view of the bayou. "They're fetching up a keel boat to the
shore, Miss Betty—it's a whooper!" he announced. Betty's heart sank, she never
doubted the purpose for which that boat was brought into the bayou, or that it
nearly concerned herself.
Half an hour later Mrs. Hicks appeared with their breakfast. It was in vain
that Betty attempted to engage her in conversation, either she cherished some
personal feeling of dislike for her prisoner, or else the situation in which she
herself was placed had little to recommend it, even to her dull mind, and her
dissatisfaction was expressed in her attitude toward the girl.
Betty passed the long hours of morning in dreary speculation concerning what
was happening at Belle Plain. In the end she realized that the day could go by
and her absence occasion no alarm; Steve might reasonably suppose George had
driven her into Raleigh or to the Bowens' and that she had kept the carriage.
Finally all her hope centered on Judge Price. He would expect Hannibal during
the morning, perhaps when the boy did not arrive he would be tempted to go out
to Belle Plain to discover the reason of his nonappearance. She wondered what
theories would offer themselves to his ingenious mind, for she sensed something
of that indomitable energy which in the face of rebuffs and laughter carried him
into the thick of every sensation.
At noon, Mrs. Hicks, as sullen as in the morning, brought them their dinner.
She had scarcely quitted the loft when a shrill whistle pierced the silence that
hung above the clearing. It was twice repeated, and the two women were heard to
go from the cabin. Perhaps half an hour elapsed, then a step became audible on
the packed earth of the dooryard; some one entered the room below and began to
ascend the narrow stairs, and Betty's fingers closed convulsively about
Hannibal's. This was neither Mrs. Hicks nor her daughter, nor Slosson with his
clumsy shuffle. There was a brief pause when the landing was reached, but it was
only momentary; a hand lifted the bar, the door was thrown open, and its space
framed the figure of a man. It was John Murrell.
Standing there he regarded Betty in silence, but a deep-seated fire glowed in
his sunken eyes. The sense of possession was raging through him, his temples
throbbed, a fever stirred his blood. Love, such as it was, he undoubtedly felt
for her and even his giant project with all its monstrous ramifications was lost
sight of for the moment. She was the inspiration for it all, the goal and reward
toward which he struggled.
"Betty!" the single word fell softly from his lips. He stepped into the room,
closing the door as he did so.
The girl's eyes were dilating with a mute horror, for by some swift intuitive
process of the mind, which asked nothing of the logic of events, but dealt only
with conclusions, Murrell stood revealed as Norton's murderer. Perhaps he read
her thoughts, but he had lived in his degenerate ambitions until the common
judgments or the understanding of them no longer existed for him. That Betty had
loved Norton seemed inconsequential even; it was a memory to be swept away by
the force of his greater passion. So he watched her smilingly, but back of the
smile was the menace of unleashed impulse.
"Can't you find some word of welcome for me, Betty?" he asked at length,
still softly, still with something of entreaty in his tone.
"Then it was you—not Tom—who had me brought here!" She could have thanked God
had it been Tom, whose hate was not to be feared as she feared this man's love.
"Tom—no!" and Murrell laughed. "You didn't think I'd give you up? I am
standing with a halter, about my neck, and all for your sake—who'd risk as much
for love of you?" he seemed to expand with savage pride that this was so, and
took a step toward her.
"Don't come near me!" cried Betty. Her eyes blazed, and she looked at him
with' loathing.
"You'll learn to be kinder," he exulted. "You wouldn't see me at Belle Plain;
what was left for me but to have you brought here?" While Murrell was speaking,
the signal that had told of his own presence on the opposite shore of the bayou
was heard again. This served to arrest his attention. A look of uncertainty
passed over his face, then he made an impatient gesture as if he dismissed some
thought that had forced itself upon him, and turned to Betty.
"You don't ask what my purpose is where you are concerned; have you no
curiosity on that score?" She endeavored to meet his glance with a glance as
resolute, then her eyes sought the boy's upturned face. "I am going to send you
down river, Betty. Later I shall join you in New Orleans, and when I leave the
country you shall go with me—"
"Never!" gasped Betty.
"As my wife, or however you choose to call it. I'll teach you what a man's
love is like," he boasted, and extended his hand. Betty shrank from him, and his
hand fell at his side. He looked at her steadily out of his deep-sunk eyes in
which blazed the fires of his passion, and as he looked, her face paled and
flushed by turns. "You may learn to be kind to me, Betty," he said. "You may
find it will be worth your while." Betty made no answer, she only gathered
Hannibal closer to her side. "Why not accept what I have to offer, Betty?" again
he went nearer her, and again she shrank from him, but the madness of his mood
was in the ascendant. He seized her and drew her to him. She struggled to free
herself, but his fingers tightened about hers.
"Let me go!" she panted. He laughed his cool laugh of triumph.
"Let you go—ask me anything but that, Betty! Have you no reward for patience
such as mine? A whole summer has passed since I saw you first—"
There was the noisy shuffling of feet on the stairs, and releasing Betty,
Murrell swung about on his heel and faced the door. It was pushed open an inch
at a time by a not too confident hand and Mr. Slosson thus guardedly presented
himself to the eye of his chief, whom he beckoned from the room.
"Well?" said Murrell, when they stood together on the landing.
"Just come across to the keel boat!" and Slosson led the way down the stairs
and from the house.
"Damn you, Joe; you might have waited!" observed the outlaw. Slosson gave him
a hardened grin. They crossed the clearing and boarded the keel boat which
rested against the bank. As they did so, the cabin in the stern gave up a
shattered presence in the shape of Tom Ware. Murrell started violently. "I
thought you were hanging out in Memphis, Tom?" he said, and his brow darkened
as, sinister and forbidding, he stepped closer to the planter. Ware did not
answer at once, but looked at Murrell out of heavy bloodshot eyes, his face
pinched and ghastly. At last he said, speaking with visible effort,
"I stayed in Memphis until five o'clock this morning."
"Damn your early hours!" roared Murrell. "What are you doing here? I suppose
you've been showing that dead face of yours about the neighborhood—why didn't
you stay at Belle Plain since you couldn't keep away?"
"I haven't been near Belle Plain, I came here instead. How am I going to meet
people and answer questions?" His teeth were chattering. "Is it known she's
missing?" he added.
"Hicks raised the alarm the first thing this morning, according to the
instructions I'd given him."
"Yes?" gasped Ware. He was dripping from every pore and the sickly color came
and went on his unshaven cheeks. Murrell dropped a heavy hand on his shoulder.
"You haven't been at Belle Plain, you say, but has any one seen you on the
road this morning?"
"No one, John," cried Ware, panting between each word. There was a moment's
pause and Ware spoke again. "What are they doing at Belle Plain?" he demanded in
a whisper. Murrell's lips curled.
"I understand there is talk of suicide," he said.
"Good!" cried Ware.
"They are dragging the bayou down below the house. It looks as though you
were going to reap the rewards of the excellent management you have given her
estate. They have been trying to find you in Memphis, so the sooner you show
yourself the better," he concluded significantly.
"You are sure you have her safe, John, no chance of discovery? For God's
sake, get her away from here as soon as you can, it's an awful risk you run!"
"She'll be sent down river to-night," said Murrell.
"Captain," began Slosson who up to this had taken no part in the
conversation. "When are you going to cross to t'other side of the bayou?"
"Soon," replied Murrell. Slosson laughed.
"I didn't know but you'd clean forgot the Clan's business. I want to ask
another question—but first I want to say that no one thinks higher or more
frequent of the ladies than just me, I'm genuinely fond of 'em and I've never
lifted my hand ag'in' 'em except in kindness." Mr. Slosson looked at Ware with
an exceedingly virtuous expression of countenance. He continued. "Yo' orders are
that we're to slip out of this a little afore midnight, but suppose there's a
hitch—here's the lady knowing what she knows and here's the boy knowing what he
knows."
"There can be no hitch," rasped out Murrell arrogantly.
"I never knew a speculation that couldn't go wrong; and by rights we should
have got away last night."
"Well, whose fault is it you didn't?" demanded Murrell.
"In a manner it were mine, but the ark got on a sandbank as we were fetching
it in and it took us the whole damn night to get clear."
"Well?" prompted Murrell, with a sullen frown.
"Suppose they get shut of that notion of theirs that the lady's done drowned
herself, suppose they take to watching the river? Or suppose the whole damn
bottom drops out of this deal? What then? Why, I'll tell you what then—the lady,
good looking as she is, knows enough to make west Tennessee mighty onhealthy for
some of us. I say suppose it's a flash in the pan and you have to crowd the
distance in between you and this part of the world, you can't tell me you'll
have any use for her then." Slosson paused impressively. "And here's Mr. Ware
feeling bad, feeling like hell," he resumed. "Him and me don't want to be left
in no trap with you gone God only knows where."
"I'll send a man to take charge of the keel boat. I can't risk any more of
your bungling, Joe."
"That's all right, but you don't answer my question," persisted Slosson, with
admirable tenacity of purpose.
"What is your question, Joe?"
"A lot can happen between this and midnight—"
"If things go wrong with us there'll be a blaze at the head of the bayou;
does that satisfy you?"
"And what then?"
Murrell hesitated.
"What about the girl?" insisted Slosson, dragging him back to the point at
issue between them. "As a man I wouldn't lift my hand ag'in' no good looking
woman except like I said—in kindness, but she can't be turned loose, she knows
too much. What's the word, Captain—you say it!" he urged. He made a gesture of
appeal to Ware.
"Look for the light; better still, look for the man I'll send." And with this
Murrell would have turned away, but Slosson detained him.
"Who'll he be?"
"Some fellow who knows the river."
"And if it's the light?" asked the tavern-keeper in a hoarse undertone. Again
he looked toward Ware, who, dry-lipped and ashen, was regarding him steadfastly.
Glance met glance, for a brief instant they looked deep into each other's eyes
and then the hand Slosson had rested on Murrell's shoulder dropped at his side.