The Prodigal Judge
CHAPTER VII
THE FIGHT AT SLOSSON'S TAVERN
Murrell had ridden out of the hills some hours back. He now faced the
flashing splendors of a June sunset, but along the eastern horizon the mountains
rose against a somber sky. Night was creeping into their fastnesses. Already
there was twilight in those cool valleys lying within the shadow of mighty
hills. A month and more had elapsed since Bob Yancy's trial. Just two days later
man and boy disappeared from Scratch Hill. This had served to rouse Murrell to
the need of immediate action, but he found, where Yancy was concerned, Scratch
Hill could keep a secret, while Crenshaw's mouth was closed on any word that
might throw light on the plans of his friend.
"It's plain to my mind, Captain, that Bladen will never get the boy. I reckon
Bob's gone into hiding with him," said the merchant, with spacious candor.
The fugitives had not gone into hiding, however; they had traversed the state
from east to west, and Murrell was soon on their trail and pressing forward in
pursuit. Reaching the mountains, he heard of them first as ten days ahead of him
and bound for west Tennessee, the ten days dwindled to a week, the week became
five days, the five days three; and now as he emerged from the last range of
hills he caught sight of them. They were half a mile distant perhaps, but he was
certain that the man and boy he saw pass about a turn in the road were the man
and boy he had been following for a month.
He was not mistaken. The man was Bob Yancy and the boy was Hannibal. Yancy
had acted with extraordinary decision. He had sold his few acres at Scratch Hill
for a lump sum to Crenshaw—it was to the latter's credit that the transaction
was one in which he could feel no real pride as a man of business—and just a day
later Yancy and the boy had quitted Scratch Hill in the gray dawn, and turned
their faces westward. Tennessee had become their objective point, since here was
a region to which they could fix a name, while the rest of the world was strange
to them. As they passed the turn in the road where Murrell had caught his first
sight of them, Yancy glanced back at the blue wall of the mountains where it lay
along the horizon.
"Well, Nevvy," he said, "we've put a heap of distance between us and old
Scratch Hill; all I can say is, if there's as much the other side of the Hill as
there is this side, the world's a monstrous big place fo' to ramble about in."
He carried his rifle and a heavy pack. Hannibal had a much smaller pack and his
old sporting rifle, burdens of which his Uncle Bob relieved him at brief
intervals.
For the past ten days their journey had been conducted in a leisurely
fashion. As Yancy said, they were seeing the world, and it was well to take a
good look at it while they had a chance. He was no longer fearful of pursuit and
his temperament asserted itself—the minimum of activity sufficed. Usually they
camped just where the night overtook them; now and then they varied this by
lodging at some tavern, for since there was money in his pocket, Yancy was
disposed to spend it. He could not conceive that it had any other possible use.
Suddenly out of the silence came the regular beat of hoofs. These grew nearer
and nearer, and at last when they were quite close, Yancy faced about. He
instantly recognized Murrell and dropped his rifle into the crook of his arm.
The act was instinctive, since there was no reason to believe that the captain
had the least interest in the boy. Smilingly Murrell reined in his horse.
"Why—Bob Yancy!" he cried, in apparent astonishment.
"Yes, sir—Bob Yancy. Does it happen you are looking fo' him, Captain?"
inquired Yancy.
"No—no, Bob. I'm on my way West. Shake hands." His manner was frank and
winning, and Yancy met it with an equal frankness.
"Well, sir, me and my nevvy are glad to meet some one we've knowed afore. The
world are a lonesome place once you get shut of yo'r own dooryard," he said.
Murrell slipped from his saddle and fell into step at Yancy's side as they moved
forward.
"They were mightily stirred up at the Cross Roads when I left, wondering what
had come of you," he observed.
"When did you quit there?" asked Yancy.
"About a fortnight ago," said Murrell. "Every one approves of your action in
this matter, Yancy," he went on.
"That's kind of them," responded Yancy, a little dryly. There was no reason
for it, but he was becoming distrustful of Murrell, and uneasy.
"Bladen's hurt himself by the stand he's taken it this matter," Murrell
added.
They went forward in silence, Yancy brooding and suspicious. For the last
mile or so their way had led through an unbroken forest, but a sudden turn in
the road brought them to the edge of an extensive clearing. Close to the road
were several buildings, but not a tree had been spared to shelter them and they
stood forth starkly, the completing touch to a civilization that was still in
its youth, unkempt, rather savage, and ruthlessly utilitarian. A sign, the work
of inexpert hands, announced the somewhat dingy structure of hewn logs that
stood nearest the roadside a tavern. There was a horse rack in front of it and a
trampled space. It was flanked by its several sheds and barns on one hand and a
woodpile on the other. Beyond the woodpile a rail fence inclosed a corn-field,
and beyond the barns and sheds a similar fence defined the bounds of a stumpy
pasture-lot.
From the door of the tavern the figure of a man emerged. Pausing by the horse
rack he surveyed the two men and boy, if not with indifference, at least with
apathy. Just above his head swung the sign with its legend,
"Slosson—Entertainment"; but if he were Slosson, one could take the last half of
the sign either as a poetic rhapsody on the part of the painter, or the yielding
to some meaningless convention, for in his person, Mr. Slosson suggested none of
those qualities of brain or heart that trenched upon the lighter amenities of
life. He was black-haired and bull-necked, and there was about him a certain
shagginess which a recent toilet performed at the horse trough had not served to
mitigate.
"Howdy?" he drawled.
"Howdy?" responded Mr. Yancy.
"Shall you stop here?" asked Murrell, sinking his voice. Yancy nodded. "Can
you put us up?" inquired Murrell, turning to the tavern-keeper.
"I reckon that's what I'm here for," said Slosson. Murrell glanced about the
empty yard. "Slack," observed Slosson languidly. "Yes, sir, slack's the only
name for it." It was understood he referred to the state of trade. He looked
from one to the other of the two men. As his eyes rested on Murrell, that
gentleman raised the first three fingers of his right hand. The gesture was ever
so little, yet it seemed to have a tonic effect on Mr. Slosson. What might have
developed into a smile had he not immediately suppressed it, twisted his bearded
lips as he made an answering movement. "Eph, come here, you!" Slosson raised his
voice. This call brought a half-grown black boy from about a corner of the
tavern, to whom Murrell relinquished his horse.
"Let's liquor," said the captain over his shoulder, moving off in the
direction of the bar.
"Come on, Nevvy!" said Yancy following, and they all entered the tavern.
"Well, here's to the best of good luck!" said Murrell, as he raised his glass
to his lips.
"Same here," responded Yancy. Murrell pulled out a roll of bills, one of
which he tossed on the bar. Then after a moment's hesitation he detached a
second bill from the roll and turned to Hannibal.
"Here, youngster—a present for you;" he said good-naturedly. Hannibal,
embarrassed by the unexpected gift, edged to his Uncle Bob's side.
"Ain't you-all got nothing to say to the gentleman?" asked Yancy.
"Thank you, sir," said the boy.
"That sounds a heap better. Let's see—why, if it ain't ten dollars—think of
that!" said Yancy, in surprise.
"Let's have another drink," suggested Murrell.
Presently Hannibal stole out into the yard. He still held the bill in his
hand, for he did not quite know how to dispose of his great wealth. After
debating this matter for a moment he knotted it carefully in one corner of his
handkerchief. But this did not quite suit him, for he untied the knot and looked
at the bill again, turning it over and over in his hand. Then he folded it
carefully into the smallest possible compass and once more tied a corner of his
handkerchief about it, this time with two knots instead of one; these he
afterward tested with his teeth.
"I 'low she won't come undone now!" he said, with satisfaction. He stowed the
handkerchief away in his trousers pocket, ramming it very tight with his fist.
He was much relieved when this was done, for wearing a care-free air he
sauntered across the yard and established himself on the top rail of the
corn-field fence.
The colored boy, armed with an ax, appeared at the woodpile and began to chop
in the desultory fashion of his race, pausing every few seconds to stare in the
direction of his white compatriot, who met his glance with reserve. Whereupon
Mr. Slosson's male domestic indulged in certain strange antics that were not
rightly any part of woodchopping. This yet further repelled Hannibal.
"The disgustin' chattel!" he muttered under his breath, quoting his Uncle
Bob, with whom, in theory at least, race feeling was strong. Yancy appeared at
the door of the bar and called to him, and as the boy slid from the fence and
ran toward him across the yard, the Scratch Hiller sauntered forth to meet him.
"I reckon it's all right, Nevvy," he said, "but we don't know nothing about
this here Captain Murrell—as he calls himself—though he seems a right clever
sort of gentleman; but we won't mention Belle Plain." With this caution he led
the way into the tavern and back through the bar to a low-ceilinged room where
Murrell and Slosson were already at table. It was intolerably hot, and there
lingered in the heavy atmosphere of the place stale and unappetizing odors. Only
Murrell attempted conversation and he was not encouraged; and presently silence
fell on the room except for the rattle of dishes and the buzzing of flies. When
they had finished, the stale odors and the heat drove them quickly into the bar
again, where for a little time Hannibal sat on Yancy's knee, by the door.
Presently he slipped down and stole out into the yard.
The June night was pulsing with life. Above him bats darted in short circling
flights. In the corn-field and pasture-lot the fireflies lifted from their
day-long sleep, showing pale points of light in the half darkness, while from
some distant pond or stagnant watercourse came the booming of frogs, presently
to swell into a resonant chorus. These were the summer night sounds he had known
as far back as his memory went.
In the tavern the three men were drinking—Murrell with the idea that the more
Yancy came under the influence of Slosson's corn whisky the easier his
speculation would be managed. Mr. Yancy on his part believed that if Murrell
went to bed reasonably drunk he would sleep late and give him the opportunity he
coveted, to quit the tavern unobserved at break of day. Gradually the ice of
silence which had held them mute at supper, thawed. At first it was the broken
lazy speech of men who were disposed to quiet, then the talk became brisk—a
steady stream of rather dreary gossip of horses and lands and negroes, of
speculations past and gone in these great staples.
Hannibal crossed to the corn-field. There, in the friendly gloom, he examined
his handkerchief and felt of the rolled-up bill. Then he made count of certain
silver and copper coins which he had in his other pocket. Satisfied that he had
sustained no loss, he again climbed to the top rail of the fence where he seated
himself with an elbow resting on one knee and his chin in the palm of his hand.
"I got ten dollars and seventy cents—yes, sir—and the clostest shooting rifle
I ever tossed to my shoulder." He seemed but small to have accomplished such a
feat. He meditated for a little space. "I reckon when we strike the settlements
again I should like to buy my Uncle Bob a present." With knitted brows he
considered what this should be, canvassing Yancy's needs. He had about decided
on a ring such as Captain Murrell was wearing, when he heard the shuffling of
bare feet over the ground and a voice spoke out of the darkness.
"When yo' get to feelin' like sleep, young boss, Mas'r Slosson he says I show
yo' to yo' chamber." It was Slosson's boy Eph.
"Did you-all happen to notice what they're doing in the tavern now?" asked
Hannibal.
"I low they're makin' a regular hog-killin' of it," said Eph smartly.
Hannibal descended from the fence.
"Yes, you can show me my chamber," he said, and his tone was severe. What a
white man did was not a matter for a black man to criticize. They went toward
the open door of the tavern. Mr. Slosson's corn whisky had already wrought a
marked transformation in the case of Slosson himself. His usually terse speech
was becoming diffuse and irrelevant, while vacant laughter issued from his lips.
Yancy was apparently unaffected by the good cheer of which he had partaken, but
Murrell's dark face was flushed. The Scratch Hiller's ability to carry his
liquor exceeded anything he had anticipated.
"You-all run along to bed, Nevvy," said Yancy, as Hannibal entered the room.
"I'll mighty soon follow you."
Eph secured a tin candle-stick with a half-burnt candle in it and led the way
into the passage back of the bar.
"Mas'r Slosson's jus' mo' than layin' back!" he said, as he closed the door
after them.
"I reckon you-all will lay back, too, when you get growed up," retorted
Hannibal.
"No, sir, I won't. White folks won't let a nigger lay back. Onliest time a
nigger sees co'n whisky's when he's totin' it fo' some one else."
"I reckon a nigger's fool enough without corn whisky," said Hannibal. They
mounted a flight of stairs and passed down a narrow hall. This brought them to
the back of the building, and Eph pushed open the door on his right.
"This heah's yo' chamber," he said, and preceding his companion into the
room, placed the candle on a chair.
"Well—I low I clean forgot something!" cried Hannibal.
"If it's yo' bundle and yo' gun, I done fotched 'em up heah and laid 'em on
yo' bed," said Eph, preparing' to withdraw.
"I certainly am obliged to you," said Hannibal, and with a good night, Eph
retired, closing the door after him, and the boy heard the patter of his bare
feet as he scuttled down the hall.
The moon was rising and Hannibal went to the open window and glanced out. His
room overlooked the back yard of the inn and a neglected truck patch. Starting
from a point beyond the truck patch and leading straight away to the woodland
beyond was a fenced lane, with the corn-field and the pasture-lot on either
hand. Immediately below his window was the steeply slanting roof of a shed. For
a moment he considered the night, not unaffected by its beauty, then, turning
from the window, he moved his bundle and rifle to the foot of the bed, where
they would be out of his way, kicked off his trousers, blew out the candle and
lay down. The gossip of the men in the bar ran like a whisper through the house,
and with it came frequent bursts of noisy laughter. Listening for these sounds
the boy dozed off.
Yancy had become more and more convinced as the evening passed that Murrell
was bent on getting him drunk, and suspicion mounted darkly to his brain. He
felt certain that he was Bladen's agent. Now, Mr. Yancy took an innocent pride
in his ability to "cool off liquor." Perhaps it was some heritage from a well
living ancestry that had hardened its head with Port and Madeira in the days
when the Yancys owned their acres and their slaves. Be that as it may, he was
equal to the task he had set himself. He saw with satisfaction the flush mount
to Murrell's swarthy cheeks, and felt that the limit of his capacity was being
reached. Mr. Slosson had become a sort of Greek chorus. He anticipated all the
possible phases of drunkenness that awaited his companions. He went from silence
to noisy mirth, when his unmeaning laughter rang through the house; he told long
witless stories as he leaned against the bar; he became melancholy and described
the loss of his wife five years before. From melancholy he passed to sullenness
and seemed ready to fasten a quarrel on Yancy, but the latter deftly evaded any
such issue.
"What you-all want is another drink," he said affably. "With all you been
through you need a tonic, so shove along that extract of cornshucks and
molasses!"
"I'm a rip-staver," said Slosson thickly. "But I've knowed enough sorrow to
kill a horse."
"You have that look. Captain, will you join us?" asked Yancy. Murrell shook
his head, but he made a significant gesture to Slosson as Yancy drained his
glass.
"Have a drink with me!" cried Slosson, giving way to drunken laughter.
"Don't you reckon you'll spite yo' appetite fo' breakfast, neighbor?"
suggested Yancy.
"Do you mean you won't drink with me?" roared Slosson.
"The captain's dropped out and I 'low it's about time fo' these here
festivities to come to an end. I'm thinking some of going to bed myself," said
Yancy. He kept his eyes fixed on Murrell. He realized that if the latter could
prevent it he was not to leave the bar. Murrell stood between him and the door;
more than this, he stood between him and his rifle, which leaned against the
wall in the far corner of the room. Slosson roared out a protest to his words.
"That's all right, neighbor," retorted Yancy over his shoulder, "but I'm going
to bed." He never shifted his glance from Murrell's face. Scowling now, the
captain's eyes blazed back their challenge as he thrust his right hand under his
coat. "Fair play—I don't know who you are, but I know what you want!" said
Yancy, the light in his frank gray eyes deepening. Murrell laughed and took a
forward step. At the same moment Slosson snatched up a heavy club from back of
the bar and dealt Yancy a murderous blow. A single startled cry escaped the
Scratch Hitler; he struck out wildly as he lurched toward Murrell, who drew his
knife and drove it into his shoulder.
Groping wildly, Yancy reached his rifle and faced about. His scalp lay open
where Slosson's treacherous blow had fallen and his face was covered with blood;
even as his fingers stiffened they found the hammer, but Murrell, springing
forward, kicked the gun out of his hands. Dashing the blood from his eyes, Yancy
threw himself on Murrell. Then, as they staggered to and fro, Yancy dully bent
on strangling his enemy, Slosson—whom the sight of blood had wonderfully
sobered—rushed out from the bar and let loose a perfect torrent of blows with
his club. Murrell felt the fingers that gripped him grow weak, and Yancy dropped
heavily to the floor.
How long the boy slept he never knew, but he awoke with a start and a
confused sense of things. He seemed to have heard a cry for help. But the tavern
was very silent now. The distant murmur of voices and the shouts of laughter had
ceased. He lifted himself up on his elbow and glanced from the window. The
heavens were pale and gray. It was evidently very late, probably long after
midnight but where was his Uncle Bob?
He sank back on his pillow intent and listening. What he had heard, what he
still expected to hear, he could not have told, but he was sure he had been
roused by a cry of some sort. A chilling terror that gripped him fast and would
not let him go, mounted to his brain. Once he thought he heard cautious steps
beyond his door. He could not be certain, yet he imagined the bull-necked
landlord standing with his ear to some crack seeking to determine whether or not
he slept. His thin little body grew rigid and a cold sweat started from him. He
momentarily expected the latch to be lifted, then in the heavy silence he caught
the sound of some stealthy movement beyond the lath and plaster partition, and
an instant later an audible footfall. He heard the boards creak and give, as the
person who had been standing before his door passed down the hall, down the
stairs, and to the floor below.
Limp and shivering, he drew his scanty covering tight about him. In the
silence that succeeded, he once more became aware of the tireless chorus of the
frogs, the hooting of the owls, and the melancholy and oft-repeated call of the
whippoorwill. But where was his Uncle Bob? Why didn't he come to bed? And whose
was that cry for help he had heard? Memories of idle tales of men foully dealt
with in these lonely taverns, of murderous landlords, and mysterious guests who
were in league with them, flashed through his mind.
Murrell had followed them for this—and had killed his Uncle Bob, and he would
be sent back to Bladen! The law had said that Bladen could have him and that his
Uncle Bob must give him up. The law put men in prison—it hanged them
sometimes—his Uncle Bob had told him all about it—by the neck with ropes until
they were dead! Maybe they wouldn't send him back; maybe they would do with him
what they had already done with his Uncle Bob; he wanted the open air, the earth
under his feet, and the sky over his head. The four walls stifled him. He was
not afraid of the night, he could run and hide in it—there were the woods and
fields where he would be safe.
He slid from the bed, and for a long moment stood cold and shaking, his every
sense on the alert. With infinite caution he got into his trousers and again
paused to listen, since he feared his least movement might betray him.
Reassured, he picked up his battered hat from the floor and inch by inch crept
across the squeaking boards to the window. When the window was reached he paused
once more to listen, but the quiet that was everywhere throughout the house gave
him confidence. He straddled the low sill, and putting out his hand gripped the
stock of his rifle and drew that ancient weapon toward him. Next he secured his
pack, and was ready for flight.
Encumbered by his belongings, but with no mind to sacrifice them, he stepped
out upon the shed and made his way down the slant of the roof to the eaves. He
tossed his bundle to the ground and going down on his knees lowered his rifle,
letting the muzzle fall lightly against the side of the shed as it left his
hand, then he lay flat on his stomach and, feet first, wriggled out into space.
When he could no longer preserve his balance, he gave himself a shove away from
the eaves and dropped clear of the building.
As he recovered himself he was sure he heard a door open and close, and threw
himself prone on the ground, where the black shadow cast by the tavern hid him.
At the same moment two dark figures came from about a corner of the building. He
could just distinguish that they carried some heavy burden between them and that
they staggered as they moved. He heard Slosson curse drunkenly, and a whispered
word from Murrell. The two men slowly crossed the truck patch, and the boy's
glance followed them, his eyes starting from his head. Just at the mouth of the
lane they paused and put down their burden; a few words spoken in a whisper
passed between them and they began to drag some dark thing down the lane, their
backs bent, their heads bowed and the thing they dragged bumping over the uneven
ground.
They passed out of sight, and breathless and palsied, Hannibal crept about a
corner of the tavern. He must be sure! The door of the bar stood open; the lamps
were still burning, and the upturned chairs and a broken table told of the
struggle that had taken place there. The boy rested his hand on the top step as
he stared fearfully into the room. His palm came away with a great crimson
splotch. But he was not satisfied yet. He must be sure—sure! He passed around
the building as the men had done and crossed the truck patch to the mouth of the
lane. Here he slid through the fence into the corn-field, and, well sheltered,
worked his way down the rows. Presently he heard a distant sound—a splash—surely
it was a splash—.
A little later the men came up the lane, to disappear in the direction of the
tavern. Hannibal peered after them. His very terrors, while they wrenched and
tortured him, gave him a desperate kind of courage. As the gloom hid the two
men, he started forward again; he must know the meaning of that sound—that
splash, if it was a splash. He reached the end of the cornfield, climbed the
fence, and entered a deadening of slashed and mutilated timber. In the long wet
grass he found where the men had dragged their burden. He reached down and swept
his hand to and fro—once—twice—the third time his little palm came away red and
discolored.
There was the first pale premonition of dawn in the sky, and as he hurried on
the light grew, and the black trunks of trees detached themselves from the white
mist that filled the woods and which the dawn made visible. There was light
enough for him to see that he was following the trail left by the men; he could
distinguish where the dew had been brushed from the long grass. Advancing still
farther, he heard the clear splash of running water, an audible ripple that
mounted into a silver cadence. Day was breaking now. The lifeless gray along the
eastern horizon had changed to orange. Still following the trail, he emerged
upon the bank of the Elk River, white like the woods with its ghostly night
sweat.
The dull beat of the child's heart quickened as he gazed out on the swift
current that was hurrying on with its dreadful secret. Then the full
comprehension of his loss seemed to overwhelm him and he was utterly desolate.
Sobs shook him, and he dropped on his knees, holding fast to the stock of his
rifle.
"Uncle Bob—Uncle Bob, come back! Can't you come back!" he wailed miserably.
Presently he staggered to his feet. Convulsive sobs still wrenched his little
body. What was he to do? Those men—his Uncle Bob's murderers—would go to his
room; they would find his empty bed and their search for him would begin! Not
for anything would he have gone back through the corn-field or the lane to the
road. He had the courage to go forward, but not to retrace his steps; and the
river, deep and swift, barred his path. As he glanced about, he saw almost at
his feet a dug-out, made from a single poplar log. It was secured to an
overhanging branch by a length of wild grape-vine. With one last fearful look
off across the deadening in the direction of the tavern, he crept down to the
water's edge and entered the canoe. In a moment, he had it free from its lashing
and the rude craft was bumping along the bank in spite of his best efforts with
the paddle. Then a favoring current caught it and swept it out toward the center
of the stream.
It was much too big and clumsy for him to control without the stream's help,
though he labored doggedly with his paddle. Now he was broadside to the current,
now he was being spun round and round, but always he was carried farther and
farther from the spot where he had embarked. He passed about a bend; and a
hundred yards beyond, about a second bend; then the stream opened up straight
before him a half-mile of smooth running water. Far down it, at the point where
the trees met in the unbroken line of the forest and the water seemed to vanish
mysteriously, he could distinguish a black moving object; some ark or raft,
doubtless.
In the smoother water of the long reach, Hannibal began to make head against
the flood. The farther shore became the nearer, and finally he drove the bow of
his canoe up on a bit of shelving bank, and seizing his pack and rifle, sprang
ashore. Panting and exhausted, he paused just long enough to push the canoe out
into the stream again, and then, with his rifle and pack in his hands, turned
his small tear-stained face toward the wooded slope beyond. As he toiled up it
in the wide silence of the dawn, a mournful wind burst out of the north, filling
the air about him with withered leaves and the dead branches of trees.