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The Roof Tree, a fiction by Charles Neville Buck |
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Chapter 21 |
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_ CHAPTER XXI They helped Opdyke into the house and bandaged a wound in his leg, but old Jim sat looking on with a stony face, and when the first aid had been administered he said shortly: "Parish Thornton an' me hev jest been a-studyin' erbout how ter handle ther likes of _you_. Ye come in good season--an' so fur as kin be jedged from ther place whar thet ball hit, no man kin say which one of us ye shot at. We aims ter make a sample of ye, fer others ter regulate theirselves by, an' I reckon ye're goin' ter sulter in ther penitenshery fer a spell of y'ars." And when County Court day came there rode into town men of both factions, led by Hump Doane and Parish Thornton, and the courtroom benches were crowded with sightseers eager to hear that examining trial. It had been excitedly rumoured that Opdyke would have something of defiant insurgency to say and that perhaps a force would be found at his back sufficiently strong to give grim effect to his words. The defendant himself had not been "hampered in the jail-house" but had walked free on his own recognizance, and, if report were true, he had been utilizing his freedom to organize his sympathizers for resistance. All in all, it promised to be a court day worth attending, with a measuring of neighbourhood influences, open and hidden. Now the judge ascended the bench and rapped with his gavel, and when the name of Sam Opdyke was called, heads craned, feet shuffled, and an oppressive silence fell. Then down the centre aisle, from rear door to crescent-shaped counsel table, stalked Opdyke himself with a truculent glitter in his eyes and a defiant swing to his shoulders, though he still limped from his recent wounding. A pace behind him walked two black-visaged intimates. He looked neither to right nor left, but held the eyes of the man on the bench, and the judge, who was slight of stature, with straw-coloured hair and a face by no means imposing or majestic, returned his glance unwaveringly. Then at the bar Opdyke halted, with nothing of the suppliant in his bearing. He thrust a hand into each coat pocket, and with an eloquent ringing of ironmongery, slammed a brace of heavy revolvers on the table before him. The two henchmen stood silent, each with right hand in right pocket. "I heered my name called," announced the defendant in a deep-rumbling voice of challenge, "an' hyar I be--but, afore God on high, I aims ter git me jestice in this co'te!" Had the man on the bench permitted the slightest ripple of anxiety to disconcert his steadfastness of gaze just then pandemonium was ripe for breaking in his courtroom. But the judge looked down with imperturbable calm as though this were the accustomed procedure of his court, and when a margin of pause had intervened to give his words greater effect he spoke in a level voice that went over the room and filled it, and he spoke, not to the defendant, but to Joe Bratton the "high-sheriff" of that county.
A low wave of astonished voices went whispering over the courtroom, from back to front, but the judge, ignoring the two revolvers which still lay on the table fifteen feet away, and the livid face of the man from whose pockets they had been drawn, rapped sharply with his gavel. "Order in the co'teroom," he thundered, and there was order. Moreover, before the eyes of all those straining sight-seers, Opdyke glanced at the two men who composed his bodyguard and read a wilting spirit in their faces. He sank down into his chair, beaten, and knowing it, and when the sheriff laid a hand on his shoulder, he rose without protest and left his pistols lying where he had so belligerently slammed them down. His henchmen offered no word or gesture of protest. They had seen the strength of the tidal wave which they had hoped to outface, and they realized the futility of any effort at armed resistance. * * * * * It was when he had ridden home from the county seat after attending that session of the County Court, that Parish Thornton found Bas Rowlett smoking a pipe on his doorstep. That was not a surprising thing, for Bas came often and maintained flawlessly the pose of amity he had chosen to assume. In his complex make-up paradoxes of character met and mingled, and it was possible for him, despite his bitter memories of failure and humiliation, to smile with just the proper nicety of unrestraint and cordiality. Behind the visitor in the door stood Dorothy with a plate and dish towel in her hand, and she was laughing. "Howdy, Parish," drawled Bas, without rising, as the householder came up and smiled at his wife. "How did matters come out over thar at co'te?" "They come out with right gay success," responded the other, and in his manner, too, there was just the proper admixture of casualness and established friendship. "Sam Opdyke is sulterin' in ther jail-house now." "Thet's a God's blessin'," commended Bas, and then as Dorothy went back to the kitchen Parish lifted his brows and inquired quietly, "Ye war over hyar yistiddy an' the day afore, warn't ye, Bas?" The other nodded and laughed with a shade of taunt in his voice. "Yes. Hit pleasures me ter drap in whar I always gits me sich an old-time welcome." "Did ye aim ter stay an' eat ye some dinner?" "I 'lowed I mout--ef so be I got asked." "Well ye gits asked ter go on home, Bas. I'm askin' ye now--an' hereatter ye needn't bother yoreself ter be quite so neighbourly. Hit mout mek talk ef ye stayed away altogether--but stay away a heap more than what ye've been doin'." The other rose with a darkening face. "Does ye aim ter dictate ter me not only when an' whar's we fights our battles at, but every move I makes meanwhile?" "I aims ter dictate ter ye how often ye comes on this place--an' I orders ye ter leave hit now. Thar's ther stile--an' ther highway's open ter ye. Begone!" "What's become of Bas?" inquired the young wife a few minutes later, and her husband smiled with an artless and infectious good humour. "He hed ter be farin' on," came his placid response, "an' he asked me ter bid ye farewell fer him." But to Bas Rowlett came the thought that if his own opportunities of keeping a surveillance over that house were to be circumscribed, he needed a watchman there in his stead. In the first place, there was a paper somewhere under that roof bearing his signature which prudence required to be purloined. So long as it existed it hampered every move he made in his favourite game of intrigue. Also he had begun to wonder whether any one save Caleb Harper who was dead knew of that receipt he had given for the old debt. Bas had informed himself that, up to a week ago, it had not been recorded at the court house--and quite possibly the taciturn old man had never spoken of its nature to the girl. Caleb had mentioned to him once that the paper had been put for temporary safekeeping in an old "chist" in the attic, but had failed to add that it was Dorothy who placed it there. Then one day Bas met Aaron Capper on the highway. "Hes Parish Thornton asked ye ter aid him in gittin' some man ter holp him out on his farm this fall?" demanded the elder who, though he religiously disliked Bas Rowlett, was striving in these exacting times to treat every man as a friend. Bas rubbed the stubble on his chin reflectively. "No, he hain't happened ter name hit ter me yit," he admitted. "But men's right hard ter git. They've all got thar own crops ter tend." "Yes, I knows thet. I war jest a-ridin' over thar, an' hit come ter me thet ye mout hev somebody in mind." "I'd love ter convenience ye both," declared Bas, heartily, "but hit's a right bafflin' question." After a pause, however, he hazarded the suggestion: "I don't reckon ye've asked Sim Squires, hev ye? Him an' me, we hain't got no manner of use for one another, but he's kinderly kin ter _you_--an' he bears the repute of bein' ther workin'est man in this county." "Sim Squires!" exclaimed old Aaron. "I didn't nuver think of him, but I reckon Sim couldn't handily spare ther time from his own farm. Ef he could, though, hit would be mighty pleasin'." "I reckon mebby he couldn't," agreed Bas. "But ther thought jest happened ter come ter me, an' he don't dwell but a whoop an' a holler distant from Parish Thornton's house." That same day, in pursuance of the thought "that just happened to come to him," Bas took occasion to have a private meeting with the man for whom "he didn't hev no manner of use," and to enter into an agreement whereby Sim, if he took the place, was to draw double pay: one wage for honest work and another as spy salary. Three days later found Sim Squires sitting at the table in Parish Thornton's kitchen, an employee in good and regular standing, though at night he went back to his own cabin which was, in the words of his other employer, "only jest a whoop an' a holler away." Household affairs were to him an open book and of the movements of his employer he had an excellent knowledge. _ |
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