The Just and the Unjust by Vaughan Kester

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THE JUST AND THE UNJUST

by

VAUGHAN KESTER

Author of _The Prodigal Judge_, etc.

Illustrations by M. Leone Bracker

Indianapolis
The Bobbs-Merrill Company
Publishers

1912

[Illustration: "Oh, I want you, Elizabeth!"]

TO MY WIFE

CONTENTS

CHAPTER
I FIGHTING SHRIMPLIN
II THE PRICE OF FOLLY
III STRANGE BEDFELLOWS
IV ADVENTURE IN EARNEST
V COLONEL GEORGE HARBISON
VI PUTTING ON THE SCREWS
VII THE BEAUTY OF ELIZABETH
VIII A GAMBLER AT HOME
IX THE STAR WITNESS
X HUSBAND AND WIFE
XI THE FINGER OF SUSPICION
XII JOE TELLS HIS STORY
XIII LIGHT IN DARKNESS
XIV THE GAMBLER'S THEORY
XV LOVE THAT ENDURES
XVI AT HIS OWN DOOR
XVII AN UNWILLING GUEST
XVIII FATHER AND SON
XIX SHRIMPLIN TO THE RESCUE
XX THE CAT AND THE MOUSE
XXI THE HOUSE OF CARDS
XXII GOOD MEN AND TRUE
XXIII THE LAST APPEAL
XXIV THE LAST LONG DAY
XXV ON THE HIGH IRON BRIDGE
XXVI CUSTER'S IDOL FALLS
XXVII FAITH IS RESTORED
XXVIII THE LAST NIGHT IN JAIL
XXIX AT IDLE HOUR

CHAPTER ONE

FIGHTING SHRIMPLIN

Custer felt it his greatest privilege to sit of a Sunday morning in his
mother's clean and burnished kitchen and, while she washed the breakfast
dishes, listen to such reflections as his father might care to indulge
in.

On these occasions the senior Shrimplin, commonly called Shrimp by his
intimates, was the very picture of unconventional ease-taking as he
lolled in his chair before the kitchen stove, a cracker box half filled
with sawdust conveniently at hand.

As far back as his memory went Custer could recall vividly these Sunday
mornings, with the church bells ringing peacefully beyond the windows of
his modest home, and his father in easy undress, just emerged from his
weekly bath and pleasantly redolent of strong yellow soap, his feet
incased in blue yarn socks--white at toe and heel--and the neckband of
his fresh-starched shirt sawing away at the lobes of his freckled ears.
On these occasions Mr. Shrimplin inclined to a certain sad conservatism
as he discussed with his son those events of the week last passed which
had left their impress on his mind. But what pleased Custer best was
when his father, ceasing to be gently discursive and becoming vigorously
personal, added yet another canto to the stirring epic of William
Shrimplin.

Custer was wholly and delightfully sympathetic. There was, he felt, the
very choicest inspiration in the narrative, always growing and
expanding, of his father's earlier career, before Mrs. Shrimplin came
into his life, and as Mr. Shrimplin delicately intimated, tied him hand
and foot. The same grounds of mutual understanding and intellectual
dependence which existed between Custer and his father were lacking
where Mrs. Shrimplin was concerned. She was unromantic, with a painfully
literal cast of mind, though Custer--without knowing what is meant by a
sense of humor, suspected her of this rare gift, a dangerous and
destructive thing in woman. Privately considering her relation to his
father, he was forced to the conclusion that their union was a most
distressing instance of the proneness of really great minds to leave
their deep channels and seek the shallow waters in the every-day
concerns of life. He felt vaguely that she was narrow and provincial;
for had she not always lived on the flats, a region bounded by the
Square on the north and by Stoke's furniture factory on the south? On
the west the flats extended as far as civilization itself extended in
that direction, that is, to the gas house and the creek bank, while on
the east they were roughly defined by Mitchell's tannery and the brick
slaughter-house, beyond which vacant lots merged into cow pastures, the
cow pastures yielding in their turn to the real country, where the level
valley rolled up into hills which tilted the great green fields to the
sun.

Mrs. Shrimplin had been born on the flats, and the flats had witnessed
her meeting and mating with Shrimplin, when that gentleman had first
appeared in Mount Hope in the interest of Whiting's celebrated
tooth-powder, to the use of which he was not personally committed. At
that time he was also an itinerant bill-poster and had his lodgings at
Maxy Schaffer's Railroad Hotel hard by the B. & O. tracks.

Mr. Shrimplin was five feet three, and narrow chested. A drooping flaxen
mustache shaded a sloping chin and a loose under lip, while a pair of
pale eyes looked sadly out upon the world from the shadow of a hooked
nose.

Mr. Joe Montgomery, Mrs. Shrimplin's brother-in-law, present on the
occasion of her marriage to the little bill-poster, had critically
surveyed the bridegroom and had been moved to say to a friend, "Shrimp
certainly do favor a peanut!"

Mr. Montgomery's comparative criticism of her husband's appearance had
in due season reached the ears of the bride, and had caused a rupture
in the family that the years had not healed, but her resentment had been
more a matter of justice to herself than that she felt the criticism to
be wholly inapt.

Mr. Shrimplin had now become a public servant, for certain gasolene
lamps in the town of Mount Hope were his proud and particular care. Any
night he could be seen seated in his high two-wheeled cart drawn by a
horse large in promise of speed but small in achievement, a hissing
gasolene torch held between his knees, making his way through that part
of the town where gas-lamps were as yet unknown. He still further added
to his income by bill-posting and paper-hanging, for he belonged to the
rank and file of life, with a place in the procession well toward the
tail.

But Custer had no suspicion of this. He never saw his father as the
world saw him. He would have described his eye as piercing; he would
have said, in spite of the slouching uncertainty that characterized all
his movements, that he was as quick as a cat; and it was only Custer who
detected the note of authority in the meek tones of his father's voice.

And Custer was as like the senior Shrimplin as it was possible for
fourteen to be like forty-eight. His mother said, "He certainly looks
for all the world like his pa!" but her manner of saying it left doubt
as to whether she rejoiced in the fact; for, while Mr. Shrimplin was
undoubtedly a hero to Custer, he was not and never had been and never
could be a hero to Mrs. Shrimplin. She saw in him only what the world
saw--a stoop-shouldered little man who spent six days of the seven in
overalls that were either greasy or pasty.

It was a vagary of Mr. Shrimplin's that ten reckless years of his life
had been spent in the West, the far West, the West of cow-towns and bad
men; that for this decade he had flourished on bucking broncos and in
gilded bars, the admired hero of a variety of deft homicides. Out of his
inner consciousness he had evolved a sprightly epic of which he was the
central figure, a figure, according to Custer's firm belief, sinister,
fateful with big jingling silver spurs at his heels and iron on his
hips, whose specialty was manslaughter.

In the creation of his romance he might almost be said to have acquired
a literary habit of mind, to which he was measurably helped by the
fiction he read.

Custer devoured the same books; but he never suspected his father of the
crime of plagiarism, nor guessed that his choicest morsels of adventure
involved a felony. Mrs. Shrimplin felt it necessary to protest:

"No telling with what nonsense you are filling that boy's head!"

"I hope," said Mr. Shrimplin, narrowing his eyes to a slit, as if he
expected to see pictured on the back of their lids the panorama of
Custer's future, "I hope I am filling his head with just nonsense
enough so he will never crawfish, no matter what kind of a proposition
he goes up against!"

Custer colored almost guiltily. Could he ever hope to attain to the grim
standard his father had set for him?

"I wasn't much older than him when I shot Murphy at Fort Worth,"
continued Mr. Shrimplin, "You've heard me tell about him, son--old
one-eye Murphy of Texarcana?"

"He died, I suppose!" said. Mrs. Shrimplin, wringing out her dish-rag.
"Dear knows! I wonder you ain't been hung long ago!"

"Did he die!" rejoined Mr. Shrimplin ironically. "Well, they usually die
when I begin to throw lead!" He tugged fiercely at the ends of his
drooping flaxen mustache and gazed into the wide and candid eyes of his
son.

"Like I should give you the particulars, Custer?" he inquired.

Custer nodded eagerly, and Mr. Shrimplin cleared his throat.

"He was called one-eye Murphy because he had only one eye--he'd lost the
other in a rough-and-tumble fight; it had been gouged out by a feller's
thumb. Murphy got the feller's ear, chewed it off as they was rolling
over and over on the floor, so you might say they swapped even."

"I wonder you'd pick on an afflicted person like that," observed Mrs.
Shrimplin.

"Afflicted! Well, he could see more and see further with that one eye
than most men could with four!"

"I should think four eyes would be confusin'," said Mrs. Shrimplin.

Mr. Shrimplin folded his arms across his narrow chest and permitted his
glance to follow Mrs. Shrimplin's ample figure as she moved to and fro
about the room; and when he spoke again a gentle melancholy had crept
into his tone.

"I dunno but a man makes a heap of sacrifices he never gets no credit
for when he marries and settles down. The ladies ain't what they used to
be. They look on a man now pretty much as a meal-ticket. I guess if a
feller chewed off another feller's ear in Mount Hope he'd never hear the
last of it!"

As neither Mrs. Shrimplin nor Custer questioned this point, Mr.
Shrimplin reverted to his narrative.

"I started in to tell you how I put Murphy out of business, didn't I,
son? The facts brought out by the coroner's jury," embarking on what he
conceived to be a bit of happy and elaborate realism, "was that I'd shot
him in self-defense after he'd drawed a gun on me. He had heard I was at
Fort Worth--not that I was looking for trouble, which I never done; but
I never turned it down when any one was at pains to fetch it to me; I
was always willing they should leave it with me for to have a merry
time. Murphy heard I'd said if he'd come to Fort Worth I'd take him home
and make a pet of him; and he'd sent back word that he was looking for
a man with two ears to play with; and I'd said mine was on loose and for
him to come and pull 'em off. After that there was just one thing he
could do if he wanted to be well thought of, and he done it. He hit the
town hell-snorting, and so mad he was fit to be tied." Mr. Shrimplin
paused to permit this striking phrase to lay hold of Custer's
imagination. "Yes, sir, hell-snorting, and so bad he was plum scairt of
himself. He said he was looking for a gentleman who had sent him word he
had two ears to contribute to the evening's gaiety, by which I knowed he
meant me and was in earnest. He was full of boot-leg whisky--"

"What kind of whisky's that, pa?" asked Custer.

"That," said Mr. Shrimplin, looking into the round innocent face of his
son, "that's the stuff the traders used to sell the Indians. Strong?
Well, you might say it was middling strong--just middling--about three
drops of it would make a rabbit spit in a bulldog's face!"

It was on one memorable twenty-seventh of November that Mr. Shrimplin
reached this height of verbal felicity, and being Thanksgiving day, it
was, aside from the smell of strong yellow soap and the fresh-starched
white shirt, very like a Sunday.

He and Custer sat before the kitchen stove and in the intervals of his
narrative listened to the wind rise without, and watched the sparse
flakes of fine snow that it brought coldly out of the north, where
the cloud banks lay leaden and chill on the far horizon.

[Illustration: "I started to tell you how I put Murphy out of
business."]

Mr. Shrimplin had risen early that day, or, as he told Custer, he had
"got up soon", and long before his son had left his warm bed in the
small room over the kitchen, was well on his rounds in his high
two-wheeled cart, with the rack under the seat which held the great cans
of gasolene from which the lamps were filled. He had only paused at Maxy
Schaffer's Railroad Hotel to partake of what he called a Kentucky
breakfast--a drink of whisky and a chew of tobacco--a simple dietary
protection against the evils of an empty stomach, to which he
particularly drew Custer's attention.

His father's occupation was entirely satisfactory to Custer. Being
employed by the town gave him an official standing, perhaps not so
distinguished as that of a policeman, but still eminently worth while;
and Mr. Shrimplin added not a little to the sense of its importance by
dilating on the intrigues of ambitious rivals who desired to wrest his
contract from him; and he impressed Custer, who frequently accompanied
him on his rounds, with the wisdom of keeping the lamps that shone upon
the homes of members of the town council in especially good order.
Furthermore, there were possibilities of adventure in the occupation; it
took Mr. Shrimplin into out-of-the-way streets and unfrequented alleys,
and, as Custer knew, he always went armed. Sometimes, when in an
unusually gracious mood, his father permitted him to verify this fact
by feeling his bulging hip pocket. The feel of it was vastly pleasing to
Custer, particularly when Mr. Shrimplin had to tell of strangers engaged
in mysterious conversation on dark street corners, who slunk away as he
approached. More than this, it was a matter of public knowledge that he
had had numerous controversies in low portions of the town touching the
right of the private citizen to throw stones at the street lamps; to
Custer he made dire threats. He'd "toss a scare into them red necks yet!
They'd bust his lamps once too often--he was laying for them! He knowed
pretty well who done it, and when he found out for sure--" He winked at
Custer, leaving it to his son's imagination to determine just what form
his vengeance would take, and Custer, being nothing if not sanguinary,
prayed for bloodshed.

But the thing that pleased the boy best was his father's account of
those meetings with mysterious strangers. How as he approached they
moved off with many a furtive backward glance; how he made as if to
drive away in the opposite direction, and then at the first corner
turned swiftly about and raced down some parallel street in hot pursuit,
to come on them again, to their great and manifest discomfiture.
Circumstantially he described each turn he made, down what streets he
drove Bill at a gallop, up which he walked that trustworthy animal; all
was elaborately worked out. The chase, however, always ended one
way--the strangers disappeared unaccountably, and, search as he might,
he could not find them again, but he and Custer felt certain that his
activity had probably averted some criminal act.

In short, to Mr. Shrimplin and his son the small events of life
magnified themselves, becoming distorted and portentous. A man, emerging
suddenly from an alley in the dusk of the early evening, furnished them
with a theme for infinite speculation and varied conjecture; that nine
times out of ten the man said, "Hello, Shrimp!" and passed on his way
perfectly well known to the little lamplighter was a matter of not the
slightest importance. Sometimes, it is true, Mr. Shrimplin told of the
salutation, but the man was always a stranger to him, and that he should
have spoken, calling him by name, he and Custer agreed only added to the
sinister mystery of the encounter.

It was midday on that twenty-seventh of November when Mr. Shrimplin
killed Murphy of the solitary eye, and he reached the climax of the
story just as Mrs. Shrimplin began to prepare the dressing for the small
turkey that was to be the principal feature of their four-o'clock
dinner. The morning's scanty fall of snow had been so added to as time
passed that now it completely whitened the strip of brown turf in the
little side yard beyond the kitchen windows.

"I think," said Mr. Shrimplin, "we are going to see some weather. Well,
snow ain't a bad thing." His dreamy eyes rested on Custer for an
instant; they seemed to invite a question.

"No?" said Custer interrogatively.

"If I was going to murder a man, I don't reckon I'd care to do it when
there was snow on the ground."

Mrs. Shrimplin here suggested cynically that perhaps he dreaded cold
feet, but her husband ignored this. To what he felt to be the
commonplaceness of her outlook he had long since accustomed himself. He
merely said:

"I suppose more criminals has been caught because they done their crimes
when it was snowing than any other way. Only chance a feller would have
to get off without leaving tracks would be in a balloon; I don't know as
I ever heard of a murderer escaping in a balloon, but I reckon it could
be done."

He disliked to relinquish such an original idea, and the subject of
murderers and balloons, with such ramifications as suggested themselves
to his mind, occupied him until dinner-time. He quitted the table to
prepare for his night's work, and at five o'clock backed wild Bill into
the shafts of his high cart, lighted the hissing gasolene torch, and
mounted to his seat.

"I expect he'll want his head to-night; he's got a game look," he said
to Custer, nodding toward Bill. Then, as he tucked a horse blanket
snugly about his legs, he added: "It's a caution the way he gets over
the ground. I never seen a horse that gets over the ground like Bill
does."

Which was probably true enough, for Bill employed every known gait.

"He's a mighty well-broke horse!" agreed Custer in a tone of sincere
conviction.

"He is. He's got more gaits than you can shake a stick at!" said Mr.
Shrimplin.

Privately he labored under the delusion that Bill was dangerous; even
years of singular rectitude on Bill's part had failed to alter his
original opinion on this one point, and he often told Custer that he
would have felt lost with a horse just anybody could have driven, for
while Bill might not and probably would not have suited most people, he
suited him all right.

"Well, good-by, son," said Mr. Shrimplin, slapping Bill with the lines.

Bill went out of the alley back of Mr. Shrimplin's small barn, his head
held high, and taking tremendous strides that somehow failed in their
purpose if speed was the result desired.

Twilight deepened; the snow fell softly, silently, until it became a
ghostly mist that hid the town--hid the very houses on opposite sides of
the street, and through this flurry Bill shuffled with unerring
instinct, dragging Mr. Shrimplin from lamp-post to lamp-post, until
presently down the street a long row of lights blazed red in the
swirling smother of white.

Custer reentered the house. The day held the sentiment of Sunday and
this he found depressing. He had also dined ambitiously, and this he
found even more depressing. He wondered vaguely, but with no large
measure of hope, if there would be sledding in the morning. Probably it
would turn warm during the night; he knew how those things went. From
his seat by the stove he watched the hurrying flakes beyond the windows,
and as he watched, the darkness came down imperceptibly until he ceased
to see beyond the four walls of the room.

Mrs. Shrimplin was busy with her mending. She did not attempt
conversation with her son, though she occasionally cast a curious glance
in his direction; he was not usually so silent. All at once the boy
started.

"What's that?" he cried.

"La, Custer, how you startle a body! It's the town bell. I should think
you'd know; you've heard it often enough." As she spoke she glanced at
the clock on the shelf in the corner of the room. "I guess that clock's
stopped again," she added, but in the silence that followed her words
they both heard it tick.

The bell rang on.

"It ain't half past seven yet. Maybe it's a fire!" said Custer. He
quitted his chair and moved to the window. "I wish they'd give the ward.
They'd ought to. How's a body to know--"

"Set down, Custer!" commanded his mother sharply. "You ain't going out!
You know your pa don't allow you to go to no fires after night."

"You don't call this night!" He was edging toward the door.

"Yes, I do!"

"A quarter after seven ain't night!" he expostulated.

"No arguments, Custer! You sit down! I won't have you trapesing about
the streets."

Custer turned back from the door and resumed his seat.

"Why don't they give the ward? I never heard such a fool way of ringing
for a fire!" he said.

They were silent, intent and listening. Now the wind was driving the
sound clamorously across the town.

"They ain't give the ward yet!" said Custer at length, in a tone of
great disgust. "I could ring for a fire better than that!"

"I wish your pa was to home!" said Mrs. Shrimplin.

As she spoke they caught the muffled sound of hurrying feet, then the
clamor of voices, eager and excited; but presently these died away in
the distance, and again they heard only the bell, which rang on and on
and on.

CHAPTER TWO

THE PRICE OF FOLLY

John North occupied the front rooms on the first floor of the
three-story brick structure that stood at the corner of Main Street and
the Square. The only other tenant on the floor with him was Andy
Gilmore, who had apartments at the back of the building. Until quite
recently Mr. North and Mr. Gilmore had been friends and boon companions,
but of late North had rather avoided this neighbor of his.

Mount Hope said that North had parted with the major portion of his
small fortune to Gilmore. Mount Hope also said and believed, and with
most excellent justification for so doing, that North was a fool--a
truth he had told himself so many times within the last month that it
had become the utter weariness of iteration.

He was a muscular young fellow of twenty-six, with a handsome face, and,
when he chose, a kindly charming manner. He had been--and he was fully
aware of this--as idle and as worthless as any young fellow could
possibly be; he was even aware that the worst Mount Hope said of him was
much better than he deserved. In those hours that were such a new
experience to him, when he denied himself other companionship than his
own accusing conscience; when the contemplation of the naked shape of
his folly absorbed him to the exclusion of all else, he would sit before
his fire with the poker clutched in his hands and his elbows resting on
his knees, poking between the bars of the grate, poking moodily, while
under his breath he cursed the weakness that had made him what he was.

With his hair in disorder on his handsome shapely head, he would sit
thus hours together, not wholly insensible to a certain grim sense of
humor, since in all his schemes of life he had made no provision for the
very thing that had happened. He wondered mightily what a fellow could
do with his last thousand dollars, especially when a fellow chanced to
be in love and meditated nothing less than marriage; for North's
day-dream, coming like the sun through a rift in the clouds to light up
the somberness of his solitary musings, was all of love and Elizabeth
Herbert. He wondered what she had heard of him--little that was good, he
told himself, and probably much that was to his discredit. Yet as he sat
there he was slowly shaping plans for the future. One point was clear:
he must leave Mount Hope, where he had run his course, where he was
involved and committed in ways he could not bear to think of. To go
meant that he would be forsaking much that was evil; a situation from
which he could not extricate himself otherwise. It also meant that he
would be leaving Elizabeth Herbert; but perhaps she had not even guessed
his secret, for he had not spoken of love; or perhaps having divined it,
she cared nothing for him. Even so, his regeneration seemed in itself a
thing worth while. What he was to do, how make a place for himself, he
had scarcely considered; but his inheritance was wasted, and of the
comfortable thousands that had come to him, next to nothing remained.

In the intervals between his musings Mr. North got together such of his
personal belongings as he deemed worth the removal; he was surprised to
find how few were the things he really valued. On the grounds of a
chastened taste in such matters he threw aside most of his clothes; he
told himself that he did not care to be judged by such mere externals as
the shade of a tie or the color of a pair of hose. Under his hands--for
the spirit of reform was strong upon him--his rooms took on a sober
appearance. He amused himself by making sundry penitential offerings to
the flames; numerous evidences of his unrighteous bachelorhood
disappearing from walls and book-shelves. Coincident with this he owned
to a feeling of intense satisfaction. What remained he would have his
friend Marshall Langham sell after he was gone, his finances having
suddenly become of paramount importance.

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