The Just and the Unjust by Vaughan Kester

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"Lord, Custer, I was foolin'--I am always foolin'! It was my chance to
see the stuff that's in you. Well, it's pretty good stuff!" he added
artfully.

But Custer was not ready for the reception of this new idea; his
father's display of cowardice had seemed only too real to him. Yet the
little lamplighter's manner took on confidence as he prepared to
establish a few facts as a working basis for their subsequent
reconciliation.

"I'd been a little better pleased, son, if you'd gone quicker when you
heard them calls Mr. Langham was letting out; you did hang back, you'll
remember--it looked like you was depending on me too much; but I got no
desire to rub this in. What you done was nervy, and what I might have
looked for with the bringing-up I've given you. I shan't mention that
you hung back." He shot a glance out of the corners of his bleached blue
eyes in Custer's direction. "How many minutes do you suppose you was in
getting out of the cart and over the fence? Not more than five, I'd say,
and all that time I was sitting there shaking with laughter--just
shaking with inward laughter; I asked you not to leave me alone! Well, I
always was a joker but I consider that my best joke!"

Custer maintained a stony silence, yet he would have given anything
could he have accepted those pleasant fictions his father was seeking to
establish in the very habiliments of truth.

"I hoped you'd know how to take a joke, son!" said the little
lamplighter in a hurt tone.

"Were you joking, sure enough?" asked Custer doubtingly.

"Is it likely I could have been in earnest?" demanded Shrimplin,
hitching up his chin with an air of disdain. "What's my record right
here in Mount Hope? Was it Andy Gilmore or Colonel Harbison that found
old man McBride when he was murdered in his store?" And the little
lamplighter's tone grew more and more indignant as he proceeded. "Maybe
you think it was your disgustin' and dirty Uncle Joe? _I_ seem to
remember it was Bill Shrimplin, or do I just dream I was there--but I
ain't been called a liar, not by no living man--" and he twirled an end
of his drooping flaxen mustache between thumb and forefinger. "Facts is
facts," he finished.

"Everybody knows you found old Mr. McBride--" said Custer rather
eagerly.

"I'm expecting to hear it hinted I didn't!" replied Mr. Shrimplin
darkly. "I'm expecting to hear it stated by some natural-born liar that
I set in my cart and bellered for help!"

"But you didn't, and nobody says you did," insisted the boy.

"Well, I'm glad you don't have to take my word for it," said Shrimplin.
"I'm glad them facts is a matter of official record up to the
court-house. I don't know, though, that I care so blame much about being
held up as a public character; if I hadn't a reputation out of the
common, maybe I wouldn't be misjudged when I stand back to give some one
else a chance!"

He laughed with large scorn of the world's littleness.

The epic of William Shrimplin was taking to itself its old high noble
strain, and Custer was aware of a sneaking sense of shame that he could
have doubted even for an instant; then swiftly the happy consciousness
stole in on him that he had been weighed in the balance by this
specialist in human courage and had not been found wanting. And his
heart waxed large in his thin little body.

They were jogging along Mount Hope's deserted streets when Marshall
Langham roused from his stupor.

"Where are you taking me?" he demanded of the boy.

"Home, Mr. Langham--we're almost there now," responded Custer.

"Take me to my father's," said Marshall with an effort, and his head
fell over on Custer's small shoulder.

He did not speak again until Bill came to a stand before Judge Langham's
gate.

"Are we there?" he asked of the boy.

"Yes--"

"Don't you think we'd better get help?" said Shrimplin.

And Marshall seeming to acquiesce in this, the little lamplighter
entered the yard and going to the front door rang the bell. A minute
passed, and growing impatient he rang again. There succeeded another
interval of waiting in which Shrimplin cocked his head on one side to
catch the sound of possible footsteps in the hall.

"He says try the knob," called Custer from the cart.

Doing this, Shrimplin felt the door yield, it was not locked; at the
same instant he made this discovery, however, he heard a footfall in the
street and so, hurried back to the gate. The new-comer halted when he
was abreast of wild Bill, and stared first at the cart and then at
Shrimplin.

"Is anything the matter?" he asked.

It was Watt Harbison.

"Young Mr. Langham has fell off the high iron bridge," said the little
lamplighter, with a dignity that more than covered his lapse from
grammar.

"Why--are you badly hurt, Marsh?" cried Watt going close to the cart.

"I don't know, I'm in most infernal pain," said Langham slowly.

"Do you think we can lift him?" asked Shrimplin. "The judge don't seem
to be at home."

"Your boy would better go to my uncle's; Judge Langham may be there,"
said Watt.

And Custer promptly slid out of the cart and sped off up the street.

Langham met the delay with grim patience. A strange indifference had
taken the place of fear, nothing seemed of much moment any more.
Presently in his stupor he heard the sound of quick steps, then Colonel
Harbison's voice, and a moment later he was aware that the three men had
lifted him from the cart and were carrying him along the path toward
the house. They entered the hall.

"Take me up-stairs," he said, and without pause his bearers moved
forward.

They saw now that his face was pinched and ghastly under the smear of
blood that was oozing from an ugly cut on his cheek, and Watt and the
colonel exchanged significant glances. When they reached the head of the
stairs Custer pushed open the first door; the room thus disclosed was in
darkness, and the colonel, with a whispered caution to his companions,
released his hold on Langham, and striking a match, stepped into the
room where, having found the chandelier, he turned on the gas. As the
light flared up, Shrimplin and Watt advanced with their helpless burden.
It was the judge's chamber they had entered and it was not untenanted,
for there on the bed lay the judge himself.

It was Langham who first saw that recumbent figure. A hoarse
inarticulate groan escaped him. He twisted clear of the hands that
supported him and by a superhuman effort staggered to his feet, he even
took an uncertain step in the direction of the bed, his starting eyes
fixed on the spare figure. Then his strength deserted him and with a cry
that rose to a shriek, he pitched forward on his face.

The colonel strode past the fallen man to the bedside, where for an
instant he stood looking down on a placid face and into open eyes. As
his glance wandered he saw that the judge's nerveless fingers still
grasped the butt of a revolver.

White-faced he turned away. "Is he dead, Colonel?" asked the little
lamplighter in an awe-struck voice. "Was he murdered?" and visions of
future notoriety flashed through his mind.

The colonel and Watt exchanged shocked glances.

"Here, Shrimplin, help me with Marsh!" said Watt. "We must get him out
of here at once!"

They lifted Langham in their arms and bore him into an adjoining room.
As they placed him upon the bed he recovered consciousness and clutched
Watt by the sleeve.

"I've been seeing all sorts of things to-night--it began while I lay in
that ditch with the pigs rooting about me! Where is my father, can't you
find him?" he demanded eagerly.

Watt turned his head away.

"Then that was not a dream--you saw it, too?" said Langham huskily. He
dropped back on his pillow. "Dead--Oh, my God!" he whispered, and was a
long time silent.

Harbison despatched Shrimplin and Custer in quest of a physician, and he
and Watt busied themselves with removing Marshall's wet clothes. When
this was done they washed the blood-stains from his face. He did not
speak while they were thus occupied; his eyes, wide and staring, were
fixed on vacancy. He was seeing only that still figure on the bed in the
room adjoining.

There was a brisk step on the stairs and they were joined by Doctor
Taylor.

"I declare, Marsh, I am sorry for this. You must have had quite a
tumble, how did you manage it?" he said, as he approached the bed.

Langham's eyes lost something of their intentness as they were turned
toward the physician, but he did not answer him. The doctor moved a step
aside with Colonel Harbison.

"Had he been drinking?" he asked in a low tone.

"I don't know," said the colonel.

"Shrimplin has gone for Mrs. Langham--I think they are here now. Don't
let her come up until I have made my examination. Will you see to this?"

And the colonel quitted the room and hurried down-stairs.

As he gained the floor below, Evelyn entered the house.

"How is Marsh, Colonel Harbison?" she asked.

Her face was colorless but her manner was unexcited; her lips even had a
smile for the colonel.

"Doctor Taylor is with him, and I trust he will be able to tell you that
Marshall's injuries are not serious!" said Harbison gently.

"Where is he? I must go to him--"

"The doctor prefers that you wait until he finishes his examination,"
said the colonel. He drew her into the library. "Evelyn, I must tell
you--you must know that something else--unspeakably dreadful--has
happened here to-night!"

"Yes?" The single word was no more than a breath on her full lips.

The colonel hesitated.

"You need not fear to tell me--whatever it is, I--I am prepared for
anything--" said Evelyn, with a pause between each word.

"The judge is dead," said Harbison simply. "My poor old friend is dead!"

"Dead--Marshall's father dead!" She looked at him curiously, with a
questioning light in her eyes. "You have not told me all, Colonel
Harbison!"

"Not told you all--" he repeated.

"How did he die?"

"I think--I fear he shot himself, but of course it may have been the
purest accident--"

"It was not an accident--" she cried with a sob. "Oh, don't mind what I
am saying!" she added quickly, seeing the look of astonishment on the
colonel's face.

"Mrs. Langham may come up if she wishes!" called Doctor Taylor, speaking
from the head of the stairs.

Evelyn moved down the hall and paused.

"Does Marsh know?" she asked of the colonel.

"Yes, unfortunately we carried him into his father's room," explained
Harbison.

Evelyn went slowly up the stairs. The horror of the situation was beyond
words. As she entered the room where Marshall lay, Watt Harbison and the
doctor silently withdrew into the hall, closing the door after them;
but Langham gave no immediate sign that he was aware of his wife's
presence.

"Marsh?" she said softly.

His palpable weakness and his cut and bruised face gave her an
instinctive feeling of tenderness for him. At the sound of her voice
Langham's heavy lids slid back and he gazed up at her.

"Have they told you?" he asked in an eager whisper.

"Yes," she said, and there was a little space of time when neither
spoke.

She drew a chair to his bedside and seated herself. In the next room she
could hear Doctor Taylor moving about and now and then an indistinct
word when he spoke with Watt Harbison. She imagined the offices they
were performing for the dead man. Then a door was softly closed and she
heard footsteps as they passed out into the hall.

Evelyn kept her place at the bedside without even altering the position
she had first taken, while her glance never for an instant left the
haggard face on the pillow. Beyond the open windows the silver light had
faded from the sky. At intervals a chill wind rustled the long curtains.
This, and her husband's labored breathing were the only sounds in the
leaden silence that followed the departure of the two men from the
adjoining room. She was conscious of a dreary sense of detachment from
all the world, the little circle of which she had been the center seemed
to contract until it held only herself. Suddenly Langham turned
uneasily on his pillow and glanced toward the window.

"What time is it?" he asked abruptly.

"It must be nearly day," said Evelyn. "How do you feel now, Marsh? Do
you suffer?"

He shook his head. His eyes were turned toward the window.

"What day is this?" he asked after a brief silence.

"What day?" repeated Evelyn.

"Yes--the day of the week, I mean?"

"It's Friday."

"They are going to hang John North this morning!" he said, and he
regarded her from under his half-closed lids. "I wonder what he is
thinking of now?" he added.

"Would the governor do nothing?" she asked in a whisper.

She was white to the lips.

"And the Herbert girl--I wonder what she is thinking of!"

"Hush, Marsh--Oh, hush! I--I can not--I must not think of it!" she
cried, and pressed her hands to her eyes convulsively.

"What does it matter to you?" he said grimly.

"Nothing in one way--everything in another!"

"I wish to God I could believe you!" he muttered.

"You may--on my soul, Marsh, you may! It was never what you
think--never--never!"

"It doesn't matter now," he said, and turned his face toward the wall.

"Marsh--" she began.

He moved impatiently, and she realized that it was useless to attempt to
alter what he had come to believe in absolutely. Beyond the windows the
first pale streaks of a spring dawn were visible, but the earth still
clothed itself in silence. The moments were racing on to the final act
of the pitiless tragedy which involved so many lives.

"Marsh--" Evelyn began again.

"I've been a dog to endure your presence in my house!" he said bitterly.

Evelyn was about to answer him when Doctor Taylor came into the room.

"Is he awake?" he questioned.

Langham gazed up into the doctor's face.

"Will I get well?" he demanded.

"I hope so, Marshall--I can see no reason why a few days of quiet won't
see you up and about quite as if nothing had happened."

"Come--I want to know the truth! Do you think I'm hurt internally, is
that it?" He sought to raise himself on his elbow but slipped back
groaning.

"You have sustained a very severe shock, still--" began the doctor.

"Will I recover?" insisted Langham impatiently.

"Oh, _please_, Marshall!" cried Evelyn.

"I want to know the truth! If you don't think you can stand it, go out
into the hail while I thresh this matter out with Taylor!" But Evelyn
did not leave her place at his bedside.

"You must not excite yourself!" said Taylor.

"Humph--if you won't tell me what I wish to know, I'll tell you my
opinion; it is that I am not going to recover. I must see Moxlow. Who is
down-stairs?"

"Colonel Harbison and his nephew."

"Ask Watt to find Moxlow and bring him here. He's probably at his
boarding-house."

He spoke with painful effort, and the doctor glanced uncertainly at
Evelyn, who by a slight inclination of the head indicated that she
wished her husband's request complied with. Taylor quitted the room.

"Why do you wish to see Moxlow?" Evelyn asked the moment they were
alone.

"I want him here; I may wish to tell him something--and I may not, it
all depends," he said slowly, as his heavy lids closed over his tired
eyes.

It was daylight without, and there was the occasional sound of wheels in
the street. Evelyn realized with a sudden sense of shock that unless
Marshall's bloodless lips opened to tell his secret, but a few hours of
life remained to John North.

A struggle was going on within her, it was a struggle that had never
ceased from the instant she first entered the room. One moment she found
she could pray that Marshall might speak; and the next terror shook her
lest he would, and declare North's innocence and his own guilt. She
slipped from his bedside and stealing to the window parted the long
curtains with trembling hands. She felt widely separated in spirit from
her husband; he seemed strangely indifferent to her; only his bitter
sense of injury and hurt remained, his love had become a dead thing,
since his very weakness carried him beyond the need of her. She belonged
to his full life and there was nothing of tenderness and sympathy that
survived. A slight noise caused her to turn from the window. Marshall
was endeavoring to draw himself higher on his pillow.

"Here--lift me up--" he gasped, as she ran to his side.

She passed an arm about him and did as he desired.

"That's better--" he panted.

"Shall I call the doctor?"

He shook his head and, as she withdrew her arm, lay back weak and
shaken.

"I tell you I am hurt internally!" he said.

"Let me call the doctor!" she entreated.

"What can he do?"

"Marsh, if you believe this--" she began.

"You're thinking of him!" he snarled.

"I am thinking of you, Marsh!"

"He threw you over for the Herbert girl!" he said with an evil ghastly
smile. "Do you want to save him for her?"

"You don't need to tell all, Marsh--" she said eagerly.

"That's you!" and he laughed under his breath. "I can't imagine you
advocating anything absolutely right! If I tell, I'll make a clean
breast of it; if I don't I'll lie with my last breath!"

He was thinking of Joe Montgomery now, as he had thought of him many
times since he drew himself up out of that merciless yellow flood into
which the handy-man had flung him. Evelyn looked at him wonderingly. His
virtues, as well as his vices, were things beyond her comprehension.

The door opened, and Moxlow came into the room. At sight of him,
Langham's dull eyes grew brilliant.

"I thought you would never get here!" he said.

"This _is_ too bad, Marsh!" said his law partner sympathizingly, as
Evelyn yielded him her place and withdrew to the window again.

"Where's Taylor?" asked Langham abruptly.

"He's had to go to the jail, he was leaving the house as I got here,"
replied Moxlow.

There was the noise of voices in the hail, one of which was the
colonel's, evidently raised in protest, then a clumsy hand was heard
fumbling with the knob and the door was thrown open, and Joe Montgomery
slouched into the room.

"Boss, you got to see me now!" he cried.

The prosecuting attorney sprang to his feet with an angry exclamation.

"Let him alone--" said Langham weakly.

Montgomery stole to the foot of the bed and stared down on Langham.

"You tell him, boss," nodding his head toward Moxlow. "I put it up to
you!" he said.

Langham's glance dwelt for an instant on the handy-man, then it shifted
back to Moxlow.

"Stop the execution!" he said, and Moxlow thought his mind wandered.
"North didn't kill McBride," Langham went on. "Do you understand me--he
is not the guilty man!"

A gray pallor was overspreading his face. It was called there by another
presence in that room; an invisible but most potent presence.

"Do you understand me?" he repeated, for he saw that his words had made
no impression on Moxlow.

"Go on, boss!" cried Montgomery, in a fever of impatience.

"Do you understand what I am telling you? John North did not kill
McBride!" Langham spoke with painful effort. "Joe knows who did--so do
I--so did my father--he knew an innocent man had been convicted!"

At mention of the judge, Moxlow started. He bent above Langham.

"Marsh, if John North didn't kill McBride, who did?"

But Langham made no reply. Weak, pallid, and racked by suffering, he lay
back on his pillow. Joe leaned forward over the foot of the bed.

"Tell him, boss; it's no odds to you now--tell him quick for God's sake,
or it will be too late!" he urged in a fearful voice.

There was a tense silence while they waited for Langham to speak. Moxlow
heard the ticking of the clock on the mantel.

"If you have anything to say, Marsh--"

Langham raised himself on his elbows and his lips moved convulsively,
but only a dry gasping sound issued from them; he seemed to have lost
the power of speech.

"If North didn't kill McBride, who did?" repeated Moxlow.

A mighty effort wrenched Langham, again his lips came together
convulsively, and then in a whisper he said:

"I did," and fell back on his pillow.

There was a moment of stillness, and then from behind the long curtains
at the window came the sound of hysterical weeping.

Moxlow, utterly dazed by his partner's confession, looked again at the
clock on the mantel. Fifteen minutes had passed. It was a quarter after
eight. His brows contracted as if he were trying to recall some half
forgotten engagement. Suddenly he turned, comprehendingly, to
Montgomery.

"My God!--North!" he exclaimed and rushed unceremoniously from the room.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

THE LAST NIGHT IN JAIL

Whether John North slept during his last night in jail the deputy
sheriff did not know, for that kindly little man kept his arms folded
across his breast and his face to the wall. The night wore itself out,
and at last pale indications of the dawn crept into the room. There was
the song of the birds and a little later the rumble of an occasional
wagon over the paved streets. North stirred and opened his eyes.

"Is it light?" he asked.

"Yes," said the deputy.

The day began with the familiar things that make up the round of life,
but North was conscious that he was thus occupying himself for the last
time. Then he seated himself and began a letter he had told Brockett he
wished to write. Once he paused.

"I will have time for this?" he asked.

"All the time you want, John," said Brockett hastily, as he slipped from
the room.

The sun's level rays lifted and slanted into the cell, while North,
remote from everything but the memory of Elizabeth's faith and courage,
labored to express himself. There was the sound of voices in the yard,
but their significance meant nothing to him now. He wrote on without
lifting his head. At last the letter was finished and inclosed with a
brief note to the general.

The pen dropped from North's fingers and he stood erect, he was aware
that men were still speaking below his window, then he heard footfalls
in the corridor, and turned toward the door. It was the sheriff and his
deputy. Conklin seemed on the verge of collapse, and Brockett's face was
drawn and ghastly.

There was a grim pause, and then Conklin, in a voice that was but a
shadow of itself, read the death-warrant. When he had finished, North
cast a last glance about his cell and passed out of the door between the
two men. They walked the length of the corridor, descended the stairs,
and entered the jail office. North turned to Conklin.

"I wish to thank you and Brockett for your kindness to me, and if you do
not mind I should like to shake hands with you both and say good-by
here," for through the office windows he had caught sight of the group
of men in the yard.

The sheriff, silent, held out his hand. He dared not trust himself to
speak. North looked into his face.

"I am sorry for you," he said.

"My God, you may well be!" gasped Conklin.

North shook hands with Brockett and walked toward the door; but as he
neared it, Brockett stepped in front of him and threw it open. As North
passed out into the graveled yard, out into the full light of the warm
spring day, the sheriff mechanically looked at his watch. It was twenty
minutes after eight.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

AT IDLE HOUR

From her window Elizabeth saw the gray dawn which ushered in that June
day steal over the valley below Idle Hour. Swiftly out of the darkness
of the long night grew the accustomed shape of things. Wooded pastures
and plowed fields came mysteriously into existence as the light spread,
then the sun burst through the curtain of mist which lay along the
eastern horizon, and it was day--the day of _his_ death.

Their many failures trooped up out of the past and mocked at her;
because of them he must die. They had gone with feverish haste from hope
to hope to this dread end! Perhaps she had never really believed before
that the day and hour would overtake them; when effort would promise
nothing. But now the very sense of tragedy filled that silent morning,
and her soul was in fearful companionship with it. A flood of wild
imaginings swept her forward, across the little space of time that was
left to her lover. Gasping for breath, she struggled with the grim
horror that was growing up about him. His awful solitude came to her as
a reproach; she should have remained with him to the end! Was there yet
time to go back, or would she be too late? When? When? And she asked
herself the question she had not dared to ask of her father.

The day showed her the distant roofs of Mount Hope; the day showed her
the square brick tower of the court-house--living or dead, John North
was in its very shadow. She crouched by the window, her arms resting on
the ledge and her eyes fixed on the distant tower. How had the night
passed for him--had he slept? And the pity of those lonely hours brought
the tears to her burning eyes. She heard her father come slowly down the
hall; he paused before her door.

"Elizabeth--dear!" his voice was very gentle.

"Yes, father?"

But she did not change her position at the window.

"Won't you come down-stairs, dear?" he said.

"I can not--" and then she felt the selfishness of her refusal, and
added: "I will be down in a moment, I--I have not quite finished
dressing--yet!"

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