By Shore and Sedge - Bret Harte (recommended ebook reader .txt) 📗

in upon her sleeping children; “et’s a mercy and a blessing for them and—for—me. But— but—he might—hev—said—he—loved me!” III

Although Gideon Deane contrived to find a nest for his blanket in the mouldy straw of the unfinished barn loft, he could not sleep. He restlessly watched the stars through the cracks of the boarded roof, and listened to the wind that made the half-open structure as vocal as a sea-shell, until past midnight. Once or twice he had fancied he heard the tramp of horse-hoofs on the far-off trail, and now it seemed to approach nearer, mingled with the sound of voices. Gideon raised his head and looked through the doorway of the loft. He was not mistaken: two men had halted in the road before the house, and were examining it as if uncertain if it were the dwelling they were seeking, and were hesitating if they should rouse the inmates. Thinking he might spare the widow this disturbance to her slumbers, and possibly some alarm, he rose quickly, and descending to the inclosure walked towards the house. As he approached the men advanced to meet him, and by accident or design ranged themselves on either side. A glance showed him they were strangers to the locality.

“We’re lookin’ fer the preacher that lives here,” said one, who seemed to be the elder. “A man by the name o’ Hiler, I reckon!”

“Brother Hiler has been dead two years,” responded Gideon. “His widow and children live here.”

The two men looked at each other. The younger one laughed; the elder mumbled something about its being “three years ago,” and then turning suddenly on Gideon, said:

“P’r’aps YOU’RE a preacher?”

“I am.”

“Can you come to a dying man?”

“I will.”

The two men again looked at each other. “But,” continued Gideon, softly, “you’ll please keep quiet so as not to disturb the widow and her children, while I get my horse.” He turned away; the younger man made a movement as if to stop him, but the elder quickly restrained his hand. “He isn’t goin’ to run away,” he whispered. “Look,” he added, as Gideon a moment later reappeared mounted and equipped.

“Do you think we’ll be in time?” asked the young preacher as they rode quickly away in the direction of the tules.

The younger repressed a laugh; the other answered grimly, “I reckon.”

“And is he conscious of his danger?”

“I reckon.”

Gideon did not speak again. But as the onus of that silence seemed to rest upon the other two, the last speaker, after a few moments’ silent and rapid riding, continued abruptly, “You don’t seem curious?”

“Of what?” said Gideon, lifting his soft eyes to the speaker. “You tell me of a brother at the point of death, who seeks the Lord through an humble vessel like myself. HE will tell me the rest.”

A silence still more constrained on the part of the two strangers followed, which they endeavored to escape from by furious riding; so that in half an hour the party had reached a point where the tules began to sap the arid plain, while beyond them broadened the lagoons of the distant river. In the foreground, near a clump of dwarfed willows, a camp-fire was burning, around which fifteen or twenty armed men were collected, their horses picketed in an outer circle guarded by two mounted sentries. A blasted cotton-wood with a single black arm extended over the tules stood ominously against the dark sky.

The circle opened to receive them and closed again. The elder man dismounted and leading Gideon to the blasted cotton-wood, pointed to a pinioned man seated at its foot with an armed guard over him. He looked up at Gideon with an amused smile.

“You said it was a dying man,” said Gideon, recoiling.

“He will be a dead man in half an hour,” returned the stranger.

“And you?”

“We are the Vigilantes from Alamo. This man,” pointing to the prisoner, “is a gambler who killed a man yesterday. We hunted him here, tried him an hour ago, and found him guilty. The last man we hung here, three years ago, asked for a parson. We brought him the man who used to live where we found you. So we thought we’d give this man the same show, and brought you.”

“And if I refuse?” said Gideon.

The leader shrugged his shoulders.

“That’s HIS lookout, not ours. We’ve given him the chance. Drive ahead, boys,” he added, turning to the others; “the parson allows he won’t take a hand.”

“One moment,” said Gideon, in desperation, “one moment, for the sake of that God you have brought me here to invoke in behalf of this wretched man. One moment, for the sake of Him in whose presence you must stand one day as he does now.” With passionate earnestness he pointed out the vindictive impulse they were mistaking for Divine justice; with pathetic fervency he fell upon his knees and implored their mercy for the culprit. But in vain. As at the camp-meeting of the day before, he was chilled to find his words seemed to fall on unheeding and unsympathetic ears. He looked around on their abstracted faces; in their gloomy savage enthusiasm for expiatory sacrifice, he was horrified to find the same unreasoning exaltation that had checked his exhortations then. Only one face looked upon his, half mischievously, half compassionately. It was the prisoner’s.

“Yer wastin’ time on us,” said the leader, dryly; “wastin’ HIS time. Hadn’t you better talk to him?”

Gideon rose to his feet, pale and cold. “He may have something to confess. May I speak with him alone?” he said gently.

The leader motioned to the sentry to fall back. Gideon placed himself before the prisoner so that in the faint light of the camp-fire the man’s figure was partly hidden by his own. “You meant well with your little bluff, pardner,” said the prisoner, not unkindly, “but they’ve got the cards to win.”

“Kneel down with your back to me,” said Gideon, in a low voice. The prisoner fell on his knees. At the same time he felt Gideon’s hand and the gliding of steel behind his back, and the severed cords hung loosely on his arms and legs.

“When I lift my voice to God, brother,” said Gideon, softly, “drop on your face and crawl as far as you can in a straight line in my shadow, then break for the tules. I will stand between you and their first fire.”

“Are you mad?” said the prisoner. “Do you think they won’t fire lest they should hurt you? Man! they’ll kill YOU, the first thing.”

“So be it—if your chance is better.”

Still on his knees, the man grasped Gideon’s two hands in his own and devoured him with his eyes.

“You mean it?”

“I do.”

“Then,” said the prisoner, quietly, “I reckon I’ll stop and hear what you’ve got to say about God until they’re ready.”

“You refuse to fly?”

“I reckon I was never better fitted to die than now,” said the prisoner, still grasping his hand. After a pause he added in a lower tone, “I can’t pray—but—I think,” he hesitated, “I think I could manage to ring in a hymn.”

“Will you try, brother?”

“Yes.”

With their hands tightly clasped together, Gideon lifted his gentle voice. The air was a common one, familiar in the local religious gatherings, and after the first verse one or two of the sullen lookers-on joined unkindly in the refrain. But, as he went on, the air and words seemed to offer a vague expression to the dull lowering animal emotion of the savage concourse, and at the end of the second verse the refrain, augmented in volume and swelled by every voice in the camp, swept out over the hollow plain.

It was met in the distance by a far-off cry. With an oath taking the place of his supplication, the leader sprang to his feet. But too late! The cry was repeated as a nearer slogan of defiance—the plain shook—there was the tempestuous onset of furious hoofs—a dozen shots—the scattering of the embers of the camp-fire into a thousand vanishing sparks even as the lurid gathering of savage humanity was dispersed and dissipated over the plain, and Gideon and the prisoner stood alone. But as the sheriff of Contra Costa with his rescuing posse swept by, the man they had come to save fell forward in Gideon’s arms with a bullet in his breast—the Parthian shot of the flying Vigilante leader.

The eager crowd that surged around him with outstretched helping hands would have hustled Gideon aside. But the wounded man roused himself, and throwing an arm around the young preacher’s neck, warned them back with the other. “Stand back!” he gasped. “He risked his life for mine! Look at him, boys! Wanted ter stand up ‘twixt them hounds and me and draw their fire on himself! Ain’t he just hell?” he stopped; an apologetic smile crossed his lips. “I clean forgot, pardner; but it’s all right. I said I was ready to go; and I am.” His arm slipped from Gideon’s neck; he slid to the ground; he had fainted.

A dark, military-looking man pushed his way through the crowd—the surgeon, one of the posse, accompanied by a younger man fastidiously dressed. The former bent over the unconscious prisoner, and tore open his shirt; the latter followed his movements with a flush of anxious inquiry in his handsome, careless face. After a moment’s pause the surgeon, without looking up, answered the young man’s mute questioning. “Better send the sheriff here at once, Jack.”

“He is here,” responded the official, joining the group.

The surgeon looked up at him. “I am afraid they’ve put the case out of your jurisdiction, Sheriff,” he said grimly. “It’s only a matter of a day or two at best—perhaps only a few hours. But he won’t live to be taken back to jail.”

“Will he live to go as far as Martinez?” asked the young man addressed as Jack.

“With care, perhaps.”

“Will you be responsible for him, Jack Hamlin?” said the sheriff, suddenly.

“I will.”

“Then take him. Stay, he’s coming to.”

The wounded man slowly opened his eyes. They fell upon Jack Hamlin with a pleased look of recognition, but almost instantly and anxiously glanced around as if seeking another. Leaning over him, Jack said gayly, “They’ve passed you over to me, old man; are you willing?”

The wounded man’s eyes assented, but still moved restlessly from side to side.

“Is there any one you want to go with you?”

“Yes,” said the eyes.

“The doctor, of course?”

The eyes did not answer. Gideon dropped on his knees beside him. A ray of light flashed in the helpless man’s eyes and transfigured his whole face.

“You want HIM?” said Jack incredulously.

“Yes,” said the eyes.

“What—the preacher?”

The lips struggled to speak. Everybody bent down to hear his reply.

“You bet,” he said faintly.

IV

It was early morning when the wagon containing the wounded man, Gideon, Jack Hamlin, and the surgeon crept slowly through the streets of Martinez and stopped before the door of the “Palmetto Shades.” The upper floor of this saloon and hostelry was occupied by Mr. Hamlin as his private lodgings, and was fitted up with the usual luxury and more than the usual fastidiousness of his extravagant class. As the dusty and travel-worn party trod the soft carpets and brushed aside their silken hangings in their slow progress with their helpless burden to the lace-canopied and snowy couch of the young gambler, it seemed almost a profanation of some feminine seclusion. Gideon, to whom such luxury was unknown, was profoundly troubled. The voluptuous ease and sensuousness, the refinements of a life of irresponsible indulgence, affected him with a physical terror to which in his late moment of real peril he had been a