CHAPTER VI
When Abner Pickett took down his gun from its hooks that Saturdaynight, and examined it, he had already determined what he should doif any attempt were made to grade the bed for a railroad through hisgraveyard; and his determination was in no way changed as he thoughtover the situation in his calmer moments on Sunday.
Monday was the first day of October. The rain had washed the air andleft it clear and invigorating. The autumn foliage was in the height ofits beauty. It was a day in which to live out of doors and be thankfulfor life; a day in which to immerse one's self in the enjoyment of theriches of nature. But for Dannie Pickett there was no pleasure. Hedid not see the glorious coloring on the hills; he did not feel theexhilaration of the draughts of pure air that went into his lungs. Hewas too deeply absorbed in the consideration of the situation which hisrash folly had brought about, to see or hear or feel anything else inhis environment. If he had not removed that line of stakes, the secondsurvey would not have been made; his grandfather would not have beendeceived into selling, for a song, property rights worth many hundredsof dollars; the rival railroad companies would not have begun thebattle for the gap, and, finally, the county jail would not have beenstaring him in the face, as it had been during the last four days andnights. For, as he saw and appreciated more and more the far-reachingand disastrous consequences of his unpardonable act, leading everyday to deeper complications and graver troubles, he realized more andmore deeply how serious his offence had been, he became more and moreapprehensive of the punishment he would have to face if his crimeshould become known. He spent his days in misery and his nights indread, starting at every footfall, losing his breath at every suddensound, awaiting, with awful expectancy, the next development in thesituation which had become, for him, a tragedy.
It was with welcome ears, therefore, that he heard his grandfather saythat he need not go to school that Monday morning. He felt that hewould be stifled in the schoolroom, that he must be in the open air,that he must be on the ground ready for any emergency.
After breakfast the old man strapped on his powder-horn and pouch,took down his gun, loaded it, and invited Dannie to accompany him.Aunt Martha watched them from the kitchen window, as they went downthe path, her eyes filled with tears and her breast with dreadfulapprehension. But she knew that it was of as little use to attempt toturn Abner Pickett from a purpose once formed as it was to try to sendthe Delaware River flowing back northward in its bed. As Dannie andhis grandfather walked down the road, they came upon Gabriel who stoodwatching the engineers at their work--the same engineers who had madetheir survey that fateful afternoon. They had relocated their line andreplaced their stakes up through the gap and across the graveyard, andwere now working between the road and the brook. Abner Pickett paidlittle heed to them as he passed by.
"Come along, you fool!" he said to Gabriel, and the three walked ondown the road. When they reached the entrance to the graveyard theyopened the gate and went in. A fresh stake had been planted on theknoll in the very spot from which Dannie had removed one on thateventful night. It caught Abner Pickett's eye at once. He strode to it,tore it from its fastening in the soil, and, with a mighty sweep of hisarm, sent it whirling into the brook. Dannie looked on in wide-eyedamazement, but he said not a word. While all three knew that the objectof the visit to the graveyard was to prevent, if possible, the entryinto the lot of the workmen who were expected that morning to begin thegrading of the railroad, not one of them mentioned it. Abner Pickettwas not in a mood to talk, and the others dared not speak of it. Evenas they stood there, the contractor, with his foreman and his gang oflaborers, came up through the glen in wagons, with their carts, mules,tools, and appliances for grading. Between the mouth of the gap andthe east wall of the graveyard, they halted and began to unload theirthings, while the contractor and foreman made a hasty examination ofthe stakes that had already been marked for grade. Abner Pickett walkeddeliberately to the east wall and seated himself on it, his gun restingcarelessly in his lap. Dannie and Gabriel followed him, and tooksimilar positions at his side.
"We'll have to begin in the graveyard," said McDonough, the contractor,"and cut down that knoll and carry it east here for thisfill."
"Then the first thing to do," replied the foreman, "is to tear awaythat wall, about where them fellows are sitting on it."
"Exactly. There's where the line is. Bring your men up and let 'em goat it. Come, gentlemen, you'll have to vacate your seats up there; wewant those stones you're sitting on."
This last remark was addressed to Abner Pickett and the man and boy whokept him company.
"I'm quite comfortable here," replied the old man; "I don't think Ishall move for the present. Besides, these stones belong to me; an' sodoes the graveyard an' the graves, and I don't intend you shall touchany of 'em."
McDonough looked up at him in unfeigned surprise.
"Are you Abner Pickett?" he asked.
"That's my name."
"I don't understand what you mean by this conduct, Mr. Pickett. I haveyour agreement of sale here, conveying a right of way through thegraveyard to this company. It was duly signed, sealed, and delivered. Idon't know that you have any right whatever to interfere with us now."
"There are several things about this business that I reckon you don'tknow," replied the old man. "For instance, you don't know that thatagreement was got from me by deception and fraud, and ain't worth thepaper it's written on. I repeat that I intend to hold possession ofthis lot."
McDonough continued to protest.
"I cannot help any misunderstanding between you and the company, Mr.Pickett. If they've done you any damage, they're good for it. I'vetaken this section to grade, and I've got to begin there in thatgraveyard; so you might as well clear the way for us. We intend toproceed."
"And I intend you shan't."
The old man laid his hand significantly on the barrel of his gun as hespoke.
"Do you mean to say you would shoot?"
"Ay! an' kill to save this holy place from desecration."
"Don't you know I could have you arrested for threats? Don't you knowwhat the penalty is for murder?"
"Keep your distance and there'll be no murder. Come ten foot closeran' there'll be blood spilt just as sure as the sun shines above you."
The red flush had mounted again into Abner Pickett's face and neck.He raised his gun from his lap, and held it threateningly in hishands. Dannie, frightened at the tragic outlook, moved closer to hisgrandfather, but held his tongue. He knew that it would be worse thanuseless for him to speak. The contractor, too, had his blood up. Hewas not easily cowed. His experience in railroad building had been tooextended to permit him to yield readily to an obstacle of this kind.He turned aside to consult with his foreman. Nicholson, the engineer,observing the situation from a distance, hurried back with his men. Thelaborers had already congregated about their employer. Abner Pickett,with grim determination stamped upon every line of his face andevery muscle of his body, still sat upon the wall holding his gun inreadiness for action. Dannie, white faced and fearful, but with nevera thought of desertion, sat beside his grandfather, while Gabriel,standing near by, gripped two cobblestones tightly in his hands.
"Abner Pickett sat upon the wall, holding his gun inreadiness for action."]
The consultation between Nicholson and McDonough was short butanimated, and the decision reached was evidently concurred in by theforeman and his men. McDonough advanced a step and said:--
"Mr. Pickett, we intend to enforce our right to take possession ofthat lot and begin our work. If you interfere with us, you will beresponsible for the consequences."
To all of which Abner Pickett made no reply. He simply held his gunwith a firmer grasp, and the lines of determination about his mouthgrew more noticeably distinct.
After waiting a moment in vain for an answer the opposing forces heldanother brief consultation to decide upon the best plan of action.Then they divided into three groups led respectively by Nicholson,McDono
ugh, and the foreman. It was evident that they intended to stormthe graveyard from three sides. But, before they could move to theirrespective positions, a two-horse buggy, containing two men, dasheddown the road and drew up at the corner of the graveyard. One of themen leaped from the wagon and approached McDonough.
"Are you the contractor having in charge the grading of this section ofthe Delaware Valley and Eastern Railroad?" he inquired.
"That's what I'm here for," responded McDonough, "though I don't seemto be getting to work very fast."
The man turned to Nicholson.
"And are you the engineer having in charge the fixing of permanentlocation and grades?"
"That's about it," replied Nicholson.
"Then, gentlemen, permit me to introduce myself to you as the sheriffof Meredith County, and to serve on each of you this writ."
He bowed and handed to each of them a document bearing an official seal.
"It is a writ of injunction," he continued, "from the court of MeredithCounty, issued at the instance of the Tidewater and Western RailroadCompany, commanding and enjoining the Delaware and Eastern RailroadCompany, its agents, employees, contractors, and engineers, and all andevery of you, that you do from henceforth altogether absolutely desistfrom locating, staking out, grading, or building a line of railroadthrough Pickett's Gap in said county, or along or upon the approachesthereto; which gap and approaches have been duly appropriated,condemned, and acquired for railroad purposes by the said Tidewater andWestern Railroad Company."
The sheriff rolled out the words of the injunction with solemn andimposing voice and manner, then he folded his own copy of the writ andreturned it to his pocket.
"I believe I have performed my duty, gentlemen," he said politely, "andI wish you both a very good day!"
Then he went up to where Abner Pickett was still seated on the walland shook the old man's hand with hearty vigor. He had taken in thesituation at a glance.
"Don't blame you one bit, Mr. Pickett," he said. "I'd 'a' done the samething in your place."
"Thank you," responded the old man, quietly, "I'm simply doing my dutyby the dead."
When the writs of injunction were handed to McDonough and Nicholson,they stared at each other blankly for a moment; then the contractor,who had been through similar experiences before, remarked quietly thatit looked as if the game was up.
"I don't mind a little thing like an old man with a gun," he said toNicholson, when the sheriff had finished reading the injunction, "butwhen I run up against a writ like this, I'm through so long as the writis in force. I undertook to disobey one once up on the Susquehannaroad, and it cost me fifteen hundred dollars before I got through withthe job. We learn by experience."
Nicholson was thoroughly annoyed and upset. He did not understand whythe service of a paper like that, on a contractor and engineer, shouldhave the effect of blocking a railroad; and he said so in no verypolite language. McDonough smiled, and began to give orders to his menabout loading up the tools again.
"I don't propose to get into a controversy with the court," he said;"we might as well take our things back to the river. Judging from pastexperiences we won't be able to resume work here before snow flies,anyway."
He started back toward the mouth of the gap. The sheriff, having justentered his wagon and turned his horses' noses westward, bowed politelyas the contractor passed.
Nicholson was still standing where the sheriff found him, studyingangrily the contents of the writ. After a minute or two, he folded thepaper savagely, thrust it into his pocket, and started back up the road.
When Gabriel, who had stood for fifteen minutes in complete readinessto do his employer's will, saw the backs of their enemies turned tothem and in retreat, he could not repress some outward manifestationof his inward exultation; whereupon he drew his faithful horn from hispocket, and blew on it a blast that sent the echoes tumbling throughthe glen.
"Put up that fool's plaything!" commanded the old man.
Ten minutes later Dannie and his grandfather walked back up the roadwith far lighter hearts than when they came down. The graveyard hadbeen saved, at least for the present, from despoliation, and AbnerPickett felt confident that through the medium of the law and itspeaceful operation, he could defeat any future plans of aggression bythe railroad companies. But, after the stirring events of the first dayof October, there was no attempt on the part of either company to beginthe construction of a railroad, or to take possession of any propertyalong the line of survey. All parties were quietly awaiting thedetermination of the equity suit begun by the injunction proceedings.And that suit could not come on for trial before the December term ofcourt.
But for Dannie the situation remained practically as complicated and asharassing as ever. The service of the injunction and the frustrationof the attempt to tear up the soil of the graveyard had given him onlytemporary relief. The main issue was yet to be determined; and hisresponsibility for the whole dreadful state of things, and his dailyliability to be called to account for his unaccountable conduct, restedan ever increasing burden on his mind. It was with him daytime andnight-time. Never, not even for a moment, could he shake it off. Many anight he awoke from some dreadful dream of incarceration in the countyjail, or, still worse, of fierce denunciation from his grandfather,or, bitterest of all, of sorrowing reproof from the engineer who hadbeen his companion on the night walk up the glen. Many a night, in hiswakeful hours, he determined that when morning broke he would go to hisgrandfather, to Aunt Martha, to the engineer, to somebody, and makea clean breast of the whole wretched business. But when day dawned,and people were about their usual avocations, and things wore such adifferent complexion, his resolution always failed him, and the secretremained still in his breast. He plied himself constantly, too, withgood reasons and excuses for keeping it. If his conduct should becomeknown, then there would be no further question about the prior rightof the D. V. & E. company to the location through the gap. Nicholsonwould be triumphant. His friend, the engineer of the night survey,would be made the subject of jest and ridicule. His grandfather wouldmost likely be held to his agreement to sell a right of way through thegraveyard, and sooner or later the soil of that sacred place would betorn and trampled with the ploughs and picks and spades of a score ofswarthy and unfeeling workmen. And then, after it was known, to meetthe looks and words of those who had known and loved him,--Gran'pap,Aunt Martha, the engineer, Gabriel, even Max, the dog. That would beterrible. And always, as he pondered, there was before him, sharply ordimly, a vision of the gray and forbidding front of the county jailwith its stone-paved corridor and its iron-barred cells. It cannot bedenied that personal fear was a prime factor in his mind. He was buthuman and a boy.
Yet his conscience urged him always to confess. There was one phaseof the situation, indeed, against which his conscience constantlyrebelled. The D. V. & E. people were not now claiming the last lineof stakes as their own, but they were alleging, by inference, if notdirectly, that the stakes set by Nicholson were removed in the nightby the engineer of the T. & W. before he replaced them with his own.To meet this charge there was only the declaration of the members ofthe corps that made the night survey that there were no stakes inthe gap when they went through. And against their contention was theimpossibility of explaining in any other way how the evidences ofNicholson's work could have so completely vanished between six o'clockand midnight of the same evening.
It cut Dannie to the heart to hear this charge made and reiteratedagainst the man who, in the short space of an hour, in the gray ofone morning, had taken so powerful a hold upon his fancy, his boyishadmiration, his heart-deep affection. Try as he would he could not ridhimself of the vision of those clear blue eyes looking him through insorrowful reproof. And yet--and yet he could not bring himself to anacknowledgment of his fault. Oh, those were wretched, dreadful autumndays.
Now and again Aunt Martha tried to comfort him. She saw plainly enoughthat something was preying on his mind, and in her gentle, unobtrusiveway
she gave him opportunity to confide in her, but thus far she hadnot been gratified by the first whisper of his trouble.
Abner Pickett, too, saw that the boy was suffering, but he imaginedthat it was from some physical disorder; and one day, when Dr. Chubbuckwas driving by, he insisted that Dannie should submit to an examinationby this old and trusted physician. The doctor, being unable to make adiagnosis of any physical trouble, left a prescription for some simpletonic, and promised to call again when he passed that way.
So the autumn days went by and winter came. It came early and promisedto be severe. Snow fell before Thanksgiving, and by the first ofDecember sleighing was general throughout the country.
The trial of the equity suit was set down for the second Monday ofDecember, and many witnesses had been subpoenaed from the vicinity ofPickett's Gap. Early on Monday morning they had started, two loadsof them, including Abner Pickett and Gabriel, for Mooreville, thecounty-seat. Dannie had not been subpoenaed. He smiled grimly as hesaw the others depart, and thought how much more he could do towardclearing up the situation than the entire dozen who had been called.It was a lonely day for him after they were gone, a dull, cold day,with occasional flakes of snow in the air, and he was glad when nightcame, and the chores were all done, and the supper ended, and he andAunt Martha could watch the blaze of logs in the sitting-room fireplacefor the usual half hour before retiring. It was a quiet half hour thisnight, for neither of them seemed to be in the mood for conversation.And yet Dannie's mind was in a tumult. The departure of the witnesses,the nearness of the trial, the impossibility of his knowing what wouldoccur at Mooreville, the increasing dread that for lack of testimonywhich he alone could give, some terrible injustice would be done; thesethings, weighing on his mind with accumulating power, forced him intoa state of nervous apprehension and distress more painful than anyphysical hurt from which he had ever suffered.
Aunt Martha saw that he was laboring under intense excitement orwas stirred by some deep emotion. She knew that it was not wise toquestion him, but gently and soothingly she placed her hand on hisforehead and began to smooth back his hair. Somehow she felt that thecrisis which had been impending for many weeks had at last been reached.
And it had. Lashes on his bare back would never have drawn a confessionfrom this boy. Neither commands nor threats would ever have induced himto give up his secret against his will. Yet the influence of this quiethour, this mellow firelight, the soothing presence of this gentle womanwho had always been to him so loving, so loyal, so truly motherlike,began to draw with irresistible force from his heart to his lips thewhole story of his offence and his suffering. At last, unable torepress his emotion, he dropped to the floor at the good woman's feetand buried his head in her lap.
"Oh, Aunt Martha!" he cried, "I can't keep it to myself any longer; Ican't! I can't! it'll kill me!"
Still smoothing back his hair she laid a loving hand across hisshoulder.
"Tell me, dearie, tell me what it is. I know I can help you."
Thus encouraged he poured out to her the whole miserable story, all ofit; without reservation or excuse, or any attempt to blame others or toshield himself.
"What shall I do, Aunt Martha?" he wailed at last. "What shall I do?Oh! what shall I do?"
"'What shall I do, Aunt Martha?'"]
With her handkerchief she was alternately wiping the perspiration fromhis forehead and the tears from her own eyes.
"There's but one thing to do, Dannie. Go to those who have been harmed orprejudiced by what you have done and tell them everything--everything."
"And the punishment?"
"Take it like a man, whatever it may be. But they will not punish youcruelly; have no fear of that."
"And then, when it's known and settled that the D. V. & E. was first inthe gap, they'll build their railroad; they'll cut a way through thegraveyard, and we can't stop 'em."
"Don't try to foresee the evil that may spring from doing what isright. Your duty is to act in the present. God will look out for thefuture."
In this wise she counseled him, aided him, soothed him, until at thelast, he rose to his feet resolved, no matter what the consequencesto himself, to tell the whole story to all those who ought to know it.
"To-morrow morning," he said, "I will go to Mooreville. I will getthere before court opens, and if the case was not decided to-day-- Oh,Aunt Martha! suppose they are through with it; suppose it's all over,and some one else is suffering for what I did! I must go to-night. Imust go at once. I mustn't wait a moment."
"No, dearie, no. It will be time enough to-morrow morning for you tostart. You could accomplish nothing to-night even if you could getthere. Go to bed, now, and try to sleep. You will be stronger in themorning."
He yielded at once to her wish. And, notwithstanding the dread taskbefore him on the morrow, he lay down with a lighter heart than he hadknown for many weeks, and slept more sweetly and soundly than he hadslept before since the night of the survey.
Very early the next morning he shaded his eyes with his hand and lookedfrom his window into the darkness outside, and saw that it was snowing.Aunt Martha compelled him, much against his inclination, to eat ahearty breakfast and to bundle himself well against the storm. When,at last, they heard the muffled jingling of the bells that announcedthe approach of the Mooreville stage, she put her arms around the boy'sneck and kissed him.
"Keep up courage, Dannie," she said cheerily. "It won't be hard whenyou get there. You've done the hardest part of it already."
"I'm not afraid any more, Aunt Martha," he replied. "Nothing on earthcan keep me from doing what I ought to, the way I feel about it now. Ionly hope and pray that I won't be too late. There's the stage at thegate. Good-by!"
"Good-by, Dannie! God bless you and comfort you!"
He went down the path by the light of the lamp held in the kitchendoorway, knocking aside the loose snow as he walked. At the invitationof the stage driver he climbed up to the front seat with him, andstarted on his fifteen-mile journey to Mooreville, the county-seat.It was still very dark, and the snow was falling steadily, though itwas not yet so deep but that the horses could trot along at theirusual monotonous gait until they reached the foot of the long hillthat leads to Oak Ridge. Here the driver stopped to extinguish thelight in his lantern, for it was now daybreak. But, with the coming ofday, the snow fell faster, the wind arose, and long before the stageand its occupants had reached the summit of Oak Ridge the horses wereplunging now and again through drifts that reached to their knees.At High Rock post-office they stopped for ten minutes to receive anddeliver mail. From there to Lawrence's the road was mostly through thewoods and was not badly drifted. Then came the two-mile drive down thenorthwest face of the hill range to the poor-house. It was a tedious,toilsome, terrible journey. They were obliged to break down fences andgo through fields to avoid deep drifts in the roadway. Many a time itseemed as though the horses, exhausted by their efforts, would neverbe able to break through the huge banks of snow that enveloped them.And constantly, driving into their faces, blinding their eyes, chillingthem to the bone, the storm beat down upon the travellers. When, atlast, they drove up to the poor-house gate, the stage driver gave agreat sigh of relief.
"Them horses don't go no further to-day," he declared.
"But," exclaimed Dannie, while his teeth chattered with the cold,"I've got to get to Mooreville, you know. I've simply got to get there."
He felt that he could not afford to entertain for a moment the idea ofdelay.
"Well," was the response, "if you've got to go, you an' me can try tofoot it for the next stretch; mebbe we can get along, but them horseshas got to stay here. I can't afford to lose 'em jest yet."
He unhitched the team and drove it into shelter. Then, in spite ofprotests from the occupants of the house, he and Dannie started outto face the storm on foot; the one with the mail-bag flung overhis shoulder, the other bearing no burden save the ever present,ever growing fear that he would reach Mooreville too late to fullyaccomplish
his still resolute and unyielding purpose. Had it not been aself-imposed task, it would have been a cruel one for either man or boy.
Hour by hour the storm grew fiercer, the drifts deeper, the journeymore desperate. Now and again the travellers dragged themselves alongby the rails of the roadside fences, and many a time they searched invain for well-known landmarks to guide them on their way. There wasbut one relieving feature in the situation,--it was not severely cold.Had it been, both man and boy would surely have perished.
When they reached Keene's, the stage driver gave up the task.
"I won't go no further," he declared, "Uncle Sam or no Uncle Sam. Mean' this mail-bag stays here till it's fit for man an' beast to be out.Come on into the house."
Dannie followed him in.
"I'll go in for a few minutes an' get warm," he said, "then I'll pushahead. Oh! it's no use," as the driver began to protest, "I've got toget there, whether or no. It's only four miles farther, an' there areplenty of houses on the way."
When old Ezra Keene heard that Dannie intended to continue the journeyto Mooreville, he shook his head vigorously.
"Can't be done," he said. "Never see sech a storm sence I've been here,an' that's nigh on to forty year."
Still Dannie insisted.
"I've got to go," he said. "I've got to get there. If I don't getthere, something terrible may happen."
"An' ef ye start out in this storm, suthin' turrible's sure tohappen--so there ye air."
The old man smiled, hobbled to the window and looked out. He came backto the stove, shaking his head more vigorously than before. But Danniewas already buttoning up his great-coat, and pulling his cap down overhis ears. Then the stage driver, who had been crouching over the fire,arose and added his protest in no delicate or uncertain terms.
"No one but a born fool," he concluded, "would think of undertakingsech a thing. Fer Heaven's sake be decent an' sensible, an' stay whereyou're well off."
But Dannie was not to be deterred nor swayed from his purpose. Neitherabuse nor ridicule nor the power of the storm was sufficient to alterhis determination to do all that lay in his power to right the wrong hefelt he had committed, before it should be forever too late.
He opened the farmhouse door and started out into the tempest. Thestage driver rammed his hands deep into his trousers pockets andturned away in disgust at what appeared to him to be the inexcusablefoolhardiness of the boy. Old Ezra Keene, looking from a window, sawthe lad struggle through a huge drift at the roadside, and thendisappear in a whirling cloud of snow. He threw up his hands anddropped his head, as much as to say that it was all over, and came backand sat down by the stove.
Ten minutes later the stage driver, unable to repress his grimforebodings and the natural impulse of his kind heart, yet with wordsof anger on his lips, flung himself into his great-coat, cap, andmittens, and started out to drag the boy back from what seemed certaindeath. A farmhand from Keene's accompanied him, and, together, theyfaced the storm and buffeted the drifts for hours without success. Atdusk, they returned to the house, and reported that they had found notrace, whatever, of the missing lad.