"'S the bes' joke," said Bob, rubbing his knees exultingly; "but I'm afeared you'll tell," he added, rousing himself.

"'Pon my word 'n' honor, I won't. n.o.body'll ever git 't out uh me." And S'manthy emphasized this a.s.surance by a boastful nodding of the head forward and to one side.

"Well, 'f you think you kin keep the sekert overnight--Don' choo tell no livin' critter tell mornin'."

"I hain't no hand to tell sekerts, an' you 'd orter know that, Bob."

"Well, you jes let Jake 'n' his crowd go to Moscow to-night," said Bob, chuckling in a semi-tipsy, soliloquizing tone. "I come over to make sh.o.r.e they _wuz_ a-goin', un I wuz to let the sher'f know ef they had got wind uv anything. I saw Markham, the deppitty, about one o'clock this mornin', un he tole me he 'd look arter the eenques' un I mus' keep a lookout over h-yer. Jake 'll have a rousin' time, un no mistake."

"Shootin'?" queried S'manthy, with eagerness.

"Naw! I wuz on'y a-lettin' on about shootin' to fool Uncle Lazar. Hain't got no needcessity to shoot. Better 'n that! Gosh!"

"Goin' to take the young feller away?"

"I 'low they did n't never take him back to Moscow arter the eenques'."

"Tuh law! You don't say? Whar 've they tuck 'm to?"

"I sha'n't tell," said Bob. "I sha'n't tell even _you_, S'manthy."

"Perrysburg?"

"You all-ays wuz some at guessin'. But I sha'n't say nary nuther word, on'y he 's whar Jake won't find him ef he goes to Moscow. They went summers, un that's anough. Perrysburg jail 's ruther stronger 'n ourn, I'll say _that_. 'T wuz all fixed, 'fore I lef' home, to run him off afore the verd.i.c.k wuz in, un not to keep to the big road nuther, so 's Jake would n' git wind uv 'em. Don't you whisper Perrysburg to a livin'

soul. You jes' let Jake go down to Moscow! I'm comin' over 'n the mornin' to fetch your mare home un git my little Seizer that 's got to stay h-yer to-night, un then I'll fine out how they come out." And Bob chuckled as he left the house, only turning back to say:

"You keep closte, S'manthy, ur you'll spile it all. 'F you do tell, I won't _never_ forgive yeh."

Bob now went out and down to the brookside, where he cut up and stripped three or four leatherwood bushes, and tied the tough, fibrous bark into one strong rope. With this he girded the bear to the horse's back, meantime resisting all of old Lazar's inquiries about the reason for his coming. At length he walked off in the dusk, unsteadily leaning against the horse on which the bear-meat was tied, and was soon out of sight.

"Bob won't tell me," said the old man plaintively, as he came into the house.

"He won't, won't he?" demanded S'manthy, with exultation in her voice.

"You don' know how. Takes me to git at a sekert."

"Did he tell _you_, S'manthy?" Uncle Lazar looked a little crest-fallen.

"In _course_ he did. Think I couldn' make him tell? W'y, I kin thes twis' Big Bob 'roun' my little finger."

"Well, what on yerth did he come over yer fer, S'manthy?"

"I promised not to tell you."

"To be sh.o.r.e you did. But you're a-goin' to."

"Yes; but you'll let it out, un then what'll Bob say to me?"

"What'll Jake say to you fer lettin' yer mar' go off, when one uv his boys had the promise? Un what 'll the folks say when they find out you knowed, un let 'em be fooled by Big Bob? You 've got to tell, S'manthy, ur else have all the Holler down on yeh. Besides, you could n' keep that sekert tell bed-time, noways, un you know you couldn'. 'T ain't in you to keep it, un you might thes ez well out weth it now ez arter awhile."

"Aw, well, Daddy, Bob didn' say much, on'y ut Jake wouldn' fine the feller that done the shootin' when he got to Moscow."

"Tuh law!" exclaimed the old man, waiting with open eyes for more.

"He wuz tuck off, afore the eenques' wuz over, to Perrysburg, un Bob come over to see 't Jake didn' git no wind uv it. That 's all they is _to_ it. Un you need n' go un tell it, h-yer _an'_ yan, nuther."

S'manthy knew well that this caution was of no avail. But by tacking the proviso to the information, she washed her hands of responsibility, and convinced herself that she had not betrayed a secret. It was an offering that she felt bound to make to her own complacency.

Uncle Lazar, for his part, made no bones. He only tarried long enough to set his pipe to smoking.

Bob McCord had stopped in the growing darkness under the shade of a box elder, a little beyond the forks of the road. He presently had the satisfaction of seeing the head of the old man as he trotted away through the patch of stunted corn toward a little grocery, which was located where the big road crossed Broad Run Hollow, and which was the common center of resort and intelligence for the neighborhood.

XIV

IN PRISON

Hiram Mason managed with difficulty to drive the first two miles of forest road--over roots and stumps, through ruts and mud-holes, and with no light but that of a waning moon. When he reached Timber Creek bridge he got down and led the horse on its unsteady floor. Then came, like a dark spot in the pale moonlight, the log school-house, which reminded him that he was running away from his day's work. He stopped at the new log-house of John Buchanan, a Scotch farmer who had been one of his predecessors, and called him up to beg him to take his place. Buchanan, whose knowledge was of the rudimentary kind, had ceased to teach because he had not been able to meet the increased demands of the patrons of the school; it was a sort of consolation to his thwarted ambition to resume the beech-scepter if only for a day.

When Buchanan's house had been left behind, the road pa.s.sed into an outskirt of small poplars, and then finally shook off this outer fringe of forest and lay straight away over the dead level of the great prairie. By the time the wagon reached this point the dawn was beginning to reveal the landscape, though as yet the world consisted only of ma.s.ses of shadow interspersed with patches of a somber gray. But the smooth road was sufficiently discernible for Hiram to put the horse into a trot, which afforded no little relief to the impatient Barbara. Up to this time they had traveled in silence, except for the groans and sighs of Mrs. Grayson. But at length Barbara took the lead.

"I can't believe that Tom did that shooting," she said to Mason. "He promised me after supper last night that he would put all hard feelings against George Lockwood out of his mind. Tom is n't the kind of a fellow to play the hypocrite. Oh, I do hope he is innocent!"

"So do I," said Mason.

"To be sure he is," said Mrs. Grayson, with a touch of protest in her voice.

Barbara had detected a note of effort in Hiram's reply, that indicated a prevailing doubt of Tom's innocence, and she did not speak again during the whole ride. When they entered the village, Mason drove first to the sheriff's house, and went in, leaving Barbara and her mother in the wagon. Sheriff Plunkett had not yet had his breakfast. He was a well-built man, of obliging manners, but with a look of superfluous discreetness in his face. Mason explained in few words that the mother and sister of Tom Grayson, who had not seen him since the shooting of Lockwood, were at the door in a wagon and wished to be admitted to the jail. The sheriff regarded Mason awhile in silence; it was his habit to examine the possible results of the simplest action before embarking in it. He presently went upstairs and came down bringing with him the jail keys. Mason drove the wagon to the jail, tied the horse to a tree, and suggested to Mrs. Grayson and Barbara that it would be better for him to go in first. He had a vague fear that there might be something in Tom's situation to shock the feelings of his mother and sister. The sheriff had walked briskly along the wagon track in the middle of the street to avoid the dew-laden gra.s.s on either side of the road. When he came to the door of the jail he said in an undertone as he shoved the great iron key into the door:

"Tom's in the dungeon."

"Why did you put him in the dungeon?" asked Mason.

"We always put prisoners accused of murder in there."

"You might put an innocent man in that place," said Mason.

"Well, there ain't much doubt about Tom's being guilty; and anyways the jail's so weak that we have to put anybody accused of murder in the dungeon, where there ain't any outside windows."

By the time he had finished this speech, Plunkett had admitted Mason and himself to the jail and locked the outside door behind them. The prison was divided into two apartments by a hall-way through the middle. The room to the left, as one entered, was called the dungeon; it was without any light except the little that came through at second-hand from the dusky hall by means of a small grating in the door; the hall itself was lighted by a simple grated window at the end farthest from the outside door.

When the sheriff had with difficulty opened the door of the dungeon, he could not see anything inside.

"Tom, come out," he called.

Mason was barely acquainted with Tom, but he was shocked to see the fine-looking fellow in handcuffs as he came to the door, blinking his eyes at the light, and showing a face which wounded pride and anxiety had already begun to make haggard.