Justice Intervenes

Judge Braxton was weather-wise, as became a man who had ridden a troubled legal circuit a full forty years among the hills of Southeastern Kentucky, and the aspect of the noon sky, with those venomous little clouds over there just above the crests of the peaks, did not please him; it foreboded cold rain, cold wind, snow, and divers other things unpleasant. The Judge, so-called from that term on the county bench when he was a young man, but ever since a practicing lawyer, nearly always for the defense, was not fond of storms at any time: but now he had an additional reason to wish a quick and easy journey.

When the minute hand of his watch last passed twelve it marked the beginning of the afternoon before Christmas and the Judge, who had a numerous family, always wished to be right in the center of his tribe on Christmas eve. A difficult case, now settled happily, had taken him into the wild mountains, but by hard riding he could reach a railroad station before dark, and then in two hours he would be in his own town, helping to decorate the huge Christmas tree, with young faces around him and happy voices in his ear.

The Judge, at the present moment, looked upon a prospect very different from that of his usual Christmas eve. All around him rolled the hills, bleak, sterile, shaggy with short bushes, and unlovely. Over them loomed a sullen gray sky that brought out everything bad and that hid everything good. Not a house, not a human being, save himself, was in site.

The Judge bestowed a few more anxious glances on the western horizon, where the venomous little clouds were gathering more size and venom. A chill wind blowing down from the peaks cut across his face, A short while before he had been uncertain whether it would be a cold rain or snow, but now it was certain to be snow. He rode steadily on for a long time, always growing more anxious, and at last the snow came, a peculiarly wicked, trying kind of snow that enveloped him, now in little white whirlwinds, and then slashed across his face like the sharp edge of a knife. But the Judge was a plucky man, and he still had that vision of the Christmas eve, the glittering Christmas tree, and the firelight flickering on the wall. He struggled gallantly on, now turning his face sidewise to the wind and the snow and letting the horse pick the road.

It was slow progress, and the Judge, with a sinking heart, realized it. Also, his ears and his hands and his feet were growing cold, and he was not a young man. As the afternoon waned, it was borne in upon him, with painful certainty, that for the first time in a dozen years he would not spend Christmas eve with his family. He must seek shelter, and he must not delay the seeking of it, as the slow chill was creeping through his body. His decision taken, he let that happy Christmas vision fade quite away. A long life, spent partly in rough regions had taught him resignation, and he turned his mind from regrets to the question of shelter.

He knew the country, and despite the storm and the eternal whipping of the snow in his face, he was able to keep track of the locality. A half mile farther on was the stout log house of old Jabez White, who had once been a successful client of his in the matter of a disputed cow and there he would certainly find fire, food, and a roof. Such things as those at such a time were not without consolation, and the Judge, stimulated by the thought of them, urged his horse to new speed.

The White homestead, securely anchored in a little cove, presently rose to view among the whirling flakes, and the Judge’s tired horse raised his head and neighed; he knew nothing of Christmas eves, but like his master, he knew that food and shelter were at hand. The walls of the house were brown and bare, with every door and window closed, but a comfortable smoke rose from the chimney, and when the Judge knocked heavily he received a hearty welcome.

It was a girl, a trim handsome mountain maid, who opened the door, and she exclaimed in surprise:

“Why, it’s Judge Braxton!”

“Yes, my dear, and I’ve come to spend Christmas eve with your family,” replied the Judge gallantly.

Annie was only a child when he won the famous cow case for her father, but Judge Braxton remembered her well. She had certainly grown into a fine young woman, and he regarded her with fatherly admiration. Age does not necessarily dim one’s eye for beauty.

Behind the girl came her parents, full of voluble surprise and welcome.

“Why, Judge,” exclaimed old man White, “you’re a sight for sore eyes, an’ it’s a tall piece of luck for us to have you with us Christmas eve. It would have been a plumb risky thing for you to go on.”

“So I know, good friends, and I thank you for such a warm welcome,” said the Judge gratefully.

He brushed off the snow, and basked in the ruddy blaze of a big fire of hickory logs, while old man White put his horse in the stable and fed it. There was no constraint, the hospitality of the mountains was at his service, and he knew that these people were glad to house him and attend to his wants. His coming was an event in their lonely lives, because Judge Braxton was a famous man in his own country, and to the houses at which he stopped he brought the sparkle of a kind heart and a cheerful optimism that let itself loose in effective speech.

Hiding his own disappointment, he exerted himself to please the Whites and gossiped briskly along with stories of the larger outside world of which these people knew so little. The snow and the wind still drove fiercely by and the night came down swiftly, thick and black. Looking out once at the angry blur, the Judge was devoutly glad that he had not persisted in his attempt to make the railroad station, and the savory odors that came presently from the kitchen reconciled him yet further to his situation.

He was surrounded by an atmosphere of warmth and jollity in which he could observe only one troubled note, and it was furnished by the handsome daughter Annie. The Judge, always a shrewd observer, noticed now and then an absent look in her eyes, and an anxious curving of her lips. “Something heavy is on her mind,” he said to himself with the decision of certainty.

“Set to, Judge! Set to,” called old man White cheerily. “This ain’t no great shakes by the side of what you’d have had at home, but you’ll find it powerful fillin’.”

“It’s good enough for the best man in the world,” replied the Judge sincerely, as he drew up his chair for his Christmas eve supper of tender chicken, juicy ham that would melt in the mouth, thin hot corn cakes overspread with butter, white biscuits and good coffee. The Judge loved his own people and their ways and he would not have exchanged his supper for any that the best restaurant in New York could furnish.

All sat at the table together and passed the food to each other. The three elderly people kept a constant stream of talk flowing, but the girl had little to say. The, keen-eyed Judge noticed more than once the troubled little twist of her lips, but he did not rally her about it. Judge Braxton had a delicate mind and he was not one to parade the woes of a young girl.

“Snow’s stopped,” said old man White when supper was nearly finished, “and I guess from the looks of that strip o’ sky showin’ through the window there that it’ll be clear tomorrow.”

“And I can get to the station in time to catch the 8 o’clock train,” said Judge Braxton.

“Wa’al if you’re set on’t, you kin,” replied old man White with a twinkle in his eye. I guess it’s only natural for a man to want to spend Christinas day with his folks.”

“It certainly is,” said Judge Braxton.

They sat a while, talking before the glowing fire, and then all retired for the night—they go to bed early in the mountains. Judge Braxton slept in the sitting room, which was also a parlor and bed room, the old couple withdrew to a sort of alcove, and the girl disappeared somewhere in the half story under the eaves. Then the dying fire ceased to crackle, and stillness came over the house. After a little the storm subsided and the moon appeared on the landscape.

The Judge was very tired, but he did not sleep soundly. His nerves were still suffering from the strain of his long day’s ride, and after a while he woke from his troubled slumber. Only a few coals yet glowed on the hearth and not a sound could be heard in the house.

The Judge closed his eyes again, but his troubled nerves would not let him go back to sleep; he had no premonition of any grief or danger, merely a weariness so great that it made his body ache and his eyes open again.

He had a thought presently, and he wondered why it had not come to him sooner. He had done a service for these people once, but their hospitality now came at a time when it was sorely needed, and this was Christmas eve. He carried in his saddle bags for his own daughters some pretty little pieces of jewelry, any one of which he could replace the next morning at his own town, and his mind reverted to a bracelet that would just suit the girl, Annie.

Judge Braxton rose from his bed, took his saddle bags from a chair, and, by the moonlight filtering through the window, selected the bracelet. Then he scribbled on a piece of paper from his note book the words: “For Annie, Merry Christmas,” and put note and bracelet on the mantel over the fireplace.

The mantel was near the window, and as Judge Braxton turned away he distinctly saw a shadow pass before the window. He stopped at once and listened intently. He thought he heard the soft crunch of a footstep on the snow outside, once, twice, three times, and then silence. It was more than a thought, it was certainty.

Judge Braxton was a creature of his environment, and he immediately scented mischief. It was a lone house, and the presence of somebody outside at such an hour was a matter that needed looking into. He anticipated no danger for himself, but the home of White was well within the feud belt, and he did not know the old man’s private affairs, which might involve some personal quarrel.

It was his first thought to awaken White, but the old man was feeble, and, after all, it might be a false alarm. On second thought, he decided to see for himself. He put on his clothes hastily, but in silence, and then, opening the door, stepped quickly upon the porch in the full blaze of a brilliant moonlight. It was his object to be seen clearly and at once, in order that no possible lurking marksman might take him for what he was not.

But he saw nothing, that is, nothing human. Around him curved the silent trees, now clothed in a robe of white, and there was not the whisper of a breeze. The Judge walked down to the end of the porch, where the woods came almost to the end of the house and again he looked and listened intently. But he neither saw nor heard anything, and with the thought to carry his search further he stepped off the porch into the snow. Then looking back he saw a tiny beam of light shining on the snow near the far end of the porch.

The Judge glanced up, and he noticed that the light came from a window in the half story under the eaves. He did not have time to think what it might mean, because a low voice, almost at his elbow, called:

“Judge! Judge Braxton!”

It was a friendly voice and it continued:

“Git behind the tree here. Judge; you ain’t got time to go back in the house; if you tried it now you’d sp’il everything.”

A big- hand reached out, and the Judge, half dragged, half willing, stepped behind a tree, a huge beech.

“Don’t you know me, Judge?” said the owner of the big hand in the same hoarse, impressive whisper. “I’m Tom Charlton, the sheriff of this county.”

The Judge’s eyes followed the hand up the arm to a body and head of equally large proportions. The other hand held a Winchester rifle to which the first hand also speedily returned. Yes, he knew Tom Charlton, the sheriff, a man without fear.

“On important an’ pressin’ business which you were just about to sp’il,” continued the sheriff huskily. “I’m huntin’ Will Benton. I’ve been huntin’ him for a month, but I’ve got him now. He ain’t a hundred yards away, comin’ through the woods this very minute to see Annie White. Listen! You can hear his footsteps in the snow.”

Judge Braxton shuddered. The whole story flashed upon him in an instant. He had heard of young Will Benton, how he had killed a man in a desperate duel, and had been hiding among the hills ever since. Now he was trapped, trapped unconsciously by the girl he loved.

Judge Braxton glanced at Tom Charlton, the sheriff, the man who knew no fear, and who upon occasion could know no mercy either. He had been, in his time, through many rough scenes and he had dealt with many rough men, but never before had he seen the fire burn so fiercely in the eyes of the hunter of men. The sheriff had hunted Benton long and now he had him. The Judge saw the two big hands fondle the rifle and then raise it to his shoulder. Again Judge Braxton shuddered. Yet the sheriff was well within the scope of his duty,

Judge Braxton’s eyes followed the line of the rifle’s barrel, and he saw a young man come from the woods, stepping warily in the snow. The moonlight was yet brilliant and the Judge thought his face was not bad; it was that of a man very young; there was width between the eyes, and his look was neither mean nor furtive. On the contrary, the Judge, who would remember his own youth and who was not without experience, saw that the gaze was one of eager anticipation.

“It was the only way I could git him,” whispered the sheriff in self-congratulatory tones, “but I’ve worked it, Judge, he’s dead in love with old man White’s gal, an’ she with him, I reckon. I heard he was stealin’ here to see her an’ I’ve been layin’ aroun’ in the snow waitin’ for ’im.”

The sheriff’s tones expressed nothing but exultation and the merciless zeal of the hunter, but the Judge, despite his sixty years, gulped.

“He killed Zeke Proudfit—shot him to death with his revolver,” continued the sheriff, “an’ his folks have said I couldn’t git ’im. I reckon they’ll laugh t’other way now.”

“You’ve got him; there’s no doubt of that, Tom,” replied the Judge.

Young Benton came to the edge of the little clearing, and the Judge saw that he was looking eagerly at the beam of light from the upper window. Just then there came a vision across the snow, the flitting form of a young girl, with brilliant face and shining eyes. It was Annie White, and the next moment her arms were around young Benton’s neck.

“I don’t think you’d better fire now, Tom,” whispered the Judge dryly.

The sheriff’s rifle was at his shoulder, and he was looking down the sights at the two figures now so close together.

“Of course, I’ll wait.” replied Charlton. “I don’t want to hurt the gal, but I’m goin’ to git Benton; he’s a dangerous man, hard to be took, an’ if his hands don’t go up the moment I call, then I shoot. He’s swore that he won’t be took, an’ the odds are ten to one that I shoot.”

The Judge looked again at the rifle. He was a tender-hearted man who believed in the goodness of human nature and again he sighed.

“Listen!” he said. “Don’t you hear what they are saying?”

The Judge’s natural delicacy of mind did not beep him from eavesdropping now, and as Benton and Annie were not twenty feet away he and the sheriff could hear every word they said.

“Yon oughtn’t to have come,” said the girl.

Benton laughed and stroked her hand.

“Why not, Annie?” he asked. “I’ve rid fifteen miles to be here. There’s no danger; but I’d have come anyhow.”

“I know it,” she said, and the Judge thought he could see her face glow with pride in her lover’s courage. Then she became tremulous again.

“They’re hunting everywhere for you,” she said. “The sheriff has got his dander up, and he says he’ll take you if he’s got to follow you a year.”

The Judge glanced at Charlton, and he saw a slow smile of triumph appear on his face, but Benton’s look became troubled.

“I ain’t afraid of Charlton, Annie,” he said, “but I do hate to be hidin’ out in the hills like a varmint, an’ havin’ to sneak here at midnight to see you when I ought to be comin’ in at the front door, in the day time, afraid of nobody.”

“It’s hard, Tom,” said the girl.

“An’ it ain’t my fault, Annie!” he exclaimed passionately.

“I know it,” she said.

“I didn’t want to kill Zeke Proudfit,” he continued. “It was just forced on me, an’ I’ve been waitin’ for this chance to tell you about it. God knows, I never wanted to kill anybody, not even one of the Proudfits, even if they are ag’in our family. I went out of my way to get shet of Zeke. I took so much that some began to think me a coward—I could tell it in their eyes, Annie, an’ that’s a hard thing to see. I was all for peace, but Zeke he would foller it up. Then he fired the first shot an’ I had to shoot. What else could I do, Annie?”

“Nothing,” she said.

“I’d have come into court an’ stood trial, but all the witnesses were Proudfits and their tribe, an’ they’d swear my life away. I know the lyin’ tale they’ve spread. They say I shot a man when his back was turned an’ he wasn’t thinkin’ of harm, but I’m tellin’ you the truth, Annie.”

“I believe you,” said the girl.

“I believe you, too,” breathed the Judge.

A faint breeze arose and whispered through the white forest. For a few moments there was no other sound.

“I can’t stand it any longer, Annie,” said the boy—he was little more. “I can’t bear hidin’ out, an’ I won’t come in to court to be hung by them lyin’ Proudfits. I’m goin” away, Annie.”

The Judge heard the girl utter a little gasp, and again there was silence for a few moments, save for the whisper of a little breeze through the white forest. Judge Braxton glanced at the sheriff, but Charlton’s face showed nothing, and his large hands grasping the rifle, quivered not a bit.

“Where are you going?” asked the girl in a half-choked voice.

“To Oklahoma; they won’t follow me away out there, an’ I’m fixin’ to start right off. But, Annie, I don’t want to go alone.”

She looked up into his eyes and her face whitened, then turned red. She understood.

“I don’t want to go alone,” he said, with the proud faith of one who loved and was loved, “an’ I’m askin’ you, Annie, to come. I’ve got two horses in the brush out there, one for you an’ one for me, an’ I’ve got a paper in my pocket—look at it; it’s a marriage license for you an’ me. The county clerk—he’s a friend of mine—slipped it to me. At daylight we can be married at the station, an’ then we’ll be off to Oklahoma. In a year or two the fuss ’ll die down, the truth will tell itself, an’ we can come back to old Kentucky, if we want to.”

“But pa and ma,” she uttered tremulously, “they’re old,”

“I know it, but one of their married children will take care of them or we can send for them. God knows I wouldn’t have you to go with me now, Annie, but we won’t have another chance.”

She stood looking up at him and her eyes wavered. The Judge repeated under his breath a line of a poem “and through all the world she followed him.” He knew already what the decision would be.

Benton, a fine frank young figure, stood waiting. Judge Braxton heard the sheriff breathing deeply by his side. Looking closely he saw the faintest quiver of the large fingers on the rifle barrel.

“In half a minute she’ll tell him that she’ll go with him,” whispered the Judge. “He won’t throw up his hands if you call, Tom Charlton, and you won’t have the nerve to fire on him.”

“I have got the nerve to do it,” said the sheriff angrily. “Who says I haven’t?”

“I do,” replied the Judge firmly. “And you know, Tom Charlton, that he was telling the truth about that fight!”

“What’s that to me? I’m the sheriff of this county an’ I’ve got to take him or down him.

“You don’t dare. Hear what they are saying.”

Everything’s ready,“ continued the boy. ”I’ve got shawls out there at the saddles. You’ll keep warm. You won’t suffer. We must go now, Annie, this minute. We’ve got to get the daylight train, an’ we have to be married first, so there ain’t no time to waste.”

The boy’s eyes looked down into the girl’s and hers were yielding. Judge Braxton saw the rifle barrel beside him slowly rising. He put out a hand and pressed it down, muzzle toward the earth.

You’ll let them go, Tom Charlton,“ he whispered.

“I won’t!” said the sheriff.

“You will,” reiterated the Judge. and his hand pressed the rifle barrel down yet farther. “Hear me, Tom Charlton. It’s a little past midnight now, and so it’s Christmas morning. I left a present for the girl, which she won’t get, on the mantel in the house, but you’re going to make her a finer one out here. You’re going to give her Will Benton.

“Not I!” asserted the sheriff.

“Yes, you!” said the Judge.

His own large hand closed over the sheriff’s large hand and pressed the rifle barrel down still farther, until it pointed straight to the earth,

“You’re making her that Christmas present now, Tom Charlton.”

The sheriff growled, but under his breath.

“You can’t kill on Christmas morning!”

The sheriff growled again.

Two figures, the boy’s and the girl’s were flitting into the depths of the forest.

“You’re not a heathen, Tom Charlton,” said the Judge.

The two figures were lost in the white forest and the Judge knew that in a few moments they would be riding swiftly over the snow. Again there was silence save for the whisper of a breeze among the trees.

“I’m a weak man!” growled the sheriff in disgust.

“You’re wrong, Tom Charlton,” said the Judge, “you’re a Christian gentleman.”

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