16 The Groveton Road

Spring kept its early promise. The warm waves continued to roll up from the south, the green on leaf and stem deepened. Warm, soft rains fell at right intervals and the fruitful soil responded. Few could recall another such full season of budding and blossoming in both the mountains and the Dark Tobacco region. It was an enchanted period to Harry Beauchamp. It seemed to him that Fortune, her face smiling, had heaped gifts upon him with both hands. Often Cynthia and he walked together in the evening, and everyone whom they met would nod approval as they passed. All Groveton was their friend.

The town itself was passing from one stage of prosperity to another. Oil, iron and coal continued to pour an increasing stream of treasure into its lap, and the tobacco “breaks” began to wear the aspect of life again. Judge Braxton’s information had been true. The crop of the year before was sold at an advance to the great manufacturers, and thousands of farmers were keeping the pledge to plant no tobacco in the present year, but, in its stead, to raise grain and grass. Harry saw that, after all, the farmers had won something. The tyranny of King Tobacco was loosened a little. Nevertheless the Band of Justice persisted, demanding more, and the raiders were still at work.

But as Judge Braxton had also said, some of the farmers were paying a price. The foolish, the reckless and men whose heads were easily turned by drink, were now serving prison sentences, while the stronger and craftier, who stood in the background, went free. Dave Strong was indicted by the Grand Jury for a share in the raid on Groveton, and was tried, but the prosecution had been able to produce little proof and he was acquitted. He was borne triumphantly through the courthouse yard on the shoulders of farmers, and a short time afterward he appeared in the office of the Herald.

Harry was sitting alone in his little corner, when Strong entered. Jim Steptoe hovered darkly in the background, and made a signal to Harry, which said practically: “If you need me, I’m here,” but Harry signalled back, “I don’t need you.”

“What are you going to print about this case of mine?” asked Strong, standing up in front of the desk.

“I’m going to state, of course, that you were acquitted, but I’m going to print my personal opinion that you were guilty, guilty through and through, more guilty than anybody else.”

Strong frowned.

“I ain’t hunting any quarrel with you, Mr. Beechum,” he said.

“Beauchamp, please,” said Harry sharply.

“Well, Mr. Boshong, then.”

“And I’m going to add in my account,” continued Harry, “that the worst feature of this raiding business has been the opening it has given for the instincts of the lawless. I speak particularly of the mountaineers. They, as well as others in this state, take far too light a view of killing, and you have helped, Mr. Strong, to confirm them in that view.”

“I think you’re saying a lot of things that you don’t know to be true,” growled Strong.

“You came here to ask questions and I’ve answered them,” replied Harry, picking up his pencil, and resuming his writing.

Strong looked at him, clinched his teeth savagely, and then turned away. Jim Steptoe reappeared, again hovering darkly in the background. Jim was saying certain words under his breath, and they were these: “I wish Mr. Beauchamp would give me this quarrel, I do wish he would!” But Harry, writing at his desk, showed no sign of a desire to transfer it, and Jim, not “literary” at all at this moment, but warlike in every vein, was forced, without lifting a hand, to watch Dave Strong go out of the office, and not a shot fired, nor even a blow struck. With a deep sigh, James Steptoe returned to his work.

Harry published his account, in accordance with what he had told Strong, and he said editorially that wrong had been done on both sides. Like Judge Braxton he counselled once more the abandonment of tobacco, whenever possible, and the substitution of grain and grass.

The Herald itself was in a high state of prosperity. As soon as the ground loosened from the frost, the foundations had been broken for the new building. Cynthia shared in the air of proprietorship.

As the spring unfolded further Tom Kidd took a party on a special train for an outing to Elmwood. Cynthia Braxton, Rose Compton, Charlie Wentworth and others were among his guests. Harry Beauchamp, owing to some pressing business connected with his new building, could not go on the special train, but he would come later on horseback, returning in the same way.

This second visit to Elmwood stirred Harry’s deepest feelings. It was there that he and Cynthia had opened their hearts to each other. They could steal away from the others and walk again on that very slope.

He had a new and powerful horse of the finest Bluegrass stock, an animal to which the distance to Elmwood was nothing, and as he cantered along Harry felt as if he were borne by a tireless engine.

Harry, when he arrived at Elmwood, found the party scattered about the beautiful woods. But all that he had hoped came true. He and Cynthia did steal away from the others, they did go again to the very place that neither could ever forget, and they did have an afternoon of happiness, perfect and complete. Then the red sun set behind the green hills.

Elmwood also had a new hotel and the party, chaperoned by Rose’s aunt, spent the night there. But they sat late upon the piazzas, which were large, roomy and dusky. Here all fell naturally into their places. It was a little group of young people who had grown up together. Everybody knew who was everybody else’s relatives, down to the last and most distant cousin, and there was no constraint.

Harry and Cynthia sat together at a corner, facing the slope of the hill, now covered with a thick curtain of green foliage. Neither was saying much, content to listen to the hum of voices from the others, and the plaintive sighing of a stray wind among the leaves. Harry was still very happy, with that complete happiness of youth in love, and loved in return, and the situation increased it. Behind them was the hotel, but dimly lighted, and before them the forest wholly in the dark. A romantic glamor was over everything. The conversation was subdued, in tune with time and place. Even Charlie Wentworth’s talk, while ceasing but rarely, and then but briefly, flowed in a soft trickle, that harmonized well with the wind among the leaves.

But Cynthia Braxton became conscious of a strange, alien note in her happiness, the note of mystery and trouble. Her mind was like a sensitive plate, and something foreign had been registered upon it. At times she had an acuteness, a perception that belonged, ages back, to the primitive woman who could feel a presence, when she could not see it. She felt such a presence now, and she strained her eyes into the darkness of the forest and the slope, but she saw nothing. The dusk seemed to roll up to the piazza like waves of the sea, too much for any human eye, but she still felt the presence. It was like an electric shock, passing through every nerve of the system, and none the less powerful because unseen. It was ominous, a portent of danger, and Cynthia shivered.

“I am cold,” she said to Harry. “Let’s go inside.”

They went into the parlor, and after talking for what Harry thought was too short a time, Cynthia said good-night, leaving Harry alone. Harry knew that Cynthia was troubled about something, but he didn’t know what it might be.

* * * *

Harry announced the next day that in an hour he would start for Groveton on horseback. Cynthia had thought that the premonition would vanish with the day, but it did not. Every nerve in her was alive, sensitive, attuned to danger.

“Harry,” she said, “don’t go on horseback. I fear for your safety. Please wait for the train tonight.”

“What do you fear?” Harry asked.

“I have the strongest premonition that Cad Burke means to harm you if you travel to Groveton alone.”

“But I cannot wait, Cynthia,” replied Harry. “I must attend a meeting about some work on the new building.”

“Can’t you postpone it?” Cynthia pleaded. Her manner was unusual and eager, and her eyes were appealing, producing a powerful inducement to stay.

“No, Cynthia, I must go,” he said, putting his hand upon hers. He felt vaguely that he should honor her request and return to Groveton by train with her and the others. But he would not break an engagement because of a premonition.

She did not know what else to say. Every nerve within her trembled. But there was one thing that she could do! It was a sudden thought, but she would act upon it at once. They had already brought his horse to the hotel entrance, and he would start in a few minutes.

“Wait a moment, Harry,” she said.

She ran into the hotel. She had seen through a window the head of Charlie Wentworth, and she knew that she would find him lounging in the hall.

Charlie Wentworth was startled at the sudden appearance of Cynthia Braxton before him, tense, eager and obviously moved by a deep emotion. He was still more startled, when she asked him for something, an object for which a woman seldom asks, and so startled was he that instantly and without question, he took it from his pocket, and gave it to her. Then she ran back outside.

Harry was now holding his horse by the bridle. It was early and no one else was about.

“This from me, Harry!” she said, and she pressed something hard and cold into his hand. He dropped it into his pocket. Before he could get mounted Cynthia threw her arms about his neck and kissed him on the lips with extraordinary fervor.

Thrilled by the close pressure of the lips of the woman whom he loved, Harry said “Tomorrow, Cynthia,” and rode gaily away on the Groveton Road.

She ran up the stairs and into her own room. Then she locked the door, fell upon her knees, and began to pray fervently, intensely and passionately.

She prayed, not to a God of mercy and forgiveness, but that the man she loved might have a quick eye and a ready hand.

Harry’s spirited and powerful horse wanted his head, and Harry gave it to him. The hoof-beats echoed on the hard earth in a steady roll, and the green woods slid by. The road was deserted, but he thought nothing of it. His thoughts were full of questions about Cynthia’s strange premonition. He scarcely saw the blue sky or the green woods.

Up sprang the sun, moving in its curving course toward the zenith. It reached the center of the circling heavens and passed on. Far off in a field, a man sang at his work, and a bird in the forest answered. A scarlet tanager darted from tree to tree, like a flash of flame. A rabbit leaped up in the undergrowth. Harry Beauchamp saw it all. His mind was alert and quick to take in all around him.

The great horse was yet fresh and eager, and Groveton was not far away. He had travelled without problem this far, and his journey was near its end. Perhaps Cynthia’s premonition was not to be fulfilled after all.

Just beyond that hill the spires and roofs of Groveton would come into view, but here at the ascent of the hill the road curved, and the woods on either side were thick and dark. At the beginning of the slope Harry bore almost unconsciously on the reins, and his horse dropped to a walk. He felt for the first time the intense stillness, a silence so heavy that it seemed ominous. In a flash, the memory of it all came back to him. The whole vivid scene leaped into the light. There in the middle of the road, his poor, weak, harmless uncle lay, slain by an assassin’s bullet, and he, a little boy, was crying by his side.

Suddenly he pulled upon the reins. Something had stirred in the thicket by the roadside! His nerves were ready and his eye quick. He caught a flash of brown in the bushes, and the next instant he threw himself from his horse, alighting cat-like upon his feet. A rifle cracked in the thicket, and a bullet whistled where his body had been.

The wild Mason blood in Harry Beauchamp was up and aflame. His hand flashed to his pocket, and closed firm and hard over Cynthia Braxton’s gift. A second bullet whistled by, and leaping forward, he replied. They were at close range now, and he did not miss. The man in the bushes who had raised himself for a better aim, uttered a gasping sigh, dropped his rifle and fell into the road. There, great, black-bearded, he lay upon his back, quite still, his dead face upturned to the sun.

* * * *

A tall, thin man, with a long red beard, was walking up the road on his way home from work, whistling a gay old time air. He heard a shot. Looking up he saw a figure on horseback, and, then another rising from the brush, weapon in hand. There was a second shot and then a third, and the man in the brush, weapon still clutched in his hand, rolled in the road. He was about to rush forward, but he suddenly saw something else, and instead he slipped quickly into the thicket of the bushes. There he lay perfectly still, flattened against the earth, but watching intently. He was invisible to anyone five feet away, but the man himself saw far and well.

* * * *

Harry stood in the road holding in his hand the pistol that Cynthia Braxton had given him, and staring down at the dead face of Cad Burke. His first emotion was of rage, fierce and overpowering. He had sought to kill, and he had killed, but now came a slow, cold horror. It was all to him Greek fate. That murder long ago in the Groveton Road, and, at the same place, had been avenged, and he had been chosen without any will of his own as the instrument of vengeance. Nevertheless the chill horror grew, because he had taken a human life, and, as he gazed at the dead face of the man whom he had slain, he did not hear footsteps behind him.

A powerful hand suddenly shot forward, and seized him by the wrist. Another snatched the pistol from his grasp, and, when he turned about in surprise, he saw a group of a dozen men, about him, their faces, hidden by grotesque white masks, like those worn by the men who had come that night to his office to warn him. They pressed closely around him, an impenetrable wall, and, instantly he understood his danger. At the moment of comprehension he returned to earth, and became cool and composed.

“Well?” he said.

One of the men laughed, and his voice had an extraordinary sound behind the mask of white cloth.

“It’s not well” he said. “It’s a strange thing that we find you Harry Beauchamp, who have always been talking and writing so much about law and order, committing a murder, and the man that you have murdered is a good friend of the people, an enemy of the monopolists, Cad Burke.”

Harry looked around the circle with a steady gaze. His was a living human face, and theirs were blank and featureless. The advantage was with them. But he was not afraid. All his courage returned.

“I committed no murder,” he said in an unshaken voice. “The man lay by the roadside awaiting me, and fired at me from the bushes. I was forced to kill. He sought my life, because of an old feud, that I would have willingly let die.”

The man laughed again, and, coming from behind the mask, it was a thick, malignant laugh,

“That is what you say.” he said.

“The jury will believe it,”

A spasm of silent mirth seemed to pass around the circle, as every covered head shook.

“We are the jury,” said the spokesmen, “and we don’t believe it. I think myself that lynch law is a good thing, when a man is taken red handed.”

Harry was silent. He looked once more at the circle and his gaze was steady. Nevertheless the slow cold horror returned to his veins. These, save one, possibly, were men from the mountains he had no doubt. Kinsmen of Cad Burke himself, and Dick Logsdon might be among them, and there was nothing now to stay their hand. They had probably started upon some barn-burning expedition, and this had come their way.

Twilight was at hand already. The blue line of the mountains melted away, and the faint, distant steeples of Groveton passed out of sight. The wind began to moan through the dark woods and Harry recognized that, although within two miles of his native town and hundreds of friends, he was helpless in the hands of disguised enemies. He had read of lynchings, and now and then he had felt sympathy for the poor devil who suffered, however much he deserved death, but he had not dreamed that such a fate could ever menace him, Harry Beauchamp, the editor and owner of the Groveton Herald, and the kinsman of nearly every powerful family in that region. But he was resolved that what ever might happen he would not show fear. Birth and blood forbade it.

“This is not the place” said the spokesman, “Put him on his horse.”

One of the men had caught Harry’s horse, and, after they tied his hands behind him, they half-pushed, half lifted him into the saddle.

“Through the field, there,” said the leader.

They pulled down a panel of fence and rode through a darkening meadow toward the invisible mountains, leaving the body of Cad Burke in the road where it had fallen. The sun was gone and the night came down, swift and chill. One man rode on either side of Harry and others were behind and before. He was a practiced horseman, and, although his hands were tied, he had no trouble in keeping his saddle. He also had the coolness to note everything, as he passed, as well as the darkness would allow. Once or twice he was tempted to throw himself from the saddle and dart into the brush, but reason told him that the design was foolish. Such men as they were skillful and they would shoot him down before he could take three steps.

After a while they left the fields and the woods, and followed a road that led into the mountains. They no longer had anything to fear from the proximity of Groveton. They were far too strong for anything they might meet on this lonely trail, and they rode deliberately. It was evident to Harry that they were neither afraid nor in a hurry. He himself had not spoken since the departure but now he said:

“You should bear in mind, gentlemen that whatever may happen to me I have many and powerful friends, and such things as this cannot be hidden.”

“We are taking away a murderer,” replied the leader “and we are not afraid.”

Harry said no more. His pride would not let him. It was a singular fact, but at this moment he no longer felt any horror at the killing of Cad Burke. The idea of Greek fate returned, and suddenly it seemed fitting to him that he should have been the instrument in the hands of Justice.

The night thickened and darkened, and they rode on a long time, not meeting a soul in the narrow road which was overhung throughout most of the way by giant forest trees. A moon tried to come out, but it showed only glimpses of itself now and then, through a forest that seemed limitless. Harry’s mind ran over the events of the day. Had changes so swift and terrible ever occurred before? He had parted with Cynthia not so many hours ago and then all was golden. Now he had killed a man and doubtless he was riding forward in the darkness to his own death. Ah, Cynthia! Poor Cynthia!

They rode rapidly now, and the night became much colder. Harry had kept his idea of direction, and he knew that they were going eastward. The line of Tom Kidd’s new railroad lay only two or three miles to the south of them, and Cynthia herself was only a few miles away. Just beyond the high hill there lay the little hamlet at which she was staying. Could any hidden power, any obscure medium, of which man did not yet know, tell her of his fate? Whisper to her across the dark that he was passing? He wondered. He looked longingly at the great dome of the hill, cutting the darkness with its massive bulk, and, if they had not been tied, he would have stretched out his hands toward her; not for help, not in appeal, but because he loved her.

But nothing happened. If there was any obscure medium it brought nothing to him at least, and the massive hill, behind which she slept, sank away at last in the darkness. It seemed to him at that moment that as the last glimpse of the hill passed, Cynthia also passed from his life forever.

The leader spoke to one of his men, and they turned from the narrow road into what had once been another road, but now overgrown with bushes. It led two or three hundred yards around the curve of the hill. It stopped before an old abandoned cabin, built long before by a man who finally gave up trying to dig a living from the sterile hillsides and moved away. Since then no one had lived in it, and its timbers with age and weather had turned to a singular black. It was known far and wide as the Black Cabin.

The men dismounted and Harry, throwing his leg over the pommel of his saddle, sprang from his horse—he did not wish any of them to touch him. It was darker than ever now, mists and vapors completely obscuring the moon, and none of them noticed at the edge of the woods a phantom figure that had followed, grimly, on tireless feet. Perhaps the keenest eye could not have seen it, if it had looked, because the shadow was but a darker blur on the darkness.

The shadow lingered only a moment or two, until the men, captive and captors, went into the house, and, then turning, it raced away with astonishing speed.

Harry entered the cabin with the masked band, making no resistance as he knew that it would be useless. Two men lighted lanterns that they carried, whether for this or another purpose he did not know or care, and a third closed the door. The air came in through a single window, without glass or shutter.

An old table stood in the centre of the room, and the leader indicated with a pointing finger that Harry should take a seat on a broken chair in front of it. Harry did so, without a word, and the leader sat down on a box opposite him. The two lanterns were put on the table between them, and the men still wearing their masks stood in a group about them.

Harry Beauchamp recognized perfectly that they considered it a trial. A faint smile flickered over his face. Truly things were reversed! He was singularly calm. He felt that the same fate or predestination or whatever it was that had willed for him to kill Cad Burke was still the master of him. If it wished for him to live he would live, if not, well then—he and Cynthia might meet beyond the grave.

The leader stared through the slits in his white cloth mask at the prisoner on the other side of the table, but Harry glanced about the room with a vague interest.

It was not a cheerful place in the brightest of sunshine, and tonight its only qualities were those of desolation, ghostliness and crime. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling and dust lay on the floor. Outside the wind rose a little, and a dash of rain came in at the open window.

“Harry Beauchamp” said the leader. “We took you just as you had murdered one of our men, Cad Burke, the friend of the tobacco growers, and the enemy of the monopolists who are grinding us to death.”

“That you know is a lie,” said Harry. “The man sought to murder me and I killed him in self defense. He was already a murderer, as everybody has guessed, and my own uncle was his victim.

“Whether he killed Dick Mason or not it happened a long time ago” said the leader, “and he was not convicted. That lets him out. But you killed him today, and your life is forfeit. We are jury enough for that.”

A murmur of assent came from behind the masks.

“I’ve only to repeat,” said Harry, “that I’ve many and powerful friends. Sooner or later they’ll surely punish you for this.”

“What good would that do you?” asked the leader.

“None perhaps, but it would serve the community well.”

The leader paused and waited a little space. So far as Harry knew not a word had been spoken by any of the other men, and now they silently waited in a close masked circle, all armed with rifles.

“There’s another point,” said the leader at last. “All of us here serve the cause. We belong to the Band of Justice and that rises above individuals. You are the owner and editor of a newspaper, and you have written powerfully hard against us. You’ve hurt our cause, you’ve helped the big monopoly, and you’ve weakened the Band of Justice, you who are one of us, born in this region, and who ought to be with us.

“I’ve a great deal of sympathy with the tobacco growers,” replied Harry. “Everybody knows that, but I’ve had none with lawlessness. I’m proud of the Herald’s record on that point.

A murmur came from the masked circle, and it was threatening, but the leader raised his hand.

“The Herald has a big influence, too big,” he said. “I admit that, because nobody knows it better than I do, and because of it we’ve a proposition to make to you. You killed Cad Burke. Here are twelve of us who will swear to it, and we can string you up for it. Many a murderer has been hung without a trial.”

“Kentucky would not stand such a thing.”

“Maybe she would have to. Maybe you think, because you are conspicuous and are kin to so many of the big folk, that we wouldn’t dare to touch you, but we’ve shown that we do dare!”

“What is your proposition?” asked Harry abruptly.

“Your paper, the Herald. We admit its influence and we want it with us. If you’ll swear here to support the Band of Justice through thick and through thin, from beginning to the end, so help you God, we’ll let you go, if not we hang you this very night for murdering Cad Burke.”

All the blood rushed into Harry Beauchamp’s head. His heart beat heavily, and little black specks danced before his eyes. Every instinct within him revolted. That he should be dictated to in such a manner! It was intolerable.

The leader marked the emotions that were written on his face.

“Remember the price,” he said quietly.

“Yes, I do remember the price!” burst out Harry. “Nobody shall tell me what I am to do! Such a thing cannot be endured! No! No! I will not do as you say!”

“It is better than something else,” replied the leader.

“You have heard me,” replied Harry Beauchamp more calmly.

“Yes, we’ve heard you, but we think you a foolish young man. We want the Herald for us, and we’re willing to take your word for it. If you don’t keep it we can come again.

“It will never be for you! I will not change its policy a particle!”

A strange light flickered for a moment in the eyes that looked through the slits in the mask.

“I give you credit for courage, Harry Beauchamp,” the man said, “but it’s wasted. We mean what we say. Don’t be a fool! Give in!”

“Never!” said Harry.

The leader took out a large silver watch, and laid it face open on the table.

“A fool now and then comes to his right mind,” he said, and we’ll give you time. It’s 10 o’clock now. We’ll give you two hours. If at midnight you don’t take our terms then we go ahead. There’s the watch. You can see it as well as we.”

A murmur of approval rose from the masked circle. The watch, face open, lay directly between Harry and the leader, equally distant from the two. He could see the long minute hand at 12 and the shorter hour hand at 10, and he heard the slow, solemn tick.

“My mind is quite made up,” he said firmly, “I refuse your terms.”

“The watch will tell,” said the leader.

Harry stared down at it with a hideous fascination, and the others no longer looked at him, but gazed at the watch. It had become at once the central object of the room, a mighty magnet that held every eye.

It had an extraordinary effect upon Harry. The white, figured disc, and the silver rim around it, swelled to gigantic proportions. The minute hand crept on and on, and the hour hand trailed slowly behind it. The ticking, at first faint, grew louder and louder, and it seemed to Harry that it resounded through the otherwise silent room, like the beat of a drum.

But he would not change. He bit his teeth fiercely together and no word came from him, Nobody spoke. Faint flurries of rain came in again at the open window, and the wind rustled coldly through the woods, but nothing could drown the ticking of the terrible watch. Time went on and on, but nobody moved. The minute hand completed the circle, and the hour hand trailed after it.

“Eleven o’clock,” said the leader, “do you give us your promise, Harry Beauchamp?”

“No!” said Harry, shouting forth the single word, like a bullet, from between his teeth.

“You’ve another hour to think,” said the leader, and then all fell silent again.

The long minute hand began the second circle and the little hour hand trailed slowly after. It grew darker than ever outside, and the flurries of rain still beat on the Black Cabin. But inside the two lanterns cast their light directly on the face of the watch, and all saw the deadly minute hand, creeping on and on, and the equally deadly hour hand trailing slowly after.

“It’s half past eleven, and you’ve only a half hour left. What do you say Harry Beauchamp?” said the leader.

“Nothing.”

Silence again, save for the loud ticking of the watch, and the rustling of the wind, in the forest. Harry felt the blood pounding in his ears. As the minute hand and the hour moved on to the point when they should meet at twelve, he realized how much he wanted to live. Cynthia, fame, wealth and youth—the world had little else to offer. He knew moreover that these men would keep their word. But the stern blood of the wild Mason clan and of the old warrior grandfather beat in his veins.

“A quarter to twelve Harry Beauchamp, do you promise?”

“No!”

Again silence save for the loud ticking of the watch, and the rustling of the wind in the dark forest. Every head seemed to bend forward now toward the watch, as minute hand and hour hand drew close to twelve, the point of dreadful conjunction.

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