CHAPTER XXIII
Word had been sent to the sheriff of Kalmak of Jack Reeves' capture at Malamute, and he at once set forth to bring his prisoner back. He arrived hardly an hour in advance of Jim Maxwell. He took formal possession of the accused, and forthwith made it clear that he was not minded to run any risk of a second escape.
"That young feller ain't in no way safe in a jail," he explained to his brother official. "There's no tellin' what didoes he'd be up to—he's that ornery. I'll jest take him along with me to the saloon over night, an' I'll set up with him, an' nuss him like he was a baby."
Despite all arguments to the contrary, the sheriff had his way, and started to the saloon-hotel, where the distracted bride had already established herself. The officer and his captive were hardly a rod from the door, when the shots rang out, and, almost in the same second, the lights were extinguished. The sheriff uttered an excited exclamation, and hurried forward with his prisoner. They were just within the door, when the bartender, who had so discreetly shot out the lights, produced new chimneys and leisurely set the oil lamps going again.
As his eyes fell on the form stretched out upon the floor near the piano, Jack Reeves uttered a cry of alarm, and sprang forward. Kneeling, he caught Jim Maxwell's hand in his. He could not speak in the first shock of emotion, for he believed that the man was dead, who lay there so still and white, with closed eyes, and the blood trickling from a wound in his head.
Nell, in an adjoining room, had been shaken with fear at the noise of firing. But, in the stillness that followed, she heard a cry of distress in her husband's voice. She forgot fear then, and rushed into the saloon and to his side. The sight of her father there struck her dumb and motionless with horror. Thus it came about that she and her husband were passive spectators of the great heart-drama that now developed.
There was another in the group. It was Lou. Before the shots were fired, she had sprung to her feet, and forward, as if to forbid the deadly work. She had been too late. But she had plunged on, heedless of the weapons, reckless of her own life. The instinct of love had guided her through the sudden blackness. So, when the lights burned again, she was there on her knees, crooning heart-broken words to the ears that did not hear. She had no thought whatsoever of that other form which lay stark, crumpled on the floor by the table she had left. She supported Jim in her arms, with a passion of tenderness and mourning; for she, too, believed him dead, and it seemed to her that all the misery that had gone before were as nothing to this anguish over finding him, only to lose him forever. Then, of a sudden, Lou gave a gasp of pure rapture—for Jim Maxwell had opened his eyes, and lay staring placidly at the smoke-begrimed ceiling. She bent and kissed the bearded face, then raised a countenance that was transfigured. It was years younger in that illumination of joy.
JIM MAXWELL HAD OPENED HIS EYES AND LAY STARING PLACIDLY.
Nell, watching in startled wonder, recognized the face in the locket. She knew this woman to be her mother. She could understand nothing else. But there on the floor at her father's side was the mother whom she had never known. The mystery appalled her. Yet, a tremulous happiness stirred in her heart over this meeting, so unexpected, so inexplicable, so fraught with amazing possibilities.
Jim Maxwell spoke, very low, so that Lou held her ear close to listen.
"Get it from the pocket inside my shirt," he commanded.
"But your wound, Jim dearest," Lou pleaded. "Don't bother about anything else, whatever it is."
"Get it!" Jim repeated.
Lou yielded to the authority in his voice, and searched as he had bidden. She drew forth a bit of oil-skin, which she opened. In it was a sheet of notepaper, folded twice, and worn through along the creases.
"Read it," Jim directed her; and Lou read obediently, though slowly through scalding tears:
"I, Anne Weston, confess to tricking Jim Maxwell and deceiving his wife at the instigation of Dan McGrew."
That first sentence gave her understanding of the lie that had wrecked her life. She read on to the end of Anne Weston's confession, and knew for the first time the entire infamy of the man whose treachery had robbed her of home and husband and child. Hate flared in her. She turned to look behind her, and saw the ungainly heap on the floor, which was all that was left of Dangerous Dan McGrew. And she was glad!... She turned again to the man she loved.
"Forgive me, Jim—oh, forgive me, dearest!" she murmured.
"I've nothing to forgive," was the answer. "A scoundrel fooled you—that's all. You couldn't help but believe your own eyes. But he's paid at last, I guess. Hasn't he?"
"He's dead!" Lou replied; and there was no sorrow in her voice.
"And I'm alive!" Jim declared contentedly. "He only creased me." He sat up suddenly by his own strength. For the first time, he appeared to notice his daughter and Jack Reeves. He spoke briskly now, and his voice had its accustomed firmness.
"Help me up, Jack," he bade his son-in-law. And then, a minute later, when he stood firmly on his feet again, he turned to Lou, and spoke softly.
"I'm going to make you very happy, to make up for what you have suffered. And I'll start by giving you back the daughter you lost twelve years ago." He nodded toward the girl, who approached.
"Nell," he ordered, "I want you to take this lady to your room, and tell her who you are. Go now, both of you, and have a talk. Jack and I will come soon. We have something to attend to first."
The women yielded to the masterful air of the man they both loved, and went away together to that talk in which there would be many kisses and the mingling of happy tears.
No sooner were the women gone than Jim Maxwell faced the sheriff of Kalmak, who, throughout the excitement, had kept his attention unswervingly fixed on the prisoner, with an eye to possible didoes. But before Jim Maxwell could speak, he was interrupted by the local official, who detached himself from the group about the body of Dan McGrew, and now approached.
"You got him, stranger," he remarked to Jim, in a congratulatory tone. "And he mighty near got you. Pretty shootin' by cripes! And I suppose, Mister, you understand you're my prisoner?"
"Certainly," was the indifferent answer. "But I sha'n't try to get away, and there's something I want to have attended to right now. It has to do with my son-in-law, Jack Reeves here, who is accused of a crime he didn't commit. I want to prove his innocence, and there's a chance I may be able to do it. Dan McGrew killed Sam Ward. I know it. I want everybody else to know it. I'm hoping that somewhere among his things, or on him, there'll be the proof to connect him with the crime."
The sheriff of Kalmak protested against the possibility, and spoke concerning Jack's possession of the knife-handle. In answer, Jim made clear the reasoning by which he had come to suspect his enemy of Sam Ward's murder.
"And, anyhow," he concluded, "you'd search this dead man's effects. I'm only asking that you do it now, and in my presence. He had the opportunity to do the killing, and the circumstances must appear suspicious against him to you, though you didn't know him for the dog he was. It's an idiotic idea that this boy of mine, who was on his honeymoon, would stop off to kill a man he didn't know, for a pinch of dust he didn't need."
The Malamute official nodded assent.
"You're talkin' sense, Mister," he agreed. "I reckon Hal Owens thinks the same as I do." He regarded the sheriff of Kalmak inquiringly, who found himself exceedingly confused over this new turn to an affair already finally determined in his own mind. He vouchsafed a nod of acquiescence, but ventured nothing further. "And that being so," the other went on, "why, we'll just naturally take a squint at the corpse and his goods and chattels, and get a line, if so be, on what's what." Having thus spoken, he led the way to where the body of Dan McGrew was lying by the table; and with him went Jim Maxwell; and Jack Reeves and his guard followed them.
The Malamute sheriff, as became his authority, made the examination of the dead man's clothing. He went through the pockets painstakingly, sorting the articles, and laying each in turn on the table, while Jim Maxwell looked on with a close scrutiny that nothing escaped. But the collection of miscellany grew little by little without showing anything in the least significant. No one of the various objects disclosed could by any ingenuity be claimed as evidence that Dan McGrew had perpetrated the crime of which Jack Reeves stood accused. The hope that had sprung up in the young man's breast at Jim Maxwell's utterance quickly died. But Jim himself did not despair. Sure of his enemy's guilt, he was sure, too, that somehow it would be brought to light.
The searcher came at last to a pocket inside the waistcoat. In it was a tiny book, bound in paste-board covers. On the outside of the front cover were printed words and written. The sheriff gave a glance at these, and shouted exultantly:
"We've got him—cuss him!" And then he added, in a tone of disgust: "And to think of him carryin' the goods on him like that!" He handed the book to Jim Maxwell, who read in a glance, with Jack looking over his shoulder:
"The Tacoma Savings Bank, in account with Sam Ward."
Jack's captor, also, who throughout had kept his hold on the prisoner's arm, read, and abruptly took his hand away. His voice revealed how great was the injury done to his dignity:
"The damn' skunk! An' him a-leadin' me on! I wish he'd come to life for five minutes, an' I'd show him that Hal Owens ain't to be made a fool of." And the sheriff's flashing eyes and scowling brows showed that he meant it.
Without a word, Jim Maxwell turned to his son-in-law, and put out his hand, and the two men shook hands joyously, yet with a certain gravity.
"This will be glorious news for Nell," Jack said, happily. Then the gladness went out of his face. "Now, we must think about you." He grinned ruefully. "I'll have to be trying to do for you what you've done for me."
The sheriff of Malamute regarded the young man jovially.
"Now, don't you worry a mite—not a mite, my lad," he said genially, clapping Jack Reeves on the back. "We'll have a court a-sittin' in this blessed saloon in about five minutes, with a judge and a jury all regular. From what the boys have been a tellin' me, it seems perfectly clear that the prisoner just naturally shot Dan McGrew in self-defense." He beamed good-naturedly on Jim. "I calculate, the sooner you're tried, the better you'd like it, and have the thing off your mind like."
His prisoner smiled in return.
"It can't be too quickly to suit me," he declared. As a matter of fact, the amiable manner of the officer, as well as the suggestion itself, afforded Jim Maxwell immense relief. Until within the hour, he had had no concern as to his fate. He had determined to take the law in his own hands in order to rid the world of a scoundrel. He had not troubled to think that his act might involve himself in destruction. But a change had been wrought in his attitude. That change had had its origin in the discovery of Lou. Her presence had turned his thoughts at the very outset to new hopes of happiness. He himself had scarcely realized this, until, with the approach of the sheriff, he awoke to appreciation of the fact that he stood in peril of his life. He had not been able to guess what the mood of these men might be toward him, a stranger to them, who had come among them to kill one whom they did know. Though he concealed it, he had experienced a considerable trepidation concerning the outcome. He was gratified accordingly now over the sheriff's announcement, which manifested the kindly disposition of the crowd toward him.... He turned to Jack.
"Go to Nell and her mother," he directed, "and keep them away from here. Tell Nell that your innocence has been proved." As the young man turned away, half in reluctance half in eagerness, Jim addressed the sheriff gravely:
"And now, sir, I am at your service."
The trial was of record shortness, but, in its way, it was formal, and it had the sanction of the law. There were no pleas, only the taking of evidence and the rendering of the verdict, on which the jury decided without leaving their places.
The verdict was justifiable homicide in self-defense.