CHAPTER XIX.
THE CRIME.
When a man acquires the habit of indulging in strong drink, it requires a will of iron to break it. Few men have the physical and moral fortitude to offer the necessary resistance. The intense, consuming thirst paralyzes the mental energies. The wretched victim will risk life itself to gratify his raging appetite. Poor Comston had not descended to such a depth of moral degradation that he had no disposition to free himself from the shackles of his terrible foe. In his sober moments he most earnestly wished that he could free himself from the vicious demon which clung to him with the tenacity of Sinbad’s Old Man of the Sea. But the saloon was like a load-stone—a cynosure which drew Comston with an attraction that he had not the moral nerve to resist. When the appetite was upon him, it seemed impossible to pass the open door. The fragrance of the wines, issuing from the interior of the dram-shop, acted upon his senses with all the force of the law of gravitation, and he went in almost in the same way that a stone falls to the earth when it is thrown up into the air.
Comston woke up early the next morning from the stupor into which Ernest’s substitute had thrown him. He felt that he was burning up. His terrible appetite made him forget, or ignore his promises to the preacher. What cared he for reformation, when he believed himself dying—dying for the want of brandy. In spite of the entreaties of his wife, he put on his hat, to go to town.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“O, just to town a little while—that’s all.”
“But you promised Mr. Edgefield that you would not go. Come back.”
“I’ll be back in a few moments.”
And off he rushed, determined to have a dram if he should have to sell his very clothing. While he is walking along rapidly, let us secretly and silently enter the saloon to which he is hastening. We see two men in the room, and they are engaged in a bitter quarrel. Presently the man, who is partially under the influence of ardent spirits, springs toward the saloon-keeper, exclaiming:
“I’m not going to stand this any longer. You’ve got all my money, and I must have another drink, and I’ll have it, or I’ll kill you.”
A brief scuffle ensues, which, however, lasts only half a minute. The man falls, crying:
“You’ve killed me. I wish to God there was a witness—but it’s too late. I’m a dead man, curse you.”
Then he fell heavily to the floor.
“You brought it on yourself,” said the saloon-keeper. “You forced me to kill you.”
At this moment Comston hastily entered the saloon, and without looking around, cried:
“For God’s sake give me a drink! I haven’t a cent. Take my clothes—anything—I’ll die if I can’t get a dram.”
An idea seemed to strike the saloon-keeper, whose agitation Comston had not observed, for he said:
“Well, here, drink.”
“Thank you, thank you,” exclaimed Comston, clutching the glass, and draining it to the very dregs.
In a few moments the saloon-keeper said:
“Comston, I’ll give you another drink if you’ll drag that drunken feller out there under the trees. He fell down, and cut himself on the corner of that bench, and is bleeding considerably.”
“I’ll do it,” exclaimed Comston, upon whom the brandy was beginning to have some effect. He stooped down to lift up the fallen man, but glancing at the ghastly face, he exclaimed:
“Why, Good Gracious! he’s dead, arn’t he?”
“O, no—dead drunk—that’s all.”
“Well, may be he is,” said Comston, who was more anxious about the anticipated dram than the fate of a fellow-being. “I’ll take him out anyhow.”
Seizing the dead man in his arms, he dragged him out of the door, and while so doing, his own clothing was plentifully besmeared with blood. As he reached the trees, two men passed by, one of whom said:
“Hello, Comston! what are you doin’? Been fightin’, have you?”
“Not much,” replied Comston, who wanted it thought that he was a man of pugnacious tendencies. “He gave me some of his impudence, and I slapped him over.”
This brief specimen of Comston’s braggadocio appeared to delight the saloon keeper.
Comston left his human burden under a tree, and hurried back into the saloon.
“Give me the drink you promised!” he said.
“Yes, here it is, and it is a good one,” said the cunning saloon-keeper. “Take it, for you’ve earned it,” he continued, laughing. “He was heavy, warn’t he?”
“Yes, he was.”
Comston took the glass brimful of strong brandy, tossed it off as though it had been cool water, went out, and seated himself under one of the shade trees only a few paces from the dead man.
It was no unusual thing to see men lying under the trees in front of the saloon. Accordingly several hours passed away before the corpse attracted any special attention. Comston, in half an hour was so much intoxicated, that he fell from the bench, and lay upon the ground in a state of utter unconsciousness. The crowd, accustomed to assemble there every day, gathered in, and among them the two who had seen Comston dragging the body out of the house. One of these, who had spoken first, looking at the corpse closely, exclaimed to the saloon-keeper:
“Look here, Blicker, I do believe Jones is dead! I’ll feel his pulse.”
“I reckon not,” replied Blicker, with perfect nonchalance. “Him and Comston got into a scuffle about three hours ago, and Comston snatched up my knife which was on the counter, and made a slash at Jones, and I took the knife away from him. Comston knocked him down, and I thought Jones was too drunk to get up. I saw that Jones was bleeding, and I ordered Comston to take him out, as I didn’t want blood on my floor. Comston, as you saw, dragged him out, but I didn’t ’spose he was hurt much.”
“As shore as shootin’”, cried the man, “he’s dead! He hasn’t a bit of pulse.”
“Go for a Doctor,” said Blicker.
“I’ll step over to Dr. Warner’s office,” said the man. “I see him riding up now.”
It was not more than five minutes before Dr. Warner was on the spot. A very brief examination proved that Jones was dead. He had been stabbed to the heart.
“Who did it?” asked the Doctor.
“That feller, I reckon,” pointing to the prostrate form of Comston, spoke up the man who gave the version of the affair, which, in connection with that of the saloon-keeper, made it evident that Comston was the criminal.
It was several hours before Comston was sufficiently sober to comprehend that he was accused of a most awful crime. When he awoke from his drunken sleep, the constable was near by, who had a warrant for his arrest.
“Come,” said he to Comston, “you’re my prisoner. Come on to jail.”
“To jail!” cried Comston. “You’re joking! What have I done to go to jail for?”
“O, you pretend not to know, do you? Well, probably you was so drunk that you didn’t know what you was a doin’. Don’t you know that you killed Jones this morning?”
“No, I don’t,” exclaimed Comston in the utmost alarm, now looking at his bloody clothes, and recalling the events of the morning. Soon his mind was clear.
“I dragged Jones out under the tree for a drink of brandy,” said Comston. “I can prove that by Blicker himself.”
“Didn’t you tell Bill Dodds, while you were dragging him, that you had a fight with him, and slapped him over?” asked one.
“O, I said that in fun,” exclaimed Comston. “I only thought Jones was drunk.”
“You’ll find it dear sort of fun,” said one.
“Say, Blicker,” cried Comston, now thoroughly aroused to the fearful realities of his situation, “didn’t you give me a drink to drag Jones out of your house this very morning—didn’t you?”
“Why, no, Comston,” answered Blicker coolly, “I don’t keep brandy to give away. You’ve forgot all about the fight you had with Jones this morning.”
“It’s a lie! It’s a lie!” frantically cried Comston. “I never even had any quarrel with Jones. He was a good friend, and I never thought of fighting with him.”
“Poor feller!” said Blicker, with affected pity, “you was so drunk you can’t remember that you made a slash at Jones with my knife that was on the counter.”
“O, Blicker, Blicker!” exclaimed Comston, “how can you stand there and tell such an infamous lie? You know you gave me two drinks—one free, and the other to drag Jones out.”
“Whether he did or not,” interposed the constable, “you’re in for it now. I am compelled to take you to jail. When your trial comes off, you can have a chance to prove your innocence.”
“I’m not going to jail!” cried Comston wildly. “I’ve done nothing to go there for. What do you want to put an innocent man in prison for? I should like to know.”
“Get up, and come along,” cried the constable sternly, “or I’ll hand-cuff you.”
“O, my God!” exclaimed Comston, now completely sobered. “Turn me loose, Dick Bonds. You know I didn’t do it.”
“Come along, I say!” cried the constable.
“Please let me speak to Blicker,” entreated the terror-stricken man, turning to the saloon-keeper. “O, Blicker, you’re a gentleman. Wow don’t let me go to jail.”
“How can I prevent it?” asked Blicker.
“Why, you know very well that I didn’t so much as strike Jones, if you’d only say so. Now come, be honest, Blicker.”
“Will you go,” asked the constable, producing a pair of hand-cuffs, “without these?”
“O, yes, I’ll go,” said Comston in anguish. “Surely Blicker will tell the truth when he is put on his oath.”
And Comston was locked up in the jail.