The Man from Jericho

by Edwin Carlile Litsey

"Where does he live?" he asked, quickly, turning his head and looking up half savagely. "How far?"

"Half mile, I reck'n, anyhow," answered a bystander, with his hands in his pockets.

"Lift his feet; I'll take his head and shoulders," said Glenning, to a determined looking man in front of him. "Into the drug store yonder. It's quick work now, or he's gone!"

They came up with Goodloe's weight between them. The crowd was apathetic with curiosity.

"Back!—damn you!" gritted John Glenning, his patience leaving him at the asinine stupidity of the class with which he was surrounded. The lower element of Macon, which formed the inner line of that congested caldron of people, had begun to press forward again to get a glimpse of the senseless form which many of them had seen daily all their lives. They gave, half in fear; a lane was opened, and Dick Goodloe was carried across the street into the drug store.

"Lock your door!" ordered Glenning, then he was coolly removing clothing and calling for this and that, and battling with all the skill that was in him for the life of this stranger whom a half-drunken, altogether mean ruffian had tried to kill. The front of the drug store was darkened by the thronging crowd which pressed against the windows and door—trying to see! The better class of citizens began to assemble, but these were content to wait; they wanted to be on hand when the doctor's verdict was given out. Squads of men had already formed up and down the street to talk it over. Business was suspended for the time, and an atmosphere of gloom began to settle over Main street. Very soon it became known that Goodloe had only a thread of a chance for his life. The bullet had been found and taken out, but the wound was in a vital part. The chances were against the marshal. These things Glenning told quietly and willingly to such as inquired after his patient as he left the drug store, giving instructions that the man be carried to his home as soon as possible.

The being whose wanton hand had stricken down the officer was a totally worthless character; shiftless, depraved, wicked. He had that morning, while under the influence of liquor, provoked an altercation with a colored labourer in the street. He began using vile language; ladies were passing. Goodloe warned him to stop, and take himself off. Then the miscreant had shot him. That was all. And now this thing which masqueraded as a human had been given the protection of the law, had been sheltered in the jail from the just wrath of his fellowmen. There were low murmurings running about the streets of the town all that day, and men came and went, went and came from the humble cottage which was Dick Goodloe's home, getting news of the sick man and disseminating it to the scores who inquired of his condition. The reports were not good. And as the afternoon waned word came that the marshal was delirious. Some apprehensive friend had sent Doctor Kale to wait upon the marshal, with instructions to stay in the house. The old fellow stormed and swore that he wouldn't take any man's patient from him, that professional etiquette forbade it, and damned if he'd go! Glenning persuaded him to change his mind, urging him to go and do all he could. John was out of town most of the day. His practice had increased three patients that week, but those who had sought his services lived rather far in the country, and it required some time for him to make his rounds. It was dark before he returned to Macon. He did not go to supper, but ate at a restaurant. Then he bathed, changed his linen, and started afoot for the Dudleys.

It had taken him exactly seven days to get his own consent to call here. During that time he had not seen Julia, even at a distance. He wanted to see her, more than he had ever wanted to see anyone in his life, but he did not know how she would receive him now. What had Marston told her? To be sure he had warned her against Marston in time, but a woman's heart is ever an unsolved riddle, and the story she had heard may have stung, and blighted, and seared. He was at last determined to know. He had remained in ignorance as long as he could. Better to hear from her own lips that she cared no more to see him, than to hide from her like a coward, and by his silence and absence confess his guilt. One thing gladdened him as he strode along in the starlight. That morning a letter had come from Will Porter, stating that he had carried out his part of the plan, and sent Major Dudley the money.

Glenning's accustomed ease had entirely deserted him as he knocked at the open front door. He was painfully harassed, and uncertain of himself. He scarcely knew what he would say, or do. He heard a step, heavy, flapping. Aunt Frances appeared at the rear of the long, shadowy hall, and came waddling towards him.

"Ebenin', Marse Glen'n'" She greeted him a little stiffly.