Idle Hour Stories

by Eugenia Dunlap Potts

Belt had owned a small grocery some fifteen miles from town, in a wild glen at the mouth of a shallow stream that flowed into the Kentucky river. The region was for a long time sparsely settled; but the establishing of a government distillery and a railroad station had led to an increase of population, so that young Grant was induced to locate there and open a shop for provisions and other supplies, that line of business having been the one chosen from his boyhood.

From the first Belt, who was one of the few German settlers in that part of the country, resented what he was pleased to call an encroachment upon his trade, and lost no opportunity of showing his ill-feeling. He was a heavy-set, sullen man of about forty-five years of age, and showed a dogged spirit even to his customers. In vain Grant strove, first to pay no attention to his enmity, and afterward to conciliate him. He continued obstinate, and his family were not behind him in giving insults and slights.

Time passed, and Grant prospered. He was obliging and agreeable, and people naturally patronized his store, which he rendered as attractive as his means and good taste would allow. His wife, too, charmed the community by her simple, sweet ways; and motherly old ladies took special interest in her and her babe.

Grant built a neat cottage, and this gave fresh offense. At last Belt, who was a drinking man as well as surly, swore that he would take Grant's life if the latter persisted in remaining there. His trade was falling off, and Grant was the cause. Matters reached a climax then, and Grant armed himself in case of a surprise.

One morning Belt was missing, and his family raised a hue and cry that speedily brought a crowd about the house, just as Grant approached and made the startling announcement that he had shot at a man the night before, and was ready for such investigation as would be proper under the circumstances. He stated that he had been aroused by a filing, grating sound at his bedroom window, which was on the ground floor, and that he sprang from his bed, threw open the front door, and fired upon a figure that retreated rapidly and was soon lost in the darkness.

Upon this Grant was held in custody, while a party of men went in search of Belt. Hours were spent in vain, when it was suggested that Belt's dog, a vicious mongrel-cur, should be put upon the trail. Accordingly the dog, which was usually seen at Belt's heels, was given the scent of his master's coat, and started rapidly down the road, his nose to the ground. The testimony as elicited at the trial showed that the brute had bounded along to the Grant cottage, leaped upon the window sill, sniffed eagerly about the spot, then ran down the path to a clump of bushes on the river cliff. Here the creature stopped and set up a piteous howl. The pursuing party hastened to the spot, and there lay the body of Belt, who had fallen and died, as the autopsy revealed, of internal hemorrhage produced by a pistol shot. As if to corroborate Grant's statement, a chisel and a pistol were found in the grass under the window of his bedroom.

Such was the history of the case. The absence of any testimony in behalf of the prisoner beyond his own assertion, was painfully evident. His wife supported him in the facts, but the law did not permit a wife to testify in the husband's case, so this evidence was unavailable.

The natural sympathy which death awakens in the human breast, especially a tragic one, had done its work even in the case of so unpopular a man as Belt, and already he was considered a martyr. The desperate lamentations and impoverished condition of his family asserted their claims, and the time of trial found public opinion greatly divided. The spark of envy in every community which had lain dormant as long as the Grants were novelties, sprung into life at their unwonted prosperity, and the gaily painted store and fanciful cottage became eyesores to more than one. Various rumors, like uncanny spirits of air, floated about till the prisoner felt himself sinking into an abyss. Once down, there seemed no power ready to lift him up.

He employed several distinguished attorneys as counsel, and I, a struggling young lawyer, whose ambition was to be worthy the mantle of an illustrious father, was also retained. There was something about the case that inspired me to the utmost of which I was capable. There was no circumstantial evidence against the prisoner. He had frankly owned to shooting the man. The issue rested upon his motive for the deed. What was the provocation? True, Belt may have threatened his life; but Belt was a drunkard, and who attached any importance to his words?