In the absence of the United States Marshal, the warrant had been placed in the hands of the sheriff, returnable at ten o’clock on the morning fixed for the trial. The new sheriff of Ulster was no less a personage than Uncle Aleck, who had resigned his seat in the House to accept the more profitable one of High Sheriff of the County.
There was a long delay in beginning the trial. At 10:30 not a single witness summoned had appeared, nor had the prisoner seen fit to honour the court with his presence.
Old Stoneman sat fumbling his hands in nervous, sullen rage, while Phil looked on with amusement.
“Send for the sheriff,” he growled to the Commissioner.
In a moment Aleck appeared bowing humbly and politely to every white man he passed. He bent halfway to the floor before the Commissioner and said:
“Marse Ben be here in er minute, sah. He’s er eatin’ his breakfus’. I run erlong erhead.”
Stoneman’s face was a thundercloud as he scrambled to his feet and glared at Aleck:
“Marse Ben? Did you say Marse Ben? Who’s he?”
Aleck bowed low again.
“De young Colonel, sah—Marse Ben Cameron.”