They dragged him down from the mow, Jerry following, dumb with anguish. At a distance from the barn a horse, attached to a carriage, was hitched beneath a roadside tree, and toward this conveyance the manacled prisoner was marched between the two officers. His brain was in a whirl, for he could not understand the meaning of this hideous accusation against him.
“Unhitch the hoss, Hubbard,” directed the deputy sheriff. “I’ll put this feller inter the wagon.”
“Take me with my brother!” pleaded Jerry, who had followed to the spot.
“We ain’t got no orders to take only jest him,” said William Pickle. “The wagon ain’t roomy enough to carry you, too, and so we can’t bother with ye. Mebbe ’twas an oversight we wa’n’t give’ orders to fetch ye, for you might serve as a witness against him; but, having neither authority nor room, we won’t cumber ourselves with ye.”
With the captive between himself and Hubbard, William Pickle took the reins and turned the horse toward Oakdale. Looking back, the manacled lad saw Jerry standing there, his face hidden in his hands, the yellow dog gazing up sympathetically at him, a spectacle never to be forgotten; and the frightful injustice of fate seemed to crush and smother the last spark of hope and strength in Ben’s soul.
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE DARKEST HOUR.
The Oakdale lockup was beneath the Town Hall, and into that cage for culprits Stone was thrust. Curious and unfriendly eyes had seen him brought back into the village. As the post office was passed, one of a group of men lounging on the steps called out: “I see you got the critter, Bill.”
“Yep,” answered the deputy sheriff, with a grin of triumph; “we ketched the rascal all right, Eben.”