After drinking the coffee prepared by aunt Eunice, Poynter started toward the door with the intention of mounting his horse and giving information to his neighbors concerning the tragedy, but his limbs trembled and his head reeled, forcing him to catch at the door-post in order to keep from falling. A strange spell of weakness seized him, and but for the strong arm of his servant, who supported him to a chair, he would have sunk to the floor.
"Fix my bed, aunty; I guess I'll lie down for a moment. I must have bled far more than I thought. And just at the time when I should be most active, too!" he muttered, half uneasily, as the old woman departed upon her errand.
In a few moments he was lying down upon the bed, and dismissed aunt Eunice about her work. He sunk into a heavy slumber, that lasted until four in the afternoon, when he was hastily aroused by his servant, who appeared to be terribly alarmed at something.
"Well, what is up, Eunice? You look as though you'd seen the ghost of your grandmother, or something as bad," he drawled, with a yawn, as he started up in bed.
"Lord, ef 'twas on'y jest a ghos', 'pears like I'd be glad!" cried the old woman, anxiously. "Bress you, honey, dar's a right smart chance o' dem ar' critter-back fellers out yander, all a-holdin' guns an' sich like, w'at tole me was you hyar? Den I tole dem, I dunno; 'spect you done gwine away; 'cause I didn't know w'at dey wanted, an' didn't know mebbe you'd want to hide. Den a gre't big feller, no 'count w'ite trash, he said, 'G'long, dar, you 'sense o' midnight you, an' tell him to show hissef, or I brow de whull top o' y'ur head offen you!' Den I say, 'Git out, you dirty w'ite nigger'—" spluttered the woman, when Poynter, who had pulled on his boots and coat, interrupted her by asking:
"Armed horsemen, you say; did you know any of them?"
"'Deed I did so, honey. Dar's ol' Marse Reeves, 'n' Brooks 'nd dat ar' Injun feller—" began Eunice.
"What! not Polk Redlaw?"
"'Deed, fo' suah, Marse Clay, honey," persisted Eunice. "I knowed de dirty nigger, dough his face is all bloody, an' red like a b'iled beet."
Poynter did not reply, but proceeded hastily through the house and out upon the front stoop, where his appearance was hailed with an exultant shout from the crowd of armed men that filled the dooryard.
"There he is—arrest him! I charge him with murder!" cried out a loud voice, a little upon one side.
"Ah! you there, mongrel cur?" scornfully cried the accused, with a look of contempt. "I thought I had finished you for good."
"See, he acknowledges it!" foamed Polk Redlaw; "I call you all to witness—"
"Dry up y'ur yaup," muttered one of his neighbors, giving Redlaw a shove that nearly sent him to the ground head-foremost.
"Curse you, Jack Fyffe!" snarled Polk, leaping at the man with a gleaming knife in his hand, "I'll cut your heart out!"
"So?" coolly exclaimed the burly fellow, dodging aside and dealing the battered head of his assailant a deftly-planted blow that brought him to grass. "'Pears like 's if y'ur ockyputt was a football, sorter."
"Stop your squabbling there," called out Neil McGuire, sternly. "The first one that creates a disturbance while I lead them, will be put under arrest. Young man," he added, turning to Poynter, who stood calmly scrutinizing the assembly before him, as if he would read his probable fate in their faces, "I regret it for your sake, but I must arrest you," at the same time ascending the steps and placing his hand upon Poynter's shoulder.
"Arrest me!" said the young man, shaking off the grasp and retreating a step. "And for what?"
A yell went up from the crowd; among the cries were fearful words—those of robbery and murder!
"You hear?" significantly returned McGuire.
"I do; but even supposing those terms applied to me, what right have you to take the office of justice upon yourself?"
"What right? That of the people—of honest men! The right that justifies a man in killing a snake, or ridding the community of a scourge. We are vigilantes—did you ever hear of them before—in Kentucky, for instance?" sternly replied Neil, with a biting sneer upon the last question.
"Ah!"
It was only one word, but it comprised a world of bitterness—one might almost say of anguish and despair. It seemed as if a dreadful blow had been stricken him, and for a moment he bowed his head beneath it; but only for a moment. Then he was as cool and as proud as before.
"Very well. I suppose I am your prisoner?"
"You are."
"Aunt Eunice, don't be alarmed, I will return soon." Then turning to McGuire, he added, "I presume I will have a fair trial?"
"We are not murderers—only the ministers of justice," was the stern reply.
"Then, aunty, when I send for you, come. I may need your evidence."
"'Deed, Marse Clay, honey," sobbed the old woman, pressing forward, "I's gwine along too."
"No, you can not; at least just now. Remain here until I send." Then to the leader of the vigilantes: "Well, sir, I am ready."
"Your horse?"
"Is in the stable—my bay, I mean. The other was stolen."
"Stolen?"
"I told you as much, at the meeting."
"Well; Crane, bring him out," and then McGuire drew aside with two men, to whom he appeared giving some instructions, in a low, guarded voice.
The horse of the prisoner was brought forth, and when he had mounted, they filed from the dooryard, and closing up around their captive rode away, with the exception of the two men spoken to by McGuire, who soon after entered the building.
The little cavalcade proceeded at a rapid trot toward the "Twin Sycamores," while the curious, half-affrighted gazes that followed them from each house as they passed, told that a rumor of their mission had spread like wildfire. All this was not unnoticed by the prisoner, and he drew himself erect with a prouder more haughty air, as if he would thus repel the ignominy that rested upon him.
Poynter's mind was not idle, and he realized that his liberty, if not life, was in jeopardy; and that, too, when freedom was most inestimable. He did not know what charges would be brought against him; but it was evident that the hint given by Neil McGuire regarding the Kentucky vigilantes troubled his mind not a little.
In a few minutes the party drew rein in front of the "Twin Sycamores"—so named from the two gigantic trees of that species growing upon either side of the door—where stood "Honest Jim." The captain whispered a few words in his ear.
"Wal, ef you wish it; thar's nobody thar." Then, as he drew nearer to Poynter, he added in a kind tone: "Lord love you, squar', I'm sorry—dog-goned sorry to see you hyar. It's rough lines fer a fine young feller like you to be 'rested on sech a charge!"
"Thank you, Henderson," cordially replied Poynter, as he clasped the little man's hand warmly. "It is rough, especially when you are innocent."
"Be—now don't git mad, Mr. Poynter, 'cause I mean well—be you innercent?" anxiously asked Henderson.
"Of any thing unlawful or mean, I am. But as I don't know what charges are laid against me, I can say no more."
"They say you be one of these horse-thieves an' counterfeiters!" whispered the landlord.
"Then they lie!" angrily replied Poynter.
"An' wuss, a heap wusser'n that. They say you murdered—"
"No conversing with the prisoner there, Jim Henderson," interrupted the leader, as he emerged from the house.
"I was jest a—"
"No matter. Come. The long-room is ready, and to spare time we will try the prisoner at once," added McGuire, as he motioned his men to enter.
The "long-room" was that in which we saw the first meeting of the vigilantes, and as all entered, the door was closed and securely bolted, thus guarding against any intrusion. The long table was pushed along until it touched the further end of the wall, and upon this a single chair was placed. Then a similar one was stood near the other extremity for the prisoner's use.
"Now, gentlemen," said Neil McGuire, "we will vote for a judge to try the case."
By universal acclamation he was elected, and at once took his seat, when Poynter was directed to assume his position. After some few objections by the prisoner, a jury was chosen and ranged alongside the judge, who then spoke:
"You know the task that is before you, and the sooner it is over the better. We will—"
"One moment, Mr. McGuire—or I presume I should say your honor," interrupted Poynter, with an ironical bow. "You call this a trial, but is it not altogether one-sided? Here I am arrested, for what I know not; already treated like a felon. Is this your idea of justice?"
"You speak warmly, Mr. Poynter—"
"And why not? You are all leagued against me, and so far as I can see, do not intend giving me a chance to clear myself from any charge you may bring against me. If I am to be tried, I demand it shall be according to law, and that I have counsel; that I am informed what crime I am accused of, and allowed time to procure witnesses!" hotly exclaimed the prisoner.
"You shall have full justice, but we have no need for lawyers here. The truth alone shall acquit or condemn you. You can defend yourself, and if any witnesses are necessary, they shall be sent for. If you are shown to be innocent, then any reparation you demand shall be given, but if guilty, by the God that made me, you shall swing for it, if I have to drag the rope myself!"
"One would think I was already condemned, by the way you speak; but go on. What are your charges?"
"Polk Redlaw!"
"Here!"
"Your turn first. Tell us your story. But briefly and to the point," ordered the "judge."
"Well, I heard the prisoner was suspected—"
"Never mind that now, but come to your charge first."
"Then I charge him with murdering Barton Clowry, and nearly killing me!" snarled the witness.
"You hear, prisoner; guilty or not guilty?"
"That I killed Clowry, and tried to serve that mongrel the same, I admit; but it was in self-defense, not murder," promptly replied Poynter.
"He lies—"
"Silence! Mr. Redlaw, no abuse if you please. State your case," ordered McGuire.
"Well, as I was saying, I, together with Barton Clowry, was ordered to scout around the house of the prisoner, and as soon as he returned to inform the band so that they could arrest him without his having a chance to escape, as he would had they hunted him with the whole league. We concealed ourselves by the side of the road, and were talking together to pass away the time, when I heard a pistol-shot, and Bart fell dead over into my lap.
"Before I could get up I saw the prisoner come running toward us, and aiming at me he fired again, but missed. Then he struck me with his revolver, knocking me back as I tried to get up; then kicked and pounded me upon the head until he thought I was dead.
"I was only stunned, however, and when I came to, I managed to crawl away, and finding the vigilantes I told them my story. You were notified, and going with us, you know the rest," concluded Polk; his speech being followed by a deep, fierce murmur that told how fully his apparently frank and truthful story had been believed.
"Mr. McGuire, and you, gentlemen," exclaimed Poynter, springing to his feet, but as the position in which he was placed would not allow him to stand erect, he sunk back into the chair. "Gentlemen! Every word that mongrel has said is a base, foul lie! And if you will send for my housekeeper, you will see that it is so.
"I was walking peaceably along the lane toward my house, when two shots were fired at me from an ambush. See; here is the mark of one in my hat, and if you examine my left shoulder you can see the trace left by the other.
"Did he say any thing about shooting at me? You, Mr. McGuire, know that I was not wounded this forenoon when I saw you. I admit shooting Clowry, but it was in self-defense. Does it look reasonable, or even possible, that had I done as this scoundrel states, I would have returned to the house to lie down and sleep for hours? Would I not have mounted and fled?"
"There is reason in what you say," uttered the judge. "But you said you had proof; did she witness the affair?"
"Yes; my negro housekeeper saw it all."
"Fox, you and Bowers go and bring her here immediately," ordered the leader. Then turning toward Polk Redlaw, he added, slowly: "Well, you hear what he says? Mind how you reply, for it is no light thing to wrongfully accuse a man of such a crime."
"I have told you the truth and nothing else," sullenly replied the accuser. "He has had plenty of time to trump up a yarn and teach his wench what to say. A white man's word ought to be good against a nigger's, any day."
"If true, it will be."
At this point the proceedings were interrupted by the entrance of the two messengers and aunt Eunice, whom they had met almost at the door—she having followed her master with the best speed her unwieldy body was capable of.
We need not follow her evidence as it is already known, and confirmed Poynter's story. But as the prisoner glanced around the room, he was surprised to note the still dark and vindictive faces of the vigilantes, who appeared any thing but convinced. Then he spoke, addressing the judge:
"Well, sir, what is your decision?"
"On this score you are fully acquitted; but—"
"'On this charge!' Are there any more, then?"
"Two others. Passing counterfeit money, and murder."
"Murder!"
"Yes; the murder of John Dement!”