Smoking Flax by Hallie Erminie Rives - HTML preview

CHAPTER XXIV.

Tuesday, June the twenty-ninth, was an Eastwind day and it had nearly ended when Elliott Harding met the sheriff and inquired:

“Any news from the governor?”

He shook his head as he answered: “And none likely to come.” Taking out a silver watch he added: “The hanging is set for eleven o’clock to-morrow morning. Umph! This is tough work.”

“I shall breathe more freely to-morrow,” was Elliott’s comment, as he passed on.

A little further down he met John Holmes.

“I was just going to your office,” said Holmes almost tenderly.

Being near that place, they locked arms and went silently together. When they were seated, Holmes broke the silence.

“Has any reprieve come yet?” he said abruptly as a man plunges into a critical subject.

“No, I am glad to say!” and the lined face that lifted to the other was worn, the eyes strained and bloodshot.

“Holmes, I have been thinking of my old views. God knows I have had time to think and cause to think! I am appreciating now the problem you of the South could not solve.” His voice grew unsteady.

“Harding, I am sorry for you. You have suffered greatly. It is useless to attempt to convey in words what the South has long endured, but I believe she is on the point of struggling from beneath the crushing burden that weighs her down. A time will come when our southern governors will order a special term of Superior Court to try speedily a criminal and invariably fix the death penalty for the offense which is largely responsible for lynching. How much graver, deeper, more human now, must seem to you our tragedies and our defense. We would indeed welcome a worthier mode or the day when there will be no such tragedies.”

That night as the sheriff and his family sat in their lighted room, a man outside kept patient tryst, every fiber of his being directly concerned in the slightest movement or sound.

As the night wore on and no one entered the door, his soul illumined with hope and seemed loosening itself from pain and desire.

Presently there was a sound, a sight that startled him. A messenger was at the door holding a yellow slip. The sheriff came out rubbing his eyes.

“What is it?” he asked sleepily.

“A reprieve! A reprieve!”

Holding it to the lamp in the hall, the sheriff read:

“Sheriff of Scott County, Georgetown, Ky.—Ephriam Cooley’s sentence commuted to life imprisonment. Hurry prisoner to Frankfort. ——, Governor.”

The sheriff hastily pencilled an answer and sent the boy speeding back.

“Hitch the horse!” he called to his man.

“Oh my God!” In that supreme cry, hope quivered in its death throb. Elliott Harding received the lance thrust of despair. He stood defenseless: alone with Destiny.

All was done quietly and swiftly. The sleeping town knew nothing of the change.

As the midnight train whistled in the distance, the sheriff with his handcuffed prisoner stepped from behind his sweating horse onto the empty platform. When the iron monster, like a great strong savior came rushing in, the criminal looked as if he could have embraced it. It was a thing of life to him.

One or maybe two drowsy travelers shook themselves and scrambled to the platform. The sheriff and his man lost no time in seating themselves. The murderer was within a hair’s breadth of safety. The engine was ready to start. Snorting, trembling, as if in frightened pain, she moved off slowly, slowly.

There was a sudden rush and speeding through the darkness; an unkempt figure, running staggeringly as though in exhaustion, leaped to the platform and pursued the moving train. A sudden flash, a sharp report, and Ephriam Cooley fell back dead, shot through the heart.

By the time the train had drawn back to the station, the platform was deserted; only the shrouding mists of blue smoke remained.

THE END.