The Eagle's Heart

by Hamlin Garland

  CHAPTER III

  THE YOUNG EAGLE STRIKES

  A farming village like Rock River is one of the quietest, most humdrumcommunities in the world till some sudden upheaval of primitive passionreveals the tiger, the ram, and the wolf which decent and orderlyprocedure has hidden. Cases of murder arise from the dead level ofeveryday village routine like volcanic mountain peaks in the midst of aflowering plain.

  The citizens of Rock River were amazed and horrified one Monday morningto learn that Dot Burland had eloped with the clerk in the principalbank in the town, a married man and the leader of the choir in the FirstChurch. Some of the people when they heard of it, said: "I do notbelieve it," and when they were convinced, the tears came to their eyes."She was such a pretty girl, and think of Mrs. Willard--and thenSam--who would have supposed Sam Willard could do such a thing."

  To most of the citizens it was drama; it broke the tedious monotony ofeveryday life; it was more productive of interesting conversation than acase of embezzlement or the burning of the county courthouse. There werethose who smiled while they said: "Too bad, too bad! Any p'ticlers?"

  Some of the women recalled their dislike of the lazy, pink-and-whitecreature whom they had often seen loitering on the streets or lying dayafter day in a hammock reading "domestic novels." The young girls drewtogether and conveyed the news in whispers. It seemed to overturn thewhole social world so far as they knew it, and some of them hastened todisclaim any friendship with "the dreadful thing."

  Of course the related persons came into the talk. "Poor Mrs. Willard andHarry Excell!" Yes, there was Harry; for a moment, for the first time,he was regarded with pity. "What will he do? He must take it very hard."

  At about eleven o'clock, just as the discussion had reached thissecondary stage, where new particulars were necessary, a youth, pale andbreathless, with his right hand convulsively clasping his bloodyshoulder, rushed into the central drug store and fell to the floor withinarticulate cries of fear and pain. Out of his mouth at last came anastonishing charge of murderous assault on the part of Harold Excell.His wounds were dressed and the authorities notified to arrest hisassailant.

  When the officers found Harold he was pacing up and down the narrowalley where the encounter had taken place. He was white as the dead, andhis eyes were ablaze under his knitted brows.

  "Well, what do you want of me?" he demanded, as the officer rushed upand laid hands upon him.

  "You've killed Clint Slocum," replied the constable, drawing a pair ofhandcuffs from his pocket.

  "Oh, drop those things!" replied Harold; "I'm not going to run; younever knew me to run."

  Half ashamed, the constable replaced the irons in his pocket and seizedhis prisoner by the arm. Harold walked along quietly, but his face wasterrible to see, especially in one so young. In every street excitedmen, women, and children were running to see him pass. He had suddenlybecome alien and far separated from them all. He perceived them as ifthrough a lurid smoke cloud.

  On most of these faces lay a smile, a ghastly, excited, pleased grin,which enraged him more than any curse would have done. He had suddenlybecome their dramatic entertainment. The constable gripped him tighterand the sheriff, running up, seized his other arm.

  Harold shook himself free. "Let me alone! I'm going along all right."

  The officers only held him the closer, and his rage broke bounds. Hestruggled till his captors swayed about on the walk, and the little boysscreamed with laughter to see the slender youth shake the big men.

  In the midst of this struggle a tall man, without hat or coat andwearing slippers, came running down the walk with great strides. Hisvoice rang deep and clear:

  "_Let the boy alone!_"

  It was the minister. With one sweep of his right hand he tore the handsof the sheriff from the boy's arms; the gesture was bearlike in power."What's the meaning of all this, Mr. Sawyer?" he said, addressing thesheriff.

  "Your boy has killed a man."

  "You lie!"

  "It's true--anyhow, he has stabbed Clint Slocum. He ain't dead, but he'shurt bad."

  "Is that true, Harold?"

  Harold did not lift his sullen glance. "He struck me with a whip."

  There was a silence, during which the minister choked with emotion andhis lips moved as if in silent prayer. Then he turned. "Free the boy'sarm. I'll guarantee he will not try to escape. No son of mine will runto escape punishment--leave him to me."

  The constable, being a member of the minister's congregation and aprofound admirer of his pastor, fell back. The sheriff took a place byhis side, and the father and son walked on toward the jail. After a fewmoments the minister began to speak in a low voice:

  "My son, you have reached a momentous point in your life's history. Muchdepends on the words you use. I will not tell you to conceal the truth,but you need not incriminate yourself--that is the law"--his voice wasalmost inaudible, but Harold heard it. "If Slocum dies--oh, my God! MyGod!"

  His voice failed him utterly, but he walked erect and martial, the sunblazing on his white forehead, his hands clinched at his sides. Therewere many of his parishioners in the streets, and several of the womenbroke into bitter weeping as he passed, and many of the men imprecatedthe boy who was bringing white lines of sorrow into his father's hair."This is the logical end of his lawless bringing up," said one.

  The father went on: "Tell me, my boy--tell me the truth--did you striketo kill? Was murder in your heart?"

  Harold did not reply. The minister laid a broad, gentle hand on hisson's shoulder. "Tell me, Harold."

  "No; I struck to hurt him. He was striking me; I struck back," the boysullenly answered.

  The father sighed with relief. "I believe you, Harold. He is older andstronger, too: that will count in your favor."

  They reached the jail yard gate, and there, in the face of a crowd ofcurious people, the minister bowed his proud head and put his arm abouthis son and kissed his hair. Then, with tears upon his face, headdressed the sheriff:

  "Mr. Sheriff, I resign my boy to your care. Remember, he is but a lad,and he is my only son. Deal gently with him.--Harold, submit to the lawand all will end well. I will bring mother and Maud to see you at once."

  As the gate closed on his son the minister drew a deep breath, and a cryof bitter agony broke from his clinched lips: "O God, O God! My son islost!"

  The story of the encounter, even as it dribbled forth from Slocum,developed extenuating circumstances. Slocum was man grown, a big,muscular fellow, rather given to bullying. A heavy carriage whip wasfound lying in the alley, and this also supported Harold's story to hisfather. As told by Slocum, the struggle took place just where the alleyfrom behind the parsonage came out upon the cross street.

  "I was leading a horse," said Slocum, "and I met Harry, and we got totalking, and something I said made him mad, and he jerked out his knifeand jumped at me. The horse got scared and yanked me around, and justthen Harry got his knife into me. I saw he was in for my life and Ithrew down the whip and run, the blood a-spurting out o' me, hot asb'ilin' water. I was scared, I admit that. I thought he'd opened a bigartery in me, and I guess he did."

  When this story, amplified and made dramatic, reached the ears of theminister, he said: "That is Clinton's side of the case. My son must havebeen provoked beyond his control. Wait till we hear his story."

  But the shadow of the prison was on Harold's face, and he sullenlyrefused to make any statement, even to his sister, who had moreinfluence over him than Mrs. Excell.

  A singular and sinister change came over him as the days passed. Hebecame silent and secretive and suspicious, and the sheriff spoke to Mr.Excell about it. "I don't understand that boy of yours. He seems to bein training for a contest of some kind. He's quiet enough in daytime, orwhen I'm around, but when he thinks he's alone, he races up and downlike a lynx, and jumps and turns handsprings, and all sorts of things.The only person he asks to see is young Burns. I can't fathom him."

  The father lowered his eyes. He knew well that
Harry did not ask forhim.

  "If it wasn't for these suspicious actions, doctor, I'd let him have thefull run of the jail yard, but I dassent let him have any liberties.Why, he can go up the side of the cells like a squirrel! He'd go overour wall like a cat--no doubt of it."

  The minister spoke with some effort. "I think you misread my son. He isnot one to flee from punishment. He has some other idea in his mind."

  To Jack Burns alone, plain, plodding, and slow, Harold showed a smilingface. He met him with a boyish word--"Hello, Jack! how goes it?"--andwas eager to talk. He reached out and touched him with his handswistfully. "I'm glad you've come. You're the only friend I've got now,Jack." This was one of the morbid fancies jail life had developed; hethought everybody had turned against him. "Now, I want to tell yousomething--we're chums, and you mustn't give me away. These fools thinkI'm going to try to escape, but I ain't. You see, they can't hang me forstabbing that coward, but they'll shut me up for a year or two, andI've got to keep healthy, don't you see? When I get out o' this I strikefor the West, don't you see? And I've got to be able to do a day's work.Look at this arm." He stripped his strong white arm for inspection.

  In the midst of the excitement attending Harold's arrest, Dot'selopement was temporarily diminished in value, but some shrewd gossipconnected the two events and said: "I believe Clint gibed Harry Excellabout Dot--I just believe that's what the fight was about."

  This being repeated, not as an opinion but as the inside facts in thecase, sentiment turned swiftly in Harold's favor. Clinton was shrewdenough to say very little about the quarrel. "I was just givin' him alittle guff, and he up and lit into me with a big claspknife." Such washis story constantly repeated.

  Fortunately for Harold, the case came to trial early in the autumnsession. It was the most dramatic event of the year, and it wasseriously suggested that it would be a good thing to hold the trial inthe opera house in order that all the townspeople should be able toenjoy it. A cynical young editor made a counter suggestion: "I move wecharge one dollar per ticket and apply the funds to buying a fireengine." Naturally, the judge of the district went the calm way of thelaw, regardless of the town's ferment of interest in the case.

  The county attorney appeared for the prosecution, and old Judge Brownand young Bradley Talcott defended Harold.

  Bradley knew Harold very well and the boy had a high regard for him.Lawyer Brown believed the boy to be a restless and dangerous spirit, buthe said to Bradley:

  "I've no doubt the boy was provoked by Clint, who is a worthless bully,but we must face the fact that young Excell bears a bad name. He hasbeen in trouble a great many times, and the prosecution will make muchof that. Our business is to show the extent of the provocation, andsecondly, to disprove, so far as we can, the popular conception of theyouth. I can get nothing out of him which will aid in his defense. Herefuses to talk. Unless we can wring the truth out of Slocum on thestand it will go hard with the boy. I wish you'd see what you can do."

  Bradley went down to see Harold, and the two spent a couple of hourstogether. Bradley talked to him in plain and simple words, without anyassumption. His voice was kind and sincere, and Harold nearly wept underits music, but he added very little to Bradley's knowledge of thesituation.

  "He struck me with the whip, and then I--I can't remember much aboutit, my mind was a kind of a red blur," Harold said at last desperately.

  "Why did he strike you with the whip?"

  "I told him he was a black-hearted liar."

  "What made you say that to him?" persevered Bradley.

  "Because that's what he was."

  "Did he say something to you which you resented?"

  "Yes--he did."

  "What was it?"

  Right there Harold closed his lips and Bradley took another tack.

  "Harry, I want you to tell me something. Did you have anything to dowith killing Brownlow's dog?"

  "No," replied Harold disdainfully.

  "Did you have any hand in the raid on Brownlow's orchard a week later?"

  "No; I was at home."

  "Did your folks see you during the evening?"

  "No; I was with Jack up in the attic, reading."

  "You've taken a hand in _some_ of these things--raids--haven't you?"

  "Yes, but I never tried to destroy things. It was all in fun."

  "I understand. Well, now, Harold, you've got a worse name than belongsto you, and I wish you'd just tell me the whole truth about this fight,and we will do what we can to help you."

  Harold's face grew sullen. "I don't care what they do with me. They'reall down on me anyway," he slowly said, and Bradley arose and went outwith a feeling of discouragement.