# The Pothunter (Stribling)

Extracted from Everybody's Magazine, August 1925, pp. 37-49. Title illustration omitted. A wistful romance of the Tennessee swamps.
The Pothunter
By T. S. Stribling
The author of “Birthright.”
A Tennessee swamp dweller, though he have not the trappings and the suit-of-mail of a Galahad of old, may yet have the selfsame heart of gold.
MY friend Glamouran, special agent for the Mutual Assurance and Fidelity, told me this tale in rather irritating snatches from the time our Pullman drew out of Jacksburg, Tennessee, which was about nine o'clock in the evening, until we were somewhere up in Kentucky, when we turned into our berths for the night. The intellectual fillip which set him going was a countryman standing on the station platform, yawning and holding up a lantern to look at the notices posted on the bulletin board.
Something in the unshaved yawning face silhouetted against the light made me remark that perhaps the Tennessee legislature had outlawed the theory of evolution because it was getting too personal.
I had meant for Glamouran to smile, but the special agent kept sober enough.
“I dare say he is as far from the Neanderthal as we are,” he observed. “Any civilization is a question of checks and balances—where the people place their energy. That fellow is a pothunter. He hunts and traps out on Reelfoot Lake, about twenty miles east of here, or that is he did until he was ousted. I know his sort intimately, you might say.” Glamouran gave a brief laugh.
As there was not the faintest amusement in his mirth, I remained quiet, receptive. The train moved off and I sat watching the lights of the village withdraw in the darkness and coalesce into a dim constellation. Glamouran asked me if I had seen in the papers news of the lynching of Judge Pettigrew of the Tipton County Chancery Court. I decided I had heard the last of the pothunters.
“Noticed the headlines,” I said. “A fellow can't follow the details of those things in the South unless he's—well, a man of leisure.”
Again I was fishing for mirth, but my once-gay-spirited friend pulled his overcoat up against the increasing blast of the night air whipping into the platform of our observation car.
“That's what brought me down here,” he said gravely enough. “I had caught rumors of it before it broke loose. This Judge Pettigrew, whose name you saw in the headlines, was a hundred-thousand-dollar risk in my company. Of course that isn't a great deal for a hundred-million-dollar company, but still—— Anyway, I came on down. I had been in Jacksburg three days when the thing happened. Early that morning some one telephoned to my room in the hotel. When I got up and answered it, a man's voice, shaken with excitement, rattled in my ear.
“'This Mr. Glamouran?' I told him it was. 'Mr. Glamouran, something terrible has happened! This is Combs, the banker.'
“The fellow's gasps bit my nerves.
“'Yes, Mr. Combs, go ahead.'
“'Judge Pettigrew was murdered last night. Called out of his home and lynched by unknown parties!'
I STOOD staring at the phone bells. 'Judge Pettigrew lynched! How do you know?'
“'The darkies brought the news! It's—horrible—such a charming, such a fine old gentleman, to be done to death by a lot of—damned ruffians!' The banker broke off. I heard him swallow with a slimy throat. After a moment he spoke again in a more controlled tone. 'The reason I called you up, you'll want to go out there, won't you, to investigate his death? You'll have to do that, won't you, before your company can—er—arrange with the judge's estate?”
“'Certainly,' I agreed. 'Of course!'
“Be right around for you in my car; will that be all right?'
“'It'll be very good of you.'
“'And I'll bring Peasley, my attorney.' The man paused a moment. 'Do you think we will need a detective, Mr. Glamouran?'
“Why, no,' I said, 'settlement of the policy will be a purely business matter. It has no relation to the crime that was committed; that is, if there was any crime.'
“If there was any crime! Why, good heavens, man!'
“'I mean our settlement will depend purely upon the fact of Judge Pettigrew's death, Mr. Combs. We are not interested in the criminal aspect of this affair.'
“'Why, yes—— Sure, I see that. I'll be right around.' He rang off.
“A couple of hours later the three of us, I, Combs, the banker, and Peasley, a lean-faced attorney, were rattling along the lakeside road out of Jacksburg for the Pettigrew estate to the west of Reelfoot. The banker still was excited and began going over the motives for the lynching.
“Bound to have been the pothunters, Glamouran. Nobody else had any animus against the judge. You see, when the Memphis Gun and Fishing Club bought up the lake and then began injunction proceedings to keep the pothunters and market fishermen off their hunting preserves—right at the beginning of that suit the swamp men swore if the chancellor granted that injunction, they'd kill him!'
“Combs paused, then added with a generosity I did not expect: 'They have their side, Glamouran. They had been hunting and fishing on the lake all their lives. Made their living from it, so had their fathers before them, then suddenly to be ousted by a group of Memphis millionaires——'
“'This isn't a question of motive,' I observed. 'It's simply a question of fact. Is Judge Pettigrew dead?'
“Combs looked at me oddly. 'Don't you think he is?'
“'That is what we are going to investigate. Who is the beneficiary of the policy?'
“'Nominally, Lida May Pettigrew.'
“'The judge's wife?'
“'His daughter.'
“'You say—nominally?'
“In reality it will be paid to the Jacksburg bank. The Pettigrew estate owes us the entire policy and, I think, a few thousand more. Why, for the last four or five years our bank has been paying the premiums on Judge Pettigrew's insurance—frightful business methods, but then——'
“The attorney interrupted to explain: 'You know the type, Mr. Glamouran. Judge Pettigrew was one of those aristocratic old Southern bankrupts who cost so dearly to keep afloat, but for one reason or other somebody always does it. I never heard of any creditor shutting down on such a man, did you, Combs? They live from deficit to deficit by the grace of God and the charm of their personality.'
“'And conviviality,' added Combs.
“'Admitted,' agreed Peasley. 'In fact, I'll gamble Judge Pettigrew was drunk as a lord when he walked out of his house last Thursday night and answered the call of his murderers. Why, he knew, or he would have known, if he'd been himself, that every pothunter on the lake had it in for him. And still, it's almost unbelievable to me now that anybody in Tipton County could have actually murdered the old man.'
“The banker peered down the sun-dazzled road. 'Yonder is his house now,' he remarked, in the peculiar flatted tone men use when they come into the purlieus of tragedy.
“Peasley stopped his commentaries for the moment and sat squinting his eyes at the. old plantation manor. 'You know,' he said, reproducing the same hushed tone the banker had used, 'that house always reminded me of the old judge himself somehow; the sag to the roof, some of the windows gone, gate dragging the ground, not a drop of paint for forty years, nothing quite right. And yet, you know, a modern architect couldn't reproduce that air of largeness and dignity and kindliness offered every passer-by, not if he built manors for a thousand years!'
“The banker coughed, drew out a handkerchief and blew his nose. 'As for that,' he said, 'I fancy we'll never see another Judge Pettigrew again.'”
AT this point, I think Glamouran was somewhat touched by his own recital. I could see him dimly in the reflection from the tail lights of the observation car, nursing his chin in his hand, pondering no doubt on the details of his investigation into the death of his aristocratic and bankrupt old client. He began again presently, rather at an uncomfortable distance along in his narrative and left me to bridge the gap as best I might.
“I am not a sentimental man,” Glamouran continued; “my work rather cures one of that emotional instability; though why human beings should really cease to be sentimental, and pride themselves upon a certain hardness of heart, I don't know. Still, we all do—— I do!
“But did you ever see a woman; and your first glimpse of her somehow filled you with a feeling as if a hundred memories of her had been sleeping in your mind, but when or where you had seen her before, you could not quite recall? When this girl Lida May came down the sweeping staircase of the old manor, I kept wondering was it possible that I had met her somewhere before.
“She was a tall slender girl,” he went on, “the only sort who can descend a stairway before æsthetic eyes without offense. And as I looked at her pale face against her corona of dark hair I began thinking of other women I had met, trying to place this teasing memory. My thoughts went here, there and everywhere; in New Orleans, in Venice, which I visited just after college; in St. Louis, where I was married once, and later, very happily divorced; in Lexington, Kentucky.
“Some women Lida May brought to my mind by resemblance and some by contrast; but this queer disturbing ticketing, docketing; this effort to remember, continued all through my introduction to her. And even when I was propounding the questions I had come to ask, I admit I was more curious to hear the sound of her voice than the substance of her replies.
“'You were here, Miss Pettigrew,' I queried, 'the night your father disappeared?'
“She nodded faintly. 'I am always here, Mr. Glamouran.'
“Even her voice, too, had something familiar in it and I spent a minute pondering it. 'Were you or your father anticipating any difficulty or danger?'
“'We knew, of course the fishermen had—had been making threats. They—said——' Here Lida May's voice quivered to silence and tears filled her eyes.
“I waited on her, searching the sweet carving of her lips, the delicate alæ of her nostrils with my glances. 'Yes, I see. Won't you tell me what happened the best you can?'
“The girl drew in her lips and bit them to stillness. 'We were in the sitting room and—some one—out in the road called father.'
“'About what time?'
“'I don't know; ten or eleven.'
“'Then what happened?'
“'I was terribly frightened. I said, “Papa, don't go out,” but he said nothing would happen and went on out. I was so afraid I could hardly move. I went and peered out the window, when suddenly I heard a shot.'
“'How soon?'
“'I don't know. I almost fainted when I heard it. The first thing I knew I was running out of the house, screaming to father and trying to find him.'
“You did that immediately?'
“'Oh, yes, yes.'
“'Was it dark?'
“'Just a glimmer of stars.'
“'You heard nothing, saw nothing?'
“'Nothing at all.'
“'Your father had disappeared?'
“Lida May nodded, weeping silently.
“I stood looking at the girl,” Glamouran continued, “with, I think, the saddest heart I have ever known, but suddenly a notion came into my head how to comfort her. 'Miss Pettigrew,' I asked, 'how far down the road did you hunt for your father?'
“Until I ran out of breath and had to stop.'
“You ran?'
“Yes, yes, as hard as I could.'
“'You have no idea how far that was?'
“'I don't know. I think it must have been four or five hundred yards. I ran till my knees grew so trembly I couldn't stand up.'
“'And yet you saw nothing at all?'
“She gave her head a tiny shake.
“'And your father has never been seen by any one since that night?'
“Combs answered for the girl, who could no longer speak for sobbing. 'Certainly not, Mr. Glamouran. His assailants undoubtedly flung the body into the swamp.'
“Just here I came to the little point of hope which I had to offer the girl. 'Miss Pettigrew,' I suggested, 'hasn't it struck you as odd that you did not see your father, or his body, if the shot you heard fired was directed against him?'
SHE girl looked at me with widening eyes. 'Why, no! Why should that be odd?'
“'Because if he had been struck and wounded, or killed, no man or group of men could have carried away the body as quickly as you describe, without allowing you some sight or sound of them. If they had walked, you would have overtaken them when you ran. If they had placed it in a wagon or motor, you would have heard the noise. If the judge had been wounded, he would have resisted and you would have heard the scuffle. So I can say that he was neither killed, nor wounded.'
“Lida May looked at me in painful bewilderment, 'Then what became of him?' she asked in a shaken tone. 'He's gone.'
“'That I can't tell,' and my heart fell at her look when I said it, 'but I do know that, in order to disappear so quickly, the judge must have hurried off with whoever he met in the night. Therefore they must have been friends, not enemies. Personally I don't believe your father is injured at all.'
“A sudden doubtful hope came into Lida May's face. 'Why, Mr. Glamouran! Is it possible! Can it possibly be true that father——'
“The banker cut in sharply and angrily, 'Lida May!' he cried. 'Don't allow this Yankee to fool you with his absurd fairy tale. Don't you see he is simply planning his ground for his company to avoid paying your father's insurance?'
“Peasley seconded his chief. 'Lida May, his reasoning is the purest sophistry. Glamouran, I am ashamed of you, to arouse hope in this poor child only to strike it down again!'
“'But look here, gentlemen,' I defended and very honestly, too, 'Judge Pettigrew had no time to be taken away except on his own feet.'
“'Then what was the object of the shot Lida May heard?' demanded Combs hotly.
“I flung up a hand. 'I don't know.'
“'Why should Judge Pettigrew vanish from his home at eleven o'clock at night?'
“'Mr, Combs,' I replied, 'I told you early this morning that our settlement had nothing whatever to do with the motives involved in this mysterious disappearance. I don't know why Judge Pettigrew left his home, where he went, or what happened afterward. I do know that he could not have been murdered, as you gentlemen seem to think. That is an impossibility. Whether he was murdered later, I don't know. I don't think so. If, for some obscure reason, he fled with friends, no doubt he is still with them.'
“Peasley gave a snort of laughter. 'You put a desperate case most plausibly, Mr. Glamouran. But no jury would agree with such a March-hare argument. A chancellor of a Tipton County court, in the venerable evening of his life, flying his home, a shot without a purpose by a friend. No, no jury on earth would accept such a cock-and-bull story.'
“'Gentlemen, you believe your version of this matter, don't you?'
“Certainly we do!' snapped Combs.
“'Then credit me with the same sincerity and you will see that I must make my report to my company according to the evidence as I interpret it.'
“'That simply means a long-dragged-out lawsuit,' declared Peasley, 'and this girl here will probably lose the plantation the insurance was meant to save for her.'
AT this point Lida May interrupted the argument. 'But something else happened that night, Mr. Glamouran, something I didn't understand at all, and that may have something to do with this.'
“'Yes?' I queried, looking at her curiously. 'And what was that?'
“'After I got back to the house, of course I couldn't sleep or lie down or think or do anything. I put out the light in the sitting room and drew a chair to the window and listened and watched and cried. Well, after a while, in about an hour, I think, I heard something out in the road. Then I saw a flash of light. I thought it was father coming back. I jumped up to run out when the flash went out, then it was turned on again, and I saw it was one of those dark lanterns such as the pothunters use——'
“'Yes,' I encouraged, staring at Lida May with the greatest curiosity and the warmest interest.
“'Finally I made out it was a man carrying stones!' The girl shivered.
“We three men gazed at Lida May. There was a ghoulish quality in this information which nibbled even at my nerves.
“'Carrying stones? What was he doing with them?'
“Lida May drew a long frightened breath even at the memory. 'I don't know—they're out there now, in a row.'
“'For God's sake!' ejaculated Combs. 'Let's go see 'em.'
“All four of us went across the lawn to the great sagging gate. The girl paused at the fence and pointed at a row of stones of irregular sizes which lay like stepping-stones from the gate in the direction of the lake.
“Well, sir, that inexplicable row of stones made the most hopeless puzzle I have ever met in all my insurance work. I stared at them, trying to make a row of boulders fit in somehow with my theory of the case. My companions were just as much at loss as I.
“'Perhaps they are to cover up the tracks of the murderer,' suggested Peasley. 'The pothunters are dreadfully afraid of bloodhounds.'
“'Couldn't be that,' I reasoned, 'because while the man covered one track, he'd make a hundred more, running back and forth with the stones.'
“'Perhaps it's a mark, a sign of a murder accomplished,' put in Combs. 'You know the swamp men have an obsession to leave some sign of their crimes. They cut notches in their pistols, amputate the fingers of their victims. I think it's an inheritance of their old Indian-fighting grandfathers.'
“'I don't believe it's that,' I demurred. I turned to the girl. 'Lida May, when you watched the figure stringing out these stones, did you get the slightest clew to his identity?'
“The girl hesitated and then said tremulously: 'I—I'm not sure, Mr. Glamouran.'
“I looked at her in surprise. 'Which means, of course, that you do have some notion of who it was.' I don't know why it was, but even this faint breath of concealment in Lida May filled me with a queer painful disappointment in the girl, although in my work I naturally meet concealment.
“She explained in a low tone, 'Occasionally against the light I saw glimpses of his legs or body or shoulders.'
“'And you thought you knew who it was?'
“'I thought it was a man named Killen. It—it might have been him, but I don't know, Mr. Glamouran.'
“'Why, then I'll go see this Killen!' I cried. 'Where will I find him?'
“I was surprised to see Lida May flush and at the same time Combs nodded me aside significantly.
“'Let's have a closer look at these stones,' he suggested.
“When we let ourselves out the gate and walked over to the stones with our back toward Lida May, the banker whispered out of the side of his mouth:
“'That settles our problem. You can be sure it was Killen.'
“'Why so?' I asked in the same undertone.
“'He's had a grudge against the judge for years.'
“'What was the trouble?'
“'The real truth is, it was on account of Lida May there.' Combs nodded faintly backward toward the gate.
“'A pothunter—and Lida May?'
“Combs nodded. 'Yes, the judge forbade him to come on his premises. That's neighborhood news.'
“I stared at the banker. 'You don't mean that this swamp man and—and Lida May——'
“I suppose the expression on my face told Combs what I meant, for he blurted out with a shocked expression: 'No, man, not that! Killen was just wanting to come to see Lida May, trying to court her, you know, and the judge put his foot down on it. So, don't you see when the judge granted this injunction, the pothunter saw his chance to even up an old score?'
“'I would accept that theory,' I returned thoughtfully, and to tell the truth, vastly relieved, 'I would accept it if I really believed Judge Pettigrew had been murdered. But somehow I don't. Still, these stones must have something to do with the mystery. I wonder——' I stood looking at them and suddenly came to a decision, 'I've got to see this Killen. Where is he?'
“At this both men leaped into protest.
“'For Heaven's sake, do nothing of the sort!' they begged. 'Why, your life wouldn't be worth a tinker's dam down there in the swamp. The pothunters would take you for a clubman or a detective, or a revenue man, or a game warden, or just anything—it doesn't make a bit of difference what—and they'd shoot you from ambush without warning.'
“Peasley continued: 'Let's allow this matter to hang over, Glamouran. We'd better have a hundred lawsuits than another murder.'
“Their genuine concern for my safety touched me. 'Gentlemen,' I said, 'it is one thing to be cautious in the ordinary run of things, but when a man's profession involves a certain danger, a fellow can't sit down and say: “I'll wait till things look safer.” It's not the game. You see, that's the point of my work. I am employed by the Mutual to do unsafe things.'
“Again the men tried to dissuade me, but since that was especially what I came to Jacksburg for—— Well, there I was!”
And Glamouran made a little gesture in the roaring gale that eddied about us in the darkness.
THERE was another space in Glamouran's monologue and I had an impression that my friend was deliberating whether he should tell me some rather delicately intimate matter. He drew out a cigarette case; I saw him scratch a flint lighter and hold it to the blast to spread the fire. Then, almost as soon as he had taken a whiff, he tossed his cigarette into the gale and began again as if he had somehow resolved his doubts.
“The thing that moved and gyve me was the fact that she had faintly, but definitely, defended him even in the midst of her father's tragedy. It was an abnormal sort of thing; she, the daughter of a patrician, holding even a tentative thought of a pothunter, a swamp man, one of those fellows such as you saw at Jacksburg reading the notices on the bulletin board.”
I NODDED silently, in the reddish glow of the tail lights.
“Lida May and I went walking back to the old manor through the melancholy weed-grown yard,” Glamouran went on, “and I can never tell you, my friend, what pity, what sadness was in my heart for this unhappy, lovely girl. I could have put my arms about her and said: 'Lida May, somehow I will deliver you out of your grief. For you to be sad makes me miserable too——' I could have said something like that if this insinuation, this gossamer about a swamp man, this——' Glamouran made a nervous gesture and broke off.
“What I did say was—and I am afraid I spoke harshly, too—'Miss Pettigrew, do you believe this Killen had anything to do with your father's disappearance?'
“'No, I don't, Mr. Glamouran,' she answered in a low voice.
“'She has every right to suspect him,' I thought dismally to myself, 'and yet she defends him even in her thoughts!'
“And do you know what I thought as we walked through the weedy old yard and I glanced down at her, at the white nape of her neck, at the turn of her cheek—do you know what I thought?
“I remembered a masquerade I had once attended in New Orleans. I thought of a girl I had danced with at the Ball of Comus. She was masked as a princess with tiara and royal robes and her domino was of purple. Then we came to the hour of unmasking, and I was trembling as to who she might be, and there she was, a round-faced impudent fool, expecting nothing more than that I kiss and hug her and feed her pralines, she with her patois French and shapeless ankles.
“And now, looking down through the curves and delicate flatteries of Lida May, I saw, in the depths of her, this same tasteless creole's heart.
“And I said with the heaviness of it in my voice: 'Lida May, do you believe “Buck” Killen had any part in your father's disappearance?'
“She shook her head. 'I don't, Mr. Glamouran.'
“'Then who did?'
“'I don't know. It wasn't Buck's voice that called father.'
“'Then you know his voice,' I observed, somehow pinked again.
“She looked at me quite simply, 'Surely, Mr. Glamouran. I have known him ever since I was a child. We have always been here. He, down on the lake, I, here in the manor.'
“I took my mind off this harassing phase of the business. 'Do you think Buck came back later and piled that queer string of stones in front of the gate?'
“She nodded mutely.
“'But what for? I cried uncomfortably. 'A row of boulders, a line of rocks!' My teeth jarred on this hard fact like a gravel in food. 'Anyway, how did he get here so quickly after your father disappeared? Where did he come from?'
“The faintest flush crept into Lida May's face. 'He—usually stays somewhere close around, when he's not following his traps or fishing.'
“'Stays somewhere close around here!' I ejaculated painfully, with the ghost of my old suspicion suddenly staring in my face.
“'Why yes. I think he has a shack down in the swamp on the edge of the lake.' She indicated the cypresses beyond the cotton field.
“'Have you seen his place?'
“'Why, no, of course not! I haven't even talked with him for a long, long time.'
“I stood looking at Lida May, oddly eased by this simple statement. 'It must be rather disagreeable for you, Lida May, this pothunter hanging around the plantation so much.'
“The girl looked up at me very simply. 'Why no-o, I see almost nobody at all, Mr Glamouran. I was sorry when father made him quit coming here.'
“Her naïveté, her gentleness, touched me in a queer way and I thought to myself: 'What a selfish pig I am to wish this girl had remained utterly alone all these years in order that I——' I broke off my reflection, and touching her hand, said in quite another tone:
“Lida May, I wonder would you mind tellng me why your father sent him away—— It might help me in my search,' I added in shabby afterthought.
“The judge's daughter hesitated a moment, then answered in a low tone: 'It was very simple, Mr. Glamouran. He brought us fish nearly every day.'
“I looked at her blankly, studying her face, my hand on her arm. 'But that isn't simple at all, Lida May! To be sent away because he brought you—fish.'
“She colored faintly and looked away from my eyes. 'He wouldn't take pay.'
“'Oh! I see.'
“Papa offered to run an account with him for the fish, but—he wouldn't have anything at all. They were a gift.'
“A miserable squirm of humor went through my brain at this hair-drawn distinction. 'Was that all?'
“The girl nodded almost imperceptibly.
“'And they quarreled over that?'
“'They didn't quarrel. Father told him in a nice way, a serious way, if he couldn't charge it he would have to quit.'
“'And what did Killen say?'
“'Nothing at all. He just listened, and went out of the yard and never did come back.'
“I wanted to laugh; I wanted to console,” Glamouran continued. “The pathos of this silent primitive courtship, the fantastic point of a bankrupt wanting his goods charged to protect the complete detachment of his daughter, and then the plaintiveness of the girl as this frail wraith of romance had entered and vanished from her life.
“'Oh, poor Lida May!' I cried, with my heart caught on the barbs of this irony. 'And yet your father—this Killen——' Then, almost before I knew it, my arms were around her. I hardly know from what mixture of motives, to try to console her for her loneliness, perhaps; for the tragedy of her father; for the loss of her impossible suitor.
“And yet as I held her, queer gusty shivers caught me by the chest and throat at the feel of her hair against my face, the soft flattery of her arms and shoulders against my own. Ah, well, no man's motives toward a girl are ever quite completely purged of himself, my friend, not even his kindest, gentlest thoughts. Somehow always he is a man; and always, she is a woman!”
MY friend Glamouran sat wrapped in his coat against the gale, musing on his first, and, I had an impression, his last gesture of love toward Lida May. My thoughts flickered out toward the girl herself and I wondered what could have happened to her after the death of her father. I wondered if Killen, the pothunter—— At this point Glamouran began again, leaving a peculiarly distressing gap in his story.
“When I reached the swamp,” he went on, “I found it gloomy with cypresses, enormous trees which lifted vast trunks out of the water in great axial planes. They were like the buttresses of some cathedral springing up into the gloom overhead. So dense was the foliage above that scarcely a hand's breadth of sky peered through at me. Below, out of the dark water lifted the 'knees' of the cypress.
“From a little tongue of land which ran out into the swamp as a take-off, some one had used these 'knees' as piers and constructed a very hazardous footway of felled limbs and floating logs. This, I reasoned, must lead the way to Buck Killen's shack.
“My impressions of Lida May, the warmth and sweetness of her arms and lips, still clung to me and I thought to myself with a sort of horror, 'Suppose he were her husband; suppose some day she should come scrambling along this miserable footing on the way to her hut and babies,' because, my friend, the wives or women of the pothunters do that very thing. Even along the swampy margin of Reelfoot, human beings still must mate.
“The only sound I could hear was the endless hum of mosquitoes and this was soon lost to the ear and became the very silence itself. Now and then a waterfowl shrieked; here and there a chromatic-scum filmed the water in grave hues as if a rainbow were in mourning.
“As I crept along my troublesome path in this silent funereal place, presently something made me stop and look all about me. I hardly knew why I did it. My thoughts were full of Lida May, but abruptly I felt that faint, almost impalpable stir in my back, in the nerves of my scalp and neck, which a man somehow feels when he is being watched. I could see no one.
I STOOD stock-still and peered all around me, a prey to this subtle, and yet most distressing, of human sensations. To be watched covertly; to feel eyes upon me without knowing where they were or what they boded; next instant my heart leaped as a huge figure lunged from a cypress bough immediately overhead. It wove away through the gloom in the curving, but perfectly noiseless, flight of an owl.
“The reaction after my apprehension was so sharp as to be painful. As I stood, breathing sharply, watching the owl vanish in the shadows, a most curious speculation fell upon me. I wondered how I ever came by the fantastic ability to feel the eyes of an owl. I wondered if somewhere, æons and æons ago, before the sunlight had organized the pigment of some unimaginable ancestor into eyes, I wondered if that ancestor did not feel the gaze of his enemies and escape them by sliding away into the ooze and darkness of Paleozoic fens.
“It was a provocative thought, my friend. It explained why there always attaches to the sensation of being watched such overwhelming horror. Because those long-gone forbears were surrounded with enemies of the most enormous and pitiless power. That feeling of being stalked always breathes the horror of sudden and utter destruction,
“While I stood in this queer reverie, the faint drip of water caused me to look around and a little shock tingled through my nerves to see a man seated in a dug-out canoe gliding toward me. The sound I heard had been caused by his lifting his paddle from the water and picking up a shotgun which lay in his craft.
“The man who stalked me had the bristly face and chopped features of the rustic you saw on the Jacksburg platform. A certain stare in his eyes gave me a swift impression of a hunter about to shoot his quarry. I knew I must say something quickly to establish human relations with the fellow. I hurried the phrase.
“'I'm looking for Buck Killen!'
“'You met him,' said the pothunter in a strange tone.
“'I wanted to ask about the—the fishermen on the lake. Are they still worked up over Judge Pettigrew?'
“'They think they've been tricked by a gun-club man,' snarled the fellow in a hard voice.
“Although he had his shotgun in his hands, and I could see it was a matter of seconds before he fired it, still I was so surprised that I asked in genuine amazement:
“'A gun-club man—how can that possibly be?'
“I think the humanness of my surprise delayed his fire for he growled.
“'They think a damn gun-club man come here, made a raid on the judge and killed him so as to throw suspicion on us fishermen and make us lose the injunction suit.'
“'Why, man!' I gasped. 'What an idea! Even if suspicion should rest on the fishermen, that wouldn't influence the injunction suit. That is a question of who has title, not who kills.' I wet my lips and wished in my heart that some Tennesseeans were more given to logic and less to impulse.
“My words had an extraordinary influence on the pothunter, however. He stood up in his boat and burst out in a very lashing of fury, 'Well, this here gun-club man thought if old man Pettigrew was out of the way, the judge's fam'ly would be left in the old house by their se'ves and he thought he would do what he pleased by them. He thought since he was a damned slicked-up city feller, he could git in with a country girl an'—an' do anything he wanted to. An' there I stood,' he finished huskily, 'ordered off the place, for years an' years not even speakin' to her a——'
“The pothunter was ashen under his stubble and his fingers twitched on his trigger guard.
“As I stared at him a sharp anger rose up in me and suddenly the gun I had been watching became negligible.
“'If you mean I'm a gun-club man!' I cried. 'If you mean I killed Judge Pettigrew with the hideous, the monstrous motive—his daughter——'
“'Yes, I do say it!' yelled the pothunter. 'No sooner had Combs and Peasley left the house than you began huggin' an' pettin' her up. But I'll see you in hell fust! You made way with the old judge, but I'll send you after him!' And he swung up his gun.
“'Man,' I shouted, 'why in God's name do you say that!'
“'Because you done it!'
“'I didn't do it! I had no reason for doing it! Killen, you are crazy with jealousy. You don't know what you are saying or doing. You've been hanging about the old house, watching that girl so long, she's heaven, earth, sky, sunlight, everything in the world to you. Now you go mad if another man even touches her!'
“'She is!' cried Killen in a sort of agony. 'I've never said it to mortal before, but I'd go to hell jest to have her once in my arms like you done. I'd cut out my heart for her!' He made a grotesque yet tragic gesture which shook the canoe and sent a slow wave moving silently across the water. He stared at me a moment with a queer chewing movement of his mouth, as if he had a bitter savor. 'Many and many's the time when I could slipped up behind her unbeknownst, but—I wouldn't—I couldn't!'
“Well, standing there, with my life hanging on the tremor of his finger, I never felt sorrier for a human being. I knew what nights and days he had burned in this endless flame of Lida May.
“'Killen,' I said at last, and, I believe, calmly, 'I think you are going to shoot me in a few minutes. I want to say that I have done nothing by Lida May which any honorable man may not do by any woman. As for foul play by Judge Pettigrew, you are simply insane.
“'I am an insurance man. I came here to investigate Judge Pettigrew's disappearance. If he is dead my company loses a hundred thousand dollars. You know I didn't kill him!' I stood studying the fellow, and finally asked him straight out, 'Why do you imagine such a thing?'
THE pothunter returned a gaze as intent as my own. 'Because Thursday night when the judge was killed, I wasn't far from the big house. I heard a shot fired. I come running, for I thought the fishermen had fin'ly done what they swore they'd do. When I got there, ever'thing had ca'med down. I took my dark lantern and went to the gate and picked up the judge's trail.
“'It was easy to tell. I've seed it a thousan' times; a big half-soled trail with the left shoe heel run over. Then I looked for who done it. I found a strange track, very clear. The murderer wore a heel with some wings in the middle of it.
“'So I put some rocks over this strange track to keep it fresh. An' I thinks to myse'f, “I'll see this trail ag'in some day, an' I'll know who killed the judge.” So when I seed you foolin' aroun' Lida May, an' then come off down to the swamp, I follered. When I struck yore trail—it was the same man as killed her daddy!'
“As the pothunter made this last amazing statement, I stared at him. Then I lifted a foot and looked at the bottom of my own shoe, for I had not the least idea what sort of heel I wore. When I had raked off the mud, I suddenly saw his mistake.
“'Killen,' I explained hurriedly, 'this brand of rubber heel is as common as buffalo nickels. Everybody wears them. For you to accuse me of murder because I happen to wear the same sort of heel as Judge Pettigrew's assailant—it's unreasonable! As I said, I am an insurance man. The judge's life means a fortune to my company. Besides, when this tragedy happened I had never seen Lida May.'
“This last sentence, I am sure, is what really saved my skin. The pothunter was half insane about the girl and could not imagine any human action without a motive resting in some way on Lida May.
“He eyed me somberly for several moments, then he noticed a print of my muddy shoe on the smooth bark of a birch log in the footway. He drew his canoe to this, took out a knife and cut out the piece of bark with my track on it.
“'All right,' he said in his nasal drawl, 'I won't do nothin' till I match this with the tracks I covered up in front of the big house. If I was wrong, I was honest mistook; if I was right—I'll see you ag'in.'
“And with that he paddled off through the cypresses.”
AT this point Glamouran paused a moment and wet his dried lips as he listened to the muffled roar of the Pullman. I waited nervously, on the edge of a question, which, later, I was sorry I did not ask, for when my friend began again, he had made a characteristic jump in his narrative.
“The thing that lashed my brain as I got back to the old manor was, what would become of her? Would she finally yield to this besieging madman? I knew well enough no woman on earth could hold out forever against such molten passion; especially when that passion, in the last analysis, had something in it of fineness, of self-sacrifice. And yet, what a tragedy for such a creature as Lida May!
“So intent were my thoughts on this impasse that I forgot the mystery of the chancellor, the pothunters, the question of insurance, everything. I stumbled along the path in the cotton field thinking, 'She mustn't stay here; I can't leave her here!'
“By this time the sun was setting; out of the west a great mass of dull-red clouds had boiled high and stood lording it over the flat desolate fields. As I moved along toward this sullen glory, I suddenly sighted Lida May coming toward me. She was running. When she saw me, she gave a little cry and held up a warning hand.
“'Oh, Mr. Glamouran!' she called in a tremble. 'I thought something had happened to you!'
“'No, nothing at all.'
“She hurried up to me with frightened eyes. 'You must go away. You mustn't come to the house! You must go back to Jacksburg!'
“I stared at her, 'Why must I?'
“'“Aunt” Creasy, our old negro servant. Somebody told her the pothunters were coming here again to-night. You know—the darkies know everything—I was afraid they had already found you!'
“I put an arm about her and began leading her gently back along the path to the manor. 'Why, Lida May, that's ridiculous. They are not coming here.'
“'Oh, but they are!'
“'What for?'
“After you—you!' cried the girl, and began to weep.
“Something stirred in my heart. 'Even if they should come,' I said, 'I can't leave you here alone. You'd be frightened to death. But they have no reason to attack me.'
“'D-did you see any one in the swamp?'
“'A little talk with Mr. Killen. We—understand each other much better. Now come on, let's go back to the house. This story of the pothunters is one of Aunt Creasy's hobgoblins. Nothing will happen. I am trying to arrange your father's estate. I—I couldn't run off in the middle of things like this. I——' I was talking breathlessly, hardly knowing what I said; the light of the sunset was all about us, and suddenly I cried out the real truth in my heart.
“'Oh, Lida May, this is a horrible place. I can't endure for you to stay in it. It's desolate; it's maddening! Let me take you away where life is gentle and sweet as you are, Lida May, dear Lida May——'
“Here Glamouran's voice caught and indeed my own throat was aching. He broke off, made a rough gesture and for a moment sat staring into the swirling blackness that resounded about our train. He went on in steadier tones:
“We must have been nearly an hour walking the little distance through the field to the old manor. It was twilight when we let ourselves into the weed-grown yard, the sweet endless twilight of southern midsummer. I remember I was telling her my fantasy of thinking I had seen her at some other place, at some other time, when first she came walking down the staircase into my life and my heart.
“'Because, Lida May,' I said, 'every man goes through this world searching for some one; he does not know whom nor where. Now and then he finds little traces of her in other women, hints which God perhaps, has dropped, to keep him from despair. And that was why I thought of Venice, when I saw you, the cherry-garlanded girls of Tokyo, a chorister I once heard in Notre Dame——'
MY friend, to be drawn from such a moment by a man, another lover, who, you suspect in your heart, holds a deeper passion than your own, that's bitter.
“I had quite forgot the pothunter and now became aware of him only through Lida May stiffening in my arms. Then I became rigid myself, and could feel the fellow's eyes on my back. Without glancing around, I said:
“Killen, you are in time to see me happier than I ever thought man could be. May I have your good wishes?'
“I am not even sure the pothunter heard me. When I looked at him, his uncouth face was drawn into a grotesque agony. He came toward us, staring at the girl with open mouth.
“'Lida May!' he whispered. 'Lida May——'
“'Yes, Buck,' she answered, and then, still perusing his face, she cried in a different tone: 'Have you news of father?'
“'Yes—no No news of your father—I—I come to see Mr. Glamouran a minute.'
“I glanced at the fellow's shotgun as we walked together to the gate. When we were away from her, he said in a low tone:
“'It matched.'
“I moved over closer to him, gently, with an idea of flinging myself suddenly upon him.
“He must have understood, for he shook his head faintly, 'Everybody knows you killed the judge, Mr. Glamouran. We all understand you are bound to be a gun-club man and you must have done it to make it look bad for us in court——'
“I looked at him with a most curious sensation prickling my chest and throat. 'Everybody! Who do you mean?'
“'The pothunters. I've got twenty men lyin' out around this house, waiting for you.'
“I stared about the darkening circle of the woods. 'Listen, Killen,' I said earnestly, 'I haven't harmed the judge.'
“'Oh, yes, you done it. You're a clubman,' he whispered tensely, 'but the thing is, now, how can I git you out——'
“'Get me out!' I stared at him.
“'Yes, we might go down to the barn an' wait till it turns a little darker.'
“'But what do you mean, get me out, when you've brought twenty men to lynch me!'
“The pothunter groaned. 'I—I didn't know that Lida May was—was keerin' for you. If she——' He shuddered violently, and broke off to his plans again. 'Come on down to the barn. You can slip——'
“'But I can't! I won't run off and leave her. Listen to my plan. The judge is down at the clubhouse on the lake. He's in the wine cellar. I took him there myself Thursday night to keep the pothunters from murdering him. The only thing I could think of. He had too big an insurance to see him lynched. I've got a darky there with him. The judge will stay quiet as long as the gin holds out.'
“The pothunter stared at me with strange eyes, 'What was that shot I heard?”
“'My signal to a moonshiner. I told the judge we'd have a drink. I got him started.'
“Killen shook his head. 'No use telling the boys that. That would shore put the fat in the fire. They shorely meant to hang the judge that night.' The pothunter peered around the horizon in painful indecision; suddenly he thrust his shotgun in my hands.
“'Git in the house an' stan' by Lida May,' he whispered. 'Stan' 'em off as long as you can. I'll try to git through and come back with the sheriff and the game wardens before it's—too late.'”
GLAMOURAN'S tale ended here. My friend arose stiffly from his chair, shivered, glanced up at the red reflections of the tail lights and turned into the door of the Pullman. As he entered he said:
“We must be in Illinois by now.”
I began shivering myself, for the night was cold. “B-but did he get back?” I chattered.
“Oh, no. When the game wardens cut through, several fellows were hurt, and of course the pothunters picked out the man who had double crossed them. They got him. We brought him to the manor next morning.”
We walked on silently into the Pullman. All the berths were down. Ahead of us stretched the narrow aisle of curtains with here and there, in the dim light, a pair of shoes peeping from under the hangings. The muffled roar of the train filled the compartment.
At the door of the second drawing-room, my friend paused and tapped on the dimly shining panel.
“Lida May, beautiful!” he called. “I've finished my smoke!”
And the door of the drawing-room opened.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1930.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1965, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 59 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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