The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1894-07-01

mass of hurrying clouds. A raw. chilly
wind the ground all mud. the tall grass
and trees dripping from heavy rains. Just
emerging into a dark cornfield from still
darker woods, young man, his clothing
drenched and mud-stained. his face bag
gard and desperate. and his whole attitude
as he leaned heavily against the rail fence
telling OF utter exhaustion. He was worn
out. For more than two hours he had been
flying for his life over country imper-
fectly known to him. though familiar TO his
pursuers.
More than once he had been compelled
to retrace his steps when every moment
was precious and every step through the
yielding mud required effort Worse
yet, there was no possibility of throwing
the followers off the trail. Every step left
its plain impression, to be followed as fast
as horse could trot. and capture meant sure
and swift death-no wonder he was des-
perate.
Turn which way he would. Gilbert Hazel
ton could see nothing before him but
speedy and disgraceful death. Never to see
the sun again, nay, not even friendly
face. Was this the end of the bright hopes
with which he had kissed his mother good
bye only two short months before? 1t
lived ages of fear and agony since then,
gone through unspeakable humiliation and
dread.
He had been accused of murder. tried
for his life, found guilty and sentenced to
death. His letter to his friends must have
mscarried, for they had not come to his
relief. Poor and alone among strangers,
who persisted in believing him identical
with the tramp who had murdered poor
David Westford, Gilbert had yet fought
bravely for his life. Some few had been
convinced of his innocence, and his lawyer
had succeeded in obtaining new trial, in
which new witnesses might at least prove
an alibi.
But when this word went abroad, the
towrspeople were furious. They had seen
more than one undoubted criminal escape
through some technicality. Were they now
to see the murderer of poor David West
ford escape through the easily bought per-
jury of some worthless companions in
crime? They vowed it should not be. Last
night at dusk groups of stern-looking men
stood before the Jail talking grlmly to-
gether and a whisper in the air warned
the sheriff what was coming.
The Jail was old and rickety. He could
not defend it, and his resolve was quickly
| taken. In the early dusk the prisoner was
| sent out by side door, under charge OF
| the sheriff's son, while the sheriff himself
| remained to make sure MOB violence did
| not make mistake and seize some other
victim But treachery carried the word 10
| the mob and they were soon in hot pur-
| suit of the fugitives. In this emergency
| the boy, who was firmly convinced of the
prisoners innocence. released him. demand
| ing only promise to reJoin him at a
| place appointed and himself turned back
| to throw the pursuers off the trail if pos
sible. Gilbert fully intended to keep his
promise, but in the darkness he missed his
way. and the bloodhounds in the rear
caught his trail.
Now for two hours, which seemed two
| eternities, he had been running for life, and
| the unknown country and horrible mud had
completely exhausted the little strength that
two months of confinement and terrible
anxiety had left him. Nothing but utter
| desperation could have driven him another
| rod. But when a shout came family from
| the rear he pushed forward with great
effort across the strip of cornfield, through
| To one less utterly worn out this would
have given a glimmer of hope, for here at
| least the mud had become liquid ooze, which
| retained no footprint. The pursuers would
not know which way TO turn, and must
watch both roadsides to see that he did not
| turn aside. But he was too tired to use the
| advantage, and when, after running d few
| rods he slipped and fell, he lay there a
full minute, too utterly exhausted TO rise
| What was the use, when his utmost en-
| deavors could only put off death for a few
moments? Why not take one moment for
| rest and thought before the end came?
A farmhouse stood quarter of a mile
exhausted, waiting only for death TO over
take him, his hopeless glances fell upon its
light. How placid and peaceful looked the
curtains. Doubtless happy family were
sitting around it, father and mother, sturdy
sons and pretty daughters. laughing and
| talking and never dreaming of the dark
| tragedy enacting so near. Would they care
If they did know? Would they come to his
aid if some instinct should tell them2 And
| then he suddenly scrambled to his feet, re-
solving to make one last effort for his life
| He would struggle on to the farmhouse and
| appeal to the quiet family circle. They
| death if he failed, and it would be no less
| if he did not try.
| hope gave him to carry him to the gate
| and up the cinder walk. whose hard. dark
surface would betray no foOtstep. Yet his
| heart failed as he reached the door and
leaned. utterly exhausted, against the door
| ''If 1 only knew there were women in
| side. A woman would be merciful. But it
| may be some stern old farmer, who will
| only order me off and set the dogs me. -
The window was but a step away. He
| crept TO it and looked between the curtains.
| a plain, neat farmhouse kitchen, and two
| sitting by the table before the fire. the
| mother sewing, the daughter reading aloud.
| No one else in sight, yet Gilbert gave a
| smothered gasp and fell back in despair
| That settles it,
| He had seen both faces at the trial-the
| elder sad and patient under its silvery hair;
1 the younger pure, pale and clear-cut
| thrown into strong relief by the dark eyes,
| long jet lashes and heavy black braids.
| He stood there still. hopeless and help
| less, when there came sudden break in
! the clear voice within The girl had ceased
| reading He looked in and saw her pick
| up a pitcher and come toward the door.
I moment more and she had come out, all
| unconscious of the man so near. gone
| straight to the pump on which the lamp
| light shone, and was filling her pitcher
| Nerved by desperation Gilbert stepped
| toward her.
| Il will appeal TO her. Why shouldn't j?
! / did not kill her brother. She may pity
I. me. She is a woman. and they half
| Quakers. l have heard" he muttered-and
| aloud. Miss Westford, help, for Gods
| sake"
The clanking of the pump ceased. The
| girl looked around with startled air. WHO
| spoke?'' she demanded.
| "A fugitive. utterly exhausted with fight
| from a blocdthirsty mob. They are close
J at my heels. l can't go further and 1 am
| doomed unless you have pity and give me
| help or concealment.
| WHO your she inquired. and with
| a dreadful sinking at his heart he gave
| his name Gilbert Hazelton."
| She uttered a sharp cry and looked away
| where the distant lanterns were cleaning
| through the corn field-the pursuers on his
| track.
Il must ask mother" she said. and
snatching up hcr pitcher swept past him
| into the house.
He heard her quick voice, and Mrs. West
| ford's startled outcry, and in very deSpera.
tion followed hcr in.
The old mother met him, white-haired