The Death Shot: A Story Retold

With alacrity Woodley responds to the appeal; giving his experience, along with it his suspicions and conjectures; not simply as a witness, but more like a counsel in the case. It needs not to say, he is against the accused, in his statement of facts, as the deductions he draws from them. For the hunter has long since decided within himself, as to who killed Clancy.

Heywood follows him in like manner, though with no new matter. His testimony but corroborates that of his elder confrère.

Taken together, or separately, it makes profound impression on the jurors of Judge Lynch; almost influencing them to pronounce an instant verdict, condemnatory of the accused.

If so, it will soon be followed by the sentence; this by execution, short and quick, but sternly terrible!

Chapter Twenty Seven.

Additional evidence

While the Lynchers are still in deliberation, the little clock on the mantel strikes twelve, midnight; of late, not oft a merry hour in the cottage of the Clancys; but this night more than ever sad.

Its striking seems the announcement of a crisis. For a time it silences the voices of those conversing.

Scarce has the last stroke ceased to vibrate on the still night air, when a voice is heard; one that has not hitherto taken part in the deliberations. It sounds as though coming up from the road gate.

“Mass Woodley in da?” are the words spoken interrogatively; the question addressed generally to the group gathered in front of the house. “Yes: he’s here,” simultaneously answer several.

“Kin I peak a wud wif you, Mass Woodley?” again asks the inquirer at the wicket.

“Sartinly,” says the hunter, separating from the others, and striding off towards the entrance.

“I reck’n I know that voice,” he adds, on drawing near the gate. “It’s Blue Bill, ain’t it?”

“Hush, Mass’ Woodley! For Goramity’s sake doan peak out ma name. Not fo’ all de worl let dem people hear it. Ef dey do, dis nigger am a dead man, shoo.”

“Darn it, Bill; what’s the matter? Why d’ye talk so mysteerous? Is thar anythin’ wrong? Oh! now I think o’t, you’re out arter time. Never mind ’bout that; I’ll not betray you. Say; what hev ye kim for?”

“Foller me, Mass Woodley; I tell yer all. I dasent tay hya, less some ob dem folk see me. Les’ go little way from de house, into de wood groun’ ober yonner; den I tell you wha fotch me out. Dis nigger hab someting say to you, someting berry patickler. Yes, Mass Woodley, berry patickler. ’Tarn a matter ob life an’ def.”

Sime does not stay to hear more; but, lifting the latch, quietly pushes open the gate, and passes out into the road. Then following the negro, who flits like a shadow before him, the two are soon standing among some bushes that form a strip of thicket running along the roadside.

“Now, what air it?” asks Woodley of the coon-hunter, with whom he is well acquainted – having often met him in his midnight rambles.

“Mass Woodley, you want know who kill Mass Charl Clancy?”

“Why, Bill, that’s the very thing we’re all talkin’ ’bout, an’ tryin’ to find out. In coorse we want to know. But who’s to tell us?”

“Dis nigger do dat.”

“Air ye in airnest, Bill?”

“So much in earness I ha’n’t got no chance get sleep, till I make clean bress ob de seecret. De ole ooman neider. No, Mass Woodley, Phoebe she no let me ress till I do dat same. She say it am de duty ob a Christyun man, an’, as ye know, we boaf b’long to de Methodies. Darfore, I now tell ye, de man who kill Charl Clancy was my own massr – de young un – Dick.”

“Bill! are you sure o’ what ye say?”

“So shoo I kin swa it as de troof, de whole troof, an’ nuffin but de troof.”

“But what proof have ye?”

“Proof! I moas seed it wif ma own eyes. If I didn’t see, I heerd it wif ma ears.”

“By the ’tarnal! this looks like clar evydince at last. Tell me, Bill, o’ all that you seed an’ what you heern?”

“Ya, Mass Woodley, I tell you ebberyting; all de sarkunistances c’nected wif de case.”

In ten minutes after, Simeon Woodley is made acquainted with everything the coon-hunter knows; the latter having given him full details of all that occurred on that occasion when his coon-chase was brought to such an unsatisfactory termination.

To the backwoodsman it brings no surprise. He has already arrived at a fixed conclusion, and Bill’s revelation is in correspondence with it.

On hearing it, he but says: —

“While runnin’ off, yur master let fall a letter, did he? You picked it up, Bill? Ye’ve gob it?”

“Hya’s dat eyedentikil dockyment.”

The negro hands over the epistle, the photograph inside.

“All right, Bill! I reck’n this oughter make things tol’ably clur. Now, what d’ye want me to do for yurself?”

“Lor, Mass Woodley, you knows bess. I’se needn’t tell ye, dat ef ole Eph’m Darke hear wha dis nigger’s been, an’ gone, an’ dud, de life ob Blue Bill wuldn’t be wuth a ole coon-skin – no; not so much as a corn-shuck. I’se get de cowhide ebbery hour ob de day, and de night too. I’se get flog to def, sa’tin shoo.”

“Yur right thar, I reck’n,” rejoins the hunter; then continues, reflectingly, “Yes; you’d be sarved putty saveer, if they war to know on’t. Wal, that mustn’t be, and won’t. So much I kin promise ye, Bill. Yur evydince wouldn’t count for nuthin’ in a law court, nohow. Tharfor, we won’t bring ye forrad; so don’t you be skeeart. I guess we shan’t wan’t no more testymony, as thar ain’t like to be any crosskwestenin’ lawyers in this case. Now; d’you slip back to yur quarters, and gi’e yurself no furrer consarn. I’ll see you don’t git into any trouble. May I be damned ef ye do!”

With this emphatic promise, the old bear-hunter separates from the less pretentious votary of the chase; as he does so giving the latter a squeeze of the hand, which tells him he may go back in confidence to the negro quarter, and sit, or sleep, by the side of his Phoebe, without fear.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

“To the jail!”

With impatience Judge Lynch and his jurors await the hunter’s return. Before his leaving them, they had well-nigh made up their minds to the verdict. All know it will be “Guilty,” given unanimously. Woodley’s temporary absence will not affect it. Neither the longer time allowed them for deliberation. If this cause change, it will not be to modify, but make more fixed their determination. Still others keep coming up. Like wildfire the news has spread that the mother of the murdered man is herself stricken down. This, acting as a fresh stimulus to sympathy, brings back such of the searchers as had gone home; many starting from beds to which they had betaken themselves after the day’s fatigue.

It is past midnight, and the crowd collected around the cottage is greater than ever. As one after another arrives upon the ground they step across the threshold, enter the chamber of death, and look upon the corpse, whose pale face seems to make mute appeal to them for justice. After gazing on it for an instant, their anger with difficulty subdued in the solemn presence of death, each comes out muttering a resolve there shall be both justice and vengeance, many loudly vociferating it with the added emphasis of an oath.

It does not need what Simeon Woodley has in store to incite them to action. Already are they sufficiently inflamed. The furor of the mob, with its mutually maddening effect, gradually growing upon them, permeating their spirits, has reached the culminating point.

Still do they preserve sufficient calmness to wait a little longer, and hear what the hunter may have to say. They take it, he has been called from them on some matter connected with the subject under consideration. At such a time who would dare interrupt their deliberations for any trivial purpose? Although none of them has recognised Blue Bill’s voice, they know it to have been that of a negro. This, however, is no reason why he should not have made some communication likely to throw new light on the affair. So, on Woodley’s return, once more gathering around him, they demand to hear what it is.

He tells all that has been imparted to him; but without making known the name of his informant, or in any way compromising the brave fellow with a black skin, who has risked life itself by making disclosure of the truth.

To him the old hunter refers in a slight but significant manner. Comprehending, no one presses for more minute explanation.

“He as says all that,” Woodley continues, after stating the circumstances communicated by the coon-hunter, “has guv me the letter dropped by Dick Darke; which, as I’ve tolt, ye, he picked up. Here air the thing itself. Preehaps it may let some new light into the matter; though I guess you’ll all agree wi’ me, it’s clar enough a’ready.”

They all do agree. A dozen voices have declared, are still declaring that. One now cries out —

“What need to talk any more? Charley Clancy’s been killed – he’s been murdered. An’ Dick Darke’s the man that did it!”