Ben Stone at Oakdale

“We’d better stay here all day long, Ben, for anyone won’t be likely to find us. That’s the way I did at first – hid in the daytime and traveled at night.”

“But we brought no food, and we must have something to eat. I’m afraid you’re hungry now, Jerry.”

“Oh, not a bit,” was the assurance. “It ain’t so hard for a feller to go all day without eating if he only tries; I know, for haven’t I done it lots of times! Perhaps when night comes again we’ll be able to find something to eat somehow.”

“I have money,” said Ben. “I can buy food.”

“But if you try it now somebody who sees you may send word back to Oakdale. Please don’t try it now, Ben, for truly I’m not hungry. Where’s Pilot?”

For the first time they thought of the little dog, and, to their surprise and dismay, he was gone. Ben, however, was far more concerned than Jerry over this.

“He’ll come back,” declared the blind boy. “He’s gone to hunt for his breakfast, and I know he’ll come back; he always does.”

They lay there for some time, talking of the past and planning for the future. The ray of sunshine that had aroused Ben crept on across the mow, leaving them in shadow, and presently Jerry once more betrayed tokens of drowsiness, slumber again claiming him at last.

“Poor little chap!” murmured Ben with infinite tenderness. “You’ve had a hard time of it, but I’m going to stick by you now and take care of you always. I can do it, and I will.”

The silence in the barn was so profound that he could hear crickets fiddling in the thickets of brown, rain-washed grass outside. With a clatter of hoofs and a rumble of wheels, a horse and carriage passed on the road near by. Ben listened till the sounds died out in the distance, and then after a time he likewise slept once more.

It was the barking of Pilot that next aroused the brothers, and the little dog came scrambling up onto the low mow and sniffed around them, whining strangely. He barked again, a short, sharp note, whereupon Jerry clutched his brother with both hands, whispering excitedly:

“Danger, Ben – danger! Pilot is trying to tell us.”

Even as these words were uttered they heard the voices of men and the tramp of heavy feet. One of Jerry’s hands found Pilot’s collar, and beneath that touch the dog crouched upon the hay and was still.

There seemed to be two men. “The critter sartainly come right in here,” said one of them. “Mebbe ’tain’t the same dorg, but he answers the deescription the Widder Jones give; and it’s mighty queer a dorg should be hookin’ it round here, where there ain’t no houses nigher than a quarter of a mile.”

“Where’s the beast dodged to, sheriff?” questioned the other man. “I heared him bark arter he skipped in through the open door.”

Sheriff! Ben Stone’s heart leaped into his throat at that word, and a shuddering sickness overcame him. He felt Jerry trembling violently at his side. Both lay perfectly still, scarcely breathing, but unable to repress the heavy beatings of their hearts. The men searched below, and after a time one of them climbed upon the mow. In a few moments he nearly trod upon them, halting to utter a shout:

“Here they be!”

As the other man came scrambling to the mow, Ben threw aside the hay and sat up.

“What do you want?” he asked huskily.

One man, tall and thin, with a bunch of tobacco-stained whiskers on his chin, answered immediately:

“We want you, and, by hokey, we’ve got ye!”

“Oh, Ben!” sobbed Jerry, likewise sitting up. “Oh, Ben!”

In a moment Pilot bristled and barked savagely at the men, who, however, betrayed no shade of alarm over this demonstration.

“If I hadn’t spied that yaller cur,” said the shorter man of the two, “we might never located them to-day. Nobody we questioned ’round here had seen anything of ’em. You’ve got to give me the credit, sheriff.”

“That’s all right, Hubbard; you’ll git all the credit that’s comin’ to ye, don’t worry.”

Ben had seen both men in Oakdale. The taller was William Pickle, a deputy sheriff; the other Abel Hubbard, a constable. The deputy stooped and fastened a strong hand on Ben’s shoulder.

“Come on,” he ordered. “You took a long walk last night; we’ll give ye a ride to-day.”

“What are you going to do with me?”

“Goin’ to take ye back to Oakdale, of course.”

“What for? What have I done?”

“I ruther guess you know. You’re a slippery rascal, and you’ve left a record behind ye everywhere you’ve been. Gimme the irons, Hubbard.”

There was a clanking, rattling sound as the constable brought forth a pair of handcuffs, at sight of which all the resentment in Ben Stone’s outraged soul rose.

“Don’t you put those things on me!” he shouted furiously. “I haven’t done anything.”

Both men held him, and, in spite of his struggles, the manacles were snapped upon his wrists; while Jerry, still sitting on the mow, pleaded and sobbed and wrung his hands, the little dog vainly seeking to soothe him by trying to lick his face.

“He’s a desp’rate character, sheriff,” said the constable. “’Twouldn’t be safe not to iron him.”

“I ain’t takin’ no chances,” declared William Pickle grimly. “I had one prisoner break away once, and that learnt me a lesson. Now it’s no use to raise sech a fuss, young feller; you might jest as well take your medicine quiet. You ought to know what alwus comes to them that plays the tricks you’ve been up to.”

“I haven’t done anything to be arrested,” protested Ben wildly. “I have a right to take care of my own brother, for he’s blind and can’t look out for himself.”

“Purty good bluffer,” grinned Abel Hubbard.

“That’s all right; ’twon’t do him no good,” returned the deputy sheriff. “Course he’s got sense enough to know anything he owns up to may be used as evidence against him.”

Again and again Ben protested that he knew not why he had been placed under arrest. “Why don’t you tell me?” he cried. “What’s the charge?”

“Robbery,” said Pickle; “and there’s sartainly evidence enough to put ye behind the bars. You might jest as well come along quiet, for it won’t do ye no good resistin’. We’d better be movin’, Hubbard.”

They dragged him down from the mow, Jerry following, dumb with anguish. At a distance from the barn a horse, attached to a carriage, was hitched beneath a roadside tree, and toward this conveyance the manacled prisoner was marched between the two officers. His brain was in a whirl, for he could not understand the meaning of this hideous accusation against him.

“Unhitch the hoss, Hubbard,” directed the deputy sheriff. “I’ll put this feller inter the wagon.”

“Take me with my brother!” pleaded Jerry, who had followed to the spot.

“We ain’t got no orders to take only jest him,” said William Pickle. “The wagon ain’t roomy enough to carry you, too, and so we can’t bother with ye. Mebbe ’twas an oversight we wa’n’t give’ orders to fetch ye, for you might serve as a witness against him; but, having neither authority nor room, we won’t cumber ourselves with ye.”

With the captive between himself and Hubbard, William Pickle took the reins and turned the horse toward Oakdale. Looking back, the manacled lad saw Jerry standing there, his face hidden in his hands, the yellow dog gazing up sympathetically at him, a spectacle never to be forgotten; and the frightful injustice of fate seemed to crush and smother the last spark of hope and strength in Ben’s soul.

CHAPTER XXVII.

THE DARKEST HOUR

The Oakdale lockup was beneath the Town Hall, and into that cage for culprits Stone was thrust. Curious and unfriendly eyes had seen him brought back into the village. As the post office was passed, one of a group of men lounging on the steps called out: “I see you got the critter, Bill.”

“Yep,” answered the deputy sheriff, with a grin of triumph; “we ketched the rascal all right, Eben.”