The trouble at Pinelands A detective story
“Put by yore shootin’ irons,” he said to us, alcoholically generous. “We
ain’t a-goin’ to start nothin’. I give my word, didn’t I?”
I hesitated, but Somers frowned me into compliance. The mob leader
advanced. “You got us beat, stranger. I’d like t’ shake you by th’ hand,
sir. Ain’t a-many has bested Ralph Satterfield this a way!”
Laying his vegetable bomb carefully aside, the doctor came down the
steps quite fearlessly, one lean arm extended; and presently his slender
hand was engulfed in the bootlegger’s huge grip.
“Good feller!” declared Satterfield. “Friend o’ mine, yuh hear, boys?
Have a drink, stranger?”
He fumbled at a hip pocket, hiccoughing. Evidently he had given his own
goods the testimonial of personal use.
“I thank you, sir,” replied Doctor Somers blandly. “Just a swallow to
our friendship.” He tilted the bottle expertly, but I noted that he did
not drink. “And now, gentlemen, this lynching foolishness is all over,
isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir! Oh, yes, sir! Shore, stranger!” declared the crowd genially.
“Fine!” Somers took the bootlegger’s hand again. “I’ll depend on you,
Mr.--Satterfield, isn’t it? You’ll guard my friend, Parker, and keep him
safe for us, for his sweetheart and his uncle, won’t you?”
I caught my breath at the colossal impudence of this proposal; that the
mob, which had come to lynch Lewis, should protect him against the
possible attack of others. But Somers had gauged the spirit of the crowd
better than I; he was a profound psychologist.
Satterfield burst into a roar of laughter, which ended in a tremendous
hiccough; he staggered about and pounded his thighs in an ecstasy of
mirth. “By gum, man,” he exclaimed, “you’re a wonder--a wonder! Any
man’s got nerve like that, I’m for him. Yes, sir! ’S aw right, stranger,
’s aw right. Here!”
In token of good faith he plunged a hairy hand into his pocket and
brought forth a big key. “Here’s th’ jail key, sir; you keep it. Give it
back t’ Rufe, ’f yuh wanta. Parker’s safe; I give yuh my word, sir.” And
he shook hands all over again, growing mellower and mellower, as his
last drink warmed him. “Ain’t nobody a-goin’ t’ touch ’im now. You hear
me, boys!” he said to the crowd at his back. “Nobody don’t touch Doc
Parker, or bother ’im, unless’n they hankers t’ meet up ’ith me,
Satterfield!”
He turned back again to Somers. “S-sass’fied?” he inquired gravely. “Me
an’ a coupla other fellers’ll stay an’ keep watch if yuh say so.”
Somers laughed at that, and clapped the other’s back. “You’re a fine
chap, Mr. Satterfield, sir! I’m proud to be a friend of yours.” He
bowed, and Satterfield bowed also, with surprising dignity and grace,
but he marred the effect by stumbling and catching at my shoulder for
support.
“And, sir--and you boys, too,” Somers went on, grinning, “now that we’re
all good friends----”
“Sure! Sure! O’ course we are--fr’en’s f’r life!” roared the mob. It was
amazing how he had won their admiration.
“Well then, gentlemen, I’ll let you all into a little joke,” he
finished. “Come up here, closer! Look at my bombs!”
He reached down and picked up his basket and displayed its contents to
the men who crowded about.
To my mind it was a hazardous experiment. But again Somers had gauged
the spirit of the crowd very exactly. Ten minutes earlier, perhaps, his
revelation would have been fatal; but now the mob spirit was gone. We
were no longer faced by an irresponsible mob, rendered careless of
consequences by numbers and the consciousness of anonymity. Now it was a
group of known friends and neighbors, who stood about us, whose
unmasking had left each an individual responsible for his own conduct.
Each thought for himself and of himself; the unreasoning brutality of
the mob was gone.
Doctor Somers’ revelation was greeted with howls of mirth. This was a
joke, a stupendous joke, robust, and not too subtle, which should be
told against these men for years to come; how Ralph Satterfield and
Charlie Bates and “Hank” Conover and fifty others had been cowed and
intimidated by a dozen innocuous eggplants in the hands of one lone man!
The crowd yelled with laughter, Satterfield louder than any; they
pounded each other’s backs, leaned on each other’s shoulders, lay down
in the sand and shrieked. Satterfield’s illicit liquor had some part in
it, no doubt; none the less it was hearty, honest laughter, so
contagious that Peter and I, and even Doctor Somers, were forced to
join--so friendly and jolly and carefree that no hearer could doubt its
quality. Indeed Rufe Wakefield, the gigantic constable, came round the
corner presently--he had been waiting there in fear and trembling,
perhaps, all evening, for what might happen at the jail--and strode
boldly into our midst, convinced that all danger was over.
“Here, here, you fellers!” he exclaimed in his great, bullying roar.
“Quit it, now! You-all better git outa here an’ go home t’ bed; yo’re
disturbin’ th’ peace!”
And so peaceable had their humor become that the crowd dispersed
forthwith, still shaken with laughter and scuffling amiably for
eggplants, to preserve as souvenirs of the occasion.
CHAPTER XIII
“A LITTLE RELAXATION”
Somers watched them out of sight. Then he turned and opened the jail
door with the key Satterfield had given him. Over his shoulder he asked:
“That the constable, McGregor? Call him back, will you?”
When Rufe had strolled pompously back, puffed with pride at his success
in scattering the crowd, Somers surveyed him with distaste. Over one
lank shoulder, he remarked acidly: “You’re a fine cop! Stick around,
now. You’re quite safe; the danger’s all over, no thanks to you! Stay
there till we come out; then I’ll give you the jail key.”
“And who are you, feller, that talks so biggety?” demanded Rufe.
Somers ignored him and stalked into the dark lockup. “Come on, you two,”
he said. “We’ll give old Parker a look.”
I hesitated; but, seeing that Rufe had decided to make the best of a bad
business and wait to get his key back, I followed presently.
Fumbling for a switch, Somers turned on the lights. My poor nephew sat
in the steel cage at the right, huddled on the edge of his bunk, chin in
hands. His face was very white; he blinked in the sudden illumination,
then rose and faced us with quiet defiance.
“You’ve come to lynch me, I suppose,” he said calmly. “All right! Take
me out, and let’s get it over with.”
“My poor boy!” I cried, moved almost to tears. If I had suffered, how
dreadful this waiting must have been for him! “It’s all over, Lewis!
They’ve gone; it’s all right--all right, boy!”
He shaded his eyes. Then, as they became used to the light: “Why, it’s
you, unk! And Peter--and old Somers! Glad to see you, Floyd, old top,
how are you?”
He reached an unsteady hand through the bars and then, quite suddenly,
withdrew it and fell to sobbing. “I--I’m a fool,” he declared chokingly.
“C-can’t help it!”
I snatched the key, unlocked the inner cage, and went in to him. “There,
my boy! It’s all right now--all right now!” I patted his shoulder, but
he turned from me and buried his face in the blankets.
“All over,” repeated Somers sagely. “That’s what ails him--reaction.
Come along now; leave him alone. He’d rather we went; wouldn’t you,
Parker, old top?” The black, rumpled head nodded violently. “He prefers
to do his breaking down in private,” explained Somers softly.
“Naturally--so do I. And between friends,” he continued aloud, “I could
pull a couple of weeps myself on the very slightest provocation. It’s
been rather a drag, you know!”
I noticed suddenly that his dark face was unwontedly sallow and
colorless. His lean cheeks seemed to have hollowed further; his
curiously light eyes had receded deep into their sockets.
“Buck up, Parker!” The brusque, indifferent voice wavered, almost broke.
“Be back in the morning. ’By!” He herded us out before him, leaving
Lewis to a solitude which, I fancy, was not unwelcome. Yet it cut me to
leave the boy there so weary and broken.
Outside Somers locked the door, then beckoned Wakefield, who hung
uncertainly in the nearer shadows. “Here! Take your key and get out! And
mind”--his fierce hawk’s face was thrust out, his pale eyes glowed
coldly--“take better care of it hereafter. If anything should happen to
your prisoner, Heaven help you, that’s all! For I’ll take the matter up
with you myself.” And the huge, burly constable quailed before the
bitter menace of tone and gesture.
Somers gathered his bundle of papers and envelopes, rolled it loosely up
and tucked it under one long arm. “Come along,” he urged--almost
sullenly. “Let’s get home. I’m tired.”
We started obediently. Peter, glowing, took the taller man’s arm, though
he had to reach up to do it.
“Oh, man, man!” he declared. “You’re a wonder!”
“Let go!” he answered peevishly. “What’s that?”
The man who had withstood so nonchalantly the menace of an angry mob
flinched and gibed like a skittish colt as the shadows of a dark hallway
moved, rustling.
A little, trembling voice answered. “It’s only me, Dorothy. Are you--is
Lewis safe?”
She came forward timidly, and now I saw that Rosina was with her,
bulkily maternal, one fat arm about the girl’s slender waist.
“I--I just couldn’t stay at home,” she explained, talking very fast, as
against an expected rebuke. “So I persuaded Rosina to come along, and
started for the j-jail. I thought maybe if I talked to them, or
something--I--I----And anyway I wanted to be there my own self, if
anything dreadful h-happened. I thought maybe I could s-save him.”
“Yah!” sneered Doctor Somers. “Schoolgirl romantics!” His voice was
unpleasant; Peter let go his arm abruptly.
“I s-suppose so,” replied Dorothy meekly. “Anyway we were there, right
around the corner. I came near running out, one time. But then they
began to laugh that way, and I was sure, pretty near, that it must be
all right. We were just starting home again.”
“You ought to have had more sense,” declared Somers severely. “Roaming
around alone at this time of night! Didn’t I tell you Parker was
perfectly safe? Well, come along. McGregor, where did you park that
flivver? Let’s get home; there’s been foolishness enough for one night.”
He stalked off, and we followed. Dorothy took my arm and squeezed it. “I
don’t care,” she whispered rebelliously. “I think he’s just _mean_!
Anybody’d think Lewis belonged to some other body, instead of to me.
Why, I had to come, Uncle George; I l-love him! What happened, anyway?”
Feminine curiosity triumphed over her pique. “What made them laugh so?”
“It was Somers,” answered Peter. “He’s a wonder, that man! He stood ’em
off with a basket of eggplants--made ’em think they were hand
grenades--bombs, you know. He bluffed ’em to a standstill. Oh, he’s a
prince, Somers is!”
“Yah!” said the “prince,” overhearing this last. “Don’t be a fool!”
Peter helped Dorothy and Rosina into the flivver’s rear seat, then
clambered after. “Oh, yes!” he whispered to me. “But, my word, his
manners are atrocious.”
In silence we drove back to Fort House. It was a clear, starlit night,
and at my urging Peter left the flivver outside. To take it over to
Lewis’ house, lock it in the garage and walk back seemed, to my
weariness, an impossible labor.
We entered the big living room, and Peter snapped on the lights.
“Ho-hum!” he said, as he yawned. “I’m for bed.” His pistol was in one
hand, the shotgun in the other.
“Careful of that gun,” said Somers. “You’ll shoot somebody.” He advanced
to the table and laid down his big bundle of note paper. “Oh, no, Peter,
my son,” he went on amiably. His ill temper seemed to have dissipated
itself entirely; he gave us that sudden, disarming smile. “None of you