Ernest Seton - The Preacher of Cedar Mountain

Two days of life remained to Shay. Hope had died out of their hearts. Hartigan was preparing him for the great change that is always a bitter change when so approached. Belle still clung to hope. She posted herself where she could view the street, and made judicious inquiries, but got no help. The gray mantle was not a complete identification; the woman might have a dozen mantles. She went to the police station to enlist their cooperation. The Precinct Captain took no stock in the story and refused to order a house-to-house search. Finally—for even police are human—he promised to search any particular house when it was indicated, and to give reasonable support to any move that was obviously in the cause of justice.

The morning of the execution came and nothing had developed to revive their hopes. Belle was on watch at the street corner when on the main avenue an excitement occurred. A Savoyard with a dancing bear was holding a public show and gathering in a few coins. An idea came to her; she made her way through the crowd and said: "Here, is a dollar, if you make him dance before every house on this street." The Savoyard smiled blandly, bowed, pocketed the dollar and, leading the bear into the side street that Belle had watched so long, began the droning song that caused the animal to rear up and sway his huge, heavy body round and round as he walked. All the world came forth to see, or peered from upper windows; all the world was watching the strange antics of the bear—all but one. Belle's keen brown eyes were watching the crowd, watching the doorways, and watching, at length, the windows with desperate eagerness for sign of the gray woman. There seemed to be no gray woman; but, of a sudden, she saw a thing that stopped her heart. Flat against the window of a second-floor room, and intently watching the bear, was the pale, wizened, evil face of Squeaks!

Belle's hand trembled as she noted the house, the number and the very room; then, passing quickly around the corner, she hailed a cab and drove for life to the telegraph office, where she telegraphed Jim:

"Hold up the execution for two hours; we have found Squeaks."

(Signed) "Belle"

Then away to the police station. "Captain, Captain, I've found Squeaks! Come, come at once and get him."

"I have to know about it first," said he, calmly.

"Oh, Captain, there is no time to lose. It is ten o'clock now; the execution is fixed for noon."

The Captain shook his head.

"Then telegraph the Governor," she begged.

"He wouldn't pay any attention to your say-so."

"Then come at once and see; I have a cab here."

The Captain and two men went with Belle. They entered the cab. "I'll give you double fare to go your fastest," Belle said through her white, compressed lips; and the kindly cabman, sensing something out of common, 'Said, "I'll do my best, miss."

In ten minutes, they were in the side street. The bear was gone, the crowd was gone. The police entered without knocking, went to the second floor, to the very door and then knocked. There was no answer. The Captain put his shoulder to the door and forced it in. There, sure enough, standing in an attitude of fear in a far corner was the thin woman of the gray cloak.

"Where is Judge Squeaks? He was seen in this room half an hour ago."

"I don't know what you mean," and she covered her face with her skinny hands and began to cry.

"You must come to the station at once," said the Captain. Then to Belle: "Will you testify that this is the woman?"

Belle was white and trembling, but she walked up and said: "I will testify that this is—" She reached forward, peering at the woman's hidden face. Then seizing the loose hair, Belle gave one jerk, the wig came off, and they were facing Judge Squeaks!

"My God!" was all the Captain had to say. "The telephone as quick as possible! You hold him." He dashed down the stairs and made for the nearest long distance wire. It was half an hour before they could connect with Springfield, only to learn that the Governor had left for Chicago and was expected to arrive there about noon.

Shay sat calmly waiting as the big clock ticked his life away that morning in the house of death at Joliet. At eleven o'clock, Hartigan received Belle's telegram: "We have found Squeaks." He rushed to the Sheriff with it. That officer was very sorry, but "no one except the Governor had any right to order a stay."

"Why, sir," said Jim, "you are not going to hang an innocent man, when here is proof of his innocence."

"There is no proof in that telegram. I don't know who "Belle" is. I get my orders from the Courts. No one but the Governor can order a reprieve."

Jim sent a telegram to Springfield only to learn, as Belle had done, that the Governor had left for Chicago. He sent telegrams to every one who had the power to help. He telegraphed Belle; he rushed to the Sheriff to beg for God's sake but one hour's reprieve. He hurried to the penitentiary to find another telegram from Belle:

Pray without ceasing for an hour's delay. We have Squeaks now.

But the clock ticked on. He literally ran to Michael's cell; the jailer opened the way. "Michael," he gasped, "we have found Squeaks; we know you are innocent."

Michael was the calmest of all. "Whatever is God's will I'll take without a grumble," he said, and sat smoking.

At a quarter to twelve the Sheriff appeared.

"Why, Sheriff, you are not going to—when you know the reprieve is on the way. You are not going to let a technicality lead you into murder?"

"I have no change in my instructions," said the Sheriff, "and no proof that any change is on the way."

"Why; this is monstrous," gasped Jim. "An hour's delay is all we ask, so the Governor can be reached."

The Sheriff motioned the guard to move on, and Shay walked firmly between the two officers. They came into the prison yard. There assembled were a score of officials and newspaper men.

"Have you any final statement to make?" asked the State officials.

"Nothing, only that I am innocent and Squeaks is alive at this moment."

That was an old story—an old trick to win time. The officers were preparing to act, when Hartigan pale and exultant, swinging the last telegram before the Sheriff, re-read it and for the first time truly got its meaning. He said: "Let us pray."

They kneeled down, all of them, in accordance with the ancient custom, and Jim began to pray. His voice was broken and husky, but it grew steadier as he appealed to the God of Justice and Mercy. He prayed and prayed; the clock struck twelve, but still he prayed. "Pray without ceasing," Belle's message had said. His gift of speech stood by him now; a quarter of an hour passed and still he was pouring out petitions to the throne of grace; another quarter of an hour and his voice was a little weary, but he prayed on. Still another, and another, and the clock struck one. All those men still kneeled, dead silent, except for a low, sobbing sound from the little group farther off. The Sheriff waited uneasily; he coughed a little and waited for a gap—but there was no gap; Jim bared his heart to God that day. He prayed as he never did before and all his bodily strength went into his prayer. At a quarter past one, when he was still calling on the God of Life for help, the Sheriff knew not what to do, for by the unwritten law the man of God had a right to finish his prayer. At half past one, the Sheriff moved uneasily and at length uttered a faint "Amen," as though to give the signal to stop. As it had no effect he realized for the first time just what Hartigan's desperation and iron will were leading him to do, he took cover under the technicality and played the game with him. Shay would have a chance as long as the Preacher's voice lasted. The party all stood, hats off, except those around the condemned one. They still kneeled, some of them, while others in bodily weariness, were frankly sitting on the scaffold. And the Preacher prayed on. His voice was thick and husky now; he could scarcely enunciate the words. The big clock ticked and two was struck. Still Jim prayed, as one who hopes and clings to any hope.