The Angel of Lonesome Hill | Page 6

was struggling with a strange fascination.
"Long ago, Mr. President, I had an enemy--Bill Hartsell--we shot each other." He held up a withered hand. "It's been a feud ever since. His boy and mine went to war in the same company--both as brave as ever wore the blue. When they were waitin' to be mustered out Bill's boy was murdered in his tent--in his sleep. Bill was there and swore he saw my Richard do it.
"One night, a month ago, my woman--she's a great woman, Mr. President--the sick folks down in my country call her 'The Angel of Lonesome Hill'--well, she had a dream that Bill Hartsell wanted to see me. I hadn't laid eyes on him for years. I strapped on my six-shooter and she said, 'No--it isn't that kind of a trip--it's peace.'
"I put down the shootin' iron and went--it was a long way--two days on horseback. I got to Bill's cabin at night; I went in without a knock; I wasn't afraid. Bill's folks were round the bed. He arose and cried out: 'John, I sent for you; it was a damn lie I told--your boy didn't do it'--and then Bill died."
For the moment the old man's agitation mastered him.
"I remember, Mr. Dale. 'Ves' told me; he brought the statements of the family--and yours. I've been thinking of it ever since--and a great deal these last two days. Tell me, why did you happen to come?"
"Mother had a dream that said the time was up."
Dale spoke as calmly as though delivering a message from a neighbor.
Fear was not even a memory now. He stood erect; the stone he had slowly pushed up many steep years was near the summit--one mighty effort might hurl it down the past forever.
"Just a word about that boy, Mr. President. At Cold Harbor his regiment stood in hell all day; he was one of those who pinned his name to his coat so his body could be identified--after the charge. Well, in that charge the flag went down, and a man went out to get it--and he fell; then another--and he fell; and then a thin, pale fellow that the doctors almost refused sprang forward like a panther--and he fell. They were askin' for a volunteer when a staff officer called out: 'Good God! He's alive! He's got it! He's crawlin' back!'
"They had to lift him off the colors; he didn't know anything, . . . and that was my boy, Mr. President--that was Dick!
"Funny how he enlisted," Dale resumed after a moment. "He'd been tryin' to get in, but I kept him out. One night his mother sent him for a dime's worth of clothes-line--and he never came back. He's not bad, Mr. President; he's good--he gets it from his mother."
Dale lifted his head with pride: "When I was on the jury I heard Judge Long say no one could be punished if their name wasn't written in the indictment. Now, they didn't only convict Dick--they convicted his mother--this whole world's her prison--and it's illegal, Mr. President--her name wasn't written in that indictment--and it's her pardon I want."
The President arose and walked the floor. "How could the man who saved those colors shoot a comrade in his sleep? Mr. Dale, my faith in human nature tells me that's a lie!"
He stood for an instant at the window, looking over the fountain, the river, the tall white Washington needle which pierced the sky, then quickly stepped to the table and lifted a glass:
"Mr. Dale, I propose a toast--'The Angel of Lonesome Hill' . . . her liberty!"
* * * * *
As they returned to the office there was nothing extraordinary in the President's vigorous step--that was known the world around. There was something most unusual, however, in the radiant soul--the splendid ancient youth of the quaint figure by his side.
At the door where the policeman had watched the waiting pilgrim the President shook the old man's hand.
"Come again, Mr. Dale, and tell 'Ves' Long I'll go hunting with him this fall and bring along a man he'll like--a man who catches wolves with his hands."
* * * * *
John Dale knew every fence corner in that region, but the night was so dark he stopped at times to "feel where he was."
The man with him could not aid him; he was a stranger--a strange stranger who spoke but once--"How far is it?"
Long habit had made him silent; he was in the upper fifties, but long absence from the sun had pinched his face into the white mask of great age.
At the village store the stranger entered, returning with a package.
When the road turned there was a light high ahead and a moment later the two men entered the cabin.
The stranger paused. "Mother, you sent me for a clothes-line--I've been delayed--but here it is."
Her