The Eagles Heart | Page 8

these faces lay a smile, a ghastly, excited, pleased grin,
which enraged him more than any curse would have done. He had
suddenly become their dramatic entertainment. The constable gripped
him tighter and the sheriff, running up, seized his other arm.
Harold shook himself free. "Let me alone! I'm going along all right."
The officers only held him the closer, and his rage broke bounds. He
struggled till his captors swayed about on the walk, and the little boys
screamed with laughter to see the slender youth shake the big men.
In the midst of this struggle a tall man, without hat or coat and wearing
slippers, came running down the walk with great strides. His voice rang
deep and clear:

"Let the boy alone!"
It was the minister. With one sweep of his right hand he tore the hands
of the sheriff from the boy's arms; the gesture was bearlike in power.
"What's the meaning of all this, Mr. Sawyer?" he said, addressing the
sheriff.
"Your boy has killed a man."
"You lie!"
"It's true--anyhow, he has stabbed Clint Slocum. He ain't dead, but he's
hurt bad."
"Is that true, Harold?"
Harold did not lift his sullen glance. "He struck me with a whip."
There was a silence, during which the minister choked with emotion
and his lips moved as if in silent prayer. Then he turned. "Free the boy's
arm. I'll guarantee he will not try to escape. No son of mine will run to
escape punishment--leave him to me."
The constable, being a member of the minister's congregation and a
profound admirer of his pastor, fell back. The sheriff took a place by
his side, and the father and son walked on toward the jail. After a few
moments the minister began to speak in a low voice:
"My son, you have reached a momentous point in your life's history.
Much depends on the words you use. I will not tell you to conceal the
truth, but you need not incriminate yourself--that is the law"--his voice
was almost inaudible, but Harold heard it. "If Slocum dies--oh, my God!
My God!"
His voice failed him utterly, but he walked erect and martial, the sun
blazing on his white forehead, his hands clinched at his sides. There
were many of his parishioners in the streets, and several of the women
broke into bitter weeping as he passed, and many of the men

imprecated the boy who was bringing white lines of sorrow into his
father's hair. "This is the logical end of his lawless bringing up," said
one.
The father went on: "Tell me, my boy--tell me the truth--did you strike
to kill? Was murder in your heart?"
Harold did not reply. The minister laid a broad, gentle hand on his son's
shoulder. "Tell me, Harold."
"No; I struck to hurt him. He was striking me; I struck back," the boy
sullenly answered.
The father sighed with relief. "I believe you, Harold. He is older and
stronger, too: that will count in your favor."
They reached the jail yard gate, and there, in the face of a crowd of
curious people, the minister bowed his proud head and put his arm
about his son and kissed his hair. Then, with tears upon his face, he
addressed the sheriff:
"Mr. Sheriff, I resign my boy to your care. Remember, he is but a lad,
and he is my only son. Deal gently with him.--Harold, submit to the
law and all will end well. I will bring mother and Maud to see you at
once."
As the gate closed on his son the minister drew a deep breath, and a cry
of bitter agony broke from his clinched lips: "O God, O God! My son is
lost!"
The story of the encounter, even as it dribbled forth from Slocum,
developed extenuating circumstances. Slocum was man grown, a big,
muscular fellow, rather given to bullying. A heavy carriage whip was
found lying in the alley, and this also supported Harold's story to his
father. As told by Slocum, the struggle took place just where the alley
from behind the parsonage came out upon the cross street.
"I was leading a horse," said Slocum, "and I met Harry, and we got to

talking, and something I said made him mad, and he jerked out his
knife and jumped at me. The horse got scared and yanked me around,
and just then Harry got his knife into me. I saw he was in for my life
and I threw down the whip and run, the blood a-spurting out o' me, hot
as b'ilin' water. I was scared, I admit that. I thought he'd opened a big
artery in me, and I guess he did."
When this story, amplified and made dramatic, reached the ears of the
minister,