This final feather broke the camel’s back.
Close upon the hour of noon the whole village
was suddenly electrified with the ghastly news.
No need of the as yet undreamed-of telegraph; the
tale flew from man to man, from group to group, from
house to house, with little less than telegraphic
speed. Of course the schoolmaster gave holiday
for that afternoon; the town would have thought strangely
of him if he had not.
A gory knife had been found close to the murdered
man, and it had been recognized by somebody as belonging
to Muff Potter—so the story ran. And
it was said that a belated citizen had come upon Potter
washing himself in the “branch” about
one or two o’clock in the morning, and that
Potter had at once sneaked off—suspicious
circumstances, especially the washing which was not
a habit with Potter. It was also said that the
town had been ransacked for this “murderer”
(the public are not slow in the matter of sifting
evidence and arriving at a verdict), but that he could
not be found. Horsemen had departed down all
the roads in every direction, and the Sheriff “was
confident” that he would be captured before
night.
All the town was drifting toward the graveyard.
Tom’s heartbreak vanished and he joined the
procession, not because he would not a thousand times
rather go anywhere else, but because an awful, unaccountable
fascination drew him on. Arrived at the dreadful
place, he wormed his small body through the crowd
and saw the dismal spectacle. It seemed to him
an age since he was there before. Somebody pinched
his arm. He turned, and his eyes met Huckleberry’s.
Then both looked elsewhere at once, and wondered if
anybody had noticed anything in their mutual glance.
But everybody was talking, and intent upon the grisly
spectacle before them.
“Poor fellow!” “Poor young fellow!”
“This ought to be a lesson to grave robbers!”
“Muff Potter’ll hang for this if they catch
him!” This was the drift of remark; and the
minister said, “It was a judgment; His hand
is here.”
Now Tom shivered from head to heel; for his eye fell
upon the stolid face of Injun Joe. At this moment
the crowd began to sway and struggle, and voices shouted,
“It’s him! it’s him! he’s coming
himself!”
“Who? Who?” from twenty voices.
“Muff Potter!”
“Hallo, he’s stopped!—Look
out, he’s turning! Don’t let him get
away!”
People in the branches of the trees over Tom’s
head said he wasn’t trying to get away—he
only looked doubtful and perplexed.
“Infernal impudence!” said a bystander;
“wanted to come and take a quiet look at his
work, I reckon—didn’t expect any company.”
The crowd fell apart, now, and the Sheriff came through,
ostentatiously leading Potter by the arm. The
poor fellow’s face was haggard, and his eyes
showed the fear that was upon him. When he stood
before the murdered man, he shook as with a palsy,
and he put his face in his hands and burst into tears.
