both triggers of the gun, prepared to meet him with leaden death if
he should burst loose, herself trembling and palpitating and dizzy
LOVE OF LIFE AND OTHER STORIES
57
from the tension and shock.
But in time Dennin grew more tractable. It seemed to her that he
was growing weary of his unchanging recumbent position. He began
to beg and plead to be released. He made wild promises. He would
do them no harm. He would himself go down the coast and give
himself up to the officers of the law. He would give them his
share of the gold. He would go away into the heart of the
wilderness, and never again appear in civilization. He would take
his own life if she would only free him. His pleadings usually
culminated in involuntary raving, until it seemed to her that he
was passing into a fit; but always she shook her head and denied
him the freedom for which he worked himself into a passion.
But the weeks went by, and he continued to grow more tractable.
And through it all the weariness was asserting itself more and
more. “I am so tired, so tired,” he would murmur, rolling his head
back and forth on the pillow like a peevish child. At a little
later period he began to make impassioned pleas for death, to beg
her to kill him, to beg Hans to put him our of his misery so that
he might at least rest comfortably.
The situation was fast becoming impossible. Edith’s nervousness
was increasing, and she knew her break-down might come any time.
She could not even get her proper rest, for she was haunted by the
fear that Hans would yield to his mania and kill Dennin while she
slept. Though January had already come, months would have to
elapse before any trading schooner was even likely to put into the
bay. Also, they had not expected to winter in the cabin, and the
food was running low; nor could Hans add to the supply by hunting.
They were chained to the cabin by the necessity of guarding their
prisoner.
Something must be done, and she knew it. She forced herself to go
back into a reconsideration of the problem. She could not shake
off the legacy of her race, the law that was of her blood and that
had been trained into her. She knew that whatever she did she must
do according to the law, and in the long hours of watching, the
shot-gun on her knees, the murderer restless beside her and the
storms thundering without, she made original sociological
researches and worked out for herself the evolution of the law. It
came to her that the law was nothing more than the judgment and the
will of any group of people. It mattered not how large was the
group of people. There were little groups, she reasoned, like
Switzerland, and there were big groups like the United States.
Also, she reasoned, it did not matter how small was the group of
people. There might be only ten thousand people in a country, yet
their collective judgment and will would be the law of that
country. Why, then, could not one thousand people constitute such
a group? she asked herself. And if one thousand, why not one
hundred? Why not fifty? Why not five? Why not – two?
She was frightened at her own conclusion, and she talked it over
with Hans. At first he could not comprehend, and then, when he
did, he added convincing evidence. He spoke of miners’ meetings,
where all the men of a locality came together and made the law and
executed the law. There might be only ten or fifteen men
LOVE OF LIFE AND OTHER STORIES
58
altogether, he said, but the will of the majority became the law
for the whole ten or fifteen, and whoever violated that will was
punished.
Edith saw her way clear at last. Dennin must hang. Hans agreed
with her. Between them they constituted the majority of this
particular group. It was the group-will that Dennin should be
hanged. In the execution of this will Edith strove earnestly to
observe the customary forms, but the group was so small that Hans
and she had to serve as witnesses, as jury, and as judges – also as
executioners. She formally charged Michael Dennin with the murder
of Dutchy and Harkey, and the prisoner lay in his bunk and listened
to the testimony, first of Hans, and then of Edith. He refused to
plead guilty or not guilty, and remained silent when she asked him
if he had anything to say in his own defence. She and Hans,
without leaving their seats, brought in the jury’s verdict of
guilty. Then, as judge, she imposed the sentence. Her voice
shook, her eyelids twitched, her left arm jerked, but she carried
it out.
“Michael Dennin, in three days’ time you are to be hanged by the
neck until you are dead.”
Such was the sentence. The man breathed an unconscious sigh of
relief, then laughed defiantly, and said, “Thin I’m thinkin’ the
damn bunk won’t be achin’ me back anny more, an’ that’s a
consolation.”
With the passing of the sentence a feeling of relief seemed to
communicate itself to all of them. Especially was it noticeable in
Dennin. All sullenness and defiance disappeared, and he talked
sociably with his captors, and even with flashes of his old-time
wit. Also, he found great satisfaction in Edith’s reading to him
from the Bible. She read from the New Testament, and he took keen
interest in the prodigal son and the thief on the cross.
On the day preceding that set for the execution, when Edith asked
her usual question, “Why did you do it?” Dennin answered, “‘Tis
very simple. I was thinkin’ – ”
But she hushed him abruptly, asked him to wait, and hurried to
Hans’s bedside. It was his watch off, and he came out of his
sleep, rubbing his eyes and grumbling.
“Go,” she told him, “and bring up Negook and one other Indian.
Michael’s going to confess. Make them come. Take the rifle along
and bring them up at the point of it if you have to.”
Half an hour later Negook and his uncle, Hadikwan, were ushered
into the death chamber. They came unwillingly, Hans with his rifle
herding them along.
“Negook,” Edith said, “there is to be no trouble for you and your
people. Only is it for you to sit and do nothing but listen and
understand.”
Thus did Michael Dennin, under sentence of death, make public
LOVE OF LIFE AND OTHER STORIES
59
confession of his crime. As he talked, Edith wrote his story down,
while the Indians listened, and Hans guarded the door for fear the
witnesses might bolt.
He had not been home to the old country for fifteen years, Dennin
explained, and it had always been his intention to return with
plenty of money and make his old mother comfortable for the rest of
her days.
“An’ how was I to be doin’ it on sixteen hundred?” he demanded.
“What I was after wantin’ was all the goold, the whole eight
thousan’. Thin I cud go back in style. What ud be aisier, thinks
I to myself, than to kill all iv yez, report it at Skaguay for an
Indian-killin’, an’ thin pull out for Ireland? An’ so I started in
to kill all iv yez, but, as Harkey was fond of sayin’, I cut out
too large a chunk an’ fell down on the swallowin’ iv it. An’
that’s me confession. I did me duty to the devil, an’ now, God
willin’, I’ll do me duty to God.”
“Negook and Hadikwan, you have heard the white man’s words,” Edith
said to the Indians. “His words are here on this paper, and it is
for you to make a sign, thus, on the paper, so that white men to
come after will know that you have heard.”
The two Siwashes put crosses opposite their signatures, received a
summons to appear on the morrow with all their tribe for a further
witnessing of things, and were allowed to go.
Dennin’s hands were released long enough for him to sign the
document. Then a silence fell in the room. Hans was restless, and
Edith felt uncomfortable. Dennin lay on his back, staring straight
up at the moss-chinked roof.
“An’ now I’ll do me duty to God,” he murmured. He turned his head
toward Edith. “Read to me,” he said, “from the book;” then added,
with a glint of playfulness, “Mayhap ’twill help me to forget the
bunk.”
The day of the execution broke clear and cold. The thermometer was
down to twenty-five below zero, and a chill wind was blowing which
drove the frost through clothes and flesh to the bones. For the
first time in many weeks Dennin stood upon his feet. His muscles