beyond the last hut in that direction. He was a sour creature,
unsociable, and had no companionships. People who had tried to get
acquainted with him had regretted it and dropped him. His history was
not known. Some believed that Sammy Hillyer knew it; others said no.
If asked, Hillyer said no, he was not acquainted with it. Flint had a
meek English youth of sixteen or seventeen with him, whom he treated
roughly, both in public and in private; and of course this lad was
applied to for information, but with no success. Fetlock Jones–name of
the youth–said that Flint picked him up on a prospecting tramp, and as
he had neither home nor friends in America, he had found it wise to stay
and take Buckner’s hard usage for the sake of the salary, which was bacon
and beans. Further than this he could offer no testimony.
Fetlock had been in this slavery for a month now, and under his meek
exterior he was slowly consuming to a cinder with the insults and
humiliations which his master had put upon him. For the meek suffer
bitterly from these hurts; more bitterly, perhaps, than do the manlier
sort, who can burst out and get relief with words or blows when the limit
of endurance has been reached. Good-hearted people wanted to help
Fetlock out of his trouble, and tried to get him to leave Buckner; but
the boy showed fright at the thought, and said he “dasn’t.” Pat Riley
urged him, and said:
“You leave the damned hunks and come with me; don’t you be afraid. I’ll
take care of him.”
The boy thanked him with tears in his eyes, but shuddered and said he
“dasn’t risk it”; he said Flint would catch him alone, some time, in the
night, and then–“Oh, it makes me sick, Mr. Riley, to think of it.”
Others said, “Run away from him; we’ll stake you; skip out for the coast
some night.” But all these suggestions failed; he said Flint would hunt
him down and fetch him back, just for meanness.
The people could not understand this. The boy’s miseries went steadily
on, week after week. It is quite likely that the people would have
understood if they had known how he was employing his spare time. He
slept in an out-cabin near Flint’s; and there, nights, he nursed his
bruises and his humiliations, and studied and studied over a single
problem–how he could murder Flint Buckner and not be found out. It was
the only joy he had in life; these hours were the only ones in the
twenty-four which he looked forward to with eagerness and spent in
happiness.
He thought of poison. No–that would not serve; the inquest would reveal
where it was procured and who had procured it. He thought of a shot in
the back in a lonely place when Flint would be homeward bound at
midnight–his unvarying hour for the trip. No–somebody might be near,
and catch him. He thought of stabbing him in his sleep. No–he might
strike an inefficient blow, and Flint would seize him. He examined a
hundred different ways–none of them would answer; for in even the very
obscurest and secretest of them there was always the fatal defect of a
risk, a chance, a possibility that he might be found out. He would have
none of that.
But he was patient, endlessly patient. There was no hurry, he said to
himself. He would never leave Flint till he left him a corpse; there was
no hurry–he would find the way. It was somewhere, and he would endure
shame and pain and misery until he found it. Yes, somewhere there was a
way which would leave not a trace, not even the faintest clue to the
murderer–there was no hurry–he would find that way, and then–oh, then,
it would just be good to be alive! Meantime he would diligently keep up
his reputation for meekness; and also, as always theretofore, he would
allow no one to hear him say a resentful or offensive thing about his
oppressor.
Two days before the before-mentioned October morning Flint had bought
some things, and he and Fetlock had brought them home to Flint’s cabin: a