Sojourners
I
Bells that had been sounding through the night stopped.
Two black-backed horses transporting two men
Came to a fidgeting stop. The rider
Alit, the coachman warmed his hands with breath,
Both of them peering through lamplight addressed
The innkeeper emerging to meet them.
He was a tall presence, the innkeeper,
With dark features, and though apparently
Advanced in years, not yet old. His clothes were
Not poor, but they were worn. His hands more so,
Even unsuited to the rest of him.
Before speaking he stared untrustingly
At the pair, his eyes chasing their targets
Expeditiously. “Just the two of you?”
The eyes, dark and marbly, reached for and kept
The light entirely. The rider nodded.
“Just the two of us, and a place for them,”
Motioning to the horses who, oddly,
Both had white stripes racing down their foreheads.
(At night when they ran the only thing one
Might descry are these white streaks floating by).
“Very well. We’d have room for ten horses,
If you had as many,” voiced the keeper.
The three exchanged some words about payment
Then proceeded indoors led by lamplight.
II
The atmosphere inside was much unlike
The cold outside from which the three had come:
Bright and lively, and crowded even now
At this late hour in the middle-morning.
The tavern was not especially small,
But a low ceiling hung a heavy air.
On the wall bottles of every color
Caught the light and glimmered in ecstasy,
Glare sprinting across glass as the head turned.
A pianist pricked away on his keys,
Only now and then choosing the wrong ones.
He’d evidently worked up quite a sweat
From hours of play, beads plashing the fall board.
Couples occupied tables and couches,
Smoking, drinking liqueurs, and chattering,
The men sloppily refilling their pipes,
The women laying girlish hands on them
As the rouge dried on their empty glasses.
Most of the men sank idly into chairs,
Into the stale upholstered furniture,
None of which matched the other furniture.
Their concomitants draped legs rakishly
Over them as the former through thick smoke
Giggled indecently. In the corner
There lain two animals: a Newfoundland,
A huge, black beast with great, slobbering jaws,
And next to it what could only be called
A mutt—an ugly, sorry-looking cur
Clad in hoar fur with painful, worried eyes.
Whenever a scrap fell from someone’s plate,
Regardless of its size or lack thereof,
The Newfoundland greedily devoured it,
The other, upon nearly mustering
The use of its hind legs and seeing the
Viand vanish, would collapse with the most
Pathetic of pules in a wretched heap.
This sorrowful process apparently
Would go unnoticed by the keeper, or,
Upon being noticed was welcomed with
An emotion approximating glee.
These many spectacles, however, were
Of little interest to these late guests.
Gesturing politely to the keeper
To continue en route to their chambers,
They were accommodated. Adjoining
The tavern was an unlit corridor
On both sides of which sat staggered bedrooms.
Their room waited at the opposite end.
III
…“Here’s as fine a room as any, in fact,
A fellow left just yesterday without
Complaint…or were there two?…yes, there were two.
He had a lady with him. Hah! And what
A lady she was,” the innkeeper smirked,
Finding himself now at ease with his guests.
“Should you find anything at all amiss,
Come see me at the front. I’ll be awake.”
With this he swung the door wide and entered,
Lighting candles on a circular desk.
This action triggered in one of the guests
(The rider, I’ll call him, not the coachman)
The recitation of a certain line
From a certain poem he’d recently
Studied and committed to memory:
‘A candle in the wind cannot stay lit…’
“What’s that?” the keeper queried. It sounded
Poetic. Are you a poet? Fine lad!”
“Oh, no, nothing. Truly, it was nothing.”
“And just now I’m noticing that shine on
Your boots, so clever! Are you a man who
Knows how to get things? I mean, that’s what I
Call them—men with things to say, who speak good,
Ones who have a little shine on their boots.
So, am I right then, is that what you are?
A man who knows how to get what he wants?”
“I beg your pardon,” said the other, “I—
—”Then again, maybe not. Anyways, one
Who really knew how to get things would have
Come with three horses, instead of your two,
And probably on some purebloods besides!
Not pulled by a couple…dementive nags”
(For clarity, this is the word he used).
Proud of his locution he continued.
“Can you recite anything else for us?
Maybe a few verses on wickedness,
Or something light, a song, one to drink to?
Tonight maybe that would be better, eh?”
“I don’t believe I’ve anything like that
Contained by memory, lamentably.”
“A-ha, you are a poet, I can tell!
Or should I say hear? Indeed, hear’s more apt!
You might be surprised to know what I’ve heard
Too, from all these years of lodging God’s men,
All and sundry under the sun, all stripes.
Mhm, or maybe a man of culture,
A travelling man like yourself, wouldn’t be
Surprised…but no, no, I could tell you things!”
“Oh, yes, I doubt that very little, sir.”
Grinding out an awkward smile the rider
Glanced at the coachman then once more settled
His look on the keeper, who at this time
Began to feel the weight of his clumsy
Presence in the room, although deriving
A certain amount of pride in being
Addressed by present company as ‘sir.’
“Hmm, another time then,” he mouthed proudly,
Moving for the door. “Yes, another time,
Sir, I’ll tell you something you’ll like to hear!”
Upon his departure the room felt light,
And with the ceasing of these theatrics
The rider and the coachman finally
Took to surveying the room. A small one,
It was made to look larger for a lack
Of furniture. The aforementioned desk,
Small and circular, kept two chairs by it.
A sole window hid behind large curtains.
The bed was also large. A four-poster
Bed with daedal carvings on the columns,
It housed red pillows with lace trim and thick
Sheets waiting to be stripped. Thus was the room.
Promptly the two removed their coats and boots
In the anticipation of sweet sleep.
Indeed, at such a late hour, after such
A long journey, had a single moment
More elapsed and the twain of them would have
Slipped into a cozy slumber, if not
IV
For the bursting wide of their bedroom door.
To their astonishment, not one, but two
Dark individuals, clasped arm in arm,
Came clumsily traipsing into the space.
“We’ve got the wrong one!” he whispered loudly
To his female friend who tittered coyly.
Now assuming a deliberate air
Of apology he spoke once more: “I’m
…Dreadfully sorry, gentlemen, we’ll just
Be on our way out. You see, we’re staying
Next to you gentlemen…and…chose the wrong…”
The rider at first said nothing, nor did
The coachman, both turning to the other.
Upon lighting bedside candles they at
Once recognized the pair from the tavern.
“I say,” the intruder mumbled, “what a
Fine desk for a round of Euchre. Our room,”
He went on, sheepishly revealing a
Deck of cards from his pocket, “has no desks
Or chairs. Only a bed,” he grinned, pulling
The girl closer, hoping his suggestion
Would not be lost on the two ‘gentlemen.’
In a state of annoyed perplexity
The rider spoke nonetheless patiently.
“Simply take the table to your room, sir.
You see, you’ve come stumbling in here like this
As my coachman and I were just about
Dozing off. We’ve journeyed through the night, and
If you’d be so—” but before another
Unheeded word could be uttered, the foul
Intruder threw his ungainly weight down
Into one of the two chairs at the desk
And began hastily dealing out cards
To the rules of Euchre, his female friend
Embarrassedly but quickly following.
Then realizing all seats were occupied,
The drunken fool leapt up and scraped the desk
Toward the bed so the top of it would
Hang over the sheets, allowing the two
‘Gentlemen’ the chance to participate.
All of this occurred within mere moments,
But with the reality of the scene
And persistence of the intruder now
Dawning on the pair of weary martyrs,
They reluctantly took their positions
At the game without protest and observed
Their unanticipated company.
Candlelight revealed a man of fifty,
And judging by his features intimate
With the bottle. Flushed, pockmarked cheeks encroached
On a large nose and mouth. He had black hair—
One might have even been inclined to say
A hale, charming head of hair had it not
Totally adhered to his forehead from
Hours of profound revelry. He was large;
Of average height but wide, stocky build
With long, brawny arms whose muscles trembled
With the gripping and raising of his drink,
An action he performed frequently and
Therefore absent of all ceremony.
Yet his most striking feature was not on
His person, but sat quietly near him:
His companion, a slight, cinnamon-haired
Girl who appeared to possess no more than
Late-teenage experience. She floated
Like a nymph beside her master, hanging
On his every word like one who had been
Long-separated from her kind and now
Promised a chance to be reunited
If she fulfill her duties completely.
Quiet also were her eyes, cast downward,
As if she’d lost all faith in this prospect.
She wore a pale silk dress that swished with each
Slight stir and glimmered weakly in the light.
Her presence near this brute was perhaps the
Most incongruous display of the night.
But I digress. Onto the game of cards:
I shall not in this brief account burden
The reader with the minutiae of
This odious game of Euchre. Suffice
It to say round gave onto round, many
Lewd jokes and gestures were made, many slurred
Apologies were tendered sans exit,
And many a fist smote the table, chased
By imprecations of all kinds, ranging
From blithely mild to shockingly obscene.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” the brute broke in,
“For not making proper introductions.”
His eyes rolled soddenly in their sockets.
“Henry’s my name,” his breath warm and fetid
Carried over the table such a sharp,
Intoxicating alcoholic scent
That on contact one’s hairs might stand erect
And one’s eyeballs would most certainly sting.
“And this…this is…tell us, I’ve forgotten!
Devil confound me! Petunia? Lily?
“Rose.” With this single syllable her voice
Quivered with a passive indignation,
Her eyes remaining in their downcast gaze.
The rider stared with a sympathetic
Inquiry. “And do you work, Rose? Maybe
A seamstress, or a stabler?” All the while
The question felt somewhat inane and flat.
“With a dress like that?” the brute rattled off.
“Don’t be naive, gentlemen. She works, yes,
She works here,” he added with a sharp smile.
At this remark she reddened in the face
And glanced at the rider, then downward, for
His reciprocal gaze embarrassed her.
“Oh, no, gentlemen, don’t let her fool you,
Our Rose isn’t such a flower,” he cackled.
Fury overcoming timidity,
Her voice tripled in size and she declared
“Perhaps you’ve had enough, you rough scoundrel!
And look, you’ve gone and drunk the whole bottle!
You’ll be wet after the birds start to sing.”
The former, taking offense to this rise
Felt the immediate need to redeem
His honor in the eyes of the others.
“Gentlemen,” he started, making every
Attempt to speak clearly without slurring.
“I thank you for this game, it has been a
Good one. But it’s late, and, therefore, I…our
Intrusion here is not entirely lost
On me. We’ve cost you an hour—maybe more—
Of your sleep and made a fuss of your night.
So let me repay you both with something
—No, I insist—with something worth your while.
When I leave through this door,” he signaled to
The bedroom door as if foretelling some
Great prophecy, “expect another knock
Just moments later. What awaits you on
The other side shall be my requital.”
He said this all with a slow nod and a
Cryptic smile so as to invite question.
Yet before a question could be issued
He pulled the still-ruddy Rose to his hip
And, using her slight frame as a counter-
Balance strided off-balance from the room.
So they were gone, and the brute’s general
Miasma began subsiding. The two
Remaining exchanged drained, confused looks, not
Only on account of what just transpired,
But also concerning the vague nature
Of the recently promised “requital.”
V
Having heard no knocks at the door, the two
Resolved to discount any repayment
That might be forthcoming, and once more made
An attempt at sleep. They snuffed the candles
And once more let their heavy eyelids down.
A knock at the door, then two more knocks, roused
Them from their repose. Rising again with
A broken sigh the rider felt his way
Through darkness and opened the door to a
Shadowy figure leaning on the frame.
Eyes straining for a face through the darkness,
He saw only a woman’s silhouette,
Long hair falling over the curves as smoke
Wandered down the corridor from the now
Quiet tavern and settled over it.
He saw no face, yet felt his eyes had met
Another pair somewhere in the shadows.
Without a word he turned and closed the door.
VI
In the bitter night the snow fell fiercely
In huge flakes. The wind howled mercilessly.
An artisan, having worked late, was just
Beginning to make his way home, wrapped up
So tightly as to rebuke the blizzard.
He heard a faint tinkling of bells and rush
Of movement through snow—a curious thing.
Who could be travelling a night like this?
No one, it seemed, but a pair of white streaks.
The Chase
It was four o’clock in Comity, a drowsy New Hampshire town. The church bell tolled solemnly, declaring that in just fifteen minutes, Arthur White would inhale his last breath of New England air.
Except Arthur White was no longer in his cell, in the Comity jail.
In fact, he was running like a madman through the town’s North gate, a throughway for traders carrying fish and timber.
Arthur had ample practice in running from the law. He’d been doing it since he was thirteen, and he was now nearing thirty.
He’d committed arson in Oregon, burglary in Missouri, and assault in Ohio, along with pickpocketing in nearly every state in between. At fifteen, he even hijacked a lawman’s horse-and-buggy and took it for a joyride, which ended at the bottom of a lake. Luckily Arthur was a strong swimmer.
He was absolutely infamous, and his reputation as a cunning felon preceded him.
But how he’d escaped this time, I couldn’t tell you. I couldn’t even take a guess. Sheriff Amos Turner couldn’t have taken a guess either.
Turner was a stoic who hailed from a long line of puritans, and as such, he rarely smiled. But he beamed, however, when making arrests and throwing the guilty in the county jail. Moreover, he’d had experience dealing with criminals, but never with a criminal like White.
The mere sight of White’s vacant cell rankled him so greatly he nearly staved his aimless Deputy Sheriff Wilson’s head with a set of keys, a set of keys which Arthur apparently didn’t need to free himself from that rotten little cell. Nonetheless, Turner had no intentions of letting Arthur White elude his swift arm of justice.
“Go get Thompson!” he shrieked. “Tell him I want those dogs ready at once!”
“Won’t it be dark soon?” Wilson asked. “And it’s snowing something dreadful out there.”
“Listen to me, boy. I suggest you go see to those dogs, right now, or I’ll throw you in this empty cell and toss the keys in the kiln. Then we’ll see if you’re half as clever as White.”
“Of course, the dogs” he stammered.
This would be the deputy’s first manhunt, and if you ask me, he looked a bit nervous about who it was they were chasing. Arthur White, after all, was known in all fifty states.
Also joining the manhunt was John Thompson, the owner of three two-year-old bloodhounds. As chance would have it, it was also their first manhunt as well.
“All right men,” said Turner, “We all know who it is we’re after, and I reckon he’ll be a couple of miles out by now, so we ain’t got no time to waste.” He held one of White’s abandoned articles to the dogs’ noses and they were sent dizzy at the smell.
And with that, they were off, three men—and two dogs, on a mission.
Turner was prepared for the journey. He had his navy-blue overcoat with big gold buttons, a beaver skin hat, and his most durable pair of boots, complete with snow-shoe modifications. He looked like Captain Meriwether Lewis. But the piece de resistance of his ensemble was a Winchester Model 1887 lever shotgun. It had been too long since he’d gotten to use it.
Arthur, in contrast, had on him only what he had time to grab before darting out of the jailhouse. This included a black pair of trousers and a grey shirt, a thin brown jacket, and a hatchet, no bigger than his forearm, which dangled from his waist.
But he knew how to run, and he ran through the twilight like a man possessed.
He could hear a choir of bloodhounds in the distance, intoxicated with his scent. Men were easy to outrun, he thought, but dogs were a bit trickier. He knew the best way to escape them was to wash the scent right off him, but it was far too cold to go looking for a river to go swimming in. He’d have to rely on good old-fashioned foot-speed to stay in front of their excited noses. Hopefully, he thought, the snowfall would offer him a distinct advantage over the four-legged hunters.
He aimed for the steepest terrain he could find. The more branches and roots in the way, the better. This way, he figured, both the dogs and men would tire and give up before he did, and that was all he needed.
Meanwhile, the search party followed his trail with veritable accuracy.
“Stay on him!” yelled Turner. “With a little persistence, we’ll have this devil in handcuffs by the morning!” The rest of the search party only halfheartedly believed the Sheriff’s provocation. All the while Turner pondered with glee the sentence he would bestow White upon his capture.
The sun traveled quickly through the sky. Three hours came and went, now four since the church bells tolled, and three and three-quarters since Arthur was supposed to have inhaled his last breath of New England air. His feet were growing tired, and so were his lungs, but he kept a steady pace. He couldn’t help but think about what had actually landed him in the Comity jail in the first place.
Ironically, (and surprisingly) this time he hadn’t committed a crime at all. In fact, he’d simply been passing through Comity when someone recognized his face from “wanted” posters they’d seen in years past, and alerted Sheriff Turner. Coincidentally, a day before White’s being sighted, a local farmer’s workhouse was found slaughtered in the farmer’s stables. White’s sensational appearance in Comity combined with this unfortunate, and completely unrelated event led to his immediate arrest. The law declared White would pay for his many crimes with his life.
But if he was going to die for a crime he didn’t commit, he would at least make them work for it. And work for it they did.
The search party continued jogging through the deep snow, led by Sheriff Turner, who in turn was led by the still-excited bloodhounds. Groans of discomfort could be heard especially from Deputy Wilson.
“Heaven’s sake, men, pull it together. He’s not the Lord Almighty!” yelled Turner. “He’s just a dratted criminal. A no-good, rotten degenerate who’s had a bit of luck!” His exclamations served to motivate himself more than the others. But who could blame them? It was already blizzarding, made even worse by the night, which seemed to grow increasingly darker.
It wasn’t exactly a tea party for White, either. He’d spent many nights on the run, but this one was particularly disagreeable. Northern New Hampshire winters had a way of wearing down even the toughest men. He paused for a moment to catch his breath, and to scoop the snow out of his boots.
Back in Comity, it was business as usual. No one started any fights or broke any laws, even in Sheriff Turner’s absence. The few villains incarcerated in the county jail remained in the county jail. The town was quiet, except for the tolling of the church bell, which now marked eight hours since Arthur White was supposed to have inhaled his last breath of New England air.
Not only was he exhausted, but now he was hungry, too. He’d never gotten a chance to eat his luxurious “last meal” in the county jail, a privilege he’d forfeited upon his early self-release. Still, visions of him with his feet up in some tavern hundreds of miles away put a grin on his face, and he galloped with a giddy pace through thickets and brush. By noon the following day he’d be in Canada, in asylum.
He came to the top of a steep hill, overlooking a set of railroad tracks. He bounded down the hill, nearly making it to the bottom before crashing over a boulder hidden beneath the snow.
A sweeping twinge tortured the right side of his body as he flew face-first onto the ballast bed. He winced as tears dribbled from his eyes and froze halfway down his cheeks. He mustered the strength to stand up and immediately collapsed again in a weary heap. It was impossible to tell if he’d broken his right leg (after all, he was a fugitive, not a doctor), but it sure felt like he had.
A thick forest opposite of the railroad would provide some cover for him to regain his composure and assess the damage. He sauntered into the treeline, gasping in pain.
The woods were oddly tranquil, given the circumstances. The snow filtered softly through the evergreen trees like sunlight. Surely he would have to stop for the night. There was no doubt about that. He couldn’t hear the hounds anymore, but he still wouldn’t risk lighting a fire. He’d been around long enough to see more than a few good men meet their criminal ends by lighting fires on cold nights like this. So with what energy he had left, he hacked down some nearby branches, collected some brush, and built a quick lean-to—nothing special. He eased himself inside and wearily exhaled. “I reckon this’ll do.”
As he nestled into the makeshift shelter, he entertained himself with the thought of the bloodhounds, somewhere behind him in the dark, trudging through snow at least as tall as they were, still barking like idiots.
“I’ll bet they’re having one hell of a time out there,” he said. He cracked a smile and closed his eyes.
Sheriff Turner could no longer ignore the night’s hostility. Typically the snowfall would provide ample light for continuing such a search, but not tonight. A foggy haze ensconced the moon’s glow, making it almost pitch-black. The sheriff wrestled with the thought of temporarily concluding his search.
“What a night…” he muttered. “I suppose if we can’t see, he can’t either. We’ll make camp here.” The other two seemed overjoyed at this declaration, much to the sheriff’s dissatisfaction.
“I’ll get started on the tents,” said Wilson.
Turner was aggravated from a fruitless first day of manhunting. But he did, however, find great satisfaction in the prospect of White’s inevitably brutal sleeping arrangements. He cozied up inside his tent and lulled himself to sleep with thoughts of the runaway dangling from the gallows.
It stopped snowing somewhere around three o’clock in the morning. Then around four o’clock in the morning, Turner awoke, roiled by the thought of White hopping on a train somewhere, and vanishing forever. He immediately threw on his overcoat and laced his boots, stepping over the dormant deputy.
“Over my dead body,” he grumbled, “over my dead body.” There was no time to waste. Surely, he thought, White wouldn’t be wasting time either. So he grabbed a torch and began the trek, without the hounds, into the cold black.
Canada was directly north, and he figured that’s where White was headed. He was correct.
As he crunched through the snow, the sun began to peek its brow above the horizon. It was now thirteen hours since the church bell tolled, and twelve and three-quarters hours since Arthur White was supposed to have inhaled his last breath of New England air. Turner believed the day was on his side. The end was near!
He came to an open field and saw human footprints, plain as day. He followed the prints to the tip of a hill which overlooked a set of train tracks.
Whoever ran down the hill did so quite quickly and sloppily, by the looks of it.
“You must be in a hurry, huh White?” he laughed. “I would be too if I were you.”
This was it, he thought. He was close now. Within the hour, perhaps, he’d be slapping a pair of handcuffs on Arthur White and walking him back to the Comity jail, one victorious step at a time.
He made his way down the hill slowly, sliding a bit here and there, but keeping his feet under him. He made it to the bottom and paused, peering into the evergreen forest in front of him.
He slowed his pace to a creeping walk as he entered the woods. Not two hundred yards upon entering, he spotted what appeared to be a small shelter in the distance. Could it be White’s lodgings? A decoy, perhaps?
Moving closer to the shelter, he could tell a person sat inside, but they weren’t moving.
“It’s all over, White,” he proclaimed with confidence. “No sense in runnin’ now.” He inched closer, with his finger poised on his shotgun’s trigger.
He looked confused. White wasn’t trying to escape. It seemed like he wasn’t even listening. Perhaps he’d just gotten tired of running, he thought.
Now within spitting range, he nudged him with the barrel of his shotgun.
White fell over like a statue, perfectly frozen. He looked desperate, like he had tried to save his life by wrapping his arms around himself. His eyes were shut.
Turner was enraged. But even more than that he was disappointed. Disappointed because he’d come all this way to claim a man’s life, and mother nature had done it for him, bringing to bear on White the harshest night of the year.
So Turner began the trek back to Comity, dragging White’s gelid corpse behind him on a sled. He crossed back over the train tracks and scaled the hill that led to the open field.
In the distance he saw the yawning deputy emerging from his tent.
“What’d I miss?” he yelled.