When Abner Pickett took down his gun from its hooks that Saturday night, and examined it, he had already determined what he should do if any attempt were made to grade the bed for a railroad through his graveyard; and his determination was in no way changed as he thought over the situation in his calmer moments on Sunday.

Monday was the first day of October. The rain had washed the air and left it clear and invigorating. The autumn foliage was in the height of its beauty. It was a day in which to live out of doors and be thankful for life; a day in which to immerse one’s self in the enjoyment of the riches of nature. But for Dannie Pickett there was no pleasure. He did not see the glorious coloring on the hills; he did not feel the exhilaration of the draughts of pure air that went into his lungs. He was too deeply absorbed in the consideration of the situation which his rash folly had brought about, to see or hear or feel anything else in his environment. If he had not removed that line of stakes, the second survey would not have been made; his grandfather would not have been deceived into selling, for a song, property rights worth many hundreds of dollars; the rival railroad companies would not have begun the battle for the gap, and, finally, the county jail would not have been staring him in the face, as it had been during the last four days and nights. For, as he saw and appreciated more and more the far-reaching and disastrous consequences of his unpardonable act, leading every day to deeper complications and graver troubles, he realized more and more deeply how serious his offence had been, he became more and more apprehensive of the punishment he would have to face if his crime should become known. He spent his days in misery and his nights in dread, starting at every footfall, losing his breath at every sudden sound, awaiting, with awful expectancy, the next development in the situation which had become, for him, a tragedy.

It was with welcome ears, therefore, that he heard his grandfather say that he need not go to school that Monday morning. He felt that he would be stifled in the schoolroom, that he must be in the open air, that he must be on the ground ready for any emergency.

After breakfast the old man strapped on his powder-horn and pouch, took down his gun, loaded it, and invited Dannie to accompany him. Aunt Martha watched them from the kitchen window, as they went down the path, her eyes filled with tears and her breast with dreadful apprehension. But she knew that it was of as little use to attempt to turn Abner Pickett from a purpose once formed as it was to try to send the Delaware River flowing back northward in its bed. As Dannie and his grandfather walked down the road, they came upon Gabriel who stood watching the engineers at their work—the same engineers who had made their survey that fateful afternoon. They had relocated their line and replaced their stakes up through the gap and across the graveyard, and were now working between the road and the brook. Abner Pickett paid little heed to them as he passed by.

“Come along, you fool!” he said to Gabriel, and the three walked on down the road. When they reached the entrance to the graveyard they opened the gate and went in. A fresh stake had been planted on the knoll in the very spot from which Dannie had removed one on that eventful night. It caught Abner Pickett’s eye at once. He strode to it, tore it from its fastening in the soil, and, with a mighty sweep of his arm, sent it whirling into the brook. Dannie looked on in wide-eyed amazement, but he said not a word. While all three knew that the object of the visit to the graveyard was to prevent, if possible, the entry into the lot of the workmen who were expected that morning to begin the grading of the railroad, not one of them mentioned it. Abner Pickett was not in a mood to talk, and the others dared not speak of it. Even as they stood there, the contractor, with his foreman and his gang of laborers, came up through the glen in wagons, with their carts, mules, tools, and appliances for grading. Between the mouth of the gap and the east wall of the graveyard, they halted and began to unload their things, while the contractor and foreman made a hasty examination of the stakes that had already been marked for grade. Abner Pickett walked deliberately to the east wall and seated himself on it, his gun resting carelessly in his lap. Dannie and Gabriel followed him, and took similar positions at his side.

“We’ll have to begin in the graveyard,” said McDonough, the contractor, “and cut down that knoll and carry it east here for this fill.”

“Then the first thing to do,” replied the foreman, “is to tear away that wall, about where them fellows are sitting on it.”

“Exactly. There’s where the line is. Bring your men up and let ’em go at it. Come, gentlemen, you’ll have to vacate your seats up there; we want those stones you’re sitting on.”

This last remark was addressed to Abner Pickett and the man and boy who kept him company.

“I’m quite comfortable here,” replied the old man; “I don’t think I shall move for the present. Besides, these stones belong to me; an’ so does the graveyard an’ the graves, and I don’t intend you shall touch any of ’em.”

McDonough looked up at him in unfeigned surprise.

“Are you Abner Pickett?” he asked.

“That’s my name.”

“I don’t understand what you mean by this conduct, Mr. Pickett. I have your agreement of sale here, conveying a right of way through the graveyard to this company. It was duly signed, sealed, and delivered. I don’t know that you have any right whatever to interfere with us now.”

“There are several things about this business that I reckon you don’t know,” replied the old man. “For instance, you don’t know that that agreement was got from me by deception and fraud, and ain’t worth the paper it’s written on. I repeat that I intend to hold possession of this lot.”

McDonough continued to protest.

“I cannot help any misunderstanding between you and the company, Mr. Pickett. If they’ve done you any damage, they’re good for it. I’ve taken this section to grade, and I’ve got to begin there in that graveyard; so you might as well clear the way for us. We intend to proceed.”

“And I intend you shan’t.”

The old man laid his hand significantly on the barrel of his gun as he spoke.

“Do you mean to say you would shoot?”

“Ay! an’ kill to save this holy place from desecration.”

“Don’t you know I could have you arrested for threats? Don’t you know what the penalty is for murder?”

“Keep your distance and there’ll be no murder. Come ten foot closer an’ there’ll be blood spilt just as sure as the sun shines above you.”

The red flush had mounted again into Abner Pickett’s face and neck. He raised his gun from his lap, and held it threateningly in his hands. Dannie, frightened at the tragic outlook, moved closer to his grandfather, but held his tongue. He knew that it would be worse than useless for him to speak. The contractor, too, had his blood up. He was not easily cowed. His experience in railroad building had been too extended to permit him to yield readily to an obstacle of this kind. He turned aside to consult with his foreman. Nicholson, the engineer, observing the situation from a distance, hurried back with his men. The laborers had already congregated about their employer. Abner Pickett, with grim determination stamped upon every line of his face and every muscle of his body, still sat upon the wall holding his gun in readiness for action. Dannie, white faced and fearful, but with never a thought of desertion, sat beside his grandfather, while Gabriel, standing near by, gripped two cobblestones tightly in his hands.

The consultation between Nicholson and McDonough was short but animated, and the decision reached was evidently concurred in by the foreman and his men. McDonough advanced a step and said:—

“Mr. Pickett, we intend to enforce our right to take possession of that lot and begin our work. If you interfere with us, you will be responsible for the consequences.”

To all of which Abner Pickett made no reply. He simply held his gun with a firmer grasp, and the lines of determination about his mouth grew more noticeably distinct.

After waiting a moment in vain for an answer the opposing forces held another brief consultation to decide upon the best plan of action. Then they divided into three groups led respectively by Nicholson, McDonough, and the foreman. It was evident that they intended to storm the graveyard from three sides. But, before they could move to their respective positions, a two-horse buggy, containing two men, dashed down the road and drew up at the corner of the graveyard. One of the men leaped from the wagon and approached McDonough.

“Are you the contractor having in charge the grading of this section of the Delaware Valley and Eastern Railroad?” he inquired.

“That’s what I’m here for,” responded McDonough, “though I don’t seem to be getting to work very fast.”

The man turned to Nicholson.

“And are you the engineer having in charge the fixing of permanent location and grades?”

“That’s about it,” replied Nicholson.

“Then, gentlemen, permit me to introduce myself to you as the sheriff of Meredith County, and to serve on each of you this writ.”

He bowed and handed to each of them a document bearing an official seal.

“It is a writ of injunction,” he continued, “from the court of Meredith County, issued at the instance of the Tidewater and Western Railroad Company, commanding and enjoining the Delaware and Eastern Railroad Company, its agents, employees, contractors, and engineers, and all and every of you, that you do from henceforth altogether absolutely desist from locating, staking out, grading, or building a line of railroad through Pickett’s Gap in said county, or along or upon the approaches thereto; which gap and approaches have been duly appropriated, condemned, and acquired for railroad purposes by the said Tidewater and Western Railroad Company.”

The sheriff rolled out the words of the injunction with solemn and imposing voice and manner, then he folded his own copy of the writ and returned it to his pocket.

“I believe I have performed my duty, gentlemen,” he said politely, “and I wish you both a very good day!”

Then he went up to where Abner Pickett was still seated on the wall and shook the old man’s hand with hearty vigor. He had taken in the situation at a glance.

“Don’t blame you one bit, Mr. Pickett,” he said. “I’d ’a’ done the same thing in your place.”

“Thank you,” responded the old man, quietly, “I’m simply doing my duty by the dead.”

When the writs of injunction were handed to McDonough and Nicholson, they stared at each other blankly for a moment; then the contractor, who had been through similar experiences before, remarked quietly that it looked as if the game was up.

“I don’t mind a little thing like an old man with a gun,” he said to Nicholson, when the sheriff had finished reading the injunction, “but when I run up against a writ like this, I’m through so long as the writ is in force. I undertook to disobey one once up on the Susquehanna road, and it cost me fifteen hundred dollars before I got through with the job. We learn by experience.”

Nicholson was thoroughly annoyed and upset. He did not understand why the service of a paper like that, on a contractor and engineer, should have the effect of blocking a railroad; and he said so in no very polite language. McDonough smiled, and began to give orders to his men about loading up the tools again.

“I don’t propose to get into a controversy with the court,” he said; “we might as well take our things back to the river. Judging from past experiences we won’t be able to resume work here before snow flies, anyway.”

He started back toward the mouth of the gap. The sheriff, having just entered his wagon and turned his horses’ noses westward, bowed politely as the contractor passed.

Nicholson was still standing where the sheriff found him, studying angrily the contents of the writ. After a minute or two, he folded the paper savagely, thrust it into his pocket, and started back up the road.

When Gabriel, who had stood for fifteen minutes in complete readiness to do his employer’s will, saw the backs of their enemies turned to them and in retreat, he could not repress some outward manifestation of his inward exultation; whereupon he drew his faithful horn from his pocket, and blew on it a blast that sent the echoes tumbling through the glen.

“Put up that fool’s plaything!” commanded the old man.

Ten minutes later Dannie and his grandfather walked back up the road with far lighter hearts than when they came down. The graveyard had been saved, at least for the present, from despoliation, and Abner Pickett felt confident that through the medium of the law and its peaceful operation, he could defeat any future plans of aggression by the railroad companies. But, after the stirring events of the first day of October, there was no attempt on the part of either company to begin the construction of a railroad, or to take possession of any property along the line of survey. All parties were quietly awaiting the determination of the equity suit begun by the injunction proceedings. And that suit could not come on for trial before the December term of court.

But for Dannie the situation remained practically as complicated and as harassing as ever. The service of the injunction and the frustration of the attempt to tear up the soil of the graveyard had given him only temporary relief. The main issue was yet to be determined; and his responsibility for the whole dreadful state of things, and his daily liability to be called to account for his unaccountable conduct, rested an ever increasing burden on his mind. It was with him daytime and night-time. Never, not even for a moment, could he shake it off. Many a night he awoke from some dreadful dream of incarceration in the county jail, or, still worse, of fierce denunciation from his grandfather, or, bitterest of all, of sorrowing reproof from the engineer who had been his companion on the night walk up the glen. Many a night, in his wakeful hours, he determined that when morning broke he would go to his grandfather, to Aunt Martha, to the engineer, to somebody, and make a clean breast of the whole wretched business. But when day dawned, and people were about their usual avocations, and things wore such a different complexion, his resolution always failed him, and the secret remained still in his breast. He plied himself constantly, too, with good reasons and excuses for keeping it. If his conduct should become known, then there would be no further question about the prior right of the D. V. & E. company to the location through the gap. Nicholson would be triumphant. His friend, the engineer of the night survey, would be made the subject of jest and ridicule. His grandfather would most likely be held to his agreement to sell a right of way through the graveyard, and sooner or later the soil of that sacred place would be torn and trampled with the ploughs and picks and spades of a score of swarthy and unfeeling workmen. And then, after it was known, to meet the looks and words of those who had known and loved him,—Gran’pap, Aunt Martha, the engineer, Gabriel, even Max, the dog. That would be terrible. And always, as he pondered, there was before him, sharply or dimly, a vision of the gray and forbidding front of the county jail with its stone-paved corridor and its iron-barred cells. It cannot be denied that personal fear was a prime factor in his mind. He was but human and a boy.

Yet his conscience urged him always to confess. There was one phase of the situation, indeed, against which his conscience constantly rebelled. The D. V. & E. people were not now claiming the last line of stakes as their own, but they were alleging, by inference, if not directly, that the stakes set by Nicholson were removed in the night by the engineer of the T. & W. before he replaced them with his own. To meet this charge there was only the declaration of the members of the corps that made the night survey that there were no stakes in the gap when they went through. And against their contention was the impossibility of explaining in any other way how the evidences of Nicholson’s work could have so completely vanished between six o’clock and midnight of the same evening.

It cut Dannie to the heart to hear this charge made and reiterated against the man who, in the short space of an hour, in the gray of one morning, had taken so powerful a hold upon his fancy, his boyish admiration, his heart-deep affection. Try as he would he could not rid himself of the vision of those clear blue eyes looking him through in sorrowful reproof. And yet—and yet he could not bring himself to an acknowledgment of his fault. Oh, those were wretched, dreadful autumn days.

Now and again Aunt Martha tried to comfort him. She saw plainly enough that something was preying on his mind, and in her gentle, unobtrusive way she gave him opportunity to confide in her, but thus far she had not been gratified by the first whisper of his trouble.

Abner Pickett, too, saw that the boy was suffering, but he imagined that it was from some physical disorder; and one day, when Dr. Chubbuck was driving by, he insisted that Dannie should submit to an examination by this old and trusted physician. The doctor, being unable to make a diagnosis of any physical trouble, left a prescription for some simple tonic, and promised to call again when he passed that way.

So the autumn days went by and winter came. It came early and promised to be severe. Snow fell before Thanksgiving, and by the first of December sleighing was general throughout the country.

The trial of the equity suit was set down for the second Monday of December, and many witnesses had been subpoenaed from the vicinity of Pickett’s Gap. Early on Monday morning they had started, two loads of them, including Abner Pickett and Gabriel, for Mooreville, the county-seat. Dannie had not been subpoenaed. He smiled grimly as he saw the others depart, and thought how much more he could do toward clearing up the situation than the entire dozen who had been called. It was a lonely day for him after they were gone, a dull, cold day, with occasional flakes of snow in the air, and he was glad when night came, and the chores were all done, and the supper ended, and he and Aunt Martha could watch the blaze of logs in the sitting-room fireplace for the usual half hour before retiring. It was a quiet half hour this night, for neither of them seemed to be in the mood for conversation. And yet Dannie’s mind was in a tumult. The departure of the witnesses, the nearness of the trial, the impossibility of his knowing what would occur at Mooreville, the increasing dread that for lack of testimony which he alone could give, some terrible injustice would be done; these things, weighing on his mind with accumulating power, forced him into a state of nervous apprehension and distress more painful than any physical hurt from which he had ever suffered.

Aunt Martha saw that he was laboring under intense excitement or was stirred by some deep emotion. She knew that it was not wise to question him, but gently and soothingly she placed her hand on his forehead and began to smooth back his hair. Somehow she felt that the crisis which had been impending for many weeks had at last been reached.

And it had. Lashes on his bare back would never have drawn a confession from this boy. Neither commands nor threats would ever have induced him to give up his secret against his will. Yet the influence of this quiet hour, this mellow firelight, the soothing presence of this gentle woman who had always been to him so loving, so loyal, so truly motherlike, began to draw with irresistible force from his heart to his lips the whole story of his offence and his suffering. At last, unable to repress his emotion, he dropped to the floor at the good woman’s feet and buried his head in her lap.

“Oh, Aunt Martha!” he cried, “I can’t keep it to myself any longer; I can’t! I can’t! it’ll kill me!”

Still smoothing back his hair she laid a loving hand across his shoulder.

“Tell me, dearie, tell me what it is. I know I can help you.”

Thus encouraged he poured out to her the whole miserable story, all of it; without reservation or excuse, or any attempt to blame others or to shield himself.

“What shall I do, Aunt Martha?” he wailed at last. “What shall I do? Oh! what shall I do?”

With her handkerchief she was alternately wiping the perspiration from his forehead and the tears from her own eyes.

“There’s but one thing to do, Dannie. Go to those who have been harmed or prejudiced by what you have done and tell them everything—everything.”

“And the punishment?”

“Take it like a man, whatever it may be. But they will not punish you cruelly; have no fear of that.”

“And then, when it’s known and settled that the D. V. & E. was first in the gap, they’ll build their railroad; they’ll cut a way through the graveyard, and we can’t stop ’em.”

“Don’t try to foresee the evil that may spring from doing what is right. Your duty is to act in the present. God will look out for the future.”

In this wise she counseled him, aided him, soothed him, until at the last, he rose to his feet resolved, no matter what the consequences to himself, to tell the whole story to all those who ought to know it.

“To-morrow morning,” he said, “I will go to Mooreville. I will get there before court opens, and if the case was not decided to-day— Oh, Aunt Martha! suppose they are through with it; suppose it’s all over, and some one else is suffering for what I did! I must go to-night. I must go at once. I mustn’t wait a moment.”

“No, dearie, no. It will be time enough to-morrow morning for you to start. You could accomplish nothing to-night even if you could get there. Go to bed, now, and try to sleep. You will be stronger in the morning.”

He yielded at once to her wish. And, notwithstanding the dread task before him on the morrow, he lay down with a lighter heart than he had known for many weeks, and slept more sweetly and soundly than he had slept before since the night of the survey.

Very early the next morning he shaded his eyes with his hand and looked from his window into the darkness outside, and saw that it was snowing. Aunt Martha compelled him, much against his inclination, to eat a hearty breakfast and to bundle himself well against the storm. When, at last, they heard the muffled jingling of the bells that announced the approach of the Mooreville stage, she put her arms around the boy’s neck and kissed him.

“Keep up courage, Dannie,” she said cheerily. “It won’t be hard when you get there. You’ve done the hardest part of it already.”

“I’m not afraid any more, Aunt Martha,” he replied. “Nothing on earth can keep me from doing what I ought to, the way I feel about it now. I only hope and pray that I won’t be too late. There’s the stage at the gate. Good-by!”

“Good-by, Dannie! God bless you and comfort you!”

He went down the path by the light of the lamp held in the kitchen doorway, knocking aside the loose snow as he walked. At the invitation of the stage driver he climbed up to the front seat with him, and started on his fifteen-mile journey to Mooreville, the county-seat. It was still very dark, and the snow was falling steadily, though it was not yet so deep but that the horses could trot along at their usual monotonous gait until they reached the foot of the long hill that leads to Oak Ridge. Here the driver stopped to extinguish the light in his lantern, for it was now daybreak. But, with the coming of day, the snow fell faster, the wind arose, and long before the stage and its occupants had reached the summit of Oak Ridge the horses were plunging now and again through drifts that reached to their knees. At High Rock post-office they stopped for ten minutes to receive and deliver mail. From there to Lawrence’s the road was mostly through the woods and was not badly drifted. Then came the two-mile drive down the northwest face of the hill range to the poor-house. It was a tedious, toilsome, terrible journey. They were obliged to break down fences and go through fields to avoid deep drifts in the roadway. Many a time it seemed as though the horses, exhausted by their efforts, would never be able to break through the huge banks of snow that enveloped them. And constantly, driving into their faces, blinding their eyes, chilling them to the bone, the storm beat down upon the travellers. When, at last, they drove up to the poor-house gate, the stage driver gave a great sigh of relief.

“Them horses don’t go no further to-day,” he declared.

“But,” exclaimed Dannie, while his teeth chattered with the cold, “I’ve got to get to Mooreville, you know. I’ve simply got to get there.”

He felt that he could not afford to entertain for a moment the idea of delay.

“Well,” was the response, “if you’ve got to go, you an’ me can try to foot it for the next stretch; mebbe we can get along, but them horses has got to stay here. I can’t afford to lose ’em jest yet.”

He unhitched the team and drove it into shelter. Then, in spite of protests from the occupants of the house, he and Dannie started out to face the storm on foot; the one with the mail-bag flung over his shoulder, the other bearing no burden save the ever present, ever growing fear that he would reach Mooreville too late to fully accomplish his still resolute and unyielding purpose. Had it not been a self-imposed task, it would have been a cruel one for either man or boy.

Hour by hour the storm grew fiercer, the drifts deeper, the journey more desperate. Now and again the travellers dragged themselves along by the rails of the roadside fences, and many a time they searched in vain for well-known landmarks to guide them on their way. There was but one relieving feature in the situation,—it was not severely cold. Had it been, both man and boy would surely have perished.

When they reached Keene’s, the stage driver gave up the task.

“I won’t go no further,” he declared, “Uncle Sam or no Uncle Sam. Me an’ this mail-bag stays here till it’s fit for man an’ beast to be out. Come on into the house.”

Dannie followed him in.

“I’ll go in for a few minutes an’ get warm,” he said, “then I’ll push ahead. Oh! it’s no use,” as the driver began to protest, “I’ve got to get there, whether or no. It’s only four miles farther, an’ there are plenty of houses on the way.”

When old Ezra Keene heard that Dannie intended to continue the journey to Mooreville, he shook his head vigorously.

“Can’t be done,” he said. “Never see sech a storm sence I’ve been here, an’ that’s nigh on to forty year.”

Still Dannie insisted.

“I’ve got to go,” he said. “I’ve got to get there. If I don’t get there, something terrible may happen.”

“An’ ef ye start out in this storm, suthin’ turrible’s sure to happen—so there ye air.”

The old man smiled, hobbled to the window and looked out. He came back to the stove, shaking his head more vigorously than before. But Dannie was already buttoning up his great-coat, and pulling his cap down over his ears. Then the stage driver, who had been crouching over the fire, arose and added his protest in no delicate or uncertain terms.

“No one but a born fool,” he concluded, “would think of undertaking sech a thing. Fer Heaven’s sake be decent an’ sensible, an’ stay where you’re well off.”

But Dannie was not to be deterred nor swayed from his purpose. Neither abuse nor ridicule nor the power of the storm was sufficient to alter his determination to do all that lay in his power to right the wrong he felt he had committed, before it should be forever too late.

He opened the farmhouse door and started out into the tempest. The stage driver rammed his hands deep into his trousers pockets and turned away in disgust at what appeared to him to be the inexcusable foolhardiness of the boy. Old Ezra Keene, looking from a window, saw the lad struggle through a huge drift at the roadside, and then disappear in a whirling cloud of snow. He threw up his hands and dropped his head, as much as to say that it was all over, and came back and sat down by the stove.

Ten minutes later the stage driver, unable to repress his grim forebodings and the natural impulse of his kind heart, yet with words of anger on his lips, flung himself into his great-coat, cap, and mittens, and started out to drag the boy back from what seemed certain death. A farmhand from Keene’s accompanied him, and, together, they faced the storm and buffeted the drifts for hours without success. At dusk, they returned to the house, and reported that they had found no trace, whatever, of the missing lad.