The celebrated equity case of the Tidewater and Western Railroad Company vs. the Delaware Valley and Eastern Railroad Company came on to be heard at Mooreville on the second Monday of December term. The question at issue was the priority of right to build a railroad through Pickett’s Gap. When court convened at two o’clock, the court room was crowded. The case had aroused great public interest and curiosity. Besides the local counsel engaged, there were eminent lawyers in attendance from New York and Philadelphia. There was bound to be some nice legal sparring, and people wanted to see and hear it. The battle began soon after the case was opened, when the Tidewater and Western offered in evidence their paper title to the route acquired by them from the old Lackawanna Company. The D. V. & E. people had not expected this, and it provoked a prolonged contest between counsel. Indeed, the better part of the afternoon was occupied in the effort to get this title in evidence. When it was finally admitted another struggle was immediately precipitated by the offer of the minutes of the meeting of the board of T. & W. directors, at which the route through Pickett’s Gap was formally adopted. And when this contention was settled in favor of the T. & W. it was time for adjournment.

Just enough evidence had been taken to whet the appetite of the public for more. And when court was opened at nine o’clock on the following morning the court room was again crowded, notwithstanding the fierce snow-storm that was raging outside. Pickett, the T. & W. engineer, and his assistants were put on the stand to identify the map of the route and to testify regarding the right location through Pickett’s Gap. There was very little cross-examination. The defence were evidently saving their ammunition. Then the plaintiff rested, and the D. V. & E. took up their side of the case. Their charter was admitted without objection; but over the testimony showing the adoption, by the board, of the Pickett’s Gap route, there was a lively tilt. Indeed, it appeared from the evidence in the case that the directors of both companies had held their meetings on the same day, and at practically the same hour, for the purpose of receiving the report of the engineer and adopting the route recommended by him. There was also a long contest over the admission of the route-map and profile, and when these were finally admitted the court adjourned for the noon recess. The wind was playing wildly with the driving snow, and across the paths through the court-house square great drifts had already formed. Lawyers, witnesses, and spectators set their faces against the storm, pulled the collars of their great-coats up about their ears, and struggled to their hotels and homes. At two o’clock they all struggled back again through the still driving, drifting snow. Indeed, the crowd was even greater than at the morning session. Nicholson, the D. V. & E. engineer, and every member of his corps were called on the stand to testify to the setting of the stakes, through Pickett’s Gap, on the afternoon of September twenty-seventh. No amount or severity of cross-examination could shake the testimony of any of them on that point. Nor could any of them explain why the stakes were not still in position (if they were not) when Pickett made his survey some six or eight hours later. Nicholson declared, however, in answer to a question on direct examination, that the surreptitious removal of the stakes would benefit no one unless it might be the T. & W. Railroad Company. But this objectionable answer was, on motion of counsel for the T. & W., stricken from the record. Templeton, the Philadelphia lawyer, took up the cross-examination.

“It appears,” he said to Nicholson, “from this map which I have before me, that you located your route directly through the Pickett graveyard. Is that true?”

“It is.”

“And in making your relocation did you again pass through the graveyard?”

“We did.”

“Is there any other practicable route by which to reach the entrance to the gap except the one occupied by the Tidewater and Western running to the south side of the brook?”

“There is no other.”

“If then it should turn out that your company has no legal right to occupy this graveyard as a site for a railroad, you would find it difficult to effect an entrance to the gap from the west?”

“Yes, sir, practically impossible.”

“And did you not know, when you projected your line across that graveyard, that your company, by virtue of the laws of Pennsylvania, had no right to occupy it with a railroad?”

“I knew that we had no right without the consent of the owner. That consent, however, has been obtained.”

“In what way?”

“By fraud!”

It was not the witness who made this answer; it was Abner Pickett. Seated on the front row of benches, within easy distance of the witness stand, he had absorbed the testimony with intense interest, holding himself in check with remarkable self-restraint until Templeton’s question gave him an opportunity for a verbal shot which he had not the power to repress. Every eye in the court room was turned on him, but he cared little for that. A tipstaff came up and warned him not to repeat the offence, and then the examination of witnesses was resumed.

And so Abner Pickett sat, that morning, and looked upon and listened to his own son, Dannie’s father, as he gave his testimony on the witness stand. Handsome, manly, frank in all his answers, the impression created by Charlie Pickett, both in the mind of the court and in the minds of the spectators, was a most favorable one. Long before he had finished there was not an unprejudiced person in the court room who was willing to believe, for a moment, the insinuation made by Nicholson that the D. V. & E. stakes had been removed under Pickett’s direction for the benefit of the T. & W. And when, on cross-examination, he was pressed to give his reason for going around instead of across the Pickett graveyard, he was content to reply simply that he understood that the right of eminent domain, conferred by the commonwealth of Pennsylvania upon railroad corporations, did not include the right to occupy burial-places. And Abner Pickett, who knew of his son’s far deeper reason for not crossing the graveyard, listened with bowed head, appreciating to the full the delicacy which so skilfully avoided the thrusting of personal and family sentiments and secrets before the court and the public. It was the first time in thirteen years that he had looked upon Charlie’s face. He could not help but observe how mature and manly the boy had grown; he could not help but admire his stalwart figure, his handsome countenance, his graceful bearing. He could not wholly repress the feeling of pride that would swell up in his heart as he looked upon this splendid specimen of young manhood, and listened to his answers, given with a quickness and rare intelligence not often found in the court room. “This is your boy,” something in his breast kept repeating to him; “this is your boy; this is your boy.”

And yet—and yet, for two days he sat with him in the same room, brushed past him in the corridor, could have reached out his arm at almost any moment and touched him, looked straight again and again into his appealing and eloquent eyes, and never gave the first sign or hint that he desired a reconciliation. Strange how stubbornness and obstinacy and the unforgiving spirit will rule the natures and thwart the happiness of men.

Gabriel was called to the witness stand to testify to having seen Nicholson and his men set their stakes from the mouth of the gap westerly on the afternoon of September twenty-seventh.

“Yes,” he replied, in answer to the lawyer’s question. “I seen ’em. They come straight from the gap acrost the graveyard an’ up into the potater field where I was workin’.”

“Saw them set their stakes, did you?”

“Ev’ry one of ’em; ’specially the one they hammered into the middle of the graveyard.”

“Did you see any stakes in the gap that day?”

“Not a stake. Wasn’t through the gap till the next mornin’. Then they was a plenty of ’em there; but not a sign of a stake in the graveyard. Wa’n’t that kind o’ queer?”

“Very. Now, then, did you see any one remove any of those stakes?”

“Not a person.”

“Did you remove any of them yourself?”

“No, siree!”

“Was any one with you in the potato field when the engineers came up?”

“Yes; Dannie.”

“Dannie who?”

“Dannie Pickett; Abner Pickett’s gran’son.”

“Is he in court?”

“I reckon he ain’t. He didn’t come yisterday; an’ I sh’d say he’d find it perty tough sleddin’ to git here to-day.”

“Now, then, did you or Dannie Pickett threaten those engineers with any harm?”

“Well, I reckon I told ’em it wouldn’t be healthy fer ’em ef Abner Pickett was on deck; an’ Dannie, he ’lowed ’at they wouldn’t no railroad run through his gran’pap’s graveyard; ho! ho! ho!”

The recollection of the circumstance seemed to amuse Gabriel very much.

“Funny, was it?” asked the lawyer.

“Funny ain’t no name fer it,” replied Gabriel.

Then the lawyer—Marshall of New York—put on an air of severity.

“Now, sir, did you hear any one, at any time, threaten to destroy or remove the stakes set by the Delaware Valley & Eastern engineers?”

Gabriel waited a moment before answering. He was evidently pondering the matter deeply.

“W’y, I can’t say adzackly,” he replied slowly, “as I heard anybody threaten to pull up them stakes. No, I can’t say adzackly as I did.”

“Well, what threats did you hear concerning those stakes?”

“W’y, I didn’t hear nobody threaten to pull ’em out, er hammer ’em in, er chop ’em down, er burn ’em up. No, sir, I didn’t.”

Gabriel looked beamingly down on the array of counsel, feeling that he had covered the ground that time, at any rate. He did not know that he had simply whetted the lawyer’s appetite for information.

“Come, now, answer the question. You heard threats, what were they?”

“W’y, I can’t adzackly say as I heard any threats.”

Marshall, the lawyer, was becoming annoyed. He rose to his feet and shook his forefinger angrily at Gabriel.

“You know more about this matter than you are willing to reveal,” he shouted. “Now, sir, I want you to tell this court what you know and all you know about the removal or threatened removal of those stakes!”

Gabriel looked smilingly down upon him.

“Well,” he replied slowly, “ez ol’ Isra’l Pidgin use to say, ‘Ef ye don’t know a thing, better let somebody else tell it.’ Thuffore I’d a leetle ruther somebody else’d tell it.”

“And who is Israel Pidgin?”

“Oh, an ol’ feller I use to know up in York State.”

“Confine yourself to Pennsylvania and answer my question. I shall try to make it simple and direct. Did you, at any time, hear any person make a threat to remove those stakes, or express a wish to have them removed? Yes or no.”

This question was getting dangerously close to Abner Pickett. Gabriel recalled, with startling distinctness, that night on his employer’s porch, when the old man declared with such terrible emphasis that no person could do a better deed than to pull out all the stakes and throw them into the brook. And there was Abner Pickett now, sitting on the front bench, head and shoulders above the crowd, piercing him through with those clear blue eyes. He was in a quandary. He hesitated long before replying.

“Well,” he said, at last, “I can’t say that I heard anybody say adzackly that; no, I can’t.”

The lawyer followed up his clew mercilessly.

“Did you hear any one, at any time, say that it would be right and proper to remove or destroy those stakes?”

Before Gabriel could answer, Templeton, the opposing lawyer, was on his feet.

“Counsel forgets,” he declared, “that this is his own witness whom he appears to be cross-examining. I demand the enforcement of the rule and the protection of the witness.”

Judge Moore removed his glasses and poised them between his thumb and forefinger.

“The witness appears to be unfriendly and evasive,” he declared. “We think counsel is within his rights in pressing the question. Proceed.”

The incident gave Gabriel time for thought; but if he had had a year in which to think it out, he could not have framed a successfully evasive answer to the question. And it added not a little to his discomfiture that Abner Pickett’s eyes were still piercing him like arrows of fire.

“Well,” said Marshall, impatiently, “answer the question. We can’t wait all day.”

“W’y,” stammered Gabriel, “I—well I—”

“Tell the truth, you fool!”

It was Abner Pickett who spoke that time, standing his full six feet two and pointing his long forefinger at the disconcerted witness. Again every eye in the court room was turned on the speaker. His arm was grasped roughly by a tipstaff, who hurried to his side.

“Don’t remove him,” said Marshall. “I shall want him on the stand in a moment.”

“The sooner, the better,” replied the old man, shaking off the grasp of the officer and dropping into his seat.

Marshall turned to the witness.

“Answer my question,” he demanded sharply, “yes or no.”

“Yes,” replied Gabriel.

“Who said so?”

“Abner Pickett.”

“When?”

“The same night the stakes was set.”

“What did he say?”

“He said nobody could do a better thing than to pull ’em all up an’ throw ’em into the crick.”

“That will do. Abner Pickett take the witness stand.”

Things were moving rapidly now. Before Gabriel fairly knew it he was down out of the witness box, and his employer had taken his place and been duly sworn.

“Are you the Abner Pickett of whom the last witness spoke?” was the first question asked him; and the answer came with a promptness that was startling.

“The same man exactly.”

“And is it true that you declared that a person could do no better deed than to remove the stakes set by the D. V. & E. engineers?”

“True as Gospel.”

People in the court room craned their necks and listened intently. This witness promised to be interesting, to say the least.

Back near the main entrance to the court room there was some noise and confusion. A door had opened and a boy had stumbled in. Numb and stiff and faint with cold and fatigue he had tripped awkwardly over a constable’s staff and had fallen to the floor. People in that part of the room turned in their seats to see what the noise was about, and those near by looked curiously at the prostrate boy. He was helped to his feet by the constable, duly admonished, and given a seat on the last row of benches but one. It was Dannie Pickett. How he had managed to force his way, in the teeth of that terrible storm, through the great drifts that blocked the country roads, down into the deserted streets of the town, and thence to the county court-house, no one was ever afterward quite able to make out, nor was he himself ever able fully to explain. It was one of those feats of physical endurance made possible only by the splendid power of determination, and even then fairly striking across the border line of the naturally possible into the realm of the miraculous and the providential.

As Dannie breathed the warm air of the court room, he began to regain his strength, and, save the aching in his limbs, and the pricking sensations over his entire body, he suffered no pain. When the mist had cleared away from before his eyes, he saw that his grandfather, whom he had intended to search out, and to whom he had resolved to make his confession immediately on his arrival, was sitting up in the witness stand, undergoing examination. And down to his ears, through the intense quiet of the court room, came the lawyer’s question:—

“Don’t you know that the law of Pennsylvania makes it a crime, punishable by fine and imprisonment, to remove stakes set by a surveyor or engineer?”

Abner Pickett glared at his questioner.

“I ain’t here,” he replied, “to tell you what I know or don’t know about the laws o’ Pennsylvania. If you’ve got any questions to ask about the facts, ask ’em and I’ll answer to the best o’ my ability.”

Consciously or unconsciously he had placed himself within the rules of evidence and the protection of the law. Marshall saw that he had lost a point, and he started out on a new tack.

“Very well, Mr. Pickett. We will get down to facts. Where was this celebrated declaration of yours, as testified to by the preceding witness—where was it made?”

“On my side porch, in the evenin’ of September twenty-seventh; the evenin’ o’ the day the stakes were put in.”

“Very good; who were present and heard it?”

“Well, David Brown was there for one. No, he wasn’t, either. He’d gone home. There wasn’t anybody there except my grandson, Dannie, and that fool that was just on the witness stand.”

“Gabriel?”

“Yes, Gabriel.”

“Where did he go then?”

“He went to bed.”

“Where did you go?”

“I went to bed.”

“And the boy?”

“Why, we all went to bed. It was after ten o’clock. Do you s’pose we sit up all night down at the gap?”

“Really, I didn’t know, Mr. Pickett, without inquiring.”

The witness was losing his temper, the lawyer was getting sarcastic, and the spectators were anticipating a still greater treat in store from the continuance of the examination.

In his seat at the rear of the court room Dannie sat, dazed, motionless, listening and hearing as one in a dream; in his breast still the imperious demand of his conscience urging him to confess; in his palsied limbs no power to move. Then Marshall took up a new line of examination. He handed a paper to the witness directing his attention to the name at the bottom of it.

“Is that your signature, Mr. Pickett?” he asked.

The old man looked at the paper carefully.

“Yes,” he replied, “it is. I wrote it myself.”

“This paper is an agreement to sell to the Delaware Valley and Eastern Railroad Company a right of way fifty feet in width, through your property, on the line located by their engineers on September twenty-seventh last. You signed that paper voluntarily, without any coercion, naming your own price for the property?”

“Let me tell you about that paper, young man.”

“No; answer my question, yes or no.”

“Then I say, yes. A hundred times, yes. I was neither bullied nor bought; but I was deceived and defrauded. When I signed that paper the only line of stakes I knew anything about was the line that went across the brook and around the graveyard. I supposed that was the route I was sellin’. I said so to the man who brought the paper. He didn’t undeceive me. To all intents and purposes he lied to me, and his corporation has attempted to rob me. Do you think, sir,” demanded the old man, rising from his chair, with the crimson spreading over his neck and face, and pointing his long forefinger at the lawyer, “do you think I would sell to any person or to any company, for any money in this world, the right to desecrate the graves of my dead; the right to disturb bodies that were so dear to me in life, that I would have given all I possessed to save them from the slightest hurt? Do you? I say, do you?”

Marshall was getting more than he had bargained for; but he was too good a lawyer to permit himself to lose his grip.

“Be seated, Mr. Pickett,” he said firmly, “and keep cool. Now, don’t you know that, regardless of your agreement to sell the right of way, a railroad company has a right, under the laws of this state, on complying with certain conditions, to build its railroad on any land belonging to any person?”

The old man dropped back into his chair.

“No,” he replied, “I don’t. I ain’t a lawyer; but I don’t believe that’s the law. They say law’s founded on justice, and it ain’t just, and it ain’t human for any one to have the right to disturb my dead in their graves against my will. God’s Acre in this land and in this age is his holy of holies. He sends his rain an’ dew an’ frost to fall more gently on the homes o’ the dead than on the homes o’ the livin’; and it’s the duty, and ought to be the joy of any man to protect that sacred place from desecration.”

Through the hush that had fallen on the great crowd in the room, the old man’s voice rang pathetically clear. On the faces of the spectators there were no longer any smiles. The whole atmosphere of the court room had changed to one of solemn earnestness. Even the examining lawyer saw that it would not be fitting nor profitable to follow out that line of questioning. When he again spoke it was in a quieter voice, and on another branch of the subject.

“Mr. Pickett,” he said, “when did you first see this line of stakes?”

“Not till the next mornin’ after they were set.”

“Did you follow the line?”

“I did.”

“Did it run through your graveyard at that time?”

“No, sir, it went across the brook and around the graveyard, in as han’some a curve as you ever saw.”

Charlie Pickett, sitting back among the spectators, his heart throbbing with pity and pride as the old man’s examination progressed, heard this last answer and flushed to his finger-tips.

“Were there no stakes in the graveyard?”

“Not one. I saw the place, though, where one had been set and pulled out. I pulled another out of the same place myself four days later and flung it into the brook.”

Marshall paid little heed to this last answer, although it was in the nature of a direct challenge. A new thought appeared to have struck him. He gazed at the ceiling contemplatively for a full minute before proceeding with his examination.

“By the way,” he said, “how early in the morning was it that you saw this line of stakes?”

“Just about sunrise.”

“Where had you come from?”

“From the house.”

“Had you been long up?”

“Just got up.”

“Did you go alone to look at the line?”

“Yes—no; my grandson, Dannie, went with me.”

“Where did you first see him that morning?”

“There at the house.”

“Indoors or outside?”

“Why, I believe he was comin’ up the path.”

“Had he been long out of bed?”

“That I don’t know.”

“Do you know where he had been when you first saw him coming up the path?”

The old man waited a moment before answering. Some vague apprehension of trouble about to fall upon Dannie seemed to be taking possession of his mind.

“Why, no,” he replied slowly, “I can’t just say where he had been.”

“Was this the same boy that heard you make that declaration concerning the stakes the night before?”

“Yes—why, yes—the same boy. Yes—the same boy.”

He spoke as if he were dazed. His voice dropped almost to a whisper. He gazed out over the heads of the people in the court room with eyes that were looking into the past. He saw Dannie as he appeared that morning—his weariness, his exhaustion, his nervous excitement, his utter collapse as they stood together in the dew-wet grass of the graveyard. It all came back to him with the clearness, with the quick cruelty of a lightning stroke. His eyes drooped, his face paled, his head dropped lower and still lower, till his chin rested on his breast. People in the court room who looked on him knew that something had happened to him; but whether it was physical illness or mental distress they could not tell. For a minute the room was still as death. Then the stillness was broken by a slight movement among the rear benches, swift footsteps were heard in the aisle, a boy came hurrying down to the bar of the court. His face was drawn and pale with excitement and fatigue. His eyes, from which shone both distress and determination, were fixed straight ahead of him. As he went, he held out his hands toward the old man on the witness stand.

“Gran’pap! Oh, Gran’pap! I did it. I pulled up the stakes. I threw ’em into the brook. I did it in the night—in the night—in the moonlight. Oh, Gran’pap!”

He crossed the bar, wound his way among chairs and tables, reached the witness box, and stood there leaning against it, and looking up beseechingly into his grandfather’s face.

For one moment Abner Pickett sat motionless, as if he were stunned, looking with staring eyes at the boy standing below him. Then he reached his long arms out over the rail and wound them about his grandson’s shoulders, and then he hid his rugged face in the soft curls that clustered on the boy’s neck.