The Missing Link.

BY JAMES BUCKHAM.

When it was announced that Frederick Henderson had given twenty-five thousand dollars towards founding a library in Woodville, his fellow townsmen were not merely surprised, but amazed. Every one knew that Henderson was in receipt of only a fairly comfortable salary, that he had no private fortune, and that he had received no recent bequest. They knew, also, that he, with his wife and children, occupied a rented house, kept no servants, and, in short, lived after the usual fashion of small clerks’ families. Where, then, could he have obtained twenty-five thousand dollars, and why did he give it for a library instead of using it to feather his own nest? For five days town gossip buzzed about this mystery like bees in a clover patch, until finally, on the sixth, one man, bolder than the rest, went to Henderson and asked pointblank the meaning of his strange munificence.

To him the founder of the Woodville Library told the following story:—

“There were five of us who went, early last June, for a camping trip in the Flat-top Mountains, away up in the northwest corner of Colorado. We were all young fellows—the oldest still considerably on the frisky side of forty—and it is hardly necessary to say that the object of our expedition was a good time. Incidentally, of course, we expected to acquire a surplus fund of health and enough game to make our friends glad to welcome us home again. Furthermore, I hoped to bring back as much of the scenery of Northern Colorado as could be sandwiched between some two hundred photographic plates.

“Our outfit for camping was complete. We had a canvas-covered mountain wagon, drawn by two horses, and filled with nearly a ton of provisions and baggage. In addition, every man was mounted and equipped in true cowboy fashion,—furnished with everything en regle, from rifle and revolver to ‘slickers’ and lariat.

“For two weeks we journeyed leisurely up through that wonderful mountain country northwest of Denver. In the clear, dry, bracing air the very breath of life was an infinite joy. Our eyes feasted continually upon some of the most marvelous scenery and atmospheric effects in that wonderland of the West. Our route lay over Berthold Pass into Middle Park and Twenty-mile Park, great successive terraces of rolling woodland and prairie, shut in by higher and ever higher ranges of the Rockies. By gradual stages we reached Steamboat Springs, six thousand feet above the level of the sea; then Trapper’s Lake, four thousand feet higher, its clear, cool waters rippling at the base of volcanic cliffs, seamed and stained by centuries of conflict with frost and storm. Ever higher and higher we climbed, through grand and gloomy cañons, shaded by forests which had never echoed with the woodsman’s axe,—on and up, till at last we reached the second step of the mighty mountain stairway. And here we camped, on a fair meadow, at the foot of the last and highest range of the Flat-tops. On all sides save one our little meadow was surrounded by an almost impenetrable timber-fall. On the left the land lay open, and sloped steeply up to the crowning range of cliffs.

“On that last and loftiest plateau the first chapter of a strange story began.

“We had been in camp a week or more, and had shot a couple of deer and caught several goodly messes of trout, when one day the impulse seized me to take my camera, climb to the top of the last and highest range of Flat-top Mountains, and capture some bird’s-eye views of the surrounding country. I started early one morning, carrying with me only my camera, three double plate-holders, and some lunch.

“The ascent proved longer and harder than I had anticipated. I was obliged to make my way up to the level of the last plateau through a deep and tangled ravine, down which brawled a mountain stream. There was no sign of path. The high and thickly wooded sides of the ravine made a perpetual twilight, and as I toiled upward the way grew steeper and narrower, till at last there was scarcely room for the roaring brook. I was obliged to enter its bed and wade, sometimes knee-deep in the icy water, climbing now and then over some slippery rock that blocked the way, at infinite pains lest I should drop my camera or my precious plates.

“Finally, however, I reached the top of the slope and came out into a grove of scattered pines, through which I could see a clearing that lay just beyond. I was about to leave the fringe of trees and step into the open ground, when a rifle-shot not far away startled me. It was followed, in a minute or two, by another shot from a slightly different direction. The next moment a wounded deer bounded into the little mountain meadow, sprang with convulsive leaps across it, and fell dead on the opposite edge.

“Scarcely had the deer fallen, when a hunter, rifle in hand, came running through the clearing to the spot. Just as he drew his knife to bleed the animal a second hunter appeared. He also was running, but stopped as he saw the other man bending over the deer, and approached him more leisurely. All this took place in a very brief space of time, while I stood watching, just within the edge of pines.

“I saw the first hunter, who had finished bleeding the deer, rise and confront the other man as he approached. Then I heard excited and heated talk between them. As they stood wrangling over the little gray mound on the edge of the forest, the sudden inspiration seized me to take a picture of the vivid scene. Up to this moment I had been a perfectly passive observer. I had not even removed the tripod of the camera from my shoulder. So great had been my surprise at seeing the deer bound across the clearing and fall dead, and then the two strange hunters rushing in to claim it, that for a few minutes I totally lost the consciousness of self. My whole being was absorbed in wonder and curiosity. But when the quarreling hunters began to wrangle the spell was broken, and I said to myself, ‘There is a forest picture worth taking!’

“Screened by the overhanging trees, and with no further thought than to add to my collection a unique bit of backwoods life, I hastily swung the tripod from my shoulder, affixed the camera, focused, inserted a plate-holder, made the exposure, and secured a view of the two hunters as they stood wrangling over the fallen deer.

“Suddenly, as if moved by ungovernable anger, the men locked arms and began to struggle fiercely. My first impulse was to rush out and separate the angry contestants. My second impulse—when I realized that I was unarmed and alone—was to slink away into the shadow of the woods and let the men settle their own difficulty. My third impulse (a compromise between the two, but cowardly still,) was to take advantage of the absorbing passion of the contestants and possess myself of another and still more striking photograph,—a phase of real life seldom presented to the manipulator of lenses. This, accordingly, I did.

“What followed almost froze the blood in my veins. I saw the smaller but more active of the two men, by a sudden and swift backward motion of the right hand, draw a flashing knife from his belt. The next instant it was buried in the breast of his antagonist. The stricken man tottered, took a step backward, and fell, apparently tripping over the horns of the deer. The long arms, thrown backward, remained outspread in the grass; the body, after a few convulsive movements, lay still. I could see the shaft of the murderer’s knife sticking out of the breast of the dead man’s coat.

“I can hardly explain the impulse which led me, at this point, to slip another plate-holder into my camera, and with trembling hand remove the cap! The former pictures had been taken chiefly from curiosity, though that feeling was combined, in the second instance, with a certain restless mental recoil from the inertia of cowardice. But the third photograph was due to an entirely unaccountable impulse. I do not know what inspired me to take it. I hardly understand how I was able to break the spell of horror which had seized me as I saw the murderous blow of the knife and the fall of the dying man. I seemed to perform the act under a kind of hypnotic influence. I obeyed dreamily, as under the spell of another’s will.

“The moment of exposure for the third plate was strangely opportune. The slayer bent over quickly and withdrew the knife from the heart of his victim. In the very instant consumed by the act my camera did its work. This was proved by the subsequent development of the plates.

“As quickly as possible I reversed the plate-holder and exposed another plate. The murderer had gathered his rifle under his arm, and, half averted in the attitude of flight, stood looking back at his victim. The pause was but momentary, yet long enough for swift-registering light to record. Then the guilty man turned and ran rapidly away through the woods.

“I calmly took the second plate-holder from the camera and replaced it in the box. Then I did what some men of more physical bravery than I possess would, perhaps, have shrunk from doing. I walked out into the presence of Death—alone in that great listening, mysterious wilderness—knelt down, and placed my finger upon the pulse of the murdered man. I knew, before I did it, that he was dead. His flesh was still warm, but the last fluttering spark of life had departed.

“Back to my camera, and down the steep ravine, with its brawling brook, I went; though every step I took seemed like a step in a dream.

“It was early afternoon when I reached camp. The boys were stretched out smoking, after their noonday meal. As I gazed into their unsuspecting, friendly faces an impenetrable wall seemed to rise between me and the full confession which I had intended to make. How could I tell them what a coward I had been? Would they not turn from me? Would they not despise me? I strove hard to overcome this reduplicated weakness—this cowardice upon cowardice—but could not. I simply told the boys that I had found a dead hunter, with a knife thrust through his heart, on the plateau above. Even then they would scarcely believe me, till I had minutely described the dead man.

“‘Why, it’s that big Chicago tenderfoot, Stetson!’ exclaimed George Lincoln. ‘I saw him down at the settlement the other day. He is the fellow, you know, who came out here for his health and liked it so well that he bought up a claim and started in to ranching. He tallies with your description of the murdered man to a T.’

“‘He must have friends in the settlement,’ I replied. ‘We must report the case at once.’

“Two hours later George Lincoln and I rode into the little village, six miles below our mountain meadow. We dismounted at the store, which was the only public gathering-place in the settlement, and soon had a motley crowd about us listening to our story,—Americans, Mexicans, Germans, and half-breeds. There was no constable, no coroner, no public officer of any kind in the village. But a searching party was organized, to report at our camp next morning, at daybreak, when I was to guide them to the spot where the murdered man lay.

“Sunrise of the next morning found us entering the gloomy pass where the brook came foaming down from the heights above. We had to ascend the narrow ravine on foot, as horses would have been useless in such a place. When we reached the clearing beyond the pines I led my party directly to the spot where man and deer lay stretched side by side in the strange companionship of death. The dark, stern faces circled round, and for some minutes no word was spoken. Then the storekeeper, a huge, sandy-whiskered Yankee, exclaimed:—

“‘By God, boys, it makes my blood boil! Stetson never drawed his knife—see it there in his belt? The damned coward that was raslin’ with him stabbed him unawares. Some sneakin’ Mexican, I’ll bet my head!’

“One or two dark faces in the group grew darker as the impetuous Yankee spoke. There were Mexicans in the searching party.

“‘I’ll take my oath it was Marcelino!’ continued the big storekeeper loudly. ‘You all know he had a grudge against Stetson. He came into my store to get some ca’tridges for his Winchester yestiddy mornin’. Said he was goin’ out huntin’ on the Flat-tops. Him and Stetson was up here together, and it stands to reason he done it. The’ ain’t one of ye das say he didn’t!’

“No one dared contradict the big storekeeper, and no one cared to, for, in spite of the lack of positive proof, we all felt that he was right.

“A litter was hastily put together, and we carried the dead man down to the settlement. That afternoon a swift rider started for the nearest telegraph station, to wire Stetson’s brother in Chicago. The latter had been to see Stetson twice since he had settled down on his mountain ranch, and was well known in the village.

“Meanwhile suspicion had fastened more and more strongly upon the Mexican, Pedro Marcelino. As the storekeeper said, he had gone hunting on the very morning of the murder, and in the same direction as Stetson. Since then he had not returned.

“On the morning of the fourth day after the tragedy the murdered man’s brother arrived, bringing with him a detective from Denver. After attending to the obsequies of his murdered brother, and leaving instructions with the detective to spare no expense in tracing the murderer, Cyrus Stetson returned to Chicago.

“About a week later our party broke up camp and returned home. The tragedy had cast such a gloom over us that we no longer had any zest for sport. I was especially glad to get away from the spot with my oppressive secret. The longer it was concealed, the less I felt like disclosing it, and yet the more painful and remorseful it became.

“As soon as I reached Woodville I immersed myself in business cares, and for a time succeeded in drowning the reproachful voice within. But one morning, about two months after my return to the city, I picked up a paper and was confronted by the following paragraph:—

“‘WAS HE THE MURDERER?

“‘Hahn’s Peak, Colo., Sept. 28.—The Mexican, Pedro Marcelino, who was arrested in the southern part of the State two weeks since and brought here for trial, on the charge of having murdered Albert Stetson while the two men were out hunting, last June, seems likely to escape conviction, as the case now in progress before the County Court fails to develop evidence sufficient to convict the suspected man. All who are acquainted with the facts of the case believe that Marcelino was the murderer, but, as only circumstantial evidence can be adduced to prove his guilt, it is more than likely that he will escape the noose. Every attempt is being made by Cyrus Stetson, the brother of the murdered man, to obtain evidence which will lead to the absolute conviction of the guilty party. The case, which is the most important on the docket, will probably be given to the jury before the close of this week.’

“By the time I had finished reading this item I was actually trembling from head to foot. But I made a resolve. I would develop those negatives, and if they proved to be as graphic and exact as I had every reason to expect I would overcome my cowardly self-shielding reticence, tell my story as an eye-witness of the murder—for to me it seemed murder, and not manslaughter—and submit my photographs as evidence.

“I went immediately to my ‘dark-room,’ developed the negatives, and examined them closely. They were surprising even to myself, not only in their clearness and distinctness of detail, but in the marvelous nicety with which they had caught and fixed the very moments of the tragedy which would be most convincing as evidence.

“The day, fortunately, was bright, and I secured two or three good prints from each negative in the shortest possible time, packed a small strap-bag, and, without saying a word to anybody, took the train for Glenwood Springs, the nearest point by rail to Hahn’s Peak. Here I procured a good horse, and by riding all night reached the county-seat early the next morning. I turned in at the little hotel for a few hours’ sleep, and, bidding the landlord call me without fail at half past eight o’clock, threw myself on a bed without removing my clothes, and was asleep inside of five minutes.

“The harsh little bell in the court-house tower was proclaiming the hour for the morning session when I rose from my hastily eaten breakfast and passed into the village street. Already little groups of men, coming from all directions, were centering at the court-house. I gathered, from scraps of conversation which I overheard, that it was the last day of the murder trial. The last available testimony had been taken. To-day the arguments were to be made, and the case given to the jury, who, it was feared, could not possibly return a verdict of ‘guilty’ upon the scanty evidence so far produced.

“I entered the court room a few minutes before nine o’clock. A group of lawyers stood talking within the bar. I asked to have the State’s attorney pointed out to me. He was a small man, with a plump waistcoat and a boyish, closely shaven face. I stepped up to the bar and beckoned him. A few moments’ conversation served to acquaint him with the purpose of my trip and the nature of my evidence. The round, cheery face of the State’s attorney fairly shone as I finished my story. Then the sheriff’s thunderous rap called the court to order, and the State’s attorney had only time to say, ‘Hold yourself in readiness to be called to the witness stand,’ when the preliminary exercises began.

“The clerk’s monotonous monologue was succeeded by a rustling, sibilant pause; and then began the deep, slow voice of the judge: ‘Evidence having been completed in the case of State versus—’

“‘May it please your honor!’ exclaimed the State’s attorney, starting briskly to his feet. ‘Having come into possession of new and important evidence in the case now before the court, the counsel for the State requests permission to submit the same before the case is closed.’

“The judge turned his keen gray eyes curiously and inquiringly upon the State’s attorney. Every head in the room was bent forward in an attitude of keenest attention.

“‘We have been so fortunate,’ continued the State’s attorney, ‘as to discover, at the last moment, an eye-witness of the murder of Albert Stetson. The evidence which this witness has to offer is absolutely convincing in character. May it please your honor to call to the witness stand Mr. John Henderson, of Woodville, Colorado?’

“There was a moment’s absolutely breathless pause. Then the deep tones of the judge’s voice broke the silence:—

“‘Mr. Henderson may take the stand.’

“The prisoner at the bar eyed me keenly as I came forward. I recognized his face the instant my eyes fell upon it. It was the same which had looked back, half fearfully, half exultantly, at the dead man stretched in the grass of the clearing. A moment’s uneasiness in the deep-set eyes gave place to a stolid stare of defiance, as I took my place on the witness-stand. What proof could the new accuser bring, beyond his own unsupported statement?

“There was a kind of fierce, yet calm, exultation in my heart as I told my straightforward story,—exultation not due alone to the thought of bringing guilt to justice, but, also, and, perhaps, even more to the thought of my own triumph over myself, in that most manly atonement which a coward can make for his cowardice,—the confession of his own weakness.

“I could not resist noting the effect of my story on the prisoner as I proceeded. When I first mentioned the fact that I carried my camera with me up the mountain I detected a slight start and aversion of face on the part of the Mexican. When I described the bounding of the wounded deer into the clearing, its fall on the opposite edge, and the appearance of the two hunters hastening to the spot the prisoner seemed to tremble slightly. But when I confessed the natural timidity which led me to take a photograph of the struggling hunters, instead of rushing out to separate them, a deathly pallor overspread the man’s face, and he clutched at the railing before him for support. Then, as I kept relentlessly on, describing the knife-thrust, the fall of the murdered man, the withdrawing of the weapon from his bosom, and the snap-shot photograph of the murderer while engaged in that very act, then the backward look of mingled triumph and terror, perpetuated by the relentless camera, and, finally, the hurried flight through the woods, the man’s chin sank upon his bosom, and his whole frame shook with abject fear.

“The most intense excitement now reigned in the little court room. Attention was divided between myself and the prisoner, until I drew forth the photographs and held them out to the State’s attorney to be submitted to the jury. At this stage of the proceedings, impelled, it would seem, by a strange, ungovernable fascination, the prisoner, though almost palsied with fear, stretched out his hand and snatched one of the photographs as they were being passed to the jury. It happened to be the one which represented the murderer drawing the knife from his victim’s bosom, while the light fell full and strong upon the pale, upturned face of the murdered man. As his eyes fell upon this awful portrayal of a scene which he supposed was pictured alone in his own haunting and accusing memory, the superstitious Mexican shrieked with terror and fell heavily upon the floor. I shall never forget the horrible intensity of fear and despair in that cry, nor the picture of the round-faced State’s attorney standing over the prostrate form, with accusing finger pointed downward, and cheery countenance for once tragically solemn as he bent his triumphant eyes upon the jury.

“Of course the jury pronounced a verdict of guilty without leaving their seats, and the Mexican, abject, cowering, and self-convicted, was hurried away to jail, hemmed in by a howling mob. The brother of the murdered Albert Stetson came to me as soon as he could force his way through the crowd, intent upon obtaining a sight of the strange, pictured testimony, seized my hand, and fairly overwhelmed me with grateful acknowledgments.”

At this point Henderson stopped short, as though his story were finished.

“But what in the name of common sense has all this to do with your endowment of the Woodville Library?” asked the mystified listener.

“Oh, yes; on the day after my return to Woodville I received a letter from Cyrus Stetson, notifying me that he would call the next morning to pay the reward of twenty-five thousand dollars offered by him for the apprehension of his brother’s murderer. Now, I had known nothing of any such reward. My testimony in the case had been given simply with the idea of convicting the murderer and at the same time partially atoning for my own cowardice. But it isn’t every day that twenty-five thousand dollars is thrown into the hands of a man in my circumstances; and I may as well confess that the thought of all that the money could do for my family and myself was a strong temptation. On the other hand, to accept it was to accept a reward for my own cowardice and so to forfeit my last shred of self-respect. Between these two courses I could see no middle way. Well, you can imagine how fierce the battle was between conscience and self-interest when I tell you that I never breathed a word of all this to a soul, even to my wife, but lay awake all night, my mind oscillating like a pendulum between two decisions. In the end, however, conscience conquered. I determined to refuse the reward, with the request that Mr. Stetson keep it for the family of the murdered man. But when Stetson arrived the next morning he simply wouldn’t hear of a refusal, declared that the dead man had left no family, pooh-poohed all my objections, and, in short, so far overcame my scruples in the heat of the conversation that when he left his check for twenty-five thousand dollars was in my pocket.

“No sooner was he gone, however, and my excitement was cooled than all my doubts of the night before returned threefold. For the five days that I was the secret possessor of that twenty-five thousand dollars I was the most unhappy man on the face of the earth. And it was only when I had converted the entire sum into an endowment for the Woodville Library that I finally felt at peace with myself and the world.”