The Glass Village

He felt the Judge’s hand on his arm and looked down with surprise. His finger was on the trigger of the shotgun and the gun was coming up to Tommy Hemus’s belt buckle.

Johnny hastily lowered the gun.

The dripping, muddy, blood-caked, gasping man was hardly recognizable as the itinerant Johnny and the Judge had passed on the road in the downpour earlier in the day. Dirty blond hair hung over his eyes; his jacket and pants were torn in a dozen places; thorns had ripped his hands and face; blood oozed from his mouth were a tooth had been kicked out. His eyes kept rolling like the eyes of a frightened dog.

“You flushed the bastard right out to us,” said Burney Hackett.

“Saw your tracks where ye turned into the ma’sh,” said burly Orville Pangman, “then heard your guns.”

“We spread out along the road and ambushed him,” panted Peter Berry. “Real excitin’.”

Old Merton Isbel said: “Scum. Dirty whore scum.”

Eddie Pangman, great red boy-hands opening and closing on his rifle: “Put the cuffs on him, Mr. Hackett!”

“Aw, Pop don’t have no cuffs,” said stocky Joel Hackett disgustedly. “Didn’t I always say you ought to get cuffs, Pop? Cop’s got to have at least one pair, anybody knows that.”

“You mind your tongue,” said Constable Hackett.

“Cops without cuffs...”

Tommy Hemus drawled: “He ain’t goin’ no place.”

Dave Hemus, sucking on a torn knuckle: “Not any more he ain’t.”

Hubert Hemus, to his sons: “Shut up.”

Drakeley Scott said nothing. The thin-shouldered boy was staring at the jerking fugitive with heat, almost with hunger.

‘Was he armed?” asked Judge Shinn.

“No,” said Constable Hackett. “I kind of wish he was.”

Ferriss Adams walked up to the man and looked him over. “Has he talked?” he asked harshly.

“Jabbered some,” said Peter Berry. “Try him, Mr. Adams.”

“You killed her, didn’t you?” said Ferriss Adams.

The man said nothing.

“Didn’t you?” shouted the lawyer. “Can’t you talk, damn you? All it needs is a yes or no!”

The eyes merely kept rolling.

“Ferriss,” said Judge Shinn.

Adams sucked in some air and stepped back. “Also,” he said coldly, “you went and pushed my car into the bog. How am I going to get it out? Won’t you talk about that, either?”

“Car in the bog?” said Peter Berry alertly. “Now that’s a darn shame, Mr. Adams. S’pose I take a look—”

“Not now,” said Hube Hemus. The slight man had not moved. “Burney, put the halter on him.”

“Wait!” said the Judge. “What are you going to do?”

“Got to secure the prisoner, Judge, don’t we?” said the constable. “Brought along a calf halter. It ought to just fit.” Hackett slipped a muddy halter over the fugitive’s head. The man dropped to his knees. His eyes rolled back so far only the whites showed.

“He thinks he’s going to be hanged or shot,” exclaimed Judge Shinn. “Can’t you see this man is in the last stages of fright? Not to mention pain! Take this nasty thing off him, Burney.”

“Ain’t nobody goin’ to hurt him, Judge.” The constable tightened the neck-strap and buckled it. “Nobody’s goin’ to shoot you, killer. Not for a while, anyway.” He snapped a lead-rope to the ring of the halter. “There we are. Try gettin’ out of that.”

The nose-piece of the halter gave the man a ridiculous animal appearance. It seemed to annoy him. His torn hands tugged at it violently.

“Better tie his hands, too,” said Hube Hemus. “Dave, Tommy, hang on to him. Anybody got another rope?”

“There’s some rope under the seat of the truck, Eddie,” Orville Pangman said to his son.

The Hemus twins took hold of the man’s arms, one pulling one way, one another. The man stopped struggling. Eddie Pangman scrambled off the truck with a length of tarred rope. His father took it from him. The twins slammed the prisoner’s wrists together behind his back and the big farmer trussed them.

Judge Shinn stepped forward.

“Now he’s all right, Judge,” said the elder Hemus politely. “Orville, I’ll take him in my car with Tommy and Dave. He might get a notion to jump out of an open truck. Burney, get him on his feet.”

“Come on, get up.” Hackett pulled on the rope. The kneeling figure resisted. “Nobody’s goin’ to do nothin’ to you. Up on your pins!”

“Would you mind waiting a minute, Hackett?” Johnny heard his voice say.

They stared at him.

Johnny went over to the cowering man, wondering at his own energy. He was beginning to get a headache. “Miss Plummer said this man talked in a foreign accent. Maybe he doesn’t understand English too well.” He stooped over the prisoner. “Do you know what I’m saying?”

Bruised lips moving; the eyes were closed.

“What was that?” Johnny asked him.

The lips kept moving.

Johnny straightened. “Sounds like Russian, or Polish.”

“Told you he jabbered!” said Peter Berry triumphantly.

“Commie spy, I bet,” grinned Tommy Hemus.

“What’s he saying?” demanded Joel Hackett. “Huh, Mr. Shinn?”

“My guess is,” said Johnny, “he’s praying.”

“Then he can’t be a Commie,” said Eddie Pangman. “They don’t pray.”

“That’s right,” said Dave Hemus. “Them bastards don’t believe in God.”

“Some of ’em do,” said Drakeley Scott unexpectedly. “They got churches in Russia.”