An Eye for an Eye by William A. Mc gerry. An almost imperceptible
zephyr from the elm shaded avenue headed through the raised windows of Clayton's beautiful mansion,
swaying the silken curtains ever so slightly. A little cloud of pungent powder
smoke lazily rose, disintegrated and was carried away. Clayton, in evening dress,
stood stupidly over the prone bodies of Marsden, his lifelong chum, and
she who had been his wife, The revolver given him by the dead man
on their first trip after big game was in his hand. It was an
automatic needing, but the slightest pressure to let loose its messengers of death.
A pool of blood from the breast of the woman and stained the carpet a
darker hue. She lay as she had fallen, save her right arm,
which thrown up in protection, had limply relaxed and settled to her side.
Her heaving breast had grown still and no sound, But the breathing of Clayton
broke the intense stillness. Marsden, his features distorted in the death grin of
fear, had not moved. His body lay crumpled as though every bone were
broken. A bell clang somewhere in the house, but Clayton took no heed.
It was followed by a crash, and a squad of blue coats,
led by the precinct Captain, entered with drawn revolvers. The automatic was taken
from Clayton's unresisting hand, and he was manacled. No questions were asked,
they were unnecessary. Time passed unnoticed, and Clayton sat mute and unseeing behind
the narrow bars. He slept and ate mechanically. The protestations of friendship and
offers of help, which had plenteously at first reached his cell, passed without
answer, and now he was left severely alone. Only once did he speak,
just before the jury went out. The unwritten law was his defense,
he said, but little a word. Picture of his life as it had
been before his one time friend stepped in, a sketch of his ideals,
the feelings that came to him when he saw his home had been destroyed.
That was all. Then again he sank into the chair, silent, morose.
Presently, a stir followed by a death like hush, masked the return
of the jury. A deep voice sounded unnecessarily loud in the stifling stillness of
the courtroom. Not guilty, it said, as one in a dream.
Clayton walked from the place he submitted passively to congratulations dully without thought. He
answered business questions from his lawyer, whose face bore a look of conscious pride.
At the victory. A taxicab called by a friend stopped at the curb
to receive him. He was sharply reminded that he had not paid the fare.
As he left the vehicle before the door of his home home, the
unspoken word jarred his nerves. Things were sadly out of place. Why did
this picture persist in staring at him? Why this old Japanese chair, his
last birthday gift to her, always bar his way? All the house seemed
wrapped in an atmosphere of gloom and despair. Voices called from corners behind chairs,
and the suddenly lighted electrics revealed no one. Petulantly, he invaded the
upper regions of the house. A drawer in his small bureau slid open,
creaking to his pull. A blue, burnished automatic mate to that other,
sparkled before his eyes. Unthinkingly, his fingers closed over it. As in
a dream. He wandered back to that room he had left months ago.
Manacled accused. He gazed unseeing into the chilly blue barrel of the weapon in
his hand. His eyes straight around, then fell on the dark stain on
the rug. He forced himself to look away. Then he found the stain
again before his eyes. It seemed to mock him, and once he thought
he heard a chuckle. His blood froze in his veins. As it dissolved,
took shape and showed her face. For many minutes, he gazed into
her eyes. They were sad and reproachful. Perhaps after all he had been
wrong, hasty. He could see her as she looked that first day they
met, then as she looked on their wedding day, and he had killed
her, perhaps without cause. He forgot that the jury of his peers had
acquitted him, forgot everything except that the fear of death to which he had
sent her was on him. Summoning all his will, he tore his gaze
away from the dark, ominous stain. Again again, his eyes fastened on
the blued muzzle of the revolver, nervously toying with a safety catch, his
fingers unloosed it. The whirr of an automobile passing on the avenue grew less
distinguishable. Then it took strength and swelled into an eerie moan of anguish.
It sounded to him like an accusation. Again, he called on his will,
and unconsciously his muscles tightened, answering the leaping surge of his heart.
The double grip of the automatic released a spring hidden in its perfect steel heart.
As quick as thought itself, the mechanism obeyed its law. An empty
shell flew out with a snap, and there was a dull thud, then
silence outside. A blue coat idly swinging his club and ruminating on the law
which allowed a rich man to go free, suddenly stiffened as the hound at
bay, all sign of laziness left him, and he bounded up the steps
of the mansion two at a time. A whistle sounded for the second time.
The massive front door was forced open for the second time. A squad
of police entered the gorgeously furnished parlor of Clayton's home. An odor of powder
smoke met them, strong and pungent. A rapidly enlarging pool of blood was
darkening the outlines of the already dark, ugly stain on the rug. Open
mouthed, the blue coat stood tense and silent. A rattling of curtain rings
boomed, almost deafening in their ears. Silently, the captain, he who
had led that other squad, turned and gestured, and the men filed out,
leaving one on guard again. All was silent, save for the whispering
breeze, fanning the smoke, and rustling the silken curtains. The end of
an Eye for an Eye by William A. Mc gerry