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•or' about liis own age, stepping in front
of him just as he was about to strike
Armstrong in the face with his sledge-
like fist. “Don't be hasty. You may
•do something you’ll be sorry for.”
“Be sorry for hurtin’ the man as
murdered my daughter? I mean to
smash ’im. I’ll scrunch ’im to pieces!
Stand back Tom Miller—I don’t want
'to hurt nobody but—”. “Can I get no
help ?” shouted Miller with scorn, as
he stooped and ran under Woodard’s
arms, and locked his own about the
trunk of the infuriated parent. And
•others then gave assistance and held
Woodward, who continued to rave in
the resolute hands of bis captors.
“Aint he guilty? He’s confessed he
murdered her! Don’t they kill people
as doe3 murders? An’ did’nt he
threaten ’er life? Did’ut I heer ’im
say not an hour ago that he wisht she
wus dead? Ain’t that the same as a
threatenin’ of ’er? Aint it so wife, an’
did’nt he go away mad, an’ leave ’er
a cryiu’ like ’er heart w us broke—an’
•did’nt she run after ’im to make
frien’s? * * * You red-handed, white
livered coward! ” turning his wither
ing glance upon Armstrong, who gazed
at him in silence, “An’ you would’nt
make up with my pore gal, but jest
killed her like she’d ben a dog!”
The boy’s only answer was to hold
up his gory hands, and stare at them,
and burst into tears, and fall sobbing
upon the ground.
As waters suddenly released from
imprisonment rush frantically for a
time, and then subside into a mildei
mood, so Mr. Woodard, when the first
outburst of his rage and grief had some
what expended its force, became silent,
and stood for a time with his chin
resting upon his breast. Then as one
who suddenly regains mental con
sciousness, he raised his face and said :
“What are you people a-standin’
heer fer? Aint you a-goin’ to find the
murdered gal ? What’s that great lub
berly scoun’ll a-lyin’ on the grouu’
fer? Purtendin’ like he’s sorry?—
Make ’im git up, an’ show wher the
body’s at.”
Armstrong was pulled to his feet, and
started without a word through the
gate, and along the path toward the
pines, followed by the father and
mother, and all tLe assembled people.
And as they passed out the gate Wood
ard spoke :
“You kin turn me loose friends. I
aint a-goin’ to kill ’im now.”
But w atchful Tom Miller, whilecom-
plying with this request, made a sign
to the others to keep near and be ready
for an emergency.
* . * * * * -i *
Meantime the Shelby boys had re
mained gazing at Lena’s body.
George and Jack started violently as
Tom suddenly broke the long silence:
“Boys^ le’s go and tell Mr. Wood
ard.” But before they could start they
heard the sound of voices, and the
tramping of many feet, and John
Armstrong, Woodard and his wife,
and a crowd of other men emerged
into view.
“Thar she is!” cried the father,
rushing up the path. “ Thar’s Lena !
wife; thar’sour murdered gal!”
And the mother fell half-swooning
upon the corpse, and Woodard dropped
upon his knees, and fondled the cool
ing cheeks, and wound the dark hair
about his fingers, and rained his tears
upon the bloody face.
“Don’t you see, friends!” he cried
with pathos indescribable, and raising
his wet and quivering countenance to
the circle of people.
“Don’t you see! Here’s the bullit-
hole in ’er for’id, an’ here’s the pore
thing’s brains and blood ! An’ here’s
the gun—” taking up the rifle and ex
amining it with trembling hands—“an’
it’s been shot, fer here’s the burnt
cap!” Then brandishing the heavy
weapon like a club, and with rising
rage, he fairly thundered.
“Stand back men ! John Arm
strong’s murdered ’is w r ife. He’s con
fessed it! Let, me git to ’im !”
And he lunged toward the accused,
and the more timid of the spectators
made room. But there were veteran
soldiers in that group, men who had
dared the mouths of belching cannon,
and leaped over battlements bristling
with bayonets.
Heedless of his dangerous frenzy
they flung themselves upon Woodard,
ami at the cost of bruises and torn
clothing disarmed him. But he did
not yield until they had thrown him
upon the ground and sat upon his legs
and arms. And John Armstrong,
making no effort to save himself, stood
still and cried out:
“I done it! I don’t deuy it! I kill
ed Lena ! Let ’em kill me! I don’t
care! I don’t want to live without
’er!”
“You don’t deserve no better’n to be
killed,” said a grown-up brother of the
-dead girl.
“That’s so,” said another: “any man
that’ll hurt a woman’s too low’ down
to live.”
“Yes,” chimed in a third, “John
Armstrong ought to stretch hemp, and
I'm jest the man to help ’im do it.”
And the last speaker seized John
roughly by the collar, and seven or
eight others impulsively joined in and
raised the cry, “A rope ! a rope! get a
rope!” and those who were controlling
the elder Woodard found themselves
in a dangerously weak minority, and
began to call loudly to the lynchers to
bring the boy back.
But there had arrived in time to wit-
THE SUNNY SOUTH, ATLANTA, GEORGIA, NOVEMBER 26, 1892.
ness all these exciting incidents a man
of some importance in that region
named Womack. He w r as on horseback,
and had arrived late to the road meet
ing at Woodard’s, and learning of the
tragedy from a colored woman there,
had followed the crow d into the w’oods.
Womack had been educated for the
law’, but after practicing a few years
bad quit from a distaste for the pur
suit and retired to farm-life. Owing
to his superior learning, judgment and
good character, his influence over the
people was considerable, and it never |
untel w T e come to a high black-gum
tree back yonder, about fifty yards, an’
I saw a cat-squirl eatin’ berries up it.
I left L°ua in the path and begin to
try to git a shot. The squir’l, hit kep
a-goin’ roun’ the tree, an’ I kep a-fol-
lerin’, an’ at last I shot. I couldn’t
see nothin’ but the tail, an’ I had to
guess wher the body wus. But I
missed, an’didn’t see no more of the
the examination could not proceed
Tom tri^d to go on in vain. Armstrong
tried to speak and was hushed up by
the fierce curses of Woodard, and
threats of lynching, and the situation
was becoming alarming, w’hen Mr.
Womack succeeded in making himself
heard, and turned the minds of all in a
new channel.
“Armstrong,” said he, “where
is
squir’l. I s’posed it went in a hole that that black-gum tree?”
wus there, an’ I went back to w r her
Lena wus standin’, an’ loaded the
rifle. She had the patchin’ in her
served so good a purpose as upon this apern pocket, an’ took it out an’ spread
occasion. He rode up to the group | it over the gun bar’l, an’ I put the bul-
that w r as dragging the prisoner away, lit in an’ started it with the rammer,
and called out to the leader: an’Lena raised up the patchin’, an’
“Bill, what on earth do you mean by | helt it ’tel I cut it off with my knife,
this?”
The
men paused when they recog
nized Mr. Womack, but the answer
they gave was frank enough:
“We’re goin’ to hang ’im. Did’nt
he murder his wife?”
“He killed her I believe,” said
Womack, “but nobody knows that he
murdered her. All killing is not mur
der. It may have been accidental.’’
“But Armstrong says that he mur
dered her.”
“Yes, but he does’nt know what the
word murder means. But say, fellows,
you don’t want to be wilful law-break
ers I know. If you kill Armstrongyou
are murderers yourselves. If you are
dermined to take his life, you will
surely hear his defence first. He has
made no statement of the circum
stances whatever. We must have his
story and decide what to do with him
afterwards.” And then turning to
Woodard who was now sitting on the
ground and hearing all that passed, he
went on:
“Old friend, and neighbor, you know
I am sorry for you. This is a terrible
and pitiable affair. I have children
myself, and can imagine your feelings
in some degree at least. If John Arm
strong has murdered this poor girl, he
must be punished for it. But not by
you, or your son, or your friends. He
must be punished
by the laws of the
country, if he is
guilty I will do
what I can to see
that justice is sat
isfied.” Woodard
was silent, but Mil
ler and others who
bad aided him so
firmly in restrain
ing the father, de
clared Mr. Womack
to be right, and in
sisted that Arm
strong should have
0 pp o r t u n i t y to
make a statement.
Womack then took
the young man by
the arm, and in a
kindly manner
said :
“Now my boy, we
have all agreed that
you shall have a
fair showing. No
body can force you
to talk. The law
won’t allow that.
Butif you wish,you
can tell these pto-
ple freely all about
how this dreadful
thing happened.”
“I aintgot noth’natall to keep hack,”
said Armstrong. “I confess I killed ’er
—I know I murdered Lena—but people,
1 didn’t go to do it. The Lord in heaven
knows I did’nt gotodo it! Mr. Wood
ard he says I threatened Lena’s life.
Now, he’s her pa, but he ought’nt to
a-said that. You know Mr. Woodard,”
looking at his father-in-'aw, who was 1
regarding him fixedly, “Youought’ut
to a-said that. It wus your madness,
you know it was Mr. Woodard, that |
made you say that. Ain’t this so Mis’
Woodard?” looking at Lena’s mother.
“You know that Lena bothered me
about going to mother’s, an’ we dis
puted, an’ she hollered out that she
“wisht she wus dead,” an’ I hollered
back “I wisht so too,” au’ that wus all
they wus about it, an’ of course I didn’t
mean it no more’ll Lena did.”
He stopped and wiped his sweaty :
face with the sleeve of his shirt, and !
Womack said : “Come to the killing
John, and tell us how it happened.”
“Well, I’m a-coming to that,” re
plied the awkward and embarrassed
speaker.
“You see, Mr. Womack, after me
an’ Lena had the dispute, I walked ;
off down this way to’ard mother’s, but
I didn’t b’lieve Lena wus goin’ to hold
out aginst me, an’ I stopped in the
edge of the woods wher she couldn’t
see me, an’ looked back. An’ shore
’nough I seen ’er in about a minute
come out the yard, an’ come a-runuin’
crost the ole fiel’ to wher I was stand-
in’. An’jest fer a little fun I hid be
hind a pine tree tel she passed by call
in’ me, an’ then I slipped behind ’er
an’ caught ’er in my arms, an’ we
kissed one ’nother, au’ wus jest as
frien’ly as we could be when we come
on down the path.”
The troubled boy stopped a moment,
and the elder Woodard broke iii sul
lenly :
“Boy, tell about the killin’. Come
to that—come to that! ”
“I think it’s better Mr. Woodard, to
let him tell the story in his own way
Then —
“ Aint that a piece of white cloth in
the girl’s right handf ” asked Mr. Mil
ler, startling all the people by the sud
denness of his question.
Womack stooped down and gently
dbengaged the object referred to. Then
spreading it out—for it was a thin
piece of white cotton cloth—he held it
up to let everybody see that it had a
round hole near the center.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “this is a
piece of patching, and ii’s cut just as a
rifleman does it ” And then he passed
it from hand to hand, and the accused
resumed his statement:
“Gen’lemen, it’s jest like I tell you.
She helt the patchin’ an’ I cut it off
an’ rammed the ball home, an’ cocked
the gun, an’ put the capon, an’ it’s a
hair-trigger, you know, an’—oh, my
God! ” He stopped and broke out
sobbing, and in a little while began
“It aint more’n fifty yards back.”
“Then come and show it to us,” con
tinued the questioner, drawing the
accused away,- followed by all except
the mother of the dead wife.
“Tfiere it is, Mr. Womack, to the
right of the path,” said Armstrong,
stopping and pointing.
“Where did you stand when you
fired at the squirrel ?”
“Down yonder som’ers. I think I
can show you.” And Armstrong led
the crowd through the dry leaves down
the slope. When he had gone forty
or fifty feet beyond the black-gum
tree, he said :
“Now le’ me see ef I kin find wher
the squir’l wus when I shotand
looking upward, he began to walk
backwards and forwards, and to right
and left. This continued several min
utes, and the people watched him nar
rowly, and his count-nance wore a
strained and anxious look. But now he
stood still, and with a more confident
expression he called Mr. Womack to
his side, and spoke :
“You see the big fork about forty
feet up?”
“Yes.”
“Well,” continued Armstrong, “do
talking once more, looking straight; you see the hole in the tree about six
into the face of the elder Woodard. feet below the fork, an’ the bushy
“I forgot to let the hammer down limb full of berries that’s a-hangin’ dost
to a half-cock, as I ought to, an’
thro wed the rifle crost my shoulder, an’
come on down this way with Lena fol-
lerin’ ’long behind.
“ I was jest playin’ with the triggers
as I come on, an’ all at onct the gun
went off an’ shot my pore wife dead.
An’ then I whirled round, an’ seen her
“ Stand Back Men ! Le’ Me Git to ’Im !”
lyin’ on the ground, an’ grabbed ’er in
my arms, an’ felt just like I had run
crazy. An’ then I run back to your
house, Mr. Woodaid, to tell you what
I had done, au’ that’s the whole God’s
truth about it.”
As Armstrong ceased speaking a
raurmer swept over the crow r d.
“ The piece of patchin’ ’s in his
favor,” said Miller.
“How does that show he didn’t
shoot ’er a-purpose?” asked Lena’s
father. “They’ve ben a-havin’ trouble,
an they may a-quarrelled all the way
here.”
“ It doesn’t show it,” said Womack,
“ but it seems to prove that Armstrong
speaks the truth about how the gun
was loaded, at least.
“John,” continued Miller, “did you
see the Shelby boys about the time of
the shooting ? ”
Tom, and George, and Jack had
been silent witnesses of all that had
passed, and were startled at this men
tion of themselves.
“I saw the Shelby boys standing by
the body when we first got here,”
said Miller.
“I saw them too,” said some one else.
“An’ me too,” said a third.
“Are they still here?” inquired
Womack, as Torn w T as pushed forward.
the path yonder we heard a girl’s voice
—it must have been Lena’s—say, “Oh,
please don’t shoot!” and right after
ward we heard a rifle-shot, and—”
“Aha! jistheerthat, people!” Wood
ard cried with rising temper. I tell
you frien’s he murdered ’er! She beg
ged for ’er life an’ he shot ’erlikeadog!
Jolin Armstrong didn’t say notli’n
about Lena beggin’ fer ’er life. He
took good pains to keep that back.
_ He didn’t know that Tom Shelbv
without interruption,” suggested would ketch ’im in the lie!”
Womack, and the narrator continued : i The feeling of the crowd now turned
“We jest chatted and talked as usual! so suddenly against the accused that
the people turned their eyes upon
Armstrong who wasgazing at Womack
whom he had begun to look upon as
his friend and defender.
“Anything else?” said Womack,
looking up again.
“ There’s blood in the bullet-mark,”
answered the boy, “and—hello! here’s
the squirrel dead in the hole ! ” and lie
sent the dead animal whirling to the
ground. And with its fall all danger
of lawless violence to John Armstrong
was at an end, for all who witnessed
the test knew that the mute testimony
of the bullet-hole and the dead squirrel
established every detail of the squirrel
story, and from that moment they
Do you know any thing about the were strongly inclined to believe any-
killing of Lena Armstrong?” the law- thing that the accused might say about
yer continued. the tragedy. Some went so rar as to
“All I know sir,” the boy answered shake hands with Armstrong and
with embarrassment, “is that me, and declare him innocent. But others
George and Jack were going to school,
and a little before we got to the forks of plea for her life
to the black-gum’s body?”
“Yes, I see aill that.”
“ Well, the squir’l wus stickin’ to
the tree jest above the hole, an’ his
head an’ body wus hid frum me by the
bunch of berries, but his tail wus
bangin’ below it. I knowd that his
next jump would be fer the hole, an’
that I could’nt git
no better shot. So
I aimed wher 1
thought his body
wus an’ fired.”
“ And you didn’t
see the sqnirrel any
more ? ”
“No. I ’spose I
missed ’im an’ he
run in the hole.”
“I caint see no
good in all this, Mr.
Womack,” said
Woodard, who was
brooding over Tom
Shelby’s testimony.
“ Any fool kin fix
as good a tale as
that. He’s boun’ to
say sump’n when
you push ’im.”
“An’ squir’ls
caint talk,” put in
the younger Wood
ard.
“ Is there any
body here who can
climb the tree?”
asked Womack,
taking no notice of
the interruptions,
“I can,” said Tom
Shelby.
“ Come along
then,” continued Womack, “and cut
a long pole boys, to hold under him
and rest him until he reaches the;
limbs.”
Some one had brought an axe, and I
IkL'k’ 1 !. Waa soon ready, and in less; .. Did you hear Lena anything
than live minutes Tom had clambered befl)re t ,f , ast shot
up to the hole. j u No sir n
an y*k* n &'? ” asked the : Leaving Tom, Womack next asked
rli »i ! George a few questions with the same
There was breathless silence among , rewult he had ohtained frorn the e lder
1 spectators ■ brother, and then he addressed the as-
“ wi . u 8 answered Tom. | sembled citizens as follows :
“a fiLnM.ow u i • 4.u i. »> “Gentlemen: It is useless to repeat
“ G,«l' '- exclaimed Womack.'''And W ' e fact9 ' - The Shelby boys 9u P' ,ort
you cannot believe that he climbed the
tree alter the death and made the bul
let-mark and put the squirrel in the
hollow. As we know positively that
the boy has spoken the truth about
shooting at the squirrel, we have good
reason to believe he also spoke truly
about the patching. But it is said that
Lena begged for her life, and that may
have a very bad look to some of you,
but come back to where we left Mrs.
Woodard and the body, and I think
I shall be able to unravel that point to
the satisfaction of all.” And when
they were arrived back at that place,
he asked for silence and began to ques
tion Armstrong once more.
“John, what can you say about Tom
Shelby’s statement that he heard your
wife say “don’t shoot?”
“She did say it. I don’t deny it. I
fergot all about it when I wus talkin’
at first. But ”
“So she begged, did she?” growled
the elder Woodard.
“Mr. Woodard, please don’t do me
that a-way. Y"ou never will let me ex
plain myself. Lena wus al’ays afraid
of a gun—you know that Mr. Woodard
—an’ when I first saw the squir’l she
begged me to go on an’ let it alone*
Tom couldn’t a-heard her then—she
wus talkiu’ too low. So I wouldn’t
agree to go on and leave
the game, and about the time
I wus a-sightin’ at the squir’l, Lena,
she hollered, “Oh, please don’t
shoot,” and Tom heerd ’er then
I s’pose. I didn’t pay no ’tent ion to
Lena, but jest fired away. An’ that’s
all they is about Lena beggin’ fer ’er
life. She aint done no sich thing. I
aint never pinted the gun at ’er even
in fun. We wus jest as lovin’ as any
thing up to the time she got shot.
Now, Mr. Woodard I leave it to your
wife ef Lena wusn’t always afraid to
hear a gun fire,” turning to his mother-
in-law.
“Yes, that’s so John,” said the
mother.
“And now Tom Shelby,” said Wom
ack with the air of a man who sees
his way through a difficulty,” let’s
hear a little further from you. You
got interrupted before, but that won’t
happen again. Tell your story once
more.” *
“Well sir,” said Tom, whose valu
able service in the case had given him
confidence, “we were not very far from
the fork in the paths when we heard
Lena Armstrong say “Oh, please don’t
shoot,” and then right off* we heard
the rifle.”
“And did you then hear a body fall
to the ground, and a man’s voice cry
ing, ‘Oh God, she’s dead?”’
“Oh no, sir, that was after we came
to the fork in the paths. We were
scared a good deal by the cry and the
shot, but we come on and turned off
on the school road, but before we went
far we heard the second shot and heard
something fall, and heard the man’s
voice holler, ‘She’s dead ! She’s
dead ! Oh God ! oh God !’ And we
run down here and saw a man running
away, but we couldn’t see who he was,
and found Lena dead.”
“Are you sure it was before the first
shot that you heard the girl say ‘don’t
shoot ?’”
“Yes, sir ; George and Jack will tell
you the same thing.”
“Did you lose any time when you
heard the first shot?”
“We stopped and looked at each
other and talked low a little while. I
don’t know how long.”
“How long was it between the first
and last shots ?”
“I can’t tell, sir, I s’pose two or three
minutes.”
the accused at every point. Armstrong
has told the truth. He is innocent.
He killed his wife by accident. There
is no doubt about it. No jury would
think of convicting him. On this evi
dence he would not even be indicted
by a grand-jury.
“Woodard, this is an awful affliction,
but you are an honest man, and you
are bound to admit that your son-in-
law did not intentionally slay your
daughter.”
“I give it up, Mr. Womack,” an
swered the troubled man, rising to his
feet. “I give it up. John didn’t kill
Lena a-purpose. But it was low-down
keerlessness, an’ its mighty nigh mur
der.”
And so ended the exciting trial un
der the pines.
A litter was constructed of magnolia
boughs, and on it w*as borne the body
of Lena Armstrong to her father’s
raised doubts again by recalling Lena’s | house. And as Mr. Woodard walked
with drooping head behind the litter
Mr. Womack called Tom to the
ground, and “now Woodard and
neighbors,” said he, “men may lie, and
they often do when in danger. But
dead squirrels and bullet-holes in the
tops of trees never do. No man can
open his lips against their testimony
here. It is better than the sworn state
ment of any man in this crowd. The
bullet-mark and the squirrel in the
hole prove beyond the power of dis
pute that John Armstrong’s story
about the squirrel is true. You might
suspect that he put the patching in
the girl’s hand after the shooting, but
with his wife clinging to his arm, he
looked older than he had done that
morning as be stood upon his porch
watching the retreating form of John
Armstrong’s wife; and he tepeated, as
if to himself, from time to time: “It
was jest keerlessness—low-down—low-
down keerlessness!”
But the most inconsolable mourner
there was neither the father nor moth
er of Lena Armstrong.
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