On the day when Custer was to be sentenced, Colonel
Pennington and Shannon Burke were present in the court
room. Mrs. Pennington had remained at home with
Eva, who was slowly convalescing. Shannon reached the
court room before the colonel. When he arrived, he sat
down beside her, and placed his hand on hers.
“Whatever happens,” he said, “we shall still believe
in him. No matter what the evidence—and I do not deny
that the jury brought in a just verdict in accordance with
it—I know that he is innocent. He told me yesterday
that he was innocent, and my boy would not lie to me. He
thought that you killed Crumb, Shannon. He overheard
the conversation between you and Crumb in the patio
that day, and he knew that you had good reason to kill
the man. He knows now, as we all know, that you did
not. Probably it must always remain a mystery. He
would not tell me that he was innocent until after you
had been proven so. He loves you very much, my girl!”
“After all that he heard here in court? After what
I have been? I thought none of you would ever want
to see me again.”
The colonel pressed her hand.
“Whatever happens,” he said, “you are going back
home with me. You tried to give your life for my
son. If this were not enough, the fact that he loves you,
and that we love you, is enough.”
Two tears crept down Shannon’s cheeks—the first
visible signs of emotion that she had manifested during
all the long weeks of the ordeal that she had been
through. Nothing had so deeply affected her as the
magnanimity of the proud old Pennington, whose pride
and honor, while she had always admired them, she had
regarded as an indication of a certain puritanical narrowness
that could not forgive the transgression of a woman.
When the judge announced the sentence, and they
realized that Custer Pennington was to pay the death
penalty, although it had been almost a foregone conclusion,
the shock left them numb and cold.
Neither the condemned man nor his father gave any
outward indication of the effect of the blow. They
were Penningtons, and the Pennington pride permitted
them no show of weakness before the eyes of strangers.
Nor yet was there any bravado in their demeanor. The
younger Pennington did not look at his father or Shannon
as he was led away toward his cell, between two
bailiffs.
As Shannon Burke walked from the court room with
the colonel, she could think of nothing but the fact that
in two months the man she loved was to be hanged.
She tried to formulate plans for his release—wild,
quixotic plans; but she could not concentrate her mind
upon anything but the bewildering thought that in two
months they would hang him by the neck until he was
dead.
She knew that he was innocent. Who, then, had committed
the crime? Who had murdered Wilson Crumb?
Outside the Hall of Justice she was accosted by Allen,
whom she attempted to pass without noticing. The
colonel turned angrily on the man. He was in the mood
to commit murder himself; but Allen forestalled any outbreak
on the old man’s part by a pacific gesture of his
hands and a quick appeal to Shannon.
“Just a moment, please,” he said. “I know you
think I had a lot to do with Pennington’s conviction. I
want to help you now. I can’t tell you why. I don’t
believe he was guilty. I changed my mind recently.
If I can see you alone, Miss Burke, I can tell you something
that might give you a line on the guilty party.”
“Under no conceivable circumstances can you see Miss
Burke alone,” snapped the colonel.
“I’m not going to hurt her,” said Allen. “Just let
her talk to me here alone on the sidewalk, where no one
can overhear.”
“Yes,” said the girl, who could see no opportunity
pass which held the slightest ray of hope for Custer.
The colonel walked away, but turned and kept his
eyes on the man when he was out of earshot. Allen
spoke hurriedly to the girl for ten or fifteen minutes, and
then turned and left her. When she returned to the
colonel, the latter did not question her. When she did
not offer to confide in him, he knew that she must have
good reasons for her reticence, since he realized that her
sole interest lay in aiding Custer.
For the next two months the colonel divided his time
between Ganado and San Francisco, that he might be
near San Quentin, where Custer was held pending the
day of execution. Mrs. Pennington, broken in health
by the succession of blows that she had sustained, was
sorely in need of his companionship and help. Eva was
rapidly regaining her strength and some measure of
her spirit. She had begun to realize how useless and
foolish her attempt at self-destruction had been, and to
see that the braver and nobler course would have been to
give Guy the benefit of her moral support in his time of
need.
The colonel, who had wormed from Custer the full
story of his conviction upon the liquor charge, was able
to convince her that Guy had not played a dishonorable
part, and that of the two he had suffered more than Custer.
Her father did not condone or excuse Guy’s wrong-doing,
but he tried to make her understand that it was
no indication of a criminal inclination, but rather the
thoughtless act of an undeveloped boy.
During the two months they saw little or nothing of
Shannon. She remained in Los Angeles, and when she
made the long trip to San Quentin to see Custer, or when
they chanced to see her, they could not but note how thin
and drawn she was becoming. The roses had left her
cheeks, and there were deep lines beneath her eyes, in
which there was constantly an expression of haunting
fear.
As the day of the execution drew nearer, the gloom
that had hovered over Ganado for months settled like a
dense pall upon them all. On the day before the execution
the colonel left for San Francisco, to say good-by
to his son for the last time. Custer had insisted that his
mother and Eva must not come, and they had acceded to
his wish.
On the afternoon when the colonel arrived at San
Quentin, he was permitted to see his son for the last time.
The two conversed in low tones, Custer asking questions
about his mother and sister, and about the little everyday
activities of the ranch. Neither of them referred to the
event of the following morning.
“Has Shannon been here to-day?” the colonel asked.
Custer shook his head.
“I haven’t seen her this week,” he said. “I suppose
she dreaded coming. I don’t blame her. I should like
to have seen her once more, though!”
Presently they stood in silence for several moments.
“You’d better go, dad,” said the boy. “Go back to
mother and Eva. Don’t take it too hard. It isn’t so bad,
after all. I have led a bully life, and I have never forgotten
once that I am a Pennington. I shall not forget
it to-morrow.”
The father could not speak. They clasped hands
once, the older man turned away, and the guards led
Custer back to the death cell for the last time.
