Free Pages Torn From a Travel Journal by Edward Lee Page B

face of an unkempt, wild-haired man of about 40, his eyes inflamed by a wedding of madness & panic-fear. I don’t think he saw me on the road for he kept running straight, shooting glances behind. Then a voice boomed in the background, clearly addressing me: “You there on the road! In the name’a God stop that fella just run out the woods! He done raped’n murdered a child! ” The words had not even consciously registered in my brain before my arms shot out & in what must have been complete surprise “clotheslined” the alleged murderer. It was the inside of my elbow that caught him directly across the throat. There was a gargled grunt, then the figure flew backward against the unseen obstruction, & landed hard on his back.
    Half a dozen brawn-stocked men of the sort that are known as “hillfolk” surrounded the scene with guttering torches. The fallen man foundered at their feet, groaning.
    A hand callused like sandpaper slapped my back to the extent that I nearly lost my breath, then a hardy voice in the local dialect boomed, “Sir, we are, I say, we are in some tall debt to ya for so bravely stoppin’ this white-trash killer in his tracks! The bastard almost got away!” & at once the entire rustic group chattered their thanks & shook my hand. It was the first hillman who shook my hand, though, with the vigour of a well-pump. “My name’s Eamon Martin, and these all’s my kin, other Martins, Tucktons, Bishops mostly. We live out yonder in the woods, preferrin’ not to mingle much with the outside world, seein’ how evil it’s a-gettin’.” The alleged fugitive was hoisted up by 2 well-muscled men in overalls, then shaken around. Perhaps the power of suggestion impelled me, but the face on that man in the torchlight was truly a face filled with malevolency. He wore heavy-fabric’d garb with a # stitched on the shirt; that along with the iron ring about his ankle left no doubt as to his status: an escaped convict. “This pile’a swamp-rat shit must’a been in a chain-gang’n managed ta bust his shackle. Then he come through where we all live and-and . . . ,” & then Eamon gulped in a choked sadness. “Ain’t no doubt’a his devilish crime ‘cos it was Constance Butler, the preacher’s wife, who done caught him in the act. Rapin’ the high heaven out’a li’l Sary May Boover, and when he done got his nut, he up’n raped Constance too. But poor Sary weren’t but thirteen, and he busted up her insides so bad, the poor girl bled to death.”
    “That’s-that’s horrible,” I croaked. “And it seems that such eye-witness testimony verifies this man’s guilt beyond all doubt.”
    “That it does, Sir. And now’s time for us ta right as much as we can, while’s all we can do is pray for young Sary’s immortal soul. Foller me, it’d be our pleasure to at least offer ya some refreshment.”
    Amid my own calamities, I was about to decline the rustic’s offer of hospitality, but suddenly I was aware of a mighty thirst, and I think I could trust in my judgment of men that these hillfolk were sincere. So I accepted, and followed.
    Eamon & the entire group then wended their way back into the over-nourished forest, torches bobbing. “Mind yer fire men, and take care,” Eamon ordered, then to me, “Ain’t but a short walk, Sir. Now I can tell by lookin’ at ya that you’re a man of some soffister-kay-shun, likely a city man, am I right?”
    “I’m from Providence, Rhode Island, yes, and I appreciate the compliment.”
    “No, Sir, ‘tis us who ‘preciates you takin’ down this akker-lite’a the devil. He’d shorely be gone now weren’t it fer yer bravery.”
    “Really, it was mostly luck, I must admit; I did little more than throw my arms out to catch him in the throat.”
    “Aw, yer too humble, Sir! Ya stopped a godless monster in his tracks! But bein’ a city fella, there’s things ya need ta understant. Down here, see, the way the world is leaves us no choice but to take