Sunshine Johnson, Murderer

EEING the two men together and knowing that one of them was a murderer, there was one chance in a thousand that the visitor would pick out the right man as the criminal.

The white man sat on an easy canvas camp-chair. He was a tall, thin man, with a stern, forbidding look on his face that might have been caused by remorse, but which, more probably, was caused by dyspepsia. There were certain inflexible lines about his mouth which showed him to be a man of great determination, and his firm-set lips were lips that appeared never to smile. His sharp eyes had a clear and steady look in them that went through a man, and few of those around him cared to meet those eyes when there was a spark of anger in them. He was such an unerring judge of character that he had come to believe he could not make a mistake, which is a dangerous state of thinking for a man in his position, because a mistake made by him might mean death to somebody. Nevertheless, he trusted people that no one else would think of trusting, and his trust was rarely taken advantage of. This man was J. S. Flint, the head of Tall Mountain Penitentiary.

The black man who stood beside him, and who was receiving some instructions from him, had the simple, trustful, child-like face which is so often found in the negro race. He seemed to have difficulty in keeping his broad mouth from relaxing into a smile; and only the fact that he was talking with the Master of the Penitentiary kept down his exuberant good nature. No convict would take the liberty to smile while Jackson Flint talked to him, but this negro was a privileged character even if he wore the striped suit of an inmate of the Penitentiary. He was Sunshine Johnson, in for life, a murderer, yet on his arm rested Jackson Flint's little curly-headed daughter, aged six, and her arms were round the negro's black neck and her fair cheek was pressed close to his dusky face. The murderer was one of the convicts that Jackson Flint trusted. He had certainly an easy time of it; he waited on the table, took care of the children and did any odd job about the house. The negro was called "Sunshine" by every one around the camp. Doubtless he had not been christened that name, but he had been called by it before he entered the Penitentiary, and by that name he was known on the books of the institution. If a visitor, attracted by his name or his beaming countenance, so full of good nature and love of all humanity, asked the Superintendent who he was, Flint's brows would knit together in a frown as he answered, shortly, "A lifer;" if the visitor still pressed for information as to his crime, the frown grew deeper and the answer gruffer—"A murderer." Most people gave a gasp at this bit of information as they saw the negro playing with the pretty child of the Superintendent; but Jackson Flint was not a man anyone would care to ask personal questions of, and if the astonishing state of things caused a look of surprise to come over the visitor's face, the look was seldom translated into speech. Sometimes the inquisitive visitor sought information from Sunshine himself. When asked about his crime Sunshine always looked embarrassed and generally cast an appealing glance at the questioner. He stood on one bare foot and slowly rubbed the ankle of it with the toe of his other foot, while a look of perplexity came over his countenance.

"Foh de Lohd, boss, I dunno much about it, dat's de truf. I 'spects I killed de man. He's daed anyhow, and somebody done it, and dey said it was me; yes, dey proved dat at de Cohts. You see I was drunk at the time, and I dunno anything at all about it. 'Spects dat's de reason dey didn't hang me at the time. I'se very sorry I done it if I did do it." And then Sunshine would make an excuse to run away and play with his little charge.

The Penitentiary was little more than a camp composed of rough wooden buildings, and was situated on a spur of the mountain overlooking the great, deep valley, from the bottom of which the turbulent little river sent up an unceasing roar. All around were the high peaks of the mountain range, closing the place in apparently without a break, although there was an unseen, narrow, rocky gorge through which the river escaped, and along whose banks the single line of railway track ran. The mountains all around were densely wooded, and not a building was in sight anywhere, except a large hotel at the bottom of the valley, which was a sort of summer resort, with broad verandas. The eternal silence of its location was broken only by the brawling river that ran beside it, and by the occasional trains which passed close to the hotel, as part of the big house was a station on the line. Passengers on the railway coming to this hotel, when they first caught sight of it, away down in the valley below them, generally made a motion to get their small bits of baggage together, preparatory to leaving, but the conductor used to say to them, good naturedly:

"We are not quite there yet; I wouldn't make a move for a minute or two if I were you; just watch that hotel."

Then, looking out of the car window into this incomparably grand valley, the passenger found himself taken round and round the circumference of the great gulf. Now the hotel was directly below him, again he was looking at it from across the valley; round and round the train went, getting gradually lower and lower, and it was nearly an hour after the passengers' first sight of the hotel that the train drew up under its very verandas.

The convict settlement on the spur of the mountain was invisible from the railway track, but the convicts were there because the railway was there. They were hired out to the railway company by the State Government, and as the train dashed by, sometimes the passengers were shocked to see, standing close in by the cliffs beside the tracks, twenty or thirty black men in convict garments, some with ball and chain attached to their ankles. And then, as the train flashed on, white men with rifles on their shoulders were seen guarding the workers on the railway. Nevertheless, if a man had his choice of his prison, this particular convict camp would be likely to be the one chosen, if he knew about it. It had a glorious situation, the air was pure and clear, so much so, that the locality was one of the noted health resorts of America. A visitor was generally astonished when he examined the camp to find what little difficulty a convict would have in escaping from it. Here and there were tall board erections, on which a man was stationed with a rifle or shot-gun. There was no wall around the camp, its only protection being a small picket-fence, easily leaped over. But Nature guarded the prisoners. On almost every side the descent was steep and even precipitous, but a convict would run no danger for life or limb in making the descent. But although a convict might easily have leaped the slender barrier, and might have dodged the shots from the men on the wooden towers, his escape was next thing to hopeless; he had to climb over the mountain to get away, and a telegraph station in the convict settlement quickly apprised all civilization outside this wilderness that such and such a man had escaped. The usual result of an attempt to escape was that a week or ten days after the leap over the barrier a gaunt, starved man came out of the wilderness and gave himself up at the first place where he could get something to eat Often he failed in scaling the mountain and returned after a few days to the camp itself. The very frailty of the fence around the camp showed the utter hopelessness of attempting to escape.

On the particular day in summer to which this account relates there had been a furious storm of rain in the mountains. The clouds seemed to have become entangled among the peaks, and they hung over the valley, unable, like the prisoners, to escape, and poured their floods into it until the little river had become a wild and raving torrent, gleaming here and there in white among the dark trees. Towards night the clouds succeeded in breaking away and floated over to the west, but the mutter of distant thunder showed that the storm was not yet over, while the heat seemed more oppressive than ever even after the terrible day's rain. When darkness set in, the watery, silvery sickle of the moon hung over the valley and filled it with a weird, dim, tremulous light. The roar of the torrent, increased by the stillness all around, came up from the bottom of the valley on the night air.

The Master of the Penitentiary sat in a rocking-chair on the veranda of his wooden house, smoking his corncob pipe. What little coolness there was, was outside and not inside the house. Suddenly a burst of childish laughter broke on his ear, and looking to the left he saw his little girl lashing Sunshine Johnson as if he were a horse, while that good-natured individual trotted up and down with the child on his shoulders.

"Sunshine," cried the master, "what are you doing with Dorothy out so late as this?"

The negro came to an instant stop at the sound of the master's voice, and the child even hushed its laughter. Little Dorothy was much more afraid of her stern father than of the good-natured murderer.

"Well, you see, massa, it's like this," said the negro, deferentially. "Little Dot had to be in de house all de day on account of de rain, sir, and it's so warm inside dat her mother she thought we cud play a little before she goes to bed, and den little Dot, sir, she thought she'd like to ax you, sir, if she might stay up and see de midnight express."

"The midnight express, nonsense!" cried Flint. "Dorothy, you don't want to stay up so late as that?"

The little girl made no answer, but clung tighter with alarm around the negro's neck and whispered into his ear.

"She'd like very much to stay up, sah; she hasn't seen it for a long time. I don't think it would do her any harm, sah."

"Oh, she's whispered that to you, has she?"

The negro laughed a little and then checked himself. "Well, massa, I don't think it would do her any harm, sah; you see it's so warm dat de little gall she couldn't sleep at night, anyway, and perhaps after she sees de train den she goes to sleep, sah."

"Oh, very well," said Flint, "if her mother said it's all right, it is all right."

And then he took to smoking again, and perhaps wondered why it was that his little girl preferred to whisper her request in the negro's ear rather than to speak it out to him. But a man who has charge of a hundred desperate convicts is apt to lose that softness of demeanor which commends itself to children. The midnight express, he knew, was a great sight to see on a dark night The train appeared with its long row of lights from out a tunnel, and passing by the convict settlement, disappeared among the trees and through another tunnel. It came in sight again on the other side of the valley, its long line of lights appearing to crawl slowly around the mountain, while the roar of the train mingled with the roar of the torrent below. Thus it appeared and disappeared at different intervals and at different levels, sometimes going in one direction and sometimes in another, but always getting farther and farther down, like an enchanted train that had become entangled in the mountain slopes. It was alternately a row of lights and a roar, then darkness and silence, until it stopped at the station at the bottom of the valley and with a final shriek of the whistle, that echoed long after the train had gone, disappeared through the notch into the more open country beyond on its way to the Atlantic seaboard, which it would reach the next morning.

It was really the time for the train when Jackson Flint was startled by a cry from his child. What he saw the next moment simply paralyzed him for the time. Sunshine Johnson had picked up a lantern which stood on the platform in front of his quarters, and shouting to Dorothy, "Run in de house, honey; run in de house!" leaped the fence and made off into the woods.

The little girl clung to the palings of the fence and cried for her comrade. The clear voice of Jackson Flint startled everyone in the camp:

"Come back, you black scoundrel; where are you going?"

A wave of the lantern was the only reply.

Then Flint quickly put his hand to his hip and drew his seven-shooter. The sharp crack of the revolver clove the midnight air.

"Run in de house, honey; run in de house," repeated the negro, at the top of his voice.

And then the master noticed that his little, crying, curly-headed girl stood in a line between him and the escaping convict.

As a general thing Flint was an unerring shot; but now his hand trembled as he fired over his little girl's head six times, and then threw the empty revolver on the ground. Every time he fired, the rapidly disappearing negro swung the lantern over his head.

Flint shouted to the sleeping guards on the towers:

"Why don't you fire? Fire at him with the shot-gun." Flint clinched his teeth and awaited the result. His command had been practically a sentence of death, and he knew it. The rifle sends one pellet of death, the shot-gun sends a dozen leaden messengers, each shrieking for a life.

Three men on the towers fired almost simultaneously from the shot-guns, whose scattering fire raked and tore through the bushes. Again the negro swung the lantern over his head, but this time there was a shriek of pain from him, although he never stopped in his headlong career, and the next instant was out of sight and hearing.

All the convicts had long ago been locked up in their quarters, and most of the officials had turned in, but now pale-faced men came hurrying up to the master. The Assistant-Superintendent hurried forward, partially dressed, and said to his chief:

"Anything wrong, sir?"

"Yes."

"Anyone escaped?"

"Yes."

"Who is it, sir?"

"Johnson."

"Not Sunshine?" said the Assistant, in amazement.

Flint turned on him savagely. "I said Johnson; what other Johnson is there here?" and he glared with clenched fists at his subordinate.

The other did not answer for a moment; then he said:

"Shall I turn out the guard and search for him, sir?"

"No, go to bed."

Little Dorothy, silent and frightened at the firing, clung gasping to the paling. Her mother came out and ran towards her, bending over her and trying to calm her fright, satisfying herself that the child was not hurt. With the little girl in her arms, she approached her husband.

"Who was it?" she said, in tremulous tones.

"Take that child in," thundered the Master of the Penitentiary. "What is she doing out at this hour? And get inside yourself."

Mrs. Flint turned without a word, for she knew her husband in this mood had better be left alone. He strode up and down the platform of the veranda muttering to himself. "He is sure to be caught and then" Flint ground his teeth: and there was no question but it would go hard with the trusted convict when he was caught.

The bitterness of it all was that the whole camp—convicts and guards—knew how he had trusted Sunshine Johnson, and then he had fired at him, and missed him.

After an hour's walking back and forth Flint sat down again in his chair and covered his face with his hands, thinking over the startling events of the night. Suddenly a very soft and low voice made him spring from the chair to his feet

"Massa Flint," said the voice. Sunshine, with the lantern in his hand, stood before him in a very dejected and crestfallen manner, his clothes torn by the bushes and brambles through which he run. "You scoundrel!" cried Flint, "what did you do that for?"

"Well, you see, massa," said the negro, apologetically, "you didn't hear it, did you, sah?"

"Hear what?"

"Hear de landslide. I heard it rattle down on de track, and I knew I had to jump if I was to save that express—I saved it though. I 'speck de rain loosened de bank in de new cut; der's a regular mountain of gravel down on de track, sah."

The hard eyes of the master filled with tears, and he placed both hands on the negro's shoulders, who, like a culprit, gazed on the ground. Flint struggled with his agitation for a moment, but seemed unable to say just what he wanted to say. Finally he spoke commonplacely enough: "Then you saved the express, did you, Sunshine?"

The negro looked up. The master had always called him Johnson. "Yes, massa, and de kenductor he's a-comin'. We need a shovelling gang out dar at onct."

"All right, Sunshine," said Flint. "You go and tell the Sub. to come here at once, and tell him to rout out a gang to clear away the dirt. Say, what's the matter with your arm?"

Sunshine's left arm hung limp by his side, and now that the lantern' flashed upon it, Flint saw blood trickling down his hand. Sunshine looked sheepish and guilty, and scratched his ankle with his bare toe.

"Well, you see, sah, I got hit a little on dat arm when they fired de shot-guns. Don't expect dey fired at me, you see, sah; guess dey wouldn't ah hit me if dey had, dey sort o' fired promiscoous like," he added, as if it were necessary to make an excuse for the men who shot him. "Can't expect very good shooting, you know, for thirteen dollars a month, kin you?"

"Go into the house," said Flint. "I will rout out the gang myself, and I'll send the doctor to you at once."

At this moment the conductor with a lantern hanging from his elbow, and a brakeman, clambered up from the track into the convict camp. The conductor was a jovial fellow who knew Flint. "Hullo," he said, "what's this you've been doing to us? Been trying to smash up the night express? Say, the whole side of a mountain seems to have come down over the track."

"Well," said Flint, gruffly, "you may be mighty glad you didn't get your train smashed up in it. You would have if it hadn't been for one of my niggers."

"Yes, I know that," said the other, who didn't know, however, the risk the negro had run in order to save the train. "But, say, how soon can we have this cleared away? We've got the Governor of North Carolina on board, and he's as mad as the mischief at the delay. If we had the Governor of South Carolina too, it wouldn't be so bad, because they could ask each other the celebrated question, but you see he's traveling alone in his private car." Flint was a serious man and did not understand the bibulous joke connected with the names of the Governors of North and South Carolina, but he pricked up his ears at the mention of that official. "Oh, he's on board, is he? Well, I'm glad of it. I want him to pardon a lifer."

"Well," said the conductor, scratching his head, "I wouldn't ask him just now if I were you, because he's not in the best of humor."

"I don't think he'll ever be in better humor to do what I want him to than now, because if it hadn't been for my lifer, his private car might be lying down at the bottom of the ravine with him smashed in it."

"Oh, that's how the matter stands," said the conductor; "well, I guess the Governor 'll do it."

And the Governor did it.