Chapter XI

Just before noon, an electrifying piece of news swept through the entire village. There was no need for the yet-to-be-invented telegraph—the tale spread rapidly from person to person, from group to group, and from house to house with almost telegraphic speed. Naturally, the schoolmaster declared a holiday for that afternoon; it would have been strange if he hadn’t.

A bloody knife had been discovered near the body of the murdered man, identified by someone as belonging to Muff Potter—so the rumor went. It was said that a late passerby had spotted Potter washing himself at a nearby stream around one or two in the morning, and that Potter had immediately fled under suspicious circumstances—his uncharacteristic habit of washing being particularly notable. Furthermore, it was reported that the town had been scoured for this “murderer” (the public tends to be swift in examining evidence and reaching conclusions), but he remained at large. Horsemen dispersed along every road, while the Sheriff confidently declared they would capture him before nightfall.

The entire village drifted towards the graveyard. Tom’s earlier despair dissipated as an inexplicable compulsion drew him among the crowd—not because he wanted to be there, but because something powerful was pulling him. Upon arrival at this grim site, he squeezed his way through the gathering and witnessed the tragic scene. It felt like ages since he’d been here last. Someone pinched his arm; turning around, Tom’s eyes met Huck Finn’s. Both quickly looked away, wondering if anyone had noticed their exchange of glances, but everyone was engrossed in the harrowing scene.

“Poor fellow!” “Poor young man!” “This ought to be a lesson for grave robbers!” “Muff Potter will hang if they catch him!” Such were the murmurs among the crowd, and the minister solemnly added, “It was divine retribution; His hand is here.”

Tom shivered from head to toe upon seeing Injun Joe’s impassive face. Suddenly, the crowd began to sway, shouting erupted: “He’s here! He’s coming himself!”

“Who? Who?” echoed multiple voices.

“Muff Potter!”

“Hold on—he’s stopping!—Look out, he’s turning—don’t let him escape!”

Voices in the trees above Tom explained that Potter wasn’t trying to flee; he merely looked uncertain and troubled.

“One might think he came just to admire his handiwork,” commented a bystander with disdain.

The crowd parted to allow the Sheriff through, ostentatiously leading Potter by the arm. The poor man’s face was gaunt, reflecting his fear. When he stood before the deceased, he trembled violently, covering his face and breaking into tears.

“I didn’t do it, friends,” he sobbed, “I swear on my honor I never did.”

“Who accused you?” a voice bellowed.

This question seemed to strike deep. Potter raised his head, scanning the crowd with despair in his eyes. Spotting Injun Joe, he exclaimed:

“Oh, Injun Joe, you promised you’d never—”

“Is this your knife?” The Sheriff thrust it before him.

Potter would have collapsed if they hadn’t caught him and eased him to the ground. Then he murmured:

“Someday something told me I had to come back and get—” He shuddered and then waved a trembling hand in resignation, saying, “Tell them, Joe, tell them—it’s no use now.”

Huck and Tom stood silent, astonished that divine retribution hadn’t struck this liar down. As he calmly recounted his fabricated story under oath at the inquest a short while later, they felt an even stronger belief that Injun Joe had made a pact with dark forces. He was now the most intriguing—and terrifying—figure they’d ever seen.

Injun Joe helped to lift and load the body of the murdered man into a wagon for removal. Whispers circulated through the trembling crowd that the wound still bled slightly! The boys hoped this would redirect suspicion, but were disappointed when several villagers remarked:

“It was within three feet of Muff Potter when it happened.”

For over a week after these events, Tom’s secret guilt and conscience troubled his sleep. One morning at breakfast, Sid commented, “Tom, you toss around so much in your sleep that I can’t rest half the time.”

Tom turned pale and looked down.

“It’s bad,” Aunt Polly said gravely. “What do you have on your mind, Tom?”

“Nothing. Nothing I know of.” But his hand trembled so he spilled his coffee.

“And you talk such strange things,” Sid continued. “Last night you kept saying, ‘It’s blood, it’s blood—that’s what it is!’ And then, ‘Don’t torment me—I’ll tell!’ Tell what? What are you going to tell?”

Tom felt overwhelmed. Luckily, Aunt Polly’s expression softened without her realizing it, and she said:

“Oh, it’s that dreadful murder. I dream about it nearly every night myself. Sometimes it seems like I did it.”

Mary mentioned similar disturbances in her sleep. Sid seemed appeased, but Tom slipped away quickly. Afterward, he complained of toothache for a week, tying up his jaw each night. Unbeknownst to him, Sid watched nightly, often slipping the bandage off to listen, then returning it before morning. Gradually, Tom’s distress faded and the toothache became bothersome enough that he stopped pretending.

Tom thought his classmates would never tire of holding mock inquests on dead cats, keeping his trouble fresh in his mind. He noticed Sid observed that Tom seldom acted as coroner at these inquiries—though it had been his usual role—and that was strange; also noted that Tom always avoided them when possible. Sid pondered this but said nothing. Eventually, even these inquisitions fell out of favor, and no longer haunted Tom’s conscience.

Every few days during this period of mourning, Tom seized the chance to slip small comforts through the little barred jail window to Muff Potter. The jail was a modest brick structure located in a marsh at the village’s edge, guarded by none; it seldom housed anyone. These gestures helped ease Tom’s conscience.

The villagers were eager to punish Injun Joe severely for body-snatching but feared his formidable reputation and hesitated to lead such an action. He had carefully crafted his statements to begin with the fight, avoiding confession of grave robbing. It was deemed prudent not to pursue legal action at this time.