Chapter IX

At half-past nine that night, Tom and Sid went to bed as usual. They said their prayers, and soon Sid drifted off to sleep. Tom lay awake, restless and impatient. When it seemed like daylight must be near, he heard the clock strike ten! This was despair. He wanted to toss and fidget from nerves on edge but feared waking Sid. So, still, he stared up into the darkness.

Everything felt ominously quiet. Gradually, tiny noises emerged from the silence—the ticking of the clock became noticeable, old beams cracked mysteriously, and stairs creaked faintly. It seemed like spirits were present. A steady snore came from Aunt Polly’s room. Then, a relentless cricket chirped somewhere, impossible to find. Next, a death-watch beetle’s ticking in the wall at his bed’s head made Tom shudder—it signified that someone’s days were numbered. The howl of a distant dog rose into the night air and was answered by another from afar.

Tom felt an agony of suspense. He eventually convinced himself that time had stopped and eternity begun; he dozed despite himself, only to be jolted awake as the clock chimed eleven—a sound he hadn’t heard because he’d been half-asleep. Amidst his vague dreams, a mournful caterwauling sounded. The raising of a nearby window disturbed him, followed by Huckleberry Finn’s cry: “Scat! You devil!” and the crash of an empty bottle against Aunt Polly’s woodshed brought Tom wide awake. Within a minute, he was dressed and out the window, creeping along the roof to the woodshed roof and then to the ground. There was Huck, holding his dead cat. Together, they moved off into the darkness.

After half an hour, they reached the old-fashioned Western-style graveyard on a hill about a mile and a half from town. The cemetery had a creaky board fence around it that leaned inwards and outwards but stood upright nowhere. Overgrown with grass and weeds, all old graves were sunken without tombstones, just warped boards marking them. “Sacred to the memory of” someone once painted there was now faded beyond legibility.

A faint wind moaned through the trees, unsettling Tom with thoughts it might be the spirits of the dead expressing their displeasure at being disturbed. The boys spoke little and only in whispers, overwhelmed by the time, place, and pervasive solemnity and silence. They found the new grave they sought, taking shelter under three large elms near it.

Silence stretched for what felt like forever. Only an owl’s hoot disturbed the stillness. Tom grew reflective and restless. He initiated a whisper:

“Huck, do you think the dead people mind us being here?”

Huck whispered back, “I wish I knew. It’s awfully solemn, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

A pause followed as they each considered this internally. Then Tom whispered again:

“Say, Huck—do you reckon Hoss Williams hears us talking?”

“Of course he does. At least his spirit does.”

Tom pondered before saying, “I wish I’d called him Mister Williams. But everyone calls him Hoss.”

“You can’t be too careful about how you speak of the dead, Tom.”

This was a sobering thought, and conversation lapsed again.

Suddenly, Tom grabbed Huck’s arm and whispered:

“Shh!”

“What is it, Tom?” They clung together, hearts pounding.

“Sh! There it is again. Did you hear that?”

“I—”

“There! Now you can’t miss it.”

“Oh my, they’re coming! We’re in trouble now. What should we do?”

“I don’t know. Do you think they’ll see us?”

“Oh Tom, they can see in the dark like cats. I wish I hadn’t come.”

“Don’t worry. I doubt they’ll bother us—we aren’t doing anything wrong. If we stay perfectly still, maybe they won’t even notice us.”

“I’ll try, but Lord, I’m trembling all over.”

“Listen!”

The boys huddled close and barely breathed as muffled voices drifted up from the far end of the graveyard.

“Look! See that?” Tom whispered. “What is it?”

“It’s devil-fire. Oh my, Tom, this is terrible.”

Vague figures approached, swinging an old tin lantern that cast tiny spots of light across the ground. Eventually, Huck whispered with a shudder:

“They’re devils for sure. Three of them! Oh my, we’re doomed! Can you pray?”

“I’ll try, but don’t be afraid. They won’t hurt us. ‘Now I lay me down to sleep, I—’”

“Sh!”

“What is it, Huck?”

“One of them’s a human voice. It’s old Muff Potter.”

“No—it can’t be. Don’t move or make noise. He isn’t sharp enough to notice us. Probably drunk as usual—the poor man.”

“Okay, I’ll stay still. Now they’re stuck. Can’t find it. Here they come again. Now they’re on the right track this time. Say, Huck, I recognize another voice—it’s Injun Joe.”

“You’re right—that murderous half-breed! I’d rather deal with devils any day. What could they be doing?”

The whisper ceased as the three men reached the grave and stood near the boys’ hiding spot.

“Here it is,” said one voice, lifting the lantern to reveal young Doctor Robinson’s face.

Potter and Injun Joe carried a handbarrow with a rope and shovels. They set down their load and started digging. The doctor positioned the lantern by the grave, sat against an elm tree so close he could have touched them.

“Hurry up, men!” he urged in a hushed tone. “The moon might appear any second.”

They responded gruffly and continued digging. For a while, only the spades’ clinking disrupted the silence—monotonous. Suddenly, a spade struck the coffin with a dull thud, and soon enough, it was out on the ground. They pried off the lid and removed the body, dumping it rudely aside. The moon disappeared behind clouds, revealing the pale face.

The handbarrow was prepared; the corpse covered in a blanket, tied down with rope. Potter retrieved a large spring-knife and cut the loose end of the rope before saying:

“Now everything’s ready, Sawbones—just give us another five or it stays put.”

“That sounds fair!” Injun Joe agreed.

“What does all this mean?” asked the doctor. “You wanted your pay upfront, and I’ve given it to you.”

“Yes, but you did more,” said Injun Joe, stepping closer. “Five years ago, you kicked me out of your father’s kitchen when I came for food, accusing me of bad intentions. And when I swore revenge if it took a century, your father had me jailed as a vagrant. Did you think I’d forget? The Indian blood isn’t in me for nothing. Now I’ve got you, and now you have to settle with me.”

He was threatening the doctor, fist raised. Suddenly, the doctor struck out, felling Potter. Potter dropped his knife and exclaimed:

“Don’t hit my friend!”

In a flash, he grappled with the doctor; they struggled fiercely, tearing up grass as they tumbled.

Injun Joe rose to his feet, eyes blazing with fury. He snatched Potter’s knife, creeping stealthily around the combatants seeking an opening. Abruptly, the doctor freed himself and brought down the grave’s headboard on Potter—then Injun Joe saw his chance and plunged the knife into the young man.

Potter collapsed partly atop Injun Joe, drenching him in blood. As the moon obscured the horrific scene, the two terrified boys fled.

When it reappeared, Injun Joe stood over the motionless forms, contemplating them. The doctor murmured unintelligibly, gasped a few times, and fell still. The half-breed muttered:

“That score’s settled—damn you.”

He then stripped the body. Afterward, he placed the knife in Potter’s open hand, sitting on the emptied coffin. Minutes passed until Potter stirred, moaned, clutched the knife, glanced at it, then let it fall with a shudder. Rising, pushing aside the body, he looked around bewildered. His eyes met Joe’s.

“Oh Lord, what has happened, Joe?” Potter asked.

“It’s a dirty business,” Joe replied without moving.

“What did you do this for?”

“I! I never did it!”

“Look here—this won’t wash.”

Potter turned pale and trembled.

“I thought I’d sobered up. Drinking tonight wasn’t wise—I’m all confused; can barely remember anything. How did this happen, Joe? Oh, what a mess—and him so young and full of promise.”

“You two were scuffling, he hit you with the headboard and you fell down; then when you came up dizzy, staggering around, you grabbed the knife and plunged it in him just as he was about to hit you again. And here you’ve lain unconscious till now.”

“Oh, I didn’t know what I was doing—I wish I died right now if I did. It’s all because of the whiskey and excitement. I never used a weapon before, Joe. Sure, I’ve fought without weapons. They’ll see it this way. Joe, don’t tell on me! Promise you won’t—Joe?”

“I’ll be fair with you; I always have been and won’t turn my back now. There, that’s as honest as one can get.”

“Oh, Joe, you’re an angel. I’ll thank you for this forever.” Potter began to cry.

“Alright, no more of that—it’s not the time to blubber. You move off that way and I’ll go this direction. Move fast; don’t leave tracks behind.”

Potter started jogging, quickening into a run. The half-breed watched him go. He muttered:

“If he’s as stunned from the hit and fuddled by drink as it seems, he won’t think of the knife until he’s far enough to be scared to return for it alone—chicken-heart!”

A few moments later, only the moon witnessed the murdered man, blanketed corpse, lidless coffin, and open grave. Silence reigned again.