An Alibi
In the autumn of 18— I had made my arrangements to retire from the practice of law, and preparatory thereto had gone up into the country for a vacation of a couple of months at the old place, out of the reach of business or clients.
But some way it happened that I could not keep away from a court-room, and one morning learning that Judge—would hold a ‘circuit in toe’ town that day, I rode over to shake hands with some old friends, and gather the news of the county.
It was a brilliant morning. The mountains were covered with the tints of autumn, the sky was surprisingly clear and blue, everything invigorating to a city man. The ride along the country road was so inspiriting that, as I reached the front of the old courthouse and sprang from my horse, it was with a fresher and more lively flow of spirits than I had felt in years.
As I entered the room the Judge was standing near the stove, with a group of lawyers surrounding him, and, as I joined them, the sheriff entered with half a dozen prisoners.
“Criminal business today?” inquired someone.
“Yes,” said the District Attorney. “We propose to try the two murder cases if we can.”
“Who are the prisoners?” I inquired.
“A negro, Johnson—half the negroes in the county are Johnson—is indicted for the murder of his wife; and a young fellow, named Randall, for killing old Solomon Davis. You ought to remember the old man?”
“I do, well. I remember hearing of the murder.”
There was no interruption to the joking and laughing around the stove; the entrance of the solemn-faced prisoners had no effect on the group.
That scene, which is one of daily occurrence in our country, is worthy a pause here to sketch. It cannot be possible that any man who has witnessed it as often as I have, can fail to desire the addition of some solemnities and for… Read More