864 
THE RURAL NEW-YORKER 
DEC. i3 
A MODEL CHRISTMAS MURDER. 
The Killing of Jim Benson. 
I. 
WO things are perfectly true: 
The Rural New-Yorker 
is not very strong on de¬ 
scriptions of murder—we 
are all very glad of that— 
and if one is going to tell a 
Christmas story he ought 
to have sense enough to 
know that people at this 
time want happy stories 
that end well, not blood¬ 
curdling tales of death and crime. I know that—just 
wait. This murder is such a model in all respects that I 
am sure you will think it 
worthy a place in The Rural, 
and, permit me to say it, if 
you ever have any murdering 
of your own to do, I am con¬ 
fident that this model will be 
of service to you. 
Another thing—remember 
that I am taking you into a 
great confidence. Up to date, 
only three persons have 
known about it. Now I make 
it public. I believe in ad¬ 
vertising improved things. 
Consider this murder public 
property. Now we go ! 
f Jim Benson was the last 
man Sawdust City folks ex¬ 
pected to see. Five years be¬ 
fore he had gone away “be¬ 
tween two days” as the saying 
is. All the reputation that 
Jim had was thoroughly bad, 
I fear. Only three people be¬ 
lieved in him or wanted him 
to come home. Could a man 
leave a worse record than that 
behind him ? Who were these 
three people ? His old mother 
and father and Mary Grey. 
The old folks were getting 
childish off in their little 
house in the clearing. They 
had listened so long to the 
wind moaning through the 
pine trees and seen the dark 
shadows creep out from under 
the woods so regularly that 
they had somehow forgotten 
the old Jim and remembered 
only the boy they had loved 
so well and who had carried 
so much of their pride and 
hope. And Mary Grey—had 
she forgotten ? One could 
hardly say that; she had suf¬ 
fered too much, her trouble 
had sharpened her features 
and wrinkled her face, and yet 
there is something mysterious 
about a woman’s heart that 
hoids her faith and keeps it pure and bright forever. They 
lived alone, these three people, waiting for Jim to come 
home and make them all happy. 
And he had come; but it was not the old Jim they used 
to know. This was an earnest, well-dressed, prosperous- 
looking man who looked them all squarely in the eye. 
His old cronies could not reach him at all. 
“ Come and take a drink, Jim 1” they said. This was 
the highest form of a reception that they could think of. 
“No, boys, I’m out of that,” answered Jim, stoutly. 
“No more of that for me. I’ve come back here to do 
the right thing by the old folks, and Mary, too—I’ll set 
them right I tell you. I’ve kept'it all a secret so as to 
get here just at Christmas Eve. Haven’t they stuck to 
me, though f Well, they have—they believed in me when 
I didn’t even believe in myself. I’ll attend to their case 
now, I tell you. Here, Jake Reynolds, let’s see if you’ve 
got anything in your store good enough for Christmas 
presents for them. I want a few more besides what I 
have.” 
Jake Reynolds bestirred himself to display his goods 
you may be sure, and Jim pulled out a great roll of bills 
to show that he was able to pay for what he bought. I 
am sorry he did that, for two of the men who knew about 
this murder were watching him with eyes that glittered 
like those of a wild beast. 
Nobody noticed them, however, and Jim made his pur¬ 
chases, paid his bill, and started away for the little house 
in the woods. The ground was covered with snow. The 
road dodged about among the stumps and the trees, at 
times running beneath the shadow of some great pine and 
again jumping out into some little clearing where the 
moonbeams sparkled on the crisp snow. The night was 
cold and Jim rubbed his ears as he walked, shifting his 
packages from one hand to the other. Still he trudged 
sturdily along, whistling a tune as he walked. It is sad 
to think that he was walking straight to his death. 
ing his great arms over his head, he said, "good night” to 
the company, and they went out and shut the door behind 
them. The big man threw one keen glance at Jim’s roll 
of money and then started at a brisk pace down Sawdust 
City’s main street with George at his heels. Out of the 
moonlight, in the shade of an old sawmill, near the bridge, 
he halted and pushed George up in the shadow. 
“We’ve got to do it, George,” he said hoarsely. “ One 
of us must do it. It’s our only chance to save Grace’s 
life and you know it. A man can hide in the bushes by 
the side of the road and knock him senseless, without even 
showing his face. One of us must go home so that he can 
swear the other did not leave the house. A man can 
swing off this bridge to the ice, follow it up to the fallen 
tree and creep up that to the road without leaving a track. 
It must be done. Let’s draw cuts to see who goes.” 
“Not here !” said George, huskily, “let’s get home first.” 
the shadow of the trees to the bridge. There was no one 
in sight and as quick as a flash he swung himself off the 
bridge on to the ice. In an instant he was in the shadow 
again, creeping up the ice that left no tell-tale mark. This 
is a model murder, you see, in every respect. 
In his great house up on the hill, old Grabb was walking 
to and fro—very well satisfied with himself. As he turned 
in his walk his eye fell for a moment on the distant bridge 
clearly shown in the moonlight. Some wild animal seemed 
to dash out of the shadow, spring from the bridge and 
disappear up the river. What did Mr. Grabb care ? Noth¬ 
ing 1 He was well housed and comfortable. Was not that 
enough ? 
III. 
Where Is My Wand’rlng Boy To-Night? The Child of My Tend’rest Care?” 
I spoke of two men who watched Jim’s money in the 
store. One was a great rough, brawny fellow, while the 
other was a little man with light hair and delicate fea¬ 
tures. The big man gave his companion a nudge with his 
elbow and then said—so loud that all could hear him : 
“Come, George, let’s go home, I’m tired.” Then stretch¬ 
They went on over the bridge together up to a little 
shanty of a house that stood almost alone. Cold-blooded 
murderers you call them ? No, they were only driven to 
desperation. Not one man in 1,000 ever knows what it is 
to be desperate. There would be more charity in the world 
if the proportion were greater. These two men were 
driven almost to madness. The woman they loved better 
thau their lives was simply starving to death and they, 
strong, active men, could not save her. There was no 
work for them, though they had begged and pleaded for it. 
They had no credit—none would let them have food with¬ 
out money; even the doctor had ceased coming and the 
owner of their shanty threatened to put them out into the 
snow. Do you wonder that they were desperate and ready 
for murder ? 
George opened the door carefully, and tiptoed softly 
across the little room to a rude curtain which partitioned 
off one side. 
“ She’s asleep, Henry,” he whispered with his finger at 
his lips. But Henry was busy trying to read a note which 
he found under the door. He held the rude scrawl to the 
front of the stove. George looked over his shoulder and 
they read it together. 
“Come now; last warning to you folks. If you don’t 
pay up to morrow I’ll put the whole of you out into the 
snow. Short stories now and pay up. CHARLES GRABB.” 
A nice note this to find under your door 1 It was not at 
all calculated to drive George and Henry from their pur 
pose. George took two sticks, one short and the other 
longer and held them behind him. 
“ The short one goes,” he whispered. Henry held up his 
right hand to indicate his choice, and George at once held 
that hand in front of him—it held the short stick. 
Before Henry started, he went softly to the curtain and 
looked behind it. Grace was asleep; her thin hand, as 
white as the sheet, hung down by the bed. Henry shrugg* d 
his shoulders and turned away with a great lump in his 
throat. It was right that he should go if anybody went— 
he was her husband. George vras only her brother. Strange 
—is it not—that this weak, feeblelittle woman could make 
men love her so ? 
“ Good-bye, George!” 
“ Good-bye, Henry !” 
This was all they whispered. They gave a great hand¬ 
shake and Henry crept softly out of the shanty and through 
Henry’s quick run over the ice soon brought him to a 
large tree, which had fallen from the bank above down 
into the river. He had only 
to climb up the great trunk 
and jump directly into the 
road. There was no one in 
sight—Jim Benson had hardly 
left Jake Reynolds’s store. 
Henry jumped directly upon 
a thick wagon stake which 
some teamster had dropped. 
It was just the weapon he 
wanted. He stood behind a 
thick bush just at the edge of 
old Mr. Benson’s clearing, and 
found that he could easily 
reach out to the middle of 
the road. Then he crouched 
down in the snow behind the 
bush to wait, watching the 
road with eyes that fairly 
glittered with desperation. 
What was he thinking about 
waiting there with murder 
in his heart ? Who can tell ? 
Do murderers ever think ? Is 
not the brain on fire and the 
heart bursting with passion 
or despair ? I hope so, for I do 
not like to think that the 
human mind in its normal 
condition is capable of deliber¬ 
ately planning to kill. He 
could hardly have been think¬ 
ing of Grace, for he would 
have shuddered to think how 
he could face her calm eyes 
and tell where the money 
came from. 
I said that Henry’s hiding 
place was just at the edge of 
old Mr. Benson’s little clear¬ 
ing. Henry glanced over his 
shoulder once and saw the 
light shining brightly from 
the little house. There was 
a light on the very window 
sill. They liked to have it so 
—these simple hearted people, 
so that when their boy came 
home he would find the light 
burning. The sharpest eyes 
grow tired of watching at 
last, and as Jim did not come in sight Henry relaxed his 
vigil a little. His feet were cold, too, and he straightened 
himself to try to warm them. 
What made him do it ? What a question to ask 1 Why 
does a sea bird dash its brains out against the harbor 
light ? Why did Enoch Arden leave his watch on the hill 
(Continued on page 867.) 
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