CHAPTER XXVI.
THE CAMP.
Ignorant, as we have already said, of his late most providential escape from the weapon of his implacable enemy, Ralph Colleton was borne forward by his affrighted steed with a degree of rapidity which entirely prevented his rider from remarking any of the objects around him, or, indeed, as the moon began to wane amid a clustering body of clouds, of determining positively whether he were still in the road or not. The trace (as public roads are called in that region) had been rudely cut out by some of the earlier travellers through the Indian country, merely traced out—and hence, perhaps, the term—by a blaze, or white spot, made upon the trees by hewing from them the bark; which badge, repeated in succession upon those growing immediately upon the line chosen for the destined road, indicated its route to the wayfarer. It had never been much travelled, and from the free use at the present time of other and more direct courses, it was left almost totally unemployed, save by those living immediately in its neighborhood. It had, therefore, become, at the time of which we speak, what, in backwood phrase, is known as a blind-path.
Such being the case, it is not difficult to imagine that, when able to restrain his horse, Ralph, as he feared, found himself entirely out of its guidance—wandering without direction among the old trees of the forest. Still, as for the night, now nearly over, he could have no distinct point in view, and saw just as little reason to go back as forward, he gave himself but little time for scruple or hesitation. Resolutely, though with a cautious motion, he pricked his steed forward through the woods, accommodating his philosophy, as well as he could, to the various interruptions which the future, as if to rival the past, seemed to have treasured up in store for him.
He had not proceeded far in this manner when he caught the dim rays of a distant fire, flickering and ascending among the trees to the left of the direction he was taking. The blaze had something in it excessively cheering, and, changing his course, he went forward under its guidance. In this effort, he stumbled upon something like a path, which, pursuing, brought him at length to a small and turbid creek, into which he plunged fearlessly, and soon found himself in swimming water. The ford had been little used, and the banks were steep, so that he got out with difficulty upon the opposite side. Having done so, his eye was enabled to take a full view of the friendly fire which had just attracted his regard, and which he soon made out to proceed from the encampment of a wagoner, such as may be seen every day, or every night, in the wild woods of the southern country.
He was emigrating, with all his goods and gods, to that wonderfully winning region, in the estimation of this people, the valley of the Mississippi. The emigrant was a stout, burly, bluff old fellow, with full round cheeks, a quick, twinkling eye, and limbs rather Herculean than human. He might have been fifty-five years or so; and his two sons, one of them a man grown, the other a tall and goodly youth of eighteen, promised well to be just such vigorous and healthy-looking personages as their father. The old woman, by whom we mean—in the manner of speech common to the same class and region—to indicate the spouse of the wayfarer, and mother of the two youths, was busied about the fire, boiling a pot of coffee, and preparing the family repast for the night. A somewhat late hour for supper and such employment, thought our wanderer; but the difficulty soon explained itself in the condition of their wagon, and the conversation which ensued among the travellers. There was yet another personage in the assembly, who must be left to introduce himself to the reader.
The force of the traveller—for such is the term by which the number of his slaves are understood—was small, consisting of some six workers, and three or four little negro children asleep under the wagon. The workers were occupied at a little distance, in replacing boxes, beds, and some household trumpery, which had been taken out of the wagon, to enable them to effect its release from the slough in which it had cast one of its wheels, and broken its axle, and the restoration of which had made their supper so late in the night. The heavier difficulties of their labor had been got over, and with limbs warmed and chafed by the extra exercise they had undergone, the whites had thrown themselves under a tree, at a little distance from the fire at which the supper was in preparation, while a few pine torches, thrown together, gave them sufficient light to read and remark the several countenances of their group.
"Well, by dogs, we've had a tough 'bout of it, boys; and, hark'ye, strannger, gi' us your hand. I don't know what we should have done without you, for I never seed man handle a little poleaxe as you did that same affair of your'n. You must have spent, I reckon, a pretty smart time at the use of it, now, didn't ye?"
To this speech of the farmer, a ready reply was given by the stranger, in the identical voice and language of our old acquaintance, the pedler, Jared Bunce, of whom, and of whose stock in trade, the reader will probably have some recollection.
"Well, now, I guess, friend, you an't far wide of your reckoning. I've been a matter of some fifteen or twenty years knocking about, off and on, in one way or another, with this same instrument, and pretty's the service now, I tell ye, that it's done me in that bit of time."
"No doubt, no doubt; but what's your trade, if I may be so bold, that made you larn the use of it so nicely?"
"Oh, what—my trade? Why, to say the truth, I never was brought up to any trade in particular, but I am a pretty slick hand, now, I tell you, at all of them. I've been in my time a little of a farmer, a little of a merchant, a little of a sailor, and, somehow or other, a little of everything, and all sort of things. My father was jest like myself, and swore, before I was born, that I should be born jest like him—and so I was. Never were two black peas more alike. He was a 'cute old fellow, and swore he'd make me so too—and so he did. You know how he did that?—now, I'll go a York shilling against a Louisiana bit, that you can't tell to save you."
"Why, no, I can't—let's hear," was the response of the wagoner, somewhat astounded by the volubility of his new acquaintance.
"Well, then, I'll tell you. He sent me away, to make my fortin, and git my edication, 'mongst them who was 'cute themselves, and maybe that an't the best school for larning a simple boy ever went to. It was sharp edge agin sharp edge. It was the very making of me, so far as I was made."
"Well, now, that is a smart way, I should reckon, to get one's edication. And in this way I suppose you larned how to chop with your little poleaxe. Dogs! but you've made me as smart a looking axle as I ever tacked to my team."
"I tell you, friend, there's nothing like sich an edication. It does everything for a man, and he larns to make everything out of nothing. I could make my bread where these same Indians wouldn't find the skin of a hoe-cake; and in these woods, or in the middle of the sea, t'ant anything for me to say I can always fish up some notion that will sell in the market."
"Well, now, that's wonderful, strannger, and I should like to see how you would do it."
"You can't do nothing, no how, friend, unless you begin at the beginning. You'll have to begin when you're jest a mere boy, and set about getting your edication as I got mine. There's no two ways about it. It won't come to you; you must go to it. When you're put out into the wide world, and have no company and no acquaintance, why, what are you to do? Suppose, now, when your wagon mired down, I had not come to your help, and cut out your wood, and put in the spoke, wouldn't you have had to do it yourself?"
"Yes—to be sure; but then I couldn't have done it in a day. I an't handy at these things."
"Well, that was jest the way with me when I was a boy. I had nobody to help me out of the mud—nobody to splice my spokes, or assist me any how, and so I larned to do it myself. And now, would you think it, I'm sometimes glad of a little turn-over, or an accident, jest that I may keep my hand in and not forget to be able to help myself or my neighbors."
"Well, you're a cur'ous person, and I'd like to hear something more about you. But it's high time we should wet our whistles, and it's but dry talking without something to wash a clear way for the slack. So, boys, be up, and fish up the jemmi-john—I hope it hain't been thumped to bits in the rut. If it has, I shall be in a tearing passion."
"Well, now, that won't be reasonable, seeing that it's no use, and jest wasting good breath that might bring a fair price in the market."
"What, not get in a passion if all the whiskey's gone? That won't do, strannger, and though you have helped me out of the ditch, by, dogs, no man shall prevent me from getting in a passion if I choose it."
"Oh, to be sure, friend—you an't up to my idee. I didn't know that it was for the good it did you that you got in a passion. I am clear that when a man feels himself better from a passion, he oughtn't to be shy in getting into it. Though that wasn't a part of my edication, yet I guess, if such a thing would make me feel more comfortable, I'd get in a passion fifty times a day."
"Well, now, strannger, you talk like a man of sense. 'Drot the man, says I, who hain't the courage to get in a passion! None but a miserable, shadow-skinning Yankee would refuse to get in a passion when his jug of whiskey was left in the road!"
"A-hem—" coughed the dealer in small wares—the speech of the old wagoner grating harshly upon his senses; for if the Yankee be proud of anything, it is of his country—its enterprise, its institutions; and of these, perhaps, he has more true and unqualified reason to be pleased and proud than any other one people on the face of the globe. He did not relish well the sitting quietly under the harsh censure of his companion, who seemed to regard the existence of a genuine emotion among the people down east as a manifest absurdity; and was thinking to come out with a defence, in detail, of the pretensions of New England, when, prudence having first taken a survey of the huge limbs of the wagoner, and calling to mind the fierce prejudices of the uneducated southrons generally against all his tribe, suggested the convenient propriety of an evasive reply.
"A-hem—" repeated the Yankee, the argumentum ad hominem still prominent in his eyes—"well, now, I take it, friend, there's no love to spare for the people you speak of down in these parts. They don't seem to smell at all pleasant in this country."
"No, I guess not, strannger, as how should they—a mean, tricky, catchpenny, skulking set—that makes money out of everybody, and hain't the spirit to spend it! I do hate them, now, worse than a polecat!"
"Well, now, friend, that's strange. If you were to travel for a spell, down about Boston or Salem in Massachusetts, or at Meriden in Connecticut, you'd hear tell of the Yankees quite different. If you believe what the people say thereabouts, you'd think there was no sich people on the face of the airth."
"That's jist because they don't know anything about them; and it's not because they can't know them neither, for a Yankee is a varmint you can nose anywhere. It must be that none ever travels in those parts—selling their tin-kettles, and their wooden clocks, and all their notions."
"Oh, yes, they do. They make 'em in those parts. I know it by this same reason, that I bought a lot myself from a house in Connecticut, a town called Meriden, where they make almost nothing else but clocks—where they make 'em by steam, and horse-power, and machinery, and will turn you out a hundred or two to a minute."
The pedler had somewhat "overleaped his shoulders," as they phrase it in the West, when his companion drew himself back over the blazing embers, with a look of ill-concealed aversion, exclaiming, as he did so—
"Why, you ain't a Yankee, air you?"
The pedler was a special pleader in one sense of the word, and knew the value of a technical distinction as well as his friend, Lawyer Pippin. His reply was prompt and professional:—
"Why, no, I ain't a Yankee according to your idee. It's true, I was born among them; but that, you know, don't make a man one on them?"
"No, to be sure not. Every man that's a freeman has a right to choose what country he shall belong to. My dad was born in Ireland, yet he always counted himself a full-blooded American."
The old man found a parallel in his father's nativity, which satisfied himself of the legitimacy of the ground taken by the pedler, and helped the latter out of his difficulty.
"But here's the whiskey standing by us all the time, waiting patiently to be drunk. Here, Nick Snell, boy, take your hands out of your breeches-pocket, and run down with the calabash to the branch. The water is pretty good thar, I reckon; and, strannger, after we've taken a sup, we'll eat a bite, and then lie down. It's high time, I reckon, that we do so."
It was in his progress to the branch that Ralph Colleton came upon this member of the family.
Nick Snell was no genius, and did not readily reply to the passing inquiry which was put to him by the youth, who advanced upon the main party while the dialogue between the pedler and the wagoner was in full gust. They started, as if by common consent, to their feet, as his horse's tread smote upon their ears; but, satisfied with the appearance of a single man, and witnessing the jaded condition of his steed, they were content to invite him to partake with them of the rude cheer which the good-woman was now busied in setting before him.
The hoe-cakes and bacon were smoking finely, and the fatigue of the youth engaged his senses, with no unwillingness on their part, to detect a most savory attraction in the assault which they made upon his sight and nostrils alike. He waited not for a second invitation, but in a few moments—having first stripped his horse, and put the saddle, by direction of the emigrant, into his wagon—he threw himself beside them upon the ground, and joined readily and heartily in the consumption of the goodly edibles which were spread out before them.
They had not been long at this game, when a couple of fine watch-dogs which were in the camp, guarding the baggage, gave the alarm, and the whole party was on the alert, with sharp eye and cocked rifle. They commenced a survey, and at some distance could hear the tread of horsemen, seemingly on the approach. The banditti, of which we have already spoken, were well known to the emigrant, and he had already to complain of divers injuries at their hands. It is not, therefore, matter of surprise, that he should place his sentinels, and prepare even for the most audacious attack.
He had scarcely made this disposition of his forces, which exhibited them to the best advantage, when the strangers made their appearance. They rode cautiously around, without approaching the defences sufficiently nigh to occasion strife, but evidently having for their object originally an attack upon the wayfarer. At length, one of the party, which consisted of six persons, now came forward, and, with a friendly tone of voice, bade them good-evening in a manner which seemed to indicate a desire to be upon a footing of the most amiable sort with them. The old man answered dryly, with some show of sarcastic indifference in his speech—
"Ay, good evening enough, if the moon had not gone down, and if the stars were out, that we might pick out the honest men from the rogues."
"What, are there rogues in these parts, then, old gentleman?" asked the new-comer.
"Why do you ask me?" was the sturdy reply. "You ought to be able to say, without going farther than your own pockets."
"Why, you are tough to-night, my old buck," was the somewhat crabbed speech of the visiter.
"You'll find me troublesome, too, Mr. Nightwalker: so take good counsel, and be off while you've whole bones, or I'll tumble you now in half a minute from your crittur, and give you a sharp supper of pine-knots."
"Well, that wouldn't be altogether kind on your part, old fellow, and I mightn't be willing to let you; but, as you seem not disposed to be civil, I suppose the best thing I can do is to be off."
"Ay, ay, be off. You get nothing out of us; and we've no shot that we want to throw away. Leave you alone, and Jack Ketch will save us shot."
"Ha, ha!" exclaimed the outlier, in concert, and from the deeper emphasis which he gave it, in chorus to the laughter which followed, among the party, the dry expression of the old man's humor—
"Ha, ha! old boy—you have the swing of it to-night," continued the visiter, as he rode off to his companions; "but, if you don't mind, we shall smoke you before you get into Alabam!"
The robber rejoined his companions, and a sort of council for deliberation was determined upon among them.
"How now, Lambert! you have been at dead fault," was his sudden address, as he returned, to one of the party. "You assured me that old Snell and his two sons were the whole force that he carried, while I find two stout, able-bodied men besides, all well armed, and ready for the attack. The old woman, too, standing with the gridiron in her fists, is equal of herself to any two men, hand to hand."
Lambert, a short, sly, dogged little personage, endeavored to account for the error, if such it was—"but he was sure, that at starting, there were but three—they must have have had company join them since. Did the lieutenant make out the appearance of the others?"
"I did," said the officer in command, "and, to say truth, they do not seem to be of the old fellow's party. They must have come upon him since the night. But how came you, Lambert, to neglect sawing the axle? You had time enough when it stood in the farmyard last night, and you were about it a full hour. The wagon stands as stoutly on its all-fours as the first day it was built."
"I did that, sir, and did it, I thought, to the very mark. I calculated to leave enough solid to bear them to the night, when in our circuit we should come among them just in time to finish the business. The wood is stronger, perhaps, than I took it to be, but it won't hold out longer than to-morrow, I'm certain, when, if we watch, we can take our way with them."
"Well, I hope so, and we must watch them, for it won't do to let the old fellow escape. He has, I know, a matter of three or four hundred hard dollars in his possession, to buy lands in Mississippi, and it's a pity to let so much good money go out of the state."
"But why may we not set upon them now?" inquired one of the youngest of the party.
"For a very good reason, Briggs—they are armed, ready, and nearly equal in number to ourselves; and though I doubt not we should be able to ride over them, yet I am not willing to leave one or more of us behind. Besides, if we keep the look-out to-morrow, as we shall, we can settle the business without any such risk."
This being the determination, the robbers, thus disappointed of their game, were nevertheless in better humor than might have been well expected; but such men are philosophers, and their very recklessness of human life is in some respects the result of a due estimate of its vicissitudes. They rode on their way laughing at the sturdy bluntness of the old wagoner, which their leader, of whom we have already heard under the name of Dillon, related to them at large. With a whoop and halloo, they cheered the travellers as they rode by, but at some distance from, the encampment. The tenants of the encampment, thus strangely but fortunately thrown together, having first seen that everything was quiet, took their severally assigned places, and laid themselves down for repose. The pedler contenting himself with guessing that "them 'ere chaps did not make no great deal by that speculation."
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE OUTLAWS.
It was in the wildest and least-trodden recesses of the rock and forest, that the band of outlaws, of which Rivers was the great head and leader, had fixed their place of abode and assemblage. A natural cavity, formed by the juxtaposition of two huge rocks, overhung by a third, with some few artificial additions, formed for them a cavern, in which—so admirably was it overgrown by the surrounding forest, and so finely situated among hills and abrupt ridges yielding few inducements for travel—they found the most perfect security.
It is true such a shelter could not long have availed them as such, were the adjacent country in the possession of a civilized people; but the near neighborhood of the Cherokees, by keeping back civilization, was, perhaps, quite as much as the position they had chosen, its protection from the scrutiny of many, who had already, prompted by their excesses, endeavored, on more than one occasion, to find them out. The place was distant from the village of Chestatee about ten miles, or perhaps more. No highway—no thoroughfare or public road passed in its neighborhood, and it had been the policy of the outlaws to avoid the use of any vehicle, the traces of which might be followed. There was, besides, but little necessity for its employment. The place of counsel and assemblage was not necessarily their place of abode, and the several members of the band found it more profitable to reside, or keep stations, in the adjacent hamlets and stands (for by this latter name in those regions, the nightly stopping-places of wayfarers are commonly designated) where, in most cases, they put on the appearance, and in many respects bore the reputation, of staid and sober working men.
This arrangement was perhaps the very best for the predatory life they led, as it afforded opportunities for information which otherwise must have been lost to them. In this way they heard of this or that traveler—his destination—the objects he had in view, and the wealth he carried about with him. In one of these situations the knowledge of old Snell's journey, and the amount of wealth in his possession, had been acquired; and in the person of the worthy stable-boy who brought corn to the old fellow's horses the night before, and whom he rewarded with a thrip (the smallest silver coin known in the southern currency, the five-cent issue excepted) we might, without spectacles, recognise the active fugleman of the outlaws, who sawed half through his axle, cleaned his wheels of all their grease, and then attempted to rob him the very night after.
Though thus scattered about, it was not a matter of difficulty to call the outlaws together upon an emergency. One or more of the most trustworthy among them had only to make a tour over the road, and through the hamlets in which they were harbored within the circuit of ten or twenty miles, and as they kept usually with rigid punctuality to their several stations, they were soon apprized, and off at the first signal. A whisper in the ear of the hostler who brought out your horse, or the drover who put up the cattle, was enough; and the absence of a colt from pasture, or the missing of a stray young heifer from the flock, furnished a sufficient reason to the proprietor for the occasional absence of Tom, Dick, or Harry: who, in the meanwhile, was, most probably, crying "stand" to a true man, or cutting a trunk from a sulkey, or, in mere wantonness, shooting down the traveller who had perhaps given him a long chase, yet yielded nothing by way of compensation for the labor.
Dillon, or, to speak more to the card, Lieutenant Dillon, arrived at the place of assemblage just as the day was breaking. He was a leader of considerable influence among the outlaws, and, next to Rivers, was most popular. Indeed, in certain respects, he was far more popular; for, though perhaps not so adroit in his profession, nor so well fitted for its command, he was possessed of many of those qualities which are apt to be taking with "the fierce democratic!" He was a prince of hail fellows—was thoroughly versed in low jest and scurvy anecdote—could play at pushpins, and drink at every point in the game; and, strange to say, though always drinking, was never drunk. Nor, though thus accomplished, and thus prone to these accomplishments, did he ever neglect those duties which he assumed to perform. No indulgence led him away from his post, and, on the other hand, no post compelled or constrained him into gravity. He was a careless, reckless blade, indifferent alike, it would seem, to sun and storm—and making of life a circle, that would not inaptly have illustrated the favorite text of Sardanapalus.
He arrived at the cave, as we have said just as the day was breaking. A shrill whistle along the ridges of wood and rock as he passed them, denoted the various stations of the sentinels, as studiously strewed along the paths by which their place of refuge might be assailed, as if they were already beleaguered by an assailing army. Without pausing to listen to the various speeches and inquiries which assailed his ears upon his arrival he advanced to the cavern, and was told that the captain had been for some time anxiously awaiting his arrival—that he had morosely kept the inner recess of the cave, and since his return, which had not been until late in the night, had been seen but two or three times, and then but for a moment, when he had come forth to make inquiries for himself.
Leaving his men differently disposed, Dillon at once penetrated into the small apartment in which his leader was lodged, assured of the propriety of the intrusion, from what had just been told him.
The recess, which was separated from the outer hall by a curtain of thick coarse stuff, falling to the floor from a beam, the apertures for the reception of which had been chiselled in the rock, was dimly illuminated by a single lamp, hanging from a chain, which was in turn fastened to a pole that stretched directly across the apartment. A small table in the centre of the room, covered with a piece of cotton cloth, a few chairs, a broken mirror, and on a shelf that stood trimly in the corner, a few glasses and decanters, completed the furniture of the apartment.
On the table at which the outlaw sat, lay his pistols—a huge and unwieldy, but well-made pair. A short sword, a dirk and one or two other weapons of similar description, contemplated only for hand-to-hand purposes, lay along with them; and the better to complete the picture, now already something outre, a decanter of brandy and tumblers were contiguous.
Rivers did not observe the slide of the curtain to the apartment, nor the entrance of Dillon. He was deeply absorbed in contemplation; his head rested heavily upon his two palms, while his eyes were deeply fixed upon the now opened miniature which he had torn from the neck of Lucy Munro, and which rested before him. He sighed not—he spoke not, but ever and anon, as if perfectly unconscious all the while of what he did, he drank from the tumbler of the compounded draught that stood before him, hurriedly and desperately, as if to keep the strong emotion from choking him. There was in his look a bitter agony of expression, indicating a vexed spirit, now more strongly than ever at work in a way which had, indeed, been one of the primest sources of his miserable life. It was a spirit ill at rest with itself—vexed at its own feebleness of execution—its incapacity to attain and acquire the realization of its own wild and vague conceptions. His was the ambition of one who discovers at every step that nothing can be known, yet will not give up the unprofitable pursuit, because, even while making the discovery, he still hopes vainly that he may yet, in his own person, give the maxim the lie. For ever soaring to the sun, he was for ever realizing the fine Grecian fable of Icarus; and the sea of disappointment into which he perpetually fell, with its tumultuous tides and ever-chafing billows, bearing him on from whirlpool to whirlpool, for ever battling and for ever lost. He was unconscious, as we have said, of the entrance and approach of his lieutenant, and words of bitterness, in soliloquy, fell at brief periods from his lips.—
"It is after all the best—" he mused. "Despair is the true philosophy, since it begets indifference. Why should I hope? What prospect is there now, that these eyes, that lip, these many graces, and the imperial pride of that expression, which looks out like a high soul from the heaven that men talk and dream of—what delusion is there now to bid me hope they ever can be more to me than they are now? I care not for the world's ways—nor feel I now the pang of its scorn and its outlawry; yet I would it were not so, that I might, upon a field as fair as that of the most successful, assert my claim, and woo and win her—not with those childish notes of commonplace—that sickly cant of sentimental stuff which I despise, and which I know she despises no less than I.
"Yet, when this field was mine, as I now desire it, what more did it avail me? Where was the strong sense—the lofty reason that should then have conquered with an unobstructed force, sweeping all before it, as the flame that rushes through the long grass of the prairies? Gone—prostrate—dumb. The fierce passion was upward, and my heart was then more an outlaw than I myself am now.
"Yet there is one hope—one chance—one path, if not to her affections, at least to her. It shall be done, and then, most beautiful witch, cold, stern, and to me heartless, as thou hast ever been—thou shalt not always triumph. I would that I could sleep on this—I would that I could sleep. There is but one time of happiness—but one time when the thorn has no sting—when the scorn bites not—when the sneer chafes not—when the pride and the spirit shrink not—when there is no wild passion to make everything a storm and a conflagration among the senses—and that is—when one forgets!—I would that I could sleep!"
As he spoke, his head sunk upon the table with a heavy sound, as if unconsciousness had really come with the articulated wish. He started quickly, however, as now, for the first time, the presence of Dillon became obvious, and hurriedly thrusting the portrait into his vest, he turned quickly to the intruder, and sternly demanded the occasion of his interruption. The lieutenant was prepared, and at once replied to the interrogatory with the easy, blunt air of one who not only felt that he might be confided in, but who was then in the strict performance of his duties.
"I came at your own call, captain. I have just returned from the river, and skirting down in that quarter, and was kept something later than I looked for; hearing, on my arrival, that you had been inquiring for me, I did not hesitate to present myself at once, not knowing but the business might be pressing."
"It is pressing," responded the outlaw, seemingly well satisfied with the tacit apology. "It is pressing, Dillon, and you will have little time for rest before starting again. I myself have been riding all night, and shall be off in another hour. But what have you to report? What's in the wind now?"
"I hear but little, sir. There is some talk about a detachment of the Georgia guard, something like a hundred men, to be sent out expressly for our benefit; but I look upon this as a mistake. Their eye is rather upon the miners, and the Indian gold lands and those who dig it, and not upon those who merely take it after it is gathered. I have heard, too, of something like a brush betwixt Fullam's troop and the miners at Tracy's diggings, but no particulars, except that the guard got the worst of it."
"On that point I am already advised. That is well for us, since it will turn the eye of the authorities in a quarter in which we have little to do. I had some hand in that scrape myself, and set the dogs on with this object; and it is partly on this matter that I would confer with you, since there are some few of our men in the village who had large part in it, who must not be hazarded, and must yet stay there."
"If the brush was serious, captain, that will be a matter of some difficulty; for of late, there has been so much of our business done, that government, I believe, has some thought of taking it up, and in order to do so without competition, will think of putting us down. Uncle Sam and the states, too, are quarrelling in the business, and, as I hear, there is like to be warm work between them. The Georgians are quite hot on the subject, and go where I will, they talk of nothing else than hanging the president, the Indians, and all the judges. They are brushing up their rifles, and they speak out plain."
"The more sport for us—but this is all idle. It will all end in talk, and whether it do or not, we, at least, have nothing to do with it. But, there is drink—fill—and let us look to business before either of us sleep."
The lieutenant did as suggested by Rivers, who, rising from his seat, continued for some time to pace the apartment, evidently in deep meditation. He suddenly paused, at length, and resuming his seat, inquired of Dillon as to the manner in which he had been employed through the last few days.
A narration, not necessary to repeat, followed from the officer in which the numerous petty details of frontier irregularity made up the chief material. Plots and counterplots were rife in his story, and more than once the outlaw interrupted his officer in the hope of abridging the petty particulars of some of their attenuated proportions—an aim not always successful, since, among the numerous virtues of Lieutenant Dillon, that of precision and niceness in his statements must not be omitted. To this narration, however, though called for by himself, the superior yielded but little attention, until he proceed to describe the adventure of the night, resulting so unsuccessfully, with the emigrating farmer. When he described the persons of the two strangers, so unexpectedly lending their aid in defence of the traveller, a new interest was awakened in the features and mariner of his auditor, who here suddenly and with energy interrupted him, to make inquiries with regard to their dress and appearance, which not a little surprised Dillon, who had frequently experienced the aversion of his superior to all seemingly unnecessary minutiae. Having been satisfied on these points, the outlaw rose, and pacing the apartment with slow steps, seemed to meditate some design which the narrative had suggested. Suddenly pausing, at length, as if all the necessary lights had shone in upon his deliberations at once, he turned to Dillon, who stood in silent waiting, and thus proceeded:—
"I have it," said he, half-musingly, "I have it, Dillon—it must be so. How far, say you, is it from the place where the man—what's his name—encamped last night?"
"Nine or ten miles, perhaps, or more."
"And you know his route for to-day?"
"There is now but one which he can take, pursuing the route which he does."
"And upon that he will not go more than fifteen or twenty miles in the day. But not so with him—not so with him. He will scarcely be content to move at that pace, and there will be no hope in that way to overtake him."
Rivers spoke in soliloquy, and Dillon, though accustomed to many of the mental irregularities of his superior, exhibited something like surprise as he looked upon the lowering brows and unwonted indecision of the outlaw.
"Of whom does the captain speak?" was his inquiry.
"Of whom?—of him—of him!" was the rather abrupt response of the superior, who seemed to regard the ignorance of his lieutenant as to the object in view, with almost as much wonder as that worthy entertained at the moment for the hallucinations of his captain.
"Of whom should I speak—of whom should I think but the one—accursed, fatal and singular, who—" and he stopped short, while his mind, now comprehending the true relationship between himself and the person beside him, which, in his moody self-examination, he had momentarily forgotten, proceeded to his designs with all his wonted coherence.
"I wander, Dillon, and am half-asleep. The fact is, I am almost worn out with this unslumbering motion. I have not been five hours out of the saddle in the last twenty-four, and it requires something more of rest, if I desire to do well what I have on hand—what, indeed, we both have on hand."
There was something apologetic in the manner, if not in the language, of the speaker; and his words seemed to indicate, if possible, an excuse for the incoherence of his address, in the physical fatigue which he had undergone—in this way to divert suspicion from those mental causes of excitement, of which, in the present situation, he felt somewhat ashamed. Pouring out a glass of liquor, and quaffing it without pause, he motioned to the lieutenant to do the same—a suggestion not possible for that person to misunderstand—and then proceeded to narrate such portions of the late occurrences in and about the village as it was necessary he should know. He carefully suppressed his own agency in any of these events, for, with the policy of the ancient, he had learned, at an early period in his life, to treat his friend as if he might one day become his enemy; and, so far as such a resolution might consistently be maintained, while engaged in such an occupation as his, he rigidly observed it.
"The business, Dillon, which I want you to execute, and to which you will give all your attention, is difficult and troublesome, and requires ingenuity. Mark Forrester was killed last night, as is supposed, in a fray with a youth named Colleton, like himself a Carolinian. If such is not the opinion yet, I am determined such shall be the opinion; and have made arrangements by which the object will be attained. Of course the murderer should be taken, and I have reasons to desire that this object too should be attained. It is on this business, then, that you are to go. You must be the officer to take him."
"But where is he? if within reach, you know there is no difficulty."
"Hear me; there is difficulty though he is within reach. He is one of the men whom you found with the old farmer you would otherwise have attacked last night. There is difficulty, for he will fight like a wild beast, and stick to his ground like a rattlesnake; and, supported by the old fellow whom you found him with, he will be able to resist almost any force which you could muster on the emergency. The only fear I have is, that being well-mounted, he will not keep with the company, but as they must needs travel slowly, he will go on and leave them."
"Should it not rather be a source of satisfaction than otherwise—will it not put him more completely at our disposal?"
"No; for having so much the start of you, and a good animal, he will soon leave all pursuit behind him. There is a plan which I have been thinking of, and which will be the very thing, if at once acted upon. You know the sheriff, Maxson, lives on the same road; you must take two of the men with you, pick fresh and good horses, set off to Maxson's at once with a letter which I shall give you, and he will make you special deputies for the occasion of this young man's arrest. I have arranged it so that the suspicion shall take the shape of a legal warrant, sufficient to authorize his arrest and detention. The proof of his offence will be matter of after consideration."
"But will Maxson do this—may he not refuse? You know he has been once before threatened with being brought up for his leaning toward us, in that affair of the Indian chief, Enakamon."
"He can not—he dare not refuse!" said the outlaw, rising impatiently. "He holds his place and his life at my disposal, and he knows it. He will not venture to refuse me!"
"He has been very scrupulous of late in all his dealings with us, you know, and has rather kept out of our way. Besides that, he has been thorough-going at several camp-meetings lately, and, when a man begins to appear over-honest, I think it high time he should be looked after by all parties."
"You are right, Dillon, you are right. I should not trust it to paper either. I will go myself. But you shall along with me, and on the way I will put you in a train for bringing out certain prisoners whom it is necessary that we should secure before the sitting of the court, and until it is over. They might be foolish enough to convict themselves of being more honest than their neighbors, and it is but humane to keep them from the commission of an impropriety. Give orders for the best two of your troop, and have horses saddled for all four of us. We must be on the road."
Dillon did as directed, and returned to the conference, which was conducted, on the part of his superior, with a degree of excitation, mingled with a sharp asperity of manner, something unwonted for him in the arranging of any mere matter of business.
"Maxson will not refuse us; if he do, I will hang him by my saddle-straps. The scoundrel owes his election to our votes, and shall he refuse us what we ask? He knows his fate too well to hesitate. And then, Dillon, when you have his commission for the arrest of this boy, spare not the spur: secure him at all hazards of horseflesh or personal inconvenience. He will not resist the laws, or anything having their semblance; nor, indeed, has he any reason—"
"No reason, sir! why, did you not say he had killed Forrester?" inquired his companion.
"Your memory is sharp, master lieutenant; I did say, and I say so still. But he affects to think not, and I should not be at all surprised if he not only deny it to you, but in reality disbelieve it himself. Have you not heard of men who have learned in time to believe the lies of their own invention? Why not men doubt the truth of their own doings? There are such men, and he may he one of them. He may deny stoutly and solemnly the charge, but let him not deceive you or baffle your pursuit. We shall prove it upon him, and he shall hang, Dillon—ay, hang, hang, hang—though it be under her very eyes!"
It was in this way that, in the progress of the dialogue which took place between the chief and his subordinate, the rambling malignity would break through the cooler counsels of the villain, and dark glimpses of the mystery of the transaction would burst upon the senses of the latter. Rivers had the faculty, however, of never exhibiting too much of himself; and when hurried on by a passion seemingly too fierce and furious for restraint, he would suddenly curb himself in, while a sharp and scornful smile would curl his lips, as if he felt a consciousness, not only of his own powers of command, but of his impenetrability to all analysis.
The horses being now ready, the outlaw, buckling on his pistols, and hiding his dirk in his bosom, threw a huge cloak over his shoulders, which fully concealed his person; and, in company with his lieutenant, and two stout men of his band, all admirably and freshly mounted, they proceeded to the abode of the sheriff.
This man, connected, though secretly, with Rivers and Munro, was indebted to them and the votes which in that region they could throw into the boxes, for his elevation to the office which he held, and was, as might reasonably have been expected, a mere creature under their management. Maxson, of late days, however, whether from a reasonable apprehension, increasing duly with increasing years, that he might become at last so involved in the meshes of those crimes of his colleagues, from which, while he was compelled to share the risk, he was denied in great part the profit, had grown scrupulous—had avoided as much as possible their connexion; and, the better to strengthen himself in the increasing favor of public opinion, had taken advantage of all those externals of morality and virtue which, unhappily, too frequently conceal qualities at deadly hostility with them. He had, in the popular phrase of the country, "got religion;" and, like the worthy reformers of the Cromwell era, everything which he did, and everything which he said, had Scripture for its authority. Psalm-singing commenced and ended the day in his house, and graces before meat and graces before sleep, prayers and ablutions, thanksgivings and fastings, had so much thinned the animal necessities of his household, that a domestic war was the consequence, and the sheriff and the sheriff's lady held separate sway, having equally divided the dwelling between them, and ruling each their respective sovereignties with a most jealous watchfulness. All rights, not expressly delegated in the distribution of powers originally, were insisted on even to blood; and the arbitration of the sword, or rather the poker, once appealed to, most emphatically, by the sovereign of the gentler sex, had cut off the euphonious utterance of one of the choicest paraphrases of Sternhold and Hopkins in the middle; and by bruising the scull of the reformed and reforming sheriff, had nearly rendered a new election necessary to the repose and well-being of the county in which they lived.
But the worthy convert recovered, to the sore discomfiture of his spouse, and to the comfort and rejoicing of all true believers. The breach in his head was healed, but that which separated his family remained the same—