Thus mused Owen as he sat late one afternoon husking corn, while the pelting rain overhead recalled some old nursery rhymes which he had learned by heart when a mere child. "No, it isn't April yet, and it will be a long time before we have May flowers. It's about the middle of March; I reckon the black-perch ought to bite now. It will be too wet to plow this week; so I'll ask father to let Martin and me go a-fishing." And he worked hard at his task to have the corn shelled before dark.
"Why, father, it's time to fish for black-perch," said he to Mr. Howard, who appeared at the door of the corn crib.
"I reckon it's time for you to have that corn ready for the mill," replied the farmer.
"I'll finish it to-day, take it to the mill to-morrow—and then may Martin and I go fishing on Thursday?" asked Owen.
"What about that field along the river to be plowed?" inquired the farmer. "You are getting to be a big boy now, and must be prepared to do your share of the work on the farm."
"Plow after this heavy rain?"
"Yes, when it is dry enough."
"But it won't be dry this week," argued Owen.
"Well, you may go fishing this week; that is, one day of this week. Then be ready for hard work—no fishing, no hunting for some time."
Mr. Howard was more than willing to let his son enjoy a day along the Beech Fork; still, it was evident from his way of speaking that he intended to keep him busily engaged during the coming month while getting the ground ready for the spring corn.
"Think you can go fishing to-morrow?" asked Owen of Martin on the following day while on his way from the mill.
"I reckon I can. It's too wet to plow, and there's nothing else to be done this time of the year."
"Better find out now."
"Father isn't here. It'll be all right; you can depend on me, and if anything happens to keep me from going I'll ride over and let you know to-night."
"Did you examine those reeds that we cut last fall?" asked Owen.
"No! haven't thought of them since."
"Well, I broke mine, and I'll have to depend on you for one."
"I can easily give you a dozen. We cut at least twenty-four, and half of them belong to you. They are well seasoned, too—been hanging in the barn for six months. I'll bring two along to-morrow, and you can get the others the next time our wagon passes by your house."
The reeds referred to grew in patches along the Beech Fork. The boys generally cut them in the fall to have them dry and seasoned for the spring fishing.
"I must hurry on home and fix the minnow net," said Owen, starting off.
"Good-bye."
"I'll meet you at the creek."
Old Hickory trotted off with Owen and the sack of meal.
Uncle Pius had taught Owen and Martin how to fish for the black-bass (or black-perch, as they are called in that section of the country) when the boys were quite small. Under his direction they had become expert fishermen. They knew nothing of the various contrivances described by Irving in "The Angler," nor were they equipped like our modern fisherman during his summer vacation—rods of split bamboo, patent reels and landing nets would have appeared useless to them.
When first accompanying Uncle Pius on his fishing expeditions they were surprised to find that he caught a perch every time he had a bite, while they lost minnow after minnow.
"Uncle Pius, you've got a bite, you've got a bite!" they would often exclaim, as his red-cedar float disappeared below the water. The old negro, however, seemed to take no notice of their warning. He remained motionless for a few seconds as if lost in deep thought, then gave a quick jerk to fasten the hook, and landed his prize, much to the admiration and astonishment of his young companions. One day the fish were biting rapidly. Uncle Pius had secured a nice string, while Owen and Martin had made their usual record—bite, bite, bite, but not a fish.
"Uncle Pius," said Owen, "I am getting tired of this. I wish you'd show us how to fish."
"Yes," chimed in Martin, "we've lost a bucketful of minnows and haven't caught one perch."
"Well, Massar Ow'n and Massar Martin," said the grave old negro, laying aside his reed and assuming an air of professional dignity, "dis am an awful good proposishion (he meant occasion) for to larn how to ketch perks, for dey's awful hungry to-day and is bitin' right smart—some days dey bite right scattarin'. I would hab tole you long 'fore dis how to fish, but I know'd you'd say dat you know'd all about fishin' before this old niggar told you. Fust, you must know how to put the minnar on de hook," he continued, taking a large shiner from the bucket and baiting the hook with great care. "Run de hook right fru de lower lip—see dar; den right fru the upper lip—see dar, just a little 'low de eye—see dar; not too deep, or you'll kill the critter—see dar."
Uncle Pius handed the pole to Owen, told him to cast out near a fallen tree, and not to pull until the perch started off with the line. Owen had not to wait long for a bite. His float soon disappeared, and although Uncle Pius yelled "let 'im go, chile," the young fisherman in his excitement jerked with all his force, missed the fish, and entangled his line among the branches overhead.
"You's always a-rushin'," expostulated the old negro.
While Owen climbed the tree to get the line, Martin took his lesson in fishing, and was determined not to pull until Uncle Pius gave the signal.
"How do you know when to pull?" he asked.
"Dar ain't no rule, Massar Martin; it kindar comes natu'al when one knows how."
Soon the cedar float went under. It was evident from the rapidity with which it disappeared that no small perch had bitten. The few brief seconds that followed seemed an hour. Martin trembled with excitement; still he waited for the word to pull.
"Dar's de time!" cried out Uncle Pius, as he saw the line stretch.
"I've got it, and a big one!" yelled Martin in triumph.
"Up here with it," shouted Owen from among the branches overhead.
"Keep the line a-stretchin'!" exclaimed Uncle Pius, "or he's a gonnar."
He had scarcely uttered these words when the fish leaped into the air, shook the hook from its mouth, and disappeared into the water.
"Jes' as I'se sayin'," remarked the old negro. "Now, Massar Martin, you've larned how to ketch perks, and you must larn how to lan' 'em."
"Is there anything to be learned about landing a perch?" inquired Martin, with surprise. "When you catch a catfish there is no danger of its getting off; in fact, you remember that we cut the heads off of several to get out the hooks."
"Dar's an awful 'stonishin' dif'erens 'tween a catfish and a perk," interposed Uncle Pius. "It's hard to keep a perk on, an' it's hard to get a catfish off. If ebbar you let de line slack de perk'll shake de hook from his mouth in free shakes of a sheep's tail."
"Here it goes again," said Martin. "I'll not only catch the first perch that bites, but will land it in a tip-top way."
From his position among the overhanging branches Owen watched Martin's next attempt with interest, while Uncle Pius, conscious of the dignity of his position, gravely directed the movements of his young disciple.
"Nebbar stop," said he. "Jest keep a-pullin' when you got him. Keep a-pullin' slow, an' you'll fetch him, sure's de rain helps young corn."
Martin followed directions carefully, and succeeded in landing the next perch.
"Hurrah!" he yelled in triumph, "that's a fine one, and here goes for another."
Before Owen had time to climb down the tree and bait his hook Martin had secured perch number two.
The two boys went to work in earnest, and, although many a perch escaped from them, in less than an hour they had fully a dozen fish on their string. Uncle Pius watched their progress with evident satisfaction, now yelling to Martin "to keep de line a-pullin'," and to Owen "not to be a-rushin'."
"Massar Martin and Massar Owen," he said to the boys when it was time to go, "you know how to fish for perks, but don't forget dat dis ole niggar larned you."
The first lesson of Uncle Pius was given some two years before our story commenced. On the morning to which we referred in this chapter our two young friends started out, not as tyros, but as experienced fishers.
On reaching the river the boys selected a spot near a fallen sycamore, where the water was about four feet deep, and the bank around was rocky and clear from all underbrush. This would enable them to land the perch without fear of tangling their lines.
On the way to the river, however, they did not notice that a man was following them for more than a mile through the forest, at times close enough to overhear their conversation without any risk of being discovered by them. It was Walter Stayford. He was evidently dogging their footsteps with a purpose. The ground over which he passed was certainly known to him, for even when he lost sight of the boys he followed them as a hound follows a fresh trail.
When the boys came to the river he ensconced himself behind a fallen log, where he could hear every word they uttered. What could be his object in watching them so closely? He certainly did not seek their lives, for he had many a chance to kill them in the depth of the forest. Besides, was not he the man who befriended them during that eventful night in the cave? Had they not shown their gratitude by keeping the secret which they had promised so faithfully to keep? That the cave had been discovered was not their fault. Tom the Tinker and he alone was answerable for this! And at the very thought of the old miser Stayford's face flushed with anger. With difficulty he stifled the curse he was about to utter, as he lay there listening to the boys.
"Now for good luck," said Martin, as he threw his minnow near the branches of the fallen tree.
"And here goes for a three-pounder," chimed in Owen, dropping his minnow on the opposite side of the sycamore.
Five minutes passed. The boys played their minnows up and down the stream, threw them out and pulled them in, vainly hoping to attract a fish.
"No three-pounder yet," said Owen, who, as the reader has seen, had not the patience of his companion.
"No, not yet," replied Martin, still manœuvering with his line. "Not yet, but they'll come soon. We can't expect the perch to be waiting at the exact spot where we chance to stop."
"And they can't expect us to wait all day for them," rejoined Owen, with a laugh.
"Give them a fair trial—say fifteen minutes more."
"All right," and Owen took out his father's watch, which he had borrowed for the day.
"Look at your bobber!" cried Martin before two minutes had passed.
"Where?"
"It's gone! Pull!"
Owen did pull, but it was too late, for he had lost his minnow.
"That wasn't a perch," said he. "Surely it wasn't a turtle, for they don't bite until warm weather."
"Surely it was a turtle," said Martin. "There it is."
As he spoke a large mossback came to the surface, and calmly surveyed the surroundings, as if to say: "Well, my little boy, that's all you know about turtles biting before warm weather."
"There's a target for us," said Martin. "Let him have a bullet."
As quick as a flash both boys grasped their pistols, which they took pride in wearing whenever they went into the woods or along the river, and fired at the same instant. One ball pierced the turtle's head. It gave several clumsy strokes, then gradually sunk, leaving a bloody streak behind.
From his place of concealment Stayford watched this exhibition of skill. "It is well for me that I am not here to meet those boys in a fair fight with pistols," he thought to himself. "How quick it was done, too. Of course it was that young Owen. He seems to handle a pistol as well as he does a rifle, and the very pistol he won at the shooting-match. How I would like to have one of that make," and Walter Stayford examined the rusty cap and ball revolver which hung at his side.
"Your bullet hit him," said Owen, who thought that in his eagerness to fire rapidly he had shot above the turtle.
"I reckon it's hard to judge," replied Martin.
"I reckon not!" muttered Stayford to himself, for in his opinion only the youthful victor of the shooting-match could have performed such a feat.
"No; I aimed too high," said Owen in response to Martin's doubt.
"That's bad luck, at any rate," Martin grumbled, "we've lost the turtle and frightened away the perch."
"I am willing to give them the full fifteen minutes; they have—have eight minutes left," replied Owen.
"In goes the minnow—and under goes the bobber—and out comes the first—first—first perch!" cried Martin, with excitement, at the same time landing a perch weighing about a pound.
"That must be a straggler," said Owen, "let us see whether he brought a companion along."
He threw in his line at the same place, and almost the same moment, as his float moved slowly off, began to repeat, "I—I—I—have—have—have—ve—a fine one," and when he finished the last word he pulled in a perch twice the size of Martin's.
"Good!" shouted Martin; "I wonder what brought him around."
"Don't know; but now for the fun if we have struck a school of them."
For four hours the boys did not move from the spot. Fish after fish was landed, until a string of forty perch was the reward of their day's effort.
"Only six minnows left," at last said Owen, feeling in the bucket for another bait.
"Wait a moment," interposed Martin, "let us try the new way. An old fisherman told me the other day that he always baited the shiners through the back, because in this position they appeared more natural."
"Now's a good time to try," said Owen, "for we can afford to lose a few minnows. How did he say to fix them?"
"Run the hook under the big fin on the back."
"How's that?" queried Owen, holding up the baited hook.
"It looks all right, but I don't know how it will work," said Martin.
"We'll soon find that out," replied Owen, casting his line into the stream. "At least, it hasn't frightened them away," he continued, after a short pause, "for one is biting now, and—and—and here it is."
"Yes, here the line is," said Martin, "but both perch and minnow are gone. I see that you don't understand the new way of fishing."
"It is much better to bait them through the mouth."
"That's to be proved," argued Martin, "look at this."
Both hooks were then baited in the new way. Bite—jerk—minnow lost—perch gone; it was all over in less than a minute.
"What'd I tell you?" cried Owen.
"Give them more than one chance! Remember how you wished to leave this place in the morning because the fish did not run up and bite immediately."
"There are three minnows left; if you wish to feed the perch with them, do so. I've had enough fishing for one day."
Martin selected the largest of the three minnows in the bucket. It proved to be a chub, fat and slimy; one that would disappear, oyster like, down the throat of a perch. An unfortunate gormand seized it, and was soon placed with the other finny captives.
"That was an accident! You'll not catch another perch!" exclaimed Owen.
"Fine luck you are having, boys," said a voice from behind, while at the same time a hand was laid upon Owen's shoulder. It was Walter Stayford who thus disturbed the boys in their sport. For hours he listened to their conversation, but so engrossed were they with the perch that not one word was uttered which gave Stayford the least satisfaction. Seeing that they would soon leave the place, he emerged from behind the bushes with the intention of questioning them and discovering whether or not any one in the neighborhood was suspected of illicit distilling. He congratulated Owen on the manly fight which he had made to save the war message, and then, from flattery, went on to ask if anything of importance had happened since the news from the battle. With all his prying and talking, however, he learned nothing. Certainly the boys had not heard of Simpson's adventure, nor was Owen aware that Tom the Tinker was the man who had sought to gain possession of the message.
While not altogether satisfactory, and of a negative character, the results of the meagre knowledge which Stayford thus obtained, were not without their importance. The fact that Simpson had been detected in delivering the whisky and had been pursued was not generally known, for, if so, the boys would certainly have heard some of the neighbors speak of it. This was good news. Yet it was just possible that those who were in possession of the secret pretended to know nothing of the matter, so as to facilitate the capture of the men who had sold the whisky. Such were the thoughts which Stayford revolved in his mind as he stood talking to the boys on the river bank. Nothing could now be done but return to the cave and wait for the stage. Jerry was right; no doubt, if any effort was being made to capture the illicit distillers, the men thus engaged were in correspondence with Squire Grundy.
"Good morning, Mr. Lane," said Squire Grundy, thrusting his huge, shaggy head through the stage door and grasping the giant's hand.
"Good morning, Squire! Step right in; we have just room for one more."
"That's lucky, Mr. L——. Beg your pardon, sir; beg your pardon. You see, this is the first time we have met since you were made sheriff of Nelson County. Have you grown any larger since you became sheriff?" asked the Squire, taking a seat by the side of Mr. Lane.
"Not any larger, but a little wiser, I reckon."
"We are never too old to learn, Mr. Lane—beg your pardon again, Sheriff—we are never too old to learn. I've been a justice of the peace for long on eighteen years, and I learn something new every day."
"Did you ever learn that you were not fit for your office?" inquired Mr. Lane.
"I did not come in here to be insulted—I won't take an insult from any man, even if he is the biggest in the State!" said the indignant Squire, rising to his feet, throwing his broad-brimmed hat on the back of his head and resting on his large, home-made cane.
"How have I insulted you?"
"You called in question, sir, my capabilities of administering the responsible and official duties of a Justice of the Peace," continued the Squire, hoping by this display of learning to confound the ignorant sheriff.
In this he succeeded. The half-dozen passengers stared at the Squire in admiration and astonishment, while the discomfited sheriff wondered what he had said to thus enrage old Grundy.
"All aboard!" shouted a voice from without. At the same instant the stage gave a sudden lunge forward. The grave and portly Squire, losing his balance, fell toward Mr. Lane, who reached out his powerful arm and caught him.
"Stop the stage!" cried out the unlucky man, regaining his feet and wiping the perspiration from his forehead. "Stop the stage until I give that driver some advice. Starting at a run before giving his passengers notice!"
Thump! thump! went the wheels against a large stone. The Squire again came down from his tragic position; but he was fortunate enough this time to fall back into the seat from which he had arisen. He continued to talk and thunder against the driver, while the stage continued to roll and thunder over the rough road until Bardstown was far behind.
"Sheriff Lane," said the Squire, recalling the subject of conversation, which he had entirely forgotten in his rage against the driver, "I want it understood that I am profoundly and adequately capable of fulfilling the manifold and important duties of my office."
"And what I want to say is this," replied Mr. Lane, himself becoming irritated, "I am not fit for the office of sheriff of Nelson County."
"And you said, sir, that I was not fit for my office."
"I did not, Squire."
"You did, Sheriff."
"I tell you, I did not."
"I tell you, you did."
"I was going to talk about myself. I was going to say that I was not the man for sheriff. Before I had time to say it you jumped to your feet and stopped me."
"Then it was all a mistake, Sheriff. Let us shake hands and be friends."
"And why do you think that you are not the right man for sheriff?" asked old Grundy after the reconciliation.
"In the first place, I can't read much and can't write."
"Not at all necessary for your work as sheriff. A man in my position as justice of the peace should be profoundly educated. But for your work, Sheriff, what is wanted is a brave man and a sharp man."
"That's just the difficulty; I am not a sharp man—I am not."
"Why do you say that?"
Mr. Lane did not answer. He looked at the other passengers, not one of whom was apparently listening to the conversation. Evidently he had something to communicate to the Squire which he did not want known to his traveling companions, for he whispered to him a few words, after which the two men left their places and took seats on the top of the stage.
"Well, Squire," said Mr. Lane, who was the first to speak, "this is strange work for me. You see, Mr. Pense was sheriff of the county, and Mud was deputy. Mr. Pense died, Mr. Mud became sheriff, and I was made deputy. Then Mr. Mud died and I was made sheriff. It all happened in less than a month. I didn't want the office, but everybody wanted me to take it, and I said yes. The very next day I got some work to do, which has kept me busy for nearly four weeks, and I am just as far off the track to-day as when I started."
Mr. Lane then gave a long account of the work in which he had been engaged. It seems that the men who followed Simpson on the morning after the celebration of the victory of New Orleans saw nothing extraordinary in his actions. Afterwards, however, when talking about the matter, they wondered why he had abandoned his team. Certainly, he thought that he was pursued. He made every effort to escape his pursuers. Finding it impossible, he leaped from his wagon and fled into the woods. What could be the cause of these strange proceedings? After considering the matter for some time, they concluded that there was but one—the man was delivering illicit whisky. He was frightened when he saw the men coming in full gallop after him, and saved himself by flight. This explained everything fully; without it his whole action was a mystery. The sheriff was made aware of the facts by one who hoped to receive a reward in case of an arrest.
To track the man and his accomplices seemed to be an easy task; for, if once the wagon was found, the owner could be identified. A plain case—so plain to Mr. Lane's mind that he started at once for Bardstown without asking any assistance. The wagon and team, however, as has been seen, had been stolen. After a fruitless effort of two days' the inexperienced sheriff called others to his aid; but with all their prying and probing, no clue to the mystery could be found. The case was finally abandoned. Mr. Lane was returning home.
For more than an hour Mr. Grundy listened to the recital of these events, interrupting the speaker at intervals, explaining how he would have acted under the circumstances, suggesting methods which might still prove successful, and giving much wholesome advice which might prove of service to the sheriff in his future official career. While they were still conversing, the stage descended a steep grade into a ravine, over which the massive forest trees interlaced their branches, forming a gloomy and perpetual twilight.
There was one apartment in the cave with which the reader has not yet been made familiar. Jerry gave it the name of the "hold out," for here it was that he and Stayford spent most of their time. The "hold out" enjoyed the luxury of a glass window of no mean dimensions, being the only part of the cave which received the light of the sun. The main entrance to the cave, as has already been seen, faced the river toward the south; the ledge of rocks came to an abrupt termination about forty feet farther on toward the west, and it was near this point that the window looked over a wide, deep valley. Jerry accidentally discovered that the rock was very thin at this one place, and by patient care cut through it and admitted the sunlight into the gloomy dwelling. The window was concealed by large grapevines, carefully trained so as to cut off the view from below, without at the same time obstructing the light. This arrangement enabled the two men to spend days and weeks in their natural abode without once leaving it.
Here it is that we find them busily engaged in their preparations for intercepting the mail. Stayford was sitting upon a bed constructed of roughly hewn branches covered with straw, and was carefully loading his two pistols. Jerry occupied a stool in the middle of the "hold out," adjusting a mask made of deer-skin.
"How's that?" he inquired, when the mask had been arranged to his satisfaction.
"Improves your looks very much," replied Stayford; "advise you to wear one all the time."
"And how's that?" again inquired Jerry, turning his coat inside out and pulling his hat down over his eyes.
"Still improved."
"And how's that?" he asked a third time, securing his heavy pistols around his waist and hanging a keen hunting knife at his left side.
"Why, old fellow, it looks as if you were going to fight."
"No; I ain't goin' to fight nobody. I ain't goin' to kill nobody. I won't steal nothin' but mail. We'll just see if thare's a letter for Squire Grundy; and if thare ain't, well, we'll let the mail go, and the stage go."
"You are right, Jerry; we won't take a cent. Robbing and stealing are not in our line. We'll leave that kind of work to such men as Tom the Tinker."
When their preparations were completed the two men left the cave for their hazardous adventure.
"Here, Bounce! Here Bounce!" called Owen in a loud voice as he rushed from the house, rifle in hand, crossed the barnyard, and ran at full speed toward a strip of woods which joined with the forest. "Here, Bounce!" he continued to call, looking back now and then to see whether the dog was following. But Bounce was in the field with the negro workmen, too far away to hear the voice of his master.
At the edge of the woods Owen found the mangled body of a young lamb. Glancing down a narrow ravine, he saw a wildcat disappear in the thick underbrush not two hundred yards away. This was the marauder for which the boy was looking. It had stolen into the sheep-fold and made off with a lamb in the full light of day.
Owen gave one more anxious look to see whether Bounce was near, then turned and plunged into the woods in pursuit of the bold robber. He shouted as he ran, hoping thereby to frighten the wildcat and force it to climb a tree, when it would be an easy mark for his rifle. But the cat was too experienced a thief to be entrapped so easily. Had Bounce been there he would have driven it into the position Owen wished it. The boy, however, moved too slowly to bring it to bay. For an instant he saw its long, lithe body as the animal leaped upon the trunk of a fallen sycamore, gave a piteous cry and then disappeared again farther down in the ravine.
To run after it or to shout would only terrify it the more. Owen therefore changed his tactics. He left the ravine and walked slowly along the hillside for nearly a mile, pausing every few minutes to examine the tops of the trees, especially those of the tall poplars which seemed to offer a safe hiding place. The pursuit was brought to an abrupt termination by a steep cliff which overlooked the old stage road. A dark object was seen moving among the brush just below him. The boy raised his rifle in readiness to fire, but the undergrowth was so thick that he could not see distinctly. He changed his position and looked again; it was not a wildcat. But what could the object be? A goat? No; there was not one in the neighborhood; besides, the head was more than five feet from the ground. Further inspection showed that the object was a man. Two were there, partly concealed by the bushes. They had masks of rough deer-skin pulled over their faces. This it was that gave the first one the appearance of a goat.
But what were these two men waiting for? Why had they concealed themselves here so close to the road? After a moment's reflection Owen concluded that they intended to rob the stage. They could certainly have chosen no better spot, as it was fully a mile away from the nearest farmhouse and in a place where the stage would necessarily move slowly. The men were well armed; they had posted themselves, too, within ten feet of the road, where they could both spring forward in front of the stage.
Something must be done to give the travelers warning! So thought Owen as he crept away from the cliff. Perhaps the best plan would be to run some distance up the road, wait for the stage, and tell the driver what he had seen. As he paused for a few seconds to deliberate he heard the old stage rumbling down the hillside not a quarter of a mile away. To reach it now and give warning of the danger was impossible, for it was on the opposite side of the ravine. All that he could do was to wait until the stage hove in sight, then yell and fire his rifle to frighten the robbers and let them know that their movements had been watched. On the other hand, he would be perfectly safe; for he could make his escape before the two men had time to climb the steep cliff and pursue him. Owen crawled back to a position where he could watch the bandits without being seen by them.
In the meantime, lumbering slowly along the rough road into the deep ravine, came the old stage, on whose top were two travelers whom Owen recognized as his old friend Coon-Hollow Jim and Squire Grundy. The Squire was gesticulating and talking vociferously in vain endeavors to be heard above the noise of the grinding wheels. Ostensibly he was entertaining the new sheriff; but he was aware of the fact that two lady passengers below were listening to him as he recounted his many deeds of valor in the Indian wars.
He was suddenly interrupted by a scream from one of the ladies as the two robbers stepped forward and ordered the driver to dismount and unhitch his horses. It was no small humiliation for the new sheriff and the boastful Squire when told to take their places near the stage driver and hold their hands above their heads. With them were two other men, the women and three children being left undisturbed. One of the bandits placed himself before the five men, and, pistol in hand, threatened to blow out the brains of the first that attempted to escape, while the other forced the mail-bag open and began to examine its contents.
Squire Grundy trembled from head to foot, for he feared that his guard's pistol, which was pointed at his head, might go off at any minute. Coon-Hollow Jim stood sullen and stolid; he felt that he was more than a match for the two robbers, yet in his present position he was powerless.
But where was Owen? Why did he not give the alarm as he had resolved to do? So frightened and bewildered was he that he remained for some time a passive spectator of the scene. Finally he regained his courage and resolved to assist his old friend Coon-Hollow Jim. Yet which should he do? To kill or wound the robber—his mind revolted from such a plan. To shoot the pistol from his hand—this was an easy task, though to hit it in such a way as to make the ball glance off without the least danger to the passengers—this required the perfection of his skill, but this he resolved to do.
Never did Owen's rifle-craft prove more useful to him than at that moment. Conscious of his power, he raised his rifle. His aim was long and true and steady. Then a sharp, clear ring, followed by the deep, loud report of the highwayman's pistol, discharged by the shock of his bullet. For a moment both robbers and passengers were dazed. No one seemed to know what had happened or to have noticed that a rifle had been fired. But the bewilderment was only for a moment.
Mr. Lane, seeing his guard unarmed and helpless, sprang toward him and seized him in his iron grasp. The other bandit, too, was soon overpowered and made a prisoner.
"Hold them tight! Hold them tight! Ropes to bind them! Ropes to bind them!" exclaimed the excited Squire, keeping at a safe distance from the two robbers.
The driver bound the hands of the two prisoners behind them with strong hemp rope.
"The rogues and thieves!" continued the Squire with much indignation. "The country is full of them! It is as dangerous to travel now as when we had the Indians around, forty years ago!"
As soon as the prisoners were secured all fell to praising Mr. Lane for his bravery. For, in their opinion, he had suddenly sprung upon the highwayman, knocked the pistol from his hands and made him a prisoner.
"That's the boldest, bravest deed that I've witnessed in all my wide experience," said the Squire. "To attack an armed robber who holds a pistol at your breast, to overpower him and take him prisoner unaided—that, sir, is something that has never been done before in this State or country. Then to dodge the bullet! Sheriff, how you dodged the bullet when he fired at you is more than I can understand. I predict a unanimous vote for you in the next election—a unanimous vote, sir. For when the people hear of this day's work they'll have no one else for sheriff of Nelson County." The Squire would have talked for half an hour, but the driver interrupted him, and insisted on starting at once.
The two prisoners were made to take seats on the top of the stage, where Mr. Lane, pistol in hand, sat to guard them; and in a few moments the coach and four disappeared over the hill beyond the ravine. The passengers congratulated themselves on their fortunate escape, little dreaming of the part which Owen had played in the capture of the robbers.
Owen, too, was pleased with the turn which events had taken. His first impulse was to call out to the travelers and explain why the pistol had dropped from the bandit's hand; but when he noted their praise for Mr. Lane, and heard Squire Grundy say that his bravery would win for him the vote of every man in the county, Owen determined then and there to let no one know that a shot from his rifle had brought so much honor on his friend.
For an hour or more neither of the prisoners spoke a word. They wore their masks, too, so that Mr. Lane was ignorant of the fact that the fleshy man before him was the jolly fiddler and marksman whom he had met at the famous shooting-match on Grundy's farm.
Within the stage, the Squire was entertaining the passengers with stories of Indian wars. He had often seen Indians dodge bullets, but Mr. Lane, he thought, was the first white man to perform such a feat. The sheriff was elated as he listened to these words of praise from so great and influential a man as Squire Grundy. In the meantime, he carelessly examined the pistol which he held in his hand. Something had struck the upper part of the rusty barrel; the mark looked like one made by a bullet. Was not this the pistol, too, that had fallen from the robber's hand? While the sheriff was thinking over the matter and trying to find some connection between the mark and the surprise of the prisoners, one of the bandits spoke to him.
"I don't wish," said he, "to ask for anything either for myself or my partner. We've been caught robbing a stage, and must serve our term in the penitentiary; but there is another man in this work, and he must come with us."
"That's right," chimed in his companion, from beneath his mask. "Catch that devil of a Tinker, and you can have all three of us. Me and this hare feller was nothin' but rabbits for goin' into this hare work, and we desarve to be caught in our own traps."
"We didn't intend to rob the stage," continued the first speaker.
"That there may be true," interrupted the sheriff, "but I reckon the law won't look at it in that there way."
"I know it won't! I know it won't!" said the prisoner. "Remember, I am not asking for mercy; only listen to what I have to say, and when you have heard all you will believe me."
Here the stage drew up in front of the Grundy home-stead, an old manor, approached by an avenue of silver poplars, and surrounded by a wide veranda. The Squire bade the passengers good-bye, assuring them at the same time that they were perfectly safe in the company of so brave a man as Sheriff Lane.
"What I have to say is this," resumed the prisoner, when the stage was under way again. "We are not highway robbers. For years we've lived in this part of the country, worked and trapped, and injured no one. But a scoundrel and thief, whom we call Tom the Tinker, persuaded us to go into the whisky business. For three years we made whisky in a cave on the bank of the Beech Fork, about six miles from here. Then we were caught; at least, we thought so. Our object in stopping the stage to-day was to see whether any notice had been sent to Squire Grundy or the sheriff about the matter. You notice that we did not attempt to rob the passengers. Instead of finding the letters, we met the Squire and yourself. I did not know at the time that you were sheriff, but, sheriff or not, we had you just where we wanted you until my pistol went off and fell from my hand. How it happened, I don't know. We're your prisoners, and'll be sent up for five years. But we must have Tom the Tinker with us."
"What made you suspect that your plans were discovered?" asked the sheriff.
"We sent six barrels to Bardstown."
"When?"
"The day after the news from New Orleans."
"And the driver was foller'd?"
"Yes."
"And left that there team on the road?"
"Yes; he jumped from the wagon when the men came near him, and made his way back to the cave on foot."
"Where's the wagon?"
"Don't know, sir."
"I've been lookin' for that there wagon for two weeks."
"The wagon belonged to the Tinker," said the prisoner. "He is the cause of our ruin, and he must come to the penitentiary with us."
He then proceeded to give the sheriff an accurate description of the cave, with minute details in regard to the path which led to it. The Tinker must be arrested while actually engaged in making whisky; this would insure him a sentence of ten years in the penitentiary.
All that day Mr. Lane talked with the prisoner about the capture of Tom the Tinker and the destruction of the illicit distillery. The second prisoner spoke but little. Only after it was quite dark, and the stage approached Louisville, did he remove his mask and make known to his captor who he was. It was a painful task for the good-natured sheriff to hand over the jolly fiddler and marksman to the jail authorities; yet this was his duty, and he did not shrink from it.
"I'll expect to see the Tinker with us before two weeks have passed," said Stayford, as the sheriff turned to leave the jail.
"Yes! bring him on," said Jerry, "and then you can hang all three of us. We is darned fools for bein' caught in our own traps, and desarve to be hanged."
The stage was on its return trip from Louisville. It had but a single passenger, and that passenger was Sheriff Lane, who sat with the driver on top of the coach. The conversation naturally drifted to the capture of the two robbers the previous week. The driver said that he had thought the matter over for hours at a time, and had but one solution to the strange conduct of Stayford. The man, he thought, was not accustomed to such work; he grew nervous under the strain, and accidentally fired the revolver, on which he had but a slight hold. In consequence of this, it rebounded from his hand.
"I've been thinking that there matter over," said Mr. Lane, at the same time drawing from his pocket the identical pistol which Stayford had dropped. "Do you see that there mark on the upper part of the rusty barrel?" he asked, as he held up the weapon in front of the driver.
"Plainly," was the answer.
"What do you think done it?"
"It seems to be the mark of a bullet."
"When do you think that there mark was made?"
"Certainly within the past few days."
"So far we agree exactly," said the sheriff. "I noticed that there mark about an hour after I arrested the robbers. It was somewhat brighter then than it is now. I reckon that a rifle shot from the top of the hill knocked that there pistol from Stayford's hand. What's your opinion?"
"In the first place, Sheriff, we should have heard the report of the rifle."
"That's my only difficulty," put in Mr. Lane. "But we'll settle that there thing later on. What else have you to say?"
"Well, I reckon any sensible fellow would shoot at the robber, and not at the robber's pistol."
"Most fellers would! Most fellers would!" repeated the sheriff. "But I know one feller that wouldn't—young Howard, who won the prize at Grundy's farm last fall. You see, he's only a boy, and he would not care about shootin' nobody. But he knew that he could hit that pistol clean and sharp; and he's the only feller in this here part of the country who could do it. Did you ever hear of young Howard?"
"I reckon I didn't," remarked the driver.
"Then half of your life is lost, my friend."
"Does he shoot well?"
"Shoot! Great pos-sim-mons! Shoot!" exclaimed Mr. Lane. "Every time that there boy raises his rifle somethin' drops; I never seen the like of it in my born days!"
"So you think that young Howard happened to be on the bluff overlooking the road."
"He was up there, sure as a gun. He's the only one who could have done the work so clean and sharp. Just look at this," continued the sheriff, as he held the pistol in front of the driver. "Just look at this mark! The ball struck the barrel in exactly the right spot. Had the boy missed his aim the width of a straw he would either have failed to knock the pistol from Stayford's hand or would have run the risk of killing one of us."
"But why didn't the little fellow show himself?" asked the driver.
"I reckon he's kind of scared, and made off for home. He ain't one of them here fellers that puts on much. Down at Grundy's, when he had won in the wing shot, I had hard work getting him to try at the target. You see, he missed the target first, because his powder was wet. But when he did begin shooting—great pos-sim-mons! he just done the best I ever seen! He drove the ball home to the bull's eye every crack!"
"But again I ask, Sheriff, why did we not hear the rifle?"
"I reckon that's hard to explain. But I'll ask the boy what happened when he fired. I'm going to get off at Howard's and stay around that part of the country for a week or so. I have important business there."
"Something connected with the elections, I reckon," said the driver.
"Them elections is a long ways off. Still, I reckon I'll run when the time comes. With Squire Grundy on my side, I ought to make a tol'able good fight."
The men continued to talk about the robbers and the elections until they came to a station, where the horses were exchanged and several passengers taken in.
It was a little before sunset when the stage drew up in front of the Howard home-stead. What was Owen's surprise, when, looking through the window of the dining-room, he saw his giant friend entering the yard gate, while the stage continued on its way. This meant that Mr. Lane was to remain at his father's house at least for one night. But what could be the object of his visit? Was he coming to thank Owen for assisting him in capturing the robbers? No! this could not be; for the boy was convinced that no one had seen him or was aware of his presence on that eventful day.
Mr. Howard stepped out on the porch to welcome the stranger.
"Good evening, sir," he said to Mr. Lane, as the latter walked up the narrow foot path toward the house.
"Good even, sir. My name's Dick Lane—Coon-Hollow Jim, the folks often call me. I have got business in this here part of the country, and want to ask if I'll be welcome under your roof for one night."
"For a dozen nights, Mr. Lane—just as long as you wish to stay with us," said the farmer, grasping the visitor's hand. "We've heard of you before, sir," he continued. "Owen often speaks of your kindness to him at the shooting-match."
"He desarved it all, Mr. Howard. A fine lad he is; and the best marksman in the State."
"He does handle a rifle fairly well; but I've had him at the axe and plow for some months past," observed the farmer with a laugh.
"Here's my young friend!" exclaimed the giant, as Owen stepped out on the porch and the two shook hands. "See here, youngster," he continued, "I'm sheriff of the county now, and I think I'll arrest you for beating me at the shooting-match."
"And how do you like your new office?" asked Mr. Howard.
"Only tol'ably well, sir. But I reckon I'll get into it later on."
Bertha appeared at the door and with a courtesy invited the gentlemen in to supper. When the meal was over the two men lighted their cob pipes, and, at Mr. Lane's suggestion, strolled out into the woodyard for a private talk. Here they sat for an hour while Mr. Lane explained the object of his visit. He gave the whole history of the whisky cave, told of the arrest of Jerry and Stayford, and finally declared his intention of proceeding to the cave on the following morning, in the hope of arresting Tom the Tinker while the latter was actually engaged in making whisky.
"Now I understand all," said Mr. Howard, when he had listened to the visitor's story; "I knew there was a thief in this part of the country; I suspected the man, but I could never put my finger on any one. Tom the Tinker was certainly a clever man; but all thieves and robbers are caught in the end. His time has now come."
The two men sat in silence for some time, watching the smoke as it curled up from their glowing pipes.
"But Jerry," resumed the farmer in a low, sad voice; "I'm sorry for Jerry. He's been a dear, good friend of us all for these many years. How the young folks will miss him—will miss his fiddle—his jolly call at the dance; still, I see no way to help him now; he's been caught, and must abide by his sentence."
"I found it hard to give him over to the jailer," added Mr. Lane, "but my duty called for it."
"That it did, Sheriff; you would not have been the man for your office if you had let him escape. We must often do things that are not pleasant."
The two men arose and walked slowly toward the house. Mr. Howard volunteered to assist the Sheriff, but the latter preferred to make the arrest alone. It was his intention to start for the cave early on the following morning, so as to examine the entrance during the day and be ready to capture the Tinker at night.
Mr. Howard brought the visitor to Owen's room, where a bed had been prepared for him. As soon as the farmer retired the sheriff drew Stayford's pistol from his pocket, and, handing it to Owen, asked whether he had ever seen it before.
The boy examined the rusty weapon, then gave it back with the assurance that this was the first time he had seen it.
"Take it again, and look at the barrel," said Mr. Lane.
Owen was still ignorant of the fact that this was the pistol which he had knocked from Stayford's hand; but as he inspected it closely the truth forced itself upon him—that indentation in the middle of the barrel had been made by his rifle. He was not surprised that the sheriff should have kept the robber's revolver, but why did he insist on Owen's examining it?
"Come, my boy," said the sheriff, "is there no strange mark on that there barrel?"
"A small one, just in the center."
"Something like a bullet mark, I reckon."
"Yes, sir," said Owen, with a laugh, for he now began to suspect that either Mr. Lane or some of the other travelers had seen him when he stepped from behind the tree to fire at Stayford's pistol.
"Oh, you little rascal! You beat me at the shooting-match last fall, but I reckon I've got you now. A bullet from your rifle made that there mark." The sheriff laughed, and so did Owen.
The latter then explained how he chanced to be in the woods that day, and how, by accident, he had observed the two robbers. He acknowledged, too, that a shot from his rifle had rescued Mr. Lane and the other travelers from the hands of the robbers.
"Why did you not let us know that you were up on that hill?" asked the sheriff.
"One good turn deserves another," said Owen, hesitatingly. "You helped me at the shooting-match; I helped you to capture the robbers. That made us even; So I thought that I'd say nothing about it."
"But it's strange that none of us heard the crack of your rifle."
"I scarcely heard it myself," was the boy's reply. "It seemed to me that my rifle and the robber's pistol went off at the same time."
"Won't Squire Grundy be surprised when he hears how it all happened?" said Mr. Lane.
He was certainly a happy man that night. He had not only proved that he was brave, but, by discovering the part which Owen had taken in the capture of the robbers he showed beyond a doubt that he could knit facts together in such a way as to trace out accomplices, even where the shrewd Squire failed to do so.
Owen soon found himself talking with the visitor as familiarly as if the two were on terms of equality, and had been friends for years.
"Do you know what Father Byrne called you and me when he heard that I was going to the shooting-match?" he asked.
"You mean that sort of a preacher what comes 'round here," said the sheriff.
"Yes, sir; the priest. We call him Father to show our respect for him."
"I seen him down on the Green river, long on five years ago. He come into Medley's store tol'ably late one night, and was half froze—had been out some forty miles or so to see a sick person. Medley, he's a Catholic, and kept the preacher over all night. He set down at the stove and began to tell us stories. He beats all I've seen for that kind of work, even Squire Grundy, 'cept he didn't lie like the squire. Well, what did the preacher say about you and me and the shootin'-match?"
"He called me David, and you Goliath."
"Go-go-who?"
"Goliath—the big man—the giant."
"Live 'round this here part of the country?" inquired Mr. Lane.
"No-o-o-o!" exclaimed Owen, with a prolonged and evident surprise.
"Never heard of him before," said the visitor.
"Father Byrne brought me a book which tells all about David and Goliath. Here it is," he continued, as he took a small illustrated Bible history from a table and held it in the dim light of a tallow candle.
"Go-go-what's his name?"
"Goliath."
"Go-go-li-yah is one of them there fellers you read about in books. That's the reason I did not know nothin' about him. You see, I can't read much, my lad. Squire Grundy says I'm got to larn better, and how to write, too, before the next election. But now, just tell me about the Go-go-li-yah."
"He was a very big man—a giant," began Owen. "David was a small boy. The two had a fight, and the little boy killed the big giant."
"And that's the reason the preacher called me Go-go-li-yah," said Mr. Lane; "because I was a big man, and was whipped by you. But what did old Go-li-yah fight with—a horse-pistol, I reckon?"
"N-o-o-o," replied Owen, with another prolonged surprise. "Goliath used a sword, and David a sling."
"One of them things that boys use for throwing rocks?" inquired Mr. Lane.
"Yes, sir. But here's a picture of the fight. You see, here's the giant lying on his back. David has taken Goliath's sword and has raised it to cut off his head."
"Served him right," answered the visitor, calmly. "If he'd only had sense enough to use a rifle or a ho'se-pistol he wouldn't have had his darn noggle chopped off."
Owen continued to turn the pages of the history slowly, while he narrated some of the striking events of the Old and New Testament. Mr. Lane listened with the simplicity of a child. How he marveled at the passage of the Red Sea—the pillar of fire and luminous cloud in the desert—the fall of the walls of Jericho.
Before retiring that night Owen knelt by his bed and prayed fervently for Mr. Lane; prayed that He who had opened a way through the waters and had lit up the path in the desert would also give to his friend the gift and light of faith.
"Good luck to you, my friend!" said Mr. Howard, as he accompanied Mr. Lane to the yard gate and pointed out the path which led down to the river. "But be careful, sir; be careful. Remember that you are dealing with a villain—he is not a murderer; at least, I never heard of his killing any one—but he is cruel—as cruel a man as ever came to this State. I do believe that he would shoot down any one who dared come between him and his money. But remember, too, that he is a coward. He'll not meet you face to face. Once you've captured him, watch him closely, for I fear that he'll attempt to take his own life when he sees that he has fallen into the hands of the law."
"I'm new at this business, as you know, Mr. Howard. Luck has been with me so far, and I hope it will stay. This here is sartin; if I don't capture Tom the Tinker it won't be because I didn't do my part. Good morning, sir!"
"Good morning!"
"If I get the Tinker it will be a good shot for me in the next election for sheriff." With these words Mr. Lane started off on his perilous mission.
The farmer stood and watched him until he disappeared, and then turned and walked slowly toward the house, muttering as he went: "The villain! the villain! If he is not captured this time, then I'll take a hand in the fight!"
Mr. Lane strode along the river bank, pushing his way through the patches of horse-weed which grew quite close to the water's edge. He did not follow the path farther up on the hill, as he did not wish to be observed. He often paused to mark his way, for he thought that it would be necessary for him to retrace his steps at night.
High above his head, on the bare limbs of a sycamore, a restive rain-crow croaked,—its call predicting heavy rains and bad luck. The old marksman raised his rifle with deadly aim toward the rufous-winged prophet, held it there for a single second, then, lowering it again, said, "If I'd only pulled the trigger, my little friend, you'd never bring bad luck to nobody again."
A strange feeling came over him as he drew near the cave, so that he used every means to divert his mind. He spoke to the clattering kingfishers, even though they had no inclination to tarry with him; he gazed at the stupid frogs along the river bank; he watched the tanagers which seemed like balls of fire among the green foliage of the trees. The closer he came to his destination the slower he walked; as a consequence, it was almost mid-day when he stood before the two giant rocks, the guardian genii of that mysterious place.
With his right hand grasping his revolver, he passed cautiously through the narrow entrance. Here he paused and listened, but heard nothing. With difficulty he found the rock door. It seemed but a part of the solid stone wall, with a slight, irregular fracture along the side. It was in a dark corner, too, where the light from without did not penetrate. The sheriff drew from his pocket two keys, if keys they could be called, for they were simply pieces of seasoned hickory about ten inches in length, so shaped as to lift a latch. With the largest of these the door was opened. Through it he went into the chamber where Martin and Owen had been held as prisoners on that eventful October night, and again he paused and listened, but still heard nothing. Only the faintest light from without was admitted here, but enough for Mr. Lane to see that he had not reached the place where whisky was made. The walls were no longer decorated with the skins of wild animals. As no fire had been lighted there for weeks, the air was damp and chilly.
The sheriff suddenly recollected that Stayford had spoken to him of two passages leading from this second room, and had directed him to take the one opposite the rock door. He lit a firebrand which he had brought and walked toward this second entrance. He was convinced by this time that no one was in the cave; besides, Jerry had assured him that neither the Tinker nor Simpson ever remained there during the day.
The whisky still was found, and near it several barrels full of mash. The furnace was warm, and, although the fire beneath it had been extinguished, it was evident that some one had been working there during the previous night. It was equally evident that they would return to complete their labor.
Mr. Lane had intended to examine the cave closely, but not to stay there until dark. His plan was to conceal himself in the woods, watch the men when they entered and then follow them. Now, however, he concluded that it was better to remain in the cave, as he could easily find a hiding place.
At one end of the room in which the whisky was made was a passage leading into the "hold out." The sheriff took from his pocket a second key, unlocked the door, and went into the former dwelling place of Jerry the Trapper. This door could be bolted from within, and so firmly that it was impossible to force an entrance without breaking the solid rock slab of which it was made. Mr. Lane decided to wait here until Simpson and the Tinker returned to the cave, and turned the heavy bolt.
The new occupant then began to examine the contents of his strange abode. At one side hung an iron lamp, with just a little tallow in it. Scattered on the floor were deer-skin leggings and moccasins, caps, and jackets of home-spun, just as Jerry had left them a few days before, when he was preparing for the stage robbery. There were various devices used for cooking utensils. But what interested the sheriff most were the instruments for cutting stone. They were of the very finest material, and had evidently been brought from England. With them the old trapper had cut the two massive doors, and had also opened a way from the side of the cave through which to introduce corn and wood and to roll out the barrels of whisky. Then there was the small window with a single pane of glass; the whole being ingeniously covered by wild grapevines which Jerry had trained along the ledge without.
After Mr. Lane had examined everything in the little room the passing hours became long and tiresome. The little window gradually lost its light, until finally all around was shrouded in darkness. With the night came a protracted vigilance on the part of the sheriff. Mr. Lane sat close to the rock door which he had opened and kept a few inches ajar. At length he heard footsteps at the entrance of the cave. He closed the door, and waited, for he wished to give the Tinker time to begin his work.
When ten minutes had passed he cocked his revolver, threw open the door, and rushed from the "hold out."
All was darkness, everywhere perfect quiet. Not a person! not a sound! For a moment the sheriff stood as if petrified, then turned and groped his way back into the "hold out."
With his flint he lighted a firebrand, then returned to examine the cave. In one of the narrow passages he found a place which seemed to have been recently disturbed; this he examined closely. A large fragment of a stone had fallen away from the mother rock and had crushed down the rough sides. It was this noise, no doubt, which he had heard, and had mistaken for footsteps. Back to the "hold out" he went again. The rest of that night and the following day dragged on slowly, Mr. Lane sleeping but little.
Just as it was growing dusk on the second day, he determined to take a short rest. When he awoke it was quite bright. He sat up, and rubbed his eyes, and wondered what had happened. Could it be possible that he had slept during the entire night? He unbolted the door and went out into the cave. Things had been changed there. Some barrels had been filled and others emptied, and there was a smouldering fire under the simmering still.
The sheriff was not discouraged. As several barrels of mash remained, one or two nights would be required to boil them down. From the amount of work done during the preceding night, he judged that two men at most had been there, and these two would, no doubt, return to finish the work. True, he would have to wait another day, but this seemed little to him now that he felt so sure of capturing the Tinker and his companion. Before the day had passed he ate the last of his provisions, smoked his last pipeful of tobacco; then sought to take another rest, as he felt confident that he would have to stand guard over his prisoners during the greater part of the night.
At one end of the "hold out" there was a ledge of rock protruding so far that it formed a natural bed, where he could rest without being seen, even if any one entered the room. With difficulty the sheriff mounted up into this hard bed, and soon was fast asleep.
He was awakened by an explosion like the crash of an earthquake. He sprang up suddenly, hitting the top of the cave with such force that he fell back half unconscious. As he gradually recovered he heard the sound of voices below.
"What would Jerry say," asked one, "if he knew that we had blasted the rock door into fragments?"
"Jerry is in jail," said the other, with a growl. "Jerry is in jail; I hope he will stay there. All that I want is his money. He never spent any. I wonder where he hid it?"
"What part am I to get?" asked the first speaker, as the two began to search among the old clothes and in crevices in the rocks.
"We'll settle that when we find the money."
"We'll settle it now. How much am I to get?"
"You'll be satisfied with——"
"One-half."
"What, Simpson! You want one-half—a half!"
"Yes, a half."
"But you did not work for it; it came from my corn and my whisky."
"It belongs to Jerry now. If we find it, we take one-half each."
"Wants one-half of it, my! my!"
"Yes, one-half."
"Won't a fourth do?"
"No!"
"Nor a third?"
"No! no!"
"My! my! my!"
"See, here! Tom! I'm the only man left to help you to do your work. Before I begin I must have the promise of half of Jerry's money. One-half, or you'll not make another drop of whisky in this cave!"
"My! my! my! my!" whined the old miser.
Simpson made no reply. He sat down on one of the benches and looked straight into the Tinker's face.
Tom continued to whimper, but he saw that Simpson was firm, so he assented to his terms.
"Can't help it."
"Now that we have begun to make terms," continued Simpson, "let me tell you what I must have of all the whisky we sell. One-fifth of the profits must be mine."
"One-fifth!" stammered the Tinker.
"Yes, one-fifth."
"One barrel in five!"
"Yes."
"That's more than Jerry got."
"But it is what I must get."
"It's more than Jerry and Stayford got."
"Can't help it."
"It's twice as much as they got."
"But you robbed them; they often told you so, and you know it."
"My! my! my!"
"I'll take one-fifth, and not a cent less!"
"My! my! And now you are robbing me!"
"Remember, Tom, the work is more dangerous than it was when Jerry worked with you. You don't know what moment Sheriff Lane might come in here and put his hand on your shoulder."
The old coward was startled, and glanced anxiously from one side to the other.
Mr. Lane the while was anything but comfortable. They were to examine the "hold out" to find Jerry's money; evidently they would climb up to the place where he was lying. Luckily he had carried his two revolvers with him; these he held in his hands ready for action.
The Tinker continued to groan, and curse, and argue with Simpson; but in the end he was forced to yield.
"Now that we have reached a conclusion, let us wait until morning before we search for the money," suggested Simpson.
"I want to see how much there is. I always thought that Jerry was rich," said Tom.
"I hope he was. But the money can keep until morning; whereas the mash may sour if we don't run it through."
"Just as you say," assented the Tinker. "You are robbing me of half of it anyway, so there won't be much when the sum's divided."
"Robbing you!"
"Yes, robbing me!"
"You're a liar, Tom, I am only insisting on my rights."
"You accused me of robbing Jerry and Stayford, and now you are robbing me."
"The money we are looking for belongs to no one since Jerry is in jail. If we find it I am entitled to one-half."
"Besides, you force me to give you one-fifth of the profits of the whisky—of the whisky I've spent my days and nights in making, into which I have put hundreds of bushels of corn. That's robbing me! That's robbing me!"