University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

The evening succeeding the events just detailed,
found Webber, Bernard and Tyrone seated in
the room to the right of the entrance of the residence
of the first named, engaged in close conversation.
None of the other occupants of the
house were present—Emily and Mrs. Webber
both being in the apartment to the left with Rufus,—who
by the way was considered gradually
recovering—and John had not yet returned. The
conversation of the trio referred to had been carried
on for some time on various topics of little
interest to the reader, but just at the moment we
have chosen to again introduce them, it had taken
another turn, which, as it has a bearing on our story,
is necessary for us to relate.

“You ask me,” remarked Webber, in reply to
some previous question of Tyrone, “what I know
of her history? I answer, but little; in fact, absolutely
nothing, prior to her being left in my
charge, the particulars of which you remember I
gave you some day or two since. There is something
very mysterious about the matter, and I
would go to any expense within my power to
have it cleared up. Poor girl! I often grieve for
her; for although she in my presence ever appears
cheerful and contented, yet I have watched her
when she thought herself unseen, and I know it
troubles her. She is a girl of thought—very sensitive
withal—and I know the obscurity of her
birth must give her painful feelings. Did you
not notice how pale she appeared on her return
from her walk in the morning?”

“I did,” answered Tyrone. “She looked as
one just recovered from a terrible fright.”

“I was alarmed myself,” continued Webber,
“and thought something serious had taken place;
but when I questioned her, she forced a smile
upon her pale features and assured me it was
nothing but a little dizziness in the head which
would soon pass away. I said no more, but that
she must take care of herself—thought in my own
mind the disease is of a very different nature.—
Such a look as she then had and has since worn,
notwithstanding her effort to conceal it, is never
produced by bodily suffering, when the mind is in
the proper state, or all my observations have gone
for nothing. As you remarked, she looked as a
person who had been frightened; though what
should occur to produce that I do not know, unless
the recalling of the night of her kidnapping;
and I scarcely know how that, at this time, should
so effect her. No, no, it was not that; perhaps
she saw one of the villains concerned in that
business:—Gods! if that rascal Curdish had not
escaped me!” (here Webber shut his teeth close,
while his eyes flashed fiercely) “yet we may meet
again!” he added; and then resuming the conversation
where he had broken it off, continued:—
“But if she had seen any of them she would have
told me so. No! it must have been caused by her
own serious reflections. Ha!” added he again, as
if struck by some new thought, “perhaps Merton—but
no, no! Merton is an honorable man.
Perhaps—” he was about to say something
concerning Rufus, but thinking better of it,
paused.

“Speaking of that night, Webber,” remarked
Tyrone, “have you ever formed any idea of the design
of those ruffians in seizing upon her person?”

“Why no, unless for sensual gratification.”

“That warnt it,” put in Bernard, who had for
some time been a listener. “I've been a thinking
the hull matter over myself, and I tell ye for sartain
that warnt it. There's something plaguey
mysterious about it; and since you've been a talking,
an idea's popped into my head that that are
scrape was brought about by a different cause from
what you think.”

“Ah!” said Webber; “and pray what cause de
you assign for it, Harvey?”

At this moment the door opened and John
Webber entered. His features were somewhat
pale, but in other respects much as usual; though
a close observer might have detected the previous
workings of passion, as little marks in a forest tell
of the storm that has just swept over it. With a
simple nod of recognition to the occupants he took
up a chair and seated himself some distance from
them.

“Why, John,” said his father, turning to him,
“why do you absent yourself thus of late? and at
a time too when you are most wanted at home?
You know there is much labor needed on the
farm, and I am not able to accomplish it alone.—
Besides, too, your brother has been very sick, but
by God's blessing is now better! though he might
have been dead and buried without you being the
wiser for it. I have not seen you but twice during
his illness. Where have you been?”

“I have had business to keep me absent,” replied
John, sullenly, evading a direct answer.

“Yes, you always have business!” rejoined Webber,
rather sharply; “but I trust you will close
your business soon, if you have not already done
so, and be a little more at home!”

“I trust I am of age and can act for myself!”
grumbled John.

Webber, who knew too well his son's morose
disposition and evil temper to carry the matter
farther at present, made no reply, but turning to
Bernard, said: “I will now hear your answer
with regard to what you suppose the cause.”

“Wal, as I was saying,” returned Bernard,
“while you've been talking, I've been a thinking
the matter over, and I remember hearing one o'
them are rascals, in his conversation with the
tother, say that the old feller what hired 'em, and
the gal, and some other feller was all kind o' mixed
up into a secret—at least he guessed so, from
knowing the first old feller'd got hold o' some papers,
and had been mighty anxious to git the gal
ever since.”

“Ah! true, true!” rejoined Tyrone; “I remember
now hearing the same remark; but not knowing
then to whom it referred, had quite forgotten
it.”

“Strange! strange!” said Webber, thoughtfully;
“more mystery. Can it be possible there was
some one at the bottom of that affair who knows
her history? It may be. The more I think of
it, the more mysterious everything concerning it
appears. My mind has been so much occupied
with the uncertain fate of my son since that event,
that I have never till now thought of it so seriously;
and have never even questioned Emily or
Merton on the subject—what took place—how he
found her—or how she was rescued; but I will do
so now, and perhaps she will be able to throw
some light upon the matter.” As he spoke, he
arose, passed out of the room, and presently returned
with the object of their conversation.

The features of Emily as she entered were very
pale, their expression very sad; and though she
strove to look cheerful, it was evident to all she
was undergoing severe mental suffering. As she
came forward and took her seat, her eye fell upon
John, and she gave an involuntary start, while
every muscle of her face quivered.

“Good heavens, Emily, you are not well!” exclaimed
Webber, as he noticed the change in her
appearance. “Tell me, my child, truly, are you
not ill?”

“I—I did feel a little unwell, just at this moment,”
replied Emily, by a mighty effort recover
ing her composure; “but I am better now. Indeed,”
she added, seeing Webber looked at her
doubtfully, “I feel quite well again.”

Webber shook his head gravely; and then, as if
fearful of agitating her, proceeded directly to the
matter in point.

“We were talking, Emily, of the events of that
night of your seizure by those ruffians, and have
sent for you to give us the particulars of what
you saw and heard.”

Glad of anything that would for a moment relieve
her mind of the painful thoughts now agitating
her, Emily proceeded at once to give a full
narration of what she had seen and heard herself,
and also the particulars of Edward's adventures,
as related by himself on that eventful night, all of
which matters being familiar to the reader, we
shall not again detail.

“Depend upon't, I's right!” said Bernard, triumphantly,
as Emily concluded. “That are stingy
old Jew warnt doing that are rascally business
for nothing.”

“True,” rejoined Webber, thoughtfully, “there
does appear a mysterious connection between that
and what has gone before. And then that old
woman's warning—her knowledge of what was
taking place—the sudden entrance of the stranger,
who gave his name as Barton—the ring and
its wonderful effect upon the Jew, are matters
which look very mysterious, and show a deep laid
plot of some kind,—and then that conversation
between the kidnapper and the Jew indicates that
the latter has some, or at least thinks he has some,
secret knowledge of Emily. This affair must be
looked into at once. But then, again, that counter-plot
of the ring—what had that to do with it?
I do not understand it. Barton, too, Barton,”
continued he, musingly, “why I know one of that
name—a gentleman that has been some time in
these parts—a speculator in land—can it be that
he is the same? But no—pshaw! what should he
know of the Jew? What think you of the whole
affair, Tyrone?”

“Why that is what I hardly know myself,”
answered the person addressed. “As you say, it
appears like a deep laid scheme in the first instance;
but then that counter-plot, or whatever it
may be, perplexes me. Ha! an idea strikes me:
May it not be possible that these ruffians are a part
of an organised band, who were acting without
the knowledge of their leader, or carrying out
some plan of his before it was fully ripe for execution,
and so were interrupted by him?”

“Heavens!” exclaimed Webber, starting; “I
think you are right. At least there has been a
band of outlaws in this quarter; for when I first
came here, it was almost a daily occurence to hear
of horse-stealing, robbery, and even murder; and
the name of Ronald Bonardi, the bold, reckless
leader of this banditti, was passed from ear to ear,
among the more timid, with feelings of superstitious
awe and horror. In fact, to such an alarming
extent were his depredations carried on, at
one time, that the whole country became aroused,
private meetings were held among the more peaceable
citizens or settlers, and a heavy reward was
offered to any one who should take him dead or
alive; but he was never caught. It was supposed
he got information of their proceedings and
left this part of the country; for since that time,
with but few exceptions, the settlers have remained
undisturbed—though I have heard of some few
exploits since, that smack of his, but for the most
part they happened east of the Mississippi.”

“I jest recollect hearing the same kind o' yarns
told about that are chap when I's out this way
afore,” said Bernard; “and I told Mark here, when
I seed that are harrycane coming up, and knowed
we'd have to crawl into the cave, that like as not
we'd get into a robber's nest, and it made Mark
quite skeery like.”

“Pshaw!” exclaimed Tyrone, with an angry
gesture, the color deepening in his face; “have
done with such nonsense, Bernard!”

“Fact, I swow!” returned Bernard, looking slyly
at Webber and giving him the wink. Webber
smiled, but made no reply.

“What was the personal appearance of this bandit
chief?” enquired Tyrone, not heeding the last
remark.

“In size he was rather large and well formed,”
replied Webber; “at least that seems the most
correct information on the subject; though some
who saw him solemnly declared him to be a monster—a
giant; but doubtless their fears made them
exaggerate. His features I believe were never
seen, as he always wore a mask. In some of his
exploits—in fact I may say all—he exhibited a
wild eccentricity of manner, that distinguished
him from all his followers. He has been described
by some as bloodthirsty and utterly ferocious; but
then, again, others relate anecdotes which prove
him, notwithstanding, to have been a man of feeling;
for he has been known to rob an individual
and then return him his money, when he saw he
was likely to be distressed by the loss. Occasionally
too, a poor man has been surprised at having
a purse of money placed in his hand, by a masked
stranger, accompanied with these words, uttered
in a slow, solemn tone: `Remember in turn the
needy, and in your prayers forget not Ronald Bonardi.'
”

“A singular being!” remarked Tyrone, musingly.
“He had, decidedly, some fine redeeming
traits. Do you think him still living?”

“As to that I am undecided,” answered Webber.
“But if he be living, he has either reformed
or left this part of the country—for of late I have
heard nothing of him. I am inclined to the opinion,
however, that he is living, but has quit his
former mode of life. Were he still in this vicinity,
I should be strongly inclined to believe him
the person who gave Merton the ring—it being
somewhat characteristic of the man—were it not
for one or two reasons to the contrary. In the
first place, Bonardi would not have revealed his
features. In the second place, this person gave
his name as Barton, and Bonardi would have
given his own.”

“But when he gave his name as Bonardi, his
features, by your account, were always masked,”
remarked Tyrone; “consequently, unmasked, no
person would know him as Bonardi; and might
he not, under such circumstances, give his name
as Barton?”

“Such a thing might be, it is true,” replied
Webber, thoughtfully, “but I do not think it
likely. In sooth, to me the whole affair looks
improbable, from the fact that I do not believe
Bonardi to be in this section, or we should ere
this have heard of him. No, now that I think
of it again, Tyrone, your suggestion that these
ruffians are a part of an organised band, does not
appear so plausible. I should rather judge them to
be some low, desperate characters, employed for
the occasion by the Jew, whose reputation as a
cowardly villain is wide spread. The ring business,
as I said before, I do not understand. It
might have been that this was a signal, understood
among themselves as indicating danger, and
to forego their design, whatever it was, until a
better opportunity should present itself. If this
was the case, their cards were well played. But
I must question Merton, when I see him, and get
more of the particulars.”

“Speaking of these matters, Webber, did you
not feel unsafe here, with your family, when you
first settled, knowing that you were surrounded
by such a band of desperadoes, and in a country
too so thinly populated that you would be likely
to get no assistance, even if attacked, with no
laws of force sufficient to protect either property
or person?” enquired Tyrone.

“Why, such matters did trouble me some at
first,” replied Webber; “and in consequence of
this I built my cottage very strong, and secured
me some dozen of good rifles and plenty of ammunition—which
I still have on hand—though,
thank Heaven! I have never been molested, nor
had occasion to use them. The seizure of Emily
is the first trouble of the kind that has ever happened
with any of my family: and somehow I
have never looked on this so seriously as I do
now; for since all the circumstances have been
explained, I think there will be more trouble.
But do not be alarmed, Emily,” continued he,
addressing himself more directly to her; “you
shall be protected; only do not venture out too
far alone—at least not for the present.”

“Rest assured I shall not!” said Emily, stealing
a look at John, who sat perfectly unmoved, apparently
heeding nothing that was said.

“What course do you intend to pursue, in regard
to this matter?” enquired Tyrone.

“Can I depend upon you to assist me, Tyrone?”

“You can, to all that lies in my power.”

“And you, Harvey, I know will stand by an
old friend!”

“Wal I guess I will now,” answered Bernard,
his cheeks flushing and his eye brightening at this
complimentary appeal to his courage: “I guess I
will now; jest try me and see if I don't. Stand
by ye, Bill Webber—you who I've known ever
since I was a leetle boy—why, darn me for a
sneaking coward, if I wont go it clean to the
death, plum! I swow I will, and no backing!”

“Well, then,” rejoined Webber, smiling at the
enthusiasm of his friend, “my course is decided.
We will arm ourselves and proceed at once to
the hut of the old woman, who seems to know so
much of the matter, and force her to reveal the
full particulars, who were the instigators, actors,
and also their whereabouts at the present time.
We will then take her along with us, both as a
guide and to prevent her communicating with
any of the villains, and proceed next to the hut
of the old Jew, whom I shall take into custody
for further examination; and if he has any secret
papers, concerning Emily, I will have them, and
know how he obtained them. We will then return,
and if it be necessary for more help, in order
to secure the others, I will call upon neighbor
Winslow—who has lately settled within a
mile of me, and has five brave, hardy sons—and
neighbor Mason, living some half a mile farther
on, who has four more; and between the two
families I think I can raise sufficient force to teach
these ruffians better manners than meddling with
me or mine! By heavens! and I will so teach
them too, ere I have done with them, or my name
is not William Webber!”

“Jest the same old grit in ye yit!” remarked

Bernard, approvingly. “Jest the same Bill Webber
you used to be! You always had a go-a-head-a-tiveness
about ye, when there was any pluck
needed. I haint forgot how you gin it to that
are tarnal horse-thief, that was so plaguey desperate
nobody else dared to touch him, and you only
a boy then, as one may say.”

“That was a hard fight,” returned Webber.
“Perhaps I could not handle myself so well now,
as then; but still I think I could do something, if
forced into a fight, even now.”

“But when do you think of proceeding in this
business?” asked Tyrone.

“Early on to-morrow,” replied Webber. “It
has been too long delayed already. Had it not
been for the severe illness of Rufus, I should have
enquired into the matter sooner, and long ere this
would have been like a blood-hound on the track
of the ruffians. Perhaps it is better though, as it
is; for they would then, doubtless, have been on
their guard—expecting, as they naturally would,
a pursuit. Now I trust to take them unawares.”

“But do you not think they have fled the country?”
asked Tyrone.

“No! I do not; from the fact, as it appears,
that the person of Emily is what they sought;
and they will be likely to hover in the vicinity for
a second trial.”

“By the way, Webber, a thought strikes me!”
said Tyrone, suddenly. “Have you ever been
able to account for the escape of Curdish?”

“No!” answered Webber, “I have not. That
was another very mysterious affair, which has perplexed
me not a little. No one could have entered
the house after John came home, for the
door was bolted on the inside; and after that I
looked into the room, and saw Curdish still there;
otherwise I should have supposed he escaped by
means of a false key; but had he done so, the
outer door would not have remained bolted on
the inside, as was the case in the morning. What
think you of it, John?”

“I know nothing about it”—muttered John—
“only that I see nothing so very mysterious concerning
it. As to the door being bolted on the
inside, I can say, that having occasion to get up
in the night, I found it standing open, and bolted
it myself. Curdy, or Curdish, or whatever his
name may be, might have had a false key for all
I know to the contrary. Such things are too
common, I think, to be very mysterious.”

“Why, this explains it then!” rejoined Webber.
“Why did you not mention this before,
John?”

“Because I'm not very talkative,” replied John,
drily.

“Well,” said Webber, with a stern look,
“should I be so fortunate as to again have him in
my power, it will require something more than
false keys to save him!” A pause followed this
last remark, and each individual appeared absorbed
in thought. Webber at length resumed
the conversation, by asking Bernard how long he
intended to remain in the vicinity.

“Wal, as to that,” replied Bernard, “it depends
altogether on circumstances. I jest cum out with
friend Mark, here, to look at the land in these
ere diggins, and see what sort of a speculation I
might make; but as you've got into a bit of a
fuss here, I'll jest kind o' keep an eye in this ere
quarter, and be ready to do all I can for ye.”

“Thank you, Harvey!” returned Webber,
warmly. “And you, Tyrone, how is it with
you?”

“Why, as Bernard has just remarked, I came
out here to examine the state of the country, and
attend to some professional business in St. Louis.
By profession, as you are aware, I am a lawyer—though
but lately admitted to the bar. I
had an opportunity some months since of purchasing
a section of land—north of, but bordering
on the Missouri—which I embraced. Some time
after, I received a letter from a gentleman in St.
Louis, offering me for it four times the amount I
paid. This excited my curiosity to know what
had induced the offer; and as I had a desire of seeing
this western country—of which so much has
been said of late—and as my friend Bernard was
desirous of coming out here also, I concluded to
be his companion for the journey. I had heard of
you frequently, from various sources, and Bernard
being an old schoolmate of yours, I determined
on paying you a visit.”

“I am right glad you have done so,” returned
Webber, cordially; “and there seems almost a Providence
in your very conclusion, from the fact that
you came so opportune; for without your timely
assistance I know not what might have been the
result of that knavish affair. I trust you will consider
my house your home, so long as you choose
to remain in the West; and for the invaluable service
both you and Bernard have already rendered
me and mine, accept my warmest thanks, and
hold me ever gratful.”

“As for myself, gentlemen,” said Emily, rising,
“I cannot express what I feel; but you may conceive
it somewhat, when I say that to both of you,
under God, I hold myself indebted—though perhaps
indirectly—for the preservation of my honor,
which of course is dearer to me than life;” and
stepping gracefully forward, she frankly extended
a hand to each, her eyes beaming with the grateful
emotions of her heart.

Both Bernard and Tyrone were affected at this
unexpected elucidation of feeling—this heart-touching
frankness of Webber and Emily, the
latter more especially—and in spite of themselves
both felt their eyes growing moist.

“Hang it all!” returned Bernard, at length,
drawing his hard, rough hand across his eyes,
“you make a feller soft jest for nothing, Emily, I
swow! Why we didn't du a tarnal thing for ye,
hardly, and yit you're praising on us jest as if
we'd done some great things. Take it all back,
Emily, du, until we've done something worth
talking about. I can stand fighting putty tolerable
well, but a woman's soft talk clean upsets me
altogether.”

“I cannot but be affected at your noble frankness,
Emily,” said Tyrone, gazing tenderly upon
her; “but as Bernard has just remarked, I would
you had waited until we did something more deserving;
though God knows, Emily, I will sacrifice
my life for you if necessary!”

“Put me in that are scrape, Mark! put me in
that are scrape, tu!” cried Bernard.

It was now Emily's turn to be affected; and
without venturing a reply, she pressed their hands,
turned away and abruptly left the room. A moment
after, John arose and disappeared also—for
what purpose will be seen anon. Half an hour
later, a horse, bearing a rider, might have been
heard going swiftly toward the east.

After some further conversation, not essential
to our story, Webber, Bernard and Tyrone, together
with Mrs. Webber and Emily, retired for
the night, and the outer door was strongly bolted,
though John had not returned.