 | The bandits of the Osage |  |
3. PART III.
1. CHAPTER I.
THE VILLAINS—THE GAME—THE PLAN—THE INTERRUPTION—THE
OATH.
The detail of our story now calls us to the old
hovel made somewhat conspicuous in the former
part of it by the events which then transpired.—
The same evening on which the foregoing conversation
occurred—though perhaps at a later hour
—a group of five rough, villainous looking fellows
were assembled within the walls of the hut boasting
Hetty Brogan for a hostess. Four of these
ruffians were the same as seen at the cave on the
night of the meeting of the banditti, then described
as plotting among themselves some deed of wickedness.
They were seated on rough benches,
around a plain deal table, whereon lay a small
pile of money, the owner of which was to be determined
by the cards now held in their hands.—
Near one corner of the table stood a feeble ligbt,
seemingly struggling with the surrounding darkness,
while opposite it was a bottle, evidently
more for use than ornament, judging by the reddened
eyes and swollen flushed faces of the party.
The fifth person—for there were five besides
the hostess—was standing a little back, so much
in the shade that his features were undiscernable,
and engaged with the latter in conversation. The
game at the table just at this point had become
very interesting, if one were to judge by the earnest
expression in each of their faces. Two of
the party had thrown up their cards, and were
watching with intense interest the proceedings of
the other two, who were drawing their money
preparatory to increasing the stakes.
“Here, Saxton”—said one of the two last mentioned,
whose arm was confined in a sling, addressing
one of the others, and placing at the same
time a well filled purse on the table—“jest unloose
that ar' a bit; I haint got the use of my fingers
enough for such fine work.” The other
complied, and at his second request emptied the
contents on the table. “Thar's the shiners for ye,
Niles”—he continued—“jest go ahead, who's
afeard?”
“I aint,” answered Niles, the very picture of a
ruffian and his opponent for the stakes; “I aint
afeard, so here goes five shiners better;” and he
added a handful of money to the stakes lying on
the table.
“You want to brag, hey! do ye?” returned the
other. “Ha, ha, ha!—hang me, but you shall
brag for something, then! Thar's yer five and ten
better;” and Curdish—for the reader has doubtless
recognised him—threw down fifteen dollars.
“You don't blaff me that way, croney,” said
Niles, at the same time adding seven half eagles to
the pile; “thar's twenty-five dollars better.”
“Well,” observed Curdish, “all or nothing—
thems my sentiments!” and after counting what
money still remained, he pushed the whole into
the centre of the table.
“Well, what 've ye got?” asked Niles.
“I reckon it takes a cool ten yit, Mr. Niles,
afore you'll be allowed to ask that ar' perticular
question;” replied Curdish, rather sarcastically.
“I'm broke, Jack,” rejoined the other; “jest
draw out that ar' ten of yourn!”
“No, by Jupiter, I dont!” growled Curdish, sullenly.
“Then we'll jest fight for stakes!” cried Niles,
grasping the money with one hand, and drawing a
pistol with the other.
Curdish sprang to his feet with an oath, and
the consequences might have been fatal to one or
both, had not the others interfered and restrained
them. The matter was finally settled by Saxton
loaning Niles ten dollars, which made the stakes
even, and a decision was called for.
“Three aces and a pair of kings!” said Niles,
throwing down his hand with a triumphant look.
“Ha, ha, ha!” roared Curdish, throwing down
a flush. “I reckon as how I'll take them ar'
stakes, Mr. Niles!”
“Beat by —!” grumbled the other, uttering
an oath, while Curdish with one hand commenced
transferring the money to his pocket.
“Hurray, old woman! more of that ar' licher
here, d'ye hear?” cried Curdish, whose success
made him feel rather elated. “By Jupiter! we'll
have a merry night—ha, ha, ha! Blast me, but
we'll have a night on't—hey, Bill Riley!—ha,
ha, ha!” and rising from his seat, he reached forth
his brawny hand and gave Riley—whom we have
noticed as the one standing apart in conversation
with Hetty—a familiar slap on the shoulder.
“Hush! Jack,” returned Riley; “don't go to
bein' so boisterous now.”
“Boisterous!”—ha, ha, ha!—who's a better right!
plenty o' money, by Jupiter!” and Curdish brought
his hand down with force on his pocket, making
the contents jingle.
“Let him laugh as can laugh last, Jack Curdish!”
said Niles, somewhat fiercely, who felt
vexed and mortified both at his loss and the hilarity
of the other. “Saxton, will ye jest lend me
another five?”
“No!” answered Saxton; “no more playing to-night!
We've got other business to look to.”
“Right, thar', my trump!” cried Curdish, with
an oath: “I'd like to have forgot it. Hurray!
here comes Hetty with more licker. Blast me,
but she's an ace o' trumps, is Hetty! Hurray,
boys! take another pull all round—jest to steady
nerves, you know, ha, ha, ha!— and then let's to
business.” As he spoke, Hetty, who according
to Curdish's orders had taken the bottle to refill,
returned and placed it on the table, saying:
“Thar's the rale genewine critter, gintlemen,
United States of Amerecay, although I sez it as
shouldn't.”
Whether the gentlemen thought so or not, they
made no remark, but the bottle went round until
its contents had disappeared. As Curdish, who
was the last to drink, placed it again on the table,
he turned to Riley, and in a low voice said:
“That ar' fifty of the old Jew told tolerable well
to-night in the way of interest,—hey, Bill!—ha,
ha, ha! So the old villain chuckled did he, to
think as how I's dead, and warnt a goin' to pay
over the chinkers? Hang me, but we'll have a
settlement some day! I jest kind o' owe him a
few”—here Curdish set his teeth hard, and uttered
a horrible oath. “But I say, Bill, how d'ye
come out with the cap'en?”
“O, I jest got a little severe talkin' to, and
caution about the future, that's all,” replied Riley.
“But what's the reason you warnt thar' the
night of the meetin'?” asked Curdish.
“Why, ye see, arter I got my money of old
David, I put off to St. Louis, got on a spree, and
forgot all about it till the thing was all over with.”
“Did the cap'en want to know anything about
that ar' scrape with the gal?”
“Yes, he axed me very perticular about it, and
then insiniwated that another such a scrape might
be likely to injure my health.”
“Used me jest the same way,” said Curdish,
with an oath. “Blast me, but he's gittin' a leetle
too perticular! Wonder if he thinks us gentlemen
ar' a goin' to be idle all our lives? Since
he's got married, hang me if he does anything as
he used to do it! He with a wife,—ha, ha, ha!—
Why four year ago, I'd jest as soon thought of
gittin' married myself. Me married hey! Bill—
ha, ha, ha!—how'd I look with a woman tied to
me?” Here Curdish, excited by the liquor he
had drank, and what he conceived to be the ridiculousness
of such an idea, burst into a hearty
roar. “What's yer perticular opinion about it,
gentlemen,” said he at length, recovering his gravity,
and turning to the rest of the party, who were
conversing among themselves: “dont ye think
the cap'en's gittin' a leetle too perticular lately?”
“Why that's my opinion,” answered Saxton.
“Well them's my sentiments!” returned Curdish,
with another oath; “and blast me if I don't
—”
“Hush! be careful!” interposed Riley; “remember
you're talkin' about our cap'en!”
“Well, 'sposin' I am?” growled Curdish, frowning;
“he arnt no more than a man—and I'm a
man—and blast me if I dont tell him so, and do
jest I please! 'Sposin' he is cap'en, I say, he's
no more than a man!—d'ye understand that, gentlemen,
hey! d'ye understand that, I say?”
“Ay, ay!” answered a voice, “we understand,
of course.”
“Of course we do-does,” hiccoughed another
of the party, called Besley, on whom the liquor
was taking effect. “Of course we-we does,—
hur-ray!”
“Well, then, gentlemen,” resumed Curdish—
who also began to feel quarrelsome from the same
canse—“it's all right, by St. Christopher! and
blast me, but I'll blow his brains—”
“Hold, rash fool!” cried Riley, interrupting
him. “You don't know what yer talkin' about!
Do you perticularly want to get us all shot, hey?
The cap'en's right about the gal! We hadn't
no business to be meddling with innocent women.”
“Hang me, but we've a right to meddle with
jest who we please!” rejoined Curdish, with an
oath; “and who says we haint, is a liar, and no
gentleman!”
“Them's strong words, Jack!” returned Riley;
“but I aint a-goin' to quarrel with ye to-night.”
“Come, come,” said Saxton, interposing, “we've
enemies enough, without quarrelling among ourselves;
and what's more, Jack, you ought to be
the last one to raise a fight—seein' as how we
come here at your request. You said you'd got
a plan to lay afore us, and we'd jest like to know
now what it is.”
“Well, I reckon its putty soon got at,” returned
Curdish, with a savage look. “It's nothing more
nor less than what we's talkin' about tother night.
You see that ar' arm, don't ye? Well, that ar'
arm was shot by a — Yankee, when him and
another feller interfered in a scrape that perticularly
belonged to me and Bill Riley; and what I
want's revenge!—nothing more nor less than
their heart's blood, by —!” and he closed with
a terrible oath.
“But, Jack, you know that's a perticularly dangerous
business!” remarked Riley, who not having
been with the others on the night in question,
now learned of the intentions of Curdish for the
first time.
“'Sposing 'tis?—by St. Christopher! who's
afeared?”
“The-them's it!” hiccoughed Besley—who
was already too far gone to understand much of
what was said, but who occasionally caught at a
phrase and fancied he must say something in return:
“The-them's it!—who's afeared? Hurhur-ray!”
“But,” said Saxton, “what's the plan, and what's
the pay if we succeed? Ye see the affair's an
ugly one, the best way you can fix it, Jack, and
the temptation must be good, you know, for us
gentlemen—”
“The-them's it! I-I say the tem-temptation's
good—hur-hurray!” interrupted Bosley, who
fancied the temptation somehow referred to drinking.
“As to the plan,” answered Curdish, “I don't
know much about it. Ye see I haint no great
head for plans, any how; though John Webber's
offered to give me instruction how to manage,
provided I'll jest help him in another scrape, consarnin'
that 'ar' same gal what we had to do with
afore. He want's to carry her off this time.
Blast me, but she's gittin' quite pop'ler somehow—ha,
ha, ha! But about the pay—that's
all right. Ye see its 'spected they've got lots of
chinkers about 'em, and them as helps me can divide
'em,—all I want's revenge!”
“I'm with ye!” cried Niles, with an oath.
“I'm in!” returned Saxton.
“The-them's it!” hiccoughed Besley: “Hurray!”
“Well, all as goes in this ere business, will have
to help in tother; that's the perticular agreement
'tween me and John. What d'ye say, Bill?”
“I'll have nothin' to do with 't!” answered
Riley. “That ar' other scrape did me; besides,
you know the cap'en's orders—”
“Hang the cap'en!” interrupted Curdish, fiercesposin'
“He needn't know any thing about it; and
sposin' he did, it arnt none o' his business! I
reckon we've got a right to make an honest livin'.
without askin' him! If we haint, why blast me
we'll make a right!”
“Well, I say I'll have nothin' to do with 'it!”
rejoined Riley, firmly.
“Per'aps you wants to peach!” said Curdish,
angrily. “You're gittin' altogether over nice,
somehow, lately.”
“You know me well enough on that score,
Jack,” answered Riley, “to know you're insiniwatin'
what's base and ungentlemanly; and if I'd
a notion to quarrel, you'd have to take back them
ar' words, or one or both on us would be gittin'
cold afore five minutes!”
“Some folks ar' perticularly wonderful smart
in big talk,” retorted Curdish;” but they don't
skeer—”
“Come, come, Jack,” interrupted Saxton; “I'll
answer for Bill's honesty; and if he don't want
to jine us, why jest let him stay away—the fewer
the number the greater the spoil, you know.”
“The-them's it!” hiccoughed Besley, again.
“Thar's enough on us, any how,” put in Niles;
“and I'm of Sax's opinion, that if Bill don't want
to jine, we'd better jest let him stay away.”
“But haint you got no plan how to go to work?”
asked Saxton.
“Hist!” exclaimed Riley, suddenly, bending his
head forward in a listening attitude: “Don't you
hear a noise?”
“The others paused and listened also. “I hear
the hoofs of a horse!” said Saxton, shortly.
“Comin' fast!” remarked Riley. “What's the
game I wonder?”
The sound which at first was rumbling and
distant, now came clear and distinct, and could
not be mistaken. It was a horse urged to his
greatest speed. A moment more the blow of the
animal was audible to the listeners, and the clatter
of his hoofs had paused at the door.
Curdish and Saxton turned a little pale. “I
wonder what's in the wind!” said the latter.
“Surely we haint been betrayed?”
“I don't know,” answered Curdish, “unless it's
John Webber. Nobody else knew any thing about
our comin' here, unless Hetty”—here he cast a
fierce look on the hostess, who catching the expression,
quickly made answer:
“D'ye spose I'd peach, Jack Curdish?”
“Not and live!” growled Curdish, with an oath.
“It's only one, any how,” said Saxton, looking
to the pistols in his belt.
At this moment a knock was heard on the door.
“Who's thar?” demanded Hetty, in a shrill
voice.
“Ele lio!” was the answer.
“Blast me, but it's John Webber!” exclaimed
Curdish. “I knows the voice. Ye needn't fear,
Hetty; open the door!”
Hetty immediately complied, and true to the
suggestion of Curdish, John Webber entered.—
There was a lurking devil in his eye, if we may
be allowed an old expression, as he scanned with
a rapid glance both the apartment and its occupants.
There was something in that eye too, that
forbade familiarity, which each of the party—for
all they knew him to be one of their band, and
believed him as great a villian as themselves—felt;
a something that awed them to a certain respect,
(a sort of devilish mental superiority) which John
—who was no novice in reading the thoughts of
kindred spirits—perceived; and for a moment that
dark smile lingered on his features.
“We's jest talkin' about you,” remarked Curdish,
who was the first to speak. “They say talk
about the devil—”
“Well?” interupted John, sharply.
“O, nothing,” added Curdish, who somehow
fancied it would not be politic to finish the sentence.
“You were talking about me, then!” said John,
with a stern look: “Well?”
“Yes, we's jest mentioning over that ar' business,
you know, about how 'twas best to git at
them ar' fellers, ye see.”
“Yes, I know and see!” returned John, quickly;
“and will add, that the chance you are looking
for will come sooner and in a different manner
than you expect.”
Several of the party started with looks of surprise.
“Ha!” exclaimed Curdish—“thar's some
meaning in that!”
“I never speak without meaning!” returned
John, emphasizing the last word.
“What's in the wind?” enquired Saxton.
“Hark ye, fellows!” answered John; “before I
proceed farther, there must be an understanding.
I am aware, and doubtless you are also—if not you
should be—that there are no ties of friendship between
us. We are drawn together and act together
only so far as our separate interests make
it necessary. Whatever those interests are, matters
not; suffice that they are enough for our
present union. To come to the point. I am
willing to serve you, so far as lies in my power,
but you must serve me in return! Is this the
understanding?”
“Ay! ay!” answered Curdish, Saxton, Niles
and Besley—the last of whom, by the way, owing
doubtless to the turn matters had taken, had recovered
sufficiently to understand what was going
forward.
“But one of your party does not answer,” remarked
John, glancing at Riley.
“I've told 'em afore, I'd have nothin' to do
with't!” said Riley.
John put his mouth to the ear of Curdish, and
whispered: “Can he be trusted?”
“I'll answer for him!” replied Curdish, in a
whisper also.
“And Hetty?”
“She's right!”
“Enough!” said John, aloud. “Those of you
who are willing to enter into an agreement to
serve me, when called upon, for the service I shall
render you, will now swear to do so by kissing this
dagger.” As he spoke, he drew from his breast a
long, polished weapon, of the kind named, and
reached it to Curdish, who took and pressed it
to his lips. Saxton, Niles, and Besley did the
same.
“You have all now deliberately sworn!” resumed
John, as he again took the weapon. “Now
mark me, fellows!” continued he, with a cold,
stern look, compressing his lips and speaking
through his clenched teeth: “I never trifle myself,
and will not be trifled with! Whoever
among you shall dare wilfully, to break his oath,
by that dread eternity before us! I swear he shall
stain this steel with his heart's blood!” and giving
it a flourish, so that it sparkled in the light, he returned
it to its sheath, while the others gazed
upon him in silence with an awe they had seldom
or never felt before in the presence of any
human being. Villains though they were—dark,
treacherous villains—they inwardly acknowledged
John Webber their master. Nor did this
escape his piercing eyes; and with that devilish
smile playing for a moment on his features, he
again resumed:
“I see you understand me. 'Tis well. Now
this evening which concerns you all. A
project is under way to seize upon the person of
Hetty, here, early to-morrow morning.”
“What's that?” screamed Hetty, who had been
listening attentively, while the others started with
looks of alarm.
“Peace, woman!” said John, sternly, “and listen!
Their object in seizing her is to force her
to tell all she knows concerning that kidnapping
affair, who were the instigators and actors in it,
and also where they may be found, which mayhap
concerns some of you especially—I know not but
all.”
“By St. Christopher!” exclaimed Curdish,
springing to his feet: “I—”
“Hold!” cried John, fiercely; “I have no time
to dally, so do not interrupt me again! The party
for this business consists of three,—two of them
are the men you seek, the third is my father. By
knowing their intentions beforehand, you will be
able to mature plans to your liking, with which I
shall have nothing to do. This much, however,
must be borne in mind! Of the two with my
father, I have nothing to say—you will deal with
them as you see proper; but with regard to my
father himself, understand me:—Not a hair of his
head must be harmed! Secure him if you can,
from doing you violence, but raise not a weapon
against him! Understand me further:—Should
he be harmed, I will know who harmed him; and
by that Heaven above, and that Hell beneath us!
I swear, him will I pursue till his corse lies cold
beneath my feet!” and the aspect of his features
as he spoke, was terrible; so much so that those
very ruffians, bred in crime, felt a sense of secret
fear,—even as a wild, savage beast has been known
to tremble before the awful majesty of the eye and
mind of his superior, man.
For a moment after John spoke all was silent,
when he again added: “I think our business for
the present is settled. When your services are
required, you will be informed. I have no
time to tarry, and so good night!” Turning
away, as he spoke, he abruptly disappeared, mounted
his horse and rode swiftly away, but in an opposite
direction whence he came.
“Blast me, what a look!” was the first exclamation
after the departure of John, which proceeded
from Curdish.
“Never saw the like on't!” remarked Niles.
“Nor I!” added Saxton.
“Nor I!” repeated Besley.
“'Twarnt human!” put in Hetty.
“Well, comrades,” said Riley, who was the last
to speak, “it was devilish enough, and no mistake;
but if I arnt mistaken, you've got other
matters to think on. I've said all along I'd have
nothin' to do with't, when you talked about attacking
others; but since we're agoin' to be attacked
ourselves, I arnt one as will flinch; so
you may jest put me down on the defence, though
somehow I've got a presentiment it'll be my last
undertakin'!”
“Good!” cried Curdish. “I jest knowed as how
you'd come up trump, Bill. More licker, Hetty,
and then by St. Christopher we'll lay our plans!”
Whatever those plans were, our story itself in
its progress must alone develope.
2. CHAPTER II.
THE JEW—THE PLAN OF REVENGE—THE PAPERS—
THE PRISONER—THE STRANGER—THE SPY.
On that same night old David the Jew sat alone
in the hovel wherein we first introduced him to
the reader. His features bore the same coarse,
villainous, repulsive aspect as then, and the apartment
the same dirty, gloomy appearance. The
Jew, as then, sat by a sort of rough table, whereon
stood a pale, sickly light of his own construction—his
elbow inclined downward and resting
on it so as to support his head with his hand.—
The light stood some little distance before him,
and its pale gleam fell on a countenance where all
the worst passions of the human heart were manifesting
themselves by sudden and sometimes awful
contortions of the muscles. Now a heavy frown
would gather over his features, like some black,
portentous cloud over a dismal swamp, and his
small black eyes would look cold and devilish, and
his shrivelled bloodless lips would compress, and
his lower jaw move as though he were endeavoring
to grate his teeth. Now the expression would
take a wilder, fiercer and more fiend-like aspect, and
his eyes would sparkle with a strange and terrible
gleam, and his thin, bony hand would clutch at
the air, as though he felt it were at the throat of
some victim of his undying hate. And thus he
sat, for an hour, buried to the outer world in the
gloom of his own dark, guilty thoughts, with his
eyes fixed on vacancy—motionless, save the nervous
agitations we have described—alone—an old,
grey headed man—a sad and revolting picture of
humanity. Oh! who would wish to enter to the
depths of such a soul and see its awful workings,
where no ray of God's sunshine ever entered?
Better be in the dark, cold and cheerless charnal
house, among the mouldering remnants of mortality!
Thus, as we have said, for an hour sat the
Jew. At length he started to his feet, and with
his old frame shaking with age and debility, commenced
shuffling to and fro the apartment, with
his head bent forward, and his trembling hands
locked in each other behind him. Suddenly he
paused, and reaching forth his clenched hand,
shook it as it were at vacancy, while his countenance
assumed that same fierce, terrible expression.
“Revenge!” hissed he, at last, through his pale
quivering lips: “Revenge! dat ish it—dat ish
mine nature—revenge! mine Gott! I vill haves
revenge! Dey tinks de Jew ish old and feebles and
can't hurtish dem, and dey dares to imposhe upon
hims, dey dares to lies about hims, dey dares to
spoils his plans for getting monish; and by Fader
Abram! dey shall hangs, dey shall dies, dey shall
rots, and old Ben Davids shall lives to shee it!”
Here he again commenced shuffling across the
apartment, but shortly paused and again resumed:
“I got de gals, I paid mine monish for her, and
den, mine Gott! just as I was to makes mine fortunes
mid her, dey sends and takes her away, and
mine monish gone too! Oh, mine Gott! mine
Gott! And den dey gets up storish about de
old Jew, and hash hims arresteds, and shays he
ish going to betrays 'em; and den de captains shays
he shalls pe watched, and if he finds he hash peen
in any more scrapes he shalls pe shots, and dat vill
pe de ends of de old Jew. Ah, mine Gott! mine
Gott! dey doesent knows de old Jew—dey doesent
knows de old Jew! Ben Davids shall outvits 'em
and den dey shall pe caughts, and Ben Davids shall
gets de monish for telling, and den he vill haves revenge,
and den he vill laughs!” Here the old
Jew, as though the consummation of his design
had already taken place, chuckled with a glee that
partook more of the nature of a fiend than a human
being. Again he resumed:
“Yish, to-morrows I shall takes mine monish
and vill go to St. Louis, and dare I shall finds a
magistrates, and shall tells him all about de partish,
and den, mine Gott! ve shall shee who ish
arresteds, and who shall get shots! Ha, ha! Captains
Bonardies, den ve shall shee! Ha, ha!
Mistoor Rileys, den ve shall shee! Ha, ha!—ha,
ha! den ve shall shee who gets aheads of old Ben
Davids! Yish, mine Gott! ha, ha! ve shall shee
den!” and the old Jew rubbed together his hands,
and chuckled merrily until a severe cough interrupted
him.
“Vell, now I shall looks to mine monish,” said
he, as soon as he had recovered sufficiently to
speak; “and mine papers too. Ha! mine Gott!”
cried he, starting as though some new thought
had come over him suddenly: “De papers! yish,
de papers!—perhaps I cans sells de papers! Ha!
yish, I knows de young mans as loves de gal,
and he shall puy de papers, and I shall asks mush
for de papers, and den I shall haves plenty of monish—ha,
ha!—plenty of monish;” and again the
old Jew rubbed his bony hands together and
chuckled. Glancing cautiously around, as though
to assure himself no other being was present, although
he knew the outer door was strongly bolted,
and felt perfectly confident he was alone,
(such by the way being the force of habit) he
proceeded to the closet we have before had occasion
to notice as occupying one corner of the
apartment, and for a moment disappeared. It
was but for a moment however; and when he
returned, he bore in one hand a roll of papers,
and in the other a bag of money. Approaching
with a feeble step he deposited both on the table,
and then reseated himself on the old stool. Untying
the bag he poured forth its contents, and
then for a few minutes sat and gazed upon the
pile with the exulting, avaricious look of a miser.
Perhaps this in a measure was excusable; for
the pile, to say the truth, was by no means an
invaluable one, and might have tempted others of
a less avaricious nature than the Jew to eye it
with delight. It was mostly of gold—old genuine
coins—many of them Spanish doubloons, English
guineas, and the like—occasionally interspersed
with a few pieces of silver.
For some minutes, we say, the old Jew sat and
gazed upon his treasure, and then commenced
handling each piece separately, with a childish delight—placing
each in the palm of his hand, or
on the end of his fingers, and then moving his
hand up and down as though to ascertain its
weight. In this manner passed another hour—
perhaps more—when he returned the money
piece by piece to the bag, taking due note of the
exact amount that none might be missing. This
done, and the whole secured by the string, he laid
it gently upon the table, took up the papers, unrolled
and examined them attentively for some
half hour more; when, as if satisfied with his
scrutiny, he rolled them together, and gathering
up his money returned again to the closet. Here,
feeling along the side next to the wall, low down,
he came to a kind of panel, when touching a
secret spring it immediately flew open, disclosing
a small iron door. Touching another spring, this
door opened, leaving an aperture into a small iron
safe, where the Jew quickly deposited his money
and papers, and then reclosed both the safe door
and panel. Scarcely was this completed, when a
deep sepulchral groan seemed to issue from beneath
him.
“Ha!” exclaimed he starting, “I had forgot
mine prisoners. Vell, vot fors should I keeps him
longers? Vot more use vill he pe now I vonders!
No, he will pe no more use. I shall take mine
papers, and mine monish, and shall come pack no
mores. Vell, den he shall dies! Yish, mine
Gott! he shall dies! and den he will tells no storish
on de old Jew. Ha! yish, mine Gott! dat ish
rights—he shall dies!” As he spoke, the old Jew
tottered back to the table, with a savage look on
his grim, ugly features—a hellish gleam in his
small black eyes—and taking up the light returned
once more to the closet. Here he paused,
and taking from a narrow shelf a somewhat rusty
dagger, he examined it attentively for a moment,
with a fierce gleam of satisfaction. “Dat shall
do mine pusiness,” he muttered; and raising a
trap-door near his feet, he slowly commenced
his descent down a damp, mildewed ladder, into a
slimy, nauseous vault, bearing the light with him.
The passage which the Jew descended was very
narrow, and was walled up on either hand to prevent
the earth from caving in. In depth it might
have been some fifteen feet, and in extent some
thirty more. The air was cold, for both the
ground and walls were moist; and on the latter
stood large drops, which glistened as the pale
gleam of the light fell upon them, like the eyes
of so many serpents. But this was by no means
its worst feature. The air, though cold, was close
and heavy; so much so as to be difficult of respiration;
and was, besides, filled with a stench almost
insupportable. At the bottom of the ladder
the Jew for a moment paused—with his feet sliding
upon what seemed greasy earth—and then
turning slowly around, moved cautiously along
the passage, with the light held before him in one
hand, and the dagger in the other, occasionally
resting an arm against the walls to prevent himself
from falling, until he came to the terminus,
where was revealed a spectacle of the most piteous,
revolting, and inhuman nature.
On a bed of damp, filthy straw—ground into
the earth until it was completely coated with a
clayey loam, and chained to the wall—lay the thin,
sickly, wasted figure of what had once been a
powerful man, now passed the middle age of life.
He was scarcely more than a skeleton. His once
strongly marked countenance—now of a pale
livid, ghastly hue—had wasted away until every
bone stood prominent. His cheeks had fallen in;
and his large, dark eyes,—as they rolled in their
hollow, bony sockets, and gleamed out from between
his long, grey, matted, dirty hair, which
partly screened his features—were sepulchral and
awful to behold. His limbs and body were but
partially covered by rags of the most filthy description,
while—as if to complete the foulest picture
of human wretchedness imaginable—rusty
iron chains, fastened around his ankles, clanked
to the move of his feet.
Such was the prisoner of the Jew. Such was
the awfully loathsome, heart sickening sight,
which he now gazed upon with a savage joy.—
Such was the scene before him; but worse—ay,
worse—for we dare not describe it as it was in reality.
It would shock the senses. And who was
the Jew? Let the sequel of our story answer. As
the prisoner saw the Jew approaching, he partly
raised himself on one arm and groaned. As the
Jew paused before him, with a dagger in his hand,
and murder in his eye, the prisoner groaned again;
and then in a deep, hollow voice, said:
“Oh, or God-sake, give me food! I am dying
—I am dying of starvation! Days I know have
passed since I have seen you—since aught has
passed these lips!” and the wretched man sunk
back upon his wretched bed with a second groan.
For some time the Jew returned no answer,
but stood and gazed upon him with a fiendish
smile. Then he lookod at his dagger, and then
he spoke:
“You shall shee me no more nevers. You
shall gets no more foods. I shall kills you. You
shall dies mid mine daggers. I am going avays.
I shall needs you no mores. The gal vill not pe
mines, and vot for should you lives? No, mine
Gott! you shall dies!” The Jew spoke rapidly,
in short sentences, and as he concluded he raised
his weapon and bent forward in an attitude to
strike.
“Oh, spare me! for God-sake, spare me! release
me!” groaned the victim, glaring wildly upon
him: “I am not ready to die now.”
“He, he, he! chuckled the Jew, with a hideous
grin. “Vot for you tinks I shall spares you?—
You haves no monish. I can makes no monish
mid you. Shall I spares you to tell storish on de
old Jew, ha, ha? No, mine Gott! you shall
dies! You shall dies now!” and placing one knee
on the ground as he spoke, he again raised the
dagger, bent himself forward, and with a rapid motion
struck at the heart of his victim.
But he failed of his mark. The other, who had
been watching him intently, gathered all his remaining
strength for a final effort, marked the
blow as it descended, caught his arm with one
hand, and with the other wrenched the weapon
from him. So sudden and so unexpected was
this, that the Jew started to his feet and retreated
some paces in absolute terror. Then, as he comprehended
all, and saw how his victim had foiled
him, he uttered a volley of curses at his own stupidity,
stamped the earth with his foot, and beat
his head with his clenched hand in a paroxysm of
rage.
What might have been the result—what dark
and inhuman revenge he might have taken on the
unhappy object before him—had nothing occurred
to interrupt and draw off his thoughts—we do not
pretend to say; but just at this instant was heard
a noise, like the quick tramp of a horse, and immediately
followed a loud knocking at the door
above. As the Jew heard this, he started, turned
pale—that is as pale as his brown, dirt-begrimed
features would permit—and trembled in every
limb. Again the knocking was renewed, even
louder than before, and not daring to pause longer
he turned and made haste up the ladder. At the
top he paused to reclose the door of the vault, and
then tottering into the larger apartment placed
the light upon the table. As he did so, he was
still more startled by hearing a deep, heavy voice
say:
“Open this door, or I will burst it from its fastenings!”
“Who ish dare?” cried the Jew, in a trembling
voice.
“Ele lio!” was the answer.
The Jew, though still frightened, felt much re
lieved by this, as it proved the person, whoever
he was, to be one of the banditti; and shuffling to
the door, he quickly withdrew the bolts and admitted
a tall figure, whose features were completely
concealed under a black mask. The stranger,
without ceremony, walked directly into the middle
of the apartment, and then drawing from his
breast a long, polished dagger, turned quickly
round and abruptly accosted the Jew, who stood
with his hand still upon the door, a perfect picture
of cowardly fright.
“Come forward, Jew; I have a few words to
say, and but little time to say them in.”
The Jew hesitated.
“Must I force you to obey me?” said the stranger,
with a menacing gesture, stamping his foot
fiercely on the ground.
The Jew, too frightened to speak, reluctantly
complied.
“You are an old man, Jew,” continued the
stranger, “and a man of crime. The only thing
that convinces me there is a Hell in the future
world, is in gazing upon such a being as you—for
who would suppose that you could ever inhabit
Heaven? But enough of that: I am no moralist,
and only preach what I practice. My business
here is of a different nature, and quickly told.—
You have in your possession certain papers, relating
to a certain young lady, whom you know,
but whose name it is unnecessary to mention. I
have come for these papers.”
“Me haves papers!” exclaimed the Jew, in pretended
astonishment: “I haves no papers.”
“You will oblige me by getting them as soon as
possible,” returned the stranger, cooly, not heeding
the Jew's remark, “as I have but little time
to tarry.”
“But I tells you I haves no papers!” repeated
the Jew.
“Sorry!” returned the other, carelessly feeling
of the point of the dagger still held in his hand.
“Sorry you have not got them, Jew, as I shall be
much disappointed.”
“Vell, I swears to you I haves not one papers
at all!” said the Jew, feeling somewhat reassured
at the mild tone in which the other spoke. “If I
did haves papers I should gives thems to you mid
pleasures.”
“How far below the surface do you think the
centre of an honest man's heart lies?” asked the
stranger, abruptly.
“Vell, how you tinks I knows?” replied the Jew,
in wonder. “Vot fors you shays dat?”
“Because I thought it likely you might know,
having measured the distance often with your
dagger!” rejoined the other, still toying with his
own.
“You ish vons very strange beings!” remarked
the Jew.
“As you do not know,” resumed the stranger,
“how far the distance to the centre of an honest
man's heart, how far do you judge it to be to the
centre of your own?”
“Eh! vot fors you shays dat?” repeated the
Jew in alarm, who now began to fancy there was
an under current to the other's interrogations.
“O, I merely enquired,” replied the stranger,
“that I might know how much of this bright steel
it would be necessary for me to stain.”
“Oh, mine Gott!” cried the Jew, shaking with
fear: “you vills not kills me?”
“Why not?” said the stranger, sternly. “Have
you not done such deeds often, and on younger
men—men too whose lives were valuable to society?
and have lived long enough; besides, would I not
be benefitting society by sending you to your
last account?”
“Oh! mine Gott! you vills not kills me?” repeated
the Jew, sinking upon his knees, and extending
his shrivelled old hands in supplication.
“Kill you!” cried the other fiercely, grasping
him by the arm, and raising his long glittering
steel: “Kill you! ay, as I would a copper snake.”
“Oh, oh, oh!” shrieked the Jew, who now believed
his last hour had come. “Spares me—
spares me—spares me! and you shall haves monish—you
shall haves gold! Oh, oh! mine Gott!
mine Gott!”
“Money!” returned the stranger, contemptuously:
“I do not seek your money: your blood
stained coins I do not want, for a curse is on
them. There is but one consideration for which
I would spare your life, and that is not in your
power to grant; at least so you have sworn, and
of course you would not swear falsely.”
“O, mine Gott! yish, de papers!” exclaimed the
Jew, with a ray of hope breaking in upon him.—
“O, yish, Mistoor Strangers, mine Gott! yish,
you shall haves de papers.”
“O, then you did swear falsely, eh? and you
really have the papers?” said the other, releasing
his hold of the Jew. “How lucky you thought
of it in time. Up, then, and get them—for I am
in haste.”
“Oh, you vills not takes—”
“Up, I say!” interrupted the stranger, fiercely,
stamping his foot violently. “Up I say, quickly!
or by—! you rise no more. Quick now, the
papers!” added he, as the Jew started to his
feet.
David, who saw there was no middle course,
turned away with a groan to obey the order.—
Proceeding to the safe, he drew forth the papers,
returned and gave them to the stranger, with a
sigh and a mental curse. Turning to the light,
the figure in the mask examined them for a moment
with evident surprise.
“Ha!” he exclaimed: “there has been foul play
here, Jew; but I have no time to enquire into it
now—another time will do;” and rolling them
together as he spoke, without another word he
turned and quitted the apartment. A moment
later the tramp of a horse was heard speeding
westward.
That horse bore a rider—that rider was John
Webber.
We shall not delay to picture the rage of the
Jew, when he found he had again been imposed
upon—again been foiled in another of his
schemes; suffice that he cursed, raved, stamped,
and beat his head like a madman. Thirsting for
revenge on the banditti, whom he now looked
upon as enemies, and thinking his movoments
less likely to be observed if done in the night, he
determined to start for St. Louis, and early on the
morrow betray the band and seek for protection
under the law. Accordingly he took his money,
the only thing valuable he could carry with him,
and within an hour from the departure of John,
set forth on his treacherous mission. Engrossed
by his wild thoughts of revenge, his prisoner had
been forgotten.
As the Jew quitted the hovel, a dark, crooked
object came out from beneath the table—straightened
itself into the tall figure of a man—opened
the door softly, and disappeared after him.
Who was that figure? how came he there? and
for what purpose? Did the Jew reach St. Louis
that night? Did he ever reach St. Louis?
Who reads shall learn.
3. CHAPTER III.
THE HORSEMEN—THE ATTACK—THE FIGHT—THE
DEATH—THE ESCAPE—THE SUSPICION—THE STORY—THE
SURPRISE—THE SEARCH—THE PRISONER
—THE RELEASE.
On the morning following that night of events,
the sun rose in splendor, and as his golden rays
rested upon the ridge where our story first opened,
they occasionally, from between the branches of the
surrounding trees, fell with a mellow gleam upon
three figures, well mounted on three noble steeds.
Two of the three were large, powerful men, while
the third, well formed, full of grace and activity,
was by no means an inferior individual. Each of
the party was well armed, with two pistols, a long
hunting knife, and a rifle slung behind him,
across his shoulders, ready for immediate use
when necessary. That they had ridden fast was
evident from the expanded nostrils and foaming
breasts of the animals beneath them; but at the
moment introduced their speed was only a fast
walk, and they were gazing in various directions
upon the beautiful scenery around with seeming
delight.
“This ere's a putty considerable kind o' a
country of yourn, Bill Webber,” remarked Bernard,
at length—for the reader has doubtless recognised
the three horsemen as Webber, Bernard
and Tyrone:—“a putty considerable kind o' a
country, I swow, and no mistake. Its wuth a
feller's travel out here jest to look at it like, let
alone the chance he has for gittin' intu a bit o' a
fuss now and then. Why a look at the old Mississippi
'd pay the cost, I'm darned if twouldn't,
that's a fact, don't you think so Mark? Howsomever,
I seed it when I's out here afore”—continued
he, without waiting for a reply from Tyrone—“so
twasn't exactly new to me, though I
looked on't with jest about the same satisfaction
as I did at first. Mark, here, though, thought
he'd got right on tu the ocean, kerslap.”
“Pshaw!” exclaimed Tyrone, who was not particularly
fond of a joke; “you always exaggerate,
Harvey. 'Tis true I thought it a great stream,
and in that opinion I am borne out by geographical
facts, which prove it one of the first in the
world, but I did not mistake it for the ocean, nevertheless.”
“O you needn't try to creep out on't now,
Mark; it's all fact, I swow!” said Bernard, casting a
side glance at Webber, who smiled and changed
the conversation by saying:
“I suppose we are near the cave you mentioned,
Harvey?”
“Right down there's the spot,” he replied
pointing to the right,—“where you see them are
stones all jumbled up together, jest as if they didn't
care 'bout how they looked.”
“I remember the place now, very well,” returned
Webber; “for only a short time since a
man was supposed to have been murdered there.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Tyrone, with interest: “happened
it very lately?”
“About four months since,” answered Webber.
“Indeed! Why you did not mention this before,
to my recollection.”
“In fact I had forgotten it,” said Webber, in
reply; “such things being too common in this
country to live long in memory, unless the individual
be well known, and this one was a stranger.
It is not known for a certainty that he was
murdered, but circumstances place it beyond a
doubt. A man somewhat past the middle age was
seen in this vicinity during the day, and the night
succeeding one of my neighbors heard a shriek
and cry for help, proceeding as near as he could
judge from yonder cave; but being unarmed and
alone he dared not go to the rescue; the more so, as
he believed there would be more than one to encounter.
A search wasinstituted the day following,
but save some marks of blood in and about the
cave, nothing was discovered of importance. As
the stranger has never been seen since, it is believed
that he was attacked by ruffians, murdered
for his money, and his body sunk in the Maramee.
It was thought by many that the old Jew could
tell something of the matter if so disposed; and
now I think of it, doubtless these same kidnappers
were concerned also.”
“Such is my opinion from what I can gather by
your narration,” observed Tyrone.
“Well,” returned Webber, compressing his
lips, “a day of retribution is at hand, and an evenger
on their trail—let them beware!”
The party had by this time reached the foot of
the hill. “Right here's the place where I had the
satisfaction of trying my science on that are scoundrel,
Curdish!” said Bernard, as they rode past
where the attack had been made on Edward and
Emily.
“Well chosen for their design,” returned Webber;
“but I trust, Harvey, when you display your
science again, you will make a better shot than
before.”
“I'd jest like to git another chance to display it
like,” rejoined Bernard.
“Doubtless you will have one ere long,” said
Webber; “but come, we waste time; let us to the
spur.”
Accordingly at the word they set forward at a
rapid gallop, through the ravine previously mentioned,
nor did they loose rein again until they
neared the old hut occupied by Hetty Brogan,
when turning aside into some bushes they came
to a halt, and Webber said:
“Look well to your weapons, comrades; for
somehow I have a presentiment we shall have difficulty
ere we have done here. The door is closed
however, and the hut has the appearance of being
deserted; nevertheless we are on an ugly mission,
and there is nothing lost by being cautious.
It is possible Hetty may not have arisen, though
the sun is already over the hill; and it is possible
too there may be some of the rascals within, as
they doubtless, at times, make this place a rendezvous;
but I will soon ascertain;” saying which he
dismounted and threw his reins to Bernard.
“Look a here, Bill Webber,” returned the latter,
“afore you go to work in this ere business,
jest listen a minute. Ye see, Bill, you're putty
considerable kind o' apt to have every thing jest
your own way, but in this ere perticular case I
want mine.”
“Well, Harvey, what is it?” asked Webber.
“Why to say it right out and out it's jest this:—
You're somewhat older than I am, and per'aps aint
quite so strong, though you're a putty strong
man, that's a fact; but then you've got a family
and I haint, and what's more, never expect to
have; though I did love a gal Down East, as the
saying is, but then she kind o' took to another
feller, and so I jest let her go it, and concluded to
punish the hull race by never gitting married at
all.”
“Well, well, Harvey, but what has that to do
with this affair?” asked Webber, a little impatiently.
“Why jest this: that you'll stay out here with
the horses, and let me and Mark venter in; 'cause
per'aps there'll be trouble, and like enough somebody'll
git hurt; and if its me, ye see, why I haint
no family depending on me, and twont matter
much.”
“Noble, generous fellow!” exclaimed Webber,
warmly, approaching and grasping his hand,
while a tear glistened in his eye. “I know you
well, Bernard, and I know that you would give
your life for a friend at any moment; still I do not
think that I have any more claims on your life
because it would be freely given, nor that I
should stand back and let you run all the risks
because you are single. 'Tis true I have a family,
who would mourn my loss should I meet
with a fatal accident; but then I have no right
to sacrifice a friend on this account, neither will
I do it.”
“O, as to that,” replied Bernard, “you aint a
going to sacrifice any body in that way, so you
needn't be afeard; but one thing I'm jest a going
to tell you, and that is, if you don't want to quarrel
with me, you'll jest stay here with these ere
animals, and let me and Mark go ahead.” As
Bernard spoke, both himself and Tyrone dismounted.
“I shall add my voice,” said the latter, “that
you take Bernard's advice.”
“Well, comrades,” answered Webber, “since
you are both determined on this point, why of
course I must acquiesce; but do not be too venturesome,
and bear in mind I hold the horses
here, ready for instant mounting if necessary.”
“All right,” returned Bernard, drawing his pistols
and looking to their priming, while Tyrone did
the same. “All right, I say; and now Mark, we'll
jest go ahead;” and at the word both started forward.
The hut was only some hundred yards distant,
and but little time elapsed ere Bernard was knocking
on the door. Not receiving an answer to this, he
pressed with considerable force against it, when
somewhat to his surprise it quietly swung back
on its hinges.
“I guess the bird's flew,” Tyrone, said he, in a
low voice, as pistol in hand he entered, followed in
like manner by his companion.
“One thing is certain,” returned Tyrone, as
having entered he glanced around the gloomy
apartment, “and that is that nobody is here but
ourselves.”
“True's preaching, Mark,” rejoined Bernard;
“but I can tell you one thing more, they haint
been gone long, and there's been a number on 'em
here too. Don't you see them ere cards scattered
all about, and that are bottle on the table, and
these ere wet spots, where they've spilt their
licker; and don't you smell old stinking tobacker
smoke too?”
“Right!” answered Tyrone; “these certainly
are sure indications of a party having been here
quite lately, and perhaps even now are not far off-Who
knows —”
His speech was here cut short by the sudden
by black masks.
“Ha! by St. Christopher, we've got you now!”
cried the foremost, whose left arm was bandaged,
and whom of course the reader will at once recognise
as Curdish. “You don't 'scape this ar' perticular
time, you — Yankee!” and rushing forward,
he fired a pistol directly at the head of Bernard,
who, though taken by surprise, and but a moment
left for thought, still had sufficient presence
of mind to cast his head aside, just at the instant
of the discharge, by which means the ball slightly
grazed his cheek, carried away a small portion of
his ear, and lodged in the wall beyond.
“There's such a thing as being mistaken in this
ere world, Mr. Jack Curdish,” returned Bernard,
cooly, following his example, and sending a ball
through the fleshy portion of the wounded arm of
his antagonist, near the shoulder, who staggered
back with a howl of rage and pain, and gnashed
his teeth together in terrible fury.
Instantly recovering himself, and drawing a
long knife from his belt, Curdish again sprang forward,
with a horrible oath, and aimed a rapid blow
at the heart of the other. But here again Bernard's
coolness and dexterity saved him; for watching
the movement with a keen, sure eye, he sprang
suddenly aside—the blow missed its object—and
Curdish, who had thrown his whole force into it,
fell heavily against him. Quick as thought Bernard
again started back, and ere the other had
time to regain his balance, with a tremendous
blow he drove the breech of the discharged pistol
full in his face, destroying his mask, and he fell
backward upon the ground--senseless--his features
besmeared with blood. This, Bernard was on the
point of following up with severer measures, when
a cry, and a glance at Tyrone, arresting him, he
sprang quickly to his relief—fortunately just in
time to save his life.
Whether the manner of attack on Bernard and
Tyrone was preconcerted, or whether the ruffians
were governed by circumstances after their entrance,
we do not pretend to say; but certain it is, in
either case, there was a grand oversight in their
proceedings; for had two attacked Beruard, instead
of Tyrone, the result might have been more
to their liking. Doubtless, Curdish, thirsting for
revenge, and feeling sure of his man, had chosen
Bernard for himself—alone—expecting to give
him a sudden quietus, while the other two should
as easily despatch his companion. Be this as it
may, however, no sooner did Curdish rush towards
Bernard—who was standing near the centre
of the room, and the farthest from the door—than
his two followers, Saxton and Riley, turned upon
Tyrone. Saxton being the foremost of the two,
instantly snapped a pistol at the breast of Tyrone,
which fortunately missed fire, when Tyrone, seeing
how matters stood, and knowing his life depended
upon his greatest exertions, discharged
each of his pistols in quick succession, but with
no other effect than that of slightly wounding Riley
in the head. Perceiving his failure—owing
to his haste—and knowing there was not a moment
to be lost, as his enemies were close upon
him, he took one step backward, and then suddenly
bounding into the air, planted both feet
against the breast of Saxton with such tremendous
force that he fell back upon Riley, who, not
being prepared for the shock, was thrown to the
ground. Following up this slight advantage, Tyrone
instantly drew his knife and made a pass at
Saxton's throat, who caught his arm with a
mighty grasp, as the blow was in progress, and
then closing in with, endeavored to wrench the
weapon from him, or get an opportunity to draw
his own. Saxton, although a powerful man, and
far superior to Tyrone in size and strength, was
yet greatly his inferior in supleness and science;
and taking advantage of his knowledge of wrestling,
Tyrone had no sooner fairly closed in with
him, than by a dexterous movement he coiled his
legs around the other's, took a sudden lock, and
threw him upon his back with tremendous violence—himself
falling uppermost. Ere he could
make use of this advantage, Saxton seized upon
the rifle which was still attached to Tyrone's
shoulder—one hand on either side—and by this
means drew him down with so close a hug,
that his breath was completely suspended, and all
power of action. Riley had by this time regained
his feet; and on a call from Saxton to release him
by killing Tyrone, and somewhat enraged at his
own wound and fall, he drew a pistol, cocked,
presented it to his head, and his finger was already
pulling upon the trigger, when Bernard, who had
seen the movement in time to reach him, suddenly
hurled him backward, by which means the
muzzle was elevated sufficiently, as it went off, to
clear the head of Tyrone, and bury the ball in the
earth a few feet beyond.
“You wont try that are motion again soon, I
guess,” remarked Bernard, cooly, as he deliberately
drew his other pistol, pointed it at the head of Riley,
and glanced steadily along the barrel. “Take
that for your pains!” he added, and with the word
came a sharp report. Riley bounded from the
earth, with a shriek, and fell dead at his feet—his
forehead pierced by a ball.
His presentiment had proved too true.
At this moment came the report of a rifle, and
a cry from without. Bernard started in alarm.—
Webber was evidently attacked—perhaps killed.
No time was to be lost. Unslinging his rifle
with the rapidity of thought, he dealt Saxton so
powerful a blow with the breech, that his hold
instantly relaxed, leaving Tyrone free.
“Up, Mark!” cried Bernard; “I guess there's
more work on hand out o' doors;” and without
pausing longer he rushed forth, followed by Tyrone,
both of whom made all haste possible to
where Webber had been left with the horses.—
Here, much to their joy, they found Webber,
rifle in hand, in company with Edward Merton,
who had just arrived and dismounted from his
horse, which he still held by the bridle.
“Thank God, friends, you are safe!” exclaimed
Webber, joyfully, as they approached, extending
a hand to each, while Merton did the same: “I
feared you were killed, as I heard the report of
several pistols.”
“Why we've had a putty considerable rough
time on't,” said Bernard in reply; “but I guess
as how them are chaps have had a rougher—
though one on 'em I don't believe knows much
about it now, or ever will know again either.”
“Have you killed one, Harvey?” asked Webber,
quickly.
“Wal I rather guess as how one on 'em 'll be
gitting cold afore long,” he answered; “at least
that's my candid opinion about it; but I thought
there was a fuss out here, for I heerd a gun go
off, and heerd somebody holler like too, or my
ears deceived me.”
“Why yes,” returned Webber, “there was some
trouble here a few minutes since; but thanks to
the timely arrival of friend Edward, here, nothing
the other side escaped as scatheless is somewhat
doubtful.”
“Then you were attacked also?” said Tyrone.
“I was,” answered Webber. “Scarcely had
you entered the hut, and while I was anxiously
looking in that direction, anticipating difficulty
for you, two men crept stealthily behind and instantaneously
seized me, one hold of either arm,
which they crossed upon my back. I made a
sudden spring forward, but I am not what I once
was I find, and they were both strong men and
held me firmly. At that moment I saw three
ruffians enter the hut, and immediately heard several
reports of firearms in quick succession, and
believed that all was over with both of you; for
taken as you were by surprise, I did not deem it
possible for you to escape. I made another attempt
to free myself, but in vain; and thinking
my own time had now come, I resigned myself
to my fate, expecting every moment to be shot or
stabbed in the back. But much to my surpise
however, instead of such severe measures, I only
felt my captors securing my hands with a cord,
and hope revived that they were not perhaps seeking
my life. Why they used no other violence is
yet a mystery. At this moment a horseman
dashed suddenly into the bushes, and with a thrill
of joy I recognised in the rider the familiar face of
friend Merton. At sight of him a panic seemed
to seize upon my captors, who instantly let go
their hold and fled. Determined not to let them
part without a token of remembrance, I unslung
my rifle, which they had left untouched, and with
a hasty aim fired at the nearest, just as he was
leaving my sight by entering some thick shrubbery.
What was the result of the shot I know not; but
he appeared to stumble forward, and uttered a
piercing cry as of pain—which were, I presume,
the sounds you heard. I had just time to grasp Edward
by the hand, tell him of your supposed
fates, and the necessity, if living, of our coming
speedidy to your assistance, when, to my astonishment,
and I need not add joy, I saw you both issue
forth, and awaited your approach. But come,
we have already talked too long in a time when
decided action is so necessary. Let us reload as
speedily as possible, and follow up our so far good
fortune.”
“Right!” said Bernard and Tyrone in a breath;
and all four instantly commenced carrying out
Webber's suggestion. We wish the reader to
bear in mind here, that though we have been
somewhat long in describing the events as they
took place—owing to our relating each one separately—the
whole time occupied, from the entrance
of Curdish, Riley and Saxton, to the meeting
of Webber, Bernard and Tyrone, did not exceed
three minutes.
But a short time elapsed ere our party were
again ready for action; and nothing daunted by
what had taken place, on a second suggestion
from Webber, they made the bridles of their horses
fast to some of the shrubbery, and all four set
forward to the old hut, to secure the ruffians—
not doubting they were still there. But in this
they were mistaken; for on arriving at the place,
not a trace of either, with the exception of some
red spots of blood, could be found,—Curdish and
Saxton having recovered in their absence and left,
bearing the corpse of Riley with them.
“Well,” remarked Webber, as he glanced around
the late scene of strife, “they have escaped
us I perceive; and perhaps it is better that it is so,
as we still have other very important matters on
our hands, which they might have prevented us
from attending to in season.”
“To what do you allude?” asked Tyrone.
“Have you forgotten the Jew and those papers
—that is if he has any in his possession?”
“Ah! true,” rejoined Tyrone:—“But do you
think of proceeding upon that business at once?”
“I do,” answered Webber, “as soon as may be;
for if he is connected with these fellows, as I
doubt not he is, he will be likely to receive from
them information of what has happened; and perhaps,
expecting a like visit from us, will decamp—
at least for the time being; and by the way too,
the more so, as these fellows doubtless—though I
cannot for the life of me imagine where they got
it--had knowledge of our present design; for you
see they had their plans all laid to attack us,
while Hetty herself, whom we came to seek, is
absent.”
“It does certainly appear singular,” observed
Tyrone, thoughtfully, after a short pause; “but
still I do not see how they could have been informed;
for it was only last evening we talked the
matter over, and it has been communicated to no
one since.”
Webber suddenly started, as though some disagreeable
thought had flashed through his mind,
and his cheeks grew pale and red, and he hung his
head thoughtfully for some time, but made no answer.
Perhaps a vague suspicion of his son John
—whose disposition he knew too well—troubled
him. But whatever it was, as we have said, he
returned no answer Bernard was the next to
speak.
“I've been a thinking it all over, Mark,” said
he, “and I rather guess I can 'splain it away without
making any witchery on't. Ye see its been
tarnal hot weather lately, and all the winders has
been hysted 'bout our house, so that if any feller
was about as chose to listen, he could hear all that
was said easy enough. Now this ere was the case
last night, when we's talking it all over, and like
as not one of these ere same chaps come along, and
played the spy, and got hold of all twas said; and
like as not too he's done it all along afore, jest to
know like how things was a going on.”
“True,” rejoined Tyrone, “I did not think of
this before; but now it strikes me very forcibly as
being correct. What is your opinion on the subject,
Webber?”
“It may be so,” answered the latter; “I hope it
is;” and then turning abruptly to Merton, he
continued:—“By the way, Edward, you are the
very person I wished to see, to question concerning
that stranger whom you met here, and who
gave his name as Barton—the particulars of which
I got from Emily.” At the mention of the name
of Emily, there was a brighter glow on the cheeks
of Edward, which Webber apparently heeded not
as he continued:—“I wish you to describe the
personal appearance of this Barton.”
Merton did so.
“Do you think Barton is his real name?” asked
Webber, as the other concluded his description.
“I have no reason to doubt it,” answered Merton.
“Did he tell you his occupation?”
“Not at our first interview, but he has since
done so.”
“Ah! then you have seen him again?”
“I have. I rode in company with him awhile
this morning—he overtaking me shortly after my
leaving St. Louis, while the day was yet grey,
and look at some land, which he stated he had
lately been purchasing.”
“He is then a land speculator?”
“Such he told me was his business.”
“'Tis the same then,” said Webber. “But
what does he know of the Jew, and how did he
explain that matter of the ring?”
“O, simply as thus,” answered Merton. “He
stated that some months since he had purchased a
large tract of land, at a very low price, from the
fact that the titles to it were considered very
doubtful, on account of a supposed prior claim;
that afterward, examining the land, he had found
it of great value, by reason of its lead mines; that
determining, if possible, to find whether there
was a prior claim—and, if so, to purchase it, ere his
discovery leaked out—he had advertised the same
in the papers, and posted bills in different sections
of the country—the result of which had been his
receiving a call from the Jew, who held the papers
of prior right, and who offered to sell, but on
high terms:—that on asking the Jew to produce
his documents, he had done so; but to his utter
astonishment had found that the deed—though
drawn up in proper form—lacked the signatures
of two persons necessary to make it valid,—said
persons names having once been there, to all appearance,
but since faded out, owing, doubtless,
to their having been written with a villainous ink,
to render the instrument valueless:—that at this
discovery the rage and disappointment of the Jew
had been great: and he had declared in piteous
tones that he was a ruined man—having exhausted
all his funds in the purchase of this now worthless
paper: that thinking perhaps the Jew had been
duped, and taking pity on his grey hairs, he had
agreed to pay him a fair price for his papers, notwithstanding,
but on condition that he should
grant him any favor in his power, at any moment,
upon his presenting a curious ring, which
he wore on his finger, or on its being presented
by any one he might see proper to deputise:—that
to this the Jew had sworn most solemnly, by his
religion, and by everything he held sacred—and
that the first trial of his oath had been made by
myself, in the release of Emily. Such was his
story.”
“And a singular one,” added Webber, in reply;
“though perhaps a true one.”
“Wal now, Bill, I jest don't believe a darned
word on't,” said Bernard. “If all the stories
'bout that are tarnal old Jew be true, he aint the
feller that would mind anything 'bout an oath.”
“Unless for his interest to do so,” rejoined Webber.
“You overlook, Harvey, that it might, for
that time, have been more to his interest to let
the girl go than to detain her. Doubtless his intentions
were, and still are, to recapture her. He
is a cunning knave. But whether true or false,
it is the best and only explanation we have of the
matter at present; and so we will take it for what
it is and let it drop—for time wears fast, and
we should even now be on the road;” saying
which, he turned and led the way from the cottage.
“Do you need my services?” enquired Merton,
as the party retraced their steps to their horses.
“No!” answered Webber: “I trust our force is
sufficient; and as I presume you were on your
way to see Emily, you had better ride on; and
doubtless your presence will cheer her, for she
seems exceedingly low spirited.”
“Ah!” ejaculated Merton, with a flushed countenance;
“I will see her then, and quickly.”
By this time they had reached the bushes,
where the animals were standing, and each selecting
his own, all four were presently mounted.
As they rode out into the path and separated—
Merton to go on to Webber's, and the other three
to the river—Webber turned in his saddle, and
said:
“Do not mention this little skirmish, Edward,
to any of my family, as it would only alarm
them needlessly;” and spurring his horse as he
spoke, he started off in full gallop, while the others
imitated his example.
A good ride of two hours brought the party of
Webber to the river, and a few minutes more
served to discover the residence of the Jew; for
although neither of them had seen it before, the
exact location had been clearly pointed out.
Dismounting at a little distance, and fastening
their horses, they together proceeded to the old
hovel. As they neared the entrance, they were
somewhat surprised to see the figure of a man—a
little distance below them, near the water's edge—
his face turned from them, apparently in a meditative
mood. At sight of him all three made a
halt, and Bernard and Tyrone laid their hands on
their pistols, thinking perhaps it was another of
the gang with whom they had been contending.
Webber thought differently, however, and bidding
them stand where they were, he started cautiously
forward to ascertain. At the same time the
figure turned his head to the right and left—as
though examining the exact location of the banks
and stream—by which means Webber caught a
side view of his features, and at once recognised
him as Barton. Turning to his friends, heinformed
them who he was, and all three proceeded at
once towards him. Hearing footsteps behind
him, Barton started, drew a pistol from a wampum
belt around his waist, and suddenly confronted
them; when, perceiving the familiar face
of Webber, and nothing in the looks of his companions
of a hostile nature, he quickly replaced
the weapon, and, stepping forward, frankly extended
his hand, saying at the same time, in an
easy, cordial tone:
“I give you good morning, friend Webber; and
you also, gentlemen,” politely bowing to the others;
“and a beautiful morning it is, truly.”
As we have heretofore, on his first introduction
to the reader, taken much pains in describing the
personal appearance and singular dress of Barton,
we shall not do so now, but refer the curious to
that; merely stating, by the way, that his look
and dress were now almost exactly as then—save
perhaps a more bland expression of countenance,
and a change from his then strange cap to one of
silk velvet, from which hung a silver corded tassel.
After the usual salutations were over, Barton
said: “I trust you to excuse me, gentlemen, for
drawing an offensive weapon; but I knew not who
were approaching, and this part of the country is
not entirely free, as you are aware, from dangerous
individuals.”
“You may well say as we are aware,” returned
Webber; “for scarcely two hours since we were
contending for our lives with a party of villains.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Barton, with a start, his dark
eye brightening; “pray, and who were they?”
“I know not,” answered Webber, “unless the
same gang that kidnapped my ward Emily, who
through your interference was rescued again, for
which service hold me ever indebted.”
“Nay, that was but my duty!” replied Barton,
are the same as were concerned in that
affair?” asked he, with interest.
“I could not tell, for their faces were concealed
by masks,” answered Webber; “though I doubt
not two of them are the same—in fact, I have
never seen but one myself.”
“And that are one was there,” said Bernard,
“for sartin; for when I knocked him down with
the butt of one o' my shooting irons, his tarnal
black thing come off, so as I could see his face;
and, besides, I knowed his voice.”
“His name?” demanded Barton, quickly.
“Jack Curdish!”
“Ha!” ejaculated Barton, mentally, with a start:
“So, so, as I feared!” and then turning to Webber,
while his features exhibited great severity of
expression, he continued: “But how did the
fight commence, and how terminate?”
Webber in a few words explained all—telling
him of their design of taking Hetty and the Jew
prisones, and how it was supposed the party of
Curdish got wind of it, and so laid in wait.
Barton mused for a few moments, with a
troubled expression, and then said: “And so one
was killed, and three others wounded? Truly,
you fought well, gentlemen! And so Hetty was
away? Well, and the Jew is also away.”
“How!” exclaimed Webber; “the Jew gone
too?”
“So you will find, when you enter you hovel.—
I had but just quitted it when you came hither.”
“Then our plan has certainly been divulged,”
returned Webber, gravely, placing his hand to his
brow, while a look of mental anguish swept over
his features. “He has got news of our design
upon him and fled; and all hope of obtaining the
papers, should he have any, is lost.”
“To what papers do you allude?” asked Baton.
Webber here informed him of his suspicion in
regard to the Jew's seizure of Emily, and why he
supposed the latter held proofs of her parentage.
“Ha! then there is a mystery about her birth?”
rejoined Barton, enquiringly.
“There is!” answered Webber; and then in a
few words he related the most prominent events
of her life.
Barton again reflected some time, seriously, and
then said abruptly: “I must see her. If I can
assist you in this matter I will. For the present
adieu!”
“Whither now?” enquired Webber, as he turned
to depart; “and why such haste?”
“I must immediately to St. Louis,” replied
Barton, “as I have business of importance there
that will not brook delay. I will see you anon
and talk this matter over.”
“By the way, Barton,” said Webber, as he
again turned to go, “you are much about the
country, in various sections, and I wish to enquire
if you have heard of late any thing of that
strange bandit leader, Ronald Bonardi, who created
so much excitement here a few years ago?”
At the mention of Bonardi, there was a perceptible
start in Barton, a little palor in his cheek,
and a slight quiver of some of the muscles
around his mouth; but all passed instantly—was
noticed by Bernard only—and when he replied,
all was again calm.
“I have not,” he said, in answer to Webber's
question; “but wherefore do you ask?”
“Merely to satisfy a curiosity,” replied Webber.
“I was relating some anecdotes of him last
evening. He was a strange, singular being; but
I do not think myself he was so bad as he has
been represented. Doubtless you have heard
much of him in your travels?”
For a moment Barton looked Webber steadily
in the eye, and then replied: “I have heard of
him; but I have no time to talk of him now: I
will, as I said before, see you again. A happy
morning to you all, gentlemen;” and turning
away, he strode forward a few yards to where his
horse was standing concealed amid some thick
shrubbery, when hastily mounting, he touched
him with his spurs, and was quickly out of sight.
“Barton aint his name!” muttered Bernard, as
he watched him disappear.
“Come,” said Webber, “if the Jew has gone,
we will search his house, at all events;” and retracing
their steps up the hill, all three entered
the hovel. “A place just fit for such an old villain!”
remarked Webber, as he glanced around
the dirty apartment. “Ha!” continued he, as he
noticed the closet at the farther end, “what have
we here?” and passing through the door, he examined
every part of it minutely; but, save an
old pistol-lock lying on the shelf, with a broken,
rusty dagger beside it, he found nothing; and he
was just on the point of leaving, when his foot
struck against a ring in the floor. Stooping
down, he took hold of it, and pulling gently, was
surprised to find it raised a trap-door. “Ho, comrades,”
cried he, “here is a discovery! Ugh, what
a stench!” he added, as having thrown open the
door, he attempted to peer into the darkness below.
“What means this?” asked Tyrone, as he entered
and strove also to look down.
“Some of the old Jew's villainy, I presume,”
replied Webber; “but we must explore it, at all
events, for I see a ladder leading down. But
then,” he added, “we have no light, and it were
useless to go down without one. Ugh! it smells
like a charnal house.”
“There is a sort of candle on the table that
would serve us,” returned Tyrone, “if we only
had the means of lighting it.”
“O, that is easily done,” rejoined Webber; and
stepping into the larger apartment, he drew one
of his pistols, applied some fine paper to the pan,
and fired the charge into the ground. The flash
ignited the paper, and lighting the candle, he
shortly returned to the mouth of the vault. “You
had better stay without, by the horses, Bernard,”
continued he, “as we should not leave our watch
too long in a place so every way villainous!
Will you descend with me, Tyrone?”
“I will!” replied the latter.
Webber carefully placed his feet upon the ladder,
and about half of his body had disappeared,
when there issued from below a deep, sepulchral
groan. Webber was a brave man, and so was his
companion; but there was something awful in
that sound, and both turned pale.
“Heavens!” exclaimed the former, after listening
a moment, “what was that, Tyrone?” Ere
the other could reply, that same hollow sound
came up again. “God of Heaven!” cried Webber,
“it is some human being—probably one
stabbed by the Jew and thrown down here to
die! Follow me!” and quickly descending the
ladder, he was immediately joined by Tyrone.
Holding the light before them, they slowly groped
their way along the passage to where the prisoner
lay starving to death in his rusty chains.
“Oh, my God, what a sight!” exclaimed Webber,
the loathsome spectacle before him, while Tyrone
was too deeply affected to speak.
“Food—food!” ejaculated the prisoner, in an
unearthly voice, unable to rise for his weakness.
“Oh, for God-sake give me food, or kill me! Oh,
oh! I am dying for food!”
“Great Heaven, and starving to death in this
land of plenty!” said Webber, turning away, and
wiping a tear from his eye. “Be quiet, poor
man!” resumed he, turning to the prisoner; “be
quiet—you shall have food.”
“Ha!” cried the other wildly, partly rising and
gazing upon Webber; “who speaks in that kind
tone?”
“A friend,” replied Webber, “come to release
you.”
“Friend!” screamed the prisoner; “friend—release—yes,
yes—I know you,—ha, ha, ha!” and
so overpowered was he with joy, at the thought
of escape from his dungeon, that he fainted and
fell back.
“Let us raise him,” said Webber, bending
down. “Ho! chains here, and no means to cut
them—what is to be done?”
“One of us had better speed instantly to St.
Louis,” replied Tyrone, “and get tools.”
“And food, and a blanket to wrap around him,
and a physician also,” rejoined Webber, hastily.
“Yes, yes; and I will go, for I know where every
thing can be found. Stay you here, Tyrone,
stay you here, and cheer him when he revives.
I will be back presently. My God, what a sight—
what misery! Oh, Jew, Jew, your cup of iniquity
is full! God forgive you, for I cannot!”
saying which, he gave Tyrone the light, darted
along the passage, up the ladder, and was soon
standing by Bernard. Hurriedly explaining what
he had seen, Webber mounted the fleetest horse,
and, burying the spurs in his flanks, away bounded
the noble animal in the direction of St. Louis,
distant some eight or ten miles.
We shall not dwell longer here, for other and
more important matters are pressing hard upon
us. Suffice, that in a couple of hours Webber returned—his
horse dripping water—bringing the
necessary articles, and a physician with him:—
that the prisoner was somewhat restored, his
chains cut, and, wrapped in a blanket, was placed
upon a horse in front of Bernard; and that about
noon the whole party—with the exception of the
physician, who returned to St. Louis—set out for
Webber's, where they arrived a little after nightfall,
only to feel more deeply the thrusts of villainy,
and pass a sleepless night of activity and
anguish.
| The bandits of the Osage | |