 | CHAPTER III. The bandits of the Osage |  |
3. CHAPTER III.
THE CAPTURE—THE VILLAINS—THE RIDE—THE
HOVEL-CAVE—THE INTERVIEW—THE THREAT—
THE REPENTANT—THE CONSEQUENCES.
Scarcely had Edward departed, and while Emily
stood gazing on his retreating form, with a secret
fear, the cause of which she was unable to
divine, when two figures, their faces concealed by
masks, approached her stealthily from behind,
threw a bandage over her mouth to prevent her
cries for help, raised her in their brawny arms,
and, without a word, bore her speedily away—directly
past the fallen tree, where she had but a
few minutes before in a happy confidence plighted
herself to him she loved—across the silvery
stream that had the while sung its seeming song
of love—up into the dark wood of the hill beyond.
Here for a moment they paused to rest, and then,
without speaking, again bore her onward some
three hundred yards, still deeper into the wood,
and farther from him who should have been there
to protect her. When they paused again, it was
beside two powerful horses, on one of which she
was instantly mounted in front of one of her captors,
while his companion, springing into the sad
dle, led the way, as fast as the ground would permit,
in a westerly direction. At this moment
Emily heard in the distance the voice of Edward
calling upon her name, and a keen pang shot
through her soul. Her captors heard it also, but
with very different feelings; for the one in advance,
turning to his companion, said:
“We's jest in time Saxton, for if we'd a been a
little sooner or a little later, we'd a have to put a
veto on the tune of that ar' gentleman—and you
know that was strictly agin orders.”
“Right, Niles, we jest hit the proper moment;
but isn't that the feller what frightened you off
in the morning, afore you'd got the old gentleman
fairly tied?”
“Why that's the chap that rode up, it's true;
but I don't like the idea of your callin' it frightened
off—for if it hadn't a bin you know, that
we wasn't to hurt him, I'd a made a different
business on't altogether. As 'twas, I thought I'd
run.”
“And git shot?”
“Yes, so it turned out it seems—though I only
lost two fingers by the operation, and by—!
I'll be even for them yit, if I live long enough.—
But you didn't do anything to brag on, in lettin
them ar' two fellers whip three on ye, and kill
one at that!”
The other replied only by uttering a terrible
oath, and setting his teeth hard.
“Well,” resumed Niles, “it was an ugly business,
take it all round, and we got the worst on'tBill
was killed—Jack had his face badly battered,
and another ball through his arm, which may be
'll do him too—you got a sore head, and I lost two
fingers; while Besley, whose legs was a leetle the
longest, got off clear. But I say, Sax., jest tie a
handkerchief over that ar' gal's eyes, so she can't
examine directions, you know that's orders, and
then let's ride—for ye see its gittin' dark in these
ere woods, and a big shower to back it.”
In a moment Emily found her eyes bandaged,
and then she could feel the horses urged on to
greater speed, while peal on peal, each nearer than
the last, came to her ear the thunder of the approaching
storm. Poor girl! she felt it was useless
to struggle against her destiny, whatever it
might be, and commending herself to the care of
Him who watches alike over the powerful and defenceless,
she resigned herself to her fate. Her
captors had again become silent, and on, on they
rode for some half hour, as fast as the beasts could
carry them. At the end of the time mentioned,
they came to a halt by some dwelling, and Emily
could hear the low murmur of several other voices
in hurried conversation. At length one more
loud, and in dictation, struck her ear with a familiar
sound, and fairly made her blood run cold.
It was the voice of John Webber.
“You will stop here and refresh until this storm
has passed, which it will have done in less than
two hours, and then you must mount and on
again till you reach the point designated, for this
side of there it will not do to remain. I must return
this night, or I may be suspected. Jack is
too badly wounded to be your company. Between
ourselves, I fear his day is over. Hetty
will go with you, and in her charge you can trust
her. You know the route, so that you can follow
it in the night, do you not?”
“We do,” answered the voice of Niles.
“'Tis well. Thus far your parts have been admirably
performed. Complete as well, and you
shall have a suitable reward. I do not ask your
and enter, for already the rain I see approaching.
Feed well your horses. I must this moment
away.” As the voice concluded, Emily heard
the tramping of another horse, fast growing distant,
and felt herself seized and borne under some
shelter, on which, a few moments after, the rain
dashed violently, while she was almost stunned by
the oft repeated crashing of the thunder.
The storm raged for upwards of an hour, and
then ceased. In the course of two hours, Emily
was again mounted, and borne away, while she
became aware of the party being increased by an
additional member—a woman—which was at all
events some consolation, although she could
neither speak nor see, owing to the bandages being
still kept around her mouth and eyes. On,
on the party dashed; now up some steep bluff;
now down into some deep dingle; now through a
forest and tangled brushwood; now over a barren,
sandy, open plain; now through streams whose
waters swollen by the late rain rolled on with a
sullen murmur—on, on they went, heeding no
obstruction, rarely ever speaking to each other;
on, on—still on—while hour after hour went by,
and yet no pause. At length they halted once
more to gain some refreshment, and Emily felt
herself removed from the horse she had ridden to
another, and again they went on. At last, wearied
by excitement and travel, Emily, in spite of
her struggles to the contrary, gradually sunk into
the arms of Morpheus, and for the time her trials
and troubles were forgotten.
As when we fall asleep in some quiet spot with
no sounds near, a gentle shake or noise will wake
us, so when we sink into slumber amid confusion,
silence will produce the same effect—and
Emily was awakened by the party again coming to
a halt. On opening her eyes—for during the latter
part of her ride the bandage around them had fallen
off—she found herself in a wild, mountainous region,
with nothing cheering around, no habitation
and no human beings near—save, in the first instance,a
kind of half cave and hovel in the side of a
steep mountain, formed of wood, rocks and clay;
and, in the last, the rough, ugly visages of her two
captors, and the face of Hetty Brogan, whom she
recognised with a thrill of joy, from the fact that
she was a woman, and that her face was familiar,
although she had never seen it but once before,
and then under circumstances by no means pleasant;
still it was at least the face of a woman, one
too she had seen before, and it gave her joy.
“Well, we're here at last, Saxton,” said Niles;
“though we've had a tolerable tough night on't.”
“Ay, we've had all o' that, Niles, and I reckon
as how he'll have to pay well for't. See, the sun
already shines on yonder hill, and we've traveled
all night. Our poor horses, as well as us, are confoundedly
tired, although we've changed once on
the way. Well, let's in with the gal and be off—
that's all o' our part, you know, for Hetty'll have
to tend to the rest. About five miles from here's
a good place for feedin' and restin', so let's be a
movin';” and dismounting while speaking, Saxton
assisted Emily to do the same, while Hetty,
following his example, threw her bridle rein to
Niles, who still remained in the saddle. “Thar',
Hetty,” continued Saxton, turning to her, and
pointing to Emily, “you'll be responsible for the
rest; so good bye, old woman;” and springing
upon his horse again, he turned away and rode
slowly down the hill, followed by Niles, who also
led the beast which had borne Hetty hither.
“I'm glad you're gone,” said Hetty, gazing after
them with no very amiable expression; “for I
can al'ays breathe a great deal easier when you
don't breathe the same air. Come, lady, you've
had a hard ride for one of your tender breeding;”
and Hetty turned to Emily with a compassionate
look, “and you're pale and troubled, gal; so come,
come, let's in; but stop, they shan't keep that ar'
thing round your jaws no longer;” and Hetty
removed the bandage from Emily's mouth.
“Oh, Hetty, good Hetty,” cried Emily, in an
entreating tone, as soon as she could speak, “Oh,
good Hetty, where am I, and why was I brought
hither? Oh, speak, speak, and tell me, good Hetty!”
“Thar', thar', jest stop now, and don't go to
calling me good Hetty, 'cause I arn't no such a
thing. I haint did nothin' good for more'n sixteen
year, so don't call me good! But come, gal,
come, let's in;” and taking Emily by the hand,
she led the way into the hovel-cave just mentioned,
without giving her a word of explanation.
It was a gloomy place—part natural, part artificial—in
one of the wildest and most dismal spots
to be found on the mountains lining the banks of
the Osage. It had evidently but just been constructed
or refitted, for the earth within—the only
floor it could boast—was soft and fresh, as though
lately placed there by the spade. The roof was
formed of a large projecting rock, partly embedded
in the mountain, and the sides and front of
stones, brush and earth thrown compactly together.
It could boast a rude door, which was,
with the exception of two loop holes, the only
place to admit light and air. Within was a rough
table, whereon lay a tinder box and candle—one or
two rough benches made of logs—and a rude pen
at one end, filled with straw, which was to answer
the purpose of a bed. Such was the apartment
into which Hetty and Emily now entered—the
latter with feelings of horror and disgust.
“Oh, Hetty,” exclaimed Emily, as she glanced
around, “I beseech you tell me what this means,
and why I have been stolen from home and
brought hither!”
“'Pon my soul, lady,” answered Hetty, “I
don't know no more'n you do! We poor womens
has to obey orders sometimes without asking questions;
and all I knows is, that I've got to tend 'pon
ye till he comes.”
“Who comes?” cried Emily.
“Why that ar' young man as had you stolen.”
“Was it John Webber?” asked Emily, breathlessly.
“Why ye see I arn't to mention names, 'cause
its agin orders. You might guess worse, though,
I reckon.”
“Oh Heaven, 'tis he!” exclaimed Emily, clasping
her hands. “I feared, I feared 'twas so!—
Base, base man, he designs to work my ruin! Oh
God, Father of the innocent and defenceless, I
pray thee protect me in this trying hour, and deliver
me from the hands of those who would do
me wrong!”
“I don't think as how he means to hurt you,
lady,” said Hetty; “though 'twixt us I think he's
a bad man.”
“If he did not wish to do me wrong, why did
he tear me away from those I love, and bear me
beyond the reach of friends?” asked Emily.
“Well, I can't answer ye,” replied Hetty; “and
besides, I've broke orders in what I've done already—so
you musn't ask me no more questions,
gal, 'cause I'll have to refuse to speak to ye!”
“Heaven help me!” groaned Emily; and casting
herself upon one of the benches, she bowed
her face in her hands and wept bitterly.
“I hate to see ye cry, lady,” said Hetty, in a
softened tone; “I do indeed!” and as she gazed
upon Emily, her brown, ugly, weather-beaten
features assumed an expression of tender compassion.
“Give me your hand, gal! I sometimes
tell fortins.”
Emily mechanically obeyed, and Hetty, after
looking on the palm of it a moment, continued:—
“Thar's trouble here, gal, and no mistake. I see
the lines is crossed and cut up badly; but thar's
one, the line of life, as runs out on't smoothly—
so don't be afeard, cause it'll all turn out right in
the end, depend on't!”
“But when is he to come?” enquired Emily,
not heeding the last remarks of Hetty.
“Thar', I shan't answer ye no more!” returned
Hetty, who felt offended that her fortune
telling powers had been thus slighted. “I'll not
answer ye agin, so don't speak to me!” and true
to her word, from that moment Emily could get
nothing out of her. Left to herself and her own
gloomy reflections—apprehending something terrible
to come—with Emily, the day, as might be
conjectured, wore wearily away. And what was
to happen? What was to be her fate—away from
home and friends, and no voice to whisper in her
ear a single word of consolation and hope? And
John—a man she believed capable of any act
however devilish—what was his design upon
her? She remembered his dark, mysterious words
of threatening, and shuddered. Oh! why had she
not made them known, and been saved this terrible
result? And Edward, what must be his feelings
to find her gone so suddenly, and no trace
left whereby he could glean an inkling of her fate?
And her guardian too, how must he feel?—and
Rufus, whose prophetic words were sounding like
a death-knell in her ear? She might in truth
never see him again on earth. Alas—alas—poor
girl! as one by one such thoughts as these came
rushing through her brain, she felt her head throb
and ache, and deemed but little more would drive
her mad. Thus passed one of the longest days of
her life.
Towards night Hetty placed some refreshments
on the table, which she had found in a basket;
but Emily refused to eat, and early retired to her
rude bed, only to pass a horrible night of feverish
anxiety, and to dream, whenever she slept, strange
fantastic dreams, that awoke her with a shuddering
start. The next morning she arose with red,
swollen eyes, and a pale, sickly look. She endeavored
to eat a little to support nature, for she
felt herself growing weak, but her stomach refused
food; and faint, and exhausted, she retired
again to her pallet of straw. From time to time
Hetty glanced at her with an uneasy, anxious
look, but still said nothing. As the day wore
on, Emily began to feel more and more the horrors
of her situation—her brain was pressed to
bewilderment. What was to be her fate? This
silent suspense was terrible—terrible! It was taking
away her reason!—and she felt that any
fate, even death itself, would be preferable to this
brain-wrought torture. Noon came, but brought
no relief; and as the afternoon waned away, Emily
felt she was growing mad. At length she
started up and listened. She fancied she heard a
distant footfall. A few moments of anxiety confirmed
it, and she could hear distinctly the tramp
of a horse. Then it paused, and Emily's heart
beat fast. Presently she heard a rustling of the
bushes. The sound came nearer and nearer.—
It was a joyful sound, let what would follow. It
was a relief from that dull, death-like weariness
of suspense. Nearer and nearer it came, till at
length the tall, dark figure of John Webber filled
the entrance. Emily sunk back upon her pallet
with strange, deep feelings. It was the one she
wished, yet dreaded to see. He might relieve her
from suspense, only to plunge her into more fearful
reality. Without ceremony, without even
noticing Hetty, John strode directly towards Emily,
and when within a few feet of her paused.—
As he caught a full view of her features, there
was a slight start of surprise apparent in his own.
He could scarcely credit so great a change, in
so short a time.
“Well, Emily, and so we meet here!” were
the first words he uttered, in a tone somewhat
stern.
“Oh, John,” said Emily, casting upon him a
look of imploring anguish, that would have moved
to tears of pity any heart less hard than his:—
“Oh, John, how could you be so cruel—to take
me, who have been reared in your father's family,
taught to look upon you as a brother, and
treat you at all times as a friend—how could you
take me away from home, and all I love, by the
hands of ruffians, and bring me to this wild, uninhabited
region? Oh, what have I ever done,
that I should receive such treatment at your
hands?”
“Refused me!” replied John, contracting his
brows.
“Refused you, because I did not, could not
love you,” returned Emily, “and because I would
not perjure myself before God and man, by accepting
your hand, and swearing to love and
cherish you. But is this to excuse you before
high Heaven for an act so base?”
“I seek no excuse for my acts!” answered John,
smiling with one of his devilish smiles. “Rail
on, Emily—rail on!—but when you have done,
please inform me why you think you were brought
hither by my commands!” and he turned his dark
eye upon Hetty, who trembled and grew pale.
“I myself heard you giving directions, at the
place where my captors first paused,” replied
Emily, noticing his glance and the agitation of
Hetty. “Blame her not for this—for if your
commands to her were silence, I can answer that
you have been strictly obeyed. Since yesterday
morning, not three words has she spoken; and to
all my entreaties to the contrary has turned a deaf
ear.”
“'Tis well,” said John, “that she has not forgotten
her duty. And so it seems you recognised
my voice. Well, since you know all, perhaps
'tis better. I will not disguise that it is by my
will and acts you are here. I saw you when you
departed with that fellow Merton, and I judged
by the course you took where you might be found.
I knew, too, where were some bold spirits, who
would not fail to obey my commands, even were
those commands to murder; and I immediately
informed them of your whereabouts, and what
they must perform for me. Their task has been
well executed, for you are here in my power.—
What you are here for, I presume you know; but
lest you should feign ignorance, I will inform you.
You will remember an interview we had a short
time since, during which I offered, and you refused
my hand. I then swore you should be
mine, and you are here to fulfil that oath. The
“But, John, I told you then I could not love
you!”
“And I told you then, Emily, it mattered not.
Love—pshaw!—what is it? A mere fancy of a
brain disordered, or intoxicated—whichever you
like--by the silly romance of youth, ere the mind
has fully settled upon the realities of life. A strange
something that afflicts some people in the head, as
the nightmare does others in the body. Thank
Heaven, I was never troubled with either complaint!”
“Even were I to set love aside, I could not be
yours!” rejoined Emily.
“Wherefore?”
“My hand is pledged to another.”
“Ha! is it so? Well, then, you must break that
pledge.”
“But surely, John, there must be some pity in
your heart! Oh, do not--do not drive me to hate
one I have ever been taught to look upon as a
brother! Oh, I beg of you, release me—return
me to my home, and I will bless you! I know
you are a child of passion, and one who in moments
of excitement would be likely to err; but
oh! bring calm reflection to your aid, and retrieve
ere too late the wrong you have done me! Do
this, John, do this, and you shall never have cause
to repent it! I will do all in my power to make
you happy; and I solemnly swear to you, from
my lips shall never pass an accusation or reproach!
I will strictly conceal, as I have concealed your
threat, that aught of anything but kind regards
ever passed between us. Oh, will you not do this,
and make me happy, and others, and yourself
happy also?”
“On one condition, Emily, I will release you.”
“Name it!” cried Emily, breathlessly.
“That you will swear to be mine at the altar.”
“Oh, you know I cannot do this, John, so wherefore
urge me?”
“I know you must do this, or worse!” returned
John, with a dark look.
“No, no, no!” cried Emily; “you cannot, cannot
be so cruel, John!”
“I see you do not know me!” said John, with
another devilish smile.
“But what motive can induce you to destroy
the happiness of a poor, nameless, I might add,
homeless girl, who never did you wrong? No,
no! you cannot—I will believe you cannot be
so cruel!”
“I see you do not know me!” repeated John;
“no—nor even know yourself. You say you
are a nameless girl—but therein you err. Listen!
Six months ago, when you came on from
New York, I was struck with your appearance;
and thinking much on you, your kindness to me
in days gone by, and your affability then, I felt
for you what some enthusiastic youth would
probably term love; but which I, in a more matter
of fact way, simply termed a fancy, or an attachment.
Thinking much on this, I finally resolved
you should be mine at a no distant day. A resolve
with me is but the precursor of a result—
as I do not like to break one, for fear of setting
myself a bad example. Well, to cut matters
short, I saw you a few days since—alone—told
you of my intention, and you refused me. That,
even that of itself, Emily, had been enough to
tempt me to almost any extreme, rather than fail
in my design—but to that was shortly added
another and more important inducement. You
of course remember the conversation in my
father's house on the evening of that day. You
will remember, too, it was then suggested that
the Jew might have in his possession proofs of
your parentage. The suggestion seemed to me
a good one, as I had other reasons for thinking
the same. Well, on that same night—while you
were probably sleeping and dreaming of love, or
some other foolish thing--I saw the Jew and obtained
those proofs.”
“Ah, then he had proofs!” cried Emily, suddenly,
a gleam of joy passing over her pale, careworn
features.
“Ay, he had proofs,” answered John, “which
proofs are now in my possession, and I trust are
sufficient to establish you an heiress of noble
birth.”
“O joy—joy!” exclaimed Emily, with a radiant
smile upon her countenance. “At least then I
am not of mean parentage. O, have you the
papers with you?”
“They are here;” and John placed his hand
upon his breast.
“O, let me behold them, and learn who I
am!”
“On the one condition you shall have the full
benefit of them—without complying with that,
you shall never see them. It is now in your
power to choose, wealth and a name, or poverty
and disgrace. If you accept my hand, you shall
be rich—refuse, and you shall see of what deeds
I am capable! I do not ask your decision now—
you shall have a few hours to deliberate. I have
business which calls me away; but ere to-morrow's
dawn I shall be here again, and then you
must decide! Ponder well upon it, girl, and do
not force me to extremes! Remember you are
here, in my power, and beyond the reach of assistance.
If you decide to accept my hand, all
shall be well; but if you persist in your obstinacy,
then know, girl”--and his dark eyes fastened
upon her gleamed strangely—“then know, girl,
there is a way to make even one as proud and
high-born as you, glad to accept the hand even
of a man as base and low-born as I. I pray you
drive me not to extremes! Mine you must be,
by fair means or foul!”
“Oh, God!” groaned Emily, burying her face
in her hands, while a cold shudder passed over
her.
“Remember your decision!” and John turned
upon his heel to depart. As he did so, his eye
fell upon Hetty, and with a start he advanced
rapidly to her, caught her by the wrist, while she
trembled and grew white with fear.
“You have heard what you should not!” he
said, in a low, hurried tone, his eyes glaring upon
her with an awful expression. “My secret is in
your possession. Secrets of desperate men are
sometimes dangerous. Beware—beware! Breathe
but a word, be it never so light, of what you have
here seen and heard, or shall see and hear henceforth,
and this bright steel (partly drawing a dagger)
shall revel in your heart's blood! Remember—remember!”
and with this he strode to the
door and disappeared.
For some moments Hetty remained in the position
he had left her, pale and trembling; and then
proceeding to the door herself, she gazed down the
hill, and saw him mount his horse and ride away,
with feelings that boded him no good. When
fully assured he was gone, she glanced cautiously
around,—as if to be certain no person was lurking
about the premises—and then closing the door,
Emily, whom she found sobbing bitterly.
“Lady,” said she, touching her on the arm,
casting upon her a wild glance, and speaking in
a quick, fearful tone, scarcely above her breath:
“Lady, we're in danger, both on us!”
Emily looked up with a start.
“We're in danger, gal,” repeated Hetty; “for
'mong all the villains I've ever known, I've never
seed the like of him as has just left us!”
“We are indeed in danger!” replied Emily,
earnestly, grasping Hetty by the hand. “There
is no dark deed of which John Webber, to gain
his ends, is incapable.”
“I know it, I know it, gal!” returned Hetty,
quickly. “I've watched him while he were a talkin'
to you; I've heard it all—all he's said, and
your sweet replies, that moved me, hard as I am,
to tears—and I know his heart's a rock. Lady,
for more'n sixteen year I've been mixed with bad
men. My husband was a robber himself, and got
shot in his business. I've seen men robbed and
murdered without crying a bit; but looking on
you, somehow's made me a child agin, and made
me think on my innocent days—for once, gal, I
were as innocent as you be. Oh, lady, believe
me, I pities you!”
“Oh then, dear, kind Hetty, assist me to escape!”
rejoined Emily, springing from her pallet—where
during her interview with John she
had remained—and kneeling at the other's feet.
“Oh, assist me to escape, and you shall be rewarded—richly
rewarded! You will by so doing
save me from a fate worse than death itself; and
the good God, who sees all things, will reward you
for it!”
“My will's good enough, gal, but what can I
do? You're a great many miles from home, and
you couldn't never reach thar' without being discovered,
and then my life wouldn't be worth a
button.”
“Oh, God! and is it so?” cried Emily, hiding
her face in her hands.
“Come, come, lady, don't cry now, don't—
cause it makes me feel bad. Rise, gal, rise! It's
I that ought to be kneeling to you, that is so good
and pure. Rise, gal, and I promise you all as can
be done I'll do, though it costs me my life. Thar's
only one way to save you, gal, and that may fail.”
“Ha! one way!” cried Emily, starting to her
feet. “One way!—well, well!—speak, speak!”
“It's dangerous, gal—pre'aps it 'll fail—but it's
the only one as I thinks on now.”
“Well, well—speak!—what is it?”
“Did ye ever here gal”—and Hetty glanced
cautiously around, as if fearful of listeners—“did
ye ever hear o' Ronald Bonardi, the great bandit
cap'en?”
“I have!” replied Emily, with a shudder.
“He lives in this ere quarter.”
“Lives in this quarter!” repeated Emily, in astonishment.
“What mean you, Hetty? Surely,
Bonardi and his band are not in this country now!
You mean he did live here?”
“Hush, gal, hush—not so loud!” said Hetty,
trembling with fear at the course she was taking.
“If we're heerd, it's all up with me. The great
cap'en does live here, and it's to him I'll have to
go to git you rescued.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Emily, with a start. “Hetty,
you must be insane! Rescue me by appealing
to that terrible man?”
“It's the only way,” returned Hetty. “It's
your only chance of escape, gal; besides, he aint
so terrible towards women; cause I knows him,
and knows as how he's made a law too, for I've
hearn 'em talk about it, as makes it death for any
of his band to touch womens. It was he that—
but 'll you swear to keep it secret, and all I've
said?”
“Most solemnly!” replied Emily.
“It was he then, gal, that—” the conclusion
of the sentence was whispered in Emily's ear.
“Indeed!” exclaimed Emily, pausing thoughtfully.
“This is strange—most strange! But why
do you think he will interfere in this instance?”
“To punish them as has broke his law.”
“Ha! then my captors were of his band?”
“Yes, and him as holds you!”
“How! what mean you?”
“Hist! John Webber.”
“Great Heaven!” cried Emily, throwing up her
hands, starting back, and gazing upon Hetty in
astonishment. “Can this be true! John Webber
a bandit?”
“It's true, lady—most true,” said Hetty;
“though if 'twas known as how I told, it 'nd
cost me my life!”
“Fear not, Hetty; you will find your confidence
not misplaced; but now how do you intend
to proceed?”
“Why's, I said, it's dangerous business,” answered
Hetty, “and pre'aps 'll cost me my life;
but for your sweet sake I'll risk it; and if I die,
I'll at least have the intention of one good deed
to balance agin my wicked acts. I'll hunt out
the cave where the great cap'en lives, for I knows
it's somewhere in this ere quarter, and if I can
only jest find it, and see him, then all's safe. But
pre'aps John 'll come back, and miss me, and
then hunt me out and murder me. Pre'aps I'll
not be able to find it, and git lost, and git torn to
death by wild beasts. Thar's a great deal o' danger
about it, lady—but for your sweet sake I'll
risk it; and if I don't never come back, and you
don't never hear nothin' more o' Hetty Brogan,
and you happen to 'scape some other way, you'll
sometimes think on her, wont you, lady?”
“Indeed, indeed I will!” cried Emily, throwing
her arms around Hetty, and bursting into tears.
“Indeed I will, Hetty. God bless you! Whatever
your errors may have been, you have a kind
heart, and God will forgive you! I cannot but
love you, although you have been my jailor;
and if we both escape, you shall evermore find
a true friend in Emily Nevance!”
“Thar', thar',” said Hetty, wiping her eyes;
“don't say no more, don't, 'cause I can't stand
so much goodness! I'll go—I'll go—for it'll be
sweet to die for ye anyhow. Keep up your
sperets, gal, 'cause I'm in a good cause, and think
I'll succeed. Thar', good bye!” and Hetty
turned away.
“Good bye, and may God protect you!” said
Emily, fervently; and as Hetty disappeared, she
bent her knees in a prayer of supplication to
Him who holds the destinies of the weakest and
the most mighty in his hands.
| CHAPTER III. The bandits of the Osage | |