University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

A few years since, most of the western States
and Territories—particularly those bordering upon
the great Mississippi—were infested with bands
of lawless desperadoes, collected from all parts
of the globe, who, having become criminals in
their native land, here sought an asylum, either
beyond the pale of the law entirely, or where
stern Justice being weak, was relaxed from that
severity which she exercised in the more populous
sections of the country. Here, in many
cases, they formed themselves into bands, choosing
some one of the more bold and daring of their
party for leader—their purpose, doubtless, being
the greater facility of proceeding in their depredations,
as well as firmer security against apprehension.

But, although, as we have remarked, they formed
themselves into bands or parties, yet rarely, in
fact we believe only in extreme cases, did they
openly act in concert; their policy being to conceal
from their more honest neighbors the fact
that there was such a regular organized combination
of men for outlawry purposes in the vicinity.
It was their policy, also, to disperse themselves
throughout the country; to meet only at
certain intervals, and then in secret, under cover
of night; by which means they would appear as
honest citizens; live, many of them, unsuspected,
and in all cases be among the first to learn of whatever
movement might chance to be in progress
detrimental to their interests as a body, or to any
member individually, and thus be enabled to take
measures to prevent, or lay secret plans to counteract
it. This will, we think, sufficiently account
for their, in many cases, long and sometimes
undisturbed career of dissipation and crime.

Our story opens a few years subsequent to the
close of the last war with England, and at a period
when the interior of Missouri—the theatre of
the scenes, incidents and characters which are
about to follow—was, comparatively, but little
known; in fact, we believe we may with propriety
say, there were portions within its territorial
boundaries at this time unseen and untrod by the
eye and foot of the white man. But notwithstanding
there were sections of it uninhabited,
there was already a tide of emigration setting in
from the eastward, which rendered it probable
that in the course of a few years, at the farthest,
it would not only be fully explored, but settled,
by some of the more enterprising and industrious
inhabitants of the States lying east of the
great Mississippi. Even now the eastern portion
of it was beginning to exhibit signs of settlement
and civilization, and already the blue smoke arose
from many a cot which here and there dotted the
long line of forest bordering on the Mississippi.
This forest followed the windings of the river
and extended back some fifteen or twenty miles,
opening, in some places, upon the large and beautiful
prairie, where the tall grass waved to and fro
in the breeze, containing its legions of wild animals,
and where the eye could range uninterruptedly
for miles on miles, as over some vast sea,
until finally shut in by the far distant horizon.
In some parts of this forest the ground for miles
was nearly level, and only required the removal
of the underbrush to make it a beautiful grove,
while other parts were wild, rocky and mountainous,
presenting to the eye of the beholder
many grand and romantic scenes, as though Nature
had designed to soothe, awe and display her
power by strong and varying contrasts.

As before remarked, that region of country
known as Missouri, was fast emerging from savage
to civilized life—from a gloomy wilderness to
the abodes of civilization. The axe might now
be heard in the forests where, but a few years
before, echoed the wild war-whoop of the Indian.
On the banks of that rapid and mighty stream,
from which Missouri takes her name, a few regular
settlements had sprung up—among the most
prominent of which we will mention the old town
of Franklin, a place that has long since disappeared,
having been literally swept away by the
eternal knawings of this river whose bed is continually
changing.

The inhabitants of Missouri at the time of

which we write, as must naturally be the case in
every new settlement, were composed of all classes,
from the refined, educated and intellectual, to
the coarse, ignorant, demi-savage race, which are
ever found to exist as a kind of medium between
refinement and utter barbarity.

Having made these few preliminary remarks,
so that the reader may form an idea of the then
existing state of the country, we will now at
once proceed with our story.

It was near the close of a hot sultry day, in
the summer of 18—, that two travelers were slowly
wending their way over a wild and somewhat
mountainous tract of land, some thirty miles distant
and in a south-westerly direction from St.
Louis. The elder of the two was a man about
thirty-five years of age, whose height rather exceeded
six feet, and although not what might be
termed of handsome proportions, yet of that close
knit and sinewy build which gives evidence of
great muscular strength and a capability of enduring
much hardship and fatigue. His forehead,
which was visible from his hat being partly
removed, was of medium proportions, on one side
of which was carelessly parted his long raven
colored hair. His face was long, thin and rather
strongly marked. His mouth was large, around
which played a peculiar smile which, to convey
an idea of, we shall term a philosophical one.
His lips were thick—cheeks somewhat hollow—
nose long and pointed—eyes small and grey, with
a peculiar twinkle in the latter, when speaking,
which led one to fancy there was more meant
than said—and altogether the whole expression
of his features was a combination of cunning,
shrewdness and candor, mingled with a quiet,
thoughtful and humorous turn of mind. In
speech he was very deliberate, and no matter by
what circumstances surrounded, would never fail
to give each word its proper bearing. His dress
was a plain home-spun suit of sheep's grey—an
article much worn by the yeomen of that day—
and his dialect partook strongly of that peculiarity
which distinguishes the people of New England—particularly
those who have little access to
society—from almost every other; and was, besides,
of that uncouth form of speech, which is
engendered from habit, when not polished by the
refinement of education.

His companion was a very different personage;
in fact, of an entirely opposite cast. In years he
was some five the other's junior—some three inches
less in stature—of a form full of grace and
elasticity—a face almost round—a complexion
ruddy—large, restless grey eyes—with much hauteur
in his bearing, and of an active and rather
irritable temperament. His articulation corresponded
with his temperament, being quick and
impetuous, and his language gave evidence of his
superiority over the other in point of education.
His dress was a plain suit of black, a little the
worse for wear perhaps, but of an excellent fit,
which, together with the fine texture of the cloth,
the graceful ease with which it was worn, had
been proof sufficient the wearer was no laborer,
even were not the soft white hand, holding a light
fancy cane, to be taken as evidence.

To some, perhaps, it may appear singular
that two individuals, so directly opposite in personal
appearance, manners, dress and temperament,
should be companions, and what is more,
friends; yet such was the case. Notwithstanding
the old adage that “like clings to like,” it must
be admitted we have a great many exceptions,
and that like clings to unlike may be said with
propriety of the social relations and connections
of mankind in general. It is by this process the
great strings of Nature are made to blend their
sounds in harmony.

It was, as we have said, near the close of the
day, and the last rays of the setting sun had been
intercepted by a thick, black thunder cloud, which,
approaching rapidly, threatened our travelers with
a heavy shower. For some minutes neither spoke,
but silently glancing toward the west, both immediately
advanced from a slow to a rapid pace.

The younger was the first to break silence with
the exclamation “Ha!” as a flash of lightning,
more vivid than any previous, flung its red lurid
glare over them, and for a moment seemed to put
the forest in a blaze, followed almost instantaneously
by a heavy crash of thunder. “By heavens!
Bernard, there is no mistaking that! How
far are we now from Webber's?”

“Wal, I should guess about five miles,” replied
Bernard.

“Five miles!” echoed the other quickly, with a
touch of sarcasm. “Why, Harvey, what are you
thinking about? It was only ten miles when we
last enquired, nearly two hours since, and now
you think we have only reached half way!—
Pshaw!”

“Wal,” remarked Bernard, coolly and quietly,
“this ere's a free country, and every body's got a
right to their own opinion any how; and so, as the
feller said, if you don't like the distance at five
miles, you can have it for any distance you're a
mind to.”

For a moment a half angry smile played around
the mouth of the younger, as though he would
have laughed, but was checked by some opposite
feeling, while he bit his nether lip and tapped his
cane in the palm of his left hand with a quick,
nervous motion.

“Well, well,” rejoined he, quickly, “if we have
yet five miles to travel, our pace must be still increased,
for the night gathers fast!”

“I calculate we'd about as well be seeking for
a shelter,” remarked Bernard, quietly.

“A shelter!” exclaimed the other in surprise;
“surely you do not dream of spending the night
in this lonely place?”

“Wal, as to the matter o' that,” answered Bernard,
“I reckon I don't dream no how, 'cause I'm
awake and its a sartin thing; and when a body's
awake and sartin, ye see he ain't a dreaming;
but”—and he looked coolly at the other, speaking
slowly and impressively—“if you want to tell
your friends of your adventures, and put this 'ere
night in as one of 'em, you haint got a minute to
lose 'tween this and the time your head's under
something more powerful to protect it than that
are beaver.”

“Why, what mean you?” cried the other,
turning somewhat pale.

“D'ye see that are cloud?” said Bernard, elevating
his finger to an angle of some forty-five degrees;
“now mark all the twists in't, and keep
tally for about a minute all them are streaks o'
lightning dancing up and down, and I reckon
you'll come to the conclusion that the safest place
for Marcus Tyrone don't lay in the open air by
any means.”

“Ay! true, true!” returned Tyrone, with a
start. “You are right, Bernard, right; for there
is something awful in yonder cloud. But what is
to be done? We can reach no habitation, and to
remain here is, I fear, but to expose ourselves to

certain death! Can we not find shelter under
some of these rocks?”

“Why, ye see, Mark, I'll jest tell ye how 'tis,”
answered Bernard. “If we don't find some place
to git our heads under soon, its my opinion they
wont be no further use to us; for that are storm
aint a going to be no common one, or else I aint
no judge. Now right away here to the left o' us
is a cave; for a feller pointed it out to me when I
traveled this way afore, and said folks kind o'
reckened as how it were a ren—ren—something,
for robbers.”

“Rendezvous, doubtless,” remarked Tyrone.

“O yes, that's it! I don't see what makes
folks use such tarnal hard names now-a-days;
they didn't use to when I got edicated. 'Spect
they're gitting a great deal smarter, oh! Mark?”

“Doubtless,” replied the other, with a smile.
“But of the cave, Harvey?”

“O yes; wal, I calculate we'd about as well be
putting our heads inside on't, for we wont no
more'n git killed if its got robbers in it, and if we
stay out here, I swow we'll git blown clean into
a jiffy, for that are harrycane yonder aint a going
to be over nice about what it does, that's a fact.”

“But where is this cave, Harvey?”

“D'ye see that are rough pile o' stones, right
away there, that look jest as if they'd been playing
stone wall all their lives?”

“Ay, ay.”

“Wal, that's the place, and I swow we can't
git there too soon, for that are last streak o' lightning
fairly felt hot. Come on, Mark, don't go to
getting skeered now.”

“Pshaw!” returned Tyrone, his features becoming
a shade more pale; and following Bernard,
he proceeded directly towards the spot designated;
though, perhaps, with feelings less at ease than
he would have his companion imagine.

The cave alluded to, was situated near the
brow of a steep, rocky hill or bluff, some several
rods distant to the left of the road, which our
travelers had just quitted, and appeared to have
been formed by some great convulsion of nature,
in the rending and upheaving of rocks, which
had fallen together so as to leave a cavity sufficiently
large to contain several persons. The
mouth of this cave fronted the south, and overlooked
the beautiful Maramee, which rolled sparkling
along some fifty yards below, and was surrounded
by scenery romantic in the extreme.
The hill on which it stood was a portion of a
ridge which extended in an irregular line far
away to the southwest and northeast. Immediately
above and below this cave were large projecting
rocks, which, to all appearance, were so
slightly bedded in the earth, that but little force
was necessary to send them thundering to the
bottom. A dwarfish growth of shrub-oaks had
struggled up between them, and presented their
rough, shaggy tops above, as though to give the
scene an air of wildness and desolation. But
notwithstanding this, there was a fine redeeming
trait in the surrounding scenery—viewed from
the brow of the hill—whose beauty was heightened
by contrasts the most pleasing. At its base
on the western side, was a finely timbered forest,
stretching far away northward, and finally opening
upon a beautiful strip of meadow or prairie
land, over which the eye might wander for miles,
to rest at last upon a blue hazy ridge of mountains
in the distance.

The view towards the east and south was not
so extensive, but this likewise had its attractions.
A distant perspective was cut off by another
ridge, running almost parallel to the one just described;
but the loss was amply compensated, by
the wild picturesque scenery presented, and the
gentle murmur which stole sweetly upon the ear,
as the Maramee sent its waters foaming and dashing
over its rocky bed between, anon to glance
off into a still silvery belt and for a time mirror
surrounding objects ere forever lost in the bosom
of the mighty Mississippi.

The road of which mention has already been
made—though it would, perhaps, poorly compare
with some of the present day—was, for this period
and section of country, uncommonly good—
being mostly clear of stones, stumps, brush and
the like—so that a skilful horseman might dash
rapidly over it with little danger of life or limb.
To the eastward it followed the windings of the
Maramee, for some considerable distance, through
a thick, dark ravine, and then branched off
through a level and extensive forest.

As light one horse vehicles were not in use at
this period, and more especially in this part of
the country, the horse was ridden instead by
those who prefered an easier and more speedy
locomotion than walking, and in consequence
every settler of note was supplied with a number
of these noble animals, for the use of himself and
family.

But we fear the reader will think us digressing,
and so let us return to our travelers.