University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

The murderer of William lay close in the thicket
after he had done the deed. That murderer was
Ben Pickett, and, as the reader may have divined already,
his victim had perished through mistake. The
fatal cause of this was in his employment of my horse
—a circumstance forced upon him by the necessities
of his flight. Pickett knew the horse and looked no
farther. It was a long shot, from a rising ground
above, where the umbrage was thick, and at such a
distance that features were not clearly distinguishable.
The dress of William unfortunately helped
the delusion. It was almost entirely like mine.
We had been so completely associated together for
years, that our habits and tastes in many respects
had become assimilated. The murderer, having
satisfied himself—which he did at a glance—that
the horse was mine, it was the prompt conclusion of
his mind that I was the rider. Crime is seldom
deliberate—the mere act I mean—the determination

may be deliberately enough made; but the blow
is most usually given in haste, as if the criminal
dreaded that he might shrink from an act already
resolved upon. Pickett did not trust himself to look
a second time before pulling trigger. Had he suffered
the rider to advance ten paces more, he would
have withdrawn the sight. The courage of man is
never certain but when he is doing what he feels to
be right. The wrong doer may be desperate and
furious, but he has no composed bearing. Pickett
was of this sort. He shot almost instantly after seeing
the horse. He was about to come forward when
he saw the rider tumble; but the sudden approach
of the pursuers whose forms had been concealed by
the narrow and enclosed “blind” through which
they passed, compelled him to resume his position,
and remain quiet. He saw them take charge of the
body, but had little idea that their aim, like his own,
had been vulturous. He saw them busy about
the prey which his blow had struck down, but
concluded that they were friends seeking to succour
and to save. Under any circumstances his hope of
plunder was now cut off, and he silently withdrew
into the forest, where his horse had been hidden, and
hurriedly remounting commenced his return to Marengo.
But an eye was upon him that never lost
sight of him. The keen hunter that Matthew Webber
had set upon his path had found his track, and
pursued it with the unerring scent of the blood
hound. More than once the pursuer could have
shot down the fugitive with a weapon as little anticipated,
and as unerring as that which he himself
had employed; but he had no purpose of this sort
in view. He silently followed on—keeping close
watch upon every movement, yet never suffering
himself to be seen. When the murderer paused by
the way side, he halted also; when he sped towards
evening, he too relaxed his reins; and he drew them
up finally only, when he beheld the former, with an
audacity which he never showed while I dwelt in
Marengo, present himself at the entrance of my
father's plantation, and request to see my brother.
The pursuer paused also at this moment, and entering
a little but dense wood on one side of the road,
quietly dismounted from his horse which he fastened
in the deepest thicket, and, under cover of the under
brush, crept forward as nearly as he could, to the
place where Pickett waited, without incurring any
risk of detection.

It was not long before John Hurdis came to the
gate, and his coward soul made its appearance in his
face, the moment that he saw his confederate. His
lips grew livid and quivered—his cheeks were
whiter than his shirt, and his voice so feeble, when
he attempted to speak, that he could only articulate

at all by uttering himself with vehemency and
haste.

“Ah, Pickett, that you?—well! what?”

The murderer had not alighted from his horse,
and he now simply bent forward to the other, as he
half whispered—

“It's all fixed, 'Squire. The nail's clinched.
You can take the road now when you please, and
find nothing to trip you.”

“Ha! but you do not mean it, Ben?—It is not as
you say?—You have not done it? Are you sure?
Did you see?”

“It's done—I tell you, as sure's a gun.”

“He's dead then?” said John Hurdis in a husky
whisper—“Richard Hurdis is dead you say?” and
he tottered forward to the rider with a countenance
in which fear and eagerness were so mingled as to
produce an unquiet shrinking even in the bosom of
his confederate.

“I've said it, 'Squire, and I'll say it again to
please you. I had dead aim on his button—just
here, (he laid his hand on his breast)—and I saw
him tumble and come down all in a heap like a bag
of feathers. There's no doctors can do him good
now, I tell you. He's laid up so that they won't
take him down again—nobody. You can go to
sleep now when you please.”

The greater felon of the two shrank back as he

heard these words, and covered his face with his
hands. He seemed scarce able to stand, and leaned
against the posts of the gate for his support. A
sudden shivering came over him, and when that
passed off, he laughed brokenly as if with a slight
convulsion, and the corners of his mouth were
twitched until the tears started in his eyes. To
what particular feeling, whether of remorse or satisfaction,
he owed these emotions, it would be difficult
for me to say, as it was certainly impossible
for his comrade to conceive. Pickett looked on
with wondering, and was half inclined to doubt
whether his proprietor was not out of his wits. But
a few moments reassured him as John Hurdis again
came forward. His tones were more composed,
though still unsubdued, when he addressed him:
and, perhaps, something more of human apprehension
dwelt upon his countenance.

“You have told me, Ben Pickett, but I am not
certain. Richard Hurdis was a strong man—he
wouldn't die easily. He would fight—he would
strike to the last. How could you stand against
him? Why, Ben, he would crush you with a blow
of his fist. He was monstrous strong.”

“Why, 'Squire, what are you talking about?
Dick Hurdis was strong, I know, and stout hearted.
He would hold on 'till his teeth met, for there was
no scare in him. But that's nothing to the matter

now, for you see there was no fight at all. The
rifle did the business—long shot and steady aim—
so, you see, all his strength went for nothing.”

“But how could he let you trap him, Ben Pickett?
Richard was suspicious_and always on the watch.
He wouldn't fall easily into trap. There must be
some mistake, Ben—some mistake. You're only
joking with me, Ben—you have not found him? he
was too much ahead of you, and got off—well—it's
just as well you let him go—I don't care—indeed,
I'm almost glad you didn't reach him. He's in
the `Nation' I suppose by this time?”

“But I did reach him, 'Squire,” replied the other,
not exactly knowing how to account for the purposeless
tenor of John Hurdis's speech, and wondering
much at the unlooked for relenting of purpose
which it implied. There was something in this
last sentence which annoyed Pickett as much as it
surprised him. It seemed to imply that his employer
might not be altogether satisfied with him
when he became persuaded of the truth of what he
said. He hastened therefore to reiterate his story.

“He'll never get nearer to the `Nation' than
he is now. I tell you, 'Squire, I come upon him on
a by-road leading out from Tuscaloosa, that run
along among a range of hills where I kept. There
was a double hill close by, and the road run through
it—it was a dark road. I tracked him and Bill Carrington

twice over the ground. They had business
farther down with a man named Webber, and they
stopt all night with a Colonel Grafton. I got from
one of his negroes all about it. Well, I watched
when he was to come back. When I heard them
making tracks, I put myself in the bush, clear ahead,
in a place where they couldn't come upon me till I
was clean out of reach. Soon he came running like
mad, then I give it him, and down he come, I tell
you, like a miller's bag struck all in a heap.”

“But that didn't kill him? He was only hurt?
You're not sure, Ben, that he's dead? You didn't
look at him closely?”

“No—dickens—they were too hard upon me for
that. But I saw where I must hit him, and I saw
him tumble.”

“Who were upon you?” demanded Hurdis.

“Why, Bill Carrington, and the man he went to
see, I suppose. I didn't stop to look, for, just as I
sprawled him out, they came from the road behind
him, and I saw no more. You didn't tell me that
Bill Carrington was going with him.”

“No—I wasn't certain. I didn't know. But
didn't Carrington come after you, when you shot
Richard?”

“I reckon he was too much frightened—he
jumped down beside the body, and that was all I
stopped to see. I made off, and fetched a compass

through the woods that brought me out with dry
feet into another road. Then I kept on without
stopping, and that's all I can tell you.'

“It was strange Bill Carrington didn't take after
you—he's not a man to be frightened easily?”

“He didn't though.”

“But you're not sure, Ben, after all? Perhaps
you've only hurt him? You have not killed him
I think? It's a hard thing to shoot certain at a
great distance—you were far off you say?”

“A hundred yards or so, and that's nothing being
down hill too.”

“Richard was a tough fellow.”

“Tough or not, I tell you, 'Squire, he'll never
trouble you again. It's all over with him. They've
got him under ground before this time—I know by
the sort of fall he gave that he hadn't any life left—
he didn't know what hurt him.”

John Hurdis seemed convinced at last.

“And yet to think, Ben, that a man so strong as
Richard should die so sudden? It was only four
days ago that he had his hand on my throat—he
had me down upon the ground—he shook me like
a feather. And he spoke with a voice that went
through me. I was like an infant in his hands—
I felt that he could have torn me in two. And now,
you say, he cannot lift an arm to help himself?”

“No, not to wave off a buzzard from his carrion,”
was the reply.

The arm of John Hurdis fell on the neck of
Pickett's horse at these words, and his eyes with a
vacant stare were fixed upon the rider. After a
brief pause, he thus proceeded in a muttered soliloquy
rather than an address to his hearer.

“If Richard would have gone off quietly and let
me alone—if—but what's the use to talk of that
now?” He paused, but again began in similar tones
and a like spirit. “He was too rash—too tyrannical.
Flesh and blood could not bear with him, Ben.
He would have mastered all around him if he could
—trampled upon all—suffered no life to any—spared
no feelings. He was cruel—cruel to you, and to
me and to all; and then to drag me from my horse
and take me—his own brother—by the throat! But,
it's all over now. He has paid for it, Ben—I wish
he hadn't done it, though—for then—but no matter
—this talk's all very useless now.”

Here he recovered himself, and in more direct
and calmer language, thus continued, while giving
his agent a part of the money which he had promised
him.

“Go now, Pickett—to your own home. Let us
not be seen together much. Take this money—
'tisn't all I mean to give you. I will bring you
more.”

The willing fellow pocketed the price of blood,
and made his acknowledgments. Thanks too were
given by the murderer, as if the balance of credit
lay with him who paid in money for the life of his
fellow creature.

“I will come to you to night,” continued Hurdis—“I
would hear all of this business. I would
know more—stay! What is that? Some one comes
—hear you nothing, Ben?”

Guilt had made my wretched brother doubly a
coward. The big sweat came out and stood upon
his forehead, and his eyes wore the irresolute expression
of one about to fly. The composure with
which his companion looked round, half reassured
him.

“No—there's nobody,” said the other—“a squirrel
jumped in the wood, perhaps.”

“Well—I'll come to night, Ben—I'll meet you
at the Willows.”

“Won't you come to the house, 'Squire?”

“No!” was the abrupt reply. The speaker recollected
his late interview with the stern wife of
his colleague, and had no desire to encounter her
again—“No—Ben, I'll be at the Willows.”

“What time, 'Squire?”

“I can't say, now—but you'll hear my signal.
Three hoots and a long bark.”

“Very good—I'll be sure.”

John Hurdis remained at the gate a long time
after Pickett rode away. He watched his retreating
form while it continued in sight, then seated himself
on the ground where he had been standing, and
unconsciously, with a little stick, began to draw characters
in the sand. To the labours of his fingers
his mind seemed to be utterly heedless, until, aroused
to a sense of what he was doing and where he sat,
by the approach of some of the field negroes returning
from the labours of the day. he started to his
feet as he heard their voices, but how did his guilty
heart tremble, when his eye took in the letters that
he had unwittingly traced upon the sand. The
word “murderer” was distinctly written in large
characters, before his eyes. With a desperate but
trembling haste as if he dreaded lest other eyes
should behold it too, he dashed his feet over the
letters, nor stayed his efforts even when they were
perfectly obliterated. Fool that he was—of what
avail was all his toil? He might erase the guilty
letters from the sand, but they were written upon
his soul in characters that no hand could reach, and
no labours obliterate. The fiend was there in full
possession, and his tortures were only now begun.