University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

The stranger boldly stepped into the light as the
door was opened for him. The heart of Pickett
sank within him on the instant; for guilt is a thing
of continual terrors; but his glance was fixed on the
person without recognition, and there was nothing
in the air or visage of the intruder, to excite alarm.
His dark swarthy features and sinister eye were, it
is true, sufficiently unprepossessing; but these were
evidently the habitual features of the man, and being
in repose, gave no occult expression to his countenance.
His guise was common enough, consisting
of the common blue and white homespun of the
country; and this, bespattered with mud as if he had
been long a traveller. He demanded traveller's
fare, and begged to be accommodated for the night.
There was no denial of so small a boon, even in the
humblest cottage of Alabama; and though Pickett

would rather have had no company, he could not
yet refuse.

“Well,” said Pickett, “we are not in the habit of
taking in travellers, but if you can make out with a
blanket by the chimney, you can have it—it's all I
can give you.”

“Good enough,” said the stranger; “I'm not
particular. Room by the chimney, and light wood
enough for a blaze, and I'm satisfied.”

“Have you had supper?” demanded Mrs. Pickett—“we
can give you some hoe cake and bacon.”

“Thank you, ma'am, but I took a bite from my
bag about an hour ago, as I crossed a branch coming
on, which baited my hunger. I won't trouble
you to get any thing more.”

“You're from below?” asked Pickett with some
show of curiosity.

“No—from above.”

“Do you go much farther?”

“I think not—I've got business in these parts,
and shall return when it's over.”

“You've a horse to see to?”

“No—I foot it—I'm a very poor man.”

The lie was uttered with habitual readiness. The
emissary had hidden and hobbled his horse in the
neighbouring woods. He was too well practised in his
art to forego every precaution. Pickett had no other

questions, and but little more was said for the time,
by either of the parties, all of whom seemed equally
taciturn. The wife of Pickett alone continued anxious.
The searching glance of the stranger did not please
her, though it appeared to have its impulse in curiosity
alone. Perhaps, suspecting her husband's guilt, all
circumstances, removed from those of ordinary occurrence,
provoked her apprehensions. With a
just presentiment she had trembled on the stranger's
knock and entrance, and every added moment of
his stay increased her fears. She had as yet had no
conference with Pickett, touching the business
which carried him abroad; and the presence of their
guest denied her all opportunity for the satisfaction
of her doubts. Her evident disquiet did not escape
the notice of her husband, but, he ascribed it, in his
own mind, to her desire to go to bed; which, as they
all slept in the same apartment, was rendered somewhat
difficult, by the presence of the new comer.
His coarse mind, however, soon made this difficulty
light.

“Go to bed, Besty—don't mind us; or to make
the matter easy, what say you, stranger, to a bit of a
walk—the night's clear and not cold neither. We'll
just step out till the old woman lies down, if you
please.”

“To be sure,” said the other—“I was about to
propose the same thing to you.”

The fears of Pickett were newly roused by this
seemingly innocent declaration of the stranger—a
declaration, which, at another time, would not
have tasked a thought.

“Why should he wish to take me out to walk
with him at night—why should he propose such a
thing?”—was his inward inquiry; and with hesitating
steps, he conducted the suspicious guest from
the hovel into the open ground before it.

“I was just going to propose the same thing to
you,” said the stranger the moment they had got
there—“for do you see, it isn't to lodge with you
only that I come. I have business with you, my
friend—business of great importance.”

If Pickett was alarmed before, he was utterly
confounded now.

“Business with me!” he cried in undisguised astonishment.—“What
business—what business can
you have with me?” and he stopped full and confronted
the stranger as he spoke.

“Well, that's what I'm going to tell you now—
but, not here—walk farther from the house, if you
please—let's go into this thicket.”

“Into the thicket!—No—I'm d—d if I do!—”
cried the now thoroughly alarmed Pickett.—
“I'll go into the thicket with no stranger that
I don't know. I don't see what business you
can have with me at all; and if you have any

you can just as well out with it here, as any where
else.”

“Oh, that's just as you please,” said the other
coolly—“It was for your sake only that I proposed
to go into the thicket, for the business is not exactly
proper for every body to hear; and there's no use
in calling the high road to counsel.”

“For my sake! What the d—I do you mean, my
friend? It's your business not mine—why is it for
my sake that you would have me go into the thicket?”

“Because it might bring you into trouble, if any
ears beside our own were to hear me,” replied the
stranger with indifference. “For my part, I don't
care much where it is said, only to save you from
any trouble.”

“Me from trouble—me from trouble! I don't
know what you can mean; but if you're serious—
where would you have me go?”

“There—that thicket will do. It looks dark
enough for our business.”

The stranger pointed to a dense grove in the neighbourhood,
but on the opposite side of the road—a
part of the same forest in which the reader will remember
to have witnessed an interview between
John Hurdis, and Jane the idiot girl. Not knowing
what to fear yet fearing every thing, the murderer
followed the stranger, whom he now regarded

as his evil genius. The other was passing
more deeply into the woods, after having entered
them, than Pickett seemed to think necessary
for his object, and the voice of the latter arrested
him.

“Dark enough for your business, it may be, but
quite too dark for mine. I'll go no further—you
can say here, all you've got to say, no matter what it
is. I'm not afraid, and I think it something strange,
that you should want me to go into the bush in a
dark night, with a person I don't know. I don't
somehow like it altogether. I'm not sure that it's
safe. I mean no harm, but it's not the best sense in
the world, to trust people one don't know.”

“Lord love you!” said the other with a quiet
tone of contempt—“you're more scary than I
thought you. There's nothing to be frightened at,
in me—my business is peaceable—and I'm a peaceable
man. I don't carry a rifle, and I never tumbled
a fellow from his horse at a hundred yards, in all
my life, so far as I can recollect now.”

These words were uttered with the utmost coolness,
and as if they were entirely without peculiar
signification. The effect upon the hearer was almost
paralysing, as it was instantaneous. He started,
as if he had been himself shot—for a moment
was silent under the obvious imputation contained
in the last sentence of his companion's speech—

then, recovering himself, with the blustering manner
of the bully, he addressed the other, who saw,
in the dim light which surrounded them, that Pickett's
hand was thrust into the bosom of his vest, as
if in search of some concealed weapon.

“How! you do not mean to say, that I ever did
such a thing? If you do—”

“Put up your knife, brother—and keep your
hand and voice down. Lift either too high, and I
have that about me which would drive you into the
middle of next summer, if you only looked at me to
strike.”

Such was the stern reply of the stranger, whose
tones changed promptly with the circumstances.
Pickett felt himself in the presence of a master. He
was cowed. He released his hold upon the weapon,
which he had grasped in his bosom, and lowering
the sounds of his voice in obedience to the stranger's
requisition, he replied in more conciliatory language.

“What mean you, my friend? What is the business
that brings you here? What would you have
with me; and why do you threaten me?”

“Your hand!” said the other deliberately, while
extending his own.

“There it is; and now, what—?” Pickett reluctantly
complied.

“Only that you are one of us now, that's all.”

“One of us—how! who are you?—What mean
you?”

“Every thing. You are a made man—your fortunes
are made. You've become one of a family
that can do every thing for you, and will do it, if
you'll let them.”

The silence of Pickett expressed more wonder
than his words could have done. The other went
on without heeding a feeble attempt which he made
at reply.

“You've volunteered to do some of our business,
and have, therefore, joined our fraternity.”

“Your business—what business—what fraternity?—I
don't know, my friend, what you possibly
can mean.”

“I'll tell you then, and put you out of suspense.
You're just from Tuscaloosa where you've taken
some trouble off our hands. I've come to thank
you for it, and to do you some kindness in return.
One good turn deserves another you know, and this
that you have done for us, deserves a dozen.”

The wonder of Pickett was increased. He almost
gasped in uttering another request to hear all that
the other had to say.

“Why it's soon said,” he replied. “You shot a
lad two days ago near the `Shade' up beyond Tuscaloosa—”

“Who says—who saw—it is a lie—a d—d lie;”
cried the criminal in husky and feeble accents, while
quivering at the same time with mingled rage and
fear.

“Oh, pshaw!” said the other—“What's the use of
beating about the bush. I saw you tumble the lad
myself, and I've followed upon your trail ever
since—”

“But you shall follow me no more. One of us
must give way to the other,” cried the criminal in
screaming accents, and while, drawing his knife
with one hand, he aimed to grasp the throat of the
stranger with the other. But the latter was too wily
a scout to become an easy victim. He had watched
his man, even as the cat watches the destined prey
—to whom she suffers a seeming freedom, and sacrifices
at the very moment of its greatest apparent security.
With the movement of Pickett to strike,
was that of the stranger to defend himself—nor to
defend himself only. The strength of the former
was far inferior to that of the man whom he assailed,
and instead of taking him by the throat, he found
his grasp eluded, and at the same moment, the arm
which held the weapon, was secured in a gripe
which effectually baffled all his efforts at release.

“Don't be rash!” said the stranger, with a laugh
in which there was no sign of anger. “Don't be
rash—it's of no use. You're only fighting against

your own good, and your powder's wasted on me.
I'm too much for you, and that's enough to make
you quiet. But there's another, and a better reason
than that to keep you quiet. I'm your friend, I
tell you—your best friend, and I can bring you
many friends. I'm come all this distance to befriend
you, and if you'll have patience and be civil, you'll
soon see how.”

“Let go my arm,” said Pickett, chafing furiously,
but still ineffectually, so far as his own efforts to
release himself were concerned.

“Well, I'll do that,” said the stranger, releasing
him at the same instant; “but, mind me, if you try
to use it again, as you did just now, it will be worse
for you. I never suffer a dog to worry me twice.—
I'm sure to draw his teeth, so that he will bite no
other—and if you lift that knife at me again, I'll put
a plug into your bosom, that will go quite as deep,
if not deeper, than your bullet did in the bosom of
that young fellow.”

“You know not what you say—you saw not
that!” was the faint answere of Pickett.

“It's a true bill, man, and I'll swear to it. How
should I know it, if I did not see it? I saw the lad
tumble—saw you scud from the place, rifle in hand,
and take to your creature, which was fastened to a
dwarf poplar in a little wood of poplars. What
say you to that? Is it not true?”

Pickett leaned against a tree, silent and exhausted.
He had no answer. The fates had tracked him
to his den.

“Nay—fear nothing, though I know your secret,”—said
the other, approaching him—“You are
in no sort of danger; not from me at least; on the
contrary, you have done our friends a service—have
saved them from the trouble of doing the very thing
that we would have had to do for ourselves. Three of
us pursued the man that you shot, and if he had got
away, which he must have done but for your bullet,
it would have been an ugly and losing matter for us.
You did us good service then I tell you—you volunteered
to be one of our strikers, and we have got
the game. The search of the body gave us a rich
booty, and his death a degree of safety, which we
might not else have enjoyed.”

“Well—wasn't that enough for you? Why did
you come after me?” demanded Pickett bitterly.
“Why follow me with your infernal secret?”

“Lord love you—to give you your share of the
spoil, to be sure, what else? Do you think us so
mean as to keep all for ourselves, and give none to
a man who did, I may say, the dirtiest part of the
business? Oh, no! brother—no! I've brought you
your share of the booty. Here it is. You will see
when you come to look at it, that we are quite as
liberal as we should be. You have, here, a larger

amount, than is usually given to a striker.” And, as
the stranger spoke these words, he pulled out something
from his pocket, which he presented to his astonished
auditor. Pickett thrust away the extended
hand, as he replied—

“I want none of it. I will have no share—I
am not one of you.”

“But, that's all nonsense, my brother. You must
take it. You must be one of us. When a striker
refuses his share, we suspect that something's going
wrong, and he takes his share, or he pays for it, by
our laws;” was the reply of the stranger who continto
press the money upon him.

“Your laws!—of what laws—of whom do you
speak?”

“Of our fraternity, to be sure—of the Mystic Brotherhood.
Perhaps, you have never heard of the
Mystic Brotherhood?”

“Never.”

“You are fortunate to have lived long enough to
be wise. Let me enlighten you. The Mystic Brotherhood
consists of a parcel of bold fellows, who
don't like the laws of the state exactly, and of other
societies, and who have accordingly associated together,
for the purpose of making their own, and doing
business under them. As we have no money of our
own, and as we must have money, we make it legal
to take it from other people. When they will not

shut their eyes and suffer us take it without trouble,
we shut them up ourselves; a task for the proper
doing of which, we have a thousand different modes.
One of these, the task of a striker, you employed in
our behalf, and very effectually shut up for us, the
eyes of that foolish young fellow, who had already
given us some trouble, and, but for you, might have
given us a great deal more. Having done so well,
we resolved to do you honor—to make you one of
us, and give you all the benefits of our institution,
as they are enjoyed by every other member. We
have our brethren in all the states from Virginia to
Louisiana, and beyond into the territories. Some
of our friends keep agencies for us, even so far as the
Sabine, and we send negroes to them daily.”

“Negroes—what negroes—have you negroes?”

“Yes—when we take them—we get the negroes
to run away from their owners, then sell them to
others, get them to run away again, and in this way,
we probably sell the same negro, half a dozen times.
This is one branch of our business and might suit
you. When the affair gets too tangled, and we apprehend
detection, we tumble the negro into a river,
and thus rid ourselves of a possession that has paid
good interest already, and which it might not be any
longer safe to keep.”

“What—you kill the negro?

“Yes, you may say so.—We dispose of him.”

“And how many persons have you in the Brotherhood?”

“Well, I reckon we stretch very nigh on to fifteen
hundred.”

“Fifteen hundred—is it possible!—so many?”

“Yes, and we are increasing daily. Let me give
you the first sign, brother; the sign of a striker.”

“No!”—cried Pickett shrinking back. “I will
not join you. I do not know the truth of what you
say. I never heard the like before. I will have nothing
to do in this business.”

“You must!” was the cool rejoinder—“you must!
Nobody shall strike for us, without becoming one
of us.”

“And suppose I refuse?” said Pickett.

“Then I denounce you as a murderer, to the
grand jury,” was the cool reply. “I will prove you
to have murdered this youth, and bring half a dozen
beside myself to prove it.”

“What if I tell all that you have told me of your
brotherhood?”

“Pshaw, brother, you are dreaming. What if you
do tell—who will you get to believe you—where's
your proofs? But I will prove all that I charge you
with, by a dozen witnesses. Even if it were not
true, yet could I prove it.”

The discomfited murderer perspired in his agony.
The net was completely drawn around him.

“Don't be foolish, brother,” said the emissary
of a fraternity, upon the borders of the new states,
the history of which, already in part given to the public,
is a dreadful chronicle of desperate crime, and
insolent incendarism—“Don't be foolish—
you can't help yourself—you must be one of us,
whether you will or not. We can't do without you
—we have bought you out. If you take our business
from us, you must join partnership, or we must shut
up your shop. We can't have any opposition going
on. The thing's impossible—insufferable! Here—
take your share of the money. It will help you to
believe in us, and that's a great step towards making
you comply with my demand; nay—don't hold
back—I tell you, brother, you must go with us now,
body and soul, or you hang, by the eternal.”

Base and wretched as was the miserable Pickett,
in morals and in condition, he was not yet so utterly
abandoned as to feel easy, under a necessity so imperatively
presented to him. The character of his
wife, noble amidst poverty and all its consequent
forms of wretchedness, if it had not lifted his own
standards of feeling and of thought, beyond his own
nature, had the effect, at least, of making him conceal,
as much as he could, his deficiencies from her.
Here was something more to conceal, and this necessity
was, of itself, a pang to one, having but the
one person to confide in, and feeling so great a dependence

upon that one. This step estranged him
still farther from her, and while he passionately took
the proffered money, and looked upon the uncouth,
and mystic sign which the other made before him,
in conferring his first degree of membership, the
cold sweat stood upon his face in heavy drops, and
an icy weight seemed contracting about his heart.
He felt as if he had bound himself, hand and foot,
and was about to be delivered over to the executioner.