University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

The conference was over. The emissary did not
seem willing to waste more words than were absolutely
necessary. He was a man of business. But
Hurdis, to whom the conference had been so terrible,
he was disposed to linger.

“I must speak with you, Ben Pickett, before you
go,” said he hoarsely to his colleague. The emissary
heard the words, and went aside, saying, as he did
so, with a good humoured smile of indifference upon
his countenance—

“What! you would not that I should hear, though
you know we are now of the same family. You
will grow wiser one day.”

“It's nothing,” said Hurdis—“a small matter—
a mere trifle,” and his tones faltered in the utterance
of the lie.

“It's of no account,” said the emissary, “I do

not care to know it;” and, whistling as he went, he
put aside the bushes which surrounded the group,
and made his way towards the road.

“Ben Pickett,” said Hurdis, when the emissary
had got out of hearing—“I cannot bear this dreadful
bondage—it will kill me, if I suffer it a week.
We must break from it—we must put an end to it
in some way or other. I cannot stoop to do the
dirty business of this confederacy—these grand rascals—and
what is our security? This scoundrel or
any one of the pack, may expose us at any moment,
and after toiling deeper in the mire, we shall be
taken out of it at the cart's tail. It is not to be
thought on—I cannot bear it. Speak to me. Say
—what are we to do?”

“Well, 'Squire—I can't say—it's for you to speak.
You know best.”

“Nonsense, Ben Pickett—this is no time for idle
compliments. It is you who should know best. You
are better taught in the tricks of these scoundrels,
than I am, and can give better counsel of what we
are to do. Something must be done;—is there no
easier way to get rid of this fellow than by—
you know what I mean. I would not that either of
us should do any more of that business.”

“I reckon not, 'Squire. There's only one way to
stop a wagging tongue, that I know of; and if you're
willing to lend a hand, why, the sooner it's done,

the better. The chap stands by the end of the broken
fence—”

The constitutional timidity of John Hurdis arrested
the suggestion, ere it was fully spoken.

“That's too great a risk, Ben—besides, we have
not come prepared.”

“I don't know, 'Squire. I've got a knife that's
sharp enough, and I reckon you've got your pistols.
'Twould be easy enough as we walk along beside
him. The night's clear enough to let you take good
sight upon him—”

“But should the pistol miss fire, Ben—”

“Why then, my knife,”—was the prompt reply.

“It might do, Ben, if he were not armed also.
But you remember, he told us that he was, and it is
but reasonable to think, that he must be, coming on
such a business as this. He must not only be armed,
but well armed. No, no! It will not do just now;
and there's another objection to our doing it here.
It's too nigh home. Let him leave us first, Ben,
and its safest in every respect to give him long shot
for his passport. That's our plan, Ben—I see no
other.”

“Just as you say, 'Squire, just as you say; but to
tell you the truth, I'm almost of the notion that it's
best to come toe to toe, at the jump—take it now, in
the starlight, and have it over. It's a monstrous cold
business now, that watching behind a bush with your

rifle, 'till your enemy comes in sight. It's a cold
business.”

“Yes—it may be, but it's the safest of all; and
our safety is now the single object of both of us.
That must be the way, Ben; and—”

“But who'll watch for him? You, I think—there's
no other, for, as he sleeps at my house, I can't leave
him, you know, to take a stand. You'll have to
do it.”

The suggestion was an astounding one; and, for a
few moments, Hurdis was puzzled and silent. To
become himself a principal actor in such a business,
was no part of his desire. He was unprepared, as
well by habit, as constitution, to engage in deeds of
violence, where he himself was the chief performer,
though at no sort of personal risk. Not that he
had moral or human scruples in the matter. We
have seen enough of him already, to know the reverse.
It was necessary, however, for him to say
something; and he proposed a course to his confederate
which was vacillating and indecisive, and could
promise not even a probable advantage. He could
not muster courage enough to recognize the necessity
of doing all himself, and looking his task in the
face.

“Well, but you could let him off and follow him,
as you followed Dick Hurdis.”

“Yes, if I knew his course so well. But when

he leaves the neighbourhood road, who knows
where he'll strike. All we know, is, that he goes
upward. We are sure of him then before he gets to
the `Crooked Branch,' which is but ten miles off.
There you could watch for him snugly enough, and
be sure of him from the opposite hill for a good
quarter of an hour. But it would be impossible for
me to beat round him, so as to get in front, before he
reaches that point; and after that, who knows where
he turns his bridle.”

“Well, Ben, but you must find that out. You can
inquire as you go, and mark his hoofs.”

The other shook his head.

“I'm dubious about that way, 'Squire. If the
fellow says true, that he has his friends all about
him, I may be asking about his tracks from one of
them, and then all's dicky with both of us. I think
'Squire, there's only that one way, which is the safe
one. You'll have to take the bush at `Crooked
Branch,' and do this business yourself.”

“But I'm not a sure shot with the rifle, Ben, and
to miss were to knock every thing in the head.”

“Take your double barrel; you're a good shot
with that. Put twenty buck shot in each barrel, and
give him one after the other. He won't know the
difference.”

“If I should miss, Ben—”

“You can't miss—how can you? The path's clear

—nothing to stop your sight. You're out of his
reach. You're on the hill. You see him coming
towards—going round by—you, and you see him for
two hundred yards on a clear track, after he's passed
you. There's no chance of his getting off, Squire—
and—”

“Ha! what's that,” cried Hurdis, as the sound of
a pistol shot aroused all the sleeping echoes of the
wood. The voice of the emissary followed, and he
was heard approaching them through the bushes.

“Don't be frightened, brothers, but believing you
to have fallen asleep, I thought to rouse you up for
fear that you'd take cold. Are you most done, for
I'm getting cold myself.”

They were taught by this—which the emissary
probably desired—that he had fire arms, and enough,
too, to render the loss of one load a matter of small
consequence.

“The fellow's getting impatient,” said Hurdis in
suppressed tones to Pickett. Then, crying aloud,
“we will be with you directly,” he hurried through
the rest of his bloody arrangements for the ensuing
day. When they were about to go forth, Pickett
suddenly stopped his employer.

“I had almost forgot, 'Squire, but do you know,
Bill Carrington's got back already. He gave me a
mighty bad scare to day that I ha'n't got over yet.”

“How?” demanded Hurdis with natural alarm.

“I saw him going from my house door. He
hadn't been in it, so Betsy swore to me, though I
could almost swear I saw him come out; and without
stopping to say what he wanted, he took to the
woods, like one more frightened than myself.”

“Strange! He hadn't come home by dinner time
to day. Did you take after him?”

“Yes, after a little while I did, but I was too much
scared at first to do any thing quickly; not that I
was so much scared by Bill Carrington, as by another
that I saw just afore him.”

“Who was that?”

“Dick Hurdis.”

John Hurdis started back, and with jaws distended,
and cheeks, whose pallid hue denoted the cowardly
heart within him, almost gasped his words of
astonishment.

“Ha!—you do not say—but—why ask? You had
not killed him then—and yet—if you had wounded
him even, how could he be there?”

“He was not there,” replied the other in low and
trembling accents.—“It was his ghost.”

“Pshaw! I believe not in such things,” was the
answer of Hurdis; but his faltering tones contradicted
the confidence of his language. “It was your
imagination, Ben—nothing else.”

And, speaking thus, he drew nigher to Pickett,
and looked cautiously around him. The other, who
had faith, had less fear than him who had none.

“Well, I can't say I don't believe in the things
that I see. Call it imagination or what you will,
it gave me a mighty bad scare, 'Squire. But, come,
sir, let us go to this man—he is approaching us
again—I hear his whistle.”

“A moment,” said Hurdis. Pickett hung back,
while the other hesitated to speak. It required an
unusual effort to enable him to do so.

“I say, Ben—I'm ready to do this matter, but if
you could contrive any way to take it off my hands,
I should like it—”

“I don't see, 'Squire, how I can,” said the other.

“If a couple of hundred, or even three, Ben—”

“I'd like to serve you, 'Squire, but—”

“Say five, Ben.”

“I reckon it's imposible, 'Squire. I see no way;
besides, to tell you the truth, I'd rather not. When
I think that the blood on my hands, already, is got
for fighting another man's battles, 'Squire, I'm worse
satisfied than ever with what I've done, and I'm
clear for doing no more, hereafter, than is for my
own safety.”

“But this is for your safety, Ben—we are in the
same boat.”

“Not so, 'Squire—our boats are different—very

different. You are in a fine large ship with mighty
sails—I am in a poor dug-out. If I lose my dug-out
it's no great matter. But your ship, 'Squire, if you
lose that?”

“I lose more than you do, and yet we both lose
all we have, Ben. You, your life—I mine—it matters
not much which of us is the most wealthy,
since we both lose every thing in losing life. Our
loss is equal then, and it is your interest, quite as
much as mine, to put this fellow out of the way.”

“Well, 'Squire, the truth is, I'm tired of scuffling
for life. I've been scuffling for it all my life.
I won't scuffle any more. I'll take the world as I
find it. I'll take my chance with this fellow, and
run the risk of his blabbing, sooner than squat down
behind a bush and blow his brains out.”

“And yet you expect me to do it, Ben.”

“No, I don't expect you. You ask me how to
put this fellow out of your way—and I tell you. I
know no other way, unless you'll come to the
scratch at once, and have it out with him now, while
the stars are shining.”

“What! just when you've heard his pistol too,
and know that he's well provided in arms. That
would be madness.”

“I know no other way, 'Squire,” was the indifferent
reply.

“Ah, Ben, don't desert me,” was the pitiful appeal

of the imbecile villain.—“Don't fly from me
at the very first sign of danger.”

“I don't, 'Squire—I'm ready to jump now, this
minute, into its throat, though you know, as well as
I do, that it's full of teeth.”

“That we must not do. We should both perish,
perhaps—certainly, if my pistol should miss fire.”

“But it would be a warm scuffle for it, 'Squire,
and that's better than waiting in a cold bush.”

“We must not think of such a plan. It would
be folly. The first is the best after all—the safest.
I must do it then myself. I will. Why should I
fear? All rests on it, and he—what is he? The
deed were a benefit to society, not less than to ourselves.”

A sudden fit of courage and morality grew at
once prominent together in the spirit of the dastard.
Driven to the necessity, he at length seemed to
embrace it with the resolution of the man; and, thus
resolved, he went forth to meet the person whom,
the next day, he had decreed for the sacrifice.