University of Virginia Library

28. CHAPTER XXVIII.

Meanwhile we sped towards our place of rendezvous.
We reached it, as we had calculated, in
sufficient season. The whole party was assembled at
the “Blind,” according to arrangement, and within
the limited hour; and, for a brief period after our reunion,
nothing was to be heard but the hum of preparation
for the anticipated strife. Our weapons, as
before stated, were of a motley description. But
they were all effective—at least, we resolved that
they should be made so. Leaving as little to accident
as possible, we reloaded and reprimed our fire
arms, put in new flints where we could do so, and
girded ourselves up for the contest with the cool considerateness
of men who are not disposed to shrink
back from the good work to which they have so far
put their hands. Encouraged by the feeling and
energy of Colonel Grafton, who was very much beloved
among them, there was not one of the party

who did not throw as much personal interest into
the motives for his valour, as entered either into Grafton's
bosom or mine. When we were all ready, we
divided ourselves into three bodies, providing thus
an assailing force for the three known outlets of the
outlaws' retreat. One of these bodies was led by
Grafton, and under his lead, and by his side, I rode
—to two sturdy farmers of the neighbourhood, who
were supposed to be more conversant with the place
than the rest, the other divisions were given; and it
was arranged that our attack upon the three designated
points should be as nearly simultaneous as possible.
The darkness of the forest—the difficulty of
determining and equalising the several distances—
the necessity of proceeding slowly and heedfully, in
order to avoid giving alarm, and other considerations
and difficulties of like nature and equal moment, rendered
our advance tedious and protracted; and though
we had not more than two miles to cover after separating
at the Blind, yet the gray streaks of the
early dawn were beginning to vein the hazy summits
in the East, before we reached the point of entrance
which had been assigned us.

The morning was cold and cloudy, and through
the misty air sounds were borne rapidly and far.
We were forced to continue our caution as we proceeded.
When we reached the valley, the porch,
as it were, to the home among the hills where the

robbers had found their refuge, we came to a dead
halt. There were slight noises from within the enclosure
which annoyed us, and we paused to listen.
They were only momentary, however, and we rode
slowly forward, until the greater number of our little
party were fairly between the two hills. In my
anxiety, I had advanced a horse's length beyond
Colonel Grafton, by whose side I had before ridden.
We were just about to emerge from the passage into
the area, when the indistinct figure of a man started
up, as it were, from beneath the very hoofs of my
horse. I had nearly ridden over him, for the day
was yet too imperfect to enable us to distinguish between
objects not in motion. He had been asleep,
and was, most probably, a sentinel. As he ran, he
screamed at the loudest pitch of his voice—the probability
is, that in his surprise he had left his weapon
where he had lain, and had no other means of
alarming his comrades, and saving them from the
consequences of his neglectful watch. In the midst
of his clamours, I silenced him. I shot him through
the back as he ran, not five steps in front of my
horse, seeking to ascend the hill to the right of us.
He tumbled forward, and lay writhing before our
path, but without a word or moan. At this moment,
the thought possessed me, that it was John Hurdis
whom I had shot. I shivered involuntarily with the
conviction, and in my mind I felt a busy voice of
reproach, that reminded me of our poor mother. I
strove to sustain myself, by referring to his baseness,
and to his deserts: yet I felt sick at heart the while.
I had the strangest curiosity to look into the face of
the victim, but, for worlds, I would not then have
done so. It was proposed that we should examine
the body by one of the men behind me. It was
a voice of desperation with which I shouted in reply—

“No—no examination.—We have no time for
that.”

“True!” said Grafton, taking up the words.—
“We must think of living, not dead enemies. This
shot will put the gang in motion. We must rush on
them at once, if we hope to do any thing, and the
sooner we go forward the better.”

He gave the word at this moment, which I seconded
with a fierce shout, which was half-intended
to overcome and scare away my own obtrusive fancies.

“Better,” I said to myself—“better that I should
believe John Hurdis to be already slain, than that I
should think the duty yet to be done. He must
perish, and I feel that it will be an easier deed to
slay him while he is unknown, regarding him merely
as one of the common enemy.”

These self-communings—indeed the whole events
which had occasioned them—were all the work of a

moment. I had fired the pistol under the impulse
which seemed to follow the movement of the victim,
as closely as if it had been a certain consequence of it.
In another instant we rushed headlong into the valley,
just as sounds of fright and confusion reached us
from one of the opposite entrances, which had been
assigned the other parties. There was now no time
for unnecessary reflections—the moment for thought
and hesitation had gone by, and the blood was boiling
and bounding in my veins, with all the ardour
and enthusiasm of boyhood. Wild cries of apprehension
and encouragement reached us from various
quarters, and we could see sudden forms rushing out
of the bushes, and from between the hollows where
they had slept; and with the sight of them, our men
dashed off in various directions, and divided, in pursuit.
Colonel Grafton and myself advanced in like
manner, towards a group consisting of three persons,
who seemed disposed to seek, rather than fly from
us. A few bounds brought us near enough to discover
in one of these, the person of Matthew Webber.
The two deadly enemies were now within a few steps
of each other; and, resolving to spare Colonel Grafton
the encounter with a man who had professed
such bitter malice towards him, and such a blood-thirsty
and unrelenting hate, I put spurs to my horse,
and, with earnest efforts, endeavoured to put myself
between them; but my object was defeated, and I
was soon taught to know that I required all my address
to manage my own particular opponent. This
was the man whom we have before seen as the
emissary of the Brotherhood, at the habitation of
Pickett, and, subsequently, when I left the encampment,
ostensibly as the spy upon Eberly. This fellow
seemed to understand my object, for he put himself
directly in my way; and, when not three steps
distant, discharged his pistol at my head. How he
came to miss me I know not. It would appear impossible
that a man resolved and deliberate as he
certainly showed himself then and elsewhere to be,
should have failed to shoot me at so small a distance.
But he did; and, without troubling myself at that
moment to demand how or why, I was resolved not
to miss him. I did not. But my bullet, though
more direct than his, was not fatal. I hit him in the
shoulder of the right arm, from the hand of which
he dropped the knife which he had taken from his
bosom, the moment after firing his pistol. My horse
was upon him in another instant; but, as if insensible
to his wound, he grasped the bridle with his remaining
hand, and, by extending his arm to its utmost
stretch, he baffled me for a brief space, in the
effort which I was making to take a second shot. It
was but a moment only, however, that he did so. I
suffered him to turn the head of the horse, and deliberately
took a second pistol from my bosom. He
sunk under the breast of the animal as he beheld it,
still grasping him by the bridle, by swinging from
which, he was enabled to avoid the tramplings of his
feet. But I was not to be defeated. I threw myself
from the animal, and shot the outlaw dead, before
he could extricate himself from the position into
which he had thrown himself. This affair took less
time to act than I now employ to narrate it. Meanwhile
the strife between Colonel Grafton and Webber
had proceeded to a fatal issue. I had beheld its
progress with painful apprehensions, beholding the
danger of the noble gentleman, without the ability
to serve or succour him. On their first encounter, the
deliberate ruffian calmly awaited the bold assault of
his foe, and, perhaps, feeling some doubt of his weapon,
in aiming at the smaller object, or resolved to
make sure of him though slow, he directed his pistol
muzzle at the advancing steed, and put the bullet
into his breast. The animal tumbled forward, and
Webber nimbly leaping to one side, avoided his
crushing carcass, which fell over upon the very spot
where the outlaw had taken his station. In the fall
of the beast, as Webber had anticipated, Grafton became
entangled. One of his legs was fastened under
the animal, and he lay prostrate and immovable for
an instant, from the stunning effect of the fall. With
a grim smile of triumph, Webber approached him,
and when not three paces distant from his enemy,
drew his pistol, but before he could fix the sight
upon him, a fierce wild scream rang through the
area, and in the next instant, when nothing beside
could have saved Grafton, and when looking fearlessly
at his advancing enemy, he momently expected
the death which he felt himself unable to avoid,
he beheld, with no less satisfaction and surprise, the
figure of the doubly fugitive Clifton bounding between
them, to arrest the threatened shot. He came
too late for this, yet he baffled the vengeance of the
murderer. The bullet took effect in his own bosom,
and he fell down between Grafton and Webber, expiating
his errors and offences, whatever may have
been their nature and extent, by freely yielding up
his life to save that of one, who just before, as he
imagined to the last, had sat in inflexible and hostile
judgment upon his own. A faint smile illuminated
his countenance a moment before his death, and he
seemed desirous to turn his eyes where Grafton lay,
but to this task he was unequal. Once or twice he
made an effort at speech, but his voice sunk away
into a gurgling sound, and at length terminated in
the choking rattle of death. Webber, while yet the
breath fluttered upon the lips of his victim, strode
forward, with one foot upon his body, to repeat the
assault upon Grafton, which had been baffled thus,
but before he could do this, he fell by an unseen
hand. He was levelled to the earth, by a stroke
from the butt of a rifle from behind, and despatched,
in the heat of the moment, by a second blow from
the hands of the sturdy forester who wielded it. We
extricated Grafton from a situation which had been
productive to him of so much peril, and addressed
ourselves to a pursuit of the surviving outlaws who
were scattered and flying on all hands. In this pursuit,
it fell to my lot to inflict death, without recognising
my victim at the time, upon the actual murderer
of William Carrington. I saw a fellow skulk
behind a bush, and shot him through it. That was
Pickett. I only knew it when, in the afternoon of
the day, we encountered his wife, with countenance
seemingly unmoved, and wearing its general expression
of rigid gravity, directing the burial of her
miserable husband, whom a couple of negroes were
preparing to deposit in a grave dug near the spot
where he had fallen.

But our toils were not ended. Seven of the outlaws
had been killed outright, or so fatally wounded
as to die very soon after. Two only were made
prisoners; and we had started at least eight or ten
more. These had taken flight in as many different directions,
rendering it necessary that we should disperse
ourselves in their pursuit. My blood had
been heated, by the affray, to such a degree that I
ceased to think. To go forward, to act, to shout and
strike, seemed now all that I could do; and these

were performances through which my heart appeared
to carry me with an ungovernable sensation of
delight; a sensation cooled only when I reflected
hat the body of John Hurdis had not yet been
found—that we were in pursuit of the survivors;
and that I had sworn by the grave of the hapless Katherine
Walker, to give no mercy to the murderers
of my friend. My oath was there to impel me forward
even should my heart fail me, and forward I
went in the bloody chase—we urged, having a distant
and imperfect view of two wretches; both
mounted and fleeing backward upon the Big Warrior.
They had gone through the “Blind,” and for a
mile farther I kept them both in sight. At length,
one disappeared, but I gained upon the other.
Every moment brought the outlines of his person
more clearly to my eye, and at length I could no
longer resist the conviction that the fates had
brought me to my victim.—John Hurdis was before
me. What would I not then have given to
have found another enemy. How gladly would I
then have unsworn myself, and, could it be so, have
given up the task of punishment to other persons.
There was a sound of horsemen behind me, and at
one moment, I almost resolved to turn aside and
leave to my comrades the solemn duty which now
seemed so especially to devolve itself upon me.
But there was a dread in my mind that such a
movement might be misconstrued, and the feeling
be taken for fear, which was in strict truth the creature
of conscience. The conviction grew inevitable
that the bloody duty of the executioner was mine.
The horse of my brother stumbled; the fates had delivered
him into my hands—he lay on the earth before
me; and, with a bursting heart, but a resolved
spirit, I leaped down on the earth beside him. He
had weapons, but he had no power to use them. I
would have given worlds had he been able to do so.
Could he have shown fight—I could have slain him
without scruple; but when, at my approach, he raised
his hands appealingly, and shrieked out a prayer of
mercy, I felt ashamed of the duty I had undertaken.
I felt the brutal blood-thirstiness of taking life under
such circumstances—the victim but a few paces off
—using no weapons, and pleading with a shrieking
desperate voice for that life, which seemed at the
same time too despicable to demand or deserve a
care. And yet, when I reflected that to grant his
prayer and take him alive, was not to save his life,
but to subject him to a death, in the ignominy of
which I too must share; I felt that he could not live.
I rushed upon him with the extended pistol, but
was prevented from using it by a singular vision, in
the sudden appearance of the poor idiot daughter of
Pickett. She came from the door of a little cottage
by the road-side, which I had not before seen, and
to which, it is more than probable, that John Hurdis
was bending his steps, as to a place of refuge. To
my horror and surprise she called me by name, and
thus gave my brother the first intimation which he
had of the person to whom he prayed. How this
idiot came to discover that which nobody besides
had suspected, was wonder enough to me; and while
I stood, astounded for the instant, she ran forward
like a thoughtless child, crying as she came:

“Oh, Mr. Richard, don't you shoot—it's Master
John—it's your own dear brother—don't you shoot
—don't.”

“Brother!” cried the miserable wretch, with
hoarse and husky tones, followed by a chuckle of
laughter, which indicated the latent hope which had
begun to kindle in his breast at this discovery.

“Away—I know you not, villain,” was my cry,
as I recoiled from him, and again lifted the pistol
in deadly aim. The idiot girl rushed between
us, and rising on tiptoe, sought to grasp the extended
hand, which I was compelled to raise above her
reach.

“Run, Master John, run for dear life,” was her
cry, as she clung upon my shoulders. “Run to
the bushes, while I hold, Mr. Richard—I'll hold
him tight—he can't get away from me. I'll hold
him tight enough while you run.”

The miserable dastard obeyed her counsel; and

while clinging, now to my arms, and now to my
legs, she baffled my movements, and really gave him
an opportunity, which a cool, brave fellow would
have turned to account, and most probably saved
himself. He, in his alarm, actually rushed into the
woods in the very direction of the pursuit. Had he
possessed the spirit of a man, he would have leaped
upon his horse, or upon mine, and trusted to the
chase a second time. Hardly a minute had elapsed
from his disappearance in the woods, and when I
had just extricated myself from the clutches of the
girl, which I did with as little violence as possible,
when I heard one shot and then another. I resumed
my horse and hurried to the spot whence the
sounds came. One of our party, who had taken the
same route with me, had overtaken the fugitive, and
had fired twice upon him as he fled. My voice
trembled when I asked the trooper, as he emerged
from the bush, if the outlaw was dead.

“As a door nail!” was the reply. I stopped for
no more; but turning the head of my horse again, I
renewed the pursuit of the second fugitive, whom I
had first followed. My companion kept with me,
and we went forward at full speed. As we rode we
heard the faint accents of the idiot girl crying in the
woods for “Master John;” as, here and there, she
wound her way through its recesses, seeking for
him who could no longer answer to her call. The

sounds were painful to me, and I was glad to get
out of hearing of them. I had now none of those
scruples in the pursuit which had beset me before.
My trial was over; and fervently in my heart did I
thank God, and the stout fellow who rode beside
me, that my hand had not stricken the cruel blow
which was yet demanded by justice. I urged my
horse to the utmost and soon left my companion behind.
I felt that I must gain upon the footsteps of
the fugitive. There were few horses in the country
of better bottom, and more unrelaxing speed than
mine. He proved himself on this occasion. Through
bog and branch, he sped; over hill, through dale,
until the road opened in double breadth upon us.
The trees grew more sparsely—the undergrowth was
more dense in patches, and it was evident that we
had nearly reached the river. In another moment
I caught a glimpse, not of it only, but of the man I
pursued; and he was Foster. He looked round once,
and I fancied I could detect a smile playing on his
lips. I felt loth to trouble this strange fellow. He
was a generous outlaw, and possessed many good
qualities. He had given me freely of his money,
though counterfeit, and had shown me a degree of
kindness and consideration, which made me hesitate,
now that I had brought him to the post. I concluded
it to be impossible that he should escape me,
and I summoned him with loud tones to surrender,
under a promise which I made him, of using all my
efforts and influence to save him from the consequences
of the laws. But he laughed aloud, and
pointed to the river. “He will not venture to swim
it surely,” was my thought on the instant. A few
moments satisfied my doubts. There was a pile of
cotton, consisting of ten or fifteen bags, lying on the
brink of the river, and ready for transportation to
market whenever the boats came by. He threw
himself from his horse as he reached the bags, and
tumbling one of them from the pile into the stream,
he leaped boldly upon it, and when I reached the
same spot, the current had already carried him full
forty yards on his way, down the stream. I discharged
my pistol at him but without any hope of
touching him at that distance. He laughed good-naturedly
in return, and cried out—

“Ah, Williams, you are a sad dog, and something
more of a hypocrite than the parson. I am afraid
you will come to no good, if you keep on after this
fashion; but, should you ever get into a difficulty
like this of mine, I am still sufficiently your friend
to hope that you may find as good a float. You can
say to the owner of this cotton—a man named Baxter,
who, I suppose, is one of your party this morning—that
he will find it some five miles below; I
shall not want it much farther. Should he lose it,
however, it's as little as a good patriot—as it is said

he is, should be ready at any time to lose for his
country. Farewell—though it be for a season only.
We shall meet some day in Arkansas, where I shall
build a church in the absence of better business, and
perhaps make you a convert. Farewell.”

Colonel Grafton came up in time to hear the last
of this discourse; and to wonder and laugh at the
complacent impudence and ready thoughts of the
outlaw. Foster pulled his hat, with a polite gesture,
when he had finished speaking, and turned his eyes
from us in the direction which his strange craft was
taking.

“Shall I give him'a shot, Colonel?” demanded one
the foresters, who had come up with Grafton, lifting
his rifle as he spoke.

“No, no!” was the reply—“let him go. He is
a clever scoundrel and may one day become an
honest man. We have done enough of this sort of
business this morning, to keep the whole neighbourhood
honest for some years. Let us now return,
my friends, and bury those miserable creatures out
of sight. Hurdis!” He took me suddenly aside
from the rest, and said:

“Hurdis, there is a girl back here, who says that
you have killed your own brother. She affirms it
positively.”

“She speaks falsely, Colonel Grafton,” was my
reply; “I am not guilty of a brother's blood; and

yet I may say to you that she has spoken a portion
of the truth. A brother of mine has been killed
among the outlaws. Guilty or not guilty of their
offences, he pays the penalty of bad company. If
you please we will speak of him no more.”

I had been married to Mary Easterby about three
years, when one day who should pay us a visit but
Colonel Grafton and the lovely Julia, the latter far
more lovely than ever. Her sorrows had sublimed
her beauty, and seemed to give elevation to all her
thoughts and actions. The worm was gnawing at
her heart, and its ravages were extending to her
frame; but her cheek, though pale, was exquisitely
transparent, and her eye, though always sad, was
sometimes enlivened with the fires of an intense
spirituality which seemed to indicate the approximation
of her thoughts to the spheres and offices of
a loftier home than ours. She lived but a year after
this visit, and died in a sweet sleep, which lasted
for several hours, without being disturbed by pain,
and from which she only awakened in another
world. May we hope that the loves were happy
there which had been so unblessed on earth.