University of Virginia Library

1. RICHARD HURDIS.

1. CHAPTER I.

Matthew Webber was no trifler. Though represented
by his comrades, as we have seen in a
previous dialogue, as unwilling to shed blood, it may
be added that his unwillingness did not arise from
any scruples of humanity which are always unnecessary
to the profession of the outlaw. He was
governed entirely by a selfish policy, which calmly
deliberated upon its work of evil, and chose that
course which seemed to promise the greatest return
of profit with the greatest security. To avoid
bloodshed was simply to avoid one great agent of
detection. Hence his forbearance. To the moral of
the matter none could have been more thoroughly
indifferent. We beheld him giving instructions to

an associate the moment that William Carrington
fell by an unknown hand, to pursue the murderer,
not with a view to his punishment, but with a desire
to secure a prompt associate. It was not the wish
of the fraternity of robbers, herding on the Choctaw
frontier, that any body should take up the trade in
that region, of which they desired the monopoly.
When the fellow, thus instructed, had gone, Webber
with his remaining associates at once proceeded to
examine the body, which was lifeless when they
reached it. They wasted no time in idle wonder,
and gave but a single glance at the wound, which
they saw was inflicted by a rifle bullet; then lifting
the inanimate form into the wood, they rifled it of
the large sum of money which Carrington had concealed
in his bosom, and taking it into a little crevice
in the hill-side which could not hide it, they threw
it down indifferently, trusting to the wolves, of
which that neighbourhood had numerous herds, to
remove it in due season. Poor youth! with such a
heart—so noble, so brave—with affections so warm,
and hopes so full of promise, to be shot down in the
sun-light—in the bloom of manhood—by an obscure
ruffian, and be denied a grave!

When they had possessed themselves of the money,
the amount of which gave them no small pleasure,
they put spurs to their horses and rode back
with as great speed as they had used in the pursuit.

It was necessary that they should do so, and
hasten their flight from the spot where their evil
doings had been begun. My horse had continued
on his course with a speed which had been increased
by his alarm and unrestraint after the fall of his
rider; and Webber saw with no small anxiety that
he was in the direct road to Colonel Grafton's, to
which place he did not doubt that he would return,
having been so lately lodged there. The scoundrels
who were guarding me had, in the mean time, become
greatly disquieted by their apprehensions at
the delay of the pursuers, and not small was their
relief when they saw them safe, and felt themselves
once more secure in their united strength. They
consulted together apart, and frequently pointed to
me where I lay, on my back, and bound rigidly to
an exposed joist of the floor. What had taken place
in the pursuit, they did not reveal in my hearing,
and bitter indeed were my feelings as I lay in this
doubly evil state of incapacity and suspense. The
doubtfulness of my own, was not less a subject of
concern in my mind than was his fate—for my
strongest impression with regard to Carrington was,
that he had escaped in safety to Grafton's. All
then that I had to fear might be the present rage of
my captors. They might sacrifice me before relief
could come. I strove not to think of this—still less
was I willing that the villains should see that I feared
them—yet, to confess a truth, it required no small
effort to conceal the apprehensions which I could
not subdue, and my success, with all my efforts, was
partial only. They must have beheld the struggle
of my bosom in my face. But of this they seemed
to take no heed. They were too much interested
in their own situation and apprehensions, to give
much regard to mine. They consulted together
earnestly with the air of men who had need of haste
in their resolutions. “We must be off at once,” I
heard Webber say at one time—“there will be no
help for us now if he gets to Grafton's.” This last
sentence brought warmth and assurance to my heart,
I did not now doubt of my friend's safety. “But
this lark?” said Geoffrey—and I saw from the quick
malignant glance which my gambler acquaintance
bestowed upon me when these words were uttered,
that it was of me they spoke. The latter bent forward
to hear the resolve of Webber—whose word
here seemed to be law—with an air of anxiety not
less great than that which I might have shown myself.
The answer of Webber did not seem to satisfy
him.

“What of him?” said the latter. “Shall we
stretch him?” was the farther inquiry of Geoffrey—
an equivocal phrase which I suppose coolly meant
“shall we cut his throat?”

“Pshaw—no!” replied the other. “What's the

good of it?—let the fellow lie where he is and cool
himself. By to-morrow, somebody will cut his
strings, and help him turn over. He will get hungry
in the mean time, for he didn't eat a hearty dinner—all
his own fault. Come—let us jog.”

Ten minutes had not elapsed when they were all
ready, and I saw them prepare to depart, leaving
me as I lay, bound to the floor by my body
and arms, and capable of moving my legs only.
Webber took leave of me with the composure of one
who has nothing with which to reproach himself.

“Grafton will be here after a while,” said he,
“and set you free. You may tell him I'm sorry,
but it don't suit me to wait for him now. He will
see me, however, at his daughter's marriage. Good
bye.”

The man called Geoffrey said something to me in
a similar spirit; the gambler grinned only upon me
as he passed, but with such an expression of malice
in his visage that, though I did not fear the reptile,
it yet made me shudder to behold him. In a few
moments more I was left alone to muse over my
disconsolate condition. I heard the trampling of
their horses die away in the distance, and such was
the cheerlessness of my situation that I positively
seemed to be chilled by their departure. This,
however, was but the feeling of the moment, and I
was allowed a brief time for its indulgence. To my

surprise the gambler reappeared when I had thought
him with the rest of his companions full a half
mile off, and the increased malignity embodied and
looking green in his visage, left me little doubts as
to the motive which had made him lag behind. If
I had doubts at the beginning, he did not suffer me
to entertain them long. His words removed them.

“And now,” he said, “my brave fellow, the time
is come for your quittance. You have had the word
of me long enough. You are in my power. What
have you to say for yourself?”

“What should I say?” was my ready and indignant
reply. Truly and miserably did I feel at the
conviction, that I was indeed in the power and
at the mercy of this vile wretch—but if worlds had
depended upon it, I could not have answered him
other than in language of the most unadulterated
scorn.

“Ha! do you not understand me?” he cried.
“Your life, I tell you, is in my power! The only
man in the world who could have kept me from
taking it, is Mat Webber, and he's out of reach and
hearing. It is but a blow, and with all your pride
and insolence I let your blood out upon this floor.
What do you say that I should not?—what prayer
will you make to me that I should spare your life?”

The fellow leaned upon the table which, occupying
the middle of the floor, stood between him and

the place where I lay. My feet were half under it.
He leaned over it, and shook at me a long knife—
bared, ready for the stroke—in sundry savage
movements. I gave him look for look, and a
full defiance for all his threatenings.

“Prayer to you!” I exclaimed—“that were putting
myself indeed within your power. You may
stab—I cannot help myself—but you shall only
murder, wretch—you shall have no triumph;” and,
grown utterly reckless as I believed there was no
hope of escape and that I must die, I lifted my feet,
and thrusting them with all my might against the
table, I sent it forward with such force as to
hurl it upon him, when both came to the floor together.
The fellow was not much hurt, and a few
moments sufficed for his extrication. With accumulated
fury, that foamed but did not speak, he was
about to rush upon me, when a sudden footstep behind
him drew all his attention to the new comer.
Never could I have believed, till then, that fear could
so suddenly succeed to rage in any bosom. The
villain grew white as a sheet the moment that he
heard the sound and saw the person. It was Webber
who looked upon him with the eye of a master.

“You're a pretty fellow! a'nt you? So you kept
behind for this? Geoffrey warned me to expect it,
as soon as I found you missing; and it's well I got
back in time. You are a fool, Bully boy, and you'll

be stretched for it. Mount before me, and if you're
wise, forget you've ever seen this chap. Come—
begone, I say—no word—not one—Grafton's under
way already.”

The assassin was actually incapable of answer.
Certainly he made none. The main villain of this
precious set must have seen a various life of service.
The whole train of proceedings which he had this
day witnessed—the first assault upon William and
myself—the pursuit of the former—his death—and
the subsequent attempt of my enemy upon my person,
all seemed to awaken in him but little emotion.
There was but one subject upon which he could not
preserve his temper, and that was his old employer,
Colonel Grafton—but with regard to all others, his
selfishness had schooled him successfully to suffer
no feeling or passion to interfere in the slightest degree
with what might be his prevailing policy.
With the inflexibility of a superior, suspicious of his
slave, he waited until he saw my enemy mount and
set forth, then nodding to me with the freedom of
an old friend, he left the entrance, and I was once
more left alone.