University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.

Contrary to all the conjectures which had been
formed respecting him, Hark Short, the snake-killer,
was still in the land of the living. Some months after
his disappearance from the place of his nativity, he presented
himself, nearly naked, and almost starved, at the
house of a farmer in Kentucky, where he was received,
in conformity with the hospitable usages of that country,
without suspicion or question. It was enough that he
was destitute and a stranger. He was fed and clothed,
and continued to linger about the house, wandering off in
the day-time to the woods to hunt or kill snakes, and
creeping quietly into the cabin at night, where he nestled
in a blanket upon the hearth, with his feet to the fire.
When called upon to assist in any of the labors of the
farm, he complied with the most evident distaste. He
could not handle any farming implements but the hoe and
axe, and these but awkwardly; and evinced a thorough
dislike against all domestic animals. If sent to ride a
horse to water, or lead him to the stable, he was sure to
pinch or prick the creature with a thorn, until those
which were most sagacious and spirited, learned to show
their antipathy for the unlucky boy, by laying back
their ears whenever he approached. In short, he could
do nothing useful, except to hunt raccoons and opossums,
or to assist the farmer in catching his half-wild hogs,
which, as in all new countries, ran at large in the woods.
On occasions like the latter, his exploits were the subjects

of wonder and merriment. It seemed to afford
him an honest pride to exhibit a genius superior to that
of the swinish multitude. He was an overmatch for the
fiercest and most bulky of these animals; evincing
clearly, in his triumphs, the vast disparity between
intellect and instinct. Having selected the object on
which to exercise his dexterity, he would lie for hours
coiled upon a log, until his victim approached, or would
drag his body along the ground towards it, so slowly
that the motion was imperceptible, and at last springing
upon its back, seize the bristles with his left hand, and
press his heels into its flanks, clinging with so firm a
grasp, that the enraged animal could neither assail nor
dislodge him, until he brought his prey to the ground by
passing his knife into its throat. If he failed to alight
on its back, or if his position was unfavorable for this
exploit, he seized one of the hinder limbs, and when the
animal happened to be large and strong, it would dart
away on three legs, dragging the light form of Hark
rapidly over the dried leaves and fallen timber. But it
was impossible to shake him off; in vain did the enraged
swine dash through the closest thickets, or plunge into
the miry swamps; Hark retained his hold until the dogs
and men came to his relief. These feats gained him
applause, and rendered his society tolerable to those who
would otherwise have been disgusted with his unsocial
temper and unamiable habits. The only brute that he
could endure was the dog; even these he at first viewed
with manifest symptoms of repugnance; but after witnessing
their good qualities in catching hogs, and
hunting, he admitted that if dogs would not bark, they
might be made very useful. There was one redeeming
quality in the conduct of this singular being, which was,
fondness for children. He had never until now associated
with any of the human race but his mother; of men
he had an instinctive dread, and seemed to hate the
whole brute creation; towards children alone did he
evince a show of kindness. It was a kindness which
displayed itself in mute and almost negative actions, like
that of the faithful dog, who watches the playing infant
with a complacent eye, and suffers it to sport with his
paws and teeth, to pull his ears, and even to torment
him, without the least show of resentment.

It was to the house of the farmer with whom Hark
had found a temporary home, that the prisoners taken
at Stanford were brought, on the evening succeeding
their arrest. On their approach, the boy, who sat in
a corner, in his accustomed moody silence, was the first
to hear the tramp of horses. Without speaking to anybody,
he rose, stole cautiously out, and under the shade
of an out-house, watched the dismounting horsemen.
With his usual stealthy habits, he continued to linger
about, listening to all the conversation he could catch,
without making his appearance. At last, as if satisfied
that no immediate danger threatened his own safety, he
entered the room in which the prisoners had been lodged,
veiling his constitutional fear of strangers under an assumed
apathy of countenance, or only betraying it by
an occasional wild and timid glance, like that of the
wolf, who, crouching in his den, listens to the distant
bayings of the hunters' dogs.

After a little while, the men who guarded the prisoners

left the apartment, some to take care of their horses
and others sauntering around the house, so as still to be
near enough to prevent the possibility of their prisoners'
escape. The latter sat upon a bench, with their feet
bound together, and their arms strongly pinioned behind
them, while Hark continued immovable in his corner,
until one of the men, in a coarse tone, asked him for a
drink of water. The boy arose, and, as if determined
to profit by the opportunity which thus presented itself
of indulging his curiosity without hazard, presented a
gourd of water with one hand, while he held a candle
with the other. The person to whose lips he held the
cooling draught, who was the larger of the two felons,
looked sternly at him; their eyes met, the boy seemed
to recoil, but the features of both their countenances
retained their imperturbable apathy.

“Hark,” said the man, in a low harsh voice, “do
you know me?”

The boy hesitated, as if afraid to reply.

“Put down the light,” continued the man, “and sit
near me.”

Hark obeyed; replaced the candle on a table, and
threw himself on the floor as if disposed to sleep, yet so
near the man as to hear him speak in a low tone.

“Do you know me?” was again repeated.

“Nobody ever saw Big Harpe, and not know him
again,” replied the killer of snakes.

“Is that all you know of me?”

“Well—I can't say—in peticklar,”—replied the boy
in evident embarrassment; “I have heern tell that your
given name was Micajah.”

“Did you never hear your mother speak of me?”

“Not—in peticklar—as I know of.”

“Where is she?”

“Mammy's dead.”

Here a pause ensued.

“Will you do me a service?” resumed Micajah.

“Did you ever do any good to anybody?” asked
Hark.

“None of your business!” replied the man, fiercely,
but still in the same under-tone; “how dare you speak
to me that way, you stupid wretch?”

Hark edged a little further off, and gazed at the man
with intense curiosity and fear, while his limbs shook
with trepidation.

The felon seemed to think it necessary to change his
ground, and try the effect of conciliation.

“And so your mother's dead—I'm sorry—you say
she never spoke about me?”

“Not, in peticklar—”

“But she said something; I'd like to know what it
was.”

“Mammy didn't know as you'd ever hear it.”

“Then it was something bad?”

“Not in peticklar.”

“Then you might as well tell me what it was.”

“It would make you mad.”

“No it wouldn't—I don't mind what women say, no
how.”

“Well, she said, if any body was to rake hell with a
fine-comb, they could not find sich a—”

Here he hesitated.

“Out with it, boy.”

“Sich a tarnal villain.”

“Was that all?” inquired the man coolly, and as if
disappointed in not getting out some fact, which he was
endeavoring to draw from his stupid companion—“Did
she say nothing more?”

“Well—I don't know as she ever said anything else,
in peticklar.”

“Give me some more water,” said Harpe; and as the
boy held the gourd to his lips, instead of drinking, he
whispered something, in a hurried authoritative tone.
Hark stepped back in surprise, and retreated across the
room, much agitated. He then resumed his former position
in the corner most distant from the prisoners,
coiled himself up upon the floor, and appeared to sleep;
and when the men composing the guard returned, every
thing seemed quiet.

As the night wore away, these hardy backwoodsmen
continued to sit to a late hour around the fire; for
although it was early in the autumn, the night was cool,
and a cheerful blaze glowed on the hearth. They amused
themselves in conversing of their early homes from
which they had emigrated, of the incidents connected
with their journeys, and of their adventures in hunting
and war. These subjects are so interesting as always
to awaken attention, and they become particularly so,
when discussed by a race of men who are eloquent by
nature, and speak with a freedom of sentiment, and
fluency of language, which are not found in any other
people who use our dialect.

At last one of the hunters, wrapping a blanket about

his brawny frame, threw himself on the floor, and soon
slumbered with a soundness which the bed of down
does not always afford; another, and another, followed his
example, until two only, who were appointed for the purpose,
were left to keep watch over the prisoners, for whom
a pallet had been made upon the floor. In the meanwhile
Hark had been lying in the corner unnoticed, and
apparently fast asleep; his eyes were closed, and those
who might have looked towards him, would not have
been able to discover, by the uncertain light, that one
eye-lid was partially raised, and that, while seemingly
asleep, he was attentively watching all that passed. He
had changed his position too, unobserved, and the prisoners
having been placed near the middle of the small
apartment, he was now lying near them. At length
one of the guards left the room, and the other was sitting
with his back towards the prisoners, intently
engaged in cleaning the lock of his rifle. Hark now
drew himself silently along the floor, until he placed himself
in contact with the pallet of the captives, then passing
his hand rapidly under the blanket which covered
them both, cut the thongs which bound their arms,
placed the knife in the hand of the one nearest to him,
and hastily resumed his former place in the corner. All
this was the work of one minute; and in another, the
Harpes were on their feet rushing towards the door, and
the sentinels started up only in time to witness their
escape. The whole company was instantly alarmed;
men and dogs dashed into the surrounding thickets in
eager pursuit, but the murderers eluded their skilful
search, and the party returned dispirited and angry with
each other. An animated debate occurred as to the
cause of the disaster, but its real author was not suspected
until it was found that Hark was missing. In
the confusion of the first alarm he had slipped away,
and was seen no more in that neighborhood.