University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.

The course of our narrative now brings us back to
Jenkins' Station. William Colburn, the brave youth
who effected the escape of Mr. Lee, was the same hunter
to whom the reader was introduced at the carriers'
encampment, in the Allegheny mountains. He knew the
ruffians by whom he was surrounded, and having saved
a stranger from their clutches, retired silently to his
lodging, little apprehensive of any danger to himself.
But his situation was not without peril, which, however
he might be disposed to despise it, occupied his thoughts;
while the interest that he felt in the stranger, who

seemed to have been thrown upon him for protection,
concurred to drive sleep from his pillow. The apartment
which he occupied was a mere loft, the same which Mr.
Lee had just left, immediately above the room in which
the noisy ruffians were assembled. Their loud conversation
had now ceased, and they seemed to have thrown
themselves on the floor to slumber. After some time, he
heard a slight noise in the apartment below, succeeded
by a faint murmur of voices; then a step could be
distinguished, as of one slowly ascending to his chamber.
He snatched his hunting-knife from the chair beside his
bed, and concealing it under the bed-clothes, feigned
sleep. A person entered, and approached the bed which
had been occupied by Mr. Lee. A short silence ensued,
then a blasphemous expression of disappointment escaped
the intruder, who now partially threw aside a cloak
which had concealed a dark lantern, and a dim light
gleamed over the apartment. Having satisfied himself
that the bed before him was empty, the ruffian turned
hastily to that of Colburn, whose placid features indicated
the calmness of profound slumber. The ruffian laid his
hand upon his knife, gazed for an instant with resentful
malignity, and then hastily retired, but not until the
youth had recognized the savage countenance of Patterson.
Colburn heard him enter the room below, and
arising lightly from his bed, placed his ear to a crevice
in the floor, and heard one of the party exclaim,

“Gone!”

“Ay,” replied Patterson, “gone, hook and line.”

A confused whispering ensued, from which Colburn
could gather nothing; but directing his eye to the

crevice, he saw Patterson point his finger upwards, and
concluded that the conversation related to himself.

A moment afterwards, one of the party remarked, “He
knows something about it.”

Patterson, with a tremendous oath, replied, “He knows
more than he shall ever tell.”

A long consultation ensued, which ended with Patterson's
saying, “Not to-night—it will not do—but to-morrow
he must be taken care of.”

During this time, Patterson had applied himself several
times to the whiskey-bottle, and becoming much intoxicated,
began to curse his companions as villains and
cowards.

“It was you,” said he, “that put me on this—I never
attempted the like before—I have stood by you, and
protected you in all your villany—but you know I have
always said I would never be concerned in taking life—
I never have done it before—this is the first time—
and when the act come to be done, you all backed out,
and left me to do it—but this is the last time—I shall
never lift my hand against a man in the dark again—”

“Yes you will,” said a coarse voice; and the speaker,
followed by another person, entered the room.

“Harpe!” exclaimed several voices.

“Ay—that's my name; I am not ashamed to own it.”

“You ought to be,” rejoined Patterson, “for if ever
there was a bloody-minded villain—”

“That's enough,” said Harpe fiercely, “you and I
know each other, and the less we say of one another the
better.”

“I never killed a man,” said Patterson.

“Because you havn't the courage,” cried Harpe; “but
you pass counterfeit money, and steal horses—and besides
that, don't I know something about a man that's
just gone from here, and another that's asleep,” pointing
significantly upwards.

Patterson saw that Harpe had been eavesdropping,
and felt the necessity of compromising matters.

“I was only joking, Mr. Harpe,” said he: “what you
do is nothing to nobody but yourself—go your ways, and
I'll go mine.”

“I am willing to do you a good turn,” replied Harpe,
“and you must do me one; that lad up there, must be
—you understand—or else you must quit the country
—and there's another that I missed in the woods, that
must be hunted up in the morning—help me, and I'll
help you.”

Colburn had been satisfied, until now, that he was safe
for the night. Being the son of a respectable farmer in
a neighboring settlement, whose courage and enterprise
were well known, and being popular himself, he was
aware that Patterson and his gang would not dare to
molest him under the roof of Jenkins, where a deed of
violence could not be perpetrated without the risk of
discovery. Had he been a stranger, his situation would
have been hopeless; the chances of detection would, in
that case, have been few, and the danger of retribution
small, compared with the consequences that would result
from an injury to himself. That an attempt would be
made in the morning to waylay him in the woods,
where no witness would be present, he saw was probable,
and to escape that danger required all his ingenuity.

But the arrival of the Harpes, and the disclosures he had
heard, convinced him that he was placed in imminent
peril.

At the time of the escape of the Harpes from justice,
in the manner formerly related, their names were unknown
in Kentucky. They were strangers in the
country, and the aggression for which they were then in
custody, was the first that they were known to have
committed. Since then, a series of shocking massacres
had given them a dreadful notoriety. They had passed
through the whole length of the scattered settlements of
this wild region, leaving a bloody track to mark their
ruthless footsteps. They spared neither age nor sex, but
murdered every unprotected being who fell in their way.
What was most extraordinary, they appeared to destroy
without motive or temptation. Plunder was a secondary
object; the harmless negro, and the child, were their
victims as often as the traveller or the farmer. A native
thirst for blood, or a desire of vengeance for some real
or imaginary injury, seemed to urge them on in their
horrible warfare against their species. They had escaped
apprehension thus far, in consequence of the peculiar
circumstances of the country, and by a singular exertion
of boldness and cunning. Mounted on fleet and powerful
horses, they fled, after the perpetration of an cutrage,
and were heard of no more, until they appeared suddenly
at some distant and unexpected point to commit new
enormities. Their impunity thus far was the more
astonishing, as the people of the frontier have always
been remarkable for the public spirit, alertness, and

success, with which they pursue offenders, who seldom
escape these keen and indefatigable hunters.

Colburn was aware that from such enemies he had no
chance of escape but in immediate flight, and hastily
putting on his clothes, he had the good fortune to slip out
of the house unperceived. A few minutes afterwards, a
loud hallooing from beyond the stockade, announced the
arrival of other travellers; and Captain Jenkins soon
appeared, introducing a lady and gentleman into the
common room, which served as a receptacle for all the
guests, gentle, simple, or compound, whom chance or
inclination brought to this primitive hotel. The lady was
Miss Virginia Pendleton, and the gentleman Colonel
Hendrickson, her uncle—an elderly man, of plain,
but peculiarly imposing exterior. He was spare and
muscular, and, though past the age of fifty, seemed
to be in the vigor of strength and activity. His person
was erect, his step martial, and somewhat stately.
His features, sunburnt and nearly as dark as those of
the Indian, were austere, and announced uncompromising
firmness. There was in his deportment towards Miss
Pendleton, a mixture of parental kindness, with the
punctilious courtesy observed by the gentlemen of Kentucky
towards all females, as well those of their own
families as others. There was even a more than
ordinary degree of polite observance in his attentions,
which might have arisen, in part, from a spontaneous
admiration of the womanly graces of his lovely ward,
and have flowed in part from sympathy for her misfortunes.
These feelings produced a kind of fatherly
gallantry, a mixture of delicacy and respect, with fondness

and admiration, which blended harmoniously with
the plain but dignified and gentlemanly air of the veteran
pioneer. They were followed by two negroes, a man
and maid servant, who, having removed the outer garments
of their master and mistress, retired to the kitchen.

The arrival of Colonel Hendrickson, struck the ruffian
party who were assembled round the fire, with awe; for
he had long been a terror to evil-doers. They shrunk
back to make room for the travellers, while Micajah
Harpe drew Patterson out of the apartment, and disclosed
to him a tremendous scheme of diabolical revenge.
Representing the advantage which would accrue to
themselves by ridding the country of Colonel Hendrickson,
an active magistrate, and a man of military skill
and intrepidity, he proposed not only to murder him and
his fair ward, but to destroy all evidence of the foul act
by including Jenkins and all the inmates of the house.
Patterson started back in horror at this proposal. The
felons who sometimes infest our frontiers, have generally
an aversion against deeds of violence, and seldom practise
on the lives of those they plunder; Patterson, though
dissipated, unprincipled, and a hardened depredator, had
never dipped his hands in blood. But human nature is
always progressive in depravity or in virtue. The heart
of man is continually becoming strengthened in principle,
or callous to the dictates of conscience; and he who
embarks in criminal pursuits can affix no limits to his own
atrocity. Some recent occurrences had rendered Patterson
more than ordinarily reckless, and stirred up his
vindictive passions; he was disappointed, excited, and
intoxicated—and the foul compact was made.

Supper was prepared for the travellers and placed
upon the table. Colonel Hendrickson led his niece to
the ample board, and as soon as they were seated, bowed
his head, which was slightly silvered with age, and in a
manly, solemn voice, implored the blessing of Divine
Providence. At that moment, while the uncle and niece
sat with eyes bent downwards, the two Harpes appeared
in the door, and deliberately aimed their rifles at the
unconscious travellers. Their fingers were already on
the triggers—their eyes, gleaming hellish vengeance, were
directed along the deadly tubes with unerring skill, and
another second would have rendered all human aid unavailing,
when each of the ruffians was felled by a powerful
blow from behind. The rifles went off, sending the
bullets whistling over the heads of those who had been
doomed to death. Patterson and some of his gang
rushed to the rescue of their confederates, while the
assailants, snatching the guns from the grasp of the
prostrate ruffians, passed rapidly over their bodies, and
Fennimore and Colburn stood by the side of Colonel
Hendrickson, who in an instant comprehended the scene,
and acted warily on the defensive. They were all brave
and athletic, and although opposed to thrice their numbers,
the gentlemen thus accidentally thrown together,
stood erect, fearless, alert, and silent. There is a dignity
in courage which awes even opposing courage, and subdues
by a look the mere hardihood which is unsupported
by principle. The ruffians had crowded tumultuously
into the room; but when Colonel Hendrickson and his
two friends, who were all armed, advanced to meet
them, they faltered. Harpe, who was again on his feet,

with a voice of desperation, and the fury of a demon,
urged them to the attack; but they stood irresolute, each
unwilling to commit himself by striking the first blow,
and fearful of being the foremost in assailing men who
stood prepared to sell their lives at the dearest price; and
when Colonel Hendrickson, in a tone of the most perfect
composure, and in the most contemptuous language,
commanded them to retire, with bitter reproaches on their
baseness, they slunk away, one by one, until the two
Harpes, finding themselves deserted, retreated, muttering
horrible imprecations.

The doors were now secured, and the arrangement
being made that one of the party should act as a sentinel
while the others slept, alternately, the travellers separated,
but not until Colonel Hendrickson returned to
Colburn, who was his neighbor, and to Mr. Fennimore,
whom he now saw for the first time, his hearty thanks
and commendations for their gallant interference. Miss
Pendleton, in acknowledging her acquaintance with the
young officer, extended her hand with a cordiality which
evinced her gratitude, and having introduced him to her
uncle, retired.