University of Virginia Library

25. CHAPTER XXV.

The Harpes had heretofore escaped punishment, in
consequence of a variety of peculiar circumstances.
The scene of their barbarities was still almost a wilderness,
and a variety of cares pressed on the people. The
spoils of their dreadful warfare furnished them with the
means of violence and of escape. Mounted on fine horses,
they plunged into the forest, eluded pursuit by frequently
changing their course, and appeared unexpectedly, to
perpetrate new enormities, at places far distant from
those where they were supposed to lurk. More than
once were the people lulled into security, and the pursuit
of the ruffians abandoned, by the supposition that they
had entirely disappeared from the country—when the
conflagration of a solitary cabin, and the murder of all
its inmates, awakened the whole community to lively
sensations of fear, horror, and indignation.

Miss Pendleton heard of these atrocities with shuddering.
Thrice had she seen one of these assassins, under
circumstances calculated to excite the most dreadful apprehensions.
On each occasion his hand was raised
against her life, and his malignant scowl seemed to announce
the existence of some deadly feud against her.
But why she should be thus an object of vengeance and
pursuit, she was totally unable to discover, or even conjecture.

In the meanwhile, the outrages of these murderers
had not escaped public notice, nor were they tamely submitted

to. The governor of Kentucky had offered a reward
for their heads, and parties of volunteers had pursued
them; they had been so fortunate as to escape punishment
by their cunning, but had not the prudence to
fly the country, or to desist from their crimes.

On the morning after these wretches had been seen
by Mr. George Lee, the intelligence arrived of their
having murdered a woman and all her children. The
vengeance of the whole community was now roused to
the highest pitch, and it was determined to raise parties,
and hunt down the murderers. Horsemen were seen
traversing the woods in every direction, eagerly beating
up all the coverts, and examining every suspicious place
where it was supposed the outlaws might lurk.

A man named Leiper, who had some renown as an
active and successful hunter, and who was both muscular
and brave, headed a small party. The ruffians were
encamped in the woods, at an obscure wild spot, distant
from any habitation; and were seated on the ground,
surrounded by their women and children, when the
hunters came so suddenly upon them, that they had
only time to fly in different directions. Micajah Harpe,
the larger of the two brothers, sprung upon a fine
blooded horse, that he had taken from a traveller but a
day or two before, and dashed off, pursued by the whole
party; while his brother, not having time to mount, stole
silently away among the brushwood, and escaped notice.

Micajah, who was kept in view by the pursuers, spurred
forward the noble animal on which he was mounted,
and which, already jaded, began to fail at the end of five
or six miles. The chase was long and hot, and the

miscreant continued to press forward; for although his
pursuers had one by one dropped in the rear, until none
of them were in sight but Leiper, he was not willing to
risk a combat with a man as strong, and bolder than
himself, who was animated by a noble spirit of indignation,
against a shocking and unmanly outrage. Leiper
was mounted upon a horse of celebrated powers, which
had been borrowed from the owner for this occasion. At
the beginning of the chase he had pressed his charger
to the height of his speed, carefully keeping on the track
of Harpe, of whom he sometimes caught a glimpse as
he ascended the hills, and again lost sight of in the
valleys and the brush. But as he gained on the foe, and
became sure of his victim, he slackened his pace, cocked
his rifle, and deliberately pursued, sometimes calling
upon the outlaw to surrender.

It was an animating, but fearful sight, to behold two
powerful and desperately bold men, armed, and mounted
on gallant steeds, pursuing each other so closely as to
render it almost certain that a mortal struggle must soon
ensue. At length Harpe's horse, having strained all his
powers in leaping a ravine, received an injury which
obliged him to slacken his pace, and Leiper overtook
him. Both were armed with rifles. When near enough
to fire with certainty, Leiper stopped, took a deliberate
aim, and shot the retreating ruffian through the body;
the latter, turning in his saddle, levelled his piece, which
missed fire, and he dashed it to the ground, swearing
that it was the first time it had ever deceived him. He
then drew a tomahawk, and waited the approach of
Leiper, who, nothing daunted, drew his long hunting-knife,

and rushed upon his desperate foe, grappled with
him, hurled him to the ground, and wrested the weapon
from his grasp. The prostrate wretch, exhausted with
the loss of blood, conquered, but unsubdued in spirit, now
lay passive at the feet of his adversary.

Leiper was a humane man, easy, slow-spoken, and
not quickly excited, but a thorough soldier when his energies
were aroused into action. Without insulting the
expiring criminal, he questioned him as to the motives
of his late atrocities. The murderer attempted not to
palliate or deny them, and confessed that he had been
actuated by no other inducement than a settled hatred
of his species, whom he had sworn to destroy without
distinction, in revenge for some fancied injury. He expressed
no regret for his bloody deeds. He acknowledged
that he had amassed large sums of money, and described
some of the places of concealment; but as none
was ever discovered, it is presumed he did not declare
the truth. Leiper had fired at Harpe several times
during the chase, and wounded him; and when Harpe
was asked why, when he found Leiper pursuing him
alone, he did not dismount and take a tree, from behind
which he could have inevitably shot him as he approached,
he replied that he had supposed there was not
a horse in the country equal to the one he rode, and that
he was confident of making his escape. He thought
also that the pursuit would be less eager, so long as he
abstained from shedding the blood of his pursuers. On
the arrival of the rest of the party, the wretch was dispatched,
and his head severed from his body. This
bloody trophy was then carried to the nearest magistrate,

before whom it was proved to be the head of Micajah
Harpe; after which it was placed in the fork of a tree,
where it long remained, a revolting object of horror.
The spot is still called Harpe's Head, and the public
road which passes near it is called the Harpe's Head
Road.

Colonel Hendrickson and his friends had ridden out
to join in the pursuit, and had been scouring the forest
some hours, when they met a party who informed them
of the death of Harpe, and they turned their horses'
heads homewards. They were passing over a high but
level tract of country, whose surface was undulated by
gradual swells, and covered with a thick growth of timber;
to their right was a hilly, broken tract, called “the
Knobs,” in which these villains had often harbored. In
front of them was a region of open brushy land, destitute
of trees, and which seemed to have been lately a
wide prairie, with no other covering but grass. Mr. Lee,
whose feelings seemed to be less social than usual, was
riding by himself in advance of the party; when at a
spot where two roads crossed, he was surprised to see
Hark Short, leaning against a tree, in an attitude of
fixed attention. He was so completely absorbed as not
to be at all conscious of the approach of Mr. Lee, until
the latter spoke to him.

“What's the matter, Hark?” said he: “have you
found a big rattle-snake?”

Hark started as he heard the voice, and looked timidly
round. His features, usually melancholy, now wore
an expression of fear and horror. Without answering
the questions of Mr. Lee, he raised his eyes wildly; and

George looking upward in the direction indicated by the
glance of the boy, beheld the bleeding head of Harpe!
For a moment he felt his own faculties bewildered, and
a shuddering sensation crept over him, as he gazed at
this shocking spectacle; but a recollection of the crimes
of the delinquent, who had been punished in this summary
manner, changed the current of his feelings, and
he exclaimed sharply,

“Is the boy mad?—is it so strange a thing that a
murderer should be put to death?”

Hark only groaned, and looked perplexed.

“This wretch was an acquaintance of yours, it seems
—you appear so much concerned about him, that I am
inclined to have you taken up as an accomplice.”

“No, don't—don't, if you please, stranger,” exclaimed
Hark.

“Then tell me why you seem so much interested in
the death of that murderer.”

“Who—that gentleman?” inquired Hark stupidly,
pointing to the mangled relic.

“Yes, that miscreant, who has been put to death for
his crimes,—what do you know about him?”

“Well, I don't know nothen, in peticklar.”

The other gentlemen now rode up, and on learning
the subject of conversation, insisted that the boy should
disclose all the particulars that he knew respecting the
ruffians, of whose history little was known.

“I never saw that gentleman,” said Hark, “till since
I came out here to Kentuck.”

“But I understand,” replied Colonel Hendrickson,
“that a lad who I have reason to believe was yourself

assisted these ruffians in escaping, when arrested some
weeks ago, and went off with them.”

“Anan!” exclaimed the lad.

Colonel Hendrickson repeated, and explained what he
had said.

“'Spose I did cut the strings—was there any harm in
that?”

“Certainly—aiding in the escape of a prisoner, is a
criminal offence; and it is my duty, as a magistrate, to
bring you to punishment for it.”

“Would you punish me for cutting the strings, when
the Indians had you tied to the pole, to be roasted?”

This was an appeal which was not easily parried. The
Colonel acknowledged his obligations to Hark, and at
once disclaimed any intention of arresting him, but on
the contrary offered him his protection.

“And now,” said he, “I want you to tell me all that
you know about Harpe.”

“Will you let me go, arter that?”

“Yes.”

“Won't you beat me, afore you turn me loose?”

“No, my lad, nobody shall touch you. You did me
a good turn, at the risk of your life, and I will repay it,
at the risk of mine, if necessary.”

“Well—I never seed Harpe, as I know on, in peticklar,
till that night.”

“Had you never heard of him?”

“Well—not in peticklar—only what mammy said.”

“What did she say?”

“She told me that 'Kage Harpe was a powerful bad
man. She used to get mad, and curse him a hour.”

“Did she ever tell you anything that he did?”

“Not in peticklar—only that he killed every body that
he got mad at—and that he would kill her and me, if he
got a chance.”

“Why should he wish to kill your mother?”

“I axed her that myself, but she wouldn't tell me.”

“Why then did you release Harpe, when you saw
him for the first time, in custody?”

“I couldn't help it.”

“Why not? Come, tell us all about it—nobody shall
hurt you.”

“Well—Harpe told me that he was my father!”

“And then you cut him loose?”

“Yes—wouldn't you cut your daddy loose, if anybody
had him tied?”

“Hark,” said George Lee, “you must go with me to
Virginia, and live with me—I will take care of you.”

“I reckon, I can't go.”

“Why not?”

“'Cause I don't want to.”

“Would you not like to live in a fine house, and have
plenty to eat, and nothing to do?”

“I don't like to live in houses.”

“You don't! what is your objection?”

“Well—I can't say, in peticklar—only I'd rather live
in the woods. I can do just as I please in the woods, and
be as happy as a tree-frog.”

So saying, Hark began to move off. He cast a look
of terror towards the remains of his inhuman parent, as
he retired. It was not affection, nor regret, which
chained his glance to this revolting object; but a kind of

instinct—a superstitious reverence for the only remaining
being whose blood was kindred to his own, mingled with
a dread of human punishments, that seemed to have been
instilled into him in infancy, and which was the masterspring
of all his actions. He quickened his pace on
finding himself at liberty, walked rapidly away, and
never was seen again in that region; nor is it known,
with any certainty, what ever became of Hark Short,
the snake-killer. It is most probable that he perished in
the wilderness; although it is altogether possible, that he
may still be killing reptiles, on some distant frontier of
our vast country.

A company of people now arrived, who had in their
possession a number of articles which had been found
in the camp of the Harpes. Among the rest, was a
small tin case, which was filled with papers. Mr. Fennimore
having hastily looked over this, expressed a wish
to examine it more at his leisure; and it was, accordingly,
placed in his charge. The fatigued woodsmen
separated, and Colonel Hendrickson conducted his friends
once more to his hospitable mansion.

Their arrival was joyfully welcomed by the family,
who had been under great apprehensions during their
absence. Miss Pendleton, though much shocked at some
of the particulars which they related, could not but feel
relieved, when she heard that the enemy of her peace
was no more. Fennimore, who had concealed from his
friends, as they rode home, an interesting discovery
which he had made, advanced to her, with a face beaming
with joy, and, presenting to her a parchment, remarked,

“I am happy, Miss Pendleton, to have it in my power
to restore to you this document. It is the will of my
uncle Heyward, and places you in full possession of all
his estate. Allow me to congratulate you on your good
fortune.”

“I do not know, Mr. Fennimore, whether I ought to
accept the bounty of my uncle, which, by making me
rich, deprives you of your natural inheritance.”

“Happily for us both,” replied the officer, “that is a
question which need not now be argued; Major Heyward,
who had the undoubted right to dispose of his own
property, has made the decision, and we have only to
acquiesce.”

Mrs. Hendrickson, who seldom spoke, except when
spoken to, but who, with the sagacity peculiar to her
sex, in matters relating to the heart, had made some
shrewd observations on the deportment of these young
people towards each other, now remarked, in her quiet
way,

“If there is any difficulty about the property, perhaps
you had as well let me keep that instrument, until
you can devise some plan for holding the estate jointly.”

Virginia blushed deeply; and Fennimore, very gaily,
handed the parchment to Mrs. Hendrickson.

“On those terms, madam,” said he, “I most cheerfully
deposit this document in your keeping, and shall, on my
part, submit the controversy to your decision.”

George Lee, when he heard that the will was found,
danced and capered about the room, like a boy, wished
his cousin Virginia joy a hundred times, and shook Fennimore
cordially by the hand, swearing that he was the

cleverest fellow in all Kentucky; but when he saw what
he considered proof positive, that Fennimore was a successful
candidate for the hand of her who had so long
been the object of his affections, he left the room, and
began to make immediate preparations for his return to
his native state.