University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

Thus left to himself, the good steed of our traveller
set off, without hesitation, and with a free
step, that promised, at least, to overcome space
hurriedly, if it attained not the desired destination.
The rider did not suffer any of his own doubts to
mar a progress so confidently begun, and a few
minutes carried the twain, horse and man, deeply,
as it were, into the very bowels of the forest. The
path taken by the steed grew every moment more
and more intricate and difficult of access, and, but
for the interruption already referred to, it is not
impossible that a continued course in the same direction
would, in a little time, have brought them
to a full stop, from the sheer impregnability of the
wood. The close overhanging branches called
for continual watchfulness on the part of the rider,
and the broken road, the fallen trees, and frequent
brush interposed so many impediments to the free
passage of the steed, that his course, at the outset,
rather more rapid than comported with the fatigue
of the long day's journey, now sank into a measured
walk, from which, on a sudden, and without
any cause apparent to his rider, he started with
evident alarm; his ears were quickened and erect,
his eye was fixed with almost human intelligence
upon the close copse that stretched itself in front,
and his pace grew more than ever staid and deliberate.

Our traveller was not unmindful of this
behaviour on the part of his good steed. He well
knew the capacity for observation, and the power
of scenting objects at a distance, possessed by the
brute creation over man, and his own senses were
accordingly and acutely enlisted in the scrutiny
thus begun. The section of the world in which
he journeyed was too sparingly supplied with good
citizens to render unquestionable all those who
might be met in the wild woods; and preparing
himself, as he well might, for any encounter and
every chance, the youth took the reins once more
in hand, and boldly, but slowly, spurred his steed
on the path. Still nothing was apparent—he heard
no stir in the brushwood, and had there been a
movement, the withered bush and broken branch
would have furnished some attestation. Half
doubting the correctness of his alarm, he spoke to
the animal—who still exhibited signs of uneasiness—while
patting his neck familiarly,

“Quietly, old Blucher, quietly.”

But Blucher, though with a tread of marked delay
and caution, exhibited no disposition to be quiet
in the genuine sense of the word. His manner
still showed alarm and restiveness; and just at the
moment when his rider began to feel some impatience
at the dogged watchfulness which he exhibtied,
a shrill whistle which rung through the
forest from the copse in front of him, attested
fully the correctness of that sense in the animal
which had so far outstripped and excelled
his own. He was not left much longer in doubt
as to the cause of the interruption. As the
horse in his advance went onward into the narrow
pathway, now more than ever girdled with
thicket, and having a broken ascent upon a hill, the
cone of which was of some considerable elevation,

he veered partly round, and, so abruptly, as for an
instant to discompose the seat of our traveller,
which in ordinary circumstances would scarcely
have been the case. The occasion for this alarm was
soon understood, as, suddenly emerging from the
wood, a man who seemed to have been in waiting
abruptly stood before him, and directly on the path
he was pursuing. Our traveller, as we have already
seen, was not altogether unprepared for hostility.
In addition to his pistols, which were well
charged and conveniently at hand, we may now
add that a weapon, in some cases far more certain,
lay concealed in his bosom. The appearance of
the stranger was not, however, so decided a manifestation
of hostility as to permit of his acting with
any haste by the premature use of his defences;
and with a degree of coolness somewhat singular
perhaps in one so young, he simply observed—

“You alarm my horse, my good sir. Please you
to stand from the way.”

“Would you pass free of toll, young stranger,
that you tell me stand from the way?” was the
reply, and with a manner of marked insolence,
which in a moment called the blood hurriedly into
the cheek of the youth, while his teeth were suddenly
clenched together, as he gazed sternly upon
the intruder who thus addressed him in a style so
unfamiliar to his ears. The man appeared nothing
daunted, however, and met the glance of the
traveller with a corresponding haughtiness. He
wore an air of the most composed indifference,
not to say contempt, and resolutely maintained the
position in which he had first placed himself. Still
it did not seem, from appearances, that his designs
were altogether hostile. He wore no arms—none
at least which met the sight. His person was
small, and his limbs slight, yet affording no promise

of much activity; his face was not ill-favoured,
though a quick, piercing black eye shot forth glances
of a malignant description, which spoke the spirit
within more distinctly than even his outward
manner. His nose was long but not sharp, and
totally fleshless; the skin being drawn with much
tenacity so closely to the bones of the member, as
to occasion some apprehension of their finding their
way at length through the much tried restraints
upon them; his beard had been untrimmed apparently
for many days, and a huge pair of whiskers,
that did not well accord with the diminutive
size of the cheeks on which they had taken up their
resting-place, completed an outline, not calculated
in anywise to inspire in the spectator any large
share of either good feeling or respect, and yet not
exactly provoking a very strong sensation of doubt
or dislike. Our traveller felt at once the difficulty
of deciding upon his pretensions. The untrimmed
beard and ill-adjusted whiskers were not so unfrequent
in the wild woods as to occasion much
suspicion of those who might so wear them; and
although the manners of the intruder were rude
enough, he was not assured that such manners
were not in numberless cases characteristic of persons
who evidently meant well. Thus doubting
and deliberating, the youth determined, while
maintaining a due degree of circumspection, to see
farther into the designs of his new acquaintance,
before taking any decisive step himself. He now
proceeded to reply to the speech, the manner
rather than the matter of which, had been so offensive
to him.

“You ask toll of me—may I know for what I
must pay this toll, and who are you that require
it?”

“I can better ask than answer questions, young

sir—my education, in the latter respect, having
been most wofully neglected in my boyhood.”

“Ay, and in some other respects not less important,”
retorted the youth, “if I am to judge from
certain points in your bearing. But you mistake
your man, my very good sir. You shall play no
pranks with me, and unless you speak respectfully,
our parley must have as short a life, as, I take
it, our acquaintance will have.”

“It would scarcely be polite to contradict so
promising a gentleman as yourself,” was the response;
“but I am disposed to believe our intimacy
likely to lengthen, rather than diminish. I hate
to part over-soon with company that talks so well,
particularly in these woods, where, unless such a
chance come about as the present, the lungs of the
heartiest youth in the land would not be often apt
to find the echo they seek, though they cried for it
at the uttermost pitch of the pipe.”

The look and the language of the speaker were
alike significant, and the sinister meaning of the
last sentence did not escape the notice of our hero.
His reply was calm, however, and his mind perfectly
at ease and collected.

“You are pleased to be eloquent, worthy sir—
and, on any other occasion, I might not be unwilling
to bestow my ear upon you; but as I have
yet to find my way out of this labyrinth, for the
use of which your facetiousness would have me pay
a tax, I must forego that satisfaction, and leave the
enjoyment for some better day.”

“You are well bred, I see, young sir,” was the
reply, “and this forms an additional reason why I
should not desire so soon to break our acquaintance.
If you have mistaken your road, what do you on
this—why are you in this part of the country,

which is many miles removed from any public
thoroughfare?”

“By what right do you ask this question?” was
the hurried and unhesitating response of the person
so addressed. “You are impertinent!”

“Softly, softly, young sir. Be not rash, and let
me recommend that you be more choice in the
adoption of your epithets. Impertinent is an ugly
word between gentlemen of our habit. Touching
my right to ask this or that question of young men
who lose the way, that's neither here nor there, and
is important in no way. But, I take it, I shall have
some right in this matter, seeing, young sir, that
you are upon the turnpike, and I am the gatekeeper
who must take the toll.”

A sarcastic smile passed over the lips of the man
as he uttered the sentence, which was as suddenly
succeeded, however, by an expression of gravity,
partaking of an air of the profoundest business.
The traveller surveyed him for a moment before
he replied, as if to ascertain in what point of view
properly to understand his conduct.

“Turnpike! this is something new. I never
heard of a turnpike road and a gate for toll, in a
part of the world in which men, or honest ones at
least, are not yet commonly to be found; and you
think rather too lightly, my good sir, of my claim
to that most vulgar commodity called common
sense, if you suppose me capable of swallowing
this silly story.”

“Oh, doubtless—you are a very sagacious young
man, I make no question,” said the other, with a
sneer—“but you will have to pay the turnpike for
all that.”

“You speak confidently on this point; but, if I
am to pay this turnpike, at least, I may be permitted
to know who is its proprietor.”

“To be sure you may. I am always well pleased
to satisfy the doubts and curiosity of young travellers
who go abroad for information. I take you
to be one of this class.”

“Confine yourself, if you please, to the matter
in hand, sir—I grow weary of this chat,” said the
youth, with a haughty inclination, that seemed to
have its effect even upon him with whom he
spoke.

“Your question is quickly answered. You
cannot but have heard of the Pony Club—have
you not?”

“I must confess my utter ignorance of such an
institution. I have never heard even the name
before.”

“You have not—then really it is high time to
begin the work of enlightenment. You must know,
then, that the Pony Club is the proprietor of every
thing and every body, throughout the nation, and in
and about this section. It is the king, without let or
limitation of powers, for sixty miles around. Scarce
a man in Georgia but pays in some sort to its support—and
judge and jury alike contribute to its
treasuries. Few dispute its authority, as you will
have reason to discover, without suffering condign
and certain punishment; and, unlike the tributaries
and agents of other powers, its servitors, like myself,
invested with jurisdiction over certain parts
and interests, sleep not in the performance of our
duties; but, day and night, obey its dictates, and
perform the various, always laborious, and sometimes
dangerous functions which it imposes upon
us. It finds us in men, in money, in horses. It
assesses the Cherokees, and they yield a tithe, and
sometimes a greater proportion, of their ponies in
obedience to its requisitions. Hence indeed the
name of the club. It relieves young travellers,

like yourself, of their small change—their sixpences;
and when they happen to have a good
patent lever, such an one as, it appears to me, a
smart young gentleman like yourself is very apt
to carry about with him, it is not scrupulous, but
helps them of that too, merely by way of pas-time.”
And the ruffian chuckled in a half-covert manner
at his own pun.

“Truly, a well-conceived sort of sovereignty,
and doubtless, sufficiently well served, if I may
infer from the representative before me. You
must do a large business in this way, most worthy
sir.”

“Why, that we do, and your remark reminds
me that I have quite as little time to lose as yourself.
You now understand, young sir, the toll you
have to pay, and the proprietor who claims it.”

“Perfectly—perfectly. You will not suppose
me dull again, most candid keeper of the Pony
Turnpike. But have you made up your mind, in
earnest, to relieve me of such trifling incumbrances
as those you have just mentioned.”

“I should be strangely neglectful of the duties
of my station, not to speak of the discourtesy of
such a neglect to yourself, were I to do otherwise;
always supposing that you were burdened with
such incumbrances. I put it to yourself, whether
such would not be the effect of my omission.”

“It most certainly would, thou most frank and
candid of all the outlaws. Your punctiliousness
on this point of honour entitles you, in my mind,
to an elevation above and beyond all others of your
profession. I admire the grace of your manner,
in the commission of acts which the more tame
and temperate of our kind are apt to look upon as
irregular and unlovely. You, I see, have the true
notion of the thing.”

The ruffian looked with some doubt upon the
youth—inquiringly, as if to account in some way
for the singular coolness, not to say sarcastic bitterness
of his replies and manner. There was something,
too, of a searching malignity in his glance,
that seemed to recognise in his survey, features
which brought into activity a personal emotion in
his own bosom, not at variance, indeed, with the
craft he was pursuing, but fully above and utterly
beyond it. Dismissing, however, the expression, he
continued in the manner and tone so tacitly
adopted between them,

“I am heartily glad, most travelled young gentleman,
that your opinion so completely coincides
with my own, since it assures me I shall not be
compelled, as is sometimes the case in the performance
of my duties, to offer any rudeness to one
seemingly so well taught as yourself. Knowing
the relationship between us so fully, you can have
no reasonable objection to conform quietly to all my
requisitions, and yield the toll-keeper his dues.”

Our traveller had been long aware of the kind of
relationship between himself and his companion;
but, relying on his defences, and perhaps, somewhat
too much on his own personal capacities of
defence; and, possibly, something curious to see
how far the love of speech in his assailant might
carry him in a dialogue of so artificial a character,
he forbore as yet a resort to violence. He found
it excessively difficult, however, to account for the
strange nature of the transaction so far as it had
gone; and the language of the knight of the road
seemed so inconsistent with his pursuit, that, at intervals,
he was almost led to doubt whether the
whole was not the clever jest of some country
sportsman, who, in the form of a levier of contributions
upon the traveller, would make an acquaintance,

such as are frequent in the south, and terminating
usually in a ride to a neighbouring plantation,
and pleasant accommodations as long as the stranger
might think proper to avail himself of them. If,
on the other hand, he was in reality the ruffian he
represented himself, he knew not how to account for
his delay in the assault—a delay, to the youth's mind,
without an object—unless attributable to a temper
of mind like Robin Hood, and coupled in the person
before him as in that of the renowned king of the
outlaws, with a peculiar freedom and generosity of
habit, and a gallantry and adroitness which, in a
different field, had made him a knight worthy to
follow and fight for Baldwin and the Holy Cross.
Our hero was a romanticist, and all of these notions
came severally into his thoughts. Whatever might
have been the motives of conduct in the robber who
thus audaciously announced himself the member of
a club notorious on the frontiers of Georgia and
among the Cherokees for its daring outlawries,
our hero determined to keep up the game so long
as it continued such. After a brief pause, he replied
to the above politely-expressed demand in
the following language:

“Your request, most unequivocal sir, would
seem but reasonable; and so considering it at the
outset, I bestowed due reflection upon it. Unhappily,
however, for the Pony Club and its worthy
representative, I am quite too poorly provided with
worldly wealth at this moment to part with much
of it. A few shillings to procure you a cravat—
such a one as you may get of Kentucky manufacture—I
should not object to. Beyond this, however
(and the difficulty grieves me sorely), I am
so perfectly incapacitated from doing any thing,
that I am almost persuaded, in order to the bettering
of my condition, to pay the customary fees, and

applying to your honourable body for the privilege
of membership, procure those resources of a lavish
generosity which my necessity, and not my will,
prevents me from bestowing upon you.”

“A very pretty idea, young master,” returned
he of the road; “and under such circumstances,
your jest about the cravat from Kentucky is by
no means wanting in proper application. But the
fact is, our numbers are just now complete—our
ranks are full—and the candidates for the honour
are so numerous as to leave little chance for an
applicant. You might be compelled to wait for a
long season, unless the Georgia Penitentiary
and Georgia Guard, which, by-the-way, are not
slow at such things, in order to the due promotion
of your wishes, shall create a vacancy in your
behalf.”

“Truly, the matter is of very serious regret,”
with an air of much solemnity, replied the youth,
who seemed admirably to have caught up the spirit
of the dialogue,—“and it grieves me the more to
know, that, under this view of the case, I can no
more satisfy you than I can serve myself. It is
quite unlucky that your influence is insufficient to
procure me admission into your fraternity; since
it is impossible that I should pay the turnpike, when
the club itself, by refusing me membership, will not
permit me to acquire the means of doing so. So,
most worthy sir, as the woods grow momently
more dull and dark, and as I may have to ride far
for a supper, I am constrained, however unwilling
to leave good company, to bid you a fair evening,
and a long swing of fortune, most worthy knight
of the highway, and trusty representative of the
Pony Club.”

With these words, the youth, gathering up the
bridle of the horse, and slightly touching him with

the rowel, would have proceeded on his course, but
the position of the outlaw underwent a corresponding
change, and, grasping the rein of the animal,
he arrested his farther progress.

“I am less willing to separate than yourself from
good company, gentle youth, as you may perceive;
since I so carefully restrain you from a ride over a
road so perilous as this. You have spoken like a
fair and able scholar this afternoon; and talents,
such as you possess, come too seldom into our
forests to suffer them, after so brief a sample, to
leave us so abruptly. You must come to terms
with the turnpike.”

“Take your hands from my horse, sirrah!” was
the only response made by the youth; his tone and
manner changing with the corresponding change
in the situation of the parties. “I would not do
you a harm willingly; for I want no man's blood
on my head, however well he may deserve his fate.
My pistols too, let me assure you, are much more
readily come at than my purse. Tempt me not to
the use of them; but stand from the way.”

“It may not be,” replied the robber, with a composure
and coolness that underwent no change;
“your threats affect me not. I have not taken my
place here without a perfect knowledge of all its
dangers and consequences. You had better come
peaceably to terms; for, were it even the case that
you could escape me, which is very unlikely, you
have only to cast your eye up the path before you,
to be assured of the utter impossibility of escaping
those who aid me. The same glance will also
show you the toll-gate, which you could not see
before. Look ahead, young sir, and be wise in
time; and let me perform my duties without
hinderance.”

Casting a furtive glance on the point indicated

by the ruffian, the youth saw, for the first time, a
succession of bars, in the form, and of the material,
usually employed among the farmers for fencing
purposes, completely crossing the narrow pathway
and precluding all passage. Approaching in the
direction of the place of strife, the same glance
assured him of the presence of two men, well
armed, and hurrying towards the scene with an air
of preparation that convinced him they were the
accomplices of the robber who had pointed to them
as such. The prospect grew more and more perilous,
and the youth, whose mind was one of that
make which avails itself of its energies seemingly
only in emergencies, with a moment's reflection,
beheld his true course, and hesitated not a single
moment in its adoption. He saw that something
more was necessary than to rid himself merely of
the ruffian immediately before him, and that an unsuccessful
blow or shot would leave him entirely
at the mercy of the gang. To escape, a free rein
must be given to the steed, on which he felt confident
he could rely; and, though prompted by the
most natural impulse to send a bullet through the
scull of his assailant, he wisely determined on a
course which, as it would be unlooked for, had
therefore a better prospect of success. Without
further pause, drawing suddenly from his bosom
the dirk-knife commonly worn in those regions,
and bending forward, he aimed a blow at the
ruffian, which, as he had anticipated, was expertly
eluded—the assailant, sinking under the
neck of the steed, and relying on the strength
of the rein he still continued to hold to keep
him from falling, while at the same time he
kept the check upon the horse. This movement
was that which the youth had looked for and desired.
The blow was but a feint, for suddenly
turning the direction of the knife when his enemy
was out of its reach, he cut the bridle upon which
he hung, and the head of the horse, freed from the
painful restraint, was at once elevated in the air,
the suddenness of his motion whirling the ruffian
to the ground; while the rider, wreathing his hands
in the mane of the noble animal, gave him a free
spur, and plunged at once over the struggling
wretch, in whose cheek a glance of his hoof
effected a deep gash. The steed bounded forward
a few paces, nor did his rider for a moment seek
to restrain him, though advancing full up the hill
and in the teeth of his new enemies. Satisfied
that he was approaching their station, the accomplices
of the foiled ruffian, who had seen the whole
affray, sunk into the covert; but what was their
mortification to perceive the traveller, though without
any true command over his steed, by an adroit
use of the broken bridle, so wheel him round as to
bring him, in a few leaps, over the very ground of
the strife, and before the staggering robber had yet
fully arisen from the path. By this manœ\uvre he
placed himself in advance of the now approaching
banditti. Driving his spurs resolutely and
unsparingly into the flanks of his horse, while encouraging
him with well known words of cheer,
he rushed over the scene of his late struggle with
a velocity that set all restraint at defiance—his
late opponent scarcely being able to put himself in
safety. A couple of shots, that whistled wide of the
mark, announced his extrication so far from his
difficulty—but, to his surprise, his enemies had been
at work behind him, and the edge of the copse
through which he was about to pass, was blockaded
with bars in like manner with the path
in front. He heard the shouts of the ruffians
in the rear—he felt the danger, if not impracticability
of his pausing for their removal; and,
in the spirit which had heretofore marked his conduct,
he determined upon the most daring endeavour.
Throwing off all restraint from his steed,
and fixing himself firmly in the stirrup and saddle,
he plunged onwards to the leap, and to the chagrin
of the pursuers, who had relied much upon
the obstruction, and who now appeared in sight,
the noble animal, without a moment's reluctance,
cleared it handsomely. Another volley of pistol
shot rung in the ears of the youth, as he passed
the impediment, and he felt himself wounded in the
side. The wound gave him little concern at the
moment, for under the excitement of the strife, he
felt not even its smart; and turning himself upon
the saddle, he drew one of his own trusty weapons
from its case, and discharging it, by way of taunt,
in the faces of the outlaws, laughed aloud with
the exulting spirit of youth at the successful result
of an adventure, due entirely to his own perfect
coolness, and the warm courage which had been his
predominating feature from childhood. The incident
just narrated had dispersed a crowd of gloomy
reflections, so that the darkness which now overspread
the scene, coupled as it was with the cheerlessness
of prospect before him, had but little influence
upon his spirits. Still, ignorant of his course,
and beginning to be enfeebled by the loss of blood,
he moderated the speed of the noble animal whose
sagacity, not less than prowess, had done so much
towards his master's extrication, and gave up to
him the choice of direction. He did not, however,
relax so greatly in his progress as to permit of
his being overtaken by the desperates whom
he had foiled. He knew the danger and hopelessness
of a second encounter with men sufficiently
odious, in common report, to make him
doubly cautious, after the adventure so nearly
fatal. Exiled from society, after having acquired
a large taste for many of its enjoyments, they
found in the frontier impunity for those crimes
and offences, for the punishment of which it had
imposed ineffectual and defrauded penalties; and
conscious of no responsibility to divine or human
laws, a vindictive exacerbation of spirit, the result
of their tacit outlawry, had prompted them to retort
upon men the stern severities of justice.
Without restraining his good steed, therefore, our
young traveller simply gauged his speed to his capacities,
as he entered upon a road which, in the dim
twilight, had something of the appearance of that
from which he had in the first instance so erringly
departed. He had not much time, however, for
observation, when a numbness seized upon his
frame, a strange sickness came over his heart, and
his grasp losing all further tenacity, he fell from his
horse without an effort upon the long grass, in
utter unconsciousness.