University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

The high-sheriff made his appearance before
his early and well-known visiters with a desperate
air of composure and unconcern, the effort to attain
which was readily perceptible to his companions.
He could not, in the first place, well get rid
of those terrors of the domestic world from which
their interruption had timely shielded him; nor, on
the other hand, could he feel altogether assured that
the visit now paid him would not result in the exaction
of some usurious interest. He had recently,
as much through motives of worldly as spiritual
policy, become an active religionist, in a small way,
in and about the section of country in which he
resided; and knowing that his professions were
in some sort regarded with no small degree of
doubt and suspicion by some of his brethren holding
the same faith, he felt the necessity of playing
a close and cautious game in all his practices. He
might well be apprehensive, therefore, of the visits
of those who never came but as so many omens
of evil, and whose claims upon, and perfect knowledge
of, his true character, were such, that he felt
himself, in many respects, most completely at their
mercy.

Rivers did not give much time to preliminaries,
but, after a few phrases of commonplace, coming

directly to the point, he stated the business in hand,
and demanded the assistance of the officer of justice
for the arrest of one of its fugitives. There
were some difficulties of form in the matter, which
saved the sheriff in part, and which the outlaw had
in great part overlooked. A warrant of arrest
was necessary from some officer properly empowered
to issue one, and a new difficulty was thus
presented in the way of Colleton's pursuit. The
sheriff had not the slightest objections to making
deputies of the persons recommended by the outlaw,
provided they were fully empowered to execute
the commands of some judicial officer; beyond
this, the scrupulous executioner of justice was unwilling
to go; and having stood out so long in the
previous controversy with his spouse, it was wonderful
what a vast stock of audacious courage he
now felt himself entitled, and ventured, to manifest.

“I cannot do it, Master Guy—it's impossible—
seeing, in the first place, that I han't any right by
the laws to issue any warrant, though it's true, I
has to serve them. Then, agin, in the next place,
'twont do for another reason that's jist as good,
you see. It's only the other day, Master Guy, that
the fear of the Lord come upon me, and I got religion;
and now I've set myself up as a worker
in other courts, you see, than those of man; and
there be eyes around me that would see, and hearts
to rejoice at the backslidings of the poor labourer.
Howbeit, Master Guy, I am not the man to forget
old sarvice; and if it be true that this man has
been put to death in this manner, though I myself
can do nothing at this time, I may put you in the
way—for the sake of old time, and for the sake of
justice, which requires that the slayer of his brother
should also be slain—of having your wish.”

Though something irritated still at the reluctance

of his former creature to lend himself without scruple
to his purposes, the outlaw did not hesitate to
accept the overture, and to press for its immediate
accomplishment. He had expostulated with the
sheriff for some time on the point, and baffled and
denied, he was very glad, at the conclusion of the
dialogue with that worthy, to find that there was
even so much of a prospect of concert, though
falling far short of his original anticipations, from
that quarter. He was too well aware, also, of
the difficulty in the way of any proceeding without
something savouring of authority in the matter;
for, from a previous and rather correct estimate
of Colleton's character, he well foresaw
that, knowing his enemy, he would fight to the last
against an arrest, which, under the forms of law
and with the sanction of a known officer, he would
otherwise readily recognise and submit to. Seizing,
therefore, upon the speech of the sheriff, he
eagerly availed himself of its opening to obtain
those advantages in the affair, of which, from the
canting spirit and newly-awakened morality of his
late coadjutor, he had utterly begun to despair.
He proceeded to reply to the suggestion as follows:—

“I suppose I must content myself, Maxson, with
doing in this thing as you say, though really I see
not why you should now be so particular, for there
are not ten men in the county who are able to determine
upon any of your powers, or who would
venture to measure their extent. Let us hear your
plan, and I suppose it will be effectual in our object,
and this is all I want. All I desire is, that our
people, you know, should not be murdered by strangers
without rhyme or reason.”

The sheriff knew well the hypocrisy of the sentiment
with which Rivers concluded, but made

no remark. A single smile testified his knowledge
of the nature of his colleague, and indicated
his suspicion of a deeper and different motive for
this new activity. Approaching the outlaw closely,
he asked, in a half whisper:—

“Who was the witness of the murder—who
could swear for the magistrate? You must get
somebody to do that.”

This was another point which Rivers, in his impatience,
had not thought to consider. But fruitful
in expedient, his fertile mind suggested that
ground of suspicion was all that the law required
for apprehension at least, and having already arranged
that the body of the murdered man should
be found under certain circumstances, he contented
himself with procuring commissions, as deputies,
for his two officers, and posted away to the village.
Here, as he anticipated, the intelligence had already
been received—the body of Forrester had been
found, and sufficient ground for suspicion to authorize
a warrant was recognised in the dirk of
the youth which, smeared with blood as it had been
left by Rivers, had been found upon the body.
Rivers had but little to do. He contrived, however,
to do nothing himself. The warrant of Pippin,
as magistrate, was procured, and the two officers,
commissioned by the sheriff, went off in pursuit
of the supposed murderer, against whom the indignation
of all the village was sufficiently heightened
by the recollection of the close intimacy existing between
Ralph and Forrester, and the nobly characteristic
manner in which the latter had volunteered to
do his fighting with Rivers. The murdered man had,
independent of this, no small popularity of his own,
which brought out for him a warm and active
sympathy highly creditable to his memory. Old
Walton, too, suffered deeply, not less on his own,

than his daughter's account. She, poor girl, had
few words, and her sorrow, silent, if not tearless,
was confined to the solitude of her own chamber.

In the prosecution of the affair against Ralph,
there was but one person whose testimony could
have availed him, and that person was Lucy
Munro. As the chief particular in evidence, and
that which established the strong leading presumption
against him, consisted in the discovery of his
dagger alongside the body of the murdered man,
and covered with his blood; it was evident that
she who could prove the loss of the dagger by the
youth, and its finding by Munro, prior to the event,
and unaccompanied by any tokens of crime, would
not only be able to free the person suspected, at least
from this point of suspicion, but would be enabled to
place its burden elsewhere, and with the most conclusive
distinctness. This was a dilemma which
Rivers and Munro did not fail to consider. The
private deliberation, for an hour, of the two conspirators,
determined upon the course which for
mutual safety they were required to pursue; and
Munro gave his niece due notice to prepare for an
immediate departure with her aunt and himself, on
some plausible pretence, to another portion of the
country. To such a suggestion, as Lucy knew
not the object, she offered no objection; and a secret
departure was effected of the three, who, after a
lonely ride of several hours through a route circuitously
chosen to mislead, were safely brought
to the sheltered and rocky abiding-place of the
robbers, as we have already described it. Marks
of its offensive features, however, had been so modified
as not to occasion much alarm. The weapons
of war had been studiously put out of sight,
and apartments, distinct from those we have
seen, partly the creation of nature, and partly of

man, were assigned to the accommodation of the
new comers. The outlaws had their instructions,
and did not appear, though lurking and watching
for ever around in close and immediate neighbourhood.

Nor, in this particular alone, had the guilty parties
made due provision for their future safety.
The affair of the Guard had made more stir than
had been anticipated in the rash moment which had
seen its consummation; and their advices warned
them of the approach of a much larger force of
State troops, obedient to the direction of the district
attorney, than they could well contend with.
They determined, therefore, prudently for themselves,
to keep as much out of the way of detection
as they could; and to avoid those risks upon
which a previous conference had partially persauded
them to adventure. They were also apprized
of the greater excitement attending the fate
of Forrester, than could possibly have followed
the death, in his place, of the contemplated victim:
and adopting a habit of caution, heretofore but
little considered in that region, they prepared for all
hazards, and at the same time, tacitly determined
upon the suspension of their numerous atrocities—
at least, while a controlling force was in the neighbourhood.
Previous impunity had led them so
far, that at length the neighbouring country was
aroused, and all the better classes, taking advantage
of the excitement, grew bolder in the expression of
their anger against those who had beset them so
long. The sheriff, Maxson, had been something
tutored by these influences, or, it had been fair to
surmise, his scruples would have been less difficult
to overcome.

In the mean time, the pursuit of Ralph Colleton,
as the murderer of Forrester, had been hotly urged

by the officers. The pursuers knew the route, and
having the control of new horses as they proceeded,
at frequent intervals, gained of course at
every step upon the unconscious travellers. We
have seen the latter retiring to repose at a late
hour of the night. Under the several fatigues
which all parties had undergone, it is not strange
that the sun should have arisen some little time
before those who had not retired quite so early as
himself. At a moderately late hour they breakfasted
together—the family of the wagoner, and Ralph,
and our old friend the pedler. Pursuing the same
route, the two latter, after the repast, separated,
with many acknowledgments on both sides, from
the emigrating party, and pursued their way together.
On their road, Bunce gave the youth a long
and particular account of all those circumstances
at the village inn by which he had been deprived
of his chattels, and congratulated himself not a
little on the adroit thought which had determined
him to retain the good steed of the Lawyer Pippin
in lieu of his losses. He spoke of it as quite a
clever and creditable performance, and one as fully
deserving the golden honours of the medal as
many of those doings which are so rewarded. On
this point his companion said little; and though he
could not altogether comprehend the propriety of
the pedler's morals, he certainly did not see but
that the necessity and pressing danger of his situation
somewhat sanctioned the deceit. He suggested
this idea to Bunce, but when he came to
talk of the propriety of returning the animal the
moment he was fairly in safety, the speculator
failed entirely to perceive the philosophy of his
doctrine.

The sheriff's officers came upon the wagoner a
few hours after the two had separated from them.

The intelligence received from him quickened their
pace, and towards noon, they descried our two
travellers ascending a hill a few hundred yards in
advance of them. A repeated application of the
spur brought them together, and, as had been anticipated
by Rivers, Ralph offered not the slightest
objection, when once satisfied of the legality of his
arrest, to becoming their prisoner. But the consternation
of Bunce was inexpressible. He endeavoured
to shelter himself in the adjoining woods,
and was quietly edging his steed into the covert for
that purpose, on the first alarm, but was not permitted
by the sharp eyes and ready unscrupulosity
of the robber representatives of the law. They
had no warrant, it is true, for the arrest of any
other person than “the said Ralph Colleton”—but
the unlucky colour of Pippin's horse, and their
perfect knowledge of the animal, readily identifying
him, did the business for the pedler. Under the
custody of the laws, therefore, we behold the youth
retracing his ground, horror-stricken at the death
of Forrester—indignant at the suspicions entertained
of himself as the murderer, but sanguine of
the result, and firm and fearless as ever. Not so
Bunce—there were cruel visions in his sight of
seven-sided pine rails—fierce regulators—Lynch's
law, and all that terrible paraphernalia of punishment,
which is studiously arrayed in those regions
for the enjoyment of evil-doers. The next day
found them both securely locked up in the common
jail of Chestatee.