University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.

We arrest the farther dialogue which took place
between the two before their separation. Horsey
was gratified at the interest which Vernon seemed
to take in his fortunes, for the simple but dignified
manners of the young lawyer had impressed him
with a respectful deference, which had the effect,
not unfrequently, of restraining his exuberance of
character, and compelling him to meditate awhile
before speaking; a practice exceedingly novel to
him, and one which kept him from sundry outbreaks
of folly while they were in company together. He listened
with unaccustomed patience to the exhortations
of Vernon, and though he had not the courage to
forbear the small game which he was even then
pecking at, he acknowledged the generally beneficial
tenor of the advice given him. He was not willing
to believe that the forest world in which he was
about to penetrate was unsusceptible of present dramatic
improvement, and still less was he willing to
tolerate the suspicion which his companion threw
out, that the story of Tilton's theatrical establishment
at Benton was a falsehood—a hoax invented for the
simple purpose of securing him as an instrument in
the prosecution of some ulterior purpose as yet unaccountable
to either party. His heart was set upon
obtaining the plaudits of the Bentonians, and his ears

already rang prospectively with their clapping and
huzzas. These, he thought, would not be amiss, even
though at some future period, he struck at the higher
game of the great metropolis. Small triumphs are
the forerunners of great ones; and he was one of
those who thought it just as well to accept the wreath
of myrtle, if the more enduring laurel could not be
so easily procured. With this philosophy he was
the more readily reconciled to a separation from the
companion, in conjunction with whom, until the
present hour, he fancied he was to enter the green
and verdurous fields of an actor's immortality. He
had many regretful quotations to utter; many protestations
of fidelity and friendship.

“And should you want help, Harry,” he cried out
as they rode asunder, “should you get into any
spree and want a backer to see you safe, give me a
sign, a signal—let me have the cue—and by the ghost
of Garrick, I will need no prompter to tell me what
my part should be in the business. I will be at your
side in the twinkling of an eye, and they shall be
Turks and Trojans of heavy metal, indeed—Syracusans
of stamp and substance—who will hold their
ground long before us twain,—my Pythias and myself.”

Long and heartily did the adhesive actor wring
the hand of his companion, to whom, though not an
ascetic, the scenic exuberance of his friend became
almost an annoyance; and he found it a relief to
escape from that excruciating degree of affection to
which he felt unable to make more than a very partial
return. His escape was at length effected, though
Horsey, like Prior's thief,

It will somewhat confirm the truth of the assurances
of sorrow which he expressed at parting with his
friend, to say, that, for full twenty minutes after
leaving him, he uttered no single quotation, unless
we may except the fragment of a speech made to
his horse, the renewal of whose irregular motion had
revived all the peculiar sensibility of old sores made
the day previous. “Ah, Bowline, Bowline! Shakspeare
almost gave me warning against thee in particular;
certainly I have the `rubbers,' though I did
not expect them. If you go on at this rate, you
limping d—l, Romeo's quarters will be in no condition
to climb balconies, or do the necessary action
of a lover. I am parched and peeled, hip and thigh,
literally scalded, as tender as a steamed potato, and
as raw as a thoroughly done one. Well, well, it is
to be expected. One should not complain where the
end promises so much. These, I suppose, are the
first pains which a man is expected to take in getting
on in the world—the pains of immortality, the
condition of greatness, a suffering in the flesh for
the ambitious workings of the spirit, which should
teach a man, among other lessons, to value the glory,
when won, which he purchases at so much cost.
Well, it is but a skin-deep suffering, after all, and
there is some consolation in knowing, you limping
rascal, that I can make you share it. My spurring
shall equal your scalding, or there never yet went
two words to a bargain.”

While the actor communed after this manner with
his uneasy steed, Harry Vernon, better mounted,
was making his forward way with a speed rather
greater than his wont, as it was his object to make
up for the time lost in waiting upon Horsey's operations
at the hut of Yarbers, and, subsequently, in that
which had been consumed in their parting. He had
ridden probably an hour after that event, and the
motion of his horse had been suffered to relax into

that ordinary walking trot to which most horses
on long travel naturally incline. The thoughts of
the rider, busied with other subjects, were now abstracted
from the movements of his steed, and he was
gradually becoming indifferent to, and unobservant
of, surrounding objects, when he was brought to his
senses by the sudden and fast trampling of a horse's
feet behind him. Looking round, what was his surprise
to behold Edward Mabry, the lover of Mary
Stinson, in the person of his pursuer. Vernon drew
up and awaited him—readily guessing the purpose of
his pursuit, and really glad that Horsey had taken
another course, and got so greatly the start of one
whose desperate hostility was apparent in every
glance of his eye, and in every motion of his malignant,
and now wretched countenance. The tokens
of the combat of the preceding night were prominently
offensive. His eyes were so swollen that the
orbs were barely perceptible, and the sight must have
been barely sufficient to enable him to ride. This
condition of his face made the rage which appeared
its leading expression, look monstrous and fiendish.
His lips were tremulous though closed, the veins
upon his forehead tensely corded; and the skin
around, affected by the injuries done to his eyes,
had assumed in spots, a dark, dirty green colour,
which added to the general hideousness of his present
aspect. He was armed with a rifle, which, perhaps,
in the present situation of his eyes, would be found
far less formidable than usual. Glaring upon Vernon
with an expression of hostility which almost left it
doubtful in our hero's mind if he himself were not also
the object of his pursuit, he demanded to know what
had become of his companion. His words were few
and passionate, and the disrespectful manner in which
he spoke, and the brutal epithets which he applied at
the same time to the person for whom he inquired,
had the effect of producing a certain degree of irritation
in the mind of Vernon, which kept his answer
in suspense. The youth repeated his demand in a
style of insolence more offensive than before.

“I have no desire to quarrel with you,” said Vernon,
“but still less am I disposed to satisfy the demands
of any one who makes them disrespectfully.
I will not answer your question. I will tell you
nothing about Mr. Horsey or his movements.”

“Ha! then you take his place. You shall answer
for him yourself,” cried the other, dropping his reins
and grasping his rifle in both hands. The instinctive
and natural movement of Vernon was to close with
him at once, and thus defeat the contemplated employment
of the deadly weapon with which he
threatened him. He wheeled his horse instantly beside
that of the assailant, and his left hand grasped
the weapon also.

“What mean you, madman? What would you
do?” demanded Vernon, sternly. “But that I pity
you, your movement this instant would have prompted
me to shoot you down like a dog. If you are
angry with Mr. Horsey, that is no business of mine.
I am not answerable for his conduct nor his absence.”

“Then tell me where he is,” replied the other
hoarsely, “or stand in his shoes.”

“Neither, sir. I will give you no assistance in
your folly.”

A scuffle followed this reply. Mabry strove to
back his horse in order that he might employ his
rifle. Such at least seemed his object to Vernon,
whose efforts were directed to defeat this purpose;
and suffering the other to recede, he addressed all
his strength to obtaining possession of the weapon,
which Mabry, in the sudden backward movement
of his horse, was compelled to yield up, or suffer

himself to be drawn with it between the two animals.
Furious at this disadvantage he leaped to the ground
and drawing a bowie knife, rushed forward. But a
few paces divided them, and the rapidity of his assailant's
movement was such that Vernon felt he
could neither take aim, nor prepare the weapon in
time to anticipate his attack. With this conviction
he put spurs to his horse and drew him up only after
he had put a space of fifty yards between them.

“Advance upon me a second time, young man,
and I shoot you without scruple. You are a madman
to act in this manner. What have I done to
you? Of what do you complain? Do you think I
will answer your questions, or the questions of any
body who does not speak respectfully? Do you
suppose I will assist in guiding you to the commission
of murder? You are mistaken in me no less
than in yourself. In a fair struggle, were I so disposed,
I should put you down as effectually as you
were put down last night; and were it not that I should
derive but little satisfaction from such a victory,
your insolent language might have provoked me to
have done so before this. Think a little before you
move farther in this business. By this time the person
you seek is far beyond your reach; and as for
me, you gain nothing, I assure you, by annoying
me. I will return you your rifle if you will promise
me that you will not use it.”

“I will make no promise,” replied the other, leaping
again upon his steed, “we shall soon be at closer
quarters.”

And with these words, with a fury even more blind
than his hurt vision, the madman was preparing to
urge his horse forward upon the speaker, heedless of
warning, and in utter defiance of the lifted rifle.

“I warn you again,—once, twice, thrice, I warn
you,” were the slow, deliberate tones of Vernon's

voice, as, dropping the rifle in his left hand, he lifted
the ranging sights before his eye, “approach me,
Mr. Mabry, with bared weapon, and I will certainly
shoot you.”

“I defy, I dare you. Shoot, and be d—d! I fear
you not,” said the fellow, as he put spurs to his horse.

“Hold!” cried the voice of one who darted before
his path, emerging into the main road from a little
Indian trail that crossed it at nearly equal distances
between the contending parties. The interruption
was seasonable enough. Vernon had already cocked
the rifle, and the approach, by ten steps more, of his
furious assailant, would have had the effect of drawing
his fire. The entrance of the third personage
relieved him from a dreadful necessity.

“Hold, you, Ned Mabry, you meal-headed fellow!
What the deuce is it you're a-doing?”

The abrupt salutation arrested the rash onset of
the youth, and probably saved his life. The stranger
was a tall backwoodsman, fully six feet in height,
and solid and massive like a tower. He rode a coal-black
horse of proportions and strength of corresponding
greatness with his own—a keen, fire-eyed
animal, broad chested, strongly quartered, slim in
fetlock, small in hoof, long necked, narrow headed,
and with a mane, which, though plaited and divided
on either side, seemed scarcely less copious than that
of the full possession of the ordinary horse. His own
person was no less symmetrical and erect than it was
large and powerful. His cheeks were of a fine sanguine
hue, his eyes bright, blue and lively, denoting
good nature, with an arch, lurking humour, that perhaps
indicated a fondness for his jest in defiance of
the broken bones which are sometimes apt to follow
it. His nose was finely Roman, and his forehead,
though neither broad nor high, was yet full,
suitably large, and contributed to that general expression

of character, rather than talents, which belonged
to his other features. He looked earnestly
for a few minutes upon Vernon while addressing
Mabry, to whom he spoke in the familiar language
of an old acquaintance.

“Well, now you're a pretty lark to serve me in
this way, Ned Mabry. Didn't you promise me you
wouldn't do any thing more with this business. Didn't
you say you'd let the stranger get off, and say no
more about it; and here, only two hours after, I find
you, like a cursed maw-mouth that grows blind when
he sees a worm wriggle, here you're mad after the
bait though there's a hook in it. Don't you see the
rifle—you a'n't bullet-proof, I reckon?”

“It's my own rifle, Walter,” said the assailant,
sullenly.

“The devil it is!” cried the other with a laugh;
“then it's a sign I haven't come a minute too soon.
You've got another warning of the truth I told you.
Look you, stranger,” turning to Vernon, to whom
the sudden arrival of a third person, who seemed an
associate of his enemy, only cautioned to greater
watchfulness; “look you, stranger, you mustn't take
it hard that this mad fellow set upon you, seeing
you've took his sweetheart from him, and put his
two eyes in double-mourning. It's mighty hard to
lose one's gal and get a beating all in the same night,
and I reckon there's a mighty few of us that wouldn't
be just as mad as Ned Mabry after it.”

“But I've done neither,” said Vernon; “I've neither
beaten him, nor took his sweetheart from him. I
have done him no sort of injury, intentional or otherwise;
and he has no more excuse to assail me than
he has to assail the man in the moon.”

“How! how the d—l's this, Ned? Didn't you
tell me?”

“Not this one,—the other—the man that was travelling
with him.”

“The splinters! and so you set upon the wrong
man. Well, I say, that's being owl-blind, stone-blind,
horse-blind; blind of three eyes, without even a
smeller to go by. What the devil made you trouble
him?”

This question was soon answered, and the cause
of difference explained. The good-natured stranger
proceeded to patch up the affair, and, if possible,
reconcile the parties. On Vernon's side this was no
great difficulty. The other, foiled on every hand,
baffled so far in the pursuit of one who had humbled
him so successfully, and suffering from his bruises of
body no less than those of mind, was just in that state
of stupid doggedness when conciliation was almost
as much thrown away upon him as argument and
explanation. More was done by the sheer influence
of the stranger's wish, than by his reasoning. The
rustic lover seemed to recognize in Wat or Walter
Rawlins,—for such was the name of the last comer,
—a superior, before whom he stood irresolute and
dependent. He confirmed the promise made in his
behalf by the latter to Vernon, that he would offer
him no farther injury or insult, and, at his solicitation,
he returned the rifle to Mabry, though not until he
had pushed the flint from the teeth of the cock, thus
depriving him of the power of doing any immediate
harm with the instrument, unless he went better provided
than usual. He had performed this movement
with so little effort and so much adroitness, while the
lock of the gun lay beneath his right hand, and on the
opposite side of his horse to that where the other parties
stood, that he had escaped observation; and, satisfied
with the possession of his weapon, Mabry
gave no glance to the condition in which it was returned
to him.

“And now, Ned Mabry, go you home and be
quiet,” said his companion. “You promised me before
to do nothing in this business, and it's a dead
weight on your credit now that you didn't keep your
word. You a'n't in any condition now to look up
your enemies. With them eyes you could not see
to hit a squirrel, though he sat on a bare stump grinning
at you with all his grinders; and how should
you look, going after a fellow who's got his own
peepers wide awake. Go back, I say, and keep
quiet till you see me again. As for this business of
Yarbers himself,” continued the pacificator, drawing
his companion away to some little distance from the
place where Vernon stood, and lowering his voice
to a whisper—“say nothing till you see me. There's
something strange about it, and we've got some
mighty strange neighbours. Don't whisper it to
saint or sinner till we can tell whether it's a safe
person that's to hear it, and this there's no telling jist
at this time, when the whole country is in a sort of
topsy-turvy, and strange men come about us hearing
what they can, and telling nothing in return. There's
nothing to do but to keep quiet as I tell you, and out
of harm's way. I won't be gone longer than a
week; in the meantime get your eyes open if you
can, and keep 'em so. I'll keep on awhile with this
stranger, and see what I can drive out of him. He
don't look and behave like a man who was one of
Yarbers' kidney, and I've a sort o' notion you're quite
wrong in your guess that they're in one and the same
business. I'll worm it out of him in no time, I reckon.
If he's got the cunning of a rogue, I've got cunning
enough to see how deep it goes; and if he a'n't a
rogue, why then there will be one more honest man
found to help the rest.”

Much more was said ere they separated, though
the conference occupied but little time. Vernon

meanwhile bade them a courteous “good-day,” and
was about to set forward, when the voice of Rawlins
arrested him.

“Stay a bit, stranger, if so be you like company.
I'm driving on in the same track with you for a few
miles farther, at least, and if you're like myself, you'll
agree that it's no bad thing to have somebody at
your elbow, if it's only to answer questions. When
a man's by himself he's apt to think strange things;
and the devil's more apt to be on the look-out for
a single traveller than when they go in pairs to
strengthen each other. I am a ra'al joker when the
humour suits, and I can sing, too, when the weather
a'n't against it, and the frogs don't rise in the throat.
So you see—”

“Say no more,” said Vernon; “it will please me
to have your company.”

“Spoken like a man, and I'll be with you after a
word more with this unbroke colt. Now, Ned Mabry,
you promise me to give over the chase of this
fellow.”

Such was the promise which Rawlins exacted
from his companion ere they separated—a promise
reluctantly given, and badly kept; since he had
scarce reached the crossroads in returning, ere his
rage resumed full sway over him, and he struck into
the path which Horsey had taken, giving full rein to
his horse, in the hope to make up for that loss of
time in the pursuit which had been occasioned
by the events of the previous hour. Vernon was
joined by Rawlins, and in a few moments, on the
place which they had just occupied, stood the outlaw
Saxon, who emerged from the woods on one
hand, and was immediately after joined by a comrade
named Jones, who came to the spot from an
opposite quarter.

“I would give something to know what Mabry

and Rawlins had to talk about so long in secret;”
said Saxon. “Could you make out nothing?”

“Not a syllable,” said Jones. “His coming was
untimely.”

“Yes: but for that we should have lost one who
may become an enemy. Yarbers, certainly, would
have been the gainer; and we should have had good
reason for tying the arms of this fellow Vernon behind
him. This, however, we must do before long.”

“We must use Judge Nawls for that business, I
reckon.”

“Ay, none better,” said Saxon; “but do you go
ahead, and keep on the haunches of these fellows.
Rawlins, I suppose, is on his way to the old Methodist
quarter. He and Vernon know each other for
the first time, and they will probably separate at
Brother Badger's turn-out. Do not lose him from
sight. I will join you before midnight.”