University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.

The reader must not, however, suppose that our
three friends concluded their conference with this
vague determination. Vernon was too good a politician,
too keen a lawyer, not to see that, left to
their own judgments, Dick Jamison might lose the
game by his rashness, and Horsey by his frivolity.
Their dialogue, which was somewhat farther protracted,
was carefully given, on the part of the
former, to a consideration of the difficulties surrounding
him; and to the necessary steps which
were to be taken by the two in effecting his rescue.
It does not need that we should report these directions
in this place, but leave to time, which usually
ripens all projects, even those which events baffle,
to bring about its natural results in this case as in all
others. It will suffice to say that the manner in
which Vernon carried their minds forward, step by
step, with his, confirmed in him that tacit superiority
which, from the first, neither of them had
seemed willing to dispute. If Jamison regarded
him as a fine fellow before, he now looked upon him
as a “mighty wise one;” and the importance and

dignity of the new offices put so suddenly on his
hands, seemed to elevate the mind of our actor in
his own estimation. He had never been much
trusted with matters of importance before; and the
idea seemed suddenly, though, perhaps, imperfectly,
to open upon him; that, after all, Mr. Aristophanes
Bull was not so great a booby, when he denounced
tragedies as not “ser'ous things;” certainly, the
new task before him of getting Vernon out of his
present hobbles, seemed the most serious business of
any to which he had ever yet set his hand. Not
that Horsey had any scruples or apprehensions.
There was no better pluck in Mississippi than that
of our amateur. But he had just entered upon a
new and exquisitely delicate condition. He had
just formed a new and responsible relationship in
life; and when he heard from Vernon that there
was no doubt that he should be hurried off that
very evening on his way to prison, and that any
attempt to rescue him, to be successful, must be
made that very night, he could only exclaim with
a tribulation in his accents and countenance, which
compelled the smile to the lips of his two companions—

“But, dear me, Harry Vernon, what the deuse
am I to do with Mary?”

Vernon had not been inconsiderate on this subject.
He had prepared himself to meet this difficulty, and
by his counsel, Horsey was persuaded to make application
to Squire Nawls for a temporary lodging
for his new wife, until he could procure facilities for
conveying her home to Raymond. This pretext
enabled him to set forth that very evening, and
simultaneously with the departure of Vernon under
his guard, as if for Lucchesa, where he proposed to
find a horse and side-saddle on sale. Nawls, after
some moderate objections, was persuaded by a

week's board paid in advance, and the honied arguments
of the young husband, to accede to the proposed
arrangement; and this matter settled, love
consented to waive all farther objections to the
quasi warfare which implored his assistance. Vernon
communicated to both his companions the
knowledge which he had acquired from his intimacy
with Walter Rawlins and the methodist Badger.
To the former he recommended them in the event
of their failure to rescue him. As a sanction for
their own proceedings in a business which promised
to involve a great deal that was extra-judicial, he
drew from his bosom the envelope which originally
contained the blank commissions of the governor,
intending to fill the blanks with their names, and
thus furnish an authority which would not only assist
them in commanding means for acting against
the outlaws, but sustain them in their use, He now,
for the first time, discovered the robbery that had
taken place upon his person—a robbery which he
could only ascribe to the practised and adroit hands
of Saxon, performed while he was insensible. A
bitter smile passed over the lips of the youth as he
made this discovery, and traced, with rapid thought,
the connexion of event with event, and agent with
agent, all co-operating to the same end—his entanglement
in present intricacies. But the resolution
of Vernon, his sanguine temper and great self-confidence
conspired to make him still hopeful even
against the great odds of the beagle confederacy.
Having satisfied himself, to his great relief, that the
other packet, which contained the papers of Carter,
remained in its original integrity, he determined still
to keep it in his possession; as it was now fair to
assume that the outlaw, convinced that he had obtained
all that was hidden, and that he had found a
sufficient clue to the progress of Vernon, would
never dream of looking in the same place for a
second deposit. With this conviction, he ceased to
feel the loss of the one packet as a very serious
evil. That packet involved none of his confederates—none
of his friends. He alone was singled
out as the victim, and, bating the loss of the commissions,
which might be perverted to evil use by
the outlaw, the utmost extent of his misfortune was
already known in his own capture, and threatened
imprisonment, if not murder. Vernon was not insensible
to the risk he incurred among the outlaws,
as one whose supposed endeavour had been to
expose their haunts, detect their doings, and entrap
their persons. He felt that should his two allies fail
him at the fortunate moment, his blood would probably
be poured out in some lone swamp fastness, while
his mangled body would be left uncovered to yield a
midnight repast to the gaunt and famished wolves,
that traversed, at that period, the savage and uncultivated
hills of the Choctaw purchase. These were
annoying convictions, but Harry Vernon was a man.
He spoke none of his apprehensions, and contenting
himself with obtaining from Horsey all that he knew,
had seen, or heard, while in Cane Castle; and with
renewing his instructions on all matters which he
deemed essential to the successful prosecution of
their adventure, he presented himself to the officers,
and declared his readiness to go with them. He
had done all that it was in the power of man to do
at that moment—he had exercised the closest judgment
of which his mind was capable, uninfluenced
by his own feelings, and the consciousness of danger,
of which he could not entirely divest himself;
and with a cheerful manner, and a resolute spirit, he
left the rest to the courage and conduct of his friends,
under the crowning favour of Providence.

These did not desert him. Though neither of

them very wise men, or solid counsellors, Horsey
and Jamison were yet men of great nerve and composure;
strong, as we have shown, of limb, and of
undoubted energy and spirit. In their plans and
schemes, alone, was it likely that they might fail;
and in these respects, the forethought of Vernon
had taken every precaution and made every arrangement
that might be done by him under existing
circumstances. His directions, which contemplated
even the particulars of the scuffle with his
robber guardians, the time, the manner, and the
probable place, were ample, if not copious. But little
more was needed, than that their objects and course
should be unsuspected, that their horses should bring
them to the season, and their hearts not fail them in
the trying moment. Of course, it was the assumption
of all parties at the outset, that the strife was
to take place with the two outlaws, and those only,
who had served as officers of justice from the beginning.

One little difficulty, however, started into sight
before they left the presence of the magistrate, and
made Vernon tremble, for an instant, in doubt of all
his schemes. The sturdy rogues, his captors, having
no more to say in respect to himself, were
disposed to annoy his friend Jamison, because of
his interposition at Lucchesa in cutting the cords
which bound their victim,—an act which they had
then called a rescue, and which they were still disposed
to consider so. They had probably consulted
with Nawls on the subject, while Vernon and his
comrades were planning his rescue in fact; and
with the sober confidence of veteran knaves, they
were resolved to extort a reasonable amount of
hush-money from the sturdy Alabamian, while in
presence of the justice. But Jamison's blood, which
had been with difficulty restrained by the counsels

of Vernon, and the obvious necessity of preserving
a large degree of temperance in consideration of
his friend's predicament, fired up at the first motion
of the rogues. Knowing them, as he now did, to be
the most impudent pretenders to official sanction,
it was with no small difficulty, that he restrained
himself from declaring aloud all that he knew, and
pouring forth all that he felt. With all his attempts
at moderation, his speech was certainly of a character
to show but a very limited degree of success in
attaining that which he sought.

“Look ye, judge,” said he, “these niggers ought
to be licked for tying a free white man as they
did. I'm the man to lick 'em, let 'em give me the
littlest eend of an opportunity. I was a-thinking to
bring it afore you myself, because I'm hopeful there's
something in the law books to make 'em sweat
for roping a white man the same as if he was an
ingin or a nigger; and if there aint, there ought
to be, and our rip's can't put it there a bit too soon.
I did take out my bowie-knife, jist as they say, but
'twa'nt to trouble them; though, Lord bless you,
'twouldn't ha' been so hard a matter neither, to cut
'em up mighty small as they run; but, as I don't
altogether like to use a man's weapon upon a chap
that shows me nothing but his back, I had no more
thought of troubling them with it, than I have of
troubling you. I used the knife only to cut loose
the rope; and, all that was wrong in that business,
was in using a weapon that was bigger than was
needful, and that made two big men so shameful scary.
As for 'resting me for that, squire, why, all I can
say, 'two'nt do for them to try it, while I've got the
same knife yet, and to the back of it a couple of
pair of such bull-mouthed biters as these here perquissions.
You've seen the new perquission guns,
squire? Well, these pistols are after the same fashion.

Here's four of them, and they're a wing or
two quicker in the shot than any race-lightning.
One pair of these pistols and this here knife, belongs
to Mr. Vernon there—and I'll take care of them for
him till he gets out of jail. I'll drop the rammer
down their throats, and you'll see they all have
their bellies full of bullets. Now, I'm a peaceable
man, squire, for one that's so well prepared for war;
but if I was twice as peaceable, and only half so
well off in perquissions, if you was to say the word
for these chaps to 'rest me, which I know you can't
do as a gentleman and a righteous justice—why,
I've only to turn one of these perquissions round
about among the company—now here on this one,
and now on that—and as there's no taking aim in
such a promisc'us business, particularly with these
mighty quick perquissions, I'm almost afraid to say,
squire, how much risk you'd run yourself; though
I'm hopeful the bullet's far off that'll ever trouble
you. 'Twon't be such a death, squire, as I'd have
you die of. As for these—look at 'em, squire, how
they dodge—look at 'em, Harry Vernon! Ha! ha!
ha! That's jist the way they were scared at Lucchesa—jist
the way exactly;—they dodged when
there was no sort of call upon 'em for it. Lord love
you, my lads, if it makes you so squammish when
I only p'int the thing at you, it would make you
deathly sick, when I come in 'arnest. Squire, let
me go home to my business in a civil manner, and
don't listen to these ridiculous fellows. I've done
for Vernon all that I reasonably could; and by the
hocus, I'll be at court when his trial comes on, and
if it's the last picayune in the pocket of Dick Jamison,
or the last blood in his heart, it shall go to help
him out of his troubles. If I hear you say, I'm not
to be 'rested about this business, well, I'll be off
at once, before night, for Lucchesa. If I'm to be
'rested for cutting loose a free white man, that was
tied up wrongfully, say it as soon, and let's see the
eend of it at once. P'int your finger now which way
you please, and I'm ready, any side. If it's civility,
well, I'm all civility—if it's for a close hug, tooth
and timber, why there's not a bear in Loosa Chitto,
that'll come to the scratch with rougher arms than
Dick Jamison.”

This interruption consumed some time; and long
speeches, for which the western wanderers are
rather famous, were as frequent and as fine, after a
fashion, as half of those listened to with so much
patience by the nation—particularly as they have to
pay for them—at every session of Congress. Vernon
confirmed the simple statement of Jamison, and
insisted that all the violence shown on the occasion,
was no more than was required to separate the
bonds of a prisoner, who made no attempt to escape,
and professed his willingness to go freely with the
officers. True, this was a rescue in legal acceptation,
but, under the circumstances, not such an one
as would render a prosecution necessary; and Vernon
contended for the point the more readily, as he
could perceive that the justice desired nothing more
than a loophole by which to escape from the necessity
of taking steps against a man who had avowed
such levelling principles—we had almost written
pistols. The pistols indeed, were the principles; and
no effect could have been more ludicrous than that
which Jamison produced upon the company, justice
and officers, as with a huge pistol in each hand, both
of which he cocked, he made their muzzles describe
a slow circuit round the apartment, allowing them to
rest for a few awkward seconds whenever the line
of sight was brought up to the face of one of the opposite
faction. The constables dodged with little shame
or scruple on such occasions; and the very Justice,

it is painful to add, though he did not allow his
limbs to yield to such a discreditable weakness,
could not keep his eyes from winking with singular
frequency; and his cheeks—the Alabamian remarked
afterwards with a singular show of satisfaction—
grew whiter than any clabber that he ever saw or
swallowed. The affair was compromised by the
justice bestowing a reproof upon the offender, to
which he submitted with the indifference of one who
rightly estimated its value.

“You've got to say it, squire,” said he, “it's your
business and you can't help it, and that's the reason
I let it pass and say nothing. But look you, Squire
Nawls, if you wa'n't a justice, but jist a common
man, I'd ha' been on top of you and through you,
afore you'd 'a half finished what you've been saying.
If there's any one thing in this world that I never
could like, it's when I'm found fault with, jist at a
time when I know that I'm doing the very thing
that's right—and then to be spoke to on behalf of
such a couple of small-souled sappy sticks as these—
Grim! it makes me all bristles. I feel wolfy in
twenty places, and—dang my buttons, judge, if the
thing was to be done over ag'in, 'twouldn't be the
rope only that my knife would slit; if I wouldn't
cut a juglar or two there's no snakes in all Alabam.”

It was with a feeling of relief that Nawls and his
two emissaries beheld this sturdy democrat take his
departure. He set out as if for Lucchesa, accompanied
by the amateur, whose parting with his young
wife was equally dramatic and characteristic, though
still full of genuine feeling. Resolved on having, in
these volumes, as little of the lachrymose mood as
possible, we refrain from the tears and tenderness
shown on the occasion. Our readers of the gentler

sex, will please suppose that the omission is ours
only;—had they seen the happy couple at the parting
moment, had they heard the low tones and
sweet assurances of Horsey, and witnessed the embrace,
and seen the face of Mary buried in his
bosom, and hearkened to her half-suppressed sobs,
which spoke of hope and joy rather than any other
emotion—they would have seen that there was no
love lacking between the two in this early stage of
their matrimonial felicity. Love, however,—domestic
love in particular—is proverbially a thing of
short stages; and the sun which is warm and bright
to-day, may be under a very ugly cloud to-morrow;
—but this is none of our business—“sufficient for
the day is the evil thereof.”

Vernon saw his friends depart with some anxiety.
His own movements, under the guardianship of the
tenacious constables, followed soon after. The evening
shades were thickening as they set forth, and
grave thoughts become gloomy ones in the twilight
hour. Those of our hero were sad ones, at least,
and they restrained his natural vivacity of temper,
if they did not subdue and dispirit him. He was
without arms, without present friends or succour,—
accused of crime, and at the mercy of criminals.
The increasing gloom of the forest, as they advanced
upon their way, served to increase the
cheerlessness of his situation, and to give an oppressive
weight to those doubts, which necessarily came
with his very hopes and anxieties. Horsey and
Jamison were brave, but might they miss the
route taken by the outlaws—might they not fail at
the proper moment? Precipitation might be worse
than halting apprehension, and the very levity of
the former, with the rough and ready boldness of
the latter, might serve to defeat the plans of the most
deliberate and thoughtful. To a man of mind, there

is nothing so productive of annoying doubts, as the
dependance upon mere muscle.

He turned for some sort of relief to his attendants.
It was advisable to disarm their watchfulness, and,
if possible, to impress them with the conviction that
no kind of doubt of their professed character, had
as yet risen in his mind. To seem to rely upon
them, as peace officers of the country, was the most
effectual way to assure them, that he was perfectly
resigned to their custody. He, whom they well knew,
was guilty of no crime, had nothing to apprehend
from the awards of justice; and the mere temporary
detention of his person, however troublesome
and unpleasant, was not so great an evil as to make
it likely that he would incur those risks to avoid it,
which would inevitably follow any violent attempt
to shake it off. It was no hard matter to engage
them in easy conversation; and having paved the
way for a familiar chit-chat by some good-natured
common-places, Vernon proceeded to carry out his
design in the way that he calculated would be most
likely to effect it. He inquired of them, what they
knew of the two men who furnished the evidence
against him; and when, as he expected, they denied
all knowledge of the witnesses, he boldly assured
them, that they had sworn to utter falsehoods.

“There can be no sort of doubt,” he said, “that
Mr. Horsey is alive; and that is he, who came in so
unexpectedly, when the case was going on. I never
knew any other Horsey, save his father, in my life;
and I am now convinced, that these two persons
have uttered, what they know to be untrue; and if
they dare come to the trial, I shall convict them of
a base conspiracy against my life. It will be easy
enough for my friends, to bring proof of what I say,
and of my innocence. Indeed, as soon as Horsey
and Jamison go where I have sent them, I shall

come out under habeas corpus. But these scoundrels
shall suffer for their malice, if there's law in Mississippi.”

“I don't know—may be so,” returned one of the
constables; “but what should make two men, whom
you never saw before, swear ag'in the life of another?
and then it seems mighty strange, if so be,
the man that come to be married, was the raal
Horsey—it seems mighty strange he should pop in
jist at that minute.”

“It was no less strange to me than to you,” replied
Vernon; “but the truth is not lessened by the
strangeness of the circumstance. That he is the
real Horsey, I hope to show, as soon as my friends
return from where I've sent them. As for the malice
of these two witnesses, that I confess to you, is
as singular and surprising to me, as it can be to any
body esle. I never saw them before—am sure, I
never did them any injury, and—”

“But why should you call it a conspiracy?”

“It evidently is—here are two men, whom I
know nothing of, coming forward most strangely, to
swear a crime against me, which I never did commit.”

“Yes—but you see, we are not to know that—
Squire Nawls aint to know that.”

“True—I don't blame him. He has done nothing
more than he was bound to do; but I am speaking
of the two who have sworn to this falsehood—why
they should—for what reason—with what hope or
object—is a wonder of the strangest sort to me.”

“You're sure you never had any quarrel with
them before?”

“Never saw them in all my life.”

“Well, it is strange, if so be you didn't kill
Horsey, and you never had a quarrel with these
gentlemen, that they should swear ag'in you. You

aint made no enemies of any body? Beca'se these
chaps mought be employed by somebody else.”

“Not that I know of. I've quarrelled with nobody,
and have made no enemies. Stay!—there
is one thing!” exclaimed Vernon, with sudden
earnestness, correcting himself as he spoke—“now
that you put the question, I am reminded of a circumstance
which may account for it.”

Here he proceeded to relate the event recorded
in our first volume, in which, while rescuing the
traveller, Wilson, he shot the outlaw Weston, who
was astride his body.

“This robber might have friends and relatives,
who have sought in this manner to avenge him.”

“I don't think that,” said the rogues with one
breath. “It would be more apt to scare his friends
off, and if they was rogues themselves, they'd know
better than to come before a justice. Squire Nawls
is a mighty keen man when he's a judging—he'd see
through a rascal as clear as a whistle, and pick the
crooks out of his story in the twink of an eye. No,
no! I reckon there's another way to account for it.
We don't want to git you to confess, Mr. Varnon,
for nobody's bound in law to tell ag'in themselves,
but I reckon you did shoot the poor man, though, I
s'pose, 'twas by accident, or else you fou't him
fairly, and he got the fling.”

Vernon re-asseverated his innocence, with the
solemn earnestness of one who was really anxious
that they should be convinced—so earnestly, indeed,
and with such warm simplicity in his manner, that
the rogues burst into a good-humoured laugh, and
one of the most forward among them, clapped him
civilly upon the back while he expressed the hope,
that, even if he did kill the man, he should “pass
under the tree without sticking fast to the limb;” or,

as it is sometimes expressed, that he should “graze
the timbers, without becoming dead wood.”

It was just at this moment that a faint whistle
reached the ears of our hero. This was the signal
agreed upon between himself and his comrades;
and circumstances seemed to be particularly favourable
to their project. The road was narrow—a
mere wagon-track—through which they were passing;
night had set fairly in, and though a bright star-light
whitened the wide arch of heaven, but a faint
effusion of its rays guided our travellers along the dim
and shady paths of the forest. To maintain a more
certain power over their prisoner—whom, perhaps,
because of the disgrace which had followed their
first attempts to cord him, they had not bound—they
rode close beside him on either hand. In consequence
of the narrowness of the road, this mode of
riding brought the horses of the three in absolute
contact. The opportunity was too gratefully tempting
to Vernon, and his heart bounded with the
anxiety which he felt during the brief interval between
the first and second signal of his allies.
That second signal was the beagle-note. With a
conviction that the robbers who attacked Wilson's
carriage, and those who escorted him belonged to
the same gang, Vernon had suggested the employment
of this imitation sound, with the hope of misleading
his guardians. The whistle which preceded
it, was simply meant to indicate to himself the certainty
of the subsequent signal being given by his
friends. As had been anticipated, an echo from the
right hand of the prisoner threw back an answering
voice.

“There's somebody's dog in the swamp,” said one
of the rogues carelessly, prefacing with these words,
his own excellent imitation of the cry. Again, more
near and more distinct, came the note of Jamison,

who proved no unworthy beagle whether in voice
or limb. As if in sheer idleness of mood, did the
same outlaw again respond to it. The third signal
from the Alabamian, which immediately followed,
was delivered from a bush almost beside the party;
and at the same instant, the two constables drew up
their horses, setting each a hand on the rein of Vernon's,
to arrest his forward movement.

They naturally looked to a meeting with their
comrades; but were surprised in the next moment,
as Vernon, yielding his rein entirely, threw an arm
round the waist of each of his attendants, and by a
sudden exertion of all his strength, drew them together
before him upon his steed, until their heads
clashed with a stunning concussion. Before they
could recover from the shock, draw knife or pistol,
or make the smallest effort, a stout hand from below
had relieved Vernon from his burdens; and the self-appointed
officers of justice found themselves let
down with no gentle ministry upon the earth, which,
fortunately, being on the skirts of the swamp, and
sufficiently pliable, manifested no stubborn resistance
to the reception of their persons. The surprise was
as successful as it had been sudden; and while a
stout man bestrid each of the prisoners with a heavy
and bright bowie blade pointing down and sometimes
painfully tickling their throats, Vernon, having
secured the three horses, proceeded to divest the
rogues of all their weapons. This done, under the
direction of Jamison, who had taken care to provide
the necessary plough-lines, he bound their arms
securely behind them, and thus fastened, they were
once more permitted to rise upon a level with their
captors.

“A short horse is mighty soon curried,” said
Jamison, when the business was finished. “I know'd
all along, Varnon, that these here chaps hadn't any

perquission in their guns, and it's now what we're to
do with 'em. That's the question. They're to be
lynched I reckon, of course; but whether to lynch
'em here where nobody can get any good from seeing
it, or to lynch 'em at Lucchesa where it'll be
a warning to all rogues, and gamblers, and abolitionists,
that haven't the fear of God in their eyes,
and do large business with the devil—that's what I
aint yet detarmined about.”

To lynching, altogether, Vernon absolutely objected;
but he did not content himself with uttering
moral objections only. With such a man as Jamison,
such scruples might not have been so forcible
as those which sprung from mere momentary policy.

“We have not time for that,” said he in a whisper,
and when out of hearing of the captives. “Besides, to
go to Lucchesa with these in company, before we have
beaten up the whole gang and obtained the proper
evidence of their villainy, will be only to expose
ourselves to discovery, prosecution, and probably
punishment by the laws; not to speak of private
assassination from the hands of some of the numerous
outlaws with whom the whole country seems
to be infested. To carry these fellows with us any
where, would be to encumber ourselves with a burden
that would be troublesome and may be dangerous.
No! my counsel is that we bind them to trees
in the most secret places in the swamp—there leave
them till we can muster a sufficient force to secure
them, and to pursue their comrades. We are now in
possession of one of their signs, and if we can keep
these fellows from communication with the rest, until
we can penetrate their hiding-places, we may capture
a good many more. I have already told you
of friends on the other side of the river. We must
join ourselves to them as soon as possible. You will
set off to night. You know all that I can tell you

about our friend Rawlins. Horsey and myself, meanwhile,
will ride to Lucchesa, where I will see to some
business which I have with Mr. Wilson, while he
procures a horse and saddle for his wife. With him
I will join you to-morrow, and with Rawlins, who
I doubt not by this time has got a pretty strong
party together, we will try what we can to capture
the master spirit of the band. If we take him, we
need give ourselves but little trouble about the rest.
He is the chain that binds them together—and without
him, they fall apart without strength, success, or
object. We will rope these scoundrels to trees
where they cannot see or communicate with each
other, and lest they should employ our signals, it
will not be amiss to put a handkerchief in their
mouths.”

“A handkerchief indeed!” cried Jamison,—“that
would be a mighty foolish waste, when there's so
much fine green moss to be had for the picking.”

The economical views of Jamison prevailed, and
the mouths of the struggling prisoners were well
wadded with green moss in preference to silk bandannas.
They were roped to trees in deep and
dark recesses of the swamp; but it was not without
great reluctance, that Jamison was persuaded to
turn away, and forbear the use of a certain bunch
of hickories, armed with which, he had prepared
himself to requite the rogues for the offensive rebuke
under which he had been compelled, after a
fashion, to submit in the presence of Mr. Justice
Nawls. Vernon saw that he was dissatisfied with
the forbearance of his friends towards the criminals,
which he thought as little due to their deserts, as to
the cause of justice. They all rode from the place
together to the high road, but the Alabamian was
very taciturn as they rode; his mind seemed to be
brooding over some yet undigested purposes. Their

parting was evidently hurried on the side of Jamison;
and when his two friends had gone from sight
on their way to Lucchesa, the matter that troubled
him, found expression in words aloud.

“Grim! But I'd sooner sleep in the swamp myself,
than let them chaps off without a licking.
'Tain't every day that a rogue gets what he deserves,
and 'tain't every month that Dick Jamison
cuts a bunch of hickories to throw away. It would
be a most monstrous wasting of the wood, to cut a
dozen hickories for nothing—besides, it's a mighty
great resk to leave the fellows behind, any how:
'spose they get away—then, where's the satisfaction?
No, no, that's not my notion—I must write a name
on the backs of the critters, so that I may know 'em
again, when I see 'em. Then, if they get away,
'twon't be so bad; and one person, that I know of,
will be a mighty sight easier in his conscience. I
reckon, if I did'nt lick 'em, my horse would go
mighty rough over the road to-night—I know I
shouldn't sit well in the saddle, and my spirits would
be a cursed sight heavier than a fat parson's after a
bad collection-Sunday.”

This soliloquy was made while the speaker took
his way back to the spot which he had just left.
We need not add, that he carried out in execution,
the sentiments and resolutions which it expressed.
The hickories were not wasted; and, according to
the usual ideas of border justice, in all parts of the
world, the rascals met with their deserts. Satisfied
with his administration of the border law, the Alabamian
found the movement of his horse and conscience
equally easy while he rode upon his way that
night. He sat as well in his saddle as ever, and a
heavy load, for the time being, was taken from his
heart.