University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.
A SEQUEL TO AN EVIL DEED.

The probable and ultimate task which Watson Gray
had assigned to himself, for performance, on quitting the
barony that morning, was fairly over; but the murderer,
by this sanguinary execution, did not entirely conclude
the bloody work which he had thus unscrupulously begun.
He was one of those professional monsters, whose
brag it is that they make a clean finish of the job, and
leave behind them no telltale and unnecessary chips
which they might readily dispose of out of sight. He
had no scruples in pocketing the money which he had
taken from the garments of Brydone; but he knew that
the horse of the murdered man could be identified, and,
accordingly, though with much more reluctance than he
had manifested in the case of his master, he decreed to
the animal the same fate. He brought him to the spot

where he had thrown the body, and despatched him in
like manner, by putting a brace of bullets through his
head. Then, with all the coolness of the veteran ruffian,
he reloaded his weapons where he stood, and, having
done so, returned to the spot where his own steed had
been fastened. But the report of his last pistol had
awakened other echoes than such as were altogether desirable;
and he, who had so lately sent his fellow-creature
to his sudden and fearful account, was soon aroused
to the necessity of seeking measures for his own life and
safety. He had left the plain which he had made memorable
by his evil deed, not more than half a mile
behind him, when he was startled by the mellow note
of a bugle in his rear. A faint answer was returned
from above; and he now began to fear that his path
was beset by cavalry. Could it be that Stockton had
got some intimation of his departure from the barony,
and, suspecting his object, had set off in pursuit? This
was the more obvious interpretation of the sounds which
alarmed him. This was the most natural suspicion of
his mind. He stopped his horse for a few seconds on
the edge of the road, and partly in the cover of the wood;
undetermined whether to dismount and take the bushes,
or boldly dash forward and trust to the fleetness of his
steed. But for the difficulty of hiding the animal, the
former would have been the best policy. He chose a
middle course and rode off to the left, into the forest, at
as easy a pace as was possible. But he had not gone a
hundred yards before he espied the imperfect outlines of
three horsemen in a group, on the very line he was pursuing.
They were at some distance, and did not, probably,
perceive him where he stood. Drawing up his
reins, he quietly turned about, and endeavoured to cross
the road in order to bury himself in the woods opposite;
but, in crossing, he saw and was seen by at least
twenty other horsemen. The brief glimpse which was
afforded him of these men showed him that they were
none of Stockton's; but did not lessen, in any degree,
his cause of apprehension, or the necessity of his flight.
The pale yellow crescent which gleamed upon their caps
of felt or fur, and their blue uniforms, apprised him that
they were the favourite troopers of Clarence Conway;
and the wild shout which they set up at seeing him, too
plainly told the eagerness with which they were resolved
to dash upon their prey. Gnashing his teeth in
the bitterness of his disappointment, he growled, in loud
soliloquy, as he drove the spurs into his charger's sides,
and sent him headlong through the woods.

“Hell's curses on such luck. Here, when all was as
it should be, to have him cross the track. It will be too
late to get back to the captain!”

At this time, the apprehensions of Watson Gray
seemed entirely given to his superior. The idea of his
own escape being doubtful, did not once seem to cross
his mind. He looked up to the sun, which was now
speeding rapidly onwards to his meredian summits, and
muttered,—

“Eight good miles yet, and how many twists and
turns beside, the d—l only knows! Would to Heaven
that Stockton would only come into the woods now.
There could be no more pretty or profitable game for
us, than to see his rascals, and these, knocking out each
other's brains. Where the deuse did Conway spring
from? He's after Stockton, that's clear; but what
brought him below? Not a solitary scoundrel of a
runner in all last week, to tell us any thing—no wonder
when we knock our skulls against the pine trees.”

Such were his murmurings as he galloped forwards.
The pursuit was begun with great spirit, from several
quarters at the same time; betraying a fact which Gray
had not before expected, and which now began to
awaken his apprehensions for his own safety. He was
evidently environed by his foes. There had been an
effort made to surround him. This, he quickly conjectured
to have been in consequence of the alarm which
he himself had given, by the use of firearms, in his late
performances.

“So much for firing that last pistol. It was not
needful. What did I care if they did find the horse
afterwards. Nobody could trouble me with the matter.

But it's too late for wisdom. I must do the best. I
don't think they've closed me in quite.”

But they had. The very first pistol-shot had been
reported to Conway by one of his scouts, and the troop
had been scattered instantly, with orders to take a wide
circuit, and contract to a common centre, around the
spot whence the alarm had arisen. The second shot
quickened their movements, and their object was facilitated
by the delay to which Gray was subjected in the
removal of the body of Brydone, and in the search
which he afterwards made of the pockets of his victim.
He soon saw the fruits of his error—of that which is
scarcely an error in a sagacious scout—that Indian
caution which secures and smooths every thing behind
him, even to the obliteration of his own footsteps. He
had ridden but a few hundred yards farther, when he
discovered that the foe was still in front of him. Two
of the “Congaree Blues,” well mounted and armed,
were planted directly in his track, and within twenty
paces of each other. Both were stationary, and seemed
quietly awaiting his approach.

A desperate fight, or a passive surrender were only
to be avoided by a ruse de guerre. The chances of the
two former seemed equally dubious. Watson Gray
was a man of brawn, of great activity and muscle. He
would not have thought it a doubtful chance, by any
means, to have grappled with either of the foes before
him. He would have laughed, perhaps, at the absurdity
of any apprehensions which might be entertained in his
behalf, in such a conflict. But with the two, the case
was somewhat different. The one would be able to
delay him sufficiently long to permit the other to shoot,
or cut him down, at leisure, and without hazard. Surrender
was an expedient scarcely more promising.
The Black Riders had long since been out of the pale of
mercy along the Congaree; and the appeal for quarter,
on the part of one wearing their uniform, would have
been answered by short shrift and sure cord. But there
was a ruse which he might practise, and to which he
now addressed all his energies. He lessened the rapidity
of his motion, after satisfying himself by a glance behind

him, that he was considerably in advance of the rear
pursuit. He was now sufficiently nigh to those in front
to hear their voices. They charged him to surrender
as he approached; and, with a motion studiously intended
for them to see, he returned the pistol to his belt,
which before he had kept ready in his hand. This was
a pacific sign, and his reply to the challenge confirmed
its apparent signification.

“Good terms—good quarter—and I'll surrender;”
was his reply.

“Ay, ay!—you shall have terms enough,” was the
answer; and the young dragoon laughed aloud at the
seeming anxiety with which the fugitive appeared to
insist upon the terms of safety. Gray muttered between
his teeth—

“He means good rope; but he shall laugh t'other side
of his mouth, the rascal!”

Maintaining an appearance studiously pacific, and
giving an occasional glance behind him, as if prompted
by terror, Gray took especial care to carry his horse to
the right hand of the farthest trooper, who was placed
on the right of his comrade, and, as we have said, some
twenty paces from him. By this movement he contrived
to throw out one of the troopers altogether, the
other being between Watson Gray and his comrade.
Approaching this one he began drawing up his steed,
but when almost up, and when the dragoon looked momentarily
to see him dismount, he dashed the spurs
suddenly into the animal's sides, gave him free rein, and
adding to his impetus by the wildest halloo of which his
lungs were capable, he sent the powerful steed, with
irresistible impulse, full against the opposing horse and
horseman. The sword of the trooper descended, but it
was only while himself and horse were tumbling to the
ground. A moment more, and Watson Gray went
over his fallen opponent with a bound as free as if the
interruption had been such only as a rush offers to the
passage of the west wind. But a new prospect of strife
opened before his path almost the instant after. One
and another of Conway's troop appeared at almost every
interval in the forest, the pursuing party were pressing

forward with wild shouts of rage and encouragement
from behind, and a darker feeling, and far more solemn
conviction of evil, now filled the mind of the outlaw.

“A life's only a life, after all. It's what we all have
to pay one day or another. I don't think I shortened
Joe Brydone's very much, and if the time's come to
shorten mine, I reckon it wouldn't be very far off any
how. As for the captain, he don't know, and he'll be
blaming me, but I've done the best for him. It's only
on his account I'm in this hobble. I could easily have
managed Stockton on my own. Well, neither of us
knows who's to be first; but the game looks as if 'twas
nearly up for me. It won't be the rope though, I reckon.
No! No! I'm pretty safe on that score.”

The dark impressions of his mind found their utterance,
in this form, in the few brief moments that elapsed
after the discovery of his new enemy. They did not
seem disposed to await his coming forward, as had been
the case with the dragoon whom he had foiled and
overthrown. They were advancing briskly upon him
from every side. He would willingly have awaited
them without any movement, but for the rapidly sounding
hoofs in the rear. These drove him forward; and
he derived a new stimulus of daring, as he discovered
among the advancing horsemen the person of Clarence
Conway himself. Watson Gray had imbibed from his
leader some portion of the hate which the latter entertained,
to a degree so mortal, for his more honourable
and fortunate brother. Not that he was a man to entertain
much malice. But he had learned to sympathize
so much with his confederate in crime, that he gradually
shared his hates and prejudices, even though he lacked
the same fiery passions which would have provoked
their origination in himself. The sight of Clarence
Conway aroused in him something more than the mere
desire of escape. Of escape, indeed, he did not now
think so much. But the desire to drag down with
him into the embrace of death an object of so much
anxiety and hate, and frequent vexation, was itself a
delight; and the thought begat a hope in his mind,
which left him comparatively indifferent to all the dangers

which might have threatened himself. He saw
Conway approaching, but he did not now wait for his
coming. To remain, indeed, was to subject him to the
necessity of throwing away his resources of death and
of defence, upon the less worthy antagonists who were
closing up from behind. Accordingly, drawing both
pistols from his belt, he dropped the reins of his horse
upon his neck, and gave him the spur.

“Beware!” cried Conway to the troopers around him,
as he saw this action—“the man is desperate.”

He himself did not seem to value the caution which
he expressed to others. He dashed forward to encounter
the desperate man, his broadsword waving above his
head, and forming, in their sight, the crescent emblem
of his followers. With loud cries they pressed forward
after his footsteps; but the splendid charger which
Conway bestrode, allowed them no chance of interposition.
The resolute demeanour, and reckless advance
of Conway, probably saved his life. It drew the precipitate
fire of Watson Gray, and probably disordered his
aim. The bullet shattered the epaulette upon Conway's
shoulder, and grazed the flesh, but scarcely to inflict a
wound. Before he could use the second, a henchman
of Conway's, a mere boy, rode up, and shivered the
hand which grasped it by a shot, almost sent at hazard,
from a single and small pistol which he carried. In another
moment the sweeping sabre of Conway descended
upon the neck of the outlaw, cutting through the frail
resistance of coat and collar, and almost severing the
head from the shoulders. The eyes rolled wildly for an
instant—the lips gasped, and slightly murmured, and
then the insensible frame fell heavily to the earth, already
stiffened in the silent embrace of death. The space of
time had been fearfully short between his own fate, and
that which the murderer had inflicted upon Brydone.
His reflections upon that person, may justify us in giving
those which fell from the lips of Clarence Conway, as
the victim was identified.

“Watson Gray!” said he, “a bad fellow, but a great
scout. Next to John Bannister, there was not one like
him on the Congaree. But he was a wretch—a bad,

bloody wretch;—he's gone to a dread and terrible account.
Cover him up, men, as soon as you have searched
him. Lieutenant Monk, attend to this man's burial,
and join me below. We must see what he has been
about there. You say two pistol shots were heard?”

“Two, sir, about ten minutes apart.”

“Such a man as Watson Gray, never uses firearms
without good cause—we must search and see.”

Dividing his little force, Conway gave the order to
“trot,” and the troop was soon under quick motion,
going over the ground which they so recently traversed.
The search was keen, and as we may suppose, successful.
The body of Brydone and that of his horse were
found, but as he was unknown, it excited little interest.
That he was a Black Rider, and an enemy, was obvious
from his dress; and the only subject of marvel was,
why Watson Gray should murder one of his own fraternity.
It was midday before Clarence Conway took
up the line of march for Middleton Barony, and this
mental inquiry was one for which he could find no
plausible solution until some time after he had arrived
there. Let us not anticipate his arrival.