University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

My reader, if he still has in his veins any of
the hot blood of his early manhood, will easily
understand how the exhortations and warnings
of the landlord, so significant and forcible as they
were, should have awakened in me the spirit of
curiosity, and prompted into activity my natural
passion for adventure. My damsel became, in
my eyes, the heroine of romance, to be rescued
from the bearded giant—to be won with feats of
arms, and the most reckless audacity. I began,
the moment I was fairly out of sight of Yannaker's,
to examine the neat silver mounted pistols,
—the property of a dear departed brother—
which had long been my favorite possession, and
which I now carried in the pockets of my overcoat.
It will amuse, rather than alarm, the
reader, to describe these mortal weapons. They
were of the smallest calibre, capable of carrying
only a buckshot, and useless for any purpose unless
with their muzzles fixed upon the very bosom
of an enemy. But I had little experience which
could test their value. Like other boys, I had
been taught by a tender mother that lead and
powder were horridly dangerous things, and that
pistols were pistols. As I gazed on the pretty
playthings which I carried, and saw that the
priming was dry and grainy, I was inspired with

as much confidence in their efficiency as ever
had that famous knight—I forget his name—who
wielded Excalibar—in that spell-endowed weapon.
A dirk-knife, of more respectable dimensions
which I wore in my bosom, completed my equipments
in this respect.

I need not say that I pursued my way almost
at random. I have said that four roads diverged
into different regions of country, from the area
in which the house of Yannaker stood. I had
dashed on that which had presented to the casual
eye the most obvious carriage track, and with all
the ardor and the hope of youth, I followed this
route till sunset, when I found myself in front of
a wigwam, in the door of which stood a haggard
woman, scarce able to move, bearing in her
countenance all the proofs of a severe visitation
of autumnal fever. From her I learned that no
carriage had passed that day, and, indeed, before
I made the inquiry, I had lost all fresh traces
along the road of the vehicle, which I had set
out to follow. Here was a quandary. To return
then was out of the question. My love and
romance together failed to inspire me with any
desire for riding back over such a road, and on a
night which promised to be equally cold and
starless. To go farther was idle, considering
my objects, and I gathered from the woman of
the house that her dwelling was the only one on
that road within fifteen miles. I was perforce
compelled to remain where I was,—a necessity
which, when I saw the cheerlessness of the interior,

was felt to be even heavier than the protracted
journey. But for my faithful horse, I had
taken the back track, and seen `plain Yannaker'
by the next day's dawn.

I must hurry over the next three days. They
were unmarked by any event of importance.
Nothing had occurred having any bearing on my
purpose, nor did I feel or find myself, up to this
time, one step nigher to the fair object who was
still the warmest and most vivid presence in my
imagination. I had, meanwhile, retraced my
course to Yannaker's, heard more of his warnings
with as little heed, tried another of the roads
diverging from his house with as little profit, and
now, in a third direction, was laboring at the
close of day among the swamps of Choctawhatchie.
That night, the brown heath and dried
leaves formed my bed, my canopy was the tree
and sky, while a rousing fire at my feet, and in
front of my horse, served to keep at a distance
any beasts of prey which might have been disposed
to disturb us, I confess I slept little. I
had not so much faith in the effect of fire upon
wolf and tiger. I was in a region where they
still were found, and what with seeing to the
comforts of my horse, gathering brands, and trying
to keep warm, the morsels of sleep which I
caught were equally small and unsatisfactory.
It was more refreshing to me to get fresh glimpses
of another day.

Once more afoot, and with the dawn. My

brave steed had borne the privations of the night
better than myself. At least he wore a more
cheerful aspect in the morning—and this encouraged
me. I dashed forward with that neck-or-nothing
philosophy which feels itself prepared for
whatever may turn up, though with a lively hope
that it may take the shape of breakfast. No man
can endure long the want of hunger as well as
sleep. One or other he may stand with tolerable
fortitude for thirty-six hours, chewing the
cud of his reflection, in the absence of tenderer
meats,—but denial of both, for such a period, will
go nigh to unnerve and undo the bravest. Just
then, however, I felt very sure there was no
standing hunger half so long. The idea of a
smoking breakfast, I modestly confess, had put to
slumber, for the time, certain other far more sublimated
ideas.

I had not to ride far—perhaps some eight
miles—before I found my breakfast. This was
at an Indian cabin, as miserable a mud hovel as
ever engendered vermin, and reduced humanity,
a willing victim, to their ravages. My host was
a half-breed,—one of those dark, untamed, surly
savages, such as the Indian, with a white cross,
almost invariably becomes. He placed my food
before me as if it was poison. His looks, indeed,
seemed to defeat its alimentary properties, for I
ate with suspicion, and it did little help to my
digestion. Fortunately, my horse found no such
fault with his corn and fodder, probably because

he looked at them rather than the hands by which
they were furnished. My host eyed me in
silence, took my money with the air of one who
would just as lief take my life, and watched my
departure from his door with the indifference of
one who is assured that it must be taken wherever
I may go. My reflections, owing to sleeping in
the woods, starvation, bad food, and sulky savages,
had become far less audacious, knight-errantlike,
and consolatory than usual. There was but one
remedy for them, and that lay in the spur at my
heels. I touched up the sides of my horse, whom
a hearty breakfast had rendered somewhat dull,
and on we went, dashing through a region that
not only grew more wild, but more watery at
every step. The conviction that a river was at
hand, reminded me that my incognita had said
that she lived beside one, and this memory, with
the increased rapidity of my motion, served to
disperse, in some degree, my disquieting reflections.

It was towards midday, when I was suddenly
startled by sounds, like those of a horse, at some
little distance before me. This led me to prick
up my senses a little, and feel in my pockets for
my pistols.

But, just then, I had no need of them. A moment
more shewed, and dissipated, the occasion
of my alarm. Man and horse came suddenly in
sight, wheeling out from a little Indian trail, a
little ahead, and on the right hand of the path

which I was pursuing. The horse was a miserable
hack, driven to the top of his speed—which
was no great matter,—by the unrelaxing application
of whip and spur. The rider was evidently
engaged in a race for life. He was a small person,
well wrapped up in clothes, with a brand-new
beaver on his crown, and a smart whip with an
ivory handle in his grasp. His boots and unmentionables,
originally of city make and good cloth,
had been in close acquaintance with the tenacious
yellow mire, which was abundant enough at
every turning. His face was sharp and his eyes
vigilant; at an ordinary time, and under ordinary
circumstances, it is probable that their expression
was sufficiently shrewd and sagacious, but just
then, it was pale with fear, and expressive of no
other quality. The man was evidently half-scared
to death. I drew up and faced him. He
would have dashed aside in consternation, regarding
me as an enemy; but my voice arrested and
somewhat quieted him. Besides, having unconsciously
planted my heavier steed directly across
the track, no spurring or whipping that he could
use, could force forward the feeble animal he
rode. He was accordingly, breathless and looking
back, compelled to stop.

To make a long story short, he had been robbed,
most civilly, according to his own account,
some three hours before. His business had been
to collect certain monies, in which object he had
succeeded. The money—a considerable amount

—had been promptly paid him by his debtor, from
whom he had taken leave and gone upon his way
rejoicing. But he rejoiced not long. An hour had
not elapsed, ere he was accosted by the rogues,
two in number, and they—women.

“Women!” I exclaimed with equal astonishment
and mirth. The pitiful fellow shrunk beneath
my glance, and made a stammering explanation
which half excused him. According to
his belief they were women only in costume.
Like the worthy Welshman, in the case of Falstaff—
he “liked not when a 'omans has a great
peard; he spied a great peard under her muffler.”
One of the rogues, it seems, had been so indifferent
to propriety of costume, as to make her toilet without
shaving; and a grisly beard a month old, had
made the pistols which she presented to the breast
of the collector, doubly potent in his eyes. The
pistols were clearly masculine. Having relieved
him of his pleasant burden, they laid a hickory
over his own and horse's back,—a mode of objurgation
which horse and man seemed equally prepared
to comprehend. He heard but the one
comforting assurance that they gave him at parting,
that if he only dared to look back for an instant,
like Lot's wife, they'd salt him forever. He
had ridden some fifteen miles since leaving them,
taking care to incur no such penalty. His farther
information, was of some color for my own
prospects. He gave it as his opinion, that the
whole region, which he had fancied a quasi

wilderness, was alive with rogues—that the settlement
was quite a numerous one—that they occupied
every fastness and place of cover, and retreat—hammocks
and islets—in the swamps and
river

They were a vast community, kept together by
the common object and necessity, roving always
in concert, and sworn against all laws and all
honesty. He did not scruple to declare his conviction,
though this he did in a whisper, and with
an eye cast furtively around him, that even his
debtor, who had paid up so promptly, was of the
very same fraternity, who had only paid so readily
because he well knew that his associates,
would very soon put him again in possession of
the same money.

“And who was your debtor?” I asked with
some indifference, as a matter of course, and almost
heedless of the answer.

“His name's Bush Halsey.”

I felt my cheeks glow again.

“Bush Halsey?—are you sure it is not Bud
Halsey?”

“Oh, yes! He's got a brother named Bud Halsey.”

“And where's he? Is he here in the swamps?”

“No, I guess not. I heard of him night afore

last, down to'ther side of the `nation,' but he's
gone below.”

“Gone below? where?”

“I can't guess.”

“And how shall I find this Bush Halsey?”

The poor fellow was unwilling or unable to give
me directions. His fright revived when he recollected
some threats that were thrown out, of
future treatment, if he dared to reveal anything in
relation to the robbery, and my anxiety to get intelligence,
and my determination to go forward,—
expressed in spite of his counsel to the contrary—
now seemed, all on a sudden, to impress him with
the belief that I was one of the gang, and no better
than I should be. An attempt which I made
to get some further information touching the Halseys,
only rendered him more anxious to shake
off an acquaintance who might think proper, at
some sudden moment, to finish those feminine
proceedings which had been begun in the swamps;
and, seeing his disquiet, I wheeled my horse out
of his path, and bidding him God speed, boldly
turned into the dark, narrow avenue out of which
he had emerged.