University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.

The moment after, her father and uncle entered
the room. The latter looked at me with a keen,
stern, searching glance.

“Who's this? Who have we here?”

He was answered by his brother.

“The young man, Colman, of whom I spoke
to you.”

“Colman! Colman! I have seen his face before.”

It was the time for me to speak.

“You have, sir,—at all events, I have seen
you. We met a few nights ago at one Yannaker's.”

“Your memory is good, I see,” was his reply,
with something of a sneer in his accents. “But
what brought you here? You followed us!”

“Scarcely, I think, else I should not have got
here before you. My horse had very much the

selection of the route to himself. In every respect
he may be said to have brought me here.”

“And who are you? What is your name?”

“My name is Colman—Henry Colman, sir. I
am from West Tennessee. I have related to this
gentleman all the facts in my history necessary
to be known.”

The tone of my speech was intended to show a
proper degree of resentment at the abruptness of
his, and to check the sort of cross-questioning to
which he seemed disposed to subject me. His
brother interposed.

“Yes, Bud, you have already heard.”

“True,—but what of that. I have no objection
to hear again. Truth never suffers from
twice telling. I know the young fellow has killed
his man about a horse, and flies here for shelter
from the Sheriff. All very well, and very
straight;—but what's the upshot of it. Does he
expect to remain here forever—or does he propose
at some convenient day to return, and blab
every thing that he has seen and heard among
those who give him protection.”

“As a man of honor,”—I began.

He interrupted me.

“Hark ye, lad, were you a spy upon us, you
would still insist, if questioned, that you are a
man of honor. Perhaps, it is not men of honor
that we want,—but bondsmen. We deal with
our men as the devil is said to deal with them.
We take security for their good will to us, by requiring

of them the performance of some evil
deed to others. Will you commit another crime?
You see I do not mince the matter. Will you
join us?”

I gave a single glance at Helen Halsey. I
shall never forget the appealing expression of her
dark and dewy eyes. Her hands were clasped
—her form bent forward, as if waiting for my answer.
That was tolerably prompt.

“What if I say `No'?”

“Ha! you dare then?” and his brow grew
black; the heavy muscles corrugating in little
knots above his eyes, like so many young serpents
coiled together, while his feet advanced, and his
shoulders seemed to work convulsively, as if preparing
for a mighty struggle. I receded a step,
and put my hand into my bosom, as I replied:—

“I will not be driven by any man.”

Here, Bush Halsey, Helen's father, interposed,
and drew the other aside. His words, which
were those of entreaty and expostulation, only
reached my ears in part;—but the reply of the
other was fierce and loud.

“You are a fool, Bush, for your pains, and I
am a greater fool for submitting to you, as I do.
You should not meddle in these matters at all.
You have nothing to do with them.”

Here some words escaped me. Bush Halsey
again spoke, and his reply was entirely lost. He
spoke for several minutes, interrupted now and
then only by some single expletive, uttered sometimes

in scorn, sometimes in impatience, by the
lips of the other. The final speech of the latter,
set me at rest for the moment.

“Have it as you please. But let him not leave
your own premises. If I find him prowling
where he should not be, let him beware.”

This was intended for my ears, for the glance
which accompanied the words, was bestowed
wholly upon myself. This said, he took one step
towards us, then, suddenly wheeling about, without
a farther syllable to any, he strode from the
apartment. A moment before, and Helen had retired
to her room. Her father then approached
me.

“You hear the terms of your stay among us.
It makes your retreat a prison, yet that is favorable
to your circumstances. No reproach can be
urged against you, for remaining where you are
under a sort of duresse. For your sake, I am
glad that it is so. My brother is a violent man.
We differ, as you may see, materially in temper.
He has been rendered more violent, and perhaps
unjust, by frequent injustice. Indeed, we have
both suffered from a like cause; but it is my fortune
still to remain somewhat human—possibly,
because I have been left one human blessing
which was denied to him. I am still a father.
But come. Walk with me now, and I will show
you your prison limits. You must not suppose
yourself without privileges. Your bounds are
not too close for sport and moderate exercise.

The island which I occupy is free to you in every
quarter, and it is not so small as you might
imagine. Come, I will shew you my dominions.”

Our ramble was a long but pleasant one. My
prison was a spacious one, well wooded and
watered, completely insulated by creeks, and admirably
chosen for the residence of a recluse.
My companion carried me to his favorite walks
—pointed out his fishing traps—his choice fishing
grounds in spring and summer—a delectable
bathing place, and more than one ample area, in
which could be seen the implements of exercise,
the quoit, the bar, &c., all convenient, and all arranged
with the eye of experience and art. At
certain points of view, I could see men on the opposite
side of the creek, engaged in various duties,
some sawing or chopping, others busy about boats
and other matters, and now and then, one might
be seen peering through a copse, as if engaged
in no better business than that of seeing what his
neighbors were after. The redoubtable Bud
Halsey was no where visible. After all, my
prison limits were not without their attractions.
Every moment with Bush Halsey, proved him to
be more and more a man of thought and observation.
He was full of anecdote, sometimes indulged
in a little fit of broad humor, and was at
all times the most interesting companion. And
when I thought of Helen, I smiled at the thought
which could suppose that I could feel any privation,
in the same prison bonds with her.