University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.

I soon found my way to the saw-mill settlement,
where I accounted for my appearance by
representing myself as left by a raft, having
wandered off from one of the landings into the
Swamp. The story was plausible enough, and
occasioned no remark. I had rather more difficulty
in getting a horse than Bush Halsey had
imagined, and was content to take an old hack
at forty dollars, being, indeed, the only tolerable
animal to be had. I was enough of a jockey to
see that the creature had been once badly foundered,
nor was this denied by the owner. His
hoofs were scaled, and worn low, and he walked
tenderly, as if the quick was ailing. But it was
Hobson's choice with me, and I did not look

closely to his infirmities. I took for granted that
he was good for six days travel, and after that he
might be crow's meat for what I cared. Paying
for him, I found myself with eight half-eagles,
and some small change—more than enough to
meet my wayside exigencies; and, with a last
look upon the river whose contiguous streams
had been of such fatal interest to me, I dashed up
the narrow Indian trail which, as I was instructed,
would conduct me into the main track leading
homeward. That day I rode forty miles, and
slept at the wigwam of a mulatto, who gave his
wife—an Indian woman—a sound drubbing in
my very sight, and in spite of all my expostulations.
I believe the only offence on her part
was that she had suffered the fish to burn, which
his imperial highness had caught for his own,
and which furnished a very sorry portion of
my supper. She probably deserved all that
she got—was a sulky hag, of fierce, black,
revengeful aspect, who, in all probability will
have a day of recknoing with him on this very
account. My interposition saved her from a part
of the flogging—at all events, such was his assurance
to me while it was in progress; and with
this I had to be satisfied.

The next day I started with the dawn, paying
five dollars for my night's lodging, my own, and
my horse's supper. I soon discovered, from the
lank sides of my horse, that I had paid for him
unnecessarily. Yet had I gone into the stable

myself, and seen counted out to him thirty good
ears of corn;—this too, after he had been nibbling
for half an hour on the blades. But the corn had
been withdrawn from the trough after I had retired.
The poor animal was evidently suffering
from starvation. He bore me feebly, and with
tottering footsteps. At noon I stopped on the
edge of a field prairie, where the grass was tolerably
good, and continued for an hour to `chew
the cud of sweet and bitter fancy,' while he digested
more stable material. This freshened him
a little, and at close of day, I reached the hovel
of a Choctaw, who, in answer to my first enquiry,
replied:

“Yaow!—hab 'nough co'n—'nough fodder.—
Plenty co'n—plenty fodder! Man eat—hoss eat
—plenty co'n, 'nough co'n—too much co'n—too
much fodder!”

The assurances were thick and substantial, and
my Choctaw Boniface promised to be a landlord
after the most liberal fashion. He did not misrepresent
his corn crib: it was ample. He took
me to see it, and then conducted me to his bear-pen,
where he had a two-year-old Bruin of the
brownest complexion, taming for a pet, which he
was very anxious to sell me at seven dollars, to
carry home to my squaw. The quizzical chuckle
and wink of the good-natured fellow, as he named
the squaw, brought the tears into my eyes. He
evidently regarded me as a boy who had as yet
no thought of a wife. He had no wife, but he

fondled his bear quite as much as if it were one,
—probably much more than he would have
fondled the loveliest squaw that he could have
found in the whole bosom of his tribe. This
fellow did not spare his corn in my case, but
gave me an ample supply of bread stuffs for
supper,—together with some well broiled slices
of smoked venison, of which his cabin had a
tolerable supply. He was no doubt an active
hunter, when sober. But the signs of whiskey-worship
were sufficiently apparent in his face,
if not in his cabin. His nose had the sign manual
of strong drink, in the largest carbuncles that
human nose ever maintained—a congeries of little
red hillocks that half reminded me of a settlement
of marmozets, or prairie dogs. Unfortunately
for me, his liberality in the matter of corn, unlike
that of my mulatto host of the night before, was
as much shown to my horse as to myself. In
looking at the corn crib and the bear, I allowed
myself to be diverted from the condition of the
animal, and the Indian improvidently gave him
his corn and fodder together. The half-starved
animal naturally fastened upon the corn and surfeited
himself, and when, at dawn, the following
morning, I prepared to mount him, I found him
dead-foundered, and barely able to walk. Grieved
at the event, vexed with myself for my own neglect,
I was yet compelled to push forward; and,
paying my Choctaw his fare, which called for
another of my gold pieces, I set forward—thinking
it probable that, as the animal warmed with
walking, the stiffness would diminish or disappear.
And so it did; but not sufficiently to satisfy me,
or relieve my anxiety and impatience; and, after
dragging along at the slow pace of three miles
an hour, for seven hours, I concluded to abandon
the miserable animal, and pursue the rest of my
journey, or until I could procure another beast,
on foot. There was a slight rising of the country
on my left hand, which appeared covered with a
pretty thick growth of grass,—and into this I
rode him. The woods gave him a very good
shelter, and the grass would sustain life until he
might be picked up by some traveller or neighbor.
At all events, I was resolved not to burden
myself any longer with the care of a beast whose
limbs could scarcely support his own frame, to
say nothing of mine. Ascending the hill, I found
a beautiful hollow, where the grass, protected
from the sharper winds of winter, was still luxuriant
and tender. Here I stripped him, and, after
some search, having found a hollow gum of considerable
size, I hid away the saddle and bridle,
for future use, if necessary. I had scarcely done
this, and set the poor creature free, before I heard
the tramping of horses from above. Here, then,
was a prospect of succor and assistance, much
sooner than I could have hoped for it. I hurried
immediately towards the road-side, from which I
had been removed about an hundred yards, and
when I reached the edge of the hill which looked
down upon the road,—from which I was effectually
screened by a thick undergrowth by which
it was edged,—I was about to halloo and spring
forward, when a sudden suggestion of prudence
persuaded me to stop and first reconnoitre. Accordingly,
stooping down, I crawled forward on
hands and knees until I reached the edge of the
hill, at the foot of which the road ran, and, at this
very moment, the travellers whom I had heard
drew up below. It was well that I adopted these
precautions. The very next moment, my ears
were struck by the sounds of a voice which
grated harshly upon my ears, as that of my
worst enemy. I felt a shuddering horror through
my whole frame. Cautiously, I divided the
bushes with my hand, and looked below; and
there, sure enough, stood Bud Halsey, beside his
horse, from which he was about to lift the saddlebags.
His back was to me, but a glance sufficed
to show me that he was the man. I involuntarily
felt in my breast for my pistols. They were safe.
They were well loaded, and my nerves, disquieted
for an instant, were again firm. I felt that it
would be easy to fell the outlaw in his tracks,
and I half resolved—but it was for an instant
only—that I would do the deed. But I grew
wiser in another moment. In the intenseness of
my feelings in regard to this man, I had failed,
for the first few minutes, to see that he was not
alone. Beside him, dismounting while I gazed,
were the soi disant parson, Mowbray, and another
man, the fellow Warner, of whom I have already
spoken, as one whom I remembered to have met
before entering the Swamp.

Here was a concatenation accordingly. What
was I to do? I could not doubt the intention of
these fellows. I could not but believe that their
journey was undertaken because of my flight.
They were in pursuit of me. That they had no
idea of my proximity, I soon felt certain, as they
prepared to water the horses and to take refreshments
at the spring, which I now perceived to issue
from the hill upon which I stood, the water
foaming below in a basin several yards in breadth.
I was not more than fifteen feet above them, and,
at one time, as they were about to seat themselves,
I might have so tumbled a rock upon
them—had any been convenient—as to have
covered and crushed the three. I looked about
me, as the thought occurred to me, to see if there
was no such friendly fragment at hand.

But, if I had any doubt at first of the object of
this journey, it was soon dissipated by the dialogue
that ensued between Bud Halsey and Mowbray.
There had evidently been a good many
previous words between them, for they were both
very much irritated. The manner of Mowbray
was marked by sullenness, and that of Halsey
was fully characteristic of his extremest mood
of asperity. The first speaker whose words
were distinguishable, was Mowbray,—though the

tones of Halsey's voice had reached me as he
drew nigh.

“I really never fancied myself a fool, Mr. Halsey,
and until it can be shown that I am one,—to
blame me for my course in this business is, in
fact, in other words, to accuse me of treachery.
I see no other alternative.”

“And do you suppose, Mr. Mowbray, that, if
such a suspicion entered into my head, I should
tamely sit here palavering with you? No! no!
Sir. By G—d! the stroke would have followed
the suspicion, as certainly and soon as the thunder
follows the flash. I give few words to traitors,
I assure you.”

Mowbray muttered something which I could
not make out, but the harsh accents of Halsey
seemed to drown his utterance.

“I am not in any complimentary mood, and
therefore do not call you fool either, as you seem
to insist that I do or should. I know that you
are no fool, and it is therefore that I blame you.
But I will tell you what is the matter with you,
Mr. Mowbray—you are a vain man, with all your
wisdom, and this boy has flattered your vanity, until
he has bedevilled you. You have ceased to
watch him in listening to him. He has seen your
weak points, and contriving to make you look inwards,
you have been able to see nothing that he
has been contriving without. Your vanity, sir,—
it is your vanity, sir, that is your weakness—that

makes a fool of you, if anything—blinds you at
all events to the duties that you take in hand.”

“You speak plainly, sir, at all events.”

“Ay, ay, it's a trick I have, and as it's plain
truth that I generally speak on such occasions,
it's not a bad trick. I tell you, Mr. Mowbray,
that I have a trick of acting plainly too, upon occasion,—and
let me say in your ear, that, when
I found how completely you had suffered this
chap to slip through your fingers, in a trap of
your own making—I found it almost as easy to
put a bullet through your ears as to speak to
them!”

“I should not have been more a sufferer than
by the course you have taken. It is not too late,
sir.”

“Come, come, Mr. Mowbray,—this will not
do. I must have no sulks! You have blundered,
shockingly blundered, and I must be permitted
my own way of reproaching you for it. The
matter is a serious one. It endangers our whole
business, our lives and the safety of our men.
Let us see that there be no more blundering.
This fellow cannot long escape us. He will not,
if you do not again suffer that d—d petty weakness
of yours, to blind your eyes and baffle your
judgment.”

Mowbray was silent,—with a silence that betrayed
dissatisfaction. The other did not seem
to heed it, as he went on:

“By this time every avenue is guarded—

every outlet from the Swamp. We must be
ahead of him; and, if not, travelling night and
day for the next twenty-four hours, will make us
so. What sort of a horse was it that he got from
that old fool, Houser? Did you think to inquire,
Warner?”

“A regular break-down—a poor, foundered,
spavined critter, not worth skinning. I know the
nag well enough. I reckon he's hardly got
through the Swamp with him yet.”

“And why didn't you follow him when you
found out that he was so poorly mounted?” demanded
the outlaw.

“You forget, sir, I went down to the mill in the
boat. I had no horse, and he had a matter of
eight hours start of me.”

“Then, be sure the fellow's ahead of us still.
He's the chap to push a horse from the jump, without
asking how he's to hold out. He's ahead of
us, but can't keep so long. At all events we'll
push for the `Raccoon crossing,' and scatter there.
We should have him by another sun-rise. D—n
him! But for that foolish brother of mine, and the
poor girl—I would that her blood were not upon
my hands—poor Helen—any blood but hers!—
but for them, all this would have been prevented.
We should have had no such trouble. I should
never have been so weak—so silly—but it can be
mended—at least, it's not too late for that! There
shall be no relentings now!”

This was spoken rather in soliloquy. The

slight touch of a human nature which the outlaw
displayed, when speaking of his niece, brought
the tears into my eyes. But his expressions with
regard to myself in the next moment dried them,
and I could have pistolled him on the spot with a
coolness and recklessness not unlike his own.

Their meal was finished in silence. At the abrupt
command of their leader, Warner gathered
up the fragments, and I saw them mount their
steeds, and set off upon the journey, without moving
from my position. I caught a glimpse, as they
were mounting, of the face of Mowbray, who was
the slowest in his movements of the three. I observed
that it was almost purple with suppressed
choler. He rode after the others in silence, with
lips closely compressed, and with the air of a man
who could speak daggers, and use them too, if he
dared!