University of Virginia Library

26. CHAPTER XXVI.

As all the particulars in my situation were
known to himself, I was content that he should
have the management of the affair. It is true,
some doubts of his good faith occasionally disturbed
me, but they were soon dissipated with
the reflection that, had he meant me mischief,
nothing would have been more easy than to have
carried out his purpose while I slept. He had
disarmed me of my most effective weapons,—had
afterwards restored them to me,—and, besides,
the manner of the man amply denoted the sincerity
of those denunciations of his principal, in
which he so violently dealt. Still, though resolved
to confide in him, I felt very reluctant to await

the outlaw in the close den in which I was
cabined. Could I have been sure of his route in
approaching, I should have certainly gone forth
and waylaid him. But the more I reflected, the
more I felt the prudence of leaving the matter
to Mowbray. At all events, I was weaponed!
I could do mischief! I could make my enemy
pay dearly for his conquest, if he succeeded in obtaining
it. I was resolved, not alone, to perish,—
and, above all things, not to suffer myself to be
taken alive! I had too vivid a recollection of
that humiliating half-death, by the rope, which I
had already undergone at the hands of this
butcher.

A more tedious hour than that which followed,
I never passed in all my life. My head, meanwhile,
was filled with a thousand doubts, suspicions
and apprehensions—but, as the more manly
course, after all, is to give no half confidence to
your ally, I yielded myself up to patience with all
my philosophy. To keep quiet, in the one position,
in the guise of sleep, was the most difficult
of all efforts, and required the utmost inflexibility
of nerve. This was the last and most urgent necessity,
since I was not to know at what moment
the enemy would peer into my premises. A thousand
times I fancied whispers and approaches
from without. The lifting of a dried leaf by the
wind,—the straining or the sighing of a bough
under the same pressure—these would make my
heart beat and jump with the liveliest anxiety.
But I may say, confidently, that I succeeded in

quelling my impatience, so as to maintain a position
of the utmost physical inflexibility. I do not
think, after the first three minutes succeeding the
departure of Mowbray, that I stirred a muscle.
I very well know that I did not move a limb.
Those three minutes I devoted to stirring the
priming in my pistols and putting them on cock—
shrouding myself as closely as possible in the
darkest corner of my den, and putting myself just
in that position which would enable me to command
the entrance, with the best possible prospect
of doing my work efficiently.

Thus prepared, I endured the hour—for it was
fully that—of interval, which followed the departure
of Mowbray, before I became conscious of
his return. The ears of him who watches for his
foe are singularly keen and apprehensive. Miss
Baillie, in one of her plays, has a happy illustration
of this exquisite nicety of sense, under such
circumstances. I cannot say that I heard the approach
of Bud Halsey, at the very moment when
I yet knew that he was nigh. The instinct of
hate or love, is a nicer sense than any which we
have in ordinary. It is an instinct—a sort of spiritual
sense, which, leaping the ordinary outworks
of nature, takes in the coming events long before
they have cast a shadow over the citadel. I knew
that my enemy was nigh, though I did not hear a
footstep—not a whisper reached my ears—not a
sound disturbed the familiar silence,—yet I felt
that he was breathing in the same atmosphere
with myself. I felt my heart bound—I felt my

pulses quicken—but I was prepared for the worst!
Fully ten minutes followed of the most nervous
anxiety. Still, not a sound—not a movement!
Cautious, indeed, were the approaches of the outlaw,
and though, every moment, more and more
impatient for action, yet the very caution of mine
enemy tended to the increase of my strength. At
length I was made conscious of a sound, and, an
instant after, the light of the moon glinted from the
blade of a knife, which I now perceived to be
working upon the wythes which fastened the door.
A few moments sufficed to sever them on each
side, and I then saw that the door, which was a
massive one, was gently, and with ease, lifted
from without, and lodged on the inside, resting
against one of the posts. The figure of the person
by whom this was done, was now partially
apparent to me, but, as the front of the house was
in shadow, I could not sufficiently distinguish the
individual. Could I have been sure of my man,
nothing would have been more easy than to have
shot him where he stood. But I suffered him to
enter, which he did, so cautiously, that, though I
saw him approach, I never heard a footfall. One
more step brought him into the light of the moon,
and then, thrusting one of my pistols forward, I
pulled trigger upon him. To my utter consternation
the weapon gave no report. The flint gave
no fire. Before I could present the second pistol,
I heard an exclamation from the lips of Mowbray,
at the entrance—a single “Ha!” in tones of mortification,
and I then beheld him dart upon the outlaw,
while he was advancing upon me, and strike
him twice in the back. A terrible yell burst from
the lips of Bud Halsey, as he turned upon his assailant.

“Traitor!” he exclaimed, “it is you!”

As he turned, with this exclamation, I sprang
forward, clapped my remaining pistol to his head
and fired—this time with effect. My bullet went
through his brain at the very moment when, grasping
Mowbray by the throat with one hand, with
the other he drove the bowie knife, which had
been destined for my bosom, through that of my
confederate. Halsey sunk down lifeless, in a
heap at my feet; while Mowbray, with outstretched
arms, staggered backward, and leaned for a
moment against the unhung door, which shook
beneath his frame. He spoke but a few words,
but they belonged not to the present scene or circumstances.

“Raise my voice, my brethren—cry aloud,—
the time is at hand.”

“Mowbray!” said I, grasping his body and endeavoring
to support him, as I saw that he was
about to fall.

“Ah!” said he, with momentary consciousness,
“I see how it is! There's no use now! But tell
her—tell her all.” His lips parted in hurried and
frequent murmurs. I let him down gently upon
the pine straw.

“Tell her what?—tell who?—name her, that I
may know.”

“What!” he exclaimed, with a momentary recovery

of strength, “have you not heard?—have
you not understood me?”

“Not a word—not a syllable!”

“Great God!—then it's too late!” and the tears
gushed from his eyes. Still he muttered, seemed
anxious to make me hear, grasped my arm, and,
with a final effort to lift himself, sunk away, and
expired in a faint shriek, the appalling sound of
which I sometimes hear in my dreams, even to
this hour.