University of Virginia Library

27. CHAPTER XXVII.

I need not say, that for the moment, I was
completely stunned by the rapid occurrence of
these events, so equally terrible and unexpected.
There was my enemy at my foot insensible—my
powerful enemy, slain, and without striking a
stroke in his defence, by my inexperienced hand
—the hand which he either did or affected to
despise. True, I had my justification, for I slew
him while he was hot in pursuit of my own life.
There, too, beside him, lay my confederate,—the
unhappy Mowbray, whose own wild and ungovernable
passions had defrauded of all the high
human hopes, which good family, good education,
and rare intellectual endowments, might, under
better auspices of morality, have ensured to his
endeavors. The first feeling of stupor over, and
I sat looking upon his stiffening frame, and vague

staring eyes, glistening ghastly in the moonlight,
with thick-coming fancies. I remembered his
presentiment of evil but a little hour before—the
bewildered and only half coherent hope which he
expressed for life in the same moment—I remembered
his temporary alliance with me—to me it
mattered not the motive—by which my life had
been saved—and I felt the tears, hot and large,
come crowding into my eyes. What would I
not have given, could I have heard those last
words which he could not articulate, and which
seemed to be charged with such weighty interest
to his feelings, in the last struggles of his living
consciousness! Could he have lived only for repentance!
Could I have only been able to convey
to the bereaved and mourning wife, the wostricken
mother, the relatives and friends, the assurance
that he died in prayer, and not without a
hope! But all was a blank in that last terrible
moment, over which let the mortal curtain fall
forever.

I was roused from my musings by the necessity
for self-preservation. There was still an
enemy upon my track. With the thought, I drew
myself out of the moonlight. I stole forth in the
shadows of the house, and from tree to tree
around it, listening for the footfalls of danger. I
heard none but my own. Still, there was danger,
and it behoved me to prepare for it. I hurried
back to the hovel—re-possessed myself of
the pistol which had failed me, and which I had
cast to the ground when it became necessary to

use the other—picked the edges of the flint with
the handle of my dagger,—and thus, partially
sure of this weapon, I proceeded to make a hurried
examination of the dead bodies, in order to
possess myself of theirs. I found an armory.
Bud Halsey carried three pistols himself, and a
bowie knife; while, from the belt of Mowbray, I
plucked two more. I secured them all, not so
much with the thought that I should need them,
but simply to prevent other hands from using
them against me. Thus armed, I stole from the
hovel, and made my way in the direction of the
main trace from which I had departed.

I had two objects before me—to find a horse,
and to elude or frighten Warner. In all probability,
I should be compelled to effect the latter,
in order to secure the former object. Where the
horses were haltered, was to be ascertained.
Probably, they were in this man's keeping. He
and they were to be searched for, and at some
hazard. But I gave myself up confidingly to the
gracious providence that had carried me so far
through, and went forward with a free but cautious
footstep. If he had heard the shot, which—
within three miles, in the deep recesses of night,
he was likely to have done,—in all probability
he would make his way towards the spot whence
it issued. I might then look to meet him. At all
events, I was to seek out the other two pathways
or `Crossings,'—whether I looked for him or the
horses. In the midst of my doubts and musings,
I heard the faint hootings of an owl. It was barely

possible that this was a signal. Certainly,
owls enough, of the feathered tribe, might be expected
in such a region. But I knew how much
the outlaws were in the habit of relying upon
their powers of imitation, in communicating to
one another, under circumstances of danger or
difficulty. One thing struck me as suspicious.
I did not hear the almost immediate answer to
this summons, with which the mate of the owl
usually acknowledges the signal. I paused a
sufficient time to admit of this, and then determined
to remain where I was, under the close
cover of a tree, at least for a little space of time.
Five minutes had not elapsed, when a second
hooting, now more distinct, was echoed through
the forest. I determined to try my powers of
imitation also, and I sent forth a most vigorous,
if not equally dulcet response of

“Hoo!—Hoo!—Hoo! hoo! hoo!” There came
a ready answer! With the answer I retreated,
once more, towards the place of conflict—pausing,
after I had gone a certain distance, and waiting
for a farther signal. I did not wait for it
long, and I was delighted to find that the fellow
seemed following the sound. I gave it him again
from where I stood, then retreated another space,
and waited his approach. Again the cry, and
again the answer. I now discovered that he
was fairly in the `crossing' which led to my
den. Here then, I took my stand, within five
steps of the path upon which he came, with my
person fully concealed in the thicket, yet with the
muzzle of my pistols commanding the track and
every thing that might come upon it. And now
the question occurred to me, shall I—can I—
shoot the fellow down from my ambush, or shall
I suffer him to go forward, then, hurrying down
the road which he had left, leave him to find the

bodies, while I sought for the horses. But I had
little time for determining my course. There
was no choice. The fellow came on horseback!
Even while I meditated the question, his horse
thundered down the avenue. I resolved on the
most merciful expedient, and as the steed appeared
in sight, I gave him my bullet. The beast
dashed aside against a huge tree that stood some
fifteen steps upon the path, then fell forwards,
with a tremendous concussion, to the ground. I
had no time to lose. I rushed forward, and as I
broke through the bushes, Warner cried out to
me:—

“Captain,—Mr. Mowbray—it's me,—Warner
—what have you done? Help me! I'm half
crushed under the horse. I reckon he's done
for. He don't move!”

“Villain!” I cried, bestraddling him, as he lay
with one leg and thigh completely under the animal.
“Villain!—this moment is your last!”

“How! Who's this?” he screamed—making,
at the same time, a vain effort at resistance;—
one of his hands striving hard to find its way
into his bosom, against which my knee was
strenuously pressed.

“Do not move—do not struggle—I have no
wish to kill you,—but unless you are quiet I will
do so.”

“Is it you, Mr. Meadows?”

“Ay! you came too late.”

“Who fired before?”

“I did.”

“At whom?”

“Your master—Bud Halsey—and he lies as
stiff and silent as your horse.”

“Grim!—you don't say so.”

“It is true as gospel.”

“And Mr. Mowbray?”

“He was killed by Bud Halsey.”

“I looked for that!” said the fellow, very coolly.
“Well, Squire, if it's true what you say, I
reckon I must give in! But help me out of this fix,
for mercy's sake—I'm afeard the leg's smashed.”

“Not till I've emptied your bosom of what it's
got in it, my good fellow. Let us see.”

He offered no objections to my search, and I
drew from his bosom and waist, with some difficulty,
a pair of pistols, a bowie knife, and an ordinary
couteau de chasse,—for Warner was a
“master of the pleasant sports of Venerie.”
Though I searched narrowly, I found nothing
more, likely to endanger my safety,—and, these
secured, I proceeded to give him all the help I
could in extricating him from the body of the
horse. This was no easy task, for the animal
was one of considerable size, and the roots and
vines where he had fallen offered many obstructions.
Besides, it appeared, from the way in
which he lay, that Warner could do little for himself.
When at length relieved, he did not rise.
He strove, but could not. A moment's examination
sufficed to show that his right leg was
shattered.

“What am I to do?” was the mournful exclamation
of the ruffian.

“I'll tell you,” was my answer. “Where
have you left the horses of Bud Halsey and
Mowbray?”

He gave me directions where I should find them,
and leaving him where he lay, I at once went after
them. They were soon found, and choosing
the best, which was a noble black of Bud Halsey,
I mounted him, and led the other to Warner.

“Now,” said I, “there is but one way for you.
I will help you to mount the horse of Mowbray,
which is a short animal, and as you are a good rider,

you can keep on with me to the first settlement,
where you can get surgical assistance, or
at all events, the best assistance that the neighborhood
affords. What say you to that?”

“Thank you, sir,—but I know a better way
Only help me to get on the horse, sir, and then,
with your leave, we'll part company. It's not
every day that I can visit the settlements, and it
may be as much as my neck's worth to go in
your company.”

“Do you think I would betray you?” I said,
with loathing.

“No! sir, oh! no! I reckon I know you better,—but
you'd find it difficult to answer for me,
seeing as how I'd find it impossible to answer for
myself; and then, again, there's no need for me
to go that way for help, when I can get quite as
good or better in the Swamp.”

“Can you? Are you sure that you can reach
the Swamp?”

“Oh! very sure; for that matter I shall find
help long before I get there.”

“Be it so,” I answered. “You know best.—
You have your choice. You are your own master.”
He signified his readiness to make the effort,
and fastening the horse of Mowbray to a sapling
close beside him, I threw my whole strength into
the effort, and raised him erect—he resting, for
an instant, upon his sound leg, while I lifted him
to my shoulder, and finally to the saddle, in the
stirrup of which, planting the foot of his unbroken
limb, he contrived, with my assistance, to fling the
shattered member across. The effort was one
of great suffering, and at one moment I thought
the fellow would have fainted. But he was a
tough villain, and had been in such scrapes before.

“It's not the first time,” said he, with a groan;

“I've had the same leg smashed before, and I
reckon it wont be the last.”

“Take care,” said I, “the next time, it isn't
your neck!”

“Ah! Squire,” said the scoundrel, with a
chuckle, “it's not my neck only that's in danger!”

The reminiscence might have been fatal to him
an hour before; but I suffered the insolence to
pass unpunished. Certainly, the fellow deserved
to go scot-free who could be content to joke under
such circumstances. I saw him fairly started,
in very tolerable strength and spirits, and became
satisfied that he should thus depart, from the
coolness and confidence which he manifested.—
He uttered his thanks and acknowledgments very
civilly, and, seeing him fairly under way, I also
took the saddle. In a few moments he was off in
a smart canter, while, taking the opposite direction,
I proceeded also at a similar pace. Whether
he lived or died, recovered his limb, or went
lame through life, I cannot say. He has no farther
interest in my story. For this, almost as
brief a paragraph will suffice. I reached Leaside
without further adventure or interruption of
any moment. I stopped a night with `plain
Yannaker,' who eyed my black with the wistful
eyes of one who had his doubts and curiosities.
But he asked no questions. Some day, Yannaker
shall make a story of his own.—How my mother
blessed me and kissed me, and welcomed me
home—how she looked into my face and wondered
at its sedateness—how my father pressed me
for a narration, which, until this moment. I have
shared with none,—these call for no farther development.
But there was a cloud upon my brow
which neither had ever beheld there before—and
there was an abstraction in my glance, which was
strangely at variance with the imperious and direct
gaze with which, before that season, I had

met every other eye. In the brief space of two
months, I had counted years by moments. I had
crowded the events of a long life, into the limits
of a single moon.