University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.
Highway Robbery.

GORDON watched the shadow of the
retreating Acton for a moment, then,
when it had disappeared with a light chuckle
he himself turned to leave the spot.

`There's a good seed planted,' he muttered
to himself, rubbing his hands, `and if it
don't grow to something handsome, it'll be
owing to some accident; that's all. Ha, ha!
a thousand dollars! To-morrow evening—
no—the evening after, he said,—well, I shall
be here, and be prepared too, for all his tricks
and traps. A thousand! ha, ha!'

`Ha, ha!' echoed a cautious laugh behind
him; and at the same time there was a light
touch upon his shoulder. `A cool thousand!
ha. ha, ha!'

Gordon wheeled about with a start, instinctively
carrying his hand to his breast
pocket—for what purpose the reader can
imagine—and throwing himself into attitude
of self-defence.

`Light, Joe!' he exclaimed in surprise,
`the devil!'

“Light Joe and the devil!' exclaimed his
companion,—`that is to say, you and I—for
damme, Gordon, if you ain't a most accomplished
child of Satan! A cool thousand!
ha, ha! A rich joke, by my soul!'

`Not bad, is it?' returned Gordon with a
chuckle. `But how the devil does it happen
that you are here?'

Joe explained.

`And you have overheard —' began Gordon.

`Every word,' said Joe, `every word—
seen the whole of the play from the first to
the last.'

`I hope not,' returned Gordon, with a grin.
`You've only seen the second act. The first
act was played a long time ago, and the best
is yet to come.'

`It's a deep tragedy, eh!' suggested Joe.

`Very deep,' said Gordon.

`Joe looked inquiringly at his companion,
who shook his head significantly—as much
as to say—`Deeper than you imagine.'

`Tell me the first act,' said Joe, `I'll be
secret, and perhaps can help you on your
benefit night,' added he with a laugh.

`My benefit night,—a good word! exclaimed
Gordon. `You shall come in for a
share then, Joe—but I declare I durst n't
let you into the plot, and I be d— if I will!'

Finding persuasion vain, Light Joe willingly
changed the topic of conversation.
He told Gordon of his interview with Kate,
and they proceeded to mature their plans for
the robbery of Mr. Acton's house as soon as
they were sure of success. They had soon
reached a retired spot on the road, when
they paused.

`It may be some time before these golden
dreams are realized,' said Joe.

`True, it may,' replied Gordon.

`And we both want money.'

`True, still!'

`We ought to have some to-night.'

`I'd be devilish glad of an opportunity to
get some,' said Gordon.

`Supposing then we try our hand—'

`At what?'

`At robbery!'

Gordon looked at Joe, and Joe looked at
Gordon again, as if they understood each
other perfectly.

`You're a rum chap, Joe!' exclaimed the
old burglar; `bold as a tiger! I was just
thinking of such a thing myself, but I was
afraid you would decline, for it is ticklish
business, robbing is—and we ain`t so much
used to it as to another sort. But what do
you say?'

Joe made no reply, but producing a pistol
went through with a little pantomime, which
appeared quite picturesque in the moonlight,
and pleased Gordon infinitely. It was a
silent way of expressing the significant sentence—`Money
or blood!'

The two friends took another road, and
proceeded still farther into the country.
They chose a spot at a distance from any

house, where they could lie concealed in the
shadow of a woody hill-side, and discover
the approach of travellers in good season.

It was a chilly night, but the robbers were
warm-blooded and hardy to endure. They
waited patiently for the approach of some
traveller worthy their attention. Several
passed them unmolested, for they were either
too poor in appearance or too well attended
to please the two adventurers. At
last, a gentleman, alone on horseback, came
riding by.

The moonlight streamed full upon the
face and person of the traveller, at sight of
whom the robbers promised themselves a
rich if not an easy prey.

His dress was plain but costly; and this,
to the adventurers, was a surer indication
that he carried money in his pocket, than
the most extravagant foppery and display.
In appearance the traveller was dignified,
easy, deliberate and firm. A dark complexion,
handsome features—the most remarkable
of which was his black, piercing eye—a
strong, well-proportioned frame, a well trimmed
but heavy mustache of the same color,
and a profusion of raven locks that shaded
his broad, intellectual forehead, made up
the striking exterior of the traveller's person.

Such was the individual who was riding
deliberately along towards Boston, when
suddenly two men sprang up before him,
like two tigers eager for their prey.

The horse was a powerful animal, and he
reared violently, but Light Joe seized him
by the bridle and held him fast.

The traveller, calm and self-possessed, put
spurs to his horse, at the same time levelling
a pistol at Joe's head. The young robber
would probably have then met with a most
tragical end, had not Gordon, springing to
the other side of the horse, seized the traveller
unawares, and dragged him forcibly to
the ground.

`A word and you die!' muttered Gordon,
planting his knee upon the traveller's breast.
`Give us your money, and you can go your
way. Be quick!'

The fallen man made no reply, but with a
sudden and most powerful effort, turned upon
his side, and threw the robber, who was
wholly unprepared for such a movement, directly
over his head.

At that moment Light Joe loosed his hold
of the frightened horse, then, as the traveller's
hand was raised to deal Gordon a blow
with the stock of his pistol, he leaped upon
him from behind, striking him with a slung
shot. The blow did little execution, and
before the young robber could repeat it, he
was thrown violently to the ground, and the
traveller's fingers were at his throat and his
knees upon his breast. As if careless of his
own life while he took vengeance on Joe,
the traveller struck him twice on the head,
regardless of Gordon who came to the rescue.
There was a flash of bright steel in
the moonlight, and Gordon's knife was buried
in the traveller's side.

It was the work of desperation, for there
was a fourth individual hastening to the
scene of the struggle.

The traveller's hold relaxed, and Joe rose
heavily to his feet while his companion kept
the new comer at bay. This last individual
was unarmed, but with a strong hand he seized
Gordon's wrist and pushed him backwards.

Seeing that Joe was fairly on his feet and
recovered from the shock he had suffered,
Gordon suddenly wrenched away the grasp
of the fresh comer, and escaped with his
companion.

`Tear open my vest,' said the wounded
man to his deliverer. `I have a cut in my
side which bleeds profusely.'

The traveller was seriously wounded, but
his voice was as calm as if he had merely
received a rent in his dress, or a scratch upon
his hand. He sat upon the ground while
the other hastened to stanch the blood that
flowed from his side, with his handkerchief.

`Shall I cry for assistance?' asked the
young man; `or do you think you could
walk a short distance with my help alone
I live not more than sixty rods farther on—
and there is where you must go, or be taken,
added the youth.

`I can walk,' said the traveller, gaining
his feet. `Give me your arm and I will try
to get along. You are very kind.'

`Did the robber strike you more than
once?' asked the young man.

`Thanks to you, I got but one stab,' replied
the traveller. `Did you see what became
of my horse?'

`He dashed by me like the wind,' said the
other. `I thought there was foul play somewhere,
and ran on to have a share in it.'

Thus the two continued to converse as
they proceeded on their way. The traveller
leaned heavily on the young man's arm, but
he uttered not a word of complaint, although
ready to faint at every step.

They arrived in the course of a few minutes
in front of a small, neat white cottage,
which the young man said was his home.
He assisted the wounded traveller along the
gravelled walk by which it was approached,
and led, or rather carried him to the door.

The traveller fainted on the threshold.

`Quick with a light, mother!' cried the
young man.

Startled by her son's agitated tones, a middle
aged lady flew to the door.

`What is the matter, Frederic?' she cried
in alarm.

The light fell upon the form of the traveller,
whom the young man held in his arms,
and she started back with a suppressed cry.

`What have you there?

`A traveller,' replied Frederic, `who had
been wounded by robbers. Throw open the
door.'

The woman complied, and lifting the stranger
in his arms, the young man carried him
to an apartment in the house and placed him
n a bed. In a short time they succeeded
in restoring him to consciousness, and Fred
ric, who happened to be a young practitioner
of the medical art, proceeded at once
to dress his wounds.

Frederic Farley was a pale, noble looking
young man, with light blue eyes, light hair,
handsome and finely moulded features, and
a slight but athletic form. He was naturally
excitable and impulsive, but possessed of
sufficient self-command to govern his feelings
on most occasions. Although scarce
five-and-twenty years of age, he had already
graduated at two colleges, and commenced
the practice of his profession. Yet he was
poor, his new business being barely sufficient
to support himself and mother in their humble
country residence.

Mrs. Farley was a widow, whose greatest
fault was her pride; not pride in worldly
goods, not pride in her own qualities, not
pride of rank or faith, but pride in the only
being she loved on earth—her son. In her
blind devotion to him, she could not see a
fault in his character, nor believe but that he
approached as near perfection as it is possible
for mortals to do. Yet maternal tenderness
did not banish other feelings from her
nature, for she had the reputation of being
one of the most benevolent, kind, simple-hearted
creatures that heaven ever placed on
earth as a contrast to its coldness, selfishness
and deceit.

It was into such hands that the wounded
traveller had fortunately fallen; and such
were the two individuals who devoted their
cares and labors to relieve a stranger's pain
and to promote a stranger's comfort, as if he
had been an old and dearly beloved friend.