University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.

Balcombe now seated himself quietly, and
awaited the movements of the law; but soon a
bustle was observed, and, elbowing his way through
the crowd, the constable reappeared, conducting
Keizer strongly ironed. At the sight of Balcombe
the poor fellow's face brightened, and he exclaimed,

“Ah! colonel, I am glad to see you. Now you
are come, I hope these fools will learn to have a
little more sense. For my part I cannot make
them hear a word.”

“Be quiet, John,” said Balcombe. “It is our
turn to hear what they have to say. But, no!”
continued he, rising to his feet, “I believe it is
right that I should at once speak out plainly, and
tell all I know about the matter.”

He accordingly went on, and with great distinctness
and simplicity told the whole story as I
have given it to the reader.

When he had gone through, the testimony on
behalf of the prosecution was called for.

Mr. Jones was now sworn, and deposed, that on
Sunday evening he and Montague had both walked
out from the campmeeting, in a pause of the exercises,
to mediate, and had accidentally fallen together.
That they were much in the habit of
intercommunication of thoughts on religious subjects,
and that their conversation took a turn which
they both felt to be edifying and profitable. They
accordingly prolonged their walk, and wandered
down the glen that led to the Rockhouse.

“We were often in the habit,” continued the
good old man, “when we had been taking sweet
counsel together, of uniting in prayer to the throne
of grace; and we took particular pleasure in praying
together in such places, where no eye but
God's could see us, and no ear but God's could

hear us. When we got near the river, says he,
`Brother Jones—”'

“Stop, sir,” said the young fellow I have mentioned,
who had bustled in, and taken his seat at
the table; “nobody wants to hear what Mr. Montague
said.” Then turning to the justice, he added,
“This is hearsay, may it please the court, which
is not evidence. If Mr. Montague knows anything
about the matter he ought to be here, sir.”

“Is it on my behalf, Mr. Perkins,” said Balcombe,
quietly, “or on behalf of the state, that
you make this objection?”

“On your behalf, certainly, sir.”

“Then, sir, I will thank you to let Mr. Jones go
on. I want to hear what Mr. Montague said.”

The witness continued,

“Mr. Montague said, `Brother Jones, is not
there a cave somewhere near this?'

“`Yes, says I; `there is a sort of a cave close
by on the river bank.'

“`I love,' says he, `to go into such places, and
there, in God's own temples, not made with hands,
to meditate upon his mighty works and worship in
secret.'

“`Well,' says I, `Brother Montague, suppose
we go there now, and unite in prayer.'

“So he agreed, and we went on. As soon as
we got to the mouth of the cave, the first thing we
saw was that pistol. I picked it up, and as soon as
I looked at it I was sure I had seen Mr. Balcombe
with a pair just like it, and I told Brother Montague

so. Well, we both thought it mighty
strange; and presently we came to a place where
there was an amazing quantity of blood, just like
as if a hog had been stuck there. You may be
sure this made me feel mighty queer, and so we
began to look about on the ground, and we found
that picture. And then we took notice of a power
of tracks, some shoes and some moccasins, and
they were all mightily mixed up, and looked like
as if people had been scuffling and fighting. Then
we went back to the blood, and there was a mark
from the edge of the bank, where the blood was,
down to the water, like as if a hog or something
heavy had been dragged down the bank, and part
of the way the blood was smeared along the track,
just as if the thing, whatever it was, had been
lying in it, and had dragged the blood along with
it; and alongside of that mark of blood there were
tracks of a small foot with a moccasin on, dug
deep in the sand, like as if a man had been pulling
hard at something.

“`Brother Jones,' says Brother Montague—”

“Stop, sir,” said Perkins, “until we know
whether Mr. Balcombe is willing to hear what
Brother Montague said.”

“Mr. Perkins,” said Balcombe, “I will thank
you to let Mr. Jones go on; and I beg, sir, you
will not prejudice my case by leading people to
suppose that I have deemed it necessary to avail
myself of the captious quibbles of a pettifogging
attorney. Go on, if you please, Mr. Jones.”

Jones went on:

“`Brother Jones,' says Brother Montague,
`this looks mighty like there had been some foul
play here.'

“`I am afraid so,' says I.

“`Suppose,' said he, `we take a pole, and feel
if there's anything in the water.'

“So I agreed, and we cut a pole and felt, but the
water was deep just there, and we could not touch
bottom. And so, sir, as I drew the pole out, just
at the water's edge I felt it strike something that
felt hard and sounded hollow like; and I stoops
down and gets hold of it, and I found it was a
powderhorn. That's the same powderhorn,” continued
he, pointing to that on the table. “So then
we looked about, sir, and not far below, just at the
mouth of the branch, was a little sand bar, and we
saw something on the upper edge of it that looked
as if it might be a man. So we got as near as we
could, and looked good at it, and then we were
right sure it was a man. By this time the sun
was about down, and we had not time to go for a
boat, and we concluded the body would not wash
away, and we'd get help in the morning, and come
down and take it away. So we started home, and
as we went, just about the head of the hollow we
meets Keizer. I had the horn in my hand, and I
saw him look mighty hard at it, but he said nothing.
And he had his rifle in his hand, for all it was Sunday,
and his shot pouch, and belt, and knife, and
all, but he had no horn. So says I,

“`Mr. Keizer, you seem to have lost your powderhorn,
and I have just found one: maybe this is
yours.'

“`I dare say it may be,' says he. `Let me look
at it.'

“So he takes it and looks at it, and he looked
mighty queer, and says he, `I believe it is mine;'
and with that he takes out the stopper, and turns
like he was going to pour some powder in his
hand, and the water run out; and then he started
and looked confused, and says he, `No, it cannot
be mine—I don't think it's mine.'

“`Well,' says I, `Mr. Keizer, if you were going
this way to look for yours, you need not go any
farther, for Mr. Montague and I have been all the
way down to the Rockhouse, and have not seen
anything of it; and so you'd as well turn back with
us.' Well, sir, he look'd mightily as if he did not
know what to do, and that is not a common thing
with him; so he turned back, and went on with
us towards the camp, and as soon as he got there
he left us, and got into the crowd. I kept my
eye upon him, though, and presently I got a chance
to speak to one or two, and they seized him without
making any disturbance more than could not
be helped. But we could not be so quiet about it
but what there was some little rumpus, and there
was a couple of Indians came up, that looked as if
they were friendly to Keizer; but he spoke a word
or two to them in Indian, and they went off. So
we took him to my house and secured him, and

early in the morning a party went down and
brought up the body.”

The old gentleman here closed his testimony.
He was asked a few questions, but the answers
were nothing more than iterations of such parts of
his story as appeared not to have been understood
or remembered.

The name of Thomas Johnson was now called,
and a fellow came forward of an aspect and dress
more hideously savage than anything I had ever beheld.
His features were flushed and bloated by
intemperance, his eyes bloodshot, his hair and
beard staring and sunburnt, stuck full of bits of
straw, and matted with filth; his dress of leather
from head to foot, and for blood, and dirt, and
grease, that in which I had first seen Keizer might
in comparison have become a ballroom. His moccasins
were of raw deer skin. Patches of that
material were rudely stuck, by means of thongs
of the same, on different parts of his garments,
and in some places the sowing having given way,
the horny edges were curled upward disclosing
the holes they were meant to hide. The tout ensemble
of ferocity and beastliness was horrible to
look upon. So degraded and hateful a specimen
of humanity I had never conceived of. He advanced
to the table, and from his red eye scowled
a look of malignity upon Balcombe that would have
become the features of the arch-fiend himself.
When the oath was tendered to him, he clutched
the book with his huge fist in a way which showed
that he was an utter stranger to the ceremony.

Having blundered through the form, he proceeded
to identify the body of the deceased as that
of Andrew Ramsay. He had known him from his
childhood; they had been boys together, and were
both natives of the county of Tazewell, in Virginia.
They had been together ten years before in an expedition
towards the Spanish country with a company
that put themselves under the command of
Balcombe. He stated that while in the wilderness
they had fallen in with a party of Spaniards and
Indians, and camped near them for a day or
two. That suddenly Balcombe's party were put
under marching orders, and moved off to a distance
from the other company; that on the march
Ramsay was seized, and accused of having conspired
to betray his companions to be plundered
and murdered by the Spaniards. On hearing the
particulars of the charge, the witness said he knew
it to be false of his own knowledge, but did not
dare to say a word, for he saw that Ramsay was
prejudged, and feared lest he himself might be
charged as an accomplice. That Ramsay was
condemned to receive one hundred lashes, which
were administered by the hand of Keizer, and
then turned out into the wilderness to take his
chance to starve or be scalped. That he made
his way into the Spanish country, and that the
witness, in a subsequent expedition to that country,
had fallen in with him. That they had not long
since returned together; and that Ramsay, meeting
with Balcombe and Keizer, had avowed a

determination to prosecute them for reparation.
That he had on Saturday evening seen Balcombe
and Scott walking in the wood near the head of
the hollow; that they had there met Ramsay, and
that all three went together down the glen towards
the Rockhouse a little after sunset; that not seeing
Ramsay again that night or next day, he suspected
something as soon as he heard of the dead body.
That he had gone with the party that brought it
up, and knew it to be the body of Ramsay.

I will not detain the reader with the shuffling
and prevarications of this fellow when questioned
whether Ramsay was alone when he met Scott
and Balcombe. They could not do much to deepen
the impression on the minds of all who saw him,
that his testimony could answer no end but to supply
any link in a chain of evidence which it might
be technically necessary to establish, but which no
one could think of impeaching. I do not suppose
that his evidence, in fact, proved anything but the
dead man's name. Being asked if he had seen
Montague that evening, he said that he had never
heard of any person of the name of Montague.
This was probably true enough according to
Madge Wildfire's theory, that rogues should never
know each other's names.

Another fellow of the same kidney was then called,
who swore that he had seen Keizer that evening
about dusk walk down the river at the ferry, and
turn down the bank towards the Rockhouse. As
he said nothing about the Indians, it was obvious

that although John had done so, he had not seen
him. Several other persons were called, who
recognised the powderhorn as Keizer's. It appeared,
also, that the measure of his remarkably
small foot had been taken, and found to agree with
the track on the shore. It was further identified
by a patch on one of his moccasins. As to the
picture and the pistols, Balcombe and Scott
avowed the ownership of them.

I was now called upon, and without any interruption
told my story, in which, as it regarded the
interview with Montague, I was supported by
Colonel Robinson, which tallied so exactly with
Balcombe's distinct and perspicuous narrative as
to leave no doubt that he had been the party assailed,
and to make it probable that the death of
Ramsay had been made necessary by his own conduct.

The result was, that though the importance of
the case made further investigation indispensable,
yet the accused parties were all, without difficulty,
admitted to bail, and bound to appear at the next
court.

Balcombe now inquired where the body was,
and being told it was in the next room, expressed
a wish to see it. He recognised it at once as the
body of Ramsay, and coolly examined the wound.
It appeared that the ball had entered close under
the left arm without touching the limb, and ranging
backward, had broken the backbone between the
shoulderblades. Balcombe, without calling the

attention of others to this, merely remarked to me
that this confirmed the impression on his mind,
that Ramsay was in the act of firing when he was
shot. It was too dark to see anything distinctly,
but the shadowy figure imperfectly sketched on
the dim sky beyond showed some such attitude.
He now had no doubt but that at a venture the
wretch was determined to throw a ball in the
direction whence his whistle had just proceeded.
I was pleased to observe that what he said was
overheard by others, and favourably received;
the more so, perhaps, because he had not seemed
to intend to make any such impression, or to remark
that he had made it.