University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.
MORTON'S RETREAT.

IT would be hard to analyze the emotions with which
Morton had listened to Kike's hot exhortation. In
vain he argued with himself that a man need not be
a Methodist and “go shouting and crying all over
the country,” in order to be good. He knew that
Kike's life was better than his own, and that he had
not force enough to break his habits and associations
unless he did so by putting himself into direct antagonism
with them. He inwardly condemned himself
for his fear of Lumsden, and he inly cursed Kike for
telling him the blunt truth about himself. But ever
as there came the impulse to close the conflict and
be at peace with himself by “putting himself boldly
on the Lord's side,” as Kike phrased it, he thought
of Patty, whose aristocratic Virginia pride would regard
marriage with a Methodist as worse than death.

And so, in mortal terror, lest he should yield to
his emotions so far as to compromise himself, he
rushed out of the crowd, hurried home, took down
his rifle, and rode away, intent only on getting out
of the excitement.

As he rode away from home he met Captain
Lumsden hurrying from the meeting with the jerks,
and leading his horse—the contortions of his body

not allowing him to ride. With every step he took
he grew more and more furious. Seeing Morton, he
endeavored to vent his passion upon him.

“Why didn't—you—blow—why didn't—why didn't
you blow your tin horns, this—” but at this point
the jerks became so violent as to throw off his hat
and shut off all utterance, and he only gnashed his
teeth and hurried on with irregular steps toward home,
leaving Morton to gauge the degree of the Captain's
wrath by the involuntary distortion of his visage.

Goodwin rode listlessly forward, caring little whither
he went; endeavoring only to allay the excitement
of his conscience, and to imagine some sort of future in
which he might hope to return and win Patty in spite
of Lumsden's opposition. Night found him in front
of the “City Hotel,” in the county-seat village of
Jonesville; and he was rejoiced to find there, on
some political errand, Mr. Burchard, whom he had
met awhile before at Wilkins', in the character of a
candidate for sheriff.

“How do you do, Mr. Morton? Howdy do?”
said Burchard, cordially, having only heard Morton's
first name and mistaking it for his last. “I'm lucky
to meet you in this town. Do you live over this
way? I thought you lived in our county and 'lectioneered
you—expecting to get your vote.”

The conjunction of Morton and Burchard on a
Sunday evening (or any other) meant a game at cards,
and as Burchard was the more skillful and just now
in great need of funds, it meant that all the contents
of Morton's pockets should soon transfer themselves

[ILLUSTRATION]

GAMBLING.

[Description: 554EAF. Page 133. In-line engraving of two men seated at a table playing cards while a third man looks on in the background.] to Burchard's, the more that Morton in his contending
with the religious excitement of the morning
rushed easily into the opposite excitement of gambling.
The violent awakening of a religious revival has a sharp
polarity—it has sent many a man headlong to the
devil. When Morton had frantically bet and lost all
his money, he proceeded to bet his rifle, then his
grandfather's watch—an ancient time-piece, that Burchard
examined with much curiosity. Having lost
this, he staked his pocket-knife, his hat, his coat, and
offered to put up his boots, but Burchard refused
them. The madness of gambling was on the young
man, however. He had no difficulty in persuading
Burchard to take his mare as security for a hundred
dollars, which he proceeded to gamble away by the
easy process of winning once and losing twice.

When the last dollar was gone, his face was very
white and calm. He leaned back in the chair and
looked at Burchard a moment or two in silence.

“Burchard,” said he, at last, “I'm a picked goose.
I don't know whether I've got any brains or not.
But if you'll lend me the rifle you won long enough
for me to have a farewell shot, I'll find out what's
inside this good-for-nothing cocoa-nut of mine.”

Burchard was not without generous traits, and he
was alarmed. “Come, Mr. Morton, don't be desperate.
The luck's against you, but you'll have better
another time. Here's your hat and coat, and you're
welcome. I've been flat of my back many a time,
but I've always found a way out. I'll pay your
bill here to-morrow morning. Don't think of doing
anything desperate. There's plenty to live for yet.
You'll break some girl's heart if you kill yourself,
maybe.”

This thrust hurt Morton keenly. But Burchard
was determined to divert him from his suicidal impulse.

“Come, old fellow, you're excited. Come out into
the air. Now, don't kill yourself. You looked troubled
when you got here. I take it, there's some
trouble at home. Now, if there is”—here Burchard
hesitated—“if there is trouble at home, I can put

you on the track of a band of fellows that have
been in trouble themselves. They help one another.
Of course, I haven't anything to do with them; but
they'll be mighty glad to get a hold of a fellow like
you, that's a good shot and not afraid.”

For a moment even outlawry seemed attractive to
Morton, so utterly had hope died out of his heart.
But only for a moment; then his moral sense recoiled.

“No; I'd rather shoot myself than kill somebody
else. I can't take that road, Mr. Burchard.”

“Of course you can't,” said Burchard, affecting to
laugh. “I knew you wouldn't. But I wanted to turn
your thoughts away from bullets and all that. Now,
Mr. Morton —”

“My name's not Morton. My last name is Goodwin—Morton
Goodwin.” This correction was made
as a man always attends to trifles when he is trying
to decide a momentous question.

“Morton Goodwin?” said Burchard, looking at
him keenly, as the two stood together in the moonlight.
Then, after pausing a moment, he added: “I
had a crony by the name of Lew Goodwin, once.
Devilish hard case he was, but good-hearted. Got
killed in a fight in Pittsburg.”

“He was my brother,” said Morton.

“Your brother? thunder! You don't mean it.
Let's see; he told me once his father's name was
Moses—no; Job. Yes, that's it—Job. Is that your
father's name?”

“Yes.”

“I reckon the old folks must a took Lew's deviltry
hard. Didn't kill 'em, did it?”

“No.”

“Both alive yet?”

“Yes.”

“And now you want to kill both of 'em by committing
suicide. You ought to think a little of your
mother —”

“Shut your mouth,” said Morton, turning fiercely
on Burchard; for he suddenly saw a vision of the
agony his mother must suffer.

“Oh! don't get mad. I'm going to let you have
back your horse and gun, only you must give me a
bill of sale so that I may be sure you won't gamble
them away to somebody else. You must redeem them
on your honor in six months, with a hundred and
twenty-five dollars. I'll do that much for the sake of my
old friend, Lew Goodwin, who stood by me in many
a tight place, and was a good-hearted fellow after all.”

Morton accepted this little respite, and Burchard
left the tavern. As it was now past midnight, Goodwin
did not go to bed. At two o'clock he gave Dolly
corn, and before daylight he rode out of the village.
But not toward home. His gambling and losses
would be speedily reported at home and to Captain
Lumsden. And moreover, Kike would persecute him
worse than ever. He rode out of town in the direction
opposite to that he would have taken in returning
to Hissawachee, and he only knew that it was
opposite. He was trying what so many other men
have tried in vain to do—to run away from himself.

But not the fleetest Arabian charger, nor the swiftest
lightning express, ever yet enabled a man to leave a
disagreeable self behind. The wise man knows better,
and turns round and faces it.

About noon Morton, who had followed an obscure
and circuitous trail of which he knew nothing, drew
near to a low log-house with deer's horns over the
door, a sign that the cabin was devoted to hotel purposes—a
place where a stranger might get a little
food, a place to rest on the floor, and plenty of
whiskey. There were a dozen horses hitched to trees
about it, and Goodwin got down and went in from a
spirit of idle curiosity. Certainly the place was not
attractive. The landlord had a cut-throat way of
looking closely at a guest from under his eye-brows;
the guests all wore black beards, and Morton soon
found reason to suspect that these beards were not
indigenous. He was himself the object of much disagreeable
scrutiny, but he could hardly restrain a
mischievous smile at thought of the disappointment to
which any highwayman was doomed who should attempt
to rob him in his present penniless condition.
The very worst that could happen would be the loss
of Dolly and his rifle. It soon occurred to him that
this lonely place was none other than “Brewer's
Hole,” one of the favorite resorts of Micajah Harp's
noted band of desperadoes, a place into which few
honest men ever ventured.

One of the men presently stepped to the window,
rested his foot upon the low sill, and taking up a
piece of chalk, drew a line from the toe to the top

of his boot.[1] Several others imitated him; and Morton,
in a spirit of reckless mischief and adventure,
took the chalk and marked his right boot in the same
way.

“Will you drink?” said the man who had first
chalked his boot.

Goodwin accepted the invitation, and as they stood
near together, Morton could plainly discover the falseness
of his companion's beard. Presently the man
fixed his eyes on Goodwin and asked, in an indifferent
tone: “Cut or carry?”

“Carry,” answered Morton, not knowing the meaning
of the lingo, but finding himself in a predicament
from which there was no escape but by drifting with
the current. A few minutes later a bag, which seemed
to contain some hundreds of dollars, was thrust into
his hand, and Morton, not knowing what to do with
it, thought best to “carry” it off. He mounted his
mare and rode away in a direction opposite to that in
which he had come. He had not gone more than
three miles when he met Burchard.

“Why, Burchard, how did you come here?”

“Oh, I came by a short cut.”

But Burchard did not say that he had traveled in
the night, to avoid observation.

“Hello! Goodwin,” cried Burchard, “you've got

chalk on your boot! I hope you haven't joined
the—”

“Well, I'll tell you, Burchard, how that come. I
found the greatest set of disguised cut-throats you ever
saw, at this little hole back here. You hadn't better
go there, if you don't want to be relieved of all the
money you got last night. I saw them chalking their
boots, and I chalked mine, just to see what would
come of it. And here's what come of it;” and with
that, Morton showed his bag of money. “Now,” he
said, “if I could find the right owner of this money,
I'd give it to him; but I take it he's buried in some
holler, without nary coffin or grave-stone. I 'low to
pay you what I owe you, and take the rest out to Vincennes,
or somewheres else, and use it for a nest-egg.
`Finders, keepers,' you know.”

Burchard looked at him darkly a moment. “Look
here, Morton — Goodwin, I mean. You'll lose your
head, if you fool with chalk that way. If you don't
give that money up to the first man that asks for it,
you are a dead man. They can't be fooled for long.
They'll be after you. There's no way now but to
hold on to it and give it up to the first man that
asks; and if he don't shoot first, you'll be lucky. I'm
going down this trail a way. I want to see old
Brewer. He's got a good deal of political influence.
Good-bye!”

Morton rode forward uneasily until he came to a
place two miles farther on, where another trail joined
the one he was traveling. Here there stood a man
with a huge beard, a blanket over his shoulders, holes

cut through for arms, after the frontier fashion, a belt
with pistols and knives, and a bearskin cap. The
stranger stepped up to him, reaching out his hand and
saying nothing. Morton was only too glad to give up
the money. And he set Dolly off at her best pace,
seeking to get as far as possible from the head-quarters
of the cut-or-carry gang. He could not but wonder
how Burchard should seem to know them so well. He
did not much like the thought that Burchard's forbearance
had bound him to support that gentleman's political
aspirations when he had opportunity. This
friendly relation with thieves was not what he would
have liked to see in a favorite candidate, but a cursed
fatality seemed to be dragging down all his high aspirations.
It was like one of those old legends he had
heard his mother recite, of men who had begun by
little bargains with the devil, and had presently found
themselves involved in evil entanglements on every
hand.