University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.
SHORT SHRIFT.

BUT Morton had no time to busy himself now with
nice scruples. Bread and meat are considerations
more imperative to a healthy man than conscience.
He had no money. He might turn aside from the
trail to hunt; indeed this was what he had meant to
do when he started. But ever, as he traveled, he had
become more and more desirous of getting away from
himself. He was now full sixty or seventy miles from
home, but he could not make up his mind to stop and
devote himself to hunting. At four o'clock the valley
of the Mustoga lay before him, and Morton, still purposeless,
rode on. And now at last the habitual
thought of his duty to his mother was returning upon
him, and he began to he hesitant about going on.
After all, his flight seemed foolish. Patty might not
yet be lost; and as for Kike's revival, why should he
yield to it, unless he chose?

In this painful indecision he resolved to stop and
crave a night's lodging at the crossing of the river.
He was the more disposed to this that Dolly, having
been ridden hard all day without food, showed unmistakable
signs of exhaustion, and it was now snowing.
He would give her a night's rest, and then perhaps
take the road back to the Hissawachee, or go into the
wilderness and hunt.

“Hello the house!” he called. “Hello!”

A long, lank man, in butternut jeans, opened the
door, and responded with a “Hello!”

“Can I get to stay here all night?”

“Wal, no, I 'low not, stranger. Kinder full to-night.
You mout git a place about a mile furder on
whar you could hang up for the night, mos' likely;
but I can't keep you, no ways.”

“My mare's dreadful tired, and I can sleep anywhere,”
plead Morton.

“She does look sorter tuckered out, sartain; blamed
if she don't! Whar did you git her?”

“Raised her,” said Morton.

“Whar abouts?”

“Hissawachee.”

“You don't say! How far you rid her to-day?”

“From Jonesville.”

“Jam up fifty miles, and over tough roads! Mighty
purty critter, that air. Powerful clean legs. She's
number one. Is she your'n, did you say?”

“Well, not exactly mine. That is—”. Here Morton
hesitated.

“Stranger,” said the settler, “you can't put up
here, no ways. I tuck in one of your sort a month
ago, and he rid my sorrel mare off in the middle of
the night. I'll bore a hole through him, ef I ever set
eyes on him.” And the man had disappeared in the
house before Morton could reply.

To be in a snow-storm without shelter was unpleasant;
to be refused a lodging and to be mistaken for
a horse-thief filled the cup of Morton's bitterness. He

reluctantly turned his horse's head toward the river.
There was no ferry, and the stream was so swollen
that he must needs swim Dolly across.

He tightened his girth and stroked Dolly affectionately,
with a feeling that she was the only friend he
had left. “Well, Dolly,” he said, “it's too bad to make
you swim, after such a day; but you must. If we
drown, we'll drown together.”

The weary Dolly put her head against his cheek
in a dumb trustfulness.

There was a road cut through the steep bank on
the other side, so that travelers might ride down to
the water's edge. Knowing that he would have to
come out at that place, young Goodwin rode into the
water as far up the stream as he could find a suitable
place. Then, turning the mare's head upward, he
started across. Dolly swam bravely enough until she
reached the middle of the stream; then, finding her
strength well nigh exhausted after her travel, and under
the burden of her master, she refused his guidance,
and turned her head directly toward the road, which
offered the only place of exit. The rapid current
swept horse and rider down the stream; but still Dolly
fought bravely, and at last struck land just below the
road. Morton grasped the bushes over his head, urged
Dolly to greater exertions, and the well-bred creature,
rousing all the remains of her magnificent force, succeeded
in reaching the road. Then the young man
got down and caressed her, and, looking back at the
water, wondered why he should have struggled to
preserve a life that he was not able to regulate, and

that promised him nothing but misery and embarrassment.

The snow was now falling rapidly, and Morton
pushed his tired filley on another mile. Again he hallooed.
This time he was welcomed by an old woman,
who, in answer to his inquiry, said he might put the
mare in the stable. She didn't ginerally keep no travelers,
but it was too orful a night fer a livin' human
bein' to be out in. Her son Jake would be in thireckly,
and she 'lowed he wouldn't turn nobody out
in sech a night. 'Twuz good ten miles to the next
house.

Morton hastened to stable Dolly, and to feed her,
and to take his place by the fire.

Presently the son came in.

“Howdy, stranger?” said the youth, eyeing Morton
suspiciously. “Is that air your mar in the stable?”

“Ye-es,” said Morton, hesitatingly, uncertain whether
he could call Dolly his or not, seeing she had been
transferred to Burchard.

“Whar did you come from?”

“From Hissawachee.”

“Whar you makin' fer?”

“I don't exactly know.”

“See here, mister! Akordin' to my tell, that air's
a mighty peart sort of a hoss fer a feller to ride what
don' know, to save his gizzard, whar he mout be a
travelin'. We don't keep no sich people as them what
rides purty hosses and can't giv no straight account of
theirselves. Akordin' to my tell, you'll hev to hitch up
yer mar and putt. It mout gin us trouble to keep you.”

“You ain't going to send me out such a night as
this, when I've rode fifty mile a'ready?” said Morton.

“What in thunder'd you ride fifty mile to-day fer?
Yer health, I reckon. Now, stranger, I've jist got one
word to say to you, and that is this ere: Putt! Putt
thireckly! Clar out of these 'ere diggin's! That's
all. Jist putt!”

The young man pronounced the vowel in “put”
very flat, as it is sounded in the first syllable of “putty,”
and seemed disposed to add a great many words
to this emphatic imperative when he saw how much
Morton was disinclined to leave the warm hearth.
“Putt out, I say! I ain't afeard of none of yer gang.
I hain't got nary 'nother word.”

“Well,” said Morton, “I have only got one word—
I won't! You haven't got any right to turn a stranger
out on such a night.”

“Well, then, I'll let the reggilators know abouten
you.”

“Let them know, then,” said Morton; and he drew
nearer the fire.

The strapping young fellow straitened himself up
and looked at Morton in wonder, more and more convinced
that nobody but an outlaw would venture on a
move so bold, and less and less inclined to attempt to
use force as his conviction of Morton's desperate character
increased. Goodwin, for his part, was not a little
amused; the old mischievous love of fun reasserted
itself in him as he saw the decline of the young man's
courage.

“If you think I am one of Micajah Harp's band,

why don't you be careful how you treat me? The
band might give you trouble. Let's have something
to eat. I haven't had anything since last night; I am
starving.”

“Marm,” said the young man, “git him sompin'.
He's tuck the house and we can't help ourselves.”

Morton had eaten nothing for twenty-four hours,
and in his amusement at the success of his ruse and
in the comfortable enjoyment of food after his long
fast his good spirits returned.

When he awoke the next morning in his rude bed
in the loft, he became aware that there were a number
of men in the room below, and he could gather
that they were talking about him. He dressed quickly
and came down-stairs. The first thing he noticed was
that the settler who had refused him lodging the night
before was the centre of the group, the next that they
had taken possession of his rifle. This settler had
roused the “reggilators,” and they had crossed the
creek in a flat-boat some miles below and come up
the stream determined to capture this young horse-thief.
It is a singular tribute to the value of the
horse that among barbarous or half-civilized peoples
horse-stealing is accounted an offense more atrocious
than homicide. In such a community to steal a man's
horse is the grandest of larcenies—it is to rob him of
the stepping-stone to civilization.

For such philosophical reflections as this last, however,
Morton had no time. He was in the hands of
an indignant crowd, some of whom had lost horses
and other property from the depredations of the famous

band of Micajah Harp, and all of whom were
bent on exacting the forfeit from this indifferently
dressed young man who rode a horse altogether too
good for him.

Morton was conducted three miles down the river
to a log tavern, that being a public and appropriate
place for the rendering of the decisions of Judge
Lynch, and affording, moreover, the convenient refreshments
of whiskey and tobacco to those who might
become exhausted in their arduous labors on behalf
of public justice. There was no formal trial. The
evidence was given in in a disjointed and spontaneous
fashion; the jury was composed of the whole crowd,
and what the Quakers call the “sense of the meeting”
was gathered from the general outcry. Educated in
Indian wars and having been left at first without any
courts or forms of justice, the settlers had come to
believe their own expeditious modes of dealing with
the enemies of peace and order much superior to the
prolix method of the lawyers and judges.

And as for Morton, nothing could be much clearer
than that he was one of the gang. The settler who
had refused him a lodging first spoke:

“You see, I seed in three winks,” he began, “that
that feller didn't own the hoss. He looked kinder
sheepish. Well, I poked a few questions at him and
I reckon I am the beatin'est man to ax questions in
this neck of timber. I axed him whar he come from,
and he let it out that he'd rid more'n fifty miles.
And I kinder blazed away at praisin' his hoss tell I
got him off his guard, and then, unbeknownst to him,

I treed him suddently. I jest axed him ef the hoss
was his'n and he hemmed and hawed and says, says
he: `Well, not exactly mine.' Then I tole him to putt
out.”

“Did he tell you the mar wuzn't adzackly his'n?”
put in the youth whose unwilling hospitality Morton
had enjoyed.

“Yes.”

“Well, then, he lied one time or nuther, that's sartain
shore. He tole me she wuz. And when I axed
him whar he was agoin', he tole me he didn' know. I
suspicioned him then, and I tole him to clar out; and
he wouldn'. Well, I wuz agoin' to git down my gun
and blow his brains out; but marm got skeered and
didn' want me to, and I 'lowed it was better to let
him stay, and I 'low'd you fellers mout maybe come
over and cotch him, or liker'n not some feller'd come
along and inquire arter that air mar. Then he ups
and says ef the ole woman don' give him sompin' to
eat she'd ketch it from Micajah Harp's band. He
said as how he was a member of that gang. An' he
said he hadn't had nothin' to eat sence the night
before, havin' rid fer twenty-four hours.”

“I didn't say —” began Morton.

“Shet up your mouth tell I'm done. Haint you
got no manners? I tole him as how I didn't keer
three continental derns[1] fer his whole band weth
Micajah Harp throw'd onto the top, but the ole woman

wuz kinder sorter afeared to find she'd cotch a
rale hoss-thief and she gin him a little sompin' to eat.
And he did gobble it, I tell you!”

Young rawbones had repeated this statement a
dozen times already since leaving home with the
prisoner. But he liked to tell it. Morton made the
best defense he could, and asked them to send to
Hissawachee and inquire, but the crowd thought that
this was only a ruse to gain time, and that if they
delayed his execution long, Micajah Harp and his
whole band would be upon them.

The mob-court was unanimously in favor of hanging.
The cry of “Come on, boys, let's string him
up,” was raised several times, and “rushes” at him
were attempted, but these rushes never went further
than the incipient stage, for the very good reason
that while many were anxious to have him hung,
none were quite ready to adjust the rope. The law
threatened them on one side, and a dread of the
vengeance of Micajah Harp's cut-throats appalled them
on the other. The predicament in which the crowd
found themselves was a very embarrassing one, but
these administrators of impromptu justice consoled
themselves by whispering that it was best to wait till
night.

And the rawboned young man, who had given
such eager testimony that he “warn't afeard of the
whole gang with ole Micajah throw'd onto the top,”
concluded about noon that he had better go home—the
ole woman mout git skeered, you know. She wuz powerful
skeery and mout git fits liker'n not, you know.

The weary hours of suspense drew on. However
ready Morton may have been to commit suicide in a
moment of rash despair, life looked very attractive to
him now that its duration was measured by the descending
sun. And what a quickener of conscience is
the prospect of immediate death! In these hours the
voice of Kike, reproving him for his reckless living,
rang in his memory ceaselessly. He saw what a distorted
failure he had made of life; he longed for a
chance to try it over again. But unless help should
come from some unexpected quarter, he saw that his
probation was ended.

It is barely possible that the crowd might have become
so demoralized by waiting as to have let Morton
go, or at least to have handed him over to the authorities,
had there not come along at that moment
Mr. Mellen, the stern and ungrammatical Methodist
preacher of whom Morton had made so much sport
in Wilkins's Settlement. Having to preach at fifty-eight
appointments in four weeks, he was somewhat
itinerant, and was now hastening to a preaching place
near by. One of the crowd, seeing Mr. Mellen, suggested
that Morton had orter be allowed to see a
preacher, and git “fixed up,” afore he died. Some of
the others disagreed. They warn't nothin' in the nex'
world too bad fer a hoss-thief, by jeeminy hoe-cakes.
They warn't a stringin' men up to send 'em to heaven,
but to t' other place.

Mellen was called in, however, and at once recognized
Morton as the ungodly young man who had insulted
him and disturbed the worship of God. He

exhorted him to repent, and to tell who was the owner
of the horse, and to seek a Saviour who was ready
to forgive even the dying thief upon the cross. In
vain Morton protested his innocence. Mellen told him
that he could not escape, though he advised the crowd
to hand him over to the sheriff. But Mellen's additional
testimony to Morton's bad character had destroyed
his last chance of being given up to the
courts. As soon as Mr. Mellen went away, the arrangements
for hanging him at nightfall began to take
definite shape, and a rope was hung over a limb, in
full sight of the condemned man. Mr. Mellen used
with telling effect, at every one of the fifty-eight places
upon his next round, the story of the sad end of this
hardened young man, who had begun as a scoffer and
ended as an impenitent thief.

Morton sat in a sort of stupor, watching the sun
descending toward the horizon. He heard the rude
voices of the mob about him. But he thought of Patty
and his mother.

While the mob was thus waiting for night, and
Morton waiting for death, there passed upon the road
an elderly man. He was just going out of sight, when
Morton roused himself enough to observe him. When
he had disappeared, Goodwin was haunted with the
notion that it must be Mr. Donaldson, the old Presbyterian
preacher, whose sermons he had so often heard
at the Scotch Settlement. Could it be that thoughts
of home and mother had suggested Donaldson? At
least, the faintest hope was worth clutching at in a
time of despair.

[ILLUSTRATION]

A LAST HOPE.

[Description: 554EAF. Page 152. In-line engraving of many men standing around a man seated on a rock with his hands tied behind him. One man in the foreground holds a noose; a man on a horse rides away in the background.]

“Call him back!” cried Morton. “Won't somebody
call that old man back? He knows me.”

Nobody was disposed to serve the culprit. The
leaders looked knowingly the one at the other, and
shrugged their shoulders.

“If you don't call him back you will be a set of
murderers!” cried the despairing Goodwin