"Gentlemen," said the judge, after a moment's pause, "if you persist in this outrage, I wash my hands of both it and you, from this moment. You can choose another judge, and another leader, for I shall act no longer as either. I thought you weremen, not savages."
"What matter?" called out several voices, "he is not the only man that lives. Let him slide, and out with the prisoner."
The crowd surged forward and surrounded the table, yelling and growling like wild beasts. For a moment it seemed as if Poynter meditated resistance, as he drew himself up and grasped the back of his chair, but if such was his intention, it was changed.
A dozen hands lifted him to the floor, where he was securely bound, hand and foot—as he had been until now entirely free, so far as bonds were concerned. Then he was lifted bodily upon their shoulders, each man appearing eager to be one of his bearers. In this manner he was conveyed from the room followed by the hooting, yelling crowd; leaving but one man behind—Neil McGuire.
To say that the prisoner was not alarmed, would perhaps be wrong, but he showed no outward sign of being so. He well knew that he was in danger—that his life was in peril; for although, just at present, nothing was spoken of but whipping, yet when blood was once seen, would it not act upon their worser passions until the job would be finished out of hand, to save further trouble?
Suddenly Poynter gave a convulsive start. It seemed to him he had heard, above the din, some words spoken in a friendly tone—words of hope.
"Keep a stiff upper lip, square.We'll git you cl'ar afore day!"
These were the words he had, or thought he had, heard, close to his ear, and turned his eyes wonderingly to that point. He could distinguish the rough features of Jack Fyffe, the man who had knocked Polk Redlaw down at the time of arrest.
But he had no time for a question, or any thing beyond seeing that Fyffe supported his right shoulder; for the next moment he was rudely cast down at the foot of one of the gigantic sycamores, beside the outer door. The tumult was horrible, and for a time nothing was done, each man issuing orders, but no one appearing to care about executing them.
"Jim Henderson," yelled Polk Redlaw, who now took a decided lead with the brutalized crowd, "fetch out some cords; rope or something, quick!"
"Quick y'urself, Injun Polk," growled the little host. "I hain't y'ur nigger. Y'u're black enough to wait on y'urself!"
"Curses on you, you little hop-toad!" foamed Polk. "Call me that again, and I'll blow a hole through you big enough to kick a dog through!"
"Ef so be you know when y'ur well off, Mr. White Man,es-quire," coolly returned Jim, drawing his revolver, "you'll not buck ag'in' me. Others may be as quick on the trigger as you be, if not more so."
"Don't get to fighting among yourselves," interrupted Reeves, with a series of oaths. "We've enough to do now. Here's a couple of halters that'll answer, bully."
But during this by-play, Clay Poynter had received considerable encouragement from Jack Fyffe, who still crouched over him, apparently to prevent his arising.
"Don't gi'n up, straunger," he had whispered. "We'll hev you free afore long."
"Who are you, and what do you mean?" asked Poynter.
"You'll see. I've sent arter the boys, an' ef nothin' happins they'll be hyar in three hours. But you'll hev to take the hidin', though. We hain't strong enough to preventthat."
Nothing more was said, for Redlaw and Reeves pressed forward, and with several brutal kicks from the mongrel, Poynter was lifted up and his arms unbound, two men clinging to each as though they anticipated an attempt at escape. But if so, they were disappointed.
The prisoner knew that it would be followed by certain death, in the face of the threatening revolvers, and the words of Jack Fyffe had revived his hopes of a speedy rescue, for which he was content to wait, even though he had to endure the fearful torture that had been threatened him.
He was drawn up to the tree, his arms outstretched to their utmost extent, and then his wrists were connected by the halters, another securing his body. By this time the men who had been dispatched after the instruments of torture returned bearing their hands full of long, lithe hickory rods.
And then the torture began. The supple rods whistled through the air, and paused with a hissing crack; the gore started out as the tender skin was torn and lacerated. But although the pain and agony must have been fearful, as the punishment proceeded, not a groan or an uneven breath proclaimed the fact.
The crimson spray fell upon those who stood closest; some of them giving quivers as it touched their skin, as though it had been molten lead; but the majority yelled and cheered at the sight. Their fiercest, basest passions were fully aroused; they were wolves, not men.
Polk Redlaw, Jonathan Green and Alfred Wigan plied the rods, and as may be supposed, they did not spare their strength. But severe as were their blows, they failed in drawing a single manifestation of pain from the prisoner, however slight. And then the one hundred lashes were counted, fairly.
The prisoner was let down from his position, and Jack Fyffe helped him to adjust his garments, managing to whisper a cheering word without being overheard by the mob. Then Poynter spoke, not a tremor or quaver betraying what he had suffered from the fearful ordeal, in his voice:
"You three devils, mark my words. If you are alive one week from to-day, I give you leave to play this game over again."
"We will live to see you dance on nothing, anyhow," sneered the mongrel.
"That's enough for to-night," interrupted Henry Reeves, the juror who had so suddenly taken a leading part in the proceedings, pressing forward and laying his hand upon Poynter's shoulder. "Come, you will stay in the 'long-room' to-night, and to prevent you from sleeping uneasily, I will add that you will be hung to-morrow, for murder."
"Thank you for nothing!" curtly replied the prisoner. "I have you to thank for this favor, and look you, it's a debt that will be paid; yes, paid, and with compound interest added," said Poynter.
"Oh, I'll credit you," laughed Reeves. "I always was accommodating. But in with you," he added, giving him a rude shove as they entered the room.
Poynter would have fallen had not he been caught by Jack Fyffe, who whispered:
"Ef you hyar a rumpus outside, don't be 'larmed, 'cause it'll on'y be fri'nds. Mind an' keep awake."
A pressure of the hand told that Poynter understood his meaning, and then, after being bound, the prisoner was left alone in the room. Some half a dozen guards were posted around the building, with instructions to shoot him if he attempted an escape; and then thevigilantesseparated, each man wending his way homeward, pondering upon what they had already done, and the duty that awaited them on the morrow.
The guards were in high glee, and having each one managed to procure a flask of liquor from the obliging host, determined to enjoy their watch to the best of their ability. Polk Redlaw, however, owing to the mishaps his devoted head had met with, was not in such a jolly mood, and kept apart from the other sentinels.
They were gathered in couples upon either side of the building, thus surrounding the place and preventing either egress or ingress without their knowledge. They little dreamed of the fate that awaited them.
Perhaps an hour after the dispersal, a band of horsemen drew rein at a half-mile from the little hamlet, on the outer edge of which stood the "Twin Sycamores," and dismounting, threw themselves upon the ground, while one of their number stole away on foot. He soon drew near the tavern, and sinking flat upon his stomach, began cautiously circling the building.
He could approach near enough, thanks to the darkness, to distinguish the mutterings of the guards—thus learning their exact number and position. He counted six, and thought that was all, but he overlooked Polk Redlaw, who had fallen into a doze, lying close to the wall, so that he seemed to form a portion of it.
Had he been awake he could not have helped observing the spy, who, thinking that end of the house unguarded, passed close by him. Muttering his surprise, the man crept away from the tavern, and once beyond ear-shot, rose to his feet and sped rapidly to where he had left his companions.
When near them he uttered the howl of the yellow wolf and upon the signal being answered, boldly advanced and stood before the band. One, a tall, Herculean man, stepped forward and whispered:
"Well, Fyffe, what luck?"
"It's all hunky," replied Jack, for it was indeed he, "an' a easy job. On'y six fellers, an' they half drunk, ef not more so," and then he clearly described the position each man occupied.
"Now, comrades," added he who appeared to be the leader, "you know what we are after. A friend, and one of us, is in danger. Our law says that we must assist each other, and now is the time. You have heard what Fyffe says. These men must be secured without being harmed if possible, but if they cut up rough, why a knife is the best remedy. The less blood shed, the better, for this section is getting uncomfortably hot already. You understand me?"
A murmur of general assent; then he added:
"We will ride to the edge of the timber, and then leave the horses. We must take them by surprise; and mind you, when once we have got our friend, quick's the word, for we will have thevigilantesafter us, hot-footed."
In a few moments the designated point of woods was reached, and dismounting, the horses were secured; after which the band stealthily proceeded toward the tavern, using every precaution to avoid discovery. Then four men crept toward each of the sides where the double guard were posted.
The remainder held themselves in readiness to rush forward, in case their comrades should need any help. Four of the men were secured without any noise, other than a slight scuffle, but the other party were not so fortunate.
One of the guards caught a glimpse of the rescuers, and hailed them. The answer was an instant rush, at which the guard fired a shot, that brought one of his assailants to the ground.
But, he never fired another, for a long knife was plunged downward, the steel gritting as it severed his breast-bone, and with one faint gurgle, Alfred Wigan was a dead man!
At the first report, Polk Redlaw sprung to his feet, with all the Indian instincts of his nature fully aroused. He caught a glimpse of the main body rushing forward, and not knowing who they were, he dropped to the ground and glided to a safe distance, but from whence he could still see those out in the open ground.
At first he thought it was the vigilance committee returned to finish up their work, but he was not certain, and deeming discretion the better course, determined to keep shady until he knew what card to play. If a rescue, he resolved to dog them wherever they might go, for his hatred of Poynter could only be assuaged by the latter's death.
When the double tragedy was over, and the other guards secured, the band rushed forward and forcibly burst in the door of the tavern; and were proceeding toward the "long-room," when Henderson called out from the loft:
"Who the devil air you, an' what ye want?"
"Better shet y'ur eyes an' years, 'Honest Jim,' so't you won't hev to lie when you tell thevigilantesthet you don' know who tuck the pris'ner," returned Jack Fyffe, significantly.
"Ef you don't do nothin' else, why,Iwon't know any on ye at all. An' ef ye like, jist take a good swig apiece, an' I'll charge it to profut an' loss," laughed the host, who apparently was not averse to having Poynter escape the doom that threatened him.
"Bully for you, ol' hoss; you won't lose any thin' by it!" was the cry, and his invitation was complied with, two or three times over.
Only pausing for one huge gulp of the liquor, Jack Fyffe unbarred the door, and soon severed the cords that hampered Poynter, who, after chafing his benumbed limbs, thanks to the skill Polk Redlaw had shown in drawing the knots, emerged from the long-room, a free man once more.
He glanced around him with not a little curiosity, scanning the forms and features of his rescuers as thoroughly as was practicable by the dim, flickering light cast by the one rude lamp. But if he recognized any of them, excepting Fyffe, he did not show it by word or sign.
"Come, boys," spoke up the tall man we have noted before, "we must make tracks, or thosevigilanteswill be down upon us. They must have heard the rumpus, I reckon."
"But what shall we do with the prisoners—let them go?"
"No; take them along. We'll keep 'em as hostages, so that if any of our fellows are strung up, we can retaliate. Five of them, isn't there?"
"Yes; but about Sant?"
"Maltby?"
"Yes. He's dead."
"Take him along. If we leave him here, they'll toss him into the first hollow, and he was too good a man for that."
"You seem to be leader here, sir," said Poynter, placing a hand upon the man's shoulder. "What do you intend doing with me?"
"Well, that depends mainly upon yourself. If you have had enough of these vigilance fellows, why, come with us. We never go back upon a fellow-craftsman," returned the man, cordially.
"And you are—"
"The same as yourself; free livers is our name for it. Those whom we favor with our custom call us horse-thieves and counterfeiters," laughed the leader.
"Ah!" muttered Poynter, and bending his head as if in deep thought.
"All ready, Tamelt?"
"All ready, sir," was the prompt reply, and the little band left the house.
Jack Fyffe directed Poynter to a horse, which, with great delight and surprise, he found was his own noble bay, that had been taken when he was arrested. The five prisoners were also mounted, their horses having been found in the tavern stable; but they rode not by their own aid. Strong cords bound them to the saddle so securely that even had they tried to cast themselves to the ground, the effort would have been unsuccessful.
Poynter and Fyffe rode together, as they struck into a rapid lope along the soft, loamy road, but not until quite clear of the neighborhood, did either of them speak.
"Wal, we've sp'ilt the fun o' them hounds ter-morrer, 'tany rate," chuckled Fyffe.
"Yes, but how did it all come about?" queried Poynter, who did not appear very much at ease, when we consider what he had escaped.
"Wal, in co'se we wasn't a-goin' to see a fri'nd jerked up thet a-way, 'thout helpin' 'im. So's soon as I see'd how it war gwine to work, I sent Sant Maltby to let the cap'n know, an' whar I'd meet 'em to 'xplain, like. Then we crawled up, an' tuck the guard, but poor Sant got throwed clean in his tracks. The rest you know."
"Who were the men you took prisoners?"
"Thar's one on 'em you'll be glad to see—Jon'than Green."
"Ha!" exclaimed Poynter; "the lying scoundrel! But, Jack, my friend, do you know you've made a mistake?"
"How so?"
"I am no counterfeiter—never was."
"Thunder, you say!" ejaculated Fyffe.
"It's the truth," soberly affirmed Poynter. "I have never committed a deed against the law, to my knowledge, in my life."
"But the evidence?"
"Was one tissue of falsehood from first to last! Why it was started, or who was the one who planned it, I know no more than you do; but I will find out if it takes a lifetime," hotly exclaimed Poynter.
"Hello, my friends, what's up here?" asked the leader, falling back beside the two men, at the sound of Poynter's excited tones. "Not quarreling, I hope?"
"No, sir, I owe him too much for that," warmly responded Poynter. "But, are you the captain?"
"For the time being, I am. Why?" said the man, somewhat surprised at the other's tone.
"Then I must speak with you, for a moment."
"Go on; I have no secrets from Jack."
"Well," slowly uttered Poynter, "from what I have heard, I believe you labor under a serious mistake, regarding who and what I am."
"How so?" interrupted the leader. "Are not you the man that the vigilance committee arrested and condemned?"
"I am; as my back can testify!" bitterly gritted the young man.
"Well, then, where's the mistake?"
"In this: I was wrongfully accused. I have never, knowingly, passed a coin, and as for murder, there is no blood upon my hands, save that shed in self-defense."
"Whe-ew!" whistled the outlaw. "But Jack told me the evidence was complete!"
"It was not his fault for thinking so. I would have believed the same in his place. But I am speaking the truth, and thought it best to tell you how the case stands, lest you should think me a traitor or a spy, in case the truth ever comes out."
"You were right. But what do you intend doing? The hunt will be hot for you, as, if a man would take all that trouble and expense to put you out of the way,legally, he will not let you off so easily."
"I know that; and in perfect freedom, is the only chance of my ever clearing myself. I frankly own that I am puzzled," slowly replied Poynter.
"Well, sir, I am not often mistaken in a man, if I do say it myself," added the outlaw leader, after a pause. "And now I make you a proposition. Will you accept my hospitality for a few days, or weeks, until this excitement cools down?"
"Are you in earnest, and would you trust a stranger so far?" ejaculated Poynter, in astonishment.
"Not every one, I admit," laughed the other. "But you I can, and will; and if necessary, will answer to the band, for your honor, with my own life. But understand me: upon no account are you to divulge what you hear or see; nor the places we will take you to, even if your life depended upon it, unless we give you permission. And in return, you will be left free to come and go, as you will. You will not be asked, or expected, to do any thing against your conscience; and if you should need any assistance that we can give, you have but to say as much."
"That is far more than I could expect, and I sincerely thank you for it," rejoined Poynter, warmly clasping the outlaw's hand. "But I am at a loss to imagine the cause of such generosity."
"It is easy told. You are an innocent man, unjustly accused and condemned; and I was once the same. False friends and misfortunes have made me what I now am, and I still have some of the bitter feeling in my heart, if I am an outcast, a branded felon.
"Besides, I feel a strange liking for you; why, or from what cause I know not, unless from the resemblance upon this one point."
"Well, sir," exclaimed the escaped prisoner, "I will gladly accept your offer, and if there is any return that I can make, without—"
"I understand you," interrupted the outlaw, with a tinge of melancholy in his tones, "and would be the last man in the world to ask you to forfeit your feeling of self-respect. But come," he added, again assuming his old air of reckless gayety. "We have fallen behind, and they'll think we are deserters. Spur up!"
"But one moment. Have we far to go?"
"Less than two miles, now," was the reply. "But why?"
"Nothing much; only I would rather be in the neighborhood, for—"
"For certain reasons, I presume," laughed the outlaw leader. "But never mind, I was young once myself, although I don't look much like it now," and he ended with a half-sigh.
Poynter's curiosity was keenly aroused, by the language and manner of his strangely-acquired friend, so different from what might have been expected; and found himself wishing for a better chance to observe his features, than was afforded by the dim, uncertain light.
As he peered toward him, Clay could see that it was a robust, powerful form, nearly if not quite as much so as his own. Of the features he could distinguish naught save the glitter of a pair of sparkling eyes, and the long, flowing hair of almost snowy whiteness, as was also the luxuriant beard and mustache.
As we said, Polk Redlaw resolved to dog the rescuing party wherever they might go, spurred on by his bitter hatred of Clay Poynter. And he was just the person to accomplish this if it lay in human power to do so.
Tall and gaunt, he was like the grayhound, swift and tireless; while in other respects his instincts were those of the bloodhound. The traits inherited from the Indian cross in his blood were aroused and in full play on the night in question.
When he saw Poynter emerge from the tavern under the bright glare of the torch carried by Jack Fyffe, unbound and in freedom, the heavy rifle rose as if by instinct to his cheek, and, for a moment, the wings of death again appeared to overshadow the young man. A single pressure of the finger, a touch sufficient to bend a feather, upon the hair-trigger, would have sufficed, and in the darkness it appeared easy enough for Polk to have made his escape.
But the gun was lowered. The mongrel was not satisfied with such a revenge. His hatred was too intense; he required a death of shame—of degradation; a death that would destroy both the life and honor of his foe, and leave a record at which the finger of scorn and contempt would be pointed.
When the cavalcade plunged into the darkness of the tree-shadowed road, the human bloodhound followed hard upon the scent. His rifle trailed in one hand, his head and neck craned forward, Polk Redlaw sped along with noiseless strides that appeared to be made without an effort.
So steady, silent and uniform was his progress, that it seemed like a magnificent piece of machinery, rather than a man. His Indian blood shone forth now, in his free and untrammeled motion, as he kept at a certain distance in the rear of the rescuers, the same whether they rode faster or more slow.
From his crouching position he could not be seen upon the shadowed road, while those whom he was trailing, being mounted, could quite plainly be distinguished. But for a time we must turn elsewhere.
When Neil McGuire returned home from the "Twin Sycamores," disgusted at the brutality displayed by his neighbors and comrades, he found his daughter Nora sitting up awaiting him, late as it was, the fearful suspense and terror she had endured plainly imprinted upon her pale and worn countenance.
Shocked at the change, and strongly excited by the events of the last few hours, McGuire told her all, winding up by saying that he feared the prisoner would not live to see another day dawn. Nora gave one low cry and swooned, and when she recovered from it a strong fever set in.
There was no doctor nearer than the fort, even if he could be induced to journey so far, and as old aunt Eunice had gained quite a reputation as a nurse, she was called in, while the almost distracted father set out for medical aid. The doctor came, but his aid was not needed, the fever had been broken, and, strange to say, Nora was up and about the house in as apparent good health as ever.
But if the worthy farmer was surprised, we, who are in the secret, need not be. It was, perhaps, owing to a certain message brought by aunt Eunice, who kindly turned her back while it was being perused, and when she did look it had disappeared; but from the frequent journeys made by the invalid's hand to the region of the heart, it is not difficult to guess where.
The note was from Clay Poynter, briefly detailing the facts of his escape, stating that he was in a place of safety, and imploring an interview, leaving the time and place to her, of which he could be informed by aunt Eunice. Nora did not hesitate about granting the request, but the return of her father necessitated a postponement, greatly to the disappointment of the lover, who was disgusted at only meeting his old housekeeper when he expected a sweetheart.
Neil McGuire was sorely puzzled and disturbed about something, and soon opened his mind to Nora the day of his return. It was after supper, and she had brought him his filled pipe, when he bade her sit down—that he had something to tell her.
"Do you know, pet, that I half-way fear we have been doing Clay Poynter a great injustice?"
"Oh, father, I knew it all along!"
"Did you, indeed? Well, as I said, I am afraid we have been mistaken, although I am not quite certain. And the reason I think so is this:
"It was late in the evening when I got to the fort, and as the doctor would not start out that same night, I went over to the city; as I could not bear to sit still while thinking of the danger you might be in. It was raining, and feeling cold and chilly, I stepped into a saloon to get a drink, when I met a man who was just a-coming out.
"I was so astonished that you could have knocked me down with a wheat-straw, for I would have sworn he was none other thanJohn Dement! But while I stood there, he slipped out, and when I started after him, he was gone. I hunted for an hour, but without success; I could not find him again."
"And there was no mistake?" anxiously asked Nora.
"Theremayhave been. I might have been deceived, and took some other person for him. If itwasDement, he had his whiskers colored black, and his hair trimmed, and of the same color. But I caught his full eye, and you know it is not a common one."
"Yes, it makes me think of a rattlesnake's," shuddered the maiden.
"Well, even if he is innocent about the murder, there is the other charge," added McGuire.
"But that may be false, too."
"I don't think so. And yet," he added, after a slight pause, "he didn't act like a guilty man. I thought it was bravado, then, but now it seems more like the fearlessness of an honest man."
Nora did not answer, although strongly tempted to do so, for fear she would reveal more than was prudent, and in a short time both retired.
A little after noon, on the next day, had Neil McGuire glanced up from his work back of the house and looked almost due west, he would have seen the trim, dainty form of his daughter, as she disappeared in the woods, accompanied by aunt Eunice. And perhaps his mind would have been still more perturbed had he witnessed the fervor with which a certain stalwart, handsome man embraced Nora, while her antiquated duenna placidly stared at the bushy top of a neighboring tree.
Whatever it was aunt Eunice saw, it must have been very interesting, for there she stared, and never once looked around until her name was called. Then she seated herself at a little distance from the lovers, pulling out from her pocket a huge stocking, that could only be intended for one person in the settlement, unless worn upon both feet at once, industriously knitting, as deaf now as she had been blind before.
Who says she never had been young?
We need record but one passage in the conversation, as the remainder was foreign to our purpose.
"Well, pet, I will explain what your father meant when alluding to my leaving Kentucky. It is true, I did leave there to save my life, much as I fled from here, although matters had not gone quite so far then.
"When I was but a child, my father was accused—falsely, as I ever will maintain, although I have no proof—of belonging to Sturdevant's gang of counterfeiters and horse-thieves. He was arrested and thrown into prison, but he never had a trial. A band of disguised men forced the jail, and taking him from his cell, proceeded to a grove some four miles distant, and hung him like a dog!
"It was nearly a month before the remains were found, by a man hunting cattle, and then, after his burial, my mother sickened, dying within the same year. I was but eleven years old then, and although so young, these fearful events made me desperate.
"The neighbors all looked upon me as a sort of outcast, and taught their children to shun me as though I were a moral pest. This did not help me much, and as I grew older, I was taunted and hooted at, for my father'scrime!
"But, as my muscles grew, they found this fast becoming a dangerous sport, for I bitterly resented every insult, even from those twice and thrice my own age. I had no relations, not even a friend to lean upon, or to whom I could turn for aid or counsel. And thus I grew up.
"I admit being wild and reckless; but I can honestly say that I never once committed a mean or criminal deed. And yet I was often accused in whispers, of being both a counterfeiter and a horse-thief! Almost any one would have left the place in disgust; but I did not. The only beings that I had ever loved were lying in the little yard back of our house.
"I often, when my trials had been unusually bitter, have spent the livelong night beside the graves of my parents, sobbing as if my heart would break; and it is to those sacred influences alone that I attribute my remaining clear of a life of crime—that I did not yield to the temptations presented to me of living a wild, free life.
"Well, I was at length openly arrested, but as I managed to escape before trial, I never learned who was my accuser. It would have been almost certain death to remain there then, as I had no friends who could assist me to clear myself, and so I fled.
"I went to Arkansas, near Merton, and for a time all went well. I entered a homestead, and for several years I worked diligently on it; and then sold it for a fair price, intending to open a store. But my enemies followed me even there, and the same suspicions were noised about. I was avoided by all respectable persons as though I had the plague.
"In disgust I left the place, and from that time until I came here, I wandered far and near, living an aimless life until I thought I had once more eluded my pursuers. But you have seen how sadly I was mistaken; and here, just as life was brightest, the same rumors were whispered abroad, the old charges were brought up against me. I was seized and flogged like a dog!"
"Poor Clay!" murmured Nora, through the tears called forth by the sad history of her lover's life, as she clasped his hand in hers, as if to still further testify her boundless faith in his truth and honesty.
"Yes, but I go no further. I have foundyou, and now I have an additional incentive to clear myself, and baffle my secret enemy, whoever he may be. But how?—that is the question."
After some further conversation, and an appointment being made for another meeting, the lovers separated, Nora and Eunice returning to the house, while Poynter walked rapidly away toward his own building.
After leaving Nora, Poynter walked swiftly in the direction of his own house, that had been closed ever since aunt Eunice had been called in to attend Nora during her sickness. But he kept a good look-out as he proceeded, lest he should be discovered by some of those kind friends whose hospitality he had abandoned so hastily, a few days before. For he well knew that if seen and recognized, a hue and cry would be raised that might end disastrously, as several hours yet remained of daylight.
He had found a secure refuge with the outlaw band who had rescued him from the power of the vigilance committee, where he resolved to remain until his plans for the future were fully matured, at the urgent request of the leader. This man had evinced a strong interest in Poynter, and pledged his own as well as the assistance of the band, if it should prove necessary, in any way.
Just as Poynter was about to cross the crest of a hill, he heard the quick thud of a horse's hoofs coming at full speed upon the opposite side of the rise, and darted at once into the thicket of bushes upon the left side of the road. Cautiously parting the leafy screen, so that he could observe the extreme summit of the rise, Poynter awaited the horseman's approach.
Scarcely had he done so when the rider rose the crest, and drawing rein, paused and glanced around him. With a half-surprised curse, Poynter raised his heavy rifle, while the sharp click sounded clear and distinct, as the hammer was sprung back; but then he lowered it.
"The lying dog! For a cent I'd plug him, if only to save 'Judge Lynch' a job."
The horse and rider were standing out in bold relief against the clear sky, but still the ambushed fugitive could tell that Polk Redlaw, the half-breed, stood before him. Although strongly tempted to punish his treacherous foe, Poynter withheld his hand, lest he should get still further entangled in the wiles of his secret enemy.
Redlaw appeared to be expecting some one, as Clay judged from his manner, and after a few minutes' waiting, he placed his fingers to his mouth, and blew a shrill, piercing blast, that echoed from point to point before dying down to nothing. Scarcely had the sounds ceased, when a second peal came whistling along the ridge, as if in answer; to which Polk replied, and then dismounted as if satisfied, standing beside his noble-looking horse, idly smoothing the long, flowing mane.
In a few moments a second man appeared upon foot, with his long rifle carried at a trail, and the two men greeted each other as if greatly pleased at the meeting. Again the steely glitter shone in Poynter's eyes, while he bit his lips fiercely as if to repress his emotions, when he recognized the new-comer.
"Ah!" he gritted, as he crouched forward. "Wesley Sprowl! There's deviltry on foot when such men meet together, and by all that's good, I'll scent it out!"
The two men now plunged into a little side-trail, Redlaw leading his horse, and no sooner had they disappeared than Poynter retreated until around the bend, where he glided across the road, and in a few moments struck their trail; keeping just without the path, where, if by any chance the men he was dogging should glance back, he would be out of sight.
They proceeded leisurely enough, and he had no difficulty in keeping within ear-shot of the horse's tread, while his own footsteps were deadened upon the moist soil. After proceeding thus for nearly half a mile, the two men paused, and slipping the bit from his horse's mouth, Polk Redlaw allowed it to feed at will while he and Sprowl seated themselves upon the greensward beneath a huge oak tree.
Poynter, by dint of cautious creeping, managed to gain a dense clump of bushes at only a few yards in the rear of their position, where he crouched down with his weapons ready for instant use, in case he should be discovered. But they gave no sign of suspecting an intruder, and conversed in an easy, careless style, very much to Poynter's edification. The first of this he missed, owing to the task he had to perform, but then he listened intently.
"Well," Polk Redlaw was saying, "they did not suspect any person was following them, although I kept them in sight the entire distance. And that was no slouch of a job either, for they were in a lope most of the way, and I began to be pretty well blown before they gave any signs of halting.
"But then they paused and a signal was sounded; and from the reply I knew that I had dogged them home. And I was right, for in another ten minutes the whole crowd was gathered in a huddle, unsaddling their horses, while a dozen or so more were building fires as if the entire country belonged to them.
"I lay low, taking notes, and I saw enough in the next hour to satisfy me that I had really tracked them to the den of the horse-thieves; for there were several tents and regular fireplaces fixed up, while the ground was tramped hard and dry."
"And where was that?" inquired Sprowl, curiously.
"Well, you'll let it go no further, of course," added Redlaw, after a slight pause. "You know where Han Hooker killed the big bear, last fall? near the 'Turkey branch'? Just due west along the creek about a quarter, is the spot.
"But as I was spying around, a cursed dog somehow got scent of me, and as I saw him circling around, I lit out, for if they had found me there, the d—l himself couldn't 'a' saved my hide. I cut sticks in a hurry, as I got out of their hearing, but the brute took my trail, and in a few moments I could hear him coming, hot foot, growling like a painter.
"I was afraid to burn powder, so I just hunkered down behind a big rock, and drew my butcher. As the imp turned the corner, I grabbed his nose and twisted him down; then a cut or two andhewas quiet enough.
"But I'd seen enough, so I started for home, with the dog on my shoulder—for I was afraid to leave him where the knife-cuts might 'a' told tales—and carried him until at a safe distance, when I dropped him over the bank into the creek. And there my infernal luck still followed me, for his claw caught in my shirt and over I went, head-first, plump onto the rocks.
"Luckily my head took the dog for a pillow, and only got a little bruised and stunned like; but when I came to I found that my right ankle was either broken or badly sprained. I managed to climb up to the level, although every motion nearly made me yell out, but there I was stuck!
"I knew that if my life depended upon it, I could not have got to the town, as I was, and so I lay there, thinking what to do next. At last I slid down the bank, cut off a hind quarter of the dog, and then managed to drag myself to the "Hole-in-the-wall"—you remember?—where I lay until this morning.
"The dog-meat kept me, and although toward the last it wasn't overly sweet eating, raw at that, I managed to worry it down; for hunger is just a little the best sauce I know of. The last bite I just shut my eyes and thought it was a roasted wild turkey, and it tasted so natural that I actually began to gobble!" declared Polk with an oath.
"Bah!"
"Fact. But this morning, two hours by sun, I saw a horse—that one yonder, it was—straying along the branch, and as he was tame I managed to catch him; rigged a halter from a piece of lime-bark, and lit out for town, where I got, safe and sound, after giving you the hint to meet me here."
"Well, what'd you want, anyhow?" asked Sprowl.
"In a moment. You see I told old Reeves about the hole I'd found, and offered to guide him to it, after dark, to-night. So he sent out messengers, and by this time thevigilantesare all up to snuff.
"You may be called on to help, but if so, I want you to play sick; have a thundering shake, or something of the sort."
"Just what I'd 'a' done anyhow," dryly responded Sprowl. "I have no notion of running my head into the hands of that cursed Poynter. Meagreson didn't pay me forthat."
"Well then, you'd just as lieve make a 'double sawbuck' as not, if by doing so you spite Poynter and run no risks?"
"Twenty dollars?"
"Yes. And for half an hour's work."
"Wouldn't I? Why the old man only gave me a hundred for swearing against Poynter—Hello! what's that?" he added, starting to his feet, and looking toward the bushes where Poynter was concealed.
The latter had given a sudden start, as he caught the hint dropped by Sprowl, that could only refer to the charge of murder that had been brought against him. But who was this Meagreson, or the "old man?"
"Bah!" grunted Polk, lazily turning his head, "don't get scart at your own shadow. I heard it too, but it's only my horse."
"Sure?"
"Thunder! yes. Come. I'm in a hurry. Will you earn the money?"
"That depends," replied the other, as he reseated himself, "upon what it is."
"Well, I know you'll never peach—"
"Of course not!"
"I know it," dryly added Redlaw; "it wouldn't be healthy. But I want you to be sick when the crowd starts to-night, and then after about two hours—say about midnight—you must get up and set the house yonder, on fire."
"What!"
"Set the house of Clay Poynter on fire—isn't that plain enough? Never you mind what for—that's my own affair. It's enough that I've good reasons, and when I come back, I'll tell you. Will you do it?"
"Its a risky job—" hesitated Sprowl.
"No it isn't, either. But, yes or no, because if you won't, there's others—"
"Enough! I'll do it. But cash down, you know," leered Sprowl.
"Do you doubt my honor?" exclaimed the villainous mongrel.
"Not in the least," coolly responded his colleague, "but it's my way of doing business."
"Well, there's half of it. The rest I'll hand you in the morning."
"But supposing you should get rubbed out to-night?" suggested Sprowl.
"Curse your croaking!" hotly exclaimed Redlaw, thrusting out another bill. "There; will that do?"
"Yes; but say, isn't it a good joke upon old Meagreson that he has been paying us all to prove this Poynter a counterfeiter and murderer, while all the time he really belonged to the gang?" chuckled Sprowl.
"Bet ye! But come now, old fellow," added Redlaw, insinuatingly, "who is the old coon, anyhow? I know you can tell a fellow, if you will."
"Maybe I will, when you tell me what for you want the house fired," significantly answered Sprowl.
"Well, give me an idee, anyhow," urged Polk. "I'll tell you to-morrow, sure."
"Honest?"
"I said so, didn't I?" sharply.
"Well, don't get your back up about it and I will give you a hint, anyhow. You see, I knew him in Kentucky, and again in Illinois, where he helped run the business, after Sturdevant—"
"What!"
"Fact. I done a little in that line myself, on the sly, and we were thrown together consid'able, as he furnished the "queer." But I got the pull on him in a little scrape in which a certain man named Duaber, was concerned.
"There was a love-affair mixed up with it, I believe, and while Meagreson got the sack, Duaber got the girl. So a lot of charges were trumped up, much as we've served this Poynter, you know, only it ended in the poor devil's being lynched in earnest.
"He was taken from jail and hung by a gang spurred on by the old man, although he was not present at the deed. I gained a cool thousand in square money for it, and all went off smoothly. But I thought he was dead until he came here, found me out, gave me some money, and got me to play the same trick over again."
"I wonder what his reasons were, anyhow," mused Polk. "I'd give a five-spot to know," he added, covertly glancing at Sprowl.
"You will?"
"If it's honest, I wouldn't mind."
"I know what you're up to," nodded the other, "but if you'll promise me not to breathe a word or hint of who told you, toanybody, I'll tell you!"
"You know—or should know by this time, that I never split on a friend."
"That's so, Polk, and if you'll shell out, I'll tell you in a cat's whisper."
"Here you are; but no shenanigan, now," replied Polk, handing the bill to his comrade.
"Honor bright! Well, then, this Clay Poynter, as he calls himself, is in reality none other than Henry Duaber the son of James Duaber, who was hung on a false charge by the vigilance committee!"
"Whew!" echoed Polk Redlaw, with a long-drawn breath of astonishment. "I begin to see into it now. And the old man hates the son for the father's sake!"
"Yes, that's just it. And as you've acted on the square, so far, I don't mind telling that he is the same one who has hunted this young fellow from pillar to post, ever since he was a little shaver," said Sprowl, confidentially.
"I'd rather have his friendship than his hatred, then," laughed Polk. "When's he coming back, do you know?"
"Not yet awhile. It'd spoil the whole thing, you see, if 'John Dement' should come to life again before Poynter was nailed."
"But it seems to me that you'll be in a bad box, my friend, if it is found out that you swore to a lie."
"Oh, that's easy patched up. Besides, the men will be so cut up and ashamed at being greened so, that they'll be glad enough to let the matter drop, and as for thelaw, I'd die of old age before that could or would do anything here," sneered Sprowl.
"Well, that's your look-out, not mine. But we'd better be moving. Catch my horse for me, won't you?—this cursed ankle is sore yet."
In a few moments the mongrel was mounted, and paused to add:
"Now mind you play your part. And not before eleven, anyhow, as if the glow should be seen too soon, the men will turn back, thinking it some of theirs."
"All right. But you send around for me; it'll look better. I'll go home now and begin shaking," and with a loud laugh the two precious scoundrels separated, each man going his own way.
Scarcely had they disappeared when Clay Poynter emerged from his ambush, and stood for a moment, trembling with anger. His face pale and stern-set, his eyes glittering with bluish sheen of polished steel; his breath came hot and heavy from betwixt his tightly-clenched teeth.
Truly, he had good cause for being wrathy, and for feeling thoughtful, too, in the revelations so complacently made by Wesley Sprowl.
But he did not pause long; then throwing his rifle across his shoulder, he struck through the woods at a rapid pace, heading his course toward the rendezvous of "White Crees," the leader of the band who had rescued him from the "Twin Sycamores."
It was some time after dark before Clay Poynter neared the rendezvous of the border outlaws, despite the speed at which he traveled. But he was in time, and after satisfying the sentinel of his identity, he hastened at once to the presence of "White Crees," as his aged friend was universally termed by his men and comrades.
He was lying at full length upon the ground, one elbow propping his head as he gazed thoughtfully into the fire, crackling merrily before him. There was a kind of half-frown upon his face and a fiery gleam in his full black eyes, that told Poynter he was unusually excited about something.
"Well, sir, what is it?" quickly asked Crees, as he raised his head at the young man's approach.
"Bad news, I fear. This retreat is known—"
"The devil!"
"Yes; and you will be attacked to-night by the vigilance committee, in full force," coolly rejoined Poynter.
"Bad enough, I must say. But are you certain?"
"If hearing the entire plan, detailed by the man that found you out, is enough, I am."
"So—so!" muttered the outlaw chief.
"Well, your decision," impatiently said Clay, "what is it?"
"We must run for it. Not but that we are strong enough to stand our ground, if such a course would be prudent, but we must tread lightly. The country is hot enough now, and a collision, where blood would be shed, must be avoided."
"Very well, then; I want one man for duty concerning myself, as a sort of witness. Can I have him?"
"A dozen, if you say so," was the cordial reply. "Who is he?"
"Jack Fyffe."
"Hyar I be, square, an' mighty glad ef I kin help ye any."
"Then saddle our horses as quick as possible, please. If I had time," again turning to the outlaw leader, "I would explain, as I have much to tell; but some other time must do. Things are working around a little, and I may come out right side up after all."
"Good! and I, too, have done a good job to-day."
"So? Where'll we find you?"
"Tell Jack to lead you to the north side of "Bald Hill," where the branch cuts through the "Wildcat Range." He knows it well."
"Well, I must be off, and the sooneryouare, the better. It's nearly ten o'clock now, and they'll be along by one, at the latest."
"So they may," laughed the outlaw, "but thanks to your warning, they'll find little to satisfy their appetite. Remember, 'Bald Hill.'"
"All right!" and then the young man vaulted into the saddle as Fyffe led up the horses, and the two men dashed rapidly along the road.
"Now Jack, old fellow," cried Poynter, "we must ride as if the 'gentleman in black' was at our horses' tails, or we'll be too late."
"Whar to?"
"My house. Do you know a path that we can go, so as to avoid meeting our friends who'll take the main road?"
"Bet ye! It's rough ridin' though, but bein's it's shorter, 'twon't take no longer. What's the biz?"
Thereupon Poynter succinctly stated what he had heard while eavesdropping the two precious scoundrels, adding:
"It isn't that I care so much for the house, but we must take that Sprowl a prisoner. He knows enough to clear me, and if he can prove what he said, to bring this Dement or Meagreson to justice; and that's just my hand, now."
"We'll do it! Ef not in the act, we'll nab him at his own shanty. Then a taste o' the med'cin' 'at they gi'n you'll bring 'im to tarms, I reckon. Leastwise we kin try it. Meagreson, ye said?"
"Yes; do you know him?"
"Oh no, I guess not! Lord, won't the ol' man be glad!"
"Crees, do you mean?"
"Look out! Hyar's the cut-off. Foller me cluss an' look out for yur head."
They now diverged from the road, into a path just allowing one horse to pass at a time, and the riders were forced to stoop low along their horses' necks to keep from being struck by the low-hanging limbs. This fact effectually put a stop to all conversation, for the time being.
Presently the ground grew more open, although they still continued in single file, and as they rose the crest of a hill, Fyffe exclaimed, in a glad tone:
"It's all hunky so fur, anyhow, square. Ef it stays so fer ten minutes longer, we'll save 'em both."
"Are we so near, then?"
"Leetle better 'n a mile. See, thar's the branch."
"Good! I know where we are now. Spur along; we've no time to lose."
In less than the time named the horsemen drew rein at the western fence of the yard, and speedily hitching the animals, they stealthily advanced until the rear of the house was gained. After pausing for a moment to listen, and hearing nothing suspicious, they made the circuit of the building; thus satisfying themselves that the would-be incendiary had not yet arrived.
"We're in good time, Jack," whispered Poynter, joyfully, "and 'll get him yet. Do you hide here in front, and I'll do the same behind. If you need help, whistle and I'll come."
"Help, ag'in'thetlittle or'nary cuss? Bah! I'd take him 'ith one finger."
"So much the better, then. But look sharp."
"Shall I nab 'im as soon as I see him?"
"No; I guess we'd better let him start a blaze first. Then he can't deny but what that was his intention. Yes, that's the best way."
"All right then. Better lumber down, though, fer ef he shed cotch a glimpse o' either on us, it's all played," cautioned Fyffe.
This advice was too good not to be followed, and in a moment more, all was still and silent about the premises. Poynter's mind was greatly excited, as well it might be, at the facts he had learned on that day; and as the gloomy prospect that had spread over his future began to lighten, a thousand air-castles were built, over all of which the pleasing form of Nora McGuire, his little rosy Irish lass, reigned as queen—need we state who was the king?
But he was suddenly aroused from his reverie, by the light tramp of a man's feet, and glancing up, he saw a dim, shadow-like figure, cautiously approaching the house, at a little to his left. From his position, close beside the slightly elevated porch that stood in the rear of the kitchen, the door of which led out upon it, Poynter was perfectly hidden, while yet he could quite plainly note the intruder's every movement.
This person lightly stepped upon the porch, and cautiously tried the door, but it was fastened. Then he went to one of the rear windows, and after a slight effort, raised it; then propping it up with a stick, drew himself through the aperture.
Listening intently, Poynter heard him groping around the room, and then after a few moments' silence, he saw a faint, flickering light spring up. Gliding to the window, he peered through, and saw Wesley Sprowl igniting a short piece of tallow-dip by the aid of a match.
Poynter knew now that he had his game secure, and crept around the building, where he was met by Jack Fyffe, who had been alarmed by the slight noise, and was just coming around to investigate it.
"Is it him?"
"Yes," whispered Poynter, "but we must let him start the fire first, before we interrupt him. Then as I jump through the window, do you burst in the back door and put out the blaze. I'll 'tend to him."
"Jest as you say, square; on'y I'd like to gi'n the varmint a squoze, like, jest for beans," grunted Fyffe, as he followed Poynter around the building.
They could still see the light, and hear an increased rattling in the room, and cautiously peering in at one corner of the window, the two men saw the incendiary splitting fine kindlings with the knife he had drawn from his belt. Poynter could scarcely restrain his passion, at noting how coolly and deliberately the dastardly scoundrel set about his work; but the pressure of Jack Fyffe's hand upon his arm, recalled his presence of mind.
When a little pile of the shavings were made Sprowl piled over them some splinters of wood that lay beside the kitchen-stove, and then applied the lighted candle to the heap. It instantly ignited, the tiny blaze creeping along, thrusting out its forked tongue like a serpent; at which the incendiary gave a chuckle of delight, and rising, dropped a chair over the fire.
He next grasped the table, with the same intention, but Poynter had seen enough, and drawing himself up by the arms, he dropped lightly through the window—the noise made by Sprowl in dragging the table effectually drowning his footsteps. One stride, and the large, muscular right hand of Clay Poynter tightly clasped the villain by the neck, compressing it as if in a vice.
Jack Fyffe was in no wise behindhand, but speedily followed his leader through the open window, thinking that better than to demolish the door, especially as there was no particularly urgent call for haste; and with a few shoves of his huge foot, kicked the brands into the capacious fireplace, it having done no damage, save slightly scorching the chairs and floor.
"It may be fun to you, square, da'say'tis, but ef you 'xpects to git any 'fessions outen thet critter, you'd do well to let up a little," admonished Jack, as he bent forward to peer into the face of the prisoner.
And there was ample foundation for his warning, for in his rage at the cowardly miscreant's action, Poynter threw the whole power of his arm into the grasp, and Sprowl was already senseless. His eyes were widely protruding, and his open mouth and lolling tongue, together with his rapidly-blackening, distorted features, rendered him a horrible, repulsive sight.
"You're right, Jack," said Poynter, as he relaxed his grip and suffered Sprowl to drop upon the floor, then bending over him, he poured a little brandy down his throat, although Jack grumbled at the sacrilege.
In a few moments Sprowl had recovered sufficiently to sit up, thoroughly bewildered at the sudden reverse he had experienced. But his captors did not give him time to ponder over it, or ask questions, as it was growing late, and for obvious reasons they did not care to remain longer than was absolutely necessary in the neighborhood.
So, after securely binding the incendiary's hands behind his back, the two men, highly elated at their complete success, led the way to where the horses were hitched.
"You're the lightest, Jack," said Poynter; "better take him up behind you on the horse."
"Durn the thief!" growled Fyffe, "let 'im tramp it; 't'll do him good."
"So he might; but there's no telling whom we may meet, and I won't lose him now. But if you object, he can ride with me."
"I didn't think o' that, square. Jest you hyste him up arter I mount."
This was speedily done, and Sprowl secured to the body of his captor, thus effectually preventing all hopes of an escape. Then leaving the premises they entered the road, proceeding at a moderate pace, as they were not desirous of arousing any of the neighbors who might chance to be at home.
For a couple of hours they rode on without halting, when they both drew rein simultaneously, bending forward in the saddles, and listening eagerly. It was a sharp, clear report, followed by what appeared an irregular volley of small-arms, resounding all about them as if an entire army was engaged in battle.
But the two men were far too well versed in the peculiarities of that portion of the country not to know that it was but the multiplied reverberations of the one first shot.
"Listen!" exclaimed Poynter, guardedly, "don't you hear the click of shoes upon the stones?"
"Y'ur right, by the 'tarnal! It's thevigilantys, I reckon. Better kiver."
"To the left," muttered Poynter, leading the way. "Hold the reins while I keep the horses from neighing. And mark you, Sprowl, those are your friends, but if you utter so much as a whisper, by the God above me, I will shoot you like a dog! You know I keep my word. They may hunt us, but it would be too late to doyouany good!" hissed the young man as he passed by the prisoner.
They were scarcely a dozen feet from the road, upon a little lower ground, from whence they could have a clear view of anybody passing by. There was no moon, and the dense growth of underbrush close behind them, added to the dark color of their horses, rendered discovery very improbable, if not impossible.
Poynter stood by the animals' heads, one hand upon the muzzle of each, to check any inclination they might feel for whickering during the passage of the horsemen. They had not long to wait.
Scarcely had these precautions been taken, when the foremost man came in sight, and then the main body. Their oaths and curses, if nothing else, would have identified them as the band ofvigilantes, returning from an unsuccessful search for the outlaws, thanks to Poynter's timely warning.
After waiting a few minutes, until satisfied that the entire band had passed, the ambushed men again entered the road, proceeding for some little distance in silence. Then Clay spoke:
"Those fellows weren't in the best of humor, eh, Jack?"
"Not overly much. Wal, it shows 'at the boys got cl'ar, anyhow. But see, hyar's the cut-off."
"Leading to Bald Hill?"
"Yas," and Fyffe led the way along a narrow, irregular path.