THE “HALTER” OF JUSTICE.
Clontarf’s Post had first been settled by Lionel Clontarf, a
gentleman of Irish descent. It was among the first settlements of the
then territory of Iowa, and, although in the midst of privations,
and harassed by the red man, it grew and prospered as but few under
similar circumstances would have done.
Family after family, with brave hearts and willing hands, were added
to the settlement, until it numbered some fifty souls.
Stock-raising and agriculture were the chief objects of the settlers,
though in course of time a store and Indian trading-post were opened.
At this point, all the surrounding settlements--which in fact were
few--obtained their supplies, and many dollars’ worth of furs and
peltries were brought here and exchanged by the Indians for flour,
powder, and ammunition of all kinds, and such trinkets as pleased
their savage fancy or wants. The settlers did all within their power
to keep up a friendly intercourse between themselves and the Indians.
This they would have had no trouble in doing, but for the influence
of unprincipled white men, who, driven from the society of their own
race, sought shelter within the red man’s lodges, or the mountain
fastnesses, where they organized themselves into bands to rob and
murder the unoffending settler or emigrant.
Through the instrumentality of these white outlaws, the Indians were
kept in an almost constant state of hostilities, and it behooved the
whites ever to be upon their guard, and use every exertion toward
ridding the country of all those prime roots of border troubles--the
white robber, and the white renegade.
Among the latter class of outlaws, who had become notorious for his
deep cunning and wickedness, was one Dick Sherwood, whose crimes were
multitudinous. And for some cause or other, Clontarf’s Post was the
central point around which this moth of Satan seemed to flutter most
of all. It seemed that he cherished a natural antipathy toward the
place, or some of its people, and tried in vain, by every means that
his cunning brain could concoct, to destroy it.
Finally he had the audacious boldness to disguise himself in the
paint and garb of an Indian, and come to the post on a pretended
mission of peace. He was kindly received by the men of the post, who
had supposed him a genuine Indian sent by his people to make some
terms of peace, as a deadly hostility had existed between them for
the past six months.
A council was called, and a treaty of peace at once entered into, by
and between the settlers and the great chief, Rolling Thunder, as he
called himself.
After the treaty was concluded, the chief remained at the post a day
or two; and, but for his attempting to carry away Miss Clara Bryant,
one of the fairest jewels of the post, on taking his leave of the
settlement, his disguise would never have been penetrated. However,
he was caught at his little game of abduction and taken prisoner.
By a vigorous application of water by means of numerous duckings in
the river, his feathers were caused to droop and his mask of paint
to wash away; and the great messenger of peace--the mighty Rolling
Thunder, was found to be the notorious renegade, Dick Sherwood.
The vengeance of the settlers was at once aroused. The villain was
locked up in the block-house, the remainder of the night upon which
he was captured, and the next day he was led forth for trial.
According to their notion of border justice, the settlers of
Clontarf’s Post found Sherwood guilty of crimes punishable by death,
and so he was condemned to be hanged in the forest on the morrow.
The morrow came. It was the day upon which our story opens.
The prisoner was led forth from his prison, in the midst of a group
of men. It was this group that young Rollo, the ranger, saw from the
crest of the prairie wave.
Dick Sherwood was a young man of not more than five and twenty.
Of figure he was of medium height, and was a perfect model of the
physical man. His head was of the intellectual mold, and but for the
evil light in his black eyes he would have been a handsome man.
As his captors led him from the stockade like a haltered ox, his face
wore no downcast look, and his step was firm and elastic. Even in his
helpless condition, and in face of the death to which he was being
hurried, he was recklessly cheerful, and made many remarks touching
his situation, that produced laughter among the settlers, and even
made a curious impression upon some of their hearts.
The execution was to take place in the woods across the river, and
two of the settlers had been sent on some time in advance to select a
tree for the purpose, and dig a grave.
When the party crossed the river with the prisoner, they were met
by the two men and conducted to the place of execution, which was
beneath the branching boughs of a great oak.
A large limb growing out at right-angles with the body of the tree
had been trimmed of its shrubbery, and near the foot of the tree a
grave was dug.
As the prisoner gazed upon these preparations for his execution, he
smiled grimly, defiantly.
“Why go to this trouble, gentlemen?” he asked, pointing toward
the grave. “Why not let my body hang for the hungry wolf, the
carrion-crow and the vulture to feed upon? Know you not that the
spirit will not complain of your treatment of the body? The wolf
and the vulture will not devour my bones, and so long as the grim
skeleton exists, so long will the spirit remain about it.”
“You are disposed to jest, Dick Sherwood,” said Lionel Clontarf, a
stern, stony-hearted man; “you should think of the great Hereafter,
and then perhaps your heart will move the spirit differently.”
“Yes,” added Geoffry Bryant, “think of the lives you have destroyed,
and the homes you have made sad and desolate, and then, if you have a
conscience, you will feel a pang of remorse. Your heart will shrink
from the terrible punishment awaiting you.”
“I am really conscious of all this, gentlemen,” replied Sherwood,
tauntingly, “but my greatest regrets are that I did not succeed in
escaping with Miss Bryant, for then it would have been heaven instead
of--”
“Hang the villain! hang the wretch!” burst from the lips of some of
the crowd.
“Dick Sherwood,” said old Captain Storms, the leader of the party,
“if you have any thing of reason to say, say it at once; if not--”
“Certainly,” interrupted Sherwood; “I was going to suggest that some
improvements be made upon that grave for _my_ ease and comfort; but
I will not occupy it long, so go your length, gentlemen. Should I
ever address you again it will be under different--quite different
auspices.”
The settlers grew indignant at these taunting, defiant remarks, and
at once proceeded to the execution.
Four men drew the cleared limb as low as possible and held it down.
To this Captain Storms tied the rope which already encircled the
renegade’s neck.
Lionel Clontarf bound a handkerchief over the prisoner’s eyes, and
then, at a signal from Captain Storms, the four men relinquished
their hold upon the limb which arose to its natural position, and
then Dick Sherwood _hung between heaven and earth_!
The wretched man struggled desperately, but his efforts momentarily
grew feebler. The settlers stood in speechless silence and gazed upon
the hanging form until it had ceased to move.
Surely life was extinct.
Finally Captain Storms advanced and placed his fingers upon the
renegade’s pulse, and said in a low tone:
“He’s dead, boys, dead, dead; and may God have mercy upon his soul.”
As he uttered the last word a startled exclamation burst from the
lips of the crowd.
A horseman had burst suddenly from the forest into their midst.
It was Rollo, the ranger! His horse was white with foam, and his own
face streaked with perspiration and flushed with excitement.
“Away, men, away!” the youth shouted, wildly, “away for your homes,
your wives and your children! The Indians are upon the post!”
“My God!” burst from the lips of Lionel Clontarf; “come, men, follow
me! I can already hear the yells of the demons and the clash of arms!”
“But the body of Sherwood,” cried one, “what will be--”
“Let it hang away!” responded old Captain Storms.
Fear seemed to lend the settlers invisible wings as they ran through
the woods toward the post, the boy ranger following close at their
heels upon his almost exhausted animal.
Had the settlers, however, on turning their backs upon the hanging
renegade, given the young ranger a second glance, they would have
seen something that would have aroused some curiosity, if not
suspicions, in their minds. Wild with excitement and fear, however,
they ran on, the safety of their families uppermost in their minds.
When the river was reached, the settlers hastily embarked for the
opposite shore in their canoes, the ranger swimming his animal behind.
When they came in sight of the post the men saw that the place was
being bravely defended by the few men that had remained behind.
The enemy were mounted, and in number did not exceed a dozen. They
had divided their force, and the larger party were directing their
attack upon the eastern gate of the stockade.
Seeing the inferiority in number of the enemy, the settlers gave a
yell as they approached, and the next moment the savages were flying
over the plain at a breakneck speed, leaving one of their number
behind, dead.
This bloodless termination--on the part of the settlers--of what
promised a bloody affray, resulted in Rollo, the Boy Ranger, being
lionized as the real hero of the victory. He was fairly dragged
from his pony and forced to accept the warm, heartfelt thanks and
blessings bestowed upon him, for his timely warning them of danger.
The young ranger seemed ill at ease within the stockade, and contrary
to the wishes of the settlers, he soon took his departure.
“I can not bear the confinement of the settlement,” he said, on
leaving the post. “I feel freer when roaming on the great prairie
ocean, or threading the shadowy aisles of the forest.”
He rode away toward the north when he left the post, on the trail of
the defeated red-skins.
To the surprise of the settlers, on going to inter the body of the
slain enemy, they found that it was the body of a white man in Indian
disguise. This discovery caused no little food for reflection, and
old Captain Storms, well versed in the nature of the Indian, gave it
as his belief that the whole party of mounted enemies were a party of
white men, and robbers at that, in Indian disguise. The old captain’s
reason for this belief was that the enemy had been too bold and
reckless in their attack, which set at variance all he had ever seen
of Indian caution, cunning and cowardice.
During the remainder of that day and the following night, guards
were stationed at all the points surrounding the post, and the stock
secured against a night stampede. But, fortunately, no further
hostile demonstration was made by the enemy.
The following morning, however, a number of Indians were seen in
the edge of the timber along the river on the opposite shore. This
prevented the settlers from crossing over to inter the body of Dick
Sherwood, the renegade, as they had intended to do.
On the second day, vultures were seen hovering over the forest, and
it was then that every Christian energy of the settlers was aroused,
and they at once crossed the river and proceeded to the scene of
execution.
But to their horror and disgust, they found only a human skeleton
bleaching in the sun, where they had last seen the body of the
renegade hanging.
The gaunt wolf and the carrion-crow had been there. And as the white,
ghastly skeleton swayed to and fro in the breeze--seeming still
possessed of life--the settlers shuddered, for it brought up quite
forcibly in their minds, the words of the renegade, “As long as my
bones exist the spirit will remain about them.”
Was it possible that these words were prophetic?
The remains were taken down and buried, and then the party returned
home, feeling that they were at last free from the persecutions of
the renegade, Dick Sherwood.