LESTER BRIGHAM MAKES NEW FRIENDS.
We said in the second chapter that after Bob Owens ran away from home to
become a hunter, and Godfrey Evans and his son Dan went to work to earn
an honest living, and David Evans became _mail carrier_, and Lester
Brigham withdrew himself from the society of the boys in the
neighborhood, the inhabitants of Rochdale and the surrounding country
settled back into their old ways, and waited for something to happen
that would create an excitement. Unfortunately they were not obliged to
wait long.
After one has spent years of his life in idleness, he finds it an
exceedingly difficult task to turn over a new leaf and make a radical
and permanent change in his whole course of conduct, and Godfrey and Dan
were no exceptions to this rule. So long as they worked for General
Gordon, who took pains to keep a close watch over them, and to encourage
them by every means in his power, there was no fault to be found with
them. They labored early and late; Godfrey, as we know, saving enough
from his hard earnings to refund the money of which he had robbed
Clarence Gordon on the highway, the old cabin in which they lived was
repaired and refurnished, and everything seemed to be well with them;
but when they had cut all the wood the general could use that year, and
the latter went away on business leaving them to take care of
themselves, the trouble began. They made a few feeble attempts to find
more work, and in their efforts to do so they came in contact with the
professional loafers about the landing, whose influence over them was
anything but beneficial. The majority of them spent their time in
watching the steamboats, taking part in shooting-matches and making a
pretense of hunting and trapping for a livelihood; while those who had
work, and were able to pay for having it done, did not want Godfrey and
Dan to do it. Mr. Owens, Bob’s father, was mainly responsible for this
state of affairs. He had not yet got over being angry at General Gordon
for putting in a bid for the mail-route when he wanted it himself, and
he never allowed an opportunity to abuse him to pass unimproved.
“Gordon seems to have taken Godfrey and his family under his protecting
wing, and now he can provide for them and welcome,” Mr. Owens often
said. “I want some wood cut the worst way, but I’ll see Godfrey and Dan
in Jerusalem before they shall have the job. If it hadn’t been for
Gordon I might have had my boy at home with me now.”
“Yes, and my boy would not have been obliged to make a hermit of
himself,” Mr. Brigham would always remark when he heard Mr. Owens
talking in this way. These two men had been rather distant toward each
other after Mr. Brigham’s refusal to go on Bob’s bond, but they were
firm friends now. They both hated General Gordon, and for nearly the
same reason. Mr. Brigham had come to Rochdale with the idea that his
money would at once make him the head man of the county; but in this he
was most sadly disappointed. He found that the general was worth just as
much, if not more than he was; that he was everybody’s friend and
adviser, a member of the legislature and a candidate for governor, and
that it would be of no use for anybody to try to usurp his place. That
was the reason he didn’t want the general to have the contract for
carrying the mail; and when he learned that the latter had influence
enough to secure it without any of his help, he was greatly enraged, and
felt quite as bitter toward his rich neighbor as Bob’s father did.
“Never mind,” said Mr. Owens. “It is a long lane that has no turning,
and we shall some day be able to get square with Gordon for that piece
of business. Mark my words: David Evans will sooner or later prove
himself to be utterly unworthy the confidence that is placed in him. It
can’t be otherwise, for he is——”
Mr. Owens was about to add that David was the son of a thief as well as
the brother of one; but he didn’t say it, for he recollected in time
that his own son was not above reproach—that he had left Rochdale having
in his possession more than a hundred and sixty dollars that did not
belong to him.
“Where have you fellows kept yourselves so long?” asked one of the
loafers, when Godfrey and Dan once more made their appearance at the
landing, carrying their rifles on their shoulders as in the days gone
by. “Been spendin’ some of Dave’s money in a tower to Europe? O, been
cuttin’ wood for Gordon, eh? Well, that’s what I call nigger’s work, and
_I_ wouldn’t do it for no ’ristocrat. It’s right smart easier to hunt
and trap. There’s going to be a power of deer and turkey this fall, and
Silas Jones has agreed to pay cash for all I can bring him. He’d be
willing to make the same bargain with you, I know, for he wants all he
can get to ship to some commission merchant in St. Louis. He gives eight
cents a pound for the deer, and sixty cents apiece for the turkeys.”
“I’ll just tell ye what’s the gospel truth, Dannie,” said Godfrey, after
some of his old friends had talked to him in this way a few times. “I’ve
got just as much right to hire somebody to chop my wood as Gordon has,
an’ I ain’t goin’ to cut no more fur him nor no other ’ristocrat. I’m
goin’ huntin’.”
“So be I,” said Dan, who was delighted at the prospect of going back to
his old way of living.
“So ye shall, Dannie. We’ve done niggers’ work long enough, an’ now
we’ll be gentlemen agin, like we used to be. Thar ain’t no call fur you
an’ me to work so hard every day, when everybody else takes it so easy
down thar at the landin’; an’ we won’t do it, neither. Here’s Dave
makin’ a power of money, and as he ain’t of age yet, every cent he ’arns
ought to go into my own pocket. It shall go thar too, or I’ll make a
bigger furse here in the settlement nor I did afore. Gordon needn’t go
to pokin’ his nose into the matter, either, for he won’t scare me as
easy as he did the last time.”
“How much would a deer be worth at eight cents a pound, pap?” inquired
Dan.
“Wal, that depends. If he weighed a hundred an’ twenty pounds, he’d
bring as much as five or six dollars, I reckon; an’ if he weighed two
hundred an’ fifty pounds, like the one I killed three winters ago, he’d
be worth fifteen, an’ mebbe twenty-five dollars,” answered Godfrey, who
was no quicker at figures than he used to be.
“That’s a heap more nor I could make chopping wood,” said Dan.
“Course it is. A smart hunter like yourself oughter be able to get a
deer every day, to say nothin’ of the turkeys ye might trap an’ shoot.
’Sides ye’d be doin’ a gentleman’s work an’ not a nigger’s.”
This conversation took place between Dan and his father one bright
summer’s day when they were returning home from the landing, whither
they had gone under pretense of looking for work. Mrs. Evans knew there
was something wrong the moment they appeared at the door, and she was
not long in finding out what it was. Godfrey and Dan had worked
faithfully during the whole of the winter and spring, and Mrs. Evans,
although she did not see a cent of the money they earned, David being
expected to look out for her comfort, began to believe that their
reformation was complete, and that it would prove to be lasting; but now
she learned, to her great sorrow, that she had been too hasty in coming
to these conclusions. When she saw that the axes were thrown aside, and
that the rifles, which had so long been idle, were daily taken down from
their hooks, she knew that bad times were coming again. And they came
apace, too. Godfrey and Dan seemed to have lost all their skill as
hunters, for the game they brought to the landing did not amount to
much. It is true that they made some money, but it all slipped through
their fingers without doing them any good, and by the time cold weather
came they were as ragged and lazy as they had ever been, and just as
ready to engage in any scheme that would bring them money without work.
Meanwhile Lester Brigham mustered up courage enough to come out of his
retirement, and was somewhat surprised as well as vexed to learn that he
might have done so long ago if he had felt so disposed, and that his
voluntary banishment was entirely needless. Nobody paid much attention
to him. Fred and Joe Packard, and all the other decent boys who lived in
the neighborhood, greeted him pleasantly whenever they passed him on the
road, and no one except the loafers at the landing had anything to say
to him concerning his past conduct. These gentlemen of leisure could not
resist the temptation to question him regarding that terrible bear-fight
on Bruin’s Island, in which he and the absent Bob had won so much
renown, and now and then they reminded him that he had assisted in
burning Don Gordon’s shooting-box; but they did it all so good-naturedly
that Lester could not get angry at them.
“Don’s got another shantee over there on the point, and I shouldn’t be
sorry to see that go up in smoke like the old one did,” a man of the
Godfrey Evans stamp said to Lester one day. “’Tain’t no use to him and
Bert, and by building it there they have taken the bread out of the
mouths of a good many folks who live about here. As soon as school is
out they’ll come home, get a party of their friends together, and kick
up such a rumpus there on the lake that all the birds will be driven out
of the country; and when a poor man gets out of bacon he can’t have a
duck or goose for dinner, for there won’t be any for him to shoot.”
Every time Lester Brigham rode away from the landing—he very soon fell
into the habit of going there as regularly as Godfrey and Dan did—he
carried with him the impression that the Gordons were not held in very
high esteem, and that he and Bob Owens had the sympathy of all the best
people in the settlement. Encouraged by this belief, he began making
efforts to work his way into the good graces of the Packard boys, but he
failed utterly. Fred and Joe were warm friends of the Gordons, and they
met his advances in so freezing a manner that Lester was highly enraged,
and straightway set his wits at work to conjure up some plan for getting
even with them. He wished for Bob Owens more than he had ever wished for
him before (if Bob had been there he would not have joined him in any
plan for mischief or revenge, for he was not that kind of a boy now);
but as the only friend he had ever had since he had been in the
settlement was many miles away, and Lester could no longer bear to live
alone, he was forced to look for another associate—one who had plenty of
time at his disposal, and who would accompany him on all his hunting and
fishing excursions. He found him at last in the person of Dan Evans, who
lost no time in turning their intimacy to account.
Lester, as we know, was provided with all the implements that any
sportsman could possibly find use for, but he was a very poor shot, and
he knew nothing whatever about hunting. He had, however, a larger amount
of pocket money than he could spend in Rochdale, and whenever Dan Evans
made a good bag, Lester would select from it such birds or animals as he
fancied, pay the cash for them, and carry them home to show as trophies
of his own skill. Of course Dan was not just such a companion as he
would like to have had, but he was better than no friend at all, and in
his presence Lester could brag to his heart’s content. No matter how
unreasonable the story he told, Dan never disputed it or even looked
incredulous. He was much too cunning for that.
“If I had the money that your brother brought my father last night, I
wouldn’t be here to-morrow at this time,” Lester said to Dan one day. He
had of late grown very tired of life in Mississippi, and was almost
constantly urging his father to let him go somewhere, he didn’t much
care where, so long as he could find ample opportunity for recreation,
and would not be required to work or study. Mr. Brigham had threatened
to send him away to school if he did not leave off bothering him, and
Lester was so very much afraid he would carry his threat into execution,
that he began to think seriously of leaving home as his friend, Bob
Owens, had done. The only thing that stood in his way was the want of
money. “When the mail was distributed last night my father got a letter
with five thousand dollars in it,” continued Lester. “He gets that much
on the fifteenth day of every month from his agent who is selling off
our property in the North.”
Dan opened his eyes in great surprise. Five thousand dollars was not so
large an amount as he and his father had hoped to make by digging up the
barrel of gold and silver that was supposed to be buried in General
Gordon’s potato-patch, but still it was a lot of money—a much greater
sum than Dan ever expected to earn by honest labor.
“I don’t want you to say anything about it,” continued Lester, “for it
is my opinion that there are a good many men about here who would not be
any too good to waylay Dave and rob him if they knew that he was
entrusted with the care of so much money.”
Dan protested that he wouldn’t think of such a thing; but still the
information he had received seemed to make an impression upon him, for
he became very silent and thoughtful after that, and Lester could hardly
get a word out of him. He seemed to have suddenly lost all interest in
hunting, for he missed several fair shots, and finally declaring that he
did not feel in the humor for sport, he abruptly abandoned his
companion, leaving him to continue the hunt alone or to go home, just as
he pleased. An idea had suggested itself to Dan, and he wanted to get
off by himself so that he could turn it over in his mind and see what he
could make of it.
“Five thousand dollars,” said Dan to himself, as he hurried through the
woods. “That’s a right smart chance of money, the first thing you know.
And to think that our leetle Dave should have the handlin’ of it! Dave
makes stacks of greenbacks by ridin’ around the country doin’ nothin’,
he wears good clothes all the time, and here’s me—Dog-gone my buttons,
I’ve got just as good a right to have five thousand dollars as Mr.
Brigham has. I wish I was mail-carrier. I wouldn’t ask to go more’n one
trip, an’ after that nobody in this country wouldn’t ever set eyes onto
me again.”
Dan seemed to know where he was going and what he intended to do when he
got there, for he kept straight ahead without once slackening his pace,
paying no heed to the squirrels which barked at him as he hurried along,
and making his way around the foot of Diamond lake, he finally reached
the levee that ran along the bank of the river. Here he found a
dilapidated house-boat which had been tied up to the bank for a month or
more—long enough, at any rate, for Dan to become very well acquainted
with the men who owned it. He had met them while hunting in the woods,
had showed them the best places to set their traps for minks and ’coons,
had taken part with them in shooting-matches at the landing, and had
given them information which rendered it comparatively easy for them to
forage upon the hen-roosts and smoke-houses of the planters who lived in
the neighborhood. They had drawn a good many secrets from the boy—one
especially that they intended to use for their own benefit as soon as
the opportunity was presented.
Dan walked up the plank that ran from the shore to the bow of the
house-boat, and entered the cabin without ceremony. It was as dismal a
hole as he had ever looked into, and Dan, accustomed as he was to gloomy
surroundings, wondered how anybody could live there. It contained but
one apartment, and that was used as a kitchen, sitting-room, dining-room
and bed-room. The men were lounging in their bunks, while their wives
were gathered about the rusty stove puffing vigorously at their
well-blackened cob-pipes. When the boat careened under Dan’s weight, one
of the men sprang from his bunk and made an effort to conceal a couple
of chickens he had just been picking; but as soon as he saw who the
visitor was, he laid them down again, for he knew he had nothing to
fear.
“Mornin’. I reckon I skeered ye jest a trifle, didn’t I? How wet ye be
in here,” said Dan, glancing at the little pools of water that filled
every depression in the rough, uneven floor.
“Come in an’ take a cheer, Dannie,” said the man who had tried to hide
the chickens, while the other two sat up in their bunks and nodded to
him. “It is damp, that’s a fact; but, you see, it rained powerful
yesterday, the roof aint by no means as tight as it might be, an’ the
ole scow leaks water awful. We can’t hardly keep her pumped out.”
“Then what makes ye stay here?” asked Dan. “I know a nice, tight leetle
house over thar on the shore of the lake, with two big rooms into it,
an’ thar aint nobody lives thar.”
“We’ve seen it; but it’s locked up.”
“What’s the odds? Take something an’ pull one of the steeples out, an’
ye kin get in as easy as fallin’ off a log.”
“We don’t want to get into no trouble. Who owns it?”
“Don Gordon; but he’s off somewhere goin’ to school, an’ thar’s no
tellin’ when he will be to hum.”
“Does he live thar when he’s to home?”
“No. He jest stays there a leetle while an’ shoots ducks an’ geese.
That’s what he built it fur.”
“Rich folks always has nice things,” said one of the men who had not
spoken before, “but we poor folks has to take what we can get. We’re
just as good as Gen’ral Gordon too, every day in the week.”
“So be I,” said Dan, “an’ I wouldn’t stand back if I wanted to go thar.
Thar aint no sense in Don’s livin’ in that shantee when his father’s got
a big house with carpets an’ a pianner into it, an’ chiny an’ silver to
set the table with.”
“No, thar ain’t,” said the man who had done the most of the talking and
who answered to the name of Barlow. “We’ll move our duds over thar, if
we can get in, an’ stay thar until we can fix our boat up a little. If
everything works right, we’ll have a better one before long.”
He got upon his feet as he spoke and drew from under his bunk a short
bar of iron, which had more than once come into play when Barlow wanted
to force an entrance into somebody’s smoke-house. Carrying this in his
hand, he went ashore with Dan, who led the way through the woods toward
Don Gordon’s shooting-box. It was the work of scarcely a moment to pull
out one of the staples, and when that had been done, the door swung
open, and Dan and his companion went in to take a survey of the
interior. It was dry and comfortable, as clean as it could possibly be,
and Barlow at once decided that he would live there as long as he
remained in that neighborhood.
“It’s nice to be rich,” said he, seating himself in one of the empty
bunks, after touching a match to the pile of light wood which the lawful
owner of the shooting-box had left in the fire-place. “It’s nice to have
horses an’ hounds an’ niggers to work for you, while you have nothing to
do but ride around the country an’ enjoy yourself. That’s the way I’d
live if I had the chance to make money that your brother’s got.”
“Yes, Dave makes right smart,” said Dan, with some pride in his tones,
“an’ he don’t do no work, nuther. But he’s scandalous mean with what he
’arns. He gives it all to mam, an’ me an’ pap never have none of it.
He’s gettin’ mighty tired of Dave’s way of doin’, pap is, an’ t’other
night he told Dave that he could jest fork over every cent of his
’arnin’s, an’ let pap have the handlin’ of ’em. Dave, he said he
wouldn’t do it, an’ I’m looking for the biggest kind of a furse up to
our house when next pay-day comes.”
“Your pap has got the right to every cent Dave makes till he is
twenty-one years old, an’ Dave can’t hender him from takin’ it,” said
Barlow. “I ’spose he carries a heap of money between the landin’ an’ the
county-seat in that mail-bag of his’n.”
“I should say he did!” exclaimed Dan. “Only last night he brought in
five thousand dollars for Mr. Brigham—the father of that boy who was
down here with me t’other day. Lester said so this mornin’. He told me
too that Dave brings in just that much on the fifteenth day of every
month.”
Barlow started and looked hard at Dan, and then he looked down at the
floor. “Wal, if I was Dave,” said he, after a moment’s pause, “I’d bring
in jest one more of them letters, an’ then I’d skip.”
“So would I,” said Dan. “What does Brigham want with that money? He’s
got more’n he can use already. Lester said so.”
“That’s always the way with rich folks, Dannie. The more they get the
more they want; an’ me an’ you an’ everybody like us could starve for
all they care. We’re jest as good as they be too. It’s a wonder to me
that somebody don’t go for Dave an’ take some of them letters away from
him.”
“I don’t care if they do,” answered Dan. “If I should see ’em doin’ it,
I wouldn’t lift a hand to hender ’em. That would bring Dave down from
his high hoss, fur Gen’ral Gordon wouldn’t never hire him to tote the
mail agin; an’ then he’d have to scratch for a livin’ the way me an’ pap
does.”
“It would serve him right, for bein’ so stingy,” said Barlow.
“But the feller that goes for him had better watch out,” continued Dan,
“fur Dave, he carries a double-barrel dissolver in his pocket. It shoots
six times, an’ he knows how to use it.”
“I don’t reckon that would stand in the way of anybody who wanted them
letters,” said Barlow, with a laugh. “If Dave should see a couple of
loaded rifles lookin’ him square in the face, he wouldn’t think of his
six-shooter.”
“Mebbe he wouldn’t,” said Dan. “But if _I_ could ride that mail-route
the next time Brigham’s money-letter comes in—if Dave could be tuk sick,
or get lost in the woods, or something so’t I could take his place—the
fellow that wanted them five thousand wouldn’t have no trouble, for I
shouldn’t have no dissolver with me. But he’d have to give me half.”
This was the idea that had so suddenly suggested itself to Dan Evans—to
get David out of the way for one day so that he could carry the mail,
and give Barlow and his two friends a chance to secure a portion of Mr.
Brigham’s money. If Barlow had jumped at the bait thus adroitly thrown
out, Dan would have proposed that, after the robbery had been
accomplished, they should all take to the flat-boat, push it out into
the river, and let the current take it to New Orleans, where they would
divide the money and separate, Dan going his way and Barlow and his
companions going theirs. Dan thought it was a splendid idea, but Barlow
knocked it into a cocked hat by the very next words he uttered.
“You couldn’t take your brother’s place even for a single day,” said he.
“What fur?” demanded Dan, who was greatly surprised. “Can’t I ride that
thar colt of his’n as well as he kin?”
“I ’spose you can; but that ain’t the pint. You’ve never been swore in
fur a mail-carrier, an’ so you would have no right to tech that
mail-bag. If Dave should be tuk sick or get lost in the woods, Gen’ral
Gordon would have to carry the mail himself.”
“Whoop!” yelled Dan, jumping up and knocking his heels together. “He’d
be a wusser man to fool with nor Dave, fur he’s an old soldier.”
Barlow made no reply. The boy had given him something to think about,
and he was as anxious to be rid of his presence as Dan was to get rid of
his friend Lester Brigham. He left him without taking the trouble to
assign any reason for his hurried departure, and went back to his boat.
In the course of the day he and his friends transferred their luggage to
the shooting-box, and there they lived until they were ordered out by
its indignant owner. As their time was not fully occupied they had
leisure to talk about the mail-carrier and Mr. Brigham’s money; and we
shall presently see how their numerous consultations resulted.