SAVING THE MESSAGE.
When Owen had gone some distance from the town, and realized that he was
not pursued, he stopped for a few minutes, hoping that Martin would
extricate himself from the crowd and overtake him. As he glanced down
the road over which he had passed, he descried two horsemen galloping
toward him; suspecting the object of their mission, he prepared for a
second flight at the least sign of danger. When the two men were within
a hundred yards of him, one checked his horse, while the other continued
to gallop straight ahead. Not wishing to be surprised, Owen started out
at a brisk gait. "Stop there, young fellow! they want to see that
message at the court-house!" cried out the man who was nearest to him.
"Go it, Hickory! go it, old fellow!" was Owen's only reply; at the same
time he plied the spurs vigorously.
"Stop there! I tell you, stop there!" again cried the man, laying the
whip to his horse's side and following in hot pursuit.
Owen glanced behind--the man was gaining on him.
The boy leaned far over on the horse's neck, stroked his mane and said:
"Go on, Hickory! don't let him catch us, go on! go on!"
"Say! youngster! If you don't stop there, I'll thrash you when I catch
you!" cried the angered pursuer.
"But you won't catch me," thought Owen, for Hickory was now gaining a
little, and his young rider knew that he was no mean runner.
The man was evidently not prepared for a long race; he beat his horse
cruelly, urging the poor animal on at its utmost speed. Again Owen
looked behind--again the man was gaining on him.
He saw that his pursuer was making one mighty effort to overtake him; he
plunged his spur deep into the side of his faithful beast. The enraged
animal sprang forward: The race was nearly even for a full quarter of a
mile. Now Owen gained, and now the angry man behind. Hickory slipped and
nearly fell in the soft, muddy road. The man yelled in triumph, gaining
twenty yards in a few minutes. Then Hickory was on again--Owen slowly
recovered lost ground. The man shouted to frighten him--this, however,
had the effect of making him goad his horse the more. He saw the man
gradually drop behind, and then abandon the unequal race. Owen pushed on
briskly for about a mile, when he too paused to give the horse a much
needed rest.
Eight miles of the road still remained to be traveled, and as Owen now
felt secure he proceeded slowly, occasionally looking behind to see
whether or not the man would continue the pursuit. He had gone about
another mile, when to his astonishment the man reappeared riding another
horse. Could Hickory stand the race for seven miles? Owen doubted, yet
he resolved to save the message or kill the horse. The man on his part
regarded the result as only a matter of time, for his horse was fresh,
and would sooner or later overtake the wearied animal which he followed.
On went the boy, on came the man. On, on they rode, past the farm houses
by the wayside, past the fallow fields and leafless woods which seemed
to take wings and fly behind. On, on they sped, now darting down some
rough, steep hill, now clambering up the rocky ascent on the opposite
side. A settler, cutting wood close to the road, heard the clatter of
hoofs, and, dropping his axe, watched with bated breath the onward rush
of the boy and man. Little did he dream that the boy was carrying a
message of victory and peace; that the man was a veritable Arnold in the
hatred of his country. Yet the settler's sympathies were with the boy.
He admired, too, the youth's superior horsemanship. How gallantly he
bestrode his horse. "Go it, my lad, go it!" he shouted. "You're a fine
rider, and I reckon you'll win." On, on they plunged, the boy and man,
and the settler was far behind. Another farm house was reached. In front
of it a country urchin was swinging on a gate. He climbed to the top of
the gate-post to view the race, laughed with delight as he saw the
sparks struck from the stony road, and waved his ragged hat in
boisterous glee. Past him they fled. A few minutes later, and the urchin
was far behind.
But soon old Hickory began to lag. Yard by yard the man drew closer to
the boy. Owen saw plainly that the race was over.
"Back! stop there!" cried he, at the same time drawing his pistol. But
the man came on.
"Stop! stop there! or I'll wound your horse," said the boy, pointing the
pistol toward the advancing enemy.
The man, however, seemed to realize the difficulty of firing with any
accuracy under such conditions; he, therefore, lowered his head behind
the horse's neck to escape any stray ball, and continued to ride on.
Owen was true to his threat, taking deliberate aim he sent a ball
through one of the animal's front legs; the horse fell to the ground
unable to arise.
Still the pursuit did not end here, for old Hickory began to stagger and
reel from one side of the road to the other.
"Poor old Hickory! poor old fellow!" said Owen, stroking the animal's
neck and mane.
Hickory turned his head as if to beseech his young master not to urge
him farther.
"Poor old fellow!" continued Owen, trying in vain to keep back the tears
that gathered in his eyes; for Hickory was a true friend of his, and it
pained the boy to make him suffer so.
Hickory stopped--he could go no farther!
Owen dug the spurs deep into his side, crying at the same time: "Poor!
poor old Hickory! I have to do it; can't you go? Can't you go, old
Hickory?"
The jaded beast made another effort, trembled in every limb, and fell
heavily to the ground. The man whose horse had been shot gave a yell and
started on a run toward Owen, who quickly extricated himself from the
stirrups and ran down the road.
"I'll give you a sound thrashing when I catch you!" cried the man, as
both pursuer and pursued rushed along over the rough road. "You see I am
gaining on you!" he continued, after a few minutes, "you may as well
give up."
Owen didn't think so; at least it was evident from the way he ran that
he intended to continue the race as long as he was able to move.
"Say, youngster," resumed the man, "the Salt river is about a quarter of
a mile ahead; I'll get you when we come to it."
Owen did not answer, but continued straight on.
"If you stop now I won't whip you," shouted the man.
But his threats and promises were equally fruitless.
"And if you don't stop I'll go back and kill your horse after I have
taken your letter from you!"
Owen felt this keenly, yet he remembered the promise he had made before
he left his father's house, and for no consideration would he be
unfaithful to it. The man continued to yell, to promise, to threaten,
while both continued to run; not very fast, it is true, for the man had
decided for himself that Owen would be forced to surrender on the bank
of the Salt river, which was at no great distance away.
Soon the dreaded river appeared, covered with floating ice. All hope
seemed to be lost! The very thought of jumping into the icy stream sent
a shudder through the frame of the exhausted boy! The man now began to
run at full speed, for he feared that Owen would dart off into the
woods. The bank was reached! No time was left for deliberation! The man
was only twenty yards away!
"You shall not have it!" cried Owen, facing his pursuer and shaking the
letter above his head. With these words he rushed into the water among
the cakes of floating ice. As this was a ford and the usual place for
crossing, the river was not deep. But the current was swift, and it
seemed at any moment that it would sweep him away.
Bravely our little hero pushed his way through the battering ice, while
the angry man on the shore cursed him, called him a fool, and swore that
he would drown if he did not turn back. If ever Owen prayed fervently it
was while he battled with that current and ice; he felt that he should
be unable to hold his footing if the current became stronger or deeper.
He realized, too, that he was weakening fast--the river seemed an angry
whirlpool, rushing round and round and carrying him in its cold and
frothy eddy. How chilled he was! His teeth chattered and his whole body
trembled! Could he reach the opposite shore; it was not ten feet away?
Slowly! slowly! still he reached it--thank God, he was safe!
Yet not safe! for unless he find shelter soon he must surely die of
cold. On the top of the hill in front of him stood a large frame house.
After ten minutes of intense suffering Owen knocked at the door, and,
without waiting for an answer, rushed in. Before him sat an elderly man
enjoying his after-dinner smoke, in a bright, warm room. It was Mr.
Sims. Owen had accomplished his mission--the letter was safe.
Mr. Sims naturally supposed that Owen had fallen from his horse while
attempting to ford the river. He saw that the boy was extremely weak,
and ordered him to bed at once. Owen told his story briefly, and handed
the official document to the farmer. Before the sun had set, it was
placed in the hands of the commanding officer at the little fort near
the falls of the Ohio. From Louisville to Pittsburg, from Pittsburg to
Washington--at last the message of General Jackson was delivered to the
President.
When the man who had followed Owen for nearly eight miles saw that he
was foiled in his attempt he hastily retraced his steps to the place
where he had abandoned his wounded horse. Here he was joined by Tom the
Tinker, who had set out with him from Bardstown, but lagged behind,
since he did not wish to be recognized by Owen.
"The rascal of a boy shot this horse just as I was about to overtake
him," said the man, as the Tinker came up to him.
"The message--did you get the message?"
"How could I when he shot the horse?"
"My! my!" continued Tom, in tones of despair, "a hundred dollars for the
horse! did not get the message! My! my! And all my work for nothing!"
"And I want the fifty dollars you promised me," interrupted the man.
"You do?"
"Yes, I do! Did I not ride my horse half to death before you borrowed
that second one from the farmer?"
"But you did not get the message."
"I am going to have that money. I worked hard enough for it. I followed
the little devil until--until he jumped into the river."
"And where was his horse?" asked Tom.
"It gave out, too. There it is up there," answered the man, pointing to
the place where old Hickory was lying, apparently dead.
"Perhaps the boy was drowned while trying to cross the river," said the
Tinker.
"I watched him until he came to Sims'."
"Then he's safe."
"Of course he is. At least, you'll never see that message. I won't be
surprised, however, if the boy dies."
"I hope he does," said Tom. "Those Howards have been in my way for
fifteen years. You see, they live near me. I hate every one of them!"
"See here! I want my fifty dollars," interrupted the man. "I don't care
about your Howards and your neighbors. I want my money."
"I promised you fifty dollars if you caught the boy. I'll give you ten
for your work."
"Not a cent less than fifty," demanded the man.
"Say twenty-five and you shall have it," replied Tom.
"If you don't give me fifty dollars we are going to fight here!" growled
the angry man, at the same time grasping the reins of the Tinker's
horse.
As much as Tom the Tinker loved his money, he was not willing to fight
for it; he therefore gave the man the full amount. Then he paid a
hundred dollars more for the horse which he had borrowed from his
accomplice, and which Owen had shot. He then rode off toward Bardstown,
uttering imprecations against the boy who had thwarted him, against the
man who had robbed him, against everybody and everything. How was he to
regain the money which he had lost? For a long time he sought an answer
to this question. He seemed to have solved the difficulty before he
reached the town, for he was in the best of spirits. Here he consulted
several men on some secret business, and then proceeded at once to the
cave on the banks of the Beech Fork.
Late that same evening Martin joined Owen at Mr. Sims'.
"Did you see old Hickory?" inquired Owen, sitting up in the bed where he
had been sleeping.
"Yes!"
"How is he? Tell me quick! How is the poor old fellow?"
"First tell me about yourself, and then we'll see about the horse!"
"Nothing the matter with me. I never felt better, although that was a
pretty cold bath I took--and now about Hickory."
"Well, Owen, if you must know it," said Martin, in a broken voice, "the
old fellow is dead--stiff--shot through the head."
Owen did not answer, but fell back in the bed and wept bitterly.
When he returned home two days later, what was his surprise to find old
Hickory eating away contentedly in his stall. It was the horse wounded
by Owen that Martin had seen lying in the road, and in the dark had
mistaken for Hickory. As it was impossible for the animal to recover,
the owner had shot it through the head.