MR. LANE HAS A DIFFICULTY.
"Good morning, Mr. Lane," said Squire Grundy, thrusting his huge, shaggy
head through the stage door and grasping the giant's hand.
"Good morning, Squire! Step right in; we have just room for one more."
"That's lucky, Mr. L----. Beg your pardon, sir; beg your pardon. You
see, this is the first time we have met since you were made sheriff of
Nelson County. Have you grown any larger since you became sheriff?"
asked the Squire, taking a seat by the side of Mr. Lane.
"Not any larger, but a little wiser, I reckon."
"We are never too old to learn, Mr. Lane--beg your pardon again,
Sheriff--we are never too old to learn. I've been a justice of the peace
for long on eighteen years, and I learn something new every day."
"Did you ever learn that you were not fit for your office?" inquired Mr.
Lane.
"I did not come in here to be insulted--I won't take an insult from any
man, even if he is the biggest in the State!" said the indignant Squire,
rising to his feet, throwing his broad-brimmed hat on the back of his
head and resting on his large, home-made cane.
"How have I insulted you?"
"You called in question, sir, my capabilities of administering the
responsible and official duties of a Justice of the Peace," continued
the Squire, hoping by this display of learning to confound the ignorant
sheriff.
In this he succeeded. The half-dozen passengers stared at the Squire in
admiration and astonishment, while the discomfited sheriff wondered what
he had said to thus enrage old Grundy.
"All aboard!" shouted a voice from without. At the same instant the
stage gave a sudden lunge forward. The grave and portly Squire, losing
his balance, fell toward Mr. Lane, who reached out his powerful arm and
caught him.
"Stop the stage!" cried out the unlucky man, regaining his feet and
wiping the perspiration from his forehead. "Stop the stage until I give
that driver some advice. Starting at a run before giving his passengers
notice!"
Thump! thump! went the wheels against a large stone. The Squire again
came down from his tragic position; but he was fortunate enough this
time to fall back into the seat from which he had arisen. He continued
to talk and thunder against the driver, while the stage continued to
roll and thunder over the rough road until Bardstown was far behind.
"Sheriff Lane," said the Squire, recalling the subject of conversation,
which he had entirely forgotten in his rage against the driver, "I want
it understood that I am profoundly and adequately capable of fulfilling
the manifold and important duties of my office."
"And what I want to say is this," replied Mr. Lane, himself becoming
irritated, "I am not fit for the office of sheriff of Nelson County."
"And you said, sir, that I was not fit for my office."
"I did not, Squire."
"You did, Sheriff."
"I tell you, I did not."
"I tell you, you did."
"I was going to talk about myself. I was going to say that I was not the
man for sheriff. Before I had time to say it you jumped to your feet and
stopped me."
"Then it was all a mistake, Sheriff. Let us shake hands and be friends."
"And why do you think that you are not the right man for sheriff?" asked
old Grundy after the reconciliation.
"In the first place, I can't read much and can't write."
"Not at all necessary for your work as sheriff. A man in my position as
justice of the peace should be profoundly educated. But for your work,
Sheriff, what is wanted is a brave man and a sharp man."
"That's just the difficulty; I am not a sharp man--I am not."
"Why do you say that?"
Mr. Lane did not answer. He looked at the other passengers, not one of
whom was apparently listening to the conversation. Evidently he had
something to communicate to the Squire which he did not want known to
his traveling companions, for he whispered to him a few words, after
which the two men left their places and took seats on the top of the
stage.
"Well, Squire," said Mr. Lane, who was the first to speak, "this is
strange work for me. You see, Mr. Pense was sheriff of the county, and
Mud was deputy. Mr. Pense died, Mr. Mud became sheriff, and I was made
deputy. Then Mr. Mud died and I was made sheriff. It all happened in
less than a month. I didn't want the office, but everybody wanted me to
take it, and I said yes. The very next day I got some work to do, which
has kept me busy for nearly four weeks, and I am just as far off the
track to-day as when I started."
Mr. Lane then gave a long account of the work in which he had been
engaged. It seems that the men who followed Simpson on the morning after
the celebration of the victory of New Orleans saw nothing extraordinary
in his actions. Afterwards, however, when talking about the matter, they
wondered why he had abandoned his team. Certainly, he thought that he
was pursued. He made every effort to escape his pursuers. Finding it
impossible, he leaped from his wagon and fled into the woods. What could
be the cause of these strange proceedings? After considering the matter
for some time, they concluded that there was but one--the man was
delivering illicit whisky. He was frightened when he saw the men coming
in full gallop after him, and saved himself by flight. This explained
everything fully; without it his whole action was a mystery. The sheriff
was made aware of the facts by one who hoped to receive a reward in case
of an arrest.
To track the man and his accomplices seemed to be an easy task; for, if
once the wagon was found, the owner could be identified. A plain
case--so plain to Mr. Lane's mind that he started at once for Bardstown
without asking any assistance. The wagon and team, however, as has been
seen, had been stolen. After a fruitless effort of two days' the
inexperienced sheriff called others to his aid; but with all their
prying and probing, no clue to the mystery could be found. The case was
finally abandoned. Mr. Lane was returning home.
For more than an hour Mr. Grundy listened to the recital of these
events, interrupting the speaker at intervals, explaining how he would
have acted under the circumstances, suggesting methods which might still
prove successful, and giving much wholesome advice which might prove of
service to the sheriff in his future official career. While they were
still conversing, the stage descended a steep grade into a ravine, over
which the massive forest trees interlaced their branches, forming a
gloomy and perpetual twilight.
* * * * *
There was one apartment in the cave with which the reader has not yet
been made familiar. Jerry gave it the name of the "hold out," for here
it was that he and Stayford spent most of their time. The "hold out"
enjoyed the luxury of a glass window of no mean dimensions, being the
only part of the cave which received the light of the sun. The main
entrance to the cave, as has already been seen, faced the river toward
the south; the ledge of rocks came to an abrupt termination about forty
feet farther on toward the west, and it was near this point that the
window looked over a wide, deep valley. Jerry accidentally discovered
that the rock was very thin at this one place, and by patient care cut
through it and admitted the sunlight into the gloomy dwelling. The
window was concealed by large grapevines, carefully trained so as to cut
off the view from below, without at the same time obstructing the light.
This arrangement enabled the two men to spend days and weeks in their
natural abode without once leaving it.
Here it is that we find them busily engaged in their preparations for
intercepting the mail. Stayford was sitting upon a bed constructed of
roughly hewn branches covered with straw, and was carefully loading his
two pistols. Jerry occupied a stool in the middle of the "hold out,"
adjusting a mask made of deer-skin.
"How's that?" he inquired, when the mask had been arranged to his
satisfaction.
"Improves your looks very much," replied Stayford; "advise you to wear
one all the time."
"And how's that?" again inquired Jerry, turning his coat inside out and
pulling his hat down over his eyes.
"Still improved."
"And how's that?" he asked a third time, securing his heavy pistols
around his waist and hanging a keen hunting knife at his left side.
"Why, old fellow, it looks as if you were going to fight."
"No; I ain't goin' to fight nobody. I ain't goin' to kill nobody. I
won't steal nothin' but mail. We'll just see if thare's a letter for
Squire Grundy; and if thare ain't, well, we'll let the mail go, and the
stage go."
"You are right, Jerry; we won't take a cent. Robbing and stealing are
not in our line. We'll leave that kind of work to such men as Tom the
Tinker."
When their preparations were completed the two men left the cave for
their hazardous adventure.