TOM THE TINKER.
"Good luck to you, my friend!" said Mr. Howard, as he accompanied Mr.
Lane to the yard gate and pointed out the path which led down to the
river. "But be careful, sir; be careful. Remember that you are dealing
with a villain--he is not a murderer; at least, I never heard of his
killing any one--but he is cruel--as cruel a man as ever came to this
State. I do believe that he would shoot down any one who dared come
between him and his money. But remember, too, that he is a coward. He'll
not meet you face to face. Once you've captured him, watch him closely,
for I fear that he'll attempt to take his own life when he sees that he
has fallen into the hands of the law."
"I'm new at this business, as you know, Mr. Howard. Luck has been with
me so far, and I hope it will stay. This here is sartin; if I don't
capture Tom the Tinker it won't be because I didn't do my part. Good
morning, sir!"
"Good morning!"
"If I get the Tinker it will be a good shot for me in the next election
for sheriff." With these words Mr. Lane started off on his perilous
mission.
The farmer stood and watched him until he disappeared, and then turned
and walked slowly toward the house, muttering as he went: "The villain!
the villain! If he is not captured this time, then I'll take a hand in
the fight!"
Mr. Lane strode along the river bank, pushing his way through the
patches of horse-weed which grew quite close to the water's edge. He did
not follow the path farther up on the hill, as he did not wish to be
observed. He often paused to mark his way, for he thought that it would
be necessary for him to retrace his steps at night.
High above his head, on the bare limbs of a sycamore, a restive
rain-crow croaked,--its call predicting heavy rains and bad luck. The
old marksman raised his rifle with deadly aim toward the rufous-winged
prophet, held it there for a single second, then, lowering it again,
said, "If I'd only pulled the trigger, my little friend, you'd never
bring bad luck to nobody again."
A strange feeling came over him as he drew near the cave, so that he
used every means to divert his mind. He spoke to the clattering
kingfishers, even though they had no inclination to tarry with him; he
gazed at the stupid frogs along the river bank; he watched the tanagers
which seemed like balls of fire among the green foliage of the trees.
The closer he came to his destination the slower he walked; as a
consequence, it was almost mid-day when he stood before the two giant
rocks, the guardian genii of that mysterious place.
With his right hand grasping his revolver, he passed cautiously through
the narrow entrance. Here he paused and listened, but heard nothing.
With difficulty he found the rock door. It seemed but a part of the
solid stone wall, with a slight, irregular fracture along the side. It
was in a dark corner, too, where the light from without did not
penetrate. The sheriff drew from his pocket two keys, if keys they could
be called, for they were simply pieces of seasoned hickory about ten
inches in length, so shaped as to lift a latch. With the largest of
these the door was opened. Through it he went into the chamber where
Martin and Owen had been held as prisoners on that eventful October
night, and again he paused and listened, but still heard nothing. Only
the faintest light from without was admitted here, but enough for Mr.
Lane to see that he had not reached the place where whisky was made. The
walls were no longer decorated with the skins of wild animals. As no
fire had been lighted there for weeks, the air was damp and chilly.
The sheriff suddenly recollected that Stayford had spoken to him of two
passages leading from this second room, and had directed him to take the
one opposite the rock door. He lit a firebrand which he had brought and
walked toward this second entrance. He was convinced by this time that
no one was in the cave; besides, Jerry had assured him that neither the
Tinker nor Simpson ever remained there during the day.
The whisky still was found, and near it several barrels full of mash.
The furnace was warm, and, although the fire beneath it had been
extinguished, it was evident that some one had been working there during
the previous night. It was equally evident that they would return to
complete their labor.
Mr. Lane had intended to examine the cave closely, but not to stay there
until dark. His plan was to conceal himself in the woods, watch the men
when they entered and then follow them. Now, however, he concluded that
it was better to remain in the cave, as he could easily find a hiding
place.
At one end of the room in which the whisky was made was a passage
leading into the "hold out." The sheriff took from his pocket a second
key, unlocked the door, and went into the former dwelling place of Jerry
the Trapper. This door could be bolted from within, and so firmly that
it was impossible to force an entrance without breaking the solid rock
slab of which it was made. Mr. Lane decided to wait here until Simpson
and the Tinker returned to the cave, and turned the heavy bolt.
The new occupant then began to examine the contents of his strange
abode. At one side hung an iron lamp, with just a little tallow in it.
Scattered on the floor were deer-skin leggings and moccasins, caps, and
jackets of home-spun, just as Jerry had left them a few days before,
when he was preparing for the stage robbery. There were various devices
used for cooking utensils. But what interested the sheriff most were the
instruments for cutting stone. They were of the very finest material,
and had evidently been brought from England. With them the old trapper
had cut the two massive doors, and had also opened a way from the side
of the cave through which to introduce corn and wood and to roll out the
barrels of whisky. Then there was the small window with a single pane of
glass; the whole being ingeniously covered by wild grapevines which
Jerry had trained along the ledge without.
After Mr. Lane had examined everything in the little room the passing
hours became long and tiresome. The little window gradually lost its
light, until finally all around was shrouded in darkness. With the night
came a protracted vigilance on the part of the sheriff. Mr. Lane sat
close to the rock door which he had opened and kept a few inches ajar.
At length he heard footsteps at the entrance of the cave. He closed the
door, and waited, for he wished to give the Tinker time to begin his
work.
When ten minutes had passed he cocked his revolver, threw open the door,
and rushed from the "hold out."
All was darkness, everywhere perfect quiet. Not a person! not a sound!
For a moment the sheriff stood as if petrified, then turned and groped
his way back into the "hold out."
With his flint he lighted a firebrand, then returned to examine the
cave. In one of the narrow passages he found a place which seemed to
have been recently disturbed; this he examined closely. A large fragment
of a stone had fallen away from the mother rock and had crushed down the
rough sides. It was this noise, no doubt, which he had heard, and had
mistaken for footsteps. Back to the "hold out" he went again. The rest
of that night and the following day dragged on slowly, Mr. Lane sleeping
but little.
Just as it was growing dusk on the second day, he determined to take a
short rest. When he awoke it was quite bright. He sat up, and rubbed his
eyes, and wondered what had happened. Could it be possible that he had
slept during the entire night? He unbolted the door and went out into
the cave. Things had been changed there. Some barrels had been filled
and others emptied, and there was a smouldering fire under the simmering
still.
The sheriff was not discouraged. As several barrels of mash remained,
one or two nights would be required to boil them down. From the amount
of work done during the preceding night, he judged that two men at most
had been there, and these two would, no doubt, return to finish the
work. True, he would have to wait another day, but this seemed little to
him now that he felt so sure of capturing the Tinker and his companion.
Before the day had passed he ate the last of his provisions, smoked his
last pipeful of tobacco; then sought to take another rest, as he felt
confident that he would have to stand guard over his prisoners during
the greater part of the night.
At one end of the "hold out" there was a ledge of rock protruding so far
that it formed a natural bed, where he could rest without being seen,
even if any one entered the room. With difficulty the sheriff mounted up
into this hard bed, and soon was fast asleep.
He was awakened by an explosion like the crash of an earthquake. He
sprang up suddenly, hitting the top of the cave with such force that he
fell back half unconscious. As he gradually recovered he heard the sound
of voices below.
"What would Jerry say," asked one, "if he knew that we had blasted the
rock door into fragments?"
"Jerry is in jail," said the other, with a growl. "Jerry is in jail; I
hope he will stay there. All that I want is his money. He never spent
any. I wonder where he hid it?"
"What part am I to get?" asked the first speaker, as the two began to
search among the old clothes and in crevices in the rocks.
"We'll settle that when we find the money."
"We'll settle it now. How much am I to get?"
"You'll be satisfied with----"
"One-half."
"What, Simpson! You want one-half--a half!"
"Yes, a half."
"But you did not work for it; it came from my corn and my whisky."
"It belongs to Jerry now. If we find it, we take one-half each."
"Wants one-half of it, my! my!"
"Yes, one-half."
"Won't a fourth do?"
"No!"
"Nor a third?"
"No! no!"
"My! my! my!"
"See, here! Tom! I'm the only man left to help you to do your work.
Before I begin I must have the promise of half of Jerry's money.
One-half, or you'll not make another drop of whisky in this cave!"
"My! my! my! my!" whined the old miser.
Simpson made no reply. He sat down on one of the benches and looked
straight into the Tinker's face.
Tom continued to whimper, but he saw that Simpson was firm, so he
assented to his terms.
"Can't help it."
"Now that we have begun to make terms," continued Simpson, "let me tell
you what I must have of all the whisky we sell. One-fifth of the profits
must be mine."
"One-fifth!" stammered the Tinker.
"Yes, one-fifth."
"One barrel in five!"
"Yes."
"That's more than Jerry got."
"But it is what I must get."
"It's more than Jerry and Stayford got."
"Can't help it."
"It's twice as much as they got."
"But you robbed them; they often told you so, and you know it."
"My! my! my!"
"I'll take one-fifth, and not a cent less!"
"My! my! And now you _are_ robbing me!"
"Remember, Tom, the work is more dangerous than it was when Jerry worked
with you. You don't know what moment Sheriff Lane might come in here and
put his hand on your shoulder."
The old coward was startled, and glanced anxiously from one side to the
other.
Mr. Lane the while was anything but comfortable. They were to examine
the "hold out" to find Jerry's money; evidently they would climb up to
the place where he was lying. Luckily he had carried his two revolvers
with him; these he held in his hands ready for action.
The Tinker continued to groan, and curse, and argue with Simpson; but in
the end he was forced to yield.
"Now that we have reached a conclusion, let us wait until morning before
we search for the money," suggested Simpson.
"I want to see how much there is. I always thought that Jerry was rich,"
said Tom.
"I hope he was. But the money can keep until morning; whereas the mash
may sour if we don't run it through."
"Just as you say," assented the Tinker. "You are robbing me of half of
it anyway, so there won't be much when the sum's divided."
"_Robbing_ you!"
"Yes, _robbing_ me!"
"You're a liar, Tom, I am only insisting on my rights."
"You accused _me_ of robbing Jerry and Stayford, and now _you_ are
robbing me."
"The money we are looking for belongs to no one since Jerry is in jail.
If we find it I am entitled to one-half."
"Besides, you force me to give you one-fifth of the profits of the
whisky--of the whisky I've spent my days and nights in making, into
which I have put hundreds of bushels of corn. That's robbing me! That's
robbing me!"
"I simply gave you my terms and you agreed to them!"
"I am _forced_ to agree."
"You are not!"
"What can I do?"
"Get some one else."
"And have him betray me?"
"I thought that we had already come to an agreement," said Simpson, with
some warmth. "Let me repeat here what I said before. I don't intend to
risk my life in selling your whisky without being well paid for it."
"Yes, and you want a price that is little less than robbery."
"Then call it robbery; call it what you will. But remember the price
remains."
"One-fifth, my! my! It comes high. But I'll stick to my word, Simpson.
You are to get your one-fifth. Come," continued he, "let us get to work
at the still; for, as you said, the mash may sour, but Jerry's money
will keep."
"What is that?" asked Simpson, as he stumbled over something leaning
against the side of the "hold out." "Well! well! If it isn't Jerry's old
rifle. Leaning there just as natural as if the old trapper was at home."
"Strange he didn't take it with him," replied the Tinker, as he held up
his firebrand to examine the old flint lock.
The sheriff was startled, for it was Mr. Howard's rifle, and his name
was engraved in large letters on the muzzle. But the Tinker did not
examine it carefully, and the two men soon left the "hold out" to begin
work at the still.
When the cave began to brighten in the ruddy light from the fire which
our two worthies had set vigorously going, Mr. Lane climbed down from
his rocky bed and crept carefully toward the door. There he stood for
some time where he could observe the men without running any risk of
being seen. What a strange, weird sight! They looked like ghosts as they
passed to and from the glowing furnace, and their shadows leaped and
danced along the walls. Simpson fed the fire and brought the mash, while
the Tinker looked after the still and watched the pipes which conducted
off the whisky. The sheriff grew so interested in the work that he
almost forgot the object of his coming. Were he to seize the men now he
could certainly swear that he had captured Tom the Tinker while the
latter was making whisky; yet everything seemed so quiet and peaceable
that he could with difficulty force himself to begin his disagreeable
task. Still now was the time for action. He drew his revolvers and
stepped quickly toward the two men.
Imagine the surprise of Simpson and the Tinker when they beheld the
giant sheriff stalking forth from the room which they had examined but a
few minutes before, his long arms turned menacingly toward them, and his
stentorian voice calling on them to surrender. He seemed to them a huge
spectre, not a living man. On he came with giant strides, until his
revolvers were pointed into their very faces.
"Who are you?" demanded Tom the Tinker, with a show of courage.
"I reckon it don't matter much who I am," replied the sheriff, "but I
know who you are. Louis Bowen, you are my prisoner."