But Morton had no time to busy himself now with nice scruples. Bread
and meat are considerations more imperative to a healthy man than
conscience. He had no money. He might turn aside from the trail to
hunt; indeed this was what he had meant to do when he started. But
ever, as he traveled, he had become more and more desirous of getting
away from himself. He was now full sixty or seventy miles from home,
but he could not make up his mind to stop and devote himself to
hunting. At four o'clock the valley of the Mustoga lay before him,
and Morton, still purposeless, rode on. And now at last the habitual
thought of his duty to his mother was returning upon him, and he
began to be hesitant about going on. After all, his flight seemed
foolish. Patty might not yet be lost; and as for Kike's revival, why
should he yield to it, unless he chose?
In this painful indecision he resolved to stop and crave a night's
lodging at the crossing of the river. He was the more disposed to
this that Dolly, having been ridden hard all day without food, showed
unmistakable signs of exhaustion, and it was now snowing. He would
give her a night's rest, and then perhaps take the road back to the
Hissawachee, or go into the wilderness and hunt.
"Hello the house!" he called. "Hello!"
A long, lank man, in butternut jeans, opened the door, and responded
with a "Hello!"
"Can I get to stay here all night?"
"Wal, no, I 'low not, stranger. Kinder full to-night. You mout git
a place about a mile furder on whar you could hang up for the night,
mos' likely; but I can't keep you, no ways."
"My mare's dreadful tired, and I can sleep anywhere," plead Morton.
"She does look sorter tuckered out, sartain; blamed if she don't!
Whar did you git her?"
"Raised her," said Morton.
"Whar abouts?"
"Hissawachee."
"You don't say! How far you rid her to-day?"
"From Jonesville."
"Jam up fifty miles, and over tough roads! Mighty purty critter,
that air. Powerful clean legs. She's number one. Is she your'n,
did you say?"
"Well, not exactly mine. That is--". Here Morton hesitated.
"Stranger," said the settler, "you can't put up here, no ways. I
tuck in one of your sort a month ago, and he rid my sorrel mare off
in the middle of the night. I'll bore a hole through him, ef I ever
set eyes on him." And the man had disappeared in the house before
Morton could reply.
To be in a snow-storm without shelter was unpleasant; to be refused a
lodging and to be mistaken for a horse-thief filled the cup of
Morton's bitterness. He reluctantly turned his horse's head toward
the river. There was no ferry, and the stream was so swollen that he
must needs swim Dolly across.
He tightened his girth and stroked Dolly affectionately, with a
feeling that she was the only friend he had left. "Well, Dolly," he
said, "it's too bad to make you swim, after such a day; but you must.
If we drown, we'll drown together."
The weary Dolly put her head against his cheek in a dumb trustfulness.
There was a road cut through the steep bank on the other side, so
that travelers might ride down to the water's edge. Knowing that he
would have to come out at that place, young Goodwin rode into the
water as far up the stream as he could find a suitable place. Then,
turning the mare's head upward, he started across. Dolly swam
bravely enough until she reached the middle of the stream; then,
finding her strength well nigh exhausted after her travel, and under
the burden of her master, she refused his guidance, and turned her
head directly toward the road, which offered the only place of exit.
The rapid current swept horse and rider down the stream; but still
Dolly fought bravely, and at last struck land just below the road.
Morton grasped the bushes over his head, urged Dolly to greater
exertions, and the well-bred creature, rousing all the remains of her
magnificent force, succeeded in reaching the road. Then the young
man got down and caressed her, and, looking back at the water,
wondered why he should have struggled to preserve a life that he was
not able to regulate, and that promised him nothing but misery and
embarrassment.
The snow was now falling rapidly, and Morton pushed his tired filley
on another mile. Again he hallooed. This time he was welcomed by an
old woman, who, in answer to his inquiry, said he might put the mare
in the stable. She didn't ginerally keep no travelers, but it was
too orful a night fer a livin' human bein' to be out in. Her son
Jake would be in thireckly, and she 'lowed he wouldn't turn nobody
out in sech a night. 'Twuz good ten miles to the next house.
Morton hastened to stable Dolly, and to feed her, and to take his
place by the fire.
Presently the son came in.
"Howdy, stranger?" said the youth, eyeing Morton suspiciously. "Is
that air your mar in the stable?"
"Ye-es," said Morton, hesitatingly, uncertain whether he could call
Dolly his or not, seeing she had been transferred to Burchard.
"Whar did you come from?"
"From Hissawachee."
"Whar you makin' fer?"
"I don't exactly know."
"See here, mister! Akordin' to my tell, that air's a mighty peart
sort of a hoss fer a feller to ride what don' know, to save his
gizzard, whar he mout be a travelin'. We don't keep no sich people
as them what rides purty hosses and can't giv no straight account of
theirselves. Akordin' to my tell, you'll hev to hitch up yer mar and
putt. It mout gin us trouble to keep you."
"You ain't going to send me out such a night as this, when I've rode
fifty mile a'ready?" said Morton.
"What in thunder'd you ride fifty mile to-day fer? Yer health, I
reckon. Now, stranger, I've jist got one word to say to you, and
that is this ere: _Putt_! PUTT THIRECKLY! Clar out of these 'ere
diggin's! That's all. Jist putt!"
The young man pronounced the vowel in "put" very flat, as it is
sounded in the first syllable of "putty," and seemed disposed to add
a great many words to this emphatic imperative when he saw how much
Morton was disinclined to leave the warm hearth. "Putt out, I say!
I ain't afeard of none of yer gang. I hain't got nary 'nother word."
"Well," said Morton, "I have only got one word--_I won't_! You
haven't got any right to turn a stranger out on such a night."
"Well, then, I'll let the reggilators know abouten you."
"Let them know, then," said Morton; and he drew nearer the fire.
The strapping young fellow straightened himself up and looked at
Morton in wonder, more and more convinced that nobody but an outlaw
would venture on a move so bold, and less and less inclined to
attempt to use force as his conviction of Morton's desperate
character increased. Goodwin, for his part, was not a little amused;
the old mischievous love of fun reasserted itself in him as he saw
the decline of the young man's courage.
"If you think I am one of Micajah Harp's band, why don't you be
careful how you treat me? The band might give you trouble. Let's
have something to eat. I haven't had anything since last night; I am
starving."
"Marm," said the young man, "git him sompin'. He's tuck the house
and we can't help ourselves."
Morton had eaten nothing for twenty-four hours, and in his amusement
at the success of his ruse and in the comfortable enjoyment of food
after his long fast his good spirits returned.
When he awoke the next morning in his rude bed in the loft, he became
aware that there were a number of men in the room below, and he could
gather that they were talking about him. He dressed quickly and came
down-stairs. The first thing he noticed was that the settler who had
refused him lodging the night before was the centre of the group, the
next that they had taken possession of his rifle. This settler had
roused the "reggilators," and they had crossed the creek in a
flat-boat some miles below and come up the stream determined to
capture this young horse-thief. It is a singular tribute to the
value of the horse that among barbarous or half-civilized peoples
horse-stealing is accounted an offense more atrocious than homicide.
In such a community to steal a man's horse is the grandest of
larcenies--it is to rob him of the stepping-stone to civilization.
For such philosophical reflections as this last, however, Morton had
no time. He was in the hands of an indignant crowd, some of whom had
lost horses and other property from the depredations of the famous
band of Micajah Harp, and all of whom were bent on exacting the
forfeit from this indifferently dressed young man who rode a horse
altogether too good for him.
Morton was conducted three miles down the river to a log tavern, that
being a public and appropriate place for the rendering of the
decisions of Judge Lynch, and affording, moreover, the convenient
refreshments of whiskey and tobacco to those who might become
exhausted in their arduous labors on behalf of public justice. There
was no formal trial. The evidence was given in in a disjointed and
spontaneous fashion; the jury was composed of the whole crowd, and
what the Quakers call the "sense of the meeting" was gathered from
the general outcry. Educated in Indian wars and having been left at
first without any courts or forms of justice, the settlers had come
to believe their own expeditious modes of dealing with the enemies of
peace and order much superior to the prolix method of the lawyers and
judges.
And as for Morton, nothing could be much clearer than that he was one
of the gang. The settler who had refused him a lodging first spoke:
"You see, I seed in three winks," he began, "that that feller didn't
own the hoss. He looked kinder sheepish. Well, I poked a few
questions at him and I reckon I am the beatin'est man to ax questions
in this neck of timber. I axed him whar he come from, and he let it
out that he'd rid more'n fifty miles. And I kinder blazed away at
praisin' his hoss tell I got him off his guard, and then, unbeknownst
to him, I treed him suddently. I jest axed him ef the hoss was his'n
and he hemmed and hawed and says, says he: 'Well, not exactly mine.'
Then I tole him to putt out."
"Did he tell you the mar wuzn't adzackly his'n?" put in the youth
whose unwilling hospitality Morton had enjoyed.
"Yes."
"Well, then, he lied one time or nuther, that's sartain shore. He
tole me she wuz. And when I axed him whar he was agoin', he tole me
he didn' know. I suspicioned him then, and I tole him to clar out;
and he wouldn'. Well, I wuz agoin' to git down my gun and blow his
brains out; but marm got skeered and didn' want me to, and I 'lowed
it was better to let him stay, and I 'low'd you fellers mout maybe
come over and cotch him, or liker'n not some feller'd come along and
inquire arter that air mar. Then he ups and says ef the ole woman
don' give him sompin' to eat she'd ketch it from Micajah Harp's band.
He said as how he was a member of that gang. An' he said he hadn't
had nothin' to eat sence the night before, havin' rid fer twenty-four
hours."
"I didn't say----" began Morton.
"Shet up your mouth tell I'm done. Haint you got no manners? I tole
him as how I didn't keer three continental derns* fer his whole band
weth Micajah Harp throw'd onto the top, but the ole woman wuz kinder
sorter afeared to find she'd cotch a rale hoss-thief and she gin him
a little sompin' to eat. And he did gobble it, I tell _you_!"
* A saying having its origin, no doubt, in the worthlessness of the
paper money issued by the Continental Congress.
Young rawbones had repeated this statement a dozen times already
since leaving home with the prisoner. But he liked to tell it.
Morton made the best defense he could, and asked them to send to
Hissawachee and inquire, but the crowd thought that this was only a
ruse to gain time, and that if they delayed his execution long,
Micajah Harp and his whole band would be upon them.
The mob-court was unanimously in favor of hanging. The cry of "Come
on, boys, let's string him up," was raised several times, and
"rushes" at him were attempted, but these rushes never went further
than the incipient stage, for the very good reason that while many
were anxious to have him hung, none were quite ready to adjust the
rope. The law threatened them on one side, and a dread of the
vengeance of Micajah Harp's cut-throats appalled them on the other.
The predicament in which the crowd found themselves was a very
embarrassing one, but these administrators of impromptu justice
consoled themselves by whispering that it was best to wait till night.
And the rawboned young man, who had given such eager testimony that
he "warn't afeard of the whole gang with ole Micajah throw'd onto the
top," concluded about noon that he had better go home--the ole woman
mout git skeered, you know. She wuz powerful skeery and mout git
fits liker'n not, you know.
The weary hours of suspense drew on. However ready Morton may have
been to commit suicide in a moment of rash despair, life looked very
attractive to him now that its duration was measured by the
descending sun. And what a quickener of conscience is the prospect
of immediate death! In these hours the voice of Kike, reproving him
for his reckless living, rang in his memory ceaselessly. He saw what
a distorted failure he had made of life; he longed for a chance to
try it over again. But unless help should come from some unexpected
quarter, he saw that his probation was ended.
It is barely possible that the crowd might have become so demoralized
by waiting as to have let Morton go, or at least to have handed him
over to the authorities, had there not come along at that moment Mr.
Mellen, the stern and ungrammatical Methodist preacher of whom Morton
had made so much sport in Wilkins's Settlement. Having to preach at
fifty-eight appointments in four weeks, he was somewhat itinerant,
and was now hastening to a preaching place near by. One of the
crowd, seeing Mr. Mellen, suggested that Morton had orter be allowed
to see a preacher, and git "fixed up," afore he died. Some of the
others disagreed. They warn't nothin' in the nex' world too bad fer
a hoss-thief, by jeeminy hoe-cakes. They warn't a stringin' men up
to send 'em to heaven, but to t' other place.
Mellen was called in, however, and at once recognized Morton as the
ungodly young man who had insulted him and disturbed the worship of
God. He exhorted him to repent, and to tell who was the owner of the
horse, and to seek a Saviour who was ready to forgive even the dying
thief upon the cross. In vain Morton protested his innocence.
Mellen told him that he could not escape, though he advised the crowd
to hand him over to the sheriff. But Mellen's additional testimony
to Morton's bad character had destroyed his last chance of being
given up to the courts. As soon as Mr. Mellen went away, the
arrangements for hanging him at nightfall began to take definite
shape, and a rope was hung over a limb, in full sight of the
condemned man. Mr. Mellen used with telling effect, at every one of
the fifty-eight places upon his next round, the story of the sad end
of this hardened young man, who had begun as a scoffer and ended as
an impenitent thief.
Morton sat in a sort of stupor, watching the sun descending toward
the horizon. He heard the rude voices of the mob about him. But he
thought of Patty and his mother.
While the mob was thus waiting for night, and Morton waiting for
death, there passed upon the road an elderly man. He was just going
out of sight, when Morton roused himself enough to observe him. When
he had disappeared, Goodwin was haunted with the notion that it must
be Mr. Donaldson, the old Presbyterian preacher, whose sermons he had
so often heard at the Scotch Settlement. Could it be that thoughts
of home and mother had suggested Donaldson? At least, the faintest
hope was worth clutching at in a time of despair.
"Call him back!" cried Morton. "Won't somebody call that old man
back? He knows me."
[Illustration: A LAST HOPE.]
Nobody was disposed to serve the culprit. The leaders looked
knowingly the one at the other, and shrugged their shoulders.
"If you don't call him back you will be a set of murderers!" cried
the despairing Goodwin.
_CHAPTER XVII._