CAPTAIN DOWNING SMILES.
The hot Arkansas sun shone hotly down upon Dead-Man’s Forest, that
vast, sleepy army of trees which silently overlooked acres of
treacherous swamp, silent glade, and tiny hillock. Why it had been so
weirdly named, no one knew, as the name had descended from the Indians,
and they had regarded it with awe as being haunted with evil spirits.
In extent it was some thousands of acres, some hilly, others level, and
a great portion swampy and gloomy. The trees were thickly planted, and
were giants among other trees.
In the swampy regions the sun scarcely ever penetrated the matted
branches, and the howl of the wolf, the scream of the catamount, and
the hiss of the venomous snake, and the scream of some bird of prey
were the only sounds to be heard in its depths.
On the afternoon of which we are speaking, however, the gloomy old
forest resounded with the quaint tones of a negro melody, trolled from
the lips of one of the most sable negroes who ever hunted a raccoon.
He was shambling along a dim trail through the silent forest, idly
gazing right and left, and appeared to be wholly at his leisure.
He was short and stumpy, and was scantily dressed in an old cotton
shirt open at the neck, and an old pair of blue jean pants, which were
much too short for him, being once the property of a diminutive boy.
His lips were thick and huge, and his large white eyes rolled always,
never at rest. His head was bare, showing a cranium covered with
close-setting kinks of black hair, or wool. He was very dirty, and was
one of those heedless, happy vagabonds who have plenty to eat, plenty
of time to sleep, and who care not what the morrow may bring.
His name was Cato, the Creeper--from his aptness and stealthiness in
pursuing a trail. He once had been a Mississippi slave, but had been
freed many years since--in fact when he was quite young, and he was now
thirty-five. He lived alone, and what he did for a living no one knew;
but he always was to be found strolling about Dead-Man’s Forest, or
else asleep in his cabin, which stood on the edge of the wood. He was
suspected of being in league with a band of outlaws which haunted the
woods, but, as nothing bad was ever proven against him, he was allowed
to go unmolested.
Cato emerged into a flowery glade, with a skip and a caper.
“Hi!” he laughed, cheerily. “Ho! wha’ for dat Dutchman say song
war--hi!”
He stopped, and bending his head, mused for a moment. Then he capered
on, with a grin.
“Hi! yah! yah! Golly, I hab it!
“‘Sugar Bob, Sugar Bob, Sugar Bob-ee;
I eat a glass of lager and I run away to sea--
Sugar Bob, Sugar Bob, Sugar Bob-eree,
Zwei glass o’ lager am what suits me.’”
He grinned with delight at his song, and then burst out again:
“Way down on de ole Gum’s island,
Knife and a fork a-stickin’ in de bacon--
Bacon, bacon, bacon plenty.”
He had hardly finished when a huge man burst from a thicket and
collared him, with a series of horrible oaths, almost knocking him down
in his violence.
“Blast ye!” the new-comer yelled, with another shake, “haint ye b’en
told ter keep yer big mouth shet while ye’re in these woods? Do yer
want ter bring the Regulators down on us? Be quiet, I say, yer dog!”
“Golly, Mars’r Fink, am dat yo’ fo’ shore? Golly, Mars’r Fink, I’s
right glad ter see yer--I be, fo’ a fac’.”
“Shet up! It’s nuthin’ but ‘golly, Mars’r Fink’ all the hull time. Now
it’s got ter be stopped--d’ye understand?”
“Sho’, Mars’r Fink; enty you know I’s allus willin’ to ’bey orders? I
tell _you_, Katy, I’s be’n allus a fust-class creeper, ain’t I?”
“Yes, tolerable,” surlily assented the person called Fink. Then he
mused for a moment, still wearing a surly air.
He was a rough backwoodsman, dressed in the rough backwoods style, in
coarse jeans, coon-skin cap and heavy boots. He wore a belt, in which
were a pair of wicked-looking revolvers, a small coil of stout cord,
and an ugly knife. His countenance was sinister in the extreme, and
denoted he was a slave to his passions, which were very violent. The
cord was for the purpose of _binding prisoners_.
Prisoners? Yes; the man Fink was a desperado. At the time of this story
(during the early settling of Arkansas), in addition to the hostile
Indians, were a race more feared, more subtle and dangerous--robbers
and cut-throats, united in bands for purposes of plunder. He was the
second officer of one of these bands.
“Cato, I’ve got a job fur yer,” he said, looking up.
“Hi, Mars’r Fink; show ’em up; I’s allus ready,” replied the negro.
“It is to-- Hello! what hev we hyar?”
He started back suddenly, as a rustle was heard in the thicket, and
drew a revolver. The negro, from some hidden place, drew a keen razor
with remarkable agility, and stood on his guard, lowering at the copse.
A man burst out of the bushes boldly, as if fearing no danger, and
knowing with whom he was meeting. He was dressed in green throughout,
with a peaked hat, and high, shining boots. He wore a belt, stuck full
of weapons. He was a handsome, genial-looking fellow, in the prime of
life, very agile and strong, as could be seen by his sinewy limbs.
His eyes were a deep brown, shining pleasantly, and from under his hat
peeped a few short, chestnut curls. His hands were small and shapely,
and were very white. His face was intelligent, and his head that of a
man born to command. Yet this man, whom, in point of looks, any woman
would welcome as a lover, was a fiend within--a demon of extraordinary
cruelty and daring. His name was Charles Downing--Captain Downing--and
he was the chief of a notorious and feared robber band--the same of
which Fink was lieutenant.
“How are you, Cato?” he said, with a smile, which disclosed a set of
handsome, even teeth. “So you are on the defensive.”
The negro’s arm dropped, and he slipped the razor into his bosom. Fink
belted his revolver.
“Golly, Mars’r Cap’n, Cato t’ink ole fool Injun war prowlin’ ’bout.
Berry glad it ain’t, fur ye see thar mout be bloodshed,” and he grinned
from ear to ear.
“Nonsense, Cato, there are no Indians within twenty miles. They are
nearly all off on the prairie, buffalo-hunting. We will meet them,
however, soon, and it will be no harm to be wary and cautious. I was
just trying to find you--I’ve work for you to do this afternoon.”
“Dat’s wha’ Mars’r Fink done se’d; golly, I’se fearful dry to-day--ef
thar’s whisky in the camp I’se work my fingers off--hi, hi, hi!”
“You shall have all you wish, Cato, after the job is finished. I want
to warn you about singing and laughing so shrilly; it may bring the
Vigilantes down upon us. You know you are suspected.”
“Hi, yi! ole Creeper Cato done stove ’em off sebenteen times a’ready,”
grinned Cato. “Tek’s Cato Creeper ter fool ’em, yi, yi!”
The lieutenant struck in harshly:
“Wal, thar’s an eend ter all things; so thar is ter ropes. Ye’ll find
that out soon ef yer aint keerful; yer be too reckless by half.”
“Recollect, Cato, that old man Jeffries is casting a suspicious eye on
you. He is very shrewd, and, if my suspicions are correct, he belongs
to the Regulators. You can not be too careful; the oldest and slyest
foxes are sometimes trapped.”
“And the trees have tongues,” added Fink.
“Whar’s de job, Mars’r Cap’n?” inquired Cato, impatiently.
“Near the brown cabin,” answered Downing. “We will go there now; I
am in a hurry. It is nearly sunset, and I have a pleasant mission
to-night.”
Turning, he led the way through the quiet, ghostly thickets, closely
followed by his comrades. For nearly a mile they silently stole on,
warily halting at the slightest rustle in the thicket. At length
they entered the confines of a solemn, treacherous swamp, guarded by
drooping trees, matted vines, and quiet as the grave. Here no song-bird
caroled its merry lay; its dark and gloomy depths the squirrel shunned;
while the “honk” of the wild-goose overhead, the hiss of the yellow
rattlesnake, the growl of the bear, and the wail of the catamount were
its only sounds. It was called “the Shadow Swamp.”
The narrow trail they had been pursuing now ran along the huge trunk of
a fallen tree toward its matted butt. Here they stopped.
A gloomy, black expanse of thick, slimy water lay before them, covering
about ten feet across in extent. How were they to cross its stagnant
and deceitful surface? They could not wade--it would be death by
suffocation; they could not swim through its weedy, sluggish current,
and they had no boat. They wished to go across, for they intently
regarded a small thickly-timbered island which lay in the middle of the
pond. It was the robber stronghold.
Only a second they stood there, then the captain drew a whistle from
his pocket and blew three long blasts, quite shrilly; then he paused a
moment, and then blew twice, softly.
As if by magic a boat or “dug-out” shot out from the island propelled
by a dirty, sinister-appearing man, bewhiskered and large in
proportions. With a single paddle he forced the craft through the
weeds and water-lilies rapidly, paddling carelessly. This man was not
armed at all, and he acted as if he had recently been asleep. He had
been--for his business was trifling and light. He was the ferryman--the
Charon of this River Styx.
The distance was trifling, and the dug-out soon grated against the
tree. Without a word they slid down the side and stepped into the
craft, and the boatman, Jack Dark, rowed or paddled away in silence.
The short voyage was soon ended, and the men stepped ashore, and left
the ferryman alone, all in silence.
This was the captain’s order--that from the time the signal was first
given until the boat had been hidden away on the island, the utmost
silence should be observed. No one dared break this rule, for once a
robber disobeyed and he suddenly disappeared, the subordinates of the
gang knowing not whither. The captain on being questioned, only smiled
quietly and cautioned obedience. Then they knew he was of the world no
more.
The island was level and had once been heavily wooded, but now the
center was cleared, leaving a thick underbrush to the sides near the
water. Thus the interior was level and bare, while the outer rim of
tangled willows and reeds, made it impossible to discover the retreat
from the mainland, even if any one should chance to climb a tree, which
no one ever did except on urgent occasions.
Two cabins stood in this clearing, both equal in size, but of different
colors. They were composed of roughly-hewn logs set firmly together,
the interstices being filled in with moss and dried mud. Neither had
but one opening--one door which served for light and ingress. They were
the common log-cabins to be seen anywhere in the Western or Southern
States.
One was occupied by the officers and the scout--Captain Downing,
Fink, and Bob Griffith. It was called the white cabin, because it was
composed of light-colored wood, with the bark taken off. The other
was about fifty yards distant, and was called the brown cabin, to
distinguish it from the other. This was occupied by the subordinates,
where the captain’s cooking was done, as he was very fastidious and
detested the smell of cookery.
The three men emerged from the clearing, when they were challenged by
a sentry, who started up from behind a log. The countersign was given,
the sentry slunk back, and they went on toward the brown cabin. Captain
Downing was vigilant and cunning.
Several ill-looking men, armed to the teeth, were lying in the cabin
door, some dozing and smoking short pipes, while others played cards
and quarreled. A fierce black dog was chained to a stump close by. He
was a bloodhound--the fiercest of his race.
They walked up to the cabin and the men stopped gambling for a moment
to _watch Downing’s lips_. If he smiled, beware! evil was brewing. If
he was demure he was watching every thing with the eye of a lynx.
In this state he was as harmless as a tame bear when filled with meat
and honey. But when he softly whistled a dirge, even his most trusted
companions feared him. He was then a tiger. If he laughed pleasantly he
was in high spirits and his companions felt easy and secure. But that
was seldom.
He regarded his men quietly, then looked toward an object, prostrate,
a few yards away, and smiled quietly. Then he became demure, then said
with a pleasant laugh:
“Well, boys, who is winner? Is anybody bankrupt?”
“Spades trumps!” vociferated a wiry fellow who had been regarding his
captain anxiously. He had slightly offended him the day before. His
face grew joyful, and as he swept his winnings between his knees, he
cried:
“Hurrah fur Cap’n Downing, boys! three and a tiger!”
The cheers were given lustily. Downing bowed with a look of
gratification.
“Thank you, boys,” he said.
Then he turned to Cato.
“There is your job. Bury that villain!”
He turned, and followed by Fink, walked to his cabin, entered it, and
closed the door. The men were hilarious.
He had pointed toward the prostrate object. Cato walked up to it
curiously. What was his horror at seeing the body of Bill Jameson,
better known as Fighting Jim, dead at his feet.
A bullet-hole was in his forehead, and in his stiffened hand was a long
knife. The sinister countenance was ghastly and cold, and the stream of
blood from the hole had congealed on his face. He was quite dead.
Cato felt nervous. Only that morning he had seen Jim alive and well and
had spoken to him. He was now dead. By whose hand did he die, and when?
As he stood gazing nervously down upon the departed robber, his courage
failed. This would make the third robber that he had buried in a month.
They had all died by the hand of beautiful, girlish Captain Downing.
The scout, Bob Griffith, came up to him and touched his elbow.
“You had better hurry up and bury him; the cap’n is watching you. _He
is grinning._”
The sweat started out on Cato’s forehead. Without further delay he
seized a spade and fell to work lustily; the captain was smiling.
“Golly, Mars’r Griffit’! wha’ for he go um dead?” he asked, working
hastily at a rude grave.
“Cap’n told him ter do suthin’ he didn’t like and he kedn’t see it. He
called the cap’n a doll-babby. Then cap’n draws and shoots, and thar
Jim lays.”
He was moving away when Cato caught him by the arm.
“Who’s de next?” he whispered, with eyes rolling and teeth chattering.
“Fo’ God, I ain’t afeard o’ no man--yer know dat am de truf. But I’se
done skeered at um cap’n, he so still an’ fierce. He bad man--bad
man--Cato t’inks de debbil cotches him, sure. Say, Mars’r Griffit’!
who’s de next?”
“Durn it, how do I know? Ef a man keeps a civil tongue and obeys
orders, the cap’n is his good friend. But let a man jist buck ag’in’
him--whew!” and Bob the scout walked away.
Cato dug the grave, then without ceremony rolled the body into it.
Then he filled it in and stamped the soil down, thinking all the time
he might be the next. With the laziness and heedlessness of a negro he
had buried all the victims where they fell, one, not ten paces from the
captain’s own door.
After his work was finished the captain called him into his cabin, and
ordered him to meet him at a certain place when the moon rose. Then he
gave him a bottle of liquor, and some money, and sent him away.
After he had gone the captain mused deeply for a moment, then laughed.
“Before long I will be a Benedick!” he said; “a Benedick!”
“Speak to me, cap’n?” grunted Fink, from his pile of blankets and robes
in his sleeping corner.
“No; I was just soliloquizing.”
“Oh!” and Fink dropped asleep.
The captain smiled.