SKINLEY, THE TEXAN.
SOMERS readily understood that he was sent off by the major for a
purpose; but De Banyan had no opportunity to explain his intention
before he went. It was plain that a very important part in the plan for
frustrating the object of the guerillas had been entrusted to him, but
he had not a single word of instructions.
As Somers mounted his horse, he saw De Banyan and Tippy leave the estate
and ride off in the direction of the railroad, and he doubted not that
he had been sent to delay the pay-master, and assure him that the road
to the army was perfectly safe. After the full and unequivocal
endorsement of Tippy, the major was fully established in the confidence
of the guerilla, who unreservedly communicated to him his hopes and his
expectations.
Somers joined Skinley, who was to be his companion in this morning ride.
The “Texican,” as he delighted to call himself, was a stout fellow,
good-humored, and immensely fond of a joke. Lynchman appeared to repose
great confidence in him; otherwise he would not have sent him upon his
present duty. The ruffian was armed from head to foot with rifle,
pistols, and a knife, and looked like a moving arsenal. He was a
formidable person for a young man like Somers to deal with, and yet it
was fully evident that he had been sent by the major to prevent the
“Texican” from delivering his message.
The young officer did not like the duty, for there was apparently only
one way in which he could discharge it; and that was, by deliberately
shooting his ugly companion. All the carnage and death he had seen in
the course of the war—and he had seen a great deal of them—had not
impaired his respect for human life. He could not wantonly sacrifice
even an enemy. He was with this man as his friend—in disguise, it was
true; but the Texan trusted him—did not regard him as a foe. To turn
upon him in the moment when he suspected no danger, looked cowardly; and
his chivalrous soul revolted at the act. Ruffian, rebel, traitor, as
this man was, he was one of God’s creatures, made in his own image, and
nothing but the severest necessity could justify the killing of him.
Thus he reasoned on the one hand; but on the other, this man was going
to procure a force to shoot down the loyal soldiers of the Union; to rob
the government of the money intended for the troops, upon whose earnings
wives and children depended for their daily bread. But this was war—what
the custom of civilized nations justified; while killing a man in cold
blood was an act of treachery from which he could not but shrink. War
had not debased him, for he still read his Bible, and still leaned for
strength and guidance upon that arm which can lead and support all who
confide in its almighty power.
Somers felt that he could not do this deed. It was too revolting, too
barbarous; and yet it must be done, or others would bleed and die for
his want of nerve. He could not settle the troublesome question, and he
determined to defer the deed as long as he could without imperilling the
safety of the pay-master and his escort.
“Well, youngster, you mought be sent out to keep me warm, I ’spose,”
said Skinley, as Somers rode up to his side, after he had carefully
considered the mission upon which he had obviously been sent.
“Yes, if you are cold,” replied Somers.
“I am cold, Somers. May be yer hain’t got a bottle of whiskey in yer
pocket—hain’t yer?”
“I have not; I never use it.”
“So I heerd the major say; but hain’t yer got nothin’ stowed away about
yer—any brandy, or sich like?”
“I have not.”
“Well, Somers, I tell yer what it is, Somers, it was a great mistake
comin’ off without no whiskey, Somers.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Don’t yer, Somers?”
“I can get along very well without it.”
“May be you can, Somers; but I can’t. I feed on whiskey, Somers; and I
could no more go to Raybold’s without sunthin’ to drink than I could go
afoot on hossback, or go hossback afoot; ’n’ I take it, Somers, that
can’t be did.”
“But you will have to go without it, if you have none.”
“No, I won’t—you bet!” exclaimed Skinley. “Thar’s a Union house over
here a good piece. They allus has whiskey and bacon when we poor fellers
has to thust fur meat and hunger fur liquor. The old man, I cal’late, is
a fust cousin of some gin’ral, or some of them fellers in Richmond, fur
he’s got some sort o’ paper. I’m gwine to git a drink when we git
thar—bet yer life.”
“But if they have a safe-conduct, you can’t compel them to give you
anything. They will show you the paper,” replied Somers.
“Let ’em show it, Somers; I can’t read it,” chuckled the Texan.
“Why not?”
“Well, Somers, I ain’t up to print, say nothin’ of writin’. If they make
any muss about it, I kin tell ’em it was all a mistake—don’t yer see,
Somers? May be I mought be deef too, Somers.”
“Perhaps they will read it to you.”
“Then I’m deef, sartin.”
“Very likely they will give you what you want, if you ask them civilly.”
“No, they won’t, Somers. They hate us wuss ’n pizen; but I hate them
wuss ’n they hate me.”
“What have they done?”
“They hain’t done nothin’, and that’s what I hate ’em fur. The Yanks
won’t tech ’em, and we can’t tech ’em, Somers. It stands to reason,
Somers, sech folks ought to be hated.”
Somers decided not to discuss this question, and he had dropped a few
paces behind his companion to avoid his slang, when Skinley exhibited a
disposition to be sociable, and insisted that the road was wide enough
for them to ride abreast. The young officer did not want to quarrel with
the ruffian, and he complied with his request.
“Thar’s a pooty gal over to Callicot’s, Somers,” added he, with a coarse
grin. “P’rhaps you’ll think more of that than yer do of the whiskey.”
“Is she a Union girl?” asked Somers—more because he felt compelled to
speak than because he felt any interest in the new subject.
“In course she are.”
“You don’t intend to meddle with her, I hope.”
“What makes yer hope that?” demanded Skinley, sourly.
“Are you a soldier, Skinley?”
“You bet!”
“A true soldier always respects a woman, whether she be friend or foe.”
“Somers, your idees is a little too fine cut fur me,” snarled the Texan.
“Have you a mother?”
“Not ’s I knows on. She gin me the slip when I wan’t knee high to a chaw
terbaker.”
“Is she dead?”
“I cal’late she is.”
“Have you no sister?”
“May be I hev’. See here, Somers, you kin draw yer charge on that. Yer
mought be a preacher, or sich like; but don’t yer draw that string on
me.”
“Very well; I have nothing to say, only that, if you propose to insult a
woman, I am your enemy.”
“Be you?”
Skinley took a pistol from his belt, and deliberately cocked and pointed
it at Somers, to whom the act seemed to reveal his companion in a new
light. It was naturally to be supposed that a man who carried such an
armory of weapons on his person was a dangerous fellow; but from this
moment Somers looked upon him as a bully. He had given the ruffian no
cause of offence for which he could resort to desperate measures.
“If you insult a woman, I am,” replied Somers, quietly drawing a large
navy revolver which he carried in his belt.
“Put up your shooter, Somers,” said Skinley, with a sickly laugh, as he
lowered his pistol.
“I am not quite ready to put it up,” replied Somers, sternly; for he had
made up his mind that the time to execute the task imposed upon him had
come. “When a man draws a pistol upon me, he insults me.”
“I only did it to see what sort of stuff you mought be made of,
Somers—that’s all,” answered Skinley.
“I am not satisfied with that explanation. I would like to know what
sort of stuff you ‘mought’ be made of now,” said Somers, imitating the
speech of his companion.
“I’m a Texican. I was born in the woods, nussed on hickory nuts, and
turned out to paster in a cane-brake. When I kim of age I fed on
gunpowder, and druv’ four alligators, four in hand, hitched to a sulky.
That’s what’s the matter. Don’t you know now what sort of stuff I mought
be made of?”
“Slang and brag, I should say, were the principal ingredients in your
composition. You have insulted me.”
“I ax yer pardon; put up yer shooter.”
Somers did so, but very reluctantly. It was only postponing his mission;
though the discovery that his companion was a coward at heart, in spite
of his words, and in spite of the liberal display of arms about him, led
him to hope that he might dispose of him in some better way than
shooting him.
“I ax yer pardon; that’s what a Texican does when he finds he mought be
in the wrong.”
“Very well. Now, if we can’t talk without quarrelling, I will keep a
little in the rear.”
“Jest as you say, Somers.”
They rode along in silence for a time, till they reached a house much
superior to most of those they had seen on the road, at which Skinley
halted.
“I’m sufferin’ for my bitters, Somers,” said the Texan, as he reined in
his steed.
“Is this the house of the Union man?”
“Bet yer life ’tis. I only want a little drop of whiskey,” replied
Skinley, as he rode up the lane by the house, followed by his companion.
“I won’t stop only a second.”
The guerilla dismounted, and throwing the bridle rein of his horse over
a post, he entered without the ceremony of knocking. When he had gone
in, Somers rode forward till he came to the windows of the house, for he
was fearful that the conduct of the Texan would not be conciliatory, and
he was disposed to defend the Union people within, even at the peril of
his life.
Skinley was absent some time—longer than a due regard for the urgency of
his mission would have tolerated; but Somers was in no hurry to reach
Raybold’s himself, and was not impatient on account of the delay. It was
evident that the wretch had not readily procured his dram; and his
companion feared that he might resort to violence in enforcing his
demand. The delay indicated trouble within the house, and Somers
dismounted. Fastening his horse to a gate, he walked towards the
entrance. He was not one moment too soon, for before he could reach the
door, he heard a piercing scream uttered by a female. He rushed in with
his revolver in his hand.
“Don’t yell,” said Skinley, as he entered. “I only want yer to bring on
the whiskey. I’m so deef I can’t hear yer, if yer do yell.”
Somers stopped at the door of the room where the parties were; for,
indignant as he was, he was always prudent. He cocked the pistol, and
took a survey of the situation.
“I tell you there is not a drop of whiskey in the house, and has not
been for two years,” replied the female, who was a young and
well-dressed lady, and whose personal attractions fully justified the
Texan’s commendation of them.
“Yer mought tell that to a dead alligator, and he’d scretch yer eyes out
fur’t,” added the ruffian.
“I have told you the truth; there is not a drop of liquor of any kind in
the house.”
“’Tain’t so; all our boys knows you keeps whiskey by the hogshead. Now
fotch on the liquor, my darlin’;” and as he spoke, he grasped the lady
by the arm.
She evidently regarded his touch as pollution, and again screamed
lustily.
“See here; don’t be so techy. I ain’t gwine ter hurt yer.”
“Father!” cried the terrified girl, shrinking from the wretch.
Somers would have fired, but he feared the report and the death of the
ruffian before her face would be too great a shock for the lady. She was
frightened, but she seemed to have perfect control of herself.
“Say, doxy, won’t yer fotch on the whiskey?” continued Skinley; and
again he attempted to seize the arm of the lady, who fled before him.
“Father!” screamed she again.
Somers stepped into the room; at the same instant an elderly gentleman
rushed in by a door on the opposite side of the apartment.
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