THE RUNAWAY.
“I DECLARE I never thought of that before,” repeated Bob, after he had
spent a quarter of an hour in thinking the matter over. As was generally
the case when he found himself in trouble, he fell to abusing his luck,
which had not served him a better turn. “I can’t enjoy this money, now
that I have got it,” said he. “My breech-loader and fishing-rod are just
as far out of my reach as they were a week ago. If I got them, father
would ask a thousand and one questions: ‘Bob, how came you by that new
gun?’ ‘I bought it.’ ‘Where did you get the money?’ He would be sure to
ask me that, and what could I say?”
If Bob, while he was tossing restlessly about on his bed, laying his
plans for securing possession of the hundred and sixty dollars, had only
taken time for a little serious consideration, he would have discovered
that he could not help getting himself into just such a dilemma as this;
but the truth of the matter was, he was so eager to get his hands upon
the money that he could think of nothing else. He had succeeded in his
efforts, but the money was of no more use to him than it would have been
to Dan Evans. True, there was one thing he might do with it, and that
was, restore it to its lawful owner. This thought did occur to Bob, but
he dismissed it at once.
“I’ll never do that in the world,” said he, almost fiercely. “If it
hadn’t been for Dave and his friends I might have had money of my own by
this time, and I would have got it, too, in such a way that I should not
be afraid to let everybody know that I had it. But Dave cheated me out
of the chance, and, sooner than give this money up to him, I’ll tie a
stone to it and sink it in the middle of the lake. Now is there any way
that I can get the benefit of it? That’s the question.”
And it was one that Bob could not answer for a long time, for he was
fairly at his wit’s end. If he had acted out his feelings, he would have
jumped up and whooped, and yelled, and pulled his hair, just as Godfrey
did when he told how Dan had cut his pocket open and stolen the tin box.
He felt just like it; but, knowing that he could not mend matters in
that way, he controlled himself as well as he was able, and sat on his
log, and thought about it. He went without his dinner, and stayed there
until it began to grow dark. By that time he had almost made up his mind
to something.
“If I can’t enjoy my money here, I can enjoy it somewhere else,” said
Bob to himself, as he arose and walked slowly toward the house, after
having concealed the box under the log on which he had been sitting.
“Rochdale isn’t the only place in the world. I have always wanted to go
out on the plains, and I don’t know that I shall ever have a better
chance than I have now. I’ll take time to think about it, at any rate.”
This soliloquy will serve to indicate the train of thought that Bob had
been following out all the afternoon. Like many foolish boys, he had
often imagined that he would be much happier than he was if he were only
free from the restraints of home. He longed to be his own master. He had
made more than one attempt to induce his father to permit him to go out
into the world to seek his fortune, but Mr. Owens had always refused;
and Bob, in one of his angry moods, had told himself that he would go
some day, no matter whether his father was willing or not. He had read
wonderful stories of life on the plains; of boy-hunters, and trappers,
and Indian-fighters, who had made themselves famous by their deeds of
valor, and Bob, believing every word of it, longed to be with them, and
join in their exciting adventures. For a year it had been a cherished
hope of his that he might some day see that wild country, and the brave
young bordermen who were supposed to live there; and when he fell to
dreaming about it, as he often did, he was so completely carried away by
his imagination, that he fancied himself already there and taking part
in the thrilling scenes so graphically described in his favorite
yellow-covered books. When he came to himself again, his home would seem
more distasteful than ever, and the life he led there would become
almost unbearable. And yet it is hard to tell why Bob was so
dissatisfied with his lot in life. He had almost everything that any
reasonable boy could ask for; his father and mother could not have been
kinder, and Bob was obliged to attend school only six months every year,
and was permitted to do nearly as he pleased during the rest of the
time. Perhaps, if he not been allowed so many idle hours it would have
been better for him, for then he would have had less opportunity to
indulge in day-dreaming.
Bob, as we have said, was full of glorious ideas, and this was one of
his pet ones. He never allowed himself to dwell upon it without becoming
highly excited. He was excited now—as much so as he was when he first
felt David Evans’s money in his grasp. He had suddenly conceived a
violent passion for the wild, free life of a hunter, and a corresponding
distaste for the quiet comforts and pleasures of his home. What was
there about home, he asked himself, that should make him desirous of
remaining there? There was no one with whom he could associate, now that
he and Lester were at swords’ points, and the only way in which he could
pass the time was to loiter about the house with nothing in the world to
do. If he went down to the landing he would be certain to meet some one
there who knew all about that bear fight and the burning of the
shooting-box. More than that, he would probably see Don and Bert Gordon,
who, dressed in their natty riding-suits and mounted on their stylish
ponies, would canter by, paying no more attention to him than if he were
a crooked stick lying by the roadside. Bob’s own mount was not a very
elegant affair, but it was as good as the most of the boys in the
neighborhood owned. He rode a large, rawboned horse, which, although a
fine traveller, was by no means a handsome animal, and his saddle and
bridle had been patched so often that there was very little of the
original material left in them.
“Even if everything was all right, I should be ashamed to go down to the
landing any more,” said Bob to himself. “I look like a beggar beside Don
and Bert Gordon. If I go hunting I must use an old muzzle-loading gun
and a game-bag that Godfrey Evans would turn up his nose at, and it
would be just my luck to meet those Gordon fellows with their
breech-loaders and hunting-suits, looking as though they had just come
out of a band-box. They are almost always sure to turn up just when I
don’t want to see them. They act as if they tried to meet me when they
are fixed up in their best, to let me see how rich they are and how poor
I am. They make it a point, too, to pass me without saying a word to
me.”
This was very far from being the truth. Bob’s lively imagination, which
led him to believe that he would be happier anywhere else in the world
than he was at home, had cheated him into believing that Don and Bert
purposely slighted him. But they meant to do nothing of the kind. They
always bowed politely and spoke to him every time they met him, and
would have been glad to live on friendly terms with him, if Bob had only
been willing to let them. But Bob had long had an idea that not only
they, but everybody else in the settlement, abused him, and when he fell
to thinking about it, he always became angry. He was angry now and
desperate, too.
“I’ll not stay here any longer, to be put upon and insulted by those who
think they are better than I am; because they have more nice things to
make them happy,” thought Bob, as he slammed the gate violently behind
him. “I’ll end all my troubles at once, this very night.”
Bob had made up his mind to run away from home; and having determined
upon his course, he never faltered nor paused for a moment to consider
what might be the consequences of the act. He ate his supper in sullen
silence (he was so irregular in his habits that no one thought it worth
while to ask him where he had been during the day), and having satisfied
his appetite, put on his hat, and went back to the log in the
fence-corner where he had dreamed away the afternoon. He found the box
where he left it, and after crowding it into his pocket, he returned to
the house. He stopped at the shed on the opposite side of the road, and
when he had made sure that there was no one to observe his movements, he
took his saddle and bridle down from the peg on which they hung, and hid
them in the tall weeds that grew in the lane, taking care to mark the
spot so that he could readily find it again. This done, he stole
cautiously along a cross-fence that led to the barn-yard, and there he
found his horse running loose in company with others belonging to his
father. The animal followed him into the little log building in which he
was always fed, and Bob supplied him with a good supper of corn.
“You’ve got a long journey to make, Jack, before you see the sun rise
again,” said he, “and you’d better eat while you have the chance. It
will be the last time you will ever carry me. I hope the next horse I
own will be rather better looking than you are. I hope, too, that you
will carry me to Linwood in time to catch the first boat that goes up
the river, for I don’t want to stay in Mississippi an hour longer than I
can help!”
Bob closed and fastened the door to keep his horse in and prevent the
others from disturbing him at his meal, and went into the house. Without
saying a word to any member of the family he made his way into his own
room, and set about making other preparations for his flight. His first
care was to count the money; and having made sure that none of it had
been spirited away, he took out sixty dollars, which he thought would be
enough to bear his expenses, and put them into his pocket-book, after
carefully wrapping them up in several pieces of newspaper. After that he
produced from one of the bureau drawers an old buckskin money-belt that
had somehow come into his possession. In one of the pockets he found a
piece of oiled silk, and in this he wrapped the rest of the money.
“I’ve heard that that is the way travellers do when they cross the
ocean,” said Bob, to himself. “Steamboats sometimes burn or sink, and if
one has to take to the water, he wants his money well protected. There
are such things as pickpockets, too, and I don’t intend that they shall
get much out of me.”
As Bob said this he buckled the belt around his waist, under his
clothing, and went into his closet after a valise. He brought it out and
looked at it with undisguised contempt. It was in good order, but it was
old-fashioned, and looked very unlike the neat travelling-bag Don Gordon
carried when he went to visit his friends in Memphis. It was the only
article of the kind that Bob owned, however, and after telling himself
that he would throw it away as soon as he had an opportunity to buy
another, he went into his closet again to bring out the clothing he
intended to take with him. “Here’s something else I shall throw away,”
said Bob, as he folded up his Sunday coat and pushed it into the valise.
“I’ll throw away all these clothes when I reach the plains, for then I
am going to dress in buckskin, the way the rest of the hunters do. But
the plains are a long way off yet; it will take some time to reach them,
and some time longer to capture and cure the skins I shall need to make
me a complete suit; so I’ll take two suits with me, in order to have a
change in case of emergency.”
Bob selected the best he had, and when he had crowded into the valise
all that it would hold, he closed and locked it, putting the key into
his pocket. The valise he hid under the bed, so that it would not be
seen by any one who might chance to come into his room. By this time it
was nine o’clock, and Bob thought he had better go to bed. He did not go
out into the sitting-room again, for the family were all there and he
did not want to see them. He wanted to be alone, so that he could think
about the glorious life upon which he was so soon to enter. He did not
care if he never saw any of his relatives again. That was what he
thought then, but before many days had passed over his head he would
have given the whole world, had it been his to give, if he could have
exchanged just a word with one of them.
Bob settled himself snugly in his comfortable bed, but he did not go to
sleep. He was afraid that if he did he might sleep too long, and he had
so much to think about that it was no trouble for him to keep awake. He
heard the clock in an adjoining room strike every hour until midnight,
and then he arose and prepared for action. It was the work of but a few
minutes for him to put on his clothes and lower himself and his valise
out of the window to the ground, and he did it without disturbing any of
the family. In half an hour more he had saddled his horse, which he led
out into the lane through a gap in the fence he made for the purpose (he
was afraid to lead the horse through the gate, for it was close to the
house, and the sound of the animal’s hoofs might have aroused somebody),
and had put nearly a mile between himself and his home. He left it and
the settlement without a single feeling of regret, but still he could
not help taking note of the familiar objects on which his eyes rested as
he galloped along, and which he never expected to see again. Here was
the tall pecan tree which he and Don Gordon and Joe Packard, in the days
when they were better friends than they were now, had visited regularly
every autumn to gather the nuts that so plentifully covered the ground,
and from whose topmost branches Bob had brought down the only fox
squirrel he had ever seen. There were the ruins of the bee-tree that he
and the same boys had cut down, and from which they had secured a tubful
of the finest honey. Off to the right was the little maple grove where
he and the Gordon and Packard boys had once camped for more than a week
and played at making maple sugar. Farther on was the landing; and there
was the post-office with the old, weather-beaten boxes on which he had
so often sat on mail days and awaited the arrival of the carrier, ranged
in a row in front of it. Other boys would sit there in the days to come,
as he had done in the days gone by, and Dave Evans would come dashing
down the main street at the top of his speed, just as the old carrier
had done, and throw off the mail-bag with a shout, and Silas Jones would
pick it up and hurry into the store with it, and not one of them would
ever give a thought to himself or ask where Bob Owens was now.
“No, sir,” said Bob, bitterly, “there’s no one here who cares whether I
live or die. If I had been rich I would have had more friends than I
wanted.”
The main street was deserted, and the landing looked gloomy enough when
seen by the light of the moon, which just now began to emerge from
behind the thick clouds that had hitherto obscured it. Bob had time to
take only one glance at it as he flew along, and in a moment more it was
hidden from his sight by the little grove in which were held the
shooting-matches that came off nearly every week in Rochdale at this
season of the year. Bob could not forget the many happy hours he had
spent in that same grove, and he turned more than once in his saddle to
look at it. It was the last familiar object he would see along the road,
and in leaving it behind he seemed to be severing the last link that
bound him to his home. He kept it in sight as long as he could, but a
bend in the road presently hid it from his view. Then Bob faced about in
his saddle, dismissed all thoughts of the pleasures and comforts he was
leaving behind, and speedily became absorbed in dreaming of the new
scenes and new adventures that awaited him in the wild country toward
which he was hastening.
Bob was bound, in the first place, for Linwood, a little landing about
the size of Rochdale, situated twenty-five miles further up the river.
He had never been there—in fact, he had never been so far away from home
in his life—and all he knew about the place was, that the road which ran
along the river bank was the shortest route that led to it, and that
steamboats stopped there whenever a signal was displayed upon the bank
to indicate that there were passengers or freight for them. Bob intended
to remain at Linwood until he could board some steamer bound up the
river. Where he would go after that, and what he would do, he didn’t
know. He had not yet taken time to think of it.
Bob kept his horse in a steady gallop for an hour or more, and then,
believing that he had placed a safe distance between himself and his
home, he allowed the animal to slacken his pace to a walk. His progress
was very slow after that. Besides, as soon as the moon went down it
became pitch dark, and Bob, on one or two occasions, got bewildered by
turning into a log-road, and never discovered his mistake until he found
himself in the thick woods. He went a long distance out of his way, and
was delayed more than three hours. It was nine o’clock when he came
within sight of Linwood.
It was about this time that Bob met the first person he had seen during
his journey. It was a horseman, and Bob passed him a mile below the
landing. The man looked sharply at Bob’s nag, which walked with his head
down as if he were wearied with his night’s journey, then stared hard at
the boy, and drew in his reins as if he were about to stop and speak to
him. Bob, however, did not want any conversation with him, so he put his
horse into a gallop, and went on his way; but the keen glances which the
stranger had bestowed upon himself and his steed excited his curiosity,
and, when he had gone a few rods, he turned in his saddle and looked
back. To his surprise he saw that the man had stopped his horse in the
middle of the road, and was also looking back. He did not turn away his
head and move on, as people generally do when they are caught in the act
of observing another’s movements, but kept his eyes fastened upon the
boy, as if he had resolved to see where he was going and what he
intended to do. Bob became uneasy at once.
“Who is that?” thought he, and, as he asked himself the question, he
hurriedly recalled the names of all the planters with whom he was
acquainted who bore any resemblance to the man he had just passed. “I am
sure I don’t know who he is, but he must know who I am. If he does not,
why did he look at me so sharply, and pull up his horse as if he was
going to say something to me? He’s there yet,” added Bob, once more
turning about in his saddle, and looking behind him.
Yes, the man was there yet, and, more than that, he stayed there as long
as Bob was in sight of him. The runaway, who grew more and more uneasy
every minute, faced about, now and then, to look at him, and when he
turned down the road that led to the little cluster of houses on the
river bank, the man turned his own horse, and rode slowly after him.
When Bob came around the bend in the road, he saw all there was of the
little settlement of Linwood. He noticed that, in some respects, it was
like Rochdale. It could boast of but one street, and that led from
somewhere back in the country, straight through the town (if such it
could be called) to a long shed on the bank, which Bob was glad to see
was filled with bags of shelled corn. He was glad to see it, for he knew
that the corn was awaiting shipment, and that the first boat that went
up the river would be signaled to stop and take it aboard.
The settlement consisted of the store, in which the post-office was
located, a shoemaker’s and blacksmith’s shop, and one or two private
residences, all of which were built on one side of the street. The store
was the most imposing building, and, like the one in Rochdale, was the
headquarters of all the idlers in the country for miles around. The
proprietor had good-naturedly provided for their comfort and
accommodation, by placing a row of empty dry-goods boxes in front of his
door for them to sit on, and, when Bob came in sight, every box was
occupied.
Hearing the sound of his horse’s feet, one of the idlers looked up, said
something in a low tone to his companions, and, an instant afterward, a
dozen pairs of eyes were fastened upon Bob, as if they meant to look him
through.
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