HORSE-THIEVES.
Olive spent a few quiet hours at home along with Diana, and then took
supper in company with Napoleon Pompey, whose manners at table were now
all that could be desired. Indeed, the negro in this connection easily
takes a higher polish than might be expected: he prides himself on being
punctilious in all the forms and phrases of the best white society he
has ever come in contact with, and being highly imitative, is quickly
trained. Given a white boy and a black boy of similar ages and depths of
ignorance, the black one will more quickly tame into a seemingly quiet
human being, while very frequently the same vanity which prompts a negro
to be over-zealous in the use of “please” and “thank you” will cause the
white boy to act roughly and assert his independence by extravagances of
rude behaviour. Napoleon Pompey was magnificently polite to “Mis’
Ollie,” whom he adored, and for whom he was ready even to work: that is
to make the greatest sacrifice possible to a negro lad of twelve. He
never forgot to carry in wood for her or to pick up chips in generous
quantity for the lighting of the afternoon fire, and he collected
abundance of corn-cobs and had them duly dried in the sun ready at her
hand in case she was in sudden want of a hot fire. When working for
Ezra, Napoleon Pompey reverted to his natural black standard of
diligence and shirked as much as he possibly could, lying down in
fence-corners to sleep like a shiny black lizard when he should have
been stripping corn, but he never shirked “Mis’ Ollie’s” work. She
didn’t scold the lad, but ruled him by her gentleness and her beauty,
and he fell into meekest subjection to her.
Olive always tried to talk with Napoleon Pompey at meals, even when Ezra
was there, being anxious to make him feel at his ease and happy in their
presence; and to-day being alone with him she thought she might get some
information out of him on the subject which was weighing so heavily upon
her mind.
“Napoleon Pompey, did you ever hear of their hunting down men on the
prairie here?”
“Yo’ bet, Mis’ Ollie, I seed darkie what went to de hangin’ ole man
Howard. He done seed him hoisted over de tree slap up. He told me——”
“Hush!” said Olive sternly.
The young savage was abashed, he had meant no harm, but thought some
pleasing details “o’ de hangin’,” which he himself had relished
mightily, would prove equally acceptable to Olive’s taste. She was
disgusted to think that with all her teaching of the forms and symbols
of politeness and gentle manners, which the young scamp had received
with such docility, she had not really touched his heart at all: he was
just a black savage, still rejoicing in vivid details of horrors and
cruelty.
“Don’t tell me,” she said sternly, “that it is possible you could like
to see a human being, a fellow creature, made in God’s image, no matter
how guilty he might be, put to death. It may be necessary, Napoleon
Pompey, sometimes to hang men who have done wicked things, so as to
prevent others from doing the same, but it is an awful thing, a sad and
terrible sight. You would never wish to see it, Napoleon Pompey,” said
Olive solemnly.
“It ’ud be bully ter see ’um kickin’ in de air wid rope roun’ his neck,”
said Napoleon Pompey simply.
Olive turned white with disgust and left the kitchen, retiring with
Diana to her own little private room. Napoleon Pompey, conscious of no
shortcomings, cleared away the supper things very handily, washed the
few dishes, set the candles upon the white deal table, and whistling in
the innocence of his youthful heart went out to “walk roun’” and see
that all was right, and the hen-house fastened up securely against
possible visits from pole-cats, before he retired to his loft upstairs
shortly after sun-down. Like the chickens, Napoleon Pompey went early to
roost.
Conscious from the all-pervading stillness that the lad was gone to bed,
Ollie returned to the kitchen, and her heart smote her as she saw two
tallow candles in their tin candle-sticks placed on the table in
convenient position for her to read, if such should be her wish. Poor
Napoleon Pompey! Olive thought compassionately of what an affectionate
boy he was, and of how it was not his fault if he still had savage
tastes. Indeed, it was rather the fault of everybody else. His not very
remote ancestors were unreclaimed African savages, and the career of
those more immediate forefathers, whose lot had been cast in slavery
down South, had not had an elevating tendency. It was wonderful, not
that he still had savage tastes, but that he had got rid of so many of
them. She was sorry that she had not been better able to control her
feelings, and determined forthwith to institute a careful system of
training with a view to leading him to the higher life by the shortest
possible road. Having settled in her own mind a few of the more
important lines upon which this training was to be conducted, Olive
turned at last to her reading. But she could not keep her mind on her
book, it kept wandering off in all sorts of directions, and at last took
that of being frightened at the loneliness and stillness of the house.
When so firmly combating the notion of being afraid to stay in the house
during Ezra’s absence, Olive had not realized how appalling the
stillness would be. In the daytime there were multitudes of unregarded
sounds, which went to make up the sum total of the idea of life and
fellowship, but at night these had completely ceased, and she seemed to
hear the stillness with awful intensity.
Then, too there were no shutters to the windows, which were, of course,
open to let in the cool night air, and the thought suddenly came into
Olive’s mind of how exposed she really was, sitting there in the light
of her candles, plainly to be seen, but unable to see out. A thought
such as this needs but little time to grow into a veritable feeling of
panic. She glanced at the black gaping windows and stared out into the
measureless blackness beyond. At one moment she raised her hand to
extinguish the candles and so to hide herself in the dark along with her
fears, but she knew that would only make matters worse. She would see in
her terrified imagination a hundred glaring eyes peering in through the
window. She got up and walked about the room, trying by a little
movement to throw off the oppressive sense of terror. Diana suddenly
seemed to be interested in something, and raised her head and sniffed
inquiringly, and her mistress, nervously awake to every sight or sound,
looked anxiously around her and stopped in her uneasy walk. Diana arose
and went to the door, and being a puppy wagged her tail effusively, then
suddenly remembering that she ought to be a dog, barked with vehemence.
Olive was ready to scream with nervous terror as she heard a step upon
the slanting board which led up to the door and a second later a knock
against the resounding wood. She stood spell-bound, unable to speak or
move. Diana ceased barking, and looked with eager delight for the
opening of the door.
“It is I, friends, let me come in,” said a deep voice which thrilled
Olive to the heart.
The door opened and Mr. Cotterell entered.
“Mr. Cotterell! What are you here for?” gasped Olive, as he came in and
stood in the light, gaunt-eyed and hollow-cheeked.
“I am flying for my life, Mrs. Weston. The men are out hunting me down.
I have come to ask your help. Where is your husband?”
“He is gone away to Mapleton.”
“Ah!” said Cotterell, with a sigh that had some relief in the sound.
“Then you will help me, won’t you?”
“What have you done?” asked Olive, gazing at him in terror. He was
wild-looking and so different from the charming gentleman she had known
before.
“I’ve shot Jake Mills,” he replied, without any attempt at
dissimulation.
“Do you mean that you’ve murdered him?” gasped Olive, starting back from
him.
“Good God! Mrs. Weston, no. I’ve not murdered him, although he is dead
by my hand. There’s been a quarrel between us about some land he rented
from me. He was a very low-bred fellow and violent, and I despised him,
and—well, I said some harsh things to him about cheating the last time
we met. He swore that he would pay me out. He came to my cabin the other
day. I don’t know how long ago, it seems a life-time. He was mad with
drink and fury. I told him he was a hound. He whipped out his revolver
and fired at me, but he was too tipsy to aim straight, his shots went
wide of the mark. Well, I got my shot in, I was not drunk. That is how
it was, Mrs. Weston. Upon my honour as a man, that is the exact truth,
you would not call it murder, would you?”
“No, it was in self-defence. But why didn’t you go and tell the
neighbours at once? They understand that sort of thing on the prairie.”
“Ah, there’s just my hard luck. There was a brute of a negro who saw it
all, a fellow I thrashed once for stealing and lying, and he said with
such a meaning look, niggers were free men now, they could give evidence
against white men now,” said Cotterell in a voice of despair.
“Could not you silence him?” said Olive, “or make him tell the truth?”
“Yes, I could have silenced him easily enough, and I had my finger on
the trigger to do it. But I sickened at the thought. I couldn’t shoot
him, although it was my life against his in all probability. I fled and
he gave the alarm. I have no chance with these men around here to try
me, and that negro to give his lying version of the fight. If it was a
jury of men like your husband, it would be different, but these ignorant
settlers are desperately prejudiced against me already as a foreigner,
and because of several things in the past.”
Olive thought of what her husband had said, and knew only too well that
there was indeed much prejudice against the unhappy fugitive.
“What am I to do? You cannot stay here, Mr. Cotterell. They have already
been looking for you. Mr. Owen was here yesterday afternoon.”
“Did he tell you what I had done? Did he seem to consider it murder?”
“Yes, he did,” said Olive in a whisper, not daring to remember what he
had said should he Cotterell’s punishment.
“But you don’t look upon it in that light?” said he, wistfully.
“No, certainly not. It was a terrible misfortune that might happen to
anybody, given the preliminary quarrel.”
“Thank you,” said Cotterell brokenly. “When a poor devil is being hunted
down it is a comfort for him to find someone who can still believe in
him, and I knew in my heart I could come to you for help when all else
had abandoned me. I am starving, Mrs. Weston. I have eaten nothing for
two days. Can you give me some food?”
“Poor fellow!” cried Olive, more struck perhaps by his bodily needs than
by those of the mind. “Sit down here, I’ll get you something in a jiffy.
There is a good chicken-pie in the cellar.”
She took a lantern and hurried off to the cellar which was under the
house, but to which entrance was effected by an outside door. She
brought him food and drink and sat by him as he ate ravenously,
wolfishly.
“I must sleep or I shall never be able to hold out for the flight
to-morrow. Let me lie here, will you, and wake me at mid-night. Will you
do that for me? I must sleep. I have been hiding in the bottom-land of
Cotton Wood Creek in the brushwood ever since I left home. I didn’t dare
to ride across the prairie with everybody out on account of the fire. I
should have been seen by someone, even if I could have got clear of the
fire. The hunt must be over now on this side of the county, and I may
dare snatch a little sleep.”
He flung himself down on the floor, and almost before Olive could fetch
a pillow for his head he was in a deep sleep. She sat watching him and
wondering what his life was. Somewhere away in England, perhaps, there
was a blue-eyed girl waiting for him to come home, a girl whose blue
eyes were getting dim with the tears she shed in that long, long
waiting. He was a very handsome man, with his yellow moustache and
clear-cut features. His hat was off, leaving a sort of high-water mark
plainly visible on his forehead, where the sun-burn ended and the smooth
white skin showed upon his temples. The veins were marked in blue like a
baby’s, she remembered how Ezra had commented on these blue veins. She
wondered who he was and why he came there to live, and all the while she
watched the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathed in his sleep
with his right hand nervelessly holding his revolver. How he would start
up and grip that weapon, and how his blue eyes would flash, if his
pursuers should come upon him! He was a man that had a reputation for
bravery even on the prairie, where few men were cowards. She thought of
Prince Charlie and his wanderings, and all the stories she had read as a
girl about that charming prince. Here was a fugitive seeking her aid,
and she—well, she would act the part of Flora Macdonald. By the time it
was mid-night, Olive had worked herself into a most romantic frame of
mind and was determined to help Mr. Cotterell at every hazard. She was
not a person to do a thing by halves. She made a parcel of food for him
out of the remains of the chicken-pie, and then, it being just
mid-night, she awoke him.
“Ah, Mrs. Weston, how can I ever show my gratitude to you? You are in
veriest truth my guardian angel. I shall carry your image in my heart
till I die,” said Cotterell in his soft persuasive voice. “I should like
to think that you had some memory of me.”
“I shall not forget you, and shall pray that you may escape all
dangers,” said Olive gently.
“I have absolutely nothing that I can call my own. Would you accept this
ring of mine as a token of my gratitude, and sometimes wear it in memory
of me? When you look at it, think that somewhere in this weary world
there is one heart that will be grateful to you until it ceases to
beat.”
He pulled a ring from his finger and put it into her hand. At the same
time he stooped his tall form and softly kissed her forehead, saying:
“God bless you!”
Olive’s eyes were full of tears. “You must be going or it will be too
late,” she said with a sob.
“Yes, I must not tarry.” He looked to his revolver, jerked his
cartridge-case round into a more convenient position for rapidly opening
it, and took up his hat.
“Where is your horse?”
“I hitched him to the bars.”
“Then I will take the lantern and light you on your way. The night is
very dark. Once on horseback you can ride by the light of the stars,”
said Olive.
“Yes, I’ll shape my course for the Missouri border, if I can run the
gauntlet of the people here. Once I reach a town and civilization I
shall be all right.”
They went to the bars, Olive holding her little lantern which threw a
feeble ray along the pathway.
“Great God!” cried Cotterell.
“Oh, what is it? Are they coming after you?” said Olive in alarm,
dropping her lantern which instantly went out.
“My horse is gone!” said Cotterell, whose eyes were now becoming
accustomed to the darkness. “I left him hitched here. He was a wild
young colt, not half broken. See, this is the lariat-rope wrenched in
two. I was a fool to trust to that rope, and a double-dyed fool to leave
him here in the dark. But I was too hungry and too sleepy to think
clearly of what I was doing. That sleep will cost me my life. I shall
have plenty of time to sleep, aye forever, if daylight catches me here.
Mrs. Weston will you add one more benefit to the many that have gone
before? Will you give me a horse?”
“Oh, so gladly if I had one,” said Olive, beginning to cry with grief
and helplessness.
“Haven’t you any horses?” asked Cotterell with a gasp.
“No. Ezra and Brother Huntley have taken two teams to Mapleton.”
“Are there no more about the place?”
“Only our two that were out on the prairie. Brother Wright was to hunt
for them.”
“Did he find them?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps he did.”
“Then you must give me one of them. They are yours.”
“They are not mine. Oh, I have not anything in this dreadful Community.
It is horrible,” wailed Olive.
“Don’t, pray don’t,” said Cotterell feeling for her hand in the darkness
and crushing it in a passionate grasp. “Come with me and help me get
one.”
“What! steal one of our horses?”
“Yes, God help me! if that must be the word. If I live, the Community
shall have the horse’s price ten times over. If I am hanged, put it down
for the Recording Angel’s tears. Come.”
“The horses are not here. They are at Brother Wright’s if anywhere.”
“Can you find the way in the dark? Then come all the same.”
He held her hand. Was it for fear lest she should turn back, or was it
for some other reason? They walked in silence towards the Wrights’
house, two dark shadows stealing through the blackness.
“Mr. Cotterell,” whispered Olive with chattering teeth. “If anyone
should come out of the house on account of the noise, don’t fire. We are
all non-resistants, you know, here, and he won’t have a pistol.” Olive
had no knowledge of the plenary indulgence which Brother Wright had seen
fit to bestow upon himself in this matter.
“Dear heart! don’t fear,” said Cotterell tenderly. “I am a desperate man
flying for his life, it is true, but I am not a dastard. No human being
at Perfection City shall ever be hurt by my hand. They are all sacred to
me for your sweet sake. Ah yes, how truly it is Perfection City, none
but I really know.”
They walked on again in silence.
“Is there a dog?”
“Yes, but he knows me well. We are coming to the back of the stable
now.”
“Then go and speak to the dog through the chinks of the logs, else he
will bark at me.”
Olive crept up quietly, and putting her lips to a crevice in the rough
log-stable said softly, “Pluto, good dog!” Pluto answered with a whine
of satisfaction, and a soft, purring trumpet from Queen Katharine
announced that she too was within, and that she recognised her
mistress’s voice.
“The horses are here,” whispered Olive. “I will go round and bring out
Queen Katharine; there is only a wooden bolt on the outside to fasten
the door. You had better not go near them for fear of exciting them,
which might make the dog bark.”
“It is dangerous for you in the dark. I fear the horses may hurt you,”
said Cotterell, slow in bringing himself to give up the little hand he
had held all during that strange night walk.
“I am not afraid of the horses: they know me and I know them,” said
Olive.
Cotterell heard her talking softly to Queen Katharine as she quietly
undid her halter and brought her out of the stable. Not a creature
seemed awake in the house, and not a word was spoken by the two as they
stole past down to the bars. Once out of earshot, Cotterell sprang upon
Queen Katharine and stooping down lifted Olive up before him. She never
could quite remember the wild things he said as he rode back to their
house, holding her in his arms on the horse. She was dizzy, frightened,
and confused, so perhaps he did not say all those wild words, and
perhaps she dreamed them. He got Ezra’s saddle and put it on Queen
Katharine, Olive did not forget to give him the parcel of food and a
flask of milk and water, and then he said good-bye. Such a strange
good-bye. He knelt before her, clasped her two hands in his own, and
said: “Now I know why men have worshipped the image of pure womanhood.
It made them better. I shall be made a better man by my worship.” And
then he was gone without another word, and Olive crept into the house
just as the first grey streaks of dawn appeared.