THE HIDDEN VOICE.
"Well, gentlemen, I propose we get to business. I for one have no time
to waste, and there are plenty of us present for a beginning," and the
speaker glanced approvingly around the room.
He was a tall, powerfully-built man, aged probably forty-five years, of
a rugged, yet intelligent and almost handsome cast of features; while
the rough "home-made" garments that he wore disguised without hiding
the splendid contour of his form. There was the slightest possible
tinge of the "brogue" to his speech, that would have told a close
observer the land of his nativity.
"I second the motion," piped out a shrill, quavering voice, as a
tall, skeleton-like body abruptly shot up to its full hight, and then
sunk down with a jar upon his stool, as all eyes were turned upon the
speaker, while he vehemently scrubbed at his face with an enormous
yellow cotton handkerchief, to hide the confusion he felt at thus
"speaking out in meeting."
"Thank you, friend Hannibal Hooker," bowed the first speaker. "But
first we will have something to--Landlord! Jim Henderson, I say!"
roared out he who appeared to take the lead in the meeting, bringing
down his huge sun-embrowned, toil-hardened fist upon the table before
him, with such force, that it seemed as if the deal would split, while
Hannibal Hooker convulsively leaped from his stool with a faint squeak.
"Thunder 'n' lightnin', Cap'n Neil," uttered a deep, rumbling voice,
as the door opened and a man thrust his head through the aperture, "am
I deaf, thet you need to t'ar the house down? What d'ye want?" and he
entered the room.
It was like a mouse with a lion's voice. Scarcely five feet and built
in proportion, the new-comer spoke with a voice such as we imagine the
giant Magog to have used, it was so full deep and sonorous. But, if
not consistent with his body, it was with his heart, for "Honest Jim
Henderson" was a by-word, for use to typify truth and fidelity, among
his neighbors.
"Bring us something hot and hearty, _avic_, for our throats will need
wetting before we get through," responded he whom the landlord called
Captain Neil.
"I protest, gentlemen! I protest most emphatically against this
proceeding!" exclaimed a short, rotund personage, bouncing upon his
chair the better to be observed. "Must we depend upon intoxicating
liquors to enable us to form our plans? I say no, a thousand times no!
With such supports, our downfall--"
What the conclusion of this worthy personage's speech was, is lost to
posterity, for by some mischance--it _was_ said, by the adroit trip
of a neighbor's _foot_--the stool upon which he stood was overturned,
and the little fat fellow plunged headlong beneath the table, giving
utterance to a series of grunts and snorts that in no wise tended to
quell the shouts of merriment at his mishap.
"There, brother Bacon," laughed the leader, "is a flat contradiction to
your argument. You fall by opposing it; we will stand with its aid. So,
Henderson, look lively man, for it's getting well along, and I am in
haste."
The worthy brother made no further objection, and when the punch
was brought in, by mere legerdemain, a cup filled with the steaming
beverage found itself tightly clasped in his chubby hand, and ten
minutes later was empty. Then Captain Neil stood up and spoke.
"My friends and neighbors: Most of you know what is our purpose in
gathering here to-night, but as a few may not, I will briefly state the
facts. You all know that for nearly a year past we have been troubled
with floods of counterfeit money, and with losing our stock. How this
is done so secretly, and who by, is yet for us to learn. But one thing
is certain: unless we _do_ find out, and that soon, we may as well sell
out for what we can get, and leave the country.
"Not one, so far as I can tell, among us all, but have suffered in
both ways; for my part, I am five thousand dollars poorer to-night than
I was five months since. Now, must this state of affairs continue?
I, for one, say _no!_--a thousand times no; and if need be, will
spend every moment of my time for the purpose of ferreting out these
scoundrels.
"But to come to the point: what I have to propose is this: We must
organize a band--a _vigilance committee_. Do you know what that means?
They had one in Kentucky--they had one in Arkansas; we must have one in
Kansas! Judge Lynch has jurisdiction _here_ as well as elsewhere, and
it is to him we must turn, since the law of the land is powerless to
protect us!
"All who are now present we can trust, I believe, and there are others
who can be admitted. But you must act cautiously, and know every man
well before he becomes a member. One traitor among us would counteract
all the good that others might do. But all this you know as well as I;
and those who wish to speak, or who have any plan to propose, will now
be heard," concluded Neil McGuire, as he resumed his seat, and filled
the well-blackened corn-cob pipe that lay before him.
Several of the members delivered their opinions upon the subject, all
agreeing with their leader that something must be done; the only thing
in doubt, appeared to be in deciding what that thing should be. It was
while the debate was at its height, that loud, excited voices were
heard in the bar-room without, followed by the sounds of a scuffle,
with a rattle of overturned chairs and tables.
Then the connecting door was violently thrust open, without the trouble
being taken of lifting the latch, and a man stood upon the threshold,
keenly scrutinizing the scene before him. A man we said, but it might
well have been, a remarkable man.
So tall that the hair of his uncovered head touched the top of the
doorway, and yet so perfectly proportioned that had it not been for the
standard to compare by, he would not have seemed over six feet, if so
much. The hands that grasped the sides of the doorway were large and
muscular, but as fine and white as a lady's; and from the position,
great masses of swelling muscle could be seen distending the light
material of his sack coat, upon the arms.
His face was of a massive style of beauty, and yet not without delicate
lines and touches. The keen blue eyes were large and frank-looking,
usually having a genial, good-humored tone about them that
instinctively attracted the beholder; but which had now given place to
a cold, steel-like glitter that warned how dangerous it might be to
cross his mood.
In age he appeared about thirty, and but for the long, flowing mustache
and beard of a soft flaxen color, one would have taken him for half
a decade less. After a few moments' silence the intruder spoke, in a
full, clear tone that would have been musical had it not been for the
metallic ring, occasioned by his anger or excitement.
"Gentlemen, I must beg your indulgence for interrupting your council so
abruptly, but "Honest Jim" Blockhead yonder denied me admittance; and
as I was in no mood for arguing the case, I fear I gave the fellow a
broken head, and took the liberty of introducing myself."
"You say right," responded Neil McGuire, in a stern tone, as he
confronted the stranger, "it _is_ a liberty. We were engaged upon
private business, that does not concern you in the least, and--"
"Pardon, my dear sir," interrupted the stranger, "and allow me to
correct you. The business you were upon _does_ concern me, and I doubt
if one man present is more deeply interested in its success than
myself," he added, in a conciliatory tone, that was flatly contradicted
by the glitter of his eyes at the manner of McGuire.
"Perhaps you will tell me where you got your knowledge of what we were
consulting upon, and your reasons for this intrusion," coldly returned
the latter.
"It is easily done," quoth the stranger, as he advanced to the table
and coolly filling a pint cup with the punch, drained it at a draught,
not heeding the scowls of those around him, "and shall be as you
say. In the first place, you are organizing a league to put down the
horse-thieves and counterfeiters that infest us."
"Go on," was the cold reply.
"You are prudent, and I don't blame you. Who knows but what I am a
spy, or person in the interest of those same scoundrels?" laughed the
intruder.
"Just so; who _does_ know?" chimed in a voice from among the crowd.
The man sprung to his feet and glared in the direction of the voice,
but every face wore an expression of astonishment, while each man
glanced around him as if to discover the speaker.
"If the fellow who spoke thus will be honest enough to show his face,
perhaps he will learn who and what Clay Poynter is. I would give--"
"How much--in _counterfeit money_?" squeaked a shrill treble from
another part of the room, toward which Poynter turned in a frenzy of
rage and fury.
"Peace, gentlemen!" ordered McGuire, thumping upon the table to give
emphasis to his words. "We are not here for squabbling, but upon
serious business. Mr. Poynter is a gentleman. Let him proceed."
"Gentlemen, it is true I am a comparative stranger among you, but, for
all that, you have no occasion to insult me. I will give a hundred
dollars to the man that will point me out the scoundrel who spoke those
words!"
"Which will only cost you sixteen dollars!" added another
voice--alluding to the general price paid for counterfeit money since
the days of Sturdevant--sounding from close behind him who had called
himself Clay Poynter.
The latter swiftly turned, hissing out a bitter oath, with right arm
drawn back to deal a fearful blow upon his insulter, _but no person was
there_! The space behind him had been unoccupied since his entrance.
Poynter staggered back against the table with a half-startled,
half-puzzled look upon his features; but this he soon banished, and
with a somewhat constrained voice, said:
"Really, the devil seems to be at work here to-night, and has selected
me for his mark!"
"Never fear; he will not claim you yet. The mortgage has several weeks
yet to run," again added the strange voice.
"Come--come!" impatiently cried McGuire, "this is all nonsense. Please
go on with your explanation, Mr. Poynter."
"Well, I learned that you were about to organize a vigilance committee,
and thought I would present my name for a membership. So I rode over
from my house, and as I passed the ford at the creek, I was knocked
from the saddle, and when I recovered, I was robbed of my horse as well
as watch and a large sum of money."
"Ho, ho! the robber robbed!" croaked the mysterious voice, and the cry
appeared to float around the room above the company's heads, most of
whom were deathly pale, while anxious, apprehensive glances ran from
one to another. "Ho, ho! the robber robbed!"
"Our worthy friend is quite a ventriloquist," slowly uttered Poynter,
as his fiery eyes roved around the room, dwelling slightly upon each
face; but upon one in particular he cast a glance of mingled hatred
and triumph, then passed to another. "I would willingly give half I am
worth, just to take one lesson from him," dwelling with bitter emphasis
upon each word.
"Well, friends, we may as well break off now before harm is done," said
Neil McGuire, in a vexed tone. "There's something wrong here, and the
less we say, perhaps the better it will be, for who can have any object
in breaking up this meeting, unless he or they are connected with this
accursed gang of scoundrels?"
"But what! must we give up the plan after all this to-do?" exclaimed
Demetrius Bacon, again leaping upon his stool in order to gain the
desired auditory, forgetful of his late downfall.
"Give up the devil!" retorted McGuire, who was not always precise
in his language. "When I put my hand to a thing in dead up-and-down
earnest, it's bound to go through. And now listen, all of you. Until
you hear from me, attend to your business as usual, and do not make
what has happened to-night the subject of conversation. We must use a
little more circumspection, for if a spy can enter among us here we
will need all our wits."
"I show you the spy--why don't you take him?" again squeaked the
strange voice, and then as each man glanced at his neighbor, it added:
"His name, _now_, is Clay Poynter!"
"My dear sir, whoever you may chance to be," cried the man thus
strangely denounced, in an assumed tone of _nonchalant_ politeness, as
he glanced around the room, "I made an error a few moments since. I
said that I would give half I am worth; so I will add the other moiety,
if you grant me an interview."
There was no reply to this speech, and the party filed through the
doorway into the bar-room of the "Twin Sycamores," the majority of
them pausing to take a parting drink before leaving for home. Beside
Neil McGuire stood a medium-sized man, of a sandy complexion, and who
appeared to belong to a different class from the rough, homespun-clad
farmers that surrounded him, if one might judge from his apparel and
general demeanor.
A heavy gold watch-guard, from which depended a bunch of seals,
crossed his waistcoat, and while with one hand holding a riding-whip
he daintily flecked a speck of dust from the tip of his well-polished
boot, the other raised a glass of liquor from the bar. As he did so, a
solitaire diamond ring flashed back the candle-light with a thousand
scintillations. Among the frills of his linen shirt-front a magnificent
cluster pin of the same jewels gleamed forth, exciting the wonder and
admiration of a number of the men present.
At present his features were calm and expressionless, while his small
gray eyes shone with a half-vacant air; but beneath all this a close
observer would have seen something more. He would have pronounced the
stolidity a mere mask, and would have seen that not a man present but
was keenly scrutinized. He would have said that it was as if a panther
had donned a sheep's skin, for some particular purpose. And he would
have been right.
"Come, Dement," said Neil McGuire, turning toward this man. "Come,
let's go," and the two men elbowed their way from the room.
The remainder, such as had not departed, continued to converse in low
tones upon the subject of the strange voice. Poynter was carelessly
leaning back against the counter, holding a glass in one hand, while he
listened intently to the remarks, although not appearing to do so.
"It may be all right, Touter, but it is mighty queer, anyhow. And then
who _is_ this fellow? Do _you_ know--does anybody know, except that
he appears to have plenty of money, and calls himself Clay Poynter?"
distinctly uttered a bold, free tone, and the speaker turned his head
toward the person alluded to.
He was a somewhat remarkable-looking man apparently five or six and
twenty years of age. In form he was tall, and straight as an arrow,
with a lithe suppleness in every movement, that, joined to his swarthy
complexion, and long, straight black hair, in part confirmed the rumor
that he had Indian blood in his veins.
"Ah, my dear Indian Polk," blandly interrupted Poynter, as he drew
himself erect upon hearing these words. "You do not drink. Allow me to
offer you a glass of brandy!" and with a lightning-like movement he
hurled the heavy glassful at the head of the young man.
But, quick as was the action, the missile was eluded by an adroit duck
of the head, and Polk sprung forward with a fierce curse, lunging out
with his clenched fist a fearful blow as he did so. The blow fell upon
Poynter's half-averted cheek, tearing the skin as if cut with a knife;
but not a quiver or a motion was the result of the blow.
Before the assailant could recover his balance, Poynter's left hand
clutched his throat, and then the massive fist shot out, taking Polk
full between the eyes, with such crushing force that he was hurled
clear across the room, where he fell head-first in a senseless heap
beneath a table.
Coolly wiping the blood-spots from his shirt-front with a handkerchief,
Poynter turned to the bar without another glance at the fallen man, and
called for a glass of brandy. Henderson promptly served it, at the same
time whispering:
"You'd better look out, Mr. Poynter, fer 'Injun' hain't no baby, an'
'll hev y'ur blood fer this, ef so be he kin. He's a devil, shore!"
"Bah!" laughed Poynter, snapping his fingers. "I don't care _that_ for
him. If he crosses my path again, or lets me hear any more of his dirty
hints, I'll hit him a square blow next, one that he'll not get over so
easily as this one. But when he gets up, just give him my compliments,
and tell him that if he relishes the specimen, there's plenty more of
the same brand at his service," and so saying, Clay Poynter left the
room and vanished in the darkness, leaving those behind him still more
puzzled at him than before, which is saying a good deal.