If the patience, the concentration, the tireless endurance with which
Jasper Binnhart awaited the return of the stranger, could have been
applied to any object of worthy endeavor commensurate results must have
ensued. It was necessarily, even in his own estimation, a fantastic
expectation to learn from him aught of value concerning the treasure
hidden at Duciehurst during the Civil War. If the stranger really had
knowledge of the place of its concealment it was not likely that he
would divulge it, since this would require the division of the windfall.
But, he argued speciously, the man might need assistance, which probably
explained his singular mission to the stranded _Cherokee Rose_ to confer
with Colonel Kenwynton. This confirmed the impression of the Berridge
family that there was something eccentric, inexplicable about him. What
he needed in such an enterprise was not a man of seventy-five, as soft
as an old horse turned out to grass, but a master mechanic, such as
himself, indeed, a man accustomed to the use of tools, with the
dexterity imparted by constant work and the strength of muscles trained
to endurance. The Colonel! Why he would be as inefficient as a baby. But
perhaps only his advice was desired. Binnhart wished again and again
that it had chanced that he could have seen the stranger first. More
than once he despondently shook his round bullet head, with its closely
cropped black hair,--as sleek as a beaver’s, from his habit of sousing
it into the barrel of water where he tempered his steel,--as he sat on
one of the steps of the rude flight that led to the door of the
semi-aquatic dwelling of the water-rat’s family, and gazed across the
darkling river at the orange-tinted lights of the _Cherokee Rose_, lying
high and dry on the bar. It was a pity for Colonel Kenwynton to be let
into the secret at all. If the stranger had any right to possess himself
of the hidden money he could boldly hire laborers and go to the spot in
the open light of day. If his right were complicated or dubious, and
this was most likely, or why had it lain so long unasserted, the old
Colonel would clamp down on it with both feet. The Colonel had highflown
antiquated ideas, unsuited to the world of to-day; Binnhart had heard
him speak in public. He talked about honor, and patriotism, and
fair-dealing in politics, and such chestnuts, and, although the people
applauded, they were secretly laughing at him in their sleeves. No, no!
Binnhart shook his head once more. It was a thousand pities to bring old
Kenwynton into it at all; nothing he knew was of any value
nowadays,--except the Colonel did know how a horse should be shod, and
the proper care of the animal’s feet; people said he used to own fine
racers in his rich days. If Colonel Kenwynton returned with the stranger
there might be trouble. The old man was a hard proposition. He seemed to
think himself a Goliath, and would certainly put up a stiff fight on an
emergency. “I’d rather see him come back with any three men than the old
Colonel,” Binnhart concluded ruefully.
This was the hour of the night when a mist began to rise, and the
orange-tinted lights from the steamer’s cabin glimmered faintly through
the haze. Binnhart became apprehensive that he might not discern the
tiny craft in the midst of the great river, struggling across its
intricate braided currents, and thus the stranger return unaware, or
perhaps give him the slip altogether. He rose and took his way down the
successive terraces to the verge of the water. He must needs have heed
not to walk into the river, for silent as the grave it flowed through
the deep gorge of its channel, and but for some undiscriminated sense of
motion in the dark landscape one might never know it was there.
Long, long he stood at gaze, watching in the direction of the bar, his
ear keenly attentive, aware that he could hear from far the slightest
impact of a paddle on that silent surface. But the wind was rising now;
the mists, affrighted, spread their tenuous white wings and flitted
away. Presently there lay visible before him, vaguely illumined by the
light of a clouded moon, the vast spread of the tossing turmoils of the
sky, the dark borders of the opposite bank, the swift swirling of the
great river, and the white structure of the steamboat, rising dimly into
the air on the sand-bar. Her lights were faint now, lowered for the
night; the vague clanking of the dynamo came athwart the currents; still
the surface of the waters showed no gliding craft, and listen as he
might he heard no measured dip of paddle.
Once more he betook himself back to the shack and found Connover and
Jorrocks seated on the outer stair. They evidently had no faith in the
adage of honor among thieves, and albeit they had alternately enjoyed
the refreshment of a nap in the bunks of the cabin one remained always
vigilant as to the movements of Binnhart. As the night wore on and
naught was developed both had taken up a position on the outer stair and
alertly awaited the crisis.
Dan Berridge and his father were but poor exemplifications of the
sybarite, but the paramount instincts of self-indulgence overpowered
their hope of loot, and their doubt of the fair-dealing of their
co-conspirators, and in their respective bunks they snored as noisily as
if in the sleep of the just.
Jessy Jane alone took note of the fact that, but for their disclosure of
the somnolent talk of the stranger, the others would have known naught
of the possibility of the discovery of the hidden valuables at
Duciehurst and she resented the chance that they would profit to the
exclusion of her and hers. She remained in the dark in the back room of
the little cabin, but up and dressed, now and again listening intently
for any stir of movement or sound of voices. When she heard the heavy
tread of Jorrocks and Connover tramping to the outer stair as they
relieved each other’s watch, she would set the communicating door ajar
to thrust in her tousled red head to spy upon their motions, withdrawing
it swiftly. Now she perceived through the dim vista of the room the
square face of Jorrocks against the gloom of the night, looking at her
with calculating, narrowing eyes, evidently appreciating the full
significance of her espionage, and, beyond still, a vague shadowy
outline which she recognized as Jasper Binnhart’s profile. She closed
the door with a bang, partly in pettishness and partly through
embarrassment, at the moment that Binnhart grew stiff and rigid,
motionless in excitement. He had sighted a canoe down the river, which
was shining in a rift of the clouds, a mile, nay, two, below the landing
for which it was bound. Thus she did not see his wild, silent gesture of
discovery, his hand thrown high into the air. Its muscles became
informed with a mandatory impulse as he beckoned to Jorrocks and
Connover to follow and set forth in a dead run for the water’s side.
A skiff was lying there scarcely discernible in the vague light. It
belonged to the shanty-boater, and into it the owner threw himself,
grasping the oars, the other two with less practiced feet tumbled into
the space left available, and the craft shot out from the land under the
swift, strong strokes of the shanty-boater, rowing as if for a purse.
There was a belt of pallor along the horizon. A sense of dreary
wistfulness, of sadness, lay on the land, coming reluctantly into view.
The clouds hung low and menacing, although the wind still was high. The
dawn was near, or even the practiced eyes of the river pirates might not
have distinguished the dugout, seeking to cross the great expanse, yet
being carried by the strong current further and further down the river
from its objective point.
“See her now?” asked Jorrocks, resolutely rowing and never turning his
head.
“Well out todes mid-stream,” replied Binnhart. “Nigh to swampin’, too.
Git a move on ye, Jorrocks, git a move on ye.”
After a contemplative moment he suddenly threw himself on another pair
of oars and the combined strength of the two men sent the light boat
shooting like an arrow down the surface of the river upon the craft,
evidently having shipped water and beginning to welter dangerously,
showing a tendency to capsize, the trick so frequently practiced by the
faithless dug-out.
“Hello, sport!” called out Binnhart, as soon as he was within earshot.
“You’ll go to the bottom in three minutes unless you can swim agin the
Mississippi current better than I can. Will you have a lift?”
The stranger’s exhausted face showed ghastly white in the dull, slow
light. His wide, dark eyes were wild and suspicious. There was something
in their expression that sent a chill coursing down the spine of the
impressionable Connover, his shaken, exacerbated nerves all on edge from
his constant potations, as well as from the excitements of this
experience and the strain of his long vigil. The stranger scanned them
successively, keeping the canoe in place by an occasional dip of the
paddle. It might seem as if he debated the alternative--Davy Jones’s
locker or a place among these boat-men. When he spoke his reserved
gentlemanly tone struck their attention.
“I shall be much obliged,” he said, with grave and distant courtesy,
evidently recognizing a vast gulf between their station and his.
“Move out of the gentleman’s way, Connover,” said Binnhart, quickly. For
this was a gentleman, however water-soaked, however queer of conduct,
whatever project he might have in view.
After securing the dug-out as a tow, Binnhart seated himself opposite
the stranger, who was given the place of honor in the stern.
“Nothin’ meaner afloat than a dug-out,” Binnhart remarked, keenly
watching the face of his guest, whose lineaments became momently more
distinct as the dull dawn grew into a dreary day. “Though to be sure a
dug-out ain’t used commonly for crossing the river, jes’ for scoutin’
about the banks, and in the bayous, and lakes.”
“I am not accustomed to its use,” the stranger replied.
“You come mighty nigh swampin’, an’ that’s a fact, though you couldn’t
have got nothin’ better at Berridge’s, an’ I s’pose your business with
Colonel Kenwynton on the _Cherokee Rose_ wouldn’t wait.”
“Colonel Kenwynton!” cried the gentleman, with a strange sharpness. “How
do you know I had business with Colonel Kenwynton?”
“No offense, sir. You spoke of it at Berridge’s. He is a leaky-mouthed
old chap. What goes in at his ears comes out of his jaws.”
“I spoke of it? _I_ spoke of it?” repeated the stranger. His voice was
keyed to the cadences of despair. The modulation of those dying falls
was scarcely intelligible to Binnhart; he could not have interpreted
them nor even the impression they made upon his mind. But some
undiscriminated faculty appraised their true intendment and on it
fashioned his course. Once more he looked keenly at the stranger’s face,
while the gentleman gazed with deep reflectiveness at the swift waters
so near at hand racing by on either side.
“Where shall we set you ashore, sir?” Binnhart asked with respectful
urbanity.
Ah, here was evidently a dilemma. Berridge’s hut was now far up stream,
since the brawny practiced arms of Jorrocks had steadily continued to
row the skiff down and down the current, which of itself would have been
ample motive power for a swift transit. An expression of despondency
crossed the stranger’s face.
“I should have noticed earlier,” he said. “I had intended to return to
Berridge’s, but I cannot ask you to go so far out of your way against
the current. Just set me ashore at the nearest practicable point and I
can walk back.”
“All ’ight, sir. Duciehurst is the nearest safe landing, the bank is
bluff an’ caving above.”
Binnhart was quick to note as the word was spoken the change of
expression and a sudden sharp gasp that was not unlike a snap, so did
the muscles evade control.
“You are acquainted with the old mansion, sir, spoke of it bein’ part of
your business with Colonel Kenwynton to git the hidden money an’ papers
an’ vallybles--take care, Colty, he’ll fall out of the boat!”
For Captain Treherne, his eyes distended, his lower jaw fallen, his face
livid, had risen in the boat and stood tottering in the unsteady craft,
staring aghast and dumfounded at Binnhart. “_I_ spoke of that? _I_ told
you that?”
“No, sir, but you told Berridge, Josh, the old man.”
“You lie, you infamous liar! What, _I_ publish abroad the secret that I
have kept through thick and thin, till after forty years of acute mania
I may right the wrong and establish the title. Oh, my God!” he broke
forth shrilly, “am I raving now? Is this a species of hallucination,
obsession,” he waved his wild hands toward sky, and woods, and
sinister, silent river, “or, worse still, is it stern fact and have I
betrayed my sacred trust at last?”
“He’ll turn this boat upside down,” the shanty-boater in a low voice
warned the others.
“‘Liar’ is a toler’ble stiff word for me to have to take off ’n you,
Mister,” said Binnhart, with affected gruffness, for his affiliations
with the truth were not so close as to cause him to actually resent an
accusation of divagation. “It ain’t my fault if you got absent-minded
an’ told Berridge that the vallybles are hid in a pillar or a pilaster,”
he broke off abruptly.
A shrill scream rent the air. It seemed for one moment as if Captain
Treherne himself had made a discovery, so elated were his eyes, so
triumphant was his face, changed almost out of recognition in the
moment. Agitated as he was he had lost his balance and was swaying to
and fro as if he might pitch head-foremost into the river.
“If you don’t want the whole water-side popilation rowing out here to
see what’s the matter aboard you had better make him stop that n’ise,”
the shanty-boater urged. “Gag him. Take his handhercher, or his hat,” he
recommended, still swiftly rowing.
The dull, purplish twilight of the slow-coming day gave little token of
stir amongst the few scattered inhabitants of the riverside within
earshot; cottonpickers are never in the field till the sun has dried the
dew from the plant, but Jorrocks was mindful of the fact that there are
barnyard duties in an agricultural community requiring early rising;
cows are to be milked, horses fed and watered, and any bucolic errand
might bring to the bank an inquisitive interest in these weird cries
ringing from shore to shore in an intensity of agonized emotion. The
suggestion of Jorrocks was acted upon instantly. Binnhart roughly
knocked the hat from Captain Treherne’s head, crushed it into a stiff,
shapeless mass, thrust it between his jaws, attempting to secure it with
his large linen handkerchief, despite his strenuous resistance. The
struggle was fierce, and the miscreants were dismayed by the strength
the victim put forth. The two could scarcely hold him; over and again he
shook off both Binnhart and Connover. The shanty-boater had great ado
even with his practiced skill to keep the skiff from overturning
altogether, as it listed from side to side as the weight of the
combatants shifted. The stranger fought with a sort of frenzy, striking,
kicking, butting with his head, even biting with his strong snapping
jaws.
“He is like a maniac,” cried Binnhart, in amaze, and once more that
awful cry rang upon the air, shrill, wild, freighted with demoniacal
bursts of laughter, yet with an intonation more pathetic than tears.
Not until Jorrocks shipped his oars and, leaning forward, caught
Treherne’s feet, throwing him on his back in the bottom of the boat, was
the gag again introduced into his mouth, to be promptly and dexterously
ejected as he sought to rise. Again was the semi-nautical skill of the
shanty-boater of avail. A crafty knot in a rope’s end and the stranger’s
arms were pinioned to his side, and while the gag was secured the
surplusage of the cord was bound again and again about his legs till he
was helpless, able neither to move nor to speak. Only his wild eyes
expressed his indomitable courage, his sense of affronted dignity, his
resentful fury.
“I do declar’ I’m minded to spit in his face,” exclaimed Binnhart,
vindictively, as panting and breathless, he towered above his victim,
lying at his feet.
“Better not!” the shanty-boater admonished the blacksmith. Then, in a
lower voice: “You fool you, we depend on his good will to show us the
place where the swag is hid.”
“Tend to your own biz,” roughly replied Binnhart. “Look where your boat
is driftin’. Bound for Vicksburg, ain’t ye?”
For, left to its own devices when the oarsman had gone to the aid of his
comrades, the skiff had been carried by the swift current far down the
stream and toward the bank, so close, indeed, that Binnhart apprehended
its grounding. He had not an acquaintance with the river front equal to
the practical knowledge of the shanty-boater, whose peregrinations made
him the familiar of every bogue and bight, of every bar and tow-head for
a hundred miles or more.
“Look what’s ahead of your blunt pig-snout, an’ maybe ye’ll have sense
enough to follow it,” Jorrocks retorted.
For a great looming structure had appeared on the bank in the murky
atmosphere, that was not so shadowy as night, yet in its obscurity could
hardly assume to be day. An imposing mansion of three stories, with a
massive cornice and commodious wings, stood well back on the shelving
terraces. Woods on either hand pressed close about and many of the trees
being magnolias and of coniferous varieties foreign to the region, the
foliage was dense despite the season, and gave the entourage a singular,
sinister sense of deep seclusion. In the dim light one could hardly
discern that there was no glass in the windows, but the black, gaping
intervals intimated somehow vacancy and ruin, and Binnhart was quick to
notice the dozen great pillars rising to the floor of the third story
and supporting the roof of the long broad portico. Then he gave no
further attention to the unwonted surroundings, but fixed his gaze on
the face of their prisoner as his helpless bulk was lifted from the boat
by the three. He was of no great weight and they bore him easily enough,
inert and motionless, along the broad broken stone pavement to the
deserted ruin.
A ready interpretation had Binnhart, a keen intuition. The native
endowment might have wrought him good service in a better field. As it
was it had been the pivotal faculty on which had turned with every wind
of opportunity the nefarious successes that the thieves had achieved. He
now watched the glimmer of recognition in Captain Treherne’s eyes as he,
too, gazed breathlessly with intent interest at the mansion, despite his
bound and gagged situation. He even made shift to turn his head that he
might fix his eyes on the eastern side. Only to the east he looked, and
always. Binnhart felt a bounding pulse of prideful discovery that in the
east the treasure was hidden, in an eastern pilaster of the portico.
He was not familiar with the meaning of the architectural term, but just
what a “pilaster” was he would know before he was an hour older, he
swore to himself, if there was a carpenter or builder awake in the
little town of Caxton where his shop was located and where he must needs
repair for tools. There he would learn this all-significant fact, for
that there was treasure hidden at Duciehurst all the country-side had
been aware for forty years--the question was, where?
They bore Captain Treherne through half a dozen darkling rooms, showing
as yet scant illumination from the slow coming day. The windows gave
upon a gray nullity outside, and even the size and condition of the
bare, echoing apartments could not be ascertained by the prisoner’s
searching gaze as he was laid down on the floor at full length, watching
the preparations of his captors for their temporary departure. One of
them would remain, as he was assured by Binnhart, who had again adopted
a tone of deference suited to the evident station and culture of the
victim. Connover would stay and see to it that he was not molested in
any manner whatever during the short absence of the others. Binnhart,
making his words as few as possible, took his leave and once more in the
boat Jorrocks pulled down the river with every pulse of energy he could
command.
Captain Treherne had spent forty years of his life in an insane asylum,
but the experience had not bereft him in this lucid interval of the
appreciation of certain fundamental facts of human nature. He realized
that although he could not use his hands, Connover was in no wise
restricted. Perhaps the offer of the funds in his pocket might compass
his release if he could find means to intimate this delicate
proposition. Treherne waited till he heard the shuffling gait of
Jorrocks and the swift assured step of Binnhart die away in the
distance before he would seek to communicate his desire by means of
winks and such significant grimaces as the gag would permit. Before the
others were clear of the house Connover had come and stood beside him
gazing down at him with a sort of vacant curiosity on his weak,
dissipated face, unmeaning and without intention. But he immediately
turned away, and, repairing to a long hall hard by, began to tramp idly
back and forth to while away the time of waiting.
It was likely to be a considerable time, he began to reflect
discontentedly, and he had no particular liking for his commission. The
other fellows would get their feed in Caxton, he argued. Jorrocks would
not go without his breakfast for the United States Treasury. They would
also get drinks, good and plenty. At this thought he took an empty flask
from his pocket and lugubriously smelled it. He was a fool, he said to
himself, and perhaps that was the only true word he had spoken that day.
But, in his opinion, it applied specifically to his consent to remain
here, as if he, too, were bound and gagged.
Once more he sniffed the departed delights of the empty flask. Suddenly
Captain Treherne heard no more the regular impact of his steps as he
tramped the long length of the vacant hall. There was a livery stable at
a way-station of the railroad some eight miles distant, a goodish tramp
on an empty stomach, but the odor of the flask endued him “with the
strength of ten.” He was known there as an ex-jockey of some success, he
was appreciated after a fashion by its employees; he could count on
their hospitality and conviviality, and perhaps borrowing a rig he could
return before Binnhart and Jorrocks would be here accoutered with their
tools. The prisoner could not report his defection, even when liberated,
for he could not know where in that great building he had seen fit to
bestow himself to enjoy, perchance, what he was pleased to call, “a nap
of sleep.”
Thus silence as of the tomb settled on the deserted building. The shades
of night gradually wore away and the pale gray light of a sunless and
melancholy day pervaded the dreary vistas of the bare uninhabited ruin.