available, they shuddered to contemplate. The county was so new a one
that but three men had occupied the sheriff's office before Charley
Mansell was elected. Of the three, the first had not collected taxes
with proper vigor; the second was so steadily drunk that aggrieved
farmers had to take the law in their own hands regarding horse-thieves;
the third was, while a terrible man on the chase or in a fight, so
good-natured and lazy at other times, that the county came to be overrun
with rascals. But Charley Mansell fulfilled every duty of his office
with promptness and thoroughness. He was not very well known, to be
sure, but neither was any one else among the four or five thousand
inhabitants of the new county. He had arrived about a year before
election-day, and established himself as repairer of clocks and
watches--an occupation which was so unprofitable at Bunkerville, the
county town, that Charley had an immense amount of leisure time at his
disposal. He never hung about the stores or liquor-shop after dark; he
never told doubtful stories, or displayed unusual ability with cards;
neither did he, on the other hand, identify himself with either of the
Bunkerville churches, and yet every one liked him. Perhaps it was
because, although short, he was straight and plump, whereas the other
inhabitants were thin and bent from many discouraging tussles with ague;
perhaps it was because he was always the first to see the actual merits
and demerits of any subject of conversation; perhaps it was because he
was more eloquent in defense of what he believed to be right than the
village pastors were in defense of the holy truths to which they were
committed; perhaps it was because he argued Squire Backett out of
foreclosing a mortgage on the Widow Worth when every one else feared to
approach the squire on the subject; but, no matter what the reason was,
Charley Mansell became every one's favorite, and gave no one an excuse
to call him enemy. He took no interest in politics, but one day when a
brutal ruffian, who had assaulted a lame native, escaped because the
easy-going sheriff was too slow in pursuing, Charley was heard to
exclaim, "Oh, if I were sheriff!" The man who heard him was both
impressionable and practical. He said that Charley's face, when he made
that remark, looked like Christ's might have looked when he was angry,
but the hearer also remembered that the sheriff-incumbent's term of
office had nearly expired, and he quietly gathered a few leading spirits
of each political party, with the result that Charley was nominated and
elected on a "fusion" ticket. When elected, Charley properly declined,
on the ground that he could not file security bonds; but, within half an
hour of the time the county clerk received the letter of declination, at
least a dozen of the most solid citizens of the county waited upon the
sheriff-elect and volunteered to go upon his bond, so Charley became
sheriff in spite of himself.
And he acquitted himself nobly. He arrested a murderer the very day
after his sureties were accepted, and although Charley was by far the
smaller and paler of the two, the murderer submitted tamely, and dared
not look into Charley's eye. Instead of scolding the delinquent
tax-payers, the new sheriff sympathized with them, and the county
treasury filled rapidly. The self-appointed "regulators" caught a
horse-thief a week or two after Charley's installment into office, and
were about to quietly hang him, after the time-honored custom of Western
regulators, when Charley dashed into the crowd, pointed his pistol at
the head of Deacon Bent, the leader of the enraged citizens, remarked
that _all_ sorts of murder were contrary to the law he had sworn to
maintain, and then led the thief off to jail. The regulators were
speechless with indignation for the space of five minutes--then they
hurried to the jail; and when Charley Mansell, with pale face but set
teeth, again presented his pistol, they astonished him with three
roaring cheers, after which each man congratulated him on his courage.
In short, Bunkerville became a quiet place. The new sheriff even went so
far as to arrest the disturbers of camp-meetings; yet the village boys
indorsed him heartily, and would, at his command, go to jail in squads
of half a dozen with no escort but the sheriff himself. Had it not been
that Charley occasionally went to prayer-meetings and church, not a
rowdy at Bunkerville could have found any fault with him.
But not even in an out-of-the-way, malarious Missouri village, could a
model sheriff be for ever the topic of conversation. Civilization moved
forward in that part of the world in very queer conveyances sometimes,
and with considerable friction. Gamblers, murderers, horse-thieves,
counterfeiters, and all sorts of swindlers, were numerous in lands so
near the border, and Bunkerville was not neglected by them. Neither
greenbacks nor national bank-notes were known at that time, and home
productions, in the financial direction, being very unpopular, there was
a decided preference exhibited for the notes of Eastern banks. And no
sooner would the issues of any particular bank grow very popular in the
neighborhood of Bunkerville than merchants began to carefully examine
every note bearing the name of said bank, lest haply some counterfeiter
had endeavored to assist in supplying the demand. At one particular time
the suspicions had numerous and well-founded grounds; where they came
from nobody knew, but the county was full of them, and full, too, of
wretched people who held the doubtful notes. It was the usual habit of
the Bunkerville merchants to put the occasional counterfeits which they
received into the drawer with their good notes, and pass them when
unconscious of the fact; but at the time referred to the bad notes were
all on the same bank, and it was not easy work to persuade the natives
to accept even the genuine issues. The merchants sent for the sheriff,
and the sheriff questioned hostlers, liquor-sellers, ferry-owners,
tollgate-keepers, and other people in the habit of receiving money; but
the questions were to no effect. These people had all suffered, but at
the hands of respectable citizens, and no worse by one than by another.
Suddenly the sheriff seemed to get some trace of the counterfeiters. An
old negro, who saw money so seldom that he accurately remembered the
history of all the currency in his possession, had received a bad note
from an emigrant in payment for some hams. A fortnight later, he sold
some feathers to a different emigrant, and got a note which neither the
store-keeper or liquor-seller would accept; the negro was sure the wagon
and horses of the second emigrant were the same as those of the first.
Then the sheriff mounted his horse and gave chase. He needed only to ask
the natives along the road leading out of Bunkerville to show him any
money they had received of late, to learn what route the wagon had taken
on its second trip.
About this time the natives of Bunkerville began to wonder whether the
young sheriff was not more brave than prudent. He had started without
associates (for he had never appointed a deputy); he might have a long
chase, and into counties where he was unknown, and might be dangerously
delayed. The final decision--or the only one of any consequence--was
made by four of the "regulators," who decided to mount and hurry after
the sheriff and volunteer their aid. By taking turns in riding ahead of
their own party, these volunteers learned, at the end of the first day,
that Charley could not be more than ten miles in advance. They
determined, therefore, to push on during the night, so long as they
could be sure they were on the right track.
An hour more of riding brought them to a cabin where they received
startling intelligence. An emigrant wagon, drawn by very good horses,
had driven by at a trot which was a gait previously unheard of in the
case of emigrant horses; then a young man on horseback had passed at a
lively gallop; a few moments later a shot had been heard in the
direction of the road the wagon had taken. Why hadn't the owner of the
house hurried up the road to see what was the matter?--Because he minded
his own business and staid in the house when he heard shooting, he said.
"Come on, boys!" shouted Bill Braymer, giving his panting horse a touch
with his raw-hide whip; "perhaps, the sheriff's needin' help this
minute. An' there's generally rewards when counterfeiters are
captured--mebbe sheriff'll give us a share."
The whole quartet galloped rapidly off. It was growing dark, but there
was no danger of losing a road which was the only one in that part of
the country. As they approached a clearing a short distance in front of
them, they saw a dark mass in the centre of the road, its outlines
indicating an emigrant wagon of the usual type.
"There they are!" shouted Bill Braymer; "but where's sheriff? Good Lord!
The shot must have hit _him_!"
"Reckon it did," said Pete Williamson, thrusting his head forward;
"there's some kind of an animal hid behind that wagon, an' it don't
enjoy bein' led along, for it's kickin' mighty lively--shouldn't wonder
if 'twas Mansell's own pony."
"Hoss-thieves too, then?" inquired Braymer; "then mebbe there'll be
_two_ rewards!"
"Yes," said Williamson's younger brother, "an' mebbe we're leavin' poor
Charley a-dyin' along behind us in the bushes somewhere. Who'll go back
an' help hunt for him!"
The quartet unconsciously slackened speed, and the members thereof gazed
rather sheepishly at each other through the gathering twilight. At
length the younger Williamson abruptly turned, dismounted, and walked
slowly backward, peering in the bushes, and examining all indications in
the road. The other three resumed their rapid gallop, Pete Williamson
remarking:
"That boy alwus _was_ the saint of the family--look out for long shot,
boys!--and if there's any money in this job, he's to have a fair share
of--that _is_ sheriff's horse, sure as shootin'--he shall have half of
what _I_ make out of it. How'll we take 'em, boys?--Bill right, Sam
left, and me the rear? If I should get plugged, an' there's any money
for the crowd, I'll count on you two to see that brother Jim gets my
share--he's got more the mother in him than all four of us other
brothers, and--why don't they shoot, do you s'pose?"
"P'r'aps ther ain't nobody but the driver, an' he's got his hands full,
makin' them hosses travel along that lively," suggested Bill Braymer.
"Or mebbe he hain't got time to load. Like enough he's captured the
sheriff, an' is a-takin him off. We've got to be keerful how _we_
shoot."
The men gained steadily on the wagon, and finally Bill Braymer felt sure
enough to shout:
"Halt, or we'll fire!"
The only response was a sudden flash at the rear of the wagon; at the
same instant the challenger's horse fell dead.
"_Hang_ keerfulness about firin'!" exclaimed Braymer. "_I'm_ a-goin' to
blaze away."
Another shot came from the wagon, and Williamson's horse uttered a
genuine cry of anguish and stumbled. The indignant rider hastily
dismounted, and exclaimed:
"It's mighty kind of 'em not to shoot _us_, but they know how to get
away all the same."
"They know too much about shootin' for _me_ to foller 'em any more,"
remarked the third man, running rapidly out of the road and in the
shadow caused by a tree.
"They can't keep up that gait for ever," said Bill Braymer. "I'm goin'
to foller 'em on foot, if it takes all night; I'll get even with em for
that hoss they've done me out of."
"I'm with you, Bill," remarked Pete Williamson, "an' mebbe we can
snatch _their_ hosses, just to show'em how it feels."
The third man lifted up his voice. "I 'llow I've had enough of this here
kind of thing," said he, "an' I'll get back to the settlement while
there's anything for me to get there on. I reckon you'll make a haul,
but--I don't care--I'd rather be poor than spend a counterfeiter's
money."
And off he rode, just as the younger Williamson, with refreshed horse,
dashed up, exclaiming:
"No signs of him back yonder, but there's blood-tracks beginnin' in the
middle of the road, an' leanin' along this way. Come on!"
And away he galloped, while his brother remarked to his companion:
"'Ef _he_ should have luck, an' get the reward, you be sure to tell him
all the good things I've said about him, won't you?"
Jim Williamson rode rapidly in the direction of the wagon until, finding
himself alone, and remembering what had befallen his companions, he
dismounted, tied his horse to a tree, and pursued rapidly on foot. He
soon saw the wagon looming up in front of him again, and was puzzled to
know how to reach it and learn the truth, when the wagon turned abruptly
off the road, and apparently into the forest.
Following as closely as he could under cover of the timber, he found
that, after picking its way among the trees for a mile, it stopped
before a small log cabin, of whose existence Jim had never known before.
There were some groans plainly audible as Jim saw one man get out of the
wagon and half carry and half drag another man into the hut. A moment
later, and a streak of light appeared under the door of the hut, and
there seemed to be no windows in the structure; if there were, they were
covered.
Jim remained behind a sheltering tree for what seemed two hours, and
then stealthily approached the wagon. No one was in it. Then he removed
his boots and stole on tiptoe to the hut. At first he could find no
chink or crevice through which to look, but finally, on one side of the
log chimney, he spied a ray of light. Approaching the hole and applying
his eye to it, Jim beheld a picture that startled him into utter
dumbness.
On the floor of the hut, which was entirely bare, lay a middle-aged man,
with one arm bandaged and bleeding. Seated on the floor, holding the
head of the wounded man, and raining kisses upon it, sat Bunker County's
sheriff!
Then Jim heard some conversation which did not in the least allay his
astonishment.
"Don't cry, daughter," said the wounded man, faintly, "I deserve to be
shot by you--I haven't wronged any one else half so much as I have you."
Again the wounded man received a shower of kisses, and hot tears fell
rapidly upon his face.
"Arrest me--take me back--send me to State's prison," continued the man;
"nobody has so good a right. Then I'll feel as if your mother was
honestly avenged. I'll feel better if you'll promise to do it."
"Father, dear," said the sheriff, "I might have suspected it was
you--oh! if I _had_ have done! But I thought--I hoped I had got away
from the roach of the cursed business for ever. I've endured
everything--I've nearly died of loneliness, to avoid it, and then to
think that I should have hurt my own father."
"You're your mother's own daughter, Nellie," said the counterfeiter; "it
takes all the pain away to know that I haven't ruined _you_--that _some_
member of my wretched family is honest. I'd be happy in a prisoner's box
if I could look at you and feel that you put me there."
"You sha'n't be made happy in that way," said the sheriff. I've got you
again, and I'm going to keep you to myself. I'll nurse you here--you say
that nobody ever found this hut but--but the gang, and when you're
better the wagon shall take us both to some place where we can live or
starve together. The county can get another sheriff easy enough."
"And they'll suspect you of being in league with counterfeiters," said
the father.
"They may suspect me of anything they like!" exclaimed the sheriff, "so
you love me and be--be your own best self and my good father. But this
bare hut--not a comfort that you need--no food--nothing--oh, if there
was only some one who had a heart, and could help us!"
"_There is_!" whispered Jim Williamson, with all his might. Both
occupants started, and the wounded man's eyes glared like a wolf's.
"Don't be frightened," whispered Jim; "I'm yours, body and soul--the
devil himself would be, if he'd been standin' at this hole the last five
minutes. I'm Jim Williamson. Let me help you miss--sheriff."
The sheriff blew out the light, opened the door, called softly to Jim,
led him into the hut, closed the door, relighted the candle
and--blushed. Jim looked at the sheriff out of the top of his eyes, and
then blushed himself--then he looked at the wounded man. There was for a
moment an awkward silence, which Jim broke by clearing his throat
violently, after which he said:
"Now, both of you make your minds easy. Nobody'll never find you
here--I've hunted through all these woods, but never saw _this_ cabin
before. Arm broke?"
"No," said the counterfeiter, "but--but it runs in the family to shoot
ugly."
Again the sheriff kissed the man repeatedly.
"Then you can move in two or three days," said Jim, "if you're taken
care of rightly. Nobody'll suspect anything wrong about the sheriff, ef
he don't turn up again right away. I'll go back to town, throw everybody
off the track, and bring out a few things to make you comfortable."
Jim looked at the sheriff again, blushed again, and started for the
door. The wounded man sprang to his feet, and hoarsely whispered:
"Swear--ask God to send you to hell if you play false--swear by
everything you love and respect and hope for, that you won't let my
daughter be disgraced because she happened to have a rascal for her
father!"
Jim hesitated for a moment; then he seized the sheriff's hand.
"I ain't used to swearin' except on somethin' I can see," said he, "an'
the bizness is only done in one way," with this he kissed the little
hand in his own, and dashed out of the cabin with a very red face.
Within ten minutes Jim met his brother and Braymer.
"No use, boys," said he, "might as well go back, There ain't no fears
but what the sheriff'll be smart enough to do 'em yet, if he's alive,
an' if he's dead we can't help _him_ any."
"If he's dead," remarked Bill Braymer, "an' there's any pay due him, I
hope part of it'll come for these horses. Mine's dead, an' Pete's might
as well be."
"Well," said Jim, "I'll go on to town. I want to be out early in the
mornin' an' see ef I can't get a deer, an' it's time I was in bed." And
Jim galloped off.
The horse and man which might have been seen threading the woods at
early daybreak on the following morning, might have set for a picture of
one of Sherman's bummers. For a month afterward Jim's mother bemoaned
the unaccountable absence of a tin pail, a meal-bag, two or three
blankets, her only pair of scissors, and sundry other useful articles,
while her sorrow was increased by the fact that she had to replenish her
household stores sooner than she had expected.
The sheriff examined so eagerly the articles which Jim deposited in
rapid succession on the cabin-floor, that Jim had nothing to do but look
at the sheriff, which he did industriously, though not exactly to his
heart's content. At last the sheriff looked up, and Jim saw two eyes
full of tears, and a pair of lips which parted and trembled in a manner
very unbecoming in a sheriff.
"Don't, please," said Jim, appealingly. "I wish I could have done
better for _you_, but somehow I couldn't think of nothin' in the house
that was fit for a woman, except the scissors."
"Don't think about me at all," said the sheriff, quickly.
"I care for nothing for myself. Forget that I'm alive."
"I--I can't," stammered Jim, looking as guilty as forty counterfeiters
rolled into one. The sheriff turned away quickly, while the father
called Jim to his side.
"Young man," said he, "you've been as good as an angel could have been,
but if you suspect _her_ a minute of being my accomplice, may heaven
blast you! I taught her engraving, villain that I was, but when she
found out what the work really was, I thought she'd have died. She
begged and begged that I'd give the business up, and I promised and
promised, but it isn't easy to get out of a crowd of your own kind,
particularly when you're not so much of a man as you should be. At last
she got sick of waiting, and ran away--then I grew desperate and worse
than ever. I've been searching everywhere for her; you don't suppose a
smart--smart counterfeiter has to get rid of his money in the way I've
been doing, do you? I traced her to this part of the State, and I've
been going over the roads again and again trying to find her; but I
never saw her until she put this hole through my arm last night."
"I hadn't any idea who you were," interrupted the sheriff, with a face
so full of mingled indignation, pain and tenderness, that Jim couldn't
for the life of him take his eyes from it.
"Don't let any one suspect her, young man," continued the father. "I'll
stay within reach--deliver me up, if it should be necessary to clear
_her_."
"Trust to me," said Jim. "I know a man when I see him, even if he _is_ a
woman."
Two days later the sheriff rode into town, leading behind him the
counterfeiter's horses, with the wagon and its contents, with thousands
of dollars in counterfeit money. The counterfeiter had escaped, he
said, and he had wounded him.
Bunkerville ran wild with enthusiasm, and when the sheriff insisted upon
paying out of his own pocket the value of Braymer's and Williamson's
horses, men of all parties agreed that Charley Mansell should be run for
Congress on an independent ticket.
But the sheriff declined the honor, and, declaring that he had heard of
the serious illness of his father, insisted upon resigning and leaving
the country. Like an affectionate son, he purchased some dress-goods,
which he said might please his mother, and then he departed, leaving the
whole town in sorrow.
There was one man at Bunkerville who did not suffer so severely as he
might have done by the sheriff's departure, had not his mind been full
of strange thoughts. Pete Williamson began to regard his brother with
suspicion, and there seemed some ground for his feeling. Jim was
unnaturally quiet and abstracted; he had been a great deal with the
sheriff before that official's departure, and yet did not seem to be on
as free and pleasant terms with him as before. So Pete slowly gathered a
conviction that the sheriff was on the track of a large reward from the
bank injured by the counterfeiter; that Jim was to have a share for his
services on the eventful night; that there was some disagreement between
them on the subject, and that Jim was trying the unbrotherly trick of
keeping his luck a secret from the brother who had resolved to
fraternally share anything he might have obtained by the chase. Finally,
when Pete charged his brother with the unkindness alluded to, and Jim
looked dreadfully confused, Pete's suspicions were fully confirmed.
The next morning Jim and his horse were absent, ascertaining which fact,
the irate Peter started in pursuit. For several days he traced his
brother, and finally learned that he was at a hotel on the Iowa border.
The landlord said that he couldn't be seen; he, and a handsome young
fellow, with a big trunk, and a tall, thin man, and ex-Judge Bates,
were busy together, and had left word they weren't to be disturbed for a
couple of hours on any account. Could Pete hang about the door of the
room, so as to see him as soon as possible?--he was his brother. Well,
yes; the landlord thought there wouldn't be any harm in that.
The unscrupulous Peter put his eye to the keyhole; he saw the sheriff
daintily dressed, and as pretty a lady as ever was, in spite of her
short hair; he heard the judge say:
"By virtue of the authority in me vested by the State of Iowa, I
pronounce you man and wife;" and then, with vacant countenance, he
sneaked slowly away, murmuring:
"_That's_ the sort of reward he got, is it? And," continued Pete, after
a moment, which was apparently one of special inspiration, "I'll bet
that's the kind of _deer_ he said he was goin' fur on the morning after
the chase."
[Illustration]
MAJOR MARTT'S FRIEND.
East Patten was one of the quietest places in the world. The
indisposition of a family horse or cow was cause for animated general
conversation, and the displaying of a new poster or prospectus on the
post-office door was the signal for a spirited gathering of citizens.
Why, therefore, Major Martt had spent the whole of three successive
leaves-of-absence at East Patten, where he hadn't a relative, and where
no other soldier lived, no one could imagine. Even professional
newsmakers never assigned any reason for it, for although their vigorous
and experienced imaginations were fully capable of forming some
plausible theory on the subject of the major's fondness for East Patten,
they shrank from making public the results of any such labors.
It was perfectly safe to circulate some purely original story about any
ordinary citizen, but there was no knowing how a military man might
treat such a matter when it reached his ears, as it was morally sure to
do.
Live military men had not been seen in East Patten since the
Revolutionary War, three-quarters of a century before the villagers
first saw Major Martt; and such soldiers as had been revealed to East
Patten through the medium of print were as dangerously touchy as the
hair-triggers of their favorite weapons.
So East Patten let the major's private affairs alone, and was really
glad to see the major in person. There was a scarcity of men at East
Patten--of interesting men, at least, for the undoubted sanctity of
the old men lent no special graces to their features or manners; while
the young men were merely the residuum of an active emigration which had
for some years been setting westward from East Patten.
[Illustration: EAST PATTEN WAS ONE OF THE QUIETEST PLACES IN THE WORLD.]
When, therefore, the tall, straight, broad-shouldered, clear-eyed,
much-whiskered major appeared on the street, looking (as he always did)
as if he had just been shaved, brushed and polished, the sight was an
extremely pleasing one, except to certain young men who feared for the
validity of their titles to their respective sweethearts should the
major chance to be affectionate.