Part 16

"Leave here," he replied, "within an hour; and we would go together, and so double his rage."

"To do this all you want is your hands and feet?" I asked, doubtingly.

"That is all, and I wouldn't go through the door if it were open."

I could set him free, and why not, I asked myself, the sweat starting out all over me at the thought. What wrong would there be in it, for it was as the robber said--Moth had a right to put him there, but no right to treat me the same way, and in breaking the law he was no better than the highwayman. Reasoning thus, I determined to do what the robber said, and so answered:

"I'll cut the ropes, if that's all you want."

"I shall be much obliged if you will, but I'll not ask you to do it," he answered.

"Why not?"

"Oh, perhaps because I am foolish."

"How will you get out if you are free, as you say?" I asked, not seeing any way.

"Oh, easy enough," he answered. "I have been planning it all day as I lay here on my back. I would use the bench as a ram to displace the logs overhead, for they are short and not half fastened. Once in the loft, it would be easy to remove the shingles, and being on the roof, the ground is not ten feet away."

"That seems easy," I answered.

"It is; for the jail is a poor affair, and only intended for small offenders; and if prisoners have not escaped, it is because they were bound, as I am, or did not think it worth while to try."

What he said was true; and now resolved in my mind, and elated at the prospect of getting even with Moth, I went to the cupboard, and finding a knife, as I had thought, took it and cut the cords that bound the robber's arms and legs.

"There, you are free!" I cried, pleased at what I had done.

"Thank you, my lad; and now we will not lose any time, for we ought to be far away by sunrise," he answered. But when he got to his feet he could scarce stand. "It is nothing," he went on, noticing my surprise, "only I have to get the blood into my legs and arms again before I can do anything, for they are as stiff as ramrods." This did not take long, and in a few seconds he was busy with his preparations for our escape. "See!" he exclaimed, straightening up, "I can touch the ceiling with my hands. Now help me with the bench, for two are better than one. There, that will do. Now send the end of it into that log overhead, as if it were Moth's backbone. Good! we moved it a little. Now again. See! it is giving way." This was true, and at the third stroke it flew out of place, leaving an opening a foot wide. "That is fine, and one more will be enough. Now! right into the small of his back again," and with the words we gave the next log a stroke, lifting it clear from its place, as we had the first.

"That hole is big enough to drive a sleigh through," he exclaimed; and placing the bench on the floor, stood on it, and taking hold of the edge of the opening, swung himself into the loft. "Now, my lad, give me your hand," and doing as he said, I found myself in a moment seated beside him. "We are getting on finely, and the rest will be easy. There! stay where you are, my son, and in a minute I will give you a glimpse of the shining stars." Saying which, he took one of the logs we had displaced, and with it drove a hole through the roof as big as a barrel. At this, and greatly to our surprise, the watchdog in the adjoining yard, aroused by the noise, set up a furious barking, running up to the jail door, where it kept up its angry outcry.

"Quick, my lad! We must go back. It is the jailer's dog, and the old man will be sure to come to see what is the matter"; and without wasting time, the robber lowered himself through the opening to the floor below. "Now let yourself down, and I'll catch you," he called. Doing as he said, I took hold of the cross-beam and let my body swing through the opening, and he taking me in his arms, sat me down safely on the floor.

"Quick! into your bunk, and I'll do the same as soon as I put this bench back." And not a moment too soon, for scarce had he thrown himself on his pallet when the jailer opened the door, and pushing his lantern into the room, peered about.

"Hello there! how do you find yourselves? Comfortable-like?" he asked, when he had succeeded in making us out by the dim light.

"Yes, we are all right. Why, what is the matter? is it time to get up, or has Moth sent you to inquire after our health?" my companion answered, yawning, but with some sarcasm in his voice.

"Never mind about Moth. I heard the dog barking, and thought you might be wanting something, but if not, I'll go back to bed," he answered, as if excusing himself.

"No, we are not in need of anything, thank you. Good night, and pleasant dreams," my companion called out.

"Good night," the jailer answered; and closing and fastening the door, went away.

When he was gone we lay for some time without speaking, until at last the robber, springing up, called out:

"Hello! young man, are you asleep?"

"No; how could I be?" I answered, starting to my feet.

"I thought you looked a little tired when you came in to-night, that is all. Well, now for another try," and with that he placed the bench beneath the opening, and standing on it as before, climbed into the loft, lifting me after him.

"Now for the roof; and as the hole is big enough to push a washtub through, there is no occasion for making any more noise. Let me help you," and with the words he lifted me through the opening, climbing up himself a moment later.

Descending to the eaves without loss of time, he took my hands and lowered me the length of his arm, when, letting go his hold, I dropped to the ground. Inquiring if I was all right, he did not wait, but following, alighted without harm. At this moment, when we thought ourselves free, the dog again set up a dreadful barking, running out into the moonlight within a few feet of where we lay prostrate in the weeds.

"We're lost," I whispered, seeing no way of returning to the room we had left; but placing his hand over my mouth the robber bade me keep my peace. A moment later the jailer came to the door of his hut, but after looking about for a while and yawning, called to the dog, and turning about, reentered his house. For a long time we lay motionless, afraid to move, until everything being quiet again, we made our way on our hands and knees to the forest, some way off. Here, regaining our feet, we hurried on for a mile or more without speaking, until at last coming to an opening in the trees, we stopped in the bright moonlight and looked into each other's faces.

"Fox," I exclaimed, seeing him now clearly for the first time.

"Fox! how do you know that?" he asked, surprised, starting back.

"I know, for I was with Mr. Lincoln when you sought to rob the stage."

"Good Lord! what are you saying?" he exclaimed, with a scared look.

"Yes, and I heard you promise him you'd change your ways," I answered, angrily, thinking of Mr. Lincoln and the sorrow he would feel at Fox's want of good faith a second time.

"Oh, I remember you well enough now; and, my God, I meant what I said, too!"

"Then why didn't you carry out your promise?" I asked.

"It was my damned luck not to, that is all. For when you were gone from the tavern where I stayed, the old man I robbed of the watch had me arrested; but while on my way to jail I escaped, and as good fortune would have it this time, I ran across the very thief who got me into trouble at first. Recognizing him, and being ready, when he sought to rob me I overcame him, and so made him dismount, and taking his pistols and horse, rode off. That is how it happened that I did not await Mr. Lincoln's return and that I am on the road again."

"What have you been doing?" I asked, pleased at what he said.

"Not much in my line," he answered, sadly, waving his hand; "mostly begging a night's lodging or a meal here and there, till I ran across Moth."

"You will never reform, I'm afraid," I answered, sorrowing, he was so pleasant of face and voice.

"Perhaps not; but I will make no more promises, anyway. And now, just as I once owed my freedom to Mr. Lincoln, so I owe it to you. It is more than life to me, too, for if a man is once condemned, that settles him for all time."

"I only helped myself in helping you, and so you owe me nothing," I answered, true enough.

"Yes, I do. One never asks a neighbor why he does a good act. I could not have escaped except for you, and I owe you a debt I can never pay."

"No, for I couldn't have got off without you, and so we're quits. It's good to be free again, though," I exclaimed, drawing in a long breath of the sweet air.

"Yes," he answered, brightening up; "and on such a night, too! How beautiful everything is--the moon, the sleeping trees, the restful shadows, the soft stir of the leaves!" and he sighed as a better man might have done in his place.

"I hope we'll neither of us ever be in such a fix again," I answered, my happiness at our escape dampened by compassion for my companion and his dangerous way of life.

"No need in your case, surely; but for me," he went on, as if reading my thoughts, "who can tell? My sins will follow me on horseback, let me do what I may. There will be no dodging them, either. It is the first misstep that guides your footsteps ever afterward, my son; but the roads seem so much alike at the start that you can hardly tell one from the other. Both are bordered with flowers, and the sun shines as warm on one as the other; and yet the difference and the quick change if we go wrong! Then the trees lose their green and the flowers fade, and the sun goes out as if it were night. Look to your footsteps, my friend, for once you stray off the beaten path, the lash of justice will scourge you ever afterward. Such is the criminal, and such am I, and there is never but one ending. Who that starts wrong, though, ever gives the ending or its quick coming a thought? This is my sermon to you, my son, and it is real preaching, for that was the calling I meant to follow for man's good and my own salvation when I started out in life. What a mess I have made of it, though, as others have done and will to the end. Not to repent, either, nor strive to, for on this road there is no turning back. The silliness of it all, and the futility! But do not regard what I say, lad. The lost ever thus grieve and go on preaching and reforming and falling anew. So there you are, and here am I; and which way do you go now?" he added, changing in a whimsical way, but as if pleased with his sermon.

"I'm going to Appletop," I answered, sorrowing over what he said, knowing he was making himself out bad when he was only unfortunate and foolish; "but I don't know where I am nor which way to go."

"I will put you on the road, and it is but a step," he answered; and taking my hand we plunged into the forest again. Walking on without speaking for half an hour, we came at last to a road that stretched away, white and glistening, in the bright moonlight.

"Here is your way, my son, and a plain one, too. Go to the right for a mile or thereabouts, where a road leads to the left. Follow it and it will take you zigzagging through the country to Appletop. You can't miss the way, and nothing will harm you; or if you should run across robbers, and maybe you will, say nothing, but go on, for they will not harm a lad like you."

"Where are you going?" I asked, reluctant to leave him.

"Why, what does that matter?" he answered, putting me off; but thinking better of it, added: "I am going to find my horse, the one I took from my friend the robber. He does not know any one but me now, nor I any one but him, and I am not going to leave him here."

"Where is he?" I asked.

"In the village we have just left; but the night is like day, and I shall have no trouble in finding him, and perhaps Moth's, too, who knows!" he added, his eyes lighting up as a boy's might when about to play a trick on a playmate.

"Oh, don't touch Moth's horse," I answered, filled with fear, so clever were his ways. "I wish you'd go with me, and not try to get your horse, and maybe get caught again.

"Never fear!" he answered, lightly. "Good by, and don't forget me, for I shall always be your friend, though not one you will care to own."

"I'm sure I shall; but don't take Moth's horse."

"Well, we will see. Good by."

Clasping his outstretched hand, I was loath to let it go, for he did not seem to me to be bad at all. Surely, I thought, there ought to be some way to save such a man, it not being his nature to do wrong, but a habit likely to grow upon him. Thus do the sympathies of the young ever go out to the wrong-doer before the world has taught them to classify men and treat all alike who go astray, without regard to their nature or surroundings; and thus mine went out to Fox that night as we parted in the white road, with the solemn moon looking down on our leave-taking.

*CHAPTER XXIX*

*THE TRAGEDY OF MURDERER'S HOLLOW*

Going the way Fox pointed out, I found the road as he had said; but so overwrought were my nerves by the events of the night that if by chance a shadow outlined the fanciful figure of a man across my path, I stood still, trembling and in doubt, until its harmless nature was disclosed. While thus peering ahead and striving to make out the objects in my path, a rabbit ran into the road and stopped, as if disputing my right to pass. This, strangely enough, disturbed me not a little, as if somehow I were discovered. While I stood still, hesitating whether to go on or turn back, so little control had I over myself, the plaintive notes of a whip-poor-will came to me from out the deep forest, as if in comfort of my loneliness. Clear and sweet, it warmed and cheered my heart like the greeting of a friend. For who that has been brought up in the country ever heard the notes of this songster of the night without such feeling or remembrance of it ever afterward? To all such who traverse the woods, or who are in trouble, it is as if some good spirit were awakening the echoes of the place to soothe their thoughts and calm their fears. Coming to me now, out of the slumbering trees, I was enlivened and cheered so that I went on as if in the company of friends. Thus quickly do those who are in trouble accept the semblance of what they wish for for the thing itself.

Going on as directed, I came at last to the summit of a bluff, from which I looked down into a valley filled with moonlight and sylvan shadows. The road descending the elevation, as I could see, there turned and followed the edge of the hill to the opposite side of the valley, where it reascended the height and was lost to view. Looking to know the reason of this strange detour, I saw it was caused by a shallow river, which following along the edge of the valley, crowded the road from its direct course.

Reaching the foot of the descent, the stream had scarce more water in its bed than the Little Sandy at its best; and wearied by my walk, I determined to cross the valley and so shorten the distance I would otherwise have to go. Looking to determine the course I should take, the plain lay spread before me, and midway in its breadth a grove of walnut trees lifted their graceful foliage to the sky, standing out black and clear against the pale grasses of the sleeping valley. Cheered by the sight, for there is no tree more attractive to the eye, its rich fruit bringing it nearer to us in sympathy of life, I went forward in high spirits, stopping as I crossed the little river to drink my fill and bathe my face in its refreshing waters.

Coming presently to the grove of trees, I plunged beneath their depths, to emerge a moment after in a cleared space, on the edge of which a log hut, charred by fire, stood in lonely seclusion. About it, and as if in mockery, rank weeds grew where once a garden had been planted. Wondering why such a spot should have been selected for a home, I went forward, and turning the angle of the ruin, came without thought upon a towering gibbet, from which ropes, frayed with the wind, dangled in the midnight air. Beneath these, and as if to make the story plainer, rude graves lifted their rounded forms in the bright moonlight. Recoiling at the sight, I had nearly fallen; but with my discovery, and as if the spirits of the dead were returned to earth, voices reached me, and seemingly from the shadow of the gallows and its dangling ropes. Questioning if I heard aright and hesitating whether to go forward or turn and fly, the voices came a second time, and now more plainly than before. In doubt of their friendliness, I threw myself down where I stood, and in that way was hidden by the weeds and the shadow of the crumbling ruin. Thus concealed, I was safe, unless, indeed, the course of the speakers crossed the spot where I lay hidden; but coming presently full on the gibbet, they stopped, one of them crying out in a voice of terror:

"In the name of all the spirits of hell, what's them?"

"What's what?" the other answered, softly, as if seeing nothing out of the way.

"Them graves an' danglin' ropes?"

"Why, what about them?"

"Are they real, or is't the phantoms comin' on agin?"

At this I recognized Blott's voice, now no longer whimsical, but constrained and full of fear. Greatly relieved, I rose to call his name, but doing so, discovered his companion to be the gambler Burke, who had robbed Mr. Singleton and afterward sought to murder Mr. Davis. Seeing him, I dropped down again, trembling and full of fear, for what could Blott be doing here, and in such company! Surely nothing good! And with the thought I hid myself more securely in the shadow of the abandoned hut.

"What is the matter, Blott?" the other replied, as if surprised. "Has liquor got the better of you again, or what is it that frightens you?"

"Frightens me! I'm not frightened; but why the devil have you brought me to this spot, of all others?"

"Was there ever spot more beautiful? Why, it is a bower fit for lovers," Burke replied, softly.

"Fit for the devil an' his bride, mebbe, but not for honest men. Why, the place's damned, Burke."

"Damned, Blott! Why damned? There is not a spot on earth more peaceful. Doves coo in the trees yonder, and birds nest there; but I see your old trouble is coming on again," Burke replied, more softly than at first, if that were possible.

"Curse you, Burke, an' your soft speech! My trouble ain't comin' on, but this place's enough to give a man the jimjams. It's haunted an' I'd rather visit the devil in his den than come here."

"You talk wildly, Blott. It is safe, and what more does one want? There is the gallows rotting away, and under it five good men as ever risked their lives for money; but harmless, Blott, harmless. They will never cast a shadow more, and the traveler may go his way for all the harm they can do him. Then why cry out, Blott?" Burke queried, in his purring voice.

"What these men come to you an' I'll come to, an' I don't care to be reminded of it. So let's leave the spot."

"What silly talk, Blott! what silly talk! Here no one comes, and here we are free from prying eyes. Fools think the hut is haunted, and that is why I have chosen it for a hiding-place. There is no spot on earth so safe, Blott."

"There's other places secure enough for me, an' I'd rather stand in the open than hide here and be safe," Blott answered, in anger.

"Will you never stop, Blott, will you never stop? I shall lose my temper, I am afraid, and it is always bad for those about me when I do," Burke answered, his voice, if possible, more subdued than before. "You can't put off the day you will hang by shutting your eyes, and what is there to fear from the graves of dead men or a rotting gibbet? You put me out, Blott."

"I don't care whether I put you out or not. I'm no boy," Blott answered, impatiently.

"Surely not! surely not! But we must have a hiding-place, and what one so safe as this, which every man shuns?"

"I'm not afeerd, but I don't like the company," Blott answered gloomily.

"These men will never betray us. Do they cry out that it was I who fired the shot for which they were hung? Not a bit of it. Give me dead men when there is anything to hide."

"You're the devil's own, Burke."

"Perhaps, Blott, perhaps; but what has the devil done to you or me that we should be afraid of him?"

"Why've we come here, anyway, I'd like to know?" Blott asked. "Our man'll not cross this cursed valley, an' while we're foolin' away our time he'll pass, an' so we'll lose him."

"There you go again, Blott! I told you he was not to start till one o'clock? So we have time and to spare," Burke answered, in his low, purring way.

"How do you know he'll not start till one? Or how do you know he's comin' at all, for that matter?" Blott replied.

"How did I know Hogge was coming this way that rainy night, or how do I know other things that are going on in the world that interest me?" Burke answered.

"Well, how do you?"

"Because I have a man on the outside whose interest it is to tell me. You don't suppose I trust everything to chance, do you?" Burke answered.

"You devil! Who's the man?"

"Well, I like that, Blott, I like that; and you an old constable, too! Why don't you ask me to give myself up; to put a halter around my neck?"

"If we're to be pards, Burke, you must trust me, for I'll know who's pullin' the strings or I won't go on."

"We are not going to be partners, Blott; or only in this. Why should we?"

"Then why have you brought me here to help you?"

"Because the man is said to be ugly to handle, and I might fail alone."

"Well, what'm I to git out of it if we're not pards?" Blott asked.

"We are partners in this, and you are to get one-third if you do as I tell you," Burke answered.

"What'm I to do?"

"Nothing of any account. You are to stand beside the road and fire when I do, and if one shot doesn't kill him, you are to keep on firing till he is dead. Is that hard, Blott? It is just play."

"You won't kill him, though, if he throws up his hands an' we git what we want?"

"Yes; he is to die whether he throws up his hands or not. That is the understanding," Burke answered.

"Whose understandin'?"

"My understanding with my partner, and in this he is to have his way; and why not?" Burke answered, in his soft voice.

"Great God! what does he want him killed for?"

"I don't know; but what does it matter? That is always the best way, for it leaves one enemy the less."

"Yes, and I hang for't, like these dead men, while you go free, you devil! No, I'll have nothin' to do with the murder. I didn't come here to kill a man 'cause somebody I don't know wants it," Blott answered, in a determined way.

"Don't talk foolishly, Blott; don't!" Burke replied, quietly, but with such dreadful menace in his voice that I shuddered, hearing it.

"No, not a finger'll I raise agin the man, whoever he is," Blott answered, doggedly. "Not a finger!"

"You will think better of it, Blott; but come into the cabin, though it is a poor thing since the boys held it against the Regulators," Burke answered, as if to turn the subject to pleasanter things.

"Were you one of 'em?" Blott asked, as if loath to go on.

"No; or how should I be here? I was late, you see, and when I stuck my head out of the bushes there the cabin was afire, and our men holding up their hands and crying for mercy."

"What happened then?" Blott asked.