Читать книгу The Bandits of the Osage - Emerson Bennett - Страница 4

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INTRODUCTION—THE TRAVELERS.

A few years since, most of the western States and Territories—particularly those bordering upon the great Mississippi—were infested with bands of lawless desperadoes, collected from all parts of the globe, who, having become criminals in their native land, here sought an asylum, either beyond the pale of the law entirely, or where stern Justice being weak, was relaxed from that severity which she exercised in the more populous sections of the country. Here, in many cases, they formed themselves into bands, choosing some one of the more bold and daring of their party for leader—their purpose, doubtless, being the greater facility of proceeding in their depredations, as well as firmer security against apprehension.

But, although, as we have remarked, they formed themselves into bands or parties, yet rarely, in fact we believe only in extreme cases, did they openly act in concert; their policy being to conceal from their more honest neighbors the fact that there was such a regular organized combination of men for outlawry purposes in the vicinity. It was their policy, also, to disperse themselves throughout the country; to meet only at certain intervals, and then in secret, under cover of night; by which means they would appear as honest citizens; live, many of them, unsuspected, and in all cases be among the first to learn of whatever movement might chance to be in progress detrimental to their interests as a body, or to any member individually, and thus be enabled to take measures to prevent, or lay secret plans to counteract it. This will, we think, sufficiently account for their, in many cases, long and sometimes undisturbed career of dissipation and crime.

Our story opens a few years subsequent to the close of the last war with England, and at a period when the interior of Missouri—the theatre of the scenes, incidents and characters which are about to follow—was, comparatively, but little known; in fact, we believe we may with propriety say, there were portions within its territorial boundaries at this time unseen and untrod by the eye and foot of the white man. But notwithstanding there were sections of it uninhabited, there was already a tide of emigration setting in from the eastward, which rendered it probable that in the course of a few years, at the farthest, it would not only be fully explored, but settled, by some of the more enterprising and industrious inhabitants of the States lying east of the great Mississippi. Even now the eastern portion of it was beginning to exhibit signs of settlement and civilization, and already the blue smoke arose from many a cot which here and there dotted the long line of forest bordering on the Mississippi. This forest followed the windings of the river and extended back some fifteen or twenty miles, opening, in some places, upon the large and beautiful prairie, where the tall grass waved to and fro in the breeze, containing its legions of wild animals, and where the eye could range uninterruptedly for miles on miles, as over some vast sea, until finally shut in by the far distant horizon. In some parts of this forest the ground for miles was nearly level, and only required the removal of the underbrush to make it a beautiful grove, while other parts were wild, rocky and mountainous, presenting to the eye of the beholder many grand and romantic scenes, as though Nature had designed to soothe, awe and display her power by strong and varying contrasts.

As before remarked, that region of country known as Missouri, was fast emerging from savage to civilized life—from a gloomy wilderness to the abodes of civilization. The axe might now be heard in the forests where, but a few years before, echoed the wild war-whoop of the Indian. On the banks of that rapid and mighty stream, from which Missouri takes her name, a few regular settlements had sprung up—among the most prominent of which we will mention the old town of Franklin, a place that has long since disappeared, having been literally swept away by the eternal knawings of this river whose bed is continually changing.

The inhabitants of Missouri at the time of which we write, as must naturally be the case in every new settlement, were composed of all classes, from the refined, educated and intellectual, to the coarse, ignorant, demi-savage race, which are ever found to exist as a kind of medium between refinement and utter barbarity.

Having made these few preliminary remarks, so that the reader may form an idea of the then existing state of the country, we will now at once proceed with our story.

It was near the close of a hot sultry day, in the summer of 18—, that two travelers were slowly wending their way over a wild and somewhat mountainous tract of land, some thirty miles distant and in a south-westerly direction from St. Louis. The elder of the two was a man about thirty-five years of age, whose height rather exceeded six feet, and although not what might be termed of handsome proportions, yet of that close knit and sinewy build which gives evidence of great muscular strength and a capability of enduring much hardship and fatigue. His forehead, which was visible from his hat being partly removed, was of medium proportions, on one side of which was carelessly parted his long raven colored hair. His face was long, thin and rather strongly marked. His mouth was large, around which played a peculiar smile which, to convey an idea of, we shall term a philosophical one. His lips were thick—cheeks somewhat hollow— nose long and pointed—eyes small and grey, with a peculiar twinkle in the latter, when speaking, which led one to fancy there was more meant than said—and altogether the whole expression of his features was a combination of cunning, shrewdness and candor, mingled with a quiet, thoughtful and humorous turn of mind. In speech he was very deliberate, and no matter by what circumstances surrounded, would never fail to give each word its proper bearing. His dress was a plain home-spun suit of sheep's grey—an article much worn by the yeomen of that day— and his dialect partook strongly of that peculiarity which distinguishes the people of New England— particularly those who have little access to society—from almost every other; and was, besides, of that uncouth form of speech, which is engendered from habit, when not polished by the refinement of education.

His companion was a very different personage; in fact, of an entirely opposite cast. In years he was some five the other's junior—some three inches less in stature—of a form full of grace and elasticity—a face almost round—a complexion ruddy—large, restless grey eyes—with much hauteur in his bearing, and of an active and rather irritable temperament. His articulation corresponded with his temperament, being quick and impetuous, and his language gave evidence of his superiority over the other in point of education. His dress was a plain suit of black, a little the worse for wear perhaps, but of an excellent fit, which, together with the fine texture of the cloth, the graceful ease with which it was worn, had been proof sufficient the wearer was no laborer, even were not the soft white hand, holding a light fancy cane, to be taken as evidence.

To some, perhaps, it may appear singular that two individuals, so directly opposite in personal appearance, manners, dress and temperament, should be companions, and what is more, friends; yet such was the case. Notwithstanding the old adage that "like clings to like," it must be admitted we have a great many exceptions, and that like clings to unlike may be said with propriety of the social relations and connections of mankind in general. It is by this process the great strings of Nature are made to blend their sounds in harmony.

It was, as we have said, near the close of the day, and the last rays of the setting sun had been intercepted by a thick, black thunder cloud, which, approaching rapidly, threatened our travelers with a heavy shower. For some minutes neither spoke, but silently glancing toward the west, both immediately advanced from a slow to a rapid pace.

The younger was the first to break silence with the exclamation "Ha!" as a flash of lightning, more vivid than any previous, flung its red lurid glare over them, and for a moment seemed to put the forest in a blaze, followed almost instantaneously by a heavy crash of thunder. "By heavens! Bernard, there is no mistaking that! How far are we now from Webber's?"

"Wal, I should guess about five miles," replied Bernard.

"Five miles!" echoed the other quickly, with a touch of sarcasm. "Why, Harvey, what are you thinking about? It was only ten miles when we last enquired, nearly two hours since, and now you think we have only reached half way!— Pshaw!"

"Wal," remarked Bernard, coolly and quietly, "this ere's a free country, and every body's got a right to their own opinion any how; and so, as the feller said, if you don't like the distance at five miles, you can have it for any distance you're a mind to."

For a moment a half angry smile played around the mouth of the younger, as though he would have laughed, but was checked by some opposite feeling, while he bit his nether lip and tapped his cane in the palm of his left hand with a quick, nervous motion.

"Well, well," rejoined he, quickly, "if we have yet five miles to travel, our pace must be still increased, for the night gathers fast!"

"I calculate we'd about as well be seeking for a shelter," remarked Bernard, quietly.

"A shelter!" exclaimed the other in surprise; "surely you do not dream of spending the night in this lonely place?"

"Wal, as to the matter o' that," answered Bernard, "I reckon I don't dream no how, 'cause I'm awake and its a sartin thing; and when a body's awake and sartin, ye see he ain't a dreaming; but"—and he looked coolly at the other, speaking slowly and impressively—"if you want to tell your friends of your adventures, and put this 'ere night in as one of 'em, you haint got a minute to lose 'tween this and the time your head's under something more powerful to protect it than that are beaver."

"Why, what mean you?" cried the other, turning somewhat pale.

"D'ye see that are cloud?" said Bernard, elevating his finger to an angle of some forty-five degrees; "now mark all the twists in't, and keep tally for about a minute all them are streaks o' lightning dancing up and down, and I reckon you'll come to the conclusion that the safest place for Marcus Tyrone don't lay in the open air by any means."

"Ay! true, true!" returned Tyrone, with a start. "You are right, Bernard, right; for there is something awful in yonder cloud. But what is to be done? We can reach no habitation, and to remain here is, I fear, but to expose ourselves to certain death! Can we not find shelter under some of these rocks?"

"Why, ye see, Mark, I'll jest tell ye how 'tis," answered Bernard. "If we don't find some place to git our heads under soon, its my opinion they wont be no further use to us; for that are storm aint a going to be no common one, or else I aint no judge. Now right away here to the left o' us is a cave; for a feller pointed it out to me when I traveled this way afore, and said folks kind o' reckened as how it were a ren—ren—something, for robbers."

"Rendezvous, doubtless," remarked Tyrone.

"O yes, that's it! I don't see what makes folks use such tarnal hard names now-a-days; they didn't use to when I got edicated. 'Spect they're gitting a great deal smarter, oh! Mark?"

"Doubtless," replied the other, with a smile. "But of the cave, Harvey?"

"O yes; wal, I calculate we'd about as well be putting our heads inside on't, for we wont no more'n git killed if its got robbers in it, and if we stay out here, I swow we'll git blown clean into a jiffy, for that are harrycane yonder aint a going to be over nice about what it does, that's a fact."

"But where is this cave, Harvey?"

"D'ye see that are rough pile o' stones, right away there, that look jest as if they'd been playing stone wall all their lives?"

"Ay, ay."

"Wal, that's the place, and I swow we can't git there too soon, for that are last streak o' lightning fairly felt hot. Come on, Mark, don't go to getting skeered now."

"Pshaw!" returned Tyrone, his features becoming a shade more pale; and following Bernard, he proceeded directly towards the spot designated; though, perhaps, with feelings less at ease than he would have his companion imagine.

The cave alluded to, was situated near the brow of a steep, rocky hill or bluff, some several rods distant to the left of the road, which our travelers had just quitted, and appeared to have been formed by some great convulsion of nature, in the rending and upheaving of rocks, which had fallen together so as to leave a cavity sufficiently large to contain several persons. The mouth of this cave fronted the south, and overlooked the beautiful Maramee, which rolled sparkling along some fifty yards below, and was surrounded by scenery romantic in the extreme. The hill on which it stood was a portion of a ridge which extended in an irregular line far away to the southwest and northeast. Immediately above and below this cave were large projecting rocks, which, to all appearance, were so slightly bedded in the earth, that but little force was necessary to send them thundering to the bottom. A dwarfish growth of shrub-oaks had struggled up between them, and presented their rough, shaggy tops above, as though to give the scene an air of wildness and desolation. But notwithstanding this, there was a fine redeeming trait in the surrounding scenery—viewed from the brow of the hill—whose beauty was heightened by contrasts the most pleasing. At its base on the western side, was a finely timbered forest, stretching far away northward, and finally opening upon a beautiful strip of meadow or prairie land, over which the eye might wander for miles, to rest at last upon a blue hazy ridge of mountains in the distance.

The view towards the east and south was not so extensive, but this likewise had its attractions. A distant perspective was cut off by another ridge, running almost parallel to the one just described; but the loss was amply compensated, by the wild picturesque scenery presented, and the gentle murmur which stole sweetly upon the ear, as the Maramee sent its waters foaming and dashing over its rocky bed between, anon to glance off into a still silvery belt and for a time mirror surrounding objects ere forever lost in the bosom of the mighty Mississippi.

The road of which mention has already been made—though it would, perhaps, poorly compare with some of the present day—was, for this period and section of country, uncommonly good— being mostly clear of stones, stumps, brush and the like—so that a skilful horseman might dash rapidly over it with little danger of life or limb. To the eastward it followed the windings of the Maramee, for some considerable distance, through a thick, dark ravine, and then branched off through a level and extensive forest.

As light one horse vehicles were not in use at this period, and more especially in this part of the country, the horse was ridden instead by those who prefered an easier and more speedy locomotion than walking, and in consequence every settler of note was supplied with a number of these noble animals, for the use of himself and family.

But we fear the reader will think us digressing, and so let us return to our travelers.