Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1956
Page 1
Young Squire Morgan
Manly Wade Wellman
Also by Manly Wade Wellman
RAIDERS OF BEAVER LAKE
MYSTERY OF LOST VALLEY
THE SLEUTH PATROL
HAUNTS OF DROWNING CREEK
WILD DOGS OF DROWNING CREEK
THE LAST MAMMOTH
REBEL MAIL RUNNER
FLAG ON THE LEVEE
Ives Washburn,Inc. New York
Copyright © 1956 by Manly Wade Wellman
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or parts thereof, in any form, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
Manufactured in the United States of America
For
Mary Squire Abbot
With admiration and affection
Contents
1 Murder in French
2 In the Nick of Time
3 County Seat
4 Court in Session
5 A Gun for the Jury
6 “Everybody Does Something”
7 The Beef Shoot
8 The Indian Way
9 An Offer from Enderby
10 Bones at Midnight
11 Circuit Court
12 Bullets
13 Examination
14 The Trial Begins
15 The Case for the Defense
16 Final Argument
17 The Truth About the Grave
18 A Sign for the Door
1 Murder in French
The big yellow-bearded backwoodsman in fringed shirt and broad hat was making too much noise in the public room of the Andrew Jackson House. His stamping moccasins rattled the puncheon floor, and his bellowing voice fanned the flames of the home-dipped tallow candles and the smoldering blaze on the broad clay-lined hearth. Furiously he waved his big iron toddy mug.
“I say the people were fuddled into electing that tyrant a second time,” he howled at the guests at the fireside tables. “Now it’s spring and he’s in the White House again, and I’ll warrant ye all that he’s laying his sights on a third term!”
Young Jason Morgan, bringing a platter of greens and smoked pork to the plump white-haired gentleman at the corner table, glanced uneasily at the tavern-keeper. Captain Micaj ah Lunsford didn’t like all that yelling. Captain Micajah, as all this part of Alabama knew, had led Kentucky volunteers at New Orleans eighteen years ago last New Year’s Day, and he respected the name of Andrew Jackson the way most folks respected that of George Washington. That backwoods bully should have known as much from the sign outside the Andrew Jackson House. Captain Micajah’s short brown face scowled from his desk by the front door.
“Old Hickory, he wants to be called? Old Hypocrite’s his right name!” went on the bearded one, this time to the two travelers at the end of the long table opposite the fire. “Wish he was here before me, I’d—”
Captain Micajah jerked his grizzled head in a beckoning gesture. Jason would have liked to walk back to the long table, because that pair had been talking in French. He wanted to see how much he understood, remembering the French he’d picked up in Georgia. But obediently he approached the desk, a lean, dark, splay-shouldered youngster in homespun shirt and trousers too tight and too short above cowhide brogans.
“What say you, boy?” demanded the captain bleakly. “Shall you bid that fellow begone, or shall I, or both of us together ?”
“I’ll try, Captain,” replied Jason. “I don’t much like his blather myself.”
He walked back to the fireplace. The thunderer grinned and held out his mug.
“More toddy,” he ordered. “A big ’un.” Tunelessly he began to sing:
“Give me a barrel of whiskey,
Sugar a hundred pound,
The juice of a bushel of lemons,
And a spade to stir it round—”
“You’ve had enough, sir,” broke in Jason, firm without heat. “So, I judge, have these guests of ours. Please bid them goodnight.”
“Why—why—’’spluttered the backwoodsman, rocking clumsily. He was almost as tall as Jason and inches broader, though much of his bulk was fat. “Ye take that tone with me, you long splinter-shaped hobbledehoy? Why—”
The fringe-hung shoulders hiked and swelled, the beard swung forward. “Ye know me, young foolishness? I’m the foremost bully of Big Hog Crossing! I’m a hurricane of disaster! Out of my way, before I wave my hand and stun ye with the breeze! Cower and run, afore—”
Jason dodged as the fellow swung the iron mug, then stepped in close and dipped his sinewy left shoulder under the right armpit of the foremost bully of Big Hog Crossing. His left arm clamped the buckskin body to him while his right reached down, caught a knee and lifted it. A quick heave, and Jason had the squirming bulk on his shoulder. Swiftly he trudged toward the door, just as Captain Micajah snatched it open.
Out into the pleasant spring night Jason bore his struggling, howling burden. A dozen paces clear of the threshold log he threw the backwoodsman sprawling, where the light of half a moon struck the trail among the trees. Bending down, Jason retrieved the fallen toddy mug.
“Know what ye’ve done, boy?” the fellow gurgled as he struggled clumsily to his feet. “Laid hand on the dealer of sudden death, the killer of nations—I’ll—”
“Yes, you’ll do wonders,” Jason cut him off. “But let’s get them done out here, where we won’t disturb decent folks inside.”
The backwoodsman pawed at his hip, perhaps for a knife. Jason’s broad fist tightened on the iron mug. But his adversary backed unsteadily off into the moonlight.
“Ye’ve got friends in yonder,” he snarled. “Jackson men, I’ll be bound, ready to take your cowardly part against an honest man. Someday I’ll get ye alone—alone—”
He reeled across the trail, and Jason heard him fall limply into the crashing undergrowth. He did not rise. Jason returned to the tavern.
A cheer greeted him. Captain Micajah reached up to slap Jason’s shoulder.
“Well done, lad,” he praised. “It was a good day for me last week when I gave you work here. I noted your inches for strength, and your eye for spunk.”
“He was no trouble, Captain,” said Jason, and headed kitchen ward with the mug; but the white-haired man at the corner table spoke and stopped him.
“You’re a proper wrestler for your age,” said the man. He had a broad, rosy face above a white collar and a caped brown coat. “How old are you, twenty?”
“Nineteen, sir.”
“Where did you learn that hold and lift?”
“I was always a fair hand at rough-and-tumble,” said Jason.
“Fairer than fair, egad.” The rosy face smiled. “You mind me of a youngster I saw wrestle two years back to the north of here—in Illinois, a place called New Salem, whither I went to settle an estate in court.”
“You’re a lawyer, sir?” ventured Jason eagerly.
“These thirty years I’ve striven to follow the law. But I speak of New Salem, and that grapple of champions. The place’s prize bully was one Jack Armstrong, but he met his match that day in a storekeeper built somewhat like you, with black hair like yours. Perhaps taller—”
“I’m just over six feet.”
“He was more than that, and two or three years older, as I judge, but very like you. His name—hmmm—yes, it was Lincoln. Abe Lincoln, they called him. You and he would match well at wrestling. How might you be named?”
“Jason Morgan, sir, at your service.”
“I’m Henry Colquitt. I live in Moshawnee, the new county seat.” The white-maned head jerked to show the general direction. “I’ll look for you when I pass here, riding the circuit.”
; “You honor me, Squire Colquitt.”
Jason hurried the mug to the kitchen, where two black scullions washed platters. Then he returned to the public room, walking past the long table where the two men were speaking French again.
“Lentement, lentement” growled one, a swarthy little dagger of a man with black chin whiskers. “Mot a mot.”
Slowly, the swarthy one meant, word by word—probably French wasn’t an easy tongue between them. They’d ordered supper in English. Now Jason was tempted to try a little French himself, something like “Vous desire, messieurs?” But that would be presumption in a tavern waiter. He gathered up the bowls from which they had eaten stewed venison and corn dumplings.
“Boy, two more toddies,” said the other man, a squat, square fellow of about thirty, with grime on his shirt ruffles. As Jason picked up the mugs, the square man told the swarthy one: “Cet avocat-la—il a beaucoup d'7d argent—"
Off to get the drinks, Jason translated to himself. Avocat meant lawyer, probably Squire Henry Colquitt, who had told of that Illinois wrestling match. Beaucoup d’argent—the Squire had plenty of money, that was. At the desk, Jason waited while Captain Mica j ah turned to the pine plank bar and mixed the toddies.
“Dites-donc,” the squat man harangued the swarthy one as Jason brought the mugs back. “Nous le tuerons—c’est neces- saire—"
Jason almost spilled the drinks. He managed to set them on the table. “Kill Squire Colquitt,” the man had said! “Necessary to kill the Squire.”
Back to the desk Jason trotted, his mouth open to speak. But Captain Micajah spoke first.
“The Squire wants his reckoning, lad. What did he have?”
“Smoked meat and greens, and a glass of the French wine. Sir, I—”
“Make it out for him,” interrupted the captain. “I’m busy with the accounts. His charges are three silver bits.”
Now, it seemed, the two at the long table were watching the desk. Jason swallowed and fell silent. He drew a bit of paper to him and dipped a quill pen in the ink. He wrote down the reckoning. Then, under it:
Take care. The two men at the long table said in Trench they would kill you.
He went to the lawyer’s table and put the paper beside the candle. Squire Colquitt set a pair of square-lensed spectacles on his tilted red nose and bent to read.
“A good hand of writing,” he praised. “And—eh, what’s this?”
He looked up, took off the spectacles, and winked a bright black eye.
“A pretty wit, too. I promise myself profit from your acquaintance.”
Upon the deal table he dropped cut silver, a quarter wedge from a dollar and a leaner scrap. Again he winked, and took his tall beaver hat from its peg.
“Your horse is ready, Squire,” said Captain Micajah.
“Boy!” the swarthy man hailed Jason from the long table. “Our horses, too!”
The pair rose, and one threw down silver money. “What change is left, keep for serving us well,” he said. “Our horses.”
Jason ran out through the kitchen to the rear of the log tavern. From the rail he untied the brown horses belonging to the two men who had spoken French. He fitted the bridles to their heads and led them around to the front. Captain Micajah stood at the door, bidding good-by to the pair of strangers.
“We must be going,” pronounced the swarthy man, and quickly they mounted. Jason faced Captain Micajah as they spurred away.
“Squire Colquitt—” began Jason.
“Gone, my boy. I saw him to his horse out here. Why?”
“I must catch him—warn him!”
“But, Jason—” began the captain, but Jason had already dashed to the rear of the tavern again.
In the shed behind dozed Captain Micajah’s old roan mare. Swiftly Jason caught her mane, led her from the stall, and groped for a bridle. He did not wait for a saddle, but scrambled up on the broad roan’s back and kicked the fat sides.
“Jason!” he heard the captain yell as he rode into the moonlight trail, but he did not waste a word in reply. Shaking the bridle, he urged the old mare into a heavy trot, and leaned above her to stare after those he pursued.
2 In the Nick of Time
The trail northward to moshawnee was crooked but well marked, wide enough for wagons, and Jason was silently thankful for the moonlight. But from either side pressed the thick, shadow-filled Alabama forest, every tree seeming to stare and scowl. Again Jason’s heels prodded the mare’s flanks, keeping her at a jolting trot. Up ahead, the trail curved and humped, and he could see nothing of the men he followed.
They wanted to kill Squire Colquitt. He, Jason, must overtake them and prevent them—
Prevent them ? How ?
He had no weapons beyond a wobbly-bladed old jackknife. He wished he had stopped for some sort of gun. These night- riders up ahead would have arms and would know how to use them. No question here of subduing a toddy-muddled blusterer. Courage and wit, especially wit, were Jason’s needs if he were to save Squire Colquitt.
Suddenly he sat up as straight as he could without a* saddle, straining his ears. Had he heard voices ? He checked the mare, listened again, and dismounted. Swiftly he tied the reins to a sapling beside the trail and hurried ahead on tiptoe, toward a bend in the trail.
“Off your horse, sir, before I pull trigger!” boomed someone just out of sight.
“But—”
“Down with you, at once!”
Jason was at the place where the trail turned, slipping into the shadows of a spreading sycamore. He pressed close to the trunk, peered around and looked down the trail beyond.
Colquitt stood, plump and protesting, beside his horse. He faced toward Jason in the full moonlight, at a distance of some ten yards. Under the brim of his tall hat he looked worried and angry. Closer to the sycamore was the pair who had spoken French in the tavern, the wiry little man and the broad beefy one, still sitting their horses. Each held in his hand a big gleaming pistol.
“You won’t escape the consequences,” growled Colquitt.
“I think we will, Squire,” broke in the smaller robber in his deep ringing voice. “It’s you who won’t escape. Jump down, Harry, and take his purse.”
The other swung out of his saddle, dropped the bridle reins over his horse’s head, and walked toward Colquitt. “No, no,” he cautioned, “don’t reach for a pocket. Up with your hands, and turn your money-side to me.”
Scowling, the lawyer obeyed, and the broad man called Harry came close. Still pointing die pistol with his right hand, he dipped his left into the side pocket of Colquitt’s big brown coat. He grunted with pleasure as he brought out a long purse that jingled.
“Hark to the chimes,” he urged his companion, shaking the purse.
“He has more than that,” insisted the other. “He’s just finishing his ride of the circuit; he took more fees than a man can comfortably carry. Where’s the rest of your money, sir?”
Colquitt bit his lips.
“Speak!” The pistol lifted in the sinewy man’s fist. Colquitt shrugged, and nodded his head toward his horse.
“The saddle bags,” he said.
Harry strode to Colquitt’s horse, unstrapped a saddle bag and peered inside. “He says truth,” he reported.
“It is well for him,” snarled the other highwayman. “Now he can die in grace, with no lie to blacken his soul.”
“Die?” echoed Colquitt sharply. “You’d kill me?”
“You think we’d let you live and raise the country against us?” was the mocking rejoinder.
Now, thought Jason. He cleared his throat as loudly as he could.
“All right,” he suddenly called, making his voice reedy and nasal, like the voice of a fierce old man. “Stand ready, you men on both sides of the trail! If either of these rascals moves without my word, shoot him where he’s biggest!”
The narrow shoulders of the little robber on the horse shook violently, and his squat companion whipped out a startled oath.
“Drop those pistols, both of you, and up with your hands!” cried Jason, in the same shrill, threatening voice. “This instant, or we’ll fire a volley that will be the last thing you’ll ever hear. I’ll count three! One! Two—”
Another oath, and the squat one threw his pistol down on the ground. There was an echoing thud as his smaller partner did likewise.
“All right,” went on Jason, fighting to keep his assumed voice steady. “Dismount, you shivering scrap of outlawry! Off, before one of us helps you with a chunk of lead!”
The sinewy little figure obeyed. Jason could see his chin tuft bristling.
“Now, Jason,” he addressed himself, “go out there, while we cover you from here and beyond, and see if they have other weapons. Understand?”
He paused, and, “Yes, sir,” he said in his natural voice, then stepped boldly into the open.
Quickly he snatched up the fallen pistols. One of them he shoved into the hand of Squire Colquitt. “Help us guard them,” he said, as crisply as the captain of a company.
Then he stepped toward the heavy-set robber, and from his pocket drew Colquitt’s purse. A quick search found no other arms but a dagger thrust into the fellow’s boot. He turned to the smaller man, and relieved him of a spare pistol that rode in an inner breast pocket.
“You two may stand easy,” said Jason. He stuck both the dagger and the second pistol into his waistband, then turned back to Colquitt, to whom he offered the purse.
“Egad,” said the Squire, “it’s my young friend whose warning at the tavern I was too dull to heed. My thanks and my apologies, and call out your comrades that I may thank them, too.”
“Oh, sir, I was all alone,” replied Jason, jubilant at his own achievement. “I changed my voice to sound—”
“Look out!” broke in Colquitt, and fired past Jason with the pistol he held.
Jason whirled around, to see the two robbers dashing into the black shadows of the woods. He lifted his own captured weapon, but Colquitt knocked up the muzzle.