The Best American Mystery Stories of the Nineteenth Century

by Penzler, Otto

Catharine Wentworth was the daughter (at the time of our story, the only one), of a gentleman who had formerly been a wealthy merchant in the city of New York; but to whom misfortune in business had suddenly befallen, and had stripped him of all his fortune. While surrounded by affluence, he had been considered remarkably meek and affable; but became proud and miserable in adversity: and not caring to remain among scenes that continually brought to mind the sad change in his condition, he emigrated, with his whole family, to the wilds of Illinois. He was actuated in part, no doubt, by a higher and better motive. At that time he was the father of another daughter. Louisa, older than Catharine, was fast falling a victim to that disease, which comes over the human form, like autumn over the earth, imparting to it additional graces, but too truly whispering that the winter of death is nigh. The medical attendant of the family, perhaps to favor the design which he knew Mr. Wentworth entertained, intimated that a change of climate was their only hope. The change was tried and failed, and the fair Louisa reposed beneath the turf of the prairie.

  How strangely does the human mind accommodate itself to almost any situation! The man who had spent his life hitherto in a sumptuous mansion, surrounded by all those elegances and means of enjoyment, which, in a large city, are always to be procured by fortune, now experienced, in a log cabin, divided into but four apartments, and those of the roughest kind, a degree of happiness that he had never known before. And well he might be happy; for he was rich, not in money, but in a better, a more enduring kind of wealth. His wife, two hardy and active sons, and his remaining daughter, Catharine, were all around him, smiling in contentment, and ruddy with health. We can only estimate our condition in this life by comparison with others; and his plantation was as large, and as well cultivated, his crops as abundant, his stock as good as any of the settlers on that prairie. He had still a better source of consolation: Louisa’s death, the quiet of the country, and the natural wish of every active mind to create to itself modes of employment, had led him more frequently to read and search the sacred scriptures, than he had found leisure to do before; and this was attended, as it always is, with the happiest result, a knowledge and love of Him, “whom to know is life eternal.” But we are digressing.

  The family of Mr. Wentworth, with the addition of Charles Rivington (whom, indeed, we might almost speak of as one of its members, for, on the coming New Year’s Day, he was to receive the hand of their “saucy Kate,” as the happy parents fondly called her), were gathered round the fireside, conversing cheerfully on every topic that presented itself, when a light tap was heard at the door, and Mr. Rumley, the deputy-sheriff of the county, entered the apartment. He apologized for his intrusion, by saying, that having had business to attend to at a cabin farther up the prairie, which detained him longer than he expected, he should not be able, on account of the darkness of the night, to return to town until the following morning; he therefore hoped that he might be accommodated with a bed. His request was, of course, readily complied with.

  He was a tall, dark person, dressed much in the manner of the unfortunate hunter, except that his leggings were of buckskin. He had lost an eye when a young man, in a scuffle with an Indian, two of whom sprung upon him from an ambush; this, with a deep scar upon his forehead, received in a tavern-brawl at New Orleans, two or three years before, and the wrinkles that age, or more likely, his manner of life, had plowed, gave to his countenance a sinister and disagreeable expression. At this time, the haggard appearance of his face was increased, either from having been a long while exposed to the cold, or from some latent sickness working on him, for his lip quivered, and was of a bloodless hue, and he was remarkably pale. Charles Rivington, who often met him in his rides, was the first to notice the change from his usual appearance.

  “You look pale and fatigued, Mr. Rumley; I hope you are not unwell?”

  “No, sir—that is—yes, I do feel a little sickish; and should be glad to go to bed, if it’s convenient,” answered Mr. Rumley.

  “Perhaps there is something we can do for you, sir?” said the maternal Mrs. Wentworth.

  “No, ma’am, I thank ye. I reckon a good night’s sleep will be best for me; it’s what cures all my ailings.”

  And in compliance with his wish the guest was shown to his apartment.

  One by one the different members of this peaceful family sought their pillows, till soon Charles Rivington and the blushing Catharine were left sole occupants of the room.

  But though alone, they were not lonely; he had many an interesting tale to whisper into the maiden’s ear (for it was almost a week since they met), and she, though something of a chatterbox, when none but her mother and brothers were present, on this occasion betrayed a wonderful aptitude for listening. The hours glided happily away, and the gray morning was already advancing, when the happy young man, imprinting a good-night kiss upon her cheek, left her to those sweet dreams which slumber bestows only on the young and innocent.

  It was late in the afternoon of the following day, that Charles Rivington, being returned to the town where he resided, was seated in his office, employed in counting a roll of notes, a pile of dollars lying, at the same time, on the table before him, when three men abruptly entered the apartment.

  “You are our prisoner,” cried the foremost of the party. “By heavens, Jim! Look there; there’s the very money itself. I can swear to that pouch.”

  And here he rudely seized our hero by the collar.

  “Stand back, sir, and lay hold of me at your peril,” returned Charles Rivington, sternly, as, shaking the man from him, he gave him a blow that sent him to the other side of the office; “What is it that you have to say? If I am to be made prisoner, produce your warrant.”

  “You may as well submit quietly, Doctor Rivington,” said another of the party, who was a constable. “You perhaps can explain every thing; but you must come with us before Squire Lawton. This is my authority (showing a paper), and it is only necessary to say that suspicion rests on you, as the murderer of old Silversight, who was found shot through the head, on the road this morning.”

  “Is it possible?—poor old man! has he really been killed! When I parted from him last night he was not only well, but seemed in excellent spirits,” said the doctor.

  “He parted from him last night! mark that, Buckhorn,” said the one who had just received so severe a repulse from our hero, and whose name was Carlock. “He left him in excellent spirits! mark what the villain says!”

  “There needs no jeering about it,” replied Buckhorn. “Doctor Rivington, you tended me in my bad fever last spring, and again when I had the chills in the fall, and you stuck by me truer than any friend I’ve had since my old mother died, except this ere rifle; and I am monstrous sorry I found it where I did. It may so be that you’ve got a clear conscience yet; but whether or no, though old Silversight and me has hunted together many and many’s the day, you shall have fair play any how, damn me if you sha’n’t. That ’ere money looks bad; if it had been a fair fight, we mought a hushed it up somehow or ’nother.”

  Our hero, while Buckhorn was speaking, had time to reflect that if Silversight were indeed dead, circumstances would really authorize his arrest. The rifle, which he was known to have carried with him from town, had been found, it seems, beside the murdered body. The money that the unfortunate man had entrusted to him, was discovered in his possession; and how could it be proved for what purpose it had been given to him? As these thoughts rushed rapidly through his mind, he turned to the officer, and observed,

  “Mr. Pyke, I yield myself your prisoner. I perceive there are some circumstances that cause suspicion to rest on me. I must rely, for a while upon the character which, I trust, I have acquired since my residence among you, for honor and fair dealing, until I shall be enabled to prove my innocence, or till heaven places in the hands of justice the real perpetrator of the deed.”

  So saying, he gathered up the money from the table, and departed with the officer and his companions, to the house of Mr.
Lawton, who, being a justice of the peace, had issued a warrant for his apprehension.

  “I have always been glad to see you heretofore, Doctor Rivington,” said the magistrate, politely, on the appearance of that person before him, “and should be so now, were it not that you are charged with a crime, which, if proved, will call down the severest vengeance of the law. I hope and believe, however, that you can establish your innocence. Where were you, sir, on the afternoon of yesterday?”

  “I went out to visit some patients, meaning to continue my ride as far as Mr. Buckhorn’s; and took his rifle with me, from the gunsmith’s, with the intention of stopping and leaving it; but I met with old Mr. Silversight at the cross-roads, who was going up from the New Settlements, and he offered to take charge of it. I gave it to him. We parted at the Fork, and I crossed over to Mr. Wentworth’s.”

  “Did Mr. Silversight continue on his journey, having Jim Buckhorn’s rifle with him?” asked the justice.

  “Yes, sir; but before we separated he gave me this money,” (handing the notes and specie to the magistrate), “requesting me to pay it into the land-office to-day, to clear out Mr. Richly’s land. He said there were five hundred dollars in all, and I was counting it when arrested.”

  “There is a most unfortunate coincidence of circumstance against you, Doctor. The man is found murdered, the rifle which you were known to have carried laying near him, and you arrived in town on the next day, with the money of the deceased in your possession. The poor old man’s horse going home without his rider, excited alarm; Buckhorn and Carlock, with other neighbors, set out upon the track; they found the murdered victim, stark and bloody, lying on the snow, which was scarcely whiter than his aged head; they divided—some bearing the body back, while the others followed on the trail; it led them to Mr. Wentworth’s, where you acknowledge you passed the night; they there inquired what person made the track which they had followed, and were answered it was you; they continued on your trail until they arrived in town; they make affidavit of these facts, and procure a warrant for your arrest; when, to complete the chain of evidence, you are found counting the spoils of the murdered man. Now, sir, what answer can you make to these appalling circumstances?”

  “They are appalling, indeed, sir,” said our hero; “and I can only reply to them—I am innocent. If the poor man was murdered, the one who did it must certainly have left tracks; and I fear they have fallen upon his trail and taken it for mine. But it is in my power to prove that I had no weapons with me, except that unlucky rifle, and the gunsmith will testify that he gave me no balls with it.”

  “The gunsmith has already been before me,” said Mr. Lawton, “for I was loath to have you apprehended, except on an application backed by such proof as could not be rejected. He states that when he gave you the gun, the lock had been repaired and polished, and that since that time it has certainly been discharged. I am sorry to do it, but my duty compels me to commit you.”

  He came into court, arm in arm with the attorney, who was employed to plead his cause; and slightly bowing to those whose friendly salute indicated that they believed him innocent, he passed through the crowd, and took a seat behind the lawyers within the bar. From the high and exemplary character which he had sustained invariably, from his first settling in the place until the present black suspicion rested on him, a degree of intuitive respect was accorded by all, that must have been highly gratifying to his feelings. A plea of not guilty was entered, and the examination of witnesses commenced.

  George Carlock was the nephew of the deceased. On the night of the sixteenth of December, he was surprised to see the horse of his uncle arrive, with saddle and bridle on, but without a rider. He thought that the deceased had stopped, perhaps, for a while at Buckhorn’s, who lived a mile or so further down the timber; but, as the night passed away without his returning home, he started early in the morning with the intention of tracking the horse. He called for Buckhorn, and they got upon the trail, and followed it till they found the dead body. It led them to Mr. Wentworth’s. They inquired if any person had been there, that crossed over from the other side of the stream. They were answered that Doctor Rivington had crossed the stream, and remained the night with them. That Mr. Rumley, the deputy-sheriff, had also remained the night, but that he had come from farther up on the same side. They followed on the trail till they arrived in town. Being informed, by Mr. Drill, the gunsmith, that Doctor Rivington had taken Buckhorn’s rifle out with him, they immediately procured a warrant for his apprehension. They found him employed in counting the identical money, which had been taken from the unfortunate Silversight.

  James Buckhorn’s testimony was in full corroboration of the preceding. He mentioned, in addition, that he examined the lock and barrel of his rifle, on finding it lying near the murdered man, and discovered that it certainly had been discharged but a short time before.

  The gunsmith deposed to his having given the rifle to the prisoner, on his offering to carry it out to Buckhorn, and that it had been discharged since.

  “Mr. Drill,” said Lawyer Blandly, who was counsel for our hero, “you mention having given the gun to Doctor Rivington; did you also give him a bullet that would fit the bore?”

  “I did not.”

  “Did he exhibit any anxiety to obtain the weapon?” again asked the lawyer.

  “By no means,” replied the gunsmith; “I considered, at the time, that the doctor’s offer was one of mere kindness; and he had previously mentioned he was going out that way to visit his patients.”

  “The bore of this rifle, Mr. Drill,” continued the sagacious lawyer, “is very small. I presume that you are familiar with the size and qualities of all that are owned on the road out to Mr. Buckhorn’s. Is there any house at which Doctor Rivington could have stopped, and procured a ball of sufficient smallness?”

  “John Guntry’s rifle,” answered Mr. Drill, “carries eighty-seven or eight to the pound, and one of his bullets, with a thick patch, would suit Buckhorn’s pretty well. That is the only one any where near the size.”

  The attorney for the people here asked another question.

  “For what purpose did the prisoner go into your shop, on the morning of the sixteenth of December?”

  “I was employed in repairing a pair of pocket pistols for him, and fitting a bullet mold to them. He came in, I believe, to inquire if they were finished.”

  “Please to note that answer, gentlemen of the jury,” said the prosecuting attorney. “Mr. Drill, you may stand aside.”

  Samuel Cochrane was next called. He was one of the young men, who had returned with the body of Silversight. On his way back, and about two hundred yards from the place where the murder had been committed, he found a copper powder flask, (which was shown to him, and he identified it), the letters C. R. M. D. being cut upon one of its sides, apparently with a knife. There was but one more witness on the part of the people, Mr. Lawton, the magistrate before whom the unfortunate prisoner had been examined. He testified as to the facts which were deposed before him, together with the acknowledgment of Doctor Rivington, that he had been in company with Mr. Silversight, etc. But we may pass over these circumstances, as the reader is already acquainted with them. The prisoner was now put on his defense, and all that talent or ingenuity could devise, was done by his skillful counsel. The witnesses were cross-examined, and re-cross-examined; but their answers were uniformly the same. A large number of respectable persons came forward to testify to the excellence of our hero’s general character; but their evidence was rendered unnecessary by the attorney for the people admitting, in unequivocal terms, that previous to this horrid occurrence, it had been exemplary in a high degree. At length, wearied by his exertions and distressed at the result, Mr. Blandly discontinued his examination: he had one more weapon to try in behalf of his client—the powerful one of eloquence; and it was used by a master of the art; but, alas! was used in vain. He dwelt much on the fact that his unfortunate client had wished his route to be trailed from t
he village, and that Buckhorn had started for the purpose, when the disastrous snowstorm occurred, and took away the only hope he had of proving his innocence. He cited many cases to the jury, in which circumstances, even stronger than these, had been falsified, when their victim, murdered by the laws, was slumbering in his grave. He appealed to them as parents, to know if they would believe, that a son, who had been so filial, whose character had previously been without stain or blemish, could suddenly turn aside from the path of rectitude and honor, to commit such an atrocious crime? But it were useless to recapitulate the arguments that were made use of on this interesting occasion—they were ineffectual. The attorney for the prosecution summed up very briefly. He assured the jury that the evidence was so clear in its nature, so concatenated, so incontrovertible, as to amount to moral certainty. Near the body of the murdered man, a powder flask, such as the eastern people principally use, had been found, with the initials of the prisoner’s name and medical degree, engraved upon it—C. R. M.D.—Charles Rivington, Doctor of Medicine. The trail is pursued, and it leads them to the house of Mr. Wentworth, where the prisoner arrived on the evening of the bloody deed, and remained all night. They continue on the trail, till at last they find him, with greedy eyes, bending over the plunder he had torn from his gray-haired victim. “Such,” concluded he, “is a rapid outline of the facts; and deeply as I deplore the wretched young man’s guilt, yet, believing him guilty, it is my sacred duty to display his enormity; but further than the imperious call of justice requires, I will not go, I cannot go.”

  The charge of the judge, who was evidently very much affected, occupied but a few minutes; and the jury retired to make up their verdict. We have already told the reader that the prisoner was pale, in consequence of sickness, produced by his exposed situation in prison; but the appalling events of the trial had caused no alteration in his appearance. He sat firm and collected; and there was a melancholy sweetness in the expression of his countenance, which told that all was calm within.