Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  Weakness had dulled my wits, but I found speech presently to ask for my knife and hatchet.

  He laid his head on one side and contemplated me in mock admiration.

  “Now! Now! Let us go slow, friend,” he said. “Let us converse on several subjects before you begin bawling for your playthings. In the first place your manners need polish. I said to you, ‘Greeting, friend; God save our country!’ and you make me no polite reply.”

  Something in the big fellow’s impudence and careless good-humour struck me as familiar. I had heard that voice before, and under pleasant circumstances, it seemed to me; somewhere I had seen him standing as he was standing now, in his stringy buckskins and his coon-skin cap, with the fluffy tail falling like a queue.

  “If you please,” I said, weakly, “give me my hatchet and knife and receive my thanks. Come, my good fellow, you detain me, and I have far to travel.”

  “Well, of all impudence!” he sneered. “Wait a bit, my young cock o’ the woods. I don’t know you yet, but I mean to ere you go out strutting o’ moonlight nights.”

  “Will you give me my hatchet?” I asked, sharply, edging towards him.

  Before the words left my lips he snatched my rifle from me and stepped back, putting the rock between us.

  “Now,” he said, grimly, “you come into camp and take supper with me, or I’ll knock your head off and drag you in by the heels!”

  Aching with fatigue and mortification, I stood there so perfectly helpless that the great oaf fell a-laughing again, and, with a shrug of good-humoured contempt, handed me back my rifle as though I were an infant.

  “Don’t grind your teeth at me,” he chuckled. “Come to the camp, lad. I mean no harm to you. If I did, there’s men yonder who’d slit your pipes for the pleasure, I warrant.”

  He took a step up the slope, looked around in the moonlight encouragingly, then abruptly returned to my side and passed his great arm around me.

  “I’m dog-tired,” I said, weakly, making an effort to walk; but my knees had no strength in them, and I must have fallen except for his support.

  Up, up, up we passed through the foggy moonlight, he almost dragging me, and my feet a-trail behind. However, when we reached the plateau, I made out to stumble along with his aid, though I let him relieve me of my rifle, which he shouldered with his own.

  After a minute or two I smelled the camp-fire, but could not see it. Even in the darkest night a fire amid great trees is not visible at any considerable distance.

  My big companion, striding along beside me, had been constantly muttering under his breath, and presently I distinguished the words he was singing:

  — “One shoe off, one shoe on,

  Diddle diddle dumpling, my son John—”

  “I know you,” I said, abruptly.

  He dropped his song and glanced around at me.

  “Oh, you do, eh? Well, I mean to know you, too, so don’t worry, young man.”

  “I won’t,” said I, scarcely able to speak.

  Presently I saw a single tree in the darkness, all gleaming red, and in a moment we entered a ruddy ring of light, in the centre of which great logs burned and crackled in a little sea of whistling flames.

  I was prepared to encounter the other coureur-de-bois, and there he was, ferret-face peering and sniffing at us as we approached. However, beyond a grunt, he paid me no attention, and presently fell to stirring something in a camp-pot which hung from cross-sticks over a separate bed of coals.

  There was a third figure there, seated at the base of a gigantic pine tree; a little Hebrew man, gathering his knees in his arms and peeping up at me with watery, red-rimmed eyes; Saul Shemuel! — though I was too weary to bother my head as to how he came there. As I passed him he looked up, but he did not appear to know me, though he came every spring to Sir William for his peddling license, and sometimes sold us children gaffs and ferret-muzzles and gilt chains for pet dogs.

  He bade me good-evening in an uncertain voice, and peered up at me continually; and although I doubted that even Sir William could have recognized me now, I feared this Jew.

  The big man brought me a bowl of broth and spread a blanket for me close to the blaze. I do not recollect drinking the broth, but I must have done so, for shortly a delicious warmth enveloped me within and without, and that is the last I remembered that night.

  CHAPTER X

  It was still dark when I awoke; the fire had become a pyramid of coals. By the dull glow I saw two figures moving; one of them presently crossed the dim, crimson circle and sat down beside me, fists clasped under his massive chin, rifle balanced on his knees.

  “I am awake,” I whispered. “Is there any trouble?”

  Without moving a muscle of his huge frame, the forest runner said: “Don’t come into the fire-ring. There’s a man been prowling yonder, a-sniffing our fire, for the last four hours.”

  I drew myself farther into the darkness, looking about me, shivering and rubbing my stiffened limbs.

  “How do you feel?” he asked, without turning his head.

  I told him I felt rested, and thanked him so earnestly for his great kindness to me that he began to laugh and chuckle all to himself and drag his great chin to and fro across his knuckles.

  “Consider yourself fortunate, eh?” he repeated, rising to come into the thicket and squat on his haunches beside me.

  “Yes,” said I, wondering what he found so droll in the situation.

  “Ever hear of Catamount Jack?” he inquired, after a moment.

  “Yes; you mean Jack Mount, the highwayman? But you are mistaken; the man who follows me is not Jack Mount,” I replied, smiling.

  “Sure?”

  “Oh yes,” I said, bitterly; “I ought to know.”

  “What do you know about Jack Mount?” he asked.

  “I? Nothing — that is, nothing except what everybody knows.”

  “Well, what does Mister Everybody know?” he inquired, sneeringly.

  “They say he takes the King’s highway,” I replied. “There’s a book about him, printed in Boston.”

  “With a gibbet on the cover,” interrupted the big fellow, impatiently. “Oh, I know all that. But don’t they say he’s a rebel?”

  “Why, yes,” I replied; “everybody knows he set fire to the King’s ship, Gaspee, and started the rebels a-pitching tea overboard from Griffin’s Wharf.”

  I stopped short and looked at him in amazement. He was Jack Mount! I did not doubt it for one moment. And there was the famous Weasel, too — that little, shrivelled comrade of his! — both corresponding exactly to their descriptions which I had read in the Boston book, ay, read to Silver Heels, while her gray eyes grew rounder and rounder at the exploits of these so-called “Minions of the Moon.”

  “Well,” asked the forest runner, with a chuckle, “do you still think yourself lucky?”

  I managed to say that I thought I was, but my lack of enthusiasm sent the big fellow into spasms of smothered laughter.

  “Now, now, be sensible,” he said. “You know you’ve a belt full of gold, a string of good wampum in your sack, and as pretty a rifle as ever I saw. And you still think yourself in luck? And you’re supping with Jack Mount? And the Weasel’s watching everything from yonder hazel-bunch? And Saul Shemuel’s pretending to be asleep under that pine-tree? Why, Mr. Cardigan, you amaze me!” he lisped, mockingly.

  So the little Hebrew had recognized me after all. I swallowed a lump in my throat and rose to my elbow. With Jack Mount beside me, Walter Butler prowling outside the fire-ring, and I alone, stripped of every weapon, what in Heaven’s sight was left for me to do? Truly, I had jumped into that same fire which burns below all frying-pans, and presently must begin a-roasting, too.

  “So they say I take the King’s highway, eh?” observed Mount, twiddling his great thumbs over his ramrod and digging his heels into the pine-needles.

  “They say so,” I replied, sullenly.

  He burst out petulantly: “I never take a rebel purse!
The next fool you hear call me a cut-purse, tell him that to stop his mouth withal!” And he fell a-muttering to himself: “King’s highway, eh? Not mine, not his, not yours — oh no! — but the King’s. By God! I’d like to meet his Majesty of a moonlight on this same highway of his!”

  He turned roughly on me, demanding what brought me into the forest; but I shook my head, lips obstinately compressed.

  “Won’t tell, eh?” he growled.

  An ugly gleam came into his eyes, but died out again as quickly; and he shrugged his giant’s shoulders and spat out a quid of spruce-gum he had been chewing.

  “One thing’s plain as Shemuel’s nose yonder,” he said, jerking a big thumb towards the sleeping peddler; “you’re a King’s man if I’m a King’s highwayman, and I’ll be cursed if you go free without a better accounting than a wag o’ your head!”

  Cade Renard, the Weasel, had come up while Mount was speaking, and his bright little eyes gleamed ruby red in the fire-glow as he scanned me warily from head to toe.

  “What’s his business?” he inquired of Mount. “I’ve searched his pack again, and I can’t find anything except the wampum belts.”

  At this naïve avowal I jumped up angrily, forgetting fear, demanding to know by what right he dared search my pack; but the impassive Weasel only blinked at Mount and chewed a birch-leaf reflectively.

  “What is he, Jack?” he asked again, turning towards me, as though I had been some new kind of bird.

  “Don’t know,” replied Mount; “not worth the plucking, anyhow. Take his wampum belts, all the same,” he added, with a terrific yawn.

  “If you are a patriot,” I said, desperately, “you will leave me my belts and meddle only with your own affairs.”

  Both men turned and looked at me curiously.

  “You are no patriot,” said Mount, after a silence.

  “Why not?” I persisted.

  “Ay — ay — why and why not?” yawned Mount. “I don’t know, if you won’t tell. The devil take you, for aught I 155 care! But you won’t get your belts,” he added, slyly, watching me askance to note the effect of his words.

  “Why not?” I repeated, choking down my despair.

  “Because you’ll talk with your belts to some of these damned Indians hereabouts,” he grinned, “and I want to know what you’ve got to say to them first.”

  “I tell you that my belts mean no harm to patriots!” I repeated, firmly. “You say I am no patriot. I deny it; I am a better patriot than you, or I should not be in this forest to-day!”

  “You are not a patriot,” broke in Cade Renard; “you have proved it already!”

  “You say that,” I retorted, “because Jack Mount, the highwayman, gives me the Boston greeting— ‘God save our country!’ — and I do not reply? What of it? I’m at least patriot enough not to pretend to be one. I am patriot enough not to rob my own countrymen. I can say ‘God save our country!’ as well as you, and I do say it, with better grace than either of you!”

  The men exchanged sullen glances.

  “That password is not fit for spies,” said Mount, grimly.

  “Spy? You take me for a spy?” I cried, in astonishment. “Well, if you are the famous Jack Mount, you’ve duller wits than people believe.”

  “I’ve wit enough left to keep an eye on you,” he roared, starting towards me; but the Weasel laid his little, rough claw on the giant’s arm, and at the same moment I saw a dark figure step just within the outer fire-ring, holding up one arm as a sign of peace. The man was Walter Butler. I dropped back softly into the shadow of the thicket.

  Slowly Jack Mount strolled around the rim of the fire-circle, rifle lying in the hollow of his left arm. He halted a few paces from Butler and signed for him to remain where he stood. There was no mistaking that signal, for it was a Mohawk sign, and both men understood that it meant “Move and I shoot!”

  “Well, Captain Butler,” he drawled, “what can I do for you?”

  “You know me, sir?” replied Butler, without the faintest trace of surprise in his colourless voice.

  “Ay, we all know you,” replied Mount, quickly; “even in your Iroquois dress.”

  “May I inquire your name, sir?” asked Butler, with that deathly grimace which was his smile.

  “You may inquire, certainly you may inquire,” said Mount, cordially. “You may inquire of my old friend, the moon. Gad, she knows me well, Captain Butler!”

  After a silence Butler said: “You unintentionally misled me last evening, friend. The man I follow did not cross the river as you supposed.”

  “Really?” cried Mount, smiling.

  There came another silence, then Butler spoke again:

  “I am here on business of my Lord Dunmore; I am here to arrest a young man who is supposed to lie hidden in your camp. I call on you, sir, whoever you are, to aid me in execution of the law.”

  “The law! Gad, she’s another acquaintance o’ mine, the jade!” said Mount, laughing. “I suppose you bring that pretty valentine of hers — what some people call a warrant — do you not, Captain Butler?”

  “I do,” said Butler, moving forward and holding out a paper. Mount took it, and, while he read it, he deliberately shoved Butler back with his elbow to where he had been standing, crowded him back before his huge, outstretched arm, coolly scanning the warrant the while. And Butler could not avoid the giant save by retreating, step by step, beyond the dull red circle, and out against the sky-line, where a bullet could scarcely miss him.

  Mount was now contemplating the warrant in deep admiration. He held it out at arm’s-length, cocking his head on one side; he held it upside down; he turned it over; he scanned it sideways.

  “Oh, Cade!” he called out, cheerily. “’Tis the same old valentine! Gad, Captain Butler, we have seen them in every one o’ the thirteen colonies — my friend yonder, and I!”

  “You are doubtless a sheriff, sir,” observed Butler, patiently.

  “No,” said Mount; “no, not exactly what you could call a sheriff, Captain Butler; but I have had much business with sheriffs. I owe them more than I can ever repay,” he added, sentimentally.

  “Then you will understand, sir, the necessity of aiding the law,” suggested Butler, holding out his hand for the warrant.

  But Mount quietly pocketed the paper and began to whistle and reprime his rifle.

  “May I trouble you for that paper?” asked Butler, with his chilling, sinister politeness.

  There was a pause. Butler’s eyes stole around the camp-fire, but only the little Hebrew was now visible, for I lay in the shadow and the Weasel had ominously vanished.

  “You do not mean to retain this warrant, sir?” demanded Butler, raising his sneering voice, and searching the thickets for some sign of the ambushed Weasel.

  “Oh, Captain Butler,” said Mount, with a gigantic simper, “how can I resist you? Pray tell me who this bad young Michael Cardigan may be, and what he has done to get his name on this valentine?”

  “It is a matter of treason,” retorted Butler, sharply. “Come, my good man, have done with silly chatter and aid me to my duty in the King’s name!”

  Mount burst into a shout of laughter. “That’s it! In the King’s name! I’ve heard that, too, — oh yes, I’ve heard that o’ moonlight nights!”

  Butler observed him in astonishment, but Mount held his sides and roared in his mirth: “Comes friend Butler with his warrant, tripping it through the woods, and singing of the King like a titmouse on a stump. Ay, singing to me to help him take a stout fellow in the King’s name! Ha! Ha! Ha! This funny Mr. Sheriff Butler!” Then, in a flash, he wheeled on Butler, snarling, every tooth bared: “Damn you, sir, do you take me for your lackey or the King’s hangman? To hell with you, sir! To hell with your King, sir! Did you hear me? I said, to hell with your King!”

  Butler’s face paled in the waning fire-light. Presently he said, in his slow, even tones: “I shall take care that your good wishes reach the King’s ears. Pray, sir, honour me with your
name and quality, though I may perhaps guess both.”

  “No need to guess,” cut in the big fellow, cheerfully. “I’m Jack Mount; I burned the Gaspee, I helped dump his Majesty’s tea into Boston harbour, and I should be pleased to do as much for the King himself. Tell him so, Captain Butler; 158 tell my Lord Dunmore he can have a ducking, too, at his lordship’s polite convenience.”

  Butler glared at him, but Mount raised his coon-skin cap and bowed mockingly. “Charmed, sir, charmed,” he simpered. “Pray, permit me to present my comrade, Sir Cade Renard, of the backwood aristocracy, sometimes called the Weasel. He’s so shy, sir. Friend Weasel, come out from behind that stump and bring your rifle; step up beside me and make a very fine bow to his Majesty’s deputy-sheriff. Tell the kind gentleman what good men we are, Cade, and how proud we feel to entertain him.”

  The Weasel sauntered up and performed a slow, wriggling bow.

  “Minions of the moon, sir,” he said; “and so charmed to receive you, or anything you have of value. Your scalp, now, might bring five shillings at Baton Rouge, or is that but a scratch wig you wear, sir?”

  “Will you deliver me my warrant and my prisoner?” demanded Butler, with a ghastly smile.

  “No!” said Mount, abruptly changing his manner. “Make a new trail, you Tory hangman! March!” And he gave him a prod with his rifle.

  Never had I seen such ferocity expressed on any human face as I saw now on Mr. Butler’s.

  He backed out into the brush, at the point of Mount’s long rifle; then the red fire-glow left him, and he was gone into the darkness of early morning. Presently the Weasel stole after him.

  Mount came swaggering back, pausing to drop the warrant on the hot coals as he passed. Renard returned in a few minutes, took his rifle, and squatted briskly down just beyond the fire-light.

  As Mount came up to me, I rose and thanked him for the protection he had given so generously, and he laughed and laid one padded fist on my shoulder.

  “Hark ye, friend,” he said; “take your Indian belts and your pack and go in peace, for if Dunmore is after you, the sooner you start north the better. Go, lad; I’m not your enemy!”