Beadle's Half Dime Library, No. 97 — page 2: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

2 The Outlaw Brothers; The Captive of the Harpes. A TALE OF EARLY KENTUCKY. BY JOHN J. MARSHALL. CHAPTER I. COON’S TAVERN. A NIGHT of wind and rain closed down upon a wayside tavern, which stood close to the road in one of the northern counties of Kentucky—a stormy night, such as sometimes ushers in the frosts and bleakness of autumn. Thehouse was a log structure, a single story in hight, and was backed by a primeval forest, The fire which snapped and roared in the large fireplacé of the bar-room lighted up that apartment with a ruddy cheerfulness which made the sound of the rain dashing against the small windows, and of the wind whistling about the corners of the house, add to the sense of warmth and comfort within. Several travelers were weather-bound at the tavern; and their numbers had been add- ed to, just at dark, by the arrival of a party of hunters, who had been out on a regular hunting expedition, camping out for several previous nights in the boundless forests which overspread that portion of the wig rath Their traps and accouterments littered up the piace. never very tidy; a heap of skins, the trophies of their suc- cess, were piled in a corner, and their rifles stacked in another. They had made a bountiful supper from the game with which they had fur- nished the landlady, with the addition of corn- ne and coffee, and now they returned from he kitchen in boisterous spirits, and joined the four or five others who lounyed about the bar- room h The hunters were a rough-looking set, un- shorn, unshaven, with flannel shirts, deer-skin leggings, and knives glittering in their leather belts. One of them was a man nearly sixty ears of age, larger than any other person in he room, rugged as a rock, with an eye like blue fire, and iron-gray hair, which lay heavily about his powerful neck and shoulders. Any one, looking at him for the first time, would be sure to give him a second glance. He was ad- dressed by his companions as Hickory, or, more ments, Hick. Three or four of the travelers appeared to be very common people, two of them teamsters re- turning from Maysville; but one of the group attracted much silent curiosity by his unlikeness to all the rest of the company. He wasa well- dressed man of about twenty-five, wearing a fine blue broadcloth overcoat, which he had not yet removed pe the great fire made the room entirely comfortable. He had a ruddy complexion, rather wiry form, and very light hair, which gave him a boyish appearance. He had already stated, in answer to various ques- tions—which, according to the etiquette of the place, had been addressed to him—that he hailed from Connecticut, that his name was Smith, and that he was traveling partly for his health, and also as a land-agent. The company soon became exceedingly mer- ry; one or two soiled packs of cards were pro- duced, while the corn-juice of old Bourbon cir- culated freely—this being the “ native element ” of all human animals in that part of the coun- try. Some played, but the larger part got to telling stories. It was a capital night for stories; no yarn could sound exaggerated when the storm was making so much noise and bluster outside. If the hunters or the other wayfarers suspected that Coon’s tavern was a hard place, and that some of their companions were hard cases, why, each was well armed and accustom- ed to looking out for number one; while the sense of lawlessness, even of danger, added to the excitement and enjoymentof the hour. The trees of the vast wilderness bent and creaked above the roof, and the light of the fire flared out against the branches which scratched the dismal little window-panes. The down-east gentleman, in his fine clothes, made himself one of the talking party, perha from having the good sense not to hold himself aloof ina crowd of rough, suspicious men, but to do in Bourbon as the Bourbons did. He listened with profound interest to outrageous a generally of some unheard-of exploit, in which the teller was the hero of his own narra- tive. He never doubted, where it was not safe to doubt, nor failed to express admiration in the right place, so that his entertainers began to conceive a favorable opinion of him, and to ——— —-—_— ++ —_—_ — The Outlaw Brothers. ——— — ———— overcome their prejudices against his broad- cloth. One of the teamsters told of an accident which had happened to him, with a runaway horse, which was so ineredible that the whole company were obliged to strengthen their faith with an- other ‘*‘ bracer” of corn-juice all around. “That was purty considerable of a ride,” re- marked a hunter m the mght-hand corner of the chimney, who had been poking the fire reflect- ively during the teamster’s narrative, “but it don’t quite ekal my trip to New Orleans last fall, my friend. Did I ever tell you about that, boys? Didn’t? I was out on a fishin’ excur- sion, you see—I ginerally fishes awhile in the fall afore I settles down for the winter. I had my own boat, a small affair, jist big enough for me, my traps, and the fish Iexpected to cotch. I’d been out a day or two, spreadin’ around Mill Creek, near the mouth, and badn’t cotched much more’n served for my own fodder. I be- gun to get provoked, and concluded I’d run out into the Ohio, and see if it wouldn’t change the luck. It was a cloudy day, tip-top for fishin’, and about three o’clock in the afternoon, as nigh as I could judge, without my old silver turnip, which Id lost to Joe Frisbie the last time we layed seven-u bout three o’clock, then, I ed about half a pound of fresh meat onto a stout pot-hook which I kept for catfish. Catfish is known to sometimes grow to an enormous size in the Ohio. Mill Creek, p’raps you know, empties into the Ohio, above Mavevre It was jist at the mouth of Mill Creek that I threw out my bait, and gettin’ ruther sleepy, settin’ in the sun with nuthin’ to do but wait for a bite— which wasn’t by no means as plenty as ’skeeters in August—and was jist dreamin’ that ’'d beat Joe at Brag, and got back my turnip, when I was woke up by bein’ jerked almost out of the boat. ‘It’s a big feller’s got hold of the hook this time,’ says I to myself, tryin’ to haul in the line—but, blast me, if I could pull an inch. I worried about five minutes, without makin’ an headway, when I suddingly discovered that was a-going down the river at a rate which made the trees on the shore seem to be runnin’ tiother way, like a big green snake. Wal I didn’t mind it for awhile; I ruther enjoyed the ride. But;when I found I was passin’ Cincin- nati, I begun to think I was gettin’ too fur away from home—’twould take too much time to get back again. ‘He must be about tired out by this time,’ says od omge with all my might and main; but my p in’ didn’t set us back a bit. We was going tre-mendous. I begun to git my dander up. I wasn’t goin’ to cave in toa Ccat- fish. ‘Tl take that feller back with me, if he don’t bring up for an hour yit,’ says I, as it be- n to get towards night. I could ’a’ cut the ine, but I hadn’t no notion of lettin’ him go, arter the trouble he’d made me. My dander was up. So was that catfish’s. I wonder they don’t make use of ’em on the canaw:s, instid of horseflesh. We passed everything on the river. I reckon I astonished the navigators some. You see, they couldn’t tell, to save their gizzards, what it was made my boat go along at that thunderin’ rate. I wasn’t a-rowin’—I hadn’t no oars—I hadn’t no sails—I jist shot past every- thing, like a streak of chain lightnin’. [’m bound to say there’s lots of fellers on the Ohio and Mississap, will sw’ar they’ve seen the devil out in his pleasure-boat. Things got out o’ the way for me! When they see me a-comin’, with- out no visible means of propelsion, them flat- boats and vessels scud to one side purty quick. ‘Hallo, ther, what’s up? ‘Who be you? ‘Whar yer gwine? they yelled arter me, but afore I could answer, tell we I’m fibbin’ if ther wouldn’t be three miles between me and my words, so’s I couldn’t put an answer together. We went itall night. My ha’r stuck out straight behind, and my clo’es was mostly flyin’ in rib- bons with the wind we made, agwine so fast. It was ex-horbitant. As it was getting day- light we passed Memphis. About that time I was willin’ to cave. ‘See here, old feller,’ said I, taking out my knife to cut the line, ‘T guess you’ve ’arned your freedom—let’s part friends?’ and, reaching over to cut the line, tell me I pre- var-i-cate, if it wasn’t stretched so taut that it curled up the edge of the knife, like a cabbage- leaf. I couldn’t make no more impression on it than if *twas a lightnin’-rod—which I ruther reckon it wur—about that time! I begun to feel ser’us. The catfish wasn’t the least bit tired. I knew we should reach New Orleans ag’inst night, and if he didn’t give out afore that, the ocean was afore us, and what my fate might be I shuddered to think. @I had a ringin’ in my ears, and numerous onpleasant sensa- tions. Wal, about sunset I saw New Orleans in the distance, and I braced myself for a chance —————— ee See for life. The river was chock full of craft, and how that fish steered his course without runnin’ afoul of any of ’em, I never could see. 1 knew now that he was makin’ for the Gulf of Mexico, straight as a string. As I said, I braced my- self. I stood up, keepin’ a sharp eye ahead, and as we cum up opposite a favorable spot on the levee, 1 jumped. I lighted right in a crowd of surprised people. ‘ Blast that catfish,’ said I, lookin’ around for my boat, which was disap- pear down the mouth of the Mississap, ‘ ef ‘da’ known he was goin’ to take me so fur away from home, I’d’a’ put on_ my tother suit of clo’es.’ Wal, my friends, I had to work my passage back on a flatboat, and never got home till the first of November. Sence then, I’m re- solved not to fish no more, Catfish makes too fast a team.” ‘‘TIs that incident true?” asked the down- easter, in the blue overcoat, “Stranger,” answered the narrator, impres- sively, ‘‘do you see how thin my ha'’r is? It was mostly blowed out by the wind, durin’ that trip to New Orleans!” — The stranger directed his attention to the hair, with evident interest. ‘It is rather thin,” he said, ‘All I’m sur- rised at is, that you wasn’t blowed back as ast as the boat went forward, so that when it reached the Gulf of Mexico, you’d have brought up standing, against the North Pole.” “Stranger,” said the teller of the fish-story, “will you try a leetle of this corn-juice? It’s a better article than they make in your coun- try. hile they were attending to this important duty, a bush-ranger, who had cast several ill- natured glances at the blue overcoat, remark- ‘“T thrashed one of them set-up fellers as travels around in broadcloth, last summer, He insulted me, and I whipped him.” ‘‘How did he insult you, Johnny?’ queried several, ‘‘ Wal, there was a lot of us travelin’ together in the stage-coach to Maysville. I went by stage, ’cos I had business, and was in a hurry. We stopped to a tavern to get dinner. One of the passengers was a fixed-up chap, from down East. He talked free enough, but after din- ner, as we was standin’ about the door, waitin’ for the hosses to be put to the stage, he gota glass of water to the pe and brushed his teeth, with a fixin’ that he had made a-pur- se. You know our free-and-easy ways, out est. Folks ain’t afraid neither to lend nor borrow. I’d never seen a tooth-brush afore, and I thought I’d like to try it, to see how it went. So ITasked him if he wouldn’t sree me by lending it to me a minit—and, blast the stingy, stuck-up scamp, if he wasn’t too mean to lend it. I didn’t care a red cent for his old tooth-brush, but I did for his meanness; and I cut a hickory ee from a tree near by, and licked it out of im. “Stranger,” said the blue overcoat, quietly, ‘twas a friend of mine refused you the use of his tooth-brush. I heard him tell the story when he got back from his travels—only your account and his differs a trifle. . My friend says that it was he who made use of the hickory switch, after you had been so impolite as to squirt tobacco-juice ou him, by accident.” At this crisis in the story-telling there was danger of an interruption to the prevailing good feeling; the surly dre +72 made an advance upon the broadcloth, but his fellows held him back, and laughed him out of it. ** Fair play, to-night, for everybody, and no quarrelin’,” said a good-natured hunter, *‘ you’re always like a cross dog, Johnny. Take a little drop of corn-juice, and see if it don’t help your temper.” The advice was complied with. During the temporary lull within, the storm burst forth more furiously without; the windows rattled, the branches of trees grated and creaked against the roof, the wind shrieked dolefully, rushin past the house with long, unearthly sighs an screams. : “Glad we ain’t out of the woods to-night,” said Old Hick, the chief of thehunters. “* Come, ao friend Smith, from down East, it’s your urn. “Tm no hand at a story,” answered the tra- veler, pwling out his bandana handkerchief from his pocket, and rubbing the side of his face. “I can turn a grindstone anda spinning- wheel, but I can’t turn a story. But, speaking of turning a spinning-wheel puts me in mind of a ride I had, down East, almost equal to that trip down the Mississippi.” At this crisis in the story, Old Hickory sud- denly rose, giving so strange a look out of one | 7 GOMIGHOGKS (E(0) —