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THE DEVIL'S OWN

A Romance of the Black Hawk War

by

RANDALL PARRISH

Author of
  "Contraband," "When Wilderness Was King,"
  "Beyond The Frontier," Etc.

With Frontispiece by the Kinneys

[Frontispiece: "Tell me--please," she begged.  "Is
the man dead?"]

A. L. Burt Company
Publishers ---------- New York
Published by arrangement with A. C. McClurg & Company
Copyright
A. C. McClurg & Co.
1917
Published October, 1917
Copyrighted in Great Britain
Printed in the United States

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

      I  At Old Fort Armstrong
     II  On Furlough
    III  History of the Beaucaires
     IV  The End of the Game
      V  Kirby Shows His Hand
     VI  Into the Black Water
    VII  Picking Up the Threads
   VIII  I Decide My Duty
     IX  The Home of Judge Beaucaire
      X  A Girl at Bay
     XI  To Save a "Nigger"
    XII  We Capture a Keel-Boat
   XIII  Seeking the Underground
    XIV  The Dawn of Deeper Interest
     XV  The Cabin of Amos Shrunk
    XVI  The Trail of the Raiders
   XVII  We Face Disaster
  XVIII  The Loss of Rene
    XIX  On Board the _Adventurer_
     XX  The Story of Elsie dark
    XXI  The Landing at Yellow Banks
   XXII  My Friend, the Deputy Sheriff
  XXIII  A New Job
   XXIV  Kirby and I Meet
    XXV  The Fugitives
   XXVI  The Island in the Swamp
  XXVII  We Choose Our Course
 XXVIII  A Field of Massacre
   XXIX  The Valley of the Bureau
    XXX  We Accept a Refugee
   XXXI  The Valley of the Shadow
  XXXII  The Trail to Ottawa

The Devil's Own

CHAPTER I

AT OLD FORT ARMSTRONG

It was the early springtime, and my history tells me the year was 1832,
although now that seems so far away I almost hesitate to write the
date.  It appears surprising that through the haze of all those
intervening years--intensely active years with me--I should now be able
to recall so clearly the scene of that far-off morning of my youth, and
depict in memory each minor detail.  Yet, as you read on, and realize
yourself the stirring events resulting from that idle moment, you may
be able to comprehend the deep impression left upon my mind, which no
cycle of time could ever erase.

I was barely twenty then, a strong, almost headstrong boy, and the far
wilderness was still very new to me, although for two years past I had
held army commission and been assigned to duty in frontier forts.  Yet
never previously had I been stationed at quite so isolated an outpost
of civilization as was this combination of rock and log defense erected
at the southern extremity of Rock Island, fairly marooned amid the
sweep of the great river, with Indian-haunted land stretching for
leagues on every side.  A mere handful of troops was quartered there,
technically two companies of infantry, yet numbering barely enough for
one; and this in spite of rumors daily drifting to us that the Sacs and
Foxes, with their main village just below, were already becoming
restless and warlike, inflamed by the slow approach of white settlers
into the valley of the Rock.  Indeed, so short was the garrison of
officers, that the harassed commander had ventured to retain me for
field service, in spite of the fact that I was detailed to staff duty,
had borne dispatches up the Mississippi from General Gaines, and
expected to return again by the first boat.

The morning was one of deep-blue sky and bright sunshine, the soft
spring air vocal with the song of birds.  As soon as early drill ended
I had left the fort-enclosure, and sought a lonely perch on the great
rock above the mouth of the cave.  It was a spot I loved.  Below,
extended a magnificent vista of the river, fully a mile wide from shore
to shore, spreading out in a sheet of glittering silver, unbroken in
its vast sweep toward the sea except for a few small, willow-studded
islands a mile or two away, with here and there the black dot of an
Indian canoe gliding across the surface.  I had been told of a fight
amid those islands in 1814, a desperate savage battle off the mouth of
the Rock, and the memory of this was in my mind as my eyes searched
those distant shores, silent now in their drapery of fresh green
foliage, yet appearing strangely desolate and forlorn, as they merged
into the gray tint of distance.  Well I realized that they only served
to screen savage activity beyond, a covert amid which lurked danger and
death; for over there, in the near shadow of the Rock Valley, was where
Black Hawk, dissatisfied, revengeful, dwelt with his British band,
gathering swiftly about him the younger, fighting warriors of every
tribe his influence could reach.  He had been at the fort but two days
before, a tall, straight, taciturn Indian; no chief by birth, yet a
born leader of men, defiant in speech, and insolent of demeanor in
spite of the presence also at the council of his people's true
representative, the silent, cautious Keokuk.

Even with my small knowledge of such things it was plain enough to be
seen there existed deadly hatred between these two, and that Keokuk's
desire for peace with the whites alone postponed an outbreak.  I knew
then but little of the cause.  The Indian tongue was strange to me, and
the interpreter failed to make clear the under-lying motive, yet I
managed to gather that, in spite of treaty, Black Hawk refused to leave
his oldtime hunting grounds to the east of the river, and openly
threatened war.  The commandant trusted Keokuk, with faith that his
peaceful counsels would prevail; but when Black Hawk angrily left the
chamber and my eyes followed him to his waiting canoe, my mind was
convinced that this was not destined to be the end--that only force of
arms would ever tame his savage spirit.

This all came back to me in memory as I sat there, searching out that
distant shore line, and picturing in imagination the restless Indian
camp concealed from view beyond those tree-crowned bluffs.  Already
tales reached us of encroaching settlers advancing along the valley,
and of savage, retaliating raids which could only terminate in armed
encounters.  Already crops had been destroyed, and isolated cabins
fired, the work as yet of prowling, irresponsible bands, yet always
traced in their origin to Black Hawk's village.  That Keokuk could
continue to control his people no longer seemed probable to me, for the
Hawk was evidently the stronger character of the two, possessed the
larger following, and made no attempt to conceal the depth of his
hatred for all things American.

Now to my view all appeared peaceful enough--the silent, deserted
shores, the desolate sweep of the broad river, the green-crowned
bluffs, the quiet log fort behind me, its stockaded gates wide open,
with not even a sentry visible, a flag flapping idly at the summit of a
high pole, and down below where I sat a little river steamboat tied to
the wharf, a dingy stern-wheeler, with the word "Warrior" painted
across the pilot house.  My eyes and thoughts turned that way
wonderingly.  The boat had tied up the previous evening, having just
descended from Prairie du Chien, and, it was rumored at that time,
intended to depart down river for St. Louis at daybreak.  Yet even now
I could perceive no sign of departure.  There was but the thinnest
suggestion of smoke from the single stack, no loading, or unloading,
and the few members of the crew visible were idling on the wharf, or
grouped upon the forward deck, a nondescript bunch of river boatmen,
with an occasional black face among them, their voices reaching me,
every sentence punctuated by oaths.  Above, either seated on deck
stools, or moving restlessly about, peering over the low rail at the
shore, were a few passengers, all men roughly dressed--miners from
Fevre River likely, with here and there perchance an adventurer from
farther above--impatient of delay.  I was attracted to but two of any
interest.  These were standing alone together near the stern, a
heavily-built man with white hair and beard, and a younger, rather
slender fellow, with clipped, black moustache.  Both were unusually
well dressed, the latter exceedingly natty and fashionable in attire,
rather overly so I thought, while the former wore a long coat, and high
white stock.  Involuntarily I had placed them in my mind as river
gamblers, but was still observing their movements with some curiosity,
when Captain Thockmorton crossed the gangplank and began ascending the
steep bluff.  The path to be followed led directly past where I was
sitting, and, recognizing me, he stopped to exchange greetings.

"What! have you finished your day's work already, Lieutenant?" he
exclaimed pleasantly.  "Mine has only just begun."

"So I observe.  It was garrison talk last night that the _Warrior_ was
to depart at daylight."

"That was the plan.  However, the _Wanderer_ went north during the
night," he explained, "and brought mail from below, so we are being
held for the return letters.  I am going up to the office now."

My eyes returned to the scene below.

"You have some passengers aboard."

"A few; picked up several at the lead mines, besides those aboard from
Prairie du Chien.  No soldiers this trip, though.  They haven't men
enough at Fort Crawford to patrol the walls."

"So I'm told; and only the merest handful here.  Frankly, Captain, I do
not know what they can be thinking about down below, with this Indian
uprising threatened.  The situation is more serious than they imagine.
In my judgment Black Hawk means to fight."

"I fully agree with you," he replied soberly.  "But Governor Clark is
the only one who senses the situation.  However, I learned last night
from the commander of the _Wanderer_ that troops were being gathered at
Jefferson Barracks.  I'll probably get a load of them coming back.
What is your regiment, Knox?"

"The Fifth Infantry."

"The Fifth!  Then you do not belong here?"

"No; I came up with dispatches, but have not been permitted to return.
What troops are at Jefferson--did you learn?"

"Mostly from the First, with two companies of the Sixth, Watson told
me; only about four hundred altogether.  How many warriors has Black
Hawk?"

"No one knows.  They say his emissaries are circulating among the
Wyandottes and Potawatamies, and that he has received encouragement
from the Prophet which makes him bold."

"The Prophet!  Oh, you mean Wabokieshiek?  I know that old devil, a
Winnebago; and if Black Hawk is in his hands he will not listen very
long even to White Beaver.  General Atkinson passed through here
lately; what does he think?"

I shook my head doubtfully.

"No one can tell, Captain; at least none of the officers here seem in
his confidence.  I have never met him, but I learn this: he trusts the
promises of Keokuk, and continues to hold parley.  Under his orders a
council was held here three days since, which ended in a quarrel
between the two chiefs.  However, there is a rumor that dispatches have
already been sent to Governors Clark and Reynolds suggesting a call for
volunteers, yet I cannot vouch for the truth of the tale."

"White Beaver generally keeps his own counsel, yet he knows Indians,
and might trust me with his decision, for we are old friends.  If you
can furnish me with a light, I'll start this pipe of mine going."

I watched the weather-beaten face of the old riverman, as he puffed
away in evident satisfaction.  I had chanced to meet him only twice
before, yet he was a well-known character between St. Louis and Prairie
du Chien; rough enough to be sure, from the very nature of his calling,
but generous and straightforward.

"Evidently all of your passengers are not miners, Captain," I ventured,
for want of something better to say.  "Those two standing there at the
stern, for instance."

He turned and looked, shading his eyes, the smoking pipe in one hand.

"No," he said, "that big man is Judge Beaucaire, from Missouri.  He has
a plantation just above St. Louis, an old French grant.  He went up
with me about a month ago---my first trip this season--to look after
some investment on the Fevre, which I judge hasn't turned out very
well, and has been waiting to go back with me.  Of course you know the
younger one."

"Never saw him before."

"Then you have never traveled much on the lower river.  That's Joe
Kirby."

"Joe Kirby?"

"Certainly; you must have heard of him.  First time I ever knew of his
drifting so far north, as there are not many pickings up here.  Have
rather suspected he might be laying for Beaucaire, but the two haven't
touched a card coming down."

"He is a gambler, then?"

"A thoroughbred; works between St. Louis and New Orleans.  I can't just
figure out yet what he is doing up here.  I asked him flat out, but he
only laughed, and he isn't the sort of man you get very friendly with,
some say he has Indian blood in him, so I dropped it.  He and the Judge
seem pretty thick, and they may be playing in their rooms."

"Have you ever told the planter who the other man is?"

"What, me, told him?  Well, hardly; I've got troubles enough of my own.
Beaucaire is of age, I reckon, and they tell me he is some poker player
himself.  The chances are he knows Kirby better than I do; besides I've
run this river too long to interfere with my passengers.  See you again
before we leave; am going up now to have a talk with the Major."

My eyes followed as he disappeared within the open gates, a squatty,
strongly-built figure, the blue smoke from his pipe circling in a cloud
above his head.  Then I turned idly to gaze once again down the river,
and observe the groups loitering below.  I felt but slight interest in
the conversation just exchanged, nor did the memory of it abide for
long in my mind.  I had not been close enough to observe Beaucaire, or
glimpse his character, while the presence of a gambler on the boat was
no such novelty in those days as to chain my attention.  Indeed, these
individuals were everywhere, a recognized institution, and, as
Thockmorton had intimated, the planter himself was fully conversant
with the game, and quite able to protect himself.  Assuredly it was
none of my affair, and yet a certain curiosity caused me to observe the
movements of the two so long as they remained on deck.  However, it was
but a short while before both retired to the cabin, and then my gaze
returned once more to the sullen sweep of water, while my thoughts
drifted far away.

A soldier was within a few feet of me, and had spoken, before I was
even aware of his approach.

"Lieutenant Knox."

I looked about quickly, recognizing the major's orderly.

"Yes, Sanders, what is it?"

"Major Bliss requests, sir, that you report at his office at once."

"Very well.  Is he with Captain Thockmorton?"

"Not at present, sir; the captain has gone to the post-sutler's."

Wondering what might be desired of me, yet with no conception of the
reality, I followed after the orderly through the stockade gate, and
across the small parade ground toward the more pretentious structure
occupied by the officers of the garrison.

CHAPTER II

ON FURLOUGH

A number of soldiers off duty were loitering in front of the barracks,
while a small group of officers occupied chairs on the log porch of
their quarters, enjoying the warmth of the sun.  I greeted these as I
passed, conscious that their eyes followed me curiously as I approached
the closed door of the commandant's office.  The sentry without brought
his rifle to a salute, but permitted my passage without challenge.  A
voice within answered my knock, and I entered, closing the door behind
me.  The room was familiar--plain, almost shabbily furnished, the walls
decorated only by the skins of wild beasts, and holding merely a few
rudely constructed chairs and a long pine table.  Major Bliss glanced
up at my entrance, with deep-set eyes hidden beneath bushy-gray
eyebrows, his smooth-shaven face appearing almost youthful in contrast
to a wealth of gray hair.  A veteran of the old war, and a strict
disciplinarian, inclined to be austere, his smile of welcome gave me
instantly a distinct feeling of relief.

"How long have you been here at Armstrong, Lieutenant?" he questioned,
toying with an official-looking paper in his hands.

"Only about three weeks, sir.  I came north on the _Enterprise_, with
dispatches from General Gaines."

"I remember; you belong to the Fifth, and, without orders, I promptly
dragooned you into garrison service."  His eyes laughed.  "Only sorry I
cannot hold you any longer."

"I do not understand, sir."

"Yet I presume you have learned that the _Wanderer_ stopped here for an
hour last night on its way north to Prairie du Chien?"

"Captain Thockmorton just informed me."

"But you received no mail?"

"No, sir; or, rather, I have not been at the office to inquire.  Was
there mail for me?"

"That I do not know; only I have received a communication relating to
you.  It seems you have an application pending for a furlough."

"Yes, sir."

"It is my pleasure to inform you that it has been granted--sixty days,
with permission to proceed east.  There has been considerable delay
evidently in locating you."

A sudden vision arose before me of my mother's face and of the old home
among the hills as I took the paper from his extended hands and glanced
at the printed and written lines.

"The date is a month ago."

"That need not trouble you, Knox.  The furlough begins with this
delivery.  However, as I shall require your services as far as St.
Louis, I shall date its acceptance from the time of your arrival there."

"Which is very kind, sir."

"Not at all.  You have proven of considerable assistance here, and I
shall part from you with regret.  I have letters for Governor Clark of
Missouri, and Governor Reynolds of Illinois; also one to General
Atkinson at Jefferson Barracks, detailing my views on the present
Indian situation.  These are confidential, and I hesitate to entrust
them to the regular mail service.  I had intended sending them down
river in charge of a non-commissioned officer, but shall now utilize
your services instead--that is, if you are willing to assume their
care?"

"Very gladly, of course."

"I thought as much.  Each of these is to be delivered in person.
Captain Thockmorton informs me that he will be prepared to depart
within an hour.  You can be ready in that time?"

I smiled.

"In much less.  I have little with me but a field kit, sir.  It will
not require long to pack that."

"Then return here at the first whistle, and the letters will be ready
for you.  That will be all now."

I turned toward the door, but paused irresolutely.  The major was
already bent over his task, and writing rapidly.

"I beg your pardon, sir, but as I am still to remain on duty, I presume
I must travel in uniform?"

He glanced up, his eyes quizzical, the pen still grasped in his fingers.

"I could never quite understand the eagerness of young officers to get
into civilian clothing," he confessed reflectively.  "Why, I haven't
even had a suit for ten years.  However, I can see no necessity for
your proclaiming your identity on the trip down.  Indeed, it may prove
the safer course, and technically I presume you may be considered as on
furlough.  Travel as you please, Lieutenant, but I suggest it will be
well to wear the uniform of your rank when you deliver the letters.  Is
that all?"

"I think of nothing more."

Fifteen minutes sufficed to gather together all my belongings, and
change from blue into gray, and, as I emerged from quarters, the
officers of the garrison flocked about me with words of congratulation
and innumerable questions.  Universal envy of my good fortune was
evident, but this assumed no unpleasant form, although much was said to
express their belief in my early return.

"Anyway, you are bound to wish you were back," exclaimed Hartley, the
senior captain, earnestly.  "For we are going to be in the thick of it
here in less than a month, unless all signs fail.  I was at that last
council, and I tell you that Sac devil means to fight."

"You may be certain I shall be back if he does," I answered.  "But the
Major seems to believe that peace is still possible."

"No one really knows what he believes," insisted Hartley soberly.
"Those letters you carry south may contain the truth, but if I was in
command here we would never take the chances we do now.  Look at those
stockade gates standing wide open, and only one sentry posted.  Ye
gods! who would ever suppose we were just a handful of men in hostile
Indian territory."  His voice increased in earnestness, his eyes
sweeping the group of faces.  "I've been on this frontier for fourteen
years, and visited in Black Hawk's camp a dozen times.  He's a British
Indian, and hates everything American.  Ask Forsyth."

"The Indian agent?"

"Yes, he knows.  He's already written Governor Reynolds, and I saw the
letter.  His word is that Keokuk is powerless to hold back an
explosion; he and the Hawk are open enemies, and with the first advance
of settlers along the Rock River Valley this whole border is going to
be bathed in blood.  And look what we've got to fight it with."

"Thockmorton told me," I explained, "that Atkinson is preparing to send
in more troops; he expects to bring a load north with him on his next
trip."

"From Jefferson?"

"Yes; they are concentrating there."

"How many regulars are there?"

"About four hundred from the First and Sixth regiments."

He laughed scornfully.

"I thought so.  That means that Atkinson may send two or three hundred
men, half of them recruits, to be scattered between Madison, Armstrong
and Crawford.  Say we are lucky enough to get a hundred or a hundred
and fifty of them stationed here.  Why, man, there are five hundred
warriors in Black Hawk's camp at this minute, and that is only fifteen
miles away.  Within ten days he could rally to him Kickapoos,
Potawatamies and Winnebagoes in sufficient force to crush us like an
eggshell.  Why, Gaines ought to be here himself, with a thousand
regulars behind him."

"Surely we can defend Armstrong," broke in a confident voice.  "The
savages would have to attack in canoes."

Hartley turned, and confronted the speaker.

"In canoes!" he exclaimed.  "Why, may I ask?  With three hundred men
here in garrison, how many could we spare to patrol the island?  Not a
corporal's guard, if we retained enough to prevent an open assault on
the fort.  On any dark night they could land every warrior unknown to
us.  The Hawk knows that."

His voice had scarcely ceased when the boat whistle sounded hoarse from
the landing below.  Grasping my kit I shook hands all around, and left
them, hastening across the parade to the office.  Ten minutes later I
crossed the gangplank, and put foot for the first time on the deck of
the _Warrior_.  Evidently the crew had been awaiting my arrival to push
off, for instantly the whistle shrieked again, and immediately after
the boat began to churn its way out into the river current, with bow
pointing down stream.  Little groups of officers and enlisted men
gathered high up on the rocky headland to watch us getting under way,
and I lingered beside the rail, waving to them, as the struggling boat
swept down, constantly increasing its speed.  Even when the last of
those black spots had vanished in the far distance, the flag on the
high staff remained clearly outlined against the sky, a symbol of
civilization in the midst of that vast savage wilderness.  Thockmorton
leaned out from the open window of the pilot house and hailed me.

"Put your dunnage in the third cabin, Knox--here, you, Sam, lay hold
and help."

It was nothing to boast of, that third cabin, being a mere hole,
measuring possibly about four feet by seven, but sufficient for
sleeping quarters, and was reasonably clean.  It failed, however, in
attractiveness sufficient to keep me below, and as soon as I had
deposited my bag and indulged in a somewhat captious scrutiny of the
bedding, I very willingly returned to the outside and clambered up a
steep ladder to the upper deck.

The view from this point was a most attractive one.  The little steamer
struggled forward through the swift, swirling water, keeping nearly in
the center of the broad stream, the white spray flung high by her
churning wheel and sparkling like diamonds in the sunshine.  Lightly
loaded, a mere chip on the mighty current, she seemed to fly like a
bird, impelled not only by the force of her engines, but swept
irresistibly on by the grasp of the waters.  We were already skirting
the willow-clad islands, green and dense with foliage to the river's
edge; and beyond these could gain tantalizing glimpses of the mouth of
the Rock, its waters gleaming like silver between grassy banks.  The
opposite shore appeared dark and gloomy in comparison, with great
rock-crowned bluffs outlined against the sky, occasionally assuming
grotesque forms, which the boatmen pointed out as familiar landmarks.

Once we narrowly escaped collision with a speeding Indian canoe,
containing two frightened occupants, so intent upon saving themselves
they never even glanced up until we had swept by.  Thockmorton laughed
heartily at their desperate struggle in the swell, and several of the
crew ran to the stern to watch the little cockle-shell toss about in
the waves.  It was when I turned also, the better to assure myself of
their safety, that I discovered Judge Beaucaire standing close beside
me at the low rail.  Our eyes met inquiringly, and he bowed with all
the ceremony of the old school.

"A new passenger on board, I think, sir," and his deep, resonant voice
left a pleasant impression.  "You must have joined our company at Fort
Armstrong?"

"Your supposition is correct," I answered, some peculiar constraint
preventing me from referring to my military rank.  "My name is Knox,
and I have been about the island for a few weeks.  I believe you are
Judge Beaucaire of Missouri?"

He was a splendidly proportioned man, with deep chest, great breadth of
shoulders, and strong individual face, yet bearing unmistakable signs
of dissipation, together with numerous marks of both care and age.

"I feel the honor of your recognition, sir," he said with dignity.
"Knox, I believe you said?  Of the Knox family at Cape Girardeau, may I
inquire?"

"No connection to my knowledge; my home was at Wheeling."

"Ah!  I have never been so far east; indeed the extent of my travels
along the beautiful Ohio has only been to the Falls.  The Beaucaires
were originally from Louisiana."

"You must have been among the earlier settlers of Missouri?"

"Before the Americans came, sir," proudly.  "My grandfather arrived at
Beaucaire Landing during the old French regime; but doubtless you know
all this?"

"No, Judge," I answered, recognizing the egotism of the man, but
believing frankness to be the best policy.  "This happens to be my
first trip on the upper river, and I merely chanced to know your name
because you had been pointed out to me by Captain Thockmorton.  I
understood from him that you represented one of the oldest families in
that section."

"There were but very few here before us," he answered, with undisguised
pride.  "Mostly wilderness outcasts, _voyageurs_, _coureurs de bois_;
but my grandfather's grant of land was from the King.  Alphonse de
Beaucaire, sir, was the trusted lieutenant of D'Iberville--a soldier,
and a gentleman."

I bowed in acknowledgment the family arrogance of the man interesting
me deeply.  So evident was this pride of ancestry that a sudden
suspicion flared into my mind that this might be all the man had
left--this memory of the past.

"The history of those early days is not altogether familiar to me," I
admitted regretfully.  "But surely D'Iberville must have ruled in
Louisiana more than one hundred years ago?"

The Judge smiled.

"Quite true.  This grant of ours was practically his last official act.
Alphonse de Beaucaire took possession in 1712, one hundred and twenty
years ago, sir.  I was myself born at Beaucaire, sixty-eight years ago."

"I should have guessed you as ten years younger.  And the estate still
remains in its original grant?"

The smile of condescension deserted his eyes, and his thin lips pressed
tightly together.

"I--I regret not; many of the later years have proven disastrous in the
extreme," he admitted, hesitatingly.  "You will pardon me, sir, if I
decline to discuss misfortune.  Ah, Monsieur Kirby!  I have been
awaiting you.  Have you met with this young man who came aboard at Fort
Armstrong?  I--I am unable to recall the name."

"Steven Knox."

I felt the firm, strong grip of the other's hand, and looked straight
into his dark eyes.  They were like a mask.  While, indeed, they seemed
to smile in friendly greeting, they yet remained expressionless, and I
was glad when the gripping fingers released mine.  The face into which
I looked was long, firm-jawed, slightly swarthy, a tightly-clipped
black moustache shadowing the upper lip.  It was a reckless face, yet
appeared carved from marble.

"Exceedingly pleased to meet you," he said carelessly.  "Rather a dull
lot on board--miners, and such cattle.  Bound for St. Louis?"

"Yes--and beyond."

"Shall see more of you then.  Well, Judge, how do you feel?  Carver and
McAfee are waiting for us down below."

The two disappeared together down the ladder, and I was again left
alone in my occupancy of the upper deck.

HISTORY OF THE BEAUCAIRES

The first two days and nights of the journey southward were devoid of
any special interest or adventure.  The lonely river, wrapped in the
silence of the wilderness, brought to me many a picture of loveliness,
yet finally the monotony of it all left the mind drowsy with
repetition.  Around each tree-crowned bend we swept, skirting shores so
similar as to scarcely enable us to realize our progress.  In spite of
the fact that the staunch little _Warrior_ was proceeding down stream,
progress was slow because of the unmarked channel, and the ever-present
danger of encountering snags.  The intense darkness and fog of the
first night compelled tying up for several hours.  The banks were low,
densely covered with shrubbery, and nothing broke the sameness of the
river scene, except the occasional sight of an Indian canoe skimming
across its surface.  Towns there were none, and seldom even a sign of a
settlement greeted the eye on either shore.  The only landings were
made at Yellow Banks, where there was a squalid group of log huts, and
Fort Madison, where I spent a pleasant hour with the officers of the
garrison.  Occasionally the boat warped in against the bank to
replenish its exhausted supply of wood, the crew attacking the
surrounding trees with axes, while the wearied passengers exercised
their cramped limbs ashore.  Once, with some hours at our disposal, we
organized a hunt, returning with a variety of wild game.  But most of
the time I idled the hours away alone.

No one aboard really attracted my companionship.  The lead miners were
a rough set, boasting and quarrelsome, spending the greater part of
their time at the bar.  They had several fights, in one of which a man
was seriously stabbed, so that he had to be left in care of the
post-surgeon at Madison.  After the first day Kirby withdrew all
attention from me, and ceased in his endeavor to cultivate my
acquaintance, convinced of my disinclination to indulge in cards.  This
I did not regret, although Beaucaire rather interested me, but, as the
gambler seldom permitted the Judge out of his sight, our intimacy grew
very slowly.  Thockmorton, being his own pilot, seldom left the
wheelhouse, and consequently I passed many hours on the bench beside
him, gazing out on the wide expanse of river, and listening to his
reminiscences of early steam-boating days.  He was an intelligent man,
with a fund of anecdote, acquainted with every landmark, every
whispered tale of the great stream from New Orleans to Prairie du
Chien.  At one time or another he had met the famous characters along
the river banks, and through continual questioning I thus finally
became possessed of the story of the house of Beaucaire.

In the main it contained no unusual features.  Through the personal
influence of D'Iberville at Louis' court, Alphonse de Beaucaire had
originally received a royal grant of ten thousand acres of land
bordering the west bank of the Mississippi a few miles above St. Louis.
When his master returned to France leaving him unemployed, Beaucaire,
possessing ample means of his own, had preferred to remain in America.
In flatboats, propelled by _voyageurs_, and accompanied by a
considerable retinue of slaves, he, with his family, had ascended the
river, and finally settled on his princely estate.  Here he erected
what, for those early days, was a stately mansion, and devoted himself
to cultivating the land.  Twenty years later, when his death occurred,
he possessed the finest property along the upper river, was shipping
heavily to the New Orleans market, and was probably the most
influential man in all that section.  His home was considered a palace,
always open to frontier hospitality, the number of his slaves had
increased, a large proportion of his land was utilized, and his name
was a familiar one the length of the river.

His only son, Felipe, succeeded him, but was not so successful in
administration, seriously lacking in business judgment, and being
decidedly indolent by nature.  Felipe married into one of the oldest
and most respectable families of St. Louis, and, as a result of that
union, had one son, Lucius, who grew up reckless of restraint, and
preferred to spend his time in New Orleans, rather than upon the
plantation.  Lucius was a young man of twenty-six, unsettled in habits
when the father died, and, against his inclination, was compelled to
return to Missouri and assume control of the property.  He found
matters in rather bad condition, and his was not at all the type of
mind to remedy them.  Much of the land had been already irretrievably
lost through speculation, and, when his father's obligations had been
met, and his own gambling debts paid, the estate, once so princely and
magnificent, was reduced to barely five hundred acres, together with a
comparatively small amount of cash.  This condition sufficed to sober
Lucius for a few years, and he married a Menard, of Cape Girardeau, of
excellent family but not great wealth, and earnestly endeavored to
rebuild his fortunes.  Unfortunately his reform did not last.  The evil
influences of the past soon proved too strong for one of his
temperament.  A small town, redolent of all the vices of the river,
grew up about the Landing, while friends of other days sought his
hospitality.  The plantation house became in time a rendezvous for all
the wild spirits of that neighborhood, and stories of fierce drinking
bouts and mad gambling were current in St. Louis.

Common as such tales as these were in those early days of the West, I
still remained boy enough in heart to feel a fascination in
Thockmorton's narrative.  Besides, there was at the time so little else
to occupy my mind that it inevitably drifted back to the same topic.

"Have you ever been at Beaucaire, Captain?" I asked, eager for more
intimate details.

"We always stop at the Landing, but I have only once been up the bluff
to where the house stands.  It must have been a beautiful place in its
day; it is imposing even now, but showing signs of neglect and abuse.
The Judge was away from home--in St. Louis, I believe--the day of my
visit.  He had sold me some timber, and I went out with the family
lawyer, a man named Haines living at the Landing, to look it over."

"The house was closed?"

"No; it is never closed.  The housekeeper was there, and also the two
daughters."

"Daughters?"

"Certainly; hadn't I told you about them?  Both girls are accepted as
his daughters; but, if all I have heard is true, one must be a
granddaughter."  He paused reminiscently, his eyes on the river.  "To
all appearances they are about of the same age, but differing rather
widely in looks and character.  Both are attractive girls I judge,
although I only had a glimpse of them, and at the time knew nothing of
the difference in relationship.  I naturally supposed them to be
sisters, until Haines and I got to talking about the matter on the way
back.  Pshaw, Knox, you've got me gossiping like an old woman."

I glanced aside at his face.

"This, then, is not common river talk? the truth is not generally
known?"

"No; I have never heard it mentioned elsewhere, nor have I previously
repeated the story.  However, now that the suggestion has slipped out,
perhaps I had better go ahead and explain."  He puffed at his pipe, and
I waited, seemingly intent on the scene without.  The captain was a
minute or two in deciding how far he would venture.  "Haines told me a
number of strange things about that family I had never heard before,"
he admitted at last.  "You see he has known them for years, and
attended to most of Beaucaire's legal business.  I don't know why he
chanced to take me into his confidence, only he had been drinking some,
and, I reckon, was a bit lonely for companionship; then those two girls
interested me, and I asked quite a few questions about them.  At first
Haines was close as a clam, but finally loosened up, and this is about
how the story runs, as he told it.  It wasn't generally known, but it
seems that Lucius Beaucaire has been married twice--the first time to a
Creole girl in New Orleans when he was scarcely more than a boy.
Nobody now living probably knows what ever became of her, but likely
she died early; anyway she never came north, or has since been heard
from.  The important part is that she gave birth to a son, who remained
in New Orleans, probably in her care, until he was fourteen or fifteen
years old.  Then some occurrence, possibly his mother's death, caused
the Judge to send for the lad, whose name was Adelbert, and had him
brought to Missouri.  All this happened before Haines settled at the
Landing, and previous to Beaucaire's second marriage to Mademoiselle
Menard.  Bert, as the boy was called, grew up wild, and father and son
quarreled so continuously that finally, and before he was twenty, the
latter ran away, and has never been heard of since.  All they ever
learned was that he drifted down the river on a flatboat."

"And he never came back?"

"Not even a letter.  He simply disappeared, and no one knows to this
day whether he is alive or dead.  At least if Judge Beaucaire ever
received any word from him he never confessed as much to Haines.
However, the boy left behind tangible evidence of his existence."

"You mean--"

"In the form of a child, born to a quadroon slave girl named Delia.
The mother, it seems, was able in some way to convince the Judge of the
child's parentage.  All this happened shortly before Beaucaire's second
marriage, and previous to the time when Haines came to the Landing.
Exactly what occurred is not clear, or what explanation was made to the
bride.  The affair must have cut Beaucaire's pride deeply, but he had
to face the conditions.  It ended in his making the girl Delia his
housekeeper, while her child--the offspring of Adelbert Beaucaire--was
brought up as a daughter.  A year or so later, the second wife gave
birth to a female child, and those two girls have grown up together
exactly as though they were sisters.  Haines insists that neither of
them knows to this day otherwise."

"But that would be simply impossible," I insisted.  "The mother would
never permit."

"The mother! which mother?  The slave mother could gain nothing by
confession; and the Judge's wife died when her baby was less than two
years old.  Delia practically mothered the both of them, and is still
in complete charge of the house."

"You met her?"

"She was pointed out to me--a gray-haired, dignified woman, so nearly
white as scarcely to be suspected of negro blood."

"Yet still a slave?"

"I cannot answer that.  Haines himself did not know.  If manumission
papers had ever been executed it was done early, before he took charge
of Beaucaire's legal affairs.  The matter never came to his attention."

"But surely he must at some time have discussed this with the Judge?"

"No; at least not directly.  Beaucaire is not a man to approach easily.
He is excessively proud, and possesses a fiery temper.  Once, Haines
told me, he ventured a hint, but was rebuffed so fiercely as never to
make a second attempt.  It was his opinion the Judge actually hated the
sight of his son's child, and only harbored her in the house because he
was compelled to do so.  All Haines really knew about these conditions
had been told him secretly by an old negro slave, probably the only one
left on the estate knowing the facts."

"But, Captain," I exclaimed, "do you realize what this might mean?  If
Judge Beaucaire has not issued papers of freedom, this woman Delia is
still a slave."

"Certainly."

"And under the law her child was born into slavery?"

"No doubt of that."

"But the unspeakable horror of it--this young woman brought up as free,
educated and refined, suddenly to discover herself to be a negro under
the law, and a slave.  Why, suppose Beaucaire should die, or lose his
property suddenly, she could be sold to the cotton fields, into bondage
to anyone who would pay the price for her."

Thockmorton knocked the ashes out of his pipe.

"Of course," he admitted slowly.  "There is no question as to the law,
but I have little doubt but what Beaucaire has attended to this matter
long ago.  If he dies, the papers will be found hidden away somewhere.
It is beyond conception that he could ever leave the girl to such a
fate."

I shook my head, obsessed with a shadow of doubt.

"A mistake men often make--the putting off to the last moment doing the
disagreeable task.  How many, expecting to live, delay the making of a
will until too late.  In this case I am unable to conceive why, if
Beaucaire has ever signed papers of freedom, for these two, the fact
remains unknown even to his lawyer.  One fact is certain, nothing
bearing upon the case has been recorded, or Haines would know of it."

"There is nothing on record, Haines assured himself as to that some
years ago.  The fact is, Knox, that while I hope this provision has
been made, there remains a doubt in my mind.  Beaucaire has traveled on
my boat several times, but he's an unsociable fellow; I don't like him;
he's not my kind.  If he still harbors hatred toward that run-away
son--and to my notion he is exactly that sort--he will never feel any
too kindly toward Delia, or her child.  If he has not freed them, that
will be the reason--no neglect, but a contemptible revenue."

"What are the two girls named?"

"Rene, and Eloise."

"Which one is the daughter?"

"Really, Lieutenant, I do not know.  You see I was never introduced,
but merely gained a glimpse of them in the garden.  I doubt if I would
recognize the one from the other now.  You see all this story was told
me later."

I sat there a long while, after he had gone below, the taciturn mate at
the wheel.  The low, wooded shores swept past in changing panorama, yet
I could not divorce my mind from this perplexing problem.  Totally
unknown to me as these two mysterious girls were, their strange story
fascinated my imagination.  What possible tragedy lay before them in
the years? what horrible revelation to wrench them asunder? to change
in a single instant the quiet current of their lives?  About them,
unseen as yet, lurked a grim specter, waiting only the opportunity to
grip them both in the fingers of disgrace, and make instant mock of all
their plans.  In spite of every effort, every lurking hope, some way I
could not rid myself of the thought that Beaucaire--either through
sheer neglect, or some instinct of bitter hatred--had failed to meet
the requirements of his duty.  Even as I sat there, struggling vainly
against this suspicion, the Judge himself came forth upon the lower
deck, and began pacing back and forth restlessly beside the rail.  It
was a struggle for me not to join him; the impetuousity of youth urging
me even to brave his anger in my eagerness to ascertain the whole
truth.  Yet I possessed sense enough, or discretion, to refrain,
realizing dimly that, not even in the remotest degree, had I any excuse
for such action.  This was no affair of mine.  Nor, indeed, would I
have found much opportunity for private conversation, for, only a
moment or two later, Kirby joined him, and the two remained together,
talking earnestly, until the gong called us all to supper.

Across the long table, bare of cloth, the coarse food served in pewter
dishes, I was struck by the drawn, ghastly look in Beaucaire's face.
He had aged perceptibly in the last few hours, and during the meal
scarcely exchanged a word with anyone, eating silently, his eyes
downcast.  Kirby, however, was the life of the company, and the miners
roared at his humorous stories, and anecdotes of adventure--while
outside it grew dark, and the little _Warrior_ struggled cautiously
through the waters, seeking the channel in the gloom.

CHAPTER IV

THE END OF THE GAME

Unconscious that the stage had thus been set for a great life drama, a
drama in which, through strange circumstances, I was destined to play
my part, amid stirring scenes of Indian war, and in surroundings that
would test my courage and manhood to the utter-most; yet, although I
heard it not, the hour had already struck, and I stood on the brink of
a tragedy beyond my power to avert.

I left the others still seated about the table, and returned alone to
the outer deck.  I had no plans for the evening, and retain now only
slight recollection as to the happenings of the next few hours, which I
passed quietly smoking in the darkened pilot house, conversing
occasionally with Thockmorton, who clung to the wheel, carefully
guiding his struggling boat through the night-draped waters.  The skill
with which he found passage through the enshrouding gloom, guided by
signs invisible to my eyes, aided only by a fellow busily casting a
lead line in the bows, and chanting the depth of water, was amazing.
Seemingly every flitting shadow brought its message, every faint
glimmer of starlight pointed the way to safety.

It must have been nearly midnight before I finally wearied of this, and
decided to seek a few hours' rest below, descending the short ladder,
and walking forward along the open deck for one last glance ahead.
Some time the next day we were to be in St. Louis, and this expectation
served to brighten my thoughts.  It was a dark night, but with a clear
sky, the myriad of stars overhead reflecting their lights along the
river surface, and bringing into bold relief the dense shadows of the
shores on either side.  The boat, using barely enough power to afford
steering way, swept majestically down stream, borne by the force of the
current, which veered from bank to bank.  We were moving scarcely
swifter than from eight to ten miles an hour, and the monotonous voice
of the man casting the lead line arose continuous through the brooding
silence.  The only other perceptible sounds were the exhaust of the
steam pipes and the splash of running water.  Thockmorton had told me
we were already approaching the mouth of the Illinois, and I lingered
against the rail, straining my eyes through the gloom hoping to gain a
distant glimpse of that beautiful stream.  We were skirting the eastern
shore, the wooded bank rising almost as high as our smokestack, and
completely shutting off all view of the horizon.

As I stood there, gripping the rail, half fearful lest we strike, the
furnace doors below were suddenly flung open for a fresh feeding of the
fire, and the red glare of the fire lit up the scene.  Close in against
the shore nestled a flatboat, evidently tied up for the night, and I
had a swift glimpse as we shot by of a startled man waving his arms,
and behind him a wildly barking dog.  An instant more and the vision
had vanished as quickly as it had appeared; even the dog's sharp bark
dying away in the distance.  The furnace doors banged shut, and all was
again darkness and silence.

I turned back along the deserted deck, only pausing a moment to glance
carelessly in through the front windows of the main cabin.  The forward
portion was wrapped in darkness, and unoccupied, but beyond, toward the
rear of the long salon, a considerable group of men were gathered
closely about a small table, above which a swinging lamp burned
brightly, the rays of light illuminating the various faces.  I
recognized several, and they were apparently a deeply interested group,
for, even at that distance, I could plainly note the excitement stamped
upon their countenances, and the nervousness with which they moved
about seeking clearer view.  There were so many closely wedged together
as to obstruct my vision of what was occurring, yet I felt no doubt but
that they watched a game of cards; a desperate struggle of chance,
involving no small sum to account for such intense feeling on the part
of mere onlookers.  Gambling was no novelty on the great river in those
days, gambling for high stakes, and surely no ordinary game, involving
a small sum, would ever arouse the depth of interest displayed by these
men.  Some instinct told me that the chief players would be Kirby and
Beaucaire, and, with quickening pulse, I opened the cabin door and
entered.

No one noted my approach, or so much as glanced up, the attention of
the crowd riveted upon the players.  There were four holding cards--the
Judge, Kirby, Carver, and McAfee; but I judged at a glance that the
latter two were merely in the game as a pretense, the betting having
already gone far beyond the limit of their resources.  Without a
thought as to the cards they held, my eyes sought the faces of the two
chief players, and then visioned the stakes displayed on the table
before them.  McAfee and Carter were clearly enough out of it, their
cards still gripped in their fingers, as they leaned breathlessly
forward to observe more closely the play.  The Judge sat upright, his
attitude strained, staring down at his hand, his face white, and eyes
burning feverishly.  That he had been drinking heavily was evident, but
Kirby fronted him in apparent cold indifference, his feelings
completely masked, with the cards he held bunched in his hands, and
entirely concealed from view.  No twitch of an eyelash, no quiver of a
muscle revealed his knowledge; his expressionless face might have been
carved out of stone.  Between the two rested a stack of gold coin, a
roll of crushed bills, and a legal paper of some kind, the exact nature
of which I could not determine.  I leaned forward, but could only
perceive that it bore the official stamp of some recording office--a
deed, perhaps, to some of the remaining acres of Beaucaire.  It was
evident that a fortune already rested on that table, awaiting the flip
of a card.  The silence, the breathless attention, convinced me that
the crisis had been reached--it was the Judge's move; he must cover the
last bet, or throw down his hand a loser.

Perspiration beaded his forehead, and he crunched the cards savagely in
his hands.  His glance swept past the crowd, as though he saw nothing
of their faces.

"Another drink, Sam," he called, the voice trembling.  He tossed down
the glass of liquor as though it were so much water, but made no other
effort to speak.  You could hear the strained breathing of the men.

"Well," said Kirby sneeringly, his cold gaze surveying his motionless
opponent.  "You seem to be taking your time.  Do you cover my bet?"

Someone laughed nervously, and a voice sang out over my shoulder, "You
might as well go the whole hog, Judge.  The niggers won't be no good
without the land ter work 'em on.  Fling 'em into the pot---they're as
good as money."

Beaucaire looked up, red-eyed, into the impassive countenance opposite.
His lips twitched, yet managed to make words issue between them.

"How about that, Kirby?" he asked hoarsely.  "Will you accept a bill of
sale?"

Kirby grinned, shuffling his hand carelessly.

"Why not? 'twon't be the first time I've played for niggers.  They are
worth so much gold down the river.  What have you got?"

"I can't tell that offhand," sullenly.  "About twenty field hands."

"And house servants?"

"Three or four."

The gambler's lips set more tightly, a dull gleam creeping into his
eyes.

"See here, Beaucaire," he hissed sharply.  "This is my game and I play
square and never squeal.  I know about what you've got, for I've looked
them over; thought we might get down to this sometime.  I can make a
pretty fair guess as to what your niggers are worth.  That's why I just
raised you ten thousand, and put up the money.  Now, if you think this
is a bluff, call me."

"What do you mean?"

"That I will accept your niggers as covering my bet."

"The field hands?"

Kirby smiled broadly.

"The whole bunch--field hands and house servants.  Most of them are
old; I doubt if all together they will bring that amount, but I'll take
the risk.  Throw in a blanket bill of sale, and we'll turn up our
cards.  If you won't do that, the pile is mine as it stands."

Beaucaire again wet his lips, staring at the uncovered cards in his
hands.  He could not lose; with what he held no combination was
possible which could beat him.  Yet, in spite of this knowledge, the
cold, sneering confidence of Kirby, brought with it a strange fear.
The man was a professional gambler.  What gave him such recklessness?
Why should he be so eager to risk such a sum on an inferior hand?
McAfee, sitting next him, leaned over, managed to gain swift glimpse at
what he held, and eagerly whispered to him a word of encouragement.
The Judge straightened up in his chair, grasped a filled glass some one
had placed at his elbow, and gulped down the contents.  The whispered
words, coupled with the fiery liquor, gave him fresh courage.

"By God, Kirby!  I'll do it!" he blurted out.  "You can't bluff me on
the hand I've got.  Give me a sheet of paper, somebody--yes, that will
do."

He scrawled a half-dozen lines, fairly digging the pen into the sheet
in his fierce eagerness, and then signed the document, flinging the
paper across toward Kirby.

"There, you blood-sucker," he cried insolently.  "Is that all right?
Will that do?"

The imperturbable gambler read it over slowly, carefully deciphering
each word, his thin lips tightly compressed.

"You might add the words, 'This includes every chattel slave legally
belonging to me,'" he said grimly.

"That is practically what I did say."

"Then you can certainly have no objection to putting it in the exact
words I choose," calmly.  "I intend to have what is coming to me if I
win, and I know the law."

Beaucaire angrily wrote in the required extra line.

"Now what?" he asked.

"Let McAfee there sign it as a witness, and then toss it over into the
pile."  He smiled, showing a line of white teeth beneath his moustache.
"Nice little pot, gentlemen--the Judge must hold some cards to take a
chance like that," the words uttered with a sneer.  "Fours, at least,
or maybe he has had the luck to pick a straight flush."

Beaucaire's face reddened, and his eyes grew hard.

"That's my business," he said tersely.  "Sign it, McAfee, and I'll call
this crowing cockerel.  You young fool, I played poker before you were
born.  There now, Kirby, I've covered your bet."

"Perhaps you would prefer to raise it?"

"You hell-hound--no!  That is my limit, and you know it.  Don't crawl
now, or do any more bluffing.  Show your hand--I've called you."

Kirby sat absolutely motionless, his cards lying face down upon the
table, the white fingers of one hand resting lightly upon them, the
other arm concealed.  He never once removed his gaze from Beaucaire's
face, and his expression did not change, except for the almost
insulting sneer on his lips.  The silence was profound, the deeply
interested men leaning forward, even holding their breath in intense
eagerness.  Each realized that a fortune lay on the table; knew that
the old Judge had madly staked his all on the value of those five
unseen cards gripped in his fingers.  Again, as though to bolster up
his shaken courage, he stared at the face of each, then lifted his
blood-shot eyes to the impassive face opposite.

"Beaucaire drew two kayards," whispered an excited voice near me.

"Hell! so did Kirby." replied another.  "They're both of 'em old hands."

The sharp exhaust of a distant steam pipe below punctuated the silence,
and several glanced about apprehensively.  As this noise ceased
Beaucaire lost all control over his nerves.

"Come on, play your hand," he demanded, "or I'll throw my cards in your
face."

The insinuating sneer on Kirby's lips changed into the semblance of a
smile.  Slowly, deliberately, never once glancing down at the face of
his cards, he turned them up one by one with his white fingers, his
challenging eyes on the Judge; but the others saw what was revealed---a
ten spot, a knave, a queen, a king, and an ace.

"Good God! a straight flush!" someone yelled excitedly.  "Damned if I
ever saw one before!"

For an instant Beaucaire never moved, never uttered a sound.  He seemed
to doubt the evidence of his own eyes, and to have lost the power of
speech.  Then from nerveless hands his own cards fell face downward,
still unrevealed, upon the table.  The next moment he was on his feet,
the chair in which he had been seated flung crashing behind him on the
deck.

"You thief!" he roared, "You dirty, low-down thief; I held four
aces--where did you get the fifth one?"

Kirby did not so much as move, nor betray even by change of expression
his sense of the situation.  Perhaps he anticipated just such an
explosion, and was fully prepared to meet it.  One hand still rested
easily on the table, the other remaining hidden.

"So you claim to have held four aces," he said coldly.  "Where are
they?"

McAfee swept the discarded hand face upward, and the crowd bending
forward to look saw four aces, and a king.

"That was the Judge's hand," he declared soberly.  "I saw it myself
before he called you, and told him to stay."

Kirby laughed, an ugly laugh showing his white teeth.

"The hell, you did?  Thought you knew a good poker hand, I reckon.
Well, you see I knew a better one, and it strikes me I am the one to
ask questions," he sneered.  "Look here, you men; I held one ace from
the shuffle.  Now what I want to know is, where Beaucaire ever got his
four?  Pleasant little trick of you two--only this time it failed to
work."

Beaucaire uttered one mad oath, and I endeavored to grasp him, but
missed my clutch.  The force of his lurching body as he sprang forward
upturned the table, the stakes jingling to the deck, but Kirby reached
his feet in time to avoid the shock.  His hand which had been hidden
shot out suddenly, the fingers grasping a revolver, but he did not
fire.  Before the Judge had gone half the distance, he stopped, reeled
suddenly, clutching at his throat, and plunged sideways.  His body
struck the upturned table, and McAfee and I grasped him, lowering the
stricken man gently to the floor.

CHAPTER V

KIRBY SHOWS HIS HAND

That scene, with all its surroundings, remains indelibly impressed upon
my memory.  It will never fade while I live.  The long, narrow, dingy
cabin of the little _Warrior_, its forward end unlighted and in shadow,
the single swinging lamp, suspended to a blackened beam above where the
table had stood, barely revealing through its smoky chimney the after
portion showing a row of stateroom doors on either side, some standing
ajar, and that crowd of excited men surging about the fallen body of
Judge Beaucaire, unable as yet to fully realize the exact nature of
what had occurred, but conscious of impending tragedy.  The air was
thick and stifling with tobacco smoke, redolent of the sickening fumes
of alcohol, and noisy with questioning voices, while above every other
sound might be distinguished the sharp pulsations of the laboring
engine just beneath our feet, the deck planks trembling to the
continuous throbbing.  The overturned table and chairs, the motionless
body of the fallen man, with Kirby standing erect just beyond, his face
as clear-cut under the glare of light as a cameo, the revolver yet
glistening in his extended hand, all composed a picture not easily
forgotten.

Still, this impression was only that of a brief instant.  With the next
I was upon my knees, lifting the fallen head, and seeking eagerly to
discern some lingering evidence of life in the inert, body.  There was
none, not so much as the faint flutter of a pulse, or suggestion of a
heart throb.  The man was already dead before he fell, dead before he
struck the overturned table.  Nothing any human effort might do would
help him now.  My eyes lifting from the white, ghastly face encountered
those of McAfee, and, without the utterance of a word, I read the
miner's verdict, and arose again to my feet.

"Judge Beaucaire is dead," I announced gravely.  "Nothing more can be
done for him now."

The pressing circle of men hemming us in fell back silently,
reverently, the sound of their voices sinking into a subdued murmur.
It had all occurred so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that even these
witnesses could scarcely grasp the truth.  They were dazed, leaderless,
struggling to restrain themselves.  As I stood there, almost
unconscious of their presence, still staring down at that upturned
face, now appearing manly and patrician in the strange dignity of its
death mask, a mad burst of anger swept me, a fierce yearning for
revenge--a feeling that this was no less a murder because Nature had
struck the blow.  With hot words of reproach upon my lips I gazed
across toward where Kirby had been standing a moment before.  The
gambler was no longer there--his place was vacant.

"Where is Kirby?" I asked, incredulous of his sudden disappearance.

For a moment no one answered; then a voice in the crowd croaked
hoarsely:

"He just slipped out through that after door to the deck--him and Bill
Carver."

"And the stakes?"

Another answered in a thin, piping treble.

"I reckon them two cusses took along the most ov it.  Enyhow 'tain't
yere, 'cept maybe a few coins that rolled tinder the table.  It wasn't
Joe Kirby who picked up the swag, fer I was a watchin' him, an' he
never onct let go ov his gun.  Thet damn sneak Carver must a did it,
an' then the two ov 'em just sorter nat'rally faded away through that
door thar."

McAfee swore through his black beard, the full truth swiftly dawning
upon him.

"Hell!" he exploded.  "So that's the way of it.  Then them two wus in
cahoots frum the beginnin'.  That's what I told the Jedge last night,
but he said he didn't give a whoop; thet he knew more poker than both
ov 'em put tergether.  I tell yer them fellers stole that money, an'
they killed Beaucaire--"

"Hold on a minute," I broke in, my mind cleared of its first passion,
and realizing the necessity of control.  "Let's keep cool, and go slow.
While I believe McAfee is right, we are not going to bring the Judge
back to life by turning into a mob.  There is no proof of cheating, and
Kirby has the law behind him.  Let me talk to the captain about what
had best be done."

"Who, Thockmorton?"

"Yes; he'll know the better action for us to take.  He's level-headed,
and an old friend of Beaucaire's."

"I'm fer swingin' that damn gambler up, without askin' nobody," shouted
a fellow fiercely.  "He's bin raisin' hell frum one end o' this river
ter the other fer ten years.  A rope is whut he needs."

"What good would that do in this case?" I questioned before anyone else
could chime in, "either to the dead man, or his family?  That's what I
am thinking about, men.  Suppose you strung him up, that money, the
plantation, and those slaves would still belong to him, or his heirs.
I'm for getting all these back, if there is any way of accomplishing
it.  See here, men," I pleaded earnestly, "this affair doesn't
necessarily end here on board the _Warrior_, and if you were to kill
Kirby it wouldn't benefit matters any."

"It would get rid ov a skunk."

"Yes, but he is only one of a hundred between here and New Orleans.
Look at the other side a minute.  Beaucaire bet everything he
possessed--everything, land, niggers, and money.  Kirby sneered him on
to it, and saw that he had the kind of a hand that would do the
business right.  When the Judge died he didn't own enough to pay his
funeral expenses.  Now see here; I happen to know that he left two
young daughters.  Just stop, and think of them.  We saw this game
played, and there isn't a man here who believes it was played on the
square--that two such hands were ever dealt, or drawn, in poker.  We
can't prove that Kirby manipulated things to that end; not one of us
saw how he worked the trick.  There is no chance to get him that way.
Then what is it we ought to do?  Why I say, make the thief
disgorge--and hanging won't do the business."

"Well then, what will?"

"I confess I do not yet know.  I want to talk with Thockmorton first.
He may know something."

There was a moment's silence, then a suspicious voice, "Who the hell
are you?  How do we know you ain't in on this yerself?"

"Listen, men," and I fronted them, looking straight into their eyes.
"You have a right to ask that question, and I'll tell you who I am.  I
am not here in uniform, but I am an officer of the United States Army.
Captain Thockmorton will vouch for that.  I pledge you my word that
this affair does not end here.  I never met any of these men until I
came on board the boat at Fort Armstrong, but I have letters with me
for Governor Clark of Missouri, and Governor Reynolds of Illinois.
Either man will accept my statement regarding this matter, and I
promise you that either Kirby and Carver will return the papers and
money before we reach St. Louis, or I'll swear out a warrant for their
arrest.  If you boys will stay with me we'll scare it out of them for
the sake of those girls.  What do you say?"

No one spoke immediately, although there was a muttering of voices,
sounding antagonistic, and sprinkled with oaths.  It was, indeed, a
poor time and place in which to appeal to the law, nor were these men
accustomed to the pleadings of mercy.  I glanced across Beaucaire's
extended body, and caught the eyes of McAfee.  The man lifted his hand.

"The leftenant has got this thing sized up about proper," he said
gruffly.  "He's an army officer all right, fer I saw him back thar on
the island, when we wus tied up at the dock.  Now look yere, boys, I'm
fer hangin' both ov them cusses just as much as eny ov the rest ov
yer--a bit more, I reckon, fer they stripped me ov my pile; along with
Beaucaire, only I was easier ter strip--but, as the leftenant says,
that ain't the p'int now.  What we want ter do is get back them bills
o' sale, so them two young women won't be left with nuthin' ter live
on.  Let's make the fellers cough up furst, an' then, if we think best,
we kin hang 'em afterwards.  It's my vote we let the leftenant tackle
the job--what do yer say?"

The rise and fall of voices, although punctuated by oaths, and
indistinct in expression, seemed generally to signify assent.  The
faces of the men, as they pushed and crowded about us, remained angry
and resentful.  Clearly enough prompt action alone would carry the day.

"Very well then, boys," I broke in sharply.  "You agree to leave this
settlement with me.  Then I'll go at it.  Two or three of you pick up
the body, and carry it to Beaucaire's stateroom--forward there.  The
rest of you better straighten up the cabin, while I go up and talk with
Thockmorton a moment.  After that I may want a few of you to go along
when I hunt up Kirby.  If he proves ugly we'll know how to handle him.
McAfee!"

"I'm over here."

"I was just going to say that you better stay here, and keep the
fellows all quiet in the cabin.  We don't want our plan to leak out,
and it will be best to let Kirby and Carver think that everything is
all right; that nothing is going to be done."

I waited while several of them gently picked up the body, and bore it
forward into the shadows.  Others busied themselves in straightening
the overturned furniture, and gathered into a small pile those few
scattered coins which had fallen to the deck, and been overlooked by
the two gamblers in their eagerness to escape.  No one attempted to
appropriate any of these.  McAfee apparently knew most of the fellows
intimately, calling them by name, and seemed to be recognized as a
leader among them.  This fact was encouraging, as to all appearance
they were a rough set, unaccustomed to law of any kind, and to be
controlled only by physical strength, and some one of their own sort.
In spite of my position and rank, I was far too young in appearance to
exercise much weight of authority over such border men, but fortunately
I possessed sufficient good sense to rely now in this emergency upon
the black-bearded McAfee, who served well.  His voice, strongly
resembling a foghorn, arose in threat and expostulation unceasingly,
and the miners, who evidently knew him well, and perhaps had previously
tested the weight of his fist, were lamb-like and obedient to his
control.

"They'll be quiet enough fer a while, leftenant," he managed to whisper
hoarsely to me.  "But they is jest boys growed up, an' if eny one o'
them should really take a notion ter raise hell, all the cussin' I
might do wouldn't make no diffrance.  Whatever yer aim at, better be
done right off, while I kin sorter keep 'em busy down yere; onct they
git loose on the deck the devil himself couldn't stop 'em frum startin'
a row."

This advice was so good that I slipped instantly away, silently gained
the door, and, unobserved, emerged on to the deserted deck without.
The sudden change in environment sobered me, and caused me to pause and
seriously consider the importance of my mission.  Through the thin
walls of the cabin the murmuring voices of those within became
indistinct, except as an occasional loudly spoken oath, or call, might
be distinguished.  The struggling _Warrior_ was close within the
looming shadows of the western shore, and seemed to be moving downward
more swiftly with the current, as though the controlling mind in the
darkened wheelhouse felt confident of clear water ahead.  The decks
throbbed to the increased pulsation of the engine, and I could plainly
hear the continuous splash of the great stern wheel as it flung spray
high into the air.

I paused a moment, hand gripping the rail, and eyes seeking vainly to
peer across the wide expanse of river, really fronting the situation
for the first time, and endeavoring to think out calmly some definite
course of action.  Thus far, spurred only by necessity, and a sense of
obligation, I had merely been blindly grasping at the first suggestion
which had occurred to mind.  The emergency had demanded action, rather
than reflection.  But now, on cooler consideration, and alone, the
result I sought did not appear so apparent, nor so easily attained.
Hitherto, in the midst of the excitement occasioned by Beaucaire's
tragic death, my mind had grasped but one idea clearly--if I permitted
Kirby to be mobbed and killed by those enraged men, his death would
benefit no one; would remedy no wrong.  That mad mob spirit must be
fought down, conquered.  Yet now, when I had actually accomplished
this, what must be my next step?  Nothing less potent than either fear,
or force, would ever make Kirby disgorge.  Quite evidently the gambler
had deliberately set out to ruin the planter, to rob him of every
dollar.  Even at the last moment he had coldly insisted on receiving a
bill of sale so worded as to leave no possible loophole.  He demanded
all.  The death of the Judge, of course, had not been contemplated, but
this in no way changed the result.  That was an accident, yet, I
imagined, might not be altogether unwelcome, and I could not rid my
memory of that shining weapon in Kirby's hand, or the thought that he
would have used it had the need arose.  Would he not then fight just as
fiercely to keep, as he had, to gain?  Indeed, I had but one fact upon
which I might hope to base action--every watcher believed those cards
had been stacked, and that Beaucaire was robbed by means of a trick.
Yet, could this be proven?  Would any one of those men actually swear
that he had seen a suspicious move?  If not, then what was there left
me except a mere bluff?  Absolutely nothing.

Gambling was a recognized institution, with which even the law did not
interfere.  Of course there were statutes in both Missouri and
Illinois, but no enforcement.  Indeed the gambling fraternity was so
firmly intrenched, through wealth and influence, that no steamer
captain even, autocratic as he often was, would dare encroach on their
prerogatives.  Interested as Thockmorton would be in serving
Beaucaire's dependents, and as much as he cordially disliked Kirby, all
I could rely upon from him in this emergency would be a certain moral
support, and possibly some valuable advice.  He would never dare ally
himself openly, for the cost of such action would be too high.  On the
other hand, from my knowledge of Kirby's desperate character, and
previous exploits, I seriously doubted the efficacy of threatening him
with lynch law.  He would be far more liable to defy a mob than yield
to its demands.  Yet memory of those two helpless girls--more
particularly that one over whose unconsciousness there hung the
possibility of slavery--urged me strongly to attempt even the
apparently impossible.  I had it in my mind to fight the man personally
if, in no other way, I could attain my end; at least I would face him
with every power and authority I could bring to bear.

With no other object in mind, and unarmed, never once dreaming of
attack, I advanced alone along the dark, narrow strip of deck, leading
toward the ladder which mounted to the wheelhouse.  There were no
lights, and I was practically compelled to feel my way by keeping one
hand upon the rail.  The steamer was sweeping around a great bend, and
a leadsman forward was calling the depth of water, his monotonous voice
chanting out strange river terms of guidance.  I had reached the foot
of the ladder, my fingers blindly seeking the iron rungs in the gloom,
when a figure, vague, indistinct, suddenly emerged from some denser
shadow and confronted me.  Indeed the earliest realization I had of any
other presence was a sharp pressure against my breast, and a low voice
breathing a menacing threat in my ear.

"I advise you not to move, you young fool.  This is a cocked pistol
tickling your ribs.  Where were you going?"

The black night veiled his face, but language and voice, an spite of
its low grumble, told me the speaker was Kirby.  The very coldness of
his tone served to send a chill through me.

"To have a word with Thockmorton," I answered, angered at my own fear,
and rendered reckless by that burst of passion.  "What do you mean by
your threat?  Haven't you robbed enough men already with cards without
resorting to a gun?"

"This is no robbery," and I knew by the sharpness of his reply my words
had stung, "and it might be well for you to keep a civil tongue in your
head.  I overheard what you said to those men in the cabin.  So you are
going to take care of me, are you?"  There was a touch of steel in the
low voice.  "Now listen, you brainless meddler.  Joe Kirby knows
exactly what he is doing when he plays any game.  I had nothing to do
with Beaucaire's death, but those stakes are mine.  I hold them, and I
will kill any man who dares to interfere with me."

"You mean you refuse to return any of this property?"

"Every cent, every nigger, every acre--that's my business.  Beaucaire
was no child; he knew what he was betting, and he lost."

"But," I insisted almost hopelessly, "perhaps you do not wholly
understand this matter--the entire situation.  Judge Beaucaire risked
every penny he possessed in the world."

"I suppose he did, but he expected to gain it all back again, with as
much more of mine."

"That may be true, Kirby.  I am not defending his action, but surely
this is no reason, now that he is dead, why you should not show some
degree of mercy to others totally innocent of any wrong.  The man left
two daughters, both young girls, who will now be homeless and
penniless."

He laughed, and the sound of that laugh was more cruel than the
accompanying words.

"Two daughters!" he sneered.  "According to my information that strains
the relationship a trifle, friend Knox--at least the late Judge never
took the trouble to acknowledge the fact.  Permit me to correct your
statement.  I happen to know more about Beaucaire's private affairs
than you do.  He leaves one daughter only.  I have never met the young
lady, but I understand from excellent authority that she possesses
independent means through the death some years ago of her mother.  I
shall therefore not worry about her loss--and, indeed, she need meet
with none, for if she only prove equal to all I have heard I may yet be
induced to make her a proposition."

"A proposition?"

"To remain on the plantation as its mistress--plainly an offer of
marriage, if you please.  Not such a bad idea, is it?"

I stood speechless, held motionless only by the pressing muzzle of his
pistol, the cold-blooded villainy of the man striking me dumb.  This
then had probably been his real purpose from the start.  He had
followed Beaucaire deliberately with this final end in view--of ruining
him, and thus compelling the daughter to yield herself.  He had egged
the man on, playing on the weakness of his nature, baiting him to
finally risk all on a game of chance, the real stake not the money on
the table, but the future of this young girl.

"You--you have never seen her?"

"No, but I have met those who have.  She is reported to be beautiful,
and, better still, worth fifty thousand dollars."

"And you actually mean that you propose now to force Judge Beaucaire's
daughter to marry you?"

"Well hardly that, although I shall use whatever means I possess.  I
intend to win her if I can, fair means, or foul."

I drew a deep breath, comprehending now the full iniquity of his plot,
and bracing myself to fight it.

"And what about the other girl, Kirby? for there is another girl."

"Yes," rather indifferently, "there is another."

"Of course you know who she is?"

"Certainly--a nigger, a white nigger; the supposed illegitimate
daughter of Adelbert Beaucaire, and a slave woman.  There is no reason
why I should fret about her, is there?  She is my property already by
law."  He laughed again, the same ugly sneering laugh of triumph, "That
was why I was so particular about the wording of that bill of sale--I
would rather have her than the whole bunch of field hands."

"You believe then the girl has never been freed--either she, or her
mother?"

"Believe?  I know.  I tell you I never play any game with my eyes shut."

"And you actually intend to--to hold her as a slave?"

"Well, I'll look her over first before I decide--she would be worth a
pot full of money down the river."

CHAPTER VI

INTO THE BLACK WATER

The contemptuous, utterly indifferent manner in which he voiced his
villainous purpose, would have crazed any man.  Perhaps he intended
that it should, although it was my belief that he merely expressed
himself naturally, and with no thought of consequences.  The man was so
steeped in crime as to be ignorant of all sense of honor, all
conception of true manhood.  But to me this utterance was the last
straw, breaking down every restraint, and leaving me hot, and furious
with anger.  I forgot the muzzle of the pistol pressed against my side,
and the menacing threat in Kirby's low voice.  The face of the man was
indistinct, a mere outline, but the swift impulse to strike at it was
irresistible, and I let him have the blow--a straight-arm jab to the
jaw.  My clinched knuckles crunched against the flesh, and he reeled
back, kept from falling only by the support of the deckhouse.  There
was no report of a weapon, no outcry, yet, before I could strike again,
I was suddenly gripped from behind by a pair of arms, which closed
about my throat like a vise, throttling me instantly into silent
helplessness.  I struggled madly to break free, straining with all the
art of a wrestler, exerting every ounce of strength, but the grasp
which held me was unyielding, robbing me of breath, and defeating every
effort to call for help; Kirby, dazed yet by my sudden blow, and eager
to take a hand in the affray, struck me a cowardly blow in the face,
and swung his undischarged pistol to a level with my eyes.

"Damn you!" he ejaculated, and for the first time his voice really
exhibited temper.  "I'd kill you with this, but for the noise.  No, by
God! there is a safer way than that to settle with you.  Have you got
the skunk, Carver?"

"You can bet I have, Joe.  I kin choke the life out o' him--shall I?"

"No; let up a bit--just enough so he can answer me first, I want to
find out what all this means.  Now look here, Knox, you're an army
officer, are you?"

"Yes," I managed to gasp, sobbing in an effort to catch breath, as the
iron fingers at my throat relaxed slightly.

"Well then, what is all this to you?  Why are you butting in on my
game?  Was Beaucaire a friend of yours?"

"I can hardly claim that," I admitted.  "We never met until I came
aboard this steamer.  All I am interested in is justice to others."

"To others?  Oh, I suppose you mean those girls--you know them then?"

"I have never even seen them," I said, now speaking more easily.
"Thockmorton chanced to tell me about them yesterday, and their
condition appealed to me, just as it naturally would to any true man.
I thought probably you did not understand the situation, and hoped that
if I told you the truth you might respond."

"Oh, you did, did you?  You must have figured me as being pretty soft.
Well, what do you think now?"

His tone so completely ended my hope of compromise that I replied
hotly, "That you are a dirty, piratical cur.  I may have doubted your
purpose at first, for I am not used to your kind, but this is so no
longer.  You deliberately ruined and robbed Beaucaire, in order to gain
possession of these two girls.  You have admitted as much."

He laughed, in no way angered by my plain speech; indeed it almost
seemed as though he felt complimented.

"Hardly admit, my friend, for that is not my style.  I let others do
the guessing.  What do you think of that, Carver?  It seems we rank
rather high in the estimation of the young man."  His eyes again
centered on me.  "And you are really not acquainted with either of the
ladies?"

"No."

"I see; a self-appointed squire of dames; actuated merely by a romantic
desire to serve beauty in distress.  Extremely interesting, my dear
boy.  But, see here, Knox," and his tone changed to seriousness.  "Let
the romance go, and talk sense a minute.  You are not going to get very
far fighting me alone.  You haven't even got the law with you.  Even if
I cheated Beaucaire, which I do not for a moment admit, there is no
proof.  The money is mine, and so is the land, and the niggers.  You
can be ugly, of course, but you cannot overturn the facts.  Now I don't
care a whoop in hell for that bunch of miners back there in the cabin.
If left alone they will forget all about this affair in an hour.  It's
nothing to them, and they are no angels if it was.  But, in a way, it
is different with you.  I understand that, and also that you are in a
position where you might make me some trouble.  People would listen to
what you had to say--and some of them might believe you.  Now you
acknowledge that what has occurred is personally nothing to you;
Beaucaire was no special friend, and you don't even know the two
girls--all right then, drop the whole matter.  I hold no grudge on
account of your striking me, and am even willing to share up with you
to avoid trouble."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then, of course, we shall be compelled to shut your mouth for you.
Self preservation is the first law."

"Which simply means that you intend to go on, and yield nothing?"

"That is about right.  We'll hold tight to what we've got--hey, Carver?"

"That's allers bin my way o' doin' business," chimed in the other
brutally.  "An' we've sure got you, mister soldier man, where we kin
handle yer, I reckon."

I looked about at them both, scarcely able to distinguish clearly even
their outlines in the dense gloom.  The seriousness of my situation,
coupled with my helplessness, and inability to achieve the object
proposed, was very evident.  These men were reckless, and determined,
unable to even grasp my point of view.  It might, under these
circumstances, have been the part of wisdom to me to have sought some
means of compromise, but I was young and hot, fiery blood swept through
my veins.  The words of Kirby stung me with their breath of insult--his
sneering, insolent offer to pay me to remain still.

"You must rank me as one of your own kind," I burst forth.  "Now you
listen to a plain word from me.  If that was intended as an offer, I
refuse it.  When I first left the cabin, and came here on deck, I
honestly believed I could talk with you, Kirby, appeal to your better
nature, and gain some consideration for those two girls.  Now I know
better.  From the start this has been the working out of a deliberately
planned plot.  You, and your confederate, have coolly robbed Beaucaire,
and propose to get away with the spoils.  Perhaps you will, but that
end will not be accomplished through any assistance of mine.  At first
I only felt a slight interest in the affair, but from now on I am going
to fight you fellows with every weapon I possess."

Kirby chuckled, apparently greatly amused.

"Quite glad, I am sure, for the declaration of war.  Fighting has
always agreed with me.  Might I ask the nature of those weapons?"

"That remains for you to discover," I ejaculated sharply, exasperated
by his evident contempt.  "Carver, take your dirty hands off of me."

In spite of the fact of their threat, the ready pistol pressing against
my ribs, the grip of Carver's fingers at my throat, I did not
anticipate any actual assault.  That either would really dare injure me
seemed preposterous.  Indeed my impression was, that Kirby felt such
indifference toward my attempt to block his plan, that he would permit
me to pass without opposition--certainly without the slightest resort
to violence.  The action of the two was so swift, so concerted, as
though to some secret signal, that, almost before I realized their
purpose, they held me helplessly struggling, and had forced me back
against the low rail.  Here I endeavored to break away, to shout an
alarm, but was already too late.  Carver's hands closed remorselessly
on my throat, and, when I managed to strike out madly with one free
fist, the butt of Kirby's pistol descended on my head, so lacerating my
scalp the dripping blood blinded my eyes.  The blow partially stunned
me, and I half fell, clutching at the rail, yet dimly conscious that
the two straining men were uplifting my useless body.  Carver swearing
viciously as he helped to thrust me outward over the wooden bar.  The
next instant I fell, the sneering cackle of Kirby's laugh of triumph
echoing in my ears until drowned in the splash as I struck the black
water below.

I came back to the surface dazed and weakened, yet sufficiently
conscious to make an intelligent struggle for life.  The over-hang of
the rapidly passing boat still concealed me from the observation of
those above on the deck, and the advantage of permitting them to
believe that the blow on my head had resulted in drowning, together
with the knowledge that I must swiftly get beyond the stroke of that
deadly wheel, flashed instantly through my brain.  It was like a tonic,
reviving every energy.  Waiting only to inhale one deep breath of air,
I plunged back once more into the depths, and swam strongly under
water.  The effort proved successful, for when I again ventured to
emerge, gasping and exhausted, the little _Warrior_ had swept past, and
become merely a shapeless outline, barely visible above the surface at
the river.  Even if the two men had rushed to the stern, seeking thus
to ascertain what had happened to their victim, they could not have
detected my presence in that darkness, or determined whether or not I
had met death in the depths, or been crushed lifeless by those
revolving paddles.

Slowly treading water, my lips held barely above the surface, I drew in
deep draughts of cool night air, my mind becoming more active as hope
returned.  The blow I had received was a savage one, and pained dully,
but the cold water in which I had been immersed had caused the bleeding
to cease, and likewise revived all my faculties.  The water was so icy,
still fed by the winter snow of the north, as to make me conscious of
chill, and awaken within me a fear of cramps.  The steamer melted
swiftly away into nothingness, and the last indication of its presence
in the distance was the faint gleam of a stern light piercing the night
shadows.  The very fact that no effort was made to stop was sufficient
proof that Thockmorton in the wheelhouse remained unconscious of what
had occurred on the deck below.  My fate might never be discovered, or
suspected.  I was alone, submerged in the great river, the stars
overhead alone piercing the night shadows.  They seemed cold, and far
away, their dull glow barely sufficient to reveal the dim outline of
the western shore; and even this would have remained invisible except
for the trees lining the higher bank beyond, and silhouetted against
the slightly lighter background of sky.  In the other direction all was
apparently water, a turbulent waste, and one glance deciding my action,
I quickly struck out, partially breasting the downward sweep of the
current, in a desperate struggle to attain land.

I discovered this to be no easy task, as the swirl of the river bore
strongly toward the opposite shore, yet I had always been a powerful
swimmer, and although now seriously hampered by boots, and heavy,
sodden clothing, succeeded in making steady progress.  A log swept by
me, white bursts of spray illuminating its sides, and I grappled it
gratefully, my fingers finding grip on the sodden bark.  Using this for
partial support, and ceasing to battle so desperately against the
down-sweep of the current, I managed finally to work my way into an
eddy, struggling onward until my feet at last touched bottom at the end
of a low, out-cropping point of sand.  This proved to be a mere spit,
but I waded ashore, water streaming from my clothing, conscious now of
such complete exhaustion that I sank instantly outstretched upon the
sand, gasping painfully for breath, every muscle and nerve throbbing.

The night was intensely still, black, impenetrable.  It seemed as
though no human being could inhabit that desolate region.  I lifted my
head to listen for the slightest sound of life, and strained my eyes to
detect the distant glimmer of a light in any direction.  Nothing
rewarded the effort.  Yet surely along here on this long-settled west
bank of the Mississippi I could not be far removed from those of my
race, for I knew that all along this river shore were cultivated
plantations and little frontier towns irregularly served by passing
steamboats.  We had not been far to the northward of St. Louis at
midnight, and Thockmorton confidently expected to tie up the _Warrior_
at the wharf before that city early the next morning.  So, surely,
somewhere near at hand, concealed amid the gloom, would be discovered
the habitations of men--either the pretentious mansion of some
prosperous planter, or the humble huts of his black slaves.  Could I
attain to either one I would be certain of welcome, for hospitality
without questioning was the code of the frontier.

The night air increased in chilliness as the hours approached dawn, and
I shivered in my wet clothes, although this only served to arouse me
into immediate action.  Realizing more than ever as I again attempted
to move my weakness and exhaustion from struggle, I succeeded in
gaining my feet, and stumbled forward along the narrow spit of sand,
until I attained a bank of firm earth, up which I crept painfully,
emerging at last upon a fairly level spot, softly carpeted with grass,
and surrounded by a grove of forest trees.  The shadows here were
dense, but my feet encountered a depression in the soil, which I soon
identified as a rather well-defined path leading inland.  Assured that
this must point the way to some door, as it was evidently no wild
animal trail, I felt my way forward cautiously, eager to attain
shelter, and the comfort of a fire.

The grove was of limited extent, and, as I emerged from beneath its
shadow, I came suddenly to a patch of cultivated land, bisected by a
small stream, the path I was following leading along its bank.  Holding
to this for guidance, within less than a hundred yards I came to the
house I was seeking, a small, log structure, overshadowed by a gigantic
oak, and standing isolated and alone.  It appeared dark and silent,
although evidently inhabited, as an axe stood leaning against the jamb
of the door, while a variety of utensils were scattered about.
Believing the place to be occupied by a slave, or possibly some white
squatter, I advanced directly to the door, and called loudly to whoever
might be within.

There was no response, and, believing the occupant asleep, I used the
axe handle, rapping sharply.  Still no voice answered, although I felt
convinced of some movement inside, leading me to believe that the
sleeper had slipped from his bed and was approaching the door.  Again I
rapped, this time with greater impatience over the delay, but not the
slightest sound rewarded the effort Shivering there in my wet clothes,
the stubborn obduracy of the fellow awakened my anger.

"Open up, there," I called commandingly, "or else I'll take this axe
and break down your door."

In the darkness I had been unobservant of a narrow slide in the upper
panel, but had scarcely uttered these words of threat when the flare of
a discharge almost in my very face fairly blinded me, and I fell
backward, aware of a burning sensation in one shoulder.  The next
instant I lay outstretched on the ground, and it seemed to me that life
was fast ebbing from my body.  Twice I endeavored vainly to rise, but
at the second attempt my brain reeled dizzily and I sank back
unconscious.

CHAPTER VII

PICKING UP THE THREADS

I turned my head slightly on the hard shuck pillow and gazed curiously
about.  When my eyes had first opened all I could perceive was the
section of log wall against which I rested, but now, after painfully
turning over, the entire interior of the single-room cabin was
revealed.  It was humble enough in all its appointments, the walls
quite bare, the few chairs fashioned from half-barrels, a packing box
for a table, and the narrow bed on which I lay constructed from
saplings lashed together, covered with a coarse ticking, packed with
straw.  The floor was of hard, dry clay; a few live coals remained,
smoking in the open fireplace, while a number of garments, among them
to be recognized my own clothing, dangled from wooden pegs driven into
the chinks of the farther wall.  I surveyed the entire circuit of the
room wonderingly, a vague memory of what had lately occurred returning
slowly to mind.  To all appearances I was there alone, although close
beside me stood a low stool, supporting a tin basin partially filled
with water.  As I moved I became conscious of a dull pain in my left
shoulder, which I also discovered to be tightly bandaged.  It was late
in the day, for the rays of the sun streamed in through the single
window, and lay a pool of gold along the center of the floor.

I presume it was not long, yet my thoughts were so busy it seemed as if
I must have been lying there undisturbed for some time, before the door
opened quietly, and I became aware of another occupant of the room.
Paying no attention to me he crossed to the fireplace, stirred the few
smouldering embers into flame, placing upon these some bits of dried
wood, and then idly watched as they caught fire.  The newcomer was a
negro, gray-haired but still vigorous, evidently a powerful fellow
judging from his breadth of shoulder, and possessing a face denoting
considerable intelligence.  Finally he straightened up and faced me,
his eyes widening with interest as he caught mine fastened upon him,
his thick lips instantly parting in a good-natured grin.

"De good Lord be praised!" he ejaculated, in undisguised delight.  "Is
yer really awake agin, honey?  De docthar say he done thought ye'd cum
round by terday sure, sah.  Enyhow I's almighty glad fer ter see yer
wid dem eyes open onct mor'--yas, sah, I sure am."

"The doctor?" I questioned in surprise, my voice sounding strange and
far away.  "Have I been here long?"

"Goin' on 'bout ten days, sah.  Yer was powerful bad hurt an' out o'
yer head, I reckon."

"What was it that happened?  Did some one shoot me?"

The negro scratched his head, shuffling his bare feet uneasily on the
dirt floor.

"Yas, sah, Mister Knox," he admitted with reluctance.  "I's sure
powerful sorry, sah, but I was de boy whut plugged yer.  Yer see, sah,
it done happened dis-a-way," and his black face registered genuine
distress.  "Thar's a mean gang o' white folks 'round yere thet's took
it inter their heads ter lick every free nigger, an' when yer done come
up ter my door in de middle ob de night, a cussin', an' a-threatenin'
fer ter break in, I just nat'larly didn't wanter be licked, an'--an' so
I blazed away.  I's powerful sorry 'bout it now, sah."

"No doubt it was more my fault than yours.  You are a free negro, then?"

"Yas, sah.  I done belong onct ter Colonul Silas Carlton, sah, but
afore he died, just because I done saved his boy frum drownin' in de
ribber, de ol' Colonul he set me free, an' give me a patch o' lan' ter
raise corn on."

"What is your name?"

"Pete, sah.  Free Pete is whut mostly de white folks call me."  He
laughed, white teeth showing and the whites of his eyes.  "Yer see,
thar am a powerful lot o' Petes round 'bout yere, sah."

I drew a deep breath, conscious of weakness as I endeavored to change
position.

"All right, Pete; now I want to understand things clearly.  You shot
me, supposing I was making an assault on you.  Your bullet lodged in my
shoulder.  What happened then?"

"Well, after a while, sah, thar wan't no mor' noise, an' I reckoned I'd
either done hit yer er else ye'd run away.  An' thar ye wus, sah, a
lyin' on yer back like ye wus ded.  Just so soon as I saw ye, I know'd
as how ye never wus no nigger-hunter, but a stranger in des yere parts.
So I dragged ye inside de cabin, an' washed up yer hurts.  But ye never
got no bettah, so I got skeered, an' went hoofin' it down fer de
docthar at Beaucaire Landin', sah, an' when he cum back along wid me he
dug the bullet outer yer shoulder, an' left som truck fer me ter giv'
yer.  He's done been yere three times, sah."

"From Beaucaire Landing--is that a town?"

"A sorter a town, sah; 'bout four miles down ribber."

The mentioning of this familiar word brought back instantly to my
darkened understanding all those main events leading up to my presence
in this neighborhood.  Complete memory returned, every separate
incident sweeping through my brain--Kirby, Carver, the fateful game of
cards in the cabin of the _Warrior_, the sudden death of the Judge, the
mob anger I sought to curb, the struggle on deck, my being thrown
overboard, and the danger threatening the two innocent daughters of
Beaucaire.  And I had actually been lying in this negro hut, burning up
with fever, helplessly delirious, for ten days.  What had already
occurred in that space of time?  What villainy had been concocted and
carried out?  What more did the negro know?--something surely, for now
I remembered he had addressed me by name.

"Now see here, Pete," I began earnestly.  "How did you learn what my
name was?"

"De docthar he foun' dat out, sah.  I reckon' he thought maybe he ought
ter know; fearin' as how ye might die.  He done looked through yer
pockets, sah, an' he took two papers whut he foun' dar away wid him.
He done tol' me as how yer wus an offercer in de army--a leftenant, er
sumthin'--an' thet dem papers ought fer ter be sint ter de Gov'ner et
onct.  De las' time he wus yere he tol' me thet he wint down ter Saint
Louee hisself, an' done gif bof dem papers ter Gov'ner Clark.  So yer
don't need worry none 'bout dem no mor'."

I sank back onto the hard pillow, greatly relieved by this information.
The burden of official duty had been taken from me.  I was now on
furlough, and free to act as I pleased.  I suddenly became conscious
that I was hungry.  I expressed this desire for food, and the negro
instantly busied himself over the fire.  I watched his movements with
interest, although my thoughts quickly drifted to other matters.

"Have you picked up any news lately from the Beaucaire plantation?" I
asked, at last.

He twisted his head about at sound of my voice.

"I heerd said dey done brought de body ob de ol' Jedge home, sah--he
died mighty sudden sumwhar up de ribber.  Thet's 'bout all I know."

"When was this?"

"'Bout a week maybe mor'n dat ago.  De _Warrior_ brought de body down,
sah."

"The _Warrior_?  Did anyone go ashore with it?"

"Pears like thar wus two men stopped off at de Landin'.  I disremember
de names, but one ob 'em wus an ol' friend ob de Jedge's."

I turned my head away silently, but only for a moment.  The two men
were in all probability Kirby and his satellite, Carver.  Evidently
they intended to lose no time.  The accident, the period of my
unconsciousness, had left the villains ample opportunity in which to
carry out the details of their devilish plot.  The silence had
convinced them of my death, leaving them nothing to fear, no opposition
to guard against.  Doubtless the Beaucaire property was already legally
in Kirby's possession, and any possible chance I might have once had to
foil him in his nefarious purpose had now completely vanished.

To be sure I had reasoned out no definite  means whereby I could
circumvent his theft, except to take legal advice, confer with Governor
Clark, and warn those threatened girls of their danger.  But now it was
too late even to do this.  And yet it might not be.  If Kirby and his
confederate believed that I was dead, were convinced that I had
perished beneath the waters of the river, they might feel safe in
taking time to strengthen their position; might delay final action,
hoping thus to make their case seem more plausible.  If Kirby was
really serious in his intention of marrying Beaucaire's daughter he
would naturally hesitate immediately to acknowledge winning the
property at cards, and thus indirectly being the cause of her father's
death.  He would be quite likely to keep this hidden from the girl for
a while, until he tried his luck at love.  If love failed, then the
disclosure might be made to drive the young woman to him; a threat to
render her complacent.  The negro evidently knew very little as to what
had occurred, merely the floating gossip of the slave quarters, and
some few things the doctor had mentioned.  But there was a man living
at the Landing who would be informed as to all the facts.

"I believe the Judge left two daughters, did he not?"

"Yas, sah--mighty pretty gals dey am too."

"And they still remain in possession of the house?"

"I reckon dey do, sah.  Pears like the dochtar sed sumthin' 'bout
treating one ob 'em--Miss Eloise--one time he wus ober yere.  Sure,
deys dere all right."

"Do you know a lawyer named Haines?"

"Livin' down at de Landin'?  Yas, sah."

I lifted myself up in the bed, too deeply interested to lie still any
longer.

"Now listen, Pete," I explained earnestly.  "I've got sufficient money
to pay you well for all you do, and, just as soon as you get me
something to eat, I want you to go down to the Landing and bring Lawyer
Haines back here with you.  Just tell him a sick white man wants to see
him at once, and not a word to anyone else.  You might tell Haines this
is a private matter--you understand?"

"Yas, sah," the whites of his eyes rolling.  "He done know ol' Pete,
an' I'll sure bring him back yere."

It was dark when they came, the fire alone lighting up the interior of
the dingy cabin with a fitful glow of red flame.  I had managed to get
out of bed and partially dress myself feeling stronger, and in less
pain as I exercised my muscles.  They found me seated before the
fireplace, indulging in a pot of fresh coffee.  Haines was a small,
sandy-complexioned man, with a straggling beard and light blue eyes.
He appeared competent enough, a bundle of nervous energy, and yet there
was something about the fellow which instantly impressed me
unfavorably--probably his short, jerky manner of speech, and his
inability to look straight at you.

"Pete has been telling me who you are, Lieutenant," he said, as we
shook hands, "and putting some other things together I can guess the
rest.  You came south on the _Warrior_."

"From Fort Armstrong--yes; who told you this?"

"Captain Thockmorton.  I saw him in St. Louis, and he seemed deeply
grieved by your sudden disappearance.  No one on board was able to
explain what had occurred."

"Yet there were two men on the boat who could have explained, if they
had cared to do so," I answered drily.  "I mean Kirby and Carver; they
were the ones who threw me overboard."

He dropped into a chair, his keen, ferret eyes on my face.

"Kirby and Carver?  They went ashore with the Judge's body at the
Landing.  So there is a story back of all this," he exclaimed jerkily.
"Damn it, I thought as much.  Was Beaucaire killed?"

"No--not at least by any violence.  No doubt the shock of his loss
hastened his death.  Surely you must know that he risked all he
possessed on a game of cards and lost?"

"Thockmorton knew something about it, and there were other rumors
floating about the Landing, but I have heard no details."

"You did not see the two men, then?"

"No, I was not at home, and they went on down the river the next day on
a keel-boat.  You saw the play?"

"I saw the last part of the game and was convinced, as all the others
present were, that the Judge was deliberately ruined for a purpose.  I
believe it was all planned beforehand, but of this we have no tangible
proof."

"His opponent was Joe Kirby?"

"And a fellow named Carver, a mere hanger-on."

Haines wet his lips, his eyes narrowing to mere slits, his professional
nature coming to the front.

"First, let me ask you why you believe Beaucaire was cheated?" he
piped.  "I know Joe Kirby, and consider him quite capable of such a
trick, but we shall need more than suspicion to circumvent his scheme."

"I have every reason, Haines, to feel convinced that both Kirby and
Carver trailed Beaucaire up the river with the intention of plucking
him.  Kirby practically confessed this to me, boastingly, afterwards.
All the way down he was bantering the Judge to play.  That last night
he so manipulated the cards--or rather Carver did, for it was his
deal--as to deceive Beaucaire into firmly believing that he held an
absolutely unbeatable hand--he was dealt four aces and a king."

The lawyer leaned forward, breathing heavily.

"Four aces!  Only one hand is better than that, and it would be
impossible to get such a hand out of one pack."

"That is exactly true, Haines.  I am no card player, but I do know that
much about the game.  Yet Kirby took the pot with a straight flush.
Now, either he, or Carver, slipped an extra ace into the pack, or else
Beaucaire did.  In my opinion the Judge had no chance to work such a
trick.  And that's the case, as it stands."

Haines jumped to his feet and began pacing the dirt floor excitedly,
his hands clasped behind his back.

"By God, man!" he cried, pausing suddenly.  "Even if he did have a
chance, the Judge never did it--never.  He was a good sport, and always
played a straight game.  You say he bet everything he had?"

"To the last dollar--Kirby egged him on.  Besides the money, a deed to
his land, and a bill of sale for his negroes were on the table."

"The field hands, you mean?"

"Yes, and the house servants.  Kirby insisted that he write these
words, 'This includes every chattel slave legally belonging to me,' and
made Beaucaire sign it in that form."

Haines' face was white, his eyes staring at me incredulously.

"God help us, man!  Do you know what that means?" he gasped.

"I am almost afraid I do," I answered, yet startled by his manner.
"That was why I sent for you.  Would that include his son's daughter?"

He buried his face in his hands.

"Yes," he confessed brokenly.  "To the best of my knowledge Rene
Beaucaire is a slave."

CHAPTER VIII

I DECIDE MY DUTY

The silence following this blunt statement was sickening.  Up to that
moment, in spite of every fact brought to my knowledge, I had secretly
believed this condition of affairs impossible.  Surely somewhere,
through some legal form, Judge Beaucaire had guarded the future safety
of this young woman, whom he had admitted into his household.  Any
other conception seemed impossible, too monstrous, too preposterous for
consideration.  But now the solemn words of the lawyer, his own legal
counselor, brought conviction, and for the moment all power of speech
deserted me.  It was actually true then--the girl was a slave, a thing
belonging to Kirby.  Nothing broke the stillness within the cabin,
except the sharp crackling of flames in the open fireplace, and the
heavy breathing of the negro.  He was seated on the edge of the bed,
his black face showing a greenish tint, and revealing puzzled
amazement, with wide-opened eyes staring blankly at Haines, who stood
motionless before the fire.

"Whut wus dat yer sed, Mister Haines?" he asked thickly.  "You say as
how Missus Rene Beaucaire is a slave, sah?  Pears like I don't just
rightfully understan'."

"Still that is true, Pete," and the lawyer lifted his head and surveyed
us both.  "She is the illegitimate daughter of Delia, Judge Beaucaire's
housekeeper; her father was Adelbert Beaucaire, the Judge's only son.
No one knows where he is, dead or alive."

"De good Lord!  An' de ol' Jedge never set her free?"

The lawyer shook his head, words evidently failing him.

"But are you absolutely certain of this?" I broke in impatiently.
"Have you searched the records?"

"Not only searched them, Knox, but, before he left for the north on
this last trip, Beaucaire was in my office, and I practically forced
him to acknowledge the negligence.  He even authorized me to draw up
the necessary papers for him to sign on his return--for both Delia and
the girl.  They are in my desk now, unexecuted.  There is no
mistake--Rene is legally a slave, together with her mother."

"My God!" I exclaimed.  "What an indictment of slavery.  Could anyone
conceive a more horrible position!  Here is a young girl, educated,
refined, of more than ordinary attractiveness Thockmorton tells me,
brought up amid every comfort, and led to believe herself the honored
daughter of the house, awakening in an instant to the fact that she is
a slave, with negro blood in her veins--a mere chattel, owned body and
soul by a gambler, won in a card game, and to be sold to the highest
bidder.  Haines, I tell you Kirby knew all this."

"Kirby knew?  Why do you say that?"

"He boasted of it.  I thought little about what he said at the time,
but I believe now one of his main objects was to gain possession of
this girl.  That would account for his insistence upon that peculiar
clause in the bill of sale--he either suspected, or had discovered
through some source, that Rene Beaucaire had never been set free.  For
some reason he desired possession of both Beaucaire girls; they meant
more to him than either the money or the property.  This card game gave
him one; the other--"

"Eloise, you mean?  Did the fellow threaten her?"

"Here is what he said sneeringly, you can judge yourself what he meant,
'She's worth fifty thousand dollars by her mother's will, and I intend
to win her if I can, fair means or foul.'"

Haines did not speak for some moments, his eyes on my face.  Then he
paced back and forth across the floor, finally stopping before the fire.

"This is as near hell as anything I ever knew," he said, "and so far as
I can see there is no legal way out of it.  We are utterly helpless to
assist."

"We are not," I answered hotly, "if we are men.  There may be no legal
way in which we can beat this villain, but there is an illegal one,
unless we are already too late, and I propose to use it, whether you
join me or not."

"You have a plan?  What is it?"

"The only one feasible.  I thought of its possibility before on the
boat, when a suspicion of this situation first came to me.  You are
sure the girls are still at the plantation house? that they know
nothing of this condition?"

"I have reason to believe so.  Delia was buying provisions at the
Landing yesterday; I talked with her a moment."

"And you said that Kirby and Carver were only in town for one night,
leaving the next morning on a keel-boat for St. Louis.  Probably they
did not visit the plantation at all, unless it was to scout around.  My
idea is they were not quite ready to take possession; that they have
gone to St. Louis to file the papers, and will come back with officers
prepared to execute them.  This means that we must work fast to get out
of their way."

"What do you propose doing?"

"Let me ask a question first.  Is it true that Eloise Beaucaire is
heiress to fifty thousand dollars through her mother's estate?"

"Yes, I invested most of it."

"In what?"

"New Orleans property principally."

"Then it is safe enough whatever happens.  The only thing we can do is
this: Tell those girls and the mother the whole truth--tell them at
once, before Kirby can return, and then help them to get out of this
country.  It is not necessary for Eloise to go, unless she desires to,
but there is no other safe course for Delia and Rene.  They must reach
a northern state before Kirby can lay hands on them.  Could Delia pass
for a white woman?"

"Not in the South; still she could travel as Rene's maid.  But I do not
believe it is possible for the two to escape in that way, Knox.
Understand I'd be willing to risk it if there were any show.  How can
it be done?  On the average at this time of year there isn't a
steamboat along here once a month.  If we did get them onto a boat they
would have to travel straight south as far as the Ohio.  Kirby wouldn't
be more than a day or two behind them, with friends on every boat on
the river.  Illinois is no free state for fugitive slaves--they might
just as well be caught in Missouri as over there.  There is not one
chance in a thousand that they make it."

"And less than that, if they remain here for Kirby to get his hands
on," I retorted bitterly.  "Now look here, Haines.  I am going to carry
out this plan alone, if you will not back me in it.  I am not talking
about steamboats; they could travel by night, and hide along shore
during the day.  All they would need would be two negro oarsmen,
sufficient food, and a boat big enough to carry them safely.  You have
small boats, surely?"

"I got one, Massa Knox," burst out Pete eagerly.  "She's down by de
mouth ob de creek, sah, an' she sure am a mighty good boat.  We could
load her up right here, an' I'd be one ob de niggers fer ter take dem
ladies down ribber.  I'se a free boy, an' nobody care whar I done go."

These unexpected words heartened me, strengthened my own resolve, and I
obeyed the first impulse, instantly crossing the room and frankly
extending my hand to the surprised negro.

"That sounds like a man, Pete," I exclaimed warmly.  "Yes, of course I
mean it--shake hands.  You are white enough for me, boy, and I do not
propose letting you do any more than I am willing to do.  I'll go along
with you on this trip.  I have sixty days furlough."

I turned and faced the lawyer, my mind firmly settled on the scheme,
and determined upon carrying it out instantly.

"And now, what about you, Haines?" I demanded.  "Are you ready to help?
Come, man, surely this is not something we have any time to debate.
Kirby is liable to show up at any moment with full authority, and the
sheriff to back him.  It is still early in the evening and we must work
tonight, if at all."

"You haven't the strength for such a venture," he protested.

"Haven't I?" and I laughed.  "Oh, yes I have.  I am young and this
wound is nothing.  I may be a bit stiff in the shoulder for a few days,
but I can pull an oar with one hand.  That never will stop me.  Are you
with us?"

He was slow in replying, and, as I eagerly watched his face, I could
almost comprehend the working of the lawyer mind.  He saw and argued
every doubt, considered every danger.

"In spirit, yes," he answered at last, "but not physically.  I believe
under the circumstances you are justified, Knox.  Perhaps I'd do the
same thing if I was in your place and had your youth behind me.  But I
am a lawyer, fifty years old, and this is my home.  If the story ever
got out that I took part in nigger stealing, that would be the end of
me in Missouri.  As you say, you are a young man, and I reckon you were
not brought up in the South either.  That makes a difference.  You can
take the risk, but about all I can do will be to keep a quiet tongue in
my head.  Nobody will ever learn what has happened through me--I'll
promise you that.  But that is all I can promise."

"Yet you acknowledge this is the only way?  No legal course is open to
us?"

"Absolutely none.  If there was I should never consent to be a party to
this plan, or shield you in any way.  Kirby has undoubtedly got the law
with him.  We cannot establish fraud; the property actually belongs to
him--both mother and daughter are his slaves."

"And how about the other girl--Eloise?"

"He has no legal hold on her; she is a free white woman.  He could only
hope to overcome her resistance by threats.  The plantation is
irrevocably lost to the Beaucaires, but she possesses the power to defy
him because of her mother's property.  If Kirby marries her, it will
only be through her consent."

He picked up his hat from the table, and a stout stick he had brought
along with him, taking a step toward the door.

"I might as well tell you I consider this a mad scheme," he paused to
add gravely, "and that it will probably fail.  There is a possible
chance of success, I admit, and for that reason I permit you to go
ahead with it, and pledge myself to keep the secret.  I was rather
intimately associated with Beaucaire for a number of years, and to see
his granddaughter sold into slavery, even if she does have a drop of
nigger blood in her veins, is more than I can stand, without giving her
a chance to get away.  That is why I consent to abet a crime, and keep
still about it.  But beyond that I'll not go.  I am a southerner, Knox;
my father owned slaves.  I believe in the system, and have always
upheld it.  Nobody in Missouri hates a Black Abolitionist worse than I
do; if anyone had ever said I would help a nigger run away, I'd call
him a liar in a minute.  Do you understand the position this damned
affair puts me into?"

"Yes, I do, Haines," and I held out my hand to him, with fresh
cordiality.  "It is uncommonly white of you to even go that far.  On
the other hand I was brought up to despise slavery.  I'll pledge you
this--for Pete here, as well as myself--that if we are caught, your
name shall never be mentioned.  Have you any advice to give?"

He paused uncertainly, his hand on the latch, the firelight flashing up
into his face.

"Only this," he said slowly.  "If I were you I'd never attempt to go
south.  Below St. Louis boats are numerous, and you would be almost
certain to be discovered.  If Kirby chases you--and I know him well
enough to be sure he will--he will naturally take it for granted that
you have headed for the Ohio.  The very fact that the fugitives are
women would convince him of this.  To my mind the one chance of your
getting away, lies to the north--up the Illinois."

"That thought was in my mind also," I admitted, thoroughly satisfied
now that he was really friendly, and to be trusted.  "I have been told
that the settlers north of that stream came mostly from New England--is
that true?"

"To a large extent.  We have reason to believe there is an underground
road in operation from the river to Canada, and many a runaway nigger
makes the trip every year.  That ought to be your best course, but
there is no time now to put the women in the care of those men.  Of
course I don't know who they are--perhaps Pete does?"

"No, sah," protested the black quickly.  "'Pears like I never heerd
tell 'bout dem.  I'se a free nigger, sah."

The lawyer's shrewd eyes twinkled.

"And that is exactly why, you black rascal, I believe you really do
know.  I reckon, Knox, he'll tell you what he wouldn't tell me.
Anyhow, good luck to you both, and good night."

The door closed behind him, and the negro and I were alone.  All at
once I realized the desperate nature of this adventure I had
undertaken, and its possible consequences.  Haines' words had driven it
home to my mind, causing me to comprehend the viewpoint of this
neighborhood, the hatred men felt for a nigger-stealer, and what my
fate would be if once caught in the act.  Yet the die was already cast;
I had pledged myself to action; was fully committed to the attempted
rescue of Rene Beaucaire, and no thought of any retreat once occurred
to me.  I opened the door cautiously, glancing out into the night, to
thus assure myself we were alone, closed it again, and came back.  The
negro still remained seated on the edge of the bed, digging his toes
into the hard earth of the floor.

"Pete," I began earnestly.  "You trust me, don't you?  You do not
suspect me of being any slave-hunter?"

"No, sah, Massa Knox, I ain't 'feared o' yer--yers one o' dem
down-easterners."

"Well, not exactly that.  I came from a slave state, but my family is
of New England blood and breeding.  I am just as much your friend as
though you were white.  Now you and I have got a hard job before us."

"Yas, sah, we sure has."

"And the first thing we have got to do, is to trust each other.  Now I
am going to ask you a question--is that the best way for us to go, up
the Illinois?"

He was slow to answer, evidently turning the whole matter over in his
mind.  I waited impatiently, feeling the delay to be a serious loss of
time.

"Well then, let me put this differently.  Have you ever assisted any
slaves to run away from Missouri?"

"Well, Massa Knox, I reckon thet maybe I knew'd 'bout som' gittin'
a-way--'pears like I did, sah."

"And these escaped by way of the Illinois?"

His dumb, almost pathetic eyes met mine pleadingly, but some expression
of my face served to yield him courage.

"I--I reckon I--I don't know much 'bout all dis, Massa Knox," he
stammered doubtfully, his hands locking and unlocking nervously.  "I--I
sure don'; an' fer de mattah o' dat, ther ain't nobody whut does, sah.
All I does know, fer sure, is dat if a nigger onct gets as fer as a
certain white man up de ribber, 'bout whar de mouth ob de Illinois is,
he's got a mighty good chance fer ter reach Canada.  De next place whar
he's most likely ter stop is Beardstown, long wid som' sorter preacher
whut lives thar.  An' thet's as fer as dey ever done tol' me, sah."

"About this first white man--the one near the mouth of the Illinois--do
you know his name?"

Pete rose to his feet, and crossed the room to where I stood, bending
down until his lips were close to my ear.  His answer was spoken in a
thick whisper.

"Massa Knox, I never did 'spect to say dis ter no white man, but it
seems I just nat'larly got fer ter tell yer.  I done heerd thet man say
onct just whut yer did, thet a nigger wus just as much his frien' as
though he wus white--thet it wan't de skin nohow what counted, but de
heart.  No, sah, I ain't feered fer ter tell yer, Massa Knox.  He's got
a cabin hid way back in de bluffs, whar nobody don't go, 'cept dem who
know whar it is.  I reckon he don't do nuthin' but hunt an' fish
nohow--leastways he don't raise no corn, nor truck fer ter sell.  He's
a tall, lanky man, sah, sorter thin, with a long beard, an' his name
wus Amos Shrunk.  I reckon maybe he's a Black Abolitionist, sah."

"Quite likely, I should say.  And you could take a boat from here to
his place?"

"Sure, the darkest night yer ever see.  Inter the mouth ob a crick,
'bout a hundred rods up de Illinois.  Den thar's a path, a sorter path,
whut goes ter de cabin; but most genir'ly he's down thar waitin' et
night.  Yer see dey never sure knows when som' nigger is goin' fer ter
git away--only mostly it's at night."

This knowledge greatly simplified matters.  If there was already in
operation an organized scheme by means of which fugitives from this
side of the great river were taken through to Canada, protected and
assisted along the way by the friends of freedom, then all we would be
required to do in this case would be to safely convey the unfortunate
Rene and her mother in Pete's boat up the river, and there turn them
over to the care of this Amos Shrunk.  Undoubtedly he could be trusted
to see to it that they were promptly forwarded to others, fanatics like
himself, who would swiftly pass them along at night across the Illinois
prairies, until beyond all danger of pursuit.  Hundreds, no doubt, had
traveled this route, and, once these two were in Shrunk's care our
responsibility would be over with.  It was to me a vast relief to
realize this.  The distance to the mouth of the Illinois could not be
far, surely not to exceed fifty miles as the river ran.  It ought not
to prove difficult to baffle Kirby for that short distance, and then we
would be free to return, and no one could prove any charge against us.
Indeed it was my purpose to immediately proceed down the river on my
furlough, and probably it would never so much as be suspected that the
negro had been away.  Ever since my boyhood I had listened to stories
concerning the operation of Underground Railroads by means of which
slaves were assisted to freedom, and now felt no hesitancy in confiding
these two women to the care of their operators.  The only important
fact fronting us was that we must act quickly, before Kirby and his
aides, armed with legal authority, could return--this very night.

"Pete," I said shortly, my tone unconsciously one of authority, "we
must be out of here before daylight, and safely hidden somewhere up the
river.  The first thing to be done, and the hardest, is to explain to
those women the situation, and persuade them to accompany us.  They may
not believe my story; that was why I was so anxious to have Haines go
to the house.  They would have confidence in him.  Do they know you?"

"Lord love yer--ob course dey do.  I'se knowed all ob 'em for a long
while, sah.  Why when I furst don' see dem Beaucaire gals dey wus just
infants.  Dey'll sure believe ol' Pete."

"Well, we can only try our best.  Have you any conveyance here?"

"Any whut, sah?"

"Any wheeled vehicle in which we can ride to Beaucaire, and by means of
which we can bring the women back?  The distance is too far to walk."

"I'se got a sorter khart, an' an ol' muel, sah.  Dey's out yonder in de
bush."

"Hitch them up at once, while I put a few things we may need in the
boat.  Show me how to find it."