REDLAW, THE HALF-BREED;

OR,

THE TANGLED TRAIL.

A TALE OF THE SETTLEMENTS.

BY JOS. E. BADGER, Jr.,

AUTHOR OF THE FOLLOWING POCKET NOVELS.
59. The Texas Hawks.
63. The Florida Scout.
98. Dusky Dick.

NEW YORK:
BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,
98 WILLIAM STREET.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by
BEADLE AND COMPANY,
In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

CHAPTER I.

THE HIDDEN VOICE.

"Well, gentlemen, I propose we get to business. I for one have no time to waste, and there are plenty of us present for a beginning," and the speaker glanced approvingly around the room.

He was a tall, powerfully-built man, aged probably forty-five years, of a rugged, yet intelligent and almost handsome cast of features; while the rough "home-made" garments that he wore disguised without hiding the splendid contour of his form. There was the slightest possible tinge of the "brogue" to his speech, that would have told a close observer the land of his nativity.

"I second the motion," piped out a shrill, quavering voice, as a tall, skeleton-like body abruptly shot up to its full hight, and then sunk down with a jar upon his stool, as all eyes were turned upon the speaker, while he vehemently scrubbed at his face with an enormous yellow cotton handkerchief, to hide the confusion he felt at thus "speaking out in meeting."

"Thank you, friend Hannibal Hooker," bowed the first speaker. "But first we will have something to—Landlord! Jim Henderson, I say!" roared out he who appeared to take the lead in the meeting, bringing down his huge sun-embrowned, toil-hardened fist upon the table before him, with such force, that it seemed as if the deal would split, while Hannibal Hooker convulsively leaped from his stool with a faint squeak.

"Thunder 'n' lightnin', Cap'n Neil," uttered a deep, rumbling voice, as the door opened and a man thrust his head through the aperture, "am I deaf, thet you need to t'ar the house down? What d'ye want?" and he entered the room.

It was like a mouse with a lion's voice. Scarcely five feet and built in proportion, the new-comer spoke with a voice such as we imagine the giant Magog to have used, it was so full deep and sonorous. But, if not consistent with his body, it was with his heart, for "Honest Jim Henderson" was a by-word, for use to typify truth and fidelity, among his neighbors.

"Bring us something hot and hearty, avic, for our throats will need wetting before we get through," responded he whom the landlord called Captain Neil.

"I protest, gentlemen! I protest most emphatically against this proceeding!" exclaimed a short, rotund personage, bouncing upon his chair the better to be observed. "Must we depend upon intoxicating liquors to enable us to form our plans? I say no, a thousand times no! With such supports, our downfall—"

What the conclusion of this worthy personage's speech was, is lost to posterity, for by some mischance—it was said, by the adroit trip of a neighbor's foot—the stool upon which he stood was overturned, and the little fat fellow plunged headlong beneath the table, giving utterance to a series of grunts and snorts that in no wise tended to quell the shouts of merriment at his mishap.

"There, brother Bacon," laughed the leader, "is a flat contradiction to your argument. You fall by opposing it; we will stand with its aid. So, Henderson, look lively man, for it's getting well along, and I am in haste."

The worthy brother made no further objection, and when the punch was brought in, by mere legerdemain, a cup filled with the steaming beverage found itself tightly clasped in his chubby hand, and ten minutes later was empty. Then Captain Neil stood up and spoke.

"My friends and neighbors: Most of you know what is our purpose in gathering here to-night, but as a few may not, I will briefly state the facts. You all know that for nearly a year past we have been troubled with floods of counterfeit money, and with losing our stock. How this is done so secretly, and who by, is yet for us to learn. But one thing is certain: unless we do find out, and that soon, we may as well sell out for what we can get, and leave the country.

"Not one, so far as I can tell, among us all, but have suffered in both ways; for my part, I am five thousand dollars poorer to-night than I was five months since. Now, must this state of affairs continue? I, for one, say no!—a thousand times no; and if need be, will spend every moment of my time for the purpose of ferreting out these scoundrels.

"But to come to the point: what I have to propose is this: We must organize a band—a vigilance committee. Do you know what that means? They had one in Kentucky—they had one in Arkansas; we must have one in Kansas! Judge Lynch has jurisdiction here as well as elsewhere, and it is to him we must turn, since the law of the land is powerless to protect us!

"All who are now present we can trust, I believe, and there are others who can be admitted. But you must act cautiously, and know every man well before he becomes a member. One traitor among us would counteract all the good that others might do. But all this you know as well as I; and those who wish to speak, or who have any plan to propose, will now be heard," concluded Neil McGuire, as he resumed his seat, and filled the well-blackened corn-cob pipe that lay before him.

Several of the members delivered their opinions upon the subject, all agreeing with their leader that something must be done; the only thing in doubt, appeared to be in deciding what that thing should be. It was while the debate was at its height, that loud, excited voices were heard in the bar-room without, followed by the sounds of a scuffle, with a rattle of overturned chairs and tables.

Then the connecting door was violently thrust open, without the trouble being taken of lifting the latch, and a man stood upon the threshold, keenly scrutinizing the scene before him. A man we said, but it might well have been, a remarkable man.

So tall that the hair of his uncovered head touched the top of the doorway, and yet so perfectly proportioned that had it not been for the standard to compare by, he would not have seemed over six feet, if so much. The hands that grasped the sides of the doorway were large and muscular, but as fine and white as a lady's; and from the position, great masses of swelling muscle could be seen distending the light material of his sack coat, upon the arms.

His face was of a massive style of beauty, and yet not without delicate lines and touches. The keen blue eyes were large and frank-looking, usually having a genial, good-humored tone about them that instinctively attracted the beholder; but which had now given place to a cold, steel-like glitter that warned how dangerous it might be to cross his mood.

In age he appeared about thirty, and but for the long, flowing mustache and beard of a soft flaxen color, one would have taken him for half a decade less. After a few moments' silence the intruder spoke, in a full, clear tone that would have been musical had it not been for the metallic ring, occasioned by his anger or excitement.

"Gentlemen, I must beg your indulgence for interrupting your council so abruptly, but "Honest Jim" Blockhead yonder denied me admittance; and as I was in no mood for arguing the case, I fear I gave the fellow a broken head, and took the liberty of introducing myself."

"You say right," responded Neil McGuire, in a stern tone, as he confronted the stranger, "it is a liberty. We were engaged upon private business, that does not concern you in the least, and—"

"Pardon, my dear sir," interrupted the stranger, "and allow me to correct you. The business you were upon does concern me, and I doubt if one man present is more deeply interested in its success than myself," he added, in a conciliatory tone, that was flatly contradicted by the glitter of his eyes at the manner of McGuire.

"Perhaps you will tell me where you got your knowledge of what we were consulting upon, and your reasons for this intrusion," coldly returned the latter.

"It is easily done," quoth the stranger, as he advanced to the table and coolly filling a pint cup with the punch, drained it at a draught, not heeding the scowls of those around him, "and shall be as you say. In the first place, you are organizing a league to put down the horse-thieves and counterfeiters that infest us."

"Go on," was the cold reply.

"You are prudent, and I don't blame you. Who knows but what I am a spy, or person in the interest of those same scoundrels?" laughed the intruder.

"Just so; who does know?" chimed in a voice from among the crowd.

The man sprung to his feet and glared in the direction of the voice, but every face wore an expression of astonishment, while each man glanced around him as if to discover the speaker.

"If the fellow who spoke thus will be honest enough to show his face, perhaps he will learn who and what Clay Poynter is. I would give—"

"How much—in counterfeit money?" squeaked a shrill treble from another part of the room, toward which Poynter turned in a frenzy of rage and fury.

"Peace, gentlemen!" ordered McGuire, thumping upon the table to give emphasis to his words. "We are not here for squabbling, but upon serious business. Mr. Poynter is a gentleman. Let him proceed."

"Gentlemen, it is true I am a comparative stranger among you, but, for all that, you have no occasion to insult me. I will give a hundred dollars to the man that will point me out the scoundrel who spoke those words!"

"Which will only cost you sixteen dollars!" added another voice—alluding to the general price paid for counterfeit money since the days of Sturdevant—sounding from close behind him who had called himself Clay Poynter.

The latter swiftly turned, hissing out a bitter oath, with right arm drawn back to deal a fearful blow upon his insulter, but no person was there! The space behind him had been unoccupied since his entrance. Poynter staggered back against the table with a half-startled, half-puzzled look upon his features; but this he soon banished, and with a somewhat constrained voice, said:

"Really, the devil seems to be at work here to-night, and has selected me for his mark!"

"Never fear; he will not claim you yet. The mortgage has several weeks yet to run," again added the strange voice.

"Come—come!" impatiently cried McGuire, "this is all nonsense. Please go on with your explanation, Mr. Poynter."

"Well, I learned that you were about to organize a vigilance committee, and thought I would present my name for a membership. So I rode over from my house, and as I passed the ford at the creek, I was knocked from the saddle, and when I recovered, I was robbed of my horse as well as watch and a large sum of money."

"Ho, ho! the robber robbed!" croaked the mysterious voice, and the cry appeared to float around the room above the company's heads, most of whom were deathly pale, while anxious, apprehensive glances ran from one to another. "Ho, ho! the robber robbed!"

"Our worthy friend is quite a ventriloquist," slowly uttered Poynter, as his fiery eyes roved around the room, dwelling slightly upon each face; but upon one in particular he cast a glance of mingled hatred and triumph, then passed to another. "I would willingly give half I am worth, just to take one lesson from him," dwelling with bitter emphasis upon each word.

"Well, friends, we may as well break off now before harm is done," said Neil McGuire, in a vexed tone. "There's something wrong here, and the less we say, perhaps the better it will be, for who can have any object in breaking up this meeting, unless he or they are connected with this accursed gang of scoundrels?"

"But what! must we give up the plan after all this to-do?" exclaimed Demetrius Bacon, again leaping upon his stool in order to gain the desired auditory, forgetful of his late downfall.

"Give up the devil!" retorted McGuire, who was not always precise in his language. "When I put my hand to a thing in dead up-and-down earnest, it's bound to go through. And now listen, all of you. Until you hear from me, attend to your business as usual, and do not make what has happened to-night the subject of conversation. We must use a little more circumspection, for if a spy can enter among us here we will need all our wits."

"I show you the spy—why don't you take him?" again squeaked the strange voice, and then as each man glanced at his neighbor, it added: "His name, now, is Clay Poynter!"

"My dear sir, whoever you may chance to be," cried the man thus strangely denounced, in an assumed tone of nonchalant politeness, as he glanced around the room, "I made an error a few moments since. I said that I would give half I am worth; so I will add the other moiety, if you grant me an interview."

There was no reply to this speech, and the party filed through the doorway into the bar-room of the "Twin Sycamores," the majority of them pausing to take a parting drink before leaving for home. Beside Neil McGuire stood a medium-sized man, of a sandy complexion, and who appeared to belong to a different class from the rough, homespun-clad farmers that surrounded him, if one might judge from his apparel and general demeanor.

A heavy gold watch-guard, from which depended a bunch of seals, crossed his waistcoat, and while with one hand holding a riding-whip he daintily flecked a speck of dust from the tip of his well-polished boot, the other raised a glass of liquor from the bar. As he did so, a solitaire diamond ring flashed back the candle-light with a thousand scintillations. Among the frills of his linen shirt-front a magnificent cluster pin of the same jewels gleamed forth, exciting the wonder and admiration of a number of the men present.

At present his features were calm and expressionless, while his small gray eyes shone with a half-vacant air; but beneath all this a close observer would have seen something more. He would have pronounced the stolidity a mere mask, and would have seen that not a man present but was keenly scrutinized. He would have said that it was as if a panther had donned a sheep's skin, for some particular purpose. And he would have been right.

"Come, Dement," said Neil McGuire, turning toward this man. "Come, let's go," and the two men elbowed their way from the room.

The remainder, such as had not departed, continued to converse in low tones upon the subject of the strange voice. Poynter was carelessly leaning back against the counter, holding a glass in one hand, while he listened intently to the remarks, although not appearing to do so.

"It may be all right, Touter, but it is mighty queer, anyhow. And then who is this fellow? Do you know—does anybody know, except that he appears to have plenty of money, and calls himself Clay Poynter?" distinctly uttered a bold, free tone, and the speaker turned his head toward the person alluded to.

He was a somewhat remarkable-looking man apparently five or six and twenty years of age. In form he was tall, and straight as an arrow, with a lithe suppleness in every movement, that, joined to his swarthy complexion, and long, straight black hair, in part confirmed the rumor that he had Indian blood in his veins.

"Ah, my dear Indian Polk," blandly interrupted Poynter, as he drew himself erect upon hearing these words. "You do not drink. Allow me to offer you a glass of brandy!" and with a lightning-like movement he hurled the heavy glassful at the head of the young man.

But, quick as was the action, the missile was eluded by an adroit duck of the head, and Polk sprung forward with a fierce curse, lunging out with his clenched fist a fearful blow as he did so. The blow fell upon Poynter's half-averted cheek, tearing the skin as if cut with a knife; but not a quiver or a motion was the result of the blow.

Before the assailant could recover his balance, Poynter's left hand clutched his throat, and then the massive fist shot out, taking Polk full between the eyes, with such crushing force that he was hurled clear across the room, where he fell head-first in a senseless heap beneath a table.

Coolly wiping the blood-spots from his shirt-front with a handkerchief, Poynter turned to the bar without another glance at the fallen man, and called for a glass of brandy. Henderson promptly served it, at the same time whispering:

"You'd better look out, Mr. Poynter, fer 'Injun' hain't no baby, an' 'll hev y'ur blood fer this, ef so be he kin. He's a devil, shore!"

"Bah!" laughed Poynter, snapping his fingers. "I don't care that for him. If he crosses my path again, or lets me hear any more of his dirty hints, I'll hit him a square blow next, one that he'll not get over so easily as this one. But when he gets up, just give him my compliments, and tell him that if he relishes the specimen, there's plenty more of the same brand at his service," and so saying, Clay Poynter left the room and vanished in the darkness, leaving those behind him still more puzzled at him than before, which is saying a good deal.

CHAPTER II.

THE DOUBLE SHOT.

"What can be keeping Nora, I wonder?" half muttered a man, as he anxiously peered through the leafy screen before him, with a gesture of impatience.

A man, we said, and as he turns his head so that the sun's rays fall beneath the broad-brimmed slouched hat, we can see that it is Clay Poynter, who is there awaiting the arrival of some person. Even had not his muttered exclamation revealed this fact, there was an eager, ardent tinge to his restlessness that would have betrayed his secret—would have told of an appointment with some one a little more than a mere friend.

A woman would have guessed that he was expecting a sweetheart, whom, for some reason, he could not visit openly, and she would have been right. He was awaiting a sweetheart, and her name was Nora McGuire.

Again Poynter peered through the bushes. He saw a small but neat vine-covered log-house, of only one story. Behind this and upon either hand spread the fields of young grain, now a level, waving sea of verdure, with strange forms and figures chasing each other, as the blades were bent by the fitful gusts of wind.

Behind this, again, rose the rugged mounds forming the "Wildcat Range," among whose more difficult recesses the "big game" still could be found, and it was rumored that yet more dangerous customers might there be met with—that many a wild scene of blood and crime those rock-crowned hills had witnessed.

But of this our friend took no heed, for he saw the object of his thoughts step from the cabin door, and after a hasty glance around, trip lightly toward the spot where he was standing. Poynter pushed aside the screen of bushes, and half emerged, but as if by a second thought he drew back, with a muttered curse.

He had caught a glimpse of Neil McGuire's stalwart form passing from the field to the cabin, and for some reason, best known to himself, did not wish those keen gray eyes to note his presence. The young girl now reached the screen of bushes, and with one glance behind her, passed them, and then was tightly clasped in the strong arms of Poynter.

"For shame, Mr. Poynter, to surprise me in that way!" pouted the dainty lips, as Nora glided from the embrace.

"But, Nora, 'tis all your own fault, if I am obliged to surprise you, as you say," laughed the young man.

"And why so?" innocently queried the maiden, with the slightest possible toss of her pretty head.

"Well, pet, the fact is, I have a serious monomania, that troubles a—"

"A what? Is it any thing very dangerous?" asked Nora, with a startled air.

"That depends," he laughed again. "But, as I was saying, the disease is beyond my power to cure. It is, that whenever I see a dainty little rosebud mouth, like one that shall be nameless, I feel an irresistible desire to just stoop my head and see if it is as sweet as it looks!"

"Oh, you horrid creature! I thought you were sick, or something," pouted Nora, half turning away.

"Now you're mad, and I've got something of importance to tell you."

"No, I am not mad; but you talk so queer at times, that I can't understand you. You seem to delight in making sport of me."

"I make sport of you. No, no, little one. I love you far too well for that. It is only my way. But come, take my arm and let's walk. I have something to say that can not be postponed, and some one might interrupt us here," added Poynter.

"But can't you come to the house, Clay? It don't seem right for me to meet you in this manner," hesitated Nora.

"Your father is at home, and you know what he said the last time I called. If any one else had spoken to me in that way, Nora, he would—" And then pausing abruptly for a moment, he added: "But what has he told you about me, pet?"

"About you? Why—" faltered the maiden.

"Come, Nora, it is better that I should hear it from you than him. No matter how harsh or unjust it may be, I shall not forget that he is your father."

"Oh, Clay, it was dreadful!"

"So bad as that? Well, my shoulders are broad and I can bear it. And it was—?"

"Must I tell?" she pleaded.

"Nora!"

"Well, then," with a sigh, "he said that he had heard you were connected with a gang of horse-thieves and counterfeiters; and although he had no positive proof against you, as yet, he forbade my speaking to you until he gave me leave."

"So-so!" bitterly exclaimed Poynter, half to himself. "My kind friend has not abandoned me yet." Then turning abruptly to Nora, he added: "And you believed this?"

"Clay!"

"Pardon, darling; I did not mean it," repentantly said Poynter. "No, I can trust you, if no one else."

And he clasped the little brown hand that had been laid upon his arm at her exclamation.

"I wish you would trust me; then, perhaps, I could tell better how to act," she said, looking up into his face, wistfully.

"And have I not? Well—did he tell you from where these hints came?"

"No, but I think—and yet again, I am puzzled," hesitated Nora.

"You think—?"

"That our strange visitor—this John Dement, he calls himself—is in some way mixed up with it. More than once I have accidentally overheard him and father speaking about you, but whenever they saw me, it would be dropped."

"The yellow-haired man that was with your father on Tuesday night?"

"Yes. But I may be wrong. At any rate, he has left us now."

"Left you, you say; and when?"

"Late yesterday afternoon. But it is only for a short time. I heard him tell father that he would return next week."

"Do you know where he went?"

"To Fort Leavenworth."

"Good! I will manage to have an interview with the gentleman; I must stop there myself."

"You stop there? Why Clay—!" exclaimed the maiden, in a startled tone.

"Yes; that is what I came to tell you. I must go to St. Louis upon business for a week or so. Indeed, I should have been upon the road before now, but I wished to see you first so that you would not be alarmed at my disappearance," returned Poynter, kindly.

The reply she was about to make was abruptly checked by the sound of approaching footsteps, and then the loud, clear call of:

"Nora, Nora child, where are you?"

"Oh, Clay, it is my father! He will kill me if he finds I am with you!"

"Never fear, darling, he will not hurt you," murmured Poynter, as he drew the trembling form closer to his side.

"No, no, Clay; but you—oh, leave me!"

"What, I run, and from one man?"

"Nora—I say, Nora; why don't you answer me?" impatiently called the voice, and the footsteps ceased, as if her father was listening.

"For my sake!" pleaded the maiden.

"For your sake—well," and with one fervent kiss, Clay Poynter vanished among the undergrowth.

"Nora—Nora!"

"Yes, father," she tremblingly answered.

"Oh, so here you are!" said Neil McGuire, as he entered the little glade. "Why didn't you speak before? Ha! who has been here with you?" he added, at the same time bending over the moist ground.

Nora could not reply, and then her father rose with an angry flush upon his face, and exclaimed, in a voice hoarse with passion:

"So, this is the way you obey me! Stop!" as he saw Nora about to speak, "do not add falsehood to disobedience—"

"Father, did I ever tell you a lie?" reproachfully asked Nora.

"Pardon, Nora, I did not mean that. But I was so angry at finding that you had been with that villain, Poynter, I forgot myself. See, those are his tracks. No other man wears such boots, around here."

"Well, I was with him, but he only came to bid me good-by."

"Good-by! Then he thinks it best to leave the country before Judge Lynch interviews him, the—"

"Hold, Mr. McGuire," slowly said Poynter, as he stepped forward and confronted the father. "Why should I fear Judge Lynch more than any other man?"

"Ah, why, indeed?" sneered McGuire. "Why was it that you left Kentucky so suddenly, and made such a short stop in Arkansas, if I may ask?"

"So, that is your game, is it? Well, of this be assured, that after my return from St. Louis, I will show you such proofs of my innocence that you will beg pardon for your unjust suspicions."

"After your return!" echoed Neil, derisively.

"Father—father!" pleaded Nora, in terror, "come, let us go home; I am afraid."

"Your daughter is right, Mr. McGuire," added Poynter, a little more coolly. "It will do no good for us to talk further. My explanations can wait."

"So I presume," curtly responded the other, then adding, "Come, child, let us go," and leading Nora by the hand, he left the glade.

For a few moments Poynter stood gazing abstractedly in the direction they had taken, and then arousing himself, with a little laugh, turned upon his heel and walked briskly along a faintly-defined trail. The woods were open and free from undergrowth at this point, but after crossing a narrow tract of bare ground, and once more entering the timber, the path was thickly fringed on either side with bushes of hazel and oak.

After crossing a slight rise and down the valley once more, Poynter came in view of his own house—for that time and section, a perfect palace, a two-story frame, weather-boarded, and painted a neat cream-color. Why he had built this, when he was not at home one-tenth of his time, was a great puzzle to his neighbors, and many a siege of cross-questioning had old aunty Eunice to undergo.

Questions as to who her young master really was, if wealthy, and his reasons for making such frequent journeys; why he had not got married, and countless others, of equal importance. But the old negress knew how to keep a close tongue in her head, or to talk a great deal without saying any thing; so that when her visitors left, they were forced to acknowledge that they knew as much as they did before—and not much more.

Clay Poynter strode rapidly along, but his thoughts were not upon what he was doing; he was thinking of Nora McGuire. His head was bent forward, but he did not heed where he stepped, and with a sharp cry of surprise, he fell headlong, his foot having caught against a root or stub.

It is wonderful upon what slight points a man's life hinges; and Poynter had an instance of this fact furnished him at the same moment. Simultaneous with his cry, a double report echoed upon the air, and his hat fluttered from his head, and a sharp, tingling sensation in his shoulder told him that he was shot.

"Hurray, Bart, he's a goner!" shouted a voice, that the fallen man had no difficulty in recognizing.

"Bet ye! But it's halfers, mind ye now, Polk!" and at the same time two men broke out from the bushes, and hastened toward their intended victim.

Poynter could see them plainly, and immediately recognized them to be Barton Clowry and Polk Redlaw, the former a drunken, worthless scoundrel, that would lie, steal, fight and drink, day in and day out, disliked by everybody and pitied by none. He had a fit-looking person for a partner, owing to the blow dealt Polk Redlaw by Poynter, at the "Twin Sycamores," that had inflamed his entire face dreadfully.

All this he saw at a glance, and when the two would-be murderers had crossed half the intervening space, Poynter leaped to his feet with a hoarse cry, and as his right arm straightened out, the sun's rays flashed upon the polished tube of a revolver. At the report, Clowry gave a convulsive spring, and then fell upon his face, dead.

"Now, you dirty mongrel cur, it is your turn!" yelled Poynter, as he again cocked his weapon.

It was discharged, but Polk had caught the motion, and throwing himself flat upon the ground, the missile hissed harmlessly above his head. But ere he could arise, Poynter leaped forward and dealt him a fearful kick upon the side of his head, that hurled him forward twice his length, sprawling among the bushes, where he lay perfectly limp and motionless.

His enemy stooped over him and felt of his body, then arising, he muttered:

"Dead as the other! Well, it's so much ammunition saved, at any rate. It is a bad job, though, but it was either I or them, and they would have it!" he muttered, as he returned to where his hat lay, brushing the dust from his garments.

"New hat spoiled—item first; bullet-hole in shoulder, another. Well, I don't know but what they are both paid for, now, as it turned out. Confound the thing, how it does smart. Aunt Eunice must bind it up, and then I suppose I must go and tell the neighbors," he mused, as he proceeded toward the house.

"Curse the luck! More delay just when I should be at work; and if I was not very popular before, will this mend matters any? It's lucky they were such dirty hounds, or it might go hard with me. And then these vigilantes—"

"Lord 'a' massy! Marse Clay," cried a husky, wheezing voice, as a negro woman came waddling from around the house. "Is you done kilt, honey?"

"Not quite, aunty," laughed Poynter. "But I might have been. Come," he added, entering the building, "get some rags and bind up my shoulder."

"'Clar' to goodness, honey, chile, I was e'ena'most skeered to deaf, I jest was, now," chattered aunt Eunice, as she bustled around her patient. "I jest done went to de do' to look ef you was a-comin', w'en I see'd dem 'ar funnelly fellers a-shootin', an' den you falled down, an' I t'ought you's done dead fo' suah!"

"Well, why didn't you come and help me?"

"'Deed I was jest a-gwine, honey, so I was. I runned to de kitchen, an' got dis yere," holding up a huge basting-fork, "'nd w'en I got out ag'in, dar you was, big's life. 'Pears like, I'd a-drapped, I's so 'mazin' glad. Bress ye, honey, dear, ef dem 'a Pharoasters 'd 'a' killed you, I'd a—jest would, so dar!" spluttered the old woman, throwing her arms around Clay, and jumping up and down as she hugged him.

"Easy—easy, aunty; you hurt my arm," laughed Poynter, as he released himself, and then sunk into a chair, feeling faint from excitement and loss of blood.

"Jest looky! w'at a funnelly ole goose I is! But I's so glad, Marse Clay, dat it 'pears like I'll go clean crazy."

"I think that if you'd get me some brandy, or a cup of coffee, it would be a more sensible idea, aunt Eunice."

"Dar 'tis ag'in! Might 'a' knowed dat. But you jest sot still, honey, 'nd I'll git you it," and she trotted out of the room with an alacrity that made the entire house jar beneath her weight, while Poynter bowed his head upon the table.

CHAPTER III.

"JUDGE LYNCH."

After drinking the coffee prepared by aunt Eunice, Poynter started toward the door with the intention of mounting his horse and giving information to his neighbors concerning the tragedy, but his limbs trembled and his head reeled, forcing him to catch at the door-post in order to keep from falling. A strange spell of weakness seized him, and but for the strong arm of his servant, who supported him to a chair, he would have sunk to the floor.

"Fix my bed, aunty; I guess I'll lie down for a moment. I must have bled far more than I thought. And just at the time when I should be most active, too!" he muttered, half uneasily, as the old woman departed upon her errand.

In a few moments he was lying down upon the bed, and dismissed aunt Eunice about her work. He sunk into a heavy slumber, that lasted until four in the afternoon, when he was hastily aroused by his servant, who appeared to be terribly alarmed at something.

"Well, what is up, Eunice? You look as though you'd seen the ghost of your grandmother, or something as bad," he drawled, with a yawn, as he started up in bed.

"Lord, ef 'twas on'y jest a ghos', 'pears like I'd be glad!" cried the old woman, anxiously. "Bress you, honey, dar's a right smart chance o' dem ar' critter-back fellers out yander, all a-holdin' guns an' sich like, w'at tole me was you hyar? Den I tole dem, I dunno; 'spect you done gwine away; 'cause I didn't know w'at dey wanted, an' didn't know mebbe you'd want to hide. Den a gre't big feller, no 'count w'ite trash, he said, 'G'long, dar, you 'sense o' midnight you, an' tell him to show hissef, or I brow de whull top o' y'ur head offen you!' Den I say, 'Git out, you dirty w'ite nigger'—" spluttered the woman, when Poynter, who had pulled on his boots and coat, interrupted her by asking:

"Armed horsemen, you say; did you know any of them?"

"'Deed I did so, honey. Dar's ol' Marse Reeves, 'n' Brooks 'nd dat ar' Injun feller—" began Eunice.

"What! not Polk Redlaw?"

"'Deed, fo' suah, Marse Clay, honey," persisted Eunice. "I knowed de dirty nigger, dough his face is all bloody, an' red like a b'iled beet."

Poynter did not reply, but proceeded hastily through the house and out upon the front stoop, where his appearance was hailed with an exultant shout from the crowd of armed men that filled the dooryard.

"There he is—arrest him! I charge him with murder!" cried out a loud voice, a little upon one side.

"Ah! you there, mongrel cur?" scornfully cried the accused, with a look of contempt. "I thought I had finished you for good."

"See, he acknowledges it!" foamed Polk Redlaw; "I call you all to witness—"

"Dry up y'ur yaup," muttered one of his neighbors, giving Redlaw a shove that nearly sent him to the ground head-foremost.

"Curse you, Jack Fyffe!" snarled Polk, leaping at the man with a gleaming knife in his hand, "I'll cut your heart out!"

"So?" coolly exclaimed the burly fellow, dodging aside and dealing the battered head of his assailant a deftly-planted blow that brought him to grass. "'Pears like 's if y'ur ockyputt was a football, sorter."

"Stop your squabbling there," called out Neil McGuire, sternly. "The first one that creates a disturbance while I lead them, will be put under arrest. Young man," he added, turning to Poynter, who stood calmly scrutinizing the assembly before him, as if he would read his probable fate in their faces, "I regret it for your sake, but I must arrest you," at the same time ascending the steps and placing his hand upon Poynter's shoulder.

"Arrest me!" said the young man, shaking off the grasp and retreating a step. "And for what?"

A yell went up from the crowd; among the cries were fearful words—those of robbery and murder!

"You hear?" significantly returned McGuire.

"I do; but even supposing those terms applied to me, what right have you to take the office of justice upon yourself?"

"What right? That of the people—of honest men! The right that justifies a man in killing a snake, or ridding the community of a scourge. We are vigilantes—did you ever hear of them before—in Kentucky, for instance?" sternly replied Neil, with a biting sneer upon the last question.

"Ah!"

It was only one word, but it comprised a world of bitterness—one might almost say of anguish and despair. It seemed as if a dreadful blow had been stricken him, and for a moment he bowed his head beneath it; but only for a moment. Then he was as cool and as proud as before.

"Very well. I suppose I am your prisoner?"

"You are."

"Aunt Eunice, don't be alarmed, I will return soon." Then turning to McGuire, he added, "I presume I will have a fair trial?"

"We are not murderers—only the ministers of justice," was the stern reply.

"Then, aunty, when I send for you, come. I may need your evidence."

"'Deed, Marse Clay, honey," sobbed the old woman, pressing forward, "I's gwine along too."

"No, you can not; at least just now. Remain here until I send." Then to the leader of the vigilantes: "Well, sir, I am ready."

"Your horse?"

"Is in the stable—my bay, I mean. The other was stolen."

"Stolen?"

"I told you as much, at the meeting."

"Well; Crane, bring him out," and then McGuire drew aside with two men, to whom he appeared giving some instructions, in a low, guarded voice.

The horse of the prisoner was brought forth, and when he had mounted, they filed from the dooryard, and closing up around their captive rode away, with the exception of the two men spoken to by McGuire, who soon after entered the building.

The little cavalcade proceeded at a rapid trot toward the "Twin Sycamores," while the curious, half-affrighted gazes that followed them from each house as they passed, told that a rumor of their mission had spread like wildfire. All this was not unnoticed by the prisoner, and he drew himself erect with a prouder more haughty air, as if he would thus repel the ignominy that rested upon him.

Poynter's mind was not idle, and he realized that his liberty, if not life, was in jeopardy; and that, too, when freedom was most inestimable. He did not know what charges would be brought against him; but it was evident that the hint given by Neil McGuire regarding the Kentucky vigilantes troubled his mind not a little.

In a few minutes the party drew rein in front of the "Twin Sycamores"—so named from the two gigantic trees of that species growing upon either side of the door—where stood "Honest Jim." The captain whispered a few words in his ear.

"Wal, ef you wish it; thar's nobody thar." Then, as he drew nearer to Poynter, he added in a kind tone: "Lord love you, squar', I'm sorry—dog-goned sorry to see you hyar. It's rough lines fer a fine young feller like you to be 'rested on sech a charge!"

"Thank you, Henderson," cordially replied Poynter, as he clasped the little man's hand warmly. "It is rough, especially when you are innocent."

"Be—now don't git mad, Mr. Poynter, 'cause I mean well—be you innercent?" anxiously asked Henderson.

"Of any thing unlawful or mean, I am. But as I don't know what charges are laid against me, I can say no more."

"They say you be one of these horse-thieves an' counterfeiters!" whispered the landlord.

"Then they lie!" angrily replied Poynter.

"An' wuss, a heap wusser'n that. They say you murdered—"

"No conversing with the prisoner there, Jim Henderson," interrupted the leader, as he emerged from the house.

"I was jest a—"

"No matter. Come. The long-room is ready, and to spare time we will try the prisoner at once," added McGuire, as he motioned his men to enter.

The "long-room" was that in which we saw the first meeting of the vigilantes, and as all entered, the door was closed and securely bolted, thus guarding against any intrusion. The long table was pushed along until it touched the further end of the wall, and upon this a single chair was placed. Then a similar one was stood near the other extremity for the prisoner's use.

"Now, gentlemen," said Neil McGuire, "we will vote for a judge to try the case."

By universal acclamation he was elected, and at once took his seat, when Poynter was directed to assume his position. After some few objections by the prisoner, a jury was chosen and ranged alongside the judge, who then spoke:

"You know the task that is before you, and the sooner it is over the better. We will—"

"One moment, Mr. McGuire—or I presume I should say your honor," interrupted Poynter, with an ironical bow. "You call this a trial, but is it not altogether one-sided? Here I am arrested, for what I know not; already treated like a felon. Is this your idea of justice?"

"You speak warmly, Mr. Poynter—"

"And why not? You are all leagued against me, and so far as I can see, do not intend giving me a chance to clear myself from any charge you may bring against me. If I am to be tried, I demand it shall be according to law, and that I have counsel; that I am informed what crime I am accused of, and allowed time to procure witnesses!" hotly exclaimed the prisoner.

"You shall have full justice, but we have no need for lawyers here. The truth alone shall acquit or condemn you. You can defend yourself, and if any witnesses are necessary, they shall be sent for. If you are shown to be innocent, then any reparation you demand shall be given, but if guilty, by the God that made me, you shall swing for it, if I have to drag the rope myself!"

"One would think I was already condemned, by the way you speak; but go on. What are your charges?"

"Polk Redlaw!"

"Here!"

"Your turn first. Tell us your story. But briefly and to the point," ordered the "judge."

"Well, I heard the prisoner was suspected—"

"Never mind that now, but come to your charge first."

"Then I charge him with murdering Barton Clowry, and nearly killing me!" snarled the witness.

"You hear, prisoner; guilty or not guilty?"

"That I killed Clowry, and tried to serve that mongrel the same, I admit; but it was in self-defense, not murder," promptly replied Poynter.

"He lies—"

"Silence! Mr. Redlaw, no abuse if you please. State your case," ordered McGuire.

"Well, as I was saying, I, together with Barton Clowry, was ordered to scout around the house of the prisoner, and as soon as he returned to inform the band so that they could arrest him without his having a chance to escape, as he would had they hunted him with the whole league. We concealed ourselves by the side of the road, and were talking together to pass away the time, when I heard a pistol-shot, and Bart fell dead over into my lap.

"Before I could get up I saw the prisoner come running toward us, and aiming at me he fired again, but missed. Then he struck me with his revolver, knocking me back as I tried to get up; then kicked and pounded me upon the head until he thought I was dead.

"I was only stunned, however, and when I came to, I managed to crawl away, and finding the vigilantes I told them my story. You were notified, and going with us, you know the rest," concluded Polk; his speech being followed by a deep, fierce murmur that told how fully his apparently frank and truthful story had been believed.

"Mr. McGuire, and you, gentlemen," exclaimed Poynter, springing to his feet, but as the position in which he was placed would not allow him to stand erect, he sunk back into the chair. "Gentlemen! Every word that mongrel has said is a base, foul lie! And if you will send for my housekeeper, you will see that it is so.

"I was walking peaceably along the lane toward my house, when two shots were fired at me from an ambush. See; here is the mark of one in my hat, and if you examine my left shoulder you can see the trace left by the other.

"Did he say any thing about shooting at me? You, Mr. McGuire, know that I was not wounded this forenoon when I saw you. I admit shooting Clowry, but it was in self-defense. Does it look reasonable, or even possible, that had I done as this scoundrel states, I would have returned to the house to lie down and sleep for hours? Would I not have mounted and fled?"

"There is reason in what you say," uttered the judge. "But you said you had proof; did she witness the affair?"

"Yes; my negro housekeeper saw it all."

"Fox, you and Bowers go and bring her here immediately," ordered the leader. Then turning toward Polk Redlaw, he added, slowly: "Well, you hear what he says? Mind how you reply, for it is no light thing to wrongfully accuse a man of such a crime."

"I have told you the truth and nothing else," sullenly replied the accuser. "He has had plenty of time to trump up a yarn and teach his wench what to say. A white man's word ought to be good against a nigger's, any day."

"If true, it will be."

At this point the proceedings were interrupted by the entrance of the two messengers and aunt Eunice, whom they had met almost at the door—she having followed her master with the best speed her unwieldy body was capable of.

We need not follow her evidence as it is already known, and confirmed Poynter's story. But as the prisoner glanced around the room, he was surprised to note the still dark and vindictive faces of the vigilantes, who appeared any thing but convinced. Then he spoke, addressing the judge:

"Well, sir, what is your decision?"

"On this score you are fully acquitted; but—"

"'On this charge!' Are there any more, then?"

"Two others. Passing counterfeit money, and murder."

"Murder!"

"Yes; the murder of John Dement!"

CHAPTER IV.

THE CRY FOR BLOOD!

Clay Poynter sat as if perfectly astounded at these words; then, as he recovered from the shock and glanced around him, he could read in the faces of all that he was deemed guilty of this black deed. Only one face but wore this look; one face, and that belonged to aunt Eunice.

She stood with her hands thrown up, her eyes rolling wildly, while her capacious mouth opened and shut by jerks, as if she was trying to speak. Then with an explosive snort, she spluttered:

"Well, ef you hain't jest de biggest liar on top o' dis yere airth, den I don't know nuffin! Mars'r Clay—my chile—do dat ar'? He—w'y, you cussed funnelly fools—Lord 'a' massy, 'pears like I's gwine to bu'st, 'deed it does!"

"Take her out, some of you," angrily ordered the judge.

"Yes, aunty, you'd better go now," interposed Poynter. "It's all a mistake like the other one, and will be over soon."

He had not time to say more, for the old negress was unceremoniously hustled out of the "court-room," and the door again barred. Then the proceedings were resumed. Upon the charge of passing counterfeit money, Jim Henderson testified that the prisoner had given him a base five-dollar coin in payment of his score upon the night of the first meeting, receiving change in good silver.

Was positive of the fact, because it was the only coin of that denomination he had received that day. Upon this, Poynton admitted that he might have done so, unknowing that the coin was spurious, and instanced several cases of his being served the same way, owing to the vast amount of counterfeit money then in circulation.

"Jonathan Green!" called out the judge, acting as crier.

"Hyar I be!" grunted a coarse voice, as a man elbowed his way through the crowd toward the open space reserved for witnesses.

He was a short, squat-built, villainous-looking fellow of perhaps forty years, although strong drink and excesses may have contributed several of them. He cast a sidelong, sneaking glance at Poynter, and then suddenly averted his head.

The prisoner made a sudden motion as if about to speak, but then sunk back once more, his eyes steadily fixed upon Green's face.

This action was not unnoted by the jurors, and more than one thought they could discern a shudder pass over his form, as he darted a peculiar look at the witness. But then, in imitation of a legal court, Green was sworn, and proceeded to give in his testimony.

"Yas, 'ir, I'll tell ye the hull truth, jist es straight es a dogwood, ef on'y you'll promus 'at no harm 'll come arter it. He's mighty rambunctious, he is, when his mad's up."

"Never you mind about that, sir," impatiently said McGuire, "but give in your testimony."

"Wal, ef I must, why, so be it. I've knowed the pris'ner thar a consid'able spell, ef not longer. Me 'n' him usen to be gre't fri'nds an' pardners like, back to ol' Kaintuck—"

"Gentlemen, is this scoundrelly liar brought here to swear away my life? As I live, I have never seen the fellow half a dozen times; I didn't even know his name, beyond that of 'Lying Jack,' and never spoke a word to him in my life!" exclaimed the prisoner, hotly.

"Silence!" ordered the judge.

"Hyar's my hat," put in Green, extending the rag that answered that purpose, with a comical leer. "I never told a bigger lie 'n thet in my life!"

"Witness, you will go on with your evidence, or, by all that's good, I'll give you a taste of hickory oil!" thundered the judge.

"Jes' so! But, es I war sayin', I knowed 'im in ol' Kaintuck jist afore he war driv' away by the vigilantes—"

"For what reason?" asked one of the jurors.

"I don't know. Mebbe 'twas 'cause he scattered too much o' the queer, mebbe 'twasn't," returned the witness, significantly. "Anyhow, he left, an' then I nixt see'd him hyar. One day—mebbe two weeks gone by—he come to me an' says, says he, 'Green, my fri'nd, what you doin', anyhow?' 'Oh, jist sorter sloshin' round, like,' says I.

"Then arter a w'ile he said he could put me in a leetle way to make money, ef I'd no 'bjection. He said he's in the ol' business, an' wanted me to take holt and try to sell the 'queer,' offerin' to let me hev it fer fifteen dollars a hunderd, till I sorter got started, an' found rig'lar customers. I pertended to be all-fired glad, an' he guv me one hunderd dollars on tick."

"But why didn't you tell of this before?" demanded the judge.

"An' git sarved like Bart Clowry? Who was I to go to, ontel I hearn thet you un's was on the trail? Es soon 's I knowed thet, I come an' told you, didn't I?"

"Have you any of the money with you?"

"Yas," replied the witness, drawing a small package from his bootleg. "Hyar it is. I kep' it hid till to-day, 'cause ef it 'd 'a' bin found on me afore, the fellers mought 'a' thunk I's one o' them 'ar fellers."

The money, all in five-dollar coins, was passed to the jurors who, after a careful examination, pronounced it to be counterfeit. Surely, the case began to look black for the prisoner but he still maintained a haughty look upon his pale, handsome features, while his eye flashed back the angry glances that were cast at him from all sides.

"That is all the evidence upon the first charge, I believe," spoke McGuire, but he was interrupted by a voice from the crowd:

"Begging pardon, judge, but there's more yet," and the speaker, one of the two men who had remained behind at the prisoner's house, came forward, and held up a pair of dies made for coining half-eagles. "These toys were found at the house, concealed in the chimney-jamb."

Amidst the greatest excitement, Frank Dalton was sworn, and deposed to this effect. He and Sam Gibson had made a search of the premises after Poynter's capture. After a time they had found the dies, concealed as stated; and a small package of newly-coined money, tied up in an old rag at the bottom of the prisoner's trunk, and thinking they would be needed as evidence, had brought them away.

Samuel Gibson, who was a well-known and respected farmer, fully corroborated Dalton's statement as to the discovery, and when he concluded, any slight doubt that might have been entertained as to the prisoner's guilt, was entirely dispelled.

The hoarse murmur that filled the room began to increase in volume, and dark, deadly hints could be distinguished. Hints that soon grew into open threats, calling for a conviction—a conviction that would be equivalent to death.

Flogging was the least terrible of their threats; others spoke of hanging, several of burning!

Still the prisoner did not quail or tremble. He even drew himself up with a bolder defiance, and not one man of them all but turned their eyes away from his when their gaze met.

"Peace, gentlemen," spoke McGuire, half arising—the ceiling would allow no more—and waving his hand to command silence. "All in good time. There is yet another charge upon which he must be tried. If justice pauses, it will none the less be carried out.

"Wesley Sprowl!" he called out, once order was restored.

A little weasel-faced man approached the stand for witnesses. His form was bowed and emaciated, as if from some recent severe illness, and a hectic cough appeared to trouble him exceedingly, as he gave in his evidence, frequently causing him to pause and lean heavily against the table for support.

As soon as he had partially regained his breath, the judge ordered him to proceed with his testimony, after being duly sworn. But his first words were lost to the majority of the assembly, owing to his low tone; but he soon gathered strength, and every word was uttered with a clear distinctness, that from its deliberation, every sentence appeared to be carefully weighed before being spoken.