ON THE TRAIL OF THE RUNAWAY SLAVE.
Early the next morning, when old Bowen discovered that the slave had fled, he called his dogs and started in pursuit. It was easy to follow the trail, as it was still fresh. He urged his horse on as fast as it could go, shouted to the dogs, and cursed the fugitive slave. In his hand he held a long, blacksnake whip to administer punishment. His eyes sparkled with cruel expectation. His hand grasped the whip firmly, while on, on he rode. The hounds increased their speed. The trail was growing fresher. They would overtake the wretch soon. The heartless master plunged the spurs into his horse's sides, for the dogs were out-distancing him. They passed the Howard house. No! They suddenly stopped in front of the yard-gate. They dashed on, ran wildly in several directions, and returned to the gate. Here they barked, jumped into the air, and scratched around a small tree. The trail ended here. Old Bowen rode up to the spot almost maddened with fury, for Zachary Howard, he thought, had given shelter and protection to his fugitive slave. What revenge! What revenge would be his! Now had his day of retaliation come! He would drag the slave out from his place of concealment, would scourge him in Howard's presence—scourge him until the ground was covered with blood, and the more he writhed and cried for mercy, the harder the lash would fall. If Howard pleaded for him, his punishment would be prolonged. Oh! revenge, cruel, terrible revenge! He leaped from his horse, and, grasping his whip firmly, started toward the house. Mr. Howard, who had been disturbed by the noise, came out to meet him.
"Zach Howard!" cried the raging master, "show me where my slave is concealed. You can't deny it, you have hid him. But I'll find him, and whip him here while you look on—whip him until there is not a drop of blood left in his body. I'll whip him and show you that he is my slave, not yours! Where is he? Bring him out. Zach! Bring him out!"
"There is no slave of yours around these premises," replied the astonished farmer.
"A lie! My dogs tracked him to that tree in front of your gate! Those dogs never fail, Zach, never fail!"
"If the slave was tracked to that tree, Mr. Bowen, he can certainly be tracked farther."
"No sir!" growled old Bowen. "He stopped right there, was helped down by some one, carried away and hid. I have been in this business too long to be deceived by a little scheme like that."
"Strange that this could have happened without my knowing anything about it," said Mr. Howard.
"Well, it did happen, Howard. It happened last night, the trail shows it plainly—shows that he came to the tree and climbed it. The trail doesn't start any place near the tree, and this shows that the cussed negro was helped by some one."
"And why do you think he climbed the tree?" asked Mr. Howard.
"To throw me off the track. The stupid fool! I saw through the trick at the first glance."
"I think I can explain the whole affair."
"How?"
"Do you see that poplar?"
"Yes."
"Do you notice that large limb reaching out toward the tree which you say the negro climbed?"
"Yes. What of it?"
"Don't you think that the negro could have climbed from the small tree into the large one?"
"Possibly. But what did he do when he got in the large tree?"
"Don't you notice that from the other side of the poplar there is another long branch extending over my carriage-house?"
"Yes! yes!"
"Don't you see plainly that he could have climbed on the roof?"
"Yes! What then?"
"The rest of the work was easy."
"How? how?"
"He let himself down from the caves to the rail-fence, and then crawled along."
"You've got the whole trail knit together nicely," said old Bowen, deeply wounded and humiliated because he had failed to connect the facts.
"Ha! ha! I'll get him now! And how I'll lash him!" he continued, with satanic glee, at the same time calling his dogs and starting for the fence, where he hoped to find the lost trail.
"But hold! Mr. Bowen, why are you so cruel with your slaves? If you treated them kindly, they would not run away."
"Zach Howard!" cried old Bowen, "those slaves are mine! They are mine, and I'll whip them as often as I wish—whip them just to hear them yell, if I choose to do so. That's my answer to your question."
"And my answer to you is this," retorted Mr. Howard, in a tone of voice that made Louis Bowen quail before him, "you are a heartless wretch, with whom I'll have nothing in common. Never again cross the threshold of my door, or enter this yard. If you do——"
"No threats are necessary," interrupted Bowen. "I hate and despise you too much for that. Now that you have shown me how and where to find my slave, I have no further use for your company." He wheeled around and started off to find the trail.
Mr. Howard regretted that he had given the information. It was too late, however, to amend matters, so he went into the house, and from one of the upper windows, where he could get a full view of the scene, eagerly watched old Bowen in his vain attempts to follow up the trail. After riding up and down either side of the fence for about an hour, the master grew tired of the fruitless labor, and regretted that he had disposed of Mr. Howard's services so quickly. Still, not having the courage to return and ask for help, he spurred his horse on toward the river, where he hoped to find a new clue to the direction taken by the runaway.
The escaped slave, trembling with fright, watched the whole proceedings from a crevice in the hayloft, and when his master had disappeared he sank back upon the hay exhausted. For days and weeks he suffered from his sore and emaciated back. The negro, Mose, came to him regularly three times a day, bringing him food and applying salve to his wounds.
When asked why he had been whipped, the poor slave would only answer: "He'll kill me if I tell; he'll kill me if I tell." After a month had passed, the wounds were entirely healed, and Mose suggested to his friend that he should start out again and try to make his escape to some more northern State. But the poor wretch was afraid to leave his place of concealment, knowing that if he were caught a worse punishment, even death, would be his fate.