TOM THE TINKER.
"Good luck to you, my friend!" said Mr. Howard, as he accompanied Mr. Lane to the yard gate and pointed out the path which led down to the river. "But be careful, sir; be careful. Remember that you are dealing with a villain—he is not a murderer; at least, I never heard of his killing any one—but he is cruel—as cruel a man as ever came to this State. I do believe that he would shoot down any one who dared come between him and his money. But remember, too, that he is a coward. He'll not meet you face to face. Once you've captured him, watch him closely, for I fear that he'll attempt to take his own life when he sees that he has fallen into the hands of the law."
"I'm new at this business, as you know, Mr. Howard. Luck has been with me so far, and I hope it will stay. This here is sartin; if I don't capture Tom the Tinker it won't be because I didn't do my part. Good morning, sir!"
"Good morning!"
"If I get the Tinker it will be a good shot for me in the next election for sheriff." With these words Mr. Lane started off on his perilous mission.
The farmer stood and watched him until he disappeared, and then turned and walked slowly toward the house, muttering as he went: "The villain! the villain! If he is not captured this time, then I'll take a hand in the fight!"
Mr. Lane strode along the river bank, pushing his way through the patches of horse-weed which grew quite close to the water's edge. He did not follow the path farther up on the hill, as he did not wish to be observed. He often paused to mark his way, for he thought that it would be necessary for him to retrace his steps at night.
High above his head, on the bare limbs of a sycamore, a restive rain-crow croaked,—its call predicting heavy rains and bad luck. The old marksman raised his rifle with deadly aim toward the rufous-winged prophet, held it there for a single second, then, lowering it again, said, "If I'd only pulled the trigger, my little friend, you'd never bring bad luck to nobody again."
A strange feeling came over him as he drew near the cave, so that he used every means to divert his mind. He spoke to the clattering kingfishers, even though they had no inclination to tarry with him; he gazed at the stupid frogs along the river bank; he watched the tanagers which seemed like balls of fire among the green foliage of the trees. The closer he came to his destination the slower he walked; as a consequence, it was almost mid-day when he stood before the two giant rocks, the guardian genii of that mysterious place.
With his right hand grasping his revolver, he passed cautiously through the narrow entrance. Here he paused and listened, but heard nothing. With difficulty he found the rock door. It seemed but a part of the solid stone wall, with a slight, irregular fracture along the side. It was in a dark corner, too, where the light from without did not penetrate. The sheriff drew from his pocket two keys, if keys they could be called, for they were simply pieces of seasoned hickory about ten inches in length, so shaped as to lift a latch. With the largest of these the door was opened. Through it he went into the chamber where Martin and Owen had been held as prisoners on that eventful October night, and again he paused and listened, but still heard nothing. Only the faintest light from without was admitted here, but enough for Mr. Lane to see that he had not reached the place where whisky was made. The walls were no longer decorated with the skins of wild animals. As no fire had been lighted there for weeks, the air was damp and chilly.
The sheriff suddenly recollected that Stayford had spoken to him of two passages leading from this second room, and had directed him to take the one opposite the rock door. He lit a firebrand which he had brought and walked toward this second entrance. He was convinced by this time that no one was in the cave; besides, Jerry had assured him that neither the Tinker nor Simpson ever remained there during the day.
The whisky still was found, and near it several barrels full of mash. The furnace was warm, and, although the fire beneath it had been extinguished, it was evident that some one had been working there during the previous night. It was equally evident that they would return to complete their labor.
Mr. Lane had intended to examine the cave closely, but not to stay there until dark. His plan was to conceal himself in the woods, watch the men when they entered and then follow them. Now, however, he concluded that it was better to remain in the cave, as he could easily find a hiding place.
At one end of the room in which the whisky was made was a passage leading into the "hold out." The sheriff took from his pocket a second key, unlocked the door, and went into the former dwelling place of Jerry the Trapper. This door could be bolted from within, and so firmly that it was impossible to force an entrance without breaking the solid rock slab of which it was made. Mr. Lane decided to wait here until Simpson and the Tinker returned to the cave, and turned the heavy bolt.
The new occupant then began to examine the contents of his strange abode. At one side hung an iron lamp, with just a little tallow in it. Scattered on the floor were deer-skin leggings and moccasins, caps, and jackets of home-spun, just as Jerry had left them a few days before, when he was preparing for the stage robbery. There were various devices used for cooking utensils. But what interested the sheriff most were the instruments for cutting stone. They were of the very finest material, and had evidently been brought from England. With them the old trapper had cut the two massive doors, and had also opened a way from the side of the cave through which to introduce corn and wood and to roll out the barrels of whisky. Then there was the small window with a single pane of glass; the whole being ingeniously covered by wild grapevines which Jerry had trained along the ledge without.
After Mr. Lane had examined everything in the little room the passing hours became long and tiresome. The little window gradually lost its light, until finally all around was shrouded in darkness. With the night came a protracted vigilance on the part of the sheriff. Mr. Lane sat close to the rock door which he had opened and kept a few inches ajar. At length he heard footsteps at the entrance of the cave. He closed the door, and waited, for he wished to give the Tinker time to begin his work.
When ten minutes had passed he cocked his revolver, threw open the door, and rushed from the "hold out."
All was darkness, everywhere perfect quiet. Not a person! not a sound! For a moment the sheriff stood as if petrified, then turned and groped his way back into the "hold out."
With his flint he lighted a firebrand, then returned to examine the cave. In one of the narrow passages he found a place which seemed to have been recently disturbed; this he examined closely. A large fragment of a stone had fallen away from the mother rock and had crushed down the rough sides. It was this noise, no doubt, which he had heard, and had mistaken for footsteps. Back to the "hold out" he went again. The rest of that night and the following day dragged on slowly, Mr. Lane sleeping but little.
Just as it was growing dusk on the second day, he determined to take a short rest. When he awoke it was quite bright. He sat up, and rubbed his eyes, and wondered what had happened. Could it be possible that he had slept during the entire night? He unbolted the door and went out into the cave. Things had been changed there. Some barrels had been filled and others emptied, and there was a smouldering fire under the simmering still.
The sheriff was not discouraged. As several barrels of mash remained, one or two nights would be required to boil them down. From the amount of work done during the preceding night, he judged that two men at most had been there, and these two would, no doubt, return to finish the work. True, he would have to wait another day, but this seemed little to him now that he felt so sure of capturing the Tinker and his companion. Before the day had passed he ate the last of his provisions, smoked his last pipeful of tobacco; then sought to take another rest, as he felt confident that he would have to stand guard over his prisoners during the greater part of the night.
At one end of the "hold out" there was a ledge of rock protruding so far that it formed a natural bed, where he could rest without being seen, even if any one entered the room. With difficulty the sheriff mounted up into this hard bed, and soon was fast asleep.
He was awakened by an explosion like the crash of an earthquake. He sprang up suddenly, hitting the top of the cave with such force that he fell back half unconscious. As he gradually recovered he heard the sound of voices below.
"What would Jerry say," asked one, "if he knew that we had blasted the rock door into fragments?"
"Jerry is in jail," said the other, with a growl. "Jerry is in jail; I hope he will stay there. All that I want is his money. He never spent any. I wonder where he hid it?"
"What part am I to get?" asked the first speaker, as the two began to search among the old clothes and in crevices in the rocks.
"We'll settle that when we find the money."
"We'll settle it now. How much am I to get?"
"You'll be satisfied with——"
"One-half."
"What, Simpson! You want one-half—a half!"
"Yes, a half."
"But you did not work for it; it came from my corn and my whisky."
"It belongs to Jerry now. If we find it, we take one-half each."
"Wants one-half of it, my! my!"
"Yes, one-half."
"Won't a fourth do?"
"No!"
"Nor a third?"
"No! no!"
"My! my! my!"
"See, here! Tom! I'm the only man left to help you to do your work. Before I begin I must have the promise of half of Jerry's money. One-half, or you'll not make another drop of whisky in this cave!"
"My! my! my! my!" whined the old miser.
Simpson made no reply. He sat down on one of the benches and looked straight into the Tinker's face.
Tom continued to whimper, but he saw that Simpson was firm, so he assented to his terms.
"Can't help it."
"Now that we have begun to make terms," continued Simpson, "let me tell you what I must have of all the whisky we sell. One-fifth of the profits must be mine."
"One-fifth!" stammered the Tinker.
"Yes, one-fifth."
"One barrel in five!"
"Yes."
"That's more than Jerry got."
"But it is what I must get."
"It's more than Jerry and Stayford got."
"Can't help it."
"It's twice as much as they got."
"But you robbed them; they often told you so, and you know it."
"My! my! my!"
"I'll take one-fifth, and not a cent less!"
"My! my! And now you are robbing me!"
"Remember, Tom, the work is more dangerous than it was when Jerry worked with you. You don't know what moment Sheriff Lane might come in here and put his hand on your shoulder."
The old coward was startled, and glanced anxiously from one side to the other.
Mr. Lane the while was anything but comfortable. They were to examine the "hold out" to find Jerry's money; evidently they would climb up to the place where he was lying. Luckily he had carried his two revolvers with him; these he held in his hands ready for action.
The Tinker continued to groan, and curse, and argue with Simpson; but in the end he was forced to yield.
"Now that we have reached a conclusion, let us wait until morning before we search for the money," suggested Simpson.
"I want to see how much there is. I always thought that Jerry was rich," said Tom.
"I hope he was. But the money can keep until morning; whereas the mash may sour if we don't run it through."
"Just as you say," assented the Tinker. "You are robbing me of half of it anyway, so there won't be much when the sum's divided."
"Robbing you!"
"Yes, robbing me!"
"You're a liar, Tom, I am only insisting on my rights."
"You accused me of robbing Jerry and Stayford, and now you are robbing me."
"The money we are looking for belongs to no one since Jerry is in jail. If we find it I am entitled to one-half."
"Besides, you force me to give you one-fifth of the profits of the whisky—of the whisky I've spent my days and nights in making, into which I have put hundreds of bushels of corn. That's robbing me! That's robbing me!"
"I simply gave you my terms and you agreed to them!"
"I am forced to agree."
"You are not!"
"What can I do?"
"Get some one else."
"And have him betray me?"
"I thought that we had already come to an agreement," said Simpson, with some warmth. "Let me repeat here what I said before. I don't intend to risk my life in selling your whisky without being well paid for it."
"Yes, and you want a price that is little less than robbery."
"Then call it robbery; call it what you will. But remember the price remains."
"One-fifth, my! my! It comes high. But I'll stick to my word, Simpson. You are to get your one-fifth. Come," continued he, "let us get to work at the still; for, as you said, the mash may sour, but Jerry's money will keep."
"What is that?" asked Simpson, as he stumbled over something leaning against the side of the "hold out." "Well! well! If it isn't Jerry's old rifle. Leaning there just as natural as if the old trapper was at home."
"Strange he didn't take it with him," replied the Tinker, as he held up his firebrand to examine the old flint lock.
The sheriff was startled, for it was Mr. Howard's rifle, and his name was engraved in large letters on the muzzle. But the Tinker did not examine it carefully, and the two men soon left the "hold out" to begin work at the still.
When the cave began to brighten in the ruddy light from the fire which our two worthies had set vigorously going, Mr. Lane climbed down from his rocky bed and crept carefully toward the door. There he stood for some time where he could observe the men without running any risk of being seen. What a strange, weird sight! They looked like ghosts as they passed to and from the glowing furnace, and their shadows leaped and danced along the walls. Simpson fed the fire and brought the mash, while the Tinker looked after the still and watched the pipes which conducted off the whisky. The sheriff grew so interested in the work that he almost forgot the object of his coming. Were he to seize the men now he could certainly swear that he had captured Tom the Tinker while the latter was making whisky; yet everything seemed so quiet and peaceable that he could with difficulty force himself to begin his disagreeable task. Still now was the time for action. He drew his revolvers and stepped quickly toward the two men.
Imagine the surprise of Simpson and the Tinker when they beheld the giant sheriff stalking forth from the room which they had examined but a few minutes before, his long arms turned menacingly toward them, and his stentorian voice calling on them to surrender. He seemed to them a huge spectre, not a living man. On he came with giant strides, until his revolvers were pointed into their very faces.
"Who are you?" demanded Tom the Tinker, with a show of courage.
"I reckon it don't matter much who I am," replied the sheriff, "but I know who you are. Louis Bowen, you are my prisoner."