CHAPTER XV.
THE CLOCK PEDDLER’S TRANSFORMATION.
On the following morning our party of voyagers arrived safely at their destination. The men had used their oars so steadily during the night that, by dawn, they were near enough home to have no fears in finishing their journey by daylight.
As they disembarked and approached the settlement, the people came out in crowds to meet them, all surprised beyond measure to see the Morelands coming back so soon, but doubly astonished when they saw Jim McCabe among them a bound and guarded prisoner. Great was the confusion, and numerous the inquiries put to the returned voyagers. But so many questions could not be answered at once, and, answering none, our friends moved on with their captive until they reached the wide clearing just without the fort, where the execution of Russell Trafford had taken place. Here they stopped, and threw McCabe on the ground, where he lay in sullen silence, the object of wondering looks and exclamations. When something like quiet was restored, Mr. Moreland confronted the crowd and explained to them, in a few words, that which they were clamoring to be informed. He told them that the cause of their return was the discovery that McCabe was the real murderer of Doctor Trafford, who had been burned alive in his own house a short time back, and, for which assassination the victim’s nephew had been compelled to suffer. He also told them that the profligate was the friend and ally of that notorious renegade, Simon Girty, and related how the two fiends had hatched a plot to surprise and butcher the party on the island. Then he went on to explain how all this had been found out by the bold and cunning hunter, Nick Robbins; how the latter had dogged him with a perseverance worthy of the cause—thwarted his purpose by the utmost daring and coolness—and led him into a trap, where he exposed the secret of his crime in the hearing of the emigrant party.
Mr. Moreland held the attention of his audience enchained while he was speaking, and his clear, calm voice was the only one to be heard throughout the recital. But no sooner had he finished than the storm broke. Yells of rage made the welkin ring, and, wild with excitement, the men rushed to the spot where the helpless prisoner lay, as though they would annihilate him without a moment’s warning. Shouts of, “Shoot him!” “Knife him!” “String him up!” “Here’s a rope!” etc., were clamorously indulged in. There was scarcely a man present who did not recall the last words of Russell Trafford, as he spoke from the scaffold, and realize that an innocent man had been put to death! The revelation maddened the honest settlers, most of whom had been firm friends of the young man, and, as they thought of the awful mistake they had committed, self-reproach did not satisfy them. Here was the real murderer in their power—the black-hearted wretch who had caused the destruction of those two lives. Should they spare him? Never! Should they submit him to the condign punishment of the rope? Yes! a thousand times, yes! Nothing milder could satisfy their fierce indignation. With shouts and curses they gathered round the prostrate brute with drawn weapons.
In all likelihood the defenseless captive would have been violently dealt with, but for the timely interference of Mr. Moreland, Kirby Kidd and several others, who interposed their bodies and commanded the crowd to move back.
“Men,” shouted Mr. Moreland, “for the sake of heaven calm yourselves, and wait until you hear all. If you harm the fellow in his present helpless condition, you will regret afterward that you did not wait. No punishment is too bad for the wretch, but, whatever is done to him let it be done with due deliberation, remembering the sad result of our hastiness on a former occasion.”
This partially quelled the disturbance. The excited men moved slowly back, though not without murmurs of disapprobation, and more than one deadly weapon was shaken threateningly at McCabe, as they widened the circle around him. The exposure of the fellow’s villainy seemed to have maddened them. To think that he had been living peaceably among them—he, a confederate of Simon Girty, and the murderer of Doctor Trafford—he, who had caused them to make the awful mistake of hanging an innocent man in his stead! Indeed, it was enough to infuriate them.
“It has been irrefragably proved to us,” continued Mr. Moreland, “that our prisoner is guilty of that dark deed, for which we have caused one of our noblest and most inoffensive young men to suffer the worst punishment of the law, but, for all that, we can not see him unjustly dealt with. Whatever we do, I repeat, let us do it in the full possession of our senses. Give him a fair trial. Here’s a boy, the cousin of the prisoner, who has something to say that is quite important.”
As he spoke he lifted Mike Terry above the heads of the assembly, and placed him on his shoulder, that he might be seen and heard by all. At first the boy could not utter a word, but after several attempts he found his voice, and began. There was profound silence while he spoke. He gave his evidence in a remarkably clear and straightforward manner, nor faltered when he observed the black looks that were bestowed upon him, as he told of the part he had taken in the destruction of his master’s life. But as soon as he finished he burst into tears, and told them to hang him if they wanted to, as he deserved it. Mr. Moreland placed him on the ground again, and whispered a few comforting words in his ear, assuring him that he should not be harmed.
To the surprise of all, Jonathan Boggs, from Maine, now stepped out before the people, and cleared his throat as if he were about to make a tremendous speech!