The Hawks of Hawk-Hollow: A Tradition of Pennsylavania

by Robert Montgomery Bird

With that, he relaxed his grasp on the raftsman's right hand, as if for the purpose of seizing him by the throat; and Potts took instant advantage of the motion, to snatch his knife from its sheath. The motion was a trick of juggling, such as the outlaw had learned among the red associates of his boyhood, and perhaps practised in similar encounters before. The next instant, he had thrown the whole weight of his body upon the raftsman's breast, and directing the half-drawn blade at the same time with his hand, Potts fell upon the rock, his own weapon buried to the handle in his side.

"Go!" shouted the victor, leaping up, and dragging his victim towards a corner of the shelf, where no parapet intervened betwixt them and the abyss,—"to your fellow bloodhounds below!—Something in memory of Hyland Gilbert!"

He struck the body with his foot,—it rolled crashing over the slender twigs and decaying flakes of stone on the brink of the precipice, and then disappeared, with not a sound to indicate its fall upon the shivered rocks below. The next moment, the victor ran from the platform, and was buried among the forests that darken the long and desolate summit of the ridge.

It was perhaps two hours, or more, before the party of pursuers, descending the mountain to the river, and making their way along the lesser elevation of rocks, heaped at the foot of the great southern precipice, from which they have fallen, reached the spot where they expected to find the mangled corse of the outlaw. Their astonishment and horror may be conceived, when, instead of that, they lighted upon the body of the raftsman, known by his garments, for scarce a vestige of humanity remained, and sought to penetrate the mysterious cause of his fall. The true reason was rather supposed than inferred; but their suspicions were confirmed when the mountain was re-ascended, and his axe and cap found lying on the shelf, as well as a new track of blood, leading along the ridge. This was followed, until it led them to a spot, where, it was evident, the fugitive had rested awhile and bound up his wounds. But here the trace entirely failed, and was never again recovered. The mountains were hunted over and over for weeks, but not the slightest vestige of the refugee rewarded the search.

In the course of the ensuing winter, a party of hunters, following a wolf, were led to the banks of one of those little lakes, that lie, like dots of sapphire and crystal, along the broken ridges of the mountain. In this remote nook, in a hollow, surrounded by jagged rocks and hemlock-trees, were found several rude huts, or wigwams, of boughs, now in ruins, such as the hunters make, when they 'camp out' in the wilderness, with the remains of fires in front of each. This place was supposed to have been one of the chief retreats of the refugees. At some distance from the huts, on the edge of the lake, they fell upon the bones of a human being, scattered about among the stones and bushes, as if rent asunder by wild beasts; and near them was discovered a rusted rifle, which, being taken to the valley, was recognised as the weapon of Potts, the raftsman, which had not been found either upon the platform where the party of pursuers had left him, or near his body. This circumstance induced a suspicion that the bones were those of Oran Gilbert, who had armed himself with the raftsman's piece, before leaving the platform. There remained no other memorial of his fate, and no other circumstance was found to identify the skeleton with the man once so much dreaded and detested; but it was not doubted that hither, into the savage wilderness, he had dragged his mangled frame, and perished miserably.

The close of Hyland's story may be readily imagined. His sufferings he might have considered as being retributive in their nature,—since his return to the land of his birth had no worthier cause than a desire to take part in the conflict against her liberties. This desire had been indeed cooled by personal observation of the feelings and principles which supported his countrymen through a long period of disaster and suffering; and the last blow was given to the unworthy ambition by the love for one of his country's daughters that soon entangled his spirit. The giving way to wrath and the lust of blood, though but for a moment, had been followed by the last and heaviest of his griefs, not the lightest of which was his temporary belief in his own guilt, and his consequent remorse. But the shadow had now departed from him, and for ever; and it was soon perceived by all who chose to ponder over his history, that his greatest crime had been his affection, and the ill-judged deed of violence into which it had led him.

His meeting with the Captain's daughter, after his liberation, was one of mingled joy and grief; but it was the last one marked with tears. The bloom returned again to Catherine's cheek, and, in course of time, the gay and merry spirit, native to her bosom, revisited its former cell; and if a shadow ever again darkened her countenance, it was only when, sometimes wandering along the brook and by the waterfall, (whence the bones of Jessie had been long since removed, to be deposited near those of her step-mother in the village church-yard,) she remembered the trials of sorrow, and the scenes of blood, through which she had been conducted to final happiness. She wept, indeed, when Harriet died, for she had forgiven her; but that was the only grief that clouded a long period of peace and sunshine.

Our inquiries after the fate of the less important personages of our tradition have never been very satisfactory in results. Americans are a race of Utilitarians, all busied in the acquisition of profitable knowledge, and just as ready, if not as anxious, to forget all lore of an useless character. The little anecdotes of a district last but for a generation; the fathers tell them to the children, but the children find something better to think about, and so forget them. We know nothing of the latter years of Elsie Bell, but can readily believe they passed in comfort and peace. Her little cottage has long since vanished from the earth, the running of newer and better roads in other places having long since diverted all travel from the precincts of Hawk-Hollow.

Dancy Parkins, we suppose, under the auspicious patronage of the new master of the valley, pursued his claims to the love of the fair Phoebe; but as that was a matter of much more consequence to him than the reader, we never cared much to inquire his fate.

Our curiosity in relation to the career of the unworthy limb of the law, Theophilus Affidavy, Esq., has been somewhat stronger; yet we could never find that a single act of his life, or even his name, has been retained by those who dwell near the scene of his exploits. His adventure in the brook, with his ride on the back of the buttonwood tree, has, by some strange accident, travelled into an adjacent county, where it is told as a very good story, though the honour is supposed to attach to an individual of another name and profession. But it is with a strange story as with an old pun; it finds fathers, as it travels.