Eveline Mandeville The Horse Thief Rival

CHAPTER IX.

On the evening of the sec­ond day of their pur­suit, Dick and Bill found them­selves in the im­me­di­ate pres­ence of their vic­tim, they hav­ing reached the same inn at which he had al­ready put up for the night. The meet­ing was un­ex­pect­ed to them, and at first they feared it might frus­trate their de­signs; but as they had tak­en the pre­cau­tion to throw off their usu­al ha­bil­iments and char­ac­ter, and to as­sume the dress and ad­dress of gen­tle­men, Hadley did not rec­og­nize them, though the im­pres­sion fas­tened it­self on his mind, that he must have seen them and heard their voic­es be­fore, but where and when he could not re­mem­ber.

The vil­lains, from his mus­ing man­ner, half sus­pect­ed that he was try­ing to call to mind who they were, and one re­marked to the oth­er that they had bet­ter go out and see af­ter their hors­es; but it was more for the pur­pose of con­sult­ing about the af­fair they had in hand than for the good of their beasts, that they wished to leave the house. When as­sured that they were be­yond hear­ing dis­tance, said Bill to Dick:

“Well, we have treed the game at any rate.”

“Yes, but I don't see as it sig­ni­fies much if we have, for we can't keep him treed, nor bring him down nei­ther, in this place.”

“But we know where he is, and that is some­thing.”

“I take it, it's but lit­tle. What can we do with him?”

“Why, we can get ahead of him and se­lect our place for the next meet­ing, and then--”

“How do you know that? We can't tell which road he will take.”

“We'll find out, though.”

“How?”

“By ask­ing him.”

“And ex­cit­ing his sus­pi­cions. Yes, a pret­ty way of do­ing, cer­tain.”

“Nev­er do you mind; leave that to me; and if we don't know all we want to know by morn­ing, you may call Bill Mitchel a fool; and the fel­low won't sus­pect any­thing, ei­ther.”

“Well, go ahead, but don't make a fool of your­self, nor spoil the job we have in hand, nei­ther.”

“I'll take care for that; on­ly you be cau­tious, and don't say too much, and when you do speak, throw off your rough man­ners and talk and act like a gen­tle­man. I am afraid you will for­get your­self, and in­stead of be­ing Mr. Richard, will act the part of ruf­fi­an Dick.”

“Nev­er do you fear; 'ruf­fi­an Dick' knows what he's about, and you'll see how hand­some­ly he can act 'Mr. Richard' to-​night.”

“Very well.”

With this un­der­stand­ing be­tween them, they re­turned to the inn, which, by the way, was a very prim­itive es­tab­lish­ment, not on­ly in con­struc­tion, but al­so in the char­ac­ter of the en­ter­tain­ment.

Bill worked his card so as to draw Hadley in­to con­ver­sa­tion, and in­ci­den­tal­ly, but de­signed­ly, re­marked that they (him­self and his com­pan­ion) had passed through C---- two days be­fore.

“In­deed!” said Hadley; “I am well ac­quaint­ed in C----. Did you hear any news there?”

“Well, no, not in C----, but a lit­tle way be­yond the town a horse had been stolen the night pre­vi­ous, which caused con­sid­er­able ex­cite­ment in the neigh­bor­hood.”

“How far be­yond was it?”

“About five or six miles, I should think.”

“Did you learn any of the par­tic­ulars?”

“Why, yes, pret­ty much all of them, I think.”

“I know pret­ty much ev­ery­body in that re­gion, and it may be that it was some of my friends from whom the horse was stolen. What was the own­er's name, if you heard it?”

“Man­dev­ille, I think; yes, Man­dev­ille.”

“Man­dev­ille! I know him well. Has he any idea who took the horse?”

“I think he _sus­pects_ some one for the theft--a young man that had been in the neigh­bor­hood, but dis­ap­peared the same night of the theft, and no one knew where he had gone.”

“In the neigh­bor­hood,” re­peat­ed Hadley, mus­ing­ly, as if think­ing aloud. “It must have been the stranger; and yet I thought he was gone some time ago.”

“I don't think it was a stranger; they told us his name, but I do not know whether I can call it to mind or not. Let me see, I think it was Hardy or Hart­ly, or some such name.”

At this junc­ture, Dick caught Bill's eye, and gave him a look, as much as to say: “What the d----l do you mean?--Are you go­ing to ex­cite his sus­pi­cions and send him back home to clear him­self from im­pu­ta­tion?” And Bill as plain­ly replied by looks: “Nev­er do you mind. I'll fix it up right.”

While these mag­net­ic looks were ex­changed be­tween the mur­der­ous repro­bates, Hadley was en­gaged in try­ing to think if there was any­body by ei­ther of the names men­tioned in the vicin­ity where Man­dev­ille lived, but he could re­mem­ber no one. All at once the thought struck him that he him­self might be the per­son ac­cused, and the bare idea that such _might_ be the case sent the blood to his heart and a cold shud­der through his frame.--He was pale as mar­ble, for a mo­ment, and the ras­cals saw it. Mas­ter­ing his emo­tions, he in­quired calm­ly:

“The name you heard wasn't _Hadley_, was it?”

“No, that wasn't it. I heard his name men­tioned, but they said he had start­ed for Philadel­phia the day be­fore the theft.”

At this an­nounce­ment, in spite of him­self, Hadley drew a sigh of re­lief, and as he did so Bill gave Dick a know­ing look. Hadley replied:

“Per­haps the name was Hunt­ly?”

“That's it!” said Bill; “that's the name; I re­mem­ber it now.”

“I should hard­ly have thought him ca­pa­ble of such a crime.”

“Just what the peo­ple said, ex­act­ly.”

“And to take ad­van­tage of the sick­ness of Man­dev­ille's daugh­ter, at that; I can hard­ly be­lieve it of him.”

“You talk pre­cise­ly as his neigh­bors talked.”

“I do not be­lieve he is guilty; no, I am sure he is not. There are oth­ers I would sus­pect a thou­sand times of such an act be­fore I would him.”

“Well, I am sure I can't tell as to that. But, to change the sub­ject, may I be so bold as to in­quire which way you are trav­el­ing?”

“Cer­tain­ly, sir; I am on my way to Philadel­phia.”

“I was in hopes you were go­ing the same way as our­selves; per­haps you are; we are bound for Wheel­ing, Vir­ginia.--Do you go that way?”

“No, I go by way of Pitts­burgh.”

“Do you tar­ry long at Pitts­burgh? We may have to go there be­fore we re­turn.”

“No sir. My moth­er is very sick at her broth­er's house in Philadel­phia, and I shall has­ten to her with all dis­patch.”

“Then, I per­ceive, we shall have to part com­pa­ny.”

“I am sor­ry for that, as I should be pleased to have com­pan­ion­ship on my lone­ly jour­ney.”

Hav­ing found out all that con­cerned his pur­pose, Bill changed the con­ver­sa­tion, and all of them be­ing fa­tigued with hard rid­ing through­out the day, the three soon re­tired for the night. Bill and Dick roomed to­geth­er, and when alone the for­mer said:

“Didn't I do it up about the right way, Dick?”

“Bet­ter than I ex­pect­ed; but, ---- me, if I didn't think you'd got on the wrong track once.”

“I knew what I was at all the time; but I saw you were scared.”

“Well, what's to be done next?”

“We must get ahead of him, and do the thing up while he is cross­ing the moun­tains, as Lieu­tenant Duf­fel sug­gest­ed, and as I told you be­fore.”

“We can do that easy enough; but what do you think; shan't we make Duf­fel side with us in the Du­val af­fair for putting us to so much trou­ble?”

“Yes, and that is one rea­son why I wish to get through with this job as soon as pos­si­ble. We must get back in time for the League meet­ing some­how.”

“We'll have to ride like the d----l, then; for the meet­ing is on Fri­day night week.”

“Well, we must be there if it is next Fri­day night, and we must fin­ish our work be­fore we go.”

“I'm with you.”

“And then, if Duf­fel don't as­sist us to fix Du­val, or at least, if he don't let us have our own way in the mat­ter, we will raise Hadley's ghost be­fore his eyes, and threat­en to 'blow' on him.”

“He'll do it.”

“He shall do it.”

“Well, as that's set­tled, let's go to sleep.”

“Yes, for we have a hard day's ride be­fore us to-​mor­row.”

* * * * *

The shades of evening were gath­er­ing over the rugged steeps and deep dells of the Al­legha­nies, as two horse­men, leav­ing the sum­mit of the moun­tains, de­scend­ed to a deep, dark val­ley, shad­ed and en­vi­roned by a dense growth of pine and oth­er wood, on the east­ern slope lead­ing to the At­lantic. As they en­tered this dis­mal look­ing spot, one of them broke the si­lence by re­mark­ing:

“This is the place.”

“Shall we rob him af­ter he is dead?” in­quired the oth­er.

“Cer­tain­ly. He has a pile about him; and it was for this I was try­ing, when he ac­cused me of at­tempt­ing to rob him, and re­sent­ing the ac­cu­sa­tion brought on the quar­rel, and with it the in­sult. Yes, I must have his life and his mon­ey, too.”

“I'm with you. But hold! What's that? Hors­es' feet, as I'm alive. He's com­ing; we must be quick to our place of con­ceal­ment.”

In the briefest pos­si­ble time their hors­es led out of sight of the road, and hid away among the bush­es, while the two mur­der­ers took their stand at the side of the road in am­bush, to await the ar­rival of their vic­tim.

They had on­ly a few min­utes to wait, when oth­er two horse­men made their ap­pear­ance, and took their sta­tions ex­act­ly as they had done, but about a hun­dred yards fur­ther up the moun­tain.

“What the d----l does this mean?” in­quired one of the oth­er.

“I don't know, un­less some oth­ers have an eye on the gold, as well as our­selves.”

“That's it, I'll war­rant. Good! They may do the mur­der­ing, and we'll rush up in time to se­cure the booty, by fright­en­ing them away. Then we can take the body to the next tav­ern, and tell how we came up­on the rob­bers and mur­der­ers, just as they had fin­ished their work.--Good! Let us get our hors­es near­er at hand, and be ready to dash up­on them.”

While the first two vil­lains were prepar­ing for the new phase the af­fair in which they were en­gaged had tak­en, as they sup­posed, the two who had ar­rived last bus­ied them­selves in mak­ing ready for some damnable work which re­quired dark­ness and that se­clud­ed spot to hide it from the sight of man. We will look af­ter them.

“Well, here we are at last,” said Bill to Dick, for it was these that had ar­rived last. “How soon will he be here, think you?”.

“In a few min­utes. When I last saw him, I don't think he was to ex­ceed half a mile be­hind us.”

“He is com­ing now. Be sure of your aim.”

“Bet­ter take that ad­vice your­self.”

“I in­tend to, for I don't want any botch work of the job.”

“Think those men have got ahead far enough?”

“Yes, they were more than a mile ahead of us, and they will ride like Sa­tan was af­ter them through these wild glens.”

“Yon­der's Hadley!”

“Pre­pare! put your pis­tol close to his heart when you fire!”

“All right; do the same.”

And the oth­er two con­cealed vil­lains were equal­ly ready for ac­tion.

“There he comes!” said one. “Their at­ten­tion will be tak­en up that way now: let us mount, and as soon as they fire, put spurs for the scene.”

“Per­haps they will not use pis­tols,” sug­gest­ed the oth­er.

“Then, as soon as they strike or spring up­on him.”

In a few sec­onds, Hadley came abreast of the vil­lains who were ly­ing in wait for him.

“Now!” said Bill in a hoarse whis­per, and the two at once sprang up­on the lone rid­er, and fired the con­tents of their pis­tols in­to his breast. He fell from his seat, with a deep groan. The mur­der­ers were about to ri­fle his pock­ets, when they were ar­rest­ed in their work of rob­bery by the ap­proach of the oth­er two horse­men, and see­ing their dan­ger, has­tened to mount, and left the scene of their bloody deed, at the top of their hors­es' speed. The oth­ers pur­sued for a mile or more, and then re­turned to look af­ter the slain man and their booty.

“By heav­ens, it's not the man!” they ex­claimed in a breath, as they knelt by the side of Hadley.

“As I live, it is our ac­quain­tance of yes­ter­day! Poor fel­low, he de­served a bet­ter fate.”

“He did, in­deed. Let us re­turn his kind­ness by see­ing that he is de­cent­ly buried; we owe him this much at least.”

“So we do. If I had known it was him he should not have died in this way.”

“Shall we go back or for­ward with him?”

“For­ward; it is near­est that way to a ham­let.”

“Does he breathe yet?”

“No; he is quite dead.”

Gath­er­ing up the body of Hadley, they bore it along in si­lence to­ward the near­est habi­ta­tions of men, some five miles ahead.

The two had pro­ceed­ed with their bur­den but a short dis­tance, when they were sud­den­ly star­tled by a groan from the wound­ed man, who they had sup­posed was dead. They laid him down care­ful­ly, and one of them pro­duced a flask, from which he poured a lit­tle brandy on his lips, and the stim­ulant pen­etrat­ing his mouth, re­vived Hadley, and this, with the aid of oth­er restora­tives, soon brought him to con­scious­ness. See­ing he was not dead, his com­pan­ions now dressed his wounds as well as they could, un­der the cir­cum­stances. It was soon per­ceived that they were not of a very dan­ger­ous or­der. One bul­let had struck a but­ton and glanced off, leav­ing on­ly a bruise on the breast; the oth­er had pen­etrat­ed the chest, but not in a fa­tal di­rec­tion. The fall from his horse had stunned Hadley; there was al­so a mark on the side of his head, in­di­cat­ing that the horse had struck him with his foot, adding ma­te­ri­al­ly to the ef­fect of the fall. Af­ter his wounds were prop­er­ly dressed, he was as­sist­ed in­to his sad­dle, and, sup­port­ed by his bene­fac­tors, was en­abled to ride to the next vil­lage, where he re­ceived ev­ery at­ten­tion, and was so far re­cov­ered in a week as to pro­ceed on his jour­ney. His es­cape was al­most mirac­ulous, and seemed a di­rect in­ter­po­si­tion of Prov­idence. On the pre­vi­ous day he had as­sist­ed the two men out of a dif­fi­cul­ty be­fore a mag­is­trate, where they were ac­cused of the crime of set­ting fire to a man's house on the pre­vi­ous night. It so hap­pened that they were not guilty of the act as charged, but had passed the night in ques­tion at the same inn with Hadley, who, for­tu­nate­ly for them, heard of the af­fair, and went be­fore the mag­is­trate and tes­ti­fied to the facts in the case, and by so do­ing cleared them. This kind­ness, vol­un­teered on his part, was re­paid by the men, as we have seen, though they were des­per­ate char­ac­ters, and ought to have been in the pen­iten­tiary, and, as we have no­ticed, went out to kill and rob some man at whom they had be­come of­fend­ed.

Had not this train of cir­cum­stances led to the re­sult we have chron­icled, there would have been but one fate for Hadley, _death_; for even if the ruf­fi­ans had left life in him, ere the lapse of three hours he would have been de­voured by wild beasts, a pack of which, howl­ing dis­mal­ly, and thirst­ing for blood, crossed the road where he had lain, and licked up the few drops that had run from his bo­som!

Bill and Dick were pur­sued, but es­caped with­out the slight­est clue to their where­abouts or iden­ti­ty be­ing as­cer­tained.

Per­haps we had as well re­mark, at this point, that Hadley's de­par­ture was known to but two per­son­al friends and their fam­ilies, in the Man­dev­ille set­tle­ment, and by them was to be kept a se­cret, as he did not wish Duf­fel, or any of his sup­posed com­pan­ions, to know of his ab­sence un­til he had been gone long enough to reach his des­ti­na­tion, for he be­lieved Duf­fel was bad enough at heart to stop short of no wicked­ness to car­ry his ends, and felt fear­ful he might send some of his min­ions to way­lay him. How near­ly he guessed the truth! He, how­ev­er, gave an­oth­er rea­son for wish­ing the fact kept among his friends and though they thought a lit­tle sin­gu­lar of the re­quest, they act­ed as de­sired.

Duf­fel over­heard a part of the con­ver­sa­tion be­tween him and a young friend--hence his knowl­edge of Hadley's move­ments. Man­dev­ille did not know any­thing about the mat­ter un­til some time af­ter­ward, and this ig­no­rance led him to sus­pect Hadley of the theft, as al­ready record­ed.

He and Duf­fel agreed to keep their sus­pi­cions to them­selves, un­til they could get at some tan­gi­ble ev­idence to prove Hadley guilty. This ex­act­ly suit­ed Duf­fel's pur­pose, as it gave him just the time and ad­van­tage he de­sired, in or­der to per­fect his own schemes.

How eas­ily a few words would have ex­on­er­at­ed Hadley in the eyes of Man­dev­ille: and had he made a con­fi­dant of the mag­is­trate in this sec­ond in­stance, those words would have been spo­ken, to his en­light­en­ment, and the great re­lief and joy of his daugh­ter. But, by an un­for­tu­nate com­bi­na­tion of cir­cum­stances, the re­verse was the case.