 Chapter 7 Part 3 of Tales of a Vanishing River This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Tom Hirsch. Tales of a Vanishing River by Earl H. Reed. The Turkey Club During her second day's visit to Hyder Alley, a mysterious and indefinable thrill had crept into Sophie's sterile heart. She pondered much over the resistless fascination that the bird exercised over her, and suddenly became obsessed with the idea that this was possibly the reincarnation of a soulmate that she might have had in some far-off previous existence. Somewhere in the starswept ands that were gone that had drifted through the ages in various forms until predestination had again brought them face to face. She had a hazy idea of the theory of reincarnation, but she had an instinctive feeling that if there was anything of that sort, this was probably it, and a long, lost affinity was before her. The loose wires in her upper story that Rat Hyatt had mentioned at the Turkey Shoot began to rattle hopelessly on the subject of the White Gobbler. Into her mind there came a desperate resolve to acquire that bird by fair means or foul. All of her persistence and every form of artifice and cunning of which she was capable would thenceforth be devoted to that end. After Hyder Alley had sojourned a week in Posey's pen, attended with adoration and fed with selected worms, cornmeal mush, and other dainties by the faithful Sophie, Mr. Flaherty came with his little spring wagon and took him away. He said that the man who was to keep him for Mr. Verney had returned home, but he did not say where he lived. Thus was Hyder Alley dangled temptingly before the Turkey Club, and tantalizingly whisked from sight. Verney was eagerly questioned when he came again, but his manner was very reserved. He seemed willing to talk volubly on any subject but the Gobbler, the only thing anybody wanted to hear about. He finally said that he had paid three hundred dollars for the bird and intended to exhibit him at the county fairs in various parts of the state during the fall, charging a small admission fee to make it profitable. Sophie was anxious to know if he would sell the bird, and, after talking it all over with her, the reluctant Josh consented to a grand raffle for the Turkey, provided three hundred chances could be sold at one dollar each. He felt that exhibiting the bird around the county might be a good deal of a job, although he regarded it as a fine thing from a financial point of view. If he was to part with Hyder Alley, he would rather that he would remain with his friends along the river, as he was very fond of all of them, and they might talk over the county fair idea later. It was agreed that when all of the chances were sold, the drawing should be held under the auspices of the Turkey Club in the yard back of Posi's store, where Hyder Alley was to be brought. Numbered tickets corresponding to the names in Sophie's sales book were to be deposited in a hat. Josh Varney, as the owner of the Turkey, was to hold the hat. Sophie was to be blindfolded, and to draw forth tickets one by one until the contents of the hat were exhausted. They were to be handed to somebody else who would call off the numbers and cancel them in the book. The last ticket in the hat was to win Hyder Alley. The chances were all sold within a week, some purchasers taking as many as a dozen. Just before the supply was gone, Josh and his friend Flaherty each took ten, and the book was declared closed. Sophie was only able to buy seven, but she hoped that they would be sufficient for her purpose. Every able-bodied person, and some who were not, who lived within ten miles and could by any means get to the store, was there on the day of the drawing. Hyder Alley arrived in his perforated box and was reinstalled in the chicken-yard where he walked about in Lonely Majesty, while his destiny was in the balance, the signature of many anxious and coveted eyes. A platform had been improvised with four big dry-goods boxes in the yard, high enough for everybody to see what was going on. Mr. Varney stood on it and announced the conditions. He acknowledged the receipt of the proceeds of the raffle and stated that the bird now belonged to the winner. The three hundred numbered tickets were then produced by Sophie. She handed them to Varney to deposit in the ancient plug hat that Pop Wilkins had obligingly loaned for the occasion, in accordance with time-honored custom. Pop, with the sun reflecting from his bald head, stood on the platform, adjusted his brass-rimmed spectacles, and made ready to call off the cancellations. Varney ran through the tickets several times and counted them to see if they were all there. His numbers were from 281 to 290. He mixed the tickets over thoroughly inside the hat with his hand, and the blindfolded Sophie began drawing. She had carefully bent all of her own tickets in such a way as to enable her to identify them by touch, and had no doubt that she would own Hyder Alley within the next twenty minutes. There was excited buying and selling at big premiums of numbers remaining in the hat as the contests narrowed down, and there were frequent delays in the drawing to accommodate the speculators. Six of Sophie's tickets had come out. None of them were bent, and cold chills raced up and down her spine. Her agile and nervous fingers had carefully avoided a well-bent ticket near one side of the grimy interior of the hat. When she drew out a flat ticket next to it, she learned to her horror that it was her last number. With a faint heart she reached for the other, hoping that there had been some error in her count, but the last ticket was number 294, and it belonged to Mr. Flaherty. It was evident to her that the wily Josh had discovered the bent tickets, and while he was handling them over inside the hat, he had managed to straighten them all and bend Flaherty's. Whatever other artifice Josh might have had in reserve had he not discovered the bunch of bent tickets will always be a mystery, but he certainly had no intention of leaving Hyder Alley in the river country. Sophie removed the handkerchief, under which she had found no difficulty in peaking during the drawing, and looked upon Josh. Human eyes have seldom glittered with the venomous and deadly glow that he now saw in Sophie's orbs. Such eyes might have blazed through a labyrinth in a jungle upon one who had seized a tiger cub. Backed by courage the look would have portended murder. Sophie at once realized the hopelessness of her position, for no specious protest was possible. She had encountered an adept in an art in which she was but a Tyrell. It was all over, and she was compelled to smother her impotent wrath. To the crowd, ignorant of the little drama on the platform, everything had seemed entirely regular. None of them had ever had a ghost of a chance of getting the turkey, but they were good-natured losers. Papa Wilkins carefully restored the old stove-pipe hat to his shining dome, while regretting that he had not won Hyder Alley, and that that remarkable bird from foreign lands was not to remain in the community, he declared that there was now nothing to do but congratulate the winner. That's what we'd done at the turkey shoot last year, remarked Bill in an undertone, as we watched the perforated box being loaded onto Flaherty's spring wagon. Varney tactfully refrained from assisting in the loading. I hate to part with that bird, he declared, but business is business, and there he goes. Sophie continued to look upon him with a steely and viperous glare, but he did not appear to notice her. They each knew that the other thoroughly understood the situation, and there were no ethics that were debatable. Sophie knew that Flaherty was a man of straw, and that she had been skillfully robbed of the fruits of her chicanery. Varney regarded her discomforture with the generous benevolence of a victor. Sophie believed that all moral logic in every other kind of logic entitled her to Hyder Alley. She considered that in addition to the loss of the bird, she had been swindled out of the seven dollars she had paid for her worthless chances. She justified her own dishonesty to herself by the conviction that she had worked hard enough for the club to have the turkey anyway, and as long as some ticket had to be left until the last, it might just as well be hers as anybody's. It was all a matter of chance anyway, and as it turned out, it would have been much better for everybody if Hyder Alley could have been kept in the neighborhood with her instead of being taken away. She considered that she had suffered a great injustice, and that a defenseless woman should thus be robbed and maltreated was to her the acme of outrage. Varney had his own rig with him, and left for the county seat soon after Flaherty and his spring wagon had departed in an opposite direction. The precious pair was gone, with Hyder Alley and two hundred and eighty dollars of tangible profits. A melodious gobble was faintly heard far away on the road while Flaherty was still in sight. It might have been a wail of sorrow and farewell. I suppose, remarked Bill, that Hyder Alley's yelling for help. He's probably afraid them two jaybirds will send him back to them rummins, and that bung spout swammy fishnet man in India, where he'll get his crap chilled with them frozen frogs, but he needn't worry. I didn't buy no chances for I didn't think there'd be any show for a white man with Josh and Sophie up in them boxes, and they wasn't. I thought there was going to be something doing when I seen Sophie, I and Josh. She looked like she wanted to squirt some lie at them. Sophie's got a bad eye. She could sour a pen of milk that's twenty feet off by just looking at it in a certain way. Then Cupid's have finished the cooking this time, and we're done good and brown. I don't think they'll be round any more, lest Josh comes to sell us a striped elephant next year, and if he does, I suppose we'll buy it. I don't think we wanted that mosquito-fatted bird anyway. He didn't look to me like he was healthy. Sophie was ill for a couple of weeks, and visited the store but rarely during the rest of the summer. She looks like she's been lit, observed Rat Hyatt. She don't seem to have no pep anymore. I met her on the bridge the other day, and when I spoke to her, she answered as nice and polite as anybody, instead of looking at me like I was a skunk and passing on the way she used to do. During the latter part of August, Sophie chanced to see a copy of a weekly paper that was published in a small town about fifty miles away. In it was an announcement of a grand raffle to be held the following week, for a wonderful white turkey imported from Siberia at great expense, the like of which has never been seen or heard of in this country. The article went on to say that this is a great event that is about to take place in our midst, and the editor blushingly owns to the soft impeachment of having taken ten chances with his hard-earned pelf. We hope to win this splendid prize, but if we fail, we respectfully ask anybody who is in arrears on their subscription to please call at our holy editorial sanctum with some mazuma, for though ye add toys with the trailing skirts of fickle fortune, yet must eat. Sophie kept her own counsel and prevailed on top Wilkins to lend her his horse in two-seated buggy for a few days to enable her to visit a sick relative who lived some distance away. She was gone a week, and when she returned, Hyder Alley was in the buggy. His beautiful head protruded inquirerily from the top of a gunny sack in which he was carefully secured. Sophie drove home with her prize, returned the rig to the obliging pop, and walked loftily into the store on her way back to make some purchases. She was a changed woman, and victory was on her brow. She greeted the loiterers about the store, but as Posey expressed it, she spoke from above. Naturally the neighborhood was in a ferment of curiosity. How'd you get them? asked Bill pleasantly. I caught them on a fish-line, she replied grimly. Beyond this she refused any explanations, and her attitude was regarded as the height of cruelty. She said it was nobody's business but her own, and no further light was thrown on the subject. Early in the fall a band of gypsies came and camped on a grassy glade in the woods, not far from where Sophie lived. They remained several weeks. The men traded horses with the nearby farmers, and the women went about the neighborhood in their picturesque costumes, begged small articles, and told fortunes. One morning Sophie was horrified to find that Hyder Alley was gone. She at once suspected the gypsies, and rushed to their camp, but the remaining folks had departed. She found a long white feather on the ground that undoubtedly had come from her cherished bird. She at once enlisted all the help she could get. The assistance of the sheriff was invoked, and the trail of the gypsies was taken by a large party. They were located about fifteen miles away. Thorough search revealed no trace of the missing property. The gypsies were confronted with the telltale feather, but denied all knowledge of it. There seemed to be nothing further to do, and the matter was dropped by the sheriff. In November, just before the annual turkey shoot, Mr. Roscoe Plunkett of the firm of Plunkett and Mott, whose goods Varney had sold for several years, came to pose a store to check up on their account. He said that his firm had suffered considerable losses through the shady and sinuous methods of Varney, and that he was no longer with them. They had delved deep into his history before he came to them, and found that he had a rancid past. It was checkered with a couple of jail confinements, but he had managed in each case to obtain his freedom after trial. He had been a champion rifle-shot, and had given exhibitions of trick-shooting in a Wild West show for a year or two. Of late, he had been mixed up with a man named Flaherty. They had found a farmer in the southern part of the state who had an albino turkey, one of those rare freaks of nature due to deficient pigmentation. It was a beautiful gobbler of abnormal size. They bought the bird for twenty-five dollars, and since that time they had been going around the country raffling it off. One of them had always won it. During the previous week a friend of Plunkett's, who was a commercial traveler, had written him that he had met Varney in Michigan, and that Flaherty and the white turkey were with him. This new light on the general cussedness and dark ways of Josh Varney came too late to be of any benefit to Sophie. She had gone to live with some relatives in a small town in Iowa, taking her illusions and her bitter hatreds with her. Her hand-packed husband had mercifully been relieved of his earthly troubles, but this had not seemed to disturb her as much as her other afflictions. She had become completely disgusted with her surroundings and had sought new fields for her restless propensities. It's too bad Josh don't know she's a widow, remarked Bill, for them too might get married now if they wanted to. Bill labored long in lettering out the notice of the next annual turkey shoot, which he tacked up in the store. There was a full attendance when the day came. The weather was again pleasant, the bloodletting was satisfactory, and no untoward incident marred the joy of the occasion. When the shooting was over, Bill pounded officially on a barrel top and called the business meeting to order. The first thing to be done at this meeting is to elect a new chief gobbler, for this one has now resigned. This chair has quit and now pays its parting respects to all the members. I say now that this chair has been blasphemed and jumped on for five years. Nothing has ever been done right. Everybody has cussed the chair right and left, and the chair has never peeped or said a word back. In quitting this honorable office, this chair now makes answer to all them sore heads that's been criticizing it for all these years. And that answer is BAH! Now we'll proceed to nominations for the chair's successor. A voice. I nominate Mr. Bill Stiles for the ensuing year, and I move it be made unanimous. The chair. Is there no other nominations? Another voice. I nominate Mr. Josh Varney, and I move it be made unanimous. Course of CAD calls. A voice from the rear. I move that the chair stops smoking when it's presiding, and I move we adjourn. The chair. If that fellow back there thinks he can run this meeting better and it's being done, let him come up in front. This chair is going to do it smoking while it's alive instead of waiting till afterwards like some people. We've got to have some dignity about this thing, and you fellers keep quiet. Now who makes any more nominations? After some further parliamentary bickering, the reluctant Bill was duly re-elected, as usual. Now, he continued, having got this terrible weight off in our chests, the next business will be the election of a new boss, for Sophie Perkins has left us. She's gone way off summers where the winds are blowing and she'll never come back. Mr. Posey has been suggested for new secretary and treasurer. Does anybody nominate him? He'd be a good man to take in the money, but he'd make a hell of a secretary, shouted somebody in the crowd. Never mind does somebody nominate him, continued Bill. How do you know Sophie'll never come back? demanded another voice from the rear. How do I know? How do I know anything? Shut up! replied the chair with asperity. Mr. Posey modestly declined his impending honors, but was elected. The next business, announced Bill, is the report of the chair on the case of Mr. Josh Varney. Some of you probably faintly recollect of his having been among us some time ago. He then related the story of Plunkett, revealed the sins of Varney in all their sable hues, and commented costically on the soft-headedness of the victims of that artful tactician. All you fellows has just been as easy marks for Josh's, them ten turkeys in them boxes was a year ago. Someday we may catch the professor, but knowing him as I do, I don't believe we will. He bruised a lot of gold shekels out of this bunch with that pale fall, and besides, he made us feel bad. Mr. Rat Hyatt was now recognized by the chair. For years, said Rat, all of us has called Sophie Perkins the Stinger, and she was a Stinger. But I now move you, Mr. Chairman, that that title be hereby shifted off on her and put on that pink-eyed turkey man. The motion was unanimously carried, and ordered spread upon the records that Sophie had left at the store. The meeting then adjourned. As we left, I casually mentioned the fine weather we were having. Yes, it's been a phenomenous year, replied Bill thoughtfully. End of Chapter 7 Part 3 Recording by Tom Hirsch Chapter 8 Part 1 of Tales of the Venishing River This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Tom Hirsch Tales of a Venishing River by Earl H. Reed The Predicaments of Colonel Peets Near one of the picturesque bends of the river, about half a mile above the beginning of the Big Marsh, was the home of Colonel Jasper M. Peets, a dowdy warrior who had fought valiantly for the lost cause and was spending his declining years in a troubled twilight. The Colonel was an exotic. Perverse feats had transplanted him into a strange climb. All that anybody along the river knew of his history, up to the time of his arrival, had come from his own lips, and none of it was to his discredit. I had made his acquaintance at Posey's store where he frequently came for supplies. Muskrat Hyatt cautioned me not to have anything to do with him. That fellow's bad medicine, he declared. He's worse than I am, and that's saying a whole lot. If you ever go down to his place, you keep your cash in your shoes, and don't you take them off while you're there. The little farm, with its dilapidated house and barn, had come to the Colonel as an inheritance from a distant relative whom he had never seen. The old pioneer who had died there had spent years of toil, patient and unremitting in clearing the land and coaxing a precarious livelihood from the reluctant soil. He had left no will, and the Colonel was the nearest surviving relative. The Colonel explained that this farm, and a small parcel of land down south, was all that he now possessed in the world. The iron hail of the oppressor had destroyed everything else. His beautiful mansion on the Cumberland and all his niggas had been lost in the fury of the conflict. His personal fortune was a wreck. He was over seventy and quite gray, but his erect military figure and splendid health somewhat belied his years. He was rather indolent in his movements, but as he sat in his hickory armchair before the stone fireplace, the lights that played over his storm-beaten features pictured a warrior in repose. His heavy mustache was trained down in horseshoe fashion on each side of his chin, and then twisted outward in a way that gave his face a redoubtable expression when he frowned. He would often stand before the three-cornered piece of mirror attached to the outside of the house, combing and re-combing the bellicose ornament and observing it attentively, until he achieved particular curves at the ends that pleased his fancy. Apparently he affected a formidable facial aspect, becoming to one who had led charging men. Evidently he had somewhere received a fair education, but outside of fiction, a field he had widely covered, he seemed to have little interest in books. His former environment had left a romantic polish, heightened by a florid imagination. His character had been molded by the traditions of the South, and they were the only religion he had. His vanity was delightful, and he had the heart of a child. Little gifts of tobacco and cigars made him happy for hours, and there was a subtle, lovable quality about him that radiated even in his foibles. The old house stood on the rising ground among tall elms and walnuts, about two hundred feet from the river. It had never been painted. Some of the clapboards and shingles were missing, and others were loose. When the wind blew, stray currents permeated the structure, and there were mournful sounds between the walls, like the moanings of uneasy ghosts. The little log barn was decayed and tenantless, with the exception of a few scraggly hens and a vicious-looking old game-cock. The Colonel had bought him somewhere, and annexed him to his estate, possibly as a concession to his early sporting instincts, or for sympathetic reasons. They were both warriors of better days. In an enclosure beyond the barn were half a dozen young razor-backed pigs. These noisy shouts were a continual source of irritation to the Colonel. He declared that he would shoot the two Sopranos and let the other pork loose if Seth Mussie, who looked after them, did not put muzzles on them or find some other way of keeping them quiet at night. The Colonel did not do any work on the farm. This was attended to by Mussie on shares. Mussie lived a quarter of a mile away and was the only neighbor. The shares were not very remunerative, but added to the Colonel's other small resources. They made existence possible. A narrow path led down to the river bank where the Colonel kept his rowboat and small duck canoe which he propelled with a long paddle. The landing consisted of a couple of logs secured with stakes and overlaid with planks. During high water in the spring the landing usually floated away, and a new one was built when the freshettes subsided. There was an air of general shiftlessness about the place that would have been depressing to anybody who did not know its eccentric proprietor. He spent much of his time fishing on the river in the summer and early fall until the ducks began to come in. During the game seasons he acted as host, guide, and pusher for duck hunters, who sometimes spent weeks with him. They had rare sport on the Big Marsh, but were compelled to suffer some hardships at the Colonel's house. He did the cooking, or rather he heated the things that were eaten, and some of them baffled analysis. One of his guests once told of a mud hen hash that the Colonel had compounded in which there were many feathers and of some snapping turtle soup where all was lost but the adjective. The complaining visitor had slept on the floor with a bag of shelled corn for a pillow, and the unholy mess with a cup of doubtful coffee had been served for breakfast. But he soon got broken in and learned to put up with these things if he wanted to shoot ducks with the Colonel. The various dishes when cooked for the first time could usually be identified, but succeeding compositions were culinary byproducts and afforded few clues to their component parts except to a continuous and very observant guest. I once ate some fish chowder with the Colonel, which if it had been called almost anything else would have been really very good. I never knew the ingredients, and I doubt if its author could have reconstructed it, or have given an accurate account of its contents. Someone has aptly said, if you want to be happy, don't inquire into things, and the injunction seemed quite applicable to the Colonel's fare. There are many accidents, both happy and sad, in cookery. A wise cook is never free with recipes, for in any art formula dissipates mystery that is often essential to appreciation. Some cooks enter where angels fear to tread, and when the trip is successful the glory is properly theirs. Their task is thankless, and malediction is upon them when they fail. They are in contact with elemental instincts, and their occupation is perilous, for they are between an animal and its meat. One stormy night we sat before the crackling fire. The loose clappards rattled outside, and the big trees were grumbling in the wind. Water dripped from the leaky roof, and little streams crept across the floor. I had come down the river in a small rowboat, and intended to spend a week fishing for bass in the stream and sketching in the big marsh. You must pardon the appearance of things round here, remarked the Colonel. There is a lot of fixing up to be done, and the weather has been so pleasant lately that that infernal musty has had to work out a doze. If this weather stays bad, he will come in here and straighten things up. He had queer notions regarding work. There were some things that he would do diligently, and others he considered beneath his dignity. The line of demarcation was confused, and I was never quite able to be certain of it. He cooked and partially washed the dishes, but never swept the floors, or fed the chickens and shouts at the barn. He never repaired anything except under urgent necessity, and his idea of order was not to disturb anything after he had let go of it. You may be interested to know, sir, that I have been occupying my spare time writing my memoirs, he continued. I have collected the scattered records of my career. I have no descendants, and I may say to you confidentially, as one gentleman to another, that I do not expect any, sir. So there will be nobody to take pride in my literary work after I'm gone but the general public. But as a part of the history of the South during its period of great trial, I think my memoirs would be valuable. I'm going to put my memoirs in the form of a novel, sir, and I have had to mix up a lot of other people in it who are, to some extent, fictitious. So my book will be a combination of fact and romance. I have thought it all over. I am of the opinion that a book to be popular must be a story. It must have a plot, and somebody must get married on the last page. I'm writing such a story, sir, and I am weaving the main incidents of my career into the plot. In this way I will get my history before a great many people who never read memoirs. I will gild what is the real pill, so to speak, but dip in it into the bright, huge waters of romance. I am having a great deal of trouble with my plot, sir. There is a fella in it by the name of Puddington Corkins. I want to kill these cussed cockens, but if I kill them I will have nobody to marry to the mysterious veiled lady that I see in the dim distance. She is gliding toward the web of my plot, but I do not yet know whether she comes upon an errand of vengeance or to demand justice for her child. This veiled lady is perfumed with tuberosa, and I hate to leave her out, for with the exception of boobin, tuberose is my favorite oda, and that reminds me, sir, pardon me, just one moment. The colonel arose and went to the cupboard. He brought forth a tall bottle, poured a liberal dose into a tin cup, and swallowed it with impressive solemnity. That bobbin came from Tennessee. It was sent to me by an old friend who was related to Judge Benton in Nashville. When the judge died he had two bells of this noble fluid in his cellar, and one of them was left to my friend in the judge's will. It had been twenty-four years in the woods, sir. I was fortunate enough to be presented with some of that wonderful whiskey. I am sorry, sir, that you do not indulge, for you are missing something that puts spangles on a sad life, sir. Most people drink whiskey for its alcohol, and such people, sir, should patronize a drugstore. A gentleman drinks it for its flavor, and that reminds me, sir, that birdie cannot fly with one wing, and if you pardon me, I'll take another. After replacing what was left of the bobbin, the colonel stuffed some fragrant tobacco into a much darkened cob pipe, contemplated the ascending wreaths for a while, and reverted to his novel. The plot of that story is a propensity to me, sir. I think of things to put in it when I'm out on the river, and when I get back I forget what they are. I'm going to get some more paper and write the whole thing over. Maybe I will kill that infernal pud-cockens, and I will myself marry that female whose face is concealed. Somebody must marry her, or she will be left without supportin' at the end of the book. People will never buy my memoirs. They will look in the back, and if there's no wedding there they will cast the volume aside. That pud-cockens is much on my mind, sir. He is a predicament. He wakes me from my slumbers, and he sits beside me at my humble meals. He has damned up the flow of my fancy in my novel, sir. I have never read a novel that had anything like him in it. He is a damned nuisance, sir, and he has got to go. The next time you come down I would like to read to you what I have written. It is too much mixed up now, but I will have it all in auto when you come again. And another thing that bothers me is my chestnut filly that I wrote during the waw. I have got to have her in the story. I wrote her through battle-smoking over fields of carnage. I was at the head of my men, sir, and every fall of her hoofs was on dead Yankees that fell before our onslaught. It would break my heart if pud-cockens should ever ride that house, even in a story. And yet pud-cockens was on the field where I fell covered with wounds, and he rode some house home to tell the tale. And if he had some other house I would have to leave my filly out, for only one live house was left at the end of that charge, and that was the one I fell from, and great God, man, I couldn't kill my filly. Of course my horse will succumb in my memoirs to the immutable laws of nature, but that must appear as the record of the actual fact after the war was over. She will not die by my hand even in fiction, no, sir. I will kill pud-cockens a thousand times first, sir. The preparation of all this written matter has been a great lever to me, but it has occupied many hours that it would otherwise be unbearable in this God-forsaken country. I sit here by my fire and work with my pen, but this pud-cockens is always by my side, sir. Borrowing a few unavoidable discomforts, I spent a very pleasant week with the Colonel. The fishing had been good, and there was a world of interest and joy in the stretches of the great marsh, teeming with wildlife, and filled with the gentle melodies of hidden waters. I paid my host his modest bill, bade him good-bye at the landing, rode upstream, and after spending a day with Tipton Posey at Bundy's Bridge, left the river country. It was six months before I returned. I sought the Colonel and found him much changed. A trouble had come upon him. His eye had lost its luster, and he had an error of listlessness and preoccupation, and he looked older. It seemed that there had been great excitement in the county after my departure, and the Colonel had been the storm-center. When we finished our simple evening meal, and had lighted our pipes before the fire, the Colonel handed me a copy of The Index, the weekly paper published at the county seat. Its date was about four months old. I'd like to have you read that, sir, and then I will hand you another. On the front page were some glaring headlines. The burglary, the explosion, the pursuit. I read the account with deep interest, which was as follows. On Monday morning of June 10th, a crowd assembled in front of the county treasurer's office at the courthouse amid very unusual circumstances. Nearly $7,000 were known to have been in the safe Saturday night, and now, as the anxious citizens crowded through the door, they saw a ruined, open safe and abundant evidence of a fearful explosion. A steel drill, some files and an empty can that had probably contained the explosive compound were scattered about on the floor. The rugs were in a pile near the safe where they had probably been used to muffle the explosion. The money was gone. It was learned that a stranger of singular appearance and marked individualities, with a grey coat, a heavy grey mustache and long chin whiskers, who entered the town last Friday and had been observed by many of the citizens during Friday and Saturday, had deposited at the treasurer's office for safekeeping a box represented to contain valuables. This box, made of tin, some 8 inches in length and 5 in width, was deposited on Friday and taken out on Saturday morning. It was again deposited on Saturday afternoon to be called for on Monday morning. The county treasurer, the honorable Truman W. Pettybone, had gone fishing on Thursday and expected to remain away until Tuesday, as is his custom during the summer months. The mysterious stranger was waited on by Mr. J. Milton Tuttle, the courteous and well-known clerk in the treasurer's office. Mr. Tuttle's charming daughter had just returned from a visit to her aunt in Oak Grove Township, but we digress. J. Milton Tuttle had no suspicions and retired at evening to his home and his interesting family. The stranger was thought by several citizens to have taken the evening train, but was seen lurking around town with a slouch hat pulled well down over his eyes at a late hour Saturday night. He entered the Busy Bee Buffet at 11 o'clock and was served by Mr. Oscar Sheets, the gentlemanly bartender. He immediately departed. It was supposed that he spent the night in Sumbarn. It was ascertained that the tall and singular-looking man in the gray coat, who appeared to be disguised, was seen on Sunday morning to enter the front door of the courthouse. This door, as is well-known, is usually left open on Sunday for the convenience of Sunday callers who wish to read the legal notices on the bulletin board in the hallway. Miss Anastasia Simpson, an unmarried lady living near the courthouse, noticed particularly that the stranger was very distinguished-looking. She watched from her window for his reappearance, which did not take place until three in the afternoon when he departed, seemingly in a state of great perturbation and excitement. It was ascertained that Mr. Wellington Peters, proprietor of the prominent and well-known low-priced hardware store bearing his name, and whose business is advertised in our columns, while standing on the corner talking with a traveling man near the hotel, heard a dull booming sound from the direction of the courthouse at about 2.45 p.m., but thinking that it was boys making some kind of a racket, he paid no attention to it. Several other prominent and well-known citizens heard the same sound at the same hour. The tall and mysterious stranger was seen by Miss Simpson to walk south after leaving the courthouse. She went to another window to further observe him, but he had disappeared. The little tin box which the artful and designing robber had left for safe keeping with J. Milton Tuttle, in which he locked up in the safe, was opened and found to contain nothing but a bag of sand. It was evident to all that the tin box was a subterfuge. It was used as an excuse to visit and inspect the lay of the land in the office of the treasurer of our county. About noon on Monday a posse was formed by the honorable Cyrus Butts, our gentlemanly and efficient sheriff. The posse, consisting of three prominent and well-known citizens—Oliver K. Gardner, Silas B. Kendall, and Elmer Dinwitty—accompanied by the sheriff made a circuit of the town. They ascertained that the mysterious stranger had stopped at the pleasant little home of Mr. Mike Kearney, the genial and well-known butcher of our town, and asked for a drink of water, which was given him. He had then taken a southerly direction along the section line road. The posse procured Toppington Smith's mottled bloodhound and put the intelligent animal on the trail of the fleeing burglar. The pursuit continued for about twelve miles. The fugitive was evidently making a beeline along the section road for the river marshes. A team was met on the road with a load of bailed hay and impressed into service. All of the bails but two were unloaded and left by the roadside. The two bails were retained on the wagon for use as a barricade in case of a revolver battle with the burglar. Drivers of teams met along the route, reported seeing a man enter the woods before they met him, and go back into the road a long ways behind them after they had passed. The variations in the course taken by the hound confirmed this. About ten o'clock at night there was a full moon. The trail left the road and led into some thick underbrush near a small slew. Some smoke issued from the brush, where the fugitive had evidently built a fire and expected to spend the night. The place was surrounded and the posse cautiously advanced, but the burglar was gone. It was thought that the cunning mal-factor had got wind of his pursuers, that he had turned aside and lighted this fire in the brush with a view of delaying and baffling those behind him with artful strategy. The hound left the brush, and a few minutes later a tall figure with a light gray coat was seen a few hundred yards away on a bare ridge in the moonlight. It was unquestionably the fugitive, and the hound was with him. The posse opened fire with revolvers, but at such a distance it was futile. The man and the dog disappeared over the ridge into the woods. The burglar had escaped, and the dog had evidently joined forces with him. Further pursuit that night was considered hopeless. The posse slept at a farmhouse and resumed the search Tuesday morning. They found the dog tied to a tree near the edge of the big marsh. There were tracks in the soft mud at the margin of the slew, and an old boat belonging to a farmer in the vicinity was gone. There were marks in the mud showing where the boat had been shoved out to the water. The pursuit was abandoned, and the posse returned home. A full description of the robber was sent broadcast, and it is thought that his capture is only a matter of time. Up to the hour of going to press there are no further particulars to record, but we hope that before our next issue justice will triumph, and the burglar with his ill-gotten booty will be within its grasp. And now, sir, will you please cast your eye over this racket of infamy, requested the colonel, as he handed me a later copy of the same paper. The next account was headed, Arrested, Preliminary Hearing, Habeas Corpus, and it read as follows. We are able to announce that the crafty and resourceful robber of the county treasurer's office, who so successfully eluded the grasp of his pursuers, and made good his retreat into the river marshes, has probably been apprehended. The evidence seems to indicate that one colonel Pete's, who lives on a small farm on the river above the marsh, is the culprit. He was captured there by the sheriff the day after our last week's issue was in the hands of the public. He offered no resistance. The information that led to his capture was received from Mr. Tipton Posey, who keeps the well-known general store near Bundy's Bridge. Mr. Posey stated that the description of the robber printed in this paper exactly fitted colonel Pete's, with the exception of the chin whiskers, which he thought were false. This paper is invariably modest and unassuming. It wanteth not itself, but we may say, without undue self-glorification, that it was the thoroughness of the journalistic work of this paper that made the description of the robber available, and that this capture is therefore exclusively due to the enterprise of the index. Our circulation covers the entire county. Our advertising rates will be found on another page. Our subscription rates are two dollars a year, cash, or two fifty in produce, strictly in advance. Colonel Pete's claims to be an ex-officer in the rebel army. He bears a bad reputation along the river, and is said to be a man of immoral character. The prisoner was securely lodged in the county jail, and after the usual legal forms he was brought before the justice of the peace for preliminary hearing. When the morning of the examination came, the court was thronged, as it never has been before. The ladies crowded the room as they had never done at any court during our existence as a county, while the trial progressed, manifesting a strange interest which has never been exhibited till now for or against any prisoner. And yet not so strange, for a remarkable prisoner appeared before them. He was tall, strongly built, with a heavy mustache and pale, as though just recovering from an illness, marked in his individualities a man of martial bearing whom one would expect to recognize among ten thousand. Every female eye was uninterruptedly focused on this striking looking man during the entire hearing. He was claimed to be the same stranger who had blown open the safe and abstracted the seven thousand dollars of the county's money. The lost well, of course, has to be made good by the treasurer or his bondsman if the plunder is not recovered from the thief, and much sympathy is felt for the honorable Truman W. Pettibone who has long borne an enviable and unsolid reputation in our midst. Several of the ladies present were to appear among the witnesses in behalf of the state and for the defense. The question under consideration was the identity of this tall, mysterious looking prisoner and that tall disguised stranger who was unquestionably responsible before the law for the astounding burglary. The counsel for the state was the honorable John Wesley Watts, our brilliant and alert county attorney. The prisoner was represented by W. St. John Hopkins, whose very name smacks of irreverence for the holy writ. He is a young, aspiring sprig of the law who has recently come into our midst. It seems that this man, Hopkins, who parts both his name and his hair in the middle, volunteered to defend the prisoner without compensation, probably for the purpose of showing off his talents. The prisoner was without counsel and claimed to have no funds with which to hire one. They seemed to be suspiciously good friends in court. Whether or not a part of the loot from the exploded safe has covertly changed hands in payment for certain legal services during the past few days, it is not within the province of this paper to determine or even hint. The examination continued during Wednesday and Thursday, excellent order prevailing in the courtroom. Many citizens gave strong testimony both for and against the prisoner. The public were deeply interested in the solution of the question, and there were strong and conflicting opinions as to the identity of the prisoner in the minds of all present. The progress of the examination, as numerous witnesses were examined who had seen the prowling and disguised stranger and who now saw the prisoner, brought distinctly to notice the great difference which exists in the observing power of different individuals. Many thought that if the prisoner had on a grey coat and had a long chin beard, in addition to his moustache, they could absolutely swear to his identity. Others thought that the stranger had worn false whiskers and hired particularly noticed it at the time. Jay Milton Tuttle did not think that the chin whiskers were false, or that the prisoner was the man who left the tin box for safekeeping. He was quite positive that he would recognize the man if he ever saw him again. Miss Anastasia Simpson, the unmarried lady whose eyes were glued on the mystic stranger in the vicinity of the courthouse, and whose eyes were glued on the prisoner during the entire course of the trial, swore absolutely that he was not the same man. Possibly the reasons that prompted such positive testimony may be best known to herself. The prisoner, under the whispered advice of young Hopkins, declined to go upon the stand, which in itself, in the opinion of most of those present, was conclusive evidence of guilt. End of Chapter 8 Part 1 Recording by Tom Hirsch Chapter 8 Part 2 of Tales of a Vanishing River This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Tom Hirsch Tales of a Vanishing River by Earl H. Reed The Predicaments of Colonel Peetz The newspaper article continued The state's attorney made an able and scholarly address to the court and presented a masterly review of the evidence. Hopkins contented himself with claiming that no evidence had been adduced to justify the court in holding his client. No false whiskers or gray code had been produced, and no witness had positively sworn to the prisoner's identity. On the contrary, the only witness who had conversed with the alleged robber, Mr. J. Milton Tuttle, had failed to connect him with the crime. And Ms. Simpson, who had long and carefully observed both men, had declared under her solemn oath that they were not the same. He claimed that the cord that held his client was a rope of sand, and had the effrontery to comment sarcastically on the account of the pursuit of the flying burglar that appeared exclusively in our last week's issue. He indulged in sardonic levity at the expense of the public-spirited posse, and remarked that it was queer that its dog had shown a preference for the society of an alleged thief. He suggested that the two bales of hay that were retained on the pursuit wagon were better adapted for food for the posse than for a barricade. The outburst of indecent laughter that greeted this impudent sally was promptly suppressed by the court, who threatened to clear the room if anything of the kind was repeated. The court sternly rebuked the offending attorney, and cautioned him to confine his remarks strictly to the merits of the case before the court. Hopkins apologized to the court, and claimed that humor was a malady of his early youth, and that he had never been entirely cured. The court retired to its library, and took the case under advisement for an hour, during which time the crowd waited in anxious suspense. When the court returned, it held Colonel Pete's to the circuit court, placing his reconnaissance at three thousand dollars, in default of which the prisoner was remanded to the custody of the sheriff. Much satisfaction was expressed at the decision of the court. Judge Mark W. Giddings, our able and learned justice of the piece, is a man of lofty attainments and an ornament to the bench. He has one of the finest law libraries in the county. He is of fine old New England stock, his ancestors having come over in the Mayflower. He is one of the oldest and most valued subscribers to this newspaper. The press forms of this issue of our paper were held until proceedings in this case were disposed of, that the incohate attorney representing the prisoner began before the court, now in session at the courthouse. He asked for a writ of habeas corpus, and his client has been turned loose on the community. We may say that while it may be that no jury would have convicted this man, Pete's, who admits that he was once an enemy of his country, and while the testimony was strongly conflicting, the opinion is strong in this community, that the honorable justice of the piece rendered a perfectly just decision. The opinions of this journal have always been impartial, and, under the circumstances as is, far be it from us to express one. But not to mention any names, there is a certain fresh young lawyer in this town who has a tendency to be a smarty and a cute alec, and to butt in on things that do not concern him. It may be to his interest to lay a little lower, a word to the wise is sufficient. In addition to this there is a certain alien resident in this county of military pretensions, who lives by the sobbing waters of a certain river, and again we do not mention names, who had better not be caught wearing false whiskers when he visits this town. And now, said the colonel with a patronizing wave of his hand, after he had given me a still later copy of the paper, I desire you to look at this account of the sequel of this distressing affair. On the editorial page I read, A public outrage. It is far from the desire of this journal to discuss the personal interests or affairs of its editor and proprietor. The index, as the public well knows, has ever been the fearless advocate of fair play for every citizen, and for every human being, however humble before the law. Its motives have always been above reproach. Notwithstanding the fact that it is the county's greatest newspaper, unselfishly devoted to the public interest, it never blows its own horn. It rarely mentions itself in its own columns. It scorns to publish matter in its own interest, but the time has come when its clarion voice must be raised to such a pitch that it may be heard throughout the length and breadth of the county, so that the public conscience may be awakened and forever make impossible a repetition of such an outrage as occurred in front of the post office on last Saturday afternoon. As is well known by all, the editor of this paper, who is also its proprietor, was publicly attacked by Colonel Pete's, the scoundrel and erstwhile prisoner at the bar of justice, who figured so prominently and so exclusively in the affair of the robbery of the safe in the county treasurer's office some weeks ago. A handful of our whiskers was seized and twisted away by this vile miscreant, with the supposedly funny remark that he wanted them for a disguise. We were forced to our knees on the dirty sidewalk and commended to apologize for certain statements that have appeared in our paper. We were belabored with a rawhide whip and kicked into the gutter by this burly old brute. As humiliating as these things are, it is necessary to mention them in order to properly lay before the public the frightful enormity of the outrage. It is and always has been the policy of this paper to hew to the line and let the chips fall where they may. The index thinks before it strikes and it never retracts. If editors are to be publicly assaulted, if their persons are not sacred, if the freedom of the press is to be trampled and muzzled by supposed private rights of individuals and their likes and dislikes, if publishers are to be beaten up or beaten down with impunity or with rawhide whips and are to be coerced into cowardly silence by fear of personal violence, then our republic with its vaunted ideals is a stupendous failure. Far be it from us to complain or put forth our private wrongs, but we consider that we have been a martyr to the lawlessness of this community and to the fearless and outspoken attitude of our paper. An attack upon the person of the editor of a newspaper is an attack upon the sacred foundations of human liberty. The public will be glad to know that the excruble villain and ruffian who assaulted us is now immured in the county jail, where he was sent by that wise and upright justice of the peace, the honorable Mark W. Giddings. It is to be devoutly hoped that when the term of his just imprisonment expires, his presence in the county will be no longer tolerated. For the miserable cowards and loafers who witnessed the premeditated violence upon us in front of the post office and did not interfere, this paper has the most withering contempt. Their craven names are known and this journal will remember them. To Constable Hawkins, who arrested the assailant, this paper on behalf of the public extends its thanks. Constable Hawkins is an officer of whom our town may well be proud. We wish him a long life of health and happiness. We may mention, parenthetically, that Constable Hawkins and his charming wife sundayed with us two weeks ago, and a delightful time was had by one and all. To the misguided and mentally unbalanced females who are daily sending flowers and sundry cooked dainties to the county jail, this paper has nothing to say, with the exception of one of them, who was a witness at the trial, and who shall here be nameless. They all have male relatives whose duty is plain. The names of these women are known, and will be preserved in the archives of this paper for future reference. There are certain rumors being whispered about on our streets that from high motives of public policy will not find a place in our columns until later. The sheriff is being quietly and severely criticized by many citizens whose good opinion is worth something to him at election time for permitting these indulgences to a criminal in his charge. We have always given our unqualified support to Sheriff Butts when he has been a candidate, and we hope that we will not be compelled to change our opinion regarding his fitness for the office. He will do well to ponder the eye of the index is upon him. The editor of this paper is pleased to announce, to relieve the public mind, that we are recovering from our undeserved injuries and will soon be ourselves again. We feel deeply indebted to Dr. Ignace Stitt for the wonderful professional skill with which he attended us. The doctor's practice is increasing rapidly, and he is now the foremost physician in our county. His office is over Ed Bang's drugstore, and he is among the most valued subscribers of this paper. We and our wife thank our kind friends who have sent us watermelons and other delicacies during our confinement. As a stern challenger of injustice and an alert defender of the right, the index will ever, as in the past, be in the forefront. Its battle acts will gleam in the turmoil of the conflict, and on it will shine our mottos. I laid the paper down with the conviction that if the colonel's life previous to his arrival in the river country had been as rapid as he had been living it since he came, his memoirs would be quite a large volume. Now, sir, he said, I want to relate to you the inside history of that robbery, sir. I want to show you how it is possible for a perfectly innocent man with perfectly good intentions to get into a predicament in this godforsaken northern country. I was, of course, compelled, much against my wish, to huss-whip the editor of that rotten sheet. He was not a gentleman, and I could not challenge him, sir, and it was meta of personal honor. The facts are substantially as he states in that sizzling angel song that you have just read. I want to say, sir, that I never spent a more pleasant thirty days in my life than I spent in that jail. I was there in a good cause, and I am sorry it was not sixty days. The sheriff treated me with perfect curtsy, and I was called on and congratulated by many people who had strong private opinions of that editor. Those noble women made my incarceration a pleasure, and I may say, sir, without vanity, that I have never been oblivious or insensible to the effect that I have always had upon ladies. Soft and beseeching eyes have been cast upon me all my life, sir. I discovered in that jail that iron bars cannot destroy beautiful visions. I was provided with pepper, and I was enabled to do a great deal of work on my memoirs, and I have included in them the events of the past few months. But what I started to tell you was the unrevealed facts of that robbery, sir. In order that you may get a clear idea of just what happened, I must take you back to the awful days of a war. There was a high-born southern gentleman in my regiment, sir, named Major Speed. He came from one of the best families in Tennessee. There was a most unfortunate personal resemblance between us, and even when we were together our best friends could hardly tell us apart. In order not to continue to embarrass our friends, we drew straws to decide who should raise a chin bear in addition to his mustache. The Major lost, and I still have my military mustache without any hostile whiskers to spoil it. I may say, sir, that I have no doubt that my mustache had its effect in making my stay at the jail delightful. The Major and I have always kept our correspondence up. He came to see me just before that explosion at the courthouse. He was in that town when it took place, and he was the man who was pursued by that posse and that damn dog whose favor he won with a piece of bologna slushage. After the Major entered the marsh, he came directly to my house and explained the whole affair. We sunk the boat he came in with some stones in the river. That infernal milk-tuttle, who was the click at the treasurer's office, was the scoundrel that got the money. His folks came from Tennessee, and he knew the Major. He was aware that the Major's circumstances were much reduced and that he had lost what he had left in the world at Cods. He knew that the Major would do almost anything to retrieve his fortunes. The love of money was always the trouble at the Major, but we all have to be tolerant of the weaknesses of our friends, sir. That scoundrel milk-tuttle sent money to Tennessee from our friend the Major to come up here. He did not know me or that I knew the Major. When the Major came north, he came directly to see me and spent several days at my place. We went down on the marsh together. He told me about milk-tuttle and said he would come back and pay me a longer visit a little later. A friend Major Speed went to the county seat and the duck scoundrely plan of milk-tuttle was laid before him. In a moment of weakness the Major fell and consented to blow open that safe and divide what he found with milk-tuttle. The tools and the explosive compound were hidden in the office by milk-tuttle, and during several visits he explained to the Major how he was to proceed. He gave him a duplicate key to the side entrance of the office around the end of the hall and a map of the route he was to take after he had finished his walk, and on this map was the place where he was to leave half of what he found in the safe. He was to cross the marsh and make his way south to Tennessee after it was all over. You can imagine the astonishment and chagrin of the Major when he found the safe empty of funds after he had worked all day to blow it open. He was haunt-swoggled by this infernal thief of a milk-tuttle. He had taken every cent before the Major came and left the Major in the luch to face all the consequences and to get away the best he could. When the Major came to me that night and told me his tale, I was astounded. Of course I do not approve of robbery, but the Major had committed no robbery. He had taken absolutely nothing from that safe and he was as innocent of robbery as a child unborn. Milk-tuttle was the thief and on his ill-gotten wealth he went off somewhere for his health, but he was stricken by a vengeful providence with pneumonia and he is now dead and there is no way of proving his dastardly connection with the affair. I told the Major that he had been made a cat's paw and that he had better go home as fast as he could. He was without funds and, unfortunately, I did not have any to lend him, so he statted for the south on foot. That was the last I saw of the Major and I had a letter from one of the former officers of our regiment that the Major is now dead. I assumed, sir, that he died of a broken hat, all unaccounted the villainy of that deadly thief of a milk-tuttle. When I was unjustly and unfortunately dragged into that affair I could have told the whole story, but I felt bound to protect my friend the Major who fought under me for four years. He twice saved my life on the field and for such a man no matter what his failings might be I was bound to make any sacrifice. I could have gone on the stand and pointed my finger at the thief but of what avail? The attorney who represented me in those disgraceful proceedings advised me to keep my seat as the state had no case whatever. That mutton-headed old build-out that was supposed to be a court bound me over, but I was soon released and my friend's secret was not in jeopardy. I have now expiated the penalty of the Nolan Law for whipping that rascally editor. My attorney also pounded him to a jelly. It is my intention to horse-whip Tipton Posey, for he was the one that started the talk that resulted in all those legal proceedings, and during the thirty days that I am in jail for that it is my intention to complete my novel in which, as I told you, is to be woven my memoirs. It is a good thing for Milt Tuttle that he had pneumonia, for if he was not deceased I would fill him full of holes for the dishonour he brought to my friend the Major and that I would leave the North forever. I shall never blacken the memory of Major Speed by using his name with the story of the blowing open of the safe in my book. I shall use another name, sir, and his secret shall be forever safe and his memory will be untainted for the Major never stole a dollar. He can stand before the greatest court where he has now gone with a guiltless and stainless soul. I was much interested in the Colonel's narrative, and after talking over some of the details we retired for the night. I had quietly enjoyed the naive reasoning and the chivalrous devotion of the Colonel to his wartime friend. There was pathos in the tale of sacrifice, and several times I saw moisture in the old soldier's eyes as he dilated upon the cruelty of his position in the affair of the safe. His conceptions of right and wrong were refreshing, and his penchant for taking the law into his own hands was evidently going to get him into more predicaments, but it was useless to argue with him. I felt sorry about Posey's coming castigation, but as Tip was abundantly able to take care of himself I concluded not to worry over it. On our way down the river the next morning the Colonel reverted to Major Speed's ill-starred visit. I presumed that you would think, sir, that the interests of the living are paramount to those of the dead, and that I ought to tell Major Speed's story to the world. His memory and the memory of that black-hearted, valid, milk-tuttle would suffer, and turtles ought to suffer, but my vindication would be complete. Naturally I do not enjoy being looked at as scant, and I sometimes think that I ought to remove the stigma that now rests on my name. I advised him to let matters remain as they were, in as much as he could produce no proof of the facts, and little would be gained by stirring up the affair. But I do not need proof of facts, they would have my word of honor, sir. I explained the uncertain value of a word of honor in that part of the country. I refrained from telling him that I thought his reputation would not be much improved by his explanation, for he would at least still be regarded as an accessory after the fact, because of his admission of the protection to Speed. By the way, Colonel, I asked in order to change the subject. What did you finally do about Pudd Colkins? Pudd Colkins, I killed him, sir, at Vicksburg. That cuss disappeared entirely from my memoirs while I was in jail. And I assure you, sir, that I heaved a sigh of relief when that man fell. I can now go ahead with my combination novel and memoirs without his bobbing up and down in the plot every time I sit down to write. It occurred to me that the casualties among those whom the fates world into the Colonel's orbit were becoming rather numerous. I'm very sorry to tell you that when you come down here again you will probably not find me, he continued. I'm in a very bad predicament about the place where I live. As you know I inherited that place in good faith, but I find there has been a mortgage on it that I didn't know anything about. The damned editor of that skirless sheet has in some way got possession of that mortgage. I'm unable to meet its obligation, sir, and I must move, probably this winter. I will go back to Tennessee where the sun shines without expense to anybody and where a gentleman commands respect even though he is unfortunate. I may have to walk to Tennessee, but I will make a short call at the home of that buzzard that runs that newspaper the evening that I go away, sir. The Colonel and I had spent happy days together, and it was with genuine sadness that I bade him farewell a few days later. He was a mellow old soul ruled by emotions and not by reason, drifting aimlessly on the sea of troubles totally lost to every consideration except his childish vanity and the memories of a threadbare chivalry. He easily adjusted his conscience to any point of view that conformed to his interest and suffered keenly from sensitiveness. Fate had thrown him into an environment with which he could not mingle, and it was perhaps better than he should go. When all else failed there was a world in his imaginative brain in which he could live and woe to those who have not these realms of fancy when the shadows come. When I visited the river the following spring I arranged with my friend Muskrat Hyatt to provide me with the shelter of his stranded houseboat and to act as pusher and general utility man in my expeditions on the river and marsh. Rat was always interesting, and I anticipated a delightful two weeks. One of the first trips we made was down to the big marsh where we intended to camp for a day or two on a little island that was scarcely ever visited. It was thirty or forty yards long and half as wide. There were a few trees, some underbrush and fallen timber on the islet. The place was deserted except for a blue heron that winged away in awkward flight as we approached. There was no reason for stopping there, but a wayward fancy and a desire to see the vast marsh in its different modes. After we landed I asked Rat about the Colonel. The Colonel's place was sold under a mortgage last fall, and that old maid that swore for him at the trial bid it in, and it's in her name. And now the Colonel's married the old maid, so there you are. That old fellow come down to the store one morning, and him and Tip had a fight, and Tip got licked. The Colonel and Seth Mussie had come in a buggy, and they was going on from Tip's to the county seat to see the editor of the paper. It was all about that safe-blowing case, and the Colonel accused Tip of starting all the talk about him. Bill Wirick and me got a rig and went to the county seat, for we thought the Colonel was going to lick the editor again, and we wanted to see the fun, but the editor was out of town. The Colonel went up to see the old maid, and they was married the next day. I guess she had some money, for they took the cars and said they was going down south. The Colonel went to the postmaster, and told him to tell the editor when he got home, that if he ever put the Colonel's name in his paper again, or any name that sounded like his, he'd kill him. And I guess the editor believed it, for he didn't mention nothing about the wedding when he got back. People don't think the Colonel blowed open that safe after all. He never flashed no wealth around afterwards, in the way he beat up that editor for saying things about him, sort of squirt him up. We erected our little tent, and Rat busied himself with collecting fuel. He attacked a long hollow log with his axe. When it was split open, we found an old gray coat that had at some time been stuffed into the decayed interior. We laid the coat out in the ground, and Rat extracted a discolored brass key from one of the pockets, and a wad of hairy material that proved to be a set of false chin whiskers. In a damaged Manila envelope that we found in an inside pocket was a certificate of the honorable discharge of Jasper Montgomery-Pete's as a private in the Confederate army. The mildewed relics with their eloquent, though silent story, were convincing. I suppose he thought that gray coat was getting too popular with possies, and he concluded to shed it, remarked Rat. Say, wasn't that fella a peach? I agreed that he was. I sat for a long time on the sloping bank of the islet, and mused over the soulmates that, like migrating songsters, had winged their way to the balmy southland when the leaves had fallen, and the skies had become gray. I thought of Anastasia's hungry heart and the precarious resting-place it had found. The colonel's plot had certainly been woven to a consistent end. The mysterious veiled lady had glided into its web, and there was a wedding. End of Chapter 8 Part 2.