AS the ring of river-men, adventurers, planters and border characters closed in about the prostrate form of Barker, Walter Jordan felt a hand laid on his arm. Turning, he saw the tall backwoodsman at his side.
“They’ve got all the cargo on board the boat,” said the man, “and in a moment they’ll blow the whistle for every one to get back on board. There’ll be a rush; and I reckon you’d better not be in it.”
Ned Chandler, who caught the words, understood their meaning instantly.
“That’s so,” said he, helping Walter on with his coat. “Barker seemed to have quite a number of friends in that crowd. And maybe one of them would try to get some sort of a sneaking revenge, Walt, if he saw a chance.”
So, together with the stranger, they walked toward the end of the wharf. And as they stepped upon the deck of the “Mediterranean,” her whistle shrieked a shrill warning. There was an instant rush of passengers; and from the upper deck the three saw Barker helped on board by a couple of negroes.
“Colonel Huntley doesn’t look any too well pleased,” said Ned with a grin, as he caught sight of the sombre face of that gentleman. “His little plot was rather mussed up.”
The tall backwoodsman looked interested.
“What’s this?” said he. “Plot? Colonel Huntley?”
“The colonel,” spoke Walter, “for an hour or two before the boat landed at Randolph spent his time in laying the foundation for a quarrel with me.”
“He wanted to pick a fight,” put in Ned. “He wanted to have Walt injured by that blackguard Barker so’s to prevent him from going to Texas.”
The long man’s interest deepened.
“So you are going to Texas, are you?” said he to young Jordan.
“We both are,” replied the latter.
“Might I ask what part?”
“San Antonio.”
The backwoodsman whistled.
“Well,” said he, “you’ve picked out what seems likely to be a mighty interesting section of the new country.”
Here the lines were cast off, and the “Mediterranean” steamed out into the stream; then gathering headway she once more split the muddy waters on her journey southward. The battle upon the pier at Randolph was, for a time, the chief subject of conversation. But as Barker had retired to his stateroom, where his friends and some of the steamboat’s people were striving to make him presentable once more, and Walter held to a corner of the upper deck with Ned and the stranger, making himself no more conspicuous than was necessary, the matter gradually died down, and finally almost completely ceased to be discussed.
A planter, who appeared to be a man of some consequence, appeared upon the deck with some friends; and catching sight of the stranger in the hunting shirt who stood talking with the two young travelers, he advanced with a surprised greeting.
“What, colonel! Going down the river?”
The man in the hunting shirt smiled in his good-natured way, and shook the planter’s hand cordially.
“Glad to see you, Mr. Burr,” said he. “Yes, going down the river. A little expedition, you see.”
“Gentlemen,” said the planter, addressing those who accompanied him, “shake hands with Colonel Crockett, the finest rifle shot, the greatest stump speaker and the most complete bear hunter in Tennessee.”
“Colonel Crockett,” said Walter to Ned as the backwoodsman laughingly shook hands with Mr. Burr’s friends. “Can it be the celebrated Davy Crockett of whom we’ve always heard so much?”
“I’ll bet it is,” said Ned, his eyes on the colonel. “I’ve seen pictures of him more than once; and they looked just as he does now.”
“How is it, Crockett,” asked Mr. Burr, “that I find you in your old back settlement togs, your rifle and hunting knife with you, headed south? Surely you are not going to Texas?”
Crockett nodded.
“Mr. Burr,” said he, “I surely am. Down there’s a new country to be fought for and freed. And down there I am going to give what help I can.”
“But,” protested Burr, “are you going to give up your career in Tennessee? You, as a member of Congress, have work to do.”
Crockett laughed; and there was a trace of bitterness in it.
“As a member of Congress I had work to do,” corrected he. “But, you see, that’s an office that I no longer hold.”
The planter looked amazed.
“Why, you don’t mean to tell me you were defeated for reëlection in your district,” said he.
“I tell you just that,” said Colonel Crockett.
“Well, I’d never believed it,” said Burr, looking at his friends, wonder in his face. “Why, colonel, you were the most popular candidate that ever stumped Tennessee.”
Davy Crockett smiled, good-naturedly.
“Yes; the boys set some store by me,” said he. “And they liked to hear me talk. But politics is a queer kind of thing. The man who gets the votes may not always win.”
Mr. Burr looked grave.
“Why,” said he, “I’m afraid that is true.”
The party had settled themselves in chairs and the colonel addressed them generally.
“President Andy Jackson is no friend of mine,” said he. “I say this, mind you, knowing that Jackson is a perfectly honest man, a good friend to those who like him, and a fine fighter. But he’s no friend of mine; and that’s why I’m on my way to Texas to-day.”
“Jackson opposed your reëlection, then,” said one of the listeners.
“He opposed it early and late,” said the backwoodsman. “He fought me as hard as he could; and when you say that of Andy, why, you are saying that it was a pretty hefty battle. For he has the mettle and the backbone of the true fighter.”
There was a short pause; Colonel Crockett fingered the butt of his long rifle reminiscently and looked across the river toward the Arkansas shore.
“You see, I fought with Jackson against the British and against the Creeks, and I know him pretty well. But when I was a member of the Tennessee Legislature, there was a movement to beat John Williams for the United States senatorship. Williams had always done his work as well as a man could do it; I didn’t see any reason for not sending him back, and I said so. But they put up Jackson. And, although I then thought Andy the biggest man in the country, I voted against him, and so made him an enemy, along with his whole following. Chickens come home to roost,” added the backwoodsman. “They remembered it against me, and they’ve fought me ever since.”
“And,” said Mr. Burr, “is this the reason you are leaving Tennessee—because your enemies have beaten you? Why not stay and fight them?”
The colonel cracked the joints of his strong fingers and smiled drolly.
“It doesn’t put much into a man’s life to spend it fighting people who should be his friends,” said he. “At least, that’s what I think. And, accordingly, here I am on my way to Texas to join Sam Houston and the rest against Santa Anna and his crew.”
“There seems to be a strong tide set in toward that country,” spoke another of the party. “I hear that there’s hundreds go down the river every week.”
“They’ll be needed,” nodded Colonel Crockett. “Everything looks promising for a long war; and Texas, so I’ve heard, is just the place where one can be carried out to any length by men who fight and run as the Mexicans do.”
The talk between the men continued for some time; it was mainly about Texas and Crockett’s political fortunes, and the boys listened with much interest. But finally Burr and his friends got up, and moved away to a place where some other people had gathered.
For some little time after this the backwoodsman sat nursing his rifle and gazing toward the wooded Arkansas shore. Finally he spoke.
“And so,” said he, “you have some kind of a difficulty with Colonel Huntley?”
“Yes, it would seem so,” replied Walter Jordan.
“I’ve known him for a good many years, off and on,” spoke Crockett. “Once he owned a big plantation in Carolina and worked a hundred slaves. Then he was interested in a steamboat company. But I heard some time ago that he’d lost all his money and was, so to speak, living by his wits.”
“That accounts for his being in the confidence of Sam Davidge, then,” said Ned Chandler, to his friend. “I guess Sam has hired Huntley, and Huntley hired Barker.”
Walter laughed.
“Suppose,” said he, “that Barker would now take it into his head to hire some one. Why, the thing might go on that way and there would be no end to our enemies.”
Ned joined in the laugh at this idea; but at the same time he shook his head.
“But the matter’s no joke,” said he. “They mean business, and will try in every way they know to prevent our carrying out your father’s plans.”
The name and fame of Davy Crockett, rifleman, bear hunter, backwoods philosopher, had traveled at that time into every corner of the United States. He was spoken of at every fireside, and his homely wisdom and basic honesty were admitted by all. Walter Jordan knew this, and as he sat gazing at the man, whose face was at once droll, shrewd and fearless in expression, an idea occurred to him.
“Here is a man,” he told himself, “who has put himself out of his way to be my friend. And he’s just the kind of a man whose advice would be worth following and whose help would be worth having in the adventure we are now started upon.”
He leaned over toward Ned, and whispered:
“Don’t you think it would be a good thing to tell Colonel Crockett about our affair, and hear what he has to say?”
“Good,” approved young Chandler at once. “Do it.”
So Walter turned toward the backwoodsman.
“Colonel Crockett,” said he, “if you have the time to listen, and are willing, I’d like to tell you the story.”
Crockett turned his shrewd eyes upon the boy and nodded.
“All right, youngster,” said he. “Go ahead.”
Thereupon Walter related the story of the journalist, Tom Norton; of his going to Texas with his wife and daughter; how both he and his wife died at San Antonio, leaving the girl an orphan. Then came the matter of the fortune left the girl.
“It was an uncle of her father’s who willed it to her,” said Walter. “He was an odd sort of an old man, and had for his lawyer his only other relative, one Sam Davidge, who is known throughout Kentucky as a double-dealer and a man who does not stop at small things to gain his ends.”
“I’ve heard of him,” said Crockett.
“But the old man finally dropped Davidge. My father never knew why, but suspects he found him out in some dishonest work. Davidge had been named as executor to the estate; but the old gentleman now altered this. In a sort of codicil, my father was named as executor. When the old gentleman died some few weeks ago, Davidge set up a claim that he had been influenced, that he was of weak mind when the codicil was attached to the will.”
Then the young fellow related the nature of his trip to Texas; of Davidge’s following him, and of the appearance of Colonel Huntley and Barker upon the scene. And Crockett listened to it all with much attention, nodding his head at points well made, and putting in a helpful word here and there.
When Walter had finished, the colonel lay back in his chair in a careless, lounging fashion and spoke.
“Their idea is, as you say, to reach the girl first,” said he, “and to let them do that would be dangerous. Of course they may mean only to influence her; but then, again, they may mean worse.”
“You don’t mean——” but Walter was afraid to finish the sentence.
Crockett nodded.
“That is just what I mean,” said he. “Davidge is the only other relative, you say. Well, if the girl never appeared in Louisville, Davidge would come into the money.”
Both boys were appalled by this; but at length Walter said:
“Knowing the matter, Colonel Crockett, and understanding what these men are after, what would you advise us to do?”
Crockett stroked the stock of the handsome rifle upon his knee.
“Do?” said he, and he smiled drolly. “Why, that’s simple enough, youngster. Get to San Antonio first; tell the girl the facts, and leave it to her to decide whether she’ll go north with you and your friend here, or with Huntley and the legal shark. If you talk to her right and get her ear first, I’ve got no doubt about the result.”
Walter Jordan smiled.
“You seem to lay great stress on the importance of being first,” he said.
Crockett nodded.
“And why not?” said he, his shrewd eyes upon the boy. “There’s an old saying, ‘The first blood’s half the battle!’ And it’s as true a one as was ever put into words. I found it out years ago in the wilderness among the redskins and the prowling varmints. Let them act first and you had an almighty job getting the best of them. But be sharp and watchful—strike the first blow, and the rest was pretty easy.”
Walter looked puzzled.
“But,” said he, “Colonel Huntley is on board this boat; he’ll arrive at New Orleans as quickly as we shall. There’s nothing that I know of to hinder his pressing on to San Antonio with as much speed as we can make—perhaps more.”
“That’s true enough,” said Crockett. “In the natural course of things he might get better mounts than you boys, and so cross the Injun country ahead of you. But,” with a quizzical look in his eye, “why let things take their natural course? That’s what the fellow does who picks out a shady place under a tree—he lets things take care of themselves. But that kind of proceeding never got any wood split. Interfering with the natural course of things is what we call work; and work is the thing that gets results.”
“But,” said Ned Chandler, “just how shall we go to work to win, in this matter, do you think?”
“Why not take a leaf from Huntley’s book?” suggested Crockett. “He had the right kind of a notion. He wanted to stop you from getting into Texas. So why not do the same thing for him—only in another way?”
“Good!” Walter Jordan slapped Ned upon the back with a force that made that young gentleman cough. “That’s it. We’ll carry the war into Africa, and give Davidge, Huntley and Co. a dose of their own medicine.”