CHAPTER VIII.
A DELECTABLE CONFAB.
After leaving Nora, Poynter walked swiftly in the direction of his own house, that had been closed ever since aunt Eunice had been called in to attend Nora during her sickness. But he kept a good look-out as he proceeded, lest he should be discovered by some of those kind friends whose hospitality he had abandoned so hastily, a few days before. For he well knew that if seen and recognized, a hue and cry would be raised that might end disastrously, as several hours yet remained of daylight.
He had found a secure refuge with the outlaw band who had rescued him from the power of the vigilance committee, where he resolved to remain until his plans for the future were fully matured, at the urgent request of the leader. This man had evinced a strong interest in Poynter, and pledged his own as well as the assistance of the band, if it should prove necessary, in any way.
Just as Poynter was about to cross the crest of a hill, he heard the quick thud of a horse's hoofs coming at full speed upon the opposite side of the rise, and darted at once into the thicket of bushes upon the left side of the road. Cautiously parting the leafy screen, so that he could observe the extreme summit of the rise, Poynter awaited the horseman's approach.
Scarcely had he done so when the rider rose the crest, and drawing rein, paused and glanced around him. With a half-surprised curse, Poynter raised his heavy rifle, while the sharp click sounded clear and distinct, as the hammer was sprung back; but then he lowered it.
"The lying dog! For a cent I'd plug him, if only to save 'Judge Lynch' a job."
The horse and rider were standing out in bold relief against the clear sky, but still the ambushed fugitive could tell that Polk Redlaw, the half-breed, stood before him. Although strongly tempted to punish his treacherous foe, Poynter withheld his hand, lest he should get still further entangled in the wiles of his secret enemy.
Redlaw appeared to be expecting some one, as Clay judged from his manner, and after a few minutes' waiting, he placed his fingers to his mouth, and blew a shrill, piercing blast, that echoed from point to point before dying down to nothing. Scarcely had the sounds ceased, when a second peal came whistling along the ridge, as if in answer; to which Polk replied, and then dismounted as if satisfied, standing beside his noble-looking horse, idly smoothing the long, flowing mane.
In a few moments a second man appeared upon foot, with his long rifle carried at a trail, and the two men greeted each other as if greatly pleased at the meeting. Again the steely glitter shone in Poynter's eyes, while he bit his lips fiercely as if to repress his emotions, when he recognized the new-comer.
"Ah!" he gritted, as he crouched forward. "Wesley Sprowl! There's deviltry on foot when such men meet together, and by all that's good, I'll scent it out!"
The two men now plunged into a little side-trail, Redlaw leading his horse, and no sooner had they disappeared than Poynter retreated until around the bend, where he glided across the road, and in a few moments struck their trail; keeping just without the path, where, if by any chance the men he was dogging should glance back, he would be out of sight.
They proceeded leisurely enough, and he had no difficulty in keeping within ear-shot of the horse's tread, while his own footsteps were deadened upon the moist soil. After proceeding thus for nearly half a mile, the two men paused, and slipping the bit from his horse's mouth, Polk Redlaw allowed it to feed at will while he and Sprowl seated themselves upon the greensward beneath a huge oak tree.
Poynter, by dint of cautious creeping, managed to gain a dense clump of bushes at only a few yards in the rear of their position, where he crouched down with his weapons ready for instant use, in case he should be discovered. But they gave no sign of suspecting an intruder, and conversed in an easy, careless style, very much to Poynter's edification. The first of this he missed, owing to the task he had to perform, but then he listened intently.
"Well," Polk Redlaw was saying, "they did not suspect any person was following them, although I kept them in sight the entire distance. And that was no slouch of a job either, for they were in a lope most of the way, and I began to be pretty well blown before they gave any signs of halting.
"But then they paused and a signal was sounded; and from the reply I knew that I had dogged them home. And I was right, for in another ten minutes the whole crowd was gathered in a huddle, unsaddling their horses, while a dozen or so more were building fires as if the entire country belonged to them.
"I lay low, taking notes, and I saw enough in the next hour to satisfy me that I had really tracked them to the den of the horse-thieves; for there were several tents and regular fireplaces fixed up, while the ground was tramped hard and dry."
"And where was that?" inquired Sprowl, curiously.
"Well, you'll let it go no further, of course," added Redlaw, after a slight pause. "You know where Han Hooker killed the big bear, last fall? near the 'Turkey branch'? Just due west along the creek about a quarter, is the spot.
"But as I was spying around, a cursed dog somehow got scent of me, and as I saw him circling around, I lit out, for if they had found me there, the d—l himself couldn't 'a' saved my hide. I cut sticks in a hurry, as I got out of their hearing, but the brute took my trail, and in a few moments I could hear him coming, hot foot, growling like a painter.
"I was afraid to burn powder, so I just hunkered down behind a big rock, and drew my butcher. As the imp turned the corner, I grabbed his nose and twisted him down; then a cut or two and he was quiet enough.
"But I'd seen enough, so I started for home, with the dog on my shoulder—for I was afraid to leave him where the knife-cuts might 'a' told tales—and carried him until at a safe distance, when I dropped him over the bank into the creek. And there my infernal luck still followed me, for his claw caught in my shirt and over I went, head-first, plump onto the rocks.
"Luckily my head took the dog for a pillow, and only got a little bruised and stunned like; but when I came to I found that my right ankle was either broken or badly sprained. I managed to climb up to the level, although every motion nearly made me yell out, but there I was stuck!
"I knew that if my life depended upon it, I could not have got to the town, as I was, and so I lay there, thinking what to do next. At last I slid down the bank, cut off a hind quarter of the dog, and then managed to drag myself to the "Hole-in-the-wall"—you remember?—where I lay until this morning.
"The dog-meat kept me, and although toward the last it wasn't overly sweet eating, raw at that, I managed to worry it down; for hunger is just a little the best sauce I know of. The last bite I just shut my eyes and thought it was a roasted wild turkey, and it tasted so natural that I actually began to gobble!" declared Polk with an oath.
"Bah!"
"Fact. But this morning, two hours by sun, I saw a horse—that one yonder, it was—straying along the branch, and as he was tame I managed to catch him; rigged a halter from a piece of lime-bark, and lit out for town, where I got, safe and sound, after giving you the hint to meet me here."
"Well, what'd you want, anyhow?" asked Sprowl.
"In a moment. You see I told old Reeves about the hole I'd found, and offered to guide him to it, after dark, to-night. So he sent out messengers, and by this time the vigilantes are all up to snuff.
"You may be called on to help, but if so, I want you to play sick; have a thundering shake, or something of the sort."
"Just what I'd 'a' done anyhow," dryly responded Sprowl. "I have no notion of running my head into the hands of that cursed Poynter. Meagreson didn't pay me for that."
"Well then, you'd just as lieve make a 'double sawbuck' as not, if by doing so you spite Poynter and run no risks?"
"Twenty dollars?"
"Yes. And for half an hour's work."
"Wouldn't I? Why the old man only gave me a hundred for swearing against Poynter—Hello! what's that?" he added, starting to his feet, and looking toward the bushes where Poynter was concealed.
The latter had given a sudden start, as he caught the hint dropped by Sprowl, that could only refer to the charge of murder that had been brought against him. But who was this Meagreson, or the "old man?"
"Bah!" grunted Polk, lazily turning his head, "don't get scart at your own shadow. I heard it too, but it's only my horse."
"Sure?"
"Thunder! yes. Come. I'm in a hurry. Will you earn the money?"
"That depends," replied the other, as he reseated himself, "upon what it is."
"Well, I know you'll never peach—"
"Of course not!"
"I know it," dryly added Redlaw; "it wouldn't be healthy. But I want you to be sick when the crowd starts to-night, and then after about two hours—say about midnight—you must get up and set the house yonder, on fire."
"What!"
"Set the house of Clay Poynter on fire—isn't that plain enough? Never you mind what for—that's my own affair. It's enough that I've good reasons, and when I come back, I'll tell you. Will you do it?"
"Its a risky job—" hesitated Sprowl.
"No it isn't, either. But, yes or no, because if you won't, there's others—"
"Enough! I'll do it. But cash down, you know," leered Sprowl.
"Do you doubt my honor?" exclaimed the villainous mongrel.
"Not in the least," coolly responded his colleague, "but it's my way of doing business."
"Well, there's half of it. The rest I'll hand you in the morning."
"But supposing you should get rubbed out to-night?" suggested Sprowl.
"Curse your croaking!" hotly exclaimed Redlaw, thrusting out another bill. "There; will that do?"
"Yes; but say, isn't it a good joke upon old Meagreson that he has been paying us all to prove this Poynter a counterfeiter and murderer, while all the time he really belonged to the gang?" chuckled Sprowl.
"Bet ye! But come now, old fellow," added Redlaw, insinuatingly, "who is the old coon, anyhow? I know you can tell a fellow, if you will."
"Maybe I will, when you tell me what for you want the house fired," significantly answered Sprowl.
"Well, give me an idee, anyhow," urged Polk. "I'll tell you to-morrow, sure."
"Honest?"
"I said so, didn't I?" sharply.
"Well, don't get your back up about it and I will give you a hint, anyhow. You see, I knew him in Kentucky, and again in Illinois, where he helped run the business, after Sturdevant—"
"What!"
"Fact. I done a little in that line myself, on the sly, and we were thrown together consid'able, as he furnished the "queer." But I got the pull on him in a little scrape in which a certain man named Duaber, was concerned.
"There was a love-affair mixed up with it, I believe, and while Meagreson got the sack, Duaber got the girl. So a lot of charges were trumped up, much as we've served this Poynter, you know, only it ended in the poor devil's being lynched in earnest.
"He was taken from jail and hung by a gang spurred on by the old man, although he was not present at the deed. I gained a cool thousand in square money for it, and all went off smoothly. But I thought he was dead until he came here, found me out, gave me some money, and got me to play the same trick over again."
"I wonder what his reasons were, anyhow," mused Polk. "I'd give a five-spot to know," he added, covertly glancing at Sprowl.
"You will?"
"If it's honest, I wouldn't mind."
"I know what you're up to," nodded the other, "but if you'll promise me not to breathe a word or hint of who told you, to anybody, I'll tell you!"
"You know—or should know by this time, that I never split on a friend."
"That's so, Polk, and if you'll shell out, I'll tell you in a cat's whisper."
"Here you are; but no shenanigan, now," replied Polk, handing the bill to his comrade.
"Honor bright! Well, then, this Clay Poynter, as he calls himself, is in reality none other than Henry Duaber the son of James Duaber, who was hung on a false charge by the vigilance committee!"
"Whew!" echoed Polk Redlaw, with a long-drawn breath of astonishment. "I begin to see into it now. And the old man hates the son for the father's sake!"
"Yes, that's just it. And as you've acted on the square, so far, I don't mind telling that he is the same one who has hunted this young fellow from pillar to post, ever since he was a little shaver," said Sprowl, confidentially.
"I'd rather have his friendship than his hatred, then," laughed Polk. "When's he coming back, do you know?"
"Not yet awhile. It'd spoil the whole thing, you see, if 'John Dement' should come to life again before Poynter was nailed."
"But it seems to me that you'll be in a bad box, my friend, if it is found out that you swore to a lie."
"Oh, that's easy patched up. Besides, the men will be so cut up and ashamed at being greened so, that they'll be glad enough to let the matter drop, and as for the law, I'd die of old age before that could or would do anything here," sneered Sprowl.
"Well, that's your look-out, not mine. But we'd better be moving. Catch my horse for me, won't you?—this cursed ankle is sore yet."
In a few moments the mongrel was mounted, and paused to add:
"Now mind you play your part. And not before eleven, anyhow, as if the glow should be seen too soon, the men will turn back, thinking it some of theirs."
"All right. But you send around for me; it'll look better. I'll go home now and begin shaking," and with a loud laugh the two precious scoundrels separated, each man going his own way.
Scarcely had they disappeared when Clay Poynter emerged from his ambush, and stood for a moment, trembling with anger. His face pale and stern-set, his eyes glittering with bluish sheen of polished steel; his breath came hot and heavy from betwixt his tightly-clenched teeth.
Truly, he had good cause for being wrathy, and for feeling thoughtful, too, in the revelations so complacently made by Wesley Sprowl.
But he did not pause long; then throwing his rifle across his shoulder, he struck through the woods at a rapid pace, heading his course toward the rendezvous of "White Crees," the leader of the band who had rescued him from the "Twin Sycamores.”