THE NEW SHERIFF OF BUNKER COUNTY.
HE suited the natives exactly. What they would have done had he not been available, they shuddered to contemplate. The county was so new a one that but three men had occupied the sheriff’s office before Charley Mansell was elected. Of the three, the first had not collected taxes with proper vigor; the second was so steadily drunk that aggrieved farmers had to take the law in their own hands regarding horse-thieves; the third was, while a terrible man on the chase or in a fight, so good-natured and lazy at other times, that the county came to be overrun with rascals. But Charley Mansell fulfilled every duty of his office with promptness and thoroughness. He was not very well known, to be sure, but neither was any one else among the four or five thousand inhabitants of the new county. He had arrived about a year before election-day, and established himself as repairer of clocks and watches—an occupation which was so unprofitable at Bunkerville, the county town, that Charley had an immense amount of leisure time at his disposal. He never hung about the stores or liquor-shop after dark; he never told doubtful stories, or displayed unusual ability with cards; neither did he, on the other hand, identify himself with either of the Bunkerville churches, and yet every one liked him. Perhaps it was because, although short, he was straight and plump, whereas the other inhabitants were thin and bent from many discouraging tussles with ague; perhaps it was because he was always the first to see the actual merits and demerits of any subject of conversation; perhaps it was because he was more eloquent in defense of what he believed to be right than the village pastors were in defense of the holy truths to which they were committed; perhaps it was because he argued Squire Backett out of foreclosing a mortgage on the Widow Worth when every one else feared to approach the squire on the subject; but, no matter what the reason was, Charley Mansell became every one’s favorite, and gave no one an excuse to call him enemy. He took no interest in politics, but one day when a brutal ruffian, who had assaulted a lame native, escaped because the easy-going sheriff was too slow in pursuing, Charley was heard to exclaim, “Oh, if I were sheriff!” The man who heard him was both impressionable and practical. He said that Charley’s face, when he made that remark, looked like Christ’s might have looked when he was angry, but the hearer also remembered that the sheriff-incumbent’s term of office had nearly expired, and he quietly gathered a few leading spirits of each political party, with the result that Charley was nominated and elected on a “fusion” ticket. When elected, Charley properly declined, on the ground that he could not file security bonds; but, within half an hour of the time the county clerk received the letter of declination, at least a dozen of the most solid citizens of the county waited upon the sheriff-elect and volunteered to go upon his bond, so Charley became sheriff in spite of himself.
And he acquitted himself nobly. He arrested a murderer the very day after his sureties were accepted, and although Charley was by far the smaller and paler of the two, the murderer submitted tamely, and dared not look into Charley’s eye. Instead of scolding the delinquent tax-payers, the new sheriff sympathized with them, and the county treasury filled rapidly. The self-appointed “regulators” caught a horse-thief a week or two after Charley’s installment into office, and were about to quietly hang him, after the time-honored custom of Western regulators, when Charley dashed into the crowd, pointed his pistol at the head of Deacon Bent, the leader of the enraged citizens, remarked that all sorts of murder were contrary to the law he had sworn to maintain, and then led the thief off to jail. The regulators were speechless with indignation for the space of five minutes—then they hurried to the jail; and when Charley Mansell, with pale face but set teeth, again presented his pistol, they astonished him with three roaring cheers, after which each man congratulated him on his courage.
In short, Bunkerville became a quiet place. The new sheriff even went so far as to arrest the disturbers of camp-meetings; yet the village boys indorsed him heartily, and would, at his command, go to jail in squads of half a dozen with no escort but the sheriff himself. Had it not been that Charley occasionally went to prayer-meetings and church, not a rowdy at Bunkerville could have found any fault with him.
But not even in an out-of-the-way, malarious Missouri village, could a model sheriff be for ever the topic of conversation. Civilization moved forward in that part of the world in very queer conveyances sometimes, and with considerable friction. Gamblers, murderers, horse-thieves, counterfeiters, and all sorts of swindlers, were numerous in lands so near the border, and Bunkerville was not neglected by them. Neither greenbacks nor national bank-notes were known at that time, and home productions, in the financial direction, being very unpopular, there was a decided preference exhibited for the notes of Eastern banks. And no sooner would the issues of any particular bank grow very popular in the neighborhood of Bunkerville than merchants began to carefully examine every note bearing the name of said bank, lest haply some counterfeiter had endeavored to assist in supplying the demand. At one particular time the suspicions had numerous and well-founded grounds; where they came from nobody knew, but the county was full of them, and full, too, of wretched people who held the doubtful notes. It was the usual habit of the Bunkerville merchants to put the occasional counterfeits which they received into the drawer with their good notes, and pass them when unconscious of the fact; but at the time referred to the bad notes were all on the same bank, and it was not easy work to persuade the natives to accept even the genuine issues. The merchants sent for the sheriff, and the sheriff questioned hostlers, liquor-sellers, ferry-owners, tollgate-keepers, and other people in the habit of receiving money; but the questions were to no effect. These people had all suffered, but at the hands of respectable citizens, and no worse by one than by another.
Suddenly the sheriff seemed to get some trace of the counterfeiters. An old negro, who saw money so seldom that he accurately remembered the history of all the currency in his possession, had received a bad note from an emigrant in payment for some hams. A fortnight later, he sold some feathers to a different emigrant, and got a note which neither the storekeeper or liquor-seller would accept; the negro was sure the wagon and horses of the second emigrant were the same as those of the first. Then the sheriff mounted his horse and gave chase. He needed only to ask the natives along the road leading out of Bunkerville to show him any money they had received of late, to learn what route the wagon had taken on its second trip.
About this time the natives of Bunkerville began to wonder whether the young sheriff was not more brave than prudent. He had started without associates (for he had never appointed a deputy); he might have a long chase, and into counties where he was unknown, and might be dangerously delayed. The final decision—or the only one of any consequence—was made by four of the “regulators,” who decided to mount and hurry after the sheriff and volunteer their aid. By taking turns in riding ahead of their own party, these volunteers learned, at the end of the first day, that Charley could not be more than ten miles in advance. They determined, therefore, to push on during the night, so long as they could be sure they were on the right track.
An hour more of riding brought them to a cabin where they received startling intelligence. An emigrant wagon, drawn by very good horses, had driven by at a trot which was a gait previously unheard of in the case of emigrant horses; then a young man on horseback had passed at a lively gallop; a few moments later a shot had been heard in the direction of the road the wagon had taken. Why hadn’t the owner of the house hurried up the road to see what was the matter?—Because he minded his own business and staid in the house when he heard shooting, he said.
“Come on, boys!” shouted Bill Braymer, giving his panting horse a touch with his raw-hide whip; “perhaps the sheriff’s needin’ help this minute. An’ there’s generally rewards when counterfeiters are captured—mebbe sheriff’ll give us a share.”
The whole quartet galloped rapidly off. It was growing dark, but there was no danger of losing a road which was the only one in that part of the country. As they approached a clearing a short distance in front of them, they saw a dark mass in the centre of the road, its outlines indicating an emigrant wagon of the usual type.
“There they are!” shouted Bill Braymer; “but where’s sheriff? Good Lord! The shot must have hit him!”
“Reckon it did,” said Pete Williamson, thrusting his head forward; “there’s some kind of an animal hid behind that wagon, an’ it don’t enjoy bein’ led along, for it’s kickin’ mighty lively—shouldn’t wonder if ’twas Mansell’s own pony.”
“Hoss-thieves too, then?” inquired Braymer; “then mebbe there’ll be two rewards!”
“Yes,” said Williamson’s younger brother, “an’ mebbe we’re leavin’ poor Charley a-dyin’ along behind us in the bushes somewhere. Who’ll go back an’ help hunt for him!”
The quartet unconsciously slackened speed, and the members thereof gazed rather sheepishly at each other through the gathering twilight. At length the younger Williamson abruptly turned, dismounted, and walked slowly backward, peering in the bushes, and examining all indications in the road. The other three resumed their rapid gallop, Pete Williamson remarking:
“That boy alwus wos the saint of the family—look out for long shot, boys!—and if there’s any money in this job, he’s to have a fair share of—that is sheriff’s horse, sure as shootin’—he shall have half of what I make out of it. How’ll we take ’em, boys?—Bill right, Sam left, and me the rear? If I should get plugged, an’ there’s any money for the crowd, I’ll count on you two to see that brother Jim gets my share—he’s got more the mother in him than all four of us other brothers, and—why don’t they shoot, do you s’pose?”
“P’r’aps ther ain’t nobody but the driver, an’ he’s got his hands full, makin’ them hosses travel along that lively,” suggested Bill Braymer. “Or mebbe he h’ain’t got time to load. Like enough he’s captured the sheriff, an’ is a-takin him off. We’ve got to be keerful how we shoot.”
The men gained steadily on the wagon, and finally Bill Braymer felt sure enough to shout:
“Halt, or we’ll fire!”
The only response was a sudden flash at the rear of the wagon; at the same instant the challenger’s horse fell dead.
“Hang keerfulness about firin’!” exclaimed Braymer. “I’m a-goin’ to blaze away.”
Another shot came from the wagon, and Williamson’s horse uttered a genuine cry of anguish and stumbled. The indignant rider hastily dismounted, and exclaimed:
“It’s mighty kind of ’em not to shoot us, but they know how to get away all the same.”
“They know too much about shootin’ for me to foller ’em any more,” remarked the third man, running rapidly out of the road and in the shadow caused by a tree.
“They can’t keep up that gait for ever,” said Bill Braymer. “I’m goin’ to foller ’em on foot, if it takes all night; I’ll get even with em’ for that hoss they’ve done me out of.”
“I’m with you, Bill,” remarked Pete Williamson, “an’ mebbe we can snatch their hosses, just to show ’em how it feels.”
The third man lifted up his voice. “I ‘llow I’ve had enough of this here kind of thing,” said he, “an’ I’ll get back to the settlement while there’s anything for me to get there on. I reckon you’ll make a haul, but—I don’t care—I’d rather be poor than spend a counterfeiter’s money.”
And off he rode, just as the younger Williamson, with refreshed horse, dashed up, exclaiming:
“No signs of him back yonder, but there’s blood-tracks beginnin’ in the middle of the road, an’ leanin’ along this way. Come on!”
And away he galloped, while his brother remarked to his companion:
“Ef he should have luck, an’ get the reward, you be sure to tell him all the good things I’ve said about him, won’t you?”
Jim Williamson rode rapidly in the direction of the wagon until, finding himself alone, and remembering what had befallen his companions, he dismounted, tied his horse to a tree, and pursued rapidly on foot. He soon saw the wagon looming up in front of him again, and was puzzled to know how to reach it and learn the truth, when the wagon turned abruptly off the road, and apparently into the forest.
Following as closely as he could under cover of the timber, he found that, after picking its way among the trees for a mile, it stopped before a small log cabin, of whose existence Jim had never known before.
There were some groans plainly audible as Jim saw one man get out of the wagon and half carry and half drag another man into the hut. A moment later, and a streak of light appeared under the door of the hut, and there seemed to be no windows in the structure; if there were, they were covered.
Jim remained behind a sheltering tree for what seemed two hours, and then stealthily approached the wagon. No one was in it. Then he removed his boots and stole on tip-toe to the hut. At first he could find no chink or crevice through which to look, but finally, on one side of the log chimney, he spied a ray of light. Approaching the hole and applying his eye to it, Jim beheld a picture that startled him into utter dumbness.
On the floor of the hut, which was entirely bare, lay a middle-aged man, with one arm bandaged and bleeding. Seated on the floor, holding the head of the wounded man, and raining kisses upon it, sat Bunker County’s sheriff!
Then Jim heard some conversation which did not in the least allay his astonishment.
“Don’t cry, daughter,” said the wounded man, faintly, “I deserve to be shot by you—I haven’t wronged any one else half so much as I have you.”
Again the wounded man received a shower of kisses, and hot tears fell rapidly upon his face.
“Arrest me—take me back—send me to State’s prison,” continued the man; “nobody has so good a right. Then I’ll feel as if your mother was honestly avenged. I’ll feel better if you’ll promise to do it.”
“Father, dear,” said the sheriff, “I might have suspected it was you—oh! if I had have done! But I thought—I hoped I had got away from the reach of the cursed business for ever. I’ve endured everything—I’ve nearly died of loneliness, to avoid it, and then to think that I should have hurt my own father.”
“You’re your mother’s own daughter, Nellie,” said the counterfeiter; “it takes all the pain away to know that I haven’t ruined you—that some member of my wretched family is honest. I’d be happy in a prisoner’s box if I could look at you and feel that you put me there.”
“You sha’n’t be made happy in that way,” said the sheriff. I’ve got you again, and I’m going to keep you to myself. I’ll nurse you here—you say that nobody ever found this hut but—but the gang, and when you’re better the wagon shall take us both to some place where we can live or starve together. The county can get another sheriff easy enough.”
“And they’ll suspect you of being in league with counterfeiters,” said the father.
“They may suspect me of anything they like!” exclaimed the sheriff, “so you love me and be—be your own best self and my good father. But this bare hut—not a comfort that you need—no food—nothing—oh, if there was only some one who had a heart, and could help us!”
“There is!” whispered Jim Williamson, with all his might. Both occupants started, and the wounded man’s eyes glared like a wolf’s.
“Don’t be frightened,” whispered Jim; “I’m yours, body and soul—the devil himself would be, if he’d been standin’ at this hole the last five minutes. I’m Jim Williamson. Let me help you miss—sheriff.”
The sheriff blew out the light, opened the door, called softly to Jim, led him into the hut, closed the door, relighted the candle and—blushed. Jim looked at the sheriff out of the top of his eyes, and then blushed himself—then he looked at the wounded man. There was for a moment an awkward silence, which Jim broke by clearing his throat violently, after which he said:
“Now, both of you make your minds easy. Nobody’ll never find you here—I’ve hunted through all these woods, but never saw this cabin before. Arm broke?”
“No,” said the counterfeiter, “but—but it runs in the family to shoot ugly.”
Again the sheriff kissed the man repeatedly.
“Then you can move in two or three days,” said Jim, “if you’re taken care of rightly. Nobody’ll suspect anything wrong about the sheriff, ef he don’t turn up again right away. I’ll go back to town, throw everybody off the track, and bring out a few things to make you comfortable.”
Jim looked at the sheriff again, blushed again, and started for the door. The wounded man sprang to his feet, and hoarsely whispered:
“Swear—ask God to send you to hell if you play false—swear by everything you love and respect and hope for, that you won’t let my daughter be disgraced because she happened to have a rascal for her father!”
Jim hesitated for a moment; then he seized the sheriff’s hand.
“I ain’t used to swearin’ except on somethin’ I can see,” said he, “an’ the bizness is only done in one way,” with this he kissed the little hand in his own, and dashed out of the cabin with a very red face.
Within ten minutes Jim met his brother and Braymer.
“No use, boys,” said he, “might as well go back. There ain’t no fears but what the sheriff’ll be smart enough to do ’em yet, if he’s alive, an’ if he’s dead we can’t help him any.”
“If he’s dead,” remarked Bill Braymer, “an’ there’s any pay due him, I hope part of it’ll come for these horses. Mine’s dead, an’ Pete’s might as well be.”
“Well,” said Jim, “I’ll go on to town. I want to be out early in the mornin’ an’ see ef I can’t get a deer, an’ it’s time I was in bed.” And Jim galloped off.
The horse and man which might have been seen threading the woods at early daybreak on the following morning, might have set for a picture of one of Sherman’s bummers. For a month afterward Jim’s mother bemoaned the unaccountable absence of a tin pail, a meal-bag, two or three blankets, her only pair of scissors, and sundry other useful articles, while her sorrow was increased by the fact that she had to replenish her household stores sooner than she had expected.
The sheriff examined so eagerly the articles which Jim deposited in rapid succession on the cabin-floor, that Jim had nothing to do but look at the sheriff, which he did industriously, though not exactly to his heart’s content. At last the sheriff looked up, and Jim saw two eyes full of tears, and a pair of lips which parted and trembled in a manner very unbecoming in a sheriff.
“Don’t, please,” said Jim, appealingly. “I wish I could have done better for you, but somehow I couldn’t think of nothin’ in the house that was fit for a woman, except the scissors.”
“Don’t think about me at all,” said the sheriff, quickly. “I care for nothing for myself. Forget that I’m alive.”
“I—I can’t,” stammered Jim, looking as guilty as forty counterfeiters rolled into one. The sheriff turned away quickly, while the father called Jim to his side.
“Young man,” said he, “you’ve been as good as an angel could have been, but if you suspect her a minute of being my accomplice, may heaven blast you! I taught her engraving, villain that I was, but when she found out what the work really was, I thought she’d have died. She begged and begged that I’d give the business up, and I promised and promised, but it isn’t easy to get out of a crowd of your own kind, particularly when you’re not so much of a man as you should be. At last she got sick of waiting, and ran away—then I grew desperate and worse than ever. I’ve been searching everywhere for her; you don’t suppose a smart—smart counterfeiter has to get rid of his money in the way I’ve been doing, do you? I traced her to this part of the State, and I’ve been going over the roads again and again trying to find her; but I never saw her until she put this hole through my arm last night.”
“I hadn’t any idea who you were,” interrupted the sheriff, with a face so full of mingled indignation, pain and tenderness, that Jim couldn’t for the life of him take his eyes from it.
“Don’t let any one suspect her, young man,” continued the father. “I’ll stay within reach—deliver me up, if it should be necessary to clear her.”
“Trust to me,” said Jim. “I know a man when I see him, even if he is a woman.”
Two days later the sheriff rode into town, leading behind him the counterfeiter’s horses, with the wagon and its contents, with thousands of dollars in counterfeit money. The counterfeiter had escaped, he said, and he had wounded him.
Bunkerville ran wild with enthusiasm, and when the sheriff insisted upon paying out of his own pocket the value of Braymer’s and Williamson’s horses, men of all parties agreed that Charley Mansell should be run for Congress on an independent ticket.
But the sheriff declined the honor, and, declaring that he had heard of the serious illness of his father, insisted upon resigning and leaving the country. Like an affectionate son, he purchased some dress-goods, which he said might please his mother, and then he departed, leaving the whole town in sorrow.
There was one man at Bunkerville who did not suffer so severely as he might have done by the sheriff’s departure, had not his mind been full of strange thoughts. Pete Williamson began to regard his brother with suspicion, and there seemed some ground for his feeling. Jim was unnaturally quiet and abstracted; he had been a great deal with the sheriff before that official’s departure, and yet did not seem to be on as free and pleasant terms with him as before. So Pete slowly gathered a conviction that the sheriff was on the track of a large reward from the bank injured by the counterfeiter; that Jim was to have a share for his services on the eventful night; that there was some disagreement between them on the subject, and that Jim was trying the unbrotherly trick of keeping his luck a secret from the brother who had resolved to fraternally share anything he might have obtained by the chase. Finally, when Pete charged his brother with the unkindness alluded to, and Jim looked dreadfully confused, Pete’s suspicions were fully confirmed.
The next morning Jim and his horse were absent, ascertaining which fact, the irate Peter started in pursuit. For several days he traced his brother, and finally learned that he was at a hotel on the Iowa border. The landlord said that he couldn’t be seen; he, and a handsome young fellow, with a big trunk, and a tall, thin man, and ex-Judge Bates, were busy together, and had left word they weren’t to be disturbed for a couple of hours on any account. Could Pete hang about the door of the room, so as to see him as soon as possible?—he was his brother. Well, yes; the landlord thought there wouldn’t be any harm in that.
The unscrupulous Peter put his eye to the keyhole; he saw the sheriff daintily dressed, and as pretty a lady as ever was, in spite of her short hair; he heard the judge say:
“By virtue of the authority in me vested by the State of Iowa, I pronounce you man and wife;” and then, with vacant countenance, he sneaked slowly away, murmuring:
“That’s the sort of reward he got, is it? And,” continued Pete, after a moment, which was apparently one of special inspiration, “I’ll bet that’s the kind of deer he said he was goin’ fur on the morning after the chase.”
