The Nightrider's Feud Part 10

"Friend," replied Wade.

"Then you didn't shoot me?"

"No. Thank G.o.d, I didn't shoot you, lad." Tears were gathering in Wade's eyes.

"I'm glad you didn't, stranger," said the lad. "I'm Fred Conover, and I'm dying now. I can feel the cold, clammy sweat of death gathering over me, my eyes are blinded until all is dark. I know that the death call has been sounded to me, and I am going, going, but I am dying for a good cause." He gasped his words now. "Stranger," he whispered, softly, "you may not be a Rider--you ought to be. You may not be in open revolt against us--you should not be. Listen, stranger, listen well to my last words on earth, that you may carry them to the heart of every man in this community, to the heart of every well-thinking man in the world, that all the world may know we are right. My father was once a well-to-do, honest, faithful farmer, but the trusts and combined wealth put his nose to the grind-stone. I must speak quick. But for them we could have lived nicely and comfortable. They took everything and forced--stranger, help the Riders, for in doing so you are helping the poor people, the struggling millions. You are helping the widow and orphans, you are helping those who must die of starvation unless the fight is kept up a few more years. Tell them I died willingly for them, that my heart is with them in my dying moments; that I shall carry the burden to G.o.d; that I do not hesitate, have no fear, and tell my father----"

The boy threw his head back, raised his breast, then fell to the earth once more. Jack Wade raised the lad's head and placed it gently upon his own limb, that he might remember he died there. The small bottle of whiskey which Wade took out from town was still in his pocket and he gave the boy of it to drink.

"I thought that was my last moment," said the boy, after sipping the whiskey. "I feel quite relieved now. They are mean, stranger," he continued, with a catching breath. "Those fellows will raise tobacco for the trusts, and _must_ be handled severely. I do not regret my action, I do not regret that my last act was to apply the torch to yon burning building. No, I do not."

Here was an opportunity, Wade thought, to learn something of interest, so he placed his lips close to the dying lad's ear and asked if he knew John Redmond before he was killed.

"I knew him well," he replied, gasping for breath, "and he was the grandest----"

The head fell limp, the boy breathed his last. Fred Conover was _dead_.

Immediately the surroundings took on a death-chamber appearance. Wade removed his limb from beneath the dead boy's head and laid him gently upon the cold, damp earth. Beside him was the carca.s.s of the big black horse which fell dead at the same time the boy went down. They were both dead. The pall grew heavier. Wade raised himself, looked at the horse, then into the deathly pale face of the boy, raising his head slowly until he looked into the heavens, then said:

"O G.o.d, Thou great G.o.d, Thou hast, through thy mercy, saved me from this awful deed."

He let his head drop again.

"That was a dog of a deed for an officer to commit," he said mentally.

"It was nothing but cold-blooded murder. Why did he not show himself and make an effort to arrest, rather than do murder in this fashion, the dirty coward!" said Wade, with a wave of his head. "You are free just now, but freedom shall be taken from you for this night's ghastly work, for this foul deed which has taken from earth all that was dear to a good mother and father. If you hang"--Wade shook his fist toward the brush tragically--"the shame and sorrow shall fall upon your own head and heart."

Throwing his coat over the dead form, Wade drew it to one side and departed.

CHAPTER IX

Wade was very excited in thought and action as he rode out through the darkness of the night to go to the home of Fred Conover's father. He had covered the body with his own toga, and he felt the necessity for it as he split the cool night air in his great haste to get the news to the old father, whom he would surely find waiting anxiously to learn what success the boy had met with. Unmindful of any danger to himself, though the country was well stirred up, he raced on, looking neither to his right nor to his left, but kept his sight straight ahead and his thoughts far beyond. He shook his head gravely as he pondered over the events that had transpired, were transpiring, and would transpire in the future. He knew now much more of the conditions confronting the poor farmers of this part of the world, knew of the terrible struggle into which they had entered for the mere maintenance of their own immediate families, knew more of the feelings existing among them, and wondered no longer that they had taken such desperate means to relieve themselves of the yoke of bondage which had been placed upon their freedom, to tie them to the heart-eating trusts, which were d.o.g.g.i.ng out their lives, eating to the marrow of their bones.

Wade had now reached the rise of the hill. In front of him, a little way beyond, was a dense thicket through which he must go. He went on, regarding not the deeper gathering gloom nor the many dangers accompanying. As he neared the thicket he was suddenly confronted by a night prowler, who commanded him to halt. This he did immediately, without hesitation, while he was in his present state of mind, not desiring an encounter with anyone.

"Git down, quick," said the voice of one who held the bridle at the horse's head with one hand, while a pistol held by the other hand was pointed directly at Wade's breast.

For a moment Wade was on the point of reaching for his own pistol and fighting it out, but as his hand started back he heard the command: "Ye needn't do that. Ef ye make a move I'll blow yer brains out."

Wade now reached the conclusion that he was being held up by a highwayman, and the best thing for him to do would be to comply with his request, for he knew that these fellows in this country, highwayman or Nightrider, were as desperate in character as the most blackened criminal the world holds. He got quietly down.

"Now," said the captor, "turn yer back to me."

Reluctantly Wade did this very thing. He had some little misgivings in doing so, for he might be shot in the back.

Not so. The midnight marauder merely took his pistols from his pockets, placed them in the saddle-bags and got quietly upon the horse. Turning to Wade, who stood disconsolate, he said: "I'll return yer hoss, stranger, an' thank ye fer the use o' him, till I can git one o' my own." Then he galloped off as though nothing had taken place, never looking back again.

Awe-struck and indignant, Wade stood beneath the shining stars for one moment just as he had been left, gazing intently after the fast fleeing horse and his mysterious rider, then resumed his journey on foot. He reproached himself that he was a great "mummy," that he had come into this country on an errand of revenge and had placed himself more than a half dozen times right between the jaws of his enemies, between the snapping jaws of death. He figured that fate must have thrown a strong guard around his life to save him for a special purpose. All these thoughts came into his mind as he trudged weary and footsore across the rugged country, picking his way as best he could under the circ.u.mstances.

Instead of trying to make his way direct to Conover's farm, he turned in the direction of his own home, and at some time just before daybreak pulled up at Peter Judson's gate, where he "h.e.l.loed" until old Peter, with rifle in hand, showed himself at the door and cried:

"Who air ye, that wants ter bother a feller at sich a time o' ther mornin'?"

"Wade," came the reply.

"Oh!" exclaimed Peter. "Come on in, boy. What'n thunder brings ye at sich a hour as this?"

"Didn't you see the fire?" returned Wade.

"Sure. Did ye think I didn't know it would be?"

"I didn't know," replied Wade, "but I thought I'd tell you that Fred Conover has been killed, and----"

"Thunder, ye say!" interrupted Peter. "Thunder, ye say!" he repeated.

"What do yer mean by tellin' me that, Wade; is it really true?"

"It is really true, Judson, and I thought I'd come by and get Tom to go over to Conover's with me to give the news."

"Ye needn't, Wade; they'll have it long afore ye kin git thar with it, an' besides ye cain't git Tom fer anything fer awhile. He's been shot through ther leg."

"What!"

"It's true, too, Wade. I told ye what'd happen when we went after them Thompsons. It's war ter ther death 'twixt us, sh.o.r.e. Tom met old Jim an' 'nuther feller over ther hill ter-day, an' ther fun commenced right.

They both opened fire on Tom, but he didn't budge a step till he'd throwed old Jim flat o' his back, an' he'd a-throwed t'other feller, too, ef it hadn't been fer that sneakin' Al, who slipped through ther woods like a snake a-crawlin' on his belly, an' let in on him, an' shot him through ther leg. Seein' he was shot an' bleedin' putty bad, Tom lit out fer home, 'thout seein' what'd happened after the smoke o' battle cleared away. Me an' the good gal, hyar, a-hearin' of ther shootin', pitched out over ther hill with our Winchesters, jest ter git a little o' ther fun while hit was a-goin' on, an' we seed Tom a-comin' an'

a-fightin' back, with his shot leg a-hangin' loose over the hoss. Me an'

Nory give a Comanche yell what they knowed, an' when them durn fellers heered us they turned heels an' took out t'other way 'bout as fast as ye ever seed anybody git over ther mountain in yer life."

Peter Judson told of these circ.u.mstances as unconcernedly as if it had been play. It was real fun to him. The noise of battle suited him much better than the quiet of peace. Turning to Wade, he asked, "What did ye do with yer hoss?"

"Someone held me up and took him from me," Wade replied.

"Ye don't know these people yet, Wade," said Peter, after a moment of silence. "Don't ye know that hit was Fred's pard what tuck yer hoss? An'

he's done spread ther news over ther whole kintry by now, an' long afore ye got out o' ther woods. Ye needn't bother 'bout goin' over. Ther old man'll be so wild when he hears o' this that he'll want ter kill every feller he meets. Ther committees what sent them two boys out on that job oughter have their own necks strung up ter a tree, that's sh.o.r.e. That's what oughter happen ter them. Now, yer needn't worry, Wade. Ye'll git yer hoss back all right. I'm sh.o.r.e o' that, an' ther shootin' irons, too. Seems like hit ain't no use fer ye ter have any shootin' irons, 'cause ye never have used 'em, yet, have ye?"

"Doesn't look as though I have any great use for them."

"No, hit don't, Jack. But ye mout use 'em sometime. Better have 'em along anyhow, when ye meet a Thompson, 'cause ye air sh.o.r.e ter need 'em then. Now, Wade, I reckon ye hadn't better git angry 'cause that boy borried yer hoss. Hit won't do ye any good, an' hit mout do ye harm.

Ye'll git him back agin. Tom won't be sore long, an' when he gits well 'nough so's he kin git 'bout a little, ye kin listen out fer ther crack o' rifles in good shape. Come on in an' we'll git somethin' ter eat, after hit gits good'n daylight. I want ter have 'nuther talk with ye, sorter face ter face like, afore ye leave me agin. This durn kintry is stirred up from ther top o' ther hill ter ther bottom o' ther creek, an' then some on t'other side, an' ye'll see some hot flames, one after t'other, an' hear o' how h.e.l.l is raised, an' see many fellers turn up their heels afore long, ef I don't miss my guess putty bad. Them trust fellers is determined ter drive us all out o' ther kintry, or see us go ter ther graves as poor as Job's turkey--however poor that was--an' they do say that they was mouty poor; but, by gad, they'll have a tough time a-doin' of it! Ther bother of a feud with old Jim Thompson an' his mean gang hain't nuthin' long side o' what's a-goin' ter happen 'bout hyar soon. Ther worst o' ther whole thing, Wade, is that ther air so many in ther a.s.sociation what'll raise terbacker fer ther trusts. Them's ther fellers as is ther hardest ter go up agin, an' ther ones as oughter have ther neck broken. They'll sell ther stuff fer three an' six cents a pound when they mout as well git eighteen an' twenty fer ther same terbacker; but no, they'd ruther go ahead agin everybody an' agin therselves, an' sell cheap. They'll have a time a-sellin' that terbacker this year fer that price. We cain't raise terbacker fer five cents a pound an' come out even, let alone makin' a livin' out'n it. Ther durn fools!"

Old Peter Judson generally warmed up when talking over the tobacco situation, and he cared but little to whom he was talking, nor who heard him, when he used rough language. His greatest expression was "Ther durn fool!" and when he exclaimed in that fashion he was generally done with that subject or person.

"They'll git ther fill of it all right this season," Peter continued, after a pause, wherein he caught a second breath, "they'll git plenty of it. Why, let me tell ye, Wade, what happened one time, an' I'm a-tellin'

ye fer yer own good. I don't want ye ter git yourself inter that deep hole what I told ye 'bout one day, ther time I told ye a feller mout git inter his own hole, remember?" Jack did remember. "Well," continued Peter, "there was a feller onct,--an' he's over t'other side yet,--by ther name o' Mike Donovan. Mike is a old Irish settler, 'bout ther fust ter come hyar. Ye've heerd o' him, no doubt. Well, he tuck a hot Irish notion in his thick head ter run things his own way 'bout hyar, but ther balance o' ther farmers wouldn't have it that way 'tall. They tried their level best ter git old Mike to join the a.s.sociation, but he got hard-headed an' said he'd be durned ef he joined any sich a.s.sociation o'

fools as was scattered 'bout this valley; that he'd raise as much terbacker as he wanted ter hisself accordin' to his own feelin's in that, an' he'd sell hit ter who he wanted, an' fer what he wanted ter.

Now, Wade, ye know well 'nough that ther farmers cain't go agin sich hard-headedness as that an' win out, 'course ye do. Any fool'd know that, so they begged him ter quit his foolishness an' join ther a.s.sociation like a good feller, an' git more fer his trouble o' raisin'