Part 20 (1/2)

”Ah! Stayford, it is all your fault! If you had killed that young Howard last fall when I had him in this cave we should be rich men to-day. He carried the message from his father's house to old Sims' farm. I offered a man fifty dollars--fifty dollars; just think of it!--if he secured it.

The man's horse gave out. I hired another--young Howard shot it. Then young Howard's horse fell and could go no farther. He left it, waded across an ice-cold river and saved the letter. There's the whole story for you--money gone, whisky gone--all gone, because we spared the life of a Howard!”

Tom was angry--very angry. He rose from his seat and paced the floor of the cave, muttering his broken sentences. Stayford grew angry, too, for it seemed that Tom was s.h.i.+fting the whole failure on him, since he had saved Martin and Owen the night they entered the cave. However, he overlooked the slight, as he wished to learn whether Tom had heard anything definite about the battle. The Americans had gained a decided victory! This was all the Tinker knew about it.

”And the war is over?” said Stayford.

”Yes, and the hundreds of barrels of whisky which we have been storing away in this cave are a dead loss if we cannot sell them in six months.

I sold thirty barrels to-day at twenty cents below tax.”

”What's that?”

”Thirty barrels to-day, before I left Bardstown. We get ten cents extra on each gallon; it isn't much, but it's better than keeping the whisky until you can't give it away.”

”When and how is it to be delivered?”

”Six barrels to-morrow. We'll pay Simpson well and get him off before sunrise.”

Stayford was astounded at the Tinker's boldness. For three years they had worked at their trade only at night, and had guarded their movements with the utmost secrecy. And now to go to the other extreme and deliver whisky in open daylight seemed little short of insanity.

When Jerry heard of the scheme the wary old trapper shook his head and remarked: ”That's usin' new kinds of dead-falls to ketch foxes. I reckon Stayford and me can stan' it if you can, Tom. If we're caught in our own traps we can stay hare in the den and fight a whole pack of hounds.”

Simpson, a workman, who had lately joined the other three men in the cave, agreed to deliver the whisky, and was to receive extra payment for each load. A little before sunrise he had the team ready. An old oaken beam which served the double purpose of door and a means of loading was lowered--the barrels were let down into the wagon and carefully covered with straw. Everything had been so arranged that neither the horses, the wagon, nor the whisky could be identified, even if taken by the town authorities.

It was about ten o'clock when he reached the town. Pa.s.sing along one of the princ.i.p.al streets, toward an old stable, where the barrels were to be delivered, Simpson was congratulating himself on his success, when he chanced to turn and see a little boy sitting on the wagon-bed.

”Get down, there!” he stammered.

Whereat the urchin dropped off into the mud, making wry faces at the driver and yelling: ”Corn juice! Corn juice!”

”Shut up! you rascal!” cried Simpson, rising from his seat and feigning to pursue him with his blacksnake whip. The boy made good his retreat, leaving Simpson to proceed without further molestation. After unloading the barrels, he remained in town for an hour to give his horses a rest and then started for home.

He had gone about a mile, when he was startled by the sound of voices and the clatter of hoofs. Was he pursued? Yes; three men were after him, well armed and mounted. The long blacksnake lashed the horses, they ran as they had never run before; the heavy wain rattled over the rough road, bounding over bowlders, falling into ruts, throwing streams of muddy water from all four wheels. The wagon-bed was loosened and rolled off. Simpson took refuge on the front axle, and used the whip still more freely. The hors.e.m.e.n gained on him, however, yelling as they advanced.

Following the next impulse of self-preservation, he leaped from the wagon, clambered up the steep hillside, and, running through the woods for half a mile, concealed himself in a hollow tree.

The men who were pursuing him--or rather who had frightened him, for they were not in pursuit,--overtook the team and tied it at the side of the road, thinking that the owner would return and get it on discovering his mistake. They had been in town for the night's celebration, and on their return were just sober enough to realize that the teamster was trying to escape from them. This induced them to follow him, and the faster he ran the more they enjoyed the joke. That same afternoon some pilfering travelers pa.s.sing along the road and seeing the wagon without an owner, boldly loaded it with their own luggage and drove on.

Simpson remained in the hollow tree until night, and then made his way toward the cave. When within two hundred yards of it he saw the dark outline of some one standing in the narrow footpath directly in front of him. At once he darted off into the thick underbrush.

”Simpson! Simpson! Is that you, Simpson?” called out a voice.

It was the Tinker. Simpson retraced his steps.

”The wagon!” demanded Tom.

”Captured!”

”The team!”

”Gone!”