The Book Of The Bush, George Dunderdale [thriller novels to read .txt] 📗

Story 3 (Discovery Of The River Hopkins.) Pg 52

Spend Six Years Travelling Around And Studying All The Writers Above

Mentioned,  Making Themselves Morally Autonomous,  And Worshipping

Their Own Deepest And Eternal Selves.  The Best Men America Has

Produced Were Reared At Home,  And Did Chores Out Of School Hours.

 

When I Was Expelled From School By The Yankees,  Mr. Mcevoy,  The

Leading Irish Politician,  Called Me Aside And Said:  "Whisper,  You

Just Hang Round Until Next Election,  And We'll Turn Out The Yankee

Managers,  And Put You In The School Again."  The Germans Were Slow In

Acquiring Political Knowledge As Well As In Learning The English

Language; But Language,  Politics,  And Law Itself Are The Birthright

Of The Irish.  By Force Of Circumstances,  And Through The Otherwise

Deplorable Failure Of Miss Priscilla,  I Resumed Work In The School

Before The Election,  But Mr. Mcevoy,  True To His Promise,  Organised

The Opposition--It Is Always The Opposition--And Ejected The

Yankee Managers,  But In The Fall Of 1850 I Resigned,  And Went A Long

Way South.

 

When I Returned,  Joliet Was A City,  And Mr. Rendel,  One Of My German

Night Scholars,  Was City Marshal.  I Met Him Walking The Streets,  And

Carrying His Staff Of Office With Great Dignity.  I Took Up My Abode

In An Upper Apartment Of The Gaol,  Then In Charge Of Sheriff

Cunningham,  Who Had A Farm In West Joliet,  Near A Plank Road,  Leading

On To The Prairie.  I Had Known The Sheriff Two Years Before,  But Did

Not See Much Of Him At This Time,  Though I Was In Daily Communication

With His Son,  Silas,  The Deputy Sheriff.  It Was Under These

Favourable Circumstancesthat I Was Enabled To Witness A General Gaol

Delivery Of All The Prisoners In Joliet.  One,  Charged With Killing

His Third Man,  Was Out On Bail.  I Saw Him In Matheson's

Boarding-House Making Love To One Of The Hired Girls,  And She Seemed

Quite Pleased With His Polite Attentions.  Matheson Was Elected

Governor Of The State Of Illinois,  And Became A Millionaire By

Dealing In Railways.  He Was A Native Of Missouri,  And A Man Of

Ability; In '49 I Saw Him At Work In A Machine Shop.

 

The Prisoners Did Not Regain Their Freedom All At Once,  But In The

Space Of Three Weeks They Trickled Out One By One.  The Deputy

Sheriff,  Silas,  Had Been One Of My Pupils; He Was Now About Seventeen

Years Of Age,  And A Model Son Of The Prairies.  His Features Were

Exceedingly Thin,  His Eyes Keen,  His Speech And Movements Slow,  His

Mind Cool And Calculating.  He Never Injured His Constitution By Any

Violent Exertion; In Fact,  He Seemed To Have Taken Leave Of Active

Life And All Its Worries,  And To Have Settled Down To An Existence Of

Ease And Contemplation.  If He Had Any Anxiety About The Safe Custody

Of His Prisoners He Never Showed It.  He Had Finished His Education,

So I Did Not Attempt To Control Him By Moral Suasion,  Or By Anything

Else,  But By Degrees I Succeeded In Eliciting From Him All The

Particulars He Could Impart About The Criminals Under His Care.

There Was No Fence Around The Gaol,  And Silas Kept Two Of Them Always

Locked In.  He "Calkilated They Wer Kinder Unsafe."  They Belonged To

A Society Of Horse Thieves Whose Members Were Distributed At Regular

Intervals Along The Prairies,  And Who Forwarded Their Stolen Animals

By Night To Chicago.  The Two Gentlemen In Gaol Were Of An

Untrustworthy Character,  And Would Be Likely To Slip Away.  About A

Story 3 (Discovery Of The River Hopkins.) Pg 53

Week After My Arrival I Met Silas Coming Out Of The Gaol,  And He Said:

 

"They're Gone,  Be Gosh."  Silas Never Wasted Words.

 

"Who Is Gone?" I Inquired.

 

"Why,  Them Two Horse Thieves.  Just Look Here."

 

We Went Round To The East Side Of The Gaol,  And There Was A Hole

About Two Feet Deep,  And Just Wide Enough To Let A Man Through.  The

Ground Underneath The Wall Was Rocky,  But The Two Prisoners Had Been

Industrious,  Had Picked A Hole Under The Wall And Had Gone Through.

 

"Where's The Sheriff?" I Asked.  "Won't Mr. Cunningham Go After The Men?"

 

"He's Away At Bourbonnais' Grove,  About Suthin' Or Other,  Among The

Bluenoses; Can't Say When He'll Be Back; It Don't Matter Anyhow.  He

Might Just As Well Try To Go To Hell Backwards As Catch Them Two

Horse Thieves Now."

 

Silas Had Still Two Other Prisoners Under His Care,  And He Let Them

Go Outside As Usual To Enjoy The Fresh Air.  They Had Both Been

Committed For Murder,  But Their Crime Was Reckoned A Respectable One

Compared To The Mean One Of Horse Stealing,  So Silas Gave Them

Honourable Treatment.

 

One Of The Prisoners Was A Widow Lady Who Had Killed Another Lady

With An Axe,  At A Hut Near The Canal On The Road To Lockport.  She

Seemed Crazy,  And When Outside The Gaol Walked Here And There In A

Helpless Kind Of Way,  Muttering To Herself; But Sometimes An Idea

Seemed To Strike Her That She Had Something To Do Lockport Way,  And

She Started In That Direction,  Forgetting Very Likely That She Had

Done It Already; But Whenever Silas Called Her Back,  She Returned

Without Giving Any Trouble.  One Day,  However,  When Silas Was Asleep

She Went Clean Out Of Sight,  And I Did Not See Her Any More.  The

Sheriff Was Still Absent Among The Bluenoses.

 

The Fourth Prisoner Was An Englishman Named Wilkins Who Owned A Farm

On The Prairie,  In The Direction Of Bourbonnais' Grove.  A Few Weeks

Before,  Returning Home From Joliet With His Waggon And Team Of

Horses,  He Halted For A Short Time At A Distillery,  Situated At The

Foot Of The Low Bluff Which Bounded The Bottom,  Through Which Ran The

Aux Plaines River.  It Was A Place At Which The Farmers Often Called

To Discuss Politics,  The Prices Of Produce,  And Other Matters,  And

Also,  If So Disposed,  To Take In A Supply Of Liquor.  The Corn Whisky

Of Illinois Was An Article Of Commerce Which Found Its Way To Many

Markets.  Although It Was Sold At A Low Price At Home,  It Became Much

More Valuable After It Had Been Exported To England Or France,  And

Had Undergone Scientific Treatment By Men Of Ability.  The Corn Used

In Its Manufacture Was Exceedingly Cheap,  As May Be Imagined When

Corn-Fed Pork Was,  In The Winter Of '49,  Offered For Sale In Joliet

At One Cent Per Pound.  After The Poison Of The Prairies Had Been

Exported To Europe,  A New Flavour Was Imparted To It,  And It Became

Cognac,  Or The Best Irish Or Scotch Whisky.

Story 3 (Discovery Of The River Hopkins.) Pg 54

 

Wilkins Halted His Team And Went Into The Whisky-Mill,  Where The

Owner,  Robinson,  Was Throwing Charcoal Into The Furnace Under His

Boiler With A Long-Handled Shovel.  He Was An Enterprising Englishman

Who Was Wooing The Smiles Of Fortune With Better Prospects Of Success

Than The Slow,  Hard-Working Farmer.  I Had Seen Him First

In West Joliet In '49,  When He Was Travelling Around Buying Corn For

His Distillery.  He Was A Handsome Man,  About Thirty Years Of Age,

Five Feet Ten Inches In Height,  Had Been Well Educated,  Was Quite

Able To Hold His Own Among The Men Of The West,  And Accommodated

Himself To Their Manners And Habits.

 

There Were Three Other Farmers Present,  And Their Talk Drifted From

One Thing To Another Until It At Last Settled On The Question Of The

Relative Advantages Of Life In England And The States.  Robinson Took

The Part Of England,  Wilkins Stuck To The States; He Said:

 

"A Poor Man Has No Chance At Home; He Is Kept Down By Landlords,  And

Can Never Get A Farm Of His Own.  In Illinois I Am A Free Man,  And

Have No One To Lord It Over Me.  If I Had Lived And Slaved In England

For A Hundred Years I Should Never Have Been Any Better Off,  And Now

I Have A Farm As Good As Any In Will County,  And Am Just As Good A

Man As E'er Another In It."

 

Now Wilkins Was Only A Small Man,  Shorter By Four Inches Than

Robinson,  Who Towered Above Him,  And At Once Resented The Claim To

Equality.  He Said:

 

"You As Good As Any Other Man,  Are You?  Why There Ain't A More

Miserable Little Skunk Within Twenty Miles Round Joliet."

 

Robinson Was Forgetting The Etiquette Of The West.  No Man--Except,

Perhaps,  In Speaking To A Nigger--Ever Assumed A Tone Of Insolent

Superiority To Any Other Man; If He Did So,  It Was At The Risk Of

Sudden Death; Even A Hired Man Was Habitually Treated With Civility.

The Titles Of Colonel,  Judge,  Major,  Captain,  And Squire Were In

Constant Use Both In Public And Private; There Was Plenty Of Humorous

"Chaff," But Not Insult.  Colonels,  Judges,  Majors,  Captains,  And

Squires Were Civil,  Both To Each Other And To The Rest Of The

Citizens.  Robinson,  In Speaking To His Fellow Countryman,  Forgot For

A Moment That He Was Not In Dear Old England,  Where He Could Settle A

Little Difference With His Fists.  But Little Wilkins Did Not Forget,

And He Was Not The Kind Of Man To Be Pounded With Impunity. He Had In

His Pocket A Hunting Knife,  With Which He Could Kill A Hog--Or A

Man.  When Robinson Called Him A Skunk He Felt In His Pocket For The

Knife,  And Put His Thumb On The Spring At The Back Of The Buckhorn

Handle,  Playing With It Gently.  It Was Not A British Brummagem

Article,  Made For The Foreign Or Colonial Market,  But A Genuine

Weapon That Could Be Relied On At A Pinch.

 

"Oh,  I Dare Say You Were A Great Man At Home,  Weren't You?" He Said.

"A Lord Maybe,  Or A Landlord.  But We Don't Have Sich Great Men Here,

And I Am As Good A Man As You Any Day,  Skunk Though I Be."

 

Story 3 (Discovery Of The River Hopkins.) Pg 55