Page:The American review - a Whig journal of politics, literature, art, and science (1845).djvu/148

 bottom of their hearts. They felt that every one of these wretches deserved to die a thousand times; at all events, whether it was really Jack, his ghost, or the devil, it was a single issue between him and the Regulators, and no one felt the slightest inclination to interfere. Those who professed to be very logical in solving the question, as to what he really was, reasoned that it must be Jack, in the body, beyond a doubt; but that it was equally certain that the injuries he received must have deranged his mind, and that it was from the fever of insanity he derived the wonderful skill and sternness of purpose which he displayed. They could not understand how a nature so easy and simple as Jack's was reported to have been, could be roused to any natural energies of slumbering passion to such terrific deeds. Those of Jack's own class, who had escaped the exterminating violence of Hinch's hate, now began to look up and come out from their hiding-places. They laughed at all these versions of opinion about Jack, and insinuated that he was calm as a May morning, and that his head was as clear as a bell. One testy old fellow broke loose with something more than insinuation, in a crowd of men at the store who were discussing the matter—"You are all a pack of fools to talk about his being a ghost or a crazy man. I tell you he's alive as a snake's tongue all over, and a leetle venomouser. As for bein' cracked in the bore, he talks it out jest as clean as his long gun where's been doin' all this work. I let you know, Jack come of a Tory-hatin', Injun-fightin' gineration, and that's a blood wher's hard to cool when it gets riz. Them stripes has sot his bristles up, and it'll take some blood to slick 'em down again."

Hinch heard of this bold talk, and half maddened between rage and fear, made one more desperate effort to get the remainder of his company together. They were now afraid to ride singly; and those who were nearest neighbors collected the night before under an escort of their negroes, and started for the rendezvous at the grocery, next morning, in groups of two or three. Two of them, named Davis and Nixon, were riding in together, prying with great trepidation behind every tree and into every clump and thicket they came across, large enough to hide a man. They had to pass a small stream which ran along the bottom of a deep, narrow gully, the banks of which were fringed along the top by bushes about six feet high. This was within half a mile of the Town; and as they had seen nothing yet to rouse their suspicions, they began to think they should get in unmolested. While they stopped to let their horses drink for a moment, and were leaning over their necks, the animals suddenly raised their heads, snorting, towards the top of the bank. The men were startled too and looked up. The dreaded enemy! a grisly head and shoulders above the bushes, and the heavy rifle laid along their tops, bearing full with its dark tube into their faces! The shudder which thrilled through the frame of Nixon was prolonged into the death. The black muzzle gushed with flame—and the wretched man pitched head-foremost into the stream. Almost immediately the frightened companion heard the heavy thump of a horse's feet. Leaving his comrade in the water—with upturned face, one crushed eye-ball, and the other glaring glassily at the sky—Davis urged his horse against the ascent and saw from the top of the bank, a gaunt outline of a receding figure just losing itself through the trees, among which the horse was speeding with wonderful rapidity.

Davis galloped into town with the news on his white lips. The Regulators scattered in inconceivable dismay, and never got together again. They shut themselves up in their houses, and for two weeks not one of them dared to put his eyes outside of his door. Jack was now sometimes for a moment seen publicly, and was regarded with great curiosity and awe; for, with all he had already done, it was known that his mission was not yet finished. Every body watched with intense interest the progress of the work, especially the hunters who began now to express their satisfaction openly. At last one of the Regulators, a poor scamp named White, who was greatly addicted to drink, grew impatient of abstinence, and determined to risk Jack's rifle rather than do without liquor any longer. He set off in a covered wagon for the grocery, to get him a barrel, lying in the bottom of the wagon on some straw, which one of his negroes drove. The liquor had been obtained, and he had nearly reached the entrance of a lane, which led up to his house, on his return, without ever lifting his head so as to expose it, when the wagon run over a large chunk of wood which had