Tom Ware was seated alone over his breakfast. He had left his bed as the pale morning light crept across the great fields that were alike his pride and his despair—what was the use of trying to sleep when sleep was an impossibility! The memory of that tragedy at the church door was a black horror to him; it gave substance to his dreams, it brought him awake with writhing lips that voiced his fear in the dead stillness of the night. The days were scarcely less terrible. Steeled and resolute as his will could make him, he was not able to speak of what he had seen with composure. Being as he was in this terribly perturbed state he had shirked his morning toilet and presented a proportionately haggard and unkempt appearance. He was about to quit the table when big Steve entered the room to say there was a white fellow at the door wished to see him.

“Fetch him along in here,” said Ware briefly, without lifting his bloodshot eyes.

Brought into his presence the white fellow delivered a penciled note which proved to be from Murrell, and then on Ware's invitation partook of whisky. When he was gone, the planter ordered his horse, and while he waited for it to be brought up from the stables, reread Murrell's note. The expression of his unprepossessing features indicated what was passing in his mind, his mood was one of sullen rebellion. He felt Murrell was bent on committing him to an aggregate of crime he would never have considered possible, and all for love of a girl—a pink-cheeked, white-faced chit of a girl—disgust boiled up within him, rage choked him; this was the rotten spot in Murrell's make-up, the man was mad-stark mad!

As Ware rode away from Belle Plain he cursed him under his breath with vindictive thoroughness. His own inclination toward evil was never very robust; he could have connived and schemed over a long period of years to despoil Betty of her property, he would have counted this a legitimate field for enterprise; but murder and abduction was quite another thing. He would wash his hands of all further connection with Murrell, he had other things to lose besides Belle Plain, and the present would be as good a time as any to let the outlaw know he could be coerced and bullied no longer. But he had a saving recollection of the way in which Murrell dealt with what he counted treachery; an unguarded word, and he would not dare to travel those roads even at broad noon-day, while to pass before a lighted window at night would be to invite death; nowhere would he be safe.

Three miles from Belle Plain he entered a bridle path that led toward the river; he was now traversing a part of the Quintard tract. Two miles from the point where he had quitted the main road he came out upon the shores of a wide bayou. Looking across this he saw at a distance of half a mile what seemed to be a clearing of considerable extent, it was the first sign of human occupation he had seen since leaving Belle Plain.

An impenetrable swamp defended the head of the bayou which he skirted. Doubling back as though he were going to retrace his steps to Belle Plain, finally he gained a position opposite the clearing which still showed remotely across the wide reach of sluggish water. Here he dismounted and tied his horse, then as one tolerably familiar with the locality and its resources, he went down to the shore and launched a dugout which he found concealed in some bushes; entering it he pointed its blunt bow in the direction of the clearing opposite. A growth of small timber was still standing along the water's edge, but as he drew nearer, those betterments which the resident of that lonely spot had seen fit to make for his own convenience, came under his scrutiny; these consisted of a log cabin and several lesser sheds. Landing and securing his dug-out by the simple expedient of dragging half its length out of the water, he advanced toward the cabin. As he did so he saw two women at work heckling flax under an open shed. They were the wife and daughter of George Hicks, his overseer's brother.

“Morning, Mrs. Hicks,” he said, addressing himself to the mother, a hulking ruffian of a woman.

“Howdy, sir?” she answered. Her daughter glanced indifferently in Ware's direction. She was a fine strapping girl, giving that sense of physical abundance which the planter admired.

“They'd better keep her out of Murrell's way!” he thought; aloud he said, “Anybody with the captain?”

“Colonel Fentress is.”

“Humph!” muttered Ware. He moved to the door of the cabin and pushing it open, entered the room where Murrell and Fentress were seated facing each other across the breakfast table. The planter nodded curtly. He had not seen Murrell since the murder, and the sight of him quickened the spirit of antagonism which he had been nursing. “You roust a fellow out early enough!” he grumbled, rubbing his unshaven chin with the back of his hand.

“I was afraid you'd be gone somewhere. Sit down—here, between the colonel and me,” said Murrell.

“Well, what the devil do you want of me anyhow?” demanded the planter.

“How's your sister, Tom?” inquired Murrell.

“I reckon she's the way you'd expect her to be.” Ware dropped his voice to a whisper. Those women were just the other side of the logs, he could hear them at their work.

“Who's at Belle Plain now?” continued Murrell.

“Bowen's wife and daughter have stayed,” answered Ware, still in a whisper.

“For how long, Tom? Do you know?”

“They were to go home after breakfast this morning; the daughter's to come out again to-morrow and stay with Betty until she leaves.”

“What's that you're saying?” cried Murrell.

“She's going back to North Carolina to those friends of hers; it's no concern of mine, she does what she likes without consulting me.” There was a brief pause during which Murrell scowled at the planter.

“I reckon your heart's tender, too!” he presently said. Ware's dull glance shifted to Fentress, but the colonel's cold and impassive exterior forbade the thought that his sympathy had been roused.

“It isn't that,” Ware muttered, moistening his lips. He felt the utter futility of opposition. “I am for letting things rest just where they are,” again his voice slid into a husky whisper. “You'll be running all our heads into a halter, the first thing you know—and this isn't any place to talk over such matters, there are too many people about.”

“There's only Bess and the old woman busy outside,” said Murrell.

“What's to hinder them from sticking an ear to a chink in the logs?”

“Go on, and finish what you've got to say, and get it off your mind,” said Murrell.

“Well, then, I want to tell you that I consider you didn't regard me at all in the way you managed that business at the church! If I had known what was due to happen there, do you think I'd have gone near the place? But you let me go! I met you on the road and you told me you'd learned Norton had been to see Bowen, you told me that much, but you didn't tell me near all you might!” Ware was bitter and resentful; again he felt the sweat of a mortal terror drip from him.

“It was the best thing for you that it happened the way it did,” rejoined Murrell coolly. “No one will ever think you had a hand in it.”

“It wasn't right! You placed me in the meanest kind of a situation,” objected Ware sullenly, mopping his face.

“Did you think I was going to let the marriage take place? You knew he had been warned to keep away from her,” said Murrell. There was a movement overhead in the loft, the loose clapboards with which it was floored creaked under a heavy tread.

“Who's that? Hicks?” asked Ware.

“It isn't Hicks—never mind who it is, Tom,” answered Murrell quietly.

“I thought you'd sent him out of the county?” muttered Ware, his face livid.

“Look here, Tom, I don't ask your help, but I won't stand your interference. I'm going to have the girl.”

“John, you'll ruin yourself with your damned crazy infatuation!” It was Fentress, no longer able to control himself, who spoke.

“No, I won't, Colonel, but I'm not going to discuss that. All I want is for Tom to go to Memphis and stay there for a couple of days. When he comes back Belle Plain and its niggers will be as good as his. I am going to take the girl away from there to-night. I don't ask your help and you needn't ask what comes of her afterward. That will be my affair.” Murrell's burning eyes shifted from one to the other.

“A beautiful and accomplished young lady—a great heiress—is to disappear and no solution of the mystery demanded by the public at large!” said Fentress with an acid smile. Murrell laughed contemptuously.

“What's all this fuss over Norton's death amounted to?” he said.

“Are you sure you have come to the end of that, John?” inquired Fentress, still smiling.

“I don't propose to debate this further,” rejoined Murrell haughtily. Instantly the colonel's jaw became rigid. The masterful airs of this cutthroat out of the hills irked him beyond measure. Murrell turned to Ware.

“How soon can you get away from here, Tom?” he asked abruptly.

“By God, I can't go too soon!” cried the planter, staggering to his feet. He gave Fentress a hopeless beaten look. “You're my witness that first and last I've no part in this!” he added.

The colonel merely shrugged his shoulders. Murrell reached out a detaining hand and rested it on Ware's arm.

“Keep your wits about you, Tom, and within a week people will have forgotten all about Norton and your sister. I am going to give them something else to worry over.”

Ware went from the cabin, and as the door swung shut Fentress faced Murrell across the table.

“I've gone as far with you in this affair as I can go; after all, as you say, it is a private matter. You reap the benefits—you and Tom between you—I shall give you a wide berth until you come to your senses. Frankly, if you think that in this late day in the world you can carry off an unwilling girl, your judgment is faulty.”

“Hold on, Colonel—how do you know she is going to prove unwilling?” objected Murrell, grinning.

Fentress gave him a glance of undisguised contempt and rose from his seat.

“I admit your past successes, John—that is, I take your word for them—but Miss Malroy is a lady.”

“I have heard enough!” said Murrell angrily.

“So have I, John,” retorted the colonel in a tone that was unvexed but final, “and I shall count it a favor if you will never refer to her in my hearing.” He moved in the direction of the door.

“Oh, you and I are not going to lose our tempers over this!” began Murrell. “Come, sit down again, Colonel!” he concluded with great good nature.

“We shall never agree, John—you have one idea and I another.”

“We'll let the whole matter drop out of our talk. Look here, how about the boy—are you ready for him if I can get my hands on him?”

Fentress considered. From the facts he had gathered he knew that the man who called himself Judge Price must soon run his course in Raleigh, and then as inevitably push out for fresh fields. Any morning might find him gone and the boy with him.

“I can't take him to my place as I had intended doing; under the circumstances that is out of the question,” he said at length.

“Of course; but I'll send him either up or down the river and place him in safe keeping where you can get him any time you want.”

“This must be done without violence, John!” stipulated Fentress.

“Certainly, I understand that perfectly well. It wouldn't suit your schemes to have that brace of old sots handled by the Clan. Which shall it be—up or down river?”

“Could you take care of him for me below, at Natchez?” inquired Fentress.

“As well there as anywhere, Colonel, and he'll pass into safe hands; he won't give me the slip the second time!”

“Good!” said Fentress, and took his leave.

From the window Murrell watched him cross the clearing, followed by the girl, Bess, who was to row him over to the opposite shore. He reflected that these men—the Wares and Fentresses and their like—were keen enough where they had schemes of their own they wished put through; it was only when he reached out empty hands that they reckoned the consequences.

Three-quarters of an hour slipped by, then, piercing the silence, Murrell heard a shrill whistle; it was twice repeated; he saw Bess go down to the landing again. A half-hour elapsed and a man issued from the scattering growth of bushes that screened the shore. The new-comer crossed the clearing and entered the cabin. He was a young fellow of twenty-four or five, whose bronzed and sunburnt face wore a somewhat reckless expression.

“Well, Captain, what's doing?” he asked, as he shook hands with Murrell.

“I've been waiting for you, Hues,” said Murrell. He continued, “I reckon the time's here when nothing will be gained by delay.”

Hues dropped down on a three-legged stool and looked at the outlaw fixedly and in silence for a moment. At length he nodded understandingly.

“You mean?”

“If anything's to be done, now is the time. What have you to report?”

“Well, I've seen the council of each Clan division. They are ripe to start this thing off.”

Murrell gave him a moment of moody regard.

“Twice already I've named the day and hour, but now I'm going to put it through!” He set his teeth and thrust out his jaw.

“Captain, you're the greatest fellow in America! Inside of a week men who have never been within five hundred miles of you will be asking each other who John Murrell is!”

Murrell had expected to part with Hues then and there and for all time, but Hues possessed qualities which might still be of use to him.

“What do you expect to do for yourself?” he demanded. The other laughed shortly.

“Captain, I'm going to get rich while I have the chance. Ain't that what we are all after?”

“How?” inquired Murrell quietly. Hues shifted his seat.

“I'm sensitive about calling things by their short names;” he gave way to easy laughter; “but if you've got anything special you're saving for yourself, I'm free to say I'd rather take chances with you than with another,” he finished carelessly.

“Hues, you must start back across Tennessee. Make it Sunday at midnight—that's three days off.” Unconsciously his voice sank to a whisper.

“Sunday at midnight,” repeated Hues slowly.

“When you have passed the word into middle Tennessee, turn south and make the best of your way to New Orleans. Don't stop for anything—push through as fast as you can. You'll find me there. I've a notion you and I will quit the country together.”

“Quit the country! Why, Captain, who's talking of quitting the country?”

“You speak as though you were fool enough to think the niggers would accomplish something!” said Murrell coolly. “There will be confusion at first, but there are enough white men in the southwest to handle a heap better organized insurrection than we'll be able to set going. Our fellows will have to use their heads as well as their hands or they are likely to help the nigger swallow his medicine. I look for nothing else than considerable of a shake-up along the Mississippi... what with lynchers and regulators a man will have to show a clean bill of health to be allowed to live, no matter what his color—just being white won't help him any!”

“No, you're right, it won't!” and again Hues gave way to easy laughter.

“When you've done your work you strike south as I tell you and join me. I'm going to keep New Orleans for myself—it's my ambition to destroy the city Old Hickory saved!”

“And then it's change your name and strike out for Texas with what you've picked up!”

“No, it isn't! I'll have my choice of men—a river full of ships. Look here, there's South America, or some of those islands in the gulf with a black-and-tan population and a few white mongrels holding on to civilization by their eye-teeth; what's to hinder our setting up shop for ourselves? Two or three hundred Americans could walk off with an island like Hayti, for instance—and it's black with niggers. What we'd done here would be just so much capital down there. We'd make it a stamping-ground for the Clan! In the next two years we could bring in a couple of thousand Americans and then we'd be ready to take over their government, whether they liked it or not, and run it at a profit. We'd put the niggers back in slavery where they belong, and set them at work raising sugar and tobacco for their new bosses. Man, it's the richest land in the world, I tell you—and the mountains are full of gold!”

Hues had kindled with a ready enthusiasm while Murrell was speaking.

“That sounds right, Captain—we'd have a country and a flag of our own—and I look at those free niggers as just so much boot!”

“I shall take only picked men with me—I can't give ship room to any other—but I want you. You'll join me in New Orleans?” said Murrell.

“When do you start south?” asked Hues quickly.

“Inside of two days. I've got some private business to settle before I leave. I'll hang round here until that's attended to.”