Near one of the picturesque bends of the river, about half a mile above the beginning of the Big Marsh, was the home of Col. Jasper M. Peets, a doughty warrior, who had fought valiantly for the Lost Cause, and was spending his declining years in a troubled twilight.

The Colonel was an exotic. Perverse fates had transplanted him into a strange clime. All that anybody along the river knew of his history, up to the time of his arrival, had come from his own lips, and none of it was to his discredit.

I had made his acquaintance at Posey’s store, where he frequently came for supplies. Muskrat Hyatt cautioned me not to have anything to do with him.

“That feller’s bad medicine,” he declared. “He’s worse’n I am, an’ that’s sayin’ a whole lot. If you ever go down to his place, you keep yer cash in yer shoes an’ don’t you take ’em off while you’re there.”

The little farm, with its dilapidated house and barn, had come to the Colonel as an inheritance from a distant relative whom he had never seen. The old pioneer, who had died there, had spent years of toil, patient and unremitting, in clearing the land and coaxing a precarious livelihood from the reluctant soil. He had left no will and the Colonel was the nearest surviving relative.

The Colonel explained that this “fahm” and a “small passel of land down south” was all that he now possessed in the world. The “iron heel of the oppressah” had destroyed everything else. His “beautiful mansion on the Cumbe’land,” and all his “niggahs,” had been lost in the fury of the conflict. His “pussonal fo’tune” was a wreck.

He was over seventy, and quite gray, but his erect military figure and splendid health somewhat belied his years. He was rather indolent in his movements, but as he sat in his hickory arm chair before the stone fire place, the lights that played over his storm beaten features pictured a warrior in repose.

His heavy moustache was trained down in horseshoe fashion on each side of his chin, and then twisted outward in a way that gave his face a redoubtable expression when he frowned. He would often stand before the three-cornered piece of mirror attached to the outside of the house, combing and recombing the bellicose ornament, and observing it attentively, until he achieved particular curves at the ends that pleased his fancy. Apparently he affected a formidable facial aspect, becoming to one who had led charging men.

Evidently he had somewhere received a fair education, but outside of fiction, a field he had widely covered, he seemed to have little interest in books. His former environment had left a romantic polish, heightened by a florid imagination. His character had been moulded by the traditions of the south and they were the only religion he had. His vanity was delightful, and he had the heart of a child. Little gifts of tobacco and cigars made him happy for hours, and there was a subtle lovable quality about him that radiated even in his foibles.

The old house stood on the rising ground, among tall elms and walnuts, about two hundred feet from the river. It had never been painted. Some of the clapboards and shingles were missing and others were loose. When the wind blew, stray currents permeated the structure, and there were mournful sounds between the walls—like the moanings of uneasy ghosts.

The little log barn was decayed and tenantless, with the exception of a few scraggly hens and a vicious looking old game cock. The Colonel had bought him somewhere and annexed him to his estate—possibly as a concession to his early sporting instincts, or for sympathetic reasons. They were both warriors of better days.

In an enclosure beyond the barn were half a dozen young razor backed pigs. These noisy shoats were a continual source of irritation to the Colonel. He declared that he would shoot the two sopranos and let the other pork loose if Seth Mussey, who looked after them, did not put muzzles on them or find some other way of keeping them quiet at night. The Colonel did not do any “wo’k on the fahm.” This was attended to by Mussey “on shares.” Mussey lived a quarter of a mile away, and was the only neighbor. The “shares” were not very remunerative, but, added to the Colonel’s other small resources, they made existence possible.

A narrow path led down to the river bank, where the Colonel kept his row boat and a small duck canoe which he propelled with a long paddle. The landing consisted of a couple of logs secured with stakes, and overlaid with planks. During high water in the spring the landing usually floated away and a new one was built when the freshets subsided. There was an air of general shiftlessness about the place that would have been depressing to anybody who did not know its eccentric proprietor.

He spent much of his time fishing on the river in the summer and early fall until the ducks began to come in. During the game seasons he acted as host, guide and “pusher” for duck hunters, who sometimes spent weeks with him. They had rare sport on the big marsh, but were compelled to suffer some hardships at the Colonel’s house. He did the cooking, or rather he heated the things that were eaten, and some of them baffled analysis.

One of his guests once told of a “mud-hen hash” that the Colonel had compounded, in which there were many feathers, and of some “snapping turtle soup” where all was lost but the adjective. The complaining visitor had slept on the floor, with a bag of shelled corn for a pillow, and the unholy mess, with a cup of doubtful coffee, had been served for breakfast, but he soon got “broken in” and learned to put up with these things if he wanted to shoot ducks with the Colonel.

The various dishes, when cooked for the first time, could usually be identified, but succeeding compositions were culinary by-products, and afforded few clues to their component parts, except to a continuous and very observant guest.

I once ate some “fish chowder” with the Colonel, which, if it had been called almost anything else, would have been really very good. I never knew the ingredients, and doubt if its author could have reconstructed it, or have given an accurate account of its contents. Some one has aptly said, “if you want to be happy don’t inquire into things,” and the injunction seemed quite applicable to the Colonel’s fare.

There are many accidents—both happy and sad—in cookery. A wise cook is never free with recipes, for, in any art, formula dissipates mystery that is often essential to appreciation. Some cooks enter where angels fear to tread, and when the trip is successful the glory is properly theirs. Their task is thankless, and malediction is upon them when they fail. They are in contact with elemental instincts, and their occupation is perilous, for they are between an animal and its meat.

One stormy night we sat before the crackling fire. The loose clapboards rattled outside and the big trees were grumbling in the wind. Water dripped from the leaky roof and little streams crept across the floor.

I had come down the river in a small rowboat, and intended to spend a week fishing for bass in the stream and sketching in the big marsh.

“You must pa’don the appeahance of things ’round heah,” remarked the Colonel. “Theah is a lot of fixin’ up to be done, and the weatheh has been so pleasant lately that that infe’nal Mussey has had to wo’k out doahs. If this weatheh stays bad he will come in heah an’ straighten things up.”

He had queer notions regarding work. There were some things that he would do diligently, and others he considered beneath his dignity. The line of demarcation was confused, and I was never quite able to be certain of it. He cooked and partially washed the dishes, but never swept the floors, or fed the chickens and shoats at the barn. He never repaired anything except under urgent necessity, and his idea of order was not to disturb anything after he had let go of it.

“You may be interested to know, suh, that I have been occupying my spaiah time writing my memoahs,” he continued. “I have collected the scattehed reco’ds of my careah. I have no descendants, an’ I may say to you confidentially, as one gentleman to anotheh, that I do not expect any, suh, so theah will be nobody to take pride in my literary wo’k afteh I am gone, but the gene’l public, but as a paht of the history of the south, durin’ its period of great trial, I think my memoahs would be valuable.

“I am going to put my memoahs in the fawm of a novel, suh, an’ I have had to mix up a lot of otheh people in it who ah, to some extent, fictitious, so my book will be a combination of fact and romance. I have thought it all oveh. I am of the opinion that a book to be populah must be a story. It must have a plot, and somebody must get married on the last page. I am writing such a story, suh, and am weaving the main incidents of my careah into the plot. In this way I will get my history befoah a great many people who nevah read memoahs. I will gild what is the real pill, so to speak, by dipping it into the bright hued watehs of romance.

“I am having a great deal of trouble with my plot, suh. Theah is a fellah in it by the name of Puddington Calkins. I want to kill this cussed Calkins, but if I kill ’im I will have nobody to marry to the mystehious veiled lady that I see in the dim distance. She is gliding towa’d the web of my plot, but I do not yet know whetheh she comes upon an errand of vengeance, or to demand justice foh her child. This veiled lady is pe’fumed with tube rose, suh, and I hate to leave her out, foh, with the exception of bou’bon, tube rose is my favorite odeh, and that reminds me, suh—pahdon me just one moment.”

The Colonel arose and went to the cupboard. He brought forth a tall bottle, poured a liberal dose into a tin cup, and swallowed it with impressive solemnity.

“That bou’bon came f’om Tennessee. It was sent to me by an old friend who was related to Jedge Benton of Nashville. When the Jedge died he had two bar’ls of this noble fluid in his cellah, and one of them was left to my friend in the Jedge’s will. It had been twenty-foah yeahs in the wood, suh. I was fo’tunate enough to be presented with some of that wonde’ful whiskey. I am sorry, suh, that you do not indulge, foh you ah missin’ something that puts spangles on a sad life, suh!

“Most people drink whiskey foh its alcohol, and such people, suh, should pat’onize a drug stoah. A gentleman drinks it foh its flavah, and that reminds me, suh, that birdy cannot fly with one wing, an’ if you’ll pahdon me I’ll take anotheh.”

After replacing what was left of the “bou’bon,” the Colonel stuffed some fragrant tobacco into a much darkened cob pipe, contemplated the ascending wreaths for a while, and reverted to his novel.

“The plot of that story is a pe’plexity to me, suh. I think of things to put in it when I am out on the rivah, and when I get back I fo’get what they ah. I am going to get some moah papeh and write the whole thing oveh. Maybe I will kill that infe’nal Pud Calkins and I will myself marry that female whose face is concealed. Somebody must marry her or she will be left without suppo’t at the end of the book. People will nevah buy my memoahs. They will look in the back, and if theah is no wedding theah, they will cast the volume aside.

“That Pud Calkins is much on my mind, suh. He is a predicament. He wakes me f’om my slumbehs, an’ sits beside me at my humble meals. He has dammed up the flow of my fancy in my novel, suh. I have nevah read a novel that had anything like him in it. He is a damned nuisance, suh, and he has got to go.

“The next time you come down I would like to read to you what I have written. It is too much mixed up now, but I will have it all in o’deh when you come again. And anotheh thing that bothehs me is my chestnut filly that I rode durin’ the wah. I have got to have her in the story. I rode her through battle smoke and oveh fields of ca’nage. I was at the head of my men, suh, an’ ev’ry fall of her hoofs was on dead Yankees that fell befoah ouah onslaught. It would break my heaht if Pud Calkins should evah ride that hawss, even in a story, and yet Pud Calkins was on the field where I fell covehed with wounds, and he rode some hawss home to tell the tale, and if he had some otheh hawss, I would have to leave my filly out, foh only one live hawss was left at the end of that cha’ge, and that was the one I fell f’om, an’ Great Gawd, man, I couldn’t kill my filly!

“Of co’se my hawss will succumb in my memoahs to the immutable laws of natcha, but that must appeah as the reco’d of the actual fact, afteh the wah was oveh. She will not die by my hand, even in fiction—no, suh! I will kill Pud Calkins a thousand times first, suh!

“The prepahation of all this written matteh has been a great labah to me, but it has occupied many houahs that would othe’wise be unbeahable in this Gawd fo’saken country. I sit heah by my fiah and wo’k with my pen, but this Pud Calkins is always by my side, suh.”

Barring a few unavoidable discomforts, I spent a very pleasant week with the Colonel. The fishing had been good, and there was a world of interest and joy in the stretches of the great marsh, teeming with wild life, and filled with the gentle melodies of hidden waters.

I paid mine host his modest bill, bade him good bye at the landing, rowed up stream, and, after spending a day with Tipton Posey at Bundy’s Bridge, left the river country.

It was six months before I returned. I sought the Colonel and found him much changed. A trouble had come upon him. His eye had lost its lustre, he had an air of listlessness and preoccupation, and he looked older.

It seemed that there had been great excitement in the county after my departure, and the Colonel had been the storm center.

When we had finished our simple evening meal, and had lighted our pipes before the fire, the Colonel handed me a copy of The Index, the weekly paper, published at the county seat. Its date was about four months old.

“I would like to have you read that, suh, and then I will hand you anotheh.”

On the front page were some glaring headlines: THE BURGLARY!!!—THE EXPLOSION!!!—THE PURSUIT!!! I read the account with deep interest, which was as follows:

“On Monday morning of June 10th a crowd assembled in front of the County Treasurer’s office at the Court House, amid very unusual circumstances. Nearly seven thousand dollars were known to have been in the safe Saturday night, and now as the anxious citizens crowded through the door, they saw a ruined open safe, and abundant evidences of a fearful explosion. A steel drill, some files, and an empty can that had probably contained the explosive compound, were scattered about on the floor. The rugs were in a pile near the safe, where they had probably been used to muffle the explosion. The money was gone.

“It was learned that a stranger of singular appearance, and marked individualities, with a gray coat, a heavy gray moustache and long chin whiskers, who entered the town last Friday, and had been observed by many of the citizens during Friday and Saturday, had deposited at the Treasurer’s office, for safe keeping, a box represented to contain valuables. This box, made of tin, some eight inches in length and five in width, was deposited on Friday, and taken out on Saturday morning. It was again deposited on Saturday afternoon, to be called for on Monday morning.

“The county treasurer, the Hon. Truman W. Pettibone, had gone fishing on Thursday and expected to remain away until Tuesday, as is his custom during the summer months.

“The mysterious stranger was waited on by Mr. J. Milton Tuttle, the courteous and well known clerk in the treasurer’s office. Mr. Tuttle’s charming daughter has just returned from a visit to her aunt in Oak Grove township—but we digress. J. Milton Tuttle had no suspicions, and retired at evening to his home and his interesting family.

“The stranger was thought by several citizens to have taken the evening train, but was seen lurking around town, with a slouch hat pulled well down over his eyes, at a late hour Saturday night. He entered the Busy Bee Buffet at eleven o’clock and was served by Mr. Oscar Sheets, the gentlemanly bartender. He immediately departed. It is supposed that he spent the night in some barn.

“It was ascertained that the tall and singular looking man, in the gray coat, who appeared to be disguised, was seen on Sunday morning to enter the front door of the Court House. This door, as is well known, is usually left open on Sunday for the convenience of Sunday callers who wish to read the legal notices on the bulletin board in the hallway.

“Miss Anastasia Simpson, an unmarried lady, living near the Court House, noticed particularly that the stranger was very distinguished looking. She watched from her window for his reappearance, which did not take place until three in the afternoon, when he departed seemingly in a state of great perturbation and excitement.

“It was ascertained that Mr. Wellington Peters, proprietor of the prominent and well known low priced hardware store bearing his name, and whose business is advertised in our columns, while standing on the corner talking with a traveling man near the hotel, heard a dull booming sound from the direction of the court house, at about 2:45 P.M., but thinking that it was boys making some kind of a racket, he paid no attention to it. Several other prominent and well known citizens heard the same sound at the same hour.

“The tall and mysterious stranger was seen by Miss Simpson to walk south after leaving the court house. She went to another window to further observe him, but he had disappeared.

“The little tin box which the artful and designing robber had left ‘for safe keeping’ with J. Milton Tuttle, and which he locked up in the safe, was opened and found to contain nothing but a bag of sand.

“It was evident to all that the tin box was a subterfuge. It was used as an excuse to visit and inspect the ‘lay of the land’ in the office of the treasurer of our county.

“About noon, on Monday, a posse was formed by the Hon. Cyrus Butts, our gentlemanly and efficient sheriff. The posse, consisting of three prominent and well known citizens, Oliver K. Gardner, Silas B. Kendall and Elmer Dinwiddie, accompanied by the sheriff, made a circuit of the town. They ascertained that the mysterious stranger had stopped at the pleasant little home of Mr. Mike Carney, the genial and well known butcher of our town, and asked for a drink of water, which was given him. He had then taken a southerly direction along the section line road. The posse procured Toppington Smith’s mottled blood hound and put the intelligent animal on the trail of the fleeing burglar. The pursuit continued for about twelve miles. The fugitive was evidently making a bee line along the section road for the river marshes. A team was met on the road, with a load of baled hay, and impressed into service. All of the bales but two were unloaded and left by the roadside. The two bales were retained on the wagon for use as a barricade in case of a revolver battle with the burglar.

“Drivers of teams, met along the route, reported seeing a man enter the woods before they met him, and go back into the road a long ways behind them after they had passed. The variations in the course taken by the hound confirmed this.

“About ten o’clock at night there was a full moon. The trail left the road and led into some thick underbrush, near a small slough. Some smoke issued from the brush, where the fugitive had evidently built a fire and expected to spend the night. The place was surrounded and the posse cautiously advanced, but the burglar was gone. It was thought that the cunning malefactor had got wind of his pursuers, that he had turned aside and lighted this fire in the brush with a view of delaying and baffling those behind him with artful strategy.

“The hound left the brush, and a few minutes later a tall figure, with a light gray coat, was seen a few hundred yards away on a bare ridge in the moonlight. It was unquestionably the fugitive and the hound was with him. The posse opened fire with revolvers, but at such a distance it was futile. The man and the dog disappeared over the ridge into the woods. The burglar had escaped, and the dog had evidently joined forces with him.

“Further pursuit that night was considered hopeless. The posse slept at a farm house and resumed the search Tuesday morning. They found the dog tied to a tree near the edge of the big marsh, there were tracks in the soft mud at the margin of the slough, and an old boat belonging to a farmer in the vicinity was gone. There were marks in the mud showing where the boat had been shoved out to the water.

“The pursuit was abandoned and the posse returned home. A full description of the robber was sent broadcast, and it is thought that his capture is only a matter of time.

“Up to the hour of going to press there are no further particulars to record, but we hope that before our next issue, justice will triumph, and the burglar with his ill gotten booty will be within its grasp.”

“And now, suh, will you please cast youah eye oveh this reco’d of infamy,” requested the Colonel, as he handed me a later copy of the same paper.

The next account was headed:

and it read as follows:

“We are able to announce that the crafty and resourceful robber of the county treasurer’s office, who so successfully eluded the grasp of his pursuers, and made good his retreat into the river marshes, has probably been apprehended.

“The evidence seems to indicate that one Col. Peets, who lives on a small farm on the river, above the marsh, is the culprit.

“He was captured there by the sheriff, the day after our last week’s issue was in the hands of the public. He offered no resistance. The information that led to his capture was received from Mr. Tipton Posey who keeps the well known general store near Bundy’s Bridge. Mr. Posey stated that the description of the robber, printed in this paper, exactly fitted Col. Peets, with the exception of the chin whiskers, which he thought were false.

“This paper is invariably modest and unassuming. It vaunteth not itself, but we may say, without undue self glorification, that it was the thoroughness of the journalistic work of this paper that made the description of the robber available, and that this capture is therefore exclusively due to the enterprise of The Index. Our circulation covers the entire county. Our advertising rates will be found on another page. Our subscription rates are two dollars a year, cash, or two fifty in produce—strictly in advance.

“Col. Peets claims to be an ex-officer in the Rebel Army. He bears a bad reputation along the river, and is said to be a man of immoral character.

“The prisoner was securely lodged in the county jail, and, after the usual legal forms, he was brought before the Justice of the Peace for preliminary hearing.

“When the morning of the examination came, the court was thronged as it never has been before. The ladies crowded the room as they had never done at any court during our existence as a county, while the trial progressed, manifesting a strange interest, which has never been exhibited till now, for or against any prisoner. And yet not so strange, for a remarkable prisoner appeared before them. He was tall, strongly built, with a heavy moustache, and pale—as though just recovering from an illness—marked in his individualities, a man of martial bearing, whom one would expect to recognize among ten thousand.

“Every female eye was uninterruptedly focussed on this striking looking man during the entire hearing. He was claimed to be the same stranger who had blown open the safe and abstracted the seven thousand dollars of the county’s money. The loss will of course have to be made good by the treasurer or his bondsmen, if the plunder is not recovered from the thief, and much sympathy is felt for the Hon. Truman W. Pettibone, who has long borne an enviable and unsullied reputation in our midst.

“Several of the ladies present were to appear among the witnesses in behalf of the state and for the defense. The question under consideration was the identity of this tall mysterious looking prisoner and that tall disguised stranger who was unquestionably responsible before the law for the astounding burglary.

“The counsel for the state was the Hon. John Wesley Watts, our brilliant and alert county attorney. The prisoner was represented by W. St. John Hopkins, whose very name smacks of irreverence for the Holy Writ. He is a young aspiring sprig of the law who has recently come into our midst.

“It seems that this man Hopkins, who parts both his name and his hair in the middle, volunteered to defend the prisoner without compensation, probably for the purpose of showing off his talents. The prisoner was without counsel, and claimed to have no funds with which to hire one. They seemed to be suspiciously good friends in court. Whether or not a part of the loot from the exploded safe has covertly changed hands in payment for certain legal services during the past few days, it is not within the province of this paper to determine, or even hint.

“The examination continued during Wednesday and Thursday, excellent order prevailing in the court room. Many citizens gave strong testimony both for and against the prisoner. The public were deeply interested in the solution of the question, and there were strong and conflicting opinions as to the identity of the prisoner in the minds of all present. The progress of the examination, as numerous witnesses were examined who had seen the prowling and disguised stranger, and who now saw the prisoner, brought distinctly to notice the great difference which exists in the observing power of different individuals. Many thought that if the prisoner had on a gray coat, and had a long chin beard, in addition to his moustache, they could absolutely swear to his identity. Others thought that the stranger had worn false whiskers and had particularly noticed it at the time.

“J. Milton Tuttle did not think that the chin whiskers were false, or that the prisoner was the man who left the tin box for safe keeping. He was quite positive that he would recognize the man if he ever saw him again.

“Miss Anastasia Simpson, the unmarried lady, whose eyes were glued on the mystic stranger in the vicinity of the court house, and whose eyes were glued on the prisoner during the entire course of the trial, swore absolutely that he was not the same man. Possibly the reasons that prompted such positive testimony may be best known to herself.

“The prisoner, under the whispered advice of young Hopkins, declined to go upon the stand, which in itself, in the opinion of most of those present, was conclusive evidence of guilt.

“The state’s attorney made an able and scholarly address to the court, and presented a masterly review of the evidence.

“Hopkins contented himself with claiming that no evidence had been adduced to justify the court in holding his client. No false whiskers or gray coat had been produced, and no witness had positively sworn to the prisoner’s identity. On the contrary, the only witness who had conversed with the alleged robber, Mr. J. Milton Tuttle, had failed to connect him with the crime, and Miss Simpson, who had long and carefully observed both men, had declared under her solemn oath that they were not the same.

“He claimed that the cord that held his client was a rope of sand, and had the effrontery to comment sarcastically on the account of the pursuit of the flying burglar that appeared exclusively in our last week’s issue. He indulged in sardonic levity at the expense of the public-spirited posse, and remarked that it was queer that its dog had shown a preference for the society of an alleged thief. He suggested that the two bales of hay, that were retained on the pursuit wagon, were better adapted for food for the posse than for a barricade.

“The outburst of indecent laughter that greeted this impudent sally was promptly suppressed by the court, who threatened to clear the room if anything of the kind was repeated. The court sternly rebuked the offending attorney, and cautioned him to confine his remarks strictly to the merits of the case before the court.

“Hopkins apologized to the court and claimed that humor was a malady of his early youth and that he had never been entirely cured.

“The court retired to its library and took the case under advisement for an hour, during which time the crowd waited in anxious suspense. When the court returned it held Col. Peets to the Circuit Court—placing his recognizance at three thousand dollars, in default of which the prisoner was remanded to the custody of the sheriff.

“Much satisfaction was expressed at the decision of the court. Judge Mark W. Giddings, our able and learned Justice of the Peace, is a man of lofty attainments and an ornament to the bench. He has one of the finest law libraries in the county. He is of fine old New England stock, his ancestors having come over in the Mayflower. He is one of the oldest and most valued subscribers to this newspaper.

“The press forms of this issue of our paper were held until proceedings in this case were disposed of, that the inchoate attorney representing the prisoner, began before the court now in session at the court house.

“He asked for a writ of habeas corpus, and his client has been turned loose on the community!

“We may say, that while it may be that no jury would have convicted this man Peets, who admits that he was once an enemy of his country, and while the testimony was strongly conflicting, the opinion is strong in this community that the honorable Justice of the Peace rendered a perfectly just decision.

“The opinions of this journal have always been impartial, and, under the circumstances it is far be it from us to express one, but not to mention any names, there is a certain fresh young lawyer in this town who has a tendency to be a smarty, and a cute Aleck, and to butt in on things that do not concern him.

“It may be to his interest to lay a little lower. A word to the wise is sufficient.

“In addition to this, there is a certain alien resident in this county, of military pretensions, who lives by the sobbing waters of a certain river—and again we do not mention names—who had better not be caught wearing false whiskers when he visits this town.”

“And now,” said the Colonel, with a patronizing wave of his hand after he had given me a still later copy of the paper, “I desiah you to look at this account of the sequel of this distressing affaiah.”

On the editorial page I read:

“It is far from the desire of this journal to discuss the personal interests or affairs of its editor and proprietor. The Index, as the public well knows, has ever been the fearless advocate of fair play for every citizen, and for every human being, however humble, before the law. Its motives have always been above reproach. Notwithstanding the fact that it is the county’s greatest newspaper—unselfishly devoted to the public interest—it never blows its own horn. It rarely mentions itself in its own columns. It scorns to publish matter in its own interest, but the time has come when its clarion voice must be raised to such a pitch that it may be heard throughout the length and breadth of the county, so that the public conscience may be awakened, and forever make impossible a repetition of such an outrage as occurred in front of the post office on last Saturday afternoon.

“As is well known by all, the editor of this paper, who is also its proprietor, was publicly attacked by Col. Peets, the scoundrel and erstwhile prisoner at the bar of justice, who figured so prominently and so exclusively in the affair of the robbery of the safe in the county treasurer’s office some weeks ago.

“A handful of our whiskers was seized and twisted away by this vile miscreant, with the supposedly funny remark that he wanted them for a disguise.

“We were forced to our knees on the dirty sidewalk and commanded to apologize for certain statements that have appeared in our paper.

“We were belabored with a rawhide whip and kicked into the gutter by this burly old brute.

“As humiliating as these things are it is necessary to mention them in order to properly lay before the public the frightful enormity of the outrage.

“It is, and always has been the policy of this paper, to hew to the line and let the chips fall where they may. The Index thinks before it strikes, and it never retracts.

“If editors are to be publicly assaulted—if their persons are not sacred—if the freedom of the press is to be trammelled and muzzled by supposed private rights of individuals, and their likes and dislikes—if publishers are to be beaten up or beaten down with impunity, or with rawhide whips, and are to be coerced into cowardly silence by fear of personal violence—then our republic, with its vaunted ideals, is a stupendous failure.

“Far be it from us to complain, or put forth our private wrongs, but we consider that we have been a martyr to the lawlessness of this community, and to the fearless and outspoken attitude of our paper.

“An attack upon the person of the editor of a newspaper is an attack upon the sacred foundations of human liberty.

“The public will be glad to know that the execrable villain and ruffian, who assaulted us, is now immured in the county jail, where he was sent by that wise and upright Justice of the Peace, the Hon. Mark W. Giddings.

“It is to be devoutly hoped that when the term of his just imprisonment expires, his presence in the county will be no longer tolerated.

“For the miserable cowards and loafers who witnessed the premeditated violence upon us in front of the post office, and did not interfere, this paper has the most withering contempt. Their craven names are known, and this journal will remember them.

“To Constable Hawkins, who arrested the assailant, this paper—on behalf of the public—extends its thanks. Constable Hawkins is an officer of whom our town may well be proud. We wish him a long life of health and happiness. We may mention, parenthetically, that Constable Hawkins and his charming wife Sundayed with us two weeks ago and a delightful time was had by one and all.

“To the misguided and mentally unbalanced females, who are daily sending flowers and sundry cooked dainties to the county jail, this paper has nothing to say. With the exception of one of them, who was a witness at the trial, and who shall here be nameless, they all have male relatives whose duty is plain. The names of these women are known and will be preserved in the archives of this paper for future reference. There are certain rumors being whispered about on our streets, that, from high motives of public policy, will not find a place in our columns until later.

“The sheriff is being quietly and severely criticized by many citizens, whose good opinion is worth something to him at election time, for permitting these indulgences to a criminal in his charge.

“We have always given our unqualified support to Sheriff Butts when he has been a candidate, and we hope that we will not be compelled to change our opinion regarding his fitness for the office. He will do well to ponder. The eye of The Index is upon him.

“The editor of this paper is pleased to announce, to relieve the public mind, that we are recovering from our undeserved injuries, and will soon be ourselves again. We feel deeply indebted to Dr. Ignace Stitt for the wonderful professional skill with which he attended us. The Doctor’s practice is increasing rapidly, and he is now the foremost physician in our county. His office is over Ed Bang’s drug store, and he is among the most valued subscribers of this paper.

“We and our wife thank our kind friends who have sent us watermelons, and other delicacies, during our confinement.

“As a stern challenger of injustice, and an alert defender of the right, The Index will ever, as in the past, be in the forefront. Its battle axe will gleam in the turmoil of the conflict, and on it will shine our mottos—Sic Semper Tyrannis, and Honi soit qui mal y pense.”

I laid the paper down with the conviction that if the Colonel’s life previous to his arrival in the river country had been as rapid as he had been living it since he came, his “memoahs” would be quite a large volume.

“Now, suh,” said he, “I want to relate to you the inside history of that robbery, suh. I want to show you how it is possible foh a puffectly innocent man, with puffectly good intentions, to get into a predicament in this Gawd fo’saken no’the’n country.

“I was of co’se compelled, much against my wish, to hawss-whip the editah of that rotten sheet. He was not a gentleman and I could not challenge him, suh, and it was matteh of pussonal honah. The facts ah substantially as he states in that sizzling angel song that you have just read.

“I want to say, suh, that I nevah spent a moah pleasant thi’ty days in my life than I spent in that jail. I was theah in a good cause, and I am sorry it was not sixty days. The sheriff treated me with puffect cou’tesy, and I was called on and congratulated by many people who had strong private opinions of that editah.

“Those noble women made my incahceration a pleasuah, and I may say, suh, without vanity, that I have nevah been oblivious or insensible to the effect that I have always had upon ladies. Soft and beseeching eyes have been cast upon me all my life, suh. I discovered in that jail that iron bars cannot destroy beautiful visions.

“I was provided with papeh, and I was enabled to do a great deal of wo’k on my memoahs, and I have included in them the events of the past few months, but what I sta’ted to tell you was the unrevealed facts of that robbery, suh.

“In odeh that you may get a clear idea of just what happened, I must take you back to the awful days of ouah wah. Theah was a high bo’n southe’n gentleman in my regiment, suh, named Majah Speed. He came f’om one of the best families in Tennessee. Theah was a most unfo’tunate pussonal resemblance between us, and even when we were togetheh, ouah best friends could ha’dly tell us apaht. In o’deh not to continue to embarrass ouah friends, we drew straws to decide who should raise a chin bea’d in addition to his moustache. The Majah lost, and I still have my military moustache without any hawsstail whiskehs to spoil it. I may say, suh, that I have no doubt that my moustache had its effect in making my stay at the jail delightful.

“The Majah and I have always kept ouah correspondence up. He came to see me just befoah that explosion at the cou’t house. He was in that town when it took place, and he was the man who was pussued by that posse and that damn dawg, whose favah he won with a piece of bologna sausage.

“Afteh the Majah entered the ma’sh he came directly to my house and explained the whole affaiah. We sunk the boat he came in with some stones in the rivah.

“That infe’nal Milt Tuttle, who was the cle’k in the treasurer’s office, was the scoundrel that got the money. His folks came f’om Tennessee, and he knew the Majah. He was aweah that the Majah’s circumstances weah much reduced, and that he had lost what he had left in the wo’ld at ca’ds. He knew that the Majah would do almost anything to retrieve his fo’tunes. The love of money was always the trouble with the Majah, but we all have to be tolerant of the weaknesses of ouah friends, suh.

“That scoundrel Milt Tuttle sent money to Tennessee foh my friend the Majah to come up heah. He did not know me, or that I knew the Majah. When the Majah came no’th he came directly to see me and spent several days at my place. We went down on the ma’sh togetheh. He told me about Milt Tuttle and said he would come back and pay me a longeh visit a little lateh.

“My friend Majah Speed went to the county seat, and the da’k scoundrelly plan of Milt Tuttle was laid befoah him. In a moment of weakness the Majah fell, and consented to blow open that safe and divide what he found with Milt Tuttle. The tools and the explosive compound were hidden in the office by Milt Tuttle, and during several visits he explained to the Majah how he was to proceed. He gave him a duplicate key to the side entrance of the office around the end of the hall, and a map of the route he was to take afteh he had finished his wo’k, and on this map was the place wheah he was to leave half of what he found in the safe. He was to cross the ma’sh and make his way south to Tennessee afteh it was all oveh.

“You can imagine the astonishment and chagrin of the Majah when he found the safe empty of funds, afteh he had wo’ked all day to blow it open. He was ho’nswoggled by this infe’nal thief of a Milt Tuttle. He had taken ev’ry cent befoah the Majah came, and left the Majah in the lu’ch to face all the consequences, and to get away the best he could.

“When the Majah came to me that night, and told me his tale, I was astounded. Of co’se I do not approve of robbery, but the Majah had committed no robbery. He had taken absolutely nothing f’om that safe, and he was as innocent of robbery as a child unbawn. Milt Tuttle was the thief, and on his ill gotten wealth he went off somewheah fo’ his health, but he was stricken by a vengeful providence with pneumonia, and he is now dead, and theah is no way of proving his dasta’dly connection with the affaiah.

“I told the Majah that he had been made a cat’s paw, and that he had betteh go home as fast as he could. He was without funds, and, unfo’tunately, I did not have any to lend him, so he sta’ted fo’ the south on foot. That was the last I saw of the Majah, and I had a letteh f’om one of the fo’mah officers of ouah regiment, that the Majah is now dead. I assume, suh, that he died of a broken heaht, all on account of the villainy of that dehty thief of a Milt Tuttle.

“When I was unjustly and unfo’tunately dragged into that affaiah, I could have told the whole story, but I felt bound to protect my friend the Majah, who fought undeh me fo’ foah yeahs. He twice saved my life on the field, and foah such a man, no matteh what his failings might be, I was bound to make any sacrifice. I could have gone on the stand and pointed my fingah at the thief, but of what avail? The attorney who represented me in those disgraceful proceedings advised me to keep my seat, as the state had no case whateveh. That mutton headed old bi’led owl that was supposed to be a cou’t, bound me oveh, but I was soon released, and my friend’s secret was not in jeopa’dy.

“I have now expiated the penalty of the No’the’n law fo’ whipping that rascally editeh. My atto’ney also pounded him to a jelly. It is my intention to hawss-whip Tipton Posey, foah he was the one that sta’ted the talk that resulted in all those legal proceedings, and during the thi’ty days that I am in jail foah that, it is my intention to complete my novel, in which, as I told you, is to be woven my memoahs.

“It is a good thing fo’ Milt Tuttle that he had pneumonia, foah if he was not deceased I would fill him full of holes fo’ the dishonah he brought on my friend the Majah, and then I would leave the no’th fo’evah.

“I shall nevah blacken the memory of Majah Speed by using his name with the story of the blowing open of the safe in my book. I shall use anotheh name, suh, and his secret shall be fo’evah safe and his memory will be unta’nished, fo’ the Majah nevah stole a dollah. He can stand befoah that greateh cou’t, wheah he has now gone, with a guiltless and stainless soul.”

I was much interested in the Colonel’s narrative, and after talking over some of the details, we retired for the night.

I had quietly enjoyed the naive reasoning, and the chivalrous devotion of the Colonel to his war time friend. There was pathos in the tale of sacrifice, and, several times I saw moisture in the old soldier’s eyes, as he dilated upon the cruelty of his position in the affair of the safe.

His conceptions of right and wrong were refreshing, and his penchant for taking the law into his own hands was evidently going to get him into more predicaments, but it was useless to argue with him. I felt sorry about Posey’s coming castigation, but as Tip was abundantly able to take care of himself, I concluded not to worry over it.

On our way down the river the next morning, the Colonel reverted to Major Speed’s ill-starred visit.

“I presume that you would think, suh, that the interests of the living ah paramount to those of the dead, and that I ought to tell Majah Speed’s story to the world. His memory and the memory of that black heahted vahlet, Milt Tuttle, would suffeh, and Tuttle’s ought to suffeh, but my vindication would be complete. Natu’ally I do not enjoy being looked at askance, and I sometimes think that I ought to remove the stigma that now rests on my name.”

I advised him to let matters remain as they were, inasmuch as he could produce no proof of the facts, and little would be gained by stirring up the affair.

“But I do not need proof of facts, they would have my wo’d of honah, suh!”

I explained the uncertain value of a “wo’d of honah” in that part of the country. I refrained from telling him that I thought his reputation would not be much improved by his explanation, for he would at least still be regarded as an “accessory after the fact” because of his admission of the protection to Speed.

“By the way, Colonel,” I asked, in order to change the subject, “what did you finally do about Pud Calkins?”

“Pud Calkins? I killed him, suh, at Vicksbu’g. That cuss disappeahed entiahly f’om from memoahs while I was in jail, and I assuah you, suh, that I heaved a sigh of relief when that man fell. I can now go ahead with my combination novel and memoahs without his bobbing up and down in the plot every time I sit down to write.”

It occurred to me that the casualties among those whom the fates whirled into the Colonel’s orbit were becoming rather numerous.

“I am vehy sorry to tell you that when you come down heah again, you will probably not find me,” he continued. “I am in a vehy bad predicament about the place where I live. As you know, I inherited that place in good faith, but I find theah has been a mo’tgage on it that I didn’t know anything about. The damned editeh of that scurrilous sheet has in some way got possession of that mo’tgage. I am unable to meet its obligations, suh, and I must move, probably this winteh. I will go back to Tennessee, wheah the sun shines without expense to anybody, and wheah a gentleman commands respect even though he is unfo’tunate. I may have to walk to Tennessee, but I will make a sho’t call at the home of that buzza’d that runs that newspapah, the evening that I go away, suh!”

The Colonel and I had spent happy days together, and it was with genuine sadness that I bade him farewell a few days later. He was a mellow old soul, ruled by emotions, and not by reason, drifting aimlessly on a sea of troubles, totally lost to every consideration except his childish vanity and the memories of a threadbare chivalry. He easily adjusted his conscience to any point of view that conformed to his interest, and suffered keenly from sensitiveness. Fate had thrown him into an environment with which he could not mingle, and it was perhaps better that he should go. When all else failed, there was a world in his imaginative brain in which he could live, and woe to those who have not these realms of fancy when the shadows come.

When I visited the river the following spring I arranged with my friend Muskrat Hyatt to provide me with the shelter of his stranded house boat, and to act as “pusher” and general utility man in my expeditions on the river and marsh.

“Rat” was always interesting, and I anticipated a delightful two weeks.

One of the first trips we made was down to the Big Marsh, where we intended to camp for a day or two on a little island that was scarcely ever visited. It was thirty or forty yards long and half as wide. There were a few trees, some underbrush and fallen timber on the islet. The place was deserted, except for a blue heron that winged away in awkward flight as we approached. There was no reason for stopping there, but a wayward fancy and a desire to see the vast marsh in its different moods.

After we landed I asked Rat about the Colonel.

“The Colonel’s place was sold under a mortgage last fall, an’ that ol’ maid that swore fer ’im at the trial bid it in, an’ its in her name, an’ now the Colonel’s married the old maid, so there y’are.

“That ol’ feller come down to the store one mornin’ an’ him an’ Tip had a fight, an’ Tip got licked. The Colonel an’ Seth Mussey had come in a buggy, an’ they was goin’ on from Tip’s to the county seat to see the editor of the paper. It was all about that safe blowin’ case, an’ the Colonel accused Tip of start’n all the talk about ’im. Bill Wirrick an’ me got a rig an’ went to the county seat, fer we thought the Colonel was goin’ to lick the editor ag’in an’ we wanted to see the fun, but the editor was out of town. The Colonel went up to see the ol’ maid an’ they was married the next day. I guess she had some money, fer they took the cars an’ said they was goin’ down south.

“The Colonel went to the postmaster an’ told ’im to tell the editor, w’en ’e got home, that if ’e ever put the Colonel’s name in ’is paper ag’in, er any name that sounded like his, he’d kill ’im, an’ I guess the editor b’lieved it, fer ’e didn’t mention nothin’ about the wedd’n w’en ’e got back.

“People don’t think the Colonel blowed open that safe after all. He never flashed no wealth around afterwards, and the way he beat up that editor fer sayin’ things about ’im, sort a squared ’im up.”

We erected our little tent, and Rat busied himself with collecting fuel. He attacked a long hollow log with his axe. When it was split open we found an old gray coat, that had at some time been stuffed into the decayed interior. We laid the coat out on the ground and Rat extracted a discolored brass key from one of the pockets, and a wad of hairy material, that proved to be a set of false chin whiskers. In a damaged manilla envelope, that we found in an inside pocket, was a certificate of the honorable discharge of Jasper Montgomery Peets, as a private in the Confederate Army.

The mildewed relics, with their eloquent though silent story, were convincing.

“I s’spose ’e thought that gray coat was gitt’n too pop’lar with possees, an’ ’e concluded to shed it,” remarked Rat. “Say, wasn’t that feller a peach?”

I agreed that he was.

I sat for a long time on the sloping bank of the islet, and mused over the soul mates that, like migrating songsters, had winged their way to the balmy southland when the leaves had fallen, and the skies had become gray. I thought of Anastasia’s hungry heart, and the precarious resting place it had found.

The Colonel’s “plot” had certainly been woven to a consistent end; the “mystehious veiled lady” had glided into its web, and there was a wedding on the last page.