The Devil's Own: A Romance of the Black Hawk WarParrish, Randall
General
The Devil's Own: A Romance of the Black Hawk War
Parrish, Randall
Black Hawk War, 1832 -- Fiction
"All right, Dan; have another one on me--no? Wal', hell; I 'spose I
might as wal' tell ye furst as last. Thar ain't nuthin' fer eny o' us
ter git skeered about. We got it all planned. I sorter picked yer out
'cause thar ain't noboddy knows yer in camp here--see? If yer
disappear thar won't noboddy give a damn. An' thar ain't scarcely
noboddy what knows the gurl is yere nether--only maybe a few soldiers,
who thinks she's a nigger. We don't want this affair talked about
none, do we? I reckon not. So we planned it out this way: Thar's a
frien' o' mine got a shack down on Bear Crick, 'bout twenty mile below
yere. He sells red-eye ter barge an' keel-boatmen, what tie up thar
nights. Wal', he's all right--a hell o' a good feller. What we aim
ter do is run the gurl down thar ternight, unbekno'nst ter enybody. I
reckon yer kin ride a hoss?"
"Yes; so thet's my job?"
"Thet's the whole o' it. Yer Just got ter stay thar with her till
Kirby kin git away, without noboddy thinkin' enything 'bout it. It's
damn easy money ter my notion."
I thought swiftly. There were several questions I wanted to ask, but
dare not. It was better to trust to luck, for I must lull, not arouse
suspicion. Thus far the affair had played wonderfully into my hands;
if I could maintain my part to the end, there ought to be no reason why
the girl should not be saved uninjured. The one thing which I had
feared no longer threatened--I was not to be brought face to face with
Kirby. If we encountered each other at all, it would be in darkness,
where there was only slight probability of recognition. The impatience
in Kale's face drove me to declare myself.
"Why, if thet's all I got ter do fer a hundred dollars," I said gaily,
"I'm yer man, Jack. An' how soon will Kirby be comin' down ter this
yer place on Bear Crick?"
"In a day er two, I reckon. Soon's thar's sum boat headin' down river.
Yer see, this yer's all camp; thar ain't no fit place whar we kin hide
the gurl, an' make her keep her mouth shet. Them blamed soldiers are a
moosin' 'bout every whar, an' if she onct got talkin', our goose wud be
cooked. Furst thing we got ter do is git her outer this camp."
"Ternight, yer sed?"
"'Bout midnight; yer'll go'--hey?"
"I reckon; yer got the money?"
With his eyes fastened on the two men eating, he counted out some gold
pieces on the bar and shoved them over to me, keeping them under cover
of his hand.
"Thar's half o' it, an' the rest is yers when ye bring back the hosses."
"How many hosses? Who's a goin'?"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Elsewhere in the archive
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account