His Unquiet Ghost | Page 6

all the details of the

enterprise, would direct the event with absolute authority and the
immutability of fate. But whatever should be done, he revolted from
any knowledge of it, as from any share in the act. He had risen to leave
the place, all strange of aspect now, metamorphosed,--various
disorderly details of the prohibited industry ever and anon surging up
from the still-room below,--when a hoarse voice took cognizance of his
intention with a remonstrance.
"Why, Watt Wyatt, ye can't go out in the cove. Ye air dead! Ye will let
that t'other revenue-raider ye seen into the secret o' the bresh whisky in
our wagon ef ye air viewed about whenst 'Gene hev spread the report
that ye air dead. Wait till them raiders hev cleared out of the kentry."
The effort at detention, to interfere with his liberty, added redoubled
impetus to Wyatt 's desire to be gone. He suddenly devised a cogent
necessity. "I be feared my dad mought hear that fool tale. I ain't much
loss, but dad would feel it."
"Oh, I sent Jack thar ter tell him better whenst he drove ter mill ter-day
ter git the meal fer the mash. Jack made yer dad understand 'bout yer
sudden demise."
"Oh, yeh," interposed the glib Jack; "an' he said ez he couldn't abide
sech jokes."
"Shucks!" cried the filial Wyatt. "Dad war full fresky himself in his
young days; I hev hearn his old frien's say so."
"I tried ter slick things over," said the diplomatic Jack. "I 'lowed young
folks war giddy by nature. I 'lowed 't war jes a flash o' fun. An' he say:
'Flash o' fun be con-sarned! My son is more like a flash o' lightning; ez
suddint an' mischeevious an' totally ondesirable.'"
The reproach obviously struck home, for Wyatt maintained a
disconsolate silence for a time. At length, apparently goaded by his
thoughts to attempt a defense, he remonstrated:
"Nobody ever war dead less of his own free will. I never elected ter be

a harnt. 'Gene Barker hed no right ter nominate me fer the dear departed,
nohow."
One of the uncouth younger fellows, his shoulders laden with a sack of
meal, paused on his way from the porch to the trap-door to look up
from beneath his burden with a sly grin as he said, "'Gene war wishin' it
war true, that's why."
"'Count o' Minta Elladine Riggs," gaily chimed in another.
"But 'Gene needn't gredge Watt foothold on this yearth fer sech; she
ain't keerin' whether Watt lives or dies," another contributed to the
rough, rallying fun.
But Wyatt was of sensitive fibre. He had flushed angrily; his eyes were
alight; a bitter retort was trembling on his lips when one of the elder
Barkers, discriminating the elements of an uncontrollable fracas, seized
on the alternative.
"Could you-uns sure be back hyar by daybreak, Watt!" he asked, fixing
the young fellow with a stern eye.
"No 'spectable ghost roams around arter sun-up," cried Wyatt, fairly
jovial at the prospect of liberation.
"Ye mus' be heedful not ter be viewed," the senior admonished him.
"I be goin' ter slip about keerful like a reg'lar, stiddy-goin' harnt, an'
eavesdrop a bit. It's worth livin' a hard life ter view how a feller's
friends will take his demise."
"I reckon ye kin make out ter meet the wagin kemin' back from the
cross-roads' store. It went out this evenin' with that coffin full of jugs
that ye lef' las' night under the church-house, whenst 'Gene seen
you-uns war suspicioned. They will hev time ter git ter the cross-roads
with the whisky on' back little arter midnight, special' ez we-uns hev
got the raider that spied out the job hyar fast by the leg."

The mere mention of the young prisoner rendered Wyatt the more eager
to be gone, to be out of sight and sound. But he had no agency in the
disaster, he urged against some inward clamor of protest; the
catastrophe was the logical result of the fool-hardiness of the officer in
following these desperate men with no backing, with no power to
apprehend or hold, relying on his flimsy disguise, and risking
delivering himself into their hands, fettered as he was with the
knowledge of his discovery of their secret.
"It's nothin' ter me, nohow," Wyatt was continually repeating to himself,
though when he sprang through the door he could scarcely draw his
breath because of some mysterious, invisible clutch at his throat.
He sought to ascribe this symptom to the density of the pervasive fog
without, that impenetrably cloaked all the world; one might wonder
how a man could find his way through the opaque white vapor. It was,
however, an accustomed medium to the young mountaineer, and his
feet, too, had something of that unclassified