We learned on inquiry that it is practically impossible to get a jury to convict of murder in this region, and that these admitted felons would undoubtedly escape.We even heard that juries were purchasable here, and that a man's success in court depended upon the length of his purse.This is such an unheard-of thing that we refused to credit it.When the Friend attempted to arouse the indignation of the Professor about the barbarity of this jail, the latter defended it on the ground that as confinement was the only punishment that murderers were likely to receive in this region, it was well to make their detention disagreeable to them.But the Friend did not like this wild-beast cage for men, and could only exclaim,"Oh, murder! what crimes are done in thy name."If the comrades wished an adventure, they had a small one, more interesting to them than to the public, the morning they left Bakersville to ride to Burnsville, which sets itself up as the capital of Yancey.The way for the first three miles lay down a small creek and in a valley fairly settled, the houses, a store, and a grist-mill giving evidence of the new enterprise of the region.
When Toe River was reached, there was a choice of routes.We might ford the Toe at that point, where the river was wide, but shallow, and the crossing safe, and climb over the mountain by a rough but sightly road, or descend the stream by a better road and ford the river at a place rather dangerous to those unfamiliar with it.The danger attracted us, but we promptly chose the hill road on account of the views, for we were weary of the limited valley prospects.
The Toe River, even here, where it bears westward, is a very respectable stream in size, and not to be trifled with after a shower.It gradually turns northward, and, joining the Nollechucky, becomes part of the Tennessee system.We crossed it by a long, diagonal ford, slipping and sliding about on the round stones, and began the ascent of a steep hill.The sun beat down unmercifully, the way was stony, and the horses did not relish the weary climbing.
The Professor, who led the way, not for the sake of leadership, but to be the discoverer of laden blackberry bushes, which began to offer occasional refreshment, discouraged by the inhospitable road and perhaps oppressed by the moral backwardness of things in general, cried out:
"Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,--As, to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity, And purest faith unhappily foresworn, And gilded honor shamefully misplaced, And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, And right perfection wrongfully disgraced, And strength by limping sway disabled, And art made tongue-tied by authority, And folly (doctor-like) controlling skill, And simple truth miscall'd simplicity, And captive good attending captain ill:
Tired with all these, from these would I be gone, Save that, to die, I leave my love alone."In the midst of a lively discussion of this pessimistic view of the inequalities of life, in which desert and capacity are so often put at disadvantage by birth in beggarly conditions, and brazen assumption raises the dust from its chariot wheels for modest merit to plod along in, the Professor swung himself off his horse to attack a blackberry bush, and the Friend, representing simple truth, and desirous of getting a wider prospect, urged his horse up the hill.
At the top he encountered a stranger, on a sorrel horse, with whom he entered into conversation and extracted all the discouragement the man had as to the road to Burnsville.
Nevertheless, the view opened finely and extensively.There are few exhilarations comparable to that of riding or walking along a high ridge, and the spirits of the traveler rose many degrees above the point of restful death, for which the Professor was crying when he encountered the blackberry bushes.Luckily the Friend soon fell in with a like temptation, and dismounted.He discovered something that spoiled his appetite for berries.His coat, strapped on behind the saddle, had worked loose, the pocket was open, and the pocket-book was gone.This was serious business.For while the Professor was the cashier, and traveled like a Rothschild, with large drafts, the Friend represented the sub-treasury.That very morning, in response to inquiry as to the sinews of travel, the Friend had displayed, without counting, a roll of bills.These bills had now disappeared, and when the Friend turned back to communicate his loss, in the character of needy nothing not trimm'd in jollity, he had a sympathetic listener to the tale of woe.
Going back on such a journey is the woefulest experience, but retrace our steps we must.Perhaps the pocket-book lay in the road not half a mile back.But not in half a mile, or a mile, was it found.
Probably, then, the man on the sorrel horse had picked it up.But who was the man on the sorrel horse, and where had he gone? Probably the coat worked loose in crossing Toe River and the pocket-book had gone down-stream.The number of probabilities was infinite, and each more plausible than the others as it occurred to us.We inquired at every house we had passed on the way, we questioned every one we met.
At length it began to seem improbable that any one would remember if he had picked up a pocketbook that morning.This is just the sort of thing that slips an untrained memory.
At a post office or doctor's shop, or inn for drovers, it might be either or neither, where several horses were tied to the fence,, and a group of men were tilted back in cane chairs on the veranda, we unfolded our misfortune and made particular inquiries for a man on a sorrel horse.Yes, such a man, David Thomas by name, had just ridden towards Bakersville.If he had found the pocket-book, we would recover it.He was an honest man.It might, however, fall into hands that would freeze to it.
