THE train on the Jacksonville, Pensacola, and Mobile Railway left Tallahassee on time, and went east at a moderate rate of speed. It wound among the hills for a few miles, through dark red cuts, and over deep, ragged ravines, then whirled out into the level woodlands, where the pines grew tall and straight. Night was coming on, with shadowy mists flickering above the ponds. There was a decided chill in the air. The two passengers, who took to themselves the entire hindmost car, muffled themselves in their light top-coats, drew their hats down over their eyes, and looked gloomy. They seemed to take no note of the scenery through which they were flying. The train sped out on Lake La Fayette, seeming to trundle over the water's surface as on a glass pavement. Far away on either hand stretched a lily-field, the pads almost covering the lake in places. Here and there rose clumps of bay, cypress, and magnolia, the last on the little tussock islands. Great rafts of ducks, seemingly unmindful of the crashing cars and snorting engine, were dimly seen floating idly on the still water, or swimming gracefully among the stems of the aquatic trees. White herons, standing straight among the bonnets and grasses of the shallows, shone like spots of snow against the dull background. The long moss draped the trees, hanging down and draggling in the water. Having crossed the lake, the train rushed into a densely-timbered swamp, where one might expect to see all manner of horrid reptiles. The undergrowth here was like a wall on either hand. The smoke and steam from the locomotive fell heavily, and hung in great fleeces, like grizzled wool, upon the branches and foliage. Flat pine woods came next into view, and then broad plantations, with comfortable houses, and thrifty orchards of peach, pear, and plum trees.The two passengers sat quite still, one a few seats in front of the other, and on the opposite side of the car. The brakeman, a talkative and rather grimy colored youth, came in now and then, and made pretence of punching the disconsolate fire in the dejected little stove; but he could get no response to his ejaculatory remarks from these morose travellers. They paid no more attention to him or his talk than they did to the stove and its sputtering bluish flames.
Live-Oak, the station where one must change cars to go towards Montgomery, was reached far in the night. The foremost passenger got up, and silently strode out. The other got up, and silently followed him. Vance led, Willard came after. Neither dreamed of the other's presence.
Here was an hour's delay waiting for the other train. Live-Oak is not a pleasant place for a night-stop. It has a few thieves, a number of bunko men, and some regular cutthroats, who are always hanging around the little station when the night-trains come in. One tall, lank fellow was drunk and dangerous, wandering around with a knife in his hand, swearing he could carve up any man who did not like him.
"I kin put holes inter any feller 'at ain't my friend faster'n a shoemaker kin drive pegs into 'em," he was saying as Willard passed near him; "an' I kin whoop any thing white er black er yaller atween here an' Savannah, an' I kin crawl any feller's log what disputes it. Yappee! yere I am!"
This fellow was dressed in the fragments of a suit of butternut jeans. On his head he wore an old white slouch hat, whose brim was five inches wide, and whose crown was a sharp cone. He was lean to emaciation, stringy, angular, thin-bearded, sunken-chested, a regular Cracker ruffian of the most despicable and dangerous sort.
"I 'ud kinder like ter swipe somebody with this 'ere cuttin' utensil o' mine," he continued, stumbling, and nearly falling against Col. Vance. "I 'ud cut a feller half in two at one whack, an' he'd never want no more merlasses in these 'ere parts. Whoopee! Yappee! yere I am, Betsy!"
Vance put out his hand, and pushed the man away from him in order to prevent his falling against him.
"I'll jist split ye from yer collar-bone to yer instep!" screamed the Cracker, flourishing his knife, and glaring at Vance. The dim light swinging near the station door brought into dusky, weird relief the form of the miserable, drunken wretch. He was really terrible to see as he toppled and swayed, and gesticulated and swore.
Vance hastily turned away from him, and would gladly have avoided any further contact with him. Such escape was not permissible. This free American citizen of the piny woods of Florida had been insulted.
"You sheved me, did, ye? I'll not let no dern man shev me! Yer jest es good es carved up right now!"
Saying this, the crazed bully lunged at Vance with the knife. Willard had approached them at this point. He saw the knife whirling in the air, and the ruffian rushing upon a gentleman. This was enough. He leaped forward, and concentrating all his strength dealt a straight, powerful blow with his clinched right hand. The would-be murderer tumbled into a harmless heap.
"I hope he didn't touch you with the knife?" Willard said, turning to Vance.
"No, sir; and whom must I thank for this easy deliverance?" responded Vance, turning to his rescuer.
And now their eyes met in the flickering glare of the station light, just as a tardy town officer arrested the reviving bully, and led him away. They evinced surprise. They kept silent for a time. The incident had caused a little commotion among the human night-birds of the vicinity, and five or six of them drew up around the two.
"He knocked ole Jobly sky slantin' an' crooked," remarked one.
"Yes: he hit like er mule er kickin'," said another.
"Does he take sich spells often?" put in a third.
"Didn't do it er purpose er nothin'," a fourth suggested.
"Sometimes there's fust-class fightin' material bundled up in a b'iled shirt an' store clothes," was another remark.
"Kinder calculate 'at ole Jobly 'ud sw'ar ter that right now," some one added.
"Ef they'd give ole' Jobly a fair chance I'd like ter see any taller-skinned Northern dandy as could tech 'im. This 'ere's a dirty trick, two of 'm a-pilin' onter one ole man."
"S'posen we jes' clean out the party. They're nothin' but a couple o' thievin' Yankees, nohow."
"'Twouldn't be a bad scheme."
If the delayed train had not come crashing along just then, with all its light and a crowd of passengers, the two gentlemen might have fared badly. The thieves and roughs slunk back into the darkness to watch for less-guarded prey.
Willard and Vance looked steadily at each other, surprised, askance, evidently troubled about what ought to be said or done.
"All aboard!" shouted the train-conductor, waving his official lantern.
"It was very manly of you, sir," said Vance, bowing to Willard. His voice was constrained, his manner awkward; and, before Willard could reply, he turned, and hurried into the already moving train. Willard followed.
They took berths in a sleeping-car through to Montgomery, and saw no more of each other on the way.
Willard did not sleep. It was beginning to dawn upon him, that, like every man who gets madly in love, he had been acting the part of a simpleton. What a weak, silly childish thing he had done in thus running away from the house of a hospitable friend! How utterly undignified, impolite, vulgar, his course now looked! What a useless exhibition of his feelings too! It almost made him ill to think of it. And Lucie? He tried to recall every word she had spoken to him, every look, every gesture, every posture. After all, had she given him any good reason for believing she did not care for him? She had demanded the return of the sketch on Vance's account; but — he had not thought of this before — it might have been to please her father, and to prevent open trouble, and not from any lover's reasons. Surely she had not repelled his tenderest attentions with more than mere maidenly modesty, not in anger, not in the spirit of utter refusal. Why did he not stay, and, like a brave man determined to win a fair girl, put his whole strength into the effort to draw her to him? The more he abased himself, the brighter, sweeter, more beautiful, more desirable, she appeared. What a pure, healthy, charming girl, in what a little, old, perfumed, isolated world! Had she not been sheltered from the contaminations of society, and filled with all the charms of blooming girlhood, for him and no other? Ah! the fragrance of jasmine, the purity of the Cherokee rose, the modesty of the violet, all were hers, the gentle, dignified, beautiful Tallahassee girl! Had not some divine power drawn him away from the great groaning, crashing, rushing outside world, into her fairy circle of dusky oaks, fig-trees, flowers, perfumes, and mocking-birds, for some infinitely sweet, good purpose? Was it all over? Must he give it up thus? hear her voice no more? look into her eyes no more? leave her to her narrow world, and—Vance? He sat up in his bunk, and clinched his hands.
