The weekly clarion. [volume] (Jackson, Miss.) 1863-1882, 1875-09-01
A FIGHT FOB LIFE.

sunset, on the dreaF1est Gays ever saw,
waiting nv chances at little Arkansas
station for seat in a coach, which the
telegraph operator assured me would
start in a couple of hours for the town OF
c., my next destination.
sat in the operators little cage, beat
ing tattoo with my feet, and for the first
time in a week feeling utterly Jaded and
worn out.
The door, facing the dense and gloomy
forest outside, looked like some yawnlng
aperture to a cavern, the oil lamp inside
seeming naturally to intensity the inky
blackness outside.
The operator, weary, pale-faced man,
seemed glad of NY company, as he, no
doubt, was, poor old chap, and delayed
me with questions about the busy world
to which he was attached only through
his instrument and an occasional newspa-
per.
ascertained that the coach generally
made its trip in an hour and half or two
hours.
1 suggested the probability that, as the
night promised so bad, perhaps the coach
would lay over IN fact, l rather hoped
that this might be the case, as | began to
hate the idea of being whirled through
the dark woods with fierce wind twisting
the branches together overhead, and
smashing the dry limbs and twigs with
great noise. The operator declared that,
as it was the mail coach to C, 1t
would undoubtedly go, whatever the
prospect as to company, though, he
tancied | would have it all my own way,
as there did not seem to be any pas
sengers besides myself.
He walked down the platform to the
station room, and came back with the in
telIigence that it was empty.
Just at that moment man pushed
the door open and looked in ; the glimpse
| bad of him was not enlivening. He
was heavily wrapped, and his face very
nearly covered by thick black beard.
The operator, busy at his table, had
not observed the intruder, and | made no
comment except yawn Of general dlssat-
isfaction.
There's a house about quarter Of a
mile down the road where you might stay
all night ventured the operator, listless-
ly, turning the page Of last years alma
nae not raising his eyes at all.
Mine was not suspicious nature, and
yet | took no heart in his suggestion, and
began to think all manner OF things about
the man with the almanac.
A house down the road
| went to the door and looked out.
The man who had looked in on Us had
been sitting on the step formed by the
threshold. | was sure it was the same.
He got up hastily and walked down
the platform, not glancipg back. l OBJ
served then that he wore a heavy captoe
cloak and low hat.
The wind blew hurricane and there
was not a star visible; as to road | could
see none, nor in fact anything, but
about twelve inches of the frosty rails
on which the operators lamp-light fell.
l closed the door suddenly as if | had
retired within. | cannot say that it was
my purpose to watch the man in the
cloak, but closed the door.
1t was very dark on the platform, ex-
cept under the grimy window.
The man came back softly, and l scrap
ed wax taper to light a cigar. The black
beard and pair of glittering eyes were
within two feet Of me. Was he discon-
certed?
He walked c., the other side of the
platform eisurely.
The rain began to fall in big splashing
drops, chilling me thoroughly in ten min
utes. | went back into the operators
room, he still icled over the almanac,
scarcely looking up as | entered. Soon
after there was a rumbing of wheels, the
trample of horses and few bugle
tones came down mournfully in the
wind.
There's the coach" said the OPERATOR
and Bill Woodford's horn. There must
be something wrong this is rot his run"
Lights cleaned at the outer end of the
platform. The clumsy old coach rum
bled up, the driver, in gray overcoat
and woolly cap, helped to get the mail
bag in the boot, shouting out, " This way,
if you please, gentlemen, and not an inch
o time to spare"
What's up, Woodford," said deep
bass voice, and where's Sam to- night
He's gone and gave his ankle bad
dish twist, that's all. Come, look alive
there | buttoned up my coat, felt
that my pistol was all right; 1 had taken
it from the black bag just before the arri-
val of the coach. l clambered in, took
forward seat, and as somebody swung
lantern backward and forward discerned
that, save a very old gentleman, who
seemed to be doing in the back, was
the only passenger.
The driver cracked his whip and with
terrific jolting we started at furious rate
of speed. We had, perhaps, accomplish
ed five or six miles in this way, when the
rickety old affair gave a sudden lurch be-
fore coming to full stop, and the driver
appeared at the window dripping with
rain.
g Well have to tumble here for the
night, | reckon, gents; for the storm
last night has blown tree right square
in the road, and the leader has got
rock in his foot and can't go on any
way"
Pleasant prospect, truly.
" There's old Job Silver's cabin yonder; |
we can put up with him, l guess, until
mornin'."
AS the driver had already begun to
unhitch, there was nothing to do but beg
hospitality of Mrs. Silvers, and the old |
gentleman and myself scrambled out, the |
former growing savagely when he found
the road ankle deep in sticky mire, and |
the rain pouring in torrents.
g | should like to throttle that villain,
and shoot that cursed leader on the spot"
said the old gentleman, making off to-
wards the miserable shanty, to the right
some thirty yards.
After a supper of frizzled bacon, fried
eggs and excellent coffee, which was not
so bad supper, eaten before spanking
Ere of birch logs, the host, a tall, grim
Did man, with the face of one of Napole-
ON | s soldiers albeit with a certain lnok
Of simplicity impossible TO a soldier, con-