The county record. [volume] (Kingstree, S.C.) 1885-1975, 1903-06-25
mornings sleep under Lapin's roof,
and The hurried look thrnnrh the wiz.

bkla too iOOh IhIouSh tuC WILL
dow had photographed on his brain o
picture of terrible significance to him.
For the merest point of time his eyes
had rested upon Kirk MacCollough.
He muttered that name as he trudged
deeper and deeper into the gloomy
forest following the trail Of the cav
alters.
What is it that makes our conscious
ness of an enemy's personal beauty
something appealing and, in a way,
distressing? An old duelist has been
heard to say that he would rather
stand before au ordinary-looking dead
shot than before q handsome buugler.
The glamour Of a fine, magnetic pres
ence is strangely confusing; and the
effect seems more powerful when the
face is an evil one, especially when
the evil is not on the outside and
shows only elusively and by subtle in
direction from within. Max Burns felt
the fascination that flashed from the
robber-chief's face, and for q time it
almost unnerved him; the beauty it
wore, like some shining mask, did not
suggest at all times the dark spirit OF
the desperate and lawless man. Long,
curling yellow hair and q fine full
beard of the same color; a straight
nose; a'gooa forehead; long, narrow,
clear-gray eyes and q mouth indescrib-
ably naughty and stern in its express
sion, were supplemented by o frame
of unusual stature and symmetry.
This was Pierre Rameau, formerly
Kirk Mace ollough, now the King Of
Honey Island, as old Max Burns saw
him in the gray morning light, an ap.
partition of unspeskable meaning to
him, CLEAN like a phantom Of evil for
q second and then fade, as it were,
into the gloom of the moss-hung
woods.
Certainly it was not the Kirk Mac.
Collough of twelve years ago-not the
slender, fair-faced youth who had
stolen the girl-though the reckless
half-smile still fingered and the old
stamp Of utter unrestraint was as plain
as ever. No, not the boyish Kirk
MacCollough, but the man, full-grown
to his prime. masterful, commanding,
a leader of men, and yet there was no
installing his identity.
Max Burns was old, and for fifty
years had been a preacher whose SER
mons had %overaowed with sentimental
tenderness; but he had q side to his
nature which was as hard as Scotch
granite. 1t was with this hard side
out that he was pursuing Kirk Mac
Collough; and yet, ever through this,
the spell OF the mans strong and beau.
tiful face found its way to his heart.
The effect Of it was but temporary,
so far as checking his determination
was concerned; but it never quite left
him during the rest of the day as he
slowly but steadily followed the trail
into the main road and toward the up
per Pearl River region.
Literally, the preacher had no scrip
for his journey, no staff, no means of
living; he depended, as the old-time
minister Of the backwoods was wont
to do, upon the hand of Providence.
Here and there a trapper's or a hun
ter's hut, here aud yonder a settlers
cabin offered him rest, food, shelter.
He did not tell his story; but he
prayed at the freside of all, aud he
managed to leave behind him, where
ever he went, q memorable something
sweet, strange and altogether well
como to the simple pioneer hearts.
Sometimes he fell among desperate
men, robbers themselves, or aiders
and abettors OF them, and even with
these he was at home; for he bore :
with him the charm of childlike faith,
combined with the touching appeal of
unprotected old age.
What helped him most OF all, per-
haps, was his singing; for age had
scarcely touched the deep, rich music
of his voice, and his memory was
stored with hymn tunes and tunes
that enthralled the hearts of his en-.
tertainers.
The strolling preachers Of all de-
nominations traycrsed our frontier re.
gions in those days, and Max Burns
was accepted as amember of the class
without question, without suspicion,
and made freely welcome by every
household as o privileged if not in
every instance o venerated person.
Curious enough does it appear when
recorded, but it is, nevertheless, a
historical fact, that the preacher found
a home for some time with one Dick
Beckett sell known as a fighting fd-
dler, wne vas a red-headed man, very
bow-leggsd. much fre"Fled and badly
SCARED by an old kniie-cut across the
nose, and whose cabin was about
three miles east of Pearl River, oppo-
site the southern end of Honey ISL
and.
This Dick Beckett was a trapper
and, to some extent a trader with tho
Indians. His cabin was often the
stopping-place of the freebooters, with
No liant on pood farms tho