The Anderson intelligencer. [volume] (Anderson Court House, S.C.) 1860-1914, 1903-01-14

thought. shortly afterwards, Ryan
came riding slowly into camp. and,
without saying Il word to any one,
tied up li> horse and disappeared in
his tent. never heard him mention
the affair again.
But now comes the strange part.
! WAS sitting, the other night, in the
lobby Of :. hotel in the little town pre-
vlou~ly mentioned, when a tall, elder
ly-looking gentleman, neatly dressed.
with iron gray hair and beard, entered
and sat down near me. lie searched
my face with his keen, dark eyes, and
smiled III way tla. instantly carried
me back thrty-scvcn years to the
time when saw that poor boy march
cd off TO his doom with Ryan.
Hont you recognize me-? lie
asked IN low, subdued voice.
No, | answered, but if | didn't
know positively that the fellow was
dead, would say you we're the lad
that Dan Ryan shot on the Frankfort
bridge, thirty seven years ago.
" Well, he said smiling, your
memory serves you we'll, for | am the
man.
I'VE arose, introduced ourselves
and shook hands. Drawing our chairs
close together. he told me the sequel
to the story in these words: "Whcn
we lcf. camp for Frankfort that mem
orablc Christmas morning | knew my
chances for life were slim, and gave up
all hope az We arrived at the bridge
and my guard dropped back twenty
PAGES TO the rear, to shoot me as |
crossed. AS my horse hoofs struck
the wooden planks of the bridge floor,
the ring Of his iron shoes sounded like
my dcooh kncll. The swift running
cnrren' looked cold and cruel, and the
drlftwo)d appeared like my funeral
bier. My heart, that l had tried SO
hard to steel, failed me, as heard be-
hind me the metallic click of the
hammer OF my exccutioncr' gun,
drawn back, which sounded like the
thunder OF an artillery charge. My
guard had stopped his horse, and was
waiting with muskct crossed on his
saddle, for me to reach the center Of
the bridge. drew up, and, in the
anguish of my sorrow, turned back,
only to look down the muzzlc of his
raised gun, and into a pair of eyes
that burned with flame of hate and
revenge, as consuming as if lit by tho
fires of hell.
Have mercy, sir, Icricd. Ihavo
done you no harm; l am too young to
die death like this. Spare me-
Done me no harm2' he answered.
IN voice of passion. Done me no
harmY You and your accursed gang
have done the Southland all the harm
You can, except to rob us Of cur love
and all that's good and true, and YOU
would have done that if you could.
Done me no harm? How dare you say
1t? You sold us the negroes, intro
duccd and fostered upon US the slave
ry you now pretend to so ardently de-
test, and would rob us of merchan-
disc you sold us, and give US nothing
4
Worse than pirates, that you are! You
would break down between us the
social barriers that the Almighty him
self created, and impose upon us a
condition of affairs you would not tel
crate for yourselves. Spare you! You
whitclivcrcd devil! Ncver'
"'Thc veins in his neck stood out
like whipcords, while his nervous fin
gers played with the trigger of his
gun in fashion that chilled me-
by doing such,' he continued, "I
would be disgracing the cause this
uniform represents and the oath l
swore. AS long as memory serves me,
l cannot forget the treatment accorded
me and my comrades in that accursed
prison, nor yet the nomes made desc
late, nor the fresides despoiled by
your pilfering, plundering, vandal ar
mice that have devastated the flower
of the Southland with fire and sword,
leaving death, dcsolation and famine
in their wake.
ellis eyes glowed with the fires of
fury, while his face was black
with tempest. l sprang from my
horse, and, running to him, fell
upon my knees and begged for mercy.
But he spurned me as though I had
been a viper, and, waving me off,
raised his piece to fire.